#none of their scars are a thing to show off and be proud off

[quarterlifekitty]

Thinking about Simon’s girl who sniffed his neglected, insecure, traumatized ass out like a bloodhound and dug in

You remind him a lot of price. Always trying to take in strays, always stubbornly trying to succeed in the jobs where others failed. It just took one look at his apartment when he opened the door— you’d brought a misdelivered package to him— and you locked in.

Suddenly all your meals somehow had doubled portions. Must’ve misread the recipe. You’re accidentally buying little things, not realizing you already had one squirreled away. Any god— once he steps foot in your apartment?

Call that man Sam Puckett the way he’s always at your place and almost forgetting he has his own place he could go to. He can’t help it— you have a full couch with lots of pillows and a knit blanket. The place always smells of something— fresh baking, stir fry, candles, fresh farmer’s market produce. He puts on a little more weight. Stop buying caloriemate. Hair is a little shinier (he’s using your products in the shower, let’s be real). He hasn’t been burned in ages (you always keep sunscreen with you and insist on applying it to his pale skin).

As a child, he knew the burden that he was. Even as his mother loved him, she couldn’t hide every sigh and slump of the shoulders as she damned near went hungry some nights trying to keep him alive while his father’s pay went straight to his tab. It never left him. But you ignore any and all of his attempts to be low maintainence, to take up less resources— you want every rich taste and pleasure of the world that you know to be his as well. And you’re so happy when he lets you give.

It’s never forceful. Just kind. “Try this, honey— I think you’ll like it,” holding a forkful towards him. He forgets to even start asking you out— your relationship blurs so quickly from all the domesticity. You can only ply someone deprived with love for so long before they want to kiss you every day forever. Before he knows it he’s about to meet your fucking parents, palms sweating as he tries to remember how this all came to be— this whirlwind you’ve swept him up in.

But where he expects a shovel talk, he finds none. They reveal, amused, that it’s always been this way with you. Your childhood home was like a clubhouse. None of your friends had stable lives growing up— you just gravitated towards them and wanted them to have everything that you had. Suddenly the way you so speedily co-opted him makes sense. And they’re not the least bit wary of the man with the dark, leering gaze that’s covered in scars and built like a brick shithouse. Because they know your eyes are better than a jewelers lens when it comes to evaluating quality.

That night he keeps excusing himself to the bathroom to try to hold back the tears and collect himself because all of the sudden he knows what a home and a family are supposed to look like, and you all want him to be a part of it. You didn’t take him to meet your parents because you wanted to see that they approved of him— you took him because you wanted to show off how proud you were of your latest find. A fleck of gold among grains of sand. A piece of sea glass, once a sharp, discarded thing now tumbled smooth and kept in your pocket.

Simon likes feeling kept.

[ilium-ilia]

Daughters with Soft Underbellies

john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist

Chapter Ten: a world inside a world

tw: none

Grand Hollow is unlike anything you’ve ever seen. 

It scars the land. Morphs it into some unrecognizable jungle littered with buildings that tower higher than any church you’ve ever laid eyes on. The ground vanishes underneath stone blocks and wood boards, leaving Jester’s hooves to pop! along the streets as you keep close to your little group of outlaws. 

Many of the stores you pass sport large windows to show off merchandise fancier than any you’ve ever seen, such as watches made of pure silver and hats from freshly trapped varmints. There are young boys standing on street corners shouting about newspapers or other goods, or strange folk in even stranger clothes attempting to sell bottles of what you think you heard them call snake oil. 

You don’t think you could ever make out your daddy’s steeple through this mess. 

The air smells different here. It’s thicker than Penmosa’s atmosphere—darker. Thin columns of black smoke rise high into the air in the distance, reaching far enough to stain Heaven’s basement with coal dust and human filth. There are kinder aromas that attempt to stave off the grime of horses and automation. Strong liquor pours through some saloons and hotels you pass by, and there’s something sickeningly sweet about the tailor's shop on the other side of the street. 

Sweat slicks your palms, bleeding into the leather reigns you grasp. You have never seen so many people in your life—not shoved into the confines of a city like this. Eyes wander, lips curl, mouths greet. Swallowing, you ensure your mother’s necklace is tucked safely inside your blouse. 

“Your eyes look like they’re about to pop out of your skull, Lamb,” Kyle teases. 

Looking to your side, you see him casually leaning back in his saddle as he leads Bear with one hand. His aura is cool—collected. While you’ve been panicking the moment you’ve crossed this new threshold, he’s only seemed to relax. 

“This is all… I don’t even have the word to describe it,” you admit, eyes flickering back to focus on the road before you. 

“Grand?” he chuckles. “It’s not quite as big as London, so it was an easy adjustment for us, but I imagine it might be a bit much for someone like you… no offence.” 

“None taken. You’re right, after all,” you laugh nervously. “Mr. Beckett would always tell me stories about places like this. Things he heard from travelers and such. None of it comes close to experiencing it for yourself.” 

“And there’s plenty to experience here. Shows, parks, libraries.” 

“Libraries?” you repeat. “I didn’t think those were real.” 

Kyle snickers, white teeth flashing between his lips as he shakes his head. “Oh, they’re real alright. If the human brain can cook it up, it’ll exist here in Grand Hollow.” 

Deep in the heart of this jungle, sitting proud on the corner of a large city block, lies The Twin Rose Hotel. Just like every other building in this city, it towers over all of God’s creatures with glistening windows and chestnut bricks. A balcony on the second floor looks down upon the streets with an excellent view of the city park just across the way, and hanging above that on the face of the wall is the building’s name. Squinting, you’re able to make out odd, small glass bulbs that line the lettering. 

Small metal poles dot the sidewalk around the hotel, staining the ground with the protrusion. John hops off his horse and hitches him to it, and everyone else follows to do the same. A pang shoots through your feet as you dismount, not used to the hard surface of the streets. Your thighs feel numb from countless hours of riding, and you do your best to stretch your hips out as you tie Jester to the metal hitching post next to Bear. Just as you knot it, you realize you can make out a small horse symbol etched into the iron. Even though this city seems so advanced, they still hold a place for the antiquated ways of cowboys. 

“Right then,” John speaks up. All ears in the vicinity perk at the clamor of his voice. He stands with his shoulders squaring backwards and his thumbs looped behind his belt buckle. “Mind your manners, boys.” 

Walking into The Twin Rose is even more of a culture shock than the entirety of Grand Hollow has been. Glistening crystal chandeliers hang high above your head, filling what appears to be the cleanest saloon you’ve ever seen with a warm, saffron glow. The floors are made of waxed wood that don’t have so much as a dent on them, and various tables lay around the room in polkadot-like fashion. A crowd of gentlemen sit at a round table, chuckling over full plates and bottles of beer, and a man in a silk top hat plucks away at a standing piano just next to the mouth of a wide staircase. 

Toward the back of the room lies a bar. There are no stools to sit on, but a young woman with thin lips busies herself with cleaning her mixing supplies. Sconces line the walls, leaving nothing unilluminated, yet you can’t keep yourself from squinting at them. 

“How do they keep the oil in all of these?” you whisper. 

Kyle attempts to stifle his chuckle. “They’re lightbulbs, love. They run on electricity.” 

Lightbulbs. You remember hearing about their creation when you were a kid. It was all anyone could talk about when every paper in the country slapped it on the front page. The great Thomas Edison had invented light that could be held in the palm of your hand. Of course, your poor little town of Penmosa never got to see such a feat, stuck with using oil lamps and campfires, you could only ever dream of witnessing such magic. Your father abhors the idea of it. He says it’s unnatural—ungodly and impetuous. 

How could God hate something so beautiful? 

John leads everyone up to the bar, weaving through tables with heavy feet. He crosses his arms and keeps his head low as he kindly greets the barmaid. Grey eyes look him up and down, seemingly unimpressed, before her gaze wanders over everyone else. She doesn’t even look intimidated by Riley’s stature and the bandana that covers his face. Suddenly, you find your pulse rising. The closest thing you’ve had to a proper bath in the last few weeks was that thunderstorm that rolled in before you hit Little Wood—you’re sure you look less than presentable. 

“Can I help you?” she asks, voice dull.

“I need to speak with Laswell,” John says. 

She raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t seem surprised. “Who’s asking?” 

“John Price.” 

The woman’s head quirks, and you think you might even see a slight smirk on her lips. She places her items down on the bar top before motioning for everyone to follow her. You’re led through a door marked private that brings you to a long hallway with several doors. The barmaid breezes by most of them before coming to a stop at the very end of the hallway. A terrible squeak accompanies the door opening, and through the threshold you’re able to see a large, rectangular table with several chairs to sit in. 

“Take a seat. Laswell will be with you in a minute,” the barmaid instructs. 

You find yourself squeezed between John and Kyle as everyone melts into their seats with a sigh. Red wallpaper adorns every inch of the room in a deep scarlet that soaks up the illumination from the sconces. Beautiful paintings in thick, mahogany frames dot the walls as decor, but the room is too tenebrous for you to fully tell what they are. You can vaguely make out a beautiful Arabian horse in one, and snow capped mountains in another, but your eyes strain too great to peer at them in detail. 

Soap leans so far in his chair that his neck rests on the backboard, and his feet brush against yours, though you don’t say anything about the intrusion. “I hope we’re invited over for dinner.”

“Enjoying Lottie’s cooking and then having a proper bed to sleep in does sound nice,” Kyle hums in agreement. 

“There’s still a lot of work to do, boys,” John reminds them. 

Huffing, Soap straightens himself out in his seat. “Aye, but we’re allowed to have a little fun every now and then, aren’t we?” 

Before anyone can comment further, the door swings open, then quickly clicks shut. A woman with a stern face enters the room, and she is the strangest lady you think you’ve ever seen. Her cream blouse is pressed so that it’s pristine and free of wrinkles, and her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows as if she was caught doing manual labor. Instead of a skirt to accompany it, she dons a pair of black dress pants with matching shoes. Her dirty blonde hair is pulled back into a bun, leaving only her fringe to cover her forehead and the sides of her face. For a long moment, she stands at the head of the table with her hands on her hips where she gets a good look at everyone seated in front of her before humming and taking a seat. 

“Never thought I’d see any of you ever again,” she says bluntly. “Last I knew, John Price and his posse had vanished further West where the land is wild and the laws are rare.” 

“You know we couldn’t stay away forever, Laswell,” John smiles. 

“Yeah, not with all that unfinished business you have in Blackpeak.” The air grows tense. Palpable with hesitation. The oddly dressed woman pauses a moment to let her eyes fall on you, and you find your breath catching in your throat. She scrutinizes you—soaks up every inch of you. She doesn’t look away from you when she continues to speak. “I see you’ve got a new member to this… posse, of yours.” 

John looks at you, eyes cold and face impossible to read. “She’s just cargo.” 

Laswell hums. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” 

Your mouth grows dryer than any desert Mr. Beckett has ever told you about in all his tall tales. John nods in encouragement, and your answer tumbles off of your tongue like a freshly jellied calf. 

“But we all just call her Lamb,” Soap interjects with a grin. 

“Where are you from, Lamb?” the woman asks. 

“Penmosa.” You answer her question as if you’re unsure—as if you don’t know if you’re right or not. 

“Penmosa?” she repeats. “You’re an awfully long way from home. What brings you out here?” 

Nervosity chews at the flesh of your ankles as your hands fall into your lap, fingers twiddling. Is this the part where you ask for help? Where you bare your father’s sins for some stranger to see—to sully his name? Eyes shifting, you look to John, who casually leans back in his chair as he raps his fingers against the tabletop. 

“Her daddy’s got a bad temper,” he explains simply. 

“Right. Cargo.” Laswell crosses her arms before glancing around the table once more. “You boys are damn near drooling on my table. If you were hungry, you could’ve asked.” 

“Well, we didn’t want to impose,” Kyle explains, though his grin bleeds into his words. 

“You know better than to play coy with me, Garrick,” she teases. Her chair scrapes across the floor as she stands to her feet. The sconce behind her sends a diffused ray of light around her—she looks powerful. Unlike any other woman you’ve ever seen. “I’ll have the kitchen cook us some lunch, then we’ll see about arrangements. Lamb, how does a bath sound?” 

Surprised to hear her address you directly, you nearly jump out of your seat. “A bath? Well… that sounds fine.” 

“Good. We’ll get you fed, then while you’re bathing, the men and I can talk business. Sit tight, I’ll be back.” 

It does not take Laswell long to return with two maids following along behind her in red dresses. They each push a small trolley of sorts, with large plates of food and pitchers of water jittering along the metal cart as they station it alongside the table. You eye platters of rolls, chicken, smoked ham, mashed potatoes, and a large gravy boat. Dainty hands place the delicate dishes on the table buffet style before handing everyone a fresh, rose designed porcelain plate. Then, they vanish behind the door, leaving everyone to their meal. 

Honey glistens off of the ham in an enticing amber color that the boys waste no time diving into, flesh peeling like the tender skin of an orange. Rolls are passed around, as well as the saltiest butter you’ve ever tasted in your life, and you find your stomach growling after the first bite. You try to recall when the last time you had a proper meal was. When you put something other than hardtack and dried meat into your body. 

It was the night you left, you realize. When you promised your father you would find the change that ripped out of your apron. Your throat closes up the moment you recall the way his hand kissed your cheek, and you drown your discomfort away with a sip of water. Algid liquid hits your teeth and makes you grimace—there’s ice in your cup. You don’t think you’ve ever seen such a thing before. 

Conversation comes easy for everyone at the table except for you. John and Laswell murmur to one another in low tones while stabbing the meat from their plates with silver forks. Their eyes shift in unison, both of them on high alert as if anyone at the table might suddenly turn feral and nip at them. Riley and Soap are having some sort of disagreement, and Kyle isn’t helping with how he throws his two cents in so that they only get more riled up with one another. 

So, you’re left to sit. And sit. Silverware scraping against your empty plate, you face the bitter realization that this is the final stop for you. No more trekking through the wilderness with strange men who carry large bounties. No more long nights by a tall fire. You would hate to admit that you had gotten comfortable with them, but they were at least familiar. Now, you’re going to be dumped here. Left to wander in a strange town—a terrifying and intimidating new world—and John Price will be nothing more than a forgotten memory. 

After all, you’re only cargo. 

“Lamb?” 

Head snapping up from the scraps of your meal, you look at Laswell, who’s leaning forward in her chair with her elbows on the table. You realize you can’t quite read her as well as you can most other people. There is no tell in the corner of her lip like there is with Kyle, or a sly illumination in the depths of John’s cyanotic eyes. She simply speaks, and her tone implores you to listen.

“Yes ma’am?” 

“You finished with your food?” she asks. 

You nod, sharp and stiff. “Yes, it was lovely, thank you.” 

Laswell stands from the table, black dress pants riding up on her waist as she does. “Let’s get you in that bath, then.” 

You’re allowed to fetch your carpet bag from Jester before you’re brought up to the second floor. The chatter of well dressed patrons and their drunken games fades to white noise as Laswell leads you down tenebrous hallways marked with swirling vine and rose patterned wallpaper. Everything about this building is rich, from the sienna of the brick it’s built with, to the sconces that hold electricity in the very palm of its hands. 

As you clutch your bag closer to your chest—and all your pitiful belongings with it—you try not to feel like a walking stain in the establishment. 

“I can’t thank you enough for taking me in,” you blurt out suddenly. Unable to hold your tongue still, you swallow down the aftertaste of peppered mash before continuing. “John says you take in—well—troubled girls like me. That you’d give me a job, or at least help me find one.” 

“It’s what we do around here, darling.” Her reply is short and curt, though not impolite. Laswell’s feet stop just in front of a door with a gilded knob and the word bath engraved into rich wood. She quickly gestures to the door before her hands fall back to her sides. “Feel free to use all the amenities. And take your time. It’ll take me a bit to get all the fine details ironed out with John.”

Nodding, you thank her once more before slipping behind the door into what you can only assume is a whole other world. That’s all Grand Hollow seems to be—pockets of universes shoved inside one another. Endless doors stuck in a vast maze waiting for you to open so that they can fill you with veneration. 

There is a single lamp (at least, that’s what you think they are called—that interesting decor that looks like an oil lamp but with a shade and ten times bigger) that sits on a table just by the window, yet it’s more dim compared to the other electric light sources you’ve seen so far. The blinds are drawn, casting the room in darkness, but the shadows morph and dance on the walls as freshly lit candles sit on various surfaces throughout the room. 

The bathtub is larger than any other you’ve seen before. Clawed feet rest on the floor as it holds steaming water, and when you tread close you notice the distinct scent of rose. Upon closer inspection, you notice a few vermillion petals floating on the surface. A smile graces your lips. 

You think you might like it here. 

Before you undress, you seat yourself at the vanity. Its stool is plush, composed of thick velvet that envelopes your rum with comfort infinitely greater than Jester’s saddle ever does. It takes you more time than you’d care to admit to detangle your hair, but you know it’s well overdue for a wash, and life on the road hasn’t been treating any part of your body too well. Stripping yourself of your overdress and chemise, you slowly lower yourself into the tub while trying not to hiss at the near scalding water. 

As you rest with your back propped and limbs limp, everything fades away. The grime that nestles between your toes, the ache and sores between your thighs, the faint scars on your knuckles. Even the bitter memories of your father. It dissolves into the water to swirl around the rose petals that you toy with. Pure silk against your fingertips, you raise one to your nose and sniff. It’s sweeter than molasses—you’ve just eaten lunch and your mouth is already watering. 

A myriad of oils and soaps line the small side table next to you. You take turns picking each of the bars up and wetting them with your hands to feel the suds on your skin. Each one smells divine. Meadow grass in summer, petrichor in spring, Mama’s rolls in autumn—

—there’s a knock. 

For a moment, you almost think it’s her; your mother. She’s playing the knocking game again. Tapping on the wall that leads to your bedroom. Letting you know she’s still alive, that her tuberculosis hasn’t consumed her quite yet. It’s easy to fall into delusion when you’re enveloped by something so warm and so gentle—something that (for once) doesn’t have teeth. 

That thin shred of your imagination vanishes the moment a figure bursts through the door without even bothering to hear your answer. Though you know you should not be surprised to see John Price standing before you, you still are. Door clicking behind him, the gravity of the situation hits you, and you find yourself desperately attempting to save your dignity. Arms crossing over your breasts, thighs pressing together to hide your sex, your eyes widen as you sink further into the water. 

“John!” you shriek. “What are you…” 

Whatever malice laced confusion you harbor dies in your throat the moment you watch as his thick fingers reach up towards his neck. Then, one by one, he begins to undo the buttons of his shirt. Thick swirling hair sprouts between the fabric, and you’re left to gawk at the debauched display that is presenting itself to you. 

Unbothered, John untucks his shirt from his trousers before tossing it onto the floor next to your chemise, leaving him bare chested. If this were any other occasion, you’d be scandalized at such a gesture—his linens mixing with yours—but you find yourself infinitely more concerned with the odd twinkle in his eye. 

“You don’t mind if I join you for a moment, do you, love?”

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[gotta-winwin]

OT13 Reaction -- to you being bullied in the past/highschool

masterlist | cyana's masterlist

tw: this one holds a lot of mentions of verbal bullying and cyberbullying - it's something very close to home for me and this fic will be for anyone who has experienced the same thing. remember that you are strong and the harsh words don't define you! i love you and stay safe <33

he can feel his blood boiling the moment you comment on your past experiences with bullies. seungcheol prides himself to be a level-headed type of guy, but the thought of you getting hurt - even in the past - strikes a chord deep inside of him. he's thinking about buying a plane ticket to your hometown just to find those fuckers and bury them six feet under. however, he's mature enough to know that violence never solves anything, opting to show you even more love than before (if that's even possible) to remind you that you are worth everything in the world.

jeonghan's mind is already whirring overtime the moment he finds out about your past. using his scary, evil, mastermind brain for good this time, he can't help but envision decking the people who've hurt you. doesn't mind listening to you as you rant, knowing that you need a silent supporter by your side. will never tell you about how he sees red just thinking about your so-called "friends" who made you feel so horrible about yourself.

joshua can feel his heart crack with each name you tell him you've been called. takes the time to reassure you that you are none of those horrible things, that you're kind and beautiful and so so so smart. traces his finger across every scar and imperfection you've been bullied over, whispering how much he loves you. doesn't mind giving your bullies the nastiest side-eye the next time he sees them.

although he's doing his best to be present as you tell him about your past, jun is internally screaming at himself because you. are. crying. it's like he malfunctions every time it happens, hating how sad and scared you look. despite his panic, he's awfully calm when he comforts you, explaining to you that no, you are not weak because of this. in fact, you're much much stronger.

soonyoung's somehow found himself perched on top of a chair, his body steaming with anger, holding too much rage to sit still. you can tell he's struggling to hold back the foulest curse words, knowing that he should at least let you finish your rant. the moment you're done however, he's cursing them, their mother, their partner, anyone he can get his metaphorical hands on. it's okay baby. he'd tell you once he's calmed down. they're probably failing in life. but look at you! you're successful and beautiful and you're dating me!

wonwoo's asking you questions in a way that makes you fear for what he's about to do. what's their address? social media? social security number? you have to physically sit him down and remind him that the bullying happened years ago in highschool and that there was no point in trying to get revenge now. he's visibly deflated by the news, but decides to just dote on you even more to prove to you that their awful words were wrong. i'm no good with words, but i'll show you how fucking stupid they were to hurt you.

jihoon doesn't really know what to say when you tell him. he only thanks you for feeling brave enough to share such a painful part of you with him, feeling happy you trust him enough to do so. neither one of you revisits the topic: until one day, you see a suspicious amount of rageful revenge lyrics and comfort lyrics in seventeen's new releases. i guess we can credit the making of Hug to that instance.

minghao's glad he meditated last night because what you just told him would have definitely set him off without it. he doesn't hesitate to hold you, asking you if you need anything from him. i'm so proud of you for surviving all that, my love. they were obviously blind and didn't see your worth. and i'm sorry you thought they were your friends. he makes it clear that he's here for you, whenever you need to talk about it again.

seokmin more than upset when you're finished telling him everything- he's confused. he doesn't understand why anyone would want to hurt you, let alone say all those nasty things and pretend to be your friend. he apologizes for crying, trying to laugh it off by saying idk why i'm crying so hard, it didn't even happen to me but i'm the one sobbing like a baby. promises you that he's never leaving your side and you don't have to ever worry about him turning on you like your friends did in highschool.

all mingyu can think about as he listens is that he could have made it all better if he had just been there. he tells you while gently wiping away your tears that he would've traded places with you in an instant. i wish we'd met when we were younger, love. i would have fought them all back. but most of all, he wishes he was there to protect the younger you, knowing a child didn't deserve all that.

although you're doing a great job already, seungkwan can't help but join in on dissing your bullies and so-called "friends." he nods along enthusiastically every time you throw an insult, preferring always to laugh about it instead of cry. he's hyping you up, agreeing with everything you say as you recount your highschool days. yeah, no she sounds like a bitch. i bet he couldn't even read a chapter book. bro probably stank, you were safer without him. she's sounding like one of those insane kdrama rich ladies - and not the hot ones.

vernon's quietly listening, storing away every single piece of information for the next time you guys return to your hometown. he's already preparing his plethora of insults and backhanded digs, ready to show them a taste of their own medicine. he quietly tells you that he can relate - school had never been kind to him either - and he somehow spins all your shared trauma into something beautiful. we were meant to be, he says, cause you healed me, and now i can heal you. his words make you smile through the tears - and you fucking love him for that.

chan's at a loss for words once you're finished telling him everything. he's overwhelmed by the sheer amount of harsh words and sickening moments, knowing that if he felt this bad just hearing about it, he couldn't imagine how you felt going through it all. you're much braver than i would have been, is all he says after a pause. i love you. chan might be a man of few words, but he knows just what to say.

[spiderb00bs]

SURELY since you've done Lottie and Nat with a beefy reader, Your thinking of doing more with Shauna 👀

Please 🙏 😩

Natalie is soft, Lottie is devoted…

and ♡ Shauna ♡ is completely insane!

𓆩♡𓆪 It doesn't matter if you're tall, strong or with muscles. She's not afraid of you, she knows you'll never lay a finger on her, even if things are quite different when the positions are reversed.

𓆩♡𓆪 Shauna loves to leave marks on you. Bites on your biceps, bites on your shoulders, scratches on your back and abdomen…

𓆩♡𓆪 The girl is simply the biggest savage in the world, all because she knows you can take it!

Which reminds me…

𓆩♡𓆪 Shauna who forces you to play very violent games with her. :/

𓆩♡𓆪 “Playing” cops and robbers and only she can be the cop. Chasing you through the woods, knocking you to the ground, pinning your hands behind your back and asking you pointless questions while keeping you immobilized.

𓆩♡𓆪 Randomly telling you to run. Like, what the fuck is going on?

𓆩♡𓆪 One minute you're sitting carving something out of a piece of wood and the next you're running through the woods after hearing Shauna whisper creepily in your ear.

𓆩♡𓆪 It's kind of her way of showing you that she loves you. After knocking you down, she'll bite and scratch you, only to lie on top of you and hug you afterwards.

𓆩♡𓆪 None of the girls dared to interrupt. They knew that somehow, that twisted, scary game kept Shauna from freaking out or being more of an idiot than she usually was.

𓆩♡𓆪 Shauna uses you as her personal watchdog, obviously.

𓆩♡𓆪 But unlike the other girls, she's proud of it, she feels untouchable. She thinks you two are the invincible couple, everyone's afraid of her, and consequently everyone's a bit afraid of you too (a bit more pity than fear, but that's okay).

𓆩♡𓆪 She won't get off on asking you to punch someone, or scare someone. She doesn't need to, but whenever she's too tired she sends her big puppy.

𓆩♡𓆪 Speaking of puppies, sex with Shauna is the messiest thing you'll ever experience.

𓆩♡𓆪 She calls you a puppy all the time, trying to humiliate you while making you pleasure her.

𓆩♡𓆪 She rides your thigh, or your face. She leaves angry scars on your body every time. Visible enough for the girls to know you're hers!

𓆩♡𓆪 Like Lottie, I think about Shauna on the adult timeline a lot hehehe

𓆩♡𓆪 Shauna who misses you EVERY SINGLE DAY!

𓆩♡𓆪 You and Shauna drifted apart after the rescue. You were too traumatized and sensitive to deal with all the emotions and feelings between you.

𓆩♡𓆪 It ended up that you both just got on with life, Shauna marrying Jeff, and you becoming a first-class bachelor.

𓆩♡𓆪 When the two of you meet up after the girls have received those threats (stupid Jeff), the feelings come back to the surface, and everything seems extremely confusing.

𓆩♡𓆪 It all happens one night when you and the girls are out drinking and talking about all the crazy things that have happened recently and the waitress starts hitting on you.

𓆩♡𓆪 Shauna who doesn't give a damn about all the questions the girls ask when she pulls you away from the table. Locking you two in the bathroom together and making you fuck her into insanity.

𓆩♡𓆪 It's perfect. Almost as if you were both in the wilderness again. The bites, the roughness, the passion.

All of it.

Bonus

𓆩♡𓆪 You, Shauna and Jackie being childhood friends, and little eleven-year-old Shipman always getting jealous when the three of you played at being a family and you were chosen to be the “father”.

𓆩♡𓆪 Jackie always said she was going to be the “mother”. And Shauna always ended up being the “daughter” (which reminds me, I have a lot of thoughts about Jackie and Shauna fighting over Beefy!reader).

𓆩♡𓆪 Shauna getting angry in the middle of the play and dragging you away by the collar and forcing you to play wrestle with her.

𓆩♡𓆪 It always ended up with her on top of you, pinching your arm as you tried to escape her grip.

𓆩♡𓆪 After a while, your mother didn't let you go to Shauna's house anymore, as you always came back with bruises. But you could still go to Jackie's.

𓆩♡𓆪 Shauna was furious about this. Let's say you have to run home after school. Because Shauna Shipman is right behind you.

𓆩♡𓆪 What can I say, I'd love to be her punching bag 𓆩♡𓆪

[grandline-fics]

Hey dear! I really love your writing,so so much! And if you were still open for requests I would love to see you write Smoker with the prompt 'Kiss to prove a point' If that is okay? <3 Thank you so much and thank you for sharing your amazing writing! <3

DESCRIPTION: Prompt: Kiss to prove a point

WARNINGS: none

CHARACTERS: Smoker

WORDS: 1,276

A/N: Hi there! Thank you so much for this request, there's very Smoker love on my blog which I'll have to try and fix haha. I had a lot of fun coming up with the scenario for this prompt and I hope you like what I wrote.

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

DIRECTORY | PROMPT LIST

————————

When people looked at Smoker they took in the tall imposing figure; the broad shoulders, the scar, and the constant scowl and nearly hostile stare that kept everyone guessing on whether he was incapable of being in a good mood or if someone had pissed him off the second he woke up that morning. Some on the G5 base now joked that Smoker scowled when he was a kid and his face got stuck that way, his expression only changing to evoke angrier emotions, never positive ones. The subordinates of G5 obviously worshipped their commander, it was just they needed to find something to comment on, to joke about and use it as a way to see that he was human just like the rest of them. While focussing on Smoker’s constantly grumpy face was always a classic for them, a new topic had arisen to entertain the masses: his blossoming relationship with you.

