#violently shakes and grits teeth and clenches fists

[spiritsandwhatnot]

i dont think about the 3 years ethan spent thinkin mia was dead.

i dont think about how he seemingly dropped everything the moment he saw her email. i dont think about him drivin all day to go to some old haunted estate in louisiana, or him bein sleep deprived and fatigued from drivin. i dont think about him feelin anxious or jittery or hopeful.

i dont think about him ignorin all the creepy gross shit he keeps seein, cause mia told him she was there. i dont think about how he musta felt when he saw her in that cell, how worried and scared and relieved he musta been. i dont think about him immediately needin answers, immediately askin what was done to her, immediately questionin everything the moment he knows mia is there and alive. i dont think about how he knows shes not tellin him somethin.

i dont think about his fear and confusion when mia suddenly attacks him, and i dont think about him anxiously pacin around the hallway and bathroom pickin up the phone and not knowin what to do what he should do and i dont think about how he felt when he thought he killed her i dont think about him reachin to her i dont think about him drawin back before he touches her i dont think about him afraid and confused and tired i dont think about his brain stutterin, strugglin to keep up with all the shit that just started happenin i dont think about him holdin the stump of his arm walkin around tryna get to the attic cause a stranger on the phone told him maybe he can get out that way. i dont think about him runnin away from his wife, scared that shell kill him, confused what shes talkin about, still bleedin out. i dont think about him pickin up a gun and shootin his wife, because now hes seen her get up after dyin. i dont think about him only bein there cause he desperately missed his wife.

i dont think about him dying there.

[winxanity-ii]

WASHED UP [1/2]

ship: odysseus x fem!calypso!reader warnings: non-explicit word count: 7.3k (strap up, babes, this is a long one~) a/n: Y'all forgive me, i have been horrible and abandoned the fandom 😔💔; i swear it wasn't on purpose, i just haven't been bit by the inspiration bug, but nevertheless, here i am getting inspired, so enjoy my twist on odysseus w/ calypso, no worries there will be a prt.2

★·.·´🇪‌🇵‌🇮‌🇨‌: 🇹‌🇭‌🇪‌ 🇲‌🇺‌🇸‌🇮‌🇨‌🇦‌🇱‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

The sea spat him out like an unwanted secret. You watched from the cliffs as his body was tossed against the sand, limbs splayed like a broken marionette.

Thunderheads still roared in the distance, but the storm had spent its fury, leaving only the shattered remnants of his ship and the limp figure of its captain.

His first breath on your island was a gasp, harsh and desperate, followed by a violent cough that shook his entire frame.

Water poured from his mouth, a relentless cascade as he heaved, clawing at the sand with shaking fingers. He turned onto his side, retching, purging the sea from his lungs.

Each convulsion seemed to rip through him, leaving him weaker, more drained, until he collapsed back onto the shore, chest heaving, eyes shut tight against the grit and salt.

Above, the clouds began to peel away, the black and bruised sky giving way to a faint glimmer of sun.

The wind, once howling, softened to a mournful sigh, as if the island itself pitied him. Waves lapped at his feet, gentle now, apologetic, as if seeking to soothe the very man they had tried to destroy.

His eyelids fluttered open, the sky above a blur of gray and gold. He groaned, the sound raw and broken, the cry of a man who had seen too much, lost too much.

He lay there, sprawled out on the sand, staring up at the heavens with eyes full of disbelief and despair. His voice, hoarse and cracking, clawed its way out of his throat.

"Why?" he croaked, the single word carried away by the wind. "Why do you forsake me?"

He tried to rise, muscles trembling as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. He looked around, taking in the unfamiliar shore, the jagged rocks jutting out like sentinels, the dense forest looming beyond. He was alone—utterly, helplessly alone.

The Gods had abandoned him here, cast him away like a piece of flotsam.

"Have I not suffered enough!?" he shouted, the words rasping against his parched throat. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms. "Is this my reward for years of service, for blood spilled and honor upheld?"

The sky remained silent, indifferent to his plea. He dropped his head back onto the sand, teeth gritted in frustration, the last remnants of strength draining out of him.

The silence that followed was suffocating, pressing down on him like the weight of his failures.

You could almost feel it, that heavy despair that hung around him like a shroud. A warrior undone, not by the sword or the spear, but by the endless, unrelenting cruelty of fate.

You knew that look—had seen it before, in the eyes of those who had washed up on your shores, broken and lost, only to be healed by your touch, only to be bound by your love.

But this one… He was different.

His suffering was like a beacon, bright and piercing, pulling at something deep within you, something you had buried long ago.

And so you watched, unseen and silent, as he lay on the shore, a man shattered, calling out to Gods who would not answer.

You wondered who this man was, what sins he must have committed to be cast into your lonely exile. Another soul, shattered and lost, delivered to you by the cruel whim of fate.

Was this the Gods' twisted sense of humor, to send you the broken, the despairing, and then sit back and watch as you tried, again and again, to piece them together, knowing each time that they would eventually leave, taking a piece of you with them?

It had been that way for as long as you could remember. They arrived on your shores, eyes wide with fear or despair, bodies battered by storms both within and without.

And you, like a fool, took them in, healed their wounds, offered them solace. You let them weave themselves into your heart, into your very soul, only for them to tear themselves free when the time came, leaving you bleeding and hollow.

Was he any different, this man with his piercing eyes and voice full of sorrow? Would he be the one to break you completely? You don't know. But as you turned away from the beach, you couldn't help but feel that this time, the Gods had sent you a different kind of suffering.

You moved through the familiar paths, the underbrush parting easily beneath your feet. It was an old routine, gathering the essentials—just enough to keep them alive until they could find the will to keep themselves going.

Your hands worked mechanically, filling a small basket with a jug of water, a bit of bread, some fish you'd caught that morning. It was more than they ever needed, really. Most of them wouldn't even look at food when they first arrived, the shock still too raw, too immediate.

As you made your way back, the weight of the basket a comforting presence against your hip, you tried to steel yourself for what you would find. But when you reached the beach again, your breath caught in your throat.

He was sitting up now, his back to you, shoulders slumped as if the weight of the world still pressed down on him. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, empty and unfocused, the eyes of a man who had seen too much.

What remained of his clothes clung to him, tattered and soaked through. His armor—what little was left of it—gleamed dully in the fading light. A breastplate, once magnificent, now dented and scarred, a single pauldron hanging by a thread, the gold tarnished and scratched.

The rest had been torn away by the sea, leaving him exposed, vulnerable.

He looked every inch the hero brought low, a man stripped of his glory, left with nothing but his pain and regret. His dark hair clung to his forehead, still damp with seawater, and his hands rested limply on his knees, fingers digging into the sand as if he needed to feel something solid, something real.

You stopped a few paces away, your shadow stretching out before you. He didn't notice. Didn't even flinch. You could see it then, the full extent of his despair, etched into every line of his face, every weary slump of his shoulders.

He was beautiful, in a tragic sort of way, like a statue of a fallen God.

And you knew, as you stood there watching him, that this one would not be easy to heal. This one had a wound that went far deeper than flesh and bone.

You took a step forward, and then another, until you were close enough that your presence cast a shadow over him. He blinked, as if just now realizing you were there, his head turning slowly, eyes lifting to meet yours.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you was heavy, laden with the unspoken, the unknown.

You held out the basket, your heart pounding in your chest. "You need to eat," you said softly, your voice barely carrying over the sound of the waves.

He didn't move, just stared at you with those piercing eyes, eyes that seemed to see right through you.

And for a moment, you thought he might refuse. That he might just turn away, let himself be swallowed by the sea again, and you would be left standing there, holding out something that could never be enough.

But then, slowly, he reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he took the jug of water from your grasp.

"Thank you," he murmured, the words rough and uncertain, as if he hadn’t spoken in a long time. He took a small sip, then another, his eyes never leaving yours.

You watched him, this broken man, and wondered what kind of suffering had brought him to you.

And what kind of suffering he would bring in return.

The days here had a way of slipping through your fingers, soft and warm like the sands on your island. It was easy to lose track of time, lulled by the rhythm of the waves, the steady pulse of the tides.

You had left him to his own devices, giving him the space he needed to come to terms with whatever fate had led him here. Most of them needed that—time to break down, to cry, to rage at the Gods.

But not this one.

When you returned the next day, basket in hand, you stopped short at the sight before you.

He was shirtless, skin bronzed and gleaming with sweat, muscles taut as he hammered a spike into the ground with a makeshift wooden-mallet. His remaining clothes and battered armor were piled neatly to the side, along with a few other scavenged materials.

The sound of wood striking stone echoed across the beach, a steady, determined rhythm that spoke of purpose.

There was the frame of a hovel half-built, crude but sturdy, the beginnings of a shelter taking shape where there had been only barren sand.

A small pile of freshly caught fish lay nearby, their scales glinting in the sunlight. You could still see the blood on his hands, fresh from gutting and cleaning them. He worked with an intensity that was almost mesmerizing, every movement precise, controlled.

"Wow," you murmured, stepping closer, setting the basket down at your feet. "I'm impressed."

He stilled at the sound of your voice, shoulders tensing as he glanced over his shoulder. Sweat dripped down his brow, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at you, assessing.

You gestured to the hovel, the fish, the evidence of his labor. "Most who arrive here are still crying or lost, not knowing what to do with themselves. You're already building shelter."

His eyes sharpened, his expression shifting from guarded to curious, almost suspicious. He straightened, rolling his shoulders, the muscles in his back shifting under his skin as he set the mallet down. "There have been others?"

You snorted softly, crossing your arms as you looked at him. "Of course, there have been others. Did you think you were the first to be sent here?" The question was almost rhetorical, a simple truth that hung in the air between you.

He frowned, his gaze turning thoughtful, troubled. "Where is here?"

You hesitated for a moment, then took a few steps forward, your eyes flicking to the sword he had tossed carelessly to the side, half-buried in the sand. You reached down, your fingers brushing over the hilt. "This is Ogygia," you said, the name slipping easily from your lips, as familiar to you as your own. "A place of exile, for those the Gods have no more use for."

You were still tracing the hilt of his sword, fingers brushing over the worn leather grip when he spoke again, his voice tight and strained. "Is there a way off this island?"

You stilled, your gaze shifting from the sword to him, catching the desperation in his eyes through your lashes. For a moment, you considered lying, spinning some tale of escape, but you’d seen that look before, and you knew what would follow.

"You can try," you said, your voice calm, almost detached as if you'd had this conversation a thousand times before. "But once you get at least five feet from the shore, the waves will rise and destroy whatever you're floating on to pieces."

The truth of your words hung heavy in the air, a quiet certainty that left no room for hope. His face twisted, the anger and helplessness flaring in his eyes as stared at you.

You could see the way his jaw clenched, muscles ticking beneath the stubble on his cheeks, his fingers flexing and unflexing at his sides as if he wanted to hit something, anything.

He turned away, staring at the horizon as if willing it to yield some answer, some solution.

He was the very picture of a man caught in a trap he couldn't break free from.

"Excuse me," you murmured, pushing yourself up from the sand and brushing off your hands, wanting to give him space to process the reality of his situation.

"Wait!"

The word came out sharp, almost desperate, and you paused, glancing back over your shoulder. He was looking at you, really looking, his eyes piercing, searching for something—anything—that made sense of all this.

"Who are you?"

You could feel the laugh bubbling up inside you—a tired, almost bitter sound that you suppressed, forcing your expression into something calm, something almost serene.

It was always the same: this question, the disbelief, the desperate need to know why they were here, why you were here.

"Calypso," you said, the name falling from your lips like a sigh. "Daughter of Atlas and Pleione."

He blinked, the words clearly not the answer he had been expecting. He stared at you for a long moment, his brow furrowing as if he were trying to piece together a puzzle with missing pieces.

"Calypso," he repeated softly, your name unfamiliar on his tongue. There was a softness to it, a kind of reverence that almost made you want to laugh.

You hummed, a sound low and almost mournful. "Aye, cursed to carry the brunt of my parents' sins."

You saw the way his jaw tightened, the flicker of something like pity in his eyes before he looked away, his gaze shifting to the sand at his feet as if he couldn't bear to look at you.

You wondered what it was he saw, whether he saw you as a jailer or just another prisoner in this place of exile.

He cleared his throat, the sound rough, hesitant. "My name is Eperitus," he said, the words slow, deliberate, like he was testing them out. "From a small village in Thessaly."

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head slightly as you watched him. The name meant nothing to you, but the way he said it—the slight hesitation, the almost imperceptible shift in his posture—it was a lie, or at the very least, not the whole truth.

Still, you nodded, as if you believed him, your lips curving into a small, knowing smile. "Very well, Eperitus," you said, the name rolling off your tongue with a hint of amusement. "I suppose I will leave you to it."

His eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest flicker of suspicion in his gaze, but you didn't give him time to question it. You turned, your bare feet barely making a sound on the sand as you walked away, leaving him there, alone with his thoughts.

You could feel his eyes on your back, the weight of his gaze heavy, but you didn't look back. You had seen this play out too many times before—the hope, the despair, the bargaining with fate.

Each time, it was different, and yet, always the same.

And this man, this Eperitus, whatever name he chose to call himself, was no different.

You just wondered how long it would take him to realize it.

The waterfall cascaded down from the rocks above, the sound a constant, soothing roar that drowned out everything else. The water sparkled in the late afternoon sun, clear and cool as it pooled into the pond below, a hidden sanctuary nestled within the heart of your island.

You stood in the shallow waters, the hem of your white slip floating just above your knees, the fabric clinging to your skin in places where the water lapped gently against you.

The air was sweet with the scent of jasmine and wet earth, the leaves above casting dappled shadows across the surface of the pond.

You hummed softly under your breath, an old song your mother had taught you long ago, a tune that spoke of faraway places and dreams that never seemed to come true.

The melody blended with the sounds of the waterfall, a quiet lullaby that wrapped around you like a warm embrace.

It was peaceful here, a place untouched by the outside world, a place where you could almost forget who you were and why you were here. You dipped your hands into the water, scrubbing at a piece of cloth, the rhythm of the motion almost hypnotic.

Then, a sharp crack echoed through the grove, the sound of a branch snapping underfoot. Your head snapped up, your heart skipping a beat as your eyes scanned the treeline.

It took only a moment for your gaze to settle on him, partially hidden behind the bushes, his body frozen in a half-crouch, as if he had been trying to sneak away unnoticed.

"Eperitus?" you called out softly, your voice carrying easily over the sound of the water. He flinched, his eyes wide, a startled, almost guilty look on his face as he straightened up. He took a step back, his gaze darting around as if he were trying to find an escape.

For a moment, you thought he might run, but then he seemed to gather himself, his shoulders slumping slightly as he stepped forward, pushing through the bushes. "I didn't mean to startle you," he said, his voice low, almost apologetic. His cheeks were flushed, whether from the heat or embarrassment, you couldn’t tell.

You offered him a small, reassuring smile, setting the cloth aside as you turned to face him fully. "It's alright," you said gently, wiping your hands on the slip, the water dripping from your fingers. "I wasn't expecting company, that's all."

He nodded, his eyes flicking to the ground, then back to you, a hesitant, almost bashful look on his face. "I just... I was looking for you," he admitted, his voice barely above a murmur. "I thought I'd, well... check in."

You tilted your head slightly, studying him.

It had been a few weeks since your last conversation on the beach, and in that time, you had kept your distance, letting him find his footing, so to speak. He was more self-sufficient than most who ended up here, resourceful and determined in a way that spoke of a man who had spent years fighting to survive.

You had stepped back, observing him from a distance, only intervening when necessary.

You'd seen him sitting on the shore more than once, staring out at the sea with a look in his eyes that made your chest ache. A kind of yearning, a quiet desperation that seemed to pull at something deep inside you.

Other times, you'd found him working tirelessly on his shelter, hammering away at the wooden frame with a focus that bordered on obsession.

You shrugged lightly, the gesture casual, as if it didn't matter to you either way. "You've been doing fine on your own," you said, your tone light, almost teasing. "Didn't think you needed my help."

His lips twitched, the ghost of a smile passing over his face before it faded. He glanced down at his hands, rough and calloused, the fingers still smudged with dirt and sawdust. "I wasn't sure if I was... interrupting," he said awkwardly, his gaze flicking back up to meet yours.

You laughed softly, the sound echoing through the grove. "You've been here long enough to know I'm not that easy to disturb," you said, amusement coloring your words. You glanced at him, taking in the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the awkwardness that seemed almost out of place on a man like him.

"Besides," you added, your voice softening slightly, "I've been keeping an eye on you. Just to make sure you didn't do anything foolish."

