#it’s not fair for them to look that good covered in blood and dirt
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spider-stark · 2 months ago
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can’t get anything done bc i’m too busy daydreaming about fictional men who would definitely give me a uti
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lullabies-blue · 5 months ago
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Thomas Hewitt/ Reader
𝔚𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢, 𝔱𝔬 𝔰𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔴𝔥𝔬 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔫𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔡 𝔬𝔣 𝔦𝔱? 𝔑𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔱𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔦𝔱𝔰 𝔫𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔞𝔯?
Written in third-person limited POV, focusing on Thomas. Content tags: Neurodivergence, Cannibalism, mentions of rape, Canon typical violence, self harm, Mommy issues, child abuse (mentioned), good vs. evil with nothing in between, religious trauma. Author notes: I honestly intended this to be short and to the point- but here we are. I read a lot of Thomas/Reader stories where Thomas is portrayed as neurotypical and I don't know why it bothers me so much- it's just fanfiction after all, but I wanted to write a short "love" story where Thomas is violent and scared and lonely. He's nonverbal, he's mentally disturbed but not 'slow'. His world is very black and white and full of violence, so that got me wondering- what would love look like for him? What would happen if this man, who has only ever known darkness, met someone who was nice to him? Fair warning, lots of rambling ahead. I also just want to say that I am Autistic and that influenced a lot of this story- from the way that I write, to how I portray characters, to certain interactions. So if anything seems weird to you, I apologize- my mind works in weird ways. If I need to clarify anything, just shoot me a message. I would love to talk about the writing process and why I included certain things. Important: This is about 15k words and NOT even half of it. I had to cut it into pieces, will update the rest in another post.
Thomas brings the axe above his head, his breath ragged as he swings it down and cuts the piece of firewood in half with a low grunt. He’s hot, even though it’s the middle of winter- the weather low even with the sun that hid behind the clouds- and his shirt is sticking to him uncomfortably, the sweat doing nothing to cool him down.
He lodges the axe into the tree stump, grabbing the two pieces of wood and throwing them in the wheelbarrow before he wipes his forehead with dirt covered hands. It was the last chore of the day, and he was tired and sore- a tightness in his shoulders that seemed to spread all the way down to lower back and made him want to get in bed. His mask is damp and tight against his face, the skin underneath irritated. He wants to go inside and change, the thought of taking a shower was frustrating but he knew that he needed one. He could smell himself- bitter with sweat and the slightly suffocating scent that seemed to stick to chickens now clinging to him from when he had cleaned out the chicken coop. His nails were lined with dirt- hands and arms caked in grime. It made him feel heavy and slow.
Uncle Hoyt would drag him to the back and hose him off if he saw him, and he hated that more than he hated cleaning himself off- the feeling of water on his skin something he had never got around to liking. He could handle other things- blood never seemed to churn his stomach, or when Momma or Uncle Hoyt used to ask him to go clean out the pig pen- back when they could afford to have pigs, they were empty now, the whole farm seemed to get emptier and emptier as the months passed- he hadn’t thought that shoveling pig shit into a bucket was all that bad. But he had trouble smelling sometimes, especially with the leather pressed so tight against the place his nose had once been.
He takes the handles of the wheelbarrow, filled with enough dried out wood for the weekend- maybe Monday, if the weather stayed where it was at- and began to haul it towards the house. Momma would need some in the kitchen, to boil water and heat the ovens for Supper when she got back from town. He’d have to check the fireplace on the main floor- sometimes even on the coldest days of winter that room stayed warm enough that if they were to turn on the fireplace it’d be too uncomfortable to sit in. He would wait until Uncle Monty asked for more- he didn’t like it when any of them made decisions for him, more so now that he was stuck in that wheelchair.
There were no fireplaces upstairs, just piles of blankets to layer and hope they did enough to keep them warm. Sometimes it would be enough for him, but there were nights that even with two or three of the ones Momma sewed together for him; he would still lay awake, teeth chattering from the cold. It’s why he hated the cold- he could manage the heat, but winter was unpredictable even in the deep south of Texas.
Uncle Monty is in the living room, asleep in his chair as the TV keeps playing, almost as loud as his snoring. He walks past him, noticing the almost empty fireplace. His footsteps are heavy and loud from the metal on his shoes as he carries an armful of wood into the kitchen. He sets it down on the dining table, right on the white plastic cloth momma had set out before she had left, dirt falls onto the floor and he makes a low, grumbling noise of frustration, hoping that she didn’t see it when she got home.
He had forgotten the plastic mat last time and gotten her favorite tablecloth dirty -the mud staining the light blue cotton forever. He didn’t see why it was such a big deal, Momma had once told him that life was messy, that’s how one knew that they were living it, but she had been so angry at him then- sending him out with the bucket and soap, shouting about the mud he had tracked inside their house. Supper had come late that night- Hoyt growing angry at him. He liked it when it was ready and waiting for him when he got home- shouting at momma that working men weren’t supposed to wait for food.
He had gotten into an argument with him that night- he didn’t like it when people were mean to momma. Uncle Hoyt had called him a bad name- making his blood boil.
He didn’t want that to happen again. He didn’t like how badly he had wanted to hurt Uncle Hoyt at that moment. Momma said that family fought all the time, but he had to be careful not to do anything that he would regret. Maybe he would regret it when his blood stained his clothes, but part of him wasn’t so sure. He liked him better when he was Uncle Charlie. Uncle Hoyt reminded him of the bad men.
He tries not to think about it anymore when he heads back outside to grab a few more pieces of wood for the living room. He didn’t like thinking back on the things that made him angry, sometimes he couldn’t come back from them, and he’d end up doing something bad.
By the time he’s pushing past the double front doors, Momma’s car is pulling into the dirt path off to the side of the house. It’s an old one- rusting from the heat of too many summers, but momma didn’t mind it.
 The car comes to a stop as he picks up another armful of wood and takes it inside.
Ever since Hoyt became Sheriff of the town, things had gotten better for them. There were never days where they went to bed hungry, the meat freezer down in the basement always seemed to have enough for them. If it ever ran low, a Hoyt always seemed to find a way to get it restocked. Momma had taken over the shop in town after the owner had passed away and Hoyt made sure that his son- one of the bad men- went right along with him. He had filled the bellies of those who still stayed in town, too hungry to care enough to question them. Sometimes she brought back what didn’t sell that day and they’d have themselves a little feast. There were days Uncle Hoyt brought a guest with him- always a woman-, other times he’d ask momma to bring his food up to his room- the muffled screaming drowned out by Monty’s TV show.
He liked to stay in the basement on those days. It was harder to hear the pleading and begging as Hoyt played too rough with them. He would always get stuck with getting rid of them afterwards and he was starting to dislike the chore.
By the time he finishes stacking the wood, Momma is calling out for him, the front door swinging open. He freezes- his shoulders squaring and his breath suddenly heavy as he looks up at the hall, hidden between a wall and the fireplace. There was someone with Momma. He could hear the footsteps- Momma walked with a purpose, heavy and loud like him. She said that she did it so God would hear her better, but he wasn’t so sure that God was with them anymore. The ones that came after her were lighter, nervous.
He didn’t like guests. Didn’t like that Momma and uncle Hoyt had developed a habit of taking in strays that would just end up in the basement with him later. They would scream when they saw him- call him those names that made the anger come. Some of them liked to hurt him, momma taking him to the bathroom afterwards and stitching him up.
“You’re going to love my Tommy. He’s a little bit shy but he’s got the sweetest heart.” Momma says and he hears the other person laugh. It’s a soft noise- gentle in a way that manages to make his heart race faster as he tries to crawl deeper into the tiny space. “He’s here around somewhere… but let’s get you set up in your room then you can come down and help me with supper, okay?”
Another laugh, his heart racing uncomfortably in his chest. He didn’t want Momma to find him, he was already so tired.
“Of course,” the stranger says, and she- the thought of a woman in the house irritates him- doesn’t talk like Momma or Hoyt or Monty. Her voice is quiet, it doesn’t drawl out. He’s heard it before- she must be from out of town. “I would love to!”
For a moment, he feels bad for the woman as he hears them go up the stairs. He always feels bad for them at first. Momma said that his heart was too kind. Hoyt called him a pansy boy, in need of toughening up. He doesn’t know why he feels bad, the guests were never good people- he’d always come to learn that, but it never seems to do anything to make the twitch of guilt go away from his heart. The steps grow quieter the farther up they go- until he hears Momma’s muffled voice and then her footsteps coming back down.
She spots him, curled into himself in that tiny, dark space and she sucks her teeth, shaking her head. “Thomas Hewitt, what in the lords name are you doing there?”
He feels embarrassed all of a sudden, getting caught like this. He makes a low noise in his chest, pointing to the firewood.
“Come on and get on out of there if you’re done then, we’ve got company.” She comes down the rest of the steps and makes her way towards him. When she holds out her hand he takes it, a comfort that has his heart slowing down.
 “I need you to go and grab the rest of her stuff from the car- poor girl don’t got no power in her home.” She says with a shake of her head as she pulls and helps him to his feet. “She’ll be staying with us until her electricity gets put back up.”
He shakes his head, this time the noise he makes is in protest, a deep groan of anger. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want her in his house.
Momma frowns, crossing her arms over her chest. “Now listen here Thomas, not everyone is as lucky as we are. Sometimes we have to help those in need.”
He wants to believe her- Momma wasn’t one for lying, after all- but this isn’t anything new. He knew how this would end; with the woman in their bellies and her screams in his head, keeping him awake at night. She would make a mistake and then she’d end up in the basement, begging for her life.
It was like Momma had set her up to fail, like a game that promised a prize that would never come, and Thomas didn’t want to play. Not this time. He shakes his head again, his way of telling her no.
Momma and Uncle Hoyt have a lot in common, no matter how sweet and gentle Momma tried to be, her anger was almost as bad as his. He doesn’t like it when she gets angry at him- everyone was always angry at him- and he can see it in her eyes, making him bend his chin against his chest as he let out a whine, glancing down at the ground. She never hit him, but she would ignore him and that hurt a lot more.
“Then you go on upstairs and tell the poor girl that she’s got to leave. I won’t be the one to break the bad news.” Momma huffs, stomping over to the kitchen. “Tell her you would rather see her freeze than offer a small kindness.”
There it is, that harshness in her voice that makes him tremble, his heart picking up its pace until he feels like he can’t breathe. He shakes his head again, digging his fingers into his arm. He didn’t want to have anything to do with the woman. Didn’t want to be forced to deal with her later but if this is what Momma wanted, then he would do it. He would make her happy.
He lets out another noise, smaller this time and turns towards the door. Part of him is angry- angry that he wasn’t allowed to be angry without being punished. Angry that sometimes it seemed like he wasn’t allowed to have a say when it came to things. He felt as if momma sometimes liked to hurt him on purpose- pushing and pushing until he snapped.
As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he feels the guilt settle in his stomach, hot and suffocating. Momma wasn’t like the bad people. She wouldn’t hurt him. Sometimes he just made her so angry- he knew that. He knew that he was difficult and stubborn and sometimes she got tired of dealing with him.
It wouldn’t be long before the woman disappeared anyways- Hoyt will see her at supper and he’d take her upstairs. The screaming will start, and everyone will act like they couldn’t hear it; Momma would knit, and Monty would turn the volume on the TV up until it was too much. He’d end up sleeping in the basement again, picking at his skin until it was raw and bleeding- the crying twisting his stomach and threatening to swallow him whole.
He just had to wait until then. He would be good until then.
The trunk of the car was left open for him, and he finds the woman’s things waiting for him. It’s not much- a simple backpack, filled with so many things that it ballooned uncomfortably. He grabs it, grunting at the fact that it was heavier than he thought, and slams the trunk close. The car shakes and squeaks at his aggression as he carries the bag inside. He doesn’t like the fact that he’s touching the stranger’s things.
He’s dirty- his fingers staining the bag- but he’s also dirty inside. Rotten from the anger, the bad he’s done. The bad he was going to do. He can feel himself soiling the items inside- turning them just as dirty as him as he walks into the kitchen and sets the bag down on the floor. Momma had taken the firewood he had left and put away the mat. He could feel the warmth of the fire even from where he stood across the oven- filling the room with the scent of smoke. He grunts, wanting Momma to turn around and see that he had done what she asked. He wanted her to smile at him- to ease the way his heart still hammered in frustration.
She turns, but the softness in her eyes isn’t directed at him- she barely looks at him and his heart sinks further down into his stomach, tension building in the back of his neck. He can hear her footsteps now- the creaking of the staircase as she came downstairs. He’s standing in front of a wall, the staircase on the other side. For now, he was hidden- but it wouldn’t be long until she stepped into the kitchen, and he couldn’t hide anymore.
“We’re in here dear,” Momma calls out to her. “Tommy here’s got your bag for you.”
He sees her for the first time out of the corner of his eye- spotting her before she spots him, her eyes on Momma. She’s short- shorter than momma by a bit, and clean and well dressed. Her sweater is thick and colorful, the cuffs of her sleeves neatly folded against her wrists. Something there catches the soft yellow light of the kitchen- a thin golden bracelet halfway hidden beneath the fabric. Her jeans look like they’ve been around for a long time- a different shade of fabric stitched into one of the knees. Her boots are old and worn out, reminding him of his own.
He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like this feeling that runs through him as he inspects her.
“I really like your house!” she says- voice light and full of excitement that made his mood worsen. “Its-” whatever she was about to say dies in her throat as she turns her head to the left and spots him for the first time.
He doesn’t let her look at his face- turning his head to the side as he folds into himself, chin against chest. He doesn’t like this- doesn’t like that she stares at him without saying anything. He can feel her eyes on him- inspecting him- an animal on display. His chest rises and falls painfully, his breathing hard and loud in the silence. He can feel his hands twitch- his thumb nail grazing along the length of his finger.
“This is my son,” Momma’s voice is tight as she talks. “Tommy this here is our guest. Don’t you want to say hello?”
He shakes his head, his hands trembling. Something wet lands inside the sink and he startles. He hears Momma suck her teeth and he can see her in his mind- shaking her head like she does whenever he does something she doesn’t like.
He doesn’t like this. Doesn’t like that Momma is getting mad at him, that the woman still stands there, watching him tremble in fear. He could already hear it- her laughing as she called him an idiot. They always called him something. They always laughed at him.
“It’s okay,” her voice shakes a bit as she breaks the silence, and she coughs and clears her voice. “I, um, I’m a little shy myself so I know how hard it can be sometimes.” She speaks slowly, her voice almost a low whisper. She tells him her name. Tells him that it’s nice to meet him.
He doesn’t say anything- not that he can, he’s never spoken a single word- but he nods his head, his eyes quickly glancing over at her. She’s still looking at him and his heart almost beats through his ribs. He expects her to be looking at him like they always look at him- filled with disgust and hatred, looking for any excuse to leave, to get as far away as possible from him- but he doesn’t find that in her face.
He finds her mouth twisted downwards and her eyebrows pushed together just a tiny little bit, her eyes gentle and wide. She looked at him as if he was a dog out by the side of the road on a hot summer afternoon refusing help and she had been chasing him with a bowl of water.
She looks at him like there was nothing scary about him. Like he was a man, dirty from a long day at work and not a freak- poor and disfigured- a monster. He had never seen that look from anyone who didn’t live in this house, and it scared him. It terrified him that someone would decide to look at him like that.
But as soon as he met her eyes she looked away, towards Momma- a smile in her voice.
“What are we making for dinner?” she asks, stepping farther into the kitchen and pushing her sleeves up towards her elbows- ready for whatever Momma tells her to do.
The tension disappears just like that, Momma laughing lightly as she places her hand on the woman’s back and pulls her close. “You’re such a darling, helping me out like this. How about you start getting out the pots and pans? They’re over there by the pantry.” She pointed to the cupboards by the fridge and the woman nodded and went straight towards them.
With her back to them- Momma turned and looked at him finally. He could still feel his heart hammering away at his chest, but this was more manageable. He was still waiting for the names to come, for the screaming and the disgust to appear in her eyes. Sometimes when Momma was around people hid it a bit better, but he knew that it wouldn’t be long until they couldn’t hide it anymore.
He expects Momma to still be mad at him- blue eyes dark with anger- but instead she sighs and puts her hand on his shoulder, a silent apology that has his muscles relaxing. The woman pays them no mind- bending down to inspect the cupboard down there.
“Go on and take her bag up to her room and get yourself cleaned up, okay?” She tugs on the collar of his shirt before fixing his hair out of his face. It’s damp from his sweat, but she doesn’t flinch. “She’s a good girl- try to handle her with care, alright?” Her voice is a low whisper- something the woman wasn’t supposed to hear. It unsettles him as he nods along with Momma- not quite understanding what she meant. He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to nod along with her or shake his head, but Momma doesn't wait for an answer, patting him on the cheek before she turns her head and calls out to the woman.
“Honey, Tommy is going to take your bag up to your room- is that alright?”
The woman rises from the ground, two pots neatly stacked in each other in her hands. “Yes,” she says softly- her eyes meeting his. “Thank you, Tommy.”
She smiles at him shyly and his heart begins to hammer against his ribs again. He feels his skin begin to burn- his flesh raw and exposed to her. Even underneath his mask he can feel himself heating up as he looks away, scrambling to grab the bag.
He needed to get away from her- from Momma and her words that he couldn’t understand. He felt like he couldn’t breathe with her here. He stumbles up the steps- feet so heavy against the wood that he swears he can feel the house tremble underneath him.
Momma gave her the room across his- the empty one where she liked to keep the extra bed sheets and towels. But it’s cleaner now as he turns the knob and goes inside, the curtains pulled open to let in the bit of light that still shone from outside- the sun close to setting. The piles of blankets that were on the bed are gone- the sheets neatly tucked into the space between the mattress and the boxspring. There’s a jacket thrown on top- red and faded, the cuffs ripped up on one arm.
He sits the bag right next to it- on the floor, wiping his hands on his jeans. It topples over and he lets out a grunt- fixing it so it sat upright again. He decided that he would stay up here until Momma called him for supper. He wouldn’t go down to the basement while the woman was here- he was worried that she would be stupid enough to follow him down there. That would be the end of her. Blood and flesh and sinew torn from her bones for them to feast on.
He’s careful when he’s leaving the room- closing the door gently so that it doesn’t slam before he hurries off into his own- locking the door behind himself.
Here it’s dark, his windows covered in greased up newspapers. He didn’t like it when it got too bright- when the sun shone through and reminded him of the mess around him. His room is small and cramped and full of things that he had hauled up from the furnace room so that he wasn’t stuck going up and down all the time. Uncle Monty said that he sounded like a ‘goddamned bulldozer,’ stomping around the house when he was trying to sleep. So, it was better this way- even though sometimes he got irritated that there were too many things. But it meant not being bothersome, so he tried not to mind much.
He checks the door again- making sure that he had really locked it, pulling and twisting at the doorknob just to be safe. He knew that no one would come up here and go into his room- Monty was stuck on the first floor, Momma was with the girl in the kitchen preparing supper and Uncle Hoyt wasn’t home yet. But he was always a little paranoid, just the tiniest bit afraid that someone would knock down his door and see everything about him that he had tried so hard to hide. Not even Momma was allowed in here. This was his- the only place where he could hide from everyone, where he didn’t have to worry about anyone disturbing him.
He takes his mask off and it’s not quite the relief he was expecting- the leather inside has gone stiff, his face raw and tender and aching from all the sweat and dirt that had managed to get in. He can feel it as he runs his fingers across his face, a cut on the corner of his lips that wasn’t there last time. It blends into the sores and scarred tissue already there, his skin long ruined. It shouldn’t bother him- but as he opens his mouth and feels the skin stretch and crack, a drop of blood welling up and rolling down his chin- he gets upset, grunting in frustration. He had wanted to clean the mask and add some petroleum to try and soften it up so it wouldn’t bite at his skin anymore- pinching and scratching and making the pain worse. It would have been something to do, something to keep him busy and distracted until he had to face the inevitable, but now it was something that he no longer wanted to do. Why would he? What would it change?
It was never this bad- but ever since his nose began to fall away, it only ever seemed to get worse- no matter what he did or how hard he pleaded for it to just stop and go away- nothing ever changed. There was no one there to listen to his pleas.
With a low groan of frustration, he tears his hand from his face, wiping the blood on the front of his shirt. He hates himself. Hates everything about himself. Momma liked to say that the bad people were liars, that people who were hurting only ever knew how to hurt others- but he knew that wasn’t true. He was a monster. He saw it, looking back at him in the mirror- wild and ugly and evil, everything that he did not want to be. He hated taking his mask off- hated knowing that the man that existed underneath it was the same man that he was trying to escape from.
Coming here was a mistake. He should have stayed downstairs, should have gone out back to the barn- there he would have found something, anything, to do.
He takes a breath like Momma showed him, trying to push the anger away- down, down, down, until he couldn’t feel it slithering through his veins and pounding in the back of his head. He just had to focus on something else-he liked it when he had chores, things to do that kept him busy and away from the bad thoughts. He takes another deep breath through his mouth- dirt and salt on his lips as he picks up the mask and tries to clean it off on his clothing. It does nothing but lift the dust off into the air as he places it on his face, tightening it too much across his head, leather digging into tender skin. He would take a bath, change his clothes, then sit in bed and wait. Uncle Hoyt would come an hour after the sun disappeared and then he would have to go downstairs. He didn’t want to go downstairs.
He didn’t want to feel the bad feelings anymore. The fear, the anger. The woman would look at him and his throat would tighten, and his heart would beat painfully. He hadn’t liked that feeling- trapped in his own skin, unable to get away. Yet at the same time, he wanted her to look at him. No one ever looked at him.
He could still feel her eyes- soft and warm on his skin, simultaneously calming and worsening his anger. He was half embarrassed- covered in dirt and sweat stains, his clothing old and faded- Did she think that he was disgusting? He was always messy in everything that he did- always having to teach himself how to do things. Filth had never been a stranger. Had never bothered him. But he finds himself wanting to wash the grime and sweat from himself- even if he was just going to put the same clothes back on.
His stomach growls, empty and needy as he unlocks the door and roughly pushes it open- he finds the woman outside of it.
The door swings open, the gust of wind pushing her hair around as the door barely manages to miss her. She’s looking up at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly open- her arms up by her chest. It scares him, seeing her there and he makes a messy, garbled noise of surprise.
“Sorry!” she speaks fast, her words all pushed together. “I was just trying to find the bathroom!”
He feels his heart beating in his throat, muscles tense and solid as he stares down at her. She’s so much shorter than he thought- he could reach out and crush her throat in his hand and it wouldn’t take much force to do so. He’s almost tempted to, his fingers twitching at his sides. Momma would get mad at him when he dragged her body downstairs- but she would forget eventually.
“I’m in your way- I,” she takes a step back, her eyes finally releasing his. “I’m sorry, I’m just-”
He grunts. Low and short- his way of telling her to stop talking. Nothing she says is making any sense to him and the sound of her voice makes his heart hammer at his chest. Thunderous and loud and painful. It scares him how easily she does that to him. Such a small thing like her, carelessly walking into a house where God was nowhere to be found without a single ounce of caution. He could take her to his room, and no one would hear her scream. He could scare her more than she scared him.
She squirms in the silence like a rat stuck in a trap. She tugs at her sleeve, at her collar- his breathing loud as he watches her- watches her chest rise and fall with every breath, her eyes on the space between them.
 Another grunt and she startles backwards, looking up at him. This time, when her eyes meet his own, he doesn’t cower even though his body tenses and he can already feel her pulse beneath his hand.
 His body is stiff as he steps out of his room and moves out of the way of the door- he has to turn his back to her and for a split-second, panic runs cold and fast through his veins as he remembers the woman who had stabbed him. The door slams close as he turns around quickly, eyes wide and wild as he looks down at her hands.
He expects to see a knife pointed at him- the scar on his shoulder aching from the memory of being sliced apart, the pain still there even after all the months that have passed since. He hadn’t done anything to deserve that pain- the woman and her friends had attacked first, had tried to hurt his family. Uncle Hoyt had told him, so had Momma with tears in her eyes and blood splatters on her dress. They were bad people who wanted to do bad things to them, and it was his responsibility to protect them- to keep them safe. It hadn’t mattered that his hands shook so hard with fear, and he could taste vomit at the back of his throat, vile and burning, he had to protect them. They were all that he had. He couldn’t- wouldn’t- lose them.
He was panting as he searched the woman and finds nothing in her hands, her eyes widening as she takes another step away from him.
 Was she scared?
Did she finally see it? The evil that radiated off of him that others seemed to see- always scared of getting too close to him- He was a disease on this town. A burden. Did he finally scare her?
Would she scream?
Was she going to hurt him- just like everyone else? Drive a knife into his flesh- a pain that would only last for so long before it faded into a memory that he refused to think of. A pain that wouldn’t be so bad compared to the shame that churned his stomach whenever a stranger screamed when they saw him.
He waited- teeth clamped together as he stared her down in the heavy silence.
He watched as her lips part, lower lip trembling slightly. If she screamed, he would hurt her before she could hurt him. If she screamed, she would be nothing but a pile of bones, tossed into the fire by the time the sun rose tomorrow.
Scream, he thought, fingers twitching at his sides. Scream already and let this end already.
“You’re scared of me, aren’t you?” she whispers and her voice trembles even as she keeps talking. “I can tell- you’re looking at me like I just pulled out a gun on you or something.” She lifts her hands towards him and moves them back and forth, as if she was showing him that he had nothing to worry about. “But my hands are empty-”
She lifts her hands, palms facing him, and wiggles her fingers. “If it makes you feel better, apart from a kitchen knife I don’t think I’ve ever held a weapon.” She smiles oddly at him- as if she wasn’t sure how to do so, her eyes still wide and unblinking. As if she was worried that he would lunge at her at any second.
He doesn’t like how his body seems to let go of its worries and fears so fast, his shoulders drooping and his heartbeat slowing down until it’s no longer pounding against his ears as the ringing slowly starts to disappear. He unclenches his teeth, the pain still lingering in his jaw and neck, and suddenly, he’s no longer thinking of hurting the woman- of how easy he would have snapped her neck. He still could, part of him even ached and begged for him to do it. To get it over with.
But he doesn’t listen to that part of him that never truly seemed to go away- always begging for blood, for a voice that would finally be heard. He’s staring at her hands instead, focusing on the tips of her fingers that are flushed pink. He notices the birthmark on her left middle finger- a tiny dot right underneath the crease of her knuckle. He notices all the tiny little lines that make up her palms and the way her thumb trembles lightly.
He did not like her.
He did not like the way something as simple as her hands was enough to draw his attention- his eyes seeking out the tiny little patterns between her fingers. He did not like how her voice could soothe him so easily when he wanted nothing but to crush her- to take her, to taste her flesh on his tongue and her blood on his lips.
He did not like how she called out to him as he just stared at her- stared through her, voice gentle with his name. It wasn’t the same as when Momma said it though. This felt like a spell, a bad omen- Satan’s own voice whispering temptation in his ear. Sweet and gentle and unfamiliar.
She made him feel the same way he had felt that one night he had snuck upstairs to watch Uncle Hoyt and his new friend. He had pushed the door open just enough so that he could see but still stay hidden from the light. He hadn’t made a single noise as he watched Hoyt undo his pants and pull the woman’s legs apart. He hadn’t been able to see much from his hiding place, but what he heard had sent a shock of electricity through his body- blood boiling with need as he listened to the crying and the begging and the sound of something slick being hit over and over again. His stomach churned the same it had that night- tight and hot and restless for something that he could not give it.
He lets out a whine- deep and guttural and full of frustration. Go away, he wants to yell at her. Go away before you ruin everything.
“Tommy…?” she asks again, not understanding his plea.
He whines again and it takes him a second to realize that he’s scratching at his arm- digging his fingers into the old scars there and agitating the skin. It hurts. But that pain is familiar and calming and helps him focus on something other than the panic rising in his throat.
She was messing it all up.
 It’s supposed to just be the four of them- Momma, Hoyt, Monty and him. It’s always been just the four of them. There wasn’t enough space here for her. She was too much of a change to get used to- too loud, too much. Even if he went and hid in the basement until Momma got tired of her, he knew that he would still be able to feel her through the walls, a choking weight in the air that would only poison him until he forgot what it was like to be ignored and cautious even in his own home. He’d be able to hear her- hear her laugh, her steps, the tiny little noises she would come to make the more time went on. She would fill this house with her until she soaked the walls and filled in the foundation. Until everyone forgot that she had a stranger at one point- a spontaneous good dead in all the bad they dealt in.
And even then- what would stop Hoyt from taking her to the room where almost all of the women ended up in? From the emptiness of their bellies that might make them remember that she wasn’t one of them- that she was the answer to their starvation?
He's sinking his nails in harder- the thin skin underneath breaks and he itches at the spot as if there was something alive and buzzing under the flesh. He doesn’t feel the pain as the blood begins to gather underneath his dirty nails. He can see it, even in the dim light- but he can’t feel it. Can’t stop. He digs and digs and digs, hoping for the thoughts to stop- for the voices to stop telling him that he had to kill her. That if he didn’t, he had to make sure that she never left- that this house swallowed her whole and kept her from running, from leaving them. Leaving him. If she tried to run, he could keep her in the furnace room; could tie her up and warn her that if she wasn’t good, she wouldn’t be able to stay.
He could be good to her. He would learn if he had to, would ask Momma to teach him to be gentle and kind. He would not make her angry, would not make her cry or scare her away as long as she listened to him. As long as she stayed with him.
He’s lost, stuck in the farthest corner of his mind, in a future that would stop existing if he simply reached out and touched her. All he had to do was cover her face with his hand, she would be too surprised to fight him off when he pressed her against the wall and kept her there-the weight of him against her back. He could already feel her as she squirmed against him- her body unable to stand still as her lungs began to burn. He could already feel her warmth through his clothes, feel the way his heart would race as she sank her fingers into his skin, drawing blood from fear and desperation. His fear would seep into her flesh, make her lash out more. Her pain would become his and they would be inseparable in that moment.
 It’s when he feels her- fingers cold and desperate as she prods and pulls at his arms, forcing them apart that he returns to reality- to the dimly lit hall, the heat of the fireplace already seeping through the cracks in the foundation. He can feel the way her arms tremble, her fingertips burning holes into his skin.
