#tw bone fracture

[surplus-of-sarcasm]

Numéro 23

Part 2

Guess what, ya girl finished a snippet on the plane!!

Words: 1.28 k

TW: Violence, bone fracture, slightly depressed and pretty anxious hero, questionable agency, bone fracture, guns, attempted murders, restraint mentioned

The file was dropped onto their desk curtly, no words spoken, like every other assignment Hero got. Their newest target didn't have a name, no alias of some sort, and the picture of them had shown them fully masked in a sleek, black suit, no inch of skin showing; a faceless caricature. However, their kill count, in three digits, was important enough that any other details seemed inconsequential next to it.

Besides, Hero had been taught to treat their targets more like tasks than people. 

So the crime-fighter trained till they were left dead on their feet, till their knuckles were all ripped skin and covered in bloodstains, till their exhausted muscles felt like they were on fire. 

“Hero! Don’t you think you’re going a little overkill, boss?” Sidekick asked, folding their arms across their chest and leaning against the doorframe.

The young hero was the closest thing to a light in the agency’s pitch black darkness; the soul that gave life to a lifeless place, like a flame lighting the slowly dwindling, half-melted candle that was the older crime-fighter’s life. 

“I. . .can’t, Sidekick,” the hero replied breathlessly, hauling their form up for yet another pull-up, having done so many that they’d lost count. “This new target is unlike all the others before the-”

“Yeah yeah, but when are you not being paranoid about one of your enemies?” the teenager replied, cutting them off. 

“Their kill count is in three digits,” the crime-stopper retorted almost impatiently.

“Bloody hell,” Sidekick interjected, eyes going wide.

“Watch your language,” Hero chided, but a sly smirk danced across their face. 

“Okay, I wasn’t expecting that, but what good will it do if you show up to fight this bloody - sorry - serial killer exhausted? Weren’t you the one who kept lecturing me on the importance of rest for maximum work efficiency?”

The hero may have been stubborn, but they realised their protegé was right. They couldn't risk showing up to fight someone like their mystery killer while tired, so they decided to make their way home.

Normally, a hot bath would easily clear their head. Sure, they could still feel the tension blissfully seep from their form, the warmth relaxing overworked muscles, but their mind remained a raging firestorm of anxiety. It frustrated them how they couldn't even enjoy something this simple, the one moment where they no longer had to think or be whatever the hell they needed to be at the moment. "At least I smell nice," they scoffed, wishing to get this over with much faster. 

They let out a heavy sigh, leaving the tub and slipping into a bathrobe, trudging to the desk in their room to use the old, but still functional laptop. Ironically, being a hero barely payed for rent. 

For someone so high and mighty, their little terrorist wasn't completely difficult to find. Or maybe the hero was really a 'natural with the keyboard', since it had taken them a bit of hacking to find their target. Who's to say? 

Changing into their suit, Hero stared at their reflection with such intensity, that it would look to most people like an attempt to shatter it to a thousand shards by just looking at it. In reality, their own harsh gaze bore into the dark corners of their mind, wondering for the umpteenth time if they were enough. It didn't matter because they'd still have to do this anyway, whatever the cost.

"Target spotted," they whispered into their comm, standing on their knees for long enough that their muscles ached, waiting for their enemy deigned to show up. 

"I will engage now." 

The killer's movements resembled that of a panther, and the crime-fighter would have been lying if they'd denied finding it graceful. They were fast and agile, almost impossible to keep up with, not even giving them the chance to reach for the gun in their waistband. But the hero was no slouch either. They aimed a harsh kick to their enemy's shins, their body slamming into the asphalt with an audible thud. Still, the figure in black remained undeterred, kicking the crime-stopper on top of them in the ribs, sending them toppling down across the street, making their head throb and effectively destroying their flimsy communicator.

The hero swore, muttering something ironically much more profane than what they'd chastise their sidekick for, but they rolled away, out of the bastard's reach, quickly getting back on their feet. Their assailant was quick on their feet, chasing after them, but Hero was faster. They'd managed to slip behind an old building, trying to quiet their laboured breathing. They slowly reached for the gun in their waistband, removing the old magazine and replacing it with a new, loaded one.

They waited painstakingly for their target to reach the perfect spot.

Bang. They fired, aiming for the kill, three perfect shots. 

Except the bastard was wearing bullet-proof armour, the bullets ricocheting off of them uselessly. They were certain that underneath their dark cowl, the criminal must have had an infuriatingly smug smirk on their face, but right then, they recieved an entirely self-satisfied tilt of the head to the side. 

Their only option was to destroy a piece of the armour and shoot them there. 

The fight between them continued being a draw, one striking, their opponent blocking, and neither causing any real damage. Until the killer had managed to back Hero into a corner, kicking them to the ground and twisting their leg into a horrid angle, the crime-fighter crying out in pain as a grotesque crack rang in their ears. Tears sprang in their eyes and with whatever little movement they could manage, they furiously ripped their nemesis's mask off.

It wasn't the face of a stranger, like they'd expected, nor was it the face of someone entirely close to them, not that there were many people, aside from their sidekick, who obviously wasn't the ruthless murderer before, instead, it was their quiet lab partner from college, Villain, the one that sat next to them every day, brought them coffee and the occasional dessert, and doodled silly cartoons in their notebook to keep them both sane during boring classes, the closest thing they had to a friend that had nothing to do with the agency.

Their mouth was left agape, their eyes wide, their whole world spinning, but Villain didn’t even blink. They fired, straight into the hero's chest, utterly remorseless, no readable expression on their stone hard face.

Hero woke up. Woke up? What the hell? But Villain had killed them, yet here they were, lying on a soft mattress underneath a wonderfully thick comforter, with their leg in a cast, bandages crisscrossed across their chest. The only thing ruining the strangely mellow coziness they felt (possibly painkilling drugs) was the fact that they were handcuffed to the nighstand. 

The bullet had missed their heart. But surely an expert marksman like Villain wouldn't miss, right? This, for some strange reason, was intentional. 

We like to believe that our expectations have a foundation in truth, that they are of considerable value, that they can have even the slightest effect on any future outcomes. Yet, that is a fool's dream, a fruitless effort to calm a racing mind in fear of the unknown. Just when you are at the peak of your certainty, when you fully believe your fate is sealed, a spontaneous twist, the slightest change sets you on a path you were never aware existed. Our choices, our words, our actions have meaning, yet they only hold the power of a few tidal waves in the vast unpredictable ocean that is our future because destiny is a weapon one can only hope to master.

✨️Le Taglist: @larinzz @syberianjade @lateuplight @altu-interactions @enbious-prince @astr0-mj @thelazywitchphotographer @usernotfound000 @addictedsandwhichaki @justalittlecorrupted @quaggasus @theangstyclown @vernilliom @mothmancommitsarson @starssabove @kurai-hono-blog @talkingsperm @muffinrebel44 @sunnynwanda @annablogsposts @cardboardarsonist @itsmyworld23 @onlywhump @shr3ya @crotchgoblin69 @wtfevenisausername

Wanna be on the taglist? This'll take you there!

[snowmenatwork]

my personal hypothesis is more like:

running to the hospital after breaking a bone fueled by adrenaline not even feeling it and then collapsing once you get there

it's a safe space to be attended to, your brain can let someone help now

where i’m at girls

[mango-pup]

Went to the fracture clinic today, hoping I was going to get rid of the sling. That's not what happened. I get to keep the sling for another 4 weeks 😭.

I'm struggling with this idea. Like, is it the worst thing to happen ever? No. I will recover and it will be fine. But also, I wanna be doing stuff again. Even little baby stuff.

[quentinxjames]

Wind was rushing against his face, the one blow followed by another. His ears were ringing, his entire body shaking. It took him a while until he realised the ringing sound was due to his son screaming, having noticed his father's injury before he himself had. He made the mistake of moving his leg, a sharp pain shooting from his shin all the way to his waist. Oh, that wasn't good. He rolled himself over, the weight of the gas station sign that had fallen on top of him being lifted off of him. "Get him inside. Go." He told his sister, whom he saw hovering nearby. He let out a groan, his mind preparing himself to sit up and see what he was dealing with, but he physically couldn't move. He opened his eyes, black splotches painted all around him, that he knew was because of the pan that was now throbbing through his entire body. "Is it bad?" He asked the man that had come to help, not yet prepared to see the state of his leg, which was gruesome. His bone having snapped in half, penetrating his skin underneath his pants, which only showed large and vibrant stains of red. @hunterxrenner

[ji-lixie]

ive never hated a doctor quicker than i have now.

[m1dn1ght-r0t]

Eyes Wrapped in Wool

Yandere! (ex) husband x amnesiac! fem reader

TW: manipulation, toxic/abusive behavior, mentions of (potential) forced imprisonment, coercion A/N: pretty sure amnesia doesn't work this way (i'm no medical professional) but pls suspend disbelief for the sake of the plot ahahah

Your husband never expected things to turn out this way. But by some stroke of luck—or perhaps divine intervention—you ended up bed-ridden in the ICU, suffering from multiple bone fractures and a terrible, oh-so-terrible, traumatic brain injury. Just last week you were talking his ear off about how you've had enough. How you were done with him controlling what you could wear or who you could see, his suffocating clinginess that devolved into explosive rages when you spent time focusing on work or with friends instead of with him, the negging, the snooping, the smashed plates... Jesus Christ. You just never knew when to shut the fuck up, did you? At some point he had stopped listening. Chalked off your dramatic tirade as nothing more than you acting up because of your period—merely white noise. How many times have you guys had this same broken record conversation? Yeah, he knew this marriage wasn't smooth-sailing. If it were, you'd be less opinionated, less bitchy, more pliant, more dutiful. But what relationship was ever perfect? So, he waited for you to run out of steam, as you inevitably do, before adding salt to the wound:

“You know baby, if you weren’t parading around in those slutty clothes of yours and acted your grown age for once, I wouldn’t be behaving that way.”

The scrunch of disbelief mixed with disgust on your face only spurred him to double down. “And maybe if you actually committed to this marriage like a devoted wife would, rather than prioritize your career and practically everyone over me—your husband, need I remind you—then we wouldn’t be having these issues. Ever considered that, hm?” He purposely dragged out his words, a patronizing lilt to his tone, in hopes of reminding that thick, dumb skull of yours that he always knew best.

It wasn't until you had thrusted the divorce papers in his face that he grew silent, the severity of the situation beginning to creep in. ...What? You couldn't actually be serious... right? This was just some lover's spat. A temporary blip that'd be smoothed over with a few intentionally placed saccharine words and hot make-up sex. Like always. So why the fucking theatrics? Are you really gonna be a bitch about this and d— When you slammed the front door shut with your packed bags in tow, leaving him to stew in your parting words—that you deserved better, so much better than him, and that if he didn't sign the papers, he'd be hearing from your lawyer—did the gravity of it all finally sink in. By the end of the week, your voicemail was battered by his countless furious messages. Are you done being a flighty little piece of shit, huh? What the fuck do you think you're doing? I swear to god, baby, I'm gonna drag your ass back here. And if I have to lock you in some basement and chain your hands and legs so you'd never think to leave me again, then so fucking be it. Divorce? Yeah right. Over my dead fucking body. Then came an unknown call. It was like whiplash, really, to first hear that you had been involved in a major car crash, and then, upon rushing to the hospital at neck-breaking speed— "I'm afraid she has retrograde amnesia", the doctor solemnly informed him. He could cry. Oh, he could fucking cry.

On the outside, anyone could see how distraught he was, his hands trembling as he processed the diagnosis, eyes glistening with unshed tears. Poor husband that he was, having almost lost his beloved wife in a freak accident, he now had to deal with the news that she didn't remember who he was. Inside, however, raged a war he couldn't reconcile: what was harder? Holding back the tears, or pretending those very tears were out of sadness rather than pure, unbridled joy? Because what this neatly packaged situation had presented him with was a do-over, a chance to mend the broken marriage teetering on the cusp of divorce. And like hell he's about to let you throw away a three-year connection like some ungrateful cunt when he loves you so, very much.

~

"Hey sweetheart, how are you feeling?"

As he walks up beside your hospital bed, he can't help but revel at how vulnerable you look. The slight furrow in your brows hinting at your confusion, the way you curl in on yourself as if to protect yourself from who is no doubt a complete stranger in your eyes, and your meek "Who are you?"—a far cry from the usual feisty, snarky attitude you used to dish out.

But perhaps most rewarding of all is the tentative gaze you offer him, eyes filled with a sort of curious glimmer, free from the hostility, disappointment, and hurt you'd flashed his way. You didn't look at him with hate. You simply want to know who he is.

Oh, aren't you precious? He'll gladly feed you his carefully spun narrative until you're full of nothing but adoring love for him—the embers of your thoughts about divorce and leaving him snuffed out for good.

"I know how confusing all of this must be for you. Take all the time you need. I'll be right here with you, as your husband, helping you fill the gaps, okay baby?" He delivers this with as much patience as he can muster, softening the edges of his words to avoid spooking you. But you're not soothed. If anything, you're more overwhelmed than ever. "M-my husband?" You echo, tasting the foreign word, sticky like warm toffee on your tongue.

"And...and my family? Where are they?" Your disorientation is a sight for sore eyes; how badly he wants to devour you right now. “Dead,” he intones, a script he’d been desperate to act out ever since you said your vows. The jarring news pulls a barely audible whimper from you, your eyes widening a fraction.

Shit. Too cold. Too careless.

His expression softens, the corners of his mouth tugging downward in a facsimile of sorrow as he injects a note of pity into his voice. “They died when you were very young, you see. I’m sorry.” He’s really not.

"What…? How could that be? So my p-parents, they're both—" Your breath hitches, tears welling at the corner of your eyes.

At that, he gently grabs your bandaged arm, wanting to comfort you. But when you flinch slightly, he has to resist the urge to snap at you—Oh, cry me a river. Who the fuck cares?? I'm right here, aren't I? I'm right here, damnnit, so look at me!

Instead, he tempers the resentment that's still fresh in his heart after the divorce stunt you'd pulled by reminding himself that he's supposed to be your kind and gentle partner.

So he settles for cradling your hand in both of his like it's fine china, grazing his lips over your fingertips. "But you have me, sweetheart. And I'm not going anywhere."

He half expects you to question his story—it wasn’t very convincing, even to his own ears—prepared to be barraged by your endless streams of “No, you’re wrong!”, “I don’t believe you!” or some other similar outburst.

But when all you do is gaze up at him with cinched brows, seeking reassurance, blinking at him so sweetly with your hand still snugly warmed in his, he pauses. That’s it? No suspicion, no skepticism, no outburst? Hah! He has to physically restrain himself from snorting because how fucking easy can this get?

Maybe the collision had completely scrambled your brains, rewired you to be more stupid, a little slower—exactly how he likes you.

"You trust me, right?"

And when he feels that subtle twitch of your fingers—what he gathers is your attempt at squeezing his hand back for confirmation—accompanied by the sight of your small, almost shy nod, he breaks out into a giddy smile at how utterly adorable you’re being.

Fuck, it’s hard not to already feel high off these micro-doses of innocence and receptiveness from you. Emboldened by your intoxicatingly sweet naivety, he dares to be a little greedier, creeping to perch on the edge of your bed, his hand now moving to cup your cheek.

“You have no idea how worried sick I was when I got the call. I thought you had…” He trails off, his implication clear. His face is mere inches from yours now, breaths as featherlight as his fingertips mapping every divot on your face.

“I love you.” He drags his thumb across your bottom lip, the act agonizingly slow. “So, so, so much.” Each whisper spills out heavier than the last, mirroring the increasing pressure of his thumb—your lip almost bruising from how hard he’s pinching them.

How long has it been? He can’t remember the last time he felt the warmth of your touch, your skin… eons too long without your pillowy lips pressed against his has left him completely starved.

“You can’t leave me…” A murmur too quiet to pick up. His gaze, now half-lidded, drifts downward in a drunken daze. “My wife. My good little wife. You love me too, right?”

Without warning, he leans in to close the minuscule gap.

And it’s all too fast and soon because you can feel the suffocating heat of his proximity, the chilling shared breath floating between the tight space. It’s all too much. So, in the last second, you hesitate, pulled from your stupor as you turn your head away.

But he’s not having it. Not when you’re already in the palm of his hand and he’s so fucking close. When he can already taste the opportunity to finally take out the trash and parasites leeching off you, to call up that godforsaken shithole you call a stable, steady-paying job and quit on your behalf, to have you all to himself—a blank slate to knock up with several kids and mold into the perfect little housewife he's always wanted you to be. God, he's already hard at the thought.

Grabbing your jaw firmly, he jerks your face back towards him, thumb roughly wedging between your lips and prying your mouth open.

“Baby.” The endearment spills out, sharp and cold, stripped of any warmth it might've once held.

His gentle veneer cracks ever so slightly, and for the briefest moment, you see something else. A flicker beneath the mask—raw, ugly, messy. It gnaws at the edges of your mind, dredging up something you can’t quite grasp. A memory?

“Gimme a small kiss, hmm?” Despite the smile on his face, there is no kindness to it. Just a twisted caricature warning you that you shouldn’t push further.

All of a sudden you feel like you can’t breathe, weighed down by the unsettling intensity of his stare. The man in front of you—the one claiming he's your husband and calling you “baby,” the one touching you—feels wrong. He’s a stranger, you remind yourself. An almost involuntary shiver runs down your spine, like your body remembers something your mind refuses to.

At this point, your husband has caught on to your rather obvious spiralling. He’s not an idiot—he can see your doubt giving way to panic. He contemplates smoothing things over by playing nice, but the selfish part of him ultimately wins.

He squeezes your jaw, nails biting into your skin.

“Kiss me.”

It isn’t a request this time.

[mahalachives]

Part 6: The Cost of Rejection

TW: This chapter contains scenes of intense emotional distress, self-inflicted harm, bond-related psychological torment, violence, graphic depictions of injury, and themes of mental instability and feral behavior tied to a magical mating bond. It also includes a choking/strangulation scene.

As always, please read with care. Your well-being always comes first. 💛

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

The mating bond had turned Night Court's most controlled warrior into something ancient and feral.

A predator unleashed in a world that had forgotten what true darkness could do.

The Autumn Court palace gleamed copper and crimson in the late afternoon light as Rhysand, Feyre, and Cassian approached the main gates. High Lord and Lady of the Night Court demanding entry while their general flanked them, power barely contained.

Behind them, darkness moved where it shouldn't; Azriel slipping through cracks in Autumn's defenses, less male than living shadow.

His eyes burned with feverish intensity, pupils blown wide and ringed with gold.

Days without sleep. Days of the bond flaying him alive from within.

Blood seeped through his leathers, fresh cuts reopening with each movement.

He'd carved them himself, desperate attempts to distract from the internal agony with external pain.

It hadn't worked.

The bond pulled at him with vicious intensity, a barbed hook beneath his sternum dragging him forward through servant passages and hidden corridors.

Every few steps, his body convulsed with silent spasms that he forced himself to work through, shadows writhing against his skin like living tattoos.

His mind fractured and reformed with each pulse of the bond, memories and present bleeding together.

"You're not the same female I knew."

"But you have caused too much pain."

"I reject you. I dont want anything to do with you."

Azriel slammed his fist into a wall, the crack of bone against stone grounding him momentarily. Blood smeared the ornate wallpaper. The pain rippled up his arm, insignificant compared to the wildfire in his chest.

The family wing appeared before him, the bond pulling him with increasing urgency.

A guard stood at the entrance. Living, breathing, in his way. Azriel didn't slow. His shadows struck first, wrapping around the male's throat before the guard could shout. Azriel followed, Truth-Teller already drawn.

The guard's eyes widened in terror at whatever he saw in Azriel's face. The shadowsinger barely noticed the fear, barely registered driving his forearm into the guard's throat, pinning him against the wall with inhuman strength.

"Where is she?" he asked, voice deathly quiet. The softness of it more terrifying than any shout.

The guard choked, fingers scrabbling uselessly against Azriel's arm. Azriel eased the pressure (just enough to allow speech).

"The Lady's chambers... e-empty," the guard gasped. "She's gone, disappeared days..."

Azriel's vision tunneled to a single point. Gone.

His control, five centuries of discipline, nearly vanished like mist. Truth-Teller hovered a breath away from the guard's chest.

Only a thin thread of restraint—the knowledge that Rhysand needed stealth, needed time—kept him from plunging the blade forward.

Instead, his shadows thickened, wrapping around the guard's consciousness until his eyes rolled back. The male slumped to the floor, still breathing but deeply unconscious.

Azriel stepped over the body without looking back, already following the golden thread pulling him forward.

The door to your chamber materialized before him, carved with flame patterns. The bond thrummed with savage intensity, golden light visible beneath Azriel's skin where his leathers had torn.

Empty.

The silence hit him like a physical blow.

Your scent lingered, but nothing else. Nothing alive. Nothing yours. The bond screamed within him, an animal caught in a trap.

Azriel stumbled forward, legs no longer working properly. His shadows exploded outward in blind rage, shredding curtains, shattering furniture, blackening walls with their fury. The mirror cracked with a sound like splitting ice, fragments raining down.

He crashed to his knees, a feral sound tearing from his throat; not grief, but madness. His hands clawed at his chest, tearing through leather to the golden light pulsing beneath his skin. Blood welled between his fingers.

"Where?" The word barely audible, not a question but a command.

His shadows raced through the room, crawling into corners, seeking, hunting. They returned with fragments. Impressions of fear, of flight, of ash and poison. The crystalline residue of a shattered vial.

The distant scent of Eris.

Something snapped inside him, an essential tether to reason and restraint. The golden light beneath his skin flared brighter, pulsing in time with his erratic heartbeat.

The room darkened as shadows poured from him in torrents, smothering candles, coating the walls in writhing darkness.

Behind him, the door creaked. Azriel spun, Truth-Teller raised before conscious thought.

A servant. Young. Terrified. Linens clutched to her chest.

He was on her in an instant, blade at her throat, shadows wrapping around her limbs like serpents. Her fear registered dimly, meaningless compared to the inferno raging through his chest.

"Where?" The single word delivered with such cold precision that it seemed to drop the temperature of the room.

His face remained expressionless, which somehow made the madness in his eyes more terrifying.

She trembled, tears streaming down her face. "I d-don't... High Lord Beron said..."

The mention of Beron's name cracked something further inside him. His shadows constricted around the maid involuntarily, drawing a whimper of pain.

"Who took her?" His voice remained low, controlled, at odds with the chaos of his shadows.

"No one t-took her," the maid sobbed. "She fled. To the south... the b-border..."

The bond convulsed inside him, a spasm so violent it bent him double. The blade faltered, dropping from his hand as he released the maid. She scrambled away, forgotten as Azriel collapsed to all fours, golden light seeping from between his lips like blood.

South. Border. Fled.

His mind caught on the words, turning them over and over.

Fled. From him. From the court. From the bond.

A sound escaped him, a laugh or sob, impossible to tell. His shadows surged around him in chaotic patterns, reflecting the fracturing of his mind.

In that dark corner of his consciousness, Rhysand's voice cut through. Az. Status.

Azriel couldn't form words anymore, could only send back impressions. Empty. Gone.

Come to the Great Hall. Now. Rhysand's mental voice held the edge of command, the High Lord calling his shadowsinger to heel.

Azriel rose unsteadily, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. The bond tugged southward, a hook in his chest that made each step away from it agony.

The Great Hall of the Autumn Court blazed with light and tension. Beron sat upon his flame-wreathed throne, fire dancing along his fingertips.

Eris stood beside him, carefully neutral as he watched the Night Court delegation.

"Your presence is unwelcome, Rhysand," Beron was saying. "State your business and then remove yourselves from my court."

Rhysand lounged with practiced arrogance. "We come on a matter of mutual concern. One that affects the stability of both our courts."

Feyre sat beside him, power simmering beneath her calm exterior. Cassian remained standing, hand on his sword hilt, his eyes constantly scanning the room.

"Nothing concerns our courts mutually," Beron snapped, flames leaping higher. "Unless you've come to finally acknowledge your shadowsinger's inappropriate fixation on my daughter."

"A mating bond is the Cauldron's will," Feyre replied, voice like silk over steel. "Not a matter of propriety."

"The Made High Lady speaks of traditions she barely understands," Beron sneered. "The bond was rejected. The matter is closed."

"And yet," Rhysand said, "your daughter has vanished. Curious timing."

The hall plunged into sudden, smothering darkness as the shadows thickened unnaturally.

Torches extinguished, flames dying with soft hisses. Guards shouted in alarm.

Azriel materialized from the darkness, but not as they knew him.

