#it's another thing to see it and feel its dead weight | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yandere-daydreams · 5 months ago

Text

Title: Short Leash.

A continuation of Good Dog.

Pairing: Yandere!SatoSugu x Reader (JJK).

Word Count: 7.5k.

TW: Fem!Reader, Non/Con, Pet Play, Wildly Unbalanced Power Dynamics, Physical Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Semi-Public Humiliation, Blood, Controlling Behavior, and Dehumanization. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

You woke up the next morning groggier than you’d ever been before, praying that you’d open your eyes and miraculously find yourself in your own apartment, piled into your own bed, with a hangover painful enough to block out the strange, hyper-realistic dream you’d endured the night before. Predictably, you didn’t.

Less predictably, you found yourself in Satoru’s villa, piled onto Suguru’s bed, and entirely alone.

They must’ve untied you at some point, most likely shorty after you’d passed out with Suguru’s cock lodged deeply enough down your throat to cut off your airflow. The black cord hung limp from its post, and the sharp pain in your wrists had dulled into a red, angry throbbing. The rest of your body wasn’t so quick to recover. Your legs felt like tree roots, too heavy to lift and connected to you only by calcified tendons too stubborn to break. Your back and sides were bruised where Satoru had pawed and bitten, and you could feel the indents of Suguru’s fingertips around your throat, the weight of his palm against the back of your head. Your muzzle hung limp around your neck, which you were thankful for. You were sure it wasn’t as uncomfortable as Satoru’s, but already, you knew you wouldn’t be able to wear it for more than a couple minutes at a time. Whether or not you’d be forced to was something you didn’t want to think about, right now.

With no small amount of effort, you picked yourself up and swung your legs over the side of the mattress. You’d only just started to test the sole of your foot against the carpeting when something clambered against the bedroom door, knocking against the wood clumsily before shouldering it open and stepping inside.

It was Satoru. That wasn’t surprising on its own, but the fact that he was wearing clothes – real, non-puppy themed clothes – was. Just a pair of grey sweatpants and an oversized white shirt, sure, but clothes.

That, and the absence of his muzzle. Come to think of it, this was probably the first time you’d seen anything below his eyes.

Even if you’d thought to, you never would’ve pictured him wearing the expression he currently was. A big, lopsided grin stretched across his lips, a toothbrush hanging haphazardly from one side. In the light of day, it was hard to tell he was the same person who’d done the unspeakable to you last night – his eyes not quite as prying, his posture less rigid, his demeanor more akin to a kid at a sleepover who’d been waiting the better part of a morning for their guest to wake up. You might’ve been able to convince yourself last night was some sort of mix-up, that he and Suguru would apologize and offer some neatly wrapped, bow-topped excuse to explain it all away, if he hadn’t chosen that moment to open his mouth.

“Mornin’, sleeping beauty,” he started, wiping foam off of his lips with the back of his hand. “Good thing Suguru’s already gone. He kept me locked up for days, the first time I took off my muzzle without permission.”

You blinked at him, a blank slate. Then, because the visual seemed to loop in your mind like some gruesome, prophetic vision, you asked, “…he’s going to lock me in a cage?”

Satoru’s smile turned sympathetic. The toothbrush was abandoned on the corner of a dresser as he closed the distance between you, hooking an arm around yours. “C’mon – we should get you cleaned up. See if we can wash off the shock.” He pulled you onto your feet, bracing you against his side. “Think you can walk on your own?”

You tried to take a step and crumpled immediately, collapsing into a heap of limbs and stupor and embarrassment. Satoru didn’t wait for you to push yourself up, looping an arm under your knees, another around back, and pulling you into his chest. The muzzle suddenly seemed like a mercy. Without it, his delight at your helplessness shone through clearly.

You could remember passing at least half a dozen bathrooms last night, but Satoru didn’t seem to be in a rush to put you down. With his fingertips burrowed into your skin and an ever-tightening grip, he wandered through the villa, taking you back to the first floor and into another wing entirely. Eventually, he seemed to find what he was looking for – a large, traditional bathing room almost entirely taken up by an in-ground stone basin. You were placed on a wooden stool while Satoru fussed with the facets, scalding-hot water slowly beginning to trickle into the tub.

As reluctant as you were to give Satoru credit, the heat and steam were sobering. Your eyes flickered from wall to wall, looking for weapons, escape routes, signs that you were supposed to be doing more than sitting here and letting this happen. You didn’t find any unattended razors, but there was a screen door near the basin – no lock visibly from where you currently sat. Dappled sunlight beat against the thin, yellowed paper, but knowing there was a way outside only raised more questions. Namely: If leaving was so easy, why was Satoru still here?

You turned to him. He was sitting on the tiled ledge, fingertips skimming the surface of the steadily rising water. More concerningly, he was already looking at you, blue eyes wide and aware. You wondered if you’d ever adjust to that – his eyes, the way he stared, how jarringly bright they seemed. It seemed impossible to imagine yourself getting used to having two twin floodlights constantly pointed in your direction.

“Afraid of a little water?” It took you a second to put together what he meant, that your lasting terror must’ve been apparently. You didn’t respond, but still, Satoru laughed. “That’s alright. That’s perfect. Just goes to show that you were always meant to be our little kitten.”

Sure. Whatever. The pet-talk was already turning into white noise – washing over you more ambivalently than it should’ve. You soldiered on, newly eager for a change of subject. “You keep trying to make it sound like you know me.”

Satoru hummed. “We do, baby. Wouldn’t have brought you home without doing our research.”

“How long?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

You crossed your arms, suddenly aware of your own state of undress. “How long were you watching me?”

You weren’t sure you which you would’ve preferred – a quick answer, concise and telling in its reflexivity, or something more delayed, leaving room to doubt just how well they’d thought this through. He seemed to think, but not for very long, robbing you of the satisfaction of either. “Do you remember a few months ago, when your building got condemned?”

You nodded. You’d been told it was a maintenance issue; black mold, or faulty wiring, or something along those lines. It’d been sudden, but there were signs. You could still remember how tired you’d felt to the months leading up to your hasty eviction, the dark shroud of misery that’d seemed to spread itself over you and the other residents and, ironically, only start to lift the day you’d all been told to pack up and get out. That was over a year ago, now. Closer to two, really.

“Suguru stopped by with a few acolytes the night before, since places like that tend to be a breeding ground for cursed spirits. After a little fighting, he ended up in your apartment, and—” Satoru paused, grinning as he shook his head. “It was something about the way you looked, all pathetic and curled up. He says he thought about killing you for a while, but never got around to it. He told me about you a few weeks later.”

It might’ve been a kindness that you only understood half of what he said, your mind catching on words like acolyte and cursed spirit without the ability to assign a meaning to the phrase. But, even through your confusion, you could get to the bottom line. They’d been stalking you for years. Mostly Suguru, but Satoru had been in on it, too. And, to make it that much more nightmarish, you’d never noticed either one of them – not until they decided you were allowed to, at least. It was enough to leave you cold and unsteady, fighting not to shake where you sat. It was enough to leave you wondering why you’d ever thought a hot, normal guy would be interested in you, in the first place.

The water reached the basin’s rim, and without glancing down to check, Satoru cut it off. It took you a second to find your voice. The humidity in the air abruptly seemed overbearing, choking. “When do I get to go home?”

It was a deliberately pointed question – meant to counter his delusional affection with cold, jutting reality. Satoru only sighed, nodding to the screen door. “No one’s in your way.”

His tone was resigned, a little bored, but the sentiment gave you more hope than it should’ve. If there was hope— any hope at all – that Satoru was brought into this the same way you were, that he was on your side, then that increased your chances of getting out of here ten-fold. Suguru seemed to put a lot of trust in his lapdog, but there might’ve been a chance that you wouldn’t be bitten for stepping out of line.

Slowly, you staggered to your feet and struggled to the door, relying on anything within arm’s reach for support. It looked like someone had taken a knife to the barred handle, but you couldn’t make out what they might’ve been trying to carve – only a series of nonsensical kanji and outlandish symbols. You spared a glance back to Satoru, who nodded encouragingly. Like that helped.

Bracing yourself, you wrapped a fist around the handle a tried to pull.

…

You woke up minutes later, colder than you’d ever been before and cradled in Satoru’s arms. His lips were pressed into your temple, his nose buried in your hair. You could feel his breath fanning over your scalp. Absentmindedly, you realized he was smelling you.

They didn’t live in the villa. Suguru let that slip quickly, somewhere around the fourth time he found you hiding in one of the many unfurnished rooms. It’d been an anniversary present – although, from who and the anniversary of what, he never specified. They used it as a retreat, or in your case, a training facility. You’d be allowed to see their actual home once you’d proven you could be a good kitty.

You hated thinking about yourself in their terms – a captive, a kitten, a pet – but it would’ve been impossible not to. Satoru was capable of a sort of pseudo-normalcy when Suguru was out, wearing clothes and talking to you like something resembling a human being, but when Suguru was home, he conformed to his allotted role happily. The puppy gear was more of a uniform than your realized – the specific parts exchangeable, but each component necessary. He donned them pridefully, happily. You were expected to do the same.

You didn’t often meet Suguru’s expectations.

Satoru whined as you were pulled off of the living room floor (because animals weren’t allowed on the furniture without permission) and into Suguru’s lap. Your latest offense had been your most frequently repeated. The leather muzzle bit into the bridge of your nose and cut into the underside of your jaw, and your faux ears always seemed to be pricking at some part of your scalp, and yet, the collar always seemed to be what you gravitated towards, what you picked at, what your body wanted removed before anything else. Suguru clicked his tongue as he traced the jagged, red lines you’d raked into your throat, only dulled slightly by the fact that you’d been scratching through fabric. Trying to get it off would’ve been futile, with or without your hands trapped in paw-shaped mittens, but you couldn’t help it. There was something deep and primal inside of you that wanted it gone, and despite your better judgement, your conscious mind agreed.

“I’ve got half a mind to have you declawed.” The threat was dulled by an airy laugh, but his underlying agitation was clear. In his own, twisted way, you guessed that Suguru considered himself a good owner. Hence why evidence as to the contrary was usually so poorly received. “Care to explain yourself, princess?”

You swallowed back your nerves. “I honestly didn’t realize what I was doing, I’m just not used to—”

“Ah,” he cut in, hand falling to your thigh and squeezing. “That’s not right, either. Can you tell me the first thing pets aren’t supposed to do?”

You opened your mouth, but closed it just as quickly. Right. You were having time remembering that one.

Pets weren’t supposed to speak. Not without permission.

You hung your head silently, and Suguru took that as answer enough. “Good girl.” And then, his eyes falling back to your throat, “What do you think we should do with the poor thing, ‘toru?”

Satoru let out a keening bark, still on his knees at the foot of the couch. Suguru softened immediately. “Speak.”

“She’s been thinking too much, again. You should show her how to stop.”

Even behind the muzzle, you could hear his grin. Suguru mirrored the expression. “And how do you think I should make that happen?”

Another bark, shriller than the first, followed by the heady sounds of feigned panting. You sent Satoru a venomous look, and Suguru hummed. “You’re right.” He paused, lowering his voice, creating a pantomime of privacy between the two of you. “He thinks that, since you’re so intent on making yourself uncomfortable, we should do the same.”

Cold, sharp dread cut through your chest, accompanying a flood of memories of Satoru’s body on top of yours, the animal force of his hips against your ass as he did his best to make up for a natural canine breeding drive. They’d been surprisingly conservative with sex after that first night, limiting your exposure to a few minutes of unwanted touching during baths and having to hear the two of them go at it from halfway across the villa. You assumed it was a nicety, a means of letting you adjust. Suddenly, you were confronted with the idea that they’d only been waiting for a reason to blame you for your own violation.

It was almost a relief when Satoru didn’t pounce, when Suguru didn’t move to kiss you. Instead, he took you by the shoulder and forced you down, until your body was splayed awkwardly across his lap, your stomach pressed into his thighs. One hand rested on the small of your back whine the other fell to your ass, kneading shamelessly. Your face burnt with embarrassment and righteous anger. You couldn’t imagine how Satoru handled it – being treated less like a person, prideful and independent and deserving of respect, and more like an animal, happy to be touched in any ways its owner was willing to. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so terrible if, like Satoru, you’d never had any pride to begin with.

“We’ll start with twenty-five, since it’s your first real punishment. Count yourself lucky – Satoru’s first warning was a broken finger.” His tone was fond, distant, as if he was recalling a cherished memory. “I’ll need you to count for me. If you can’t, we’ll have to start over.”

You tempted to protest, to stiffen, to refuse to participate in your own degradation, but this was, admittedly, the preferred alternative to what you’d imagined. You could handle this. Even if it took every part of you not to react, you could handle this.

Or, that was what you thought, at least. Then, you heard metal clink against metal, felt leather crack against the unprotected skin of your ass, and immediately realized you’d been wrong. You couldn’t handle anything.

The noise that escaped you was wordless, base, instinctual; something between a scream and a gasp. The pain was surprisingly cutting, the blunt force of it relatively dull compared to the sharp, piercing sting. The belt came down again, deliberately angled towards space just below its previous target, and you managed to force something out. “Two!”

Suguru clicked his tongue. “Not just yet, sweetheart. Don’t you remember what I told you?”

You heard Satoru lumber closer, positioning himself below where your head laid. “You’re being too mean, Suguru.”

“I’m being strict. There’s a difference. That’s why so many kittens end up so poorly behaved.” He sighed, rubbing a few small, shallow circles into the column of your spine. “You’re going to have to keep me honest. We’re still on one.”

You dug your teeth into your bottom lip. You hated him. More than anything else, more than anyone else, you hated Geto Suguru. It was all you could think, all you could feel, and yet, when his belt came down on your ass, you whimpered out an obedient “O—One.”

By the fifth, you were sniffling.

By the fifteenth, you sobbed unabashedly into the couch cushions, your mechanical counting barely audible.

By the last strike, you’d gone limp and still across Suguru’s lap. Every part of your ass ached. If the bruising wasn’t already visible, it would be within the hour, long before the next time you’d have a chance to dress yourself. You could only hope Suguru would have the mercy not to rub salt in the wound.

Already, you knew that he wouldn’t.

“Ah, there she is – my perfect little kitten.” Suguru hooked a hand under your arm, pulling you upright and letting you straddle his lap. Immediately, you collapsed into his chest, eager to hide your face. He didn’t seem to mind. “You were so good. Satoru called me such ugly names, the first time his behavior had to be corrected.”

Satoru whined in mock hurt, and Suguru chuckled fondly. “How ‘bout we get you somewhere nice and cozy? I think you’ve earned a little rest.”

You opened your mouth, but closed it just as quickly. Silently, you nodded into his shoulder, and Suguru rewarded you with a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

You were taken to Suguru’s room, but rather than his bed, you were placed in Satoru’s – low-walled and velvet-lined, more fit for a dog than a person. Satoru crawled in after you, curling around your crumpled form. The last thing you felt before you shut your eyes was the warm, slick sensation of a tongue running over your cheek, lapping up the last of your drying tears.

As it turned out, Suguru wasn’t an animal trainer. Admittedly, you’d figured that out pretty early on – as soon as you realized the only real animal in his life was Satoru.

Still, ‘cult leader’ probably wouldn’t have been your second guess.

You sat in the furthest corner of the sanctuary, a small crowd filling the limited space. Some were wearing street clothes, their expressions bored but unquestioning, as If Suguru’s sermon was only a prelude to something more engaging. Others, most, were more invested – positioned on their knees, hands at their sides, their eyes focused intently on Suguru where he was reclined on his dais. Both he and Satoru – sitting alert and watchful at his side – were dressed for their roles, drenched in tradition garb from an era long-dead. The only anachronism was Satoru’s mask. It was the same shape as his muzzle, but the metal frame was barred, the edges sloped downward into something sharper, something more defined. Even from the other side of the room, you could see the set of his jaw, the thin line of his scowl. The association had to be intentional. You doubted there was anyone in the world who could look at Satoru and see anything but a guard dog.

You were aware of the intentionality of your seating, too. Across the room, separated from the mass of bodies, placed so temptingly close to the sanctuary door and so directly in Suguru’s line of sight. Occasionally, you’d catch a piece of his lecture, make out something about ‘taking pity on lesser beings’ and ‘practicing divinity through extermination’ before tuning him back you. What little Satoru had told you about invisible monsters and hyper-specific supernatural abilities lingered in the back of your mind, but at a distance – information you knew to be true, but just couldn’t bring yourself genuinely believe. It made sense, in a twisted kind of way. You weren’t sure how you’d ever looked at Suguru and recognized him as fully human.

You drummed your fingers against your knee. Running was tempting, but a bad idea. Even if Suguru was miraculously distracted, Satoru would notice, and you wouldn’t get more than a few steps past the door before he caught you. Still, they’d dressed you for the occasion, and even a single silken layer of your too-complex-for-comfort get-up would be more than enough to pay for cab fare back to the city, back to your apartment, back to friends and resources and the police. That was, if you still had an apartment. You’d already missed at least three months’ worth of rent, and you doubted your landlord would have much sympathy for—

“He’s always been so fucking full of himself.”

You straightened and shot to the side, immediately pulled back into reality. You hadn’t heard him sit down, but suddenly, there was a man at your side – blonde hair slicked back, his black suit tailored immaculately, his posture confident in a careless sort of way. It was hard to tell if he was well-groomed early 40s or a particularly rough late 20s, but either way, the lines carved deep into the grooves of his scowl and the dark circles under his muted eyes spoke to an age-old exhaustion. One directed at Suguru, no less.

“Should’ve seen him in high school. The god complex is new, but the rest of it comes naturally.” You shifted slightly, unsure whether or not you should respond. He didn’t seem to care. You watched out of the corner of your eye as he reached for something in his front pocket – a pack of cigarettes, maybe, or another cheap vice – before thinking better of it and checking his watch. “I’d say Gojo’s a saint for putting up with it, but—”

“He’s worse,” you finished, under your breath. “At home, at least.”

The stranger glanced at you, wearily. As if he’d only expected to talk to himself. “You’re the new addition.”

It wasn’t a question, but after a beat, you nodded. He slumped against the wall. “And you’re here against your will.”

A longer delay, this time, a more hesitant nod. He let out a prolonged breath and directed his attention towards the dais.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally. “That’s unfair.”

You felt something tighten in the back of your throat. Your collar, hidden well underneath the layers of your ensemble, seemed just a little heavier. “Yeah.” And then, when you could manage it, “I know.”

Suguru gave his final statement, and there was a muted ripple of activity through the crowd – some bowing, some muttering prayers, some wordlessly moving to the side to wait for an undetermined encore. Satoru made it to you first; dropping to his knees and hauling you into his chest. His face was buried in the crook of your neck in a matter of seconds, and you did your best not to care that the blonde stranger’s gaze was still very much boring into you.

Satoru held onto you until, moving at only his own pace, Suguru found his way across the sanctuary. He helped you to your feet and nodded to the stranger by way of greeting. “Bring the kids home in one piece, Kento?”

“Nanami,” he corrected. “Yuuji, Nobara and the twins are in the courtyard now. Megumi left a few minutes ago – his sister tends to worry.”

Suguru hummed. As they exchanged logistics, Satoru propped his chin on your shoulder. “Our latest batch of students,” he explained, keeping his voice low and airy. You wondered if he was allowed to speak in public, how firmly Suguru held onto his rules. You wondered if there’d ever be another time when you didn’t have to think before opening your mouth. “And Suguru’s daughters. You’ll meet them eventually. Kento’s on babysitting duty, in the meantime.”

You couldn’t say you were looking forward to the prospect.

As their conversation began to taper, Kento’s eyes skirted in your direction, and Suguru followed his gaze. Kento’s features were indecipherable, all but entirely blank, but Suguru wasn’t so difficult to read. Anger flashed hot and fast across his expression, quickly settling into something more restrained, something more amused. With a note of levity, he called to you. “Why don’t you join us, dear?”

Immediately, Satoru pulled away, and you were left completely and entirely alone. It took more time than it should’ve to remember how to move your legs, even longer to actually find the will to step forward, but Suguru waited patiently, keeping his hands tucked into his sleeves until you were close enough to take hold of. With an arm wrapped tightly around your waist, he slotted your back against his chest, forcing you to face Kento. “You were quite friendly with my acolytes during the sermon.” You tried to close your eyes, to bow your head, but he caught your chin – keeping you upright an on exhibition. “Kento, here, especially.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“You misunderstand - it’s a good thing. The last thing I’d want is for you to feel out of place among our little family.” He paused, humming as he tapped his thumb against the corner of your mouth. “In fact, you really ought to show Kento how happy you are to meet him.”

Suguru dug his fingers into your waist. Kento reset his jaw. Satoru smiled widely from behind the bars of his muzzle.

“You should purr for him, love.”

Heat rose to your cheeks – equal parts fury and embarrassment. Kento, for his part, kept his poker face in-tact, nonreactive save for the slightest possible quirk of his lips. His nonchalance provided little comfort, though. An unwilling audience was still an audience. At least, at home, you were given the mercy of a private dehumanization.

“I…” You swallowed, dryly. “I don’t know if I can do that. Like, physically.”

Suguru’s grin broadened. “Try for me.”

The ‘or else’ was left implied.

And the worst part was, you listened. You tried to find it in your throat, first, to flex a muscle you’d never thought to use, but the most you could manage was a low, droning hum – nothing close to a rumble. Kento looked away, humiliated on your behalf, and you opened your mouth, prepared to reiterate that even if you’d wanted to embarrass yourself in front of half his congregation, your body wouldn’t let you. Suguru’s thumb was in your mouth as soon as your lips parted, though, pressing into the flat of your tongue and pinning it to the bottom of your mouth. “You can do better than that, love. For my sake.”

You wouldn’t. You couldn’t. You didn’t want to, but Suguru’s hand curled tighter around your jaw and saliva pooled at the corners of your lips and you forced out a pitchy, half-strangled whine. It wasn’t anything like a purr, not really, but it seemed to satisfy Suguru. His hand had fallen to your hip in the blink of an eye, the edge in his voice softened back down to a cool, smooth timbre. “Ah, I suppose you do need more practice. We’ll have to work on it at home.” He looked to Kento. “Thank you for your unwavering dedication. I trust you’ll be in touch?”

Kento nodded, curtly. “Of course.”

And just like that, you were being ushered out of the sanctuary and into a more seclusive part of the temple, Satoru following close behind you. You tried to look over your shoulder, to see if Kento’s eyes were still following you, but Suguru’s hand found its way to the back of your neck, wordlessly warning you away from something so needlessly masochistic. You didn’t mind, though.

You could still feel his eyes burning into you, the sensation a touch warmer than it’d been a few minutes ago.

“Don’t you hate it?”

Satoru hummed, kneading absent-mindedly at your chest. Currently, the two of you were home alone, and he was engaging in his favorite leisure activity – laying on Suguru’s bed with you pinned to his chest, a human (or, human-ish, at least) body pillow to be squeezed at and cuddled as he faded in and out of sleep. His touch was probing, shifting constantly between your tits, stomach, and thighs, but not necessarily invasive. Despite everything, it was still difficult to see Satoru as anything more than an extension of Suguru, something only dangerous when ordered to be. It was hard to be wary of a weapon when not in the hands of the person who’d used it to hurt you, especially when that weapon was all you had in the way of company.

“What am I supposed to hate, now?”

“Having to share his attention. I mean, it was his idea to kidnap me, right? You don’t have to pretend you’re happy about it, if you’re not. I know you’re—” You recalled the sounds of stifled moaning through thin walls, the feeling of a mattress dipping under the weight of two bodies while you pretended to sleep, and swallowed down your nausea. “I know you two are pretty close.”

Satoru let out a breath of a laugh. “We love each other, princess, Like we both love you.”

“But you don’t.” Admittedly, your tactics were crude. Search until you found a sore spot. Skirt around the edges until it’d gone tender. Make him want to get rid of you. Satoru wouldn’t hurt you, not without Suguru’s permission, but you needed to make him want you gone. There had to be something you could say, something you could do, to give him a reason to carve you a way out and look the other way while you escaped. “Suguru just told you to put up with me. He gave you a new toy, and you’re not even really allowed to play with it – isn’t that unfair?”

“I promise, he didn’t have to tell me to do—”

“And aren’t you scared?”You cut in, feigning distress. “I don’t want to be here, Satoru. And, god forbid, he ever decides he likes me more—”

Satoru didn’t let you finish. His teeth dug into the crook of your neck, turning anything you might’ve gone on to say into an abrupt, high-pitched squeak. The bite was shallow, but it still stung as he pulled away, resting his forehead against the apex of your spine. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just—I know what you’re doing. And it hurts, y’know?”

“…it does?”

“Mhm.” He slotted himself against you, his hand falling from your chest to the hem of your borrowed shirt. “You’re nervous.” And then, his thumb slipping under the waistband of your panties, “You think we’ll get tired of you.”

A new fear, hot and visceral, struck through your chest, lodging itself somewhere between your lungs and your rib cage. While you fought for your ability to breathe, Satoru went on. “Suguru hasn’t told you about the day he let me meet you, has he? That figures. He always hated getting sentimental like that, ‘specially if it makes him look sappy.”

Your panties were tugged downward, to the plush of your thighs. Satoru nestled into your back as he traced over your slit with the pad of his thumb, his touch still heavy with that kind of lazy, pawing affection. You squirmed, and when that failed, did your best to speak through grit teeth. “I—I don’t think you’re supposed to be touching me without—”

“Suguru can find a way to live with it. He’s always liked having an excuse to punish me.” His thumb caught on your clit, pushing slow circles into the sensitive bud. “That’s what I thought he was trying to do, the first time he mentioned bringing you home. He’s always hated non-sorcerers, even after I got him to be a little nicer about it. Honey over vinegar n’ all.” Satoru paused, laughed. “Don’t take it personally, but it was a little like your boyfriend threatening to bring home one of those inflatable sex dolls. Just because of the whole ‘This is what I think you could be replaced with’ thing.”

His hand drew back, but only far enough to cup your sex properly. The heel of his palm ground against your clit as two of his fingers gathered the slick traitorously accumulating between your thighs. “He wouldn’t take me to your apartment, probably thought I’d try to suffocate you in your sleep. Wouldn’t stop bothering him about it, though, so we settled on something more public.”

It wouldn’t have been so agonizing if he’d just gone a little faster, moved with a little more urgency. Instead, he seemed to savor the way your restlessness slowly turned to blatant thrashing, how deeply you dug your nails into his forearm when you reflexively lashed out to try and pry his hand away. Suguru would’ve put you over his knee for that, if not worse. Satoru was different. In a way, Satoru was more sincere. Satoru knew that, even when a housecat bared its claws, the worst it could do was break the skin.

“Remember that florist gig you had, for a while? Just a couple of months – to give you a little extra funding for the sudden move. Not that you needed it. Suguru and I were always ready to take care of you.” He prodded two fingers inside of you and spread them apart. Miserably, you whined into the sheets. “He talked me into it – sitting at the café across the street, watching work for the better part of the day. I spent most of it imagining how to get rid of you without him noticing, but towards the end—”

Satoru cut himself off abruptly with a chiming laugh. You felt his fingers curl inside of you as he re-settled against you. “Suguru did this—this thing. He started touching me under the table, a little like how I’m touching you, and asked how I would feel about having something that couldn’t be taken away from me.”

There was another laugh, softer than the first, then a lingering kiss to the curve of you your shoulder. You made one last unabashed attempt to struggle, to kick, to get away from him, but Satoru only held you that much tighter, forcing another finger into your stuffed cunt.

“He probably meant it as a sex thing – thought I’d like bringing home someone I could be in-charge of. I don’t see it that way, though.”

He nuzzled into the nape of your neck. His breath was first, warm and stifling where it fanned over you, then his tongue – lapping over your back in short, slow swipes. If you’d been any less disgusted, you might’ve found it comforting.

“I think we were always supposed to share you,” he finished, his saliva still drying on your skin. “I think you made to be ours.”

His palm rocked against your clit, his fingers grinding against the sensitive walls of your pussy. It’d only take a few more seconds for you to cum, and a few more minutes for Suguru to come home and find Satoru with his head buried between your thighs and tears running down your cheeks. For your punishment, Satoru would have his arm broken (an injury that, as you’d learned quickly, he could walk off as quickly as the average person would a paper cut) and you’d have to spend bouncing on Suguru’s cock, thanking him for each climax he was generous enough to milk out of you.

Getting the collar off was trickier than you’d expected. The nail clippers, pilfered from a bathroom drawer while Satoru dragged you through his half-conscious morning routine, only dented the leather, and neither of them seemed to feel at-home enough in the villa to leave things as mundane as scissors or box-cutters laying around. In the end, you had to steal a knife from the block left unattended in well-stocked, but sparingly used kitchen – pressing the spine into your throat while sawing through your collar with the blade. It wasn’t the safest option, but it got the job done, and you managed to keep the damage limited to a small nick on the underside of your chin. You left the remains of your collar on the mat in front of the villa’s main door and waited.

Suguru wasn’t ecstatic, to say the least.

He found you in the living room, sprawled across the largest sofa you could find, wearing a hoodie that Satoru had made you promise to take off before he and Suguru got home. Satoru trailed behind him – a shadow with an inverted color palette. They must’ve come straight from the temple, or something to do with Suguru’s cult, at least. They were both still in their traditional get-ups, and Suguru was wearing the easy, narrow-eyed smile he only seemed to make use of during his sermons.

You had to hand it to him. Had it not been for how tightly his fist was curled around the strip of ruined leather in his hand, you wouldn’t have known he was angry at all.

“’toru,” he started, his tone light and melodic. “On the floor. Stomach-down. By the time I come back.”

He turned on his heel, slipping into another part of the villa, but Satoru lingered. He stared at you from the doorway for a second, then another, his eyes blank and his face unnaturally pale.

Then, you moved to stand, making a pitifully clumsy attempt to run, and he was on top of you.

It was strange – to see Satoru so quiet. He kept his lips sealed and his jaw locked as he pinned you to the floor, straddling your lower back and forcing your wrists against the tender spot between your shoulder blades. You could’ve tried to get away, but you didn’t. There was no world wherein you could overpower Satoru, and he knew that as well as you did.

Suguru took his time. Full minutes later, he returned, having replaced your collar with a pair of rusted-out pliers. It seemed wrong to see him carrying such a crude tool, like violist showing up to their recital with a sledgehammer rather than an instrument. You weren’t really in a place to comment, though.

“Princess.” He crouched in front of you, letting his head lull to the side. He cupped your chin, thumb running over the hairline scrape you’d inflicted onto yourself, before pulling away. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

You swallowed, thickly. “I didn’t want to, I just—I couldn’t wear it, anymore. It hurt my neck, and I couldn’t breathe, and—” Pausing, stiffening, digging your nails into your palms. “—and I’m not your fucking cat, you sociopath.”

Suguru sighed, his smile falling. He exchanged a glance with Satoru, expression unchanging, before looking back to you.

“I’ll be nice,” he said, finally. “Bad kittens can either get declawed, or defanged. Since you seem so unhappy with your current level of autonomy, I’ll let you choose.”

You balked. “I’m not playing your—”

“Satoru.” Apparently, you’d already run his patience thin. “Choose.”

You couldn’t decide whether it’d be better or worse, had his answer not been so deafeningly automatic. “Declawed. And just the index finger.”

“And why is that, puppy?”

“Because she doesn’t know what she’s saying. She’ll be more careful after she’s learned her lesson.”

Suguru hummed, his posture taking on a slacker note. After a beat, he nodded. “Give me a hand, then.”

This time, you did fight it – albeit, not very effectively. You did your best to wrench your arms from Satoru’s grip, and when that failed, to jerk away as he curled a hand around your left wrist and pressed it into the floor. Suguru moved to take your hand, but stopped barely a hair’s width short, his eyes flickering back to Satoru. “Sorry,” Satoru mumbled. There was a nearly imperceptible shift in the atmosphere – a change in the air pressure, a drop in the temperature – before he went on. “It’s a reflex.”

Suguru didn’t waste time. He spread his hand under yours, interlocking your fingers and holding you steady as he brought his pliers up to your fingertips. The nose of the lower hinge worked underneath your nail while the ribbed underside of its upper counterpart scratched against it, the texture alone enough to make you cringe. You shut your eyes and tried to distract yourself, but nothing you could’ve dredged up would’ve dulled the feeling of blunt metal digging into your nail-bed, of the jaws clenching around something so thin, something so suddenly fragile. There was a light pull, testing for grip, then the pain.

Burning, throbbing, blinding. The soreness of it was almost worse than the sting, your body protesting the jarring absence of something it hadn’t known to imagine life without. You’d expected the pain to be limited, isolated, but it spread quickly – infecting everything below your elbow with phantom pains and sympathy aches. You’d told yourself you’d stay quiet, that you couldn’t cry, but a scream tore past your lips involuntarily, the tears following shortly after. That was fine. That was good, actually. They should know that they’d hurt you. They should know why you’d never, ever be able to love them back.

Hot blood pooled in the space your nail had once filled, dripping down your finger and spilling onto Suguru’s skin. Rather than let you go, he pulled you closer, bringing your hand to his face and taking your mutilated finger into his mouth. His tongue ran over the empty nail-bed, enlightening you to a brand new type of agony. You were sobbing unabashedly by the time he pulled away, the crimson of your blood dotting the corner of his lips.

“Take her to the cellar.” He was talking to Satoru, not you. That was fair. You weren’t in a state to listen to much of anything, right now. “It seems like we all need a little time to think.”

There was no protest from Satoru, no resistance from you. It was all you could do to cradle your wounded hand against your chest as he gathered you up and held you against his chest. With no great sense of urgency, he navigated through empty rooms and endless hallways, up the natural incline of rustic architecture and down, down, down into a lightless, concrete abyss. Despite the size of the basement, it’d been left deliberately void, with only a bare mattress and a few thin sheets to fill the desolation. Two lengths of thick chain hung limp from the wall above it, each one punctuated by a metal shackle, but you didn’t have the strength to acknowledge them.

Satoru set you on the edge of the mattress. Rather than curl into yourself, you clung to him – refusing to let go even as he tried to pull away. “Please,” you begged, the sound of your own desperation catching you off-guard. “Please, I’ll be good, and I’ll wear my collar, and I’ll purr, and—”

His arms were wrapped around you, keeping you pressed against him. But, despite the gentle warmth of his embrace, his voice was cold as ice.

“Pets don’t talk.”

You’d wanted Suguru’s, but Satoru had been the one to hold you down, to carry you, to let you cling to him for just a few seconds longer than he should’ve. Calling the police was a non-option, a fantasy you’d been childish to indulge. You’d seen more than a few officers at Suguru’s sermons, and asking anyone you knew, anyone you trusted for help would just be inviting lambs to the slaughter. You didn’t want to be the reason Satoru had fresh meat to tear from the bone.

You let out a keening, miserable sob. Satoru didn’t crack, but he softened, sighing as he kissed the top of your head. The next time he drew back, you let him – falling onto your side and curling into the smallest possible ball. You stayed that way as you listened to him climb the cellar stairs, as the heaviest lock you’d ever heard slid into place. It was only when you were completely, entirely sure he was gone that you sat up and, after wiping away your tears as best you could, fished his phone out of your hoodie’s pocket – still warm from where it’d been trapped between your body and his. You’d clear the history and hide it underneath the staircase later, as if it’d fallen between the steps. So long as Satoru found it before Suguru, you shouldn’t get in trouble.

It took you three minutes to guess his passcode (your birthday) and four more to find the name you were looking for in his contacts. The phone only rang twice, but he offered no greeting, leaving you to break the silence, your voice more unsteady than you would’ve liked.

“…Kento?”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere x you #yandere jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen #yandere jjk #jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #geto suguru x reader #yandere geto suguru #gojo satoru x reader #yandere gojo satoru

2K notes · View notes

buckysleftbicep · 7 days ago

Text

bent and bruised (5) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!ex-hydra!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, dub-con (flashbacks), unprotected sex, creampie, mentions of ptsd, hydra related trauma and abuse, very heavy angst, emotional breakdowns, bucky's guilt, memory suppression

summary: you were built by HYDRA to please the soldier—then left for dead. years later, bucky sees your face again. but no amount of time can erase the way you once whispered his name through tears. inspired by this request

word count: 6.5k

author's note: hi my loves, we are nearing the end for this series and i am genuinely beyond grateful for the support i have received 💓. you guys are really sweet and it motivates me to write 🥰. thank you so much ❤️ love ya guys and please stay safe out there!

series masterlist

The ache was the first thing you noticed when you woke up.

It bloomed low in your abdomen, hot and sore and undeniable, it throbbed beneath your skin like an old wound newly split open, pulsing with the memory of hands, of breath, of weight.

Your body stirred against the sheets, every shift tugging at the tender places he’d touched, reminding you of the way he had held you there like letting go would’ve shattered him.

Your thighs ached. Your hips were sore. There were fingerprints on your skin that no one had left—but your body knew.

Your body remembered.

You dragged in a breath and it caught halfway, shallow in your throat. Not because of pain. But because of everything else.

Because now… you remembered too.

Not all of it. Not clearly. Not in the way you’d hoped. But enough.

Enough to know that the man who’d held you against that door like he needed your breath just to breathe—he wasn’t a stranger.

He hadn’t been that night, and he hadn’t been all those years ago. Even if HYDRA had scrubbed his name from your lips, wiped him clean from the seams of your memory, your body had clung to him like a lifeline. Still did.

You could feel him in your chest. In the burn behind your ribs, in the hollow ache of wanting something you didn’t understand until now.

It lived in the spaces between your breaths, in the ghost of his mouth on your skin, in the way your fingers curled into the sheets like they were reaching for someone they’d never stopped needing.

His voice lived in the quiet of your room. That low, breathless groan when he’d finally slid into you. The desperate way he’d whispered you don’t remember me. And that look in his eyes when you told you felt him still.

That look had hollowed you out, filled you up, left you raw in the aftermath.

You hadn’t spoken to him since the storage room, since the door closed behind him and you slid to the floor, legs shaking, heart splintering under the weight of truth.