The woman’s eyes are wild when he looks at her, all wet and round- something in them, in the way she looks at him, makes his heart fill with lead- knocking against his ribs painfully.
“It’s okay!” she says, her voice panicked as she keeps repeating it over and over again, almost as if she’s trying to convince herself- or maybe she thinks that if she says it enough times it’d become true.
“It’s okay, you’re okay,” she repeats, her eyes on his as she pulls his arms towards her. “We just have to get this cleaned up and it’ll be okay.”
He doesn’t budge when she tries to pull him towards the staircase- instead, he watches as she stumbles over her own feet, her hands sliding down his arms.
“We need to get this clean,” she’s pleading now, tugging at him to get him to move. “It’s going to get infected if we don’t and there’s no doctor in town anymore-” the more she talks, the more hysterical she begins to sound, her voice growing higher. “I don’t know where the bathroom is, but we can go down to the kitchen, Luda M-”
He doesn’t let her finish, easily pulling his uninjured arm free from her. He didn’t want Momma to know. To see the mess that he made of himself. She would yell at him if he was lucky- tell him that he was sick in the head, hurting himself like a damn fool again.  But he knew that Momma wouldn’t be kind like that- she would take one look at him, dripping blood on the floor and she would blame the woman for his pain.
He could already hear her yelling, the shrill sound bouncing through his head. Momma wouldn’t care to listen, to see anything other than what she wanted. Momma was like that- kind and sweet and quiet until someone was stupid enough to go after the family. He was like her in a way, protective of them all. He liked to think that he got it from her- that he couldn’t possibly be bad when Momma’s blood ran through him, sweet and caring.
He couldn’t let Momma find out. Not now- not when he had decided that the woman standing in front of him was worth more to him alive than chopped up into pieces that would fit into the deep freezer.
 With a grunt that shuts the woman up from her rambling, he grabs her arm. She’s soft and small under his touch- her sweater itching at his palm as he begins to pull her deeper into the hallway, into the darkness. Away from Momma. Away from a future he wanted no part in.
“No, Tommy we have to go downstairs. I don’t know what to do.” Her voice is shaky as she takes a couple steps forward before planting her feet and refusing to keep going. “Your mom might me better at this than me, please.” She pleads even as she begins to walk again when he refuses to stop.
He tries to tell her that Momma couldn’t find out. That if she did then he wouldn’t be able to protect her- to keep her safe. Momma would tell him to get rid of her and he always did what Momma wanted, even if sometimes he didn’t want to.
He loves Momma. Loves her more than Uncle Hoyt or Monty. He loves her more than anything or anyone- even himself. He could suffer through any pain as long as Momma was with him- as long as she was happy with him.
He tries to tell her that he knows exactly what he’s doing, but all his words come out as a garbled mess of a groan, the muscles in his throat too weak to form any actual words. It frustrates him- hearing himself talk in a way that no one would ever understand.
He lets out a low howl, that frustration growing when she stops walking again. He has to be careful not to hurt her- he didn’t want to accidentally pull her arm too hard if she was going to make this a habit. He just needed to get her to the bathroom. She had to wash off the blood on her hands before she went back downstairs. He could take care of his injuries himself- Momma had taught him how to clean and bandage cuts and bruises. Though he wasn’t concerned with the open wound dripping blood down his arm.
Right now, he needed to get the woman to understand that Momma couldn’t find out about this. That if she went down those steps, stained with his blood, then there was nothing he could do to keep Momma from lashing out. Facing her, he points to himself- finger beating against his chest twice before he points at her.
He’s watching her- his eyes on her as she watches him repeat the action two more times. Her face is flushed, her eyebrows pushed together, and he begins to worry that she’s not understanding him, that now that he’s let go of her, she was going to be stupid and try to push him back towards the stairs.
Letting out a small whimper, he grabs at her wrist. She’s pliant under his touch- her skin cool and soft. Touching her reminds him of the Cattle fences that were used back when the Slaughterhouse had been open. He had touched one by accident, not fully understanding why they had so many warnings signs- and just like back then, something hot and quick ran through him. Back then, the muscles in his fingers and arms had tensed and burned, taking away all his strength. But touching her, feeling the way his scarred thumb slid against the thin skin on her wrist- felt like a shockwave of warmth had run through him- intense and disorienting and addictive.
It scared him, but he didn’t let go of her even though his brain was yelling at him to stop touching her. He couldn’t. He had to keep her safe. Slowly, he began to raise her hand towards him, his mouth opening as he made a noise from the bottom of his throat.
He looked at her face as he pressed the back of her hand against his chest. She was already staring at him, her lips twisted into a frown. He couldn’t look into her eyes for too long, something in him ached when he did, so he kept his eyes on her mouth as he tapped her hand against his chest. That same warmth that was spreading through his arm poisoned his chest. He could feel it in his throat, in the depth of his belly- It knocked around in his head until he was dizzy.
For a moment, with her hand on him and his eyes still glued to her lips, he forgets about the bad people who called him all those bad words. He forgets all of the evil that he’s done, all the screams that haunt him, all the blood that he can never wash off.
He finds the confidence to raise his eyes to her own and part of him is scared that in them he would find disgust at having to touch something like him. A smaller, quieter, part wonders if she feels it too- the electricity that flows out of her and through him. He wants her to tell him that she feels him in her- that he’s also warm and electric through her veins. He wants her to tell him that a real monster wouldn’t feel the way he did- that if he really was a monster, the softness in her eyes wouldn’t be affecting him so much.
Dropping his eyes, he taps his chest with her hand twice before pointing it towards him. He does it one more time before he lets go of her. He expects her to pull her hand away, but instead she lets it linger on his shirt, the dirt and stains not bothering her. He wonders if she can feel the way his heart knocks against his ribs.
“You want me to follow you?” her voice cracks a bit as she takes her hand away.
He nods, grunting as he motions to a door off to the side behind him before he lifts his bloodied arm and runs his hand over the scratches- they’ve stopped bleeding already, his arm a mess of blood stains and dirt. Pointing behind here, towards the staircase he shakes his head, bringing his hand back towards his arm and covering the mess he made.
She doesn’t say anything as she tries to piece everything together- her face twisting into itself as she thinks. He repeats the movement, groaning when he points at the staircase and once more when he covers the cuts. ‘Not safe,’ he tries to tell her, ‘Take care of it here.’
Realization makes her eyes brighten, her features smoothing out. “You don’t want Luda Mae to find out?”
It’s not exactly what he was trying to say but he lets it be, seeing as it was close enough. She could have thought that he wanted her to go down and grab Momma- and he was worried that with how small she was she would take off running before he could stop her. In trying to help she would run straight into her end.
The thought made his stomach drop- a sudden chill rocking through him.
“Tommy- I don’t know if I can do anything about that…” she pauses, and he watches as she reaches for him, taking his arm in both of her hands. Her touch burns him again, and this time he can’t stop the small whine of delight from escaping his lips. Her mouth twists down as she inspects his arm- and he tenses, waiting for her to start yelling at him, for the bad names to come. But they don’t- she stays silent, her eyes glued to his arm.
The damage isn’t bad- compared to the collection of scars that line both of his arms, this was nothing. He had scratched a small hole in his forearm- breaking the skin and tearing apart the bit of muscle and fat there. He was lucky that he hadn’t hit anything vital- that he had stopped when he did.
When he was younger, he had taken to cutting- tearing flesh from his body and slicing himself open as a punishment for his mistakes, for his bad thoughts. He had done a good job of keeping it from Momma until the night he had cut too deep, and the blood wouldn’t stop. He had ran to her, howling in fear- bloody arm pressed against his chest. She had made Uncle Monty hold him down while she stitched him together, only a glass of whiskey to keep the pain away. She had yelled at him the entire time-first with tears in her eyes then when they had dried up and she had finished sewing his skin together- she had taken the belt and beaten him raw. When she got tired of beating him, she had told him that this was all Satan’s fault- that she had no choice but to beat the devil out of him. God was gonna soothe his pain, his fears, his anguish. He would see, Momma liked to say. She had kissed him on the forehead, and he swore he had seen the devil on her shoulder, laughing at him.
The pain hadn’t convinced him to stop- he simply learned how to hide it better, how to keep things clean, how to stitch himself together on those nights that he fantasized about finding peace in death. He learned where to cut and how deep to dig- and eventually, Momma made herself forget it ever happened at all. Sometimes, he thought that she was afraid of God- of making him angry, of him turning his back on her. It’s why he didn’t tell her that every once in a while, he could feel the devil itself pumping through his veins. Taunting him.
The woman gently turns his arm, and he pulls himself from the memories, watching as her fingers caress his skin. She’s too trusting- doesn’t she see the danger that she’s in? How easily he could overpower her? This was a Godless house, no matter what Momma and Hoyt thought- he knew the truth. He knew that they were all rotten, inside and out. She would be ruined by them all if she stayed. He would ruin her with his sins-but his guilt wasn’t strong enough to stop his desires.
“It looks a lot worse than it is, doesn’t it?” she asks him, but he doesn’t answer- too busy watching the way she touches him- her touch making his breath deepen.
He likes the way she doesn’t mind that his blood is on her hands- twisted into the tiny cracks of her bracelet. She’s careful and slow as she traces the tip of her index finger above the crater he had created in his flesh. He’s almost tempted to push her hand down- to feel her flesh against the inside of his own, to have her hurt him before he could hurt her- but she moves her hand away before he can make up his mind.
“Okay…” she sighs, not letting go of him. “Show me what to do.”
He grunts in satisfaction, the weight of Momma finding out and the woman being punished lifting from his shoulders. Slowly, he turns the arm she cradled in her hands so that he was grabbing her instead- his hand swallowing hers.
He tries not to think about it too much as he tugs gently and finds no resistance in her steps. He almost smiles- lip twitching against the leather on his face as he leads her to the bathroom. Inside him, the devil starts to dance in glee.
The room is cold as he pushes open the door and pulls her inside before he follows. He can feel the cold seep into his thin shirt, see it with every exhale when he turns on the light and shuts the door, dropping the woman’s hand. She shivers and he wants to know if it’s from the cold or the fact that he’s no longer touching her.
The light flickers and dies for a couple seconds, leaving them in darkness before it turns back on- low and yellow like all the others in the house. It makes the woman’s skin look sickly- washing her out as she blinks and tries to get used to the light.
“We have to clean it,” she’s already walking around him, towards the sink. It’s a small one, too low for him to reach without having to bend his knees uncomfortably. Maybe that’s why she pauses mid-sentence- was she trying to picture him, hunched over as he scrubbed the dirt and blood and sweat from his arms?
The thought of her thinking about him- caring about him- splits him in two, a feeling that he’s never experienced before.
“Where are the towels?” she asks, turning around to face him. “If we lay some down on the floor it should keep the mess down a bit, right?”
He doesn’t tell her that it’s not a good idea- that a pile of soaking towels would raise questions that need to stay buried instead. So, he shakes his head, already closing the small distance between them.
The bathroom is small- all of them are. The tiles on the walls are a faded green color, some of them cracked- some of them are separated by mold- the caulk so old and weathered by age and neglect. He hopes that she doesn’t see them- his blood warming in embarrassment as he tells himself that he would fix them later, before she realized that this house was falling apart right under their feet.
The toilet and sink and the bathtub are old- not quite as stained, but still the same faded shade as the tiles that surrounded them. Under the harsh yellow light, it all looked a mess. At least it wasn’t like Hoyt’s bathroom- with too many colors and carpet all over the floors that trapped the smell of tobacco and sweat and soap, the steam that seemed to linger and stick to the walls doing nothing to lessen the stench.
He’s careful as he walks around her- suddenly aware of just how close they were. In here, with the door closed, being near to her seemed almost intimate in a way that he could not quite grasp.
He was used to being alone with people- usually they were screaming and begging, or already half-dead, delirious and confused from the pain and the blood loss. He was used to them thrashing and running and fighting back- hitting him with their fists, kicking him, throwing whatever they managed to get ahold of. They would always scare him when they did that- the pain eventually making him mad until he lashed out and hurt them on purpose.
They didn’t seem to understand that he didn’t want to make them suffer- that he was being kind- taking their lives quickly so that they didn’t have to be so afraid.
He was used to the screaming, the name calling- no matter how scared or afraid he got, he always knew how it would end.
With the woman, he had touched her- she had touched him- without screaming, without her begging or flinching or trying to run away. Out in the hall there had been enough space for him if he needed to get away, but here it was just the two of them- existing in a space that no one else seemed to belong in.
It terrified him just as much as it thrilled him. It made him feel the same way as when he had to chased down someone that had slipped out of his hold- but this time his mind wasn’t telling him to kill. This time, as he stood besides the woman, her eyes on him as he turned on the faucet and waited for the water to warm, something inside of him was telling him to chase her down in a completely different way- to keep her at his side.
Even if he had to chain her and train her- he did not want her to leave. He would not let her leave.
He remembers when he had first started at the Slaughterhouse, when he had been put to work with the cows- separating the babies from the mothers as soon as they were born. He would take them- carefully scooping them up in his arms, a child at the time, not knowing better, not knowing what it was that he was doing- and carry them to another part of the barn where he would drop them into cages so small that even he couldn’t fit inside.
They would cry and shake, unable to stand, unable to realize what lay ahead of them. He would feed them scraps he had stolen from the feeding center- oats or barley or even handfuls of grass from outside- shoving his hand through and letting them eat from his hand. They would calm down, even though they could not stand fully- their heads hunched over and pressed against the metal. He would show them that even if they weren’t going to live long- even if the world around them didn’t seem to care for them- they weren’t alone.
She did not have to be caged like them- though if he had to, he would keep her locked up if it meant keeping her beside him. Down in the basement where no one would hear her- where no one would disturb them, he would get her to see that he was a kind man, that he only wanted what was best for her.
She was already so much like the calves from back then- stupid and small and too trusting of him. It wouldn’t be hard to break her, to convince her that it was all her fault- that there was nothing left for her outside this home.
When the water heats up- steam rising and filling his lungs- he runs his fingers under the stream. Dirt and blood stain the sink, the hot water turning his fingers pink. It hurts, but not enough for him to stop. He rubs his hands together, the water turning pink as it drains. He can feel her eyes on him as he scrubs the grains of dirt from his skin.
For some reason, it embarrasses him- having her watch him do something so mundane and ordinary. He almost swore that he could feel the warmth from her eyes on his skin- hotter than the water. It makes the simple task suddenly seem foolish, makes him feel as if this was the first time he was doing it and he wasn’t sure if it was right or wrong.
With a grunt he tries to push the thoughts from his mind- cupping his hand and filling it with water before he splashes it onto his arm, onto the wound he had given himself. It makes a mess- water splashing onto his rolled sleeve and onto the floor, the sink too small to prevent the mess.
“Can I?” she says- and she’s suddenly closer than he had thought, her body pressed against his side. He can feel her through his shirt, through the thick fabric of her sweater. He swears that he can feel the softness of her body, the beating of her heart, the blood rushing through her veins on his very skin. It makes his heart leap into his throat- the sudden touch making him want to push her head into the glass of the medicine cabinet or pull her closer- he wasn’t sure which one he wanted to do most.
He stands still, body tense as she reaches for him, grabbing his arm and lifting it closer. She must have found the linen closet- an old, red washcloth in her other hand which she places underneath the running water. She hisses, pulling her hand away and opens the cold water.
“Doesn’t that hurt you?” she asks- and there’s no anger in her voice, no underlying judgement that has him tensing up, muscles rippling with dread that he had done something wrong. Momma liked to talk to him like that sometimes. She liked to ask questions that made him feel bad, that made him regret coming to her- guilty that he had bothered her. Hurt that she saw him as something bothersome.
He shakes his head, his way of telling her that no, it wasn’t hurting him. If he had a voice, he would tell her that his skin is so damaged that he could barely feel it, that some days he even preferred it- he liked the way his skin turned red and pulsed in a way that was almost comfortable, soothing.
“This will feel much better,” she holds her fingers under the water, and once it’s at a comfortable temperature she lets it run over the washcloth. “Tell me if I’m hurting you, okay?”
He nods sharply and she smiles at him- the corners of her mouth lifting. He expects her to rub the wound directly, desperate to clean it off before infection sets in. Instead, to his surprise, she wipes around the length of it- scrubbing gently at the blood matting the hair on his arm. The hand holding his arm is gentle, her fingers sinking into his soft flesh and holding him still.
He watches her- watches the concentration on her face that has her eyebrows knitted together as she wipes and rinses, repeating those two motions over and over and over again until his skin is cleaner- until the dirt is gone and there’s nothing left to hide the many sins he carried on his skin.
She pauses- and he can almost read her mind at that moment. He can see it in the tension in her wrist, feel it in the way her fingers tremble just a fraction of a second before they dig a little deeper into his arm. The feeling of her nails scratching at him isn’t painful, but it startles him just the same as if it were- a warmth growing in his chest that travels down to his belly and pools there- filling him with a different sort of sin.
He expects her to say something about the hundreds of tiny little cuts and bruises that she’s unearthed- he can feel it hang heavy in the air- his lips tingling from anticipation. From the worry that she would open her mouth and ruin it all.
It would either be disgust or pity- and he wanted neither. The scars were his to carry- his own punishment for his terrible deeds. Uncle Hoyt always cringed and acted like he didn’t see them- even though his mouth and face twisted as if he had eaten something sour. The pity always came from Momma- her hands on his as she prayed to God to take away whatever burdens he seemed to be carrying around in his heart. She wouldn’t touch them- maybe out of fear, or anger, or maybe just like Uncle Hoyt, she was disgusted as well- scared that if she touched the scars, they would somehow ruin her as well.
The corners of the woman’s mouth are still twisted down when she glances up at him- her eyes too dark to read. He wonders what he looks like in her eyes- what is it that she sees in him that no one else seems to see?
He waits for her to talk- to break the tense silence that’s choking him- but she doesn’t say a word, dropping her eyes as she picks up the bar of soap that’s been there for months. It almost slips out of her hand, and she lets go of him completely- his arm frozen in place, his body already missing hers. The tension disappears, as if nothing had ever happened, as if it had never been there to begin with. It rolls from the points of pressure that she had left behind on his flesh and up his arms. It moves in his veins, thick and syrupy- coating all of him in a feeling that’s doesn’t sit right.
Maybe he did want her to speak- to pity him after all. But the moment is gone, and he doesn’t have a voice to bring it back- to tell her what he was feeling, so he lets the discomfort drown him just a bit as he watches her act like nothing wrong had happened.
She rubs the bar between her hands, underneath the stream of water and his heart sinks at the thought of her cleaning all traces of him from her skin- he wanted to coat her in all that he was- his scent, his hatred, the bitter taste in his mouth that never seemed to go away- he wanted her to have it all, to carry him even if they were apart for a split second. An extension of him- equally as fearsome.
“Come here,” she motions for him to bring his arm towards her hands, letting the bar fall into the sink. Her hands are covered in soap as she takes his arm in between them- gently scrubbing from his wrist to the inside of his elbow, where his rolled-up sleeve sat. At first, she doesn’t touch the wound- and he can feel the hesitation in her fingers as she scrubs at his arm, circling around it. She scrubs at his skin, at the spaces between his fingers, taking his hand in her own and gently massaging it.
It's the first time anyone has done something like that to him- and while he can’t understand why she was being so thorough when it would have been easier to just hand him the soap and let him do it, he has no intention of stopping her.
He simply watches and enjoys- his mouth twisted into the closest thing of a smile that he could manage underneath his mask.
“Tell me if I hurt you, okay?” she says quietly, and it takes him a second to understand her words, his mind lost even to himself- her fingers lightly press against the cut as she speaks, drawing him back into reality. He tenses as she begins to clean it out, rubbing soapy water into it. It doesn’t hurt- not with how light and slow she moves her hand, her finger dipping into the hole he had scratched open. He expects it to hurt or sting or startle him- but pain doesn’t come. Instead, he groans in delight- enjoying the way her finger seems to be tearing into him, stretching his skin open. It’s like she’s making space for herself inside of him- forcing herself into the parts of him that held him together, sinew and muscle and blood- now poisoned with whatever sickness the woman had inflicted in his heart.
“Sorry!” she says quickly, pulling her hand away from him. The once white bubbles between her fingers are now a soft shade of pink, mixed with his blood. It all disappears down the drain as she rinses her hand, drying them on the front of her jeans.
He grows frustrated at the fact that there’s no way to tell her that she hadn’t hurt him- that he wanted her to do it again. That the pain she caused him was almost addictive- sweeter than the whiskey Uncle Monty sometimes let him have whenever he was in a good enough mood to share.
The woman motions for him to rinse his arm, already cupping her hands together under the faucet and letting the cool water pool between her hands. He angles his arm awkwardly into the sink and she lets the water trickle from between her fingers over his arm slowly. He watches as she repeats the motion, rinsing his arm- it’s so trivial and boring, yet he’s in awe as she takes care of him.
Without a second thought, the woman is already devoting herself to the mundanity of life with him. He could see it as she turns the water off and tells him to wait- as if he would leave her side, as if he could do something so absolutely stupid- subjecting himself to an agony he had no intention of experiencing firsthand.
He hears the closet door open behind him, making him turn around and look at the woman as she rummages through old fitted blankets, washcloths and towels until she finds what she needs. With one hand pressed against the pile of folded towels she pulls one free, tossing it over her arm. “I don’t know how long this has been here for-” as she talks, she moves onto her toes, stretching her arm out as she reaches for something on one of the top shelves.
He almost moves to help her, his body already swaying in place, eager to move, to make himself useful to the woman. But he spends too long trying to decide- her hand closing around whatever it was that she had seen earlier. She lets out a small noise of delight as she drops down to the balls of her feet, and it wracks through him, sending a shiver of warmth up his spine that spreads across his chest- tightening the muscles in his lower belly.
“Expired medicine and antibiotics are better than nothing, right?” She asks as he turns and faces him- lips curved up into a smile and he almost finds himself mimicking it- the corners of his lips twitching. He catches himself, hot embarrassment forcing his eyes to drop from her face- down to the small plastic medicine bin in her hands. It did not matter that he had his mask to hide behind, the way she looked at him made him feel as if she could somehow see through it- his face exposed for whatever ridicule and insults she would eventually throw at him.
 There are bottles of pills stacked on top of one another- the type that Momma used to give him when he was feverish. It would take his sickness as well as his hunger- leaving him too heavy to do anything but lay in bed until the heat of his body burned through the drug. There are other things as well- gauze and bandages, silver packages of pills he couldn’t identify, the label worn off a long time ago- a bottle of Vaseline, faded from the years sits next to a glass jar of Vapor-Rub. Looking at it, he swears that he can smell it even with how far away from the jar he was- even though his nose hasn’t worked properly for months, he feels the ghost of it wrinkle as he cringes from the offensive smell his mind reminds him of.
Momma used to slather him with it when he had first started working at the Slaughterhouse. He hadn’t been used to the smell of it back then and every day he went back had been miserable. The scent of death and blood and shit had soured his stomach until he had gone and thrown up the oatmeal Momma had made for breakfast all over his worktable. All over the slab of meat he had been told to break down. He can still remember the taste of animal blood on his tongue after he had wiped his mouth- forgetting that his hands and arms and chest had been covered in chunks of offal. His boss had called him every bad word under the sun-some were words that he had never heard before, now fully engrained in his mind, tearing at his heart once Monty had told him what they meant.
When he had gone home that night, after scrubbing his station clean- the blood mixing with his waste underneath his nails, in the strands of his hair and in between the cracks of his boots, Momma had slapped him. She had been waiting for him on the porch, her face twisted down in anger, the blue of her eyes dark and cold behind her glasses.
She had called him a great big idiot- uncaring of how dirty he had been, of how hard he had silently prayed to God for the day to hurry up and end so that he could leave and go home. At one point, when the bell for Lunch had rung and he was forced to stay and catch up to everyone else- his boss throwing what Momma had packed for him in the garbage before spitting on it with a laugh- he had wanted to die, his chest burning every single time he brought the cleaver down. He had wanted to die right then and there- to stop existing all together. To be nothing but the air around him- free from the bad people, from the stares, from feeling like all that he did was somehow inherently wrong. No matter if it was an accident or not, no one ever seemed to care enough to listen to him.
Momma had gotten a call from the Slaughterhouse- telling her that because of his careless mistake he would have to be let go. Momma had told him, as she dragged him to the hose out back, that she had begged and begged and begged for them to give him a second chance. They couldn’t lose his income, not with Uncle Monty getting less hours at his job and the Government cutting Uncle Hoyt’s veteran checks so suddenly. They were barely making ends meet as it was- this would ruin them.
She had yelled and shouted, spraying him with cold water until he was a shivering mess, the blood no longer crusted over on his skin. He could feel the cold water pooling in his boots, making his socks stick to his toes. It hadn’t even mattered to him then, his heart hammering away at his chest at the thought of never having to go back. Of not having to wake up so early to walk all the way to the other side of town in a place that he hated.
He didn’t even mind when Momma had beat him, welts forming on his wet skin from the belt she kept exclusively for punishments. The pain was nothing in comparison to when Momma had told him that she had made sure that he had kept his job.
They were going to cut his pay, a little every check, until he paid off the cost of the half cow he had puked all over. But he still had a job, he was still able to help the family out- wasn’t that good? Momma asked him, smiling at him like she hadn’t just beat him tired.
 Momma warned him that he couldn’t mess this up again. That there were no more chances after this- sending him up to his room with no dinner, his stomach already empty and rubbing against itself.
The morning after, when she had woken him up- his body sore from all the walking that he had done and the bruises forming on his back and legs- Momma had twisted open the jar of Vapor-rub for the first time, filling his room with the slightly sweet- minty smell.
She had bought it last night, right before the shop closed- with the bit of lose change she had managed to scrap together. It’s gonna help you from making another mistake she said right before she shoved a finger full of it into his nose. It was thick, and cold, burning the inside of his nose as he moaned in pain, trying to push Momma away before she shoved more into the other nostril. She had smacked his hand away, telling him that this was for his own good. That this was only until he got used to it.
He had moaned as tears began to form, shaking his head- trying to empty his nose, the burning crawling up into his head and making his eyes water painfully. Every inhale he took through his mouth burned its way to his lungs. Momma only slapped him again- telling him that this was his fault. That he had to do this for the family.
“You’re so selfish Thomas!” she shouted at him, holding his jaw and shoving another finger into his empty nostril. “There’s no room for useless boys in this house, do you understand?”
He couldn’t remember anything after that. His memories about that day lost to the pain he had put himself through. He remembers bits and pieces- the hunger. The burning. The anger.
He always seemed to remember the anger. Flashing through him- hot and cold, boiling his blood.
Something outside of his thoughts rattle and he’s once more standing in the bathroom, a man three times the size of the child that he had once been. Beside him, the woman had set the medicine bin on top of the toilet tank and was rummaging through it- the source of the noise that had brought him back.
He’s tense, the muscles in his neck thick and tight. He doesn’t like how he seemed to live more in his memories- constantly remembering all the things that he just wanted to forget. He didn’t want to remember, to be reminded of the pain he carried.
The woman glances at him, holding a small yellow squeeze tube and a roll of self-adhesive medical tape in one hand. Their eyes meet and she smiles at him, even though he can feel the way his face is twisted down into a scowl- his eyebrows heavy over his eyes.
He doesn’t mean to glare at her- to make her smile falter slightly as her eyes widen just a fraction. He could almost see himself in her eyes and he doesn’t like the him that he imagines. Large and imposing- a thing that only knows how to hurt, how to cause fear. He waits for the woman to realize her mistake- to realize that she was trapped in a small room with a monster.
“Give me your arm?” she asks him, holding out her right hand. “Let’s get you all wrapped up, okay?” her smile is still small, and he can see the wariness in her eyes, but when he places his arm in her hand she doesn’t flinch, she doesn’t rush him- wanting to get this over with.
She pulls him towards her instead, slender fingers wrapping around his forearm as much as possible. She tugs, and he moves- lightweight in her hold.
He’s aware of the muscles in his face- of how, even if he’s partially hidden behind his mask, his face sits. He makes himself relax- something that comes easy with the warmth of her hand on his body, easing the tension that he still carried from his memories. Her touch burned into him, filled him until he swore that he could feel her in his blood- pumping through his heart.
Her eyes don’t leave his as she pulls him closer, and motions with her head for him to sit down on the toilet. “It’ll be easier, that way you don’t have to keep your arm in the air.” She explains, shuffling out of the way to make space for him.
Underneath his weight, the toilet squeaks and shifts as he does as told, awkwardly sitting down. She’s taller than him like this, his head at the same level with her chest, making him have to tilt his head back just a bit to meet her eyes.
Her smile had grown in the time he had looked away- and he can’t help the heat that spreads across his face, his ears growing hot. Could she feel it? The warmth that she caused him? The uneasiness thrumming through him that had the tips of his fingers aching to touch her? To hold her like she held him?
“Can you hold this?” she asks, already dropping something into his expecting hand. It had been resting on his lap, calloused covered palm open and waiting- a beggar’s pose. The ointment and tape weren’t what he had been waiting for, but he takes them, closing his thick fingers around them.
What he didn’t expect was for her to lean over him with a mumbled “sorry”, her hand falling onto his shoulder as she reached for something behind him- inside of the medicine bin.
He doesn’t know what to do- his body freezing underneath hers as her neck grazes his mask covered face. It doesn’t last long- maybe a fraction of a second before she’s pulling away and dropping the hand from his shoulder, but it was enough.
Enough for him to inhale the light scent of her- woodsy and sweet and nutty- just the smallest hint of sweat underneath that. It reminded him of the baked goods Momma used to make for him on his birthday when he was small. It was comforting in the same way that it twisted his stomach with the pain of remembering something that used to make him so happy, something that had been taken from him so abruptly once Momma decided that he was too big to celebrate his birthday. Too old to be cared for.
The woman had been so close that he swore that he could almost hear the blood pounding through her veins. He had almost been tempted to turn his head and feel its pulse with his lips. To scratch her skin with his mask- the scent of her tainting it the same way it has already ruined his senses.
He could picture it- his teeth sinking into the warm and thin flesh she had so stupidly given him access to. It was almost scary- the way his mouth began to water at the thought of her blood on his tongue, raw flesh between his teeth. He wanted to fill his belly with it- to make her a part of him in a way that no one could take from him.