His wings hung at wrong angles. Blood painted abstract patterns across his fighting leathers. His face was a death mask; skin stretched too tight across cheekbones, eyes sunken and feverish. Golden light pulsed beneath his skin in erratic patterns, visible through tears in his clothing, shining from within his mouth when he spoke.

"Where is she?" The question came as a whisper that somehow carried through the entire hall. Low, controlled, and all the more terrifying for its restraint.

His shadows weren't just around him anymore; they were him, extensions of limbs and wings, curling in patterns that hurt the eye to follow.

Beron rose from his throne, flames surging defensively. "What madness is this?" he demanded, though his voice wavered slightly. "How dare you bring this... abomination into my court?"

Eris stepped forward, eyes narrowed as he assessed Azriel. "The mating bond has taken him," he observed quietly. "He's gone feral."

Rhysand moved swiftly to Azriel's side, power unfurling. "Az," he said firmly. "Control it."

Azriel didn't look at him. His gaze remained fixed on Beron, on Eris. On the ones who might know. His hands trembled violently, Truth-Teller clutched so tightly the hilt was cutting into his palm.

"She is no longer in the Autumn Court," Eris said carefully. "Her whereabouts are not our concern."

"Lies." The word fell into the room like a dropped stone, simple and cold. Shadows exploded from Azriel in a shockwave that knocked guards from their feet and cracked pillars. Furniture splintered. A chandelier crashed to the floor in a spray of crystal and flame.

Cassian lunged forward, grabbing Azriel's arm. "Az, stand down!"

Azriel turned on him with terrifying speed, Truth-Teller raised. Cassian caught his wrist, red siphons flaring to contain the shadows.

"Look at me," Cassian commanded. "Look at me, brother."

For a heartbeat, recognition flickered in Azriel's fever-bright eyes. Then the bond spasmed again, and he doubled over, body shaking violently as if something was tearing him apart from within.

"ENOUGH!" Beron shouted, flames racing across the floor toward the Night Court delegation. "This is an act of war, Rhysand! Your dog has gone rabid!"

"He is not himself," Rhysand replied, power rising to counter the flames. "The mating bond-"

"Is his own doing," Beron snarled. "He rejected it. Let him suffer the consequences."

The words hit Azriel like physical blows.

His rejection. His choice. His fault.

With a sound like tearing metal, Azriel broke free from Cassian's hold. His shadows became solid, driving Cassian back as Azriel lunged toward the throne.

"Where. Is. She." The declaration was so softly spoken it was almost tender, which made it infinitely more disturbing. Truth-Teller aimed at Beron's throat, the blade steady despite the tremors wracking the rest of his body.

Guards surged forward. Feyre's power erupted in a shield of starlight. Rhysand moved with blinding speed, catching Azriel around the waist as chaos erupted.

"She fled," Eris said, voice cutting through the mayhem. "She chose to leave. She rejected you as surely as you rejected her."

The words landed like hammer blows on shattered glass. Azriel's knees buckled, shadows coiling around him in protective spirals. The golden light beneath his skin flared bright enough to cast harsh shadows across his face, revealing tears of blood tracking down his cheeks.

"She is gone," Beron said, cruel satisfaction in his voice. "And you drove her away, shadowsinger. Your madness. Your rejection. This is the Cauldron's punishment."

Azriel's body shook so violently that Rhysand had to tighten his grip to keep him upright. No sound escaped the shadowsinger's lips, but his shadows surged outward in silent agony, engulfing the hall in darkness. Guards stumbled back, some falling to their knees as the shadows touched them.

Rhysand's power surged in response, stars piercing the unnatural night. "Azriel!" His voice carried the full weight of High Lord command. "ENOUGH."

The command froze Azriel momentarily, just long enough for Rhysand's power to wrap around him like a cocoon. Feyre and Cassian moved to Rhysand's side, adding their strength to his.

"We're leaving," Rhysand announced to Beron, the words clipped and final. "This audience is concluded."

"Take your rabid dog and go," Beron spat, flames illuminating his fury. "And know that any return to my lands will be met with lethal force."

Eris remained unnervingly calm, his eyes never leaving Azriel. "The bond will kill him," he observed clinically. "Unless he finds her."

"This isn't over." Azriel's words were barely audible, yet they carried the weight of an unbreakable vow. Truth-Teller still gripped in shaking hands as Rhysand's power contained him.

"It was over the moment you rejected what was yours," Eris replied. "Some prices cannot be undone, shadowsinger."

Rhysand's winnowing magic swept around them, tearing them from the Autumn Court in a rush of wind and darkness. The last image was Beron's face, contorted with triumph and rage, and Eris, watching with those calculating amber eyes that knew more than he revealed.

They materialized at the border of Night and Autumn territories, twilight sky bleeding purple and indigo above them.

The moment Rhysand's power released him, Azriel crumpled to the ground as if his bones had turned to water.

His wings splayed at unnatural angles, one arching too high, its joint visibly swollen and throbbing, the other dragging in the dirt, twitching involuntarily with each pulse of the bond.

Blood trickled from beneath his leathers, following the path of scars both ancient and fresh.

His eyes were bloodshot, the whites laced with crimson threads. Veins beneath his skin glowed faintly gold, pulsing like fever-lines up his throat and across his temples.

His breathing came in short, stuttering gasps, like each inhale was being stolen from him.

Like the air itself was rejecting him.

No sound escaped his lips as he curled in on himself, fingers digging into the earth, leaving furrows in the soil. The carefully constructed walls—five centuries of discipline and control—dissolved into dust.

Feyre was beside him in an instant, gathering his shaking form against her.

Her arms encircled him, not as High Lady to shadowsinger, but as family to family. His shadows clung to her like frightened children, but she didn't flinch. Darkness met darkness, and still she held him.

"She left," he whispered, the words barely audible. "She left. She left me. She left me."

His voice broke on the last words, tears cutting clean tracks through the blood and grime on his face. His body convulsed with silent sobs, each one threatening to tear him apart from within.

"I should've... I should've stopped her," he gasped, the words emerging between desperate attempts to breathe. Each inhale seemed to cause him physical pain, the bond constricting his lungs from inside. "I felt it... I felt her slipping..."

His hand reached out, grasping at empty air, then flinched as if burned when his fingers found nothing but wind.

Cassian stood motionless, face drained of color.

He had seen Azriel gut a man without blinking. Had watched him interrogate enemies with mechanical precision. But this? This was something else. Something unholy. The most controlled male he knew, unraveling thread by bloody thread before his eyes.

"Mother above," he breathed, the words a prayer.

Rhysand's power curled protectively around them all, but even he couldn't hide the fear in his eyes. Five hundred years of brotherhood, and he had never seen Azriel like this; had never thought it possible.

"She didn't just leave me," Azriel whispered, his gaze fixed on something none of them could see. "She left the bond. She left everything. How could she... how could she breathe through that?"

Feyre's power curled around him, not to heal, but to hold the pieces together until he could. "I'm here," she murmured, a steady anchor in the storm. "I've got you, Az."

He tried to rise, body moving before his mind caught up. The bond pulled him like a marionette with strings made of agony, dragging him toward the southern horizon. He staggered, would have fallen if not for Feyre's steady arms.

Cassian watched as Azriel's shadows twisted in patterns that reflected his internal torment. "What do we do? We can't force her to accept him."

"No," Rhysand agreed. "But we can find her. At least give him the chance to see her again."

Azriel's body continued to shake, but the wild desperation in his eyes shifted to something else—something cold and focused and deadly.

"South," he managed, each word precise despite the cost. "Border estate."

"We'll find her," Feyre promised, her power wrapping more firmly around his trembling form. "But first, you need to breathe. Just breathe, Az."

Azriel shook his head, the movement jerky and pained. "Can't breathe," he rasped. "It won't let me. Pulls and pulls and..." His words dissolved as another spasm of pain contorted his features.

With sudden, desperate strength, he gripped Rhysand's forearm.

"Please," he begged, the word raw and broken. "Now. Take me to her now." Tears leaked from his eyes, "I'll die if..." He couldn't finish, another wave of pain stealing his breath.

Rhysand knelt beside them, his face set with the cold, implacable resolve of a High Lord. "You'll die if we don't get you to a healer first," he said, voice brooking no argument. "And I will not lose you, brother."

"She's-" Azriel tried again, shadows thinning to wisps as his strength failed him.

"The moment you're stable," Rhysand promised, "we fly south. I swear it on the Cauldron."

Cassian joined them, completing the circle around their fallen brother. "All of us," he agreed, voice rough with emotion he rarely showed. "No one gets left behind."

Azriel's face contorted with a war of emotions—desperation to find you, the physical agony of the bond, the fear that delay meant losing you forever. His entire body trembled with the effort to resist the pull southward.

"She won't want me," he whispered, a confession torn from his soul. "She ran. She ran from me."

"Then we'll face that together too," Feyre said gently, wiping a tear from his cheek. "But we can't lose you, Az."

Something in her words seemed to reach him. His shoulders slumped, not in defeat but in exhaustion, in the bone-deep understanding that he couldn't fight this battle alone.

"Velaris," Rhysand said, gathering his power around them all. "Hold onto him."

As the darkness of winnowing enveloped them, Azriel's shadows stretched southward in one last, desperate reach—toward you, toward what was lost, toward what might never be reclaimed.

His eyes, more gold than hazel now, closed as the bond pulsed beneath his skin in weakening waves. The last thing he whispered before consciousness fled him was your name, a prayer, a promise, a plea.

Then the night swallowed them whole, carrying them home to Velaris.

As the last light faded from the sky, Azriel's shadows stretched southward, seeking, hunting, following the golden thread that bound him to you, whether that path led to salvation or destruction remained to be seen.

A week at Lucien's border estate had taught you several important things.

First, the ash tea worked wonders for muting the bond's pain, but did absolutely nothing for boredom.

Second, Lucien's definition of "stocked kitchen" meant an alarming quantity of expensive wine and virtually nothing edible.

Third, fire bunnies should never, under any circumstances, be allowed near curtains, pillows, or anything remotely flammable (which, unfortunately, was everything).

"I'm making breakfast," you announced, padding barefoot into the sunlit kitchen where Lucien sat nursing a mug of something steaming.

You tripped slightly over a rug edge but caught yourself with as much dignity as you could muster. "Real breakfast. Not whatever sad excuse for food you've been surviving on."

Lucien glanced up from the letter he was reading, metal eye whirring softly as it focused on you. The mechanical click-whir always reminded you of a tiny camera shutter. "There's bread."

"Bread is not breakfast," you replied, already rummaging through his sparse cupboards, accidentally knocking over several empty containers in the process. "It's an ingredient in breakfast. Like... a supporting character. Important, but not the star."

Ember and Sizzle hopped excitedly at your feet, their tiny flame ears perked with anticipation. You'd quickly discovered they had excellent food radar.

For creatures made of fire, they had remarkable enthusiasm for eating. Also for causing chaos, but mostly eating.

"Do you actually know how to cook?" Lucien asked, one eyebrow arched skeptically.

You paused, a dusty jar of what might have been preserves (or possibly very old paint) in your hand.

The truth was complicated.

In your previous life as a human, you'd been decent enough in the kitchen. But your body's current owner, had probably never even seen an uncooked egg.

"How hard can it be?" you replied breezily, blowing a strand of hair from your face. "Heat plus food equals meal. I'm basically just doing math with fire."

Lucien's lips twitched. "Says the female who set three towels on fire yesterday."

"That was Sizzle's fault," you protested, as the bunny in question hopped onto the counter and began sniffing at a bowl of fruit with suspicious intensity. "And I put them out very quickly."

"With wine."

"It worked, didn't it?" You fumbled with a spoon, sending it clattering across the counter. "And the towels weren't that important. They clashed with your decor anyway."

Lucien set his letter aside, leaning back in his chair to watch the impending disaster with barely concealed amusement. "By all means, continue. I haven't had entertainment this good in decades."

You huffed dramatically, pulling out the few ingredients you could find—eggs, some questionable-looking herbs that might actually be weeds, cheese that was thankfully still edible, and the aforementioned bread.

"I'm making..." you paused, assessing your options while trying to look confident, "a frittata."

"A what?" Lucien's brow furrowed in confusion.

"It's a... fancy egg thing." You waved your hand vaguely, accidentally knocking over a salt cellar. "Trust me. It's going to be amazing. Or at least edible. Probably."

Ember, clearly sensing an opportunity for chaos, leapt onto the counter beside Sizzle. Between them, they managed to nudge an apple off the edge, sending it rolling across the floor. You lunged for it, missed completely, and nearly face-planted into a cabinet.

"Your therapy animals are stealing my breakfast," Lucien observed dryly.

"They're helping," you insisted, straightening with as much dignity as possible.

Lucien snorted. "Is that what we're calling it?"

You cracked eggs into a bowl with more confidence than skill, several bits of shell following the yolks. You poked at them ineffectually with a finger, trying to fish them out. "Extra calcium," you muttered.

As you reached for a fork to beat them, you felt the bond pulse uncomfortably.

Even with the ash tea's dampening effects, certain movements still triggered sharp reminders of what lay beneath your skin, waiting to consume you again.

You must have winced, because Lucien was suddenly beside you, his movements silent and graceful.

"Here," he said, taking the bowl. "Let me."

"I'm fine," you insisted, though you let him take over. "The tea works. Mostly. Sometimes. When it feels like it."

"Most of the time," he agreed, beating the eggs with practiced ease.

The sight of the feared son of the Autumn Court whisking eggs was incongruous enough to make you smile. "Where did you learn to cook?"

A shadow crossed his face. "After Tamlin's... difficulties, staff was limited. I adapted."

"You're full of surprises, brother dear. Next you'll tell me you can knit or something." You peered at him suspiciously. "Wait, can you knit? Because I'd pay good money to see that."

The endearment slipped out without thought.

Lucien's hands stilled for just a heartbeat before resuming their work. You'd noticed he had a complicated relationship with the word "brother," perhaps because his blood brothers had tried to kill him, or perhaps because the one he'd chosen had betrayed him.

"Someone in this house needs practical skills," he replied lightly. "Particularly when sharing space with three fire hazards."

"Three?" You looked around in confusion.

His mismatched eyes met yours, amusement dancing in them. "I'm counting you."

Before you could formulate a suitably indignant response (which was definitely going to be brilliant and cutting, given enough time), Sizzle chose that moment to sneeze. A tiny fireball shot across the kitchen, singeing the edge of Lucien's sleeve.

"Cauldron boil me," he muttered, patting out the spark.

You couldn't help it. You burst out laughing, the sound so unexpected it startled you.

When was the last time you'd laughed? Before the bond. Before Azriel's rejection. Before the pain.

Lucien stared at you for a moment before his own lips curved upward. "You find my immolation amusing?"

"Your..." You gestured to his perfect posture, immaculate clothing, and general air of deadly competence. "Your dignified outrage. Over a bunny sneeze." You demonstrated, mimicking his affronted expression with exaggerated horror. "It's like watching a war general get taken down by a kitten."

He tilted his head, considering. "They're not actually rabbits, you know. They're flame sprites who just happen to take bunny form."

You blinked. "Wait, really?"

You looked down at Ember, who chose that moment to scratch behind his ear with his back foot in a quintessential rabbit move. "Have I been patronizing powerful supernatural entities this whole time?"

Lucien's face remained serious for precisely three seconds before cracking. "No. They're just magical rabbits who happen to be on fire."

You grabbed a handful of herbs and threw them at him. "You're terrible! I was ready to start a flame sprite worship cult!"

He dodged easily, grinning now. "And you're gullible."

"I am not..." You searched for words. "Okay, I am, but in my defense, nothing makes sense here. Last week I saw a bird with twelve wings and the face of an old man. A flaming rabbit isn't even in the top ten weird things."

Your protest was cut short as Ember, apparently jealous of the attention Sizzle had received, decided to hop directly into the bowl of beaten eggs.

Lucien lunged to catch him, but too late. The bowl tipped, sending its contents cascading down the front of his fine shirt.

Silence fell, broken only by Ember's pleased chirping.

Lucien looked down at his ruined clothing, then back at you, his expression so perfectly affronted that you couldn't contain another burst of laughter.

"Oh gods," you gasped between giggles. "Your face! It's like someone told you the Spring Court has better fashion sense."

"If you value your continued existence," he said with deadly calm, "you will stop laughing immediately."

This, of course, only made you laugh harder, clutching the counter for support. The bond in your chest gave a peculiar flutter, not pain this time, but something lighter, as if amused by the absurdity alongside you.

With deliberate slowness, Lucien reached for the remaining eggs on the counter. "You realize," he said conversationally, "this means war."

Your eyes widened. "You wouldn't dare. You're a dignified... um, whatever you are. Diplomat? Spy? Professional brooder?"

His metal eye clicked and whirred as he raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't I?"

The kitchen erupted into chaos. Eggs flew. Flour from some forgotten cupboard clouded the air.

You shrieked and ducked, accidentally upending a canister of what turned out to be cinnamon. The fire bunnies, delighted by this new game, bounced between you, leaving tiny scorch marks on everything they touched.

When Eris found you an hour later, you were both sitting on the kitchen floor, covered in food, surrounded by ecstatic fire bunnies, and laughing so hard you could barely breathe. You had a streak of flour across your nose and what appeared to be egg yolk in your hair.

He paused in the doorway, amber eyes taking in the disaster before him.

"I leave for three days," he said with exquisite disdain, "and return to... this."

Lucien didn't bother standing, just lifted his egg-crusted chin with mock dignity. "We were cooking."

"Clearly," Eris replied, stepping carefully over a puddle of what might have been honey. "I see it's going exceptionally well."

You exchanged a glance with Lucien, a silent communication passing between you.

The bond in your chest hummed quietly, for once not a source of agony but simply there.

A part of you. Manageable.

"Actually," you said, smiling at your eldest brother as egg dripped from your elbow, "it is."

The kitchen was still a disaster zone, but you'd at least managed to clean yourselves up. Mostly.

There was still something sticky in your hair that refused to be identified. Lucien had changed into a simple linen shirt, more casual than you'd ever seen him, while you'd washed the worst of the egg from your person.

Eris paced the length of the sitting room, his movements controlled and precise. Too precise.

You'd learned that Eris at his most controlled was Eris at his most dangerous. Like a snake coiling before it strikes, or a wine bottle about to be uncorked after being violently shaken.

"The Night Court came to Autumn yesterday," he said without preamble, his amber eyes fixing on yours. "Not as guests. As intruders."

The bond in your chest gave a sharp pulse, golden light briefly visible beneath the skin of your wrist before the ash tea smothered it again.

You curled your fingers into your palm, trying to mask the reaction.

"Why?" Lucien asked, leaning against the doorframe, his posture deliberately casual though his hand strayed near his knife.

"For her," Eris replied, nodding in your direction. His lips curved in a cold smile. "Your shadowsinger appears to be experiencing complications."

The words dropped into the room like stones into still water.

You kept your face carefully blank, even as your pulse quickened.

"Explain," you said, proud of how steady your voice remained.

Eris studied your face, as if searching for something specific. "They arrived openly at the gates. The High Lord and Lady, plus the general. Very diplomatic. Very proper." His eyes glittered. "While the shadowsinger slipped into the palace like a thief, incapacitated guards, and tore through the family wing straight to your chambers."

You found yourself oddly still, like a prey animal sensing a predator. "And?" You fiddled with a loose thread on your sleeve to keep your hands from shaking.

"When he found your chambers empty, he nearly brought the ceiling down." Eris's expression was calculating, weighing each word for its impact on you. "It took all three of them to contain him. A display of power that..." he paused, something like reluctant respect in his voice, "was impressive, even by their standards."

"So what you're saying is," you said, trying to keep your voice light, "I should definitely send him a bill for the damages."

Lucien shot you a warning glance, but Eris merely continued, ignoring your attempt at humor.

"And you stood with Beron?" Lucien asked, his eyebrow raised.

"I stood where I needed to," Eris replied coldly. "As I always do."

You pushed away from the table, needing to move, to process.

The bond pulsed steadily beneath the ash tea's numbing effects, neither painful nor pleasant, just there. A reminder of what had been forced upon you, like an annoying song stuck in your head, but with more existential dread.

"You need to leave," Eris continued. "Tonight. The bond is a beacon, ash tea or no. It's only a matter of time before the shadowsinger traces it to this place, and I doubt he'll be in a reasoning mood when he does."

"Leave and go where?" Lucien asked, his metal eye whirring softly as he studied his brother. "She's barely mastered not setting the bath towels on fire."

You shot him a betrayed look. "That was one time!"

"Three times," he corrected.

Eris's expression suggested he was reconsidering his entire plan. "The Dawn Court," he finally replied. "Thesan owes me a favor, and it's the last place they'd look. The shadowsinger's abilities are weakened in constant light."

You looked between them, these brothers with centuries of mistrust and shared secrets between them.

"And why would you help me get there? Not that I'm doubting your generosity," you added hastily, "but you don't seem like the helping type. More the 'watching people struggle while sipping wine' type."

Eris's expression remained unreadable.

"Because Beron is calling their intrusion an act of war. Because he's looking for someone to blame for all this." Something almost like genuine emotion flashed across his face. "And because I've seen what bond-madness does. To both parties."

Ember materialized in a tiny burst of flame beside your hand, his warm form coalescing from your own power. Sizzle appeared moments later, hopping across the table as if she'd been there all along.

These extensions of your fire magic (not pets, but manifestations of your ability to create and sustain life from flame) had become such a natural part of you that you barely noticed the small flare of power it took to maintain them.

Eris watched the bunnies with narrowed eyes. "You'll need to keep those under control in Dawn. They won't blend well with Thesan's menagerie of light beasts."

You ran a finger along Ember's spine, feeling the connection to your own magic. "They're a part of me. Like really adorable, flammable emotional support animals."

"Then contain them," Eris said simply. "I've arranged passage through a series of winnowing points. Thesan's sentries will meet you at the eastern border." His eyes met yours, sharp and knowing. "Unless... you want the shadowsinger to find you?"

The question hung in the air between you.

You considered it, truly considered it.

This bond you never asked for, with a male who had made clear what he thought of it. Of you.

You almost made a joke about how terrible his communication skills were, but something in Eris's expression stopped you.

But this wasn't just about Azriel anymore. This was about you. About finding space to breathe, to think, to be something other than a pawn in games between High Lords.

"I'll go," you said, the decision crystallizing within you like frost on glass. "But not because I'm running from him."

Eris raised an eyebrow. "No?"

"No." You let a small flame dance across your fingertips, trying not to look too pleased when it didn't immediately get out of control. Ember and Sizzle chirped in harmony with the display. "I'm choosing myself this time."

Something that might have been respect flickered across Eris's face before it vanished beneath his usual cold mask. "Be ready at midnight. Bring only what you can carry."

After Eris had gone, Lucien moved to sit beside you. "You don't have to go," he said.

You glanced at him, surprised. "You think I should stay?"

"I think choosing yourself is the right decision," he replied, his scarred face solemn in the fading light. "But you don't have to do it alone."

You stared at him. "What are you saying?"

Lucien's mismatched eyes met yours, something resolute in them. "I'm saying I'll go with you. To the Dawn Court."

"What about your estate? Your position?" What about Elain? hung unspoken between you.

"This estate is just a pretty prison Beron lets me keep." He shrugged, the gesture attempting casualness but not quite succeeding. "And as for positions... well. Neither of us seems to fit where we're supposed to be, do we?"

You leaned your head against his shoulder, this brother who had become something like a friend in the strangest of circumstances. "They'll come after us. Both courts."

"Not in Dawn," Lucien said confidently. "Not even Rhysand would risk offending Thesan by barging into his territory uninvited. And Beron has never had good relations with the Dawn Court, too many centuries of mutual distrust."

Ember and Sizzle hopped between you, tiny flames dancing along their ears in excitement or perhaps resonating with your own feelings. As manifestations of your power, they often reflected emotions you hadn't even acknowledged to yourself.

"I need to pack," you said finally.

With a thought, you called the bunnies back to you, their forms dissolving into twin flames that curled around your fingers before vanishing beneath your skin.

It would take concentration to hold them there, but it was good practice for the Dawn Court where your fire creatures would be immediately recognized as Autumn Court magic.

Lucien nodded, something like admiration in his eyes at the display of control. "We leave at midnight, then."

For the first time since arriving in Prythian, you were writing your own story. And hopefully it wouldn't involve setting too many things on fire. Intentionally, anyway.

Madja completed the final healing seal over the last of his wounds, the golden light fading from her fingertips as she stepped back from the bed.

"You need rest," she said firmly, her ancient eyes seeing more than Azriel wanted to reveal. "At least three days. The bond-sickness has ravaged your system."

