#the article almost made me vomit | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ellesthots · 3 months ago

Text

Fateful Beginnings

XXXVIII. “for love”

parts: previous / next

plot: Bruce Wayne goes to therapy [NOT CLICKBAIT]

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, panic attack, vomit, blood, grief/trauma, yearning

words: 9.7k

a/n: more miscommunication, more of reader getting themselves into situations 💀 as far as I’m concerned, Bruce Wayne’s love language is ‘worry’. as always, i adore hearing allll of your comments!! please tell me everything lovelies, i adore interacting with you all <3

You’d probably bored him with your photos and reminiscing. Maybe he didn’t even have to go anywhere.

You’d hoped you’d been able to distract Bruce enough, even if he was just humoring you. In addition to the articles about the murderous stalker, you’d noted the bruises on his knuckles. After last Saturday when you’d learned he’d gone back to Batman, you’d been worried sick; worry tinged with anger at his immovable desire to get back into the muck, at his inability to let himself relax. You hoped you’d given him a sliver of that, a moment of reprieve so his system didn’t overload. It wasn’t realistic that his meds had fully set in yet. As Dr. Crane so diligently reminded you over the weekend, this time was fragile.

In a self-serving way that made your stomach hurt, in a way you didn’t want to fully admit to yourself and play off as a joke, the shock of the serial killer had sideswept your anxiety at having to see him again post-dream. The only time it had entered your brain again was when he’d made the comment about housing, blurting out so eloquently I thought I’d dreamt that. You’d wanted to sink into the floor, certain that your dream was plastered across your forehead.

At least he smiled some at the end of the night–he wouldn’t have sought you out at the rally’s end if he hadn’t wanted to talk to you, right? Or was this yet another thing fueled by his guilt? So soon off the heels of the attempt, and everything with Miller… yeah, he didn’t want to talk to you. Only felt like he needed to.

You waited at a separate intersection now, in an area of town you had never been to before. So holed up to downtown while being in classes, you hadn’t ventured much besides the places Mar dragged you every blue moon. Crown Point was separate from downtown, almost intentionally so—in your research for March’s rally, you’d learned that it was a neighborhood infamous for its poverty and crime. Most of the articles online spoke only about the latter, giving no credence to the reality of simply needing to get by. It had also been the neighborhood most impacted by the historic flood of 2022, never quite being resuscitated. You’d wanted to start hearing what the city thought of this campaign, and what better voices to highlight coming off the heels of Bruce’s first interview than the most abandoned?

Marginalized and disenfranchised didn’t even begin to cover it. It was like the city at large had tried to swallow up Crown Point—or better yet, tried to drown it in the depths of the river, desperately stomping out any signs of life. Cars were toppled over from accidents no one had bothered to attend to, or clean up from. Blood tinged all layers of the street, no street cleaners bothering to come by. Every apartment looked decimated; chunks of yellowed, dry grass sprung wild in cracks of concrete, surviving off blood, crude oil, and spite. Trash more than littered the streets, it became them; when you visited again, if you even saw a single soul, you’d need to wear boots. Some of the garbage was up to your knees.

You thought back to a group project in high school with Gabbi. She’d wanted to focus on the benefits of recycling, starting a campaign to expand the trash removal options at the school. She’d pulled up pictures of places like this, turning her nose up to the class as they presented. “We don’t want our city to turn into this, do we?” Even then, having never stepped foot outside your little town, you’d thought she was being callous and cruel.

The first sign of life presented itself as a rustle in some bushes. You cleared your throat of its gumminess on approach, suddenly feeling very much like an intruder. Street interviews were commonplace, it wasn’t supposed to be weird, but this side of town almost felt feral; like it’d been left alone for so long the buildings might bite back. What could I give them in return? Dr. Vry had always made it clear you weren’t supposed to give gifts in journalism; it was biased, and even if well-intentioned, demerited your work. Maybe it would be enough for you to see them, to help give their voice a boost. To know that someone was looking out for them.

Upon closer inspection, these bushes proved the entrance to a houseless camp. The residents had become very savvy, and you kept yourself tight to where you’d come in case they wanted you to leave. You had a penchant for walking unwanted into people’s homes, it seemed; but the tentative response was short-lived. A child emerged from a tent a few feet in front of you, and waved, running toward the back of the haphazardly-kempt wire fence lining the area. It was massive; hundreds of people could live here, easily. You noticed a couple sitting together eating some shelf-stable food on a nearby bench. Another kid playing with a stray cat in the far corner. Tents and tarps were plentiful, with the odd bike and mattress parked around.

“If you’re a cop, we don’t want you.” A tall woman sitting under a tarp gestured to you. “Lot of you have tried, but we won’t go.”

You shook your head. “I’m not, I uh, I’m a journalist with the Gazette. Wanted to know what the people of Crown Point thought about the upcoming election.”

A chorus of laughs erupted, many voices from places you couldn’t place. Some echoey, some dampened, some sounding like they were standing right beside you. The same woman shrugged, tossing her pillow to the side of her to lay back on. “The election doesn’t matter. Still leaving us to die.”

You went with her concern, probing it, validating it. “That’s why I’m here. I want to help your concerns be heard.”

“What’s the point of being heard if we’re gonna freeze anyway?” The man sitting on the bench chimed in, shaking his head with a tight, scrunched face. They were right; why would they want to speak if they were hungry, exhausted, and at risk of freezing to the cold, hard ground this winter? Your heart broke thinking of how many loved ones they’d already had to mourn.

The zing of it propelled the words out before you’d fully thought them through. “I could help all of you get housed, tonight.”

The man on the bench glared at you, the woman next to him looking up from her lap. The woman underneath the tarp that had spoken slowly sat up, eyebrow raising. “Is this a trick? Get us to leave so you can sweep the joint?”

Damn. What is Bruce gonna think about this? “No. I have… connections. At least for the time being. Hotels, motels, but eventually to something long-term.” What, there were a few hundred people here? Maximum? Some of them had to be families, couples. You swallowed a lump in your throat at the prospect of overpromising and underdelivering. You knew there were enough empty apartments, but not about hotels…

Rightfully so, they only became more suspicious, with more people peeking out from their tents to see who the hell was saying such things. “I worked with Bruce Wayne recently.” What to say?! “He talked about the housing crisis, he wants to help.”

“This isn’t more of that Renewal bullshit, right?”

“Wayne kid getting out now?”

“Why would he want to help us? Planning to run?”

They’d been hurt before. Led astray. They were just being protective. “I think he wants to follow his parents. I know they were philanthropic.”

“Can’t be too much, or he wouldn’t have his billions.”

You couldn’t believe you were standing here vouching for Bruce fucking Wayne, the man that just a few months ago scowled at you in his basement while essentially moralizing their existence. It dawned on you that you were promising them his money, and guilt washed through you yet again. “I’ll get in contact with his management. If that’s something you’d all want.”

The few people who were looking at you looked around at each other, and a pause hung longer than you thought it would. You stifled a sigh of relief at giving them a choice–you didn’t want to come in like some savior if it wasn’t what they wanted right now. You stifled another when they all nodded, and you disappeared back into the bushes after saying you’d only be a minute.

Calling him was hard. You stared at his contact in your phone like it was a mirage, and would leap from the screen and disappear any moment. Only once you heard a particularly strained meow from one of the camp’s cats did you press the button, all but slamming the phone to your ear. Ring one, ring two, ring three, ring four… you bit your cheek, already sore from biting it so much the night before. He isn’t gonna answer. He wants nothing to do with me. Rightfully so.

“Y/N?”

You loathed the way your body jumped when he said your name, a phenomenon you were becoming aware of ever since that night at your apartment. The request tumbled out of you, with both too much and not enough context; sudden, intrusive, and trapping. You were beginning to hate yourself, and the lengthy silence between your ask and his response had you jumping in place, holding tight, constricted air heavy in your chest. Fuck. I’ll have to tell everyone I was lying, that I didn’t have anything lined up. That you’d put your foot in your mouth, and felt entitled to his money. Maybe, in your emotional anguish, you’d even confess to them that you’d lied. That you’d lied to a big, important man about a big, important thing. All weekend you’d ruminated on his reputation, fully internalizing it for the first time.

“Be there soon.” His voice was flat, distant, and he abruptly hung up.

Not an okay, sure, or even a that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, stay away from me from him. Just another obligation. Another thing he had to swallow with you; another way you made yourself a menace, another way he couldn’t escape you.

He arrived the same way, eyes cast down as he slammed the door shut. His hair wasn’t done, but the rest of him was—donning a light brown sweater against tapered black pants rather than his baggy black-on-black, tattered tee look. As much as you wanted to mirror his avoidance, you had to bite the bullet, maintaining your eyes to his face and breaking the silence. “Thank you, I’m, I know this is unexpected,”

His eyes flicked up to yours and he flinched, his face scrunching together as he faced the concrete again. You felt queasy. His voice was low and mumbled. You could barely hear him, though the city din was much lower out here. “—fine.” He shrugged, his shoulders tightening. Your gut cinched as you led him to the camp, each step drawing the nausea more to the surface. After the rollercoaster of the past week, it’d been too easy to forget the fragile line you walked with him.

By the time you both stood at the entrance, watching everyone’s eyes widen at Bruce’s presence, you were almost positive you’d crumble to the ground. By some lucky break, he decided to speak first. He sounded nothing like he had when he’d been with you seconds earlier.

“I know the chill is coming in soon, and we want to help you get housed. For the first few nights you’ll be staying in a hotel or motel in the city. Beyond that, my team will get you set up in an apartment long-term. Fully paid.” Some people asked him why he was doing this, but others were already taking down their tents, shoving everything into their arms and into stray plastic bags. He answered with: “Money has no use sitting in a cell while people can use it.”

You tried not to linger on the we of it all, but it was hard. He didn’t look at you as you both helped residents pack up their things, staying to opposite sides of the encampment. After you did a headcount, you realized there were only about a hundred-fifty people living here. A handful of them were children, a few elders, but most middle-aged, and single. When people would turn to finish grabbing their belongings, you’d stare at Bruce’s back, or his side-profile, or his face if he was facing you. He never so much as glanced your direction, even when he was paused, waiting.

Once everyone was packed, you took out your phone to scour hotel sites, presenting the second time he’d acknowledged your existence in the two hours you’d been there. His voice was quiet still, this time with more discernible reasons as to why, though he kept his interactions short, clipped, impersonal. “My butler’s handling it. Marriot’s coming off a conference, everyone can go there.” He mumbled something as he walked past about Alfred sending cars for everyone, directing you to stay back for the time being. He walked to the group toward the front and followed them out, saying something else you could hardly hear, but sounded like leadership.

Nearly in tears by how coolly he was behaving, you’d threatened to crumble until a small boy walked up to you holding a tiny kitten. The kitten shivered, their orange fur standing up in the wind tunnel the fencing and bushes created. They had open scabs around their back, and on the pads of their paws. “Mommy says he needs a doctor.”

Crouching down to meet his eye level, you reached out to gently pet the cat’s head. You could feel how small and weak they were. “Is this your kitty?”

He nodded. “His name is Bouncer.” He said it pointedly, like people had been calling Bouncer ‘cat’ against his wishes. His face was pouty, frustrated. He held the cat close to him, like you were going to take him away. “Can he come?”

“Yes, he can. I can take him to the doctor too if you’d like.” Dr. Vry’s second paycheck had come in over the weekend, so this task wasn’t something you’d have to ask Bruce’s card information for. Thank god.

“Bouncer.”

“I can take Bouncer to the cat doctor, and bring him back to you. How does that sound?” Your heart squeezed as you thought back to what had likely gotten him that name, the bouncing, leaping, energetic presence of a new kitten, seeing how clenched and tired the cat looked now.

The boy looked over your shoulder and pointed, and you followed his finger to Bruce, stepping back into the encampment. “You and him.” He pointed to the cat, brow furrowed, then back to Bruce again. “Get him.”

He was already motioning at Bruce, and you counted the sound of his footsteps until you felt him beside you. He wasn’t wearing the cologne he always wore at city hall meetings, the universe giving you a millisecond of relief. His voice was gentler when he spoke now, crouching to mimic your posture in front of the kid. “Is that your cat?”

The kid stared at you like you were supposed to introduce them. You didn’t look at him, only at the small, shaky head of the kitten in front of you. “That’s Bouncer. He needs to go to the vet.”

“You guys will.” He shoved the kitten in your arms, and you felt how chilly he was. His body trembled and shook, and you cradled his head as you looked into his face. The kid said something to Bruce about ‘the buddy system’ and ‘illegal’ to not go with someone else, but their conversation faded into the green of the kitten’s eyes. Their eyelids were covered in grime, their nose runny. Poor baby. You caressed their head, their eyes fluttering, and they stretched into a yawn, the tiny claws poking at your arms.

“Landon, there you are.” A woman, presumably his mom, walked up to the child and grabbed his elbow. “The cars are coming.”

“Bouncer! He’s going to the doctor.”

The lady met your eyes, and glanced between you and Bruce. She shook her head and hoisted the bag higher on her back. “No baby, we don’t have the money yet.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but Bruce intercepted. “I’ll cover it.”

The woman blushed, an exasperated sigh following. She ran her fingers through Landon’s hair. “You’re already doing so much, we can’t possibly,”

He shook his head and stood, but you stayed crouched. You pulled the kitten close to your chest, hoping to warm them off your body heat. “It’s no problem. I’ll have someone bring Bouncer to your room later tonight.”

As they shuffled away, the boy blew a kiss at the cat and waved; you gently grabbed the kitten’s paw and gave the teensiest wave back, careful not to move him much. As they turned out of view, stepping out of the bushes to the cars that supposedly awaited them all, you caught Bruce staring at you, blank-faced. He held the eye contact only a second, but it felt like a lifetime after being wholeheartedly avoided. You wished he would speak, you wanted to know what he was thinking so badly.

Instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets and strode forward, mumbling again. “Get in the backseat with it.”

You didn’t like his tone, but you didn’t feel in any position to complain; you’d probably cost him upwards of fifty thousand dollars today, not counting whatever the vet bill would be, food costs, and the long-term investment of housing everyone. You hadn’t consulted with him, of course he was angry. Of course he was being short with you. You didn’t care much about the money aspect, especially not as you walked past the crowds of people buzzing with anticipation to finally get a warm shower and soft bed, but when you paired it with your previous behavior, it didn’t feel too stellar. Seemed that as quick as the smoke cleared from a past fuckup, you were slamming another between the two of you.

Slipping into the backseat was easier than you thought; the kitten was far from rambunctious, tired and tiny, so you set them in the seat next to you and slid in, scooping them up as quickly as they’d been set down. As you gently pet their head, down their back, and wiggled their toes, you could’ve sworn you felt the beginnings of a purr. You looked out the tinted windows at the people climbing into Ubers and Lyfts, and rolled down the window to wave again at Landon before he climbed in the back of the rideshare.

Bruce slipped into the driver’s side and turned the car on as one pulled up beside you. Alfred was messing with his seatbelt before stepping out, seemingly orchestrating the rides. He said something to the group and those who had just hopped inside the cars, but Bruce sped off before you could hear it. Every movement of his felt impatient, stilted, forced. You remained silent the rest of the drive, the mood soured, millenniums away from the night before. You shifted your focus to the animal in your arms, which was automatic; they’d begun to let out pitiful meows, opening their eyes as much as they could.

You pulled into the parking lot of a clinic you’d never seen before, a 24 hour emergency vet. Bruce turned to take the cat, but Bouncer had clawed his way into your shirt, clinging on for dear life. You cooed at him, rubbing behind his ears, and stepped out without thinking, only realizing once both feet were on the ground to look for paparazzi. The beaming of the sun, a rarity in the inner city, caused a momentary panic, and you scurried into the clinic as fast as you knew you could protect the terrified pet in your arms. After pretending you’d found a stray cat and wanted to rescue them, you handed him to a tech, giving your card information and phone number to the man at the front desk. They told you for security reasons they’d need you to wait in your car, but they estimated it wouldn’t be longer than an hour. Apparently it was usually much busier, and the wait averaged twelve hours. Shit.

Walking out to the car brought an anxiety you hadn’t felt toward him since the first night at Wayne Tower. He didn’t look up when you walked past his window, nor when you slid into the backseat. In fact, he didn’t say a word for multiple minutes after, seemingly staring down at his feet, or the steering wheel. Is he okay?

“How long did they say it would be?” Still mumbling. Still with no further acknowledgment outside the bare minimum.

“About an hour.”

The silence continued for a cluster of minutes before you forced an apology through your mounting nerves. “I’m sorry. I know I should have asked you before. They asked what good was it to have their voice heard if they were gonna freeze to death anyway, and—”

“It’s fine.” But it didn’t sound fine, it sounded like he had an armory of sharp words to stab into you; an unspoken tension so tightly wound you had a feeling you couldn’t even ask about it without things escalating. Whatever it was, you felt it; a thick, dense cord jammed between and through you.

“It’s not right of me—”

“It’s fine.”

This felt eerily similar to how standoffish he’d acted the night after you hugged, but it didn’t make sense. All he’d done was drive you home. His reassurance wasn’t gentle, it was tempered. A kettle barely kept from boiling. Whenever he acted like this, you couldn’t help the storm brewing within you to pull him out of it, make him explain himself.

But you’d done too much. So you sat, twiddling your thumbs, and counted the seconds as they passed until the clinic called back. You put it on speaker so you wouldn’t have to repeat yourself to him.

“Hi Y/N, this is Mountain Valley vet clinic calling. Bouncer has been seen by our staff.” They went on to let you know that he had dermatitis and was extremely dehydrated; they gave him subcutaneous fluid, a wash, and a cone, as well as trimmed his nails. You agreed to purchasing the hypoallergenic kibble they recommended, and walked out a few minutes later with a cardboard carrier holding a tiny, washed kitten in a large cone.

Bruce still didn’t say a word.

Bruce felt like he might die.

You left him in the car with the kitten after insisting on the ride back that you get the creature some supplies. He peeked in once to see if it was breathing, and its bleary eyes stared up at him. He gave the little thing a pet, but that was the most he could do. He felt like he needed a trip to the doctor.

He didn’t want you to come back. He’d been pacing his room before you called, cataloging what he might say to you the next day. He’d been too terrified to sleep, afraid to shut his eyes after the debacle in the shower. He’d tried to come up with an excuse to not see you, but nothing revealed itself, and now he was here. Stuck in this stuffy, cramped car with you. Stuck remembering the tenderness in your body as you held the animal, stuck with the insurmountable, immovable, horrifying thought that there was nothing he could do but grow fonder and fonder of you with each interaction.

He wasn’t mad you’d taken the initiative; he was mad that his body had betrayed him, and annihilated his footing, making the sight of you absolutely unbearable. Seeing you felt like a hot branding iron, like your hand was wrapped around his throat to make him suffer, cutting off oxygen to his limbs until he felt them shrivel and die. He ached to lean toward you, converse, connect; but in equal measure, with equal force, nothing had ever felt more dangerous. Not even cutting the wire and plunging into the blood-filled waters during the flooding, though he knew how illogical it was.

He looked at the cat again. How you held it. How it clung onto you like the world would end if it let go. He couldn’t resist looking at you then. Couldn’t stomp out the part of him that wanted to do the exact same thing. It made him sick.

