#it's not too bad but there is description of blood and injury

[cappulcino]

Where The Wild Things Rest

Read on AO3

Words: 10,122

Pairing: Brienne of Tarth x Fem!Reader

Summary: See prompt here. You're the keep's master of King's Landing and find yourself under the protection of Brienne of Tarth on a quest for medicinal herbs. When a violent ambush leaves Brienne wounded, you seek refuge in an abandoned shack to treat her wounds and wait out the upcoming storm. One thing leads to another, and Brienne gets cared for in more ways than one.

Tags: Slow burn, smut, mutual pining, soft dom!reader

Trigger warnings: NSFW, description of violence, mentions of injuries and blood, graphic description of nudity and explicit sexual content (minors DNI)

A/N: If you're interested, you can find the link to the playlist I listened to while writing here.

"Honestly, Ser, I'm perfectly capable of fetching a few herbs on my own. I doubt the Kingswood has become a den of outlaws overnight."

With one hand resting firmly on the hilt of her sword, Brienne stood unwavering by the gate and her horse, her eyes not unkind but uncompromising on you. You were about to leave the city and had found her there, waiting for you. Apparently, the King himself had asked her to accompany you on your journey, and she would not budge.

"Many refugees and former soldiers have turned to theft and smuggling after the war I'm told, and the forest is less predictable than you'd think."

"I suppose I cannot convince you," you tried.

"No. My orders were clear," Brienne insisted with a firm shake of her head before she buckled her own saddlebag. "His Grace does not want you travelling without a guard."

You sighed, casting a sideways glance toward the treeline where the road to the Kingswood began. You didn't dislike Brienne of Tarth, quite the contrary, but you needed to focus on your mission, and you feared she would be… distracting.

"Well, His Grace worries too much. It'll only be a few bundles of feverfew and willow bark… maybe some yarrow. It's not that valuable and neither am I. The horse is worth more, but–"

"The king believes you are valuable enough, and so do I," Brienne cut you off, taking a brisk step closer. "We have already lost too much. We cannot afford to lose someone with your knowledge and skills. Not now."

She paused briefly and avoided your gaze as she spoke her next words, her voice mellowing ever so slightly.

"Or ever."

You put your hands on your hips and, again, looked into the distance, considering your options.

"Thieves, you say?"

"And smugglers. They might find you an easy target."

You gasped and raised your eyebrows at that statement, only half-feigning the offence showing on your face.

"I did not mean to call you weak," Brienne quickly rectified. "But with your hands full and your attention elsewhere, anyone could come from behind to attack you."

Brienne had a point. You tended to get quite absorbed by any task you undertook and crouching down to pick the herbs wouldn't exactly put you in the best position to retaliate and defend yourself should someone come at you. Still, you didn't understand why the King had appointed his best knight to this mission.

"Very well," you said. "I give up."

You pulled yourself up on your horse and went through the gate, and, from the outer corner of your eye, you saw Brienne letting out a soft exhale. Her apparent relief made you smirk, and you suddenly found yourself thinking that perhaps her company wouldn't be so bad.

For the first hour or so, you both rode in a silence interrupted only by bird songs, your horses' hoofbeats, and the metallic sounds of Brienne's armour. For some reason, she was riding a couple paces behind you and had not uttered a single word since you had left King's Landing.

So you took a halt and turned your horse around to face her, and Brienne, apparently too caught up in her thoughts, almost didn't notice you were no longer advancing and stopped abruptly, a mere pace away from you.

The face she made then and the way she quickly made her horse step back pulled the corner of your lips up once more.

"If we are to spend the day together, we might as well ride side by side," you said. "And maybe talk, get to know each other a little?"

Brienne blinked.

"We have known each other for months already," she replied, furrowing her brow.

"Correction: I know your name and you know mine, I have repaired your armour twice, you constantly refuse the ointments I make for the knights' wounds, and we exchange banalities regarding the keep's security when we cross paths. This is not what qualifies as knowing someone."

Brienne shifted her weight in her saddle, somewhat uncomfortable.

"There isn't much to say."

"Oh, I beg to differ. One cannot become the first female knight of all Westeros, first Lady Commander of the Kingsguard, and say she has no stories to tell."

"My stories have already travelled further and faster across the country than I have."

You weren't sure whether to laugh or roll your eyes at her reluctance to share the slightest bit of information.

"They have indeed," you confirmed. "And I have listened to each of them with great interest. But perhaps you wish to tell me your own version of those accounts, or to share stories yet unknown?"

"I would only be boring you, I'm afraid."

That was it; you rolled your eyes and resumed riding. Brienne could be stubborn as a mule if she wanted, and you couldn't waste the entire day trying to make her understand that you were, in fact, very much interested in anything she would be willing to say.

Brienne stayed frozen in place behind you a couple seconds, trying to make sense of your sudden wish to bond with her before she ordered her horse to catch up with yours in a quick trot, making her armour clank loudly as it did so.

"I don't understand why you would want to get to know me better," she said, now riding to your right.

You snorted softly.

"Evidently."

"An hour ago, you didn't want me around."

"I merely said I didn't need your protection." You glanced sideways at Brienne, and she looked rather disappointed by your constant dismissal, so you quickly added, "But since you must be here, why shouldn't we try to make it enjoyable for us both?"

When Brienne said nothing, you fully turned your head to face her. But she looked away, pretending to survey your surroundings for your safety, and you understood she didn't believe you could truly enjoy her company. The realisation made your heart clench harder than it should.

"Ser Podrick Payne was right," you muttered after a moment of silence.

Brienne's eyes skewered you. She had spent a long time with Podrick back when he was her squire, and she had opened up to him in ways she had rarely done with others. The idea that he could have betrayed her trust and repeated things she didn't want you to know made her blood boil.

"What did he say?" she asked in a clipped voice.

Your expression softened and you offered Brienne a small smile, trying to let her know that she didn't have to worry. Ser Podrick Payne would be the last knight to speak ill of her.

"That you wear more than one armour. And it's a shame."

Again, Brienne didn't reply to your comment. But you saw the crease between her eyebrows relax ever so slightly, and it gave you enough hope that, by the end of the day, she would trust you enough to let you in.

Another hour had passed, and you were now in the Kingswood, keeping your eyes peeled for the herbs you needed to gather.

Brienne still hadn't spoken much, but your genuine softness towards her had somewhat appeased her and you had been pleasantly surprised to find out that while she wasn't one to talk about herself so much, she could be a good listener –one who seemed keen on hearing about anything you had to say.

And so, in the past hour, you had answered many of her questions and told her about your childhood –what you remembered of it, at least–, where you had learnt about the duties of a keep's master, how the King had come to appoint you. And Brienne listened to each reply, with great intent, it seemed.

"Look, feverfew," you said, suddenly putting an end to your monologue.

Brienne followed your gaze and noticed the little white flowers blooming by the trail, right where the sunlight filtered through the trees.

"There is never enough of it in our inventory," you added as you pulled on the reins before handing them to Brienne. "Here. Would you hold onto Galewind for me? He likes to run away when I'm not looking."

Brienne gathered her own reins in her right hand before reaching with her left to grab yours. And as you handed over Galewind's reins, your fingers brushed against Brienne's –a fleeting contact, yet enough to make you pause.

You glanced up at her face, momentarily struck by the unexpected tenderness of the touch while Brienne's eyes flicked down to where your fingers had touched her hand, her expression unreadable. She shifted slightly in her saddle, her lips parting as though to speak, but no words came out. Instead, she only nodded, assuring you your horse was in good hands.

"Thank you. He can be stubborn," you said as you dismounted before clearing your throat in an attempt to chase the awkwardness away.

"Of course," Brienne replied, her tone uncharacteristically soft.

You walked to the feverfew and knelt down to examine the flowers, but your mind lingered on that moment. True, you had "known" Brienne for a while now, yet she remained as much an enigma up close as the stories had painted her from afar. But with what had just happened, you considered for the first time how much strength and gentleness seemed to coexist in her –and you weren't entirely sure she wanted others to notice that other side of her.

From behind, you could feel her eyes on you, watchful and cautious, as if she were guarding more than just your back. A flicker of something stirred in your chest, but you pushed it aside. There were herbs to gather, and you didn't have time for silly, fleeting thoughts –not now, anyway.

A couple of hours later, you had already gathered quite a good amount of herbs and were enjoying the slow ride along the trail when the soft sound of rushing water caught your attention. Glancing toward the noise, you spotted a narrow stream cutting through the trees. At first, you only admired how the water glittered in the sunlight. But then your eyes honed in on a cluster of tall plants nestled on the far bank.

"Motherwort," you murmured, almost to yourself, before halting. "That's a rare find."

You then turned towards Brienne as she stopped beside you and winked at her.

"Perhaps it is you bringing me luck. I shall take you with me more often."

"What is it used for?" Brienne asked to create a diversion from your comment –though the brief clenching of her jaw and the faint blush on her cheeks seemed to indicate you had actually hit the target.

"Oh, many things if you know how to prepare it. But mainly female health."

Brienne nodded in a detached way as if she didn't even feel concerned, and you went back to the matter at hand.

"But it's on the other side of the stream and at this time of year, that water is freezing. I'd rather not risk crossing."

Brienne tilted her head.

"Why not have Galewind jump it? He would clear it."

"Not without trampling the herbs," you pointed out, stroking your horse's neck. "Besides, he has a habit of… misjudging his landings."

Brienne arched an eyebrow in a somewhat judgemental manner, wondering why you insisted on riding this colt if he had that many flaws. This time, you were the one ignoring her and you turned back to the stream, trying to think of another solution.

"We'll have to find a way across."

Brienne's expression shifted, her eyes scanning the area before landing on a large fallen tree a few paces away. She pointed at it.

"What about that?"

You blinked.

"The trunk? Ser, that thing must weigh more than both of us combined."

But Brienne had already dismounted, her boots crunching on the damp soil as she walked toward the tree with purpose.

"I'll manage."

You watched, half in awe, as she planted her feet and bent down to grip the log. Her arms strained, muscles shifting under her tunic and armour, yet she dragged the trunk closer to the stream swiftly and made it look almost effortless, rotating it until one end caught against the bank.

"That should hold," she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face and staining her pale forehead with a bit of dirt. "I'll cross first."

You kept looking at her as she stepped onto the log with care. The wood creaked under her weight, but she moved steadily, her balance precise. When she reached the other side, she turned back and gestured.

"Your turn."

You still hadn't dismounted and hesitated. Brienne could leave her mare without a care in the world, but you had had to chase Galewind too many times to do the same without worry.

"I told you my horse liked to wander off."

"He's grazing," Brienne pointed out. "He'll be fine for five minutes."

You sighed, reluctantly getting off your saddle and stepping onto the makeshift bridge. The bark was slippery from the recent rain, and the rushing water below only made it harder to concentrate.

About halfway across, you noticed Brienne offering a hand and you looked up. But the sight of her muscular silhouette waiting for you made you lose what little focus you had left since that fortuitous skin contact, and your foot slipped, causing a yelp to escape your lips.

Before you could topple, the same firm hand grabbed your arm. Brienne hauled you upright with ease, pulling you against her steel-covered chest. Your heart was still pounding as you looked up at her to find her eyes filled with concern.

"Are you hurt?" she asked, her voice once again unusually soft.

"Just my pride," you muttered, realising how your hands had instinctively gripped her shoulders for balance. "Thank you."

Brienne's lips quirked into the faintest hint of a smile and her hand lingered on your arm a moment longer than necessary before she seemed to realise what she was doing and let go of you.

"Well, go on, then. The herbs."

"Uhm, yes. Of course."

You took a step back, re-establishing a proper distance between the two before you went and crouched by the patch of motherwort, carefully snipping the stems and placing them into your satchel.

"We should follow the stream," you said on your way back to your horse –which, thankfully, had deemed the grass much more interesting than running away. "Many herbs that I need grow where the soil is wetter. Then maybe we can stop somewhere to rest for a bit. You brought something to eat, yeah?" You asked, not wanting to waste time hunting.

"I did."

"Good. Then let's go. And, well… Thank you again for not letting me fall, Ser."

"You're welcome," Brienne said, visibly content to be of some help to you. "And if it pleases you… Brienne's enough."

The stream widened into a river ahead, its current rippling faster over smooth stones. On the banks, the graceful bows of willow trees dipped toward the stream, their leaves fluttering like whispers in the breeze. You tugged on Galewind's reins and pointed to a flat patch of grass beneath one of the trees.

"We should stop here. I need some willow bark, and the rocks will make decent seats."

Brienne agreed and dismounted with ease, then cast a practised eye around the clearing before securing her horse to a sturdy branch. You followed her lead, double-checking Galewind's knot.

"No escapade this time. Right, big boy?"

From your satchel, you pulled out two modest bundles wrapped in cloth. Brienne joined you as you settled on a smooth rock close to the river's edge. The air wasn't too chilly when the wind calmed down and it carried the faint scent of damp earth and leaves that had decomposed during winter. For a moment, the two of you sat quietly, the sound of the rushing river filling the space between.

Then, breaking the silence, you gestured to Brienne's meal.

"What'd you bring?"

Brienne unwrapped her bundle: strips of dried meat, a hunk of bread, and a slice of cheese. She glanced at yours, which displayed colourful slices of carrots and radishes nestled beside cured meat.

"If that's not a proper knight's meal…" you teased lightly, breaking your bread.

Brienne didn't reply, but her lips twitched –an almost-smile that warmed you more than you cared to admit.

You looked up to see movement on the opposite bank. A magnificent deer had emerged from the undergrowth, its antlers rising like branches. Its coat was sleek and golden, catching the sunlight in a way that seemed almost unreal.

"Look at that," you breathed, leaning forward. "Isn't he magnificent?"

Brienne lifted her head, her expression impassive as she studied the creature.

"He'd make good stew," she said matter-of-factly.

You blinked, startled, before a loud, genuine laugh escaped you.

"You cannot possibly look at that majestic creature and think... stew!"

Brienne's straightforwardness, combined with the absolute seriousness in her tone, was too endearing to be frustrating.

"Do you see beauty in anything at all? Or just potential dinner?" you asked as your laughter slowly died.

Brienne's brow furrowed, and for a moment, you thought you'd offended her. But then she spoke, her voice quieter than before.

"My father had a fondness for deer. He liked how graceful, quiet, and watchful they were." She looked back toward the forest, her expression softening. "He also said does reminded him of my mother." A pause. Then, almost to herself: "I never knew her well enough to say if he was right. I never knew her at all."

The unexpected vulnerability caught you off guard. You held your breath, not wanting to disturb the moment. For once Brienne dared to talk, so you would let her. Her gaze remained on the deer, now grazing on the other side of the river.

"Once, when I was little, he found a fawn tangled in some brambles. It must have been abandoned, it was too weak to fight. He carried it home and we tended to it for weeks, feeding it by hand. He told me he wanted to teach me the gentleness my mother could no longer teach me and how to care for the weak. He said even the smallest life deserved consideration."

You kept staring at her, struck by the tenderness in her voice.

"What happened to the fawn?" you asked softly.

"It got strong enough to run." Brienne shrugged, her expression hardening slightly. "One day, it left. I suppose it went back to the forest."

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The deer on the far bank raised its head, as though sensing your attention, before darting gracefully into the woods. Brienne turned back to her meal, the shutters of her composure sliding back into place.

"That was a long time ago," she said as she briefly shook her head, her tone almost dismissive. "And then my father taught me how to fight instead."

You wanted to say something, maybe tell her both her parents would be proud of the woman, the knight she had become. That, in a way, she still took care of the weak. But the words felt too heavy for the moment, so you swallowed them.

Instead, your gaze fell back to her meal and you decided to try to lift the spirits.

"You know, I don't see a single vegetable in there," you said, a teasing lilt in your voice. "Here, have this."

You plucked a bright chunk of carrot from your bundle and held it out to her. Sensing her confusion, you insisted, jerking the vegetable in her direction.

"They make you loveable, you know."

Brienne frowned.

"Loveable?"

"Absolutely. People see you munching on a carrot, and they think, 'There's someone approachable.'"

Brienne stared at you, her lips parting slightly as though to protest, but then the words tumbled out. Now she was offended.

"I don't suppose I seem approachable to most," she said as she snatched the piece of carrot from your hand and glanced away, her voice stiff. "I try to be better, more gentle. Like my father first wanted me to be. But... I'm just not."

You blinked, surprised by the sudden confession.

"Brienne, I–"

She barrelled on, as if afraid to let you interrupt.

"I'm too blunt. Too hard. Pod was right about what he told you. And since travelling with him, I've tried to be better. I've tried with many people, but… Maybe if I were different, I–"

"Brienne, stop."

Your voice was soft but firm, and it made her pause. You leaned closer, meeting her gaze.

"You don't have to change. Not for anyone. You're perfectly fine as is."

Her expression faltered, a flicker of disbelief in her eyes.

"You don't mean that. No one–"

"But I do. I like you. Just the way you are." You said it simply, but the conviction in your tone made Brienne gawk at you, stunned into silence.

Only then did you notice the smudge of dirt on her forehead. It made you smile.

"But if you do want to change one thing, maybe start with that dirt on your face."

Her hand shot up as her cheeks turned crimson, and she awkwardly wiped at her forehead. But instead of cleaning it, she only managed to smear the dirt even further. You chuckled, pulling a cloth from your satchel.

"Here, let me."

"I'm fine."

"Clearly… Now stop whining, and let me help."

You reached up, the cloth brushing her skin as you wiped the dirt away. She stilled under your touch, her eyes locked on yours, and the air between you suddenly grew heavy with unspoken things.

In the silence that followed, your gaze lingered. Brienne had always appeared to you as striking in her own way –an unpolished charm she seemed intent on hiding beneath layers of stoicism and practicality. But here, now, with the golden sunlight catching in the loose strands of her hair and the silver gleam of the water reflected in her eyes, she looked... ethereal.

It wasn't just her appearance that caught you, though that alone was enough to leave you momentarily breathless. It was that, for the first time, she felt closer, not the distant figure of knightly legend but a woman, warm and real, and achingly human.

Your thoughts wandered to places you hadn't allowed them to go before. Had they been there all along, quietly waiting, or was this the first time you truly left your mind unbridled? Either way, you found it impossible to look away, and something deep in your chest stirred, a pang you didn't want to understand but couldn't ignore.

But then came the sound of snapping twigs, interrupting the beauty of the moment. Brienne's head whipped around, and her hand instinctively moved to her sword.

"Someone's here," she muttered, her voice low and sharp.

You both stood up as six men emerged from the trees, their faces covered by hoods or old helmets, their intent clear in the way their hands rested on their weapons. One, slightly older with a jagged scar tracing his jawline, stepped forward.

"Nice horses," he said, his tone almost conversational, though his grin was anything but friendly. "And a nice haul of herbs, too. You've saved us the trouble of finding our own."

He then looked you up and down in a way that repulsed you so much you found yourself shivering and added, "Maybe we'll take that one back to the camp, too. And your money."

"Leave now," Brienne commanded, "and no harm will come to you."

The leader chuckled, glancing at his companions who sniggered as well.

"That's rich, coming from one damsel against men like us. And no helmet? Bold choice."

Brienne's hand tightened on the hilt of her sword, her gaze never leaving the man. She turned her head slightly, just enough to murmur to you, "Get behind those trees and stay out of sight."

"But–"

"Go," she snapped, her tone brooking no argument. "I'll handle this."

Reluctantly, you obeyed, slipping behind a thick oak as the tension in the air snapped like a drawn bowstring.

The scarred leader barely had time to shout an order before Brienne's sword slid out of its scabbard with a metallic hiss. 

She surged forward, her blade arcing in a precise downward cut. The man nearest her, wielding a rusted mace, barely raised it in time to block the blow. The force sent him staggering backwards, but Brienne pressed her advantage. She kicked his knee with her boot, sending him to the ground with a cry.

Another man darted in from her right, swinging a short sword. Brienne pivoted, deflecting the strike with her armoured forearm before slashing across his chest. Blood sprayed, and he collapsed.

The youngest of the group, barely more than a boy, took one look at Brienne's bloodied sword and at the two downed companions before turning tail. His cowardice earned him a curse from the leader, who was now advancing on Brienne.

"Get her!" he barked, drawing his own blade.

Brienne turned to face him, but the man she had kicked earlier had regained his feet. With a snarl, he swung his mace into her exposed flank. The dull thud of impact echoed in the clearing as Brienne fell to the ground, her breath catching.

"Brienne!"

From your hiding spot, you watched the fight unfold, your chest tightening with every blow she took. She moved with precision and strength, but there were too many of them. The man's mace strike had slowed her down, and you saw the hesitation in her steps. You gripped the tree bark, your heart pounding and feeling utterly useless.

The leader lunged, and Brienne barely managed to parry his sword in time before slamming her fist repeatedly in his face. Groaning, he reeled back long enough for Brienne to roll them over.

She was about to punch him some more when one of his accomplices grabbed her from behind and pulled her back to her feet, attempting to strangle her. She once again freed herself by pushing her elbow into his ribs before driving her shoulder into his chest and forcefully crushing him between her armour and a tree.

The leader, weakened but still willing, charged at her with his sword. Brienne raised her blade to shield herself from his attack, but the movement left her vulnerable and allowed a fist to crash above her eyebrow. She stumbled, a cut opening and blood trickling into her eye.

Yet, through it all, she didn't stop. She growled, planting her feet and driving the leader back with a series of quick, precise strikes. Her sword then found his thigh, cutting deep. He crumpled to the ground with a scream, clutching the wound.

"Enough, dammit!" He cried out. "We're done!"

One of the others pulled him by the arm and dragged him away followed by the last uninjured men, leaving their fallen comrades groaning in the dirt. Brienne stayed still, her chest heaving, sword raised in readiness until they disappeared into the trees. And then, as though the fight had drained the last of her strength, she dropped her sword and fell to her knees, her breaths ragged.

"Brienne!" you yelled, coming out of your hiding spot to lunge by her side.

"I'm fine," she said through gritted teeth, attempting to wave you off.

Obviously ignoring that lie, you looped an arm under hers and did your best to haul her upright, the effort straining every muscle. Even without the steel plating, Brienne was solid as stone, and the armour made her nearly impossible to move. You groaned and so did she, her strength faltering as she slumped heavily against you.

The sky that had already turned grey during the fight chose this moment to crack open with rain.

"Of course," you muttered bitterly.

As if getting Brienne back to the horses wasn't hard enough, the rain would soon start to make her armour slippery and you weren't sure you would manage at all.

"Do you think you can get up?" you asked Brienne as you reached her horse.

"Yes…"

But Brienne half-lifted herself before sagging back, too weak to climb.

"It's alright, let me help."

You tried a couple times to lift Brienne up so she could get on her saddle but to no avail. Her armour made her too heavy and her horse was too tall –you lacked the strength to pull her onto a mount so high.

"Seven hells," you cursed when Brienne fell back down for the third time.

"I'm sorry…"

"No. Don't you dare be sorry, Brienne."

Turning around to look at Galewind, you wondered if you should try to get Brienne onto him instead –he was shorter after all.

Galewind's ears flicked toward you and suddenly, as if sensing your desperation, he bent his forelegs to the damp ground and shifted lower.

You barely believed it but had no time to marvel, and promptly guided Brienne to push her onto his back. Her weight nearly sent you sprawling, but this time, you miraculously managed.

"Good boy," you murmured, patting Galewind's neck once Brienne was secured into place. "Hold on, will you?" you told her.

As you hopped on Brienne's horse –which displeased the mare, though she chose not to make a fuss–, you took a second to look at the darkening sky above you and assess the situation. The wind only seemed to bring more charcoal clouds, with no hope for clearing in the distance.

Returning to King's Landing wasn't an option with Brienne in this state, and you wanted to be gone before more men came back for their wounded peers –if they ever did.

Think, you urged yourself. Then you remembered seeing a cabin a league back, just off the path. A forester's or healer's shack, maybe, abandoned but intact enough to provide sufficient shelter.

"Hold on, Brienne," you repeated, as much for yourself as for her, urging the horses forward.

The ride was somewhat gruelling because of the stress it caused you as you saw how Brienne kept swaying dangerously with each step every time you turned around. But Galewind almost seemed to understand he needed to be careful and to have forgotten his fugitive tendencies. Your heart ached for Brienne, perhaps in disproportionate measures, but you had no time to think about this now.

By the time you reached the cabin, the rain was a steady downpour, soaking through your cloak and threatening to make Brienne slip off the saddle. So you pulled both horses to a halt and dismounted with haste to help her down.

She leaned heavily on you, her breaths laboured, as the two of you staggered toward the door. Kicking it open, you guided her to the straw bed there was thankfully still inside. She slumped onto it with a groan, her head lolling back as exhaustion overtook her.

"Stay with me," you ordered in a whisper as you brushed a strand of wet hair from her face before running back out to get your satchels and herbs.

You felt guilty for leaving the horses out in such weather, they could get seriously sick. But you had no choice and other priorities –well, one priority.

Back in the shack, you moved with purpose, thoughts reeling as you began to work.

"First things first, fire," you said, needing to enunciate everything you were doing to keep your mind from wandering back to the feelings Brienne had strangely ignited inside you.

You noticed a pile of firewood under a dirty cloth next to the stone hearth and threw a few logs into it. The air was damp for the rain, and your fingers fumbled over the tinder you had also found nearby. It took quite a good amount of tries, but finally sparks caught, flames flickered, and the fire took.

"Good."

As you rummaged to find something to put some water to boil, you couldn't help but keep glancing at Brienne, slumped on the straw bed. You were worried sick for her.

"No sleeping yet, Brienne. You hear me?"

Brienne didn't answer and it got you even more worried, but you kept working.

At last, you found a stewpot and a clay basin.

"Perfect."

It wasn't ideal, but you decided the quickest way to gather water. You would boil it anyway so it would be drinkable. So you took the stewpot outside and left it there. As you did so, your eyes landed on a patch of stinging nettle. You decided it could be useful and harvested a few handfuls.

Back inside once more, you grabbed the satchels you had brought in, pulling out the gathered herbs that you methodically placed on the dusty table next to the stinging nettle.

You glanced at Brienne once more, and her pallor was far from reassuring. But then again, she had always had an extremely fair complexion –one of the things you found most beautiful about her.

Your heart ached to see her like this, though you were silently commending her for defending you against those thieves. She had fought so hard, so bravely… Those men had never stood a chance –in your eyes anyway.

"Brienne…" you called out softly as you approached the bed she was lying on.

"I'm fine."

"You are anything but."

"You worry too much."

Brienne's voice was hoarse so you walked back to the table to grab your flask in your bag. You had almost no water left, but Brienne needed to drink.

"Open up," you urged, slipping an arm under her shoulders to lift her. "Don't make me pour it down your throat."

Your tone –half-teasing, half-desperate– made Brienne huff, enough to let you tip the flask against her lips. She drank sluggishly but obediently, her eyelids fluttering as her body resisted consciousness. Then you laid her back down gently.

"Will you let me take off your armour? You can't breathe properly like this."

Brienne nodded weakly and you moved tentatively to undo the straps of her armour. But your hands were shaking and you found yourself struggling, until a rugged hand reached for yours, brushing almost tenderly against your fingers.

"Leave it," Brienne rasped. "I can do it."

You weren't so sure about that but let Brienne work out those straps. It was embarrassing for you as you were supposed to know how to deal with that kind of equipment, and your cheeks slightly turned pink. You counted on the dark and Brienne's poor state to hide the blush.

Brienne pulled on the straps and they seemed to fall right off. You cleared your throat and thanked her with a silent nod as she let her arms fall back on the bed. Then you started by removing her gorget, pauldrons, and rerebraces, setting each piece down nearby with care.

The cuirass' turn then came, and you couldn't help but wince in sympathy when you heard Brienne hiss.

"Sorry…" you muttered, though you knew the word wouldn't help.

Brienne shook her head as if to dismiss your apology and groaned through gritted teeth, her fingers clutching her arming doublet. You quickly understood that her abdomen was injured and that any heavy layer caused discomfort. So you took the padded jacket off as well and folded it into a makeshift pillow for Brienne.

"Better?"

"Yes."

With that done, you decided to let Brienne rest for a moment and got back to work. First, you retrieved the stewpot from outside, now brimming with rainwater, and set it over the fire. Once the water was finally boiling, you scooped some into the clay basin and set it aside. Some of the water would be used for a willow bark and stinging nettle decoction, and some for a comfrey poultice. The latter would help with the bruising, the former was for pain relief. Yarrow would help with the bleeding, too.

You crushed the willow bark and stinging nettle between your fingers and sprinkled them into the stewpot with practised precision. You let the mixture simmer and moved on to the comfrey root, crushing it into a thick paste in the clay basin with the handle of your dagger. Finally, you sat at the old table to pluck the yarrow leaves you needed from the stems.

It was only as you caught yourself staring at the remedies that you realised Brienne's breathing had slowed down.

"Hey, no, no, no!" you commanded as you rushed back to her side. "I said no sleeping yet."

"I'm only resting my eyes."

"Later. When I'm sure you're alright."

Brienne shifted a bit to be more comfortable then and hissed again, her face contorting as she grabbed her stomach. You had to take a look.

"Alright. Uh, Brienne…" you said, your voice much softer now, almost a whisper. "I have to check your wounds. And your tunic… It has to come off, or I cannot treat you properly."

Brienne's brow furrowed faintly and she turned her head away from you, stubbornness lingering despite her exhaustion.

"Please, Brienne," you insisted, your fingers now hovering hesitantly near the hem of her tunic. "I will only do what's necessary. Nothing more, I swear."

A long moment passed before she gave the faintest nod, and you pulled the fabric up and away, trying to keep your touch clinical despite the sudden heat rising to your cheeks. You expected another layer beneath, but there was only bandaging, tightly wound around her chest and soaked with blood. Practical, efficient, and utterly intimate in a way you hadn't anticipated. Your breath hitched and you looked away immediately, your face now crimson.

As keep master, you spent many hours a week in the infirmary and had seen many people in various stages of undress. But for some reason you had yet to understand –or rather, yet to admit to yourself–, it all felt much different with Brienne.

"I-Is that… from an older wound?" you stammered, pointing at the blood stain on Brienne's ribs.

Brienne followed your gaze.

"Yes."

"We… We'll deal with those later."

You took a deep breath in to compose yourself, and let your eyes roam as professionally as you could over Brienne's body trying to assess her injuries, then tentatively brought trembling fingers to her bruises, starting with those on her collarbones. Thankfully, they weren't broken and nor were the ribs above her breasts either, so you moved on, checking her arms and hands from every angle. You could feel Brienne trying to keep her body limp, abandoning herself to your expert hands, trusting you completely.

Once you were certain she had no broken bones or dislocated limbs, you carefully let your fingers slide over her abdomen, stopping here and there to apply gentle pressure and check for deeper damage, and wincing at every hiss she couldn't suppress.

Eventually, you reached Brienne's hips and lower abdomen, and she flinched and let out a soft gasp when your fingers dipped right between her navel and pelvis. You froze and your eyes shot up, meeting Brienne's for a brief instant –a fleeting second that still felt like an eternity– before turning away. 

"Did that hurt?"

"No, not really," Brienne replied, her voice low and still roughened by fatigue. "Carry on."

You nodded, willing yourself to stay focused, then went and retrieved a piece of cloth from your bag –you always had a few, just in case– and plunged it in hot water before coming back to sit by Brienne's side on the straw bed.

"I need to clean those wounds before I can treat them."

Brienne took a sharp, shaky breath as if needing to compose herself, too, and you began gently cleaning the cuts and scrapes on her hands and face. She had one particular cut over her left eyebrow that you knew would need more than one yarrow leaf. You dabbed at it and, as you did so, glanced at her eyes again. With the flames that danced in the hearth lighting up her face, they looked like clear skies pierced by a winter's sunset. You were captivated, bewitched. But you cast those thoughts aside –now wasn't the time.

Pulling away, you went to fetch the processed herbs, then made her drink a bit of decoction and sat down again before busying yourself with applying the poultice.

"This will help with the bruising," you explained needlessly, now avoiding Brienne's gaze.

"You're kind. Too kind, perhaps," she suddenly said.

You glanced up, startled by the softness in her tone.

"You would do the same for me."

"Aye. But not with such… tenderness."

With the way your heartbeat quickened and each breath seemed harder to take than the previous one, you felt as if the air had considerably thickened.

Searching for a safer ground, you added, "Tenderness is the least I can offer someone who has risked everything for me. Besides, we cannot afford to lose someone with your knowledge and skills. Not now. Not ever."

The words managed to make Brienne smile faintly. But the corners of her mouth quickly fell back down when she noticed you setting the poultice aside and glancing at her bandages. She knew what your expression meant.

"I… I need to check that wound, too. I don't want it to get infected," you said, confirming her thoughts. "May I…"

Brienne's jaw tightened, but she nodded once more. You carefully unwound the binding, the linen sticking stubbornly to the flesh. She tensed but didn't complain.

Controlling your breathing became harder at the sight of her completely bare chest. Her breasts were small, but you couldn't help the thought crossing your mind that they would fit perfectly in a palm –your palm.

Mentally berating yourself for such a lewd thought in such a grave moment as this one, you gently poked around the reopened scar to see how it was healing. You thought about asking Brienne how she had got it to distract you both from what you were doing, but no words came out, and you figured it was best if she didn't waste her energy anyway.

Leaning over her, your breath tickled her skin lightly and, as you dabbed the wound with the damp cloth, your attention got caught by the goosebumps on her skin and her nipples, peaked and taut in the cool air. You immediately averted your eyes, your face burning once more.

"Are you cold?"

"N-No," Brienne stuttered awkwardly after a while as rosy patches formed on her neck and across her upper chest.

The single syllable hung between you, heavy and impossible to ignore.

"You're so different…" Brienne eventually whispered out of nowhere.

You didn't dare ask what she meant. Instead, you rested a reassuring hand on hers, careful but steady.

"Rest now. I'll be here."

"I thought–"

"Rest. I still need to apply yarrow leaves here and there but you can close your eyes now."

Brienne's eyes drifted shut, and her fingers brushed yours before dropping still. You watched the firelight dance across her face and her chest, rising and falling steadily.

Your thoughts churned as you placed crushed yarrow leaves on her face, scraped knuckles, and chest, and adjusted your cloak as a blanket over her, unable to suppress a silent ache of longing and gratitude. Brienne was strong, stubborn, yet startlingly vulnerable and… well, excruciatingly beautiful in her own, unconventional way.

Truth was, Brienne had always unsettled something deep within you, something you had never dared name. You had told yourself time and time again that it was merely admiration, respect for her strength, her relentless honour. But you would be lying if you said there hadn't been nights when her image had haunted you, unbidden and unrelenting –so much that your mind and hands had gone to forbidden places.

You loved the sharpness of her jaw, the fierce intensity in her eyes, and the way she rode her horse with effortless grace despite her imposing frame. Of course, you had long dismissed such thoughts as impossible, shameful even. And yet, seeing her now –scarred, undeniably her and, above all, naked–, the ache you had buried carved its way back to the surface.

The soft rustling of straw pulled you from your thoughts. Brienne stirred, blinking groggily as her gaze landed on you. You straightened abruptly, anxiously waiting for a reaction. Brienne's brows knit in confusion before she noticed your cloak draped across her bare chest.

"You didn't have to," she said, clutching to the hem of it as if the gesture meant more than she let on. Her expression softened –not quite a smile, but something dangerously close. "How long have I been asleep?"

"I'm not sure," you said, standing up to go fill your flask with more decoction and bring it back to Brienne. As she sipped from it, you added, "I had time to add two other logs to the fire and replace the leaves, though."

Brienne glanced at the dirty window near the bed and hummed. The sun was still hiding behind dark clouds, but what little light filtered through them did at a much different angle than when you had first laid her down.

"I'm sorry I left you alone all that time," she muttered.

"Nonsense. You needed to rest. How are you feeling, by the way?"

"Better, much better. Thanks to you."

"I'm glad."

Brienne's gaze lingered on your face with an intensity that made your chest tighten. Determined to regain control, you focused on your task.

"Let me recheck your wounds."

You gently lifted the cloak, mindful to avoid staring at Brienne's breasts again –though her nipples were still deliciously hard– and started cleaning the poultice before inspecting each bruise and scrape with the same care as before.

Brienne kept watching you, smiling ever so slightly at the line that had formed between your eyebrows while you peeled the yarrow leaves off her cuts and scrapes –on her hands first, then on her chest. Finally, you reached for the leaf above her brow. Carefully, you set it aside, then leaned in to examine the cut.

It looked good and had stopped bleeding. But before you could say anything about it, Brienne's hands shot up to cradle your face. She pulled you down firmly then and her lips crashed into yours, fierce, urgent, leaving no room for doubt.

Your breath hitched as Brienne's lips claimed yours, heat surged through you, from your face down to your chest. But then a thought struck like a blade.

So you pulled back, trembling. Not because you didn't want her –you did, you ached for her– but because the world spun too fast. Brienne. Brienne of fucking Tarth… kissing you? You had never dared believe she could want someone like you –or anyone at all, really.

Did she mean this, or was it just a fleeting need, a desperate attempt to feel something other than pain? Was she seeking comfort, something temporary and raw after coming yet again so close to death?

Brienne saw your hesitation and expression twisted painfully, then hardened into something bitter. She scoffed, the sound as sharp as steel grinding on stone.

"Of course," she spat, voice cracking. "Kind words, soft touches… They meant nothing. What was I thinking?"

"Brienne…"

"What an utter fool I am! I should've known. Men mock me, women pity me, even you."

"What? No, I–"

"Don't. You needn't spare my feelings."

"That's not what I–"

"Save it!" Brienne snapped, fists clenched tightly around your cloak. "Everything you have to say, I've heard it all before. I thought maybe, maybe this time… I should have known better."

Before she could retreat deeper into her wounded thoughts, you were the one to crush your lips to hers. She gasped, trembling beneath you and hesitated for a moment, then kissed you back just as hungrily, fingers tangling in your hair like she feared you might vanish. There was no hesitation this time, but though the kiss was passionate, your hands cupped her face delicately and your thumbs brushed over her cheeks as if she were made of glass.

"I wasn't pulling away because I don't want you, Brienne," you confessed when you broke the kiss for air. "I pulled away because I do. More than you know. And I'm scared. Scared that my passion may cause you pain, scared this might not mean what I want it to mean."

Brienne's breath shuddered against your lips as her fingers loosened their desperate grip on your hair, sliding down to your jaw with surprising tenderness. Her eyes searched yours, still wary but now lit with something… alive.

"Do you think I'm not scared, too?" she whispered, her voice heavy with emotion. "I've never… I mean, I have but not like this."

"We can take this slowly if you–"

Brienne shook her head impatiently, then tilted her chin so her lips grazed yours.

"I'm tired of not taking what I want. So, if you'll have me…"

"Yes. Gods, yes."

Something inside you snapped. You claimed her mouth in a kiss far deeper, more insistent. You worried about her wounds and feared she might be in pain, but she met you with equal intensity, pulling you down even closer.

Your hands slid down from her face to her shoulders and bruised collarbones, then lower, finding the strong muscles of her arms that had briefly held you up earlier today. You traced them as if committing them to memory, marvelling at the sheer power contained within her tall silhouette.

Brienne shivered under your touch, and a low, involuntary sound rumbled from her throat as your fingers brushed her bare skin. Emboldened, you let one of your hands travel more daringly to the swell of her breast, enjoying how good it indeed felt in your palm. The sound she made in response sent more heat coursing through you, this time pooling in your belly.

For the first time, you were acutely aware of the heat radiating from her skin and the steady thrum of her heartbeat. When she arched her back to press herself against your body, you seized the occasion to let your mouth trail from her mouth to her jawline, then down the column of her neck, nipping and licking at her pulse point, all the while you made her nipple roll under your thumb.

"Please," Brienne begged, though it seemed she wasn't too sure what for.

But you knew.

"I want to see you," you whispered seductively. "All of you. Touch you everywhere I can."

Brienne's only response was a weak groan and a faint roll of her hips. The vulnerability of the gesture, the trust it implied, sent a jolt of arousal through you. Driven by those sweet sounds, you lowered your mouth, capturing one sensitive nipple while your hand lavished attention on the other. Her fingers tangled in your hair once more, holding you close as she whispered your name like a prayer to both the old gods and the new.

Then, in a matter of seconds –you weren't exactly sure how but you didn't care–, you were both fully naked. You took Brienne's other nipple in your mouth while her hands slid down to your waist. The touch was a bit tentative, as though she feared you might withdraw again. But when you didn't, when instead you leaned into her touch, she grew bolder and her hands tugged you down until you were straddling her.

"Brienne, your bruises…"

"I don't care."

You stopped for a moment to make sure she wasn't lying or trying to be brave, but the eagerness in her eyes and the way she repeatedly pushed her hips into yours encouraged you to keep going.

So you started rolling your hips as well, gently, letting your cores meet for the first time. Brienne's head jerked backwards and arched her back even more, and you could only marvel at the magnificent chiaroscuro the fire burning on the other side of the room created on her alabaster skin.

"You're so beautiful," you murmured as you leaned in again to kiss her temple.

Then you moved to her brow bone and planted gentle kisses around the cut there, a painful reminder of how valiantly she had fought for you.

"So strong…"

With the way she whimpered then, you understood Brienne only half-believed your words but secretly liked to be praised. So you kept showering her with compliments while your hands explored her, tracing every bruise, every scar, every place she might have thought unworthy of touch.

"Keep going," she demanded, voice raw with need.

You obeyed, sliding your hand lower, over the firm lines of her abdomen, until you reached her thighs and the heat between them. Brienne hissed then, and your head shot up.

"Is that not alright?"

"No, it's just… Your hands are cold," she admitted.

"Forgive me."

You pulled back and lifted your hand so you could warm your fingers in your mouth, but Brienne snatched your wrist and brought them to her own lips instead. Her eyelids fluttered as her tongue ran over the pads of your middle and ring fingers, and the sight made you groan.

"Heavens…"

You brought your hand back down between her thighs again, and this time, her breath shattered into a broken moan as your fingers parted her folds, finding her slick and ready. You circled her clit –slowly, at first–, savouring how she writhed beneath you, her body offering no resistance, only hunger.

"Gods, yes!"

Brienne kept moaning and calling your name like a desperate mantra, her legs instinctively parting wider the more you stimulated her bundle of nerves. You watched as she bucked against your hand, her breath coming in ragged gasps, then leaned down again to pepper her body with more pecks and nibbles, kissing her injuries better.

When you finally pushed a finger inside her, Brienne cursed like you never thought could be possible, and her hips rose to meet your thrusts. You set a slow, deliberate rhythm, drawing out every shudder, every broken moan. Then your thumb found her clit, circling with just enough pressure to make her tremble uncontrollably.

"Oh, fuck!"

The more you pumped into her, the more you could feel Brienne lowering her inhibitions and finally being her most genuine self.

"More! I need more!"

What a demanding dame, you thought as your finger kept sliding in and out of Brienne's warm depth. But she had told you she didn't want to wait to get what she wanted any more, so you indulged her and pulled your hand back until you could ease your ring finger inside her as well. Brienne was so relaxed and wet by now that it took practically no effort at all.