Azriel said nothing, lying perfectly still until the healer gathered her supplies and left his chambers in the House of Wind. The moment the door clicked shut, he was moving.

His body screamed in protest as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Wounds—both those he'd inflicted on himself and those sustained in the Autumn Court—pulled tight beneath fresh scars.

The bond pulsed steadily in his chest, calling to him with a voice that drowned out all reason, all duty, all previous attachments.

Not a tether. Not a chain. A lifeline.

His shadows, which had been suspiciously docile during the healing, erupted around him the moment he stood, dancing with renewed vigor.

They whispered to him in languages older than Prythian itself, but for once, they weren't telling him secrets of others. They were telling him his own truth.

She is yours. You are hers. Two halves finally finding wholeness.

How strange that he had spent centuries believing his shadows knew everything, only to realize they had been waiting all this time to tell him the one thing that mattered.

You.

He moved to the wardrobe, each step more steady than the last as certainty replaced pain. He dressed methodically in fighting leathers, his movements reverent, like a priest preparing for sacred rites.

Truth-Teller slid into its sheath at his hip, the blade singing softly in greeting.

For centuries, he had believed the knife's name referred to its function—to extract truth from others.

Now he understood it had always been about confronting his own.

The bond guided his hands as he prepared. This wasn't madness anymore. This was clarity.

He moved to the window, which opened onto a sheer drop from the House of Wind. Velaris spread below him, a city he had helped protect, helped build.

A home he had always served faithfully.

Until now.

His shadows surged forward, testing the night air, then returned with confirmation—Autumn's southern border. A hidden estate where you waited, whether you knew it or not.

Azriel unfurled his wings, feeling a strength in them he hadn't felt in centuries. As if the bond had stripped away not just his delusions but the weight of five hundred years of isolation. Of believing he was meant to stand apart, to watch others find happiness while he remained in shadow.

The Cauldron, in its twisted wisdom, had given him the one thing he never believed he deserved.

A soft knock at the door broke through his revelry. Before he could respond, it opened to reveal Elain standing in the doorway, a small basket of healing herbs in her hands.

"Madja asked me to bring these for your-" Her words faltered as she took in his appearance: not a healing invalid, but a warrior prepared for flight. "You're leaving."

Azriel turned to face her fully, allowing his shadows to recede.

For so long, he had believed himself in love with her, this gentle, quiet female who represented everything he thought he should want.

Safety. Comfort. Normalcy.

Looking at her now, he felt only a distant fondness, like remembering a dream upon waking.

The bond had burned away the illusion, leaving only truth behind.

"I'm sorry, Elain," he said, his voice steady with newfound conviction.

She set the basket down slowly. "For what?"

"For not understanding until now." His gaze met hers directly, no more hiding, no more half-truths. "I thought I loved you because you were safe. Because wanting you was less terrifying than facing what I truly needed."

The golden light beneath his skin pulsed brighter, illuminating the darkness between them. Not hiding anything anymore.

"It's her," Elain said softly. Not a question.

"It's always been her," Azriel replied, the truth of it resonating through his entire being. "I just didn't know it until the bond showed me." His voice softened. "She was made for me. Every broken piece of me fits with every broken piece of her."

Saying the words aloud felt like setting down a burden he'd carried his entire life: the belief that he was too damaged, too dark, too scarred for real connection.

Elain's eyes shimmered with tears, but something like understanding flickered in their depths. "The seer in me sensed it, I think. That's why I always kept my distance, even when you..." She didn't finish the thought.

"Even when I tried to convince us both otherwise," he completed gently.

The bond surged beneath his skin, impatient now, reminding him that every moment spent here was a moment away from you. His wings twitched in response, readying for flight.

"She's with Lucien," Elain said softly.

At the mention of Lucien's name, Azriel felt a strange calm knowing you're with one of your brothers.

"I know. Ironic, isn't it?" A faint, sad smile touched his lips. "The Cauldron has a twisted sense of humor."

"What will you do?"

"Whatever I must," he answered simply. "She is mine as I am hers. Even if she doesn't know it yet."

Elain studied him, seeing perhaps more clearly than anyone else ever had. "You've changed."

"I've awakened," he corrected gently. "Everything before her was a half-life. A shadow existence."

Understanding passed between them, a final acknowledgment of what might have been and what never truly was. Elain nodded once, acceptance in the gesture.

"Cassian went to find Rhys," she said. "They'll try to stop you."

"I know."

"Go," she whispered. "Find your completion."

Azriel held her gaze for one final moment, gratitude in his eyes for this unexpected blessing. Then he stepped backward off the ledge, wings snapping open to catch the night air.

As he banked sharply southward, shadows streaming behind him like wedding ribbons, he felt the bond singing through his blood.

Not the desperate, painful tug of before, but a joyful, certain pull—like coming home after a war, like finding shelter after a storm.

Like a soul finally recognizing its other half.

He flew toward you with the absolute certainty that whatever happened next—whether you accepted him or not, whether you fled or fought—this was the truth his entire existence had been building toward. You were made for him, as he was made for you, two pieces of the same impossible puzzle.

And nothing in Prythian would keep him from you again.

"Are you certain we can't bring any of Eris's wine?" You folded another tunic into your travel pack, trying to keep your movements casual despite the excitement thrumming through you.

Dawn Court. Freedom. Or at least something resembling it.

Lucien leaned against the doorframe, his metal eye whirring as it tracked your movements. "We're fugitives, not thieves."

"Says the male who packed sixteen of Eris's daggers," you countered, nodding toward the impressive array of weapons laid out on the bed.

"Those are technically mine. He stole them first."

You grinned, about to respond when the bond gave a sudden, violent pulse beneath your skin. It flared for a moment before the ash tea suppressed it again, but the urgency in the sensation was new. Different.

"What is it?" Lucien asked, noticing your expression change.

"Nothing," you said automatically, pressing a hand to your chest. "Just the bond... acting strange."

Lucien frowned, his hand dropping to the knife at his hip, a gesture so automatic he probably didn't realize he'd done it. "Strange how?"

Before you could answer, Ember and Sizzle materialized beside you, their tiny bodies coalescing from flame without your conscious summons. They weren't playful or curious as usual; their ears were flattened, bodies crouched low in alarm.

"That's... not normal," Lucien observed, pushing away from the doorframe.

A crash from downstairs shattered the moment—glass breaking, wood splintering. Voices, unfamiliar and angry, shouted commands to each other.

"Find her! The Lady owes us blood!"

Your eyes widened. "What in the hell-"

Lucien was already moving, grabbing your pack with one hand and your arm with the other. "Back exit. Now."

You stumbled after him, mind racing. "Who would-"

"Later," he hissed, pulling you toward the servant's stairs at the back of the hall.

You'd barely taken three steps when a figure appeared at the top of the main staircase—a male Fae with skin that resembled bark and branches twisting from his scalp like antlers. His eyes glowed an eerie green as his lips pulled back to reveal thorn-sharp teeth. "There she is! The bitch who betrayed our grove to the Summer Court hunters!"

You blinked in confusion. "Excuse me?"

Another crash downstairs, and more voices joined the first. Lucien swore under his breath, yanking you toward the stairs.

Lucien propelled you down the narrow stairs, his movements efficient and practiced. "Apparently," he said between breaths, "You had quite the talent for making enemies."

"Oh." Wonderful.

Not only were you trapped in a Fae body, bonded to a shadowsinger, and hiding from multiple courts, but now you were being hunted for someone else's crimes. Perfect.

You reached the bottom of the stairs only to find your escape route blocked by two more intruders—females with skin like polished stone and vines twisting through their hair, wielding wickedly curved daggers of bone.

"There's nowhere to run, traitor," one hissed, her voice like leaves rustling in wind.

Lucien pushed you behind him, his hand wreathing in flame. "Look, there's been a misunderstanding-"

A bone dagger flew through the air, missing his head by inches.

"No misunderstandings," the second female snarled. "Just vengeance."

Ember and Sizzle, still hovering at your sides, suddenly charged forward in twin streaks of flame, startling the wood nymphs and giving Lucien the opening he needed.

Fire erupted from his hands, driving them back long enough for you to dart past, Lucien close behind.

"The kitchens," he directed, "through the pantry!"

You ran, heart hammering in your chest. The bond pulsed in time with each beat, as if responding to your fear.

You tried to summon your own fire magic, but the ash tea had dampened your power to a flicker. Ember and Sizzle, extensions of that same magic, seemed weaker too, their flames dimmer than usual.

More crashes behind you, the sound of furniture splintering. How many were there?

You burst into the kitchen, skidding on the floor still slick with egg from your earlier escapades. Lucien caught your arm before you fell, steadying you.

"Almost there," he encouraged, guiding you toward the pantry door that led to an external courtyard.

A massive figure stepped through the doorway ahead, blocking your path. Nearly seven feet tall, with skin like ancient oak and eyes that glowed forest green, he carried a spear of living wood that dripped with some viscous sap.

"The Lady of Autumn," he rumbled, his voice like branches breaking in a storm. "Your treachery cost me three saplings."

"I'm not-" you began, but he was already lunging forward, spear aimed at your heart.

Lucien shoved you sideways, the spear grazing his arm instead. He hissed in pain but returned with a slash of his knife, forcing the giant back.

"Run!" he ordered. "The window!"

You scrambled toward the kitchen window, throwing open the shutters. It was a tight fit, but possible. Behind you, the sounds of fighting intensified; more of the wood nymphs had entered the kitchen, surrounding Lucien who fought with brutal efficiency, fire and steel flashing in deadly arcs.

Ember and Sizzle darted at the intruders' faces, small distractions that bought precious seconds.

You were halfway through the window when a hand closed around your ankle, yanking you back inside. You crashed to the floor, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs.

The antlered male from upstairs stood over you, mouth stretched in a terrible grin. "The bounty on your head will feed my grove for a year," he snarled, reaching down to grip your throat.

His hand closed around your neck, bark-rough skin abrading yours as he lifted you off the ground. The ash tea had weakened you too much to fight back effectively. You clawed at his arm, trying to break his hold, but his grip only tightened.

"I'll deliver your heart to the Grove Elder myself," he hissed, face inches from yours.

Black spots danced at the edges of your vision as you struggled for air. The bond in your chest pulsed frantically, golden light seeping through your skin despite the ash tea's effects.

Just as consciousness began to fade, an arrow whistled through the air, striking you in the shoulder. The antlered male loosened his grip in surprise, and you dropped to the floor, gasping and clutching your bleeding wound.

"Idiot!" one of the stone-skinned females shouted at an archer across the room. "We need her alive for the bounty!"

"She moved!" the archer protested.

You crawled backward, blood seeping between your fingers where you clutched your shoulder. The arrow had gone clean through, but the pain was blinding.

Lucien was still fighting by the pantry door, now facing four opponents at once. He'd lost his knife and was fighting with pure fire, but even he couldn't hold them off much longer.

"Lucien!" you called, your voice ragged from the strangling.

He glanced your way, taking in your wounded state with a single look. His face hardened into something dangerous.

"Enough," he said, his voice deadly quiet.

Fire erupted from him in a wave, not the controlled flames from before but a roaring inferno that engulfed the kitchen. The wood nymphs shrieked, their forest-adapted bodies especially vulnerable to fire. They retreated, but Lucien wasn't giving them the chance to escape.

"You came to the wrong house," he snarled, the fire growing hotter, climbing the walls, catching the rafters.

The antlered male stumbled toward you, apparently determined to complete his mission despite the flames. You kicked out desperately, catching him in the knee. He fell forward, his antlers slicing your arm as he went down.

More of your blood spilled, splattering across his face. He recoiled, wiping at it furiously.

"Lucien!" you shouted again as the fire spread, the heat becoming unbearable.

In three long strides, he was beside you, scooping you into his arms. Your blood smeared across his shirt, but he didn't seem to notice or care.

"Hold on," he commanded, his voice tight with fury and fear.

The fire was everywhere now, consuming the kitchen, racing through the house with unnatural speed. The wood nymphs were in full retreat, those who could still move dragging their injured companions.

"What are you doing?" you gasped as Lucien carried you not toward an exit but deeper into the burning house.

"Making sure they can't follow," he replied grimly. "And covering our tracks."

He kicked open the door to Eris's study, strode to the desk, and shifted you in his arms just long enough to grab a small wooden box from a hidden compartment.

"Now we go," he said, tucking the box into his pocket.

The house was fully engulfed now, the structure groaning as support beams weakened. Ember and Sizzle had vanished, either returned to your body or consumed by the larger fire.

"Can you winnow us both?" you asked, the pain in your shoulder making it hard to focus.

"Let's find out," Lucien replied, tightening his hold on you. "Because we're out of options."

He closed his eyes, gathering what power he had.

The roof above you creaked ominously, beginning to collapse.

The last thing you saw before the world dissolved around you was fire, everywhere, consuming everything, leaving nothing but ash in its wake.

Azriel descended through the night, the bond a molten thread in his chest that pulled tighter with each wing beat.

The smoke from Lucien's burning estate rose in angry plumes below, golden embers dancing against the darkness like a perversion of starlight.

His shadows writhed across his skin, agitated and hungry in a way he'd never experienced before. They weren't just extensions of him anymore; they were sentient with purpose, with rage.

I reject you. I don't want anything to do with you.

His own words haunted him as he landed silently on the ridge overlooking the burning manor.

The memory of your face when he'd spoken them, the devastation, the raw hurt, clawed at him from within. The arrogance of it. The blind, willful rejection of what the Cauldron had designed for him alone.

Below, figures moved through the fiery ruins—lesser fae from the border territories, picking through the remains like carrion birds. The sight of them touching what had been your temporary sanctuary sent a wave of territorial fury through him.

"Nothing worth salvaging," one called out, kicking at a collapsed beam. "The Lady of Autumn escaped before we could finish the job."

The bond twisted at those words, spearing white-hot pain through Azriel's chest.

His vision blurred momentarily as golden light seeped from beneath his skin, not just at his collar now, but at his wrists, fingertips, even the corners of his eyes.

His shadows surged outward, independent of his command, tasting the air and returning with information that made the light beneath his skin pulse like a war drum.

Blood.

His focus narrowed to a bark-skinned male with antlers twisting from his scalp. There, on his hands: dark stains. Not ash or soot, but something his shadows recognized instantly.

Your blood.

The golden thread inside his chest vibrated, attuning to the specific rhythm of your spilled blood.

For one terrible moment, Azriel felt exactly what you had felt when that blood was drawn, the sharp pain of an arrow, the crushing pressure of hands around your throat.

Something inside him broke.

He dropped from the ridge, shadows streaming behind him like war banners. He landed in their midst without a sound, the impact crater in the ash the only indication of his arrival.

They froze, conversation dying as they registered his presence.

Recognition rippled through them, not of him specifically, but of what he was. What he represented.

Death. Vengeance. Night itself given form.

"You touched what belongs to me," Azriel said, his voice so soft it seemed to absorb sound rather than create it.

They backed away instinctively, hands moving to weapons.

Too late. Far too late.

"We meant no offense to the Night Court," the antlered male stammered. "Our business was with the Lady of Autumn-"

"Your business," Azriel interrupted, each word carved from ice, "is now with me."

His shadows whipped forward, tasting the stains on the male's hands. They returned to their master with confirmation that sent golden light blazing from beneath his skin, so bright it cast harsh shadows across the burning wreckage.

Externally, Azriel remained perfectly still, not a muscle moving, not an expression changing.

But inside, where no one could see, the carefully constructed walls of five centuries crumbled to dust. The civilized being he had pretended to be, the controlled, disciplined shadowsinger, dissolved.

What remained was something ancient and merciless. Something that had existed long before Prythian, before High Lords and courts and politics.

A mated male whose mate had been harmed.

The antlered male saw the change happen in Azriel's eyes, watched hazel irises be consumed by molten gold that seemed to burn from within. He backpedaled, suddenly understanding the true danger.

"She's your-"

The words died in his throat as Azriel's shadows thickened around him, blocking out what little light remained. The rest of them scattered like leaves in a storm, primal instinct driving them to flee what they now recognized as death incarnate.

Azriel watched them run, head tilted slightly as his shadows mapped their escape routes, their breathing patterns, the tempo of their terrified heartbeats.

He memorized the specific cadence of the antlered male's footfalls, the one whose hands were stained with your blood.

His lips tilted into a sick smile.

He gave them a head start. Thirty seconds of desperate hope. Enough time for their lungs to burn with exertion, for their minds to imagine they might survive.

The antlered male reached the tree line first, glancing over his shoulder to see nothing but darkness behind him. Relief flickered across his features as he plunged into the forest, believing himself unseen.

Azriel's wings snapped open with a sound like distant thunder. He took to the air, a shadow among shadows, moving with the terrible patience of a predator who knows its prey cannot escape.

The male crashed through the underbrush, lungs heaving as he tried to put distance between himself and the burning estate. He paused at a small clearing, bending over to gasp for breath.

"I think we lost him," he wheezed to his companion. "Even the Night Court wouldn't risk war with Autumn by hunting us this far into their territory."

When no response came, he straightened and turned, only to find himself alone.

"Teren?" he called, voice barely above a whisper.

The forest fell silent.

Not the natural quiet of night, but the absolute stillness that comes when every living thing recognizes a superior predator in their midst. Even the insects ceased their songs.

Drawing his knife, the male turned in a slow circle. "Where are you?" he demanded, false bravado unable to mask the tremor in his voice.

A soft sound behind him, not quite a footfall, more like the settling of ash after a fire.

He whirled, knife extended.

Nothing.

Another sound, to his left. He pivoted again.

Empty air.

"Face me!" he shouted, panic rising as he realized he was being toyed with.

"As you wish."

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, cold as midwinter frost. Before the male could move, shadows solidified directly before him, coalescing into Azriel's form. Not a wingspan away, close enough that the faerie could feel the unnatural chill radiating from his skin.

The knife slipped from nerveless fingers.

"Please," the fae breathed, "it was just a job. The Grove Elder paid for her capture, not her death. We didn't know she was mated-"

"You put your hands on her throat," Azriel interrupted, the words barely audible yet carrying perfectly in the still air. Through the bond, he could feel exactly where your bruises were forming, could trace the pattern of the male's fingers on your skin. "I felt her struggle to breathe."

"It was an accident," the fae pleaded. "We were supposed to take her alive. The arrow wasn't meant-"

"The arrow," Azriel echoed, his voice flat but his eyes flaring brighter. The bond throbbed in time with your wound, a phantom pain in his own shoulder that fed his rage.

With fluid grace, he closed the remaining distance between them.

Truth-Teller slid between the fae's ribs with surgical precision, angled upward to find his heart. The male gasped, eyes widening as he stared into Azriel's face.

"You tried to take my heart," Azriel whispered, the intimacy of his tone more terrifying than any shout. "I'll take yours as payment."

"Where is she?" Azriel asked, his voice gentle now, almost soothing as he twisted the blade slightly.

Blood bubbled at the faerie's lips as he struggled to form words. "Dawn," he choked out, the truth spilling from him along with his lifeblood. "Vanserra... taking her to... Dawn Court."

As the light faded from the male's eyes, Azriel felt a peculiar sensation through the bond, a distant easing of pain, as if some cosmic scale had been partially balanced by this death. Your unconscious recognition of vengeance exacted in your name.

He withdrew Truth-Teller with the same care with which he'd inserted it, lowering the body to the forest floor.

Blood, not yours, but blood shed for you, dripped from the blade's edge, each drop sizzling slightly where it touched the golden light still emanating from his skin.

"One," he whispered to the night.

His shadows twisted expectantly around him, carrying the scent of the remaining fae, five more who had dared to harm what was his.

Five more debts to collect before he flew to Dawn. To you.

The bond pulled tighter, urging him toward completion of both tasks. He could feel your pain even now, across the miles that separated you, the throbbing wound in your shoulder, the raw ache in your throat, the exhaustion of terror and flight.

Then he dissolved once more into the darkness, leaving nothing behind but a cooling corpse and the promise of five more to come.

Author’s Note:

Azriel said “emotional regulation is for the weak” and proceeded to unravel like a bloodstained tapestry. This chapter is feral, a little unhinged, and full of golden light and bad decisions. Thank you for loving these chaotic disaster soulmates as much as I do. 💀💛

Taglist: @circe143 @lunarxcity @willowpains @messageforthesmallestman @lreadsstuff @evye47 @lovely-susie @moonfawnx @tele86 @moonlitlavenders @darkbloodsly @ees-chaotic-brain @smol-grandpa @auraofathena @lottiiee413 @minaaminaa8 @claudiab22 @moonbeamruins @shewolf1549 @crimsonandwhiteprincess @a-band-aid-for-your-heart @kathren1sky-blog @alimarie1105 @masbt1218 @topaz125 @falszywe @randomdumsblog @sophia-grace2025 @okaytrashpanda @thegoddessofnothingness @unarxcity @moonfawnx @svearehnn @suhke3 @galaxystern08 @willowpains @ivy-34 @hellsenthero @nayaniasworld @raccoonworld @bobbywobbby @evergreenlark @greenmandm @bobbywobbby @shinyghosteclipse @catloverandreader @the-onlyy-angie @bunnboosblog @i-like-boooks @ashduv @kayjaywrites @lovelyreaderlovesreading @badbishsblog @vera0124 @i-am-infinite @scatteredstardustt

[pookalicious-hq]

blue velvet... jinx x reader

| 0.1. wrecking ball | next | masterlist

synopsis: two girls trapped within a world full of hate would do anything for eachother. too bad they're both crazy. tags/tws: mentions of mental health illnesses, mention of suicide, blood and gore, mc has split personalities word count: 1.7k

To the people of Piltover, you were a storm devil, a dark figure wielding unnatural power and chaos. In Zaun, though, they sang a different tune. There, you were their angel of death, a symbol of protection—or a promise of impending ruin. Your name meant salvation to some, doom to others. And depending on who you asked, it marked either a savior or a death sentence.

The billowing smog swirled around you, outlining your feathered wings like a ghostly shadow against the vibrant glow of Zaun’s undercity. This was no gentle welcome—the air was thick, saturated with oil, smoke, and the sharp bite of chemicals that burned your nostrils. It clung to your skin, coating everything in a fine, greasy layer. Eyes were on you already, peering from fractured pipes and shadowed alleyways, watching your every move.

The streets stretched before you, cracked cobblestones that seemed to pulse with a life both unsettling and invigorating. It felt as if the city itself was breathing—exhaling dust, shimmer, and a constant undercurrent of danger. Each step you took sent faint crackles of electricity tingling across your fingertips, the remnants of tonight’s mission still simmering through your veins.

Your wings, usually sharp and sure, were now folded tightly against your back, their feathers singed and dulled from the exertion. As you passed, people cast wary glances your way—some with awe, others with suspicion. Silco’s orders lingered in your mind like a bitter taste, a reminder of the duty that had brought you here.

You took a steadying breath, feeling the sharp current of electricity crackling through your body. Each pulse felt like an unbearable mixture of pain and power, the dark remnants of Silco’s relentless trials etched into your bones. Even now, the energy surged restlessly beneath your skin, reminding you of everything you’d endured to become his weapon.

You clenched your fists, grounding yourself against the power that begged to be released. This wasn’t the time to draw attention, though every instinct inside you screamed to let the storm loose. For now, restraint was your duty, and unruliness would be your downfall.

The smog of Zaun barely settled in your lungs when a sudden pop split the air, followed by a burst of glitter that exploded in front of you. It coated your face, your wings, and the grime-caked cobblestones beneath your feet. The sparkling mist shimmered mockingly under the dim neon lights of the undercity.

You froze, coughing as the glitter bomb went off, its sharp, chemical taste lingering in the back of your throat. You flapped your wings to dispel the cloud, the gritty particles sticking to your feathers. “Holy shit—”

“Birdie!” Jinx’s gleeful voice rang out, her silhouette dropping down from a pipe above. A wide, mischievous grin stretched across her face, pink smoke trailing from her latest concoction, the scent of sulfur heavy in the air behind her. “Gotcha good, huh? You were so focused on being grumpy, didn’t even see me coming.”

Your heart was still racing, the burst of noise and color stirring every survival instinct within you. A spark of electricity jumped from your fingertips, lashing out reflexively. It wasn’t deliberate, just the aftershock of the moment. The faint crackle of power hit Jinx square in the shoulder, and she yelped, staggering back, though the sound quickly dissolved into giggles.

“Woah!” she gasped, blinking in surprise, then patting the singed edge of her sleeve. The gleam in her eyes sharpened, her smirk widening. “Do that again!”

