#limb trauma tw

[n3on-graveston3s-calling]

No Plan [ The Still of Your Hand ]

Characters: Shanks, Benn Beckman ( Briefly ), Reader Rating: E Word Count: 4,874 Warnings / Tags: Medical trauma (brief), phantom limb syndrome, medical talk, Reader is the ship's doctor, Dom!Reader (surprise), Shanks needs a break Author's Note: This is 13 pages of smut with some plot. I hope you enjoy. Also, my requests are open if y'all want anything... Specific. MDNI: THIS IS 18+ CONTENT.

Part II of the Think I Need Someone Older series [ Part I: Mihawk ] ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

“Sweetheart, give me a hand, yeah?” Shanks called out, drawing your attention away from the journal you’d been writing in- tracking your progress in logs as you sailed with the infamous Red Hair Pirates. You weren’t necessarily a permanent part of the crew- moreso, they were a means to your end. You abandoned your journal for the time being, rising from your seat on the deck of the ship to cross over to the captain. Restocking from the last port you’d docked at; he’d opened up a box of medical supplies. 

Another reason you were here- to play temporary doctor while their own was laid up. 

“Sure, sure. Make me do all the hard work,” you teased, grabbing hold of the box of rubbing alcohol- ten glass bottles. He’d paid a pretty price for these supplies, you noted. “‘S like you got a mini hospital runnin’ on this ship.” 

“I like to be prepared, love.” He shrugged, lips curving into a wide grin. It’s not a big surprise, really; after what he’d gone through over the years, of course he’d want to be prepared. You never know when a Neptunian is going to rise out of the water and take a bite out of you. 

You turned, shuffling your way into the small room that was used as a med bay as he followed after, a box tucked against his side. You could hear Roux laughing through the wall; the kitchen was on the other side. No doubt, he was bothering Benn while cooking up the crew’s dinner for the evening. You’d never tasted better cooking than what Lucky Roux could make. “Are we expecting to be overrun?” You couldn’t help but joke, drawing a laugh out of the other. “I mean, granted- your supplies were low when I joined you.”

“We’re not the best at keeping up with supplies-”

“-that aren’t liquor? Yeah, I’ve noticed.” A roll of the eyes as you lean over at the waist, sliding the remaining bottles into a cabinet.

Shanks paused, hand raised, sterile cloth clutched in hand as he watched you. He couldn’t deny the lust that coursed through him when he thought of you; the way you’d bite back at the comments from the crew with no hesitation. How you’d stood up to Benn when he’d questioned your decision regarding the treatment of Yasopp’s latest injury. How you hadn’t minced your words when talking to himself. You had a spine of steel and a bite to match. And by the Gods, he liked that. Not to mention the view you were giving right now. His gaze traced over the dip in your spine, the way you stretched forward, how your thighs spread-

You rose.

His gaze averted quickly, placing the sterilized cloth in a container. “We like to drink.” He mumbled, a feeling of almost shame washing over him. It was broken though by a phantom pain racing through where his left arm would have been. A gasp spills free from between clenched teeth, his brows drawing inward as he drops the box, grasping at the stub that remained. He could swear he could feel his hand in that moment- or what it would feel like, clenched into a tight fist. 

“Shanks-” You murmured, reaching out to settle a hand on his remaining arm, brows raised in alarm and worry. “Shanks, sit down- you’re pale.”

“‘M fine,” he tried to argue, yet allowed you to lead him to sit on the edge of the cot. It took your hand against his chest for him to lay back, drawing shallow breaths in. This was… Not normal, necessarily. Sure, he’d gotten phantom pains on occasion, but it had been months since the last occurrence. “I’m fine. I promise.”

“I know. But it’s also time to change out those bandages, right?” You offered a small, disarming smile. The bandages prevented the skin from growing agitated and raw due to the salt in the air- and the water. “C’mon, old man. Let me see.”

“Old man?” He scoffed, shaking his head as he let the coat fall from his shoulders. “I’m not that much older than you… Am I?” His lips pursed into a frown as he considered his age. He’d only just turned thirty-eight, he wasn’t that old. Hell, by the standards of the men on his ship- and the men and women he’d sailed with in the past- he was still young! 

“You’ve got a good few years on me,” you hummed, winking playfully as you turned your attention to the tied sleeve. Without thinking, you reached forward, gripping the edges of his shirt- only to have his hand reach out quickly, grasping your wrist. You looked up, meeting a playful crimson gaze and a slowly growing smirk.

“Now, if ye wanted me out of my clothes that badly, all ye needed to do was ask.” Shanks teased, a soft edge of a growl to his voice that had your heart skipping a beat. Oh. Oh, you totally understood how men and women alike fell under him with ease. 

“That’s not-” You argued, only to huff and tug his shirt up- and over his head, covering his face. “Smother.”

“Oy, oy!” He laughed loudly, reaching up to tug the shirt the rest of the way over his head. Torso revealed, he leaned back against the inclined bed casually, grin spread across his lips. “Happy, Doc?”

“You’re insufferable.” You rolled your eyes before setting to removing the old bandages. You’d heard the story about how he had lost the arm, but it was still riveting to think of. A Neptunian- and he survived. Whoever had handled the care when it occurred had done a damn good job. “Are you still having the phantom pain now?”

“No.” Shanks sighed, looking over to study your hands. “Not now that I can-... Well, see.”

“Right.” You hummed, careful with your touches. “You’re staring.”

“Can’t help it.”

“Why’s that?”

“... Anyone ever tell you that you have beautiful eyes?”

“Yep. Tons.” You grinned cheekily as you began to rewrap the amputated appendage. “Though, I’ll gladly hear it from you more often, if you’d be so kind.”

“Did you paint your nails?” His question caught you off guard. 

You tied off the knot before pulling your hands back to study. You had painted them the night before, a vivid shade of ruby. You showed your hands to your Captain, who watched your every movement like a hawk. How… Curious. “I did. Do you like them?”

He reached up, grasping one to draw it closer- before he leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles. “I think the color is… Very flattering.” He spoke against your knuckles, the rasp of his voice stirring the coals of want. Your voice felt stuck in your throat as his stubble scraped gently against your fingers. “Such beautiful hands…” 

The sound of footsteps broke you both apart, Shanks not dropping your hand but sitting upright. You, however, pulled your hand back as Benn appeared, a brow raised as he studied you. “Logs?”

“Ah, shite.” Shanks sighed, grabbing hold of his shirt to tug back on, followed by the coat. “Fine, fine. I dunno what I’d do without you, Benn.”

“Be in trouble.” Benn commented with a knowing smirk, meeting your gaze over Shanks’ head. “Yasopp also wants to know where the box is with his ammo.”

“It’s a box. Marked ammunition.” You grumbled, tossing the scraps of bandage into the trash, hiding the way your cheeks had flushed at being caught. But nothing had happened. Nothing- except for Shanks holding your hand to his lips, except for the needy rasp in his voice, except for the way he’d looked at you as if he wanted to devour you on the spot. 

Your captain wanted you.

You wanted him. 

What a dangerous game.

You ducked out after Benn, crossing over to the forecastle deck, retrieving your journal and inkwell from the box you’d set them in- to save them from sliding about deck. You couldn’t remember what you had been writing, too flustered over what had just occurred. Swallowing roughly, you focused instead on the horizon- on the gathering clouds. A storm? The wind had shifted, rain cooled. It would be a rough night, it seemed, unless the ship was able to skirt the storm. 

-

It was a storm. A nasty one that had all hands on deck. You yelled over to Yasopp, only for your voice to be drowned out in the sound of waves crashing onto the deck. You cursed as you grabbed onto the railing. Even on the edges of it, the sea had turned against you for the night. Shanks stood at the wheel, shouting commands as he steered the ship into the angered waves. Roux grabbed your arm and dragged you below deck; there was only so much you yourself could do in this situation. It was better to stay below and wait it out with a few others of the crew.

You felt the bow rise high, watched as barrels rolled and boxes slid or fully toppled over, before the bow crashed and the stern rose. Into the waves, Shanks had said. That was the safest way to ride this out. If they went with the waves, the keel would break, and everyone would drown. 

You weren’t sure how long it was until the ocean settled. Long enough that you had managed to find a space where you wouldn’t fall over with each rock of the ship. You rose to your feet, stretching with a grimace as you wandered from your hiding spot. Something was tugging at the back of your mind, leading you through the ship. You found your destination in the form of the Captain’s Quarters. A glance behind you showed that the sun hadn’t risen yet; the moon was still in the sky, though steadily falling towards the horizon. But light spilled from beneath the door, signifying that Shanks was still awake. You knocked, waiting-

“Enter!” He called, voice muffled by the heavy wood. 

You opened the door, stepping in before closing it behind yourself. “You’re still awake.”

“Unfortunately.” He offered a weary smile; the shadows beneath his gaze showing just how exhausted he was. He sighed, leaning back in his seat. “Wanted to make sure we’d be clear of the storm.”

“It’s to our southeast now,” you made your way over, leaning your hip against the desk. “You need to rest, Cap.”

“Too wound up, now.” A vague gesture about; you understood that. Adrenaline in the system weaned away, leaving nothing but anxiety and muscles tensed too tightly to relax.

Your fingers tapped upon the wood, drawing his attention once more. You didn’t notice at first, until he didn’t say anything else. No followup quip. Head tilting, you studied Shanks as he watched your hand, enraptured by the movement of your fingers. An idea came to mind, one wicked enough to prompt blood to rush to the surface of your cheeks, to have your thighs squeezing together at the mere thought. 

“Let me help you.”

“Pardon?” He pulled his gaze away, watching as you moved around the edge of the desk, stepping closer to him. He pushed his seat back, gaze roving over your form, drinking in how you looked in the golden light of the oil lamp. Hair slightly mused from the little sleep you’d gotten, bottom lip swollen from you biting it. “How?”

“You need to… Relax, yes?” You didn’t settle on his lap like he’d been expecting- but rather, you stood behind him, hands resting upon his shoulders. “Let me help you relax. Take away some of this awful tension you’ve been keeping.” Your fingers dug into the muscle beneath, drawing out a pleased groan as his head dropped forward. “Gods, Shanks- you’ve got more knots than the ratlines.”

A humored chuckle escaped, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he straightened up a touch, leaning into your touch more as your thumbs dug into his shoulders, drifting closer to his neck. He exhaled slowly, the subtle rumble of a groan coloring the sound. The sound drew a shudder across your skin; this was dangerous. But you couldn’t stop, even as one of your hands settled around his throat, the other under his chin, prompting his head to tilt back. Auburn tresses shifted back with the movement, baring the scars that laid across his eye- and the hunger within his gaze, pupils blown. You squeezed against his throat for a moment, pressing in at the sides rather down against the windpipe-

He moaned.

Eyes falling shut, mouth dropping open, the sound spilling forth like music to your ears. 

“I can reach better in bed.” Your voice was barely above a murmur as you retracted your hands, watching as his gaze snapped open at the loss of touch. “If you want more.”

“Please.” He breathed, rising slowly to turn towards you. Shanks was a tall man, towering over your form. He reached out, cupping your cheek as he leaned down. His lips met yours in a slow, languid kiss; no rush to it, but the heat had your knees buckling, reaching up to take hold of his shoulders. “Please,” he repeated into the kiss, backing you against the window frames, pressing into you. He hungered for you, you realized: his kiss was full of the same kind of greed a man starved would harbor. You pulled back, only to graze his lower lip with your teeth. 

“Go,” you whispered, watching the way he grinned, turning away to saunter into his room. His shirt was tugged off and tossed to the side carelessly. You didn’t undress, not yet- though, you did unlace your boots and kick them aside before following. You had a plan for this- a plan to help your beloved captain relax. 

To release the tension that ate at him. 

“On the bed.” You ordered, watching as he paused. “Did I stutter?”

“No.” He answered quickly, shaking his head as he made his way to the bed. It was certainly fit for a captain- large enough to fit four, with bedsheets that you were certain cost more than you had on your person. Shanks grinned as he climbed onto the bed, settling on his knees in the center. “Aren’t you going to undress?”

“Not yet,” you smiled sweetly as you approached, steps slow- measured. He was already nearly bursting at the seams- quite literally, you noticed by the way his trousers strained at the front. “I have an idea. You’ll let me take care of you, won’t you?” Your lip fell into a subtle pout as you reached out, cupping his cheeks as he shuffled closer, leaning into your touch as it trailed from his cheeks, to his jaw, to the base of his throat. “You’ll let me ease your worries, yes?”

“Yes,” he breathed, lips parting as your hands smoothed over his chest, taking a moment to massage his pecs. His lips titled up in a smile.

“You’ll let me,” you began, hands settling on his hips, offering a gentle yet firm squeeze before one hand drifted forward, drifting across the bulge that sat prettily for you. He shuddered, eyes falling shut at your touch. “Take away your stress?”

“Yes, please. Please,” oh, he nearly whined as you undid the button of his trousers before tugging them down. You weren’t shocked to see a lack of underwear. Of course not. “Gods, you’re perfect.”

“That’s my boy. Look at you- already hard just from a massage and a kiss. You poor thing!” Cooing, your fingers traced along the prominent vein that sat upon the underside of his cock. Shanks shuddered at the light touch, his eyes falling shut as he shuddered. You couldn’t resist, leaning into pepper kisses along his jawline as you continued your featherlight touches, feeling the way he twitched at the teasing feeling. 

His hand reached out almost hesitantly, grasping at the front of your shirt, pulling hard enough on accident to send you both toppling onto the bed. A bark of laughter escaped as he sprawled on his back with you atop him. “Not what I planned, but I like this, too,” he grinned up at you as you pushed yourself up to hover over him. With his red hair splayed out about the sheets, your breath caught in your chest. 

Shanks was a remarkable sight. Skin tanned to a warm tone, gaze bright despite the lust that clung to him, the faint smattering of freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, unable to hold yourself back. An appreciative sigh spilled from Shanks as he reached up, cupping the back of your head, holding you closer to deepen the kiss. Teeth nipped at your bottom lip, stirring the heat that had already begun to spread through you. 

No- no, he wouldn’t get the upper hand here. You returned the nip in a harsher manner, pulling free a startled gasp from your lover as you pulled back, licking at your kiss bruised lips. “Be a good boy- take off your shirt,” as you spoke, you moved, turning to face the headboard. You adjusted the pillows, stacking them to offer your back respite as you settled down with a sigh. Better, much better. 

Shanks rushed as he pulled his shirt off, tossing it to Gods know where before turning to face you. His cheeks flushed, a breathless smile curving his lips as he sat upon his knees proudly. 

“Pants, too.”

“Bossy,” he muttered as he took a moment to wiggle out of his trousers, letting them slide off the side of the bed to the floor below. They’ll be fine down there, you decided as you beckoned him closer. His smile turned dangerous as he shuffled closer-

“No, no. Not like that, sweetheart,” you shook your head, watching in amusement as he paused, visibly confused. “Come, lay back against my chest.”

“Lay- oh. Oh!” Realization dawned as he understood your plan, coming to settle his back against your chest, his head resting on your right shoulder. “What about you?” He asked, turning his head to press lingering kisses along your throat. “When do I get a taste of you?”

“Later. This is about you, Captain,” your hand smoothed down his side, nails digging into tanned skin, drawing forth soft red lines along his pelvis. His hips jerked at the pain, a hiss of breath sucked in between clenched teeth. A living work of art, you thought to yourself as your hand smoothed upwards, pausing to tweak a nipple. Another hiss, another shift of his hips into open air. “How often do you get treated like this?”

“Not… Often,” came the soft admittance as he busied himself with sucking bruises into your throat, bound and determined to try to get you as worked up as he was. “Usually, I’m the one in charge.”

A soft moan slipped past your lips at the feeling of his teeth sinking in; that would certainly leave a pretty bruise come morning. “What a shame. I know that must get so tiring for you, yes?” Your fingers settled on his jaw, tilting his head away from your neck. You shifted slightly, adjusting to get a better view as you tapped your fingers against his lips. “Open for me, darling.” Not a request.

Shanks obeyed. His lips parted, allowing your fingers entry before he closed his lips around the digits, eyes falling shut in tandem as his tongue laved at your fingers. You could imagine- rather vividly- what else that sinful mouth could do with the way his cheeks hollowed out, how his tongue curved around your fingers, coating them liberally. Sure, you could have been crude and spat in your palm- but this was better, far better than you could have ever imagined. 

Especially as your free hand settled on his chest, massaging his pec slowly, squeezing the sensitive muscle. Fingers traced his nipple, watching as it hardened beneath your touch, as goosebumps broke across his skin. It was almost cute, you thought to yourself- how sensitive, how receptive Shanks was to your touch. You withdrew your fingers, though he wasn’t satisfied yet- reaching up to grasp your wrist, tongue laving along your palm.

You squeaked. 

“That should do it, eh, treasure?” Shanks rasped, grinning up at you as you shook your head in disbelief. He knew your plan, the bastard. He reached over to the bedside table, tugging the drawer open to pull out a small glass vial. “Though, this might work a touch better.”

“Said the man who was just giving my fingers essential fellatio.” You quipped, cheeks flushed as he laughed, watching you wipe your fingers clean. “Give it.”

“Here,” he settled it in your palm, though took your momentary distraction to sweep in, stealing another kiss from you. You gripped the bottle in one hand while the other swept upwards, cupping his cheek. The angle was a tad awkward, but that didn’t matter- not with the way Shanks seemed bound and determined to get a reaction out of you from a kiss alone.

And a reaction, he got, as his hand settled on your waist, smoothed down to palm between your thighs. You gasped raggedly into the kiss, pulling back from him to frown. “You’re an ass- now lay back, for Gods’ sakes.”

“Can’t help it. You don’t know how long I’ve wanted you- wanted this. To touch you,” his back settled against your chest once more. Your arms wound around his middle as you worked the cork out of the bottle, using the lube to slick up your fingers and palm. “How many nights I’ve spent in this bed, thinking of what it’d be like to have you here.”

“That so?” You hummed, listening to the hitch in his breath as your hand settled around him, dragging upwards slowly- base to tip, back down again. “What did you picture? Tell me your fantasies, Shanks,” your free hand settled at the base of his throat once more as his head tilted back, brows drawn inwards. “Did you picture me under you? Begging for your touch?”

“Fuck,” he hissed, hips shifting to slowly grind into your touch, thighs tensing at the subtle scrape of your nails along the sensitive skin of his cock. “Yes- yes, of that. Of how your mouth would feel around my cock. How- oh- how I’d love to watch you take every inch of me.”

“Every inch?” He twitched in your grasp as you circled the head. Curiosity got the better of you as your palm smoothed over the tip- and oh, what a reaction that garnered! His hips stuttered upwards, his words failed as he moaned loudly, hand flying up to grab at your wrist. 

“Shit!” He gasped out a laugh, eyes hazy as he shook his head. “How- yer a little minx,” his accent had grown thicker as he fell beneath the waves of arousal that crashed over him. “Don’t stop.”

“Keep your hand to yourself, and I won’t.” It was interesting- to be in control of this situation. Shanks huffed, but reached up, taking hold of your free hand to lace your fingers together. Such an intimate gesture… You smiled to yourself before regaining your pace. Faster, now- eagerly jerking him off as he continued to moan and writhe beneath your touch. How precum leaked from his tip, aiding in the glide of your palm. You broke your pattern, reaching down to fondle his balls, offering the barest hint of a squeeze.

Shanks nearly sobbed out at the feeling. “Close- close, dear Gods I’m so close, don’t stop!” He pleaded with you, turning his head to tuck in against your throat. 

Your fingers circled his base- and squeezed. 

“Oh, you BASTARD.” He gasped, panting against your throat as you staved off his impending orgasm. 

“Did you really think I’d let you cum that easily?” You grinned as you began to touch lightly once more- as you did in the beginning. “I told you I’d be taking care of you, didn’t I, Captain?”

“I didn’t think it’d be… Oh- ha- like this,” he mumbled against you, his hips twitching up into your touch. You hummed, your grip tightening and holding still, letting Shanks rut up into the warm squeeze. “Oh, my treasure- please, please-”

“Please what? Don’t tell me you’re close again already!” 

“Can’t help- can’t help it!” He whined- and oh, how that was music to your ears as he fucked in earnest into your grip. “Please!”

“No.” You drew your hand away completely, listening to the frustrated groan that escaped Shanks. “You can wait a little longer, yes?”

“You’re evil.”

“But, baby,” you murmured, tilting his chin up to meet his gaze. Hazy- hard for him to focus. He wasn’t one who dabbled in edging often, you noted; he truly wouldn’t last beyond one more round, not unless you wished to deal with consequences. That was a boundary yet to be discussed. “Tell me it doesn’t feel good. Tell me you don’t feel like pure lightning right now.” Shanks sighed, drawing in a calming breath. “Good boy, just like that. I promise I’ll let you cum this time-”

“Oh, thank Gods-”

“If you beg.”

“Beg?” He blinked, the haze clearing from his gaze for a moment. Beg? That’s all he had to do? Oh, he could beg. His grin sharpened as he settled back down, your hand pressing against his chest, pulling him down. “Beg for ye?”

“Beg for me to let you cum.”

“I don’t beg.”

“Then suffer.” You grinned, palm smoothing over the head of his cock, fingers curving down as you rotated your wrist, stimulating the glands in ways he didn’t know was possible. 

