#tw threatened

[little-peril-stories]

The Queen of Lies: The Drop, Part II

Story Intro | Content Warnings | Mood Board | Vibey Song Lyrics | Ao3

Contents: lady whump, guy whump, being threatened, being chased, injury, blood, self-blame/victim-blaming

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Word count: 5500 || Approx reading time: 22 mins

The Drop, Part II

Teaser: He wasn’t alone, at least not yet. Because against all odds, Bree hadn’t bailed on him, nor had she turned him in, and perhaps most surprising of all, her crazy husband hadn’t found her and taken her away.

Silence had never been his favourite thing. Quiet, sure, peace and calm and all that—good for when his mind filled up with too many thoughts that needed somewhere to explode out of in a mess but had nowhere to go, and the soft strum of midnight in the city or the song of wind and bird calls in the trees helped to soothe the storm.

Silence, though.

Silence filled up empty spaces in a bad way. And when his mind was reeling, silence crowded up against those thoughts—shoved them around and twisted them into something worse. Like a crack in the ice on a frozen pond, silence shattered beneath your feet and pulled you into darkness, screeching into your bones and spearing right through your heart and soul until all you could think of was how heavy the world actually was, no matter how damn hard you were trying to forget.

The townhouse was silent.

He’d known it would be, and yet the confirmation crunched and snapped inside him, anyway.

Must have been at least a week since they fucked off—no, longer. Dust coated the table in a way Spider would’ve never allowed; there were no boots by the door; there wasn’t a hint of heat in the fireplace. Just ice-cold ashes and a few charred chunks of wood.

Fox gripped tightly to the edge of the table, watching his hands paint streaks in the layer of dust. He’d known it would be cold and empty and silent.

It still hurt.

He stood, drowning, long enough that he forgot entirely how long he’d been standing there at all.

Dropping the message had been easy. Perfect. Smooth. Quick. And he should have gone back to the inn. That would have been the smart thing to do.

Temptation had won out, and here he was. Temptation had led him straight to heartache. Temptation had proved to him that, for the first time ever, really, he was alone.

Except that wasn’t truly true, was it?

He released his grip on the table and stared down at his dusty fingertips and smudged palms. Ignored the way his shoulder complained at how he’d stood with his muscles so tightly wound, rigidly enough to hurt, reminding him that it wasn’t fully healed yet. His hands twitched in memory of being held by smaller, daintier ones—hands that had not shied away from his when, inarguably, they should have stayed far, far away.

He wasn’t alone, at least not yet. Because against all odds, Bree hadn’t bailed on him, nor had she turned him in, and perhaps most surprising of all, her crazy husband hadn’t found her and taken her away.

His stomach turned. She’d been so eager to help him, to drop a message for the others, all for his sake. But she was alone out there. They’d argued about it—whether to stay together or split up. Logic had won out.

Logic was a huge bitch. He was the one who’d pushed for splitting up, and that goddamn logic felt like nothing more than a savage scam now.

Heaving a sigh, Fox looked around the empty room one last time. Nothing had changed. Still cold. Still silent.

Perhaps it was time for goodbye, then. If Wolf and Spider and Hare were really gone.

In the dust on the table, he began to scrawl. Just in case. Because maybe, just maybe, there was a sliver of hope.

I’m alive.

Underneath, a series of letters.

W.

J.

C.

G.

He paused before the last one, but some compulsion drew his fingers through the dust again.

B.

***

The evening had turned unpleasantly cold—the kind of autumn night that smelled a bit like snow but didn’t have the decency to even spill any. Fox kicked at stones on the road as he walked, unable to shake a feeling of unease. Maybe he shouldn’t have gone to the townhouse. It was probably a terrible move. And leaving that message? The damn initials? Stupid. Spider would fucking kill him if she saw it.

Or she’d be glad to find out he was alive.

He shook a few hairs out of his eyes, pissed off at how they tickled uncomfortably against his eyelashes. Damn hat, shoving his hair forward so it fell in the most annoying place.

God, what had he been thinking, going back there?

What if someone had seen him? What if constables were tearing the damn place apart right now?

He came to a stop and forced himself to take a breath. The thoughts were getting out of control.

“Sounds like we got a problem here, don’t it?”

Fox frowned at the rough voice sneering somewhere around a corner. It sounded vaguely familiar. Unpleasantly familiar.

It sounded like a guy he was pretty sure he didn’t like.

“You gotta know whose turf this is,” the voice drawled. Fox’s arms prickled beneath his coat. “And I never seen no pansy little shitheads like you around here before. ’Specially not a mouthy little bastard in a fancy-ass coat like that. So, where the hell’d you come from, fella?”

Oh, he did fucking know that voice. It belonged to a guy he’d once punched in the face (and who’d punched him back, but that was beside the point). A guy who needed another knock on the head, apparently, because what was that bullshit he was spewing aboutwhose turf this was?

It certainly wasn’t his.

This was IA territory, and no matter what his brother said about not starting shit with the other crews working the suckers in town who left their pockets unguarded, Fox was not about to let this asshole go around claiming that some other gang had somehow overtaken it.

As a high-pitched voice protested whatever that fucker was doing, Fox started forward, then paused.

His shoulder. It still ached. It probably wouldn’t take much to fuck it up again.

“Empty them nice pockets of yours, kid, and maybe we’ll let you pass through with a warning. Maybe.”

Keep walking. That was all he had to do.

“What are you doing?” their victim squeaked. “Just leave me—”

One of the nasty voices burst into a laugh, while the other said, “Fuck, what’s wrong with this guy?”

A cry that was more of a shriek.

And then—

“What the fuck?”

The cry rang in his ears, too loud and too familiar.

“Shit…” Even before the guy went on, Fox knew what he was about to say. “Shit. It’s a girl.”

He was around the corner before he’d even quite realized that he had started to move.

“Hey.”

There she was, flat against the wall where those two motherfuckers from—what were they called? Something stupid—something with an S. Stealthy…sneaky…sorry. Sorry Sixes. That’s who they ran for.

Two bastards from the Sorry Sixes had cornered her.

Those big brown eyes went straight to him, and he almost died, because she looked so scared.

But.

She also looked royally pissed.

It wasn’t like when she’d yelled at him to smarten up and stop being a vulgar, disrespectful prick while he was still in jail, or her frantic, furious tirade to Mrs. Bristow when she convinced her to let them go. It wasn’t like her trembly, worried sort of frustration from when they’d fought about splitting up to cover more ground. It wasn’t like the endless, exhausted annoyance that crossed her face every time she had to destroy another goddamn poster.

This was something new, like something had split inside her, like she had decided she was fucking sick of being pushed around.

“This little cross-dressing freak your woman?” asked the one with his knife at Bree’s throat. Blond haired, blue eyed, mean-looking as a feral dog. “Been acting all shady-like, sneaking around on Sorry Six streets. You oughta keep her a bit more under control.”

“Yeah, about that,” Fox said through gritted teeth, unable to identify which part of that little speech infuriated him the most.

“About what?” the other one asked, shaking greasy red curls away from his narrowed eyes. “Who the fuck are you, anyway?”

“This ain’t your territory,” Fox said tightly, stepping a little closer. Bree’s eyes widened.

In a tiny, subtle movement, her gaze flicking to his bad shoulder, she shook her head. As if, somehow, after only knowing him for a few weeks, she knew exactly what he was about to get himself into. And what a terrible idea it was.

The Sixes snorted. “Says who?”

“Says me.”