The term blossoming was very, very loose for the G5 Marines because nothing in anyway juicy or scandalous had so much as occurred on the base between you two. At this point they would have  taken something borderline tame. Just something. Anything to show them that their boss was actually in a relationship. Because as far as they knew one morning they all came down to the mess hall and Tashigi gleefully passing along the news that you and Smoker were officially dating. That was it, just the Captain’s solid confirmation of the romance. Nothing changed though. You both were the visions of decorum and stellar professionalism. 

Now you were the more cheerful of the pairing-which wasn't hard by comparison- but when you and Smoker were seen talking in the corridors or in the other's office it was always respectable, enough space between you both as it had before Tashigi stated you were an item. There was no quick jolts out of each other’s presence like you’d almost been caught getting cosy, no flushed faces or lingering looks shared. Hell, no one had even seen you touch the other even something as simple as you putting your hand on his arm would have given them something. After a week of waiting they came to the conclusion that Smoker was clueless and they felt sorry for you.

“Should we say something?” One asked in the middle of the training yard one afternoon. “Not even in a prying way…maybe he just doesn’t know?”

“Know what?” A second questioned with a frown.

“Maybe he doesn’t know how relationships like this work?”

“Yeah he could be unknowingly neglecting them?” The third suggested make the first Marine nod firmly, happy that someone was on his wavelength.

“Exactly! It’s not prying exactly, just offering encouragement?” He stated with a proud smile. “And if the Vice-Admiral’s in good spirits then the entire base’s morale will improve too.”

“Guys…I’ve had a thought.” Another Marine uttered nervously. “What if it's too late? What if they’ve already broken up?” Silence fell over the group as they now considered the very possible scenario. Poor you, already fed up of no change in your relationship with Smoker had ended things but you were both so professional that no one knew anything. 

“No!” One of the Marine’s laughed, more to convince himself that couldn't be the case. “Tashigi would have said!”

“What? So soon after telling us they were together?” The Marine asked with a solemn shake of their head. “Announcing a breakup so soon after would be a greater wound to Vice-Admiral Smoker’s pride than anything.” Once again the dejected silence fell over the group, mourning their commander and idol’s dead love life. 

Sharply behind the group, a loud and obvious throat was cleared and every Marine snapped their heads around to freeze and pale at the sight of Smoker staring down at them; arms folded, eyes narrowed, and teeth slowly grinding against the cigars in his mouth. “The point of the training yard is to actually train your bodies and skills, not train your tongues to gossip like teenagers.”

The group flinched at the harsh words but they swallowed their fear enough to meet his stare.

“W-we’re sorry sir but we-”

“I heard.” Smoker sharply cut off the pathetic excuse before he had to suffer hearing their ridiculous opinions in his personal life another time. “I just don’t know how any of it is your concern.”

“Morale!” Smoker rolled his eyes at their unified explanation. When in doubt, that always was their go-to reasoning for immaturity. One dared to continue with hope in their eyes. “Please at least tell us you haven’t blown things yet. Don’t be afraid to make them feel special, it’s okay to show you care.”

“I haven’t-” Smoker stopped himself to roughly run a hand down his face at exasperation at the group. He was beginning to consider he was being too soft with his subordinates and let out a sharp huff. This was all Tashigi’s fault. Why couldn’t she have kept her mouth shut? “You have no need to worry. Everything is…everything is fine.”

“Just fine?” One of the Marine’s questioned with a tense frown. “Sir…”

“What now?”

“Fine is how you describe the mess hall’s food…not a new relationship.” The Marine told him. “If you're not careful they could be seduced by someone who’s not afraid to even hold their hand.”

Smoker was about to launch into a full tirade at the group for meddling in his life and inferring he wasn’t treating you properly. He’d been very close to throttling them when they hadn’t realised he was there and neglecting you in some way. Now hearing it being said to his face only angered him more. Thankfully for their benefit, you’d appeared in the training yard in search of another Marine. Your eyes locked on to the Marine in question, spotting him amongst the group in front of Smoker and began to approach.

Feeling something snap in him, Smoker swiftly discarded his cigars and closed the space just as you drew closer. You gave him a cursory nod and prepared to step around him, only to gasp when Smoker’s arm caught you around the waist and turned you to face him properly. Your eyes widened when Smoker’s lips settled over yours, luring you into a slow and gentle kiss. As always with Smoker, his presence enveloped you completely, settling you into a sense of calm and had you responding to the kiss immediately while quickly forgetting your surroundings. The second you returned the kiss Smoker heightened it once more, inwardly smirking in satisfaction at your eager reaction and the fact that this would now promptly shut up his squad and teach them to never doubt him or his ability to know how relationships work. 

Reluctantly Smoker parted and pressed a final peck against your still parted lips. Blinking out of your daze you stared up at your lover, breathless and pleasantly surprised. Pressing your lips together you finally felt you were being stared at and glanced to the side to see your slack-jawed audience and cleared your throat, forcing a polite smile to the group before looking away again. “It’s not our anniversary is it?” You asked softly to Smoker while he offered you a rare chuckle that was often left when you were both in private.

“Nah, everything’s fine.” He told you, finally releasing you. “Don’t think about it.”

“Easy for you to say, I’ll be thinking about this all day.” You laughed before walking away, the kiss effectively making you forget why you even came out to the training yard in the first place.

——————————————-

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[nizhspo]

genre: haikyuu imagine, smut, angst

pairing: tooru oikawa x fem!reader

summary: touch is memory, silence is confession, and love is the one thing neither of you were trained to survive.

notes: this might just be the saddest shit i’ve ever written i’m gonna be honest guys.

they raised you to be no one.

a ghost in the cradle. a theory before a person.

you don’t remember the first test they ran, but you remember the lights: too bright, always. the hum of fluorescent bulbs overhead while you lay flat on metal tables, eyes wide open, lungs silent, waiting for permission to breathe.

the government called it developmental efficiency modeling. the kids in it called it the program.

most didn’t make it to adolescence.

you did.

by age ten, you could assemble a firearm blindfolded, lie without blinking, fake a seizure, seduce a mark, drive a car, fake an accent, fall off a rooftop without breaking your spine. you’d never celebrated a birthday. never been hugged. never been called a real name.

until him.

oikawa tooru was the first person who ever asked you a question without barking it.

fifteen years old, jaw bruised from a sparring session gone too far, blood still wet on his teeth. he leaned over during mealtime, pulled your tray closer to his, and asked what your favorite city was, just like that. like it wasn’t forbidden. like curiosity hadn’t gotten kids iced before.

you said, “none.”

he said, “you’ll like paris.”

you weren’t assigned to the same unit until a year later. by then, he already spoke fluent russian, slept four hours a night, and had a reputation for smiling at corpses.

but you knew the truth. you’d seen him cry once, kneeling over a dying target in singapore, whispering something in spanish that didn’t show up in the debrief transcript.

they partnered you anyway. and that’s when everything got dangerous.

you’d been trained to work in tandem, but not like this. not like him.

not with someone who made you laugh mid-mission. who always looked back to see if you’d followed. who called you “sweetheart” in morse code just to see if you’d blush. not with someone who knew the shape of your hands well enough to hold them in a fight. not with someone you started dreaming about. not with someone you let inside you in the safehouse in macedonia, quiet and desperate and wrong.

you weren’t supposed to love him.

you both knew it. but it got harder to hide. harder to ignore.

by the time you were twenty, the rumors had spread. a little too much eye contact. a little too much hesitation when he got shot in marrakech and you went off-script to drag him out. they said love made you stupid. soft. selfish.

they were right. you proved them right in bangkok.

you were alone, waiting for extraction, when the van pulled up. not yours. wrong plates. wrong tint. you fought. killed two. but the third didn’t need a blade. he had a phone.

he played a voice memo. it was oikawa.

panicked. breathless. “don’t do anything stupid. please—please.”

you stopped fighting.

they offered you a choice. disappear. join them. or let him die for your loyalty.

you didn’t hesitate. that’s how you were raised. the mission is survival. the mission is adapt. the mission is live.

so you faked your death.

you burned the prints off your fingers, took a new name, boarded a boat to sicily.

left oikawa bleeding in the back of your memory.

…

sicily made you soft in ways you weren’t proud of.

not emotionally. emotionally, you were colder than ever; burned hollow and sealed off, a vessel carved by survival and stitched shut with discipline.

but physically, your skin smoothed out. your shoulders relaxed. you started wearing rings again. soft things. things with gold. you wore linen in summer and cashmere in winter. you folded your scarves the way they taught you, loose at the collar, just enough to hide the faint scar behind your ear.

they called you giulia corsi. not agent. not number. not asset. just giulia.

you moved into a second-floor apartment in ortigia, yellow shutters, heavy doors, marble tiles that clicked beneath your heels when you paced at night. you kept a ceramic knife in every room and a gun in the freezer, wrapped in butcher paper.

you were fluent in italian within six weeks.

they trained you harder than the americans did. not physically, you already had that. but in the art of masks. performance. fluidity. they taught you how to be six people in one room without blinking. how to soften your vowels to mimic sicilian roots. how to hold wine without drinking it. how to seduce in silence. how to disappear in plain sight.

the italian division didn’t want loyalists. they wanted believers. agents who didn’t ask where the blood went after they made it spill.

they gave you the missions no one else would take. the messy ones. the ones with girls in cages and politicians in penthouses. the ones where they sent you in as bait. the ones that didn’t come with backup.

you wore red often. they said it made you look powerful. but you knew the truth: red camouflaged blood best.

you didn’t sleep well. not even in ortigia, not even with the sea breeze threading through your windows and the late-night jazz bleeding from the bar downstairs. you’d lie in bed, perfectly still, hands tucked beneath your pillow, waiting for nothing. waiting for something.

you never brought anyone home.

you fucked when necessary, sure. for cover. for intel. once, even for pleasure.

it was another agent, kiyoomi sakusa. quiet. clinical. impossible to read. the kind of man who wiped his knife before checking if you were still breathing. the kind of man who never asked for your real name, even when you offered it. he already knew it anyway.

you’d worked with him three times before it happened. two extractions, one shared hotel room, and forty hours of silence broken only by the hiss of radio static and your own uneven breathing.

it wasn’t romantic. it wasn’t gentle. he kissed you like he was trying to erase something. fucked you like he couldn’t let you win. and afterward, he didn’t speak.

you didn’t ask if it meant anything. you didn’t need to. because in this line of work, no one stays. not in your bed. not in your arms. not in your life.

your phone never rang. your mail was always blank. you filed mission reports with ink pens and never signed your real name.

the one time you almost cried was on a thursday afternoon when an old woman in the market told you to smile more.

you hadn’t smiled in months.

…

you had three identities at any given time. one for transport. one for extraction. one for death. you wore them like gloves. discarded them just as easily.

your missions blurred together: casablanca, zagreb, marrakesh, doha. sometimes you’d wake up and forget where you were. a lot of the times, you didn’t care. you got used to the taste of metal. the sound of panic. the way men begged when they realized you weren’t a tourist.

you got good at not flinching when people said oikawa’s name. not that they said it often. he was a ghost. like you.

you heard once that he’d been promoted. that he ran his own cell now. that he’d stopped asking about you.

you believed it. you wanted to believe it.

because if he hadn’t, if he had spent the last three years searching every shadow you left behind—

then what you did was unforgivable.

and you couldn’t afford to believe that. not if you wanted to keep breathing.

so you learned to walk like giulia. to flirt like giulia. to kill like giulia.

and for three long years in sicily it worked.

until the file showed up.

…

tokyo was colder than you remembered.

not just in temperature, but in tone. in atmosphere. in the way the city swallowed you whole without blinking, like it hadn’t once been a backdrop to the worst and most sacred moments of your life.

you stepped off the plane dressed like a woman who belonged. pressed navy suit, low heels, minimal makeup. your hair pinned into a language of professionalism. one that whispered translator, liaison, nothing to see here. it was the kind of outfit you could blend into a boardroom with. the kind a surveillance camera wouldn’t remember.

but your hands still trembled inside the gloves.

it had been years. since your first kill. since the old train station in chiyoda ward, the smell of rain and smoke in your lungs, and oikawa’s voice over the comms, steady and soft: “pull the trigger, baby. that’s the only way out.”

your finger hadn’t stopped shaking for two hours after.

you didn’t think about that now. not consciously. but your body did. you felt it in the set of your shoulders, in the extra second you took before crossing the street. your body remembered what your mind had buried.

the mission should’ve been simple.

a rogue agent, takahiro sugiyama, was allegedly moving weapons through shinjuku’s outer docks under a shell company. you were told he’d be posing as a freight inspector on pier 12. the plan was to intercept him quietly and confirm identity. extraction if possible. elimination if not.

but the intel was thin. thinner than anything you’d ever worked with. the photographs were grainy and off-center, like someone had taken them on accident. the listed aliases were blank. the handler who briefed you was fifteen minutes late and didn’t make eye contact once.

you flagged it immediately.

but there were no channels left to push back. no way to reroute. and that seal, priority black, it meant one thing: there was no way out of it.

you knew it.

…

the shinjuku port was always a mess of concrete and fog.

you arrived just past dusk, when the light was thinning into bruise-colored shadows and the harbor air turned brackish, thick with salt and diesel and rust. ferries honked in the distance. gulls screamed overhead. the kind of chaos that could swallow a body whole and leave no trace.

you walked along the perimeter, your badge clipped neatly to your blazer, fingers lightly brushing the interior seam where your concealed blade sat. every step echoed across the wet asphalt.

dock workers passed without looking up. crates stacked like forgotten tombstones. a crane swung overhead, groaning under the weight of a shipment.

you breathed in, long and shallow. kept moving.

checkpoint one was a narrow gate flanked by two bored-looking guards. one smoked a cigarette with his head tilted back; the other scrolled through his phone.

“freight assessment. client sent me ahead,” you said in fluent japanese, flashing the badge just long enough to be seen.

the smoker grunted. waved you in.

too easy, you thought.

you walked another hundred feet before you touched your earpiece. “alpha-two, confirm entry,” you whispered.

static.

you tried again.

more static.

louder now. sharp and hissing. you stopped walking—and that’s when the air changed.

you couldn’t describe it. just that it happened. a drop in pressure. a shift in tension. like the moment before a car crash, when instinct grips the base of your spine and whispers something’s coming. the hairs on your arms rose beneath your sleeves.

you scanned the yard.

crates. shadows. steam hissing from a nearby valve. no movement. no sound, beyond the groan of distant machinery.

you turned. nothing. turned again. crack.

not loud, just close—but the pain bloomed so fast you didn’t even hear yourself cry out. just dropped, knees slamming into wet cement, hands grasping for something solid.

your leg burned. no. tore.

it felt like someone had taken a strip of your thigh and set it on fire with a serrated knife. hot, jagged, molten pain that radiated upward and downward at once. the bullet hadn’t gone deep, but it had kissed you, ripped the skin, ruptured something beneath, and dragged itself through the edge of your muscle.

you couldn’t stand.

blood began to spread beneath you, thick and dark, soaking through the fabric of your trousers until it clung to your skin like syrup.

your breath caught.

adrenaline tried to rally, but your head was already spinning. your limbs shook.

you rolled toward a stack of crates and collapsed behind them, pressing your hand to the wound, biting your lip so hard you tasted iron.

you had to move. you needed to move.

there were footsteps now. two sets. fast. purposeful. you reached for your blade and a hand caught your wrist mid-draw.

and then, it was chaos—you kicked, thrashed, tore at sleeves, clawed at skin, sank your nails into flesh. you felt your boot connect with someone’s shin. felt the wet crunch of a nose breaking beneath your elbow.

but there were more of them.

rough hands caught your arms. pressed a cloth to your mouth. you held your breath. bit down. they kneed you in the ribs.

the last thing you saw was the blur of warehouse ceiling lights flickering above you. the last thing you felt was the slow burn of blood slipping down your leg.

then: black.

…

you wake to the sound of water dripping. steady. rhythmic. not close, but not far, either.

your mouth is dry. your head aches behind your eyes like someone poured static into your skull. it takes you a second to recognize the taste in your mouth: blood. old. yours.

you try to move and your wrists scream.

you look down: ropes. not handcuffs. thick, course, looped tight around your wrists, which are raised just enough to make your shoulders ache. the bindings are knotted with military precision. over-under pull. marine-grade tension. your pulse flutters beneath them.

your legs are worse.

your right thigh is wet—no, sticky. blood clots have formed in the fabric of the trousers they left you in, and your skin pulses beneath them like a warning. the pain is deep. raw. like fire sealed in a vacuum. every twitch makes you nauseous.

you breathe shallow. listen.

the room is concrete. low ceiling. a single window, too small to crawl through. no furniture. no cameras visible. faint smell of mold and copper. the kind of place built for disappearing people.

they changed your clothes. you’re in a t-shirt now. someone else’s. too big. rough cotton. men’s standard issue.

they didn’t bother washing you. blood crusts the corner of your jaw. your hands still smell like steel.

your fingers twitch automatically toward your ankle. your last blade: gone.

you scan the floor. nothing. not even a bolt to pry loose.

they knew who you were.

you lean back against the pole they’ve tethered you to. close your eyes. force your breath to even out. you count the seconds between drops of water. fifteen. maybe twenty feet away. a pipe, probably. leaking from the ceiling.

your leg throbs. you ignore it.

this is a black site. not a holding cell. not a legal op. you’re somewhere off-record. the kind of place governments pretend they’ve never built.

you keep your eyes on the door.

five screws on the hinge. manual latch. no keypad. one guard, probably. two if they’re being cautious. maybe more if they know who you are.

you wait. and then— click.

the door unlocks. slowly. deliberately. not rushed. not like someone in a hurry.

your spine goes taut. you watch the metal swing open. watch the boots cross the threshold, black, polished, silent.

then the rest of him follows.

he claps once. then again. a third time, slow and sharp, echoing across the concrete.

“well,” he says, “this is a surprise.”

your throat tightens.

oikawa tooru looks like a ghost dressed in armani. his hair’s darker now. longer at the sides, disheveled on top, like he runs a hand through it when he’s thinking. his eyes are the same. warm brown. unkind.

he’s wearing a black button-up, sleeves rolled to the elbow. slacks. no tie. a shoulder holster slung casual across his chest like a seatbelt. he’s taller. broader. colder.

a new scar curves over his right temple. thin, white, ugly. but the one just below his collarbone… you know that one. you gave it to him, once. a blade in the dark. too close. too late. he didn’t cover it.

your heart stutters. you don’t let it show.

he stops three feet from you.

“y/n,” he says, voice light. too light. “or should i say… giulia?”

you don’t speak. his mouth curls.

“nothing to say?” he tilts his head. “not even a hello?”

your eyes flick to his belt. gun, left hip. blade on the right. standard. predictable. he always wore his weapons opposite his dominant hand; forced himself to draw cross-body to throw people off. he hasn’t changed that. you file it away.

he sighs, theatrically. “you look good. a little pale. bleeding out, but… still good.”

you say nothing.

he crouches.

you flinch. not visibly. but your body goes tight.

he notices, because of course he does. his eyes skim your face, slow. lingering on your mouth. your collarbone. the bruise on your jaw.

“they didn’t clean you up,” he says. voice quieter now. “should’ve at least done that. you were always particular.”

you turn your face away. not fast. not enough to count as emotion. just enough for him to notice.

and he does. you see it, the twitch of his lip, the minute shift in his brow. he’s trying to stay cold.

but you know him. you knew how his voice used to soften in hotel rooms. how he hated tying knots around your wrists even when protocol called for it. how he’d whisper your name like a secret, not a threat.

but that was three years ago. and you left him bleeding.

he stands again, slower this time.

“i appreciate you taking time out of your day to come,” he says dryly.

you finally speak. your voice is low. raspy. bone-deep. “you kidnapped me.”

he smiles. doesn’t reach his eyes. nothing ever does now.

“if it helps,” he says, “i didn’t know it was you. not until they brought in the file. i mean… you were supposed to be dead, right?”

you watch him. his tone is light, but there’s something behind it. tightness. a flicker in the way his hands curl briefly at his sides. a shift in breath.

you’re trained to notice these things. you were trained with him. you know the signs of a man trying not to feel something.

“so,” he says, stepping back, “how’d they do it?” he starts to pace. slow, even. measured.

“how’d they turn you? was it the money? the silence? they promise you a life? hm?”

you don’t answer.

“was it stockholm? rome?” he spits the words like they taste bitter. “let me guess, some black-haired boy with surgeon hands and a god complex? was it him? did he tell you to walk away from me?”

he laughs, sharp, cruel. but underneath it: something raw. he stops. turns.

“you know who comes in after me?” his voice dips, colder now. “someone who doesn’t remember you. someone who doesn’t care if you’re hungry. if you’re hurt. someone who’ll ask questions with pliers and won’t mind if you scream.”

your leg twitches. involuntary.

he sees it. he steps closer. crouches again, and you can smell his cologne. cedar. clove. faint. familiar. he leans in.

“but me,” he says, voice just above a whisper, “i’m giving you a chance. just one. tell me who gave you the op. and i’ll walk out of here. alone. and the next person doesn’t come.”

your eyes flick up. you stare at him. at the mole beneath his left eye. at the flex of his jaw when you don’t answer. at the way his breath is slow but uneven. like he’s holding back something sharp.

he’s angry. he’s trying not to be.

you blink. slow. deliberate.

“go fuck yourself.”

a beat. then— he laughs. not loud. not amused. just one exhale. sharp, bitter, ugly. like it hurt more coming out than he expected. he stands in one smooth motion. wipes his palms on his thighs. doesn’t look at you when he steps back.

“suit yourself.”

he turns for the door. hand on the latch. shoulder tense. but he pauses, just long enough for it to feel intentional. just long enough to twist the knife.

“hope you ate recently,” he mutters, not turning around. “gonna be a long night.”

and he’s gone.

the lock clicks and you’re alone again. but not really. you feel him in the air. in the ache in your wrists. in the blood cooling on your leg. in the part of your chest you thought you buried in sicily.

the silence returns heavier than before after oikawa leaves. the room settles into something thicker, more oppressive. the air doesn’t move the same. the tension doesn’t fade. it lingers. it waits. like it knows someone else is coming. someone worse.

you shift your weight. slowly. your wrists drag against the rope again, burning. the skin is raw now. chafed, angry, stinging with every breath you take. your fingers are starting to go numb.

you roll your neck, just enough to relieve some of the pressure along your spine. your leg pulses again, sharper now. you can feel the crusted blood flake off in patches where the fabric rubs. it’s beginning to smell: iron, sweat, something else, something wrong.

you catalog everything. every object in the room. every weakness in the structure. you count the bolts in the door again. five. the fifth one is loose. the frame isn’t sealed properly. if you had your blade, you could wedge it—

but you don’t. you have nothing. not even your name.

and you hear it before you see him. not footsteps. not a voice. but the lock turning again. only this time, it’s faster, less performative, less slow-clap and sarcasm. more… business.

the door opens. the light outside is no brighter. still dim. still sterile. but the silhouette is different. it doesn’t hesitate. doesn’t pause in the doorway for effect. he just walks in. shuts the door behind him. locks it.

your eyes don’t go to his face first.

they go to his hands. thick fingers. scarred knuckles. something white clutched in one of them—a cloth. surgical. clean. the other hand carries a black case.

you feel the weight of it before you even see what’s inside.

iwaizumi hajime hasn’t aged much. still broad. still calm. still terrifying in the way only a man built for pain can be.

his face is unreadable. clean-shaven. jaw tight. no expression. his eyes don’t linger. don’t flicker. don’t acknowledge. he doesn’t look at you like he knows you, and that cuts deeper than anything else.

he sets the case down on the small metal table in the corner, one you didn’t notice before, tucked half in shadow.

your breath catches. you blink once, slowly. you listen.

he opens it. metal clicks against metal. something soft being unwrapped.

you don’t have to see to know what’s inside. you’ve packed kits like this before: forceps. gauze. shears. electrical leads. blades of varying length. and a roll of rubber tubing for restraint.

you breathe through your nose. deeper now. slower. you shift your gaze. not too fast. not reactive.

he turns to face you.

his expression hasn’t changed. he walks toward you. not slow, not fast. just… inevitable. like gravity. like war.

you study the way he moves. the way his shoulder tenses when he sets the cloth down. the way his foot lands hard with each step, but not loud. he’s still trained. still deadly.

he stops in front of you. looks at your leg.

you follow his gaze. the blood is worse now. leaking again, wet in places. it stains the concrete in irregular shapes. a trail. a warning.

still, he says nothing.

you wonder if this is part of it, this silence. this slow ramping up. let you stew in it. let you imagine what comes next. but no.

iwaizumi was never theatrical. never one for games.

you breathe again. brace as his hand reaches out.

you flinch. you don’t mean to. it’s small. barely there. a twitch in your jaw, a shift in your shoulders—but he sees it. his hand pauses, just an inch from your leg, and he looks at you. only for a second. and then back to the wound.

he kneels. pulls the fabric away.

you grit your teeth as it tears, dried blood ripping open again, nerves shrieking.

he doesn’t flinch. with steady fingers, he begins cleaning it. the cloth is cold. soaked in something antiseptic. it stings so deeply your vision blurs.

you bite down hard on your tongue to keep from making a sound.

he���s not being gentle. but he’s not cruel, either. he’s precise. methodical. detached.

you watch his face the entire time. you look for anything. a flicker. a glance. but he gives you nothing.

“you shouldn’t have come here,” he says, voice flat.

you don’t respond. you don’t know if it’s meant to be a statement or a warning.

he finishes cleaning the leg. tosses the bloodied cloth into the corner. doesn’t bother to bandage it. he stands again and you see the cable in his other hand now: long. black. clipped at both ends.

you know what it’s for. you know what comes next.

he attaches one end to a small metal terminal from the case. wraps the other around your upper arm. tight. his hand brushes yours in the process, faint, careless, but enough to make your fingers twitch against the restraints.

you remember that hand.

the calluses along the thumb. the faint scar that splits the skin between his knuckles. the steadiness in his grip.

once, it held a gun for you. steadied your aim when your shoulder was blown out and you were seeing double. once, in belgrade, it wiped blood from your temple, his thumb dragging clumsily through it while you tried not to pass out in the back of a burning van.

now, it’s securing a strap against your forearm. tightening the contact node. locking you in place so the current will hit cleaner.

you look down at it. not afraid. just… watching.

his hands move methodically. practiced. but his jaw ticks. just once.

you finally speak. your voice low. not pleading. just rough with dust and disuse.

“do you remember the safehouse in belgrade?” your eyes don’t leave his hands. “the one with the green door. two stories. cracked tile in the kitchen.”

he doesn’t answer. doesn’t flinch. doesn’t look at your face. just keeps working. tightening. adjusting.

you keep going. “it was raining that night. you gave me your jacket and said not to bleed on it.” you huff, bitter. “i did anyway.”

still, he says nothing. but his fingers stall. just for a second. barely more than a breath. then he moves again. faster now. more mechanical. like if he hurries, he won’t have to listen.

you let the silence sit heavy between you.

“no,” he says, finally.

the machine whirs. the current should surge, sharp, bright, biting. but it doesn’t—not fully. not the way it should.

instead, the current slams through you, sharp, blinding. it locks your jaw mid-breath, wrenches your spine into the air like a puppet string yanked too hard, tears a raw, involuntary sound from your throat before you can catch it.

it hurts. god, it hurts. hot and fast, like fire dragged through your nerves, each one lit up and screaming. like your body’s trying to crawl out of itself and failing. your teeth grind until your jaw aches. your muscles seize. your vision flashes white at the edges, then black, then white again, like your brain can’t decide whether to pass out or endure.

and still, you know: this isn’t what they’d use on a real agent. not at full voltage. not if they meant to break you for good.

they’d crank it higher. they’d leave it running longer. they’d make it ruinous, the kind of pain that strips you of thought, name, purpose. the kind that leaves people stuttering for the rest of their lives. if they live at all.

but this—this is pain calibrated just under the threshold. enough to burn. enough to scare. but not enough to break someone like you. not yet. this is civilian level. rookie level. fear-theatrics for people with soft hands and sellable intel.

but your body still writhes. still clenches. still feels every jolt like it’s tearing muscle from bone. your stomach churns. your lungs can’t catch a rhythm. your heart pounds so loud it drowns out the machine’s low, cruel hum.

you know he’s holding back. you feel it in the charge’s rhythm, how it cuts off before it crests. how the pain flares but doesn’t fry. how your skin doesn’t blister. how your mind still works, still calculates.

you slump forward when it stops. head heavy, vision pulsing. your breath comes in wet, uneven pulls, like each one’s a fight. your hands twitch in the restraints. metal slick with sweat. skin rubbed raw.

he’s still there. still standing beside you, silent.

he hasn’t looked at you once. his face stays angled toward the wall, like if he turns, something in him might crack. like if he meets your eyes, he’ll have to admit he still knows the shape of your brows when you’re in pain. that he still remembers what it looks like when you’re dying and trying not to show it.

“who gave you the op,” he says once, voice low. clipped. rehearsed. the script they probably drilled into him.

but the next time—next time it’s different. this time, your name comes after.

