#the ashen series | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

joemama-2 · 5 months ago

Text

a dead end | chap. 3

༺♰༻ gojo x fem reader

𓉸♱𓉸 synopsis: you were a star under stadium lights, gojo satoru a savior in sterile halls. now, the world rots, and survival is your only stage. amid the relentless dead and the horrors of the living, an unsteady bond forms—but trust is as fragile as life itself. in the shadows of ruin, love and death walk hand in hand. which will claim you first?

༺♰༻ wc: 9.6k

༺♰༻ tags/warnings: death, angst, violence, smut, cannibalism, murder, blood, gore, zombie apocalypse, crazy people, reader is a little bitchy at first, character development, torture, guns, weapons, alcohol, drugs, medical talk here and there, research talk, mentions of a leaked sextape, bullying, betrayal, lying, love, surgeon! satoru, cheerleader! reader, small age gap

༺♰༻ series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter

The hospital buzzed with its usual rhythm—a steady pulse of urgent footsteps, muffled voices over intercoms, and the hum of medical equipment. Gojo stood in the bustling trauma bay, scrubbing his hands meticulously under the scalding water, mentally preparing for another long shift. Just another day, he thought. Another set of lives to save. While Nanami and Ito haven’t even clocked in yet, he was stuck here. He sighs, trying not to dwell too much on it. He studied for this and dedicated hours, days, months, and years to this profession. Just suck it up, suck it up.

“Dr. Gojo!” A frantic voice broke through the air, slicing into his focus. He turned to see a nurse rushing towards him, eyes wide, panic etched across her face. “We’ve got an emergency intake—severe trauma. Possible bite wounds.”

Bite wounds? Gojo’s brows knitted together as he grabbed a pair of gloves. “Alright, let’s move,” he commanded, slipping into his role seamlessly.

The trauma bay doors swung open, revealing chaos in motion. Paramedics wheeled in a stretcher, the patient thrashing weakly against the restraints. Blood smeared across her limbs, and her skin was a sickly, ashen gray. Her eyes, wild and unfocused, darted around the room. “Late twenties, found unconscious and bleeding in an alley. Found by someone walking by,” one of the paramedics reported, struggling to keep the patient still. “Possible drug overdose, but… she’s been biting and scratching. Unprovoked.”

Gojo moved in quickly, assessing the situation and silently nodding along to the information being told to him. “Let’s get her stabilized,” he ordered, voice steady. “Push 5 milligrams of midazolam, and get a tox screen running. We need to figure out what’s going on.”

The nurses moved in sync, following his commands, but something felt off. The woman’s movements were erratic, too strong, almost inhuman. Her fingers clawed at the air, mouth snapping open and shut as if trying to bite through the very air itself. Gojo leaned in, shining a light into her eyes. Her pupils were blown wide, unfocused. “Can you hear me?” he called out, keeping his voice firm but calm. “Ma’am, can you tell me your name?” The woman doesn’t respond, attempting to bite at his ear before he moves away in time.

A collective gasp rippled through the room as the patient’s teeth clamped down on nothing but air, her jaw snapping shut with a sickening click. Gojo’s expression remained unreadable, but his grip on the stretcher’s railing tightened. The nurses took a cautious step back, glancing at each other for reassurance, but their unease spread like wildfire. “She almost bit you—” one of them started, but Gojo cut her off with a sharp nod.

“I noticed,” he said dryly, but his mind was already spinning. This wasn’t normal. Overdoses, withdrawals, even extreme psychosis—he’d seen it all before. But this? The sheer aggression, the unnatural strength, the way her body fought against sedation like a cornered animal—it didn’t add up. “Her vitals?” he asked, directing his attention to the monitor as one of the nurses fumbled with the blood pressure cuff.

“Heart rate is… Jesus,” the nurse muttered, eyes widening. “168 beats per minute. It’s skyrocketing.” Gojo frowned. That wasn’t just stress—it was something else. A body under that kind of strain should be shutting down, but she was still moving, still fighting as if sheer will alone kept her conscious.

The nurse with the syringe hesitated before stepping forward again. “Administering midazolam now.” The second the needle pierced the woman’s skin, a guttural snarl ripped from her throat, raw and animalistic. She lunged upward, nearly toppling the stretcher as her body convulsed.

“Hold her down!” Gojo barked, moving to restrain her arms as another nurse grabbed her legs in order to place straps on her limbs.

But she was strong. Too strong.

A sickening crack echoed as the leather restraints dug into her wrists, her muscles tensing unnaturally. The veins beneath her skin bulged, an eerie blackness creeping up her forearms. “Doctor, I don’t think—”

Then she stopped.

The room fell silent except for the steady beeping of the heart monitor. Her body slackened. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. The fight was gone as if something inside of her had finally given out. Gojo slowly loosened his grip, exhaling through his nose. “Alright,” he muttered, glancing at the monitors again. “Get a full panel workup on her—blood tox, organ function, everything. And someone check her—”

A sharp gasp cut through the air. It was the nurse standing closest to the patient. Gojo turned just in time to see the woman’s eyes snap open—pupils blown so wide that her irises were nearly swallowed by darkness.

And then she lunged. The poor nurse didn’t have time to react. A wet crunch filled the room as the woman’s teeth sank deep into the nurse’s forearm. Screams erupted. Blood splattered onto the crisp white sheets, pooling onto the floor in sickening ribbons of red. The nurse staggered back, her face twisted in pain and disbelief.

Gojo acted before he could think.

He grabbed the nearest crash cart and shoved it between them, using it as a makeshift barrier. The patient—no, the thing—snapped its teeth wildly, blood dripping from its mouth as it fought against the stretcher’s restraints. The nurse clutched her arm, her breath coming in sharp gasps. “Oh my god—oh my god, she bit me—”

Gojo’s stomach twisted. His mind screamed at him to do something, to take control of the situation, but a terrifying realization settled into his bones. The room had erupted into chaos. The other nurses scrambled back, knocking over trays and equipment in their haste to put distance between themselves and the thrashing patient. Someone was screaming for security. Someone else was already reaching for the emergency call button. Gojo barely registered any of it. His gaze locked onto the nurse clutching her arm, fingers trembling as blood seeped through them. The bite was deep, the wound ragged, and the sheer force behind it—

It wasn’t normal. Nothing about this seemed normal.

“Get pressure on that wound,” he ordered sharply, breaking from his momentary paralysis. “Now.”

The injured nurse—Yuki, his mind supplied—nodded weakly, her breaths shallow, ragged. One of her colleagues rushed forward, pressing a wad of gauze onto her arm, but Yuki didn’t react. Didn’t flinch, didn’t cry out. Just stood there, swaying slightly, blinking as if she were trying to force herself to stay present. Shock. Maybe blood loss. Maybe—

The patient jerked violently, snapping Gojo’s attention back. The crash cart he’d shoved between them rattled under the force of her struggle. Despite the restraints digging into her wrists, despite the blood smeared across her lips, she kept fighting, kept lunging, animalistic grunts spilling from her throat. The guttural sound sent a chill down his spine. “Doctor, what do we do?” someone asked, voice tight with barely contained fear.

Gojo’s jaw clenched. “We—” His words faltered as he looked at her again. The way her body contorted, the unnatural sharpness of her movements—it wasn’t human. It wasn’t just an overdose, or psychosis, or anything that made sense.

And Yuki—

He turned back toward her, but his frown deepened when he saw what had already begun to happen. She was trembling now, violently, like something inside her was coming undone. Her breathing had grown erratic, a wet, gurgling rasp behind each inhale. Her pupils—God, her pupils. They were dilating, swallowing up every trace of brown, leaving behind only an abyss of black. Gojo had seen overdoses. He’d seen trauma. He’d seen people die on his table. But he had never seen anything like this. The realization settled into his bones, cold and unshakable.

This wasn’t a patient. This was something else entirely.

The nurse who was helping Yuki with pressure on the wound was next to go, and so was the other nurse, then the security, the older woman at the desk who always offered him donuts from her daughter’s shop, and the other patients. Everything was a mess; people were running and screaming everywhere. Satoru was used to chaos and panic, but this—this wasn’t the same. Sharp eyes darted around as he tried to make sense of the bloodbath happening in front of him, fingers twitching by his sides. The sounds seemed to blend into one, his eyes closing momentarily—willing himself to take a deep breath and calm his body.

“Dr. Gojo!”

A shout for his name has him moving instantly, head whipping over to one of the newer nurses. She was backed against the supply cabinet, eyes wide with sheer terror, hands shaking as she gripped a pair of trauma shears like they were her last line of defense. “They’re—” Her breath hitched, and she shook her head violently. “They’re attacking everyone!”

No shit.

Gojo didn’t waste time responding. He could see it, hear it, feel the horror crawling under his skin like an infection of its own. The nurse who had tried to help Yuki was on the floor now, her throat torn open, gurgling as her hands weakly clawed at nothing. Another had barely made it two steps before the security guard—no, the thing that had been the security guard—tackled her to the ground, teeth sinking into her shoulder. The older woman at the front desk. The patients waiting for help. The paramedics who had wheeled in that first patient.

One by one, they fell, and one by one, they rose again.

Screams shattered through the air, but Gojo forced himself to push forward. His mind raced, trying to grasp at some kind of explanation, some kind of rationalization, but there was none. His body was running on autopilot, instincts screaming for him to do something—anything—before he was next. He reached out, grabbing the younger nurse’s wrist, his grip firm but not cruel. “We need to move,” he ordered, his voice steady despite the chaos. “Now.” She didn’t argue. She couldn’t. The moment she nodded, he pulled her with him, shoving past overturned chairs and blood-slick floors, trying to navigate the quickest way out. Every second counted. Every turn was a gamble.

And just as they rounded the corner toward the exit—

Another figure lurched toward them, half of its face missing, blood dripping down the remnants of its jaw. “Shit!” he manages to evade the attack, simultaneously pushing the nurse to the side. However, it proved to be useless when one of the paramedics grabbed at her ankle with ungodly strength and took a bite out of the flesh.

Her scream pierced through the chaos, raw and agonized. She thrashed, kicking at the paramedic-turned-monster, but its grip was relentless, teeth tearing into her calf with sickening force. Blood sprayed across the linoleum floor, pooling beneath her as her body twisted in desperation. “Fuck!” Gojo moved before he could think, his hand finding the nearest IV pole. With a forceful swing, he brought it down onto the thing’s skull. Once. Twice. The dull crack of bone giving way under steel echoed through the hall. The creature twitched before finally going still, its jaws slackening, releasing the nurse’s mangled leg.

She was hyperventilating, trying to scramble backward, her fingers slipping in her own blood. “It hurts—oh god, it—”

“Get up no—”

He doesn’t finish that sentence when her body twitches, jerking in ways that look like they could break bones. Her eyes, wide with terror only a second ago, rolled back into her head. A violent convulsion wracked her body, limbs twitching unnaturally as if something inside her was seizing control. Foam bubbled at the corners of her lips, her chest heaving in frantic, uneven spasms. Gojo had seen people die before. He had seen bodies succumb to the limits of mortality, had fought against it with everything he had. But this was wrong. He didn’t know if he could save these people. This was all getting out of hand way too fast. “Sumi.” He crouched beside her, one hand hovering uncertainly over her shoulder. “Stay with me. Breathe.”

But she wasn’t breathing. Not properly. Her gasps came out in short, shallow bursts, her pupils dilating until nothing remained of their original color. Her fingers twitched, curling like claws against the floor. The convulsions stopped. And then…her body went completely still. Gojo swallowed, dread pooling in his stomach like lead. He knew what was coming before it even happened, but a small, desperate part of him still hesitated.

“Sumi?” he tried again, softer this time.

She moved. Not like a person. Not like someone regaining consciousness. Her head jerked to the side with a sickening pop, her gaze snapping up to meet his. A slow, eerie smile stretched across her face, lips splitting over teeth now stained red with her own blood. And then she lunged. Gojo barely had time to react. He threw himself backward, her teeth missing his throat by inches. She scrambled forward on hands and knees, faster than she should have been able to move. A guttural snarl tore from her throat—a sound that no human should be able to make.

He didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the IV pole again and swung. It connected with a sickening crunch, but she kept coming. Even with her skull caving in, even with blood pouring from her shattered face—she kept coming. "Fuck," he hissed, bracing himself.

This wasn’t an illness or whatever it may have been. This wasn’t a psychotic episode. This was something else entirely. And if he didn’t get the hell out of here—

He was next.

He collides the pole into her head three more times before her body goes slack, a gaping hole that pours blood out onto the floor. Satoru doesn’t look back as he quickly scrambles to his feet and runs to the door leading to the stairwells. Doesn’t stop moving forward even after the snarls and growls of whatever those fucking things are chasing him up, but gets ultimately distracted when other nurses, doctors, patients, and family members open the doors leading to their floor—completely unaware of what kind of hell just took place below them. He’s running and running until there’s nowhere to run to anymore. The top floor of the hospital that’s been under renovation, almost close to finishing. It’s empty for the most part until the construction workers decide to grace the place with their presence.

He opens the double doors with quickness, rushing inside and closing them right behind him. t’s a temporary refuge. The space is large and open, construction equipment scattered around like remnants of a dream left unfinished. The sterile white walls have been interrupted by half-constructed walls and loose cables, the sharp smell of fresh paint and cement mixing with the foul, metallic stench of blood that clings to him. Looking around, he grabs one of the longer cables and wraps it in and around the handles of the door, essentially ensuring the doors can’t be opened from the outside. He steps back slowly, his chest heaving. His thoughts are a blur, too fast to catch up with, too fast to make sense of. How the fuck did this happen? He thought he was in control. He thought he understood everything.

But what just happened outside? He has not a damn clue.

“I—w-what?” you gulp out, eyes wide and staring at the man who holds your fate in the palm of his hand.

“You heard me,” he dryly scoffs, his smirk unnerving. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.”

“A-Are you fucking insane?!” your face scrunches when he presses the axe closer, pressing a hand down onto the handle in an attempt to keep it at bay.

“Maybe, but I’m also not taking chances, even if you are pretty.”

Your heart races as his words hit you, and for a moment, you freeze. “Pretty?” You repeat, your mind struggling to focus through the adrenaline rush and fear.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he cuts you off, his voice low and dangerous, though there’s a playful glint in his eyes. “Pretty people don’t get a free pass. You’re either useful... or you're one of them." The tip of the axe shifts, hovering dangerously close to your throat. "So, what’s it gonna be?"

“Listen,” you stammer, trying to think fast, “I—I’m not part of whatever the hell’s going on out there. I’m just trying to survive, okay? I’m not a threat to you.” He doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, but his gaze never wavers from you. It's like he's waiting for you to say something more.

“And how do I know that? You could be lying to my face for all I know,” he quips back, head tilting in a scrutinizing way. His eyes scan down your body, lingering a bit too much on your legs—though not as much as your chest.

You huff, trying to ignore the way his gaze makes your skin crawl. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the fact that I’m bleeding, exhausted, and just barely survived getting ripped apart out there?” You gesture wildly toward the door. “Does that scream ‘like one of them’ to you?”

Gojo hums, tapping his fingers against the handle of the axe. “Mmm… could just mean you’re a tough little thing.” His smirk deepens, and he finally meets your eyes again. “But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Mostly ‘cause you’re pretty.”

But he just said…. Your face twists in disbelief. “That’s it?”

“Hey, don’t look so disappointed.” He finally lowers the axe, resting it against his shoulder. “I could’ve gone with my first instinct and chopped your head off. But lucky you—” his grin turns downright cocky— “I’m a sucker for a good underdog story.”

He steps back, grabs what looks to be a wire or chord of some sort, and loops it through the handles of the doors, tying it roughly. And only then do you allow yourself to look him over as well. He’s wearing green scrubs and a white coat layered overtop. The material is stained with what you can only assume is blood, his hair unkempt and white strands poking up in all different directions as he runs a hand through it. A thin pair of silver-framed, rectangle glasses sit on his chin, the lenses look scuffed up. He must have been through some shit too. Not like you’re going to ask. He watches you carefully, his stance still tense, as if he’s waiting for the slightest reason to raise that axe again. But then, as if some invisible weight lifts off his shoulders, he exhales and takes another step back. The distance he gives isn’t much, but it’s enough for you to stop feeling like you’re seconds away from death. You take a slow breath, your limbs still trembling from everything that just happened.

His sharp blue eyes meet yours again, and the smirk he wore earlier has faded into something unreadable. “So,” he says, voice casual despite the tension still thick in the air. “What’s your deal? You really come all the way up here just to bang on my door and scream for help?”

You frown, straightening your posture even though exhaustion still weighs you down. “I had nowhere else to go. Excuse me for believing there were other survivors. I ran here, I–I thought there’d be help. Doctors…something.”

He scoffs. “Little late for that.”

“No shit.”

He turns his back to you, striding over to the window and looking out. “So,” he begins. “This….stuff…it’s happening outside the hospital too, I assume.”

“Yeah,” you nod, letting out a big and tired huff of air. Grunting to yourself as you allow your body an ample amount of time to recover from the shock it just experienced. Sinking down to the floor and sighing in relief—the floor has never felt more comfortable than it does right now. Satoru hums in acknowledgment, but there’s an edge to it, like he already knew the answer before you even said it. He places a hand on the windowsill, fingers drumming idly against the surface as he stares down at the wreckage below. The city that was once bustling with life is now a graveyard, streets littered with abandoned cars, bodies—some moving, some not—and plumes of smoke rising in the distance.

His jaw tightens. “Figures.” You watch him, taking in the way his shoulders are drawn tight, the way his fingers twitch like he’s fighting the urge to grip something—maybe the axe still resting against his hip. He’s trying to stay collected, but you’ve seen enough people break today to recognize when someone is on the verge of it. Not that you care. You’re barely holding it together yourself. “Did you see anyone else on your way here?” he asks, still looking out the window.