You couldn’t. You wouldn’t know what to say.

Words felt too small, too sharp. Like they might snap in your mouth before they could ever reach him.

The whole compound felt wrong now—like someone had shifted the axis of gravity just slightly, pulled the air too tight. The walls felt closer, the hallways longer

You’d started avoiding Bucky.

You took the longer route through the east hallway to avoid passing his room. You skipped the gym entirely, even when your body begged for a distraction.

You couldn’t risk seeing him.

Not when the only thing standing between you and another collapse was distance. Not when the silence between you was already unbearable.

You stopped showing up for team lunch, lingering in your room instead with the door locked and your back pressed to the wall, trying to stitch the fragments of your memories into something coherent.

It didn’t work. They stayed jagged, bleeding at the edges. You’d remember the curve of his shoulder, the sound of your name in his mouth, the taste of tears between kisses, and then—nothing.

A void stood in its place instead.

And every time you close your eyes, you see him. That look on his face in the storage room, when he’d said yes, it was me with a voice soaked in guilt.

You saw the way his shoulders had sagged, the way his hands had trembled at his sides, almost like the confession had carved him open from the inside.

His eyes had been oceans. Blue like grief. Deep and devastating.

There was nothing blank about them. No coldness. Just sorrow so profound it looked like it had lived there for years. And that was the worst part. Because you didn’t want to ask him for anything else. Didn’t want to tear another piece of truth from his mouth.

Everything he had given you had gutted him. And you couldn’t do that again.

So you stayed quiet. You thought maybe silence would be enough.

Until it wasn’t.

You’d managed to avoid him for nearly four days. Four days of holding your breath. Four days of pretending your body didn’t still hum with the imprint of his touch. Four days of pretending the space between you wasn’t killing you both.

But the fifth day, Val called a full team briefing.

You tried to arrive late—slipping in just as she began speaking, eyes fixed to the floor. You felt his gaze the second you stepped inside. You didn’t dare look up.

Not until halfway through the meeting, when Val turned to speak about training reassignments. Your name fell from her mouth, and you turned your head instinctively. And there he was.

Bucky. Watching you.

His expression didn’t shift. His posture didn’t flinch. But his eyes— They were fucking desperate. Desperate in the way a drowning man looks at the surface.

His jaw was tense, his brows furrowed, faintly drawn like he was holding himself still with a kind of pain he couldn’t voice. And all at once, your breath caught. Your chest stuttered. Because the ache in his gaze—it wasn’t just guilt.

It was longing.

The meeting ended and conversations began, but you didn’t stay. You made a beeline for the lift, footsteps sharp and unrelenting. You didn’t care who saw, you didn’t look back, you couldn’t bring yourself to.

But just as the lift doors began to close—you heard it.

“Wait—”

Frantic. His voice.

But you didn’t stop. Didn’t turn around. Didn’t breathe again until the doors sealed shut between you.

Later that night, you sat alone in the main hall, knees curled beneath you, a blanket draped across your legs like armor.

10 Things I Hate About You flickered on the screen ahead, but you weren’t watching. Not really. Just letting the noise fill the space where silence had begun to fill up.

You told yourself it was an attempt at catching up, at somehow feeling normal. At living the life you were supposed to have once they’d pulled you out of cryo and dropped you into this compound.

But it was anything but normal.

Until Yelena dropped beside you.

You startled slightly. She didn’t comment on it, just leaned back, stealing the other half of your blanket like it was hers by right, and well, it was.

“Hey,” she said simply, tone soft.

You didn’t answer.

A long moment passed. The movie kept playing. Someone laughed on screen.

Then she said, “You’ve been quiet, honey.” You bit your lip. Looked down. “I’m right here,” she added, gently. “It’s okay.”

You didn’t mean to cry. But you did.

Quiet at first, just a hitch in your breath, a tremble in your chest. But when you turned to her—eyes already glassy—it broke loose. “I… I knew him,” you whispered, voice cracking mid-syllable. “James. I knew him when I was captured by HYDRA. They made me for him, to control him. I didn’t remember, but now, I think it’s all coming back.”

The words caught. Your throat closed. Tears spilled down your cheeks like you were made of them.

“I loved him,” you said, voice small.

Yelena didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. She just nodded, eyes warm.

“And you still do,” she said softly.

You nodded, curling your arms tighter around your knees. “But what if it’s not real?” Your voice broke again. “What if it’s all just—what they did to us? What they wanted us to feel?”

Yelena didn’t answer right away.

She sat in silence for a long moment, watching the flickering screen with her jaw set, her brows furrowed faintly. Then she turned.

“They could modify your body,” she said slowly. “They could rewire your mind, twist it, maybe bend it until you don’t even recognise your own reflection.”

She reached out and gently touched your hand.

“But they can’t make you feel what you felt. Not like that, not real love, not whatever's behind after your memories are gone.”

You swallowed hard.

“Whatever happened between you and Barnes,” she continued, “that belonged to you. To both of you. And no one can take that away.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

You just nodded, breath trembling, eyes red.

You’d spent so long trying to outrun what you couldn’t remember.

And now… it was running toward you faster than you knew how to hold.

You didn’t say anything else. But the words remained with you, sharp and certain as they carved themselves into the walls of your chest:

They couldn’t take what you felt.

Even if they tried. Even if they almost did.

You shifted on the couch, you turned your eyes to the screen.

But the movie had long since faded into background noise.

Inside you, everything was still burning, still breaking, still remembering.

And you— You didn’t feel like yourself.

You felt like a stranger with your own hands. A house that had been broken into and never quite put back together.

You’d been haunting the gym like a ghost in the wee hours of the night, where you were nobody else would see you.

You pushed your body to its edge—ran on the treadmill until your lungs ached and your vision blurred, hit the punching bag until your knuckles throbbed beneath the wraps, again and again until your muscles screamed louder than your thoughts.

You kept going long after your body begged you to stop, until you could collapse in the shower, water scalding your back, and fall into bed so wrung out you didn’t have the strength to dream.

It was easier that way. Exhaustion didn’t ask questions after all.

That night was no different. You were halfway through tearing the wraps from your wrists, sweat cooling on your spine, shirt clinging to your frame like a second skin, when you felt him.

You didn’t hear the door, didn’t hear his footsteps. But you felt him, the shift in the air, the gravity that came with him, low and steady and unbearably quiet.

He didn’t say a word. Just crossed the room and sank to the mat beside you, not close enough to touch, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the weight of his presence.

You didn’t look at him.

You focused on your hands, unspooling the wrap from your left wrist with fingers that trembled more than they should have. Your breath came shallow.

Stuttered.

Not from the workout. From him. From the silence he carried.

And still, he said nothing.

You unwrapped the second hand slower. Deliberate. Anything to give your eyes something to focus on that wasn’t the burn of his gaze. But you felt it, like it was burrowing into your skin. Like it was trying to hold you without moving at all.

There was a pause. A silence so thick it rang in your ears, it pressed in around your shoulders like the weight of all the things neither of you had said. All the nights spent drowning in memory. All the truth that had been ripped from you too suddenly, too violently, to make any room for peace.

And then—you moved to stand.

You shifted forward, bracing your palm on the mat, starting to rise to your feet, when his hand reached out.

Fingers curled gently around your wrist.

Not harsh. Not desperate. Just firm—enough to stop you. Enough to say please, not this time.

You froze.

Your heart cracked against your ribs, a soundless fracture that echoed louder in your chest than anything he could have said.

And then—

“I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you,” he said.

The words were soft. Quiet. Like they weren’t meant for the air at all, like they were a confession he’d only ever let himself whisper in dreams, like they had been tearing him apart from the inside out for years.

And they shattered something in you.

You spun, your wrist slipping from his grip as you rose fully to your feet, chest heaving. His words echoed in your skull, bouncing off the walls of your ribs, cracking through the carefully built armor you’d spent days reforging.

You laughed.

But it was a broken sound. A gasp of disbelief. A wound torn open.

“You weren’t supposed to?” Your voice shook. The words came out raw, splintered. “Do you think I was?”

Bucky flinched. Just barely. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. His eyes—god, those eyes—were already shining.

You took a step toward him. Another.

“I didn’t get a choice,” you said, voice rising. “We both didn’t, James. I didn't ask to feel like this. To remember this way, to fucking ache every time I think about you.”

He said nothing. Just sat there, spine straight, shoulders tense, like the guilt had already crawled its way beneath his skin and made a home.

You were trembling, every nerve ending lit with something you couldn’t name—grief, fury, longing, all knotted together into something sharp.

“I hate this,” you snapped. “I hate that I still feel it. That even after everything—after what they did to us—after what they made me forget—I still…”

Your voice broke. You swallowed the cry, hard and bitter.

“I still want you,” you said. “I still feel it. In my chest, in my fucking bones. And I don’t know what that means, because HYDRA erased you, until you were just this—this thing in the dark.”

There was silence. Heavy and brutal.

Bucky didn’t defend himself. He didn’t try to interrupt. He just looked up at you, eyes wide and full of pain, and said softly—

“I need to tell you what happened, that last night. Before they took you from me.”

You didn’t stop him. You couldn’t.

“I knew something was coming,” he began. “They had been watching us more closely, sending guards more often. I thought we had time, I thought if I followed orders—if I didn’t fight back—they would leave you alone.”

He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. Like even now, the memory was too much.

“They didn’t.”

You sank back to the mat, knees folding beneath you as the world tilted around the edges. You didn’t trust yourself to speak.

“They came in while we were sleeping,” he said. “Dragged you out, fuck, I tried to stop them. I tried. But they put a gun to your head and I couldn’t move.”

Your breath caught. You could see it now, in pieces, in flashes.

“You looked at me,” he said, his voice cracking. “Even though you were scared, even when they were strapping you down. You looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered. Like you weren’t afraid, like you were trying to be brave—for me.”

He swallowed hard. His knuckles whitened.

“They shocked you once, and you still screamed my name, you still begged them to let me go. You still knew me, So they did it again and again, until—until you stopped screaming for me.”

You felt your stomach twist, your fingers clenched into fists so tight your nails bit through skin.

“They made me watch,” Bucky whispered. “They said this was the price of obedience, that if I wanted you, I had to watch them erase every part of you that remembered me, every part of you that—that ever loved me.”

He looked up. And his eyes were drowning, grief poured from him in waves.

“I begged them,” he said. “god, I begged them to stop. I wanted them to take me instead, I wanted them to kill me. But they didn’t, because they wanted me to see it. They wanted me to know that no matter how much I obeyed, they’d always have you. That they could break you just to break me.”

You couldn’t breathe. Your chest was tight, burning. Your body remembered what your mind had fought to forget.

“And then,” he said, softer now. “Your eyes were blank, hollow. Like there was nothing left of you, of me.”

Your throat tightened. A sob crawled up your spine, clamped behind your teeth.

“I fought, they dragged you away and I knew—you were gone.”

He stared at the floor. Voice shaking.

"I was next.” he said.

“James…”

“And I didn’t fight back. Because if you were dead…”

He paused. Swallowed.

“…then there was nothing left for me to fight for.”

You were silent for a long moment. Long enough that the room itself seemed to bend around the quiet.

Then, softly—so softly Bucky almost didn’t hear it—you whispered, “You told me to not forget you.”

You swallowed hard. “And they made sure I did.”

Bucky didn’t speak. He just nodded. Once. Slow. A flicker of something broken passing across his face.

The memory hit him like a wave. It had been the night before everything ended.

He’d known. There were hushed conversations outside the steel walls. The way the scientists looked at you had changed—like they were on a very tight schedule.

That one night, they shoved you inside his cell, the door slammed shut, and the footsteps echoed away.

And then—stillness.

You stood there, trembling just barely, your eyes already glassy. Bucky had known you well enough by then to see the signs.

You’d been pulled from your cell and returned again, Your wrists were red where the restraints had bitten into them. There was a shallow scrape along your collarbone.

Another test, another goddamn experiment, another attempt to strip you down to bone.

But your eyes still found him. Still knew him.

You crossed the space in two short steps and wrapped your arms around his neck like it was the only thing anchoring you to the world.

He held you, not like a prisoner, but like a man. Like a man who knew something was about to be stolen from him and was utterly powerless to stop it.

There weren’t any words. There never had to be.

You kissed him like you were memorising him, like you didn’t trust your own memory to hold on.

Your mouth was soft at first—like you were afraid he’d pull away. But he didn’t. He never did. He kissed you back with a hunger that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with the ache in his chest that had never stopped since the day they brought you to him.

Your fingers slid beneath the hem of his flimsy shirt, dragging the fabric up and over his head with trembling hands. You pressed your palms flat to his chest, scars and all, and he saw the way your breath hitched when your thumbs brushed over the rough patches.

He cupped your jaw, tilting your head just slightly to kiss you deeper. Your lips parted willingly. Hungry now. His mouth moved over yours like he was writing a letter he’d never be able to send.

Clothes came off slowly, each layer peeled back like a prayer, he touched you with careful hands, dragging his fingertips down the slope of your spine, the curve of your ribs, the soft skin beneath your navel.

When he laid you down on the table, the frame creaked beneath your weight, but neither of you moved to hide. You curled beneath him like you belonged there, like you’d always belonged there.

The way you looked at him—god, it made him feel like a person again.

His mouth found your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breast. You sighed, threading your fingers through his hair as his lips moved lower, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses down your stomach. You arched into him, breath trembling, thighs parting to welcome him between them.

He looked up at you then. Searching. Asking.

And you nodded.

He slid into you slowly, inch by inch, his hands braced on either side of your face. Your breath hitched, your back arched, your legs wrapped around his waist like you needed him closer. Like you wanted to fuse yourself to him and never let go.

You were so warm. So soft. So real.

The movement was slow. Measured. Every roll of his hips was deliberate, like he was carving the moment into memory, like if he went too fast, it would slip through his fingers.

You touched his face the whole time. Fingers trembling, lips parted, eyes never leaving his. Every moan, every gasp, every whispered yes felt like absolution.

He could’ve cried. Might’ve, when you whispered his name so tenderly it didn’t sound like a name at all—more like a promise.

Your rhythm faltered near the end. You clenched around him, eyes fluttering closed, mouth falling open as you came. He followed moments later, groaning low against your throat, burying his face in your shoulder as he spilled inside you like it was the last thing he’d ever give.

Afterward, you didn’t speak.

You just laid there, curled into each other, your hand stroking slowly down his spine. Breathing together. Hearts beating out of sync.

Then—

“I love you,” you said, so quietly he almost didn’t hear it.

It knocked the breath from his lungs.

You had never said it before. Not once.

But that night—you said it.

And for the first time since he’d woken up in a cell with your name burned into the back of his skull, Bucky said it back.

“I love you,” he breathed, forehead pressing to yours, voice thick with everything he couldn’t say.

He had thought—naively, stupidly—that there would be more time. That maybe they’d keep you together. That maybe if he was obedient, if he didn’t fight, he’d be rewarded with a little more of you.

But god, he was wrong.

So, so fucking wrong.

And now you were sitting beside him on the mat again, your shoulders trembling, your eyes rimmed with red, your whole body wrapped in the echo of a memory they had tried to burn.

He could still feel your breath against his lips.

“Don’t forget me,” you had said, fingers brushing his cheek.

And he had promised. But, instead HYDRA made sure you forgot everything about him.

You didn’t hear your feet carry you out of the gym.

You didn’t register the mat shifting beneath you, didn’t feel the soft drag of sweat-damp fabric against your skin or the way the air seemed to thin the moment you stepped beyond the doorway.

You just moved, a ghost dragged forward by the sheer force of memory and breathless ache. Your legs carried you blindly into the corridor, each step louder than the last, like echoes of a life you hadn’t yet figured out how to live.

You couldn’t breathe.

The air in the hall hit your lungs like knives—sharp and thick, you staggered forward, your vision blurring at the edges, your pulse pounding like war drums in your ears.

The wall caught your shoulder hard, a dull shock of pain blooming down your side, but you barely flinched. You didn’t care, instead, you welcomed the sensation, at least it reminded you that you still had a body, that you still existed.

Your palms flattened against the concrete as your shoulders shook, muscles twitching beneath your skin like you were holding back a scream.

The sob that climbed your throat was raw and ragged, scratching at your insides like it had claws. You sucked in a breath, then another, both stuttering, like your lungs were trying to remember how to be lungs at all. Your knees buckled slightly beneath you.

But you didn’t fall. You wouldn’t let yourself.

Because you knew if you crumpled now—if you gave in to the gravity inside your chest—you wouldn’t get back up again. You’d stay down, stay broken, stay shattered on the cold floor while the pieces of who you were scattered out of reach, unrecognisable.

Behind you, Bucky hadn’t moved.

He stood alone in the gym, fists clenched so tightly at his sides his knuckles had gone white, then bloodless.

He hadn’t called your name. Hadn’t chased after you. Not because he didn’t want to—god, he did—but because he knew.

This pain wasn’t his to touch, this unraveling—it was yours. And he knew the difference between love and possession, between reaching and taking.

But that didn’t stop him from breaking with every step you took away.

It didn’t stop him from standing there with his heart in his throat, begging silently—for forgiveness, for understanding, for the right to hold you again.

You pressed your forehead to the wall, your breath coming faster now, shallower. Your whole body trembled, your spine buzzing with something too big for your bones. And then, without warning, the memories struck.

They didn’t unfold. They didn’t ease in like a tide. They hit. Like a crash.

You gasped. Because it was all there. Suddenly, violently, all there.

The cell. The cold. The hard metal table under your back and the soft, steady weight of him curled around you like shelter.

The buzz of the overhead light, flickering in time with your breath. The hum of the air vent rattling faintly above. The smell, iron and salt and sweat and something warmer, something human—him.

You remembered the feel of his chest against your spine, the solid press of muscle and warmth and safety, his breath ghosting across your neck like a vow.

His hand had curled protectively around your middle, fingers splayed over your stomach like he could hold you together from the outside, like he could keep the pain out if he just held tight enough.

You remembered the way he buried his face in the crook of your neck, lips pressing soft, gentle kisses that weren’t hurried, weren’t hungry, just full—of want and sorrow and something like fear.

“Don’t forget me, please” he’d murmured, almost begged.

And you remembered the way your breath had caught. The way your body had curled tighter against him. His hands had found your skin like they always did—carefully, tenderly, even when his own trembled.

His touch mapped every scar like a prayer, his lips trailing behind like shadows that only bloomed in moonlight.

You remembered the way he undressed you, not with urgency but devotion. His fingers shook slightly as he slid your shirt over your head, his palms lingering over every inch of exposed skin as though this might be the last time he ever got to see it.

You remembered the moment he hovered above you, eyes locked on yours, lips parted like he was about to say something but couldn’t quite find the words.

You remembered how you reached for him first. How your hands found his jaw, his neck, the planes of his back, anchoring him to you like gravity.

Your legs wrapped around his waist. And when he finally, finally pressed inside you—

—everything stopped.

It was just him. You. Breath and memory, stitched together with the soft, fragile thread of a love that had never needed language to be known.

You moved together slowly, like the world had shrunk to a pinpoint. Like nothing existed beyond that cell, those trembling hands, those whispered gasps in the dark.

And then—

You had said it.

“James.”

His name had fallen from your lips like breath, like benediction, you remembered the way he’d stilled, just for a moment. The way his eyes had widened, filling with tears so fast it had stolen the air from the room.

The look on his face—

Like he’d been waiting his whole life just to hear it.

Blue. So blue. Glassy and broken and open wide, like someone had cracked him down the middle and let the light in. You’d never forget that look. Not now. Not ever. Because it had been love.

Love, plain and bare and unguarded.

And he had broken.

You watched him come undone in your arms, just from those words. His mouth had found yours in a kiss that was desperate, terrified.

And still—you held him.

You held him until the world faded, until the fear slipped into something else. Until your bodies moved like you were one, like the line between you had disappeared entirely.

And then, as the night faded—

You remembered what you said.

“If there’s another life after this one… I’ll wait for you there.”

And his reply had been a whisper soaked in agony. His lips brushing yours as he breathed it against your skin:

“Don't leave me. Please.”

You collapsed.

Right there in the corridor. Your back slid down the wall, too slow to stop it, too hollow to care. Your arms wrapped around yourself like maybe you could hold your heart together with the pressure alone.

But it didn’t help, nothing could, because it hurt. Everything hurt. You were drowning in it.

The sob tore free from your throat before you could stop it, guttural and low, the kind of sound you only make when something in you finally, fully breaks.

Because it wasn’t just a memory. It wasn’t a hallucination.

It was truth.

That love had been real.

Everything they did to you—every wipe, every shock, every attempt to strip him from your soul—it hadn’t worked.

Because he had never been something they implanted. He was something you chose. Even when you didn’t know you were choosing. Even when there was nothing left.

And now, you knew why. Now, you remembered.

You had never stopped loving him.

It was late when you finally made it back to your room.

The compound had quieted to a stillness so complete it felt almost unnatural. The night cycle had long since kicked in, dimming the overhead lights into a low, artificial twilight.

The halls were hushed, the hum of life receding behind layers of silence, just the distant echo of your own breathing and the steady noises of the air vents overhead, soft and mechanical.

Your hands trembled as you pushed the door open.

Inside, your room felt like a damn museum exhibit—like no one had lived there in weeks. The sheets were tangled from nights of restless turning, the blankets shoved halfway down the bed in a heap.

The air smelled faintly of detergent, or sorrow perhaps, the kind that soaked into fabric and never quite left. Your pillows were damp in patches, dried tears marking time like a clock you couldn’t stop.

You didn’t bother with the light. The faint blue glow from the corridor spilled in through the crack behind you, mingling with the moonlight—if it was even the moon at all—filtering through the narrow window.

And there it was, the file, still sitting there, just where you’d left it, the one you’d taken from the restricted archive.

Your fingers moved, brushing across the surface, tracing the slightly warped corners that had softened from being turned over again and again. The edges were worn now, dog-eared. As if your desperation had seeped into the paper itself.

You had read it so many times it no longer registered as information, it had become scripture.

A text you recited silently in the dark, searching the blacked-out lines for meaning, reading between the redactions, trying to breathe life into the man hidden beneath the ink.

You had memorised him by nothing at all. No photo but designation.

Subject B. That’s all they had called him.

But now you knew what they had tried to erase. What they had buried.

You knew now that Subject B was the man who had carried you through hell with his arms around your shaking body.

The man who had held you together when you couldn’t speak.

He was the man who had memorised the shape of your mouth, not out of hunger—but hope. The man who whispered don’t forget me like a dying man’s final prayer.

He was Bucky. James.

The name still felt electric on your tongue, you set the file down slowly, smoothing the cover with your palm before stepping away like it might burn you.

You didn’t need to look anymore. The truth wasn’t on the pages—it was in your chest, raw and pulsing. And it hurt in ways no data ever could.

You lay down, the sheets were cold. You curled into them anyway, staring at the ceiling like it might split open and hand you peace.

But sleep didn’t come. Not even close.

You turned onto your side, then your back, then your other side.

Your mind thrummed like a wire stretched too tight. Your body was exhausted—screaming for some sort of rest—but your mind was awake.

Too awake.

You could feel it behind your eyes. Replaying everything. Every kiss, every cry, every time he had whispered your name like it was something he wasn’t supposed to want.

And then—just as you turned onto your back again, dragging in another shallow breath—a knock.

Soft. So soft it barely registered.

A single thump against your door, tentative and quiet. Like whoever was on the other side wasn’t sure they had the right to be there. Like maybe they were second-guessing even as their knuckles hit wood.

Your breath caught mid-inhale, your fingers curled slightly in the blanket. Your heart was hammering so loud it almost drowned out the silence that followed. For a moment, you thought you imagined it

But then—another knock. Quieter. Like he already knew you were awake.

You rose slowly, the blanket sliding off your body in one heavy motion. You moved, barefoot, breathless—across the cold floor. Every step made your chest tighter, your hand wrapped around the doorknob and paused.

You didn’t open it right away. Not because you were afraid it wasn’t him. But because you were terrified it was.

Because some part of you had already broken open with the hope of seeing his face. Of hearing his voice. And if it wasn’t him—you weren’t sure you’d survive it. But your fingers moved anyway.

You turned the knob. And opened the door.

And there he was.

He stood in the hallway like a man caught between past and present, the blue wash of the compound lights painting his skin in soft, cold hues.

There were faint creases on his face—like maybe he’d laid down and never managed to sleep. His jaw was tight, his shoulders set like stone.

But his eyes—

They were always the kind that held too much. The kind that didn’t just look at you—they saw you. And there was no restraint left in them , just grief, and longing so thick it could’ve drowned you.

There was exhaustion too. Deep. Carved-in. But beneath it—beneath the guilt, the fear, the years of silence—was something softer.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. Because his eyes said everything.

I remember all of it. I never stopped looking for you. I don’t know what this is anymore, but I still want it. I still want you.

You stood there for a long moment. And then—you stepped aside.

You didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask why he came. Didn’t demand an explanation. You didn’t need one.

Your arm lifted slowly, fingers brushing the edge of the door, and you pushed it open wider. Your chest rose and fell in one long, trembling breath.

Your heart thundered beneath your ribs, but it didn’t stop you. Your hand hovered at your side—shaking slightly—but you didn’t falter.

Because you wanted him inside. Because you needed him to come in.

Because even if you didn’t have the words for what this was now, even if everything between you had been broken and buried, he was still the only thing that had ever made you feel whole.

He stepped inside.

And for the first time in days—maybe weeks, maybe years—the door shut behind him. And it didn’t feel like a goodbye.

There’s no whispered invitation hovering in the space between you, nothing to fill the silence.

You sit side by side on the floor, backs pressed to the cool wall, bodies close. The room is shrouded in half-darkness—only the faintest spill of compound light leaks in from the corridor through the narrow sliver beneath your door.

He doesn’t speak. Neither do you.

The quiet between you isn’t uncomfortable—not really. It’s something heavier, like the quiet of a church after a funeral. Fragile.

His presence fills the space without forcing it, your shoulders barely graze.

You’re aware of every inch between you, of the warmth that radiates off his skin in soft waves, of the heat that settles in the pit of your stomach.

Your fingers lie a breath away from his, resting on the floor, unmoving—like they’re waiting for a signal neither of you is ready to give.

You don’t reach for him.

Not because you don’t want to—but because you do. Too much.

You keep your eyes on the opposite wall, unfocused, watching the faint shadowplay from the window. The lines don’t mean anything. Not really. But they give you something to look at. Something to pretend to study so you don’t have to turn and see the truth in his eyes.

Because you already know what’s there.

You can feel it radiating off him, the unbearable sorrow tied with the love he doesn’t know how to offer anymore—not without guilt.

And then, slowly—he moves.

Not abruptly. Not purposefully, just slightly. Like some part of him was drawn toward you by gravity, his shoulder brushes yours more firmly this time.

You feel his head shift, a subtle tilt, and then—

He leans in. So slowly. So gently. Like he’s afraid the moment might shatter.

His forehead presses to yours. Soft and steady.

Your eyes close before you even think to command them to. The heat of him seeps into your skin, grounding you. His breath mingles with yours in the narrow space between, and something deep in your chest unknots just slightly.

Neither of you says anything for a long time.

There’s no need.

Because this silence isn’t empty, it’s full. It’s full of pain and hope and a thousand unspoken things. It’s full of memories, of things you didn’t choose, of things stolen, ripped away from both of you.

The breath you let out shakes. Because no matter what they did to you—no matter how many times they wiped you clean, rewrote you, stole your memories and carved their version of you—it wasn’t enough.

They couldn’t take this.

They couldn’t take what was yours.

You didn’t fall in love the way others did, there were no casual glances across a room, no shared coffees.

You fell in love in the dark, you fell in love in silence, in pain, in stolen moments when you helped each other forget what its like to be afraid. Where you helped each other feel what love is.

And now—somehow, impossibly—it’s still here.

His forehead stays pressed to yours, when his voice trembles just a little as he breathes your name, you let it thread its way through you.

You let it tether you. To him. To yourself. To everything they tried to take.

The night stays quiet.

Because for the first time in a long time—

You aren’t quiet in it alone.

a/n: and that's chapter 5! i have no idea how i would end this series just yet...i have half of chapter 6 written and the ending is still kinda vague for me at least, so here's to hoping i finish in time to have it posted up according to schedule!

taglist: @poisntree @moth-maam56 @ravenswritingroom @heymydearheart @secretdiaryofzai @whitelaxe @ficmeiguess @its-in-the-woods @chronicallybubbly @stell404 @overwintering-soldier @emilyswortwellen @vampirehimejoshi @chimmysoftpaws @herejustforbuckybarnes @s0urw00lf @cheeseman @onlyforyuto @hibiscy @quinquinquincy @wickedfun9 @bugs-n-roses @alicetesser @hibiscy @onlyforyuto @chimchoom

634 notes · View notes

marcyvamp1re-blog · 9 months ago

Text

Pt.3 SILLLY LITTLE BAT.

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

sinopsis ⸺ There are only memories, fragments of a past that, like shadows, will haunt you until your last breath, whispers of what was and will never be. Gotham cries out for a guardian, a soul to face the darkness, to challenge fate in its shadowy alleys.

But tell me, who will rise to protect you, traveler of scars and broken dreams? Who will watch over your light when the world swallows your hopes?

In the eternal night, amidst the echo of fear and longing, there is only one path: to confront the monsters and become the hero this city needs, even if the price is the forgetting of oneself.

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

Chapter guide! Pt.1 Pt2. Pt.4

A/N — English is not my first language—Spanish is— Here is the continuation of the other parts. There will be a few more parts but you should know that we will soon reach the end, but there are still things to clarify and so on. I don't know if you would like me to do another Batfam yandere series in the future or similar. Send me your ideas if you want :3

They are upset because I left

Where they never included me.

The car moved slowly under the gray sky of Gotham, as if the universe itself understood the weight of the pain you carried in your small figure. Commissioner Gordon, with his firm hands on the wheel, cast furtive glances at the rearview mirror, where he saw you curled up in the back seat. Wrapped in an old blanket, the same one you had hugged for days, your face was hidden among the folds, but the silent tears that fell could not be disguised. There were no words that Gordon could offer to heal the recent wound of losing your mother, but his empathy, though silent, was there, wrapping around you like the coat that couldn't quite warm you.

In your lap, a small Batman doll rested, pressed against your chest, as if that fabric toy could protect you from the world that had just destroyed your innocence. Your eyes, still swollen and red, looked out the window without seeing, watching the city that seemed so distant, so foreign.

"You will be loved and cherished," Gordon whispered, breaking the silence that had weighed like fog in the car. "Bruce Wayne... he will take care of you, I promise."

But you didn't respond immediately. The name Wayne felt strange, distant, as if he spoke of someone living in a story, not in your reality. You looked up, your eyes meeting Gordon’s for a second in the rearview mirror.

"And if they don't want me...?" you murmured, insecurity clouding your childish voice. "I don't know them, Commissioner... and they don't know me. What if they leave me in an orphanage? Mama always told me those places aren't nice."

Gordon swallowed hard, understanding the depth of your fear. "You were just a child, but you had already learned that love was not a guarantee." The world had taught you that cruel lesson too soon.

"The Waynes..." he began, searching for the right words, "are good people. You might not understand it at first, but I assure you they have suffered too. Bruce..." he paused, recalling the losses that man had faced. "He understands what it is to lose someone. He will do everything he can to make you feel safe, to help you find a home again."

But you kept looking at the doll in your hands, your fingers squeezing it tightly, as if it were the only stable thing in a world crumbling around you.

The silence grew heavy, uncomfortable, as if the words wanted to come out but didn’t know how. Again, Gordon spoke, his voice low, almost afraid to break the stillness.

"And/y/n... what was your mom like?" he asked softly, not taking his eyes off the road, as if by doing so, he could give you space to be honest, to not feel pressured.

You fell silent for a long moment, your small fingers nervously playing with the edges of the blanket. The world outside the car seemed a reflection of what you felt inside: cloudy, cold, distant.

Finally, you exhaled, as if gathering the courage to speak. Your voice came out shaky at first, filled with a mix of sadness and a hard-to-accept truth.

"My mom..." you murmured, not taking your eyes off the window. "She wasn't a good person, but... she wasn't a villain either."

Gordon nodded slowly, without interrupting you. He knew things were rarely black or white, that life had that cruel ability to mix the two.

"She... told me she grew up in an orphanage. She never had anything that was really hers." You paused, your eyes glassy as you recalled details that now seemed more painful than ever. "Well, except for me."

"Gordon felt a knot form in his throat." He knew that loss was a terrible burden to bear, but there was something more in your words, something suggesting that, amidst it all, there had also been love. An imperfect love, but real.

"She always dreamed of having a little house..." you continued, and for the first time, a faint smile appeared on your face, though it was tinged with melancholy. "A house with a garden, lots of Barbie dolls, and a little dog. She didn't need more. She just wanted something that was hers."

You stopped for a moment, as if the simple act of recalling those dreams your mother had hurt you. You knew she would never have them. That the world had been cruel to her, denying her even the small things she wished for so fervently.

"But... she never got it. We were always moving around, fleeing, searching for something better. And now... she doesn’t even have that."

The car seemed to shrink, the air denser. Gordon felt a wave of compassion for that woman who, though perhaps not perfect, had dreamed of something so simple, so human, and yet had not achieved it.

"I'm so sorry, Y/n," he murmured.

"Commissioner, what if... what if I can't forget her?" you asked, almost in a whisper. "What if I can't stop thinking about Mom?"

The silence in the car became heavy, almost tangible. Gordon wanted to tell you that you didn't have to forget, that it was natural to carry that pain. But the words didn't come, and instead, only a long sigh escaped his lips.

"It's not about forgetting, Y/n," he finally said, his voice low but firm. "It's about moving forward, even though it hurts. Your mother would want you to find happiness again, even though it may not seem possible now. And I’m sure Bruce will do everything in his power to help you."

The car turned onto the long, dark road leading to Wayne Manor. The trees formed a tunnel of shadows, as if the road were wrapped in the same mourning you carried within. The mansion, with its imposing grandeur, appeared in the distance, its walls as high as the secrets it held. "You were so small in the face of the immensity of this new life that awaited you."

"We're almost there," Gordon said softly, as he slowed down. "The wind outside whispered through the trees, like an echo of everything you had lost."

You didn’t know it at that moment, but that house would be full of stories, some broken, others in the process of healing. And although you felt like a stranger in a strange land now, Gordon hoped that, one day, that place would become your refuge.

The car stopped in front of the enormous gates. Gordon looked at you one last time before getting out. In his eyes, you could see a mix of sadness and hope, an empathy that went beyond words.

"You are not alone, Y/n," he said, his voice now firmer. "You will never be alone again."

You remained silent, gazing at the mansion as you clung to the blanket and the Batman doll. The weight of the world still rested on your small shoulders, but for the first time, there might have been a glimmer of relief in knowing that someone, even if he was a strange and distant man, was waiting for you inside."

And in that moment, although you still felt the burning pain of your loss, a ray of hope began to break through the shadows of your heart.

Y/n was sitting in the BatCafé, that corner of the city where the tables wobbled and conversations were woven into murmurs, as if the place knew how to keep secrets that even you wouldn’t dare to share aloud. The walls, a mossy green, were filled with stories that no one had asked for. She looked at her lukewarm latte as one looks at a future that hasn’t quite arrived, a liquid mockery evaporating before it could warm her hands. It had barely been a month since she left her family home, but she already felt that independence was more of a myth than a fulfilled dream. At first, the heroism of having thrown herself into the world had filled her with pride, but now reality lurked like a treacherous chill seeping through the cracks, and the fact that she was waiting for her potential roommate didn’t help matters.

“Well, at least the rent will be cheaper,” she told herself, or rather to the coffee, as if the dark liquid could reply with something sensible.

Sharing an apartment was, for Y/n, the only way out. Her salary barely covered survival, but only if she fed on fresh air and broken dreams. And there she was, waiting for someone named Pamela Isley, who, according to the ad, didn’t even seem to be from this planet. "I hope she’s not one of those people with invisible cats," she thought. Of course, the alternatives weren’t very promising: people who collected Batman figurines or guys who made friends with cockroaches in the kitchen. She had seen it all; after all, her apartment was in one of the most dangerous areas of Gotham, and she knew it all too well.

You were born in that area. One could say the neighborhood chose you before you had a chance to choose it. You didn’t remember exactly which apartment; in that hive of broken windows and half-painted bricks, all the floors seemed like a blurry copy of the previous one, each with the same square footage and an air of silent resignation. In the end, it didn’t matter, because in a way, everything was the same. Dust in the corners, worn tiles, cracks in the walls that seemed to form a map of some invisible and secret city, a place that only you could decipher if you stopped to observe long enough.

It was an unpretentious place, where people rarely smiled, but neither did they let themselves be trampled. There was something in the air, a kind of poorly disguised pride, as if every neighbor, every stray dog, knew that surviving there wasn’t a matter of luck but of will. Heroes didn’t exist in that corner of the world, but villains didn’t dare impose their law without facing some gaze that, without saying anything, said it all. It was rough terrain, where kindness camouflaged behind growls and complaints, and malice grew tired before it could fully settle.

And yet, you loved it. It was absurd, but you loved it with that devotion reserved for things you don’t choose, for roots that sink into your chest without asking for permission. The place was filled with memories you didn’t ask for, stories you never wanted to hear but that seeped into your skin. Tales of people who vanished in alleyways, of broken promises around the corner, of loves that drowned in factory smoke. And yet, those same tales were like echoes that held you, reminding you that you were born there, in that half-hell where life was always a fight but never a complete defeat.

The clock in the BatCafé struck six ten when the door opened. What happened next was hard to explain, like when you dream and you don’t know if it’s the pillow or the universe holding you. Pamela Isley walked in, and it was as if the wind, that autumn wind that brings memories, had gently pushed her in. Y/n looked up, and the first thing she noticed was her hair, a red that was out of this world, more fire than pigment, more nature than dye. The roots tangled as if they were living branches, and for a moment, Y/n wondered if the sun had made a mistake and was shining only on her.