“who gave you the op, y/n.”

and it’s not a demand anymore. not really. it sounds like pleading. like he’s asking so he doesn’t have to do it again. like he’s begging for you to give him a reason to stop before he has to go further, before he loses the last piece of himself he swore he’d keep intact.

but you can’t. you know you can’t.

because the united states can’t protect you from them. not from the things you’ve seen. not from the horrors even italian agents have to endure just to become one of them.

what they do to you if you fold doesn’t end when the lights turn off. doesn’t stop at pain. it ends with pieces of you pulled apart and filed away. it ends with a hollow version of yourself, speaking someone else’s language with someone else’s eyes.

you lift your head. just barely. you open your mouth. not to answer. but just to breathe through the blood on your tongue.

and so he presses the button again.

the second wave hits harder. like thunder detonating in your bones. your knees jerk, your throat locks, your head snaps back. your voice breaks on a sound that never makes it out.

and when it stops—you crumple like wet paper.

he says it again. softer now. voice rough. broken at the edges. still not looking at you. but his hand—it’s still on your wrist. not steadying. not comforting. just there.

like maybe it’s the only part of him that still remembers who you were. what you meant. and maybe—it’s the part that doesn’t want to let go.

…

you don’t really remember when iwaizumi packed everything out. you think you blacked out halfway through, maybe more.

you remember flashes, fragments: the snap of gloves being peeled off. the cold hiss of the machine winding down. the squeal of metal dragging across concrete as he pulled the cart away.

but mostly, you remember the pain. not just the burn of voltage, but the after. the way your body vibrated with it long after the current stopped, like your nerves were still catching echoes, like your cells hadn’t realized they were free.

your throat was raw from a scream you didn’t know you made. your eyes burned. your lashes were sticky. you couldn’t tell if the tears were hot because you were crying, or because your skin had heated past the point of knowing better.

and now—now, the pain doesn’t spike. doesn’t roar. it settles.

not all at once, but slow. creeping. like cold air crawling in under a doorframe, unnoticed until it’s in your bones. it sinks into your spine. it drags through your blood.

your leg throbs in time with your heart, a wet, blistering kind of hurt that pulses up your side and curls behind your ribs like a fist. your jaw’s locked. your teeth ache. your shoulders twitch with every ghost of what’s been done. you can still feel the electricity humming in your skull. phantom voltage. like it didn’t just hit your body: it stained the marrow.

your hands are trembling. your spine feels bent in the wrong places. your wrists are raw from the ropes, deep, red gouges scored into your skin like punishment. like ownership. you try to lift one, just a fraction, but your arms feel like bricks. every inch of movement costs too much.

iwaizumi didn’t bandage you. didn’t speak again. didn’t even look back as he left.

and now it’s just you. and the dark. and the sound of your breathing, shallow. too fast. too loud.

you know this state. you were trained for this.

phase two: disorientation.

they teach you early that pain isn’t what breaks people. it’s what follows. the silence. the isolation. the panic that starts to rise when the adrenaline burns off and your body realizes it’s been left behind.

you close your eyes.

you can’t sleep. you can’t let your mind drift. you know what happens if you do.

so you fall back into protocol like muscle memory. like prayer.

start with the language exercise. you force your brain into sequence. five languages. five phrases. your name, your city, your first weapon, your exit route, your blood type.

italian. spanish. russian. japanese. french.

repeat.

you whisper it under your breath, lips barely moving.

“mi chiamo giulia. roma. coltello. ovest. ab negativo.”

again.

“me llamo giulia. madrid. cuchillo. oeste. ab negativo.”

you keep going until the syllables feel like anchors. until the world stops spinning. until you know, no matter what happens, they haven’t taken everything. not yet.

but your leg is still bleeding. you can feel the fabric dampen again. you know what that means: re-opened. no clot. you’re losing more than you can afford.

your throat tightens. your mouth is dry. too dry. your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth. you start cataloging the symptoms. like you were taught.

pulse: elevated. blood loss: moderate to severe. consciousness: slipping. lucidity: flickering.

you blink.

the water is still dripping from the pipe. fifteen seconds apart. you count. again. not for any reason. just to stay. just to keep your mind tethered to something that isn’t heat or blood or the echo of that current running through your bones.

one. two. three. four…

you think about oikawa. you think about the way he crouched down to your eye level like he used to, like he cared, even if it was through gritted teeth and rage. you think about the way he said you left me. and you remember the way you didn’t say i didn’t want to.

you wanted to.

your breath hitches. you don’t let yourself cry. crying is inefficient. it wastes energy. water. salt.

instead you do what you were trained to do in white rooms with no clocks: you build a place in your head.

you picture sicily. your apartment. the one with the yellow shutters and the tile floors. the chipped mug you always used for coffee, the one you stole from a bar in catania. the way the sunlight filtered through your balcony door and painted the bed in stripes. the way the sheets felt after a mission, when your hands were still shaking and your feet were blistered and all you could do was lie there, wide awake, listening to jazz from the street and the low tide pulling in.

you try to smell lemons. espresso. you try to feel linen against your legs, not blood.

but it’s slipping. everything’s slipping.

you open your eyes too fast and your vision swims, then steadies. your stomach turns, sharp. dry. empty.

food deprivation setting in. 36 hours minimum. no protein. no sugar. no salt.

you taste bile. your fingers twitch again, and it sends a lightning bolt down your wrist into your forearm. you choke on the pain. grit your teeth again. but your body’s twitching now, too many nerves misfiring at once. your leg jerks, useless. you slam your heel against the floor once, just to feel it. just to know you’re still here.

you are still here. you are.

you press your head back against the pole, cold concrete against your scalp, and you breathe. slow. through your nose. deeper this time.

think. analyze. adapt.

they haven’t starved you yet. which means they want you awake. they want something. still.

and oikawa—he’s not done. you can feel it in your ribs. like a tide coming in. like a storm hovering off the coast. he’s going to come back. you know it. and when he does, he won’t be calm.

he tried the question route. the taunting. the guilt. and when it didn’t work, he sent hajime.

which means next time… next time, he’ll be different. and you’ll need to be ready, even if your body isn’t. even if your vision swims every time you blink. even if your lips are cracking and your head is buzzing and your body is screaming at you to sleep.

you stay awake. because he’s coming.

and part of you is afraid, yes. but the other part?

the part still bleeding under your ribs, the part that still remembers how his voice used to sound in the dark?

that part wants to see him. wants to hear what else he has to say.

…

you hear the lock before you see him.

not like before, this time there’s no hesitation in the metal, no slow turn or echoing theatrics. the key slides in like muscle memory, a quick flick of the wrist, a sharp click, and the door groans open. no footsteps follow immediately, which tells you he’s standing there. watching. waiting. letting the tension curl into the room ahead of him like smoke.

you force yourself to lift your head, slow and stiff, ignoring the lightning shooting up your spine. your shoulders have settled into a dull ache, the ropes digging deeper with every breath, your thigh long past numb and now burning again in pulses, wet, hot, alive.

the pain’s returned just in time for an audience.

and when he steps into the room, you already know who it is. you knew the second the air shifted. knew it in the silence, the weight of his presence. oikawa always carried himself like a blade, sleek, sharp, reflective. but now he’s something else entirely. he’s ice. not even the kind that cuts—just the kind that seeps. spreads. suffocates.

his eyes scan the space with calculation before they land on you. not immediately. not like it matters. you’re furniture in here now. a job. a nuisance. an old stain on the carpet someone’s tired of scrubbing out. but when he does look at you, really look, something flickers. not pity. not pain. just… familiarity. recognition of what you are now. what he helped shape.

he walks in without speaking, a takeout container balanced casually in one hand, the other still curled around the holster strapped beneath his coat. the smell hits you before he’s close: rice, maybe. something spiced. something lukewarm. it makes your stomach churn violently, not with hunger, but with the humiliation of it. he doesn’t offer it. doesn’t pretend to be kind. just sets it down on the floor in front of you, just out of reach.

“they said you’d break quicker,” he says after a long pause, voice quiet, clipped, without rhythm or tone. “not their fault. your file reads like a woman barely holding it together. shallow breathing. scar tissue over old wounds. doesn’t eat. doesn’t sleep. cracks under prolonged silence.”

he crouches again. this time slower. his knees bend with less effort than before, like he’s done this same motion a hundred times in a hundred different cells, like you’re no different from anyone else he’s interrogated. he rests his elbow on his thigh and cocks his head, watching you the way someone watches a clock. something inevitable. ticking. temporary.

“but you’re still here,” he murmurs, and the edge of something sharp curls at the corner of his mouth, not a smile. not even a smirk. just a twitch. “still bleeding. still breathing. still not talking.”

you hold his gaze. he hates that.

his eyes move down your body, not with desire, but with a surgeon’s detachment. cataloguing injuries. reading the way your left arm twitches involuntarily every few minutes. the way your breathing’s shallow but paced. he can tell you’ve been keeping yourself conscious through recitations. pain mapping. training. he knows because he taught you some of those things. once. in another life.

“so what did they do to you over there?” he asks, quieter now, as if the question isn’t meant to be heard, only tasted. “what did they strip away to make you like this? did they make you kneel? make you forget how it felt to be touched like a person? is that what it took to make you stay gone?”

you say nothing. not because you’re defiant, but because the words feel too human, too soft, and you refuse to give him that. not here. not now. he’d see it as weakness, and he’d use it.

oikawa’s hand lifts, not toward you. just to run through his hair, rough. frustrated. the motion breaks for a second. unscripted. and you see it, buried beneath the cold: the exhaustion. the fury. the years. all of it sealed behind a clean black shirt and a holster worn to shine.

he looks back at you, finally. the stare longer this time.

“you didn’t even hesitate,” he says. and this time his voice is steadier. not angry. just… tired. “they showed me the photos. your ‘body.’ your prints. the fake blood. i knew it was staged. i knew it. and still—” he cuts himself off. laughs once. hollow. “i kept thinking, maybe you were forced. maybe you were protecting me. maybe it was a trade. but no. you just… left.”

your throat tightens. it’s involuntary. it burns. you breathe through your nose and pretend it didn’t happen. he notices anyway.

“what?” he asks, tone sharper. “you’re gonna cry now? after everything?”

you swallow, slow.

“i’m not crying,” you rasp, voice cracked and dry. “my fucking throat hurts, asshole.”

he stares at you like he’s trying to memorize the lie. like part of him wishes it were true. then, suddenly, he stands. just like that. sharp and unannounced. and the energy in the room shifts again. colder now. more exact.

“you wanna eat?” he asks, gesturing to the food like it’s an afterthought. “go ahead. drag yourself over there. earn it.”

he turns to the door. doesn’t open it yet.

“i’ll be back in an hour,” he says without looking. “maybe next time i bring the blade instead of the rice.”

the door shuts behind him like a verdict, and this time, you don’t count the water. you just breathe. and breathe. and breathe.

you leave the food sitting where he left it.

you stare at it for a long time after the door shuts. chinese takeout, half-warm, sweating inside its little white carton, untouched and just far enough away that crawling to it would mean tearing open the clot on your thigh and dragging your dignity with it.

oikawa knew exactly how far to place it. he didn’t need to say it out loud. he never does. he speaks in implication. in silence. in theatre.

you count five slow, excruciating minutes before the scent starts to turn. oil, rice, soy, something too sweet. it smells like everything you haven’t had in days. your stomach turns on itself, hunger curling up into nausea. you don’t move. you won’t give him the satisfaction. you won’t reach for it. not yet.

the rope around your wrists has gone slick with sweat. the skin underneath pulses raw, the fibers grinding bone-deep every time you shift. your leg feels hot again—not from the outside, but from the inside. fever. the slow, creeping kind. the kind you were warned about during survival training. you taste salt on your lips. your spine pulses.

you breathe. you endure. you let your mind go flat and clinical, scan for patterns, predict outcomes. it’s the only thing that keeps the panic out. the only thing that keeps you you.

he’ll be back soon. you know that much. and he’ll want something worse than an answer.

and when the door opens again, there’s no warning. no footsteps. no voice. just the lock. a clean metallic rotation and the soft whine of hinges under weight. you don’t flinch. not even when he steps back into the room, darker this time. something about his silhouette feels heavier. tighter.

he’s not holding food anymore.

he closes the door with his foot. doesn’t look at you at first. just walks to the edge of the room like he needs to collect himself, like he doesn’t trust what will come out if he faces you too soon.

he rolls his sleeves. deliberate. slow. first the left, then the right. his forearms are cut with old scars, some you recognize, some you don’t. his watch ticks loud in the silence. the silver catches the light when he turns.

and finally, he looks at you.

“you’re still awake,” he says softly. not impressed. not kind. just… acknowledging it. like it irritates him. like it ruins a plan.

you meet his eyes and don’t speak.

he crosses the room in three quiet strides, and when he crouches again, it’s not slow. it’s sudden. fluid. like a hunter settling into position. his hand braces on his knee. his other hand—

you feel the pressure before you realize what he’s done.

he’s pressed a knife flat to your neck. not cutting. not slicing. just resting. cool metal against warm skin. the blade’s dull from disuse. ceremonial, almost. not meant to kill. just to promise something.

he watches you. doesn’t blink. his voice is low when it comes.

“so,” he says, “torture didn’t work. silence didn’t work. nostalgia didn’t work.”

his thumb brushes your chin, slow, measured, like he’s checking for weakness.

“how about this,” he murmurs. “how about i fuck it out of you?”

your breathing stutters. it’s small. barely there. not enough to mean anything to anyone else.

but he sees it. because of course he does. his mouth twitches.

“oh,” he whispers. “there she is.”

you don’t move. you won’t.

“did they train you to resist that too?” he asks, voice still velvet. “or did they think you wouldn’t need it, since they stripped everything else out of you?”

his hand doesn’t move from the knife, but his weight shifts forward, just a fraction. just enough to make the pole dig into your back and the breath in your lungs catch from the closeness. he’s not touching you, not really. but you can feel the heat rolling off him. feel the hum of energy between his knees and yours. you can smell him again, same cologne. same breath. same man, except not.

“i should kill you,” he says. flatly. suddenly.

it’s not a threat. it’s not dramatic. it’s a statement. one he’s practiced saying in his head. one he’s probably already imagined carrying out. clean. fast. maybe even painless, if he’s feeling merciful.

but he doesn’t. because you haven’t said a word, and the silence is driving him insane.

he pulls back. not fast, not sharp. like he’s disappointed. like he wanted you to flinch. to fold. to break. but you didn’t.

instead, you look him straight in the eye. your voice cracks when it comes, but it holds.

“you don’t kill things you still love.”

his eyes flash, and for the first time in the entire interrogation, oikawa falters.

it’s barely there. but you know him. you know the tick in his jaw when something hits too close. you know the twitch in his cheekbone when he’s been caught lying; to you, to himself. his gaze drops for half a second, and when it rises again, there’s something violent behind it.

not rage. not fire. something colder. cleaner. a kind of violence that doesn’t need to yell.

his hands move without a word.

you feel the pressure shift first, his grip on your shoulders loosening, the weight of his attention narrowing. then the brush of his knuckles along your wrist. not gentle. not apologetic. just practical. he reaches behind you, fingers tugging at the knot, pulling it free in three sharp jerks. the rope slackens. the burn releases. the tension in your arms stutters, your shoulders dropping, too fast, too heavy.

you freeze.

the blood starts moving again before your brain catches up. your hands tingle, pins and needles laced with acid. the joints scream from the sudden freedom, the weight of your arms collapsing into your lap. you feel everything at once, your back soaked in sweat, your legs trembling under you, your wrists so raw you could weep.

you blink. shallow. uncertain.

he crouches again. same position. same voice. like this is all part of the procedure.

“go on,” he murmurs. “you’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?”

your breath hitches.

he doesn’t touch you. doesn’t restrain you. just waits. and in the space between you, the implication fills the silence like smoke. he’s watching. cataloguing. betting.

will she?

you do.

your body moves before your mind decides. your leg coils, weak and useless, your arm swings too wide, sloppy, uncalculated, pure adrenaline and stubborn desperation. it’s not a strike, it’s not a kill shot, it’s the idea of one. and that’s all he needs.

he grabs you before you’re even halfway up.

his hand locks around your bicep, his weight shifting like a second skin, and he slams you forward with terrifying ease. your shoulder hits the ground first. then your cheek. the cold concrete bites hard into the side of your face, the shock rattling through your jaw, your ribs, your spine. your thigh flares hot again, bright white agony as the wound tears wider.

you gasp without sound. bite back a scream. your teeth grind together so violently you taste metal.

his knee is in your back now, not hard, just there, pinning you the way he used to pin targets against glass windows overseas. your wrists are yanked behind you again, but this time it’s chain, not rope—tight, surgical, unforgiving. the kind they use on black site detainees. no flex. no give. you feel it click closed like a collar around your wrists.

you stop moving.

“that’s what i thought,” he mutters.

he doesn’t sound surprised. doesn’t sound pleased, either. just… unsurprised.

you breathe against the floor. slow. labored. your mouth tastes like blood and dust and your own frustration. the second your fingers twitch, the chain digs deeper.

he stands without a word. doesn’t look down. doesn’t offer anything—not a hand, not a warning, not even a threat. you hear him cross to the door. the echo of his shoes now feels deliberate. performative.

when he opens it, he doesn’t speak to you. he speaks into the hallway. curt. bored.

“she’s ready.”

and a moment later, you hear the second pair of footsteps. lighter. more precise.

you lift your head, barely, and see her.

kiyoko.

the sight of her gut-punches something old in you. it’s not even what she’s wearing, black blouse, slacks, latex gloves. it’s the expression. flat. clinical. unimpressed. she doesn’t even blink when her eyes land on you. you’re not a friend. not a former comrade. not a ghost come back to haunt the program. you’re a case. a box to check. a subject for a file.

clipboard in one hand. bandage roll in the other.

oikawa glances back at you once. you don’t think he means to. it’s too brief to be intentional. just a flicker of recognition, like your name tried to reach his throat and died halfway up.

“get her showered. something hot, not too long,” he tells kiyoko. “give her the meal. small. protein-heavy. prep the bed after. she needs to look alive for tomorrow.”

and then he’s gone. except this time the door doesn’t slam. it closes soft. sealed.

kiyoko doesn’t speak. she just steps closer, kneels beside you with the same detached calm as a surgeon scrubbing in. her hand touches your arm, adjusting the chains to keep your wrists in front of you now. less for comfort, more for transport. she doesn’t explain it.

you try to speak, but nothing comes. you swallow hard. once. again. your mouth is sand. your throat full of heat.

kiyoko doesn’t help you up. she waits for you to try. and when you collapse halfway to your knees, she doesn’t reach down.

“get up,” she says. not cruel. not even annoyed. just matter-of-fact.

so you do. because there’s no other choice.

your body moves like it’s being puppeted. every step hurts. not in isolation, but everywhere. your feet don’t land right. the ground feels too close. too loud. like it’s tilting underneath you. your thigh pulses in time with your heartbeat, and every shift of your weight drags pain up your spine like fishhooks.

kiyoko walks behind you, not beside you. close enough to correct, far enough to stay clear. her footsteps don’t echo. her presence barely exists. you know better than to turn and look for emotion in her face. she’s not here to see you. she’s here to process you. assess you. keep you alive enough to bleed another day.

you walk through the hallway. the walls are cement. the floors are tile, cheap, gray, a little uneven. fluorescent lighting buzzes overhead like a living thing. no windows. no doors open. just blank steel on both sides, punctuated by cameras that don’t blink. the silence is suffocating. every footstep feels stolen.

you don’t ask where you’re going. you already know.

you pass a mirror. not a real one, just a piece of steel polished to reflect.

you catch your own face by accident, and it almost undoes you. your hair is matted in places. dry in others. your lips are cracked. blood crusts the side of your face in a smear, half-dried, half-fresh. your eyes look too large, like someone sucked the soul out of you and left just the shell. your collarbones are sharper than they used to be. your arms look thinner. smaller. your wrists are an angry mess of rope burn and bruising.

you look like a corpse that hasn’t learned it died yet.

kiyoko doesn’t stop. doesn’t slow. doesn’t let you linger.

the next room is pale blue tile. a drain in the center of the floor. plastic chair against the far wall. one towel folded on the bench. one pair of black sweatpants, one white shirt, no shoes. a tray with a sealed container of food. protein bar. water bottle. syringe.

you hesitate in the doorway.

she nods once toward the wall. “shower,” she says.

you move.

the water turns on automatically when you step close enough. it’s not warm. not cold. just enough to shock your skin. your body tenses so hard you nearly fall. kiyoko doesn’t help you. she doesn’t leave either. she turns away slightly, enough to give you the illusion of privacy, but not enough to make it real.

you strip slowly. every movement takes calculation. your leg doesn’t want to cooperate. your shoulder burns. your muscles seize. when you pull the shirt over your head, the dried blood pulls at your skin like a second layer. it peels. flakes. smells like rust and sweat and rot.

you step under the water, and the first thing you feel is shame. not pain. not cold. shame. your body is covered in bruises. some fresh. some old. some from oikawa. some from the fall. some from yourself. the inside of your thigh is dark purple. your hip is yellowing. your chest is blotched with fingerprints and old restraint lines.

you try not to cry.

you wash. slow. deliberate. there’s no soap. just water. just enough to rinse the surface. the blood on your leg turns the drain pink for a while. the water turns clear again before you finish.

your breath catches when you try to bend. your ribs don’t like it. your wrists scream. you sit on the plastic chair when it gets too much. you close your eyes and let the water fall over your head like a second skin.

kiyoko speaks once. “five minutes.”

you nod. your throat is too tight to answer.

when you’re done, you dress in silence. your hands shake when you pull the pants up. the shirt sticks to your skin. the material is coarse. unfamiliar. it doesn’t feel like clothes. it feels like wrapping a body for transit.

you don’t touch the food. not yet.

she walks over. picks up the syringe.

you tense. instinctively.

she shakes her head. “vitamins. antibiotic. eat first.” she raises the protein bar and tosses it at you. “start with that.”

you catch it. barely. it tastes like cardboard and sugar and sawdust. but it’s food. real food. not memory. not imagination. real. your hands don’t stop shaking while you eat. you want to devour it. you don’t. you chew slow. methodical. you’ve seen what happens when agents eat too fast after too long.

she watches the whole time. when you finish half the bottle of water, she steps closer. uncaps the syringe.

“arm.”

you hesitate.

her voice doesn’t change. “don’t make me call him.”

you roll up your sleeve, and the needle stings. the second she pulls it out, she’s already cleaning up.

you want to speak. to ask. to scream. to exist. but nothing comes out.

she says nothing back. just opens the door. gestures. “come on,” she says. “bed’s prepped.”

you follow. because there’s nowhere else to go.

the room they bring you to isn’t what you expect. it’s small. clean. bare. too clean. too bare. one narrow bed bolted to the floor. a sink. a chair. a metal hook set into the wall by the headboard. there are no windows. just a light above that flickers faintly every ten minutes, as if it’s reminding you it’s still watching.

kiyoko doesn’t explain anything. she just leads you in with a nod. someone else follows, a tall guard you don’t recognize, silent, stiff, holding the end of your chain like a leash. it drags behind you, heavy and cold, slithering along the floor as you limp toward the bed.

your body’s moving on something synthetic now—painkillers, maybe. not enough to make you high. just enough to mute the sharpest edges. your thigh still burns. your wrists still ache. your spine still screams every time you breathe wrong, but it’s dulled. dulled enough to let you stand. dulled enough to let you think.

you don’t speak. you don’t ask questions. you just sit.

the guard doesn’t hesitate. he lifts your wrists without a word, fastens the cuffs to the hook by the bed—click, click, lock. he doesn’t meet your eyes. just checks the chain once. tests the tension. two feet of slack. not enough to move far. enough to lie down. enough to sleep. enough to remind you you’re still theirs.

kiyoko sets a small bottle on the nightstand. water. sealed. you hear her speak again for the first time in almost twenty minutes. “sleep,” she says. “don’t make this harder.”

and then they’re gone. the lock clicks. and you’re alone.

you lie back slowly. the mattress is thin. industrial. barely more than fabric and foam. your body sinks into it in pieces, shoulders first, then spine, then hips, then legs. your wrists stay suspended above your head, the weight of the chain pulling down just enough to remind you: you’re not free.

you don’t cry. but you almost do. your eyes close. but you don’t sleep, not right away. your thoughts flicker.

you wonder if oikawa’s on the other side of the wall. watching. waiting. timing your breath. if he was the one who ordered the meds. if he told them how much to give. if he told them when to feed you. how to shackle you. if he told them what parts of you not to break.

he’s planning something. you feel it. it coils around your ribs like a promise.

but you do fall asleep eventually. not because you want to, but because your body gives out.

and you wake in stages. not with panic, not with clarity, but in layers, like rising through molasses.

the first thing you feel is the cold. not the kind that bites, but the kind that settles into your skin like it belongs there, stale, recycled air filtering from the corner vent, humming against the back of your neck. it’s artificial. controlled. the type of cold that exists in rooms built to keep people quiet.

then the ache returns, low and humming, sweeping like a tide through your body. your leg is a lit fuse beneath the gauze. your spine is one long bruise. your arms throb with a familiar weight you’ve come to know intimately these past few days: restraint. raw skin, stretched joints, blood pooling in awkward places. you expect to feel the tug of chain, the bite of iron at your wrists.

except… it’s not there.

your wrists don’t ache the way they should. they’re not suspended. not twisted upward above your head. they’re resting. flat. at your sides.

that’s when your body jolts. not all at once, just a sharp internal spike of adrenaline cutting through the haze. your mind catches up a second later, too slow, too fogged from painkillers and dehydration to understand what it’s registering.

you blink. once. then again.

your arms are still sore. the skin is hot and torn in places. but your hands are free.

you flex your fingers on instinct. each tendon aches, but they move, untethered. unshackled. raw skin catches on the inside of the shirt they left you in. the cotton clings to half-healed scrapes like a second wound. but there’s no metal. no tension—

and your heart kicks like a warning shot.

you shoot upright too fast. the blood rushes to your head and your spine screams in protest, but you’re already reaching for your wrists, already scanning the mattress, the corners of the room, the floor near your feet, anything.

no cuffs. no clamps. no chain to drag across the tile. just skin. skin and heat and the faint tacky residue of medical tape where they must’ve wiped you down in your sleep.

you stare at your hands. you turn them over. they shake.

you didn’t wake up.

they unhooked you in the night, and you didn’t wake up.

your stomach twists violently.

that’s not just bad. that’s lethal. stupid. that’s a rookie mistake. a civilian mistake. you were trained to sleep light. to wake at the shift of air, the scrape of rubber on tile, the breath of a body too close to yours. you should’ve felt them. you should’ve heard it. seen it. something.

and you didn’t.

a wave of nausea crashes behind your ribs, cold and bitter. your mouth tastes like salt and sleep and failure.

you were vulnerable. and you didn’t even know it. your chest tightens as the shame comes fast and deep. you could’ve been killed. you could’ve been dragged out of this bed and butchered and bagged and you would’ve gone without a sound. what the fuck is wrong with you?

you spin around. and you freeze. because he’s already there.

he’s sitting in the far corner of the room like a secret waiting to be found. no announcement. no movement. just presence. quiet. composed. watching.

oikawa looks like he’s been there all night.

he’s leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, legs spread just enough to anchor him in place, his gun dangling loosely in one hand. it rests on his thigh, not raised, not threatening, just visible. a piece of him. like it always was. his finger’s curled against the trigger guard, relaxed. easy. familiar.

his eyes are locked on yours. his lips curl, slow. tired. cruel.

“sloppy,” he says. his voice is quiet, too quiet, like it’s meant to cut you in half, not echo. “sicily must’ve gotten soft.”

you try to swallow, but your throat’s too dry. your whole body is too slow. too heavy. too exposed.

he stands.

he doesn’t move quickly. doesn’t stalk. he just rises like a tide, controlled and inevitable. his shoulders straighten as he steps toward you, every movement smooth, silent. his eyes never leave yours.

“you really didn’t wake up?” he asks, and there’s a twist in the middle of the sentence, like it hurts. like he’s mocking himself for expecting better.

you don’t respond. your chest is locked tight.

“i could’ve done anything,” he says, softer now. a note lower. almost contemplative. “could’ve broken your neck. could’ve put a bullet in your mouth while you dreamed about being anyone but yourself.”

he lifts the gun. slow. methodical. not a threat: an invitation. and then, without hesitation, he brings it to your face.

the barrel presses against your temple, firm and cold, smooth against skin that’s still warm from fever. you can feel the shape of it, metal shaped by repetition, by force, by memory. his hand doesn’t tremble. yours does.

your breathing spikes. you don’t let it show, but he sees it anyway.

you don’t scream. you don’t cry. you just sit there, spine curved, bones aching, dressed in borrowed clothes, half-healed and humiliated. trembling in your own skin, hands twitching in your lap.

he watches you like a scientist. like you’re a theory he’s finally proven right.

“you’ve been trained to disarm,” he murmurs, voice low enough to rattle your ribs. “so disarm me.”

your body doesn’t move. not even an inch. you twitch. a single shoulder trembles. your hand flexes—

but nothing follows.

he smiles. not the real one. not the soft one you used to kiss off his lips in the backseat of armored vehicles after getting out alive. this one is sharper.

“no?”

he steps back just a little. not far. just enough. then, without flourish, without warning—he flips the gun in his hand and drops it into your lap.

“oops.”

the word lands like a knife in your sternum.

the gun is heavy. heavy in a way only yours can be. the grip still fits. the shape still knows your hands. the weight of it isn’t just physical, it’s historical.

you don’t look down, but your hands move. your fingers close around it before your thoughts catch up. the cold spreads fast. it’s like holding a memory you were never supposed to see again.