You hesitate, thinking about your friends losing their lives right in front of you and the fact that Sayo is still lying out there in the middle of it all. You press a hand to the side of your head, eyes squeezing shut, stomach churning. “No one made it,” you mutter, voice hoarse. “Not in a way that mattered.”

At that, Gojo finally turns back around, studying you with an unreadable expression. He leans against the wall, arms crossing over his chest. “That so?”

You nod, but you don’t elaborate. You don’t want to talk about it.

The silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the occasional distant sounds of chaos outside. You furrow your brows, just for a moment, allowing your body to sag against the cold floor. It feels like the only solid thing in your life right now.

“You’re hurt.”

Your eyes snap open. Gojo is looking at your arm now, at the blood staining your sleeve. His brows furrow slightly. You blink down at it, almost having forgotten the wound entirely with everything else going on. “Oh. Yeah.” You move your fingers, testing how bad it really is. A sharp sting shoots up your arm, making you hiss. “It’s fine,” you lie.

Gojo clicks his tongue, pushing off the wall. “Yeah, well, I’d rather not get stuck in here with a liability. Get up.”

You glare at him. “Excuse me?”

“I said get up,” he repeats, walking over to where a few carts with wheels standby. You see him open one of the drawers, a basic first aid kit coming into sight. “You want to live, don’t you?”

You don’t answer right away, but eventually, with a groan, you force yourself to your feet. “It’s just a scratch.”

“Haven’t you seen any zombie movies? It’s a scratch but maybe you already have whatever the hell those things do. You’re lucky you’re not spazzing out on the floor right now, then I’d really have a reason to kill you.”

Your lip curls up, walking over to where he is. Opening the kit, and moving some of the supplies to the side to grab a few anti-bacterial wipes. “For a doctor, you talk about killing someone way too easily. Are you sure you’re certified?”

He lets out an amused huff, shaking his head as he leans against the cart. “Certified? Honey, I’m overqualified.”

He watches as you take off your jacket with one hand, his lips twitching. You grab one of the wipes he opened, hesitating to apply it to your wound. You catch the barely concealed smirk, shooting him a glare. “Are you just gonna stand there and make jokes, or are you actually going to help?”

He sighs dramatically, pushing off the cart. “Well, since you asked so nicely.”

Before you can protest, he snatches the wipe from you, his fingers brushing against yours for just a second. The way he moves is so effortless, so natural, that you almost don’t register what’s happening until he’s gripping your wrist with a firm but gentle touch. “Relax,” he drawls, dabbing at the wound. The sting burns deep, making you suck in a sharp breath, arm jerking involuntarily. His grip tightens for just a second before loosening again. “You’d think someone who just ran for their life wouldn’t be such a baby over a little antiseptic.”

You grit your teeth, resisting the urge to yank your arm away. “Says the guy who pulled an axe on me two seconds after saving my ass.”

Satoru shrugs. “You looked suspicious. Plus, it was funny.”

“Yeah? Almost getting your throat slit is funny to you?”

His grin widens, but there’s something sharp in the way he looks up at you, something unreadable behind those piercing blue eyes. “I like to keep things interesting.”

You swallow, refusing to let the unease creeping up your spine show. Instead, you roll your eyes, looking away. “Whatever.” The silence resumes between you again, but this time, it’s not as…weird. He works quickly, applying some of the ointment before pressing a bandage over the wound and giving your arm a light pat. “There. Good as new.”

You snatch your wrist back, flexing your fingers. “You could’ve just given me the supplies. I know how to take care of myself.”

Satoru rolls his eyes and steps back. “Yeah? You mean the way you ‘took care of yourself’ by running in here screaming for help?” Your jaw clenches, but before you can snap at him, a noise echoes from outside the door—a low, guttural groan, followed by the unmistakable shuffle of footsteps. Your heart rate spikes. Gojo, however, merely tilts his head, his expression unreadable. Then, with a teasing lilt, he murmurs, “Looks like we’ve got company.”

“We should—”

“Don’t worry, they’re not getting through it.” His footsteps carry him to the double doors, giving the wire another small knot. “This can hold ‘em back.”

“Really?” you can’t help but scoff in disbelief. Eyes wide and hurrying over to his side. “That? That can hold whatever the fuck those things are back? This is a hospital and you guys can’t afford to have regular locks on your doors?”

Gojo hums, seemingly unbothered by your concern as he gives the doors a light push, testing the strength of his handiwork. “Locks slow things down. Not exactly ideal in a place where every second counts.”

You let out a sharp breath, glancing between him and the doors. “Yeah, well, I think we’re a little past ‘every second counts’ now, don’t you?”

He turns to you with a charming smile, shoving his hands into the pockets of his scrubs. “Relax. If they do get through, I’ve got an axe, and you…” His gaze flickers down to your empty hands before lifting back up to your face, his smirk deepening with an amused chuckle. “Well, you’ve got a strong set of lungs.”

Your eyes narrow, lips parting to throw some kind of retort at him, but another groan from the other side of the door makes your blood run cold. It’s closer this time, more urgent. The sound of nails scraping against the wood sends a violent shiver up your spine. He merely tilts his head, listening. “Sounds like they really want in.”

You stare at him incredulously. “And you’re still just standing there?”

“Would you rather I open the door and say hello?”

You groan, pressing a hand to your forehead. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

“I don’t have a choice,” you grumble under your breath. The sound of something heavy slamming against the door makes you both freeze. Your breath catches in your throat as the doors rattle in their hinges, the knot in the wire straining under the pressure.

Gojo clicks his tongue. “Huh.”

“Huh? What the hell is ‘huh’ supposed to mean?”

He turns to you, and for the first time, the teasing glint in his eyes dims slightly. “It means we should probably get moving.”

Your stomach drops. “I thought you said they weren’t getting through?”

He grins, reaching for his axe. “I also said I like to keep things interesting.”

You let out a string of curses under your breath as you back away from the door. “You are the worst person I could be stuck with right now.”

Gojo slings the axe over his shoulder, flashing you a wink. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

“Do not call me that,” you tell him firmly, lip curling in disgust.

“Fine, whatever your name is.”

“My name is—”

“Look, enough talking and more trying to figure out a way out of here. One that doesn’t involve the stairs, if possible.”

You rub your face, panic setting in once more. “D-Don’t you work here? Shouldn’t you know?”

“I haven’t been up here. It’s been closed off for renovation.” He replies, looking up towards the ceiling and walking around.

“Renovation… renovation,” you repeat lowly, huffing. “Well, that’s just great. We’re gonna fucking die, and it’s all your fault.” You sink down to your knees, fingers twitching on your thighs. You didn’t think it would be possible to feel closer to death multiple times in one day, but here you are now. Bangs and groans from outside the doors interrupt your goodbye monologue.

Gojo pauses mid-step, glancing down at you with a raised brow. “My fault?” he repeats, amusement creeping back into his voice. “I don’t remember dragging you into this hospital and locking the doors behind you.”

You glare up at him, hands clenching into fists on your lap. “You could’ve at least had a damn plan!”

He sighs dramatically, rubbing the back of his neck. “I did have a plan. Step one: don’t die. Step two: don’t let some random stranger get me killed. And, so far…” He gestures vaguely toward the barricaded doors. “We’re still on step one.”

You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Great plan, doctor. Real detailed.”

“Hey, I’m a trauma surgeon, not a survivalist. Cut me some slack.” He turns away, scanning the dimly lit hallway. “But since you’re so eager for a plan, let’s make one.” The doors creak again under another heavy slam. You flinch. Gojo merely rolls his shoulders, unfazed. “Alright,” he muses, tapping the handle of the axe against his palm. “No stairs, which means we need another way down.” His gaze flickers upward again, lingering on the ceiling. “If this place was under renovation, there should be scaffolding somewhere.”

You blink. “You want us to climb out of a hospital window?”

He shrugs. “Got a better idea?”

You press your lips together, stomach twisting. You really don’t.

Gojo grins, taking your silence as agreement. “Thought so. Now, get up. We’ve got some window shopping to do.”

Your lips purse, but the weight of the situation brings you to your feet. You let out another string of curses, glaring up at your unforeseen ally.“If we die, I’m haunting you.”

He nods. “Kinky.” Ignoring the comment, you tie your hair back. If you’re going to have a final day on Earth, firstly, you’re not dying at the hands of other…people. And two, you’re most certainly not dying next to an infuriating man like him. He’s rolling the sleeves of his white coat up, twisting his neck from side to side. “There’s an underground parking garage. Employees only. We can go there but that means going down and facing those things.” You feel your chest tighten at the thought, pressing down on your chest. Another life or death, sticky situation. It’s one thing to be running for your life; it’s another to know that the only escape route is through the very thing you’ve been desperately avoiding. Your heart races, the pulse of panic threatening to override your every thought. The way this guy speaks about it so nonchalantly, like it’s just another inconvenience, makes you sick. Does he even understand the gravity of the situation? Does he realize that going down there means walking straight into the heart of danger? You shake your head slightly, trying to push the rising dread aside. You can’t afford to be scared right now. You can’t.

But it doesn’t help. It’s still there, gnawing at your insides like a constant pressure. You glance over at Gojo, his posture relaxed, almost too confident. He’s already thinking about the next step, mentally preparing for the mess ahead while you’re still stuck back in the reality of what’s happening. The very idea of going through those things makes you want to vomit. You can almost hear their gnashing teeth, the wet, hungry sounds that have been haunting your every step since you stepped foot in this nightmare.

You can’t do this. You can’t—

But the thought dies as soon as it forms, buried beneath the heaviness of your survival instincts. There’s no other way. If you want to live, you’re going to have to face the very thing that terrifies you the most. You clench your fists, trying to keep your breathing steady, the sting of your arm a minor distraction compared to what’s coming. “Then we’re fucked either way,” you mutter, voice harsh, though the words do nothing to quiet the internal noise swirling in your mind. You push yourself to stand taller, to act like you have everything under control—even if you don’t. You won’t show weakness. Not now, not here.

Your eyes shift to Gojo, who’s still fiddling with the equipment, glancing at you as if expecting something. His words earlier, the ones about not getting stuck with a liability, echo in your head. Is that what he thinks of you? That you’re a liability? It stings more than it should, especially given the situation, but you can’t afford to linger on it. "Fine," you force out, standing up straighter, squaring your shoulders. “Let’s go. Just... just don’t slow me down.”

Gojo's expression flickers again, an unreadable glint in his eyes, but he doesn't respond. He doesn't need to. You both know that the clock is ticking, and right now, all you have is each other—whether you like it or not. He finishes tight-knotting the end of another wire to one of the pipes on the wall, connecting it with another chord, and then two more. It creates a familiar representation of what should be a rope. “We’re fifteen floors up.”

“Fifteen?” you repeat back with incredulity, eyes wide. Damn, did you really run up that many flights? Must’ve been the adrenaline because you’re usually tired after just two. You shake your head and walk over to where he’s opening the window and throwing the loose end of the long conjoined wires out.

“We’ll use this climb down.” He gives the wire a few tugs and after seeing the pipe holds it pretty well, he moves to climb out.

Your hand shoots out to grip his arm. “Wait! W-What if it’s not long enough?”

“Then we hop into the nearest window and go down from there.”

“Well, what if it snaps and we fall to our death?”

“You said you ran here, right? You should be down at least a pound or two. That’ll help us.” He shrugs.

This guy! “This isn’t a joke!” you exclaim, he turns to look down at you, eyebrow raised. “I’m not falling to my death and I’m not trusting you either. If we’re doing this, we have to be sure it’ll work.”

Gojo's gaze sharpens, just for a second, before that smirk of his reappears, more teasing than reassuring. "Don't worry, I'm not letting you die on me just yet. That would be too anticlimactic."

You grit your teeth at his response, irritation bubbling up again. It’s the kind of flippant attitude that, in any other situation, might make you walk away from him. But here? With the sound of snarling creatures growing louder outside the door and the weight of the situation pressing down on you, you don't have the luxury of being picky about your companions. You swallow hard, fingers tightening around the sleeve of his jacket, as though holding on to something—anything—that might give you the tiniest shred of control over this madness. "I’m serious," you say, your voice softer now, but no less intense. "One wrong move, and we’re done. I’m not asking for a guarantee, but I need to know you’re not going to fuck this up."

For a moment, Gojo’s eyes change with something you can’t quite interpret. He looks at you like he’s about to crack some sardonic joke, but then the edges of his expression soften—just barely. It’s a fleeting glimpse of something deeper, something more human than the cocky façade he’s been wearing. “I’m not gonna fuck this up,” he says, quieter than before. “But we need to move. I’m not here to lose time arguing.”

Your breath hitches as his words hit, that tension returning, knifing through your chest. You glance out the window, your mind running through the worst-case scenarios: falling to the ground, your body snapping under the impact, the wire giving way to the weight of your desperation. But it’s not like you have a choice. There’s no other way out. You draw in a slow, deliberate breath, your hands shaking slightly as you release his arm and step toward the window. The world outside feels like another universe—chaotic, terrifying, but somehow still just beyond reach. You force yourself to meet Gojo's eyes, ignoring the flash of doubt that tries to creep in.

"After you," you mutter, voice almost drowned out by the cacophony of the chaos below. He flashes you a grin, far too confident for your liking, before stepping onto the ledge and disappearing over it. The faint thrum of your pulse fills your ears, your heart hammering with every passing second. You don’t have the luxury of hesitating. You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to focus. He’s first out the window, using the wire to grip onto.

The wire stretches out below you, and you can hear Gojo’s voice calling up from beneath, the sound of his boots scraping against the side of the building. “Let’s go,” he shouts. “You’re not dying up there.”

You force yourself to swallow the fear choking your throat. There’s no turning back now. If you want to survive, you’ll have to trust him, even just this once. With one final glance at the locked door behind you—the thing keeping the chaos at bay—you grab hold of the wire. Your fingers slip a little, the metal feeling cold and foreign in your hands. The weight of everything makes it hard to breathe, but you don’t stop. Not now. One step at a time. Very slowly, you climb out the window, gripping your savior for dear life. The soles of your running shoes stamp down onto the side of the hospital building. Your breathing feels shaky and uneven, but you will your body to climb down.

Every muscle in your body protests as you inch your way down the side of the building, the rough texture of the concrete beneath your feet scraping against your shoes. Your fingers ache, but you cling to the wire, each grip desperate and frantic as you descend into the unknown below. The air feels thicker and colder, the sounds of the hospital—the pounding, the growls, the chaos—fading to nothing but a distant memory.

Your breath comes in sharp, shallow bursts, and your mind races, replaying every terrifying moment up until now. The face of Sayo flashes through your thoughts, the guilt already gnawing at you, even though your survival instinct tells you there's no time to dwell on what happened back there. Every inch lower feels like a countdown to a disaster, your stomach twisting, tight with nerves. "Take it slow," Gojo calls up to you from below, his voice loud enough to cut through the fear ringing in your ears. "You don’t want to make it worse by rushing."

You don't answer, too focused on the descent. Your foot slips for a brief moment, a sharp jolt running through your body, but you catch yourself just in time, heart racing. You curse under your breath, forcing yourself to calm down to breathe, but it’s hard when everything feels like it’s spiraling out of control. As you both climb your descent, you pass by multiple windows of the hospital, barely having time to look in before one of those creatures gets too close to the glass, mangled faces pressed to the glass, and forcing you to hide off to the side. You keep your eyes away from the windows, focusing entirely on the wire beneath your hands. It’s your lifeline now. Your only hope. But the tension in your fingers only grows with each inch you descend, like the wire’s becoming slick with your own fear. Just keep going, you tell yourself. Just keep going.

Gojo’s voice breaks through the pounding in your head again. “You’re doing fine. Just don’t look down.”

It’s a futile piece of advice—too late for that—but you squeeze your eyes shut for a second, trying to block out the height. The wind blows harder as you continue downward, the hospital walls below fading into an indistinct blur. You try not to think about what happens if you fall, if the wire breaks, or if one of those monsters happens to look up at the wrong moment. But the thought of Sayo, Yui, and everyone else; the guilt that gnaws at your insides, pushes those fears aside. You can't let that weigh you down. Not now. Not when there’s still a chance to survive.

"Don't stop. Just keep going," Gojo’s voice calls up again, louder this time, but with a tone that’s almost… comforting. Even if his words are wrapped in layers of sarcasm, there’s something strangely steadying about his presence.

You’re not sure if it's the adrenaline, the tension, or just the fact that you’ve been hanging onto this wire for what feels like forever, but you feel a little more steady with each passing second. Your hands are raw now, the skin on your palms chafed, but you don’t let go. Not for a second. The wind picks up even more, swirling around you, carrying with it the smells of burning rubber and smoke. Your hands are starting to burn. The world outside feels vast, too vast, and your head spins as you force yourself to stay focused on the task at hand. The ground seems so far away. It feels like you’ll never make it. You finally manage to glance down, just for a split second, and the ground below makes your stomach lurch. The parking garage’s concrete floor looks miles away, the edges of your vision blurring with the pressure. Your heart slams in your chest as you look up quickly, trying to keep the vertigo from overwhelming you.

You can hear Gojo below you, his voice sounding closer now, his hands gripping the wire with practiced ease. “Almost there,” he calls, though his tone doesn’t seem too urgent, as if he’s been in worse situations than this.

You shake your head, teeth gritted, trying to shut out the panic creeping into your chest. There’s still a part of you that wonders if this was a mistake—if you’re not going to make it. You can’t help but wonder if Gojo’s not just as clueless as you are. But his presence, his confident tone, keeps you moving. Then, just as you're nearing the final stretch, your foot slips again, sending a jolt of panic through you. You catch yourself, but not without a sharp cry, a gasp of air leaving your chest as your stomach drops. For a moment, you just hang there, suspended in midair, body trembling. "Shit," you mutter under your breath, eyes squeezing shut, breathing out and focusing.

His voice cuts through the panic. “You alright?” There’s a hint of concern now, masked by his usual cool demeanor.