His eyes widened slightly, and you saw a flash of something in his gaze—surprise, maybe, or something close to it. "I've been that obvious, have I?"

You shook your head, taking a few steps closer until you were standing just at the edge of the pond, the water swirling around your waist. "You're not the first to end up here, remember?" you said quietly. "I know the signs."

He looked away, his jaw tightening as he stared at the ground, his hands curling into fists at his sides. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he seemed to hold himself together by sheer force of will.

"I'm sorry." He glanced back at you, his eyes dark with something you couldn't quite name. "I didn't mean to—"

"To what?" you interrupted gently, your gaze softening as you looked at him. "You've done nothing wrong, Eperitus."

He flinched slightly at the name, and you saw the flicker of guilt in his eyes before he quickly looked away. It was almost imperceptible, but you caught it, that brief hesitation, that moment of uncertainty.

You hummed softly, waving him off with a light smile. "No worries," you said, your voice easy and warm. You turned away, wading through the cool water to where the last cloth floated lazily on the surface.

The fabric clung to your fingers as you lifted it, squeezing out the excess water, your movements slow and deliberate. Droplets slid down your arms, glistening like tiny jewels in the fading light as you made your way back to the shore.

Setting the damp cloth gently in the woven basket with the other clean clothes, you straightened, brushing a few stray strands of hair from your face. "I was meaning to tell you, there's fresh water here. You can come and bathe; clean up a bit." You tilted your head, a playful smirk tugging at your lips as you shifted the basket to the side. "Unless you're the type of Greek who doesn't do that."

He let out a short, surprised chuckle at that, the sound rough and genuine, his shoulders relaxing just a little. But then his laughter died away, the words faltering on his lips as he looked at you.

You stepped out of the pond, the water cascading down your legs, the sunlight filtering through the leaves above, casting a soft, golden glow over your skin. Your white slip clung to you like a second skin, the wet fabric almost translucent, outlining the curves of your body in a way that made his breath catch in his throat.

His eyes roamed over you, unbidden, as if drawn by some unseen force. Your smooth, sun-kissed skin glistened with droplets of water, each one catching the light, making you look like you were carved from marble, like a statue come to life.

Your hair, damp and wild, was adorned with small pieces of coral and tiny flowers—a crown of nature's bounty that seemed almost otherworldly.

By Aphrodite's grace…

The thought struck him like a blow, and he had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from letting the words slip past his lips. He watched you, mesmerized, as you moved with an effortless grace, your bare feet barely making a sound on the moss-covered stones.

Every step, every sway of your hips, seemed to pull him in deeper, into a trance he couldn't escape.

You seemed almost unreal, as if the Gods themselves had sculpted you from the very essence of desire.

His gaze lingered on your lips, soft and full, naturally pouty in a way that made his mouth go dry. He thought to reach out and feel the warmth of your skin beneath his fingers, to trace the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck.

He swallowed hard, his pulse thrumming in his ears, his hands clenched into fists at his sides to keep from losing himself completely.

His breath hitched, his mind spiraling, teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something he shouldn't be thinking, shouldn't be feeling.

He had a wife, a son, a home waiting for him, a life he had fought tooth and nail to return to.

Penelope, with her quiet strength and unwavering loyalty, the woman he loved more than life itself.

And yet, here he was, staring at you like a starving man, drinking in every detail, every inch of your body with a hunger that burned in his veins.

It was wrong, all of it, and yet he couldn't look away, couldn't pull himself free from the spell you had woven around him.

You were beautiful, achingly so, and in that moment, he knew he was treading dangerous ground.

And for the first time in a long, long time, he truly felt afraid.

"Eperitus?"

Your voice, soft and lilting, broke through the haze in his mind, snapping him back to reality. You were looking at him with those wide, doe-like eyes, your gaze gentle, curious, your lips curved into the barest hint of a smile.

He cleared his throat, the sound rough and strangled, his eyes wide as if he'd just snatched Persephone from Hades' very arms. He took a stumbling step back, his hands raising slightly as if in surrender, his gaze darting away from you as if your very presence burned him.

"I—I'm sorry," he stammered, his voice uneven, breaking on the last word. He shook his head, the movement almost frantic, as if he could shake free of whatever spell you had woven around him. "I didn't mean to—I should—I should go."

He gestured vaguely toward the forest behind him, his hands trembling ever so slightly. "Fish," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the word itself was a lifeline, something to hold onto in the chaos of his thoughts. "I need to— I'll go fish. Or forage. Or fix something. Yes, I'll— I'll go do that."

He took another step back, almost tripping over his own feet; his cheeks flushed a deep, mortified red. His eyes flicked back to you, just for a moment, and then away again before hurrying off like a man fleeing the scene of a crime, the ghost of your beauty chasing him, haunting his every step.

You watched him go, an amused smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You almost felt bad for him.

Almost.

The sun dipped low on the horizon, its light spilling across the sea in a riot of colors—gold and crimson bleeding into the darkening blue of the water, the water shimmering like liquid gold beneath the dying light.

You sat with your legs curled up beside you on the cliff's edge, the wind whispering around you, soft and cool, tugging gently at your hair as if trying to coax you closer to the edge.

This was your favorite place on the island, the place where the land met the sea, where you could sit and lose yourself in the endless expanse of water and sky. It was where you had seen him, Eperitus—his body limp and broken, washed ashore like so many others before him, another lost soul thrown at your feet by the whims of the Gods.

The ocean stretched out before you, vast and endless, its beauty a cruel mockery of the cage that held you.

For as long as you could remember, this had been your only view, the only sight that had remained unchanged through centuries of exile. The sky, the sea, the stars—eternally bound to this lonely rock, this place that was both your sanctuary and your prison.

The water was so close, just a few feet away, and yet it might as well have been a world apart. You could still feel it, the pull of the tides, the longing that thrummed in your veins, the memory of what it was to be one with the sea.

You sighed softly, your gaze following the path of the sun as it dipped lower, the sky turning from brilliant orange to deep purple.

Once, you had swum through these waters as freely as the dolphins, your body slicing through the waves like a silver blade. The ocean had been your domain, your home, every current and tide a part of you.

You were a sea nymph, a daughter of the sea, wild and unbound, but the water no longer sang to you—no longer held the promise of escape.

But that was before.

You closed your eyes, the memories crashing over you like waves, each one more painful than the last.

The Titanomachy. The great war that had torn the heavens and the earth apart, that had pitted brother against brother, father against son.

You had watched from the sidelines, powerless to intervene, to stop the destruction that had swept through your family, your kind. And when the dust had settled, when the victors had claimed their spoils and the losers had been cast down into the darkness, you had been left behind, forgotten.

Or so you had thought.

The punishment had come later, delivered with the cold, indifferent hand of justice.

You, the daughter of Atlas, the child of Pleione, had been deemed unworthy, a threat to the new order of things. And so you had been cast out, not to the depths of Tartarus, but to this island, this paradise-turned-prison, to live out your days in endless solitude.

You had not wept, not then.

You had been too proud, too defiant to show the Gods your pain. But as the years had passed, as one by one, those who washed up on your shores had come and gone, the loneliness had seeped into your bones, a slow, insidious poison that sapped your strength, your will.

You had not been broken by the war, but by the endless, unchanging years that followed. You had stopped counting the days, the years. Time had lost its meaning here, each day bleeding into the next in an endless, monotonous cycle.

You had grown numb, your heart a hollow thing, a fragile shell that you guarded fiercely, lest it shatter completely.

And yet, there were moments like this, rare and fleeting, when the ache became too much to bear, when the weight of your exile pressed down on you like a physical thing, crushing the breath from your lungs.

You missed it… the life you had once known—the feel of the water around you, the way it had held you, cradled you in its depths.

The life that you would never get back.

Your eyes stung, the salt of unshed tears burning as you blinked furiously, refusing to let them fall. What good would it do? What good had it ever done? The Gods did not care for your tears, your pain.

They had made their judgment, and you were bound to it, bound to this place, this fate.

You glanced back over your shoulder, towards the fire, towards the small, simple home you had made for yourself on this cursed rock. You had tried to build something, to find some small measure of peace, of contentment in the simple things—the warmth of the sun on your skin, the sound of the waves, the smell of the salt air.

But it was never enough. It would never be enough.

A soft, bitter laugh slipped past your lips. How foolish you had been to think you could defy them, to think that you could carve out some semblance of a life here.

A soft "hey" broke through your thoughts, the voice low and tentative. You blinked, your gaze shifting from the horizon to find him standing a few feet behind you, his posture stiff and uncertain. Eperitus looked like he was at war with himself, his eyes dark and troubled as they searched your face.

"Hey," you replied softly, your voice barely carrying over the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below.

You studied him for a moment, taking in the subtle changes—the way his skin looked cleaner, the faint smell of salt and fresh water clinging to him. He must have taken the time to bathe at the spring, washing away the grime of his journey.

A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips, and you raised an eyebrow, a teasing lilt in your voice. "I see you took my advice?"

He chuckled, the sound a bit awkward but genuine, as if he were unused to laughing. He took a few hesitant steps closer before lowering himself beside you, his legs dangling off the edge of the cliff.

For a moment, he said nothing, just sitting there with you, watching as the sun dipped lower, its golden light spilling across the water like liquid gold.

You followed his gaze, the sight of the setting sun a familiar comfort, yet tinged with the ever-present ache of longing. "Helios is resting now," you murmured, your eyes softening as the last sliver of the sun slipped beneath the horizon, casting the world into the gentle embrace of twilight. "Even gods need a reprieve from their duties."

His gaze remained on the horizon, the light from the fire behind you casting shadows across his face. He let out a deep, weary sigh, as if the weight of the world had finally caught up to him. He turned to you then, his eyes searching yours with a vulnerability that made your breath catch.

"Look, Calypso…" His voice was strained, rough around the edges, as if the words were being dragged out of him. He swallowed hard, his gaze darting away, unable to meet your eyes. "I haven't been truthful with you." He ran a hand through his still-damp hair, his fingers trembling slightly. "My name… it's not Eperitus. I'm not some soldier from a village in Thessaly."

He paused, drawing in a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of his own lies were too much to bear. "My name is Odysseus," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking it aloud might shatter the fragile peace between you. "I'm a king—from Ithaca."

You watched him, your expression unreadable, your heart beating steadily in your chest as his words settled in the air between you.

Odysseus.

The name hung there, heavy with meaning, with the weight of the legend that preceded him. A name that had been whispered on the lips of sailors and soldiers, spoken with reverence and fear, a name that had traveled farther than the man himself.

He turned his gaze back to you, his eyes filled with something like regret, like guilt. "I gave you a false name because I… I wasn't sure if I could trust you. I didn't know if you were friend or foe, if you were another test from the gods, another trial to endure."

He swallowed again, his throat working as he struggled to find the right words, the right way to explain himself. "But your kindness… the way you've treated me, even when I didn't deserve it…" He trailed off, his eyes searching yours, pleading for understanding. "I'm sorry, Calypso. I've spent so long fighting, lying, doing whatever it took to survive, that I forgot what it meant to be honest, to trust."

You let out a sharp snort, then burst into a fit of giggles. The sound caught Odysseus off guard, his head snapping over to you, eyes wide with something like panic. He clearly expected anger or disappointment, but you waved him off, your hand covering your mouth as you struggled to stifle your laughter.

"I-I'm sorry," you managed to say between chuckles, your shoulders shaking as you tried to catch your breath. "It's just… 'Eperitus'? Really?" You let out another peal of laughter, the sound almost musical in its lightness. "I mean, really? 'Man of Strife'? I may have been stuck on this island for eons, but even that sounds fake! You're lucky I'm polite enough not to have called you out on it."

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and before he could stop himself, he was laughing too, a deep, genuine sound that seemed to surprise him as much as it did you. He rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head in mock defeat. "I suppose you are the first to see through it so quickly," he admitted, his voice warm with reluctant admiration.

You hummed, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you leaned back on your palms, the firelight casting a soft glow on your face. "Those around you must not have been that bright to believe it," you teased lightly, watching as his laughter grew, the sound carrying out over the darkening sea.

Odysseus chuckled, shaking his head again. "You'd be surprised," he said, his voice warm with shared humor. "Sometimes, people believe what they want to believe. A name is just a name, after all."

You nodded, the laughter slowly fading as a comfortable silence settled between you, the sound of the waves filling the space left behind.

You glanced at him, the firelight casting his face in soft, flickering shadows, highlighting the lines etched into his features, the weariness in his eyes.

You found yourself wanting to know, to understand, what had brought him here, to your shores, so far from his home.

"How did you find yourself here, Odysseus?" you asked quietly, your voice carrying a note of genuine curiosity. "A king of Ithaca, so far from home."

His smile faltered, the light in his eyes dimming as his shoulders slumped under an invisible weight. He let out a long, weary sigh, his gaze dropping to his hands, his fingers tracing absent patterns in the sand.

"It's… it's a long tale," he murmured, his voice heavy with the weight of too many memories. "One filled with more suffering than I care to remember."

You shifted slightly, turning to face him more fully, your eyes fixed on his as you waited, patient, giving him the space to begin.

He drew in a deep breath, as if steeling himself, and then he spoke, his words slow, deliberate, carrying the weight of years of pain and regret. "It all began with a war," he started, his voice low, almost reverent. "Helen of Troy, they called her. The most beautiful woman in the world, stolen from her husband, Menelaus, by Paris of Troy."

You nodded, familiar with the tale. It was a story that had reached even the shores of your island, carried on the whispers of the waves.

"I was tasked to join the rescue," he continued, his gaze distant, as if he were seeing those events play out before him, the battles, the bloodshed. "I sailed with six hundred men, my loyal soldiers to reclaim her and bring her back to Menelaus. We stormed the beaches of Troy, built walls of bodies and dreams, all for the sake of one woman."

He paused, his jaw tightening as he struggled to find the words. "We fought for ten years," he said, his voice raw with emotion. "Ten long years of death, of suffering, of loss…" You could see the pain, the regret, etched into every line of his face. "And when we finally breached the walls, when we finally stood victorious, I thought… I thought that would be the end of it. I thought I could go home…"

He laughed then, a bitter, hollow sound. "…but the Gods had other plans."

You watched him, your heart aching with a sympathy you couldn't quite explain, couldn't quite contain. "What happened?"

He shook his head, his gaze dropping to his hands, his fingers twisting together as if he were trying to hold onto something slipping through his grasp. "We set sail for home, but the winds were against us. We were thrown off course, tossed from island to island, each one more cursed than the last." He swallowed, the sound thick and heavy in the stillness. "I made… unsavory decisions, angered those who should not be angered," he admitted, his voice cracking just slightly, the words dragged from some dark place deep within him. "I sacrificed my honor, everything, all for the sake of returning to Ithaca."

You listened in silence as he recounted his tale, the trials and tribulations that had followed—the blinding of the Cyclops, the enchantment of Circe, the deadly song of the Sirens. Each word, each memory, seemed to take a piece of him, leaving him more worn, more broken.

"I lost good men. Friends. Brothers…" he whispered, his voice cracking with the weight of his grief. "I lost them all... Every single one of them…"

You were silent for a long moment, studying the way his shoulders were hunched, his hands clenched into fists on his lap, the way his eyes shone with a pain you could almost feel. He was a man broken by war, by loss, by the endless trials the gods had thrown at him.

A man who had forgotten how to be anything but what the world demanded of him.

And here he was, baring his soul to you, offering up his truth like a fragile, precious thing. You would have gave your sorrows, but from what you've known of him, it wouldn't do any good.

A sigh escaped your lips, soft and resigned, as you turned your gaze back to the sea, the waves rolling in gentle, rhythmic swells, the last of the light fading into the deep, dark blue of the coming night. "Odysseus of Ithaca," you murmured, the name tasting strange on your tongue, heavy with the weight of all that it carried. "You're not the first to wash up on my shores, lost and broken," you said quietly, your eyes fixed on the horizon, your voice carrying a sadness that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the endless, unchanging cycle of your existence. "And you won't be the last."

He looked at you then, really looked at you, as if seeing you for the first time, his eyes tracing the lines of your face, the curve of your shoulders, the way the firelight played across your skin.

You could feel his gaze like a physical thing, warm and searching, and for a moment, you almost believed that he could see you, not as the myth, the story, the cursed daughter of Atlas, but as something more, something real.

But you knew better.

"You're right not to trust me, Odysseus," you continued, your voice steady, calm. "I'm bound by my curse, just as you're bound by your fate. We're both prisoners here, in our own way."