You slid into the backseat and for a split second he considered folding. Indulging the questions that spun his thoughts all afternoon. Why Crown Point? Why now? What article were you working on? Had anyone heckled you? Had Gavenstein or the other men said anything? Had you recovered yet from your injuries? What questions did you prepare for the rally that weren’t heard? How were you, really? Were you still having nightmares?

“Which room are they in?”

Holy shit, he’d been driving on autopilot, the Marriot sign projecting beams of light through his eyes in the parking lot. This was precisely why he couldn’t ask those questions, why it was imperative he resist the dynamic forming. He was entirely ragged and unnerved.

The click of your seatbelt unbuckling forced him to speak. “I’ll do it.”

“No, I’ll run up there, I was the—”

“You can’t be associated with this.”

“I already am. Look,”

His hand knocked into yours as he grabbed the box’s handle, and he slammed his head back on the headrest with a scowl as he yanked his arm away. His hand was burning where you’d touched, his heart racing…

“Just admit it.”

If he thought his heart was racing then, he had no idea what it was doing now, certain it would tear out of his chest. You couldn’t know about last night, impossible. You couldn’t. “Admit what?” It was easy for his tone to be harsh when he was this thrown. He counted the split of each second between your answer by the pounding of blood in his ears.

“You’re mad at me.”

His brow furrowed, gaze fixed on the top of the steering wheel. You shifted in your seat, the thin plastic handles of the Petco bag deepening the crease under your knuckles. It was oozing off of him. You nearly snapped when he denied it. “I’m not.”

“I know what I did was entitled.”

“Take the cat in.”

“You’re angry. That’s fine,”

He scoffed, something which didn’t help whatever case he was trying to front. “Do you want me to be?” He turned to face you, his face flushed with frustration. His chest was heaving, causing you to press your back flush to the seat in a strange anticipation. Almost like he might grab you if you got too close. Or run away.

You hid your surprise when he spoke again, his voice embittered. “Do you want me to tell you you shouldn’t have done that?” The collar of his sweater snagged your vision, your eyes oscillating there and back again. To his deep blue eyes with their fiery, unblinking focus… “That I don’t want you spending my family’s money? That you should’ve given it more thought?” His lips were fascinating as they wrapped around his words. “What do you want me to say?”

“Whatever it is you’re thinking.” The words caught in your throat, coming out breathy. His intensity filled you to the brim with overwhelm, knocking the wind clean out of you. It began to feel obscenely difficult to only focus on his eyes. Something flashed across his face, like apprehension, or worry, and quickly settled. “Don't pretend you’re not upset.”

He glared at you another beat, one that you soaked up more than you cared to admit, before grumbling back into his seat. You couldn’t make out what he was looking at, but he was looking down. He suddenly looked a few years older. Is he okay? “Room 731.”

You reached around, taking great care not to brush his arm, and grabbed Bouncer’s box from the passenger seat. The cabin air was stifling, charged with whatever complaints Bruce was set on denying, but you couldn’t resist a last look at the frail little cat in the big, huge box.

You thought about how Bruce hadn’t held him yet, and, even though he was causing a well of something to toil in you, and his tone brooked no further conversation, you shoved through it. Hopeful it could help him off the edge of whatever he was dealing with. Walter always helped you regulate. “Do you want to hold him before I go in?”

“Why?”

“You haven’t held him yet.” And he had a shitty week.

Like nothing more than obligation, he twisted his body toward the box and reached inside, expression cross and unyielding. The kitten meowed, and Bruce’s face scrunched as he saw the bubble on his back. “What happened?” He held the cat up and looked at it from another angle, his concern mounting.

“That’s the fluid.” The kitten let out a sizable scream as he kicked his paws, scrambling. Bruce held him almost at arm’s length, confused. His serious expression and the wiggling kitten caught between his hands was a sight you burned into memory for when you needed to laugh later. “Bring him closer, he’s just cold.”

He folded his arms mechanically, and at such a snail pace you wondered if the cat might outgrow the cone by the time he reached the plane of his chest. The feeling that welled up in you when the cat snuggled into him had you interrogating your subconscious for an ulterior motive. Something about seeing a stony man holding the world’s most fragile kitten had you feeling woozy. You could’ve sworn you saw the sunrise of a smile glint in his eyes.

“Is that Bruce Wayne?!”

“Duck.”

You made yourself one with the floor of the back seat as he threw the car in reverse, one hand on the kitten, one to the wheel. Being this low to the ground in a vehicle made your head spin, all thought leaving you save making sure you didn’t vomit.

He parked sooner than you anticipated, wasting no time. “I’ll walk the cat back. Give me the bag.” He placed the cat delicately in the box, but your head was pounding. You didn’t like having to do this. Having to lay horizontal every time someone might see you with him, stay ducked behind bushes, across the room at city hall. You knew why. You knew it would destroy any chance of you making it on your own, typecasting you as Bruce Wayne’s mistress the rest of your life. You saw it at the rally the night before. The looks the women gave you. The snickers the men did as you walked past. The way none of the other press would interact with you. You hated how you’d done this to yourself, not thinking of the implications of actually getting the interview, getting it published, and sticking around.

He shut the door, walking off. You reminded yourself, not-so-gently, that you’d be leaving soon. If Bruce was so frustrated by your presence, the least you could do–after Dr. Crane gave you the clear–was leave. Swiftly. No more chance encounters, no more meddling… all would be right with the world. Maybe you wouldn’t even miss him.

Bruce had amassed an even larger aura of annoyance by the time he came back. He didn’t cloak his scowl, or pause to chat; he peeled out of the side street and booked it for The Moore. You sat up slowly, hoping he wouldn’t strike you down with another demand, though you felt like you deserved it. You stared at the back of his hair, dark and messy, covering his ears and half his neck. If you wanted, you could reach out and touch him. Run your hands down his shoulders to his wrists, slip through his palm back into his fingers. You drew a sharp breath, covering the sound of it with another apology, the envelope of the luck you’d pushed nearly bursting at the seams. “It won’t happen again.”

Nothing in the car changed. He didn’t care, and you couldn’t blame him.

You hadn’t lingered when he pulled into the same alleyway, trying your best to slip out of his sportscar like an apparition. The stale air threatened to snuff you out, and for once you relished the mildewed public air as you gulped back to your apartment, heart tumbling down your sleeve. Everyone who walked past was blurry. The key shook in the lock as you pushed inside. It felt horrifying having him pull away, and horrifying that it was over something so avoidable. What if he could’ve came back and watched a show? If only you’d called him before? Instead of crossing boundary after boundary, fuck.

You wished he would’ve yelled at you. Torn you up. But you weren’t worth that. You were only worth brooding; tense silence that would inevitably turn into avoidance, which would mean he’d never talk to you again. No matter how often you told yourself it didn’t matter, god… sitting in his car last night had felt fun. The happy, bouncing adrenaline of hoping he’d find you at the end of the night when he’d waited precisely for your spot in line to join. His presence felt so warm.

You prayed he wouldn’t ignore you at City Hall, but it wasn’t heeded. It was as if you’d stopped existing. Alfred had texted you an update earlier that day about the housing situation, letting you know he’d secured apartments for the last of them through this time next year, probably the most obvious confirmation that Bruce was done interacting with you. He’d ended the text with: We’ll take it from here. You’d crossed a line.

The crossbody bag hanging heavy on your shoulder mocked your spine, though you’d packed light. At the meeting’s end, you kept to the foyer wall as you dug through it, pulling out the plane ticket to make sure it didn’t rip on the hard edges of the recorder and notebook shoved between chargers and sweatpants. Pen…

“Thought you were staying through the election.”

The bag slipped off your shoulder and fell to the floor, masking your gasp. Positive he wasn’t looking at you, you chanced a look up after stooping to grab your bag. His eyes were fixed on yours, relentless. You wondered how any criminals resisted him. “Um,” you swallowed, hard, your mind drifting away. After a few embarrassing breaths that felt weird to do while in direct eye contact, words found you. “I’m visiting for the weekend. Mom stuff.”

The bags under his eyes were pronounced. He sprayed that cologne again. His hair was done, but somehow still in his face. His sweater switched for a black turtleneck. You caught it all in piecemeal, never spending too long in one place. He hadn’t blinked, something which made you feel wholeheartedly exposed. You broke the stare, flustered, pretending to fiddle with the zipper on your bag to escape it, his smoldering—but when you looked up he was gone.

Bruce took his time pulling out his wallet, making small talk with the valet about the weather while he thumbed through hundreds. Depending on how soon you got in the Uber, he’d be rich. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine–he needed to stop there. A thousand dollar tip for parking his car? He didn’t want the guy to get suspicious.

The guy’s face was pale, and he stuttered. “Sir, did you–”

“Feeling generous.” Waiting to see if you were about to get abducted. He nodded and took his keys, taking short, slow strides while he pretended to take in the air, maybe give the paparazzi more glamor shots.

The faintest whisper of your name from across the street pulled his attention to a man driving a blue Toyota Corolla. No dents, no scratches. He wished he could make an ID on the driver, a stocky man with a thick beard and dirty blonde hair. He watched you get in in pieces–first your hand on the back passenger door, then your bag, then your hips, then your head. He realized too late he’d been openly gawking, stowing his hands to hide their shaking. When the Corolla drove off, he jumped into the driver’s seat and sped to the nearest place of isolation, swallowing spoons of bile. Were you safe? His rapid breathing was speeding up his body’s rejection of breakfast. Would you come back in pieces?

The very instant he’d thrown off the cameras, he stumbled out and vomited, one hand stabilizing him to the brick, the other holding his hair behind his ear. It splashed over his shoes and freckled his calves. He gasped between spurts, gag reflex mingling salt pooling by his lips. His forehead dragged on the concrete wall, catching some hairs of his eyebrow. Retching turned to dry heaves, which evolved to wheezes. He couldn’t follow you. He couldn’t drive you. Fuck.

He got dizzy again when he thought of the plane ticket. Hysteria had taken over him, freezing his veins with pure panic. You were killing him. How long it had taken you to answer, leaving him standing there, frigid. You were going to kill him.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to look at it, he couldn’t. He couldn’t talk to you. He wanted to fall into you. Learn more about you. Be around you. It was actually killing him, he should’ve just let you leave. He shouldn’t have talked to you. He’d seen that you’d bought the ticket a week ago on the receipt dangling out of your bag, it wasn’t an emergency, and that should’ve been enough, but he’d wrestled with asking you about what prompted the visit, if your mom was alright, just to hear you talk. Just to hear you talk!

He’d deluded himself into thinking he could ignore it. But the fear that gripped him now, the damn terror, the grating, emulsifying anxiety that liquified his insides at seeing you get into the car. He hadn’t thought it would be that bad. That it was still this bad. Why was it this bad?! He barely knew you! Why did it feel like you were dying? Why couldn’t he breathe?

Logic hadn’t helped quell the worry. Not yesterday, not last night, not the night before, not this morning, not during the meeting, not now. He was being stupid. Stupid, stupid…

He pulled out his phone and fought the urge to throw it. 8:20, you were probably at the airport by now. It wasn’t far, you’d absolutely be there if you hadn’t been kidnapped. Barrel to your skull. He should’ve driven you. Should’ve. Should’ve. Should’ve.

Get there safe?

But he couldn’t press send. He couldn’t wait on a response. He dropped the phone with the earthquake that were his fingers, scraping indents into his nails as he clawed at the ground for it. His chest was tight, his mind going in and out of a red backdrop, the sounds of the cars on the highway searing through his eardums. His throat was closing up. It was closing up, and he wouldn’t be able to breathe, he’d die right here, he’d die.

His finger hovered on the dial below your name.

The next day Bruce found himself sitting in a small waiting area at three in the afternoon. The walls were the same shade of beige, and the same secretary took his name. The seats were the only thing different, a lot softer than he remembered.

Seeing her face again felt disorienting, nearly catapulting him back to the months after the murder. She was older now, her hair filled with shades of gray. Her smile was the same, and her voice unchanged. It was the only thing tethering him to the same room down the stuffy hallway, into a room far smaller than he thought it had been.

“Bruce, welcome back. It’s been a few years, hasn’t it?” Iris was the only name he knew of hers. He hadn’t looked at the directory when he’d called, he’d only left his name, number, and his preference of provider. He struggled not to feel ten years old sitting in front of her after all this time, his body already folding in on itself. His hands warmed themselves squished between his thighs, his shoulders trying their damndest to connect.

He nodded, and glazed over while she went over the consent forms he’d already signed. He had to blink back to the room when she said ‘tell me more about that’.

“I don’t want a lot of sessions. I just need solutions. They need to stop.”

Iris nodded at him, her brows knit just so. Her chair was thick and upholstered, the yellow sitting discordantly with the shade of blue on the walls. “The panic attacks need to stop?”

“Yeah.”

She wrote something on her clipboard, scribbling the only sound in the room. “What usually precipitates the panic, Bruce?”

Per usual, her eyes drilled into him. Like they wouldn’t let him get out of it. “Nothing.”

The silence hung for a few beats, something she did often, but he’d conveniently forgotten. The first few sessions of theirs they’d sat in mutual silence, with the odd prompting question to try to bring him out of it. She threw him a bone this time. “Seems to come out of nowhere?”

He immediately knew why he’d stopped coming. He loathed to sit in his body, to have someone point their finger at all the sticky points. Like she did again, not letting up.

“What’s coming up?”

“People. People cause them.”

“Tell me more.” She crossed her leg and sat back in the seat, anticipating Bruce giving a novel. It made him only want to say less, and he only shrugged in response.

The silence continued for another two minutes, like a game of tug-of-war.

“Is it certain people?”

There was always a sticking point, too. The first question that set him on edge, brought him closer to the jagged edges of his mind he desperately tried to drown. He nodded slowly, not wanting to give anything away, not wanting to sit and stare at each other.

But that was all it was. Silent, apart from the ticking of the clock by the door. He knew why she did this, and why she did it now. She’d explained it one day, letting him know this was his space, and she could only do with it what he gave. She’d been kind enough when she said it, but he’d still felt like he was doing it wrong. Still loathed why he was in there in the first place. He hadn’t wanted to sit in this room while Alfred waited in the lobby, he wanted to eat dinner with his parents.

He forced more words to fill the space, determined to rid his body of the emotional toxin as hurriedly as possible. He tapped his foot impatiently. “So what do I do about it? If I have to keep being around those people?”

“What do you think?”

He grunted, sucking on his teeth to abate a scoff. “Just tell me what to do.”

She nodded, setting aside her clipboard. “Sounds like you really want relief from something excruciating.”

He hated when she used feeling words. Hated when she’d pull out the feelings wheel, try to get descriptive with the toils of his head and stomach. He didn’t realize he was breathing harder, eyes shifting about the room, until she drew attention to it. Of course she did.

“Are you starting to feel it right now?”

His hands gripped the edge of the couch, shoulders tensing. He felt like something was about to spill out of him, bubbling to the surface, but it wasn’t clear, it wasn’t tangible. He focused on the carpet, counting the rings of thread, staving it off. He felt himself begin to sway, and nodded.

Her pointed, slow breathing filled the room, and he begrudgingly matched it until his shoulders dropped. She’d described deep breathing to him twenty years ago as ‘pulling in air’ to your body so it can ‘keep you on the floor’. God, he hadn’t thought about that in over a decade. Once his breathing was under control, she struck again.

“Are you fine with me asking some questions about what it feels like?”

He waited for her to speak, eyeing her cautiously. She caught his imperceptible nod, something that made him more angry than he wanted to divulge. Always under the microscope.

“Let me know if it’s too activating, and we can go right back to breathing.” She pulled up her clipboard again, clicking her pen open. “Does it feel like your throat is closing up, chest tight, like you’re worried you won’t be able to breathe?”

His face grew hot. “Yes.”

“Any images cross your mind, or repeating thoughts?” She wrote something down while he hesitated, squeezing his eyes shut more with each syllable. He felt small. Tiny. Smaller than that kitten.

“That I'm dying.” The color red smeared across his vision, recurrently. When he opened his eyes and refocused, the image unblurred. His face scrunched, nose crinkling. “And… blood.”

Iris nodded, giving him a moment to take another regulating breath. She waited for his shoulders to drop again before pressing on. “I noticed you started trembling. Is there anything else you noticed? Thoughts, feelings, physical sensations?”

He’d been trembling? He looked down at his hands, knuckles white from gripping the couch, buzzing. His stomach flipped, burning, springing saliva to his tongue. He hated this. “Nausea.”

“If you could describe how you’re feeling in one word, what comes to mind?” Her pen hung loosely in her hand, balanced on one knuckle. Her eyes had more wrinkles around them. Her shoulders sagged more. The bookshelf that had been to her right was now a side table with a glass of water and box of tissues.

He deliberately reminded himself that the faster he answered, the faster he could leave. Moreso than that, the faster he could get over the bullshit plaguing him. “Fear.”

“Mmm.” She nodded, clicking her pen into the top of the board. He didn’t like how she was sitting up. What was she about to say? Had she already psychoanalyzed him enough? Could she give him a plan to walk out of here and never break down again? “Thank you for exploring that with me.” Bruce sat further back into the couch when she resituated closer, nervous to bridge any of the distance padding their interactions. “Mind if I make an observation?”

He gestured for her to speak, wishing his body would stop trembling, giving itself away to her. Everything felt too charged, she was choosing her words too carefully… her tone too soothing, too soft. She pulled a paper from her stack, from the bottom of the clipboard. “You gave me the exact same answers after the death of your parents. What comes up when I say that?”

No shit. He didn’t suppress his eye-roll, a decision she’d praised him for years ago. ‘Expressing yourself is good, Bruce. Gets it out of your system. That’s what this place is for.’ She didn’t acknowledge it now. “That’s when they started.”

Her sigh was gentle, accommodating. It made him uncomfortable to sit in a room that felt like someone walking through his brain. “The reason I ask is that we identified some triggers and base fears in our previous work together. I’m curious if they hold up now.”

Bruce vaguely recalled a few, the general concepts of people and grief, but nothing specific. Still, his palms grew sweaty, the shaking increasing–so much so that he had to metabolize it by tapping both feet against the ground. The sticker-worthy cliches were coming back to him in whispers. ‘Go through to get through’ ‘feel to heal’, phrases that Alfred had picked up from their brief group meetings, employing incessantly at home in the year following their deaths. Maybe getting to the root will solve it. Make his brain a crumb more hospitable, no longer running completely loose. Maybe it was something about needing to save you somehow, like he’d felt with his parents. Finally, something he could logic through. You’d be gone from Gotham soon enough, and wouldn’t need any saving. You didn’t even want saving. Yeah. Bring it. Easy.

“Would you like me to read them to you?”

Bruce nodded.

“One of the activating events for you was making friends at school. You described it as being ‘scary’ to spend time with others. When I asked what was ‘scary’ about that, you said: ‘I don't want to be more sad’.”

Ah, shit. He felt like the room was swallowing him up, the walls closing in.

“Another activating event was sleeping. You used to have a lot of nightmares. We deduced the nightmares were flashbacks to–”

He cut her off, hoping it would salvage the last molecules of oxygen left in the room. “I remember them.”