“What?” you sputtered, still coughing out glitter, the sharp metallic taste lingering on your tongue. “No, I’m not—Jay! Are you insane?”

She tilted her head, her grin crooked and knowing, the flickering neon lights casting shadows on her face. “You know, people say that a lot about us,” she teased, her voice light but laced with something sharper beneath it. A shared understanding hummed in the air, like the crackling static that clung to your skin.

You couldn’t help but laugh—a dry, unsteady sound, still choked with the taste of glitter and the pulse of raw power in your veins. She mirrored you, that familiar, wild energy swirling between the two of you, filling the space with a chaotic kind of warmth.

Her fingers reached out, brushing through the faint static still buzzing in the air around you. The tingling sensation ran along your nerves, a constant reminder of the force contained within you.

“C’mon,” she pressed, her voice low and coaxing, the coolness of the alley around you suddenly feeling a little too close. “Just a little zap? You know it’s cool.”

You shot her an exasperated look, swiping at the glitter stuck to your cheeks, the gritty particles scraping against your skin. With a resigned sigh, you muttered, “Absolutely not. And stop throwing glitter bombs at me—it’s stuck everywhere now.” The metallic scent still clung to the air, mixing with the heavy smog that seemed to saturate every corner of the undercity.

“Everywhere?” she echoed, a mischievous smirk pulling at her lips, her eyes gleaming with that familiar spark. The playful challenge in her voice was undeniable, but you knew it was just another one of her stupid jokes. You stared back at her, unimpressed, brushing your hands against your jacket as though to rid yourself of the last traces of glitter.

She crossed her arms, tapping a foot against the cracked pavement, the rhythmic tapping contrasting sharply with her casual tone. “Whatever. Glitter’s classy. You look like... like a hot and deadly, sparkly peacock.” The words danced in the air, teasing the edges of your irritation but lightening the mood just enough to keep it from escalating.

You shot her a glare. “Shut up, if anyone’s a peacock, it’s you.”

Jinx just laughed, skipping up beside you as you resumed walking. Her pace slowed when she saw where you were heading—back to Silco’s headquarters.

Her usual chatter quieted, and her grin faltered for just a moment before she slapped it back on. “So... uh, you sure we gotta go back right now? I mean, we could hang somewhere, grab a drink, blow something up—”

The slight tremor in her voice gave her away, betraying the calm she was trying to maintain. You paused mid-step, the gritty pavement shifting under your boots as you glanced down at her. “Jinx.”

“What?” she snapped, too quickly, her voice tight, like she was trying to cover something up. “I didn’t say anything. Why are your eyes all scrunched up? That’s gonna give you wrinkles, y’know?”

You frowned, sensing the lie beneath her deflection. The faint bruise near her temple caught the low, flickering light, deep purple against her pale skin, and it twisted something inside you. The way she scratched at her wrist, tugging her sleeve down almost defensively, made your stomach churn.

Without another word, you crouched, bending slightly to open your arms. You felt the faint crackle of static tingling along your skin as your wings shifted behind you. “Come here.”

Her brows furrowed, confused, but the hesitation in her eyes said everything. “What are you—”

“Jay,” you said again, softer this time, the tenderness in your voice breaking through the exhaustion you carried. “Come on.”

It took a moment, but the stubbornness faded, and she stepped into your embrace. The warmth of her body against yours made the cold grip of the city seem distant. Her head dropped against your shoulder, and though she didn’t cry—Jinx rarely did without the comfort of four walls surrounding her—you could feel her body relax, tension leaking away in small, silent waves.

The silence settled between you, the low hum of Zaun’s distant noise—smoke-streaked lights, the hum of machinery—filling the quiet. You didn’t need to say anything more. She had already said it all with her quiet surrender.

“Hold on,” you whispered, and your wings unfolded behind you, the air rushing against your skin as you stretched them wide.

“What are you—holy shit!” she yelped, her fingers gripping your jacket as you lifted off the ground. The sudden rush of wind swirled around you, the city stretching beneath you like a vast, dark labyrinth of neon lights and smoke. You could feel the electricity crackling at the tips of your wings, the air charged with your unstable power as you shot upward.

Jinx clung to you instinctively, her bravado fading away with the city’s dizzying height. Her breath was warm against your neck, rapid and sharp, as the familiar streets blurred beneath you. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if willing the world to slow down.

You didn’t go far, just high enough to leave the alleys behind, heading for a quieter rooftop on the outskirts. The cool air hit you once you landed, the scent of rust from the old water tank mingling with the smoky haze that clung to everything. The roof was sparse—just an old, rusted water tank and a few scattered crates—but it was quiet. Safe.

You set her down carefully, your wings folding back behind you with a soft flutter. The ground beneath your feet was solid, a welcome contrast to the dizzying heights you’d just left behind.

Jinx stared out across the city, her eyes narrowed in that sharp, calculating way she often had, but there was something different in her gaze now—a vulnerability, quiet but clear. Something unspoken hung between you, but for once, you didn’t need to voice it. You both knew the weight of the world you carried, even if you didn’t always acknowledge it.

The night stretched out before you, dark and endless, as you stood together—two figures on the edge of Zaun, floating in the same currents, bound by something far deeper than the chaos of the world.

a/n: so this is the start of my jinx x reader series!! i hope you like it, we're starting at around 17 years old for both jinx and mc,,, then after w few chaps we're gonna go into season 1 arc and eventually season 2. mwahhh

taglist: @stupendousbananasharkcop

lmk if you wanna be added to the taglist loves <3

[mocharyc]

Invincible variants x reader Pt. 9✩ ‧ ₊ ˚

Heated tensions turn raw...

✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ Fractures in the Multiverse‧ ₊ ˚

☆ WC: 6k+ [Part 9] ☆ TW: angst/fluff ☆ Author's Note: I'm so confused... I write stories and read other. Seeing chapters being more popular than others enrages me; authors are always changing important things or storylines just to appeal to consumption?! Ugh, burh I'm stupid and sad, so angst chap coming up.

–––––––––––––––––

The cave pulsed with an unnatural, emerald luminescence, the portal's sickly glow casting long, distorted shadows that danced across the damp, jagged walls like phantoms.

Moisture dripped from stalactites overhead, each droplet catching the eerie light before shattering against the stone floor, their rhythm a discordant counterpoint to the low hum of dimensional energy that vibrated through bone.

Sinister Mark's laughter—deep, guttural, and triumphant—echoed through the cavern, bouncing off wet stone surfaces until it seemed to come from everywhere at once.

He stood with defiant arrogance, holding Y/N possessively against his chest, his powerful arms wrapped around her like living restraints.

The tattered remnants of his yellow and black suit hung from his muscular frame in strategic shreds, barely preserving modesty while flaunting evidence of what had transpired. Where fabric had been torn away, glimpses of Y/N's flushed skin beneath told a story more damning than words.

"Too late, boys~" he purred, each syllable dripping with venomous satisfaction. His black eyes gleamed predatory and victorious.

"As you can see, she's made her choice."

Y/N's heart hammered violently against her ribcage, the sound deafening in her own ears. Heat spread across her cheeks and down her neck in crimson waves, a visceral mixture of lingering passion and crushing humiliation.

She couldn't bear to meet the eyes of the variants who had searched for her—couldn't face their judgment, their hurt, their rage. Instead, she buried her face against Sinister's neck, inhaling his scent of leather, blood, and something uniquely him.

Mohawk Mark was the first to break the suffocating silence. His entire body convulsed with barely contained fury—veins bulging at his temples like blue ropes beneath his skin, the distinctive blue and black of his suit seeming to vibrate with his rage.

His mohawk bristled as though electrified, adding inches to his already imposing height. When he moved, it was with explosive violence, muscles coiling beneath his suit like springs wound too tight.

"YOU FUCKING BASTARD!" The words tore from his throat with such force that spittle flew from his lips, glistening in the emerald light.

His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, knuckles white beneath his gloves. "We agreed! We fucking agreed she wasn't going to be—" The words choked off, as if the magnitude of Sinister's betrayal had physically strangled him.

Behind him, the other variants formed a semicircle of frozen fury and shock, each face—so similar yet distinctly different—displaying its own shade of devastation and rage.

Omni Mark stepped forward, his movement smooth and controlled, a stark contrast to Mohawk's explosive anger. His red and gray suit absorbed the portal's light, making him appear like a shadow given form. Unlike the others, his face remained eerily composed, but a muscle twitched almost imperceptibly at his jaw—the only outward sign of the calculated violence brewing beneath his calm exterior. His eyes, partially hidden behind dark lenses, assessed the situation with precision.

"Put. Her. Down." Each word fell from his lips like a shard of ice, precise and deadly. Though his voice was quiet, it cut through the tension with razor-sharpness that made even Sinister's smile falter for a fraction of a second.

Viltrumite Mark stood slightly apart from the others, his pristine white suit gleaming unnaturally in the portal's glow. The imperial symbol on his chest seemed to pulse with its own light, casting strange patterns across his face.

Out of all the variants now, he appeared the most composed, but his eyes—cold and commanding—burned with a mixture of concern and barely contained fury.

"Y/N," he called, his voice gentler than the others, though no less intense. "Are you harmed? Did he force you?" The question hung in the air, loaded with implications that made Y/N's stomach twist into knots.

Sinister chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating through his chest and into Y/N's body where they remained intimately joined. The subtle movement drew a small, involuntary gasp from her lips—a sound that seemed to echo through the cavern, condemning her more effectively than any confession.

"Force her?" Sinister's mouth curved into a predatory smile, teeth gleaming white against his shadowed face. "Why don't you ask her yourself? Tell them, dove. Tell them how you begged for it."

Y/N's head snapped up, mortification washing over her in a scalding wave. "I—I didn't—" she stammered, her voice small and fragile in the vast, echoing space. But the words died on her lips as she met the hurt and fury warring across the variants' faces.

Phantom Mark moved forward, his fully masked face hiding his expression, but his body language spoke volumes. His shoulders hunched as if bearing a physical weight, hands trembling slightly at his sides. "Y/N," he said, his voice raw with emotion even through the mask's filter. "We searched for you. We tortured Angstrom until he opened the portal. We thought you were in danger."

Each word struck Y/N like a physical blow. Behind Phantom, she could see Emperor Mark's regal bearing, his posture rigid with disdain as he assessed the scene. Beside him, No-Mask Mark's unmasked face displayed every emotion with painful clarity—hurt, betrayal, disappointment cycling across features so familiar yet uniquely his own.

From the back of the group, Prisoner Mark gave a harsh bark of laughter, the sound grating against the stone walls. The scarred tissue of his burned face caught the light in strange ways, making his sneer appear even more grotesque. "Should've known," he muttered, his voice like gravel. "Always the same, no matter the universe. Never faithful, never true."

Y/N flinched as if slapped. "That's not—I'm not—" she tried to defend herself, but what could she say? What explanation could possibly justify being caught in such an intimate embrace with Sinister while the others had fought and bled to find her?

"ENOUGH!" Mohawk Mark's voice cracked like thunder, cutting through her stammered defense. Blue energy crackled around his clenched fists, casting his rage-contorted face in eerie azure light. "Get your filthy hands off her, Sinister, or I swear I'll—"

"You'll what?" Sinister's voice was silk over steel, deadly in its softness. He shifted Y/N slightly in his arms, causing her to gasp again as she felt him still inside her. Heat flooded her cheeks anew as she realized the others could see—could hear—the evidence of their coupling. "Attack me while I'm holding her? Risk harming the very woman you claim to care so much about?"

The cave fell silent again, the air thick with unspoken threats and barely contained violence. Y/N could feel Sinister's heart beating against her chest, steady and strong, while her own thrummed like a hummingbird's wings. Every sense seemed heightened by adrenaline and shame—the musky scent of their coupling hanging in the damp air, the heat of his skin against hers, the metallic taste of fear on her tongue.

Omni Mark hadn't moved, hadn't raised his voice, but something in his stillness was more terrifying than Mohawk's explosive rage. His gaze hadn't left Y/N's face, those familiar-yet-strange eyes boring into her as if trying to read her very soul. When he spoke again, her name was a gentle command on his lips.

"Y/N," he said softly. "Come here."

Sinister's arms tightened possessively around her, powerful muscles flexing beneath torn fabric. "She's not going anywhere," he growled, all traces of playfulness gone from his voice. His tone dropped to something darker, more primal. "She's mine now."

"She belongs to no one," Viltrumite Mark interjected, his authoritative tone echoing off the stone walls. He took another step forward, white suit gleaming like a beacon in the darkness. "Least of all you, Sinister."

Y/N found her voice at last, forcing herself to meet the gazes of the men who had, in their own ways, fought to find her. "Please," she whispered, the single word cracking with emotion. "Just... give me a moment."

To her surprise, she felt Sinister's grip loosen slightly. She placed her palms against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath her fingertips. "Let me down," she requested quietly, her eyes meeting his. Something flickered across his face—an emotion too complex to name, too brief to analyze.

"Don't do this, sweetheart," he murmured, low enough that only she could hear. There was something in his voice she'd never heard before—a vulnerability that cut through his usual arrogance. "You know what's happening between us is real. You felt it too."

The unexpected softness in his tone sent a pang through her chest. She needed to stand on her own, to face this impossible situation with whatever dignity she could salvage.

"Please," she repeated, more firmly this time.

With a barely audible sigh, Sinister slowly, almost reluctantly, lifted her off his length, the wet muscle sliding against her entrance until finally he pulled free, his softened length thumping softly against his thigh. The wet sound of their bodies separating seemed deafening in the tense silence of the cave, drawing a visible wince from several of the variants.

He then lowered her to the ground. As their bodies separated, Y/N had to bite back a gasp at the sudden emptiness, the evidence of their passion trickling down her inner thighs. She quickly pulled the remnants of her suit together, trying to cover herself as best she could. Sinister kept his cape around her, tightening it around her shoulders to keep her covered.

The moment her feet touched the cold stone floor, Mohawk Mark lunged forward again, only to be restrained by Viltrumite Mark's iron grip on his shoulder.

"Not now," Viltrumite Mark hissed, his white-gloved hand a stark contrast against the blue and black of Mohawk's suit. "Not here."

Y/N stood on shaky legs, acutely aware of every pair of eyes fixed upon her. The weight of their collective gaze was almost crushing—some filled with hurt, others with rage, one with possessive triumph, all with a hunger that made her skin prickle with awareness. She felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with her tattered clothing—laid bare emotionally, every vulnerability on display.

"I..." she began, but what could she possibly say? How could she explain something she barely understood herself? The intensity, the connection she'd felt with Sinister in those desperate moments—was it real, or merely a product of adrenaline and fear and need?

Phantom Mark stepped forward, his masked face tilted slightly as if in concern. "Are you hurt?" The simple question held layers of meaning, and Y/N felt a rush of gratitude for his understated compassion.

"No," she answered truthfully, finding her voice at last. "I'm not hurt."

"Then it's true?" Mohawk Mark's voice was raw, scraped thin by emotion. "You wanted this? Wanted him?" He spat the last word like poison, his gaze darting to Sinister with naked hatred.

Sinister remained unnaturally still, his yellow and black suit torn but his posture defiant, almost regal in its arrogance. He watched the exchange with hooded eyes, his satisfaction at the discord he'd sown evident in the slight curl of his lips.

Y/N took a deep breath, steadying herself. "What happened between us was... complicated." She chose her words carefully, acutely aware of the thin ice she was treading. "I was confused, scared... alone." 

"You weren't alone!" Mohawk Mark exploded, breaking free of Viltrumite Mark's restraining grip. "We were coming for you! We tore Angstrom apart to find you!"

"I didn't know that!" Y/N shot back, surprise at her own vehemence momentarily overriding her embarrassment. "I thought I was stranded here! I thought—" She broke off, the enormity of the situation crashing down on her anew.

The silence that followed was deafening. Y/N wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the lingering heat of passion still thrumming through her veins. She felt torn between worlds—between the variants who had searched for her, who had worried for her, and the one who had claimed her so thoroughly.

Omni Mark's voice broke the silence, calm and measured but with an underlying current of steel. "We're leaving. All of us." His gaze swept over the assembled variants, lingering significantly on Sinister. "We have unfinished business with Angstrom."

Sinister's lip curled into a sneer. "By all means," he drawled, gesturing toward the portal with mock courtesy. "Don't let me keep you."

"You're coming too," Viltrumite Mark stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Unless you want to be trapped in this dimension forever."

A flicker of calculation passed over Sinister's face before his features settled back into smug confidence. "As entertaining as this little pocket dimension has been," he said, his gaze sliding meaningfully to Y/N, "I suppose all good things must come to an end."

Y/N felt heat rise to her cheeks again, but before she could respond, Omni Mark was beside her. With surprisingly gentle hands, he wrapped his cape around her shoulders, covering her torn suit. His touch was light, almost tender—a stark contrast to the cold fury still evident in the rigid set of his shoulders.

"Let's go," he said softly, his eyes holding hers for a moment before he glanced back at the others. "The portal won't stay stable forever."

As if on cue, the edges of the swirling vortex flickered, casting jagged shadows across the cave walls. The emerald light pulsed once, twice, a warning of its impending collapse.

Y/N stepped toward it, but a hand on her arm stopped her. She turned to find Sinister Mark standing close—too close—his eyes burning with an intensity that made her breath catch.

"This isn't over," he murmured, his voice for her ears alone. "What we shared? That was real, Y/N. More real than anything these pale imitations could offer you." His gaze flicked dismissively toward the other variants before returning to her face. "Remember that when they try to make you forget."

Before she could respond, Mohawk Mark was there, physically inserting himself between them. "Back off," he snarled, nose to nose with Sinister. "You've done enough damage."

Sinister's laugh was soft and knowing. "Have I?" he asked, eyes still locked on Y/N over Mohawk's shoulder. "Or have I merely shown her what she truly wants?"

Mohawk's fist shot out with blinding speed, but Sinister was faster, catching it mid-swing with casual ease. The impact created a small shockwave that stirred the dust around them. "Careful now," he warned, voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "You wouldn't want to embarrass yourself in front of her, would you?"

The tension between them was a living thing, coiling and snapping in the space between their bodies. Y/N could almost taste the violence brewing, metallic and sharp on her tongue.

"Stop it," she said, her voice stronger than she felt. "Both of you. This isn't helping."

To her surprise, Mohawk immediately backed down, though his eyes still burned with barely contained rage. Sinister released his fist with a mocking little pat.

"After you," Sinister gestured toward the portal, his smile all teeth and challenge.

One by one, they stepped through the swirling vortex—Phantom Mark first, then Emperor and No-Mask Mark, followed by Prisoner Mark with his perpetual scowl. Viltrumite Mark hesitated, looking back at Y/N with an unreadable expression before disappearing into the emerald light.

Omni Mark guided Y/N forward with a gentle hand at the small of her back. The contact was minimal yet somehow anchoring, his presence steady and reassuring amid the chaos. As they approached the portal, Y/N felt a strange reluctance, as if crossing this threshold would force her to face realities she wasn't ready to confront.

"It'll be alright," Omni Mark murmured, seeming to sense her hesitation. His red and gray suit gleamed in the pulsing light, his expression unexpectedly gentle. "We'll figure this out. Together."

Y/N nodded, gathering her courage. She stepped into the portal, feeling the strange, electric sensation wash over her skin. The last thing she saw before the alien world dissolved around her was Mohawk Mark and Sinister Mark locked in a silent battle of wills, neither willing to turn their back on the other.

Then the world twisted, stretched, compressed, and she was falling through emerald infinity, Omni Mark's solid presence beside her the only anchor in the void.

As the portal whisked them back to the Main Universe, Y/N couldn't help but wonder: What would happen now? What would she return to? And more importantly—how could she face eight variations of the same man, all of whom now looked at her differently—some with hurt, others with betrayal, one with possessive triumph, and all with a hunger that threatened to consume her whole?

The multiverse had fractured around her, and she was caught in the cracks—pulled in too many directions at once. And somewhere deep inside, past the confusion and shame and uncertainty, a tiny voice whispered a truth she wasn't ready to acknowledge: she had enjoyed every moment of her time with Sinister Mark, and part of her—a wild, reckless part she barely recognized—longed for more.(Greedy ahh🧟‍♀️)

As the emerald light engulfed her completely, she closed her eyes against that dangerous truth and surrendered to the portal's pull, letting it carry her back to face whatever waited on the other side.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

The portal spat them out into Angstrom's laboratory with a violent surge of emerald energy, scorching the air with the acrid scent of dimensional displacement. Y/N stumbled forward, her vision swimming with ghostly afterimages, the world tilting dangerously beneath her feet. Where the alien cave had been primal and raw, Angstrom's base assaulted her senses with clinical sterility—recycled air that tasted like metal shavings against her tongue, harsh lights that burned her retinas after the dim cavern.

Lensless Mark stood frozen at the control panel, his fingers suspended over bloodied keys. Crimson droplets fell with rhythmic precision onto the console below, each one leaving a perfect circle of accusation. The mask that framed his face without the characteristic goggles made his expression more visible—his eyes widened fractionally as the group materialized, pupils contracting to pinpoints when they locked onto Y/N's disheveled form.

"Fuck, you actually found her," he said, a smile tugging his lips despite the brutality evident in his surroundings.

Around him lay the aftermath of systematic destruction—security drones dismantled with surgical precision, their components arranged in almost artistic patterns across the floor. Circuitry still occasionally sparked with dying electricity, brief flashes that illuminated the darker corners of the chamber.

The reinforced interrogation chair at the center stood as testament to their methods—metal warped from superhuman force, restraints torn clean from their moorings, trailing like severed arteries. Dark splatter patterns decorated the walls and floor. Angstrom's recent suffering painted in biological abstracts that would make a forensic analyst weep.

Mohawk Mark shouldered his way through the group, a rolling wave of barely contained violence. His face transformed with each step—veins pulsing beneath his skin like living things seeking escape, jaw muscles bulging as if trying to crack through bone, eyes so bloodshot they appeared to be bleeding from within.

"You fucking piece of—" The words dissolved into something primal, something that predated language altogether, as he lunged toward Sinister Mark who just walked through.

Viltrumite Mark's arm shot out with precision, catching Mohawk across the chest before he could complete his charge. "Not here," he commanded, his voice carrying the weight of imperial decree.

The pristine white of his suit remained untouched by the surrounding carnage, as if blood itself feared to stain such perfection. A single muscle twitched beneath his left eye—the only betrayal of the emotions raging beneath his composed exterior.

Y/N couldn't tear her gaze from Sinister as he materialized last, walking through peacefully despite Mohawk's comment, the portal closing behind him with a sound like reality tearing.

His yellow and black suit hung from his powerful frame in calculated shreds, the fabric somehow enhancing rather than diminishing his presence. He'd recovered his signature black lenses from somewhere, the opaque darkness hiding his eyes while doing nothing to mask the triumphant curl of his lips. Most jarring was the deliberate display of his exposed manhood—a trophy of conquest, a calculated provocation that sent fresh heat rushing to Y/N's cheeks.

Her body's traitorous response was immediate—memory flooding her with sense impressions of his skin against hers, his weight, his scent, the way he had filled her so completely.

She clutched Omni Mark's cape tighter around herself, suddenly hyperaware of how the fabric caught against the tender places where Sinister's passion had marked her.

Omni Mark's arm remained steady around her waist, his calm presence a stark contrast to the chaos erupting around them. Unlike the others, his face remained a mask of perfect composure, only his eyes behind those dark lenses betraying the storm within—possessive rage tempered by genuine concern, calculating intelligence shadowed by something deeper, something almost tender when his gaze fell on her.

"You need to rest," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. His fingers tightened slightly at her waist, steadying her when her legs threatened to give way.

Phantom Mark stepped toward Sinister, movements fluid and deliberate. He tore a piece of fabric from a fallen drone's banner and thrust it toward him. "Cover yourself," he ordered, voice distorted through his mask yet vibrating with barely contained violence. "Or I remove it permanently."

Sinister's laugh echoed off the metal walls, a sound like broken glass being ground underfoot. "Jealous?" he taunted, making no move to cover himself. "Or afraid she'll make comparisons none of you will survive?"

Mohawk Mark's control shattered like thin ice beneath a hammer blow. He broke free of Viltrumite's restraint with an explosive surge of strength, launching himself across the room with a bestial roar that seemed to vibrate the very molecules of the air. His body collided with Sinister's with force enough to dent the reinforced metal wall. The impact knocked Sinister's head back with a crack that should have been fatal to any normal being, blood spraying in a fine crimson mist from his split lip.

Yet even as rivulets of scarlet traveled down his chin, staining the yellow of his suit dark orange, Sinister's smile only widened, revealing teeth smeared red.