He jolted against your hold, a hoarse cry escaping his lips. “Sweet Eros!” He sobbed to the God of Pleasure, stomach tensing up as your hand began to stroke in earnest. 

You leaned your head down, your lips caressing his ear. “I’ll be nice- you don’t need to beg this time. Next time, you will, but this time? I want you to cum, Shanks. I want you to cum for me. I wanna hear you cry for me. Can you do that? Can you be a good boy and cry for me? Let everyone know who’s gotten you to this point?”

Your words, the way your hand was twisting, it was all too much for the Captain. His head fell back against your shoulder as he moaned out your name- long, loud, repeating it like a mantra as he spilled over your hand, onto his stomach, making a mess. You pressed kiss after kiss his temple as he shuddered through it until his hand gently pushed at your wrist; the overstimulation too much for him. 

Your- now dirtied- hand settled to the side while your clean hand smoothed over his chest, feeling the way his breathing gradually evened out over the next few minutes. “You did so good,” you murmured, pressing another kiss to his temple as he sighed, stretching. “I expected no less from my Captain.”

“You must be a siren,” he decided as he sat up, looking at you over his shoulder. “Here, I’ll get a-”

“Nope.” You had already clambered out of the bed and made your way to his private bathroom. “Stay. I’m grabbing a towel!” You called back, though you took a moment to study the marks he’d left on your throat. Five of them. Five. On one side. And one was certainly a visible bite mark, the dog. You returned with a warmed wash cloth to see Shanks lazing on the bed, arm behind his head, his gaze tracking your movements like a cat of prey.

This was far from over, you thought distantly. 

“How do you feel?” You asked as you wiped his stomach clean, taking a moment to teasing lick a spot clean just to hear the way he’d hissed. 

“Relaxed,” came the admittance as he reached out, taking your hand to pull you in. You tossed the rag aside, climbing into bed beside him. His arm wrapped around you, holding you in against his side. “You didn’t-”

“Wasn’t about me.”

“... Do you want to?”

You turned your head, pressing gentle kisses along his jawline. “Later, you can make it up to me. For now, you should rest. That was a lot- more than what you’re normally used to, right?”

“Mm. Normally the one edging others, not being edged.”

“Exactly.” You grabbed the blankets- blessedly unsoiled- and tugged them up, covering your legs. “Get a few hours of sleep. Ben can handle the morning, can’t he?”

Shanks didn’t argue, shuffling down beneath the blankets. He sighed deeply as you settled against his side, arm tossed over his stomach, leg over his hip. “Could get used to this, yeknow,” he mumbled, sleep already starting to drag  him under. 

“So could I,” you whispered, listening to the pleased hum that rumbled in his chest. You smiled to yourself as Shanks fell asleep, your own eyes closing. A few hours of sleep could do you both good. 

You’d need it, for what he had planned in retaliation. 

[snowe-zolynn-rogers]

The Eclipses Show

Pairings: None

Word Count: 1,232 Words

Summary: Eclipse wakes up in a forest nine months after his death. Eclipse also wakes up in a daycare a day after his death. Turns out, Solar now has to deal with both of them.

Warnings: Near Death Experiences, Coma, Injury, Limb Loss, Eye Trauma, Head Trauma, Cursing, Death (mentioned only), let me know if I should add anything else.

Chapter 1: Back From The Dead

Eclipse woke up in a forest, utterly broken and completely out of it. His animatronic body was practically destroyed, yet he survived, barely. Being booted from Sun’s head into this forest was not kind to him, it seemed.

He groaned as his systems that were functional or barely so whirred with a high pitch. He wouldn’t die here, he refused. He tried to sit up, finding his left arm missing and half his faceplate, half of his right leg gone too.

He groaned and looked around, he was in the middle of the forest. Just where the hell did Sun boot him out to? He should get moving, find a town or something. His head felt like something had kicked it in with a rusty hammer, and it did not help that his faceplate was damaged.

He tried to stand but…it was clear he couldn’t, so he tried to crawl along and find help, the pain was agonizing. He found a long, hefty branch to use as a cane for his missing lower right leg.

“Why is pain a thing?” He wondered. What was the date even? Eclipse checked his inner mechanics and it read ‘2:47am August 4th 2023’. He had lost almost a year. He’d lost from October 31st ‘22 to August 4th ‘23!?

Eclipse felt his face and found that his right eye was missing along with a chunk around his left faceplate that made his sight in his left eye extremely difficult to see from, probably from the loose socket due to the missing chunk.

Eclipse growled in anger at Sun but used what felt like a tree and the branch to get up, using his limited vision. He had to get somewhere that had parts to fix himself. He couldn’t tell what bunkers were nearby but he could see his glitching internals that could lead him to the PizzaPlex.

So he went that way, stumbling and using GPS to get there and using it again to get to get to the P&S area. Once there, Eclipse began rummaging and closely inspecting things to fix himself.

He ended up finding a mismatched pair of eyes, one baby pink and one dark grey, that would fit his model and put them into the tube’s part system, going back to find a grey and brown arm from shoulder to fingers, an old purple-tinged Moon faceplate, and a green leg model from the knee joint down.

Once he found those, he loaded them into the parts holder and set the tube to operate on himself and fix everything that he could at the moment. He could fix his internals once his outside was fixed. So he sat in the chair in the tube and let the machine do its job.

He growled feeling it take out his left eye and the remains of his faceplate. Then it placed the new mismatched eyes into the sockets, then the new faceplate. He blinked as it directed into a light scanner and thankfully could see. He could see better than a close distance at least.

The tube then fixed his wires loose from his left arm and right knee and attached his limbs and launched instantaneous calibration effects. He flexed his new limbs for the scanner and then sighed at the tube gave him a green light for all clear. Eclipse exited the tube and looked at the body scanner’s results.

He had so many internals broken. It was no wonder he felt freezing cold, his heaters were broken, so was his coolant and oil systems, his engines had cracks and fans had broken twigs in them.

“Well fuck.” He hugged. He would have to find these things himself and probably replace them himself too. So he groaned and went rummaging. He did find a fan system and engine so he went for those first. His old oil and coolant had to be drained and replaced completely, it felt like he had sludge in what was technically his blood system.

He poured coolant into the marked tank and oil into the other, placing the engine and fan system into the part holders for replacement. Eclipse couldn’t find a heater, so sadly he’d just be cold for a while.

“Better than nothing, I guess.” He huffed, laying in the chair again and let the tube release a smaller little hand to him and turn him off. Eclipse’s eyes bolted open in startle, he hadn’t realized he’d be powered down for a full coolant and oil replacement. He didn’t want to lose more time!

He booted up twenty minutes later feeling so much better. It was a goddamn miracle. He didn’t feel like he had slime in his ‘veins’, it felt like a relief to feel the liquid in him running as it should and fans and engine running properly.

He felt grateful, incredibly so. He was alive, he was fixed. But now for what to do. He had to stay close to here, his systems could break down any second if they did so please. He couldn’t replace his circuit board himself nor could the tube. He would need someone else for that.

Maybe…Maybe he could beg Lunar? He didn’t want to scare him. Eclipse had seen how October had went and, by the end of it, he was just tired. Maybe this new life post near-death, he could be different. He could be kinder to Lunar, try to apologize for what he’d done and be a better person.

So he set off to the daycare, hopefully Lunar was there. He didn’t know what would happen if it was Moon or Sun he faced, but he was sure it wouldn’t be good. Hopefully he could just talk to Lunar.

Eclipse ventured into the daycare, confused seeing three people he didn’t recognize along with Moon as Eclipse stood in the ball pit, having gone down the slide. One looked like a Sun but just…absolutely destroyed.

Another was a tall green and brown female daycare bot, and the third he didn’t recognize was a tiny pale blue and moon themed bot. He realized with a bit of fondness that the tiny bot was Lunar. It gave him a bit of joy knowing Lunar was safe and sound in a body of his own.

But a bit of horror crept in seeing who he could audibly hear was Sun be so destroyed. He was catching names and bits of a conversation but not really getting the whole story.

“Uh, guys?” Lunar asked the others. And Eclipse realized Lunar was looking directly at him with a bit of panic.

“Oh shit.” Moon realized as he turned to look at Eclipse.

“Quick, shoot him!” Lunar told Moon, handing him what looked like a laser gun. His body wouldn’t withstand that! He was in a fragile condition already! So he dove into the ball pit as Moon grabbed the gun about to fire.

Eclipse didn’t know the portal was on until he got sucked through it into a different dimension, which locked the second he was through by a different Moon.

“And now you have fucking two friends here! Worthless parasite, come get your little child!” The other Moon snapped. Eclipse looked over by the Moon and saw triple for a second. It was him. But…also not? But it was two other versions of him maybe? Why were there three different Eclipses?

[real-ink-demon]

Gooberssss

Warnings for the following:

Open head wound

Possible death threat?

Multiple eyes/eye in the chest

Dismembered/missing limbs and possibly more.

There's no gore or anything in it, mostly past wounds n stuff. And it's all in a black sketch [except for one character's outlines being it's main color]

[dizzified]

Um, Creatures Of Sonaria when.

Typhoon.

An over-confident Hikoshi with a mix between a superiority and an inferiority complex, as she can be seen flaunting about how good she is, but when anyone compliments her, she seems to get confused as to why, and get momentary brain lag before it all clicks in her head.

She's one to fight back when insulted though she takes insults quite harshly even if it's just playful jesting.

She's always down for a fight, picking them with nearly anyone if they seem up for it and even when they aren't, though she beats herself up when she loses, she gets quite cocky when she wins and acts like an excited child before shoving it in everyone's face and never letting the person forget about that time, she beat their ass.

Also, a God killed her children.

Slaps down quotes

"My children, I never imagined I could love something more than I love myself, but-.. They were my everything, I wanted to raise them to success. You took that chance from me, and I will never get it back."

"Gods? I don't believe in gods, I spit on their so-called worshippers, once I was told I came across one, a Chrysos of glittering gold, he took everything I knew and loved from me, killed my poor children for a fight they weren't even involved in, he blinded me, crippled me, and left me broken. That was no god, that was the devil himself that struck me upon the sands that night."

[nitrozem-art]

A fool’s price to pay

[sonicnewschannel]

I LIED actually here's more art

Warning: Blood/Limb loss warning below this point!!

I was fucking around with the idea of what the phantom ruby could do to someone physically (phantom ruby my beloved SEGA did your potential so dirty) and since I made Phoebe "Rookie" from Forces it made sense that I gave all that bs to her. She now has gems for bones!! Sad for her but hey it gives some cool ass visuals

[escortedescape]

me and the whole gang getting fucked up on a Friday night (trauma Friday)

[bingbongsupremacy]

The Soldier's Baby

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Plus Sized fem!reader

Warning: Y/N use, swearing, mentions of sexual assault (Not graphic just mentioned a few times) & the word rape (No one raped reader, there was just confusion on what happened), fatphobia, trauma, abuse, insecurities.

Summary: Y/N, a former HYDRA captive, taken at 18, escapes with her young daughter-born not by choice but through HYDRA's experimentation using The Winter Soldier's genetic material. Traumatized and wary, Y/N is brought to the Avengers compound for safety and recovery. It's there she discovers that the father of her child, a man she had only seen in passing, was alive and nearby. Bucky, who has no memory of what HYDRA did to him and has never met Y/N, is blindsided when he learns he has a daughter. Will the two be able to work past this difficult situation to become the parents their little girl deserves? Will they find love along the way?

After Captain America TWS, Not cannon to movies just some things from the movies mentioned.

*Not Proof Read*

Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3 AU

□□□□□□□

The metal of the chair was cold against your skin, the sterile lab lights buzzing faintly overhead. You try not to shiver, though you are in nothing but a thin gown, one size too small, clinging to you uncomfortably in all the places they like to mock.

"Subject Nine," a voice crackles from above. "Remain still. This will be quick."

You don't move. Not because you are obeying, but because your limbs are too heavy. Too tired. Too defeated. The restraints around your wrists dig into your flesh, but you barely notice anymore.

Dr. Johns, the lead scientist, enters the room with his usual haughty gait and bitter aftershave that made your stomach churn. He doesn't look at you. He rarely does. You aren't a person to them. Just a project.

"You should be honored," he says, flipping through a clipboard. "You've been chosen for something… special."

You don't speak.

He looks up then, eyes sharp and smiling in a way that feels wrong. "We're calling it Project Genesis. Has a nice ring, don't you think?"

Still, you say nothing. You'd learned silence was the only control you had left. But you can't stop your stomach from sinking, can't stop the coil of dread tightening in your chest. What are they going to do to me?

"We've selected the optimal pairing. Your mind-remarkably resilient to manipulation and incredible intelligence, and his… well. You'll see."

You frown. "His?"

He finally smiles. "Yes. We're combining your DNA with one of our finest specimens. You'll be carrying a child."

Your heart stops.

"What?" you croak. It was the first time you've spoken in weeks.

"A hybrid. The perfect balance of power and adaptability," he says matter-of-factly. "Your body will serve as the host. We'll be implanting within the next week."

"No," you whisper, eyes wide. "You can't-please. I don't want-"

Dr. Johns leans in closer. "Want?" he echoes. "You don't get to want. This isn't about you."

Here, nothing is ever about what I want. It's about what they can take and use.

The following week was hell.

You screamed. You cried. You begged. But the drugs were stronger than your resistance, and they didn't even look at you while they did it. Just hands and needles and cold words behind masks.

Then it was over.

And you were left in a cell, aching and furious.

For days, you lay curled on the thin cot, hands cradling your soft belly protectively, as if the new life inside you could already hear your sobbing. You didn't want this. Not like this. Not here.

But slowly, something inside you shifts.

The first time you feel the flutter, you are on your knees, scrubbing the concrete with shaking hands after they'd ordered you to "make yourself useful." Your palm pauses mid-swipe. A soft thump, deep in your stomach.

Your breath catches.

Was that…?

It comes again. A whisper from within. Not pain. Not control.

Just… life.

Tears fill your eyes as you drop the rag. You wrap your arms around yourself, hands shaking.

"Hi," you whisper to the silence. "I'm your mom."

This is not the life you want for your child. All you can do was love it and hope there was a way out.

Every time it kicks, your love for it grows stronger. The little baby underneath your heart. It's is the only thing you have for yourself. The only thing that would love you back.

They try to stop you from talking to it. They say affection would ruin the experiment. But you don't care anymore.

You name it in secret-just a name between you and it. A name you never speak out loud, but repeat every night in your thoughts. My baby. My child. My everything.

Sometimes you envision a different life with your baby. A life where it would be born into a safe, loving home-not a facility. A life where you can give it everything it could ever want or need.

They still taunt you.

"You're barely holding together," a guard snortes. "Fat girl and a freak baby. What a combo. It's incredible they chose you as the surrogate. Clearly, there are better options."

You stare straight ahead, your arms wrapped protectively around your stomach. Say what you want about me, you think. But don't you dare touch my baby.

Time passes slowly. Days bleed into weeks. Your belly grows, and with it, a fragile hope.

You don't know who the father is -not truly. They never say anything, and you know not to ask. You wonder if the father knows he's going to be a dad. If he is a victim like you, someone they forced into the same predicament.

That was likely the case.

Would your baby ever get to meet its father? Would it be safe for the baby to know him? All these questions yet no answers.

What kind of life will it have?

You try to escape numerous times. You try to get yourself and your baby out of the place you know as hell. It never works. They know you are too smart for digital locks. You can crack them within minutes. They settle for old-fashioned chain lock and cuffs. The more restricted you are, the less likely you would be able to find a way to get out of the situation.

-------

They make you give birth on a table. No warmth. No hand to hold. Just cold hands and barking orders.

You remember screaming. You remember crying. You remember the sharp pains wracking your body due to the lack of drugs to soothe them.

You remember the silence after her first wail.

"Let me see her!" you cry, body shaking. "Please-let me hold her-just once-please-!"

But they are already gone. The door slams. The silence returns.

And you bleed alone on the table, heartbroken. You knew this would happen. There was no way they'd let you keep her. You just wish that small sliver of hope buried deep in your chest had been correct.

You don't move for days.

They threaten you. Drug you. Torture you mentally. But you stay silent, numb.

Then, one day, they come with a new offer.

"You'll get to see her," Dr. Johns says smoothly, "once a week. But only if you behave."

You want to spit in his face. But the thought of your baby—of her eyes, her breath, her smile—shatters your resolve.

"…Okay," you say. At least you can check if she was okay.

-----

She is beautiful. Everything you imagine and more. With beautiful brown eyes and tuffs of brown hair. There are a few features you recognize in yourself. Your pout, your lashes. And there are features you don't recognize, like birthmarks or the shape of her nose. Those must be from her father-whoever he is.

Even through the glass, even under guard supervision, she is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

And one day, you find the file.

It's stupid. Someone left it open. Maybe a test. Maybe a trap.

But you can't help it. You have to know.

Subject: Project Genesis Maternal Donor: Subject Nine Paternal Donor: WS-13 (Winter Soldier)

You nearly drop it.

Him.

That man. The one with the metal arm. The one who never speaks.

Your heart breaks-not for yourself, but for him. He doesn't know. There is no way he does. I've seen them wipe his mind hundreds of times. If he knew, they would immediately wipe him. That's the kind of people they were. He doesn't know she exists.

You close the file, tuck it back carefully, and say nothing.

You don't tell anyone. You don't tell him, even though you sometimes see him in the halls on his way to the next mission. His stoic eyes and rough demeanor scare you. He isn't here to mess around. He has a mission, and that is his only focus.

Who knows what he would do if he found out he had a child? A man like him, so badly tortured. He's a killing machine. There's no telling if he was even capable of caring for anyone. He could become a risk to her. He could cause her harm. He could hurt me, too.

Sometimes your mind would wander. What if he does know? What if he knows he has a child and but doesn't care? On the other hand, what if he found out and he did care? Would he try to protect the baby?

The what-ifs plague your mind. In the end, you decide it is too much of a risk. You have no idea how he will react, and that scares you. It's better safe than sorry.

Because if you die -there will be no one left to protect her. You are her only shot.

----

The guards give you one hour. That was the rule.

One hour, once a week. Under supervision. In a sterile white room with a single metal chair and your baby sitting behind reinforced glass, until they allow you to hold her.

They never say her name—never call her anything but the subject or the specimen. But you say her name in your head a thousand times a day. It is the only thing that feels like yours.

When they first let you hold her, she is so small. Lighter than you imagined. Warm, wiggling in your arms like she knows you.

You sit down and don't move the entire hour, too scared they'll take her early if you do anything wrong.

"I missed you," you whisper, brushing your nose against her tiny head. "Did they treat you okay? Did they… Did you eat enough?"

She cooes softly, hand brushing against the thin hospital gown you are wearing. Your heart breaks into a thousand glass pieces.

"You're safe with me," you promise, even though it is a lie. You really can't do much to protect her. You have no leverage to use against them. You also aren't a trained supersoldier, like her father. They are more focused on your mental abilities than your physical strength, so they never bother to train you. "Just for now. You're safe."

The guard coughs behind you, clearly bored.

You glare down at your arms. "Don't listen to them, sweetheart. Mommy's here."

------

Weeks pass.

Your arms grow stronger from carrying her. Your body, tired and aching, moves faster in the cell training they force on you. You do everything they ask. Not because you want to-but because it keeps her safe.

She starts recognizing you.

She babbles when she sees you. Wriggle excitedly when you come into the room. One visit, she reaches her chubby arms out and gives the smallest, gummiest smile.

You cry so hard you can barely breathe.

When she falls asleep against your chest, her tiny hand wrapped around your finger -you pray time will freeze.

"Sleep, baby," you whisper. "Please… dream of trees, and blue skies, and things I can't give you."

Most days are like that. Peaceful between the two of you. However, there are times when things get difficult.

There is one day, she is quiet.

Too quiet.

You feel the panic rising in your throat the moment you step into the room. She isn't smiling. She isn't moving.

"Is she sick?" you ask the guards, voice rising. "What did you do?!"

"No questions," says the same monotone response. "One hour. No more."

You clutch her tightly, holding her against your chest, rocking her gently.

Her little head lifts. She lets out a tired breath. Her eyes-a beautiful shimmering blue-blink up at you.

Relief hits like a tidal wave. You cradle her even tighter.

"You scared Mommy," you whisper into her soft curls. "Don't ever do that again, okay?"

Your voice cracks.

"I don't know what I'd do if I lost you."

You have no idea what they are doing to your child. It kills you to think they are hurting her. You have no control. All you can do is try to bring some comfort in the short time you have with her.

-----

Life stays like that for two years. You spend the time you can with her. You teach her how to talk and walk. Even though the situation is difficult, she is a resilient baby. She is smart. She learns quickly. She definitely develops skills faster than other babies do. That makes you proud.

Then the visits stop.

No explanation. No announcement. Just… silence.

Days pass. Then weeks.

You scream and you fight. You are drugged.

And when you come to-bleary, arms strapped down in your cot, you know something is wrong.

The halls are quieter. Fewer footsteps. Fewer voices. Then none.

The next time someone opens your door, it isn't a guard.

It was no one.

A soft creak. A hiss of released air.

You wait.

No commands. No threats.

You pull the restraints free with effort. The power has been cut. The systems are breaking down.