She glanced over her glasses—when had she put those on?—and paused before saying the rest. “When I asked you what helps, you said being alone. You said ‘more people means more funerals’.”

More, more, more. He was shoved under a spotlight, her eyes the lens of a microscope, excavating all of what he’d so diligently buried. Was this therapy or suffering? Therapeutic, or torturous? The room began to spin.

“Do you think that’s still true for you?”

Stars entered his vision, blurring her features into one blob. She started her breathing thing again, which only made him more aware of his body. He felt claws around his neck, nails jamming into his skull, a bear sitting on his chest that he couldn’t roll out from under. “It’s bullshit. I don’t care about her.” He winced, like you might have overheard it. “I don’t have a reason to.”

If she was thinking something, her eyes didn’t give it away. “Do you need a reason to care about someone?”

His eyes could’ve bulged out of his head, a scoff rolling off his tongue, escaping the ropes of doom pulling him under. Obviously!

He wanted her to stay silent. Do the silent thing. Do fucking anything than keep her foot on his neck. “What’s the reason for others in your life?”

Speaking = leaving faster. “Alfred, Dory, they’re family.” He shook his head, the back of his throat lighting up in flames. Shocked the words were still coming out, certain his esophagus wasn’t open anymore, wishing these confessions brought any relief. “It’s stupid. Stupid.” His breaths were shallow, rapid, and he felt his brain shut down in one thunk. “She hasn’t, I don’t,”

“Take a deep breath in through your nose, then a long breath out–”

He started to wheeze, clamoring to his feet. “I can’t do this,”

Iris sat forward. “Bruce,”

He fell to the side of the couch, gasping. “I can’t fucking breathe,” he folded over the edge, clutching his chest. He needed to go to the hospital. She needed to call 911 now, while he was still partially here. He wouldn’t for long, one of these breaths was going to be his last, he knew it…

She crouched next to him, making him think of you. He slapped the thought down as quick as it came, unbearable. Dying. Chest. Air. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The last ten minutes had been hazy, in and out, but he was sitting on the opposite end of the couch now, fiddling with a stress ball she’d handed him during a grounding technique he barely remembered. His throat was thick with snot, his eyes hot and dry. He didn’t even have the strength to feel embarrassed, though the feeling kept knocking to be heard.

“How are you feeling now?” Her low, even voice was more soothing now. He was utterly depleted. Worn. Avoiding eye contact. “That grounding exercise seemed to help. Do you think so?”

Now he felt silly. Now he felt stupid, but he nodded. How ridiculous was it that he couldn’t even handle something as silly as a passing emotion? Call 911? She probably thought he was an idiot, but couldn’t say it because of therapeutic rapport or something. Or something. Even his thoughts weren’t forming right. He felt hollow.

“Panic attacks are terrifying, and draining. Do you want to stop for today, and come back next week?”

He had a visceral response, jolting back to life. “No. I want them to stop. Now.”

Her weak smile told him everything he needed to know. “Panic attacks are tricky. Especially when they’re attached to early traumas. Avoiding can sometimes have the opposite effect, increasing the panic response, and that fear you described.”

His body clenched with defeat, the last kicks of anger pouting like a little kid. “So I have to feel like this forever.”

She shook her head, but he didn’t believe her. If he wanted to panic, he could do that in any alley in the city. Could do it in his own bedroom. No witnesses. “Becoming more aware of triggers can help. Help us be kinder, gentler, utilize coping skills early on, before a full panic response. Sounds like one of the triggers is someone new in your life. That’s something we could explore.”

Fifteen minutes left on the clock, he shoved through. Still time for a breakthrough. No need to come back. Rapid fire. “Doesn’t that mean I don’t care? This panic?” It wasn’t a good feeling, and definitely not one anyone with any sense would associate with anything positive.

“Depends on what it stems from. Are you sure you’re wanting to discuss this today?”

“I want it done.”

A resonant pause, absolutely there to help his words echo. “What situations with her cause the attacks?”

“A lot.”

“What’s the most recent?”

“Being worried.” Shit, speaking this fast, maybe they could get somewhere.

“Being worried?”

The thought that swerved into him made him still. Made his chest hurt all over again. Made him afraid it wouldn’t stop. He pulled a sigh from the depth of his chest cavity, swearing he could taste the blood on his tongue. “That she’s gonna die.”

“Is that a common thread with the other times?”

He hardly heard her as he stared off into space, his mind and body numb.

“If this is too distressing,”

Bruce felt the world fall away. “When she tries to help me. It’s too much.” The clock didn’t tick anymore. His lungs didn’t breathe anymore. His stomach shivered, pulling its lining into his throat.

“Overbearing? Overstimulating?”

Every breath was a swallowed knife. Every word spoken under his breath evaporating into mist. “It’s like I'm on fire.”

He was far away, but finally in the feeling. “Stay with that. What is it saying?”

The walls shifted and moved, glimmers of light fusing to the center of his retinas. “…Run. Everywhere.” His face twitched. “Closer. Farther.” A tear slid down his cheek, but he couldn’t move. Blood spurted in his ears. Globbed over his shoes.

“Is any direction louder?”

“No. Yes.”

“Which one?”

It came out in a gasp, thick with saliva. “Closer.”

“But the flames hurt.”

His body shuddered. Exhaustion split his spine, his shoulders calloused from the barbell welded to his skin. His empty voice showed how intensely he yearned for rest. “Yeah.”

“Is that why you were saying it’s stupid? Stupid to walk into a fire?”

His jaw quivered when he nodded.

“Sounds like there’s something that draws you in.” She followed his analogy. “Fires can destroy, but they’re also warm. Full of light.”

His eyes shut and his chin fell to his chest. No words flowed in or out, no feelings but the weight of his bones and a keen awareness of the flesh casing them. He didn’t know how long he sat there. He couldn’t feel time passing at all.

“What’s pulling you closer?”

He winced.

“Is the fire too bright?”

All the saliva left his mouth, and he blinked back into the room, orbs of light swimming in his periphery. “I won’t make it.”

“Sounds like your body trying to protect itself. Survival.”

His face squeezed in unison with his hands, his body coming back into focus. “I don’t want to go through any of that ever again. I can’t.”

“Or you won’t make it?”

“I’m not made for that.”

“For what?”

He thought of the slip of the grapple between his fingers when he wasn’t sure it took. The disorienting overwhelm of an elbow to the mouth while a chorus of shouts and gunshots peppered his chest. The metal-on-metal wrenching of a loose axle joint on a high-speed chase. Nothing frightened him more than the feeling of being around you. And nothing had ever made him feel more ridiculous.

Bruce packed up then, taking his copy of the intake forms from her clipboard on the way out. She thanked him for coming, sharing that her schedule was pretty available for the coming weeks if he wanted to dive deeper. “It was pleasant to see you again, Bruce. I hope you take care.”

He took a moment before going to the basement to haul his weary body to bed. He laid on his back and counted the dusty cobwebs lacing the ceiling; if he suspended disbelief enough, he could place himself there. Counting the boards on his ceiling and the creaks of the walls in the wind. Feel the dying hope in his chest that it was all just a nightmare. See the fading indents of his mother’s slippers until the carpet bounced back.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to dive deeper. Maybe he wasn’t made for it, but god… you made the concept alluring.

63 notes · View notes

heavenlyraindrops · 5 months ago

Text

“ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ.” | ᴋᴇɴᴊɪ ꜱᴀᴛᴏ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ {ɪɪɪ}

☆ Warnings: profanity, sports!photographer!reader, fem!reader, afab!reader, social media au/smau, texting, profanity, pretty unserious tbh

☆ 1.1k words | Available on: Tumblr, AO3

What on earth?

You were staring at your screen in utter disappointment.

It had been three days since you had posted. Not a single comment from him. Every five seconds your hand would fly to your phone, open your page, refresh the comments and- nothing. You groaned, letting your head fall back onto the couch cushions.

Pathetic. You’re being pathetic.

How the fuck do I grab his attention again?

Kicking your feet up to gain momentum as you hauled yourself up, you pulled out your phone again. Something was swelling up through your body. An idea. That you would probably burn for, but frankly, lack of sleep and the lack of excitement was getting to you.

The phone rang. She picked up.

“[name]?”

Taika sounded disgruntled, at the very least, upon receiving a call from you at the dead of night. But your adrenaline was surging, causing the pit of your stomach and your palms to tingle.

“Taika. Do me a favour.” Your leg was bouncing up and down uncontrollably, and you had to press your palm against your knee to try get it to stop- not that it worked.

“[name], what is this about?” Her groggy voice was dripping with sleep and suspicion.

You paused.

“I bet it’s about Kenji Sato.” She sighed heavily, but it was laced with satisfaction- no, triumph. You ground your teeth together.“Go on. What is it?”

“It’s not-… Look, just. I have a problem. Do something to fix it…? Please?”

“Hah, that’s what I thought.”

“Taika, this is not what I meant when I said I wanted help!”

Taika peered at you over the rim of her cup, amused, while you had to restrain yourself from throwing a fit at the coffee shop you’d asked her to meet you at.

“I’m never fucking asking you to help me again.”

Your heart hadn’t stopped pounding since last night. Taika set her cup down and sighed loudly. The tea inside splashed a little over the edge.

“What do you even mean?” She feigned innocence, pursing her lips as she bat her lashes at you. Your lips twisted into a disdainful scowl. “You asked me to do something, so I did. And I went quite far out of my way to do it. Aren’t I being a good friend?”

It took every sensible bone in your body for you to not reach out and smack the smirk off of her face.

“Helping me doesn’t exactly entail starting a dating rumour!” You hissed furiously.

A few people turned to glance at your table, and the hostess clicked her tongue loudly.Taika frowned as she leaned forward.

“Look, [name]. Just go with the flow. He’ll have to text you about this. There’s no way he won’t reach out.”

You groaned. “Taika…”

“Look, this was inevitable. I was going to do it anyways. So just suck it up. I’m helping you here.”

“You were going to do it anyways?!”

She paused. “Well. I was considering it.”

You massaged your temples, exasperated. “

Unknown number: Hey, it’s Kenji. You gave me your number?

You were about to vomit your heart out onto the floor. Fuck you, Taika. And why was he typing so formally?

You: Yeah, I remember. Haven’t talked to you in a while. You wondered if that last part made you sound desperate.

Kenji: Ik, I’m sorry. You know how training is.

You: i don’t, actually. But i can imagine.

Kenji: You get it

Kenji: I’m assuming you’ve seen the article.

You were genuinely about to start convulsing on your carpeted floor. On the other side of the screen, Kenji was quite easily matching your feelings.

You: what article

“Jesus fuck I can’t just send it to her, can I?” He muttered aloud. I’ll look like a creep. He paused.

Mina glided into the room. “Were you talking to me, Ken?”

Ken jumped practically ten feet into the air as Mina spoke from the corner of the room she was hovering in.“No!” he almost yelled, exasperated. “How long were you- just, uh, leave, please.”

If Mina could have rolled her eyes, she would have, but instead promptly glided out of the room.

Meanwhile you were instantly regretting your previous sent text.

Why did you act like you didn’t see it? You almost slapped yourself. Jesus christ you’re an idiot.

You: oh wait i think ik which one ur talking about

Be smooth, [name].

You: is it that dating rumour one?

Kenji: Yeah

You: all your fangirls are probably freaking out haha

Kenji: Probably

Kenji: [name] have you seriously not read it..?

You: ummm just heard of it why?

Kenji: I think you should go read it now

You: huh why

You: trying to make me jealous?

Kenji: link attached: https://xxxx-xxxx

He didn’t say anything else.

You: umm ok fine i’ll read it..?

You set the phone down and tried to swallow your rising panic. This was fine. You just had to wait a small while before replying to make it seem like you read it.

Your phone pinged again, but you didn’t check it.

This was fine.

Kenji: We need to meet up to talk about this

You stared at your phone.

You: yeah

You: when

Kenji: I know a place. Send me your address I’ll pick you up

You: umm ok it’s xxx-xxx-xxx

Kenji: Thanks

Kenji: I’m sorry

You: ab what

Kenji: All this

You: it’s not your fault

You: you didn’t say when btw

Kenji: 7?

You: ok send me the address of the place

Kenji: I said i’ll pick you up

You: it’s fine don’t worry about it

Kenji: You sure?

You: yeah don’t worry about it

Kenji: ok

Oh lord that was awkward.

Tossing your phone onto the kitchen table you slunk into your kitchen to find something to eat. Your laptop was on the table, open, work half unfinished. You grabbed your phone again and send Taika a text.

You: we’re meeting up

You: i still hate you but maybe it’s working idk

Taika: YESNOMFG

Taika: HLEP I CANT TYPE

Taika: See I told you it would all work out

You: actually it’s really fucking awkward so far but sure go ahead pop off

Taika: Fake dating trope, strangers to lovers, fluff, eventual smut, word count: 7.8k, 😍

You: we aren’t fake dating

You: this isn’t a fanfiction

You: bro stop reading fics get off of ao3 go outside go to the park or something

Taika: Jo

Taika: No*

You: DID YOU SAY EVENTUAL SMUT

You: sleep with one eye open tonight.

Taika: Yes ma’am 🤩

You: im gonna touch you

79 notes · View notes

viviennevermillion · 1 year ago

Text

poisoned veins

✧ notes: first work for my "autumn remedies" event! i'm doing the commonly triggering topics first before moving on to my more soft prompts. stay safe while going out and look out for your friends as well. here's an article about how to recognize drink spiking if it happens to you or a friend and what to do in this situation.

✧ synopsis: sampo protects you and takes you to natasha's clinic after your drink has been spiked, waiting in worry for you to wake up. (hurt/comfort), 3.1k words

✧ now playing: bad things — breathe

✧ warnings: drugging, medical emergency, vomiting, seizure, needles

Entertainment was always sparse in a place like the Belobog Underworld. It was almost a little ironic that a Masked Fool like Sampo found enough amusement in a place where most people spent their free time in fight club and meeting up in backalley taverns. That's what pretty much every establishment in Boulder Town was like in the late evenings. You could hardly expect a fancy restaurant in a community that had been sealed off and short on resources for such a long time. But people still made the best of it. Most bars and taverns had enjoyable menus, so people didn't mind coming back on their weekends. It was not Epsilon XII and hardly comparable to the joyful atmosphere Sampo knew from the Masked Fools taverns, but it was the perfect place to get some inspiration for a new scam.

He didn't expect to find you there when he entered the tavern late at night. He had helped Wildfire out with procuring a couple of necessary items and had gotten back late; deciding he wasn't in the mood for half-burnt scrambled eggs that he tried to make while tired and with a hardly commendable attention span. So take-out food was the way to go tonight. He sat down on the stool next to you at the bar. "Hey, fam!", he addressed you with a cheerful smile on his face, "do you come here often?"

You chuckled at his remark and took a sip from your drink. "Why does this sound like a cheap pick-up line?", you raised an eyebrow at him as Sampo ordered the weirdest food on the menu. "It's not, I swear!", he held up his hands defensively and laughed, "I was just curious, is all." You shrugged. "Well, to answer your question, I don't really go to places like this all that often but I was in the area and I really needed a drink. I'm exhausted." Sampo didn't know what you had been doing beforehand, but he could guess that it probably had something to do with helping another poor soul in need or just not understanding what an appropriate time to stop work was. A common pattern around here, really.

"What a coincidence, I just came here for a meal as well", he smiled at you but was a bit annoyed about having to yell over all the background noise. He felt like you were a little uncomfortable with the atmosphere at the bar. "You don't seem to like the place a lot", he remarked, earning a glare from the bartender who probably thought it was out of place for someone to declare loudly that a person didn't like his establishment. But you seemed almost relieved that someone pointed it out. "Yeah it just isn't as safe and comfortable as I'm used to", you nodded, taking another sip of the drink, "had to shoo away some idiots who were getting a little too comfortable being in my personal space before you arrived."

Sampo took his plate with the chocolate sauce burrito into his hands and got up from the stool as soon as it was brought to him. "Well, if you need their money as compensation, you know where to find me", he winked and nodded his head towards the front door, "wanna sit outside where it's a little more quiet?" Pondering on his words, you noticed you were more than ready to leave this place.

So you followed Sampo Koski to sit on a small bench under a lamp post across from the tavern.

There were a few guests outside and Sampo kept his distance from them as he walked through the dining area. Meanwhile you seemed to struggle a little. "Watch where you're going", an older woman hissed as Sampo turned back and saw you getting a little dizzy, bumping into the sitting customer and causing her to let go of her fork which promptly dropped down to the floor. The waiter made his way inside to get her a new one. "Sorry...", you mumbled and seemed a little bit out of it.

Sampo walked back to you and wrapped an arm around your shoulder for support, guiding you over to the bench. "Don't need to hold onto you, really", you sighed and sat down, your words sounding a little bit slurred. He wondered how much you had to drink. "Friend, are you doing okay?", he asked with a smile on his face. "Mmmh...", you replied, feeling the wooden surface under your hand as you sat down, almost missing the bench a couple of times, "...just a little tired."

Sampo raised an eyebrow and there was a look of concern on his face but he brushed it off. He knew how a person could get with enough sleep deprivation. Besides, he was there to look after you when you got too drowsy. It was late and he made a mental note to walk you home when the time came. For now though, he thought he'd just sit under the moonlight with you for a while, letting you take in the fresh air and clear your senses. Maybe he'd get to talk with you a little bit and finally find the courage to ask you out. He had done so a couple times, always hiding his true feelings behind his goofy facade. You had thought he was joking and he didn't have it in him to correct you thus far. He couldn't blame you, really.

The downside of being a jester could very well be that people struggled to see that there was a person with feelings just like everyone else underneath the mask. Sampo gazed up to the stars with a helpless smile on his face. He remembered when he made you laugh and how his first thought had been that maybe this had been the reaction he had been looking for all along when he committed to his shenanigans. That seeing you giggle about his endeavors made it worth running from the Silvermane Guards every once in a while. Ever since the border between the underworld and the overworld was reopened, they had been patrolling in Boulder Town as well, which made Sampo's line of work even more difficult. He wondered if you could love someone who had an arrest warrant on his back. Perhaps he'd always be a coward when it came to letting you see what was in his heart, he mused.

"Well, maybe it's time to head back for us. It isn't long until the night patrol passes through here and I wouldn't want to run into the guards tonight. How about I walk you back home?", he sighed but his heart seemed to stop for a second when he looked at you again. You were slouching, your hand pressed to your head and Sampo noted that you looked a little sick. "Y/n?", he called out your name and tapped your shoulder multiple times. You were unresponsive. "Y/n?", he tried again and grasped your shaking hand as you leaned over to your side to empty your stomach into the trashcan next to you. You missed.

"Hey, maybe we should stop by Natasha's clinic before we get you home, alright?", he spoke softly but there was worry evident in his voice, "you don't look like you're doing too well..."

Sampo saw you reach for the drink next to you with unsteady hands, struggling to hold onto the glass as you lifted it to your mouth. A realization seemed to cross Sampo's mind. He took the beverage from your hands before you could take another sip. Something inside you seemed to protest, and you tried to reach for the glass again in confusion, knocking it out of his fingers by accident.

It fell to the floor with a loud shattering sound, startling you. Sampo saw tears forming in your eyes from the shock. You seemed scared and confused but unable to communicate. "Come on, let's get you to a doctor", Sampo whispered in a comforting voice, helping you up, "I'm sure someone will clean this up, don't worry about it. Can you walk?"