“Yeah,” you call out, “I’m fine.” But even to your own ears, your voice sounds shaky. You push yourself forward again, hands clutching at the wire like a lifeline. You’re close. So close. The ground is finally coming into view—barely more than a few feet away. Your body aches, and your head is spinning, but you can’t stop now.

The wind picks up again, and your foot slips once more. Catching yourself is even harder this time, combined with your sweaty but burning palms. You can faintly make out him calling up to you once more, but it’s nothing compared to the feeling of your body jolting as you slide down in a momentary free-fall. “Shit!”

The wire feels too slippery for you to catch, and you begin to have that epiphany of your life flashing before your eyes for what must be the hundredth time today. Until, a firm arm catches you by your waist, locked and secured around it. The sound of his hissed grunt hits your eyes, and the two of your bodies swing side to side, back and forth, until he steadies you both against the wall. Breathing heavily, he huffs as he adjusts his hold. Your eyes open after closing them after what you thought would be your death. His chest is pressed against your back. “Hold,” he gruffs out.

You do so quickly. Your heart beats wildly, out of sync with everything, but the panic begins to fade, slowly—bit by bit. The world around you sharpens again, and you’re aware of how precariously close you were to falling. To dying. The thought makes your stomach flip. “Not today,” you murmur, your voice hoarse, raw from the strain of the climb and the near-death experience you’ve just had.

“Not today,” he repeats, a strange softness in his tone, a touch of something almost reassuring.

Your heart pounds in your chest, the thundering of your pulse loud in your ears, as the adrenaline from the near-fall surges through your body, shaking your hands and making your legs feel like jelly. Every breath feels like it’s ripping through your lungs, but it’s a strange sense of relief that comes with Gojo’s grip around your waist, anchoring you to the side of the building like a lifeline you didn’t know you needed. His chest pressed to your back serves as a grim reminder of how close you were to plummeting, but it also feels like an odd comfort—something solid in a world that's falling apart. Your thoughts are too scattered to make sense of much. The ground still feels so impossibly far away, the wind whipping through your hair, tugging at your clothes as though the earth itself is trying to pull you down. It’s dizzying, suffocating. But you manage to focus on his voice, low and steady, cutting through the panic that threatens to overtake you.

“Breathe, slow down. You’re alright,” he mutters into your ear, his breath warm against the cold air. It’s a strange thing to hear him say. A little gentler, less cocky than the usual bravado, but just as firm. And for a split second, you almost believe him. You almost start to believe that maybe, just maybe, you’ll make it through this.

The steady pressure of his hold keeps you from losing control, even as your body trembles. His grip tightens around you, not with urgency, but with intent—like he’s waiting for the right moment to push you forward. It makes something stir inside you, a complicated knot of anger and gratitude that you can’t quite untangle. You don’t want to rely on him, not like this. You don’t want to admit how much you need him to get through this. Still, you force yourself to steady your breath, eyes flickering open for a moment to glance at the ground below. It’s even closer now—so close you can almost taste the concrete. The garage is just a few more feet down. But the thought of trying to make it the rest of the way on your own, after what just happened, is enough to make your stomach twist. What if I fall again? What if this was a mistake?

But then Gojo’s voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts again, this time with a touch more force.

“Stop thinking so much,” he says, his grip shifting as he pulls you up slightly, adjusting his hold around your waist. “We’re almost there. Just focus. Just focus on getting your feet on the ground.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. Your hands are slick, your body worn from the climb, but you manage to find some semblance of focus, forcing your limbs to obey. Just a little longer. The ground is so close now, and though your head spins with vertigo, you push yourself forward, feet sliding along the building, each movement controlled, even though every muscle in your body screams in protest. You can feel the tension in Gojo’s grip as he pulls you closer to the final stretch, his voice barely a whisper against your ear now, “Almost there. Don’t stop now.” The air feels thick, every inch of movement dragging on, but you finally feel it—your feet graze against something solid, the rough concrete finally meeting the soles of your shoes. The relief that washes over you is almost overwhelming. You’ve made it. You’ve actually made it. You stumble, catching yourself with a grunt, and then, finally, you collapse—your legs giving way beneath you as you hit the concrete. You're breathing heavily, but you’re alive. "That was a close one," you mutter, trying to push yourself up. Your limbs feel like lead, each movement sluggish and strained, but the fear, the tension, it slowly starts to lift, replaced with a faint but undeniable relief.

Gojo doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looks down at you for a moment—his expression indecipherable, like he’s sizing you up in the aftermath of it all. But there’s something different in his gaze this time. Less amused, less cocky. Maybe even... appreciative? You can’t tell, but it’s there. “Yeah,” he finally replies, his voice steady as ever, but there's a flicker of something beneath it. "But we’re not out yet."

You nod, slowly rising to your feet, the muscles in your legs protesting, but you push through. You look up at him—his white coat now stained with the grime of the descent, his hair even more wild, but still carrying that aura of unshakable confidence. He adjusts his glasses and nods in the direction of the parking garage. “C’mon.”

You don’t hesitate in following him, heads swiveling around in wariness and anticipation—as if something will pop out of the shadows out of nowhere. The tension in the air is suffocating, every step feeling heavier than the last as you follow closely behind Gojo. Your breath is still uneven from the climb, your hands aching from gripping the wire so tightly, but you push the discomfort aside. There’s no time for weakness. Not now. Not when the world around you feels like it’s on the verge of collapse.

Gojo moves with a controlled urgency, his sharp gaze darting from shadow to shadow, scanning every inch of the dimly lit parking garage. The flickering overhead lights cast eerie, shifting shapes along the concrete walls, distorting reality into something far more menacing. Your grip tightens around the weapon in your hand—whatever little defense you have left. Your nerves are on edge, every sound amplified. The distant groan of metal, the faint echo of dripping water, the shuffling noise that could either be the wind or something far worse. You swallow hard, keeping close, your body tense, waiting—expecting—something to lunge at you from the darkness.

It’s quiet, luckily. The dim setting of the parking garage offers a surprising amount of comfort than it usually would. He stops, causing you to do so subsequently. Reaching his hand in his pocket, a momentary look of surprise flashing over his face. He pats his pants down. Your eyes widen. “I don’t think I have my keys.”

“What?!” you cry out, hands shooting out to feel for yourself. Your face falls when you feel something, looking up at him with a tight expression.

He giggles, pulling his keys out and dangling them in front of you. “Juuust kidding, got you.”

“That’s not funny at all,” you grumble, following him.

Gojo laughs lightly at your response, the tension of the situation momentarily dissipating as he continues toward the exit. His pace quickens, urgency returning as his eyes shift to scan the corners of the garage, still sharp, focused. The light flickers again, casting long, jagged shadows across the concrete. You try to steady your breath, feeling a mix of irritation and relief. He seems like he’s always like this—trying to break the tension with his stupid jokes. But you can’t afford to let your guard down now, not when every shadow could hide danger. You move in close, staying right behind him, though part of you wants to keep your distance. He holds an arm out and you think it’s to alert you of something in the distance. But there’s a car beeping.

You look over and spot an eccentrically blue BMW. The BMW M4 sits in stark contrast to the grimy parking garage, its electric sapphire paint catching the dim light. Dirt and faint scratches mar its sleek surface, a testament to hurried getaways. The black carbon fiber hood and tinted windows add an air of mystery, while the low growl of the engine as it unlocks is a reminder of its power. It looks almost out of place here—too flashy, too pristine—but right now, it doesn’t matter. “Stranger, meet Baby. Baby, meet stranger.” Satoru grins, puffing his chest out like he’s won a race or something.

Your lip downturns.

“So,” he looks at you. “What do you—”

“Pussies drive BMWs,” you cut him off, walking forward and over to the passenger side. “Mercedes is better.”

Gojo freezes mid-sentence, lips parting in mock offense before breaking into a loud, incredulous laugh. "Excuse me?" He places a hand over his chest, feigning deep betrayal. "Baby did nothing to deserve that slander."

You don’t spare him a glance, yanking open the passenger door and sliding in. The interior is just as sleek as you’d expect—black leather seats, ambient blue lighting humming softly along the edges, the faint scent of something expensive lingering in the air. Gojo slides into the driver’s seat, shaking his head with a smirk. "You wound me, truly. But you know what? I’ll let it slide since you clearly have bad taste."

You scoff, buckling your seatbelt. "Says the guy who just giggled at his own joke five minutes ago."

He gasps, pressing a dramatic hand to his forehead. "Unbelievable. I offer you my protection, my car—my beautiful Baby—and this is the thanks I get?"

You roll your eyes. "Just drive, Dr…." You tilt your head to look at his nametag. “Gojo.”

At the sound of his title, he hmphs triumphantly and buckles up, you follow suit. “Maybe call me Satoru. You’re not a patient of mine nor do you work with me.”

“And I’m glad I’m not.”

“That’s your cue to say your name now, silly.” Putting the car in drive, he slowly peels out of the parking garage, eyes scanning outside from left to right in a constant motion.

You hesitate for a moment, debating whether or not to give him your real name. But then again, what does it matter now? “It’s Y/N,” you finally say, watching the streets as the car glides smoothly onto the road.

Gojo hums, testing the name on his tongue like he’s committing it to memory. “Hmm, suits you. I like it.”

You don’t respond, instead turning your focus to the eerily empty streets. The city feels wrong—too quiet, too still. Neon signs flicker in and out of life, casting the sidewalks in a dull, ghostly glow. Storefronts sit abandoned, some doors left wide open like their owners had no time to shut them. You sigh and rub your face. “Where are we going?”

“Dunno, maybe my place.”

“For what?”

“If an apocalypse is starting, I’m not forgetting my moisturizer.”

You grit your teeth but decide to hold back on an insult. For now. “Fine. Then mine.”

Gojo raises a brow, amused. “Oh? You wanna grab your moisturizer too?”

You shoot him a glare. “No. I need my things. Clothes, supplies—” you pause, glancing out the window at the desolate cityscape. “Weapons.”

He whistles. “Damn, didn’t peg you for the paranoid type. You keep an arsenal under your bed or something?”

You exhale sharply, not in the mood for jokes. “Just drive.”

Gojo shrugs but obeys, making a turn onto the main road. His grip on the wheel tightens ever so slightly, his eyes flicking between the rearview mirror and the darkened streets ahead. “Alright, boss. Just don’t be mad if I judge your taste in home decor.”

You lean back in the seat, watching the quietness of the city fly past you. Luckily you haven’t seen any of those things—zombies?—yet. That’s a good thing, it should be. But you’re starting to find out that the still eeriness of just nothing might be even scarier. The city feels more and more like a ghost town the further you drive. It’s unsettling—how quickly everything unraveled, how an entire population could just vanish, leaving behind only flickering lights and abandoned cars. You tighten your grip on your seatbelt. “How far is your place from here?”

“Fifteen minutes, give or take. Yours?”

“About the same.”

Gojo drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Good. Then we grab what we need and figure out the next step. And then…” He sends you a sideways glance, an excited lilt to his voice. “We’re stopping by a gas station.”

You furrow your brows. “For what?”

He grins. “Snacks.”

(if i forgot to tag you, pls let me know) taglist: @sukuxna0 @heartsteelkaynconsumer @myahfig4 @kirachuyuu @sypnasis

@ducky1232 @oromanticism @2late4breakfast @beabamboo @dickktektive

@sleepyyammy @tbzzluvr @beabamboo @lovely-maryj @n1vi

@ojdubije @reixtsu @istha5 @ritsatoru @sadmonke

@zoeyflower @topmeyelena @sourairi @jlandersen01 @vamppirez

334 notes · View notes

artficlly · 5 months ago

Text

smog & spirits: lucky's choppery (series)

Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

mob!bucky x witch!reader

Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, vague smut, implied blowjob, mention of abortion (not to reader), mad scientist tony stark, laboratory, mentions of gambling, alcohol, smoking, vague mentions of physical violence, angst, some fluff (?), criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 5.1k

A/N: wowee, i wrote this so fast (i already had the dialogue and some writing ready for like 80% of this chapter, so it was pretty easy to fill in the rest). hoping to at least get one more chapter out but no promises, beginning to feel a bit burnt out and my birthday is on sunday yippe. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

taglist: @nash-dara @sebastians-love @calwitch permanent taglist: @globetrotter28

main masterlist | series masterlist

The crowded sea of workers flooding out of the factories for the evening parted like a tide before Bucky, his strides purposeful, shoulders squared. The setting sun cast the Smokestack District in a haze of burning amber and ashen grey, the air thick with soot and the sharp tang of metal. Even here, in the industrial veins of Sootstone, men instinctively stepped aside lest they be trampled underfoot.

This Stark friend of his was apparently buried deep within the district, tucked away in whatever workshop or lair he called home. Even if their fathers had once been in business together, Stark seemed to have chosen a different path that didn’t dance as closely with the violence that pulsed beneath the city’s surface. You had no doubt that his work, whatever it was, still dipped into the murky waters of illegality. The Smog Boys and their associates rarely kept company with anyone clean.

You let your mind wander, dissecting the possibilities, if only to drown out the roar in your thoughts. For once, Bucky Barnes and his uninvited quests were a welcome distraction.

But no matter how much you tried to shove it aside, Becca’s revelation clung to you like a thorn buried deep beneath your skin. Her words would haunt you long into the night. You knew they would. You’d toss and turn, picking them apart, unravelling them until they unravelled you.

Your father—the man who had half-heartedly raised you, the man who had buried himself in drink and violence, the man who had driven your mother into an early grave—was not your father. Not the man you had thought him to be at all.

The realisation felt like a gaping wound in your chest. The years you had wasted on him, the countless excuses, the hesitant forgiveness. It was all for nothing. You had bent yourself backwards trying to make sense of him, trying to make peace with how he had broken you repeatedly. And yet, he was just another name to add to an already endless list of cruel men.

And your mother—gods, your mother. You had resented her for the life she had chosen, for trapping you in the Warrens, for binding you to poverty and suffering. You had never understood why she stayed, why she had chosen him, why she hadn’t run far from Blackstone and disappeared into the countryside. But now, it all slotted into place like the final piece of a puzzle you hadn’t realised was incomplete.

A sickness curled in your gut. You had hated her.

Your lip was raw from how hard you had been chewing it, and you forced yourself to focus on the roll of Bucky’s shoulders as he marched ahead, unphased, a cigarette hanging from his lips. You hated yourself for ever blaming your mother when she had endured atrocities. She had shown remarkable strength in escaping, in carving out a life of her own in the shadows of Sootstone. She had run from that wretched place, hidden in plain sight. Marrying your father…it must have been a last resort. Perhaps the only man who would take in a woman in her condition.

And she had never told you. Neither of them had. Did your father—no, the man you had believed to be your father—even know the truth? He had never spoken of the Church of Light beyond vague, half-drunken warnings, letting the weight of it gather dust in your memories. A ghost of something unspoken.

But you had never forgotten.

There was a plan forming in your mind—a quiet, insidious thing. A plan to destroy the Church of Light, to repay them for the cruelties they had stained your bloodline with. That day with Michael—gods, Michael— it had given you confidence, perhaps even delusion. You had power. Power strong enough to tear them apart, to bring them to their knees. But beyond any misplaced ideas of grandeur, you knew a truth. You couldn’t act alone. Not in such an obvious way. The Church was vast—multiple temples, hundreds of members. A massacre would not go unnoticed, and the coppers wouldn’t hesitate to drag you to the gallows. It had been a miracle you had escaped them as a teenager.

And every power, every body in this realm, had limits.

You’d never had the full opportunity to explore the depths of this cursed power you’d been gifted, this death that clung to your very being. You couldn’t know if you had what it took to destroy them all in one fell swoop without destroying yourself in the process.

Your gaze flickered back to Bucky. His expression was guarded, jaw tight, eyes locked ahead as smoke curled from the cigarette between his lips. Even now, with his muscles still taut from anger, he exuded a dangerous calm. A readiness to act, to strike.

You could use him.

You could use him, use the Smog Boys to rip the Church of Light apart. If it became a gang war, the coppers wouldn’t so much as bat an eye. They’d let the criminals handle their own if Bucky's name was attached.

And you would be protected—so long as you could keep his attention.

The thought twisted something deep inside you. Was it wrong to think this way?

Then again… had he not used you, too? Had he not sought you out for your power, for what you could do for him? Yes, he had paid you, but at what cost? There was no permanency in this. You were just another indulgence, another fleeting pleasure. He had told you himself—he didn’t think himself a man capable of love.

Maybe you could have loved him. But him loving you?

It would be foolish to think so. Foolish to believe he could care for you beyond lust, beyond the pull of your body against his.

Your thoughts twisted in on themselves, tangling like a mess of threads in your mind, squeezing, choking, refusing to come undone.

The streets of the Smokestack District grew narrower as you followed Bucky deeper into its labyrinthine alleys, the industrial skyline choking out what little remained of the evening light. Buildings leaned into one another like drunks in an embrace, their brick faces blackened with soot, their windows murky with grime. The air stank of coal smoke, damp rot, and something metallic—oil, or maybe blood.

At the end of a particularly filthy lane, past a crumbling row of tenements, you finally stopped in front of what appeared to be an unassuming butcher’s shop. A weathered wooden sign, its red paint peeling, hung above the entrance: Lucky’s Choppery. The display window was lined with thick cuts of beef and strings of sausages, though the glass was so smeared with grease it barely reflected the gaslights flickering in the street.

You eyed the butcher’s block just inside, where a cleaver had been buried deep into a slab of meat, its blade glinting under the weak glow of an overhead lamp. The floor, lined with well-worn tiles, bore the dark stains of years of blood and brine.

Bucky shoved open the door without hesitation, the bell overhead giving a feeble jingle. A lanky kid behind the counter—maybe eighteen at most—jerked up from where he’d been counting money, his dark eyes widening.

You glanced around, taking in the place. “Your friend Stark… is a butcher?”

Bucky huffed, crunching his cigarette beneath his boot. “It’s a front, doll.”