“Well, guess I gotta ask again,” the short one said. “Who the fuck are you?”

As Fox stepped into the gas light, the blond guy’s head tilted to the side. “Wait a minute. I know this ugly face.” He shoved Bree back against the wall—whether for dramatic effect or because she’d been trying to slip away, it was hard to tell. But she winced, and at his side, Fox’s hands clenched.

“Think I kicked your ass one time,” he said. “Doesn’t seem like it did much good. Need another go?”

“Fox,” Bree hissed.

“Oh, that’s it. Fox,” the big one mimicked. “IA, ain’t you? How’d you get outta jail? Heard you got busted like an idiot.” He grinned. “Your mug’s been all over this city. You better watch your step, or we gonna be reading a big, splashy headline ’bout you in a day or so.”

With a gruesome, taunting grimace, the ginger mimed getting hanged, tilting his head as if his neck had been snapped.

“Didn’t know you could read,” Fox said, as his blood ran hot. Bree closed her eyes.

The redhead guffawed. “Ha, ha. Hilarious, Dog Boy.”

“Dog Boy. Good one. You come up with that yourself?” He stepped a little closer; neither of them moved. “Get your fucking hands off her.”

“And if I don’t? What you gonna do about it? Your wimpy freak of a leader gonna come and wag his finger at me?” The fucker with the knife laughed. “Last I heard, IA’s dead. And…” His voice trailed off for a moment as he dragged that stare back over Bree’s face. “And they’re looking for both of you.”

Fox heard the words—heard the taunt, the refusal to leave Bree alone, and the pointed jab at his brother. They burst at him like sparks, dropping in painful pinpricks he could not ignore.

He was about to leap, bum shoulder be damned, when Bree kicked the guy holding her right in the goddamn jewels.

“Fucking shit!” Fox yelped as she tore away from the wall, gasping. “You gone crazy?”

“Maybe,” she said, grabbing his arm. “Don’t fight. Let’s g—”

Rich of her, to tell him not to fight when she was the one who had just slammed her leg right into her attacker’s nuts.

And pretty optimistic, seeing as the short one was barrelling straight toward the both of them.

“Bree, get out of here.” Fox didn’t know if she would listen—had a bad feeling, after the assault she’d just launched on the asshole with the knife, that she would not—but the command tore out of him anyway, because neither of these fuckers was going to touch her again, not if he had anything to do with it. How had she even run into them, anyway? Her drop point was blocks away.

A story he could get out of her later, because right now there was an ass that needed kicking.

“You’re going to get h—” She squealed into silence as the blond guy recovered from his howls of pain, repositioned his knife, and shot forward.

“Ah, fuck!” The short one’s fist slammed into Fox’s shoulder just as Bree somehow did what he could not—sidestep her attacker. She still cried out, her voice mingling with his cursing as pain tore through his shoulder. “Bree, for fuck’s sake, just run! I can handle—”

Granted, he would handle it better if he weren’t so busy yelling at her to get lost. The ginger caught him with a knock on his jaw. No big deal. Nothing he couldn’t get back up from.

And he had to get back up from it, because the tall motherfucker with the knife was moving again.

“This ain’t IA territory no more,” the little one hissed. “Not since you landed your sorry ass in jail and the rest of your crew fucked off.”

Fox forgot that his shoulder and his jaw hurt, and he forgot he was being stupid. He sprang forward and knocked the goddamn asshole and his hideous, taunting mouth to the ground.

He shouldn’t have looked away from Bree, though.

The big guy caught hold of her hair, and she shrieked when he yanked her toward him and snarled, “Didn’t know IA had their hands on such cute little gals. ’Specially one who also got her face plastered on every damn wall in this town.”

She gasped and tilted her head back as he kept pulling on her hair. “What are you doing? Let me go, you disgusting, wicked, horrid—”

God, it would almost be sweet, watching her trying to throw out insults like that, if it weren’t so fucking horrifying.

The knife. Back at her throat.

No no no no no no no—

“Pretty little reward for the constable’s pretty little wife,” the blond one said, and as Fox struggled to figure out exactly how he was going to get both of them out of this mess, the other Six swept his feet from under him.

“And a reward for this asshole, too.” Black spots danced before Fox’s eyes as his bad arm was pressed into his back, followed by the other. “You just nothing but talk, eh? Dog Boy’s all bark and no bite.”

Fuck. Fuck.

In the distance, a whistle blasted through the air. Deep-throated shouts. Clicking, scraping footsteps.

“Would you look at that,” said the tall one smugly. “Coppers are nearby. Won’t they be surprised to see what we found?”

“You fucking idiots,” Fox snarled. “They could just arrest you both, too.”

With a growl, the red-haired one twisted his bad arm a little tighter. Fox gasped.

“C’mon, Mrs. Constable,” the big guy said, taking the knife from Bree’s neck for just long enough to pull her arms behind her, too, and shove her to her knees. “Ain’t you lucky? Gonna see your loony of a husband again.” He grinned at his friend. “And we’re gonna get an extra payday, huh?”

His friend cackled, and Fox found Bree’s gaze as they began to call into the night for the police to come running.

The freezing cobblestone underneath him should have been what chilled him to the bone. But what he saw in Bree’s eyes stabbed right into him like ice.

“I’m not going back,” she whispered. So quiet, he was almost only reading her lips. “I’m not. I’m not. I’m—”

“What’re you saying, missus?” The blond peered into her face. “I don’t like your husband much, neither, but I’ll sure take his money.”

“I said…” Bree glared up at him. “I said I’m not going back.”

Wetness gleamed beneath her eyes now, eerie and flashing in the yellow light.

“Let g-go of m-my hands,” she said suddenly. Whimpering. Trembling. “I’ll…I’ll give you whatever I have. That’s what y-you want, right?”

The big guy twirled his knife in his free hand, laughing. “Gonna get a lot more for taking you in, Mrs. Constable. But thanks anyway.”

“Please,” she said, sobbing. “You’re hurting me.”

Her downcast eyes flicked up momentarily and met Fox’s.

“I’ll give you whatever you want,” she whimpered, the instant of silent communication gone, and she craned her neck to look up at the shithead holding onto her. “Please. I’ve got m-money—”

What? Whatever she had in her pockets, it wasn’t much.

Fucking fuck, she was running a scam.

The tall Six growled but let go, pulling her up again to brandish the knife in front of her face.

Mewling quietly to herself, Bree picked at her pockets with shaking hands, and shot Fox a look.

“On three,” she mouthed, as if he were somehow wise to whatever plan she had concocted. Down by her pocket, her fingers counted: one—two—three—

Whatever clumsy but earnest assault she launched into with a shriek, Fox missed, because he gritted his teeth and threw his body upwards, which destroyed his aching muscles and fucked-up shoulder exactly as much as he’d expected it to, but he didn’t really have much choice or much time to come up with something better, and honestly, it worked just fine, with the ginger caught off guard. Fox forced him to roll, and with his arm pretty much out of commission, landed the most forceful kick he could muster right in his potato-shaped nose.

“Come on!” He latched onto Bree’s hand the moment he was on his feet. She hadn’t done much to incapacitate the big guy, but it looked like she had managed to kick him in the shins or something, which was going to have to be good enough to give them time to run. Because as much as he wanted to pummel both of these jerks into the ground, his arm said absolutely not, and if the constables really were on their way, they needed to get gone.

“What the fuck happened back there?” he gasped when they’d made it far enough from the frustrated yowling of the Sixes and the cops that only ordinary evening-in-the-city sounds swelled around them. “How’d you even run into those pricks?”