He got his answer when you collapsed and your legs gave in. Luckily, Sampo was fast enough to catch you before your head hit the pavement. You stared up with wide eyes but didn't seem to look at anything in particular. It was like you were staring right past him. Your muscles tensed and you tried to point at something that Sampo couldn't see. He called out your name a couple more times in panic, gently tapping your cheek multiple times as if hoping you would just snap out of it. His heart had sunken in his chest and a shiver ran down his spine, seemingly freezing his bones. You looked like consciousness had left you; clenching your jaw and moving it like you were chewing on something.

Sampo swallowed his fear and picked you up, ignoring the concerned stares of the nearby tavern guests. Natasha's clinic was only a few streets away from here. He could make it in 5 minutes if he ran. Running with you in his arms proved to be a challenge as your body continued writhing. The movements reminded Sampo of a new-born baby tossing and turning in the crib and grasping for nothing in particular. Definitely not something that should be happening to you.

You looked dead inside. The image sent a feeling of panic through Sampo's heart and he was hoping his own legs wouldn't give in due to the shock. He needed to be strong for you now. Memories flashed through his mind of the last time he had met you, grabbing a coffee with you in the overworld and joking around about his newest scam. Everything had seemed like fun and games during a time where the possibility of losing you had never crossed his mind. But now it did. And it terrified him. As the cold air of the night seemed to burn in his lungs as he kept running, a quiet voice inside him wondered what would happen if he never got to see your smile again. He could only guess at what had put you in this state but he didn't know what it actually meant for your health. Were you going to see the dawn? Were you going to stay like this? He probably shouldn't think about that for now, he mused.

He opened the door to Natasha's clinic with such force that it sounded like he had kicked it down as he called out for the underworld doctor. He recognized her by the sound of her heels on the floor as she made her way towards him. "Sampo Koski, how many times have I told you to keep your voice down in my hospital-", Natasha stopped in her tracks when she saw Sampo holding you like this, trying to keep you still as to not drop you, "oh god." She hurried over to the emergency section of the clinic and got a stretcher ready for you. "Put them down here", she instructed Sampo, who carefully lowered you onto the stretcher. Natasha noticed there were tears in his eyes and he was shaking. She had never seen him this concerned about anybody.

"Will they be okay?", Sampo bit his lip and tried to calm down, taking deep breaths while simultaneously doing his best to keep your arms and legs on the bed so you wouldn't hit them against something and injure yourself. "Probably", Natasha calmed him down and brought her medical equipment to your bedside, "I've had cases like this before and so far none of them died on me, so have a little faith, okay?" Sampo nodded. "Would you help me keep their arm still? I need to take a blood sample", she asked him. He firmly but gently pinned your arm down with both hands while Natasha took a sample of your blood and then put you on an IV. She brought the tube with your blood to the laboratory while Sampo held your hand in his to make sure you didn't move your arm too much with the catheter in it.

Seeing you writhing on the stretcher made his heart break. Neither trying to comfort you with his words nor swearing that whoever did this to you was going to pay for it seemed to bring you back to him. He felt helpless. The time Natasha took to get results from the blood test, administer medicine to you and ultimately cause your body to relax again felt like an eternity to him. It eventually just looked like you were sleeping, which allowed Sampo to calm down as well. "They need rest now", Natasha said eventually, "I need to attend to the other patients but you can stay here if you'd like to... though I do have the feeling you wouldn't leave even if I kicked you out." She gave him an encouraging smile, having noticed how much you meant to him. Sampo just smiled back weakly and let her continue with her duty as a physician.

When you woke up your head hurt. You felt confused and didn't know where you were. Images flashed through your mind of you talking to Sampo at the bar counter. That was the last thing you remembered. So it was confusing to you to open your eyes and find yourself in a hospital bed with a catheter in your arm and an annoying beeping sound coming from the machine next to you. Natasha had noticed you had woken up and came over to your bed.

"I see you're awake", she remarked with a soft voice and sat down on a chair beside you, "how do you feel?"

You cleared your throat and noticed how dry your mouth felt. Natasha already had a glass of water ready for you. "Can you hold it?", she asked and carefully handed it to you, keeping her hand on the bottom of the glass in case you dropped it. You managed to hold onto it and take a few sips from the water. "Thank you", you mumbled with a weak voice and sat up, feeling a bit of your strength return already, so you kept drinking.

Natasha allowed you to take your time to gather yourself. "So... how did I end up here?", you asked, your voice still sounding a little hoarse. Natasha sighed. "What's the last thing you remember?", she asked you. You took a moment to reply. "I was sitting at the bar counter, talking to Sampo", you explained and chuckled weakly, "he ordered this horrible chocolate sauce burrito... seriously who eats something like that?" A small smile found its way onto Natasha's face. "So, what happened?", you asked quietly.

"Well... it seems someone mixed something into your drink...", she started, seeing your eyes widen, "nothing more happened but you collapsed in front of the tavern and had a seizure. Sampo brought you into my clinic." "Oh...", you mouthed, your thoughts scrambled all over the place as you tried to process what Natasha just said. She nodded towards the other side of your bed and your eyes followed her gesture, finding Sampo passed out on a chair next to you with his crossed arms and head on your nightstand and a blanket draped over him. He was drooling a little and even though he was asleep, you could tell he seemed exhausted.

"He stayed here the whole night", Natasha told you, "...refused to leave your side even when the guards wanted to take him into custody because they suspected he did it." "He didn't", you retorted immediately and Natasha stopped you. "I know. They found that out after investigating the tavern and hearing from other witnesses that you had that drink before Sampo even entered the tavern." You sighed with relief. The last thing you wanted was for the man who brought you here and made sure you got the medical treatment you needed to be arrested.

"Honestly, I've never seen Sampo so scared before", Natasha remarked, "he looked like he had seen a ghost." Your hand reached for your sleeping companion and your fingertips gently carded through his dark blue strands of hair, stirring him awake in the process. Sampo yawned and opened his eyes with a tired expression but as soon as they met yours, he felt wide awake once more. "You're alive!", he exclaimed with a relieved smile on his face and reached for your hand, holding it in his own, "Sampo Koski was so worried about you!" You squeezed his hand. "Thank you for looking out for me."

"There's absolutely nothing to thank", he told you, sounding more sincere than you had ever heard him, "I'm sorry I couldn't do more..." Those last words were more of a whisper but you picked up on them anyway. "You did everything you could", you insisted as Natasha did some further testing to make sure everything about your condition was stable.

"You're going to need to stay here for further testing for now", she explained to you, "you will likely be fine but it's best for you to remain in the hospital and be monitored for today." You nodded. "Don't hesitate to call out to me if you need anything", Natasha continued, "as for everything else, I'm sure Sampo doesn't mind keeping you company while you're here." You looked over to him and he nodded to confirm what Natasha had said. "If you don't mind, of course", he added awkwardly. "I don't", you reassured him and held onto his hand.

Sampo remained by your bedside until you were discharged in the evening, aside from the time he went out to get lunch for the two of you, surprising you with a meal you had mentioned liking. He was ready to answer any question you had about the time when you were unconscious and the things amnesia has made you forget. He made sure to let you know that whenever you needed to talk or just didn't want to be alone after this, he'd be only one call or text away. Whether he had a 'business meeting' or not, according to his words. He doubted he fully knew how to deal with the situation but he swore he would do his best to make sure you'd be okay. You didn't know where the future would take you and how this situation would affect you in the times to come, but you found comfort in the fact that, come what may, you wouldn't have to deal with it alone. Perhaps that was all the confirmation you needed to understand how much you meant to Sampo. Maybe words weren't even needed anymore...

if you liked this fic, keep an eye out for the other works i have scheduled this month. reblogs and comments are appreciated! 👍🏻

any support for my event would be greatly appreciated! 💕

#honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #sampo x reader #sampo koski #sampo koski x reader #sampo koski x you #sampo x you #sampo #hsr sampo #hsr #honkai star rail #honkai star rail sampo

223 notes · View notes

yolalalalaala · 3 months ago

Text

What if Eury and Ares are dating when Mutiny happened?

(btw, it seems tumblr is more used to release pictures and videos. If anyone can recommend me a place to post long fan fiction, I'd be grateful！)

(I put some original characters in the article, not much space, just to explain how bad the situation on the fleet is)

The situation was worsening. Eurylochus felt the churning in his stomach, the hunger-induced pain spreading, and he pressed against his abdomen, tightening his belt further in an attempt to quell the longing for food. It had been a week since his argument with Ares—no, they hadn't broken up; Eurylochus wouldn't call it that; they had simply disagreed, that was all—and the food on the ship was gone, with only limited fish catch to sustain them. The crew had been starving for days.

He spotted Perimedes on the deck. Since leaving the Underworld, days had passed in this manner: Perimedes stood silently, gazing out at the vast, boundless sea. Eurylochus knew he wasn't looking for the direction of home. During those shared, comforting nights, he had realized that few men still harbored hope of returning.

"Sometimes, I think I see Elpenor," Perimedes said almost in a trance. "He's drunk and looks happy. I told him I wanted to go down to him, and he got angry—didn't he want me to be with him?"

Eurylochus couldn't fathom what it felt like to have a loved one in the Underworld. Sometimes, he felt that Perimedes' longing for Elpenor surpassed his desire to survive. This man missed his beloved so much that he could venture into the realm of death. In that stagnant place, without tomorrow or future, they would at least have each other. Eurylochus recalled the nights he spent without Ares, chatting with his companions about those who had passed.

At one such time, Antises handed him a shabby little notebook, smelling of sea salt and ocean breeze. Eurylochus remembered seeing an identical cover with another comrade. He opened it and saw Polites' name, neatly lined up with others on the first page. Eurylochus recalled these names written there; they had all died at the feet of the Cyclops.

Perimedes reached out and flipped to the last page, where the last line read the name of his beloved, Elpenor.

"This was Crytrius's notebook," Antises said. Before the war began, Eurylochus wasn't familiar with this young man from the farmland on the westernmost edge of Ithaca. As for now—there were only 42 of them left, and it was easy to know each other.

"Crytrius wanted to record the names of every fallen comrade. He always said if we didn't remember them, the spirits of those who had passed would truly be forgotten. He sank into the vast ocean, but I took his notebook," Antises explained. "After enduring the great god of the sea, it was difficult to record the deaths. We struggled to recall the names of every comrade. At least this way, they left a trace of their existence, even though we too might follow in their footsteps and perish here."

Yes, if he died silently in the middle of the sea, he would pray that at least someone remembered him. Gods were immortal, and he hoped at least Ares would remember him, though he knew that tiny, short-lived mortals meant nothing to the gods.

"It's hard to say I don't long to reunite with them in the Underworld," Perimedes chuckled briefly. "Whether wandering the ocean or heading to the realm of death, we have no place to call home, alone and desperate—what's the difference?"

"But the blood on our hands cannot be washed away. Can we go to that peaceful land? Or must we pay for our killings?" Menechas said from the corner of the room. Silence fell upon the room.

Eurylochus pulled himself out of the abyss of memories. Now, six more names had been added to Antises' notebook, one of them being Menechas, Antises' best friend, the young man who worried about his past killings.

The pain of losing his companion made him want to vomit, but his stomach was empty, so he could only retch a few times. His good friend Odysseus was drifting further and further away from him, and he could feel the rift between them. Since hearing the prophet's prophecy, the captain had been in a bad state, silent and increasingly gloomy in his eyes. But Eurylochus never expected him to go to this extent – to sacrifice his crew willingly.

Eurylochus never thought Odysseus had an obligation to save everyone, but he couldn't accept his friend turning into a cold-blooded monster. So he told himself that the captain just couldn't think of a better way, and that Odysseus hadn't expected those six men to sacrifice themselves. He confronted his friend, praying that the other would answer as he deceived himself, but he didn't. Odysseus covered his face with his messy hair and roared two words: "I can't!"

The hunger grew fiercer, and he took a deep breath, remembering what Odysseus had told him – not to eat the cattle of the sun god.

This meant there were cattle ahead… Even if eating their meat meant death, it was still meat that could fill their stomachs. He stepped forward and patted Perimedes on the shoulder: "... I have a not-so-good idea, but I think you'll want to carry it out."

He knew the captain would eventually return home; otherwise, based on his understanding of Odysseus, the latter wouldn't have become gloomy instead of desperate after meeting the prophet. Since that was the case, whatever choices they made wouldn't drag the captain down.

"There are cattle ahead. Their meat can fill our stomachs, but we'll also incur the wrath of the gods and meet our end. What would you choose, my friend?"

Perimedes laughed: "You know perfectly well, Eurylochus, that most of us feel no difference between living now and being dead."

The two men fell silent, as if calmly accepting the fate that was approaching. After a moment, Eurylochus left the deck and entered an empty room. With the death of his friends, more and more dormitories were becoming vacant. He took a deep breath and sat down on the deck.

"Hey Ares, I don't know if you can hear me. I know our last encounter wasn't pleasant." He paused, feeling a bit awkward talking to himself like this, but continued, "Look, my companions and I have made up our minds to die because the suffering of hunger is too long. So, I want to say goodbye to you."

There was no response. Eurylochus didn't know if his words were heard by the god of war. He knew the other god always loved bloodshed and could understand his indifference to the lives of other mortals. But a few days ago, when his comrades had just died at the throat of Scylla, his boyfriend's nonchalant tone was still hard for him to accept. Ares just laughed and mocked Odysseus' cowardice in not facing the enemy head-on, which was also what Eurylochus didn't want to hear.

They had an argument then. But now that Eurylochus had made up his mind to give up his life, continuing the cold war made no sense.

"Uh, that's about it." He fell silent again. In fact, it was meaningless, wasn't it? The gods lived such long lives; how could he care about the death of a mortal?

Eurylochus sighed, stood up, and walked out of the empty room. Ares didn't respond. The man thought bitterly that maybe he had been too optimistic; in fact, Ares had broken up with him completely.

The next day, he and his comrades all agreed on the plan to eat the beef and die, and they carried it out as such. Odysseus looked pain, and he ordered them to row faster, but all thirty-six crew members knew they had no hope of survival; they had accepted it the night before. At least they would die full, and that was enough.

But strangely, nothing happened; no god became angry. The fleet was puzzled until a tall figure landed on the ship and ran quickly towards Eurylochus.

"Eury!" His tone was almost panicked, "You don't know how… It's good that this has been resolved. You won't die, at least not so soon, my love."

Everyone on the fleet was stunned. Who would tell them what was going on???

"It's a good thing you're not the first to eat the cattle. I mean, you're the first mortal, but other gods have done similar things. Hermes paid with his lyre, and what I have is not inferior to what he had." Eurylochus found the other's tone cute, like a child comparing toys. But it didn't lessen his confusion.

"I thought we broke up?" He asked cautiously.

Ares was stunned. Then the god of war erupted, roaring, "What? No!" The ship was rocking slightly because of his roar. Eurylochus was worried that the ship would be overturned, so he quickly soothed him: "No, I mean, of course I don't want to break up, but yesterday when I talked to you, you ignored me."

"That's because I was preparing an apology gift!" Ares was still roaring, but the ship had stopped rocking. After he finished speaking, he hesitated for a moment, looking somewhat embarrassed: "Uh, I'll leave for a while… I'll come to you tonight, Eury."

The tall figure left, leaving the stunned crew and the stunned Odysseus, who was also shocked but more relieved.

"... It's good that you're still alive," Odysseus said. "I have something to ask you, Eurylochus, but we'll talk about it later."

He left. Eurylochus knew his friend would leave the crowd whenever he was emotionally upset; he didn't want too many people to see how much he cared about his friends. He smiled, happy to see his familiar captain back. The rift was still inevitable, but… things were getting better.

Now he had to face the crew's questions.

#epic eurylochus #eurylochus #epic the musical #epic ares #ares×eurylochus

52 notes · View notes

happy74827 · 1 year ago

Text

Work Jitters

[Gideon Graves x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Getting the job at Graves Industries was hard enough, but keeping it? That was a whole new ballpark.

WC: 3752

Category: Slight Hurt, Slight Fluff (?), Gideon being… Gideon {TW—Vomiting}.

Jason Schwartzman, my beloved.

『••✎••』

Gideon Graves, that smug bastard.

You'd seen his picture in the paper once, or maybe more than once; you couldn't recall exactly. The article was about his company, about how he'd been awarded several "big brain" awards in the past three years, and about how his company was looking to hire the best and brightest. The article even said how much he valued diversity.

But then, why was he working so hard to keep you from the job?

It wasn't as though you were the most unqualified person in the world to be hired at G-Man Media. You'd worked in tech for a number of years. You'd worked hard. You were smart, and you had experience. But apparently, Gideon Graves had a way of making things difficult for you. He was looking for people who were more than qualified.

"But I'm plenty qualified," you'd told him, practically stomping your foot. "And you can't make me feel like I'm not qualified. You don't have that kind of power."

You'd watched in utter amazement as he'd waved his hand dismissively at you.

"Power?" He laughed, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "I have no power over you. I have influence. I can make life difficult for you, but it's not as though I'm doing that. You've simply failed to impress me."

Your cheeks burned as you tried to think of something clever to say to that, but there was no way to deny his words.

He didn't even sound angry. He sounded so sure of himself, so absolutely positive of his own superiority. And he'd been so smug about the whole thing, too. Like you were a piece of trash, he'd just found on the street.

And that had just pissed you off so badly. You were usually a fairly even-tempered person. But when you'd walked away from that meeting, you'd felt like you were about to burst out of your skin. You'd marched straight back to your car and driven to a nearby grocery store parking lot. You'd climbed out of the car and put your hands on the hood, pressing your forehead against the warm metal, letting yourself take a few deep breaths to try to calm yourself down.

And that was how you'd met Gideon Graves…

Your boss.

Yes, boss. Despite the fact that he openly admitted his dislike for you, you decided that he was wrong, so wrong, in fact, that you stormed up to him the next day and told him so.

"I'm not failing to impress you," you told him, "You’re failing to impress me.”

You'd watched him fold his arms over his chest and scowl at you. You'd wanted to bite your tongue. He'd had an intense scowl.

But you hadn't bitten your tongue. Instead, you'd done something even more stupid.

"I know how to work a computer," you snapped.

That wasn’t as hard-hitting as you'd intended; it was honestly the stupidest thing you have ever said, but it made that tiny corner of Gideon's lip turn up. Not his usual, knowing smirk, but an actual genuine smile.

"Oh?" he said, leaning back in his chair, tilting his head back and studying you, his eyes narrowed. "That’s one impressive skill set."

Sarcasm. You could deal with sarcasm. You'd dealt with sarcasm in college. Sarcasm was almost your best friend at this point.

"I'm a quick learner," you told him, "and I can work anything with a keyboard."

He laughed again, his smile growing. You were starting to think he just smiled when he was mocking people, but there had been times when his smiles had seemed more genuine, and this one had definitely felt genuine.

"I'm sure you are," he told you, and you felt yourself smile just a little bit when he didn't say it in a mocking tone. "But there's a little more to the job than that."

"I can do the job."

His eyes narrowed, and you were pretty sure he was trying to decide if he wanted to fight you. He leaned forward, placing his arms on the desk.