"There he is," Sinister purred, voice thick with blood yet somehow more alive because of it. "The animal hiding behind the hero. Show her what you really are, Mohawk. Show her the monster that got your Y/N killed."

The words struck with precision, finding Mohawk's deepest wound and twisting. His fist connected with Sinister's jaw—not in blind rage but with calculated force meant to shatter bone. The sound reverberated through the chamber like a gunshot. Sinister's head snapped sideways, but instead of breaking, he absorbed the blow with unnatural resilience, his equal strength matching Mohawk's fury.

"ENOUGH!" Viltrumite Mark's voice cracked like thunder, the air itself seeming to compress under the sound. He moved with impossible speed, one hand clamping around Mohawk's throat while the other seized Sinister's shoulder with force that would have pulverized normal bone. "One more word," he hissed at Sinister, his composed façade finally fracturing to reveal something ancient and terrible beneath, "and I tear out your tongue."

Sinister's only response was to spit a mouthful of blood directly at Viltrumite's immaculate white suit. The scarlet droplets bloomed like grotesque flowers against the pristine fabric, each one a declaration of war.

Y/N's legs finally surrendered beneath the weight of exhaustion and trauma. She swayed dangerously, the sterile room spinning around her in nauseating circles. Omni Mark's grip tightened instantly, his support unwavering.

Unlike the others whose emotions exploded outward in violence, Omni's rage burned cold and precise. His face remained eerily composed, but his eyes behind those black lenses contained universes of complex emotion—calculating intelligence overlaying a possessive fury that bordered on madness, genuine concern that seemed almost foreign on features so similar to Sinister's, and beneath it all, a depth of feeling that made her breath catch.

"You need to clean up and rest," he murmured again, his voice a velvet rumble against her ear. The gentleness of his touch contrasted so starkly with the violence saturating the air that it nearly broke her.

Y/N nodded weakly, suddenly desperate to escape the suffocating testosterone, the metallic tang of blood mingling with the lingering musk of sex still clinging to her skin. "I need to shower," she whispered, the simple request utterly inadequate against the magnitude of what had happened.

Lensless Mark jerked his blood-spattered chin toward a corridor branching from the main chamber. "Quarters down there. Showers too." His voice carried a strange duality—childlike enthusiasm wrapped around sadistic knowledge, his eyes never leaving her face as if memorizing her dishevelment. Unlike when they'd first met, when he'd tried to kill her seeing only a ghost of his lost love, now his gaze held something more complex—a reluctant recognition of her as someone distinct, someone real.

Phantom Mark stepped forward, his masked form interposing itself between Y/N and the others. "I'll show her," he said, the modulator in his mask unable to disguise the protective edge in his voice. His shoulders formed a living barrier, his stance a silent promise of violence should anyone object.

Emperor Mark, who had been observing the unfolding drama with regal detachment, finally spoke. His imperial sigil caught the harsh light as he moved, casting knife-edged shadows across his face. "And leave her alone with another variant?" His lip curled with aristocratic disdain. "Haven't we learned that lesson already?"

Phantom's hands curled into fists at his sides, tension radiating from him in almost visible waves. "Unlike some," he replied, cold fury evident even through the mask's filter, "I remember what honor means."

Before the situation could escalate further, Prisoner Mark spat on the floor with deliberate aim, the glob landing with perfect precision near Sinister's bare foot. The scarred tissue of his face pulled tight across his skull as he sneered, burn tissue twisting into a grotesque parody of expression. His eyes, set deep in pockets of scar tissue, gleamed with malevolent intelligence.

"Honor? With these animals?" He gestured at Sinister with contempt, flakes of dead skin drifting from his movement like macabre confetti. "We ripped Angstrom apart piece by fucking piece to find her, and he was busy ripping apart something else entirely."

The crude comment sent another wave of shame washing over Y/N. She pulled away from Omni Mark's supportive arm, drawing whatever shreds of dignity remained around her like armor. The cape felt suddenly heavy, burdened with too many implications.

"I don't need an escort," she stated, voice stronger than she felt. "Just tell me where to go."

No-Mask Mark stepped forward, his exposed face—so like Mark's yet hollowed from within by grief—meeting her gaze directly. Where the others wore variations of masks with lenses to hide themselves, his naked features revealed everything—the raw pain, the longing for something irretrievably lost, the flicker of hope her existence had rekindled.

"Third door on the left," he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of understanding. "The facilities are basic, but private."

Gratitude washed through her. "Thank you," she whispered, the simple courtesy a lifeline amid the chaos.

As she turned to leave, Sinister's voice slithered after her, wet with blood yet still dripping with smug satisfaction. "Running away so soon, dove? Don't you want to tell them how good it felt?" He finally reached for the scrap of fabric Phantom had offered, wrapping it around his exposed member with deliberate slowness, his movements a mockery of modesty.

"How you screamed my name when you came?"

The silence that followed was absolute, heavy with the promise of violence. Y/N couldn't bear to turn around, couldn't face the expressions that would be carved into faces so similar yet so different. Instead, she moved forward on unsteady legs, clutching Omni Mark's cape around her like a shield.

Behind her, she heard a sickening crunch followed by a wet gurgle. She didn't look back to see which variant had landed the blow, didn't pause to witness the fresh spray of crimson. She simply kept walking, one foot in front of the other, until the corridor swallowed her and the sounds of conflict faded into muted echoes.

The hallway stretched before her, utilitarian and cold. Overhead lights buzzed with intermittent electricity, casting her shadow in broken fragments against the metal floor. Each step sent painful reminders through her body—muscles used in ways both violent and intimate, skin still bearing the ghost of Sinister's grip, the core of her aching with a confusion of shame and lingering pleasure.

The door marked 'Q-3' slid open at her approach with a pneumatic hiss that reminded her of a predator's exhalation. Inside, a spartan room greeted her—narrow bed with military corners, metal desk bolted to the floor, a single chair that would offer no comfort. A doorway to the side revealed glimpses of a compact bathroom. It wasn't luxury, but it was sanctuary—a momentary respite from the storm of masculine rage and desire swirling outside.

Y/N let Omni Mark's cape fall to the floor, the heavy fabric pooling around her feet like spilled blood. She stared down at herself—at the tattered remnants of her suit, at the purpling marks forming on her skin where Sinister's fingers had dug into her flesh, at the dried evidence of their coupling still visible on her inner thighs. The sight sent fresh waves of conflicting emotion crashing through her—shame and lingering arousal battling for dominance, confusion and a terrible clarity warring in her mind.

She moved to the bathroom on unsteady legs, unable to bear her own skin a moment longer. The light flickered on automatically, harsh and unforgiving, revealing her reflection in the small mirror above the sink. A stranger stared back—hair wild and tangled, eyes huge and haunted in her pale face, lips swollen from brutal kisses. Whisker burn reddened her neck and chest, mapping the trail of Sinister's mouth across her body like a crimson road map of their shared depravity.

Y/N turned away from her reflection, unable to face the evidence of what she'd become—or perhaps, more terrifyingly, what she'd always been beneath the surface. The shower sputtered to life with reluctant obedience, lukewarm water at best, but she stepped under the spray without complaint. She watched as the physical reminders of Sinister washed away, swirling down the drain in pale rivulets tinged with pink where his rough handling had broken skin.

As steam rose around her, Y/N finally surrendered to the storm inside her. A sob tore from her throat, the sound bouncing off the tile walls before being swallowed by the running water. It was followed by another, and another, until she was on her knees in the shower stall, arms wrapped around herself as if she might physically hold the broken pieces together.

Outside in the corridor, Phantom Mark had followed and stood silent sentinel, his masked face betraying nothing of the anguish within. He heard each sob through the thin walls, each one cutting deeper than any physical wound. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, the only outward sign of his inner turmoil. He had failed her—they all had. But while the others fought over her like wolves over prey, he would stand guard, offering what little protection he could in a world gone mad.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Chaos had erupted. Mohawk Mark had Sinister pinned against the wall, one hand at his throat while the other formed a fist streaming with his own blood—evidence of knuckles split open from repeated impact against Sinister's unyielding form. Despite the ferocity of the assault, Sinister remained largely intact, his enhanced durability matching Mohawk's rage. His face showed signs of the battle—split lip, darkening bruise along his jaw, a trickle of blood from his nostril—but his smile remained, a deliberate provocation.

"Is this..." Sinister taunted, voice thick with contempt despite Mohawk's crushing grip on his throat, "...the best...you can do?"

Mohawk screamed—a primal sound of pure rage—and slammed his fist into Sinister's face again. Though the blow would have collapsed the skull of a normal human, Sinister merely took it, his head snapping back before returning to position, that infuriating smile still in place.

"I'LL KILL YOU!" Mohawk roared, spittle flying from his lips as he drew back for another blow. "I'LL FUCKING TEAR YOU APART!"

Viltrumite Mark moved with blinding speed, wrapping his arms around Mohawk from behind in a restraining bear hug. "Enough!" he commanded, muscles straining as he struggled to contain Mohawk's berserk strength. "This solves nothing!"

"LET ME GO!" Mohawk thrashed in Viltrumite's grip, head thrown back in animal fury. "HE TOUCHED HER! HE PUT HIS FUCKING HANDS ON HER!"

"And killing him will change that?" Emperor Mark asked coldly from where he stood, arms crossed over his chest, eyes calculating. "Will it erase what happened? Will it make her choose you instead?"

Mohawk's struggles slowed, his breathing ragged as Emperor's words penetrated his rage. "She was mine," he whispered, voice breaking. "In my world, she was always mine."

"She's not your Y/N," No-Mask Mark said quietly, his unmasked features twisted with a pain that echoed Mohawk's own. "None of them were ever ours. Not really."

Prisoner Mark laughed bitterly, the sound scraping like metal on stone. He ran a hand over his burned scalp, flakes of dead skin drifting to the floor. "Keep telling yourself that," he muttered. "Keep pretending we're not all just trying to replace what we've lost."

Sinister, still pinned to the wall but no longer being actively beaten, managed to grin through blood-stained teeth. "At least I'm honest," he said, voice rich with satisfaction. "I wanted her. I took her. No pretending she's someone else."

Omni Mark, who had been eerily silent throughout the exchange, finally moved. With deliberate slowness, he approached Sinister, his steps measured, his face a mask of calm that didn't reach his eyes. Those eyes—they burned with something ancient and terrible, a controlled fury that made even Mohawk's berserker rage seem childish in comparison.

"Do you love her?" Omni asked, voice so quiet it forced everyone to still their breathing to hear him.

Sinister stared back, his eyes narrowing slightly behind his cracked lenses. Blood touched the corner of his mouth as he tried to speak, then thought better of it, settling for a mocking half-shrug instead.

Omni nodded as if the non-answer confirmed something. "I thought not."

Without warning, his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Sinister's throat where Mohawk's had been moments before. With surgical precision, he began to squeeze, watching dispassionately as Sinister's breathing became labored.

"You took something precious," Omni continued conversationally as if they were discussing the weather rather than committing murder. "Something irreplaceable. Not from us—from her." His fingers tightened incrementally, the tendons in his forearm standing out like cables beneath his skin. "Her trust. Her sense of safety. Her ability to choose freely."

For the first time, Sinister's smugness faltered. His hands gripped Omni's wrist, genuine effort showing as he fought against the only variant whose strength truly matched his own. Behind his cracked lenses, something flashed in his eyes—not fear, exactly, but perhaps the first glimmer of respect.

"I should kill you for that alone," Omni mused, his voice still terrifyingly calm. "But death would be too merciful." With a soft grunt he released his grip, stepping back as Sinister sagged slightly, his breathing harsh but controlled.

"We need him," Lensless Mark pointed out. Blood spattered his face in an almost artistic pattern, his eyes wide and gleaming with dangerous curiosity. "At least until we figure out how to navigate the multiverse without Angstrom."

"Speaking of," Viltrumite Mark interjected, finally releasing his hold on Mohawk, who stood trembling with suppressed rage but no longer actively violent. "We have unfinished business with our portal-creating friend."

Emperor Mark's lip curled with disdain as he gazed down at Sinister's somewhat disheveled form. "Get him cleaned up," he ordered, as if commanding royal servants rather than dangerous interdimensional variants of himself. "And for god's sake, find him pants that stay closed."

No-Mask Mark moved reluctantly to help Sinister to his feet, his unmasked face a study in conflicted disgust. "Come on," he muttered, hauling Sinister's arm over his shoulder. "Let's get you patched up before we deal with Angstrom."

Sinister's laugh was dark and knowing as he allowed himself to be supported. "Such... gentlemen," he mocked, wiping blood from his chin with the back of his hand. "No wonder... she preferred... a real man."

Mohawk lunged forward again with a snarl, but Viltrumite was faster, stepping between them with arms outstretched. "Enough," he commanded, voice laced with deadly promise. "Save your strength for what matters."

"And what exactly matters?" Prisoner Mark asked bitterly, his scarred face contorted in a sneer. "Getting home to worlds we've already destroyed? Finding new dimensions to ruin? Fighting over a woman who isn't ours to claim?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with implications none of them wanted to face. They stood frozen in tableau—bloody and broken and lost, versions of the same man twisted by grief and rage and power, united only by their shared obsession with a woman who carried the face of their greatest loss.

Omni Mark broke the tension, his voice cutting through the weighted silence. "What matters is what comes next," he stated simply, his natural authority drawing all eyes to him. "And to determine that, we need information only Angstrom has."

Emperor Mark nodded in agreement, his regal bearing reasserting itself as he moved toward the corridor leading to Angstrom's holding cell. "To Angstrom, then," he declared.

"And afterward..." His gaze swept over the assembled variants, lingering on each face. "Afterward, we decide what we truly want—and what we're willing to sacrifice to get it."

As they moved toward Angstrom's cell, the air between them vibrated with unspoken threats and fragile alliances.

They walked like warlords entering enemy territory—cautious, alert, bound by circumstance rather than trust. But the true battlefield wasn't against Angstrom or any external force. It was the emotional chasm between them, charged with jealousy, possession, grief, and desire. And at the center of that battlefield stood Y/N—catalyst, prize, and potential destroyer of their fragile equilibrium.

In her shower, as lukewarm water washed away the physical evidence of her encounter with Sinister, Y/N finally stopped crying. She rose to her feet, legs still trembling but stronger now, and turned off the water with a decisive twist. Her reflection in the small mirror was clearer now—still battered, still haunted, but somehow more her own.

She was no longer just a human experimented on by the GDA, no longer just manufactured Viltrumite muscle and bone. She was a woman with choices—terrible, difficult choices, perhaps, but hers to make nonetheless. And as she toweled her body dry, wincing at the tender spots where Sinister's passion had left its mark, Y/N made her first real choice since being thrust into this interdimensional nightmare.

She would not be their prize. She would not be their redemption. She would not be the ghost of women long dead, wearing her face and carrying her name.

She would be Y/N—survivor, fighter, and architect of her own fate.

With newfound resolve hardening inside her like crystal, she began to prepare herself to face the variants again. In Angstrom's holding cell, revelations awaited that would shatter everything she thought she knew about herself, about the variants, and about the precarious threads binding the multiverse together.

The game was changing. The players were wounded, dangerous, and desperate.

And Y/N was no longer just a piece on the board—she was a player with her own moves to make.

–––––––––––––––

Dang, I'm tired... (っ- ‸ - ς)

Hope yall are getting 8 hours of sleep, every night <3

The next chapter is going to be heavy fluff and lots of kissing.

Final: Part 10!!

[ilium-ilia]

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Twenty-Five: water

tw: simon's past (descriptions of child abuse), minor wound description, blood

There it is again—always haunting him—that bathtub. 

No matter where he is, even if he is worlds away from his childhood home, it’s all Simon can see. Unforgiving tile. Algid water. A spout with a scar that matches the one on his nose. Walls still soaked with his scream, fathers feet echoing on the floor; it’s always the one. It’s always the same. 

Except this time, you’re here. 

This was your idea—bathing together. Showering. Aftercare, you called it. Something Aelin told you about ages ago. A way to bond; something that means more than a simple union of skin and flesh. Bent over the tub, fingers wiggling through the water pouring free from the spout like a river over a gushing waterfall, he thinks you’re out of place. A daisy growing on a grave. A jewel in muck. A fox in a cage. Somewhere you shouldn’t be. 

“There,” you hum, content as you retract your fingers from the water. “That’s not too warm, is it?” 

Indulging you, Simon bends behind you, torso curling over yours as he dips his fingers beneath the spout. “Yeah. Just right, baby.” 

You undress together. Sparse clothing leftover from your nighttime escapades piles together, mixing until you cannot tell the difference between what belongs to you and what belongs to him. Simon watches you. How your shoulders roll out the stiffness of the morning and how it bleeds down your spine as the steam from the shower wraps around you, pushing away the gooseflesh perking on your skin. 

He lets you enter first—excuses that he can’t get his stitches wet quite yet. Not while they’re fresh. He watches you dip below the stream, skin glistening as crystalline beads roll down your body, pearling around your neck, dipping along the curve of your back. When you smile at him and hold out a soggy hand for him to join you, he nearly falls in love all over again. 

Neither of you speak over the roar that fills the space around you. Instead, you focus your efforts on cleaning yourself. Simon witnesses the way your bodywash lathers in your hands, how the suds cling to your thighs and shoulders, how they don’t quite reach your back. Wordlessly, he assists. Hands scrubbing the places you can’t reach, he soaks up the way your eyes flutter shut and dance beneath the lids, head rolling back, exposing your neck to your loyal dog. 

As he caresses the curve of your hips, he realizes he holds the world. Everything that matters, anyway. All the creaking and stress fractures in his body melt and mend as you place your head on him. Skin sticking together, bones resonating—for once, there’s no place he’d rather be than here, in the bathroom, standing in a grave of his childhood memories. Not when he’s got you in his arms. 

“Your heart’s beating fast.” It’s a simple observation, something you hum without consequence. Simon realizes the weight against his sternum—your palm flat against his chest—and he breathes in. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, curt. 

“Are you nervous?” 

Simon thinks this might be it—the point of no return. The Event Horizon that’s been ripping him to shreds since the day he met you; laggardly and cruel. This is the moment where he spills all over you, ichor tainting your skin, soaking you until you can’t ever be clean of him. He swallows. His jaw goes rigid. 

“Not a fan of bathtubs,” he says, his admittance heavy on his tongue. 

You giggle, light and sweet, before lifting your head up. Steam fogs his vision as he looks at your face and your unknowing smile, and he feels his knees go weak as your head returns to his body. “Is it like a phobia thing?” 

“Somethin’ like that.” Teeth grinding, heart pounding, his blood thickens. Clogging his veins, every artery, making every single cell within him a sticky mess. “My dad used to…” His voice fades. It dies off in the thunderous roar of the showerhead spewing above. 

Slowly, your swaying halts. “Used to what?” 

He’s never said it out loud before—the things he’s endured. Even when his mother would try to apologize for his father’s ruthless behavior, he would brush it off. Pretend as if it never happened. As if the scar doesn’t still linger on the point of his face. 

“He’d punish me in bathtubs,” Simon finally shares, ripping the bandaid off of a long rotting wound. He doesn’t know why he says it—why he says it to you, of all people, but he’s already bled in front of you once. “If I did somethin’ to upset him, he’d hit me, then send me to my room, or somewhere else in the house. I’d cry, usually. He hated it when I cried. He’d give me a few minutes to calm down before I started to annoy him, then would bitch and moan about how he’d have to shut me up.

“So he’d start running a bath. Fucker would drag me out of my room, then hold my head beneath the spout until I stopped breathing. I’d pass out sometimes ‘n mum would have’ta pull me out of the water. He smashed my nose on the spout once trying to throw me in. Broke my fuckin’ collar bone, too. He made mum lie to the doctors at the hospital. Said I hurt myself climbing trees with Tommy, or some stupid shit. Just dumb shit, baby. Don’t worry ‘bout it.” 

Simon doesn’t realize how stiff you are until he’s finished, memories wandering off in the back of his mind and words fading on the tip of his tongue. Slowly, you once again lift your head off of him, eyes glassy like wet stones as you look at him. Your brows are knitted, heavily etched into your face, and he feels his heart skip a beat. 

“He really did that to you?” your voice fractures. Pathetic, and sharp in your throat. You think back to the Christmas Holiday, and all the pictures you saw on Mrs. Riley’s wall. How young Simon looked—how small he was. Nothing at all like the man whose arms you rest in now. “Y-You were just a kid…” 

“Baby…” His hand moves from your hip to your face, cupping your cheek, thumb swiping beneath your eye. “Are you crying?” 

“Yes!” you squeal. Arms tossing up around his neck, bare chest pressing against his, you squeeze him as tight as you can manage, nearly knocking him off of his feet in the slippery tub. “Si, that’s awful. Oh my god, I’m so sorry you had to go through that.” 

He can feel the way you’re suppressing your sobs. Tight muscles winding around your ribs, pulling taut at your spine as you push your nose into his neck. He feels like a little kid in your arms again being held by his mother after another one of his father’s ruthless tirades. But the water is warmer, and he’s bigger now, with meaty hands made to crush bone, and scars that prove his strength—his endurance. 

It’s made him stronger; strong enough to protect you. 

But he doesn’t know what to say, and neither do you—so you hold one another until the water runs cold. 

When the shower quiets, and the two of you step out of the tub and onto the tile, Simon lets you dry him off. Tenderly, you wipe at his skin, every inch of his body, until he’s patted clean. Until it’s as if he never stepped foot in water to begin with. You check his stitches and butterfly bandages before bringing your attention to yourself. As he dresses, he watches you and your upset eyes—how red still plagues them in webby veins—and he puts himself behind you. 

Hands on your shoulders, he pulls you close to him, forcing your gaze to meet his through the mirror. “Wanna watch a movie? Somethin’ to cheer you up?” 

“Cheer me up?” you repeat incredulously. “Shouldn’t we be doing something for you?” 

Chuckling, he closes his eyes before burying his face into the back of your head. “I think you’re more torn up about this than I am, sweetheart.” 

You eventually agree to the movie when Simon admits that he just wants a slow day with you. A relaxing time where he can rest his sore, wounded body, and ideally not get himself into trouble again. 

Though, once the two of you are dressed and ready for the show, the television begins to throw a fit. A flickering screen throws you in the midst of a rave, and Simon only bothers to mess with the remote for a fleeting moment before he’s groaning and crawling on his hands and knees to mess with the medley of cables tangled behind the screen. 

Quietly, you monitor him. Eyes focusing on the curve of his ribs and where you know his wound lies beneath thin cotton, you wait for blood. A popped suture. A hiss in pain. Instead, you wander, focus grazing over his back, up to his shoulders, broad and wide, a blanket of meat and muscle to cover you whole. As he sits back on his haunches, arms rolling the ache out of his back, you wonder if this is what he looked like last night, curled over you, taking you in a way no one else has before. 

Heat quickly pulses throughout your body and pools in your face, and you find yourself shaking your head to rid yourself of the debauched thoughts in your mind. It feels like a dream, everything that happened last night. His hands on you, inside of you, unraveling you like thin string and wrapping you around his little finger. 

Feet anxiously tapping on the floor, you reach forward and grab your own string from the coffee table. Its old home used to rest deep in your pocket, always tucked by your side for when you needed it, but these days you find your hands occupied with better things. Kinder things. With Simon Riley. For now, you use it to hold you over until your blood mellows enough. Cat’s Cradle, the soldier’s bed, candlesticks—and when that isn’t enough, the hammock, the witch’s broom, and—

“Oh my god!” 

Your sudden exclamation has Simon’s head snapping over his shoulder. Stray wires pinched in his fingers, his brows furrow as he watches you, slack jawed and wide eyed, holding your hands out tangled in string. “Yeah baby?” 

You shake your hands, string wiggling and tightening, straining against your fingers as you pull on the formation. “Jacob’s Ladder! That’s what you fucking meant?” 

At first your revelation is lost on him until the neurons slowly connect in his brain. Realization crosses his face in a poorly suppressed smile until he’s howling with laughter so vicious he nearly pulls another stitch. 

Then, slowly, winter begins to warm into spring. 

Life defrosts before your very eyes as rain and lowering skies begins to plague London for the better part of two weeks. February wanes into March with your eyes heavily gawking at the calendar as the 25th zips past you with no trip to the laundromat, or hands on your thighs, or an envelope clutched in your hands. Your anxiety is nothing more than a tickle in the back of your mind as it passes you by. You are far too busy with Bee’s daily check-ins (she hasn’t left you alone since Marco dropped by Sapori) and Simon’s tongue on yours to give it a second thought. 