“I got lost,” she said. “It’s a long—”

“You could’ve been hurt!”

As if she somehow hadn’t expected him to be mad, she blanched. The flicker of hurt, though, was quickly replaced by her own anger. “Me?” she retorted. “You jumped right in, knowing your shoulder is still healing! What were you thinking?”

“You kicked that guy in the nuts! What if he’d been just a little nastier, huh? You know what he could’ve done to you?”

His breath was fighting against him—struggling to get in, screeching and scratching on the way out. Fuck, he’d been in fights, and yeah, he’d been clobbered before, not that he much liked admitting it, but this feeling in his chest was new, clawing at him from the inside, tight and only growing.

“Bree, you could have died!”

What had he been thinking, for god’s sake, letting her drop a message? Letting her get involved? How stupid was he? Everyone else knew it. They’d told him time and time again. Idiot. Reckless. Foolhardy. Impulsive. Thoughtless. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid—

“Fox, you’re hurting me,” Bree whispered, and he looked down toward the hand squeezing hers.

Shit.

“Fuck. I’m sorry.” He let go, staring at the fingers that had been about to crush hers. Stupid and ill-fucking-tempered, after all that bullshit of Bree, I’m not him and trying to be better than the soul-sucking demon she’d married and here he was, yelling at her and scaring the shit out of her and hurting her, damn it all. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

The words died.

His fingers were slick with blood.

And he was pretty goddamn sure it wasn’t his.

“Bree…”

Her eyes went from his face to his bloody hand, and she gasped softly. “Oh. What did you—”

“It’s not mine,” he said, reaching for the hand he’d been clasping, and the sight of it nearly had him hurling his guts into the street, not because he had a problem with blood, for fuck’s sake, but because of whose blood it was. And how it dripped from her fingers, flowing freely. And fast.

“Oh, my—” Her face went a little green as she realized she was the one leaving a blood trail. “I don’t even know when—”

“Shit,” he hissed, watching dark red splatter onto the stone beneath them. “That looks bad.”

“I’m…I’m sure it’s…” For a moment, he could just see it: her eyelids fluttering closed, her limp body falling to the stone, him having to carry her in his arms while hoping she wouldn’t bleed out then and there…

And then she fumbled for a handkerchief, pressing it against the jagged slice that bastard had left on her forearm, right up to her wrist.

“It’s going to be fine,” she said firmly, even though she was pale.

He watched the starched cotton blossom with wet, seeping darkness, then pulled off his scarf. “Use this.” His hands shook as he pressed the wool to her arm, wrapping it with clumsy fingers.

How long till they got to the inn? Too long. Maybe the scarf would help staunch the blood. But it needed a real bandage. And she probably needed to not be running through the streets in a panic.

“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I wasn’t trying to scare you.”

She didn’t move her hands from where they held the makeshift bandage to her arm. But her gaze tilted upwards. “You don’t scare me.”

He swallowed.

“Tell me if you start to feel real bad, okay?” He itched to take her hand in his, so strongly it was almost making him twitch. But she needed to keep pressure on that goddamn cut. “We gotta keep moving. But we’re almost there.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, looking around nervously, a shiver wracking her body. “I don’t know where we are.” 

“We’re not going back to the inn. Not with your arm looking like that.” Her eyes widened, but after a moment, she seemed to realize that he was, for once in his life, following a sensible impulse and not a harebrained one.

“Okay,” she said softly. “I trust you.”

Fox was struck by how fiercely he wanted to just scoop her into his arms and carry her all the way—how much she looked like she needed it. But she stayed on her own two feet, and even though she winced with each jarring step, as the night fell colder and deeper around them, she did not complain. He had to force himself to stay far, far away from the question of why she handled her pain so stoically.

“Just a minute,” he said when they got there, as he pried a loose board from the steps and fished around in the dark, trying to find the key. “Fuck! Where is it?” He’d just dropped it back there an hour ago at most. Where the hell could it have gone?

He heard her soft intake of breath, startled and nervous, and he ordered himself to calm the fuck down.

“Sorry,” he muttered, finally grasping the key and shoving the board back into place. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t find…”

“It’s all right.” Was he imagining it, or was her voice growing faint?

Getting the goddamn key into the lock was even more of an ordeal. He was on the verge of just breaking down the door and facing the consequences later when the lock clicked and the door swung open.

“Got bandages somewhere,” he said, helping her through the entryway—he knew every uneven floorboard, every sharp corner, but she didn’t. “I just—I mean—I—fuck—” Where was he supposed to start? “Water. Right? Wash it. Needs to be…”

“Fox…”

“It’s usually me with the stupid injuries,” he said as he guided her toward the kitchen, “the dumb, idiot, clumsy, dumb fuck who’s hurt, and everyone else is running around finding me bandages, not the other way around, so I don’t really—”

“Just—”

“But I think—I gotta boil water, right? So it’s clean? Or whatever? Does that sound right?”

Stupid, stupid, stupid. The word danced around his head, taunting him, unwilling to let him forget for even an instant how foolish it had been to let Bree get anywhere close to IA life.

So what had he done?

Brought her to its headquarters.

Its empty, abandoned headquarters—but IA’s former stronghold, nonetheless.

He tore through the cupboards. God, the others were so damn organized, far more than he was, so you’d think he be able to find a single fucking bandage somewhere.

“Got it,” he said, leaving the cupboard door wide open and turning back toward Bree

“Fox!”

The scarf hit the floor more heavily than it should have.

“You’re panicking,” she said. Her handkerchief stuck to her skin; even in the dim light, he could see how wrong it was. The wrong colour, pasted and slick against her arm.

“No, I’m not.” Fuck, her fingers were cold. They found his as he pressed the new bandage to her cut.

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m not—”

“I’m okay.” Weak light, moon and lamp glows mingled, drifted in, just enough to see that her cheeks were wet and her lip was trembling. “I’m okay.”

“Fuck that,” he said, forgetting who he was talking to for a moment. Until she flinched. “You’re crying.”

“Y-yes,” she said. “I think—I think it’s—it’s catching up with me now.” She drew a shuddering breath. “I was scared. I was scared. I was so scared.” She took a step closer. “When I saw you, when you came around the corner, I felt—I was—I was so—I felt safer, but then—when I thought they might hurt you, and then when they were going to turn us in, and the thought of you—” She gasped, and then she pressed against him, her head to his chest. “Of Baden hurting you again—”

That made him sputter. “Of him hurting me again?” She was shaking. From cold? Leftover terror? Blood loss? Wracking sobs? “You serious?”

“He almost killed you.”

“God, Bree, what d’you think he’d do to you?” His voice cracked. “For being the one to help me? You think I could—you think I could handle that? Him getting his hands on you? So he could…he could…”

Before he even quite realized what he was doing, he had wrapped his arms around her, embracing that fragile form as if his body could shield her from the horrors of her past.

“Those constables,” Bree whispered, leaning into him. “They were after me.”

“After you?”

“I ran into my friends,” she said. “They recognized me. Taking down the posters. I—Alice, I think she would have looked the other way, but—but Marguerite, she… She looked… She thought I had gone…” A choking gasp. “She yelled for the police, so I ran. That’s why I was lost. And how I ended up there.”

“It’s okay,” he said, holding tighter. “They didn’t catch you.”

“But if they’d caught you, it would have been all my fault.”

He pulled away then. “No. It wouldn’t have.”