Pamela walked as if she had a pact with the earth. Her steps were slow but firm, as if her feet waited for the ground to respond before settling. She wore a jacket that was impossible to describe without sounding crazy: green vines and small buds peeking out, as if at any moment the plants would grow over her. "Where does this woman come from?" Y/n thought, feeling something beyond mere curiosity. There was something she couldn’t deny, an attraction that felt unsettling, like those waves that, without warning, sweep you away when you think you can still touch the bottom.

Pamela approached the table with a calculated calm, a calm only nature or time can sculpt. And then she smiled. In that smile, Y/n felt something familiar yet strange, as if she were facing a younger version of her mother, but instead of being terrifying, it was comforting. What was happening?

“Y/n L/n?” Pamela said, her voice reminiscent of the whisper of dry leaves underfoot.

“Yes, that’s me,” Y/n answered, trying to make her voice sound normal, even though everything inside her felt out of place.

Pamela sat down across from her, crossing her legs with an almost feline elegance. The BatCafé seemed to conspire around them; the air smelled of wet earth and freshly brewed coffee, a strange mix, like the combination of what was about to be born and what had already died.

“I didn’t expect you to be…” Y/n began, not knowing exactly how to finish the sentence. She wasn’t even sure what she was expecting.

“Strange?” Pamela completed, with a playful smile that left Y/n with a sense of defeat and fascination in equal parts.

“Something like that,” Y/n replied, looking at Pamela’s hands. Her long, slender fingers were covered in small green spots, as if she had just planted a forest with her own hands. There was something almost magical about her, as if every part of her being was connected to the earth in a way that Y/n couldn’t quite understand. And there, amid that confusion, was the fine thread of attraction.

Pamela let her gaze fall on her own latte, turning it between her hands as if it were about to reveal some hidden secret in the foam.

“So, what do you do? I mean… aside from, you know… looking like you walked out of a Tim Burton movie,” Y/n said, attempting a bit of humor to ease the tension she felt in her stomach.

Pamela glanced at her and laughed softly, a laugh that felt like an unexpected breeze on a hot day.

“I’m… a caretaker. Of plants.” She paused, gauging Y/n’s reaction. “And other things.”

“Other things?” Y/n asked, intrigued but also amused by the way Pamela toyed with the mystery.

“Yes, like people who don’t know how to water a plant without drowning it,” she replied, arching an eyebrow mischievously.

The response made Y/n laugh, a laugh she hadn’t expected, as if Pamela had found a way to touch something deep within her, something that hadn’t bloomed in a long time. And without being able to help it, she felt drawn, not just by the way Pamela moved, spoke, or even by the air of mystery surrounding her, but because there was something more, something familiar, something that reminded her of her mother, but without the shadows of authority and judgment. It was like a wild, free version of what had once been security.

“So… are you going to save my cactus or criticize it?” Y/n said, trying to sound casual while feeling that her heart had started playing a game of chess with her emotions.

Pamela smiled again, and this time it was a different smile, one that seemed to carry a promise.

“It depends. Would you let me stay to try?” Pamela said, with a playful seriousness that left Y/n unsure whether the question was about the cactus or something much larger.

Y/n blinked, trying to process the phrase, but deep down she knew that any answer would sound awkward. Pamela’s question hung in the air between them like a leaf falling slowly, right at the perfect point where it was neither entirely a joke nor completely serious. And there she was, caught in that space, wondering whether she should laugh or just blush.

“Well… you can try,” she finally said, trying to hide the warmth creeping up her face. “But I can’t promise the cactus will survive. I’m something like… a serial plant killer... When I was younger, I had time to care for them as they deserved, with help from… from my father. But now work consumes me a lot, and the truth is I’ve neglected them too much… they must feel the same way I felt when… sorry, I talk too much about myself, don’t I?”

Pamela raised an eyebrow, with a smile that seemed to say more than either of them dared to voice at that moment.

“Oh, no, keep talking about yourself; I’m used to it. I have very… eccentric friends, to be honest.” She leaned a bit closer, as if about to share a secret. “Though I prefer not to work under threats, so don’t look at me like I’m going to be your next plant murder victim. But I doubt a little scared bat can kill even a fly.”

Y/n laughed nervously, surprised at how easy Pamela made everything. She, who had always been clumsy with conversations and glances, felt like the words flowed with Pamela in a way she didn’t quite understand but didn’t want to question either.

“...Little Bat?” Y/n asked, with a clumsy and blushing smile as her fingers nervously toyed with the edge of her cup.

Pamela let out a low giggle, that laugh that always seemed to carry the sound of dry leaves being trampled in autumn. With a gentle gesture, she pointed to her clothes.

“Is it that obvious?” she said with a half-smile, raising a playful eyebrow as she leaned a little forward.

She wore a dark fur coat, enormous, with a wide fall that, under the dim light of the BatCafé, seemed to have the precise shape of bat wings extending. The high, well-fitted black boots completed the image of a figure that seemed to have emerged from the very shadows. And for a moment, Y/n didn’t know whether to laugh or get lost in that air of mystery that Pamela seemed to wear like a second coat.

“Well…” Y/n diverted her gaze with a shy smile, “it’s not like you’re hiding it much.”

Pamela smiled with that touch of mischief that characterized her.

“Does it bother you? I’m sorry, it’s just… I’ve been fascinated by bats since I was little.” she asked, her voice low and slow, as if measuring every word, as if the world were a delicate plant that required to be touched with the tips of her fingers.

Y/n let out a small nervous laugh, feeling the heat rising to her cheeks again.

“No, not at all. I think it’s…” she hesitated for a second, searching for the right word, unsure how to avoid the obvious, “I think it suits you well.”

Pamela watched her for a moment, and then, with that look that always seemed to go beyond what words said, added:

“You’re turning red, you know?”

Y/n’s eyes widened a bit more, surprised by Pamela’s directness, but all she could do was laugh at herself.

“Well, it’s just that, I’m not really used to… this.”

“This?” Pamela repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Sharing coffee with someone or bats?”

“Both,” Y/n admitted, shrugging, which provoked another smile from Pamela. “I always wanted one as a pet… but I have a vegan little brother who’s very… spooky… so I’ve always been afraid he’d steal it from me or accuse me of having exotic pets.”

Pamela settled into the chair, not taking her eyes off Y/n.

“But you’ll get used to it,” she paused, letting her words float calmly.

Y/n felt a shiver run down her spine, a mix of nerves and a spark of something she couldn’t quite define. Pamela’s dark coat and relaxed smile were a disconcerting yet strangely familiar contrast, as if they had always been there, waiting for her. And suddenly, all she could do was wonder how soon that would happen… getting used to it.

“Although I can’t promise my apartment isn’t… a battlefield,” Y/n said, trying to sound confident, but noticing the slight tremor in her voice.

Pamela looked at her intently for a moment, with that mix of flirtation and something deeper, something that seemed impossible to decipher completely. Then she relaxed in the chair, as if the game had just begun.

“A battlefield, huh?” she said, playing with the spoon of her coffee. “Well, I like challenges. And chaotic places have their own charm if you know where to look.” Pamela let the phrase slide smoothly, like someone throwing a stone into a lake and waiting for the ripples.

Y/n couldn’t shake the feeling that every word Pamela spoke carried a double meaning, but far from making her feel uncomfortable, it sparked something akin to contained laughter, as if they were sharing a private joke that she was just beginning to access.

“Don’t you have plants at home?” Pamela suddenly asked, as if the question had sprung from the foam of her coffee.

“Well, there are a couple of cacti… and a fern that I think hates me,” Y/n replied. “But I always forget to water them. Or I overwater them. Seriously, it’s like plants come to me already doomed.”

Pamela smiled, one of those slow smiles that seem to grow little by little, like a sprout deciding when the perfect moment to emerge into the light is.

“It’s not just about water, Y/n,” she said, with that voice that seemed to carry the calm of the wind and the weight of centuries of nature. “Plants need attention. Patience. Sometimes they just want to know you’re there, even if you don’t say anything.” She paused, letting Y/n’s gaze get lost in her eyes. “Sometimes, like people.”

Y/n felt a little shiver. It wasn’t what Pamela was saying, but how she was saying it. There was something in her voice that disarmed her, as if every word had been calculated to penetrate a defense that Y/n hadn’t even realized she had up. And then, almost without thinking, she let slip a truth she rarely shared.

“I’m not very good with people.” The confession came out of her mouth before she could stop it. She said it without drama, almost as if she were talking about the weather. But something in Pamela changed, barely perceptible, like a leaf moving without the wind touching it.

“Really?” Pamela asked softly, but without an ounce of pity. Just curiosity.

Y/n looked down for a moment, fiddling with the edge of her cup, before daring to continue.

“I grew up in a huge house, but… empty. My father… well, he was busy with his things. Business, parties, the usual. Shrugging it off, wanting to downplay it, even though inside she knew it wasn’t something that could easily fade away. Alfred, the butler, raised me. And yes, he was amazing. But it was always just him and no one else. It’s not the same as having… friends.”

Pamela listened in silence, but not in that awkward way where people listen just to see how you respond afterward. No, there was something in her attention that enveloped Y/n, as if she were giving her space to bare herself without fear of being judged.

“You never had friends,” Pamela asserted more than asked.

Y/n shook her head.

“Until now,” Pamela said, with that same softness that seemed to have become her trademark, and something in Y/n’s chest stirred, as if she had just heard the most important thing in the world.

There was a moment of silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a silence that somehow connected them. And then Pamela broke the spell, with a mischievous smile that lit everything up again.

“So… are you going to let me be your first friend, or would you rather keep killing plants?”

Y/n couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her lips, a sincere and liberating laugh, as if something inside her had broken an invisible chain. After all, it was clear that Pamela wasn’t just another person passing through her life. There was something different about her, something that made the air feel lighter, that made the future seem less uncertain.

“Well, if you can survive the cactus…” Y/n said, leaving the sentence unfinished, but knowing Pamela would understand.

And then, for the first time in a long time, Y/n felt that everything might be okay. That maybe, just maybe, Pamela Isley wasn’t just a roommate, but the first person in a long time with whom she could imagine a less lonely future. She was already caught in that web, and the worst, or perhaps the best part, was that she didn’t care at all.

Bruce Wayne was sitting in the mansion's garden on a gray afternoon that seemed to drag memories along like the wind drags fallen leaves. In his hands, a cup of black coffee, still steaming, its strong and bitter aroma mingling with the scent of damp earth after the rain. In front of him, on a small wrought-iron table, rested a piece of dark chocolate cake topped with melting strawberry ice cream, forming a pink puddle around it. But he found no pleasure in the view. It was more of a bitter symbol of a routine he once believed unbreakable.

In the garden, where the wilted flowers swayed gently, a little girl flitted about with contagious energy, as if the chill of the afternoon did not exist for her. Her laughter, so innocent and pure, filled the air, breaking the sepulchral silence that seemed to reign in that old home for a moment. She wore a pink dress with small white dots, an 80s style that would have been charming in another time but now seemed out of place with the scene. Her patent leather shoes shone as she ran back and forth, chasing her dolls.

In her small hands, she held action figures, one of the Batman her father portrayed and another of the Joker, his eternal rival. The girl, no older than six, organized her battles with adorable seriousness. In a high-pitched, mischievous voice, she brought the characters to life, staging an epic duel between hero and villain.

“You won’t defeat me this time, Batman!” she exclaimed, raising the Joker figure with a malevolent laugh.

“I will stop you! I always do...” she replied with her other hand, giving voice to Batman, but with a childlike touch that contrasted with the darkness of the character.

Bruce watched the scene with a mix of tenderness and pain. He knew she wasn’t really there, that this vision was nothing more than a distant echo of what never was. Y/n, his little Y/n, had vanished months ago. And he… he had never given her the love she deserved, always wrapped in his own shadows, in his endless struggle to protect a city that never rested.

The air felt thick, heavy with nostalgia and regret. The girl continued to play, laughing, talking to her dolls, oblivious to the weight of the years, to the loss. And Bruce, although he knew it was an illusion, couldn’t look away; he couldn’t stop imagining what it would have been like to give her what he never knew how to offer. What it would have been like to see her grow, to laugh more, to run through those gardens with the carefree spirit only childhood allows.

Suddenly, the sound of soft footsteps interrupted the daydream. Alfred appeared at the garden entrance, always elegant, always with that air of discretion and understanding that only he possessed. He approached slowly, placing a hand on Bruce’s shoulder as if he understood the pain that kept him trapped in that scene.

“Mr. Wayne” he said in a low voice, filled with compassion, “it’s time to come back.”

Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, letting Alfred’s words seep into his consciousness. He knew what they meant. He knew that girl, in her 80s dress and her dolls, was nothing but an idealized memory, a distorted reflection of what never was. Because Y/n wasn’t like that. She didn’t like those old dresses; she had always preferred the fashion of the 2000s, with its vibrant colors and comfortable clothes. And she never enjoyed the chocolate cake now sitting in front of him. She liked carrot cake, simple and sweet, but he had never paid attention to those details when he still could.

How did he know those little details about his daughter? Bruce often wondered. It wasn’t because he had learned them by being close, because proximity had been a luxury he never allowed himself. No, those small fragments of her life he had discovered in the album that Alfred kept with an almost reverential discretion. That album was more than just an object; it was a silent refuge where Alfred had archived what the big house, always filled with shadows and echoes of footsteps that never came, had refused to hold.

The day the children learned of the album’s existence marked the beginning of a chaos he still remembered with a mix of exasperation and a contained smile. They had decided, like little conspirators, that treasure belonged to them. A kind of all-out battle had ensued in the mansion, something that over time acquired the quality of family legends.

Bruce, standing in the study, could still see the sparkle in Damian’s eyes, the intensity, the almost playful fury with which he had taken that assault as a personal mission. Damian, with his perpetual impatience, had been the fiercest of all. He vividly remembered how his youngest son had burst into the room wielding two katanas, with the cold precision of a millennia-old warrior, even though his hands were still too small to fully grasp the handles.

“It’s mine!” Damian shouted, with that mix of stubbornness and vulnerability that only the youngest possess, as if he could cut not only the air but the very uncomfortable silence that always floated between them.

“It belongs to all of us, Damian” Bruce had tried to intervene, with that authoritative voice that, curiously, never managed to control his own children as he did with the chaos of the city.

But Damian wasn’t listening. For him, the album was not just an object; it was a relic, a bridge to something he felt but couldn’t name. His sister Y/n, so distant in daily life, was closer in those pages than in any superficial conversation they had ever had. She was his sister, but not enough. He wanted those photos, those notes that Alfred had kept, he wanted to understand what it was about her that slipped away from him daily.

Bruce watched from the threshold, not really intervening. He let the chaos unfold, as if it were necessary. The children fought, but it wasn’t just for the album. They fought for something deeper, a kind of silent reclamation of what they had never been able to have: time, connection, perhaps even love. Alfred, from a corner, merely smiled with that quiet wisdom, knowing that those battles of childish katanas, of shouts and disputes over photos and notes, were actually the way they tried to find each other in a house full of absences.

Bruce sighed, remembering. Alfred had always known more than he did, always understood those invisible things that Bruce, no matter how much he wanted to, could never quite grasp. And so it was that he himself, at the end of it all, also ended up snooping in that album, with a silent curiosity he would never admit. There, in those carefully tended pages, he found his daughter. Or at least, he found the idea of her, the pieces of a life he hadn’t shared but that, somehow, had always been present in those photos, in those little notes that Alfred, more of a father than he was, had kept with such love.

“She won’t come back, Alfred... I lost her... maybe forever... ” Bruce murmured, his voice barely audible, as if admitting it aloud would make her absence more real—“and I… I was never there for her as I should have been.”

The old butler sighed, his tired eyes filled with infinite patience.

“It’s never too late to remember, sir. It’s never too late to honor her memory in the right way.”

Bruce opened his eyes, looking again at the scene, but this time more clearly. The girl had disappeared.

The wind blew gently through the Wayne mansion's garden, carrying away the murmur of the dry leaves. Bruce remained motionless, as if the weight of the years, of the mistakes, had turned him into another statue in that landscape. The aroma of coffee had dissipated, and the cake before him remained untouched. Y/n’s figure still floated in his mind, her laughter like a distant echo that wouldn’t fade but also wouldn’t console him.

Alfred, with the patience only a father at heart could have, stood by his side, his firm hand on Bruce’s shoulder, as if in that gesture he could transmit strength to face the pain that gnawed at him.

“Mr. Wayne” Alfred began, his voice soft but laden with meaning, “the kids have gone looking for Y/n again.”

Bruce closed his eyes, allowing those words to sink into his consciousness. He knew all the Robins and Batgirls had been following leads, searching for answers in the darkest corners of Gotham, but the emptiness he felt remained overwhelming. They had failed so many times… what did another attempt matter? The city, always hungry for its heroes, seemed more a trap than a cause.

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Alfred” Bruce replied, his voice rough, worn down by years of struggle. “None of this will change what happened. Y/n… is gone.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Alfred interjected, this time with a firmer tone, “Y/n is still out there. And as long as there’s a single chance to find her, you cannot allow yourself to give up.”

Silence stretched between them. Bruce’s gaze remained fixed on some point in the garden, lost in thought. But Alfred, with his usual insight, knew he needed more than empty words to awaken him.

“There’s something else,” Alfred added, taking a breath, “a new figure appeared last night during a robbery in the East District. They call her Kerosene. The White Bat. She was seen taking out a group of assailants in seconds.”

Bruce didn’t react. Kerosene. The city had always generated figures willing to fill the void he had left every time he stepped away, every time Gotham lost the light of its vigilante. But this time, he didn’t feel the urgency to learn more. What did it matter? He repeated to himself. Gotham already had its heroes.

“I don’t care” he murmured, his voice empty, as cold as the air surrounding the garden—“Let others deal with Gotham. Kerosene, the Joker, or whoever… the city doesn’t need me anymore.”

Alfred tightened his grip on Bruce’s shoulder, almost like a father refusing to see his son give up. He stepped forward, and this time his voice was lower but more incisive.

“This isn’t about Gotham, sir,” he said with an intensity Bruce hadn’t expected—“It’s about Y/n.”

Bruce lifted his gaze, his eyes finally meeting Alfred’s, as if those words had ignited a spark within him.

“If you don’t want to protect this city, do it for her ” Alfred continued—“Because you will find her, sir. I’m sure of it. And when you do… how would you want her to find you? Destroyed? Defeated? No. You need to be ready, you need to be strong, for her. Wherever she is, Y/n is still waiting for her father.”

Bruce felt the pain in his chest intensify, a constant reminder of his failure, but Alfred was right. Y/n was somewhere out there. Alive or not, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that as long as he didn’t find her, he couldn’t give up.

“The kids have done everything they can to find her,” Alfred said, softening his tone—“They’re still at it. Every day they search for new leads, explore new corners of Gotham… but there’s only one man who can put everything in order. There’s only one father who can bring her back.”

The air tensed between them, and for the first time in a long time, Bruce felt a slight tremor inside. He remembered the moment he decided to become Batman, driven by the guilt and pain of losing his parents. Now, that same guilt, that same pain, called to him again, but this time, it wasn’t for Gotham. It was for Y/n. His daughter.

“Tell me, Alfred, who is this Kerosene?” Bruce murmured, finally reacting to the information Alfred had given him.

“Yes, sir. Her abilities are astonishing, according to reports. Agile, fast… but her true identity remains a mystery. Some say she’s just another vigilante trying to fill the void you left. But the important thing is that she is acting with lethal precision.”

Bruce stood slowly, leaving the cup of coffee on the table, already cold and forgotten. He looked at the empty garden, but this time, with a new determination blooming in his chest.

“If this Kerosene is connected… if there’s any link to Y/n, I will find out,” he said, his voice firmer, closer to the one Alfred had known for so many years—“And if not… then I’ll find her myself.”

Alfred nodded, a mix of relief and satisfaction reflected on his face. He had managed to awaken the man Gotham needed, but more than that, he had awakened the father Y/n deserved.

“ Very well, sir,he replied with a slight smile, always the unwavering servant—“The Batcave is ready for your return.”

Bruce turned toward the mansion, but not before glancing once more at the garden, where Y/n’s figure, so real in his mind, faded like morning mist.

Wherever you are, I will find you.

Richard “Dick” Grayson knocked forcefully on the old apartment door, the echo resonating in the narrow hallway of the building, where dust gathered in the corners like forgotten memories and the lights flickered as if trying to perform one last dance before going out. Beside him, Barbara Gordon, the commissioner's daughter, crossed her arms, staring at the door with an intensity that could have splintered the wood.

Jason Todd, restless to his left, kept his gaze fixed on the doorknob, his body tense, as if each passing second brought him one step closer to breaking through that wooden barrier. Above, on the roof, Red Robin, The Spoiler, and Batgirl waited, shadows in a world that seemed to ignore their pounding hearts, ready to act.

“I don’t know why we always have to deal with the worst specimens of humanity,” Barbara murmured, adjusting her coat as she shot a sidelong glance at Dick, who seemed to have a plan in mind.

“Because we’re lucky,” Jason replied, sarcasm lacing his words, a crooked smile on his lips that didn’t quite fit the situation. “And when I say ‘lucky,’ I mean we’re carrying someone else's karma because we… are screwed.”

Dick knocked on the door again, this time with more force. The echo reverberated through the hallways, a declaration of intent.

“We should break it down. You know it’s not going to open just from a gentle knock,” Jason said, stepping forward, his intention clear and palpable.

“Calm down, Jason. Not all problems are solved with violence,” Barbara retorted, though a part of her knew that idea faded every time they found themselves in a situation like this.

“Sure, as if we have another option. Do you want me to schedule a tea date instead of kicking down the door?” Jason frowned, the tension palpable.

Finally, a sound came from behind the door. Chains, the metallic echo of locks being unlatched with a maddening slowness, as if someone on the other side knew that every second of wait was boiling the blood of the three standing before the door. At last, the door opened just enough to reveal a face: the landlord. A short man with small eyes and a slimy smile that seemed to ooze like dirty oil through his yellowed teeth.

“What do you want?” he asked in a thick voice, looking at Dick with suspicion, but his gaze soon dropped to Barbara, lingering unpleasantly on her figure, and then to Jason, who had already tensed the muscles in his jaw.

“We’re looking for Y/n Wayne L/n,” Dick said, trying to maintain his composure, the heat of anger threatening to overflow. “We know she lives here. And we know you know where she is.”

The man let out a laugh under his breath, a rusty squeak that resonated like a heavy joke.

“Ah, the pretty girl… yeah, yeah. And who are you all, huh?” he asked, his slimy tone sending chills that seemed to crawl over Dick's skin.

“It’s none of your concern. We just want to know where she is,” Barbara said, her voice firm and resolute, although the tension in her body betrayed her impatience.

The landlord tilted his head, like a cat playing with its prey, and smiled with a disturbing mischief.

“Well, if you haven’t found her in five months, maybe you don’t want to know,” he said, letting the words drop like stones in a pond, creating ripples of discomfort.

“I warn you, this isn’t a game,” Jason interjected, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t make me remind you what can happen when a man plays with fire.”

The man shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned, although the glint in his eyes betrayed him.

Jason's hand rested near his belt, right where he kept his gun, and although he hadn’t drawn the weapon yet, the threat was clear.

The landlord noticed but instead of being scared, he wore a repugnant smile, like a predator that had just spotted a wounded prey. His gaze shifted back to Barbara, and then, without the slightest respect, murmured something that made Dick’s fists clench.

“Ah, Y/n... yeah, I remember her. She came around when she had just turned eighteen. Good material, if you catch my drift. She looked innocent, but... those are the most interesting ones, right?” The man's gaze darkened, scanning Barbara again, as if evaluating merchandise.

“Say that again,” Jason growled, drawing his gun in a motion so quick that the landlord barely had time to blink before feeling the cold barrel pressed against his forehead. “And I swear I’ll blow your brains out right here.”

The words hung in the air, sharp, loaded with contempt and a lust that twisted like a snake inside him.

The man let out a cynical chuckle, relishing the moment.

“The last time I saw pretty Y/n was a while back. I don’t know what she’s up to now, but I kept some pictures of her and her friend.” His tone was defiant, almost mocking.

Rage was bubbling in Jason. His fists were clenched, a deadly spark in his eyes.

“What did you say?” His voice trembled between anger and control, like a string about to snap.

The landlord, feeling invincible, continued. “I don’t know if they’re lesbians, but seeing them together was quite the spectacle. Both of them were hot, you know?”

Jason could no longer hold back. The anger erupted like a volcano.

“Shut up!” he shouted, and the sound echoed like a gunshot in the tense silence that had invaded the room.

Before the landlord could react, Jason pulled his gun, aiming with precision.

“I’m going to give you one chance. Tell me where Y/n is. Now.”

The man’s laughter faded, his eyes widening in shock. “Wait, wait, there’s no need to…”

“WHERE?!” Jason's voice thundered, firm and filled with rage, like a storm rumbling in the atmosphere.

The tension became palpable, the air thick with promises of violence.

“Alright, alright!” the landlord stammered, but Jason’s voice turned even colder.

“I’m not going to ask again.”

“She just left for work at night and that’s it…” he started to say, but Jason could no longer hear. The man had photos of Y/n. Compromising, crude, and that simple mention ignited hell in his chest.

In an instant, the sound of an explosion resonated in the hallway, and the man fell to the ground, his silly smile erased by the terror that had overtaken his face. Blood gushed forth in a dark torrent, staining the floor and nearby walls.

Barbara covered her mouth in shock, while Dick stood frozen, stunned.

“Jason!” she exclaimed, but the image of the landlord lying on the ground with his vacant stare was etched in her mind.

Jason holstered the weapon, his breath rapid and uncontrolled. He had crossed a line, and in that moment, he realized there was no turning back. Anger had found a way to break free, but at a terrible cost.

“I won’t let anyone hurt Y/n again,” he murmured, his eyes filled with determination. No one else would stand in his way to find her, no matter the price he had to pay.

The room was saturated with the echo of the gunshot, and the silence grew heavy, almost palpable. Barbara took a deep breath, the anger sparking in her eyes as she looked at Jason, who still seemed dazed by the act he had committed.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she said, her voice contained but sharp as a blade. “That’s why we didn’t bring Damian along, because he would have gone off just the same, but in a much more reckless way.” Her gaze fixed on the corpse, lying in a pool of blood, a scene that could have come from the mind of a disturbed artist.

Jason, with his chest heaving and jaw clenched, simply shrugged.

“I couldn’t just stand by. He knew something, and I wasn’t about to let it slip away.” The fervor in his voice didn’t hide the confusion that was beginning to seep in, like the cold of the night creeping through the windows.

Barbara didn’t respond, but the silence that filled the room grew even denser when the others entered, alarmed by the gunshot. Tim, Stephanie, and Cass arrived, their expressions filled with concern that quickly transformed into indignation.

“What happened here?” Tim asked, his eyes widening at the scene. Blood slid across the floor like a dark river, and the landlord’s body faded beneath the flickering light.

“Are you crazy, Jason?!” Steph exclaimed, disbelief palpable in her voice.

Cass crouched down, her expression grave as she looked at the fallen man. She didn’t need to speak to convey her disapproval; every glance said more than a thousand words.

“It doesn’t matter how we got here,” Dick intervened, his authoritative tone trying to restore order. “We need answers. Let’s investigate.”

With a determined movement, Barbara approached the body, while Jason still breathed irregularly, as if the weight of his actions began to settle on him. Barbara looked around; the apartment was a dusty and sad place, filled with shadows that seemed to whisper secrets.

As the others searched, Tim found a series of photos pinned to the walls, each one showing Y/n and other women from the area, frozen laughter in time, trapped between moments that should have been happy. However, there was something unsettling about the way they were arranged, a disorder that seemed a declaration of possession.

“Look at this,” Tim said, pointing to the images. There was Y/n, always smiling, but next to her was a figure that couldn’t be ignored. The silhouette of Pamela Isley, better known as Poison Ivy, stood beside her, her red hair like a fire that seemed to consume the sadness of the place.

“Pamela…” Cass murmured, her voice almost a whisper. “She’s been in Arkham for three months.”

Barbara moved closer, examining the photos more closely. “This is more complicated than we thought. Ivy has been involved, and that changes everything.”

Jason, still trying to comprehend the chaos he had unleashed, ran a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll find Y/n. I don’t care what I have to do.”

Barbara looked at him, her expression one of challenge but also understanding. “We can’t do this recklessly. We have to be smart. Silent.”

The group nodded, realizing that the road ahead would be filled with dangers, but also promises of redemption. They were all willing to kill for Y/n, but they had to do it quietly, like shadows slipping through the streets at night.

“Listen, we’re going to find her,” Dick said, his voice resonating like a mantra. “No matter how many doors we have to break down, how many truths we have to drag into the light.”

And so, in the echo of the silence that followed the violence, the five united in a tacit pact, intertwining their destinies in the search for Y/n. Each lost in their thoughts, each remembering that shadows sometimes have the power to conceal not only secrets but also the light that clings to hope.

The shadows stretched as they moved away from the apartment, leaving behind the vestige of a dead man and the echo of trapped laughter. The search had begun, and Y/n’s fate hung in the balance, a thread of light in the darkness that promised to bloom amid the ruins of despair.

The city lights flickered in the distance, like lost stars in the asphalt.

The tears of Y/n fell onto the slippery ground, forming puddles that blended with the blood, a dark ruby staining every part of her thin body, as if sins were being tattooed onto her skin. The humidity of the place smelled of iron and fear, of broken promises and a destiny she had chosen but didn’t quite know how to accept.

“It doesn’t feel good, little one?” said the Doctor, his voice a bitter whisper echoing off the damp walls of the room. He, with his dirty blonde hair falling messily over his forehead, wore a white coat that looked more like a rag than a symbol of authority. A cynical smile spread across his lips, revealing teeth that seemed sharper than the fate he had designed for her. “Bathing in the blood of enemies, isn’t it an exquisite pleasure?”

Y/n, her gaze lost at a point on the floor, nodded slowly, as if each movement cost her an eternity. The blood, warm and sticky, slid between her fingers, a sensory experience that drowned her in contradictions. On one hand, there was a dark delight in the power that image conferred upon her, a power she had learned to wield. But on the other hand, there was an abyss of pain threatening to consume her.

“It’s…” she whispered, barely able to form words. Her voice trembled like a leaf in autumn, indecision etched in her features. Guilt suffocated her, and each tear that fell was a reminder of what she had lost, of what she had left behind.

“What is it?” asked the Doctor, leaning toward her, his eyes lit by a glow that was not exactly compassion, but rather a cruel satisfaction. His gaze seemed to pierce through the layers of her being, scrutinizing the dark corners of her soul. “Is it pleasure you feel, or is it fear?”

Y/n recoiled, feeling her skin burn under his gaze. The Doctor’s words tangled in her mind, forming a knot that seemed impossible to untie. Her voice, almost a cry for help, resonated in the air.

“I don’t know! I don’t know if it’s pleasure or pain.” The words shot out like arrows, but only managed to embed their tips in the empty air, finding no destination. She trembled, caught between repulsion and the desire to free herself from the invisible chains that kept her anchored in that place.

The Doctor let out a cold laugh, as if he were enjoying the spectacle unfolding before him. With a careless gesture, he threw another bucket of blood onto the floor, creating a small puddle that slid toward Y/n.

“That is the beauty of your situation, my dear. You have been chosen to cleanse Gotham of the scum, and along the way, you will discover that pain and pleasure are two sides of the same coin.”

“Chosen?” replied Y/n, her voice shaking with the fierce mix of disbelief and rage. “Chosen for what? To be your puppet?”

The Doctor stepped closer, letting the distance between them fade. His presence was oppressive, like a shadow that swallowed light.

“You are not a puppet, Kerosene” he said, pronouncing her name as if caressing it. “You are the spark that can ignite the revolution. The tears that fall now are the ashes of the old you, and it’s time you embrace what awaits you.”

Y/n felt the air grow dense, as if the Doctor’s words were trying to envelop her, to convince her. But there was a truth in his voice, an echo of what she had longed for deep within her being. Hadn’t she been searching for purpose, a place to belong?

“No… I don’t want to be what you’ve made me.” she said, though her voice sounded more hesitant than determined. It was as if reality slipped around her, like the slippery ground she stood on.

“Of course you do, Y/n.” He smiled, and there was something unsettling in that smile, something that made her feel she was on the brink of a revelation. “Your pain is the echo of the city, and you, little one, can be its savior.”

The Doctor’s words resonated in her mind, and Y/n felt herself teetering on the edge of the abyss, the possibility of becoming Kerosene, the force of vengeance and power. She fought against the idea, but there was a part of her that was beginning to awaken, to open like a flower in the desert.

“So, what do I have to do?” she asked, finally facing the reality that surrounded her. The tears, instead of being a sign of weakness, now seemed a recognition of her new identity.

The Doctor looked at her with a mix of satisfaction and complicity, like a teacher who sees the spark of greatness in his student.

“First, you must accept that the past does not define your future. The blood that surrounds you is only the first step toward freedom. Become what you have always been. Your destiny is to burn, and in doing so, illuminate others.”

Y/n felt the weight of her decision slowly fading away. By accepting her destiny, she had found a new way to free herself, a purpose that shone like fire.

“Then I will do it.” she said, her voice now firm and resonant, as if she were finally embracing the darkness that had always dwelled within her. “I will be Kerosene.”

The Doctor smiled, and in that smile lay a world of possibilities. Together, they could shake the foundations of Gotham.

“That’s right, my dear Kerosene.” He stepped back, allowing his figure to fade into the shadows..“And remember, every decision you make will be a step toward glory or toward downfall. The line is thin, and you are destined to cross it.”

“What about them?” Y/n asked, pointing to the shadows surrounding her, referring to the Waynes who remained silent in their luxurious prison of silence. “Where is Batman?”

The Doctor paused, his gaze turning serious and contemplative.

“Since your appearance, the Waynes have become shadows of what they once were. Batman has vanished, as if fear has locked him in his own game. They don’t want you to know the truth, and I wonder if, deep down, he fears what you are capable of.”

“Fears?” repeated Y/n, incredulity splattering her voice like a rain of dead stars. “Why?”

“Because the truth is that there is no longer space for the good in this city.” The Doctor stepped closer, his tone low but filled with fervor. “Soon you will go after the Court of Owls. We will expose those monsters in the streets, as they deserve, and they will have no one to defend them. Not even their beloved bat.”

A chill ran down Y/n's spine. The idea of stepping out into the night, of facing the villains who had ravaged her city, filled her with a strange power. She remembered Pamela, laughing amidst the shadows, her voice like an echo urging her to fight.

“I will not be their puppet. I do not want to be a pawn in a bigger game.” The words erupted from her with the force of an approaching storm, and the vision of Pamela dancing among the flowers filled her with a sudden sweetness.

“You will not be a pawn, Kerosene.” The Doctor smiled, and in his eyes was an air of admiration. “You are the queen in this game. Your vengeance will not only bring down those villains, but it will also seek the man behind the mask of Batman. We need to end him.”

“End him?” The question hung in the air like a trembling whisper. Her heart stopped for an instant, remembering the nights spent with Batman, the unspoken words, the caresses of an absent father.

“Yes. Because he, like them, has become a legend that needs to fall.”

Y/n felt the darkness looming over her, a shadow whispering promises of power and pain. But there was something more, a spark igniting within her, a fire burning with the strength of a new dawn.

“Then I will do it.” said Y/n, her voice resonating with a clarity that surprised her. “I will expose the Court of Owls and make my father see.”

The Doctor watched Y/n with palpable satisfaction, as if he had finally ignited a spark deep within her being. With a gesture of his hand, he made the invisible shackles that kept her trapped fade away. In that moment, a strange freedom slipped over her skin, a freedom laden with dark responsibility.

“Come, Kerosene.” he said, his voice now a hypnotic chant rising among the shadows. “There is something you need to see.”

He led her through a labyrinth of damp hallways, each step resonating like an echo of past decisions. The walls seemed to whisper forgotten secrets, tales of those who had fallen into the abyss before her. As they advanced, the light of day faded, and the gloom became an accomplice to their thoughts.

Finally, they reached the balcony of the building, a place where time had stopped its march. The Doctor gently pushed Y/n toward the railing, forcing her to look out over the vast expanse of Gotham that stretched before them. The city was a canvas of flickering lights and deep shadows, a portrait of intertwined chaos and order.

“Look, little one.” the Doctor whispered, his voice wrapping around her like a veil of mystery. “This is your city, a monster that feeds on the secrets you hold in your chest. The blood that stains your skin is a symbol of the struggle that lies ahead.”

Y/n leaned over the edge of the balcony, feeling the cold wind caress her bare skin. The city glimmered like a sea of dying stars, each light a story, each shadow a whisper of betrayal. The vision enveloped her, and for a moment, she felt like a spectator of her own destiny.

Her bare skin, still stained with blood, prickled at the chill of Gotham, a freezing breeze sneaking through the cracks of crumbling buildings, as if the city itself reminded her that she was alive, that darkness embraced her with its mantle of forgetfulness and despair. Each small contact of the air made her more aware of her vulnerability, and at the same time, of the power that blossomed from within her. It was a reminder that, amidst chaos, she was the spark of a new flame.

The puddles of blood that had stained her skin, silent witnesses to her transformation, shone like a dark ruby under the dim light of the moon. In that moment, each drop was an echo of past decisions, a symbol of the life she had left behind. And yet, in her mind, the Doctor's words echoed: “You are the spark that can ignite the revolution.” The irony of her state wrapped her in a sweet and bitter confusion; deep down, her nakedness felt like a release.

The city stretched before her, a vast ocean of twinkling lights and lurking shadows. Gotham, in its complexity, seemed to breathe, a living being pulsing with stories of pain and longing. The streetlights flickered as if about to go out, and Y/n felt that each flicker was a whisper calling her, a reminder that she was destined to be part of something much larger than herself.

As she gazed at the horizon, her mind filled with images: the faces of those she had lost, those she had loved, and those she had to confront. Her heart wrestled between the desire for vengeance and the longing for redemption.