Brienne wailed loudly as your fingers stretched her, filling her with a heavenly ache she seemed desperate for. Her thighs quivered against your sides, strong muscles twitching uncontrollably with every deliberate thrust as you slightly picked up the pace. You could feel her slick juices coating your hand as you drove deeper and curled your fingers just right to hit that sensitive spot inside her.

"Right here! Don't stop!" she cried out, voice breaking with unprecedented pleasure.

Your wrist began to hurt, but you obeyed, setting a relentless rhythm, your thumb pressing harder against her swollen clit. You felt like you had no right to be tired when she had not once spared herself for you. So you kept going.

Suddenly, Brienne's leg shifted between yours, pressing firmly against your core.

"Gods, Brienne…"

The pressure made your head spin, your body involuntarily rolling against her muscular thigh as you kept thrusting your fingers inside her. It all felt too good and you couldn’t suppress the needy whimpers spilling from your lips. Your shameless humping made it harder to focus, of course. Yet you didn't stop and your mouth was now making its way down her body, forcing you to shift and let your wetness trail down her skin, coating her all the way to her shin.

When you eventually reached her lower abdomen and nipped at her hip bone, you took a moment to look up, wanting to make sure this was still alright for her. The helpless jolt of her hips was the only sign you needed and, with one last kiss to her mound, you lowered your head to take her bud between your lips.

Her light brown curls were damp from arousal and tickled your nose. Her scent enveloped you –a musky mix of sweat, leather, and something uniquely Brienne, earthy and wild, like wind-swept forests after a rainstorm.

You groaned softly, intoxicated, and pressed your mouth fully against her. Brienne cried out, and, suddenly, her fingers gripped your scalp once more to keep you in place while she practically fucked herself on your tongue.

You circled her clit with your tongue and kept teasing the rough patch behind it relentlessly while your free hand held her thigh tight, no matter how hard her thrusts made it to keep the rhythm going.

"You're so perfect like this, so beautiful," you whispered between heavy pants when you pulled back for a second to catch your breath.

Brienne bucked against your mouth, utterly wrecked, hooked her free leg around your waist to keep you exactly where she wanted, and let out a strangled moan, her whole body tensing under your praise.

You felt her inner walls clench around your fingers, tightening with every thrust as she spiralled closer to the edge. You could also feel your own release creeping closer with every grind, though you never faltered in your devotion to her.

She was close, you knew it. Her pleasure was your command, your entire world reduced to the taste of her, the sight of her, the feeling of her trembling under you. So you took her deeper, sucking gently, taking care of her clit with calculated strokes of your tongue.

"It's alright," you cooed, voice thick with lust and affection. "You can let go."

"Yes!"

With a guttural cry, Brienne came undone. Her entire body arched off the bed, trembling violently, and you felt every pulse, every desperate squeeze of her core around your fingers and thighs locking firmly around your head as wave after wave of ecstasy overtook her.

The leg she had between yours shot up with the force of her climax and parted your own folds so perfectly to brush against your needy clit that you immediately joined her in release, shouting her name at the top of your lungs.

You kept licking, sucking, and thrusting as best as you could during your orgasm and held Brienne through every quivering aftershock until you could move no more and let your head fall limp against her thigh.

"Gods be good…" Brienne panted before one last whimper escaped her lips.

Her hands then gently cradled your face, guiding you back up into her arms. She kissed you with overwhelming tenderness, her lips still trembling, and you kissed her back with equal adoration. Then she smiled at you –a real smile–, and you knew, you just knew, you had had the honour of making Brienne feel like her truest self for the first time.

"It's so different," she mused sometime later.

You had both fully come down from your high and were holding each other close on the small bed while the fire still crackled in the hearth and the rain drummed steadily against the roof, sealing you both away from the outside world.

Your fingers didn't stop their soothing patterns on her upper arm, but you lifted your head, brows knitting in puzzlement.

"Different?"

"When… When it's someone who wants you just as much as you want them, someone who is ready to return the same affection and loyalty you offer them. It's different. It's… better."

Brienne spoke those words in a soft tone, albeit heavy with the weight of old wounds and betrayals. You saw it all in her eyes, and your chest ached with fierce, protective love.

You suddenly felt the urge to hurt anyone who had caused Brienne all that pain, but you knew most of them were dead and it was useless to dwell on the past. So you smiled instead.

Gently, you cupped her face, your thumb brushing tenderly over her cheek.

"Then know this, my lady. As long as I draw breath, you shall never question where you stand with me. You will be loved –fully, fiercely, and without shame."

Slowly, reverently even, Brienne pressed her forehead to yours, exhaling a trembling breath that seemed to release a lifetime of hope.

"I'm no lady," she corrected with a tender smile. "But I am forever yours."

Taglist: @cordeliasdarling @cygnetteflor @eurydice-shenanigans @vii-v @ellovett @schlaegerpaula @peridot-pineapple @simonknowsnothing @goddessfloresz @barbarasstar @anothersapphicgirl @criticsstuff

Click here to join the tag list.

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 38: Shattered

Summary: Things aren't okay. They never will be again.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 8,520 words

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, angst, PTSD, nightmares, POV changes, depression and anxiety, medical stuff, injuries, brief description of a possible death, language, mention of weight loss due to medical stuff, emotionally heavy chapter (again), slightly graphic imagery, illness, so much crying

A/N: I just want to make something very clear here since there's a scene in this chapter that might be interpreted this way, but 'mega is NOT suicidal. That's not something that's going to be in this fic, and neither is self-harm. It would have been well warned in advance if that was going to be something coming up in this fic. She's struggling a lot, but she's not suicidal, she's not going to become suicidal, nor will she self-harm even off screen. So don't worry. That's not what's happening. It won't be happening.

Okay, just wanted to make that clear. Enjoy the suffering!

11/30/24: **This chapter has been edited and rewritten from its original version**

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

The scream slices through the silence seconds before chaos erupts. 

John is on his feet and out the door before Kyle is even fully awake. Simon is on his heels down the stairs, the two of them nearly colliding in their rush. His heart thuds in his chest as he sees your door open, the overhead light on. It’s bad. It must be bad if the overhead light is on. You hate the overhead light. 

He barrels in like a bull, ready to fight. The screaming has stopped, but it still rings in his ears. The fear, the panic. Something has happened. Someone got in. He should have made you take the room upstairs. He should have put a barrier between you and the door. That window. Someone could break that easily and grab you before they even noticed.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” 

The screaming has stopped, but gut-wrenching sobs have taken its place. He takes a moment to scan the room. Nothing is misplaced. The window isn’t broken, there’s no bodies, no one that shouldn’t be in there. 

“You’re okay.” Christine soothes you as you sob. “It was just a nightmare.” 

The bright fluorescent overhead light burns his eyes as he stands there, staring at the bed. Christine is right there, having beaten them across the living room, or perhaps she had already been in there, having heard you in your distress before they could. You're tucked in her arms, your face against her shoulder as she holds you. 

Nightmare. 

The safety and security the cottage promised has faded, leaving you at the mercy of the horrors your mind can conjure up in your sleep. Something twists deep in John’s stomach as he turns, motioning for the others to back up and give you some space. You won’t want them there, and things will only get worse if you notice them. 

His heart is still thudding in his chest as he stands there, the sharp sound of your scream still ringing in his ears despite his confirmation of your safety. The other three look just as startled as he feels, standing there tensely in the dark living room. He brings himself to move, turning his back on them for a moment to try and gather his thoughts as he flips on the lamp in the corner. It casts a warm light across the living room, far too warm for how he’s feeling. He’s trying not to panic, trying not to be sick on the floor from the worry. His heart is in his throat, trying to choke him. He’s trying so hard to be strong, not just for him, but for his pack, for you. 

He sinks down on one of the couches, rubbing a hand over his face. He had been so sure something had happened, that their safe little bubble had been breached and someone knew about their whereabouts. He had been so sure someone was trying to hurt you with a scream like that. 

Maybe someone was, but not in reality. 

What is it you dream about now? Your nightmares about your father and your traumatic presentation must seem like nothing now compared to what must haunt your mind. Do you dream of Graves and his torture? Do you dream of them leaving you behind? Do you dream of dying because of their failures? 

A hand settles on his shoulder, a body sinking onto the couch next to him. Arms are wrapping around him, easing him against a solid chest.��

He’s crying. 

He didn’t even realize the tears had started flowing. 

He can hear the reverberating voice in his head, yelling at him, telling him not to show such weakness in front of his pack, in front of his team. He’s supposed to be the strong one, he’s supposed to be the stable one keeping the pack afloat and steady. Yet here he is, breaking down in front of them. 

“It’s okay.” 

Kyle. 

His sweet Kyle. 

How he’s been neglecting his sweet beta, and yet, how willing Kyle still is to reach out and comfort him in such a time of visible distress. That’s what betas are supposed to do. Mediate and balance the emotions of the pack. How have they been coping with all of this? How have Kyle and Johnny been managing in such a time of disarray and upheaval? Have they been managing it? He doesn’t even know. He doesn’t even know the state of his pack, of the members of his team. 

What a failure he is. 

He lets himself lean against Kyle, something filling his chest as Kyle’s soft scent seeps into his senses. He’s projecting it, not just for John but also for the whole room. Johnny is crying too, soft sobs tearing from his chest as he sits on the other couch. Simon is on his knees in front of him, trying to get him calmed and breathing. 

They’ve been ignoring and denying each other for days, fraying the bonds further while trying so hard not to. The pain they’ve been causing in their emotional constipation and intentional neglect is almost worse than the pain caused by their infighting. At least fighting they were feeling something. At least fighting they weren’t cutting each other off so willingly. 

“We can’t do this anymore.” He says, his voice thick and shaky from his tears. “Cutting each other off. It’s not helping anything.” He doesn’t move from where he’s tucked against Kyle’s chest, letting the comfort wash over him for the first time in a week and a half. 

How he’s missed this. 

“It’s not doing any good for any of us.” Simon says, shifting onto the couch next to Johnny. 

“Especially not our omega.” Kyle says, voicing the thought flashing through all of their minds. 

“We may not be able to do much to help her right now, but we can focus on each other. That is something we can do.” John swallows thickly, his alpha starting to come back to life, his instincts aware again as he stares at Johnny and Simon. “Doing nothing isn’t good for any of us. We need to have something to focus on, something tangible we can do. Denying each other comfort isn’t going to help anyone.” 

“I full-heartedly agree.” 

John whips around, Christine standing in front of your closed door. He hadn’t even noticed her enter the room, hadn’t sensed her standing behind them. Johnny and Simon are the only two that don’t look startled, but they must have seen her come out from their position facing your door. 

“Sorry.” The corner of her lip twitches up in a smirk. “Thought you would have noticed.” 

John clears his throat. “How is she?” 

“Settled again.” Christine says, moving over to the chair. 

“How long has she been having nightmares?” Kyle asks. 

“Since that first day in the med center in Dallas.” She says, sinking into the chair. How heavy this must all be on her shoulders. “I’d almost call them more sleep hallucinations. Mostly of Graves. Seeing him in the room, being attacked by him.” 

“Is there anything that can be done to help?” John asks. 

“For these kinds of nightmares? Not really.” Christine folds her hands in her lap. “Her brain is trying to process what happened. Until she feels safe enough to truly begin working on processing the trauma, it’s likely the nightmares will continue.” 

“Is there anything we can do to help her feel safe?” Kyle says. 

Christine’s lips purse as she looks between the four of them. “I’m not sure any of you could do anything right now directly, at least. She’s not open to that yet. Working on your bonds with each other, though, could help her omega finally settle and allow her emotions to even out again. That can help her feel safer, remove that instability and the fear of losing control again.” 

All of them share looks, John and Simon staring at one another. They hadn’t even thought about that. Well, at least he hadn’t. Christine had told him months ago that omegas need their alpha when they distress, when their omega takes over. They can come back from it with the help of an alpha...their alpha. Without one, the chances of survival were slim. Yet here you are, trying to do it all on your own. Having to do it all on your own. 

That ache in his chest starts again as he stares at Simon. He sent Simon after you, he made Simon go through that process of seeing you in that state and scruffing you. He made Simon be the one to help you through that. He made Simon be there when you needed an alpha most because he couldn’t face the fact that he abandoned you, he left you behind like you were nothing but another faceless soldier. 

He wipes his face as the tears start falling again. He truly is a failure of an alpha. 

Despite Christine’s reassurances, John can’t help the automatic reaction to your screams. On his feet instantly, his heart pounding in his chest ready to fight bare handed whatever might be causing such a reaction. Whoever might be causing such a reaction. He can’t fight the demons in your head, though, and he’s always greeted by the sight of Christine by your side, comforting you as best she can. 

He wants to hate her, wants to be angry at her for taking his place, doing what he should be doing. His alpha scratches at his mind every time he sees her by your side, giving you comforts he should be giving, but it’s his fault. It’s his fault she’s the one there with you. It’s his fault you’re suffering so much. Those thoughts send his alpha crawling back into its cage with its tail between its legs. 

It doesn’t matter the time of day, whether it was a nap or the middle of the night, your screams have a pain throbbing deep in his chest. His heart is constantly racing, waiting for that rush of adrenaline at the sound of your terrified scream, at that rush of instinct to protect and fight. He’s not sure how much his heart can take. 

He might have a heart attack by the end of their stay at the cottage. 

That’s something he’s been trying not to think about. 

They can’t stay here forever, no matter how much he knows you’ll want to, how much the others will want to. Eventually they’ll begin to go stir-crazy, itching for something to do. They still have jobs, and Kate can only keep them off the radar for so long, and can only give so many excuses. Eventually they’ll have to go back. Eventually they’ll have to make that decision of what comes next. 

He’s going to delay that as much as he possibly can. 

They can’t go back while Shepherd is still out there. They can’t trust that anywhere is safe while he’s still skulking around, while he still has contacts that could put them all in danger. That could put you in danger. 

That’s not a risk he’s willing to take again. 

But what comes next? 

What will they decide to do? Can they go back, knowing what the inevitable will be? Can they take that risk of having to leave you again, put you through that constant fear and worry that they might not come back? What if they all leave again? Could you survive the fear that something might happen while they’re away again? Not to them, but to you? 

Could they leave you alone again? 

Those are thoughts for another day when they’re inevitably faced with the fact they have to return to society and their lives and jobs. 

They have time. 

He has to make sure you’re okay first. 

You’re not okay.

You’re so very far from okay. 

The bedside lamp is on, casting a golden glow around the room. 

There’s nothing there. There’s nothing there. 

It’s one of the rare times you’ve woken before you can react, before you can scream and alert everyone in the house that you’ve had a nightmare. They’ll all come running. All of them. 

You hate it. 

You hate the nightmares, you hate the fear, you hate the constant pain and worry and the constant knowledge that your pack is right there. They want to go back to how things were, they want things to go back to normal, but they can’t. They expect you to forgive them, to go back to loving them, but how can you after everything? 

They left you. 

They let this happen to you and they just want you to pretend like nothing happened. That’s what they would do. Go back to normal life after being tortured and forget it all happened because that’s what they do. 

You’re not them. 

You don’t want to be like them. 

Cold. Heartless. Uncaring. Unwilling to put anyone but themselves first. 

Fuck them. 

The only thing keeping you here is the fact you’re bonded to them. That, and you’re an omega. You’d get picked up off the street and brought right back here to your owner. Or, worse, you’d get picked up by someone looking for a cute little omega to add to their collection. 

Or worse. 

You’d get picked up by someone else. 

Graves. Shepherd. 

If you’re lucky, they’d kill you instantly. Leave your body on the front porch for the others to find. You won’t care anymore. You’ll be dead. 

You hastily wipe the tears from your cheeks, wiggling yourself back until you’re leaning against the headboard. Your shoulder doesn’t hurt quite as much anymore. It still throbs, still aches, still occasionally almost puts you on the floor when you try to reach over your head with it. Your throat is healing too. Soup isn’t quite as horrible as it was a few days ago. Solid food makes you ache, but at least you can get it down without feeling like you’re swallowing glass. 

You still haven’t spoken to them, though. 

You can hardly stand to look at them. 

Fuck them. 

Just the thought of them makes you want to scream. 

Dr. Keller says it's normal, being angry. ‘It’s all part of the process.’ The anger, the fear, the pain, the depression. It’s all normal. It’s all part of the process. It’s all necessary. You won’t get better holding it all in. You won’t get better numbing yourself. You won’t get better if you don’t allow yourself to feel everything. 

You hate it. 

Why should you have to go through all these feelings, all this pain? Why should you be the one suffering because of their decisions? It’s not fair. They should be suffering. They should be in pain. They should be the ones on the brink of insanity because of the fear and the pain and the suffering and their omega constantly screaming at them. 

It makes you want to scream. 

Screaming will only draw them in, force them closer. Screaming will alert them all, make them all come running. You don’t want any of them near. You don’t want to have to see them again. 

Fuck them. 

You let out a huff before wiggling back down the bed until your head hits the pillow. You won’t go back to sleep. You never do. At least you have the pain and exhaustion and tumultuous emotions and your very nature to excuse your constant naps, constant sleeping during the day. They don’t need to know you’re not sleeping at night. They won’t care. They don’t care. None of them do. 

Fuck. Them. 

You want your phone, you want something to keep you occupied. It’s probably lying somewhere on the side of the road shattered beyond repair. That, or it’s back in the barracks. The barracks. Fuck that place. You’ll rip your hair out strand by strand if you have to go back there. It’s not safe, it’s not happy. There’s nothing good about that place anymore. 

It’s just a place of pain. You might as well have been tortured by Phil there. 

You were tortured there. 

It wasn’t a physical torture, but a mental one. The entire experiment was just torture for you. No one thought of you, no one cared about you. 

Dr. Keller cares. 

It’s her job to care. 

Still, you can’t hate her entirely. She’s the only one that understands. She’s the only one that can help. She’s the only one that’s been helping. Not just now, but back then. She cared, she fought for you, she did her best with what she had. Sure, she made mistakes, but so did you. She’s the only one you can forgive. 

She’s the only one you want to forgive. 

Fuck the others. Fuck your pack. Fuck those fucking soldiers who were never going to care about anyone but themselves, who were never going to care about anything but their jobs and their duties and the good of the world. 

You should have been their world. 

They couldn’t put you first. They wouldn’t put you first. They didn’t want to put you first. 

They won’t change. They can’t change. There’s no hope for change. 

You’ll just go back to the way things were before and be forced to pretend everything's okay and that you’re happy and fine and content. Were you ever really content or were you just trying to make the best of the situation? Were you deluding yourself into believing you loved them and cared about them and that they loved you and cared about you to numb the fact you knew deep down that they never would, that they never could. Were you deluding yourself into thinking everything was fine and dandy to hide the constant pain from the knowledge that you would never come first? 

The pain begins to burn in your chest again. It’s hot like acid, rising in your chest to your throat, threatening to choke you. It’s a deep pain, one nestled right in against your soul. Tears leak out of your eyes again as you squeeze them shut, pushing your right hand against your chest in an attempt to get it to pass. 

You thought you were dying the first time. 

You could only be so lucky. 

The bond. 

It’s trying to break, trying to sever itself, trying to free you from the constant pain, but it can’t. 

Maybe because deep down you don’t want it to. Maybe deep down you want to forgive them and move past all of this. Maybe you want things to go back to normal, even if normal means pain and distress and fear. Maybe you want to believe them that they’re finally going to put you first. 

‘Maybe’ is only a doorway to disappointment and pain. 

Fuck yourself. 

Fuck your omega. 

Fuck your pack. 

Hell, fuck Dr. Keller for not fighting harder, for not doing more. 

Fuck Graves and his haunting of your nightmares.

Fuck Kate for choosing you.

Fuck Shepherd for creating the initiative in the first place to try and cover his own ass. 

Fuck them all. 

You tug the blanket higher around yourself, rolling onto your right side. 

Fuck. Them. All. 

You don’t want him here. 

He does it now, usually in the mornings. 

You hate it. 

You like it. It’s nice. He’s the only one making an effort. 

He never says anything, surprisingly enough. It’s silent as he sits there, steaming cup of coffee in hand. Always coffee, never tea. He won’t sink that low. He brings you a cup, but you can never bring yourself to touch it. You feel like a mental patient stuck in a straight jacket. You could free yourself, but that would bring too much awareness, too many questions, too much pain. 

You don’t want to. 

So instead you sit there in silence, staring out at the sea. It’s so far away still, yet it’s right there. You can hear it and smell it and see it. 

The sea. 

They brought you to the sea. 

John remembered. He did it for you. 

The thought has something stirring in your chest, and it’s not pain or anger. 

You hate it. 

Johnny leans back in the chair, his eyes on the horizon like yours. He sits there in that chair every chance he gets, usually in the mornings when Dr. Keller takes time for herself and leaves one of them watching you through the sliding glass door. You do feel guilty for forcing so much on Dr. Keller’s shoulders, yet you need her. 

You’re not ready for the others yet, no matter how loudly your omega screams at you. 

You don’t want them. 

Fuck, you desperately need them. 

Your eyelids flutter frantically as you try to keep the tears at bay. You can’t cry. You can’t let him know how close you are to breaking down. You can’t. 

You can’t reach out. 

You can’t take his hand. 

How desperately you want to. 

You nearly breathe a sigh of relief when the sliding door opens, Dr. Keller’s soft footsteps crossing the wood planks of the porch. 

“Ready to go inside now?” She asks, pressing the back of her hand against your cheek. You don’t say anything, don’t react, frozen in fear of everything coming tumbling out in front of Johnny. “You’re getting cold.” 

Johnny glances your way and you immediately turn to look at Dr. Keller, scared to look him in the face. That desperate hold you have on the gaping wound in your abdomen will open and your guts will come spilling out like some gory scene in a horror movie. 

Disembowelment thanks to your own weakness. 

Dr. Keller holds the crutch out for you as you push yourself to stand. Your legs are strong enough you could probably walk without it, but it’s still nice to have it in case you get tired. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

It’s the weakness from your liquid diet over the past week and a half. The weakness of being unable to eat solid foods, to properly nourish. You’ve lost weight, your clothes hanging from your body in a way they never did before. You’ve lost the softness that marks you as an omega, but it feels fitting. You don’t feel like an omega anymore. 

You don’t feel like anything anymore. 

You’re fighting your instincts out of pain and suffering and stubbornness. You keep taping your omega’s mouth shut despite how loudly she screams at you. You don’t want your instincts. You don’t want that need. Eventually it has to go away. Eventually it has to recede and your omega has to go back into her cage and sleep. Eventually you can numb yourself to it and force it away forever. 

That will certainly make things easier. 

But will it make things better? 

No. Probably not. 

It’ll make things worse. 

But if it allows you to keep your distance, allows you to avoid them, you’ll risk it. You’d take numbness over anything right now. 

How you miss those long days of depression while they were away. How you took those days for granted. 

Who knew those hours spent worrying about them and their distance and what might happen to them would be for nothing? 

What you wouldn’t give for all of them to disappear right now. 

How badly it would destroy you. 

“She’s at war with herself. That instinctual need is screaming at her, but that emotional pain is keeping her shut away. If anyone is going to get through to her, it will probably be you.” 

“I can’t do that.” 

“Can’t or won’t?” 

Simon clenches his jaw as he stares at Christine. As much as he wants to hate the doctor and her ability to see straight through him, he can’t deny how necessary her presence has been. She’s the only one you tolerate, the only one you’ll let close. Without her you’d probably be rotting in bed, stuck and unable to do anything out of stubbornness. You won’t let them close, yet you need them close. 

You’re going to rip yourself in half, metaphorically and possibly even literally. 

He shakes that mental image from his mind. The horrifying images his mind has conjured up over the last few days have his stomach churning. Even his tea no longer looks appetizing. 

He put milk in it this time. Almost how he likes it. Almost how he wants it. 

“Johnny’s the one actually trying.” Simon says, staring across at her. She doesn’t shy from his gaze, doesn't even flinch. “You should talk to him.” 

“While I agree, reintroducing a beta from the pack is the first step, eventually she’s going to need an alpha.” Christine says. 

“She needs her alpha.” He argues. 

“She doesn’t want her alpha.” Christine counters. “He’s going to be the last she lets close, but she’s going to need some kind of stability.” 

“I can’t give her that.” 

“Can’t or won’t?” 

Simon clenches his hand around his mug, his knuckles going white. She’s infuriating, yet he can’t be mad at her. Not completely. The good she’s doing for you, for the pack, far outweighs his annoyance with the doctor. She’s right. He knows it deep down, but he can’t. He can’t do that, he can’t put you through that. He’s already done enough. He did his part, he faced his fears, he saved your life. That’s enough for him. It’s up to John now. 

John has to do the work to fix it. He broke it, it’s no one else’s job to fix it. 

“Maybe both.” Simon finally says, pushing himself up to stand. “It’s not my job to fix this.” 

He leaves his mug behind as he stalks out of the kitchen, heading for the front door. He can’t stand being in the house any longer, cooped up with the same five people. Four people and a ghost. 

He shakes his head, jogging down the steps into the gravel. He should go for a jog. A long jog. He could jog to town and back. That will clear his head. 

That’s a long jog.

If something happens while he’s away, he won’t get back in time. It’ll be his fault because he took the time to do something selfish. He can picture it, coming back to find five bodies laying in pools of blood, dead because he wasn’t there to help, because he wasn’t there to fight. 

It’s a ridiculous thought. There’s three other highly trained soldiers in the house. If anyone tried anything, they wouldn’t make it past the door. He can see it now, Price’s alpha coming out in a rage because someone dared try to enter and hurt his vulnerable omega. He’d probably win in a fight ten to one if that happened, and he has Kyle and Johnny to back him up. Christine would take you and run the first chance she could. She wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Not again. 

Still, he can’t shake that fear. If he can’t sprint back, then it's too far. If it will leave the pack too vulnerable, he can’t. 

To the beach and back, then. 

She’s like an angel. 

The soft sunlight streaming through the clouds makes her glow. You wouldn’t be surprised if the sun was shining just for her, sending down a beam just to illuminate just how ethereal she is. 

The Garrick beauty is genetic. 

Kyle is beautiful in terms of a man. He shares the same ethereal glow as his sister, but Ashley? You don’t feel worthy of looking upon her. 

“Kyle never mentioned an omega, but then again, he never says much about his job.” She gives another dazzling smile, your heart rate picking up just slightly. “Can’t, I should say. You haven’t been with them long, huh.” 

“About nine months.” You say, your voice still a bit hoarse. It’s not quite healed yet. It might be that way forever. 

“Such a short amount of time to go through so much.” She says, giving you a soft, sympathetic look. You don’t know how much she knows, though it’s still fairly obvious you’ve been through hell. That you’re still going through hell. “Christine told me a bit about what happened. I don’t blame you one bit for being upset at them. I would have left them, but I know. In a perfect world, right?” 

You make a quiet sound. Indeed in a perfect world where omegas have rights and can make their own decisions and could leave and have support in doing so. You’d leave with Dr. Keller or even Ashley, even though you’ve only known her for ten minutes. She has the same magnetic energy as Kyle, so much so you don’t mind the way the scent blockers burn your nose. She probably smells like something warm and soft, something comforting. 

“So, tell me about yourself. What do you like to do?” She says, settling in the chair. It’s cool outside, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it one bit. 

You scramble for something, anything. What is it you like to do? What are your hobbies? You’re drawing a blank, your mind searching through its filing cabinets to find where you shoved all the things you like to do. 

“I like to read.” You finally say, remembering the stack of untouched books on the dresser across from the bed. 

“Oh? What do you like to read?” She asks. 

What do you like to read? What is a genre? What are books? 

“Oh, I read anything, as long as it’s interesting.” Is that the truth? You’re not quite sure. 

“I see, I see. Well, there’s quite the collection on those shelves inside. I’m a reader too. Read through those entire shelves over the years.” She grins at you. “We could do a little book club, if you’d like. Read some books and talk about them over some tea. We could get Christine in on it too. Have a little thing just for us girls.” 

You nod, staring at her in awe. This is the first time someone outside of your little circle has offered to do anything with you, for you. 

You want to do it. 

You want to spend time with someone who isn’t your pack, who isn’t Dr. Keller. 

“Okay.” You say, still staring at her in awe. 

“I could come over on the weekends, or we could do a call if you’re not up to seeing anyone.” She continues, and you’re not sure if she made this plan before she came, or if she’s coming up with it on the spot. Regardless, you're still impressed by her and her dedication to a complete stranger. 

“Would...would that be too much?” You ask, your brain starting to wake up again, the wires connecting once more. 

“Not at all.” She shakes her head. “I live and work in Exeter, so I’m not too terribly far away.” 

You’re not sure where Exeter is off the top of your head. Your mental map isn’t even sure how far away London is...or even where you are on a map of England. Are you even in England right now? 

“What do you do for work?” You ask, realizing you’ve been silent for an awkward amount of time. 

“I’m a finance lawyer.” She says. “Mum used to say ‘you love to argue so much, you should become a lawyer.’” She laughs. “So I did.” 

“You must make a lot of money.” You say. You don’t know how much lawyers make in England relative to the US. 

“I make enough to be comfortable.” She says. Enough to travel back and forth every weekend. “Seriously, though, if you need or want anything, let me know. I’m more than happy to come sit with you and give you a break from those stinky men.” 

You’re not quite sure what happens to your face. It contorts, muscles shaking off the dust and starting to move before you even realize it. Your lips are tilting upwards instead of downwards. Something is happening. Something that feels good, something that you’ve been missing. 

You’re smiling. 

You’re smiling. You haven’t smiled in a long time. Weeks. Not since the cameras. Not since your pack left. You haven’t felt like smiling in so long you’re certain you forgot how to. But yet, here you are, smiling at Ashley. It’s not a genuine smile, one that crinkles your eyes and shows joy, but it’s a smile. It almost hurts your face after so long. 

She’s funny too. 

Stinky men. 

They are that. 

Your smile falls as soon as the sliding glass door opens, your head whipping around to look. Ashley turns to look too, perhaps out of instinct at your sudden movement. 

You’re half expecting it to be one of the guys, maybe Kyle out to ruin the moment, but it’s only Dr. Keller. 

“How are things going?” She asks, stepping up beside you. 

“Good.” Ashley says. “We’re planning a book club.” 

“Oh?” Dr. Keller raises a brow, looking between you. “I think that would be fantastic.” 

“You’re welcome to join in if you’d like,” Ashley says, giving Dr. Keller a smile. 

You stare up at Dr. Keller, watching the way her lips turn up a smile, her eyes shining with...something. Her hands open and close, tugging at her pants almost nervously. Your brows raise as you look back up at her face. She almost looks...flustered. 

Oh. 

Another grin forms on your face as you stare between them, Ashley still smiling and Dr. Keller still looking a bit flustered. 

Oh. 

“You could join us if you want.” You say slowly, still looking up at Dr. Keller. 

She seems to snap out of her daze, her gaze darting down to you. She gives you a soft smile, back to her composed, professional self. “If that’s what you’d like.” 

You nod. Even though you see her constantly every day, you’re not tired of her existence yet. She’s the only one whose existence in the house doesn’t make you want to gouge your eyes out, the only one you want to talk to, to see, to have around. If you had the choice, you’d be here alone with her. 

That’s not possible. You know it’s not. 

“A thing for just us girls.” Ashley says. “On the weekends. No pressure whatsoever.” 

“I think that would be fantastic.” Dr. Keller says. “A nice little distraction.” 

“A nice break from those stinky men.” You say. 

Both Dr. Keller and Ashley erupt in laughter. 

Another smile tugs at your lips. 

You don’t want to be here. You can feel him staring at you from behind. He hasn’t moved since Dr. Keller left, still just standing there like he’s not sure he can approach you or not. You hope he doesn’t. You want him to. 

You don’t say anything, still staring out at the ocean, but you can see him reflected in the glass, obscuring your view of the horizon. Hatred burns inside of you as you have no choice but to stare at him, even when you’re trying not to. He’s like a ghost, always haunting you. He always will be. 

“I didn’t want to try to rush into this.” He finally says, knowing you’re not going to say anything. You won’t greet him, welcome him into your space. It already feels like an intrusion into your safety, him being here. 

Is this becoming a safe space? A nest? No, not that far. It’s becoming sacred to you, though, and having him in it without invitation feels wrong. It makes you uncomfortable. 

You hate it. 

“But I just wanted you to know that we’re all feeling the weight of what we did, I’m feeling the weight of what I decided to do. We all feel guilty for putting you through that, for forcing you to endure things you never should have.” 

He swallows thickly, falling silent for a moment. You almost feel like laughing at his attempt at an apology, another attempt at an apology. Why is he even bothering? He knows you won’t forgive him. He’s probably doing it for himself again, to make himself feel better. 

“I know it’s not an ideal situation, being forced in such a small space together, but we all wanted you to know that you’re the one setting the boundaries. If you don’t want us to be somewhere or do something, then you can tell us, or have Christine tell us. If you don’t want to see us at all, we can make our best attempts at that.” 

“That would be ideal.” You say, breaking the silence you’ve held for days. It’s the first time you’ve spoken to him since the hospital, since his first sad attempt at an apology. 

It shocks him to stillness and silence. 

The words hurt, burning your throat like acid as you stare at his reflection in the glass. You hate it, how pathetic he looks standing there. Where’s the big, tough alpha? Where’s the strong protector? Where’s the person that’s supposed to take care of you and care about you? 

He never existed. 

He left you behind. 

He never cared. 

Anger begins to bubble within you. 

“I’m sorry.” He says, his voice shaking. “I never meant for this to happen-”

“You think your sad attempts at apologies are going to work?” You hiss at him through your teeth. You push yourself to stand, turning to face him. “You left me. You fucking left me there knowing full well what was going to happen!” You’re shouting now. All the quiet movements on the other side of the wall in the main area stop. 

They’re all listening. 

It’s not like you’re giving them much of a choice not to. 

Fuck them.

“I know,” He says, his eyes wide as he stares at you. 

“Do you? Do you know?” Your voice is wavering, your throat starting to ache but you can’t stop. Not now. It’s all coming out and there’s no stopping it. “You. Left. Me. You willingly turned your back on me time and time again even when I was being tortured! You leaving was torture enough and you still chose me second. I’ve always been second. I’ve never mattered enough for you to even question anything!” 

You let out a sob, the sound cracking in your throat. It hurts, but it will always hurt. You’ll always carry this hurt with you, so you want him to hurt too. 

“I asked you once if you would ever leave for me. You said if things got dangerous, if my life were ever at risk because of you, you’d leave in a heartbeat.” The tears are falling, streaming down your face. “Was that a lie?” 

He doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, staring at you. Does he even remember that conversation? 

“Was that a lie?” You shout, making him jump. 

His eyes drop to the floor, his scent souring. Good, you think. Let it hurt. 

“Answer me.” You say, pushing him to give some response to your question. You need to know. You need him to say it. 

“I didn’t intend for it to be.” He says quietly. 

“You didn’t intend for it to be.” You say, bitterness coating your tone. “What the fuck does that mean? You said you wouldn’t let me go even if the initiative failed. Was that a lie too? Was it all a lie to keep me happy and complacent? ‘The job always comes first,’ even when my life is in danger, right? The job always comes first over everything, even me. You lied to me.” You swallow the sob threatening to come up. “I want to hear you say it.” 

He stands there, tears brimming in his eyes. He hasn’t moved hardly a muscle, still frozen like a statue. 

“Say it!” You scream at him, your throat tearing around the words. You’re surprised you’re not tasting blood yet from how raw it feels. 

“I lied.” He says, swallowing thickly. “I lied to you and I couldn’t keep my promise. And I’m sorry-” 

“Don’t apologize.” You cut him off starting to pace as the anger burns hot in you. “Don’t you fucking apologize to me, you don’t deserve to apologize. You don’t deserve the chance at forgiveness. You’re a shitty alpha and you always have been!” 

You let out a sob, wiping at the tears streaming down your face. There’s a tear sliding down his cheek, and it brings you some sort of relief deep down. So he can feel things after all. 

“I don’t know what I expected, though.” You let out a sardonic laugh. “You military men are all the same. It’s always about the job and the image and the ‘greater good’ and making sacrifices, even if that means sacrificing your pack. You’re just like my dad. You never wanted an omega, you never wanted me. You cast me out and let me suffer when I needed you most.” 

The anger burns hot in you again, shooting through your veins until it’s choking you as you stare at him standing there pathetically. He thought he could apologize, he thought his groveling would mean anything to you. Fuck him. Fuck them all. 

“You left me.” You grit out, your hands starting to shake. “You left me! You abandoned me, you let me get hurt! You didn’t care, you never cared about me!” You storm over to him. “Fuck you!” You scream, hitting his chest. “I fucking hate you!” You shove him back, sending him stumbling. “Get out!” You shove him again, pushing him back towards the door. “Get out! I never want to see you again!” 

He stumbles back out of the door and you slam it in his face so hard it shakes on its hinges. You click the lock as you sob in pain, pain both physical and emotional. Your chest aches, a tearing feeling burning through it. 

The bond. 

You don’t care. You don’t give a fuck anymore. You hate him, you hate them all. 

The tears and sobs threaten to choke you but you don’t care. You don’t care anymore. You don’t care about anything anymore except the anger burning hot through you, making your hands shake. Your legs give out and you slide to the floor against the door, sliding until you’re laying down on your back on the hardwood. It’s cold against your skin but you don’t care. You can’t care anymore. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

John stares at the wood in shock. The slam of the door still echoes in his ears as he stands there, frozen. He knew the chance of a negative reaction was high, but something like that? Something to that magnitude? 

Your words cut into him like a knife, searing his skin and leaving blisters behind. 

Hands push him out of the way. He stumbles to the side, his brain still catching up to his body. 

“Sweetie, I need you to open the door.” 

The words are muffled from the ringing in his ears, the ringing of your screams as you cursed his very being. 

Liar. 

His legs are shaking as he turns, his body moving automatically towards the door. The other three members of his pack are frozen, watching him as he crosses the living room, as he wraps his fingers around the handle of the sliding glass door, as he pushes it open just wide enough to slip through. 

The thud of it closing feels like a seal being stamped. He’s cut himself off, fraying that bond forever. 

Your words still ring in his head as he stands in the middle of the porch numbly. 

Liar. 

He is a liar. He made a lot of promises that he couldn’t keep, promises that he broke because of his decisions. He should have made you feel comfortable enough to reveal those cameras right away. He should have gotten you off base as soon as you revealed them. He should have never trusted Shepherd, or even Kate in that moment. He should have fought harder, he should have sent you away from base as soon as he made that decision to leave. 

So many things he should have done differently. 

You can’t change the past. 

Liar. 

He left you when you needed him most. He proved time and time again that he’d always choose the job over you, no matter what he promised. You’re not a soldier. No matter how much he tried to prepare you, train you, you’d never be able to fight like them. 

Not without taking drastic measures. 

He saw the blood. He saw the bodies. He saw the proof of an omega pushed too far, an omega forced into its primordial state. 

You did it because they left you. 

You did it because you thought the abandoned you. 

Those words ring out the loudest in his mind. Above all the others those words linger, replaying over and over again. 

‘You let me be tortured.’

Christ. 

He runs a hand over his face, the realization shocking him as a cold chill settles under his skin. There’s a weight dropping in his stomach, threatening to sink him straight through the planks of the porch and into the ground below. 

You think they left you. 

He turns on his heel, shocked to find Simon standing behind him. He can’t read his face, hidden behind the mask that hasn’t come off since they arrived at the cottage. He doesn’t need to see his face to read the giant alpha. He’s known Simon long enough to be able to read him just based on his body language. 

He’s angry, frustrated. John half expects him to start yelling too, but that’s never been Simon’s style. He only gets loud when he needs to. Instead he’ll stew and glare and darken the room with his rage. The target of his anger will feel it and know, and that’s almost worse than if he’d express that anger through words. 

Despite the cold chill of Simon’s stare, John’s mind is reeling too much to care. It all makes sense now. Your distance, your turmoil, your own anger. 

“She thinks we left her.” The words come tumbling out before he can stop them. 

“We did.” Simon says, the words short and sharp. 

“No, no,” John shakes his head. “She thinks we left her with Graves.” 

Simon shifts on his feet, the planks of the porch creaking under his weight. 

“Of course Graves would fuck with her head, make her feel like she had been abandoned. It was never about following orders for him. He would have tortured her no matter what.” Anger burns hot in John, at himself, at Graves. Of course you’d assume the worst, of course you’d believe Graves because he was playing on your own doubts. 

They left you so easily at the barracks, of course they’d leave you to be tortured. 

“She’ll never believe you.” Simon says. The squaring of his shoulders has deflated a bit. 

“No, she won’t.” John shifts on his feet, staring straight at Simon. “But I’m not going to be the one to tell her.” 

Her hand presses against your forehead, wiping some of the sweat beading on your skin. Despite your shivers, you’re burning hot. A fever. You worked yourself up too much earlier in your outburst. She had been proud of you for finally releasing some of it and showing some emotion, but she knew the consequences of getting so worked up would be high. Your omega is still unstable, on top of still trying to physically recover. You hurt yourself doing that, even if it was necessary. 

She shushes you as you whine, fingers grasping at the blanket clumsily. She pulls it higher over you, your body shuddering underneath the pile already stacked on top of you. She’d put every blanket she could find over you, and yet you still shiver. Worry floods her again as she stares down at you, your eyes pinched closed. You must be aching, your show of anger taking its toll. 

It was necessary, but at what cost? 

If your temperature continues to spike, the risk of distress heightens. You can’t handle distress in your current state, which would mean your omega would come out, finally be freed again from the unprotected cage it's been pushed back into. If your omega comes out, that will require John to help, which may only drive you further into distress. 

She needs to try and stop this before the situation continues to deteriorate. 

But how? 

How can she move you past this without the help of your pack? She can’t give you the comfort you need. Medicine or any therapeutic methods can help solve the issue at its core. Sure she can try and lower your fever with medicine, but you need your pack. You need that comfort and stability that only they can offer. 

You need someone, and it can’t be her. 

If your omega comes back out, they might never be able to get it back in. It’ll be the end of you. All of your recovery, the fight you’ve put up against your body and your instincts and your mind will have been for nothing. 

You need someone. 

An idea begins to form in her head, her hand resting against your forehead. It’s hot under her hand, your skin burning. You might hate her later for this. It’s risky, but sometimes risks have to be taken in dire situations. Sometimes those risks pan out in the end. What will happen if it fails? The inevitable that’s going to happen if she doesn’t try. It’s a lose-lose situation, but if it works, it could be a win-win. 

She can’t help you, but maybe she has someone who can. 

She tucks the blankets around you, cocooning you in an attempt to keep you warm and still while she steps away. She won’t be gone long.  

She leaves your door cracked open just in case, even though she doubts you’ll be moving much while she’s away. 

Just in case. 

One can never be too careful. 

She heads up the stairs quietly, going slow to avoid startling any of them. She’s intruding on the safe space they’ve made in their solitude. It feels like invading sacred grounds, but it's a necessary invasion. Their omega is in danger. They’ll forgive her. 

