#prison thing I forgot what the wall was

[thsc-confessions]

"I remember seeing a post here on Tumblr (or Twitter) where someone zoomed in on the rules of the wall and one of the rules that someone pointed out was 'no swearing'"

"And thanks to that I can't stop imagining Dmitri, Grigori or any guard on the wall saying like: "what the fudge?" Or "holy moly" whenever they are angry and want to swear"

"So, to the person who made that post. THANK YOU AS I LOVE AND HATE YOU, YOU ARE THE BEST" submitted by anon

[lucid-loves]

Reader getting kidnapped and tortured for information, when Simon and the team save the reader and take them back to base and Simon helps her recover mentally and physically, Simon swears to protect her at all costs? And they fall in love?! ❤️❤️

Thank you for waiting! 🤍

What a Time To Be Alive

Pairing: Ghost x POW!reader (fem!reader, 141!reader, callsign “Spite”)

Word Count: 13.7k, One-Shot

CW: strong language, angst, violence, scars, blood, wounds, killing, fluff, attraction, one-shot, reader POV and Ghost POV, minors DNI, EXPLICIT SMUT, P in V, passionate kisses, fingering, hickeys, mirror sex, passionate sex, gentleness, compliments, praise

Let me know if I missed any CWs.

Story Synopsis: You were caught by the enemy during a crucial mission. The 141 team had no choice but to leave you, thinking you were dead already. For a year and a half, you were held prisoner and tortured for information. When the 141 finally gets you back, Ghost volunteers to take care of you during your recovery, having felt responsible for your capture. Both of your feelings blossom into something more as you both realize how much you care about one another. 

You were dead. At least, that’s what everyone thought when they watched you get shot in the head. You didn’t blame them for leaving. You would have probably thought the same thing if it was one of them.

No, you were still alive. The metal plate that doctors put in your head after a bad car accident as a teenager saved your life. You were knocked out cold upon bullet impact, but still very much alive. Not that you were doing well, though. 

With a headache and tired eyes, you looked at your cold, stone wall marked with tally marks for the passing days. 547 days were marked, give or take. There were days where you didn’t wake up so you forgot to mark them. You didn’t wake up until some time after you were captured too. Those days weren’t marked.

Your stomach grumbled, making your body’s ache amplify all over. You couldn’t remember the last time your body didn’t hurt. What was once lean military muscle was now skin and bones. You were constantly hungry for food, a combination of you refusing to eat out of spite and being underserved overcooked rice to the point that it was just mush. 

They kept you weak. Underfed and dehydrated. It was probably a good thing they did because otherwise you would rip your warden apart with your bare hands. 

When you first came to after being captured, you had the honor to meet your warden right away. A man that was on the hit list for the 141, Bill Porakov. but made a surprise appearance at the mission. He was the one that lifted his gun just as everyone was boarding the helicopter to go home. 

It was one of the memories you still remembered so vividly. The dirt kicking up from the ground, the blades whipping around the wind, the look back you happened to give by chance before the gun went off. You saw the aim. You traced it back. And before the bullet could hit him, you had pushed Ghost hard. The last sight you saw of them was Ghost falling forward towards the chopper, the rest of the team that was already grabbing his arms to pull him in. 

You saw the brief expressions he gave you when he looked back. At first, he was annoyed, but it didn’t take long for his annoyance to morph into pure horror as the bullet meant for him hit your skull.

When you awoke, you were strapped to a chair. Your head pounded, you were in your underwear, and you were meeting your warden. 

No matter what he did, you never talked. Even when he cut your skin with knives. Even when he dislocated your jaw with a hammer. Even when he took your pinkie finger and a few of your teeth, you never talked. All you did was give a human snarl, angry firecrackers in your eyes.  

It wasn’t until the third month when he realized that nothing was going to make you talk that he switched tactics to solitary confinement. He came by every now and then to try physical torture again. Waterboarding, electric shock. 

It felt like he did it more so for fun than to fish information out of you after a certain point. 

You snapped to attention when you heard whispers down the hall. A few guards were whispering to each other. Trying to ignore the pain of your body, you attempted to eavesdrop. 

“-said to be extra careful today. Maintenance work will have the cameras down for a little bit.”

“Like anything is gonna happen. Her brain is too scrambled to do anything. You know what she did last week?”

“What?”

“She threw her food out. Managed to sling the bowl through the bars and shattered the thing. Then, she just sat in the corner. Didn’t even realize that the food she got was actually good that day. The bitch is paranoid and out of it. One too many things to that thick skull of hers.”

“Damn, really? When do think the warden is gonna let her go now that she’s fucked in the head?”

“Probably never. After that incident was reported, he just shrugged. Said she was still a prize, even starving.”

As the guards approached your cell, you pretended that you were asleep. It wasn’t hard to do since you often found yourself pretending to be asleep to avoid guard confrontation. When you heard the sound of your cell door unlocking and opening, you stirred as if just becoming awake. 

“Dinner. Don’t make me clean your mess like last week.”

You slowly got up and limped towards the silver tray, your porcelain dishware exchanged for silver since last week. 

You threw the food against the wall last week because it looked good. Too good. You did get paranoid and thought it was poisoned. A last meal. You didn’t care if it made you look crazy. In fact, you liked how they thought you went crazy. They would underestimate you, especially now that the time was right for your plan. 

On your tray was the usual mush of rice mixed together with cut deli meat. The smallest amount of protein and carbs that would make the grumbling stop, but your body still weak. 

Slowly, you ate, trying to ignore the fact that you had to eat with your fingers that were covered in sweat and dirt. They only let you take a cold shower once a month. One that only lasted thirty seconds. 

God, you hoped that today really would be the day you could start your plans of escape. 

“Prison Fight in Cell Block D! Personnel in Cell Block E and F report to Cell Block D immediately!” a strong voice announced over the speakers just as one of the guards was relocking your cell. They both sighed, but then hurried out to see what the commotion was. 

Except, they forgot to lock your door properly. You’ve gotten used to all the sounds of the prison like a pattern. The sound of your cell door locking was a familiar that never missed, until today. Waiting a few minutes, you made sure that the guards were gone and busy. If this was going to work, you had to be careful. Play your cards right.

You were lucky that you were Cell Block F’s only prisoner. 

Slowly, you pushed the door to avoid the whining creak it always gave. Slipping through, you could feel your hands shake and your head spin. Jesus, you were in bad shape. This was the most amount of moving you had done in a while. 

Carefully, you headed down the hall toward the front desk of the block. Luck really was on your side today. As you peeked through the door window, you noticed that there was no one manning the desk. All that was left was a radio, a cell phone, a transmitter, a computer, and walkie talkies on chargers. You pushed the door open, the task taking more effort than it should have, and you picked up the phone. 

Dialing the secret number you knew by heart, you prayed that it would go through. It rang several times before you reached a voicemail prompt. You nearly wept when you heard Kate’s voice asking you to leave a message. You missed her.

Your voice cracked as you tried to summon it. It’s been a long time since you’ve used it for talking. Nowadays you’ve only used it for screaming. It was hoarse and broken. It hurt to speak. “Th-This is Spite. 5286. I’ve been a prisoner all this time. I-I don’t know where. I haven’t seen the light of day. . .”

“Please, bring me home. If that can’t happen. . .”

You swallowed hard and thought about your next words carefully. “I will hold out for two weeks. If no one comes for me, then I will take my own life by taking Bill Porakov’s life. I won’t go to the other side empty handed.”

Leaving the message at that, you hung up, erased the call history, and cautiously retreated back to your cell. Crawling into your concrete slab of a bed, you curled up and closed your eyes. You felt your cheeks become wet as you now waited for someone or no one to help you. 

Just before you began to drift off. You heard sounds coming down your hallway again. Heavy footsteps that identified your visitor. The warden. 

You felt his eyes on you, sizing you up in the corner of your cell. When he attempted to unlock the door, he noticed that it was unlocked already. Instead of becoming angry at his employees, he simply began to laugh. The other guards nervously began to join in. “Unlocked door and still a stationary prisoner. Have you lost hope finally? Good. It’ll make taming you a lot easier.”

~

The 141 team was getting out of a meeting. A boring one. One that went over statistics and facts about their own work that nearly put them to sleep. They never really cared about their accomplishments or results from a numbers perspective. Besides that, all the accomplishments they made nowadays felt tasteless. Ever since you died, all of their success never felt as good as before. 

The team was quiet, walking through base together under a bright afternoon sun. Soap was the first to speak in that thick Scottish accent of his. “How about the bar tonight, lads? I could go for a drink.”

There was no answer for a moment, everyone hesitant to accept the offer. The last time they went out to the usual bar, they did have a good time. Until Ghost glanced over at what used to be your chair. He always did that when he went out to the bar. When he noticed the absence, everybody else did too. 

Ghost took your death the hardest. You gave your life to save his. It was a debt that he could never repay. Besides that, you were one of the best of them. The wittiest sense of humor, the most encouraging and supportive in and outside the battlefield. The best cook too when you were sick of the base’s cafeteria food. 

Drinking only made him forget about you for a short while, but it was always an offer he took up when he was invited out to the bar. “Sure, Johnny.”

“Count me in then too.” Gaz chimed in. Price nodded as well, the both of them having had formulated a plan for the next bar outing. Something that would hopefully bring all of them a little more closure, especially Ghost. 

They were going to propose a memorial. They held one a week after you died, yet it didn’t feel quite right. It was too formal. Too stiff. It was organized by the military. Ghost didn’t even go. They needed to organize one themselves. One that you would approve of better.

They just had to make sure Ghost would attend. A discussion that would be saved for the bar tonight.

Just before Soap could open his mouth to say something, Price spotted Kate running full speed towards them, tears streaming down her face. She was shaking and breathing so hard that it looked like she was close to a panic attack. 

“Kate?! What’s wrong? What happened?” Price already began to ask, the team ready to spring into action. 

She took a few deep breaths, working up the courage to reveal the truth that almost had her faint when she first heard it. “S-Spite. . . She’s alive. . . She’s alive!”

Ghost felt his heart drop. His blood ran contradictory temperatures. Hot and cold. His breath was stuck in his lungs. He lost color under his mask. Then, he clenched his teeth. No, this couldn’t be true. You got shot in the head. There was no way you could have survived that.

“Are you sure Kate? How do you know?” Price calmly tried to reason, not wanting to hold out for false hope either.

Laswell just nodded and opened her phone. In a single tap, your voice came out broken but alive. 

The team was frozen as they listened to your cry for help followed by your fearless determination. If they had any doubts before that it was really you, those doubts no longer existed as you said something only you would say. That you wouldn’t die empty handed. 

“Spite. . . you spiteful bastard. . .” Soap choked, not afraid to shed a tear. 

Kate put her phone back in her pocket and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “I’ll have my people trace the call back to the location.”

Price nodded before turning to his men. “Gear up! We got a soldier to save!”

As soon as the order was given, Ghost left the group to go to his room in the barracks. He had to pack. His mind was racing as he began taking a few extra socks from his dresser. He could hardly believe it. You were alive. You, the person always on his mind even after all this time had passed, was still living. 

He couldn’t imagine the shit you were going through. And he felt like it was his fault.

No matter what, he promised himself, he would bring you back home. Even if it cost him his life this time. 

~

You didn’t know how many days had passed. Porakov took you out of your solitary cell to keep in a new prison located in his office. It was a beautiful office with fresh flowers, polished furniture, and a white carpet. In your new cell, a modern door that needed keycard access locked you in the room. The room was all white except for one wall made out of bullet-proof glass for Porakov’s viewing pleasure. 

Somehow, you missed your old cell. 

As you sat in the corner of your new room, you watched Porakov through the glass. He was chatting with someone new. Someone that looked out of place with their white coat and round glasses. A doctor perhaps?

Your captor finally looked at you, making your skin crawl. He gave a malicious grin like a wolf that trapped its prey. The stranger looked at you too, a curious quirk in his brow.

They approached your door, unlocked it, and stepped inside. You kept to the corner, shrinking yourself as much as you could. “Well? What do you think? Can you do it?”

The doctor examined you further, adjusting his glasses on his face. “I think so. It’s going to take some time, though. Can you have this room ready for me within two hours with everything I need?”

“We actually have everything ready to roll out.” The warden smirked before leaning into his walkie talkie and summoning workers to bring out rolling tables of medical equipment into the room. 

You watched with steel eyes as they set the room up with all the medical equipment. A metal slab as if it came from a vet’s room took up the center. Microchips, a bonesaw, scalpels, and tweezers decorated the various trays. It took nearly no time at all to get whatever torture method Porakov planned set up. 

The doctor began to sanitize his hands. “Such diligence isn’t even demonstrated in regular hospitals.”

“This is a special day.” Your captor responded before leaving the room only to watch behind the glass. As the doctor approached, you braced yourself like a cornered wild animal. 

The doctor eased back, treating you as such. “It’s alright. I’m going to fix you up. Make you feel better. You want that, don’t you? I know you’ve been in pain for a long time.”

“Don’t fucking touch me.” You simply warned, refusing to believe a single word he said. If he was working for Porakov, that was enough of a reason not to trust him. No self-respecting doctor would even entertain the idea of working for a vile man like him. 

The doctor frowned at your disobedience. “If you fight this, it’s going to hurt way more.”

As his hand inched closer to you, you sprung forward and attempted to bite. He pulled back just in time before you could bite a finger off. He cursed and turned to the glass. “You said she was broken!”

“Seems like she still has a little fight left in her. Apologies, doctor. It’s okay if you have to be rough with her. Teach her who’s boss.” The warden simply encouraged.

With a sigh, he revealed a small gun strapped to his belt. It wasn’t a regular gun. It was a tranquilizer gun. Realizing what was about to happen, you tried to get to your feet as quickly as you could, but it was too late. Your lack of proper body care made you lose your balance. A sharp pain hit your shoulder, a dart sticking out of you. Your vision already began to haze over, your body feeling heavier than ever before. Whatever was in the tranquilizer was enough to make you ragdoll, but not enough to put you to sleep. 

They wanted you awake for this.

Your limp body was lifted onto the table, giving Porakov a clear view of the show that was about to begin. 

It felt like you were beginning to disassociate. Tears escaped as you wished that you were dead instead of being here. Being treated like a rabid animal and a personal show made you sick. Dying alone in your cell would be better than this. 

Something caught Porakov’s attention for a moment. He seemed to be yelling at someone. It looked urgent. Before he left to handle business, he told the doctor to continue his work.

The doctor simply shrugged and focused back on you. He took a scalpel and began to make an incision along the palm of your hand. You felt the chill of the blade meet your hot blood, nerves going off as if you were touching a hot stove. You hissed and groaned at the pain, refusing to give him anymore than this if you could help it. 

But then, he began to dig around under your skin using the tweezers, shredding nerves and muscles like pulling apart thread. As he pinched your nerves directly, you screamed. A bloodcurdling scream that ripped apart your vocal chords. 

Ignoring your cries, he took a microchip and settled it between your flesh. It suddenly clicked for you. He was rewiring you. Finding your nerves like hidden wires to connect to microchips that were programmed to do god knows what to your body. 

Your mind went berserk, screaming at you to get out of there. To fight back. Adrenaline fought tranquilizer for control as your hand was being ripped apart from the inside. Your heart beated within your ears as you find the energy to grab a spare scalpel from the tray and swipe it along the doctor’s neck, letting gravity and momentum carry out your attack.

You heard the sound of him choking on blood, his tools clattering to the floor as he struggled to get his bleeding under control. Rolling off the table, you hit the ground hard with your hip. The breath that was knocked out of you made your head spin. You used to take most pain like a champ. Now, everything felt like your were getting hit by a truck. 

It didn’t stop you from trying to reorientate yourself, your bleeding, open hand clutching your head. When you finally managed to stand back up, the doctor was staggering to get out of the room. Taking advantage of his state of weakness, you took the bonesaw and prepared to ruin his hand like he tried to do to yours.

The doctor stumbled onto the pristine carpet of Porakov, staining it with his blood. As you got closer with the saw, his gurgles became more strained. Begging for mercy. Adrenaline was kicking in full swing now as you became engulfed in rageful flames. You took a flower vase to your left and threw it, hitting him square in the knees. While he was knocked down, you stepped on one of his wrists.

He had no choice but to take it unless he wanted to bleed out, his other hand still holding the wound. Without remorse, you began sawing off his left hand. Within a few seconds, you didn’t even hear the strained mixture of gurgles and screams anymore. You didn’t hear anything anymore as you just sawed away, taking out your time of suffering out on someone you thought deserved to die.

By the time the hand was detached, the doctor was already long gone. Your hands were shaking and you were exhausted. Everything was still mute, the sound of your heavy breath taking over your ears. 

It was the smell of gunpowder that snapped your attention to the exit. It was an undeniable scent. Something big was going on. Perhaps you were finally getting rescued.

You took a step towards the door before stopping altogether, the door suddenly slammed open to reveal a bloody, panicked Porakov. He clutched his side that was staining his uniform in blood. The strap he usually carried was missing. 

Adrenaline came rushing back as you were presented with your chance for revenge. Your step forward brought his attention to you. His eyes widened in fear. The animal was out of her cage. 

Behind him, heavy footsteps approached. The door slammed open again, this time revealing a face that you never thought you’d get to see again. Blue eyes behind a dark skull. Your heart almost collapsed in on itself as you took him in. Even with the black paint around his eyes, you could tell that he was tired despite the rage. 

Most of his anger melted away as Ghost saw you. Dehydrated and malnourished beyond belief. Bloody and sunken in. Eyes full of a mix of emotions that he wished he could ask about.

You looked back at your warden, shaking in his boots like a coward. This pathetic man that tortured you to the point of such weakness was now silently praying for mercy. 

“Hold him down for me.” You ordered Ghost, your voice darker than the depths of the ocean. 

He didn’t think you should be exerting yourself over anything, but he couldn’t bring himself to deny your order. You needed this. He wanted to give it to you.

A bullet hit Porakov’s knee, making sure he wouldn’t struggle too much for what you were about to do. As he screamed, Ghost settled himself in his office chair, tying him down with some spare duct tape he always kept on him. 

You approached the desk, steadying yourself with your hands. Your left hand was beginning to feel numb by the second, nerves shredded like old newspaper after using both hands to work the saw. Your right hand was missing your pinkie finger. 

“I’m going to make you wish you’ve never been born.” You simply stated, taking back up the bonesaw. Ghost silently watched you bring the serrated blades down on Porakov’s fingers, amazed that your desire for revenge was enough to give your body energy. He supposed that that was one of the things he missed about you. Your unwavering determination to see something through. 

For this, you made sure to tune in in order to hear all the cries your warden had as you took all of his fingers. It was a sound you dreamed of hearing. This moment was what you’ve been waiting for. 

Yet, your heart seemed to remain empty as you watched his fingers fall to the rug. You didn’t stop until all of his fingers were gone, but it all still felt so hollow. You thought if you could get your revenge, you would get your closure. So why wasn’t this as enjoyable as you thought it would be?

Sobs filled the space when you were done. The man you resented shriveled in his seat as he wept for his lost body parts. You clenched your jaw, feeling yourself fill with a cold, angry flame. “Lock him in the cell over there.”

“Wh-What?! Y-You can’t! What about food and water?!” He began to shout, squirming in his chair as Ghost rolled him into the cell. You were lucky that he couldn’t care less about doing the military-right thing. To both of you, this was the right thing to do.

“You are going to die cold, sad, and alone in that cell. I’ll guarantee it.” You promised, watching Ghost situate him in the far corner. He noticed the medical tools scattered around along with the metal medical table. The thought of you strapped down, screaming and losing pieces of your life with each cut made him want to beat the shit out of Porakov. But, it wasn’t what you wanted for him. 

He left and closed the room before giving you space to lock it. As the both of you looked through the glass, taking one last sight of Porkav, you said your final goodbye. “Fuck you, Warden.”

Ghost followed behind as you began to leave, your adrenaline dying back down much faster than you expected. You were downright lethargic when you closed the door to the office, locking it behind you. “Break that shit. Make sure it will be locked for good.”

“Spi-”

“Now, Simon!” You snapped, not meaning to take your pain out on him. In response, he bit his tongue and followed your order. He just wished he could hear you call his name without so much hurt behind it.

As you heard him break the locking mechanism, you leaned against the wall, your vision swirling. Everything began to get hazy and dark, something pulling you into either death or sleep. You couldn’t fight it this time, your body exhausted from all the fighting you’ve spent months doing. 

Ghost turned around as soon as he heard your body hit the floor, out cold. “Spite? Y/n?!”

He took you up in his arms and felt your pulse. Slow, but alive. He didn’t know where your blood began and enemy blood ended. You were so much lighter than what he remembered too.

It should’ve been him to get caught.

Carrying you in his arms, he radioed for evac. This time, you would get on that helicopter and be taken home, safe and sound. He would make sure of it.

~

You didn’t wake up for a while. A long while. By the time you did, you were a fraction into recovering from surgeries already. They fixed up your hand as best the doctors could, they got you on IVs and nourishment. They even had a dentist come in to replace any missing teeth. 

The only thing they couldn’t fix or replace was your pinkie finger. That was something you had to live with for the rest of your life now. A constant reminder of what happened. At least you could wear certain clothes to cover up your numerous scars. It was impossible to comfortably hide a missing finger. 

Ghost never left your room. Everyone took turns visiting you, even in your unconscious state. He stayed, though, the entire time. 

He did everything for you that the nurses couldn’t. Making sure you were comfortable with blankets and pillow changes, making sure you had fresh flowers in your hospital room. He even played music he knew you liked, just in case you could somehow hear the world around you. 

Anything to make up for being the one to take his bullet, he would do.

It was a sight for sore eyes when you finally opened them and saw him. Your throat was parched and sore, but you still spoke out to get his attention from a book he was reading. “Ghost?”

“Spite.” He immediately looked up. Jesus, you could cry. In fact, you did start to cry. 

Tears began to travel down your cheeks. “I. . . I thought I’d never see you again. . .”

He took your right hand in his, a gesture that he has never done before, but not unwelcome. His hand was large, warm, and. . . perfect. “Me too, dove. We thought we lost you.”

“I did get shot in the head.” You justified, already trying to bring some easiness back with some dark humor. 

Ghost missed your humor so much. It was easy to match. “You’ll have to show me how to do that party trick.”

You gave a short snicker. “You just gotta get a metal plate installed in your head. Wouldn’t recommend it, though. Hurts like hell.”

He finally gave a laugh, the first time since he lost you. Squeezing your hand tighter, he prepared the words that he actually wanted to say for when you woke up. “You took that bullet for me. It should have been me, but you took it. I-”

You interrupted him, already knowing where this was going. “Stop. You would’ve done the same for any of us. That’s what it means to trust each other with our lives. You don’t owe me shit for it, okay?”

Before Ghost could reply, the door to your hospital room opened. Your nurse stepped in with some new IV bags and blankets. She was taken aback as she noticed that you were awake. It didn’t take long for the doctor to rush in and for Ghost to get kicked out. 

While he waited, he contacted the team to let them know that you were finally awake. They wasted no time in rushing over to see how you were doing, eager to see who they thought was dead. As soon as the doctor gave them the all clear, you were bombarded with the affection of your team. 

For a moment, it made you forget about the horrors of your capture. 

The fun was spoiled when the doctor came back into the room. The immediate question on everyone’s mind was regarding your stay.

“How long until I can get discharged?” You asked, eager to go back home without thinking too much about it. After the words left your mouth though, you realized that you probably didn’t have a home to go back to. Shit, all of your stuff was probably gone since you were declared dead. . . 

“If everything goes smoothly, we can send you out tomorrow. However, you’ll need a lot of time to recover. We’re going to recommend physical therapy, some new medications, and a therapy recommendation. What you went through is something you should process with time. Do you have anyone that could help take care of you at home?”

You became silent and bit your lip. Before you were assumed to be dead, you didn’t really get along with your family. Knowing your family, they probably rejoiced over your death before immediately going over your will. You would’ve loved to be a fly on that wall. 

And now that you were apparently still alive, you wondered how they would respond to asking for your stuff back. That was going to be something.

With no family, no home, and a list of things to do now that you were back, you began to get a headache. Just as you were about to explain the situation, though, Ghost chimed up.

“I’ll take care of her.”

Your eyes widened at the idea of Ghost being by your side for essentially twenty-four hours a day. “I already told you that you don’t owe me shit.”

He shook his head. “I’m not volunteering because of guilt.”

Now Price was the one to speak up. “It won’t have to be all on Ghost. We can take turns visiting and keeping an eye on you. Hell, we’ll take care of the hard tasks too while you recover.”

Feeling your headache become stronger triggered by new stress, you give up quickly. You were too tired to argue. “Fine.”

“Great! We’ll continue to monitor you and ensure you’ll be ready for discharge soon.”

~

You awkwardly waited in Ghost’s car as he prepared your wheelchair. Your legs were weak, but not unusable. For a brief moment, you argued with him about using a cane to help you walk. He was pretty insistent that you still took it very easy to the point that it was hard to say no.

Once he opened your car door, you got into the chair and looked up at the tall apartment complex. You wondered which floor was Ghost’s as he wheeled you in. 

“You’ll be using my room while I sleep on the pullout couch. If you need help getting around anywhere, just ask. Price and Kate will visit later to discuss some options.” He explained as if he was going through a checklist. 

“Options?”

He shrugged. “Job options. Living options.”

As he pushed you into the elevator, you began to panic. Job options? Did they intend on letting you go? Yeah, you were pretty fucked at the moment, but you just needed some time to get back in shape. You really don’t want to lose your job. Despite everything that happened, you still wanted to be part of the team. 

With each ding of the elevator indicating a passing floor, you got more and more nervous. Ghost looked down at you, noticing how hard you were gripping your seat. His eyes couldn’t help but notice your missing finger on one hand and limp strength for the other. A sting in his chest had him look away.

He wasn’t letting you live with him out of guilt, but he was still sorry that this happened to you.

The elevator doors finally opened on the highest floor, revealing a long hallway leading to only a few doors. At the farthest end of the corridor, Ghost reached the apartment. A blast of refreshing A/C hit your senses first. The further he wheeled you in, the more you began to notice more.

His whole place was tidy and organized, a fact that contradicted what you remember about him. From what you remember, the guy was a mess. His desk at work was always crowded with paperwork, empty mugs of tea, and sticky notes meant to remind him on what to do next. 

The sweet smell of pipe tobacco and vanilla spread across the environment, a few plug-in air fresheners scattered around. It made your anxiety melt as you became more familiar with the scent you used to smell everyday on Ghost. 

He parked you near his polished dining table and placed a laptop in front of you. Your old laptop. “I’m gonna get some lunch started. I figure that you want some time to see what you missed?”

You nodded and booted up the laptop with your better hand. Your hand with damaged nerves needed some therapy focus before it could be fully functional again. “Thanks, Ghost. I appreciate this.”

“Of course.” He responded as he wandered off into his kitchen. A little window viewing the dining room allowed him to monitor you while he cooked. As we figured out what to make, he stared at you from a distance.

Color was returning back to your face. You were still light, but he would put some meat back on those bones soon. There was a shine back in your eyes that brought him back to those fun nights at the bar with you. He remembered your smile, your laugh, your gaze.

He remembered how you used to talk about cooking, one of your favorite things to do, whenever he had a moment alone with you. It was one of the things that made you light up. Ghost would sit there for hours, listening to you talk about what you’ve made, what you want to make, a new technique you want to try, how you should be in charge of the mess hall.

Deciding lunch, he shifted his focus on cooking, already predicting that it wasn’t going to be half as good as your cooking.

While you heard the sound of pots and pans clanging together, your hands ached. There was a phantom knife in your hand, waiting to start chopping vegetables that didn’t exist. For a moment, you willed your hands to move like you were entering prep-mode. 

Your wrist quickly gave out within a few motions of pretend chopping. Not to mention that your left hand refused to curl your fingers in right. 

When will you be able to cook like you did again?

When will everything feel normal again?

The knock on the door snapped you out of your pity party. Ghost answered it and directed Price and Kate to you, as promised. Kate gave you a pearly smile and Price gave you a warm pat on the shoulder. 

They took their seats and then immediately dived into the grit. Ghost eavesdropped from the kitchen. “We don’t want to bullshit you, Spite. There are a lot of things that need to happen before you can return to your job. We can’t even give you desk duty until you do a few things first.”

You crossed your arms over her chest, not liking where this was going. “Like what?”

Kate passed over a manilla folder containing various paperwork sheets and tests. “First, we would need to interview you. Ask you about what happened while you were imprisoned.”