He opened his mouth to speak, to protest, but you shook your head, a small, sad smile playing at the corners of your lips. "You don't owe me anything," you said softly, your eyes meeting his, holding his gaze with a quiet intensity. "But thank you, for your honesty. For your truth."

He stared at you, his eyes dark and unreadable, the silence between you heavy with the weight of all that remained unspoken. And then, slowly, almost hesitantly, he reached out, his hand hovering just inches from yours, the warmth of his skin a tantalizing whisper against your own.

For a moment, you thought he might take your hand, might bridge the distance between you.

But then he hesitated, his fingers curling into a fist, and he drew back, the moment slipping away like sand through your fingers.

You looked away, your heart aching with a familiar, bittersweet pain, your eyes drifting back to the sea, to the endless, unchanging horizon.

And so you sat there, side by side, two souls bound by the whims of the Gods, watching as the last light faded from the sky, as the stars began to bloom overhead, bright and cold and distant.

Together, yet worlds apart.

A/N: ahhh! not me falling in love with this lil one-shot. anywho, had to cut this in half cuz it was getting ridonculusly long... prt 2 shall be here soon tho, also, would you guys be cool if i added smut to it or nah? cuz i feel like the smut between these two will be so angsty cuz deep down odysseus ass still loves penelope, so calypso!reader is really just getting used, ma babieee 😭😭

[devilstruly]

SUB (?) JASON TODD (18+)

pairing - red hood x fem reader

includes - bondage (m), masturbation, vouyerism, riding, sub turning to dom (if that's not a thing it is now), pet names (princess bc jason is 100% a princess guy and i will die on this hill)

a/n - i think about this man 24/7 i have nothing to say for myself

Imagine tying this 6'5 man down to a chair. it's near the bed, angled just right so he can see everything you're doing. Now you're no fool, tying him down with something as weak as a rope simply won't do.

So you do the next best thing, two sets of handcuffs, not the cheap ones, the actual metal ones that have a key, currently hanging on a chain around your neck. A chain that he gifted you and that he's sure you wore on purpose.

Anywho, he’s sitting in his Red Hood suit, helmet and jacket off, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, cock straining painfully against his pants.

'Eyes on me, Jay, c'mon. I'm doing this for you.'

Your voice is an octave higher and you barely manage a full sentence due to your ragged breathing.

Jason groans, growls more like it, eyes narrowing at you.

'You're playing dirty, princess.' He grits out, arms flexing and hands clenching into fists.

'Who? Me?' You bite your lip to suppress a moan as you curl your fingers. 'Dunno what you're talking about.'

His eyes watch like a hawk when your thighs flex and shake, your head thrown back in a loud moan of his name.

He curses violently, tugging at the restraints for the milionth time. The keys jiggle with your breasts as you move from the bed slowly, throwing your legs over his to effectively straddle him.

Jason's eyes don't leave your body for even a second, completely in a trance. It's only when you hook a finger under his chin and force him to look you in the eyes that he regains focus.

'You're driving me fucking insane, I hope you know that.'

The admission makes you smile, almost seductively and Jason swears he feels his dick twitch in his pants.

You start grinding on him slowly, spelling his name with your hips. His eyes roll back in ecstasy, strings of curses leaving him between breathless moans and whimpers.

He takes one look at the keys between your breasts, deciding he's had enough of your games. Taking you by surprise he leans forward and snaps the chain using his teeth.

Somehow he manages to take it in one of his hands, quickly escaping the first set of cuffs.

'Hey! No fair-'

You protest, still straddling him, hands on his chest. Jason merely grunts as he unlocks the other pair in record speed, hands flying to your hips immediately.

'You've been in charge enough, princess. Now it's my turn.'

His eyes are blown with lust as they rake over your figure and the small pout on your face.

'But I wanted to- Ah!'

Any complaints you might have had are shut down immediately when he starts moving you at a pace he likes, a loud sigh of relief escaping him.

'You were saying?'

[tojismain]

10 things you hate about toji

He says your name, his voice low and firm, clearly irritated by your cold demeanor. You continue looking at the flowers on the window sill, trying to avoid the way his shoulders brush against you. He grits his teeth and looks away for a moment, gathering a breath before saying, “Look at me.”

You turn your head and lift it up, trying to put on a brave front. You always managed to avoid arguments, even if Toji was irritated and tried to get on your nerves, you never let it go too far, but this time he managed to do just that. He got home, frustrated and itching for someone’s face to fall on his fist. But he wanted to be home to be next to you, to forget all about his violent tendencies and to have you lay in his arms, looking up at him with that in-love expression, but his temper prickled his skin and made him bite cruel words in your direction. 

His gaze locks onto yours as he takes in your expression. He can see the flicker of vulnerability that flashes by, a reminder of the fact that you always tried to handle things on your own. You let yourself fall under the pretense that you could be there for Toji but him being there for you was laughable, and because of that he rarely got to comfort you, but looking at you right now, he wanted to do nothing more than hold you and smother you in constant affection. 

His tone tilts to a softer hum, “Why are you avoiding me?” 

You furrow your eyebrows and bite your lip to stop it from shaking, “Are you serious?”

He frowns at your question, his jaw clenching. He knew exactly why you were avoiding him, he was mean, how did he expect you to confront that? But that’s exactly what he wanted, he needed you to stand up for yourself. 

“Yes, I’m serious. Why are you avoiding me?” He repeats. 

You falter for a second, looking away for a moment before locking your eyes back on his, “Because you hurt me, Toji.” Your voice breaks on the emphasis of his name. 

His heart stutters with an ache and he tenses for a second. His eyes flutter shut for a few seconds and he clenches his jaw, annoyed with himself. After that, he steps forward.

“I didn’t mean to.” He starts. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He’s so close now you could feel the heat radiating off of his body, the tension thickening in the vast room. 

Your expression falters once more and you look down, avoiding him even with his close proximity. He notices the shift and steps even closer, he reaches out, fingers gripping your chin, lifting your head up. You let out a short unintended huff to avoid crying.

He sees the tears gathering in your eyes and the ache spreads over his chest, curling around him like a nasty virus. His grip on your chin loosens, perfectly gentle. 

“Stop doing that.” He orders.

“Doing what?”

“Holding it in.” He explains. “You don’t do that. Not with me.”

He moves his hand just in time to catch a tear swiveling down your cheek. 

“I hate—” You take a breath, quick inhales and exhales following. “I hate that you hurt me, I hate that I can’t fight, and I hate that I can’t hate you.” 

He feels the frustration radiating off of you in unsteady waves, the anger apparent in between the hurt. His eyes roam across your tearful face. 

“You really should hate me.” He says, his voice quiet. 

“I know.” You whisper. 

He holds your gaze for a moment. He can see the conflict, and the hesitation. 

His hand moves from your cheek to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “But you don’t.” He confirms, and you shake your head. 

He brushes his hand against your jawline, hoping that it was a solace for you.

“I can work with that.” He says before he slowly tucks your head against his chest, ironically hoping to shield you from the hurt he caused.

[lunarw0rks]

What about ☝🏽 angry sex with soap (afab reader) you both just woke up in the wrong foot and are in a bad day, so after yall eat dinner theres finally peace when you’re both sitting in the couch watching tv but one of you just said something then started arguing again so he just makes you shut up by giving you ONE OF THOSE kisses, and he just fucks you for hours until ur ovestimulated and cant even say ur name at that point❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

cw: no foreplay, rough/hate sex, fem!reader

ANGER MANAGEMENT | SOAP MACTAVISH

it'd be so common for you two to clash; two differing personalities, topped with a life-or-death work environment for johnny. days like that are a complete and utter mess.

sitting in silence on the couch, both of you with scowls on your face. "will you turn the tv up?" you spit out your words, not giving him the courtesy of making eye contact. it's only fair; he isn't either.

soap scoffs, "what was that? couldn't bloody hear ye over that attitude." a surge of irritation reappears when you hear his petty reply, and how it ripped open the fresh wounds of your argument that morning.

"jesus christ," you shake your head, climbing over his lap to reach the remote on his armrest. his fists clamp around your biceps, tight enough to make you struggle. you curse at him, words verbatim of the spat you had before.

with a jerk, you get jostled along the couch, until you're straddling him. despite using your entire body to climb off—you were still chest to chest—and his nails were starting to dig.

"johnny, stop being a fucking prick and—" he kisses you. violently. his tongue intrudes your mouth, effectively silencing your fury. soap lets go of your arms, but you remain in his lap, unable to resist the heated intimacy.

the jingle of his belt startles you, and you feels his fingers tugging and rustling between your legs. leaning back, you watch him shimmy his jeans down his thighs, then free his length.

apparently, wrath is his aphrodisiac of choice, because he's already rock-hard.

you don't know why or how, but his furrowed expression has you weak and unable to find excuses. before you know it, he tugs at your panties, pulling them down to get a view of your cunt.

he grips the base of his cock, lining it up with your entrance. without any warning, he grabs your hip with his other hand and pushes you downward. the stretch pinches, making you gasp in shock and dig your fingertips into his neck. "you're an asshole." you grit your teeth, only met with a harsh grip on your jaw.

"enough." johnny retorts, with the voice of a hardened sergeant and not your boyfriend. the hand on your hip pushes with more force until your pussy has swallowed his entire cock, your walls clenching with the same death grip you wish you could use on him right now.

but you can't. it's an indescribable feeling of relief after all the bickering, despite the sting of his aggressiveness. his hips start to buck upward instead of controlling your hips, yet it isn't any easier to move. acrimony bubbles in you, along with the pleasure starting to form. you hate yourself for enjoying this; letting sex become the solution.

your head sinks into the crook of his neck, unable to see past all his petty behavior. in an act of impulse, you bite into his neck — enough to make him hiss and cease his thrusts.

your axis tips, sent face first into the couch. "this what y' need? bein' fucked until you cannae see straight?" he sinks inside once more, giving no time to adjust, before he's pounding into you harder than before. one calloused hand raises your hips, while the other holds you by the back of your head, keeping your cheek pressed against the cushion.

"dirty fuckin' girl with no respect; we'll see about that, won't we?"

⋆꒷꒦‧₊˚ divider cred. - cafekitsune ˚₊‧꒦꒷⋆

[cookies-and-coffee]

telepathic interrogation (1)

cw: telepathic/telekinetic whumper, sadistic whumper, team leader/defiant whumpee, team forced to watch, psychological torture, interrogation, mentions of broken bones

a/n: this was a prompt that kept me up at night, just because i found it so interesting. the telepathic/telekinetic whump was inspired by a scene at the very end of the book Empire of Storms, part of the Throne of Glass series. TOG as a whole as some really good whump, highly recommend!!

--

Whumper's power curled around Whumpee's very bones, keeping them still as death. Any shake or tremble from Whumpee, and their spine would shatter from the tension.

A lick of power slicked and snaked up Whumpee's back, wrapping around their throat in a noose. Whumpee gasped shallow breaths, the noose tightening.

Whumper strode in front of Whumpee, smiling wickedly at the team leader on their knees. Whumpee barely noticed their team watching in horror, unable to turn their head from the power threatening to snap bone.

"This is going to hurt," Whumper said with delight, and ripped into Whumpee's mind.

Whumpee tried to steel themselves against Whumper's mind invading theirs, but they still weren't able to wholly prepare when their consciousness became violated in the most intimate sense.

Whumper carved into Whumpee's consciousness, their presence like a serrated knife against Whumpee's thoughts, memories, emotions. Whumpee would scream if they had any breath.

I don't have to do this, you know, Whumper said soothingly, but the sound didn't come from their mouth. Instead, it echoed inside Whumpee's mind, the words reverberating against the walls of their head. Where is Caretaker?

Whumpee shut their eyes, trying to find peace in the darkness, but Whumper just laughed into Whumpee's mind. The sound was deafening, like hearing gunshots from the inside out.

Whumper spoke casually in Whumpee's head, like they weren't tearing a psyche to shreds.

I'm going to get what I want, one way or another.

It's up to you to decide how will be left of your mind when I'm finished.

How much will be left of you when I eventually bring in Caretaker?

They should be proud of how thoroughly broken you will be, knowing you protected them...

fruitlessly, of course.

Whumpee sobbed aloud, the sound secondary to the roaring in their ears from Whumper's violent will. Still, they retreated further into their mind, running from the ripping, scraping, clawing-

They didn't notice Whumper gritting their teeth in frustration, tearing deeper into Whumpee's head.

They cried out in pain when Whumper laid a hand on their forehead. The touch itself was gentle, but the skin seemed to be blistering, like Whumper was trying to burn through the flesh and sinew and bone and brain.

The team couldn't look away, their gaze transfixed on the horrible pain written on their team leader's face, the fists clenched at their sides, the sweat soaking through their shirt.

Whumper was the picture of amusement, save for that glimpse of impatience at Whumpee's determination.

"Does your team know how frightened you are?" Whumper cooed, their thumb and middle finger digging into Whumpee's temples. "That burden you carry... it weighs down every step, wears you to the bone... such delicious fear."

Whumpee whimpered, tears flowing freely, unending.

Whumper reached a wall in Whumpee's mind. "Ah, there it is."

"No," Whumpee croaked, squeezing their eyes shut. That tension rippling along their bones tightened, forcing a shriek of pain from their throat.

No?

Oh, Whumpee, you're so cute to think I'm not going to get what I want from you.

Give Caretaker up, now.

I'm not going to give you another chance.

"No!" Whumpee screamed, their tear-filled eyes snapping open. Whumper lurched back, pulling their hand from Whumpee's forehead.

The pressure in Whumpee's head lessened, but the force trapping their body remained.

Whumper was quiet for a moment, rage crossing their face.

Then the rage dissipated, became something else...

Glee.

Whumper laughed, the sound horrible and dreading. "Oh, this is going to be so much fun."

[elliespassagerprincess]

heyy could you write something based on Dark Red by Steve Lacy?

i love all your works btw

Dark red - (ellie williams x reader)

hi poookie!! thank you sm!! i hope you don't mind me writing this as a gore story, I've been writing a lot of fluff recently and i missed my violent stories, but if you want me to write a different version just let me know!!! i hope you enjoy <33

This story is based off the song Dark Red by Steve Lacy, if you can please listen to the song while you're reading:)

Pairing: ellie x fem!reader

requests are open! send me your silly thoughts

HUGE warning: murder, kidnapping, being held hostage, dead bodies, violence

Summary: in which she wanted you to herself

masterlist

"Something bad is 'bout to happen to me

I don't know what, but I feel it coming

Might be so sad, might leave my nose running

I just hope she don't wanna leave me"

Something bad was going to happen. Ellie could feel it in her bones. She doesn't know why she feels this way, but ever since she woke up this morning, she's been filled with dread. A heaviness in her gut she can't shake off.

Ellie sat at her desk, anxiously waiting for the bell to ring. She hasn't been home for the last 3 days because of school spirit week.

Ellie was so pissed off when she heard they were having a camping day, a sleepover and a all nighter back to back. Everyone was complaining that they were exhausted due to all the activities happening at school, but Ellie wasn't thinking about sleep.

She was thinking about you.

She was always thinking about you.

Ellie could see everyone was staring at the clock, they were practically counting down the seconds before the bell rang. They wanted to go home.

Ellie wanted to go home too, she needed to get home to you.

5, 4, 3, 2-

Before the bell rang the intercom went off. The students groaned thinking that they had to stay at school for another day.

"Can Ellie Williams please come to the principals office. Ellie Williams. I repeat, can Ellie Williams please come to the principals office"

fuck.

The bell rang soon after and everyone ran to the door, Ellie watched as they ran like animals.

"Fucking idiots" she thought to herself

She waited till most of the kids were gone, before she got up grabbing her bag and slowly making her way to the office.

She knocked on the door, and she heard a small "come in".

She let out a sigh as she reluctantly pushed open the door and she was greeted by a the principal and a detective.

What the fuck?

"Close the door and sit down" the principal instructed.

As she sat down her heartrate increased. Her ears were ringing, her palms were sweaty.

The detective cleared his throat before he spoke "as you know y/n has been missing for 3 months now"

She nods

"after further investigation, it seems you were the last one seen with her"

"Was i really or are you looking for someone to blame?" Ellie asked with a raised brow.

She knew where you were, but she couldn't tell him that.

"Ms Williams you're under suspension of kidnapping"

Ellies fists clench by her sides "why am i? Just because i was last seen with her?"

"You guys were best friends, many people said you were close, some say you where obsessed"

Oh she was mad. Ellie was really mad. She wasn't obsessed, she just cared about you.

"i wasn't" she said through gritted teeth.