The bathroom door is closed at the end of the short hallway, a light on inside. The lights are on in both rooms too, glowing beneath both doors, and she takes a gamble. Based on the heaviness of the footsteps above the kitchen she can guess the room on the right is the one Simon and Johnny are staying in. If she’s wrong, she’ll have some explaining to do before she’s ready, and she knows John will have his thoughts about this. Though, with what happened earlier, perhaps he’ll agree. You won’t see him, but maybe...just maybe... 

She lets out a deep breath before knocking firmly, waiting a breath before she calls out.  

“Johnny, I need your help.”

She just hopes you don’t hate her too much later. 

NEXT ->

To be notified about new chapters, please follow HERE and turn on notifications

[lostalioth]

𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬

→ premise: there existed no such cricumstances in which dean doesnt want your lips against his. bloodied, bruised, even with broken bones, a kiss from his girl makes it all better.

→ pairing: dean winchester x fem!reader

→ warnings: tw: blood, fluff, but some sort of instense making out, established relationship, descriptions of blood and injuries, blood in mouth, nicknames [baby, sweetheart, my girl], reader is described a bit to have anxiety

→ a/n: as always i hope dean isn’t too out of character as i have never written for him! enjoy my loves :) and sorry its short.

A hunt had gone south they got the monster and it was done but Dean was injured, they were headed back to the bunker. That was all Sam spit out over the phone, normally you appreciated his ability to get straight to the point. Currently you were cursing it as he hung up shortly after cause he was the one driving back. You had a million and one questions running through your head and more than half of them weren’t good.

This was the part of the boys going off hunting and you staying back that you hated the most. When one of them got hurt or something went wrong and all you could do was sit there, a chill running down your spine as your blood boiled in your veins, anxiously pacing the living room, trying to not let yourself jump to the worst conclusions which you regularly failed to do.

You used to go on hunts with them and instead of you currently being the one riddled with anxiety, it was Dean. Once the two of you pulled your heads out of your asses (as Sam would say) and realized you’ve had feelings for each other for years, you got together. Being officially together seemed to make Dean's protective nature increase tenfold. He was even more terrified to lose you now than before. He began fussing over you whenever you'd get even the slightest scarpe or bump on a hunt. He would glue himself to your side the whole duration. Forcing you to normally stay back in the motel room when the hunt turned into a more dangerous situation than dean cared to put you in.

You loved Dean but it began to get a bit too tedious to deal with and even Sam made a comment on how overprotective he was being. In an attempt to make hunts go easier and ease your boyfriend's anxiety, once you all situated yourselfs in the bunker you suggested to him that you go out on hunts less, especially when they could now take Cas. Dean jumped at the suggestion but you couldn't blame him.

“I think that's a great idea baby” he said with a kiss to your forehead.

You still helped out, researching things when Sam needed the help, going through old books and files in the library, patching them up when they’d come back with cuts and bruises. You hadn't realized just how jittery you'd be however stuck in the bunker when he was out and especially when they went on far away hunts.

They'd go to the hospital when things were really bad, so you knew if the boys were on their way back then it couldn’t be too bad. The reminder did nothing to sooth your racing thoughts, your heart thumping so hard you could practically hear it pounding in your ears. You didn't know just how long you've been pacing back and forth, too afraid to look up at the clock and realize it's only been a few minutes since Sam called.

You don't hear the sound of baby pulling into the garage, your head is too clouded as you were damn near about to wear a grove down into the old floors. The sound of a door shutting loudly and two sets of heavy footsteps are heard down the hallway. Spinning so quickly on your feet you nearly lose your balance you turn to face the noise. Watching as the brothers emerge from the dark hall, Dean's arm rests on Sam's shoulder almost using him like a human crutch. You let out a small gasp making them stop and both of their eyes snap up to yours, weather you gasped in surprise at the state of your boyfriend or in relief you can’t tell.

“Hi sweetheart, We’re home” Dean tilts his head, his voice laced with his usual sarcasm and deep tone. He pushes off of Sam, clearly able to at least stand on his own, slowly making his way over to you a small limp in his step.

In the blink of an eye you’re rushing into his arms, your soft hands grabbing ahold of his beaten up face and crashing your lips against his. He grunts out a “fuck” in surprise or pain the word dying in his throat turning into a noise as his eyes fall shut and he grabs ahold of your hips. With a sharp tug he pulls your body as close as he can to his, his hands sliding up your sides. His bloodied lips against your plush ones, kissing you like a man starved, a kiss you’ve come accustomed to when he comes home from longer hunts. “Missed you” he hums in a hushed tone into the kiss for only you to hear, making your racing heart only speed up. His blood flows into your opened mouth as the kiss goes on, the metallic taste on your tongue foreign but you were far too relieved he was back in one piece to care about the blood coating your tongue.

Any pain Dean felt after the whole ordeal and from the bumpy ride back to the bunker seemed to fade from his body. He could care less about his brother's presence still in the room or the blood still dripping from his face and that covered his clothes or his split lip. It felt as if all the bruises that were forming on his body were already being kissed away as your soft lips slid against his. The taste of your mouth overcoming the taste of the blood in his, your scent calming his body, reminding him he's finally home again. Your body grounding him.

A rough deep cough stops the moment making the two of you reluctantly pull away, lips swollen and parted as you catch your breath.

“Before this gets any more R-rated maybe we should patch him up and you know clean him up” Sam suggested with a small light hearted chuckle as he walks off to the bathroom to get the first aid kit. You were grateful you remembered just yesterday that it had needed to be restocked. “Sorry Sammy” Dean calls after him, you turn your head away and follow up with a “Sorry not sorry” down the hall after him making a small smirk grow on your boyfriend's face.

Once he's out of eye sight, Dean grabs ahold of your face by lightly squeezing your cheeks and turns your head back to face him. Leaning down to begin softly kissing you again, groaning against your lips when the pain in his body begins to return.

“Who needs a first aid kit, all i need is my girl's kisses” He mumbled softly against your mouth, making you break out into a smile. A small tear slips down your cheek, your breath returning to your lungs and the chill in your spine fading as relief finally settled over your body knowing he's okay.

→ a/n: if you enjoyed please reblog or send me some dean requests id love to write more for him!

[flowersforbucky]

sweetener

bucky barnes x reader

summary: when the vacation that you've been planning for months gets canceled due to a last minute mission, you can't help but feel bummed - the bright side is that you're being sent on a mission with bucky.

word count: 5.3k - my masterlist

warnings/tags: canon level violence, descriptions of injuries, mention of blood, almost drowning, hospital setting, bad guys getting killed (not descriptive), non-sexual nudity, hurt/comfort trope, avenger!reader, friends to lovers, fluff, language, reader pov, no use of y/n, fem reader, bucky being super soft, not explicit but mdni please

when life deals us cards

make everything taste like it is salt

then you come through like the sweetener you are

to bring the bitter taste to a halt

Hand warmers. Flashlight and extra batteries. Can opener. Matches. First aid kit –

You glance down the handwritten list for the dozenth time that morning, checking and rechecking that you aren't forgetting anything obvious.

Your eyes flicker between the ridiculous amount of supplies scattered across your bed and the three large duffle bags on your floor that you're determined to pack it all into. You know that you are most likely being excessive, but you'd much rather be too thorough than not thorough enough when you're about to be miles deep in the Appalachian wilderness.

Sure, you'd be staying at a relatively civilized campground with restrooms and showers, but this is the first time that you've been camping in years, and your first time ever going camping alone.

A two day road trip there, then six days in the Great Smoky Mountains, and then another two day road trip back to upstate New York.

A much needed ten days of time spent by yourself, seeing as how you haven't gone on anything resembling a vacation in over two years. The last couple years have been nonstop work with very little time for relaxation.

To say that you're excited would be an understatement. Although you find immense fulfillment in the work that you do with the Avengers and can't see yourself doing anything else, you're ready to sit by a warm fire and sleep under the stars without a care in the world.

Just as you've finished packing the second bag and are about to begin on the third, the Bluetooth speaker that your cell phone is paired to begins blasting your ringtone, cutting off the music that you'd been listening to while you pack.

When you grab the phone off of your nightstand and see the name Nick Fury displayed across the screen, a ball of unease immediately forms in the pit of your stomach.

Nick Fury isn't the type to call and chit chat about how your day is going or what shows you've been binge watching. He's the type to call when he wants something done, and wants it done now.

“Hey, Fury,” you greet in a neutral tone as you perch on the edge of your bed. With the phone still connected to your speaker, you place it back down on the nightstand so that you are free to wring your hands together.

“Agent,” Fury's voice booms throughout your room. “I hope I've caught you before you've left the state of New York.”

Godfuckingdammit.

“Uh - yep. I'm still here. Packing up for my trip right now,” you answer, trying your hardest to conceal the irritation in your voice. There's a small voice in the back of your head telling you that you should just lie and say you are already on the road, but you're not stupid enough to lie to Nick Fury.

There's a second, louder voice in the back of your mind screaming at you that you shouldn’t have even answered the phone.

“You know I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I'm going to suggest you pack a tactical suit and weapon of choice instead of hiking boots and a sleeping bag. We just got word that a vibranium weapons dealer we've been tracking will be receiving a large shipment at a port in Destin tomorrow night. Need you and Barnes on a flight to Florida this afternoon.”

“Florida?” you repeat, unable to hide the shock and disappointment in your tone. “I can't go to Florida right now. I've been planning this trip for months. I put in the notice for my leave–”

“I realize that this is unfortunate timing but I'm afraid that this is non-negotiable, Agent,” he interrupts you in a tone of finality. “If we don't intercept this shipment then these weapons fall into very dangerous hands. With Romanoff and Rogers still in San Antonio until next week, I have no choice but to ask you and Barnes to handle it.”

You exhale an audible, frustrated breath and massage the heels of your palms into your eye sockets. You don't know why you're surprised. It's not like illegal arms dealers take your vacation time into consideration when they plot their dealings.

“Is that understood, Agent?” he asks when you don't respond.

“Yes,” you say as you dig your nails into the flesh of your palm to hold back any further argument. “Yes, I understand.”

“Great. The jet leaves in three hours.”

The line cuts off before you can get another word out.

You groan out loud. Three hours. That doesn't even leave you enough time to feel sorry for yourself.

You look around at the chaotic state of your room before your gaze lands on the already packed duffle bags filled with camping supplies.

You're too annoyed and short on time to care right now, so you empty the contents of both bags back onto your bed and tell yourself that you'll deal with the mess when you get back home. For now, you need to focus on packing the appropriate items for taking down a vibranium arms dealer in hotass Florida.

Beneath all of the disappointment and frustration, there's a glimmer of relief that at the very least it's Bucky who you're being sent on this unexpected mission with. You may not be fond of hot weather, but you are quite fond of him.

••••••

Just as Fury said, the jet departs from the compound at exactly three o'clock. You sit in the aircraft's cabin, reading through a thick file containing all of the information that SHIELD has compiled on Dmitri Petrov's crime empire, ranging from drug smuggling to illegal arms deals.

You are only a few pages into the report and it's abundantly clear why this mission was non-negotiable. Petrov has been getting away unscatched for years - tomorrow night will be the first clear opportunity for a take down since getting on SHIELD's radar.

“Coffee?” A voice snaps you back to reality, making you realize that you're reading the same sentence for the dozenth time. “Three creams, two sugars.”

You look up to find a vibranium hand holding out a disposable cup to you. If the fact that he's committed the way you take your coffee to memory isn't enough to increase your heart rate, his smirk and the crinkles around his blue eyes do the trick.

“Thank you,” you tell him, snapping the folder shut on the table in front of you. “My eyes are on the verge of bleeding.” You take a sip of the coffee - indeed, three creams and two sugars.

He takes the seat directly across from you, spinning the folder around for him to flip through himself.

“We land in less than half an hour and you've been reading this the entire flight,” he says teasingly as he thumbs through the pages. “I think it's safe to say you're prepared.”

He places the file back down, returning his attention to you.

“Just trying to get myself in the right headspace. I didn't know anything about this operation until a few hours ago, you know.”

Not one to complain, you had yet to bring up the fact that your trip had been postponed in order for you to be here. You had talked about the trip on several occasions with Bucky, but you didn't expect him to remember the exact dates that you were supposed to be gone.

Sure - if he was going to be away for over a week, you'd be hyper aware of it until he returned - but you weren't naive enough to think that he would know the exact dates of your comings and goings.

“I know,” he sighs, a sympathetic look on his face. “I was on my way to tell you to have a good trip and to be safe when I got the call from Fury this morning.”

Oh. Your cheeks heat at the casual admission from him.

“I'm sorry about your trip. I know you were really looking forward to it,” he adds sincerely. “I'm going to find extra enjoyment in putting Dmitri Petrov behind bars for causing it to get canceled.”

“You and me both,” you chuckle. “Really though, it's okay. I was bummed, but it's not the end of the world. It can easily be rescheduled once this guy is locked up and we're back home.”

You don't add the fact that you find yourself caring less and less about the canceled trip the longer that you sit here with him.

“There is at least one silver lining to this, you know,” he chimes, leaning forward with his elbows on the table between you. You instinctively lean in closer too, causing the side of your leg to brush against his beneath the table. You wait to see if he'll pull away, and when he doesn't, you leave the side of your thigh resting against his.

“Oh, yeah? And what's that?”

“Petrov’s shipment isn't set to arrive until tomorrow night, and they've sent us down here the day prior. It's not like we have to stay holed up in our hotel room for the next twenty-four hours, right?”

••••••

Bucky's right - there's no sense in locking yourselves inside the hotel room until the time of the weapons deal tomorrow evening, but when you see the hotel room that you'll be spending the next couple nights in, you think you would also be okay with staying inside if you had to.

It's not a five star resort by any means, but in comparison to the dingy roadside motels that you're normally stuck in for missions? This place might as well be a Four Seasons.

It's relatively small, but there's more than enough space for the two of you. There's one full size bed, plus a couch that converts to a futon mattress - the latter of which Bucky insists on taking, giving you the bed. The bathroom is nearly as big as the main room, with a jacuzzi tub that's bigger than three standard bathtubs put together.

And the best part of it? When you open the curtains to the sliding glass door on the backside of the room, there's a clear view of turquoise water and white sand.

“I guess Fury felt a little bad about springing this on me at the last minute, after all,” you sigh as you pull the door open, letting the light breeze pull the smell of saltwater into the room. “Can't say that I’ve been given a beachfront room for a mission before.”

Bucky walks up to stand beside you, leaning against the doorframe and staring out to the ocean.

“It's definitely a step up from the rat and roach infested Motel 6 that Sam and I had to spend three nights in when we were sent to Atlanta for recon last month.”

You shake your head, both cringing and laughing at the memory of him ranting about the motel room as soon as he saw you after returning home.

“It was the size of a fucking capybara. Why are you laughing? I opened the bathroom door and it charged at me–”

A sudden deep rumbling noise snaps you out of the memory and you glance down at your stomach in surprise. You suppose it makes sense that your body is screaming at you to eat - you had such little time to pack for Destin before your flight left that you hadn't even bothered with lunch today.

“How does pizza sound?” Bucky asks with a knowing smirk. “I saw a pizza place just down the street on the way here.”

“Anything sounds good right now,” you sigh, both starving and exhausted from your day of packing, unpacking, re-packing and traveling.

“I'll go grab one for us,” he tells you, pulling the keys to the rental car out of his pocket. “Just stay here and get settled in.”

You don't object, itching to change into comfier, more weather appropriate clothes. When you left the state of New York just a few hours ago, it was chilly outside. Now that you are in eighty plus degree Destin, the sweater and boots that you're wearing have got to go.

You unpack your bag, thankful that you had brought a pair of casual drawstring shorts. You throw them on, along with a tank top. You decide to go ahead and convert the futon from a sofa into a bed, and then search through the hotel room's small linen closet for a set of sheets and a quilt. If Bucky insists on you taking the comfier sleeping option and going to get food for the two of you, you figure the least you can do is make his bed for him.

When he returns, he not only has a large cardboard box containing the pizza, but a plastic bag hanging from his vibranium arm as well.

“Grab a towel and follow me,” he tells you before he's even closed the door behind him.

“Follow you?” You laugh, taken aback by the instructions. “Where are we going?”

You hop up from where you'd been mindlessly scrolling on your phone on the bed, doing as he asked and grabbing one of the complementary beach towels from the bathroom closet.

“Not staying holed up in our hotel room. Remember?”

And with that he pulls the sliding glass door open with his empty hand and exits the room, heading towards the beach that sits directly in the backyard. You don't even take the time to throw on a pair of tennis shoes before practically running after him through the sand.

He comes to a stop when he's a few yards away from where the waves wash up against shore and turns back to look at you. You take it as your cue to spread the towel across the sand at your feet.

He sits down and you follow, the cardboard box nestled between you. He opens it, revealing a pizza that is split down the middle - half your favorite, half his favorite.

“I know it's not a campfire in the Great Smoky Mountains,” he smirks. He digs into the plastic bag and pulls out a drink for each of you, along with some napkins. “But it's the best I could do in our current situation.”

The sentiment leaves you momentarily speechless. You know it isn't a grand declaration of love, and it might not mean as much to some people as it does to you - but you can't remember the last time someone went out of their way just to improve your day in such a simple yet thoughtful way.

Between the pizza, the vibrant pink and purple sky as the sun sinks beyond the ocean's horizon, the sound of the waves and him beside you, you wouldn't want to be anywhere else right now.

“No,” you murmur. “It's not. But it's perfect.”

••••••

The next day, you manage to forget that you're actually on a super important mission taking down a dangerous illegal arms dealer.

The first half of the day feels like an actual vacation - the closest thing you've had to a vacation in a long time, anyway. You sleep in until nearly ten o'clock in the morning - which may not be considered sleeping in for some people, but in this line of work, you've overslept if you're still in bed at eight am.

After waking up thoroughly rested and refreshed, the two of you get brunch and then spend the early hours of the afternoon leisurely strolling at the boardwalk just a short drive from your hotel.

You and Bucky are sitting on a bench eating ice cream when you check your phone for the first time in hours and realize how quickly the day has gone. It's already four o'clock - you're due to be on lookout at the pier where Petrov's exchange will occur soon.

“What's wrong?” Bucky asks when you huff under your breath as you stick your phone back into your pocket. “Nervous about tonight?”

You're not nervous, truthfully. You're fully confident that you and Bucky will be able to handle the job. You've been on countless missions less straight forward than this before, and so has he.

“No,” you shake your head as you take another bite of your ice cream cone. “It's… silly,” you say, waving your hand in dismissal.

“I'm sure it's not silly,” he assures you gently.

You pause, staring at a couple holding hands in the distance as you contemplate your words.

Bucky seems to follow your gaze.

“Today has just been really nice,” you shrug with a small smile. “I almost don't want to go back home.”

From your peripheral vision, you see his face shift to look at you. You continue to eat your ice cream, pretending that his stare doesn't warm you more than the Florida sun.

“We're on the same page then, doll.”

••••••

A few hours later, a feeder ship pulls up to the pier just after dusk.

“We've got eyes on three men,” you say lowly into your communication device. “They're guarding the pier. No sign of Petrov yet.”

“He'll show,” Fury's voice echoes in your ear. “Keep watch until then. Backup is on standby to take him in.” The comm clicks off before you can respond.

“I know there's a lot riding on this going smoothly,” you grumble as you bring your binoculars back up to your eyes. “But sometimes I think he just really needs to get laid.”

You and Bucky are across the road from the pier, concealed by large shrubs and the darkness of the night sky. You've been sitting here as still and silently as possible for well over an hour, before Petrov's men had even arrived to stand guard at the dock.

You really fucking have to pee.

Headlights begin to approach from down the street, and as the vehicle gets closer you're able to see that it's a large, black van.

Totally not suspicious at all.

It comes to a stop close to the boat dock, and a second later Petrov hops out of the driver's seat. You recognize him right away by his shrimpy build and receding hairline.

“I should just take them all out from here and be done with this,” Bucky grumbles from beside you.

“I agree,” you sigh. “But Fury's adamant that Petrov be brought in alive if possible. He’s got an empire behind him that we need to find out as much as possible about. His men, however..” you trail off.

Bucky looks through the scope of his gun, zeroing in on one of the guards.

“Blow a tire on the van first,” you murmur. “So Petrov can't flee.”

“I'll take out these three guards, and then I'll get Petrov and call for back-up. You worry about getting to that ship and taking out anyone inside. Sound like a plan?”

“Easy peasy,” you agree.

Less than thirty seconds later, all three guards have dropped dead and Petrov is frantically running to his van, unaware that Bucky had shot the back tire after killing his guards. You and Bucky emerge from the shrubs, sprinting across the road. He dashes towards Petrov, who freezes and begins shouting curses in Russian when he sees what is running towards him.

Bucky lands a punch to Petrov's jaw as you're running past them, only slowing down enough to not trip over the guard’s dead bodies that are littered across the dock.

You're only a few yards away from the ship when you hear Bucky screech your name. You immediately come to a halt, turning back to see why he could be calling for you.

You see a tall, burly man - someone that you and Bucky hadn't noticed before - sprinting down the dock after you. He raises his arm above his head, his hand holding a rocklike object that he sends barreling in your direction.

It's the last thing you see before everything fades to black.

••••••

The shrill, repetitive beeping of a monitor pulls you out of limbo and back to earth.

You're met with painfully bright, fluorescent lighting that has you squinting your eyes shut before you can make sense of your surroundings.

“Bucky,” you attempt to call out but it sounds like the croak of a lifelong smoker. Your eyes begin to adjust to the harsh lighting, allowing you to see that you're alone in a hospital room. You raise your fingertips to where it feels as if your brain is pulsing through your skull. There's a thick, defined knot on the top of your head that's sensitive to the touch.

Panic starts to take over you. Bits and pieces of the mission start to flash through your mind. Bucky shooting the guards, you running towards the feeder ship when you heard Bucky yell your name and then turning to see –

“Bucky!” You call out louder, your voice still hoarse. You sit up, not hesitating to carelessly yank an IV out of your arm. You're vaguely aware of the fact that you're in only a hospital gown and that blood is now trickling down your left arm, but you don't care.

You throw your legs over the side of the bed, standing up far too quickly. Your vision fades to a fuzzy gray and you're overcome with an intense wave of vertigo as the room spins around you. You grab onto the metal side railing of the hospital bed to keep yourself upright, desperately trying to focus your eyes enough to find the nurse's call button.

“Hi! I'll be to your room in just a moment–” An overly cheerful, feminine voice pours from the speaker a moment after pressing the button.

“What happened? How long have I been here? Where is my–”

The door to your room opens, and you immediately breathe an audible sigh of relief as your last question is answered. He looks as though he could use a good night's sleep, but he is okay.

“What the fuck happened?” Bucky exclaims as he rushes over to where you're still clutching the hospital bed railing for support. You follow his gaze to your arm, seeing that there's now blood all over your gown as well as the white floor around your feet.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you mumble, embarrassed by your current state. He guides you back to the edge of the mattress before walking away to get a towel from the bathroom. “I was worried something happened to you,” you add weakly.

He wipes the blood trail on your skin before using the hand towel to apply pressure to the puncture in the bend of your arm.

“I'm okay,” he assures you delicately. “I had just gone to get some coffee.” He glances at the styrofoam to-go cup that you hadn't even noticed him place on the bedside table when he entered the room.

“How long was I asleep?” You ask, noticing that it's still pitch dark outside. You also notice that he's no longer in the clothes that he wore on the mission - now wearing a pair of loose fitting black sweatpants and a matching hoodie. “What happened?”

“There was another guy in the back of Petrov’s van,” Bucky tenses, still holding the towel to your arm for you. “We were both distracted and he snuck up on you. He hit you over the head with a piece of vibranium and threw you into the water.” His jaw clenches as he recounts what happened, meeting your gaze with a pained look.

“But you saved me,” you finish for him.

“Yes,” he gulps. “I did. But I was almost too late. By the time I knocked out Petrov and killed the man who hit you.. it felt like it took forever to find you in the water. You almost drown–”

He cuts himself off, unable to force the last word out. A nurse enters the room as you open your mouth to offer him reassurance. Bucky holds your gaze for a split-second longer before reluctantly dropping his hold on your arm and turning to take a seat in the room's singular guest chair.

The nurse informs you that they did a CT scan while you were unconscious, and that while you don't have any swelling or bleeding on your brain from the blow, the doctor believes you to have a concussion and tells you that she will need to do an exam now that you are awake before they feel comfortable discharging you.

Judging by the high-pitched ringing that you've heard in your ears since you woke up and the way that you feel dizzy when you even think about trying to stand up, you don't doubt that you're concussed.

An hour later, you've been thoroughly examined and it is confirmed that yes - you are indeed concussed. The doctor discharges you under the condition that you don't drive and that someone keeps a close eye on you for the next twenty-four hours.

“Don't worry,” you hear Bucky tell her when you step into the bathroom to throw on a pair of dry sweatpants, a t-shirt, and cheap shower slides that the hospital had given you to wear back to the hotel, seeing as how your tactical suit and boots are still sopping wet with ocean water. “I'm not letting her out of my sight.”

The nurse who helps you dress gives you a small smirk at his words.

“You're a lucky woman,” she tells you quietly. “He was worried sick until you woke up.”

You avoid her gaze, your cheeks heating. You busy yourself by tightening the drawstrings to the gray sweatpants.

“I am lucky,” you agree. “He's a great partner.”

She raises an eyebrow at the word partner, but doesn't make any further comment.

By the time that you and Bucky make it back to your hotel room, the sun has started to rise.

Bucky all but carries you inside, only letting go of you when you're perched on the edge of the mattress. Your head is still throbbing despite the extra strength ibuprofen that you'd taken before leaving the hospital, and you still can't walk without stumbling from dizziness, but at least the intense ringing in your ears has begun to subside.

You feel tired down to your very bones, but you have no doubt that Bucky is even more exhausted. You'd been unconscious for nearly eight hours during the night, whereas he had been awake the entire time sitting by your bedside.

“You get some rest,” you tell him. You brace your hands against the mattress, preparing to attempt to stand back up. “I smell like a mixture of sweat and fish from being in the ocean, so I'm going to shower off.”

You push yourself off of the bed, and as quickly as you stand, you're sitting back down. The room immediately begins spinning in circles around you, sending a wave of nausea through the pit of your stomach.

“Yeah, not likely,” Bucky huffs lightly. “You can't stand up, and the shower doesn't have a seat. How about we compromise on a bath?”

You give a weak nod, too tired to protest. A warm bath sounds incredible right now.

Bucky retreats to the bathroom, where he turns on the water to fill the tub before returning to help you get up from the bed without toppling over. He secures his flesh arm around your waist and guides you to the closed toilet, where you carefully sit down.

“Do you.. need help undressing? Or..?” He asks hesitantly.

“No,” you breathe with an awkward laugh. “I think I've got it.”

He gives you a quick nod, looking away to give you the privacy to shed your clothes. You carefully tug the oversized t-shirt the hospital had given you over your head, wincing when it brushes against the swollen knot on the side of your scalp. You rise off the lid of the toilet just enough to push your sweatpants down to your ankles.

“Okay,” you murmur, letting him know that you're ready to step into the tub.

He grabs one of your hands in his, and places his metal hand on the small of your back as you step over the side of the large jacuzzi tub and into the water.

Not that you don't trust your other teammates. But with Bucky, it doesn't feel vulnerable.

You're aware of the intimacy of the scenario, but you can't find it in yourself to feel insecure or embarrassed right now - you're sure that's largely due to the concussion, but you think it's also simply because of who you're with.

If it were Sam, or Steve, or anyone else, you know you'd be mortified to be utterly exposed as they help you take a bath. If it were anyone else you wouldn't be taking a bath right now - you would have just gone to sleep and waited until you could fully do it yourself instead of putting yourself in such a vulnerable position.

He lowers you into the water, your entire body instantly relaxing at the warmth. You glance to his face, noticing a faint purple bruise along his cheekbone.

“I'm going to leave the door cracked. I'll be right outside if you need anything. Just let me know when you're ready to get out, okay?”

You don't respond, instead reaching up to his face, where you run your finger along the outline of the bruise. He freezes beneath your touch, his eyes meeting yours.

“Don't worry,” he assures you softly. “It was a lot worse when it first happened. It's already almost gone.”

“I'm sorry,” you whisper. “It happened because of me. I wasn't paying attention as well as I should have been. Should have heard that guy coming.”

“Don't say that.” He places his flesh hand on top of where yours still rests against his cheek and then brings it in front of his lips, his eyes never leaving yours. “You're okay, and that's the only thing that matters now.”

“Mmm,” you hum, staring at his lips that are no more than an inch away from your hand.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, his voice patient and curious.

You hesitate for a brief moment before leaning forward and pressing your lips to the bruise in a featherlight kiss. You pull back, once more resting your back against the tub and giving him a small shrug.

“Just thinking that I wanted to do that. Have for a while.”

He grins, a faint blush taking over the apples of his cheeks.

“Yeah, I'd say you're definitely concussed.”

He then presses his lips to the side of your hand, causing goosebumps to form across your skin despite the warm water that you sit in.

You chuckle, your smile matching his. “I am,” you agree. “But the concussion will go away soon, and I'll still want to kiss you then, too.”

“I hope that you will do just that.”

••••••

One month later

You wake up to the smell of campfire smoke that creeps through the crack in the partially zipped tent.

Despite a thick sleeping bag, multiple blankets, and the plush sweater that you wear, you can't help but shiver.

Something is missing.

You look around the tent, your eyes adjusting to the early morning daylight that filters into the tent.

Someone is missing.

You reluctantly exit your cozy sleeping bag, shoving your wool sock covered feet into your boots and crawling out of the tent.

Bucky is facing away from you, cracking an egg into a pan that is positioned over the fire.

“Good morning,” you murmur as you creep up behind him, wrapping an arm around his midsection. He wraps his own arm around your shoulders, pulling you flush against him and pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Morning, sleepy head,” he teases softly. “What's on the agenda today?”

“Maybe some hiking, maybe some biking,” you shrug into him. “Maybe a little bit of you keeping me warm in that tent.”

He laughs, more carefree than you've ever seen him before.

“See? It's a good thing that your trip got postponed. What if I wasn't here to keep you warm?”

You raise up to capture his lips in yours, the taste of fresh brewed French press coffee on his breath.

“Remind me to thank Fury for that when we get back.”

thank you so much for reading 💕🫶🏻 comments and reblogs are infinitely appreciated!!

[unboundprompts]

Hii!! I came across your blog and immediately followed since I thought I might needed some help with my fanfics, and if there's one thing I'm bad at is describing fight scenes with like guns or magic, I've been struggling to write it and did some practices and didn't like how they came out, I'm hoping if you can do some fighting prompts, I hope this isn't too much!!

How to Write Fight Scenes

-> check out @howtofightwrite , they are an excellent resource for writing realistic fight scenes.

Set the Stakes Early

Why are they fighting? Establish the stakes of the fight clearly before it begins. If the reader understands what’s at risk, they’ll feel more invested. Stakes could be personal (revenge, survival), emotional (protecting a loved one), or strategic (achieving a mission).

Use the Environment

Incorporate the setting to add depth and realism. Are they fighting in a cramped alley, an open field, or a crowded city street? Describe how the environment affects movement, line of sight, or weapon use.

Vary Sentence Length for Pacing

Short sentences create tension and speed, while longer sentences allow for brief moments of reflection or description.

Incorporate Sensory Details

Highlight the senses beyond sight to ground the reader in the fight. Describe the smell of sweat, the metallic taste of blood, the weight of a sword, or the deafening roar of a gun.

Example: “Her ears rang as the blast reverberated around the alley. Smoke filled her nose, thick and choking, but she ignored it, tightening her grip on her weapon.”

Focus on Key Moments, Not Every Movement

Avoid blow-by-blow descriptions. Instead, highlight critical moves, reactions, and turning points to keep the scene flowing and avoid overwhelming the reader.

Show Physical Strain and Fatigue

Fights take a toll, especially over time. Show characters struggling to keep up, panting, sweating, or even stumbling as exhaustion sets in.

Example: “Her arms ached, each swing feeling heavier than the last. Her breathing came fast, ragged, but she couldn’t stop now.”

Capture Emotions and Mindset

Mix action with glimpses of your characters’ thoughts and emotions. This adds depth and reminds readers why the fight matters.

Describe Injuries Believably

Injuries impact the pace and intensity of a fight. Showing injuries realistically adds tension and makes victories feel hard-won.

Example: “She hissed as pain flared in her side where his blade had grazed her. Her vision blurred, but she forced herself to stand, one hand pressed to the wound.”

Build Up to a Climax

As the fight progresses, increase the stakes and bring tension to a peak. This could be a devastating blow, a risky last-minute decision, or a surprising twist.

Example: “He was backed against the wall, nowhere left to run. She raised her hand, a final spell crackling in her palm, the light casting a fierce glow in her eyes.”

Conclude with a Realistic Aftermath

Show the immediate aftermath of the fight: physical exhaustion, injuries, and the character’s emotional response. If they won, are they triumphant, relieved, or traumatized? If they lost, what happens next?

Fight Scene Prompts (with Magic)

-> feel free to edit and adjust pronouns as you see fit.

As they crept down the dim hallway, the flash of gunfire exploded from behind, forcing them to dive to the ground, bullets ricocheting off the walls around them. She barely had time to pull her weapon, pressing her back to the wall as footsteps drew closer. With a steadying breath, she waited for the right moment, then spun, firing off two rounds that hit their marks with surgical precision. The hall fell silent, the smell of gunpowder hanging in the air.

Electricity crackled around his hands as he stalked toward his opponent, energy building in his fingertips. She mirrored his stance, blue flames licking up her wrists as her gaze narrowed. He made the first move, sending a bolt of lightning in her direction, but she countered with a quick flick of her wrist, sending the flames forward like a living shield. Sparks flew as their magic collided, the force of it rattling the metal beams around them.

He ducked behind the dumpster as gunfire erupted, bullets pinging off the conjured barrier that surrounded him. He gritted his teeth, feeling the strain as his shield flickered with each impact. His opponent advanced, shouting taunts over the noise, but he focused, raising one hand to push the barrier outwards, turning it from defense to offense. With a growl, he flung the shield forward like a battering ram, the force slamming his opponent back against the alley wall.

They ascended into the night sky, wind whipping around them as spells flew between them like streaks of fire. He could barely keep up, dodging her relentless attacks as the city lights twinkled below. Finally, he unleashed a burst of energy from his hands, the force spiraling outward in a shockwave. She managed to deflect it just in time, retaliating with a beam of light that sliced through the night like a comet, forcing him into a desperate mid-air roll to avoid it.

[haeryna]

the purest shade of white ↪ okkotsu yuuta x reader ⸙͎｡˚⋆ 𓋼

summary: yuuta looks almost like an angel, you think to yourself grimly, as you shift on the balls of your feet. you haven't seen your best friend in a couple years now, not since he left for africa. too bad he's attempting to kill the kouhai that you're trying to protect.

tw: manga spoilers! anime watchers, do not read. mild angst but happy ending. starts at the beginning of ch. 139. naoya zenin is here and he is his classic asshole self. reader is in the same grade as yuuta, both in age and in terms of cursed energy. swearing because reader is a bad bitch. mildly suggestive. unironic use of "senpai" and "kouhai." slight descriptions of blood and injury, everyone is subjected to the author's attempts at writing dialogue and fight scenes. not proofread but at this point that shouldn't be a surprise. it is blatantly obvious that the writer also does not know how to end stories

notes: thank you for 100 new friends! :) poll is technically still up but i'm impatient and yuuta was winning by a pretty decent margin so here it is lol. divider by @/saradika-graphics!

"Yuuji!" you yelp, slicing the head off a curse with a clean stroke of your katana. Purple ichor splatters to the ground as you whirl, searching for the familiar head of pink hair. "Stay close to me!"

Behind you, Choso grunts with exertion, sending out another bolt of Piercing Blood. Panting, you weave through the curses, letting their corpses fall behind you. Yuuji, where is Yuuji?

As the last body falls, you can't but let out an exasperated huff at the sheepish grin on Yuuji's face. "Don't scare me like that," you chide. "How am I supposed to protect you if I can't even find you?" Yuuji opens his mouth to protest but you shake your head. "I made a promise," you tell him, pain rippling through your heart dully. Gojo-sensei was long gone, stolen away by one of the people he had loved most in the world. Grimacing, you sheathe your katana, mindful of the blood that stains your palms, as you try to ignore the memory of his words all those months ago.

If anything happens, I need you to protect Itadori Yuuji. I know they're going to pull something on him once I'm not there to back him up.

"Senpai, what should-"

Yuuji immediately tenses as your hand flies to the grip of your katana. "I smell a rat," you mutter, nose wrinkling as you turn to face Naoya Zenin, standing atop a bridge. He bares his teeth at you in semblance of a smile. "How perceptive as always," he mocks.

"Cut the bullshit," you snap, hand still resting on the pommel. "What do you want?"

"Fushiguro Megumi," is his rather bland response, and you shift your feet into the opening steps of Flowing River.

"What do you want with Fushiguro?" Yuuji yells, and the way Naoya's face twists makes you want to vomit.

"I think I'll have him die."

Cursed energy fills your body as you leap. Naoya's resounding cackle burns through your ears as you swing, barely grazing his shoulder. Before you can push forward off your feet, a heavy presence rests on your shoulders, locking you in place. All four of you freeze. Yuuji and Choso look horrified, and Naoya looks as though he's broken out into a cold sweat. But you know this feeling, feel it settle back into your body as if it never left.

Okkotsu Yuuta steps out from the building ledge, dark eyes unreadable. Your body sings. Yuuta, Yuuta, Yuuta! His hair has grown longer, bangs sweeping over his forehead, eyebags a little darker than they used to be. You can feel Rika's presence, swirling around you in a mass of death and decay. You're used to it. You've grown to crave it, even. His eyes meet yours, and for a split second, his facade cracks. Confusion, fear, and...regret?

Yuuta leaps, slamming into concrete and sending shockwaves deep into your bones. "Who's with Itadori?" God, even his voice is different, so different from the boy who said goodbye to you so long ago. You open your mouth to speak, but Choso beats you to it, brows furrowed.

"So you're Yuuji's executioner."

Blood turns to ice in your veins, and you can tell by the pained expression Yuuta has that you aren't hiding your emotions as well as you think you are. Naoya laughs. "I was going to tell you that, but you were being too emotional like the bitch you are."

"Who're you?"

Yuuta's voice is cold, but as Naoya babbles on, you can feel the horror settle thickly into your chest. Choso and Yuuji are talking behind you but it feels like you're underwater, you're sinking, drowning, and Yuuta must have come to a conclusion because all of a sudden he's surging forward-

You move before you can even think, steel clashing against steel. "Yuuji," you say, through gritted teeth. "Run."

A horrible grating noise fills the air as you let cursed energy flow through your body, shoving Yuuta's sword away from yourself. "I won't let you kill him," you hiss, body already shifting into Jagged Bolt. Yuuta's eyes flash as you surge forward, katana in hand.

"How would you describe my cursed technique?" you had asked Gojo, mindlessly swinging your feet. Gojo hums.

"Have you ever heard of Newton's Law's of Motion?"

You had crinkled your nose at that. "No?"

"An object in motion, stays in motion. Except you are the object. And your cursed energy is the motion." You remember how Gojo's lips curved slightly. "In other words, once you start, nobody can stop you."

You're crying, you realize with a start, as you cut a line into Yuuta's chest. Moisture seeps from your eyes as you twist your forearm into a parry, katanas sparking with each strike. Belatedly, you sense that Yuuji, your foolish, stupid, loyal kouhai has stayed, trading strikes with his fists between the precise movements of your blade. Your heart drops as Yuuta reaches for the ring on his finger.

No. No!

He twists it, and Rika appears behind you. Claws sink into your shoulder and you let out a cry of pain as she flips you into the ground.

"Be nice, Rika," Yuuta chides, as you hit the concrete. Blood spurts from your mouth as you choke, fingers clawing at the ground desperately for your katana. A piece of scaffolding is practically crushing your legs; instinctively, you know that if you try to break through it, you'll tear your limbs right off.

As Rika holds Yuuji up, you lunge desperately, uncaring of what you have to sacrifice. Inumaki's arm, the way half of Nobara's face had been practically ripped out of her skull, the remains of Nanami-san, the way that you were the one to find Maki's charred body-

I can't lose anyone else.

You scream as Yuuta pierces Yuuji's chest with his katana, cursed energy building in your legs as you prepare to shoot forward. Yuuta turns, eyes filled with an unidentifiable emotion as he sees you about to tear yourself in half just to reach Yuuji.

With a wave of his hand, Rika dives for you, and everything goes dark.

Yuuta had known you were special from the day he'd first met you. That spring, when Gojo-sensei had dropped him (and Rika) into a class of unsuspecting first years, he remembers that out of the four of them, you had moved so gracefully that he hadn't processed the katana in your hand until you'd pressed it against your throat.

"Gojo-sensei," you'd hissed. "What is this?"

While Maki, Inumaki, and Panda had been subsequently bruised up by Rika, you had dodged every single one of her movements until Rika had been (barely) called back by Yuuta.

"Another Special Grade," Gojo had hummed. "Just like you, hm?"

Special Grade?

What he hadn't realized then, he realized later; you weren't just special to him, but to the entire rest of the Jujutsu World as well. Special Grade Sorcerers were rare, Maki had told him. "You only have it because of Rika," she'd scoffed, "but she deserves it."

You quickly became one of his closest friends. You were fast enough to dodge Rika's ire, even laughing whenever she tried. You'd shown Yuuta kindness that he didn't think he deserved. You broke him out of his shell enough so that when he left for Africa, he felt as though he was standing with his own strength. His first katana had been the sister blade of your own, forged from the same metal by the same hands. The way your eyes had lit up when you saw it was a memory he cherished.

Somberly, Yuuta eyes the chains encasing your wrists and ankles, each decorated with the slips of protective paper that would nullify your cursed energy. Most sorcerers required only one. You required at least twenty.

He knows you, knows the way you always take the strawberry daifuku, leaving him the red bean ones even though he knows you prefer the red bean. He knows that you push yourself hard, harder than he's ever seen anyone work. But most of all, he knows your loyalty, how once your heart finally lets someone in, you'll never let them go.

Did you miss him like he missed you?

The chains are more for your own protection. He needs you to hear him out before you attempt to end his life for a second time. Yuuta knows now that Gojo must have asked you the same thing he'd asked him; to keep Itadori Yuji safe from the whims of the higher ups. Gojo, being the forgetful bastard he was, probably didn't alert you to the fact that he'd gone to Yuuta for help as well. Crouching, Yuuta eyes your body with a sad tilt of his lips. The injuries you'd sustained were immense, and it had taken quite a bit of his own cursed energy to reverse.

Will you forgive him?

You're asleep, breath hitching every so often. Yuuta wonders what you're dreaming of, before pushing the thought away. Tenderly, he cups your face in the palm of his hand, calloused fingers stroking your cheek.