“pick it up,” he says, even though you already have.

you shift your grip automatically. thumb along the side, press-slide-check. chamber’s loaded. safety’s off. it’s second nature. it’s still in you.

you hear his breath change.

not a flinch. not fear. just readiness.

you raise it, but your hands are shaking again. not violently. but enough. not from fear. from memory. the stance is perfect. your aim is sharp. he’s close. you could shoot through his skull in a heartbeat. drop him where he stands.

you were trained for this. he trained you.

but your eyes don’t see the man in front of you. they see the boy beneath. seventeen and too tall for his own center of gravity. grinning through blood and glass. holding your hand in the wreckage like he could keep it from shaking. pressing his mouth to your temple like that would fix it.

and this version, with the button-up and the half-crazy eyes and the mouth that curves like a blade—this version is still him.

you lower the gun. barely. just a breath. your hands still tremble.

he doesn’t blink.

“do it,” he says. “go ahead.”

you raise it again. your arms burn. your fingers squeeze tighter. but nothing follows. your throat’s closing up. your chest feels like it’s collapsing in on itself. your vision blurs.

and you can’t.

he steps in. just one step. close enough that your knees brush his thighs. close enough that his breath stirs your lashes.

“do it.”

your heart pounds so loud you can’t hear the room anymore.

and then, he leans in. his nose brushes yours. his eyes are on your mouth. his voice is low. soft. final. “that’s what i thought.”

your grip loosens. you let the gun fall. not dramatic. not violent. just… surrender, slow. quiet. inevitable. it hits the mattress between your knees and you look at him. not the weapon.

he hasn’t moved. his eyes haven’t left yours.

he says it so low, so intimate, it sounds like he’s whispering it into the hollow of your throat.

“you always hold on too tight.” his mouth twitches. “but you never pull the trigger.”

your jaw tightens. your eyes sting. your hands fall to your lap, useless.

he looks down at them. then back at your face.

“you could’ve ended this,” he murmurs. “right here. clean. final. after everything.”

he doesn’t sound surprised. he sounds… disappointed. and that burns worse than any wound.

you open your mouth. to defend yourself. to explain. to lie. but you don’t get the chance, because he moves first, not fast, not like a strike, but like a decision already made.

his hand comes to your face, knuckles dragging your cheekbone, thumb catching at the corner of your mouth. he studies you like a blueprint gone weathered with time.

“you’re still soft,” he says under his breath. “even after everything they taught you.”

your lips part to argue.

he kisses you.

not soft. not hard. slow. like he’s daring you to push him away. like he’s asking: is this what you came back for?

you make a sound against his mouth, low, pained. your fingers fist in the front of his shirt before you even realize it, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to the one person you should’ve severed from years ago.

he tastes the same. like metal and breath and that impossible version of home you pretended never existed. and you hate it. hate how natural it feels to open your mouth for him. to let him lick back in like no time has passed at all.

he pulls back just enough to speak. “you shouldn’t have come back.”

your hands stay on him. “i didn’t,” you whisper. “you brought me.”

he laughs, quiet and bitter, like it physically hurts him to let it out. “right. i forgot. i’m the villain now.”

his hand moves to your throat, not to choke, but to hold. to feel you breathing. to remind you that you are.

“you think they erased me,” he murmurs. “you think sicily taught you how to forget this.”

he leans in again. mouth at your jaw, your throat, the place just below your ear where your skin still flinches.

“but i remember you,” he says.

his hands slide down your shoulders, slow and deliberate. he brushes past every scar like he knows where they came from. like he cataloged them before you were gone.

“i remember how you sounded when you couldn’t stay quiet.”

his hands move lower.

“i remember what you did with your hips when you thought i wasn’t paying attention.”

your breath shudders as his fingers catch the hem of your shirt. he lifts it. you let him.

it comes off slow, dragged over your head, exposing skin that still bears the bruises from iwaizumi’s hands, from ropes, from restraint. he looks at them. at you.

and something flickers in his expression. not pity. not regret. recognition.

“they really tried to break you,” he says.

you meet his gaze. “they did.”

he’s quiet for a beat—then his mouth is on yours again, harder now. his hands on your waist. your ribs. pushing you gently back, lowering you down to the mattress like he doesn’t quite trust you’ll stay if he lets go.

his mouth never leaves yours. and when it does, it only travels. to your neck. your collarbone. the line of your sternum.

he pulls your pants down next. slowly. methodically. he exposes your thigh, the wound, the scar. his fingers ghost over it, barely touching, but it makes your whole body twitch.

his lips move down.

he kisses just beside it. a soft press. intentional. not for you. for him.

his fingers slide up the inside of your thigh. find the heat there. the slick.

he exhales sharply. “you missed me,” he says.

you don’t deny it.

his hand moves slow. two fingers parting your folds like he already knows what he’ll find. and he does.

“wet already?” he murmurs. “so you do remember.”

his thumb brushes your clit and your hips jerk. he smiles.

“you always did like it when i talked.”

you moan. quiet. shaky. ashamed.

his fingers slip inside, just the tips—and your breath catches.

then deeper.

he fills you with two fingers and watches your body open for him. his pace is slow. purposeful. he curls his fingers just right, drags them back just enough to make you gasp.

you pant his name once, soft, like it slips out by accident.

his breath stutters. “say it again.”

“tooru…”

he leans in and kisses you, long. deep. and all the while, his fingers never stop moving. never stop knowing. never stop making you fall apart.

and when you come, it’s fast and quiet and humiliating. you clamp around his fingers, thighs trembling, vision gone blurry. your hands claw at his arms like you need something to hold onto. something that isn’t this. that isn’t him.

but he doesn’t let up. he works you through it. slow. brutal. gentle in the cruelest way.

and when you finally look up at him, wrecked, breathless, ruined, he says:

“good.”

he reaches for his belt.

“because i’m not done reminding you.”

his voice sits low and steady in your gut, vibrating through you like the echo of a threat. but there’s no rush to his hands, no frantic pull or clumsy undressing. he’s measured. deliberate. like he already knows what comes next. like this was always part of the plan.

his eyes stay on yours as he unbuckles the belt, one hand on the clasp, the other still resting between your legs, slick with you.

your chest rises with each breath, too shallow, too sharp. his fingers drag the leather free from its loops with a single slow pull, long, drawn out, smooth like tension unwinding, and you swallow hard when he drops it to the floor without a sound.

he unzips next. pulls himself free. thick and hard and flushed dark, and when your eyes flick down to see him, a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“you forget what it feels like?” he asks, voice rougher now, closer to a growl than a whisper.

your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

and that silence, that flicker of hesitation, is enough to light something in his eyes.

he grips your hips, fingers digging in just above your bones, and drags you closer to the edge of the mattress. your thighs fall open on instinct. he doesn’t touch himself. he doesn’t need to. he’s already hard, already ready, already decided.

and you feel it, when the head of his cock presses against your entrance, hot and blunt and almost mean in its stillness. he doesn’t push in. not yet. he just lets it sit there, like a question you’re too afraid to answer.

he leans down. his mouth finds yours again, slower now, less feral, but no less demanding. his lips part against yours. his breath is hot and tight. and when he speaks, it’s just above a whisper, full of something bitter and aching.

“you left me,” he says. “you didn’t even look back.”

your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt. your voice shakes. “i had to.”

he pulls back from the kiss, just far enough to look at you, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, like he’s still tasting the words in your mouth.

“no,” he says. “you chose to.”

and then, he pushes in. slow. deep. inch by aching inch.

the stretch rips the air from your lungs. your body clenches around him, too hot, too slick, too full. your back arches off the mattress and your mouth falls open, but no sound escapes, only breath. only heat. only him.

he bottoms out and stays there, forehead pressed to yours, both of you locked together like two halves of something long broken.

“i thought about this every night,” he says into your skin. “how you’d feel if you ever came back. how i’d make you remember.”

he pulls out slow. thrusts back in. hard. controlled. punishing.

you gasp.

his rhythm starts there, not fast, but steady. relentless. each thrust slow enough to drag the friction, deep enough to pull moans from your throat you didn’t know you still had in you.

you claw at his shoulders. he grabs your thigh and adjusts the angle, tilts your hips up, sinks in deeper.

“you feel that?” he says, voice breaking. “that’s me.”

your walls clamp around him.

“they made you forget everything else. but not this.”

your head tilts back. your breath leaves in sharp little sobs.

his thumb drags down your jaw. “look at me,” he says.

you do. barely. barely keeping your eyes open. barely remembering what shame is.

his thrusts grow a little harder, a little deeper.

“say it.”

you choke on the word. “you,” you gasp. “it’s you.”

his hand wraps around the back of your neck. pulls your forehead to his, and he kisses you, but this time, it’s different. not taunting. not cruel. not even angry. this one hurts.

he fucks you through it. fucks you with it.

and when his hand drops between your legs again, finding your clit with unerring precision, you’re already spiraling. already close. already breaking open in ways you swore they’d trained out of you.

“that’s right,” he breathes. “let me have it.”

you fall apart around him. twitching. gasping. clenching down hard. your thighs shake. your nails dig into his back. you cry out his name, loud this time, ruined and raw and full of everything you didn’t get to say when you disappeared.

he fucks you through your orgasm.

chases his own with long, deep thrusts, groaning when your body pulses again around him, slick and overstimulated, trembling and unguarded.

and when he finally comes, hips stuttering, breath ragged, face buried in your neck, it’s with a sound you haven’t truly heard in years.

your name. your real one. the one you abandoned. the one he still says like a secret.

he collapses on top of you, chest heaving, body heavy, sweat clinging to both of you like surrender.

and for a while, there’s nothing. just the sound of breath. and the silence of everything he couldn’t say.

the silence is heavy.

not the kind that invites sleep, or peace, or even comfort. this one is the kind that sinks into the mattress with you. that curls up in the dark like a third body between your limbs. the kind that knows this is the last time.

your skin is still slick with sweat. your body aches in places you forgot existed. your leg throbs, but it’s distant now, muted beneath the deeper ache blooming in your chest.

you’re curled into his side, bare skin pressed to his. his hand moves in slow circles over your back, sometimes drifting down your spine, sometimes tracing the faded scars across your shoulder blades like they spell something he can read. his breath is steady beneath your cheek. the rise and fall of it grounds you.

you lie there a long time before either of you speaks.

his voice comes first, low. quiet. not even rasped, just tired.

“we used to talk about retiring.”

you blink against the base of his throat. your lips brush his skin when you speak.

“used to pretend we’d make it to thirty.” he exhales. it sounds like a laugh. it’s not.

“used to think we’d be on a beach,” he murmurs. “somewhere warm. bored. arguing about groceries.”

you nod. your fingers trace a small scar near his ribs, a clean slice, maybe a knife wound. old. shallow.

“i thought i could do it,” you whisper. “i thought if i just left—if i died the right way, they’d let you go.”

he swallows. you feel it. his voice cracks just slightly. “they don’t let anyone go.”

you close your eyes.

his hand pauses at your spine. then resumes. slower now. less rhythmic.

“i hated you,” he says. no malice in it. just fact. “for a long time. i thought you betrayed me.”

“i did.”

“you didn’t.”

you lift your head to look at him. your cheek sticks to his skin with sweat. your wrists are still sore. you feel so small like this. so unlike the weapon they trained you to be.

his gaze is soft in the dark. too soft. it makes your throat hurt.

you brush your fingers along his jaw. his lashes flutter.

“i loved you,” you say. “since we were seventeen.”

his jaw clenches. his eyes shine. “i know,” he whispers, and he leans in. kisses your forehead. your temple. your cheek.

you curl into him again. one arm draped across his chest. your fingers drift down, across the planes of his stomach. you touch the place above his heart.

“i think i’m gonna die here,” you whisper. you don’t mean it like surrender. you mean it like truth.

he doesn’t respond right away.

then—

“probably,” he says. “it’s what they’d want.”

you nod.

he shifts under you slightly, reaches for the blanket half-kicked to the edge of the bed. pulls it over both of you.

“maybe i’ll die here too.”

you don’t say anything.

his fingers move to your arm. his thumb presses gently over a burn scar near your elbow. one you got in bucharest. he wasn’t there. but he read the report. he traces it like it hurts him.

and then, softly, so softly it almost doesn’t reach your ears—

“i missed you so much.”

your heart folds in on itself. “i know,” you whisper.

“i’d do it again,” he says.

you blink. your voice catches. “do what?”

he swallows again. you feel his throat move under your cheek.

“i’d love you.”

you don’t cry. you thought you might. but you don’t. instead, you slide your arm across his chest. press your lips to his neck.

“i’d die for you,” you say. “again and again.”

he exhales shakily. his hand lifts. he pushes your hair back behind your ear. presses his lips to your temple.

and then, quietly, like it’s the only joke he knows how to tell anymore—“looks like i’m gonna have to put you down myself, huh?”

you smile. small. broken.

“do it gently.”

he laughs once. just a breath. but it dies halfway. you feel the way he stiffens. the way his fingers tighten in your hair.

“please don’t make me do this,” he says.

you don’t reply. because you both know what comes next.

there’s no way out of this. no extraction. no miracle. sicily doesn’t lose assets, and the program doesn’t forget deserters. and people like you, people like him—you don’t get second chances. you don’t get to run.

you bury your face in his chest. feel his heart beating beneath your cheek.

slow. steady. real.

and if this is the last time, you want to remember it like this. warm. quiet. his arms around you. the air thick with things unsaid but no longer needed.

you’re just two people now. two people who never stood a chance. but found each other anyway.

tags: @x3nafix @whoo0sh

[roses-and-revolutions]

Not Blue, Black

Everyone always assumes that Danny's eyes are blue. He’s shown pictures of his family before and his dad’s eyes are blue, and so are his twin brother’s and his daughter’s, and his big sister’s. So his must be too! Well, his mom seemed to have this weird purple thing going on so no one was too sure. And no one seemed to care either way, especially not Danny. Besides, why would anyone care about eye color when they had such an amazing young man working alongside them?

Danny was the perfect intern. He’s always on time, never giving trouble, always giving helpful suggestions, and good at not only his job but everyone else’s too, making it handy to have him around the office. He was also the workplace hottie, with many guys and girls hovering around him, desperately trying to make him theirs despite him announcing himself happily married the first day he got here. (Everyone knew who his husband and wife were since he couldn’t help but show them off every chance he got. Everyone knows they’ve got no chance, but one can dream.)

He also seems to light up just about whatever room he happens to be in. Just his presence alone made even their shittiest days in the office seem like just tiny inconveniences in the eyes of the universe. Unless he himself was pissed, which didn’t happen too often. But when he was, everyone felt it and knew to avoid him like the plague. But, other than that, Danny was an all-around good guy and was for sure going to get the job after he graduated from Gotham U. 

You, on the other hand, weren’t too sure about your position in the company, as you were Danny’s antithesis, everything he was not. You were always late for reasons no one cared to understand. Just about every issue in the office was pinned on you whether you were involved or not. You couldn’t ever think about helpful suggestions and just rode off the backs of others. And compared to everyone else's good looks, you were the workplace monster. 

You had a scar on your face and body you got as a kid. You got it in an accident and it deformed your right side quite a bit. It was challenging to adjust to yes, but over time you learned to live with and accept it. Others not so much. The stares you got almost daily, from everyone in the office to school, even random strangers on the street. All of them made you feel scared and sick. Like you wanted to dig off your skin and rip off your flesh and replace it all with something newer, better, more normal. But you couldn’t and had to live like this for the rest of your life. You had to live with the stares for the rest of your life.

Your only saving grace was this job, the one you were assigned to when you first got the internship. You were awful at it at first, resulting in many scoldings from the manager. But throughout the year you were here at this company, you dedicated your time and effort to be good at at least this one thing. And now you were proud to say that you were damn good at it. The best even! So good in fact that everyone decided that they would drop their workload onto you and let you handle it even if it meant extremely late nights at the office.

And that’s how you got to be here, on the company roof at 1 a.m., debating whether or not going home to actually sleep and eat would be worth the scolding you would get from the manager when you arrive to work ‘late’ again..., among other things.

You know having these kinds of thoughts was bad for your mental health (your therapist grilled it into you every time you even mentioned them to her), but it was freeing in a sick sort of way every time you thought of each scenario that could play out if you just-

“Hey!”

Jumping back to your senses, you turned around and saw none other than Danny Fenton standing right behind you. You two were never all that close in proximity before now so you only knew that he was big. You weren’t expecting the absolute unit that was standing behind you. You knew you were short but having to crane your neck to look at his face only put shit into perspective.

“Another late night?”

You only nod dumbly as he moves from behind to stand next to you, looking down at the bustling city below. A deep sigh came from him as he pulled a candy from his back pocket and popped it into his mouth. He was always eating candy. Did he have low blood sugar or just a sweet tooth?

“Same. It’s like we can never go home, huh?”

You couldn’t help but laugh at Mr. Perfect’s suffering just a bit until you realized what he meant. You scoffed and rolled your eyes. 

“Come on Fenton, just because you’ve done a few late nights doesn’t mean you ‘never get to go home’.”

You settled next to him, also looking down on the city as well. He was on his phone now, the blue light illuminating his features.

“She really never sleeps does she?”  He says laughing to himself.

You were kinda pissed off now. Who was he, Mr. Perfect Intern, Daniel Fenton, to compare his suffering to yours? You practically lived at this job now, once you weren’t busy with school or something else! You even bet that after this he’s gonna go home to his nice apartment and be met by a wrapped-up dinner on the table made by either his husband or wife. (HE HAS A FREAKING HUSBAND AND WIFE FOR FUCKS SAKE!) He was probably talking about his little girl just now, and how she’s up waiting for him. Maybe she was half asleep on the couch with the TV on since she was so determined to see her Dad come home. It’s Friday after all of course she’d get to stay up way past her bedtime. He’s gonna get a hot bath and wash off dirt and grim of work, and-

Danny’s laugh was low and deep, rumbling through the air, sending chills down your spine. He turned to you and smiled his pearly whites glimmer-  Wait were those fangs?

“Dude you know you mumble out loud… right?”

There was silence between you two until a bright red crept up your neck, and ever so slowly engulfed your face. Shame flooded your entire being as you cradled your face in your hands. You sighed, feeling like more air wanted to come out but your very human lungs were empty and in need of oxygen. So sucking in a breath, you looked him in the face (why can't you see his eyes?). He was still smiling, his fangs (he has freaking fangs how had you never noticed before!) poking his bottom lips making little dimples.

“I’m so sorry, I’ve been stuck here for three days doing everyone else's work. I haven’t slept or eaten or taken a shower. I-”

“I know, I know. You’ve been busting your ass for a while now so of course you’d be grumpy.”

You don’t think grumpy is the word you’d use but it was close enough. 

“So how long have you been here Fenton?”

“A week.” He replied cooly, popping yet another sweet in his mouth. (Okay he needed to stop, at this rate, diabetes would be the next one to put a ring on his finger) But you were surprised nonetheless.

You’re sure you would’ve noticed if he was here for the entire week. He must have been playing games with you.

“Am not.”

Okay, you needed to stop thinking out loud.

“Look, just trust and believe that if I didn’t want you to notice me, you wouldn’t have. But I did so…” He shrugged and looked off into the distance once more.

You think that what he said is impossible, everyone notices Danny Fenton. But the office was pretty small compared to bigger companies. And if he really was there for the entire week you should have noticed him at some point of the three days you were here. You didn’t hear him coming up behind you a few moments ago either. So maybe there is some merit to his words.

“What’s got you here for so long anyways Fenton?”

He sighed, his face looking more tired than before. 

“You know the project that my group has, the one we got two months ago?” You nod and he continues, 

“Well, it was fine at first. Everyone was pulling their weight, excited to get it done. But then it started, again, with ‘Hey Danny, I’ve got something important to do this afternoon, can you finish this for me?’. Then, ‘Danny I'm not coming in today, do this for me? Thanks!’. And ‘Hey, Danny’s good at this let him do it!’. ‘Danny I need help! Wait no…, I actually meant that I want you to do this for me.’ 

Danny’ll do this, Danny can do that, don’t worry Danny’s on it! Danny, you’ll finish the project… right?

That along with the other workloads that are trusted upon me by the managers and other employees, ON TOP OF MY OWN ASSINGED WORK!”

By the time he was done, you had already recognized that voice all too well. Danny was struggling, right on the edge of his line, using the shirt on his back the make just a little more. Danny was breaking and just barely holding it together, just like you were. You never realized it before, but you notice now that, Danny’s fucking tired. Just like you.

A wet laugh broke your train of thought. His face was a bit wet, his eyes (?) red from held-back tears.

“People think that I’ve got no flaws-” A pang of guilt shoots through you as you were one of those people, “- but I do. Metric shit ton in fact. One of them is that I can’t help but to help people, even if it’s detrimental to myself. And if my sister finds out about this she’s gonna slap me upside and force me to stay home for a month!”

Another laugh rang through the air, sounding just a bit too crazy for your liking. Even so, you couldn’t help but wonder, you just needed to ask-

“Why are you telling me this?”

His laughter stopped and he turned to look at you. Like really look at you. You realize that Danny’s eyes weren’t blue like you and everyone else were assuming. His eyes were black. So black. Blacker than the night sky and deeper than any ocean. And within those oceans swam thousands of bright lights, each burning 10x brighter than the earth’s own sun! Yet they could never shine through that great abyss. It was beautiful. Danny’s eyes were so beautiful. 

“Because I’m gonna quit.”

“What?” Well, you weren’t expecting that.

“Yeah, I’m going to quit. And as your good friend-” Good friend? Since when!? “-I’m going to advise you to quit as well! I predict that this shabby ass company is gonna collapse in a few months and I DO NOT want to be there for that shit show, doubt you want to be there either.”

You feel conflicted. This is the first time that you and Danny Fenton have actually spoken to each other and after basically trauma dumping on you he tells you to quit! This has to be a prank! Some sick twisted joke!

“It’s not.”

CURSE YOUR BLOODY LIPS!

Danny smiled. He looked noticeably less human now that you could see fangs and eyes, and were his ears always pointy? Dear lord is he a part of the Fae!?

“Close but not quite.” 

At this point, you were pretty sure you weren’t speaking out loud and he was just straight-up reading your mind. He handed you a piece of paper and clasped his hand over yours.

“Just think about it ok? The first one is my number, so just call when you need a friend to talk to. The second is my brother’s, he thinks you’re cute.”

“What?” You look up only to see him gone as if he was never there. Looking back down you expect to see the paper gone too. But it was still there, the flirtatious message next to the second number making the tips of your ears turn red. Once again you remember that, Danny if a fucking giant, one who was now gone without a trace…

“What have I gotten myself into?”

You decided to quit the next day.

Three months later the company ends up in a scandal so bad, that even the bats are investigating it.

You decide to give Danny a call.

All I wanted to do was write a prompt about Danny's eyes... The fuck!?!?!?

[innerfare]

Sabo’s Type 

Summary: A collection of random headcanons describing Sabo's type

Genre: Angst

CW: None // SFW

———

Sabo is such a show off, it’s no joke. It’s for this reason he has such a thing for a damsel in distress. He really enjoys the opportunity to flex his powers. (Flashback to Dressrosa arc and him swooping in to rescue Rebecca but leaving poor Bartolomeo lmao.) But he likes it even more if showing off doesn’t work, since it works on basically everyone else. 

Someone who is unimpressed, or at least initially hides it from him. Sabo lives for a challenge. While he loves it when people fawn over him, he’ll become a little obsessed with someone who shrugs at his dragon claw and fire fruit ability, who brushes off his pretty face and muscular body, who doesn’t care that he’s the second in command of the Revolutionary Army and is going to tell him exactly what they think of him.  

Someone with a voice like honey that makes him want to kick his habit of hanging up the transponder snail in the middle of the call and instead stay on the other line for hours listening to them talk about nothing. 

Someone powerful. Someone who can not only hold their own in battle so he doesn’t have to constantly worry about them but also someone who can spar with him. Someone who has undergone rigorous martial arts training and insists their style is more powerful than his dragon claw. Someone who triggers his competitive side. 

Someone who will make fun of him, even going so far as to poke fun of his heritage (without going too far). The odd joke about Sabo being a pampered aristocrat will get his blood boiling. He’s the type to ignore all the people fawning over him and go straight for the person who seems uninterested (side note: Sabo does not respect the ring; if you’re married and he wants you, he’s going for you). 

Someone with as much a reason to hate the World Government as he does, perhaps even more of a reason. Someone who wants to see the world burn. But also someone who starts out as his enemy, so maybe a marine or member of Cipher Pol with a traumatic backstory working as a double agent for the Revolutionary Army. 

Someone who likes his scars. He’s come to view them as a symbol of his failure to escape Goa on his own, and even as a symbol of the reason he couldn’t be there for his found family, so he doesn’t feel proud of them the way a warrior should. But if you’re proud of them, if you run your fingers over them, he’ll grin like a fool. 

Someone who is well read and a good enough writer to read his manuscript and offer feedback, someone who can edit some of the pages and offer him some direction when he’s not sure which direction to go in. Someone who agrees with his point of view on the subject matter (typically the corruption of the World Government) and can aid him in getting that across. 

Someone who makes him feel safe enough to ask for affection. Sabo isn’t really used to positive reinforcement. Though he received some once he joined the Army, a rough childhood without a drop of real softness has left him a little thirsty for someone to run their fingers through his hair while he vents about everything wrong in the world. 

Low-key has mommy issues, craves a woman who will make him food, take a bath with him, and tuck him into bed. Refuses to admit it, though. This folds into him craving a more feminine partner because he's been surrounded by so much roughness. One of his guilty pleasures is definitely crushing on the young noble women he's supposed to be usurping.

Someone who doesn’t hesitate to make his family their own, who falls right into the ranks of the Revolutionary Army and makes themselves at home with the Straw Hats (I think it goes without saying Sabo's SO has to have Luffy's stamp of approval). 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[cultofdixon]

“I love you” told in a silent way

Daryl Dixon • She/Her Pronouns • Eldest Greene!Daughter • The archer and eldest Greene daughter grew close when they met and even turned into a few things. Little did they know that they were expecting • ANGST/SFW/NSFW - Implied Sex / Quickies / Hickeys / Biting • TW: Canon Violence / Injuries / Self Harm Scars / Nausea / Talks of Abortion / Amputation / Pregnancy & Birth

Requested by: Anon

Daryl tried to be sneaky when it came to getting one of Hershel’s horses. He thought it be easier to maneuver through the woods on horseback instead of his bike. Wouldn’t be as loud either.

The man didn’t know anything about horses. Especially with putting the saddle and reins on. But he was trying to be quick so that none of the Greenes would notice.

Little did he know he was being watched.

“You forgot the saddle pad. Protects their back from the saddle…the friction and all”

The youngest Dixon quickly dropped the saddle and didn’t think of aiming his crossbow given the woman he turned toward didn’t seem to be armed.

“Who the hell are you?”

“The owner of the horse you be takin’. Don’t care if you do just thought you might need a hand before you take off”

“I’ve got more questions first—-“

“You want a name or somethin’? Or like why didn’t I show my face when your group stumbled into the ranch with a half dead boy?” She tilted her head after saying all that, watching the man’s body relaxed when she said all that. “I’m Y/N Greene. The eldest Greene daughter and I didn’t show my face because I’m not all too friendly with strangers and my old man isn’t all too proud of me”

Now Daryl was completely relaxed for some strange feeling growing in his chest. This total stranger didn’t leave out anything in the initial meeting…he didn’t feel like he had to pull it out of her.

“Can I at least get your name?”

“Daryl. Uh Daryl Dixon”

“Well nice to meet yea. Let me help you get the saddle on and you can take’em wherever you need to go”

“Ain’t gonna like…question why I’d be takin’ your horse?”

“The best thing about being invisible…is I already know why you’re doing it so I’m gonna help in my smallest way” Y/N got the saddle pad from the open cabinet in the stable approaching her horse to get him set up. “You’re trying to find that Carol woman’s daughter? I’d be careful when riding. Nelly is skittish sometimes”

“That’s understandable when a sicko comes by”

“I’m saying…be more careful with anything as small as a mouse when ridin’” Y/N warns as she tightens the saddle on carefully before taking the reins and handing them to Daryl. “If you don’t come back before nightfall, I’ll come and get yea”

“Not gonna need it” Daryl frowns gripping the reins keeping his gaze to the floor until she started to walk away when he brought his eyes back on her.

When Daryl left the farm, Y/N made her existence known to the others from his group given only Lori and Daryl knew of her. Lori only knowing because she accidentally stumbled across her when she needed air after learning what happened to Carl.

The eldest Greene still kept to herself but started to be help to these new people whenever it was asked. She even understood what Maggie was talking to her about when it came to how strange some of them were with one another. But also being mainly an observer, she told her sister more details.

“Have you seen that Dixon guy recently?” Y/N asks her sister Beth watching her shake her head, leading her to leave the house heading toward the stables.

To her surprise, Hershel stood in a bit of a mood when noticing their horse was gone.

“You know who took her?”

“Yeah and I gave the okay. Now I gotta—“ Y/N went toward one of the stalls when Hershel grabbed her upper arm. “Seriously old man. What now?”

“I don’t trust these people” Hershel sung the same tune ever since this group joined. Y/N quickly pulls her arm out of his grasp avoiding eye contact as she pinches the bridge of her nose to contain herself from exploding. “First we lose another of our people because they were left alone with this guy”

“To save the sheriff’s son—-“

“Then the Glenn fella is hitting on my precious Maggie—-“

“She’s a grown ass woman who can make decisions for herself—-“

“Then your stupid decision to let one of them use one of our horses led them to ask for—-“

“SHUT IT” Y/N hissed. “I ain’t bein’ blamed for stupid shit, dad. You’re a sweet old guy that wouldn’t turn away good people but of course it’s driving yea nuts how high maintenance it is. Now get out of my way”

Her father didn’t leave the stables and watched her go into one of the stalls to push over some hay to reveal her hunting rifle strapping it on her.