“What do you see?” asked the Doctor, his eyes shining with an unsettling intensity.

“I see…” Y/n began, but the words slipped away like sand through her fingers. The city was a labyrinth of emotions, a stage where pain and pleasure intertwined in a macabre dance. It was a reflection of her own internal struggle, her desire for vengeance and her yearning for redemption.

“I see a sea of shadows, a stage where illusions collapse like houses of cards.” she finally replied, her voice echoing. “Each light, a hope; each shadow, a whisper of unhappiness.”

“Perfect.” The Doctor smiled, his face illuminated by an almost fraternal satisfaction. “Gotham is a mirror, and you are the light that can break the darkness. You must be able to see beyond what shines.”

The Doctor’s words resonated in her mind, tearing through the veil of confusion that enveloped her. In that instant, Y/n understood that every tear shed had fed the city, that every drop of blood on her hands was an echo of what she had lost. And yet, vengeance offered her a new purpose, a path into the unknown.

“The city cries for change, for a fire to purify it” she whispered, her voice gaining strength in the night breeze. “And I… I am that fire.”

“That’s right, dear.” The Doctor nodded, a mix of pride and malice in his expression. “The fire that will purify Gotham and, in its wake, consume everything that stands in your way.”

Y/n felt the air fill with electricity, a palpable current connecting her to the city, to its pain and desire. Deep within her, something began to change. She was no longer just a puppet; she was no longer merely the shadow of her past. She was Kerosene, the spark that would ignite the flame of change.

“But, Doctor, what about those who love the darkness?” she asked, her voice now an echo of what she had learned. “What if they cling to their shadow?”

The Doctor stepped closer to her, his penetrating gaze filled with complicity.

“Darkness is a possessive lover, but there is always a price to pay. The truth is that they cannot hold onto it forever. And when the fire burns, only those ready to be reborn will be saved.”

Y/n felt a mixture of anguish and determination. The city before her became a symbol of her internal struggle, a stage where light and shadow intertwined in an eternal game. Every street, every building, every corner whispered her name in a song of warning and challenge.

“And when the fire consumes everything in its path, will there be anything left of me?” she asked, her voice trembling with the fragility of a leaf in the wind.

The Doctor smiled, a smile that seemed to mock the questions still dancing in her mind.

“Perhaps, dear Kerosene, you will find yourself in the act of burning. Or maybe, you will fade into the ash. That is the enigma of transformation: in the fire, death is merely the prelude to a new beginning.”

As she gazed at the city, Y/n felt her identity fragment and fuse, in an endless cycle of creation and destruction. The image of Gotham before her became a metaphor for the human soul, a reflection of the struggles everyone faced in the darkness. The city, with its chaos and its heartbreaking beauty, enveloped her like a hug.

With one last look at the flickering lights and lurking shadows, Y/n stepped back, a firm decision rising within her.

“There’s no turning back now” she murmured, her voice an echo of her new reality. “I will be the fire that illuminates this eternal night.”

The Doctor, with a gesture of approval, retreated into the shadows, leaving her alone in her revelation. As the city spread before her, a mantle of mystery and power, Y/n knew that the true journey was just beginning. The line between fire and ash was thin, and in her chest burned the certainty that by crossing it, nothing would ever be the same.

“So be it, Kerosene” she said to herself as the wind enveloped her in secret whispers. “Let the fire speak in your name and let the night receive your lament.”

And looking at Gotham, she understood that, in the end, her destiny was not merely to be a spectator, but an unstoppable force, a storm that would unleash chaos. And so, with her heart beating to the rhythm of the city, she prepared to embrace her truth, her fire.

☆

A/N — Here is the long-awaited third part of this series. Thank you for all the support and love you have given me. I decided to make this part longer (at the cost of not being able to include the last image :( ) so that you can enjoy it more.

I was reading your comments where you were asking if Y/n and the Doctor would have a romance (which horrifies me a bit :d, but it gave me an idea) or if he performed a lobotomy on her. Well, that will be answered in the next part or in a headcanon, whatever you ask me.

By the way, in the tag list, there are some users I couldn't add, sorry about that 😔. I really appreciate your understanding and patience. Your enthusiasm keeps me motivated to keep creating and sharing these stories. I hope you find this installment engaging and that it brings you the excitement and emotions you’ve come to expect from the series. Enjoy!

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

take a bath!

Tag list! ◇ — @amber-content @toast-on-dandelioms @feral-childs-word @sweetconnoisseurgardener @victoria1676 @toasted-cat18 @nosyrobin @beeaskewwrites @yandere-enthusiast @telltaletoad @dhanyasri @vanessa-boo @m3vl0vesu @jellypotato66 @midnightgrimoire @cherryxxxxyoongi @imnotdumbimstupif @plsfckmedxddy @h0neysiba @mybones537 @erikasurfer @sheepintherain @pix-stuff @yan-rai @uniquecutie-puffs @arlandvery @theblonde777 @alishii

@maicenitas @ti-girl1226 @vanilliona @chickenwings435 @thedramabrotherss @bat1212 @imnotdumbimstupif @somebodyrandom-613 @aelxr @jsprien213 @sheepintherain @lovebug-apple @zenychwan @starsdotalk @holylonelyponyeatingmacaron @misdollface @clementinesyummy @bunbunboysworld @lunaluz432 @kiarst @meowmeeps @adeptusxia0 @mettatons-number-1fan @fairygardenprincesss @nervousalpacalady @mottysith

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

2K notes · View notes

postmortemnivis · 1 year ago

Text

no grave can hold my body down, i'll crawl home to her.

simon really meant it, every bit of it, he’d come back to you somehow. he would find his way back to you. whether it was walking through the front door quietly not to wake you up in the middle of the night or cold in a coffin. he’d rather have you hold his dead body than not to have you touch his skin ever again.

that’s what simon was thinking about as his ear ringed so loud he couldn’t focus on his surroundings. he looked up at the sky, so blue it almost didn’t feel right. why so blue when so much blood was being shed?

he occasionally would feel the ground he was laying on tremble, maybe a hand grenade, maybe a body falling next to his. the smell of gunpowder filled his covered nostrils and he could feel his lungs collapsing on themselves from the thickness of the air he was breathing. his eyes weren’t doing good either, filled with dust and sand from the dry earth.

it took him a few more seconds to focus his eyes on something, something that possibly wasn’t moving, his head spinning each time he tried to sit up. something was weighting on his legs, holding him down. he struggled to raise his torso and groaned at the sight of a large body blocking him. he let himself fall back down.

he was ready to go, a sharp pain to his side telling him he wouldn’t last long alone. he’d been through worse, way worse, the scar provided by the meat hook was proof of that, but something was telling him this was as bad. he was ready to go.

the only thing he could think about in his last moments was you. he thought he could see glimpses of you, maybe your hair in the corner of his eyes or he’d hear your laugh as another fire shooting started. his eyes searched for you frantically. he wanted to tell you to leave immediately, scream it at the top of his lungs, but his voice was caught in his throat and you weren’t really there. his mind just playing cruel tricks on him.

your name was repeated like a mantra in his head, repeating it so many times it almost lost a meaning. almost. a prayer, a chant. he sure needed to pray, for you.

he had been shelving the thought that tormented him for months. he wanted to go and confess his sins, he almost felt the need, his palms itching with haste anytime he thought about it. years had passed since the last time he had set foot in a church, so many that he had almost forgotten the reason for the visit. the ghosts of the past never abandon you, especially if they are people you love, especially if they are family, the innocent. its always the innocent who pay the highest price.

‘i wonder what she’s doing now, who’s gonna knock on her door and tell her im gone.’ he thought. ‘hopefully price. he’s the one with tact and the most considerate. he’ll help her when i’m gone, keep an eye on her.’

the sweet smell of your hair replaced for a moment the one of blood and gunpowder, your laughter still echoing in his ears. he pictured your sweet face and big innocent eyes looking up at him.

“promise me something?”

“mhm?” he hummed, surprised you were still up. his hand hadn’t stopped caressing your hair since you laid down on his chest, your hand resting on his collarbone as your ear listened to his calm heartbeat. “yeah, anything.”

“promise me you’ll always come back.” you whispered in the dark room. “promise me, simon.”

he nodded, taken aback by your request. you weren’t the fondest of his job, he knew it, he hated to concern you like he did.

“yes.”

“promise.” you urged. “please.”

he bent his head down and kissed the top of yours, his arm sliding down your back and drawing you closer by your waist. “i will, love. i’ll always come back to you.”

you sighed, the knot of thoughts in your worried head began to untie. “mh.”

“better now?” he softly asked. his voice was hoarse from his constant shouting orders at the obstreperous recruits. you gave a short nod. “i mean it.”

he groaned as he managed to get the body off of himself, struggling to get on his knees.

fucks sake, he couldn’t let you live with him gone like this. it was selfish of him to leave you in such an abrupt way, really. he tried to push away the image of you opening the door to find price with a carton box filled with simons stuff from the barracks with the balaclava and skull mask on top and your knees hitting the floor before he could even say anything.

his legs didn’t feel like they could hold his weight up, he immediately fell to his knees as he heard another rapid fire too near him for his liking. his gun was long gone, he had to manage to survive alone, again.

“crawlin’ it is.” he breathed as he started to drag his tired body with the strength of his arms alone. you had always praised his strength: he could lift you with one arm alone, you loved to be held and hold on to his arm anywhere and at anytime. that was the main reason he always pushed for more while training, and the motivation your sweet compliments always gave him now were gonna save his life. he made a mental note to kiss and hold you a little longer and tighter if he ever made it home alive.

he could see the building his team was supposed to meet up in case things got bad. it looked so far away that it was alarmingly close. maybe it was just his messed up vision, a mirage, but he could swear he saw you from a window looking at him, urgently motioning him to come.

he brought the thick balaclava above his nose so he could breathe better and as enemy gunfire continued to flow, he kept his head low as he moved dead bodies from his way.

he could hear your voice calling for him and he wanted to call you for you back, but the noises of the battlefield were hurrying him to get to the safe zone first.

he stumbled by the door as he brought himself up, one hand stabilizing him as he held on to the doorframe as the other went to press on his wound.

“lt!” johnnys voice called before he rushed to help him. “ye cheeky bastard, i told them not to leave yet, to wait for ye.”

“gaz saw you get shot.” price swung simon’s arm over his shoulder in order to help him to the nearest table, where he laid down.

“he saw that right.” simon bit the inside of his cheek as price inspected his wound, pressing on it. “is he a‘ight?”

“he’s fine, hit his head but had his helmet on, he’s getting checked out by the medics.” price informed him as simon winced at the sharp pain. “there’s at least two bullets in here, didn’t pass through, stuck.”

“just take ‘em the fuck out.” simon groaned. “how’s it lookin’?”

“you’ll live.” price patted his shoulder in comfort before he went to call a medic.

“we really thought we’d lost ye there, lt.” johnny’s face was glowing with sweat and blood, the black war paint smudged messily all around his face and his mohawk dusted.

“helicopter’s leaving in thirty, boys!” price’s baritone voice called from the other room.

simon scoffed, sighing and closing his eyes, finally letting himself relax as your figure started to fade from the corner of the room where it’d been standing, silently looking at him. “won’t lose me, can’t wait to go home, johnny.”

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simons a loverboy at heart #simon is not ghost

4K notes · View notes

ashes-of-rozes · 3 months ago

Text

In Chicago, I Feel It

Relationship: Viltrumite!Mark x afab!reader

Summary: The world is over. Chicago burned first. Mark found you and now your life is actually over.

Tags: reader has (plant) powers, cursing (come on guys), war, violence, DARK ROMANCE, could also be classified as horror/gore, mentions/thoughts of harassment (very mild), slightly ooc, Viltrumite!Mark is evil but he’s soft just for you, song, part 2 (?)

The world was forever shrouded in a shade of grey.

When the Viltrumites invaded— yesterday? Two months ago? It’s hard to tell— everything went dark overnight. Literally.

The big cities were the first to go. Chicago. Then New York. Then Los Angeles. Then Orlando. Like dominos, the cities fell, crushing people under the weight of several tons of concrete.

And somehow, somehow, you’ve managed to survive this long. You never sided with a resistance but you ran away from the invaders too. The Viltrumite who ruled called himself Mark. The name haunted you, kept you up at night.

You had a friend named Mark before this all started. He’s probably dead. Everyone else you knew was.

Food was scarce and hard to find if you never picked a side. You heard rumors that the humans under the Viltrumite’s rule didn’t have to worry about food. Or clean water. Or their lives.

It sounded so tempting.

And yet you never surrendered. Was comfort worth the cost of your freedom? Was your life more sacred because you had powers? None of it felt fair. None of it felt right.

Your skin constantly crawled with guilt— the planet you once swore to protect under the safety of a mask crumbled to a fine powder and you did nothing. You had teamed up with the Guardians to try and stop them but the last time you saw them, Eve was the only one still breathing. You panicked.

You didn’t want to die. Especially a painful one. The thought was terrifying.

As you retreated into the Earth, your eyes met with the Viltrumite in charge for this whole thing. Even far away you could see the blaze brightening up his tired eyes. He stared at you, eyes watching as you sunk underground. He didn’t even try to stop you.

Thankfully, your powers let you hide from most of them. You could cover up your rotten smell with flowers or smell like the burning Earth under your feet. You could go two hours laying underground with no oxygen so small spontaneous naps were your only friend.

But your luck was running out. You could feel it. The line you were balancing on was wobbling and nearing its end.

Screams echoed from far away. You winced, sympathetic with their pain and fear. But you were selfish and went the exact opposite direction, desperate to cling to the tainted atmosphere another day. The screams stop and you feel a chill snake down your spine. You look over your shoulder, seeing the orange glow of a distant war.

You round the corner of a crumpled building when you bump into something. The action surprises you and you stumble back onto your ass, vines instinctively curled around your hands, the dirt under your palms wet. You didn’t want to know if it was water or blood.

You look up and your breath catches in your throat, “You-“ He cuts you off with a single raised hand. Fear seeps into your veins, black and poisonous. “You’re the one from three weeks ago,” he says, calm voice making you sick.

No.

It’s only been three weeks?

His eyes scan you, traveling up and down your body like your prey for him, “I looked into you. I was curious about the defender of Earth who coward behind the world, pretending to be a hero.” This man seemed to know everything about you from meeting you two seconds those weeks ago. He takes a step forward and panic overtakes your sense to think clearly; thorn painted vines shoot out from under your palms and towards him. Mark holds out one hand, catching the vines in his grasp. With his left hand, he pulls the vines from the ground. He takes another step forward and pauses, looking down at his palms.

Blood.

He tosses the vines to the side, glaring at his hands. Three small cuts, but sharp enough to bleed.

Fear wraps around you like a wet suit, clinging to your skin with your panic-induced sweat. You scramble back on your hands, the ground swallowing you more and more with each inch. You’re not even aware your sinking.

“You made me bleed,” he says, still staring at his hands. Would apologizing help your chances of staying alive? He looks back in your direction, “You injured a Viltrumite Soldier.” Tears fill your eyes but you don’t get the chance to let them fall. Mark is in front of you before you finish blinking, pulling you out of the ground like it’s nothing. “You’re coming with me.”

It’s not a request or a command. It’s a simple statement. “No,” you manage to squeak out, “Please. I’m sorry.” He stares at you, his face unreadable. “Your apologies mean nothing,” he says. The tears finally start to fall and you squirm in his hold, “No!” His glare hardens, his grip tightening but he starts flying. Dread wraps around your heart like an overgrown weed and you reach down, pleading for the Earth to save you.

Nothing happens.

Why would it?

You didn’t save the Earth, it shouldn’t save you.

You fall limp and his grip only tightens, “Your powers are meaningless if you’re not surrounded by natural materials, aren’t they?” You don’t answer, tears falling from your chin and dripping towards the ground several thousand feet below. You don’t have to answer. He knows what it is.

By the time he flies over Milwaukee, your tears have stained a clean path onto your dirty face. Your eyes grow heavy as you watch the world crumble beneath you. Before you can fight it, your eyes fall shut, surrendering to your future.

〤〤〤

“Wake up.”

The voice barely registers in your empty mind before the air leaves your lungs.

Your eyes snap open, instinctively calling for the Earth but the only thing under your palms are silk sheets and— wait. You take a deep breath, eyes focusing on your surroundings. The room is white and mainly bare. It consists of the bed you were thrown on, a small empty desk in the corner, what’s possibly a closet, and a bathroom with the door open that looks just as hospitalized as the rest of the place.

Your throat tightens and you manage to gather enough courage to look at him, “Where … are we?” Mark stares at you, like he’s considering answering. Eventually, he does, floating down until his feet hit the floor soundlessly, “My quarters within the new liaison building on Earth.”

Huh?

You nod, mind still jumbled and confused. “Your … quarters,” you mumble to yourself, staring at the silk bedding beneath your fingers, “Not prison?” He huffs, almost sounding amused but mainly empty, “No. This won’t be much different for you, though.” You pinch the white fabric between your fingers, freezing. “Worry not, if I wanted you dead or thrown in jail, I would’ve done so already,” he says. Like that’s somehow supposed to bring you comfort. You swallow, throat dry, “Then what am I here for?”

“Reproduction.”

Fear hits you again but it’s different this time. Darker.

Every muscle goes taught with tension.

The mattress dips with the added weight when Mark sits down, “You don’t need to worry. It will be painless. I’ll ensure it is.” You didn’t even realize you were crying until a tear fell onto the sheet.

“You’re shaking.”

And maybe you are. You’re not entirely sure. There’s a hand on your calf, gentle but possessive, “You do not wish to reproduce with me?” You immediately shake your head no. But there was no point in fighting it, if he wanted to, he’d easily overpower you.

The silence stretches for a long time. You can’t look up, tears soaking the sheet below you.

“Okay.” Mark stands and you turn to look at him, breathing labored, “…okay?” He nods, “Viltrumites do not mate without consent. I’ll wait until you are ready.” Your breath stuttered. Part of you was relieved that he wasn’t forcing you and the other part didn’t believe him. “And if I never am,” you ask, voice low. “You’ll except it one day,” he says, like he somehow knows the future, “Until then it’s my job to make sure my mate is healthy and well-kept.”

Mark reaches out a hand, “And not only have you soaked my bedding, you’ve gotten it muddy by simply existing on it.” A fresh waves of tears come back, scared for your safety. “You need a shower, I have work to do. I’ll send someone in for the bed.” You blink, staring at his hand. “You’re injured and malnourished, get clean and you’ll be taken care of,” he continues.

“Do I have a choice,” you ask. It’s a stupid question. “Not in your health,” he says, hand still outstretched, “Not today at least. Behave, and you’ll get freedom.” You inhale shakily and take his hand. He pulls you close and you climb off the bed with shaky legs. They’d gone numb a while ago. Mark gives you a curious look and let’s go.

Your knees buckle almost instantly but he catches you before you hit the ground. He doesn’t say anything else, picks you up and carries you to the bathroom. It’s a stand up shower.

Mark sets you on the edge of the sink, “I really must go, but I’ll start the water.” He turns on the very complicated looking faucet and straightens back up, turning back to look at you. “Get cleared from the doctor today and you can roam around all you want tomorrow,” he informs. You nod.

He turns to leave, pausing at the door. “Don’t try and escape,” he says, back muscles flexing from tension, “I will find you and you will not like me when I do.” With that, he closes the bathroom door and leaves.

masterlist

||part two||

#invincible comic #invincible x reader fic #invincible x reader #invincible #invincible x you #invincible x y/n #viltrumite mark #mark grayson x you #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson #dark romance

536 notes · View notes

stevie-petey · 8 months ago

Text

episode seven: the massacre at hawkins lab

Steve coughs, swatting at the particles in the air. “Just inhaled a bunch of that crap.” “I’ve been trying not to think about how much of the Upside Down we’ve ingested since being here.” “It’s stuck in my throat, Y/N.” “Again, I’m trying not to think about that.

Summary: bats are really fucking annoying to fight, you always somehow end up critically injured, nancy carries the group on her back as always, eddie gives steve relationship advice (embarassing, tbh), interdimensional bike riding is lowkey fun, and you take a trip down memory lane.

Rating: general, some swearing, violence

Warnings: fem!reader, use of y/n, cursing, blood and gore, critical injuries, mentions of fainting, mentions of death and violence, description of corpses

Words: 11.9k

Before you swing in: ive never been more excited to write a chapter tbh. this episode touches on so many things ive been building up for seasons now !!!! insane !!! im so so so excited to see how yall react. this chapter has my favorite sequence of scenes yet ;) enjoy !

–

His name rips from your mouth. “Steve!”

The bats sink their fangs into his stomach. His legs kick out, he gasps for breath, choking on his pain. Your legs threaten to give out as you stumble towards Steve. Quickly your fingers find the knives you always carry with you just as a bat lunges towards you.

Barely having time to dodge its quick attack, you swat at the creature, but your knives slide off its skin easily. Your heart drops; their flesh is too thick to cut through. The bat screeches at you, its teeth bared, and you throw your body weight against it onto the ground. Angling your knife, you pierce the inside of its mouth, killing it.

“Shit!” Another bat crawls towards you. Your elbow scrapes the ground as you roll out of its path, slicing into the creature’s maw.

Steve screams again, this time even louder as even more bats surround him. Frantic, you jump to your feet. Without thinking, you grab the tail of one of the bats, its face buried in Steve’s stomach. When you start to pull, Steve shakes his head violently and throws his arm out at you. “Go!”

You don’t bother answering; you’re not leaving him.

The bat’s tail cuts your palms as you pry it off of Steve’s flesh, but as soon as it’s removed, it latches onto your upper thigh. “Fuck!”

Razor sharp pain shoots through your entire body. The bat loosens its jaw to only tighten it more; you can feel its teeth hit your bone. Screaming, the white-hot pain blinds you. Your knees give out and you fall before you can catch yourself.

“Y/N!” Steve chokes out, desperate. He clenches his jaw, tries to get up. More bats screech overhead, circling you, and Steve knows you only have seconds before you’re dead. But the vines around his neck constrict even more. His airway closes, another bat takes the other one’s place on his stomach.

“Motherfucker!” You stab at the bat, but then a second one slams against your body and your shoulder explodes with pain. “Fuck-no,” you try to twist around, to use the last of your strength to remove it from your own skin, but it’s no use. The bats tear at your skin, ripping through muscle and ligaments.

Lightning flashes, its light red mars the endless dark blue sky. Above you, a bat screeches, signaling its descent, before it dives towards you at full speed. Your eyes close, you hope death will be quick.

“Get fucked!” Someone screams, a sickening thud following. Opening your eyes, you see the creature’s body get thrown into the air. Eddie stands above you, smiling wickedly, but as soon as he sees the two other bats gnawing on you, he brings his oar over his head and swings.

You look away, scared he’ll miss, and see Nancy and Robin a few feet away. Nancy holds the other oar, working with Robin to kill the swarm of bats that encase Steve’s body. Seeing them makes you want to cry in sweet relief.

The sound of the bats’ pained cries echo in your ears. It takes several attempts before Eddie manages to get them off of you. The bat’s teeth cut deeply with every attack, causing you to cry out in pain. It’s fucking agonizing. Warm blood follows a sickening tearing sensation in your leg.

When Eddie has killed both bats, he helps you stand up. “Jesus, you alright?”

“Talk later,” you grunt, already rushing to go help Nancy and Robin. “Fight now.”

Eddie doesn’t stop you. He swings his oar again and Robin begs you to help. She has a bat pinned down while Nancy pounds her oar into its face, but it won’t fucking die. Its tail has wrapped itself around Steve’s neck and he’s paler than you’ve ever seen him.

But before you can gut the piece of shit creature, another bat pounces on Nancy. Its claws tear her skin and she yelps. You scream her name and catch her before she falls. “I got you.”

Nancy’s hands clutch your body as you stab the bat. “Get it off me!”

“I’m trying!” The bat won’t let go, screeching with every pull. Biting down, you ignore the searing pain as your palms get cut up even more. Robin tries to help, but you scream at her. “No! Help Steve!”

She nods quickly and it’s a mess of fighting and screeches and blood. Steve bites down on the bat’s tail, its jaw opens as it squeals, giving him just enough time to escape. As he rolls to the side, Robin throws the bat’s body onto the ground.

Seeing Steve safe reinvigorates you, and with one final scream, you use everything within you to pull the bat off of Nancy’s back. It releases her skin with a squelching pop. You force your knife down its throat and pin the creature to the ground. It writhes beneath you. “Now, Nancy!”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Go to hell!” Her oar slams down, killing it.

Behind you Eddie kills the remaining few bats that circle overhead. Steve stands next to you, slamming the final bat into the ground. The body lands with a loud smack against the concrete and Steve rips the carcass in half.

Blood drips from his mouth and he messily spits it away. He’s panting, his stomach is on fire, he’s stuck in some alternate dimension with no way out, but all he can focus on is you.

Flesh hangs from your shoulder, leaving behind a gaping wound of exposed muscle. Your thigh is torn clean through. There’s blood everywhere. The white of your tanktop is now soaked in red. But you’re here, you’re alive. He hasn’t lost you. Not yet, at least.

“Y/N–” Steve practically falls against you, and you’re no better yourself. You’re crying, snot runs down your face as you grab desperately at him. His hands are all over you as he tries to stop the bleeding, but there’s so much blood.

“I-I’m here.” Your hands are all over Steve’s body, too. They cup his waist, there are so many bite marks on him, but at least his flesh is warm under your skin. He’s still here, he’s still yours, and now all you want to do is calm him down. Steve is panicking, holding you as if he’s afraid you’ll die in his arms any second, and the fear on his face makes your chest ache.

“Are you guys okay?” Nancy asks, tentatively touching your shoulder. A wince slips from her lips when she sees the flesh that is no longer there. “Jesus, Y/N.”

Steve wraps his hands around your thigh, it’s bleeding the most and you can barely put any weight on it. “I’m fine, but they took a fucking pound of flesh from her.”

“You’re no better,” you’ve placed your own hands over his stomach, his blood warm against your fingers. “I think you lost your appendix.”

Steve laughs, but almost immediately his laugh turns into a groan. “God, don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”

You apologize, kissing his shoulder. Light catches your attention and you see Robin crouched down next to one of the bat carcasses. She looks up at everyone. “Uh, do you guys think these bats have, like, rabies?”

“Robin, if we have rabies, please promise me you’ll shoot me.” You tell her, dead serious. Rabies has always terrified you. When you were younger, a rabid fox made its way onto your grandparents' farm. It had killed all the chickens, attacked the herding dog they had, and you remember how distraught your father had been when he had to kill both the fox and the hound.

“I’m sure you and Steve don’t have rabies.” Nancy says, sensing your growing fear. But before she can say anything else a small group of bats descend from the sky.

Steve pushes you behind him. They land near the gate you fell through, screeching at the five of you. They’re a small enough group, Steve voices what you’re all thinking: you can handle them. Flicking your knives out, you prepare for what’s about to come.

Until a swarm grows larger in the distance. There’s easily hundreds of them, they cast a shadow below where they fly. There’s too many to fight.

“You were saying?” Robin breathes out, eyes never leaving the sky.

Steve is speechless, he doesn’t know what to do. His hand tightens around you, protective, but thankfully Nancy has a plan. She tells everyone to run towards the woods and none of you hesitate to follow. Steve swings your legs over his arms, picking you up with ease despite the bite wounds that litter his skin. Like hell he’s letting you run right now; you’re too torn up, you can hardly even walk.

As Steve runs with you in his arms, he’s careful to avoid the vines that creep over the ground. It’s a dizzying rush. All you can do is hold tightly onto him, trusting that Nancy knows where she’s taking you.

Deep into the woods, Nancy calls over her shoulder, “Over here!”

Lifting your head from Steve’s chest, you realize, as you always do, that Nancy Wheeler is a goddamn genius. She’s taken you all to Skull Rock.

The giant boulders form a small alcove, just big enough to hide under as the bats fly overhead. She instructs everyone to crawl under and Steve sets you down gently, positioning you so that you’re sitting with your back against the rock. As soon as you’re secure, Steve’s hand goes back to your thigh.

The sound of the bats is almost deafening. No one dares to speak. They fly over at such a gruesome speed, their screeches echoing off the trees. You lose count of how many there are. All you can do is wait for the last of them to leave.

More lightning strikes above. It shakes the ground, the sound reverberates in your skull. You can’t believe you’re here. You’re in the Upside Down. The place you’ve only ever spoken about, the entity that haunted your nightmares and took the ones you loved from you.

It’s so much colder than you imagined it to be. Everything is darker, more twisted. The dimension is exactly as Will once described to you: this is Hawkins, it’s your home, but different. Colder, scarier. These woods are the woods you walked through, the woods where you fell in love, and yet the trees loom over you in a threatening way. Their branches form spikes, the dirt recoils against your feet.

Nothing here feels warm. The darkness is never ending.

This is where Will was, all by himself, for a week.

He had only been twelve.

When the nightmare swarm of bats is finally over, Robin carefully pokes her head out from the alcove. “Okay, that was close.”

Eddie agrees, kicking at a rock. Steve offers you his hand to stand, but the moment your skin touches his, you feel sick. All the adrenaline from earlier leaves you. All the blood you’ve lost catches up, leaving your body weak. Stumbling, your vision tunnels and your eyes roll back.

“Woah, hey.” Steve breaks your fall, snapping his fingers in your face to bring your attention back to him. He’s weak as well, he has to lean heavily against the rock to steady himself. “Y/N-shit!”

“Steve?” Nancy turns around, finding you and him moments away from collapsing. She curses, rushing over. When she sees all the blood that still pours from your thigh, she gags. “Oh, fuck.”

“Keep… keep talking. Please.” Your breathing is labored, you can hardly form any words. “Keep talking to me. If-if I faint… embarrassing.”

“I think she’s losing it.” Eddie whispers rather loudly to Robin.

Nancy grazes Steve’s chest, silently asking him to move your body aside. She wants to get a closer look at his wounds as well, she can’t help you if he’s bleeding out himself, but he refuses. “No, no we need to help Y/N.”

“Steve, you’re also losing blood–”

“I don’t care.” Steve pulls you even closer to his chest, he needs to feel your rib cage rising and falling. He needs to feel you breathe. “Help her, Nancy.”

His outburst startles Nancy. She takes a step back, alarmed, but clenches her jaw. There’s no getting through to Steve; she knows she’s lost the fight. “At least sit her down.”

Steve collapses, sliding back against the rock with you tucked to his chest. With shaking hands, he forces you to sit next to him. You wince with every movement, it’s getting harder and harder to stay awake.

“Stay with me, angel.” Steve murmurs to you, motioning to Nancy to look down at your thigh. The wound is bleeding the most, the teeth sunk in the deepest.

“Don’t wanna faint,” your head sags to the side, exhausted. “So embarrassing.”

Nancy places her hands unsurely to your thigh. The blood squelches, soaking through your jeans. She exhales shakily. “You’re not-you’re not going to faint, okay? Just keep talking, Y/N.”

“Hate bats.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind, but it seems to settle Nancy’s unease and Steve’s worry. “Little fuckers hurt.”

Nancy tears the end of her shirt, her nimble fingers gently lift your injured leg. She ties the piece of fabric tight around your thigh, quelling the bleeding. Steve helps with the knot, though really he just needs something to do.

“If you want some good news, I’m pretty sure wooziness is not a symptom of rabies.” Robin crouches next to you, smiling despite how terrified she is. “So that’s something, right?”

You yelp when Nancy tightens the tourniquet. Biting your tongue, you force a smile to Robin. “Hooray.”

“There,” Nancy wipes her hands of your blood. The tourniquet isn’t much, but already the bleeding has subsided. “But I think you’re going to need stitches.”

“I’m tired of hospitals,” you whine, but you’re already feeling a bit better. You’re weak, sure, but at least your body isn’t slowly draining itself out. “Thanks, though.”

Nancy nods, smiling softly, before her eyes land on Steve’s stomach. “Can I finally patch you up?”

Steve doesn’t even look at her, instead cups your face. Even though you’re covered in blood and sweat and tears, even though your cheek is scabbed and your lip is split, he doesn’t think he’s ever found you more beautiful. “You alright?”

“Been better,” you admit, squeezing his arm. “But let’s worry about you now.” Turning to Nancy, you extend your arm. “Got any more torn pieces of clothing?”

She bites her lip. The only thing covering your body is your tank top. She’s seen the cuts all over your palms. She doesn’t think you’ll be able to wrap the cloth around Steve, if she’s being honest. But she also knows Steve and how fiercely he loves you. He won’t let anyone near him but you.

Finally, she sighs. Tearing off more of her shirt, she hands it to you. “Yeah, here.”

You thank Nancy again, and she gives you a curt nod before backing away, giving you and Steve some space. Once she’s gone, you tend to Steve’s injuries. When he moves his hand away and reveals raised, angry flesh, you inhale sharply. “Steve…”

“Just a flesh wound.” He jokes, but you can hear the pain in his voice.

Though you’re still dizzy and weak, you manage to lift Steve’s body enough to wrap the makeshift bandage around him. Luckily he isn’t bleeding as badly as you are, but the sight of him injured still leaves you nauseous.

Tying the fabric around his torso, you’re careful not to hurt him any more. The moment is familiar, reminiscent of the years before. Back in the junkyard when a Demodog nearly tore open your rib cage, Steve had been the one to take care of you. He had so carefully wrapped your cardigan around your chest, been so delicate with you, and now it’s your turn to do the same for him.

“We always end up here, don’t we?” You say softly, it still takes a lot of energy for you to speak. You finish tying a knot to secure the bandage and Steve looks at you oddly. He doesn’t understand, and you shrug. “You and me, patching each other’s wounds up.”

Steve’s eyes soften. It doesn’t matter where he could be, in what situation he could be stuck in, you always somehow remind him of how loved he is. “Kinda wish the bats had eaten my ribs instead. We could’ve had matching scars.”

You laugh, eyes shining with tears. Fresh pain explodes all over your body, but you laugh anyways. You don’t know why you’re laughing or why tears run down your face. The exhaustion and pain from today must finally be catching up to you. “How romantic.”

Steve laughs as well, the pain of it bearable when he hears your laughter mixing with his. “I love you, angel.”

“I love you, too, honey.” It’s so cold in the Upside Down, but the warmth of Steve’s love feels like sunshine kissing your skin.

Robin clears her throat. “Uh, not to ruin this cute moment, but I just wanted to say that if either of you start feeling aggressive, please let me know. Because, ya know. The threat of rabies still.”

“I kinda wanna punch you.” Steve looks at her pointedly, annoyed.

You poke his cheek and smile apologetically at Robin. “He didn’t mean that.”

“Sense of humor is still intact, that’s a good sign!” She cheers, then, as an afterthought, she takes off her flannel and hands it to you. “Also, figured you’d want this. Not that you aren’t totally hot right now in only a tiny tank top and blood all over you, it’s just freakishly cold down here and you technically have an exposed wound on your shoulder and who knows what sorts of awful flesh eating diseases there are here.”

You accept the flannel gratefully and thank her. Then, together, you and Steve stand up. The process is difficult, you only have one functional top and bottom, and you walk in a slow manner together as you lean against the other.

Up ahead, Eddie is standing on one of the boulders, staring out into the vast dimension. “So, uh. This place is like Hawkins, but with monsters and nasty shit?”

“Basically.” You respond, grunting as you support Steve’s upper body.

Eddie nods, defeated, and before he can step down, Nancy tells him to be careful of the vines. “It’s all a hive mind.”

When Eddie doesn’t understand, Steve tries to explain it to him. “All the creepy crawlies here, dude. They’re like, one or something.”

“They’re all interconnected. They can feel each other’s pain, feelings, whatever.” You say, remembering how Jonathan had described Will’s agonizing screams when the vines had been burned in the tunnels.

“Step on a vine, you’re stepping on a bat, you’re stepping on Vecna.” Steve finishes grimly.

Eddie smiles sarcastically, obviously displeased with this information, but he’s careful not to step on any vines on his way down.

“But everything from our world is still here, right? Except people?” Robin asks.

You nod. “According to Will, yeah.”

This pleases Robin, and she starts explaining her plan. If everything's the same in the Upside Down, then you should be able to use the guns stored away at Hawkins’ police station. With the ammunition stored there, it’d be more than enough to kill the bats that guard the gate back to Hawkins.

“I highly doubt the Hawkins PD has grenades, Robin.” Steve says skeptically. “But guns? Sure.”

You shake your head. While Robin’s idea is good, there’s still the issue of going all the way downtown from Skull Rock. The five of you barely made it half a mile without getting killed. There’s no way you’d survive three. “But the police station is downtown. That’s too far from here.”

Robin deflates, but Nancy furrows her brows. After thinking for a moment, her eyes light up. “We don’t have to go all the way downtown. I have guns. In my bedroom.”

God you love her.

Eddie scoffs in disbelief. “You, Nancy Wheeler, have guns… plural? In your bedroom?”

“Full of surprises, isn’t she?” Robin says with pride.

“And this is why we always listen to her.” You sing along, high fiving Robin.

Nancy doesn’t acknowledge you or Robin, but her cheeks flush with slight embarrassment. “A Russian Makarov and a revolver.”

“Yeah, you almost shot me with that one.” Steve reminds her, though his tone is gentle, almost teasing.

You laugh, remembering how terrified he had been when Nancy pointed the gun at him. You all had been so much younger, more naive. All he wanted to do was apologize to Jonathan for their fight earlier. Steve had just wanted to make things right, and that’s why you stepped in front of him that night. “Luckily for you, I was there to save your life.”

Steve looks down at you fondly. He pulls you close, his eyes are full of so much love. He remembers everything. The night that started it all. “And then I saved yours.”

To think that a sprained ankle and a bat full of nails would lead you to here: Steve’s warm chest against you, so full of love.

Lost in your warm memories, neither you nor Steve see Eddie throwing his vest at Steve’s face until it’s too late. The material smacks against him, cruelly bringing the two of you back to reality.

“What the fuck, Eddie?” You sneer at him, deeply annoyed.

He waves at you flirtatiously, a devilish glint in his eyes. “I’m protecting your boyfriend’s modesty for you.”