"You need to wake up now," he murmurs, as your eyes flutter open, first in dazed confusion, before sharpening into panic.

"I'll miss you!" you'd cried, as you clung to Yuuta under the shade of the large oak. You were the first person he had told about his departure to Africa, and you took it hard. Yuuta had stood frozen as the first of your tears had dripped down your cheeks. It was the first time he'd seen you cry.

"I'll be back before you know it," he'd murmured, pressing a featherlight kiss to the top of your head. You'd looked up to him, eyes teary.

"Promise?"

"I promise," he'd said, interlocking his pinky with your own. A love like Yuuta's is a dangerous thing, you know, but in this moment you feel nothing but safe.

The first sensation you feel upon awakening is the dull ache in your (miraculously still attached) legs. The second is the warmth on your cheek. Yuuta is standing above you, hand gently resting against your face. Immediately you lunge forward, teeth bared. The rattle of chains stops you, and you swear. Of course he would have taken precautions. Yuuta looks almost hurt as you violently shake off his touch.

"Don't touch me, I swear to god I'm going to rip you apart."

Yuuta says your name sadly, but you're practically trembling with rage.

"He was just a kid, with the kind of power we wield, why the fuck would you listen to the higher ups?"

Yuuta echoes your name a bit more firmly, but you ignore him, tears building in your eyes.

"You're no better than the rest of them are you, you're just-"

"Senpai!"

Your heart stops as Yuuji pokes his head out from around the corner. They must have brought you back to Jujutsu Tech, you think distractedly. Just how long were you out?

"Yuuji!" you cry out, scanning his body for any injuries. He seems to be uninjured, but most importantly, he's alive. Tears fall down your cheeks. "Are you alright?"

Yuuji appears horrified by the sudden outburst as he hastily holds up his hands. "I'm fine, senpai, really, I'm sorry for worrying you. Okkotsu-san is actually on our side, I swear! It was a binding vow, that's why he had to actually kill me, but he did some really cool Reverse Technique shit and I'm all good now!"

Warily, you eye Yuuta, whose expression resembles that of a kicked puppy. "Okkotsu Yuuta," you say, voice hard. "Let me out of these chains right fucking now."

With a wave of his hand, the papers attached to the chains fall to the floor. Yuuta looks dejected as he looks away from you. "I'm so sor-"

Before he can finish you immediate tackle him into a hug, knocking the both of you into the floor as you bury your face into the soft slope of his neck. "You're such an idiot," you sob, unable to hide the rush of emotions going through you. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Tentatively, Yuuta wraps his arms around you, and you melt, pressing yourself closer to his body. "To be honest, I think Gojo-sensei is to blame. I think he forgot to mention to either of us that he asked us to do the exact same thing."

You let out a hiccupping laugh. "Of course he did. That forgetful asshole."

The sigh Yuuta lets out is shaky as he nuzzles the top of your head. "I'm so, so sorry," he tells you earnestly. "I must have scared you, and Rika's mad at me for making me hurt you like that. I think she likes you, even though she pretends not to."

You look up at him, really look at him, and see the look of adoration in his eyes as he stares back down at you. Thankfully Yuuji's escaped long ago, most likely understanding that you two would need privacy. "You came back," you whisper, and Yuuta's resulting smile makes your heart skip a beat.

"I promised you, didn't I?"

Before you can stop yourself, you pull Yuuta down for a searing kiss. He's so soft, and you nip at the plush of his bottom lip teasingly, pulling a whine from his throat. His large hands grip your hips, and in retaliation, you grab a fistful of his hair and tug. The breathy noise he makes goes straight between your thighs. You know he can feel your smile against his lips.

"I missed you," you breathe, pulling away. Yuuta looks dazed, lips kiss swollen, pupils so dilated that you can barely see the soft brown of his eyes.

"I love you," he blurts out, and your resulting laugh is airy as you press another chaste kiss to his lips.

"I've always loved you, Yuuta," you admit. "During Shibuya, I thought I wasn't going to make it. You were the only thing keeping me going."

The look in his eyes is fierce as he tugs you back into him, enveloping you in his arms. "You'll never have to worry about that again. You have my entire life. Where you go, I'll follow, and if I die, not even Death would be able to separate me from your side."

"Those sound a lot like wedding vows, don't you think?"

Yuuta's blush covers his entire face and you grin, pressing one last kiss to his lips. "Come on now. We have kids we need to protect."

As Yuuta leads you to where the others have convened, even under the dark circumstances you're in, the warmth of his hand clutching yours fills you with a giddiness you hadn't experienced in months. The sentiment is quickly dashed as soon as Maki opens her mouth.

"Fucking finally. Inumaki owes me 3,000 yen."

[mariespen]

Rocky Beaches ☾ ⋆

rafe cameron x reader - hurt/comfort ⊹˚.⋆ Summary: Rafe takes care of his girl after she gets hurt at a bonfire party. content: fem!reader, hurt/comfort, frustrated but gentle rafe, bonfire party warnings: mentions drinking, mild description of injury involving blood, hurt/comfort

⊹˚.⋆︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵⊹˚.⋆

The smoke rising from the bonfire was burning your eyes and you winced at the feeling, trying to cover your face from the dark clouds. Your boyfriend, Rafe, sat idly by, talking with Topper while his thumb absentmindedly rubbed the skin of your thigh.

You were already in a bad mood. Rafe pulled you out of bed to go to what was supposed to be a small get-together but turned out to be a crowded bonfire party. Rafe had been shrugging you off all night, small touches here and there to keep you close, but you’re sure you could count the number of words he’s said to you in the past hour on one hand. Shifting uncomfortably, you were ready to beg your surprisingly talkative boyfriend to take you home.

“Hey!” You heard to your left, a voice approaching you. You squinted, smiling as you realized it was your best friend, Kiara.

“Hi!” You replied, shifting your legs to leave Rafe, standing up to greet her, happy to be away from the smoke.

You could feel Rafe’s look of disapproval burning into the back of your head but you chose to ignore it, walking off with Kiara when she suggested getting another drink.  You knew your limits, and you also knew how pissed Rafe would be if he had to deal with you drunk after he specifically told you not to drink. So, you sip from Kiara’s cup to try and lower Rafe’s suspicious gaze. 

After a few minutes with Kiara, JJ and John B start stumbling towards the two of you, both a little drunk. You looked up, hearing their slurred laughs and uneven footsteps.

“Hi ladies..” JJ slurred, trying to keep a straight face and almost breaking when Kiara turned to give him a dirty stare. You giggle with them, happy to escape the suffocating smoke and your distant boyfriend. It wasn’t until about a minute later that you felt a hand on your hip and you turned, realizing that your boyfriend wasn’t as distant as you thought.

“C’mon, let’s go home.” He said, being stern but still gentle, eyeing your current group.

“No baby..” You said, squirming out of his grip to turn around and press a hand to his chest, “just keep talking about important stuff with Topper.” 

You didn’t mean for it to come out as snarky, but when Rafe quickly pulled you to the side, you realized that you probably said the wrong thing anyway.

“No, let’s go now, yeah?” He said, lifting your chin up to his face so you kept your eyes on his commanding face.

“No Rafe..” You whined, your hand coming up to hold his wrist as you looked at him innocently.

He gave up a lot quicker than you expected, dropping his hand in sour defeat.

“A’ight.. we can stay. Just don’t do anything stupid, yeah?” He waited until you nodded eagerly, “need to talk to Top anyways.. j’st don’t get hurt.” 

He hesitantly walked away after leaning down to give you a soft kiss on the forehead and stared down John B, JJ, and Kiara, warning them to be careful with his girl.

You, of course, skipped happily back to the group as they watched Rafe leave. Eventually the mood lightened, and you laughed as JJ and John B pushed each other around, sand kicking up at your face from their quick movements.

“We should check out the waves.” Kiara noted, a small slur to her voice, too.

Naturally, you all agreed and found yourselves crashing through the ankle-high waves of the Outer Banks. The sand under you was sharp with rocks and it hurt your feet to step on, but you laughed it off with Kiara while you watched JJ and John B try to drench each other in the salty waves. After a while, the cold inevitably got to the four of you and you started to drag your feet back to shore.

You couldn’t help but wince at the feeling of pointy rocks on your feet, the water pulling you back. One step after the other you pulled yourself closer to shore. The last few steps remained and you decided to look back at the waves behind you. One more step, but you felt your leg hit a particularly sharp rock, feeling it pierce your skin. Crying out, you fell forward, scraping your body on the rocks and painting it with the messy red salt water. Kiara and JJ rushed to your side, helping you up and out of the water while John B grabbed a sandy towel. 

You weren’t far off from the party, so when your cries caused commotion, Rafe stormed down to the waves. His furrowed brows softened when he saw your tearstained face and ripped tank top and he rushed to your side.

“Fuck..” He whispered, sweeping you off your feet and carrying you bridal-style. 

He didn’t say a word, leaving the party without hesitation and taking you to his BMW, sobs racking through your chest. He winced when he saw the real state of your injuries, grabbing anything he could find to cover you up. He settled on a pure white towel, applying pressure to your wounded stomach and wiping the wet hair from your face.

“S’alright..” He mumbled, walking quickly to the driver's seat.

The ride to Tannyhill consisted of your breathy sobs and his soft cooes of ‘shhh’ and ‘y’got it, baby.’

Rafe carried you into the oversized house, setting you up on the kitchen island before he quietly grabbed the homemade first aid kit. He peeled off your shirt, sighing at the severity of your injuries.

“God… what did I tell you baby,” he sighs out, cleaning the sand from around your wounds, “I said ‘be careful’ and ‘don’t get hurt’ hm?” He quoted himself with a stern tone, but his shaky voice showed how cautious he really was.

“M’sorry!” You forced a whisper out, having spent all of your voice on your pained sobs.

He sighed, shaking his head as he grabbed the disinfectant and a cloth to treat your deeper scratches.

“Just remember you love me, yeah?” He murmured and you started to nod before wincing in pain at the stinging feeling of the disinfectant. 

“Rafe!” You whined out, your hand finding his free one as he kissed your knuckles.

“Y’got it, baby.” He said softly, bandaging your stomach and thighs.

“M’sorry..” You repeated with a sniffle once he finished.

“Yeah, shoulda listened to me, hm sweetheart?” He said, rubbing his hands down his neck before washing them.

He brought you to the bathroom, holding your head and wiping the sand off of your body, trying to clean you off the best that he cold. He guided your chin up to brush your teeth, telling you when to spit. 

That night was painful for the both of you, but Rafe wrapped you in all of the comfy blankets on the bed and held you close, drawing shapes in your thigh with his fingers while he lectured you.

“Shoulda listened.. can’t believe you went into the ocean with those assholes.” He said, looking at the outline of your legs through the blankets.

“Rafe..” You start to try and protest, but he kisses you to silently remind you that you both knew he was right.

⊹˚.⋆︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵⊹˚.⋆

[st4rg8te]

Twisted Affections (GL) (P. 1)

Yandere! Emperor's Mistress X Empress! Reader

✦✧✦✧

The lessons that had been instilled in you since birth resurfaced in your mind: ‘The Mother of the Nation should be dignified, elegant, and composed. She should never show any sign of weakness in front of her subjects.’ 

But you couldn’t help but break in her embrace.

✦✧✦✧

P. 2: x

[tw: adultery, s*xism, slight description of blood/injury]

✦✧✦✧

Your marriage with your husband—the Emperor, was a cold and loveless one, devoid of any warmth or affection. 

The two of you were betrothed to each other at a young age for the sake of politics. You were the daughter of an influential duke, while he was the heir to the throne. To the gaze of others, it had seemed like the perfect match. 

You had once thought the same. Hoping that the differences between the two of you would find a resolution in the arrangement, but that wish gradually withered away, unfulfilled. 

What could you do but silently endure the circumstances you were placed in? Until now, you had always maintained the perfect facade expected of an Empress.

As the years passed, the weight of responsibility overshadowed the absence of love in your marriage, settling deep within you as resigned acceptance.

But deep down, a small, naive part of you still wished for a happy ending with your prince charming, like in all those fairy tales your mother had once read to you before she died.

Your parents’ marriage had also been an arranged one, but as a little girl, you remembered the way your father would look at your mother as if she had hung all the stars in the sky. Perhaps one day, your husband would look at you in the same way?

It was simply too bad that this small hope of yours had been mercilessly crushed the moment your husband brought her home.

The sight of them together made your stomach twist into knots, and your words were caught in your throat. You felt your hands tremble as you clutched the silky fabric of your gown, trying to maintain a steady composure.

She was beautiful, with flowing blond locks and bright blue eyes that sparkled in the sunlight filtering through her delicate skin.  Although dressed in a simple gown that marked her status as a commoner, she exuded the grace and elegance of a noble princess.

A faint smile played on her lips as she laughed lightly with your husband, and he returned her smile with an equally warm one.

Why had he never smiled at you like that before?

“Her Majesty has arrived!” announced the servant behind you, and only then, did the lovers part.

Your eyes met bright baby blue ones. Her face lit up with excitement and delight as she took several steps toward you before stopping abruptly, realizing she was in front of the Emperor's wife.

Her eyes widened, and she immediately fell into a curtsy. Her dress rustled softly as her head dipped lower, revealing the graceful lines of her neck and arms.

The action made your lips twitch.

"G-greetings, Your Majesty! I've been looking forward to meeting you." Her voice held a slight tremor as she spoke.

She seemed younger than you, an edge of innocence that stirred people's protectiveness under her words—it served as another bitter reminder that the man you married did not belong to you.

You ignored her gaze boring into you; instead, turning your eyes back to your husband.

Your tone was icy, "What is this?"

"Lucia is going to live at the palace." He replied smoothly.

A hazy sense of familiarity washed over you once you heard her name come out of his mouth, but that was quickly forgotten with his next words:

"I intend to make her my concubine."

"What?" Your breath hitched sharply. "Why was I not informed of this sooner?"

He furrowed his brows in disapproval, "I do not need to explain my decisions to you. Do not get ahead of yourself."

"Have you not thought about what others would think—"

"Is that all you worry about?”

“Excuse me?”

“You have failed in your duty as my wife, for four years, you have not bore me a single child. It was about time someone else took care of it."

The harshness of his words cut through you like a blade, leaving you momentarily speechless. He continued, unperturbed by your silence, "My decision is final. I expect you, as the Empress, to give her suitable accommodations and see that she gets properly educated and trained."

You suddenly felt the urge to laugh, a humorless scoff ripping from your mouth as a cold fury burned within you. Shaky fingers curled tightly against your palm until it drew blood.

Your voice was hollow.

"I have important matters to attend to. Enjoy your stay, Lady Lucia."

Without waiting for an answer, you turned on your heel and strode out the grand corridors. The entourage of servants silently trailing behind you.

The sound of thundering steps echoed throughout the halls, but you had never felt as lonely as you did in that moment.

✦✧✦✧

Soon, word had spread quickly of Lucia's arrival as the Emperor's new concubine.

Even your family had heard the news. You were quickly met with a wrathful letter from the Duke, shaming you for losing to another woman—a commoner, no less.

For days, you had remained alone in your chambers. Rereading the scathing remarks written on the crumpled letter over and over again. Your father’s scorn a heavy burden on your already weary shoulders.

But what could you do? The Emperor's actions were beyond your control. It wasn't unheard of for a monarch to take lovers, and in some ways, even expected.

And the task of ignoring the jeers and taunts behind your back was becoming increasingly harder. In order to distract yourself, you began to drown yourself in the your duties.

"—They say Her Majesty is infertile. If that's true then here's no doubt about it; she'll be replaced by that new girl soon."

"—She's growing older each day, but there is still no sign of a child being conceived. Of course His Majesty would become tired of her."

"Poor thing."

Humiliation coiled in your gut like a snake. Behind you, your personal maid, Mary, spoke up, her voice filled with indignation on your behalf.

"Your Majesty, I'll go teach them a lesson—"

"No need," You replied, with a composed exterior, you continued walking. "Let's go."

As your husband had requested, you provided Lucia with everything he had asked for: servants, new gowns, jewelry, and suitable living quarters (which you ensured were as far away as possible from your residence). The lavish gifts and living space were more than generous, a testament to your patience.

You had also ensured that her presence would be kept minimally invasive to your daily life. Hopefully, the only times you would encounter her were on formal occasions, and nothing else.

At least that was what you had wished for, but it seemed that fate had a cruel way of playing tricks on mortals.

From the corner of your eye, a hint of blonde hair caught your attention. You halted in your steps as Lucia's face came into view, accompanied by a small group of her attendants.

‘Why was she here?’

The sight was enough to put you on edge; the last person you wanted to see right now was your husband's mistress.

She wore a delighted expression on her face as the group made their way toward you, "Your Majesty! I've been looking for you.”

Before you could respond, Mary stepped forward and quickly curtsied before the blonde woman, a hint of unfriendliness in her tone:

"Lady Lucia, how can we help you?"

An indiscernible emotion flashed across Lucia's eyes before she smiled again.

"I wanted to thank Her Majesty for all the help she has given me, and was going to invite her for tea."

Was she testing your patience on purpose? You couldn't believe your ears.

"Her Majesty has important business to attend to. Perhaps we could arrange another time." Mary suggested firmly. 

But the blonde woman ignored Mary’s words, and turned her expectant gaze towards you instead. You remained composed, offering Lucia a polite smile that did not quite reach your eyes.

"I appreciate the kind gesture, Lady Lucia. But perhaps another time.”

Lucia's smile faltered, and she slowly nodded her head, "I see... I'm sorry if I'm bothering you,"

You made a mental note to instruct the guards later not to let her wander around freely anymore. Seeing her every day would likely ruin your mood even more.

"—But,"

Shocked gasps rose from the attendants around you.

“My lady!”

Lucia paused, then her delicate fingers lifted the hem of her gown to reveal the crimson-stained slippers underneath. The blood had seeped through, staining her pristine white stockings a dark, ominous shade of red.

Your eyes widened in shock. Unaccustomed to the sight of blood, the gory display was enough to send shudders down your spine.

"Lady Lucia... What is the meaning of this?" You demanded, your voice trembling slightly as an unsettling feeling began to settle in the pit of your stomach.

Lucia's eyes were wide, and her lips curved up into a serene smile, "It wouldn't hurt Her Majesty to join us this once."

Her voice rang out, sickeningly sweet:

"I only wish to repay you. It would be a shame for His Majesty to hear about his beloved concubine getting injured in the Empress' own quarters. Wouldn't you agree, Your Majesty?"

✦✧✦✧

[elikajinnie]

Survive Till Daylight, My Dear - L.H

P: Dead By Daylight Killer!Heeseung X Survivor!Reader (recommended age: 17+)

Warnings: Stalking, Murder, Death, Chasing, Obsession, Blood/Injury, Psychological Thriller, Graphic Descriptions, Suggestive Content, Teasing, Hypnosis?, Yo he kinda sadistic.

Synopsis: Your life was ripped away when you were abducted into a twisted realm ruled by something called the Entity. But while most killers are fixated on winning, one seems dangerously fixated on you.

a/n: during a round of dead by daylight, this idea came when i kept stalking a survivor as ghostface on the withered isle map :3

disclaimer! all the killers and survivors in this is in dbd the game. I do not own any of them. the idea of heeseung was a creative endeavour. (Virtuoso: a person highly skilled in music or another artistic pursuit.)

now playing: the shadows by chris grey | fairytale (violin) by dramatic violin | runaway (violin) by dramatic violin | blood on white satin by naomi scott

--

You hated the times when you had to place your trust in other survivors during a trial because, more often than not, they'd leave you to fend for yourself. It wasn’t that they were cruel or uncaring—it was survival instinct. The generators scattered across the map weren’t going to fix themselves, and everyone knew the doors wouldn’t open without power. You’d done the same, sprinting past a screaming teammate once or twice. It wasn’t personal. It was just the way the Entity’s sick little game worked.

This time, though, you were the one left hanging—literally. The Deathslinger had caught you in his harpoon's grip, dragging you back like a trophy he was all too proud to display. Now, you dangled from the hook, the barbed steel biting into your shoulder. Blood trickled down your arm, warm and sticky, as the pain pulsed through you in sharp waves. You’d been hooked before—more times than you’d like to admit—but the agony never dulled. The most you could do was endure it, keeping your body still to avoid making it worse. Attempting to pull yourself free was always a gamble, and one you weren’t eager to take.

The Deathslinger lingered nearby, his rifle clutched tightly in his hands. His breaths came in ragged, heavy puffs, the sound grating like sandpaper against your ears. He wasn’t going anywhere, that much was clear. You groaned, tilting your head to try and catch a glimpse of your teammates. Surely someone would come for you—right?

The faint hum of a generator in the distance made your stomach twist. They were close to getting it done. That was good for them, bad for you. If they got it running, they’d bolt for the exit, and you’d be left to rot in the Entity’s clutches. A bitter laugh bubbled in your throat, but it died when you caught the glint of the Deathslinger’s weapon shifting toward the horizon. He was watching, waiting.

A flicker of movement in the corner of your eye caught your attention. Someone was coming—finally. Your heart leaped, hope flaring like a matchstick, but it fizzled just as quickly when you realized how loud their footsteps were. No stealth, no crouching, just a dead sprint toward you.

“What the hell are they doing?” you muttered under your breath, wincing as the hook shifted with your movement.

The Deathslinger didn’t need more than a second to notice. He turned on a dime, lifting his rifle to aim at the approaching figure. You clenched your teeth, bracing yourself for the sound of the chain snapping free, dragging yet another survivor into his grasp.

"Idiots," you hissed, though a small part of you couldn’t help but admire their courage—or stupidity. Maybe both.

You watched as Adam stumbled right into the Deathslinger’s trap. His scream cut through the air as the harpoon slammed into his chest, the chain rattling as the killer yanked him closer, and within seconds, Adam was up on another hook, his scream loud as the barbed metal tore through him.

Movement caught your eye again, and you turned your head just enough to see Mikaela and Leon slipping out of the shadows. Mikaela was quick on her feet, darting into the Deathslinger’s line of sight with purpose. She waved her arms, yelling something you couldn’t quite make out, and the killer turned to her immediately, his focus shifting.

“About time,” you muttered, feeling your heart race as Leon crouched low and made his way to you.

His hands were on you before you could say anything, quick and practiced as he worked the hook free from your shoulder. You bit down on your lip hard enough to taste blood, the searing pain making your vision blur for a moment. You fell to the ground, and Leon grabbed your arm, hauling you up to your feet.

“Come on!” he hissed, his voice urgent but calm.

You didn’t need to be told twice. Stumbling at first, you forced your legs to move, ignoring the fiery ache in your shoulder as you followed Leon into a nearby building.

Leon pulled you to the far corner of the room, crouching down beside you. His hands were already moving, tearing strips of cloth from somewhere, probably from some medkit he’d grabbed earlier. You barely had time to think about it before he pressed the fabric against your wound.

You hissed at the contact, the pain sharp and immediate, but you bit it back, watching as blood dripped from your shoulder onto the cold cement floor. When Leon’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts. “You’re gonna be fine. Just stay still.”

You nodded, swallowing hard as you tried to focus on something other than the pain. “Adam?” you asked, your voice hoarse.

“He’ll be okay,” Leon said quickly, though you weren’t sure if he believed it. “Mikaela’s keeping the Deathslinger busy. We’ll figure something out.”

You wanted to argue, to say there was no “figuring something out” when someone was already on the hook, but you kept quiet. Leon’s hands worked steadily, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the urgency of the situation.

The faint hum of a generator powered up somewhere nearby, followed by the unmistakable sound of the gate alarms. Your heart sank. The others were getting ready to escape, and you were still bleeding out on the floor.

Leon’s hands froze for a moment as the sound echoed through the building, but he quickly resumed. “Don’t worry,” he said, his voice steady, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of doubt. “We’ll get out of here.”

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to believe him. But as another scream tore through the air—Mikaela’s this time—you felt hopeless.

With your shoulder patched up, you didn’t waste a second. Leon pulled you to your feet, and together you sprinted through the dim, foggy maze of the trial grounds. The air felt heavy, the dark sky above rumbling like it could cave in at any moment. You rolled your eyes at the theatrics—because apparently, the Entity couldn’t help but crank up the dramatics just to remind you that you were always one bad move away from death.

Jumping over a pallet, you stumbled but recovered quickly, your feet pounding against the dirt as you wove around an old, rusted bench. The faint glow of the exit lights appeared ahead, like a beacon calling you home. Relief surged through you when you saw Steve standing there, frantically working the crank to open the massive steel doors.

His head whipped around when he heard your footsteps, his face tense with panic until his eyes landed on you and Leon. He let out a shaky sigh of relief, motioning for you to hurry. "Come on! Almost there!"

The door groaned loudly as it crept open, revealing the inky blackness beyond. Freedom was so close you could taste it. But just as your heart lifted, the sharp, metallic sound of a chain unspooling sent a jolt of terror down your spine.

You stopped running on pure instinct, your body frozen for a split second before the harpoon shot past you, embedding itself in a tree just inches away. The tensioned chain rattled, swaying as it recoiled. Your head snapped toward the Deathslinger, standing only a few meters away.

“Go!” Leon shouted, his voice breaking the trance as he pushed you forward.

You didn’t need to be told twice. Heart pounding, you ducked under the chain, your body nearly brushing against it as you bolted toward the exit. The pounding of your feet grew louder in your ears, mingling with the heavy, ragged breaths you couldn’t control. You threw yourself forward, crossing the threshold into the open landscape beyond just as the Deathslinger took another step closer.

Whipping around, you skidded to a stop and turned to look back. The Deathslinger stood just at the edge of the exit, his rifle lowered as he glared at you, seething. The dark, writhing tentacles of the Entity began to weave their way through the space between you, blocking his path and keeping him trapped inside the trial grounds.

Steve grabbed your arm, pulling you further away from the exit as the doors groaned shut behind you. "Come on, we don’t have time to celebrate!"

You nodded, glancing at Leon, who gave you a reassuring pat on the shoulder before jogging to catch up with Steve.

You didn’t look back again.

Suddenly, everything around you went dark. The ground beneath your feet gave way, and that all-too-familiar sensation of falling took hold. You didn’t scream—you never did anymore. Instead, you braced yourself for the impact that wouldn’t come.

Moments later, you landed on solid ground, your body jolting slightly as the world around you shifted. When you opened your eyes, the oppressive fog of the trial was gone, replaced by the dim, flickering firelight of the survivors’ camp.

You let out a long sigh, rolling your shoulder experimentally. As expected, the pain was gone, replaced by the dull, phantom ache that always lingered after a trial. You reached up to touch the spot where the hook had torn through your body, finding smooth, unbroken skin beneath your fingers. It was like it had never happened.

That was how it always was with the Entity. No matter how brutal the trial, no matter how close to death you came—or how many times you actually died—you always woke up here, whole again. The physical wounds vanished, leaving nothing but the memory of pain.

You glanced around the camp, taking in the familiar sights. The fire crackled in the center, its warmth doing little to ease the chill that seemed to seep into your bones. A few other survivors were scattered around, some tending to the fire, others sitting quietly with haunted looks in their eyes. They were all like you—trapped in this endless cycle of torment and survival, powerless to escape the Entity’s grasp.

Leon was already here, his jacket was draped over his shoulders, and he was absently cleaning the blood from his hands with a rag. When he saw you, he gave you a small, tired smile.

“Made it back,” he said, his voice low but steady.

You nodded, walking over to join him. “Barely.”

Steve, who had landed nearby, ran a hand through his hair. “That was too close,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I thought he was gonna get all of us at the end.”

You sat down beside Leon, the phantom pain in your shoulder throbbing faintly as you rested your elbows on your knees. “He almost did,” you said, glancing at the fire.

“That’s how it goes,” Feng said softly, appearing from the shadows. She had a medkit slung over her shoulder, though she didn’t need it—not here. “We survive, we heal, and then we go back in.”

Her words were a reminder of the reality you all faced. There was no end to it, no escape. The Entity would call you back into another trial soon enough, and the chase would start again.

You sighed, leaning back and closing your eyes for a moment. The camp was supposed to be a place of safety, a brief reprieve from the horrors of the trials, but it never truly felt like it. The shadows seemed to watch you, the ever-present feeling of being watched lingering even here.

“How’s Adam?” you asked after a moment, opening your eyes to look at Leon.

“He made it back,” Leon said, his voice heavy with relief. “Barely. Mikaela got him up just before the door closed.”

You nodded, grateful but knowing better than to celebrate. It was just another trial, another near-death experience in an endless cycle of them.

For now, you were safe.

Luckily, during the next trial, you weren’t one of the chosen ones. It was a relief, but it didn’t stop the restless feeling gnawing at your muscles. The camp, despite being a sanctuary of sorts, always felt suffocating when others were off risking their lives in the fog. You needed to move, so you decided to take a walk.

Of course, you never strayed too far. Not anymore.

You’d learned that lesson the hard way when you first arrived. Back then, you’d been terrified, too panicked to listen to anyone. The other survivors had tried to explain things to you—what this place was, what the trials meant—but their words only blurred together in the haze of fear clouding your mind. All you knew was that you were somewhere you didn’t belong, and you needed to get out.

So you’d run.

You sprinted as fast as your legs would carry you, ignoring the desperate calls of the others. You didn’t know where you were going, only that you had to escape. The trees around you blurred as you pushed yourself harder, your lungs burning with every frantic breath—until you slammed face-first into something solid.

It wasn’t a tree. No bark, no leaves—just an invisible wall that sent you reeling backward, clutching your nose in pain. You stumbled, dazed and confused, but before you could even think about what you’d just hit, you heard it: deep, guttural breathing, slow and deliberate.

Your head snapped up, and your blood ran cold. A obese figure loomed just on the other side of the barrier. His face was grotesque, smeared with greasepaint that cracked like old plaster. The Clown.

You screamed, scrambling to your feet and bolting back toward the camp. The sound of his laughter—wet and wheezing—chased after you, but when you risked a glance over your shoulder, he wasn’t following.

The Clown remained where he stood, staring at you with those cold eyes. Confusion flickered in your panicked mind, but you didn’t stop running until you were safely back in the camp.

Later, after you’d calmed down and stopped trembling like a leaf, Dwight had sat you down by the fire. He was the first survivor here, or so they all said, and he’d taken it upon himself to explain how the realm worked to newcomers.

“That’s why he didn’t follow you,” Dwight had said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “There’s a barrier between us and them. The Entity doesn’t let killers into our camp. Same way we can’t go into their domain. Not unless it’s during a trial.”

It had taken time for the words to fully sink in, but eventually, you understood. The killers could watch you from the other side of that invisible wall if they wanted to, but they couldn’t cross it. They weren’t allowed to harm you outside of the trials.

Still, that didn’t make the idea of running into them any less horrifying. You already saw enough of them during the trials. You didn’t need to see them here, too.

That’s why, even now, as you wandered through the edges of the camp, you kept your distance. The boundary between the survivors’ camp and the killers’ domain wasn’t visible, but you could feel it, like an unseen pressure in the air. You never dared to go too close.

But alas the camp wasn’t large, so it was almost impossible not to catch at least a glimpse of a killer lingering near the barrier from time to time. You’d gotten used to it, in a way—seeing their shadowy figures pacing just out of reach, watching.

But now, as you rounded a corner near the edge of the camp, you froze. There, just a few yards away, was Chucky.

The little doll hadn’t noticed you, too busy pacing along the barrier and cussing up a storm. You crouched low behind a boulder, not out of fear but curiosity, your eyes narrowing as you caught bits and pieces of his tirade.

“...That smug prick—thinks he’s so damn smart, huh? Always with the ‘grand plans.’ I’ll show him a plan—it’s called taking his head off with a kitchen knife!”

You tilted your head, straining to hear more. The Mastermind—you’d heard that name before. Albert Wesker. You’d faced him twice in trials, and both times, you’d died. He was fast, calculating, and far more terrifying than a doll with a knife. Where Chucky was a chaotic little bastard who relied on deception and sneak attacks, Wesker had power and strategy to back him up. You hadn’t stood a chance.

Still, the idea of Chucky throwing a tantrum over Wesker made you stifle a small, ironic laugh. The Entity certainly had a sense of humor when it came to the killers it pulled into its realm.

You were about to leave, figuring you’d heard enough, when something Chucky said made you freeze.

“...And now there’s a new guy? Already? What the hell does the Entity even need him for? We just got the Houndmaster! Isn’t that freaky dog-pack enough?”

A new killer?

Your eyes widened, and your breath hitched. You instinctively leaned forward, your curiosity overtaking your caution. You’d only just gotten used to the Houndmaster—another recent addition to the roster of killers. And now the Entity was adding someone else?

You thought about how peculiar it was. The Entity usually gave some time before introducing new killers, letting survivors adjust (or break) under the current conditions. The Houndmaster was still fresh, and you with the other survivors were still learning how to navigate her brutal trial. So why now?

You shifted slightly, your knee brushing against the dirt, and froze when Chucky suddenly stopped pacing. His head snapped up, his plastic eyes scanning the horizon, and for a moment, you thought he’d spotted you.

“Whatever,” he muttered, resuming his rant. “If this newbie thinks they can show me up, they’ve got another thing coming. I’ve been doing this way longer. What’re they gonna do? Kill me?”

You slowly backed away, keeping low until Chucky was out of sight. A new killer. The thought sent a ripple of unease through you. It wasn’t like you’d gotten comfortable with the existing ones—the trials were still brutal, the killers relentless—but the idea of facing someone new, someone whose abilities you didn’t yet understand, made your stomach churn.

Who—or what—had the Entity brought into its realm this time?

You couldn’t shake the feeling of dread as you rushed back to the survivors' camp, your mind racing with the news you’d just learned. When you burst into the center of the camp and announced the new arrival, the reactions were varied.

Some survivors, like Dwight and Leon, looked concerned but stayed quiet. Others, like Steve and Yuna, were visibly stressed. But there were those like Yunjin and Yui, who didn’t show any reaction at all.

Just as the murmurs of unease began to settle into the air, the survivors from the most recent trial landed back into the camp, their faces drawn with exhaustion. Before anyone could even ask about their experience, Claudette, always quick to speak, started rambling, her voice trembling with exhaustion.

“New killer,” Claudette gasped, wiping sweat from her brow as she collapsed onto the log near the fire. “The Virtuoso. That’s what he’s called. And he’s... terrifying.”

You felt a chill run down your spine at the name. The Virtuoso.

The other survivors gathered around, listening intently as Claudette, Meg, and Feng started explaining.

“He has a violin,” Meg said, her voice low and shaky. “A violin. He uses it as a weapon. And when he plays it... it’s like... you can’t hear anything. Our ears just—stop working. You lose all sound. It’s like you’re in a void for a few minutes, and you can’t even tell where he is. He would just come up behind us and we wouldn’t hear him at all.”

Feng nodded, her eyes wide with the memory. “And when he’s chasing you, he doesn’t stay silent. He hums or sings under his breath. It’s so creepy.”

You exchanged a look with Leon, both of you registering the horror of their words. A violin as a weapon? That was something you had never imagined.

“So, like the Huntress?” you asked quietly, trying to make sense of it. “He relies on sound to track you?”

Meg gave you a grim nod. “Kind of. But worse. It’s not just about hunting you—it’s about taking away everything you rely on. You can’t hear anything, can’t even react properly. He disorients you. Makes you feel helpless.”

“That’s... unsettling,” Leon muttered, the words heavy with the shared understanding that this new killer was unlike anything you had faced before.

It took a total of three trials before you finally faced the Virtuoso. The first round was against The Shape. You survived by a hair, heart pounding in your chest as you barely managed to escape through the exit. The second trial? Against Nemesis. You didn’t survive that one. His relentless pursuit, aided by the terrifying zombie hordes, had been too much to handle. You’d been caught and ended up on the hook. But the third trial was different—you faced Dracula, but somehow, against all odds, you survived. You’d made it through with flying colors, your team working together to power up the generators and escape.

And now, here you were, entering your fourth trial. This time, it was a new map—a small city that seemed stuck in time. Old, crumbling buildings lined the streets, abandoned cars scattered across the roads, rusted and forgotten. But the centerpiece of it all? A massive theatre that towered over everything, its marquee flickering like a faint ghost of a past long gone. The sight was eerie, and your instincts immediately kicked in.

You crouched low, moving as quietly as possible, not wanting to attract any attention. The map was unfamiliar, and you knew the key to surviving here would be finding a way to adapt quickly. You needed to figure out where the generators were, which killer you were facing this time, and if there were any survivors to find and help.

You made your way into one of the buildings—an apartment complex, judging by the layout. You tried the first door you came to. Locked. The second one, same. You didn’t linger long, knowing that if you wasted too much time, the killer would find you. You had to keep moving.

Your main focus now was to get a feel for the map. The theatre seemed to loom ominously in the distance, a place that probably had its own secrets. You had to remember that the killers loved these big, grandiose settings, where they could trap and hunt survivors in ways that felt like part of their twisted game.

As you cautiously made your way through the city, a sound broke the silence—something distant, but it sent a cold shiver down your spine. It wasn’t the usual rumbling of the Entity’s presence. This was something else. A soft, haunting melody, like the strains of a violin being played somewhere in the distance.

You froze.

That was the Virtuoso. The violin music—it was unmistakable.

You didn't know if he was close or far, but you knew that he was out there. You needed to find a generator, and fast, before he tracked you down. The eerie melody seemed to seep into the air, twisting everything, making it harder to focus. You crouched even lower, scanning the streets, every creak of the buildings or rustle of the wind making you jump. You had to keep it together. This was a new map. The city would be full of hiding spots and escape routes.

You made your way past another apartment, your heartbeat quickening as you heard the faintest hum of the violin. You weren’t sure if it was coming closer or just echoing off the buildings, but you couldn't risk staying in one place for too long. You kept your movements as quiet as possible, crouching behind abandoned cars and ducking into doorways when necessary.

And then you saw it. In the distance, hidden behind an alleyway, the faint outline of a generator. Your heart raced in your chest as you approached, the sound of the violin growing louder, now definitely closer. You had to power up the generator before it was too late.

You focused on the generator, keeping your hands steady as you worked to repair it. The rhythm of your actions matched the increasing intensity of the violin, the music growing louder, echoing through the alley like it was all around you.

Then, without warning, a sharp note sliced through the air, followed by a scream from a survivor nearby. It snapped you out of your concentration for a moment, but you forced yourself to ignore it, refocusing on the task. You had to finish this. But as you continued to work, you heard something else—a short solo, a few drawn-out notes that struck like a delicate thread of sound, and then… everything changed.

Suddenly, your body felt heavy. It was subtle at first, just a slight shift, a tug in your muscles, but then it intensified. Your hands grew sluggish, and your vision blurred at the edges. The music seemed to seep deeper into your mind, invading your senses like a drug. You could feel the melody wrapping around your thoughts, pulling you into a soft, sleepy trance.

You tried to shake it off, to focus on the generator, but the exhaustion hit you hard. You gasped, dropping to your knees, hands gripping the dirt and debris on the ground as you tried to steady yourself. What was happening? You felt dizzy, but not in a sick and bad way, no this was different—it was a comforting kind of dizziness, like being wrapped in a warm blanket that made you want to close your eyes and give in.

It was the strangest feeling. The violin’s notes was almost seductive, pulling you deeper, lulling you into a state of relaxed submission. It wasn’t painful—no, it was... pleasant. Your limbs felt like they were made of lead, and you found yourself slowing down, your movements growing languid, as if you were caught in some spell you couldn’t break. You wanted more of it. Whatever this feeling was, it was unlike anything you’d ever experienced.

Was this the Virtuoso’s ability? You felt your thoughts fuzzing at the edges as his melody played on, each note wrapping around your mind like a gentle whisper, coaxing you further into this strange, hypnotic state. What was he doing to you? The question seemed far away, like it didn’t matter. It was easier to just give in, to let the music take over and stop worrying about the generator, the trial, everything else.

But no. You couldn’t let yourself fall into that trap. You forced your hands to push against the dirt, trying to stand up, to shake off the exhaustion. You had to keep moving, keep thinking. You couldn’t afford to let him win. The Virtuoso was manipulating you with his music, using it to cloud your senses, to wear you down until you couldn’t think straight anymore.

You gritted your teeth, pushing through the haze in your mind, forcing yourself to crawl back to the generator. You had to get it done—now.

Your fingers were slow, trembling as you worked, but the sound of the violin kept playing, surrounding you, tightening its grip on your senses. You were struggling to focus, the exhaustion clouding your thoughts.

Suddenly, you heard the soft shuffle of footsteps behind you. You glanced over, your blurry vision making it hard to see clearly. But then you recognized her—Yui. She was stumbling, hurt, her clothes torn, and blood staining her skin. She looked dazed, her eyes half-lidded, like she was under the same spell you were. The exhaustion was evident in her posture, her steps unsteady as she approached.

You whispered, barely able to make the words come out, "Do you want me to heal you?"

But Yui didn’t respond to your voice. She pointed to her ears, a subtle, desperate gesture. She couldn’t hear you.

She crouched beside you, barely able to focus, but she reached for the generator. You could see the struggle in her expression as she tried to push through the same fog you were in. You both sat there working.

Then, you heard it. A scream. The unmistakable sound of a survivor being hooked. Your heart clenched, and panic began to creep in.

“Come on... finish...” You muttered under your breath, barely audible. You could barely focus, every part of you aching.

Yui’s hands were slower than they should have been, her movements sluggish, but she kept working beside you.

But just as you thought the generator might finally be finished, the air grew colder. You could sense something was coming. The music stopped. The silence was deafening.

Your hands trembled, the generator almost done, but you knew you couldn’t afford to be caught now. You had to finish this. You had to.

Just as the generator lit up and blared, signaling that it was finally done, Yui took off, her movements slow but determined. You exhaled in relief, ready to run yourself, but then something caught your eye. Yui was heading straight for a figure standing in the shadows, a tall, looming figure. She didn’t see him until it was too late.

The sound of a sharp, slicing movement filled the air, and you gasped in horror as Yui screamed, the sound cut short by a sudden thud as she crumpled to the ground. Her blood pooled around her, and there, standing over her, was the figure. A man, tall and lean, dressed in a dark and tattered suit that was stained with blood. His white undershirt was ripped, exposing skin underneath. But it wasn’t his clothing that made your heart race—it was his face.

A cracked porcelain mask covered most of it, resembling that of a twisted theater performer. From the cracks, you could see his eyes, dark and hollow, and his lips, painted with an smug expression. His black hair was slicked back, and his white gloves were stained, a deep, crimson red. He was a nightmare made flesh, a figure from a forgotten stage play brought to life in the most terrifying way.

You froze, watching as the man wiped Yui’s blood from the bow of his violin. That’s when you realized—this was him. The Virtuoso.

He looked up at you, and for a moment, you could have sworn there was no emotion in his gaze. His eyes were cold, detached. But then something shifted, the indifference was replaced with something else—something more dangerous. Interest. And that terrified you more than anything else.

The Virtuoso’s hand stretched out, and you saw him pull a black violin from his back, its surface stained with dark splatters of blood. Your heart raced as he held it to his chin, the bow raised, and began to play.