“Good to know…” You exhaled slowly, shifting your weight as the kid behind the counter fumbled with the till.

Bucky stepped forward, tapping the counter with two fingers. “Parker. Here to see Stark.”

The boy—Parker—flinched, his expression tightening. “Stark—you’re supposed to say Lucky—”

Bucky’s brow creased. “Who the fuck is Lucky?”

“It’s the codeword—” Parker sucked in a sharp breath, pressing his lips together like he was already regretting this conversation. “Mr. Stark is busy, I’m afraid Mr. Barnes…”

Bucky gave him a flat look. “Kid, I’m sure he is. But do you think he’s gonna be pleased if he finds out you turned me away?”

Parker swallowed hard. His shoulders sagged, and with a sigh, he jerked his head toward the back. “Alright… come on through.”

You followed Parker behind the counter and through a heavy wooden door into the backroom. The temperature dropped immediately. The air was thick with the lingering scent of salt and raw flesh. Rows of bloodless animal carcasses hung from iron hooks, swaying slightly from the draft that slithered through the room. You stepped carefully as Parker led you toward a door set into the far wall. The door's surface was scratched and worn, but the metal handle was polished from years of use.

Parker pushed it open, ushering you both in. You winced as you were blinded by the buzz of lightbulbs hanging overhead, illuminating the space.

A laboratory.

It was a chaotic masterpiece of metal and magic, stitched together in an unholy fusion of science and the occult. Copper pipes ran along the walls like veins, some hissing with steam, others crackling faintly with unnatural energy. The exposed brick was scrawled over with chalked equations, half-translated runes wedged between calculations that looked like they belonged to some deranged engineer’s fever dream.

Workbenches sagged under the weight of strange devices—bronzed contraptions with whirring gears, delicate instruments of glass and silver, and something that looked suspiciously like a heart pulsing inside a vat of thick, viscous liquid. Along the far wall, a large metal figure loomed, wires and arcane sigils wrapping around it in a spidery embrace. A dull red glow pulsed from within.

And at the centre of it all, hunched over a mess of gears and copper wiring, was the man himself.

Stark.

He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His dark hair was a mess of careless waves, tousled as if he’d run his fingers through it a hundred times while deep in thought. A faint shadow of stubble darkened his sharp jaw. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, exposing forearms slathered with grease and soot. His vest, once fine, was smudged with oil and singed at the edges, and his half-buttoned shirt carried the distinct stains of burnt metal and something vaguely alchemical.

Perched on his nose was a pair of brass-framed goggles, their lenses thick and dusted with soot, the left one cracked down the middle. A tiny, flickering spark of blue danced across the metal frame as if whatever enchantment he’d woven into them was barely holding together. He had the look of a man who was equal parts genius and disaster, the kind of bastard who could build something to change the world but would probably set his own lab on fire in the process.

And, of course, he didn’t even look up as the door swung open.

“Who's this? A present for me?” His voice was rough. He finally glanced up, gaze narrowing as he studied you. “I see magic about her—”

“She ain’t for one of your experiments, Tony,” Bucky interrupted, stepping between you and the mad scientist. “She’s with me.”

“Huh.” Stark exhaled, leaning back against his worktable with an air of disappointment. “Shame. And touchy, too… I take it this is your infamous spirit-raiser?”

“What?” you muttered, stiffening.

“He experiments with magic and technology,” Bucky explained dryly. “Thinks he can… power metal with magic.”

“That’s possible?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

Stark’s expression turned downright wolfish. “Oh, it’s possible. Just needs the right conduit.” He stepped forward, his fingers twitching like he was already picturing carving something out of you to power one of his creations. “I mean… if I could just experiment with a drop of your magic, it doesn’t hurt, I promise… just a prick, bit of bleeding, long-term possibilities can include sudden death buuut—”

Your expression melted into something of horror.

“Oi, that’s not why we’re ‘ere, Tony,” Bucky cut in sharply. “I’m hostin’ a party. You’re invited.”

With a flick of his wrist, he produced a pristine envelope from inside his suit jacket, the deep red wax seal still unbroken. The contrast was almost comical—elegant, refined, and utterly out of place. You doubted Bucky had penned the invitations himself; the script was too precise and delicate. No, he’d likely had some poor girl painstakingly scrawl each one by hand while he barked orders from the corner of a smoky room.

Bucky’s expression remained flat, but his tone had an unmistakable edge when he added, “Preferably, you’ll keep your hands off my bird while you’re at it.”

You had to fight the urge to snap your head toward him in shock. His bird? Had one week tangled in your sheets left that much of a mark on him? The man hadn’t even taken you on a proper date—unless you counted brutalising a handful of Iron Rats as a romantic outing.

Stark paused, his keen gaze flicking between the two of you like he was dissecting a particularly interesting experiment. The glint in his eye was pure mischief. “Your bird, aye? Didn’t realise things were so… serious.”

Bucky scowled, jaw tightening. “Shut ya fuckin’ gob and take the invitation.” He flicked the pristine envelope onto Stark’s cluttered workbench, where it landed atop a mess of copper wiring, scattered blueprints, and a wrench smeared with something that definitely wasn’t just grease.

Stark picked it up, popping open the seal with ease. “Alright, alright.” His expression shifted slightly as he skimmed the contents. “This ain’t got anything to do with that Smokin’ Jacks business?”

Bucky smirked. “Somethin’ like that.”

Even with the vague way they spoke, you had heard rumours.

The Smokin’ Jacks were a gang of gamblers—slick bastards who ran their operations like clockwork, their fortunes made not through brute force but by sleight of hand. They had gambling dens throughout Blackstone, and their debts were written in blood.

The Smog Boys and the Smokin’ Jacks had long held a hesitant truce—so long as the Jacks didn’t turn their tricks on the poor bastards in the Warrens, there was no need for bloodshed. Their scams and schemes were reserved for the rich and reckless of the Flower District, the men who never knew the weight of a real loss.

But lately, there had been whispers. The Jacks weren’t keeping their word. Their debt collectors had started crossing into Smog Boy territory, leaning on the desperate and the weak, pressing them for coin they didn’t have.

Bucky didn’t take kindly to broken deals.

Stark folded the invitation with an almost exaggerated neatness, tucking it into the inner pocket of his grease-streaked waistcoat. His eyes gleamed, sharp and knowing, the kind of look that suggested he saw a game unfolding that only he knew the rules to.

“Guess I’ll be there, then.”

Bucky gave a short nod as if he had expected no less. He reached into his coat pocket, retrieving his cigarette case with a flick of his wrist. But before he could light one, you stepped forward, words spilling from your lips before you could stop them.

“You just wrapped up that business with the Iron Rats, and now you’re goin’ after the Smokin’ Jacks? Can you be any more reckless—”

Bucky turned his head toward you, exhaling slowly through his nose, cigarette forgotten. “Don’t make me remind you whose fault that Iron Rats business was.”

Your jaw clenched. “You’re the one who escalated it—”

“Yeah, well, you sure were into it, weren’t you?” His voice dropped, low and taunting, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “Sure fucked me afterwards like you did—”

Heat shot up your spine, equal parts fury and disbelief, and before you even realised what you were doing, your hand was fisted in the sleeve of his coat, yanking him toward you. He barely moved, only grinning down at you with that infuriating glint in his eye, like he was daring you to do something about it.

Behind you, Stark let out a low whistle, then a chuckle, clearly enjoying the show. “Well, well. You two are a real pair, aren’t ya?” He leaned back against his workbench, arms crossed, amusement dancing across his features.

Bucky rolled his eyes and wrenched his arm free, though not before squeezing your wrist briefly—just enough to remind you who was stronger. “We’re leavin’,” he muttered, turning toward the door.

“Try not to start a war before the party, Barnes,” Stark called after him. “But if you do—” he grinned, “—make sure I get front-row seats.”

You cast one last glance at the chaos of the lab, the scattered notes, and the eerie hum of machinery before following Bucky out. You didn’t need Stark to tell you that. A war was already brewing.

—

Your front door creaked as you pushed it open, the familiar scent of candle wax and herbs greeting you as you stepped inside. The room was dimly lit, the only real light coming from the amber glow of the streetlamps outside, their hazy beams spilling through the lace curtains. You shrugged off your coat, glancing over your shoulder as Bucky followed you in.

Only, he didn’t move the way he usually did.

Gone was the effortless swagger, the quiet, calculated control he carried himself with. Instead, he lingered near the door as if he wasn’t sure whether to stay or turn and leave. The sight unsettled you more than you cared to admit.

“You stayin’ the night?” You asked, tone casual despite the tension between you. “Or are you gonna go over to keep an eye on Becca?”

Bucky exhaled, rubbing at his jaw before answering. “No. I’ll have Nat watch over Becca. Think I’m the last person she wants to see right about now.”

There was something distant in his voice. You had noticed a shift in him during your quiet walk back from Stark’s lab. You turned, leaning against the edge of the table as you studied him. His shoulders were taut beneath his coat as if he were bracing for something.

“Are you angry with her?” you asked carefully. “For what she said to me?”

His lips pressed into a firm line. He took a moment before answering. “Can’t say I’m not a bit upset, doll.”

You sighed. “I wouldn’t take it out on her. She was just tryin’ to protect you.”

His head tilted slightly, expression unreadable. “I can make my own choices.”

“Bucky… I just—” You began but you cut yourself off as the gangster finally spoke.

“I’m…” He hesitated.

You blinked. That alone was enough to unnerve you.

You had never seen Bucky hesitate, not like this. He always had something to say—sharp, sure, commanding. But now, something unfamiliar wove itself into his voice. Vulnerability.

“…Grateful.”

The word came quietly like he almost couldn’t bring himself to say it, and when you looked at him, really looked at him, you saw it—the slight furrow of his brow, the way his hands flexed as though he didn’t know what to do with them.

“For what you did for Becca today,” he finished.

You swallowed hard.

“Well,” you sigh, “I couldn’t have just left her there—”

“I’m serious.”

His voice was firm now, but there was a softness beneath it. He shifted his weight slightly, jaw working as he forced himself to continue. “I know she is cruel, but she is my blood. My responsibility.”

You let his words sink in, picking them apart in your head.

“I don’t think she’s cruel,” you murmured. “I think she’s a woman who’s built her walls so high to protect herself. Now she can’t tell a friend from a threat.”

Bucky huffed a quiet breath, barely a sound at all.

“I can tell you why she’s like that,” he said. “And I’m afraid I’m on that list.”

Your brows pulled together. “I wouldn’t blame yourself—”

“Sometimes I worry, doll.”

Something in his voice… a weight settled in your ribcage. It was lower now, rougher like the words were being dragged from some part of him he never let anyone see. His fingers twitched at his side, clenching once before flexing open again. His jaw went tight, and when he finally spoke again, the words came slowly, carefully.

“I worry that I am becoming my father.”

Silence stretched between you. You didn’t think. You just reached out, fingers brushing over his hand, grounding him, offering something—anything—before he could retreat behind the walls you could already see rising.

But it was too late.

His body went rigid, tension snapping through him like a wire pulled too tight. His hand twitched under yours as if instinct told him to grip, to hold on, but then…He pulled away. The moment his expression hardened, you knew. Whatever softness had been there was gone in an instant, buried beneath cold calculation and the armour he had worn for so long. “I should go,” he muttered, voice clipped.

“Bucky—”

But he was already turning, already stepping away.

The door swung open, and before you could say another word, he was gone, the night swallowing him whole.

You stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where he had been, his presence lingering like a ghost you couldn’t quite banish.

—

Three days later, you made the—likely foolish—decision to deliver a care package to Becca. You knew you’d probably receive a tongue-lashing for it, but a small, wicked part of you wanted to be the better person. You had sourced some gin from the Flower Districts, strong, quality stuff that the upper-class women drank. A classier alternative to the harsh whiskey that the Smog Boys brewed and likely already lined Becca’s shelves.

The alley was dark and damp, the scent of piss and rotting wood lingering in the narrow space. Your breath curled in the cold air as you hesitated in front of her door, fingers tightening around the woven basket in your hands.

Maybe your presence wasn’t the best idea, given what she was recovering from. Perhaps it was best to leave the package and disappear into the night unseen. The message would be there, but you’d be spared the inevitable onslaught of curses she would toss your way. You imagined whore would be right at the top.

With a quiet huff, you bent to place the basket on the doorstep. Inside, nestled together, was the bottle of gin, a fresh loaf of bread, butter, and some cold-cut meats you had hunted down at the Sunday market. You knew Bucky and Nat were caring for her, but you wanted to be sure.

The door creaked open just as you straightened up.

Bucky.

He stepped out, locking up behind him, keys dangling from his fingers with an idle sort of ease. He was dressed in his usual suit—dark, well-fitted, with the coat buttoned up against the cold. The brass glint of his pocket watch chain caught the dim light as he turned to you.

For a moment, you thought you saw something flicker across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or recognition. But it passed too quickly to catch.

“You just can’t help yourself, huh?” His voice was low, edged with something you couldn’t quite place.

Your mouth opened before your mind could catch up, fumbling for an excuse. I was just making sure she’s alright. I was worried. I care. But instead, you settled for, “Sorry, I was just… ah. Care package. For Becca. Thought she’d need it.”

Maybe it wasn’t best to admit to your convoluted, backward scheme of making the woman feel bad through kindness.

His gaze dropped to the basket at your feet, scanning its contents with a slow, deliberate look before exhaling through his nose. Without a word, he bent and picked it up, turning it slightly in his hands.

“She’s out with that Brackett kid,” he muttered, shifting the basket to his other hand.

You hesitated. “That’s… good?”

Bucky arched a brow as he pulled out the bottle of gin, tilting it slightly to read the label.

“Still gonna kill him,” he said flatly, setting the bottle back down.

You bit back a smirk. “Of course you are.”

He didn’t smile, but something about his posture loosened—just a fraction. The last time you had seen him, he had stormed out of your flat. You couldn’t tell if he was still feeling stand-offish, or if the sharpness in his tone was just habit. The keys clinked softly as he turned them over in his palm, watching you with that same brooding expression.

He placed the basket on the hallway table, pulling shut the door and locking it with practised ease.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon,” he murmured, voice measured, almost lazy. But there was something deliberate in it, like he was waiting to see how you’d respond.

You hesitated, shifting on your heels. “Didn’t think you’d want to.”

Something flickered in his gaze, just for a second, before he looked away.

“Yeah, well,” he said, slipping the keys into his pocket. “You keep showing up, don’t you?”

You exhaled a short laugh, though your pulse was a little unsteady. “Guess I do.”

Bucky made a noise in his throat, something between amusement and resignation. Then, with a tilt of his head toward the street, he stepped past you.

“Walk with me,” he said, not looking back.

It wasn’t a question. And, despite yourself, you followed.

The night air bit at your skin as you fell into step beside him. The streets of the Warrens were quieter in this part of town, though the distant hum of nightlife still clung to the air—rowdy laughter spilling from taverns, the occasional shout of a drunk stumbling home.

Bucky’s flat was deeper in the district, past the noisier streets, tucked above an old tailor’s shop. He didn’t say a word as he led you up the narrow stairwell, the scent of dust and mothballs lingering in the close space. At the top, he flicked the key between his fingers before unlocking the door, pushing it open without much ceremony.

Inside, it was… surprisingly nice. Not lavish like Becca’s, but well-kept—orderly. The furnishings were simple: a sturdy wooden table, a leather armchair that looked well-worn but hardly used, a small bar cart against the wall with only a handful of bottles. Unlike Becca’s place, which was decorated with velvet drapes, gilded mirrors, and delicate trinkets, Bucky’s was bare. Functional. You got the sense that he didn’t spend much time here.

He didn’t look at you as he shrugged off his coat, draping it over the chair. Instead, he reached for the bar cart, grabbing a bottle and two glasses. “Drink?”

“Sure.”

He poured the amber liquid out and slid one of the glasses toward you across the wooden table, his own drink resting loosely in his grip. You hesitated for only a second before taking the offered glass, the cool weight of it grounding you. The scent was rich and smoky, promising a slow, lingering burn.

Silence stretched between you for a long moment, the soft clink of glass against wood filling the space. Finally, you exhaled, rolling the whiskey between your fingers before speaking. “Are we going to talk about it?”

Bucky lifted a brow. “About what?”

“You storming out of my flat the other day?” You sighed, leaning back against the edge of the table. “Look, I didn’t expect a thank you if that’s what’s got you all wound up.”

His gaze flickered to yours, sharp and searching, something unreadable in the depths of his blue eyes. His tongue darted out, wetting his lips. “I’m not wound up.”

You scoffed. “You’re impossible.”

That pulled a smirk from him—slow, teasing. “Did you want me to stay?” There was a beat of pause before he huffed a quiet laugh, swirling the whiskey in his glass. When he finally looked at you again, amusement curled at the edges of his lips. “Did you miss me?” he drawled.

“Maybe.”

Bucky’s smirk deepened, but there was something else beneath it—something you couldn’t quite name. His gaze flickered over your face, searching, considering.

“Careful, doll,” he murmured, tilting his glass toward you in a slow, deliberate toast. “That almost sounds like an invitation.”

He watched you as you lifted the glass to your lips. The first sip hit hard, burning its way down your throat and curling warm in your stomach. You coughed, barely suppressing a wince as the heat spread through your chest. Bucky smirked, tilting his own glass to his lips with far more ease.

“Shit, is this Smog Boys stuff?” You rasped, blinking away the sting.

“Off the market, yeah.” He hummed, stretching back as he pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sank into it with a sigh. “Some of it, we brew strong. Just for us boys.”

Your gaze flickered to his hands, the way his fingers idly traced the rim of his glass. He had settled into his seat with the ease, legs spread wide, confidence dripping from every lazy shift of his body. The sight of him like that, whiskey warming his blood, watching you with quiet interest—it sent a pulse of heat low in your stomach.