Would she taste as sweet as she smelled?
He swallowed down saliva, clearing the bad thoughts from his mind- scared that if he kept focusing on them, he would do something that he didn’t really want to do.  Something that he wouldn’t be able to take back, no matter how hard he begged and prayed and tried to undo.
He didn’t want to hurt her right now. No matter how hard his mind was telling him to do it- replaying all of the times that he could have done so. Showing him all of the ways that he still could.
He feels ashamed of his thoughts, of the temptation that he was barely keeping at bay- and finds himself unable to look at the woman as she rips open a piece of plastic, tossing it in the garbage can between the toilet and the sink. He keeps his eyes on the space between his legs, on her beat-up boots as she stands in front of him- sweet and unaware of what a horrible person he truly was. Of all that he was struggling to not do to her.
“Do you think Luda Mae is getting suspicious?”
The question startles him, reminding him of the world outside of the bathroom, outside of the woman in front of him.
“She’s probably thinking I ran away; don’t you think?” the woman’s laugh is small, feathery light. He doesn’t know how to answer- not knowing how long they had been up here. There was a possibility that Momma had grown suspicious, or maybe she thought that he had snapped and taken care of her in the only way that he knew how.
Vaguely, he shakes his head. Whether it’s to disagree with her or to tell her that he wasn’t sure- he let’s her decide on which one he’s trying to communicate. If Momma had been concerned, she would have come upstairs to check on her already, so he wasn’t too worried. He shrugs, and her laughter fills his ears again.
“Right. If you’re not worried, then I won’t be either. I just don’t want her to think that I’ve been a horrible guest- running off in the middle of helping her with dinner.”
He shakes his head again and this time its to reassure her that Momma wouldn’t think that. At least he hoped that she wouldn’t. The thought of Momma angry at the woman made his chest burn uncomfortably. An ache that slithered in the tight spaces between his ribs- hot and uneasy in its slickness.
“Well, what’s done is done, lets just get your arm bandaged. I might need your help facing her again.” The woman likes to talk with a smile, he’s noticed. It was as if her mouth had no other way to rest- the corners turned up towards the heavens, towards her eyes that liked to seek him out- unafraid of what she saw, of what others liked to look away from.
He wondered if she was joking- if she was just talking in order to fill the silence. He knew people who did that- people like Hoyt and his old boss at the Slaughterhouse, who had to keep their mouths moving or they would stop existing all together. He liked to think that if he had a voice, he would be like that too- not quite as annoying, but loud enough that people were forced to look at him, to listen to what he had to say.
He would tell the woman that he would keep her safe. That he wanted to go down with her and show Momma that she had done nothing wrong. That if anyone was to blame, it was him. It was his fault that she had stayed away for so long. He would hide her away from Momma’s anger- keep her tucked behind him- safe.
If he was being honest, he wasn’t sure that he wanted her to leave just yet. They could stay here a little longer- everything behind that door non-existent. He could make believe that Momma was still at work, busy with too many customers- outsiders who were just passing by, headed for more than the meat hooks in the basement of this house. That for a bit his uncle’s Monty and Hoyt didn’t exist. That the world was just for him and her.
That would be enough for him. He was almost tempted to ask God- to check and see if he was still paying attention to him after all that he had done.
The woman moves from in front of him and takes a seat on the edge of the tub, her knees rubbing against the outside of his thigh as she grabs his arm and places it on her lap. He can feel the buckle of her belt against his knuckles- his arm suddenly a solid weight as he feels the warmth that radiates from the space between her thighs.
 It crawls along his skin- up to his shoulder and through the space in his chest. It reminds him of the times that he’s stayed in one spot for too long, his limbs falling asleep. Though there was no uncomfortable pain this time- Instead it felt like a million little bugs were crawling around inside of him- a buzzing under his skin that he was unused to, but not disgusted by. It was something that maybe he could get used to.
It settles in his belly- thick and heavy and hot, stirring awake thoughts that felt too uncomfortable to focus on. Shamefully, he raises his eyes from the woman’s lap, trying to think of something other than the way her jeans clung to her thighs or how close his fingers were to the space between her legs- somehow hotter than the rest of her, the back of his hand burning pleasantly. He wanted to keep it there- to soak all of himself in her warmth until he knew nothing more.
He pushes the indecent thoughts from his mind, suddenly growing paranoid that the woman would find out what he was thinking about her. He didn’t want her to think that he was disgusting. Rotten just like Uncle Hoyt, who was obsessed with playing with their food.
“Is this uncomfortable for you, Tommy?” maybe it was because the silence had gone on for too long, but the woman whispers her question- her voice only for him, distracting him slightly as she reaches for the things she had given him, plucking them from his hand before he even had a chance to register the movement- her hand too fast that he barely feels the way her fingers skim his palm.
She’s already twisted open the bottle of ointment by the time he shakes his head- the cap balancing on the edge of her knee. With a hum she nods- her eyes focused on her own hands even though he wants her to look at him again. He wanted her to ask him more questions- her voice tender and sweet whenever she spoke to him. He wanted her to distract him for his thoughts that liked to pull him away from her- and right now he wanted to stay right here, to not miss a single moment.
The ointment is cold against his skin- the woman squeezing a light amount right above the wound. He can feel it cleansing away all of his wickedness- her finger swiping at it until it’s in the deepest layer of his flesh, leaving nothing behind but an oily residue that coated her thumb. Without a pause she sticks a piece of gauze on top- taping it up until the gauze is well hidden under flesh colored medical tape.
He had found it in the pocket of one of the first of Uncle Hoyt’s guests- setting it aside for Momma along all of the jewelry he had collected. Maybe it was for a reason that he had second guessed his decision to throw it away. Maybe that had been a sign from above that you were on your way- that God hadn’t abandoned them after all.
The woman is gentle as she pats the covered wound and leans back a bit to meet his expectant eyes. What does she see in them- in him- that makes her look at him so sweetly?
“You’re all set. How’s it feeling? It’s not too tight, is it?”
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ohbo-ohno · 1 year ago
Text
Kinktober Day 15 - Noncon
Ghost x Reader - 4.6k (on ao3)
summary: You find yourself cornered in a Maze of Mirrors. (Reader POV)
cw: noncon everything, face fucking, pussy slapping, degradation, kinda a wedgie? like a front wedgie? is that a thing?, orgasm denial
note: if you like this (or hate it but like the concept) read Halloween Haunt by Harley Laroux <3 her erotica is top tier
You’ve always loved Halloween - always been the kid with the scariest costume in class, always had the house decorated with uncomfortably realistic decorations. When your sorority sisters dressed up as black cats and sexy witches, you spent hours painting the most realistic zombie makeup you could. (Your sisters complained for months that you ruined the pictures, but the frat boys had all thought your makeup was far more interesting than theirs. God, you do not miss college.)
Regardless, you’ve always been known to love any and everything scary. There’s something about the thrill of a scare - the creeping horror as you start to realize what’s coming, the ultimate reveal - that always gets you a little squirmy in your seat. Your first crush was Skeet Ulrich in Scream - specifically the scene where he’s covered in blood, licking his fingers. 
You get all those ooey-gooey good scared feelings as your friend drags you through the decently crowded fairgrounds. The actual fair - the one that comes yearly, that no one ever calls anything but the fair - had left only two weeks ago, so this travelling fair had set things up in mostly the same arrangement and, you suspect, to trick certain people into thinking they were the same company.
You’ve already forgotten what your friend said the event was called. She hadn’t needed to give many details to convince you - you heard travelling circus, horror themed, interactive workers, and you were in. The branding isn’t very strong anyways, the only place the name was displayed was the entrance booth, and none of the workers seem to wear any sort of logo, so you don’t feel too forgetful for letting it slip your memory so easily.
You’re not very impressed with the fear factor so far. You hadn’t done too much makeup (hadn’t wanted to risk being mistaken for a cast member) but since it’s the night before Halloween you’ve got a half-done costume on - a clown. Just some white face paint, black lips, and overdrawn triangles around the eyes, a little smudged to make it look like you’ve been chasing someone down and working up a sweat. Your hoodie and tennis skirt look a bit out of place, but you’d wanted to be comfortable since you hoped you’d be spending your night running from actors.
But even a face full of makeup feels like it might’ve been too much effort for this place. Most of the costumes look like they’re from Party City at best - some of them even look very lazily hand-made - and none of the workers seem particularly interested in scaring people. Still, the crowd is easily amused and even a wave or a feint towards a customer has shrieks ringing in the air every few minutes.
You sigh a little disapointedly as you and your friend linger on the edge of the fairgrounds, off to the side and in the dark so you don’t have to deal with the crowd. She pulls out a cigarette and offers you her light.
“I’m sorry,” she says, lighting the stick between your teeth when you lean forward. “I really thought it would be scarier than this. Some of the posters…” she exagetates a shiver. “I thought they’d at least have better costumes.”
You eye a man in a werewolf mask across the pathway, pissing into the dirt. He’s got a flannel and jeans on, and the mask is a little bit crumpled like he pulled it out of a Walmart bin this morning. You’d bet money the flannel was just a happy coincidence he noticed when he showed up for work.
“Yeah,” you sigh, blowing out a lungful of smoke and watching the actor try not to get his dick stuck in his zipper. “Not really your fault, though, these things always look scarier in the ads. Wanna get out of here soon?”
You pass the cigarette to her. “In a bit,” she replies. “I want to try and find some food first. You hungry?”
You shake your head with a grunt. “I wouldn’t trust anything cooked here, honestly. Might just pick up something on the way back.”
She passes you the cigarette for one last breath. “Well I’m too hungry for that. You good on your own for a bit?”
You crouch down a moment to stub out the cigarette, leaving the butt in the gravel. “Yeah, sure. Might see if these fun houses have anything worth seeing in them.”
“You should!” She smiles over her shoulder at you as she starts off to a more well-lit section of the fair. “You never know, maybe they stick the real scares in there!”
You give her a final wave and shout, “Here’s hoping!” at her back as she leaves. 
You linger outside for a little longer, scanning the few structures nearby to decide which one you want to waste a few tickets on.
There’s a Freak Show, but you already know you’d be horribly disappointed if you went in there, something labeled a “House of Horrors” that you’re sure is as much a scam as the freak show, and a few games that have cheap prizes lined up above them.
Across from you, with no lights around it and just one attendant - slumped over, hopefully sleeping - at the front, is a House of Mirrors. Figuring it’s the least likely to be a waste of time (and knowing the kid won’t wake up to charge you), you head over to the building.
The closer you get the more you worry about if he’s asleep or dead, but his snores rattle the little tickets resting on his desk so you figure he’s just a slacker. It’s almost too easy to get by him with all your tickets safe in your pocket. There’s no one else around the darkened corner of the fairgrounds, but you’re quite sure no one would bother snitching on you this late at night. All the parents with little kids left hours ago, leaving mostly teenagers and adults of varying ages left to wander the park.
There’s music playing from speakers that you can’t see, an old clown-themed song that sounds like it’s playing on a scratched up DVD. You’re pleasantly surprised as you make your way through the dusty lobby and into the main section of the building, creatively labeled MAZE OF MIRRORS.
Their branding could definitely use some work, but you’ll give them points for ambience - the lights are turned so low that it’s nearly too dark to see, making all of the mirrors even more difficult to spot. You find yourself a little spooked as you start to make your way through the maze, grinning to yourself.
It’s a shockingly difficult maze, you quickly discover. The music is so loud in some spots that you can hardly hear your thoughts, and so faint in others that you think it might be turned off. The maze itself is a series of either tight, tiny hallways or large open rooms. Whoever designed it clearly knew how to take advantage of the space they were given, the maze feels ten times bigger than it looked on the outside as you wander through.
You know the trick to mazes - keep one hand on the right wall and eventually you’ll find your way out - but it’s fun to just wander around the place, so you let yourself get stuck wandering in circles. You’re glad your friend isn’t here to see how many times you manage to walk into a mirror fully confident that it’s not there, only to whack yourself in the face. For how low maintenance the rest of the fair is, you’re surprised that the hall of mirrors is what they focus their upkeep on.
You’ve been in the maze for about five minutes when you see him.
He scares the shit out of you at first. You spot him behind you in a mirror - one you’d just walked into, which is the only reason you can see well enough to notice him - standing at the entrance to the hallway you’d turned down. He’s clad in all black, except for the skull mask over his face. You think he’s just something taped onto the wall with the way that he blends in, but then that mask titls to the side and you’re struck with the bone-deep knowledge that you’re being watched.
“Shit!” You shout when it first registers that he’s not a piece of paper, one hand coming up to clasp at your erratically beating heart while the other steadies you against the mirror. He doesn’t move past tilting his head a bit further, and after a moment you relax.
You don’t turn around, but you study him a bit in the mirror. It’s too dark to see much more than the outline of his body, but he’s big. He looks like he’s wearing a long sleeved t-shirt and jeans with the mask, and he must be wearing gloves to cover his hands since you can’t see them.
You huff out a laugh as you let both of your hands fall to your sides.
“You got me good,” you call, glancing over your shoulder. You almost jump again - he’s closer than you’d realized, but too far away for you to touch. “I didn’t even see you follow me in here.”
He doens’t say anything. You turn around more fully, leaning back against the mirror and crossing your arms across your chest.
“You gonna start chasin’ me now?” You ask, cocking an eyebrow. You’re playing up the sass, but it’s always fun to mess with theme park employees.
The man takes a few steps forward, heavy boots thudding against the cheap wood flooring. He really is an intimidating bastard, far scarier than any of the other actors you’d seen so far.
“Well?” You call out, standing up from your spot. “Do I get a head start?”
Still no answer. He rolls his head on his neck, then steps to the side and walks into one of the connecting hallways without sparing you a glance. When you step closer to see which direction he’s chosen, he’s already gone.
You huff another laugh to yourself, shaking out your limbs and bouncing a few times on your toes.
Now that you know there’s someone in here with you, the thrill of a scare is starting to get you worked up. You hope they don’t have any rules against physical contact between actors and customers, just imagining the skeleton man tackling you has shivers running up your spine.
You don’t bother to be any quieter as you keep wandering through the maze. You bump into just as many mirrors, continue to question the speaker placement, and keep an eye out for any skeleton masks lingering behind you.
You see him a few more times, always behind you, always just out of reach. He gets progressively closer everytime you spot him. You're reminded of the Weeping Angels from Doctor Who - every time you look away, he gets closer.
It’s fun. More fun than you’ve had all night.
He finally catches up to you what you guess is about half an hour later. Youre just turning another corner, thinking about how it’s been a bit since you’ve seen your shadow, when a hand plants itself firmly between your shoulder blades and shoves.
You’re sent to the ground with a cry, palms scraping against the floor. There’s a gloved hand collaring your throat before you can think to do much more than catch your breath, hauling you up and holding you in the air.
Your eyes fly to the mirror less than a foot away, staring wide-eyed at the image reflected.
There’s you, in your messy clown makeup and hoodie, being held up by a giant swath of black behind you. He’s not ducking down at all, his feet planted on either side of your splayed legs as he towers above you. The way you’re being held up, your head doesn’t even reach his belt buckle. The contrast of your shock and discomfort to his plastic mask has your thighs clenching, just a bit.
He doesn’t duck lower, just tilts his head in that now-familiar way of his and pulls you a little further up. His hand is absolutely massive, thumb resting beneath one ear and his fingers resting below the other. You choke a bit as you’re lifted, knees scrambling beneath you.
This close to the mirror you can see his eyes - bright blue, surrounded by black paint, and staring back into yours.
He lowers his head, his free hand tugging your hair until you lean back and look straight up. The hand on your neck shifts to hold you in that position, his other hand lifting to pull the black part of his mask up.
He’s white, with thin lips and a broad jaw. You pant as you stare up at him, incapable of processing what’s going on.
His jaw works for a moment, lips twitching, and before you realize what he’s about to do you feel something wet splatter against your cheek.
He spit on you. Who the fuck does that? Being tackled and manhandled is one thing but spitting? You recoil reflixivley, lips curling as you reach up to try and wipe disgusting liquid off.
“What the fuck-” You start, but before you can even finish your sentence you’re yanked forward by your neck.
You yelp as you’re thrown from between his thighs, hips twisted awkwardly and head slamming back against the mirror. You cry out at the sharp pain at the back of your skull, but before you can think of doing anything there’s a hand around your neck again, a body crouched in front of you - over you - keeping you from doing anything.
You gape up at the actor, panting and surprised. None of the other employees even got close to touching customers - half of them didn’t even look like they wanted to be there - what the hell is this guy’s problem? Does he just take his job way too seriously
He’s far too close to you now, your nose nearly brushing where his shoulder be, his boots on either side of your thighs, his chest pressed so close that you can’t do anything with your hands.
The hand not around your neck comes up to your cheeks, grabbing them both in one hand and pinching until your lips pucker up. You squirm, letting out a noise of surprise and pain when his thumb and pointer finger dig in between your teeth to force your mouth open. One eye squeezes shut at the ache, but there’s nowhere for you to go with him caging you in.
This time when he spits, it lands right in the little hole he’s made for himself. With how close he is, you see the way his lips twitch up in the corners.
You try your best to get out from under him, hands pushing at his shoulders and legs desperately kicking. But he’s like a statute above you, hard as stone and immoveable. 
He leans so close that his lips nearly brush yours, meeting your glare with a spark of amusement. 
“Like how it tastes?” He purrs, chest rumbling against yours.
You make a noise somewhere between offended and annoyed, trying to throw yourself every which way for even an inch of freedom. All you manage is a tighter grip on your jaw and neck, leaving you wincing.
“Lots more where that came from,” he promises.
It’s insultingly easy for him to manhandle you, and you curse all the times you swore to yourself you’d finally start taking self-defense classes. You can barely manage a single blow, and when your hands or feet do make contact he doesn’t even flinch.
There’s absolutely nothing you can do as you’re wrestled to the floor. He gets you flat on your back then kneels over your head, his knees so close that you worry he’ll squeeze them together and pop your head like a berry.
He doesn’t give you a chance to sit up, planting one heavy hand in the center of your chest and leaning his weight forward, knocking the air out of you. You finally regain the ability to speak when his other hand moves to his belt, undoing it right above your face.
“What are you-? No, no, get the hell off me!” You shout, desperately pushing at his arm and trying to get enough leverage with your feet to squirm away. “Don’t you fucking dare- help! Somebody help!”
Your screams go ignored, blending right in with that stupid clown music and bouncing off the mirrors just to come straight back to your ears. Your noise doesn’t deter him at all, and he’s got his belt off and jeans yanked down despite your resistance. 
“No, no, no, don’t- stop, please, you can’t-” you gasp, eyes flying wide as you find yourself staring up at his cock above you. 
He doesn’t give you any warning, just grabs your jaw, holds it open, and sheathes himself down your throat.
Your limbs spasm, every instinct in your body screamin to get away as he slips right past your gag reflex. You’re terrified that you’ll vomit and choke on his cock, the fear dousing you in icy cold and leaving you limp for a minute. All you can think about is breathing around the intrusion in your throat, finding some way not to suffocate and die on a sticky mirror maze floor.
“Finally,” you hear him grunt from above you. He grabs both of your wrists, easily ignoring your weak pulls and tying them together with his belt. “Somethin’ to shut you up.”
You try and make a sound around his cock, yanking your hands away and panicking even more when you feel how firmly tied they are. You make another sound, insitively trying to cry out even with something stuffed in your mouth.
He moans above you, lowering himself to his elbows over your body. “Yeah, just like that,” he pants. “Mouth feel’s fuckin’ heavenly.”
You go silent, determined not to give this piece of shit anything he wants. Tears pour down your temples and across the tops of your ears, and your throat burns.
His hips move slowly against your face, grinding himself as deep as he can get before pulling out just a few inches and sliding back in. He’s got an unfairly large cock, and there’s already an ache developing in your jaw from just seconds held so wide open.
His foreskin catches on your teeth when he pulls the whole way out just to fuck back in, and you’re sharply reminded of the fact that you have teeth.
When his cock bottoms out, his balls resting against your eyes, you bite down, praying it’s enough to break skin.
It’s not. Instead of blood pouring into your mouth and a screaming man falling off of you, you hear the man snarl, pulling his dick out entirely and slamming it back down your throat so harshly that it feels almost like he’s punched you in the face.
“No fucking teeth,” he snaps above you, and you feel his weight shift back onto his knees, then his hands grab at your thighs and throw them open. He flips your skirt up and before you can think to bite down again lands a stinging slap against the gusset of your underwear.
You nearly scream around his cock, hips snapping closed to try and smother the pain. He only growls another sound, using one hand to hold you open and the other to rain down a series of progressively harder smacks.
Your breath hitches as you sob, hardly able to get any air in around his thrusts as he starts them back up again. Every time he buries himself to the hilt inside of you, he lands another hit to your poor pussy. You can’t help but wail around him.
“There it is,” he moans, the sound loud and unrestrained. “God you feel good screamin’ around my cock. Good fuckin’ hole, huh?”
He punctuates the last four words with slaps, leaving his length inside your throat and going back to that horrible grinding against your face. You go silent again, using all of your willpower to keep from screaming. What little thought is left in your head is used to figure out how best to breathe through your nose without choking on snot.
He doesn’t smack you again, but you feel his fingers trace around the edges of your panties. Your hips wiggle against your will, just trying to get away from the violation. One of your legs is pinned to the floor by the thigh, but the other oscillates between going limp and trying to get leverage and force your body up.
His fingers hook around the gusset of your underwear, but before you can even worry about him touching you there, he pulls them up towards your body.
He does it with such force that you’re left squealing, hips flying off the ground to try and lessen the pressure against your clit. His hand pulls so far up that you feel it resting nearly at your belly button. You can’t help the little gasping, gagging noises as he starts to thrust in and out of your mouth again.
You hear - you feel - him laugh, swaying his hand from left to right. Your hips try to follow naturally, just desperate to alleviate any of the pressure you can.
“Like a little puppet,” he murmurs, yanking even further up, moaning when you scream.
He lets them go only a few thrusts later, big hand smoothing the fabric down over your cunt. You can feel that it’s stretched out, a little looser around the meat of your pussy, and the thought only makes you cry harder.
But you go silent again. It’s the one thing left in your control - even pinned to the floor, hands tied, legs useless, mouth stuff, you can decide how much noise you make.
He doesn’t like that. He groans a little when you go quiet again, tapping your thigh sharply.
“No, come on, make your little noises again. Feels real nice on my cock.”
This time you’re ready for the smack against your vulva, and you remain silent. You stay silent for the next three too.
His hips work with a little more force again, balls smacking against your face and leaving you to squeeze your eyes shut. After the next slap his hand doesn’t lift again, just rubs over your vulva slowly.
It’s pure luck on his part that he happens to rub over your clit. It’s a pure lack of luck on your part that you moan at the sudden and unexpected pleasure, completely taken off guard.
He stills above you, then slowly repeats the movement. You’re helpless to the little whimpers coming from your throat, and you curse the fact that you’ve always been loud during sex. He zeros in on exactly how to rub your clit unreasonably quickly, fingers sure through the fabric of your underwear.
“That what you need?” He rumbles a laugh above you. “Pain won’t make you noisy, but pleasure will? I can work with that.”
Before you can even begin to question what that means, your underwear are tucked to the side, and there’s a face buried in your pussy.
He doesn’t bother taking any time to explore or try and learn your body, just dives tongue-first to your clit. His technique of lick first, figure out what feels good later unfortunately works on you, and you’re left writhing beneath him, eyes rolled back in pleasure and moans muffled.
He groans agaisnt you, too, lips vibrating against your clit in a horrible and delicious way. “There you go.” You can barely hear him over the sounds of your own choking, especially with his own voice muffled in your folds. “That feels good, keep going.”
You don’t want to, but the magic he works against your clit leaves you no choice. You can’t help the hitched cries spilling from your lips, even if they make you cry all that much harder as you hear them.
He doesn’t take much longer to come, and you’re torn between resenting the fact that it’s your sounds that get him off and being glad that he does so he can get off of you.
He comes with a loud groan, sent right into your cunt and dragging you far too close to an edge you do not want to see, and sends thick ropes right down your throat. It’s almost a kindness that you can’t taste him, only have to swallow as quickly as possible so you don’t choke. The movements of your throat only draw out his orgasm though, and you’re locked in a terrible cycle for what feels like an eternity.
He doesn’t get you off. You’re not sure if you’re thankful or not.
You gasp when he finally pulls out of your throat, taking uninhibited breaths for the first time in far too many minutes. You can’t shut your jaw from the pain, but you also can’t kick your legs when he kneels up more fully.
He’s silent as he takes back his belt, and no matter how much you beg your arms to move, they remain still on your stomach. He shifts off of you, and you whine wordlessly when he grabs a handful of your hair, wiping his flaccid cock off in it.
Still, you don’t move.
He stands and redoes his belt silently, the jingle loud even with the clown music still playing. You stare up at him, and he holds eye contact with you. For some reason, you can’t look away.
He crouches down again before he leaves, and you can’t help but flinch away. He doesn’t touch you sexually again, though, only reaches out and pushes your jaw closed with two firm fingers.
You hate that he still has the mask pulled up, because it means you can see his smirk.
“That was fun. Maybe we’ll do it again sometime.”
He’s gone before you manage to understand what he’s said, and the tears start all over again when you do.
It takes you a while to scrape yourself off of the floor. You only catch sight of yourself in one mirror before you stare at the ground.
Your makeup is ruined, teartracks running down your temples and both cheeks. There are smudges along your jaw where his hands grabbed. Your lips are swollen and red. It could not be more obvious what’s just happened to you.
You plant one hand on the wall to your right, and keep your eyes firmly planted on your sneakers as you leave the maze. You feel almost detached from yourself, unable to truly understand what happened, what it means.
The throbbing between your thighs is distracting. You worry you might chafe from how soaked your panties are.
It doesn’t take long to find your friend once you finally make it out. She takes one look at you and laughs, teases you about having fun without her. You can’t bring yourself to correct her, and she picks up on your tone quickly, dropping the subject.
The two of you walk silently to your car. You hate it, but you can’t help but scan every actor. Thankfully - or maybe not thankfully? You don’t know anymore - none of them are even close to as big as the masked man in the hall of mirrors was.
You tuck your hands beneath your armpits as you finally make it to the parking lot, walking as quickly as you can get away with without running. Your limbs go a little looser as you get to your car, mind relaxing as it recognizes how close you are to safety. 
You freeze when you finally make it to the driver’s side door, lungs going still and heart beating so quickly you worry it’ll pound right out of your chest.
There, sitting in the driver’s seat, is a skeleton mask sewed onto a balaclava.
636 notes · View notes
miryum · 3 months ago
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"The Crime Scene"
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Summary: Detective!Jason Todd x detective!Reader based on Jake and Amy’s relationship
Series Warnings: Swearing, descriptions of violence (but nothing descriptive), guns and other police stuff
Series Masterlist
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Y/n stood by an apartment door that was blocked off by police tape, scrolling through her pictures. She and Jason had officially been dating for three weeks, and in her opinion, it was going great. Two nights ago they had another date which consisted of going to the State Fair. Y/n had insisted that they get the famous cookies (“They’re a staple of the fair, Jaybird! It wouldn’t be the State Fair without diabetes!”), ride the giant slide (“Darling, I’m an adult male with a full-time job. As much as I wanna make you happy, I’m not riding- oh my god, oh my god … Okay, can we go again?”), and go on the skyride. The day had ended with a camera roll full of Jason and Y/n pictures, Y/n’s favourite being Jason going through the children’s faux farm where kids had to collect small packages and do chores akin to farming. They followed a dirt path and collected plastic apples, packets of corn, and swaths of real sheep wool. At the end, they cashed it all in for an ice cream sandwich. Luckily, Y/n had been able to snag a picture of Jason in a tiny apron and holding a wicker basket. His mouth was downturned, but he waited patiently in line for his promised ice cream sandwich. 
“Hey. Sorry I'm late,” Cass said and Y/n looked up. “The coffee guy was…”
Y/n choked on her spit. “Assaulting your head?  What is going on up there?” She referenced Cass’ hairstyle. Instead of her loose pixie-cut, Cass’ hair was ironed straight in a tight bob.
“Is it bad?” Cass grimaced.
“Before I answer that question,” Y/n said, “do you currently have a knife on you?”
“Yes, several.” 
“Then I love it.” Y/n gave her a thumbs up. “It really... I mean, it’s hair. You look like Edna from The Incredibles. I'm sorry, don't stab me.” She shielded her face with her arms.
“My girlfriend, Harper, is going through beauty school. This week they’re doing hairstyles,” Cass explained. “She’s practising on me.”
“You’re still with Harper?!” Y/n giggled. “Geez, I love her! Uh, don’t take this the wrong way, but… is she passing?”
“Honestly, I don't know.”
“Well, let's get into this murder.” Y/n rubbed her hands together gleefully. “I'm hoping it's a dope one.” She flung open the door and ducked under the police tape. When she saw the apartment, she froze and her eyes widened in appreciation. “Mamma Mia. That's a bloody pizza pie.” She was referring to the scene before her, the floor smeared with blood in long lines, evidence markers covering every other metre, and the photographer was just finishing up. 
“Detectives,” a detective named Al Kelly greeted them. “The Roomba was running when we got here. It smeared blood across the entire apartment.”
Cass smirked and turned to Y/n. “Is this dope enough for you?”
“It's a bloody robot, Cain.” Y/n grinned. “It's clearly a good start, but it's gonna take more than that to be certified as totally dope. Who's the victim?”
“Name is Steven Carlyle,” Kelly said.
Y/n hummed and shook her head. “Kind of a boring name. Not super dope.”
“He was a psychologist,” Kelly continued. 
“Okay, a sharp turn away from dopeness, but who found the body?”
“His boss called the cops when he didn't show up to work, so he was found by Officer Fields.”
“Officer Fields?” Y/n whined. “You are seriously undoping this. Do you have anything else for me? Al?”
“The apartment was locked from the inside?” Kelly offered, wondering what Y/n wanted to hear. 
“Mysterious. Dope,” Y/n nodded along. 
“The alarm system was still armed.”
“Dope, dope, dope, dope. So hard to solve.” Y/n’s mouth dropped open appreciatively.
Cass asked, “any surveillance cameras?”