"What makes you think that you have any chance of winning this position? I told you once, and I’m telling you twice. You're not all that impressive."

"No," you agreed, "not compared to you. You're an idiot savant—a genius with a cocky attitude. But the company isn't looking for an idiot. They want someone with ambition. And I have it. I'm not giving up."

"No?"

"No."

He sat back in his seat, leaning back in his chair, a little smug smile curling his lips.

He was deep in contemplation. His eyes were on you. His face was an inscrutable mask, but his eyes. Those eyes of his. You felt as though he could see straight through you. He had seen you and known, without having to be told, that you weren't like the rest of his previous employees. That you were determined and that he wasn't going to be able to stop you.

He might not like you, but he recognized that you were going to keep trying to get the job and that you were probably the only person in the world who wasn't intimidated by his smug attitude.

"You have balls," he said.

"Thank you."

"No," he said with a frown, "that wasn't a compliment."

He shook his head and held out his hand. You glanced at it and then back at his face.

"A deal," he told you. "One week. You go to work, and you try your damnedest to impress me. Fail, and you’re gone. Pass, and you'll get the job. Deal?"

Your smile was wide, and you reached out and took his hand, giving it a shake.

"Deal," you said.

And here you were, nearly two weeks later, still with the job. You were honestly so impressed with yourself.

It wasn't always easy; Gideon Graves could be a real bastard. But he was an interesting person. He always looked so sure of himself, but there were moments where you could see his doubts. You could see them on the rare occasions when he was surprised or flustered. His confidence was sometimes only a mask for the uncertainty underneath.

He was an enigma to you.

You tried to learn as much about him as possible. You absolutely hated his attitude, but you were more than willing to admit to yourself that you were genuinely curious about the man. There was just something about him that made him fascinating to you. You wanted to know what was going on inside that complicated head of his.

So, you watched.

You watched as he ate lunch. You saw how he would never take more than two bites and would only take the smallest possible amount of time to eat. He never left a single crumb on the table, never let anything get near him that might leave even the tiniest bit of food on his clothes.

You saw how he would do his own filing and paperwork. He could type up a report in no time at all. And you could swear you'd seen him go through a pile of paperwork and not so much as lose his place once. You'd tried to copy his speed a few times, but your fingers were just too clumsy. You were nowhere near his skill level.

You watched how he handled people. He was arrogant, and he had his share of asshole moments, but he was always polite. Always professional. Even if the person he was speaking to was an idiot, he still managed to maintain his composure. Sure, he belittled them, but he did so in a way that was still professional. He never made any comment that would get him sued.

He never let his composure slip, except for one time, and It was all your fault.

You felt sick. You had woken up that morning with a headache and a body that felt like lead. It had taken you forever to get out of bed. By the time you had gotten yourself together and had managed to drag yourself to the shower, you'd felt even worse. But, with how Gideon acted, you were used to getting your work done regardless of how you were feeling, so you'd gotten dressed and headed to the office.

A total of four hours later, you were starting to regret not staying home.

You were doing your best to keep your eyes open, but you just couldn't stay awake. Your mind felt fuzzy. Your body was like a heavyweight. And all you could think about was going back to your apartment and crawling into bed. You could feel your body leaning forward.

The chair tipped, and your body rolled forward, nearly falling out of the chair, only stopping when you hit the edge of the desk.

And then there were hands on you.

Gideon's hands.

He had you, his arm under your shoulders, holding you against him as he straightened the chair.

"Office. Now. Before you hurt yourself," he said, his voice cold, his expression hard.

You stood up, but your head spun. You might have been able to fight it if he had actually helped you to your feet, but instead, he let go of you, watching with a frown as you wobbled back and forth before turning around and starting for the office.

Your feet felt heavy. Your body felt as though it was moving in slow motion. You stumbled a few times before making it into the room. He came in after you, closing the door behind him. You saw him scowl at you before walking to his desk. He leaned against it and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at you.

"So much for impressing me."

"Sorry," you said, slumping in the chair across from his desk. You could feel your eyes drifting closed. You couldn't help it, but you knew it was because you were so tired.

"I pay you to get your work done, not to go to sleep on the job. I don't care how sick you are. This is unacceptable."

You wanted to tell him you were sorry, but your mouth wouldn't move. You were just too tired.

"Do I have to drag you out of this chair myself?"

You managed to open your eyes and look up at him. You tried to say something, but all that came out was a mumble.

He frowned, his lips a tight line. He pushed off of the desk, and then he was moving towards you. Your stomach lurched as he reached down, grabbing hold of your arm and pulling you up. Your legs wobbled underneath you. His hand was at your elbow.

"Careful," he said, keeping his grip on you until you had straightened up. "You took this job knowing that it would require effort. I will not have you losing sight of what you're doing because you're too lazy to get out of bed in the morning."

"I-”

Then, the worst thing imaginable happened. Just as he was threatening to fire you, your stomach lurched again. But instead of it just being your stomach, this time, it was the entire digestive system as a whole.

It wasn’t until his release on your arm, the wave of nausea subsiding and your head spinning so hard that you could barely stand, that you realized what had happened.

You just puked all over your boss.

You looked at him in horror. His white suit and red shirt were completely covered in a disgusting mix of stomach fluids and coffee. This was where you saw him break. His normal, professional demeanor vanished, and his eyes grew wide, his jaw-dropping.

For a moment, you thought he might say something. But then his eyes narrowed, and his expression hardened, his lips pursing together. He was shaking from head to toe. You couldn't tell if he was angry or if he was disgusted.

"Out," he hissed, his voice quiet but venomous.

"I'm so sorry-"

"Get the hell out.”

You nodded and quickly did as you were told.

Great, not only did you ruin a suit that was probably worth more than your apartment, but you managed to piss off Gideon and get yourself fired. The job you fought so hard for was just thrown out the window in an instant. You didn't blame him. If you were him, you would have fired you too.

It was a long drive home. You were still feeling sick to your stomach, but now it became more like the feeling of a hangover than actual illness. Your headache had subsided a bit, but you felt achy all over.

You pulled up in front of your apartment complex and climbed out of the car, feeling like you were made of lead. You stood there for a moment, leaning against your car, waiting for the feeling of your body to return to normal. When it finally did, you headed inside and took a quick shower before crawling into bed, not even bothering with any dinner.

Your last thought was how Gideon Graves had looked when he realized you had puked on him. You wondered if he was okay. You tried not to think about it, but his expression kept coming back to mind, over and over. He'd looked like he'd been about to explode.

Again, understandably so. But even though you'd done your best to forget it, the memory just wouldn't leave your mind.

The incident became a week’s memory, but you still couldn't stop thinking about him, about his face. About the fact that you lost your job over something so stupid.

It was another week before you saw Gideon again. Honestly, you weren’t expecting it.

Your doorbell rang, and you figured it was the pizza guy since it was just after five o'clock, and you had ordered some dinner. But when you went to the door, there was no pizza guy. Instead, there was Gideon Graves leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at you.

You glanced at him for a moment, your heart pounding in your chest, your cheeks burning, and then looked back down at your feet.

"I'm sorry," you said.

"Don’t apologize. I don’t want your apologies.” He looked around, glancing at your apartment. "Are you going to let me in, or are you just going to keep standing there until you decide to ruin my suit again?"

You blinked, looking back at his face, but his expression hadn't changed.

You moved aside, letting him in. He walked past you and stood in your living room. His eyes darted around, and you could tell he was taking it all in. You had a tiny apartment, but it was nice; you'd worked hard to make it so. You had a nice couch, a few bookshelves, a TV, and a small table and chairs in the kitchen area.

"Well?" He said, turning back to look at you.

"I- What?” You asked, not knowing what to say.

"I’ve called you. No responses. I came to your apartment last week. No answer. And now that I'm here, you're standing there, looking like an idiot when I expected a fully functioning human being."

You blinked a few times, still not entirely sure what was going on. You cleared your throat.

"What do you want?"

“What do I want?” He scoffed. His face twisted into a look of disgust, his eyes narrowing at you, and his upper lip curling just the tiniest bit as though he smelled something rotten. "You ruined my suit, and then you left. You don't answer your phone when I call. Did your uncultured brain forget about the job you practically begged me for? I told you to impress me, but if you can't even be bothered to show up, I have no interest in continuing your employment."

You frowned, your jaw dropping open.

"Wait, I’m not already fired?”

His eyes snapped up to your face, his brow furrowing. His lip twitched as he fought to hold back whatever he wanted to say to you. The long pause had your mind shifting attention to him. The way he looked. The way he smelled. You took a small step forward.

"I... I thought-"

He was wearing a suit, like usual, but instead of the white suit with the red shirt, he wore a dark gray suit with a light blue shirt. The shirt wasn't buttoned all the way. He hadn't worn a tie, but he usually always had one, so you were a little shocked when you saw that he didn't have one.

And his hair. His hair wasn't slicked back the way it usually was. Instead, it was loose. It's not quite messy, but it's not perfect either.

"You thought you'd been fired?" he said, snapping you out of your thoughts.

You nodded.

He sighed and then shook his head. His hands made their way to his glasses, and you realized that his eyes had been fixed on the ground this whole time. He was staring at the floor like he couldn't even look at you.

"I would never fire someone for… puking on me. I’m not that cruel," he muttered. He turned his eyes on you, his fingers adjusting the frames of his glasses. "No. You're still employed here. I simply came to inform you that I'm willing to overlook this week, but the next one that you miss, you're fired."

"Oh," you said. “I- Thank you."

"Don't thank me."

He was turning to leave, and you had to wonder why he had come here in the first place.

"Gideon?"

He paused, his back still to you.

"What did you think I was doing?"

You could see him stiffen, and you had no doubt that he was clenching his jaw. But after a moment, he turned back to look at you, his eyes meeting yours, and you noticed that he had stopped chewing his gum.

"If I had to guess," he said, his tone sharp, "I would have assumed that you were either sleeping or still sick. I told you I would have you fired if you were too sick to work. The fact that you didn't even bother to respond to my calls and messages was more than enough for me to assume the latter."

“But you didn’t fire me."

He narrowed his eyes. "If you don't feel well enough, I suggest you stay home. I don't want to deal with your incompetence right now."

He started to leave again.

"Wait!" You called after him.

He stopped again and looked back over his shoulder at you. His expression was dark and foreboding.

"Do you... Do you need anything?"

"Need? What could you possibly-"

You interrupted him, cutting him off before he could say anything rude or condescending.

"I'm sorry I puked on you. I really am. If I had the money for another suit, I would replace it, but I… don't have that kind of money."

"It’s not ruined. I shipped it to be dry cleaned." He sighed, rolling his eyes. "I don’t want or need your apologies, nor do I need your money. It's not worth a thousand dollars."

"Well, what do you need?"

He was silent, turning his eyes on the floor again, his fingers fussing with his glasses again. His brow was furrowed, and you could see that he was struggling with something.

"Gideon?"

"Stop saying my name like that," he snapped.

He turned around and looked at you again. You blinked in confusion, and he sighed, walking back towards you until he was standing in front of you.

You've forgotten, honestly, how short he was. You were used to thinking of him as this giant of a man. When he walked into a room, his presence made him seem larger than life. But now, you were able to see that he was really a bit shorter than you were. He was a bit on the skinny side, too, not muscular or anything like that. But he still had presence, even when he was being quiet when he was simply standing there looking at you, his lips pressed into a tight line.

"Why?"

You blinked again.

"Why what?"

He rolled his eyes, and his expression softened for a moment, just for a moment, before he got angry again.

"You're not supposed to sound so concerned about me. It's insulting. I'm your boss. I shouldn't need anything from you. That's why."

"It’s just a favor… If it will keep you from firing me, I'll do it," you said.

“Just show me you're not incompetent," he snapped, "that you can do your job without having a meltdown over it."

"Okay."

"And quit making me repeat myself. Just show me. I want you to show me that you're going to be an asset to this company."

"I will."

His lips pressed into a thin line, and he was silent for a moment, his eyes searching your face. He sighed again, his shoulders relaxing as he did so.

"I need-"

"Yeah?"

His eyes narrowed.

"Are you going to interrupt me every time I tell you something?"

"Yes," you said.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, but he didn't yell at you. Gideon just sighed, looking tired all of a sudden, like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"I need you to come in tomorrow. I have some… matters I need to attend to, so you need to handle the rest of the work."

"Okay. Can I ask what’s going on?"

His eyes narrowed again, his lips pursing, and you felt like you might have pushed too far, but you were determined to be better.

"Just show up tomorrow," he said, his voice a bit softer. He sounded less angry.

He turned again and headed back for your front door.

"Gideon?"

"What?" He asked, not looking at you as he turned around, his hand reaching for the knob.

"Thanks… for not firing me."

He looked up at you, meeting your eyes, and you were surprised to see that he was smiling again, albeit a tiny little smile, but he was smiling.

"Don't thank me; just get it together," he said, and he pulled open your door and left, shutting it behind him.

And you were left there, staring at your front door, wondering how the hell you were going to be able to do the work that he was going to give you and where exactly that damn pizza was.

267 notes · View notes

kiwwia-wiwwia · 1 year ago

Text

We'll Be Alright - Matt Murdock x Pregnant!Reader

A/N: Takes place post- s3 so i can do whatever i want hehe. The oh-so-overdone pregnancy trope with lots of fluff and hurt/comfort. I didn't proofread this and honestly I kinda hate it but whatever. NO USE OF Y/N because i hate it.

Series warnings: Discussion of vomit, blood, medical procedures, pain, mentions of miscarriage, pretty much all the pregnancy stuff.

Word Count: 1.2k

Part 1

Matt sighed as he waited for the elevator, anxious to get home to you. You’d called him earlier and told him that Ellison had sent you home early from work, claiming you looked dead on your feet. You’d been overworking yourself recently at The Bulletin and Matt had noticed the toll it was taking on your physical wellbeing. You were exhausted and often felt nauseous, although he knew you were trying to hide it. The elevator finally arrived and he stepped in, hitting the button of his floor and listening impatiently to your heartbeat above him as the elevator ascended. He made his way down the hall and paused when he heard an unusual sound coming from his apartment. He tilted his head in concern when he heard a soft groan leave your mouth, quickly moving towards the door of your shared apartment.

The door was unlocked, despite him constantly getting on you about locking the door when you were home alone. He made a mental note to bring it up again later. He set down his keys and cane on the bench by the door and made his way towards where you were in the bathroom. “Sweetheart?” He called out, alerting him to your presence. He heard you swear under your breath before you shuffled around on the floor. He cocked a brow at that. Why were you on the floor? “I’m home, is everything alright?" He paused, listening as you whimpered quietly in response. "You don’t sound great,” he said softly against the bathroom door. Another discontented noise left your mouth as the door swung open, revealing your form slumped over the toilet bowl.

“Threw up,” you bluntly stated. Your hands gripped the toilet as you gagged, leaning forward. “Might do it again. Ellison made me go home because I almost puked on him, which would’ve been bad. But I gotta finish-” You gagged again and Matt could hear the way your stomach was churning angrily. “-Gotta finish the article,” you mumbled miserably. Matt hummed sadly, settling down next to you on the floor.

“Love, don’t worry about that right now. You’re obviously not doing well, maybe you need a break from work, hmm?” He traced his fingers over your arm, earning a pleased sigh. The bliss was abruptly cut short as you violently retched and emptied the contents of your stomach. Matt winced at the sound, drawing your hair away from your face with one hand and rubbing your back with the other. The scent of your tears mixed with the sour smell of your bile, a horrid concoction in his nose. You sighed and flushed the toilet, the scent gradually receding as you shakily got up to wash your face. “I don’t know what’s going on,” you sniffled. “My back hurts and I’m nauseous and my boobs are sore, I can hardly stay awake, and-” you stopped, your entire body going rigid. Matt shot up next to you and cupped your face in his hands. “What? Sweetheart, what is it? What’s wrong?”

You let out a shaky exhale and silently pushed past him, entering the living room with panic evident in your gait. Matt confusedly followed you, concern flooding his body. You fumbled around the couch until you found your phone, quickly tapping through your health app. Your eyes widened and you sucked in a sharp breath. Matt was only becoming more and more alarmed at your silence and he tentatively reached out to put a hand on your shoulder. You glanced at him, his face asking you a silent question. “I’m late,” you whispered. “I’m two weeks late, Matt. Oh my god.” His eyes widened as he realized what you were saying. “Do you think you’re…?”

You shrugged helplessly. “It would make sense. Fuck, Matt. I don’t…” you took a shuddering breath, tears pricking your eyes. Matt wrapped his arms around you, anchoring you to reality. He could hear your heart hammering in your chest, your unspoken fears consuming you. “We’ll be okay, love,” he murmured into your hair. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll be alright.”

The two of you stood there for a long time, quiet sniffles escaping as you pressed yourself against him and he trailed his fingers comfortingly up and down your spine.

-*-*-

“Fuck.”

The two of you were seated on the couch, three pregnancy tests displayed in front of you on the coffee table. All three had that god-awful word that you’d feared since college, too many scares embedding this reaction in your mind.

Pregnant.

Matt exhaled loudly, his mind obviously racing. “Okay. This is okay. We… we didn’t expect this so soon.” Your head whipped in his direction and you snorted involuntarily. He tilted his head, one brow raised in confusion. “What?” You shook your head, an amused smile ghosting your face. “So soon? Were you planning on having children with me, Mr. Murdock?” He flushed at your words and you laughed again, the tension in the room slowly dissipating. “I mean, you moved in with me, didn’t you? You couldn’t have done that without some kind of thought about the future.” You hummed in response, leaning against him. “I thought about it, yeah. Just…” you chuckled softly. “Like you said, not so soon.” The two of you sat there silently for a moment before you remembered something and gasped, smacking him on the knee.

“Matthew.”

“What? What did I do?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Do you know what day it is?”

He stared at you, confusion etched across his features. “...Thursday?” His eyes widened in realization. “Oh my god. It’s Thai food Thursday.” You nodded sagely. “The time-honored tradition of Thai food Thursday mustn’t be forsaken on this day.” Matt snorted, causing you to break character and giggle. He groaned dramatically as he stood, reaching out a hand to haul you up with him. You sighed and looked down, placing a hand on your abdomen. “Let’s hope pad see-ew is something you like, little nugget. Because honestly, that’s the only food that doesn’t make me want to puke at the thought of it.” Matt’s hand joined yours, his thumb gently sweeping over your knuckles.

He knelt in front of you, the expression on his face soft and reverent as he spoke. “I’ll make you a deal,” he whispered into your belly. You smiled softly. “If you let your mother eat her beloved Thai food without puking,” he continued, “I’ll tell you about how she tripped up the stairs after our first date when you’re old enough to laugh at her with me.” You gasped in mock offense as he smirked up at you, mischief coloring his features. “Matthew!” You scolded, earning a bark of laughter from him. “I did not trip. I just- you were-” you sputtered in exasperation, playfully smacking him on the head. “That’s cheating,” you mumbled. “You can’t bribe our unborn child with tales of my misfortune.”

He grinned as he stood, pressing a quick kiss into your hair. “Not even if it means you can have pad see-ew?” You shook your head with an amused huff. This is how things were supposed to be. You and Matt bantering, laughing and poking fun at each other. You’d be alright. After all, there was no one you’d rather be doing this with.