You tipped back the rest of your drink, hissing at the burn, then shrugged off your coat. The heavy fabric slipped from your shoulders and crumpled to the floor between his feet. Bucky’s gaze sharpened. You lowered yourself onto the discarded coat, knees pressing into the worn wood through the fabric, your hands smoothing up the inside of his thighs.

His body reacted before his words did. His legs spread a little wider, welcoming you in, his breath hitching just slightly. You nuzzled against the rough fabric of his trousers, blinking up at him through your lashes.

“What’re you…” He trailed off as your nails ghosted over the buckle of his belt.

His hand caught your wrist, and you smirked at him, tilting your head. “I wanna taste you.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, his fingers tightening on your skin for just a moment. Then, with a quiet curse under his breath, he tossed back the rest of his drink and set the empty glass down with a heavy clink.

“Shit, doll,” he muttered, his voice rougher now, lower, as his free hand went to his belt. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

From where you knelt, you could see the way his breath had quickened, the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—before undoing his belt.

Your pulse thrummed in anticipation, thighs squeezing together beneath your skirts. Bucky exhaled sharply as you leaned in, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss against the fabric covering his length. His head tipped back, a quiet groan slipping from his lips, one hand smoothing through your hair.

He was always so controlled, always so composed—but now, beneath your touch, you could feel him unravel. And gods, you wanted to watch him fall apart.

274 notes · View notes

worlds-we-write · 4 months ago

Text

Shelter in the Storm | Series Masterlist

pairing: Jackson!Joel Miller x fem!reader

Summary: She came to Jackson broken and half-alive, carrying more weight than anyone could see. Joel didn’t mean to get close—but some things don’t give you a choice.

story warnings: This story contains themes of trauma, PTSD, self harm/suicidal ideations (one chapter) and emotional recovery. Future chapters will include depictions of hostage situations, non-consensual sexual assault (referenced, not graphically detailed), and non-consensual pregnancy resulting from that event. Please read with care. Tags and warnings will be updated as the story progresses.

Tags: Joel Miller x Reader, Jackson era, slow burn, hurt/comfort, trauma recovery, emotional baggage, found family, protective Joel Miller, reader is a survivor, reader has PTSD, past hostage situation (implied), PREGNANCY reveal, soft moments in a harsh world, Joel cares in his own way™, gentle intimacy, angst with hopeful undertones, canon-typical violence (referenced), no smut (yet). updated: 05.03.25

Chapter 1: Ashen

Chapter 2: Ash and Bone

Chapter 3: Cinders

Chapter 4: Heat Without Flame

Chapter 5: Quiet Embers

Chapter 6: Smolder

Chapter 7: What Survives the Flame

Chapter 8: The Warmth That Stays

Chapter 9: The Shape of Staying

Chapter 10: Everything Warmer, Everything Closer

Chapter 11: What Doesn't Stay Buried

Chapter 12: Aftershocks

Chapter 13: Still Want You

Chapter 14: This is Ours Now

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

383 notes · View notes

internetdaddy98 · 3 months ago

Text

The Ties That Bind Us - Chapter 4

Previous | Next

[Series Masterlist]

Content Warning: Ectopic pregnancy; blood; violence; gory description; medical procedures; I have 0 medical knowledge; if I've missed any warnings, please let me know.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Emergency Room was already humming when you stepped in. You walked through the sliding doors, scrub top sticking to your shoulder blades where your bag had rested, your badge swinging with each step. The scent of antiseptic and saline entered your senses.

“Williams.” Dana’s voice floated over from the nurses’ station. Clipboard in one hand, coffee cup in the other. “You’ve got that ‘I slept four hours and regretted every minute’ look.”

“At least on nights no one expects me to look awake,” you scoffed.

“I didn’t want to seem too well-rested,” you replied, suppressing a yawn. “Bad for team morale.”

You weren’t sure when the hospital had started feeling more like reality than your apartment. You hadn’t slept well since changing to day shift over a week ago, your body not adjusting to sunlight had left you in limbo.

Your first case came in less than twenty minutes later.

Code Blue—female, late twenties, syncopal episode, hypotensive. Report from EMS said she collapsed in her apartment bathroom, pulse thready, GCS dropping en route. ETA two minutes.

The trauma bay swelled with motion before the doors even opened. You reached for gloves without thinking, your brain already mapping out differentials: ruptured AAA? Sepsis? Internal bleeding?

Then she was wheeled in—ashen, barely breathing, soaked in sweat. EMS was shouting vitals, and someone called out, “Positive pregnancy test. LMP unknown. No trauma history.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Get her on O2,” you snapped, stepping in. “Two large-bore IVs, run a bolus. CBC, coags, type and cross. I want a pelvic—”

“She’s hypotensive,” Perlah said. “BP seventy over forty and falling.”

Your eyes scanned the abdomen—distended, rigid.

Robby was suddenly at your side, already snapping sterile gloves on. “Could be ectopic.”

You didn’t need to answer. The look you shared said enough.

“Let’s do the bedside,” he said, and you nodded.

He handed you the ultrasound probe with steady hands “Transabdominal first,” you murmured, angling the screen. “Uterine stripe is empty…”

“Check Morrison’s pouch.”

You slid the probe, and there it was: free fluid collecting near the liver. You didn’t need a positive pregnancy test anymore.

“She’s bleeding out,” you said, your voice low but calm. “Internal rupture.”

Robby met your eyes. “OR, now.”

“Call OB,” you barked. “We need the rapid transfuser. Get a trauma pack—no, two.”

There was blood. Too much of it. But your hands stayed steady as you started the line. Robby worked the airway, quick and efficient, while you coordinated the push to surgery. The two of you didn’t speak beyond commands to the residents, but the rhythm was still there—tight, fluid, unspoken.

When the gurney finally wheeled her out, you stayed frozen in place for a second, gloves soaked, the adrenaline still ricocheting through your chest.

You peeled off your gown and leaned against the wall just outside the trauma one. Breathing finally caught up to you. The world tilted back into focus.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low. Quiet enough that it didn’t carry.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically. Then, softer, “It’s just… fast.”

He watched you for a moment. “You’ll learn to breathe in the middle of it.”

You weren’t sure if that was meant to be comforting, but you took comfort in it anyway

At lunch, you leaned beside him on the rails of the rooftop. It had become habitual to find yourself up here with him during your shifts, finding a small moment of quiet.

“You ever get used to it?” you asked, not quite looking at him. “The… not knowing how things end?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned back, hands gripping the rails “No,” he said finally. “You just get better at compartmentalizing.”

“That sounds bleak.”

“It’s honest.”

Another pause. Your eyes flicked toward him, catching the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. Not quite from age. More like from carrying too much.

You tilted your head. “You ever take a day off?”

He glanced over at you. “You ever stop asking questions?”

You smirked. “Touché.”

A pause.

“You talk like someone who’s burned out and pretending not to be.”

He glanced at you, surprised. “You talk like someone who sees more than she says.”

You didn’t answer that.

Late afternoon hit you like a sledgehammer. A code blue on 4 East, two pediatric lacerations back-to-back, and a psych hold in Room 9 who threw a bedpan at you because you wouldn’t let him leave AMA.

You didn’t know Robby had seen that until you found an energy drink waiting at the nurses’ station.

No note. No acknowledgment.

You almost smiled. Almost.

You blamed your lack of sleep, but your last case got to you. It was a diabetic foot ulcer gone septic. The smell alone made your eyes water, and the patient was aggressive and confused.

You powered through the dressing, the orders, and the call to vascular. You didn’t realize how tightly your jaw was clenched until you stepped out of the room and leaned against the wall, eyes closed.

“Hey.”

You opened them to find Robby standing in front of you, arms crossed, watching you with something like… caution. Or concern.

“You good?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… one of those days.”

“You handled it.”

“Barely.”

He looked at you, long enough that you felt your stomach twist. Not unpleasantly. Just… uncomfortably aware.

“You’re allowed to struggle, Williams. Doesn’t make you weaker.”

You nodded, swallowing past the thickness in your throat.

“I just hate that I care so much,” you said. “About getting it right. About being good.”

He hesitated. Then, softer, “That’s exactly why you will be.”

There was silence between you then. Not awkward. Just… still.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

Eventually, you broke it. “If you say something profound and walk away dramatically, I swear I will beg Dr. Shen to take me back-”

He snorted. “I’ll save the theatrics for tomorrow.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You didn’t leave until nearly eight. Your shift had ended an hour ago, but you’d found yourself lingering—checking your charts, double-reading labs, pretending like you hadn’t just been waiting for your heartbeat to slow down.

You finally stepped out into the night, air cool against your skin. You were halfway to the parking lot when you heard footsteps behind you.

“You always stay this late?” Robby asked, walking up beside you.

You shrugged. “I was just being thorough.”

He tilted his head. “And the real reason?”

“I don’t know how to turn it off,” you confessed quietly.

He nodded like he understood. Because maybe, he did.

You walked in silence for a while, the gravel crunching beneath your sneakers, headlights flashing in the distance.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he said, just as you reached your car. “You’re not just surviving this place. You’re learning it.”

You looked at him. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

A pause. His voice dropped slightly, not softer but lower. “And you’re not easy to intimidate.”

You almost smiled. “I fake it really well.”

“I can tell.”

He looked at you like he wanted to say something else. Like he almost did.

Instead, he stepped back.

“Night, Williams.”

You climbed into your car, closed the door, and sat there for a long moment before starting the engine.

He still hadn’t said your first name.

And somehow, that felt like its own kind of tension.

#michael robinavitch #michael robinavitch x reader #the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt imagine #the pitt fanfiction #dr robby #dr robby x reader #dr robinavitch x reader #dr robby imagine #dr michael robinavitch #dr robinavitch #noah wyle

230 notes · View notes

yasminawayne · 11 months ago

Text

vii. what's up danger?

SYNOPSIS: "Alright, let's do this one last time. My name is Y/N Kyle. I was bitten by a radioactive spider, And I've been the one and only Spidey in Gotham. I’m pretty sure you know the rest." PAIRING: Older! Damian Wayne/Fem! Reader TAGS: Established relationship, Wounds, Violence, Surgical procedures, Panic Attacks, Mentions of overdosing, Pills, Non-sexual intimacy, Mentions of death AO3: yenwayne SERIES LINK: gotham's only spidey

<- PREVIOUS | NEXT ->

 ༻⊰───⋅

The blood drained from Damian’s face, leaving him ashen and hollow. The horrifying truth sank in—you thought he was going to kill you. And he had nearly done it.

“No... no, no, no...” The words tumbled from Damian in a panicked whisper.

He dropped to his knees beside you, reaching out with trembling hands, but hesitating, afraid to touch you and cause more harm.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, guilt choking his voice. His fingers hovered near your skin, close enough to feel your warmth but hesitant to make contact.

“My sweet girl, you’re safe with me.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

DANGER.

Instinct screamed louder than thought, flooding your veins with raw, primal fear—a visceral, choking terror that clawed at your chest.

Panic clawed its way up your spine, gripping your heart in a vice, as if every nerve in your body had been doused in ice. The sound that followed, the sickening lurch in your stomach, and suddenly, you couldn’t breathe—

The blade pressed closer, its cold edge grazing your skin. White slits, the only features visible on Robin’s shadowed face, stared down at you from behind the blur of your vision. The edge of a rain-soaked cape trailed down, droplets mingling with the blood pooling on the floor.

You couldn’t breathe. You were staring up at your own death, and you couldn’t breathe.

“Don’t—”

With a breath that felt like a desperate gasp for air, you crawled away from the blade, pleading for your life in ragged, broken whispers.

Each inch you moved felt like wading through water, the crushing weight of fear dragging you down. Your helmet had long since uncloaked, and the remnants of your damaged suit clung to you, cracked and broken. Some pieces of the shattered armor lay scattered around.

That white gaze slithered over the spider emblem on your chest piece, coiled around it, heavy with unspoken realization, before slowly unwinding to meet yours.

“Habibti?”

For a moment, everything seemed to stop.

“It was you?” Damian’s voice was barely a whisper, laced with horror and disbelief.

But then his expression shifted, confusion and hurt twisting into something darker. His brows furrowed, and his mouth set into a hard line.

"Why did you hide this from me?" Damian growled, voice rough as if dragged over gravel. His teeth ground together with a harsh, grating sound. As he advanced toward you, his hands shook, the katana gripped tightly in his trembling fingers. His knuckles were white with the strain.

“Why didn’t you trust me?!”

Your head spun, confusion and fear intertwining—what was he talking about? You couldn’t—didn’t—understand.

Damian’s boot came down on your chest, the impact forcing a violent flinch from you.

“Stop—” you croaked, your fingers digging desperately into the worn leather and scuffed rubber of his shoes. “What—what’s this about? I—I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but don’t—don’t you dare lay a hand on me!”

Damian hesitated for a fraction of a second, but his anger remained tightly coiled, ready to snap.

With a choked, anguished apology, you swung with all your remaining strength. The punch connected with Damian's jaw, making him stumble back, momentarily stunned.

Seizing the moment, you scrambled to get away, but Damian was faster. He surged forward, his katana slicing through the air in a swift diagonal arc. The blade narrowly missed your shoulder as you ducked, its sharp edge whistling past.

“Ngh!” you grunted, hitting the ground hard on your chest. Your breath caught in your throat as you looked up, seeing Damian's sword raised again. Panic surged through you, and you curled into yourself, bracing for the next strike.

DANGER!

Heaving, Damian held the sword up, his breath coming in ragged bursts. Anger consumed him, his entire being trembling with the force of it. But amid the storm of rage, flashes of clarity began to pierce through the haze. He saw the fear in your eyes, the way you shrank away from him.

The katana slipped from his grip and clattered to the floor with a cold, final sound.

CLANK.

The fury that had burned so fiercely began to crack, replaced by dawning horror. Damian stumbled back, eyes wide, chest heaving. What was he doing?

“Fuck,” he rasped, his voice cracking as he knelt before you, reaching out with trembling hands. But you recoiled, pressing yourself against the floor, the fear too fresh, too consuming.

“Please, don’t,” you gasped, voice shaking. “I’m not—please, just don’t... I’m begging you—”

The blood drained from Damian’s face, leaving him ashen and hollow. The horrifying truth sank in—you thought he was going to kill you. And he had nearly done it.

“No... no, no, no...” The words tumbled from Damian in a panicked whisper.

He dropped to his knees beside you, reaching out with trembling hands, but hesitating, afraid to touch you and cause more harm.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, guilt choking his voice. His fingers hovered near your skin, close enough to feel your warmth but hesitant to make contact.

“My sweet girl, you’re safe with me,” Damian whispered, his voice trembling. He pressed the emergency button on his watch, and an urgent alert blared out, sending a distress signal to the nearest Bat-vigilante.

You wanted to respond, to reach out, to say something. But the panic had you in a vice grip, squeezing your throat and chest, rendering you mute.

“Habibti, you need to breathe,” Damian urged gently.

You shook your head, the motion making the pain flare up again.

“I—” you choked, “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” he insisted.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the pain, but it only seemed to make it worse. The fear clawed at your chest, leaving you gasping.

“It hurts,” you whimpered, every breath a battle.

“I know it does, but you have to breathe. Breathe with me.”

Damian’s hands numbed as he started to assess your injuries, pushing down his rising panic to focus on the task at hand.

He gently tilted your head, inspecting the gash on your brow. Blood smeared across your face, and the cut was deep—likely requiring stitches. He checked your pupils by shining a small flashlight from his utility belt into your eyes to assess for a concussion. Thankfully, none.

When you shifted and winced in pain, Damian’s attention fell on your leg. He carefully palpated around your ankle, noting the swelling and deformity.

“Broken,” he murmured.

The tense moment shattered with a metallic clang and the sharp sound of a grappling hook. Damian looked up to see Nightwing’s silhouette framed by the window. Dick’s face turned grim as he took in the scene, his eyes locking onto Damian’s with a look of horror.

“No time for explanations,” Damian said, lifting you from the ground. “We need to get her to the Cave—now.”

“No...” you murmured weakly, your voice barely more than a whisper. Both men turned to you, concern etched deeply into their brows as you struggled to keep your eyes open. Your head lolled back, and the darkness around you seemed to thicken, fueled by the poison coursing through your veins. “The Batcave... it’s too far...”

“Then we’ll bring the supplies here,” Damian grit out. He tightened his grip on you, trying to make you as comfortable as possible. “I’m not letting you go. Not now.”

The conversation between Nightwing and Damian became a muted blur. You felt yourself being carefully lowered onto the couch, strong arms guiding you down. A hand threaded into yours with a reassuring grip.

You took a few deep breaths, trying to muster the strength to reach for the comm link in your ear. Your hand trembled as you raised it, fingers just closing around the device when the door burst open. Morgan stumbled in, breathless and disheveled, clutching a bag tightly in her hand.

Your eyes locked onto hers, and she let out a sigh of relief. “Y/N.”

The moment she spoke your name, Damian paused.

The warmth in his eyes slowly hardened, replaced by a chilling coldness.

In a heartbeat, he was across the room, moving with terrifying speed. He grabbed Morgan and slammed her against the wall with such force that the impact stole the breath from her lungs.

“Damian! Wait—” you winced, trying to lift yourself off the couch, but Dick was quicker, gently but firmly pushing you back down.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Damian snarled. The words dripped from his lips like venom as he rammed his forearm against Morgan’s ribs. “You shouldn’t be—”

“Holy shit,” Morgan sputtered, cutting him off with a heave. “Did—Did she just say Damian? You’re Robin?”

Damian’s arm pushed harder, his anger unabated.

“Answer me,” Damian snapped. The white slits in his mask glared at her like twin spots of ice. “You’ll explain what you’re doing here before I ensure you regret ever stepping foot in this place.”

“What the hell, dude?” Morgan shot back, pushing against his arm. “What’s your problem? I’m here trying to help!”

Damian’s grip tightened, suspicion deepening. “Help? How did you even find us?”