This is the closest to a new life that you’ve been able to obtain in over a decade. Without minty breath breathing down your neck or a job to keep you busy, you indulge in all the things you’ve been missing. Recipes you’ve been dying to try, music, reading—everything. If it isn’t already at your fingertips, Simon fetches it for you, dog teeth eagerly embedding and slick with drool, dropping it at your feet with a smile on his face. 

But there are things that linger. Old wounds that refuse to close. Scars that won’t ever quite fade. They chase after you, retrieving brutal reminders of just how you ended up here in the first place. Slack-jawed death and bloody flowers—a bereavement period that was nipped too short. Linoleum that you can never clean. A childhood home bought and sold with new feet to walk the tiles, ignorant to the filth they trample over. And fingers. Wretched and cruel, digging into flesh, piercing through you to your very core, ruining you until you’re perfect. 

Simon is there every time to kiss the tears and smother the memories. There, in the darkness, reaching for you, calming you in the night when the dam you’ve built shatters and the water gushing in the wake of its destruction drowns you. 

Because that old life is always here, lurking beneath your skin. 

Even now, it’s here. As you stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror, fingertips poking at the side of your cheek, you feel it. Wiggling. Ripping. Tearing flesh. You scrape your nail along your skin and you note the way it snags, a sharp pinprick of pain echoing throughout your face. 

You dig until it hurts, then keep going. Even when blood dribbles along your face, small rivers, large beads, you continue until the crystalline shard of your past sits in the palm of your hand. It’s small, near microscopic, but it’s here. 

So much damage, for a ghost. 

“Baby?” 

The concern in Simon’s voice has your head snapping to the side, but the blood on the side of your face doesn’t ebb his worry. Hands already outstretched to hold you, he closes the distance between the two of you in a mere instant. Preemptively drowning the words that are building up in his throat, you smile at him, bloody palm outstretched. 

“It’s nothing. Just a bit of glass,” you assure. 

“In your face?” he challenges. 

You shrug as you look down at it, rolling the shard along your hand. “Leftover pieces from the accident. There was so much in my face that they couldn’t get it all. They said they’d do more harm than good trying to get it all, and said to wait. That they’d work their way out like splinters. I get them every now and then, and usually they don’t make a mess like this but… well, I got a little impatient.” 

His pinched brows do not recede until you agree to let him clean you. Glass shard staring up at you from the counter, you lean into his touch as he wipes away the blood; dabbing along your cheek and jaw. The inflamed tissue pulses as it rises with an angry bump, but the bleeding has stopped, now scabbed over your skin. 

“Are you sure you don’t need a band-aid?” Simon asks. 

“I will look ridiculous, please don’t make me put that on.” 

Holding his hands up in defence, he smirks as he places the unwanted item back in its box and shoves it into the medicine cabinet. Sighing, you lean against the counter, body curved forward as you scrutinize the mark on your face. Slipping behind you, Simon pulls at your hands, removing them from your face before he wraps his arms around you. 

“Quit pokin’ at it,” he murmurs, head falling against your shoulder, lips heavy on the side of your neck. “Else I will put a band-aid on it.” 

“I can’t,” you whine. “It’s like a pimple.” 

“Well, we’ll work on that, too.” 

Something rings—it echoes throughout your leg, vibrations drawing your attention. A phone call. Stomach plummeting through the floor, your twitchy fingers reach for it, mind recalling the events that occurred the last time you got a phone call. 

Marco. Pictures. 

Simon. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey, Chip!” Aelin’s voice sings through the speaker, cooing like a mourning dove in the early hours just before dawn, lowering your heart rate and breathing. Guilt quickly seeps through your skin when you attempt to count the weeks that have passed since you’ve last heard her speak. 

“Hey,” you greet, a smile flittering across your lips. “What’s up?” 

“Oh, nothing really. Just missing you. Wanted to see if you’ll come to dinner with me tonight?” she asks. 

Eyes growing heavy, you lean against Simon and into his warmth while his arms hold you tight. A part of you doesn’t want to leave him—to tear yourself away from him—but compunction gets the better of you. 

“Yeah, that sounds nice. Over at your place again?” 

“Actually, I was thinking we could go out? There’s a new restaurant that opened up not too long ago, and I’ve been wanting to scope it out,” she explains flippantly. “Are you still staying with Riley? I could come pick you up here in a few hours.” 

You look up at the mirror to gauge Simon’s reaction, and the weight in his eyes has you freezing. He glares over your shoulder, brows tense and pupils dilated, ready to kill. Slowly, he shakes his head, and you nearly open your mouth to convey his answer before something strikes you. 

Tongue darting out to wet your lips, you nod. “Yeah, that sounds nice. Really nice. Does six sound okay?” 

As you finish setting your plans in stone with Aelin, Simon’s eyes squeeze shut as he gently knocks his forehead against the back of your skull. Rolling your eyes, you bid your friend a farewell before hanging up and sighing. 

“I can’t keep running from her, Simon,” you huff. “If I have you take me everywhere and hide me away, she’s going to get suspicious. Honestly, I’m surprised she hasn’t already. She’s always been sharply in tune with my emotions.” 

“I could drive both of you,” he suggests. 

“No, you are not gonna do that. Aelin is picking me up, and we’re going to this restaurant, and you are staying here so that she isn’t weirded out,” you retort. Forcing his arms to loosen, you turn to face him properly without the buffer of a mirror. “Si, I’m gonna be fine. I’ll be free from all that shit soon anyway, right? Besides, we’ll be in public. If they do anything, we can just make a scene, or I’ll call you, okay?” 

He stares at you for so long you nearly melt. Cinder and ash at his feet. Tender enough to be crushed beneath the sole of his foot. When his lips seem too stiff to speak, you reach up, fingers tracing over the bump on his nose before you tilt your head and plant a kiss to loosen them. 

“Okay?” you prompt again. 

Finally, he speaks. “You’re textin’ me the name of this place. And I’m gonna text you while you’re out. I want you to text me back. Yeah?” 

After sealing the deal with a kiss, Simon releases you. You linger in his fingers like the pain of a wound, of something ripped from him too soon. He heals himself quietly in the corner as you ready yourself for a simple night out, pouting like a kicked puppy with a brooding stare and clenched fists. 

His aura only thickens when Aelin’s car parks up front. It’s heavy and viscous against your skin. He’s touching you the entire way to the door, pulling on your sleeve, your little finger, attempting to yank you back into his hold. Giggling, you say goodbye with another kiss as he reminds you about your deal—worried about you as always, your Simon Riley. 

Aelin glows with a grin as you enter the passenger’s seat, but it wavers the moment she catches sight of the side of your face. Instinctive fingers reach out to touch you, but you quickly wave her off as you cover it. 

“It’s just more glass,” you excuse. 

“Still?” she questions. 

You shrug. “I’ll probably have it for the rest of my life.” Rubbing at the wound, you flinch when your fingers flick at the scab, and you huff. “Stop staring. Simon already tried to put a band-aid on it, and that was bad enough.” 

Giggling, Aelin brushes it off before driving off. Quiet streets slowly morph into something more noisy, jam packed with vehicles and pedestrians. She fills the silence with idle conversation as her hands grip the wheel, and for once your mind doesn’t torment you with fabricated images of what her fingers would look like bent and broken. 

She talks about her time with John these days lazing around at home, and how she’s gotten him to spend more time with her than at work. They’ve been working around the house. Painting rooms. Building furniture. Her voice wanders off as she pulls up to the restaurant—the name of which you make sure to quickly send off to Simon—and she eagerly exits the car and demands that you follow behind. 

The air is different inside of this place compared to Sapori. Music plays louder, the waiters aren’t dressed as formally—casual, boisterous laughter, voluble chatter that drones on in the background. You and Aelin are brought through a winding path between patrons to a quiet table for two nestled against the window. Cotton candy clouds bleed into the sky outside, casting your friend in fiery gold as she takes her seat across from you. 

There is hardly any time for you to breathe before she’s asking you questions, inquiries shoved down your throat, eyes demanding answers, lips quirking with a mischievous smirk. She asks about you and Simon, how things have been going, the state of your apartment, if you’re going to move back or stay with him and—

“So, have you two had sex yet?”

Head nearly falling into your hands, you try to laugh off her question, but you can’t outrun your gauche nature no matter how hard you try. You feel it settle in your face, white hot and unrelenting, and your only savior is the waiter who approaches to take your orders, silencing your stuttering. 

Either offering you sympathy, or having completely forgotten about your question after ordering, Aelin moves to different topics. Ones punctuated by Simon’s incessant need to keep an eye on you. Phone constantly vibrating, thumbs tapping away at the screen, a smile flitting across your face. 

i still think you’re silly for worrying so much about me

“I’ve never seen you like this before,” Aelin muses. 

When you look up from your phone you see her leaning forward, chin resting in the palm of her hand, slender fingers curling along the side of her face. Her eyes glisten like fresh water in a pond, viridian weeds lurking underneath the depths, dancing in the flow of the currents. Blinking, you tilt your head. 

“Like what?” you ask. 

Her eyes flicker down to your phone before pinning you beneath her gaze. “So in love.” 

Swallowing, you grip your phone tightly before deciding to slide it on the table. Out of the way, but still face up so you can monitor Simon’s messages. “Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to… you know…” 

“Don’t be sorry. It looks good on you. It’s good, anyway. Seeing you like this.” Pausing, you watch her eyes go blurry. Unfocused and distracted. She peers at the table, fingers tapping against the plastic grain before her as her teeth sink into her lip. “Chip- I… there’s something I’ve been-” 

Nails on a chalkboard—something scrapes along the freshly waxed floor at your feet. Like claws against your skin. Glass in your face. A hand up your skirt. 

A new chair joins the table, followed by a body—a man. Short hair, dark eyes, he leans his hands on the table as if he’s welcome. As if he’s meant to join you. A second man stands behind him with cold eyes and his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans. The third man comes with the silage of minty air that curls in your nostrils so violently your eyes water, but it’s nothing compared to the heavy hands that rest on your shoulders. 

Still—despite it all—you cannot get your gaze off of the man in front of you: Vladimir Makarov himself.

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

[quentinxjames]

He had woken up about ten minutes ago. Or wasn't it as long as that? He remembered telling Bridget what she had to do to splint his leg, a sharp sting of pain before passing out -- that was definitely a first, and he had been injured before with his back, but perhaps actively seeing his bone sticking out dropped his pain threshold. In order to ignore the pain, he focused on his son, asleep against his side. He didn't dare to move his arm, not wanting to wake him up. Then, he saw the blonde who had taken care of Luke when they had been occupied with his leg. He couldn't remember if he had thanked her, but seeing as his body had been in a state of shock, he assumed he hadn't. "Hey." He said, waiting to catch her eye. "Thank you, for looking after my boy." Quentin continued, ignoring the fact he most likely looked like all the colour had drained from his face. "I hope he behaved?" @bee-bowen

[knullanon]

Can I request a maybe part 2 to the Nolan Grayson; gremlin villain reader? Where readers powers were working on a subconscious level to heal them but after enough punishments reader down to their core believes that death is the best alternative and their powers ‘turn off’. I wanna see the reaction of the family after a harsh punishment and reader just. not healing.

Listen I love angst and you’re more than welcome to ignore this but I think it would be so interesting

(Nonbinary reader pls as well)

I don't think I'm very good at angst but here u go pls enjoy and I'm sorry if it's shit🙏👍

tw: death, heavy gore mentioned, like a lot, reader is dying so they're not really there, angst, you die (!) so there's that, Nolan is kind of a dick, sad ending

~~~

It hadn't been very long since you were left there. You could tell because almost nothing in your body healed yet. Most of, if not all of your bones had been broken, fractured or missing and you could barely feel any of your limbs.

The only thing you could feel was your hands. Often times, on your missions you needed to fight or use your hands, and so you made it a habit to heal your hands before the rest of your body. Of course, this was before you were kidnapped.

They weren't totally healed: you still had a few fingernails missing, your left pinky was crooked, and your palms didn't have any skin. But compared to the rest of your body, they were the most intact.

You tried to move your legs but they were shredded. In fact, only your right leg was there, as the other had been ripped off. What was left of the right leg was just a hunk of meat: Nolan had ripped out your femur since you decided to run away. They were slowly growing back, you could feel them there, but it was a slow proccess.

As soon as you could feel some sensation in your neck, you turned your head, looking around to see if there was anything you had missed in the basement. There was the chair, a few empty boxes, and a mirror.

There wasn't a mirror there before. You struggled to get onto your forearms, ignoring the crunching noises of your bones as you dragged yourself to the wall. When you tried to push yourself up, you fell back down, as you remembered your spine didn't completly heal.

You waited a few moments, and focused all of your energy on your back. You counted the beat to your favorite songs, one of the best ways for you to heal quicker as you found. You kept counting, kept switching songs, but... nothing was working. Sure, you were able to flail your arms around a bit, along with moving... what's left of your leg, but it wasn't going back to the way it used to be. It was completly severed, you felt, but where you would feel ligaments and muscles and bones morph and fuse back together, there was nothing.

After a few minutes, you stop trying. Pain meant nothing to you at this point: you've been torn apart and put back together again more times than you could count, but it felt... weird. Like you were a piece of paper slowly drifting down, swaying side to side until you finally met the ground.

As everything went dark, you stopped thinking about Nolan, about Mark, and even Debbie. It didn't matter now. You were going to be free.

---

Before bed, Nolan had Mark go with him to see his "ill behaved sibling," as he put it. The basement was more dingy and dark than he remembered it to be. Besides the smell of iron and blood, there wasn't the usual groan or crunch or curse from you. In fact, when Nolan got completely downstairs, he basically flew over to you.

"Get up."

Mark stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring down at your dismembered body. Unlike other times that Nolan had punished you, you weren't fully healed or even partially. Almost every single wound that you had hours earlier in the day were still there, and it looked like you had dragged yourself around the room from all the blood on the floor.

When you didnt move, Nolan kicked you, hard. Mark was expecting you to say something, do something, maybe at least try to fight back, but you didn't. You just sat there, bleeding all over the place. It made him think something was wrong

At this point, Nolan was obviously pissed. He picked you up by your neck, and held you above him, dangling your body in front of him.

"Dad, I think-"

"Let me handle this, Mark."

"You think you can just pretend to be dead so you can get out of being punished? You were the one who ran away, not me."

He tossed you across the room, letting you hit the wall and slide down unceremoniously. He then floated all the way back up the stairs, before looking back to Mark.

"Good luck trying to get them up."

And with that, he left. Mark stood there for a moment, before he rushed over to you.

"_____, I'm so sorry, I didn't think he would be that mad, I-"

When you didnt look at him, he stopped. He shook you, trying to get your attention, but your eyes were glassy. Empty.

"_____?"

You didnt awnser. Mark kept asking you, shaking you, moving you, but you weren't responding. Not even with a kick or a shout or anything.

It was when he couldn't feel your heartbeat when he started to panic.

"I know you're- you're upset, but cmon, it's just me!" He pleaded, shaking your body again and again. "Dads not here, he's upstairs, somewhere, it's just me!"

You didn't react. You just sat there, pressed up against the wall, looking like a ghost. Mark sat next to you, holding the remains of your hand.

"I'll sit with you, OK? Until you feel better. Don't worry, I don't mind. It's not like I'm doing anything."

He laughed to himself, before he squeezed your hand.

"Please heal soon. I miss you."

~~~

sorry if that sucked ass but oh well

[klunkcat]

50 VAGUE ANGSTY + HURT/COMFORT DIALOGUE PROMPTS

42. "Tell me what I did wrong! What's wrong with me?!" + rise A Team 🥺

You keep requesting things that I know will hurt ur feelings!!!

TW: panic attack, derealization/dissociation

Waking up in the med bay had been less painful than this. He’d broken fourteen bones and fractured three more, been coughing up blood and some thick substance he was very sure was never supposed to be on the outside but he’d thought, ‘hey, we won’. 

This didn’t feel like winning. This felt like standing on the other side of a very long tunnel and seeing the world from a sideways tilt. 

He’d been allowed out of the med bay for a glorious two days– mostly to lay up on the couch instead of the stiff medical room— and missed somewhere that the world had actually ended. Because when Raph leaned over him to grab his glass of water on the table beside him, Leo flinched. 

It wasn’t him, he decided. Because Leo had never once in his life feared anything from his big brother, not even when Raph had gone through his snapping phase. Because Raph was Raph and that meant the biggest warmest hugs you could imagine, and big wet watering eyes and crying over commercials with kittens that sneezed too hard. It couldn’t be him that saw Raph moving forward and thought of pink, slimy tendrils, and felt his airways closing with a sharp thrum of oh god and I’m going to die, because that didn’t make sense. 

Raph froze, eyes wide. Leo fell further outside himself. 

The other him made his hand move, he didn’t feel it move. The other him spoke. 

“Oh, ha. Sorry, static must have shocked me.” From the blankets, yeah. That made sense. This other him that jumped at things at least had his wits, that was reassuring. 

“Leo,” Raph said very slowly. Some hindbrain red alert crawled all the way up from his heart and right out his mouth, and into that other version of him that was staying very still. 

“I didn’t— I didn’t mean to.” 

Raph put his arm down just as slowly, leaned back like he could telegraph every moment. His eyes stayed wide and locked on to him. “Okay, that’s okay.” 

“It wasn’t you,” the other him said, and Leo couldn’t feel his lips moving but he desperately wanted to be able to shut him up. “It wasn’t um— just. Jumpy. Pulled something funny, you know with the. The bandages.” 

Shit, Leo thought. Stick to the script, pal. 

“Right,” Raph said, without blinking. Like he was thinking something else. 

“Don’t do that,” other him said. “Okay, the big brother voice thing. I don’t need it, let’s just. Watch the movie, right?” 

He was suddenly aware of Donnie by his kneecaps, Mikey staring at him from the mound of pillows he’d made at Don’s legs. He needed this other him to shape up, acting classes were a must. He was flubbing big time, Leo did not flub. 

Raph shifted again, molasses slow, and gave Donnie a look. His twins face twitched with a nod, and he summarily picked up Mikey, blanket and all and shuffled into his lab. Traitor, Leo thought vaguely. Pincer attack, coordinated front. He hated that. That was his and Don’s thing.

Stepping on my turf, he meant to say. Other Leo’s mouth didn’t move, so he was useless. 

“Actually, Raph’s a little worried.” 

Oh, Leo thought, oh no. Fear lanced through him again, in some distant way. He could see his fingers twitching and couldn’t make them stop. “Worried? About what. Can I help, big guy?” 

Raph hummed. “Think you could, yeah. We haven’t talked about everything that happened, have we?” 

Well, Mikey had made him talk a little, about why he thought it would be okay to choose himself without telling anyone else first. Hugged him as tightly as he could with Leo’s broken ribs for three solid hours until Leo’d given in and promised he’d be kinder to himself. Donnie had been furious at him for three straight days somewhere after he’d blearily woken up from his coma, but they hadn’t talked directly about why yet. Suddenly, the look he’d caught clicks.

He was still too outside himself to react the right way. Other Leo looked away and twisted the blanket in his hands. 

Ever so slowly, he felt Raph’s warm hand land on his knee. He could see it, his big brother’s hand, green and normal. No spikes, no pink. He could breathe out— there was a rope somewhere there that guides him closer enough that he can flip his own hand around and squeeze. 

“Nothing to talk about, bro bro,” Leo managed, but it was croaky and lacking all the usual fizz. Fizzless, him. The horror was nearly too much to think about. 

The look Raph gave him was half a wince of apology, half tangled up exasperation. He didn’t like that there was guilt there. That didn’t fit. Raph hadn’t done a single thing wrong. 

“Leo.” 

He made himself swallow. “Raphala.” 

Raph sighed. Flipped Leo’s hand over so he could stare down at the bandages crossing his palm. He’d burnt the inside of his fingers somehow, he couldn’t even say when it happened. Silly, really. He’d laughed when Don had told him. Come to think of it, Dee hadn’t really looked like he’d agreed with the joke then either. 

He watched the way Raph traced his thumb across the white gauze, the way his face twisted and crashed down with mounting horror. 

“I’m so sorry, Leo. You know I love you, right?”

Other Leo made a second appearance, making his hands go numb. “I— of course? I love you too, what does that—?”

Raph’s non bandaged eye blazed when he looked up at him, swimming in the dim movie light. “I hurt you, Leo. I took your trust and I hurt you with it. Raphie’s so sorry.” 

That didn’t— Leo blinked rapidly. The world fell out of focus, clicked free of its puzzle piece board. Out into the ether. “Stop apologizing.” 

“Leo—”

“No!” Other him said it sharp, loud. Too electric behind the words, he winced at himself and didn’t feel his face move. “You don’t— you don’t get to apologize to me. That doesn’t— what are you talking about Raph?” 

Somehow his brother’s face only fell further, it made the panic in Leo’s chest sticky. “I said that wrong, I don’t—” It was so hard to think, why couldn’t he make himself think? “I’m not afraid of you! I’m not.” He wasn’t. Because it was Raph. 

“It’s okay if you are, buddy. Raph understands—” 

“I’m not!” Leo bit out, and blinked rapidly again as the world falls further out to sea. “I put you in danger, I jumped in and— I did something stupid, and you got brainwashed. Because I fucked up. Why aren’t you mad at me? Tell me what I did wrong!”

What’s wrong with me, he thought, vibrant and liquid like toxic sludge seeping down to his core. 

He couldn’t even see right anymore, everything had gone shapes and colors. It wasn’t even Raph in front of him, it was something. It was nothing and— 

“--breathe with me, okay? In. Out, that’s it. That’s perfect, Bug, keep doing that.” 

The Bug snapped him together, pulls all of his strings forward. Raph hadn’t called him that since they were toddlers, when he and Donnie had started insisting being twins and Raph tried to play along. Bug and Boo, he’d said all proud. Donnie had hated it instantly and rebuked any attempt at being called something so sweet by biting. Leo’d tried to make it fit a little better, since Raph seemed to like it so much.

‘S it b’cause I bug you?’ Leo’d said, sad and puddling up but hiding it with a teasing smile he knew would make the hurting less loud. 

Raph had smoothed his hand across his head and grinned. ‘It’s cause you’re my favorite bug.’ But it sounded like a good thing when Raph said it. 

Leo forced in a breath, feels his hands become his hands and his toes firmly plant as his toes. “Sorry,” he managed. “Sorry, went. Um. Somewhere. Back.” 

Raph’s big worried eye peered down at him, he let go of Leo’s hand with a firm squeeze. Leo shook his head, clearing out all the fuzz as much as he could. 

“I need you to hear me, just for a second. You didn’t do anything wrong,” Raph tried, worry making his voice small. “Can you believe me on that one thing? You were brave, and you got us through it, and most importantly you got Leo through it. I’m not mad.”

Leo scoffed, staring down at the blanket instead. Raph carefully scrubs a hand across the top of Leo’s head, warm and calloused the way he knows. 

“Raph wanted you safe. That’s all. And I hurt you, so it’s okay if you— if you need time.” 

Leo snapped his eyes up, grabbing at Raph’s hand again even before he pulled away. “I don’t! I don’t need you to go anywhere, or leave or. Please don’t leave.” 

Raph’s face gentled. 

“Can we just,” Leo couldn’t look at him, he couldn’t. “Can we just stay here for a minute? Maybe talking can be later.” When it wasn’t him and other him preferably, so he could say things the right way.

“Okay.” 

Raph settled back on the couch, slowly lifting his arm free and telegraphing the space underneath for Leo to decide. As if he needed to decide, the best place in the world was in Raph’s hugs. He’d always fit perfect there. 

Raph smoothed his hand across Leo’s head with his thumb, back and forth.The warmth pulled him all the way back into himself, almost with a shudder. Leo squeezed his eyes shut and buried his snout further into Raph’s side. It made him brave. “I’m not scared of you. I’ve never been scared of you, big guy.”

Raph’s thumb paused. Smoothed back again. “It’s okay if you are. That was… pretty scary.” 

Leo shook his head stubbornly. “Wasn’t you. I know my big brother anywhere. That wasn’t him.” 

He pretended kindly not to hear the hitch in Raph’s breathing. The warm chuckle after is like lottery gold. 

“Thanks, bug. I know you, too.” 

[i-am-hungry-24-7]

Hello, this is 🦈 anon ◉⁠‿⁠◉. Um.. if you still open request, please can i have TF 141 together x F! Reader who has high (possibly extreme) pain tolerance that whenever reader's injured, she almost doesn't react or show she's in pain. When TF 141 found this new information, they couldn't be not worried because what do you mean you don't feel anything while bleeding heavily, sweetheart?