“Oh, yeah. Tons of them, but we checked them. No one was seen going in or out. Whoever did this was a ghost.” Al handed Cass a case file and she started flitting through it.
“Yes!” Y/n exclaimed. “A ghost! I officially declare this case ‘dope!’” She turned towards the apartment. “I love the first walkthrough of a crime scene. It's kind of like arriving at summer camp, except the lake is full of blood and your bunk mate is dead.” She paused before ambling through the room. “I think I may be bad at metaphors.”
Cass held up an interview transcript. “So after Carlyle comes home from work, the only person who even approaches his doorway is a delivery guy?”
“Yeah, but he never enters the apartment.”
Y/n gasped and pointed to an evidence marker. “Hey, Cass. Check it out. Triple digies!” The evidence marker displayed one-hundred and eighteen. “There's so much evidence, we hit triple digies!”
“Cool,” Cass commented.
“Very cool indeed,” Y/n agreed. “But you know what's not cool? Carlyle ordered his dinner from House of Lettuce. There's no way this guy knew he was gonna die! No one would want lettuce as their last meal. For example, my last meal... is gonna be any candy I get my hands on,” she shoved her hands in her pockets and extracted a pack of M&Ms.
“You just keep those in your pocket?” Cass pushed back a smile.
“We face death every day,” Y/n pointed out. “I gotta be prepared to go out on my own terms.”
“I can't even think about eating,” Cass gagged. “It smells like Tim’s armpits after he’s refused to go home for four days and is running on coffee.”
“When have you smelled Tim’s armpits…” Y/n trailed off.
A heavy set man with a thick moustache saddled up to them and said, “that's the heat wave. It speeds up the body decomp. I guess you could say this mystery is straight outta decomp......ton.”
“No.” Y/n rejected the attempted pun. “Who are you?”
“Angel Rojas. I'm running CSI and forensics.” The man took a sip of his coffee. 
“If the heat is causing the smell, why don't we just turn on the air conditioning?” Y/n asked.
Rojas shook his head immediately. “That kind of air flow is gonna kick up all kinds of dust particles. That AC stays off, which means the odour in here? Only gonna get worse.” He dug a small clip out of his pocket and shoved it on his nose. “Pro tip: plug your noses. Had this bad boy custom-made to fit these sweet nosters.”
“Are you trying to abbreviate ‘nostrils’?” Y/n stared at Rojas, completely bamboozled.
“In CSI, we don't try. We do, son.”
“Son? I mean, transgender people are great, but that’s not how I identify, thank you very much.” She shot Rojas a pair of finger guns before saying, “well, it's been sort of okay meeting you. We're gonna turn our backs and ignore you now.” She and Cass loyally turned their backs. 
“Hey, Y/n/n,” Cass smirked. “You know what it's time for?”
“I sure do! Y/n and Cass’ first impressions!”
Cass pointed to blood patterns on the wall. “Cast-off pattern on the far wall suggests upward knife slices. Y/n?”
Y/n knelt down next to Carlyle’s body. “Wounds on the vic's back means he didn't see the killer coming. Oof. Cass, my dearest?”
Cass shook her head and continued, “laptop, wallet, keys all in plain sight. No sign of forced entry. Doesn't connote a robbery. L/n?”
“But it does connote that our killer was waiting for Carlyle in the apartment.” She hesitated and asked, “did I just use the word ‘connote’ correctly?”
“You did.”
Y/n grinned. “Great. I’m just super smart. Please text Tim and tell him to suck it and that I am amazing and he should love me. Also, tell Jason that I’m the smarter one in the relationship and that even though he reads all the time, I am superior.”
“I’m not doing that.”
A voice frantically cried from the hallway, “I'm his mother! Let me in!”
Y/n grimaced and her jaw tensed. “Rock-paper-scissors for who has to talk to the vic's mom.”
“Deal.” The pair slammed their fists into their open palms and Y/n glared at Cass as the former held up paper and Cass showed two fingers to indicate scissors. 
“It's a game of chance. How the hell do you always win?” Y/n groaned loudly.
“You always pick paper,” Cass said.
“That is not true,” Y/n scoffed. “Here, go again.” Y/n flattened her palm as paper and Cass held up scissors. “One more time. Alright, one more time. One more time. One more time. One more time.” Y/n kept holding up paper and Cass easily beat her every time with scissors. “Alright, one more time. One more time. God, this reverse psychology is a bust!” Y/n sighed and stepped outside to the hallway. “Ma'am?” she found Carlyle’s mother and smiled softly. “I'm Detective L/n. This is Detective Cain. I'm so sorry for your loss.”
“Please tell me whatever you can. Nobody will tell me anything,” Carlyle’s mother, Amy, begged.
“I really wish that I could, but we're just starting our investigation,” Y/n explained. “Now, is there anyone you can think of that would want to hurt your son?”
“No! Everybody loved Stevie. I don't know why this happened! Please, you have to find who did this.”
“We're doing everything we can,” Y/n reassured her.
“Promise me,” Amy pleaded slowly, staring helplessly at Y/n, “you'll find who did this.”
Cass stepped in and frowned, “ma'am, we can't promise-”
“Promise me!” Amy placed a hand on Y/n’s forearm and tears started forming in her eyes. “Stevie was my whole world. I'm a single mom… or, was a single mom.” She sniffed and wiped at her eyes.
Y/n took a breath and nodded. “I promise you.”
Cass falsely grinned at Amy, who was thanking Y/n profusely, and shoved Y/n back into the rotting apartment. “You really are an idiot, aren’t you?”
“Um, exsqueeze me?” Y/n crossed her arms, offended.
“Did you really just full-on promise a victim's family member we would solve a crime? You broke the number one rule of dealing with a victim's family member. What were you thinking?”
Y/n shrugged and muttered, “I don't know. She reminded me of my mom, okay? A single mother crying in the hallway? Those are some of my frequent childhood memories.”
Cass sighed and rubbed her temples, speaking more softly, “dude, you never make a promise, because if we don't solve this, you've given her false hope, and that is way worse.”
“Normally, I would totally agree with you, but we're going to solve this case. We have so much evidence. We hit triple digies! We'll interview his friends, neighbours, and coworkers. Come on. We got this!”
“Alright, fine. But you have to deal with her if we can’t solve it.”
“Okay.”
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“My goodness.” Y/n placed a hand over her heart and raised her brows in Cass’ direction. “Did Mother Gothel finally let you out of the tower?”
Cass’s hair had been lengthened significantly by hair extensions that fell down to her waist. “What?” Cass squinted at her.
“It was a Tangled burn,” Y/n explained. “Jason and I had a Disney marathon last weekend.”
“Cool, but no. Harper’s learning how to weave in hair extensions. Anyway, I talked to the neighbours. Our vic had a party three nights before the murder. I talked to everyone on the guest list. They all have alibis, so I got nothing. How did your interviews go?”
Y/n sucked in a harsh breath. “Not great. I talked to his coworkers, friends, and family. No one had a motive. Everyone loved him. The dumb jerk. RIP,” she added quickly, waving a hand around in a bad rendition of crossing herself.
“Did you promise any of them that you'd find the killer?” Cass asked, glaring at Y/n.
Y/n stared at Cass for a tense moment before admitting, “yes, his aunt. She also reminded me of my mom. Her name was Y/m/n!”
“Y/n!” Cass reprimanded. 
“Look, it's gonna be fine. This apartment is full of forensic evidence! There is no way that CSI hasn't found something. I have never been more confident in my entire-” she threw open the door and groaned as the smell immediately blasted her. “I can taste the smell. Ugh. You shouldn't be able to taste smells.”
“That's the heat cookin' the blood rot right out of the floorboards.” Rojas sauntered up to them. “Set scent to simmer. Serve over rice.”
Cass gazed uncomfortably at him before saying, “just so you know, Rojas, we're not responding positively to you as a person. Maybe just give us an update on the labs.”
“Copy that. The victim was stabbed 30 times. Coroner puts the time of death between six p.m. and seven-thirty p.m. Sunday night.”
“Okay, and how many DNA matches did you find?” Y/n asked.
“None.”
“What about hair?”
“None.”
“Fingerprints?”
“None,” Rojas repeated. “I have no matches of anything on any criminal databases whatsoever.”
Cass turned to Y/n. “Still feeling good about your promise, L/n?”
“Still feeling good about that haircut, Cousin It? I’m sorry, I’m a little frustrated right now but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I love you, Cass.” Y/n took a breath after her quick speech and said, “Rojas, how did you guys not find anything? You had fifteen people in here.”
“First of all, you sound so ignorant right now. I had fourteen guys here.” He scoffed. ”Like I'd ever get approval for fifteen guys. That's insane. Second of all, don't worry, we found something good. We tested the blood. This blood splatter belongs to the victim, this to a second individual, and that to a third.”
“Oh, hells, yes. We might have some perp blood in here. This is huge! Cass, we’re gonna solve this case!” She high-fived Cass and a couple mornings later, she stood outside the apartment, and greeted her friend, “ah, good morning, Prince Harry.” Cass’ hair was a brilliant, stark red.
“You seem particularly chipper this morning,” Cass remarked.
”Indeed I am,” Y/n agreed. “Because I finally tracked down the guy who delivered our vic his final meal and, in so doing, maybe saw the other two guys who bled all over this apartment.”
“We don't know there were three people in the apartment,” Cass reminded her friend.
“Delivery guy,” a cop introduced Y/n and Cass to a young, thin man dressed in a work uniform.
“Hello, sir,” Y/n smiled kindly and shook the delivery boy’s hand. ”We'd like to ask you a couple of questions.”
The delivery boy, who must’ve been no older than twenty-five, looked around at all the uniforms and equipment there. He nervously admitted, “okay, look, I ate a couple fries out of the bag, but everybody does that.”
Y/n shook her head, fingers tucked in belt loops. “That's not why you're here.”
“Oh, shit,” Max, the delivery boy, looked petrified. “Is this about weed?” he asked quietly, like it was a secret.
Y/n’s brows shot up and asked, “should it be?”
“No?”
“You delivered food to the guy in this apartment at six-forty p.m. on Sunday,” Cass cut in. “And within the hour, he was murdered.”
“What? How? That's horrible!” Max cried.
“Did you see anything suspicious?”
“No,” Max said. “But I didn't go inside. The guy came to the door. I just gave him the food.”
“And did you see or hear anyone else in the apartment?” Y/n crossed her arms.
“No, just that one guy. He ordered, uh, three beetroot zucchini wraps,” Max stuttered.
Y/n grimaced dramatically. “Three disgusting wraps. Three disgusting bloodstains. I knew it. There were three people in there.”
Cass stepped forward. “Would you be willing to go inside and let us know if anything looks different to you?”
“Yeah. Sure, that's fine. I don't care,” Max agreed as Y/n began to open the apartment door. Max stepped in and took one look around before screaming out, “why would you show this to me? Oh, I'm too high to see this.” He gagged and his eyes fell on the fishbowl which had bloodstains on the glass. “There's blood on the fish! On the fish!”
Y/n turned to Cass and said quietly, “I always forget how weirdly numb to horrific things we are. Do you think it affects the relationships we build with others?”
“Oh, for sure,” Cass agreed, nodding stoically as Max continued wailing.
“Oh.”
Cass placed a hand on Max’s back, who was currently bent over, retching up air. “You must have seen something. You delivered the food at six-forty, and sometime before seven-thirty, Carlyle was stabbed to death.”
“Stop saying ‘stabbed!’” Max pleaded. “What I saw here forever changed me. My heart is still pounding!”
“Wait. Carlyle was wearing a smartwatch, right?” Y/n asked, whirling around to the evidence marker that stood by Carlyle’s phone. “Those things track your heart rate. If we look at his phone, we can see the exact moment his heart stopped beating. Here we go.” She opened the phone. “Activities app. And... boom! His heart rate dropped to zero at exactly six-oh-three.”
Cass’ brows furrowed and she muttered, “the food wasn't even ordered until six-sixteen, which means…”
Both detectives exclaimed, “the killer ordered the food!”
Max, who was sitting in fetal position, yelled out, “oh, god. Did I talk to a murderer?!”
“Y/n,” Cass ignored Max. “This guy saw the perp. We have to get him in front of a sketch artist.”
“Oh, yeah. I'm feeling it now, Cass.” She bounced up on the balls of her feet. “At this time tomorrow, we're gonna know exactly what our killer looks like!”
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“We have no idea what our killer looks like,” Cass said the following day, bags under eyes.
“Well, that's not totally true.” Y/n shuffled through sketch renderings. “We now know that the killer might look like Sebastian Stan, Winona Ryder, or Bilbo Baggins.”
“The delivery guy kept starting over. Apparently, he's always high.” She shook her head. “I'm sorry, man. Our big break turned into nothing.”
A voice sounded from the end of the hallway. “Detectives,” Captain Wayne strode up to them, cap under his arm.
“Ah! Captain,” Y/n plastered a grin on her face. “Did you come down here to take a look at the two best detectives you've ever worked with in action?”
“The two best detectives I've ever worked with are Prince and Pennyworth,” Wayne said immediately.
“Oh.” Y/n nodded once and stared at Wayne. “You never mentioned them before.”
“They were excellent,” Wayne replied. “I'm here because Major Crimes wants the case. I was hoping to tell them you have some leads. I overheard you mention a Bill Bo-Baggins. Should we bring him in?”
Y/n stifled a chuckle. “Well, as much as I would love to meet him, he is not a suspect.”
“Okay, so who is?”
Y/n swallowed and said, “at this time? No one. But... we are currently investigating no leads.” She drew her lips in and waited for the disappointment.
“So you have nothing,” Wayne restated.
Cass glared at Y/n. “Not nothing. L/n made a new best friend. The vic's mom. She promised her she'd solve the case.”
Wayne pursed his lips. “That's a rookie mistake.”
Y/n held up her hands defensively. “Okay. Fine. Maybe I'm not Pierce and Pennyweather.”
“Prince and Pennyworth,” Wayne corrected. “And they would've remembered your name after one mention.”
“Because we're memorable, and they're not.” Y/n held up a hand to Cass for a high-five. “Turned it around.” Cass shook her head and Y/n dropped her hand, continuing, “alright, look, Captain. Cain and I are gonna solve this case. The answer is in this room.” She gestured around to the bloody apartment. “We just have to focus and let the room speak to us.” She shouted out to the open house, “isn't that right, room?”
“When you talk to the room,” Wayne deadpanned, “I lose even more confidence in you.”
“Why?” Y/n shrugged then turned to beg her Capitan, “can you please just buy us some more time? Sir, I feel like we've earned this.”
Wayne sighed heavily and conceded, “work fast.”
Y/n shot him a thumbs up and beamed. “Got it.” She turned back to the apartment and rubbed her hands together. She said to Cass, “okay. Let's look at the scene like we're seeing it for the first time with fresh eyes.” She jumped to the floor, next to where Carlyle’s body used to lay. “Vic was face down.”
Cass stood in the kitchen, analysing the blood on the wall. “Cast-off splatter suggests upward knife slices.”
“No signs of forced entry. Laptop, wallet, keys were all there,” Y/n said, staring at the desk where all the items lay.
“Doesn't connote a robbery,” Cass finished.
“Wait a minute. Have we said this already?” Y/n looked around. “Are we having the exact same conversation?”
“Yep.”
“Cool.” Y/n’s jaw twitched. “Moving on. Windows and doors locked from the inside. Nobody in or out.” She pressed her fingertips to her temples. “Think, think, think... oh!” She snapped her fingers and her head whipped upward to focus on the ceiling. “The upstairs neighbour and his best friend drilled through the ceiling, murdered Carlyle, bled all over the apartment, then climbed back up and sealed the hole behind them!”
Rojas spoke up from behind them. “Negative, we would have found construction debris and microscopic paint fibres. The only thing that needs patching... is that theory.”
Y/n waved him away. “Okay. New idea. We're gonna get inside the mind of the killer. We eat the veggie wraps!” She opened the days old food container and unwrapped the veggie wraps. A shiver ran up her spine as she took in the disgusting looking food. “Here we go,” she hesitantly took a bite of the wrap and immediately gagged. “Oh, this sick bastard,” she groaned. “Oh, man. This is one twisted motherfucker. Oh, the beets are raw. This guy is demented, Cass!” She harshly swallowed down the food before throwing away the rest of the veggie wrap, glaring at it. “How can someone stomach that…?”
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A week later, Y/n stood in the middle of the room and held her arms out wide.“Okay. All we have to do is figure out what kind of person can walk by cameras without being seen. Someone camouflaged as a wall.” She glanced around, squinting at the walls, as if she could find the person.
“Unlikely,” Cass said.
“Harry Potter and his invisibility cloak,” Y/n said proudly.
Cass pointed out, “Not a real person.”
“Well, uh, how do you know, Cain? Have you searched all of Britain for a magical castle? I didn’t think so.”
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A couple days later, Y/n sat on the kitchen counter, legs crossed and wearing a tank top and pyjama shorts. She suddenly gasped loudly and waved her hands around. “My god, Cain, come here. Look at the blood spatter. Do you see what I see?”
Cass walked over from the bedroom and wondered, “Uh, blood?”
“I think I just made a connection,” Y/n said. “The number three is everywhere. Three people. Three types of blood. And guess what the tax was on the veggie wraps? Three dollars and nineteen cents, but if you ignore the nineteen, then it's three!” she cried out.
Cass shook her head. “Okay. You've officially lost your mind.”
Y/n jumped off the counter and hissed, “what? Who told you that? Was it room?”
“No. It's the fact that you think the room has a voice and also you're working in your PJs!”
“To beat the heat, Cass!” Y/n shouted. “To beat the heat! If we can't turn on the AC, this isn’t crazy, it's just smart.”
Cass took a deep breath and said quietly, “Y/n, I gave the case to Major Crimes.”
“What?” Y/n’s lips parted in disbelief. “Cass, y-you can't do that. I promised Amy.”
“Yeah, and now you can't let it go,” Cass argued. She opened the apartment door and a group of men in uniforms and windbreakers entered. “The scene's yours, guys. I'm sorry, Y/n/n,” she said softly. “It's over.”
Y/n scoffed and marched out. “Okay, fine! I'll leave. Come on, room!” she called out to the apartment.
“You left your pants,” Cass said loudly.
“I don't care!” Y/n shouted back.
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Cass slid into the briefing room, noticing Y/n who was crouched on the floor. “Hey, Y/n?”
Y/n popped up and gasped. “Ah! Hello, Cassandra, my coworker and dearest friend.”
Cass shoved her hands into her pockets. “Look, I know you're mad at me, but I only gave away that case to help you. You were acting like a lunatic.”
Y/n placed a bottle of ketchup on one of the tables. “Don't even worry about it. You were totally right. I was in too deep, and honestly, I feel so free not having to work that case anymore, so thank you.” She didn’t know what to do, so she gave Cass an awkward little bow.
Cass smiled, relieved. “Cool, you're welcome. Uh, what's up with all the ketchup?”
“It's, um… for my hot dog.” Y/n nodded slowly. She began to push Cass out of the room. “Anyways, this has been a great chat, but I better get back to my hot dog.”
Cass frowned and pushed past her and froze at the sight of Stephanie who was laying on the floor, covered in ketchup. “Oh, wow.” Cass said slowly, eyes wide.
“There's nothing crazy about this, sister,” Y/n said. “It's the crime scene!” She pointed to the differently arranged tables in the briefing room. “There’s the stove, the kitchen island, blood,” she splattered some more ketchup on a table. “And of course, the body,” she flourished towards Steph.
“Hi, Cass!” Steph waved at her friend. “I'm the body.”
“You gave away my case, but guess what?” She let out a ‘boo-yah’ and held up two fingers. “I spent two months in that apartment. I can recreate it in my sleep.”
“Have you slept?” Cass crossed her arms.
“No,” Y/n said.
Dick walked into the room and looked around, shocked at the mess. “What the hell is going on here?!”
“Y/n’s gone insane because she promised the victim's mom she'd solve her son's murder,” Cass explained.
Dick placed his hands on his hips, disappointed. “Seriously? You never promise a victim's relative anything.” He took a breath and commanded, “clean it up and get out. You've lost your mind,” he decided.
“That's not true!” Y/n retorted. “I'm solving this.”
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“Hey, sweetheart?” Jason placed a comforting hand on Y/n’s back. He had gotten a concerning text from Cass that had persuaded Jason to stop by Y/n’s apartment during his lunch break. He had originally knocked on the door, but when she didn’t answer, he had used the key she gave him for emergencies. 
Y/n jumped at the contact and whirled around, eyes bloodshot and the bags under her eyes were darker than ever. “Jason? When did you get here?” Before her sat the blueprints of Carlyle’s apartment.
Jason’s eyes widened at her appearance before his expression softened sadly. “Oh, darling, how much sleep have you gotten?”
“Uh… when was Monday?”
“Four days ago,” Jason answered gently. “Come on,” he gently helped her out of her chair and led her to the bedroom. “Can we get some rest?” Y/n nodded reluctantly and allowed him to tuck her into bed. “I’m just gonna stay here to make sure you get sleep well,” Jason whispered. 
“Okay…” Y/n soon fell asleep, a small smile tugging on Jason’s lips. He returned to Y/n’s living room and sat down on the couch, turning the TV on, making sure the volume was low so as to not disturb her. 
However, an hour or so later, Jason heard some rustling from Y/n’s room. Worried, he crept to Y/n’s room and peered in. When he saw what his girlfriend was doing, he sighed heavily. “Y/n, my darling, please go to sleep.” 
Y/n was using the blueprints as a blanket, reading over them intently, eyes blurry and exhausted. “Never,” she muttered. Jason took the blueprints away from her before typing a text message on his phone.
That afternoon, Cass stopped by Y/n’s apartment. She was greeted by Jason who led her inside and motioned to the bathroom. Y/n was sitting in the tub, cuddled in a blanket, and muttering to herself. Cass sighed and knelt down next to the bathtub. “L/n,” she said. “So, I can see how much this case means to you. I was thinking that maybe I could help you solve it.”
Y/n glanced up and the blanket fell off her shoulders. Jason came up behind her and rewrapped the blanket around her. “Really?” she asked. “But I thought Major Crimes just labelled it a cold case.”
“They did,” Cass confirmed. “But clearly, you’re not gonna let it go. And hey, if they’re out of the way, then we can take all the credit ourselves.” She smirked loosely and Y/n beamed.
The detective leapt out of the bath and wrapped her arms around her friend. “Thank you, Cass!” 
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The following afternoon, Y/n and Cass arrived at Carlyle’s apartment. “That's weird,” Cass hummed. “The police tape's already gone.”
“Oh, yeah, Major Crimes released the scene yesterday.” The pair walked into the apartment as Y/n said, “but I'm sure they haven't had time to clean up the evidence…” she trailed off, looking at the perfectly spotless rooms.
“Oh, shit, they emptied the place out.” Cass said. “Nothing left in here. I can't believe this is how it ends.”
“Yeah. Is it weird that I miss the smell?” Y/n’s lips turned up in a reminiscing smile. “Wait a minute, do you hear that?” Her head tilted to the side as she tried to figure out if the soft humming noise was coming from the apartment, or if she really was crazy and it was all in her head. “I've spent six hundred hours in this room, and I have never heard that sound.”
“It's because the air conditioning's never been turned on. It's coming from that vent,” Cass pointed to a large vent in the wall.
Y/n immediately took out a swiss army knife and unscrewed the bolts. She faithfully got down on her hands and knees and crawled into the huge vent. “I don't see anything,” she called back to Cass. “Wait, there's a bend. Oh, my god.” She came across a pack of plastic water bottles and some empty chip bags. “There's food and water in here!”
Half an hour later, Cass and Y/n stood in the precinct, Cass’ laptop propped open in front of them. Cass said, “we never saw the killer leave this apartment because he never left. But he couldn't have survived in there for months. That's insane.”
“He wasn't back there for months,” Y/n explained. “He just waited for the body to be discovered and then snuck out sometime after that.”
“But this place was crawling with cops.”
“Which is exactly what he wanted,” Y/n scratched at her nose. “He snuck out dressed like a cop.”
“Even if he had a uniform, somebody would've recognized him,” Cass said, thinking logically. In order for them to figure this case out, there couldn’t be any holes in the story.
“Not if his face was covered.”
“By a Hazmat suit!” Cass’ mouth fell open. “The CSI guys! Rojas said he had fourteen techs, but didn't you count fifteen?”
“I did count fifteen!” Y/n exclaimed loudly. “My maths was right! Suck it, Mrs. Wilson! She was my Algebra two teacher. She was actually very sweet. She believed in me.” Cass shot her a look and Y/n remembered, “oh. Yeah. Here's the security footage. Play the tape.” Cass pressed play and Y/n narrated along to the video, “okay, so there's us arriving. Alright…. Wait. Go back.” She pointed to the one guy on the screen. “Look at this guy. All the other techs are wearing their little booties, but he's not. Follow that guy.”
“Where's the footage from the grocery across the street?” Cass muttered to herself, pulling up the camera logs.
“We have that?” Y/n asked, astonished. “That is so crazy. We’re under surveillance at all times. I'm sure it's fine and it won't backfire and ruin society.” She shook her head, ridding herself of the thoughts. “Zoom in on his face. Hm… that man isn’t CSI. But he is about to say… CS-bye.” She grinned at her pun and announced, “okay, Cass. You know what it's time for!”
The friends high-fived each other and said, “Cass and Y/n’s final impressions!”
“The dude’s a hit man. He snuck into the apartment during the party several nights earlier, hid in the vent for three days, then emerged and murdered Carlyle. Y/n?”
Y/n took over and added, “he then spilled bags of blood that he stole from a blood bank all over the floor and turned on the victim's Roomba to make the crime scene as messy as possible. Cass?”
“The messy scene meant there'd be extra crime techs, allowing the perp to sneak out in a Hazmat suit, which records show he bought online. Two weeks before the crime was committed. My only question, who was behind all this?”
Two days later, a man by the name of Warren Lawford (“Really? That’s the most ironic name ever!”) sat in the interrogation room and said, “I was hired by a depressed grocer.”
“Wow.” Y/n muttered. “Dopeness taking a late hit here, but we still got you! See you at the sentencing, peace, and we're out!” She held up a peace sign before she and Cass swept out of the room, looking smug. 
Amy waited for them outside, face contorting into relief when Cass explained that Lawford was pleading guilty. “Oh, thank god. But why did he kill Stevie? Was he doing something bad?”
“Not at all,” Y/n reassured her. “Steve dropped one of his clients that was too emotionally attached to him and the client went kinda crazy and issued a hit on him.”
“Well, is anybody going after him?”
“If they're not, then I will. I promise you,” Y/n said softly.
Amy’s eyes filled with tears and she spread her arms open. “Come here,” she sniffed, wrapping Y/n in a big hug, electing a squeak from the detective.
“Why are you promising her?” Cass mouthed to Y/n from out of Amy’s line of sight.
“I can't help myself!” Y/n whispered harshly.
“Goodbye, detectives,” Amy grinned before exiting the precinct.
“Take care,” Y/n called after the woman. 
“I gotta say,” Cass huffed a chuckle. “We would not have solved that case if you hadn't gotten involved emotionally.”
“Think we'd be better cops if we did that all the time?” Y/n asked.
“Absolutely not, never again.”
“Yeah, it was a total nightmare.”
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barefoothighlander · 2 years ago
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two birds
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summary: your last thoughts are of Simon
warnings: violence, death, blood, angst, reader callsign is storm, gn pronouns
a/n: In my feels, now everyone must suffer my ghost angst, I'm sorry
The shots ring through the air, the bullets whizzing by your ears as you and Ghost fight through the mob ahead of you, you're exposed in an open field, just the two of you. You called for evac five minutes ago, patiently awaiting the sound of the helicopter blades whirring above you, you're nearly out of ammo, replacing your empty clip with your final round,
"I'm almost out" You shout to him
"Only a few left, keep going"
You're both sprinting around, ducking for cover behind rocks and trees, dropping the men as soon as you see them,
"Two on your left, get over here"
You rush beside Simon, bracing your back against the tree as he turns to shoot the two men, you move to turn, a sharp pain shooting from your abdomen across your body,
"It's clear, let's go"
He moves forward, urging you to follow, you take a pained breath, your legs moving slowly as you trail behind him. You make your way to a small cabin a few miles from where you were, your legs stumbling over the uneven ground as your hand clutches your side.
"Are you hit?" Ghost asks, turning his body towards you as you arrive at the house,
"Just a graze" You shake your head in denial, but your fingers are stained red, you can feel the drips dampening your clothing.
"Get inside" His hand is firm on your back, helping you in, he closes the door and you collide with the wall, your back pressed against the wood as you brace against it.
"You alright love?" His words pass through your ears, the stinging in your stomach making you wince in pain, "Storm are you hurt?" There's panic in his voice as his eyes scan your body, he can see the drips of blood pooling around your feet, the tears that prick your eyes as you look back at him, his breath is shaky as he reaches for you, his hand covering yours, you flinch at the contact.
"Watcher this is Alpha team, how far out are you?"
"Alpha this is Watcher, we are 10 minutes out"
"Alright, just hang on love, a little longer"
You nod toward him, breathing deeply as you slide down the wall,
"I need to see, move your hand"
His eyes are glued to yours as he lifts up your shirt, it's drenched in blood, he lets out a heavy breath as he sees your wound, a bullet had entered your lower stomach,
"How bad?"
He takes a beat, his hands shaking as he presses into your skin to try and stop the bleeding, "There's no exit wound, but you'll be okay, you're fine"
You huff a small laugh, the movement in your chest making you grimace, your tears are falling down your cheeks, mixing with the dirt that stains your skin as your muscles get weaker, dropping to the floor.
"Hey look at me, we'll be out in a few minutes just hang on"
You smile weakly at him, a frail hand moving to cup his cheek, he leans into your touch,
"Let me see you"
His eyes are watery as his free hand moves to tug his mask off, your thumb traces over his skin,
"So beautiful"
"C'mon don't go all soft on me" He jokes, his eyes glaring down to his stained skin, the pool of red under your body growing later by the second.