“What are you doing?!”

“Going out to save one of them from whatever bullshit he got himself in”

“Seriously?! How can you easily let someone in? How can yea risk your life—-“

“I have given too much to this world that I’m not about to let it take from me. Yeah…I may not know much of this guy but some cosmic whatever is telling me he’s worth it” and with that Y/N left for the woods.

Y/N didn’t walk aimlessly like the Dixon fella might have because she grew up in these woods. She’s seen his crossbow and knows he’s a hunter but unless you know your surroundings, you’re learning as you go. Which meant the fall that Daryl took when Nelly bucked him off, Y/N knew the spot he’d fall into. Daryl had just pulled the arrow out of his side to take out the walker trying to get him but when the sounds of another undead came, he knew he was done for.

Until the sound of gunfire rung through followed by a thud. Daryl in his exhausted state looked up from where he fell finding a blurry blob that was Y/N with her rifle still in a readied position. He scoffs slightly out of annoyance toward himself mainly but a bit toward her that he directed to her when she slid the side of the slope reaching him.

“You’re an idiot…”

“Says the one bleeding” Y/N frowns setting her rifle down beside her, helping Daryl sit up with some resistance. “Gotta close that better or you’ll bleed out before we get back”

“Why do you care? If Merle were here he’d make jokes about a girl touchin’ me”

Y/N sort of ignored his words. Merle? Must be family or at least someone close he’s thinking of because of the blood loss. Least she didn’t have to worry about hallucinations…at least when she’s there.

“I just do. Is that a good enough answer for yea?”

“For now”

“Good” Y/N shrugged off her flannel leaving her in a tank top making the heat rise to Daryl’s face as he turned away when she brought her shirt around his torso to apply pressure to the wound. “When we get back, the old man will patch you up”

“How’d yea even know I’d end up here?”

“I know these woods a bit too well, Dixon”

“So…yea could’ve warned me?”

“Nah. Then that would be doubting your abilities now wouldn’t it?” Y/N frowns bringing his arm around her shoulders hearing him groan when getting back on his feet.

Getting back to where they were was a struggle and resulted in Y/N carrying Daryl on her back to the best of her ability. A few bumps along the way but they made it. Now it was a slow walk back to the farm.

Though neither of them could’ve calculated what’s about to happen, to happen.

Once the two were in the clearing, Y/N heard muffled shouting while Daryl clung onto her really feeling the blood loss get to him. His feeling instantly changed when he felt her tense beside him when the group of men came running over. Daryl scoffs straightening up the best he could, glaring at Rick who held his colt in his face once again.

“That’s the third time you pointed that thing at my head” Daryl scoffs. “Gonna pull the trigger or what?”

Then the ring of a shot powered through and nicked Daryl in the head. The force caused him to fall over and Y/N to instantly approach his side to get him on his back making sure he was still breathing.

“I was kidding” Daryl groans, squinting his eyes from the pain in his head as Rick and Shayne quickly came over to help the guy onto his feet while Y/N got up continuing to carry his gear and grow an unsettling taste in her mouth when Andrea came running over admitting to her firing.

Dale noticed the look in the Greene’s eyes and felt the need to step in front of Andrea when she made her way over to them.

“Next time, if you’re ever unsure about the shot you’re about to take? Don’t take it” Y/N kept her cool and even shot the girl a temporary smile that faded into the resting neutral while she caught up with the others.

The poor guy laid uncomfortably in the bed while Hershel got to work on his stitches. Once the info about Sophia’s possible whereabouts, Hershel couldn’t help but speak his mind.

“If you didn’t go out in the first place, my daughter wouldn’t have felt obligated to save your ass”

“No one told her to come and save me. I would’ve come back somehow”

“Given your injuries, Dixon. Be a little more thankful that Y/N girl went and saved yea” Rick scoffs picking up the map from the bed and leaving to give the man some time to rest without people bothering. Hershel followed behind Rick watching him bother Y/N to get her input on their whereabouts regarding Sophia.

Night came and everyone was having dinner in the dining room while Daryl stuck in the room he was in. Carol came and went, gave him food and thanked him for not stopping his search for Sophia. He didn’t wait to leave until the house fell quiet indicating everyone was asleep. But right as Daryl was about to sit up, Y/N quietly pushed the door open resulting in the archer scrambling to cover his back.

She’s seen them but before his sake, she wasn’t going to say anything. Y/N tossed a bottle of Tylenol in Daryl’s lap making him relax and the sheets fall from covering him. “The old man is gonna want to check your bandages later. Change them and check for infection. Yknow, the good stuff”

“At this hour?”

“Man was a vet. Overnight shifts to check on the more critical asked for late night checks. Yeah you’re a person but it’s just how he does things”

“Can’t…You like check them for me? I hate being in here”

The pondering look on Y/N’s face took a minute before falling into a neutral expression with a hint of a smile followed by a shrug.

“Your tent is the furthest from the group yeah? By the bike?”

“Wild guess”

“But I’m right, right?” Y/N smiles warmly. “I’ll have to get some stuff then meet yea there. But go out the back, that door doesn’t squeak when opening it” she tells him back on her way out of the room.

It took him a bit to get out of the house given he was stitched up and sore from the incident still. But he didn’t think he took that long when finding Y/N leaning against the tree closest to his tent smoking.

“How long—-“

“I just got here. I am faster than you given the circumstances”

“I wasn’t the one that fell on their ass after carrying me up that slope” Daryl scoffs approaching his tent to unzip it but bending slightly caused a whole lot of pain that he stopped. Y/N tapped his shoulder indicating for him to move as he did with a groan followed.

The Greene tossed her cigarette to the ground and stomped it out before opening the tent letting him in first obviously then entering herself.

“You’re gonna have to take your shirt off again, or at least unbutton enough just for me to get to your bandages”

Daryl sat on his cot with a huff and a bit of an annoyed look infused with self-hatred. “You saw’em”

“I only saw what you’re willing to show” Y/N brought herself to her knees setting her first aid box next to him on the cot watching him from the corner of her eye take off his shirt dropping it on the floor next to her. “You’re not the only one riddled with a past, or…scars that explain it. Alright, may I?” She reached to touch the bandage waiting for his approval which was a nod from his end.

Her touch is so…light Daryl thought watching her work with taking the bandage off with wetting the adhesive so it wouldn’t tug at his skin. Gentle… he held the new bandage for her watching her double check her dad’s handy work. The slightest concern graced her features but immediately dissolved.

“My stitches would’ve been neater. But it’ll do the job” Y/N comments as she took the bandage from his hand and started applying it.

“You also some form of doctor in this family?”

“Fuck no” Y/N laughs lightly. “I’ve lived in the city for so long that I’ve encountered my fill of chaos probably within the first year. But ten years later is when I decided to sell my soul back to this fucking farm”

“You hate it here?” Daryl questions instantly, watching Y/N clean up her stuff before leaning back on her hands on the ground. “This shit is a luxury. Even before the apocalypse”

“Mm. I don’t know you well enough to go into grand detail about why this place is really just a burden. But you’ve seen how the old man is. Imagine being his kid on the receiving end to his bs”

“I guess that’s fair” Daryl slipped his shirt on when listening to her speak. “Some parents aren’t fit to be parents”

“As much as that is true, maybe even speaking from your own experience. Most situations involving multiple children, there’s always a favorite. But in this case, there’s the disappointment and the two perfect daughters”

“Why are you sharing this with me?”

Y/N shrugs reaching into her back pocket taking out her pack. “You’re relaxed aren’t you?”

She got that right. She got him to stop thinking about his injury, and a little bit about how his search was pretty much a failure.

Once Y/N put her lighter away after lighting her cigarette, she only took two puffs before Daryl carefully leaned over taking it from her mouth to give it to himself.

“I’m taking that as my leave” She laughs lightly as she brought herself to uncomfortably stand in the tent, hunching over just a bit.

But as Y/N reached to take her kit, Daryl took a hold of her wrist tugging her into his lap catching a bit of a confused look from her. Making his anxiety rise slightly that he read her kindness wrong and part of her didn’t expect much.

“Do what you plan on doing, Dixon” Y/N brought her arm around his shoulders as her other hand gently made sure his bandage was secure but also place itself on his cheek.

It took him a second longer to think about his action before pressing his lips against hers. The softness of her lips against his made his heart start racing and her hand moved from his cheek to his chest to confirm such.

When the morning came, Daryl woke with a groan sitting up in his coat to find beside him being empty but Y/N still remained in the tent getting her jeans back on. He admired the work he done on her neck but his eyes fixated on the burn scars he caught a glimpse of resting on her thighs. She could sense the staring and tensed only for a moment until her pants were back on.

“There’s not enough make up in the world to cover your attack on my neck and chest. But I don’t give a fuck who notices”

“Don’t know about your family, but these folk don’t know when not to include themselves in other’s business. They are def gonna ask where mine came from” Daryl chuckles lightly bringing himself to completely sit on the cot referring to his own hickeys that were more on the neck and shoulder. Including a bite mark that Y/N couldn’t help herself last night, it was either that or wake the whole tent city. “It’s still early”

“Yeah but just like your folks, my family is nosey. Especially my sisters.” She sighs while buttoning up her flannel even if she does prefer it open, just needs a minute to get inside and in her room before the interrogation starts.

“Y/N.”

Y/N turned to Daryl once she sat on the ground to get her shoes on as she could sense the hint of worry coming from the man and she could only assume was toward what he saw.

“We’re not so different” Y/N states finishing tying her shoes. “Mine were just. Self inflicted”

He couldn’t contain his concern even if in his own special way it was only noticed through his eyes and body language. Y/N could read him and part of Daryl worried about that.

“You stop?”

“Don’t be—-“

“I ain’t gonna be one of those nut jobs that tell yea “please stop for me”. Only you can really make that decision”

“Well, I did. When I moved back”

“And how long ago was that?”

“Three months before the world ended” and with that Y/N took her leave, leaving the first aid kit with Daryl giving her a reason to come back.

Even if a part of him wanted to go after her.

The two had their alone time a few times before news of “walkers in the barn” spread to the group. Daryl felt a sense of betrayal since Y/N cares so much about their safety in the past few days that she didn’t tell him anything about it. But when he went to the back door where he’d usually meet her, he heard shouting from inside coming from her.

“Walkers in the goddamn barn, old man?!”

“People are in that barn. Good people. I’m protecting the—-“

“They’re already gone! They stopped being themselves the second the infection spread from the bite”

“You don’t know that”

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Y/N scoffed pinching the bridge of her nose trying to contain her anger and failing. “I swear to god if I open it—-“

“—You wouldn’t—-“

“—-and find mom in there after you said she just “disappeared”. I’m going to prove you she’s not mom anymore”

Daryl couldn’t help but flinch when he heard the ring from the slap that came from Hershel’s hand meeting Y/N’s cheek. Normally one would cry but instead she kept her composure and decided to reframe from saying another word or she would’ve acted instead. He quickly stepped away when the door flung open seeing the anger in her eyes and body language. The single tear that rolled off her cheek made him act without realizing and gently brushed it away watching her relax but not enough to fall into his arms and stay there. She pulled herself away shooting him a temporary smile before walking into the woods behind the house to clear her head.

The eldest Greene only returned to the shouting happening and then sudden gun fire which led her to grabbing hers on the way over to the commotion happening by the barn. Y/N froze beside her father watching Maggie comfort him while the others started shooting down the walkers that flooded out. She heard quick footsteps coming as she stopped whoever, Beth, from going any further as she held onto her. She held her as she sobbed watching the dust settle and one walker left started stumbling out.

Sophia.

Daryl quickly latched himself onto Carol before she could even get close to her daughter. Her sobs grew louder the more she was restrained from seeing her little girl that was soon ended by the sheriff that left her all alone in the first place. Rick will forever take that as his fault and won’t ever forget it.

It took them all a second to adjust to what happened as Daryl helped Carol on her feet only for her to thrash out so his grasp from anger and loss. Y/N did her best to keep Beth away from the carnage but she slipped from her grasp causing her to follow her little sister to the pile of walkers.

“Beth, no that’s not—“

“That’s our mom!” She cried as she brought herself to her knees beside the corpse pushing the one on top of it off her. “Ma…”

Her screaming caused everyone to act. The men quickly grabbed at her pulling her away from the reanimated corpse as Y/N quickly came through and slammed her foot into the skull of the sicko. There was a pause in the chaos of Beth screaming, Carol sobbing, and a few of them bickering. Just a pause to let what happened sink in.

“Y/N…” Maggie exhaled watching her fixated gaze to her foot coated in the aged blood as she slowly lifts her foot and stepped away. “Y/N, wait!” She quickly followed her as Y/N made her way past their father.

“I never should’ve come back” Y/N frowns continuing on her way to who knows, and on her route she took the pack of cigarettes out from her back pocket tossing them to the ground which only those who knew would understand.

But she kept her lighter.

After taking care of a few things, Daryl was finally left to take care of himself. Even if he wasn’t going to. His anger feasted mainly on himself compared to being toward others, granted he doesn’t have any reason to be mad toward anybody except for maybe Rick or Hershel for that barn bullshit. Or Shane. Hell he was frustrating himself. He wasn’t going to do anything with her in that sense but needed to find her.

It didn’t take much searching because as much as she hated the place, Y/N stuck close for a lot of reasons. Daryl only found her when she tossed an acorn at his head from above where she sat on one of the branches.

“Obviously looking for me”

“Not for that though.”

“I didn’t do anything if you’re thinking—-“

“No. Well, not entirely” Daryl shrugs watching her climb down the tree to be level with him. “You stalled. Stayed in…the corpse”

“If your mother turned, and you had to end her the way I did…you wouldn’t move right away.”

“Thankfully my mom died in a fire she caused”

“Thankfully?” Y/N scoffs watching him shrug again which made an ill laugh escape her lips. “I wish she didn’t die that way.”

“I wish you didn’t have to be the one to end it. Entirely. I’m sorry”

“Daryl…” Y/N frowns looking him dead in the eye waiting for it. Waiting for him to say it even if his anger started to get the best of him in the moment. “It’s not your fault”

“Stop”

“It’s not”

“But it is!” Daryl snapped in her face realizing she flinched and given all the feelings in the air that day, she couldn’t keep her guard up in that moment. “She wasn’t even mine. Not my daughter. How could I blindly care so much?”

“I was like that in the beginning of whatever we are”

“What?”

“Caring so blindly. I didn’t know you and I came and saved you. Well until that annoying blond put a bullet in you…almost. Then I saved you. In my own way.” Y/N crosses her arms bringing herself close enough to lean against the tree she was just in. “Sometimes, you just care and don’t need a reason. Then the more you know a person all the reasons come to light”

“I care about yea, yknow. Even when I didn’t know a thing”

“You cared about her, without knowing a single thing. From what I heard, there is a person at fault but even then? Rick shouldn’t bully himself for a child running from danger. Kids don’t listen. That’s why they have parents to care for them. Or siblings. It’s harder when the kid has to care for themself. But that’s beside the point…” She turned her head in the direction of the house. “It’s all a shitshow. The end of the world. But we make do with it. Care about those we’ve just met or learned more about in such a little time”

“We need all the people in our lives for as long as we can” Daryl frowns bringing himself closer as Y/N moved her arms to her sides watching him get close enough that she could feel his breath on her. But he brought his forehead to rest against hers, feeling her hands find purchase on his neck. “You’re allowed to fall apart”

And she did. In the comforts of his presence then his arms…and his warm embrace. Things continued to escalate at the farm that eventually, it was set ablaze. All the commotion caused everyone to scramble, lose a few, and meet up on the highway. Daryl’s anxiety shot up when he couldn’t find the eldest Greene sister with her other sisters that were driven to “safety” by Glenn and Hershel.

Then the rustling of the woods were heard and few thought it was more of the walkers. But suddenly, Y/N stumbled out falling against the slope that led to the freeway and before any of her remaining family could rush to her…Daryl was already at her side helping her stand and she was met with a tearful gaze coming from the man that she didn’t care about keeping it a secret anymore…Y/N pressed her lips firmly against his for a short lived kiss before he brought her entirely in his arms holding her.

“Oh you so owe me” Maggie made the comment toward Beth as she glares at her sister. A bet was made. If that wasn’t clear.

“How long have—-“

“No time to act like a father right now. We need to find shelter for the night.” Rick cut off Hershel and gave Daryl a look to start the ride with his bike since he can maneuver and find a path easier. But instead of Carol being on his bike, Y/N took that spot rightfully and not like Carol was complaining.

It was a short ride but long enough for Daryl to realize Y/N’s trembling from the shock of watching her home burn and the struggle of getting out of there alive. She didn’t go unscathed but the cuts were small and not so deep. Daryl still took care of them.

After Rick’s whole speech, it was time to call it a night and stick close to everyone. Daryl took first watch which meant Y/N sticking with him.

“Your old man didn’t look too happy about us”

“He’ll have to get used to it.” Y/N whispered to him feeling his arm snake around her shoulders keeping her close. “Cant believe it’s gone”

“I’m sorry”

Y/N shrugged a little before bringing herself closer to him enjoying the warmth he emitted. “Least I got these on my way out” she pulled out her pack of cigarettes which made a laugh escape Daryl’s lips.

It took some time to get used to the idea that they were going to be moving a lot until something more permanent came along. But they also needed something permanent to come by the end of nine months because Lori was pregnant.

Everyone noticed how stressed Rick would get when Lori would shut him out for his decision making that lead them here so a few did their best to keep that level low.

“Daryl and I are gonna go hunt for dinner while my old man and Carol set up camp for the night” Y/N informs Rick on her way out. “Glenn, Maggie, and T-Dog should be back soon with whatever they scavenged from the few houses around”

“Thanks Y/N, be back before nightfall” Rick stated watching her nod before following Daryl out of the house they decided to make their shelter for the night.

As much as they did what they told Rick what they were going to do. They planned on other things.

“Fuck—-“ Y/N cursed adjusting herself against the counter even with Daryl pinning her against such. “Maybe we do this on the floor next time” her hands slipped resulting in Daryl picking her up still deep inside her velvety walls and forcing her against the wall.

“Better?” He huffed watching her arms move to find purchase around his neck.

“Yes, please continue” Y/N begged as Daryl instantly latched his lips against hers picking up the pace thrusting inside of her using the wall to his advantage so he could bring one of his hands to her clit helping her reach her release.

Her toes curled and heels dug into his back when she reached her high and felt Daryl remove his hand from her clit to have a better grasp on her while he quickened his pace and thrusted harder reaching his own release, spilling inside her warmth. They held onto each other catching their breaths.

“Holy shit…” Y/N gasps softly when Daryl adjusted his stance still inside of her. “So…”

“Round two?” He smirks followed by one appearing on her features pressing her lips against his. Before the two suddenly flinched to the sound of a spring lock. “Shit”

“Mm. Maybe later?”

“Imma hold yea to that, sunshine” Daryl kisses her once more before pulling out of her helping her gain her balance using himself as her steady.

After helping clean up, Daryl checked the trap they set pulling out a raccoon that unfortunately met its end. Y/N stepped out carrying a few finds that would help a few with keeping warm during the colder nights. Blankets, sweaters, etc.

“Think we should set up a few more traps before we head back”

“Sounds good” Y/N extended her hand for Daryl to hand off the raccoon so he could set them up. “I’m gonna put some of these things by your bike so I can sweep around”

“Be careful yeah? I’ll join yea when I’m done”

Y/N kept the catch attached to her backpack on her while the blankets and clothes were left on his bike. She went through a few houses near the one they both were in and stopped in one of the few two stories finding a few more canned goods and took note of how secure the building was. Maybe they could move there for a few weeks? She thought while stepping through the place some more, stopping at the fireplace finding the photos coated in dust. She extended a hand toward one deciding to dust it off and find an old married couple behind the glass. They looked happy. In love. Y/N didn’t quite understand the feeling she was feeling in her chest when staring at the picture of a random couple.

“Anything good?” Daryl’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts as she sets the picture back where it was.

“Nothing I haven’t already put in my bag. I’m ready when you are”

Heading back was quiet and that didn’t concern Daryl much given it was getting late. But Y/N started to act off that it even concerned her. She was more exhausted than usual, finding herself sleeping more in her spot of the house wherever they moved, she ate less, took more of the first night watch shift, and went out less with Daryl. Every time she did, Daryl mainly kept an eye on her and their conversation was smaller than usual. This has been going on for a month, and they’ve been house hoping for three so far. It was about to become winter.

Y/N was taking a longer night watch given Rick, Daryl, and Glenn decided to head out for a small hunting trip to bring back enough game to last them through winter. Even if Daryl said he was going to hunt through the cold months just not as frequently. She was once again lost in her thoughts while looking out into the darkness staring occasionally at the trigger line. Worrying about the group, missing Daryl, fearing what could happen—

“Sweetheart?” Hershel whispered for those sleeping inside but was loud enough to get Y/N’s attention. “How are you feeling?”

Ever since the fire, Hershel has been trying to rekindle the father daughter relationship with his oldest. Even if in her head, he’s always going to be her dad and it wouldn’t take much to repair it. He’s already apologized enough. But she expected it again tonight.

“I’m tired”

“I’ve noticed. Are you falling ill with somethin’? I can go out with Maggie to go look for—-“

“No, no. I’m not sick” Y/N frowns watching her dad take a seat with her. “I don’t feel good. Yeah…but the other thing is just. I love him but I’m afraid to tell him”

Hershel couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him which only brought a glare and a huff out of his daughter. “I told your mother that I loved her, first. She didn’t say it back and honestly? I didn’t expect her to. I just want her to know that I loved her. Then a few months later she tells me she loves me too. For some they say it immediately back, or they take a while. But that doesn’t mean what they do for you, has zero trace of love toward you.”

Y/N couldn’t help the little tears that spilled from her eyes when her dad said such. Hershel gently brought his arm around her shoulder bringing her in so she could rest her head on his shoulder continuing to cry if she needed.

A couple more days passed and the sick feeling turned into vomiting and migraines every other day. Y/N couldn’t shake a feeling and decided to act on it.

“Y/N…” Beth shook her older sister awake as Y/N slowly sits up looking to the other side of her seeing Daryl still fast asleep then she turned to the window finding it still dark out.

“What’s wrong?” She whispers tucking the loose hair in Beth’s face behind her ear.

“I started my period…and I don’t have anything…”

Y/N nodded knowing exactly what she was asking as she tugs her pack over to them rummaging through it. She then realizes she missed her period.

“Uhm. I don’t have anything, love. Maybe ask Mags in the morning? I’ll ask Carol if she’s stumbled across any”

“Okay…” Beth frowns watching her sister go into her bag knowing she at least had pain meds and gave it her to see a small smile form for a moment before she shuffled back.

Her anxiety started to eat at her and she knew the only way to know for sure is to get a test. But that will wait for the morning.

“Hey I’m gonna take a car into the nearby town. Sweep the place one last time before we move again before the weather goes from just cold to snow”

“Sounds like a great idea.” Rick stood up grabbing his coat. “I’ll tag along with you and Daryl”

“If Daryl wants to tag along. I was gonna ask Mags” Y/N states receiving a confused and concerned look from Daryl while her sister lights up with a smile. “Maybe you and Glenn can do one last hunt and check the traps before we move?”

“Alright. But he’s gotta keep up with me like yea do”

“He will” Y/N laughs softly smiling as Daryl snuck in a kiss on the cheek when no one was looking. “We’ll be back before nightfall”

“Yeah I’ll make sure to get some baby stuff if we come across it” Rick tells Lori only to be met with an avoidance in her gaze as her hand stayed on her already showing belly. Y/N couldn’t help the staring toward the two before squeezing her eyes shut and quickly stepping out once she got her backpack and a coat.

Maggie took care of driving and Rick took the passengers, leaving Y/N alone in the backseat scribbling in this journal Maggie found for her on a run with Glenn. She mainly wrote her concerns and the obvious one plaguing her mind was

Is she pregnant?

They were reckless, now he’s going to leave her.

Does he even like kids? He doesn’t talk much to Carl…

“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong” Rick frowns looking out the window as Maggie turned to him for a second with a confused look. “She’s mad about it all. What happened with Shane and being pregnant in the apocalypse. She thinks because she had a c-section she’s more likely to have another and we don’t have the tools for it. So it stresses me out…thinking I’m gonna lose my wife. But I can’t voice those concerns because she’s mad at me. Pregnant and mad”

“Pregnancy makes women feel all their emotions times 100, Rick. It’s going to be rough for a while” Maggie pats his shoulder glancing back to find Y/N looking a bit more pale than before. “Sis, you alright?”

Without another word, the second she felt the car stop…Y/N quickly ran out ditching her things and going to vomit into the near by bushes. Maggie frowns unbuckling her seatbelt and about to check on her when she noticed her journal in the backseat. Her hesitation made Rick get out to check on her older sister while she picked up the book to read it.

Maggie wasn’t going to tell Y/N she read it. But then read those entries and felt the same anxiety her sister felt for a moment.

Maggie gave Y/N some time to recollect herself after bolting out of the car. But she didn’t mean to corner her in the pharmacy section of the mini grocery store.

“Mags what’s up with that look on your face?”

“I uhm. I’m sorry”

The apology caught Y/N off guard until Maggie just let it out.

“You’re pregnant?” Maggie frowns and the negative look on her face only made Y/N feel so much worse on the matter. But instead of tears, it was anger.

“AND?! So what if I might be pregnant? Like that isn’t going to be a fucking issue when we already have a pregnant woman in the group and look how she and her man are doing. I haven’t even said I love you yet to Daryl and I don’t even know if he wants kids” then the tears suddenly broke out as she stared at the pregnancy test box she had in her hand. “I can’t get rid of it. I don’t want to lose him. The universe took too much from me already, I can’t lose anymore” she sobbed, Maggie didn’t wait another second bringing her sister into her embrace holding her protectively.

“Y’all are gonna try and see if that car works? Just the two of you?”

“It’s not the first time I hot-wired a car by myself” Y/N stated with Maggie nodding to confirm such.

It’s not that Rick didn’t trust the two, it was going to be night soon and that was his concern. But he also needed to get all their findings back.

“Fine. But you have to camp out if it gets too late”

“We’ve got this. If the lights work, we’ll drive back” Maggie smiles as Rick sighs letting them rock and leaving.

The two gave each other a look and Maggie went into her bag taking out the few pregnancy tests handing them to Y/N. She went back inside one of the buildings to do her business while Maggie got started with hot-wiring the car.

“Y/N I don’t feel good…”

“Yeah I know, bug. I’m sorry I’m working as fast as I can” The sixteen year old Y/N tugged on the wires from under the dash to get the car started while her baby sister Maggie continued to groan in the backseat. Being left to babysit while the folks went into town was killer. Especially when no one expected Maggie to have a skyrocketing fever.

“Sis…” She cried the entire drive as Y/N did her best to be a smooth driver into town and to the nearest ER.

“I’ve gotchu, bug. Everything’s gonna be alright”

“Everything’s gonna be alright” Maggie frowns rubbing Y/N’s back as she did her best to contain her tears while they drove back.

“It won’t…it just won’t” Y/N wiped away her tears taking the remaining time back to collect herself. She took out the cartoon of cigarettes from her bag staring at the thing knowing her sister’s gaze to burning a hole into the side of her head. “I’m not going to do them, bug” she frowns rolling the window down and tossing the box out hearing the sigh of relief.

“Good…I need to keep you safe. So it keeps my niece or nephew safe”

The smallest joy brought a temporary smile to grace Y/N’s features even if the uncomfortable anxious feeling clawed at her back over how Daryl will react.

When they arrived back, both Glenn and Daryl were waiting outside the house that was lit from the fire T-Dog got started in the fireplace to keep everybody warm. Glenn instantly went to Maggie’s side checking her in his anxious way that was immediately reassured. But Y/N remained in the car with her head down, driving Daryl nuts internally until he noticed Maggie give him a look to join her and that only made his anxiety worse.

“What’s wrong with—-“

“Just let them be. Cmon, gotta give Beth something” Maggie smiles tugging Glenn along back inside until it was just Daryl and Y/N.

The archer shut the door once he entered and before he even said a word, the eldest Greene daughter exhaled.

“I’m pregnant”

Daryl expected more from her but was met with her silence and honestly, that made him worry for her instead of thinking of his feelings about the news. This explains why she hasn’t been feeling well—-but she could’ve let him in. Makes sense why she wanted to go on a run with her sister—-but he could’ve been there for her. Y/N found out alone for a moment—-yet Daryl could’ve help her the second she did.

“You thought I would leave yea”

Y/N instantly shot her head up turning to him as if he read her mind. Daryl gave her a bit of a disappointed look that was met with brimming tears.

“I’m not gonna leave yea. Never.” Daryl stated as fact which led the tears to spill. “I just wish I help you through it. Yeah you had your sister. But you mean so much to me and this is our future. I wasn’t gonna go anywhere before, I definitely ain’t now” he finished his thought as he stepped out of the car rounding to Y/N’s side and gently pulling her into his arms letting her sob into him as he protectively held onto her.

The winter started to present itself and the news stayed within the three (four if you count Maggie blabbing to Glenn, which was only a matter of time before they all knew). Which led to once they found their home to hold off the winter, Daryl brought himself inside after checking the one trap he placed sitting down beside Y/N.

“There’s something we’ve got to say to you all” Y/N started and felt anxious with everybody staring. Guess the fire took away more than just their safety, but her confidence.