A/N: Thank you for reading! Again, definitely not my best work but I promise it'll get better with more installments. I plan on having this series show reader and Matt throughout the pregnancy, labor/delivery, and with the newborn. Of course, it wouldn't be exciting without some angst in there, so look forward to that :) like and reblog so I know I'm not just screaming into the void

#matt murdock #daredevil #daredevil netflix #matt murdock fanfic #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #daredevil x reader #daredevil fanfiction #pregnant!reader #dad matt #charlie cox

169 notes · View notes

willowser · 2 years ago

Text

you find pro-hero touya naked on the sidewalk.

face down, ass up, and completely unmoving; it's a little after 5 in the morning, which is maybe why no one has found him or offered him any clothes. or finished him off.

it's nearly december, but all the ice around him has melted into a slick and dangerous sludge, and snowflakes are sizzling when they make contact with his back. skin a tender pink and baby-smooth; another reason you know he's still alive, aside from all the heat he's generating on such a frozen morning.

"hey," you nudge him lightly with the toe of your boot until he grunts and begins to stir. "i don't know how your quirk works, but laying in the cold like this can't be good for you."

some kind of nonsense noise fumbles out of his mouth as he squints up at you, frown etched so deep that it looks like it hurts. it almost feels like he's mega-wasted and is burning off a hangover, but you squat next to him and don't smell alcohol or weed or vomit or even nicotine. just ash, as the early morning wind stings the inside of your nose.

"c'mon man," you scoff when he turns his back to you, like a teenager not ready to get out of bed. "don't make me leave you out here."

pro-hero touya has tattoos everywhere — or at least in his most visible spots, with his costume. piercings, you're not so sure about; the last time you saw his face up close on a big screen, he might have had a vertical bar through his lip and several in his ears, but you vaguely remember a tabloid article about him almost getting his mouth ripped off during a high-speed chase. you know there's something though, a bunch of metal in his face and head.

this touya has nothing. none of it; born fresh right here, in the muck and the ice.

of course the first thing you think is: clone-touya.

some evil ne'er-do-well has obtained pieces of his dna and is trying to create a super weapon to destroy the city, and in a cruel twist of fate, you get to be the one that finds him. responsible, suddenly, for the could-be end of the world. least you can do is offer him your coat.

you try again at nudging him, with the side of your foot this time so as to put more weight into it, and, surprisingly, he complies rather easily, rolling completely over until he's flat on his back. exposed and bare to the elements.

"whoa," you mutter, eyes shooting up to the windows of the department store he's in front of. trying, at least, to offer him the small courtesy. "you're gonna get a public indecency charge at this point."

this is not the first time you've seen pro-hero touya's dick against your will; two years ago, some sex tape he made leaked and your co-worker was so excited to have it in her possession that it had been shoved into your face, sound and all, in the middle of your shift. there had been metal there, too, but this clone-touya is brand spanking new.

only one of his eyes is cracked open, a thin sliver of his icy blues peeking at you through a veil of snow-heavy lashes. something about him sprawled out on the concrete like a sloppy angel makes your heart squeeze, even if you don't particularly care much for him or his heroics.

"alright," you sigh, shrugging out of your coat to drape over his hips. "don't move, i guess."

it's lucky that he's half-alive right outside your job; in the following twenty minutes, you use your key to get back into the building and pick out a simple set of clothes from the men's section that you'll deduct from your paycheck later. when you come out of the back to find him again, he's at least pushed himself up into a sitting position and is coming to against the wall. in his lap, your fluffy jacket is damp and soggy and drooping and now useless.

if someone would have ever told you that one day you'd be here, helping to dress pro-hero touya like a toddler out of the bath, you — don't know what you would have said. laughed, maybe, eyebrows raised, totally lost. you feel much the same now.

a creeping unease has started at the base of your spine at his silence. finally dressed, he simply watches you, hazy, with half-lidded eyes, and you don't know what you're expecting from someone like him, but the cold shoulder is not it. it sucks that he's actually handsome because you didn't think you were the type of person to get caught up in him, but — all his features are sharp, like they've been carved by careful hands.

shorter in person, and, funny enough, that gives you the confidence to poke him in the cheek, like a brat.

"you okay in there?"

pro-hero touya doesn't retaliate to your impishness — which furthers your concern — only swallows and smacks his lips, squinting into the coming day as it dawns.

you take that as a no.

when you loop your arm through his, he lets you, and offers no objection to being led down the sidewalk. he's — warm, which you knew, but winter is sinking through your thin sweater and the plethora of heat rolling off him nearly has you purring. easy to sink in to, to your surprise, more than pliable in this fugue state.

there's a breakfast place not far from the department store and you think maybe he just needs to eat, or something. drink some water. you've been up since late last night with inventory and the thought of a fat stack of syrupy, buttermilk pancakes is motivation enough to hurry him along.

this early, there are very few people out to gawk at him on the street and you're glad for it, because you don't know how you'd explain this to your coworker if you were to end up in some tabloid. the most attention he garners is when you wrench open the doors to the cafe, and even then, the overtired, middle-aged woman just chews her gum and gestures to a table at the back.

when she brings water, you order a breakfast plate for him and yourself, and the first thing clone-touya says to you, after she's gone, is:

"i don't like pork."

you try not to make a big deal about him finally joining you in the physical world, settling for a shrug. "then don't eat it."

he snorts, still a little disjointed as he stares at the fading pattern of your table. you watch him take it all in: the salt and pepper shakers, the napkin container, the dead flies in the window pane, his tall, sweating glass.

all at once, he drinks it down so fast that some of it slips from the corners of his lips and down his chin, and when he wipes a limp hand across his mouth, you just scoot your glass across to him. and he does it all over again.

despite the weather, he wets a hand to run over his face. "what day is it?"

"thursday."

for some reason, he laughs once. huffy and short, scratchy. with a shake of his head, he turns towards the window, leaning into it like he needs to remember where he's at.

you don't think he is, but you still ask: "y'okay?"

his eyes cut to you, alive, and he considers you for a long moment. "you know who i am?"

you shrug, unable to tell if he's asking because he doesn't know, or if this is some kind of intimidation tactic. "think so." and then when he doesn't respond immediately, you tack on: "don't look right, though."

it makes him laugh, sharp and sudden. "yeah, right?" he shoves up his sleeves to trace the bare skin of his arms, rubbing his thumb over his wrist before making crescents with his nails. clone-touya goes silent again, and he doesn't look up until the food arrives.

before he can complain, you snatch the pork sausage off his plate and the quick action brings him back to the physical world again. back to the table and back to you.

he smiles like a ghost, mouth haunted on the pale, untouched skin of his face. "i have to work really hard at keeping my temperature regulated, or else my quirk will just—" he shrugs before downing another glass of water. when he finishes, he wipes a hand over his mouth, sloppy, and then takes an over-large bite of his pancakes. "eat me up."

you — don't really know what to say. this isn't a conversation topic you ever expected to have with him, not that you ever could have expected one to begin with, but you think he might just be — talking. to you, sure, but not to be polite.

"and if i just keep going and going and going," he speaks with food in his cheeks, and you're a little surprised at how bad his table manners are. but maybe he's just really hungry. "it'll just incinerate me into nothing."

so casually he says it, eyes far out the window, trained on the day as it wakes. you want to say that your clone theory is really coming together — how could he know all that, if he didn't actually incinerate himself into nothing? — but you take in his inkless arms and unpunctured nose and your stomach twists.

"so...then what?" when you speak up, his eyes cut across the table again, expression unchanged. his answer is a lazy gesture to himself with his fork. "you just...come back?"

"good news is," he laughs, insincere, "if i get a tattoo and hate it, i can just start all over again."

you don't know how to feel about that — well, you do, but you think your pity will only annoy him, so you say, "sounds like a waste of money."

clone-touya shrugs and you can see the food get caught in his throat, too large of a bite that has him stealing your water again. "got enough of it."

“your time, then?”

he doesn’t bother to look at you, as he shake his head; it feels rude, like some sort of dismissal. “what’s that fuckin’ matter?”

“okay,” you grit your teeth as he chews on your ice, and try to remember your own manners. maybe he’s grouchy because he just woke up from some kind of ash-nap. “what are you gaining from it?”

and that — has his jaw stilling, nostrils flaring as he finally, finally takes you in. whatever he finds in your face isn’t enough, and you’re reminded, again, that you really aren’t a big fan of this guy. he leans close as he whispers, “you wouldn’t get it.”

and you lean in just as close. “so explain it to me then.”

against the nearly empty plate, his cutlery sings when he drops it, suddenly. with food still stuffed into one side of his cheeks, he sits back in the booth and crosses his arms. childishly, you feel like you’ve won something, and your smile makes his eyes narrow.

“and who are you, anyway? some civilian?” clone-touya — or real, angry touya; you’re not sure anymore — doesn’t bother to keep his voice down, not even when the only other table in the cafe turns to look at him. “y’wanna know what it’s like to be daddy’s prized possession? fine. how much time you got?”

you shrug, crossing your arms as you lean into the table. hugging yourself, making yourself warm against the frost outside, and in his eyes. “what’s that matter?”

#HE’S SUCH A JERK but he’s just sad 🥺#getting all he ever wanted isn’t what he thought it would be 🥺#does he have any friends ?? anyone to confide in ???? does anyone CARE WAAAHHH #alexa play creep by radiohead #✿ willow writes #✿ thoughts: dabi/touya #✿ theme: pro hero touya

334 notes · View notes

runa-falls · 2 years ago

Text

cat and mouse - 2

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x Supervillain(?)!Reader

Warnings: kissy kissy :3, mention of alcohol, you're broke. sorry.

a/n: i wrote this out today (what is now a few days ago) because i couldn't work on the other fic until i got this out of my system :) if there are plot holes its because i vomited out this chapter and threw it out like a dumbass. idk what Black-Cat's personality is like so i made it kinda mirror cat woman from the harley quinn show.

Summary: Every time you try to convince people it was an accident, you immediately get ratted out to the Spider. But really, it was! You don't know why you're being hunted, you didn't even do anything wrong. Yet.

w/c: 2.6k

part 1 part 3 part 4

masterlist

----

Nueva York’s friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, as he, and the world, likes to call him, is your official nemesis, or at least that’s what the city thinks.

You crumple up the half-soaked People magazine, filled with ‘juicy gossip about our favorite Spider and the new villain-of-the-week: Blaze’. Seriously, you might just become a villain if they keep calling you that.

You briefly forgot you swiped the news story off of a nearby food and entertainment stand (that’s barely holding up in the downpour) until you hear:

“Hey! You gotta pay for that!”

You don’t.

In your defense, it was only a dollar-fifty. And either way, it’s technically the Spider’s fault that you didn’t have a penny on you!

Honestly, if it were your choice, you’d never see his stupidly broad shoulders again. He truly is the bane of your existence and a major pain in your ass. You genuinely don’t understand why he even pays you any mind, it’s not like you are plotting to take over the city. You just want enough money to get some fries and a Koka Soda, and maybe a couple more black articles of clothing that aren’t covered in clawed-out stripes.

Spider-Man? More like Cat-Man.

You would say you’ve been “fighting” this man for weeks like the magazines insinuate, but it’s less violence than it is just you squirming out of his clutches and running away. You swear the Spider is a bloodhound. No matter where you are, or what you’re wearing, he always finds you. And you always get away. It’s actually quite pathetic.

He goes: “It’s you again.”

You say: “No it’s not.”

Then he has to say: “Blaze.” Like you’re some ultra-nemesis that has ruined his life.

And you can’t help but: “Stop fucking calling me that, dude.” Before you make a run for it.

He catches up, obviously, either has you on the ground, against the wall, or holds you up so you can’t escape, but then you do. Every time. And he lets you.

So really, it’s just fucking annoying. What a waste of a great plan and an excellently executed silent break-in!

You never asked for any of this. The fact you don’t have a flashy-ass elastic suit should be proof enough: You’re not a supervillain.

But, when the opportunity to make a little more cash comes around, you can’t just say no. In your mind, the bigger the heist, the longer you can stay out of the public and away from him.

And if the one girl on the team wants to make you a suit, how can you resist? The Spider has ruined all the other clothes you’ve worn (and not in a good way).

You saw your new suit a few hours before you needed to meet up with the team. Felicia, or Black Cat as the rest of the group refers to her, is probably the most elegant and badass woman you’ve ever met.

She has voluminous silver-blonde curls and sharp green eyes that match the deadliness of her talon-like retractable claws (which actually kinda remind you of someone…). Though she doesn’t have explosive energy inside of her as you do, her cat-like senses and martial art skills are almost as deadly.

Felicia was happy to invite you over to her multi-million dollar penthouse to get ready and hang out a little before you needed to leave.

She’s filing her nails into perfectly deadly points as you sit on her plush ultra-white couch next to the new suit, hands fiddling nervously together as you watch her pamper herself with extreme precision. There are two glasses of high-grade champagne in front of you on the glass coffee table. Yours is barely touched. Hers has been drained and refilled a couple of times throughout the hour.

“You know, usually I’d work this job alone, but it’s a lot easier to get away when you leave a few maggots to distract the Spider. That’s what men are for. Us girls need to stick together, right?”

Even her voice is elegant.

“Yeah.” You croak out. You prefer to listen to her talk than say something dumb and non-villain-like. And yeah, you’ll admit you’re a tiny bit scared of her, but sometimes that’s something you have to go through when making friends. Right?

“Alright, we’ve got like 20 minutes. Go on, babe, try it on.” She loosely gestures to the suit, “Bathroom is in the hallway, first door to the left.” You stand promptly and shuffle over to her bathroom, taking a second to look back to send a grateful smile at her before you close the door.

It almost resembles the one you saw on her the first day you met. The only difference is that yours is completely black and has a high collar neckline in contrast to her more provocative V-shaped suit.

There’s no fur-lining or silver details, just an invisible zipper that creates the illusion that this suit is painted onto your body. Felicia also provided a simple mask that you can pull over your head when you tie back your hair and some silver hair spray so you’re less recognizable to the general public.

You stare in the mirror and smooth out any wrinkles down your torso with your gloved fingers. Alright. Now you look like a supervillain.

Or at least a super-something.

She makes you do a little spin. “You look lovely, darling.” A smirk pulled at her charming lips. “Absolutely, perfect.”

—

Fuck.

So here you are, trying to break out of a bank that shut down around you as soon as you walked in. The two guys, who you never took the time to learn the names of, are freaking out, banging harshly against the metal doors that slammed shut in front of the exits.

Felicia, on the other hand, is as cool as a cucumber, checking her nails like there isn’t a blaring siren and pulsing lights around her.

So what now? You could probably blast the doors open with whatever comes out of your hands (you’re still not sure as you try to use your powers as a last resort). But that would leave a bunch of evidence that you were there and you didn’t come to knock down a whole building.

You walk over to her, trying to hide the anxiety that’s starting to bubble up inside of you. “What should we do?” She looks up from her manicured nails and looks at you. Then at the guys.

“Well, the boys seem a bit preoccupied,” As if to prove her point, one of them starts kicking the door, as if it would magically open up for him if he were to hit it harder and make more noise. She sighs, “I guess we could use the air duct that leads to the roof.”

“Ok.”

So you follow her to one of the main offices in the building, watching as she easily rips off the cover of the vent and uses the desk for leverage to hoist her into the surprisingly spacious air duct.

The chill evening breeze of Nueva York has never felt so good. Well, it has smelt better, but if garbage and crime-filled air meant you’re not going back to jail, you’ll take it.

“Well, that could’ve gone better.” The Black Cat runs her fingers through her hair, pushing it back and out of her face. Of course, it falls perfectly over her shoulders. “So…I’ll see you later, yeah?” She’s leaving?

“Uh, yeah, sure. I’d love to!”

“Great.” She walks to the edge of the roof and scales down the back of the building like it’s nothing. Look, it’s not that tall of a building, but still, you weren’t about to follow her down. You watch as her black-suited figure lands on the concrete ground, barely making a sound, before she sashays into the shadows of the city, disappearing into the night. God, she’s so cool.

And then it’s just you.

You sit yourself down and finally take a breath. Your first job as a villain and you didn’t even get to see the money. What are you getting yourself into?

You pull slightly at the elastic holding your hair together, regretting the tight pony that’s now giving you a major headache. Maybe this life isn’t for you. With, probably an overdramatic, sigh you push yourself up. Now to figure out how you’re getting out of here.

–

Turns out you didn’t have too many options. As soon as you were about to take a serious ‘leap of faith’ and try to scale down the building, you were ambushed by a series of fwp, fwp, fwp’s and lifted from the ground. That probably saved your life now that you’re thinking back on it.

So, he found you. Big surprise. He’s practically stalking you at this point.

He takes you for a ride, holding you close as he swings from building to building, barely breaking a sweat. You’re actually surprised that you didn’t hurl all over his stupidly firm shoulder. You should have.

You don’t know why he brought you to the top of a half-constructed building, but you’re assuming he’s just trying to be dramatic again. Superheroes, right?

You struggle against restraints when you’re finally set down, at least trying to lay in a more comfortable position as Spider-man stands over you. Not only are you fully wrapped in red webs, but your arms are also tied behind your back.

The Spider kneels down, watching you continue to struggle, “Alright, Hardy, give it up.” Hardy? Shit, he must think you’re Felicia. The black suit, the silver hair. Dammit.

He takes off your mask before you can say anything, pulling out your loose hair tie with it, and boy, is he surprised to see it’s you.

“Wh–Blaze?” He takes off his mask like he can’t believe his fabric-covered eyes. His scarlet gaze not so subtly takes in your new look. A big change from the usual getup you wear. “What, uh,” When he finally meets your eyes, one of his gloved hands raises to rub at the back of his neck. Is he nervous? He briefly looks away from you, “What did you do to your hair?”

“Who cares! Let me out of these!” You glower at him, arms tugging at the luminous webs, “And you know I hate that stupid-ass name.”

“What the hell were you doing here? Why are you suddenly hanging out with a bunch of criminals?”

You give him a deadpan expression, “I’m a villain, remember.”

“Ah,” He slices through a couple of the overlapping webs that fit snugly over your stomach. “Finally giving into the narrative, hm?” Then the ones around your arms.

“S’not like I have much of a choice.” The red webs start to loosen until they unravel completely and pool on the floor. “So, you’re…letting me go?” You rub at your sore wrists, feeling the ache dissipate almost immediately. He shrugs like it’s no big deal for him.

“It’s expected, isn't it?” He’s at the edge of the roof staring at the buildings around him, a soft breeze sweeps through his hair, and the lights of ‘the city that never sleeps’ soak over his suited figure from below.

“Just like that?”

“...Just like that.” He says. But he says it more to himself than you. With that, he swiftly puts his mask back on, hiding the wonderfully serene expression he once held, but you never got to see in full.

Spider-man is confusing. He treats you like you’re some sort of catch-and-release criminal. Acting like a push-over parent that reprimands their child even when they know they’ll do it again. You don’t get it.

And the way he looks at you sometimes. Like he’s having fun. You see it when he’s chasing you, webbing you to the wall, or holding you under his claws. There’s a glowing heat that pulses in his eyes and you can almost see the barest gleam of his fangs. You can’t even wrap your head around how he can both infuriate and draw you in at the same time. And then he lets you go.