“And that boy hurt your arm,” she said shakily. “Because I—I made them angry—I wasn’t trying to—”

“Not your fault either,” he said. “They’re both shitheads. Plain and simple.”

She laughed, weepy but genuine, and it was beautiful. It brought him back from that fuzzy, floating realm of rage that seemed to exist outside of time and space, that turned the world white and red and black and made his thoughts go hazy and made him just want to scream and lash out and make the pain and the people causing it go away. That laugh, even thick and choked with tears, grounded him. Reminded him of why he’d been so pissed off in the first place. Who he’d been so desperate to protect.

He pressed one hand to her cheek. She didn’t startle, didn’t flinch. When he slid it down to the tip of her chin, and with the gentlest, barest force he could muster, tilted it up so he could look into her eyes, she didn’t pull away.

“None of it was your fault,” he said. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I’m sorry for making you think…” His mouth had gone dry. “I was scared, too.”

Scared of what, exactly?

Bree brushed away the tears that still glittered on her cheeks. “I’m worried I’m getting blood on your coat.”

Blood. “Shit!” He was supposed to be boiling water. Apologizing and explaining and cuddling were all great, but they weren’t going to do much to help her sliced-open arm. “Let me—god, I’m sorry, I’m really terrible at this whole thing—”

He bolted for the door. When you lived in an old-ass townhouse, you got the pleasure of using the old-ass well down the road instead of the fancy-ass running water the rich folk got. And if no one had been in the house for weeks, there sure as hell wasn’t any water inside. “Sit down, okay? I’m coming back. I’ll—I’m just going for water—I’ll be right there!”

He fled before she could comment on what a piss-poor medic he made, or on the fact that he still had to get a goddamn fire going before he could even think about boiling water.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. At least the inn would have had hot, clean water ready to use.

But it was farther away.

But it was safer.

But she’d have kept bleeding into the street.

Water in tow, he skidded back inside and went straight for the oven, flinging open the cast-iron door and throwing in the first flammable things he could find. He really had to concentrate, to focus his energy on lighting the kindling and making sure the logs took to flame, because his mind was racing again, too fast and too loud. If Bree said anything, he didn’t hear.

When he finally turned around, water heating and candles lit so they could actually see, her head lay on her good arm—her body slumped over the table.

“Shit! You okay?” He flew to her side. Landed on his knees.

Her eyes fluttered open immediately. “Yes. I’m just resting.” Slowly, she sat up. “You were here already.”

“Huh?”

She pointed to the message he’d written in dust earlier that day—such a short time ago, yet it felt like decades. “What does it mean?”

“What do you mean, what does it mean?” He stood up again, embarrassed that he’d panicked when she’d merely closed her eyes in exhaustion. An inspection of her arm showed that no new blood had soaked through the bandage she still held against it. “It says I’m alive.”

“Not that,” she said. He tried to catch any resentment in her voice. But she didn’t sound surprised that he’d been to the house already. “The other part. The letters.”

He looked again at the initials. It was so obvious to him—but of course, to her, it meant nothing.

“You really wanna know?”

His heart was still racing, but as he looked over the letters, his mind calmed once more, and his limbs moved without frenzy—one hand to stroke her cheek, an unconscious movement he couldn’t have resisted even if he wanted to, and the other to take her unbandaged arm.

“Of course.” Her eyes were on him. When he moved her hand, though, she looked to the table, to the letter B, and what he was writing there with the tip of her finger.

Bree.

She frowned, confused, until he did it again. Guided her finger to form the rest of the letters that were missing behind the W.

Silence draped over them, but it wasn’t the boggy, drowning, thought-twisting kind. It was the kind that made him forget why the house was so silent. It was the kind that dripped with sweetness and with promise, that inhabited the space between strangers and not, between fear and loyalty, between the past and the future.

“Will,” she breathed. “Your name is Will.”

No doubt. No mistrust. Not even a question; it was as if, by some magic, she had always known, and the revelation was no surprise. The sound of his name coming from those lips was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard, like birdsong after a storm or the crunch of boots on a fresh, white crust of snow.

“My name is Will,” he echoed.

Bree was silent again, gazing at him with wide, shining eyes. In unison, they drew closer, and Will’s entire body tingled with every possibility contained in the moments between them, in their shivering breaths that seemed to go in and out as one, and in the crackling air that seemed now to connect rather than separate.

And then she was the one with her arms around him, those bird’s wings enveloping him as if they might never let go, and her lips were pressed to his. Her kiss was warm, as soft as air, almost, and just as life-giving. It tasted the way he imagined starlight would: sweet and bright and colourful, like strawberries in summer, like apples in autumn, like cinnamon and sugar and just-brewed tea.

With his pounding heart rattling every inch of his body, Will Wardrew kissed Bree Scarlett back, and even though their world was in shambles and maybe always had been, there was a moment where everything—everything—was right.

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Taglist (please let me know if you’d like to be added/removed!)

@starlit-hopes-and-dreams

@clairelsonao3

@gala1981

@pleasestaywithmedarling

@kixngiggles

✨

[moonstonewhump]

Their eyes spark, bright and furious, as they take in the sight of him, half-conscious and gasping, being dragged forward with a knife against his throat. Blood drips down his face from a gash in his forehead; his arms jerk wildly, but his hands are tied behind his back.

Their voice cuts through the air, sharp and dangerous.

"How dare you?"

[undead-knick-knack]

Wishing a Sam a speedy recovery and smiley day! 💛🥹

[nibbelraz]

sqh has two god powers. accidentally changing the world by saying something, and any time he's more stressed than he can physically take anymore he pulls a bocchi scream. glitch effect and all. "Shang-shixiong, why don't you meet with other sect leaders? What do you think, sect leader?" "Oh yes, our trade and intersect reputation could benefit greatly from- SHANG SHIDI?????" nightmare fuel situation. he acts 100% fine when they say he doesnt have to, like it never happened.

IM ACTUALLY SO OBSESSED WITH THE IDEA HE'S DOING A BOCCHI SCREAM WHEN HE'S TOO OVERWHELMED OR DOESNT WANT TO DO STUFF ANON THIS IS EVERYTHING TO ME

He's just a little tired, nothing like an all-powerful god screeching to inhuman levels that beings can't comprehend

[moon-buggg]

Hide and Seek. Viewers are free to imagine context for this<3

[killakalx]

17+ content, blank blogs dnf

gunplay, bit of a gory description, hate sex, degradation, brat taming, throat fuck, ruined orgasm, arkham knight gear stays on, reader is a vigilante. a/n at the end :p

the arkham knight’s watched you long enough to know how you operate; your favorite moves, how you approach the enemy, how you talk to the enemy. you’re reckless and actively searching for a thrill out in gotham. and in turn, he gets his fun in tearing you down. the tone you tend to take with him is testy more often than not, and he waits until he’s got one thread of patience before he disarms you of your boldness. then he continues. on from the shield to the armor, then digging into bare skin just to fuck with you. to humble and embarrass you.

“you think you’re so cute,” he mutters with an agitation about him, gothamite accent still coming out thick through the voice modulator. “you like this shit? me fucking you ‘til this pussy’s all sore?” the look on your face is helpless, tears swelling in your lashes and gasping at the bruising grip on your hips. he’s burying his cock to the hilt and pulling your little sense of decency out with it each thrust, and still, you’ve got the nerve to test just how quickly he’ll break you with a little more incentive.