Morgan met his gaze without flinching. “I followed the signal from her comm link. I’m not here to mess with you, Batboy. And I sure as hell don’t have time for this bullshit! She’s seconds away from dying from poisoning!”

The word struck Damian like a physical blow. His shoulders stiffened, then faltered slightly, revealing a flicker of genuine panic. “Poison?”

Morgan rolled her eyes, exasperation lacing her voice. “Yes, genius. That’s what I said. Now, unless you want her to die on your watch, you need to get the hell out of my way and let me work.”

Damian staggered back, momentarily off-balance as Morgan forcefully shoved him aside. Without missing a beat, she moved to your side, setting her bag on the floor and beginning to unpack multiple bottles and syringes.

“Hey,” she said, glancing at you with a frown. “How’s it going so far?”

“Trying not to die,” you croaked.

“Well, try to hold on a bit longer. I haven't even started saving your ass yet.”

Damian and Dick hovered nearby, their eyes following every movement as Morgan set to work.

Her fingers moved quickly as she wiped down your arm with a sterile antiseptic, the scent of alcohol wafting up your nose.

“This is a batch I made following the journal I found,” Morgan explained. She drew a syringe filled with the antidote, the liquid swirling inside. As she gently pierced the needle into your arm, you felt a brief, sharp sting followed by a wave of coldness spreading from the injection site.

Gradually, the haze of disorientation and the crushing weight of nausea began to lift. The world around you came into sharper focus, and a soothing numbness slowly spread through your limbs.

“Stay with me,” Morgan said, tapping your cheek. “Need some painkillers?”

You nodded weakly, struggling to grasp the sudden clarity returning to you. The pain was still present but had dulled.

“Please,” you said, holding out a hand. “I think... I think the toxin’s affecting my healing.”

Morgan reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of fentanyl, dropping it into your hand. Clutching it tightly, you fumbled with the bottle of pills, your hands trembling.

Twisting the cap off, you quickly poured a handful of tablets into your mouth. The sharp, bitter taste assaulted your tongue, making you grimace as it spread across the inside of your cheeks.

Both Dick and Damian reacted with strangled shouts.

“Stop!” Damian snapped. He lunged forward, his hands clamping onto your wrists in a desperate, vice-like grip. The pill bottle slipped from your grasp as Damian hurled it away, sending the remaining pills scattering across the floors. “What the hell are you doing?!”

You tried to speak, but the words were lost in a hacking cough that wracked your body. Dick’s face turned ghostly pale as he scrambled to pull some of the pills from your mouth, his hands shaking as he dropped them to the floor.

“How many did she take?” Dick demanded, his voice trembling as he grabbed the pill bottle and frantically scanned the label. His eyes widened as he read the text, shifting from confusion to horror. “Holy shit! I think I counted ten! That’s way over the safe dose!”

You and Morgan shared a glance, disbelief written all over your faces.

“That’s far from her limit!” Morgan spoke up. “She needs more, not less! The dosage for her is higher.”

Damian’s face flushed an alarming shade of red, his anger boiling over. A rapid stream of Arabic curses burst from him before he switched back to English with a snarl. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing? Just pumping her full of drugs and hoping for the best?!”

Damian swatted the syringe Morgan tried to bring closer, snapping, “Your incompetence makes it a miracle she’s still alive!”

“Don’t lecture me, you oversized Boy Scout! She’s not a regular patient. You don’t get the dosage she needs. She’s not like you—” Morgan cut herself off, and shakes her head with a frustrated groan. “Look! Either you help or you get out of my way!”

Damian’s hands twitched at his sides, his fingers trailing dangerously close to the blade strapped to his utility belt.

Cursing under your breath, you reached out, your hand grasping his wrist.

“Dames, it’s fine,” you whispered, your fingers resting on his pulse point, feeling the rapid thrum beneath your touch. “Let Morgan do her job.”

“Beloved,” he glowered. “I will not allow this—”

“I’m a meta,” you cut him off.

A meta. You’d never said it out loud before—not like this, not even with Selina or Morgan. The word felt alien, a part of yourself you couldn’t quite embrace or accept, even within your own mind. It was as if naming it made it all too real, too undeniable.

The argument that had just moments ago filled the space with heated voices and frantic movement came to a halt.

The apologetic look Morgan sent your way stung, intensifying the ache in your chest. She had known, of course—known what you were and had still stuck by your side.

That meant something, didn’t it? That maybe not everyone would see you as a threat. But Morgan wasn’t Batman. She wasn’t the one who held the city’s safety in his hands, who made decisions that could alter lives in the blink of an eye.

"Fuck." Dick heaved a sigh and began to pace the room, a tense set in his shoulders. Damian’s face twisted into something unreadable as he stared at you.

Meta. The word bounced around in his head.

Raised in a world of absolutes—right and wrong, justice and vengeance, friend and foe—Damian had little experience with gray areas.

Metas had always been... complicated. Potential threats, variables that couldn’t be controlled. And now you, the person he cared for most, were one of them.

'What would Father say?' Damian thought as he edged closer, his movements hesitant, as he extended the pill bottle to you. His fingers trembled over the label as you took it, swallowing the remaining pills.

Batman’s code was clear—protect the city, maintain control, and apprehend threats. If Batman found out—no, when Batman found out—what would Damian do? If Batman decided you were dangerous…

Damian knelt beside you, his breath shaky. Without a word, he tipped his head against your side, his forehead brushing your ribcage.

With the human barrier out of the way, Morgan resumed her work, administering the dose. The sting of the syringe was a distant sensation, barely registering through the fog in your mind.

“So...” Morgan murmured, the words heavy like syrup and lathered with forced lightness as she finished administering the tenth and final dose. “You guys into birds or something?”

You managed a small, tired smile and nudged her shoulder.

Damian lifted his head, meeting Morgan's gaze with a blank, white stare.

“What?" Morgan frowned. “You two show up with bird costumes and expect me not to ask questions? I need to know if this is some sort of family tradition."

The tension in the room began to ease, the atmosphere shifting from the intense panic of moments ago to something almost resembling normalcy—as normal as two vigilantes and one spider person could get.

You took a deep breath and slowly sat up, despite the weariness pulling at your limbs. Damian immediately moved to stop you, but you waved him off with a tired sigh.

“I’m fine,” you insisted. “Fast healing.”

Your eyes scanned the wreckage of the room, taking in the damage. The shattered window was a jagged lattice of sharp edges, with fragments scattered across the floor like deadly confetti.

“Mom’s gonna kill me,” you muttered, the weight of it all finally hitting you.

“Let’s focus on getting you back on your feet first,” Morgan said, shrugging. “The window can wait. Plus, I’m pretty sure we can come up with a good excuse. Maybe blame it on a freak bird accident?”

You glanced at the two men in the room.

“Oh, it’s definitely a bird accident,” you quipped, the double meaning not lost on them.

Morgan rolled her eyes playfully, though her gaze softened with genuine concern. She moved toward a nearby closet, retrieving a broom and dustpan. “I’ll, uh... start cleaning up.”

The room fell into a quiet, contemplative silence. Dick stood there for a long moment, his eyes lost in thought. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with an emotion that was hard to pinpoint, his gaze flicking between you and Damian.

“So...” he began, the word hanging in the air. “What happened?”

Damian seemed to collapse inward, his shoulders curling as guilt bubbled up within him. He grumbled softly, moving to slip off his domino mask. As it came away, vibrant forests met your gaze with smudged black eye paint still clinging to his lids.

Turning away, you sighed and ruffled your tangled hair, finding the motion oddly comforting. The persistent itching in your ankle and ribs was a constant reminder that your healing factor was still at work, not yet finished mending the damage from your earlier crashes.

"A lot," you replied, biting your lip as you addressed Damian. "Why did you...? I... I thought you were coming after me because of, uh, what I’ve been doing at Ivy's, but... I just don’t understand. Why? Why did you—"

Damian's head whips up, his jade eyes blazing. "What? I—You never told me you were a vigilante."

You blink at him, stupefied. "I did! I told you the night of the dinner!"

Damian’s eyes widen in disbelief.

“No, you didn’t. You mentioned—” He stumbles over his words. “You only said you were—” His voice trails off as his expression turns grave. His lips press into a thin line, realization washing over him.

“Oh.” The single word is barely audible.

“You—” he stammers, his mouth opening and closing as if he’s trying to find the right words but failing. “I— I can’t believe this.”

Beet-red, he shakes his head vigorously, trying to dislodge the weight of his own mistake.

“It’s my fault. I misunderstood. I didn’t realize...” As he trails off, his face flushes a deeper shade of red, blotchy patches spreading across his cheeks and forehead. He’s clearly mortified, his eyes cast downward as if he could sink into the floor to escape this.

“What?” you sputter, completely bewildered.

Damian groans, burying his face into his knees. “I thought you were being hunted down...”

You jump in surprise and let out a soft scoff, placing a soothing hand on the back of his head and gently running your fingers through the scrape of his undercut. “Damian, seriously? You thought I was being hunted by my own... what, my secret identity?”

He nods against the kevlar of his suit, voice muffled and strained. “I thought... you were in danger. I didn’t realize— I didn’t make the connection.”

Dick, watching this whole exchange, finally lets out a huff and nods. “We all thought you were in danger. Guess we jumped the gun a bit. We were convinced you were being targeted by some rogue vigilante. Not exactly our finest hour.”

You turn to Dick with a weak, unintelligible croak. “And what, you didn’t think to double-check?”

“I am aware of how ridiculous we look right now.”

You wince as you lift your fingers to your temple, massaging it gently. Peering down at Damian through your lashes, you glare. “Ugh. You know... you threw me against the floor pretty hard...”

“I did not mean to hurt you,” Damian seethes, mouth dry and throat tight with regret. “But please, help me understand. What’s really going on?”

“You didn’t exactly make it easy to talk when you slammed me into the ground,” you mumble, tone edging toward petulant. “Hard to spill your guts when you’re worried about them actually spilling out, you know?”

You know you’re being a bit petty, but after everything, it feels justified. The pain throbbing in your temple only fuels your irritation, so you rub it harder, hoping you can massage away the ache.

Damian’s eyes flash with hurt, and you instantly taste bitterness in your mouth, regret gnawing at your conscience.

“Sorry,” you mumble, trying to soften the blow. “Okay, let’s go over everything, yeah?”

You start to strip off whatever was left of your armor, the pieces clattering to the floor with a dull thud. Rolling up the sleeves of your undershirt, you extend your arms, revealing the small dots on your wrists.

“I got bitten by a radioactive spider,” you begin. “Trained for a while. Months, actually. Been Spidey ever since. Lately, the media’s been calling me Nightcrawler. I’ve been stopping muggings, robberies, saving Morgan—twice, by the way. She saved me after I got shot. Then blackmailed me into letting her be my ‘guy in the chair. Then I infiltrated a shipment tied to Black Mask. Morgan built me this new suit. I got interviewed while lifting a helicopter with one hand, and... yeah, I ended up getting velocity edits on TikTok. Then, we hit up Poison Ivy’s old warehouse tonight, and Damian tried to hunt me down. And... here we are.”

Damian stares at you, his expression unreadable. Dick remains frozen, caught off guard. Morgan shifts awkwardly, reaching into her pocket and slowly pulling out her phone, waving it in the air.

“Do you guys want to see the edits?”

You shoot her a withering look.

“Shut up,” you groan, throwing a piece of your armor at her.

Morgan ducks, her phone clattering to the floor. Pouting, she picks it up with a scoff. “Alright, alright. I get it.”

She shoves the phone back into her pocket with a huff. “No more distractions.”

“So…” Dick crosses his arms. “You’ve been doing this alone? All this time?”

“Not alone,” you clarify, glancing at Morgan. “Morgan’s been helping me. Keeping me sane. And... I’ve had Selina’s guidance.”

“And good thing too,” Morgan adds, her voice taking on a more serious note. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small, sleek device—a handheld scanner designed to detect injuries.

You straighten up, already familiar with the drill. Morgan’s device emits a soft, rhythmic beep as she runs it over your body, her eyes flicking to the screen.

PEPPER’s voice begins to speak, calm and clinical. “Regenerative healing is in progress. The antidote is fully effective, expected to take effect in about 30 minutes. Current injuries: broken ribs, fractured ankle, head gash, deep abrasions, and internal bruising. Estimated healing time: 7 hours. A bath is recommended for disinfection.”

Morgan, visibly relieved by the update, lets out a sigh of relief. She ruffles her hair, shutting off the device with a satisfying click. Her gaze sweeps over the room, trying to gauge the mood.

“Well,” Morgan says, trying to sound upbeat despite the circumstances, “you heard her.”

You shuffle across the room, your movements slow and deliberate. The bloodstains have been cleaned up, and the glass shards are gone, but the broken window still stands open, letting in a draft that makes you shiver. You can't help but think about how you'll explain this mess to Selina later—if she doesn’t kill you first.

"You guys should head out," you murmur, glancing back at them. "Mom will be back soon."

“You guys should head out,” you murmur, glancing back at them. “Mom will be back soon.”

Damian snaps to his feet, his voice firm. “I’m not leaving.”

Morgan huffs, crossing her arms. “Yeah. No way. I’m staying put.”

You blink slowly at the two of them, a mix of affection and resignation in your eyes. “Okay. Kinda expected that.”

Turning to Dick, who’s been standing off to the side, you raise an eyebrow, silently pleading for some backup.

“I’ll… go,” Dick finally says, holding up his hands in surrender. “It makes more sense if both of them are here, but not exactly me.”

You nod appreciatively, a flicker of relief crossing your face.

Dick moves toward a non-broken window but pauses, casting one last glance over his shoulder.

“I won’t tell B.”

“I know,” you murmur, offering him a faint, forced smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“But… he’ll know eventually.”

“… I know.”

Dick’s nod carries the weight of the unspoken, a silent agreement between you. He steps onto the sill, the night air brushing past him, and the curtains flutter gently in his wake. The soft rustling of the fabric is the only sound as he disappears into the darkness.

You take a step towards the window to close it, but Damian strides over, cutting you off as he shuts it for you.

You blink up at him.

“You’re still injured,” he says simply.

Oh boy. You can already feel the arguments bubbling up, ready to spill out—reasons to defend your choices, to insist that you’re fine, that you can handle it. But the fight drains out of you before it begins. You’re too tired, too worn down from everything that’s happened.

“Alright,” you murmur. Your eyes drift to the remnants of your suit, lying crumpled on the floor, torn and battered. “Hey, Morgz. Can you handle… that?”

Morgan follows your gaze to the suit, then nods.

“Sure thing,” she replies, already moving toward it in fix-it mode, likely running through a mental checklist of what she needs to do to patch it up.

Turning back to Damian, you step closer, slipping your hands over his shoulders. His muscles are coiled tight beneath your touch, like springs wound too tightly.

You give his shoulders a gentle squeeze, your fingers pressing into the solid muscle, trying to ease some of the tension, even if just a little.

“As for you… we really need to get changed,” you whisper. “We’re soaking the floors here.”

Damian nods silently, following you into the apartment’s bathroom. The door clicks shut behind you, sealing off the rest of the world.

With gentle hands, Damian reaches for your undershirt, his fingers brushing against your skin as he helps you peel the damp fabric away. The material clings stubbornly, but he works patiently, careful not to rush or cause you any discomfort. Finally, the shirt comes free, and he lets it fall to the floor.

He kneels down, his hands steady as he slips your pants down your legs, his touch light and deliberate, as if he’s handling something fragile. Once the clothes are off, he lets them drop with a soft thud, his eyes flicking back up to meet yours.

Without a word, he turns to the shower, twisting the knob until water rushes out in a steady stream. Warmth seeps into the air, the foggy mirror reflecting the both of you in a hazy outline.

Damian wastes no time unclasping his cape, letting it fall to the floor in a dark, heavy pool. He then quickly strips out of his tunic, the fabric clinging stubbornly to his skin before he pulls it off with a yank.

The tunic lands in a crumpled heap beside the cape, and your gaze is drawn to the red "R" emblazoned on his uniform. Your eyes lift to find Damian’s bare chest revealed—bronze skin etched with hard-earned muscle and a long, faded scar that traces a path across his ribcage.

Tugging his hands up, you began to slip off his gloves, the dark stain of blood transferring to your own skin. The crimson smear seeped down your fingers, dripping onto the bathroom floor and forming dark, splotchy patterns on the tiles.

When the blood was gone from his hands, you didn’t let go. Instead, you held onto his hands, feeling the slight tremor in them.

You stayed like that, holding his hands until the shaking subsided, until the tremors ceased and the strength you knew he had began to return to his grip.

Damian tightens his grip on your hand and pulls you under the shower with him, the warm water cascading over your bodies in a soothing wave. It’s a relief, the heat working its way into your sore muscles, washing away the grime, blood, and sweat from your skin.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Silently, you trace a nail along a scar on his collarbone. The only sound is the steady patter of water against tile.

"I'm going to start patrolling with you."

You feel a muscle twitch in your jaw as Damian says that.

"Damian, you're not patrolling with me."

"Yes, I am."

"Damian, no."

"Damian, yes," he insists. “I'm coming with you. I've seen Gotham, and I've been doing this much longer than you have."

“Rub it in. Okay,” you scoff.

“Beloved, I’m trained for this.”

“I’m perfectly capable of handling this on my own.”

“That’s not the point. You can’t predict every danger.”

He’s not backing down. And you know, deep down, that this isn’t a battle you’re going to win.

With a strangled groan that rumbles up your throat, you lean into his chest, the warm, solid presence of him offering a small comfort.

“Ugh. Fine, but I’m the one who gets to pick out the patrol routes.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

Saturday, 3:02 AM - Crime Alley, Gotham City.

A whip drags across the crumbling floor of the rooftop, its leather coiling and uncoiling with each step, like a serpent following its master. The sharp clicks of heels against the roof echo through the stillness of the night.