And now he’s leaving you.

So you take your chance.

“Wait.” He stills but doesn’t turn back to look at you. He just stays there, merely stopping to listen to whatever you have to say. But you want him to look at you. You need to see those simmering red eyes that are hidden behind the mask. “I-” You stop yourself. You’re not actually sure what you were going to say. All you know is you just weren’t ready for him to leave yet. “I, um, never caught your name!” It blurts out of your lips before you realize what you’re saying.

Then silence.

How awkward.

You were sure he was going to leave you there. No sane superhero would reveal his secret identity, dumbass! Especially to a girl like you.

But then his hand comes up, slips off his mask again, hair slightly ruffled from the action, and he finally turns. Before you know it he’s approaching you, fast. And you can’t do anything but stand there, watching as his looming form starts to take up more and more of your vision until he’s standing right in front of you, head tilted downwards and red eyes low.

Two warm palms cradle your jaw and you lean into the touch, eyes fluttering closed at the feeling. Just as your eyes start to open again, his head is dipping toward yours. Then his lips meet yours.

And it’s perfect. His soft plush lips move against yours, occasionally nipping and sucking on your bottom lip until it was satisfyingly plump. The warm, masculine smell surrounding you makes your knees weak as his hands drop from your face to your waist in an effort to pull you toward him.

Your body melts against him as he starts to softly lick into your mouth, thoroughly seeking out the taste of you. He pushes you gently against the unfinished concrete wall behind you, eliminating any space that was left between your thinly suited bodies. You swear you’re about to melt when you feel his broken groan against your lightly suited-chest.

And then you separate, heavy breaths and intense gazes floating between you. “Miguel.” He looks down at the way he’s holding you, the size of his palm against your smaller body. And then the ridiculous suit that was tailored specifically for the heist, but looks more like something you’d wear for a BDSM session. He clears his throat and looks back up, “Miguel O’Hara.”

“Miguel…” His hand on your waist clenches at the sound of your hoarse voice and you can tell he’s tempted to pull you back in.

“You’re one of the few who know.”

Now, you’re curious. You hum, “Who else knows?” His eyes glance at your hair and his hand drops. Suddenly, you feel cold. He steps away from you, not unkindly, but it’s clear he’s trying to create space.

He brushes it off, “No one important.” And then he’s walking away. Back to the same spot he was going to leave you from. Cool.

“Well,” You take a few steps closer, eyes roaming over his muscled back, “I promise not to tell anyone.”

“I know.” His mask is back on, and this time you know there’s no stopping him this time. “Catch you later, Little Red.” He jumps.

Little Red?

#miguel o’hara #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara x you #spider man 2099 #spider man: across the spider verse #cat and mouse

259 notes · View notes

clumsiestgiantess · 4 months ago

Text

Omg I almost forgot about the final story in the poll! I did say I’d post it sometime this week so technically I’m not late with it at least

At long last it’s time for Julie’s chapter! This takes place before Takeover Scenario Future parts 1, 2 & 3, when Julie first met and befriended Ronele!

Waiting at the crosswalk that separated the trail I was jogging on from my home, I stared down a car that was lazily rumbling down the street. I don’t know if it could have gone any slower, but it was just fast enough that I was hesitant about crossing the street until it had passed. In hindsight, I’m forever thankful it had stopped me, but in the moment, it was starting to piss me off. So much so that I tore out my earbuds to potentially yell at them. Without my jogging music in my ears, I could hear a faint noise in the bushes to my right. The sound was breathy and heavy, with a slight wheeze to it. The awful implications of that kind of noise immediately dragged my attention away from the road.

Curiously, I let the car keep going past me and stepped towards the sound. An awful bloody trail led me to a particular shrub on the side of the road. Oh no.. an animal probably got hit. Poor thing. I quickly slipped off my jacket, fully ready to potentially swaddle whatever the creature was and try to save it. However, as I eased the branches to the side, I was met with a fearful and very human-sounding gasp.

Laying on her side with one leg dragging bloodily behind her was a survivor — a small human-like creature I’d only ever seen pictures of in articles about them. We locked eyes and hers immediately squeezed shut, tears leaking down her cheeks. Her whole body shook so violently she was practically rocking back and forth. With tiny hands she clutched at the grass below herself, tearing it up in pain. She reached for her leg then froze before actually touching it — clawing the air around it in pained gasps.

I knew at once she was different than any animal I’d dealt with. She was smarter than most animals when it came to injuries. Normally, a hurt creature would have gone right ahead and clawed its leg, trying to stop the pain. However the survivor knew it would only make things worse, stopping herself from actually touching it. There was something in her — albeit frightened — eyes that clearly marked her as intelligent. But her leg… Oh god, her leg. It was gruesome. If I hadn’t already come across a few emergency situations during my internship at the animal clinic, I might’ve gagged or even vomited at the sight.

The whole thing was crushed through her calf down to her heel, leaving nothing but oozing tears in her flesh that were held open by jutting bone. Her knee had also been twisted in the wrong direction, likely caused by her struggling as whatever hit her crushed her leg. It looked so painful, and then the fact that her anatomy was almost exactly human beside the scale… It made my own leg prickle uncomfortably.

My gaze slowly lifted to the survivor’s face again. She held it tearfully — breathing hard through gritted teeth. “You poor thing,” I whispered, reaching for her. The tiny human sobbed, but didn’t move. Well, she tried to shift away, but she cried out in agony when she did. “H- Hey, it’s alright. You’re going to be ok. I’m here to help you.” I knew she couldn’t understand — her kind had a strange foreign language — but I hoped speaking calmly and assuredly would help her.

Instead of swaddling her like I would with an animal that might attack me in fear, I tore off a piece of fabric and reached for her leg, tying it tightly at the very end of her wound to try to hold off the bleeding. Blood and gore gushed out of it and the survivor shrieked, shoving desperately at my fingers. I gently took hold of her arms before she could tear off the makeshift tourniquet.

“Please, just keep your eyes off it, alright? Focus on something beside you.” She didn’t understand — sobbing a few confused words at me. After tying it off as tightly as I could, I pointed to her leg, then my own, and pretended to bandage mine by wrapping it with my torn jacket. Once that was done, I pointed to it and gave a thumbs up, trying to say that it would help her.

Her face slipped out of agony for a few precious moments as she tried to decipher what I meant. Even if she ended up not understanding, I used the distraction to get her off the ground. I needed her back home asap before she bled out. Her leg would have to be amputated — there was no doubt about that. I just hoped I’d be able to do it without letting her lose too much blood. Laying her crushed leg on the open palm of one hand and hoisting up her torso with the other, I brought her up into my arms.

The little survivor tried once to get me to put her down, but she was in far too much pain to try very hard. By the time I’d hurriedly crossed the street, she’d given up and defeatedly went limp in my grasp. For a heartstopping second I thought she’d died, but she continued to sob the whole way. Towards the end of the journey she began pounding weakly on my chest beside her, desperate for something, anything, she did to affect me. My heart was probably torn into a thousand pieces by the time I got her somewhere I could start the procedure.

I managed to get a proper tourniquet on her leg over the top of my makeshift one with the help of a zip tie tightly cinched against her skin. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get it onto her without practically pinning down the defenseless tiny woman, who shrieked in agony the entire time. “On! P-Pleh! Esaelp esaelp tsuj llik em! Yhw era uoy gnirutrot em?! L- Ll’I od gnihtyna tsuj pots ESAELP! Ti struh! Ti- POTS! POTS!”

Her desperate cries were cut off by another sobbing shriek as I released her. God, I wish I had some anesthesia. “I’m so sorry,” I told her as her wild eyes met mine. Tears hit the edges of my voice. “I know it hurts unimaginably, just don’t die on me.” Thankfully, once I pulled out a scalpel, the tiny person took one look and passed out. Again, she frightened me into thinking she’d died. However, her being unconscious was probably for the best. I doubted she wanted to see what would happen next.

Holding my breath, I double-checked that her leg was secured and her circulation was properly cut off before taking the blade to her leg. It was nasty work. I’d only ever seen it done; I hadn’t been authorized to do it myself. Working away the torn flesh was easy enough. There wasn’t much of it to take off in the first place. However, working through the bony knob of kneecap that jutted out of her leg was much tougher. My home kit didn’t exactly have a bonecutting blade anywhere. Her knee was so badly damaged by the time I’d managed to saw through it that I had to take off the whole thing. The poor survivor’s little right leg now stopped just above the kneecap.

Immediately afterward, I cleaned the new wound and stitched it up. Unlike the amputation I’d performed, I had sewn up other creatures before. My job on her leg was top-notch. The pain would be killer whenever she woke up, so I dug through my vet bag for something that would help. By some miracle, someone’s guinea pig got a sprained leg, and it had happened to be my last appointment that day. There was a vial of pain-numbing medicine for small animals still left in it. Hopefully it would be enough.

Only a few minutes after cleaning up the bathroom counter, the survivor gasped and startled awake. Thankfully, I’d disposed of her severed leg before then. I readily expected her to start screaming or crying again, but she was silent. All she did was stare at the empty place where her leg used to be. She sat like that for a good five minutes before I cleared my throat. Very slowly, the little human turned to me. Her eyes were the widest I think I’d seen on a person, shining with tears that hadn’t fallen.

I knelt in front of the counter where she sat — the top of my head just lower than hers so I was slightly looking up at her. “Hey,” I said smally, “Welcome back. I have some meds here for you, to help with the pain.” Gently, I placed down a shot glass of water and a doll’s cup full of the liquid medicine. You were supposed to feed it to the animal in a dropper, but I thought that would be a bit too dehumanizing for her. She’d been through quite enough already.

The survivor glanced between the two cups, reached for the one with water in it, and winced at the movement. “Here, here, let me help,” I said, easing the cup with medicine closer to her. She gave it a distrustful glance. Trying to get her to understand, I made a pained expression, pointed at the cup of medicine and mimicked drinking it. Then I slowly let my expression fall into something relaxed before looking expectantly at her. Hesitantly, she took it and swallowed a small sip before coughing and gagging, nearly spilling it.

I’d obviously never tasted the medicine given to pets that came into the clinic, but I couldn’t imagine it tasting good. Concentrating on my movements, I very carefully lifted the glass of water and set it on her lap. The survivor froze briefly, then grabbed it and guzzled a few sips. She sat there staring into it before looking back up at me. Her expression wasn’t completely fearful, but a strange mixture of emotions I couldn’t figure out. The small human sat there and took sips of the medicine in increments, slowly shaking less and less all the while. I guessed that the medicine was beginning to do its work.

The little being turned to me and tried to rest her back on open air before realizing there was nothing there. She caught herself and quietly asked me something, pointing behind herself. “Of course! I can get you something to prop yourself up with; just one second.” I stepped over to a cabinet and pulled out an extra hand towel. I rested it behind her and gestured for her to try it out. The survivor leaned back tiredly and sighed with relief.

“Feel any better?” I asked her as a few silent moments passed, pointing to her and shrugging my shoulders. The survivor blinked at me, offering nothing but a blank expression then a long tired yawn. Of course, a major side effect of the medication was tiredness. It was supposed to knock animals out for the ride home, at least. She looked surprised at herself for being so tired, then glared at me and angrily pointed to the empty cup.

“Uoy retteb ton evah deggurd em! Kcuf! Yhw did I tsurt uoy os ylkciuq? Uoy deppohc ym gnikcuf gel ffo! I t’nac klaw won, tihspid! Woh gnol od uoy kniht m’I gniog ot tsal htiw eno gel?!” I looked at her remorsefully. “I- I’m just trying to help you…” The survivor stared me down, eyelids growing heavy. Her sour look only briefly fell from her face as she started to fall asleep, then quickly snapped her head back up. The little being refused to sleep. I didn’t blame her. If I were her, I wouldn’t trust some stranger the size of a building to look after me while I was unconscious, either. In fact, the last time she fell unconscious with me I took off her leg…

Trying to help her stay awake, I tried to tell her a bit about myself, using gestures she might understand. The survivor blinked hard, rubbing her eyes. Sleepily, she lifted an arm and pointed at me. “Me? My name’s Julia,” I replied, “but you can just call me Julie.” I realized too late that would be a confusing answer for the little human, and tried again. “Julie,” I told her, pointing at myself. “Ju- le?” she tried. The survivor’s breaths grew shorter and lazier, and she leaned more heavily against the hand towel behind her.

Fearfully, she pulled herself upright, but she was clearly losing the battle for consciousness. “Julie,” the survivor panted under her breath, causing goosebumps to ripple across my skin. “Esaelp.. t’nod ekat yna erom fo ym sbmil. Uoy t’nod mees ekil er’uoy leurc, tub-” She yawned mid-plea. “Si- Siht si erutrot. I t’nod tnaw ot dne pu sa na tnemirepxe.. yot.” The survivor whimpered, eyes closing. “M’I tsuj deracs m’I annog ekaw pu ni a egac…”

And with that final gasp, she fell asleep — limply crumpling into herself. With pitying gentleness I lay her out over my hands and carefully brought her up to my room. Once my mother brought my brother home, I needed to make sure neither of them found her poor self. The survivor would think I’d sold her out, or was trying to keep her as a family pet. “I’m so sorry you’re angry at me, little survivor. I promise I’ll help you in every way I can. You’re probably just scared. I’d be scared, too.” I drew her protectively closer against myself the tiniest bit. “I’ll take care of you. Just rest.”

The poor survivor didn’t wake up till the following day. I stayed in my room almost constantly to ensure no one would find her unconscious. When she did wake up, I was working on my laptop and hadn’t noticed. The survivor got in a few good steps by leaning against the side of my bed, then nearly fell on her face, barely getting her hands up in front of her. “Y-Yeh! Si enoyna ereh?” I slid out of my seat and came to the side of my bed where she lay. Just beneath my bed was a cot I’d made for her out of blankets.

She gasped as I gently hoisted her up to stand. The poor survivor tottered on her single leg, gripping my fingers tightly for support. Her little chest heaved with heavy breaths, pressed up against my hand. After taking a moment to reorient herself, she looked up at me — head tilted almost all the way upward. “Nac uoy.. pleh em tis nwod?” she asked uncertainly, pointing downward. “You want me to lower you down? Alright, just go slow.” I began moving my hand lower towards the carpeted floor and Ronele followed, easing herself down along with me until she sat comfortably.

“How’s your leg?” I asked her gently, pointing to it. She stared at it for a bit, then glared up at me and gave me a thumbs down. “What? But I-” “Ym gel si gnissim!” She yelled at me, gesturing wildly to the empty space below her thigh where her leg now abruptly stopped. Oh.. “But you would’ve died if I hadn’t amputated it!” I tried to reason. “Don’t you understand?” Trying to find a way to tell her, I typed something into my phone, then pulled up a stock photo of a gravestone. It was morbid, but it would do. Turning it towards her, I tapped the empty floor where the survivor had gestured.

“If your leg were still here, this would be you,” I told her, pointing to the picture and then to her. She processed what I said, then huffed. Pointing between herself and the picture, she gave a thumbs up; pointing to her leg, she gave a thumbs down. At the end of it all she gave me a hardened look, though her eyes still glistened with fear. I inhaled a sharp breath. ‘Death’ had been given higher merits over ‘missing leg’.

“You.. would really rather have died?” I asked her softly. She nodded, but it was hesitant. She’s really serious. Thinking about it, at her size there weren’t any prosthetics for her to wear to replace it. There weren’t any mobility aids to help her get around without one. She was simply.. stuck.. without a way to get anywhere. The survivor crawled over to my phone and pulled up the keyboard. I watched with slight guilt, though I kept telling myself that I’d surely done the right thing — keeping her alive. With an angered and embarrassed glare at me, she pointed to her missing leg, pointed to the ‘=’ symbol on the keyboard, tapped out, and pointed at the gravestone image. ‘Missing leg’ ‘=’ ‘death’.

How could I have been so dumb? Her lifestyle demanded survivors to be able to run and hide, or potentially fight, at a moment’s notice. She’d be a sitting duck for anything or even anyone to snatch her up. No wonder she was furious with me. I would be furious with me, too — leaving someone so defenseless.

I lamely sat in thought until a small sniffle broke the silence. Startled, I glanced back up to find the survivor hunched over with her back to me. Her breaths shuddered and hitched as she quietly sobbed. My heart stung painfully. To her, her life was already over. The second she healed up and I released her back into the wild like any wild animal, she wouldn’t live more than a day or two. I’d been to wildlife centers. Unlike the animals there who lost a limb, missing one of four legs wasn’t nearly as detrimental as missing one of two. You were supposed to keep any animals in that type of condition. They would be brought to presentations to help people learn about wildlife, or specialists would try to best replicate what was missing if it could be replaced.

So… That’s what I’ll do! I’ll find something to help her walk again! Excitedly reaching for my phone, I typed up a new search and found a picture of a prosthetic leg. The survivor flinched at how suddenly and quickly I’d moved. She looked up at me confusedly — face still wet with tears. More slowly, I gestured to the picture, then pointed to her missing leg.

I watched her think for a moment, then wipe the tears from her eyes. “Woh?” she said questioningly. “I- I don’t understand what that-” Before I could finish my sentence, the survivor reached out expectantly for my phone and I handed it over. Pulling up the keyboard again, she pointed to the ‘?’ symbol. “It’s… I’m going to get you one of these,” I told her, pointing to myself then the picture once I cautiously got close enough to tap out to it. The little survivor shied away from my hands, but didn’t yell or try to run. At least we’d progressed somewhat since yesterday.

“I don’t know how I’m going to get one,” I told her honestly, “I’ll either find a mini one for a doll, or.. I don’t know.. make one or something. But I’ll get one for you, I promise.” The survivor seemed a bit taken aback by what I’d said. Or maybe not what I’d said, but rather how earnest I’d sounded. She swallowed — shakily taking a few breaths as she wiped her face with the back of her hand. “Here,” I said, offering a tissue. It was the size of a blanket to her, but she didn’t seem to mind, and hesitantly took it from me.

“Os… tahw ma I desoppus ot od ni eht emitnaem?” The tiny person asked me something, moving to get up before realizing she couldn’t. She looked to me for help for the briefest of moments before turning ashamedly away. I sighed, gently reaching a hand out to her. “Here; want me to help you up? Where do you want to go?” Slowly, she turned back to me. Instead of taking my hand, she stared beyond it — carefully watching my expression. She pointed to me. “S’tahw ruoy eman?”

A question. It had something to do with me, but there were countless things that had to do with me. A slightly annoyed expression passed over her face, then she tried again. This time she pointed at herself, said something, then pointed to me. “Ronele,” she stated, “Ym. eman. si. Ronele. Won. uoy.”

Her words came at me in clipped fragments. She was either getting tired of me not understanding her, or she was trying to sound out the words for me. “Ronele,” she repeated forcefully, jabbing her finger at herself again. Suddenly, it clicked. “Ohhhh… Is that your name? R- Ronele?” “Ronele.” “Ronele?” I tried again. The survivor nodded satisfactorily, then pointed hesitantly to me. “Me?” She nodded. “My name is Julie,” I told her, “Julie. You.. don’t remember it?” That was completely fair, though. She’d been half asleep when I’d told her. “Jool… J- Julie?” I nodded, smiling softly at her. The tiny person let out a held breath relievedly, then reached for me.