“I think-“ you start, though you’re temporarily interrupted by your own moan. “I think you like this.” your hand clutches onto any part of his gear when he responds with a harsher fucking, legs trembling and still trying to shit talk him. “just a fucking brute looking for an- mm- an outlet.” the deep laugh that comes from the depths of his throat is threatening, accompanied by a grip on your hair that yanks your head forward.

“look at that,” he orders, chin forced against your chest and making your throat tighten as you mewl. “look who’s leaking all over my cock like a cheap whore instead of patrolling and say that shit again.” and because you like this little game, you do. it’s an attempt to psychoanalyze him, to get in touch with his own self loathing and provoke something deadly.

“always so angry,” you whisper, “don’t know anything other than that.” your words start slurring together, but the somehow condescending tone is still there to tick him off more. now his pace picks up and a gloved hand rudely gropes your chest, almost like a handle as he pistons into you. even through pathetic whimpers, you manage, “I bet this bloodthirsty act is-“

“all you do is bark, huh.”

in a matter of seconds, the brutish tendencies spill. your body’s slammed into the mattress and your head jerks, light stinging in the back of your head suggesting that you’ve hit the headboard. and with the cool steel he’s slipped down your throat, you’re reminded that the blood thirst is a bit more than an act. he does it as if he’s throwing you a bone, pacifying you, the rowdy little thing that just wants something to chew on. it makes you choke with wide eyes, barrel of the gun shoved into your mouth until you feel his finger on the trigger brush your chin.

“i’d shut that damned mouth,” the arkham knight warns, “y’can’t council me with a bullet in your neck, doc.” he’s stopped fucking you to let the silence after a bone chilling realization disturb you, but your body betrays you- you can’t help how you tighten around his cock at the position you’ve put yourself in. it takes everything not to move your hips as you pant over your ruined orgasm, the tingly feeling you get from fucking your boss’s first priority target behind his back. it’s teetering away and replaced with repulsive guilt, but only for a mere moment.

“you’re a fucking joke,” he chastises, “think about it- if I pull off that bloodthirsty act… all it takes is a bang, then you’ll be drownin’ in my color.” he speaks with desire, as if he looks forward to it. the drag he adds to the ‘bang’ is complemented with a rigid scratch in your throat as he pushes it further down, just to hear the sorry gasp of fear you give him. “that turning you on?”

it is. desperately, in fact. such a crude and gory picture’s been painted in your mind, yet he makes it sound so poetic and unique to himself. the imagination can be terribly vivid; so much as a flinch of his finger and the sheets are dowsed in your blood—no, like he said, his color—while you choke on the metallic taste similar to the one sheathed between your lips now. less vividly, but real, you see him, clad in chest plates and thick cargo material, nothing but a digital glitch from the helmet while he’s got you speared on his cock and gagging on his handgun.

“ngh-“ you sputter, spit dribbling around the metal as your dilated pupils are met with a blank red stare. what was intended to be a no is presented as a yes, cunt twitching when he fucks the pistol into your mouth. much to your dismay, he likes the look on your face, and the gun slides out of your mouth after he leaves your pussy aching without an orgasm. deciding against words, you whine, limp on the mattress and easily dragged to the floor on your knees.

he’s yanked on the cute little ponytail you only wear for nightly duties, making you pout. it hurts- but there’s no point in saying that. he knows. that’s the idea; letting you know that you’ve yet to deal with anything near his full potential of brute strength because this is his bare fucking minimum. “I was gonna do this first,” the agitated grin in his voice is evident, smacking the head of his cock on your tongue as your mouth hands agape. “but I thought I was being nice by fucking everything outta that pretty little head.” you’d had half a mind to start sucking at the tip, but he beats you to it by shoving your head down, groaning as you gag against his happy trail. “hell, I’m still being nice- I bet this dick feels way better than a bullet.”

your hands search for abandon before weakly hooking onto his thigh straps, bracing yourself for what anyone could piece together as pleasurable torture. your pretty lashes flutter through your cowl, stained with dark eye make-up and tears. “y’look a lot more pathetic like this, doll- who knew that was possible, huh?” the arkham knight has you utterly broken, and he feels you’re no where near humbled yet. ❧

a/n ;; woahhhh porn w/ plot who cheered??? this is kinda piggybacking off of this anon I received referring to my first fic for the arkham knight, shout out to that nonnie :). as always rbs and commentary are appreciated, i hope this was up to par, ty for reading <3

[khaopybara]

i fear he might be insane.

KHAOTUNG THANAWAT as BISON official trailer of THE HEART KILLERS

[konigsblog]

crazy, how the majority of my haters are either hypocrites, or are just straight up LYING. lmfao, i've written rape before and i apply appropriate warnings, but i've never ever written PEDOPHILIA. 😬

their username on tumblr is @asgardswinter, they have continuously mentioned me on their blog. it's literally creepy and clearly obsessive, lmfao, and lying about me writing pedophilia is real fucking weird considering they don't apply any further context or include any evidence to back up this claim...

i'd appreciate it if you reported their twitter account or blog for like harassment 😮‍💨

[one-time-i-dreamt]

I was taking an exam at school, except Chica from FNAF was there and if I made one wrong move she’d fucking kill me.

[draw-the-squad-like-this]

Draw your otp like this

[little-peril-stories]

The Queen of Lies: The Drop, Part I

Story Intro | Content Warnings | Mood Board | Vibey Song Lyrics | Ao3

Contents: lady whump (I mean, sort of), being chased, being threatened, being robbed/mugged

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Word count: 4000 || Approx reading time: 16 mins

The Drop, Part I

Teaser: He snorted, putting his plate beside him. When he folded his arms and met her gaze, Bree watched his face for irritation. “Are you asking me why I’m still here?”

“Fox?”

How long they’d been cooped up in their room, Bree wasn’t quite certain. They sneaked out for fresh air only when they were feeling courageous, and when it was quiet enough outside that no one was around or busy enough that they wouldn’t stand out in a crowd—a risky request of his to which she had eventually capitulated when it became clear that being inside all the time was doing him no favours. It hurt her, she’d realized, to look at his pale skin and jittery limbs, as if his need to be outdoors was more than just a childish request, but a physical necessity.

“Yeah?”

Their eyes met over their plates of food—a pork roast and mashed potatoes drizzled with gravy, and a pile of green sprouts that her companion was pointedly avoiding—she’d retrieved from downstairs, doing her best to avoid the gazes of the other guests who surely burned with curiosity about why she never took her meals in the dining room.

Bree dreaded the answer to her question, and yet it had been goading her for days now. She didn’t think she could stand another minute of not knowing. “There’s something I want to ask you.”

“Okay,” he said, looking relieved to take a break from his vegetables. “Shoot.”

“You came with me,” she said. “And I know you were so hurt at first. But you’ve mostly recovered now, and I…I know you have people out there. They must be wondering. Waiting.” She pushed her potatoes around, her appetite fading quickly. “Why are you… Why didn’t you…”

He snorted, putting his plate beside him. When he folded his arms and met her gaze, Bree watched his face for irritation. “Are you asking me why I’m still here?”

“Well,” Bree said, her face heating, “I suppose I am.”

“Thought you liked having me around?”

“I do!” she said, her pulse quickening. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like that. Don’t start a fight. I just…”

“Just what?”

Oh, she didn’t. She didn’t want to say this. “I thought you’d go looking for them the first chance you got.”

He pointed toward the wanted posters staring at them from a stack on the desk; Bree had been tearing them down as she saw them whenever she went outside. “Aren’t you the one reminding me all the time my face is all over the place?”