“She’s pregnant” Daryl finished resting a hand on her thigh gently rubbing his thumb in a soothing motion for her to relax.

Before any positive thing said can be thrown up in the air. The shocked expressions turned instantly to confusion and toward Lori when she scoffed toward the news.

“Seriously?” Lori beckoned Y/N to confirm it herself as she did with a nod even if her expression fell when the woman started laughing. “Great that’s just great”

“Lori—-“

“No, shut it Rick. It was already trouble taking care of my pregnant self. What makes y’all think we can take care of two? You two should’ve been more careful and found abortion pills”

“Woah! You don’t get to get to be a bitch just because you’re pregnant” Carol hissed drawing a shocked expression out of the Grimes who quickly turned to her husband for a defense. “No you started this on your own and you will finish it”

“None of us asked for you to be pregnant.” T-Dog adds abruptly. “That shit just happens sometimes. No timing is ever perfect”

“But still—-“

“No you don’t get to talk to my——“

“girl like that” Daryl snapped cutting Hershel off. “Don’t take a good thing and fucking stomp on it just because you’re miserable. You have to remember a few of us have some bullets against yea and I ain’t afraid to fire every single one of them if you come at her again” he frowns bringing his arm entirely around Y/N keeping her close, ignoring the tense look on Lori’s face as Rick’s disappointment turned to a bit of sadness when hearing such. But it was quickly shifted to a smile when his son turned to him then toward the two.

“Congratulations?” Carl laughs the tension away resulting in Beth quickly moving over to hug her sister as Hershel made his way patting Daryl on the back before kissing the top of Y/N’s head.

They were going to be okay. Their village will make sure of it.

The winter months were brutal and miserable for everybody. They had to move once through the cold because the roof collapsed in a section of the old house that made it dangerous for everybody. The group ditched their cars and stayed in the neighborhood just for the winter because of the snow. They’ll go back to the cars later, T-Dog and Beth took care of carrying their extra items that weren’t apart of everybody’s individual packs. Carol and Hershel took care of getting the fire going and getting food for the day ready, Hershel also took care of checking both Lori and Y/N every now and then to make sure they are alright. Rick, Glenn, Maggie, and Daryl were the ones in the watch rotation and as much as he protested, Y/N would tag along with Daryl.

“No”

“I’m not that pregnant yet, Daryl. I can go out with you.”

“It’s snowing”

“So?”

“I go huntin’ by myself all the time and I’d rather yea stay warm than suffer with me”

“And you think it’s going to sit well with me having you suffer the colder conditions?” Y/N glared at the man getting frustrated with the back and forth, Daryl was going to argue again when he noticed both of her sisters shaking their heads not to try. Pregnant or not, she will continue to argue until she’s blue in the face.

“Fine. But layer up” Daryl states letting her get ready as he goes into his pack taking out his poncho to put it on over his layers.

The two went through the center of the neighborhood, Daryl hating the snow and Y/N enjoying it. He only hated it because it made tracking animals difficult and before he could tell her about heading back…

“I love you” Y/N tells him watching him freeze in his place as she anxiously adjusts the rifle on her back gripping the strap. “I don’t expect you to say it back now or in a few months or years. I just needed you to know that I love you and you mean so much to me”

Daryl brought himself close pressing his lips firmly against hers bringing his arms around her. They enjoyed themselves for the moment until Y/N heard shuffling and expected a walker but when she looked behind him. There were deer. But when Daryl got a look, he stopped her from readying her rifle which brought out a confused look from her until she noticed a buck making its appearance along with two babies.

Now they were watching the family just be, making Daryl look over to Y/N watching her smile at the display as he brought his hand to rest on her small bump. She glance to his hand for a second before smiling more and resting her hand over his before continuing to look at the deer family. Thankfully on their way back they got a bunny and a few squirrels that made themselves known in the winter.

It wasn’t long before the warmer months came back and Y/N couldn’t ride on Daryl’s bike anymore. She stuck with Glenn and Maggie and with the moving from house to house increasing. T-Dog and Rick took lead with sweeping the houses they come across before the group resided but Daryl followed behind after checking on Y/N. But when herds came through, they didn’t wait and went straight back into the car and only the road.

“Let’s go hunt” Daryl tells Rick watching him nod as Hershel held him back to talk about Lori’s condition given she’s in her ninth month compared to Y/N in her seventh.

Daryl picked up his canteen from his bike going to Y/N and making sure she kept hydrated when the weather got dangerously hot.

“Gonna go hunt with Rick. We’ll be back soon”

“Stay safe, yeah?”

“You too” Daryl quickly kissed her cheek before going with Rick.

The two stumbled across the prison, which then led to the group taking out walkers in the field to give them shelter for the night before heading inside. The group huddled by the fire talking about Rick, what the prison could do for them, and a few miscellaneous things. Maggie happily let her older sister use her lap as a pillow as she laid on her side using her blanket to cushion her belly from the ground.

“Lot of movement today?”

“Yeah…fucking think this baby loves kicking my ribs” Y/N huffed out a laugh as Maggie brushes back her hair smiling at her watching Daryl return to the group with Carol. He knelt behind her resting his poncho over her before getting comfortable. “Done with watch?”

“We’ve got a gate. Besides, if shit happens it’ll alert all of us and Rick hasn’t left the gate”

“You check on him?” Y/N whispers to Daryl when she moved onto her back for a moment to look at him.

“Do I have to?”

“No, but he shouldn’t have to burden what’s going on with him alone. Even if you don’t quite understand it”

Her words rung in his head especially when they dealt with the prisoners, then the Walker outbreak, losing Lori, almost losing Hershel and Carol…it was a lot. Things seem to only escalate and it didn’t help that all the commotion rendered Y/N speechless and she hasn’t spoken a word the moment Lori died.

She could die too

He will raise this baby alone

What will happen to her family?

She can’t die

She won’t die

Y/N stayed by the gate when they left and she knew her dad and Carol were watching her every move that when the cars pulled in she stepped away after opening one of the doors herself even when Carol came with her protests.

The car pulled in and Y/N waited for Daryl to come out but when everybody except him, she gave Rick a confused look while he hung his head.

“Daryl’s not coming back” Glenn ripped the bandaid off watching his partner shoot him a glare for not taking easy. But in Y/N’s head he did the right thing by just going for it.

“We ran into his brother and he’s not a great guy” Rick started. “But blood is blood from what Daryl told us…we just. Can’t let someone like Merle in the prison with us. He’s not a good guy and I’m sorry but Daryl’s not—-“ when he reached to lay a hand on her shoulder, she immediately smacked it away.

“You touch me and I cut your goddamn fucking hand off” Y/N glares at the retired sheriff watching him nod and step away. She glances down to her belly shutting her eyes tight turning away from everybody and started walking back to the prison.

This baby is half her and half him.

If the roles were reversed, she would’ve left with her sisters.

But that doesn’t make it okay for him to go.

“Has she spoken to anyone? Was snapping at Rick the only thing she said?” Carol asks Maggie as she nods while the concern grew on her face.

“Our daddy went to check on her and the baby. Heartbeats good. But going from a lot of movement to it being still…He thinks we should only worry if it stops for the remainder of her pregnancy.”

“Someone should get her to move. Walk around the prison or somethin’. Sitting there will make it worse for her” Hershel shared his concern as the three looked at Y/N sitting on the mattress Daryl pulled out for him originally on the catwalk.

“Nah. Get in an actual bed” Daryl protested Y/N sitting on the mattress but she did anyway.

“Last I checked a mattress is an actual bed”

“Don’t be smart with me, woman” Daryl sat up leaning into her space watching her stern look fall when he started showering her in kisses. “Least lay down with me”

“I wasn’t gonna stay sat up this entire time” Y/N playfully shoves him.

Y/N brought her attention to the young grimes bringing himself up with stairs with two bowls of food. Carl sat down beside her handing her the second one but she refused.

“Please?” Carl frowns watching her gaze turn to him with a look of ‘why?’ as in why would he be doing this for her. “We’ve…uh. We’ve lost enough people”

A sigh escapes her lips as she gently caresses the young one’s cheek giving him a small thoughtful smile before taking the bowl from him and eating.

“Y/N whisperer” Maggie whispers to Beth as the two were the ones to have Carl send up the bowl because Y/N wouldn’t snap at somebody who recently lost their mom.

They both froze when her gaze turned onto them when she finished the bowl of stew. Y/N handed the bowl to Carl as he stacked the empty bowls getting up but noticed her get up with him. She struggled at first and gestured toward one of her sisters to help as Beth quickly made her way up the steps helping her.

“Take a walk with me?” Y/N asks her youngest sister as she smiles nodding. Once the two met the end of the steps. “You too?” She asks Maggie watching her smile warmly.

Soon the three sisters were on the other side of the prison walking in silence and staring at the occasional walker but kept their focus on what’s in front of them.

“If something happens to me. The two of you will take care of them yeah?”

“Nothing is going to happen to you, sis. Nothing” Maggie’s smile instantly faded when her sister said such.

“I know, bug. But please”

“This is your first. Nothing like what happened to Lori will happen to you…” Beth frowns trying not to cry at the thought of losing her older sister. “Can’t lose you…I won’t have it”

“Beth, sweetheart, I know everybody is going to do everything they can to not let the worst case scenario happen…I just. Need the reassurance”

“They will be loved and cared for…if worst comes to worst.” Maggie brought her arm around her sister as Beth did the same, both on either side of Y/N. “We all will be okay”

The moment they got close to the main entrance, the gates were being opened to let in Daryl with his brother Merle shortly behind him. Y/N watched Maggie retract at the sight of the older brother as she brought herself over watching Daryl light up slightly but avoid her gaze.

“So you’re Merle”

“And you’re the woman my brother knocked up. Boy would not shut up about you being the reason he needs to come back. Who woulda thought someone softened my baby brother” Merle smirks and before another word came out of Y/N, everyone around watched her sock the man hard enough in the face that the force knocked him on his ass.

“Your brother is amazing to me even if I want that punch to also be at him for leaving” Y/N frowns looking down at Merle as she held her belly a moment followed by a sigh. “But that was a hundred percent meant for you”

“You just fucking met me”

“You kidnapped my sister and her partner. Beat him to a pulp and let that disgusting man touch my bug.” Y/N stared blankly at the man as it held so much anger that made him nervous. “Just be glad Daryl is your brother. Or I would’ve put a bullet in yea” she stepped away with Beth and Maggie following her while Daryl helped his brother to his feet.

“I like her” Merle smirks and was immediately manhandled by Rick to be put in their makeshift cell since they’re living in the actual ones. The same cell Michonne was in until she got on their good side.

Daryl hesitantly went to the catwalk finding Y/N there as he brought himself to sit with her. The silence was killing him but the way she soften when he returned to her. She couldn’t help but take his hand into hers while the other continued to rub circles on her belly.

“Are you—-“

“Oh I’m mad. But I have to keep calm or the baby won’t move” Y/N frowns feeling him let go of her hand to bring his on her belly thinking it will work…and it did. It was the smallest kick but it got tears to form in Y/N’s eyes making Daryl wipe them away and try to contain his own for his actions. “Are you okay? You ain’t going to leave again right?”

“Right. I ain’t leaving…I promise. I really promise this time” Daryl brought his arms around her holding her as she adjusted to lay comfortably in his embrace.

The plan about the governor escalated and succeeded. He was no longer a threat, but they lost so much in the process. Y/N found herself in the field where they buried their own, holding a flashlight for Daryl as he was burying another body. But it was his brother. The others wouldn’t approve but Y/N knew how much Merle sacrificed and thought he should be honored in a way. Daryl appreciated it. Even if he couldn’t control the tears that fell when he finished burying him. Y/N the best she could, wrapped her arms around him resting her cheek against his back.

“He did good”

“He did good…”

About a month went by and the Woodbury infusion went smoothly, and those started helping making the prison more of a function home. The one finished thing was the water plan that T-Dog brought up, thankful for him.

“You’re hovering”

“Okay?” Daryl scoffs leaning against the cell door to their room. “It either me or your old man”

“As if he’s not already there” Y/N turned to him with an annoyed look listening to Daryl sigh before Hershel made himself known. “I’m not going to fucking pop”

“That’s a creative way of putting it. You’re close to your due date. We want you to be safe”

“Yeah whatever.” Y/N pushed herself up and off the bed as they both were quick to her sides. “Okay I will kick that fake leg and make you fall and kick him in the balls if you both don’t stop hovering”

“Okay I will listen but I ain’t stopping him” Hershel pats Daryl’s shoulder. “Call me or Dr. S for any change”

Daryl nods watching him go as he gave a blank look to his girl crossing his arms. Y/N instantly glared at him but he kept his stance.

“I want to take a walk”

“I’ll go with yea.”

“Fine. But I’ll punch you over if you pick me up when I’m too tired” Y/N waddled past as he crossed his heart before following behind her.

There was a lot of commotion outside. Rick started working on the farm with Maggie, Glenn and a few Woodbury folk were clearing walkers, Tyreese was helping Carol build the outdoor grill along with Sasha helping with getting tables in, Beth was taking care of Judith as Carl rambled on about some comics that Michonne found for him, and Michonne was out on her weekly runs. Daryl helped around but mainly took the morning and night shifts when Y/N was asleep so that he would be there for her the rest of the time.

“Alex?”

“Nah, we ain’t having a boy anyway”

“I get it. But if it happens we still need a name”

“Robin goes both ways”

“God you’re so fucking lucky I like that name. And Fallon. But not for a boy name”

“Mmm…” Daryl glanced around thinking about a name for her sake. “Mark”

“Do you like Mark?”

“No”

“Then why did you—-“ Y/N scoffed. “Hunter’s mark?”

“You wanted boy names” Daryl shrugs. “Mark is a name. Hunter is also a name”

“Next thing you’re gonna say is Striker and that’s because of a brand of crossbows” Y/N continued to walk leaving Daryl a bit surprised that she knew that before catching up with her.

They were walking for two hours and Daryl was confused for half of the walk wondering why she even decided to walk for that long. Until she went back inside grabbing onto his shirt giving him a pain filled look.

“I thought it was nothing”

“What was nothing?”

“The fucking pain, Dixon. It’s too much”

It clicked a little late for Daryl but he instantly picked up Y/N only for her to start punching his chest in protest. “HERSHEL!” He shouted for the man while bringing his girl to the infirmary of the prison.

“Stop” Y/N whines hunched over in the bed as the contractions were awful for her. She smacked away Hershel’s hand when he tried to get a blood pressure cuff they found on her. “It’s too much. I’m not ready” she sobbed.

“I know sweetheart but the baby is. I’m gonna—-“

“Hell fucking no. I’m not having my dad check down there” Y/N covered her lower half with the blanket as Daryl felt her squeeze the crap out of his hand. He can take it.

“Beth. Get Caleb right now” Hershel shouted watching her exit the room as a small group formed at the entrance. “Unless you’re helping. Keep that area open”

When the other doctor arrived, Y/N was already reaching an uncomfortable amount of pain as she leans into Daryl feeling him rub circles on her back not like it did much. The words the doctor was saying weren’t registering but when he gestured for the blanket to look making her nod quickly.

“Yeah baby ain’t waiting. She’s crowning. We have anything for gloves?” Caleb asks as Hershel shakes his head before handing him a towel to catch the baby in. “Well alright.” He set the towel down for a moment and dunk his hands into the bucket Glenn got once he was asked earlier so it would be a bit more sterile. “You have to push on the next contraction”

“No…” She whined gripping Daryl’s hand tightly again. “It hurts I don’t want to”

“You have to sunshine. You have to push”

“But I’m tired” She whined followed by sobs as Daryl brushes the hair out of her face pressing his forehead against hers.

“Cmon sunshine. We gotta meet our little one” He whispers to her looking her in the eye as her voice started to tremble. “I love you. I love you so much Y/N. You’re being so strong right now and gotta continue to be alright? You gotta push now”

Y/N started to sob even more from the pain, the anxiety, the deceleration. She nodded listening to her partner as she waited for the next contraction to push resulting in her screaming which had a bit of an echo through the parts of the prison close to the infirmary.

“Good almost there” Caleb reassures. “One more big push”

“One more sunshine. One more and our little one is here”

One more push…led to the room filled with sobs. Tears from Y/N continued, tears broke out from Daryl, and the loud sobs that erupted from their baby girl being handed to the mother. Soft congratulations left the doctor’s mouth but nothing registered as the two’s attentions were glued to this little girl. A healthy little girl.

“You did good, mama” Daryl choked up wiping his tears looking at their little girl in her arms finally calming down. “She’s perfect, yeah?”

“So perfect” Y/N sobbed through a smile turning to him as he instantly kissed her. “I love you…”

“I love you” Daryl smiles keeping his family close.

When night fell, they moved back into their cellblock once everything was cleaned up and Y/N was well enough to walk. She was fast asleep in their bed as Daryl was wide awake sat up in the bed beside her holding their little girl that looked up at him with the same blue eyes he had.

“You are…so perfect, Robin”

[yuriosakawa]

Party On 

(Part 2) 

As the crowd thinned out and the night wind picked up outside the reunion hall, Danny found himself standing near the exit, the buzz of conversation and dance music finally fading behind him. He was quiet now, the adrenaline of the ghost attack long gone, replaced with a bittersweet calm.

“A Tale of Two Cities,” a voice said gently behind him.

Danny turned and blinked. “Mr. Lancer?”

The former English teacher stood there, noticeably older but still dignified—gray hairs on his goatee, a soft cardigan thrown over his shoulders. Retirement suited him. But his eyes, kind and observant as always, held something deeper tonight.

“I never imagined I’d see you in action like that,” Lancer continued, stepping closer. “The Lost Hunter. I’ve read the stories. Never believed them until now.”

Danny scratched the back of his neck, offering a tired half-smile. “Yeah… sorry for the mess. Not exactly how I imagined showing up again.”

Lancer chuckled quietly, then let the moment sit for a while.

“I heard,” he said at last, “that you never went to college. I never knew why. Some said you dropped off the grid. Some assumed the worst. But this…” He looked at Danny, not with judgment, but with an unmistakable ache. “This wasn’t what I pictured.”

Danny looked down at his boots, scuffed and worn from years of travel, and said nothing.

“I had always hoped,” Lancer said softly, “that despite the... chaos back then, you'd find a quiet place in the world. A good school. A degree. Something for yourself. You had so much potential, Danny. You were rough around the edges, yes, but... I believed in you.”

Danny’s mouth quirked with a shadow of a smile. “You always gave me the benefit of the doubt. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

“You did deserve it,” Lancer said, his voice firmer now. “I just didn’t understand back then. None of us did. The missed classes, the failed exams, the constant lateness—I thought you were just another distracted teen.”

Danny looked up, eyes gleaming with emotion that had been buried under ten years of grit and war. “I was saving the world,” he said quietly. “Every day. And I couldn’t tell anyone.”

Lancer’s shoulders sagged just slightly, the weight of a teacher who had misjudged something vital. “I should’ve known something more was going on. You were never lazy. Just... tired. Always tired.”

They stood in silence for a moment.

Danny reached into his coat and pulled out a small item—a folded, weathered photo of Team Phantom, back when things were simpler. 

Sam, Tucker, Jazz... and him. Young, grinning, still whole.

“I don’t regret becoming the Lost Hunter,” Danny said. “But sometimes I wonder who I’d be if I didn’t have to.”

Lancer’s expression softened even more. “Maybe you’d be the same person. Just with fewer scars.” He paused, then added, “You may not have gotten a degree, Danny... but you found something. Maybe not peace, maybe not comfort—but purpose.”

Danny smiled, this time genuinely. “Thanks, Mr. Lancer.”

Lancer nodded. “And if it means anything... I’m proud of you.”

Danny blinked, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat.

“Means more than you know.”

With a gentle pat on Danny’s shoulder, Lancer stepped away into the cool night, leaving Danny alone beneath the streetlamp. The night air wrapped around him like an old friend, and for the first time in a long while, he let himself stand still—no fight, no hunt, no ghosts.

Just the quiet echo of an old teacher’s belief.

And for Danny Fenton, that was enough.

——————————————————

The streetlights above flickered slightly, their dim glow casting long shadows as Danny walked alone down the cracked pavement. His coat billowed gently with the breeze, and his boots thudded in slow, steady rhythm. To any bystander, he looked calm—just another late-night wanderer returning home after the reunion.

But his eyes were sharp. Focused.

He knew.

The attack tonight wasn’t random. Those ghosts didn’t just barge in on a whim. They weren’t scavengers, or opportunists, or even rebels seeking glory.

They were sent. A message, wrapped in chaos.

Sent by him.

Danny let out a slow exhale, his breath forming a pale mist in the cool night air. He didn’t stop walking. He didn’t need to. Because he knew Vlad was listening.

“Cute trick,” Danny said aloud, casually, his voice slicing through the silence like a blade. “Sending all those ghosts to the reunion. You always did love the dramatics.”

There was no reply, but he didn’t expect one. That wasn’t the point.

“You must’ve thought it’d rattle me. Stir up some memories. Shake the cage a little.” He gave a low chuckle, humorless. “But you forgot something.”

His hand brushed over the side of his coat, briefly feeling the cool metal of one of his twin pistols—familiar, comforting.

“I’ve spent years chasing shadows. Hunting scraps. Wasting time beating down your goons—your bottom-of-the-barrel, scared little rejects. Ghosts with nothing left to lose. Human cowards with too much ego and not enough spine.”

He stopped under a streetlamp and tilted his head up slightly, the light casting a ghostly glow over his face.

“But I’m done with that.”

The air around him shimmered faintly. Like it was listening.

“I’m not here to play games anymore, Vlad,” Danny said, voice cold and calm. “I’m done swatting flies while the real parasite hides in the dark.”

He turned slowly, eyes scanning the rooftops, the empty windows, the quiet sky above.

“I know you’re watching,” he said, just a whisper louder now. “So listen closely.”

A faint breeze tugged at his coat again. He raised his head just slightly, and for a heartbeat—just one—his eyes glowed faint green.

“I’m coming for you.”

Danny didn’t stop walking.

But the air around him shifted—thicker, heavier, charged with emotion too long buried.

He paused at the corner of the street, the shadows of the buildings looming behind him like old memories. He didn’t look back, but his voice echoed louder this time, deliberate and unforgiving.

“And don’t think for one second,” he said, the steel in his tone cutting through the quiet, “that giving Phantom back would be enough to save you.”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, the green in his eyes flared just a bit brighter.

“You ripped him out of me. You ripped us apart.”

There was no fury in his voice—just something worse. Cold. Steady. Controlled.

“I never stopped looking,” Danny continued, his voice lower now, but more dangerous than ever. “Ten years, Vlad. Ten years of searching. Of fighting. Of becoming what I had to become. You thought separating us would break me.”

A bitter smirk tugged at his lips.

“You couldn’t have been more wrong.”

He raised a hand and briefly opened his coat, revealing the subtle glow of his modified pistols and the faint shimmer of the ecto core embedded in his armor.

“I will find him. I will bring him back. Not for you. Not for peace. Not for closure.”

He turned his head slightly, just enough for the surveillance drones Vlad had undoubtedly sent to catch the sharp glint in his eye.

“But because that’s where he belongs—with me.”

The night pulsed with silence. A single leaf blew past him, whispering across the ground.

“And when that day comes,” Danny said, finally turning to face the darkness directly, voice full of promise, “you’re going to answer for everything.”

Then he vanished into the shadows, leaving only the weight of his vow lingering in the cold, empty street.

[a-cow-stole-my-username]

Gone with the sin

Chapter 2 Beautiful

Judy Singh - Up and Down

Fox x reader

Tw none, just the reference to previous events

Even without Rhino and Kangaroo His presence in the almost empty room is overwhelming, ever since the conversation from when you first woke up his appearances were scarce not spending too much time in meaningful conversations, only to check your general state and it made you reconsider your silence back then.

Before the third show, your words saved you, as simple as they were, maybe you made a mistake last time.

When he notices your hesitation he breaks the silence "Did you sleep well? You're mostly healthy now it was about time I brought you here"

"Yes" you want to say something else but you're unsure of what he wants. "Thank you for... Everything" he smiles.

"This will be your room, if you behave we can negotiate how you will decorate it" Fox paces around the room for a bit and stops at the only other piece of furniture, it's tall and the top part is for hanging clothes with six drawers on the bottom, on the right side a little bookshelf with a few things. Looking more closely you notice there's a point behind the wardrobe that indicates there might've been a window or a door before "I'm looking forward to learning more about you" he says while looking at you. "Don't disappoint me"

"I won't sir" this makes him look pleased too, he decides to sit on the bed but not really close to you.

"You know... Not everyone was happy that I let you live" he says while looking down to the white sheets on the bed "but you have belonged to me since the auction"

"You made me remember in the end I am the one who decides what will happen to you" even when you're sick of been asleep you lie down facing him to listen to him more comfortably. It prompts him to touch your cheek "you should feel proud, nobody has gotten this far".

"At first, I believed you hated me" you say, to fill the silence.

"Hate you?" Fox laughed, not the announcer "no, I don't think I would've enjoyed our time together if I did".

"As a matter of fact, while you were... Sleeping I took the liberty of choosing new clothes for you. It has been a pleasure of mine to choose each one of them ♡" with his particular taste it doesn't sound like a good thing "Go on, get changed" and he probably expects to see you do it because he makes no move of leaving the room.

So you do, it's not as difficult as the first time, you take your time to stand up and get to it. Giving him your back and while thinking of you scars you take off your clothes before opening the first drawer, it has shirts, a few pretty blouses and some tops. They are neatly folded so you carefully put them back after checking them superficially on your front. You choose something you think is more to his taste without sacrificing your dignity. The second drawer has some skirts with lace, pretty shorts (that are too short) and a few pants, yet again you choose. You don't look back to see his reaction, he's probably looking at you, you think of how Fox really likes cute things on you. The third drawer has underwear with both tops and bottoms close to what you can expect from him now. They do seem impractical to wear underneath in normal situations and they are all closer to lingerie so, not being sure you keep it open and look for the next, this one seems to have what you are looking for since these are more normal looking so you close the previous one.

The other two just have things for the bed and for sleeping.

After taking your time, you turn around to let him see what you picked and start to put it on. You think you should be good but you can't bear to see his eyes.

When you are done, his demeanor hasn't changed much, it makes you uneasy.

"Perfect, we can have breakfast now" he proceeds to stand up and show you the way to the kitchen. He doesn't make a point in reminding you of the shackles in your wrists, if he's feeling like you won't scape maybe it's because you can't.

The way to the kitchen is very short and it doesn't look like it's meant for everyday use, most things look new, expensive and matching, except for the materials of the cutlery which are plastic, some plates and cups are also plastic, others match with the rest of the decor. The smell of coffee is the closest you have to familiarity.

"Sit down" in the table there are two chairs in which he positions himself behind one of them, his tone is firm so you comply. After sitting down you notice something weird, some chains.

"Do you like them? It's mostly a precaution, but we're beyond that point right?" Still he fixed them on the rings around your ankles and a smaller one to connect both of your hands. The closeness while touching you yet again brought memories.

"Why not before then?" Why, why, why... You want to ask him so much it's difficult to keep focused. He seems in a good mood and he's taking his time to be here so maybe he won't mind "I mean... Why would I try to avoid breakfast and not try to escape my room?"

Considering your question he pauses while you hear the last sounds of him closing the lock in your wrist. "Just to avoid any funny idea you might have" his eyes are calm with some seriousness slightly unnatural on what you've previously seen on his features, so you decide to focus your gaze on something else.

"No reason to be afraid, I just wanted to relax with my star after work, hopefully you don't want to finish what you started" while it didn't do much to distract you from your condition the idea he wanted to prevent you killed yourself was nice "I did say I wanted to know you more didn't I?" He said while placing a few things on the table: some fruit, waffles, lemonade, a carton of juice, soup, salad, some meat, all with the plastic crockery except for the ones for him, the plates looking expensive. It wasn't too much of every item but the variety made your stomach growl after the food you were previously given.

Fox saw your face inspecting what were the things you focused on and sat down in front of you. Not sure if you were allowed to eat your plate remained empty.

"May I?" You asked, after smelling the food it became obvious it had been a while since your last meal. Fox rested his head on his left hand not having any hurry to serve himself first "Sure, it's for you, I finally have someone to appreciate my cooking, however before I give you anything you should always remember to ask first. You're a good pet, keep it this way and you'll have no trouble under my care" under this light, his claws look shiny, how his lips turn upward distract you a little from serving your meal, to which he smiles more intentionally for you.

"Need any help?" To which you were inclined to say no, but the chains made it a hard task, embarrassed even after all this time, you nod almost shyly, by the lack of answer you repeat your intention with what he was probably expecting "yes, can you please help me?".

Fox gladly helped without saying anything, giving time to contrast what you've known, remembering how your view is incomplete you quickly live again how he took pieces out of your eye, he was trying to be nice back then too, your shoulder and your finger where also affected by his generosity all because you asked him for it.

It took all your self-restraint not to stuff your mouth full of food all at once in front of him, he calmly served himself waffles and some meat and went to look for various things he could add to the waffles, all sugary and sweet. Another contradiction that was barely believable.

"You know, before choosing items for the auction we make a lot of research to make sure they're up to the needs of our clients" he said while cutting the sugar-coated waffles "I know everything important there's to learn about you, as a matter of fact, it's my responsibility to approve who to choose before extraction" now he took a pause to take a sip of coffee "however, you can't understand someone until you've met them and most importantly everyone changes when their life is on the line" he said taking a pause from his meal, making you do the same "You've caught my attention little one, so tell me: how would you describe yourself? What is there about you I have to be aware of?"