The moment his fingers touched the strings, the haunting melody flooded the air. Your body tensed, your head spinning, and that all-too-familiar exhaustion swept over you again. You gasped, trying to steady yourself, but it was like the music was pulling you under, drowning you in its grip.

Your legs buckled beneath you, and you fell to the ground. Your hands trembled, your head pounding as the exhaustion began to take over. You couldn’t think straight. Your mind felt like it was slipping away, like everything that was you was fading into the background, consumed by the tune he was playing.

Every muscle in your body thrummed with a dull, almost pleasurable ache, like your very essence was being swept away by the music. You couldn’t fight it. You didn’t want to fight it. The only thing that mattered now was the sound of that violin, that song that tugged at your soul.

But you had to stay conscious. You had to—stay awake.

You wanted to scream, to push through, but the tune was so lullingly beautiful. It was too hard to resist. Your eyes fluttered, the world around you starting to fade to black. You could see the Virtuoso’s face, his mask cracked but still emotionless, his cold gaze never leaving you as he played on, the haunting tune weaving its way deeper into your mind.

And then, everything went dark.

When you woke up, it was with a sharp, disorienting breath, your heart racing as your body jerked upright. You found yourself lying on something cold and hard, the rough texture of the floor beneath you. Confusion gripped you, and as you looked around, it hit you like a punch to the stomach: you were on a stage. The grand theater, the one you’d only glimpsed before.

How did you get here?

Did the Virtuoso bring you here? You could barely remember the last moments before everything went black. The music, his violin—it had all blurred together in a haze of exhaustion and pleasure. You shook your head, pushing yourself to your feet. Your legs wobbled slightly, but you managed to steady yourself.

The stage was crumbling around you. The curtains hung tattered and ripped, torn from years of neglect. The floorboards creaked beneath your weight, some of them so loose that they threatened to give way with even the slightest pressure. The way down was a steep, treacherous drop, the ground far below hidden by the darkness that seemed to consume the rest of the theater. The chairs facing the stage were old and covered in dust, their worn fabric peeling away like the remnants of a forgotten time. The air smelled faintly of blood, mixed with the scent of neglect.

A cold shiver ran down your spine as you looked around, your mind still foggy, struggling to grasp the situation. You needed to get out of here, but before you could take another step, you heard it—the familiar, haunting melody.

The violin. It came from somewhere deep within the theater, its sound clear and insistent, just like before. And like before, you felt it. The pull. The music wrapped around your mind like a shroud, soft yet relentless, seeping into your thoughts, digging into the very core of your being. You tried to ignore it, but the pull was too strong.

Before you could even react, you fell to your knees, gasping for air as your hands instinctively flew to your head. The pain was sudden, sharp, like a thousand tiny needles pricking at your mind, but then—then—it melted into something else. Something worse.

It felt too good. Too intoxicating. It was as if the melody had found something deep within you, something buried, and was now scratching at it, pulling it to the surface. You hated it. You hated how it made your heart race and your body burn with a strange, unbidden desire. This was different from the shock therapy The Doctor used. It wasn’t painful in the way you knew pain, like a jolt of electricity that shattered your thoughts. No. This was... pleasure of the mind, something so smooth and alluring, it felt like the essence of who you were was being coaxed from your very soul.

It was like drowning in euphoria and fear all at once. You wanted to stop it. You wanted to tear yourself away from it, but you couldn’t.

The tune continued, crawling deeper into your head, pushing against your will. Every note felt like it was peeling away at your very identity, unraveling the pieces of your mind, piece by piece, until all you could hear, all you could feel, was the melody.

You gasped again, your chest tight as the world around you began to blur. Was this what he wanted? Was this how he claimed his victims? With the music?

Your mind screamed at you to move, to run, but your body refused to obey. The melody still reverberated in your skull, a lullaby of twisted euphoria. And then, you saw him.

He emerged from behind the backstage curtains, the black violin still held under his chin, his fingers expertly gliding over the strings, pulling out notes that made your head swim. His eyes remained fixed on you as he began to hum along, the sound vibrating in the air, setting your nerves on fire.

You groaned, struggling to shake the haze from your thoughts, but it was no use. He was here now, standing before you. His presence towered over you, and you could feel the coldness of his gaze piercing through the haze that clung to your senses.

He stopped playing, the sudden silence swallowing the air around you. Your heart pounded in your chest as he crouched down, bringing his face dangerously close to yours. You could feel the heat of his breath, steady and cold at the same time, but his eyes… those eyes pierced into you, unblinking and filled with an unsettling curiosity.

You tried to look away, to break free from his stare, but before you could move, his gloved hand shot out and grasped your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. His touch was firm, not painful, but there was no escaping it. You felt small, powerless under his grasp.

He studied you, his gaze moving from your face to the rest of your body, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he didn’t speak, just letting the silence linger between you. Then, his voice broke through the tension, deep and smooth, almost like a melody of its own.

"Where has the Entity been hiding you, I wonder?" his words was laced with dark amusement. His voice was soft, but it held an edge, as if he was enjoying your discomfort, your inability to escape him.

You didn’t know how to respond. Your body felt heavy, your mind clouded, but you could hear the taunting tone in his voice.

"You’ve been so quiet," he continued. "All you can do is whine, can’t you? Letting me do whatever I want."

You wanted to fight, to scream, to tell him to stop, but all you could manage was a weak grip on his arm, your fingers barely able to hold onto the sleeve of his bloodstained suit. Your strength was gone, sapped by the music, by him.

His lips curved into a knowing smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes, and he leaned in closer, his voice a soft whisper now.

"I can’t wait to see how long you last."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you realized that, in this moment, you were nothing more than a puppet in his hands. You wanted to speak, to shout, to fight back, but you couldn’t form the words. His hold on you was suffocating, his fingers warm and unforgiving as they gripped your face and tilted your head back.

"You’re so adorable when you try to resist," he purred, his voice dripping with amusement. "You think you can escape, don’t you?"

You were trying to gather strength, to push him away, but before you could react, his hands shot out, swift and sure. In one fluid motion, he lifted you off the ground, throwing you effortlessly over his shoulder. You gasped, the sudden shift making the world spin around you.

You would have fought back against any other killer. You were used to wiggling free, to finding a way to outsmart and escape. But not with him.

He started humming again, each note seemed to echo in your head, making it harder and harder to think clearly, and it lulled you into a stupor.

The two of you passed through the decaying theater, the doors creaking open as he made his way out. The world outside was dark, the streets eerily empty. You tried to shake yourself awake, to fight the haze, and finally, your lips parted in a slow, slurred speech.

"W-where... where is everyone?" you managed, the words feeling foreign as they left your mouth, thick with exhaustion.

The Virtuoso didn’t even flinch, his pace steady as he continued walking, as if this was just another routine. He simply answered, his voice cold and casual.

"They’re gone," he replied, a slight edge of amusement in his tone. "Already given to the Entity. All of them."

The weight of his words sank in, and you froze, your breath catching in your throat as a realization dawned on you.

Oh. You were the only one left. The only survivor.

A wave of cold dread washed over you, and you couldn’t shake the sick feeling that had settled in your stomach.

And now, you were alone with him.

"You’ll learn to enjoy this feeling," he murmured, almost as if he were speaking to himself.

The weight of his words lingered in the air, suffocating you with their twisted promise. "You’ll learn to enjoy this feeling."

Just then the rumbling began, the map trembling under the familiar pressure, you knew the Entity was growing impatient. It wanted this to end quickly—its hunger insatiable. The last survivor, the final piece in its dark game, was about to be consumed. But then the Virtuoso suddenly released his grip on you. You were unceremoniously dropped to the ground, the rough texture of the pavement scraping your palms as you struggled to sit up.

You groaned, looking up to find the Virtuoso no longer watching you. Instead, his attention was fixed on his violin bow, the jagged edges glinting in the dim light, stained with blood.

“What’s happening?” you managed to ask, your voice shaky but filled with desperation.

Without looking up from his bow, he simply uttered one word, cold and commanding. “Crawl.”

You blinked, confusion settling in for a brief moment before your gaze drifted to the distance. Just a few meters away, the hatch—open and waiting. The escape. The only chance you had. Without thinking, you began to crawl toward it. Every movement felt like an agonizingly slow struggle, but you pushed yourself forward, determined to get to the only possible way out.

But as you moved, you heard it—his humming. It was soft at first, the haunting melody following you, filling the air around you. You dared a glance over your shoulder, and there he was. The Virtuoso was trailing behind you, his figure looming with a slow, deliberate pace. His bow was still clutched tightly in his hand, the faint sound of his humming growing louder as he moved closer. His lips curled into a manic smirk, one that sent a chill down your spine.

And then, in a voice that was far too cheerful for what was happening, he began to count.

“Ten...” His voice was smooth, almost musical, like he was savoring each number.

You could feel your heart racing, pounding in your chest, the escape hatch tantalizingly close but still so far away.

“...Nine…”

Every second felt like an eternity, the weight of his presence bearing down on you as you forced yourself to crawl. The sound of his counting echoed in your ears, filling you with dread.

“…Eight…”

You looked back again, sweat beading on your forehead. His expression was twisted, like he was enjoying this far too much.

“...Seven…”

The hatch was so close now. You could almost reach it.

“...Six…”

You pushed yourself harder, faster, but each movement felt like it drained more of your energy.

“...Five…”

The Virtuoso’s steps were closer now, his bow gliding smoothly through the air as he followed behind you, still counting, still humming.

“…Four…”

You gritted your teeth, pushing through the exhaustion, through the haze of his song, your body screaming at you to stop.

“...Three…”

The hatch was just a few inches away now. You could see it beckoning you.

“…Two…”

His humming was louder, almost deafening in its intensity.

“...One.”

And then, in a heartbeat, he stopped. The silence that followed was deafening, as if the world had held its breath. You froze, barely a few inches from the escape hatch. You could hear the sound of his violin bow slicing through the air.

And then, his voice, smooth as silk, reached your ears. “Such a shame, my dear.”

He walked past you, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the silence of the street. Without a word, he approached the escape hatch and closed it with a swift motion, the heavy metal door slamming shut behind him with an almost finality that made your heart race. When he turned back to face you, his smile was chilling, like a predator savoring the moment before the kill.

"Time to die," he said softly, his voice low, but filled with a cruel satisfaction.

He moved toward you slowly, deliberately, his every step measured as if he had all the time in the world. Your body trembled, your muscles stiff and weak from the exhaustion, the haze of the melody still clouding your mind. You struggled to move, but the world around you felt distant and blurry.

A haunting melody played in the background, filling the space between you and him, wrapping around your thoughts like a chain. Your vision swayed, the edges of the world fading into a soft blur as his presence grew closer. Then, with a gentleness that made the hairs on your neck stand on end, he positioned the bow against your throat, his touch light but firm.

His face was expressionless, calculating. His eyes locked onto yours as if studying you, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

He began to sing.

His voice was smooth, precise, almost like a lullaby. Each note slipped into your mind, soothing and terrifying all at once, as if he were performing an intimate, private piece just for you. The sound of his voice, along with the melody, distorted everything around you. The air thickened, pressing in from all sides, and you could feel your senses begin to unravel. The world seemed to twist, the music warping, growing louder, more dissonant, filling your head with confusion, a maddening disorientation that made it harder to breathe.

Your vision flickered in and out, the room around you stretching and bending with each note he sang. The pressure on your throat from the bow grew, the coldness of the violin's edge digging into your skin.

And then, without warning, in a single, fluid motion, he swept the bow across your throat.

The sharp strings bit into your skin, cutting deeply, and you gasped, feeling the hot rush of blood spilling from the wound. You fell to the ground, your body crumpling beneath the weight of the pain and the overwhelming sensation of his final song echoing in your ears.

Everything went dark.

The familiar feeling of falling overwhelmed you once more, a sinking sensation that seemed endless. And when you landed, it wasn’t the cold streets of the trial. No. You were back.

You were back in the survivors’ camp.

Alive.

Unhurt.

The sudden shift left you gasping for air, your heart racing as you blinked, trying to process what had just happened. You looked around. The camp was quiet, peaceful, almost like nothing had ever happened.

--

You sat there for what felt like an eternity, your back pressed against the rough bark of the tree. The camp was unusually quiet, save for the distant murmurs of other survivors. You had a clear view of the barrier between you and the killers, the oppressive feeling of the entity’s domain hanging in the air. It felt like days since you’d last faced a trial, days that stretched on, leaving you to wonder why you hadn’t been called back into the horrors of the realm.

Time blurred together. Trials came and went, but for some reason, you were left untouched, as if the entity itself had decided to leave you be. You watched as others came back, their faces etched with exhaustion and fear. Some spoke of the Virtuoso in hushed tones, their words tinged with dread. You overheard their stories: how they’d tried to outrun him, how they’d failed to survive a single trial with him, how his music had driven them to madness before the end.

But none of them had managed to make it through. None of them had escaped him.

He had become a legend in the realm, and for good reason. His abilities—his haunting song, his control over the survivors—had turned him into a killer of nightmares. No one had survived one trial against him.

You saw him in your dreams sometimes, his haunting music echoing in your ears, his voice soft and cruel. You shivered at the thought of facing him again, knowing that if the entity ever called you back, you wouldn’t stand a chance.

Trials passed, and yet the call never came. You began to wonder if you had been forgotten—left behind, abandoned in the shadows of the camp. Or maybe the entity was just waiting for the perfect moment to drag you back into the trial, to see if you would survive a second time.

--

Eventually, the call came. You were thrust back into the realm, pulled from the relative peace of the survivors’ camp and thrown into the chaos of the trials once again.

First came the Dredge, you were constantly on edge, and you barely made it through, but you survived.

Next, you found yourself up against the Demogorgon. You escaped—barely—each breath ragged, the taste of fear still fresh in your mouth.

Then, the Oni came, you barely manage to survive, barely.

The Doctor came next, his shock therapy was unbearable, his laughter echoing in your head. But again, somehow, you survived.

And then there was the Hillbilly, you sprinted, dodged, and hid, your heart pounding in your chest as you narrowly escaped the carnage.

You groaned loudly as the familiar feeling of being pulled into the trial washed over you, the world around you spinning before it all dropped away into darkness. When your feet hit the ground, you staggered, blinking against the sudden brightness.

Your eyes widened in horror as you looked around.

You were on his map.

The surroundings were hauntingly familiar—the dilapidated theater looming in the distance, the cracked, decaying streets, the smell of dust and blood in the air. It was as if the very atmosphere of the map itself was alive, pulsing with a sinister energy, beckoning you to come face to face with your worst nightmare.

You had to survive him. You had no choice. You couldn’t afford to fall victim to him again. The thought of hearing that haunting tune again, of being caught in his eerie, hypnotic grip, made your stomach turn. But there was no time for hesitation now.

With a deep breath, you forced yourself to focus. The trial had begun, and your survival depended on staying sharp, on staying one step ahead of him. You crouched low, scanning the environment for any signs of life, any survivors, and most importantly—any generators. You had to find a way out.

The air grew colder, and then you heard it—the soft, deliberate hum of his melody, distant at first, but slowly getting closer. You felt the weight of it, the pull in your chest, as the music seemed to crawl into your mind, trying to seduce you into a false sense of safety. You clenched your fists, forcing yourself not to give in. You couldn’t afford that.

You started moving, every step measured, trying to remain as quiet as possible. Your heart pounded in your chest, and the hairs on the back of your neck stood up as you passed through the eerie streets, passing abandoned vehicles and broken-down walls.

You reached the edge of the map, your eyes scanning the horizon, but no sign of him yet. But you knew better than to relax—he could be anywhere, and the moment you let your guard down was the moment you’d pay for it. You had to stay focused.

Suddenly, you saw movement in the distance. Another survivor? Or was it him, creeping closer? You couldn’t tell, but you had no intention of waiting around to find out. You bolted for the nearest building, hoping to find some semblance of safety.

As you ducked inside, the door creaked loudly behind you, and you froze. The sound of his humming was unmistakable now, closer, almost as if it were right behind you. Panic surged through your veins, but you forced yourself to stay calm. You had survived against killers like the Demogorgon, the Xenomorph, and the Nemesis. You could survive this.

You quickly turned to look for a generator, anything to give you a chance to escape. But before you could make a move, the faintest touch of a violin note reached your ears—and with it, the world around you began to blur.

You staggered, your head spinning, the familiar exhaustion sinking in as the haunting melody wove its way into your mind. It was him, so close now.

Then everything suddenly went quiet.

You froze, your breath shallow, listening intently. There was no sign of the Virtuoso—no sound, no humming. Just silence.

You dared to peek out from behind the window, your eyes scanning the desolate street outside. It was empty, the shadows stretching across the cracked pavement, but you didn’t trust it. You couldn’t trust it. Still, it seemed safe enough to move.

Just as you were about to vault over the low wall and make a break for it, you were hit by a wave of music, a sudden, intense surge that made you gasp. It was like the sound wrapped around your body, heavy, suffocating, and in an instant, your vision blurred. The world felt distorted, like a fog had rolled in, the edges of everything softening into nothingness.

No.

You blinked rapidly, trying to regain focus, and when you turned to your left, you saw him.

He was standing there, so still, his gaze fixed directly on you.

How long had he been standing there?

You didn’t get the chance to ponder over that question, not with the sharp sting that followed.

His bow came down, slicing through the air with a sound that sent chills down your spine. You gasped in pain as the sharp edge slashed through your side, the blade cutting deep into your flesh.

The pain was immediate, and for a moment, everything stopped.

But instinct kicked in.

With a strangled cry, you vaulted, your body screaming in protest, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. You held your side tightly, feeling the blood seep through your fingers as you sprinted down the street, desperate to put distance between yourself and him.

Behind you, you could hear the faint hum of his violin, the melody now twisted and taunting, as if it was mocking your attempt to escape.

"Run," he teased, his voice soft and smooth, almost playful as it floated on the wind. "It won’t help."

Your heart hammered in your chest as you pushed yourself harder, the pain in your side nearly blinding, but you refused to stop. The sound of his footsteps echoed behind you, slow and measured, but every time you glanced over your shoulder, you saw him gaining on you, moving like a shadow, a predator closing in.

Your breath came in ragged gasps, each step taking everything out of you. The street stretched out in front of you, the buildings offering little cover. The world felt so small here.

You ran past two survivors, Yui and Meg, working on a generator in the distance. You barely spared them a glance as they turned to look at you, their faces filled with terror before the Virtuoso's haunting violin notes reached them. Their screams echoed behind you, sharp and full of pain as the bow sliced into them.

But you couldn’t look back. You couldn’t afford to stop. You had to keep moving.

With your heart pounding, you bolted for the theatre, slipping through the back door just as his music faded behind you. The building was dark and quiet, save for the creaking of the old floorboards.

Inside, you found a room. Dimly lit, but it had a palette lying against the far wall, a perfect place to take a breath, even for a moment.

You crouched down and pulled out the medkit you had brought with you for this trial, you hissed through your teeth as you started to treat the wound in your side, carefully bandaging it, the blood still dripping down your hands. The pain was a constant throb, but it was nothing you couldn’t handle. You had learned to survive worse.

The violin music grew louder, and you could feel him getting closer, his presence near the door.

You couldn’t stay in one place for too long. Not with him hunting you.

You took a deep breath and prepared to move again. You crept toward the door, every muscle tense, ready to spring into action the moment you heard his violin hum. The sound was becoming more insistent, like a heartbeat you couldn't escape from. You slowly cracked the door open, peering out into the dark hallway beyond.

No sign of him yet.

You made a break for the other side of the room, slipping past the shadowy corners and moving carefully toward a nearby window, hoping to get a glimpse of your surroundings. You had to figure out where the others were, or better yet, where a generator was.

Just as you reached the window, you heard it—a faint humming, followed by a low, dissonant note that made your spine stiffen.

He was here.

The unmistakable sound of the bow scraping against the strings pierced the silence, sending a shiver down your spine. You pressed yourself against the wall, barely breathing, trying to blend into the darkness.

You dared to peek out, your eyes scanning the edges of the room, and there he was. He was standing still, his back to you, seemingly unaware of your presence… but his head tilted slightly, as though sensing you.

Then, without warning, he turned, his eyes narrowed as he locked onto yours.

"Found you," he purred, his voice smooth.

In an instant, his violin was in his hands again, the bow raised, and before you could react, the first note rang out, and you felt it—the exhaustion, the pull of his music sinking into your mind. Your vision blurred, the world spinning around you.

Your body rebelled, but your legs wouldn’t move. It was like his melody had a grip on your very soul, twisting you with every note.

"Run," you whispered to yourself, but the word was drowned out by the haunting sound of the violin as he started moving toward you.

"Why run?" he hummed, his voice taunting as he advanced slowly.

You collapsed to your knees, gasping for air as the melody wrapped around your senses like a velvet noose. Each note sent a shiver down your spine, your body trembling with a mix of fear and something you hated to acknowledge.

The Virtuoso stopped a few feet in front of you, tilting his head as if admiring his handiwork. "Look at you," he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "On your knees, just like the music intended. Isn't it beautiful? The way it breaks you down, piece by piece."

You tried to push yourself up, to fight the pull of his haunting melody, but your arms gave out, and you slumped forward, your hands trembling against the floor.

"Stop..." you managed to choke out, though your voice was weak, barely audible over the sound of his violin.

The Virtuoso chuckled, low and smooth, as he crouched down in front of you. He gently rested the bow under your chin, tilting your head up to face him. The cold, sharp edge of the bow scraped lightly against your skin, sending a shiver through you.

"Stop?" he repeated, feigning surprise. "But you don’t really want me to, do you?" His voice softened, almost a whisper. "The Entity chose you for a reason. You were made for this... to be shaped, to be played."

You tried to shake your head, to deny his words, but his gaze pinned you in place. His hand, gloved and stained with dirt and blood, reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair away from your face.

"Tell me," he continued, leaning closer, his voice dropping into a husky murmur. "How does it feel to be a part of something so... exquisite? To be at the mercy of art itself?"

You bit your lip, fighting the fog in your mind. Somewhere, deep inside, you knew this wasn’t right. You were a survivor—you had fought through so many trials, endured countless horrors. You had to fight this, too.

But his music was unlike anything you’d faced before. It wasn’t just a weapon—it was a manipulation of your very being, twisting your will, blurring the line between fear and something darker.

He tilted his head, waiting for a response, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement when you stayed silent. "No answer?" he said, his tone mocking. "Perhaps you're finally starting to understand... There's no escape from me."

Your breath hitched as he slung the violin onto his back with an almost practiced elegance. You saw your chance and scrambled to your feet, trying to make a run for it. But you barely got a few steps before a sharp pain erupted across your back.

You screamed as his jagged violin bow slashed through your skin, the searing pain causing you to stumble and fall forward. Blood trickled down your side as you tried to crawl away, but before you could even attempt to push yourself up, his hand gripped your wrist like iron.

With alarming strength, he yanked you back and slammed you against the cold, crumbling wall. The force knocked the wind out of you, leaving you gasping as the world spun.

"Still trying to run?" he murmured, his tone dripping with amusement.

You tried to push him off, but he pressed his body against yours, trapping you between him and the wall.

"Let me go!" you gasped, writhing beneath his grip.

His response was to catch your wrists in one swift motion, slamming them above your head and pinning them there with a single hand. His strength was inhuman, and no amount of struggling could break you free.

With his other hand, he grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. His gloved fingers dug into your jaw, tilting your head back as his eyes roamed over your face.

"Such defiance," he said softly, almost as if he were admiring you. "But even fire can be tamed."

Before you could muster a reply, before you could even process the fear coursing through you, he leaned in. His lips crushed against yours with a sudden, ferocious intensity that left you utterly stunned.

Your muffled gasp filled the air as his mouth moved against yours, his kiss possessive and unrelenting. His grip on your wrists tightened as you tried to pull away, your attempts feeble against the strength that held you in place.

Your heart thundered in your chest, torn between fear, anger, and a bewildering sense of helplessness. The world seemed to narrow down to him—his lips, his overwhelming presence, and the haunting melody of his violin still ringing faintly in the background.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched yours. "You can fight all you want," he murmured, his voice dangerously soft, his gloved thumb brushing against your trembling lip. "But you’ll never escape me."

Your legs felt like jelly, trembling beneath you. The weight of his gaze pinned you in place. You should’ve tried to run, screamed for help, done something, but your body betrayed you, too weak to move.

His thumb lingered on your lip, pressing lightly, as if testing your limits. He tilted his head, and that haunting hum escaped his throat again—a melody low and sinister that seemed to seep into your very bones.

“You’re trembling,” he said, his voice smooth and mocking as he studied you. “Is it fear? Or something else?”

You glared at him—or tried to—but the faint tremor in your chin betrayed your attempt at defiance.

He chuckled, low and dark, and his gloved hand left your face, sliding down to your neck. His fingers trailed lazily over your skin, the rough texture of the worn leather leaving a cold, ghostly sensation in their wake.

“You’re so fragile,” he mused as his hand traveled further, tracing the curve of your shoulder and down your arm. “And yet, so strong…”

His words trailed off as he moved closer again, his body pressing lightly against yours to keep you pinned to the wall. His free hand glided down your side, brushing over the torn fabric of your shirt and the faint wound left by his bow. His fingers paused there, pressing gently, almost mockingly.

You flinched, gasping softly at the sting of pain, and he hummed again, as if pleased by your reaction.

“Every mark I leave on you…” he whispered, his voice dripping with sadistic delight. “It’s a masterpiece in its own right.”

His hands didn’t stop, exploring further—over your waist, down to your hips. Each touch was deliberate, calculated, as if he were memorizing every inch of you he could reach. You tried to push him away, but he didn’t even budge.

“Still fighting?” he teased, his lips curling into a cruel smile as his eyes locked onto yours. “I admire your persistence… but we both know how this ends.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, frustration and helplessness bubbling as his hand continued. His touch wasn’t violent—it was careful—but that only made it worse. It wasn’t pain he was inflicting now, but a complete violation of your sense of control.

His gloved hand came back to your face, tilting your chin up so you were forced to look at him. His thumb brushed over your trembling lip again, his gaze piercing into yours.

“I could keep you here forever,” he said, the words chilling in their sincerity.

His lips crashed against yours again, firm and unrelenting, leaving you breathless. You struggled at first, your body instinctively trying to push him away, but his grip on your wrists remained iron-clad. The cold leather of his glove against your skin sent a shiver down your spine, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his mouth on yours.

You whimpered into the kiss, your resolve crumbling as the sheer intensity of it overwhelmed you. It wasn’t just the act itself—it was him. His presence, his control, the way he seemed to consume you entirely.

His hand on your chin slid down, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw before resting on your throat. The weight of his touch there, firm but not constricting, made your breath hitch, and that only seemed to fuel him further. His tongue brushed against your lower lip, demanding entrance, and though you wanted to resist, your body betrayed you.

You parted your lips, and he wasted no time, deepening the kiss with a hunger that sent sparks of something unfamiliar coursing through you. You should’ve been disgusted, horrified even, but instead, a warmth began to bloom in your chest, spreading through your body like wildfire.

Why did this feel so good?

You had never had time for… this. Whatever this was. After being abducted by the Entity, survival had been your only focus. There was no room for affection, no space for intimacy, no chance to feel anything beyond fear and desperation. But now, under his touch, under his spell, you felt yourself slipping into something dangerously close to surrender.

And then it happened.

You kissed him back.

It was tentative at first, a soft, hesitant movement of your lips against his, as if testing the waters. But when he felt your response, his grip on your wrists tightened, and a low, satisfied hum rumbled in his chest. His other hand, still resting on your throat, flexed slightly, his fingers curling against your skin as if claiming you.

The kiss grew deeper, more intense, and you found yourself leaning into him despite everything. Your mind screamed at you to stop, to pull away, to fight, but your body refused to listen. Every brush of his lips, every flick of his tongue, every subtle shift of his body against yours sent another wave of that intoxicating warmth crashing over you.

You hated him. You feared him. And yet, in this moment, you couldn’t bring yourself to resist.

When he finally pulled back, his lips parted from yours with a soft, wet sound, leaving you gasping for air. His eyes bored into yours, dark and unreadable, as he studied your flushed face.

“There it is,” he murmured, his voice low and almost… tender? “I knew you’d come around.”

You tried to look away, shame and confusion twisting in your chest, but he wouldn’t let you. His hand on your throat moved back to your chin, tilting your face up again so you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

“Don’t look so conflicted,” he teased, his lips curling into a smirk. “You’re mine now, remember? There’s no going back.”

His hand lingered on your chin, thumb brushing against your skin with an unsettling softness, as though savoring the moment. His smirk widened as he leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice a velvet whisper that sent shivers down your spine. “The pull… the surrender. Fighting me is pointless.”

You swallowed hard, your breath hitching as his free hand began to trail down your body, gliding over your shoulder, tracing the curve of your arm, and finally resting at your waist.

Your heart raced as you tried to push him away again, weakly pressing against his chest, but he didn’t budge. If anything, the pressure of his body against yours only increased.

“Shh,” he cooed, his lips ghosting over your ear. “Why do you still resist? Haven’t I shown you how… good this can feel?”

You hated how his words stirred something inside you, how the warmth from before was now spreading like fire under your skin.

He leaned back just enough to study your face, his gaze softened slightly, but there was still a glint of amusement in his eyes, as though he was enjoying watching you struggle with your own emotions.

“You’re so used to running,” he said, almost thoughtfully, as if speaking to himself. “So used to fighting. But here, with me…” His hand on your waist tightened, pulling you closer. “You’ll learn to stay. To submit.”

The word sent a jolt through you, and your eyes widened as you finally found your voice.

“I’ll never—”

But before you could finish, his lips were on yours again, silencing your protest with a kiss far more intense than the last. It was consuming, overwhelming, and despite your words, you felt yourself melting into it. His grip on your wrists remained firm as his other hand moved to cup the back of your neck, holding you in place.

You tried to focus, to think, to fight, but his kiss drowned out every thought, leaving you with nothing but the sensation of him.

When he pulled back this time, he was breathing heavier, his dark eyes locked onto yours. “See?” he said softly, his voice a mix of satisfaction and something deeper. “You’re already mine.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, frustration and confusion boiling inside you. You hated him. You hated how he made you feel, how he twisted your will, how he toyed with you like you were nothing more than a plaything. But most of all, you hated how a part of you wanted to stay.

He tilted his head, watching you with a curious expression, as though trying to decipher the storm of emotions on your face. Then, with a smirk, he leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear once more.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, his voice dripping with dark amusement. “We have all the time in the world to figure this out.”

And with that, he released your wrists, stepping back and letting you collapse to the ground, your legs too weak to hold you up. You looked up at him, your body trembling, your mind spinning, as he simply stood there, staring down at you with that infuriatingly smug expression.

“Run,” he said, his voice almost playful as he gestured toward the door. “I’ll even give you a head start.”

But you didn’t move. You couldn’t. You were trapped—not just by him, but by your own warring emotions.

He watched you with those sharp, unrelenting eyes as you remained frozen, staring up at him. His smirk faded, replaced by a look of amused annoyance.

“Pathetic,” he muttered, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “I offer you a chance, and yet you just sit there like a lost little lamb.”

Before you could react, he moved with frightening speed, grabbing you and slinging you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. You let out a small yelp, weakly squirming in his grip, but his hold was ironclad.

“Keep struggling if you want,” he said, his tone dripping with disdain. “It won’t make a difference.”

He started walking, his steps slow and deliberate, as though savoring the moment. The sound of his boots against the cracked floorboards echoed through the empty halls of the theater. You hung limply over his shoulder, your mind racing as you tried to process what was happening.

Then, out of nowhere, he started talking.

“You know,” he began, his voice calm and eerily conversational, “they called me a genius once. A prodigy.” He chuckled darkly. “The greatest violinist of my time. My performances brought crowds to their knees. They cried, they cheered… They worshipped me.”

You frowned, unsure of where he was going with this, but he continued, as though you weren’t even there.

“But it wasn’t enough,” he said, his voice tightening with anger. “I wanted more. I needed to create the perfect symphony. Something timeless. Something unforgettable.”

His grip on you tightened slightly, his gloved hand pressing into your back.

“So I poured everything into my masterpiece,” he went on, his tone shifting into something almost wistful. “Years of work. Painstaking detail. Every note, every pause, every crescendo—perfection.”

You hesitated, your curiosity getting the better of you. “…What happened?”

He stopped walking for a moment, his silence heavy and foreboding. Then, he let out a bitter laugh.

“They rejected it,” he said, his voice cold. “Those self-important critics. They said it lacked ‘soul,’ that it was too mechanical, too precise. They dared to insult my work.”

You swallowed hard, already sensing where this was going.

“So,” he continued, resuming his slow, steady pace, “I invited them all to a private concert. My ‘final performance,’ I told them. And they came, eager to tear me apart one last time.”

He chuckled darkly, the sound sending a chill down your spine.

“But this time, they didn’t leave. Not alive, anyway.”

You stiffened, your breath catching as his words sank in.

“They didn’t understand art,” he said, his voice growing colder. “Not until they became part of it. Their screams, their fear… It was the most beautiful symphony I ever created.”

You could barely comprehend what you were hearing. He wasn’t just mad—he was completely deranged.

“And then,” he said, his tone shifting into something almost reverent, “the Entity came. It saw my genius, my passion, and it gave me a new stage. A new audience.”

He stopped walking, his gloved hand coming up to idly adjust the strap of his violin, which was still slung across his back.

“And now,” he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, “I perform for eternity. Each trial, a new composition. Each scream, a new note.”

You shuddered, your mind racing. His story was horrifying, but what scared you the most was the way he spoke about it—with pride, with satisfaction.

“Why are you telling me this?” you asked weakly, your voice trembling.

He tilted his head, as though considering your question. Then, he chuckled softly.

“Because,” he said, his voice laced with amusement, “you’ll be part of my next masterpiece.”

Your blood ran cold as his words sank in. You wanted to scream, to fight, but your body felt too weak, too drained. All you could do was hang there, helpless, as he carried you deeper into the dark, abandoned theater.

And all you could think was, he’s completely mad.

He carried you through the desolate theater, his footsteps unhurried, as though he were savoring every moment of your despair. When he finally stopped, you felt your stomach churn as your gaze landed on a rusted, blood-stained hook.

“No,” you croaked, struggling weakly in his grip, but he only chuckled darkly, his gloved hand tightening around you.

“Oh, yes,” he replied, his voice dripping with mockery.

With terrifying ease, he lifted you off his shoulder and slammed you onto the hook. Pain shot through your body as the sharp metal pierced your flesh, forcing a scream from your lips. You writhed and struggled, the agony unbearable, but the hook held firm.

Your scream echoed through the empty halls, and his reaction was chilling. His head tilted back slightly, his lips parting as though he were savoring a fine wine. His eyes gleamed with a wild, crazed light, and the corners of his mouth curled into a manic grin.

“Yes,” he whispered, his voice low and trembling with excitement. “That’s it. That’s the sound I’ve been waiting for.”

You gasped for breath, tears stinging your eyes as you glared at him. “You’re insane,” you spat weakly.

His grin only widened. He stepped closer, tilting his head, his gaze fixed on you with a kind of sick fascination.

“Next time I put you up here,” he said, his voice soft but dripping with menace, “I expect to hear you scream my name instead.”

You flinched at his words, your breath hitching. “I—I don’t know your name,” you managed to choke out.

At that, his grin shifted into something even more unsettling—a sickeningly sweet smile that made your blood run cold.

“Then let me enlighten you,” he said, leaning in closer. “It’s Heeseung. And you’d better not forget it.”

His voice dropped lower, dangerously smooth. “Because if you do… I’ll make sure you never forget. I’ll carve it into your mind, your body, your soul.”

Your heart raced as his words sank in, his soft, mocking tone making your skin crawl.

He straightened up, pulling his violin from his back with a flourish. Heeseung’s eyes never left you as he adjusted the instrument beneath his chin, his gloved fingers dancing over the strings.

“And now,” he said, his voice almost playful, “I leave you with a parting gift.”

He raised his bow, but before he began to play, he blew you a kiss—a mocking, exaggerated gesture that sent a chill down your spine.

“Until next time, my dear,” he said, his voice dripping with malice.

Then, he walked away, the haunting melody of his violin filled the air. You hung there, trembling and bleeding, as his tune echoed through the empty theater.

And all you could think, through the haze of pain and exhaustion, was how he and Ghostface would make the best buddies. If they hadn’t already.

You could practically imagine it: Ghostface with his twisted sense of humor, showing pictures of his victims, while Heeseung played a chilling melody in the background. The thought almost made you laugh—a bitter, hysterical sound that was quickly swallowed by a wave of pain.

"Perfect little psychopaths," you muttered under your breath, your voice weak and trembling.

And yet, part of you wondered if they had met. The Entity’s domain wasn’t small, and the killers had their own ways of crossing paths. You could imagine Ghostface mocking Heeseung’s perfectionism, while Heeseung would likely call Ghostface’s theatrics "childish." Still, their combined sadism would leave anyone unfortunate enough to cross their paths wishing for a quicker end.

“Maybe they’re pen pals,” you muttered weakly, clinging to the absurdity of the thought to distract from the throbbing pain.

"How funny would that be," you mumbled to yourself, letting out a breathless, bitter laugh as the Entity’s claws dug deeper. The pain was unbearable, and you could feel your strength fading fast. The realization hit you like a brick wall: no one was coming.

You glanced around weakly, but the map was eerily quiet, void of footsteps or whispers of another survivor. It was just you—hooked, bleeding, and alone.

With a sigh of resignation, you let your hands drop, giving up the fight against the Entity’s claws. “Guess this is it,” you whispered to yourself, closing your eyes as the final pull of the Entity claimed you.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t been through this before. You knew you’d wake up in the survivors’ camp, alive and unhurt. But this time… this time felt different.

When you opened your eyes again, you were sprawled beneath the familiar tree in the survivor camp, your body whole and your wounds gone. The gentle hum of the campfire reached your ears, and the familiar sounds of chatter surrounded you.

But you didn’t join the others. Instead, you sat there, frozen, your thoughts a whirlwind.

Your fingers absentmindedly moved to your lips, grazing the soft skin as if to confirm something. Heeseung’s kiss had been like his music—intoxicating, haunting, impossible to forget. You hated that you could still feel it, like a ghost of his touch lingering there.

You clenched your fists, cursing under your breath. What the hell was wrong with you? He was a killer. A deranged, sadistic monster who found joy in tormenting you. And yet…

You shook your head, trying to banish the thought. But the image of him wouldn’t leave your mind.

The other survivors’ voices seemed to fade into the background as you stared into the campfire, lost in your thoughts. You’d faced countless killers before, survived their wrath, even laughed off their brutality. But this… this was something else entirely.

Heeseung, you thought, his name echoing in your mind like a song you couldn’t forget.

Heeseung.

Heeseung.

Heeseung.

══════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹══════

Perm taglist: @ilyunjina @nshmrarki @laylasbunbunny

@wensurr @immelissaaa @simj4k3 @vegahrid @03sunoos

@hollxe1 @moonpri @cherriesfine @badtzsan @anushkaaaiaiiaiaia

@heeseungbabydoll @wondash @renjiishot @demigodmahash

@strawberrieswithchocolateo3o @honeybunnee @jjongstar111

@enhaprettystars @zorange13 @jiminie-08 @enhaprettystars

@enhamonsterghoul @mrsjjongstby @lunaritex @kiripimaspillow

@flwwon

Bold ones are untaggable* Wanna be in the perm taglist? Lmk <3

[ellecdc]

DONT TEASE ME WITH PLATONIC BARTY AND BIG BRITHER SIRIUS STOP IM ON MY KNEES PLEASEE 🪩

okay so this accidentally ended up being almost 5.5k words??? whoopsie daisy.

this concept was a collaboration with @unstablereader and also intertwined a few requests for best friend Barty, big brother Sirius, and poly!moonwater hurt comfort!!

poly!moonwater x fem!reader who was bitten over the winter hols

p1 // p2

CW: Best Friend Barty (i.e., swearing, chaos, slight insanity), Big Brother Sirius (i.e., coddling, bad cop, certified dumbass), swearing swearing swearing, slight muggle blasphemy, description of wounds/blood/injury, discussion of Sacred 28 Pureblood Families, etc etc etc - hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending

Barty Crouch Junior was a plethora of dichotomies and contradictions. 

He was a good friend and a bad son. He was a smart boy who made horrible ideas. He was a rational person with unreasonable reactions. He was a menace and very reliable. He was a good lay and a bad boy. 

Barty liked that about himself though; he liked that no one ever knew what to expect when it came to Bartemus Crouch Junior. 

Though, he supposed to those who knew him, it would have been completely predictable for him to have stayed at Hogwarts over the winter holidays. Maybe he should have gone home – really surprised everyone then.

His nightly routine of trying to incendio Daily Prophet articles of his father with nonverbal and wandless magic was interrupted by an awkward thump on his dorm room door. 

“Come in?” Barty called awkwardly, unsure who might be at his door seeing as his friends were all home for the holidays and the staff here tended to avoid him like Dragon Pox.

The doorknob began to rattle but it sounded as if the person on the other side of the door was struggling to turn it.

“Salazar’s saggy balls. WHAT!?” He seethed as he ripped the door open, determined to teach whoever was stupid enough to bother him a lesson when he came face to face with you.

Except...except you were crying, and bloody, and so pale.

“Treasure!?” Barty squawked, awkwardly catching you as you began to slide down the door frame which you were leaning the entirety of your weight on. 

“Barty...I-” you started before a pained sob tore through your teeth. “I need help.”

“What happened?” Barty asked breathlessly, moving you from the door to his bed without your help after your left leg gave out on you.

“Barty...”

“What. Happened. Y/N?” He demanded.

“Barty, you cannot- cannot tell Reg and Remus. Pl- hnggh - please promise me you won’t tell them.”

“Tell them what, Treasure? What’s wrong!?” Barty pressed, beginning to panic when his bedding quickly became saturated with your blood. 

“Promise me!” You shrieked, your voice carrying the most clarity since you had arrived.

“Okay! I promise!” Barty agreed readily. You didn’t seem convinced, however.

You shakily held your pinky out to him and stared intensely at him. “Promise me that y-, that you will not tell Remus or, or Regulus.”

Barty looked between your eyes and your pinky before finally interlocking your pinky with his. “I promise I will not tell Remus or Regulus.”

More tears fell as you began pulling your long winter robes off. You were wearing a long sleeved shirt and long trousers, but Barty could tell most of the bleeding was coming from your leg. Your fingers were shaking too much as you unsuccessfully tried unbuttoning your trousers, so Barty silently asked for your permission before undoing the button and zip for you.

You pulled the pants to your knee to expose a large...werewolf bite on your left thigh.

“Treasure.” Barty breathed out horrified, looking back up at you with tears in his eyes. “What...what happened? No, I ... I can see what happened. How did this happen?”

“I...I just-”

And you passed out.

“No! No no no. Nononononono.” Barty chanted as he tried to rouse you awake.

“Okay Barty, come on, think. You didn’t achieve all twelve O.W.L’s for naught.” He berated himself, lying you down on his bed and pulling your trousers the rest of the way off.