A scoff escaped your lips. “You wanna know if I opened my mouth about anything.”

“We know you didn’t and you never would. A team sent with us when we came to rescue you collected whatever evidence and intel they could get their hands on. They found recordings of your interrogations. We’re going through them now to make sure you kept certain things confidential.” Price reassured, already sensing that you were beginning to stress out.

You understood why it had to be done. It just made you sick to your stomach that your torture was being looked at solely for the purpose of checking to see if you were a good soldier. “Who’s reviewing the recordings?”

“Professionals. But they want your testimony too.” Kate vaguely elaborated, trying to move past this already.

You didn’t let up, though. Instead, you asked for something that shocked the both of them. Even Ghost who was chopping onions paused mid-cut. “Can I choose someone from the team to review them instead?”

“Why would you want that?”

“I don’t want a couple of strangers viewing something as intimate as my torture. I would rather have someone I know I can trust see those recordings.” You justified, not thinking much about the weight of that request. 

Kate and Price looked between each other, silently debating on if they should honor your request. There was a concern of conflict of interest, but then again, the 141 got a few special privileges. Price cleared his throat. “Who would you want to see the recordings?”

The obvious answer should have been Kate, but it wasn’t. In fact, you really didn’t want Kate to look at any part of your torture. You didn’t even think she could stomach it. She was capable and tough like the rest of you, but she worked more from the shadows to save her from horrendous bloodshed. 

There were only three people that you felt like could handle it. Price, Ghost, and yourself. Like hell they were going to let you see your own footage though. “Would you and Ghost mind?”

Price gave it some deep thought before nodding. “I can do it if that’s what you want. Ghost?”

Ghost wasn’t surprised that Price knew he was eavesdropping. “I’ll do it.”

Kate immediately closed that part of the conversation. “Well that’s that. Next, we have to retest you in multiple areas. Physical, mental, shooting range, the whole works. Some of the intelligence based tests can be done sooner, but the rest will have to wait until you are physically fit again.”

“That could take weeks.” You grumbled, already getting impatient with your recovery process. 

“We have time. Outside of work tasks, anything that should take priority in your personal life. Besides the basics, of course.” Price switched topics, hoping that will brighten your mood a little. 

You did like bossing them around when you had the chance. With a smirk, you began rattling off all the things you needed them to do for you. “Contact my lawyer and family. Gotta get that sorted out and hopefully get some stuff back if my folks haven’t tossed anything out yet. And if I don’t have to be the one to do it, the better. That’s probably the first major errand. Most of the other things will have to wait until the basics are done.”

“I do want my favorite brand of coffee here. Sorry, Ghost, but your coffee is shit.” You spoke a little louder, making sure that Ghost could hear you. Doing so made your throat already feel sore, but it was worth it when you got to here a chuckle back.

“Tell me how you really feel.” He smiled beneath the mask as he pushed the diced veggies into a large pot filled with chicken stock. The aroma of chicken soup was making you salivate. 

Kate and Price eased up from your humor too as they added your coffee request to their list. After a few more minutes of chatter, they said goodbye so you could enjoy lunch. It was a good thing too because you were hungry and your voice was getting sore.

Ghost finished up the simple chicken noodle soup. Carrots, onions, celery, leftover shredded chicken melded together in a stock that was sure to be nutritious yet easy on your recovering stomach. When he served you a bowl, you nearly cried at how good it looked. 

With a shaky hand, you lifted your spoon and took a taste. Before you knew it, you began to silently cry. Ghost, who returned to the table with his own bowl, began to panic at your tears. “It doesn’t taste good?”

“This is the best meal I’ve ever had.” You sobbed, recalling all of the shitty, bland food and starvation you had to deal with. To you, this simple chicken soup was heaven on earth. 

Ghost didn’t know what to say, think, or feel for a moment. He didn’t expect such high praise, even if your reasoning was something he could guess. He settled for a proud, simple response. “Thanks. Take your time.”

Silently, you ate, savoring every ounce of flavor that graced your tastebuds. The egg noodles were perfectly al dente, the carrots were tender, and the chicken pieces were easy to swallow. Miraculously, it sparked a deep hunger for more food. But, you still needed to take it easy. If you ate the portion size you did before capture now, you would lose such a delicious lunch. 

“Why did you choose me to review your footage?” Ghost suddenly asked, curiosity getting the better of him. He was content with watching you eat so gratefully, yet the memories of the conversation before lunch still haunted him.

Your hand stopped moving the spoon within the bowl. You didn’t expect him to ask something like that. Normally, he just followed orders. “I think you would handle seeing it better than others. Not gonna lie, there is probably some gnarly stuff on those tapes.”

His stomach twisted into knots at the mention. He would still do this for you, of course, but he probably wasn’t going to be as strong as you thought he was about it.

 It was your torture after all. 

~

Adjustment was going smoothly. There were some hiccups here and there, but you soon got used to Ghost taking care of you. He got used to relinquishing more control over to you as well. You quickly graduated to only needing a walking cane occasionally thanks to your dedication to physical therapy. Your hands needed more work, but at least you could get around the apartment with ease. 

When you earned your achievement of free walking, you got more bossy and impatient. It was something Ghost was able to handle it since you delivered it with humor and hard work, but he soon began to notice dips in your mood here and there. 

He has been adamant about sleeping on the couch while you took his room. Since you began walking, you have tried to change that sleeping arrangement to no avail. Everytime you looked at the couch, a brief flash of guilt went over your face. 

He would catch you looking at your hands a lot, willing them to do more than just twitch and shake. Your brow would furrow in frustration when you practiced holding different movements and weights. Occasionally, you would hiss from pain as you tried to force progress. It became routine for him to end up holding your hands to make sure you gave yourself a break. 

The other issue that was hard to resolve was your night terrors. Ghost thought his nightmares were bad, but they seemed like nothing compared to how you would scream in the middle of the night. It would always startle him awake. He would always rush to the door to calm you down. You would always tremble and cry in his arms. 

You couldn’t go back to sleep unless Ghost was with you, his arms tight around your body and holding you close to his chest. The sound of his heartbeat became a lullaby that always made you regain your breathing.

The more he took care of you, the more he began to notice things about you. He was getting closer to you than ever before as he spent time with you every day. Sure, he was looking out for you, but it didn’t feel like a chore. Having you live with him became such a natural sight to him. It was like you always belonged there. 

So it really unnerved him when he was finally called to review your footage. 

You said goodbye to him when he left for base. For the first time, you were alone. Ghost gave you strict instructions to take it easy, forbidding you from certain activities while he was gone. However, you paid no mind to his warning, eager to normalize your life even more. 

The feeling of the chef’s knife in your palm was a familiar weight that brought back so many memories. You had been wanting to get back into cooking earlier, but Ghost always scolded you and said you weren’t ready yet. 

You planned on proving him wrong by cooking dinner for tonight. Something simple and comforting. Pasta with a homemade sauce. 

Your dreams felt like they were shattering as you struggled to open the tomato can with the opener though. The strength it took made your hands ache almost immediately. Having the strength to push the weight of the blade down into the garlic was agony too. Even with a sharp knife, you were having such a hard time doing what was meant to be easy.

Only thirty minutes had passed after Ghost left when you ended up lying on the kitchen floor, crying for your hands to work again and for a life you lost. 

Meanwhile, Ghost was just arriving on base. He wondered if you were doing alright. He hoped you weren’t pushing yourself while he was gone. Damn, he should’ve asked Gaz or Soap to watch you. He didn’t want to treat you like a child, but he knew you well enough that you were probably doing something you weren’t supposed to. 

That’s how you got your call sign in the first place. 

“Lieutenant Ghost, you ready?” Price ushered him into a secured, private room. Soundproof, dark, and void of any windows. Various tapes sat on a table next to a small TV. Ghost grabbed a chair and settled in, trying to relax as much as he can. 

“Pay attention, try to stay unbiased, and keep this confidential. We can only talk about this with each other, Spite, and the investigation leaders.” Price ordered like a captain. Resolute and sharp. Despite the confidence in his voice, your captain was afraid. He didn’t want to see one of his best sergeants get tortured. 

Ghost was trying to steel himself for it too. “Yes, Captain.”

With that, Price hit play and took the small seat next to Ghost. The footage began with the first day you were captured. You were stirring unconscious, strapped to a chair, and bleeding out of the side of your head where you got shot. The scene already had Ghost simmering with rage and sorrow.

He watched as you woke up, met your warden, and then immediately took a molar from you with swift punches to the jaw. He watched you spit the blood back in his face, growl threats he could never repeat, and then have your knees shattered with a sledgehammer. 

It was clear that it hurt. That it was agony. The way your lungs gasped for air. The way you bit back your screams only to echo within your throat. The way you lost consciousness for a moment only to wake up from immense pain as they cut you. 

And yet, you didn’t say a word. You never mentioned your name. Never revealed who you were with and why. You didn’t let anything get past your locked lips.

Porakov punished your resilience with more torture. Ten minutes in and it was already getting too much for Ghost to handle. How could anyone survive this? How did you? 

His stomach turned as he watched the day you lost your pinkie finger. You were getting noticeably weaker and skinnier with each new day on the tape. Your knee was still healing. Porakov only took advantage of this as he pushed you around. 

None of his questions got answers. Not a single one. Not even when the gardening shears pinched around your delicate finger. 

Ghost almost threw up when he witnessed the final cut. You screamed, but you didn’t cry. You never did. At least, not in front of Porakov. It wasn’t until everyone left you in the cell that you let your pain turn into tears. And it absolutely broke his heart.

Feeling lightheaded, Ghost began to reach for the pause button on the TV. Price beat him to it, though. “I think that’s enough for today. Thought I could sit through what I allotted for this, but this is hard to watch. Even for me. Sorry, Lieutenant.”

After scheduling the next time to watch more footage, Ghost rushed back to his car to drive home. How could he have left you home by yourself after everything that’s been done to you?! You stayed optimistic and humorous most of the time, but there was no way you were really okay. No one would be okay if they went through what you went through.

There was still months of footage left to sift through.

Not caring about the risks of getting pulled over, Ghost sped along the highway leading back home. He began trying to call you, hoping that your new phone that the team got you was working fine. 

When you didn’t answer, he tried again, the pit in his soul becoming darker and bigger. He shouldn’t have left you home alone. 

He stopped trying after the tenth calling attempt. Instead, he focused on speeding faster. He got back to the apartment within record time. When he slammed the door open, he began looking for you.

His terror amplified as he found you on the kitchen floor, knife laying next to you and dinner prep unfinished. Your cheeks were stained with tears and your eyes were staring off into the distance. The light in your eyes was gone. Just like the day you ordered for your warden to be killed.

You didn’t remember when the panic attack started. Somewhere in the middle of your grief perhaps. It completely crippled you. Plunged you into such a horrible memory that you were desperately trying to forget. Your breath was stolen and your heart ached as if you pushed a knife into it. 

Afterwards, you dissociated. You couldn’t register the cold tiles beneath you. You couldn’t remember what you were doing in the first place. You didn’t even hear your phone go off or Ghost rushing into the house. 

Warmth stirred you back to the land of the living, Ghost’s arms wrapping tight around you. An unfamiliar sensation buried into the crook of your neck. The feeling of light stubble and shaky breaths. It was then that you realized that he had taken off his mask to bury his face into you. 

Slowly, you wrapped your sore arms around his broad shoulders. The natural, sweet scent of you just made him feel the need to hold you tighter. Closer. 

He never wanted to leave your side again. 

“Is this hug for me? Or for you?” You half-joked, returning to your usual self with a sore voice. 

His shoulders relaxed as he heard your question. Relief soon morphed into anger as he realized that you tried to do without him there. It was hard for him to keep his voice from rising. “I told you to take it easy. I thought something happened to you.”

You flinched back, not expecting to be scolded so soon. “I just thought-”

“The only thoughts you should be having is about recovering.” He pulled back from the hug, allowing you to really see his face up close. 

You had only seen his face a couple of times before your capture. You had served with the 141 for under a year, so it made sense why you didn’t get to see it often. But now that you could really get a good look, your heart skipped a beat and a blush slowly crept along your cheeks. 

His eyes were much brighter without the mask already. Flecks of black warpaint revealed blond lashes that matched his light locks. His jaw looked like it was carved from quartz and a few scars only gave character to his strong features. 

Fuck, your old, childish crush on him was beginning to resurface at the worst possible moment.

You swallowed hard and averted your gaze. The hammering of your heart made it hard to figure out what to say next. “Sorry. . .”

Ghost gave a deep sigh, raking a large hand through his hair. Seeing the guilt in your eyes made him feel like he fucked up. He shouldn’t be making you feel like this. “No, Spite. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

Not only that, but seeing your tapes followed by you not answering the phone and then looking dead on the floor had him think the worst. Though, he wasn’t ready to saddle you with that burden. You needed comfort and stability. 

Gently, he cupped your cheek, guiding your gaze back up to his. Your breath hitched as he did, his touch now feeling like electricity. “What were you trying to make?”

“Pasta. . .” 

“You really want to get back into cooking?”

At that, you gave a firm nod. It would be something that would make you feel better. Normal. Even if it was just for a moment. You really needed to create something with your hands. 

Ghost couldn’t deny you. Not when you made such a beautifully, determined expression.  

Carefully, he stood up and helped you get back on your feet. The knife on the floor was put into the sink. A new chef’s knife was placed in your hand. Before you could ask what he was doing, he positioned you in front of the cutting board, stood close behind you to the point where your back was touching his chest, and he held his hands over yours. “Let me know if you start to hurt. You can lean back on me if you need it too.”

Now your heart was really racing. The whirlwind shift of emotions made you lightheaded. How could you switch from a panic attack to feeling lovesick? How could you still have a crush on him after all this time? 

It took you a moment to relax under his touch and allow him to use your hands to cut the garlic. The heat of his chest seeped into your back as he cautiously guided the cooking process with you in the middle. When he spoke up, his voice so close to your ear, you nearly fainted. “You feeling alright?”

“Y-Yeah. . . I’m fine. Thanks, Ghost.” You stuttered out, feeling embarrassed by the proximity. 

“You know, you can call me Simon when it’s just me and you, dove.” He allowed, feeling the heat of your own body rise against his chest. He couldn’t see your face clearly, but he could tell that your ears were turning red. 

It stirred something deep within himself.

Your brain short-circuited when he gave you permission to use his real name. You had only used it when you needed him to understand your serious intentions. It wasn’t something you took lightly. Now, he wanted you to call him that more intimately. 

At first, you didn’t know if you could bring yourself to do it. You couldn’t until you realized that all of the cloves of garlic were minced perfectly, your hands still able to take a little more cooking. “Seriously. Thank you, Simon.”

His heart leapt when you used his name like he wanted. “Of course, dove. Anything for you.” 

Simon didn’t move an inch away from you until everything was ready to get tossed onto the stove. When the prep work was done, you had excused yourself to go rest, allowing him to finish dinner. 

He let you go, but he really didn’t want to. He could never let you go now. Especially not when you were definitely blushing over him. 

It wasn’t that you needed rest from cooking. You needed rest from Simon. A minute to get your heartbeat under control. This wasn’t like you. You were confident, resilient, strong, spiteful. Not gooey and bashful. 

Only Ghost could make you feel this way. 

You had a crush on him when you first met the team. It was the air of mystery that drew you to him first. His sense of humor, confidence, and intelligence that matched yours drew you in deeper. He had said that he was actually quite handsome under the mask, and you believed him during that time. 

That’s all you tried to leave it at, though. A silly little crush. Being in the presence of a strong, muscular, and confident man would make anyone feel weak in the knees. That’s what you told yourself when you were stomping out your feelings for the sake of professionalism. 

It worked too. After snuffing out that crush, you grew to be a friend to him. He trusted you more and you trusted him. There was nothing in the world that would make you trade over the friendship you had with him. With anyone on your team. It was the right thing to do at the time and it still was. 

So why the hell were you falling in love with him all over again?

~

You chalked it up to being locked up for too long. Of course your heart would begin to sway towards Ghost. He’s been taking care of you and you’ve been living with him and he’s the first man you’ve been spending time with. Now that you realize this, snuffing out your feelings again shouldn’t be so hard.

Keyword: Shouldn’t.

Ghost made it really difficult for you to maintain some space from him. You have been adamant about healing through cooking. He’s been adamant about being with you every step of the way. Holding you between his arms in case you feel faint, guiding your hands when you don't have the strength, speaking directly into your ear when he wants to talk to you. 

Everytime he came back from base, his clinginess increased tenfold. You knew that he was coming back from watching your footage. But you didn’t want to be pitied or the center of any guilt he may have. 

“How are you feeling? Are you ready for your interview, dove?” Simon hovered near his bedroom door, watching you stare at your reflection in the mirror. You have been looking a lot better after these couple of months. You gained a wealthy weight, you were getting around much better, and some of your strength returned to your muscles. 

It was still a ways to go before you could go out onto the field again, but it was a good start. Besides the night terrors that still haunted you, you were beginning to look like your old self.

At least, that’s what it looked like to him. You, on the other hand, were beginning to stress about how you looked. It felt good for your body to be getting back on the right track, yet you found imperfections. Things you had to be patient about such as your hair. 

The doctors had to cut it in order to put a new metal plate back in your head. Your hair was growing back decently fast, but not fast enough to your liking. Besides the hair, you were covered in scars that weren’t fading anytime soon. Probably never with how deep they went. 

“Dove?”

Simon snapped you out of your stupor. “H-Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m ready to go.”

“That’s not what I asked. You can talk to me about anything, you know?” Simon stepped forward, hoping to cure your sudden anxiety. 

“Sorry, just a little distracted I guess.” You brushed off. It would be embarrassing to tell him how you felt ugly right now. The last thing you wanted to do was fish for compliments too. 

Simon knew you were lying, but he dropped it. Instead, he followed you out of the apartment and drove you to the interview. On the way there, you let the radio fill the silence between the two of you.

He gripped the steering wheel tight, wondering why the hell you were so distant from him all of a sudden. The two of you were getting along great when you first arrived. Now, you were locking yourself up in his bedroom a lot more, speaking to him less, and had your head in the clouds when he was trying to talk to you. 

Did he do something wrong? Make you feel bad about something? He thought you liked him.

The car pulled up onto the base, a place you haven’t seen for a long time. Everything looked like how you remembered. Military grays, greens, and browns. Recruits jogging around. The smell of cigarette smoke in the air. It almost seemed like nothing had changed.

Price greeted you halfway to the interview and then escorted you to it. It was the same room they used to examine your footage, the tapes finally over. You sat in a seat across from a woman in a business suit. 

Price and Simon were ordered to stay out in the hall and wait. As they waited for you, Simon thought about getting back in your good graces. 

“She alright? She seemed more quiet than usual on the walk.” Price suddenly spoke up, also curious about the trouble in paradise. 

“Don’t know. She hasn’t told me anything about what’s been bothering her.” He confessed, an annoyed tone lacing with his words. 

The captain hummed in thought. “Has she taken that offer to see a therapist?”

“Nope. Only the physical therapist. You think she needs it?” 

“It wouldn’t hurt. I think it would be good for her to really unpackage everything that went down before we put a gun back in her hands. Someone that’s a professional.”

Simon gave it some thought. As much as he wanted to be the one you turned to to talk about your feelings, he agreed that you would most likely feel better talking to a professional. He wasn’t necessarily equipped to provide both comfort and trauma solving. 

Hell, he probably needs therapy too.

He figured that he would suggest the idea when the two of you return home. Let you sleep on it. 

You exited the room after about an hour. The interview took much longer than you expected, but they were thorough. No detail was to be left unspoken. It was a wonder how you managed to talk about everything that happened without breaking down. Perhaps it was because you did really want your job back. The more capable you seemed, the more likely they would give it to you.

After a quick stop visiting Gaz and Soap, Simon took you back to the apartment. You entered the space so naturally that it felt like it was your home. Simon even let you buy some decor to make the place more comfortable for you that you could take to your new apartment, whenever that would be available. 

Before Simon could invite you to sit on the couch with him for a moment to talk, you had already closed the door to the bedroom. The interview left you tired. It was still taking a while to get your voice used to talking again. 

As you crossed the space, you noticed your reflection in the mirror. You looked the same from when you left. Maybe a little bit more exhausted, but still the same, unflattering body you wished was completely back to normal already.

There was a soft knock on the door. You didn’t register it as you just sat on the floor, looking at your reflection and wondering what you could do to make yourself feel pretty again. Since you didn’t answer, Simon slowly opened the door. 

“Dove? What’s wrong?” He cautiously asked, not wanting to startle you. 

You gave a deep sigh that even he felt in his soul. “Just. . . missing the me from before.”

His shoulders felt lighter in relief. He was so glad that you were talking to him again. However, It was souring quickly now that your words were settling in. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. . . I guess. . . I thought that I was decently pretty before. I was happy with how I looked. . . I don’t really see that anymore.” You tried to explain, feeling your throat begin to choke on each word. God, you felt stupid.

Simon could hardly believe it. To him, you were still the prettiest lady he’s ever met. Your smile made his day brighter. Your hands felt warm and perfect in his. Your eyes were works of art he could stare into all day. 

He was in love with you.

“W-What?” Your face grew red, not understanding why he was staring so intensely at you. So seriously. It’s been a while since you’ve faced him this close. Did he think you were being dumb too? 

He took a seat behind you on the floor and pulled you into his lap. An arm snaked across your stomach before you could escape. His other hand guided your chin to look back into the mirror. “Take a good look at yourself again, dove. Don’t tell me that you’re not pretty anymore because it’s not true.”

Your heart was going to burst from your chest. If you stay like this with him for much longer, it would be impossible to destroy your feelings for him. “Si-”

“Your cheeks are turning pink. Are you getting embarrassed?” He tightened his hold and deepened his voice. He would do anything to make you feel attractive again. Including revealing that he was attracted to you.

As he pointed out your blush, you only reddened deeper. “T-This is because you surprised me!”

“Oh? It’s not because you like me?” He teased, not being able to help himself. Before everything, you were so confident and enthusiastic at work. He never got to see your bashful side. It was incredibly cute. 

You froze in his lap as he revealed your secret. How long has he known?! Was he just toying with you right now?! This was not how you imagined a confession going at all, not that you ever really planned on confessing. 

Turning your head to face him directly, you attempted to dig out of the hole you were in. “Simon-”

“You’re too cute.” He suddenly admitted before pressing his lips firmly against yours. He lost control as soon as he saw your expression up close within his lap. The way your brows furrowed, how your ears turned more pink by the second, how you called him by his name. 

There was no way in hell he was going to make you feel unattractive right now. 

Startled by the kiss, it took you a moment to realize what was happening. When your brain did kick back into gear, you could hardly believe it. Simon was kissing you. Not just that, but he was kissing you so deeply that it made you melt.

You couldn’t possibly fight back your feelings for him now. 

Eventually, you began kissing him back. When he felt your effort, he took that as a good sign to keep going. Your lips were so soft and warm against his. Your weight in his embrace felt perfect. His tongue swiped at your lips and then plunged into your mouth to taste even more of you.

You softly moaned into his mouth, electricity firing all along your nerves. His muscular, strong chest against your back made you feel hot all over. His tongue that aimed to taste every inch of you did just that. A sensation you haven’t felt for what felt like decades began to spread throughout your pelvis. 

His hand guided your gaze back to the mirror in front of you, your own expression making your breath hitch. Cheeks pink, lips swollen, chest rising and falling rapidly. The bottom of your shirt was a little hiked up, exposing just an inch of waist that drove Simon wild. “See, dove? You’re perfect.”

He held your chin in place, forcing you to watch as he trailed kisses along the side of your neck. His free hand slipped under your shirt, feeling skin that now matched his. You gasped and shivered as he felt you up, feeling his hand travel further up until he reached the bottom wire of your bra. The kisses mixed with tongue and teeth against your neck made you whimper in excitement.

“You’re still soft to the touch. Still warm and living. How I see you hasn’t changed. You are still the same pretty woman I grew to like so much.” He sweetly confessed into your ear as he stripped off your shirt. 

Simon liked you too? Since when? Mental questions faded away as you noticed him unsnap your bra to reveal your breasts. Your hands instinctively went to cover them up, but he caught your wrists in his hand.

“No, dove. I gotta show you just how attractive you are. Keep looking at your pretty little face in the mirror.” He playfully smirked, loving this new side of you more than he imagined. His cock was already pressing against the fabric of his pants, getting bigger by the second. 

With your wrists still held together, he began to massage your breasts. The other side of your neck was shown some love through feverish kisses, making you squirm in his lap. You could feel his growing erection pressed behind you, making your pussy tingle with need. When he pinched a nipple tight, you let a moan slip.

As he dragged his tongue along your neck, he watched the pleasure on your face through the mirror. His pants felt tighter by the second, eager to really show you just how attractive you were to him. 

Limbs felt like jelly as he continued to tease you. When your wrists felt more slack in his grip, he let go to use both hands. You sat in his lap, melted and shivering as he played with both of your nipples. “You’re so sensitive. It’s really turning me on, dove.”

You pressed your legs tighter together, feeling your wetness slowly stain your panties. Simon’s strong chest rose with his labored breath, cock now aching with pain from the restriction of his clothes. He wanted more. He wanted to see every inch of you.

He guided your legs to spread for him, making sure that your pussy would be clear as day through the mirror. You debated fighting back before things went too far, but his hands on you felt incredible. You were so turned on too, despite feeling embarrassed about how weak and bashful you looked. 

In one move, your pants and panties were gone, revealing your slick cunt for both you and Simon to see. Instinctively, you tried to close your legs. However, Simon made sure that you didn’t. He made sure you looked at the mirror too. “Take a good look, dove. So wet for me. . . So pretty. Pink. Soft. Never seen something so delicious before.”

His large fingers began to rub through your folds, spreading your wetness around easily. His eyes grew feverish as he spread you open, feeling the pulse that traveled through you. 

You gasped as he started rubbing your clip in slow, deep circles. Almost two years of abstinence made you sensitive beyond comprehension. “Ah~! Simon~!”

“That’s right, dove. Don’t stop looking at yourself.” He instructed, his voice so deep that it echoed in your head. Lightning zipped through you as he continued to tease your clit, another hand going back to your hard nipples.

God, Simon was so good at this. He was reading you like a book, noticing every flinch, every scrunch, every tremble that flashed across your face. He was getting to know all your sweet spots. Every piece of you that begged for more. 

Your hips bucked as his finger on your cunt slid down close to your entrance. Through the mirror, you saw him smirk, making your heart leap. “Patience. I’ll give my dove what she wants as long as she keeps looking at herself. Promise.”

Gently, he worked his fingers inside of you, feeling just how hot you really were getting for him. He suppressed his own shiver as he felt you tighten up, sucking his fingers in deeper. You clung on to his arms and moaned, throwing your head back against his shoulder in pure bliss.

Grabbing your chin, he made you watch yourself get fingered. “Don’t look away.”

You had no choice but to follow your instructions. Kisses peppered your neck, making sure you didn’t have the space to turn your head away again. You watched his fingers pump in and out of you, more of your natural honey drooling out of you. 

“Ahh! Mnn~!” A loud moan escaped you as you felt his fingers curl to hit that perfect, spongy spot that drove you crazy. Your reaction was instant, your pussy tightening further and tremors traveling through every nerve. Simon could feel and see it. You were getting close to an orgasm. And he really wanted you to reach it.

“That’s it. Watch yourself cum for me, dove.” He praised, moving his fingers more powerfully to make sure you wouldn’t lose that pleasurable high. 

It was beautiful watching you moan and drool and shutter in his lap. It was so sexy how you looked at the mirror with feverish eyes like you wanted more than just his fingers. He wanted to use more too. But not before you came.

Simon put more pressure on your g-spot, not caring that you were making such a huge mess all over his hand. All he wanted to do was go deeper, so deep that his palm was pressing into your throbbing clit. 

That is what made you see stars. With a scream, you were plunged into an orgasm that made you stupid. Simon smirked with pride as he held you during your climax, feeling just how tightly you clung to his fingers. He loved that blissful expression on your face while you came. Corners of your eyes brimming with tears, blush swept across your cheeks, body glowing with excitement. 

“Didn’t I tell you? Absolutely gorgeous.” He complimented, giving you soft kisses on the side of your head as you calmed down. It was still hard to breathe, your heart beating erratically from the climax and from Simon’s husky praises. When he pulled his fingers away, you whimpered from the sensitivity.