You stumble into the hallway, barefoot and filled with panic.

Lights flicker.

No soldiers.

No scientists.

Just the dead hum of a forgotten place.

And then-

A sound.

A baby crying.

Your baby crying.

Her.

You run harder than you ever have in your life.

Your legs burn, your body still weak from weeks of starvation and isolation, punishments for your lack of cooperation, but you run.

The lab is a maze. But your instincts, your love, cut through the fog.

You find her in a room filled with overturned equipment. She is crying, face red, fists curled. She is still in her tiny containment crib. But no one is watching her anymore.

You throw open the gate and collapse to your knees, cradling her against your chest.

"I'm here," you sob, rocking her. "I'm here. I got you. I got you."

She stops crying instantly, face pressed into your neck.

You clutch her so tight, your arms ache.

And then you find a room with a door that locks from the inside. It used to be a cell. Now, it's your only sanctuary.

You ration food. You keep her warm. You sing songs in a hoarse voice, trying to drown out your own fear.

You don't know how long you can last. But as long as she is breathing, you'd try.

You know, at some point, you will have to leave the building. You will need more food and water.

The thought terrifies you. You haven't been outside in years. You haven't seen the sun or the outside in so long. The world is different. It has to be. While you were stuck in a building that never seemed to change, you know the outside has constantly been evolving. There is no one for you to trust outside. You will be so exposed and vulnerable out there.

At least you know what you are working with in the confines of the building. You can keep her safe here for now. You will figure out the rest later.

You scavenge the building for as many resources as you can find. It is enough to keep you both okay for a few months.

---

Three months passed. Winter was coming. You know you need to leave soon. You will both freeze to death if you stay here much longer.

You are thinner. Paler. You know your body is getting weaker, but you do your best to be there for your baby and plan your next steps.

Then one day-it all shattered.

You hear footsteps.

Not like before. Heavier and measured.

English voices.

You scoop her up. Her body is heavier now, growing. You run down the halls, bare feet slapping against concrete. The lights died long ago, and all you have is your memory of the maze.

She starts crying.

Too loud.

You hush her frantically. "Please, baby, shh-don't cry, don't cry, they'll hear you-"

Too late.

Footsteps speed up.

Voices bark orders.

Then you turn a corner-and freeze.

A woman stands at the end of the hall.

Red hair and black suit. Eyes wide.

She doesn't raise a weapon.

"Hey," she says, holding up both hands. "It's okay. We're not going to hurt you."

You back away, toddler clutched tight. "No! Don't touch her! Don't take her!"

Others come. Bigger and scarier. You see a glowing chest light in the dark-hear a metal suit hiss.

You turn. You run.

But another figure appears behind you, this one carrying arrows.

You are surrounded.

The baby is sobbing now, screaming into your neck. She can sense your fear and desperation.

"Don't kill her!" you cry, collapsing to your knees. "Please-I'll do anything, just don't hurt her-please-!"

The redhead approaches slowly. "We're not here to hurt her," she says gently. "Or you."

You shake your head, body trembling. "Liar. You're all liars-she's just a project to you. She's all I have. Don't take her."

"We're the Avengers, we just want to help you. We are not a part of HYDRA," she says. "You're safe now."

You cling tighter to your baby.

"Please," you whisper, chest heaving. You don't believe their words. "Just let me keep her."

The redhead crouches beside you.

"You will."

------

The Quinjet is too loud.

You sit stiffly in a corner seat, clutching your daughter like she might vanish if you blink. She's curled up against your chest, worn out from crying and the chaos, her tiny hands fists in your torn clothes.

Your arms are shaking.

Everything feels like too much.

Too bright. Too fast. Too real.

You stare at the dark floor panels, heart pounding like a war drum. The whirring of the engines, the humming of voices you don't trust-none of it felt safe. You don't feel safe.

No one tries to take her from you. Not yet. That was the only reason you haven't fought.

She shifts in your arms, pressing her flushed cheek to your collarbone. Your hand automatically rubs gentle circles into her back, your mother's instincts stronger than the trauma clawing at your brain.

"She won't let go," Natasha murmurs to Bruce, standing just far enough not to crowd you. "Even when she's asleep."

"She shouldn't have to," Bruce says softly. "Not after what she's been through."

They don't think you can hear them.

But you did.

You heard everything.

They bring you to a room with soft lighting and gentle walls. It smells clean-but not like chemicals. Not like HYDRA.

Bruce Banner stands in the corner, hands folded, speaking in a voice like wind brushing over still water.

"I'm just going to take a look at you," he says gently. "Both of you. I promise I won't touch her unless you say it's okay."

You don't move.

Your baby is wide awake again, sitting in your lap, staring with wide eyes at the stranger in the white coat.

You pull her tighter against you.

"She's mine," you say. Your voice cracks. "No one touches her."

Bruce gives a small nod. "Of course. I just want to help."

You don't believe that.

But he doesn't push. Instead, he pulls out a scanner and crouches-to your eye level.

"May I scan you from here?"

You hesitate… then give a tiny nod.

The scan was quiet. No poking. No restraint.

"She's malnourished but stable," Bruce says, looking at your daughter. "You've been feeding her from rations?"

"Yes," you whisper.

He nods again, with genuine warmth. "You did an incredible job."

Your throat closes up. You tried.

You look down at your baby, who's pressing her forehead into your chest. She's calmer here. Calmer with you.

You've done something right.

"You've been through serious mental trauma," Bruce continues. "I think your system's still fighting the effects of long-term neurological exposure. We'll give you space, but if you ever want help-therapy, or medication, or even just rest-we'll be here."

You don't answer.

You are still waiting for the moment they take her away.

But no one moves.

They are waiting for you.

Later, they bring you to a different hospital room that was too nice to be real. Real bed. Blankets. A large mirror on the other side of the room. A window with sunlight. You can see the world. It was very different than what you remembered.

When you were taken, you were freshly 18. A time that was supposed to be exciting and full of new adventures was quickly robbed from you. All your dreams of finally getting to go to Harvard were crushed. You were from a smaller town, one that didn't have these massive buildings that surrounded you. You were used to fields and animals. Nothing like that was outside. It was a shock.

You don't know how to sleep in a bed anymore. But your baby is finally dozing in the crook of your arm.

You sit, awake, staring at the door.

And then it knocks.

"Hey. It's me. Natasha," comes the voice from the other side. "Can I come in?"

You don't say anything.

The door opens gently.

She enters slowly, hands empty. She sits across from you, not too close.

"I just want to ask you a few questions," she says quietly. "Is that okay?"

You look at her for a long moment… then give the smallest nod.

"What's your name?"

You lick your dry lips. "Y/N."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-six."

Her expression softens. "And how long were you in that facility?"

You look down at your baby. "Since I turned 18."

A beat of silence.

Natasha's jaw tightens-just a bit. "That's a long time."

You don't respond.

She nods to your baby, who is sound asleep now.

"What's her name?"

You hesitate-but just for a moment. You are too proud to stay silent.

"Daisy."

You always loved Daisies. Naming her that reminded you of the beautiful world outside of the building. A world you hoped you would get to show her.

Natasha smiles gently. "That's beautiful."

You nod slowly, brushing your fingers through your daughter's hair. "I thought so too."

Natasha leans forward just a little. "Can I ask about her father?"

Your whole body tenses.

Your eyes drop to Daisy's face again. So small. So innocent.

You swallow thickly. "I don't… I don't know him," you admit. "I never met him. Not really." You had only ever seen him in passing.

Natasha's gaze flickers, and you see it-just the briefest flash of concern. Worry.

"It wasn't like that," you say quickly. "No one… touched me. I mean, not—not that way."

She relaxes. Just slightly.

You toke a shaky breath.

"You found out?"

"They called it Project Genesis. They told me they wanted to create a weapon with the perfect balance. My mind. His body. His strength.

"You brush your fingers across Daisy's head. "I didn't even know whose DNA they used. Not at first."

You nod slowly. "They left a file out once. I don't think they meant to. I saw his name."

Natasha doesn't speak.

"They called him… the Winter Soldier."

You wonder what happened to him. You stopped seeing him about a month before they stopped showing you Daisy. Had he gotten away? Was he a free man, living his life as normally as he could? Sometimes you wonder if you should have told him. He did have a right to know. If he had gotten away, would he have taken Daisy with him if he knew? Would he have kept her safe?

The room goes so quiet, you could hear your heartbeat.

"I didn't tell him," you whisper. "I was scared. I thought maybe he'd take her. Maybe he'd hurt her. Or… maybe he didn't know. I couldn't risk it. I had to protect her."

You looked up at Natasha, terrified.

"I swear I'm telling the truth."

She didn't answer.

She didn't have to.

Her face said everything.

----3rd POV----

Outside, behind a one-way mirror, the rest of the team watched in stunned silence.

Steve stood stiff, fists clenched. His heart hurt for the woman. She had been forced into a situation no one should ever have to be. And he felt bad for his friend. Bucky had no idea. If Bucky knew he had a child, he would've told Steve. He also would've done everything in his power to save it from the horrors the baby undoubtedly experienced.

Sam glanced at Clint. "Is this even possible? Bucky's never mentioned having a kid before. Could she be lying? Trying to get something from him or us?"

Tony frowned. "HYDRA did a lot of things that shouldn't have been possible. It's not out of the realm to think they would go this far. They were selectively breeding."

"She doesn't know he's here. What's there to gain from lying about him?" Bruce said quietly. "I don't think she's lying."

Steve ran a hand through his hair. "I think she's telling the truth. I mean look at that kid. I knew she looked familiar. It makes sense now. She's got Buck's eyes and hair. We can also do a DNA test, right, Bruce?" he said, voice rough.

Bruce nods. "If he wants one done, I can try to convince Y/N to let us take some blood from the baby." He observes the baby through the glass. "She does look a lot like Bucky."

"We have to tell him." Clint looks around at the group of men.

"Who’s going to do it?" Sam asked.

"I will." Steve volunteers. "It'll be better coming from me."

----- 3rd POV -----

The rhythmic thud of fists against the heavy bag echoed through the training room.

Sweat dripped from Bucky's brow, soaking into the collar of his shirt. His knuckles-flesh and metal-were raw from the relentless assault. The gym was quiet, empty except for the sound of effort. That's how he liked it.

This was the only place where the memories didn't claw so loudly at the back of his skull.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw faces-bloodied, terrified, dying. Faces he couldn't name. Faces he'd hurt. Even now, even free, the weight of what he'd done pressed against his chest like a boulder he could never move.

So he hit the bag.

Over and over.

Like he could punch his past into silence.

His metal arm whirred with each movement-controlled and brutal. He wasn't training to stay in shape. He was trying to feel something. Anything that wasn't guilt.

But then he heard it.

"Buck."

Steve's voice.

He didn't stop punching. Didn't look.

"I need to talk to you."

Still, he didn't stop. Not until Steve stepped into his line of sight.

Bucky dropped his fists, breathing heavy, strands of dark hair sticking to his forehead. "What is it?"

Steve hesitated.

And that… that was never a good sign.

Steve's voice was low, careful. Like he was trying not to spook a wild animal.

"There's a woman here. She was rescued from a HYDRA facility."

Bucky blinked, wiping his face with a towel. "Okay…"

"She was part of an experiment. One of the worst ones. Mental manipulation. Long-term isolation. She's been in there since she was eighteen."

Bucky stiffened.

"I… I wouldn't be telling you this if it wasn't important."

"Steve," Bucky said, voice a warning. "What are you not saying?" Steve needs to stop beating around the bush.

Steve's throat bobbed.

"She has a daughter."

Bucky frowned. "Okay? So?"

Steve took a step closer. "We're... We're pretty sure she's yours. She looks a lot like you did as a kid. The mother says they used your DNA, Buck."

The words hit him like a bullet to the chest.

"What?"

"She didn't know at first. She found out later. The girl-her name's Daisy-is about two years old. HYDRA created her. They used you."

Bucky staggered back, as if someone had punched him in the gut.

"No." His voice cracked. "No, that's not-That can't be-"

"I know it's a lot," Steve said quickly. "I know. She didn't lie. She didn't even know you were here. She wasn't trying to manipulate anyone. All she's done is try to protect that little girl. If you want more confirmation, we can try to get a DNA test from Daisy. It might take some time to convince her mom to allow us to get close to her, but we can try if you want."

Bucky stared down at his hands.

His right hand-flesh and bone-trembled. His left hand-metal, inhuman-hung limp at his side.

"A kid?" he whispered. "My kid?"

His vision blurred. He didn't realize he was shaking until Steve gently rested a hand on his shoulder.

"I didn't even know," Bucky rasped. "I didn't even know what they were doing. They took it from me. They used me again."

"I know, Buck."

He turned away, eyes wild. "I don't-What if I'm just like them? What if Daisy's like me? What if-"

"She's not," Steve said, voice firm. "She's sweet. Gentle. She looks at her mother like she's the whole damn world. She's a great kid, Buck."

Bucky's throat closed.

And then the question clawed its way out:

"Does she know I'm here now? The mother… does she hate me?"

"No," Steve said quietly. "She doesn't even blame you. She said she thinks you didn't know. That maybe you were just a name to them. She didn't tell anyone because she was scared. She's just trying to keep her daughter safe."

Bucky sank to the floor.

He didn't speak. Just pressed his face into his hands, breaths coming short and fast. Should I get a DNA test? That might put both the mother and the kid through a lot of trauma. Steve said Daisy looked like me. How could she look like me if she's not somehow related to me? I don't have any family left alive. It couldn't be a niece or something.

A kid.

A real one.

A little girl who existed in this world, who shouldn't, because of him.

And he didn't know if he had the right to see her.

-----

The compound garden was quiet except for the rustle of wind against tree branches and the distant hum of city life beyond the security walls. It didn't feel real, not after the concrete and cold metal of the facility. You still flinch every time someone closes a door too hard.

You sit on a bench near the far edge of the garden, your daughter cradled against your side, her tiny hands sticky with banana. The blanket around her small frame is a borrowed one-soft and blue with tiny stars stitched into the corners. It was Natasha's idea, something comforting and warm to help your daughter adjust.

Your own comfort? That was a different story.

You're still in borrowed clothes. Still tense. Still not sure when someone is going to pull the rug out from under you again.

Daisy's humming a little tune, off-key but sweet. Your hand moves in her hair, soothing her even though she doesn't need it. Maybe you do.

Then came the sound of slow, hesitant footsteps on the gravel path.

You don't move right away. You are used to the sounds of people coming. You'd learned that reacting too quickly made them think you were unstable.

But something about these steps made your body tense. Heavy. Measured.

You turned-and your breath caught.

It was him.

The man from the file. The man from the hallway glimpses when you'd been escorted for testing. The man who made your head race with a million questions.

The Winter Soldier.

No-Bucky Barnes. That's what Natasha calls him.

He looks like a shadow from the past given breath. His long hair is tied back in a loose band, strands escaping around his jaw. He's wearing a hoodie too big for him and boots that look scuffed from use. His vibranium arm shines in the filtered sunlight, catching faint reflections of the world around him.

His face-oh, his face.

He isn't the weapon you remember. He's a man. And he looks like he hasn't slept in weeks.

He stops several feet away, eyes locked on you, then flickers to the child on your lap. His eyes stay on Daisy as he takes her in, like he's trying to memorize her.

He looks like he wants to speak but doesn't know how.

You sit up straighter, your arms instinctively wrapping more protectively around Daisy. She shifts, sensing your tension.

Bucky notices.

"I-" he starts, voice rough like gravel. "I'm not gonna hurt you."

You don't answer.

"I shouldn't've come," he murmurs. His hands hover at his sides, uncertain. "I didn't want to scare you. I just…"

He swallows hard, eyes flicking to Daisy again.

"She's mine?" he asks quietly.

You nod, slow and cautious. "Yes."

His jaw clenches. He looks like he might collapse under the weight of that one word.

"I didn't know. They didn't tell me," he whispers. "I swear, I didn't know."

"I believe you," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. He looks so different then how you'd seen him in the past. His face, which was usually stoic and emotionless, is filled with conflicting feelings. This has to be a lot for him to take in.

His eyes-startlingly blue, filled with pain, finally meet yours.

He takes one step forward and then pauses again. And then, hesitantly, in a voice that barely held together: "Did I-did I hurt you when she… when she was…" He trails off, the words choking in his throat. His eyes drop to the ground. "I hoped I wasn't capable of shit like that but… I don't know. I never know what they made me do. Not really."

You stare at him, breath caught in your chest.

You know what he meant. He wants to know if they made him rape you. It was too hard for him to say.

That has to be a horrible feeling to experience. Knowing your mind and body could have been potentially used to so horribly violate another person. HYDRA controlled his actions, but in the end, he was the one having to live with the consequences.

"No," you say softly. "You weren't even in the room."

His head jerks up to look at you. He's confused.

"It was in vitro," you clarify. You tear your gaze away from his face, embarrassed by your vulnerable experience. I wish I could've protected myself. Stopped what they did to me. I couldn't, which makes me feel so weak. You continue. "When I was first brought into the facility, they took some of my eggs. They fertilized the egg with your sperm in a lab and then put it back in me. You were never physically involved in it." You try to reassure the man. "They never let me see who the donor was. I didn't know until about a year after Daisy was born."

You push yourself to look at his face.

Relief crashes across his features-brief, raw, and almost too painful to look at. He nods, a quiet breath escaping him, but the tension doesn't leave his shoulders. Then sympathy and regret take over his face as your words settle in his head.

"I'm so sorry you had to go through that...I can't imagine what that must've been like. Living in a place like that, in those conditions while pregnant...it's hard enough to survive without a baby." Bucky apologizes like it's his fault. Like he had put you through that situation. "If I had known...I would've tried to get you both out or helped you. It's not fair that you had to do that alone." He speaks genuinely.

"It's not your fault. They used you like they used me. There's nothing you could've done. They would have killed you or sent you away." I don't hold a grudge against him.

"Still, I'm very sorry."

You look at him again-really looked at him-and realize something that unsettles you.

He's just as scared as you are.

And just as broken.

There was silence between you. Heavy, aching silence. You both had experienced so much at the hands of the same people. While your journeys were different, you were both left with trauma and nightmares. You both missed time with your daughter.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you." It's your turn to apologize. "About her. I-I didn't know what you were going to do or react. If you would even care. I didn't know if it was safe to tell you. I couldn't risk being hurt and getting killed or losing the time they allowed me to see her." You nervously continue. "I had seen you a few times in the halls. You always looked angry and emotionless. Like a cold weapon. I was nervous to talk to you."

Bucky face is stiff. His eyes, however, hold sadness. " I'm sorry. I couldn't control myself. They killed my personality and feelings. You did what you had to. She comes first. I'll never be angry for you putting her well-being first."

He isn't how you expected. Well, you didn't really know what to expect. It makes you sad he didn't get to spend time with her at all. At least you saw her once a week. This is the first time he's met her. While you missed a few milestones, he had missed them all. That's time he could never get back.

Then Daisy stirs.

She blinks up at the stranger, her small brows furrowing. "Mama?" she whispers.

You smooth a hand over her hair. "It's okay, sweetheart."

Bucky slowly crouches down, still not closing the distance.

He looks at Daisy with a softness that shocks you. His metal hand flexes on his knee, uncertain.

"She's… beautiful," he says, voice cracking.

Your throat tightens. "She is."

"How old?"

"Almost two and a half."

He nods slowly, trying to work the math in his head. "God…"

You see him glance toward her again.

He wants to reach out. You can tell.

But he doesn't.

And that matters more than anything else-he doesn't assume he has a right to her. He respects you. He's willing to go at your pace.

"Do you… do you want to sit?" you ask hesitantly.

He looks up, shocked. Then nods, barely breathing.

"I'll stay back here," he promises, lowering himself to the far end of the bench. "Just wanted to see her. That's all."

You watch him out of the corner of your eye as Daisy nibbles on the banana again, still watching him with curiosity. She giggles and waves at him with a wide grin.

Bucky's lips curl into a pained smile. He waves back.

"He good guy?" she asks, glancing at you.

You pause.

You look at Bucky again.

The sorrow on his face. The weight on his shoulders.

"I think he's trying to be," you said quietly.

----- 3rd POV -----

Bucky didn't remember walking back into the compound.

He remembered standing up from the bench with a nod and a faint, careful thank you to Y/N. He remembered Daisy waving her banana at him in a tiny, sticky goodbye. He remembered the ache in his chest when he looked at them one last time.

But after that, it was a blur.

Now he was back in the gym, his hoodie on the floor, fists slamming into the punching bag like it had personally ruined his life. Sweat clung to his skin, hair stuck to his forehead, and the fabric of his shirt felt suffocating. The leather wrap on his right hand had already started to fray.

Wham.

Wham.

WHAM.

"You're gonna break the wall if you keep that up."

Bucky didn't stop punching, but his jaw tensed. "Maybe it deserves it."

Steve stepped into view, hands in the pockets of his jeans. His voice was steady, but soft. "You went to see her?"

Bucky exhaled through his nose and gave the bag one last blow before stepping back. His chest heaved. "Yeah."

Steve didn't say anything for a long moment. He just waited.

Bucky ripped off the wraps on his hands, tossing them onto the floor. "Y/N, she's scared of me."

"She's been through hell," Steve said quietly.