Assuming he had access to your medical history, school achievements or lack thereof and how you made a living there was not much to say that could be relevant to him so was this about your hobbies? Political beliefs? Religion? Your favorite books, tv shows or games? Sexual orientation? Gender? Not being sure you gave an overview of these things just in case, this didn't satisfy his curiosity and almost looked disappointed.

"I'm sure once you're in pristine condition we can properly work on having quality time, maybe you're the kind to open up in such scenarios. Let's start simple: why do you think I chose you? From all possible candidates why would someone choose another to be sold?" The growling in your stomach was still present but the conversation stopped you from thinking of tasting the food in fron to you.

Recalling what you heard previously in your life were many things: some said it was lonely people with no family, others it was the ones who were vulnerable, some were gullible to fall into deadly traps, perhaps they hay desirable physical features, ultimately it's... "power, people do those things to feel pleasure from the power over others"

He took his time to drink from his coffee before responding to your comment "you think so? Depending on the price I would add it's also about convenience, not everyone is careful enough to take care of themselves but people put more worth on some than others, so even then it's worth the effort, hopefully you remember how we met. You can keep eating".

From there it was quiet, not much besides commenting on the taste of his food and how good it was, while true you also hoped to get on his good side. After finishing, he made no intent on taking your chains off, he was expecting you to ask him for it, you did and he moved you to your room.

"There's some other things I need to attend to, well see each other tomorrow, I'll be watching you when I get the chance" you then heard a click after closing the heavy door, all this time alone was killing you. Pacing around, checking your clothes again and checking the items in the bookshelf's were your only option since sleeping was out of the question, you chose the bookshelf since it's contents were new to you.

A few books, two expensive looking notebooks with simple design, mandala coloring, a few markers and a pen. Checking the books you saw the titles: The Collector by John Fowles, Tender is the flesh by Agustina Bazterrica, The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde and The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas the biggest of the rest, for the meantime you picked the notebook and decided to scribble and doodle what was on your mind with the intent to just draw on top of it later.

First it's about you and your family to remember who you are, your last day outside, the clothes you were wearing turning little by little into your new reality: your answers in the auction, the three shows and a vague memory of the important details after the second show, your time healing but not much about today.

Fox didn't hesitate to hurt you, he enjoyed your pain and gladly made profit from shredding your privacy on camera, lightly commenting on what has been your most traumatic experience so far... even now there's no guarantee he will refrain from making you feel hell again.

There's also how he chose to be kind, he went against what his patrons wanted and took the time to give you all of this, it's possible it's just another way to manipulate you. You don't even know his name when all of you has been exposed to him.

You want to go out, tell everyone how much you love them, do more with tour time, finally gain the courage to die without regrets, but these walls bring you back to reality and you feel like falling, like the floor calls your name into never standing up again and you cry (because no one can hear you) and go numb. After many hours you fall asleep again.

Dreaming of being among the clouds and a sunny day you jump and go far away from the grass on the floor. Everything is happy, your body feels light. There's a hand reaching to help you go down, someone whose face is blurry yet you can tell his identity, so you go down from the sky into the world that awaits for your presence.

__________

Fun facts:

Fox doesn't offer coffee to reader because of three main things:

He doesn't consider them an equal and drinking coffee together felt too domestic to him

If reader is used to drinking it constantly he hopes they get some kind of withdrawal from not drinking any and smelling it

He wanted reader to not be alert and be awake for enough time to properly inspect the room

About the books they are all related to how Fox feels/felt or how he sees his experience BUT I don't think he would actually be vulnerable enough to reveal himself in such a way especially early on but I just wanted to share hehe also there were other books I wanted to add but I haven't read them so even if the summary sounds good I refrained from it: Confessions of a Mask and The butterfly garden

There "diary" is also a reference from The collector, I think Ren would be fond of the book in his younger days fantasizing of his own Miranda while ignoring the second half of the book lmao.

[somedudenamedanthony]

KPop Demon Hunters AU: Jinu Is Rumi's Father

Points In Canon that inspired this:

Jinu is a Demon

Rumi's father is a Demon

Jinu is confused about how it's possible

Rumi is constantly told not to think about her father by Celene

Jinu has angst about leaving behind his family

Rumi's mother died and she doesn't know her father

Jinu and Rumi have a supernatural connection between them

Shipping a 22 year old with a 400 year old is creepy. Like did we all just forget the half your age plus 7 rule?

Alternate Universe:

Juni and his Demons would battle against the group of Hunters, The Sunlight Sisters, and overtime one of the member named Ryu would try to take a softer approach and speak with Jinu, eventually forming a romance between the two of them as they opened up, and later Ryu fell pregnant.

The Hunters never approved much of Ryu and Jinu's relationship, with their leader, Celine, completely blowing up at Ryu when the news came out. This fight pushed Ryu to break things off with Jinu and take a break from being a Hunter.

Eventually, the day came that Rumi was born, and Ryu died in childbirth, leading to Rumi being raised by Celine and forced to hide her Demon Marks.

Rumi grows to become a Hunter, creating the band Huntr/x alongside her friends Mira and Zoey. But things aren't all they seem, as her marks are growing more and more visible and eventually a boy band named Saja Boys pops up and begins slowly taking their place in popularity.

The Saja Boys are Demons, lead by none other than Jinu. The Hunters naturally follow them, and during the struggle Rumi's clothes are destroyed, revealing her markings to him. Naturally, Jinu is confused. A Hunter cannot be a Demon. Yet, he still helps her hide her marks from her group, in some way he subconsciously cares for her.

Later, walking away from the fight, he questions it more. Memories return to Jinu, of him leaving behind his mother and sister, of arguing with Ryu.

And despite it all, despite Gwi-Ma's voice in his ears, Jinu still sends a message to Rumi, and they begins speaking with one another, revealing their pasts and their fears, and growing closer, when an important part of their stories collide. The Hunter, Ryu. Rumi's mother. Jinu's lover.

And they're family, Jinu is Rumi's father.

This leads Rumi further in her goal of saving Jinu, and brings Jinu even more anxiety about the people he left behind. Rumi wants her dad in her life, wants to strip him of the Demons she fears and wants to get rid of, while also questioning all she knew of demons. Gwi-Ma continues to manipulate Jinu, making Jinu feel as if he's never going to be able to truly be Rumi's dad, that he would abandon or hurt her at the end and it's best to not try.

So he betrays her, just like he always does, reveals her secret to the world and leaves. Rumi is broken, and in her pain seeks Celine out, seeks the parents she lost.

But it doesn't work, Celine doesn't understand her, nobody does, not like her dad did. The man who embraced her marks and taught her how to control her Demon self.

This has to change.

So, when the final battle comes as Gwi-Ma begins taking over the world, Rumi steps up, her scars showing brighter as ever, as she calls for her father past the Demon's control, knowing that if they work together, they can win.

And at the end, with Gwi-Ma gone, the Saja Boys are freed, and stand proudly with Huntr/x. Jinu and Rumi embrace one another.

"I'm proud of you, kiddo"

"I love you, dad"

[chloe-skywalker]

I Almost Did - Four

Four x Fem!Reader

Warnings: none

Word count: 725

Summary: Adopting a boy together.

Masterlist

Divergent Masterlist

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

“Why are we here again?” Y/n asked Four, this was the last thing she wanted to be doing.

“Just to do check ups basically. Keep them in line.” Four answers, he to didn't like visiting the factionless. Especially when it’s because they're causing problems.

“Four.” Y/n nudged his shoulder when something caught her eye.

“Hmm?” he hummed in acknowledgment.

“Look.” Y/n nodded to a lone boy in a corner. He looked scared.

With an exchange of look’s between the couple, Y/n walked over towards the boy. Once the boy noticed the two approaching him he got very anxious. “Hey, hey, hey. We’re not going to hurt you.” She spoke softly.

“You’re gonna take me back.” The boy said with a shaky voice.

“Back to where?” Y/n asked squatting down to be level with him.

“By your clothes I’ll guess you're from Abnegation?” Four speak’s up asking the boy but Four said it like a fact. Four knew, he just knew this kid. It was like looking in a mirror.

“Why’d you leave?” Y/n questioned softly coming off as non-threatening to the boy. 

“My father.” the boy answered quietly.

“Come on.” Y/n and Four have a conversation in their eyes agreeing before Four spoke up.

“I won’t go back!” he screamed, pushing his body up into the corner as far as he could.

“We aren’t taking you back. You're gonna come with us. Back to our home.” Y/n shook her head raising her hands to show they wouldn’t force him and nothing hurt him with them.

“You won’t make me go back?” He looked at them shocked.

“No kid. We won’t.” Four shook his head, the kid concedes and goes with them on the walk back to Dauntless. They learned his name on the way back, it was Kyle and he was 9 almost 10.

Later that night after they had set him up in their spare room Four and Y/n were in their room, Y/n sat next to Four so they could talk.

“He’s like you.” Y/n states even though she’s sort of asking Four to confirm it.

“I think so.” Four nodd’s sad that this happened to another kid. It felt personal to Four.

“We can’t let him go back, Four.” Y/n shakes her head worried.

“We won’t.” Four states, already thinking of a plan.

“How?” She questioned with a furrowed brow.

“If he’d be willing to go under the truth serum and show his scar’s then we could get him out.” Four tells her before looking her in the eye’s. “Would you be okay if we adopted him?”

“Of course!” Y/n nodded, she’d adopt the boy in a heartbeat. “Of course Four. Let’s talk to him in the morning.”

^     ^     ^

@ Next Morning

“Do you guys have work today?” Kyle asked as he walked into the kitchen for breakfast the next morning seeing the two Dauntless that had taken him home.

“We took the day off.” Y/n told him smiling, setting a plate of food in front of him. She knew he was probably starving.

“There's some things we wanna talk about with you.” Four says coming over to the table.

“Okay?” Kyle looked at them with worry.

Four and Y/n explained to Kyle what their plan was, as long as he was okay with it and wanted it.

“Yes.” Kyle answered immediately.

“You're okay with all that's involved?” Y/n wanted to make sure he wasn’t going to regret it.

“If it means I never have to go back, then I’ll do anything.” He tells her, before tilting his head asking. “Can I ask why you're helping me though?”

Y/n and Four exchanged a silent conversation before Four decided to tell the boy. “My father was like yours, but worse. I almost did what you did. Run away like you did. But I didn’t have the guts. So I waited till the day I could choose a different faction.”

That seemed to hit Kyle in a different way, he looked at Four like he was his hero. If he could get out then so could Kyle.

Four was suddenly being hugged by Kyle, Four wrapped his arms around the boy. Knowing he needed it.

“I’m proud of both of you.” Y/n hugged them both. This was their own little family now.

Taglist:

@padawancat97 @erenjaegerwifee

[skyward-floored]

Wait... does Malon ever see Hyrule's brand scar? (Downfall IAU)

- hero-of-the-wolf

“Um... Mrs. Forester?”

The quiet voice caught her attention, and Malon looked up from the paper she was reading to see the newly-christened Hyrule poking his head out from behind a door, cheeks a bright red.

“I’m... I can’t figure out the shower,” he mumbled awkwardly, and Malon stood, giving him a sympathetic look.

“Oh no worries about that, hon, everyone always has trouble with that spout. You should’ve seen Wind the first time he used it, he completely doused himself in freezing cold water,” she chuckled, and Hyrule smiled, looking a little less embarassed as she walked over to help.

He moved to let her in, and Malon walked past, moving to the finicky shower faucet.

“It’s tricky because you have to pull it out, then turn it to the one side,” she explained, leaning in and showing him. “And it’ll give you cold water on both the sides— if you want warm, you have to have it pointing in the middle.”

Hyrule blinked. “That... seems needlessly complicated.”

Malon laughed. “It is. I’ve been meaning to get someone out to switch it for a better one for years. Just never had the time.”

Her mirth faded at the brief reminder of why, but she shook it off, and patted Hyrule on the shoulder.

“Are you all set now?” she asked, and Hyrule nodded. “Soap? Towel?”

“Yeah, Legend told me where everything was,” Hyrule said, and blushed a little again. “Thank you again.”

“No problem at all,” Malon smiled, and moved to leave as Hyrule began to worm out of his shirt. Another thought hit her though, and she turned back to warn Hyrule about another odd quirk of the shower before leaving. “Oh, one more thing hon, sometimes the drain...”

Her voice died as she looked at him though, and Hyrule went very still.

They hadn’t been visible with his shirt on, but Malon could now see almost every inch of the scars burned deep into Hyrule’s shoulder, stretching down his chest and onto his back. There were other smaller scars scattered along his chest, but none of those meant what Malon knew these ones did.

“Oh honey...” she whispered, a hand raised to cover her mouth.

Hyrule’s cheeks had gone red again, and he looked away from her, ears flattening. He didn’t say anything, and Malon wasn’t sure for a moment whether to leave him be, or try and say something that would properly convey what she was thinking right now.

Instead, she stepped back into the room, and set a gentle hand on his unscarred shoulder.

“I’m so proud of you,” she said softly, and Hyrule whipped his head around to stare at her.

“Wh... what? Why?” he asked, voice and tone so much like another broken teenager Malon once knew that she felt her eyes sting.

“I know branding isn’t the myth most people think it is,” she said softly, and slowly rolled up her own sleeve. Hyrule startled at the lines that were cut around her upper arm, much smaller than his own, but still rather visible, and Malon met his eyes. “I know this is nothing like yours, but I understand. And I’m proud of you for still fighting back, even after going through that.”

“I wasn’t fighting back though,” Hyrule said in a small voice. “It was just too much after this happened, I just... stopped.”

“You let Wind break you out though,” Malon pointed out. “And you’re helping us now. That sounds like fighting back to me.”

Hyrule swallowed as he looked away again, and Malon gave his shoulder a warm squeeze before letting go.

“I’ll let you clean up now, I’ve been keeping you from your shower long enough. But if you’d like to talk... you know where to find me,” she said softly, and Hyrule gave her a tiny nod, then peered back at her.

“I think I’d like that,” he whispered.

Malon gave him a smile that was heavy with old hurt, and she patted his hand before leaving the bathroom, gently closing the door behind her.

Then she let the sting in her eyes win over, and she leaned against the wall, letting them fall for a few minutes.

[hannahhook7744]

Enemies of Hannah Hook Mood Boards (Final):

Name: Barnaby Herring Teach. 

Fc: Brenton Thwaites.

Nicknames: Barnaby Thache, Barnaby Thatch, Barnaby Drummond, Barn, Barney, No-Beard, Captain, The Shipless Pirate, Angelica’s Brother, Blackbeard Jr, Blackbeard’s son, ‘Aby, B.T, Bear, B, Berney, Captain of The Stormbringer’s Curse, and Barns. 

Sexuality: Heterosexual.

Pronouns: He/Him. 

Birthday: May 7th, 2041. 

Height: 6’0.  

Weight: 186 Ibs.  

Hair Color: Brown.  

Eye Color: Brown. 

Place Of Birth: Queen Anne's Revenge, docked down by Jailor's Pier, on the Isle of the Lost. 

Hobbies: Sailing, playing cards, singing sea shanties, sword fighting, swimming, shooting, playing darts, napping, treasure hunting, playing with his cat, whittling, making ships in a bottle, vandalism, pranking the Stormbringer Crew, annoying the Stormbringer Crew, taxidermy, hunting, and firing the canon off at random. 

Fears/Phobias: Megalohydrothalassophobia, Atelophobia, and Trypanophobia. 

Likes: Spinach, Hannah Hook failing, sailing, taxiderming sea monsters, treasure, plotting against Hannah Hook, annoying the Stormbringer Crew, seaweed soda, being feared, making his dad proud, etc. 

Dislikes: Sharks, crocodiles, sea monsters, Hannah Hook, Hannah Hook succeeding in things he's failed at, Hannah Hook winning, Hannah Hook having the Stormbringer in her possession, being called a failure, people calling him ‘Captain Beardless’, gambling, apples, etc. 

Favorite musicians: The Caveman Band, The Neverland Pirates, The 7 Deadly Singers, and The Femme Fatales. 

Physical Quirks/Scars: None. 

Interesting Facts: 

*Man cannot grow a beard beyond stubble. 

*He's had beef with Hannah since he was fourteen.

*His mom is dead. 

Family: Edward Teach/Captain Blackbeard (Father),

Carolina Ormond (Mother), 

Angelica Teach (Older Half-Sister), 

Elizabeth Teach (Older Half-Sister),

John Teach (Older Half-Brother), 

And Jethro Ormond (Older Brother).

Honorary Family: His Crew. 

Friends: His Crew. 

Pets: Treasure (Cat). 

Love Interest: None. 

Optimistic or Pessimistic: Pessimistic. 

Introvert or Extrovert: Extroverted.

Occupation: Cashier at Pedro's Meals for Eels, 

Pirate Captain of the Stormbringer’s Curse. 

Extracurriculars: Rat Trapping (Formerly). 

Favorite Animal: Cats. 

Favorite Color:  Navy Blue. 

Favorite Book: Pirates and The Fools Who Crossed Them. 

Favorite Food: Pond Scum of Spinach. 

Favorite Drink: Seaweed Soda. 

Favorite Movie/TV Show: Stromboli’s Plays. 

Favorite Class: Pirate Ship Chartering and Navigating. 

Background: Once upon a time, shortly after the isle was created, Blackbeard had a son. 

A son he named Barnaby. 

When Barnaby was growing up, Blackbeard always used to tell him that one day his prized ship—the Queen Anne’s Revenge—would be his. After Blackbeard's death (or after he got a new ship) of course. 

For fourteen years, Barnaby was told that this ship that he was born on—that this ship his father had made a name for himself with—would be his and his alone when he grew up. 

And then little six year old Hannah Hook beat his dad in a poker game the first time she ever played with the grown ups pirates and won the ship that was supposed to be his. 

It wasn't fair. 

A six year old wasn't supposed to be able to tell when a feared pirate captain was cheating at poker and shouldn't be able to thwart those attempts. A six year old wasn't supposed to steal Barnaby's inheritance. But a six year old had. 

Barnaby has hated Hannah Hook ever since. 

And he won't stop hating her till the Queen Anne's Revenge—or, the Stormbringer, as Hannah Hook calls it—is his like it was always meant to be. 

~~~~Playlist~~~~

“The Devil's Reach” by The Jolly Rogers. 

“The Flying Dutchman” by The Jolly Rogers. 

“The Devil's Son” by The Jolly Rogers. 

“Bang” by AJR. 

“Burn the House Down��  by AJR.

“Blood // Water” by Grandson. 

“Blow the Man Down” by The Jolly Rogers. 

Name: Wolfrick Lycan Wolf. 

Fc: Gregg Sulkin. 

Nicknames: Wolf, Rick, Frick, Wolf-Wolf, Wolfy, Ricky, Wolf Boy, Claws, Fangs, W.W, W.L.W, W.L, W, Fuz, Snapper, Paws, Fur Ball, Sour Wolf, and Maddog. 

Sexuality: Heterosexual.

Pronouns: He/Him.

Birthday: November 23, 2043. 

Height: 5’10. 

Weight: 161 lbs.

Hair Color: Dark Brown.

Eye Color: Gold. 

Place Of Birth: The Wolf Den south of Hades’ Cave, Isle of the Lost.

Hobbies: Hunting, running, swimming, working out, doom ball, foul ball, punching things, yoga, playing games at the arcade, tug-of-war, dancing, playing catch, biking, fence hopping, rock climbing, climbing, bird watching, spelunking, bowling, darts, and learning different forms of martial arts. 

Fears/Phobias: Argyrophobia, Diokophobia, and Akonítophobia (fear of wolfsbane). 

Likes: Meat, exercising, video games, sports, being out at night, climbing, cool air, hanging out with his friends, listening to music, soap operas, chasing cats, tearing up stuffed animals, chewing on things, knife throwing, climbing through windows, winning races, etc.

Dislikes: Loud noises, strong smells, bright lights, flashing lights, 

Favorite musicians: Dark Devotion, The Bad Apples, and The 7 Deadly Singers.

Physical Quirks/Scars: sideburns, pointy nose, sharp teeth, claws, sharp nose, sharp and high cheekbones, and scars all over.

Interesting Facts: 

*Wolfrick has a habit of chewing on pencils, pens, stuffed animals, etc, 

*He doesn’t know who his birth mother is. 

*He is stronger than the average human and has enhanced senses.

*He gets overstimulated easily. 

Family:

Grandpa Wolf (Paternal Grandfather), 

Grandma Wolf (Paternal Grandmother), 

Zeb (Paternal Uncle), 

Red Minna(Paternal Aunt),

Leonard Wolf (Paternal Uncle), 

Zeke Midas ‘Ezekiel’ Wolf/The Big Bad Wolf (Father), 

Antia L. (Paternal Stepmother), 

Izzy Wolf (Paternal Cousin), 

The Three Little Wolves (Paternal Half-Brothers), 

Li’l Bad Wolf (Paternal Half-Brother), 

And Howard ‘Howiee’ Wolf (Younger Paternal Half-Brother). 

Honorary Family: None. 

Friends: Raven Bog, Barnaby Teach, Queenie Bog, and Kingsley King. 

Pets: None. 

Love Interest: Raven Bog. 

Optimistic or Pessimistic: Pessimistic. 

Introvert or Extrovert: Introverted. 

Occupation: Worker at Shere Khan's Pawns.

Extracurriculars: Rat Trapping, Shark Swim Team, Croc Wrestling, and Competitive Lifting. 

Favorite Animal: Ravens.

Favorite Color: Blood Red or Navy Blue. 

Favorite Book: Running with the Wolves. 

Favorite Food: Crab Sandwickes or Steamed Beef Ball.

Favorite Drink: Barely Expired Sparkling Cider. 

Favorite Movie/TV Show: The Young and The Crownless. 

Favorite Class: P.E/Gym. 

Background: Once upon a time, about two years after the isle was created, the Big Bad Wolf had what would later become be his second youngest child 

Another son. 

This one was named Wolfrick Lycan Wolf. And for as long as anyone could remember, Wolfrick was a sour wolf. 

Always moody, always scowling. Always angry. 

Always ready to pick a fight. 

Especially with Harriet Hook, who he despised from the day he met her. For what reason, no one quite knows. 

All anyone knows is that hate 

~~~~Playlist~~~~

“Running With the Wolves” by AURORA.

“I Was a Teenage Werewolf” by The Cramps.

“Animal I have become” by Three Days Grace. 

“Howl” by Florence + the Machine. 

“The Wolf” by Mumford & Sons. 

“Wolf in Sheep's Clothing” by Set It Off. 

“Three Little Pigs” by Green Jellÿ. 

Name: Queenie Trina Bog. 

Fc: Unknown Extra. 

Nicknames: Queen, Q. T. B, Q.T, Q, The Seer, Witch, the Bat Witch, Crystal, Nie, and the Queen of Crystal Balls. 

Sexuality: Heterosexual. 

Pronouns: She/Her. 

Birthday: April 23rd, 2044. 

Height: 6’4. 

Weight: 150 lbs. 

Hair Color: Magenta. 

Eye Color: Dark Brown.

Place Of Birth: Bald Mountain, Isle of the lost. 

Hobbies: Fortune telling, making her and her friends clothes, astrology, acting, winemaking, reading, mineralogy, numismatics, archeology, pottery, rock polishing, going to the spa, and embroidery. 

Fears/Phobias: Molluscophobia. 

Likes: The smell of rot, mud baths, wine, plays, fashion, fortune telling, archeology, history, rocks, pottery, embroidery, crêpes, dancing, science, graveyard strolls, etc. 

Dislikes: Slugs, slimey things, people not taking her warnings seriously, Hannah Hook, Harriet Hook, people throwing things at her when she's on stage, her dad, P.E, etc. 

Favorite musicians: Dark Devotion, The Femme Fatales, and the Bed Apples. 

Physical Quirks/Scars: Horns, fangs, and wings. 

Interesting Facts: 

*She has tan skin and bushy hair. 

*She doesn't know who her mother is. 

*She can come off as very cold. 

*She trims her claws. 

Family: Chernabog (Dad), 

Amelia (Paternal Stepmother), 

Harmony (Parental Stepmother),

Raven Bog (Twin Sister),

Anastasia ‘Anna’ Bog (Paternal Half-Sister), 

Aaron Bog (Paternal Half-Brother), 

Jolene Bog (Future Parental Half-Sister), 

Ike Bog (Future Parental Half-Brother), 

Craven Bog (Future Parental Half-Brother), 

And Skelebar Foundling (Possible Future Parental Half-Sister). 

Honorary Family: None. 

Friends: Wolfrick Wolf, Raven Bog, Barnaby Teach, and Kingsley King.

Pets: None. 

Love Interest: Kingsley King.

Optimistic or Pessimistic: Pessimistic.

Introvert or Extrovert: Introvert. 

Occupation: Fortune Teller. 

Extracurriculars: Wicked Beauties and Speaking with Trolls.

Favorite Animal: Vultures. 

Favorite Color: Magenta.

Favorite Book: 13 Eerie Poems to Send Shivers Down Your Spine. 

Favorite Food: Raspberry and Strawberry Crêpes. 

Favorite Drink: Black Coffee.

Favorite Movie/TV Show: Judge Frollo, Cruella de Vil’s Coat Club, or Skin Deep With Mother Gothel. 

Favorite Class: Advanced Wickedness.

Background: Once upon a time, about two years after the isle was created, two very unfortunate children were born to Chernabog.

These children were Queenie and Raven Bog. 

And these children have despised Harriet Hook and the easy way she gets her demands met since they were in diapers. 

With their friends by their side, they plan to make Harriet Hook miserable. Through her sister, Hannah Hook. 

If only it was as easy as it sounded. 

~~~~Playlist~~~~

“Starlight” by Muse. 

“Apple” by Charli xcx.

“Dead to Me” by Melanie Martinez.

“Freak The Freak Out.” by  Victorious Cast.

“Gasoline” by Halsey.

“Lies” by Hila.

“Heathens” by Twenty One Pilots.

Name: Raven Wren Bog. 

Fc: Unknown Extra. 

Nicknames: Rave, Ven, R.W.B, R.B, R, queen of the ravens, Rae, Ravenna, Diva, Drama Queen, etc.

Sexuality: Heterosexual.

Pronouns: She/Her. 

Birthday: April 23rd, 2044. 

Height: 5’9. 

Weight: 144 Ibs. 

Hair Color: Brown. 

Eye Color: Dark Brown. 

Place Of Birth: Bald Mountain, Isle of the lost. 

Hobbies: Working out, doomball, foul ball, drawing, swimming, hunting, running, punching things, yoga, playing games at the arcade, tug-of-war, dancing, playing catch, biking, fence hopping, rock climbing, climbing, bird watching, spelunking, bowling, darts, and learning different forms of martial arts. 

Fears/Phobias: Kampanophobia. 

Likes: Destroyed bells, Wolfrick Wolf, hanging out with her friends, drawing scary things, destroyed crystals, meat, exercising, video games, sports, being out at night, climbing, cool air, hanging out with his friends, listening to music, soap operas, chasing cats, tearing up stuffed animals, chewing on things, knife throwing, climbing through windows, winning races,

Dislikes: Bells, Crystals, Harriet Hook, Hannah Hook, her dad, her dad angry, her younger siblings not obeying her, her younger siblings’ loyalty to Hannah Hook, and math. 

Favorite musicians: Dark Devotion, The Femme Fatales, and The 7 Deadly Singers.

Physical Quirks/Scars: Horns, fangs, claws, and wings. 

Interesting Facts: 

*She has tan skin and bushy hair. 

*She doesn't know who her mother is. 

*She can come off as very cold and judgey. 

Family: Amelia (Paternal Stepmother), 

Harmony (Parental Stepmother),

Queenie Bog (Twin Sister),

Anastasia ‘Anna’ Bog (Paternal Half-Sister), 

Aaron Bog (Paternal Half-Brother), 

Jolene Bog (Future Parental Half-Sister), 

Ike Bog (Future Parental Half-Brother), 

Craven Bog (Future Parental Half-Brother), 

And Skelebar Foundling (Possible Future Parental Half-Sister). 

Honorary Family: None. 

Friends: Wolfrick Wolf, Queenie Bog, Barnaby Teach, and Kingsley King.

Pets: A stray flock of Ravens who only respond to ‘Ravens!’. 

Love Interest: Wolfrick Wolf.

Optimistic or Pessimistic: Pessimistic. 

Introvert or Extrovert: Extrovert.

Occupation: Thug-for-hire. 

Extracurriculars: Crocodile Wrestling.

Favorite Animal: Ravens.

Favorite Color: Black. 

Favorite Book: The Mannequin Graveyard.

Favorite Food: Spinach and Egg Crêpes.

Favorite Drink: Black Coffee.

Favorite Movie/TV Show: Say yes to the Hex or Stepsister, Stepsister.

Favorite Class: Accelerated Piracy: Hostage Taking and Threatening. 

Background: Once upon a time, about two years after the isle was created, two very unfortunate children were born to Chernabog.

These children were Queenie and Raven Bog. 

And these children have despised Harriet Hook and the easy way she gets her demands met since they were in diapers. 

With their friends by their side, they plan to make Harriet Hook miserable. Through her sister, Hannah Hook. 

If only it was as easy as it sounded. 

~~~~Playlist~~~~

“Sleepwalk” by Forrest Day.

“King” by Lauren Aquilina.