Carefully, you were removed from his lap and laid down in front of him. While you took a moment to rest, Simon grabbed a few pillows from his bed, tossed them to the floor, and then stripped. At the sight of his strong build, you swallowed some drool. 

It was strength made to be used. Muscular and soft in all the right places. His own body was covered in old scars, something that made him alluring rather than flawed. And then when your eyes traveled down to his huge, throbbing cock, you felt that familiar tingle take over again.

“Like what you see?” He teased, situating the pillows under you so you could be more comfortable. The head of his dick prodded at your folds, lubing itself up. As he slid along your folds, rubbing your sensitive, red bud, you lost your breath again.

“Simon. . .” You called out in what you hoped sounded like a warning rather than begging. God, you wanted him inside you already. You wanted to feel every inch of him fuck you like you were the most sexy woman on the planet. 

He chuckled a little, your tone a mixture of scolding and impatience. A perfect tone that made him want to fuck you hard already. But, he held back. For now at least. Instead, he turned your head to make you look at your reflection again. Slowly, he entered you, feeling your hot pussy cling to him like it was made for him.

Your expression immediately morphed as he slid his cock inside you deeper. Eyebrows scrunched, vision hazy, plump lips bitten. He was thick. Incredibly thick. You’ve never been so filled up before. It hurt a little, but pain was quickly replaced with pleasure as you got used to it.

Simon gave a satisfied sigh when finally reached the base. It was a sight to behold, your tight pussy stretched to accommodate him. It felt so good inside you. Hot. Slick. His thrusts were slow and deep, watching every reaction you had as you felt every inch of him. It only turned him on even more as he made you watch.

His hands clutching your hips to control the pace had you tremble. You loved how he was careful, yet still wanted to manhandle you. There were moments where you could see him lose his cool for a second. A shuddered breath here, a swallowed groan there. His own expressions as he fucked you deep is what really turned you on the most.

“Fuck, dove. You’re so tight~” He exhaled, picking up the pace with his thrusts. Your toes curled and your back arched as his cock hit every pleasure point within you. It was perfect how he was large and skilled enough to reach every spot you liked. And it was all thanks to how closely he paid attention to you.

His body pressed against yours as he felt the need to be closer to you. He wanted to see your pretty face up close when you cum next. He wanted to feel those beautiful tits pressed flush against his own skin. When he felt you tighten, he knew you were getting close.

You hung onto him tight, wrapping his arms around his neck and digging your nails into his back. It was incredible feeling his muscles flex with each thrust under your hands. Everything felt so good with him. You never thought you would feel pleasure like this again. 

Simon hissed as you clawed his back, a blissful sensation that only left him wanting more. He pistoned harder, hoping that your nails would leave new scars on him. “I can feel you getting close. Look into my eyes when you do.”

Moans gradually turned into screams as he fucked you as deep as he could go, his cock throbbing hard with his own desire to climax. Hearing you scream his name was turning him on more than he thought. So much so that he began calling out yours.

Hearing your own name from his lips with such a desperate tone made the wave crash down. Looking deep into his eyes, you came around him. Every part of you trembled, electricity taking over. It felt like every cell within you was screaming for him. His breath hitched as you tightened and soaked him. And god, the way you looked while cumming. . . 

He held you tight as he felt himself climax too, hot ropes adding to the heat. Your back arched as he gave a few final pumps, milking himself out in you as much as he could. It was hard to control your shutters when he enjoyed the final moments of having you. When he did pull out, it left you feeling empty, yet satisfied. 

Knowing that you were feeling weak, Simon carried you to his bed and laid you down. You were surprised when he crawled into the spot next to you and pulled you into his chest like he was holding a lover. Was that what you two were now? Lovers?

“Like I said before, you’re perfect.” Simon praised and kissed the top of your head.

You two were definitely lovers. All the doubt cleared as you listened to his heartbeat. 

[lilreidgirl]

Bored

Summary: Your husband, Spencer, changed after getting out of prison and you finally snap

Warnings: Inspired HEAVILY by "bored" by billie eilish (my wife!!), kinda toxic relationship? and kinda toxic Spencer?, sex mentioned so MDNI(18+), not wanting sex but still having it mentioned, arguing mentioned, crying, let me know if i forgot anything!, English is not my first language, NOT PROOF READ

WC: ~1.4k

A/N: This is so bad, I just made it cause i love Billie, Spencer and angst, perfect combo BUT this is also my first angst fic so yayy!!!!

You knew it would be hard, Spencer getting out of prison and all, but you never expected this much of a change in your life. We all like to think that we aren’t extremely dependent on our relationships and that our state of mind doesn’t depend on them, but that’s not true.

Ever since he had gotten out of that horrid place, the cage they locked him in for something he didn’t do, the tortures walls he found himself to be for 3 traumatizing months, he had been different. That’s of course what one would expect, but you were hoping that with a bit of help and a lot of love, he would be alright. He wasn’t.

It started off with simple things, not wanting to touch you at all which you understood and naturally respected, staying longer at work, not being interested in what you had to say and not saying much himself either. It broke your heart seeing this empty and numb version of him, because that hollow person was supposed to be your husband.

It’s not like you didn’t try and help him get out of the dark place he was so obviously in. You have it your all, trying to get him to talk to you about what he’d been feeling, trying to make him feel some joy and normalcy but nothing worked. You were getting used to it. You were getting bored.

It was yet another night where you sat home alone, you wondered where he was, wondered if he was truly “working late” like he had so curtly informed you over text. Your mind couldn’t help but drift to all the possible things he could be doing instead of being here -- at home with his wife. God, it was unfair. You knew it was wrong to think such a thing after everything he had gone through, but couldn’t he see how you were struggling with him? How you needed him just as much as he refused to admit he needed you?

Finally as the hands on the clock showed 11:23 P.M., the door opened and Spencer walked in. His hair was unruly and a scowl that nowadays seemed to be permanent was present on his face. The tie, that you had tried to help him put on that morning but he had slapped away, hung loosely around his neck, laying unorderly on his button up shirt.

“Hi,” you said, cringing at the meekness and eagerness in your voice. Truth was this was probably the only conversation you guys were going to have for hours based on past events, so who could blame you?

“Hey,” he responded as he turned around to put his bag and shoes to rest next to the now closed door.

“How was your day?” you asked, trying to keep it simple as to not “scare him away”.

“Good.” Gosh you could roll your eyes at the bleakness of his unflavored answer.

“And how are you?” You tried again, hoping for more this time as you put the book you were reading down and unconsciously leaned towards him.

“I´m fine.” The smile on your face felt as faked as ever now, the corners of your mouth willing themselves remarkably to stay up.

“You, um- you promised you’d come home on time tonight, I made your favorite meal,” you hoped your tone didn’t sound accusatory -- the last thing you wanted was to make him upset. “It’s not like I’m in control of that.” The slight venom in his words made you almost physically flinch. He sighed exhaustedly before reluctantly muttering a small, “Sorry.”

“You going to bed?” he asked. You knew what that meant. Basically all the interactions between the two of you were short “hello´s”, heated arguments, and sex. He quite clearly wanted this short “hello” to turn into the third option. As painful as it is to admit, you were inclined to accept, to shut your mouth and go to bed. But you knew that if you did, it would be taking one step further into this dull life and marriage that now stood before your very eyes.

“No.” You shook your head as a small repeating of your response. “No? C´mon, I’ve had a long day,” he sighed again, tilting his head as he spoke, his frustration already to be seen on his face.

“I´m tired. And I just don’t want to.” You had by then made your decision; you were going to stand your ground.

“Just this once?” It was a weird thing to hear coming from his mouth, the one that had not so long ago, asked you again and again and again if you were “alright with this” and “sure”?

“It’s already been more than once, Spencer,” you couldn’t stop the words from coming out of your mouth -- they lay before you in a tense silence.

“What?” You couldn’t say what he was feeling at that moment, his tone directing your thoughts to a variety of different emotions -- none of which were positive.

“It’s nothing-,“ you started but quickly got cut off. “No, no, it’s not ´nothing`. You’re saying… you’ve slept with me multiple times when you didn’t want to?” His hazel eyes stared at you, the familiar comfort you had once known in them gone – you tried to convince yourself it was just the dim light of the living room but at the back of your mind you knew it wasn’t.

“I…” you didn’t know what to say, all thoughts leaving your brain as he looked at you in horror. All but one; he cared. “W- Why?” He studied you intently, taking in the way your body slightly curled in on itself when his voice seemed to raise. God, he really didn’t mean to.

“Well… I just thought if I could at least give you this whenever you wanted… you wouldn’t leave. It’s not like we do much else together – that and fighting.” You admitted as you felt tears prick up in your eyes. He motionlessly stood in shock -- you could almost hear how loud his thoughts were from where you were sitting on the couch.

“…But I can’t do it anymore,” you murmured when the silence that took over the room got too much for you to bear, “I can’t keep giving you every piece of me while you…” you trailed off, feeling a gnawing feeling settle in your chest, a feeling of wrongdoing. He was struggling, you shouldn’t be doing this.

“I’m honestly getting bored of trying to get you to acknowledge me.” You watched with solemn eyes as his long legs took rushed strides so that he ended up by your side. He bent his legs, squatting down in front of you. That fear from before was still in his expression but now accompanied regret.

“I… I’m so sorry,” His hands came up to cup your face, as he tried to figure out how to word the immense amount of emotions coursing through him.

“I’m sorry, baby, I- I never meant to hurt you… I know I haven’t been in a good headspace lately. I’m going to try, okay? I’m so sorry.” He pulled you towards his chest and you immediately accepted the gesture, burying your face in his messy shirt as you started to sob.

“I just-,” you sputtered between sniffles and sobs, “I wish- I wish you would love me like you used to, love me just for being me.”

“I do, I do, I really do,” he tried to reassure you, his voice breaking. “I’ve been a mess and I’ve been mean, but I love you just as much as I did before. No, more. I love you. I love you so damn much.”

The rest of the night consisted of him repeating that phrase, that truth as he cradled you against his chest, and talking about the ways things had been, how they should be in the future – can be – will be. And as you woke up, opening your tired eyes and turning to the side, your eyes met him – your husband.

And for the first time in months, that brought a bright smile to your face.

[comatosebunny09]

— cw: kidnapping, torture, sedatives, abuse, mentions of r*pists, p*dos, & murder, angst, helplessness, heavy subject matter all around, language, mdni

— notes: a continuation of this blurb. something a little darker than what i usually write. please be mindful that there's some heavy stuff ahead. if i forgot to tag anything, please let me know in the comments. thank you for reading!

— now playing: dusty room - evgeny grinko

An insistent dripping draws you from the inky embrace of unconsciousness. 

It always does. It’s been your alarm clock for the past…three days? Four? Week? You’re not sure anymore. Time moves differently when you’re in captivity, and your mind is constantly invaded and warped.

At first, you could glean the passage of time by the moon or sunlight seeping through the small window in the corner—your captors had shoved you into a spacious room of rotting metal walls and only one entry point. It reeked of mildew and sweat, and you’d nothing but the creak of metal and that ceaseless dripping sound to keep you company.

But your senses are no longer reliable. They’ve poked around your mind so much that it’s becoming increasingly difficult to gauge the difference between reality and fiction. 

Only a few things remain constant during your stay here: the henchman of the day comes in to administer you a dose of something potent with a syringe. Something to ease the ache of your limbs, to curb the hunger gnarling in your gut. But it’s also to keep your Evol tucked in the furthest reaches of your mind. To keep you at their mercy. 

Next, two more men trickle in, sinisterly laughing as they deprive you of food and warmth and keep you lucid. And one of them constantly probes your mind, manipulating it to see and experience things that aren’t always real. Dredging up memories you had compartmentalized after taking up this new life, furthering your torment. 

You would be impressed—their ability is almost on par with yours and would certainly make a man clad in red and black whistle with appreciation—if you weren’t already clinging to your sanity by a thread. 

Your captors have been surprisingly generous, only hitting you a few times when you get mouthy. You’d once heard them say to each other they had to keep you alive long enough to lure your boss from the shadows. Still, you’re sometimes their human punching bag, suspended from the ceiling by chains rubbing your wrists and ankles raw.

They learned their lesson when they first brought you to this prison. When you’d called them pussies and, with what little strength you could muster, took three of them down before they subdued you with stun batons and a heavier dosage of whatever cocktail they’d been pumping you with.

Each time they enter, they ask you more questions. Interrogate you about Sylus and the inner workings of Onychinus. Splash you with frigid water to wake you, inject more serum, and sink their claws into your psyche when you display an inkling of resistance. All in an attempt to bring you to the brink of insanity. To break you. 

You’re a little worse for wear. Bruised and battered. It hurts to breathe when the medicine wears off. You’re constantly shivering, constantly blacking out. You’re sure they’ve shattered a rib or two. And you haven’t much strength left, stripped of nourishment and proper blood circulation for God knows how long. 

You have one good eye, the other swollen shut from their previous assault. Your lips keep splitting, so goddamn dry. They could’ve done much worse. Could’ve violated you in unspeakable ways. So you’re grateful the illusions are seemingly their most potent form of torture. 

No matter how many levels of hell your captors subject you to, you don’t cave. You’re still as haughty as ever. Piss them off whenever you can, fighting back with your tongue in a way that your body can’t. Anything to distract you from the unyielding torment and pain. From your thoughts creeping in, from your mortality looming over your shoulders. 

“He won’t come for me,” you bitterly laugh each time your captors taunt you. “He doesn’t care about me. You’ve got the wrong person.” To which they heckle like hyenas, looking at you as if you’ve said the most absurd thing. 

They tell you you are the right person. That it’s only a matter of time before your ‘boyfriend’ comes sniffing you out. You’re more valuable than any treasure, any amount of money. But you always push those words to the back burner. Those empty attempts to give you a flicker of hope.  

He’s subjected you to danger numerous times before. Thrown you to the wolves on several occasions. What makes this time any different?

One thought reigns supreme in your mind each time they torture you. Each time they fill your head with trickery, visions of him, and memories of past misdeeds. 

If he wanted to save you, he would’ve already come. 

The truth hurts, but it’s somehow comforting. Sylus will never find you like this. Never see how far you’ve fallen from grace, breaking apart at the seams, slowly succumbing to the cold and delirium. He’s got more important things to worry about—more important people to occupy his mind. 

You’re disposable. You’ve known this from the start. 

The notion only rooted itself deeper the moment a certain Hunter disturbed the monotony of your lives.

It was merely a matter of time before one of Onychinus’ most revered assassins was wiped out. 

In a way, your captors are doing Sylus a favor, ridding him of your presence so he doesn’t have to lift a finger to do it himself. You’ve always worried he would no longer find a use for you. Knew you couldn’t always be at his side. And now that he has someone else to play his bait, to bat their lashes at him and tug at those little heartstrings, you know you don’t stand a chance. 

Savagely, you laugh, your face turned up at the silvery moonbeams sinking in through the window. And it hurts, your throat dry like it’s been rubbed with sandpaper. Unbidden tears scorch down the sides of your face. Whether they’re heralded in from agony or hysteria, you don’t know. 

Your solitude in this room is as much of a reprieve as it is a cage. Sure, you’re free to collect what little coherent thoughts you have left before your captors are back at it, shocking you to hell and tearing your mind at the seams. But you’re also left with nothing to do but stew in thoughts of your inevitable demise. 

Maybe this is your punishment. All the lives you’ve taken. All the innocents you displaced when you were a fiery-eyed killer fueled by rage and fear. Murdering coldly, killing because you were told—forced—to. 

No matter how far you ran, the past always snuck up on you. But shielded beneath Sylus’ wings, you were able to delay its descent onto your shoulders.  

Sylus had taken you away from it all. Redirected your ire, your revenge, onto the scourge of humanity. No longer were you a gun for hire, taking out high-profile figures because your very life depended on it. No. Instead, you wiped the most vile men from the face of the planet. Pedophiles, rapists, murderers. And you supposed that served as enough repentance for your life before.

Still, no amount of justification will support what you’ve done. What you continue to do. And all for the love of a man who will never see you as more than a rook. A chess piece, lazily dragging across the board for use at his disposal.

The single door to your prison groans open, dispelling the nebula of your thoughts as a blinding stream of light pours in. You wince against its brilliance, your bruised lips canting up in a sardonic smile. 

Once the new presence clears the entryway, a shock of white greets you. And it’s followed by a wash of scarlet, moving through the bleariness. You huff a painful laugh as the figure nears you, agony swelling in your chest. This trick again. Weren’t they getting bored of using it?

Finding your voice, you grit out, “You’ve tried this one already. It’s getting old. Gonna have to do better than that.”

But your tormenter doesn’t err in their steps. Instead, they hasten their approach until the warmth they carry wades over your skin. And through the dank scent of your entrapment, you make out familiar notes of amber and sandalwood. As convincing as the illusions have been lately, they’ve never smelled this vivid before.

Searing hands curve around your cheeks. Angle your head back until your vision fills with red. Red eyes nestled beneath brows knotted with anguish. Pink lips parted with the effort of breathing. As you fully take in your tormenter’s harrowed features, you slowly realize that maybe you’re not hallucinating this time. And a thick film of tears washes over your good eye, the world blurring and bending.

“You’re getting better at this,” you sob-slash-laugh, still disbelieving. There’s no way he could be the real thing. There’s just—

—no way. Could he? Could it…

Suddenly, the metal chains of your shackles rattle and loosen. And you’re freefalling, loose-limbed and weightless, heading for the ground along with your restraints. But a pair of virile arms spread like wings beneath you, cradling you against a rigid chest, and a ferocious heart beats a war cadence beneath your cheek as you press further into it. 

Weakened by your time in captivity, you feel something prodding around inside your head. Something warm and feather-light creeps through the folds of your mind, chasing away the darkness. It’s a voice—an inherently masculine voice reverberating in your head, working like a soothing balm over your psyche.

I’ve got you, it soothes, dulling the ache in your bones, the maelstrom in your head. And its familiarity is enough to bring a smile to your lips. More tears pour in rivulets down your cheeks, and you cling to the silk of his shirt, unconsciousness pulling you under. He came for you. He really—he actually—

—came.

And as you succumb to fatigue, hypothermia, and hunger, two sentences pierce through the darkness like a lighthouse beaconing through the storm.

“I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them all.”

[cultofdixon]

Stress is a silent killer

Daryl Dixon • She/Her Pronouns • Don’t get me wrong, mothers are strong motherfuckers. But that doesn’t mean you can abuse an expecting mother’s abilities. • ANGST/SFW • TW: Pregnancy / Pre-Term Labor Anxieties / Anxiety

Requested by: Anon

Daryl silently returns his home he shares with Y/N who was currently seated in the living room wide awake. She was decked out to go outside the walls and search for him after the news but thankfully he came back in time before she risked herself at the hour it was.

“I’m sorry”

Y/N didn’t say anything, all she did was let the tears that build up roll off her cheeks.

“I’m sorry I walked away when yea first told me” His voice broke as he brought himself to kneel in front of her resting his hands on her thighs watching her tearful expression meet his gaze.

“I’m scared, Dar…”

“I know, me too. Cuz I want this. I want this with yea and I’m afraid of losing you…like Lori…or like…the others. I can’t lose yea to anythin’ or anyone.”

“You can’t…you can’t walk out like the way you did” She choked out through her sobbing as Daryl brought his hands onto her cheeks wiping away them while they fell. “Please…if you do that again, I’m only going to think the worse possible things”

“I’m stayin’ right here, sunshine. I’m never leaving again.” Daryl pushed himself forward and wrapping his arms around her as she did the same gripping onto his vest. “I’m never leaving you and this baby, I promise”

~

7 1/2 months later…

Another cold spring morning comes through causing the somewhat irritable not-a-morning person Y/N to bring herself to sit up the best she could given her “natural” circumference was different compared to the first and second trimester.

“Did you leave the window open?” She tiredly asks her husband who had sat up when she did, given the closer they get to 9 months the more he’ll be up and at it for anything.

“It was stuffy last night, yea asked me too” Daryl yawns stretching out his back hearing his partner hiss when she heard the occasional stretch out crack. “I’m good”

“Working on the wall repair does you no good…and I think I just forgot I asked you to open it” Y/N frowns bringing herself to the edge of the bed causing Daryl to get up in his shirtless glory about to close the window. “What are you doing?”

“I told yea you don’t have to get up and close it”

“I gotta get up and pee cuz a certain someone is stepping on my bladder.”

“So is that a no on me closing it for yea, love?”

“Can you please close it and help me stand up?” Y/N gave him a tired smile as he did exactly what was asked and while Daryl helped her up she couldn’t help but grab his face to bring him to her level to kiss him before separating to do what she needed.

“Are you sure you don’t need me or want me this morning? Rick completely understands why I can stay here” Daryl started to remind Y/N about the run he was asked to go on that involved stopping at the Hilltop to drop off supplies and go pick up more from the Kingdom.

“You pawned it off to somebody for the past two weeks. I’m not going to go into labor the second you leave. I’m not 8 months yet”

“Pre-term shit. You were put on bedrest during the second tri—whatever it’s called because your stress wasn’t helpin’” Daryl states slipping off his sweats to put jeans on when Y/N stepped out of the bathroom. “It’s easy for yea to stress out and back in the prison you passed out once cuz of it. Now you’re pregnant and Siddiq said it could cause more harm than good”

“Are you trying to stress me out now?”

“No, I’m just telling—-“

“It’s only for half the day. Both Maggie and Ezekiel know who you have to come back home to, they won’t hold you up and we also know Carol will shut Ezekiel up if he does start another endless conversation with you. You’ll be back before nightfall and I’ll be here waiting for my husband to come back”

The archer only gave her a worried expression because of how calm she was being, since a month ago she’d scream at him for just leaving the house. He brought himself over kissing her lovingly and holding her for as long as she let him, which could be hours and he’ll not be able to go anymore. But Y/N knew this trick.

“You seriously walking me out to make sure I actually go?” Daryl smiles walking his bike with his pregnant wife on the other side of such still wearing her sweats and one of his shirts.

“Did you forget about the morning and evening walks we do?”

“Nah I did not. Which reminds me to tell yea to wait for me for the night one. Take it easy walking back home and stay away from the new infusions”

Y/N whistled for Daryl to stop given she can’t maneuver fast enough to grab his arm. “Stay away from the new infusions?”

“Rick let in more ex-saviors to help around here. They are staying in the apartment looking houses” Daryl parked his bike a moment bringing himself to rest his hands on her belly. “Two of them are annoying shit stains of humanity. I don’t know the other one’s name but one of’em is Bryan and they’d much rather pawn their work off to somebody else”

“Daryl. I doubt they’d make a pregnant woman do shit”

“Well. I told Aaron to check on yea if he sees you doing anything sketchy”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Rick is at Oceanside, Michonne is watching a sick Judith, and the others are working on the bridge repair. You won’t let me stay to make sure you don’t over exert yourself. Somebody’s gotta check on yea and since he’s takin’ care of a baby girl at the moment? He’s more than happy to check up on you when Gracie is napping”

“You really have everything planned. Even have a radio?” Y/N smiles crossing her arms as he took out said device to show her resulting in a playful eye roll. “I’ll do my best, my love. But I’ve never seen those individuals before…you can’t blame me if something happened”

“Yeah, but I sure as hell can kill a man if he harms my wife and baby” Daryl states, sneaking in a kiss before getting his bike back up and heading toward the gates.

“I promise nothing will happen, Dar”

What was meant to be an easy day, turned into a weird one.

When the gates closed, Y/N held her belly for a moment feeling the shifting baby inside her make it a bit difficult to go immediately back to her home. She decided to take a longer walk around Alexandria, stopping occasionally to talk to her friends and see what they were up to improve their community. Then on her way back there were two Alexandrians carrying a few boxes to the pantry and infirmary. Both looked at her with curious expressions…

“Yo!”

Y/N ignored it at first until she flinched to the sound of the box dropping beside her.

“You’re Y/N right? The other Dixon in this place”

“Yes…? And you are?” She frowns, not liking the feeling the atmosphere gave when the individual didn’t share his name right away.

“I’m new here. Do you mind helping us with something?”

“Uhm I’m not exactly supposed to be…lifting anything heavy” Y/N gestures a bit on the obvious side about her pregnant belly as they both still gave stone cold stares.

“We’ll carry it to the pantry and infirmary. Just could use somebody to put it away while we bring the rest”

“Is Siddiq not her—-“

“Seriously, Dixon. You’re just pregnant not incompetent” one of them stated only for Y/N’s expression to go south as she supported her belly telling them that she’ll meet them in the pantry first to unload the boxes.

Once she stepped far enough, one of them couldn’t help the laugh that escaped his lips.

“Cant believe that worked”

“Can it Bryan. We still gotta bring the boxes over then we can go fuck off for the rest of the day” The other scoffs picking up and the box carrying it to where it needed to be.

It had been a couple hours of putting supplies away in their perspective areas, thankfully Y/N has worked with Siddiq before so she knows where he likes everything to be. The doctor just didn’t expect to come back from checking on the little ones of Alexandria after lunch time to find Y/N standing on a stool putting away spare gauze in a tub that Siddiq put them in.

“Are you crazy?” Siddiq frowns watching Y/N stumble a bit unexpected as he quickly drop his medical bag to help his friend off the stool. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you in here?”

“Because I have to be useful!”

“Y/N what the hell do you mean?!” Siddiq frowns watching the discomfort grow on her face along with the tears forming. “Okay, come on. Sit down and tell me what happened” he made her sit on the gurney sitting with her.

“My husband—-“

“Did Daryl get hurt?!”

“No! He warned me about some slackers and I just. I didn’t think I was this stupid enough to fall for their shit” Y/N frowns wiping away her tears before wincing and holding her belly instantly. Siddiq pulled away to get the portable machine helping her lay down onto the gurney adjusting it for her to sit up. “It was just one damn conversation and I felt like I was being useless. We won that stupid fucking war. Lost a lot of people. Then this happened and it’s the best thing but all my hormones are all over the place—-“

“And that’s normal! It’s normal for hormones to take over control with all your other emotions.” Siddiq carefully rolled her shirt up to apply a bit of the gel and gently place the wand to check on the heartbeat. “Can you tell me your pain level? And I’m talking from the moment you’ve felt uncomfortable”

“A six…”

“Are you lying?” Siddiq stated watching the tears build up more. “Y/N how long have you been working today?”

“About an hour after Daryl left”

The look on Siddiq’s face only grew even more worried for his friend as he cleaned her up and before she even tried to get up, he carefully helped her back down grabbing a blanket to cover her.

“Siddiq—-“

“You’re having contractions and I don’t want you to force this baby out from your stress because it’s too early and while I think we can…handle that intense situation…I don’t want you to lose this baby if it goes south.” Siddiq frowns covering her more in the blanket and putting the gurney in the trendelenburg position to have gravity help slow the contractions. Before he pulled away to grab a few things that will help, Y/N grabbed his arm. “You stay here and I’ll get someone to radio Daryl to come back a bit early”

“You think he’ll…uh…y-you think he’ll be mad at me?” Her voice broke as Siddiq took her hand into both of his shaking his head.

“No. But when he finds out about who made you overwork, they aren’t going to see the next day”

By the time Siddiq got Daryl on the line, he was already making his way back to Alexandria and when he heard about his wife he was speeding even faster. Daryl parked in front of the infirmary, dropping his bike without another thought as he enters the building bringing himself to her side resting his hand on her belly.

“How are yea feeling?”

“I’m sorry—-“

“Love, please—-“

“I’m really sorry” Y/N broke down in a sob making her husband out of instinct gently wipe away her tears. “I’m really sorry I didn’t take it easy—“

“Y/N. I’m serious when I say this. You don’t have to apologize.” Daryl frowns rubbing circles on her belly watching her bring her hand over his. “Did Siddiq tell yea how long you’d have to be—-“

“She can go back down.” Siddiq interrupts the two coming down from his flat above the infirmary with a filled canteen for Y/N. “You can take her back to your home to be more comfortable in her bed but again, bed rest—-“

“Fuck” Y/N sobbed hating it already and she’s not in her own bed.

“Just for a week until your stress levels and blood pressure go down. Thankfully trendelenburg worked with the contractions but don’t want you, again, to overwork yourself” Siddiq set the canteen down to help Daryl get Y/N on her feet before giving her the filled bottle. “Don’t let her leave the house, then maybe nobody would abuse your hormones” he stated letting them be to finish what Y/N started before he made her rest.

After getting Y/N back home and in their bed, Daryl stuck by her side thinking of the words Siddiq had said before they left. But he wasn’t going to address it when she was still experiencing a bit of discomfort.