"I know that," Bucky snapped, more at himself than Steve. "I saw it. I saw it all over her face. Every time I moved too fast, every time I even looked at her wrong, she flinched like I was going to-"

He broke off, dragging a hand over his face.

"I didn't mean to scare her."

Steve walked closer. "You didn't mean to have a kid, either."

Bucky barked a humorless laugh. "No, I didn't. Hydra made that choice for both of us. Took what they wanted, like they always did. Used me to make a baby and used her to carry it. That shit is cruel. All those procedures Y/N had to endure...going through pregnancy in a place like that. A time that was supposed to be happy for most must've been a nightmare for her. Yeah, they took sperm from me, but that was the end of my job. They made her carry Daisy and suffer alone. The fear she must've felt, Steve. The pain. And she had no one there to support her." Bucky was pissed and guilty.

He had wanted kids when he was younger. Before the war, he wanted a family. He wanted to be there for his wife, whoever she was, when the time came for them to have kids. He wanted to help her and be there to get everything she needed or wanted. He felt like it was the responsiblity of the father to be there to support the mother of their child. He hadn't known, so he wasn't able to be there. That hurt. Besides that, he missed so many milestones. Daisy's first laugh, first word. And so many more.

He rubbed at the back of his neck, pacing a few steps away. "You know what's messed up? For a second-I was terrified I'd hurt her. That they made me violate her..." He swallowed the bile crawling up his throat at the thought. "But she said it was in vitro. That I wasn't even there. And I was relieved. Relieved I didn't hurt her."

"That's not messed up," Steve said. "That's human. It'd be messed up if you didn't care what had happened to her."

Bucky slumped onto a bench, metal hand resting on his thigh. "She said she'd seen me before. That I looked cold. Like a weapon."

Steve sat beside him, not too close. "You were being used as one."

"It doesn't matter. That face still haunts her. Still haunts me."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "She was trying so hard to be brave. Holding that little girl like her life depended on it. Maybe it does."

Steve was quiet for a moment. "Did you look at her?"

Bucky glanced sideways. "The baby?"

Steve nodded.

Bucky's voice dropped to a whisper. "She’s perfect, Steve. Big eyes. Wild hair. She's got this laugh-she laughed at me. Me. Can you believe that?" His lips pulled into a soft, disbelieving smile. Then it faded.

"I don't know what to do. She's scared of me. Rightfully so. I don't even know what I am to that little girl. I don't know if I'm good enough to be a dad. I've never had a responsibility like that. I didn’t choose any of this."

"No," Steve agreed. "But you're here now. You're going to be a great dad, Bucky. You're just going to need to learn a little bit. There's nothing wrong with that. Y/N is still learning too."

Bucky closed his eyes, the weight of it all pressing into his spine. "What if I mess this up?"

Steve clapped a hand on his shoulder, firm and sure. "Then you keep trying. You show up and try again. You don't give up on your kid. And you let them set the pace."

------

You watch Daisy sleep from across the room, arms wrapped around your knees, curled into yourself like you used to in your cell.

The compound was too quiet sometimes. Not the same kind of terrifying quiet like HYDRA, but… too peaceful. Like silence, you hadn't earned.

You could still feel the warmth of the bench under your body. Still see the careful way Bucky had kept his distance. The way he'd crouched like he wasn't sure if he should even breathe too close to your daughter.

Our daughter.

This isn't how you had planned to have a family. As a young girl, you had always wanted to have a family someday. You wanted a lot of things. You want to graduate from Harvard with honors and get into a great graduate program. You wanted an amazing career in an industry where you could make a difference with the help of your intelligence. You wanted to find a man who loved you completely, no matter how much you weighed or what you looked like. You wanted to get married and have children in a beautiful home you worked hard for. You wanted your husband to be there when you gave birth to your babies, to be able to share the moment with you. You wanted your husband to be able to share your baby's beautiful moments and milestones with you. You wanted to throw birthday parties and show your baby off. You wanted so much.

And you got none of it.

You didn't get to graduate or get married. You didn't get to fall and love and have support through your pregnancy. You were forced through hundreds of tests, surgeries, and experiments until your bubbly, confident self was turned into a shell of who you were. You were forced to experience the heartbreak of being forcibly impregnated by a stranger, growing a bond with your baby, delivering her in a traumatic setting, and then getting her taken away.

You shiver at the thought.

You had seen his face in so many nightmares. Those glimpses in the hallway, the times he'd walked by in black gear with no emotion behind his eyes. The Winter Soldier. A ghost of war, of death, of silence.

Now that face had looked at you with fear. Guilt.

And tenderness.

He had looked at Daisy like she was made of stardust. Like she was the one good thing in a world full of pain.

Your heart twisted.

You wanted to hate him. To blame him. That would be easier than trying to navigate this next stage in life.

But he hadn't been in the room. He hadn't made the choice. He hadn't known.

Neither had you.

You reach up and touch your side, remembering the cold, sterile ache of the implantation procedure. The way they drugged you and stole pieces of you before violating your body and forcing you to take those changed pieces back. Remembering the nurse who whispered, "You should be honored. He's the pinnacle of perfection. Your child will be a masterpiece."

You blink hard, pressing your forehead to your knees. Rage and shame twist in your stomach.

You hadn't even known his name when Daisy started to grow inside her. Just a number. A file. A myth.

And now he was real.

So painfully real.

You weren't ready. You wanted to be-but you weren't. Not yet.

But the way he'd looked at Daisy…

It made something shift in you.

A glimmer of hope.

A flicker of trust.

You didn't know what was going to happen next. Didn't know if you could ever let him in completely. But maybe-just maybe-Daisy could have the chance at something better.

Maybe they all could.

------

It was late afternoon when the hallway outside the common room falls quiet again, the golden sunlight slants across the polished floors. The Avengers Compound always seems to hum with a soft, underlying rhythm-doors closing gently, distant voices, the faint clinking of cups or laughter echoing down corridors.

You sit on the floor with Daisy again, this time carefully braiding your daughter's hair-short, wavy strands that refuse to stay in the little plaits. Daisy keeps giggling and squirming, half-playing, half-patient. A picture book lies forgotten on the rug, open to a page about rainbows.

It feels… almost normal. A warmth in your chest you don't dare name yet.

You don't hear him at first.

"Um… hi." The voice was gravel-soft. Low. Hesitant.

You look up slowly, hands still tangled in your daughter's hair.

Bucky stands a few feet away, not moving any closer, shoulders drawn in like he's trying to make himself smaller. He's wearing a dark sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up just enough to show the glint of his metal arm. His eyes, usually so guarded, are careful now-open in a quiet way, like he's trying not to spook you.

You stiffen slightly, but don't pull Daisy into your lap the way you might've just a few days ago.

He notices.

"I-I didn't mean to interrupt," he says quickly, raising one hand in a peaceable gesture. "I just… I was wondering if I could… if I could talk to her. To Daisy. Just for a little bit."

His voice cracks slightly on the name.

You blink. Daisy keeps playing with her plush porcupine, blissfully unaware of the tension between the two adults hovering above her.

"I wouldn't-" Bucky looks down at his boots, then up at you again, almost painfully slow. "I wouldn't touch her. Or scare her. I'd just… like to sit nearby. Maybe say hi. If that's okay."

There's a long silence. The kind where you can hear every breath.

You look at him-really look at him. He isn't trying to loom or press. If anything, he looks like he's bracing for you to flinch. For you to say no. For you to shut him down completely.

And yet… he's still here.

Still trying.

"Yeah sure. She's just playing," You say, finally, your voice barely above a whisper. "You can sit. If you want."

The relief that passes through Bucky's body isn't loud-but you feel it, somehow. Like something in the air softened.

"Thank you," he murmurs.

He steps over slowly and settles on the floor, leaving a comfortable space between them. He sits cross-legged, not facing Daisy directly-just angled enough to be part of the circle, but not too close. He doesn't speak right away. Just watches.

Daisy looks up from her toy and blinks at the new face.

She tilts her head.

Then offers him her porcupine.

Bucky lets out a breath of laughter, barely audible, as he reaches forward with a hand that trembles just slightly.

"That for me?" he asks softly.

Daisy nodded solemnly. "His name's Pokey."

He takes the plush in his large, careful hands and holds it like it is something delicate. "Pokey, huh? That's a good name."

You watch them both. Your hands drop from your daughter's hair as you sit back against the couch, unsure of what to feel. Your heart is beating a little too fast.

Daisy begins stacking plastic cups again. Her porcupine now rests between her and Bucky, like a silent peace offering.

"She likes you," You say after a beat. "I can tell."

"She's brave," Bucky says, watching her. "She's got your smile."

The compliment stirs something warm in your chest, though you don't show it.

You two sat like that for a while. Not friends. Not strangers. Something in between. A fragile beginning.

And Bucky doesn't push. He just stays.

Careful. Quiet.

Present.

----3rd POV----

Bucky sat alone on the balcony connected to his room, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled beneath his mouth. The sky was slipping into dusk, streaked in lilac and orange, and the air carried that subtle shift toward nighttime-the kind of cool that made you breathe a little deeper.

He hadn't moved for nearly an hour.

The image of Daisy-stacking plastic cups with gentle concentration, her nose scrunched, her little fingers brushing his when she passed him the porcupine-played on repeat in his mind.

She didn't know who he was.

And still, she smiled.

Still, she trusted him-instinctively, openly, like no one ever had without reason.

It was unbearable in the best and worst way.

The door behind him opened softly.

He didn't look back.

"Figured I'd find you out here," Steve said, stepping onto the balcony with two mugs in hand.

Bucky took one without a word. It was warm-chamomile or something equally Steve-like.

They sat in silence for a few long beats. The kind of silence only decades of friendship could make comfortable.

Steve finally spoke.

"How'd it go?"

Bucky let out a breath through his nose.

"She let me sit," he said. "That's more than I expected."

"She trusts you?" Steve asked gently.

"No. Not yet," Bucky murmured. "But she didn't flinch when I talked. She didn't grab Daisy and run."

Steve nodded. "That's progress."

"She looked scared of me," Bucky said finally, softly. "Even though she was trying not to be. I know that look."

Steve tilted his head, studying his best friend.

"And Daisy?" he asked.

"She gave me a damn stuffed animal," Bucky said, shaking his head. "Called it Pokey. Just… handed it to me like she already knew I wasn't gonna hurt her."

There was a beat of silence.

"I didn't think I'd ever get this," Bucky said, almost too quietly. "A kid. Even just… knowing there's someone out there who's part of me."

Steve set his mug down carefully on the railing.

"You didn't get this, Buck. It was taken from you. From both of you."

Bucky nodded slowly, staring at the darkening horizon. His hands clenched around the mug.

"I want to know her," he said. "But I don't wanna push Y/N. I don't wanna be that guy who comes in and messes it all up just because I showed up too late."

Steve looked at him, steady and kind.

"You being cautious already tells me you're not gonna mess it up. You care. You're trying. That counts."

Bucky exhaled deeply.

"I just hate that HYDRA used us both like that," he said. "Violated her. Used my DNA like it meant nothing. I feel like I'm walking into a house made of glass. One wrong word and it all shatters."

Steve nodded again, silent in understanding.

"You'll figure it out," he said. "She'll see it."

Bucky didn't answer. Just stared at the horizon, holding the warmth of the tea in his hands like an anchor.

----

The compound was quiet again.

You stand at the crib beside your bed, your fingers brushing softly over Daisy's soft hair. The toddler was fast asleep-tucked up tight, one arm around Pokey, the other sprawled across her blanket.

She looked so small like that. Fragile. But she wasn't, not really. Daisy had known nothing but chaos and confinement, and yet she still smiled. Still trusted.

Still shared her toys.

You turn away and sit down on the bed, your knees pulled up toward your chest. The sheets were soft. Clean. The scent of lavender drifted from the pillow.

It was all so different from the concrete cell.

From the cold, sterile walls of the lab.

And yet you couldn't stop the way your heart pounded anytime you saw someone unexpected in the hallway. Couldn't stop the way your body tensed when someone spoke too loudly. Couldn't stop glancing at the exits.

One of the moments with Bucky played in your head over and over.

His voice, low and cautious. The way he sat across from you, like he didn't want to breathe too loudly.

"Did I… did I hurt you…"

You swallow hard, your chest tightening again.

He'd been so careful. So afraid that he had done something monstrous without knowing. And when you told him he hadn't, you saw him breathe again. Like someone had finally taken the weight off his chest.

He wasn't the man who hurt you.

He'd never even been there.

And yet… he was the man whose face haunted you back then. Cold. Silent. Deadly. The Winter Soldier had passed by your cell more than once. You remembered the way guards stood straighter. How even the doctors looked nervous.

But this Bucky?

This was someone else entirely.

Gentle and broken.

And you didn't know what to do with that.

How could someone be the ghost in your nightmares and also the man your child smiled at?

You curled tighter into yourself and closed your eyes. Your body ached with memory and fatigue. Your heart-felt stretched thin with confusion and fear and… something else. Something warmer that you didn't dare name.

Not yet.

But maybe, if he stayed gentle… if he kept giving them space and showing up without demanding anything…

Maybe you could learn how to name it.

----

Bucky now spent a little more time with you and Daisy every few days-never too long, always careful not to push. Sometimes he brought little things for Daisy: a new picture book, a wooden toy. He always checked with you first.

And you two started to talk.

It started out slow with things like 'How are you?', 'Do you like the tower?', or just general conversation about the baby.

"She reminds me of Becca sometimes," Bucky says one afternoon as Daisy scribbled chalk shapes on the pavement. His soft eyes gaze down at her, a small smile curling on his lips. "My sister."

You tilt your head. "Was she older or younger?"

"Younger," he says, his smile widening at a memory. "Bossy. Tougher than I ever was."

You smile back. "I had a brother. He was older. He… tried to stop them when they came for me."

Bucky looks over, eyes shaded with something dark and aching. "I'm sorry."

"Me too," you whisper. "I don't even know if he made it."

Bucky gives you a sad smile. "My sister got sick and died a long time ago. This was after HYDRA got to me."

There was silence for a moment, not heavy-but shared. Bucky sits back on the bench, arms resting on his knees.

"You were only eighteen," he murmurs. "I read your file."

Your stomach clenches. "Oh."

"No- I just…" He sits up straighter. "I'm not trying to dig into your past. I just-wanted to understand. What they did to you, what they made you go through…"

His voice cracks a little, then hardens again. "It's not fair. None of it."

You look at him carefully. He was trying to understand you. "It wasn't your fault."

"But it's still part of me," he says. "HYDRA's part of me. And I hate that."

You are quiet for a while. Then softly you speak: "They tried to break both of us. But we're still here."

He looks at you. Really looked. There was something in his eyes-a kind of admiration you didn't know how to respond to. He gives you space, respects every boundary. And still, there's warmth. There's safety.

And you were beginning to feel it.

Your chest aches with something too complex to name. You knew you were starting to like him. To care. But you couldn't let it show. Not yet.

You turn your eyes to Daisy, who is now chalking a stick figure with dark hair.

Bucky smiles faintly beside her. "That one's me, isn't it?"

You laugh under your breath. "Looks like it. Strong jaw and everything."

He grins, and for a moment-just a fleeting second-you feel like a girl again. Not a prisoner. Not a lab rat. Just someone…normal.

And that was new.

---

Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3 AU

[snowe-zolynn-rogers]

The Eclipses Show

Pairings: None

Word Count: 1,485 Words

Summary: The Backup wakes up a day after his death and Solar makes a deal with him.

Warnings: Injury, Eye Trauma, Limb Loss, Head Trauma, Cursing, Blood Loss (Oil), Surgery (kinda), Dead Bodies (mentioned only), let me know if I should add anything else.

Chapter 2: The Bitch Came Back

Eclipse gave a pained groan as he woke up, turning onto his side and his claws dug into the padded floor under them, eyes cracking open. Well, one of them opened. His right eye was there, the other was nowhere to be found and the wires were fizzling with sparks of violently disconnected machinery.

His left arm. He couldn’t feel it, but he could see it there. He tried to flex its fingers but, ultimately, it didn’t move. He looked at his body and found he was missing from his right thigh down and his back felt like a train had run him over.

“Oh Jesus fuck.” He heard a voice and looked up at a copy of himself. Wait…the other Eclipse? The nice one? He groaned and pressed his face into the padded floor to wince at the way his rays were bent at uneven angles and some broken off.

He tried to retract his rays to show he was in pain, that he wasn’t going to do anything. God, it was a migraine. Some were broken off and the warped metal slid into his faceplate with a high scratching sound like nails on a chalkboard. Others simply didn’t pull in at all, too warped to do so without breaking his faceplate off entirely.

“Okay. Alright. How the fuck did you survive even?” The other Eclipse asked.

“Dunno.” He answered honestly. “Put me down. Please.” Eclipse told him. He had made it easy, all the other had to do was yank out his wires from the back of his head, which was exposed to him. Maybe step on and crush his circuit board and take out and break his personality chip.

It would be so easy to just kill him and get it over with, but-

“No. Sit up.” The other demanded. Eclipse gave a look back at him and slowly sat up with his right arm as support, shaking with effort that just sitting up was for him right now.

His head pounded and his back throbbed with exposed internal workings, his right leg was stinging with pain and oil loss. He was woozy from the effects his body gave. Loosing oil was like losing blood and warnings were flashing in his eyes that he was within critical damage and his oil was at past critical low levels. He would die if he tried to move one more time probably.

“Look me in my eyes and tell me why I should let you live.” The other demanded of him.

“You shouldn’t.” He immediately told him. This seemed to take the other by surprise a bit.

“Alright. Then you sit still until I give you an oil transfusion.” The other knelt with him, moving his right stump, clamping the oil lines there with a piece of twine, probably what he had on him that would do the job. But it did stop the oil loss.

Eclipse did as the other asked, stayed where he was. Though he was questioning why he was being helped instead of killed and his dead body thrown into the portal to his old dimension for Moon to torment and destroy.

Solar came back with a machine full of a gallon of oil, which he put into an oil line in his right arm with tape over it so the needle wouldn’t simply fall out and leave an extra wound where he was leaking oil.

“Why are you helping me?” Eclipse asked.

“Look. I don’t give a fuck if you’re evil or whatever. I can’t kill you. I physically can’t. I’ll have a nervous breakdown over it and I know it. It would be like killing myself. I am not putting my mental state into that place. So you are gonna fuckin sit here, take your oil replacement, let me fix you, and you are going to be a good person after. Got that? I will fix you and you will behave. Or I will ship you to Moon otherwise. Then you get to beg for mercy he doesn’t have for you.” The other told him.

“Th-Thank you.” Eclipse sat letting the oil fix the detrimental levels in his systems. He simply let the other, maybe he could call him Solar?, look at his injuries and begin to get the parts together to go to Parts & Service.

By the time the oil was in his system, Eclipse felt less deathly sick, less trembly and dizzy with oil loss. Solar? had looked over his exposed internal machinery in his back and had thankfully not found anything damaged. Solar had also replaced his back casing already and calibrated it while the oil was transfusion was running into his system.

“Alright, up you go, hobbles.” Solar demanded him, unhooking the oil transfusion machine and took Eclipse’s right hand, hooking his other hand under Eclipse’s left ribs. Oh…his left arm was a goner of Solar wouldn’t even touch it to support him. So he was losing two limbs today.

“Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna drop ya.” Solar told him, putting Eclipse’s arm over his shoulders and letting himself be used as a can on Eclipse’s right side for his lost right leg. Eclipse winced with walking but Solar must be proving he could still use his left leg on the wait down to Parts & Service.

Eclipse gave a groan as Solar set him into the tube’s chair and put the new white and blue full right leg and a whole black and purple arm into the part machine. He also could see a new green and black faceplate and a pink left eye.

“This might be a little painful, it has to take off the remains of your right leg and left arm to attach the new ones and it’s going to take your rays out.” Solar told him.

“Solar?” Eclipse asked.

“Is that what you’re gonna call me?” Solar asked with a chuckle. “Yeah, what?” Solar asked.

“Can…Can you hold my hand?” Eclipse asked.

“Yeah, fine.” Solar stepped into the tube with him and shut the door, slipping his left hand to hold Eclipse’s right hand in his own. It made Eclipse relax to have someone with him when this process was absolutely terrifying.

He saw the machine begin to do its work, disconnecting his right leg at the hip joint and his left arm at his shoulder joint. He shut his eye tight and tried to focus on the feeling of Solar holding his hand, anything but the searing pain of disconnected limbs.

The tube connected the new limbs and started instantaneous calibration. Eclipse opened his right eye to see the machine descending an arm and taking off his remaining faceplate and rays and he squeezed Solar’s hand as it put his new left eye in and replaced faceplate.

“It’s over. Breathe.” Solar assured him and Eclipse nodded softly, taking a big breath to assure Solar.

“Alright. Let’s get back to the daycare and get you new clothes. You can’t go around with half your clothes basically.” Solar told him.

“Thank you.” Eclipse was a bit shaky on his new leg but he held to Solar’s hand still, letting Solar lead him to the daycare.

Once there, Solar threw a pair of black pants and a night cap with white constellations on them and a black shirt and new black and white ruffles. An entirely new outfit. It looked like it was a moon model’s kind of outfit.