"It's okay"
"No, no you're gonna be fine, it's just a scratch"
"Simon" Your voice is soft, his shaky hands pressing firmer into your skin, your body is numb from the blood loss, your skin getting pale as he shakes his head at you,
"It's not fair" His voice is trembling, "It shouldn't have been you"
"We've had a good life" You smile
"Not long enough, it's too soon, we're supposed to get all old and cranky together"
"I think you've had the cranky part down for years"
He laughs quietly, he's looking around for anything he can use to help stop the bleeding, his movements frantic, you place a delicate hand over his, he turns to you his face flushed.
"I won't let you die, not now"
He curses, his hand reaching for his comms, "Goddamnit Watcher where are you?" He's yelling into his microphone
"ETA 5 minutes"
"You need to be here now! Fuck!"
"Simon" Your voice is weak, your head falling back against the wall,
"I'm here love, what is it"
"I just, I gave you all I had, you need to know that"
"I know baby I know, just a little longer okay"
His eyes are frantically scanning outside for the helicopter, your eyelids are heavy as he moves to hold you, his arm wrapping around your neck to pull you into him,
"Hey you gotta stay awake for me alright, talk to me"
"So tired Si"
"I know, just think about getting home, we'll go see the ocean like you always wanted"
"You hate the ocean"
"I do yea" He huffs a small laugh, "But I'd do anything for you"
Your limbs are heavy, your frame only being held up by his grip as you grow weaker.
"I want you to find someone, after me"
"What?"
"When I'm gone, you deserve to be happy"
"I don't want anyone but you, you're it for me, this, us, that's how my story ends, us together"
"C'mon, you can't be hung up on me forever"
"Baby I have loved you from the minute we met, there's no room for anyone else"
Your skin is puffy from your tears, your cheeks flushed as your hand holds his cheek, the blood from your fingers smearing onto his skin.
"Thank you for letting me love you"
The distant sound of the helicopter echoes through the walls of the house, Simon's eyes widening at the sound,
"Alright baby, you have to stand, we have to go"
You shake your head, crying out in pain as he tries to lift you,
"I can't Si"
"You can come on, just hold onto me"
"Simon, you have to let me go"
His tears are falling, his hands pulling you into his chest so your head is tucked under his chin, his lips pressing to the crown of your head.
"It's okay" Your words are muffled in his clothes, you pull back weak eyes staring back at him, you slowly lean in to kiss him, his hands holding you there.
"Please don't leave me" He whispers, his forehead pressed to yours,
Your hand falls from his cheek, "It's okay, I'm in the arms of the man I love, the man I will always love, it doesn't hurt"
He's shaking his head,
"There's no pain anymore, just you, I love you Simon Riley"
Your heavy eyes close, your body growing limp in his hold, he tugs you into his chest, his tears wetting your hair as he muffles his sobs against you, his body shaking slightly.
He whispers your name, taking a strained breath as the full weight of your lifeless body is held by him, his hands stroke your hair, slowly rocking as he sits, his mind numb as the feeling of his heart being ripped out fills him, the sound of the landing helicopter outside buzzing in his ears.
779 notes · View notes
pursuitseternal · 4 months ago
Text
✨⚔️Chapter 3–“Little Huntress:” update to “Love Me, Hate Me” ⚔️✨Enemies to lovers retelling
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Astarion x Tav (Katja) | M chapter | 3.8 K
🎨 by @dafna-winchester
Summary: After being bitten, Katja spends a restless night, learning for once that monsters are sometimes made… not born. One wayfairing stranger makes her confront these feelings, forcing her to question that straighter and narrow view of the Gur… much to Astarion’s delight.
CW: Act 1 spoilers, Astarion’s trauma rears its head, corruption kink incoming, Gandrel scene retelling
Previous ch | ao3 link | Masterlist
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Katja tossed and turned and then tossed some more.
Blood replenished, but her stomach curled in on itself with hate and disgust. At least, yeah, that’s what she thought it was. Sitting up in her dark tent, legs tangled in her bedroll, she stared at her wrist in the dim light of dawn. Those fang marks stared right back at her, angry, red circles ringed in darker flesh from the ice of his bite.
It… wasn’t supposed to feel that good, was it? She flopped herself back down on her other side. Or maybe it was, maybe it was supposed to pull her under his spell, weaken her constitution to make her hot and wet and dripping with the need for his cool touch on her cheek and between her…
“Fuck,” she hissed to herself, kicking her covers off completely. It was no use, she would be miserable tomorrow with no sleep.
Maybe just some fresh air? Just a walk to clear her head… the rest of the revelry had shut down long ago, the fires smoldering. With everyone so drunk, no one stayed awake to stoke it, she realized.
Dangerous. Katja groaned, taking on the responsibility that, once again, no one else noticed. She grabbed some grass, some sticks, poking and feeding the fire until it was strong again. Strong enough to keep the scary monsters away.
“I might have one good eye,” a warm, jovial voice spoke from behind her, “but I can see you got to fire-tending before me.”
Wyll stood calmly behind her, his face turned into that casual, confident grin. It made Katja’s heart steady, even as it made her wrist sting with pain and shame. “Well, I figure if you want something done right… “ She reached far enough over for another log from the pile, the cuff of her sleeve creeping up to reveal those angry, red circles.
Fang marks.
Any monster hunter worth his salt would recognize them.
And Wyll was worth… a lot of salt.
“Katja,” he whispered, watching as she gruffly pulled her sleeve back over the bite wounds. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” came her reply. For once, her cold, distant, grumpy nature worked in her favor and hid the lie. “You should see the other guy,” she made her lips laugh.
“I bet he looks sated, happy, and stronger,” Wyll jested back, folding his arms over his chest. “I may have just joined your party, but I can see the tragic charm of your… friend.”
“He’s not my friend,” she interrupted with vehemence, standing and squaring her shoulders, ready to argue.
But Wyll just laughed, warm and rolling, holding his hands up in surrender. “Easy, Barbarian,” he spoke in jovial tones. “I’m not judging. I might have killed my fair share of monsters and fiends, but never a vampire. Those are harder to find outside their hunting grounds. They don’t make themselves as… dramatically obvious as our companion.”
“Dramatically obvious? You mean loud and annoying,” Katja rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t resist glancing at his rose and scarlet tent where he was trancing.
“At the very least, he might be a menace and an egomaniac with a flair for the dramatic and a penchant for bloodshed, but Astarion isn’t soulless, heartless, or of the infernal persuasion.” Wyll trailed off, a distant look in his one good eye. “You’re not beholding your soul to anything truly evil…”
Katja scowled. “How can you say that?” she scoffed, grinding her own booted toe in the dirt and ash. “Aren’t you the Blade of Frontiers, the best monster hunter on the Sword Coast? You should be appalled at me… tell me I’ll be banished from Selûne’s light just for thinking all the depraved… impure… unholy…”
“Ah, ta, ta,” Wyll stopped her, frantically waving his arms. “I’m a Warlock, not a Priest. I don’t need your confession, by Balduran’s beard.” He shifted uncomfortable on his feet for a moment, and Katja wanted nothing more than to be divinely smitten right then and there.
“Gods… I don’t know what to do,” she sighed, her scarred face looking into the night sky, a canvas for her inner turmoil. “He told me if I let him feed, I can have the head of his Master as a bounty for my tribe. I’ll be Chief Hunter for sure, but…” That face grimaced with something other than pain.
“Katja,” Wyll spoke softly, assuringly. “I’ll be the first to admit ignorance on the ways of the Gur, but I do know one thing about battles— the enemy of my enemy is my….” He gave a flourish with his hand, waiting for her to finish the tried and true phrase.
Katja just waited, dark eyes wide and waiting on his wisdom. “What?” she asked, a few beats of silence later.
“Seriously?” Wyll’s face broke into a goodhumored and skeptical grin. “Friend. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
“Astarion is not… my friend,” Katja’s hackles bristled at the mere insinuation. Again.
“It’s a phrase? Like, choosing the lesser of two evils?”
“Why would I want a lesser evil?” Katha shook her braided head. “I want the no-evil-option.”
Wyll gave a heavy sigh. “What I mean is… maybe Astarion isn’t as he appears at first. Some monsters are born…. Others are made.”
That made her pause, her little nose scrunching, her blonde head tilting. Her dark eyes darted to Astarion trancing on his bedroll in front of his tent. Even from here, she could see the little rise and fall of his chest, taking sleepy breaths he technically didn’t need. His fingers curled into that shape Elves did. His pointed ears twitched in his reverie, whatever he relived in his meditations clearly affected him. His jaw clenched, and those breaths came faster and more frantic.
She hadn’t even noticed that Wyll had withdrawn to sit by the fire, or that her feet had led her closer to observe Astarion in his rest. He muttered to himself, names and grunts that sounded half-formed in his throat. If she crouched… yes, if she crouched she could hear names— Dal… Petras… Violet… Cazador. That last one was a snarl on his lips as his eyes flashed open. His breath was too quick, his eyes dark and dilated with rage, and… were those tears pooling in the corner of his eyes?
Unsure what came over her, but she reached out to soothe that pain. Katja pressed a hand to his own, only to get a face full of fangs and death-cold breath as he pinned her under him in the dirt.
“What are you doing?” he snarled, his thighs trapping her waist, his hands grabbed tight on her wrist and the other now on her throat. But in two blinks of his eyes, he released her. Her hands and throat at least. He raised himself up, a smirk on his sweaty face as he kept her pinned beneath his legs.
“And here I thought I was the nightcrawler that slipped into beds to seduce the sleeping…” he purred, but his voice seemed a little tight, less velvety than his usual simpering tones. “What’s wrong, darling? Come for a cuddle?”
“Get off me. I was just trying to help,” she snarled, pushing on his belly and thrashing beneath him.
“Oh, I bet you were,” he leaned down again, “in fact I can think of something very hard you could help me with… maybe a few times….”
Katja stared at him, neither angry nor submissive. Just those dark eyes boring up into his face as she stilled. “What was your nightmare about?”
Astarion froze for the splittest second. Then he breathed a laugh. “I wasn’t having a…”
“Who’s Dal and Petra’s and Violet?” she interrupted.
A reluctant groan, and he slipped off her, settling with one knee bent into his chest, his head tilted back to look into the stars. “My siblings,” he muttered after a moment. “Not… not my literal siblings, mind you, the other six spawn Cazador sired.” For that moment, as the moonlight bathed his pale skin, making his silver hair glow as if it were kissed by the stars, Katja’s heart stopped. He could have been any ordinary seductive Elf, with his mouth shut and his eyes closed.
Sitting up, she waited for more. But he didn’t offer anything, not yet.
“Why were you crying and thrashing and…”
“Alright, enough, you intrusive vagrant,” Astarion leveled his crimson glare at her, unamused… well maybe a little amused. “Cazador would send me and my six siblings into the city to bring him victims, we… couldn’t say no, compelled by him and his every dark whim. I had to lure his prey back to the palace by every means necessary, most especially with the gifts I was given…” He gestured dramatically the whole length of his body, from shimmering grey hair, to his bare chest, to the tips of his unclad toes. “If we failed, or disobeyed, or resisted, he would torture us… or even compel us to torture ourselves.”
His hand gripped around hers like a vice, pulling her closer as he twisted around. “You were too busy hating my undead guts to probably notice, but here…” As he turned, he placed her hand on the back of his shoulder. Rises and ridges, jagged and rough script circled in scars across his whole back.
“Moonmaiden’s light…” Katja whispered in shock.
“More like Cazador’s sadism,” Astarion scoffed in derision. “It’s a poem, composed and carved in my flesh one night, punishment for nothing more than the fact I existed.”
Katja couldn’t help herself, her fingers running over the weird shapes and whorls of his cool flesh. “Reason enough for nightmares…” she murmured.
Astarion turned once more, his finger tracing down her own jagged line in her cheek’s flesh. “Well, you told me of your scars,” he shrugged, almost gently, “I figured maybe I could do the same, since we do have our little… understanding now.” That look of vague kindness shifted, twisting back into that smirk of suave seduction. “And… I might have noticed that you didn’t stab me in the back, given the opportunity.”
“Don’t hold your blood-stinking breath, vampire,” Katja scowled in that little way of hers. “Just because I’m not killing you doesn’t mean I like you.”
“I’d be offended if you did like me, or if you stopped having murderous thoughts about me,” he crooned.
Katja grinned, turning her head and brushing her hands together to hide it as she stood. “Night,” she bid politely. Too politely.
His hand gripped hers roughly from her side. His thumb tracing over the fresh mark. “I think that tortuous nightmare left me… strained,” he purred, voice smooth as Cormyran silk. “You wouldn't mind soothing me a bit more with one last nibble, would you?”
Katja clenched her teeth, begrudgingly sitting back down on his bedroll. Their bodies decently far apart, she judged with a satisfied smile.
His bite was no less painful this time… nor less pleasurable. She tried to hide the way her back arched, concealing that tiniest clench of her thighs and her cunt. But more unnerving was how he just… stared at her.
He only took a few polite swallows before his tongue jutted out to lick the puncture wounds closed. “Finished?” she sniped at him, pulling her wrist away with white hot hostility.
Astarion just smiled and licked his lips, dabbing a finger at the bloodied corner of his mouth. “For now, my little treat,” he replied, a voice of silken seduction and venom all at once. “Don’t forget to say your prayers before you sleep,” he called, that sadistic lilt in his honeyed voice.
And Katja grumbled as she slapped her tent flap closed behind her. “Moonmaiden, deliver me…” came her prayer.
As she wrapped her hand around those icy wounds in her wrist, she ignored the needling thoughts in her brain… Did she really want to be delivered from this… from him?
The next morning was filled with acrid bog stink and rot. Katja could sense it, the Hag’s lands rife with dark magic meant to eat you alive. No way in the nine hells would she let some Hag offer her a cure. Gods…. If she thought about it long enough, she realized this was one story she could never tell to her tribe.
If she ever saw them again, that was.
It was just one monster after another… infecting her, helping her, possibly curing her… fucking and feeding from her….
With that though, Astarion turned his head, smirking over his shoulder. Fuck, Katja wondered, was he listiening through the tadpole?
A nice solid glower only made him scowl in return before focusing back on the road ahead. Katja took that as a victory. She’d show him she wouldn’t cow to all his demands; she might agree to make him stay strong with the boon of her blood, but he wouldn’t order her or control her… or dominate her…
Oh, that last one made her shiver just a little. Swallowing, she forced away the ghosts of his touch on her body and the memory of his mouth on her skin. Focus on finding the Hag, she reminded herself. Focus on the vapors of the bog and that stink of powdered iron vine…
Powdered iron vine? She froze in her tracks and squinted up the hill. “Astarion,” she hissed.
“Yes darling?” he turned and walked backwards, hands gripped into the straps of his pack, “I thought you were pretending I didn’t exist, too ashamed of your lover of a Vampire Sp—”
Katja lurched forward and clapped her palm over his sneering, ignorant mouth.
“What the hells do you think…” he muttered and hissed under her grip.
“Ah, stranger,” a warm voice bid them as a traveler approached them. “Forgive the aroma… Powdered…”
“Iron vine, yes,” Katja interrupted as she awkwardly released Astarion’s mouth, lips that now gaped in disgusted surprise. “Kushti divvus,” she greeted, guessing which dialect of her people he might speak.
Another Gur.
Apparently she guessed correctly as he eased his stance. This Gur was stocky, built for the hunt and the glory of their people. Surely he was the best of his tribe, and by the necklaces and strands of bone trophies and beads on his belt, he always got his quarry. Forcing a smile, she made every sinew in her body follow suit. If he suspected the monster she kept as company… Well, there would go her only chance to use him for Cazador’s head, for her own pride and promotion and future. A prize like that would serve her far more than some weather beaten old coot.
“A fellow child of Selûne here?” the stranger grinned, hands on his hips as his weathered, tanned face grinning wider.
Katja grunted, careful to show deference to an elder. “The scent of iron vine is not unfamiliar to a younger hunter,” she bowed her head. About to reach her hand out in greeting, her gaze caught the fleeting sight of those infernal bite marks. Shame seared through her, and she stuck it in her pocket. “Are you hunting so far out from tribe lands?”
Astarion’s honey voice took that tone that jeered with all the snark in his undead soul. “Pfft, is every Gur a monster hunter? How quaint you have more purpose than just vagrant cutthroats…”
Katja shot him a look, one that was supposed to do as much damage as her axe, one he wasn’t supposed to just blow off with that well-practiced, easy smirk of his. “Ignore the Elf,” she stressed the last word, “he talks too much.”
“Fairest and wisest beings are not my quarry,” the stranger arched a dark brow. “My name is Gandrel, and I am indeed seeking a monster, a Vampire Spawn, in these lands. His name is Astarion, and I am to bring him back with me to my tribe. I hope that the Hag of these lands will help me flush him out after the sun sets tonight.”
“Is that wise? Using one monster to trap another?” Katja folded her arms, insolence edging her tone. “If he’s just a Spawn, why risk more of your soul to seek aid from a disgusting Hag?”
Gandrel paused, his dark eyes skimming over the short little Barbarian, that glance quickly taking in each of her companions. Then, he scanned her up and down, no detail would be missed, not with his wizened experience. His brow furrowed in suspicion, his gaze was quick and sharp.
Shit.
“Did your elders not teach you respect, child?” Gandrel suddenly shifted onto his toes. “Your own presence in these lands is… curious, too young and insignificant to be on your own hunt. Which begs me to ask you… how did you come by those fang marks on your wrist?”
Katja could feel Astarion coiling like a spring beside her.
“They are fresh,” Gandrel’s thick, cracked lips turned in a chilling half smile. “And if I didn’t know better, I’d say they were given out of… familiarity. The wrist isn’t a Spawn’s first choice of bite unless they mean to draw out the life of their victim for reasons of torture, mercy, or affection.”
Katja’s pulse was deafening. The burn of shame was immeasurable, only outmatched by the swirling, gut dropping angst that churned in her belly to think that another Gur would take Astarion from her. He was hers… her prize that was. Her chance at the head of a Vampire Lord.
Fuck this guy, she decided.
“Well, Astarion,” Katja gave the Vampire a twisted smirk. “Which one is it?”
The Pale Elf suddenly flexed his muscles, a wide and wicked smile on his face, catching the scent of ambush in the air. “Torture, it’s the torture one,” he purred. “Just to be clear.” Unsheathing his daggers, he bowed his head in mock submission. “Together, my little vagrant?”
“Impossible,” Gandrel’s eyes went wide. “But… the sun!” His panic set in, the inconceivable truth of a daywalking Spawn all but shattering that experienced air.
“The only thing impossible is your survival,” Astarion purred, running a finger down the sharp edge of his blade. “I’m going to enjoy this…”
Only once he was licking Gur blood off his dagger did Astarion finally catch his breath. They paused just off the path, cleaning their blades and resting before finding the same Hag their unwanted intruder had sought. He watched Katja as she knelt by the Gur’s corpse. Rudely, she had denied him feeding from this foe, and his curiosity had gotten the better of him. From the corner of his eyes, he watched as she muttered prayers, placing two coins over his lifeless eyes before standing once more.
It was almost picturesque, this scene of pious devotion and tradition. Two things he loathed. And because they were Gur practices, why that only made him loathe it more.
She took her sweet time standing in that congealing pool of blood before she moved once more. A few paces away, and she stopped and turned to use one of a few spells her tough Barbarian brain knew. “Arde!” she called, and the corpse burst into a mass of flames. Their enemy was no more, just ash and smoke.
Astarion sat back on his heels, narrowing his eyes. Katja was a curiosity, a conundrum he couldn’t quite pick apart. And it irked him to no end. What started as a small way of exacting his revenge against a whole people on one little girl now became… complicated.
He hated the Gur, those cutthroats that took their ignorance out on him one fateful night outside of the Magistrates’ offices. The night he died in this world. Shuddering at the memory, he forced himself to assess this blonde braided beauty more carefully. She stood in a silent vigil, mumbling her Selûnite prayers one after another. She looked so… immaculate, pious, untouchable. Pure. It made his stomach lurch into his throat. In excitement, in anticipation.
A thought niggled the back of his mind, that part of him, ruthlessly cruel and oh so skilled at manipulation, plotted long and hard. Those thoughts reverberated with the notion of how much fun it could be to show her just what she missed on that straight and narrow path of the Gur.
A little corruption would go a long way, he smirked. Besides, he owed her a good time after taking his side.
He suspected her ambition protected him, her need to keep him alive so she could claim Cazador’s death as her final offering to become chief hunter… or whatever those backwater people called it. He didn’t care, so long as someone helped him kill that bastard.
Ever the conundrum, she stepped into the ashes, kicking them up with her boots. As all the dust had settled, then she reached in and retrieved those same two coins.
That… that made him smile. “Well,” he purred and resheathed his dagger, “perhaps there’s some hope for you after all. I was beginning to think you were no fun at all.”
“Why waste two coins?” she harrumphed, putting them in her pocket. “He’s not going to need them in paradise.”
“Yes, yes,” Astarion purred. “Eternal rest grant unto him, etcetera etcetera…” Those crimson eyes leveled at her, all brimming with primal hunger.
Katja shuddered, trying very hard not to feel like a mouse in a trap. Trying hard to remember she was the hunter.
“You know, I could show you a different sort of paradise.” He crept closer on silent feet, the tip on his tongue dabbling the teeny corner of his lips. “You wouldn’t even have to go through death to reach it, perhaps just a little death… once or twice if you’re very responsive.”
Katja’s scarred face twisted into a perplexed frown. “How can anyone die a little?” she sneered.
Undeterred, he grabbed that bitten wrist, pressing his full, smirking lips to that pulsing vein beneath. “Oh my dear, I’m glad you asked. My tent, tonight. Once the others are asleep, I’ll make sure you are thoroughly illuminated, my little huntress.”
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daenysthedreamer101 · 8 months ago
Text
Daughter of Steel and Bronze ~ HOTD
Ch 1 - To King's Landing
Targaryen!OC x Harwin Strong (eventually lol)
Warnings: none
Prologue
Masterlist
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"In 107 AC, the King held a seven-day celebration in honor of Princess Rhaenyra's tenth name day. The young Princess was named 'the Realm's Delight' by the minstrels at court. Rhaenyra was a precocious child, bright, bold and beautiful. She became a dragon rider at only seven years old, riding her yellow she-dragon, Syrax. The tourney would also mark the return of Prince Daemon to King's Landing. He spent most of his time away in the Vale, with his lady wife, Rhea Royce, and their young daughter, Princess Daena.
Princess Daena was a lively, cheerful girl only a year younger than her cousin, Rhaenyra. She became a proficient huntress in thanks to her lady mother. Some at court frowned, saying it was inappropriate for a lady to hunt down animals and cover herself in dirt and blood, but Rhea and Daemon paid them no mind, letting their daughter do what she liked. 'She's not just a lady...she's a Princess of House Targaryen. Dragons don't fear blood' Prince Daemon was heard saying in defense of his daughter."
(Fire & Blood, Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros, by Archmaester Gyldayn)
~
107 AC, King's Landing
This was Daena's second time visiting King's Landing. Well third, if you count the time her parents brought her when she was a baby so that her great-grandparents, King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne could meet their newest great-granddaughter. It was said the Good Queen wept tears of joy when she held Daena in her hands for the first time. The Queen was old and frail, having to walk with a cane. Nonetheless, the Queen gave her blessing and proclaimed that Daena would be a great beauty one day.
Now, Daena and her father, Prince Daemon, were visiting King's Landing once again. This time because of her cousin Rhaenyra. Her uncle, King Viserys I, was holding a great tourney in honor of Rhaenyra's 10th name day. Even after 14 years of marriage, Viserys and his wife, Queen Aemma Arryn, only had one living child - Rhaenyra. The King was known for spoiling his only child with many things, and "seven days of celebration for her name day seemed only appropriate", according to His Grace.
Daena spent much of her childhood at Runestone. She was taught how to ride a horse and hunt with a bow and arrow by her lady mother, Rhea Royce. Her mother was a strong, intelligent woman and was the ruling Lady of Runestone. Daena was very proud to be her daughter and always strived to make her mother proud. Daena didn't look much like her mother. She looked more like her father's side of the family. With fair skin, long silver hair, and lilac eyes, she looked nothing short of a true Targaryen Princess. Nonetheless, she knew she had many other things in common with her dear mother. 
Her mother didn't join them. She said she needed to look after Runestone, that it was her duty. But even as a child, Daena knew it was because her mother never liked her father and she simply didn't want to spend time with him. It made Daena sad, that her parents disliked each other, but they tried to be cordial with one another for her sake. She once asked her parents if she would ever get a sibling. Her mother choked on her wine while her father frowned and told her not to be silly and ask stupid questions. She never asked again.
~
"Are we there yet?" Daena asked Amanda, one of her mother's nieces who went South with them. Lady Amanda was from the cadet branch of House Royce - House Royce of the Gates of the Moon. Amanda was a pretty maid of 16 summers. Nearly a woman grown, Lady Rhea sent her young niece to King's Landing to look after her daughter and also for a potential marriage.
 Amanda had long dark brown hair and round brown eyes. Daena liked her very much. She was fun and kind and taught Daena how to sew. "We'll be there in a short while, Princess," Amanda answered while looking out from the small carriage window. 
Daena didn't like that she was in a carriage. She wanted to fly with her father on Caraxes but he refused her, saying she was too young. So, she would travel by carriage. She looked out the window and saw a giant castle made of red stone. 
"The Red Keep..." Daena whispered under her breath. She has never seen King's Landing. She did visit in 101 AC, when her great-grandfather, Jaehaerys passed away. But she didn't remember much from that whole ordeal. She only remembered that everyone was sad and quiet. 
Daena was 9 years old and slightly taller than most girls her age. She was thin and slender and had long silver hair she liked to keep in a single long braid. Father said it made her look like Queen Visenya. Daena would love nothing more than to be like the legendary Visenya. 
"Do you think Rhaenyra will let me see Syrax?" Daena quietly asked Amanda. She would never admit it, but she was a bit jealous that Rhaenyra had a dragon. Daena's dark purple egg never hatched. She still had it, it was held back at Runestone, but she didn't like looking at it.
It made her sad and angry. Some kids back at Runestone would mock her and call her Daena the Dragonless. The words of her mother's House were 'We remember' and in keeping with that, she never forgot or forgave the people who mocked her. She hoped that since she was in King's Landing, she could claim an already hatched dragon. 
"I'm not sure...Perhaps a bit later." Amanda said cautiously. She knew how important dragons were to the Targaryens and it hurt her to see Daena so sad. 
"Open the gates!" A guard shouted. They were already there. They were about to enter the Red Keep! Daena sat up straight and smoothed her red and black silk dress. Her silver hair was braided at the top to look like a crown. Small ruby earrings dangled like blood droplets from her ears. The gates were opened and the carriage entered the courtyard. 
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The doors of the carriage opened and Daena could see her father dismounting his horse. A page boy helped her get out. Once her feet hit the ground, a guard announced them. 
"Prince Daemon Targaryen and his daughter, Princess Daena!" Her father beckoned her over and so she quickly walked over to him. He put his arm around her little shoulders.
"Prince Daemon...Welcome..."A voice said. She finally focused on the person standing in front of the castle doors. It was Ser Otto Hightower - the Hand of the King. 
"Princess..." He greeted her as well, though he sounded and looked like he didn't want to be there. She didn't curtsy to the lord, she didn't have to as a Princess. She felt her father protectively pulling her closer to him. 
"Ser Otto...", her father managed to say through gritted teeth. Even as a child, she could tell the two men heavily disliked each other. 
"Amanda, take Daena inside. Visit the Queen if you can. I'm sure Her Grace would like that" Daemon told Amanda. The young Royce girl nodded and took Daena's hand and they walked inside. Once they reached the Queen's chambers, they entered the spacious room. 
"Princess Daena, Your Grace", a maid announced Daena. The Queen was heavily pregnant and was sitting on a chaise lounge in front of a big window and was propped up by lots of pillows. Her silver hair was down and fell freely. She wore only a nightdress and a pretty, pink, embroidered silk robe. The Queen turned her head and smiled lightly at her young niece. 
"Daena, my dear...How you've grown. I haven't seen you in ages." Aemma said softly as she looked over Daena. The young princess curtsied to Aemma. The Queen beckoned her and gave her a warm hug. 
"Your Grace," Daena said politely. 
"Come, sit here." Aemma gestured to a nearby chair. Daena sat. Aemma looked over Daena's shoulder and saw a pretty brunette in the corner. Daena noticed. 
"Your Grace, this is Lady Amanda Royce of the Gates of the Moon. She's my cousin. She came here with me, I hope you don't mind." Daena introduces Amanda to the Queen. 
"No, not at all. It's a pleasure to meet you, my lady" Aemma greets the Royce girl. 
"The pleasure is mine, Your Grace. Thank you for having me" Amanda says and bows to Aemma. The Queen and Daena talk for a while, about the Vale, about Runestone, and how much Daena has grown.
"If I may ask...where is my dear cousin Rhaenyra? I haven't seen her yet." Daena asks after a while. Aemma sighs and fans herself with a fan.
"I believe she's having her lesson with Septa Marlow" Aemma explained. Daena hums in acknowledgment. 
"Princess Rhaenyra", a maid announces after a while. In came Daena's older cousin. She was fair-skinned with pretty purple eyes. She was a bit shorter than Daena, but they both had long silver hair.
"Cousin! It's been so long!" Rhaenyra greeted Daena with a warm smile and a tight hug. 
"Nyra!" Daena exclaimed in joy. Rhaenyra greeted her mother and they talked for a few minutes.
 "Come, dear cousin. Let's go for a walk." Rhaenyra suggests and takes Daena by the hand. 
"Your Grace, I hope you have a nice day." Daena bid the Queen politely. Aemma smiled sadly at the two girls.
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Daena and Rhaenyra were walking in the Royal Gardens in the afternoon sun. They sat under the weirwood and talked for hours. In the distance Ser Harrold Westerling, Rhaenyra's sworn shield, was keeping guard. At sundown, Amanda came around and told them they were summoned for supper with the King.
"Will you show me Syrax one day?" Daena asks. 
"Of course, I would love to, " Rhaenyra answers. 
"We can even fly together once she gets big enough" Nyra adds. 