"We think you know where she is"

Ellie got up, her fist hitting the table "so you're accusing an underage child of kidnapping? do i look like I'm capable of doing that?"

"Ms Williams-"

"no"

Ellie turned to the door and she stormed out. She walked out of the building rushing home to see you.

She hoped you didn't leave her.

"Don't you give me up, please don't give up

On me, I belong with you and only you, baby

Only you, my girl, only you, babe

Only you, darling, only you, babe

Only you, my girl, only you, babe

Only you, darling, only you"

They weren't wrong about what ellie had done to you.

But she had to do it! How else was she supposed to keep you to herself?

Ellie always has feelings for you. Ever since you shyly asked her for a pencil in year 8, she's been all over you. As the years went by her fondness towards you grew, you made her blush, you made her giggle, you made her so fucking happy.

Overtime the two of you built a good friendship but Ellie always wanted more.

It was a Thursday, the sun was shining and the two of had a science project to finish.

The homecoming dance was getting closer and she wanted to ask you. Ellie thought this was the perfect moment to ask you.

"So....with who are you going to homecoming?" Ellie asked clearing her throat

"oh Dina asked me"

"what did you say?"

"I said yes, i think Dina is cute"

No no no no no no no

Not her. You belong to her. You were hers. Not Dina. You were supposed to go with her.

No no no no no

"Ellie?" You asked with concern seeing her zoned out expression.

Ellie looked at you briefly before her hands wrapped around your neck. You let out a silent scream trying to scratch her. You tried fighting but you couldn't. Ellie was stronger than you, she was bigger too.

Eventually you went limp in her hands.

Heavy breaths left Ellie's mouth.

You were still breathing. Good.

She dragged you to her house, hiding behind bushes once in a while to make sure no one saw her. She dragged you into her house, and into her basement.

Ellie placed your body onto the cold floor and she watched you breathing faintly.

Now you cant go with Dina.

"Something bad is 'bout to happen to me

Why I feel this way, I don't know maybe

I think of her so much, it drives me crazy

What if she's fine?

It's my mind that's wrong

And I just let bad thoughts

Linger for far too long"

You're fine. You're fine. You're fine.

She's just having bad thoughts. Ellie has always had a tendency to overthink things.

She knew it was bad to overthink but she was always prepared for the worst.

When Ellie first kidnapped you, 3 months ago everything was fine.

You never screamed, you never fought back, you always tried negotiating or escaping which was good because she didn't need to tie you up or gag you.

You made things easy for her. Ellie fed you, she kept you company, she tried to be Dina.

She really tried to keep you happy.

You didn't need Dina, you needed her.

But for the last month you've been very sick. You barley spoke, you barley ate, you barley moved.

There was something wrong with you, she just didn't know what it was.

Since she hasn't been home for 3 days, Ellie didn't know if you would still be alive. There was no one to feed you. No one to talk to you. You were all alone.

You're fine. You're fine. You're fine.

She's just overthinking it.

Her house key rattled as she pushed open the door. She quickly made her way to the basement, unlocking the door. She walked down the stairs quietly calling your name.

You didn't say anything. She didn't see any movement. she slowly made her way to the bed she had made for you and there you were.

Your skin was pale, cold and it was turning blue. You weren't breathing.

Ellie let out a sigh as she gently grabbed your body, hugging you, not caring of the smell.

Atleast Dina cant get to you.

You were hers. You were safe. You were ok. You now only belong to her.

<3

[ghcstao3]

vampire!soap conclusion :) 👍

-

(part 3)

Soap hates that Price is right. Hates that he almost always is, about these kinds of things.

He hates that Price won’t just accept his request to transfer and let him move on from this, and never have to think about what he did ever again.

(Though, who is Soap kidding? He’ll feel guilt for the remainder of his immortal existence for what he’d done.)

But unfortunately, as it stands, he has no choice but to confront the elephant in the room.

For Soap, it’s easy to find Ghost. He knows of the lieutenant’s favourite haunts, knows where he goes to be alone.

And it had never been thanks to the vampirism that he knew of them.

This time, Ghost has chosen to have himself a cigarette in a hidden area on the roof, a place completely out of sight unless one knew where to look for the thin wisp of smoke unfurling into the air. Soap moves silently toward him, slow and hesitant and almost entirely unwilling until they’re standing side by side, suffocating in the thick weight of everything to be said. To be discussed.

Ghost never startles, whenever Soap appears beside him. Hardly ever acknowledges him first, either. It’s the vague sense of a familiar routine that lends Soap just enough confidence to speak.

“I…” Soap takes a deep breath, steeling himself in place. He spares Ghost a bare enough glance to see the way his eyes are blank, distant, glazed over. “I wanted to… apologize.”

Ghost takes a slow, considerate drag, breathing out as he flicks what remains of the cigarette on the ground, stamping it beneath his boot. He doesn’t say anything for a long time.

Soap shifts anxiously between his feet.

“Don’t,” Ghost finally says, voice flat. “An apology isn’t getting anyone anywhere.”

Soap wants to huff. Wants to tell Ghost to not make this any more difficult than it already has been, wants to tell him not to make Soap feel any more shame than he can bear.

Instead, he rakes a nervous hand over his scalp.

“Then what—“ Soap wets his lips, exhaling shakily. He makes the mistake of looking at Ghost again, only to spot the violent marks left behind in his neck from fangs that couldn’t tell enemy from ally. “Then what will fix this? I… I want to fix this. Fix… us.”

Ghost’s gaze shifts to his, then. His eyes, darker than ever, burn with an intensity that Soap has never seen anyone else able to muster.

“There’s nothing to fix, Soap,” Ghost says through grit teeth. “You weren’t—I know you never meant to.”

“But I still did.”

Ghost stares at him. His jaw clenches and unclenches, and some distant voice in Soap’s head wonders if he’s forgotten his balaclava is rolled up past his nose.

“Doesn’t matter whether you did or didn’t, Johnny.” His eyes are piercing, penetrating even the deepest parts of Soap’s soul. His voice is low, gravelly—borderline broken. “Still here, ain’t I?”

Soap looks to the ground, suddenly finding more interest in scuffing his boot against the concrete. “I’m putting in for a transfer,” he confesses quietly.

Ghost doesn’t need to know that he’s already tried.

Soap can sense his frown, his disbelief, even before hearing it in his pained, breathless, “What?”

Soap curls his hands into tight fists, digging crescents into the flesh of his palms. He glares intently at the ground like it could offer him up some kind of answers.

“Well, obviously, I—“ Soap pauses, shakes his head, and wills himself to start again. “I dinnae want to force you to have to work with someone you cannae even trust not to kill you.”

In his periphery, Soap sees Ghost’s frown deepen. “What are you on about, Soap?”

Soap feels pathetic. Incapable. He feels like a horrible person. “If Price and Gaz weren’t there—“

“Well, they were,” Ghost argues. “There’s no time for ifs in our line of work, Johnny. You were hung out to dry, and I never thought for a second to be more careful when I finally found you because I was too caught up in the fact that you were still alive.”

The admission hangs heavy between them. Everything unsaid but still there makes it all the more terrifying.

“You could have died, Simon,” Soap whispers. He doesn’t trust his voice not to waver, speaking any louder.

Ghost’s hands are suddenly on Soap’s face, human warmth bleeding into the cold of the undead. Soap’s are are wide with shock. Ghost’s are glassy with the threat of frustrated tears.

“But I didn’t,” he murmurs. Soap can’t help but lean into the roughness of calloused fingers pressing into his skin. “I didn’t. And I’d have found a way to forgive you even if I had.”

Ghost’s chin quivers. Soap isn’t sure he’s ever seen him so… so—

“I’ll admit, I—“ Ghost’s voice has grown raspier, exhausted by emotion, “I was afraid of you, for a long while. Of what you are.”

Soap does his best to offer a smile, however watery. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

Ghost says nothing, only massaging careful circles into the high points of Soap’s cheeks.

Soap sighs, finally tearing his gaze away from Ghost.

“Price wasn’t going to let me transfer, anyway,” Soap admits. “Not without talking to you, first.”

Ghost’s lips quirk upward, his grin endearingly crooked.

“Someone has to be your impulse control.”

“Yeah, well.” Soap rolls his eyes. “Old man’s gonna be all smug, now.”

Ghost laughs quietly, a huff of air through his nose more than anything. “Better than losing you,” he says. “Gaz would miss you.”

Soap tilts his head, his own smile growing wider. “No one else?”

Ghost shakes his head mock-solemnly, playfully patting Soap’s face for good measure. “No one else, Johnny.”

The weight on Soap’s shoulders finally feels lighter, after days of berating himself and bending to the whim of a gnawing shame. There’s still guilt, nestled in his mind, and he knows it’ll stick around for a while yet—but now again on good terms with Ghost, Soap thinks it should be easy to overcome, in time.

Soap’s hands find Ghost’s wrists, gently prying him away from his face to intertwine their fingers. He’s more than glad to finally have this.

Finally have Ghost.

His smile becomes something shyer, just for a moment, as he declares with a profound decisiveness, “I guess I’ll stick around then.”

And how he means it.

[thatlotuscookie]

👋👋how about Dabi x reader, when he has a nightmare about his past and when he wakes up in cold sweat and everything he doesn't want comfort reader tries to give him and he pushes her away, so reader obviously leaves him be and turns away from him. and then how he actually wants a hug more than anything but he's so awkward to ask or something, like he struggles with forming words🥺 and then he cries or something ❤️

✧･ﾟ: a/n : aww the perfect blend of hurt and comfort in this request is literally so perfect. i love this. enjoy and thank you for the request!

✧ Title: ✧ Home is With You ✧ ✧ Characters: Dabi x Fem!Reader ✧ Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst - Fluff ✧ Rating: T ✧ Summary: In the darkness of the night, Dabi battles the ghosts of his past while you offer him the comfort he struggles to accept. ✧ Content Warning: Nightmares, Emotional Distress, Mentions of a Toxic/Abusive Household, Vulnerability, Tears ✧ WC: 1594 words // 8.6k chars

The room was cloaked in darkness, the only light coming from the faint glow of the moon filtering through the blinds. Everything was calm, or so it seemed. You were curled up beside Dabi, your head resting on his chest as his slow, steady heartbeat lulled you into a peaceful sleep.

But even in sleep, Dabi wasn’t at peace. His body twitched, his breath uneven as the shadows of his past crept into his mind, turning the quiet of the night into a living nightmare.

His dreams were filled with fire—flames consuming everything in sight. His skin felt like it was burning all over again, the heat unbearable as he heard distant screams, his family’s voices echoing in his head. His father’s harsh words, his own screams of agony—everything was a blur of pain and flames. It was always the same. No matter how hard he tried to forget, the memories wouldn’t let him.

In his sleep, his body jerked violently, his muscles tense, hands clenching into fists as he tried to fight off the invisible enemies haunting his mind. You stirred beside him, noticing the change in his breathing, the tension in his body.

“Dabi?” you whispered, your voice soft as you placed a gentle hand on his arm. But he didn’t wake up. He was still trapped in his nightmare, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead, his breath quickening.

Suddenly, he gasped, his eyes snapping open as he bolted upright, drenched in cold sweat. His chest heaved with the force of his panicked breaths, his eyes wide and wild as he tried to shake off the remnants of the nightmare. For a moment, he didn’t even know where he was, his mind still trapped in that hellish landscape of fire and pain.

You sat up quickly, your heart pounding in concern. “Dabi? What’s wrong?” you asked gently, reaching out to touch him, to comfort him. But before your hand could reach him, he swatted it away.

“Don’t… touch me,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice harsh and strained. His body trembled as he struggled to rein in his emotions, his hands shaking as he clenched them into fists, digging his nails into his palms. The last thing he wanted was to show weakness, especially to you.

Your heart sank at the sharpness in his voice, the way he recoiled from your touch. It hurt, but you knew he wasn’t doing it to hurt you. This was Dabi—he wasn’t good with vulnerability, wasn’t used to being comforted. You had learned that early on in your relationship. Still, it didn’t stop the sting of rejection from settling in your chest.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, pulling your hand back as you gave him the space he so clearly needed. You turned away from him, lying back down with your back to him, your heart heavy. You wanted to help, to be there for him, but you knew when he was like this, pushing would only make things worse.

Dabi sat there in the darkness, his heart pounding in his chest as he tried to calm himself. The nightmare still clung to him, the images of his past refusing to fade. His father’s voice still echoed in his head, reminding him of all the things he had failed to do, all the pain he had caused. The weight of it all was suffocating.

He closed his eyes, taking a shaky breath as he wiped the sweat from his brow. His body felt heavy, like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. And now, on top of everything, he had pushed you away—again.

His gaze shifted to you, lying silently beside him with your back turned. He could see the tension in your shoulders, the way you had pulled away. He knew he had hurt you. He always did. Every time you tried to get close, he shoved you away, afraid of what would happen if he let you see the broken pieces of himself.

But deep down, that was the last thing he wanted. He didn’t want to be alone. Not tonight. Not after a nightmare like that.

His throat tightened, and he clenched his fists even harder, his knuckles white. He didn’t know how to do this—how to ask for comfort, for help. It went against everything he had trained himself to do. His whole life, he had learned to rely on himself, to harden his heart against the world, to never show weakness.

But as he sat there, staring at your back, the need for comfort, for your touch, grew stronger. The ache in his chest was unbearable, and it wasn’t just from the memories of the past. It was the realization that you were right there, and he had pushed you away when all he wanted to do was hold on to you.

He opened his mouth, trying to form the words, but nothing came out. His throat was dry, his voice caught somewhere between his heart and his head. He didn’t know how to ask for what he needed. He had never had to before.

“I…” he started, his voice barely more than a whisper, but it caught in his throat. His hands shook as he reached out towards you, his fingers hovering just above your back. He wanted to touch you, to pull you close, but his own insecurities held him back.

Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision. He wasn’t supposed to cry. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way. But the weight of everything—the nightmare, the memories, the fear of losing you—was too much.

A soft sob escaped his lips before he could stop it, and he quickly brought his hand up to cover his mouth, as if that could somehow stifle the pain that was spilling out of him. His body shook with the force of his emotions, the tears he had held back for so long finally breaking free.

Hearing the quiet sob, you immediately turned back to him, your heart breaking at the sight of him so vulnerable, so broken. Dabi never cried—at least, not where anyone could see. But here he was, struggling to hold himself together, his face hidden in his hands as tears slipped through his fingers.

“Dabi…” you whispered softly, sitting up and reaching out to him. This time, he didn’t push you away. His body tensed at your touch, but he didn’t pull back.

You gently pulled his hands away from his face, cupping his cheeks as you guided his gaze to meet yours. His eyes were red, tears still streaming down his face as he tried to blink them away, ashamed of showing you this side of him.

“I… I don’t know how…” he choked out, his voice trembling. “I don’t know how to ask…” His words were broken, his chest heaving with the effort to keep himself from completely falling apart.

You shook your head, your heart aching for him as you wiped the tears from his cheeks. “You don’t have to ask,” you whispered softly, pulling him into your arms. “I’m here.”

For a moment, he stayed rigid, his body fighting against the instinct to retreat. But slowly, as your warmth enveloped him, he allowed himself to relax into your embrace. His head rested against your shoulder, his arms wrapping around you as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his body trembling with the force of his sobs.

You held him close, your fingers running through his messy hair as you whispered soothing words into his ear. “It’s okay,” you murmured, your voice soft and gentle. “I’ve got you.”

Dabi’s grip on you tightened, as if he was afraid that if he let go, you’d disappear. His tears soaked into your shirt, but you didn’t care. All that mattered was him, and the fact that he was finally letting you in, letting himself be vulnerable with you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m sorry I pushed you away.”

You shook your head, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “Don’t apologize,” you said softly. “I understand.” “I’m scared,” he confessed, his voice muffled against your skin. The admission felt like a weight lifted, but it also left him feeling exposed, vulnerable in a way he had never allowed himself to be before.

“I know,” you whispered, your fingers tangling in his hair, soothing him. “You don’t have to go through this alone. I’m right here.”

He clung to you, letting the warmth of your body seep into his bones, washing away the remnants of the nightmare. For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to be weak, to be human. You were his refuge, the light that broke through the darkness, and in your arms, he felt whole again.

“I love you,” he murmured, the words spilling from his lips as he let the tears fall.

“I love you too, Dabi,” you replied, your voice a gentle caress against his heart. And in that moment, wrapped in your embrace, he finally understood—no matter how dark the shadows grew, you would always be his home.