Gently, I offered her my hand so she could balance and haul herself up. However, she pushed it all the way to the ground and climbed on — glancing embarrassedly at me as she settled into it. She was heavy enough that I had to cup my other hand beneath it to keep her steady, but not so much so that I couldn’t easily lift her as I stood up. Ronele gasped as my hand rose like an elevator into the air. She gripped my fingers closer around her in fear. “It’s alright,” I told her softly, “I won’t let you fall.”

Over the next week, Ronele grew slightly more trusting of me, mostly because of our unique little language we'd concocted. Using various stock photos I'd printed out for her, we were easily able to understand eachother by connecting words in each of our languages to the images. Soon enough, she'd collected a little deck of cards she used to speak with me. Ronele would show me a spread of cards in order of the sentence, and, while it likely wasn't a perfect translation, it got the information across. I had a larger matching set to speak with her, too. Of course, I tried to memorize the words Ronele associated with each card.

In my spare time between school, social life, and internships, I'd try to speak using the words associated with our card deck, rather than the cards themselves. Over a few months, Ronele had built up a whole apartment beneath my bed with a mixture of crafted things and dollhouse items. I'd yet to find or make her a stable enough leg, but she didn't seem to mind.. too much.

She still had a large walking stick I'd made and perfected for her over weeks of use, but it didn't cover up the fact that unless she was standing, or walking slowly around her ‘apartment’, I'd have to carry her virtually everywhere. Every so often, Ronele would take me aside and ask me to try again finding her a replacement. She'd always assure me that she enjoyed living as my roommate; it was easier living than struggling to survive outdoors. However, she missed her autonomy — what little of it she had in a world as big as this.

About a month before her birthday, I found a series of videos on puppetry. Included in the series was a long ‘how to’ video that explained how to make realistically movable limbs. I knew not to immediately get my hopes up after plenty of failed attempts. However, this time seemed different; the video was more professional. I had a strange excited feeling that this would be the one.

While away from my room and Ronele's ‘apartment’, I followed the video almost exactly to the tee. They’d sculpted their own leg base, but I'd scoured online stores to find a doll or figurine about her size and skin tone that had enough joints to work similarly to a real limb. After following the video, I free-lanced on my creation for a bit. With help from videos on various types of real prosthetics, I attached the puppetry strings to a little brace that would fit around what was left of her leg. If she lifted it, certain strings would be held taut and the knee would bend. If she put a lot of her weight on it, the thin metal rods would split inside the leg and give it more support as well as locking it in place.

The false limb was completed four days before Ronele's birthday — three months after I'd taken her in. However, even though it was ready, I decided to wait the extra days to surprise her with it. Ronele had gone from being a sad little being I'd practiced my vet skills on, to being one of the most important people in my life. I wanted to celebrate her.

On that special day, after serving her one of her favorite breakfasts, I sat her down in front of me on my desk — her gift hidden away in my jewelry box. “Ronele, I-” My expression fell as I realized what this meant. If she had a working leg, she had no reason to stay. For a brief moment I considered keeping the prosthetic hidden, but that would be cruel of me. I would never deprive Ronele of something so necessary, even if allowing her to have it meant losing her company.

“Yes?” she asked me confusedly. “Ronele, rof ruoy yadhtrib I tog… Llew, I edam uoy gnihtemos laiceps.” She leaned forward, excitement gleaming in her eyes. “Are you… era uoy gniyas tahw I kniht er'uoy gniyas?” Did you really do it?” I smiled, then reached to the side of her and took my creation out of hiding. Ronele gasped when she saw it, hands rushing over her open mouth. Hastily, she stood up and leaned heavily on her cane-like stick, reaching for it.

I gently handed the plastic limb to her as she took it into her hands — turning it over in fascination. “C- Can I try it on?” I nodded, gesturing to her. Ronele nearly fell over trying to balance herself and her prosthetic. Gently, I reached over and held her still. “Tel em pleh.” She held herself up with her walker as I unstrapped the little fake leg and lifted it to her. With a hesitant glance at her expression, I rested a few cautious fingers on the back of her calf — gently holding all that was left of that leg. I hadn’t dare touched it since I cut the rest of it off her.

“It’s ok,” she told me softly, staring back at my own shaken expression. “I trust you with it.” Nodding slightly, I fixed the limb to her with gentle precision. Ronele carefully tottered back upright — a tiny hand fiercely gripped my finger for support. Ronele stood there for a moment, carefully shifting her weight onto the prosthetic leg. “I.. holy shit…” She released my hand and stepped forward excitedly, only for her knee to buckle and her to fall against the surface of the desk.

“Woah! Era uoy ko?” She nodded, reaching back for my hand and hoisting herself up. “You’ll get better at it,” I assured her, “Ll’i pleh uoy.” Ronele leaned more heavily against me, smiling up at my concerned expression. “Thank you. You know.. Enon fo siht ev’dluow deneppah fi ti t’ndah neeb rof uoy. Taht edis fo eht teerts ev’dluow neeb eht tsal gniht I was. I know it’s because of you. I- I’m sorry I ever yelled at you about saving me.”

“That’s alright,” I assured her. Then, with a little smirk: “Back then, I didn’t understand half of what you were saying, anyways.” She laughed, “Rof a gnol emit I tsuj demussa stnaig erew diputs, ekil ni yriaf selat.” Giving her an amused look, I scooped her up off the desk and snuggled her against my chest — sitting tucked in my lap. “Siht t’nsi a yriaf elat, hguoht.” Elenor shrugged, snuggling against me. “Semitemos ti sleef taht yaw. Ekil a yppah gnidne.” I smiled down at her. “Ti seod leef ekil a yppah gnidne, t’nseod ti?”

We spent the next several hours trying to figure out how to maneuver the new leg. I had a hand hovering next to her like a railing every step while Ronele paced carefully across the desk and back. With every step she was becoming more confident. However, once she exhausted herself with walking, she slid off the edge of my desk and onto my lap, laying back on my stomach with a sigh. She’d done it countless times before — I nearly cried the first time she trusted me enough to do it — now, I’m close to crying again.

“You’re.. a- are you going to leave now? Because you don’t need help anymore?” I couldn’t hold off on asking any longer. Ronele turned around with a shocked expression, looking up at me with an arm out against my stomach for support. “Are… Era uoy suoires?” she asked me incredulously. “Why would I ever leave here? It’s a literal paradise compared to what I was dealing with out there!” “I know, but…” I was quiet for a moment, realizing what she said.

“But what? It’s not like you’ve been treating me like a pet or anything. Besides, I’d miss you too much living alone out there.” A relieved chuckle escaped my lungs as I gently scooped her up and held her closer. “I hoped you’d say that,” I gasped, “I would’ve missed you too.” Ronele reached for me and I pulled her into a hug. Her arms were much too short to hug my body, but she easily slid them around my neck — standing on my open hands. I had to hold my breath to keep myself from crying. Why was I ever worried she would leave?

#here’s another one for the Takeover Scenario enjoyers out there!#tw gore #<- for that one lost leg scene #g/t #giant/tiny

14 notes · View notes

starbandit · 10 months ago

Text

The World In-Between (CH. 4)

Preview: “Don’t make a noise.” A voice whispered in your ear. “They’re blind, but not deaf.”

WARNINGS: graphic depictions of dead animals, guns, mentions of vomit, death, m*rder, zombies, slightly triggering topics

word count- 2.7k/unedited

A few weeks had passed and you had begun to grow closer with the boys as time went on. In the beginning, you tried to stay out of the way, eating as little food as possible, keeping your room and everything super neat and tidy. You didn’t want to be a burden to everyone because in the end, they were doing you a massive favor. One small slip up and you feared you would be cast out into the dense forest, left to become a monster.

Seokjin began inviting you to help him prepare dinner. It started with him just asking you to help him turn on the sink while he was cooking one night, and soon grew into giggle fests while he showed you how to prepare different dishes. You pretended not to notice the way he would look at you, with a small smile and pride in his eyes, as you grew out of your shell around him.

The sun was shining through the lightly lined windows, casting the most angelic glow over your tired face. Your hair fanned out over the pillow, the soft frizz framed your face. Seokjin could feel his heartbeat through his entire body as he stepped into the room. He had planned on letting you sleep for as late as you wanted, correction, needed, but when Namjoon and Taehyung said they were going out into the forest to look for firewood and maybe grab some foragable foods, he couldn’t let you miss out on the bonding opportunity.

Seokjin slowly sat on the corner of the bed, trying not to disturb you too much. He raised his hand and gently placed it on your back, rubbing big circles over the covered skin. He couldn’t help but smile a little as your eyebrows furrowed together and you stretched out, cracking your eyes open slowly.

“Good morning,” He greeted and placed his hand back in his lap. “There’s some breakfast in the kitchen. Joon and Tae are gonna go out soon, if you would like to join them.”

You grunted and nodded, going out and helping them with whatever would be a better way to pay them back than sleeping all day. “Okay.” You whispered, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. “I’ll come down in a few minutes, just let me get somewhat decent.”

You groaned as Seokjin shut the door to your room and turned over, pushing your face deep into the pillows. As much as you didn’t want to get up, the promise of food and fresh air was too good to pass up. Even if it meant leaving the warm sheets you had gotten oh so comfortable in.

You dragged yourself out of bed and to the bag that you had thrown in the corner when you arrived. You plopped down on the floor, shivering slightly at the cold wood and the feeling of it seeping through the fabric of your pajamas. You pulled out almost every article of clothing in your bag, soon opting for a basic outfit of some jeans and a large tshirt. A pair of fun socks decorated your feet, but they would soon be covered up by the boots you were going to put on when you left.

You grabbed the small toiletries bag you had brought and dug through it. You quickly swiped on some deodorant and grabbed your toothbrush. You may be going up against zombies in those trees but you weren’t trying to have the breath of one, that was for damn sure.

After freshening up a bit, you made your way downstairs. Jungkook was relaxing on the couch, scrolling through his phone in some sweats and a loose t-shirt. He looked up and smiled at you, giving you a tiny wave as well. You smiled back and headed into the kitchen. A small bowl of soup and rice was set out with kimchi and a glass of juice. You sat down and began to dig in.

It didn’t take long for you to eat and finish chugging the juice. You placed your dishes in the sink with the other plates and set off to find Namjoon or Taehyung. Namjoon was the first one to be found. He was sat in a chair in the corner, glasses perched on his nose and a book settled in his hands.

“Ah, Y/N.” He peeked over his glasses at you. “Are you joining us today?”

You nodded. “Yeah, figured I could at least learn a few things, maybe help a little.”

“We’re just waiting on Taehyung,” He closed the book and set it on the table next to him.

You two fell into a comfortable conversation as you waited for Taehyung to finish whatever he was doing. Namjoon told you all about his studies, the interesting data he had collected and the experiments he had conducted before everything happened.

“Here.” A deep voice sounded from above you. You glanced up. Taehyung was dressed, in your opinion, a little too nice. A button up shirt, with the sleeves slightly rolled up, dark slacks, and heavy boots. In his hand was a black pistol with a silencer.

“I’ve never-” You started as he placed the gun into your hand. “I don’t-”

“You aim, you pull the trigger.” He stared. “Don’t shoot yourself or us. You ready?”

The three of you made your way into the forest. You followed closely behind Namjoon who was picking mushrooms from the ground and mumbling about which ones were safe and which ones were poisonous. Every little noise made you jump, the crunch of the leaves beneath your feet was just loud enough to make you anxious.

“Shit.” Namjoon stopped dead in his tracks. In front of you was a small clearing of a few small fallen trees. In the middle was a deer carcass with hundreds, maybe even thousands of flies buzzing around. Maggots crawled in and out of its mouth and eyes. The sweet stench of rotting meat filled your nose.

“What?” You questioned softly. You tried to step next to him, but he put his arm out to stop you.

“They did this.”

You stared at the deer. Wild animals die all the time, no? It could have been natural. Hell, you had seen plenty of dead deer back at home, just on the side of the road.

“Look,” Namjoon pointed at the body. You continued to stare. That is when you saw it. Teeth. There were a bunch of teeth lodged in different parts of the deer, human teeth at that. Large pieces of deer were torn out of the animal, you could see where someone had dug their fingers into the flesh and pulled out the chunks. Your heart, and maybe some bile, jumped into your throat as you continued to stare.

“We need to go back.”

You nodded and turned on your heel, immediately stepping on a large branch the second you took a step. The crunch echoed through the forest. “Fuck.”

Taehyung stared at Namjoon over your head. “We gotta go. Now.” He grabbed your wrist and began pulling you with him. He had a death grip on his gun, scanning the woods as he led the way back to the house. Your hand began to go numb from Taehyung gripping your wrist, you were sure you would have a bruise later.

You froze as you heard a screech from deeper in the trees. The sound of feet sounded from all around you. It didn’t take long for it to find you. Panic rose through your body and you began to rapidly assess your surroundings.

Namjoon and Taehyung had seemingly disappeared into thin air, leaving you completely alone in the trees. Your hands began to shake as you lifted the gun up, trying to aim for the thing that was after you. It peered through the branches and began taking steps in your direction. It turned its nose up in the air, sniffing like a dog.

You were frozen in your place as it took steps closer to you. The smell of death washed over you. It took everything in you to not gag at the smell. As it got closer you began to notice just how decayed it was. Colorless skin was sloughing off, strips hanging down like curtains. Its eyes, or what were left of them, were somehow both milky white and seemed to be bloodshot. Maggots inched in and out of the open wounds of its cheeks and neck. Fingers were barely being held on by exposed tendons.

Its face twitched as it stepped closer to smell you. It lifted an arm up and reached out towards you, a deep groan leaving its throat. You watched as the fingers dangled and shook in the movement.

It only took a second for more to appear around you, almost as if the original one had summoned them. They were all in varying stages of decay, some crawling out of the bushes and some that looked like they could have been alive yesterday. Was this how you went out? After all the days, weeks, however long it had been. Alone, in the woods, after stupidly following a stranger to a mansion in the middle of nowhere?

You nearly screamed as a hand wrapped around your neck and covered your mouth. A broad chest met with your back, the warmth seeped through your thin clothes. You were almost positive they could feel your heart beating through your skin, your entire body heaving with deep breaths out of fear.

“Don’t make a noise.” A voice whispered in your ear. “They’re blind, but not deaf.”

You nodded, eyes wide as you watched the creatures begin to stumble around, still sniffing the air. The original one seemed to be controlling whatever the others did. You weren’t sure if you were seeing things right though.

“Aim the gun.” Taehyung whispered. “The middle one is the one you want to shoot.” He placed his hands over yours, correcting the angle. He cocked the gun. “You just need to pull the trigger.”

Your hands shook under Taehyung’s. He gripped your hands a little tighter, steadying your shot. You placed your finger over the trigger and prepared to shoot. The original zombie had stopped wandering in circles and was now standing with its back to you.

“Aim for the brain.”

You nodded and took a deep breath. You pulled the trigger. Your entire world slowed down as you watched the bullet zoom out of the gun and straight in front of you.

The zombie's head exploded onto the tree in front of him. Black and red goo splattered instantly as the body crumbled to the floor. You watched as chunks of rotten, maggot infested brain slid down the tree. You gagged and hunched over as bile rose in your throat and out your mouth.

Taehyung chuckled from behind you and rubbed your back. “I did the same thing my first time.”

You wiped your mouth as you stood up. There goes the breakfast Seokjin had made for you. The first thing you noticed when you stood up was that all the zombies had fled, every single one was gone.

“W-where did they go?” You questioned.

“You killed the hive brain.” Taehyung motioned to the crumpled body next to the tree.

Hive brain? What the hell did he mean by that? You had so many questions, but none of them made their way out of your mouth. You continued to stare at the body for a bit longer before Taehyung nudged you. “Come on, can’t stay here all day staring.” He began to set off into the woods and back towards the house.

You took a deep breath and trailed after him. “Sorry…” You whispered to the body. There wasn’t much left of the thing, no no, the person's head, just a pile of goo and rotting flesh. You felt sick looking at it but swallowed down the sour taste and rushed off. You shivered at the thought, you had just killed someone. Someone who, at one point, had a life. Maybe a family, kids, a partner. A whole life just gone.

Taehyung hummed quietly as you followed behind him. The image kept replaying, the way the body instantly crumbled, the brain splatter, the sound. You sighed in relief as the house came into view. It was almost over.

Namjoons boots were sitting inside the door when you walked in. A sense of relief washed over you, thank god he made it back safe. You don’t know what would have happened if he didn’t. You were almost positive Yoongi would find a way to blame you, and you would probably end up like the creature you had just brutally murdered. Was it really murder if they weren’t fully alive though?

Taehyung reclaimed the gun he had given you the second you stepped back into the house. He made quick work of locking the doors and sliding the metal shutters back down. He gave you a pat on the shoulder before sauntering off, going deeper into the house and leaving you with your thoughts once more.

You left your mud soaked boots on the mat next to the door. You still felt sick, the smell of death felt like it was stuck on you. The sickly sweet scent of the deer, the rotting meat and flesh from the creature, everything was stuck on you. Your hair, your skin, your clothes, you needed out, and fast.

You rushed through the living room, ignoring Hoseok and Jungkook as they tried to say hello. You nearly tripped going up the stairs. You rounded the corner, nearly running into Yoongi on your way. You paused for a moment before trying to mutter a quick apology. You tried to move by him, but the second you took a step, Yoongi blocked your path.

“I told you to stay out of the way.” He grumbled. “You nearly got Namjoon and Taehyung killed.” He stared down at you, his eyes piercing your soul. He leaned down next to your ear, your entire body tensing up as his breath hit your exposed skin. “If I had my way, you would have been gone before you even got into this house. Don’t forget that, little one.”

You shoved past Yoongi, pushing his body back with all the force you could muster and ran into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind you. You clicked the lock before bracing yourself against the sink, head dipped down. Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath, a seemingly impossible task at the moment.

You didn’t recognize yourself when you looked in the mirror. Your hair was disheveled, frizz creating a messy halo around your head. Your skin had drained of all color, leaving you a sickly gray color. Your eyes were dark, teary, and sunken in. You gasped for a breath as you got closer to the mirror.

What was happening to you? You felt like a monster, you had killed someone and almost gotten your saviors killed in the process. Sure, it was in self defense, something to save yourself, but was that a selfish decision? You stared at yourself until your face started to distort in the mirror, transforming before your eyes into some horrifying creature.

You hiccuped as the image continued to distort before your eyes, bile rising up in your throat as you stood there. It burned your throat as you dropped next to the toilet, head in the bowl. A sob left your mouth as you threw up, sweat beading on your hairline.

Once you were positive it was over, you stood up and flushed. A shower was in order. You turned on the shower water and went to rinse your mouth and brush your teeth while the water warmed up. You brushed your teeth until you spit blood, and stripped down to get in the shower.

The hot water burned your skin and left hot red marks all over your body. You scrubbed the skin, the smell of death, off until it hurt. The steam of the shower was thick and hard to breathe in, but you didn’t care as you stood under the scorching water. You felt the burn on your skin as you stood alone with your thoughts. Were you truly any better than them? Or were you both just trying to survive?

52 notes · View notes