Once they were ready, Ser Harrold escorted them to the dining chamber where they were to have supper. As they entered, Daena could see her uncle, the King, sitting at the head of the table. To his right was his wife, Queen Aemma, who looked tired. To his left was her father, Prince Daemon. To Aemma's right was Princess Rhaenys and her husband, Lord Corlys Velaryon - the Sea Snake. Daena was surprised to see them there. Shaking her head, she sat next to her father. Nyra sat next to her. 
"Girls, we've been waiting for you for some time," King Viserys says lightly scolding the girls.
 "Forgive us, father. We were talking and we got distracted." Nyra says sheepishly. Viserys smiles and looks over to his niece.
 "Ah, Daena...I haven't seen you since you were a toddler. How you've grown..." Viserys says to Daena. She smiled awkwardly and the food was served. The adults talked amongst themselves. Daena and Rhaenyra quietly traded gossip with one other. Daena tried her best not to look at the Sea Snake and his wife. Rhaenys was her aunt, but she always found the woman kind of scary, though she would never admit it. 
After supper, Daena bid her cousin goodbye and left with her father to their chambers. 
"I'll see you in the morning Nyra" Daena says and hugs Nyra. She and her father enter her chambers. 
~
"Wow..." Daena gasps as she sees her room. Her chambers back at Runestone weren't nearly as big. 
"I already told the maids to fix you up a bath," Daemon says to her. He walks over to her and pets her head, caressing her silver hair. She hugs his waist and looks up at him with tired eyes. He smiles at her. 
"Issi ao ēdrugī, riñītsos?" (Are you tired, little girl?) He asks her. She nods her head. 
"Come here..." He says and picks her up easily and puts her down on the bed. He starts unbraiding her hair. He knew most men wouldn't even consider doing something like this. He didn't think he had it in him to be like this. So soft, and gentle...and caring. But the second he held her when she was born...he knew he would do anything for her. He would burn the entire world if it meant she was safe and sound. 
Once he was done unbraiding her hair, he turned her head toward him. He studied her face. She looked just like him. Silver hair, lilac eyes, it was all him. But she had her mother's oval face. He didn't like his wife, whatsoever. But she helped him create Daena. His precious Princess. His little girl. His little dragon. 
"I'll call Amanda. She'll help you bathe." He told her and got up to leave. Before he was able to leave, she caught him and pulled him by the sleeve of his shirt. He bent down to her level. 
"What is it, sweet girl?" He asked her. 
"Sȳz bantis kepa. Avy jorrāelan" (Good night Father. I love you) she told him sleepily and planted a kiss on his cheek. He smiled once again and kissed her silver hair.
"Avy jorrāelan tolī, dōna riña" (I love you too, sweet girl). He told her and left her chamber.
---
High Valyrian:
Issi ao ēdrugī, riñītsos? - Are you tired, little girl?
Sȳz bantis Kepa. Avy jorrāelan - Good night Father. I love you.
Avy jorrāelan tolī, dōna riña - I love you too, sweet girl.
***
Omg, the first chapter is finally here! It's mostly an introduction to Daena and it establishes many relationships that will develop/deteriorate over time.
Hope you liked it, and thanks for reading! ❤��❤
If you have any opinions feel free to comment!
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swampstew · 1 year ago
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Can I request Buggy with Fluff N3 for the event? Thank you!! ❤️❤️❤️
Hello anon❤️ Thank you for your submission and patience! I hope you get a chance to read this :) You requested fluff, subtle intimacy, and I give you: [ Simple Touches ] Bandaging/stitching up an injury
Oh Captain, My Captain Buggy
Warnings: None. Fluff and cute stuffs. Ended up sorta sweet n' romantic in a way I wasn't anticipating but Buggy deserves it tbh, cutie but wet n' pathetic King of the Pirates❤️ Word count: 1.1K
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“OOOOOWWWWW!”
You push through the pained howls of your Captain as you stitch up his latest injuries. For a man who had eaten the chop-chop fruit, he sure got brutally chopped up by other people more than he should reasonably be.
To be fair, his latest network of contacts involved some intense and no-nonsense individuals. Two in particular who seem to have a rather tight hold on his gorgeous blue head as he did their bidding and processed their contracts.
“DAMNIT Y/N that HURTS!” Buggy hollers at you, tears spilling down his face in pure agony. It makes your heart break. Still you push on.
“It will hurt more if it festers and worsens. Then we’d have to seriously chop pieces off you,” you chide him gently, done with pushing the needle through the tail end of the long gash on his chest. “This is going to sting a bit but I’ll count down from 3. 3—” you tightened the sutures securely before he could hold his breath.
“YYYYEEEEOOOOOWWWW!!!!” his head flew from his neck, as did his hands and feet from his body. “GRR!! YOU ENJOYED THAT TOO MUCH!” he spit at you.
You give him an unimpressed look, “You know that that’s not true. Now get back here. You have some wounds on your face and right hand that need to be disinfected and bandaged. If you can make it through without any complaints, I’ll give you a treat. Sound good?”
His head reattaches to his head but his hand floats down to grip his chin, “A treat? What kind of treat?”
“A nice one. We got a deal?”
With a nod, Buggy reassembles himself and sits still as you inspect each cut and bruise. Washing away the dirt and dried blood, applying a salve on the wounds, and wrapping each one in a bandage or long, woven cotton wrap to soak up any leaking from the cuts. A hushed song brews in your throat and without realizing it, you start to emit the tune from your lips as you patch him up.
Buggy watches you closely as you lightly hum to yourself while you work. Normally, he would literally talk his ass off about anything and everything – but watching you treat him so tenderly has his mouth dry and his mind quiet. Trying to understand the feelings in his chest that you cause him to have with your firm but kind personality. Not understanding why you treat him with such dignity and warmth despite his antics; you’re one of the few people who sees through his bullshit but you also accept it, encourage it even. In his brain playing back all his interactions with you over the last year that you’ve been on his crew to better understand what your deal is.
His eyes bug out of his head for a moment, a memory unearthing itself. With Alvida.
“I think the new doc likes you, Bugs,” she tilted her cowboy covered head at Buggy. When he gave her a confused look, she scoffed and used her head to gesture at you sitting at the bar with his most trusted men. “You’re telling me that you’ve NEVER noticed how much time they manage to spend with you, or how they always talk you up? That they know almost everything about you that not even your own crew knows about?” Buggy scoffed, “Most of my crew are idiots, why would I tell those morons anything?” Alvida gave him a bewildered look, “Then why do you share anything with the doc?” “I don’t share EVERYTHING!” “Oh no? So you haven’t spilled to them how Emperor Shanks is the only man you can respect as the next King of the Pirates?” His hands flew to her face and smothered her speech, “QUIET YOU DAMN WOMAN!”
Buggy felt like an idiot.
That was maybe three months ago.
“All done. You should heal up in no time but if you feel worse, you know where to find me.”
Buggy brought his hand to the back of his neck, “Yeah. Sure.” He wasn’t sure how to pivot from being a crybaby patient to a flashy guy with rizz when he suddenly felt…overly aware of how he acts around you. To be perceived by you and now knowing that you were perceiving him.
“Wh-where’s my treat?”
“Oh that’s right I do owe you a nice one. Wait right here.”
His mind is racing a mile a minute, trying to plan, trying to scheme a charming personality in 2-seconds flat as he watches you go to your desk and pull out a dark bottle. Buggy didn’t notice how attractive your face is as he did just now. He always thought you were the most attractive in the crew in general, but now he was seeing your face. And he found that…he actually quite liked it.
Your step falters are you become aware of his intense stare. You feel…insecure suddenly. Is there something gross on your face or scrubs? Does he not like liquor suddenly? Oh no, is your hair messy?? With a trembling hand you tuck some loose hair behind your ear and lightly touch your scrub as you present the bottle.
“An aged rum that I nicked from our last raid. I hear it’s a grossly expensive brand.”
Buggy took the bottle and rolls it in his hands quietly, not saying anything at all. You watch him nervously, anxiety eating at your gut, a hot flush spreading behind your ears and the back of your neck. You know for a fact that Buggy likes expensive things, no matter what it is. Even if he hates what it actually is, like that time he tried bull fighting fish caviar. He was laid up in your office for a week after that one. He still keeps a preserved jar around, just so he can say he has it on hand.
“I hear it goes well with steak, or something,” you mumble, confidence draining away slowly.
He perks up to that, “Steak? Oh yeah, yes that does sound like a good pairing.” He stands up from the cot and shifts on his feet.
Buggy the Star Clown is shooting his shot.
“If I make Cabaji cook up a few steaks, would you…be interested in joining me for dinner? A flashily impromptu date?”
Your eyes nearly bug out of your head, that being the last thing you expect to hear from him. You had been certain that you would have to ask him out yourself with all the hints and nudges you gave him in the past seemed to go, well, right over his head.
“Oh! Y-yes that sounds nice!”
Smiling, Buggy turns to exit. Passing through the threshold he turns back to add, “I’ll pick you up at your cabin later. Escort you to the dining hall and all that jazz.” He ducks out of the room.
You’re glad he isn’t there anymore because your knees weaken and you grab the cot in support. Thrilled, you look at your schedule and decide to close up early. The injured would have to stay injured on their time, you had an important date tonight.
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ghosttotheparty · 2 years ago
Text
something in the back of my mind
Eddie died.
They all know it. Robin and Nancy and Steve all checked for a pulse. Steve tried CPR while Dustin shouted and sobbed that he was going to hurt him, even as Nancy said in a voice that was much, much too soft that he was gone. Steve had Eddie’s blood on him for days, under his nails, in the creases of his palms, on his lips and chin and cheeks from trying to give Eddie the breath from his own lungs. When he finally washed it away, he fell into grief all over again, watching it run across the tile floor, down the drain.
It took him a while to give up on the CPR. It might have been hours. He doesn’t know. He only stopped when Robin physically grabbed his hands and jerked them away, and he could barely even see through his tears, but he could hear her well enough.
He’s dead, Steve. He’s gone.
He left Eddie’s bandana on his chest. He didn’t know why he did it, why he carefully, tenderly pulled it off Eddie’s head as Robin and Nancy and Dustin watched, and folded it around his hand before placing it just over where Eddie’s heart should have been beating. He’d stopped there for a few moments, just looking at Eddie’s face. It would have looked like he was sleeping if he hadn’t been torn apart. Steve fixed his hair for him, fluffed it out and smoothed it down, barely noticing when it became streaked red with blood. And then he carefully took the guitar pick hanging from Eddie’s neck, and the ring on his left hand. (He gave the guitar pick to Dustin the next day as they sat in the hospital outside Max’s room. Dustin was all out of tears by then, but he took it with a trembling hand and clutched it to his chest, his whole body shaking. Steve kept the ring for himself. He knows they all saw it on his left index finger, but no one said anything about it.)
They had to leave him there. There was no way to get him back up through the ceiling. Dustin was sobbing the whole time, crying that they had to go back, that they couldn’t just leave him there. That he needed a nice grave, or to be cremated, that they needed to love him. That it was cruel. Steve had steeled himself, grabbing Dustin by the shoulders and telling him It’s not possible, Dustin. We did what we could. And Dustin had just fallen against him, holding him so tightly it hurt, crying so hard Steve could hear his voice become rough. He held him. He got Eddie’s blood in his hair.
When Steve got home, he fell apart.
There was no one around. Everyone was at home or the hospital, safe and healing, and he was…
Covered in blood. On his kitchen floor, sobbing and screaming and clutching at his shirt because it was suffocating him. Until the white tile was covered with Upside Down dirt and grime, with dark blood and tears.
It wasn’t fair, he didn’t think. Eddie had only just gotten involved. He had only wanted to help Chrissy, and now he’s in hell, bloody and eaten and raw, all alone.
If Steve had been there, maybe he would have been fine. If Steve had been there, maybe he could have fought the bats off, and Eddie would have gotten off with the same injuries Steve has. If Steve had been there, maybe he could have convinced Eddie to run. If Steve had been there If Steve had been there If Steve had been there If Steve had been there If Steve had been there
It wasn’t until two weeks later that he realised why he was grieving Eddie the way he was. Why he slept at night with Eddie’s battle vest in his arms, why he found himself staring at the ring on his finger for hours on end, why he saw Eddie’s eyes late at night when he was sleeping. (Those are good nights. All the other nights come with demon dogs and bats and blood and flashing lights. Often with one of the kids lying, unmoving, eyes staring up at the red sky, blank. Gone.)
When he realised, he couldn’t even cry. He just held Eddie’s vest tighter and closed his eyes against the dim glow of the overhead light. And wished they could have had a little more time. Wished he had kissed Eddie before they parted. Wished he had made Eddie promise to come back to him. Wished and wished and wished.
The others began to heal.
Max can’t see. Her legs are still healing, but her arms are okay aside from the occasional burst of pain, and Lucas barely lets her out of his sight. The first time he leaves her hospital room to go home, he has a panic attack. Erica helps him through with Robin, who always seems to know just what to say, what to do.
Dustin began to recover with the help of a therapist that Owens sets him up with. Steve sees her too. She’s nice, and helpful, even if Steve doesn’t feel much different than he did that first night without Eddie. When she asked how long he knew Eddie, he said quietly Not long enough. She seemed to get it.
Eddie is dead.
Everyone knows it.
The fact settled in Steve’s chest like a brick of ice that refuses to melt. He got used to it. Just like he got used to wet pillowcases under his face and Eddie’s vest resting on his chest in the morning.
Which is why he falls heavily to the floor when, two months after Eddie’s death, he hears Owens’s voice say, crackly over the phone,
“We’ve recovered Eddie Munson. He’s alive.”
• ───────────────── •
They’d gone down to try to recover his body while checking that everything was in order in the Upside Down. For Wayne.
He was breathing.
Still unconscious, unmoved, covered in dry, matted blood and torn clothing and dirt streaked with tears, but the bandana on his chest was moving up and down, and one of the men in the yellow hazmat suits said in a voice too loud, Holy shit, he’s alive.
And he was.
He is.
In a secret room at Hawkins Memorial Hospital, sitting in waiting while Owens talks to everyone in another secret room. This room has coffee that no one is drinking, and comfortable-looking chairs that no one is sitting in. They’re all listening intently to Owens, almost leaning closer to him in concentration, some of their eyes tear-filled.
He tells them.
They can go see him, but he won’t be what they’re expecting. He’s not the same Eddie.
No memory past meeting Chrissy in the woods. No good memory of anyone involved in the whole Upside Down business, only the vaguest recollections of some kids in the Hellfire Club. He’s scarred and scared and trying his hardest to not be, to pretend everything is fine. Be gentle is what Owens tells them. Don’t scare him, or startle him, be slow and patient with him when he doesn’t remember anything.
The kids go in first.
Robin and Nancy go behind them, lingering in the doorway.
But Steve stays behind, in that room with the coffee and the chairs, eyeing Owens.
“You’re not telling us something,” he says when the others are out of earshot, and Owens turns back to him with this resigned look in his eye. He shuts the door quietly.
“Why don’t you take a seat, Steve?” he says lightly, his tone too casual, too friendly for this all. Steve sits anyway.
“What’s going on?” he asks tentatively, his heart still reeling with He’s alive He’s alive He’s alive He’s alive.
“You were actually the person I wanted to speak to about this,” Owens says, sitting heavily in a chair near Steve. He pauses, looking at Steve, analyzing him for a moment. “You remember… We spoke about your side effects?”
“Yeah,” Steve says suspiciously.
It was the bats. Nothing bad, he had to assure Robin after his third appointment with Owens. Just weird things that didn’t happen before the bites. Things he couldn’t do but can now. Hear things from seemingly miles away. (The kids can’t sneak up on him anymore, no matter how quiet they are. It’s like he can hear their hearts beating.) Move things he would never have been able to move before. (Which he discovered after slamming his car door shut while angry and shattering the window.) See in the dark. (This one frustrates the others the most. (Except when he breaks things.) The kids complain about how creepy it is to hear him skulking around in the dark during sleepovers, and Robin complains that she can’t see in the dark too. It’s unfair, quite frankly. He just tells her she should be glad she wasn’t maimed by demon bats.)
“We believe Eddie has something similar,” Owens says slowly, carefully. “Just… A heavier dose, in a way, of the bat venom.”
Steve blinks.
“Explain?”
“Well. You know about his blood loss.”
Steve’s stomach twists. Eddie’s bloodied limbs and chest and face flash in his mind, followed by the blood running down the drain.
“Yeah,” he says weakly, feeling sick.
“When we tried a blood transfusion it didn’t work,” Owens says. “But he woke up. And… Started drinking the blood.”
Steve blinks, confusion momentarily replacing his sickness.
“Like… Like a vampire?”
“Well.” Owens tilts his head, shrugging lightly. “Yes.”
“What… the fuck.”
“Yeah.”
Steve lowers his head to the table in front of him, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. Owens waits for him.
“He’s okay, though,” he says after a few moments, lifting his head and looking at him. “Right?”
Owens’s eyes lock with his intently, his face hardening with almost uncomfortable sincerity.
“He will be.”
Steve stays in there, scratching at the wood of the table as Owens talks to him. Tells him about what Eddie needs: blood, fresh or frozen, which they’d learned through carefully monitored experiments, and endless, gentle support. He’s so confused, Owens says, his brows furrowing the first exhibition of earnest emotion that Steve’s ever seen. He always seems so put together, so professional, that it makes Steve’s chest clench.
Owens brings him a cup of coffee. Black. The way Steve likes it. Steve takes the cup, and he watches the coffee ripple as his hands tremble. He sets it down after a moment.
They told Eddie about the Upside Down. He doesn’t remember any of it. The vines, the bats. Nothing. Steve covers his face as Owens talks, taking slow, measured breaths to try and stop his eyes from stinging.
“So what do I do?” he asks when Owens finishes.
“What do you mean?”
“You said…” He pauses to clear his throat, blinking his eyes and shifting in his seat. “You said you wanted to tell me about his… condition. Or whatever. Why me? What do I do?”
“You have some experience similar to his,” Owens says gently. Steve can practically feel the teeth of the bats in his skin for a moment. The serrated tails digging into his neck, into his palms and fingers.
“Yeah,” he says, pushing the memories away with a tiny shake of his head. He does that a lot.
“And you seem to instinctively take up the role of protector,” Owens adds lightly. It makes Steve laugh. Just a little.
“Yeah.”
“He’ll be staying here for observation,” Owens says. “And then he’ll need somewhere to stay.”
“He can stay with me,” Steve says a little too quickly. His face burns, but Owens smiles softly.
“Thought you’d say that.”
He runs into Robin in the hallway on his way to Eddie’s room. (Room 236. He can’t stop repeating it in his head.)
“How is he?” Steve asks weakly. She sways forward and pulls him into a tight hug. “Like that, huh?”
“He’s confused,” she mumbles into his shoulder. “About everything. But he’s, like, doing that thing where he pretends he’s fine even though we all know he’s not.”
Steve sighs. His hands are shaking. He presses them to her back.
“He doesn’t remember us.”
“Owens said he wouldn’t.”
“He, like…” She sighs. They sway. He tightens his arms around her. She likes to be hugged tightly. “Says he recognizes us. Like he knows he knows us. But he didn’t know any of our names, or how he knows us.”
He pulls away and presses his forehead to hers, running his hands down her arms firmly as she exhales slowly.
“Was… Kinda scary.”
“‘S okay,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
He can feel her trembling. He pulls away to press a kiss to her forehead, letting her fall against him as he presses his cheek to her forehead, feeling her breath on his neck.
“Kept seeing all that blood,” Robin says weakly. His throat tightens. He sees that blood almost every night.
“He’s gonna be okay,” Steve whispers.
“I know. I know.”
He sighs, closing his eyes and swaying with her, pulling her around gently in a way that makes her exhale sharply. Her arms wrap around his waist.
“I’m nervous,” he says after a moment. “I’m gonna cry when I see him, for sure.”
“Oh, we all did,” she says, and he knows without looking at her that she’s doing that thing she does, staring wide-eyed, blankly at nothing. “So many tears. He had no idea why. I mean, he kind of did, they told him that he… you know. But it was kinda weird. But he’s also weird, so.”
He scoffs against her head.
“Didn’t even question it when Dustin almost killed him again by tackling him in a hug,” she says. Steve smiles, closing his eyes.
“Funny.”
“If I don’t laugh, I’ll… break down in tears, so.” She lifts her head, looking into his eyes. “‘S gonna be fine.”
“I know,” he sighs.
She reaches up to hold his face, squishing his cheeks between her palms.
“I can tell you’re still freaking out. Stop it.”
“It’s not entirely within my control, Robbie.” His voice is muffled, his lips squished.
“Stop freaking out. Deep breath.”
He inhales, raising his eyebrows, and she does the same, squishing his cheeks harder and suppressing a smile.
“Fishy.”
He huffs, rolling his eyes.
“Hello?”
Steve looks over Robin’s shoulder at Nancy’s voice, and Robin looks back without removing her hands from Steve’s face. Nancy is raising an eyebrow at them. Her cheeks are rosy. She’s been crying.
They all have, Steve notices as they all appear behind her. Erica is sniffling, wiping her nose with the end of her sleeve, holding onto Dustin’s arm.
“I’m emotionally preparing him,” Robin says. Her cheeks flush pink, and Steve snorts, poking her side. She yelps and lets go, smacking his cheek lightly as he snickers.
“Get outta here,” he says, looking at Dustin and lifting his chin, silently asking how he is. Dustin gives him a watery smile. Steve’s heart aches.
“You staying behind?” Nancy asks as Robin approaches them, reaching to touch Max’s head gently, fondly.
“Yeah,” Steve says, pushing his hands into his pockets. “I was talking with Owens, I’m just…”
She nods, understanding.
Dustin hugs him. He’s crying again, his shoulders shaking as Steve presses his cheek to the top of his head. He feels little. Like he’s aged backwards, just a little boy again, crying into Steve’s chest.
Steve kisses the top of his head when they part.
He watches them go, lingering by a window and watching them all, watching them half-hug each other, hold each other close. Dustin is still crying. Mike pulls him into a hug outside the van.
Steve exhales slowly. His heart is beating too fast. His hands are shaking.
He wanders down the halls slowly, meandering, taking slow breaths, letting his lungs fill and empty as he counts in his head.
One, two, three, four.
One, two, three, four.
One, two, three, four.
One, two, three, four.
His therapist calls it combat breathing. (He’s going to have to tell her about this. Seeing Eddie.) He hates that phrase, even if it’s accurate. He’s never been to combat. Not combat combat. Neither has Dustin, or Max, or Erica, or any of them. And yet.
They’ve all got it. The flashbacks. The dreams. The days they can barely get out of bed, or feed themselves. Sometimes Dustin can’t talk.
Steve stops in his tracks when he sees it.
Room 236.
He’s stuck. In the middle of the hallway. His breath catches in his throat, and he chokes a little bit, exhaling hard as he rubs his hand across his chest harshly. He only moves when a nurse looking down at her clipboard bumps into him, apologising breathily as she briskly passes by him, and he moves closer to the door. The numbers are metallic, gleaming in the too-bright fluorescent lights of the hallway.
He approaches tentatively, like he’s trying to hide, until he can see the window.
And Eddie.
He’s sitting on the bed, arms wrapped in bandages, wearing a hospital gown, looking down at a book in his lap. His curls are tied into a messy bun at the top of his head, a few escaping and brushing his neck. Steve hears him huff and watches as he tries to brush them away, but after a moment he just rips the hair tie out of his hair and reties it all, dragging his fingers through it so hard he catches tangles.
He looks away from the book, across the room at the wall, finishes his hair, and drops his arms heavily, sighing. Steve can hear it.
He’s pale. He’s almost glowing.
But the marks around his neck are dark, almost burgundy. And his cheek is mangled, part of it covered with a bandage, red and purple and pink. Steve aches.
He turns away, pressing his back to the wall next to the door, closing his eyes as his lungs constrict. He takes a slow breath, pressing his hands to his face as Eddie’s bloodied face flashes in his mind. He remembers how it smelled. His throat hurts.
It takes a while for him to breathe properly. When he gets it, he exhales sharply, huffing, pinching the bridge of his nose, and his skin tightens when he hears Eddie’s voice say, “Hello?”
He squeezes his eyes shut, scolding himself, remembering that Eddie has the same shit he does, the damn hearing and sight and fucking everything.
So he exhales again, turning around and taking the door handle, pushing the door handle before he can talk himself out of it.
“Hi,” he says quietly, stepping inside, watching as Eddie’s eyes widen. “Sorry, I was just…” He shakes his head, unsure of what he’s trying to say, stopping. The door closes behind him.
Eddie stares.
Steve hurts.
Eddie’s almost gaunt, too thin, haggard. His eyes are still shining.
“Woah,” Eddie says, staring, wide-eyed.
“Woah?” Steve questions, forcing himself to inhale. He feels like he’s on fire.
“You, uhm. Sorry.” Eddie coughs, clearing his throat. His book falls shut in his lap. “I don’t… remember.”
“Yeah,” Steve says, shaking his head, pushing his trembling hands into his pockets. “No, Owens said. It’s… It’s okay.”
“Are we friends?” Eddie asks in a small voice.
Steve blinks. His eyes burn.
“Not really,” he says weakly. “We could have been, I think. If we…” His throat tightens around his words and he pauses, swallowing, blinking. “Had more time.”
Eddie nods, unblinking.
For a while.
Steve stares back, holding tears back.
“What?” he asks after another moment, scoffing, laughing lightly, uncomfortably.
“Sorry,” Eddie says, finally blinking. “Just… Wondering how I could forget a face like that.”
Steve blinks. His cheeks burn.
“Oh.” He exhales, dropping his shoulders. “Okay.”
Eddie stares again. Steve lets himself stare back, watching as Eddie’s eyes narrow so slightly Steve almost doesn’t notice.
“What?” Steve asks again, whispering it.
“You look familiar,” Eddie says. “Like…” He pauses for a long stretched moment. “Like a song I’ve heard once. But don’t know the words to. You know?”
“Oh,” Steve says again. “Yeah. I mean, no, but–”
Eddie snorts, gesturing toward the chair next to his bed.
“C’mere.”
Steve takes a breath, looking at the chair like it’s about to come to life and eat him, hesitating. But he sits down heavily, staring at the floor for a moment before he looks back at Eddie.
Who’s still looking at him.
He looks almost awestruck, eyes wide and shining, almost curious.
“You don’t remember my name,” Steve says.
Eddie shakes his head before he stops, eyes narrowing again, brows furrowing. He turns a little bit toward him, setting the book aside, his fingers tangling in his lap.
“It starts with an S,” he says after a moment.
Steve’s chest clenches. He nods.
Eddie’s face lights up.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Eddie does it again, that thoughtful stare, thinking hard, like he’s trying to use telepathy.
“...Sam?”
Steve smiles, relaxing a little bit, shaking his head.
“Simon?’’
Another shake.
“Samuel– No, that’s just Sam again. Sean?”
“No,” Steve says, laughing lightly.
“Shawn? With a W. It’s different.”
Steve laughs a little harder, scrunching his nose and shaking his head. He can tell Eddie’s doing this on purpose, being silly just to make him laugh, but it works anyway.
“Fuck. Sawyer?”
“No.”
“Spencer?”
“Mm-mm.”
“Uhm.” He pauses, thinking, his eyes searching Steve’s face like he’s going to find his name written in his skin, spelled out in his moles. “S-S-Sebastian?”
Steve shakes his head, smiling.
“Jesus, how many S names are there?”
“You want me to just tell you?”
“No. Shane?”
A shake.
“Uhm.” He stares again, scrunching his nose and shrugging to himself. “Sunny.”
Steve laughs, giggles, shaking his head.
“Good God. Uhm. Smith.”
“That’s a last name.”
“Maybe your parents are weird, I don’t know.”
Steve drops his head, laughing. When he looks back up, Eddie is smiling at him, his expression soft. Too soft.
“You want a hint?” Steve asks, ignoring it.
“A little one.”
“Uh.” Steve exhales, relaxing into the chair. Eddie moves closer, his legs crossed, tugging the blanket with him. Steve tears his eyes away, looking at the ground as he thinks. “Five letters.”
“Oh, hangman?”
Steve nods.
Eddie is grinning. Steve loves his smile. There isn’t any blood in his teeth, and it makes his cheeks squish up, makes his eyes squint, makes those perfect lines form in his skin. Steve lets himself gaze as Eddie looks up at some random spot across the room blankly.
“Five letters,” Eddie repeats, his eyes jumping around, envisioning the lines. “Starts with S.”
“Mhmm.”
“...A.”
“No A.”
Eddie lifts a hand and draws a circle in the air. Steve smiles.
“E?”
“Two Es.”
Eddie’s eyebrows fly up and his eyes jump around again, the Es finding their places before he gasps, jumping and grabbing at Steve.
“Steve!”
“Yeah,” Steve says, laughing, his skin lighting up again at the feeling of Eddie’s hands on him.
“Steve,” Eddie says again excitedly, beaming brightly, shaking Steve’s shoulders. “Steve, Steve, Steve–”
Steve is giggling again. His hands find Eddie’s forearms, holding him back. His skin is cold.
“That bring anything back?” he asks when Eddie stops shaking him. Eddie’s smile falters, but it doesn’t fall. He’s still grinning at him, staring intently at him.
“No,” he says. “‘S just nice to have a name to put to a face. I think Sunny is nice, too, though.”
Steve snorts, shaking his head and letting his hands fall. Eddie is closer. Close enough that Steve can see the faint lines in his skin, that he could count his eyelashes. Eddie stares back, almost smiling, his expression light and almost careless, like he isn’t covered in bandages.
“Steve.”
“Eddie,” Steve says softly. Too softly. He didn’t mean to do that. But Eddie doesn’t seem to mind, just tilting his head like he’s analyzing Steve the way he is Eddie.
His eyes catch on Steve’s neck and he tilts his head the other way like a curious puppy, leaning closer and narrowing his eyes. He lifts a hand before Steve can say anything, reaching up and touching his neck lightly, tracing his scars.
“You too, huh?”
“Yeah,” Steve breathes. “Didn’t really get it as bad as you, though.”
Eddie smiles softly, still looking, tracing so lightly that Steve almost shivers. His fingers hover over his throat, tracing a line down it, and Steve swallows nervously.
“They told me,” Eddie says quietly. “About the Upside Down and everything. About the bats.”
Steve blinks hard, staring at him as he looks at Steve’s scar.
“Pretty wild, isn’t it?” he says. His voice is quiet. If he speaks louder, it might break.