“Honestly,” she said, “I really thought you’d just leave the moment you were well enough.”

A quietness took hold of him then, and as she’d known she would, she regretted asking. He tugged at his hair, thinking, and after some time, said, “I don’t know if they’re still here.”

That was not what she’d expected him to say. “What? Why not?” With horror, she watched his jaw grow tight. God, why did she always find the worst things to say? She never should have asked, never should have tried to pry, and now he was angry that she’d reminded him of his loneliness. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I didn’t want to—I wasn’t trying to—”

Frowning, he asked, “What are you apologizing for?”

“I wasn’t trying to upset you,” she said quickly. “Please don’t be upset. I’m sorry. I wasn’t. I shouldn’t have said anything—shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m sorry.”

He answered at first with silence, letting it drag on between them. His head tilted slightly to the side, and that hazel-eyed gaze roamed over her, calm but puzzled.

And sad.

“Bree,” he said. His voice was mournful, heavy with cruel imagination and with memory, as heavy as the metal that had once adorned his wrists. “I’m not him.”

The words hung between them, and Bree found she did not know how to answer, for he was right. It wasn’t Fox who grew so terribly furious with her at the slightest provocation, who was impatient and violent and cruel.

“I know,” she whispered.

“And I’m not mad.”

She nodded, suddenly finding she couldn’t think of a single word to say except, “Okay.”

His throat bobbed as he waited, it seemed, to see if she would say more. When she didn’t, he went on, “At first, I couldn’t. Even if I had wanted to. Leave, I mean. To go find them. But now…” His gaze pointed out the window. “I mean, how long’s it been? Weeks, for sure. They’d have expected me to…” She watched every muscle in his body tighten again. “Crack. Ages ago. So. There’s…there’s no way they’re at…” He paused. “Home.”

Home. Bree knew little about the world from which he’d careened into hers, but she had never imagined that a gang of thieves might have a place they called home. A hideout, maybe. What would Baden call it? A snake pit. A criminals’ lair. A—she almost smiled—fox den.

“Do you have a way to contact them?” Perhaps it was a hopeless, pointless question.

Fox looked away from the window, studying her now as he once had in a cold and filthy prison cell—curious and assessing.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “There is.”

As if he weren’t quite aware that he was doing it, he traced the lines of his tattoo: the roots and the tree, the circle, the letters she had stared at so many times when he wasn’t looking—I.A.

As his fingers moved over the black-ink curves on his arm, his eyes went to hers. “You gotta promise,” he said. “If I tell you…” Bree’s heart pounded, and for a moment, she felt utterly giddy. “You gotta swear you won’t tell anyone. Ever.”

“I won’t,” she breathed. “No one. Ever.”

“Promise?” he asked, holding out his hand.

She extended hers. “I promise.”

***

Flip the coin.

“No, not like that,” he’d said, chuckling at her look of confusion. “Not in the air. As in, turn it over.”

Bree reached out and turned the wooden coin so the side with the letters I.A. were facing upwards and the tree with the ringed roots faced down.

Drop the message.

A short note, written in such atrocious hand, she hadn’t been able to read it.

“What does it say?” she’d asked, watching him blow on the ink and cut a piece of string so he could tie it around a stone to weigh it down.

He’d laughed when she’d confessed she couldn’t read his writing. “Well, I mean, it’s kind of on purpose. Don’t want just anyone reading it, right? But it says I’m alive. And out.” The smile he wore had faltered as he went on. “If they’re still around, they’ll know it’s me. Hopefully.”

“You signed it?”

“No,” he said, rolling his eyes. “J—” Suddenly, he’d stopped. “They know my shitty handwriting. They’ll…they’ll know.”

Bree dropped the messily tied note next to the coin. He’d said there were a few places around the city that Iustitia aecum used for sharing messages and dropping goods, but there were some he thought his friends would be more likely to check than others. After some thought, he’d narrowed it down to two—and after some arguing, they had agreed that he would drop a note in one and she in the other.

“You’re going to get caught,” she’d said, her heart in her throat.

“I’ll be careful,” he’d promised. “I didn’t get busted just walking around. I got ambushed meeting with someone.” His expression had soured. “It was a trap for my…”

She hadn’t been able to get more out of him on that, but he’d seemed to waver somewhat in his conviction to keep his IA secrets from her. It hadn’t escaped her notice, that bitten lip, that pause, that glance over her when he thought she wasn’t looking. She’d chosen not to mention it. 

Bree also hadn’t voiced the other concern that beat painfully against her ribcage: that Fox would never return for a different reason—that him being rearrested was not the only thing that might prevent her from ever seeing him again. Perhaps his friends, by chance, would find him dropping the message. Perhaps he would slip away and go to the home he said existed somewhere in the city, and there they would be, delighted to find him alive and whole, and they would welcome him with open arms, and Bree would never lay eyes on him again.

She pushed the thoughts from her mind. If he wanted to find his friends and rejoin them, wasn’t he free to do so? Hadn’t she been the one to ensure he had that freedom?

Get the hell away from there.

The last instruction in Fox’s list of three. Bree glanced around, praying no one had noticed her pause by the sill of a broken window in an abandoned storefront, and then headed back toward the inn. The wind whipped around her, and for the first time, she was grateful for the trousers—better if you don’t look like you, he’d said, and she’d agreed. She had to admit, as much as she missed and preferred her skirt and petticoat, it was nice to not have them tangling around her legs.

God, what if Fox really didn’t come back?

As she hurried through the streets with night falling gently around her, tears struck, so sudden and so sharp, they took her breath away and blurred her vision. Furiously, Bree wiped them from her eyes. What was she crying for? Why on earth should she weep at the thought of never seeing him again? What a fool she was.

Bree took a moment to catch her breath and regain her composure, to force back another slew of silly, girlish tears. She’d set him free. She’d made that choice. What he chose to do with that freedom was up to him.

She stood, watching the evening rush ebb and flow around her, and her eyes fell upon a now-familiar piece of paper fastened to a lamppost up ahead, and her stomach turned. Heavens, but she was so sick of tearing down the posters—his and hers. Terribly sick of the lies splashed across them, terribly sick of the needling feeling ushered in by the sight of them—that awful fear that Baden knew full well she had not been abducted, and that he nurtured his own reasons for telling the world she had.

Heaving a furious sigh, she darted forward and ripped the poster from the pole.

“What—hey—look!”

An affronted cry rang out behind her, but Bree didn’t bother to turn. Whatever had upset that woman, it surely wasn’t her business; she had other problems to worry about.

“That boy’s taking down Breanna’s poster!”

Oh.

Oh, no.

It bowled into her, much too late now, that it was not the voice of some unknown woman shouting at her—rather, shouting at the “boy” who was so wickedly disrupting the constabulary’s search for her missing friend.

It was Alice.

And Alice was at her side, grabbing her arm with the force of a furious adult disciplining a misbehaving child.

“What on earth are you doing?” she demanded. “How dare you? Don’t you realize we’re still looking for the girl on that poster?”

“He probably can’t read,” a passerby said. “Most street kids can’t, can they?”

“That’s no excuse!” Alice said. Her lovely eyes were wild and fuming, an expression Bree had never seen there. “Explain yourself!”

Alice, eyes glistening, forcefully pulled Bree toward her—and her face changed. Her grip loosened.

“Breanna?”

Bree’s chest grew tight, too tight, and the cold air turned to shards of ice deep within her lungs, so frigid and piercing that she could hardly bear to draw a single breath.

“Breanna? Is it…is that you?”