“Apple” by Charli xcx.

“Mutineer” by Amanda Shires and Jason Isbell.

“Raven” by Kelela. 

“Pretty Little Psycho” by Porcelain Black.

“Control” by Halsey.

Name: Kingsley Alvise King.

Fc: Unknown Extra. 

Nicknames: King, Sley, K, The Horned Prince, Kingsley the Cowardly,  and Cauldron Scrubber. 

Sexuality: Heterosexual.

Pronouns: He/Him. 

Birthday: April 24th, 2044. 

Height:  5’7. 

Weight: 153 Ibs. 

Hair Color: Black. 

Eye Color: Dark Brown (Almost Black). 

Place Of Birth: Cauldron Repair, Isle of the Lost. 

Hobbies: Screenwriting, exterior designing, yoga, potion brewing, pottery, studying magic, astrology, reading, astronomy, rock and crystal collecting, purple, sports, working out, and baking.

Fears/Phobias: Atychiphobia and Scoleciphobia.

Likes: Power, people fearing him/people being intimidated by him, his friends’ happiness, healthy foods, exterior design, dark blue, dark red, wacky coffee mug designs, soap operas, potion making, studying magic, doom ball, working out, foul ball, etc. 

Dislikes: Cleaning cauldrons, rude and entitled customers, repairing cauldrons, Hannah Hook, Hannah Hook’s success, Harriet Hook, Harriet Hook’s commanding presence, slime, slugs, snails, slimey things, ectoplasm, his dad being angry with him, not having power, his friends being upset, Jay’s stealing, the core four/people interrupting and ruining his days off, and sugary foods and drinks, etc. 

Favorite musicians: Dark Devotion, The Femme Fatales, the Bad Apples, and The 7 Deadly Singers.

Physical Quirks/Scars: Horns and moles. 

Interesting Facts: 

*His hair is shaved. 

*He's bit of a clean freak. 

*He's been described as whiny. 

Family: Arawn/The Horned King (Father),

Constance Hatchaway (Mother).

Honorary Family: None. 

Friends: Wolfrick Wolf, Queenie Bog, Barnaby Teach, and Raven Bog.

Pets: Crossbones (Gwythaint). 

Love Interest: Queenie Bog.

Optimistic or Pessimistic: Pessimistic. 

Introvert or Extrovert: Introverted. 

Occupation: Worker at Cauldron Repair.

Extracurriculars:

Favorite Animal: Gwythaints. 

Favorite Color: Purple, Dark Blue, or Dark Red. 

Favorite Book: The Ghost’s Cloak. 

Favorite Food: Crab Sandwiches. 

Favorite Drink: Kelp Smoothies.

Favorite Movie/TV Show: Nights of Our After Lifes.

Favorite Class: Honors Alchemy. 

Background: Once upon a time, about two years after the isle was created, the horned king shired a son. 

The boy's name being Kingsley King.

Kingsley, like his friends, hates Harriet Hook with a passion. Which has transferred to Hannah Hook for no reason other than the two are siblings. 

Though at this point he hates Hannah Hook more than Harriet Hook because of just how often Hannah has embarrassed him and his friends during their spats.

He won't stop until she's been defeated.

~~~~Playlist~~~~

“A Great Mass of Death” by Septicflesh.

“I Bring the Darkness (End of Days)” by Baron Corbin.

“Untitled (How Could This Happen to Me?)” by Simple Plan.

“The Sound of Silence” by Disturbed.

“You Should See Me in a Crown”by Billie Eilish.

“No Children” by The Mountain Goats.

“I Wasn't Born To Behave” by Black Hydra, City Wolf, and Easy McCoy.

Name: Unity Patience Bergmann.

Fc: Unknown Extra.

Nicknames: Bossy, Snobby, Blondey, Hateful, Miss Bossy, Debatey, Talker, etc. 

Sexuality: Heterosexual. 

Pronouns: She/Her. 

Birthday: September 1st, 2045. 

Height: 5’7. 

Weight: 163 Ibs. 

Hair Color: Bleach Blonde. 

Eye Color: Brown. 

Place Of Birth: Charmington, Auradon.

Hobbies: Listening to music, exterior designing, party planning, studying medical stuff, sewing, building miniatures, photography, stamp and book collecting, debating people, playing board games, learning different languages, mining, etc.

Fears/Phobias: Atychiphobia and Bogyphobia. 

Likes: Chocolate covered strawberries, studying medical stuff, sweet food, listening to music, holding debates, stuffed animals, plaid, spa days, exterior designs, making flower crowns, planning parties, parties, people listening to her, clean things, etc. 

Dislikes: People not listening to her, being called Bossy, losing in debate, not getting her way, not getting her parents’ attention, slimey things, dirty things, tomatoes, loud noises, waking up late, being late, gum in her hair, the color orange, etc. 

Favorite musicians: Sebastian and The Seven Wonders of the Sea & Dalmatian Nation. 

Physical Quirks/Scars: Two Moles on her face.

Interesting Facts: 

*She's a twin.

*She has five siblings—four of them are younger. 

*She comes from a big family.

*She lives in one house with her six uncles, five out of six aunts, parents, five siblings, and her many, many cousins. 

Family: Bossy Bergmann (Paternal Grandfather), 

Busy Bergmann (Mother), 

Doc Bergmann the 1st (Father),

Doc Bergmann the 2nd (Twin Brother),

Crashy Bergmann (Younger Brother),

Wheezy Bergmann (Younger Sister),

Cranky Bergmann (Younger Brother), 

Goopy Bergmann (Younger Sister), 

Bashful Bergmann Sr (Paternal Uncle),

Queen Delightful Bergmann (Paternal Aunt-via-Marriage), 

Prince Shy ‘Shilo’ Bergmann (Paternal Cousin),

Bashful ‘Bash’ Bergmann Jr (Older Paternal Cousin), 

Dopey Bergmann (Paternal Uncle),

Aurelia Bergmann  (Paternal Aunt-via-Marriage), 

Derek Bergmann (Older Paternal Cousin), 

Doug Bergmann (Paternal Cousin),

Grumpy Bergmann Sr (Paternal Uncle),

Renée 'Fay' Lenore Dubois Fae/ Fairy Godmother (Former Paternal Aunt-via-Marriage),

Crabby Bergmann (Paternal Cousin), 

Maddison Bergmann (Older Paternal Cousin),

Grumpy 'Fault-Finder/Spoilsport' Bergmann Jr (Older Paternal Cousin),

Gordon Bergmann (Older Paternal Cousin),

Snappy Bergmann (Older Paternal Cousin),

Grouchy Bergmann (Younger Paternal Cousin), 

Jehanne 'Jane' Fae (Younger Paternal Cousin), 

Sleepy Bergmann Sr (Paternal Uncle),

Nifty Bergmann (Paternal Aunt-via-Marriage),

Dozy Bergmann (Younger Paternal Cousin),

Snoozy Bergmann (Paternal Cousin),

Sleepy ‘SJ’ Bergmann Jr (Older Paternal Cousin),

Nighty 'Creepy' Bergmann (Older Paternal Cousin),

Sneezy Bergmann Sr (Paternal Uncle),

Hotsy Bergmann (Paternal Aunt-via-Marriage),

Nosey Bergmann (Younger Paternal Cousin),

Sniffles Bergmann (Younger Paternal Cousin),

Gesundheit 'Gus' Bergmann (Adoptive Paternal Cousin),

Snot Bergmann (Older Paternal Cousin),

Sneezy Bergmann Jr (Older Paternal Cousin),

Happy Bergmann Sr (Paternal Uncle),

Doleful Bergmann (Paternal Aunt-via-Marriage),

Babbles Bergmann (Younger Paternal Cousin),

Noisy Bergmann (Younger Paternal Cousin),

Joyful 'Joy/Jolly' Bergmann (Younger Adoptive Paternal Cousin),

Smiley Bergmann (Younger Adoptive Paternal Cousin),

Cheerful Bergmann (Paternal Cousin), 

Hap Bergmann (Older Paternal Cousin), 

Happy Bergmann Jr (Older Paternal Cousin),

And Giggles Bergmann (Older Paternal Cousin). 

Honorary Family: Snow White’s Family. 

Friends: Fia Rivera, Roscoe Rivera, Seraphina Ryen, Dario Hood, Jeremiah, Skitten Jenkins, Ozzie Diggs, and Darling-Neverlagoon.

Pets: Fluffy (Bunny). 

Love Interest: None. 

Optimistic or Pessimistic: Realistic. 

Introvert or Extrovert: Ambivert.

Occupation: None. 

Extracurriculars: Debate Team, The Party Planning Committee, and The Morals and Ethics Committee. 

Favorite Animal: Bunnies. 

Favorite Color: Green or Yellow. 

Favorite Book: An Apple A Day Keeps True Love’s Kiss At Bay.

Favorite Food: Chip’s Grilled Cheese.

Favorite Drink: Mango Smoothie.

Favorite Movie/TV Show: Greene’s Anatomy. 

Favorite Class: Philosophy. 

Background: Once upon a time, about four years after the isle was created, two dwarves—Busy and Doc—had a pair of twins. 

Doc Bergmann the 2nd and Unity Bergmann. 

Sixteen years later, Unity Bergmann—or Bossy, as many of her classmates know her as—is seen debating Jane fastly and precisely. On what, you may be wondering?

Oh that's simple.

Ben's proclamation. 

Her hatred of vks doesn't dissipate when they come to Auradon and she immediately butts heads with Hannah Hook, who calls her out for how horribly she treats others. 

Needless to say that Unity, who doesn't like having her authority questioned, hates her with a passion and wants to bring her down. 

~~~~Playlist~~~~

“Drama Queen” by Family Force 5. 

“Fancy” by Iggy Azalea.

“Oh No!” by Marina and the Diamonds. 

“That Don’t Impress Me Much” by Shania Twain. 

“Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better.” by Annie Get Your Gun. 

“Children’s Work” by Dessa. 

“Gives You Hell” by The All-American Rejects. 

-----------------------------------------

Inspired by @thecaptainsgingersnap and @theinnerworkingsofoc . 

[thewinter-eden]

psycho | han jisung (9/20)

9 : punished

Pairings: HAN JISUNG x OC | LEE MINHO x 2nd OC

Rating: mature

cross posted on AO3 under the_winter_eden and wattpad under alone-at-last.

Warnings: discussions of murder, torture, rape. Comment a request to be tagged!

psycho masterlist

< last chapter | next chapter >

pov : anna

She sits in the dingy community room, peeling off chunks of her bread with dirty fingernails, and wears a sad smile as she watches Han kneel down to wrap Jo in a gentle hug. The newest member of their terrible little family cries into his embrace, unable to hold him in return without setting fire to the brand new burns on the backs of both hands.

Anna feels a pang of sympathy at the agony on the younger girl’s face, and she shares a saddened glance with Ruby. “Do you think she’s okay?”

The oldest girl sips at her broth. Her face scrunches and she puts the bowl back down on her tray with a look of distaste. After a second, she looks back at Jo. “She’s strong.” There’s a proud smile on her face. “And angry. That’s a good thing. The longer the anger lasts, the longer we do. I was one of the angry ones. So was Kim,” She nods over to the second oldest girl, who’s kneeling nearby and helping Jackie wrap up the two fingers on each hand that are now sans fingernails.

Hearing them, Kim looks over her shoulder and narrows her eyes. “We’re still angry.”

Ruby shrugs. “Better angry than dead.”

Anna isn’t sure she agrees, and when Ruby shoots a guilty glance at the thick bandages around the other girl’s wrists, she knows she only just realized the impact of her words. Ruby reaches over and lays a hand on Anna’s knee. “Sorry, Annie, I didn’t think.”

Shaking her head, Anna just sops up more broth with a piece of bread.

It’s just the six of them now, plus Han.

Ruby, Kim, Cass, Jackie, Jo, and Anna.

The room feels empty without the four they’ve lost.

Han maneuvers Jo so she can settle back against the wall she’s sitting by, and helps her put her tray in her lap so she can eat comfortably without reaching for anything. He places a comforting hand on the top of her head and then straightens.

When he turns, he catches Anna’s eye, and gives a little smile.

She smiles back.

“Here, let’s see.” Kim is done with Jackie now, and comes over to Anna and Ruby. Without waiting for permission, she pulls Anna’s nightgown aside and peeks under the bandages at the still raw gashes across her abdomen. “You don’t look too inflamed. You should have seen mine.” She shows her stomach, and the scars are bulbous against her bruised skin. “They almost got infected. Hannie had to clean them so often.”

He’s behind her, then, kneeling next to Ruby. With an upward glance at Kim, he frowns at the scars. “You needed antibiotics. I thought they were never going to heal.”

Kim touches his shoulder and sits, finally getting to her own dinner. “None of us would heal at all if you didn’t work so hard to keep us alive.”

He blushes a little, ducking his head to shrug off her gaze. “You seem happy today.”

Kim shrugs. “I’m incredibly well adjusted.”

Ruby rolls her eyes. “You’re losing your mind, that’s what’s adjusting.” She chews slowly on a scrap of bread and helps Anna put her bandages back the way they were.

Next to the oldest, Han nudges her knee. “Is the broth not good? Is it cold?” He realizes it’s not that when he notices the steam still curling through the air above Ruby’s bowl.

She frowns down at it and scrunches her face again. “It’s just a little off. I’m good with just the bread though, sorry Hannie.”

He looks surprised, and shakes his head abruptly. “No, I’m sorry. It’s probably a day too old. I’ll make new tomorrow, don’t worry. I’m sorry, Ruby.” He looks so ashamed of himself for serving potentially expired beef broth that the three girls around him have to silently tell each other not to laugh at him.

Ruby ruffles his hair playfully. “Old soup is not even close to the worst thing that happens in this garbage resort. Don’t apologize, Hannie.”

He accepts her answer with a frown and then nods towards her leg where a large portion of her left thigh is freshly bandaged. “How’s your leg?”

She can’t hide the wince as he brings her attention back to the incomplete set of horizontal cuts that are now gashed along the outside of her thigh. “Just as painful as the rest of it.”

It’s a horrible mutilation, the obsession that Cain has. Slowly, over the course of their months and years in captivity, his girls are becoming morbid works of art at the edge of his knife. Matching cuts in matching patterns create deliberate scars over their bodies until they all look like some kind of terrible body modification project.

Han’s eyes skate past the two oldest girls and finally land on Anna. “Are you alright?”

Since you tried to kill yourself? He doesn’t say it out loud, but he doesn’t have to. He doesn’t have to tell the others that the matching bandages on her wrists that none of them have ever had are from shards of glass driven by her own hand. They all know.

They all heard.

Anna takes a second to sip at her broth, feeling the warmth of it seep into her body. She can’t meet his eyes, knowing that as soon as she does she’ll feel everything she felt that night all over again.

Ruby and Kim both look down at their dinners, feeling the hesitation rolling off of the younger girl in palpable waves.

“Yeah, I’m good.” Anna says, which sounds ridiculous as soon as she says it because who’s good, really, in a place like this? She feels like Jo, sitting over there with Jackie and Cass, bawling her eyes out.

Nobody’s ‘good.’

But Han just nods and gives her another tiny smile. He gets to his feet and adjusts his poorly fitting clothes. “I’ll leave you guys for about an hour, and then I’ll be back.” He pauses by Anna, and opens his hand to her.

Confused, she blinks at him, and finds him waiting expectantly. She puts her hand in his.

He gives it a squeeze. She feels her pulse jump between them.

In the next second, he’s released her hand and is tiptoeing back across the room, headed for the door. In his wake, both Ruby and Kim stare at her. The longer they stare, the hotter her face feels. She avoids their gaze and focuses on the rest of her dinner. “What?”

Kim clears her throat and shakes her head, a slight smile playing at her lips. “It’s like a tennis match of smiles between the two of you.”

Anna blushes.

“And that was some totally necessary physical contact there, very crucial to our collective wellbeing.” Ruby agrees.

“Are the two of you really playing matchmaker in the middle of the worst thing that’s ever happened to us?” Anna grumbles. “There’s nothing cute happening here, he’s just mothering me the way he mothers all of us.”

Kim scoffs out loud. “Mothering is not the word I would use.”

“And besides,” Ruby adds. “If the two of you can look at each other like that in the middle of the worst thing that’s ever happened to us, maybe there’s some kind of hope out there for all of us.”

Anna’s severely uncomfortable now, scowling at both of them. “You guys are delusional.”

“Probably.”

“Han is being sensitive to the fact that I wasn’t doing well two weeks ago. It’s what you do when someone cuts their own wrists. Besides, he found me like that. I’m pretty sure I traumatized him.”

They don’t push the matter any further.

When Han comes back to return them to their rooms, he spends time with each of them. He loops an arm around Ruby’s waist to take the weight off of her tender leg and helps her to her room, and it’s about ten minutes before he comes back out. It’s normal, a daily occurrence, that he gives them all special attention and offers himself as an ear to listen or a hand to hold when they need it.

“How are things with Minho?” Anna asks Cass softly, before Han returns. She’s noticed the emptiness in the other girl’s expressions lately, and the apparent disconnect between her mind and body. Cass has been a mess, tripping and miscalculating her steps, dropping her food trays and flinching away when the others try to touch her. And all the while, her face stays blank, like she doesn’t even see it.

Anna suspects she knows why, but she doesn’t want to ask.

Cass turns dim eyes to the blonde, her eyebrows lifting a little.

It’s the best way to get a reaction out of her, to bring up Minho. He’s the only topic that makes her awaken from whatever fog she keeps slipping into.

Coming back to herself, Cass glances down the hall to where Han is accompanying Kim to her room, and then she looks back to Anna. “He’s been trying to get the police to help us, but the FBI won’t let them.” She whispers. “They’re waiting for Cain to lead them to his friends.”

“Cain has friends?” Anna spits, utter disbelief dripping from her tone. “We’re down here, dying, what the hell are they waiting for?”

Cass just shrugs listlessly. “We’re not the only ones Cain is killing. We don’t take priority.”

The responding darkness that creeps into Anna’s soul drags her mood to the depths. “We don’t take priority?”

“I think I like him.” Cass whispers flatly, her eyes losing focus.

Anna forces herself back into the moment and tries to remember what they were talking about. “Sorry, what?”

“Minho.” She blinks, and her cheeks redden just slightly. It’s the first sign of life she’s displayed in a few days. “I think I like him.”

A sad kind of joy occurs to Anna, and she smiles. She doesn’t say that it’s not likely that her feelings will ever come to fruition, or that they’ll both probably face the wrath of Cain before they ever get to see Minho’s face, because what’s the point? Cass has found something to care about in the middle of one of the greatest miseries of the human experience, and Anna knows she has no right to take it from her. “That’s really great, Cass.”

A series of emotions suddenly flash across the brunette’s face. She sways where she sits, like it’s too much effort to think and keep her balance at the same time.

Anna watches her brow lower until her eyes are almost completely hooded, welling with tears.

“But I’m ruined,” Cass whispers. “I’m ruined, it’s all ruined.”

The words drag a sense of horror through Anna and she swallows it as well as she can. “Don’t say that. That’s not true.”

“You don’t know yet.” Cass closes her eyes and a tear squeezes through. In a breath, she abruptly seems to regain some of herself. “What am I doing? Forget I said anything about Minho. I don’t like him, really, I’m just lonely.” She shakes herself and forces a smile.

Han is emerging from Kim’s room, headed for Cass.

Anna stares at her, shocked by the complete switch in behavior. “It’s okay to like him,” She whispers. “You’re not ruined.”

“You don’t know.”

She does. “I do. And I know that it doesn’t make you ruined. Alright?”

“Cass, you okay?” Han is close enough to see the tears now, and he leans down to brush them away. “Let’s go back to your room now, okay? Come with me.” He shoots Anna a nod and then gestures for Cass to walk with him.

He doesn’t try to touch her, like he supports the others.

He knows better.

Cass follows him to her room, feet stumbling over themselves and shoulders brushing the walls as she moves discordantly.

When it’s Anna’s turn to be guided back to her room, Han doesn’t say anything about his conversations with the other seven girls. She doesn’t ask what they talk about or if he was able to help Cass feel better, but he doesn’t volunteer the information, either. It actually makes her feel better—if he doesn’t gossip about the things he talks to the other girls about, then he most likely doesn’t sit around and talk about her behind her back, either.

Not that there’s any more harm that he can do to her than has already been done. What are they going to do, laugh at her behind her back? For what, wishing she was dead?

It’s an almost definite certainty that every one of those girls had at least once preferred death to the enduring torture of existing in Cain’s captivity.

Han just reaches out a hand to her and holds her fingers loosely as they walk down the long hallway to her room at the end. “How are your wrists?”

They ache. They burn every time she moves her hands, the skin and scabs cracking to release fresh trickles of blood at every turn. It feels like they’ll never properly mend. Anna shrugs and watches him turn her arms over so he can see if the bandages have been bled through.

They haven’t.

For a moment, he holds both of her hands, a deep sigh wracking through his narrow frame. “You know,” He starts, and drops his eyes to their feet as though he can’t bear to look her in the eyes. “I understand why you did it.”

Her heart clenches. They all understand. She’s not unique in her feelings about their shared experience.

“I understand that there’s not really anything to hope in down here, especially when so many of them haven’t made it.” His eyes well with tears and he brusquely blinks them away. “But please promise me you won’t try again.”

Anna purses her lips and tries to focus of the warmth of his hands around hers.

When she doesn’t respond, and he feels her arms shake as she tries to back away, Han steps in closer and tightens his grip. “Please, Anna.” His thumb swipes gently over the back of her hand. “I can’t see you like that again.”

It would be him. If she decided to take her life again, and actually succeeded, it would be him who found her, like he had the first time. Only next time, she might be successful. Next time, he would find another dead girl in her bedroom floor. Next time, he would be dragging her cold body down the filthy hallway, dumping it wherever he had to dump them, and she would be another lifeless face trapped in his memory forever.

It’s a wonder he hasn’t succumbed to the misery of it all himself.

So she relaxes the tension in her arms and allows herself to step closer, to let their hands hang between them. “I promise.”

He looks up then, and bares a shaky grin. “You promise?”

Anna nods and tries to match his smile. “I promise.”

But Han’s smile is gone. His eyes have shifted to a spot beyond her shoulder, toward the doorway, and that’s when Anna notices the large shadow on the floor.

A man’s shadow.

“What the hell is this?” Cain’s powerful voice hisses.

She turns, heart in her throat, to see him glaring down at their joined hands. Cain steps into the room, each footfall heavy with rage. She sees his fists clenched at his sides and knows that he doesn’t like the closeness between his two captives.

Han drops her hands but doesn’t back away from her. Instead, he pushes himself between Anna and Cain, and raises his arms pleadingly. “Her wounds needed treatment,” He tries, and she sees his shoulders trembling.

Anna watches in horror as Cain sweeps both arms as a mighty scythe and crushes Han into the wall. She hears his head collide with the cement, hears his grunt of pain, sees him slide limply to the floor. She hears his name on her own lips, a terrible fear for someone other than herself for once completely overwhelming her senses.

“This is how you treat my girls?” Cain mutters, reaching down to yank up a fistful of Han’s long hair. He lifts him partly off the floor, closing his other hand around the boy’s throat. “Is this what you thought I meant when I told you to care for them? You think my pretty playthings are yours to have?”

Han can’t answer. His eyes are blinking hazily, disoriented by the collision with the wall. A confused groan scrapes up his throat, but no words follow.

As Cain’s hand clenches around Han’s throat, the one in his hair pulling back to bash him once more into the cement, Anna is suddenly spurred by nothing other than panicked adrenaline.

In the next second, she finds herself latched onto Cain’s back, her teeth sinking into the junction of his throat and shoulder. She feels the flesh part around her incisors, tastes the blood when it bursts into her mouth.

Cain gives a howl of anger and pain, and drops Han. His hands are on Anna next, seizing her by the arms and tossing her off like she weighs nothing. Her teeth rip a strip of skin from his shoulder as she is flung away from him, and she hits the floor with the taste of him on her tongue. He’s headed straight for her, his thick boots slamming against the floor, and he bends to snatch her up by the arms. “You just earned yourself a session, bitch.”

Anna lets him drag her from her room, craning her head over her shoulder to see Han still slumped against the wall. Her heart is still hammering against her ribs, her thoughts screaming with prayer that he’s alright.

The sight of him being thrown like he was would stay with her forever. The cognizance in his expression immediately falling like it had been ripped from his face would haunt her until she died.

He still hasn’t given any intelligent response since it had happened, and he disappears from her view before she could know if he was okay.

Anna’s only thoughts as Cain throws her into the old rusty chair and straps her down are of Han. As soon as Cain is done with her, he’ll surely return to Han and punish him for whatever it was he thinks he saw between the two prisoners.

That is, unless he can be satisfied with punishing her.

So when Cain turns to the workbench and returns with the same pipe wrench that he’d used to break her arm, Anna gives him all the fear she can manage to express. When he bends low and tells her how disappointed he is in her, telling her that he ought to take her hands for touching something that doesn’t belong to her, she screams and sobs until she sees his lips curl in a wicked smirk.

When he starts in with heavy handed swings, crushing her left ankle over and over again, as she knew he would, she lets it all out. She gives him every response that comes to her and thrashes wildly, replete with agonized misery until he’s panting, splattered with blood, and all but cackling with delight, her ankle completely obliterated.

Her foot hangs at the end of her leg, connected only by a squishy, mulched section of flesh and splintered bone, and he cranks her head down to look at it. She heaves and vomits into her own lap, overcome with nauseating pain.

Cain dances out of reach of the splattered contents of her stomach and only continues to laugh.

When she can breathe again, if only for a second, he leans in close and grips her knees. A howl bursts from her throat and he grins wolfishly. “Your pain is delicious, Anna.” Cain reaches down and wraps his whole hand around her destroyed ankle and squeezes, and she’s sick all over again.

Her captor scoots back, unbothered by the upheaval. From where he crouches, he watches her dangle on the brink of consciousness. “Remember this next time you decide to take something of mine for yourself. And furthermore,” He lurches forward once more and grasps her ripped wrists, allowing his nails to dig into the cuts.

Anna’s body convulses at the sensation.

She can’t even process the pain anymore. Her body is so consumed by the trauma of his actions, by the screaming pain receptors in her brain, that it’s no longer responding.

“If you ever try to kill something of mine again,” He pushes his lips against her ear. “I’ll kill that boy. I can always find another Han, Anna. He’s just as dispensable as you are.”

Cain returns her to her room, one arm wrapped around her hips and holding her so tightly against his side that neither of her feet touch the ground. He drops her unceremoniously to the floor and casts a loathing glance to Han, who still leans against the wall, head hanging low over his chest.

The boy seems to have come back to himself a little, as he’s now sitting hunched over himself, knees pulled to his chest and arms wrapped tightly around them. He looks up weakly as Cain and Anna enter, and she sees a rush of motion like he’s trying to get up.

“Don’t bother,” Cain snaps, already turning away. “I have work to do. And so do you. Set her leg.” He tosses one final dismissive look at the girl sprawled on the floor, and then takes his leave, slamming the door behind him.

Anna’s afraid to move, anticipating the spike of pain that she already knows will shoot all the way from her foot to the top of her head, but she has to see. She twists, trying to keep her foot still.

It doesn’t work, and she’s crying again.

Han’s movements are sluggish is he creeps towards her. He’s on his hands and knees, reaching, face wet with tears. “I’m sorry,” He chants. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His fingertips brush hers, and the warmth of their touch urges him closer. He’s dragging himself more than he’s crawling, and she can’t tell which sobs are hers and which are his.

Anna pulls herself up to sit against the closest wall, nausea reeling up her throat as her ankle protests. Her foot flops to the side and a whole new rush of fire explodes up her leg. “Are you okay?” She chokes, and she can taste the blood and sick in her mouth.

He manages to come to sit next to her, head drooping like he doesn’t have the strength to hold it up. “I’m sorry.” His hand comes out of the dark and closes around hers, and they’re both shaking. “I’m sorry.”

She moves her free hand to his face, but it feels like swimming to reach even that far. She brushes his fringe out of his eyes and sees them slide up to meet hers, glossy and distant. She hopes he’s only concussed, but she’s still terrified that he’s mortally wounded.

But he wouldn’t be conscious. That’s what she tells herself. If he couldn’t recover, he would be unconscious. Her eyes squeeze shut at the mental image of being brought back to her room to find him, bloody and unresponsive, in her floor. Like Lily. Like herself.

She’s glad she promised him before it all happened. It’s the first time she really imagines with empathy what it would be like to bear such witness, and it makes her stomach clench for what seems like the hundredth time.

“Are you okay?” She asks again, and feels his other hand come up to cover hers where it still rests against his temple.

He nods blearily, and then sways like the movement was too much. His head tilts against the cold wall beside them, and rests there listlessly. “I’m sorry, Annie. I’m sorry.”

Her hand falls before she realizes that she can’t hold it up anymore. “I’m sorry,” she returns emptily. “I shouldn’t have let you—”

His grip is stronger than hers, and he’s still resolutely holding onto her hands like its the only thing keeping him attached to consciousness. She thinks it’s the only thing holding her, too. “No.” His voice is a hollow rasp. “No, I don’t care. He doesn’t get to take any of you from me.” He tries to catch her faltering gaze again, craning his neck, but his head falls back against the wall, and she hears it thump heavily.

They’re both on the brink of darkness, holding tightly to each other, fighting the hand that pulls them under.

“He doesn’t get to take you from me.”

comment a request to be tagged!

Next chapter coming Friday :)