“Yeah, we almost had a Star and Sky model here. Turns out Fazbear didn’t like their AIs and wanted to just scrap them. I kept their base models and outfits because I figured maybe I might need em. I’ll probably replace your casing for Star’s later so you match or whatever. Just so they don’t question why you’re here. I can say you just activated for some reason.” Eclipse looked at him with a cringe.

“You really kept two basically dead bodies?” Eclipse scrunched his nose at that.

“It’s not like we don’t already.” Solar gestured upstairs meaning his brothers.

“Oh…” Eclipse realized Solar must not have had an easy separation from that. He decided not to pick at it and simply went to get changed into the outfit.

When Eclipse came back, he saw Solar and his Moon. A temporary panic came over him as he saw Solar’s Moon.

“Eclipse, this is Crescent.” Solar introduced him.

“Hi, extra parasite.” Crescent greeted him.

“Be nice. Please.” Solar sighed.

“What? He is.” Crescent growled. Solar gave a bigger sigh and pinched his nose in annoyance.

There was suddenly a rustling in the ball pit and Solar and Eclipse looked up to see a third Eclipse in the ball pit looking panicked and confused as he looked at Solar and Eclipse.

“And now you have fucking two friends here! Worthless parasite, come get your little child!” Crescent announced angrily.

“Oh fuck.” Solar breathed out.

[strykingback]

EVENT: Rescue Mission Post-Finale- Rebirth Unto Life.

OST: The Reaper's Return

Throughout the darkness Zek was walking trudging his way through it his breathing labored from the fight he was in against Nero, while there was nothing but darkness in front of his unscathed eye, his other eye still blinded from the brutal injury he took and no arm still present... yet, there was finally a light right in front of him making his way towards it.

Which when he finally walked through the warm and welcoming light, he saw his old village in the brightest of ways. Untouched and not destroyed as it was last time. "Zek my boy? Is that you?" A familiar voice said sounding gruff but gentle at the same time, causing the sniper to turn around to see the man who molded him in what he is today. Odin Simo....

"M-Master?" Zek said with his voice trembling a bit, with the old man walking towards him and placing his hands and shoulders. "Look how tall you have grown!.... And your injuries.... I take those were recent?" Odin said proudly with Zek nodding. "I saw everything..... well done!" The old sniper continued.

"Zek...is that-?" A female voice spoke with Zek turning around looking at a woman whose skin was caramel in color walking up to him her hands trembling which he would hug him tightly softly sobbing. "My little wonder....." She would sob.

"He is.... thats why you did a great job training him and all I needed to do was to refine it." Odin said pushing Zeks head up to see his eye healed up and his arm that was once gone now returned. "I have come to be with you all....." Zek said however his other mother and Odin looked at Zek with a pained look on their faces.

"Not right now, my boy." Odin said.

"B-but why?... I died!" Zek asked.

"Not quite.... you are near death.... but its not your time yet to be with us. Because..." Zek's other mother spoke pointing to a white door... opening up hearing the soft sniffles and tears of Atya....

"They need you more than you need us." Odin spoke placing a gentle hand against Zek's cheek as tears rolled down his eyes. "It's okay..... we'll be here waiting for not just you, but Atya as well." Ze's other mother said gently turning Zek around and gently pushing him forward towards the door... walking through..... it

With Zek's eyes opening up with as he looked around noticing that his other eye had returned along with his arm that was missing. Noticing Atya was holding his hand sobbing softly. "Ийэ (Mother)? My head hurts...." Zek would speak weakly catching his mothers attention who quickly hugged her son crying happily with joy. "MY SON!!! MY BABY!!!!" She shouted with glee as Eros and Leonidas rushed in. "Theres the hero of the hour!!!" Eros said with himself in a crutch hobbling over with Leonidas whose arm was on a sling.

"Good to see you're alive." Leonidas said happily.

"What happened... how long was I?"

"Three weeks mate. You almost died.... but it was after we had to do something crazy.... and your mother here suggested it." Eros said which he looked at his mother who was still hugging her son tightly.

"We had to inject Project Immortalis in you, as there was no stabilizers to keep you stable. However what shocked me the most was that despite losing an eye and an arm it was able to regenerate... I can say that Immortalis which contained fusion energy was able to counteract against the fusion poisoning inside you thus turning it from a negative thing to a positive thing albeit for a one time use only." Merlinda said.

"Well.... I am here so thats good. And Guangxian?" Zek asked.

"Alive and well he was discharged last week along with Ace."

"Good....I guess... I need some rest for a bit..." Zek would say closing his eyes with a smile. ...

Two Weeks Later...

OST: New Hope.

"This is Vale News Network with Lisa Lavender!!!" The News Announcer said with Lisa Lavender looking at the camera. "What seemed to be an unauthorized assault by Brumel turned out to be an attack with higher implications towards the privately owned military company Solitas Liberation LLC. As it was exposed for human and faunus rights violations through forceful and unlawful evictions of entire villages around the kingdom of Atlas. However, throughout this assault a mystery was solved as many villagers captured by the PMC would be set free by the strike force sent in by Brumel. While this did lead to some criticism by the Atlesian Government due to the new base being within the Atlesian archipelago... however, as King Rodrigues said in an interview that this was something they could not ignore. Thus talks have begun about the future of the Solitas Liberation and the remaining board members which a few have stepped forward to speak out against the company while others had since scrambled around. In other news, Colonel Caroline Cordovin was arrested after a-" Lisa would say before being muted by Eros through the remote.

"Agh, all the hard work and still Atlas wants to bitch about how we did our job." Eros said with Leonidas reading a fashion magazine. "Well, how can you blame'em. It was unauthorized.... not to mention it needed to be done.....we were just the final nail in the coffin." The bull faunus said taking a sip of his coffee.

"However, how can you say it..... we did our best even though Zek and you two got the lions share a week ago." He said typing on his computer before a ringing sound was heard, on Eros' end.

"Aye. That has to be him!" Eros said picking up the call revealing Krieg and Hermes. "Ey there lads! So hows everything looking!" Eros said with a bit of tension while Leonidas and Guangxian walked over.

"We have been approved! The faunus and human brains that were harvested by that damnable PMC would be placed into cyborg bodies where they can receive proper training for jobs and even a staffing firm! Albeit we may have to keep them in VR as we build their bodies from the ground up However it is perfect enough!" Krieg said with Eros, Leonidas and Guangxian smiling.

"Good work mate!"

"As for everything else, I'll be sure to monitor them with my light magic and in case if any damage comes to them... I'll be sure to heal them up right away... after all keeping the brains stable enough for them to go into their new bodies is easy enough. " Hermes said.

"Oi! That reminds me... how about Zek? Is he enjoying the new location of his peoples village?"

"Well... I do believe he is more than just enjoying it." Krieg said with a little smile.

Location: New Forde Village, Aglaia Forest, Brumel.

The village was sprawling with people walking around setting things back up with Zek looking around as he entered the Sunna household. "Ийэ! Where you do you want me to put the rest of your new bowls?!" Zek asked, with his mother looking at him with a smile. "Oh put it on the counter honey, I'll put it back when I start cooking dinnner." She said with Zek doing as she commanded.

"I didnt think my own King would offer a village to you all.... I guess when he heard about you he wanted ensure that everyone from Forde and Bragi village was given a chance to live a peaceful life again." Zek said.

"I know. but.. you have to see things in a brighter way Zek." Atya said walking up to Zek.

"There are those who had sins follow them to the now... rather than the later." She said, with Krieg giving a lecture about Fusion Energy in a class.

"Those who had to suffer from evil men like Nero who had done wrong to many others." Showing Eros, Leonidas, and Ace walking down a hallway together and the three of them smiling as they were getting ready for a mission.

"Sometimes even the past can tell a story...." she continued, as Hermes stood on the roof of his Apartment looking down at the rest of the city quietly as he took a deep breath in and out. Smiling with joy...

"Now the future is yours to decide Zek.....our future has been secured. Its what you want to do with it now. Because to me and everyone else....."

"You are our Hero...."

[MISSION: RESCUE AND END THE SOLITAS LIBERATION PMC]

[COMPLETE]

[cantfightmoonlight]

"Yeah, me too," She mumbled out, glancing over at the other girl who seemed to be playing with a lighter in her hand. "You smoke?" She asked curiously, holding her tongue to prevent herself from stating some rather obvious statement about how smoking kills. "My boyfriend got his leg cutoff by the Catalyst on Halloween, so outside of being there for him, not really?" She admitted, not trying to just blurt out that piece of information, but she also wasn't quite sure how else to side step around the elephant in the room either. "I've barely even been home in weeks. You've probably seen your sister more than I have and I live with her."

Without thinking much about it at all, Charli absentmindedly pulled out her lighter, spinning it between her fingers as the memories of recent weeks plagued her mind. How they were meant to move into holiday spirit was a tall order but it wasn't like they hadn't moved on from horrible things before. "Well, considering you kind of phrased it as a question, I'm guessing just as well as everyone else." Flicking the lighter once then twice, Charli distracted herself with the flame for a second, fighting the urge to light a cigarette knowing how rude that would be with someone so close to her. "Besides work, you've got to have something else going on, don't you? Something else to distract yourself with?"

[ghostiesnightmare]

The Rules We Mend

Pairing: Brahms Heelshire x Female Reader Summary: After the punishment comes silence, leaving you to pick up the shattered pieces of your mind. But when violence breeches the walls of the Heelshire manor it's your captor who saves you, carrying you home in bloodstained arms. In the quiet aftermath, soaked in steam and shadows, something unspoken begins to bloom– and the rules between you start to bend. TW: DARK content read at your own risk. , breaking and entering, trauma bonds, unprotected sex, stalking, foul language, implied assault, power imbalance, excessive descriptions of violence, murder, torture, nudity, blood, handjobs, sloppy kisses, dare I say fluff?, and more. Word Count: 8,246 MDNI-NSFW A/N: Took this ask and RAN with it... eat up. [part one] [part two]

-----

The early morning doesn’t seem real.

Soreness clings to your flesh like a second skin, every breath, every stretch of your limbs reminding you of last night– of him. Dried sweat coats you like a wet blanket, the sheets tangled around your thighs reeking of sweet and sex and sin. 

The attic, in its gloom and darkness carries a much deeper secret– something darker that you could not quite place, almost possessive in the way it held your heart in a chokehold. Dust particles float in the haze of the rising sun, casting a faint kaleidoscope of shadows along the walls. Undisturbed by years of wear and tear, the abandoned passageway entrance glares at you from the far wall– eager to swallow you whole. 

The image sends a shiver down your spine. 

Shifting slightly, the metallic bed frame groans beneath your weight. You freeze in place, waiting for the beast pressed against your back to stir. A moment, two– nothing. Daring to glance behind your shoulder, your wrists throb, skin raw and irritated from the wire bindings forced upon them hours ago. 

A mess of curly brown meets your gaze, locks ruffled as the cool porcelain of the mask presses uncomfortably against the swell of your shoulders. Slow, heated breaths fan over your naked skin– the occasional snore breaking through the silence as you are practically nuzzled. 

It was strange, seeing him like this. So calm, so vulnerable as he peacefully slept beside you, not a care in the world– arm strung lazily over your waist, fingers ever so slightly digging into your flesh. The scene tranquil, as if it were any other morning instead of the result of another punishment.

The tears had refused to come last night, the ones of self-pity and hatred only sprouting in the aftermath when you knew you were the only one to witness them. Now, all that remained were the broken pieces of your sanity for you to put back in place. 

Even when Brahms had whispered broken promises like twisted wedding vows against your bruised skin, you fought the shame, the guilt of it all. But in the wee hours of dawn, the early kiss of the sun only taints your skin further with the devilish acts of the night. 

Brahms shifts slightly, curls raking across your flesh– a gurgled groan slipping. Spine straightening, you pause, not wanting to disturb the peace you were so desperate to keep. Something wet smears your back, and you realize he was drooling. 

Gross. 

Cringing away from the sensation, you peel the sheets away from your skin. Punishment or not, the Heelshire manor always required your undivided attention. Lifting the massive arm draped over you, your eyes linger a beat too long at the wiry muscle staring back at you. 

You couldn’t shake the way he held you after your punishment– gentle, borderline worshiping you as he brought your betrayal to the surface. Brutal strength you knew you held no match against, yet once you had been properly disciplined the touch was undeniably tender. Your thumb presses against the vein in his wrist, the slow pulsing of his heartbeat almost lulling you back into his arms. 

The same arms that dragged you into the tunnels with such viscous strength you felt as if your heart would beat out of your chest. 

You swallow, shaking the memory from your mind. There was no point in dwelling on the past, you had much more pressing matters to attend to. Easing out from beneath Brahms’ grasp, you push yourself up from the mattress– wobbly legs planting against the rotting wood of the attic’s floor. 

Brahms groans, rolling over in your absence. A pause, then another grumble of a snore tearing through the air. The broad expanse of his shoulders shift, muscle rippling before disappearing underneath the tattered blanket. Your jaw clenches. 

Stumbling across the rotting floor, you didn’t know what about last night unsettled you more, the punishment or the affection that had followed. You didn’t want to find out. 

The silence of the manor, of the tunnels, seem louder as you dressed– the scratchy fabric of that godforsaken apron cutting into your skin like a testament to your own undoing. Clinging to the bruises dotting your hips and sternum, you shuffle uncomfortably, trying to make the treacherous clothing yours once more. 

It seems that the Heelshire manor laid claim to your very soul.

Tying the apron around your waist, you could still feel the heated breath against your ear, voice a cruel melody playing in your mind like a broken record: “I love the way you hate me– it means I’ve ruined you the way you’ve ruined me.” 

Worst of all, you knew he was right– every touch, every word seeping into your soul like a reckoning leaving you to pick up the pieces and pray that you were wrong. And God, you pray you were wrong. 

Trying to ready yourself for the endless expanse of daily chores, that very idea made your stomach curdle like sour milk: not the tears, not the violence, but the undeniable heat that pooled in your being at the thought of his touch in those late hours– and how you let him.

You spare one last glance at Brahms’ sleeping form as you tug on your shoes, a heavy sigh tearing from your throat as you glance at the passageway. It would take sheer luck for you to successfully navigate the sprawling expanse of tunnels to the kitchen, but it was better than risking the wrath that would follow if you woke him. 

At this point, you have nothing to lose. 

__

The morning tasks went by in a foggy haze, mind reeling from the lack of sleep. Yet, you persevere through the tiredness weighing you down like a bowling ball strapped to your chest. Afterall, that was all you could do– deep breaths, one foot in front of the other, ignore everything else. 

That was the rule if you hope to avoid another punishment. Afterall, perfection was never encouraged, it was expected. 

So perfection was the goal– the tea brewed with careful dedication, breakfast made with culinary expertise, foyer wiped clean of all former sins to utmost excellence– as if you were ashamed of the actions that had taken place in the past. Porcelain china was cleaned until shining, silver polished until shimmering, yet shaky hands folded the linen napkins with apprehensive devotion. 

Devotion– such a silly word these days, yet you find yourself living the very being of a lifelong disciple. Pathetic. 

Every task seems to take twice as long as it should have, something you would have been scolded from in the past, yet the harsh words never came– the master of the house sleeping soundly as you work silently in the early hours. 

It was as if your body no longer belonged to you, chores forgotten as the grandfather clock chimes towards the afternoon– dish towels muddled, feet tripping over each other while stumbling across the hardwood floors. All you could focus on were those sinful touches that lingered into your every waking breath. 

Passing by the foyer mirror while dusting, you barely recognise yourself– something much smaller, more raw than you remember. Shoulder slouching, finger trembling, eyes sunken in. As if you were a shell of your defiant state. 

Just like he likes it. 

Forcing those less than professional thoughts from your mind, you try to find comfort in the small actions throughout the day. The heat of the sun pouring through the stained glass windows, the smell of parchment paper in the pantry, the clatter of the china as you organize the kitchen cupboards– things that usually calm your racing heartbeat failing when nothing compares to the thoughts swirling in your head. 

The groan of the metallic bed frame as it scraped against the floorboards. The sting of the wire as it bit into your skin. The fire in your stomach as your sins were swallowed whole.

Stop it. 

The cool press of the porcelain against your heated skin. The burn of your skin as he slapped you over, and over again. The damning scream that tore through your throat as you came. 

“Stop.” Fingers digging into your temples, the muddled dishrag falls into the kitchen sink as shaky breaths tear through your sternum. Nails scratching against the skin of your scalp, you beg to be anywhere else. 

Not in this room, not in this house– anywhere as long as it was far away from him. 

Poor thing, what happened to that pesky backbone of yours, hm?

Glass shatters, the echo ringing through your ears like a gunshot as the broken china plate lay in ruins at your feet. Stumbling backwards, panic grips your heart in a vice-like grip, tears dotting your vision as you struggle to slow your ragged breathing. 

The sting in your fingertips doesn’t even register until it drips onto the hardwood floor, coating the surface in an all too familiar shade of crimson. Dropping to your knees, shards needle into your skin as trembling hands scrub away the mess– the sin. 

But it was too late. 

His voice was in your head, in the walls, in the house, everywhere all at once as it rings in your skull, words reducing you to a whimpering shell of who you once were. 

There’s nothing left that’s yours. 

Your stubborn defiance, so rooted in your hatred, was now reduced to a sniveling whisper that haunted the manor. That was the worst part of it all, he didn’t have to chain you– barricade you within the house, tear away your defences, or threaten you. 

No, that would have been too easy. 

He had taken your freedom piece by piece, chipping away at your defences with such quiet devotion one could have almost called the act loving– and you had let him. 

A muffled sob slips past your lips, hand pressed against your mouth like a scolded child as you try to will away the sound. Chest heaving, silent tears drip onto your palm, and when you pull away your hand all you could see was red. 

God, you couldn’t breathe– you need air. 

Limbs moving without thinking, trembling hands yank the gardening gloves hanging from the pantry door, feet slipping on the discarded glass shards. The thin material, worn from use, cling to your sweaty palms as you slip them on, rubber scraping against the slices in your fingers. 

The door slams against the wall, rattling the kitchenware as you dart into the chilly air, seeking the only place of sanctuary you could think of before you were pulled back. 

The greenhouse.

The one place Brahms never went– the only place in this forsaken world that still belongs to you. The only place keeping you sane. 

The wind whips your hair across your forehead, all too similar to a slap in the late afternoon. Grey clouds, dark and foreboding, block out any sunlight as you scurry to the ancient structure, arms folding against your chest. Sparing one last glance at the manor as the greenhouse comes into view, you try to push away the feeling of him staring at you from the attic. 

You hadn’t checked the tunnels, refused to clean up your mess, didn’t notice if he heard you flee the grounds. You didn’t care. 

If you spent one more second in that haunted house, you'd scream, and there was no telling what punishment would await you after that. 

Looming over you like a forgotten chapel, overgrown vines wrap around the dirty glass, dripping in secrecy and silence and privacy– the answer to your prayers. The ironwright bars scream as you pry the door open, darting inside as the wind howls against the glass. Slamming the door closed, the heavens burst, rain battering the ceiling and casting a kaleidoscope of shadows across the dimly lit room. 

For just a moment, just one breathless second, you felt that maybe, possibly you could find peace within the sprawling plants. But peace never lasts on the Heelshire grounds, and the monsters always come crawling back home. 

Whether that meant him or you, there is no telling. 

Exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in, the greenhouse seems to come to life as you walk across the cobblestone flooring. The air, damp with humidity, wafts heavily with the scent of dirt and earth with undertones of lavender. Almost unnaturally warm, mist swirls along the aisles of potted plants, herbs, and flowers. Sweat pools in your gloves, softening the long forgotten sting of the slices on your fingertips.

Not even bothering to remove them, you gingerly reach for a fern, the stems twirling around your arm as your hand plunges into the moist soil. Oxtongue tickles your wrists as you walk, leaves and stems bending under your touch. Lightning flashes across the sky, painting the greenhouse in a ghostly glow of white before disappearing into gloom once more. 

There were no calculated footsteps behind you. No harsh words, no empty threats, no heated breaths wafting over the nape of your neck– just you. 

Clutching a pair of rusted clippers, the smell of tea leaves and mint invade your nostrils, calming any bubbling nerves that remain. Plucking a few strands of lavender from the soil, you become lost in the tranquility of fog and dirt and moss. Every breath tastes like earth and tea tree, not the sour tang of mildew and mold.

You feel the cleanest you had in weeks, even with sweat dripping down the expanse of your neck and dipping into the frayed collar of your shirt. The buzz of anxiety shifts into something quiet, something much calmer as you work, hands kneading the soil and discarding stray weeds from the greenery. 

Stepping towards the middle of the greenhouse where the tea leaves grow, the waxy edges of the foliage glimmering in the light– dancing under the shimmer of rain overhead. A smile, small, thin, but a smile cracks through your dry lips, the first in weeks. 

Kneeling, you pinch a strand between your gloved fingers, clipping a few before pressing them into an apron pocket. Almost lovingly, you trace the shape of the winding stems, relishing in the fragility poised between your fingers. 

“Hello, little thing.” you coo, humming as the plant almost seemed to wrap itself around you. So pure, something untouched by the violence and hostility in the manor, yet so delicate that its life was held in the palm of your hand. 

Here, hidden away from the overgrowth, time passed differently. Slower, kinder. The routine came easy, the weight in your chest falling away as you collect the waxy leaves in your apron. 