Before you can retaliate, the ground beneath you starts to shake. The force of it is so sudden, so strong, that it sends you and everyone else falling. Steve catches himself on a rock, holding you tightly to his chest, and you manage to catch Nancy before she falls as well. Eddie grabs onto Robin, stuck on the ground together.

The tremors are violent. There’s a cracking sound, branches fall behind you as the earthquake destroys whatever it can. Steve holds you through it, he whispers reassurances to try and calm you. When it’s over everything is quiet for a moment, before a loud, heart stopping shriek cuts into the night.

It doesn’t sound like any creature you’ve faced before. Far too loud to be a Demodog’s, far too large to be a bat’s. The thought of what it could be almost paralyzes you; it could’ve been the Mind Flayer.

“Guns seem like a pretty good idea to me.” Eddie finally says, panting.

Robin quickly agrees, and you swallow down the bile that rises in your throat. “Yeah, okay. I can be okay with guns.”

“So what are we waiting for?” Steve puts Eddie’s vest on, twirling a flashlight in his hand. He nods to himself, tries to convince himself that he’s as confident as he sounds. He extends his other arm towards you, helping you steady your balance. “Let’s go.”

And you follow.

–

It’s a long walk from Skull Rock to Nancy’s house; it’s an even longer walk when you’re in the Upside Down, hiding from demonic bats. With every branch that snaps beneath someone’s foot, you all jump. The croak of whatever creature nearby sets everyone on edge.

“Couldn’t we have tried a road or something just slightly less creepy?” Robin complains, jumping over a vine.

Leaning against Steve, you groan. “Anything would be less creepy than this.”

“I think we’re getting close,” Nancy tries to sound convincing, but even she’s uneasy. “We’re almost out of here. Don’t worry.”

Robin nods at the reassurance, but you can’t help but wonder what could possibly come next after you find Nancy’s guns. It’d be two guns, two critically injured members of the group, two oars, and one switchblade against an army of bats.

Not the best odds.

Nancy and Robin wander further ahead, leaving you behind with Steve and Eddie. None of you talk, more so because you’re putting all your energy into not falling on your face and Steve is busy helping you stay upright.

Walking is difficult and painful and you’re so frustrated by it all, especially after you trip over your fourth tree root. If it weren’t for Steve’s quick reflexes, you’d be long dead by now.

Eddie must recognize this, too.

“Here, let me just–” He comes next to you and throws your arm over his shoulders before either you or Steve can protest. Immediately the pressure on your injured leg lessens. You sigh in content, and Eddie smirks. “There ya go, princess.”

“Don’t call her that.” Steve snaps, but even he has to admit that Eddie’s help is needed. With him carrying half your weight, Steve is able to breathe a little easier. You’re better balanced this way. He’s no longer straining his injuries to support you.

Eddie winces. “I’m sorry, just… trying to lighten the mood, I guess.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, but the silence stretches on and you feel bad for Eddie. He really is trying. Despite the fact that he’s Hawkins’ most wanted, he still tries to make everyone else laugh. He has to know that he’s never getting out of this alive, and you admire the strength it must take to continue laughing anyways.

So you try to for him as well. “Thank you, by the way. You saved our lives back there.”

Eddie looks at you funny, he hadn’t expected you to acknowledge it. “Shit, Steve saved his own ass, man.”

“That’s true,” you laugh. By the time the fight finished, Steve had somehow managed to fight his way out by himself. “It was impressive.”

“No it wasn’t.”

Eddie scoffs at Steve’s dismissal. “Please, that was a real Ozzy move you pulled back there.”

“Ozzy?” Steve looks at you, silently asking for some type of explanation, but you shrug.

“All I know is that he’s in Black Sabbath.” Jonathan occasionally listened to the band whenever he was particularly angry, but not enough for you to understand Eddie’s obscure reference.

Eddie makes a surprised, but pleased, sound. “Honestly surprised you even know Black Sabbath, but c’mon. Ozzy Osbourne, he bit a bat’s head off onstage. You seriously haven’t heard about that?”

You and Steve stare at him blankly, and he sighs. “Well, it was very metal. That’s what I’m trying to say.”

Steve scoffs again, but deep down you know he’s preening. It’s not everyday someone commends his strength or recognizes how well he can hold his own. Steve has come a long way since his first fight with Jonathan back at the alley.

“I think I finally get why my brother likes you so much,” you tell Eddie, looking up at him curiously. “You know a lot of weird facts. He goes crazy for them.”

That, and you’re finding that Eddie isn’t so bad when he isn’t surrounded by his goonies. He’s actually… decent when he isn’t putting on a show for everyone. It’s almost reminiscent of how Steve had once been, back when he was the King.

But if you ever pointed out that similarity to the boys, you know they’d be deeply offended.

The corners of Eddie’s mouth tilt up. “Yeah, well. The kid adores you and practically worships Steve.”

“He does?” Steve almost sounds bashful at the idea of Dustin worshiping him. It makes your heart constrict. You both miss your brother terribly.

Eddie nods. “Oh yeah, it’s kinda annoying, to be honest. Especially when all he talks about is Y/N. If he isn’t talking about you, he’s talking about her.”

“I doubt that’s true,” you shake your head. “He doesn’t need me anymore, he’s practically counting down the days until I leave.”

“Nah, man. Dustin tells me all the time how much he’ll miss you when you leave.” Eddie tells you, voice firm. “Kid always talks about how much you look out for him, that he doesn’t know what he’ll do when you’re gone. In a way, it’s annoyingly endearing. He frets over you just as much as you fret over him. I can see the Henderson charm in him that made you Hawkins’ sweetheart.”

Everything that Eddie tells you leaves your throat sticky with tears. You didn’t know, you couldn’t know all Dustin said about you. For the longest time you thought he’d grown to hate you, to resent you the way kids often do with their family. You would’ve never blamed him; sometimes people just grow up, grow apart, but here Eddie is, telling you that your brother will miss you when you’re gone.

Unable to say anything in fear that you’ll cry, the only response you give Eddie is a curt, short nod.

Steve rubs your side tenderly, understanding all you’re unable to say. Eddie feels the touch against his own side and he clears his throat. He knows you want him to change the subject. “Admittedly, I got a little jealous. Hearing the little shrimp talk about you as if you hung the goddamn stars yourself.”

The irony of it all crashes upon you. While you had been jealous of Eddie, he had been jealous of you. The two of you spent months quarreling over Dustin, you’d been uncharacteristically mean to Eddie, and yet the entire time you envied the other.

Abandonment can make people cruel.

“I was jealous of you, too.” You finally reveal to Eddie, meeting his eyes for the first time tonight.

Eddie stares back at you, his expression softens with understanding. He seems to have pieced together what you have: your anger had never been cruel, only defensive. Protective of your brother the way only a sister would in fear of losing him.

“Guess that makes us both idiots, huh?” Eddie teases gently, accepting the offering of truce that you present to him.

You laugh, looking away. The moment of truce is nice, pleasant almost, until the beat of silence becomes too unbearable for you. You’ve revealed enough of yourself tonight. Awkwardly clearing your throat, you lift your arm from Eddie’s shoulder and pull away. “Robin is probably missing me right now. She hates the dark, these woods are her worst nightmare.”

Steve catches your arm before you leave. You’re still unsteady on your feet, but he understands what you’re trying to do. He’s come to learn that you shut away when you’re vulnerable. While you wear your heart on your sleeve, Steve knows that it can be exhausting for you.

“Need me to call her over?” He asks you quietly.

“No, I can manage.” You kiss Steve’s cheek, thanking him without having to say it. Eddie smiles at you as you leave, tight lipped, but kind nonetheless.

The two teens watch you slowly make your way over to Robin, who happily welcomes your presence. She wraps her arms around you and holds you tightly, giggling slightly, before holding you close and helping you walk.

“I’ll bring her back in one piece!” Robin calls to Steve, giggling under her breath. Steve waves his hand sarcastically, but doesn’t argue. Turning to you, Robin’s face shines in the blue moonlight. “You here to save me from this totally creepy, absolutely horrid woods?”

“Duh,” your laughter reflects hers. “I’m your knight in shining armor, babe.”

Robin squeezes your hand, resting her head against yours as you walk together. It’s been a long time since you’ve held each other like this. The realization makes you guilty. “How’ve you been holding up?”

Robin shrugs, the motion jostles your head, but you don’t mind. “We’re in the Upside Down, some guy named Vecna wants you and Max dead, and you refuse to admit that you’re scared.”

You bite your lip. Robin is just as worried for you as Steve is, she’s just hidden it better, and you wish that you could spare her the worry. She’s put up such a strong front for you. Between Steve, Dustin, Lucas, and Max, Robin knew you didn’t want yet another person coddling you.

So she stepped back, gave you the space you wanted, but you’re still her best friend. Robin won’t let you forget that.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper to her, holding onto her as tightly as she holds onto you.

Robin shrugs again. “Nothing to forgive, pretty girl.”

And it’s as simple as that.

Though Steve can’t hear your conversation, he watches you and Robin fondly. The two of you sway together, laughing occasionally. Eddie notices the way Steve looks at you and laughs to himself.

“You know, I was jealous of you, too.”

Steve raises his eyebrow. “What?”

“I was jealous of you and Henderson, the little one, I mean. Guess I couldn’t accept the fact that Steve Harrington was actually a good dude. I mean, rich parents, popular, chicks love him, not a douche? No way dude. That like, flies in the face of all laws in the universe and my own personal Munson doctrine.”

Then Eddie motions towards you. “And when you started dating Y/N? C’mon, man. Everyone knows Y/N Henderson is like, God’s gift to selflessness. I watched her tutor kids in the library like goddamn Gandhi, and suddenly she’s dating you? There isn’t any law in the universe to explain that. Fucking unfair.”

Though he knows he should be offended, Steve finds himself laughing. If he’s being honest, he’s relieved that someone else is questioning whether Steve deserves you. From the moment he met you, you’ve tried convincing him that he’s always deserved you. But Steve knows better, and he can’t believe it’s Eddie Munson who sees this, too.

“If it makes you feel any better, I also don’t know why Y/N chose me.” Steve confesses, catching Eddie’s attention. “Honestly, I don’t think I ever would’ve been someone she even liked had we not been dragged into the Upside Down together. I was a douchebag. She hated me for years, but I guess saving her life a few times earned me some brownie points.”

Eddie snorts. “Surprised you’re not claiming it was your ‘stunningly good looks’ that made Y/N fall for you. Oh how humble you’ve become.”

“Y/N changed me.” Steve’s eyes find your body again. They will always draw towards you no matter where you are.

The sincerity in Steve’s voice surprises Eddie. Licking his lips, he sighs. “Well whatever she did, I never would’ve jumped in that lake to save your ass, not under any normal circumstances.” A branch snaps, Steve and Eddie turn to its source, but there’s nothing there. Sighing again, Eddie continues to walk. “Outside of DnD, I’m no hero. I see danger and I just turn heel and run… at least, that’s what I’ve learned about myself this week.”

Steve doesn’t know where Eddie is going with this. “Hey, give yourself a break, man.”

Eddie points to you, Robin, and Nancy walking up ahead. “No, you see. The only reason I came in here was ‘cause those ladies came in straight after you. I was too ashamed to be the one who stayed behind. But Y/N? She dove in the second your head went under. Nearly tore Robin’s arm off trying to get to you.”

Something heavy settles in Steve’s chest. There’s a shift, there’s something that simmers deep into his rib cage.

Eddie forces Steve to look at him. “I don’t know how you did it, but she loves you. The way she was screaming your name, it was an unambiguous sign of true love that these cynical eyes have ever seen. And if someone like Y/N Henderson loves you… then I figured you must be worth saving.”

Steve’s breath stutters. He looks up at you again, the warmth that cascades his veins whenever he sees you overwhelms him. Steve loves you more than anything. To be told how deeply you love him by someone else is almost too much.

You and Steve have been fighting so much recently. He’s said awful things to you, you’ve hurt him in ways he hadn’t known he could hurt. All the unspoken words, all the uncertainty and fear, and yet you dove in to save Steve without hesitating.

And isn’t that all that love is? To love without expectations, without hesitancy. Love is the inability to separate your breath from the person’s lungs; you took all the air out of Steve’s chest the moment you smiled at him.

You’re the best goddamn thing that has ever happened to Steve. He’s always known this, he’s always known that what the two of you have is special. It’s something more than just young love.

So what if the future you envision doesn’t align with Steve’s? How could something so small, so miniscule as compared to forever with you, be what Steve allows to drive you away? You deserve more than just his insecurities. You’ve already decided that Steve deserves your love, what more can he want from you?

He already has you; Steve won’t let you walk away from him. Not this time, not when what you have is rare and real and raw.

Steve almost wants to laugh at how funny it is. He’d been so worried about losing you, that he almost lost you in the process. What’s even worse: it took a five minute conversation with fucking Eddie Munson to even realize it.

“Y/N, she’s–” Steve begins, but the ground starts to shake again and he’s falling. Eddie curses, sick of these earthquakes, and Steve braces himself as the rumbling continues.

Robin struggles to hold onto you as you cower together under the earth’s violent shaking. Instinctively your head turns toward Steve to make sure he’s okay. You find him on the ground next to Eddie. Sensing your eyes on him, Steve looks up and nods reassuringly at you. Relieved, you breathe against Robin.

“Second on my list of least favorite things,” she says, voice shaking. “Earthquakes. Seriously, I’m unsteady enough as it is.”

“At least you have two working legs.” You quip.

Robin shushes you, but her voice raises when she sees Nancy stand and take off. “Nancy!”

Squinting at the darkness, you see the girl’s figure disappearing into the treeline. She’s running alarmingly fast, way too fast for anyone to catch up in time, and your heart lurches. None of you should be splitting up right now. It isn’t safe. “Fuck! Someone stop her!”

Robin quickly throws you onto your feet and you call after Steve and Eddie to follow. If running was difficult with a bleeding out leg, it’s almost impossible with the ground shaking beneath you. But if Nancy’s in trouble, you need to get to her as soon as you can. Leg be damned.

Breaking through the treeline, you find her standing at the edge of a clearing. There are fallen trees everywhere. Red lightning illuminates the Wheeler house before you. By some miracle, you’ve made it.

“Come on.” Nancy breaks the silence, chin held high. She isn’t giving up now, not when you’re all so close.

She starts to walk, never looking back, and you look at Steve. He grabs your hand. You take a deep breath. You fucking hope Nancy’s plan works.

This is your only chance of going home.

–

The Wheeler house is exactly how you remember it, only vines and debris maims its usually pristine appearance. Nancy walks through the door first while Steve shines a flashlight. Particles float everywhere. You try not to think about the fact that you’re inhaling them.

Your foot catches on a stray vine, its tendrils flail angrily at you. Stomping your foot away, you look wearily at Nancy. “Love the decor.”

She rolls her eyes while Robin echoes you. “Might be time to get a maid, Wheeler.”

Ignoring the two of you, Nancy ushers everyone upstairs. While her voice is level, the unease in her body is apparent. She doesn’t like seeing her home this way. Sympathetic, you start to follow Nancy, but for a split second you think you hear Dustin’s voice.

It’s faint, mostly incoherent, and you think you’ve finally gone crazy. That’s it. Vecna has won, you’ve lost the remaining sanity you had left.

But then Steve suddenly freezes next to you. His bewilderment tells you that he hears Dustin, too. That’s your brother. You’d know his nasally voice anywhere.

Sharing a look with Steve, you simultaneously begin running around the house, trying to follow the sound of Dustin’s voice. You remember Will telling you how he could hear Joyce’s cries for him while he’d been trapped in the Upside Down. It had been the only way Joyce could communicate with him. What if this is the same?

“Start screaming,” you command Steve, limping over to one of the walls.

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s what Will did, he-he screamed for his mom and Joyce was able to hear him.” You press our mouth close to the wall and shout, “Dustin!”

He has to hear you. You don’t know what you’ll do if he doesn’t.

Steve wastes no time following along, screaming Dustin’s name at the top of his lungs as well. You know the two of you must look like complete idiots, but you’re desperate.

“Dustin! Dustin Henderson you have five seconds to answer me!” You yell, throat burning.

“Hello? Answer us!” Steve stands in the center of the kitchen, crouched down as if getting ready to bolt.

This is how Nancy, Robin, and Eddie find you. The three of them stare at you and Steve in concern, though none of them want to get any closer. Robin ducks her head down, whispers, “Maybe they really do have rabies.”

“What are you guys doing?” Nancy demands, fed up.

“He’s here,” Steve whips his flashlight around, facing them. “Henderson. That little shit, he’s here. He’s like-he’s in the walls or something. Just listen.”

Dustin, predictably, is quiet the moment Steve tells everyone to listen.

You pound on the wall. “Oh, now you’re quiet?” Everyone looks at you skeptically and you rub your face tiredly. “Look, I know this all sounds crazy, but I can hear Dustin, alright? It’s him.”

“Dustin!” Steve continues to screech, not helping your whole “we aren’t crazy” argument.

Only Dustin’s voice returns, and thankfully Nancy and everyone else hears it. Together you all search the house, calling your brother’s name out. Yet now matter how loud you scream, he doesn’t respond.

“Alright, either this kid can’t hear us or he’s being a total douchebag.” Steve drops his flashlight.

You blow hair out of your face. “Normally he’s a douchebag, but not nearly to this extent.”

Nancy stands next to you. “But Will found a way to make Joyce listen.”

“When Joyce couldn’t hear him anymore, she used the Christmas lights.” You look at her. “Do you think…?”

She’s already running to the nearest lamp in the kitchen. Flicking the switch, nothing happens. You suggest trying a different light, though you know it won’t make a difference. When the lights remain unlit, you slam your palm against the table in frustration.

“Guys?” Steve gets your attention. He’s shining his flashlight at the chandelier that hangs over the Wheeler’s dining table. “You seeing this?”

Where Steve points his flashlight, a warm, evanescent glow emits from the chandelier. You gasp at its beauty, you’ve never seen anything like it. Nancy steps towards the light and slowly puts her hand into the loose waves that flow between the lights. It’s encased in small orbs that float gently into the air.

Nancy’s fingers dance in the light. A path of gold leaves a trail where her fingers have been. The particles in the light surround her hand, pulled in by her presence. Breathless, you reach out as well. The light kisses your hand, and the sensation is soft, almost ticklish.

“This is insane,” you murmur in awe, face illuminated. You never thought you’d encounter beauty in such a place as the Upside Down. But at least Will found the beauty, too. “This must be how Will did it.”

Robin, Steve, and Eddie copy you and Nancy, putting their hands into the light as well. The five of you twirl your fingers around, causing the light to flicker with every movement.

Steve’s pinky reaches for yours. “It… tickles?”

“It kinda feels good.” Mumbles Robin, making figure 8’s with her finger.

Nancy then lowers her hand and asks if anyone knows morse code. She mostly looks at you when you ask, and you bitterly tell her no. You’d think after everything you and the party have been through, you’d at least learn morse code by now.

“Wait, does SOS count?”

Eddie’s stupid question makes you hit his chest. “Of course it counts!”

“Ow!” He shoves you away from him, straightening his leather jacket. “A ‘yes” would’ve sufficed.”

Nancy shushes the two of you and instructs Eddie to start typing out the code. With a huff, he listens, and soon he begins the pattern for SOS. A soft buzz accompanies every flicker of the light. With each letter combination, you can practically feel Dustin getting closer and closer to you.

It’s almost an indescribable feeling. Somewhere, in another universe, Dustin is standing right where you are. You aren’t sure how you know, maybe you’ll never be able to find the right words, but your brother’s presence settles over your own.

This must be how Jonathan felt when Joyce was in the Upside Down. He whispered her name so softly when he followed her with the lights. Their love for one another tethered them; now it’s your love for Dustin that tethers him to you.

“Dustin,” his name comes out whispered, relieved. He’s okay, you can feel that he’s safe.

“Y/N?” Dustin’s muffled shouting fills everyone with relief. Steve and Eddie high five, Nancy lets out the breath she’d been holding, and Robin cheers while you hastily wipe your eyes. The SOS worked. “Is that-is that you?”

“Yes!” Steve screams into the chandelier, though you know your brother won’t be able to hear.

Anxious to get to Dustin as fast as you can, you shove your hands into the chandelier’s light and send a long, bright beam of light. More muffled screaming can be heard on the other side, only this time laughter accompanies it.

“Holy shit!” Dustin exclaims in awe. The amazement in his voice makes you miss him even more. There’s a murmur of other voices, you can only assume one of them is Lucas’, before Dustin shouts even louder, “We’re gonna find you a better light source. Don’t move.”

You roll your eyes. “Like we can go anywhere else.”

Dustin leaves again, but he’s back within minutes. Through loud screaming, he tells you to find Holly’s Lite Brite and go to Nancy’s room. Him and Lucas will meet the rest of you there.

The moment Dustin leaves again, Nancy shoves everyone upstairs. “I’ll find the light pad, the rest of you go. Now.”

And that’s how you find yourself restlessly staring at a child’s light up toy on Nancy Wheeler’s bed with Steve’s chest pressed against your back. He leans close to the toy, mumbling under his breath, “Come on, little Henderson.”

The Lite Brite suddenly comes to life. You throw your hands up triumphantly, giddy. “Yes!”

“You guys seeing this?” Dustin asks, to which Nancy responds by putting her hand into the light. Dustin squeals in excitement. This must be a scientific dream for him. “Okay, we’re not moving it, but we’re gonna unplug it. Stand by.”

The light fades away and Dustin prompts someone to spell something. Everyone turns to you. He’s your brother, you should be the one to make first contact.

Carefully, you use your pointer finger to spell out D.U.S.T.

Eddie cocks his head. “‘Dust’?”

“He’ll understand.”

When your mom first brought Dustin home from the hospital, he’d been so small. Immediately you fell in love with the small baby, but his size had confused you. You’d never seen anything so tiny before.

“He’s small,” you informed your father, making a face at the yawning baby before you. “Like dust.”

You were only three, but you can still remember the way your dad had laughed. For years afterwards you never referred to Dustin by his actual name. He was only ever “Dust” to you. Your father joined, the nickname stuck, though your mother came to prefer “Dusty.”

It was only after your father left that you stopped calling your brother Dust.

“Dust!” Dustin laughs excitedly. “I’m Dust! Yes!” He raises his voice louder, he can’t believe you remembered the old childhood nickname. “That worked, guys!”

Everyone cheers, Eddie even throws in his own enthusiastic “hi” to the Lite Brite. Your face aches from how hard you smile. Turning the toy over to Nancy, you nod at her. “All yours, Wheeler.”

Her eyebrows knit together as she thinks for a moment. There’s so much to tell Dustin and the others, but the Lite Brite is small and too many words to keep track of. “What should I write?”

“‘Help’ would be a pretty good place to start.” You suggest to her.

Instead, Nancy ends up spelling “stuck”. Which is pretty fitting, all things considered. Gets the message across well.

“You can’t get back through Watergate?”

Steve questions whatever the hell watergate is and Robin has to explain the wordplay. While she does so, pride swells deep within your chest. “Dustin’s a little genius that I love so much.”

“It was pretty clever.” Eddie admits.

Nancy tells Dustin that the gate you all came through is guarded. However, never missing a beat, Dustin tells you that he thinks they have a theory that can help. “We think Watergate isn’t the only gate, that there’s one at every murder site.”

You jerk your head up, eyes widening. It all makes sense now. “Wait, I think he’s–”

“Does anyone have any idea what he’s talking about?” Nancy asks tiredly. Everyone gives her equally tired no’s, but you nod viciously.

“Yes! We already know there’s multiple gates, we just didn’t know how, but Dustin might’ve figured it out. It’s all connected to the murders.”

Nancy looks skeptical. “I don’t know…” Before you can argue with her, she sends a “?” back to Dustin.

Who, predictably, doesn’t take it well. “Seriously? How many times do I have to be right on the money before you guys just trust me?”

Steve grimaces. “Jesus Christ. This kid’s gotta get his ego checked out.”

“It’s his tone, right?” Eddie butts in.

You shove them both. “Shut up. Both of you. Dustin can be annoying and frustrating, but he’s right. He’s always been right. Now if you guys would actually listen, he’ll get us out of here.”

Looking pointedly at everyone, you start to explain. “There was a gate in Lover’s Lake, which we obviously found,” your arms wave behind you. “The same lake where Patrick died. Now, where else has a dead body been found?”

“Eddie’s trailer,” Nancy straightens, understanding where you’re going with this. Looking at Eddie, she asks him how far it is.

“Seven miles.”

Your head drops. “Why couldn’t you have lived closer?”

“I’m sorry I’m… poor?” Eddie looks at you incredulously.

You flick a dismissive hand at him, but Robin cuts in between you two. “Nancy, I know your house here is, like, weirdly, creepily frozen in time and shit–”

“It’s what?” Obviously you missed some important details.

Robin holds her hand up. “I’ll explain later. Anyways, haven’t you always had bikes?”

You and Nancy share a look, both thinking the same thing: the bikes would be perfect. That, and they’re kinda your only option at the moment.

–

Since you’re in no condition to bike (your thigh has only just stopped bleeding) and there’s only four bikes anyways, Steve has you wrap your arms around his chest and stand on his pegs. He claims it’s so that you can avoid putting any weight on your leg, but you honestly think he just wants you to hold him. Pressing your body close to his, you look around at the houses you pass.

In a strange, twisted way, it’s exhilarating biking through an Upside Down Hawkins. Everything, and yet nothing, is the same. The houses you pass are frozen in time, empty, ghostly. Robin, Nancy, and Eddie bike alongside you and Steve. The scene is almost reminiscent of the night you biked Will home, wind in your hair and the night sky before you.

Everything has changed since then.

Somewhere along the route to Eddie’s, you bike past the Creel house. Your arms tighten instinctively around Steve. A chill runs through you, the house is just as haunting in the Upside Down as it is back in your universe. Your head throbs being so close to it, as if warning you, but Steve is turning into Eddie’s neighborhood before you can think much else of it.

“That’s gotta be a Guinness World Record.” Robin throws her bike down, breathless. “Most miles traveled interdimensionally.”

Steve coughs, swatting at the particles in the air. “Just inhaled a bunch of that crap.”

“I’ve been trying not to think about how much of the Upside Down we’ve ingested since being here.”

“It’s stuck in my throat, Y/N.”

“Again, I’m trying not to think about that.”

Eddie opens his trailer door and, just as Dustin predicted, there’s a gate. It’s just like the one in Lover’s lake had been: illuminating red light, vines all around its edges. An open wound.

“This is where Chrissy died.” Eddie stares up at the gate, which resides in the ceiling. He swallows heavily. “Like, right where she died.”

“I’m sorry.” Your hand finds Eddie’s arm. You don’t know much about what their relationship had been, but he seems to have cared about the girl a lot.

Eddie gives you a tight lipped smile, his eyes shining slightly. As he looks at you, Robin sees something moving in the gate. “I think there’s something in there.”

Something starts to protrude from it, causing the gate to swell rapidly. The vines almost seem to snarl at the intrusion. An ominous, unsteady croak emits from the gate. The sound sets your nerves on edge and Steve shoves you behind him protectively. Hand on your knives, you raise them, bracing.

The gate explodes, spewing liquid and vines everywhere. You all scream, jumping back, as something rips through the membrane-like material. Unable to tell what’s just happened, you squint up at the ceiling.

Nothing jumps out at you, no bats come to feast on your flesh. Finding Steve’s eye, you silently ask him if you should walk closer. Nodding, he grabs your hand, and together you creep towards the remains of the gate.

When you look up, you find Dustin’s smug, joyous face staring back at you. Only he’s upside down with Max, Lucas, and Erica, all just as in shock as you are.

You’ve never been more relieved to see them in your life. Dropping your hands to your knees, you bend over and finally breathe. “Oh, thank God.”

“No way…” Steve waves at them, and they wave right back. “Hi.”

“Dustin!” If your leg wasn’t hanging by a thread, you’d be jumping up and down right now. Instead, you opt for waving like a madman at your brother. The entire situation is so fucking bizarre, but you don’t even care anymore. “You did it!”

“I did it!” Dustin giggles. “Bada bada boom!”

After some heated discussions and a few arguments, Dustin and the others come up with a way to get the five of you out of the Upside Down. Using Eddie’s bed sheets as a makeshift rope had been the easy part. What caused nearly a fist fight between Max and Dustin had been figuring out a soft landing pad for you guys.

“I, uh. Have a mattress?” Eddie finally suggested when he noticed Max’s fist clenching.

She glared at him. “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

“Well, I mean. It’s-uh. Minor details?”

But none of them had time to question Eddie’s sudden shyness regarding his mattress. Dustin got straight to work tying the bed sheets together while Max and Lucas worked on dragging the mattress out of Eddie’s room.

However, the moment it landed on the ground, all eyes went to the giant stains on the bed. Cringing in disgust, you eye Eddie.

Seeing your disapproving look, he swallows. “Those stains are, uh…” He tries to come up with an excuse, but eventually he realizes it’s better to just accept defeat. “I don’t know what those stains are.”

“Would we want to know even if you knew?” You ask him, already knowing the answer.

“... Probably not.”

Dustin tosses the bed sheet rope up, or rather down, through the gate. “Not quite sure how these physics are gonna work, but here goes nothing.”

Miraculously, it lands perfectly in front of you. Dustin tugs at the rope before letting go of it completely. You gasp. The rope stands on its own, stiff but secure, and Dustin lets out a pleased laugh. “Abracadabra.”

“I’ve never understood physics.” You say, pulling at the rope. It doesn’t move. “But even I can admit that this is cool.”

Dustin high fives Erica and Robin steps up first. “Guess I’m the guinea pig.”

“Please be careful.” You tell her, already dreading your own ascent. Your shoulder still aches and you were never the best at climbing the rope for gym. You preferred soccer, track, anything that involved leg coordination. Not upper body.

Robin slowly climbs up, and when her body hits the disgusting mattress back in your dimension, you let out a breath of relief. “That was kinda fun,” Robin giggles slightly.

Then Eddie stares at you, Steve, and Nancy. He waits for someone to move, obviously not wanting to be next. But when no one does, he shakes his head. “Alright, I guess I’ll go.”

Steve holds the rope steady and Eddie falls onto his mattress safely. He sits up, exhilarated. “That was fun.” He echoes Robin.

Steve gestures for Nancy to go next. “I’ll help Y/N up after you’re done.”

She gives him an uncertain look, eyeing your injuries, and you try to smile at her reassuringly. “Go, I’ll be fine. Promise.”

Knowing it’s as good of an answer she’ll get from you, Nancy takes a deep breath. “See you on the other side.”

You grab her waist and help hoist her up alongside Steve. She’s swift, her strength impresses you. She’s almost reached the top before you hear the first chime.

It’s loud, deafening. The chime of a grandfather clock.

Another chime follows, then a third, a fourth. It wracks your skull with its force.

You turn, gasping, expecting to find the grandfather clock that Max had seen in her vision. Only you’re met with darkness. You can’t see anything, you can’t find a way out. You can’t feel Steve next to you, your hands try to find his in the dark, but all they’re met with is air.

“What–” Panic chokes you. None of this is right, you don’t know where you are, you don’t know what’s happening and you can’t feel Steve and–

The sensation of sunlight kissing your face stops you.

Your eyes open. You’re no longer in Eddie’s trailer.

You’re outside, there’s sunshine all around you. In front of you is a field of dandelions, their sweet yellow reflects the gold of the sun above. The grass beneath your feet is soft, lush and green. A bee flies past your head and someone calls your name.

You’ve been here before. In the distance resides a small house on a hill. The blue door and white frames of your childhood home welcomes you. You’re back in Virginia. Someone calls your name again.

The voice is familiar.

It’s your father, calling you home.

The realization knocks all the air out of your lungs. None of this is real. You know it isn’t real, but to hear your father’s voice, so sweet and saccharine again, it makes you weak. But it isn’t real. Your legs begin to move, you’re running before you can think of anything else.

This is a vision. The scent of oak trees and strawberries isn’t real. The wheat that skims your thighs as you run doesn’t exist. “This is a vision,” you try to talk to yourself, your fingers dig into your pockets for your walkman.

You know you’re supposed to always have it on you, that’s what Dustin told you, but there’s nothing there. Panic swells within your chest once more. “No, please–”

Distracted as you look for your walkman, you don’t see the body in front of you.

Colliding into your father, he steadies you. “Woah, there.”

His calloused hands are rough and familiar. He’s laughing, his voice is the same gruff voice that used to sing you to sleep. Your father looks down at you and your entire body freezes when your eyes meet his.

You haven’t seen him ever since you were twelve. He looks the same as the day he left. His smile is the same, the crooked teeth charming. Your father’s nose still points up ever so slightly. The only indication that he’s aged are the wrinkles that line his face, years of sunlight etching them.

But it’s his eyes that hurt you the most. They’re still kind.

“What are ya runnin’ from, ladybug?” Your father asks you, his southern drawl liquid honey to your ears.

Tears build within you hearing the childhood nickname. You were his ladybug for as long as you could remember. When he used to call, he’d whisper the name over the phone as an apology for everything he’d done to you.

Because you can’t help it, because you’ll never be able to do this again, you hug your father. He lets out a soft chuckle at the impact, his arms hold you as they’ve always done. Your face buries itself into his rough t-shirt.

You’re a little girl who needs her daddy right now.

“I.. I missed you, daddy.” Voice breaking, you begin to cry.

Your father’s palm rests against your hand. He hums, soothing the ache in your bones. “You know you can never outrun it.”

The words unsettle you, there’s something about them that causes you to pull away. “Outrun what–?” “The guilt, ladybug. It will always find you.” Your father’s smile twists into a sickening grimace. The muscles in his face conjoin, his eyes darken as his voice becomes gravel. Deeper. Until it isn’t your father’s voice anymore, but someone else's. “I will always find you.”

Too late do you realize that it’s Vecna who now has you. You start to scream, thrashing in your father’s arms to escape, but he only grips you harder. He’s laughing, but it’s no longer your father’s laughter.

Suddenly you’re thrown into the lake behind you. You fall, screaming, as you descend deep into a pitch black void. Your arms reach out, you try to find anything to grab onto, but there’s nothing. It’s just endless emptiness.

You land harshly on your back, all the air gone. You gasp, choke on whatever air remains in your body. The impact leaves you coughing, clawing at the ground beneath you to breathe. Soil scrapes under your nails, your palm gets cut on a root.

You’re in the woods.

Scrambling to sit up, you realize you’re in the same part of the woods that Will went missing in. Fear cuts through your veins. Why would Vecna take you here?

“Will?” You’re on your feet now, cupping your hands over your mouth as you shout his name. Does Vecna have him? Have you lost him again? “Will!”

“He needed you that night.” Vecna’s voice taunts you, the sound like rocks grinding together. “Where were you?”

You’re running now. Branches cut your face as you break through them. You have to find Will. You can’t lose him again. You can’t do that to Jonathan, to Joyce and El and Dustin and Mike and everyone else. You’re the one who lost Will that night.

He had needed you. Isn’t that what Vecna said?

“Nancy!” Sobbing, you call for someone, anyone. But no one answers. Your vision blurs with tears, there’s someone running behind you. Chasing you. Terrified, you scream for the person you need the most. “Steve!”

Saying his name must trigger something, because suddenly the scene changes. You’re no longer in the woods. You’re on the ledge of someone’s roof, overlooking a window sill. A large, bay window that you’ve spent countless slow mornings residing on.

Steve’s house.

He’s standing in front of his bed, facing the window, facing you, but he doesn’t look at you. Not how he always does; his gaze lacks warmth.

“Steve!” You pound on the glass, you try desperately to get him to acknowledge you, but he doesn’t. His eyes are on Nancy, who sits on the bed before him. He leans down, brushes her hair out of her face, before bridging the distance between them.

You watch as Steve kisses Nancy. He cups her chin the way he cups yours. Bile rises in your throat; you can’t turn away. Their kisses become heated, Steve is tugging at Nancy’s hair and her clothes. She tugs at him as well, he helps her remove his shirt.

Nancy’s lips trace the expanse of Steve’s neck and his eyes, once closed in bliss, now open. He looks right at you.

“Did you really think I’d forget her, Y/N?” His voice digs into your ears. Nancy nips at his neck and he moans. He throws his head back, looks at you again. “I can’t. At least, not as easily as your dad forgot you.”

You stumble back, crying so hard you can barely breathe. Steve laughs seeing your heartbroken reaction. It’s cruel and awful. He’s cold. You’ve never known his voice to hold so much malice. Not towards you. Not towards anyone.

He’s wrong. Steve doesn’t love Nancy, not anymore. Vecna is the one saying this, you know it isn’t Steve. He would never say any of this to you, he could never be so cruel to you. He loves you. You know he does.

“N-no! This isn’t-this isn’t real–”

But the hatred in Steve’s eyes causes your foot to catch on the edge of the roof. You don’t have time to catch yourself; your body is weightless again, only this time it’s a much shorter fall. You land on concrete. Ripping your eyes open, there are domed walls around you.

Nancy stands above you.

Hyperventilating, you crawl away from her. You’re in Steve’s pool, only it’s empty, infested with vines, and your fingers stain the ground with blood. Everything in your body is screaming at you to run.

“Y/N–” Nancy tries to stop you, but you scream at her, kicking. She only barely avoids your fury. Holding her hands up, she lowers her voice, softens it. She’s crying, her terror the same as yours. “Y/N, it’s me, okay?”

Your body trembles with exhaustion. You close your eyes, tired of fighting. “Please be real.”

“I’m real.” Nancy swears to you, carefully reaching for you. When you allow her touch, she helps you stand up.

The memory of her having sex with Steve is burned into your mind. You can’t look Nancy in the eye. She breathes heavily next to, looking around for a way out, when she sees something. A strangled cry leaves Nancy’s lips.

Barbara Holland’s corpse sits on the other side of the pool.

You cover your mouth with a gasp, choking slightly at the sight. Nancy cries out in pain, in grief, seeing her best friend’s body dismembered by vines. You stumble towards Nancy and hold her as she sobs.