The two of you stayed like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other as the world outside faded away. His sobs eventually quieted, his body relaxing as the tension slowly melted away. Dabi wasn’t used to comfort. He wasn’t used to being cared for. But with you, he was learning. Slowly, painfully, but he was learning.

And tonight, that was enough.

[leftalpacavoid]

❀ The Lawn Is Dead.

— He couldn't protect you, Now all he had was the record of your voice.

#TAGS: Angst, Acronix is potentially OOC, What happened to us? We die like men 🗣️, No comfort for him this time, (4.5k words I think)

A/N: I don't know if there is something is wrong with me 😔

⪼ 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 ࿐ཽ༵☆

They say grief is part of the human nature, That's why, We should always cherish our love ones before they go.

Acronix sat on the edge of the bed, gripping a small doll version of you in his hand. The doll was soft, stitched together with care, and it eerily resembled you—down to the details you’d once laughed about when you first saw it. But now, the doll was all he had left. His fingers trembled as he brushed them over its fabric, the weight of the loss settling heavily in his chest.

His thumb hovered over the little button embedded in the doll’s chest. He knew what would happen when he pressed it, yet he couldn’t help himself. With a sharp intake of breath, he pressed down, and your voice echoed softly through the tiny speaker, “I love you.”

The sound of your voice hit him like hard, sending a rush of emotion through him. He closed his eyes, as if hearing you again could bring you back, as if those three simple words could fill the void you had left. The moment felt too short, too fleeting. His chest tightened, and before he could stop himself, he pressed the button again.

“I love you,” your voice repeated, gentle and sweet, like you were right there beside him.

Acronix’s hand shook as he pressed the button again, and again, and again.

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

It's not enough. Each time, the same words, the same tone, the same warmth. But it wasn’t enough. No matter how many times he heard it, it couldn’t bring you back. The doll couldn’t laugh with him, couldn’t tease him, couldn’t look at him with those eyes that used to make everything feel right in the world. It was just a recording, just a memory that he could never touch again.

His breathing grew shallow as he pressed the button harder, faster, desperate to hear your voice one more time, over and over. “I love you.” The words, which once brought him joy, now tore him apart, reminding him of the reality he couldn’t escape. You were gone. No matter how many times he pressed that button, no matter how many times he heard those words, you weren’t coming back.

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you-”

The doll’s soft fabric began to crumple under the force of his grip, but he didn’t care. He was lost in it now, lost in the sound of your voice, trying to hold onto something that was already slipping away. His mind raced, memories of you flashing before his eyes—your smile, your laughter, the way you’d look at him with that knowing gaze. Every memory felt like it was slipping through his fingers, just like you had.

His breath hitched, and he pressed the button again, his thumb almost numb from the pressure. “I love you." He gritted his teeth, trying to hold back the flood of emotion that was building inside him, but it was no use. The dam broke. His face contorted, his chest heaving with sobs he had been holding back for too long. The weight of it all, the loneliness, the regret, the pain of your absence—it all came crashing down on him at once.

The doll slipped from his hands as he collapsed to the floor, his shoulders shaking violently. His sobs filled the room, raw and broken, a sound that hadn’t escaped him in years. He had lost battles, lost wars, but nothing had ever felt like this. Nothing had ever hurt this deeply, He lost you. He curled into himself, burying his face in his arms, his body trembling with each breath.

You were gone. He couldn’t protect you, couldn’t save you. And now, all he had was this haunting reminder of what he’d lost. His hands clenched into fists, pounding against the floor as if that could somehow change things, as if his pain could bring you back. But nothing would.

The doll lay next to him, its small, empty eyes staring up at him as if mocking his grief. His hand reached out to it again, almost instinctively, but he hesitated. He couldn’t press that button again. He couldn’t hear those words anymore. Not when you weren’t there to say them for real.

I'm sorry.

His chest ached as he stared at the doll, his vision blurred by tears. The reality of it all settled over him like a crushing weight. You were gone. And all he had left was this sound of your voice, a painful memory that would never be enough.

And in that moment, Acronix broke. He clutched the doll to his chest, his sobs muffled as he whispered your name, over and over, like a prayer. But no one was listening. No one would ever answer.

"𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶."

©leftalpacavoid 2024

[daryltwdixon]

The Heart of Us: Chapter 3

Daryl

The storm rages outside the barn, the wind tearing through cracks in the wood, filling the empty space with a howling that matches the turmoil in Daryl’s mind while everyone sleeps. He paces back and forth near the barn doors, barely registering the slam and creak of them as they swing wildly against the frame, only a chain keeping them from flying open. The cold rain seeps in, pooling on the dirt floor, and each gust of wind sends icy drops scattering into the barn, but he doesn’t notice.

His gaze flicks to Y/N, lying fitfully in the dim light, his own jacket draped over her shoulders. She’s curled up on the hard ground, her brow furrowed even in sleep, her body occasionally twitching like she’s fighting off nightmares. It’s a sight that twists something sharp and ugly in his chest. He wants to do something—anything—but he can barely keep himself together. His hands clench into fists, and he resumes pacing, head full of thoughts he can’t shake, memories he can’t bury.

Beth’s face lingers in his mind, so clear it’s as if she’s standing right in front of him, a haunting reminder of what he couldn’t save. It’s been weeks, but the memories still raw, an ache that settles deep and gnaws at him every time he lets his guard down. He can still see the exact moment she slipped away, her life torn from her in front of him, in front of all of them. The world just went dark, and he’s been stumbling through shadows since.

He's tried so hard to keep it together, to keep it bottled up, but today, when Y/N had found him under the tree, he had tried to let himself feel something, anything. The cigarette in his hand had been his tether, its burn grounding him in a way that nothing else could. The sharp pain was real, tangible, and easier to bear than the weight of everything he’d lost.

The storm rages on, violent and angry as the shadows in his mind, screaming at him to get it together. Lightning flares, and he catches a glimpse outside—a herd, a massive, snarling wave of walkers pushing out of the woods, heading straight toward the barn, attracted by the noise inside. His heart slams against his ribs as he lunges forward, grabbing the barn doors and shoving them back, trying to keep them closed. But the weight of the dead presses in, stronger in their numbers.

The noise rouses Y/N, and she’s on her feet, moving toward him without hesitation, adding her weight against the door beside him. He barely looks at her, his attention riveted to the push from the other side, but he feels her presence—steady, unwavering, trying her best to help hold back the inevitable. She pushes with everything she has, her fingers digging into the door. Their feet slip on the muddy floor, barely keeping their balance against the unrelenting force of the herd pressing against them. They groan against the door, breathing hard as they use their entire weight to keep the outside herd at bay as it fights to get inside.

One by one, the others begin to wake, faces filling with dread and determination as they rush to help, each pressing their weight against the doors. The sharp spears of light cast shadows across their faces, brief flashes of terror and strength in every flicker. Lightning shatters the dark, illuminating her face—the one who has always kept it together for him, through everything, her fierce resolve as she holds the door, teeth gritted, fighting against the weight of the dead.

Daryl refuses to give in, not like this—not in the dead of night, not with everyone he loves beside him. He leans forward, jaw set, pushing with everything he has. They’ve survived too much, come too far. He won’t let the darkness win. Not tonight.

➳

Daryl hadn’t gotten a single moment of shut-eye last night. Even when the walkers finally stopped pressing against the barn doors in the dead of night, he’d stayed awake, sitting back in the rear of the barn with his eyes barely open, watching over everyone, making sure they were safe through those long hours of darkness.

Maggie is the first to stir, rising slowly from her sleeping spot. She glances around before crossing the barn to him, sinking down against the wall by his side. He’s partially grateful to see her, to share a moment with the one person who understands the weight of losing Beth. But there’s a part of him that feels he has no right to grieve her like Maggie does, to compare his pain to hers.

She looks over at him with a faint, understanding smile. “You should get some sleep.”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“It’s okay to rest now,” she says softly.

His thoughts then drift to Hershel, to all Maggie’s endured—the endless grief she’s carried since her father’s death, the loss after loss piling on her shoulders. There’s hardly been time to process it all, what with the weeks since the prison fell, the near-slaughter at Terminus, the relentless struggle to survive. He wonders how Maggie manages to keep standing.

“He was tough,” Daryl says quietly, thinking of Hershel’s quiet strength.

“Yeah, he was,” she replies knowingly.

“She was too,” he murmurs, his voice cracking. “She didn’t know it…but she was.” The words come out tinged with pride, and they share a small, bittersweet smile.

He reaches beside him and picks up the old music box he’d found in her bag, the one she’d carried even though it hadn’t played music in ages. He’d seen Carl hand it to Maggie at one point, and when it didn’t work, he’d taken it, spending hours in the quiet night cleaning out its rust and grime. He holds it out to her now, his fingers brushing over its surface. “Gearbox had some grit in it,” he says.

“Thank you.” She meets his gaze with quiet gratitude before moving away, leaving him to sit back against the wood, biting at his nails as he watches her walk over to Sasha. It feels like a sign that he can finally rest.

He makes his way over to her, his wife, back to her sleeping spot, curled up with his jacket draped around her shoulders again. She looks peaceful for the first time in what feels like days, and he can’t help but feel a wave of gratitude wash over him. She’s been his constant, his rock, and sometimes it amazes him that she’s stayed by his side through everything.

As he settles down beside her, he wraps an arm around her, pulling her close so that his chest presses against her back. His mind drifts, thoughts of her filling his head. He still can’t believe she agreed to marry him— him. It’s a thought that always catches him off guard, like he’s going to wake up and realize it’s all been a dream. She could have had anyone, someone better, but she chose him.

He wishes he could straighten his head out, shake off the weight of everything that’s been haunting him since they lost Beth. She deserves a better version of him, the kind of man she sees, the husband he wants to be for her. He’ll get there, he tells himself, because he has to. Because he can’t bear the thought of letting her down.

As he feels her breathing, steady and soft, his own finally starts to ease. With his arm around her, her warmth against him, he closes his eyes, finally letting sleep take him, hoping that tomorrow he can be the man she deserves.

[hestzhyen]

Leap of (Lack of) Faith

There's some discourse about Hakuri's suicide attempt in chapter 24 going around on Twitter that got me thinking. Well, actually, I just want to share my own pointless take. Yeah, I genuinely want to be perceived for once. But I hate trying to communicate in 240-character snippets on that hellsite, so I'll post here to rot in obscurity where I'm most comfortable.

Basically, there was a post in the Kagurabachi Twitter community that requested to talk about the abuse flashback-jump sequence. And yeah, uh, I'm kind of surprised at how little it gets brought up too. To quote myself:

Please don't ask me why I have three different usernames- there's no satisfying answer.

It's been a while since chapter 24 happened, so let's recap the lead up to this important moment. We first see Hakuri in Ch. 19 with his drink spilling out of his mouth, putting his inner monologue about "hav[ing] to grit your teeth and push through" to the lie. The very first shot of him, the very first food metaphor we see with him, is Hakuri being unable to cope. We don't know why he lost his his family, but he's clearly alone and not doing well. He's struggling.

Next thing we see is him being coincidentally saved by Chihiro. We get a full page of him narrating his impression of the moment, showing us the contrast between his desire to do some unspecified "job" and his fatalistic frame of mind. Then we learn he's weak as hell even though his heart's in the right place. He saves a little girl and insists on being taken back to the Yakuza's hideout, leading him to get kicked around and beaten up. He's a bloody, scribbly-eyed mess by the time he meets Chihiro for real. And this is exactly how we are supposed to see him until the moment he jumps in chapter 24.

It's so, so easy to overlook the hints towards Hakuri's painful past due to the way he's written. Most of his actions and dialogue are framed in a comedic way to bounce off of Chihiro's stoicism. Hakuri's pessimistic inner monologues when he's being hurt or nearly killed are right at home in this demographic too- wimps start at their lowest to leave lots of room to grow. And Shounen series always have a weak, lonely kid who's inspired to become strong. It's extremely standard stuff. But this moment right here was probably the biggest, most blatant hint that he's got more to his circumstances than the average zero-to-hero character:

That tiny little panel of him casually smearing the blood from his nose while he talks to Chihiro lives rent-free in my head. It's a throwaway motion in the moment, and not really out of place in an ultra-violent series like Kagurabachi. But compare that to how Azami -a professional combat sorcerer and war veteran!- screamed when he realized his hand was sliced in chapter 7, or how Chihiro is often shown wincing and having to adjust to his injuries. These characters definitely feel the hits that land on them. But the most hilariously pathetic character yet acts like the beat-down he received never happened. Nor like he's surrounded by bloody corpses. Hakuri is not only used to violence, he's used to it experiencing it.

Again, this is all framed in a comedic way due to his over-the-top personality and expressions. He's a freakish mess on the floor after taking the hit from Hiyuki, sobs in a silly way over Chihiro's backstory, is called "weak" and "a moron" and "a mess" by other characters, on and on. Hakuri's not written like he's supposed to be taken seriously after the first few pages we see of him.

The only other moments of foreshadowing came in chapter 23 as a set of blink-and-you'll miss panels and the last scene:

Hakuri's clenched, shaking fist when he talks about his "scary" older siblings isn't a huge tell. Neither is the insistence that they'd kill him on sight. We can comfortably assume that he's afraid of the consequences of betraying his powerful family despite being a weakling- that's where most authors would have gone with this scenario. But then why does his big brother Soya look so happy to see him? Was Hakuri over-reacting again when he talked about his family? Something's off here, but it's impossible to say exactly what.

The next chapter starts. Chihiro and Shiba are facing off against the Tou and it's looking tense. Chihiro flashes back to his dad talking about the Shinuchi, the fight's about to begin- but it cuts to Soya being a pretty normal person who misses his little brother.

And then we see this.

Suddenly a whole new and very serious dimension is added to Hakuri's character. He's not a goofy weakling that's going to improve himself with some determination and a training arc: he's a victim of abuse. This is the signal that the Sazanamis are truly fucked up more than we know, setting the stage for the major themes of the Rakuzaichi arc. And it makes re-reading those little bits of foreshadowing so much more painful.

This scene is the "oh shit" equivalent of Chihiro finding Char's severed leg in the car- yeah, the author really went there. And it's not even the last time we'll get a moment like this for Hakuri. The Ice Lady chapter is rightly remembered for it's impact, but Hakuri choosing to commit suicide should be held up alongside it IMO. Again: the author really went there, and not just for the shock value.

This moment should be remembered far more often than it is. It was the pivot from Hakuri being a generic potential sidekick into a complex and fully-realized character. Hakuri found people who could help him. Who treated him kindly. Who inspired him. But he chose death in an instant when his past came back to haunt him. Despite his improved circumstances, he had no hope for the future. He only felt fear and the urge to escape from looming torment.

Looking at what we know up to this chapter alone... how can you not feel for him? This goofy, ridiculous mess of a boy is really truly hurting and probably has been for years. But like many victims, he downplays and doesn't talk about it. He just tries to escape via whatever means he can.

So it burns me up that people are still reducing him to Chihiro's silly sidekick. If this scene was somehow not enough to dispel that notion, consider that Chihiro probably doesn't know that Hakuri had all those tools used on him, much less anything about Ice Lady. He knows that Hakuri was regularly ganged up on and beaten, and probably could infer that Kyoura deliberately looked away. But we haven't seen Hakuri talk about in detail about how "someone set him on the right path", nor mention taking a flying leap, nor share what's in his storehouse. He's still got a hell of a lot of literal and metaphorical pain he keeps inside. In the right circumstances, Hakuri could jump again.

Talk about this scene more often! REMEMBER it more often!

[justwinginglife]

Partner In Crime, Pt 3

25 Days of Simpmas: Day Twenty Two December 22nd: Chuuya Nakahara, Rank 4 Anime: Bungo Stray Dogs Event Masterlist

This fic is a part three of my previously existing Chuuya series; I do feel like it’s lowkey kinda cheating to use it as one of my Simpas fics, but I’ll never finish the series otherwise so I'm killing two birds with one Christmas ornament lmao. Linking part one and two here. @backgroundcharactera the series is finally finished, thank god!

Chuuya blew up half the harbor.

He raved for the better part of an hour, demolishing crates here and barreling into cranes there, but surprisingly, none of his anger was aimed at you. Of course, he still wondered how much of what you’d said was true, how much of your relationship was real, how well he really knew you, but he made the conscious decision to pin the blame solely on Mori. And maybe he was just in denial, or maybe he simply loved you too much to ever blame you, but either way, he took that anger and barged right into Mori’s office with it. 

“Mori- you rotten, lying, scheming, piece of shit!”

Mori sits back in his chair, amused. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“You know exactly what you did- you paid her to lie to me, you sick bastard!”