Inhale, snip a few leaves, exhale, press them into the folds of your apron, repeat. 

The storm rages onwards, rain battering against the glass panes, but the sound was white noise among the plants– a blanket against the war around you. Leaning into the sensation, you continue onwards, apron jutting from the collection of greenery tucked within the fabric. 

Brushing a strand of hair from your face, dirt smeared across your skin, your gaze meets the overgrown camellia sinensis adorning the back wall. A bittersweet sigh tears from your chest at the sight, leaves choking beneath the thick, oppressive weeds crowding the soil bed. 

You always have meant to trim them, yet always forgetting when time seemed to be against you– much more focused on Brahms than a pitiful plant. Yet, as you stare at the winding overgrowth trapping the leaves, a pang of empathy stirs in your gut. 

It deserves better. 

Approaching the back wall, another telltale flash of lightning ripples across the sky, and your hand freezes midair. 

The air was still– too still. 

Something was wrong. 

It isn’t a sound, not exactly, but a feeling of dread curling around your stomach as you glance behind your shoulder. This, you know– the telltale sign of goosebumps fluttering across your arms, the hairs of your neck standing straight up as a chill tears through you. 

Like you were being watched through the broken slates in the greenhouse. 

Spine straightening, you almost miss the shadow darting across the threshold of the door as thunder claps across the sky. Snapping your head towards the greenhouse entrance, the garden shears fall to the floor, breath catching in your throat as you expect to find a furious Brahms towering over you–

Nothing. Just vines flapping against the wind. 

Turning back towards your work, you uproot a weed, cursing as the thorns prickle against your wrists as you toss it to the floor. Kneeling to grab the shears for a particularly pesky stem, you pause. 

The garden shears were gone. 

Blood turning to ice, you duck under the raised bed, expecting them to be haphazardly strewn across the cobblestone– but nothing. The air turns sour, something akin to anticipation crackling through your skin as you shakily stand on wobbly legs. Pushing away from the wooden countertop, you stuff the last handful of leaves into your apron before turning to flee. 

Lightning flashes through the sky once more, just a split second, and you finally see it. A figure– wrong, two. 

Tall and broad and creeping across the fogged glass just behind the entrance. Worst of all, there was no porcelain pressing up against the greenhouse, the faint childlike smile peeking through the wall.

Brahms wasn’t there. 

Bile risse in your throat as your heart drops to your stomach, stumbling backwards in an effort to conceal yourself among the shrubbery. Your ankle crashes against a metal watering can, the hollow clang tearing through the silence like a bomb. 

Fuck.

Clamping a hand around your mouth, you drop, knees digging into the cobblestone painfully as you still, pressing into the greenery so hard you felt as if you were returning to the clutches of the earth. 

You have to move, run– but you were trapped inside. 

The metal hinges whine as the door is forced open, the wind howling fated warnings as two figures emerge from the storm. Your mouth dries, air torn from your lungs at the sight. 

It wasn’t Brahms, you were right about that. It wasn’t even close.

Soaked to the bone, covered in black clothing, hunting boots squelching against the stone. Two men adorned in muscle and brawn and eyes so hungry you could feel them from across the room. The shorter of the two enters first, stepping into the reprieve of the storm and tugging off the balaclava, revealing a nasty slash across his face, purple and mottled. Your stomach curdles.

The other, taller– quieter, stretched. A flash of silver catches your eye, a machete hanging from the black cargo pants with eerie stillness. A duffle bag drops to the floor, the sound of metal clattering throughout the air as the men survey the plants as if they were livestock. 

Scarface finds you first, eyes burning into you as you shrink against the cobblestone. 

“Oh, fuck.” A slow, calculated grin spreads across his face– revealing a row of broken, yellowed teeth. “-I thought you said the place wasn’t occupied.” The taller one gruntes, hand resting on the handle of the machete, now glinting under the rain. “...the place looks like a goddamn mausoleum.” 

Fighting the urge to vomit, you muster any courage you could gather, trying to seep venom in your words. “Get out. This is private property–”

“Private property?” The shorter of the two mocks, taking a step closer. The words die on your tongue. “It looks like you’re the only one here, sweetheart. That private enough for you?” The other chuckles, and you swear your heart lurches from your chest. 

They weren’t here to escape the storm. 

They weren’t here to find solace in the plants. 

They weren’t even here to rob the place– at least, not anymore. 

“Pretty little thing, all by yourself.” Scarface speaks again, words dripping with venom, with need. His accomplice nods, “Wonder what else she has hidden in the house…” his eyebrow cocks beneath the mask, and you shrivel at the sight. “I bet she keeps all kinds of things locked away.”

Your hand darts behind you, blindly grappling for something, anything to protect yourself with. Your fingers close around an ancient weeder, the tongs rusted and dull from age and abandon, but they were better than nothing.

“Don’t move, or I swear–”

Your threat goes unheard as Scarface lunges across the table, a startled shriek tearing from your throat as his fingers wrap around your ankle. Blindly kicking upwards, your heel catches his nose, snapping his head backwards. Scrambling to your feet, you hold the weeder in front of your chest as he rises– blood dripping from his nose. 

“You fucking bitch!” He slaps you across the face, hard. White splinters across your vision as your head cracks to the side, ribs cracking against the edge of the soil bed as you fall. Crashing into the cobblestone, the taller one wraps his hand around your hair, pulling you onto your feet. 

Scalp burning, you stomp on his toes, hoping to throw him off guard as tears line your vision. Scarface turns, kicking you in the gut, and you collapse, wheezing as the air is knocked from your lungs. Greedy hands tear at your apron, tea leaves spilling onto the floor as you kick and punch, landing a lucky hit as the weeder digs into Scarface’s forearm. 

He grunts, tearing the weeder from your hands before landing a right hook upside your head. You feel your eyebrow split… was he wearing a ring?... and the world tilts. A hand kneads at your breast through your shirt and you scream– the sound long, primal– rattling the caging of the greenhouse.

It was the kind of scream that cracks glass, the kind that summons ghosts, the kind that reaches into the walls. 

Blood pours from your temple, blinding your right eye as your pulse thunders in your skull. Writhing against your captor’s grip, another jab hits your ribs and the taste of iron fills your mouth. 

The taller one forces your wrists over your head, and you deadweight in the hopes of relieving the pressure burning your wrists– to no avail. Scarface chuckles, spitting blood. “Stop fucking moving and this will be quick, I promise. Or don’t– I don’t give a fuck.” Fingers dig into your jaw and you cry out under the assault. 

The sound of glass shattering halts the attack. Craning your head, you barely catch the blur of movement before it slams into your assailant, jostling you from his hold. Crumpling to the floor, an unearthly growl tears through the room. You freeze, relief flooding your system. 

Boots crunching against the shards of glass, Brahms emerges from the shadows– shoulders heaving, towering form casting a shadow over your crumpled state. Porcelain mask cracked from the force of the blow, Brahms straightens, a rusty poker clutched in his fist.

The very one that was stabbed through your journal the night before. 

They never stood a chance. Bloodlust radiating off his form in waves, the poker connects with the tall male with a sickening crunch– both crashing into the side of the greenhouse with such force the entire greenhouse rattles. Scarface pales, stumbling backwards as you scramble towards the corner of the building, head pounding as the room falls into chaos. 

Fists pound into the bludgeoned man’s face– once, twice, shrieks escaping as he tries to pry Brahms off of him. Something pops, Brahms’ fingers plunging into the male’s eye sockets, and you gag as a shrill scream fills the air. The sound of flesh tearing fills the room as Brahms punches him. 

Over, and over and over again. 

Until the beast of a man was nothing more than a bloody pulp pressed against the glass. Scarface pushes across the room, vaulting the soil bed as he sprints towards the door, trying to run. But Brahms was too angry, too fast, fist colliding with his temple just before he reaches the threshold. 

Grabbing the shears, your missing shears, Brahms plunges them into Scarface’s neck– a choked gurgle escaping as the man coughs on his own blood. Ripping the tool from the flesh, blood sprays across the room, coating the fogged glass in a gut-churning crimson. 

Lungs burning, you cower in the corner, only able to watch as the male twitches against the cobblestone. Brahms towers over him, placing his foot onto his throat before stomping. 

Once, twice until there was only silence in the greenhouse. The rain, the only sound, continues to batter against the glass as Brahms stands– chest heaving as his gaze snaps towards you. The mask, ever still, doesn’t soften as you stare. But his voice, eerily calm, utters just one word. 

Your name. 

Hanging in the air like a prayer on his tongue, a broken testament to his faith. Voice low, straining beneath violence and fury, the world around you splitting as a sob tears from your throat. Adrenaline fleeing your limbs, you collapse. 

Before your head cracks against the cobblestone, strong arms curl beneath your back and knees, hoisting your writhing form away from the bloodstained floor as if you weigh nothing. You curl towards him, burying your face into the damp fabric of his tattered sweater as you breathe his scent in frantic, shaking gulps. 

Dust, firewood, worn books– just the way you like it. 

Tears stream down your cheeks as you shake, fingers digging into his sweater as you sob. The weight of the world felt as if it were lifted off of your shoulders, and for the first time since you arrived in that godforsaken manor, you feel safe. The poker clatters to the floor, completely forgotten as he cradles you to his chest, calloused fingers combing through your matted hair as you weep. 

“I was so scared–” you hiccup, gasping for air as you push closer to his skin for warmth. “-Oh God, I thought they were going to…” The words refuse to come, a broken sob manifesting itself as you shakily wrap your arms around his neck. Muscles convulsing, your teeth chatter against the frigid air.

“You’re hurt.” Brahms murmurs against your hair, thumb dipping into the blood pooling at your eyebrow. You flinch, breath coming out in uneven, ragged huffs. “They… touched you.” Ribs burning, every breath sending a ripple of pain down your spine as you inhale. You didn’t even realize you were whimpering until his finger ghosts over your jaw, tilting your head to look at him. You glance at your hands, fingers clenched around the fabric of his sweater and tainting it in crimson. 

The blood on his sweater wasn’t just yours.

He pulls you in closer, and you jolt, fear coursing through your veins– knuckles turning white as you grip him like a lifeline. He stills at the action, eyes boring into you through the porcelain mask. 

“It’s alright. I’m here,” Forehead pressing against your own, you shudder. “-I’m here. Let me help you.” 

His skin was warm, soft, any semblance of a response dying on your tongue as you bury your face into his chest.

For the first time, it feels like home. 

__

The manor doors slam open as you are ushered inside, water, blood, and dirt trekking through the halls as Brahms carries you up the stairs. You could feel all three clinging to your skin– sticky, cold, and full of sin in a way you knew you couldn’t scrub off. The thought made you shudder violently in his hold.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you expect to be dumped in your room. Maybe placed on the kitchen table to tend to your wounds. Even the bathroom, if you were lucky– somewhere practical. 

Instead, Brahms persevered, trudging up past the stairs and pushing towards the only wing in the house where you scarcely visit. The master wing– his wing. Pushing open the heavy doors, the smell of cedar and worn paper fill your nostrils, the scent dizzying as you are gently set on the edge of the bed. 

Squirming uncomfortably, you pull the tattered remains of the apron to your chest, cringing as dirt and blood seep into the pristine sheets. Barely even registering the softness of the bed, you could only gape forward– hair matted to your skull as your body thrums with pain. 

The sound of running water tears you from your fogged gaze, and you glance towards the bathroom, where Brahms moves with startling urgency– filling the tub with warm water, tearing towels from their resting places, grabbing a washcloth. Steam begins to waft through the air like vengeful spirits, your bones aching for heat as your toes curl at the sight.

Trying to push yourself off the bed, you rise on bruised legs. A pained gasp rips through your chest, and you wobble. Ever so carefully, you are lifted into the air once more, legs dangling as you are brought to the edge of the clawtooth tub. 

Firmly planted on the edge, your toes barely brush against the marbled floor. In another life, another place you would have dreamed of being able to bathe in such a luxurious setting, yet all you could think about was the warm water that await you. 

The flimsy remains of the apron are carefully pulled away, frigid fingers trailing under your bare stomach as the grimy sweater is pulled over your head. If you had been braver, more stubborn, you would have resisted– but tiredness weighs you down like a wet blanket. 

Moving gently so as to not spook you, Brahms fiddles with the button of your jeans, sending another chilled shudder down your spine. Slowly, your jeans and panties are ushered down your legs, socks quickly following as you sit bare against the porcelain tub. 

Hands cupping beneath your knees, Brahms eases you into the water– causing a hiss of pain to grumble from you as the warmth laps at your wounds. “I know… I’m sorry.” His voice cuts through you, so gentle it almost hurts, as if he was in pain just from watching you writhe in discomfort. Fingers cradling your jaw, the cool surface of his mask presses against your heated forehead. You sigh, eyes closing as you sink into the sensation, trying to relax your aching muscles. 

The rustle of clothing echoes through the bathroom, but you ignore it, choosing instead to savour the warmth seeping into your chilled bones. The water sloshes against the tub as Brahms climbs in across from you, knees brushing against yours. Lazily opening your eyes, you faintly make out the blurred outline of him reaching for something before your forehead is set ablaze in pain. 

Gritting your teeth, your hands fly to the edges of the tub, knuckles turning white as your nails dig into the smooth surface. The soaked washcloth dabs along your split brow, wiping the blood away from your skin. Cool fingers trace the bruise on your ribs, ever so slightly brushing against the curve of your breast as he begins to wipe the grime from your flesh. 

The scratch of your jaw comes next. Then, the slash on your thigh. Finally, the bruised ring around your throat. Each movement sends a thrill through your veins as the pain begins to subside, the sting of your wounds fading under the warmth of the water– of his touch. 

“They don’t get to keep any part of you… not even this.” a whisper, laced with disdain as his thumb presses against your brow. Your lips tremble, tears blotting your vision. “I…” you swallow thickly. “-I thought I was going to die.”

“No.” he hissed, shoulders heaving as his gaze drills holes into the split skin. “You belong to me.” 

The words should have scared you, sending a pit of dread in your stomach at the possessive tone. They should have irked you– irritate you even– but they didn’t. Tonight, they felt different. 

Shifting in the water, your hand wraps around his wrist, halting his movements. The washcloth drops between you, water splashing onto your chest as you meet his searing gaze. Frozen in time, Brahms lets out a shaky exhale– so subtle, so gentle as if he didn’t trust himself to hold you together. 

You were beyond saving, anyways. 

“I’m sorry… for leaving.” You whisper. “-for…” voice catching in your throat, you instinctively glance away, shame lapping at your skin thicker than the blood in the water. 

For breaking the rules. 

“I know.” Slow, calculated words ring in your ears. He knows– he always does. 

“But you saved me.” Retorting, knees curl to your chest, chin resting on them as you wait for any reasonable explanation as to why there was no punishment– no threatening words, no searing touches exploring your unforgivable sin. 

He only huffs. “Always.” 

You blink at him, stunned at his response. The water stills between you, air heavy with something like a confession. His fingers twitch, shaking every so slightly before they curl into a fist– and you see it. 

Fear. 

Barely contained beneath the surface, the very same driver of his fury that ended in blood and sweat and violence– is a sense of terror, one rooted in losing you. Your chin digs into the skin of your knees and you watch as his self control teeters closer to snapping. Once so cold, so brutal, now held back by only your gaze. 

Your heart lurches within your chest at the sight. 

Before you can stop yourself, your fingers cradle the cracked porcelain of the mask so endearingly he flinches. Adam's apple bobbing from the touch, his hands tense at his sides as if he were burned– mentally debating whether to retreat or tear your hand away. But he does neither, only staring at you through half lidded eyes, chocolate orbs stirring with confusion, apprehension, and something you couldn’t quite place. 

You could swear they glisten under the light. 

“I… let me see you.” you urge, fingertips cusping the edge of the mask– slightly grazing across the dark curls that hide beneath. “-please.”

Silence crashes through the room, the only sound coming from the occasional drip of the faucet. The air shifts, and you almost retreat into yourself at the tension– pulse hammering in your ears like a wardrum. 

A pause, then slowly, Brahms shifts into your touch. 

Drawing closer, water sloshes over the side of the tub and crashes over the marble tiles as his knees plant on either side of your own. Massive frame surging towards you like a tidal wave threatening to swallow you whole, dusky curls tickle your forehead as his face stops just inches from your own. 

You don’t flinch, refusing to pull away as you brave onwards– the eye of the storm. His palm, slick and trembling, cups your jaw. Thumb brushing the bruise forming under your eye, he pauses– offering himself to you like a lamb being sent for slaughter. Your fingertips catch the wiring tucked behind his ear, and his breath catches in his throat. 

Finally, you lift it. 

The porcelain rises with a low creak, water dripping down his skin as you unmask him with aching slowness. His jaw catches the light, then his cheekbones, his brows– until there is nothing separating him from your gaze. 

And you see him for what feels like the first time. 

Bruised, blotted skin peppered with scars and burns running across his cheekbones. Seared browline and sunken eyes lined with fringed lashes dripping with water and grime and tears. Bottom lip split open, dried blood caked to the scruff of his jaw– clenching like the weight of the world was lifted from his shoulders and threatened to leave him shattered beneath your gaze. 

But his eyes– that is what tears your heart to shreds. 

Coffee with flecks of caramel so devastating you were drowning. Irises dilated so wide his eyes almost look black as he gapes at you, memorizing your reaction– carving it into his skin. You swallow thickly, reaching upwards, and he doesn’t stop you. 

Fingertips tracing the mottled skin, nails delicately scraping over the swelling, he shudders. Shoulders sagging as if it were the first time he was touched in his life, not out of fear, not of pity, but with empathy. His lip quivers as you move closer, cupping his face in your hands as if he were made of glass, thumbs rubbing circles into his temples. 

“You didn’t have to…” nails scraping against his scalp, he groans at the feeling, and you falter. “-save me. You could have left me to be punished.” trailing off, your hands retreat, shame building in your stomach. “...let me get what I deserved.”

Fingers coil around your wrists suddenly, firmly planting them on his shoulders. “Don’t–” he rumbles, brow twitching as a warning glare flickers across his face. “Don’t ever say that.” Voice dripping with pain and anger, you shudder. 

Pressing your forehead against his, no barriers– no masks, the rawness of it all sprouting tears in your eyes. “I’m so sorry.” You breathe out, nose brushing his as your lip quivers. “For hurting you– leaving you. For thinking you wouldn’t come for me.” 

He pauses, jaw clenching as he tastes the apology on his tongue. You swallow thickly as his nose ducks into the crook of your neck, breathing you in. “I would always come for you… you’re mine.” 

Forgiveness– the taste sweet on your tongue. 

Tilting upwards, you catch his eye, all resolve shattering as you lean in and press your lips to his– slowly, carefully. Not a kiss of a prisoner, not one full of fearful regret. But one shared between broken pieces clinging to the only warmth they have left. 

You finally feel whole. 

Hands sliding into his wet curls, you tug on the tufts as you pull yourself closer, chasing the flutter blooming in your stomach like something born again. He falters, arms wrapping around your waist as he falls backwards, water spilling out of the tub as you collide with his chest. But neither of you notice– neither of you care. 

You were drowning in something else entirely. 

The taste of iron fills your mouth, and you pull away, breath stuttering as you see the blood trickling down his chin. Your tongue darts out, wetting your lips as the ghost of the kiss remains– warm, intimate. 

Fingers dig into the flesh of your hips like you would vanish beneath his touch, the reality of your affection, your willingness almost too much to bear. “You’re hurt,” you murmur against his skin. “...because of me.” His brow furrows, a sigh tearing from his throat as you press into him. 

A pause, one full of ache and longing– before: “I had to. They touched you.”

“I know.” Cupping his jaw in your hand, you examine the damage– hushing the protest forming on his lips. Mustering the courage coiling around your ribs, you echo those very words whispered in the greenhouse. “Let me help you.” 

It wasn’t a plea, one forged with fear of punishment. Instead, it was a vow. 

With every ounce of gentleness you could muster into your aching limbs, you shift forward into the tub, water sloshing around you as you straddle his waist. Brahms’ breath catches in his throat, something akin to awe glimmering in his eyes as you reach for the discarded washcloth. Wringing it in your hands, you press a kiss to his temple. 

Bones weary, skin bruised– yet you never felt more alive. 

“Let me take care of you,” You urge again, murmuring against his heated flesh. “...you always take care of me.” Pressing the drenched fabric to his lip, he jerks against your touch– wincing as you wipe the blood from his chin. His fingers flex beneath the water, but he doesn’t stop you.

Trailing the cloth across his jaw, the water pools down his neck as you wipe away his skin with devout reverence. You trace his jugular, ducking to his collarbone– where a purple bruise blossoms along the tender flesh. He groans at the action, as if it hurts to be touched so gently when no one else ever has.

You brave onwards, cleaning his wounds of dirt and grime, replacing the pain with feather-light kisses as you work. Your nails rake down his chest every so slightly, and he twitches. You couldn’t tell what festered beneath his skin: fear, restraint, or something much darker pulling at his psyche. 

He killed for you– so now, you would have to live for him. Something that sounds more like a blessing than a punishment. 

The cloth falls from your palm, a dull smack echoing through the walls of the bathroom as it hits the water. Your fingers delve lower, nails lingering across a scar splintering across his stomach– and he gasps into the crook of your neck. A jagged smile breaks out on your cracked lips. 