TLDR: "Ayo yer bleeding?!", "Uh, um..yeah, should I scream?"

hello 🦈 anon!!! nice to see you again :D ty for the request!! I hope u would like this one since I think it was sweet :) have a nice day/night!

word count: 2.3k

ship: TF141*F!Reader

tw: pet names (love etc.)

The first time they found out was on a mission.

The explosion made you fly and hit hard on the wall, you could hear Soap yelling at you.

“Yer okay, lassie?!” You brushed away the dust, Soap running over and checking on you, blue eyes full of concern.

“Yeah, alright.” Standing up from the wreckage, you simply responded to him. Though Soap doubted if you were truly fine under that big impact, but your face didn’t express thoughts other than focusing on the mission, so he just nodded and signaled to keep going.

The rest of the mission succeeded without any incidents. Price, Ghost, and Gaz are already waiting at the exfil place. Through the smoke and deafening sound of the helo, they saw you and Soap walking towards them.

“Y’all okay?” Hadn’t gotten close to the helicopter, Gaz already run towards you two, relief was obvious on his face when he didn’t see any injuries by a quick scan, but then Ghost came over too.

“Wait, your shoulder.” He pointed at your shoulder, leading everyone’s gaze to land on it, including yourself.

“oh... looks like it’s dislocated.” You evaluated.

“What do you mean ‘oh’?! don’t you feel any pain?!” Soap yelled at your words. His hands try to inspect your shoulder, but afraid to trigger the pain.

“I don’t think it’s a big deal, just...”

You put your hand on the shoulder, and with a loud CRACK, which made Gaz jump and Soap gaped, even Ghost’s eyes widened at your sudden motion.

“I think it’s fixed now.” You looked around at your teammates, confusion clouded your mind “Ummm... is there any problem?”

“You...” Ghost stuttered, but he regained his composure fast. “doesn’t that hurt?”

“Well, I don’t know what you mean, LT.” You shrugged, “But actually, I feel a little bit dizzy...”

Just at the moment you finished your sentence, the dizziness became more severe, and your vision started growing blurry...

“Oi! Call the medic!” Catching your slumped body, Ghost yelled at the sergeants, but the last thing you hear is Soap reassuring you and Gaz calling for help.

So quiet... Where am I?

You thought as you slowly opened your eyes, what came in your eyes first was the stainless white ceiling, and a low voice coming from aside.

“you awake, sergeant?”

Turning your head, your eyes met with the man’s ocean-like ones, who sitting on the chair beside and holding some papers.

“Captain.” The whisper slipped out when you recognized him

“I guess you don’t know you were seriously injured, love.”

“What happened?”

“The explosion.” Price leaned closer to the bed now “The impact caused your bone fractured and slowly internal bleeding. We have no idea how you were able to walk to the exfil and looked like nothing happened.”

“I didn’t feel any pain, so I assumed I was okay.” you avoided his attention when Price raised his eyebrows. You knew he was worried and it kind of made you guilty.

“since I was young I rarely feel pain, so...” staring at the catheter of your IV drip, you mumbled quietly.

Price didn’t reply, he just stared at the paper written with your injuries and health state.

The room fell into silence for a while, before you open your mouth again.

“Sorry, Captain...” You murmured, still don’t dare to look at him.

The man let out a long sigh, you snapped your head up when you felt your hands were covered by Price’s.

It’s warm, soothing, calming down your still hazy but full of thoughts mind.

“You should be sorry, dear.” He rubbed your hand in a repeated rhythm. “You make us worried. Me, and the boys...” he pointed his chin at the bedside desk, and you finally notice the flowers and your favorite snacks are placed on it.

“We’ll keep an eye on you every time the mission is complete, since you can’t feel pain, this is not a request, it’ s a command, got it, soldier?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good girl.” The composed grin eventually appeared on his face, and you smiled too when he ruffled your hair.

“Sleepy?” His comforting voice rings against your ears when you let out a big yawn.

“mmhmm.”

“Then sleep, Gaz will be here when you wake up.”

Price watched your eyelids struggle to stay open but failed, little snores leaving you when you fell drifted into dreams again.

What you didn’t know is he brushed off the hair on your face and placed a tender kiss on your serene face.

Weeks after, to your happiness, you could go back to your own quarter and start hitting the training room for some simple practice.

Except there was someone who insisted on following you every time when you went to the training room, even if you tried to sneak into the room, he was always there as if he knew your plan.

“Soap.” You sighed at the man sitting on the bench spotting you.

“Aye, lassie?”

“I’m okay, really.”

“I don’t trust ye anymore. I should check it mahself.”

You understood why he was acting like this. Price told you Soap had been blaming himself for not finding that you were injured in that mission until your body gave up due to blood loss.

“I’m just doing some easy weightlifting now, I won’t pass out just because of this okay?”

You concentrated on his figure as he strode to your side. You chuckled when he still looked at you with doubtful eyes.

“How ‘bout you spar with me? Go easy on me though, the doctor said I still haven’t recovered fully.”

“You sure yer okay?”

“You’re like my mother now, Soapy.”

“Aye, 'cause we got a naughty kid in our team.” He laughed. “If I think you should stop, then ye stop, aye?”

“Yes, mama.”

You both burst into laughter and stepped on the training mat. Soap really went easy with his attack, unlike the usual training with the tension as if you two were about to devour each other.

“Oh!” When Soap swung out a punch, you abruptly lowered your body, and with a swipe of your leg, Soap fell onto the mat, followed by you sitting on him and securing his hands.

“Checkmate...? Soap.” You smirk at the man lying under you.

“Won’t complain if I was lost to you, but.” he huffed out a laugh, but your world spun the next second, and you met your gaze with the man now on top of you, his eyes glinting with mischievous.

“It’s a tie now, bonnie.” He flashed out a dazzling smile at you.

“Okay okay, it’s a tie now.”

A lazy grin spread along your lips when you poke at his chest.

“How about we go get some lunch together, handsome?

“Aye, ma'am.”

“The bones and the wound have healed very well, can say you are the most well-behaved patient in your team.”

The doctor smiled at you, and you turned to shoot a glimpse at Gaz, only to find his face written with embarrassment.

“What did he do last time you treat him, doctor?”

“oh, I forbid him to go training, but he still went and tore his knuckles, so he came back and stitched them again, making me call Captain Price to scold him.”

“Sorry, he’s a dumbass.”

“All of you guys are stubborn, sometimes I really want to tie you to the bed.” The doctor grinned “Well, since you’re fully recovered, you can go back to train and go on missions. Remember to be careful next time, don’t come back too soon, okay?”

“I will, Thank you, doc.”

Returning the smile, you and Gaz stepped out of the infirmary.

“I can’t wait to have you back next mission, need ya to bear Soap’s nonsense and Lt.’s bad jokes with me.” Walking beside you, Gaz sounded excited, and it’s hard not to be affected by his warmth.

“Need a helper to deal with those troublemakers?”

“That’s one reason.” He chuckled “Actually...”

“We all missed you.”

You halted to a stop when his words flowed into your ears with a bit of sadness.

Now face to face with him, you were able to see the concern on his face.

“You didn’t know when you just passed out without any warning, I felt like my heart almost shattered.”

It was close to midnight, so no one was nearby, and his words were gentle yet distinct, echoing softly in your mind.

“Not just, me, Ghost, Soap, Captain... we all are scared, you know?”

“We thought we lost you.”

You opened your mouth, mind still processing, managing to find a word, but nothing came out except an apology.

“Sorry, Kyle...”

The dusk light showered you two in an awkward peace, but it didn’t affect the sentiment Gaz conveyed to you.

“Just be careful, okay? You should tell us that you can barely feel pain, so we can help you check out, alright?”

“Okay.”

Giving your hands a little squeeze, Gaz accompanied you back to your quarter.

“We’re more than a team, more than family, we’ll always watch your back, just like you always do.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Tilting your head, your lips curled mildly. “Goodnight, Gaz.”

The honey-like smile inched towards you until you felt his soft lips pressed a kiss on your cheek.

“Goodnight, lovie.”

Your first mission after months ended smoothly. You were glad that you didn’t become rusty after the long rest, seemed like the practice and training with Soap and Gaz were worth it.

Soap and Gaz were chatting loudly, while Price sat in front and was checking details regarding the mission. You listened to the boys bantering, sometimes quipped back when their target turned to you, but you could feel someone observing you, and you tried to ignore the chill sending through your spine.

Because you knew it was Ghost, sitting just across you and scanning you like a robot.

You silently wished to arrive at the base faster, so you could ask him what was wrong or if you had done something incorrectly.

Under his scrutinizing gaze, you let out a sigh of relief when you jump off the helo. Got rid of the gear and placing them back in their place, you straightly head back to your quarter, craving some hot shower to wash off the soreness and dirt.

On your way back to the quarter, you could hear footsteps following you, almost imperceptibly, but you noticed and immediately went to a stop.

“LT.?”

Your LT. loomed just right behind you, seeming not surprised that you were aware of him, or maybe that was just what he was planning.

He hummed at your recognition but didn’t stop his steps, until he was side by side with you.

“I’m just about to ask you, did I do something wrong? You kept staring at me when we were heading back.”

“You did it pretty well.”

“Then why did you...?”

“You’ll know when you get into your room.”

He placed his right hand on the small of your back, ushering you to your room, and you just obliged, letting him lead you.

Closing the door behind you and Ghost, you turned around to face the man now with his balaclava on.

“So what’s the issue?”

“Clothes, off.” The command came out from him unexpectedly.

“What—“

“I said clothes, off.”

Furrowing your eyebrows, what the fuck does he want? you thought while kicking off your cargo pants and tossing your shirt on the chair, leaving only the sports bra and underwear with you.

“What now?”

Ghost didn’t form a word as his eyes traveled from your head, slowly through every inch of your body, under his meticulous search, you felt heat rising to your cheeks.

“turn around.” You did as he told, and now you were unable to see him, anxiety crawling to your mind until he finally stood up.

His calloused hands touched your shoulder, circling you to face him.

“Can you tell me what you’re doing now?” You asked when he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Checking.”

“If I’m injured?”

“yeah.”

“Oh god” You poke his pec with a frown “you all are overreacting. I’m okay, really. Don’t you guys trust me?”

“We trust your ability, but not your ability to tolerate pain.”

“I’m fi—“

“We can’t lose you.”

Your eyes widened at his words. Ghost was looking into your eyes. He might be good at concealing his emotions, but they said, a person’s eyes can’t lie.

and all you see is sorrow, love, consideration.

All the retorts were swallowed back when his eyes conveyed how important you were to him — to them. You studied the man towering over you, tracing his scars and wrinkles in your mind.

“Thank you, Ghost.” You pulled him into a hug, which he didn’t back off, instead melting in your arms, head burying in the crook of your neck. “I will be careful, okay? I will tell you if I got hit and not sure if I was injured.”

He nodded while staying in your embrace, and you just patted his head.

“Now, I need to shower” Pulling back, a smile bloomed on your face “See you tomorrow, LT.”

“Don’t oversleep again, sergeant.” He scoffed, but petted you before letting you go to shower.

When you came out, with relaxed muscles and fresh clothes, you jumped onto your bed, but something on your desk caught your attention.

Picking it up, you shook your head in disbelief.

“Fuck you, Ghost, I already brushed my teeth.”

grumbling to yourself, you still opened the snack—your favorite one— and gave it a huge bite, while snickering at the paper placed under the snack.

‘Goodnight, luv. (remember to brush your bloody teeth again.)’ — Ghost

next chapter

[freyaphoria]

Run Away Together (Part II)

a/n: It's me again! I apologize for making you wait months for the second part of this. First of all, this is the continuation of the first part I wrote, the main story. Since everything got so mixed, I feel the need to state it again. This story is the continuation of the fic where reader and hwa tried to escape and joong shot reader in the leg. I will start writing the second part of Passion to Punishment. And I would like to thank my babe, @matzrionette , for her contributions♡ PLEASE READ THE FIC SHE WROTE, I READ IT THREE TIMES EVERY DAY

tw: yan!hongjoong, poor hwa:( , blood, violence, bone fracture, failed escape attempt, punishment, swearing, knife, gun, killing, being shot, fever, painkiller use, body bruise, bone breaking with an iron rod, fainting, slightly gore, manipulation, hurt comfort(HAJDMDJ sorry), I had so much fun writing Jongho's parts, Yunho is at the crime scene AGAIN, kinda seongjoong

wc: 6.5k

taglist: @aim-blossom

Yan!Matz masterlist

<- previous part

Hongjoong, with his hands covered in blood from bandaging his new doll, opened the basement door, locked the two of them inside, and went upstairs. He had to do it; he had to hurt them. The tension in the air was palpable as he ascended the creaky wooden stairs, each step echoing the weight of his decision. Hongjoong's mind raced with conflicting emotions. He knew that to protect you, protect Seonghwa, drastic measures were necessary, even if it meant compromising his own morals. The blood on his hands was a stark reminder of the lengths he was willing to go to keep you here. As he reached the top of the stairs, he know that the consequences of his actions would haunt him for a long time to come.

Seonghwa’s attempt to escape after months, and your somehow convincing him, was an indication that Hongjoong’s plans were going well. Did Seonghwa breaking his rules make him unhappy? Yes, it did cause him a measure of displeasure. However, at this moment, what truly mattered was not Hongjoong’s feelings. After all, in the grand scheme of things, he would ultimately get what he desired; he had the power to make Seonghwa worship him once again. That was not what mattered right now.

After stepping out of the shower, Hongjoong meticulously put on his new clothes, carefully combed, and dried his growing hair. This grooming routine ensured he looked exceedingly neat, normal, and entirely harmless. His youthful yet captivating appearance was a highly effective tool in gaining the trust of his unsuspecting victims. People were drawn to his neat, his warm smile, the soft and gentle tone of his voice, the light that sparkled in his eyes, the professional gestures he employed while speaking, and the seamless harmony of the words he chose. Just like Seonghwa did...

If he lingered at home any longer, he would be late, so he quickly got ready and packed his belongings into a backpack. The weather had gotten colder compared to two hours ago when he had shot one of his victims and dragged the other inside, and he was angry with himself for not wearing his jacket and putting it in his bag. After quickly getting into his car and starting it, he turned on the heater and took out the paper from the glove compartment. He knew where he was going, but he still wanted to check. He saw photos of a man in the file. In the first photo on his profile, the old man's wrinkled eyes were full of life and shone with a light that was unexpected from his age. Hongjoong took pleasure in very few things as much as he took pleasure in making lively people lose their zest for life.

When he reviewed the file again and reached the last page, he suddenly hit his forehead with his hand in frustration. He was supposed to inform someone before leaving the house, but it had completely slipped his mind. He quickly went to the contacts on his phone, scrolling through the list, and was just about to find the name of the person he needed to inform when the phone rang. The unexpected call interrupted his search, and he hesitated for a moment before answering. When he saw who was calling, he realized he was indeed late, and the person on the other end of the line was likely angry with him.

“Why the fuck are you late?”

“How the fuck are you talking to your hyung like that?” Hongjoong fastened his seatbelt and put the files back in the glove compartment.

"Hyung my ass. I’m freezing here, hurry up or I’ll screw you the first moment I see you.”

“Shut up, I’m in the car, I’m coming"

“Hurry up, asshole.” All he wanted was a little respect, but he was looking for it in the wrong place. Respect was currently in the basement, probably calming down his new little lover. Hongjoong drove the car out of the parking lot and hit the road.

︶꒦︶꒷︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶꒷꒦‧ ₊˚・

You had started to come to your senses. Hongjoong, the most considerate person in the world, had taken the bullet out of your leg without any anesthetic and stitched it up, causing you to pass out from the pain. But being extremely considerate, he had given you a choice: “Pick your own punishment, either I take that bullet out without any drugs, or I don’t take it out and it stays there.” You were going to choose the second option at first, but because living with a constantly bleeding wound that nearly exposed your bone and getting infected in this dusty basement would be impossible, you chose the first option.

And oh, when he inserted a big tweezer into your leg to remove the bullet, the pain was so intense that you wished you would die from the infection. The searing agony felt like it would never end. Maybe you didn't realize he hurt you so much on purpose, but the last thing you remember is Seonghwa holding your hand tightly, his grip firm and unwavering. His eyes were swollen and red from crying, tears streaming down his face as he whispered words of comfort, trying to keep you conscious and hopeful. The room around you seemed to blur, but Seonghwa's presence was the only thing that kept you grounded in those harrowing moments. Still, Seonghwa wasn’t very successful and you left yourself in the darkness of your mind.

"Angel! You're awake!" As Seonghwa crawled towards you, you tried to sit up from where you were lying. The constant pain in your leg and the cold spreading throughout your body made you jump and shiver suddenly. "Wait, don't get up suddenly." When you looked at him, you saw that his legs were bruised and swollen. It looked like the bruises on his skin were about to burst and bleed, as if he had been hit by something very hard. "H-Hwa? What happened to you?" your voice came out very hoarse, all that shouting and gasping in pain had dried your throat. Despite feeling freezing cold, the warmth coming from within you made you uncomfortable and you started to shiver. "Don't worry, I'm fine, but you have a fever. We need to bring it down." Seonghwa placed his hand on your sweaty forehead to check your temperature. His hands were trembling, and if you looked closely, you could also see his lips trembling.

"Is he still here?" you asked in a low and nervous voice, your eyes darting around the dark basement as if expecting him to appear any second. He shook his head slowly, his expression a mix of relief and concern. "He left about half an hour ago," he replied, his voice steady as he tried to stay calm and not alarm you.

He dragged himself on the ground again, his movements slow and labored, trying to reach the bathroom in the basement. You watched him with growing anxiety, the silence between you heavy with unspoken questions. "What did he do to your legs?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, but he didn't answer. Instead, he wet a tissue and came back to you, his face pale and etched with pain.

"Hwa, did he break your legs?" you asked again, your voice trembling as you tried to understand the extent of his injuries. He looked at you with haunted eyes, the silence stretching on, making your heart pound even harder.

When the wet and cold tissue touched your forehead, you shivered and wanted to pull back, but Seonghwa held your head with one hand, preventing you from retreating. “It doesn’t matter. We need to lower your fever first.” As he moved the napkin from your face to your neck, you flinched more and tried to move forward to escape, but your injured leg hit Seonghwa’s probably broken leg. A deep, pain-filled groan came from Seonghwa, and he tried to hold his leg. “Seonghwa! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to do that.” While Seonghwa continued to writhe in pain, he nodded at you and tried to smile as much as the pain allowed. “It-it’s okay. It-it will pass soon- Agh….” “We need to wrap your leg, there must be a cloth here, right?” When Seonghwa saw you moving, he grabbed your shoulder and tried to lay you back down. “I’ll take care of it, you worry about yourself. Your fever is too high.” He could never be convinced. Once he set his mind on something, he would definitely do it, and if he didn’t want to do something, he would never do it, so you didn’t argue with him further.

Seonghwa managed to lower your fever a bit and found a painkiller from the depths of the basement; its expiration date had passed by 3 months, and normally you shouldn’t take it, but it was a mild herbal medicine, and you really needed it. To see if you would be okay after taking it, Seonghwa tried it himself first and, not seeing any side effects, gave it to you as well. And surprisingly, it worked. Seonghwa hid these medicines in one of the most cluttered parts of the basement in case such an event happened again. As your pain eased, your fatigue fully surfaced, and you let yourself fall asleep. Seeing that you fell asleep willingly without passing out, Seonghwa felt a bit relieved. As he saw your fever dropping and the bleeding from your wound stopping, he remembered he needed to treat himself.

His leg was extremely swollen and constantly aching, a persistent pain that seemed to get worse with each passing moment. The pain was so intense that it made him feel dizzy and lightheaded, as if the world around him was spinning, and the painkiller he took didn’t work for him. He thought about taking another one but didn’t, in case you needed it again since it worked for you. Hongjoong had probably broken both of his legs with an iron rod, right below the calf.

He couldn't stand on both of his legs; previously, he had hit his leg with an iron rod because he had tried to escape, but at that time, he could still stand a little. This time, it was impossible. It must have been definitely broken. The sharp pain was spreading from his ankle to his thighs, and from there to his entire body, becoming unbearable. It felt as if his entire body was broken, with pain everywhere. Every part of him hurt with each heartbeat and blood pump, making it impossible for him to stay still. The pain was making him dizzy, and his vision was starting to darken. If he didn't pull himself together, he would faint, and if he woke up only to find that Hongjoong's anger hadn't subsided and he attacked her again, he wouldn't be able to protect her while unconscious. But why was he protecting her in the first place? Was it because he felt guilty? Because he had given Hongjoong the idea to kidnap her? Maybe Hongjoong should have killed her right there.

He needed to pull himself together; he was sweating profusely, even in this cold basement. Crawling was excruciating, as if his leg was being sanded with sandpaper and his skin was being set on fire. Nevertheless, he had to wash his face. He had to do something, or he would lose himself. He pulled himself forward using his arms towards the sink. His arms also hurt; Hongjoong had hit his arm when he raised it to defend himself, but at least it wasn't broken. Compared to the pain in his leg, the pain in his arm was nothing. But the most painful thing was breaking Hongjoong's trust.

He shouldn't have done it, yes, he had gone too far. He had ruined Hongjoong's trust in 5 minutes and didn't know if Hongjoong would trust him the same way again. But freedom had seemed very tempting. It meant he still wasn't a completely obedient toy to him, he needed more shaping. He noted to himself that when Hongjoong returned home, he would need to fall at his feet, apologize hundreds of times, and beg for his forgiveness.

He gave a sigh of relief when he reached the sink with tears streaming down his face from the pain. It had taken him about 5 minutes to get there from your side, even though it would normally take a regular person 10 seconds. If you suddenly called him, he couldn't come immediately, so he had to finish it quickly and return to your side. He lifted himself using the strength from his arms, each muscle straining with effort, and bent over the sink. He tried not to put any weight on his feet, which throbbed with a dull, persistent pain. When he quickly washed his face with the cold water, the sensation momentarily jolting him awake, he let himself fall back to the ground and groaned in pain. He balled up a piece of toilet paper, wet it under the faucet, and, leaning heavily against the door frame, placed it on his ankle as a makeshift cold compress. He looked over at you sleeping calmly on the other side of the basement, your breathing steady and peaceful. He wished so much that he could sleep like you right now, to escape his pain and find some semblance of rest… Maybe he could sleep. His head was spinning, and the floor wasn't stable, it felt like he was on a roller coaster. As his head and eyelids grew heavier, his body began to relax. The pain hadn't gone away, it was still there, but at least he wasn't thinking about it right now. He would sleep, even if Hongjoong came here and took you, he would sleep, he needed it so much. The cold wetness of the wet paper ball on his leg had calmed him, and he let himself fall asleep.

︶꒦︶꒷︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶꒷꒦‧ ₊˚・

"If you keep complaining about the weather a little more, Jongho, I'll throw you out of the car and you'll walk the whole way. I even turned on the heater for you, what more do you want?" Jongho shoved his hands into his pockets and glared at Hongjoong while shivering. "You accepted this gig, dragged me along, and now you're saying you'll throw me out of the car?" Jongho snapped angrily in one go. "You also chose to team up with me, you could have told Yunho, and he would have changed it. So stop whining." After Hongjoong's harsh response, the younger one sighed, sank into his seat, and started watching the road through the car window.

They weren't a good team, they constantly bickered and argued over the smallest things, but they still got their work done and left no evidence behind. "We're here, wake up, princess." Hongjoong said with a mocking tone as soon as they arrived. Jongho, who had been in a light sleep, immediately woke up and punched Hongjoong in the arm. "I'm not that little mouse you took into your home, don't call me that again, bastard." If they didn't have a job to do, they would probably have fought each other, but they knew if they didn't get the job done on time, Yunho would nag them. "Move, don't dawdle." Hongjoong got out of the car and looked at the ultra-luxurious villa adorned with lights. 'Same scenario again...' he thought to himself

They had paid a large amount to kill that old man to Hongjoong and Jongho, and now the reason was understood. Another rich businessman, another money-related murder. "How do these bastards have so much money?" Jongho stuck his head out of the car and looked at the mansion, which was almost invisible from the lights. "They don't sit at home jerking off like you, they work." Hongjoong spoke as he opened his trunk and took out his equipment. "What am I doing right now? Do you see my dick out or am I on the job?" Jongho also joined Hongjoong and started rummaging through his bag.