He turned you onto your right side and tried elevating your leg to stop the blood flow after he realized a simple episkey was not going to close the wound.

He realized that the reason you’d been struggling to open the door was that your wrist appeared to be broken, and you’d been leaning onto the doorframe to keep your weight off of your injured leg. That he could fix with an episkey, so at least he wasn’t completely useless. 

His sweet, sweet Treasure. Bitten. By a werewolf!? Your parents...

Oh gods, your parents.

That’s why you were here.

You couldn’t go back home, not as a werewolf; your parents would kill you. The only thing worse to a Sacred 28 Family than a dead daughter would be a werewolf one.

Fuck. 

Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

And why couldn’t he tell Lupin and Regulus!? Lupin was probably the only person who could actually help you right now. Barty hated that – hated that someone else could help you and he couldn’t – but he also loved that you had people who loved you and could help you.

Fucking fuck, he was supposed to be burning moving pictures of his father right now, not trying to bring his best friend back from the brink of death.

“That’s enough Treasure, you need to wake up.” He muttered, shaking you by your shoulders gently. When that still didn’t work, he cast a quick rennervate. 

You groaned in pain and tried rolling onto your back. 

“No, Y/N, you need to stay like this. I need you to tell me what happened.”

You moaned again and turned back towards him; eyes shut tight in pain. 

“I...I needed to leave I, I – ugh.”

“Okay, okay. So you left, that much I can understand. How’d you get bitten?”

“I didn’t, I didn’t know it was there until it was too late, Barty. I swear it. I was following the trail behind my-my house and it just appeared! I fell back- backwards onto my arm when it lunged and I apparated once I realized what was happening, but it was...it was too- too late.”

“Where were you trying to go?”

“The Potter’s.”

“And why can’t you go there now?”

You opened your eyes at that, and Barty felt his heart fall out of his ass at the amount of pain that spilled from your eyes that had nothing to do with any of your various physical injuries.

“Rem... Rem hates himself. He hates The Wolf, he ha- hates his lycanthropy; he thinks he is a m... monster and deserves nothing. Barty, he’ll hate me.” You broke into a sob at the end of your sentence and Barty was very close to joining you.

He didn’t think you were right at all, mind you; he thinks it’d be rather impossible for anyone to hate you, least of all Lupin who seemed completely lovesick for you and Regulus. He didn’t think it was worth your energy to argue with you about it though, seeing as he already pinky promised not to go to the lycanthrope or your other boyfriend about this.

He didn’t know what to do, though. He needed to close this wound and stop the bleeding, he needed to pilfer from the infirmary, he needed to pilfer the potions supply closet, and he needed to figure out how to help a werewolf. And he needed to do all of these things whilst somehow not leaving your side at all. 

“I’m tired, Barty.” You murmured quietly, startling him from his internal panic.

“You can’t sleep, Treasure. Not until we close this wound and stop the bleeding.”

He pulled out his third year DADA textbook to find the chapter on werewolves. 

“Dangerous creature this, loss of moral sense that, right then – powdered silver and dittany applied to a fresh bite wound.” Barty recited as he read off his textbook. He looked over to your wound, still oozing and bleeding, though the new angle and elevation did seem to be helping staunch the blood flow at least a little.

“Right... fresh enough I suppose.” Barty sighed, making you promise to stay awake long enough for him to raid the potions supply closet and the infirmary to get the necessary ingredients.

Barty had been feeling quite confident in his plans.

Except something was very, very wrong.

The dittany and powered silver bubbled slightly where it interacted with your blood and flesh but didn’t seem to be sticking to your wound at all; it seemed that it was just causing you to moan in agony as Barty uselessly tried spreading it over your leg.

“You’re sure it was a werewolf that bit you?” He asked again. Barty was certain that if you were feeling better, you would have kicked at him.

He wished you could have kicked at him.

“Yes, Barty.” You cried.

“Oh, Treasure, I’m sorry.” He lamented, putting down his bowl of useless silver paste and brushing sweaty hairs away from your forehead.

“Salazar, you’re burning up, Y/N.” He commented, cupping your heated and flushed face with his hand. 

“I’m cold.” You argued, awkwardly trying to pull at his bedsheets to cover your arms. Barty hated to add more layers on you when your fever was this high, but he couldn’t really bring himself to deny you, either. 

Unfortunately, it appeared that Barty needed help. 

Unfortunately, Barty made you a promise.

Fortunately, there were ways around that. 

Unfortunately, that meant having to resort to a fate worse than death.

“Oh! Hello there.” Mrs. Potter greeted Barty as she rounded the corner after being alerted by the house elf that there was a student at the floo. “Are you looking for Regulus?”

Barty adorned his most charming (and least maniacal) grin as he bowed politely to Mrs. Potter like the proper Pureblood he'd been beaten raised to be. 

“Euphemia Potter – looking as smashing as ever.” He said before returning to his full height. “Actually, I’m here for the lesser Black brother today.”

Mrs. Potter narrowed her eyes at his comment but pursed her mouth as if fighting back a smile.

“Am I to assume you’re referring to Sirius, Barty?”

Barty sighed in admiration. “Smart and pretty, Euphemia; how do you do it?”

“I’ll be right back, Mr. Crouch.” Mrs. Potter called over her shoulder as she left the floo reception room. Barty quickly pulled out the charmed compact mirror he had connected to a hand mirror which he had set up beside you before he left. You were asleep and shivering violently, but you were alive.

Help is coming, Treasure. 

“Oh.” Barty heard, causing him to close the mirror and look up to see a confused looking Sirius pausing mid-step into the room. “Sorry, I’ll go get Regulus for you.”

Barty scoffed derisively. “Oh, come off it Black – give the woman a little credit, yeah? I asked for you. Now let’s go.” He barked, turning towards the floo flame.

He turned back when he realized Sirius wasn’t following him.

“Hello??” He called sarcastically. “Did you not hear me? I said let’s go.”

Sirius looked Barty up and down and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“Why in the hells would I go anywhere with you?” Sirius asked bemusedly. 

“Black!” Barty seethed. “I do not have time for this, we have to go now.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what this is about.”

Barty sighed and looked down to the hells for patience or possibly extra strong demonic powers to get through this conversation with Sirius. 

“Where is Regulus right now?”

Sirius considered Barty skeptically but answered, nonetheless. 

“Upstairs with Remus.”

Barty looked at Sirius at that. “Is it safe to assume he is helping him recover from last night?”

Sirius’ face fell and he levelled Barty with a hard glare. “What the hell are you on about, Junior?”

“Black, please believe that there is absolutely nothing in this realm that I’d rather be doing than sitting here asking for your help but I’m here doing just that.”

“For what?”

Regulus was here, and Regulus was helping Lupin, which meant that Lupin was also here with his supernatural hearing. Barty made you a promise – he would not tell Regulus or Remus what has happened.

“I need your help, because I’ve found a lost Treasure that seems to be in some Trouble.” Barty explained slowly, praying to every god that Sirius would pick up on his not-so-subtle clues.

Sirius’ eyes stayed narrowed at Barty before they grew comically in understanding. 

“Where is-”

“Not here.” Barty interrupted. “Grab your things and come with me.”

“I have so many fucking questions.” Sirius muttered as he stepped through the floo, somehow ending up standing in the Slytherin common room. 

“Like?” Barty asked in a bored tone.

“How the hell did you manage to connect the floo network to the Slytherin common room?” He started, realizing that it probably wasn’t the most important question, but it seemed to take precedence in his mind.

Barty turned to sneer at Sirius, though his steps never faltered as he sped towards what Sirius could only assume was his dorm.

“Really, Black? I tell you that your future sister-in-law is in dire need of your help, and that’s what you’re- you know what? I’m not surprised. The floo network is easy to manipulate so long as you know how to dismantle ancient wards.” Barty explained dismissively.

 Easy. Dismantle ancient wards. Sure.

“What’s wrong with Y/N?” He asked much more seriously. Most (though not all) of the contempt drained from Barty’s face as he stopped in front of a door. 

“She...she was bitten.”

Sirius just stared dumbly at the absolute last person he imagined he'd be spending his morning with as he let that information process.

He wasn't given much time, however, as Barty quickly opened the door and disappeared into the room, clearly unbothered to see if Sirius was following him in or not.

“Treasure? Hey, hey; it’s okay. Look? I brought some help, okay? You’re alright.” He cooed at a curled-up form on his bed – your curled-up form.

“Oh, Trouble.” Sirius breathed out in disbelief, surveying your shaking and battered body before his gaze paused on your exposed thigh – clear as day was a large canine bite, still bleeding. 

“Oh, my girl.” Sirius cooed, feeling like he might be sick at the sight of one of his favourite people in the world in so much pain. It was very different from post moon care with Remus; Remus was seasoned, he was prepared, they were prepared.

You looked like you were dying.

“What’s wrong with her?” Sirius asked quickly, shaking himself and trying to force himself into action.

“Other than the very obvious werewolf bite?” Barty sneered. “She has a fever that won’t quit.”

“Take the blankets off.” Sirius ordered, earning him a whimper from your form.

“S’cold, Siri.” You whined.

“I know, Trouble, but you’re burning up.” He replied apologetically, pulling the blankets out of your currently much weaker grasp.

Barty looked like he was just as heartbroken as you were at the loss of the warmth, but clearly agreed with Sirius enough not to argue. 

“Mean.” You pouted; eyes still screwed shut in pain.

“I know, I’m the worst.” He whispered, casting a quick auguamenti and glacius on a rag and placing it on your head, earning him another protesting groan from you.

“Why’s her leg still bleeding?” Sirius asked, eyes still on your face as he used the cloth to wipe away the sweat from your features. He quickly prepared two more rags and placed them on the back of your neck and your chest. 

“I don’t know. I followed the instructions from our DADA textbook on werewolves – three tablespoons of powdered silver mixed with four tablespoons of dittany to create a paste. It did nothing but hurt her and aggravate me.” He admitted, sounding horribly dejected.

“Where’s the silver from?”

“Slughorn’s supply closet.”

Sirius groaned. “That’s why. The school buys the cheapest ingredients they can to keep costs low. That won’t be pure silver.”

“Well, where in the hells are we supposed to find pure silver then?” Barty groaned. 

Of all the times for Sirius to not be at Grimmauld Place anymore – that place was teeming with pure silver.

Pure...

Toujours pur. 

“Regulus.” Sirius whispered no louder than a breath. You didn’t seem to hear him, your lucid moment clearly over; but Barty did.

“I promised Y/N I wouldn’t tell Lupin or Regulus.” He explained plainly, causing Sirius to groan.

“Then what are we supposed to do?”

Barty turned his face to glare at Sirius. “I promised Y/N I wouldn’t tell Lupin or Regulus.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “I heard you, Junior. So, what are we going to do then?”

Barty let out a long-suffering sigh. “I promised Y/N I wouldn’t tell Lupin or Regulus.”

Sirius’ brows furrowed and he cautiously lifted his hand to press the back of it to Barty’s head, checking for fever of his own. Barty aggressively swatted him away.

“Are you quite alright, Junior? Is this a stroke?”

“I need you to listen to me very carefully, Black. Okay? Are you listening to my words?”

Sirius nodded at him as Barty grabbed Sirius by the shoulders and stared imposingly into his eyes. “I – Bartemus Crouch Junior – promised that sweet, lovely Treasure you call Trouble over there, that I – Bartemus Crouch Junior – would not tell Remus Lupin or Regulus Black. I promised her.” 

Now, Sirius feels it’s important to note that it was currently maybe seven o’clock in the morning, and he’d only just stepped out of the shower after washing away a night of romping in the woods around Potter Manor with Moony as Padfoot to be told there was someone at the floo for him; in other words, he was fucking exhausted. And to add to that, he had one of his least favourite people tell him that one of the worst possible things happened to one of his favourite people. So, sue him for what he said next.

“I don’t understand.” 

“Fucking son of a mother fucking cunt, I swear to that fucking muggle-religion-wizard-guy-that-caused-the-whole-brew-ha-ha-in-that-big-ass-muggle-tome I will shave that fucking head of yours and wear your hair as a wig; I cannot tell Lupin and Regulus.” Barty spat, though somehow managed to keep his voice low enough to not gain your attention.

“Yes, yes, yes. You promised her.” Sirius lamented. “You p- wait... you promised her. You promised her.”

“Thank Merlin and Morgana.” Barty groaned as fell to his knees in exhaustion, clearly more than thankful that Sirius had finally gotten it. 

“I’ll be back.” Sirius announced and started towards the fireplace in the Slytherin common room in order to retrieve his brother. 

Regulus looked up from the pages of his novel to survey Remus’ form again. His boyfriend laid on his back with his head propped up on two pillows and his eyes closed as the soft morning light filtered its way through the sheer curtains and painted his features in its warm glow.

Regulus knew Remus was likely exhausted and sore and perhaps feeling awfully sorry for himself right now, but Regulus wasn’t sure he ever looked more beautiful. 

“You should take a picture; it’ll last longer.” Remus commented dryly, never bothering to open his eyes as a smile danced on his lips.

“Ha ha.” Regulus deadpanned, returning his gaze to his book with a blush taking over his face.

“You worry too much, love. I’m okay.” 

“I know you’re okay.” Regulus argued.

“Yet you still worry?”

“Yet I still worry.” 

Regulus heard Remus’ head turn against his pillow, and he looked back up to see Remus regarding him.

“Have you heard from her by chance?” Remus whispered as if fearing the answer he knew was coming.

Regulus knew it was you who Remus referred to; they’d been waiting quite impatiently for your owl for the past few days.

You had promised to write as often as you could - every day if possible – over the winter holidays. The last correspondence they had with you was four days ago as you told them of some family gathering at your home.

He hated to be the bearer of bad news, but he could tell he was caught at the disappointed sigh from Remus.

“No, mon loup. I’m sorry.” Regulus admitted.

Remus let out another sigh and leaned his head back down on the pillows, squishing his eyes shut as if the pain of not knowing how you were was more painful than the current aching in his bones.

“Hey, Reg?” Regulus heard his brother call from the door. 

“He’s awake.” Regulus called back simply.

“How’re you feeling, Moons?” Sirius asked, walking towards the end of the bed with his hands in his pocket.

“Been worse.” Remus answered.

“I...” Sirius started, cutting himself off with a sigh.

“Spit it out, Sirius. We’ve not got all day.” Regulus drawled and put his book down. He couldn’t stop his heart rate from picking up when he noticed Sirius’ discontent, however; sudden flashbacks of Sirius standing in Regulus’ doorway begging him to pack his things and leave with him bombarding his mind.

“What is it, Pads?” Remus asked, seeming to pick up on his friend’s anxiety as well.

“I need your help.” He admitted. “It’s...it’s Y/N.”

Remus sat up all too quickly and winced at the cracking of his back.

“What is it? Where is she? Is she okay?” He asked, trying to free himself from the bedding that Regulus had tucked him into hours earlier.

“No, well, yes...she-”

“Where is she?” Regulus whispered in horror.

“With Junior. At Hogwarts.”

Regulus relaxed slightly to at least know you were safe at Hogwarts and with Barty, though that raised more questions than answers for him.

“How do you know that?” Regulus asked, all the while Remus continued struggling to dress himself despite his various aches and pains. 

“Junior told me.” Sirius admitted, finally taking pity on his friend and helping him dress whilst his boyfriend sat their uselessly. 

“Why did he tell you? When did he tell you?”

“This morning!” Sirius barked, clearly growing agitated, “listen, I just-”

“What happened to her, Sirius?” Remus begged, finally taking a moment to catch his breath and stare at his friend imploringly. “What happened to her that Junior told you and not us?”

Sirius swallowed thickly before he answered.

“She was bitten, Rem.”

All colour drained from Remus’ face and Regulus sat stock still.

“Was it me?!” Remus asked through a choked sob. This seemed to snap Regulus out of his uselessness and he reached for Remus’ shoulder to squeeze it affectionately.

“No, no. Moony, no one was there last night. I swear it.”

“What...why do you need my help? What do you need?” Regulus asked quietly, standing to pull on his own jacket and retrieving his and Remus’ wands from the dresser. 

“We can’t get the wound to close, and she’s got a wicked fever that we can’t bring down. She’s barely lucid, she's lost an insane amount of blood, and the silver at the school didn’t work to close it and-”

“No, it wouldn’t.” Remus agreed breathlessly.

“Why not?”

“Too costly to give pure powdered silver to a bunch of students who make throw away potions – they only use what works in the brew but not in practice.” Remus explained, groaning as he stood and quickly transfigured his suitcase into a cane on account of his hip after the transformation. 

“So, you need pure silver? Like... the ring!” Regulus whispered, hastily ripping the Black Family signet ring from his thumb and passing it to Sirius.

“We need to go now. She can’t afford to lose any more blood, and it should have been closed immediately.” Remus pressed, making his way to the door albeit a little shakily. 

Regulus was sick with worry; for you, your life, your future, your family, for Remus and how upsetting this must be for him as well, but something still wasn’t making any sense.

“Why did Barty tell you?” Regulus asked as they stepped through the floo into the Slytherin common room, making a mental note to ensure that it was closed before the rest of the students returned from winter holidays.

Sirius grimaced slightly and turned to look at his friend who he was supporting as they followed Regulus to the dorm room.

“She...she made him promise not to tell you guys.” Sirius admitted.

Remus’ steps faltered and Regulus turned, ready to help Sirius in catching him, only to notice that he wasn’t falling but rather had stopped walking all together.

“Why wouldn’t she want us to know?” Remus asked mournfully.

“I never did hear why.” Sirius admitted, encouraging Regulus forward with a nod of his head.

The three of them entered the room to find Barty sitting on a low stool beside you with his pinky interlinked with yours. Your eyes were still shut tightly and your breathing was shallow, but Regulus could hear Barty talking lowly to you and your occasional responses. 

“I like that song about the fighter, the writer, and the ruler.” Barty murmured quietly to you.

Your brows twitched as you gritted out “it’s Soldier, Poet, King.”

“Ah, right you are, Treasure.” Barty responded, looking over his shoulder at the new additions to the room. “You always know everything.”

“How is she?” Sirius asked as he dropped the signet ring inside the mortar and pestle and traded seats with Barty who began to grind it into powder, and Regulus and Remus moved to stand near the end of the bed to take in your form.

“Hanging in there, Black.” Barty responded to Sirius, though he looked at Regulus as he said it.

Sirius must have noticed Regulus’ death glare being pointed at Barty and opted to intervene. 

“Hey, Trouble?” Sirius asked you gently, brushing some of your damp hair away from your forehead. You hummed in acknowledgement without opening your eyes.

“Why didn’t you want Remus and Regulus to know, sweets?”

You whimpered as your face morphed into agony, eyes finally opening to look at Sirius through fat tears.

“Remus will hate me.”

Remus actually whimpered at that, clearly itching to move towards you, but not wanting to interrupt you.

“Why would he hate you?”

“He hates werewolves.”

Remus’ head dropped in shame as Regulus rubbed soothing circle into his back. 

“But he loves you, Trouble.” Sirius pressed, watching Remus all the while.

“Not anymore.” You sighed in resignation, closing your eyes once more.

“Always, dove.” Remus insisted. You squeezed your eyes tightly as if you were trying to convince yourself that he wasn’t really there. 

“Do you hear me? I will always love you. There is nothing that could ever happen that would make me hate you, okay?” He carried on, slowly making his way to the other side of the bed in order to curl up behind you and pull your back into his front. 

You whimpered, though Regulus was sure it was less from physical pain and more in distress.

“What about Reggie?” You cried as Sirius continued rubbing his thumb across your forehead. 

“It’s almost ready.” Barty interrupted as he began measuring out the silver and dittany. 

“Reggie thinks the world of you, dove.” Remus murmured into your hair, looking over at Regulus imploringly. 

“You’ve got a lot of people who care about you, Trouble.” Sirius added. “We’re not going to let you do this alone.”

“It’s done, Treasure. We’re gonna fix you up.” Barty said as he made his way over, keeping his eyes trained on Regulus. 

“Dovey, this is going to hurt an awful lot, okay? But you’re so brave, you’re so brave and then you’ll feel better, okay?” Remus spoke into your hair, keeping you pressed tightly to his form as you began to struggle against his hold. 

“Regulus, you need to be brave for her.” Sirius ordered, looking as severe as Regulus ever remembered his older brother being. 

What could Regulus have ever done to make you think it was at all possible for him to feel anything but love for you?

How could Regulus ensure that you never thought such things again?

“I’m right here, amour. Okay? You’ve got four of us here who love you, we’re not going anywhere.” He pressed, moving to take over Sirius’ place on Barty’s short stool as Sirius positioned himself close to your feet.

“I don’t want to hurt.” You cried, breathing becoming slightly erratic as Remus added more pressure in keeping your arms pinned to your sides.

“I know, amour. It’ll be over soon, okay?” Regulus tried, brushing hair away and pressing his lips to your overly hot forehead.

“You’re so brave, Y/N. We’ve got you, okay? Such a brave girl, come on babylove, you’re okay.” Remus chanted, looking over at Sirius as he pinned your ankles to the bed and Barty transfigured a stirrer in an applicator.

“Please. I don’t want to.” You begged.

“You’re so brave.” Remus repeated, pressing his mouth to the top of your head as his own tears fell into your hair.

“Do it.” Regulus insisted, not wanting to prolong this anymore.

Regulus nearly dropped his wand in his haste to throw up a silencing charm around the dorm room as your screams bounced off the stone walls in time with Barty’s first swipe of the ointment. 

Regulus couldn’t hear the words spilling from Remus’ lips, but he knew that he was whispering sweet encouragements to you as he cried in sympathy. Sirius looked to be using all his strength to keep your legs pinned down as you struggled, and his eyebrows furrowed on your behalf as well.

“You’re okay, amour. You’re okay.” Regulus insisted for both of your benefits, watching as Barty applied the last of the paste to your leg.

“Now what!?” Barty shouted over your agonized cries.  

“Breathe dove, breathe. The pain will fade, just breathe.” Remus coached, rocking the both of you gently back and forth as you sobbed.

“You’ve done so well, amour, so well. Ma courageuse fille; you’re so brave.” Regulus praised, taking both of your hands into his and pulling them from Remus’ grasp to press kisses to your knuckles. “Tu as si bien fait, tu es la personne la plus forte que je connaisse.”

It took some time and many more encouragements before your sobs decreased into pitiful hiccups and whimpers as you looked towards Regulus. 

“You don’t hate me?” You asked pitifully.

Regulus used his thumb to wipe away the tears that were still falling as Remus caressed your arms.

“It never even crossed my mind, cheri. I could never; non.” Regulus insisted. 

“I’m so sorry, dove.” Remus whispered into your head. “I’m so sorry this has happened to you.”

“Remus.” Sirius warned. 

“Not because it makes her any less lovely, Sirius. But because she doesn’t deserve it.” Remus explained. 

“I’m scared.” You admitted timidly.

“I know, dove.”

“Lucky for you, Trouble, you’ve got some seasoned professionals here.” Sirius added, nudging Remus’ foot. 

“Can I start the animagus process now, Rem?” Regulus groaned, looking at Remus pointedly. 

“I guess it wouldn’t be fair to make you sit out on full moons now.” Remus relented – he’d always hated the idea of putting the two of you in any undue danger, but he couldn’t deny Regulus of the two of you, nor you of Regulus; not when you would need him most.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Barty interrupted, moving his skeptical glance between the four of you. “You’re telling me that animagi can romp around with the likes of werewolves?”

Remus nuzzled his face impossibly further into your head as Sirius chuckled. 

“Werewolves don’t care about animals. In fact, it makes them quite happy to have a ‘pack’.” Sirius explained.

Barty laughed conspiratorially. “Well, sign me the fuck up. Regulus, I’ll buy the first mandrake leaf; my treat!” He called as he grabbed his jacket and wand and headed for the door, likely heading to Hogsmeade for supplies in his excitement. 

“Moony is not going to like him.” Sirius proclaimed flippantly, finally falling into a chair in exhaustion after Barty was gone.

“It’s not just about him, anymore.” Remus responded, pressing a kiss to your head. Regulus could tell your fever was reducing, though your cheeks were still flushed.

You had a lot to discuss; what happened, why it happened, and where to go from here. But for now, Regulus was just happy you were alive, currently safe, surrounded by people who loved you, and agreeable to him running you a bath. 

[sukirichi]

𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒. Zayne blamed it on that cursed hippocratic oath that always made him come to your beck and call. But one look at your smiling — although bloodied — face, he realizes he doesn’t mind being your personal doctor. 

𐙚 — Doctor! Zayne x Gangster! Reader

𐙚 — NSFW, MINORS DNI. public sex, dirty talk, oral sex (male receiving), descriptive smut, explicit sex, curse words, deep throating, unprotected sex, sleepy morning sex, fluff, smut, fucking while the reader is recovering from an injury, unrealistic ending LMAO, minimal angst, violence, attempted murder. 13k WC

𐙚 — this is my first lads work please do not judge me AGHSJKA. divider from @/cafekitsune

You’d been in this state before.

It wasn’t anything new, really, and yet the pain never got any more bearable. Each shot always felt like the first one, and you clenched your teeth hard to keep yourself from passing out in the hallway. It was dark, thanks to the old lights that flickered on and off, and you were sure that if someone saw you in this state, they would probably run away. You can’t blame them, because you were pretty banged up.

Heaving a deep breath from your lungs, you leant against the wall, careful not to leave any bloodstains as ragged breaths escaped your mouth. You shuddered from the pain. Your hand was already clutching your wounded shoulder, putting pressure to stabilize the blood oozing out from the wound while your other arm was wrapped around your waist where two bullets had perfectly been shot at you. Your vision had started to become blurry by now, and your knees were growing weaker with each passing second, but his door was just there. Just a few more steps until you found the comfort you so desperately sought out.

With a groan, you pushed yourself away from the wall and wobbled to his front door, letting out a whimper when you realized he kept the door locked. Of course. Plucking out a few hairpins from the back of your head, you twisted it into his doorknob before sighing in relief as the lock opened with a click. You fell almost face first to the floor, your weight becoming harder and harder for you to carry until your legs finally gave in, and you fell on the ground with a loud ‘thud.’ You whimpered in pain, chest heaving up and down in discomfort as your shaking fingers pried the material of your tank top away from the wound. Frowning when you saw the white cotton had been stained completely red.

“Who’s there?” A soft voice asked just as the lights flickered open, making you wince in your spot. “Oh, God. Are you okay?”

He scurried to your almost passed out form, his dark hair coming into view as his huge eyes stared back at you. You noticed his hands were hanging awkwardly in the air as if unsure to touch you, and you felt a little bad when you saw he was still in his doctor’s coat. He had probably just gotten home after a hellish shift at the hospital, and you ruined the little amount of sleep he allowed himself to have.

You forced a smile on your face as your hands reached up to brush the hair away from his eyes, the action leaving a blood stain on its way. “Hey, sweetheart. Did you miss me?”

“You’re seriously crazy,” was all he said before his strong arms wrapped around you securely, making you groan as he scooped you up, your head lolling into his chest before you curled yourself into a ball. You felt the warmth of his leather couch hitting your bare legs, thanks to your ripped denim shorts before he disappeared from your side. A sound of several medical equipment clanked through the tense silence, and soon enough Zayne appeared in your line of sight once more. His hand gently helped you to prop your head on the pillow, a frown painting his soft features as the sound of medical gloves stretching hit your ears.

He didn’t look too happy.

“Two months. You’ve been gone for two months without even a phone call or a simple text to tell me how you’re doing, and now you come back all beaten up?” He shook his head, passing you a bottle of alcohol and a towel to bite on before lifting your shirt up. “You’re seriously going to be the death of me.”

Well, you knew you weren’t exactly deserving of a warm welcome, but that didn’t stop you from feeling bad anyway.

Zayne sighed, showing you what seemed to be sterilized medical tweezers and a kidney shaped looking metal bin placed on the coffee table. “This is gonna hurt. I don’t have anesthetics.”

“Just get it over with.”

He nodded, although a look of hesitation crossed him before he peeled your shirt away from your skin. A pained and hesitant grimace was sent your way as he assessed the damage, and you assured him you’d be fine. This wasn’t the first time he’d taken care of your injuries, but that didn’t make it less painful for the both of you. For you, it was just physical torture all throughout, and your eyes seared with hot tears that threatened to fall as you remembered your most recent stab wound. Zayne had been the one to take care of it as well, and you felt a little guilty that the only times – well, most of the times, anyway – that you spent at his apartment consisted of him tending to your wounds. And fucking. Lots of fucking.

Now that you thought about it, it’s been too long since you saw Zayne, and the sight of him biting his lip in concentration as he pulled the bullets out was enough to turn you on.

Dark bags were under his eyes, eyes lidded heavily and his little button nose scrunched up a little at the stench of blood. In your own dazed haze of admiring his beauty and all his little quirks you’ve learned through two years of knowing him, you momentarily forgot the heated pain you were in through until he counted down from one to three. He pulled the bullet out, making you bite down on the towel placed in between your teeth.

“I know, I’m sorry. Just one more and we’re good.” He cooed, his soothing voice contrasting well with the pained whimpers that left your throat. While he was busy placing the bullet onto the metal bin, you spat out the towel and drank the beer in one go, feeling the burn of it sting your throat. Zayne was looking at you worriedly, but you nodded at him encouragingly to keep going. 

“I’ll be fine.” You dismissed with a wave of your hand.

You were propped up on your elbows as he sighed for what seemed like the hundredth time of that night. His hands were cool against your heated skin, eyes locked on yours as his fingers moved to slide the straps of your tank top down ever so slowly that made you hitch your breath. He’d just finished with taking out the bullets from your waist, and now he was staring intently at the blood that flowed from your collarbones to the swell of your breasts. You swallowed.

His fingers – those same fingers that had the skill of fucking you into another realm and saving lives of people – worked skillfully into plucking the bullet out. Zayne’s other hand was placed on your good arm gently for leverage while his minty breath fanned against your face. You shuddered as you realized you were caged inside his arms. His face was so close to yours that you were sure you could count his eyelashes.

You trailed your gaze lower from his eyes to his thin lips, the ones that you learned kissed softly and passionately in contrast to how rough he was in bed, and only then did you realize how much you’d missed him.

“I love it when you’re on top of me.” You purred, a strangled and yet erotic moan leaving your lips as he successfully took the bullet out. 

Zayne coughed.

“You are shameless,” He murmured with a shake of his head, feeling incredulous as he patched bandages on your wound. You stared at him with a smirk on your face. “You barge in at what, two in the morning, all beaten up and you flirt with me? Didn’t anyone tell you not to distract a professional from his duties?” 

“Can you blame me when you look so fucking hot when you’re concentrated?” You whispered huskily, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear before you pulled away. He was staring at you wide eyed, “Consider it as payment since you’ve been inside me so many times.” 

Zayne was now blushing madly as he leaned away to get more bandages from his first aid kit. “Oh my god – are you serious? That isn’t the same... You know what, just keep your mouth shut. Let me do what I need to do. You’re being way too weird right now.” 

You grinned, making sure he saw how much of a teasing shit you were. “I know, and you love me anyway.”

Your deal had gone perfectly well that Jenna had rewarded you handsomely. The weight you’ve been carrying for days had now been lifted off, and you were finally free from the anxiety of fucking it up. It wasn’t your first deal per se, but it was perhaps the most critical assignment she’d ever sent you on. You remembered not being able to sleep for days as you calculated the ins and outs of it. Although Jenna had assured you all you needed to do was trade the goods with them at the port and it was all over, the worry hadn’t eased one bit. Sylus was infamous for leading a drug cartel after he killed his own father to precede him, so it was only natural you felt scared you would meet the man himself. Alone.

But… he was actually alright. He went straight to business and didn’t dilly dally further, and once he was sure your goods were fresh and genuine, he gave the promised money and left without a word. You came back to Jenna with a satisfied smirk, and now you were on your way to this bar that seemed a little too vanilla for your liking. The blinking light of the bar sign was red and neon, and you scoffed as it read Pleasure Cave. 

Seriously?

This looked more like a brothel than a bar, and you eyed the girls in skimpy outfits and blood red lipsticks waiting in line with distaste present on your face. No wonder Nero recommended this place. He was never after the drinks, he was after the girls. Well, you couldn’t blame him. Living in shabby apartments and doing underground work wasn’t entirely fancy, plus being a full time gang member didn’t allow him to spend as much time with girls as he would like. Well, whatever, you were here for the drinks. 

Now that the deal was done and over with, you were going to get absolutely wasted. 

Passing by the hundred people waiting in line, you smiled cheekily as the six foot tall and perhaps three hundred pounds of steroid bouncer glowered at you. “Get in line, sweet cheeks.”

“I don’t think I need to.” Pulling down your shirt a little to reveal the tattoo on your collar bones, the bouncer glared at it before he stood back up with recognition. He said something through the crackled intercom of his walkie talkie. There was a pause, then the doors opened with a heavy creak, the thumping bass of the loud music inside faintly heard. Now that worked well. You grinned wider, stepping on your tippy toes to press a sloppy kiss on his cheeks. “Thank you, angel.”

“Anytime, Ma’am.”

You stepped inside, feeling the cold breeze of the air conditioner nipping at your skin, and you were in a state of elation. Releasing a sigh, you maneuvered through the crowd and plopped on the bar stool, smiling confidently at the bartender before ordering something strong. He merely glanced at your smoky eyes that were lined with kohl, and you winked at him before chewing your gum obnoxiously. Sliding down several shot glasses your way, you sent him an impressed look – he knew you’d be here for quite a long time.

And oh, a long time it was. Seven shots later, the bartender sighed when you raised a finger to signal one more shot, and that’s when he came. It was probably because you were intoxicated and desperate to release some stress, but whatever the reason, you didn’t regret any of the decisions you made that night. 

The first thing you noticed about him was his smell. The faint aroma of rubbing alcohol mixed with a masculine scent was enough to make you turn your head, and you downed your shot in one go as you watched the stranger order something fancy. Huh. The raven haired man was dressed to the nines; a baby blue shirt tucked underneath a pair of tight fitting black pants that you were sure groped his ass. You raised a brow at the mere sight of his slender waist that had you ordering two more shots. You noticed his hands first – long and beautiful – and the image of him choking you as he fucked you from behind made you scoot closer to him. 

“Hey.”

Surprised, he jumped from his seat and spilled some of his drink to his pants accidentally, his crotch now wet and sticking to his skin. You raised your brows as you noticed the large bulge. He wasn’t even aroused yet. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, although you weren’t sorry at all. Pulling out the handkerchief from your pocket, you made sure you looked at him under your lashes while you patted down his groin. The man’s eyes widened at the action, but he didn’t pull you away. He swallowed rather audibly, his hands coming up to circle at your wrist. You noticed the tips of his ears had gone red, and you felt a smirk making its way into your face when you saw his arousal constricting uncomfortably against the fabric.

“That’s enough, thank you,” he whispered, his minty breath fanning your flushed cheeks. His hand was still wrapped around your wrist, and without breaking eye contact, you pulled away from his grasp and clasped his hand to pull him towards you. “What are you doing?”

“Giving you an idea of what I’m capable of.”

In an excruciatingly slow manner, you wrapped your lips around his finger, sucking the digit into your wet cavern. He let out a quiet gasp at the sensation of your tongue licking the underside, your eyes closed in bliss as you felt the bitterness of sanitizers and the saltiness of his skin. It took almost all your willpower not to grind on his lap right there and then, because even though you were a rather kinky woman, you wouldn’t go that far. 

“Stop.” He commanded, and you opened your eyes languidly before pulling him out with a lewd ‘pop’. “Do you think I’m the type of man who sleeps with strangers?”

You laughed. “I think you’re the type of man who can fuck me so well, but hmm… you’re a little boring, don’t you think?” Feigning disinterest, you turned away from him, ordering another shot. “Must be a mistake. I forgot men like you were too up in their heads to know how to make a woman feel good.”

He was practically fuming as you downed another shot, a sign that your plan was working. Next thing you knew, strong arms had wrapped around your waist and you let out a small yelp as he heaved you up effortlessly, until you were on his lap, and boy did he look angry. A choked moan left your mouth as he roughly grabbed your hair to expose your neck, and you felt even wetter at the thought that he could fuck you right here in the bar, out in the open for everyone to see. Public sex was something you’ve never tried, but now it seemed like a good idea. 

“You think you’re funny?” He raised a brow, his other hand trailing under your shirt to squeeze your breast through the material of your bra. You felt him pinch your nipple and you bucked forwards, grinding against his hardness. It must have felt painfully good, because he dragged you towards him. His tongue licked a trail from your neck to your ear before he threatened lowly. “Don’t fuck with me, angel. I’ve had a rough week, and I can ruin you.”

“You sure about that?” You replied huskily, palming him from underneath you and feeling his erection grow harder. “Because I’m no fragile thing, and I doubt you can give it to me how I like it.”

He hummed against your neck, and you felt your core getting wetter when he mumbled angrily. “And if I prove you wrong?”

“Then you can do whatever you want to me,” You supplied, glaring at him through the lashes. “Now, are you gonna make me wait, or are we gonna fuck?”

That seemed to trigger him, because soon he’s shoving you off his lap and pulling you outside to the back door. You faintly heard the bartender shouting at you to pay, but you were too clouded by your arousal that you let this nameless man drag you out to the dark alleyway where he wasted no time in slamming his lips to yours. You moaned when your head hit the hard bricks of the dirty alley, the searing touch of his fingers under your shirt as he pulled the cups of your bra down and tugged at your nipples enough to send sparks of fire running along down your centre. You were wet, so fucking wet, and you yearned to feel his touch right where you wanted him most.

Your hands had a mind of his own, and he growled into your lips when you blindly unbuckled his belt and shoved his pants down. When you palmed his erection and slipped your hands inside his boxers, you ran your finger against his slit and felt your fingers become coated in his pre cum. The stranger grunted, his tongue slipping inside your mouth before the wet muscle collided with yours in a heated manner.

“Fuck.” You moaned into his mouth, pumping your hand up and down his shaft slowly. He pulled away with his chest heaving up and down to look at where your fingers tried to wrap around his thick girth.

Shit, you knew he was big, but you didn’t expect him to be this big. The thought of his cock stretching you out and filling you so deeply had you removing your hands away from his cock to take off your stupid fucking leather pants that clung so tightly to your legs. He laughed at your obvious struggle, and you glared at him. Soon enough, his laughter died down when you shimmied out of your pants, completely speechless as he eyed your bare pussy.

“You haven’t been wearing underwear all this time?”

“I had a feeling I’d meet you tonight,” You joke, but he doesn’t find it funny because he growled, his hand cupping your sopping cunt that left you breathless.

His roughness took you by surprise that you found yourself clinging to his bicep for dear life. It wasn’t long before he slipped two fingers inside, scissoring his way through to your walls to stretch you out, and your head fell back against the wall as you felt him pump into you in an addicting manner that had you seeing stars at the back of your vision.

“You’re so wet already,” He commented, his head diving forwards to suck harshly onto your neck that has you moaning lewdly. You realized this stranger had his fingers shoved deep into your pussy in a dark alley, and while no one could see you at this place, you were sure someone would see the both of you if they passed by. And shit, how fucking hot that was. “That look on your face,” he noticed, “Are you turned on by the thought of getting caught?”

“Aren’t you?” You shot back, and you pushed his hand away when you felt that familiar coil in your belly.

He made a sound of protest that you ignored, and you pulled him down by the tie to attack his thin yet pillowy lips that were red and bruised by now. Your hand snaked between the both of you as you pulled his cock out and lined him against your centre, his breath coming out in stutters when you wrapped one of your legs around his waist as his tip entered you.

“Oh fuck, you’re so tight,” He moaned against your lips before slamming his hips forward until he’s penetrated you into the hilt, and you let out a small whimper of pain. He was big, bigger than you’d imagined. Ypon seeing the look of discomfort in your face, his hands came up to caress your face worriedly. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

You bit your lip, finding it oddly sweet he could be so gentle even when he was tearing you apart. “I’m fine. Just give me a minute, you’re really big.”

“Okay,” He nods, resting his forehead against yours, his hand still carefully holding you by the waist to help keep you up.

You realized you weren’t able to see his face well under the neon lights of the bar, but seeing him now just a breath away, you realized he’s really good looking. His eyes were warm and kind looking despite the evident lust pooling through those greenish-brown orbs, and his gaze was piercing as he seemed to assess your features back. His once gelled hair had now fallen into stray chunks, adding more to his striking features.

You were momentarily lost in his eyes and gentle touches that you forgot he still had his cock deep inside you.

With that thought, you moved your hips forward, your walls suffocating his length. He suddenly shut his eyes in pleasure, murmuring “Oh, fuck” under his breath. You didn’t need to say anything else, the clenching of your walls against him was enough for him to know he could now fuck you senseless. His eyes snapped open, any signs of the previous warmth he held had completely vanished into thin air as his hands hooked behind your knees, silently telling you to jump, and you wrapped both your legs around him.

“I’m not going to go soft and slow with you.”

“Wasn’t asking you to,” You teased, feeling smug at seeing such a composed looking man slowly losing himself in you. He growled at your remarks, and your teasing ceased when he pushed you firmly against the wall, his hands gripping your waist tightly that you were sure you’d get bruises the day after as he rammed into you at a relentless pace.

You were a mess in his arms, your breasts bouncing and slapping your chest up and down as his cock reached places inside you that you didn’t even know existed. He stared at it as if hypnotized before he leaned down, capturing one nipple and lapping at it like a starved man.

Your hair was now sticking onto your skin uncomfortably, uncontrollable moans flowing from your mouth that had fallen open at how each of his strokes seemed to hit everything perfectly. He was stretching you out, filling you so well that each snap of his hips had you tugging at his hair, hard, and he grunted at the pain of you pulling onto his strands. As if encouraged by the action, he pulled out all the way until only his tip was left inside. You stared at him in bewilderment, and he smirked at you arrogantly.

It was just about the sexiest fucking thing you’ve ever seen, and it didn’t help the sweat from his skin made his shirt clung onto him tightly, giving you a teasing view of strong pecs underneath.

You only had a few seconds of rest before he slammed his hips harder than the first, and you had to bite down on your lip to keep yourself from screaming. He was good, so good, and your wetness coated him so well as if urging him to fuck you harder. The sound of your moans, his low grunts and the wet sounds of your arousal dripping onto his length was so dirty and erotic that when he hit your sensitive spot, you cursed loudly as your head fell onto his shoulder. 

Your back grazed the brick wall rather uncomfortably, but all you could focus on was the sweet torture his cock was abusing your core with. He snapped his hips in a deliciously tantalizing manner, your eyes shut tight as he grunted lowly when you clenched around him, a sign you were close. Judging by the way his thrusts had become erratic, it seemed like he was too.

“Baby, I’m close.” He announced, beads of sweat falling onto his cheeks. He looked fucked out with the way he was gritting his teeth as he continued to slam into you, his hips coming forward hurriedly as if desperate to reach his high. You knew you didn’t look better. Tears threatened to escape your eyes at the way his tip was brushing against your sweet spot abusingly, over and over again. You were so lost in the pleasure you felt that he tapped his fingers against your cheek whimpering at the sensations flooding through.