“You want another pillow?”

“Then what are you going to sleep on?”

“A mattress? I don’t need a pillow, just need my woman comfortable while she’s a human incubator” He jokes getting a short lived laugh out of her as he moves the extra blankets and his pillows to support her back and belly. When she first started getting uncomfortable, he tried looking for one of those pregnancy pillows that Carol had told him about but it was a lot of work and he didn’t want to leave her at all. Like he promised and is semi-regretting given he left to take care of business and some assholes were pushing her limits with emotional abuse.

“Daryl…?” Y/N tiredly calls out for him as he returns with her canteen filled for a fourth time since being home as he brought himself to sit on the edge of the bed setting her bottle on the nightstand.

“Yes, sunshine?”

“You still love me right…?” Y/N pouted only for Daryl to scoff at such a ridiculous question, leaning over to shower her in kisses making her bring her arms around his neck to keep him close for the moment. “Dar…”

“I’ll always love you. Even when yea risk yourself. But, imma stick by yea for the rest of this.” Daryl states. “No more tellin’ me I gotta go cuz I promised somebody. Someone else will get the work done, doesn’t have to be me and definitely doesn’t have to be you”

“Can you hold me tonight?”

“As long as you don’t kick me out of the bed when it got too hot” he laughs softly, bringing his lips to hers for a few short soft kisses before pulling away to get into comfortable clothing to sleep in and hold her.

The second Y/N fell asleep and was in deep enough sleep for the archer to slip away to check on a familiar hiding spot in Alexandria. Said hiding spot would have those who didn’t want others to notice they were smoking. Knowing damn well he’ll find the right men that have been bothering his partner.

“Ayo the other Dixon has retur—-“ Bryan immediately shut up when Daryl grabbed him by the collar forcing him against the walls of the community.

“You talk to my wife today? Mess with her and had your buddy over here help?”

“Dude I have no idea—-“

“Don’t lie. Don’t even try, or I will fucking end you right here and now” Daryl hissed shoving him harshly against the wall letting go of his shirt. He quickly turned to his buddy who put out his cigarette before holding his hands up defensively. “If I see you and or this son of a bitch near my wife or even hear about it, I’ll feed you both to the walkers after I’ve knocked the living shit out of you both. And don’t yea worry…I’ve got friends to let me know if yea fuck with the love of my life and soon to be mother of my child” and with that he took his leave letting the two regret their decisions and contemplate being moved to a different community to avoid the harsher Dixon. But even then, he’d tear them apart anywhere.

Y/N shifted slightly when the bed moved behind her, she relaxed instantly feeling her husband bring his arm around her pulling her into him.

“Where’d you go?”

“Got yea more water, and heard somethin’ outside”

“Another possum?”

“A pest that’s for sure”

“Mmm…” Y/N snuggles into his embrace getting comfortable as Daryl kissed her temple. “Nothing you can’t handle right?”

Right.

[gyubakeries]

𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗰𝗸𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 | j.ww

a/n: i had a terrible nightmare, but it inspired this lmao. apologies if the plot seems weird, i just went with the flow. hope you like it! (p.s. took me just a week to write this bad boy, but trust, there's more angst on the way! itll take more time bcs im super busy but i promise im gonna deliver angst)

word count: 5k contents: dystopian au , kinda inspired by divergent too , wonwoo x afab!reader , doctor!wonwoo , reader is going to die , a little graphic at the end but for like 2 seconds , flashbacks , forbidden love , HEAVY angst , sad ending

[ present - 24th november, 2024 ]

"756, your three hours begin now," an automated voice booms through the speakers placed in your cell, reverberating through the small metal chamber you've been kept in for as long as you can remember.

the door to your cell slides open, allowing you your last bit of freedom, last few hours of life, before it was all going to be taken away from you.

hyejun, the girl who occupied the cell next to you, comes into view, her eyes already filled with tears. the two of you had become friends of some sort over the last twenty-one years of captivity. although, your friendship wasn't like the ones people wrote about in books or played out in movies.

the Misfits would never have the privilege of a real friendship.

you couldn't tell each other about childhood memories, dreams, goals, or regrets, because the last twenty-one years of your lives had been spent inside the same grey walls. you couldn't go shopping at the mall, or watch movies at the cinema, because you weren't allowed to leave the facility, no matter what.

yet, hyejun was the closest you'd ever have to a friend, which is why it hurt you to see her cry profusely.

"don't cry, you idiot," you laugh, trying your best to keep yourself calm and composed. nothing good ever came out of the both of you crying together. "don't act like you forgot that this would happen some day."

"it hurt less to pretend like it wasn't," hyejun sobs, hugging you tightly. "why did we have to turn out this way?"

you wish you could answer that question.

there wasn't really any research or accurate information on how the Misfits came to be. the only piece of information told to every Misfit child the day they turn three years old is that they didn't have a place in society.

and the next thing you know, you've been shipped off to a facility to spend the rest of your lives as outcasts; as children who were deprived of their life too quickly.

at least once during their twenty-one years in a prison, every Misfit has wondered how this system came to be. who was it that decided what the Misfits were? was there a war? or an uprising? why was it declared that upon turning twenty-four, every Misfit would be executed?

you had resigned to your fate a long time ago. somewhere between the age of five and eight, when you realized that this was your life—living locked up in the facility. it wasn't as restrictive as a prison, as you were allowed to spend time outside your cell for meals, showers, interacting with others, and visiting the in-house library, theater and much more. but you when you learnt that you were strictly denied any permission to leave the place where childhood innocence came to die—you had given up.

you stopped throwing tantrums and crying like all the other children. you stopped wanting to see the outside world again. you stopped trying to live your life. you stopped hoping. you stopped loving.

it was a cruel realization to come to at such a young age, but you never had a choice. your entire life had been decided for you, because of some goddamn reason no one knew, so you gave up on trying to fight the system.

which is why, on the day of your twenty-fourth birthday, when your last three hours on this earth were announced, there wasn't any dread or anxiety filling you. there wasn't any urge to resist and rebel against the oppression you've been subjected to.

you were just another number on the list, the seven hundred and fifty-sixth person to be killed this year.

one of the things you were thankful for was the painless death. back when you were thirteen, an old lady who worked at the facility as a cleaner had given into hyejun's incessant pleas to know how the executions occurred.

the lady had said, "it doesn't hurt at all. first, they inject you with some drug. then, you're taken into an empty white room. they have a machine in there, which i don't know much about, but in merely three minutes, you're gone."

hyejun had ended up in tears after she got to know, but all you could do was laugh to yourself. three years to live a normal life, three hours to spend before you die, and three minutes to completely wipe out your existence, as if you ever really mattered in the grand scheme of things.

ever since you came into the facility, you've seen countless people being escorted upstairs to meet their end. some scream and yell for mercy, some stab a knife into themselves before they die in a way they're not even aware of, and some people, like you, have this empty look in their eyes. they look like lifeless dolls being dragged to their doom, because anything worth living had already been snatched from their hands.

—

"one hour and fifteen minutes," hyejun whispers, looking at the timer on your wrist counting down your last few moments. "y/n, how am i going to live without you?"

"this isn't called life, junnie," you chuckle, the sound hollow and meaningless. "they should've just killed us before we were brought into this prison. this isn't a life worth living."

"how can you say that?" hyejun asks, and you look at her to gauge her expression. hyejun is one of the many people who still haven't accepted that their days are marked. she's one of the many people who hope that there is a second chance at life.

"i can say it because it's the truth," you sigh. "there's no point in grieving the loss of a life you never had."

hyejun falls silent, her expression distraught, and you feel bad for this being your last conversation with the one person you've spent your entire life with.

your heart softens just a little bit for the person who's shared this meaningless life with you, so you move closer to her on the single bed in your cell.

"i'm sorry, i guess i hadn't realized that you haven't accepted this fate like i have," you apologize, wrapping an arm around hyejun's shoulder to comfort her. "don't be too upset after i'm gone, okay? probably not the best source of motivation, but you'll just have two weeks to spend without me before..... you know." you trail off awkwardly.

"i know," hyejun nods, looking up at you. "promise me you'll find me wherever we end up once we're gone?"

"i promise," you smile, and it's probably the most genuine thing you've felt your entire life.

the two of you huddle closer, spending your last hour in silence.

the door to your cell remains open, which is why you aren't startled when two women, dressed in all-white clothing, appear at the door, one holding a glass of water, and the other a pill.

hyejun isn't as calm as you, and tears quickly spring to her eyes when she sees the two officials at the door. "y/n, it can't be-"

"764, please return to your assigned cell," one woman speaks, her tone cold and sterile, devoid of any emotion.

"i- please, just some more time, please," hyejun begs, her hands clinging onto yours, as if bargaining for more time would do anything to delay the consequence you were going to face.

"please return to your assigned cell," the woman repeats. "i will not hesitate to call security."

"junnie, go," you whisper, slowly freeing your hands from her grip. "i'll be fine, you'll be fine."

hyejun shakes her head, sobbing incessantly. "i'll miss you."

"i'll miss you too," you admit truthfully. "i'll wait for you, okay?"

hyejun nods, and after another threatening glare from the officials, she shares one last knowing look with you, and for a moment, you feel thankful for being loved by someone in this life, no matter how short or miserable it was.

hyejun goes back into her own cell, and you let your last ever interaction with her sink in.

"756, please take this pill, and then follow us upstairs," the second woman instructs, and you get off the bed to approach the women.

"happy birthday to me," you scoff to yourself, taking the pill and swallowing it down with the water.

as if some countdown has started, the two officials spring into action. each grab one arm of yours and escort you out of your room. out of the corner of your eye, you can see hyejun by her door, collapsed to the floor on her knees, sobbing and grieving the only real connection she had with anyone in this ruthless world.

you wish you could say the same, but it would be a lie.

because when you finally climb the last step, and the door to your death is opened in front of you, you find yourself looking into the chocolate-brown eyes you had foolishly let yourself fall into.

jeon wonwoo.

—

[ flashback - 28th october, 2022 ]

"i wasn't aware that you were allowed to be outside your cell past 11 p.m.," a deep voice speaks from behind you, and you nearly jump five feet into the air.

you turn to see a tall, bespectacled man standing in the kitchen, a white lab coat hanging off his broad shoulders.

he's a doctor.

"i-i'm so sorry," you gasp, realizing that you're in deep shit now. realistically, you knew that the only way you were going to leave this facility was when you died, but you had no idea what the protocol was for people who snuck out of their cells at midnight, which was against all the rules. "i just really needed some water and i didn't have any left in the cell and-"

but the doctor just smiles at you, his intimidating demeanour replaced by possibly the only smile you'll ever see that is so beautiful.

"it's alright, don't be scared," he assures you, in that rich, warm voice of his. "i'm doctor jeon. you are?"

"y/n," you reply, confused about the whole situation. were doctors supposed to be on a first-name basis with the Misfits? "i'm sorry if this sounds stupid, but are you supposed to be talking to me?"

a flicker of sadness appears in his eyes, and disappears just as quickly. "it's alright for me to talk to you. you do realize i am required to interact with everyone in this facility if they visit the infirmary, right? i'm a doctor, it's kinda my job."

your face burns with embarrassment. "sorry, that was a stupid question."

"no worries, y/n," doctor jeon laughs, seemingly endeared by your mini-meltdown. you had no idea why you were behaving this way. never in your life had you been this embarrassed or flustered around anyone. you've been living in a prison all your life, where showers are taken in communal bathrooms and privacy was a rare luxury. why did this man have to change that?

"i'm going to head back to my cell now," you clear your throat, eyes focused on the water bottle you had just filled for yourself.

"alright," doctor jeon nods. "goodnight, y/n."

you give him a nod in return, stiffly walking past him to tiptoe back to your cell. you catch a glance at his name-tag.

dr. jeon wonwoo.

the name stays on your mind for way longer than it should've.

—

[ present - 24th november, 2024 ]

"have you taken the prescribed pill?" wonwoo asks, his tone formal and cold, as if he's never seen you, never known of your existence.

you know that's far from the truth.

"yes, doctor," you reply promptly, attentively watching as wonwoo goes through a few files on his desk. you see his features harden for a second at the name you addressed him with, a giveaway of how much he hated it when you called him that.

"it'll take a minute for the pill to take effect," wonwoo says. "please head over to the chair."

you wordlessly move over to the black leather armchair in the room, sitting on it as instructed. the situation is built on similar circumstances from the past, but it feels so devastatingly unfamiliar and strange.

you don't know if it's the air-conditioner or the cold look in wonwoo's once-loving eyes that makes you shiver.

—

[ flashback - 24th november, 2022 ]

"i'll walk you to the infirmary," hyejun offers. the morning of your twenty-second birthday, you had woken up with a high fever. your body was so weak, you couldn't even move to get off the bed.

thankfully, despite the prison-like feel, the facility wasn't too restrictive with regards to the cell doors being locked, or neighbouring cellmates interacting, which is why hyejun could come into your cell and take you to the infirmary.

you're barely conscious when you enter. you can hear hyejun's muffled voice talking to the doctor on duty, explaining to them your condition, all while you struggle to stay standing upright.

soon, a familiar pair of glasses swim into your vision, strong arms lift you and place you on one of the beds, and a gentle touch on your forehead lulls you to sleep.

the name-tag catches your attention before your eyes close.

—

"doctor jeon?" you croak out, voice groggy with sleep. the doctor looks up from his desk to see you sitting up in bed, finally awake after being asleep for almost the entire day.

"ah, y/n, you're up," wonwoo smiles at you. "how are you feeling now?"

"the fever seems to be gone," you reply after a moment, feeling much better than earlier in the morning.

"that's good to hear," wonwoo nods. "your friend mentioned that it was your birthday today. happy birthday, y/n."

you sigh. "doctor, i appreciate your gesture, but having a birthday is hardly an occasion that calls for happiness, is it? birthdays are never happy for someone like me."

a similar flicker of sadness flashes in wonwoo's eyes, reminding you of the first encounter in the kitchen a month ago.

"i'm sorry, i should've known-"

"it's alright," you interrupt his apology. "at least the infirmary is a change of scenery. never had a birthday party in here before, doctor." you joke, because somehow, seeing a frown on wonwoo's face felt like it should be a crime for him to be anything but happy.

"call me wonwoo, please," he chuckles. "being called doctor by someone who's the same age feels a little embarrassing."

"we're the same age?" you question, sitting up a little straighter. "next thing you're going to tell me is that we have the same favorite color."

"i like blue," wonwoo says.

"me too!" you gasp, the both of you bursting into laughter instantly.

the infirmary was empty for the rest of the day, and the two of you filled it with laughter and stories. wonwoo gladly took the lead, telling you all about his life up until he was hired to work at the facility six months ago, and you listened eagerly. it felt like you lived life through his stories, and it stirred this dangerous feeling inside you.

you had found something that gave you hope, in a universe where hope never worked in your favor.

—

[ present - 24th november, 2024 ]

"details of subject 756. full name, lee y/n. sex, female. date of birth, 24th november 1999-"

wonwoo's voice reading out all your details, the only pieces of information that gave you any form of self-identity, was getting hard to listen to with no response.

"stop."

"756, not interrupting the procedure would be advised," wonwoo addresses you, not even looking your way, his eyes trained on the file in front of him.

"why are you treating me like you don't know who i am?" you ask him in a quiet voice. "as if we didn't spend almost two years together, in love-"

"756, no interruptions, please." wonwoo grits out, sounding just as hurt as you felt.

"you hated it when i called you doctor, and now you won't even call me by my name?" you scoff, and that seems to rouse a reaction out of wonwoo.

"you are nothing but a number on this long list of people that i have to kill," wonwoo seethes, leaving his desk to come stand in front of you. "this is our reality now, 756. whatever happened in those two years, it was a dream, a fantasy."

"our love wasn't real? the hope you gave me wasn't real?" you challenge, standing up from the armchair. "you promised me, every day, that you'd change this, that i wouldn't have to-"

"then you were stupid for believing me!" wonwoo yells, cutting you off. "you should've known that i was an idiot in love, that i would've promised you anything if it meant i could see you smile. if it meant i could see you live the last few years of your life happily."

—

[ flashback - 1st january, 2023 ]

soon after your twenty-second birthday, you had grown much closer to wonwoo. you'd visit the infirmary for no reason, just to spend hours with him, learning about how the outside world worked. there were afternoons where he'd show you pictures of mountains, oceans, parks, children, and animals that he'd taken. there were evenings where he'd sneak you into his quarters, where he'd read you a book, or turn on a random movie he thought you'd appreciate.

it started feeling less like a friendship, and more like love. the way his eyes would light up when you entered the infirmary to greet him good morning, the way his ears would turn red if any other staff at the facility would get close to figuring out his relationship with you, the way he'd hold your hand or run his fingers through your hair, and the way he'd smile at you, kissing your cheek as a goodnight before going back to his own quarters.

you knew you were foolish for falling in love with wonwoo, especially when you had such limited time to love him properly. so you began to distance yourself from him. you stopped visiting him, avoided his attempts to talk, and tried your best to forget him.

it didn't work.

it only ended up in you being dragged to the infirmary by hyejun, when you woke up on january 1st complaining of a terrible stomach ache.

it was wonwoo who took care of you then.

"you've been avoiding me," wonwoo says quietly, watching you take the medicine he gave you. "did i do something wrong?"

you stay silent, wondering if you should tell him the truth or keep it hidden.

"i've fallen in love with you."

the truth it is then.

wonwoo gapes at you, blinking repeatedly as he tries to process your words. after a minute, he regains his composure and says, "i love you too. now why were you ignoring me?"

he asked you to be his girlfriend three days later, and for the first time since you've entered the facility, your heart starts to long for more time.

—

[ present - 24th november, 2024]

"yeah, i was stupid," you laugh sadly. "i was stupid to believe that you'd actually do something to fight for us."

"and risk both our lives in the process?" wonwoo argues. "if anyone would've found out, we'd both be killed, and not the painless way."

"well, one of us is going to die anyways!" you raise your voice, the tears you've desperately held back finally spilling over. "why did you have to love me? why did you have to make me want to live? do you know how hard it is for your face to be the last thing i see before i die?"

"and you think that this is making me happy?" wonwoo says, anger, love, helplessness, all emotions bleeding into his voice. "i loved you too. heck, i still do, and even after you're gone, i'll-"

"just do it. do whatever you need to do to kill me," you stop him from finishing his sentence. five-year old you had promised to give into your fate no matter what happens. and even though seeing the only man you've loved about to end your life is breaking your heart into a million pieces, you wouldn't be alive for too long to feel that pain.

"no-" wonwoo shakes his head. "i was stupid. i should've done something sooner. i was scared and i'm sorry. i'll get you out."

—

[ flashback - 19th september, 2023 ]

"i'll get you out," wonwoo whispers into your ear. you've just pulled him into a hug before you go back into your cell for the night when the words are muttered into the skin of your neck. "i won't let you die, y/n. not like this."

"won, what are you saying?" you ask, pulling away to face him. "are you nuts?"

"i love you and i can't bear the thought of having to lose you," wonwoo breathes out, his voice sounding strained. "i can't lose you."

"wonwoo, this is the system," you scoff. "i can't not die, it's not possible."

"just trust me," wonwoo shakes his head. "i'll get you out."

you let yourself believe him.

—

[ present - 24th november, 2024 ]

"i'm not letting myself fall for empty promises anymore," your words ring out loud and clear. "just get this over with, doctor."

"y/n-"

"756. that's how you're instructed to address me, doctor," you correct him.

"i can't. i won't do this to you," wonwoo refuses, moving closer to stand in front of you and place his hands on your shoulders. "we can get out, y/n. please, let me try."

—

[ flashback - 19th september, 2024]

"there's no way out," wonwoo mutters, and you feel the hope building in your chest crumble to dust.

"what- what do you mean?" you stammer. "wonwoo, you said you'd find a way-"

"i couldn't," he sighs. "not with management breathing down my neck. they already suspect i'm in close contact with one of the Misfits, and i don't want to give them a reason to make your last few months any worse."

"did you even try?" your voice breaks, your hopes and dreams slowly getting crushed.

"i didn't," wonwoo replies hesitantly. "i'm being monitored, especially after the promotion-"

"promotion?"

"i've been assigned to the room upstairs."

the room upstairs. where every Misfit goes to die.

"you- you never told me about this," your voice is strangled, the weight of wonwoo's words pressing down on your chest like an invisible weight.

"that's because you had no business knowing about it," wonwoo snaps. "look, y/n, from now on, you and i are nothing but strangers. whatever we had between us, it has to end now."

—

[ present - 24th november, 2024 ]

"you ended things. we're strangers now," you remind wonwoo, and the tears finally escape his eyes. "you shouldn't care this much for strangers, doctor."

"y/n, i'm sorry," wonwoo chokes out, tears streaming down his face, and you belatedly realize that you’re crying too. with the back of your hand, you wipe away the unnecessary and immature tears. this was your fate.

“you didn’t try when you said you would, wonwoo,” you lower your gaze, staring at the floor. "there's no happy ending for us now. there never was."

"i know. i was an asshole for promising you something i couldn't give to you, but i know i'm going to spend the rest of my life regretting not helping you now," wonwoo argues. he holds your hands in his.

"please, y/n, give me another chance."

"you know what's funny, wonwoo?" you laugh bitterly, looking up at the man you will love till the moment you die. "at least you have a lifetime you can spend regretting. at least you have a lifetime to start afresh, find someone else, fall in love. i only had you. you were my world, and it hurt so much when you lied to me and showed me dreams i never should've seen."

"i only said all those things because i loved you then, and i love you now as well," wonwoo's voice is shaky now. he knows your time together is nearing to a close, and with every passing second, he dreads the passing of the remainder of his life without you. "i was foolish to promise you freedom, but it was only because i hated that look of hopelessness in your eyes. and you have all the right to blame me, but let me just try-"

"if you're so sure you can get me out now, why didn't you do it earlier?" you cut him off. "why now? right before i have to die?"

you see the look of guilt flash in wonwoo's eyes. your eyes fall to the white lab coat he's wearing, the symbol of the facility embroidered into the fabric, right above where his name-tag sits.

you raise your hand to brush your fingers against the only name you had desperately hoped to call out for the rest of your life.

you realize that while it was your fate was to die, wonwoo's fate was to live. the purpose of your life was to live twenty-four years on this miserable earth and then vanish, while wonwoo's role was to take your life.

no matter how realistic those two years felt, it was impossible for the two of you to be together. you were carrying out your meaningless life, and wonwoo was fulfilling his duty. a duty that never involved loving you or rescuing you.

the bitterness brewing in you for the last couple of months comes to a rest, because you understand.

"i don't blame you," you utter quietly, hands coming up to rest against wonwoo's chest. if you tried really hard, you could delude yourself into thinking that this was just another morning you would spend with wonwoo, in his embrace, living life as if you had the gift of endless time.

"you were scared too, weren't you?"

wonwoo's face crumbles. he leans forward into you, resting his head on your shoulder as his body shakes with the intensity of his cries.

you hold him tight, and you feel sorry for giving him this warmth and comfort right before you left his life forever.

"you should have never loved me," wonwoo sobs. "i thought i was making your last years something you wouldn't hate, but i just-"

"you made my last years the happiest i've ever been," you stop him. "i don't regret loving you wonwoo, not even for a second. and i'm sorry i was angry at you for not helping me get out. i was too blinded by betrayal to realize that it could cost your life too."

"it wouldn't have mattered if you got to live," wonwoo shakes his head.

"it would've, because i wouldn't have you to live my life with," you say softly. wonwoo pulls away from you. his eyes are red and puffy, and your heart aches with the urge to kiss him, one last time.

"i'm sorry," you whisper. "i'm sorry that we ended up this way. god, if i had it any other way, i would've done anything to grow old with you."

"i'm sorry too," wonwoo sniffles. "for not fighting enough for us."

"it can't be helped now," you smile sadly at him. "maybe in another universe, we get to travel the world with each other and do everything we couldn't do in this one."

"it's time to let go, wonwoo," you say, pressing one final kiss against his lips.

wonwoo inhales deeply after you back away from him. he walks back to the desk, takes out a syringe filled with a clear liquid with shaking hands and comes back to face you.

"i'll find you in every other universe, and i'll love you till the end of time," wonwoo looks into your eyes, and this one feels like a real promise.

"i know you will," you hold the wrist of the hand holding the syringe to steady it.

wonwoo presses the needle into the skin of your neck, the place where he had whispered a promise of a better life before, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

"it won't hurt at all," wonwoo whispers as an assurance, and his free hand holds yours tightly.

the needle breaks through skin, the liquid is injected, and your last three minutes begin.

you open your eyes, and nothing feels like it's changed, but then wonwoo approaches you with a black eye-mask.

"i don't want you to see what happens," he explains, and you nod to give him permission. he slips the fabric onto your head, and your vision is blocked.

the last thing you see is his name-tag.

you hear the turn of a door knob, the sound of a door creaking open, and wonwoo's last words to you.

"i love you."

you feel gentle hands guide you into the room just opened, a pair of lips pressing a kiss to your temple, the warmth of wonwoo leaving you.

you're alone.

you smell the sterile antiseptic used to clean the room, a vague burning scent, your impending death.

your time is nearly up.

you taste the salt of the last tears you'll ever shed, the sour flavor of tragic love, blood.

it's almost over.

and then, nothing. it's like your senses have stopped working all of a sudden, and you're in a vacuum.

your hands tug off the eye-mask, but you can't see anything either. you realize it's the effect of the injection.

and it's good that you can't see, hear, feel, smell, or taste anymore.

otherwise you'd see the transparent glass wall separating you from a sobbing wonwoo, hand trembling above the red button that brought about your end.

you'd hear the lasers in the room charging up.

you'd feel a scorching heat all over your skin.

you'd smell your flesh burning till you're reduced to ashes, meant to be swept off.

you'd taste the kiss of death.

the timer rings; three minutes are up.

dr. jeon wonwoo ticks 756 off his checklist.

- fin.

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[itsmeatballworld]

| it ends in heartbreak |

pairing | daryl dixon x f!reader

summary | you both knew he would break your heart. he couldn't help himself.

wc | 1400

warnings | cursing, sadness/heartbreak [aka the title]

a/n | I've had this in my drafts forever lol I forgot about this one! Also this is the first time I've ever written pure angst so go easy on me <3

continue... [ part 2 ] - [ part 3 ]

You always knew this day would come.

There were signs pointing to the downfall of your relationship, signs you chose to ignore to enjoy the moments of happiness.

But the signs couldn’t be any clearer–it would never last. It couldn't.

It was the end of the world, for starters. Life was always in shambles. The group never stayed in one spot long enough. Even the prison wasn’t safe. With everything unstable, it should’ve been obvious this would happen, but you were naive to think you’d would be any different.

Because the reality was: this was always how it was supposed to end.

He was built on a fractured foundation. He set up walls and built his life around a broken base, worn down by his past that he couldn't escape. First, parents had cracked and hardened his outlook on life. Then his brother taught him he meant little to others by leaving him behind. Not once did he ever learn how to fix the ache in his heart.

Yet when he met you, things changed.

It was gradual. Pieces of him started to align and heal. The tough outer shell wasn't as indestructible as he first imagined. After some time he opened up and let you in.

But you both knew he would break your heart.

He couldn't help himself. It was in his nature to push back, to fight and wrangle away from anything that became too real. Too good.

But for the time being, you enjoyed the blissful moments of his affection.

When he kissed you goodnight it was over.

He lingered, almost as if he was allowing his lips to memorize the feeling of your skin on his. His fingers fell against your curves as you pressed into the cellblock’s cool cement wall. It was in these seconds of quiet where you both had a chance to breathe.

Pulling back, Daryl rested one arm above your head. He leaned in close, gazing sweetly down at you. His other hand slowly traveled to your face and Daryl’s thumb brushed against your bottom lip.

Without hesitating you whispered the words he never imagined hearing from you.

Love you.

There. Right there. You saw the spark in his bright blue eyes dim. The crystalline color washed away into a deep ocean blue. Rocky and turbulent. Daryl’s eyes were no longer filled with love, but rather, fear.

You lost him, right there, pressed against the concrete wall of Cellblock D.

This was destined to fail.

“Please don’t do this.”

“Have to.”

“No…no you don’t have to, Daryl.” Your chest tightened. It was like the air was on fire. No matter how deeply you breathed in and out, pain still resided in your chest. He was crippling you.

“Daryl–”

“Ain’t up for debate.” He stepped back, snatching his crossbow from the watchtower’s metal flooring.