Without thinking, Bree tugged Alice to the side, away from the curious eyes that were collecting around them, terror lending to her grip a strength she’d never wielded before. “Shh! Don’t say my—”

Alice’s eyes came close to overflowing. “How—why? Where have you been?” Her voice shook. “You sent that note—all those passages you marked—your note—” She took hold of Bree’s hand, wrapping her fingers tightly as if she might never let go. “And your cousin! You never had a cousin named Lucy! Why would you—”

“Alice, please.” Breanna squeezed the gloved hands wrapped around hers. “You must understand.” Her voice broke. “I know you do.”

Alice stared at her, her face ghostly pale. Almost as grey as the sky above them. “Where have you been?” she repeated. “Are you hurt? Are you safe?”

“I’m safe,” Bree said. “And I’m—I’m gone. And I’m not going back.”

“What?”

“Never, Alice.” Bree’s fingers twitched tighter. “Please. You—you never saw me. Please.”

Alice remained still now, her eyes wide and frightened, and ever so confused. “Breanna, you’re scaring me. You’re talking—you’re talking—”

“I’m never going back to him!”

The vow erupted out of her, rending the air between them like thunder.

“I’m never going back.” Bree’s chest heaved, her breath spinning beyond control now rather than frozen in horror. “If you have ever thought of me as a friend, Alice Wright, you’ll let me walk away, and you’ll never tell another soul you saw me here.”

Breanna Hatchett, cowering somewhere in her subconscious, quailed at the force behind her words: she fell to her knees, in tears, and she begged for Alice’s forgiveness. After all, what kind of girl would speak to her friend that way?

The girl who had become Bree Scarlett, however, did not take her eyes from Alice’s, and she did not back down.

The tears Alice had been so obviously and valiantly trying to contain spilled free.

“Promise me,” she whispered. “Promise me you are safe.”

“I promise,” Bree said. “I’m safe. And I’m h—hap—”

The truth of that stuttered, unfinished word—happy, for she was, wasn’t she, against all odds?—struck with such violence that Bree was almost relieved when a familiar voice cried out, equal parts harsh, concerned, and irritated.

“Alice? What on earth are you doing? We’re going to be late!”

Breanna spun around, and the woman calling Alice gasped.

“Breanna? Breanna Hatchett? You’re here? Where have you been?” Marguerite’s mouth dropped open. The frustrated quality to her voice changed, its target shifting from Alice to Bree, and her pitch rose to piercing shrillness. “And what in heaven’s name are you doing dressed like that? Goodness gracious, what’s happened to you?”

The stares of the surrounding townsfolk were only growing.

“Why are you dressed up in boy’s clothes?” Marguerite asked. “And—why are you here? Half the city’s been looking for you. Your husband has been so—”

Bree observed rather dizzily how her friend kept her distance, as if she did not wish to get too close, as if coming near might sully her lovely dress or her spotless white gloves. As if she were worried that Bree might do something unseemly or rash.

As if she were afraid.

“Everyone says you were kidnapped,” Marguerite said nervously. “You don’t look hurt. You just look…”

Bree backed away. Something she did not trust, something she feared, glittered in Marguerite’s gaze.

To Alice, all she could think to say was, “Please, say—say nothing—”

“Alice?” Marguerite interrupted. “What is she talking about?”

And sweet, lovely, kind, and caring Alice glanced between Bree and Marguerite, stuttering out a few anxious, incomprehensible sounds. “Well—well—I—”

“Look at her. What is she doing?” Marguerite’s face drained of colour as Bree backed up even further. “I think—I think she’s gone quite mad. She’s going to hurt herself, or—or even someone else. Someone fetch the pol—”

Bree turned on her heel and ran.

Icy wind scraped at her skin as she fled, the rush of air in her ears drowning out the surprised shouts of strangers and the worried calls of Alice and Marguerite. Perhaps Alice believed her; perhaps she would have held her tongue—turned away and pretended they had never crossed paths.

But Marguerite?

She’s gone quite mad.

Whether or not that was true, Bree thought grimly, was rather beside the point. What was far more concerning: what Marguerite had been about to say.

Someone fetch the police.

No doubt, somewhere behind her, someone had called for the constables. What other choice did they have, believing there to be a madwoman roaming the streets, spurning the aid of her dear friends, pretending to be someone else, and tearing down her own “Missing” posters?

They didn’t understand; they could not. Marguerite had done as she thought was proper, and if there were police seeking her now, the search for poor, missing Breanna Hatchett urgently renewed, those officers also did what they believed to be right.

As did Bree.

She stopped running when the stitch in her side grew to be too much to bear, and the uneven stones beneath her feet threatened to trip her and send her smashing to the ground. She laid a shaking hand against a wall and allowed herself to rest.

Listen. Pay attention. Look for pursuers. All things Fox had told her would be imperative during, as he called it, the drop.

“Gotta stay…uh…” He’d paused, scratching his chin. “What’s the word? V—vi—”

“Vigilant,” she’d supplied, and he’d grinned, repeating the word after her with a wholly unembarrassed chuckle.

His voice faded from her mind, replaced by the sounds of the still-hidden high street. Perhaps someone had given chase, but she heard no furious shouts, at least none that seemed to be related to her flight from Alice and Marguerite.

Slowly, Bree let out a breath.

So she’d made it away without getting caught.

Now what?

The quivering Breanna Hatchett inside her wanted to spin around, terrified at how unfamiliar the area was, and to fall to the ground and weep, because even Bree Scarlett recognized that she was, in all likelihood, very lost.

She swallowed her tears and took another deep breath. She wasn’t lost; rather, she was just off the main street, and once she made her way back there, she’d be able to find her way. Ask for directions from someone who seemed kind. Someone who didn’t believe her to be a criminal or a madwoman or a helpless victim of Iustitia aecum.

Once the pain in her side had faded, Bree pushed herself forward, keeping one eye on the darkening sky. The wind churned up dust, dead leaves, and detritus as it rushed through the alley, threatening to loosen her tied-up hair and dislodge the woollen hat Fox had “found” and given to her to hide her face. It was dark and cold, yes—and getting darker and colder—and she was lost, yes, but that did not mean all was lost.

Find the high street.

Regain her bearings.

Make it back to the inn.

Reunite with Fox. He would be there.

He would be there.

Wouldn’t he?

***

Listen. Pay attention. Stay vigilant.

Somewhere behind her, she heard the muttering of two boys, and fear flared in her chest, but as she tried to catch their conversation, she realized that while they seemed to be talking about her, they kept saying “boy” and “lad.”

The disguise, at least, was working.

She made her way toward the main road, shoving her hands deep into the pocket of her coat in a desperate attempt to retain some warmth in her fingertips.

She’d make it back and find her way. She could. Breanna Hatchett would have already given up. Bree Scarlett was stronger than that.

She paused at a corner, uncertain of which way would point her toward the inn.

“Hey, you. Kid. You lost?“

When Bree glanced back, she saw that the young men were still about, one poised to walk away, the other with his eyes on her.

“No,” she said. Goodness, she must really have looked confused, if they’d noticed her pausing and looking around and wondering what to do next. This was unfortunate, for they looked rough, certainly not the sort of people she’d usually find herself speaking to.

Except recently, she supposed. Since her only companion of late was a wanted criminal, and despite what the poster said, so, in fact, was she.

“Where you headed?” the boy asked. “You need a hand?”

Bree shook her head. Some cautious emotion prickled at the back of her mind. Yes, she’d been looking for someone to ask for directions. These two didn’t quite seem like who she had in mind, not with their sly mouths and beady eyes.