Mori smirks. “Feeling a little insecure today, are we, Chuuya?”

If hellfire could be condensed into one’s eyes, then it was burning violently in Chuuya’s eyes at this very moment. His fists shake at his sides, threatening to bring the entire building crumbling down.

Mori’s sinister grin is still blatant on his face- he had just finished his dinner and now you’d brought him a show. His night couldn’t get any better. And it wasn’t done yet. “Don’t forget, Chuuya- I paid you too.” 

Your heart clenches. What’s he saying? “Chuuya… what does he mean? What’s he talking about?”

You look over to see that Chuuya, who’d previously been fuming and ready to blow, is now frozen still. Your heart drops, sinks, and buries itself at the bottom of the ocean. “No….”

Mori straightens in his seat. “Yes. You didn’t think I’d let someone as dangerous as you just waltz right into the mafia without a plan, did you? Chuuya’s my insurance. You were hired to keep him at bay and he was hired to keep you at bay. Quite the combo, wouldn’t you say?”

You immediately sink into the seat behind you to process it all. 

Chuuya is still frozen, his teeth clenched, his eyes looking anywhere but at you. 

It all makes sense now. Why he wasn’t mad at you. Maybe he was only mad at himself. Mad that he’d done the same, damn thing. 

If you could move, maybe you’d kill Mori where he stands. Maybe Chuuya would too. But no, Mori makes it all the way to the door before finally turning to say, “Don’t look so sad. If anything, you should be thanking me for seeking out the perfect match for you both and bringing you together. Sure, I paid you, but the two of you did the falling in love all on your own. Think about that for a moment,” and then he disappears down the hall, whistling to himself as he goes. 

You feel like you’ve just swallowed your own lungs. 

What now? What do you say, what do you do? Do you try to fix things? Do you have anything left to fix? Did you ever really love each other or did you only fall in love with the fake versions that you’d fed each other? Do you really know him? Does he really know you? Would you still love him? Would he still love you? Should you still love him, after everything you’d both done to each other, and should he still love you?

You know Chuuya has to be thinking the same thing, because now he’s dropped into the chair beside you. 

“I… I’m sorry.” He grits his teeth as he forces the words out.

You shake your head, feeling equally to blame, but he doesn’t let you apologize.

“I should’ve told you. Back at the harbor. But I couldn’t bring myself to say it. You were brave when you told me. I wasn’t. I was a coward. Maybe I only came here to have Mori say it for me.” He says, defeated.

“I… I get why you wouldn’t tell me. Hell, I almost didn’t tell you. But I…” You pause for a moment. Then you think about Chuuya. You think about the Chuuya that always shows up to back you up, even if he knows you don’t need it. The Chuuya that drops anything and everything to come see you on a second’s notice. The Chuuya that’s always competing with you over kills, over who can eat the fastest, over who can make it back to base first. The Chuuya that’s always competing with himself, trying to make you laugh or smile more than the day he did before or the day before that. The Chuuya that snuggles into you like he’s always belonged there. The Chuuya that’s always been yours. And you finally say to him, “I love you. At least, I think I do. And I don’t want to keep anything from you anymore.” 

He finally meets your gaze. “Still? After all this, you still…?”

You tap your chin in thought. “Well, tell me something.”

He sits up straighter. “Anything.”

“Beignets- are they really your favorite?”

He snorts slightly. “That’s your first question? Yeah, I love em. You know that.”

“And you really do hate the mornings?”

“Hate 'em with a burning passion.”

“And you like your coffee with five sugars and two cream, but you drink it black around the Mafia execs. That right too?”

He rolls his eyes, but they hold a glimmer of hope in them. “Don’t go spilling all my secrets, we don’t know who could be listening. But… yeah.”

“So, I know you then.”

“...yeah.”

“So, I love you then.”

“...yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He breaks into a grin. “Well, I love you too, idiot. Do I have to tell you that I know your favorite color and your favorite food for you to believe me?”

“No. But it would help,” You tease, nudging his arm.

He rests his head on your shoulder. “Red. Sushi. There.”

You run your hand through his hair and he relaxes into your touch. “So we’re good then.”

He happily sighs his agreement. 

“Now that we have that established… what are we gonna do about Mori?”

He shoots back up in his chair, clenching his fists. “Beat the shit out of him. Torture the shit out of him. Murder the shit out of him.”

“Hear me out…”

He raises an eyebrow. “No. NO. No, I know that look. Baby, he manipulated us. He made fools out of us. He messed with our heads, with our hearts. That’s the worst possible thing you can do to someone. We may be criminals, but he’s the devil.”

You shrug. “But now, we’ve got the devil right where we want him. I say we ask for anything we want.”

You spend hours with Chuuya, creating a list of demands. Ironically, you have to convince him to be greedier than he is. At first, he just wants a new bike, a new house, maybe a raise. But you- you’re thinking bigger. 

“I want the Mafia. Or at least, half of it.”

Mori laughs and then just keeps laughing. 

You can tell Chuuya’s still ready to go with plan one, beat the shit out of him, but you put a hand on his arm to stop him. 

“Oh, sweetie, I love how you think I’m kidding. I’m not. You’re going to make me your right hand and you’re going to do it now.”

Mori stops laughing, raising an eyebrow at you like you’re insane.

“By tonight, I’m going to have control over half the Mafia. Refuse, and I’ll simply take all of it.” You lean across his desk, shooting him a venomous smile. 

He looks you over thoroughly, trying to discern if you’re bluffing.

You’re not. 

You know Mori is well respected in the Mafia, and if you’re honest with yourself, he probably knows how to run it better than you do, so he’s useful, if nothing else. If he’s sent to his demise, then there’s the hassle of dealing with anarchy in the organization, and you’re not interested in creating more work for yourself. But it’s clear to you now that he’s too powerful to leave unchecked. You refuse to work another day under him, not after what he’s done to both you and Chuuya, so you’re not leaving this room without getting what you want; that, or one of you isn’t leaving this room alive. 

“What do you say Mori? Gonna spend all night dueling it out, two on one? Or are you gonna give me what I want? After all, it’s only fair. Call it reparations for psychological damage.”

His eyes look like storms brewing. “I’ll think on it.” He says coldly. 

“I’ll give you sixty seconds. If it’s not announced to the Mafia by then, well, I hope you got a full eight hours last night, because you won’t be resting anytime soon. I won’t go down without a fight, you should know by now.”

He curses you under his breath. 

“Tick tock, tick tock, Mori. Time’s running out. Thirty seconds to go, what’ll it be?”

“A third. What about a third of the Mafia?”

“She said half, asshole. What, are you bad at math?” Chuuya crosses his arms, glaring daggers at him. 

God, you love when he’s like this, all fired up for you. You’ll have to buy him some more dessert later. If you make it out alive.

“Half or I’m taking it all.” You repeat your earlier demands. Then you check your watch. “Tsk, tsk, ten seconds to go. So- tell me, Mori, dearest, are we partners or not?”

He sighs, exasperated. “Alright, alright! Half it is.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “Good boy.”

After he shakes the organization to its core, announcing this news, you loop your arm around Chuuya’s, satisfied. The organization will recover, but Mori never will. You hope he remembers this feeling forever. And if you ever decide to get greedy, if you ever decide you want more, if you ever decide he is no longer of any use to you, then you hope he takes this feeling with him to the grave. 

When the two of you make it to the door, you turn around once more. 

“You asked for thanks earlier, and I do like to give credit where credit is due. So, thank you, Mori. Thank you for being stupid enough to bring us together. Thank you for being stupid enough to tell us about it. Thank you for being stupid enough to sell your soul to me. And thank you for the nicest night of sleep that I’m about to have.”

Taglist: @pixelcafe-network @minasfwoopyponytail @ouiouimochi @inkytypewriter

[thewinter-eden]

psycho | han jisung (6/20)

6 : the knife

Pairings: HAN JISUNG x OC | LEE MINHO x 2nd OC

Rating: mature, dark

cross posted on AO3 under the_winter_eden and wattpad under alone-at-last.

Warnings: discussions of murder, torture, rape.

Cass's notes Minho's notes

psycho masterlist

< last chapter | next chapter >

pov : minho

How are you today?

He killed one of us last night. An eleven year old. Lily.

According to the pile of missing persons documents at the precinct, eleven-year-old Lily had to be Lilian Williams, an Idaho resident disappeared from Moscow ten months prior.

Minho adds her photo to the stack of notes that he reports to Captain Bang.

“Damn it.” Bang holds the poster loosely in his hands. He looks genuinely distressed by the news, the heavy bags under his eyes dragging at his features. “I’ll have someone check the dump sites we know of, see if we can find her body.” He shakes his head with a disheartened sigh. “Damn it. That makes thirteen.”

Has he hurt you since yesterday?

It was my turn after Lily.

What did he do?

You don’t want to know.

Please tell me.

He ripped out four fingernails.

Minho’s stomach lurches violently at the note in his hands. He feels like he’s going to puke, images of bloodied fingers and fleshy nail beds screaming through his brain.

He doesn’t know what to say back. What does one say to that? ‘I’m sorry’ seems so woefully insufficient. How can she endure it? How do any of them?

His hands shake as he pens a pathetic response.

I can bring antiseptic and bandages.

We have things to keep our wounds clean. But if you have pain medication, some of us will need it in a few days.

I’ll get some. Is something happening?

The next thing he takes is a finger.

How do you know?

He has a list. Some of the girls are farther through it than I am.

Captain Bang corroborates this information. According to all of the bodies so far, many of the girls are scarred and wounded in the same places, by the same methods. Some of them had more injuries than others, and they could now assume with some certainty that those girls had been in captivity for longer.

“We found Lilian Williams’ body this afternoon,” Bang says. “She’s missing her left ring finger. It looks like it’s mostly healed. C.O.D has been determined to be a stab wound to her throat, occurring some time during the night before last, which supports your pen pal’s story.”

His pen pal. What more will it take to convince this man that he’s truly communicating with a victim of Cain Roberts? Minho stares at his hands, watching the skin whiten and redden as he clenches and loosens his fists. “What was her most recent injury?”

There’s a moment of tense silence before Bang swallows audibly and answers. “Coroner identified signs of sexual assault and traces of semen. Based on the amount of tearing, it appeared to be her first occurrence of penetrative assault.”

Ten months.

That’s how far down the list the girls had to be to reach sexual assault.

“Were all of them killed around the ten month mark?” Minho asks at last.

To this question, Bang can offer some relief. “No. Time in captivity hasn’t been a consistent factor. We’re not sure what’s causing him to decide to kill them.”

That seems like both good news and bad news.

Minho grits his teeth. He’s tired of reading about the misery and pain down below and doing nothing about it. He’s sick of disappointing Cass, giving her meaningless reasons for their persistent inaction. It’s driving him mad. “Can we go after them now?”

They have a body. He brought proof. To any rational person, it would be more than enough.

Cassandra Young is exactly who she says she is, and she’s being tortured as they chat over sandwiches.

Though, in his defense, he hasn’t touched his ham on rye.

But Captain Bang just nods solemnly. “I’ll take this to the lead agent. He decides where to go from here but this—this is conclusive evidence. Well done, Officer Lee.”

That much is obvious.

Over the next few days, all Minho can scrounge up are copious amounts of over-the-counter painkillers, which he lowers to Cass in little cloth bundles that she can keep hidden.

He also sends down as many food items as will fit through the tiny hole in the ground and then through the narrow grate of her vent.

Her next request is for a knife. It doesn’t surprise him, but it takes a full hour of convincing the captain to allow him to give the girl a blade.

After that, he hears nothing from her. By the time she’s missed three of their check-ins, he doesn’t know where to let his mind go.

Half of him expects her to come stumbling out of the darkness to meet him, with seven girls in tow.

The other half of him expects to find her body dumped in a ditch.

But then, finally, after nearly thirty-eight hours of complete silence, he gets a message in shaky handwriting, the paper splattered with blood.

No more weapons.

He’s so relieved to get a response from her that he forgets to ask her what happened to the knife.

For the next few days, he does everything he can to supply her with food and medication, enough that she can share with the others.

He tells her about the weather, when it’s raining and when it’s sunny. He tells her what color the sky is, and when the grass starts turning brown.

She asks about his homework, which almost makes him smile. He’s a part time freshman at university, and his grades are suffering for her sake, and he can tell that she knows.

He just doesn’t know why she cares.

He tries to blow her questions off, to focus on her and more important things, but she keeps coming back to his assignments. She wants to know about his essay topics and his classes. She wants to know why he double majored, and why one of the majors is math.

He soon learns that she was supposed to be a freshman at the same university, and that she had enrolled as a student of political science. They probably would have met each other in classes and study groups, and it makes his heart clench.

So he tells her all about his classes, and tells her which ones she’ll probably have to take and which ones to avoid. He tells her about his professors, most and least favorites.

She asks him if the food in the cafeteria is any good, and he tells her about his favorite coffee shop on campus (which is also his favorite coffee shop in town).

He feels terrible, telling her all of the good things about the life she was supposed to be living, and he feels even worse telling her about the less-than-ideal things.

What does he have to complain about, when she’s living underground at the mercy of a serial killer?

But she keeps asking.

He doesn’t sleep. He barely eats. Seungmin has to physically prevent him from taking up residence in the sewer, just in case, and forces him to go home. He barely makes it to class. He misses many of his assignments.

How can he go home and sleep when there are eight girls under his feet, suffering?

Two weeks after he first discovered Cass, he lowers his first note of the day. A simple ‘good morning, Cass. Is there anything I can bring you today?’

The response is immediate. ‘Can you contact my parents? Tell them I’m ok.’

“Absolutely not.” Captain Bang refutes firmly. “If we track down and inform the families, we lose the investigation. The feds have been abundantly clear on this.”

The more he reports to his superior, the more Minho wants to throw him against the wall and hit him until he feels bones breaking. Every time he brings more irrefutable proof that these helpless girls need rescuing, Bang gives him another worthless excuse for not even trying.

“She’s asked for her parents, Captain. They have a right to know what’s happening with their daughter. And if she deserves anything, it’s to hear from her family.”

Bang raises his hands calmingly, which achieves nothing. “I know, Lee. I get it. But if I start bringing in parents, then we lose control of the situation.”

“We don’t have control of the situation.” Minho explodes. “The man just raped and murdered an eleven year old girl and you’re worried about what? Embarrassing him on the news?”

The captain’s eyes harden. “This isn’t a matter of Roberts’ pride. It’s a matter of operational integrity. I am not at liberty to tell you any more than that.”

So he has to tell Cass that the police won’t let him reach out to her parents, and he doesn’t have a response when she writes the word ‘why’ so forcefully into the paper that the pen rips right through.

There’s no answer good enough.

He hears her crying faintly through the vent, sounding a thousand miles away, and all he feels is shame.

pov : anna

Cain and Lily appear in her dreams for days following the incident. Every time she closes her eyes, her mind is pummeled with the shadowy figure of her captor and the deadened eyes of Lily. The coppery scent of blood scrapes through her nostrils and down her throat.

It’s nearly a week before she sleeps any more than an hour or two.

At first, Anna refuses to meet with the others when Han opens her door for evening meal. Instead, she remains on her cot, clutching her burned hand to her chest, and does everything she can not to think about the pool of blood that used to stain her floor.

She focuses on the sting of her ribs to keep the memories away, but it doesn’t work. It only hurts.

Han tries to get her to join the others, to gain strength from their company. He kneels by her bed and whispers empty consolation to the empty look on her face, and when that doesn’t work he leaves her alone. In an attempt to remove the pressure but not the invitation, he doesn’t close the door until it’s time to herd the girls back into their rooms.

It’s four days before she allows herself to crawl off the bed and seek the comfort of the other prisoners, and in that time she has received a matching burn on her other hand.

Han is so relieved that she’s exhibiting signs of life that he personally escorts her into their shoddy community room, a thin arm wrapped so tightly around her waist that her ribs scream in protest, and deposits her directly into Ruby’s arms.

The older girl already has two scarred over, burned hands. She welcomes Anna into her embrace like she doesn’t have enough rage and pain in her own soul to fill the halls of Hades. Ruby lets the newest captive weep into her shoulder with broken abandon, shedding her own tears in solidarity.

None of the girls are unaffected by Lily’s death.

Even Sara, who had been unresponsive the last time Anna saw her, is quick to offer a hand of comfort and commiserate the loss of a friend.

But none of them seem surprised.

“You can never stop reacting.” Ruby whispers, running her mangled hands through Anna’s hair. “You can never let your mind wander or take you away from that chair.” Her tears soak both their faces. “If he doesn’t get to watch you respond to his work, you lose all worth to him.”