Your hands fumbled to find your shirt, hating how he sprung this on you in the middle of the night. He didn't have patience to wait, apparently. Just break your heart and go, like it was nothing.

“I’m not trying to…I just…” you groaned. “What happened? Was it me? Did I do something?”

His eyes went wide. That scared, fearful expression washed over him once again.

Fuck, you squeezed your eyes shut. That was it. That look. It was just like the other night. When those stupid words stumbled out of your mouth, falling to the ground at Daryl’s feet. Just before he crushed them with his silence.

“Was it something I said?”

He didn't answer and his silence (unlike most nights) wasn't good enough. You needed answers.

“So that’s it then. You say ‘I’m done’ and leave before sunrise?”

The broody man fought to glance in your direction. Instead, he focused out towards the tree-line. He grabbed onto the windowsill and squeezed so tightly that the white of his knuckles appeared. But his tactics to avoid the conversation at hand weren’t getting past you tonight.

You shot up from the floor. “Daryl.”

“I ain’t got time for this.”

“You fuck me, say we’re done, and leave? Like this was all nothing? Like we mean nothing to each other?”

Daryl paused. He turned to you with lips curled into a tight frown. Even in the darkness of the watchtower, through the bright white moonlight, his frustration was clear.

“I said ‘I love you’, Daryl.” There was a desperation behind your words. Your voice was so deeply distressing it made your chest ache. It was heavy and exhausting to display your feelings out to him in the middle of the night. But you wanted more–deserved more–than a shitty ending to whatever you had with him.

“You think this is love?”

You gawked, “yes!”

He paced the small room like a caged animal ready to pounce.

You love this man.

“This ain’t love.”

You love this man. This jerk.

“Then what the fuck is this, Daryl? Tell me.” You paused, tears welling in your eyes but you refused to let them fall. “Fucking tell me!”

The shirt in your hands balled up tight around your closed fist. You were hurt. Everything about him was trouble and you let him in.

“I said ‘I love you’. I said it and now you’re pulling away.”

As he watched you, just for a moment, his eyes didn’t fill with fear or confusion. There was something there. Between the declarations, he looked apologetic. His blue eyes softened, letting the emotions he desperately tried to conceal slip past those walls he built back up.

“Well, shit! I’m sorry I said it. I fucked this up, didn’t I?” The gravel in your voice scratched your throat. Everything burned.

The apologetic stare turned pitiful. A deep scowl crossed his face and your heart sank. “Can’t mess it up when there was nothin’ here, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. It was so condescending as his drawl pulls at the syllables. That tightness in your chest balled into a pit of rage. Fire that burned you before ignited an anger inside.

You moved closer towards him. “You sleep with me every night. You kiss me before leaving on runs. When you think nobody’s looking, you hold my hand. We talk about our past. Our future. This is real, Daryl.”

“Nah.” He grabbed his belt, twisting it through the loops. “This ain’t real.”

Your fingers tightened on the fabric as you tugged the shirt on. “That’s not true—“

He huffed, staring out into the cloudy night sky. “You’re better off without me anyway.”

“Don’t. Don't say that. I’m not better off without you. I’d be worse.”

Daryl paused.

But the hurt and anger fueling your body didn’t stop. “So don’t make me feel crazy for falling in love with you. Like it was a choice? If I was fucking smart, I would’ve ran far away from you the second we met. But I didn’t. Because I saw you for more than the asshole you pretend to be. So excuse me for feeling blindsided by your decision to leave me.”

“Leave you?” He spat. “Get it through your head, girl. You ain’t mine! You’re just some bitch I screwed.”

The frogs croaking down by the creeks ceased to exist. Trees stopped rustling in the breeze. Crickets no longer sang under the stars. The world froze as his words were thrown at you with such haste. Like he didn’t think twice.

Your arms wrapped around your waist, tugging at the fabric clinging to your body.

He didn’t look back at you. His eyes seemed to drift anywhere but you like he couldn't face the fact that he said it out loud.

No, no. He doesn’t really think that…

Your voice cracked as the tears from earlier were not going to wait much longer. “Daryl–”

He turned on his heels and was out the door. Down the ladder, each step was louder than the last. You paused, bawling your fists as the tears finally spilled across your cheeks. Loud and heaving gasps, muddled together with hot tears.

He broke you down within seconds. The tears and sobs continued on for what felt like forever until you finally had a moment of rest. The tightness in your chest subsided, thankfully, but this was the easier part. Tomorrow will be harder when you’ll have to put on a fake smile, wipe away tears in the dark prison hallways, and avoid him.

Forget him. Forget him…right like it would be easy. It’ll be fucking impossible to forget him.

You wished you could hate him. But you don’t.

So for tonight, you let yourself feel the heartbreak and planned to stand taller tomorrow. Because in the end you knew it would never last.

But it didn't matter.

You loved that man.

Yet after everything, he might have been right. You weren't truly with him.

And maybe he never really cared for you at all.

-xx-

-xx-

a/n 2.0 | daryl PLEASEE {as if I didn't write him to act this way}

[scudslut]

18+, mdni

s4!daryl x fem!reader

a/n: this is such a random drabbleish thing, idk. i just have so many feelings about s4 daryl and how angsty but all consuming it would be to be with him at that point, like my fucking god i’ll explode.

sex is all it was — initially.

he didn’t even remember how it started if he was honest; one day finding himself thrusting all his burdens and frustrations into your supple, welcoming body.

it was an escape for the both of you, nothing more. somewhere to get lost for the lingering moments between life and death. leaving as soon as it was done and hardly speaking otherwise, if at all.

he wasn’t blind though. he knew it was more for you… something deeper than just an outlet for anger. solemn eyes tracking him around the prison searching for any sign of reciprocity. And he wasn’t void either. he felt the strings each time you were under him, or against him, whispering his name like a bedtime prayer to bind you two.

but there was a wall within him. one he built so tall and long ago he didn’t even remember the workings of. but any wall has its cracks and weakened points, and he found you knew them all somehow. had them mapped and jotted in your memory, poking them till they crumbled so he worked overtime fortifying. leaving you in the shadows for weeks at a time, with nothing but a glance towards you at most.

he couldn’t care — couldn’t let himself. there was too much on the line for not only him, but you. He didn’t want him for you, that wasn’t how it should be, but it seemed that the harder he pushed you away, the greater the fall was. finding you and slamming you against the nearest counter to be consumed by you. pent up so badly it honestly felt like he’d black out within the passion, the only thing keeping him lucid being the chants you sang softly. the eyes you gave him as he unloaded everything into you.

the longer it went on the worse it got, finding himself noticing the smaller details about you. the way sweat would build across the high points of your cheeks, glowing radiantly and flushed as he thrust slower. the way your hair would fall so perfectly around your shoulders and catch the light seeping in through the windows. and most of all, the way your voice lured him closer like the works of a siren, tone so soft and sultry as you praised him, his hands began to sweat.

he would turn you around, hoping the distant position would keep you unattached, or more so, him unattached. only to later begin tracing his eyes across your profile, over your jaw and neck while you gasped with closed eyes, eyelashes thick and wet from pleasured tears.

he was fucked, and he knew it. ran from it for so long he forgot what direction he was going and somehow circled back. and you were there as always, understanding him so fluently it was useless to hide. giving yourself to him so completely and vulnerably he had no choice but to give up.

he’d whimper as the new feelings washed over him, letting you soothe and pleasure him however you wanted, finally feeling the overwhelming understanding that all you wanted to do was take his pain and absorb it yourself. feel it for him so he could see he wasn’t alone. you’d keep him, and he’d keep you.

you wouldn’t push him. emotional exhaustion was prevalent in you both and finally a night was spent together, close but distant, open arms but lingering remnants of closed-off barricades. it wasn’t simple for him, or you for that matter. it was a new map being drawn and completely new territory he’d never dipped a toe in before.

and the next time it wasn’t uncontrollable passion against any counters. it was shaky fingers unbuttoning his vest while he tried to control his breathing. eyes darting all over your body, unsure but starving and trying to trust. slow and deliberate hands would take him in, all of him, gentle and curious, learning him in a way no one had before. a way he’d never let anyone one.

he never felt like he had been lost until he was with you. you saw him. accepted him without even batting an eye like it was the most natural and obvious thing to do. years he had shut every ounce of sympathy and companionship away, scarred from all the bad he had seen people do, it was jarring to realize there were people who simply loved to love, that you loved him just because he was him. and he knew now he wouldn’t go back. he wouldn’t shut you out anymore because he loved you just the same.

he would always circle back to you.

[obessedwithfictionalmen]

Never felt so...

John Egan X Reader

Summary: John's letter to his girlfriend...

Warning: Sad/ talk about death/ kissing./ crying/

Word count: 800 words.

Dear Y/n,

My darling I miss you so much, I’ve been in this camp for so long now, I’ve lost track of time. Recently, I’ve been thinking about my life a lot. That German officer said something that got stuck in my mind. He said that you’re going to remember the last time you’ve never felt so, and he got cut off by a gun shot. I’ve been thinking about the time I never felt so loved in my life. A moment comes to my mind, it was the night before I got shipped away. We danced together all night and the way you looked at me is still stuck in my mind. I think about it constantly. That’s the night I knew that all the love songs were about you. It’s true what they say: Distance makes you love harder. Because I love you so much. You will forever be my always. When I think about that night, I know that I’ve never felt so loved.

Yours, Bucky.

-

His cheeks were hurting from smiling this much. Dancing with her was the best thing in the hole world. She was beautiful, like art. Her laugh filled his ears, it was the best sound he ever heard. ‘’I’ll miss you so much’’ she whispered in his ear. He trapped her in a hug as they looked around the room, they were the last one, the band were the only people left in the room. ‘’Why are you whispering, darling?’’ he asked her. ‘’Because I’m afraid that if I speak too loudly, you’ll forget what I said. You tend to listen more when I whisper’’ she smiles. John smiled even more. ‘’John, like breathing, loving you is the most natural feeling I’ve ever known. You’re my person’’ she said against his lips. When their lips touched, it felt like home. Their soul found their home. John Egan never loved anyone more than he loved her, and he’d never felt so loved before.

Dear Y/n,

I just had another moment thinking about the quote from the German prick. It was when I learned that Buck ‘died’ in that moment, in that red cabin in London, I’ve never felt so low. You know what he means to me, but to learn that he went down was a punch to the stomach. We thought we were invincible, so to know that he went down was like watching the superhero lose a fight. So that’s the moment where, I’ve never felt so low. I love you my dear.

Yours, Bucky.

-

All alone in that telephone box, breathing the pain away. His brain couldn’t understand what just happened. How could Gale Cleven go down? It wasn’t real, it couldn’t be. It was a trick to get him back on the base. Buck was alive, he was going to be waiting for him at the base. His brain couldn’t function properly, John didn’t want to believe the fact that his best friend was dead. He was in pure denial, he can’t die. Bucky felt like he was being punched in the stomach, he was out of breath. All of his happy thoughts with his friend went through his mind. He couldn’t be dead, but is he was the Germans were going to regret it. He never felt so low before.

Dear Y/n,

I’m sorry that this paper is filled with tears. I’m so alone. I never felt so alone. I don’t even know if this letter will come to you. I’m currently in a German prison, I got captured and I’m alone in my cell. I’m alone. I’m going crazy, I’ve been gone for far too long, I forgot the sound of your voice. I’m crying because I’m tired, because I miss you, because my best friend is dead and I’m crying because I’m alone. I don’t know who I’m going to be when I come home, but I’m not going to be the man you knew. All alone, in this cell, I don’t know how long I can hold on, I’ll fight for you; to get back to you. But it’s so hard… I’ve never felt so alone…

-

He’d been crying for a while. The letter was in his coat pocket, he wanted to send it to her, but he didn’t know when. Looking around, he noticed the drawings on the walls. All the men that were there before him had draw on the wall, so he decided to do the same, he took out his pocketknife and started to draw on the wall. He drew two people hugging each other, he drew inside one of the people. For him, it was Y/n and him. When he finished, he looked at his art, crying again. He’d never felt so…

[cybiirz]

ೃ⁀➷ DOCUMENTS

Wriothesley x Gn!Reader

Sypnosis : Seems like a certain Warden had tired himself out. Being the kind person you were, you chose to help, but you forgot how deceiving an inmate can be. He was no different…But at least he pays?

WC : 829

“Wriothesleyyy! I brought you something from Sigewinne. She says it’s for like, helping you stay awake or whatever,” You groaned out as you treaded up the stairs. Currently, you were holding a large box of medicine that you were supposed to be delivering to other inmates.

That was your punishment for getting involved in a little experiment that was supposedly forbidden in the fortress…Either way, it was tiring and you just wanted it to be done with.

Your footsteps echoed against the walls as you stomped onto the metal stairwell. Finally, you reached the top, and with a lack of breath might you add. Who the hell needed so much medicine anyway? Nevertheless, you kept your head low as you observed the different bottles inside.

“There’s a lot here, let me just find yours and…got it. Huh, this thing has way too many side effects! How the hell do you even—” You lifted up your head to look at Wriothesley, only to find him practically passed out on his desk. You paused and cocked your head to the side.

Suddenly, you had an idea and with a smile and a slight skip in your step, you closed in on the desk. Outstretching your arms, you held the box over the table before dropping the heavy equipment, creating a loud slam against the wood.

No reaction.

“Huh? So he’s really knocked out then,” You murmured quietly to yourself. You opted to walk around the table and slowly approached his unconscious form. You began poking his head, and to no surprise, no reaction.

“Jeez. You overwork yourself too much you idiot,” You whispered next to him. Glancing at all of his papers, it took less than a second to see how messed up everything was. You sighed deeply and decided to help out this son of a gun.

It had been about an hour or so, with you going over the different documents and having to dig deep into his shelves to pair up each page to its designated folder. Covering your mouth, you let out a loud yawn before looking back over at the warden. Still fast asleep.

A small chuckle left your lips as you walked back over to him. Resting yourself against the table, you lifted your left hand and gently stroked his head.

“Well I organised each and every document for you. And since I went over each word written, I've seen you’re doing a good job for this prison. Even for inmates like me, you treat us well…But you are definitely paying me back one way or another once you’re awake,” After partially scolding him but mainly complimenting him, you began to get lost in a daze as you stared softly at the man in front of you.

Once you finished speaking, his head turned slightly, eyes opening with a small smirk splayed on his lips. You swiftly retracted your hand and looked away, trying to avoid his stare.

“Thanks for that (name). I appreciate you doing that but, you know I could’ve done all of it that whole time. I wasn’t actually asleep you know?,” He replied, his voice slightly condescending.

“Yeah well I expect payment back and—” Your arms crossed over your chest before you paused. What did he just say? ���Hang on, you were pretending?! You little liar! You’re so lazy that you had to fake sleeping to get someone else to do your work for you?! Now I better get that payment before I rip your—”

You were quickly cut off as a pair of lips landed directly onto yours. Your eyes instantly widened in shock as Wriothesley lifted his hand and cupped your face. Slowly but surely, you melted into the kiss and held your arm up before resting your hand onto his shoulder.

After parting, the light sounds of heavy breathing could be heard from you. You tried to look everywhere apart from him, but he moved his hand to grip your chin, causing you to face him.

“That was, unnecessary warden,” You mumbled, barely loud enough for him to hear.

“That was your payment,” He responded smugly. Looking at him with your blood rushing to your cheeks, you noticed the slight crease in the corners of his eyes. He was smiling at you, and not one of mockery or a fake smile, it was genuine.

“Well then…I have to get going and deliver these to the other inmates. Thank you for paying me back,” You cleared your throat before moving away from him and picking up the box. You left his medicine on the table as you made sure to secure the lid of the box. He crossed his arms over his torso as you began to descend down the stairs.

“(Name). Come back again and I'll be sure to repay you for whatever documents you organise for me,” Wriothesley’s voice had a somewhat teasing lilt to it, but it was evident he was serious. You rolled your eyes and simply scoffed at him before taking your leave.

But who were you to deny such a special treat?

A/N : Love me a little overworked man. But anyway, it’s finally my half term so i’ll hopefully be posting small drabbles that appear my head. Series work is becoming boring so oneshots and drabbles will probs be my thing. I might finish off the Gepard series but we’ll see. Also i’m thinking of doing a revamp to this blog buttt idk. Anyways, hope you enjoyed, feel free to leave requests!

[unholyhelbig]

now i need more firecrest asap after that cliffhanger

Title: Firecrest (Part 6/7)

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six]

Summary: Kate Bishop and y/n have an unspoken agreement that revolves around being enemies with benefits. But when Kate's new mentor is someone Y/n is very familiar with, things become complicated.

Warnings: Please, please, please read these, it's a heavy chapter. Kidnapping, torture, cigarette burns, blood, Cutting, getting stabbed (Idk how to explain it, istg it's not knifeplay), physical violence, horrible grammar, and let me know if I forgot anything please.

[A/n: I promise I don't think Clint or Eleanor are bitches... maybe Eleanor a little bit. This is for plot purposes! Eleanor is a MILF, I don't make the rules!]

The fist was strong enough to crack against your jaw like a whip. It was a rude awakening, one you were sure had shattered bone and most definitely filled your mouth with a helping of metallic blood that you weren’t quick enough to swallow. You let it choke you, your mind still slow and too foggy to acknowledge the position you were in. 

Strung up as if you were about to be carved with a butcher's knife and served up for Thanksgiving dinner. Your eyes refused to adjust right away, but you caught the glimpse of golden iron knuckles, the glint from a nearby light the only thing that you could pinpoint past the pulsing pain and the garbled breaths you could take. 

Another hit, this time aimed a little higher. You felt the edge of the metal dig into your skin and the steady waterfall of warmth that began to drip down the side of your face and off your chin. It spread to your stomach, which was startlingly bare. The simple fact that you might be nude was enough to jar you from whatever unconsciousness that lingered. 

You pulled in a painful breath, pinpricks of cold air filling your lungs. You felt like you were underwater, completely submerged. While the thundering ache of your wounds caused concern, what scared you more was your current position; a rope had been wrapped around your wrists and thrown over a beam on the ceiling. It was tied to an iron hook bolted to the wall, effectively lifting your arms uncomfortably over your head, the soles of your now-bare feet barely touching dirt. 

They’d stripped you of your blazer and the blue that you had agreed to wear to please Kate. It was never a color you enjoyed, reminding you too much of the broken crystals and toxic chemicals that had gotten you here in the first place. Thankfully, they’d left you in your sports bra and dress pants. Their hits were meant to wound deeper, to strip you of skin and damage tendons beyond repair. 

You were in a horse stable, or something that was once used as such. On either side of the long structure were the sectioned spaces for the large animals, but they’d been fortified with iron bars. It reminded you too much of  a prison despite both ends of the building being open and giving you ample views of the night sky. The cold wind brought goosebumps to your bare skin. 

 A groan pushed past your lips. You tried to use what little strength you had left to pull yourself up, just to alleviate the pressure on your shoulders, but there was no such luck. Your muscles twitched before giving out entirely. You settled for blinking the dripping blood from your eyes and taking a look at your attacker. 

There wasn’t much clarity to be had. He was, by all accounts, a white man with too much scruff and a cowboy hat for shits and giggles. You weren’t about to scoff at his choice in attire. You had no power in this situation. You couldn’t feel your fingers, much less create a spark from them. With the amount of hay scattered about, not only would it be pointless, but it would end up killing you in the process. 

“Oh good, you’re awake.” His breath leaked from his mouth in streams of smoke. You weren’t sure if it stemmed from the cold or the cigarette between his lips. He swiveled, calling out “She’s awake!” 

The sound-off didn’t bring an immediate presence. But Texas, as you kindly dubbed him in your sedative soaked brain, stepped forward and plucked the cigarette from his lips before pressing the angry red tip against your collarbone. He stamped his filthy habit out. 

A grunt escaped you, and you pulled once more on the uncomfortable ropes that had you bound. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of breaking from a little burn and some unfair fighting tactics. It hurt like hell, bit into your skin. Up close, he had yellowed teeth from his vice, and his mouth clicked when he smiled. “Boss said we could rough you up, makes for better television.” 

“Here I was,” you panted, voice gravelly “Thinking you were the boss.” 

He smiled thinly at that, the light in his eyes faltering. He let the extinguished cigarette drop to the lightly packed dirt floor, hooking his thumbs into his belt-buckle and taking an admiring step back. He appreciated his handiwork, the two wounds on your face and a third against your heaving chest. 

“Aw, leave some fun for the rest of us, will you?” another voice. A woman. 

You whipped your chin up much too fast, your head suddenly swimming at the quick movement. It had been a mistake and took a few moments for you to orient yourself again. Her presence didn’t give you much clarity, if any. She was dressed warmly for the crispening weather, a black coat and black leather gloves. Her face was obscured by a solid gold mask, only holes cut out for the sharp blue eyes that were so familiar. 

“How’s my prisoner holding up?” She cooed, taking your face in one hand. She squeezed your cheeks, forcing you to look at her. The aching pain in your jaw shot up to a slowly-forming headache. “Oh, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already? Sweet girl, you confessed your undying love to me. I thought you’d show more enthusiasm. 

You could feel the blush moving across your cheeks, an annoying pink tint that gave you away. You wanted to spit in her face, but it wouldn’t have been productive, you feared. It would only anger her, and leave you unsatisfied. So you dragged a breath in and steeled yourself with an icy frown. She wore Kate’s bracelet. 

“No matter,” She released you and a rip of pain moved through your shoulder blades, her fingers trailing against your well-defined stomach, nails leaving subtle pink indentations. “Flattery will get you nowhere, y/n.” 

You snarled “What do you want?” 

“From you, darling? Absolutely nothing. You’re not as important as you think you are.” She tsked, circling you like a hungry shark. “Pretty, but not important. You’re nothing more than a pawn. All I want is for you to sit pretty and wait for your father.” 

The fire that you couldn’t conjure from your fingertips lit your stare in a dangerous red. The masked woman tilted her head to the side in what you’ve come to realize was interest. A low hum rumbled from her chest. You glowered at the two of them, drawing in breaths and releasing them in a way that caused the less pain. 

Of course this had to do with Clint. He’d waltzed back into your life, stirred up old feelings, and had effectively gotten you kidnapped. You didn’t know where Kate, your Kate, was. The thought made you thrash a little harder against your binds. The sharp sting of coarse rope cut into your wrists, a line of blood no bigger than a teardrop, slid to the crook of your elbow in response. 

“He doesn’t know where you are, sweetie.” 

She tutted, shaking her mask-clad head and stirring the raven hair that hung lazily on her shoulders. The woman kept a keen eye on you, as if you had anywhere to go, but she reached blindly back towards Tex. He wore a confused expression for a moment before the gears in his head started to turn and brush off the cobwebs. He flicked open his pocket knife and handed it to her. 

“Don’t you think it’s a shame that print is dying? Holding up a phone with the time and date just isn’t as motivating as it once was.” 

It was your turn to be confused, but it only lasted as long as it took for the blade to touch your skin. This time, you couldn’t hold back the scream. She was much too slow with her cut, much too methodical. She’d done this before, maybe with livestock, but she knew how to maximize the stinging pain 

She was carving into your flesh, something that would stay with you until the end of time. They were coordinates, you knew by the third agonizing number that she chiseled right below the burn that Tex had inflicted. She tried to silence you with her incessant coos and tender exclamations that it would all be okay. 

How could it? The veins in your arms were straining just to quell the sharp pain of her handiwork. You were doused in sweat, which stung just as bad in the open cuts than the slices themselves. When she’d finished the last number, you had screamed yourself sore, the adrenaline that made it nearly tolerable leaving as soon as it had filled your veins. 

The masked woman slid her tongue over the sharpened blade, licking away the tint of red before she let it fall to the floor. She’d gotten bored of you, you could tell by the flatness in her stare. Your head hung and mucus dripped from your nose, you made no attempt to swallow it back. 

“Rough her up a bit more, then take the photos.” The woman demanded, her voice retreating. “Send them to every news station in the city. They’re not going to want to miss this.”

Bobbi Morse hated the feeling of cold wood flooring against the soles of her feet. It made the entirety of her shiver, waking her body up and shedding the last of the warmth she had from her shared bed. Her husband had suggested slippers, but they were always left in various places of the house. So she suffered at her own hand, even as she padded to the front door.

Day had barely broken, and a blue haze coated the dewed grass. There were birds at the feeder on the back porch and small paths in the condensation on the lawn from deer that had ventured too far from the edge of the surrounding woods. This, by all means, should be a peaceful morning.

But it wasn’t, because Clint fucking Barton had pulled the glass door back and started pounding on the wooden frame with such fervor that it made Bobbi’s jaw ache. She had thrown on her robe to conserve some warmth, but still felt too exposed in front of her ex-husband and Avenger.

She’d leveled him with a glare that could shatter glass, and he respectfully rushed out. “Bobbi, come on. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t an emergency.”

He had a point. It made her chest seize. They only had one thing in common these days, and it was you. Even then, he didn’t make a point of crashing into her new life. The life she preferred for the both of you. So, she stepped back and allowed him to scramble into the foyer with his musky, cold scent. Clint always smelled slightly like gunpowder and cinnamon despite choosing a more archaic weapon.

“Have you seen the news?”

“What? No, God, you woke me up.”

His eyes widened and he clumsily found his way to the living room, carding around in the couch cushions for the remote as if he lived here. He certainly didn’t, and Bobbi had to swallow back her white-hot anger at the familiarity of his movements.

Still, he navigated the technology surprisingly well and flicked on the television. The room filled with a pale blue light that made Bobbi’s eyes sting viciously. She blinked the moisture away and leaned over the back of the couch, the anxiety in the pit of her stomach starting to swirl.

You’d mentioned going to dinner last night with your girlfriend. Something that Eleanor Bishop had orchestrated. She’d nearly begged you not to go. You didn’t owe that woman anything. But you looked at Kate like she hung the moon and the stars, so there would be no talking you out of the event.

It was only on your way out the door that you slipped in Clint’s presence. The oak had slammed before Bobbi could protest, and even if she could, you were an adult. You were in love. If you saw it fit to establish a relationship with your biological father due to the proximity, then who was she to stop you?

Now, she wished she had because Clint was here, and you weren’t.

Bobbi’s stomach was empty, but she had the acute need to vomit as the words Breaking News flashed across the screen. They’d halted all other programming. She was certain that you were dead, and her fingers moved to the now cold spot on her cheek where your lips had hurriedly pressed in a loving goodbye.

Cindy Moon, reporter extraordinaire, was freshly dressed in her usual suited ensemble. She looked so put together, even for the special report. How could she look so calm? Rationally, Bobbi knew it was her job to do just that, but the ringing in her ears was starting to wash out every coherent thought.

“Word coming out of our own studio, and it seems, multiple stations across the state. Current Congress Candidate Lance Hunter has been issued a very public call to arms. This morning, a photo of his step-daughter Y/n Morse, has been released nationally. Due to the graphic nature of this photo, we here at NNC will not be showing the image.”

Bobbi was relying on the sofa to hold her up now. Her world tilted and she’d knowingly stopped breathing, curling her fingers into the rough fabric. Lance hadn’t woken up yet, and she knew the scream that threatened to bubble into her throat would do just that.

“The message was clear,” Cindy sadly continued “It’s up to Lance Hunter to make the next move, and follow the coordinates. We will continue to update the public on this matter. But for now, we encourage the general public to disregard the message and let law enforcement handle the matter.”

Let law enforcement handle it. Like the department has ever done one competent thing in their lives. She had faith in you. She’d trained you herself and with experts in her craft that had been hardened enough to impress her. But she worried for you like any mother did. It wafted from her in waves.

“Show me the photo.”

“I don’t think that’s the best idea.”

“You don’t get to come into my house and tell me what is or isn’t a good idea. The photo Clint.”

Her tone left no room for argument. His phone was comically bright, and she winced at the white light that leaked from the screen as he fumbled to get her request pulled up. She saw his shoulders tighten and his jaw clench when he got to where he wanted. Such small reactions that anyone normal wouldn’t realize his fear. But Bobbi wasn’t normal.

She grabbed the phone with one hand and pressed her cold fingers to her lips with another. Still, an involuntary groan escaped her throat. She’d read once that wolves howl despite danger when they feel the need to grieve at the horrors committed.

There was almost more blood and bruising than skin. Your head was dipped, so she couldn’t see your eyes but she prayed they still held life. You were strung up, clearly straining against your binds. The cuts in your chest made her own burn horribly. They’d beaten you savagely.