“You sure?” The boy approached quickly, confidently. “’Cause you’re looking a little lost there, friend-o.”

“Well, I’m not.” Bree turned away, blood ticking a little faster through her veins. Why wouldn’t he take no for an answer and just leave her alone? “Good…” She let her voice trail off. Was goodbye too formal for this conversation? How did boys speak to one another on the street? “Go away.”

The boy’s blue eyes reflected back at her the light of the nearest lamp, shining yellow and lurid. “What was that, kid?”

“Kinda rude,” the other one said.

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“Just leave me alone,” Bree said. “I don’t need your help, all right?” She began to walk away, gaze trained on the gas lamps in the distance. It would be fully dark soon, with only the lamps to light her way, and she was wasting time.

“Uh, where do you think you’re going?”

Keep walking—that was all she had to do. She didn’t turn around. What would Fox say if he were here? “I told you to get lo—”

Addressing his friend, the boy interrupted her, his voice snide. “Did you hear that weedy little asshole tell me to go away?”

“Sure did.”

“And I was just offering to help him, wasn’t I?”

“Yeah, you was.”

“Kinda feels like he needs to be taught a lesson…don’t he?”

“Yep.”

None of this sounded good at all. Bree ducked her head, hastened her footsteps—and walked directly into a bulky form that seemed to materialize out of thin air.

“Sounds like,” the boy said, taking hold of the collar of her coat, “we got a problem here. Don’t it?”

A brick wall pressed against her back.

“You gotta know whose turf this is,” the boy said. “And I never seen no pansy little shitheads like you around here before. ’Specially not a mouthy little bastard in a fancy-ass coat like that. So, where the hell’d you come from, fella?”

“I certainly don’t know whose turf this is,” Bree said, pushing weakly against him and remembering too late that she wasn’t supposed to sound like herself. Her attempt to shove him away did little but dredge up memories that were neither comforting nor helpful. Baden had cornered her like this at times when he really wanted to shout in her face about something—never using such language as that, of course, but it felt familiar all the same. Her breath hitched. “Get off me, you—you—you brute—”

“A brute, huh?” The boy snorted, holding more tightly to her coat and thrusting her back into the wall. Even through her clothes, the rough brick stung on impact. “We’ll see. Empty them nice pockets of yours, kid, and maybe we’ll let you pass through with a warning. Maybe.”

A knife spun in between the fingers of his free hand, glinting bewitchingly in the lamplight that trickled in from the road. Bree watched the reflected glow swirl in the air and turn from green to blue to yellow, then disappear entirely as he caught it again.

“Do it,” the other one said, voice drenched in gleeful malice, and Bree could not tell if he was speaking to her or to his friend.

In agonizing, mocking slowness, the knife lowered and rested against her neck—and there it stayed, grazing the skin of her throat with teeth as cold and razorlike as ice.

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Taglist (please let me know if you’d like to be added/removed!)

@starlit-hopes-and-dreams

@clairelsonao3

@gala1981

@pleasestaywithmedarling

@kixngiggles

✨

[merakiui]

PLEASE. please. if you would be so kind to give us some more stalker ex scara... the first time I saw it it just changed my brain chemistry, and I desperately need more </3

>:D thinking a lot about stalker ex Scara, but you get really drunk and he's the only one left to look after you......

(cw: yandere, nsfw, non-con, alcohol/intoxication, toxic ex scara, modern college au, connected to the previous stalker ex scara concept)

Just,,, the fact that he's been so good and sweet ever since he casually slid himself into your friend group and you're not sure if you can trust him, yet here you are being completely, utterly, stupidly vulnerable in front of your very unstable ex. orz

Kuni's not one for parties; in fact, he'd much rather spend his precious time doing quiet, comfortable things with you (cuddling is so much healthier than drinking, after all! <3). Unfortunately, you allow your foolish friends to talk you into attending these brain-rotting parties so you can get drunk off your ass, and he can't let you attend them by yourself because there are too many risks. If you got too comfortable with Venti or Kazuha or even Tighnari while drunk, Kuni would never forgive you. >:( he's worked too hard cultivating this friendly image for himself, and he isn't going to let you or anyone else ruin it.

But right now everyone else is too inebriated to do much of anything, and he hasn't touched the drinks ever since he arrived, instead choosing to anchor himself to some forgotten corner of the room. He sulks and broods in silence, a scowl plastered to his face. He's just barely tolerating it for your sake. It's because he loves you that he's doing any of this. Soon you won't even need any of these troublesome friends. Soon you'll just have him, and he's all you really need. It was like that when you were growing up, after all. Even though, as painful as it is, you don't seem so codependent, so swept up in romance... You're so independent now, no longer the shy, fearful thing from the final few months of your relationship with him. He'd be impressed if he wasn't trying so hard to isolate you from each of your friends. It's a challenge when he's trying to tiptoe around Heizou's sharp, witty perception or Venti's proclivity for knowing everything about everyone despite no one knowing much about him.

But he endures. He's gone years without you; this is nothing.

If you were smarter, you'd know not to trust a word he says. That kind, soft smile he's perfected for this act is not to be believed, especially not when he's using it to assure your friends that he'll bring you home safe and sound. Heizou has his doubts because it's late and you can hardly walk a straight line, but he's tipsy just like the others and it's hard to deliberate like this. Besides, when has Kuni ever let the group down? :)

He takes you back to his dorm instead because Albedo's not home and he has the entire room to himself. While you meander clumsily over to his bed, kicking your shoes off and shucking your jacket in the process, he watches. You have no idea how much he depends on you, how much he admires you, so much so that it surpasses love and lust entirely. Without you, he's nothing. Or that's what he thinks because for the majority of his life he's felt empty and sub-human and so alone. But now you're here, and you can fill those empty spaces in his heart and give him a reason to keep living.

You don't seem particularly fazed when the bed dips under his weight. Rather, you blink sleepily up at him when he leans over you, gingerly reaching to help you out of your sweater. You're too drunk to protest or struggle, and you feel so dizzy every time you open your eyes. It's difficult to remain fully conscious when sleep is tugging at your body, pulling you under. You don't even realize he's fit his mouth on yours until his tongue is pushing past your lips. You manage to place your hands against his chest, intending to push him away, but you're so exhausted and tired. They fall to your sides, useless.

Kuni sits up and smiles at you. He says something about you being dumb and cute... or something about how your friends are fools. You don't really catch all of his obsessive murmurings when your attention is waning. Clothes are torn off; he kisses you a lot. You're not sure if you're reciprocating, but it certainly sounds that way when you're whining beneath him, arching against sodden sheets, your breaths coming in pants and huffs each time he ruts into you.

He doesn't have to worry about anything. Right now, it's just you and him in a corner of the world, locked away from everyone who might try to take you away from him. It's not like you'll remember much come morning. You don't need to anyway. It's better if you're lost and bewildered. That way he'll be able to craft a story to suit his fancy. You'll believe it. You'll have no choice, and Kuni knows how to tell very believable tales.

[j-rye]

bun ny bunny bu nny bunny ? @wolfertinger666

[avituses]

Ignorance is bliss

Batman 48 got me feeling feelings again goddamit

[the-real-list-of-ominous-threats]

I'm going to make you unironically want to fuck springtrap

[mwagneto]

gonna lose my mind at him accidentally admitting that ppl only laugh at his jokes when they're forced to pretend to find him funny coz he's in the room with them