Poor thing. 

Nails dragging down his skin, your fingertips brush against his cock, lips folding over his as you swallow the moan building in his throat. “Let me…” you whisper against him, breathing in his shaky exhales as you wrap your fist around him. “-I want to.”

The fist gripping the porcelain edge of the edge almost splinters the surface as you trail your fingertips along the underside of his cock, jerking your hand towards his tip. A strained exhale wafts across your collarbones as you pump him underneath the water. Brahms’ head thuds against the edge of the tub, curls messily plastered to his forehead as sweat drips down his temple– eyes fluttering shut at your sinful touch. 

“You always want to control everything,” Voice dripping in cotton-swabbed heat, your hip bones push against his stomach as your arms wind around his neck, trapping him beneath you. Breasts squishing against the hard ridge of his chest, a stray hair dips onto his cheekbone– tickling the swollen burns blossoming across his skin. “The rules, this house… me.” 

The words taste bitter on your tongue, yet as they coat the condensation-filled room they sound devout. His lips part, a sputtered protest building in his chest as you latch your mouth against his jugular, the sharp thrum of his pulsepoint hammering against your lips in a dizzying concoction.

The tip of his cock catches on your folds, and your stomach flips– mouth unbearably dry. Nails raking into his shoulder blades so roughly you were certain you draw blood, chocolate orbs snap to your own, full of pain and heat and want. 

“You don’t get to control me. Not this time.”

Your hips lower as you spear yourself on his cock, walls screaming as heat churns in your gut. Brows furrowing at the uncomfortable stretch, a shaken exhale escapes your lips as you seat yourself in his lap. Brahms groans, hands flying to your hips as you rock against him– water spilling out of the tub with every stroke. 

Fingers digging into your flesh so hard it bruises, yet he doesn’t shift, refusing to dare and break the spell as you set the pace– guiding your hips in such a teasingly slow manner it almost hurts. Your thighs burn as you roll your hips, knees slipping against the porcelain as you ride him like it was your last night on earth, as if the manor was engulfed in flames and you were damned for eternity. 

Maybe you were– the way you could feel him in your throat something so unearthly it feels as if you were already dead. 

Iron, cedar, and earth cling to your skin as he jolts beneath you– cock hitting your cervix as a whine builds in your chest. God, you couldn’t breathe, the hard ridge of him tearing into you, stealing the air from your lungs and leaving nothing left but strained gasps. Mind foggy as steam wisps around your heated skin, all you could focus on was the subtle roll of your hips.

A shaking rise, a deep fall, as you prepare for the aftermath– like a moth drawn to a flame. 

“Look at me,” you whisper, voice hoarse, head tilting back as his cock digs into your walls. Your clit scrapes against his skin as you lower yourself once, twice– the sensation causing you to flutter around him. 

His eyes, God those eyes, dark and heavy sear into your own. Hungry, depraved, wild. Hips screaming for release, you suck on your bottom lip for comfort, muscles ablaze as your pace falters. Let me help you.

“You’re mine too.”

The words slip before you catch yourself, but it was too late. Almost barely audible, but impossibly weighted. And with them, Brahms’ resolve shatters. 

Surging forward, your legs coil around his waist as he thrusts upwards– mouth melting into yours as you are all but lifted from the water. Pushing up on his knees, Brahms’ fingers dig into the fat of your ass as he bounces you on his cock. You gasp, nails digging into his back at the shift in the position, every movement much more pronounced as your insides turn to mush. 

Spit dribbles down your chin as his tongue pushes into your mouth, claiming you as his. Toes curling, your heels dig into his lower back, spine arching as he practically splits you in two. The rhythm is frantic, breathless as his cock drives into your gummy walls– ruining you for all others. 

He bottoms out, hips stuttering as your teeth sink into his bottom lip, fingers dancing across his flesh like worship. Every inch, every ridge, every scar mapped by your palms as you commit him to memory. Not as a monster, not as your captor– but as a man. 

Your name falls from his lips like a broken prayer, low– raw, and your fingers drag across his scalp. Fisting damp curls between your fingers, you yank his hair backwards, lips raking across his jawline as he holds you like you weigh nothing. 

“Shh,” you whine. “-you’ll wake the dead.”

His eyes roll back into his skull, something between a groan and a shudder tearing through him as he molds you against his skin. Heat and blood and need coarse through your veins, stomach clenching as tension knots in your gut. 

Fire laps at your skin, climax coiling around you so tightly you feel as if you would snap. Nails scraping against Brahms’ scalp you whine as the orgasm crashes through you– legs numb from the force as you cling to him like your saving grace.

His eyes widen as your head buries into his neck, thighs twitching as exhaustion consumes you, brain short circuiting from the overstimulating combination of pain and pleasure coursing across your skin. Shuddering, Brahms retreats, pulling you off of him as his hand wraps around his cock, frantically pumping himself with laboured breaths as you sink against the edge of the tub. 

You could only stare, lost in those dangerous caramel flecks in a sea of brown coated in lust, obsession, and something else hiding just beneath the surface. A strained groan echoes across the bathroom walls as Brahms peaks, coating his navel and thighs in a frothy white. 

Before you could stop yourself, you move closer– grabbing the washcloth and wiping away the mess. So faithful, so devoted. A content sigh bubbles from his chest, fingers curling around the edge of the tup as he hoists himself over. Your eyes glance at his back, covered in irritated scratches across his shoulder blades, sending a wave of heat churning in your gut. 

The very scratches you marked him with just moments before. 

The bath water, now tepid, sloshes against your pruned toes as you are hoisted from the tub. Standing on wobbly knees, a fluffy towel wraps around your shoulders, condensation dripping down your skin and onto the marble tiles. You dry yourself silently, muscles aching, limbs numb as you try to ignore the eyes boring into your flesh. 

The mask lay forgotten on the bathroom floor, a reminder of your fall from grace. Towel wrapped loosely around his hips, Brahms ushers you towards the bed– no teasing words, no lingering touches, just warm sheets encompassing your naked form as you sink into the mattress. 

You don’t speak, you don’t have to.

Weariness sinking into your bones as the bedspread lowers next to you. Arms coil around your waist like ivy, pulling you into a solid chest as if he feared you would vanish from his grasp. Melting into the soft goose down of the duvet, you tilt your head towards him, offering a peck on the underside of his jaw. He grumbles in response, tiredness evident as his movements grow sluggish. 

Lips caressing the crown of your head, you almost miss the whisper that wafts against your flesh. 

“Mine.”

Eyes fluttering closed, sleep begins to take you– body weighing into his chest like roots taking shape. Slow, deep breathing fills the room, the faint sound of the water draining from the tub echoing across the walls. Skin pressed so tightly it felt as if you were fusing together, the world fades to black. 

Outside, the greenhouse waits– rain mingling with the blood soaking the cobblestone path. Tea leaves curl around the broken bodies left to rot, the smell of death heavy in the damp air. Silence clings to the manor like moss, sprouting across the tunnels and through the halls. 

And beneath it all, something begins to stir– something that might be love.

[velvetsainz]

summary: [ cs55, cl16, mv1, lh44, fa14, sv5, dr3, mwebber, jb22 x fem!reader ] three major kinks + a couple minor kinks for each driver

word count: 1.8k

content warnings: smut under the cut (minors dni pls!), pwp; i'm not going to tag all of these bc that would take 5ever BUT 1) everything is consensual & in the setting of a happy, healthy relationship & 2) dm me if you are needing any specific tw's/cw's & i'll be happy to share those!

a/n: it's been a hot, hot minute since i've had the energy to write (i was busy surviving my surgery core rotation at a level 1 trauma center & pediatrics at a major children's hospital), but i've been brewing up a lil something for awhile now! i was stalling out on writing the last part of corsica, so i figured i'd at least give you this to get the juices flowing again! i started this blog about six months ago, & i'm nearly at 500 followers & i wanted to take a moment to thank you all! i love you so much and i hope you enjoy this! these are the kinks i think each of these drivers has! what proof do i have, you ask? absolute fuck-all! enjoy, loves! xx

creampie + breeding kink — he’s a family man & lord knows how badly he wants his own. he’s possessive, too, & this sates both of those desires well for him.  he’s always whispering something in your ear, hand low on your belly about how good you’d look carrying his babies. and once you’re actually pregnant? sweet jesus, he’s never taking his hands off of you.

shower sex — he’s talked a number of times about how he’ll shower multiple times a day, and something tells me he’d never object to a partner. more than once he’s had you against the tiled walls until the water ran cold and your teeth were chattering.  he’d then proceed to take it upon himself to warm you up again, ever the gentleman.

post-workout sex — there’s something about the way you look, out of breath & drenched in sweat that sends all the blood in his body rushing to his cock. you’re trying to push him away, afraid that you’re just too gross, but this man does not give a single fuck.  he adores you in all your sweaty, sticky glory & is on you the second you make it back from your class, peeling you out of your leggings and wrangling your too-tight sports bra over your head.  and it goes the other way as well: his favorite workout cooldown is fucking you senseless; there’s something deeply primal about the exertion of a workout that clouds his head with only thoughts of you, out of breath & on the brink of orgasm.

minor kinks | hair pulling — rough sex — cockwarming — pussy worship — possessiveness — soft dom — teasing — dirty talk

praise kink — he’s a talker in bed, and that means that he’s telling you just how delicious the tight clutch of your velvet walls feels around his cock. one language is not enough to tell you all the ways you make him feel, how good you are, how badly he’s wanted you. it certainly doesn’t hurt when you reciprocate, but the sounds he’s able to work out of you are often enough for him.

vanilla sex — listen: it’s no secret that this man is a romantic, and there are few things as romantic as good ole vanilla sex. sure, some spice is nice every once in a while, but he doesn’t need it to get his rocks off. he’s too caught up in the romance of it all—the tangle of limbs, skin pressed against skin, stuttering breaths, and stammering hearts—to want anything else.  all he needs is you.

kissing — similar as above, charles is a sucker for romance, and a good makeout sess is just the right thing to get him hot and bothered.  he’s very talented with languages, and his mastery of his tongue doesn’t end with words. *wink wink*

minor kinks | oral sex (giving + receiving) — creampie — cowgirl — bathtub sex — breathplay

mutually drunk sex — no matter how much he loves a club scene, he’d always find himself back in your arms.  happy, sloppy, messy sex. as much as he loves a g&t, he loves the taste of you more.

wax play — we’ve seen the clips. he likes dripping the wax just as much as he likes being dripped on, and every time you go to light a candle his eyes get that hungry look like he could devour you whole; you’ve learned how to use this to your advantage.

dirty talk + praise kink — as we all know, this man is a certified YAPPER. and, unsurprisingly, that extends to the bedroom, too.  always groaning, grunting, whispering sweet nothings in your ears, there’s very little that leaves him truly speechless; you’ll always know exactly how he feels when you're riding his cock or taking him deep in your throat, whether that’s in dutch, english, or the french he’s been trying to practice. and, given his upbringing, he lives for the praises that fall past your lips; he aims to please, and your sweet words are all the motivation he needs.

minor kinks | restraints (giving + receiving) — spanking — threesomes — nipple play — sensory play

massage — he takes great pride in his physique, and he thinks every inch of you is perfect.  he loves watching all the tension leave your body. with such limited time in his busy, busy life, he thrives on the time he gets to spend with you; few things can compete with the peace, intimacy, and pleasure that comes from the feeling of your hands working over the tight muscles of his back and legs. and if they happen to wander somewhere else? well, what a happy accident that would be!

fingering — if there’s one thing lewis knows, it’s that a man’s most important tool isn’t the one between his legs.  he loves all the ways in which you unravel for him, your back pressed against his chest with your legs draped over his own to keep them open.  he’ll play with you like that for hours if he could, unlacing your composure until you're boneless and melting into him with every touch. (also, dear god, have you seen his hands? female gaze bait of the highest form.)

the lingerie stays on — there’s a litany of pick-up lines about clothes, etc. looking good on you but better on their floor, and a one mr. hamilton disagrees with that sentiment; we know well how he appreciates fine garments, and he loves them even more when you’re wearing them.  he’s most certainly one to spoil his partner, and if he’s going to buy you that agent provocateur set, you can bet he wants to see you in it.

minor kinks | soft dom — cowgirl — voyeurism — intimacy — dirty talk — shower sex — pillowtalk

face riding — why do you think he takes so much pride in his neck strength? and even when you’re squirming away from overstimulation, he’s more than able to hold you in place by hooking his toned biceps over your shaking thighs. he’s a menace, but he never leaves a partner wanting for more.

wearing his clothes — okay, this one isn’t original in the slightest because i simply cannot get this blurb by @folkloresthings out of my head.  nando would keel over at the sight of you in his clothes, especially if there was a particular lack of certain undergarments. he’d pull you in by the excess material and have you right there if feasible.

anal sex — all the nando fuckers know that he’s a little freaky—can i get an amen? that being said, his experience goes a long way in helping his partner get the most out of it and making it a pleasurable experience for all parties. he’d take his time working you open, pairing it with leg-shaking orgasms to wash away any doubts in your mind. it’s a new sensation, but a welcome one at that.

minor kinks | swallowing / facials — teasing — spanking — rough sex — sloppy sex — aftercare

teasing — a tyrant on the track and one in the bedroom as well. or in the car. or at a dinner with a few too many pairs of eyes. regardless, being a tease is his favorite above all else despite his own inability to handle a healthy dose of his own medicine. 

overstimulation — this more or less goes hand-in-hand with his teasing, but he loves the way you beg when you’re coming down from one high and coasting right into another. “just one more, liebling” or “you’ve got another one, don’t you, schatz?” or “i know you can take it, kleiner hase” before making your vision go white as he wrings another orgasm from you.

morning sex — but, above all else, sebastian is a lover, and few things are quite as intimate as slow, fumbling, half-awake morning sex where you’re mumbling praises and communicating in soft, hushed sounds of pleasure. chasing sensations and desires before your mind is even fully awake takes a strong, trusting bond, and he prides himself on this with his partner.

minor kinks | cockwarming — spanking — mutual masturbation — toys — soft restraints (giving + receiving) — creampie / breeding — praise kink — dirty talk

cowgirl — this man & his obsession w/ texas—need i say more? how does that saying go, again? “save a horse…”

photos/sextape — daniel3.jpg would like a word.  he’s obsessed with this new medium, and what’s a better way to remember a spicy moment than on film? plus, when you’re traveling 200-plus days a year, you need a way to bring a piece of home with you however you can, whether that’s watching you fall apart while arching your back as he grips your shoulder tight or taking him into the back of your throat as you look up at him through damp lashes or riding his cock or or arching your back as he grips your shoulder tight…you get the picture.

threesomes — considering the way that everyone fawns over him on the grid, this man could so easily work himself into some surprising pairings. his love language is physical touch and he’s not afraid to share it. that, combined with his competitiveness and desire to please, turns into a dangerous desire for him to see you fucked out and overwhelmed by your own need for more.

minor kinks | mirror sex — dirty talk — thigh riding — facefucking — rough sex — hair pulling

rough sex — aussie grit. there’s nothing else i need to say other than he’s a wild ride.

aftercare — any rough lover worth their prowess, though, knows the importance of aftercare, and mark is no different in that regard.  he takes it very seriously and is always checking in afterward to make sure you enjoyed yourself as much as he did, peppering you in sweet kisses and warm embraces.

pussy worship — we’ve all seen the clip, right? this man knows how to eat pussy and he’s damn good at it. better yet—he loves doing it. you’d practically have to pry him off you from the overstimulation, his tongue, lips, and teeth finding alllll the right ways to make you fall apart.

minor kinks | cockwarming — spanking — possessiveness — massage — swallowing / facials

exhibitionism + voyeurism — the grid slag. he’s confident about his body and his abilities, and he’s not afraid to share. he’s not overly possessive and an unabashed hedonist to boot, so this pairing works perfectly to get his rocks off (and hopefully yours, too). he’s a little freak, and he’s not afraid to let it show!

spanking — when you’re especially mouthy (frequently to get these exact reactions) and he’s a little bold, jenson is partial to taking you over his knee and seeing how long you can keep up the act before you’re a whimpering mess. frequently this ends with him literally kissing your ass, two fingers buried knuckle deep in your dripping cunt while another toys with your too-sensitive clit.

brattiness — again, like above, he loves when you backtalk or drag your heels on him, making him work for your pleasure and, on some nights, your submission. (though, he’s not afraid to admit how fucking hot he finds it when you take control, using him for your pleasure and taking what you need. all that matters to him is raw, messy, dirty fun.)

minor kinks | threesomes — begging — degradation kink (giving + receiving) — nipple play — oral sex (giving + receiving) — toys

final note: that's all, folks! now what do you think? let me know! 🤍 as always, you can follow my writing sideblog @velvetsainz-writes​ where i reblog inspo & recs!

[tvseries-writings]

Life at Westview II

Agathario x reader

TW: fainting

Prompt: At Westview Hospital, reader is an ambitious and dedicated resident whose relentless commitment to her job often pushes her physical and emotional limits; Fortunately, the Head of Trauma Surgery, Rio Vidal, and her wife, the Head of Neurosurgery, Agatha Harkness, seem to have a certain interest in the resident.

Life at Westview Part I

Agatha had accompanied you to the room reserved for residents, supporting you with such firmness that her usual stoic image betrayed a tenderness and thoughtfulness she rarely displayed openly. As soon as your head had touched the pillow, a sigh of relief had hit your limbs as the weariness of weeks resonated heavily in your bones. You were exhausted, physically and emotionally.

Agatha had remained in the room with you and had barred everyone but the two of you from entering it. She had sat next to you, in the chair beside the bed where you were in the habit of lying down after exhausting shifts and not after collapsing in her arms; her usually impassive face was now marked by furrowed brows and obvious tension.

For one brief, fleeting moment, you had met her worried gaze, and the embarrassment and awareness of what had happened seemed to suffocate you. 

"It shouldn't have come to this," her voice was uneasily calm as she spoke those words; despite your fatigue and clouded mind, you had realized that hee was a rebuke, albeit one veiled in concern, and in that moment you had caught a glimpse of the primary physician with whom you had fallen in love over the past few months. 

You had sighed, had looked away from her, intense, concerned, painfully real. Unbearable.

"I...I thought I could handle it."

"You can't handle this alone, not in this job, not now that you have us."

A long silence had filled the room. For a moment, the room had been filled only with the sound of your breathing, labored but increasingly regular.

"I don't want to be a burden to you," you had murmured, in a weak, tired voice.

Agatha had shaken her head, her eyes fixed on you, determined and deep.

"You are not a burden, y/n. You are a strong and capable person, but sometimes we all need help. You need to stop trying to prove something all the time, especially to yourself."

The sincerity of her words had struck you, making it clear how much she could see beyond that mask of strength you wore every day.

"It's hard," you admitted with an edge to your voice, "I don't want to disappoint anyone, least of all you."

Agatha gave a small smile, sad and understanding at the same time.

"You won't disappoint us. The only disappointment would be to see that you are hurting yourself out of a misunderstood sense of duty."

The tension in your muscles had slowly melted away at his words. You had not realized how much you needed to hear those words, to receive that explicit and sincere support.

               ........................................

Over the next few days, The days at Westview Hospital had resumed their fast pace. You had tried to focus on work, to sink body and soul into grueling shifts, running between hallways and constant emergencies. Yet the more you tried to suppress the feelings, the more they seemed to surface with an overbearingness you could no longer ignore.

You had recovered physically, at least in appearance. Back on the ward, you had resumed your shifts with the same manic dedication, but with a new awareness: that someone, two someone, had begun to really see you. But what you had gained in lucidity, you were losing in emotional balance.

It had become impossible to remain indifferent to the glances Rio gave you during morning briefings, glances that no longer had the cold shadow of authority but the warmth of an inner struggle. And with Agatha, every word exchanged seemed like a cipher, every contact a flash of truth you dared not speak aloud. Yet, something was changing.

It wasn't war, not yet. But a tense silence, the kind of silence that precedes a storm. You wondered if they knew. If Rio had guessed. If Agatha had confessed.

Then that night shift had come. Yet another one. The emergency room was eerily quiet, one of those rare lulls in which the world seemed to hold its breath. You were reorganizing paperwork in the nursing station when you heard her voice.

"Need a hand, doctor?"

You had looked up and Rio was there, her lab coat unbuttoned and the shadow of a smile on her lips. That smile you knew so well, but now it seemed to carry with it something more--dark, passionate, dark.

"All quiet tonight," you had replied with a half smile, trying to keep your voice steady as the butterflies in your stomach bounced noisily.

"Quiet is boring."

She approached slowly, like a predator who knows she is in control. Her eyes sought you, insistent. You swallowed.

"I heard about your little meltdown."

Silence. Your breath caught in your throat. Rio had leaned against the counter, her arms crossed. Her tone was neutral, but her gaze was not.

"Agatha was distraught. Not because of the collapse itself, but because she didn't notice. And neither did I."

The words struck you with a fierce gentleness. There was no anger. Only truth.

"You could have told me about it. About her. About you. About us."

You had lowered your gaze, your heart pounding in your chest.

"I didn't know if there could be an 'us.' All three of us."

Rio had remained silent and then stepped forward, a little closer to you, her breath brushing against your lips.

"What if I told you that it already exists? That we want it too?"