“What’s going on?” Lance had padded down the carpeted stairs, moving with the silence of a ghost. “Clint?”

Neither of them answered, so Lance flicked his gaze to the television, frowning when a headshot of himself was front and center. A photo of you and him slotted right next to it. It was your high school graduation, chords around your neck as you beamed with your diploma in hands. He stared at you in the photo as if you’d been elected president.

Lance tepidly took the device from Bobbi, who let it go without her usual fight. She’d fallen into his side, pressing her nose against his neck and letting her shoulders shake with silent sobs. His eyes misted over immediately, hand tightening around the phone.

Clint wasn’t expecting the hardness in his stare when he did finally lift his gaze. “This is for me.”

“They want you to go there.”

“I assume you’re coming with us.”

“She’s my daughter.”

“No,” Lance snarled with the ferocity of a wild animal scorned, moving his hand soothingly on his wife’s back. “She’s mine.”  

The hiss that pushed past your lips reminded you too much of letting the air out of a bike tire. It was a weak sound, and even as you moved in and out of consciousness, you resented the fact. If there were ever a time to be feeble, it was now.

The pain hit you before you fluttered your eyes open. They felt heavy, refusing to acknowledge the lack of adrenaline that you now held close to your chest. You registered the exhaustion in your bones, the ache in every part of your body where Tex had struck. He’d left small expanses unmarred, but anything that would show your bruising to the camera was hit with iron knuckles, with another lit cigarette or the tip of the caked blade.

Just like the woman in the mask, he’d soon grown bored of you. You were vaguely aware of being moved, being thrown into one of the cells that lined the walkway. There was no haste to pull yourself up, even if you were able to. You were shaking too much, and soon gave way to unconsciousness.

There wasn’t a way to tell how much time had passed, but when you startled awake and tried to sit up, you were met with quick resistance. You clenched your eyes shut until you saw stars, trying to sit up again, but being pushed down to a scratchy mattress by a hand.

You thought you were alone. The fight or flight kicked in and your eyes sprung open. You struggled against the hand, the touch that was so familiar but in the way that Kate’s eyes were on the balcony. You were breathing frantically, panting in fear.

“Hey, hey, hey” a raspy voice tried to soothe, but there was nothing soothing about being under someone’s hand without a proper way to move. You were sure you’d cracked a few ribs, and maybe even your jaw with that first, startling hit. “You need to relax, stop moving.”

Despite the growled warning, you turned your head and gaged the person who was so easily restraining you. Kate. Or maybe it wasn’t. You felt a shiver rock through your body at the sight of her. You didn’t trust what you were seeing, not right away. That had gotten you into deep, scalding water just the day before.

You were sprawled on a twin bed that rested on a metal frame. The mattress was stuffed with newspaper, crinkling with each shallow breath you took. It was the only accommodation in the dusty cell other than a tin bucket that you didn’t much care to think about.

Kate was in her tactical pants, pitch black and stained with dust. She wore a tank top that revealed yellowing bruises, lacerations that she had nursed the best she could. Nothing near what had been done to you, but it made your heart clench all the same. She’d been hurt, and you wanted to carve out the heart of whoever dared lay a hand on her.

A sad whimper escaped you and her hand stroked the side of your face as if it were habit. She’d taken her purple jacket from her shoulders and pressed it to the carved numbers against your chest, effectively staunching the blood. You were grateful for the act of kindness, for her warm touch.

“You’re okay, it’s okay.”

It most certainly was not okay, but the certainty in which she said it made you want to believe that it was. Her fingers brushed over your arms and any exposed skin that she could see. She assessed the wounds like she understood exactly where they were, making sure they hadn’t started to leak blood once more.

How long had she been here? You hadn’t reached out after your fight. There were clear lines drawn and you weren’t going to step over them. You felt a burst of relief when she’d texted you, demanding that you wear blue and show up on time to dinner. You had done both without question.

Kate must have sensed the questions brewing behind your stare. Her tender touch moved to your forehead, carding her fingers through your hair in a comforting gesture. The ghost of a smile on her face “Don’t think too hard, okay? I don’t know if you’re bleeding internally or not.”

Your pitiful chuckle turned into a cough, Kate’s expression dropping, filled with worry. She waited until you were done, rubbing small circles against your bare arm. You noticed the small split that seemed to keep reopening against her lip. The very one you’d clocked during your last real conversation.

You swiped your thumb gently across her cracked lips, frowning “You’re bleeding.”

She laughed wetly, dropping her head letting her tears fall. She’d grasped your nearest hand with both of hers, absently playing with your fingers, squeezing and holding them to make sure you were real. You wanted to embrace her, to quell her fears, her misery. But you couldn’t move more than an inch.

“I thought you were going to die,” Kate croaked out, not looking up. “I could hear everything, smell the blood, even from here. I was certain that with each hit, you wouldn’t wake up and we would leave things… we would leave them in that stupid alleyway.”

Your mouth was dry, throat burning. She gripped your hand harder to wash away her own trembling. You didn’t deserve her forgiveness, you knew that. But there was the pulled feeling that you needed her more than anything right now.

“I hid in the corner with my hands over my ears like a coward. I was certain that you’d die right past my reach and there was nothing I could do about it. That the very last image you would have of me, of us, was that horrible night.”

“Stop,” you begged in a broken voice, fingers brushing lightly against her jaw. Kate glanced up, static gray eyes rimmed in red. She swallowed hard and watched you carefully. “Katie, this is all my fault. All of it. I’ve spent years denying my emotions. It was going to blow up eventually. It was only a matter of time.”

You carefully started to sit up, she drew in a sharp breath and opened her mouth to object before snapping her jaw shut. You’d always been able to handle yourself, stubborn until the very end. You pressed your fingers into your ribs to quell the ache.

Carefully, you put your hands on either side of her cheeks, wiping away the dampness across the flushed expanse. She’d never let you hold her like this, but she melted into the touch with a starved sigh. She hiccupped, trying to catch her breath as she scrambled up onto the bed next to you, her arm flush against yours with a comforting heat.

“We’ll get out of this,” You leaned your forehead against her own. This time, it was you who desperately searched for a grounding factor in her hands, calloused from years of archery. “Even if it means just waiting.”

“God, we’re so bad at that.”

You were aware. Patience was not a virtue when it came to you, and certainly not when it came to Kate. Sitting still for the past week must have been enough of a torture for her before you got yourself thrown right in next to her. Brutally beaten and plaguing her with the mere sound of breaking bones and your screams of anguish.

Your body was starting to grow heavy, the mere pressure of Kate next to you, the evergreen scent of her, was enough to lull you into near sleep. Her arm was wrapped with yours, her cheek resting on your shoulder. You both were on alert for the sound of footsteps, but were only met with cicadas and bullfrogs.

“Y/n?”

“Hm?”

“What did she mean when she said you confessed your undying love?”

A groan rumbled through you and you clenched your eyes harder. How were you supposed to explain that you hadn’t noticed the woman next to you the whole night wasn’t your Kate. There were subtle mannerisms that gave her away, the more you scrutinized them.

The way she’d done her hair, the fidgeting with the gold bracelet. The defiance against Eleanor being so blatant. Kate would coyly roll her eyes, but not entertain anything her mother pushed. It had been different, sharper words and thicker movements. You were just so focused on your own turmoil to notice.

“Because I did.”

Kate frowned, pursing her lips into a straight line and staring at you with a glinting amount of question. Even under the washed-out yellow lights, she was beautiful. Breathtaking. Under her scrutiny, you shivered, aggravating the pain that wracked your body.

“She… looked like you. A carbon copy, and I… told her how I felt.”

“You’re in love with me?”

“Impossibly so.” A sad chuckle escaped you and you averted your gaze to the packed dirt floor. “Long before this whole charade. There’s a loving patience to you that no one has ever shown me before. You are impossible not to fall in love with, Kate Bishop.”

Silence was filled with your struggled breaths, fingers still pushing deep into your ribs to keep the ache from spreading. You sniffed, feeling a cold drip right beneath your nose. You weren’t expecting an answer. Too tired to fight for one.

Kate’s touch was softhearted, fingers brushing gently against your jaw and guiding your eyes to her own. They were glossy, tearful. “You absolute idiot. I knew from the second I saw you that you’d be the death of me.”

You scoffed at the irony of her statement. There was a blooming affection that ripped through you, much harder than the knife against your skin. Her expression was world-altering, earth-shattering and you nearly whimpered under her attention, no matter how sparing it was.

Her stare flicked to your lips, and you gave the slightest nod of confirmation. You’d kissed Kate before, usually open mouthed and in a rushed effort to fight for dominance with one another. But this was different. Her lips were soft, slightly-chapped from the cold. There was a metallic taste to you both, her movements methodic, calculated and full of care.

This time, you did whimper, more of a huff of pain. Her hand had brushed against your side, and the shooting discomfort was enough for you to pull back, if only slightly. Kate smiled guiltily against your lips, whispering apologies into your mouth.

“Lay down,” Kate purred.

You quirked a brow at her “Really? Right here?”

“Not like that. You’re clearly in pain. Lay down.”

She started to lead you onto your back with practiced ease before you could voice your protests (ones that included wanting to stay awake long enough to keep kissing her). You hissed, mumbling something along the lines of her being bossy, but you couldn’t deny the comfort that washed over you when you were finally situated.

Kate settled in next to you, slotting her leg carefully with yours and pressing flush against you, providing the comfort that you so desperately needed. Kate’s nose was cold against the naïve of your neck. An instant relief that quieted any lingering thoughts that would fight off sleep.

The next time you woke up, it wasn’t nearly as startled. Even if you had wanted to move quickly, you felt the twinge of your injuries prevent you from doing so. There was consistent pressure against your mostly bare chest, Kate’s hand had found purchase against the only unmarred part of your collarbone.

Her lips were parted and she let out soft breaths that tickled the small of your throat. You wondered when the last time she slept- really slept- was. She’d been here days, based on her bruising and her clothing that she was so willing to share to provide you with some decency.

“I’m rooting for the two of you.”

You stiffened, swallowing the groan of pain that struggled to rush to the surface. The voice, of course, was familiar and gravelly and filled you with white hot anger. It was the woman in the gold mask. Hardley cost effective and taunting you behind it.

She was standing on the other side of the cell, watching both you and Kate like viewing animals in a zoo. She’d even tossed a greasy bag of fast food through the gaps in the iron. You hated that your mouth filled with saliva at the charcoal scent.

You’d picked at a salad for dinner, and had even thrown up the one cherry tomato you’d managed to consume during Tex’s brutal work. “A peace offering.”

“An olive branch.” You could hear the smirk in your voice. “You might not believe this, y/n but I mean you no harm.”

You leveled her with an acidic glare that could melt the very bars that contained you. It softened when Kate let out a small grumble in her sleep and burrowed closer. She was like a little space heater, nearly to the point of a fever. She had always run hot, just like you.

“No further harm. I could have easily killed you, or your little bird. But I haven’t, so a little trust would be appreciated.”

“If you’re hoping for some sort of Stockholm syndrome, keep holding your breath, lady.”

The stranger shrugged her shoulders and watched the two of you with deadened eyes that made you squirm. You stayed put, partly out of pain and partly because the worst thing you could do right now was stir the sleeping archer in your arms.

So, you whispered, “If you wanted Clint, why not pump him full of sedatives at the dinner table? This seems like an awful amount of work for someone sitting across from you, sipping wine.”

“That washed up Avenger? Please. We don’t want Clint. We want Lance.” She hauled herself onto a large barrel across from the cell, crossing her legs at the ankles. It was a bitter attempt at sprucing up the place. “You said it yourself at dinner, Clint isn’t your father. In fact, I feel kind of bad for you. A dad that won’t give you a second glance, a girl who only entertained your love to piss him off? You have every right to hate him.”

You made a noise in the back of your throat and flopped your head back onto the flat pillow. The ceiling was a nice wooden structure, maybe apart of the original structure. You didn’t need her pity, but it still settled the slightest bit of comfort in your stomach.

You’d ran out of your ability to be tactful someone between the tenth and Eleventh blow to your abdomen. “If you’re looking for ransom, you won’t get much. All of our wealth has been pumped into the campaign.”

“I don’t want money, though, that would be an added benefit. I’m simply helping. What’s a better and more heartfelt story than a candidate saving his poor, inhuman daughter?” She pouted behind her mask, tilting her head at an angle. “It’ll be media gold. It’ll catapult is numbers.”

“I’m sorry, you want Lance to win?”

“Someone does, and they were willing to pay a lot of money to get you here.”

A breath escaped you, one that you tried to stop from shaking. That could be the design of anyone, including your own parents. You wouldn’t be shocked if Eleanor Bishop had stuck her hand into the kidnapping plot. But that also begged the question of who was powerful enough to orchestrate something like this?

“Keep your strength up,” The masked woman hopped from the barrel, “We wouldn’t want you to die in here, now, would we?”

She walked away on surprisingly light feet. They didn’t stir the gravel like Tex’s did. You knew your heart was pounding harder from the interaction, the planned admissions that were just another form of torture. She could be lying. You hoped she was lying.

Kate was drooling under the heavy hand of sleep. You couldn’t help the small smile that fought through your confusion, your pain. She really could sleep anywhere, and you envied her in moments like these. Your body had given in to the exhaustion earlier, but now, you were left with your thoughts and her distant snores.

Your hand closed over hers, playing with her fingers absently as you carded through every single person who may have a problem with your family. The list was long, but there was a shorter list of people who wanted Lance to win.

He’d resigned to the fact that he wouldn’t, and that had been an odd strategy for you at first. Near the start of his campaign, you’d have trouble getting to sleep unless you were in your childhood bedroom, close to the people who loved and cared about you.

Even then, you’d find yourself in the living room with Lance. He watched old westerns when he couldn’t drift off and you had taken to joining him every once and awhile. He told you then, that he didn’t think he would win.

“I don’t get it. Why run at all, then?”

“People are stuck in their ways, sometimes it takes more than one election to change things like that. They’re not used to Inhumans, not like we are. But we’ll change their minds, even if it’s slowly. They’ll learn to love just like we do.”

You’d grown tired throughout the latter half of the 1952 movie ‘High Noon’. Gary Colemans southern, gravelly voice lulled you to sleep that night with your cheek on Lance’s shoulder, the scent of his aftershave coating your throat and your lungs. You never knew if he’d succumbed that night, but you knew that it was the safest you’ve ever felt.

The idea that he would sway the election with a fake kidnapping was out of the question. Because he didn’t care if he won. He’d only ever cared that he changed the world in a good way, one that would cut the sideways looks you got in half.

“Mm, you should be resting.” Kate’s sleepy demands pulled you from your thoughts, her voice vibrating against the side of your throat. You subconsciously pulled her closer, making sure she was comfortable on the sliver of a twin bed. “Cheeseburger?”

“That’s what woke you?”

“No, your thoughts are loud.”

She nipped lightly at your sensitive skin, soothing it with a kiss almost as quickly as she’d created the subtle sting. It was relaxing, a show of affection that spread warmth to your stomach. You wanted to wake up next to Kate Bishop every single day for the rest of your life. Just not in a dirty cell.

The distinct lack of emotion in Eleanor Bishop’s eyes worried Bobbi more than anything else she had seen today. She had seen a lot. A startling amount that had numbed her to a state of shaking paleness. There was no comfortable piece of furniture in this penthouse and that aggravated her all the more.

They’d been intercepted by law enforcement before they could do anything shy of putting on real clothes before being herded like livestock to the Bishop’s residence.  At first, Bobbi had chalked it up to them owning a security company, maybe they had ties to other agencies.

But, they were soon informed that Kate had vanished too and Eleanor was just so beside herself, she couldn’t fathom travel. Her cheeks were red, flushed with emotion, but her eyes remained deadened. Bobbi had to clutch an ugly throw pillow to ground herself.

“Right now, we suggest you do nothing.”

“Do… nothing?” Lance was pacing behind the sofa, trying to breathe in as much outside air from the propped open storm doors as possible. “Forgive me Detective North but that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“We don’t believe that they’re going to do anything further to harm your daughter, but there is a very real possibility that all of this is a ploy to kill you. So yes, Mr. Hunter, we expect you to wait here while we execute the rescue.”

She was a hard woman with sharp eyes that could cut through solid ice to expose a soft underbelly. Bobbi supposed that she had to be in her line of work. In any other situation she would have applauded her finality. Her tenderness. But this was different.

Bobbi held her tongue. She didn’t make it known, and wouldn’t, that she was Mockingbird. The police force didn’t’ actively endorse vigilantes and stumbling out that she was much more competent than anyone they could send in for a rescue would lead to more trouble.

As if sensing her distress, Lance put an assured hand on her shoulder. The former SHIELD agents were getting older and the novelty had long since worn off. You, on the other hand, had a long career ahead of you as Firecrest. The media was meant to believe that you were an innocent, politicians daughter with a bit of a wild streak. Maybe they should do nothing.

“And what of Katherine?” Eleanor forced a hiccup, gently patting below her eye with a dry tissue that stayed dry. “Have there been any demands?”

Detective North frowned down at her notepad “No, I’m afraid not. We’ve heard nothing. They both seemed normal at dinner last night?”

“We’ve been through this!” Clint shouted in a sudden outburst. He’d remained silent by the bar, only losing his composure when his protégé was brought up, he sighed, softening. “Y/n left to get some fresh air and Kate followed her. We didn’t see or hear anything else.”

“It didn’t cause any concern when neither of them returned?”

“Katherine barely regards me as it is.” Eleanor waved off, suddenly dry-eyed once more. “I learned a long time ago that it’s easier to avoid fights that will get me nowhere. I figured that the two of them retreated somewhere they were more comfortable.”

Bobbi hated to agree with Eleanors logic, but could see where she was coming from. Kate was difficult, but only with her mother. She matched the energy that was given and Bobbi had always respected her at a silent distance for that. Little acts of rebellion made life livable.

Her voice pinched and she clutched the tissue “You’re telling me… she could be dead?”

“We’re not telling you anything, Mrs. Bishop. We’re trying to figure out everything that we can before entering an uncontrolled situation.”

“All you need to know is that our daughter is gone and if you don’t send someone in there to get her in the next hour, I’ll do it myself.” Bobbi hissed.

“Right… Well.” Detective North was disturbed by the impassioned anger in Bobbi’s voice, the venom in her eyes. She cleared her throat and stood. “Like I said, stay here. We’ll post a uniform outside of the door. No one in or out. I’ll be in touch.”

She pocketed her notebook and left before any further questions could be asked. Bobbi didn’t understand. They knew where you were, it would be simple to retrieve you and treat your wounds and make sure that you were still alive and breathing. That you were okay.

Eleanor stood from her seat next to Bobbi and poured herself a drink, straight vodka that looked more like a crisp drink of water. She swallowed it without making a face before she moved to pour herself another one but stopped her slender fingers short of the cap. “I knew this was a horrible idea.”

“What was?” Bobbi croaked out.

“Our children seeing one another. Everything was fine until Katherine started making heart eyes at your arsonist.”

“The last I checked, they’re both adults.” Lance said through gritted teeth. “They can make their own choices and have done so for the past decade without incident.”

She laughed dryly “Without incident? Y/n nearly destroyed a historic building with a couple of matches. Do you know why she did that? It certainly wasn’t at the behest of my Katherine.”  

“That’s enough.” Clint silenced the room. He’d fallen back into his quiet contemplation after his outburst with Detective North. “This isn’t helping anything.”

“You’re right.” Her eyes narrowed “aren’t you a superhero? Can’t you suit up in your spandex and retrieve my daughter and your discarded one?”

Nothing more could be said. She’d effectively taken all the oxygen out of the room. Eleanor unscrewed the cap of the vodka and poured herself a heavy-handed second helping before flopping back down into her spot. She’d had too much to drink, but Bobbi wasn’t about to point that out, nor was she going to stop her.

Tag List💕: @noturlondonboy, @slvtformaria, @pianogirl2121, @escapereality4music, @cyberbonesworld, @dark-hunter16, @crescentcrush, @bishopsbeloved, @sammi1642, @bilyashvili, @thinking1bee

[srgntjamesbuckybarnes]

The List (4)

Summary: When a hit list spreads around New York, Bucky’s ex-wife is the only one with any information.

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Mafia Bucky Barnes x Ex-Wife Reader

Warnings: Metaphorical addiction

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: Not Beta’d. Thank you all so much for all of your sweet comments.

Series Masterlist

Previous Chapter

Chapter 4

Blue skies turned gray; her nights filled with pain. The walls would never tell, Y/N was under a spell. She had spent too much time in the sun, fading the tan line on her left hand. Too much time drying her eyes. Too much time mourning the loss of someone who never really existed. Mrs. Barnes was dead, but with two little words-

Clear!

Clear!

Clear!

She was brought back to life.

The first time they married, Y/N didn’t read the warning label that came with James Buchannan Barnes. She swallowed too many pills way too fast. He was a stimulant, leaving her body feeling euphoric for short periods of time. Divorcing him was like getting her stomach pumped, but it was too late. The drug had already entered her bloodstream, her heart working overtime to pump the blood throughout her body. Like an addict, one small dose of Bucky had her scraping her hands and knees, crawling back for more. This time, she was older, wiser, and more importantly, she tasted the drug and knew the symptoms.

The crisp air nipped at Y/N’s skin. Her fingers tightened around her sweater wrapping herself like a caterpillar in a cocoon. Warm hues decorated the sky, the leaves of the trees their most colorful. The end of summer was near. Bucky’s men patrolled the perimeter as she strolled outside. Steve was away leaving Sam to accompany her.

Bumping his shoulder against hers, Sam laughed, “Keep turning that thing and your finger will fall off.”

Her eyes fell on the ring adorning her ring finger. The right hand halted, hovering over the left. After being married to Bucky and engaged to Loki, she forgot she was wearing a ring. It was an extension of her identity, trading one ring for another. Choosing the lesser of two evils, she had accepted Bucky’s proposal. A few days later a ring arrived in the mail. It wasn’t the most romantic proposal, but they had already been down that road the first time.

Y/N sent him a dull smile, “I’m still getting used to it.”

Sam paused, his hand wrapping around her bicep pulling her to a stop. Squinting down at her, he asked, “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Glancing around, she sighed. Her head and shoulders drooped. “What am I doing here, Sam?” Subconsciously, she began twisting the ring again. “I’m engaged to a man trapped in prison for god knows how long.” She should be in prison beside him. He told her to go. He gave her a second chance. Bucky deserved one too, didn’t he? “I don’t want to marry Bucky just to end up divorced again. It was awful enough the first time. I can’t do it again.” She shook her head, her voice just above a whisper, “Not with him.”

The man hummed, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. Sam might not have known Bucky as long as Steve, but he had known Bucky with and without Y/N. He knew enough to know Bucky had never loved a woman more than he loved Y/N. It was the reason he kept her separated from his work in the first place. “Y/N, Bucky loves you. Probably more than he should.” Sam smirked. “But if you two go through with this and it ends in a disaster, it won’t end in a divorce again. You understand that right?”

Y/N glanced up at Sam, his eyes filled with sympathy. The only reason the marriage ended in a divorce was because Bucky kept her at arm's length. If he lets her in and the marriage runs its course, it will end in body bags this time. Biting her bottom lip, she nodded, “I know, Sam.”

Sensing there was more, Sam asked, “But?”

Squinting one eye, she sealed her lips. It wasn’t a secret that she loved Bucky too. Their love had never been an issue. “Loki already wants me dead. People die every day in this world, your world. I just wanted to be a part of Bucky’s. Most plants die without sunlight. I can’t grow with him if he keeps me in the dark.”

Sam pressed a hand between her shoulder blades, encouraging her to continue walking. “Well, little flower, I’d hate to see you get plucked from this world but if you are, let me know what flowers you want on your tombstone.”

“Catskills.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “That was quick, have you thought about this before?”

Ignoring Sam, Y/N continued walking. “Well, assuming I’ll probably be dumped in a body of water, Catskills grow near water. They also require a lot of sun and well, the word cat is a play on the phrase “curiosity killed the cat.” She pointed at herself. “I’m the cat.”

Sam snorted, “You’re sick, Y/N, but catskills it is.”

Y/N clasped her hands behind her back, heading toward the house, her home. The sun was drowning in the trees. Another day wasted, another day Bucky was behind bars and Loki was loose. Tires screeched up the driveway catching everyone’s attention. Steve was back.

Y/N began to step toward Steve, following as he extended a leg from his small black car. “Y/N, hold up a minute,” Sam called, jogging to reach her. “It’s getting late, why don’t you head inside. Give Steve a minute to get settled in before you start asking him questions.” Y/N hesitated before nodding. Her feet carried her toward Bucky’s bedroom.

Steve never said where he was going but she was hoping he had visited Bucky. She didn’t like the idea of Bucky sitting alone in a cell. She felt guilty sleeping in his bed, their bed, alone. Opening his closet, she snatched a plain t-shirt from a hanger pressing it to her nose. It still smelled like him, well, his detergent anyway. Regardless, it was a scent Y/N was familiar with.

A knock on the door had her breathing in the scent one more time. It was only a matter of time before Steve came to check on her. Before she could pull the fabric from her nose, the door opened. Y/N jumped, throwing the t-shirt back in the closet.

“S-sorry, I didn’t see anything,” an anxious Peter held his hands up.

Y/N huffed, her back pressed against the closet doors. With her hand clutching her chest she asked, “Peter, what are you doing here? Does Bucky know you’re in his bedroom?”

Peter scratched the back of his neck, his eyes darting around the room, taking it in. To Peter’s surprise, his boss’s bedroom was normal. Having been off limits, Peter always assumed there was some big secret locked away but maybe the secret was that the mobster was just like everyone else. Clearing his throat Peter answered, “Steve sent me. I have some news.”

“Oh,” Y/N breathed. Crossing the room, she carefully sat on the edge of the bed. Good or bad news, she wasn’t sure she should stand. With a friendly smile, Y/N patted the silk sheets, an invitation for Peter to sit.

A panicked look crossed Peter’s face, a blush tinting his cheeks as he pulled at the collar beneath his suit jacket. Peter shook his head, opting to stand in the doorway. He had already overstepped his boundaries by being in Bucky’s room, he wouldn’t chance sitting on his bed with his fiancée too. “I’m fine here.”

Y/N shrugged, folding her hands in her lap.

“Mr. Stark pulled some strings. Bucky is getting out soon, for good behavior and um-” Peter peeked at an index card in his pocket. “Steve wants you to come to him the next time Loki calls.” He glanced back up at her to gauge her reaction. It was blank. “He wants you to answer so he can trace the call.”

“I-is that all?” she rasped, struggling to find her voice. Y/N was glad she decided to sit. She would have been jumping for joy at the news that Bucky was being released, but the reality of their situation would have knocked her off her feet. Loki was still lingering. Bucky’s release means he won’t be surrounded by law enforcement. He would be an open target.

Peter peeked down at his note card once more. A shadow cast over the card causing Peter to jump further into the room. Peter shoved himself between Y/N and the six-foot mobster looming in the doorway. His hand hovering over the gun on his hip.

Steve held up a hand dismissing the young man. “I’ll take it from here Parker.”

With one last survey of the room, Peter disappeared down the hall. Steve entered the room, closing the door behind him. Unlike Peter, Steve didn’t hesitate to claim the spot beside Y/N on the bed. He had spent many nights inside Bucky’s room consoling his friend after the divorce. The bedroom alone had become a second home to Steve.

The blonde ran his hands down his thighs, “Loki’s in hiding. Nobody has seen or heard from him. No one except you, that is.” He pointed at Y/N. “You’re our only lead on Loki. I’m sure he’ll drop his number once you answer his call. He has to know you’re here, but he doesn’t know about the engagement. The wedding should be enough to draw him out of hiding once he gets wind of it-”

“What?” Y/N interrupted, her eyes wide. “You are not using my wedding as bait. This is my marriage-”

Steve snarled, “One that you already ruined. If you would’ve kept your nose out of our business, none of this would be happening right now.”

Y/N flinched, nearly missing one of Steve’s hands waving. “Is that what you think, Steve? That I caused all of this?”

He could hear the heartbreak in her voice. Steve ran his hands through his hair. He meant it but he hadn’t meant to say it. He wasn’t trying to hurt her. He was frustrated. Everyone in the house was on the hit list and his best friend was behind bars. The last thing he needed was Y/N not cooperating to put an end to the hitlist. Resting his head in his hands, Steve replied, “You didn’t see him after you left. I was there. I saw how you broke his heart. He’s finally back on his feet and you come waltzing in and suddenly you're engaged again.”