“Do you remember what you did, Nancy? Or have you already forgotten?” Vecna’s voice shakes the pool. “Don’t worry, I showed Y/N. When I kill someone… I never forget.”

A sob collapses in your chest. Barb’s death hadn’t been Nancy’s fault. Yet to place her in the same pool Barb was killed in, to show Nancy her corpse, is unrelenting cruelty.

All around you, blood pours from the vents of the pool. It comes out quick, thick, at a dizzying speed. Nancy tugs at your hand and practically throws you up the ladder to escape. But when you reach the top, you’re met with a red hell.

It’s exactly how Max drew it.

Fragments of stairs, jagged pieces of wood, a grandfather clock, they all drift through the air painted with blood-red. Somewhere there’s screaming, the sound only drowned out by lightning. A clock ticks over and over again. Its metronome is maddening.

Nancy holds your hand and neither one of you lets go. Having nowhere else to go, you’re forced to walk down the stairs you arrived at. The clock chimes again and your heart stops.

“I see you’ve been looking for me, Nancy. And Y/N…” Vecna pauses, preying on you. “I’ve been watching you for quite some time.”

Everything stops.

“All the guilt, all the pain.”

It comes to you in flashes.

How Will used to smile at you, before his childhood was taken from him. Max’s blue eyes, shining with youth and happiness, before grief killed her. Billy, how he would be kind to your mother at the pool. Hopper, the way you’d bicker with him just to get him to smile.

It’s all gone because of you; you can’t remember how to breathe.

Vecna feeds on your fear. “How fragile you’ve become… like a dandelion.”

The wording, it’s too specific to not mean anything. Dandelions were once one of your favorite flowers. Before a nightmare from last summer changed everything. The dandelions had filled your mouth with razors and choked you. Someone called your name in the distance, they’d been too late to save you.

The dream had felt so real. You’d woken up with tears in your eyes.

And now you know it had been Vecna all along. Even back then. He’s been watching you for far longer than you realized. The realization chokes you, the fear overwhelms you. He’s been here all along.

Nancy yanks at your arm, you can barely hear her over the roaring in your head. “Y/N, listen to my voice.”

She’s shaking you, trying to bring you back to her, but you’re lost. Hyperventilating, you struggle to catch your breath. You feel too vulnerable. Raw. Exposed. There are corpses strung up by vines in front of you. Fred’s broken jaw. Chrissy’s snapped neck. Patrick’s empty eye sockets.

The same will happen to you.

You’ve spent so long trying to be strong, trying to keep everyone safe. You’ve devoted your entire life to protecting others, helping them. But Vecna has been watching you for almost an entire year, maybe even longer, and you hadn’t noticed.

It’s why he’s targeted Max. He watched you take care of everyone you loved. Vecna watched you raise the girl. He knew it’d hurt you the most to lose her. It hadn’t been a coincidence. It’s all your fault. It’s always your fault. Will went missing because of you. Billy died because you hadn’t said anything. Max will die because you hadn’t seen the signs sooner.

Nancy’s screams fall deaf on your ears. She shakes you, begs you to come back, but why should you?

This is all your fault.

It’s always your fault.

It’s always your fault. It’s always your fault. It’s always your fault. It’s always–

You feel your body lift.

Everything fades to black.

⌑ series masterlist

⌑ if youd like to buy me a coffee ☕︎

⌑ thank you for reading ! feel free to like, comment, reblog, or send in an ask so we can chat <3

#steve harrington x henderson!reader #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #stranger things #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things rewrite #slowburn #angst #bdyr #m's writing #no one ask how i wrote this so fast #i am ill #we know this #anyways #let the screams begin !

659 notes · View notes

ce1estiall · 2 months ago

Text

fall in love again

summary uconn!paige x fem!reader you saw paige, your ex, at the bar. masterlist.

warnings drinking, angst, sexual tension

celestial notes thought about that one pazzi clip and a twice song at the same time... anyways send me some ideas if you guys have any. also im really trying my best to write longer, please bare with me! im trying my best!

“we are at a dead end, oh no, here we go again

tonight the stars out, lights flash thinking i was gonna dance. but rewind, playback now you got me in a trance

tonight we fall in love again.” - fila (fall in love again) - twice

paige bueckers, a name you’ve known since forever. she was the next best thing in the name of basketball, her name always headlining articles, newspapers, magazines, or even social media.

you dated paige during your sophomore year of college. you were in love with her, or at least you thought you were.

paige did show love and affection to you. she would sleep with you, go out on dates and even cook in the beginning of your relationship. it felt like everything you ever wanted in a relationship, what you dreamed of. however, things got rocky when she got an ankle injury. she was sidelined from the rest of her season, feeling the an outsider. her emotions immediately became taken out in you. she became mad instantly. constant arguments filled the apartment, arguing over stupid shit like what you were making for dinner. she would snap at you and blame you, saying everything was your fault. you were on thin ice when her behavior kept happening, as it started to question your commitment towards her.

one evening, you returned to your apartment from studying in the library most of the night. you had a final exam later in the week that was worth 50% of your grade. you put your keys on the counter, took of your shoes, and placed your bag on the couch. “paige, i’m home.” you spoke. however, you didn’t see her in the shared bedroom you had together. you checked the bathroom and living room, but nothing. no sight or scent of paige. a random instinct told you to check the guest bedroom, which was closed. it was always open.

you opened the door. your eyes immediately saw paige sleeping with another girl. you tried to gaslight yourself thinking studying was starting to fry your brain. but nope, this was real after you rubbed your eyes. her black wavy hair on paige's shoulder, as you noticed paige’s hands under her pants. you were pissed, anger flowing throughout your veins. “get the fuck out of my apartment. both of you.” you screamed, very sternly. paige woke up, seeing you. she got scared. she got out of bed to face you. “baby its not what it looks like.”

“bull fucking shit paige. i’m fucking breaking up with you. get the fuck out of my house, now. take your little side bitch too.” you wanted to kill her right then and there. "not only are you sleeping with her, but you're fucking her? are you fucking serious?" paige immediately woke up the girl. she woke up looking confused at what the yelling was about until her eyes darted to you, then paige, signaling that they had to leave. when paige left, a weight was lifted off your chest. you were done with paige, and it felt relieving that you broke that connection. it felt one-sided, like you were the only one who was trying to keep the relationship alive before it all went downhill.

10 months later, you were at your happiest, hanging out with your friends, partying, drinking, and having the time of your life. your best friend was turning 22, and you and your best friend decided to go to a bar near storrs. partying and drinking was a rare occasion for you. you decided to go to celebrate your best friend, not wanting to bring her down or ruin her day.

you entered the bar. black leather tube top with a denim mini skirt and black boots, whole outfit complimenting your body as you held a blue gift bag. you did your makeup natural, with just a hint of glitter eyeshadow that reflected off of the colorful lights in the bar. you saw your friends already taking shots. you walked up to them and greeted them, then seeing your best friend. “happy birthday pretty girl! this is for you.” you greeted her with a hug and a smile, handing her the present. “thank you so much! so happy you could come. ready to get a little tipsy?”

you looked at her with excitement. “you’re lucky its friday and i have no exams next week. lets get this party started!”

about an hour goes by, you had a shit tone of drinks. champagne, wine, tequilla, margaritas, mojitos, you name it. shots were being passed around your friends like they were candy. you were dancing with your friends, having the time of your life. until you saw someone a little familiar in the corner of your eye. straight blonde hair, blue eyes, tall, abs showing underneath of her white compression shirt. you decided to ignore it, thinking the alcohol was effecting you. you decided to order another drink, specifically a mimosa. when you got your drink from the bar tender, you turned around and saw her. fuck, you though. it was paige. she examined you up and down. by the way her eyes looked up close and she was unable to control her balance, you knew she was drunk.

she started speaking, her words slurring. “hey pretty girl, i’ve missed you.” she tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

the alcohol was controlling you at this point from how many drinks you’ve had. you gave her a slight smile as awkwardness and tension were mixing together. “hey paige, how’ve you been?” she started placing her hands on your core, then fingers tingling down to your hips, feeling ticklish from her fingerprints. you became drunk in her touch. “i’ve been good, can’t stop thinking about you lately.”

you started laughing out of no where. you placed her hands on her shoulders, pretending this was a slow dance. the alcohol was 100% in control by now. you both laughed after what you just did, thinking it was the dumbest shit ever. "how's basketball?"

"man.." she said, backing up. "my ankle's healed but it's never the same." you saw her holding a red solo cup, wondering what she was drinking. "can't wait for this season to be over, so i can be with you." paige decided to play with fire this evening, she started flirting with you less than 5 minutes of you both talking. "i know you can't stop thinking about me, it's written all over your face." she placed her hands on your back. you saw what she was doing, it was now time to beat her at her own game.

"for someone who's missed me so much you don't come to me anymore." you said as you took a sip from your mimosa. your voice sounded so confident, like you were sure she would say something back to you.

she smiled. "you'd distract me in the season, i would be so focused on you."

"since when is that a bad thing, bueckers?" you gave her a seductive look, eyes seeming innocent. she was on the edge, now you were waiting for her fall.

"never said it was, nerd." she smirked. she knew how good you were at school. how you were always studying, always organized and your gpa higher than she was most of the time.

her eyes started to linger down your body. your body temperature rising. her body started to get closer to you, immediately feeling her abs from her shirt. her ocean eyes immediately staring at your lips. she rested one hand on your waist and one hand on your back. paige was just a few inches taller than you, but the height difference spoke loudly in that moment. you grabbed her neck and immediately pulled her in, lips darted to her like something was hypnotizing you or something possessed you in that moment.

the kiss was deep, you tasted cherry from her mouth by the amount of dirty shirely's she had this evening. your lipgloss transferred over to her lips by how deep the kiss was. now feeling tongues as moans filled the air. your moans felt like music to her ears, it was the best thing she could even listen to. her body throbbed hearing your affection. you felt like you could go to heaven just from her kissing you while she was drunk. heads immediately turned to face both of you in the middle on an intimate moment. but you and paige didn't care who was watching. you both were receiving something you haven't gotten in a long time, touch. you hands went to the back of her dirty-blonde straight hair. her hands went up to your moisturized arms that had some shine to them, feeling your softness. it was so, seductive. she released from you. "you don't know how much i fucking missed this." she grabbed your waist and pulled you in for another kiss, this time much longer. you eventually parted her lips from yours to take a sip from your drink. paige grabbed your wrist and took you outside, immediately to her car. cold air lingered on your body as you had no jacket, but that feeling immediately went away when she opened the door and pushed you in the backseat, getting on top of you.

a small inner voice entered you head as you listened to it "oh, no. here we go again."

you ignored it. you stared at her above. "knew i had you wrapped around my finger, bueckers."

#dallas wings #paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #uconn wbb #uconn womens basketball #wnba #paige bueckers fluff #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers x you #paige x reader

240 notes · View notes

mediumgayitalian · 25 days ago

Text

Nico sits by his cabin and watches.

He cannot help the frustrated little growl that comes out of his mouth, nor can he help his frustration at the frustration, and then some. He feels it bubbling in his stomach until it reaches just the right amount of pressure and it explodes across his insides, curling his hands into fists, gritting his teeth, forcing tears to burn hot behind his eyes. He shakes himself to rid him of it. It does not help.

Down a line of cabins, Will pauses at a windowsill.

Nico knows what has made him pause not necessarily because he can see that far but because, in fact, he knows exactly what is resting on the windowsill. Because, in fact, he put it there.

Because, in fact —

Well.

His face burns. He drops his chin onto his knee, scowling.

Because.

It is a rock. Anyway. It is stupid. It is not even that cool of a rock. It is a moderately sized limestone fossil he found in the lake. It has the muddled impression of a bunch of plants on it. He doesn’t even know what kind. You can barely even tell it’s a fossil. The naiads, when they had seen him holding it, scoffed. He nearly launched it back in only he didn’t want them to laugh, too.

“Shoulda left it in the fucking forest,” he hisses to himself. He’s angry. He’s — ashamed, he supposes, and he’s frustrated still, and all in all he’s just mad, and heat burns unpleasantly under his skin. He desperately fights the urge to shadow travel over to the almost-shadowless cabin and wrench the wretched thing away, launch it into the sea where it belongs. But he doesn’t, because he is too late, and Will has already seen.

He cocks his head.

He looks around as if he might find who left the gift. Or if he might find the recipient. But no — he is not looking for a recipient. And his hands reach out, slowly. And gently brush over the roughened outlines.

And he smiles.

It is a small, shy thing. Pleased. Crooked in the middle and showing the slightest hint of his snaggletooth. Nico has a flashing image of the shape of it next to the straight teeth surrounding it indenting pale skin until it is bruised and bleeding. His arm aches. He shivers. Will’s smile is small, still, and his sunset-bright eyes soften like skylight.

He puts his palm flat on the rock, now. It doesn’t quite cover it.

With his other hand he reaches into his bag. He pulls out a textbook, and drops it carelessly onto the ground. A bundle of herbs is quick to follow, and then another, and then a wrapped square of ambrosia. A water bottle.

A bone is next. Yellowed. Ulna. Sharpened, so one end is really a blade. Or, it’s conical, so more of an…impaler. A spike.

Nico left it on the roof earlier this morning because he chickened out of the porch.

Will holds it very gently.

He sets it on the windowsill, next to the fossil.

The rock.

And then he picks up the rock, and holds it for a minute. It is heavy. Nico knows. Dense, from the millions of years of matter inside of it and the terabytes of whispers it has pushed between particles. Secrets of the depths. Will holds it carefully, so carefully, and Nico imagines the ever-constant warmth from his large hands seeping into the porous rock. He imagines it sinking into its core and tingling. Like his stomach sings, now.

Perhaps more carefully than anything, Will slips the rock into his satchel. He situates it in the dead center of the pocket, and adjusts his weight to hold it. It bulkens the leather. Bends it awkwardly. But Will only traces the bowed edges of it with a bandaged finger (papercut — on the corner of an incident report. He had jumped, and then pouted. Slide his finger in between his lips, yanking it sheepishly and guiltily out a moment later. Shook his head chidingly. Mouthed, to himself: sepsis).

His hand glides over and hovers over the sharpened bone. There are sigils on the end of it. Opposite to the spike. They mean ‘accuracy’ and ‘protection’ and ‘darkness’ and ‘shadow’ and ‘summon’. Nico has drawn matching lines up his arm, under his sleeves. As Will’s palm wraps around them Nico’s arm burns. His breath shutters, and he curls into himself. Somewhat.

Will smiles that same small crooked smile and tucks the bone shard into his bag. And then —

And then.

And then: he looks up. Looks over.

Meets Nico’s eyes.

Nick panics. He scrambles away. Except he doesn’t and he is frozen where he sits with his tailbone to cold marble and his nails dug into his flesh and his eyes wider than oceans. Breathing quick. Breathing shallow.

Will smiles that same smile. He rocks back on his heel. He tugs on the shoulder strap of his satchel.

He waves.

It is shy. Head ducked and smile hopeful. He fidgets and bites his lip. He blinks, long, blond eyelashes catching the fading light and refracting it sparkling up to the heavens.

Nico holds his breath and waves back.

Will beams. There is no shyness here and Nico’s heart pounds. He can hear Will’s giggle right in his ear even though he can’t really and watches him touch his three middle fingers to the bottom of his mouth, move them deliberately down and outward. Watches his lips form: thank you! Feels his heart stutter and shake in his chest.

Smiles, himself.

Just a little.

307 notes · View notes

tryingtofindava · 1 year ago

Text

── 𝐂𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐁𝐆 𝐆𝐚𝐧𝐠*ೃ༄

: ̗̀➛Back to Source

THESE CAN BE READ AS PLATONIC OR ROMANTICALLY!!

╰┈➤𝐀𝐬𝐡𝐥𝐲𝐧

She can handle being all cuddly to a certain extent, before she rolls away to have her own space. Though, she’ll always have some sort of touch with you. That being a hand on your waist or thigh, or even her foot touching yours. (Red confirmed Ashlyn to have autism)

You better hope she doesn’t have any nightmares in her sleep time before transporting to the Phantom world, because if she does she jolts so fast her hair is gonna literally whip you.

This girl is skin and bones, so she’s probably not the warmest to snuggle up to. But she makes that up with wearing nice and soft things, like hoodies, PJ bottoms, and fuzzy socks.

When she’s in a comfortable position with you, she probs drools.

╰┈➤ 𝐀𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧

Sleeping/cuddling with Aiden is a very humbling experience.

He watches tiktoks with you because he thinks it’s a bonding experience while you guys snuggle. (just ignore his fyp it’s cursed…)

Before you guys cuddle, you have to force him to take his contacts out because every cuddle sesh ends up with the two of you falling asleep.

But when he sleeps with them in his eyes become all dried when he wakes up.

(Red also confirmed Aiden to have contacts, because he’s blinder than a bat, and it’s also why his eyes are red because his contacts are coloured.)

Like Ashlyn, he drools… but not just a small bit like the ginger. He’s drooling fucking RIVERS.

He moves about in his sleep, like a lot. And when he settles, it’s only for like a maximum of 4 mins before he’s squirming around like a worm again.

BLANKET HOG ALERT!! WEE WOO WEE WOO. If you ever wake up cold, you’re gonna turn to see Aiden with YOUR OWN blanket cuddling up with the whole damn blanket cuz he srsly subconsciously wrapped himself a cocoon.

When you guys are cozying up together, he’s literally in top of you like the human version of a weighted comforter.

And if you feel suffocated with him on top of you, he’s pressed up to your like a leech looking for affection. I’m talking limbs tangled together and every thing.

╰┈➤ 𝐁𝐞𝐧

He’s such a teddy bear!! ^_^

AND HE’S SO WARM OMFG, ITS CRIMINALLY INSANE HOW COZY THIS GUY IS. A literal damn furnace.

For being such a big guy, you’d automatically think he liked being big spoon. BUT THAT IS FALSE INFORMATION HE LIKES BEING LITTLE SPOON!!

If you knew him before the accident, he used to hum you to sleep as you guys snuggled!!

And when he eventually does fall asleep while cuddling he goes so still like he turned into a rock.

It feels like sleeping next to a dead body…

Except the dead body is incredibly warm instead of being all cold. And if the deceased body had a vice grip on you like I’d be let go you’d disappear.

╰┈➤ 𝐓𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐨𝐫

THIS CUTIE IS SUCH A SNUGGLE BUG!!

This girl is full of sm love and affection, she loves to show her appreciation for someone through physical touch!

She makes sure that not only she’s comfy, but you are too! Like you guys could be snuggling on a Rocky Mountain and she’d still make it comfortable.

Like Ashlyn she’ll always make sure to have a hand on you, even if you guys are firmly pressed aging eachother like sardines in a can.

╰┈➤ 𝐓𝐲𝐥𝐞𝐫

Whines that he hates cuddling, saying it’s sappy and cringy… But then whines again when you aren’t cuddling up…

He likes to keep his ‘I’m a tough guy’ act on, so he’ll not initiate a cuddle sesh. It’s either gonna have to be you start it, or he’s sick and doesn’t give af.

Unlike Ben, he prefers being big spoon, since he just likes holding you closely to his chest while you guys spoon. Thinks it’s very intimate.

If you tease him about how he comes like putty when you guys cuddle, he’ll get all pouty and push you away. (Only to be back in your arms in 3 minutes time…)

╰┈➤ 𝐋𝐨𝐠𝐚𝐧

ANOTHER ONE WHOS A TOTAL CUTIE PATOOTIE ‘BOUT IT!!

But so, so, so painfully awkward…

BUT!! He’s cozy, and has the COMFIEST pillows and blankets lying around it’s insane.

He deffo had one of them cool star projectors that make the room look like space. It’s the coolest.

When you guys start cuddling his glasses stay on, but if it turns into a small snooze they get lost and you guys have to dig through the blankets to find them to he can see, cause without them this bitch turns into Velma from Scooby Doo.

#school bus graveyard #school bus graveyard x reader #sbg x reader #ashlyn banner x reader #aiden clark x reader #ben clark x reader #taylor hernandez x reader #tyler hernandez x reader #logan fields x reader

2K notes · View notes

mcrdvcks · 8 months ago

Text

i love you, in every time ࿐‧₊ 1880 - labyrinth of my heart

chapter summary: When walking the streets of Chicago he spots you across the street, so real, so alive. Logan takes this as a second chance; but fear slowly slithers up, making him wonder if he'll lose you all over again.

word count: 9.3k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: first, i want to say thank you so much for the support and love for this series! this is way shorter than the first chapter, only because i wanted the ending to feel abrupt to hopefully make it feel more realistic. anyways, i'm super excited for next chapter since it's a concept i haven't ever really done before. but for now, enjoy this while it lasts :)

warnings/tags: fluff, angst, outdated mindsets on women, character death

series masterlist - chapter 1 → chapter 3

Logan left New York City after you died, going back to Victor who told him exactly what he expected to hear, ‘you shouldn’t have fallen in love,’ and ‘the only people we can trust is each other’.

The Civil War had begun seven years after your death as he and Victor fought for the North for four whole years. There was one thing he always kept with him, the ring he bought for you, that he never got to use. It stayed in his pocket at all times, never leaving, always there.

He had been doing the same thing he was doing before he met you, moving around the country, never staying in a spot for too long, doing odd jobs to stay afloat.

Logan found himself in Chicago, walking along the sidewalk, the faint sound of a train in the distance. The air was heavy with the scent of coal smoke, the city bustling with life in the late afternoon. Men in long coats and women in modest dresses hurried past him, some tipping their hats in his direction as he walked by. It was just another city to him, another place he would pass through on his way to nowhere in particular.

It had been 26 years since you died. Twenty-six long years, but to Logan, it still felt like yesterday. The weight of your loss hadn’t lessened. If anything, it had only grown heavier. Every town, every face he saw, reminded him of you in some way. That soft smile you always wore, the way you’d brush your hair behind your ear when you were deep in thought. He kept your memory alive in the smallest of ways. The ring he’d never had the chance to give you stayed in his pocket, its presence a constant, painful reminder.

He walked without a destination, his mind lost in the past as his feet carried him down the streets of Chicago. The city had a pulse of its own, far different from the quiet life in New York where you’d once lived, where you had died in his arms. He hadn't felt truly alive since then—just going through the motions of life, the decades slipping by as if time itself didn’t matter.

As Logan neared a small schoolhouse, something caught his eye. A group of children were gathered outside, their laughter echoing through the street as they played. But it wasn’t the children that caused Logan to stop. It was the woman standing among them, her smile bright as she helped one of the younger boys tie his shoe. The world around him seemed to blur, fading away as his gaze locked onto her.

It was you.

Logan’s heart stilled in his chest. He blinked, sure that his eyes were playing tricks on him, but there you were, the same face, the same gentle presence. You looked exactly as you had all those years ago—maybe a little younger, maybe a little different, but unmistakably you.

For a moment, he couldn’t move. He just stood there, watching you laugh with the children, completely unaware of his presence. His mind struggled to make sense of what he was seeing. You were dead. He had been there. He had held you as you took your last breath, felt the life leave your body. And yet, here you were, as if the last 26 years had never happened.

Logan’s feet moved on their own, pulling him closer to the schoolyard. His heart pounded in his chest, his throat dry. His mind raced with a thousand questions. How could this be? Was it some kind of dream? A cruel trick?

But the closer he got, the more real you became. You were wearing a simple dress, your hair tied up in a way he hadn’t seen before, and yet everything about you felt so familiar. The way you carried yourself, the warmth in your eyes as you spoke to the children—it was all you.

“Excuse me, miss,” he called out, his voice rougher than he intended.

You turned at the sound of his voice, your eyes meeting his for the first time, and Logan felt his heart lurch. It was like being thrown back in time—like the years between this moment and the day you died had vanished. You looked at him with a polite curiosity, but there was no recognition in your eyes. No flicker of memory. To you, he was just a stranger.

“Yes, can I help you?” you asked, your voice soft, kind.

Logan’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t know what to say. How could he possibly explain what was running through his mind? How could he tell you that he had loved you, that he had lost you, and that now—somehow—you were standing in front of him again?

“I... I thought I knew you,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. He didn’t trust himself to say more. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, the ring in his pocket suddenly feeling heavier than ever.

You smiled, but it was the smile of someone trying to be polite, not of someone who knew him. “I don’t think we’ve met before,” you said. “I’m Y/N. I’m the schoolteacher here.”

Logan swallowed hard. Of course, you wouldn’t remember. You had no idea who he was, no memory of the life you’d lived before. To you, this was just another day, another moment. But to Logan, it was everything. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. You were here, alive again, but you weren’t his Y/N. Not yet, anyway.

“I’m Logan,” he finally managed, his voice thick with emotion he couldn’t hide. He couldn’t take his eyes off you, his heart aching in a way that felt both familiar and new.

You nodded, offering another warm smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Logan. Was there something you needed?”

Logan shook his head slowly, still reeling from the shock of seeing you again. “No,” he said quietly. “No, I... I just thought you looked like someone I used to know.”

You tilted your head slightly, a curious look in your eyes. “I get that sometimes. Chicago’s a big city, but it can feel small.”

Logan nodded, though his mind was far from this moment. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from you, couldn’t shake the feeling that this was some kind of miracle—a second chance. But what could he do with it? Could he approach you, tell you everything? Or would that only drive you away?

Before he could say anything more, the school bell rang, and the children started to gather their things. You glanced back at the sound, then looked at him with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, I have to get back to my class. But maybe I’ll see you around?”

Logan nodded, his throat too tight to respond with words. He watched as you turned and walked back toward the schoolhouse, his heart aching with the weight of all the things he couldn’t say.

For the first time in 26 years, Logan felt hope stir in his chest. You were here. You were alive. And even if you didn’t remember him, even if you didn’t know who he was... he couldn’t walk away. Not this time.

---

Logan stayed near the schoolyard most afternoons, hidden just enough not to draw attention, watching you from a distance. It felt strange, almost painful, standing there, knowing you had no idea who he was. Every time you emerged from the schoolhouse with Ida, another schoolteacher, chatting and laughing, the urge to approach you tugged at him. But fear held him back—fear that you’d think he was insane, or worse, that you’d reject him outright.

He clenched his fists inside his coat pockets, feeling the cool metal of the ring press against his palm. It had been with him through wars, across states, through lifetimes. And now, here you were, alive again, and he still didn’t know what to do with it.

It was absurd, the way his heart raced just from seeing you walk down the street. How after all these years—after so much pain—hope could sneak its way back in. This wasn’t just a coincidence. It couldn’t be. Logan wasn’t the type to believe in magic or miracles, but what else could explain this?

As he lingered, the school bell rang, signaling the end of another day. Children poured out of the building, laughing and running. A few hung on your arms as you walked them down the steps, their chatter filling the air.

Logan shifted from foot to foot, nerves prickling along his spine. Just talk to her, idiot. You’ve been through worse.

But when you stepped into the street, Ida at your side as usual, the words died in his throat.

“Y/N, you coming for dinner at my place tonight?” Ida asked, tucking a stray curl beneath her bonnet.

You smiled, brushing your hands on your skirts. “Can’t tonight, but I’ll stop by tomorrow. The kids wore me out today.”

Ida chuckled. “You’ll turn into an old maid before you’re thirty at this rate.”

You rolled your eyes, but your laugh was warm. Logan felt the sound of it settle deep in his chest—like an old memory coming back to life. It was a laugh he hadn’t heard in 26 years, and it took everything in him not to run to you right then and there.

As you and Ida turned the corner toward the tenement, Logan followed at a distance. His heart hammered against his ribs. He just needed a moment, a chance to say something—anything.

Finally, the two of you paused outside the building. Ida gave you a quick hug before heading upstairs, leaving you alone on the stoop. You stood there for a moment, adjusting your shawl against the evening chill.

This is it. Now or never.

Logan forced his feet to move, crossing the street toward you.

You looked up as he approached, a little surprised but not alarmed. “Logan, wasn’t it?”

His throat felt tight, but he gave a short nod. “Yeah. Logan.”

You smiled softly, the same kind smile that had haunted his dreams. “What brings you by?”

He cleared his throat, trying to find the right words. “I... I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

Your brow furrowed slightly, but there was no fear, only curiosity. “About what?”

Logan shifted his weight, his hands tightening around the edges of his coat. The ring in his pocket seemed to burn against his skin, a reminder of everything unsaid.

“I... You remind me of someone,” he admitted, voice low. “Someone I lost a long time ago.”

You studied him for a moment, your gaze steady but gentle. “I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “That must’ve been hard.”

Logan’s jaw clenched. “Yeah,” he muttered. “It was.”

There was a beat of silence between you—heavy, charged with the weight of all the things Logan couldn’t say. You didn’t know him, didn’t know what you’d meant to him in another life, but standing here, so close to you again, it felt like the world had tilted back into place.

“You... wanna walk for a bit?” Logan asked suddenly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

You hesitated, but only for a moment. Something in his expression must’ve stirred your kindness, because you nodded. “Alright.”

The two of you started down the sidewalk together, the city humming around you. Logan kept his hands stuffed in his pockets, fingers brushing the ring again and again like a talisman.

“So, how long have you been in Chicago?” you asked, glancing over at him.

Logan shrugged. “Not long. Just passing through.”

You gave a small smile. “It’s a good place to get lost in for a while.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Guess so.”

The conversation fell into a comfortable rhythm after that—small talk, nothing too deep. Logan told you bits and pieces about his travels, careful not to reveal too much. He learned that you’d moved to Chicago a couple of years ago, taking the teaching job because it felt right.

“I’ve always liked working with kids,” you said with a soft smile. “There’s something... hopeful about it, you know?”

Logan nodded, though hope had been a foreign concept to him for a long time. But walking beside you now, listening to your voice, he felt something stir in him—a flicker of warmth he thought he’d lost forever.

As the evening deepened and the sky turned a dusky purple, you reached your building again. You stopped on the stoop, turning to face him.

“Thank you for the walk,” you said, your smile gentle. “It was nice.”

Logan nodded, his heart heavy with everything he wanted to say but couldn’t. “Yeah. It was.”

For a moment, it felt like time stood still—like the universe had bent just enough to give him this moment with you. And even though you didn’t remember him, didn’t know the history you shared, Logan knew he couldn’t let you slip away again.

“Y/N...” he began, his voice low, almost hesitant.

You tilted your head, waiting.

He swallowed hard, the words catching in his throat. “Can I see you again?”

Your smile widened, something warm flickering in your eyes. “I’d like that.”

Logan gave a short nod, his heart pounding against his ribs.

“Good,” he murmured.

And for the first time in 26 years, Logan allowed himself to believe—just for a moment—that maybe, just maybe, he’d found his way back to you.

---

You had taken up Ida’s offer after all, you lived in the same building so it wasn’t like it was out of the way for you.

“Oh, hey! Thought you weren’t gonna come by.”

You shrugged, taking off your shawl, “changed my mind.” You sat down on the couch and told Ida about your walk with Logan, and she listened intently.

“I’m surprised you hadn’t noticed him. He’s been watching the schoolyard for the past few weeks.”

"Wait, what do you mean, ‘he’s been watching the schoolyard for weeks?’” you asked, your brows knitting together as you leaned forward.

Ida waved her hand dismissively but gave you a sly smile. “Oh, don’t get the wrong idea. He hasn’t been creepy about it or anything. Just... noticed him hanging around, that’s all. Kind of hard to miss a guy like that, don’t you think?”

You blinked, a sudden flush creeping up your neck. “A guy like what?”

“Oh, come on, Y/N,” she teased, sitting down across from you. “Tall, rugged... that serious, brooding look. You’re telling me you didn’t notice? He’s practically been glued to the corner across from the schoolhouse for days.”

You chewed on your bottom lip, thinking back to the walk you’d just had with Logan. You hadn’t seen him watching the school, but now that Ida mentioned it... there had been something in his eyes. A familiarity you couldn’t quite place, like he was looking at you but seeing something—or someone—else.

“I didn’t know he was hanging around,” you admitted, glancing down at your hands. “But... he seems kind. Sad, but kind.”

Ida leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest with a thoughtful hum. “Sad, huh? You picked up on that, too?”

You nodded, feeling a strange tightness in your chest. There had been a weight to Logan’s presence, something unspoken in his voice, like he was carrying the world on his shoulders. And then there was the way he looked at you—like he wanted to say something but couldn’t bring himself to.

“You think he’s okay?” you asked quietly.

Ida shrugged, her teasing expression softening. “Who knows? The world’s a tough place. We all got our own burdens to carry. But... maybe he’s looking for something.”

“Looking for what?”

“Maybe someone to share the load,” she replied with a small smile, her eyes twinkling. “Maybe that someone’s you.”

You shook your head, the idea seeming too far-fetched. “I don’t even know him, Ida. I mean, we just talked for the first time today.”

“Hey, stranger things have happened,” Ida said, getting up to grab a pot of tea from the stove. “You felt something, right? That’s not nothing.”

You sighed, leaning back against the couch. “I guess. He did say I reminded him of someone he lost.”

Ida paused, setting the teapot down carefully. “Lost, huh? That would explain the sad part. But... why hang around you then? What’s he hoping to find?”

“I don’t know,” you murmured, more to yourself than to her. The idea that Logan had been watching you, even unknowingly, made something stir in your chest—a mix of curiosity and something you couldn’t quite name.

Ida handed you a cup of tea, sitting back down beside you. “Well, maybe next time you see him, you can ask.”

You looked up at her, one eyebrow raised. “Ask him why he’s hanging around the schoolyard?”

Ida laughed softly. “Maybe not that bluntly, but yeah. There’s something about him, Y/N. Might be worth finding out what.”

You sipped the tea, the warmth spreading through you. Maybe Ida was right. Maybe Logan was carrying something heavy, and maybe—just maybe—you could help.

---

The next day, you found yourself more aware of your surroundings as you walked to the schoolhouse. Every sound, every movement seemed sharper. You scanned the street, looking for a familiar figure, but Logan wasn’t there—at least, not that you could see.

The day went on as usual, though you felt a bit distracted, your mind drifting to the walk you’d shared with him. There was something about Logan that pulled at you, a quiet intensity that you couldn’t shake. He was a mystery, and part of you wanted to solve it.

When the school day ended, you lingered outside a little longer than usual, hoping—half-expecting—that he might show up again. The children ran off, their laughter echoing down the street as they disappeared into their homes. You smiled at the sight, but your thoughts were elsewhere.

“Looking for someone?”

You jumped slightly, turning to find Logan standing just a few feet away. He had approached so quietly you hadn’t even heard him.

“Logan,” you said, surprised but not unwelcome. “I didn’t see you.”

He gave a small shrug, his hands shoved into his coat pockets. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

You smiled softly, your heartbeat slowing as the initial surprise wore off. “It’s alright. Just didn’t expect to see you today.”

Logan shifted his weight, his gaze flicking to the ground for a moment before meeting yours again. “I wanted to see if you’d like to take another walk. If you’re not too tired, that is.”

You hesitated, but only for a second. There was something in his voice—something vulnerable, almost hesitant. And despite not knowing him well, you found yourself wanting to say yes.

“I’d like that,” you said, stepping down from the schoolhouse stoop.

The two of you started walking again, this time in a different direction, the afternoon sun casting long shadows over the street. For a while, neither of you spoke. It was a comfortable silence, though, the kind that didn’t need to be filled with words. Logan walked beside you, his steps steady but deliberate, like he was trying to figure something out.

“Why’ve you been hanging around the school?” you finally asked, your curiosity getting the better of you. “Ida said she noticed you there for a while.”

Logan’s jaw tightened slightly, and he didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quiet. “I wasn’t trying to... I don’t know. I guess I was just... drawn there.”

“Drawn there?” you echoed, glancing up at him.

He nodded, his gaze fixed ahead. “Yeah. Like I said before, you remind me of someone.”

You didn’t press, sensing that whatever it was, it was personal. Instead, you walked in silence for a few more steps before Logan stopped abruptly.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he said, turning to face you fully. His eyes were intense, but there was something almost apologetic in them. “If I am, just tell me, and I’ll leave you alone.”

You shook your head quickly. “No, you’re not making me uncomfortable.”

Logan studied your face, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he gave a small nod, almost as if he was relieved.

“Alright,” he said quietly.

The conversation shifted after that, lightening as you talked about small things—the city, your students, even the weather. Logan listened more than he spoke, but you could feel him relax bit by bit, the tension in his posture easing as the afternoon wore on.

When you reached your building again, Logan stopped with you on the stoop. There was a moment of hesitation, like he wasn’t sure if he should stay or go.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” you asked, offering him a small smile.

Logan looked at you for a long beat before nodding. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

As you turned to head inside, you couldn’t help but glance back over your shoulder. Logan was still standing there, watching you with that same look in his eyes—the one that made you feel like you were more than just a stranger to him.

And in that moment, you realized... you didn’t want to be just a stranger to him either.

---

After about a week of Logan walking you home, it became a familiar routine. Each time, you’d stand on the stoop, exchanging a few words before you’d head inside, always with that lingering feeling of something left unsaid. But tonight was different—the air was colder, and the wind was biting, so when you reached your building, you didn’t hesitate.

“You’re not going out in that cold again,” you said firmly, reaching for his arm. He tensed slightly under your touch, but you ignored it, tugging him toward the door. “Ten minutes outside in the cold, you need to warm up before you go.”

Logan didn’t protest, but you could sense his hesitation. He glanced around the dimly lit hallway as you led him up the stairs to your small apartment.

“Don’t worry,” you teased, trying to lighten the mood. “I won’t keep you long. Just until you can feel your fingers again.”

He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, following you inside. Once you were both in, you motioned for him to sit down on the worn couch, tossing your shawl onto a chair as you made your way to the stove to boil some water for tea.

Logan stood there for a moment, his eyes scanning the modest space, before finally sitting down. His presence seemed to fill the room, making it feel smaller, more intimate.

“You don’t gotta fuss,” he muttered, his gruff voice breaking the silence. “I’m alright.”

“Humor me,” you replied with a soft smile, setting a kettle on the stove. “Besides, I’ve been dragging you along on these walks. Least I can do is make sure you’re not freezing to death.”