The mansion was four stories tall and very wide, built in a new architecture, and the ornamental shrubs in its garden looked recently pruned. As Yunho had said, surprisingly, only two security guards were protecting this huge house, and they didn't seem to be paying much attention to their surroundings. They could easily be killed. Hongjoong put on his special gloves and mask, took his gun and spare bullets. Normally, he wouldn't go on a mission with so little equipment, but Yunho had told them that even a few bullets would suffice, and they trusted him. He and his team had never made a mistake.

After dressing, Jongho threw his bag into the car and closed the car door. Outside, the only sound other than the wind was the two security guards talking as if they were discussing something very important. Both guards were taller than them but very distracted. Even though Hongjoong’s car wasn't very far away, the gurads still hadn't noticed them. With Hongjoong's signal, the two of them advanced from the side of the car to the front yard, towards the guards. Jongho usually preferred to use a knife; he was very good in close combat. Hongjoong was also good, but Jongho was much stronger than him.

They continued to approach silently. Since the house lights illuminated the entire path, there was nowhere to hide or camouflage; they had to be quick and attack as soon as they approached. Using the garden wall as cover, they got closer and were now very close to the guards. Jongho wondered how such careless people could be guards, but it worked in his favor. Thanks to that, he would complete his mission and receive a large amount of money he had never received before.

The guards were about three meters in front of them. In this silence, Jongho and Hongjoong could hear all their conversations, even their breathing. They had prepared themselves to kill them instantly. If Yunho was wrong and there were more guards, they didn't know what they would do.

Jongho stepped in front of Hongjoong and took his long and large knife in his left hand; he waited for Hongjoong's signal.

Hongjoong pulled the trigger of his suppressor-equipped gun, ensuring he held it properly with both hands for maximum stability. The suppressor wouldn't completely block the sound of the shot, but it would significantly muffle it. Since they were in an open area and the distance between the entrance and the house was far, it could prevent those inside the house from hearing the noise.

The two of them made eye contact, their gazes locking in silent communication. Hongjoong raised his eyebrows, a clear gesture indicating that he was waiting for approval from Jongho. Understanding the unspoken question, Jongho blinked in confirmation. With a steady hand, Hongjoong pulled his left hand away from the gun, making sure Jongho could see his every move. He showed three fingers to Jongho, signaling a countdown. Then, he lowered one finger, then two, and then one. And as Jongho grabbed the neck of the man with his back turned and stabbed him with the knife, Hongjoong simultaneously shot the man facing the knife-wounded man in the forehead. It had taken no more than 3 seconds for both to die, and as they had predicted, no other guards came from anywhere else. It was a very quiet job; everything had happened in an instant.

Now they had left the man on the ground with blood gushing from his neck and the other man whose brains were scattered all over the road and entered the garden to proceed towards their main goal, towards the mansion.

︶꒦︶꒷︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶꒷꒦‧ ₊˚・

Suddenly, you were jolted awake by a sharp, piercing pain. As your consciousness slowly returned, you realized that your leg was bleeding from the area where it had been stitched up. It seemed that during your sleep, you must have made a wrong move, causing the stitches to tear open. The pain was so intense and overwhelming that for a brief moment, you completely forgot where you were and what was happening around you. The room seemed to blur as your mind struggled to catch up with the sudden burst of agony.

"Hwa..." You called out weakly to him, but got no response. The place where you were lying was stained and damp with the mixture of blood and the wet cloth that Hwa had used to bring down your fever. Your wound was definitely going to get infected. You tried to see Seonghwa in the darkness of the basement but it was nearly impossible. The reflection of the moonlight from the small window only illuminated the area in front of you. At least you knew he wasn't nearby.

"Hwa, are you here?" you called out, raising your voice slightly. The tension in your tone was unmistakable, filled with worry and fear. Seonghwa would never leave you alone after a punishment, especially not when you were suffering from a fever and bleeding. It was so unlike him. As the blood from your leg ran down your thighs once more, you felt a sharp pang of pain. Your vision blurred slightly, and you realized just how parched you were. The thirst crept up on you, making your mouth feel dry and your throat scratchy. You needed water, but more than that, you needed Seonghwa by your side to reassure you that everything would be okay.

The only continuous water source in the basement was the water from the sink, and there was no problem with drinking it. Besides, even if there was an issue, you had to drink it. Your mouth was very dry, and your lips were cracked.

You didn't want to try standing up; it would hurt too much. The idea of enduring another layer of pain on top of the already unbearable one was simply inconceivable. So, instead, you gathered all the strength you could muster and began to drag yourself towards the sink, relying heavily on your good leg and the support of your arms. As you slowly inched your way forward, you were startled by the sight of a silhouette leaning on the bathroom door. Your heart immediately started to beat rapidly, pounding in your chest, and you were gripped by a sudden sense of panic, not knowing what to do next. In your frantic state, you attempted to crawl back in the opposite direction, desperate to escape whatever danger the shadow might represent. But then, a low, agonized familiar groan emanated from the shadow, causing you to pause in your tracks. The sound was filled with such pain that it made you stop crawling.

"Seonghwa? Is that you?" you called out, your voice trembling with worry. When the shadow made a sound as if confirming, you quickly crawled towards him, your heart pounding in your chest. As you got closer, you could finally make out his features. He was drenched in sweat, and his eyes seemed glazed over, indicating that he wasn't fully conscious. His body started to writhe and moan in place, and you quickly realized that his condition was far worse than your own.

You reached out and touched his forehead, feeling the intense heat radiating from his skin. He had a fever, and it was burning through him even in this cold basement. You pulled back slightly, your eyes scanning down to his legs. The sight made your stomach churn. If you had to describe it in one word, it would be 'terrible'. His legs were completely messed up. Despite the poor visibility in the darkness, you could distinguish light from dark, and Seonghwa’s legs were an ominous, deep shade. They were swollen and purple up to his kneecaps, but 'purple' didn't quite capture it—they were almost black. "Seonghwa! Why didn’t you wake me up? Your legs are so bad!" you exclaimed in a panic.

You knew you had to help him. The condition of his legs was alarming, and you weren't sure if a person could die from such severe bone fractures, but he looked like he was on the brink. It was clear that Hongjoong must have hit the same spot over and over, pulverizing his bones into a gruesome state. Seonghwa's suffering was evident, and you couldn't let him endure it alone.

"Ugh… it hurts…” he groaned softly, feeling the intense pain radiate through his body. “I know it hurts. Wait,” you responded, your voice filled with concern. You stood up very nervously, taking great care not to open any more stitches that had barely begun to heal. And you did it! You managed to balance yourself by putting your strength into your good foot.

With determination, you wet a few cloths in the sink and leaned over to run them over his face, just like he had done for you before. The soothing touch of the wet cloths seemed to provide a small comfort in the midst of the chaos.

Suddenly, the door swung open with a loud bang, and the clatter of metal filled the room. Startled, you lost your balance and fell to the ground. Even though the impact sent sharp waves of pain through your body, you chose not to make a sound out of fear. The last thing you wanted to do was draw attention to yourself and face the devil who was now approaching.

He came right at you with an air of menace. As he suddenly turned on the lights, the harsh brightness illuminated his dangerous face. His expression was constantly grinning, as if everything was so funny, a stark contrast to the terror and pain you were experiencing. The sinister amusement in his eyes made your blood run cold.

“Where were we?” Hongjoong's voice sounded sarcastic and amused, the tone of someone who finds great entertainment in the suffering of others. Seonghwa’s eyes snapped open as soon as he heard his voice. It was like he had just woken up from a nightmare, except the nightmare was about to begin now, in real life, with no escape. “Don’t come any closer, can’t you see our condition? We’re already in a bad situation. What more do you want?” Your voice was trapped in fear, trembling and barely audible. You were wondering if he could hear you because your voice was so quiet, almost a whisper.

He took slow, deliberate steps in front of you, his eyes never leaving your trembling form. As he approached, towering over you, you felt the weight of his gaze. You were pinned to the ground, feeling utterly tiny and insignificant under his scrutiny. The sight of you, bloody and scared, with helplessness written all over your face, made his heart race with a mix of excitement and something darker. Seeing you in such a vulnerable state stirred something deep inside him, an insatiable desire that making him want more.

Seonghwa, with a sudden burst of energy, lunged forward, using all his strength to drag himself to Hongjoong’s feet. His movements were frantic, and it was clear that he still wasn't in his right mind. Hongjoong, on the other hand, was brimming with excitement. Hongjoong knew exactly what Seonghwa was going to do.

Hwa, what are you doin-” You were cut off when Seonghwa threw himself at Hongjoong’s feet, desperation evident in every movement. “I-I beg you, f-forgive me. I didn’t do it on purpose- agh! I didn’t do it on purpose. P-please love me again. I’ll do a-anything!” The basement was eerily silent except for Seonghwa’s pitiful pleading. Hongjoong watched him without uttering a single word, his expression unreadable. “Why would I forgive you? Who would love naughty little bunnies like you? After all, you betrayed me.” Seonghwa started to cry harder at Hongjoong’s cold, cutting words. You were on the verge of tears too, the discomfort and tension of the situation weighing heavily on you. You wanted to tell him to shut up and go back to his old place, but you were too scared to intervene.

“No, I’m not! I’m not naughty! I didn’t mean to act like that!” Seonghwa’s voice was choked with emotion, his tears flowing freely. Hongjoong watched his masterpiece with a sense of twisted satisfaction. His first love, with his legs broken, threw himself at his feet and begged for forgiveness while his new toy, with her burst stitches, watched what was happening in fear and helplessness. The wiev was of unparalleled beauty. If he hadn’t left his phone upstairs, he would have definitely taken a photo to preserve this view forever. Hongjoong felt a surge of power and control, basking in the pain and fear that radiated from both of you. The basement, usually a place of darkness and dread, became a stage for his cruel artistry, a tableau of suffering and submission.

“But you acted like that.” He finished his sentence with a smile by kicking Seonghwa in the chest. When Seonghwa’s breath hitched and he fell back, you backed away from Hongjoong in panic. Neither of you could muster the courage to speak. Only the sound of his painful, ragged breathing filled the room. Hongjoong looked down at Seonghwa’s ankles. They were broken, but it wasn’t anything that wouldn’t heal in a few weeks. Despite his injuries, it was almost endearing how Seonghwa continued to beg for forgiveness in such a weakened state. When Hongjoong shifted his gaze to you, he noticed that your leg was bleeding again. If he went any further, it would be hard for both of you to heal, so he decided it was enough for now. “Since I’m such an understanding person, I’ll end your punishment here. But you’ll be staying here for the next few days.” You were relieved that he wouldn’t hurt you any further. But you both needed proper first aid right now. “We can’t stay like this. H-Hwa is in a bad condition. Can’t you help him?” Your voice trembled as Seonghwa flinched when he heard his name as he writhed on the ground. The fact that you were thinking of him warmed his aching heart a little. Hongjoong looked at Seonghwa again and smiled that annoying smile of his. “You should have thought of that before you ran away together.”

You thought he would at least help Seonghwa. After all, Seonghwa had asked for forgiveness from him and had been with Hongjoong for a long time. But he hadn’t. He would leave him like this, he would leave you like this. You shouted and cursed after him as he left the basement; you didn’t know where you found this confidence but you were very angry with him. Interestingly enough, he didn’t turn around and do anything to you after you insulted him. He just locked the door and went upstairs.

︶꒦︶꒷︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶꒷꒦‧ ₊˚・

As it was 5 am, the exhaustion of the whole day had settled on him like a heavy blanket. All he wanted was to take another shower to wash away the day's fatigue and then fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. Normally, he couldn’t sleep without Seonghwa by his side, but tonight he was so tired that he knew he had to sleep, no matter what. He didn’t even have the energy to dry his hair after stepping out of the shower with wet hair clinging to his face and neck. Instead, he just threw himself on the bed with a towel wrapped loosely around his waist and his hair still dripping wet. He was probably going to get sick from it, but he didn’t care right now. All he could think about was closing his eyes and escaping into the oblivion of sleep.

He couldn’t sleep. Despite his best efforts to find a comfortable position, he tossed and turned in bed for what seemed like hours. The chill in the air only made things worse, seeping through only the damp towel tied around his waist and about to be opened and causing him to shiver. The cold weather, combined with the lingering dampness of his towel, was a miserable combination that left him feeling even more cold. He had to wrap himself in something. Something warm. Something warm to take away the cold in his heart and body...

He got up with a stumbling motion, slowly put on some clothes, and started walking down the stairs. The sky was gradually lightening at dawn, casting a soft glow over everything, and the fresh morning air was filling the house through the open windows. He quietly opened the basement door, careful not to make any noise. He could see who was where with the light of the new sunlight seeping through the window. You were both sleeping where he had left you last, Seonghwa lying on the floor and you sitting with your backs against the wall. Sleeping would be the wrong word to describe your state. You were more like unconscious.

Hongjoong picked up his favorite toy, trying not to wake or hurting his toy. Although he was short compared to most men, he had a strength that was unexpected from his appearance; he was very strong, so he was able to easily lift his favorite. He returned to the basement door, casting one final glance at his other toy. Without locking it, he quietly closed the door and ascended the stairs. As he gently laid his toy on the bed, he heard a groan of pain.

“Shh, go back to sleep, my prince. I’m here.” Seonghwa’s eyes widened as he locked eyes with Hongjoong, feeling a rush of emotions. He loved him for that. No matter how much Hongjoong hurt him, he would always take care of Seonghwa and show him love. Hongjoong couldn’t stay mad at him for long. Even though he was still running away, he was still in Hongjoong’s bed right now. “I’ll wrap your legs, wait here,” Hongjoong said softly. When he returned with the first aid kit and went to Seonghwa’s side, he saw him looking at him with admiration and a disturbing level of affection. “What?” Hongjoong asked as he unwrapped the new bandage pack in his hands, trying to ignore the intensity in Seonghwa's eyes.

“I love you,” Seonghwa whispered. He loved him very much. Or maybe he thought he did; sometimes, he didn’t know. The lines were blurred. Hongjoong broke him so well, yet he couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of attachment. It was a complicated, twisted love, but it was all they had. Hongjoong broke him so well.

“It'll be over soon, don't worry. Just keep your legs straight.”

Seonghwa didn’t take offense that Hongjoong didn’t tell him he loved him back. He knew Hongjoong loved him too.

“Ugh Joongie, it hurts so much." Seonghwa squirmed in discomfort as he felt the tight bandage wrapped securely around his legs, which were throbbing with sharp pain. “Shh shh, I know. Be a good little bunny for me, and don't squirm.” Hongjoong's soothing yet firm voice made Seonghwa suddenly go still. He didn't want to disappoint him even more with his actions. "That's a good boy. I'll give you painkillers as a reward." Hongjoong's words were filled with a mixture of comfort and authority. Seonghwa's eyes met Hongjoong's, filled with a silent plea for relief, and he nodded weakly.

After Hongjoong finished wrapping Seonghwa’s legs tightly to ensure they were properly supported, he gave him a strong painkiller and laid down on the bed next to Seonghwa. He was enveloped in the warmth he so desperately needed, and the soothing heat radiating from Seonghwa’s weakened body served as a balm for Hongjoong’s cold heart and chilled body.

He closed his eyes, thinking that he could finally get some much-needed sleep by holding him tightly in his arms without hurting him too much. The warmth and comfort he felt were almost enough to lull him into a peaceful slumber. Just as he was about to drift off to sleep, he suddenly heard the annoying ringing of his phone. The sound was jarring in the quiet room, and he opened his eyes again, startled by the sudden noise, he noticed Seonghwa jump slightly in his arms. He gently reassured Seonghwa, whispering softly that nothing was wrong and that he should continue sleeping. With a sigh, he carefully reached for his phone to see who was calling, hoping it wasn't something urgent that would further disrupt their rest.

Jeong Yunho.

It was strange that he was calling at this hour, and if he was calling after the mission, it usually meant there was a problem with the mission. He sighed in annoyance and picked up the phone.

“What’s wrong?”

“Hyung, you need to come here immediately.”

The voice on the other end of the phone was anxious. It was hard to see Yunho anxious; he was always so sure of what he was doing and relaxed. Something was definitely wrong.

Hongjoong cursed at him when the phone abruptly hung up on him. Yunho always liked to make people curious and leave them hanging. As Hongjoong got out of bed and started getting dressed, he caught sight of Seonghwa’s anxious eyes. “Is someone in trouble again or are the police going to raid our house?” He could speak more comfortably now that the pain had subsided a little. “I don't know, he didn't say. Also, don’t bother your beautiful brain with such things. I’ll be back in a few hours. Make sure our princess doesn’t escape from the basement in the meantime. Otherwise, I won’t forgive you this time, Park Seonghwa. So, keep an eye on her and don't let your guard down again.”

It was absolutely impossible for someone upstairs with broken legs to check if someone in the basement had escaped, so Hongjoong carefully picked him up again before leaving the house and took him down to the basement. Although Seonghwa felt a deep sadness to leave the comfort of his bed and the warmth of Hongjoong’s arms, he was happy and relieved that he would now be able to keep an eye on you. Leaving the two of you in the brightly lit basement once more, Hongjoong made a mental note to get Seonghwa a pair of crutches on his way home. He then grabbed the bag containing his weapons and equipment, ensuring everything he needed was inside, and headed back to his car with a sense of urgency.

I wanna feedback juseyo♡ I wanna feedback please♡ I wanna feedback çebal♡

[hyperfixiation-station]

Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Information Pt.3

TW: Blood, Torture, Violence

Summary: You get rescued(finally)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 4

Silent. From the moment Price had found you in that dingy cell, broken and bleeding, that was all you had been. You were silent when they moved you, though it had to have hurt with how many broken bones and lacerations you had. You were silent when the medics asked you where you were injured, how you had been hurt. You were silent through the debriefings, through the desperate attempts to find out what you had been through, what secrets you had spilled. You were silent through all of it. 

It wasn’t your fault, not really. A mental barrier you had constructed during months of torture to keep secrets from spilling, a dam built with a mantra of DON’T TALK to keep your thoughts at bay as your captors repeatedly tried to draw them out of you. 

Even now, when the rational part of your brain knew you were safe, knew that these men, the men you served with, the men who had tracked you down and saved you, were to be trusted, the barrier would not fall. 

Every ‘what did they want from you, what did you see, did you recognize them, how many of them were there’ was met with silence. Anytime you opened your mouth you were hit with a wave of fear so strong it sent you into a panic attack. 

They understood, in part. They had seen recordings, seen the rooms, seen your broken body at the time of rescue. 

It took them 2 days to get to you after figuring out your location. They went in guns blazing, and tore the place to the ground. They split up, Price and Gaz taking the left with Soap and Ghost taking the right. They shot at anything that moved in their quest for vengeance, breaking down doors and checking every nook and cranny for where you might be locked up. 

Price found you about a quarter of the way into the camp. He took the bottom floor and Gaz took the top as they cleared the building. He had stopped before a door that was different, metal and welded shut with a small little flap in the middle, instead of solid and wooden like the others. It took him and Gaz some prying and metalwork, but they got the door open. 

Price almost cried when his eyes adjusted to the change in light. You lay curled in the corner, back to the wall as you shied away from the light. Your hair was tangled and matted with dried blood, your clothes were torn and dirty and your skin was crusted with so much blood and grime that he couldn’t even see you underneath it. 

“Y/n?” He had called, but there was no response. He crept slowly toward you, keeping his movements as open and relaxed as possible. He crouched in front of you, taking note of your dilated pupils, sunken eyes, obviously malnourished form. He winced at the weird bulges in your skin, indicative of broken bones. 

“Sorry love.” He whispered to you, taking a steadying breath as he slid his arms under you and lifted. Hise expected you to cry out, the action no doubt causing unspeakable pain, but you didn’t. In fact, you didn’t react at all. He didn’t dwell on it then, opting to get you somewhere safe and secure. 

“9 broken ribs, a broken left femur, both shoulders dislocated, pneumonia, dehydration and severe malnutrition, multiple lacerations that required stitches, broken wrists, all 10 fingers broken, right kneecap dislocated, multiple concussions, and a hairline fracture on their skull.” The doctor had said. It hurt all of them to hear how badly wounded you were. 

They gave you two weeks to recover before asking any questions. The first week you were unconscious, in a coma as your body tried to heal you. The second week you spent in worrying silence, saying nothing to anyone, not to your doctors, not to your teammates, not to your friends.

Price sent Ghost in first. He had had similar experiences and Price figured he would be able to relate. However when Ghost came storming out an hour later, slamming the door behind him, he came to regret that decision. 

“I got over it.” He had said, “Why can’t they?” Price reminded him that not everyone responds to trauma the same way and sent him away.

Soap tried next, and came out near tears after sending you into a panic attack after calling you ‘Little Bird’. He was confused until Ghost not-so-gently reminded him of the video they had seen, of the words ‘Pretty Bird’ being used over and over. Ghost pretended not to hear him throwing up in the toilet later. 

Gaz tried, to no avail. He ended up just sitting in silence with you, showing you videos of his cats. He counted it a victory when your busted lips twitched into a tiny grin for a few seconds.

And on and on it went, with refusing to speak to anyone. They were losing hope until the psychiatrist finally spoke with you. 

��GIve them time.” She said gently, “You trying to force a response will just make this worse.” 

So they do. The higher-ups still want answers, of course, but Price manages to dissuade them from asking until you are out of the hospital. They spend the weeks treating you as normal as possible, stopping by to give you updates on missions, show you a video of Soap absolutely biffing it in training, tell you the latest gossip of which recruit is sleeping with who. But even though they are trying, they still handle you with kiddie gloves, afraid that the wrong word or look will make you shatter irreversibly. 

Which brings you to now. It’s nearly 2 A.M, and visiting hours are long over as you stand unsteadily in the bathroom, staring at your pale, pathetic form in the mirror. You open and close your mouth, trying and failing to get words out, the barrier cemented in your mind by blood and tears too strong to break down.  

‘Speak, you stupid fucking bitch!’ You scream mentally at yourself, ‘You have to speak! If you don’t you'll be discharged and you'll never be able to serve again! They already think you’re broken, and if you can’t tell them different they’ll never treat you the same. Stop. being. So. Fucking. Pathetic.’

Tears streak your cheeks as you slide down the wall. You draw your knees up, hiding your face in them as your shoulders shake with silent sobs. Rationally, you know you are safe. Rationally, you know that if you were to speak, nothing would happen. But it’s not the rational part of your brain that is keeping you from speaking. 

Going dark in that hellhole you were trapped in had saved your life, and you couldn’t seem to get past it. Sure, not responding had almost killed you right at first, as Kravchenko became more and more ruthless in his attempts to get you to speak again, but eventually he grew bored. His little plaything had lost its sparkle, and he locked you in a cell and threw away the key as soon as he lost interest. But starving to death was still a better alternative to the all-consuming agony that had been your day-to-day. 

And now, the subconscious, irrational part of your brain was convinced that if you spoke you’d be dragged right back and strapped to a table, that you’d wake up to find that your rescue had all been a dream. That you-

“-/n! Y/N! Y/N!” You flinch, startled out of your reverie. You look down to see rivulets of blood running down your arms, your nails having gouged holes into your skin. You look up to see the eyes of a worried nurse, holding your hands in hers. 

“There you are. We lost you for a minute. Do you mind letting me bandage you up here?” Her voice is soft and gentle and you find yourself nodding, letting her lead you back to your bed where she cleans and bandages your upper arms. 

“What are you doing up so late sweetie?” Her voice is calming, almost hypnotic, “I mean, I’m awake cause I get paid to be, but you should be sleeping all your injuries away, shouldn’t you dearie? If I was you, I’d of been cryin’ too, being awake at 2 A.M. for free.” She laughs, the sound echoing through the room, “Course, I suppose you probably think I’m crazy for agreeing to work this shift anyways. Did you know I was supposed to have this shift off? But Roberta’s kids have the flu and so I agreed-” She keeps talking, her voice soothing your fears and helping you relax. YOu can’t help but mentally thank Roberta’s kids for being sick, for sending this wonderful lady who does not treat you like you're going to break at any moment to you tonight. 

“And that should about do it dearie. Just press that little call button if you need any more help, alright?” She says cheerfully. She squeezes your hand and heads to the door before pausing. 

“Make sure to get some sleep.” She leaves, gently closing the door behind her. Something about her makes you feel safer than you have since falling off that helicopter. Maybe it was her motherly demeanor, maybe it was the fact that she treated you like a normal human being, maybe it was the fact that she could have put you on a psych hold an ddin;t, but whatever it was, you loved her for it. 

And as the door closes and the room stills, you whisper a quiet “thanks.” 

Part 4?

~tags~

@louthedino @scarletdfox @dangerkitten1705 @warenai @spineless-spino @rainy-darling