“I’m close,” he panted, “Where can I cum?”

“Inside,” You breathed out, a moan falling from your open lips.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” You nod tiredly, looking down to see how your pussy engulfed him completely. His length disappeared back into you after every withdrawal, as if your womanhood didn’t ever want him to pull away. And from the way he throbbed inside you, it seemed like he didn’t want to pull away either.

“Oh fuck,” He rasped out, his thrusts stuttering as you felt him release inside you, the warmth of his cum filling you up so good.

“Shit, shit, shit,” You mumbled in the crook of his neck as he spilled himself inside you, feeling your combined essence dripping out of your hole. He groaned, riding the both of your highs before you felt him soften inside you. You were both breathing heavily, and you were taken by surprise when he kissed you again, softer this time. His hands crawled up to the nape of your neck as he nibbled on your lower lip, and you groaned into the kiss, thinking if there’d ever been a time you were taken in a such a debauched manner yet kissed so sweetly.

Your memories came up with nothing.

The contrast of him passionately kissing you like a lover had you feeling lightheaded from how he had roughly fucked you, but you basked in the warmth of him anyway. He smelled faintly of sweat, sex, and his cologne, a scent you think you could get used to forever. His hair was soft as you threaded your fingers through it, and he sighed in content at the feeling of you gently massaging his scalp, his large hand now cupping the side of your face.

When he pulled away from you, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes tired and drooping. The silence of the night engulfed you both as he stayed inside you, and then you both started laughing out of nowhere. He helped you get down safely, his hand still gently placed on the small of your back before he slid out of you completely.

You bit your lip to restrain yourself from fucking him again – the sight of his soft member leaving the warmth of your slick folds shouldn’t have been so erotic. You didn’t want to pull away from him – at least not yet – so you reached forward, tucking his cock back into his boers as you ignored his heated stare at the back of your head. Soon, you pulled your pants back up, wincing at how wet you were down there.

“Are you okay?” he asked, not missing the way he stared at how your tight pants outlined your pussy. He cleared his throat awkwardly, “Uhm, I’m sorry about… that,” he gestured to your camel toe, and you scoffed in amusement. “I can take you home, if you’d like.”

“No thanks, I’m good,” You shook your head, smiling innocently at how his shoulders seemed to drop in disappointment. “Although I must say, it’s gonna be hard to walk home tonight…  Doctor Zayne.”

The sight of his eyes widening and his mouth falling open almost seemed comical to you. “Wh-what? How’d you know my name?”

You grinned, showing him his wallet and work ID card. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish before he puffed his cheeks out instead. He patted his pockets in a frenzy, and at the realization that it was indeed empty, you threw his belongings back to him sloppily, his arms flailing out before it fell to the ground. He mumbled a ‘thanks’ at your way. You nodded at him and walked away, letting the darkness of the night swallow you before he called you out. You paused in your steps.

“Wait!” He shouted, although you failed to hear the sound of footsteps. “Aren’t you gonna tell me your name?”

“I don’t think I need to,” You smirked over your shoulder, mockingly saluting him on your way. “I have a feeling we’ll meet each other again.”

Zayne was left in the dark alley that night. As much as he wanted to run after you and take you home, he had a strong feeling you didn’t want to be followed. Once you’d been completely swallowed by the darkness, he jumped in his spot when the back door flung open harshly, and he was met with the sight of a pissed off looking man. It was the bartender.

“Well?” He huffed, “Aren’t you gonna pay?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your girlfriend left without paying,” He hissed, shoving the receipt into the smaller man’s face who looked lost. His eyes skimmed over the amount you’ve drank, grimacing when he saw the hefty price. “Pay up. Now.” Zayne cursed inwardly, handing over a wad of cash to the bartender’s outstretched palm before going home with a frown. 

He should have known you were trouble. One look at your predatory gaze, and the way you sized him up like he was your next meal, he fell right into your trap. He kicked a bunch of pebbles in frustration, hating the way he felt so attracted to you the moment he landed his eyes on you. It didn’t help that you were the exact embodiment of sexiness either. You were confident, and carried an aura that made him feel like you could’ve conquered the world should you wish. 

In conclusion, you were the exact image of his desires that came to life, and now he faced the consequences of falling into the trap of a seductive temptress. 

He just hoped never to see you again. 

Weeks passed by since the last time he saw you, and Zayne refused to admit that he went back to the bar several days in a week in hopes of seeing you again.

But after the fifth night that the bartender sent him pitiful glances, he never came back once informed you hadn’t returned ever since. He didn’t even know why he should care, he didn’t even know your name. And yet… he found himself wanting to know more about you. Call it simple curiosity or just him being plainly attracted to your mysteriousness, he didn’t care. One thing he could admit though, was that he thought you were quite the most beautiful woman he’d ever met. The way you held yourself so surely and knew exactly what you liked was enough to bring out the primal side of his being.

But, those thoughts aside, you just screamed trouble.

And Zayne worked hard to get where he was now. He still remembered those hellish nights he was unable to sleep when his midterms were coming up, because medical school was just both a curse and a blessing at the same time. It was even harder since his parents had passed away long ago that he had to support himself at such a young age. His childhood – or lack thereof – had been a blur of working two part time jobs to afford his school fees and stacking his mini fridge of bottled coffees just to survive that night. Because of his hectic routine and his dedication to his dreams, Zayne never got to date anyone.

It wasn’t because he didn’t look good either, no, it was quite the opposite.

He’d received multiple confessions in medical school from wonderful girls who all came from good families, but one look at their preppy attitudes and cookie cutter perfect image, he knew he would never fit in. Sure, they were nice, sweet, and smart, but most of his classmates in the resident school had only gotten in because they were born privileged. They would never understand his struggles. And so, with a polite smile, he turned them all down and focused on his own future instead.

He just wanted to pave a better life himself first. Love could come afterwards.

Zayne just never thought it would come in the form of a leather jacket clad woman with blood red lipstick who hauled a man twice her size on her shoulders, cursing at him for being ‘a stupid fucking dimwit’ into the emergency room, exactly on the time of his shift. Zayne shot upwards from his seat in a flash, rounding the counter and making his way towards you and your friend, who he realized was sporting a gunshot to his thigh.

At the sight of your most recent – and undeniably the best fuck you’ve had – wearing a black button-up hidden under a white coat, paired with squeaky white shoes, a stethoscope hanging around his neck and just looking so damn fuckable, had you laughing with glee. 

Never mind Luke who was groaning in pain. It was his fault for getting shot anyway. You told the younger male multiple times not to play around with guns and not to challenge your shooting skills because you’d always be better than him. But he refused to back down due to the fact he was so butthurt over it and dragged you into the shooting fields, only for the gun to slip into his sweaty hands, successfully shooting his own leg in the process.

Yeah, you didn’t care at all.

“Doctor Zayne!” You exclaimed gleefully, pushing Luke’s heavy weight off of you until he fell to the hospital bed. You ignored his screams in pain. “What a coincidence!” You glanced at your friend, “Luke, look how lucky you are. Zayne’s in tonight. I heard he’s the best doctor.”

Luke eyed you both, watching carefully as Zayne only nodded at you in return before he proceeded to pull out several doctor shit you had no idea with, but they did seem familiar. You only recognized them briefly from those times you had to dress your wounds yourself, and it wasn’t exactly a memory filled with sunshine and rainbows. 

“Okay, I’m going to inject you with some anesthesia,” Zayne’s voice cut through the air, and you watched in awe as he proceeded to do everything flawlessly. 

Soon enough, Luke, who was always a wuss when it came to pain, had already passed out by the time the raven-haired doctor had plucked out the bullets and proceeded with the stitching. Not wanting to interrupt, you jumped up on the nurse’s counter, swinging your legs back and forth with your palms placed flatly behind you before assessing the place.

It was a rather big and well known hospital, so you were confused that Zayne seemed to be the only one around. The only sound that filled the air was Luke’s hiccupping followed by snores, and you scoffed at him, eyes trained on Zayne’s skillful fingers working on the sutures flawlessly. You noticed his brows were furrowed in concentration, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, and you tipped your head to the side in admiration.

You didn’t understand what was so endearing about a professional man concentrated on his work, but you found yourself enamored by the mere sight of him. 

Somehow, he managed to look absolutely perfect under the bright fluorescent lights of the emergency room, and you thought it was unfair. He wasn’t even dressed to impress. His white coat was wrinkled, and only now does it make sense when he told you he’d had a rough week the first time you met him. Dark bags were under his eyes, and you squinted at the sight of several headache pills and cups of coffee neatly placed behind the counter where he once sat, waiting for patients who needed his help.

Guilt immediately washed over you. 

Here, Zayne probably spent day and night saving countless lives. Maybe people like him would have been able to get more rest had people like you not existed. 

Your train of thought was cut off when you suddenly felt a warm hand caressing your face, and you froze under Zayne’s touch. Looking up, you swallowed when you realized his face was close to yours – way too close – that you could see the worry present in his gaze.

“What happened?” He asked softly, concern coating his dulcet voice that you couldn’t help but feel small inside his arms. You blinked. Wait, what? Felt small? You almost wanted to laugh, because you both led different lives. In your world of kill or be killed, you were definitely on the ‘kill’ side. People like you weren’t weak, so you sat up straighter, tearing yourself away from his soothing touch as you flashed him a lazy grin.

“Don’t mind him, he was just being stupid,” you gestured to a passed out Luke.

Zayne shook his head, pulling off his medical gloves before throwing it into the waste bin. “He could have been in a critical situation if you hadn’t brought him here earlier. Your friend got shot in the leg, and it was dangerously close to his bones. A single shot to the leg, especially the thighs, could have been deadly. The bullet could have exploded into tiny pieces until it flowed into his bloodstream, and those little shrapnels could have killed him,” he sighed tiredly, placing his arms beside your body. Even with you sitting on top of a counter, Zayne still managed to be taller than you. “Your friend could have died tonight. He needs to be confined for further treatment.”

Your eyes almost popped out its socket, “What? No! We need to be back by tonight!”

“I can’t allow that,” he shook his head, “He needs proper recovery.”

“But–” you started, pausing in your words when he gave you a look that told you you didn’t have any way out of this. But you had to get Luke back to the base tonight before Jenna woke up. You didn’t want your boss finding out his best asset and the newest fresh meat he assigned you to train to end up with a medical record accessible by your enemies, unless you wanted to end up dead in a ditch somewhere. Then, an idea flashed into your mind, and you looked around for the possibility of anyone walking into you. Looking back at the sexy doctor hovering over you firmly, you flashed your most seductive smile, running your hand down his chest before purring, “–you can always have exceptions, right?”

Zayne glared at you, although he didn’t stop you from looping your fingers to his pants. If anything, he’s a little grateful for the distraction. He realized you were much better at waking him up than any of those energy drinks and coffee. No, you set his nerves on fire, and he started to panic when you jumped off the counter and went down on your knees.

“Hey, what are you doing?!” He whisper-hissed, stopping you from doing whatever you were about to do. “My co-workers are just on their break, they’ll be back in five minutes.”

“Five minutes?” You chuckled arrogantly, looking up at him innocently. The image of you looking absolutely cute while at eye level with his now growing arousal was something that would haunt him for the rest of his life. “With how good I am, you’d come undone in two minutes.” And I’d get Luke out in no time, you thought to yourself.

Zayne scoffed when he realized you had a knack for bruising his ego, and you laughed harder when he shoved his pants down until his erection sprang free, his cock bending towards his stomach. You smirked at the fact he was already hard, his head now red and dripping with precum. You felt proud it didn’t take much to turn him on. 

Oh, you were gonna have fun indeed.

“Two minutes,” he growled, his hands pulling your hair into a makeshift ponytail as his hips thrust forward, his cock slapping against your cheek. The essence of his arousal making your face feel sticky. “You’ve got two minutes to make me cum.”

“The pleasure is mine.”

Not wasting a second longer, you placed your hands on his strong thighs before taking him into your mouth. Zayne moaned at the feeling of your warm mouth around his cock. You licked the underside of his cock, feeling every protruding ridge and vein before you started sucking him. Bobbing your head up and down, Zayne closed his eyes in pleasure, thrusting forward when you hollowed your cheeks around him.

“Ah, fuck,” He grunted, his tip hitting the back of your throat, and your gag reflex clenched around his head. It was a beautiful sight to behold, seeing him lose himself in the feeling of your mouth around him. You sucked him off earnestly until you pulled him out with only his tip left inside, his muscles quivering under your touch. 

Feeling that he was close, you took him all the way back in until you’re gagging on his length again. Tears started to fall on your cheeks at how he had completely taken over. Soon enough, you felt him grow bigger inside you until you knew he was about to cum. He pulled away, or more like tried to, because you placed your palm flat on his ass to keep him right where he was. You started choking and gagging on his cock when he harshly thrust inside your mouth, his warm seed spurting on your tongue.

Zayne fought back another groan. He struggled to breathe from the orgasm you gave him, and you opened your mouth, showing him that his cum was all over your tongue before you made a show of swallowing it. Your lipstick had also smeared, the red smudged all over your face. Deciding to tease him further, you wrapped your lips around him one more time, leaving lipstick stains all over his semi hard cock.

“W-wait,” he tried to push your head back, “Sensitive – I can’t–”

Determined to clean him off, you licked all around his member, still tasting the saltiness of his cum coating your tongue before pulling him out with a wet ‘pop.’

You stood up and brushed the dust of your knees, thankful that your skinny ripped jeans hadn’t been stained the slightest. Zayne pulled his pants back up, glaring at you when he saw you trying not to smile at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Nothing,” you said, “Did it feel good?”

“I came in a minute and a half, what’d you think?” He snapped, and you laughed at how moody he seemed. Zayne rounded the counter before typing something away at his computer, not sparing you a glance as he asked for your friend’s personal information. He looked up at you with a raised brow. “I said, what’s your friend’s name?”

You crossed your arms against your chest. “You know, I blew you off. Let me off the hook just this once,”

“What?” He asked, bewildered, “What part of your friend needs proper recovery don’t you understand? He needs to be under supervision.”

“We have a resident doctor,” you informed, “He just wasn’t around today, but I assure you he can take care of him. Come on, Zayne, it’s only right that you repay me for making you feel good, no?”

“You made me pay for your drinks at the bar. I think I deserved that blowjob.”

“Oh, come on,” you pouted, trying to do the puppy eye method and wishing it would work on him. It didn’t, and you sighed in defeat. “I can repay you next time.”

“There won’t be a next time,” he hissed, and you groaned, exasperated.

There would be a next time because you wanted him as much he wanted you!

Desperate to make him change his mind, you tugged your crop top down to show that again you weren’t wearing anything underneath. Zayne’s eyes immediately clouded with lust at the sight.

He scoffed, though he doesn’t tear his gaze away from your perky buds. “Did you think you could bribe a professional with your gorgeous body?”

“Of course,” you replied confidently, pushing your shirt back to its place before walking beside Luke, ignoring the way Zayne eyed your tattoo weirdly. You shook him awake, but he only mumbled and slapped your hand away, and you sighed. Zayne was still watching you both curiously from behind the counter. You gave him an ‘ok’ sign before slapping Luke hard on the face, to which he immediately bolted awake.

“Ow, what the fuck was that for?!”

“That’s not how you talk to your senior,” you scolded him while helping him get up with his arm looped around your neck. Turning to Zayne, you winked, “I have a car, don’t worry. I’ll make sure he’ll get taken care of.”

He hummed with a frown etched on his face, not liking the thought of you alone in a car with a different man. “Will you tell me your name now?”

Luke was halfway passed out again in your arms, and you grinned cheekily at the hot doctor who was patiently waiting for your answer.

Finally, you introduced yourself, “But try not to say my name too much.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re gonna get hurt if you do.”

Just as fast as you appeared and always gave him something to remember you by, you disappeared.

It was starting to infuriate the doctor by now, at how he knew the curves of your body but otherwise had no idea of who you were. He knew you weren’t a normal citizen like him, and he’s pondered several times if maybe you were a criminal. It made him wince; the thought of falling for a criminal out of all people was enough for him to be thrown off balance.

Every morning, he woke up at the thought of your smile, of how adorable and innocent you seemed when you just laughed to your heart’s content and your eyes formed into little crescent moons. He also remembered the way you smelled, a mix of roses and something entirely soft and feminine. He grew afraid of forgetting your sweet scent that he even thought of not showering before he realized how undeniably disgusting that was. And so with a disgruntled thought, a hard on that made him jack off in the shower at the thought of you, and very confused feelings, Zayne decided to throw himself into work and just forget about you completely.

Things were much better that way anyway.

Desperate to ignore how his mind was heavy at the thought of you, of how he craved to hold you instead of touch you, he took on several shifts that absolutely left him drained by the end of the day. He was basically sleeping in empty operating rooms by now, the stench of rubbing alcohol and metallic steel comforting to him. He was so overworked that even nurses and several doctors had become worried for him.

“Zayne,” Nurse Jude addressed the dark-haired doctor who had a clipboard cradled to his chest, well on his way to looking like a zombie right now. “I think you should go home. You don’t look too well.”

Zayne only smiled gratefully, always finding comfort in the quieter nurse’s presence. Jude was a calm and gentle steady energy, and he secretly envied at how he seemed to have everything balanced. If he remembered correctly, he still managed to have the time to take his girlfriend out on dates despite also basically living in the hospital. Jude was well rounded and had everything he wanted and needed, while Zayne just felt left behind for silently chasing (not really, he hadn’t seen you in months) a woman who he was certain was a criminal. 

Or worse, a murderer.

He really needed to set his mind straight.

“I’m fine, don’t worry about me,” he lied, checking the patient’s vitals while Jude places the suggested meals for their recovery. “I just have a lot on my mind, that’s all.”

“Is it a girl?”

He paused on the act of scribbling down the rates, his hand reaching up to rub his neck awkwardly. “Is it too obvious?”

“A little, yeah,” Jude laughed before patting him on the back comfortingly. “Don’t worry about it too much, I’m sure it’ll work out in the end.”

Zayne smiled sadly. The likelihood of even meeting you again was highly unlikely, what even more the possibility of you liking him the same way he liked you. But he nodded anyway, not wanting to make Jude feel bad. “I sure hope so.”

“It will,” he insisted, and the spectacled nurse gives him a small smile before making his way out. “Oh, and I talked to Nurse Jang, she said she’ll gladly cover your shift for you. Go home, Zayne, you need to rest.”

Zayne smiled, silently asking himself why he couldn’t have just been a woman and dated someone like Jude instead. He was smart, attractive, and caring. 

He shook his head in disbelief, bidding the patient deep in slumber a farewell before following his co-worker out the hallway to retrieve his stuff and go home. Jude and Nurse Jang both gave him bread in hopes that he would get his much needed rest soon. Since Zayne was feeling like taking a stroll in the night, he pocketed his car keys and walked all the way to his apartment.

The stars were out and bright, and he stared at them astonishingly, wondering if you were looking at the same sky as him; if you saw the stars the way it was now. He stopped in his tracks, suddenly feeling cold and lonely in the empty night as his mind started to get swarmed by thoughts of you. 

He really didn’t understand why he felt attracted to you, all he knew was that there was this… spark, or connection, however corny that sounded.

And he knew he just wasn’t after your body – although he would love to fuck you again, in his bed this time if you’d allow him to take his time with you – no, he was completely drunk at the thought of you.

It was weird, how he didn’t even know your last name, your age, or what you really did for a living. And yet, he didn’t care about all those, all he knew was that he wanted to be with you. He wants to spend time with you and get to know you better, and hell, he wants to pamper you with so much love that he doesn’t understand fucking why. Frustrated, he runs his hand down his face with a groan, unable to get his mind off of you. Maybe it was because you had a good sense of humor, and you always kept him on his toes and there was just something about you that let him know he had to cherish each and every moment.

With a sigh, he stopped looking at the stars because it only reminded him of how you were probably somewhere, unsafe. He didn’t have the slightest of how you were and he was worrying for a complete stranger. 

Too lost in his own thoughts, he failed to hear the sound of a gun clicking. Zayne froze when he felt the cold barrel of a gun pressing against his forehead, followed by a gruff voice cutting through the silence of the air.

“Give me your money.”

Zayne gulped, pocketing his wallet immediately at the sight of the man holding him hostage come at eye level with him. He gulped at how his left eye was closed due to a scar that ran until his chin. Obviously, this guy had seen some real things that Zayne doesn’t even want to be involved in, and his heart was picking up a mile a minute. He was about to hand his wallet and cellphone over, making sure he still kept his work ID, when a feminine and a strangely familiar laughter joined in the scene.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Carefully, Zayne turned around, only to see you leaning against the wall lazily with a cigarette dangling by the edge of your lips, somehow looking bored at the scene. If he wasn’t about to piss in his pants right now in fear of getting his brains blown out any moment, he would have admired you openly. He swallowed at the sight of you wearing nothing but a lace black bralette under a washed denim jacket, paired with ripped skinny jeans and untied combat boots. Still so pretty, even when his entire body warned him not to get too close.

Like the first time he saw you, you screamed danger, and Zayne found himself unable to look away.

“Go home, little girl,” the man snapped, “This isn’t a place for youngsters like you.”

You sighed tiredly. “Whatever. Just let the man go, and learn a little lesson from him. If you want money, you gotta work hard like everyone else.”

A tick seemed to go off in him, because soon Zayne was being shoved aside. He shouted your name loudly when the man had his gun pointed at you instead. However, you only grinned at him, cocking your head to the side in pure amusement. Zayne watched as the man lowered his gun, fingers stuttering as realization dawned on him.

“Are you part of the–”

“Exactly, sweetheart,” you smiled sweetly, taking his fingers off from the weapon. “Now, run along before I kill you, okay? Let’s just forget this ever happened.”

Tha man nodded before scurrying away, and Zayne pushed himself up to his feet to place himself beside you. Your eyes were still trained on the offender’s retreating form. Zayne was about to pull your attention to him when you suddenly raised the gun with a squint, the sound of a gun firing echoed through the night. Zayne gasped, disbelief written all over his face as the man fell down.

You turned to him with an unreadable expression. “I didn’t kill him, don’t worry.”

“Didn’t kill?!” he asks, enraged. “You still shot someone!”

“I know Jason, he’s gonna run for a little bit and come back to you. Did you really think I’d risk you getting killed when I could have prevented it?” Your words came out with spite that Zayne didn’t respond to, watching as you stashed the gun into the back pocket of your jeans. “Thought so. Come on, I’ll take you home.”

“You don’t need to.”

“Jesus, Zayne,” you said exasperatedly, “Out of all the places you could’ve taken a detour in, you had to choose a bad neighborhood, didn’t you? I’m taking you home, and that’s final.” Zayne started to protest, but one glare from you had him shutting up. Once sure he had given in, you showed him your trademark carefree smile, bowing down mockingly. “Lead the way, sir.”

“I live close by,” he rolled his eyes, and you fell into step with him easily. 

The two of you walked in silence, your hands swinging back and forth obnoxiously as your legs took longer strides to keep up with him. When he realized he considerably walked faster than you did, he slowed down until you were right next to him, and you were taken by surprise when he looped his hand through yours, eyes staring directly ahead. “This is just so you don’t fall behind.”

“How sweet,” you commented cheekily, reaching up to peck him on the cheeks. Zayne, not expecting the innocent gesture even in his wildest dreams, whipped his head so fast to look at you. He looked so ridiculously cute that you couldn’t help but kiss him again, making sure your lips remained to his skin a little longer than the first. “You look so adorable.”

His cheeks burned at the way you looked at him, your eyes completely youthful, innocent, and just looking at him with so much adoration that he thought… he wasn’t going to deny it anymore. He liked you. 

Upon rendering him speechless, you giggled before tugging him forwards to walk home. Zayne turned away from you to hide a childish grin.

The walk back was peaceful, and the mere scent of your rose scented perfume was enough to soothe his nerves as well. Maybe it was because he knew he was safe, and that’s why he felt comfortable, but one look at you humming a tune to yourself, he realized he was calm and at peace because you were safe. 

You obviously led a life that would be hard to explain to him, and while he wanted to get to know you better, he also didn't want to push you into divulging information you wouldn’t want to.

For now, he was just glad to see you and have you by his side again, and he was going to try to elongate this moment for as long as he could.

And so the stoic doctor walked slowly on purpose, and you, being observant and calculative as ever, knew exactly what he was getting at and walked slowly as well. It was a little chilly, and your lack of clothing didn’t help, so you pressed your body flush against his, your head naturally finding its place into the crook of his neck. It wasn’t the most comfortable position, but his strong arm encircled your waist. You didn’t find it in yourself to complain.

You just missed him.

And he missed you too, although no one would ever say that out loud.

“How was work?” You asked softly, “You don’t look like you’ve been sleeping well.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, turning slightly to press a kiss to the top of your head before his apartment came into view and you both walked upstairs. “I couldn’t get my mind off this amazing person, and I had to work a lot to forget her.”

You chuckled breathily from his hold, and Zayne smiled when he felt the vibrations of your chest rumble to his skin. “Maybe it’s much better to forget her. She’s just bad news, you know.”

“I don’t think I want to forget her,” he admitted, now standing in front of his unit. Zayne loosened his hold on you, his hands finding its place on your shoulders before bending down to look at you. “I think… I want to keep seeing you.”

A smile made its way to your face, but it was more confused than sad. Shrugging his hold off of you, you lifted your denim jacket to show him the intricate dragon tattoo that ran until the top of your breasts. “I’m a criminal, Zayne. I’m part of an underground gang, and, well… as much as I want to see you too, I don’t think this is gonna work out.”

“We won’t know until we’ve tried,” he insisted, and your eyes lit up in amusement at how he seemed intent on getting to know you better. It warmed your heart in a way that you’d never felt before, and your smile only grew bigger, perhaps even a little shy when he continued speaking. “Can I – feel free to say no, but please don’t – take you out on a date?”

Your eyes squinted so hard from how large you were smiling, and really, how could you say no? Fishing your phone out from your pocket, you typed in his name next to a heart emoji before handing it to him. Zayne laughed in disbelief as he texted himself through your number and saved his contact information. 

“I’ll text you the details. When are you free?”

“I’m a busy woman,” you told him, cocking your head to the side teasingly. “But if it’s for you, I’m always free.”

Zayne’s face flushed. “Wow, okay, I didn’t think you’d say yes.”

You rolled your eyes, walking away from him with a wave of your hand. “I’ll see you around, Doc. This is my first date, so it better not be disappointing.”

“It won’t!”

And Zayne really did keep to his word. Only three days after you walked him home, your phone buzzed from its place rather loudly that you accidentally knocked Luke’s gun out of his hold. A shot rang through the air and a scream tore its way from his throat. You rolled your eyes when you saw that he almost shot himself again.

“I swear, Luke, I’m not taking you to the hospital again because of your stupidity.”

He had the audacity to look appalled. “You made me drop my gun!”

“Tough luck,” you teased, grinning as you read Zayne’s text. He was asking if you were available tonight, and you immediately replied back saying you were. “Okay, tell the boss I’ll be out tonight. Don’t ask why. I’m meeting someone.”

“What does that me–hey! You know Jenna will kill me if she finds out you went out again!”

“That was kind of the plan,” you laughed, twisting your car keys into your finger before running away from the younger male who had gone pale in fear. “But don’t die tonight!”

You expected someone like Zayne to take you to a quiet, upscale restaurant for your first date, the kind of place where you could sit across from each other and talk softly about your lives over candlelight. But instead, you found yourself in a small, crowded theater, where the seats were a little too close together and the air was thick with anticipation.

As you settled into your seats, you couldn’t help but smile at the contrast between the setting and the man beside you. Zayne, usually so composed in his button-ups and scrubs, had opted for a simple black hoodie and jeans, his hair down and slightly tousled. The look softened his serious demeanor, and you found it endearing.

“I didn’t expect you to pick a horror movie,” you teased as the previews began to roll.

Zayne’s lips quirked up in a shy smile, but he kept his eyes on the screen. “I thought it’d be...interesting,” he replied, the hesitation in his voice betraying his nerves.

“Interesting, huh? You sure you can handle it?” you nudged him playfully.

“I’m a doctor. I’ve seen worse things,” he said, though the faint tension in his posture suggested otherwise.

As the movie started, you noticed how intently he was watching the screen, his posture straight, his eyes focused. The suspense began to build, and you could feel Zayne tensing beside you. The protagonist on screen was slowly inching closer to the inevitable scare, and you couldn’t resist stealing a glance at Zayne. When the jump scare finally hit, the theater erupted with screams, and Zayne flinched, his grip on the popcorn box tightening. He let out a quiet exhale, his eyes darting to you as if to gauge your reaction.

“Are you okay?” you asked, leaning closer to him.

He gave a small nod, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “I’m fine. Just...not my usual choice of entertainment.”

You grinned, finding his honesty charming. “Well, I’m glad you’re here with me anyway.”

“Me too,” he said, his voice soft, almost hesitant. He shifted slightly in his seat, and his fingers brushed against yours on the armrest. It was a subtle touch, but the warmth of his skin sent a pleasant shiver down your spine.

As the movie continued, Zayne remained composed, though you noticed how his hand eventually settled over yours, his grip gentle yet reassuring. It wasn’t overt or flashy, but rather a quiet sign of affection that made your heart swell.

When the credits rolled and the lights came up, you both sat in comfortable silence for a moment before he turned to you. His expression was soft, and there was a vulnerability in his eyes that you hadn’t seen before.

“I’m sorry if this wasn’t what you expected,” he said, his thumb grazing your hand as he spoke.

You shook your head, smiling up at him. “Zayne, this was perfect. I didn’t need anything fancy. I just wanted to spend time with you.”

He looked relieved, and as you both stood up to leave, he helped you to your feet, his hand resting lightly on your back as you exited the theater. The cool night air greeted you, and you felt a sense of calm between you, a quiet understanding that didn’t need words.

“Do you want to grab a coffee or something?” he asked, his voice low, as if he was still feeling out the moment.

“Actually,” you said, stopping him as you turned to face him, “I was thinking we could just...walk for a bit?”

His eyes softened, and he nodded. “I’d like that.”

As you walked side by side, the city’s lights twinkling around you, Zayne reached for your hand again, this time with more confidence. His fingers intertwined with yours, and he gave your hand a gentle squeeze. “I have to admit,” he said after a few minutes of comfortable silence, “I was really nervous about tonight.”

You glanced at him, surprised. “You? Nervous?”

He chuckled softly, his eyes fixed ahead. “Yeah. I’m not exactly great at this...dating thing.”

“You’re doing just fine,” you assured him, your heart warming at his confession.

When you reached a quiet spot away from the bustling streets, Zayne slowed to a stop, turning to face you fully. There was something in his gaze, a mix of shyness and determination, that made your breath catch. “I know I’m not the easiest person to read,” he began, his voice steady despite the slight flush on his cheeks, “but I want you to know that...I’m really glad you agreed to go out with me.”

You smiled, feeling the sincerity in his words. “I’m glad too, Zayne. Really.”

He hesitated for a brief moment before leaning in, his movements slow and deliberate, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you wanted. But you didn’t. Instead, you closed the distance, meeting him halfway. The first touch of his lips was soft, almost tentative, but as you responded, he deepened the kiss, his hand coming up to cup your cheek.

The kiss was everything you hadn’t expected – gentle, warm, and unhurried. It wasn’t about passion or fireworks, but a press of lips where you familiarized yourselves with each other’s taste. When you finally pulled away, you found yourself smiling shyly at each other.

“Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?” he asked, his thumb brushing over your lower lip as he gazed at you.

“Not in so many words,” you replied, your voice teasing but soft.

He smiled, a rare and genuine expression that made your heart skip a beat. “You do. You look amazing.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks.

Zayne held your gaze for a moment longer before he finally stepped back, still holding your hand as you continued your walk. The night was calm, and with Zayne by your side, everything felt just right. He took you to a diner afterwards where you feasted on burgers and milkshakes. It definitely wasn’t anything out of the norm, but it was perfect nevertheless. He refused to let go of your hand under the table, and although you told him he’d struggle to eat with one hand, he just shook his head with a smile and insisted he never wanted to let you go.

You should have known that night would be just one of many.

And it was never easy.

Of course, being a gangster had never been on par with dating a doctor, and even though most of your things are now placed in his apartment, it still wasn’t easy. You often left without a word, only coming back near the verge of dying, and Zayne would always hold back his tears as he took care of you. 

It wasn’t easy because you kept coming back to him and your old life, two worlds that never blended well together, because he was the preserver of life and you were the bringer of death. It wasn’t easy when it always felt like you had too little time that made Zayne always had to cherish every moment he had with you. It wasn’t easy for you, and definitely not for him, yet Zayne never asked you to stay. 

Instead, he always watched you leave in the middle of the night, silently hoping you’d come back safely.

Today was not one of those days.

Jenna had sent you off somewhere far away to handle one of her deals for her, and it didn’t end up looking pretty when your so called client tried to run away without payment. Needless to say, you got stabbed in the gut, but you came home with bags of money anyway. It was a miracle you were able to drive yourself all the way back without passing out. 

Just like when Luke accidentally shot himself, the resident medic wasn’t around, and you found yourself limping to Zayne’s apartment. It was a little ways past midnight, and he was still awake, back hunched over a few papers of his patients. Upon hearing the sound of rapid knocking he knew was yours, he immediately cleared off his table to take care of you. Just like how he always had. 

And like always, you looked at him dreamily, because he was the only light in your life. Your heart swelled with your feelings for him, because whether he had you bent over the counter as he fucked you from behind or you were just cuddling him – or moments like now where you were barely breathing and your gaze was unfocused – he always looked at you the same way.

He always looked at you like he loved you, and you knew he did.

“I missed you,” you croaked out, coughing up blood afterwards. He shushed you before proceeding to stitch you up. “I’m sorry I’m always gone and you keep having to take care of me.”

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his hand momentarily cupping your cheeks.

You looked up at him with so much affection that made him wonder if you were hurt at all, and those were one of the things about you. You had your own demons, yet you always seemed bright and carefree, and he sighed. 

Zayne blamed it on that cursed hippocratic oath that always made him come to your beck and call. But one look at your smiling – although bloodied – face, he realizes he doesn’t mind being your personal doctor. 

Like always, he was just glad you were safe. 

You soon passed out in his dining table, your clothes stained with blood now seeping through and making a mess of his furniture. But he didn't mind, and instead carried you bridal style to his room where he lets you rest. He peeled off your dirty clothes away from your body before draping you his oversized yellow hoodie, his heart stirring with worry and happiness at seeing you in his bed, in his clothes, and in his arms.

To him, that was enough since he knew there wasn’t much you could give him, so he cuddled next to you, careful not to add pressure to your wounds before falling asleep.

You didn’t know how long you’ve been out for, but by the time you’d woken up, you realized you were in Zayne’s bed, dressed in your favorite hoodie of his. Groaning, you covered your eyes when the sunlight streamed in harshly. Zayne stirred from beside you. You let out a little gasp when you felt his erection pressing against your ass, his husky morning voice groaning in your ear.

“Baby,” he moaned, his hands lifting your – his – hoodie up as his fingers trail your skin up to your breasts. “Can I fuck you?”

“I,” you started, pausing when your throat goes dry. “Yes, please.”

Zayne groaned as he scooted closer to you, his hair starting to tickle your neck. You sucked in a sharp breath when his fingers pushed your panties to the side, the tip of his erection teasing your folds before he pushed all the way in. “Fuck,” he moaned lowly, “Tell me if it hurts anywhere.”

You only chuckled lightly as your lips gripped him tightly, because only now do you remember the previous incident you were in. True to his words, Zayne was careful not to hurt you, his hands finding home in your hips instead of your waist. You shuddered at the same time he let out little grunts next to your ear. You wished you could turn around to see how his face contorts in that way when he’s about to cum, but he doesn’t let you. His hand started to grip your breasts under the material of his hoodie, making you close your eyes in the feeling of him filling you again.

It had been too long, way too long, and you missed him. 

Your body was sensitive, that even though his thrusts were slow yet deep, the constant action of his cock plunging into your depths had you mewling. Zayne began to whisper your name, and that was enough for you both to reach your peaks. He came inside you with his thrusts getting sloppier by each minute, and you shut your eyes close as his warmth started to drip outside your pussy. 

Zayne pulled out, gently turning you to your side to face him. He was looking at you softly, a shy smile decorating his sleepy features as he muttered out, “Hi.”

“Hello,” you greeted back as softly as he did. “Did you miss me?”

“So much.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he soothed, sitting up before helping you to do the same. “Just promise me you’ll spend the night.”

Now that you could promise. “Sure. Jenna let me off the hook anyway.”

Zayne’s eyes lit up at the thought of that, and soon you both made your way to his kitchen where he started whipping up breakfast. You winced at the bloodstains you’d left, making a move to wipe it off, but he reprimanded you to just sit down and do nothing. You apologized when he cleaned it up rigorously. He only winked at you, and you moved to plop yourself on his counter as you watched him cook. Zayne let the eggs boil for a while, and you watched him cross legged with your face cupped in the palms of your hands. He turned to stare at you, his face unreadable.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you asked, feeling self conscious as you touched your face. “Do I have something on my face?”

He shook his head, walking towards you and placing his arms beside your body before he kissed you. “You just,” peck “look,” peck “so,” peck “cute.” By the time he moved on to peppering your face with kisses, you were giggling in his hold, your legs naturally wrapping around his waist .Zayne laughed at your poor attempts in trying to move away from him. 

“Stop!” you exclaimed in embarrassment, “You’re gonna spoil me!”

“Of course I’ll spoil you.” He stated, his hands keeping you in place to stop you from moving. You gave in to the strength of his hold and fall limp, the both of you falling silent as you just stared at each other looking lovesick fools.

“Kiss me again.” You mumbled, hands playing with the collar of his shirt. Zayne bent down to kiss you again.

“As you wish.”

You lost yourself in his lips for what seemed like the hundredth time since you met him, and it was his smell that completely intoxicated you. Zayne smelled like safety and comfort, and you were both laughing through the kiss when he suddenly pulled away.

“What’s wrong?” You asked, noticing the panicked expression of his face.

“I forgot the eggs!”

You laughed as he ran to his boiled eggs, whining once he saw the eggs had already exploded. He tried to redo them again after scolding you for always distracting him, and the rest of the day was spent cuddling next to each other on his couch while lazily surfing through Netflix. The day passed by in a blur until the sun had already gone down by the time Zayne noticed you yawning in his arms.

He kissed your cheek, hands lazily making circles at your hip. “You wanna sleep, baby?” You hummed in response, and he carried you effortlessly back to his bed before snuggling under the covers with you. 

You played with his hand, a small smile gracing your face as you placed it flat against his, and realizing his hands were bigger than yours. Zayne had several moles in his fingers that you loved, and he watched in silence as you admired his fingers. Moments like this were what he lived for, to see you happy and comfortable, but he couldn’t stop himself from uttering his next words.

“Will I ever have you?”

You paused, dropping his hand to the bed. Silence consumed the air as your eyes grew distant and Zayne started to wonder if what he said was wrong.

“One day,” you promised quietly, looking back into his eyes with a kindness you’d always kept hidden as your fingers started to comb through his hair. Zayne closed his eyes at the gesture. “You will. Just wait for me when you do.”

He nodded. “I’ll wait for you, no matter how long it takes.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

You didn’t answer back.

Zayne wasn’t surprised when he didn’t see you for the next two months. 

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭

“I know, and you love me anyway.”

Zayne playfully glare at you, and you laughed, only to choke afterwards because of the pain that shot down at your body. Groaning, you rested your head back into the pillows, his scolding voice now back. “What happened to you?”

At his question, you closed your eyes contentedly, blindly pulling his hand back to your lips. “It doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean it doesn’t matter?” He snarled, “You got shot–”

You opened your eyes, looking at him with so much happiness that you found difficult to contain. “What matters is that I’m all yours now.”

Zayne stilled, pausing in the act of bandaging you up. You expected him to be happy, but you almost sat up in worry when a tear fell from his eye as he stared at you grimly. “Zayne, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he cried, wiping at his tears before finishing your bandages up quickly and crushing you into a hug, still careful not to hurt you. “I just–are you serious?”

“Yeah! I’m free from the gang.” You pulled away to look back at him, wiping his tears away even as he laughed to say the words he’d always been waiting to hear, “I love you too.”

How fitting, you thought, that Zayne was a doctor, because he had stitched up all the broken and missing parts of you together until he made you whole. And it was his stitches and kisses that brought you back to life.

[bthemistake]

'Life in the hands of Helio'

Warning for graphic description of gore + injury below

↓

[Image Description:

With his throat slit, blood bubbling up into his mouth and soaking into his white collared shirt, Buddy Dawn struggles in the arms of Kristen Applebee's. His eyes are wide, unseeing, and hands come up to try and grasp onto Kristen as some kind of anchor, mutedly pleading for help.

Kristen's hand hovers above his throat, unable to help him with his death all but promised by his own party leader, Kipperlilly, and her god too far out of reach. She is panicked and resigned to only hold the kid she had hated moments ago. There is no miracle, no burst of light from the crystals in her pocket, when Buddy Dawn dies.

There is a visual parallel, with both Kristen and Buddy being dotted with freckles and something familiar in their eyes. If there had never been 'The Bad Kids', if she'd never asked to be put in detention with the intent to convert people to Helio, would she have ended up the same way?

Buddy had once said "I don't hold on tight, 'cause I'm in someones hand [...] You know Helio is holding onto us tight." but there is no Helio in sight, only Kristen. All that is left is for Buddy to go and meet his so-called-god and ask why he let him die, unaware he will not get an answer.]

[dollfacefantasy]

DREAM INCARNATE ♡

pairing: logan howlett x fem!reader

summary: you're all logan has left of the past. and when he has nightmares about that night at the mansion, you're the only thing that can keep him from falling victim to the memories that haunt him.

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, dubcon, p in v, thigh fucking, somnophilia, cockwarming at the end, nightmares, brief descriptions of blood, injury, and death

wc: 2.7k

kinktober slot: day 14 - somnophilia

The second he steps off the bike he hears your scream, and he already knows he's too late.

The sound echoes across the open expanse of land in front of the school. It's the two syllables of his name, shrieked with pure terror. His feet pound against the stone driveway as he begins sprinting to the main entrance.

Behind the school, an orange glow radiates. It flickers every few seconds, making shadows dance across the lawn in front of him. He knows it's from a fire. He could smell the smoke for miles down the road.

As he reaches the big wooden doorways, that scent morphs into one of blood. The metallic odor is so strong it nearly makes him nauseous. He swallows down his disgust though in favor of getting inside.

He couldn't be too late. He just couldn't be. Everyone's gonna be ok. It's bad, but not as bad as he thinks.

In a way, he was right. It wasn't as bad as he thought. It was so much worse.

His claws are out as soon as he swings the heavy door open, but it's in vain. There's no opponents there waiting for him. Instead, he finds Charles's wheelchair knocked over and empty. He swears his heart drops and his stomach hollows out. In his entire life, he never recalled feeling such horror.