Logan huffed a quiet laugh, leaning back into the couch. His eyes followed your movements, though his expression stayed guarded. He looked... cautious, like he wasn’t sure how to be here with you, in this space. It was strange, this carefulness, coming from a man who seemed so unbreakable.

“Why don’t you tell me more about yourself?” you asked, turning to face him while the water heated up. “We’ve been walking for a week, and I feel like I barely know you.”

Logan’s gaze shifted, and you could tell he was weighing his words. “Not much to tell,” he said after a beat. “Just a guy who’s been around a while.”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “That’s it? No family, no friends? You just... wander?”

He looked down at his hands, his fingers idly tracing the worn fabric of the couch. “Had family once. Friends, too. Lost most of ‘em.”

There was a heaviness in his voice, and you could feel the weight of his words. You didn’t push him, though. Instead, you poured the hot water into two cups, walking over and handing him one.

“Sorry,” you said softly. “That must’ve been hard.”

Logan took the cup but didn’t drink right away. He stared down into the tea, his expression unreadable. “Life’s hard for everyone,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

You sat down beside him, the warmth from the cup seeping into your hands. For a while, the two of you sat in silence, sipping tea and letting the quiet fill the space. There was something about being near him that made you feel calm, like the world slowed down for a little while when he was around.

“Why’d you let me walk with you?” Logan asked suddenly, his voice rougher than before.

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t know me,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “Most people wouldn’t... They’d be scared, or they’d push me away. But you... you let me stay.”

You frowned, trying to find the right words. “I don’t know... I guess I just felt like... I should.” You shrugged, feeling a little self-conscious under his intense gaze. “Besides, you’re not exactly a scary guy. Brooding, sure, but not scary.”

A small, barely-there smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not afraid of much, are you?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Not really. I mean, what’s the point of being afraid? Life’s hard enough without worrying about things that might not even happen.”

Logan’s smile faded, replaced by that familiar look of sadness. He stared into his cup for a moment, then set it down on the table in front of him. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Guess you’re right.”

The silence stretched between you again, but this time it felt heavier, like there was something unsaid hanging in the air. You could feel it, pressing down on both of you, but neither of you seemed ready to break it.

Finally, Logan stood up, his movements slow and deliberate. “I should go,” he said, though he didn’t make a move toward the door.

You stood up too, your heart pounding a little harder than usual. “Logan...”

He turned to face you, his eyes dark and full of something you couldn’t quite place. “Yeah?”

You took a step closer, your hand reaching out to touch his arm again. “You don’t have to carry it all alone,” you said softly.

For a moment, he just looked at you, his expression unreadable. Then, without saying a word, he nodded once, a silent acknowledgment that you didn’t need to explain.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said quietly before turning to leave.

You watched him go, your heart heavy but hopeful. There was something between you—something unspoken, something old—and you weren’t ready to let it go.

Not yet.

---

It had taken a few more days to convince Logan to come back into your apartment. You weren’t sure how you convinced him this time, but you were happy that you did.

Your apartment smelled nice and homey. Before you had left for work, you had put bread in the oven to bake, and now, as you came back home with Logan in tow, it was finished. The warm, inviting scent of freshly baked bread filled the room as you stepped inside. Logan hesitated in the doorway, lingering for a moment before following you in, his expression unreadable but curious.

You busied yourself with the bread, slicing into the crust and offering Logan a piece. He took it, though his attention seemed more focused on you than the food.

"Thanks," he muttered, taking a bite.

You smiled, trying to ignore the way your heart sped up just from him being here. "I was thinking..." you started, turning to grab a couple of plates from the cupboard. "Maybe we could go into the city tomorrow? It’s market day. There's a lot to see, and it’d be nice to get out of the schoolhouse routine for a bit."

Logan raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the counter. "Market, huh?"

"Yeah, you know, just... walk around. Maybe pick up a few things." You looked over at him, half expecting him to decline, but to your surprise, he didn’t.

"Alright," he said, his voice low but without hesitation. "I’ll come with you."

You smiled, feeling a small flutter of excitement in your chest. "Great. It’ll be fun. I promise."

---

The next day, you found yourself walking through the bustling streets of Chicago with Logan by your side. The market was crowded, full of people haggling and chatting, the air thick with the smell of fresh produce, spices, and the occasional whiff of roasting meat. It was a world away from the quiet walks you'd shared, and you could feel Logan's unease in the busy atmosphere. But he stayed close, his hand brushing yours more than once as you wove through the crowd.

"Do you come here often?" Logan asked, his eyes scanning the vendors with mild interest.

"Once or twice a month," you replied. "I like the energy here. Makes the city feel alive, you know?"

Logan grunted in response, though he didn’t seem entirely convinced. You could tell he wasn’t used to this—being around so many people—but he stuck close to you, his presence protective without being overbearing.

After a while, you stopped at a stall selling flowers. The colors were vibrant, a burst of life in the middle of the dusty street. You picked up a small bouquet of wildflowers, smiling as you held them up.

"These are my favorite," you said, glancing up at Logan. "They're simple but... I don't know, they make me happy."

Logan’s gaze softened as he looked at the flowers in your hand, then back at you. There was something in his eyes, a flicker of something unspoken, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a few coins, handing them to the vendor before you could protest.

"Logan, you don’t have to—"

"Consider it a thank you," he said quietly, cutting you off. "For the bread."

You blinked, surprised but touched by the gesture. "Well, thank you."

He nodded, and the two of you continued walking, the flowers resting in the crook of your arm as the city bustled around you. For a while, you walked in comfortable silence, the sounds of the market fading into the background as the two of you wandered further from the busy streets. Eventually, you found a quiet park at the edge of the city, a small, peaceful space away from the noise.

You sat down on a bench, feeling the cool breeze brush against your skin. Logan sat beside you, his posture relaxed but his eyes always scanning the area, as if he couldn’t fully let his guard down.

"Do you ever stop looking over your shoulder?" you asked, half teasing but curious.

Logan’s mouth twitched into a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Old habit."

You studied him for a moment, sensing there was more behind those words. He had a way of holding himself, like he was always ready for something, always waiting. It made you wonder just how much he’d seen, how much he’d lived through.

"I’m glad you came with me today," you said softly, looking out at the park. "I feel like I’ve been stuck in a routine for a while now. It’s nice to just... do something different."

Logan glanced at you, his gaze lingering a little longer than usual. "I’m glad I came too," he admitted, his voice low.

There was something in the way he said it, something that made your heart skip a beat. The air between you felt different, charged with a quiet tension that neither of you seemed willing to break. You wondered if he felt it too—the strange pull between you, like something just beneath the surface was waiting to be uncovered.

After a long pause, Logan spoke again. "I ain’t good at... this." He gestured vaguely, his brow furrowing as he searched for the right words. "Being close to people."

You turned to him, surprised by the admission. "You’re doing fine," you said gently.

Logan’s jaw clenched slightly, and he shook his head. "It’s not that simple."

You felt a pang of something—sympathy, maybe, or understanding. Whatever it was, it made you reach out, your hand lightly brushing his. "You don’t have to explain," you said softly. "I get it."

Logan’s eyes flickered down to where your hand rested near his. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he turned his hand over, his rough fingers brushing against yours in the faintest of touches. It wasn’t much, but it felt like a step—like maybe, just maybe, he was letting you in.

---

As you walked to the tenement building after work one day, you glanced over at Logan. “You ever been to the exhibition hall in the city?”

Logan looked over to you, slightly puzzled by the question. “The exhibition?”

You nodded, turning toward him. “There’s a display of inventions and art from all over. I heard they’ve got this new thing—electric lights. I was thinking about going this weekend, and… maybe you’d like to come with me?”

For a moment, Logan just stared at you, as if unsure what to say. The idea of stepping out into the city, surrounded by people, probably wasn’t something he did often. But he shifted slightly, his eyes softening in that way they did when you caught him off guard.

“You want me to go with you?” he asked, a hint of surprise in his voice.

“Well, yeah,” you said, smiling. “We’ve been walking the same few streets for days. Thought it might be nice to do something different. Besides, I’m curious about those lights. They say it’s going to change the way people live.”

Logan gave a low, thoughtful hum, and for a moment, you worried he might decline. But then he nodded slowly, his expression softening further. “Alright. I’ll go.”

Your smile widened. “Great! We can meet at my place on Saturday afternoon, then head out.”

The conversation drifted back into easier topics—your students, a new bakery that had opened nearby, and the way the city seemed to grow busier every day. But beneath it all, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this small invitation marked a shift, a way to see more of who Logan was beyond the quiet man who walked beside you in silence. Maybe out in the world, you’d understand him better.

---

Saturday came quickly, and the two of you walked side by side through the busy streets, the sounds of horses and carriages filling the air. You led Logan through the bustling avenues toward the exhibition hall, your excitement barely contained.

“Ever seen anything like this?” you asked, glancing up at him as the towering hall came into view.

Logan’s eyes flicked over the building, a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not in a while.”

Inside, the hall was a wonder of modern marvels. Booths lined with mechanical inventions, sculptures, and paintings from around the world. The hum of excitement filled the air, and the bright new electric lights cast a strange, almost magical glow over everything.

You wandered the displays together, your curiosity leading the way. Logan stayed close, his attention less on the inventions and more on you. Every now and then, he'd glance at a piece of machinery or a strange-looking contraption, but his eyes kept drifting back to your face, watching the way your expression changed with each new discovery.

"This is incredible," you murmured, leaning in to get a closer look at a large machine labeled as an ‘automatic loom.’ You smiled at Logan, your excitement clear. "Can you imagine how much time this would save?"

Logan nodded, though you could tell his thoughts were elsewhere. "Yeah, I can see how it'd be useful."

You moved to the next display, but Logan lingered for a moment. When he finally caught up, you were already studying a painting—a soft, pastoral scene that contrasted with the industrial energy around you.

"It's beautiful, isn’t it?" you said, glancing at him.

Logan’s gaze flicked to the painting, but quickly returned to you. "Yeah," he said, though it was clear he wasn’t talking about the art.

You felt his eyes on you again and looked up, meeting his gaze. There was something there—something that made your heart skip. Logan had always been protective, always hovering just close enough to shield you if need be. But this felt different, like there was more to it now.

"You sure this ain’t boring for you?" you asked, trying to lighten the moment. "I know you’re not one for crowds."

Logan gave a quiet grunt, his version of a chuckle. "It’s fine. Long as you’re enjoying yourself."

You smiled, touched by the sentiment. "I am. Thanks for coming with me."

For a while, you wandered together in silence, taking in the sights and sounds of the exhibition hall. The crowds around you buzzed with excitement, but the space between you and Logan felt almost separate—like the world had shrunk to just the two of you.

At one point, you stopped in front of a display showcasing early electric light bulbs. "Look at that," you said, pointing to the glass bulbs flickering with soft light. "They’re saying these will replace gas lamps soon."

Logan raised an eyebrow. "Doesn’t seem right, replacing something that’s worked for so long."

"Change is good sometimes," you said, glancing at him. "It keeps things moving forward."

Logan met your eyes, his expression soft but thoughtful. "Guess I’ve never been good with change."

You tilted your head slightly, sensing the weight behind his words. "Maybe you just haven’t found the right reason to embrace it yet."

For a moment, Logan didn’t respond. His gaze lingered on you, like he was trying to make sense of something. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Maybe."

As the afternoon wore on, the two of you eventually stepped outside the exhibition hall, the sun low in the sky and the city’s evening glow starting to take over. The air felt cooler now, a welcome relief after the warmth of the crowded hall.

You walked beside Logan in comfortable silence, but the charged undercurrent between you hadn’t faded. It felt like something had shifted—like you’d both acknowledged a deeper connection, even if neither of you had fully put it into words yet.

"You want to get something to eat?" Logan asked, breaking the silence.

"Sure," you said, smiling up at him. "There’s a place not far from here. They make the best stew."

Logan nodded, falling into step beside you again as you made your way toward the small restaurant you had in mind. The quiet between you was easy, but there was an unspoken understanding that something had changed between the two of you today. Neither of you said it out loud, but you didn’t need to.

As you entered the restaurant, the warm scent of food filled the air, and you found a table near the back, away from the main crowd. Logan took the seat across from you, his eyes scanning the room out of habit, but eventually settling back on you.

"This place isn’t so bad," he said, giving a small nod of approval.

You laughed softly. "Glad it meets your standards."

Logan smirked, but there was a softness behind it. As the two of you talked over dinner, you realized just how much you enjoyed moments like this—quiet, simple, yet meaningful. It wasn’t about grand gestures or fancy places; it was about being together, about the way Logan made you feel safe and seen.

---

One day, after inviting Logan into your apartment once again, you set out to make tea like you always do.

You felt a cough building up in your throat, so you grabbed a small handkerchief from the counter and coughed into it. You had seen the school doctor while you were at work, and he said you just had a mild cold.

Logan, who was sitting on the couch, immediately turned his head to you, his heart almost beating out of his chest. He’d heard that cough before—26 years ago.

"Y/N?" he asked, his voice low, almost hesitant.

You turned around, still holding the handkerchief to your mouth. "Yeah?" you answered casually, noticing the tension in his voice but thinking nothing of it. “Just a little cough, nothing serious. I saw the doctor earlier, and he said it’s just a cold.”

Logan stood up slowly, his eyes fixed on you, his expression unreadable. He took a step closer, his mind racing back to 1854, to your last days—bedridden and coughing, just like this. He had lost you then, watching helplessly as the illness took you. He couldn't shake the feeling, the memory, and the fear that history might repeat itself.

"Cold, huh?" he said, trying to keep his voice steady, but there was an edge to it.

"Yeah, no big deal." You smiled, folding the handkerchief and putting it back in your pocket. "Really, Logan, I’m fine."

Logan’s jaw tightened. He had seen too much, lived too long to believe in coincidence. This was too familiar, too painful. And yet, here you were—alive, vibrant. This time, he couldn’t lose you again. He wouldn't.

"You should take it easy," he said, stepping closer, his tone gentler now. "You been workin' too hard at that school."

You raised an eyebrow, sensing his concern but not quite understanding the depth of it. "I’m fine, really. It’s just a little cold. Nothing that rest and tea won’t fix."

Logan didn’t argue, but the worry in his eyes didn’t fade. He reached out, his hand hovering for a moment before he gently brushed his fingers against your arm, grounding himself in the fact that you were here, with him. This wasn’t 1854. But the memory haunted him.

You noticed the way he was looking at you, his eyes searching yours like he was afraid to lose you. "Hey," you said softly, resting a hand on his. "What’s really going on?"

Logan’s breath hitched for a moment, and he fought the urge to pull you closer, to tell you everything. But how could he? How could he explain that you’d been here before—that he’d watched you die, that he’d loved you once in another life, in another time? Instead, he just shook his head, the weight of those memories too heavy to share.

"Just... don’t push yourself too hard," he said, his voice quieter now. "I’ve seen people get worse when they don’t take care of themselves."

You nodded, though his intensity still lingered in your mind. "I promise, I’ll rest." You gave him a reassuring smile, trying to lighten the mood. "Besides, you’ll make sure I do, right?"

Logan’s lips quirked into the smallest smile, but there was still something distant in his eyes. "Yeah," he said softly. "I will."

The moment hung in the air, the unspoken weight of Logan’s past pressing down on him, though you couldn’t see it. You were the same, and yet not. The woman he had once loved and lost was standing right in front of him, alive, but without any memory of that life you’d shared.

---

You didn’t see Logan for a few days, which was unusual, ever since he started walking with you he had never missed a day.

You couldn’t help but worry a tad bit, it wasn’t like him to just not be there. Even Ida had made a few comments, including now as you sat in her apartment, just a few doors down from your own, sipping tea.

“He hasn’t been by at all?” Ida asked, her brow furrowed with concern. “That man never misses a day. He’s usually lurking outside, waitin’ to walk you home.”

You nodded, biting your lip. “Yeah, I noticed. It’s been three days now.”

Ida leaned forward, her hands folded on the table. “You don’t think somethin’s happened to him, do ya? That man is tough, sure, but even the toughest get into trouble sometimes.”

You shook your head quickly, not wanting to entertain the thought. “No, I’m sure he’s fine. Maybe he just needed some time alone. He’s... not the type to explain himself much.”

Ida hummed, though she didn’t look convinced. “Maybe. But if he doesn’t show up soon, you ought to go find him. He’s a good man, Y/N, and you’ve only known him a month, but it’s clear he cares about you.”

The truth of her words settled over you, heavy and unspoken. You cared about Logan too. Even if you didn’t quite understand the pull between you, it was there—undeniable. And the fact that he hadn’t shown up, without so much as a word, made your chest tighten with worry.

Later that evening, after you’d left Ida’s apartment and returned to your own, you couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling. Logan had become part of your routine, part of your day-to-day life. And now that he was gone, it felt like something was missing.

Just as you were about to turn in for the night, a knock sounded at the door.

Your heart jumped, and you rushed to open it, half expecting—half hoping—it would be Logan.

And there he was.

He stood in the doorway, his coat damp from the light rain outside, his hair slightly tousled. His eyes, though, were what caught you—the familiar intensity, but with something else lurking beneath. Something darker.

“Logan,” you breathed, stepping aside to let him in. “Where have you been? I was starting to get worried.”

Logan stepped into your small apartment, his broad frame somehow filling the space, making it feel even smaller. He didn’t say anything right away, just ran a hand through his hair and exhaled sharply, as if he were trying to gather his thoughts.

“I needed time,” he finally said, his voice low and gravelly.

“Time for what?” you asked gently, sensing that whatever he was about to say wasn’t easy for him.

Logan glanced at you, then looked away, as if he couldn’t meet your eyes. His jaw tightened, and you could see the struggle on his face—like he was wrestling with something deep inside. After a long pause, he spoke again, quieter this time.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, the words sounding foreign in his mouth, like he wasn’t used to saying them.

You blinked, taken aback. Logan was the last person you ever expected to hear those words from. “Scared of what?”

His eyes flickered up to meet yours, and you saw the vulnerability there, raw and unguarded. “Of losing you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest. “Logan… we’ve only known each other for a month,” you said softly, though the words felt strange even as they left your mouth. Because deep down, it felt like you’d known him much longer—like this connection between you was more than just a month in the making.

“I know,” Logan said, his voice rough. “But it doesn’t change how I feel.”

There was something in the way he was looking at you, something desperate and pained, like he was holding onto you with everything he had. You wanted to ask him why, to understand what had happened in his past to make him feel this way. But instead, you just reached out, your hand finding his.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said quietly, squeezing his hand gently. “I’m right here.”

Logan’s breath hitched, and before you could say anything more, he stepped closer, his hand cupping the side of your face. His thumb brushed your cheek, his touch rough but gentle, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to fall away. It was just the two of you, standing in the quiet of your apartment, the air between you thick with unspoken words.

And then, without warning, he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was urgent, almost desperate, like he was trying to tell you everything he couldn’t put into words. His lips moved against yours with a fierceness that took your breath away, and for a moment, all you could do was hold onto him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his coat as you kissed him back.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin. His hand still cupped your cheek, his thumb gently brushing along your jawline.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Your heart ached at the raw honesty in his words, and you wanted to promise him that he wouldn’t—that you were here, that you weren’t going anywhere. But something about the way he said it made you hesitate, made you wonder what he wasn’t telling you.

“Logan…” you started, your voice soft. “What aren’t you telling me?”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His hand dropped from your face, and he took a step back, his expression guarded once again. The walls he’d let down just moments ago seemed to be rising back up.

“I’ve lived a long time,” he said finally, his voice low. “I’ve lost people before. People I cared about. I can’t… I can’t go through that again.”

You felt a pang in your chest at his words, but there was something else there too—something unspoken. “Logan… who did you lose?”

His eyes flickered with pain, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he just shook his head, as if he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud.

You wanted to press him, to understand, but you also knew that Logan wasn’t someone who opened up easily. So instead, you just stepped closer, wrapping your arms around him in a gentle hug. He stiffened at first, but then his arms slowly came around you, pulling you close as if he was afraid to let go.

“I’m here,” you whispered against his chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”

For now, that was all you could offer him. And for now, it seemed to be enough.

---

You and Ida sat in the back of the rattling carriage, bundled against the cold, the wheels creaking beneath the weight of your bags from the market. The late afternoon sky was heavy with clouds, promising rain before nightfall and a storm by morning.

“Supposed to come down hard tomorrow,” Ida said, clutching her shawl tighter. “Glad we got everything done now. Don’t wanna be caught in that mess.”

You smiled, shifting a bag of potatoes off your lap. “It’ll be nice to have an excuse to stay in and rest. Logan’s been after me about taking it easy anyway.”

Ida gave you a knowing look, her brow lifting. “That man likes you, Y/N. More than you think.”

You shrugged, though your cheeks warmed slightly. “I know he cares. He’s just… different. Keeps to himself.”

“He’s different, alright,” Ida muttered, peering out the carriage window. “But he’s not the type to care about someone without good reason. Don’t let that one get away.”

You didn’t respond, but your thoughts drifted to Logan—how he had kissed you that night, holding you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. There was something ancient in his touch, like he had carried the weight of loss for far too long. You didn’t fully understand it, but you felt it—something deeper than words or time.

The carriage jolted suddenly, jerking you forward in your seat. The horse up front whinnied, wild and panicked.

“Whoa!” the driver shouted, yanking hard on the reins.

You clutched Ida’s arm, your heart racing. “What’s going on?”

The driver cursed, standing in his seat to get a better look. “The damn harness snapped! The horse—”

Before he could finish, the horse bolted, the broken leather straps slapping wildly behind it. The carriage lurched, and you and Ida were thrown sideways. The wheels screamed as they spun out of control, the driver shouting as he fought to keep it steady.

“Hold on!” he yelled.

The world tilted violently as the carriage careened off the road, slamming into a ditch. Bags spilled across the floor, and you hit your shoulder hard against the side wall. Ida’s scream filled your ears, but the noise was drowned out by the thunder of the collapsing carriage, wood splintering and wheels buckling beneath the weight.

And then—nothing.

The carriage stopped, shuddering to a halt in a twisted heap at the bottom of the ditch. The rain started, light at first, pattering against the wreckage.

---

Logan was walking back toward your tenement building, the collar of his coat turned up against the cold drizzle, when he saw it—just beyond the next block, down by the road.

The sight hit him like a punch to the chest.

A carriage, overturned, one of the wheels still spinning lazily. The horse was gone, its reins dangling uselessly from the harness. People were gathering, but no one dared approach the wreckage yet.

Logan’s heart stopped. He knew—he just knew.

His feet moved before he could think. He sprinted toward the wreck, rain falling harder now, soaking through his clothes. His boots hit the muddy road with heavy thuds, splashing water as he ran faster than any ordinary man should.

By the time he reached the scene, a bystander had climbed down, trying to pry the splintered door open. Logan shoved him aside without a word, claws itching under his skin, ready to tear the door off if need be.

“Someone’s inside!” the man stammered. “Two women—”

Logan didn’t wait. His hands found the edge of the door, and with a growl of effort, he yanked it off the hinges. Inside the crumpled interior, he saw you, half-buried beneath scattered bags.

“Y/N!” His voice cracked, raw and frantic. He dropped to his knees and pulled you free, cradling you in his arms.

You stirred, barely conscious, your head lolling against his chest. Blood streaked your temple, and your breath came in shallow gasps.

“Logan…?” you whispered, confused, your hand weakly grasping his coat.

“I got you,” Logan said, his voice breaking. “I’m here. You’re gonna be fine.” But even as he said it, dread gnawed at him—this wasn’t fine. It was happening again.

Ida groaned nearby, struggling to sit up, but Logan’s focus was locked on you. He pressed a hand against your side, where your ribs felt wrong under his touch. He could feel the heat of your blood seeping into his fingers.

“No, no, no…” Logan whispered, shaking his head. The storm raged around him, but all he could hear was the shallow rasp of your breathing.

You looked up at him, your gaze unfocused, but your lips curled into the faintest smile. “I told you… I’d rest…”

“Don’t,” Logan begged, his forehead pressing against yours. “Don’t do this. Stay with me. You hear me? Stay.”

You blinked slowly, your hand slipping from his coat. “I… tried…”

Logan clenched his jaw, biting down hard against the scream building in his chest. His healing mutation would keep him alive through anything—but it couldn’t save you. Not now. Not again.

He kissed your forehead, his breath shuddering. “I can’t lose you again, darlin’. Not like this…”

Your breath hitched once, then stopped.

“No,” Logan whispered, rocking you in his arms. “No, no, no…”

His hands trembled as he pulled you closer, your lifeless body limp against him. The rain poured down harder, drumming on the wreckage, but Logan didn’t care. He sat there, holding you, feeling the familiar, soul-crushing emptiness settle in his chest like an old wound tearing open again.

And still, he held you. Because this time, just like 26 years ago, he couldn’t let go.

in this chapter logan is 48 years old and reader is around 22-24 years old. just a reminder that going forward there is going to be an age gap between the two since logan obviously keeps getting older.

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #james howlett x reader #james howlett x you #logan howlett #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett fic #i love you in every time #logan ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ #abby's works ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

538 notes · View notes

localfandomenjoyer · 2 months ago

Text

The Death of Pallas (Kronide AU Oneshot)

A great wrath had befallen the mountain of the gods. It poisoned the air and loomed heavily over streets, bearing down with the weight of endless, insurmountable aeon that gave even the immortals a sense of finality. Perseleia made no effort to rein in her aura—the goddess was unaware that she had loosed it. Her thoughts remained fixed on the tragedy that had occurred under her watch.

The plan should have worked. She remained beside Zeus the entire day, her hand upon Aegis, yet it never strayed from its position by his side even when Athena began to falter. Just as Perseleia was beginning to feel bad for assuming the worst of him yet again, a cry of alarm sounded off from the arena. Pallas – brave, sweet Pallas – had misplaced a foot and Athena, unwilling to suffer defeat before her father, swiftly took advantage. She drove a spear to the heart of her opponent without thinking about why the nymph had faltered. By the time Wisdom saw through her folly, it was too late.

Pallas was dead.

Perseleia now stood before the Temple of Poseidon, staring at a frozen marble face by the entrance – the same face for which Triton was now weeping. The goddess wished to be with him in this hour of grief, but that face had belonged to her as well, and she would not torture her nephew with its image before the body was even cold. Perseleia was instead left to fester in wrathful grief, unable to decide who she hated more in that moment: Athena or herself.

A rush of wind signalled the arrival of another to the desolate street. No one else had approached the goddess yet, for although she was beloved by nymphs and godlings alike, the eldest among them still held memories of golden eyes and a biting scythe. The Titan King may have passed from the world, but some of his infamous temper clearly lived on in his favourite daughter.

“I thought I might find you here,” Zeus took a place beside her. He seemed to wrestle with his words for a moment, uncertain of what he could possibly say at a time like this. “Athena is... inconsolable.”

“She should be!” Perseleia snapped back harsher than intended, but she couldn’t bring herself to take back her words. Not when her grandniece hadn’t even been laid to rest yet.

Few would believe that Zeus was capable of fear. Paranoia, sure, or even unease, but never outright fear. They hadn’t seen his hands tremble as he poured the drink that freed their siblings – that was something only she had been privy to. Perhaps this was why Zeus shared concerns with her that even Rhea – especially Rhea – knew nothing of?

“It was an accident,” his shoulder slumped, “Perse, you know it was an accident, but our brother won’t see it that way. They – the Atlanteans – will demand blood. I can protect Athena from a great many things, but so many of her temples and worshippers are within the sea’s grasp.”

Perseleia turned from him, trying to ignore the grey-eyed children that haunted her memory. Didn’t she deserve to be angry for once? “What would you have me do – tell Poseidon that she should be spared of all consequences? Her recklessness killed his granddaughter.”

“And she will spend the rest of eternity wishing to undo it,” Zeus reminded, his voice slipping ever so slightly. “Please, I... I know you cared for Pallas, but you care for Athena too. Don’t let Poseidon destroy her. Direct his wrath at me if you must, I can endure it.”

It was rare indeed for Zeus to beg for anything – to lower himself from nigh-invincible King of the Gods and admit weakness, even one so simple as caring for his daughter. Perseleia, who was most privy to such matters, knew that he feared such things being used against him. There were certainly many who would try.

She took a long, shuddering breath and allowed the first of her tears to fall. “These are dark times indeed if you must dissuade me from taking harsh action.”

“What can I say, save for that I learned from the best?”

A strangled sound, caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob, came from the goddess. Perseleia wiped her tears away and composed herself. “I... I will tell Poseidon that you raised Aegis during the contest, distracting Pallas at the critical moment. He trusts my counsel and knows she was enamoured by that shield.”

Zeus released the breath he had been holding, relaxing his shoulders for the first time since the contest. “You would lie to him for me?”

“For you and Athena,” she corrected. “It won’t spare her from all retribution, nor will she ever be allowed in Atlantis again, but believing that someone else shared responsibility for the accident might at least alleviate her pain. Pallas was practically a sister to her, and I know she wouldn’t want Athena torturing herself like this.”

“Perse, I don’t know what to say. Thank you,” Zeus spoke with sincerity.

He extended a hand towards her, but she leaned out of his reach. “It would be best if we avoided each other for the next year or so. Poseidon knows me well; if I appear to hold no grudge, he might suspect our deception.”

“Oh. That’s… yes, I suppose that’s fair,” Zeus sighed. He nodded to her, stepping back reluctantly. “I’ll see you at the next council meeting.”

She did not avert her gaze as he disappeared in a flash of lightning. Now alone, Perseleia turned her mind to planning, wisps of golden light playing through her idle fingers as they had for her father so long ago. Zeus said that Athena would spend the rest of eternity wishing to undo what had transpired. Such a feat was beyond Wisdom, but would the past yield to the heir of Kronos? It was certainly worth investigating.

Not today, though. Today was a day for mourning, and Perse had many tears still to shed.

AN: Hey everyone, hope you enjoyed the oneshot. I wanted to play around with character portrayals of Zeus and Perse in the Kronide AU. This also touches on some themes I'd like to explore, such as Perse struggling to connect with her mortal origins and trying not to become like the other Olympians, even though the role she has forces her to make difficult decisions.

I’m also not going to confirm or deny if Perse watching her made Athena especially determined to win, only that Perse doesn’t really understand how much Athena longs for her attention.

#athenide au #perse athenide #perse kronide #kronide au #percy jackson #pjo #pjo zeus #pallas and athena

209 notes · View notes

mooncakenight · 2 months ago

Text

Wicked Hands

Wicked Hands Upon Me (oneshot)

// You live at the edge of town, withdrawn from the claws of society and pressures of others, no husband, no family, you spend your days barefoot in your small garden, yet you feel eyes upon you…//

wc: 4304 :: remmick x f!reader :: MDNI :: not beta read so sorry for mistakes!:: (also I love this movie so much! seriously best thing I have ever seen, the barn dance scene has had me tearing up!)

Moist dirt pushed through the gaps of your toes, the hem of your thin nightgown stained dark. The plants needed watering before the crest of the Mississippi sun came blazing over the tree line. Much to your dismay, a lazy grumble sat in the back of your throat as you stretched. Water spews out of the metal watering can. You could practically hear your plants cheering. With how damn hot it has been, you were shocked they weren’t shriveled and dried to nothingness.

Crows cawed amongst the morning mist, the subtle hum of cicadas preparing their day-long screaming. It was comforting in a way of familiarity. It was the same every morning: watering, checking the chickens, and finally breakfast. A simple routine that brought you a small amount of peace. Living out here on your own tended to become bitter, some even going out of their minds. Most were unable to handle the heavy full silence of just nothing.

The chicken pen closed with a slam, and you dusted a few stray feathers from your dress. The weight of a dead bird felt like a ton in your hand. Death was always uncomfortable, even with animals. Squeezing your eyes shut, you reeled your arm back and tossed the limp body past your property. Nature would take its primal course. Crusted blood flaked on your hands, you would need to fix that wire fence, especially since the chickens could now potentially get stuck.

Death aside, breakfast was creeping into your disturbed mind. Dead chicken aside, your hens had laid a few more eggs. With the eggs safely cradled in a muddied night gown, you headed into the creaking house.

Days blended into one another, but nights were unique. The air changed once the sun set; it was heavier, more charged. As if something was alive within the woods around. Your crooked wooden house sat like a beacon in the void. Protection was a serious matter; you were a young, unmarried woman. It would be stupid to not know the risks. Two heavy shotguns sat mounted on the wall, just beside the front door. Just the weapons being there felt as if they were guarding you. It eased the paranoia just a bit, where on summer nights you get comfortable enough to open the screen door and listen to your gramophone.

You’d cook up some dinner while music softly drifted through the house. You only owned a few records because of how expensive they were, but they never failed to make you smile. Humming, you spun around with your apron. Your bare feet thumping against the wood floors. You were so lost in the rhythm, you almost didn’t hear the soft knock against the door frame. Frowning, you froze. Your head snapped towards the screen door. The only thing that separated you and the desolate void outside. Porch lights weren’t a necessity typically, but now you could see the appeal.

Taking a cautious step towards the door, your eyes slid to the shotgun. It was too dark to see any figure, which was most definitely a knock. However, this house was old and practically falling apart. Your shoulders dropped a bit, maybe that was it.

Knock Knock.

Your stomach dropped. Someone all the way out here? You were over ten miles from town. Who could possibly be out here? Fists clenched, you took another step towards the door and the shotgun. The tension tightened in your spine as you neared the screen door. Through the metal, you could see what appeared to be a man. His clothes worn and dirtied, suspenders slipping from his broad shoulders. His features were shaded in shadow. He stood just on the first stair of the porch, just a the tip of the darkness that surrounded him. If he took one step back, he would probably disappear from your sight.

“Can I help you…?” You called out, hand now tightly gripping the cool metal of the gun by your side.

A heavy beat passes before he speaks up.

“Aw I’m awfully sorry for botherin’ you ma’m-“

“State your business or get on.” You spit out, venom leaking out of every word. The bone of your teeth squeaked under the pressure you clamped down. Every fiber in your being alight and tense, ready to be on guard.

The middle of the night was no time for pleasantries; a strange man in the odd hours meant trouble. His smile never dropped, as if your rudeness didn’t faze him in the slightest. His hands raised in apology. Expression twisted up in a strange combination of pain and poignancy.

“Apologies ma’am, I was just wonderin’ if you could give a traveler some food, is all…” His accent was thick, yet there was a hint of something foreign. Your brow ticked, the gun still grasped in your hand. His voice was ragged as most were down here, but there was a hint of curve on certain words. Unfamiliar.

“Where you from?” You jut out, eyes now sliding down his person. You just noticed the strung-up banjo resting on his back. A man of music never had good intentions; you could practically hear your daddy yapping.

“Hah-“ He huffed a laugh, the noise tinged with disbelief, shocked you'd even ask such a thing, “Somewhere far away, darlin’”

His answer only made your brow furrow deeper, yet he made no move to come closer. Even in the darkness, you could spot the subtle movements of anxiety within him, the gripping of his trousers, the cracking of his fingers. He was antsy. Fear bloomed in your stomach. This man was off.

“I ain’t got no food for you, you best be off, there’s a town just a few miles up the road.” You internally prayed he would take your decline and go; you had no desire to shoot him down where he stood. Violence wasn't a vice of yours, but this damn world forced everyone's hand at least once. Maybe tonight was the night you'd take your first life.

The man shifted on his feet, the silence between you heavy again. Almost as if it were awaiting what direction this would go. You awaited his next move with bated breath. Please, please, please, you internally chanted.

“You alone?”

Fuck. Your stomach dropped through the floor. Lie.

“No, my husband is just resting.” The fib slipped seamlessly through your bared teeth.

“Lies.” He rasped, taking a slow, calculated step closer onto the porch. His features now washed in the soft glow from within your home. He was handsome, but his eyes reflected. Too much so. Almost like a gator, a predator. The curve of his lips felt like a threat.

“N-no, honest, he is quite possessive, so you'd best be leaving…” Blood rushed through your ears, your chest practically clenching with the thunderous beats of your heart. Not even realizing you had subconsciously taken a step backward.

“Is he?” His voice was thick with something unspoken. He inhaled, throwing his head back. You could see the darkened veins protruding past his pale skin. A soft, unsteady sway to his body. Uncanny in a way that almost felt as if it was mimicking someone's movements.

“Y-yes, he-“ He interrupted your lie by taking another step forward. Shortening the distance between the two of you. The man was now no more than a foot away.

“L-listen darlin’- I’m starvin’ just let me on in, it can be our little secret.” He breathed, so honeyed and broken you felt your heart stutter. Why couldn't you breathe properly suddenly? Your throat felt tight and dry as the dirt below. His eyes tracked your movements, how your chest rose with heightened breath, the small part between your lips, and the clenching of that damn gun in your calloused hand.

"Oh, he doesn't have to know now, does he?" The tease is nothing more than a breath, hushed between the two of you.

“I’m-“ You faltered. What could you say? You shook your head, words failing you. The closer he got, the more you could there was something deeply wrong about this man. His pupils were larger, his skin decorated in a sheen of sweat, his lips cracked and bloodied. He shook like a leaf, as if he were ill. You didn’t notice before, but his knees kept buckling ever so slightly.

How did you not notice that before? So overcome by fear, you had failed to even assess the man properly. Now that you peered at him, the tremors in his hand were hard to miss. He did come here to ask for food; perhaps he was truly starving. He looked as much, at least.

“Are you sick?” You whispered. The wandering of your gaze was not unnoticed by the stranger. Illnesses weren’t uncommon, but many didn’t have access to a doctor, so they’d just die. It was important to avoid sickness when you were poor, which led you to grow a multitude of herbs in your garden. Maybe this traveller didn't have that privilege.

“It’s not the contagious type.” He breathed. His admission made an ounce of the fear vanish; the man was probably delirious and feverish. Which is probably why he thought it was acceptable to taunt a lady outside her home at night. His strange behavior could be chalked up to malnutrition and whatever sickness he had. It would be cruel to leave him to die out here.