Anna doesn’t get it.

She hears Ruby’s words, and she heard when Han told her the same thing. She saw the emptiness in Lily’s eyes even before the life had left them, and watched the resulting knife plunge into her throat.

But she doesn’t get it.

“Why does he do this?”

The other girls share glances. They’ve stopped asking those questions.

Ruby takes a deep breath and runs her fingertips over the scabs beneath Anna’s collarbones. “Cain has a very specific fascination with the way all of us experience the pain that he puts us through. There is no variation to his methods. He does the same things to all of us, on a schedule. We all have these,” She taps the cuts. “And these,” Her arms squeeze only slightly over Anna’s ribs. “And these.” Her hands take Anna’s and lightly touch the bandages over the burns. “You haven’t gotten the rest yet.”

Anna’s face twists in horror and her eyes trace the familiar markings on all of the girls that surround them. “Why?”

They look at her with so much pity and anger in their eyes.

“He likes to watch.” Ruby pulls back to cough into her elbow and recovers slowly. “He likes to see what he can turn us into. But when we stop showing him the progress he wants to see, he ends the experiment. The murders are his only aberration.”

Anna glances over the seven faces before her and wishes she didn’t still see the eighth in the back of her mind. “Lily was so…” Her words choke her. She pulls herself up and forces herself to look at Ruby without falling apart. “It’s like she wasn’t there anymore.”

Fresh tears slip down the older girl’s cheeks. She nods, a sour smile curling her lips. “I hope she wasn’t.”

After Cain steals Anna from her bed to crush the bones of her left arm beneath the heavy swings of a pipe wrench, one of the girls finds her during evening meal. Her name is Cass, one of the girls who has been in captivity for less than a year. In movements obscured by her own body, Cass passes Anna a handful of little white pills.

“It’s just aspirin, but it should be enough to take the edge off.” She whispers, and helps Anna throw it back with great gulps of water.

Anna takes it without question, eyes darting as though Cain might be hidden in the shadows. She wonders if it comes from one of Han’s field kits, but he’s never given her medication before. After all of his caretaking, she assumes that if he has access to painkillers, he would already be giving them. “Where did you get this?”

Cass lifts a finger to her lips, gaze jumping to the vents in the ceiling. She pulls Anna aside by her good arm and brings her face close to whisper. “You can’t tell anyone, not even Hannie. If Cain finds out, he’ll hurt him worse than he hurts us.”

Anna can’t even imagine that.

What’s worse than broken bones and seared flesh?

She finds the shape of Cass’s hand in the dark, and a new kind of horror seeps down her spine.

What’s worse than missing fingers?

Did Han have all of his fingers? Did Ruby? She can’t remember.

“Someone found me.” Cass hisses, her voice hardly more than a breath. “He drops things to me through the vent in my room. He gives me aspirin.”

Anna’s heart flutters. Someone has found them? “Is he going to get us out of here?” She can’t choke down the excitement in her voice, even if she does remember to whisper it. “He’s going to rescue us? When? What do we do?”

Cass’s hand clamps over Anna’s mouth and her eyes widen with urgency. “Quiet.”

That’s when Anna notices the pooling in her eyes. There’s no hope there, no excitement. Cass shakes her head and lets her hand fall. “The police won’t help. They know we’re here, they just…won’t help. They won’t even let me write a letter to my parents.”

Rage floods Anna’s entire body. “Screw them.” She snaps. “If we have someone outside of this place who can help us, let’s find a way out of here.”

Cass just laughs. For a little bit, neither of them say anything as the optimism falls flat between them. Her chin dips and her watery eyes focus on the floor, catching a rasping breath. She yanks a hand through the tangled strands of her dark hair and pretends the bandages of her mutilated hand don’t catch on all the knots.

“I asked him for a knife,” She says at last, and the tears fall. A sniffle punctuates her words, followed by a wet cough.

All of them have a cough by now, even Anna.

It’s hard to know if it’s because of the damp and mildewy conditions, or if it’s the stabbing of their broken ribs.

Anna’s excitement is strangled the moment it starts. “What happened?”

“I waited for the best moment, when he wouldn’t see it. I tried to kill him, I swear I did. But he just pulled the knife out of his stomach like it was nothing.” She pinches her eyes shut and something like guilt enters her expression.

“Did he punish you for it?”

Cass shakes her head. “It wasn’t worth going off script, apparently. He just went ahead and cut my finger off anyway. It was Hannie that he punished.” Her head tilts back as she tries to control herself, but the sobs keep coming. “He thought Hannie gave me the knife.”

Anna thinks back to that morning, and the day before. She hadn’t noticed that Han had any new wounds, but her mind had been on the fire of her burns. Anna bites back a rush of shame. “What did he do to him?”

Cass presses her hand to her stomach and bites her lip. “The same thing I did to him.”

Anna waits until Han brings her back into her room after evening meal to look for the stab wound. He guides her into her room and is surprised when she doesn’t immediately head for the bed and curl up under the tattered blanket. When she just turns to face him in the doorway, he falls still and stares back.

Her eyes go to the bag slung across his back that he carries their medical supplies in, and then fall to his abdomen. She can’t see anything through his sweater, though part of her expects a massive blood stain to bloom across the fabric before her eyes.

Han watches her gaze move, and he looks down abruptly at her sudden attention, like he’s expecting the same flash of crimson to appear. “What is it?” His voice is tight.

She wonders if it feels like his intestines will spill onto the floor if he speaks too loudly.

“Can I see?” She asks softly, and his hands raise to cup his stomach.

His eyes are wide at her question. “See what?”

Anna nods towards his abdomen, wishing she knew why it bothers her so much to think of him taking a knife to the gut for Cass. “The stabbing. Cass told me.”

Han’s expression lightens with understanding and he shakes his head. “I’ve bandaged it. It’s fine.” He ducks his face towards the floor and moves back to reach for the door. “Don’t worry about it.”

Before he can close her into her room for the night, she steps forward. “Please?”

Her insistence surprises him, especially after she’s spent the past two weeks holding him at arm’s length. For a second, he just blinks back at her, mouth agape.

It’s plain as day, the longer she looks at him. The way his shoulders are hunched inward, curving his spine. The way, his hand is always hovering near his stomach. The way his lower abdomen and hips tremble with every step. He’s badly hurt, and he’s doing everything he can to keep up their routine for them.

But her door is the last in the hallway, and she knows he doesn’t have anything to do but go back to his own room when he’s done with hers, so she reaches out a hand.

He looks at it and stops breathing. Questions are written all over his face when his eyes flick up to find her again, to find answers.

Her hands are wrapped in relatively clean, white bandages. Her ribs are snugly wrapped the way he secured them that morning. Her left arm is immobilized in a gentle sling that he wrapped around her neck only an hour before. She’s lashed together by his own efforts and he’s just standing there with blood actively rushing from his face, barely able to breathe.

“Please let me look.” She says again, and steps closer.

Han looks down at himself, fingertips reaching for the hem of his shirt, not sure what she wants. “I’ve bandaged it.” He reminds her. He turns just slightly to show her and his knee buckles.

A soft grunt passes his lips as he finds himself draped over her right side, her arm gently catching his waist.

He’s tiny. The bones of his spine bite into her bicep, his ribs ridged against her arm. She curls her fingers around the sharp edge of his right hip and pulls him against her. When his weight settles over her shoulder and right side, he’s far lighter than she ever thought he would be.

She wonders what they feel like to him.

His breath stutters under her touch and his body curls into the strength that she offers, seemingly without his permission. “You don’t have to—” He tries to say, but he just hunches in on himself like the words hurt.

Anna brings him to her bed and makes him sit, carefully peeling the field bag off of his back. “Does he feed you?” She asks softly, noticing the freaking Grand Canyon of his clavicle as he gasps shallowly for air.

“I eat what you eat.” He responds, which isn’t a comfort.

Bread and broth twice a day has been enough to strip the flesh from Ruby’s bones in her two years of captivity, and it’s doing the same to Han.

Anna catches his eyes for permission before lifting his shirt up away from his abdomen. He holds it against his chest so she can see the brown bandage that he’s taped over his stomach. Disgust roils in her gut and she rips open the field bag. “Is this a used bandage?”

Han closes his eyes and throws his head back against the wall. “You all need the fresh ones. I can’t take from your supplies.”

“Screw that.” Anna snaps, yanking out all of the items that he used for her cuts. The gash is shallow, as though the knife had been small.

If it had fit through the ceiling vent, it had to have been tiny.

Han hisses when she peels the bandage off of his skin and begins to clean the freshly bleeding wound. “You don’t have to do this.” His free hand is clutching her blanket, clawing a fistful of it to hold onto.

She doesn’t answer him, focused on doing her best at something that she has no idea how to do. Anger is the only thing moving her. Rage dampens the fire of her hands, fury drowning out the exploding pain of broken bones.

He’s so stupid, to use old dirty bandages on an open wound. What an idiotic boy, to wander around here carrying their weight while his abdomen splits down the middle.

She cleans it as well as she can and packs it gingerly, ignoring the way his muscles clench and he writhes beneath her touch. She wishes she has Cass’s aspirin, but even if she was willing to give away her secret, she doesn’t have any.

Han leans into her as she wraps the bandage as many times around his waist as she can and tucks it securely.

When she finally looks up at his face again, pulling his shirt from his clenched fist to lower it back over himself, his teeth are bared and grinding, face wet with tears. His eyes are closed. The way he’s gasping through his teeth drives a spear of fear through her heart, but she keeps her mouth shut.

It wasn’t a deep wound.

He’ll be okay.

Anna sits back on the floor and gives him space to recover. She hopes that Cain isn’t coming back imminently, because Han looks like he’s trying not to black out, or be sick, or both. Her focus lands on tucking supplies back into the field kit and zipping it up, wishing there was more she can do.

His gasps slow.

She places the packed kit in his lap and draws her hand back into her own.

Han’s spine loosens, lifting himself carefully from the wall that he’s been staggered against. There’s still surprised in his eyes when he drops his chin to see her kneeling on the floor, watching her knees. “Thank you,” He rasps.

She just nods, golden blonde hair falling over her face.

He braces his hands against the thin mattress and forces himself to his feet, stumbling. He slings the field kit back over his back with hitched movements, and takes a few steps towards the door.

She feels his hand touch her hair, fingertips sliding over her scalp for a second, before the touch disappears. “Thank you.” His voice whispers again, and then he’s gone and her door locks behind him.

That night, they all hear it when Sara is picked.

They hear her screams, her hurled abuse, howls of rage bouncing off the walls. Flesh strikes flesh as she fights her captor and shouts Lily’s name, over and over.

They hear Cain wrestle her down the hall, grunting against the force of her struggle.

They hear Sara wail furious accusations, and the sounds of pain and heavy impact follow.

And then they all hear the resounding silence, and a single set of footsteps walking away.

[sixgunluvr]

A Love To Protect

Chapter 3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Mature Age 18+ Readers ONLY.

Pairing Arthur with a female reader.

There may be errors. I read through these a couple times but I still may miss things.

You woke up sometime later to Dutch gently shaking your shoulder, calling your name in a hushed voice. "Hey, darlin'? Time to wake up." You slowly opened your eyes to find yourself lying inside your tent, with Dutch sitting beside you on a wooden stool, a look of concern etched on his weathered face. Javier was also there with a look of concern on his face.

Your head throbbed with a dull ache, but the sight of Dutch made you feel a little safer.

'Careful now, darlin'. You took quite a tumble out there,' Dutch said softly as he placed a gentle hand on your forehead, checking for fever.

You tried to sit up, but Dutch stopped you, his voice firm yet gentle, 'Don't move too fast. Take it easy.'

The memory of what happened came rushing back, causing you to wince.

Dutch's expression darkened as he gently touched your swollen cheek. "Who did this to you?"

You swallowed hard, remembering the face of the man who had attacked you. "Micah."

"Micah said he stopped someone from attacking you,"  Dutch interjected, trying to ease the tension. 

You took a deep breath and looked Dutch in the eye. "He attacked me. I went to pick some raspberries in the woods, he just appeared out of nowhere. He forced himself on me but I managed to get away."

Dutch's expression turned thunderous as you spoke, his eyes glinting with rage. You could see the veins in his neck bulging as he clenched his teeth.  The thought that Micah had dared to touch you in such a way infuriated him beyond belief. Dutch was always the protector of the group, and it was clear that he was taking this matter very seriously.

"Where is the son of a bitch now?" Dutch growled asking Javier, his voice low and dangerous.

Javier shook his head, looking just as angry as Dutch. "He disappeared after the ruckus," Javier said through gritted teeth. "We've been looking for him everywhere but can't find hide nor hair of him."

Dutch clenched his fists in frustration. "That traitorous son of a bitch! I'm going to rip him apart piece by piece when I find him."

But at that moment, all Dutch cared about was making sure that you were okay.

He helped you sit up, wrapping a warm blanket around your trembling shoulders. His eyes filled with a fiery determination as he vowed to find Micah and make him pay for what he had done. You could see the gentle side of Dutch as he tenderly tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

"Don't worry, darlin'. We'll find him and make sure he pays for what he's done," Dutch said, his voice trembling with anger.

Javier nodded in agreement, his own rage evident on his face.

"Arthur, where's Arthur," you asked your voice barely a whisper. You wanted nothing more than to be in his protective arms right now.  Arthur would make everything better, as he always did. But he was out on a job with Charles and Lenny.

Dutch's words snapped you back to reality. "Arthur's back," he said poking his head out of the tent, his tone still laced with anger.

Javier and Dutch left the tent to meet with Arthur before he could enter.

Your heart raced at the news, and you felt a surge of relief wash over you. Arthur would know what to do after hearing about the attack.

You could here them talking to Arthur but you couldn't hear what was being said. 

Suddenly Arthur's voice thundered throughout the camp.

They told him.

Your whole body trembled. You had no idea how Arthur would react to this news.  You had only ever seen him fiercely protective, but never violent. You could feel the tension and anger rise in the camp as Arthur was brought up to speed on the attack.

Dutch and Javier led a seething Arthur towards your tent, where you were now resting. He looked like a man possessed, his eyes blazing with rage and determination. The wind rustled through the trees as they approached, carrying with it the scent of wood smoke and sagebrush.

As Arthur burst into the tent, he rushed to your side, taking in your disheveled hair and swollen cheek.

Rage coursed through him, his eyes flashing with an intense fire that promised vengeance. You had never seen him like this before, and it scared you even more than Micah's attack had.

"Who did this?" Arthur demanded, his voice low and dangerous. His fists clenched at his sides, every muscle in his body tense with barely contained fury.

"Micah," you said softly, your voice shaking as much as your body.

"He attacked me in the woods. I went out to find some raspberries, and he was there. He tried to..." Your voice trailed off as tears began to stream down your cheeks.

Arthur's jaw clenched at the mention of Micah's name. His eyes flashed with anger, but it wasn't towards you. No, his anger was reserved for Micah and anyone who dared to harm a single hair on your head.

Dutch and Javier exchanged a look that spoke volumes.

They knew that Arthur's anger was not to be taken lightly, and they would do everything in their power to keep him from doing anything rash.

"He's dead,"  Arthur said with finality, eyes cold and determined. "I'm going to find him and kill him." Arthur's voice was low, lethal, and he meant every word. You could see the rage in his eyes and knew that he was capable of doing anything to protect you. You believed him because you trusted him. And it wasn't just because he was handsome or muscular; it was because of how fiercely loyal and devoted he was towards you. He would do anything to keep you safe from harm.

Dutch put a hand on Arthur's shoulder, trying to calm him down. "We don't know where he is yet," Dutch said.

"But we will find him, and when we do, Micah will pay for what he's done."

Dutch's voice was firm, unyielding. He was a man of action, and if there was one thing that Dutch could do well, it was taking care of business. Javier, on the other hand, was more measured in his approach. He was always the calming force within the group, but today, even Javier looked ready to take Micah down himself.

Arthur nodded. His mind was made up; Micah would die for what he had done.

But before Arthur could storm off to track down Micah, you reached out and placed a hand on his arm. "Please," you whispered, your voice trembling. "Don't leave me here alone."

Arthur looked at you, his anger softening at the sight of your fear. He nodded and took a deep breath, his eyes still blazing with determination. "I'll stay with you," he said, his voice low and soothing.

Dutch and Javier exchanged a look, both relieved that Arthur wasn't going off half-cocked.

They knew that Arthur was fiercely protective of you, and while they respected his desire to keep you safe, they also knew that a man on a rampage was never a good thing.