He continues down the entrance hall. The interior of the building is quiet. All the noise, yelling and chanting, comes from outside, probably wherever that fire is. As he walks, he peers into rooms that have been left open. He sees blood smeared across the floor and spattered onto the wall. Bodies peek out from behind ransacked furniture.

When he turns the corner, he finds the first victim. Jean lies there, crumpled up and lifeless. He doesn't have to check on her to know she's dead. Several feet away against the wall Scott sits slumped over, also motionless and morbidly unresponsive. His glasses rest on the floor beside him, the right lens cracked.

He walks faster. The gravity of seeing his teammates like this weighs him down, but he has to get to you. He heard you. There's a chance they haven't finished you off yet.

On the way there, he passes Beast and Rogue and Storm and finally Charles, all in similar states to the first two of his friends he saw. Each one feels worse than any of the bullets he'd taken in his nearly two centuries of life. His mind grows frantic the farther he walks through the aftermath of the massacre. He's desperate to find you when he finally reaches the last room he hadn't checked.

The classroom with large glass windows along the back wall. It had always been your favorite. You loved all the plants in there and how sunlight bathed the room in warmth through those transparent panes.

Now, the desks that had been in neat rows pile on top of each other in haphazard clusters. The board at the end of the room displays some message about killing all mutants. He doesn't catch the specifics because he doesn't care. The only thing he can see is you, limp and mangled below it.

The words above are scrawled in red, and the puddle of scarlet surrounding you leaves no question as to what kind of ink they used.

When he gets to you, you're still twitching. Your eyes are fading, but for the moment, he can still see you inside them.

"I'm here," he chokes out, "I'm here, baby. You called for me. I'm here."

You blink slowly. Without seeing the surrounding scenery, it would look like you were just sleepy, waking up from a lazy afternoon nap. But unlike those occasions, your gaze doesn't hold any love. All he can feel radiating off of you is fear.

"Logan?" you whimper before coughing. Your chest rattles with the urge to clear the blood making it hard for you to breathe. He tries to soothe you through it as best he can, but there's not much he can do.

You regain yourself and continue on with what you had been trying to say.

"Where were you? Why didn't you help us?" you ask, tears gathering in your eyes.

"I- I was- I'm sorry," he says instead of answering the questions. He doesn't want to waste time with any of his pathetic explanations. "I'm here now. We're gonna get you out of here, and it's going to be ok."

Tears leak from your eyes, one rolling out from the inner corner. He can see the streams of water trailing down your face from the glow outside the windows.

"Why didn't you help us?" you cry again, "Why did you leave us to die? Why did you leave me?"

Then his eyes open.

Unlike his usual nightmares, he doesn't yell or shoot straight up when he regains consciousness. His claws don't pop out ready to tear apart the imagined threat. This time, he only jerks a little with a strained gasp. After that, he feels frozen, as if his joints locked in place.

His chest puffs with shallow breaths. It takes his mind a few minutes to catch up. While staring at the dark ceiling above, the image of you dying begins to fade away. That hadn't happened. That wasn't how that part of the night had played out.

The rest of his dream, however, had been more based in reality. Those images of the others strewn across the mansion are harder to clear. He rubs his rough palm over his face, trying to push them away. But he can already feel the ache of self-loathing and guilt gnawing at his insides.

He tries to remember the things you told him on the few rare occasions you had to console him. There's nothing to do about it now. It's in the past. All you can do is try to be better for the future.

Your voice plays these reminders through his head. They help bring him back down a little. He feels the plush comfort of your mattress beneath him and your blankets draped over him. The room is silent except for the muted hum of the air conditioner. There's no screaming or chanting or fire crackling. The smell of death is gone. All there is now is the scent of you.

As he goes through this list, he feels some movement beside him. His head turns, and his eyes land on you. You had shifted around a little in your sleep, rolling onto your other side so that you're facing away from him. He hears you let out a little unconscious sigh.

Even though he couldn't see your face, the vision of you lying there peacefully, completely unaware of his turmoil, brings the slightest bit of softness to his eyes.

He reaches over and rubs the small of your back. You look so delicate right now. He rolls onto his side in the same way you're facing, scooting closer.

The sight of your clean pajamas puts him at ease faster than anything else. There's no blood, no torn seams or other signs of pain. The thin baby blue fabric clings to your figure. He tucks his fingers beneath it, sliding his hand up the warm, smooth expanse of your back. They drag up and down along the path of your spine. He feels you melt a little, growing more relaxed as he strokes you. The idea brings him more comfort, that you were just as soothed by his presence as he was yours.

He doesn't understand how you still feel that way about him after everything. Most days he still questioned why you didn't hate him after what happened to the others. He wouldn't blame you for casting him aside like everyone else did.

But he's trying to do as you often tell him and not dwell on the past. So instead, he focuses on the fact that he needs more of you.

He removes his hand from under your shirt and uses both arms to pull your body to him. His muscular arms encircle your smaller frame and situate you right against his chest like a little teddy bear. Nuzzling into the back of your neck, he can smell your lotion. The light and airy aroma loosens the lingering tension in his shoulders.

He lays some kisses against the skin too. You're so precious in this condition, limp and pliable, easy for him to hold and love on. He needs you like this when he feels this way. As much as your words bring him peace of mind, sometimes he just wants to feel you. To feel that you're still here and that you're safe.

Plus, the physical aspect of holding you also calms him down more than he'd probably ever admit out loud. It's just so hard to be upset when he has the round curve of your ass pressed up against him. Nothing wards off the bad memories like you in his grasp. 

He smooths his palms across your belly, gliding them upwards beneath your shirt to cup your breasts. His large hands squeeze them gently. Though the touch is inherently sexual, it's also comforting. He kneads them for a moment before bringing one back down to your pelvis and tucking it under your panties.

You squirm a little from the sudden feeling of being confined and explored. He hears you mumble something incoherent and spots your eyes fluttering a bit.

"Shhh, it's ok, baby. It's just me," he whispers while laying lazy kisses up the column of your throat to below your ear, "You're ok. I've got you."

That's enough to get you to close your eyes again and settle in his arms, but you still babble something he can barely make out.

"Mhm, I know," he murmurs, "You just go back to sleep for me, honey. You're being such a good girl. Giving me just what I need."

He watches you deflate back into your dreams. By now, he's started to fill out beneath the pair of loose sweatpants he had on. He grinds his bulge against your ass with measured rolls of his hips. A soft sigh fans over your shoulder.

At the same time, his fingers in the front swirl around your clit. He teases the little bundle of nerves, drawing tiny patterns of pleasure over it. Your hips push back against him in response. The increased pressure against his cock only drives his need for you more.

His digits drag down your slit and back up to your little nub. He works on you until you're nice and slick between your thighs, ready to take him.

He shifts around a little, adjusting the waistband on his pants to pull his length out. The thick appendage throbs with need for you. He strokes it a few times, feeling the heat beneath his fingers. His other set of digits hooks around the seat of your shorts and panties and pulls them to the side. Pushing his hips forward, he slides his shaft between your thighs.

Your folds engulf him perfectly. He groans softly before beginning to rock his pelvis. He moves in small strokes. The motion isn't rough or primal, just slow and needy. Each drag against your velvety skin coats his cock in your arousal.

His arms get tighter around you. He makes sure he's not holding too tight, not wanting to accidentally snap a rib during this process. You just feel so fucking good. He has to have you so close it feels as though he's trying to absorb you. 

He buries his face in your neck, little puffs of air blowing on your skin with each grunt he makes. More wetness gathers where the two of you meet as he keeps thrusting. He feels the fat tip of his cock nudge your clit. He can feel the way your legs squirm at that sensation too.

In your sleep, your hands drift up to hold one of his forearms. You whine softly, but it's crackly and broken. It's not a choice, just a subconscious reaction to the pleasure sizzling between your hips.

He works a little faster now, back and forth, back and forth. Without thinking about it, he lightly bites your shoulder. He doesn't use enough pressure to hurt, but he also is pretty sure there will be marks when he finally lets go.

The dull ache on your shoulder combined with the teasing flicker on your cunt still doesn't wake you. Your eyes don't open until he angles himself back and pops the first couple inches of his shaft into your entrance.

That's when your gossamer lashes lift from your cheeks in the direction of your brow. It takes you a few blinks to comprehend the sensation. You feel the heat of him all around you right away. The mild stretching down below makes your head spin.

He sees you waking and swoops in again, mouth releasing your flesh and migrating to the shell of your ear.

"That feel good, princess?" he mutters as he bottoms out.

After a few lazy blinks, you're able to nod. Your fingers dig into his forearm a little harder.

"Good. Just relax and enjoy it for me, ok?" he mumbles.

He starts to thrust, pumping himself into you at a slow, steady pace. His movements remain controlled. Now wasn't the time to fuck like survival depended on it. That's not what this is about. He has all he needs like this, and he can tell you do too.

You nod to that second question before shutting your eyes again. He feels your head going limp against your pillow and rewards your compliance with some soothing kisses to the area he had bitten before.

"Sweet, sweet girl," he grunts. It's more to himself than you. He's not even sure you'll hear it.

Your body is relaxed again with a handful more thrusts. He doesn't think you're fully asleep, probably drifting on some middle ground between lucidity and sleep.

His cock throbs within you. You're so tight and warm, wetter than you were on the outside. He knows he probably won't last much longer, but that's ok. There didn't need to be a big finish right now.

He pants against your skin, his face tensing with the need to release. His fingers dig into the skin of your chest. The heat in his stomach keeps rising higher and higher as the pressure does the same.

It gets to a point that it finally snaps and his hips jerk, clapping against your ass. He spills deep inside you. The warmth floods your belly. He feels your legs go taut and the way your walls spur him on by contracting around his cock.

He fucks it into you slowly. His body also feels tense for the moment, taking care to remain gentle with you. His hips move in slow rolls to work his cum deeper into you, but they eventually slow down to the occasional twitch. And then finally nothing.

"Gonna be all messy now..." you grumble.

He chuckles against your skin, the sound raspy and low. "I'll clean you up in the morning," he whispers and kisses below your ear, this time the peck chaste. Nothing but pure love in the gesture.

You hum with acknowledgement before yawning. There's a brief pause after that. He stays inside of you, needing to feel that snug embrace for a bit longer. No sound comes from either of you. He's pretty sure you're trying to sleep again, but then you speak.

"Did you have a nightmare?" you whisper.

He hesitates. You already knew the answer. There was no other reason to ask if not to confirm. That doesn't change the fact that he doesn't like showing weakness.

But he's honest with you anyway.

"Mhm," he hums.

You nod, contemplating your next words. "Do you feel better now?" you decide to ask.

"Yeah, baby. You fixed me right up," he responds just as quietly. 

And it's the truth. For the moment, he's better. Tomorrow he'll probably have another one of these things, but for tonight you've cured him. He keeps holding you close and finally shuts his eyes again.

[dilf-rot]

Roadkill

Old! Logan gets hit by a car right outside your apartment, and since his healing isn’t as fast as it use to be he begrudgingly agrees to let you take care of him for the time being 

Word Count: 3009 

Tags: Old!Logan x Reader, Logan Howlett x Reader, Wolverine x Reader, Fem!Reader, age gap (obviously), kinda pervy logan, blood, description of injuries / mild gore, Car accident, wound dressing, alcohol consumption, bed sharing, P in V, Fingering, Some dirty talk, creampie 

AN: Okay so I did a poll about what you guys would want next, and a "Funny Old Logan" fic won... so like the concept is the funny part (at least to me), But I tried to make it rather light hearted because I hope it wasn’t a misleading poll choice. Maybe the length of it will make you forgive me for my poor sense of humor 

If you enjoy my work consider sending me a tip at https://ko-fi.com/rotwrites (Not required by any means, writing requests are still free!)

MDNI 18+

—--------------------------------------

It was rather late at night, your street barely illuminated by the poorly maintained street lamps. You sat by your window, watching the empty street. The autumn air wispy through the trees, dead leaves skittering across the concrete. You liked looking outside at this time of night, reminding yourself of how quiet and peaceful things can be. 

An older man was walking along the edge of the sidewalk, his head hung down, his gait slow and particular. You were surprised to see someone out walking at this time, but thought it not too unusual. As he began to walk along the curve of the road, as if materializing from thin air, a black vehicle sped around the curve, colliding with the man and sending him falling over into the pavement, the screech of tires, the sound of impact. You could hardly think as you rushed down the stairs and out the door. 

The vehicle had disappeared much like it had appeared, and the man lay unmoving on the cold concrete. There was a small puddle of blood forming beneath him. 

“Are you alright? I’ll call 911.” You shouted as you approached him, holding out your hand.

“Don’t,” He groaned, pushing himself over so that he was laid on his back. The blood was seeping through his shirt around his abdomen, but it seemed not to bother him. “I’ll just be on my way.” 

He breathed heavily, trying to stand from the ground. Cursing to himself. He couldn’t seem to sit up.

“Here, let me help you.” You leaned down and helped him to his feet. He winced in pain as he tried to stand up straight. Looking at you in a peculiar way, as if he had never expected kindness from a stranger. You were young, and bright, and despite the suddenness and seeming severity of his situation, came rushing in to help. Great contrast to his old, dark, and brooding disposition. “Are you sure you don’t want 911? If your worried about ambulance costs I could always drive you to the hospital.”

He tried to laugh, but ended up coughing and a splatter of blood spewed from his mouth. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. Just need some rest.”

“Why don’t you come inside, I’ll help you,” You gestured towards your building, the window of your apartment the only one light up in the night.

“Really, it’s no big deal-” He started, only for a little more blood to dribble from his mouth, he wiped it away with his hand and before he could protest any further, you slowly led him up to your apartment. Careful not to take the stairs too fast, or pull too hard on his arms. 

Despite his current state, he was rather well built. You could feel the lines and curves of muscle under his jacket as his arm rested across your shoulders. His face wasn’t all that bad either, minus the blood staining his graying beard, he was rather handsome and you suddenly felt rather embarrassed by your choice of bringing him into your home. 

You brought him inside, and helped him sit down in the living room. Tossing the decorative pillow off of the chair so that he may lean back comfortably. He looked around your apartment, it was nicely decorated, a little girly, but not too extreme, and there were some pumpkin and mushroom themed items here and there for the fall season. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Listening to you frantically search your cabinets for first aid materials. 

When the searching had stopped you managed to find a first aid kit, a washcloth, and some pain meds. 

“Can we take off your shirt and jacket so I can see the damage?” You once again held out your hands to him. He grumbled and nodded, helping you remove them. The fabric luckily wasn't sticking to the wounds, despite being drenched in blood. “I’ll wash them for you.” 

He watched your face as you took in the sight of him. He was much more in shape than you would expect for an older man, not that you could guess how old he was, but he seemed to be the active kind based on his physique. You shakily reached out with the washcloth, gently dapping away the drying blood, trying to get a better look at the wounds. They didn’t seem too deep, but the lacerations and road burn were rather gruesome. You decided it would be best to apply some antibacterial and wrap them in gauze. You were worried that you wouldn’t have enough, but as you wrapped the last bit around him, you were relieved to find it had been the perfect amount. He didn’t have the energy to argue with you, nor to explain that by the morning, or at least the late afternoon tomorrow, he would be mostly healed up and able to leave. 

“Could I see your hands?” You took them in yours, looking at his palms, happy to find them not all that scrapped up. He huffed when you put them back down. “Can I get you something to drink?”

He perked up a bit, “You got any whiskey?”

You pull up a step stool and search through your liquor cabinet, you had a modest amount of choices for when friends came over. But your whiskey selection was rather poor. He watches you as you try to balance while you move bottles out of the way.

“I only have Screwball and Jack Daniel’s” you call out over your shoulder.

He groans and rolls his eyes, he should have expected that from a young girl like you. “Daniel’s.” 

You get the bottle down from the cabinet and grab him a glass. As you go to pour it he stops your hand, “Just give me the bottle sweetheart.” 

You oblige, and sit on the couch across from him. Watching as he takes a swig from the bottle, swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing. You are almost entranced watching him, something about him draws you in. Admittedly it was strange for you to be ogling a complete stranger, whom you had just witnessed get fully hit by a car, but you couldn’t help yourself. You shift on the couch, trying to find a comfortable position.

“What’s your name?”

He sighs, placing the bottle down, “Logan.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the Doctor, Logan?”

“I’ll be alright.”

“No offense, but you just got knocked on your ass by a speeding car.”

“Been through worse.” He says, and you believe him. “I’ll be good to go tomorrow, don’t worry your pretty little head about me.”

You nod, and resign to not ask him any further. Instead just watching as he drinks, and wondering what someone like him was doing in the neighborhood anyway.

-sit watching him, as he starts to get sleepy, you offer to bring him to your bed to sleep

“You invite a lot of strange men into your bed?”

“No.”

“I’m the first?”

You don’t answer, helping him lay down and get comfortable. Taking his shoes off for him and asking if he needs anything else.

“I’m alright.”

“Ok, I’ll be on the couch if you need anything.” As you walk away, he can sense how you sigh. Knowing you probably can’t sleep on that couch, he gets a little smirk on his face.

“Why don’t you stay with me, Princess?” He can hear your breath catch in your throat and your little kind heart starts to race. “Make sure I stay breathing, ya know?”

You nod, feeling silly for how quickly you want this attention from him. But you can’t help yourself and you crawl into bed with him. Trying not to bump him as you get under the blankets. You face away from him and close your eyes, trying to fall asleep as fast as possible, the adrenaline of the whole situation quickly fading. He shifts in the bed, you can feel his warmth radiating from him. He places his hand on your waist and pulls you closer to him. His mouth against the back of your head, your back pressed against his chest. He whispers something to you, but you can barely hear it over the sound of your heart hammering away. 

You aren’t sure how but you were able to fall asleep like that, Logan holding you against him, and you hiding your face in your pillow hoping you could get through this without any more strange feelings bubbling up in your stomach. 

When you woke up, Logan’s mouth was pressed to your neck, softly mumbling against you. The scruff of his beard scratching against your skin. When you shifted he pulled away, but his arm remained around your waist. You patted him and tried to squirm out of bed.

“Mmm...” he groaned. “Morning.” 

He stayed in bed as you went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. He watched you, your pj shorts riding up, and the tank you wore hugging tightly to you. You felt a little sweaty, probably due to having something so warm in your bed for once. You lean in the doorway to the bedroom watching as he slowly sits up.

“How are you feeling?”

“Could use a shower,” He groans as he stands from the bed, stretching and feeling all the aches slowly coming back.

You lead him to the bathroom, bringing him a towel and washcloth. You help him unwrap his bandages, and as you do you are surprised to see them mostly scabbed and scarred over, only a few of the deeper ones were still periodically dripping with blood.

“That’s quite impressive,” you remark, tracing your finger lightly over one of the scars.

“Not as good as it used to be,” He shrugs. You turn your back to him as he gets into the shower. Once the curtain is closed you grab his clothes and as he showers you wash his clothes and your bed sheets, grateful to have the luxury of in unit laundry. 

You hear him drop some stuff in the shower and check on him, he says he's okay and that his shoulder is just stiff. You return to your spot on the couch, wondering how he managed to heal so well overnight, maybe he just had good genetics. His muscles and features already seemed unfair to be on a man of his presumed age, so perhaps he just had quicker blood clotting than your average person.

You hear the shower shut off, and a few moments later he steps out. Wrapped in only a towel, your breath catches in your throat at the sight of him. You couldn’t help but imagine being pressed up against him, much like last night, but without the barrier of injury or clothing. The way the towel clung to his waist, droplets of water stuck to his skin, his hair wet and dripping. You shook the thoughts out of your head and offer him the biggest bathrobe you have while his clothes are drying.

You make a pot of coffee and sit next to him on the couch. He seems much more relaxed this morning, and maybe even a bit more interested in your company. He reaches his hand out to you, placing it right above your knee, “I appreciate you going through all this effort for an old man.”

“Of course, I couldn’t just leave you on the street.” You squirm a bit as he rubs his hand gently back and forth.

“Anything I can do for ya, you know return the favor?” You could see a bit of a smile spreading as he looked towards you. God he was much more attractive in the light of day.

“Oh-” You feel heat rising to your face and you look away towards the window. “No. No, it’s no big deal.”

He smirks, he can hear your heart racing. Hell, he can even smell your desire pooling between your thighs. Sweet girls like you always seem to be affected by him. He drops his hand from your knee, leaning back into the couch, “Come on, be honest with me Sweetheart,”

You scoot a little closer to him, your thigh pressing into his.

“That's it, I don’t bite.” But deep down he would, if you begged him too. He’d rip those pjs off you and treat you like a doll. Make you squirm and scream until your mind goes hazy and your eyes water. 

You lean closer against him, your shoulder pressing up against his, trying to build the courage to ask him for what you really want. Before you can find the words he brings his hand up to your jaw and turns you to face him. He searches your eyes for a moment, giving you space to protest, and when you don’t he closes the gap and kisses you. Gentle and soft, you can taste the coffee on his breath but you don’t even care. He pulls away and you whine involuntarily.

“Needy, are we?” You nod and push yourself closer to him, he kisses you again, dropping his hand down to trace along your arm, until he reaches your waist. He pulls you in, his hand against the small of your back. He kisses you deeply and passionately, savoring the taste of your mouth as he slips his tongue inside. Feeling pleased by the soft whines and moans you’re making against him. 

He slips his free hand down between your thighs, groaning when he feels how wet you are through the fabric of your pajama shorts. Practically smiling into the kiss when he slips his hand under the waistband and realizes you weren’t wearing panties this entire time. 

“Bringing me into your house, and you didn’t even have panties on?” He brings his fingertips to rub your clit in little circles. You whine, knowing that you could never expect your night to unfold the way it did. His hand is so rough and calloused but his movements are so gentle, teasing you so softly. You press your head into the side of his arm wanting him to be rougher, wanting to get there faster.

He pulls his hand away and you groan at the loss of contact. He pulls you into his lap and removes your shorts. With you resting on his thighs he leans you back against him and brings his hand back to toy with you. His touch is electrifying and you rock your hips up against him trying to get more, but he keeps the same languid pace with just a small bit of pressure. 

He uses his other hand to wrap around your waist and hold you in place. You can feel him pressed up against your back, the soft fabric of the bathrobe you gave him gliding along your skin. As you shift and whine he keeps you steady, not giving you enough to make you cum, but just enough to make you feel dizzy as the frustration starts to build.

“Logan… please,” You plead with him and he kisses your neck.

“What do you need, baby?”

“More…” He laughs against your skin as you try to press yourself up against his hand again, but he just keeps you in place, his grip tightening. 

“I’ll give you more.” And he does. Finally speeding up the motion of his hand and adding more force. You’re so happy that you hardly notice as your orgasm quickly washes over you. Your thighs trembling against him. You don’t even register it as he flips you around to face him, using both his hands to hold your hips and lower you down onto his cock. 

When you come back to earth, you’re met with the feeling of being utterly full. You hadn’t gotten a good look at his dick before, but just based on the feeling of it, you knew you were in trouble. It was thick and stretched you open, making you shiver as he bounced you slowly up and down. The way it dragged along your walls, the way the tip of it brushed against that sweet spot inside. You were reduced to moans and whines, and hardly any thoughts could form in your brain that weren’t regarding Logan fucking you. He kissed you while he continued to fuck into you. His pace picking up and making you see stars. 

“Fuck… that pretty little pussy of yours feels so good.” He groaned into your ear and you shivered around him. “Were you gonna hide this from me?”

You shake your head, and try to say no but all that escapes your mouth is another choked whine. He grins as he admires your fucked out expression. You can feel yourself getting closer and closer to release, as he pounds into you, hitting that spot and pressing against you. You’re breathing becomes ragged and your whines and moans blend into nothing but noise as you clench around his cock and come undone.

“That’s it, Doll. Cum all over this cock.” He fucks you through your orgasm and you drop your head onto his shoulder. Whining and moaning and cursing under your breath as he doesn’t stop. He’s getting closer too, his thrusts start to falter and his composure starts to slip. You feel him twitch and in moments warm, thick cum floods your insides. He holds you there, and kisses the top of your head. Murmuring about how good you feel, how you’re such a good girl for taking all of him. Your fuzzy little head can’t even reply. 

When your brain finds its way back to you, and you can breathe in a regular manner, you feel his cock slide out of you, and his cum seeps from you, coating your thighs and his. He shifts under you and you stiffen.

“Do you have to leave?” You aren’t sure why, but you don’t want to let go of this strange man just yet. 

“I can stay a little longer for you, Princess.”

[yesimwriting]

Easing

a/n just a little logan idea i had while thinking of ways to work on my characterization of him :)

Summary: A contemplation of mortality. Or, alternatively, reader sustains a minor injury while on a mission and Logan sees the end of the world.

Warnings: age gap (where everyone is of legal, consenting age), slight descriptions of injury, unnoticed pining

----

The dimness of the room adds an edge to your haziness, blurring the furniture in a way that dampens your mood.

You've been curious about Logan's room longer than you'd ever admit, and now that he's pulled you into it to not-so-discreetly scold you when all you want to do is go to bed, you can't even enjoy the benefit of taking in your surroundings.

You take advantage of the fact that your back is to him, eyes falling shut as you focus on ignoring the buzz of the electricity powering his bedside lamp. The plights of being an exhausted technopath.

There's a severity to his presence, a sharpness in the way he lingers behind you. It'd be all too easy to leave him to his brooding, to halfheartedly accept any verbal lashings he feels like giving you and be done with it. But Logan knows you, knows how you work well enough to find a way to interpret your lack of commentary into something it's not, a sign that something is wrong with you beyond a scrape against your temple and a drowsiness you're not used to.

"So," the word feels flat, almost distorted, "This is your room."

He exhales, a puff of air that tells you he's in no mood for anything lighthearted. "What were you thinking?"

Logan had asked the same question of everyone else involved. "That I was helping people."

There was nothing dramatic or life threatening about the scratches against the side of your face. You were thrown to the ground and the gravel cut against your cheek and the side of your forehead. You were quick to get up and put the person that attacked you in their place.

He walks forward, turning to face you. His attention remains fixed on some point that seems to exist right past your shoulder. "If it helps, I broke the other guy's nose right after."

Logan doesn't exactly ease, but you don't miss the way the corner of his mouth attempts to tug itself upwards. "Yeah?" The word's more amused than he wants it to be.

"Mhm," you hum cheerily, recalling the sting of your knuckles and the sound of bone cracking. That had been the part of the mission you wanted to tell him about. "Punched him just like you showed me."

His eyes briefly meet yours before falling towards the floor. "Deserved more than a punch."

You sigh. "Come on." When he doesn't react, you take a cautious step forward. Logan still doesn't look at you. "It's not that bad."

"You're bleeding."

Any blood staining your skin is old and dry. If Logan hadn't found you so quickly you would have cleaned it yourself in the bathroom. You barely had time to finish changing into your pajamas before Logan knocked on your door. "It's old." Your assurance doesn't ease him. You take another step in his direction. "Logan."

He lets out a breath, the sound pointed. "You didn't let anyone clean it?"

The question is the closest he's come to your usual dynamic. There's nothing passive aggressive about it, and yet it manages to dig at you a little more than anything else that's been said.

Logan's older than you. It's no secret and rarely a source of concern, the two of you comfortable enough with the age gap in your sort-of-friendship for you to occasionally joke about him being an old man. But when things like this come up, and he worries a little too much, a part of you starts to wonder if he only tolerates you because he sees you like a little kid.

You lift your chin slightly, doing your best to seem a little more stable. "I'm not one of the kids, I can clean my own cuts."

His eyes meet yours, the look warning you against leaning into anything overly confident. You resist the urge to smile. "Aren't you all grown up, bub?"

Your lips part, but you're too distracted by the uneasy warmth settling in your chest to think of a response. The corner of his mouth bends into what feels like a partial smile. The look vanishes before you can be sure.

He turns with no warning, walking towards an unfamiliar door. You watch him for a long moment before following.

Logan opens the door, turning his head slightly to make sure you're behind him. He turns on the light before fully stepping into the room. You inhale sharply in an attempt to dismiss the burning pressure of the influx of electricity.

His bathroom is tidy, with only a toothbrush and a soap dispenser taking up the counter space next to his sink; a navy blue bath mat in front of the shower; and neatly hung towels. Something about seeing this feels oddly personal, and you're not sure why. It's only a bathroom, and it's only Logan.

He halfheartedly taps his fingers against the counter once. "Sit," said in a tone that is only ever used when he's not in the mood to be contradicted, even if you only mean to do so adorably.

The warmth returns with a vengeance, but you obey anyway. As long as he's preoccupied with you, he's not lashing out at anyone that might have seen what happened to you and not attempting to kill Scott for thinking to ask you to go on the mission.

You pull yourself onto the counter, placing your hands on your lap to limit the space you're taking up. Logan twists the faucet before reaching for a wash cloth. He dampens the cloth before bringing it to your cheek. He dabs at the scraped skin with a carefulness that twists your stomach.

"You need to take better care of that face." It's meant to be another way of scolding you, but the words lack any bite.

If you were less aware of your breathing, you'd roll your eyes. "It'll heal."

Logan sighs, moving the cloth up your temple. He finds a particularly ginger spot beneath your eyebrow, you press your lips together to keep from reacting. He pulls the wash cloth away, giving you a look that makes you feel terribly transparent. "You're hurt."

"I--" You cut yourself off. There's little point in attempting to lie to him, especially when he's looking at you like that. "I'm a little sensitive, but that's normal. You're just not used to it because you heal too fast."

"Too fast?"

You nod, glad for the excuse to turn this onto him. "If you healed at the same rate as most of the population, you'd look at it like a paper cut."

He throws you a look that's entirely unconvinced as he sets down the wash cloth. "I'm sure."

Logan picks up the Neosporin he set aside earlier, applying some of the ointment to his fingers. He hesitates before dabbing the product against your skin. His other hand finds the other side of your face, thumb pressing into your chin to turn your head to better assess his work.

His eyebrows pull together as he searches your features for something you don't understand. You're not convinced he's found it, but he does eventually let you go.

Instead of moving away from the counter, Logan holds his hands out in front of you. It takes you a moment to understand what he's asking, but once you catch on you offer him your own hands, letting him study your knuckles.

The skin is a little irritated, but far from as agitated as the scrapes against the side of your face. "At least you got some good hits in."

The validation comforts you more than it should. You're glad he's too focused on your hands to see your smile. "I'm tougher than I look."

He lifts his head slightly, eyes finding yours in a way that feels a little softer than before. "I don't doubt that, kid."

Logan releases you carefully, setting your hands back onto your lap. He keeps himself there for a moment, fingers resting against the back of your palm. When he does move away, he does so to reach for the Neosporin.

You roll your eyes as he applies the product to your knuckles. "You're very dramatic tonight."

He glares in a way that tells you you're in no position to comment on his level of concern. Usually, you'd push, but he's probably been through enough tonight. And maybe--only maybe--a part of you is enjoying his version of coddling.

Logan picks up the wash cloth again, wiping the excess product onto the fabric before taking a partial step back. "You're clean."

He's still in front of you, too close to let you push yourself off of the counter. "Thanks." Your fingers tap against your knee. "Anything you want to yell at me or was that a Scott only thing?"

He scoffs. "I told him if you came ba--"

"I'm fine." His irritation at the correction is enough to silence him. "And it wasn't his fault." A completely true statement, considering Scott was nowhere near you when it happened.

Logan places one hand on the counter, the side of his thumb nearly touching your thigh. "It was his idea for you to be there." Another fact, though one that's completely disregarding the complexities of the situation. A single touch from you completely fried the security system being used to hold other mutants hostage. "He was outside of your room while you were changing..."

What? You blink, so surprised in the change of topic you don't even know where to start. "Uh--" In all honesty, you had thought Scott was kidding about staying near you until the situation was diffused. You also thought it was ridiculous to assume Logan would see you before morning. "He said proximity to me would make it less likely for you to kill him."

His eyebrows draw together, his expression morphing into something you can't quite interpret. "Not his best theory."

Now it's your turn to glare. While you're not particularly fond or un-fond of Scott, he doesn't deserve the blame for this. "Not his fault, either."

He frowns in a way that's meant to let you know that you'll have to agree to disagree. Logan watches you for another moment before taking a step back. You use the space to push yourself off the counter. He--he's closer than you thought he'd be.

"I uh--" You let out a breath, focusing on the drowsiness that had been bothering you the entire way back from the mission. This isn't the longest you've ever gone without sleep, but the mission had drained you. There had been a lot of complicated technology in the facility that you had to concentrate on mentally hacking. "I think I'm gonna go to bed."

Logan presses his lips together before letting his gaze fall to the ground. "You can--" The words are mumbled, hesitant. "You can stay in here tonight, if you want."

You blink. He um--You guys have spent a fair amount of time together, more so than usual recently, but he's never implied anything like this. The only thing more startling than the offer is the fact that it isn't...unappealing.

You like being around Logan more than you'd ever admit. You're always looking for excuses to be around him more, and now he's giving you a reason to stay.

"Yeah," the response feels too uncertain, too surprised. "If it'll help your old man heart to see that I'm perfectly fine."

He angles his head to the side, the corner of his mouth pulling itself upwards. "As long as you're doing me a favor."

"I know," you say, glad for the excuse to return to a more familiar dynamic, "I'm so kind."

Logan turns around with a slight sigh, "Mhm."

It's easy to follow him out of the bathroom. "That felt sarcastic."

"No," he lies, pulling back his sheets before sitting on the left side of his bed, "You're a saint."

You hesitate, standing halfway between the bathroom door and the bed. It's just Logan--who sits with you to watch movies he couldn't care less about, who actually listens to you, who sits you down on his bathroom counter and applies antibiotics to split skin.

You walk towards the other side of his bed. Logan pulls back the sheets on the other side of the bed before you sit. Now that you're actually resting beneath comfortable bedding, the exhaustion that you've been ignoring all night spreads over your limbs.

He reaches for his bedside lamp but doesn't turn off the light. "Comfortable?"

You mumble your confirmation before the room's soft light vanishes with a soft 'click'. It hits you, then, that you still haven't been able to take in his room the way you would've liked to. Maybe in the morning.

You lay down, pulling the comforter up to your neck. There's something distinctly relieving about the end of the day, when all forms of electricity are turned off and the buzzing beneath your skin is finally given a way out. You've gotten better at controlling it, at ignoring it until it's little more than background noise, but when you over use your abilities, the mental shield that divides you and the feeling begins to slip.

You're somewhere between asleep and awake when some instinct convinces you to squint your eyes open. A final look at Logan, and that'll be enough. It's too dark for you to make out much more than a vague silhouette, but something about his rigidness tells you he's far from asleep.

"Logan?"

He's silent for so long you begin to wonder if he's going to pretend to be asleep. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you say, and for a moment you're almost taken back by how much you mean it. "I was just..." There's no real end to your sentence. You don't know why you couldn't let yourself fall asleep. Maybe it had been the way he looked at you, concern too genuine over something so small. "Are you okay?"

You hear him let out a breath. "Anything could have happened."

There's a heaviness to his voice that immediately presses itself against your chest. Did this--did it really scare him that bad? You know he's used to the rapid rate at which his body repairs itself, but that doesn't mean that anyone that recovers at a regular rate is on death's doorstep over something so small.

"But it didn't." He scoffs, the sound dismissive. You move onto your side. "It didn't." When he doesn't react, you reach for him. He doesn't move away when you bend your fingers around his forearm. "And what didn't happen doesn't matter, what matters is that I'm here."

You pause, dragging your thumb against his skin. Logan lets out another breath, the sound something that lacks acceptance. He moves his arm away, but before you can read too much into the movement, his fingers are bending around your own.

[prentissluvr]

hold me, it's enough — sam winchester

cw : gn!reader, hurt/comfort, established relationship, descriptions of physical assault, small injuries, blood, pet names (baby, honey), barely edited, 1.6K words. requested !

prompt : "who did this to you?"

MOVED BLOGS TO @sammyluvr !! no longer active on this blog! all fics can be found there!

the cruelest part about tonight is the way you have to call sam to come pick you up, like you’re some child who’s gotten sick at school. it’s embarrassing and makes you feel guilty because your call woke him up. he’d gone back to the motel early to sleep after a long hunt; took the impala after dean disappeared with a girl, leaving you alone in the bar with your own car in the parking lot.

he answers after four rings, voice a little husky from sleep as he says your name questioningly into the speaker.

“hey, sam,” you respond, sighing quietly to yourself, “sorry to wake you, but i– i can’t drive myself back to the motel… any chance you could pick me up?”

you hear the rustle of sheets from the other end of the line, and you assume it’s sam sitting up. “yeah, of course,” he agrees easily, already up and looking for socks to put on. you can’t see the light frown on his face as he picks up on all of the little nuances in your voice. “you don’t sound drunk. baby, is everything alright?”

you figured he’d ask, but the expectation doesn’t remedy your hesitation to answer. “i… sort of got into a fight. hit my head real hard and i don’t think i should be driving.”

the split second after your answer is enough to show you sam’s surprise. “jesus, honey, are you okay?” he asks, worry making his voice thick.

“yeah, yeah, i’m okay. promise,” you reassure him. he takes a moment to consider your words; whether you’re lying for his sake or if you’re actually okay. your voice is clear and, though a little tired, sounds like you’re just fine. you don’t seem dizzy or out of sorts, and sam takes that as a good sign considering it was your head that you hit. so, he relaxes just a touch as he climbs into the impala. you hear the car door opening and shutting through the phone speaker.

“so, you got into a bar fight?” he asks, a touch of amusement in his voice. he’s still worried about you, but that wasn’t news he expected to hear tonight, or really any night at all. sure, you never back down from a fight, but you’re certainly not the type to start one either.

you roll your eyes a little at his tone. “sort of. the guy deserved it. i elbowed him in the guts and he shoved me. he looked utterly terrified when i stood back up and he saw the look in my eyes,” you describe, humor finding its way into your voice at the end.

sam wants to give a little laugh at your joke, tell you that he can imagine the man running away with his tail between his legs just from the look in your eye, but he’s still stuck on the fact that he shoved you. on the fact that he did something that warranted you to resort to physical violence. 

he clenches his jaw before asking, “did he try to touch you?” his voice is low as he presses down on the gas harder.

wishing your comment about the man’s scared look would have been successful in distracting sam, you sigh. sometimes, sam is too damn smart and he thinks too damn much.

“he got a little handsy, but i took care of it,” you reassure him. “it’s okay. pretty sure i scared him off so bad he left the bar.”

sam grits his teeth, trying not to react too strongly in a way he knows you won’t like. “i’m gonna beat his sorry ass.” he settles for angry, but not too much, and not even possible since the fucker’s already gone.

“yeah, i know,” you sigh into the phone.

the bar’s only ten minutes from the hotel, and sam gets there faster than that. he walks into the establishment, eyes scanning the crowded place to find your familiar silhouette seated at the bar, your left elbow resting on the counter and holding a rag and plastic bag filled with ice to your head. he rushes towards you, swiftly maneuvering between tables and moving bodies.

he says your name a few steps before he reaches you, as to not startle you, placing a worried hand on your shoulder blade when you turn to look at him. he sucks in a sharp breath when he sees your face. there’s drying blood streaking down the side of your face, and your eyes betray that you’re much more shaken by the incident than you were letting on over the phone. he curses your talent in sounding much more okay than you really are. his jaw clenches and his eyes are worried and angry.

“who did this to you?” his voice is rough, the words forced out through gritted teeth as he fights to stay gentle. you sigh at his words, able to tell immediately how angry he’s feeling.

“he’s gone now,” you say gently, secretly relishing in how protective he is of you. you instantly feel safer, much more secure with him in front of you. “i’m okay,” you say, knowing he needs to hear those words. “i promise. you know that head wounds always look worse than they are. and i wasn’t lying when i said that my glare scared him completely off.”

sam wants to tell you that he’s going to find this sorry excuse of a man, that he’s going to yell at him and hurt him and show him how horrible of a mistake he made by messing with you, but he won’t say all of that. though he’ll certainly think it. he is thinking it. but he knows that’s not what you care to hear, knows that anger is not the face you wish for him to wear.

“i believe that,” he finally settles on saying, voice softening just a little. “let’s get out of here. clean you up. there’s blood all over your face.”

you nod. another time you might quip ‘i know. it’s my face, i can feel it.’ today, you just let him place his hand on the small of your back and lead you out to the familiar black car. neither of you have to say anything to agree that you’ll come back for your own car in the morning.

sam’s silence is large, and yours is heavy. they stretch alongside each other, running out on the road with the spinning tires and escaping through the half open windows so that when sam sits you down on the edge of your shared bed, they’ve almost run out. each silence lasts until he sits next to you, first aid kit in hand, and he gently cups your face to turn it towards him. your eyes are a little shiny, and his face softens.

“i’m sorry this happened,” he whispers. “i shouldn’t have left you alone.” that’s when it hits you how guilty he’s been feeling this whole time, thinking about how nothing would’ve happened if he stayed.

“no,” you shake your head. “no, sam, this wasn’t your fault.” your voice is full of conviction as you say this, because it’s true. “you couldn’t have known this would happen. you only left because you know that i can take care of myself, and i did. i took care of it, and it’s over now. and i’m okay.”

“honey,” he chides, wishing you’d admit to him how you really feel. though he might start crying himself if he has to keep looking at you with so much blood on your face, so he takes the wet cloth he prepared in the bathroom and begins to gently wipe at your bloodied skin. the redness comes off easily, but he still hates the sight of it on the white cloth. “just because we deal with monsters and demons and horrible shit all the time doesn’t mean that creepy, pushy men are any less gross and scary than they really are. just because you can deal with it, doesn’t mean you should’ve had to.”

you purse your lips, then swallow against tears. the feeling of that man’s hand grabbing your wrist hard is still so visceral, and the way that you’d been so taken by surprise that his strength sent you sprawling to the floor still makes you feel sort of embarrassed. and sam’s soft hands and gentle reassurances are so contrasting, so good to you that it makes you a little emotional. 

unconsciously, your own hand drifts to the opposite wrist where the man grabbed you, the sleeve of your dress shirt wrinkled and skin tender from how strong his grip was. the movement catches sam’s eye, and his gaze darkens once again when he realizes how you were grabbed. you see the anger and guilt resurface on his features and you gently grab his wrist instead.

with confidence, you guide his hand to yours and hold it there, looking him right in the eye. your eyes swim with faith and sincerity as you wordlessly tell him that you trust his hands on you, on the places where you’re bruised and bloody.

“it’s okay,” you say, voice hushed and assured. “this… it’s enough, sam. it’s all i need.” just these few words tell him that you don’t care that he wasn’t there when it happened, that his care and comfort in this moment are enough to make it better. that his understanding and worry and protectiveness still mean so much. that things happen, but you’ll be okay so long as he’s there to hold you in the aftermath.

so he does just that. he cleans and dresses your wound, and holds you close on the edge of the bed until you ask to go to sleep. then he holds you under the covers, pressing gentle kisses to your forehead and whispering sweet things, until there’s nothing but soft darkness and his touch left, and you’re asleep.