“I can leave some food on the porch, that’s all I’m able to give.” You declared. The finality in your voice ran through the air. He nodded gratefully, a wobbly smile on his lips.

“I’d be eternally grateful.” He murmured. Seemingly slumping at your decision.

You were uncomfortable with the thought of losing him from your sight, but the kitchen was no more than five feet away. The gun was still locked within your hand as you messily scooped some stew into a bowl with one hand. The weapon felt strange in your grasp; you weren’t a fighter. The thought of using it sent a chill down your spine. But you would, if pushed, you’d pull that trigger without a second thought. As if to remind yourself.

Hurrying to the screen door with food, you panicked at the missing form of the man. Shit. Only to jump out of your skin when a pained groan erupted from the porch. You gaze shot down to see the man sprawled onto his back, an arm flung over his eyes. The white shirt was drenched in sweat more than before. He writhed on the floor, the illness probably wreaking havoc on his insides.

“S-sir?” You called out. He only whimpered in response, not even looking at you. Your teeth pushed into your bottom lip. This man was dying on your porch. Shakily, you stepped out to set the stew by his side before quickly retracting your body inside. Even if he wasn’t dangerous, you had no idea what this ‘not contagious’ illness was.

“Sir?” You tried again. He flung his arm away from his face, small pants leaving his lips. He looked paler than before, all color drained from his face and neck.

“W-what a shame such a pretty girl gotta see me this way…” He laughed weakly. A string of drool dripped off the side of his mouth. You tried not to stare. Heat flaring in your cheeks at the compliment. You snapped your gaze back to the floor.

“Can you eat?” You gestured to the small bowl of stew at his side. He grunted, craning his head upwards to peer at the food. A small grimace on his face.

“Anythin’ for you…” He coughed. He pushed himself onto his hands and knees to kneel in front of the stew. His back slumped forward, almost like it was too much energy to even hold himself up now.

You only watched from behind the partially open screen door as he drained the stew, slurping loudly. Not even bothering to use the bent spoon you’d stuck in there. Yet once he was done, he licked the bowl clean, slowly. His gaze never drifting away from you, it set a slow simmer just beneath your flesh. Noises of wet spit sending a shiver down your spine. You turned, interrupting the slickness you felt between your thighs. Inappropriate timing, this poor man was starving.

It had been too long since you’d been in the presence of man. Too long since you had someone to warm your bed, so that's why this was sending you sparks. That was all, just been celibate for too many years. The man slowly pushed the empty bowl towards you, his eyes still not straying. He kept low as if not to startle you.

“God bless ya…” He rasped. Thick and syrupy, it slipped through your veins. Thrumming through your body, you redirected your focus.

Bending down, you picked up his empty dishware and turned towards the kitchen, not noticing the way his gaze locked onto the switch in your hips. Or how he dug his nails into the rotted wood beneath him. Or how the drool just wouldn't stop, roping down towards the floor. You returned to the door with your apron off and a wash rag.

“It’s gettin’ late, wipe yourself down and good luck to ya…” The gun was now leaning against the wall, unneeded in your grasp. Although odd, he was just a man, a sick man.

He pushed up and began slowly lifting to his feet. You nodded and held out the wash rag between your fingers. Time seemed to stop as he stared forward at your hand. It poked through the threshold of the house, into the abyss of night. The prick of goosebumps bloomed on your skin, the hairs standing up at your nape. Then in a moment, it was gone. He softly took the rag and offered another nod.

"Appreciate you, ma'am." With that, he entered the dark void just down the steps. That unsteadiness gone, as was he. Clutching your night gown, you hurriedly slammed the door, locking it tight. Not so sick anymore suddenly? You shook your hand and snatched the gun to haul it up within the safety of your bedroom.

Yet, as you lay for sleep, red eyes plagued your mind and spirit.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

The next few nights pass without a hitch. No strange men, and luckily, the nightmares fade. You continue with your quiet life as if it never happened. However you did take one thing from that night, you needed to get fucked. If you were to the point that you were lusting after strange men who drool, then you needed a reset. Which meant heading into town.

It was late afternoon, and you were in your finest dress. The walk had been a little over two hours, and you utilized a red parasol to shade yourself from the blazing sun. It matched your dress, which you couldn't deny being a little proud of. The dress hugged at your hips then flittered around your knees, the best type for dancing.

People bustled around as usual, and it was always overwhelming when you did make the trip into town. Which wasn't often, every few months or so. People waved, some ran over to chat, and secretly 'check up' on the woman who lived alone and so far from town. You were sure there were countless rumors of why you chose to live such a way. Even so, it felt nice to converse for once.

After a few interruptions, you finally made it to your destination, a small club just at the end of an alleyway. A few people surround the entrance, and you give them a nod. One of the men holds out his hand, curling his fingers in expectation. Of course, nothing is free around here. Digging through your coin purse to pull out the fee. Then you're enveloped in thick smoke and dim lighting. It's sleazy, it's dirty, and full of cheats. Exactly why you are here, no respectable woman would ever dare come to this establishment. A few tables are spread out, groups play poker, some just lost in a bottle, others occupied with a woman filling their laps.

"Anything I can get ya, sweets?" A smooth voice calls out, and a handsome man behind the bar winks. A smile crawls up onto your lips, and you can't push back the feeling of butterflies. It's been way too long for you.

"Whatever you think is nice, sir." You hum, the excitement coursing through feels oh so right. The man laps at your words, leaning over the bar. His brown eyes are like honey and whisky. A nice stubble brushes his chin, tall and fit, what more could you ask for?

"Oh, I know a few things that are nice..." He murmurs, seemingly enraptured by your features. A chuckle escapes you at the clique remark. He will do nicely, you think to yourself. You had quite the itch to scratch, you wondered how nice that stubble would feel on your cunt.

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

The drive back to your home was a constant wave of unchecked lust and moaning. You two could barely keep your hands off one another, his touch igniting you in a way that felt distant. A few times, he even swerved when you palmed him through his jeans. It was well past dark now, the pink colors of the sunset washed away in that violet blue.

"It's here." You gestured to your quaint little home just off the road. He slowed, breaking into your yard. The car's rumbling halts.

"Shit, you weren't lying about livin' far from town..." He chuckled, you only nodded, and jumped out of the car. Far too excited to chat about such mundane things. Usually, you'd be on edge about bringing a man home, but Jack? No, no, Charles. He was well known around town for bang 'em and leave 'em. So your worries were slim to none.

"Come on." You smiled, gripping his hand and pulling him inside.

It's all hands. Gripping your hair, your ass, spreading you open. Lips suck the hollow of your neck, and you release a cry. That slick wetness filling the space between your panties. The blood roars in your ears as he sinks to his knees, bunching your dress up. Small pants punch out of him, and he looks enthralled. It's fast and sharp. Small bites litter your thighs as he works his way upwards towards your apex. Your head tosses back, gripping the wall for strength. Ever so slowly inching upwards, the warm, wet tongue sends spikes through your body. Your chest heaves as you stare down at him, eyes lidded and heavy. He is just about to touch your clit when a noise shatters the moment.

Knock knock.

Charles lifts his head, peering at the door, then at you.

"Expectin' company?" He rasps. Yet you can tell by his expression that he is annoyed. You huff, yanking your dress down and almost stomping to the door. The house rattles with how fiercely you yank it open, revealing no other but your sick pal from last week.

"Evenin' darlin, I just-" His gaze flickers behind you to Charles, still on his knees. You see his lips tighten, and in an instant, he flickers back to you, softening.

"Apologies, I didn't realize you had- uh, company." His body shifts, once again looking uncomfortable in his own skin. You glower, the overwhelming rage of being cockblocked clouds your judgement.

"I am quite busy, so please kindly fuck off my property." You spit, your gaze locked onto his unusual eyes. Charles says nothing behind you, and you are about to slam the door just as his foot catches it. His face is cold and expressionless, so much so that it makes you stumble back a bit.

"Ha, throwin' me out so suddenly? Where'd all that hospitality go, doll?" He taunts, and the urge to smash the door into his face rises within you. A lopsided smile found its place on his face again. How fast does this man's emotions switch?

"Dried up, now if you'll excuse me." You try again.

"This the husband you told me about?" He mocked. Charles froze just beyond your peripheral vision. Fuck.

"Husband?" Charles echoes, now standing and making his way closer. You grit your teeth. Two problems are quickly arising, and your arousal is drying up fast.

"No, I ain't got no husband, now fuck off." He feigns shock at your statement, clutching his chest. Charles looks past your shoulder at the man, his eyes darting between the two of you.

"No, you lied?" He gasps, you wonder if you could shut the door hard enough to break his foot. Would that even be enough to shut him up?

"Enough. You're interrupting." You growl out. You were over this petty show of dramatics. The stranger jolts back, his brow furrowed. As if what you said physically struck him.

"Well, please don't stop on my account!" His arms go wide, gesturing to both you and Charles. You frown, shaking your head.

"No, you need to leav-" Charles abruptly cuts you off.

"Hold on now, doll, if he ain't gonna leave, let's just continue..." Charles breathes, voice full of excitement. He brushes his hand through your hair, a soft grin on his handsome face. Huh? You blanch, what the fuck was he talking about? Your eyes flicker back to the stranger, his gaze now zeroed in on Charles beside you.

"I-" Charles' hand slides up your dress once again, and oxygen escapes you. In front of him? You nervously look to the stranger once again, he stands just at the threshold, fisting the sides of his trousers. Almost as if his grip was the only thing rooting him to the spot.

"Cmon baby, you came to me lookin' for some fun..." Charles purrs, those slick fingers sliding through your fold, testing and gently pulling. Your mouth falls open slightly, but your gaze never flickers down to Charles, only the stranger before you. It's like you're entranced and you can't shake the feeling you truly are.

"There you go, baby." Charles encourages as you absentmindedly give small thrusts to his dancing fingers. The stranger tilts his head, assessing each small reaction. For some reason, that has you clenching down onto Charles' fingers. Fuck.

"Here, get down onto the ground," Charles instructs, pressing you downwards onto the cool wooden floor. He is behind you, your dress now crumpled up past your ass. Yet, you can only stare at the stranger as he lowers himself with you, almost face to face. You can feel his breath from beyond the door. You aren't even paying any mind to Charles' belt clinking on the floor and spitting on his cock. All your breath has been stolen by the mysterious man.

"Uh-huh, there it is..." Charles groans, entering into you with a slow pulsing push. Your mouth drops again, and it feels heavenly. The sloppy thrusts echo within the entryway. The stranger before you is on his hands and knees, so desperate to press closer. His eyes are bright, shining so oddly, if you were in your right mind, you'd say something.

"Fuck!" Charles cries out, fucking you so good it has your eyes rolling. Sweat pours down your forehead, and you move back and forth with his punishing thrusts. It's liquid heat.

The stranger's breath is ragged, and the tent in his trousers is beyond noticeable. He leans a tad bit closer, his voice low, just for you.

"I could fuck you so nice darlin'" He drawls, the tone lazy and breathy. It sends pricks against your flesh like a live wire. You fall forward onto your arms, unable to keep your head up, the smack of skin like music to your ears.

"Cmon baby, I'd be so deep inside ya' you'd feel me for weeks..." It's practically a growl. As if he is threatening you. Misture hits your face and you blink, he is drooling, long, thick ropes fling at you. He smiles widely, fingers digging into the wood.

A whimper slips out of you at a particular angle, and you can't tear your eyes away from the sight before you. The man is on the ground, and he thrusts against the floor messily. It's intoxicating.

"Charl-" You moan out, but the stranger shushes you. A shaky finger raised to his spit-slick lips.

"Remmick doll, name's Remmick." You can only nod dumbly.

Remmick.

Remmick moans, throwing his head back and exposing the length of his neck. Had you moaned that out loud? Charles is paying the two of you no mind, just mindlessly thrusting, chasing his own high.

"Fuck Darling- you gon' make me cum in my pants whining like that." Remmick huffs out, and oh, how you wish you were outside with him right now. He lets out a delirious laugh and stares dead in your watering eyes. The friction is becoming too much, Remmick is becoming too much.

"I'm gon' kill that bastard behind you then I'll fuck you in his blood." He grits out, spitting on your face with the sheer force of his words. You tense all at once, that Earth-shattering feeling washing over you at his words. Promise? It's sick, but you can't stop from gushing around the cock inside you. Remmick groans at your expression, and Charles cries out. Seemingly unaware of the situation.

Boneless, you somehow find the strength to look up. Glowing red pupils stare back, fingers suddenly longer and sharper, the stench of death rises in the air. Your breath catches at the sheer vision of the devil in front of you. From this moment on, you knew this man, monster, would forever change your fate and alter your very existence.

#remmick fanfic #remmick smut #remmick x reader #sinners movie #vampire #remmick sinners #remmick #x reader #reader insert #fanfic #mooncakewrites

217 notes · View notes

aquaholicsanonymousworld · 2 months ago

Text

Florida Kilos | Pairing: Jason Duval x Ex!Reader | Author's Note: I need GTA VI neeoowwwwwwww!!!!!!! I NEED JASON DUVAL NOW!!!!! "THEY REHEATED THE ARTHUR MORGAN NACHOS!!!!!!" I scream as they drag me away to the asylum.

Jason Duval had a buzzcut now.

You noticed it before anything else, before the thick new muscle on his frame, before the gold chain catching light against his tan skin, before the way his arm was slung a little too casually around her waist. His hair — the long, sun-streaked mess you used to tug on when things got heated — was gone. Shorn down to the scalp like he was trying to erase the kid you used to know.

And maybe he had.

Because Jason wasn’t playing small-time in the Keys anymore. No, not with Lucia on his hip — the Lucia you’d heard whispers about, the one with the sharp mouth and sharper instincts, the kind of woman who didn’t play second to anyone.

Your stomach turned when you saw them, all wrapped up in each other like they owned the place. Lucia’s eyes were always moving, clocking everyone in the bar, but when her gaze slid over you, it was indifferent. Like you weren’t even a blip on her radar.

Jason, though — he wasn’t so smooth.

His eyes locked on you, and for half a second, that cocky grin twitched. Like he wasn’t expecting you here. Like maybe seeing you knocked him off balance just a little.

You let your eyes drag over him, slow and deliberate.

“Buzzcut, huh?” you muttered, stepping close enough that only he could hear. “Guess you really are trying to pretend the Keys never happened.”

Jason’s jaw tensed. That familiar tick in his temple. “Maybe I just got tired of dragging around dead weight.”

You almost laughed. “Is that what you call it now? Dead weight?”

Your eyes flicked to Lucia, then back to him. “Tell me, Jason — does she know you used to cry every time you busted up your hand? Or is that another thing you shaved off with the hair?”

Lucia’s brows lifted, finally paying attention. Jason’s hand on her hip tightened, subtle but there.

“You should walk away,” he said, voice low, dangerous in a way that used to thrill you but now just made your blood boil. “Before you say something you can’t take back.”

You stepped in, chest nearly brushing his. “Already did. Three years ago on that damn dock, remember? Or did you buzz that out too?”

For a split second, the whole room felt like it held its breath.

Jason’s lips curled into a sneer, but behind it — deep behind it — there was that flicker. That heat. That unfinished business that no amount of new girlfriends, new cuts, or new crimes could kill.

Lucia’s hand slipped down to his wrist, subtle but firm. Possessive. Like she could feel the shift in him too.

You smirked. “Didn’t think so.”

And with that, you turned on your heel, letting the weight of your words hang in the humid air. You didn’t look back — but you could feel his eyes burning into you as you walked away, every step stoking that slow, simmering fire you both pretended was dead.

You barely made it past the neon flicker of the bar’s open sign before you heard heavy footsteps behind you — fast, clipped. Jason.

“Hey.”

His voice snapped through the night, sharp enough to stop you in your tracks.

You turned slow, arms crossed like armor. “Took you long enough.”

Jason was on you in seconds, close enough that the heat radiating off him made your skin prickle. The ocean breeze did nothing to cool the air between you.

“You really couldn’t help yourself, huh?” His jaw was tight, eyes dark and storming. “Had to start shit in front of her.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry — did I mess up your little power couple moment? My bad.”

He stepped in closer, chest brushing yours now. That chain around his neck caught the light again, glinting like a warning.

“You think this is a game?” he growled, voice low enough that it rumbled through your ribs. “Lucia doesn’t play. You open your mouth like that again, and she’ll—”

“What? Finish what you started?”

You tilted your chin up, meeting his glare head-on. “Go ahead, Jason. Let her come for me. At least she’d be honest about it.”

His nostrils flared. That vein in his neck jumped — the same one you used to trace with your fingers when you still loved him, before all this turned toxic and ugly.

For a beat, neither of you moved.

The only sound was the muffled bass thumping from inside and the distant lapping of the waves.

Then Jason swore under his breath, voice cracking just enough to give him away. “You make me crazy, you know that?”

You smirked, sharp and mean. “Always did.”

His hand shot out, palm flat against the wall beside your head — not touching you, but caging you in. His chest heaved, close enough now that you could smell the mix of cheap cologne and sea salt, and under that, something familiar. Him.

Your breath hitched, just for a second. Mistake.

Jason caught it, his eyes flicking down to your mouth and back up.

His jaw clenched. “You don’t get to look at me like that.”

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips — reflex, but it made his eyes darken. “And yet, here you are. Chasing after me.”

His other hand twitched at his side like he wanted to grab you, shake you, maybe kiss you — maybe both. You weren’t sure which one you wanted either, and that was the real problem.

“I should go back inside,” he muttered, but he didn’t move.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “You should.”

Neither of you moved.

The air felt thick enough to choke on. Your heart slammed against your ribs, traitorous and loud.

Jason leaned in, just enough that his lips brushed your ear when he spoke. “Next time you pull that shit… I won’t let you walk away so easy.”

You swallowed hard, throat tight. “Next time, maybe I won’t.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes again, something dangerous flickering there — something old and raw and very, very alive.

Then, like a switch flipping, he straightened, scrubbing a hand over his buzzed scalp like he could shake you off.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and stalked back inside, leaving you alone in the sticky Florida night, pulse racing and every nerve on fire.

He could still feel it sometimes — the ghost of your fingers threading through his hair, slow and lazy like they had all the time in the world.

Back then, they did.

Back before everything got complicated. Before the money, the jobs, and Lucia.

Your legs were slung over his, bare skin sticking to his thighs in the sticky Keys heat. You sat sideways on his lap, one hand absently twirling a piece of his long, sun-bleached hair while the other traced idle circles on his shoulder.

Jason leaned back against the rickety porch chair, grinning like an idiot as he watched you squint against the late afternoon sun.

“Y’know,” he drawled, voice thick with that lazy contentment he never found anymore, “you’re real bossy for someone who’s technically not my wife yet.”

You paused, fingers caught in a tangle of his hair. Your eyes narrowed, amused. “Yet?”

Jason smirked, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek. He reached up, caught your wrist, and tugged you closer until you were pressed up against his chest.

“Ok, Mrs. Duval,” he teased, voice warm and rough around the edges.

You snorted and shoved at his shoulder. “Shut up.”

But he just laughed — full and loud, the kind of laugh that used to bubble up easy around you.

“Nah, I’m serious,” he said, grin softening into something more real. His hand found your hip, fingers curling there like they belonged. “You’d look good with my name. All official and shit.”

You stilled against him. The banter dropped a little, tone shifting like it always did when he got too close to the thing they never quite said out loud.

“Jason,” you warned, voice quieter now. “Don’t say that if you’re not gonna propose. That’s messed up.”

His grin didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened — cocky but earnest in that dumb, dangerous way he had.

“But I will,” he said simply. Like it was fact. Like there was no world where it didn’t happen. “One day. I swear.”

You rolled her eyes, but he felt the way your body softened just a little like part of you wanted to believe him. Like maybe you did.

“Sure, Duval. I’ll believe it when I see a ring.”

Jason just laughed again, tipping his head back against the chair, letting your fingers go back to weaving through his hair like they were stitched into him.

And in that moment — sun setting, beer bottles clinking somewhere in the background, your weight warm and solid on his lap — he meant it. He really fucking meant it.

But now, standing outside some grimy Vice City dive with Lucia waiting inside, Jason could only feel the phantom sting of that promise.

Because he never did buy that ring. Never made her Mrs. Duval.

And judging by the way she looked at him tonight — all sharp edges and bitter heat — she remembered that too.

Part 2

#jason duval #jason duval fanfic #jason duval imagine #jason duval oneshot #jason duval x reader #gta 6 #gta 6 vice city

225 notes · View notes

fluffydeoxys · 4 months ago

Text

My Sanford and Deimos designs, with an analysis of Sanford, Deimos, their dynamic and what they represent to me, and the thoughts behind how I designed them!! It's quite long, but even then I feel as though I'm only scratching the surface of what I think. I skimmed over Dedmos and MC12 for brevity's sake as I genuinely think it would have doubled the already very long preamble. I hope you enjoy it!

A heads up: A lot of my analysis is predicated on personal headcanons of Sanford/Deimos and Madness Combat as a whole. While I like to make my personal interpretations adhere as close to canon as reasonably possible, there are nonetheless elements I will speak about that don’t really “exist” in the series itself. I try to integrate everything that we do see in canon, however, so I hope there is still something worthwhile for you to read in here!

So. There aren’t really friends in Nevada, are there? A broken, splintered world marred by madness and violence that bloodies the very earth. Disparate grunts are forced to calcify and adapt to the harsh landscape, and thus forging social bonds has likely become a risky practice. Who’s to say your ‘allies’ won’t turn on you? With the prospect of death always so close, why be attached to someone you could lose so easily? Living communally or working together is feasible and even wise, but beyond that? I doubt anyone gives a second thought to the personal lives of one another. There’s just not enough “brain space” and “normalness” to reconnect with these mundane ideas.

Furthermore, the existence of S3LF and clones also complicates things further when it comes to individuality and existence. It’s remarkably easy to store and then copy an individual's memories and experiences - the things that arguably define and distinguish a grunt - into any other body. Are you who you say you are? Or were you never someone at all, merely an idea propagated from a file? Are there social or cultural divides between grunts and clones? Could a clone ever hope to experience the fullness of life with such a minuscule, fragile S3LF that they don’t truly ‘own’?

It’s quite evident that many facets of Nevada are almost designed to erode humanity, to prevent it from being fostered and nurtured. From anywhere between its harshness to its brutality, to the unintentional cruel designs of the S3LF. It’s a cruel, merciless world that is inhospitable to kindness, friendliness and camaraderie.

That is merely the beginning of why I find Sanford and Deimos so fascinating as characters. Even from MC5.5 alone, they are so incredibly interesting in a setting like this, demonstrating a bond that is practically never shown anywhere else.

In their debut alone, there are multiple instances of them showing mindfulness and awareness of one another. At 0:34, you have Deimos looking back at Sanford for a moment, and again at 1:09, you have the two looking at one another after clearing the room. Then at 1:16 Sanford bandages Deimos’ head while he slices through Agents, and at 1:30 Sanford boosts Deimos up to get the jump on yet more Agents. And throughout the entire episode, Deimos and Sanford almost always fight with their backs to each other, covering their vulnerable spots.

MC5.5 strongly demonstrates how well they work together and how they look out for one another when so far, the series has only shown Hank’s effectiveness on their own. While Hank and Sanford/Deimos are worlds apart in strength and aren’t really meant to be directly compared, it does establish that Sanford and Deimos, together, are a force to be reckoned with.

Then, of course, Madness Combat 6.5 only further builds on these ideas, finally giving Sanford and Deimos their signature appearances. When Sanford is shot in the torso by an Engineer, he is rendered very vulnerable and slow, and this would be the right time to drop any dead weight. A train just rocketed through, and more enemies are undoubtedly around the corner, but Deimos helps Sanford up. He has to watch over Sanford and protect him as he slowly hobbles through rooms and eventually recollects himself enough to keep fighting and patch himself back up. If anything, also a testament to their hardiness and adaptability.

Then the scene in The Rift. It’s silly and the intent of it is to be silly, especially in the context of Madness Combat and how murder-hungry everyone is, but it so wonderfully demonstrates the bantering and lighthearted demeanour between the two. Deimos seems to care about Sanford’s opinion, tossing aside things he disagrees with and happily accepting what he encourages. And Deimos is who gives Sanford his signature glasses, completing the exchange in an honestly quite charming manner.

None of this behaviour is really shown in such a positive light anywhere else in Madness Combat. Maybe Church and Jorge at best, but even then. Sanford and Deimos banter with one another, hang out with each other, say silly things and generally show a level of care and interest in one another that extends beyond just fighting. When Sanford asks Deimos if he can hack them through in MPN, Deimos replies with “Can I hack us through… C'mon, man. How long have you known me?”, a simple yet sweet line that indicates their long-standing familiarity. Then there’s the classic big kielbasa and turkey dog conversation, a very silly exchange and one that Sanford seems rather bewildered by, given by his replies. But note, Sanford never demeans or berates Deimos for his “antics” (aside from Deimos wearing an Engineer mask in MC9, but hey, there was a genuine risk of Sanford potentially shooting him there). Furthermore, it’s probably only meant as a surface-level joke, but thinking of Sanford as a big kielbasa “often” sort of shines a light on how they genuinely think of one another in silly, small ways. When you realise that’s in the context of Nevada, you realise how incredibly remarkable that is.

Further than that, you have an exchange where Deimos asks why the Nexus Core members won’t give up, and is unable to reply when Sanford says, “Would you?” It’s not either of them dismissing questions or blindly following orders. They trust each other's opinions, look to each other when reflecting on matters, and they don’t always have the answers for each other.

And lastly, at the end of MPN, where it’s just the two of them talking about a problem on a scale far larger than them. Just two guys talking about what they think, and what they could do. No world-breaking power or insanity or inhumanity. Just Sanford and Deimos.

So you have a long string of showing the bonds between Sanford and Deimos spanning across several years and a game. Then Madness Combat 9 rolls around and, well, the moment they’re forced to split because the Auditor-enhanced Engineers show up… everything is changed forever.

Deimos is gone and forced to reckon with his death through Dedmos Adventures, and while he reemerges with the help of Doc, he is no longer the same. Conversely, Sanford has to tag along with Mag Hank as they struggle in Auditor’s Hell, and Sanford ends up on his own in 12. He is pushed to the very limits of what he can endure, visibly frustrated and barely containing increasing intensities of rage. There are no more quiet moments, no more slowing down, no longer someone at your side hyping you up, making you laugh, knowing your hobbies, your history.

Sanford and Deimos were separated, split into life and death. If you consider the real world time, literal years spent apart in the worst places they’ve had to endure yet. But they came back together. Different, changed, but together once more. That final moment in Madness Combat 12, the simple act of Deimos grabbing onto Sanford’s hand before he slips, forms into such a powerful scene that shows that they would defy ANYTHING to find each other again. That their unbreakable bond will help pull each other back from the depths, even paralleling 6.5 with how Deimos helps and protects Sanford after a near-fatal injury. It’s a perfect and very moving representation of their relationship. Their bond is so incredibly remarkable and one-in-a-million and so human. All the mundane things we share with other people in our world are hardly ever seen in Nevada, and for good reason, yet Deimos and Sanford share that with each other.

The fact that Deimos and Sanford exist in a world like Nevada is so truly special. It inspires hope for what can be possible despite harshness and brutality, that there is something worth living for, that you can find strength and meaning in the grand and the mundane.

So! Onto what I currently have mangled together for my headcanoned backstory as to how Sanford and Deimos met, because it helps set the stage and give context to the meaning of some things I’ll talk about later. At some stage, Doc recruits Sanford into his cause in the early years, maybe a year or two after Doc dissents from the AAHW. He’s a very effective and useful member, as Doc often used Sanford to pry information out of grunts using whatever method was possible. Doc pushed for him to use more extreme methods at times, as Doc was still in the early stages of beginning to understand the machinations of this world. He needed any piece of information that he could get, especially if it meant getting one step closer to understanding Hank’s disappearance. Doc saw it as a necessary period in their journey, but Sanford holds a repressed but deep resentment for Doc, because it warped and traumatised him immensely.

It resulted in him becoming extremely tense, paranoid and harshly pushing grunts away. Subsequently, Sanford didn’t get along with anyone else that Doc paired him up with. Putting the trauma aside, Sanford was already a serious and withdrawn individual who disliked banter. Not the most approachable or likeable grunt. Others would quickly lose their patience with him and were more prone to desertion or disobedience. While Doc could ignore it for a while, it gradually worsened as more and more jobs required a second hand, especially when Doc needed information retrieved from computer terminals - a skill Sanford distinctly did not have.

So, recalling someone he briefly knew in the AAHW, Doc got Sanford to round up some dissented AAHW members to assimilate into their ranks. One of these members was Deimos, whom Doc recognised and personally hand-picked to work alongside him to better foster and integrate his hacking skills. Deimos was exceptionally useful for Doc despite having a pretty rocky history in the AAHW, and if anything, Doc was pretty surprised he was still alive. Regardless, Doc paired him up with Sanford after a while, and Sanford did not enjoy it. He found Deimos rather annoying and just another dumbass in a long string of grunts Doc has picked up. Yet Deimos seemed different somehow. His unflinching and incorrigible charm slowly worked its way into Sanford’s mind, especially when he realised he actually enjoyed the guy's company. Deimos showed an interest in the hobbies that Sanford was usually mocked or looked down on for, and while he was a little careless, it felt nice to watch out for someone rather than watch another self-important idiot rush ahead.

Deimos further garnered Sanford’s interest when he learned a bit more about his insecurities and doubts, learning that clones exist. Sanford has questioned his existence in certain ways, regarding his own blood-stained hands with conflicted contempt and satisfaction, but this? Deimos telling Sanford that he isn’t sure that he’s alive, that he’s actually a ‘person’? That he’s lost, scared, clueless, alone? Sanford’s never cared for much before, living in this half-dissociated, emotionally distant state, but something stirs when he tries and kind of fails to comfort Deimos in that moment. He… cares. For something. For someone. A cold fortress that Sanford has built for so long, slowly opening itself to the idea of wanting someone. The pain and trauma remain, and it will never go away, but there is a new reason to get up in the morning. To look forward to something.

From that day on, an understanding began to form between the two, bringing them closer and closer together. To the point that Deimos starts glimpsing the cracks in Sanford’s facade, worming his way in closer and closer, chasing the rare smile and laugh that Deimos can elicit from him. Sanford is the first time he’s ever felt stability, kindness, patience, acknowledgement. But he realises it's not just that, it's not just chasing something to fulfill something he’s always wanted but never got, it’s because he likes Sanford. Roaming the wastelands of Nevada alongside Sanford has given him joy like he’s never known. Knowing that Sanford has got his back, and that Deimos can help, and truly mean something… It’s like something clicked one day.

Summarising/simplifying it, Sanford is like stability. Serious, steadfast, put-together and a leader. The trauma of doing what had to be done and hating yourself for it. For the kindness you could have had. The peace you lost or perhaps never knew. Forced to adapt and harden yourself, but the stress never truly went away. The fear and worry you have for your loved ones. The paranoia of losing them, witnessing the mortality of those dearest to you. But finding love and joy again in the people around you, letting someone touch the part of you that you swore you’d never let be hurt again. And you feel kindness and love and joy in the silly things again, thanks to Deimos.

With Deimos, it’s smiling despite how the world has hurt you, set you up to fail. The vices you adapt to cope, but there remains a desire to do better, to be better. The yearning to be something more, to be someone else, but you can only ever be the best version of yourself. Wanting to be loved and yet not loving yourself, neglecting your body and mind. But having someone so patient and steadfast in their love for you just makes you feel so thankful. I’m sorry I relapsed again. Do you still love me? And Sanford does. He always will. The passion and joy you hold close to your heart, that you will never let anyone take away from you, living carefree and silly.

Okay! Now to the actual. Design talk, jesus christ. Let’s begin with the general shape language of the two and how they’re specifically designed to contrast and complement one another.

Deimos is comprised of rounder shapes, is on the smaller/shorter side compared to Sanford, and is a little scruffier and messier in appearance. He’s lean but not skinny, well-defined in the legs and in generally decent shape considering his lifestyle (a lot of snacks). This is paired against Sanford’s much broader and larger stature, sporting well-muscled arms and the repetition of more rounded square shapes. He’s tidy, well-groomed and maintains his body and scars very well. While I didn’t push their poses too hard here, they also further establish and contrast their personalities. Deimos has a more open and overconfident pose while Sanford stands a little more rigid and alert, and is the only character to be looking to the right rather than the left.

Sanford has heavy-set, thick eyebrows that help convey a stern seriousness to him, but when his expression looks gentle and warm, they accentuate a certain charming quality that I think he has. While his face can look grave and even frightening, Sanford can also look quite gentle and sweet, and I think the eyebrows really help with that.

Sanford has a lot more scars because he’s been employed and working for Doc a fair bit longer than Deimos, and he ends up fighting hand-to-hand more often than him. Deimos is longer range, handles hacking/communications and is usually doing more runner-esque jobs. He sometimes trips and scuffles, especially because his bag is so heavy, hence why he’s got all those little bandages on him. I like to think Sanford is the one who patches him up.

I ended up not integrating every scar into their designs because a lot of them are incurred around MC9, which is sort of like the “cutting off point” for when shit goes south. Deimos becomes Rockmos, and Sanford becomes owww my eyes! So it doesn’t make a ton of sense to have them, so I only kept the ones from before MC9. Besides the stab wound on Sanford’s torso, I just liked how that one looked.

When it came to designing their clothes (or well, designing my take on them; this time I’ve not really added anything that didn’t already exist for either of them) my main philosophy was that Sanford was more practical and uniform-esque in his attire, whereas Deimos is more sloppy but radiates a lot more individuality.

Everything that Sanford wears has a specific purpose, from the belts on his pants acting as anchor points for his hook to the bandolier on his chest and his thick, heavy combat boots. The only real “personal” details are his bandanna (which I use to accentuate his expressions), his teashades (which were more or less given to him “by” Deimos), and his hook (which is a weapon, but nonetheless one he seems attached to/is a recurring tool for him). As well as the tattoo on his back, but I’ll touch on that later. When it all comes together, it illustrates Sanford as someone who is prepared and capable, but very serious and with few personal touches.

Conversely, Deimos is covered with various bits and pieces that are personal to him, whether modified by himself or simply worn in a particular style to reflect what he likes. Smaller examples of this are his uneven socks and his untucked shirt that has a few stains and rips.

His shoes were directly based on the live-action design, as I think this is a fantastic portrayal of Deimos’ personality. From the little artistic doodles to the likely bored number markings, to the silly labels distinguishing the right shoe from the left shoe. The cigarette at the heel with the clusters of grunts and Jeb feels oddly endearing, like Deimos was inspired by a moment in MPN and wanted to draw it. The fire drawn along the base of the shoe is adorable, and the EAT IT at the front with BYE BYE at the back is so wonderfully vindictive and mischievous it’s amazing.

And the star of the show, at least to me, is Deimos’ radio backpack. One thing I think I could have done better is add more charms onto it, but I’m sure I can add a ton more down the line when I get some ideas, cus annoyingly I don’t have too many. I always imagine the bag as going clink clink clink whenever he walks, and I dunno, it's cute and I think Deimos would cram as much as possible onto his bag to reflect both his interests and so he doesn’t get bored.

Regardless, the backpack is like his lifeline of usefulness to SQ, but leaving it the way it was when Doc gave it to him was so lame. Deimos wanted to give it his personal flair, attach pieces of his life to it, make it truly “his.” Many of the little buttons and stitches were done by him and reflect members of the SQ, like the smiley on Hank’s shirt and the fishing lure for Sanford. Where’s Doc, then? Well, I would like to think I can design something specific for him on Deimos’ bag, but he actually helped with the big patch on the backside of the backpack. If you look closely, it has the same stitch markings as the ones on Doc’s jacket. Deimos really struggled with getting it on, and Doc came over like, you made this? And Deimos replies with a stilted, uneasy “yeah.” When Doc hands the bag back to him, he goes, “It’s pretty funny. Not bad.” and I like to think rare praise from Doc makes him feel warm.

Krinkels has said Sanford’s tattoo doesn’t have a specific meaning, and I would like to give it one, but I haven’t gotten any ideas yet. Despite that, Deimos’ tattoo actually does, although it's not super complex or deep. I personally enjoy the headcanon that clones are coded with a tattoo-like marking that usually appears on the neck, but sometimes can appear on arms or legs. But Deimos didn’t want Sanford to remove or draw over it entirely; instead, he retained it as a reminder of who he was and how he wouldn’t hide from that reality, but he would move forward from it. To that point, the arrow underneath. To fly forward, guided by the sturdy bowstring, carefree and unbound by the wind. And the red bolt? Well, that’s a personal detail I’m a little shy about explaining, but I at least think it adds a nice little accent of colour.

Smaller notes:

Deimos’ thumb gradient is darker because he specifically lights his thumb more than any other digit. I think he could light other digits, but it takes more effort and focus. He generally thinks doing a thumbs up is funnier, and it’s easier to light a cig that way.

The multiple bullet scars on Deimos’ stomach are meant to parallel his injuries in MC9, but they’re not the same for the reasons I mentioned earlier. This similarly applies to a scar that Sanford has on his right hand, referencing when he was shot in MC9.

I removed the front belt from Deimos’ backpack because I liked his shirt and coat being unobstructed, and it let me properly show the drawstrings. I also liked the idea that he can remove the heavy bag in dire situations. While Doc probably thinks the tech inside Deimos’ backpack is more valuable, perhaps it has a self-destruct function that Deimos can remotely activate. Retrieving someone from the Other Place is also probably more resource-demanding and time-consuming anyway. I might change it, but for now, I like this version.

I quite like mist-lightning-snap’s paw and claw headcanons for grunts, so I applied the same principle to Deimos. As to Sanford? Who knows… maybe those black nails can pop out into claws?

#madness combat #_myart #_text #madness combat sanford #madness combat deimos #i think i could have spent more time on some aspects but i've been working on this for much longer than what i'm used to #my brain needs a palette cleanser but i'm really glad i got this completed and that it mostly summarises my current thoughts #arghh im die okay thank you for reading you are awesome

267 notes · View notes