A bag, stuffed with Selina’s latest haul, is slung casually over her shoulder, the weight barely slowing her down. The contents shift with each step, the muted clink of stolen treasures singing to her.

She hums a low, sultry tune, the sound barely more than a whisper against the backdrop of the city’s quiet. Her gaze sweeps across the rooftop and lands on her apartment building. Her eyes narrow at the sight of a broken window.

The playful melody dies on her lips, her steps slowing to a halt. Seems a stray found its way in.

With a quick flick of her tongue against her teeth, she leaps down to the fire escape.

The faint creak of metal under her heels is the only sound as she crouches. The sight that greets her sends alarms ringing in her head—the door to her apartment is kicked open, the metal railing bent and dented, signs of a struggle or a forceful entry.

Selina creeps closer, moving silently as she readies herself. But suddenly, she freezes. The sound of voices drifts through the walls, muffled yet unmistakably clear.

"—f we like... cut off your hand, do you think it'll grow back?"

"I dunno. Wanna try cutting my hand off, Morgz?"

"What?! Habibti. No. Absolutely not."

"But think about the science! What if her arm grows back, like, full-on lizard style?"

"Yeah, but what if it grows back all freaky? Like, what if I end up with two thumbs or something?"

"Or better—what if you grow back a tentacle?"

"Oh my God. I could totally kick ass as a walking calamari."

"Are you two out of your damn minds? I forbid it. We're not amputating anything."

"Killjoy."

Selina walks in, her eyes narrowing as she takes in the scene. The three of you are curled up on the sofa, with a ridiculous TV show playing in the background that no one is actually watching.

Her gaze locks on Morgan, and she quickly realizes she needs to keep her presence discreet. With a swift glance around, she silently slips into her bedroom.

Moments later, she reemerges in civilian clothes. She steps back out of the apartment, pretends to head down the hallway, then doubles back and quietly slips inside once more.

Damian is the first to notice her, and he immediately tenses, like a kid caught doing something he shouldn't.

"Do I even want to know what's going on here?" Selina asks, one eyebrow arching as she looks at the three of you.

Damian straightens up, attempting to look composed.

Morgan smiles sheepishly, "Hello, Miss Selina."

You shift uncomfortably, letting out a sigh.

“Hey, Mom.” You nod towards the broken window, and Selina’s gaze follows. “So… um, things got a little out of hand tonight.”

Selina's eyes flick between the broken window and the three of you. "You think?

She tries to shut the door behind her, but it barely clings to the frame, tilting awkwardly on its splintered hinges. The wood creaks in protest, a low groan that echoes through the room as she shoves it into place.

Damian flushes, his shoulders hunching as if trying to make himself smaller, knowing full well he’s the one responsible for the damage. You place a reassuring hand on his thigh, tapping gently, hoping to ease his embarrassment.

The knowing look Selina sends him suggests she’s already pieced together what happened.

She moves toward you, her expression softening as she gently cradles your face in her hands. Her fingers trace lightly over your injuries, each caress a soothing balm that feels like gentle rain easing the parched earth.

“Hey, ma,” you murmur, leaning into her touch, savoring the soothing sensation. You close your eyes for a moment, letting her warmth envelop you, grounding you.

You lean into her touch, feeling the exhaustion of the night seep away as her warmth envelopes you. She meets your gaze with a tender, concerned look, her eyes brimming with both worry and motherly affection.

"What happened to your face?" Selina starts. Her eyes flick from the bruises on your arms to the bandaged cut on your forehead, then to the dark circles under your eyes. "And what the hell did you do to my apartment?"

You wince but try to shrug it off nonchalantly. “Oh, this? Yeah. Yeah, I was… uh, fixing the window.”

“Fixing the window?” she repeats. “Why? You do know we have repairs scheduled monthly?”

“Whaaat?” you gasp, playing up your confusion. “I mean, I’m sure it needed it. Maybe.”

“It wasn’t even broken before I left. Did you break it on purpose just to fix it?”

You blink, looking baffled. “Seemed like a good idea at the time?”

“Um! Mrs. Selina,” Morgan chimes in, her tone awkward. “Actually, you see, we’ve got this event at Stark Industries coming up. We were, uh, testing some new tech, and it didn’t go exactly as planned.”

You jump in, nodding vigorously. Morgan discreetly hands you a small gadget, which you hold up for Selina to see. “Right. I didn’t expect it to work as well as it did. We were hoping for a few tweaks, but it kind of... overperformed.”

Selina eyes the gadget and shakes her head. “Overperformed? Is that what you’re calling it now?”

Morgan hums. "Yep, pretty much. The tech’s still in beta, so it’s got some quirks.”

Selina just nods, clearly unimpressed. "Still. Did you have to experiment in my apartment? I still remember that time you overcharged a set of batteries for a project and nearly blew up the kitchen."

You cringe, rubbing the back of your neck. “That was in fourth grade.”

“Ten-year-olds don’t typically run experiments on household electronics and nearly blow up the kitchen. That’s when I knew something was wrong with you,” Selina says, her gaze drifting to Damian, confusion gradually clouding her features. “And why is he here?”

“I’m helping with the project and the funding,” Damian quips, the lie slipping off his tongue like silk as he glances at you for confirmation. “Isn’t that right, beloved?”

You nod, playing along. “Yeah, that’s right.”

Selina’s eyes narrow as she processes this. “Isn’t Stark Tech rich enough to cover all of this?”

Morgan shrugs casually. “Oh, sure, Stark’s handling the main tech stuff. But Damian’s covering the extra costs—like her decorations and outfits for the semi-formal event.”

Damian steps in, his tone polite but firm. "Precisely why we came to your apartment, Miss Kyle. I was hoping to ask for your permission to take her out tomorrow. We’ll be shopping for her gown. And if you’d like, you could join us."

You blink, caught off guard. "Uh..."

Selina considers Damian’s question for a moment, then shakes her head with a sigh. "No can do. I have a... job arranged tomorrow. And I need to get that—" she points to the broken window with a frown—"looked at."

Ruffling her hair in frustration, she turns back toward her bedroom. "You have my permission, though. Just please—don’t turn my apartment into a lab next time."

"Thanks," you rush out, your voice a bit too eager. "Love you, Mom!"

Selina pauses at the doorway, humming in acknowledgment. She casts one last, assessing glance at the mess, her eyes narrowing slightly, before slipping into her room and muttering about needing to call a repair service again.

As the door swings shut behind her, you let out a quiet sigh of relief, feeling the tension slowly ease from your shoulders.

Morgan turns to you. "That was close."

“Too close,” you agree, then turn to Damian with a scowl. “What the hell? You realize we actually have to go shopping tomorrow, right?”

Damian hums, his gaze settling on you with that infuriatingly charming smolder—dark, intense, and undeniably attractive. “Yes, I do.”

You groan, rolling your eyes. “Are you doing this to try and make up?”

Damian’s expression shifts, a flicker of something dark crossing his face. It boiled his blood to think about this, but he had a habit of torturing himself over mistakes.

“It’s the least I could do,” he murmurs. “I almost…”

He trails off, lost in thought. His gaze turns distant, haunted. “I thought, if I could at least do something—anything—to make up for it, maybe it would help... even a little.”

You reach out, placing a hand gently on his arm.

“Nope. None of that,” you hush him softly. “We’re moving forward. We both are.”

Damian nods slowly, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. You rub his arm soothingly, then turn to Morgan with a raised brow. Morgan shrugs and holds up her hands in a mock surrender.

“The tech event is a real thing,” Morgan says, her tone matter-of-fact. “You didn’t think the internship was just a cover-up for all of this, did you?”

“Seriously? You guys actually have an event planned?” you ask, disbelief creeping into your voice.

“Yep. It’s the real deal and going to be a big deal. The whole fancy gown and decorations? Totally legit. We just had a few... detours so I couldn’t tell you.”

“What?” you groan, frustration mounting. “You didn’t tell me about this. I don’t even have a project ready to show!”

Morgan waves a dismissive hand, her grin widening. "Don’t worry, I’ll help with that. You still got a week and you’re a genius. The event’s about showcasing potential, not just completed projects. We can work something up, no sweat."

You roll your eyes. "Great, so we’re officially winging a multimillion-dollar internship offer that every single press outlet in Gotham is covering. No pressure, right?"

“Right.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

Saturday, 4:13 AM - Stark Tower, Gotham City.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft whoosh, revealing the dimly lit tech area of Stark Tower. You and Morgan step out, with Damian trailing behind, his arm wrapped firmly around your waist.

Despite your protests about your healing ankle, he supported you the entire way here. The pain was mostly gone, but Damian’s insistence on playing nurse seems stronger than your actual injury.

The three of you step out of the elevator and begin walking down the corridor. The air is crisp and slightly cool, carrying the faint scent of metal and polished surfaces.

“Dad wants you to give the opening speech, by the way,” Morgan says, threading her fingers through her hair as she leads you both around a turn in the hallway.

“Seriously? I’m not really a speech person,” you reply, knocking your shoe into hers. “Why don’t you do it instead?”

Morgan flashes a knowing smirk as she turns to walk backwards, facing you. “I’d love to, but Dad’s adamant about it. He’s all about that ‘new face of Stark Tech’ thing.”

A shudder of disgust visibly ripples through Damian.

“A marketing ploy,” he sneers. “Stark’s fully aware the media will devour the drama between our rival companies and turn it into a spectacle. Of course, Wayne Tech never needed such gimmicks to maintain its edge.”

Morgan chuckles, shaking her head. “Nah, I think he just wants to adopt her.”

The three of you turn a corner and enter a grand space where the hallway opens up into a wide, two-story room. Despite the hour, the floor-to-ceiling windows flood the area with a soft, muted glow from the city lights outside.

At the center of the room, Tony lounges casually on one of the plush sofas. Gadgets and tools are strewn about him, and he’s engrossed in tinkering with a small device. He looks up as you approach, adjusting his glasses.

“Hey, kids. Didn’t expect you back so soon.”

“Hey, Mr. Stark. Fancy meeting you here,” you murmur, trying to keep the mood light despite your exhaustion.

“I live here.” Tony wipes his hands on a rag, tossing the gadget onto the coffee table in front of him. Crossing his arms, he leans back against the couch. “Who’s your little boy toy? You cheating on Morgan now?”

Damian’s face flushes with irritation, his jaw tightening. You can’t help but snort and rest your cheek against Damian’s shoulder, your grin widening at his discomfort.

“This is the famous Daryll,” you snark, giving Tony a sidelong glance.

Tony’s gaze bores into Damian, taking in the dark, brooding aura that seems to cling to him like a second skin. The kid looks like he’s stepped straight out of a Twilight movie, with those piercing green eyes smoldering beneath furrowed brows, carrying a weight far beyond his years.

It didn’t help that Damian was also the son of a billionaire. Tony remembers him from his younger years—back then, he was a pipsqueak, a sharp-tongued brat who acted like he owned the world.

Now, he’s taller, lean, and strong, with a coiled tension in his frame. That same intense, self-assured vibe still lingers, but it’s darker now, more honed like he’s seen too much and come out the other side more dangerous for it.

“Nice to meet you, Twilight Reject,” Tony says, pushing himself up and extending his hand to Damian. "Put 'em up."

Damian’s eyes flick to Tony’s hand with a look of absolute revulsion, as if it were some particularly vile insect. He hesitates for a moment, then grudgingly extends his own hand. His grip is firm, almost painfully so, as if he’s trying to crush the perceived insult out of Tony’s hand.

“It’s Damian. Damian Wayne,” he says, drawing out and emphasizing his last name, the irritation barely masked.

"Yeah. I know who you are," Tony scoffs, turning to you with a raised brow. “What’s the deal? Did you lose a bet or something? You're dating someone with all the personality of a damp towel."

“It’s called having standards, something you might not be familiar with,” Damian snaps back, his tone biting.

You sigh, sliding Damian's arm off of you and wincing slightly as you put weight on your uninjured foot. Stepping between the two of them, you raise a hand in a placating gesture. “Alright, alright! Let’s not turn this into a pissing contest.”

“It’s been a rough night, and we all need some rest,” Morgan interjects, her tone weary as she empties her jacket pockets, gadgets clattering onto the table. She tosses her backpack across the room, where it lands with a heavy thud.

Gesturing toward the sleeping quarters, she adds, “Can we save the bickering for later? They’ve got somewhere important to be tomorrow.”

Tony squints. “And where exactly are you two going?”

“Tt…” Damian tilts his head towards the man. “We have a dress appointment scheduled for tomorrow. Naturally, I’m covering all the expenses.”

“A dress appointment, huh?” Tony steps closer, his hand resting on your shoulder. “Well, someone’s got to make sure Sneakers here doesn’t end up in a ditch, so I’m coming along, Daniel.”

“It’s Damian,” he corrects. “And no, that won’t be necessary. We can handle it on our own.”

“Zip it, Dylan. I’m the one organizing this shindig, so I’d like to ensure my top intern doesn’t end up looking like a rag doll.”

Damian’s lip curls slightly. “If you insist on being there, then I’ll have to bring my father along as well. As her top donor, he should oversee it too, don’t you think?”

You blink, caught off guard. That’s a stretch. Bruce Wayne’s never actually thrown cash at your extracurriculars—though he’s tried, insisting on it more than once. Even tried to sneak you and Selina money through some probably illegal wire transfer, but you never took it.

“Oh, please. Anyone can throw money around,” Tony retorts. “He’s not special.”

“Well. If you have a problem with that,” Damian murmurs coldly, “you’re welcome to voice it to him. Tomorrow.”

Tony coughs, barely stifling his laugh. “Oh, I’m sure I can handle some prissy playboy,” he says, clapping his hands together. “Can’t wait to see how that goes.”

Your brow creases in concern.

Oh, you really don’t want to see how that goes.

 ༻⊰───⋅

IM SO SORRY ITS LATE! HAD TO REWRITE A SCENE BC THE DRAFT GOT LOST :(

Next chap out soon </3 It's the weekends so it'll be quicker

Also I'm gonna rework some of the earlier chapters :P (Just tweaking writing a little no plot changes at all)

#damian wayne x reader #damian wayne #batfamily #dc robin #damian wayne al ghul #damian wayne imagine #selina kyle #bruce wayne #batman

559 notes · View notes

marscardigan · 3 months ago

Text

war of hearts — chapter iii. the beginning of a war and the end of a fantasy

series masterlist

summary: royal au. ellie williams had a reputation as one of jackson’s most skilled spies. no matter the cost, she always accomplished her missions, and never dared to fail. everything changes when she is ordered to assassinate the only daughter of the wolves’ king. the lines blur. and the mission that should have been easy and fast, becomes anything but.

word count: 4.3k

It was the scent of smoke what woke Ellie up the next morning.

As she opened her eyes, she found you in the exact same position as the night before, hands still tied to a log. Her green eyes settled on yours, though you weren't looking at her. Your gaze was distant, unfocused, the shadows beneath your eyes even darker than they had been yesterday.

With a weary sigh, she reached for her dagger and pushed herself up. "Did you sleep at all?" she asked, her voice still heavy with exhaustion.

You didn't answer. Didn't even acknowledge her presence. She was just about to press further, but the rising smoke in the distance stole her attention. Thick, ashen plumes, from the castle, no less.

Her brows furrowed. Ellie stiffened as she stared at the dark clouds of smoke curling into the sky, realizing that after the massacre, the Scars must've taken advantage of the ball, too.

She had expected the war to start early, of course. Maybe in a month, after your wedding, but not this early, and not to this extent. Whatever was happening back at the castle, it meant one thing: returning to Jackson now was no longer an option. The roads would be swarmed with soldiers from both sides, all of them searching for blood.

Ellie cursed under her breath. She was good—damn good—but she wasn't invincible. If she took the direct route, you'd both be dead before the next sunrise.

And as if you had read her mind, your gaze was locked onto the smoke in the distance. And yet, you didn't speak. You didn't demand answers. You didn't weep over the sight of your kingdom burning. You just stared.

With a click of her tongue, Ellie kicked dirt over the last embers of the dying fire. "Change of plans," she muttered. You turned to look at her then, finally breaking from your trance. "We're taking the long way. Hope you don't mind walking for a while."

You didn't respond, and Ellie rolled her eyes. "Alright, princess. Have it your way." And with that, she hauled you to your feet and started walking.

The journey was slow and quiet.

Ellie didn't untie your wrists. She didn't trust you—why would she? Despite your silence, she knew better than to think you weren't plotting. So she kept her distance, dagger always within reach, her ears sharp for any signs of deception.

For hours, the only sound was the rustling of leaves and the distant calls of birds overhead. The scent of smoke didn't left either of your nostrils. Eventually, the trees thinned, giving way to the glittering surface of a lake.

Ellie exhaled through her nose. "We will rest here."

You blinked, taking in the scenery. You felt filthy. Your once perfect gown was in tatters, your hair tangled, and your skin was smeared with dirt and dried blood. The thought of water was nearly overwhelming.

Ellie must have caught the look in your eyes because she scoffed. "Yeah, yeah. Don't get any ideas."

With a flick of her knife, she cut the ropes binding your wrists, and air seemed to fill your lungs again. The skin beneath them was raw and red, but you didn’t complain. You merely flexed your fingers, swallowing back the sting.

"Go wash. You smell like hell."

You arched a brow, swallowing before using your voice for the first time today. "And what about you?"

She snorted, but didn't answer.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for the fastenings of your ruined gown. Ellie turned away without a word, and something about that made you pause. She was a kidnapper. A killer. A gambler. She had threatened to slit your throat without a second thought. And yet… she wouldn't even look at you as you undressed yourself.

You studied her back, the way she stood stiffly, arms crossed. Interesting.

The water was shockingly cold against your skin, but you bit back a gasp, forcing yourself to sink deeper. It felt like a baptism, washing away the dirt, the sweat, the blood of the past day.

It would be a lie to not admit how you thought about escaping. But it was a foolish idea. The lake seemed to be deeper that you firstly expected, and you didn't know how to swim. And even if drowning sounded better, you didn't want to die just yet.