Y/N frowned, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. Sure, Bucky and Y/N were affected by the divorce, but she didn’t think about how it would affect everyone around them. She had no one after the divorce. All of Bucky’s friends, all of his men, chose him. How could they not, they were his friends first, his men first. She swallowed a lump in her throat, “Was it too much to ask to be involved when Bucky came home covered in blood? He never came home like that Steve, ever. Bucky didn’t respect me as his wife. He treated me like a child, like a princess. He chewed me out that night. I thought he was going to kill me.”

Steve shook his head, “He was scared. He was trying to push you away, so you’d stop asking about the business. If someone else didn’t kill you, he might have had to. He never wanted to lose you.”

Y/N smiled sadly, “I know. That’s why there won't be any more secrets. No more double lives. I think he gets it now.”

The blonde nodded, placing his hand over hers on his shoulder. “Bucky will want to marry as soon as he’s out. The sooner the better. His court date isn’t set yet but they’re starting to gather testimonies. They can’t make you testify against Bucky if he is your husband.”

Y/N flinched again, yanking her hand away. Steve’s head snapped toward her. “Is that why he asked me to marry him? So, I won’t snitch on him?”

Steve huffed a laugh, “Don’t be ridiculous, Y/N. Bucky loves you.”

“Then why does it feel like I’m in a trap?” Y/N whispered, tears threatening to spill from her eyes.

Standing Steve began to pace around the room, spiking Y/N’s anxiety. Was Bucky really using her? Had he used her desires against her? Had all of those moments between them been a lie?

Steve stopped in front of her, a hand on his hip, the other carding through his beard. Exhaling through his nose he said, “Look, there is no life with Bucky if Loki gets to either of you first. Bucky left me in charge, this is the only way.”

Y/N turned her head hiding the tears spilling down her face. Her fingers bled trying to play a guitar that was out of tune. Bucky and Y/N would never work. He would never fully let her in. They were destined to dance on their toes around one another, never comfortable enough to put their heels down.

“I won’t marry him. Not like this,” Y/N croaked, slipping the ring from her finger.

Steve growled, falling to his knees in front of her. Snatching the ring, Steve jammed it back on her finger. Y/N yelped at his hostility.

“Quit being such a child, Y/N. If you want to be in on the plans and treated like an adult, then you need to act like an adult,” Steve snapped.

Bucky’s words echoed in her head, If you wanna be a big girl then you have to make big girl sacrifices. Surely, this wasn’t what he meant.

“This wasn’t Bucky’s idea, it was mine. He doesn’t know anything about it.”

“What,” Y/N hissed, glaring at the blonde.

Steve stood, running a hand down his face. Y/N continued to glare up at him, feeling no less smaller than him even while he towered over her. The corner of Steve’s lips twitched upward. This was the reaction he wanted. Steve licked his lips, trying to hide his smirk, “I am merely advising you.”

Y/N cocked her head, “Advising me?”

Steve slowly nodded his head, “That little training session the other day wasn’t just for your safety. If you’re going to lead a mob, you’re gonna have to know how to use a gun without closing your eyes. It also helps if you can keep your emotions in check and learn when someone is trying to get under your skin.”

Before Steve could finish his last sentence, Y/N was kneeling on the bed, shoving Steve as hard as she could. The six-foot man stumbled rubbing his chest. “You better explain yourself right now Rogers, no more games,” Y/N yelled.

When Steve was steady, he grinned, “My first visit with Bucky, he asked me to get you ready. He wants you to take his place until he gets out. Think of it as a trial run.”

“With Loki out there?” Y/N asked in disbelief, pointing to the window.

“Who better to take down Loki than the person he was closest with?” Steve mused.

Y/N jumped off the bed nearly slipping on the silk, “I don’t know, literally anyone else?”

Steve rolled his eyes, his hand on the bedroom door, “In chess, the queen is most powerful. She can move across the board. The king can only move one space at a time. There’s no room on the board for a princess. You have more power than you think. Think about my advice Y/N. You only get one shot at this.”

Next Chapter

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[ckret2]

The latest installment of "literally nobody is happy about Bill being the Mystery Shack's prisoner," chapter 8:

Bill attempts to manipulate the humans with the only weapon he still has at his disposal: using his own body and their own species's hygiene taboos to gross them out.

Also featuring: dramatic arguments with Ford, a surprise bath, and me trying my level best to convince you all that hair is the most disgusting substance in the universe, let me know how I do at that.

Masterpost here! August 31 2024: edited for TBOB compatibility!

A few days into summer vacation, just before dawn, Dipper and Mabel were woken by a series of thunderous crashes and pained screams, followed by Bill's piercing, maniacal laughter. They were armed and out the bedroom door in seconds.

Mabel said, "Who did he kill?!"

"I think he blew up a wall to escape—"

They skidded to a stop at the top of the attic stairs. Bill had tumbled halfway down, crashed into the wall where the stairs made a ninety degree turn, and was now sprawled upside-down on the landing, giggling.

Dipper lowered his weapon. "What."

"I ff—" Bill was interrupted by a wheeze of laughter. "I forgot how stairs work."

He spotted the kids—Dipper holding a metal claw hammer, Mabel holding a kitchen knife longer than her forearm—and abruptly stopped laughing. "Wow, you kids came ready to commit murder! Just waiting for the first excuse, huh?"

"Shut up." Dipper looked at Mabel. "Wanna go back to bed?"

"I think my blood is all adrenaline now."

Dipper sighed. "Yeah. Let's get breakfast, I guess."

They trudged down the stairs, shoulders pressed to the wall to stay as far from Bill as possible. As they passed Bill, Dipper muttered, "You could at least get out of the way."

Bill—who'd been about to gingerly sit up—lay back down and spread out across the landing. "Think I'd rather mildly inconvenience you!"

Mabel threw in, "And take a shower! You smell like an outhouse."

"That's my human-repellant forcefield."

The twins headed to the kitchen for a snack they could take out of the shack, but were blocked at the doorway by Stan. "Hold on. Don't go in there. You smell that?"

Dipper and Mabel sniffed the air and grimaced. Mabel stuck out her tongue. Dipper said, "Ugh. We thought that was Bill, but it's worse down here."

"One of two things happened," Stan said. "Either a squirrel and a raccoon fought to death under the fridge and started rotting; or the space demon cast some kind of stink curse. Personally, I'm hoping for dead wildlife. But until I find out, you two stay out of the kitchen."

There were several more crashes as Bill tumbled down the second half of the stairs, a groan, and a muttered, "What am I getting wrong?"

Stan rounded on Bill. "Hey! Demon. Don't suppose you happen to know why the kitchen smells..." He gestured vaguely, "like that."

Seated on the floor, Bill had been absorbed in prodding his limp left arm; but at the question, he looked up with a worryingly bright smile. "It just so happens I do!"

"Explain."

He twisted his left arm with his right, jammed it back into its proper position with a pop, and straightened himself up. "Funny thing—you know how I can't open doors? Because of the curse your brother put on me? Of course you do. Well—it's the darnedest little quirk of human architecture—I don't know if you noticed, but it just so happens that all of the toilets in this house are behind doors!"

Stan's face blanched. "Oh no."

"At any given time, this body I'm in is freely secreting about half a dozen different bodily fluids—snot, spit, sweat, I could go on—and you humans are perfectly comfortable with that. But you think one bodily fluid is special and can only go in the special white bowl. Me, on the other hand—usually, I'm an energy being that doesn't leak all day! So your fluids are all equal to me! I don't care about your special white bowls!"

Hotly, Stan said, "You're in my house—"

Suddenly twice as angry and twice as loud as Stan, Bill said, "So if you think I'm going to lower myself to asking three times a day for permission to use a STUPID TOILET for YOUR COMFORT—"

And that was when they started screaming.

Dipper looked at Mabel. "Let's eat out."

Mabel nodded. "You know that burger place where Wendy gets breakfast—?"

"If we hurry, we can probably meet her there."

By the time they'd changed and come back downstairs, Ford had joined in the argument, Abuelita had set up a folding chair to watch it like a wrestling match, and the volume had doubled. (Bill: "BE GRATEFUL I USED THE SINK INSTEAD OF YOUR CEREAL BOXES! NEXT TIME I WON'T BE SO MERCIFUL!" Stan: "I'M GONNA INSTALL A DOOR KNOB ON THE KITCHEN FAUCET AND THEN YOU'LL NEED MY PERMISSION TO DRINK, YOU LITTLE—") Dipper and Mabel squeezed around the crowd, slid out the door, and biked into town.

They decided they'd just stay out the rest of the day.

They'd been doing that a lot lately.

####

When they made it home that evening, the first person they ran into was Soos, relocating a detached door. "Oh, hey dudes! Okay so, update on the Bill situation." Soos leaned the door against the wall. "We removed the door on the downstairs half bath and nailed up a curtain instead, so, now it's curse-accessible, but Bill can't lock himself in and do—" he wiggled his fingers, "secret Bill things. So. If you wanna use a bathroom with a real door, you've gotta go upstairs now."

Mabel considered that. "The bathroom with the tub still has a real door, right?"

"Yeah dudes, it's fine!"

Dipper said, "So... do we have a way to get him to shower...?"

Mabel said, "Yeah, whatever Bill's been doing in the kitchen sink—"

(Soos said, "And the trash can, it turns out.")

"—it definitely hasn't included sponge baths."

"And I'm not really comforted by his 'human-repellant forcefield' comment," Dipper added.

Mabel nodded. "I'd kinda like Bill to clean up before he gets as bad as Dipper last July."

"Hey."

Soos pointed toward the attic. "Ford's working on that right now." He whispered, "He's got a theory that Bill's just just too proud to ask for permission to use the facilities? So maybe if we ask him to take a shower, he'll go, 'oh, okay, I'm doing you guys a favor,' and then he'll agree to be let in and out of the bathroom."

Dipper grimaced. "I don't like the idea of begging him to shower. I know he'll be smug about it."

"Uh... I'm fine with it." Soos shrugged. "Better smug than smelly."

####

"All right, Cipher."

Every time Ford came upstairs, Bill was curled up in the window seat, one side pressed against the glass. If it weren't for the crumpled jerky and granola bags and the empty energy drinks scattered beneath Bill's window seat—or the occasional downstairs argument—Ford would have suspected Bill hadn't budged in days. It made him nervous. There was an ice pack on Bill's left shoulder that had sat there so long it was completely melted.

"You got the bathroom you wanted. Now, would you take a shower?" Ford mustered up all his willpower as he prepared to mortify himself, and added, "Please."

It was important to note that Ford had spent his youth as the golden child; Stan had been disowned before his desire to please his parents had a chance to wilt and die; and Ford had barely seen Shermie's teen years. He'd spent his own adolescence isolated from his peers, and hadn't gotten to know any youths except Dipper and Mabel since then.

All of which was to say, the look Bill Cipher gave Ford, shocking in its ferocity, was utterly alien to him; but would have been familiar to millions of humans around the world. It was the same look received by authoritarian parents whose tyranny had squeezed a little too tight, and whose offspring had realized they were grounded so severely they no longer had anything left to lose.

It was the wrath of the defiant teenager.

And then the most pleasant smile snapped on Bill's face, quick as flicking a light switch. "What's in it for me?"

Ford blinked in disbelief. What needed to be in it for Bill? It was a shower. "Being... clean?"

"Eh."

"You can't enjoy being dirty."

"Not a bit! I feel filthy and it's horrible," Bill said cheerily. "Every inch of me feels tainted and corrupted. The touch of my own flesh is nauseating. But, ya know what? I felt exactly the same when this body was 'clean'." He put exaggerated air quotes around the word. "So why would I waste my time scrubbing the top layer of filth off the second layer of filth."

Ford's shoulders sagged. "At least use deodorant?" he pled. "Change clothes? Brush your hair? Something?"

"No, no, absolutely not, aaand no. What's the matter, Stanford? I've been staying out of your way! You don't even see me up here. The stench can't be getting to you that much—after all, you've gone waaay longer than this without showering, stinky!"

(The back of Ford's neck heated up as he realized at times he had, in fact, gone without showering for far longer than Bill had even existed in this body. Science is more important! Bill had no excuse.)

"You smell like burnt hair, by the way," Bill added.

Ford grumbled, "It's faster than shaving."

"And it has got to overpower the smell of a little stale sweat. So what do you care how this body smells?" Bill's grin widened. "Awww, is the guilt starting to set in? Must be hard to pretend you're a hospitable host rather than a kidnapper when your 'guest' is living in squalor—"

"Enough," Ford snapped. "So this is what, your way of protesting your own captivity? This isn't something we're doing to you, you're doing it to yourself! You have to realize how stupid this is!"

"Buuut it's wooork-iiing," Bill said, a singsong lilt to his voice. "It's getting on your neee-eeerves."

"You're going to cause yourself problems in the long run! Diseases, infections—don't tell me I have to explain germ theory to you, you're smarter than that."

"Course I am! When the plague was running rampant, I was the one mocking your species's failure to pick up bathing." Bill scoffed. "I'm flattered you're so concerned about my health, but you can relax. I've been washing my hands and brushing my teeth like a good little potential disease vector. But you humans are so safe inside your modern fortresses with minimal carnivorous bugs and flesh-eating fungi—most of your modern hygiene expectations are cosmetic, because your culture's trained itself to be disgusted by humans' own natural scent. I'm more willing to put up with itchy dandruff than you are to put up with the smell."

"Are you listening to yourself? This is—" Ford paused. "You've been brushing your teeth? Where did you get a toothbrush?"

"I've been using the dish brush and liquid dish soap in the kitchen." Bill laughed. "Wow, look at you—lecturing your prisoner on poor hygiene when you didn't give him any way to clean up! That's not a good look, pal."

Ford made a mental note to find a spare toothbrush for Bill. He flung his hands out in exasperation. "But—why put up with itchy dandruff at all? Why refuse to shower, of all things? And don't say to be annoying—you're cutting off your nose to spite your face!"

"Because cutting off my nose is the only bargaining chip I've got, and you know it."

Seeing expressions on Bill's face—smiles and scowls and smirks and sneers, mouth and tongue and cheeks and eyebrows—still felt wrong. No matter what expression Bill put on, it always felt to Ford like he was using his face to tell some sort of lie. But his eyes—Ford was familiar with Bill's eye, and doubling it didn't banish that familiarity. He knew this heavy, hard, distant look. It was the same look he'd seen just before Bill had shown him, through his own eye, the sight of his home dimension burning. The same look he'd seen when Bill told Ford that the monster that had destroyed his dimension would eat him alive. Of all the looks he'd seen in Bill's eye—curved crescent with sadistic glee, literally red hot with fury—something about this heavy look chilled Ford the most. It was, somehow, the cruelest he'd ever seen Bill: not because the look was malicious (it wasn't); but because it was so detached.

Bill got to his feet, wincing as he uncurled his hunched back. He stretched, spine cracking, as he sauntered lazily toward Ford. "Can I speak frankly with you, Sixer? I can't do a lot of tricks in this body. Heck, I'd try to tell you I don't have any tricks right now—but you'd accuse me of lying, blah blah blah; so let's at least agree I can't escape or kill you all, or I would have! As far as I'm concerned, this body—" he gestured grandly at himself, "—is a dirty sticker stuck on the bottom of my shoe. It's worth less than nothing to me. But it's all I've got at my disposal. So I'm going to be disgusting, until you start doing me favors."

"Favors," Ford said. "And if we don't?"

Bill shrugged, hands raised. "Then I guess I'll keep being gross! But I cannot overemphasize just how little I care about your culture's hygiene preferences, or how far I'm willing to go to irritate you. This morning's hazmat crisis in the kitchen was just a warning shot. You will cave first."

As unnerving as that heavy look in Bill's eyes was, simply seeing it wasn't what rattled Ford. It was knowing that Bill could wear that cruel, detached look when the victim he was committing quiet, passive violence on was himself.

Bill stared Ford down for a moment; then apparently took Ford's silence for victory. "I want a drink strong enough to rot a bootlegger's guts, a hot meal that hasn't been cooked by Grandma Guilia Tofana down there, or—" Bill pointed toward the attic window that his curse prevented him from opening, "a breeze and some fresh air. I'm flexible. Let me know when you're ready to negotiate." He returned to his seat in the window. "I won't be far."

Giving Bill "a breeze" would obviously give him an escape route. Bill was no doubt angling to accumulate tiny, "harmless" favors until he tricked the humans into doing something that would let him escape; but... Ford eyed the empty junk food bags on the floor. He tried to remember whether he'd seen Bill eat anything except for unrefrigerated factory-sealed snacks he could forage from the open kitchen shelves—or if the last fresh food Bill had tasted had been Abuelita's cyanide cooking.

Bill wanted Ford to pity him. That was what this whole charade was about. Ford hated that it was working. Not because of Bill's performative filthiness—but because Ford knew, too well, what it was like to be trapped, powerless, and hungry in an alien dimension; and because even when Bill was all but confessing he was trying to exploit Ford's pity, he was still trying so hard to pretend he wasn't afraid. 

"I'll let you know what Stanley says."

Bill didn't turn away quite fast enough to hide his smile of triumph. "I'll be waiting." He settled back down into the same position he'd held for half a day and stared out at the night sky.

####

After several days in this body, Bill could definitively conclude that sleep was the worst part of being human.

In other circumstances, repeatedly blacking out and coming to, only to realize he couldn't remember anything for the past several hours, might just mean he'd been to a great party. He was no stranger to dissociating for a few billion years—you couldn't outlive the births and deaths of whole realities without getting really good at meditating to pass the empty time—but the difference was at least he could see what was happening around him! And sometimes he did cool things while he was dissociating! At any rate, he didn't need to worry about anything bad happening to him, because he was awake, able to defend himself, and—oh yeah—immortal.

But sleep was different. Sleep left him helpless. Sleep made him dream.

Usually he didn't remember dreaming, even though he knew he must have dreamt for at least a couple hours. He hated not knowing what had been happening around his physical body for all that time, and he hated not knowing what he'd been doing in his dreams. Anything could have happened to him during those missing hours in the mindscape.

The few dreams he remembered were little comfort. Nightmares about dying, about screams and screams and screams, about faces and places he was frankly galled to find still haunted him... things he'd spent his entire imprisonment in the Theraprism fighting to keep safely buried in his subconscious, only for this infuriating human brain to let them crawl from their graves like zombies.

But the subject matter wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was that, while he was dreaming, he didn't know he was dreaming.

He didn't understand how that was possible. He couldn't remember how the dreams started, what trick they must have pulled to persuade him that this was reality even though he couldn't remember what had happened five minutes earlier, or how they hypnotized him into unquestioningly playing along with their bizarre impossible Wonderland plot lines. Waking up was more terrifying than his nightmares, as he reoriented himself to reality and had to grapple with how helplessly delusional he'd just been—and the knowledge that it would happen again, and again, and again.

Bill knew how human minds worked. He knew how humans dreamed. He'd been swimming through their dreams for millennia. This was normal for humans, and the knowledge that it was normal was the only thing keeping him from going mad with terror.

But the fact that it was normal for humans didn't make any of this okay. Because he was not human, and he should not be vulnerable to the same subconscious blindspots he'd been exploiting for thousands of years. He was the Magister Mentium, the master of minds! He hated losing control of which realities he chose to believe were real. He hated blacking out for hours at a time. He hated being so foggy-minded and vulnerable in the mindscape.

Most of his diet of the past few days consisted of energy drinks. His throat constantly blazed with heartburn. He needed a better solution—and maybe he could think of one once he got a decent meal, or a drink that could help him sleep without dreaming.

He was hungry, he was tired, and he was weak.

####

But in spite of the caffeine, at some point Bill must have fallen asleep—because he woke up. 

For once, he didn't wake from the searing heat of psychic fires.

He woke from the deadly chill of ice cold bath water.

"HELP!" Bill flailed, bashed both elbows and a heel against porcelain, and went under. He came up spluttering. "Mayday! Charybdis! Carpathia!"

The bathroom door slammed shut. From the other side, Stan shouted, "We considered your terms, and uh—we decided we're rejecting your demands, you get nothing, aaand you've gotta bathe."

Bill heaved himself out of the tub, flopped on the floor, and lay there wetly. Like a fish out of water, if the fish had given up the will to live. "Texq exmmbkba?" What happened?

"We dropped you in the tub," Ford said. "And we're going to do that every time your stench becomes intolerable, unless you bathe voluntarily. Is that clear?"

("What the heck language is he speaking now?" "Not a language. Caesar cipher." "You're tellin' me Cipher was Caesar, too?")

Bill coughed out a mouthful of water. "I'll drown myself."

"No you won't."

"It'd be fun. I'll enjoy it."

Ford hesitated. "Knowing you, you probably would. But you could only do it once."

"I'll slaughter you both."

Stan laughed. "Sure, if you ever reach us!" He jiggled the doorknob tauntingly.

Bill dragged himself across the floor and pounded on the door. He hollered, "I'll make meat linguine out of your skins with an orange peeler! I'll cook it in bone broth made by boiling your teeth!"

There was an awkward pause. Stan said, "I don't have teeth."

"The two of you are a loser who was only ever likable when you were pretending to be your brother and a puffed-up self-pitying nerd who never learned that no one's impressed by a child prodigy after age twenty-two! The biggest impact you'll ever have on each other is derailing each other's life dreams, and all your friends are worse off for knowing you! Your father died ashamed of you both and if he knew the truth about your lives he'd have been even more ashamed! Sherman has no positive memories of you, your obituaries will spell both your names wrong, and I'm going to feed your souls to an ouroboros that will repeatedly digest and defecate you for ten thousand years!"

After a couple more minutes of threats, insults, and beating his fists bloody on the door, Bill had to stop to catch his breath. Ford calmly said, "Have you got that out of your system?"

A pause. "Think I'm good now." Bill slumped to the floor again, his cheek pressed to the cool, damp floorboards. "Okay. Name your terms."

"You're not coming out of there until you've bathed," Ford said. "We'll let you out when you tell us you're clean. If you're not clean, we close the door again. If you want to sit there and sulk, then we'll leave, and once you're clean you'll just have to wait until somebody feels like checking on you. Is that clear."

Locked in and abandoned to wait and wait and wait for nothing at all... He shivered.  "Clear as crystal." He pushed himself to his hands and knees and tried not to look at the walls.

"Good. On the cabinet by the tub, you'll find a towel, washcloth, brush, comb, bar of soap, and shampoo. Are you familiar with how to use all of them."

"Sure! Of course I am!" Bill picked up the bar of soap, dipped it in the water, and experimentally rubbed it on his forearm. "For half a year, I bathed your body more often than you did."

Ford yelped, "You what?!" Stan spluttered as he tried not to laugh.

"Didn't you notice how much more the humans in town avoided you when you stopped letting me take your body overnight?" The soap wasn't soaping like it should. Why wasn't the soap soaping? In a flash of inspiration, he peeled the cardboard box off the soap bar. It had been a while since he'd needed to use bar soap; thirty years ago, Ford had kept the bathroom stocked with Dr. Scrubber's 28-In-1 Body Wash.

"I... thought that... I was sweating more from stress." Ford sounded like he was being forced to reevaluate his entire life. Waiting thirty years to dump that revelation on Ford had been a great idea. "Why were you bathing my body."

"Your odor was offending your pet bumpkin! I didn't want him to stage a mental health intervention!" That, plus Bill had needed to wash away the evidence that sometimes he took Ford's body on midnight joyrides to Portland when he'd finished his portion of the portal calculations.

"Okay, great," Stan cut in, "so you know how to shower. You freak." (Bill decided not to point out that calling him a freak had about as much impact as calling him a triangle.) "Clean clothes next to the shower supplies. Got it?"

He glanced at them. "Yeah, yeah."

"Good."

Ford said, "If you get this over with in a timely manner, without wrecking the bathroom or wasting the toiletries, we can talk about letting you choose a shampoo brand for next time."

Bill considered pointing out that that was a pretty stupid bribe to offer a creature who didn't have the slightest emotional attachment to organic toiletries; but then he remembered one of the cults he was affiliated with in New England made a shampoo line using its traumatized worshippers' tears, and he grudgingly decided he'd like to support them if he could. "You're enjoying this, aren't you."

"No." Ford was enjoying this. And after the mortifying reveal that Bill had scrubbed down Ford's naked body, he'd just angrily decided to enjoy it even harder.

"Gimme an hour. Been a while since I've done this start to finish, I'm outta practice."

"Fine. We'll be back in sixty minutes."

Bill could hear the creak of the floorboards as the Pines left, and the fading sound of Stan's voice as he quietly asked, "Do you think what he said about Shermie..."

Yeah, Bill hoped that haunted him. He reached for the towel, and then jerked back his hand, startled, at the sight of another person in the bathroom.

"Oh." Bill experimentally waved a hand at the human, confirming that the strange alien looking at him was a mirror. There used to be more mirrors in Ford's shack, but he hadn't seen any since he arrived—they were among the "potential weapons" the Pines had hidden away—but apparently they'd overlooked this bathroom. "Hey, there." He stared glumly at the face he was trapped inside.

He'd never seen it before.

He'd seen glimpses of his new body from his temporal peripheral vision—looking into the kitchen and seeing himself examining the junk food on the counters a couple of minutes in the future; looking at the stairs and seeing himself walk up them a few minutes ago. But he'd just taken in the perimeter of the uninteresting puppet and ignored the details. He'd never looked at the face.

Up until now, he'd kept imagining himself as a triangle. Some half-dead shape fraying golden curls around the edges, fused atop the rib cage of a humanoid puppet. Seeing the reality felt wrong, disorienting, like staring at an optical illusion but not being able to pick out how it worked.

He tore his eyes away from his own face. Forget it. He didn't have time to feel bad for himself. He had access to a mirror in the middle of the night and no one supervising, and that meant he could send an SOS to the mirror realm. He had friends in the mirror realm! Well—"friends." He had people whose arms he could twist into helping out, leave it at that.

He flipped the lights off, stared in the mirror—trying to focus only on his own eyeballs—and whispered, "Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary." Maybe she wouldn't recognize him in a human body and take his call?

But nothing. "Come on, pleeease," he whined. "Bloodymary-bloodymary-bloodymary please! I'll owe you my life!" Nothing. Why were all of Bill's exes petty psychos who'd excommunicated him or gotten restraining orders against him for no good reason?

He sighed, flipped the lights back on, and morosely searched for any sign of himself in the reflected face staring back at him. It was like trying to find something reminiscent of Chopin's piano Nocturnes in the shape of a lawnmower: a task so impossible it was unintelligible. 

The only thing at all familiar was the color of the hair; not quite as bright as the dazzling electric gold of his true form, but still achingly similar.

Gold splintered into long, needle-thin splinters—splinters with the flexibility of a contortionist, splinters that had been twisted out of shape, splinters that curled like the legs of a dead bug.

"Well, whaddaya know," Bill sighed. "It only took a few dozen eons—but you finally grew up to look like your mother. Ha. Ha ha." The joke left a bitter taste behind his eye. (Eyes.)

Hopefully, he asked, "Oihpromsyd, uoy taht si?" It would be a relief on multiple levels to find he felt so grotesque because he was being haunted by Mr. "Guy Who Lives In Your Mirror And Makes Your Reflection Look Grotesque" Dysmorphio. "Suoedih leef yllaeeer I—krow tseb ruoy fo emos eb attog sah siht!" He waited for his own reflected face to twist in pleasant surprise—either at a human that could speak Rorrim or at the rare compliment to Dysmorphio's work—revealing that the reflection was actually the demon in disguise; but nothing. There went another potential rescuer. Bill already knew the Eye Stealer didn't haunt any mirrors in this shack, no point trying to call him. He didn't stand a chance of reaching anyone else in the mirror realm unless they just happened to pass through this mirror—and unless they were friends, they'd be no more eager to help out thwarted dimensional tyrant Bill Cipher than any of the humans in town would be.

He'd had enough of staring at this face he was stuck in to last him a lifetime. He broke eye contact with himself, tossed the clean shirt over the mirror, discovered the bathroom had a second mirror, and took off the shirt he'd been wearing for most of a week to cover that one, too. He unpeeled the rest of his clothes, trying to avoid looking too close at the human body as he did—it seemed worse now than it had when he'd first gotten this body, with the image of that alien face seared into his memory, knowing he wasn't on this body but dissolved inside it.

Once he'd cleaned this body and perfumed it up to the humans' persnickety standards and gotten out of here, he could handle future hygiene issues by scrubbing off in the sink in his curtained bathroom downstairs. He'd only have to go through this indignity once.