“Unbelievable,” Eddie says. “But…” He shrugs, sighing, fingertips still touching Steve’s neck. They’re not on his scar anymore, instead tracing a line in a pattern that Steve recognizes at his moles. “The blood and everything. I don’t know if Owen’s told you about that.” His eyes meet Steve’s, and Steve blinks tears back, hoping Eddie doesn’t notice them. He nods.
“He did.”
“You too?”
“Not that. But the other stuff. The… hearing. And you can see in the dark, can’t you?”
Eddie nods, cracking a small smile.
“‘S nice to not be the only one.”
“Yeah.”
Eddie is quiet. Still looking at Steve. His fingers are twisting in his lap, fidgeting with his rings absentmindedly.
“So it’s all true.”
Steve nods.
And then his eyes are welling with tears, and Eddie’s eyes are widening, and Steve chokes out, “I left you there.”
Eddie shakes his head, shifting to face him, looking at him intently.
“No, Steve, you…”
“I left you down there,” Steve says weakly as tears finally fall down his cheeks. “I’m sorry, Eddie, I wanted– I wanted to bring you home, I– I–”
“No, it’s not your fault,” Eddie says gently, reaching out to touch Steve’s shoulder, holding him firmly. “You– Steve. C’mon.”
Steve gasps for breath, squeezing his eyes shut and letting his head fall forward to hide his face.
“You did everything you could, man,” Eddie tells him, pulling at his shoulder, and Steve falls forward, a sob ripping its way out of his chest, and then he’s actually dying, because Eddie is pulling him into a hug, whispering quietly to him. “‘S not your fault, Steve.”
“I wasn’t there,” Steve chokes. His face is pressing into Eddie’s neck, and he draws his hands up to clutch at his hospital gown. “I wasn’t there for you, and you– you weren’t breathing, and I–”
“It’s not your fault,” Eddie says again, more firmly this time, leaving no room for argument. He shifts to take Steve’s face between his hands.
Steve’s chest aches.
He melts.
He exhales, closing his eyes, and Eddie’s thumbs wipe away tears that fall, and Steve didn’t realise this is what he’s been missing. Eddie’s hands on his skin, his whispers just reaching Steve’s ears.
It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.
A sob rips out of Steve’s chest, and Eddie pulls him closer, tugging him onto the bed and carefully pulling his head to rest on Eddie’s shoulder. His fingers are pressing into Steve’s hair, scratching at his scalp, swaying with him, like he’s doing everything he can to make Steve feel better.
“God, Steve,” Eddie breathes when Steve’s crying slows, smoothing his hand over the back of his head.
“I’m sorry,” Steve chokes, pulling away, avoiding his eyes. “Jesus, you don’t even know who I am, I’m—”
“You’re Steve,” Eddie says softly, grabbing at his arms and tugging, keeping him from getting up. Steve exhales shakily, his lip trembling. “You…”
Eddie pauses, his fingers tightening on Steve’s arms. Steve can hear his heart beating.
“I don’t… remember you,” Eddie says slowly, carefully, thinking. His eyes are trained on Steve’s neck like he’s looking at his scars. “But I… I remember how you made me feel.”
Steve swallows, looking down at Eddie’s hands. He’s not wearing his rings, but Steve can see the indents of where they belong. His nails are trimmed, and clean, and Steve wonders if a nurse washed the blood away before or after he woke up.
“How did I make you feel?” he asks quietly, almost whispering.
Eddie is quiet, his jaw working, and Steve shifts to hold his arms back. His skin is cold. Steve’s thumb brushes over the bats inked into his forearm, gazing at them, wondering if Eddie looks at them differently now.
“I don’t know if I can say it,” Eddie whispers.
Steve’s stomach twists.
“You can say it,” he whispers. “Please. Say it.”
Eddie closes his eyes, sliding his hands to meet Steve’s.
“Think I… might have. Maybe. Could have. Had a crush on you.”
Steve closes his eyes. His fingers tighten on Eddie’s arms, and he exhales.
“Really?” he whispers.
He opens his eyes when Eddie doesn’t answer, and Eddie looks like he might cry, eyes wide and shining. A jolt goes through Steve when he sees them. Real. In front of him.
“Yeah,” Eddie says softly. “I don’t…” He shakes his head, hesitating. “Remember, like… Why. I guess. But you…”
He smiles a little bit, softly, almost fondly, and he lifts a hand to touch Steve’s cheek, his thumb brushing over his skin. Steve’s chest squeezes, and he can’t breathe, but he doesn’t really mind, because Eddie’s gaze is soft, and warm.
“You’re even a pretty crier,” Eddie murmurs almost absently like he doesn’t even realise he’s saying it.
Steve’s face crumbles, and he falls forward against Eddie, who catches him and mumbles a soft, “C’mere,” and pulls him closer, until Steve shifts farther onto the bed, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s waist carefully.
“Does that hurt?” Steve asks, conscious of the stitches and bandages and tape under Eddie’s hospital gown, but Eddie shakes his head.
“I’m on so many painkillers right now, man,” he says quietly, making Steve laugh lightly, stretching his legs out slowly. “I’m totally numb.”
They fall into each other, arms wrapped around each other, and Steve’s cheek rests against Eddie’s chest, against his skin where the gown has fallen a little bit. Eddie’s fingers push into Steve’s hair again like that’s where they belong, like he does this every day.
Steve closes his eyes, focusing on the rise and fall of Eddie’s chest with every breath, on the quiet beating of his heart against Steve’s cheek.
“God, I missed you so much, Eddie,” he says weakly. Because he needs Eddie to know. Eddie’s hand slides up his arm, squeezing.
“‘M right here, Stevie.”
Steve exhales.
Eddie smells like the hospital. Sterile. But the smell of cigarettes and weed still lingers in his hair, and Steve kind of wants to sit up and bury his face in it.
He settles against Eddie’s chest, lulled to sleepiness from Eddie’s hand in his hair, his other hand tracing down his arm.
Until Eddie’s hand rests on his.
“My uncle gave me that ring,” he murmurs. Steve’s stomach drops and his eyes fly open, and he starts to sit up, reaching to take it off.
The ring he’d taken from Eddie’s lifeless hand and scrubbed clean days later, because he couldn’t stand the thought of losing any part of Eddie, even his dry blood.
“Jesus, sorry,” he mutters, face flaming, heart pounding, more embarrassed than he’s ever been in his life, because he was just sobbing into the chest of a boy that has no memory of him at all, and his cheeks still feel tacky from his tears, and Eddie fucking died and he’s the one comforting Steve, and Steve fucking stole his ring off his dead body—
“Don’t be,” Eddie says smoothly, his voice soft. His hand stops Steve’s, grabbing it and pulling him back down against him, twining their fingers. “‘S okay.”
“It’s…” Steve lets him pull him back, stiff, anxious. “I shouldn’t have taken it, I’m—”
“It’s okay, Steve,” Eddie says. “Keep it.”
“But… Your uncle…”
“He won’t mind,” Eddie says softly. “‘S okay.”
Steve hesitates for another moment before he turns and buries his face in Eddie’s chest, taking a shuddering breath.
Eddie says it one more time. Murmurs it. Breathes it.
It’s okay.
Steve believes him.
Eddie hugs him tightly, one hand sliding up to hold the back of his head.
“‘M really tired,” he mumbles. Steve opens his eyes. He must be. Waking up after dying just to find himself ravaged and wounded, learning all the shit he had to learn about the Upside Down, meeting the Party all over again.
“Do you want me to go?”
“No,” Eddie says firmly, his arms tightening. “I don’t want you to go.” He’s quiet for a moment, and Steve squeezes his eyes shut. “…Will you stay?”
Steve just presses closer, tucking his face into Eddie’s neck, groaning quietly when Eddie rolls slightly, one arm around Steve’s neck, the other sliding up his arm to his shoulder, pushing his hair back. Steve shivers.
He stays awake after Eddie falls asleep, listening to every breath, to every beat of Eddie’s heart. Feeling Eddie’s fingers twisted in his overgrown hair, feeling his legs pressed up against Steve’s, and Steve kind of wishes he’d worn shorts today so he can feel their skin press, which is probably a weird desire, but what even is weird anymore?
He wants to stay awake there until Eddie wakes up, to be conscious and aware of every second he gets to have with him, but Eddie’s pulse is steady, and his skin is cool against Steve’s, and Steve starts to drift off long before he wants to.
He lets himself, because he can’t move to wake himself up without moving Eddie.
He doesn’t have any bad dreams.
Or good dreams, for that matter. For hours, until a nurse comes in to check on Eddie, Steve’s mind is peacefully, blissfully blank. Empty.
It’s awkward when they both stir to find the nurse looking down at them with a smile. Steve’s face is hot, hotter than it’s ever been, and he knows he must be fucking red as he sits up and detaches from Eddie, but the nurse just asks if they slept okay.
• ───────────────── •
“Steve, how are you today?”
“I’m alright.”
“So… A lot to talk about today.”
“…Yeah.”
“Would you like to talk about that or start like we usually do?”
“Uhm. I guess like we— like we usually do.”
“So how was work this week?”
“Okay. I’m… working on being patient with customers. Even though they’re not patient with me.”
“How are you working on that?”
“Uhm. Deep breaths and everything. Reminding myself that I’m… Like. Not responsible for how they treat me. And that, like… They might be having a shitty day. I don’t know what’s going on with them. ‘S also easier with Robin there.”
“How does Robin help?”
“Makes faces at me behind customers’ backs. Which maybe isn’t very professional, but it’s funny.”
“How’s Robin doing?”
“She’s good. She’s trying to spend more time with her dad, I think it’s going well.”
“And the kids?”
“Good. Mike asked me to teach him to drive. Begrudgingly. I think he just doesn’t want Nancy to teach him.”
“Seems like that makes you happy.”
“I guess.”
“How’s your eating been?”
“Eh. Alright. It’s… easier to eat during the day if I’m… I don’t know. Eating with Robin or bringing the kids lunch and stuff. It’s easier at night.”
“How can you work on that? Getting your nutrition during the day? Just dinner isn’t enough to nourish you.”
“Uh. I guess I could… I don’t know. Bring food with me to work?”
“That sounds like a good idea. What about keeping some in your car, too?”
“I could do that. Like crackers or something. Stuff that won’t go back in the heat.”
“That sounds good. …And how’s your sleeping?”
“…”
“…Steve?”
“Not… great.”
“Nightmares?”
“Sometimes. A lot of the time. But it’s also… Just. I don’t know. ‘S hard to fall asleep.”
“What helps?”
“…Robin sometimes. When she sleeps over, she’ll stay in my bed. ‘S nice to listen to her… breathe.”
“Are your nightmares still the same?”
“…No.”
“When did they change?”
“After… I guess we can’t really avoid talking about it that long.”
“Guess not.”
“...After Eddie came back. That night.”
“Would you like to tell me what happened in it?”
“…I was… in my room. And the— the lights started flickering. It was, uhm. Morse code. I don’t even know Morse code, but I—I recognized it in my dream.”
“Right.”
“It was…”
“…What was it saying?”
“I don’t… remember. But it was Eddie. I just… knew. He was in the Upside Down, trying to– trying to talk to me. Tell me he was alive. And I’d just… left him there. And I– I know he was dead, and it wasn’t my fault, and I did– I did everything I could, but I just…”
“What did you do when you woke up? How did you cope with it?”
“Just… moved on. I think if I— if I lingered on it, or, like, thought about it I would have just… I don’t know.”
“Do you think… maybe burying your emotions might not be the best idea?”
“I know, I just… I don’t know what else to do.”
“You’re allowed to have feelings, Steve. I know you weren’t allowed when you were little, but you are now. And I know you know it’s unhealthy to suppress them.”
“I know.”
“…What was it like seeing Eddie again?”
“…Sorry.”
“It’s okay to cry, Steve.”
“I know. It was, uhm. I don’t know.”
“…”
“I think I was just, like. Confused. I guess.”
“What was confusing?”
“Just… I don’t know— I mean, I grieved for him. I mourned. And then he… Like, obviously I’m happy he’s back, and I’m— I’m so happy he’s okay, I’m really really happy, I just… Why does it feel like I’m grieving all over again?”
“...Do you think it may have something to do with that he doesn’t remember you?”
“Probably. It’s just… I don’t know. Frustrating. I shouldn’t be grieving him when he’s right there in front of me.”
“Steve, you’re allowed to feel whatever it is that you feel.”
“I know. ...It’s hard being around him. But I also don’t want to leave him.”
“What’s hard?”
“...Remembering. And just… God, the way he looks at me.”
“How does he look at you? Why is it upsetting?”
“He… He looks at me like he remembers me. But also like he’s trying to figure me out. He doesn’t remember me, he told me. But he said that he… remembers how he felt about me.”
“How did he feel about you?”
“...”
“When you told you, whatever it is, it’s okay if you don’t want to tell me, was it upsetting? Or did it bring you peace?”
“...Both? …I think I’m just tired.”
“Are you letting yourself rest?”
“...I’m trying.”
• ───────────────── •
read the rest on ao3 bc this ended up being over 30k oops lmao
taglist: @artiststarme @miss-hit @rhapsodyinalto @drwatsonsjournal @vampireinthesun @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @novelnovella @sofadofax @pepethehobbit @gregre369 @anaibis @koyislosinghismind @theplantscientist @goodolefashionedloverboi @penny-lane-bitch @stillfullofshit @whimsicalwitchm @walmartfairy69 @awkwardgravity1 @xpaperheartss @stardustonpages @softboisteve @theysherobinbuckley @spectrum-spectre @b-icetea (sorry if i missed anyone or tagged someone by accident) <3
if you like my work maybe consider supporting me on ko-fi or looking into my commissions <3 
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pholla-jm · 1 year ago
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Broken Glass
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IMAGINE: BROKEN GLASS~ LUFFY X READER GENRE: HURT WARNINGS: MENTION OF VIOLENCE, SLAVERY, BLOOD/GORE. Nova's Notes: As I was writing this, I decided to do this in parts. So this is part one! ************************
Psychology says that if a person can love you unconditionally then that person can hate you unbelievably.
You used to love the world. Everything that was in it. You find beauty in everything.
That was until the day your village was raided. You were barely a teen when you were taken and sold into slavery for a celestial dragon.
The celestial dragon found a special interest in you. He loved how beautiful you were. Your outlook of the world. Even when you were chained up in a cage, you still somehow were optimistic. There was so much light coming off of you, and he…. He wanted to snuff it out.
He wanted to be the one to make you realize that the world was a shitty place. He wanted to ruin your outlook of the world. To make it seem so bleak.
So, every day, he would order you, beat you, do unthinkable things just to see you cry or the shimmer in your eyes finally become dull. Sure, you thought he was a disgusting man. But you wouldn’t say it out loud. You wouldn’t give him satisfaction. Well tried not to give him satisfaction.
It was even more disgusting that it brought the celestial dragon so much joy to finally see the shimmer and joy die in your eyes. He finally got what he wanted. And it was so much better than he thought it was going to be.
However, he found no use in you anymore. So, he just threw you to the side like you were trash.
You wondered how someone could be so vile and disgusting. You no longer saw the world in bright vibrant colors like you used to. Now you saw the world in monochrome, in black, gray and white. You no longer found joy in the wind blowing against your skin, or the sounds of animals that would scurry around you. Everything was just so bleak, and you hated that there was no end to it either.
That was until the chaos broke. Guns were being shot, screams ringing through the air. It reminds you of the day your own village was ruined.
However, you couldn’t really see what was going on because you were still trapped in the dingy jail that you considered your room.
There was suddenly a loud crash and dust filled your vision for a little bit. When the dust cleared you were able to see a stream of light in the room. Following the source of light, you see that there was a large hole in the wall.
‘This is my chance. I can get out of here…’ You thought to yourself as you stood on shaky legs.
It was almost too good to be true. You were worried that there was a worse fate out there.
But it was too late to turn back. You were already outside. The sky filled with gunpower smoke and people were running around. Pirates, marines and civilians.
Seeing all these people running around started to make you angry. The civilians, they were free, not chained to anyone. The marines, the people who were supposed to protect you, or rescue you from this cruel fate. The pirates, the ones that trashed your village and turned you in.
You wanted to hurt them. Hurt them all for just… just being themselves really. Why do they get to live their life while you were trapped? It wasn’t fair.
Psychology says that if a person can love you unconditionally then that person can hate you unbelievably. A beautiful mirror can turn into a dangerous weapon when broken.
Looking down- there are shards of glass on the ground. You could see your own reflection in it. You were covered and dirt, your face was unhealthily skinny, due to lack nutrition. There was a dull look in your eyes, and you hated it. It was like whispers entering your head. Telling you to pick it up. Just take it and use it! Hurt them like they hurt you.
Picking up the sharp glass in your hand – not even flinching at the sharp edges prodding into your skin – you chose your first victim.
A marine. An unexpecting victim that fell dead at your hand. He dropped to the ground and all you could do was stare at his lifeless body. You didn’t feel a single thing, and you hated it.
With a small shrug, you kept walking, looking for your next victim.
However, that was cut short when someone ran into you. Knocking you straight into the ground. A sharp gasp left your lips as you eyed the person that landed on you. The person wasn’t getting up and everything was just starting to get really painful.
Finally, the person sat up a little, fixing the straw hat on his head. Laughter blooming from his chest as he looks down at you. “Shiiishiishii sorry about that!”
When the weight was finally lifted off of you, you realized that the pain wasn’t coming from the weight, but from the glass that you were holding. It was now lodged into your side causing blood to flow out.
Shaky and painful gasps left your mouth as you tried to push the boy off of you. “Huh? What’s wrong?” He asks – oblivious to wound and blood.
“G-get off.” You strain while putting both your hands on his bare chest to try to push him off. But you were too weak to even budge him.
The boy looks down at his chest, seeing a bright red stain. His eyes widen, finally realizing what has happened.
When he looks back at you, he sees that your eyes were starting to lull to the back of your head. “Hey! Wait! Don’t go to sleep. I’ll take you to my Doctor. He’s the best.”
But his words fell on deaf ears. There was too much blood loss. On top of already being weak, it was impossible to push through this situation.
Before your eyes completely shut, there was one thing that stood out to you.
The boy on top of you sure was colorful.
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mjolnirswriststrap · 1 year ago
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Executioner | Renaissance AU
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Summary: Natasha is the king’s executioner. What plot? Just smut.
Natasha x f!reader
Warnings: 18+ only! Read at your own risk, panties definitely came off in this one, beheadings.
Masterlist
You knew you shouldn’t have been in that tavern after curfew. Some of the local women whispered about meeting to discuss steps to improve living conditions in your village. You thought it was worth trying. The king had no intentions on helping the starving women and children. The draft had taken every able bodied man, leaving your people devastated. None of you expected the kings men to burst in. You wouldn’t have gone if you knew what you’d be charged with.
You can’t see anything as burlap sack was roughly crammed onto your head. Desensitization wasn’t a new tactic, pigs for slaughter were treated this way. If you can’t see how close death is, you’re less likely to freak out. You stood there shackled to a girl on both sides of you, shaking in fear, using your last moments to pray. If you tilted your head just right you could see out of the bottom of the sack. A pool of red creeps towards your toes, and you hear the swing of a blade yet again. The only thing louder at the moment is the scream of the girl ahead of you, she knows she’s next. Your arm is jerked forward as the shackle is unlocked, separating you from the crying girl.
You close your eyes as you begin to pray, what king would do this to his people? You didn’t do anything wrong, the village only wants food and clothes for the winter. You knew why he didn’t favor your village; you didn’t export any goods. No crops, linen, or cattle were given to the castle. The women needed everything just to keep their children and elderly alive.
The blade makes contact with the wooden bench yet again, and you begin to shake. You won’t cry, you won’t let them have the satisfaction. They can take your life but they can’t have your soul. You had no reaction as the sack was pulled from your head. Your eyes squint to adjust to the sun. Standing in front of you is a tall man, so broad he shields you from the crowd of onlookers. He starts fiddling with your shackle and you look around him, seeing that you’re on a high wooden platform in the middle of the capital. Hundreds of subjects crowded around, waiting for the next beheading.
You catch a glimpse of red hair behind the man, but he jerks you forward before you can get a better look. You pad forward, and the crowds chatter becomes clearer “treasonous bitch!” “Witch” “this will teach you!” ”long live King Stark!”. You couldn’t help but to laugh out loud. They really thought the king cared for them. They could be on this chopping block next, they’re too deluded to see it. You start giggling louder, and louder and it draws the attention of the red haired woman.
“Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.” You tilt your head to the side and see a short woman, black robes covering her, a large hood pulled halfway up. “I am being prosecuted for being a woman. This is already harder than it has to be.”. How sick, the king making a woman execute other women. You looked into her eyes, knowing they’d be the last thing you ever saw. She was beautiful beyond measure, fair skin, full lips and large green eyes stared back at you. The woman is frozen in place, never having had a stand off with a person she was about to execute. You lean down, the blood of the innocent girl tickled your cheek. Closing your eyes you inhale the scent of rust and mud. Taking a deep breath you wait for your execution, unwavering.
It never comes, a loud explosion shakes town square. You’re thrown from the chopping block, landing on the hard dirt. Screams erupt and you feel feet trample over you. A large man steps right on the hand balancing you, causing you to scream out in pain. You coddle your sore fingers like a cat licking its wounds. You crawl under the wooden structure used as a stage. Hiding from the crowd who were willingly going to chop your head off moments earlier. You look up between the cracks and see the red head woman scanning the crowd, searching for you. “Tell the kings guard she’s gone. The explosion gave her cover for escape.” She whispers to a man in all metal armor.
The crowd has finally dispersed and all you can hear is the dripping of blood, the woman’s deep sighs as she paces the platform above you. You’re too scared to make a sound, knowing your cover could be blown at any moment. You feel a tickle at the edge of your hairline, you quickly swipe at what’s bothering you. A spider crawls up your hand causing you to wince, shaking it off. Your eyes dart upward, in hopes she didn’t notice. Except you can’t see her anywhere between the cracks. You lean forward to get a better advantage point and still, the platform is void of any person. Sitting back down on your feet you take a deep breath, maybe you’re finally in the clear.
A blade is pressed to your neck before you can exhale. A hand snakes its way around your waist, traveling upward along your front, securing your arm and neck in a tight lock. “Thought you could escape?” She breathes in your ear. Your heartbeat fastens, “Please, you don’t understand, I’m innocent. I’ve done nothing wrong.” You plead as she tightens her grip on you. “That’s what they all say. But not everyone was found gathered under a full moon, whispering about a kings downfall.” You furrow your brow, full moon? You’d never gathered with anyone under a full moon, you were no witch.
She pushes you forward, your face hitting the ground, billowing up a cloud of dirt. “You’re mistaken miss, we met to discuss rations, create a plan on how to survive the winter, I would never knowingly gather under a full moon.” You wiggle as she straddles your ass, pushing against her as she shackles your hands behind your back. “I thought I was being executed for conspiracy not witchcraft.” You writhe more underneath her, grasping her wrist, you hold her there as you plead for her mercy. “Please, I am not what you think. I’ll go far away, you’ll never see or hear of me again. I’ll never return. I swear it upon the Lord.”
The woman stares at her wrist in your hand. Your words completely muffled to her. She looks at your rode up gown, lace garters around each of your legs. She pulls herself away, kneeling beside you. You start shaking in fear of what is to come next. She places a hand on the back of your thigh, slowly feeling her way to between your legs. “If you want me to let you go free, you’re going to have to earn it, witch.” The woman laughs to herself. You squeeze your eyes shut as you realize what she means. “What do you want from me?” You cry out. The woman flips you over onto your back, she leans down looking you right in the eye.
“Make it worth my while, and I’ll escort you to the city limits myself.” She smirked on top of you. You look into her eyes, she was too beautiful to be this wicked. Something happened to make her this way, you’d never know. Your survival instincts kicked in before you could protest. Pressing your lips to hers you eagerly run your tongue against her bottom lip. She takes the opportunity to feel your breast, massaging them behind thick dress linen. You pull away as a strange feeling builds inside of you, you’d never been with a woman so you didn’t think you’d get anything out of this. But the feeling of her hands on you, ignited a flame deep inside, causing a throb to wreck your clit.
“You like that?” She asks with hooded eyes, pinching your nipples in the process. You sharply gasp, the feeling of wetness pooling between your thighs. Your back arches off the ground as she slips her hand under your dress, the feeling of her hand on your bare skin, burning. She feels her way up to your right nipple, pinching it unbearably hard, you yelp. “Answer me, witch.” She says. “Yes, ms?”
“Natasha, not that it matters.”.
Natasha lifts herself to her knees, looking down at you, your dress pulled up, thrown over your shoulder as your chest is exposed. “So pathetic, begging to run away like that. So small underneath this thick fabric,” she places a finger on your navel, drawing a line down, running it between the folds surrounding your clit; stopping when the tip of her finger slips inside of you. “So wet, and I’ve barely touched you”.
You bite your lip so hard you taste blood, you couldn’t help it as she gently stroked her finger in and out of you. You raise your hips off the ground practically begging for more, “Please Natasha, I’ll do anything, just uncuff me.”. The red head throws her head back laughing while she adds another digit, going deeper than before “I don’t need to do that to get what I want.” You press your head into the ground as you adjust to her thick fingers, the burning stretch and the slow pace causing your legs to shake, a wet soothing feeling stopped the shaking as soon as it began, you looked down to see Natasha staring up at you, her tongue moving in slow circles around your clit. “Don’t stop.” You plead.
As if she was getting off on torturing you, she stopped instantly, pulling her hand from you. “I don’t want you getting the wrong idea,” Natasha says, pulling her black robe over her head. “This isn’t for your pleasure, it’s for mine.” She says, freeing the ties around her waist. Her undercoat falls down, exposing a hairless pussy. She throws one leg over your waist, diagonally straddling you. “I had to make you want it, no one wants to ride a sleeping bull.”. She spreads her lips, pressing herself into you, the feeling completely foreign, everything she’d done up till now, a man already had the privilege of doing before.
Natasha rolls her hips, perfectly gliding against your clit. It felt like a warm kiss, wet and desperate. You whine, wishing you could touch her, hold onto something for leverage. You couldn’t move as she fucked you, you’re completely helpless besides being able to wrap a leg around her waist. It did nothing to move you, it only made her grind harder against you.
A strangled moan leaves your lips as she starts rocking against you with a new pace, it was gonna make you cum if she kept going. A rubber band inside of you was being stretched past its limit and was about to snap back. At this point you thought, she has to be reading your mind. She slowed down, throwing her head back as she barely lifted herself, just to slam herself back down. She did this over and over again till you were sore, you needed release.
Natasha wasn’t thinking about your release as she crawled up your body, sitting on your chest. “If you make me feel real, real good. I’ll even get you to the next town, deal?” You nod your head before thinking. She quickly grabs a handful of your hair, “What did I say? Speak when spoken to, witch.” “Deal.”
She strokes your face, admiring your features before she makes a mess of them. Soft eyes search hers for answers, but nothing would prepare you for how gentle she was. Natasha lifted her hips, ghosting her center past your lips, causing you to crane your neck to reach for her. She was practically dripping into your mouth as you reached your tongue to take a practice swipe. She was so soft, like rose petals that tasted like ‘more’; you wanted more.
You tilt your chin forward latching your lips around her core, creating a suction while your rolled her clit around the tip of your tongue. “Fuck yes, keep doing that.” Natasha praises you from above. She miraculously keeps herself still, not abusing your face like she did your bottom half. You liked the way she sounded, light and raspy, searching for a breath. It kept you going while you explored her every inch. You lapped up wetness as it dripped from her hole, rimming the hole with the tip of your tongue.
Her body reacted the best to your flat tongue, licking long thick stripes over her clit. It made Natasha jerk her body forward, causing your nose to stimulate her even more. “You’re doing so good baby, just a little longer.” You couldn’t help but use the praise as fuel to keep going. The sight of Natasha writhing in pleasure makes you needy. You feverishly rub her clit as you breathe hot breath onto her.
Natasha grips your hair as she finally takes hold of the situation, she grinds her hips down, fully pressing herself on your tongue. You can’t keep up as she tries to climax. Her hips going at a pace your jaw isn’t accustomed to. You close your eyes as you feel her jerk forward, slowing herself down, she writhes on your face.
You gasp for air as she stands, throwing her robe back over her head. You lift yourself to your knees, letting gravity pull your dress down. You do nothing but await your release from the chains that bind you. You did what she asked, you just wanted to be freed, you needed no escort to the edge of town or the next village. “Please, uncuff me now, Natasha?” She gave you a pitiful look as she tied the straps to her undergarments.
“Oh honey, did you really think I was gonna let you go free?” She walked towards you, bending over to match your eye line. “You’re dead as far as the king knows, a crowd never lets a criminal get away. You just got lucky with the explosion.” Confusion clouded your brain, what was she going to do, if not turn you in? “What?” You say, knowing whatever she had in mind was better than execution.
“You’re coming home with me, witch.”
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wormstacheangel · 1 year ago
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it's still nov 5 where I am so enjoy this long ramble fix it <3
It started with finding a flower growing by Baby’s tire. He plucked it and placed it on the dashboard as he drove away. Later the flower found itself sitting on Dean’s desk. Seeing the small yellow daisy grow in the cracks of old concrete reminded him of a certain someone. It made him smile. 
So when he saw someone selling flowers on the side of the road he bought a bouquet of them. He then started to keep a 20$ bill on him at all times just in case he saw the opportunity to buy one or two. 
The grocery store owner was throwing away some chipped planters and Dean offered to take them, giving the man the 20$ bill he was saving and buying some random flower seeds. That night he stayed up late looking up how to grow a flower. 
Sam bought him a cactus—it had a little flower growing on top—and Dean added it to his growing collection on his desk. He now had some on his nightstand and over his bed too. Eileen mentioned how bright the place looked. She didn’t mention that Dean was starting to look better too. 
Some plants didn’t make it, a lot of them needed sun and not just those bright lights Dean had to buy. He didn’t find it fair that he trapped all these beautiful things underground. Suffocating them. Ruining them. Killing them. He got a shovel and bought some fresh dirt. A rooftop garden shouldn’t be that hard.