Ellie remained by the shore, tossing pebbles into the water as she waited. When you finally emerged, she turned, eyes flickering over you once before landing firmly on your face.

No wandering gaze. No smug remarks.

Just a muttered, "Get dressed. We need to keep moving."

Very interesting, indeed.

The sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting everything in hues of gold and orange trhough the thick clouds. Every step you took meant you were far from your home, which was still burning. Your throat felt dry just to think about what may have happened.

The lake had washed away the dirt, but it hadn't cleansed the weight of everything—your father's ball, the slaughter, the smoke curling from the castle ruins. Your kingdom was at war now, and here you were, stolen away, trailing behind the woman who was going to sell your head for wealth.

And yet, you hadn't tried to run. Not that you could, anyway.

Even without the ropes binding your wrists, even with the dagger Ellie had tucked safely back at her hip, you knew better than to think you could outrun her. So you walked. And walked. And walked.

Until, finally, you heard the distant clatter of hooves against dirt.

Ellie slowed, her hand twitching toward her belt. You followed her gaze, watching as a man on horseback came into view. A commoner.

He was older, with graying hair and sun-worn skin, his clothes threadbare but sturdy. The moment he saw the two of you standing by the road, he pulled his horse to a stop. Part of you prayed he recognized you, and saved you, but a small part inside of you, didn't want him to do it. The reason why was still unknown.

"Travelers?" he asked, glancing between you and her. His gaze lingered on Ellie's sword, then flickered back to her face.

Ellie nodded once. "Need a horse."

The man stroked his chin, gaze shrewd. "And what do you offer in return?"

Ellie reached into her satchel and pulled out a small pouch. It jingled faintly as she tossed it toward him. "Enough coin to make it worth your while."

The man caught the pouch, weighing it in his palm. He hummed, seemingly pleased, but then his gaze slid to you. And his expression changed.

Slowly, he looked you over—the sticky ends of your hair still curling against your shoulders, the bruises beginning to bloom against your skin, the way your dress clung to your figure, still damp from the lake.

A sick smile curled at the edges of his lips. "I’ve got a better idea," he mused, flicking the pouch back at Ellie.

She caught it effortlessly, her brows furrowing. "I don't like playing games, old man."

"It's not a game, girl." He leaned forward slightly, his smirk widening. "You give me her, and the horse is yours."

For a moment, you felt your heart stop. For a moment, the world fell silent.

You turned to Ellie, half-expecting her to consider it. To weight her options. War was not planned, and maybe her mission was not as important now, when she could go back home, safe and sound. You were the reason she had to take the long way. The reason she had to change her plan, and now she was stuck in warfare territory. You were nothing to her. And yet. Ellie moved faster than you could think.

One second, the man was on his horse, smug grin intact. The next, Ellie had closed the distance between them, her blade slicing through the air in one swift, precise motion. A gurgling noise filled the silence as the man's body slumped forward, toppling off the saddle before he even realized what had happened. Blood splattered against the dirt, soaking into the earth beneath him.

Ellie wiped her blade against her sleeve, exhaling sharply as she turned back to the horses. "Fucking creep."

You weren't sure what you had expected her to do. Maybe hesitate. Maybe consider it. But not this. Not a single moment of thought. Not even a flicker of indecision. Just clean, effortless death. She was a killer, anyway. So why were you so surprised?

Ellie climbed onto the horse, reaching down to grab the reins of the horse. She glanced at you, brow raised. "Come on."

You blinked. Then, slowly, you moved forward, taking her outstretched hand as she pulled you up onto the saddle in front of her. Her arms caged you in with ease as she took the reins, and you could feel the warmth of her body behind of you.

As the horse started forward, you risked one last glance at the man lying in the dirt, the blood pooling around his head. Then you looked back at Ellie. "You did not even think about it," you murmured, almost to yourself.

Ellie didn't look at you. She just clicked her tongue, guiding the horse forward. "Didn't need to."

The moon had already risen from the darkness when Ellie decided to stop for the night. You had been riding for what felt like hours, your body aching from the unfamiliar position, from the tension in your muscles, from the way Ellie's warmth pressed against your cold body.

The two of you dismounted near a thick patch of trees, the ground softer here, untouched by the roads or the footsteps of passing travelers. Ellie wasted no time tying the horse to a sturdy branch, her movements efficient and practiced.

You stretched your sore legs, wincing slightly as your feet pressed against the uneven earth. Your hands were still bound, though loosely now, giving you just enough freedom to move without complaint.

Ellie, on the other hand, seemed entirely unaffected by the long ride. If she was tired, she didn't show it.

She dropped onto a fallen log, her legs spread slightly, elbows resting on her knees as she stared into the flickering flames of the small fire she had built. Her dagger laid within arm's reach, glinting in the firelight.

You took a slow breath, glancing at her from the corner of your eye before lowering yourself onto a smooth patch of earth.

And then, carefully, you reached for some berries that were planted nearby. A deep purple color, almost black. You traced your fingers along the soft skin of the fruit, plucking one carefully between your fingertips.

Ellie must have sensed the movement, because she flicked her gaze toward you. "What is that?" she asked, voice gruff from disuse.

You held up the berry, letting the firelight illuminate its rich color. "Berries," you said simply.

Ellie frowned. "I can see that."

"They are good with pain." You offered her a small, knowing smile. "Headaches, mostly."

Ellie didn't move, didn't speak, just watched you with those sharp green eyes, her head tilting slightly as if she were waiting for something. "How do I not know you are not trying to kill me?"

You hummed, lifting the berry to your lips. You let it rest against your tongue, feeling the soft skin press against your teeth. You held it there for a beat, two, before tilting your head back slightly and pretending to swallow.

Ellie's gaze flickered to your throat. She must have been satisfied with what she saw, because she reached forward, plucking a berry from your palm without hesitation.

You almost smiled.

She turned the fruit between her fingers once before tossing it into her mouth, chewing absently.

"You are right," she muttered, swallowing it down. "Sweet."

You relaxed, just slightly. A pause. "Where did you learn that?"

She was still watching you, firelight dancing in her pupils, her expression unreadable.

"My mother," you answered carefully. Ellie arched a brow, clearly not expecting that answer. You hesitated, then continued, your voice softer now. "Before she became queen, she worked in an apothecary. She knew every herb, every root, every leaf that could cure or kill. She used to teach me." Your fingers absentmindedly brushed against the ripped fabric of your dress. "She was very good at it, too."

You didn't know why you were telling her this. Maybe because it had been so long since you'd spoken of your mother to anyone. Maybe because, despite her sharp edges and ruthless demeanor, Ellie was still listening. Not out of kindness, surely. But listening nonetheless.

Ellie let out a low whistle. "A queen with dirt under her nails. That's a new one."

The words stung more than they should have. You forced yourself to hold still, to keep your expression as neutral as before, even as something in your chest twisted, sharp and unwelcome.

Ellie smirked, as if she could feel the shift in the air between you. "So what? Did she teach you how to stitch up wounds between tea parties?"

You turned your gaze back to the fire, feeling insulted all of a sudden. Your mother was a subject you had long since learned to guard. To mention her was to risk reopening wounds that had never fully healed.

So, instead of biting back, instead of showing her that she had landed a blow, you inhaled slowly, forcing the ache in your ribs to settle. "Something like that," you finally murmured.

Ellie chuckled under her breath, clearly amused by your lack of reaction. She didn't know that the only reason you weren't snapping at her was because your mother had also taught you patience.

And patience, if played well, could be more deadly than any blade.

The next days were a blur.

The forest had begun to thin, giving way to dirt paths and worn-out roads that suggested a nearby settlement. It was the first sign of civilization they had come across in days, and Ellie took it as an opportunity.

She spotted the merchant's cart before you did—a rickety wooden thing parked just off the path, its owner squatting beside a tree, relieving himself.

Ellie's fingers twitched toward her dagger. "Stay here," she muttered before stepping silently toward the cart.

You huffed, arms still bound, watching as she moved through the trees like a shadow. Ellie was quick. Within minutes, she returned with a bundle of clothes thrown over her shoulder, her expression unreadable as she dropped them at your feet. "Change."

You frowned, glancing at the garments. They were coarse and faded—nothing like the silk and embroidery you were used to. As you knelt down, You pinched the fabric between your fingers, barely concealing your disgust.

Ellie raised an eyebrow. "You think the world cares what you wear? You walk into a village looking like royalty, and you're dead in seconds."

You scowled at her, refusing to admit that she was right.

The woman sighed heavily, then pulled out her dagger, flipping it effortlessly in her fingers before she sliced the ropes around your wrists. The relief was immediate, but you masked it well, rubbing at the raw skin where the rope had bitten into you.

"Do not do anything stupid," Ellie warned, stepping back but keeping the weapon at her side. With a glare, you turned your back to her and began to change.

The dress you had worn to the ball was nearly unrecognizable—torn, dirtied, a ghost of its former luxury. As you peeled it away, the cold air bit at your skin. The stolen clothes were rough against your body, stiff and ill-fitting. The boots Ellie had tossed toward you were heavy compared to your usual delicate heels.

You nearly stumbled when you tried to walk. Ellie stifled a laugh. "You look like a lost little lamb."

You shot her a murderous glare. "This is ridiculous."

"This is survival," Ellie corrected, stepping closer.

Her words struck something in you, something uncomfortable. You weren't used to being spoken to like this, but then again, you were't used to… any of this.

Ellie shoved your old dress into her satchel. "Might be able to trade this later," she muttered. "Not every day you come across fine silk."

Your stomach twisted as you watched her shove it away, as if she were tucking away the last piece of the person you had been. With a sharp breath, you straightened your spine and walked ahead without another word.

You had walked for miles before the stench hit you.

At first, you thought it was the lingering smell of old, rotted crops—something left too long in the sun. But as the trees thinned and the village came into view, the scent thickened, acrid and undeniable.

Smoke. Burnt flesh. A village that was in ruins.

What had once been a modest settlement—a few cottages, a well, a market square—had been reduced to carbonized remains. Your steps faltered. Ellie, however, moved forward without hesitation, stepping over a fallen wooden beam as if she had seen this a thousand times before.

"Bandits?" you murmured, voice hollow.

Ellie crouched beside a body—a woman, her eyes open but unseeing. A knife was still clutched in her fingers, though it had done little to save her. Ellie pried the weapon free and examined it with practiced ease before slipping it into her belt.

"Could be," she muttered. “Or could be Scars. Or maybe your father decided this place wasn't worth keeping."

You flinched. Your father. Your people.

You took another step forward, gaze sweeping over the remains of the village. You had visited settlements like these before, had walked through their streets on your father's behalf. The people had always bowed, always smiled. They had lined up with their baskets of offerings, had sung praises of your family's generosity.

But looking at the shattered homes, the sunken faces, the way the dirt roads had been more bone than stone… Had they ever truly been grateful? Or had they been starving beneath their smiles? Your hands clenched at your sides.

"He would not…" you whispered, but even you didn't believe your words.

Ellie snorted, amused at your sudden confusion. "He would not?" She gestured at the wreckage around you. "Your old man sits on a throne while people like this rot."

You swallowed hard, your throat dry. Had your father known? Had he known the villages under his rule were suffering like this?

You staggered toward the remnants of the market, past overturned stalls, past coins scattered in the dirt. The people who had once owned them were gone—either burned or buried beneath the rubble.

Your stomach twisted.

"I—" Your voice cracked. "I didn't know."

Ellie tilted her head, watching you with something unreadable in her expression. "You didn't care to know," she stated simply. "But it doesn't matter now, does it? They are all long gone."

Your nails dug into your palms, your breath shaky.

"Go ahead," Ellie continued, tone unreadable. "Blame the bandits. Blame fate. But don't sit there pretending your father truly cares about these people. If he did, this wouldn't have happened.”

You turned sharply toward her. "And you do?"

Ellie's smirk was cold. "No. But at least I don't lie about it." The bluntness of her answer stunned you into silence. But she wasn't wrong.

No one had come to help these people. No one had ridden in from the palace to protect them. They had been left to die.

Ellie watched you closely, her sharp green eyes studying the way you unraveled in real-time. "Come on," she muttered after a moment. "There's nothing left here."

But you lingered, feet frozen in place. Your mind wondered if your father would truly miss you. Or if you were just another piece on his board.

Ellie walked ahead without waiting for you, stepping over the ruins like she had never known anything else. And for the first time since she had stolen you away, you weren't sure if you wanted to go back.

The stolen horse carried you through the dense, winding woods, its hooves sinking into the damp earth with each step. You clung to Ellie's waist, your fingers gripping the fabric of her tunic despite your initial reluctance.

Ellie was quiet. She had been since the village. She hadn't acknowledged your stunned silence, nor had she teased you for your uncharacteristic lack of defiance. Instead, she remained focused, her sharp eyes scanning the road ahead, muscles tense beneath your touch.

She was uneasy. You weren't sure why, but you could feel it. Then, you saw it. A fence. And beyond it, the outline of a massive estate loomed in the distance, hidden behind the wild overgrowth that had begun reclaiming the land.

The sky darkened as the storm clouds thickened above, casting a deep gray haze. You glanced up, watching the branches sway, and frowned.

"Looks like a storm's coming," you muttered, not expecting a response.

Ellie hummed in acknowledgment, but that was it. You rolled your eyes, shifting slightly in the saddle. "Are you always this talkative, or is it just with me?"

Ellie exhaled through her nose, her grip tightening briefly on the reins. "Just with you."

The silence stretched between you again, thick with unspoken tension.

Minutes passed until a rusted sign came into view, its paint chipped and faded from years of neglect. The letters were barely legible, but you could just make out the name carved into the metal. St. Michael's Manor.

You furrowed your brow. "Where are we?"

Ellie shifted slightly, her body tensing beneath your hands. Still, she didn't answer your question. She just pulled on the reins, slowing the horse to a halt. You blinked, momentarily thrown off balance as the movement jolted you forward.

"Why are we stopping?" you asked, glancing around.

Ellie ignored you, instead sliding off the horse in one fluid motion. Her boots landed against the soft earth with a muted thud. She adjusted the strap of her satchel, then reached for you, offering a hand.

You hesitated. Then, begrudgingly, you took it.

The moment your feet hit the ground, your legs nearly buckled. You had been riding for hours, the soreness in your muscles now making itself painfully known. Ellie snorted, but didn't comment.

Instead, she turned her focus to the woods ahead, scanning the area with a careful, calculating gaze.

You frowned. "What are you looking for?"

Ellie's lips pressed into a thin line. This time, it seemed like she may answer your question.

"Traps."

You stiffened. "Traps?"

Ellie gave you a glance. "Yeah. Bill doesn't like uninvited guests."

Your stomach dropped, and the air suddenly felt heavier. Ellie took a step forward, her movements cautious, deliberate. You followed hesitantly, your eyes darting around.

The path ahead was overgrown, vines twisting around fallen branches, patches of damp moss covering the uneven ground. It looked normal.

Safe, even. Then—

SNAP.

A metallic twang rang through the air. The horse reared violently, nearly throwing you off as you let out a startled gasp. Ellie grunted, tightening her grip on the reins before releasing them altogether, letting the panicked animal bolt into the woods.

Your pulse thundered. "What was that?"

Ellie exhaled through her nose. "A wire trap."

She stepped forward, even more careful this time, her eyes scanning the ground. You followed, slower, your nerves coiling tighter with each step.

Minutes passed. And when your heartbeat seemed to be back to normal— Click.

And Ellie moved faster than you could process.

One hand gripped your arm, yanking you backward, while the other shot down toward the ground. A thin wire, nearly invisible in the dim light, stretched across the path, pulled taut, waiting to be triggered. Ellie's fingers curled around the mechanism, deactivating it with a practiced flick of her wrist.

Ellie let out a slow breath, then turned to you, her grip still firm on your arm. "You've got a real bad habit of stepping in the wrong places, ma'am," she murmured.

You scowled. "And you've got a real bad habit of dragging me into them."

She huffed out something that almost resembled a chuckle. And without another word, she let go.

You kept close as she guided you through the last stretch of the path, carefully sidestepping more hidden dangers, rusted bear traps buried beneath the leaves, spike pits camouflaged with loose foliage, tension wires strung between trees.

This wasn't just a home. It was a fortress.

You nearly walked straight into a wire at one point, only for Ellie to grab your sleeve and yank you backward again.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?" she muttered.

"I didn't see it," you snapped back.

"Exactly."

You shot her a glare but said nothing, focusing instead on placing your steps where she placed hers.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity of careful steps, you reached the gate. It was massive; iron bars, rusted but sturdy, twisted with ivy. Beyond it, the manor loomed in the distance, its windows dark, the stone exterior covered in creeping vines. Ellie stepped forward and pounded her fist against the heavy wooden door.

The sound echoed through the silent estate. You shifted uneasily. And a moment later, the door creaked open just a sliver, revealing a sharp sword aimed directly at Ellie's head.

You inhaled sharply. Ellie, however, didn't even flinch.

The man behind the weapon stepped forward, his broad frame blocking most of the entrance. His graying beard was unkempt, his face lined with exhaustion. His sharp eyes darted between you and Ellie, narrowing slightly.

"The hell you doin' here, kid?"

Ellie exhaled, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Relax, Bill."

However, he didn't lower the sword. "Who the hell is this?"

Ellie sighed. "Long story."

Bill's lips pressed into a thin line. He exhaled sharply, then finally lowered the weapon.

"Figures," he muttered. Then, after a beat, he stepped aside and pushed the door open fully. Ellie cast one last glance your way before stepping inside.

You hesitated. Then, with a quiet breath, you followed. The heavy doors slammed shut behind you. And just like that, there was no turning back.

taglist !

@elliesgffrfr @samcvrpenters @strawb4kdior @tphmnv @prwttiestbunny @liztreez @littlefallenangel111 @eriiwaiii2 @abbyswh0r3

165 notes · View notes