So let's go, Billy, just get it over with—and use the time to think up new ways to irritate the humans into doing what you want.

####

He tried first bathing in the filled tub, until the cold water had him shivering so hard he couldn't properly coordinate his hands; then drained it and tried showering; and then filled it with warm water and attempted bathing again. After the fifth scrub-down he even gave up on soap and tried clawing off layers of skin with his fingernails. No matter what he did, he still felt filthy.

But he'd be dead from blood loss long before he scraped off enough skin to feel clean. He didn't have to actually get clean; he only had to be clean enough to satisfy his captors.

Most of him, he supposed, was clean enough for a human's tastes—any signs of peeling dead skin scrubbed off, no visible dirt, no noticeable scent but the smell of soap—but he doubted the hair would pass muster. It still had asphalt dust in it from almost a week ago, not to mention whatever his scalp had been shedding since then.

But, unfortunately, the hair was the worst part. He could scrub skin with no trouble; but when he was bathing, sunk down to his chin, trying to feel weightless again, the hair floated around him like a grotesque ghost, closing in. When he was showering, it dangled on his face, clinging to his skin, like it was trying to creep under his eyelid and down his throat and choke him. Just knowing it was there turned his stomach; touching it made his throat burn as energy drink bile tried to escape his stomach.

Maybe if Bill brushed the tangles out first. That would knock out some of the dirt without him having to touch it himself. He sat on the edge of the tub, letting the growing tingling pain in his legs as his circulation was cut off distract him from the feeling of hair sticking to his cheeks and shoulders.

He tried to brush it out with his eyes shut, and his knuckles accidentally dragged across the filaments, wet, clammy, clingy. He yanked the brush free and felt hundreds of hairs jerking against their follicles. He forced himself to try again with his eyes open, holding the brush by the very tip of the handle. The bristles sank into the lumpen tangled mass of dead curling skin, and, as he tugged it down, slowly peeled the soggy strands of flesh apart—

His stomach hurt with the force of his retch. He clapped a hand over his mouth, dropped to his knees, and barely managed to get his dinner on the floor instead of on himself.

Voice a shaky, plaintive whine, he said, "Stop doing that to me." He shut his eyes, pressing his sweaty forehead to the cool rim of the bath tub. (Should he have aimed for the tub? Maybe the toilet? Would the humans get on his case for getting sick?) He jabbed a finger into his abdomen around the area where he'd decided the anthropomorphized spirit of indigestion lived in humans' guts. "Chumbo. Buddy. You're not helping," he hissed. "If I'm already neauseous, purging a load of bile does not help. It makes—it—worse. Why are humans built like this."

The Pines were tyrants. If he begged to be let out with his hair still grimy, the best he could hope for was mockery. Any pleas for mercy would cost him dearly. He wasn't getting out of here until he'd dealt with the hair.

He stood shakily and pulled the makeshift curtain aside on one of the mirrors. His vision was bleary from soap; the soggy hair draped in a loose, disheveled triangle shape around his head, like a mangled corpse. He shuddered and let the fabric drop. 

A knock on the door. "It's been an hour, Cipher."

Ford. Bill rubbed his throat and hoped he didn't sound like he'd just been sick. "Gimme another hour."

"That's ridiculous. It takes less than ten minutes to shower, how could you possibly need two hours?"

"So I'm out of practice at scrubbing skin folds! Give me a break! How many hundreds of showers have you taken since the last time I did this? Do you know how hard it is to hold a bar of soap for more than half a second with a mere five fingers?"

There was a pause. "You can't hold soap."

"My hands are small, Stanford."

"Fine. One more hour, but that's all you get."

"Fine, I don't care! If I'm not done in an hour, kick down the door and call the hygiene police on me." Bill was pretty sure you couldn't even get a call through to the hygiene police from this dimension. "Go away. I'm focusing."

If the Theraprism's stupid reincarnation machine was supposed to—ahem-hem, snooty director voice—"divinely designthe body most well-suited to the soul about to inhabit it," then why had it given Bill hair. Sure, he liked human hair, but he liked hair the same way he liked humiliating misspelled tattoos: on other people's bodies, not his. Why hadn't the machine dumped him on Earth bald and balloon-smooth, let the patchy human fur patterns grow in over time? Why hadn't it at least given Bill less hair—why did it need to be so long—

But his hair didn't need to be long, did it? Bill didn't need to have hair at all. Hair was the easiest human body part to self-amputate, easier even than fingernails or ears. Inspired, Bill started searching the bathroom cabinet drawers—et voila. The Pines had no doubt removed any razors or scissors before leaving Bill in this bathroom, but he managed to find a bottle of hair removal cream. Probably courtesy of Question Mark's girlfriend. Cosmetic acid: one of humanity's many endearing little quirks. This would liquefy the roots of the hair, and Bill could get out of here.

He considered whether to melt the hair off the rest of the body. Honestly, he hardly noticed the faint fuzz on his arms and legs, it could stay. The thicker patches extruding from the soft crevasses of the human body triggered that same rotting corpse feeling the scalp hair did, but to a much lesser extent: they were smaller and he could actually see with his eyes that the hairs were growing from the skin rather than spilling out of some dark wet wound. Head first; then he'd annihilate the other three patches if he had enough cream left.

It was easier to touch the hair when he was powered by rage, sliding his cream-coated fingers through the clingy filaments in service of burning it all away. The tingle on his scalp was a welcome distraction from the feeling of the hair itself, and feeling the tingle gradually blossom into a full agonizing blaze was a relief. Chemical burn. That was a luxurious pain—it tightened his lungs and squeezed tears of bliss from his eyes, so good he almost forgot there was another goal to this pain. 

Maybe it would damage some of his follicles enough to prevent the hair from regrowing. Maybe he could wring some pity out of his captors—see this damage, isn't it hideous, look what you made me do—how long could he milk that? A few weeks?

He tolerated the burn as long as he thought he could get away with it without requiring hospitalization, then turned the shower on again. The ice cold water didn't wash the dead hair off fast enough. Some of it stuck to his skin; some was brittle, but not quite fully dissolved.

And that one, last, tiny inconvenience was more than he could stand. 

The hair stuck to his chest, his arms, his hands as he ripped it off. Dead flesh, peeling apart and rotting, dead flesh all over him. He ran his hands over his head, fingers trembling with disgust, and tore out clumps of hair to fling to the ground. His eardrums boomed with his heartbeat. If there had been anyone else in the room he would have murdered them with his bare hands just to purge some rage. Over and over, desperate, obsessed, get it off get it off—

Until his head was so smooth that the pain of the chemical burns masked what few fibers were left. Until the icy shower left his skin so cold it hurt. He stepped out of the shower, triumphantly tore the shirt down from the mirror to see the results—and froze in horror.

When a cloud of gold hair had dangled down from his scalp, he'd looked like a triangle rotting apart—the corpse of Bill Cipher.

Now, he looked at his face, and he didn't see Bill Cipher at all. He'd destroyed the last of himself.

At his feet was a murder scene, all mangled golden gore.

####

(if you enjoyed—and/or were horrified—let me know what y'all think!!)

[hyunjins-orange-slice-too]

wash it first

Pairing: Han Jisung x f.reader

genre: smut

word count: ~2.5k

synopsis: you ordered yourself a little something to help you when jisung was away on tour, but he saw it before you could hide it.

warnings: established relationship- toys- phone sex- masturbation- pet names- squirting

masterlist

You picked the box up off of your welcome mat and carried it inside. You had never ordered anything like this before, so you were nervous how it would come. But the box is just blank, unmarked in any way and that made you happy. The post man doesn’t need to know what you’re up to. You placed the box on the counter and very carefully cut the tape with a pair of scissors. You removed the bubble wrapped item from its cardboard prison and slowly unwrapped it, examining your purchase. It was pink, which you loved. Made of silicone, so it was bendy. It had a suction cup at the base of it, and a few veins that run up and down the length. It seemed like the perfect size, about the size of your boyfriends cock, which is what you wanted. Since it was specifically purchased to help keep you company while Jisung was away, you tried to get it as close as possible to the real thing. Of course, nothing can compare to him, but you wanted something. Anything to get you through the lonely nights without him.

You stuck it to the kitchen counter, making sure the suction cup was attached. You just stared at it, standing straight up amidst the dish soap and the coffee machine. You gave it a good slap, and then giggled at yourself when it sprung back to its original position, still firmly suctioned to the counter. You wanted to try it out. You decided to shower first and get ready for bed before you tested it. You left it on the counter and headed to the bathroom. Placing your phone next to the sink, you turned on the newest stray kids album to listen to while you showered. It helped you miss him less if his voice filled the room. Steam surrounds you as you scrub shampoo into your scalp, singing along. After a dangerously slippery dance break, you shut the water off and stepped out.

Wrapped in a towel, you started your skin care when your music suddenly cut off. The phone vibrated against the counter. You looked down to see your boyfriends picture filling the screen, the FaceTime call from him ringing. You gasped, excitedly picking the phone up and hitting the accept button. "Hi baby!" You squealed at him, so happy to be talking to him.

He laughed. "Hi, honey. You’re just as excited to see me as I am you."

You nodded. "Tell me everything. How are you? How are the boys? Are your shows going good? I bet you’re exhausted." You’re rambling as you walk through the house, shutting off the lights before heading to bed.

"The guys are good, shows have been amazing. I am pretty ti—." He paused as you turned off the kitchen light. "Baby, turn that light back on."

Oh shit. In all the excitement of seeing him on your screen, you forgot about your recent purchase, still standing at attention on the counter. Your cheeks turned a deep shade of red.

"I was just getting ready for bed, Ji. I want to lay down and talk to you." You said, trying to play it off.

"Y/n I said turn the light back on." He was stern. Embarrassed, and with your back to the wall so he couldn’t see what was on the counter, you flipped the light back on.

"There. It’s back on. Can I go to bed now?" You asked, not making eye contact with him.

"Show me the counter."

"Why? It’s the same counter that was here when you left. I’m really tired." You started walking out of the kitchen toward your bedroom.

"Don’t you dare. Baby, show me the counter or I’m hanging up the phone right now."

You sighed, defeated. You slowly turned around, cheeks bright red, your new dildo suctioned to the counter behind you. You covered your face with the hand that wasn’t holding the phone. He was quiet. Too quiet. You were scared that you were in trouble. "Han I’m sorry, I just really miss you when you’re gone and I thought it might help me at night when I get lonely without you and you’re busy at a show- I’ll get rid of it. It was a stupid idea- please don’t be mad. I’m sor—"

"Baby, baby." He cut you off. "I’m not mad."

You looked at him from above your fingertips. "You’re not?"

"Not at all. Actually.. that’s so hot." He said, his cheeks flushing a light pink. "You don’t have to keep something like that from me. I don’t mind if you have a little alone time when I’m not there to help you."

"That’s exactly why I bought it." You tell him. "I tried to get it as close to the real thing as possible."

"Show me." He says. "Get closer so I can see if you did a good job." He laughs.

You flip the camera around and bring it close to the toy, showing him as best as you could.

"You did good, sweetheart. It looks pretty similar. Though I don’t think it will compare." He laughed again.

You flipped the camera back to your face. "Oh, I know it won’t. But I wanted to try. I need something. I miss you so much."

"Aw I miss you too baby." He smiled at you, his eyes sparkling with love, and… mischief? He had something happening in his mind right now, you knew it. "Have you tried it yet?" He asked. Ahh there it is.

"Uh, no. I just got it today and I took a shower before I was going to try it. But you called and I forgot about it."

"So you were getting ready to try it and I interrupted?" He asked.

You nodded. "But I’d rather talk to you, I’ll try it another time."

"Or.." he looked a little nervous now, his hand pulling at the back of his neck. "You could still try it now."

"But- I’m talking to you right now. This is more important. I don’t know when I’ll get to talk to you again." You tell him.

"Baby, you’re the sweetest. I really love you." You smiled at his words. "But what I mean is, you could try it now.. with me on the phone."

Those words made your cheeks heat, and wetness to pool between your legs. You weren’t sure what to say. Were you brave enough to do that? You’ve always been so shy, especially when it comes to sex. But Han always made you feel so comfortable, you knew it would be okay.

"If you don’t want to, that’s not a big deal." He said, sensing your apprehension.

"No, I want to." You say, nervously. And then you just stand there, unsure of what to do next.

"Are you sure, baby? You really don’t have to if you don’t want to."

"I promise I want to, hannie. Want you so bad." You say quietly, looking at the ground. He groans on his end of the line. He could feel his erection pressing against his pants.

"Okay, honey. Wash it first, and then take it into the bedroom, yeah?" His voice was soft. He always got like this during sex and you loved that about him. You knew that he sometimes wanted to be the one on the receiving end of the soft tone and gentle commands but you haven’t been able to provide that for him yet. You would though, you were determined to, and he was being very patient. You pulled the toy off of the counter and washed it briefly before bringing it to the bedroom, finally shutting off the kitchen light as you left. Once in the bedroom, you stilled, unsure of what to do next, waiting for his instruction.

"Now prop the phone up on the floor against the wall, facing the bed." You did as he said. "Good, now sit on the floor next to the bed and look at me, baby."

You knelt on the ground next to your bed, dildo in hand, and looked at him.

"You going to take that towel off and show me your pretty body?" He asked. You pulled at the towel and let it pool on the floor around you. "There you go, baby. You’re so beautiful. You can put the toy down for now and just show me how you play with yourself, yeah? Play with your nipples baby, show me."

You slowly ran your hands up your body until you reached your breasts. You palmed them, lightly squeezing. You brought one hand to your mouth, and sucked on a couple of your fingers.

"Fuck baby, you’re so hot." Han breathes through the phone. You smile and bring your wet fingers down to your nipple, circling it until it peaks. You tug on it gently and close your eyes at the sensation.

"I miss you so much, hannie. Wish you were here touching me." You whine.

"Me too, my love."

You bring your wet fingers to your other nipple giving it the same treatment. You tug on them both and let out a soft moan.

"Show me your little pussy, baby." He says. You sit down on your butt, and spread your legs for him. He groans at the sight of you. "I can see you glistening." He bites his lip. "Show me how wet you are, use your fingers and get yourself ready, just like I would." You bring your hand down to your core, and dip your middle finger slightly into your entrance. You pull it back out again and swirl your finger around in your juices, making a wet sound for him. "That’s it baby, you’re so perfect. Rub your little clitty for me too, yeah?"

You nod and bring your wet fingers to your swollen bud. You rub slow circles, your eyes closing, your head falling back as soft moans escape your lips.

"Baby use your other hand and grab that toy." He tells you. You do as he says, and when you look back at him, he’s got his cock out. He’s slowly fucking his fist, his tip red and swollen and leaking precum onto his fingers. "Use your mouth, get it nice and wet." You bring the toy to your lips and lick the tip. You slowly lick from the base to the head, feeling the veins bulge on your tongue. You slip it into your mouth now, lightly sucking. "Make sure to get it all baby." He says, pumping his cock a little faster. You push the dildo into your mouth as far as you could, choking when it hit the back of your throat.

"Fuck, yes baby. Do you think it’s ready to go in your tight little pussy now?"

You pull it from your mouth and nod at him.

"Suction it to the hardwood floor and squat above it, okay?" He instructs. You stick it to the floor and make sure it is firmly attached before squatting above it and lining yourself up with the tip. "Lean back against the bed to support yourself, baby. Grab on to the edge." You spread your arms out across the edge of the bed and grip the sheets in your hands. "Now ease down on it, go slow."

You lower yourself onto the toy, slowly pushing it inside of you. You could feel it stretching you. "Hannie.." you moaned.

"I know, baby. You’re doing so good. Does it feel good?"

"So good." You moan, fitting as much of it inside as you could in this position. "Feel so full."

"Shit, you’re so sexy, angel. So perfect. Fuck your little pussy for me." He groans as he fucks his fist faster.

You slowly bounce up and down on the toy, the sound of your moans mixing with the wet sound of your arousal as it slides in and out. It did feel pretty similar to the real thing, but nothing would ever compare to having Jisung above you, his muscles flexing, panting as he pumped into you. The thought of it made you clench around the toy. "Hannie.." you whimpered. You opened your eyes and looked at him. He had his eyes locked on your pussy, groaning as he pumped up and down on his cock. You watched him, feeling that familiar feeling in your tummy.

"You like watching me too, baby?" He asked. "I love watching you. You’re so beautiful. So sexy. So- ugh- fucking perfect." He moaned.

You tightened more at the praise. "Hannie.. gonna cum." You tell him.

"Me too, angel." He moaned. "Cum for me. Please, baby. You going to squirt, like last time? Please? Close your eyes and picture me." You did as he said, conjuring the same image as before. Him above you, covered in a light sheen of sweat as he fucked into you. "I can practically feel you around me, baby. So tight and warm. I love your little cunt. Such a good good girl, letting me watch you like this. You going to cum for me angel? Please cum for me."

His words pushed you over the edge. You pushed down on the toy one last time before lifting up until it was completely out of you as your orgasm hit. Your cum came flooding out of you, a few drops shooting toward your phone, the rest pooling on the floor. You legs were trembling as you moaned his name over and over. Your vision was blurry, your arms giving out. You slumped to the floor, your butt in the mess you made, your back against the bed. You panted and mumbled incoherent ‘thank you’s as you recovered from your high.

"Shit, baby girl."

You opened your eyes to see that he had finished also. He had pulled his shirt up, and his cum now covered his muscled abdomen. He leaned out of frame for a moment and returned with a tissue in his hand, cleaning himself up. "Are you okay, baby?" He asked. "You came really hard. Made such a mess." He was grinning like an idiot as he looked at your fucked out frame slumped against the bed. "I was worried you were going to fall over and I wouldn’t be there to help you. Maybe next time, we try a less dangerous position." He chuckled.

"I’m good. So so good." You tell him. You move to stand, grabbing for the towel.

"Careful baby. Don’t slip." Han watches you as you use the towel to clean up your mess, your cheeks red.

"I’m still embarrassed that I do that sometimes." You confess.

"Embarrassed about what? That you squirt sometimes?" He asks. You nod, unable to look at him. You pick up the phone and head to the bathroom. "There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, honey. I think it’s so sexy."

"Really?" You ask.

"I promise. I wish I was there to have felt it around my cock and on my legs." You blushed even further. He laughed. "You’re so sweet. I wish I could hug you and make sure you know how amazing you are."

You used the restroom quickly and headed to bed. "I love you, hannie." You said quietly into the phone, sliding under the covers.

"I love you too." He replies, kissing the phone a few times in quick succession.

You giggled at him and said, "Now tell me how tour is going."

🚨reminder: this blog is 18+ only. i’ve been getting a lot of new followers (which i greatly appreciate) but if there’s no age identifier on your blog, i’m blocking you no questions asked. (for my own sanity and peace of mind.) ik some people don’t actually go to my page to read the warnings, so im going to start attaching a warning at the bottom of all my posts. thanks for understanding. 💕

[bleue-flora]

i wonder why cdream Said that ctommy being attachments to the server, bc that's not true like Even cdream had attachments before him like spirt. So i think it was to play with ctommy hero complex, like ctommy believes himself to be the hero of the story so what better than support this belief saying that he's the most important person in his plan and he is the cause of everything, to feed his ego so he would make sure he'd not question cdream's true plan. Like all the attachment vault was Made to make people pissed at him, so his speech to c!clingy literally played into what they wanted to believe for themselfs to make them feel like the role cwilbur give them

Ding ding ding, we have a winner!

Yes. Absolutely. (Have you been reading my drafts - are you in my head? This has literally been something rotting my brain recently…)

Honestly, I rewatched a lot of it recently and I forgot how freaking nonsensical he is in the disc confrontation, like man makes no sense. They literally had wars over attachments before Tommy arrived. (Now mind you the difference is the level of respect in those wars and stuff but the point stands) Tommy in absolutely no capacity created attachments. Nor does he need to exist for there to be attachments. And like the fact that some people think the finale wasn’t staged is wild. Like man is talking nonsense, and Dream may have been obsessive, unhinged, violent before but he never straight up lied so obviously and contradicted himself so insanely before. I mean the fish (I think it’s Bekerson) on the wall is from before Tommy joined.

It’s so insane. One of the funniest things I noticed was that the Skeppy cage is directly behind them when he first brings up the prison [clip]. And then as Dream tells them how he’s going to put Tommy in the prison, the Skeppy cage is literally right behind him [clip].

And they don’t even question that it’s weird. Their dead animals are sitting in pens and they hardly question it either, before or after he reveals the revive book. In fact, they mean so little it’s not confirmed they weren’t real until Daedalus.

Like damn, it’s so crazy it makes me wonder if part of that was intentional. If he almost meant to sabotage his own plan. Like as some cry for help. If they don’t pick up on it then great it goes to his plan, but if they question the insanity then maybe they’ll take five minutes to actually listen to him and pull him off the ledge. Because I know I’ve self sabotaged myself before almost like subconsciously as some kinda cry for help. So maybe there was one buried in there. One everyone missed…

I don’t know. But everytime I watch it my heart breaks a little more at how little questions are asked, because you are exactly right, he played the role they set for him. He just acted as they expected, so there was no reason for them to question it. And he played at Tommy’s ego, because as everyone knows, 9/10 times manipulating a man, just requires going for the ego. ;D

[ditzyredrobin]

Before and After

Chapter 1

For Whumptober 2024 Day 27, Before and After, Alternate universe

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So, I guess I forgot to post this one here? Originally, this was just supposed to be one shot—Dick and Lazarus!Tim bonding but 4,613, chapter 2 is on the way. 😂

-

In a blink, the knife is out of his hand soaring across the living room, towards the intruder. All the while without dislodging the bottle from the fussy pup in his arms. After hours of crying—of soothing, and changing, and singing, and bouncing, and burping she had refused to go down until now and Tim was Exhausted™️.

If he didn’t know any better, he would have assumed the black and blue costumed vigilante was another assassin sent by the League—Nightwing moved with easy grace, easing his way through the window, movement flowing like water and air. But not even the best of the League had managed to crack his security without electrocuting the shit out of themselves.

The room was illuminated by Friends reruns and the Gotham skyline peaking in through the crack in the curtains.

Nightwing ducked and weaved, only narrowly missing a knife through the delt. He rolled back to his feet without a hitch, shocking blue eyes wide and wild with the whiteouts down. The knife stuck in the wall with a satisfying thunk.

Without missing a beat Tim uttered lowly, “Breaking and entering is punishable offense. At the very least it’s C felony, at least 10 years in prison, and upwards of a $250,000 fine.” Not that he could actually get a judge in Gotham to prosecute without a hefty bribe.

Nightwing held up his empty palms in surrender keeping his feet firmly planted. “I’m sorry, we haven’t heard from you and I wanted to check on you.”

Tim discretely adjusted the cashmere blanket across his lap over the pup with a silent prayer she didn’t wake up. “Well, you can tell everyone I’m fine. If I needed help, I would have asked.” He snarks, adding. “But I didn’t.”

I don’t need a keeper.

But that was the thing about bats—they had a tendency to be too nosey for their own good, to pick, and poke, and prod until you were on the verge of wanting to pull your hair out and scream.

Boundaries? I hardly know her.

If Nightwing noticed, he didn’t say anything, opting to remove his domino and tucking it away, his brows were furrowed.

Tim knew how he looked—gaunt, deep purple bags under his eyes, cheekbones sharper than they should be.

Welcome to being a single parent.

“I know you didn’t ask but it’s what family does. I want to help.” Dick sounded painfully desperate earning an eye roll. “No matter what you will always be my little brother.”

Tim scoffed, “If I needed help I would have asked.” What part of he’s fine was not getting through that thick skull of his? Maybe it’s just all the years of vigilante-related concussions. “Maybe in another life we were family but I’m not your brother, Dick,” not anymore , “you don’t even know me.”

Dick breathed a heavy sigh, moving around the overstuffed couch to sit. It took everything in Tim not to bare his teeth and growl. “Of course I know you, Tim. You will always be my little brother.”

“But I’m not!” Tim finally snapped, startling Amalia awake. Her little lip wobbled, her nose scrunched, and Tim went into oh shit mode. Her wails made his inside twist and churn with the need to fix it , as she shook her tiny fists in anger.

He set the empty bottle down and adjusted her so she was upright in his arms to burp her. “Shh, ya Rohee,” he crooned, patting her back.

My soul.

She was his everything—his sun, his moon, to the moon and to Saturn. The only good thing that came of his time with Ra’s after the Council of Spiders and the Pit.

He could feel Dick watching him but didn’t look up, opting to instead rock his infant. She was small, even for a babe of her age, he still had a hard time imagining her anything other than fragile.

He nuzzled her, her patch of almost black, whispy hair tickled his nose, purring softly. It was a little uneven with disuse but it soothed her enough to bring her wails down to whimpers. She smelled milky and soft and like his . He did his best to ignore the hint of spicy incense underlying in her scent from her other father.

She was his and no one else’s. It would change in a few months and maybe he would finally stop seeing him in the shadows.

There was no way she was going down now but he’d lost all hope of that when Dick disengaged his security and decided to sneak in (an issue he would be working on a patch for later).

His eyes felt hot but he ignored it. He didn’t need a nap anyways, right? He’d worked more on less after all. This should be cake , right?

Eventually, as the pup calmed down, Tim dared to glance up at his unwanted visitor. There was a complicated expression that Tim couldn’t quite discern despite all of his training. “You don’t know what I’ve been through. I don’t even know who I am.”

For a long moment, Dick sat with that, a complex flurry of emotions crossed his face before settling on something soft. A fondness, watching the small pup in his arms. “You have a baby?” Talk about understatement of the century.

Tim rolled his eyes, continuing to pat the pups baby. “Yes, last time I checked I did, in fact, have a baby. I have the stretch marks to prove it. You want to see?”

Dick shook his head, “That isn’t what I meant. I just…How old is she? What’s her name?” He sat forward with his elbows on his knees.

Tim had to think for a long moment, back tracking the dates. The escape had been four days following her birth, still sore and as unsteady on his legs like a newborn fawn. There hadn’t been a choice—it was escape or lose Amalia. She had been born weak, words like failure to thrive had been tossed around. Ra’s Al Guhl was gifted with another disappointing heir.

“Well, Timothy, we’ll just have to try again, won’t we? Surely you won’t disappoint your Alpha a second time.” The or else was implied.

He had still been on his back, bleeding from the long birth. His milk supply hadn’t come in and the tiny pup wailed across the room with the wet nurse.

“Tim?” Dick sounded concerned, snapping him back into the present. His grip on Amalia tightened just a hair, her warm weight against his shoulder grounding.

“Amalia,” he said remembering the question. “Her name is Amalia and she’s-“ If he had been in Gotham for nearly a month, days before being found out and the trek from the Cradle to Gotham had taken around two weeks… “Her birthday is July 19th.” He said instead.

Fresh out of the Pit, time was hazy, seasons and dates made little impact on his life and Gotham’s perpetually gray skies.

Dick had a worried look on his face. “What about her other the father?”

“Dead.” Tim said succinctly.

That he made sure of.

Dick made a soft noise of acknowledgement, continuing to watch the baby with a fondness in his eyes. He didn’t push the matter. “She’s beautiful. You did so well.” He croons softly, “I’m sure it was hard for you.” He didn’t know the half of it.

“It was hard,” Tim admitted softly, basking in the Alpha’s praise. Finally, Amalia burped. “I had a few people that helped—Talia and an assassin I saved after-“ before he died, after the Pit, and before Amalia. “After. They made it easier but Talia wasn’t around often. I don’t think she was overly fond of what he was doing.”

“What about the assassin?”

Tim bit his lip, his eyes felt hot. “I don’t feel her bond anymore.” There was a bone deep ache without her. Whether she had cut it herself to save him, or really hadn’t made it out after Ra’s death, was all up in the air. “I’ve looked for her but-“

“But she’s part of the League.” Dick filled in and Tim nodded. He was quiet for a long moment before promising, “We’ll find her.”

Tim looked up from the pup quickly, “What?”

“We’ll find her.” Dick repeated with all of the seriousness in the world. “For you. I promise.”

Tim held his eye for a long moment, gauging the whether or not believe his words but Dick’s resolve never faltered. He felt his pulse pick up and a bright blip of emotion he didn’t want to think about. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. What about Batman? He doubt he’ll be a fan of having a member of the League in Gotham.”

“I’ll handle Bruce.” Dick promised. “Just focus on you and your pup. We will find her.”

Tim bit his lip nodding once. He didn’t trust it but maybe… maybe just this once he would try.