Dean added umbrellas, beach chairs, and a cooler to his oasis. He had a small speaker playing an audiobook while his fingers were covered in dirt. Pulling weeds and encouraging his sunflowers to grow. He was alone and yet he felt surrounded by their presence. In everything beautiful, there was a little sign of his best friend.
Dean always imagined Cas like a natural disaster wanting to be a simple breeze. He didn’t want to break anything. He only wanted to exist in a world where he could watch everything grow. Wanting to help wherever he could. He wanted to be good. He desperately wanted to be good. Dean planted irises. 
Onions, potatoes, and carrots are the next to grow. Jack enjoyed digging them out. He couldn’t wait to see how big his pumpkins would grow. Dean missed the beautiful colors of the flowers but his room still looked bright.
The sun was high up in the sky but Dean didn’t mind. He was singing his favorite song, had a cooling rag around his neck, and a big sun hat on his head. His rooftop garden has grown. There now was a tent shading the flowers that needed it and a little plastic kiddie pool for his feet to rest when he needed it. Right now he was content, seeing his garden so beautiful and full. In that moment he felt whole.
Sam and Dean lay on the beach chairs staring up at the stars. It reminded them of a time when it was just them. They had no home just a job to do. Just chess pieces in a game they had no choice but to play along with. Now they had a choice. Dean decided he wouldn’t soak his hands in blood anymore. Sam supported him. They’ll look for a place in the morning. Right now they’ll enjoy the sky. 
Starting over alone didn’t feel right. The new house was a big fixer-upper but it felt like a place he could grow old in. Dean bought a bouquet of flowers to place in the middle of the kitchen table. Someday it will feel like home and he’ll be happy here.
He set a small table outside. He didn’t know how much he missed constantly being able to see the sky. His routine always involved being able to watch it turn color over the lake. He sat drinking his coffee and eating his omelet. He didn’t listen to the news but instead, he filled the air with his favorite cartoons. He was starting to feel like himself.
Starting a garden was easier when he didn’t have to climb so far up. He tried growing everything he could. Filling his land with edible plants and beautiful flowers. He made a path with some old bricks. He built a garden door. He added a wooden bench. There’s a bird feeder that Eileen gifted him hanging on the tree branch and underneath was a bird bath. Jack gifted him a little garden gnome and Sam brought a rainbow doormat. Dean rolled his eyes but he placed it at his front door. 
It was snowing but it wasn’t sticking to the ground. Dean was in the kitchen cutting tomatoes for soup. He had plans to make the best-grilled cheese and watch Christmas movies. Next weekend everyone will show up to celebrate some sort of Christmas. Dean even had a tree in the corner, decorated with lights only cause his new cat knocked everything off. He didn’t mind. 
Three years passed in a blink of an eye and Dean could still feel the hot grip on his shoulder. It woke him up time and time again, and just like every other time, he got dressed to take a walk. He hated to bother his little munchkin but she was asleep on her side of the bed. Small and curled up on her little blanket. He zipped up his jacket and gave her a little kiss. A promise to come back. He walked down the side of the lake, hands deep in his pockets, the snow was gone but some patches remained here and there. He hasn’t felt so alone in a while. Maybe it was all his guests leaving that brought this on but he couldn’t help but feel someone was missing the whole time. He’s always missing.
Another new year and Dean was in his garden preparing the dirt for the new harvest. His flower garden usually took priority but there’s not much he could do about that during this cold weather. His plants inside were thriving though. He was so into the audiobook that Dean didn’t hear the footsteps. He was on his knees pulling weeds and listening to the main character decide if love was worth the career she worked so hard for. She just shouted his name when he heard his own name being called. Dean jumped, ready to throw the small weeding hoe in his hand but instead, he froze. 
“Hello, Dean.” He smiled. He had longer hair and a full beard coming in but it was him. “Um, Sam told me this is where you live now.”
Dean stood up. He felt cold, his legs shaking but he kept his stare on his visitor. 
“It’s beautiful. Your home.” 
Dean swallowed the lump as he whispered, “Thanks.” He started at him for a bit longer before taking a step forward. “Cas?”
Cas nodded, and his eyes started to water. “I’m back. I’m back, Dean.”
Dean didn’t hear anymore. He ran to him. Wrapping the angel in his arms and savoring every second of it. He felt the long brown hair between his fingers and the smell of rain still lingered on Cas’s skin. 
It was him. Dean took a deep breath. It hurt his chest and he wondered how many years was he holding that in. 
Dean took Cas’s face between his hands and felt himself fall in love all over again. How did he ever think he could live without him? Cas was everywhere in his house but it was never going to be enough. 
“Welcome home, Cas.” He breathed out in relief and Cas chuckled, his hands on Dean’s waist. 
“I’ve been waiting so long to hear that.”
Dean smiled, his eyes remembering every second of this moment. “Fuck, I missed you so much.” He leaned in and the next thing he knew they were kissing. 
Finally kissing. Finally together. 
Dean could taste both their tears as they kissed but they were unwilling to let go of each other. From this moment on they will never be apart. 
“I love you.” Dean breathes into Cas’s lips. Kissing slowly and lazily. “I loved you for so long.”
“Me too.” Cas kisses Dean’s nose. Kisses Dean’s cheeks. Kisses Dean’s eyelids and then his lips. “My heart has always been yours.”
Dean knew that from now on, together they would grow and it would be beautiful.
Time has passed and the sun was high in the sky. They both worked outside, listening to a book about dragons and magic because it was Cas's turn to pick, and they created shade for their flowers. A little green house was next on their list but building the second floor was taking a lot of their time. Still they both enjoyed the outdoors. Dean made lunch for them and they sat outside on Dean's little table for two. They talked about the future with no fear, only excitement. And they held hands across the table, laughing about something stupid and creating memories they never thought were possible. Munchkin sat at their feet enjoying the sun just as much as them. The family will come over for dinner soon so they know they'll have to head inside but right now they're in their own bubble. Content and happy. Surrounded by growing love.
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small-sinclair · 2 years ago
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Roadside Angel
Lester x y/n
Tw: reader survives a car wreck, watched someone die, glass, injured reader, blood, character deaths, being referred as property for a moment
Part two | Part 3
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When you woke up this morning, you didnlt think you would be in a car wreck on the country road in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere. Jace's car flipped three times, and you heard Britney's neck snap, killing her in seconds. You remembered holding on to your seat belt so hard until the car stopped, and your friend's glazed eyes met yours. Jace was going nearly 100 down the road even though you told him to slow down, but he had to impress his now dead girlfriend. You were just along for the trip to the lake, and he graced you with the permission to have you come along. He was going to ask her to marry him, but you guess that love dies within a snap... ha, terrible joke, y/n.
When you came back, your brother and William, who was in the backseat, dragged you out of the car. Black smoke raised above the car as the fire in the front of the car was sandwiched between a pine tree and a large rock. Your brother's face had small glass peeking out of the skin, and William's face was pale from shock and panic. You looked back at the car, seeing Brittney's eyes in the flames, and you saw Martin's head smashed and broken in the backseat. You forgot he was there because he was sleeping. Going out in your sleep was a good gift; that's what your grandfather told you two days before he died in his sleep. Irony is like a skillet cooking an eggs.
"You okay, y/n?" Your brother asked, looked at you up and down. "Oh, shit. You're bleeding!"
"Jace, I see a car!"
"Flag them down, Will!" Your brother took off his green flannel and held in over your arm, careful not to touch the big chunk of glass sticking out of shoulder and upper arm. "You're going to be okay, y/n."
"Jace, what about you?" You asked in a whisper. You didn't realize that you were shaking, your eyes dead and numb. Every time you blink, all you see is Britney's eyes. "You good?"
"Forget me, okay?" He asked as the truck came into view, slowing down. "Keep pressure on your arm. I'll talk to the driver."
You knew you were in shock, that's why you weren't screaming in pain yet, but you knew that it'll come soon. You knew that once it hits you, you won't stop screaming and crying. You remembered that the closest hospital was 30 miles from here, and that's not enough time for you. On the other hand, you were just happy your brother lived. If anything, you were nervous how William was feeling about it all along with how he was going to pin this on you.
The driver got out of his truck in a hurry when he saw you sitting in the grass with blood running down your arm. He was short and looked like he needed two sandwiches. His face was covered in grim and dirt, and he still had the morning's shadow on his cheeks and chin. His faded red work shirt was unbutton and tucked in his pants to show his dirtied and torn white shirt. Around his neck, you thought he was wearing dog tags, but they were small bones once he got closer. His bright brown hair was greasy and curled up to the southern heat under his green hat. He looked worried as he stopped in front of your brother, but you couldn't hear a thing. Your ears started ringing as your eyes clouded and laced over the evening sky. This was the most prettiest sunset you've seen in a long time.
Soon, the stranger was in front of you, snapping his fingers to wake you from your fog. His voice was muffled as your body swayed side to side slightly. You could feel the earth lift up then back down like a roller coaster you once rode at the State Fair when you were a kid.
"...can ya 'ere me?" His voice was so sweet in your ears once you felt yourself grounded again. "Sweetpea? Hey," he snaps his fingers again, "com' back t' me. Don't go too far, 'kay? Com' back." Once he felt your eyes on him, he gave you a smile as sweet as honey, showing his rotten and blacken teeth. His lips were cracked and showed a healing cut. " 'At's it. Good. Hey there, beautiful," he cooed, his eyes looked over your upper body to make sure you weren't bleeding anywhere else. "C'n ya tell me yer name, sugar?"
"You have pretty eyes," you answered instead. His brown eyes were so soft and gentle. He shot you a confused looked, his cheeks a soft pink. "Real pretty eyes."
"Darlin'," he whispered as he looked at your arm. "I need ya to tel'me yer name."
"Y/n," you answered, your head getting dizzy again.
"It's real good t'meetcha," he said with a grin, worried pressed over his eyes. "C'n ya stan', sugar?"
You winced when you shrugged. "Catch... me?"
You felt the weight of the world crushing on you as you leaned to the side, closing your eyes. You expected your head to hit the dirt, but he caught you. His hands were rough but gentle to the touch. The smell of death came from his body, but you cared less. His hands were strong and warm as he lifted you up, cradling you. For someone so small looking, he was strong. When your eyes parted, you were being placed in the truck with your brother's help. William was getting into the back of the truck once the door slammed.
"C'n get ya to Ambrose in ten," the driver promised as he slammed his door. "It'll be bumpy, so hang on t'em." Then his eyes fell on you. He looked so scared as he started the truck and gunned it down the road. "Keep yer eyes open, y/n, yeah?" He asked, turning on a dirt road sharply. "Tel'me yer favorite color. Flower. Anythin'."
Your eyes looked up at your brother, seeing a stream of tears falling down fast. You looked up at the ceiling, seeing different antlers hanging. You wanted to touch one, hold it close, and ask its spirit for its name. Imagine asking that? You are really losing it, aren't you?
"F/c," you answered, your hands now tracing the gator skin on the radio. "It matches my eyes."
"Ya know? 'i a good color," the driver agreed, driving over the dirt road and river rocks. Luckily, it hasn't rained in a couple of days, so the road wasn't washed out. "I lik' green an' yeller."
The way he talked made you giggle. The sunset poked through his hair and trees, making the shadows cast over him, giving him a pair of angel wings. He was your roadside angel at this point. "Bet it looks good... good on you?" You found it harder to stay awake. The pain started kicking in. "What's your name?"
He looked at you then back at your brother. Guess you didn't hear him the first time, huh, y/n? "Lester," he answered. "Lester Sinclair."
"Pretty name," you breathed. The pain in your shoulder finally got to you, but you didn't have the strength to scream or cry. You didn't feel like doing anything besides sleeping. "I'm tired, Jace."
"Stay awake," your brother ordered. "See? We're here!" The truck stopped as soon as he said it. "Stay awake, y/n."
The car door opened on your brother's side as Lester hopped out of the seat, sliding over the hood of the car. William's hand slipped under you roughly, and his hand squeezed hard enough to leave a bruise. Soon, you felt yourself being lifted up in Lester's arms and hurried steps towards a house on a hill.
You heard the house door open as a taller man in a blue worker's jumper stepped out. "The hell's this, Les?" The older man barked. "What the fuck--?"
"They're hurt," Lester said, going up two steps. "Really hurt, Bo!"
"Like I care--"
"You betta care," Lester snapped. He never gets angry with his brothers, but seeing you like this was enough to make his chest ache. What were you doing to him, y/n? What is this? "Y/n needs help." He was careful with your hurt shoulder and arm as he held you closer. "Please, Bo? Get Vincent for help?"
Bo hates it when Lester flashes his puppy eyes. How could he say "no" to that look? Bo looked past Lester towards Jace and William before sighing in defeat. "Fine," he stepped aside. "Pa's office. I'll get Vinny."
Are all southern men this hot? They weren't kidding when they say men grew in southern soil.
Everything was a blur from there.
You were placed on a cold and hard bed? Table? What the hell is this? But you were there as Lester left the room to come back with a big bowl and a first-aid. you felt yourself weave in and out as his voice became muffled again...
When your eyes opened, you were met by a lifeless and blank face looking down at you, raven hair tucked behind his ear, and hands working over your shoulder. You felt numb on your left side. He noticed you were a wake, but he didn't say anything or gave you the motion that he wanted to talk to you. You didn't feel pain as you drifted back to sleep, hearing your brother screaming your name before his dying screamed left. Oddly, you felt safe here...
************
"Don't kill 'em," Lester begged on his knees in front of Bo and Vincent. "Please, don't kill 'em."
In the kitchen, the twins sit in their chairs as they looked down at their brother, scared and shaking. Bo's boots were covered in y/n's brother's blood while Vincent's waxed face was covered in small spatters of William's. Their blue eyes looked at each other then down at Lester.
Bo shook his head, clicking his tongue. "Ya know t'rules."
Lester shook his head huriedly. "But they lived fer a reason!"
"Yeah," Bo nodded towards Vincent, "so he could dump them in wax." He almost laughed but... "It's sad how they gotta go."
"Then why didn't ya use t'whole thin' on 'em, Vince?" He looked up at his brother. "Why not t'whole numbin' thin'?"
Truth to be told, he didn't know why. Maybe it's because he heard you whispering a "thank you" to him after he was done working on you? Was it your sleepy grin?
"Can't keep 'em--"
"But ya keep pretty girls all th' time!" Lester argued back at Bo. "Bet if ya had yer hands on 'em, ya would lock 'em up down stairs!"
Bo's eye twitched. "Watch it."
"Am I wrong?" Lester asked, standing up, opening his arms. "When ya find someone, ya keep 'em and expect us t'be okay wit' it! But when I find someone, it's wrong?"
"Lester, I said..." Bo stopped himself and sighed. His little brother does have a fair point. "Damnit."
"An' ya promised I could hav' th' next one!" Lester added, his voice cracking. "Ya goin' back on it?"
Bo bit his lower lip, settling down his anger. The last thing he wants is that little thing in Pa's office to wake up to this. But why was he worried about that, too? Why was he worried that y/n would wake to this? Was he afrid of killing them? No, Bo Sinclair never gets scared! But... They looked so tired when Lester brought them in. He almost felt sorry for you... almost.
Giving in, Bo rubbed his face. "Fine," he breathed out. "But ya hav' two months wit'em 'fore I kil' 'em."
Vincent cut off Bo, signing, 'Unless you can get them to say 'I love you'.'
Bo shot a look at Vincent and was about to protest, but he looked back at his brother. Big Mistake. His brother's bright brown eyes were filled with hope and happiness. Who was he to kill his brother's joy? It's not fair, he knows this, but Bo didn't want his brothers to get too attached to y/n. If Lester can't get them to love them, then Bo will kill them.
That's a fair trade.
Bo stood up and held up two fingers when he said, "Two months. If y/n doesn't say they love ya," he picked up the hunting knife. "I'll kil' em with 'is, an' ya hav'ta watch." He lifted a brow. "Deal?"
Something inside Lester exploded with happiness and joy. "Deal."
And what a deal it was.
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astralbulldragon13 · 11 months ago
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Arrigo Makes a Mistake
(This is a fanfic using an original character insert for the listener in Escaped Audio's 'New Jersey Rats' Series. Warning, there is some implied racism in this story, if that does not jive with you, feel free to skip. I completely understand)
Skyla Ghost Bear the Intern half-way listened to the conversation between Jean and Tricky Ricky, talking about the logistics needed to complete the job with the gold. It had been about a week since the incident with the Feds, and they were invited over again to 'talk shop', with the gold. Jean still was insistent on no one, not even the Bada Brothers knowing about that little incident.
Jean seemed a bit nervous when it came to inviting Skyla along, but she wouldn't say 'no' to some, really good, home-made Italian food. Even if it was in the company of the Cosa Nostra.
The only time she even got to have Italian food back home was when her Lala would take her and her siblings to the Olive Garden by the mall. This food was so much better, like comparing Taco John’s to authentic food from a real Hispanic household. 
‘But Taco Johns has potato ole’s,’ she joked mentally as she took a sip of the dry red that Ricky provided them to drink, trying not to scrunch her face at the taste. She was never a fan of dry wines, not even when they use them in church. ‘And Olive Garden has breadsticks and really fucking good salad.’
“Tell me, young intern,” Tricky Ricky spoke, looking up from his plate. “You know some about me, I don’t know some about you. Tell me about yourself.”
Jean glanced at his Intern with a fair amount of concern, hoping this wasn’t some attempt to dig up dirt to hold over them. 
Skyla offered him a calm, polite smile. This was a businesswoman’s smile, like a dagger wrapped in velvet, and Jean was able to decrease his heartrate at that. “Not much to me, sir. I’m from the midwest, came to New Jersey with hopes of experiencing a new life and seeing the ocean instead of the Missouri River. I will be receiving my degree shortly.”
“What kind of blood do you have in you?” 
Skyla’s business-smile tightened and her jaw tensed. Badabing and Badaboom looked at each other nervously, while Jean was almost worried that she may jump the table as Skyla had been very private about her ancestry, but she just picked up their wine glass. “I’m Plains Native American on my mother’s side, yes. We… aren’t particularly close
“What about your father?” Giovanni asked, eyeing the young individual.
She returned the look, her blue eyes unwavering, something uncommon amongst most who look the consigliere in the eye. “I never knew him. I know that he was an Irish exchange student, and that I have his eyes. That’s really all I know about him.”
Tricky Ricky nodded, finishing a bite of his food. “A shame, truly. He doesn’t know he has quite the intelligent child.”
Skyla laughed polietly, nodding in agreement with the old man’s words. “I thank you for your words, sir. I truly appreciate it.”
As dinner was wrapping itself up, Skyla excused herself to the restroom. After she washed and dried her hands, she reached into the inner pocket of her blazer to apply a fresh coat of her favorite red lipstick. It wasn’t some designer brand, but simple Maybelline New York #333, Hot Chase that she found in Wal-Mart at the age of seventeen. She popped the top off and twisted the tube up and paused, looking at the color, then her reflection with the faded color still on her lips and thought to her poor, scruffy superior. Skyla didn’t know why, but their mind went to him, his hair wild, his business-shirt un-tucked, and his pretty face covered in kissmarks in this shade of red. 
With a girlish giggle, Skyla applied the lipstick leaving a fresh and shiny coat. She twisted the spiral back down and re-capped her lipstick, sticking it back in their pocket. She undid her hair and retwisted it, pinning it again with her barrett, then walking out the door. 
To her surprise, she found Arrigo waiting outside the door, waiting for her. She drew up short, letting the door to the restroom close behind her. “Oh, Mister Belardi! You caught me a little by surprise there. Is there something I can do for you”
The so-called ‘Mafia Prince’ gave a smirk that Skyla supposed was meant to be seductive, but in truth it just made her skin crawl. “Yeah, uh… what are you doing after dinner?” 
His question sent up so many red flags it could have been used to decorate a rescue boat. Skyla returned to her business smile and tried to move past him. “I have some matters to attend to when I return to my apartment. Now, please excuse me, I do believe dessert was about to be served and I’ve been looking forward to that semifreddo all evening.”
“Or,” he said quickly, caging them with his arms on either side of her body. “You could, uh, come with me? I’m having a yacht party at the marina tonight.” Arrigo reached up with one perfectly manicured hand and stroked her cheek.
“I’ve, uh… never been with a girl like you. I mean, I’ve been with Indian girls before but not your kind of Indian, you know what I mean? Come on, why don’t you… try me on for size? I bet I could do better than that loser Jean. Come on, don’t you want a chance to really have some protection from the family?”
Skyla blinked and tilted her head down to look Arrigo in the eye. The young Belardi heir only stood at five feet, four inches, five foot, six with the help of the lifts in his shoes, while Skyla, being half Lakota, stood at five foot, nine inchest. Pair that with the fact she always wears four inch heels, she was towering over him, and he knew it. 
In response, the Intern decided to use the greatest power in their arsenal, the only gift her father gave her. She glared at Arrigo’s hazel eyes, and to him, looking into Skyla’s eyes was like looking into a stormy sea. 
A chuckle bubbled up from her lips, and she shook her head, almost incredulously. She looked up, and noticed Jean looking around the corner, his brown eyes burning. So, in response to the Princeling’s offer, Skyla place a hand on the arm that was caging her, and gently moved it out of the way, before moving aside and walking away from him, still chuckling, while adding a little sashay to her hips. “Hey, Unch, is everything alright?”
Jean blinked, trying to clear his head. This was something different, she usually called him something different in her mother-tongue, but it sounded similar to what they just called him. 
“Wh-Wha? Oh! Oh, right I, um, was coming to find you. I know how excited you were to have that semifreddo.”
Skyla just giggled and took his arm. “Come one then, let's go.” And they walked off back to the table. Jean glanced over his shoulder to look at Arrigo, who looked offended and rather confused, and just gave the little brat a shit-eating grin. 
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certaintrashruins · 25 days ago
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Remember that i ship Kakuzu and Zangei? Behold, the first try of a fanfic. Sorry for the spelling. Wanted to ask for honest opinions. This is not final yet! I plan to work through it a few times. It includes two OC too, but they are only there to move the story, and give Kakuzu someone to be mad at and chase.
He never imaged that love would come to him in the form of a cadaver.
But well, he never in his wildest dreams would have imaged any of that day to happen. Thats a lie. He expected this to happen, evenactually.
As the sun set, Zangei was still working, counting the money and guarding the corpses of the bounties, all while waiting for the hunters to arrive with their prey.
Two men walked in, finding the hidden entrence with ease. One careened fast on the rickety wooden floor, his jet black hair tied back in a low ponytail, with a few strands falling around his face. His sharp, golden eyes searched the room for anything suspicious.
The other man followed him, slowed down by the body thrown over his shoulder. His hair was cut short, a spiky dark blue, to not get in the way. His bright green eyes scanned his teammate in front of him, silently cursing. The man he carried was tall, too damn tall. Haru was not small, with his 172, almost 173 centimeters. But the man was well over 180. Kaito and the bingo book said 185. He hated it when he had to carry taller bodies. Kaito and the man were the same height. Much to Haru's chagrin, the taller man was clutching a deep wound on his shoulder with one hand. The Akatsuki member who they fought dealt quite a few good hits. Kaito's speed was their only advantage. Haru himself couldn't even manage to aproach the monster made out of treads. He thanked his saving grace, the poison they covered their weapons in. At the same time, the thick coat their victim wore made him feel uneasy. Wich was worse? Feeling the cold, dead body, or not feeling anything at all?
Blood dripped down the floor when Kaito stopped for a minute to open the door. For a moment, Haru wished he could feel blood spilling from the dead body. It strangely made him feel at ease: They were dead, and long dead.
But Ryuzaki's sleeveless vest was torn, and his black shirt soaked in blood, while the body on his back was just rigid, hidden in the clothing he wore.
They stepped in, the smell of decay hitting them hard, even after years of this job. Haru wasted no time unceremoniously tossing the body onto the table. Kaito opened the bounty book on the right place.
-Kakuzu, missing nin from Takigakure. Akatsuki. 85 years old. - He said, wasting no time. The bounty counter looked at the dead.
He laid there, splayed out on the table, a coated and masked man. Sharp eyes with red sclera and teal irises, rolled back into his head. Not something he says daily, but also not something that made him question the legitimacy. It could be poison, or just the way he is. He saw his fair share of unusual eyes. His coat was stained with dirt, most likely the result of a long mission. His skin was darker.
-Show his face. I can't give anything for a masked one, Ryuzaki. - Zangei responded harshly.
-Have i ever fooled you? - Kaito scoffed. He stained the man's face and clothes with his own blood, as he quickly worked off the mask and the hood.
Just as the exchange master had guessed, the man had sharper features. He did not look 85. Zangei guessed him to be about his own age, maybe 30, but certainly not more. Despite this, the bounty book also noted him as 85, and the photo was also the same. He had learned not to ask questions.
Otherwise, he had to admit, that the Akatsuki wasn't ugly. Long, dark brown hair matted in blood. He had some injuries, but the blood never soaked his coat. His face was scarred, telling the tale of an unfortunate past. A gasglow smile was stiched onto his face.
The photo mathed. All major features the same.
-Ryuzaki, Takeda. Stand back. - He didn't need to explain it. The two men stepped back, Kaito leaning against the wall. Zangei wanted to scold him for the blood stain it will leave, but decided its not worth the time. He prefered to check if the body was legit.
He placed his hand to the artery on the neck, while checking the injuries. A dead man was hard to fake.
The blood seemed real, but there were no major wounds. Poison. He knew the duo's fighting style well, and he did not expect less.
He was caught off guard, when he felt an unnatural heartbeat. The Akatsuki's eyes rolled back from his skull, and Zangei instincly jumped back.
The two men immidiatly drew their weapons, and they seemed just as suprised. Regardless, he was sure to note not to trust them again.
Zangei looked at the dead man, who sit up.
To be fair, in his many years of working with cadavers, a part of him was sure this will evenactually happen.
This is set six years before canon. Any opinions? Both positive and negative are appreciated!!
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madame-wilsonn · 2 years ago
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Midnights: Chapter 1
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MASTERLIST — MIDNIGHTS MASTERLIST
Summary: In the tunnels, Tommy is haunted by the green-eyed man: the soldier he killed. 
A/N: well here it is, the first chapter!! For this first sleepless night, I chose an event that had to do with the war because it is quite central to Tommy’s development and I felt like it was important! It’s quite short (and so will some of the other chapters) but I really hope you enjoy!! 💗
Ps. You can always send me an ask or a dm if you want to be tagged in the story 😊
Warnings: mentions of death, blood, war; angst 
Word count: 847 words
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Tommy observed his hands in the dim light, dirt covering the dried blood. Not his blood. No, the blood of the boy he killed. A young German soldier—probably younger than John—stabbed ruthlessly with his knife.
They had fought in the constricted tunnels, each trying to have the upper hand. Each showing no mercy to the other and for what?
If it hadn’t been an order from the king, Tommy could have met this boy and talked to him. Maybe they could have been comrades, sharing pint of beers and playing card games in a pub. Instead, Tommy shoved a bayonet in his heart.
His hands hadn’t stopped shaking since. It took both Freddie and Barney to tear him away from the now lifeless green eyes. Tommy had noticed them as he pinned the soldier to the ground. Green eyes, light hair darkened with dirt. And a gaping wound in the chest.
He had to, Tommy kept repeating to himself. If he didn’t kill the soldier, the soldier would have killed him. If he didn’t stab the soldier, the soldier would have stabbed him. If he hadn’t volunteered, he would have never met the soldier, the soldier would have still been alive.
He clenched his jaw, tearing his gaze away from his bloodied hands. So much blood staining his fair skin. So much blood that shouldn’t be there.
“Stop thinking about it, it won’t do you any good,” Jeremiah had whispered to him as they moved deeper in the tunnels. “You had to do it, you didn’t have a choice. God forgives you.”
But Tommy wasn’t worried about God’s forgiveness. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had been in a church.
So why did it hurt so much?
He wasn’t afraid of some sort of punishment. And he knew what he had signed for. But it became too real. There was a difference between saying he was going to war to fight the Boches and actually murdering one.
That look. The look the German soldier gave him haunted him. As if he was begging in his last moments. As if he was calling to him.
“Please, Tommy, don’t kill me. Don’t kill me. I have a family waiting for me.”
It was ridiculous. The soldier didn’t know his name. He was a stranger. For all he knew, he could have been a real scumbag. Someone horrible who deserved to die. But Tommy realized it wasn’t his place to choose. Who was he to decide who could live and who couldn’t? He was no one. No one who had just killed a boy.
And now, all his mind could do was think of the possibilities. The what if's.
What if a child would be growing up without their father?
What if a mother had just lost her only child?
What if, what if, what if?
That war was stupid. It made no sense. Tommy could finally see it. He thought volunteering would help. It would make him feel proud. He would be doing his duty. But maybe he volunteered because Small Heath hurt too much. Maybe because he needed an excuse to get away.
Greta was everywhere, there. She was in the alley behind the bakery where he used to bring her those cakes she loved. She was near the canal where he used to take her, in every street, every passageway. She was everywhere.
Oh, Greta…
What would she say if she saw him? If she saw the red tinting his fingers— the same fingers she used to kiss and hold and love.
Would she even recognize him?
The man she adored, the man whose laugh echoed through the dingy streets, the dust and soot. Where was he, now?
Tommy’s eyes fell on his distorted reflection in his pocket knife. He couldn’t find that man. All he saw was a bloodied, dirty soldier. A mere pawn in a game he should have never agreed to play. The glint in his eyes had vanished, turning the vivid cerulean into a lackluster, faded color.
Everyone around him was asleep, enjoying a few hours of calm before it was time to dig again. Tommy knew he should try to rest. But he was terrified to close his eyes. Terrified the boy would come and haunt him. Terrified his green eyes would beg him to spare him again. Terrified to hear the writhing gurgles. Terrified to see the blood spilling from his half-opened mouth.
Instead, Tommy stared back at himself. Or what seemed like himself.
It almost made him wake up his comrades and ask them.
Do you recognize me? Am I still the same?
Maybe the shift wasn’t physical. Maybe it was deeper. But Tommy felt it. Something in him had changed. Something was lost and he hopelessly searched for it, digging through the dirt to get it back.
He tried to catch a glimpse of the old Tommy, the one with his clean hands and liveful expression. But every time he tried, he could feel the green eyes staring at him— the man and his red right hand.
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