Javier spoke up, "We'll find him together, mi amigo. But right now, she needs rest." He gestured towards you, and Arthur nodded in agreement.

The camp settled down for the night, with Dutch and Javier promising to keep watch. You lay in Arthur's arms, feeling both safe and loved.

His warmth enveloped you like a cocoon, shielding you from the harsh realities of the outside world. Your eyelids grew heavy as his fingers gently traced lines along your arm, calming the storm of emotions within you.

You didn't know if it was his rugged good looks or the strength of his character, but you couldn't imagine being without him.

After the chaos of the day, being wrapped in Arthur's arms you finally began to feel your body relax.

Your head was pounding from Micah's attack, but the feeling of Arthur's strong chest against your back and his arms around your waist provided a sense of security that you desperately needed. The warmth from the fire outside crept into the tent and you could hear Dutch and the others' hushed voices as they moved around the camp.

Arthur's steady breathing was soothing and you began to feel yourself drift off.

But suddenly, you found yourself back in the woods, with Micah's looming figure closing in on you. His twisted smile sent a chill down your spine as he reached out to grab you.

You screamed, your voice echoing through the tent and jolting Arthur awake.

"Shhhh, it's alright," he whispered, pulling you closer and kissing your forehead. "It was just a nightmare, baby. You're safe with me."

But the fear and adrenaline coursed through your veins, making it impossible to fall back asleep. Arthur must have sensed this because he began to gently run his fingers through your hair, soothing you as he whispered sweet nothings in your ear.

The tender touch of his fingers on your scalp sent a shiver down your spine, but it was the warmth in his voice that truly ignited a spark within you.

You leaned into him, feeling the strength of his muscles, as his hand drifted down to rest on your hip.

Arthur pulled you closer, pressing his lips against your ear as he whispered, "You're safe with me."

Slowly, you let yourself be enveloped by the feeling of his arms around you, the protection and love that radiated from him in waves. Your body began to relax, but your heart raced as you felt something else entirely.

Without thinking, you turned your head and pressed your lips against his.

The taste of him was intoxicating, and you opened your mouth to deepen the kiss.

With a low growl, Arthur slipped his hand beneath your shirt, skating his fingers up your spine. His touch sent a jolt of electricity through your body, and you arched against him with a moan.

"Baby, I'm so sorry I wasn't here," Arthur murmured. You could see the hurt in his eyes.

"I couldn't protect you," he said softly.

"You'll always protect me," you replied, your voice trembling. You needed him to know that despite the attack, your faith in him hadn't wavered.

His lips met yours again in a hungry kiss, as if trying to quell the fear and uncertainty of what had happened. His hand slid into your hair, pulling it free from its braid and fisting it tightly. Your breath hitched as he tugged gently, leaving tingles along your scalp.

Your body pushed against his, hungry with desire and longing to feel closer. You reached up and slid your hands under his shirt, feeling the coarse hair on his chest and the hardness of his muscles beneath. His abs tensed as you explored, and a growl rumbled in his throat.

He trailed kisses down your neck, his fingers grazing your skin and making you tremble with both pleasure and the memory of danger. You moaned as he took one of your nipples into his mouth, teasing it to a hard peak through the fabric of your blouse.

"Fuck, baby," he growled against your skin. "You're so fucking beautiful."

Arthur slid his hand up your thigh, bunching your dress as he went. When his fingers reached the apex of your thighs, you moaned and spread your legs wider, needing more friction.

"You sure you want this right now?" he asked, his voice thick with desire and concern.

You nodded eagerly, his fingers finding the wetness between your legs, and he groaned with satisfaction. "Damn girl, you're soaked."

"I need you, Arthur," you whispered, your hands gripping his shoulders as if to ground yourself.

"Say it again," he growled, his eyes darkening with lust.

"I need you," you repeated, arching against him.

"Now."

With a slow, deliberate movement, Arthur slid a finger inside of you, making you gasp as he found that spot that made your toes curl. He pressed gently, his eyes locked on yours as he began to move in a slow, agonizing rhythm that had you trembling with pleasure.

"Arthur, please," you begged, your voice tinged with desperation. You needed more, wanted more of him.

You need him to know that you don't blame him for what happened, that your need and love for him has not wavered.

You needed to be as close to him as possible. You needed that closeness, that connection.

And the more he touched you, the more you craved him. The ache inside of you grew and grew until it was an unbearable throb that pulsed with insatiable hunger.

Arthur sensed your urgency and, with a low growl, slid another finger inside of you. You cried out as he found your pleasure spot once again, this time working both fingers in a tantalizing rhythm that had you writhing beneath him.

"Please," you begged, your legs shaking with the effort to stay still.

You were desperate to feel him inside of you, to ease the burning need that had been building inside of you since before the attack.

"Beg for it," Arthur demanded, his fingers never ceasing their movements.

"Fuck, beg me."

You moaned, your hips moving in rhythm with his fingers. "Please, Arthur. I need you."

Your words only fueled his lust. "Say it," He demanded, his green eyes dark as sin. "Tell me what you want."

"I want you inside of me," you panted. "Please." You gasped as Arthur's thumb circled your clit. "I need you."

The desperation in your voice only spurred him on.

"Tell me exactly what you want," he ordered, withdrawing his fingers.

You whimpered at the loss, but knew he wanted to hear you say it. And you wanted to tell him. You needed him to know just how much you craved him, how much you trusted him to erase the fear that had taken root inside of you.

"I want you to fuck me," you whispered. "Right now."

He groaned, pulling at the buttons of your blouse, eager to see what lay beneath. You helped him hastily remove your clothes, your own arousal fueling your desire to be naked in his arms.

His hands roamed over your bare skin, caressing and teasing you into a writhing mess beneath him. Your nipples pebbled under his touch and you arched into him, needing more contact.

Arthur's mouth found yours again as he kicked off his boots. He pulled his shirt over his head, and dropped his pants, his hard cock springing free.

He kicked his pants to the side and covered your body with his, his thigh spreading yours open wider. His cock rubbed against your clit, making you moan and writhe beneath him.

His words only added to your desire as he positioned himself at your entrance, his eyes burning with a fierce hunger. You gasped as he slowly slid into you, filling you up completely. 

"Fuck, baby," he groaned.

"You feel so goddamn good." Arthur grunted, moving slowly in and out of you. His eyes locked onto yours, his gaze never wavering as he thrust deeper and harder.

"Arthur," you moaned, your voice barely audible as you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper inside of you.

"I got you, baby," he moaned.

His rhythm was slow and steady, each thrust sending a shiver down your spine as he hit that spot inside of you that made your toes curl.

You gasped as he leaned down to take one of your hardened nipples into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it before biting down gently.

"Oh god," you cried out, arching your back as a wave of pleasure washed over you.

Arthur's response was a low growl as he continued to thrust into you, his pace gradually quickening.

His eyes locked with yours, keeping the same agonizing yet tantalizing rhythm that had you crying out with pleasure.

"I love you so much, baby," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I will always protect you. You'll always be mine."

Your heart swelled with love and adoration for this ruggedly handsome outlaw. With every thrust, you felt the weight of the day's events slip away, replaced by a deep sense of security and safety in his arms.

"Oh god, Arthur! Don't stop!" you cried out as your orgasm built within you. He increased his pace, sending shudders through your entire body as he reached between your still-quivering legs and circled your clit with his thumb.

"Come for me, baby," he groaned, and you gladly obliged. Your orgasm ripped through your body, causing your muscles to clench around his cock as you moaned incoherently. Arthur didn't let up, his thrusts becoming erratic as he reached the peak of his own pleasure.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he chanted as he spilled himself inside of you, burying his face in your neck with a guttural groan.

You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, holding on to him as the aftershocks of your mutual orgasm rippled through your body.

Arthur collapsed on top of you, still buried deep inside, and you welcomed the weight of him, feeling protected and safe in his arms.

You kissed the side of his face, tasting the salt of his sweat and feeling the rapid beat of his heart against your chest. His breathing was heavy, but he slowly withdrew and lay down beside you, pulling you into a close embrace. Your legs tangled together as your bodies fitted perfectly, like two pieces of a puzzle.

The world outside the tent disappeared as you lost yourself in the comfort of Arthur's arms. It was a feeling that you craved more than the sweetest wine or the most decadent dessert. Here, in this desolate wilderness, under the star-filled sky, you found your safe haven.

As your breathing slowed and heartbeats returned to normal, Arthur gently brushed the hair away from your damp forehead. He leaned forward and whispered soft words of love and adoration, his ruggedly handsome face filled with emotion.

You basked in the warmth of his affection, your heart swelling with love for him.  You were his, and he was yours. Together, you could conquer anything.

But, you couldn't help but think about what was to come once Micah was found.

You knew that Arthur was not one to be trifiled with, and if he had set his sights on Micah, then there would be hell to pay.

Yet, as you lay in Arthur's arms, feeling his warmth and breathing in the scent of his skin, you couldn't help but feel safe. It was a feeling that only Arthur could give you - the feeling of being completely and utterly protected from the dangers of the world.

The fire crackled softly outside the tent, casting a warm glow inside and providing some comfort from the chill of the night air.

The wind blew gently, carrying the scent of wood smoke and sagebrush throughout the camp, creating an atmosphere of serene tranquility that existed in stark contrast to the chaos of just hours before.

Despite the tender moment that had just transpired between you and Arthur, your mind couldn't help but drift back to Micah. You knew that the danger had not passed entirely, that he was still out there somewhere, and you couldn't shake the feeling of fear and uncertainty.

[bluestarlett]

{[Would you be upset if I told you we were dying, and every cure they gave us was a lie?]}

{[Now you're upset because you finally got the notion That everything you had is spinning down the drain. Oh! Do you mean it when you beg and pray and plead? Your "Give it to me, give it to me, give it to me, give it to me all those things we need". And what, pray tell, will you whimper when your number will be called? You'll say, "It's not my fault!"}]

1,338 words.

Apollo’s fists clenched as they slithered through the halls, their notebook tightly in-clutch. The carvings in the walls blurred, insignificant to them through the rage welling up inside them, as their newfound knowledge began to fester in their mind. They violently seized the chamberstick from its placeholder on the wall, hot wax splattering onto their clothes and arms. Saturn disregarded this as they stormed off into the dark, dead catacombs.

The stairs seemed to spiral endlessly, Shams' heavy breathing resounding at a painstakingly loud volume throughout the dark pit, their claws clutched furiously around the gold bannister as they descended with a deafening intensity. As they neared the bottom, they paid no heed to the bullnose, simply jumping onto the flat ground, their pace never faltering as they slinked into the room with a seethingly aggressive pace.

And, lo and behold, at the heart of the decrepit catacombs stood Asteria.

Saturn knew she would be here.

...They wished they were wrong.

Asteria looked up, a peculiar alertness in her eyes as Mind slinked towards her. Her gaze seemed to soften as she saw their face, and she flashed them a somber, soft smile. Logos ground their teeth as they resisted spitting in her stupid grin.

“Saturn. Rare to see you here. How are you?” She inquired, her tone almost frantic. Mind’s grip on the candle only grew more aggressive as they shoved past her. 

“Do not speak to me. I’ve no business with you.” They hissed through gritted teeth, and, albeit a bit harsh in retrospect, it was true. Asteria flinched at the contact, her lips contorting into a concerned frown. She extended her hand to Neptune’s shoulder, which they violently shoved away. 

“Sunshine-” she started. Saturn halted in their tracks.

“Do not. Call me that.” They snapped furiously, their figure tense as the hair on their neck began to stand on-end. “Ever. We’ve discussed this. ”

Sidra withdrew her hand, her red lips pressed into a thin line as her gaze shifted to her feet. “...I apologise.” She muttered awkwardly. The two sat in silence as the Sun kept their back to the Stars, rage coursing through them like a toxic bruise. Ethos forced a wobbly smile as she tried to lighten the mood, the warm light from the flames casting onto her face in a synchronised dance.

“You’ve gotten taller,” said she. Shams shot her a seething glare, their eyes growing more wild---their pupils flattening, irises shaking frantically---their face cast ominously in the candlelight as pure, relentless rage radiated from their figure.

“How polite of you to notice. How many loopshas it cost you to finally acknowledge me?” They spat, their voice dripping with spite. Soul paused, her blood running cold as she stepped back, her hand braced as if her trident had been in-clutch. She seemed to notice her mistake as her gaze flicked to her empty hands, before she looked back up at her sibling with a newfound disbelief.

“What do you know about the... loops?” She hissed, the crown atop her head letting out a faint hum as it began to glow. The Sun snorted harshly, fully turning to face Asteria.

“That’s funny. I should be the one inquiring to you about them. But, if you really must know, I know well enough to be able to question just how long you’ve been hiding them from me. From us,” They said through gritted teeth, contempt lacing their voice as they inched closer to Eris, their tall figure looming ominously over her own. She began to stammer furiously under her breath, much to Saturn’s irritation as they scoffed, stepping away from her.

“Of course you’ve nothing to say. How typical,”they hissed, their arms folded over their chest as they turned on their heels. “How depraved does one have to be? Good Harmonia, and I thought Heart and I were bad. But you… You’re simpl-”

“Hold your tongue.”

Mind let out a harsh chuckle at Soul’s command, turning once more on her as they violently strode toward her. 

“Hm,” they began, their face merely inches from Asteria’s as their glare cut into her like daggers. “So now you assume you are one to command me? After all of this? After what I’ve discovered about you? That’s quite arrogant of you.” They taunted, their mouth contorting into a defiant grin, their maws of sharp teeth bared aggressively. Eris stared blankly at Saturn, her demeanour unwavering as her dark, dull eyes bore into the Sun’s. 

“I told you,” she began quietly, a red glow spilling from her hands as the silhouette of her trident began to take shape. She pressed the trident to Neptune’s chest, her hands oddly tremulous. “To hold your tongue.”

…

Apollo’s laughter rang harshly as the tines pressed lightly into their chest, their voice hoarse as they looked into Sidra’s eyes. 

“Really?” They spat. “So you’re going to kill me? Or what, are you going to do to me what you have Seraph, and simply condemn me to suffer blindly for the rest of my life in this cyclic hell? You’ve already stripped away my hands. To want more is a bit greedy, wouldn’t you say, sister?” They leaned defiantly forward into the tines, deep, sea blue blood beginning to well up at the puncture points on their skin. Asteria gritted her teeth, her grip on the trident faltering slightly at her sibling’s contempt. She lowered her trident as she leaned forward, her own teeth bared in an offended grimace.

“I don’t understand why you’re so defensive of Juno in the first place. He’s the reason you’re like this. He’s the catalyst of t-”

Smack. 

A loud ring resounded throughout the hollow catacombs, Eris’ vision flashing white as a horrendously bitter, stinging pain began to blossom in her cheek. A clattering sound echoed through the room as the chamberstick fell from Mind’s clutch, the noise masking the small, ever-so-slight gasp from behind Asteria as her gaze shot up at Shams, tears welling up in her eyes. Her hand flew to her face, drawing back covered in glistening crimson. Mind panted furiously as their eyes cut into her with pure rage, their metal claw slowly falling back to their side as they brought their hand parallel to their wrist.

“Don’t you dare blame Seraph for any of this. The incident wouldn’t have taken place in the first place if it wasn’t for you.” They shouted, their shark-like teeth bared in spite as their eyes became glassy, hurt– human. Their tense figure slumped over and they stepped away from Asteria, their gaze shifting away from her.

As blood slowly dripped to the floor, Eris contemplated tearing Saturn apart right then and there. She could do it, of course, but then that would deem them right. They were either way, but…

“How many?” Logos whispered softly, their voice hoarse. Soul’s gaze shifted slowly to them, her arms falling to her sides as her trident dissipated into thin air.

“How many times have we died? How… how long has this been going on for? Are any of our memories, the things we’ve cared for, what we’ve gone through- are they even real?” They choked out, tears welling in their eyes as they looked up at Ethos. A pang of guilt began to blossom within her as she looked into their eyes. She tore her gaze away from them as she sucked in a deep breath, her fingers twitching softly.

“I’ll answer all your questions soon. But… not now. Not here.” She whispered, and, before they could protest, she hastily spun around, storming up the stairs. She halted as another pair of feet obstructed her path, certainly not of her own.

Heart’s feet. 

Her gaze slowly shifted up to her brother, who had a disturbed, disoriented grimace on his face. 

“Like I said. Soon.” She hissed, violently tearing past him, the clatter of her heels against the old boards of the stairs growing ever-quieter as she ascended, until the silence became still and overbearing.

Yeah.

Soon.