You slowly lifted your gaze, finding hers. There was no irony, no hesitation. Only certainty and lips dangerously close to yours.

"We talked about it. Agatha and I. For weeks, in silence, in gestures, with looks that said it all. And then-we said it. We don't want to choose. We don't want to deny ourselves anymore."

Your mind struggled to keep up with your emotions.

"And you...?"

Rio smiled, a real smile, perhaps the first in weeks.

"I want you. Both of you. All the complication, all the beauty."

It was at that moment that Agatha appeared on the threshold of the nursing room, entering and catching you in the act. Your lips against her wife's. She was still wearing her gown, but her hair was loose on her shoulders and her gaze, for once, defenseless, .

"I knew you would speak first," she said to Rio, with a slight note of irony.

Then she had looked at you. Her eyes were glossy, but proud.

"What we feel is not a mistake. It's not a detour. It's just ... ours."

You had been silent, overwhelmed. Not by confusion, but by relief. Agatha walked over to you and took one hand, while Rio took your other.

"We can try. In our own way. With the rules we choose," Agatha had said, quietly.

"It won't be easy. But none of the good things ever are," Rio's soft voice had greeted you like a caress.

And so, in that room of dull lights and silent monitors, hands intertwined, you had chosen. Not escape. Not denial. But possibility.

Agatha, Rio and you. Three women, three stories, three hearts. One reality, finally shared. Not a triangle, but a circle. Open, imperfect, but sincere.

Since that night, things had changed. Not radically. Not immediately. But they had changed.

Rio had started leaving post-its in your locker. Short reminders, sarcastic jokes and other decidedly dirty ones.

Agatha, on the other hand, had forced you to take days off. She had discreetly arranged shifts, and no one had dared to question her. No one had found the courage to question the Purple Witch about it. No one. Not even his own wife, not even his own mistress.

                    …………………..........................

"Agatha, please. Can we not fight again?"

A heavy sigh leaves your lips as you clench the bridge of your nose, wrinkling your skin to try to chase away the frustration. This is the fourth time you've argued this week, and you're tired of fighting with her over anything. 

"We could if you would just take a fucking day off y/n! I feel like I'm back in front of that resident I had to pick up off the fucking floor years ago. I've seen more patients die from fatigue than from technical mistakes y/n, fatigue kills you and them dammit. How can you not understand that!?"

Her voice is icy, her gaze tired, and her usually neat hair is encased in a disheveled bun and on the verge of sagging; her white lab coat caresses her curves and curls just below her breasts, where the neurosurgeon is holding her arms crossed as she watches you with her trademark raised eyebrow.

You huff. You rip off your gloves and throw them into the basket with all too much anger, risking having it tipped over.

You have just come out of the operating room, out of a surgery that took far too long and could have gone badly, very badly, as your vision blurred and your body faltered for a few terrible moments, and you understand that Agatha is angry, really, but right now you don't need an angry surgeon but your wife.

"Agatha, I-"

"Dr. Harkness, I'm sorry to interrupt you but you're needed in operating room number 5, they say it's urgent."

Agatha had never seen eye to eye with Wanda, perhaps out of jealousy,-although the redhead was engaged to Natasha-and certainly that interruption would not foster a more positive view of her.

"Thank you, Maximoff. Y/n, let's continue this discussion later."

You nod, the knot in your stomach only increasing as you see her disappointed look quickly disappear past the door. 

Wanda stands in the doorway, watching you and then, without the need for you to say anything, with three big strides she reaches out and pulls you into a hug.

"Thank you Wands."

"Trouble with the wife sergeant?"

You chuckle at the nickname, hiding your face in the hollow of the sokovian's neck.

"Nothing new, just the usual stuff...I almost screwed up in there, Wands. If only-"

"Hey, nothing happened, that's what matters but this time I have to agree with you honey, you can't keep going too far or someone will get hurt."

You give her one last squeeze and then, with a smile, slip away, away from that raw truth that hurts you too much. Your body moves on its own, your hands rummaging through your pockets for the key, unconsciously. In a few minutes, you arrive in front of the door to your wife's office, pull out the keys-which only you, Agatha and the person directly involved possess-and take refuge in that little safe haven, as you have always done since your first year of residency.

You slip off your lab coat and drop it on the floor and then lie down on top of it, completely ignoring the comfortable couch that has hosted far too many of your make-outs, and more, over the past few years. You stare at the ceiling and lift your legs, resting them on the armrest; your back smeared against the cold black marble that Rio had installed out of his own pocket in what was supposed to be "a piece of her in this cage of crazy." 

Your head is spinning - you haven't eaten since before the surgery - but nothing is more annoying than the lump that has formed in your throat at the thought of Agatha being pissed off at you; not just as a wife but as a primary caregiver. Tears begin to line your cheeks, run down your face, down your chin, wet your neck, and finally fall on the gown over which you have been standing to cushion the cold marble. Stronger dizziness hits you and this time you struggle to keep your eyes open; you should call someone, you know you should but you don't need the hospital interior to kick down the door to Rio's office to find one of the surgeons lying on the floor.

You take deep breaths, try to move your head, see if you can grab the phone you dropped somewhere, but a gasp of nausea forces you to desist. The only thing you can think of is the shame of losing consciousness on the office floor and you pray with all your might that none of your wives will return before you regain consciousness. You know you are going to pass out but that doesn't make it any less frightening. 

It takes five interminable minutes before you lose consciousness altogether and your head hangs to the side, settling on your lab coat with a gentle clatter.You pass out. And just as long it takes your phone to ring, Rio's name appearing on the screen, once, twice, three times. No answer

The phone's display continues to glow on the floor, vibrating jerkily against the marble, sliding along the tiles, but you don't hear it. 

Your face is bent to the side, your breath scraped, saliva dangerously pooling on the right side of your mouth as it builds up without a chance to be swallowed. The world is reduced to a distant hum, a rosy darkness behind your eyelids.

Rio's office door creaks, cracks, the latch clicks, and the head of the chief of trauma peeps into his own office.

Rio does not move immediately. She stops on the threshold, her back straight, one hand still on the doorknob. She watches helplessly and terrified as your body lies on the floor, over the gown you are wont to use as a shield between you and the world, your legs propped over the armrest of the couch in a mere attempt to remain conscious. She takes the scene as you would take an open wound: with an instant of denial, then with the lucidity needed to throw yourself in and a poorly concealed panic. She collapses to her knees beside you, her cold hand searching for your pulse, your pulse, your pupil. The breath comes out of her like a mantra, "come on mi amor, not now..."

She whispers against your forehead, her right hand slips inside her pocket and pulls out the pen-light; she lifts your eyelid, your pupil reacts, but sluggishly.

"Breathe mi amor, por favor."

Her hands continue to roam down your body, over your neck, searching for the pulse on your wrist; up to your breasts, knuckles beginning to rub against your sternum. A painful, dry, necessary stimulus.

Inside that shapeless darkness, your mind clings to the remnants of voices that float and break down, liquefied like watercolor: Agatha calling you "fucking stubborn," Wanda's gentle hands, Rio yanking you away from the operating room because "no one who breaks so often can be left alone with a scalpel in her hand."

Then even the voices stop and only silence remains.

The first thing you sense, when you resurface, is the rough fabric of the gown scratching your cheek. The second, a moist and familiar pressure above your forehead: hands hands hands, always their hands, pulling you back. You reopen your eyes and for an instant the ceiling spins, your eyes taking a few seconds to make out the silhouette above your face.

"Jesus Christ, y/n. You think you're marrying a smart woman, instead you look like you've traded your degree for the Tamagotchi instruction manual. You fucking fainted, again, you ignored your body once more."

You don't have the strength to respond. You have the luxury of closing your eyes once more and breathing in the smell of Rio, even under fatigue and sweat and hospital soap. SHe is using sarcasm as a shield, you know, and you believe she has the right to it.

When Rio opens her mouth to speak again, the office door opens and your wife comes through the door.

It is not Agatha who enters but Dr. Harkness, the chief physician. The icy Purple Witch who theorizes the wards of every department.

For just a single moment, the room fills with her presence alone; Agatha says nothing, shuts the office door, her gaze affiliated like a scalpel as she scans the scene before her. She is impassive, or at least she seems to be, but you and Rio know her well enough to know that she is terrified.

She falls to her knees next to the two of you, her hands quickly finding your wrist and then the pen-light in her pocket. You try to move away from the light but Agatha squeezes your chin between her fingers, forcing you to look up as she slides the light from left to right, watching your pupils carefully.

"Did she hit her head?"

The head of neurosurgery turns to yours wife, completely ignoring your presence. If you had the strength, right now you would be reminding them both that you are right there in their midst. Instead, what you do is remind them that you are still not well. Your eyes close, just for a few seconds and that's enough for Agatha and Rio to panic.

You sense the rush of their hands over every uncovered inch, the frenzy with which they try to bring you back to the present, the urgent, worried voices, and for the first time in your life you are not sure whether you are desperately trying to stay or give up. You don't want to disappoint them, either, but every fiber in your body cries out for surrender. Perhaps the deepest disappointment is your own, unable to accept the limit, the humiliation of being fragile, of no longer being in control.

Their voices seem to come from afar, muffled, as if you are underwater and everything else has sunk into a mush of silences and maddening beats. You hear Rio trying to keep you awake, calling out to you, "mi vida" slipping from her lips, as Agatha lifts your eyelids, controls every single change in your breathing, and Rio presses her knuckles hard on your sternum. The pain is blinding, followed by an electric shock that wakes you up for the second time in ten minutes. You bounce between their gazes like an out-of-control marble, dilated pupils piercing theirs, Rio's tense jaw holding your face in her hands and not stopping to look for a sign of improvement, Agatha's worry-scarred face checking your pulse repeatedly.

"S I'm fine."

You whisper, swallowing; you blink a couple of times and resist the temptation to let yourself abandon yourself on the marble floor, on your gown used as a shield.

Agatha makes a taunting sound, letting the little pen-light blind you once more as she forces you to look at that hellish little light.

"Sure, you look great. You're as pale as a cyanotic person, y/n. Your pupils are dilated and slow to react, and you probably have a concussion, too."

"N-no, I...I lay down before I lost consciousness."

The truth behind your words sits like a boulder in that room; the realization that you had been feeling ill and had not called them makes its way into their thoughts, and anger grows as they become more vivid.

"Maldita sea y/n, podrías haberte hecho daño. Respirabas con dificultad cuando llegaron y te quedaste inconsciente durante no sé cuántos minutos. Eres una idiota!"

Your wife's mother tongue resonates in the small office, vibrating against the walls and scattering through the space; you didn't understand even half of the words the trauma surgeon spoke but from the tone of her voice, they are not kind words.

"I didn't think we would have to go through this again y/n talk. You are our wife and we are terrified to walk into a room and see you lying on the floor forever."

Agatha's voice breaks and you let your legs slide to the floor, down the armrest, to move closer to her and embrace her. Your head spins, your stomach rumbles in turmoil, but you focus only on cuddling your wife, waiting for the other to join your embrace.

"We love you, mi amor."

You stay like this for a few minutes, and then you let them lay you down on the couch; your head sags on Agatha's arm, who strokes your hair slowly, in an almost hypnotic gesture. Rio, on the other hand, kneels in front of the sofa, facing you; her hands run down your face, your hair; they intertwine with yours and Agatha's. She smiles, lazily, her tired face streaked with the furrows that only the worst nights dig.

And in this moment of peace after the storm, both of your wives enjoy your touch as they think back to the first conversation, years ago, that had featured you.

................................

On the first day you had met Agatha, Rio had joined his wife at the nurses' station, and put on her usual mischievous smile, looking around before speaking to check that the field was clear, given what she was about to say.

"So...?"

"You were right, honey, she does have something the others don't."

Agatha had taken off her glasses and smiled at her wife, with a condescension that the chief of trauma rarely had the honor of achieving.

"Te veo, mi vida...I know how much you want to make her ours, to own her, to love her..."

"I long to be able to do that but..., we can't Rio. You know we can't."

"it's a challenge, mi amor-"

"She is stubborn, magnificent but masochistic like few, she is hardworking and has such a pure soul- No. No,we are her superiors, we can't Rio, imagine what a scandal-"

"We too have been a scandal, Agatha. And you know it's worth the risk."

Rio had approached the desk where her wife was intent on looking at some files and leaned over her, brushing her right ear with her lips.

"She has talent but no measure."

"Then she has something in common with you, mi amor."

Rio had chuckled, leaving a kiss on her beloved's temple as the latter glowered at her.

"it's too big a risk, non-"

"You love risk, Agatha."

"Not in the lane, not with a scalpel in your hand."

"What about us, then?"

Rio had playfully tilted his head to the side, watching his triumphant wife, aware that he had won that silent race.

"It was different, we-"

They had both stopped, heard your voice; they had turned around and seen you arguing with an anesthesiologist with three times your experience. You didn't have the final badge yet, but you spoke like a chief resident and like someone who would not be trampled by seniority but only by knowledge, and Rio had had to agree with his wife.

"Oh yes...she is definitely different."

Thank you for reading! Should I continue this? I don't know, however, you guys always send me your requests. I remind you that I have added Georgia Miller to the characters I write for. Have a great day!



Taglist: @blackhill2245 @foggytidalwavefun @sevnheaven @budoxinha @lighthousekiller @m456300 @blitzar-3 @idontknownemore @lesbianbabe @speedup500 @differentranchempathfestival @mebeingthatbitch @jemilyswife @yuleni18 @darkstar225 @whyamihere2673 @your-my-mission @finca-lotr @coollemonsaresour @nuianced-tck-enby @fishlikestuff @ktstwice @idontknowhowtogay @liladoesfanfics @maria-403 @razorscooteer @certified-sleep-deprived @wandaharkness93 @chloeelou02x @evanssophie21 @3iizc7 @flopugh8 @kirahrii @academiagaymess @eyecandy111 @gothicphoenix @agatharioscoven @agathariostan

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Haunted

bob floyd x fem!reader

part 2 to meant to be yours 

⚠️ TW: DARK CONTENT — Please read with care.

This fic contains stalking, kidnapping, psychological manipulation, chloroform use, physical struggle, captivity, and obsessive behavior.

Themes include non-consensual restraint, emotional trauma, and disturbing content.

This is a dark romance thriller. Not a healthy relationship.

Reader discretion is advised.

The first thing she feels is the cold.

Concrete beneath her. Damp. Hard. Her head lolls to the side, throbbing. Her mouth won’t open. Something sticky stretches across her lips, tight, suffocating. Her limbs won’t move — not freely.

Her eyelids flutter.

It takes effort — too much effort — just to peel them open.

Dark. The room is dim, the air stale. There’s no window. No light source but the single flickering bulb swinging overhead, like it’s being toyed with. Like it knows she’s awake now.

Her eyes adjust slowly.

She’s in a basement. Cement walls. Cracked floor. Mold in the corners. It smells like dust and rot and rusted metal. Her wrists are tied behind her. Rope burns into her skin where she must’ve fought in her sleep. Her ankles are bound, too. She’s slumped awkwardly against a concrete pillar in the middle of the room.

There’s something on her mouth.

Duct tape.

And then — a sound. Breathing.

She freezes.

Her vision sharpens in jerks, patches, like a broken slideshow. Her heart pounds violently in her chest, slamming against her ribs.

And there he is.

Sitting on the floor in front of her, legs crossed like a child, spine straight, hands folded neatly in his lap.

Bob.

Not the Bob she knew. Not the gentle, soft-spoken man who brought her tea when she was sick. This version is hollow-eyed and vibrating, his skin too tight on his bones, the smile too wide, too still.

“There she is,” he says softly, reverently. “I was starting to think you weren’t gonna wake up.”

He shifts forward on his knees. Crawls. Stops right in front of her.

“I didn’t mean to use so much,” he murmurs. “With the cloth. I just—I had to get you here, baby. I had to.”

He brushes a piece of hair from her forehead with the back of his hand, like he’s petting her. Her body jerks away instinctively, but the rope holds firm.

“No, no, it’s okay,” he coos. “I know you’re scared. I know it’s… disorienting. But it’s gonna be okay now. You’re safe. I fixed everything.”

Her breath quickens. Tears sting at her eyes, rising fast.

“I know it was getting bad back there. All those people trying to tell you what to do. The cops. Maverick. The Navy. Like they knew what was best for you.”

He laughs — a quiet, bitter sound that dies too fast.

“They never loved you like I do.”

He gets closer. Too close. His knees touch hers. His hands settle gently on her thighs like they belong there.

“You don’t have to be scared of me. Not anymore. That other life — the one where you locked me out, where you turned everyone against me — that’s over.”

She shakes her head violently. Muffled cries behind the tape.

“I know you’re upset. I knew you would be. But you’ll see. Once the noise clears, once we’re alone long enough, you’ll remember.”

He leans in, presses his forehead to hers. His eyes close.

“I still remember what your skin felt like the first night I kissed you. The way you sighed into me, like I was oxygen. Don’t you remember that?”

She whimpers.

“I loved you so hard it broke me,” he whispers. “And you threw it away like I was some… mistake.”

He pulls back suddenly, his expression snapping — from gentle to sharp in a blink.

“You humiliated me.”

His voice echoes off the walls.

“You went to them. You betrayed me.”

His hand slams against the concrete beside her head. The bulb overhead swings harder.

“I lost everything. Do you even care what you did to me?”

Her body shakes. Her lungs ache. She can’t speak. Can’t scream. Can only cry — soft and strangled behind the tape.

Then, just as quickly as the rage flared, it vanishes.

He sinks back again. The smile returns, cracked and artificial.

“But it’s okay. I forgive you.”

He wipes a tear from her cheek. Like a lover. Like a priest.

“Because now we get to start over. Just us. No more cameras. No more cops. No more lies.”

He gestures vaguely behind her, to the locked stairwell. Heavy door. Steel bar. A padlock.

“No one’s coming. You’re mine now, the way it was always meant to be.”

He tilts his head, studying her tear-streaked face.

“I’m gonna take that tape off soon. But only if you promise not to scream. I don’t want to hurt you again.”

He grins, like it’s a joke. Like what he did wasn’t already unspeakable.

“And baby… if you try to run, I’ll have to tie you tighter. And I really don’t want to do that. So let’s be good, okay?”

Her body goes rigid as he lifts the edge of the tape slowly, tenderly — as if he were peeling off a bandage.

“Let’s be good,” he murmurs again. “For me.”

———

The duct tape peels off with a slow, agonizing rip. It burns her skin — pulls at it — leaves behind a slick of tears, spit, and sweat.

Her lips part immediately, desperate for air. Her jaw aches. Her breath hitches, chest rising too fast, too shallow. But she doesn’t scream.

She wants to. God, she wants to.

But the look in his eyes keeps her silent.

Not because she trusts him — she doesn’t. Not because she’s calm — she’s not.

But because she’s smart.

Because screaming in a place like this — wherever this is — won’t bring anyone. And he already warned her what would happen if she tried to run.

“See?” he whispers, cradling her face in both hands. “That’s my good girl. Knew you’d remember.”

She flinches, but he doesn’t care. He strokes her cheek like she’s a pet, a possession.

“I was worried at first. You were out for a long time. You scared me, baby. But now you’re here. Really here.”

He leans back, crosses his legs again like he’s settling in for a bedtime story.

“I found this place months ago. It’s not much to look at, but it’s got everything we need. No neighbors. No traffic. Nobody’s gonna hear a thing out here. Not unless I want them to.”

She glances around — slow, discreet, memorizing what she can. The corners of the room are shadowed, but she can make out a rusty utility sink, a pile of folded blankets in one corner, a table near the back wall with a crate full of things she can’t see clearly from this distance.

His things.

His tools.

“I had to do this. You know that, right?” he says. “You were slipping away from me. Acting like I was some kind of monster.”

Her mouth is dry, voice barely a whisper. “You are.”

His expression doesn’t falter.

He just smiles wider. Unshaken. “No, baby. I’m yours. That’s all I ever wanted to be.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls something out — a scrunchie. Herscrunchie. The blue one she lost weeks ago. He holds it delicately between his fingers like it’s a religious relic.

“I kept this. I know it’s stupid, but… it still smells like you.”

Her skin crawls. Her stomach turns.

He moves closer again — slow, reverent — and slips the scrunchie onto her wrist like a bracelet. Over the rope.

“There. Now you’ve got a piece of me. Just like I’ve got you.”

She forces herself to speak, trying to keep her voice even. “You need help, Bob. You’re sick.”

His jaw twitches. For a second, just a second, the softness drops.

“I’m not sick,” he says flatly. “I’m in love. And you used to love me, too. Don’t lie.”

She opens her mouth, but his hand flies up — not to hit, but to hush. Two fingers to her lips.

“Shhh. Don’t ruin it.”

He breathes in deeply through his nose like he’s calming himself. Like he’s trying to stay the nice version — the sweet one.

“I’ve got food upstairs. Some canned stuff. Water. I even brought your favorite lotion from your bathroom.” His voice brightens, childlike, proud. “The one with the vanilla smell.”

She doesn’t speak. She can’t.

“And in a few days, when you’re calm, we can go for walks. Not far. Just around the woods. But only if you behave. If you scream, or try to run…” His eyes flick to the rope, then back to her face. “I won’t be so nice next time.”

He stands suddenly, brushing off his jeans.

“You need rest. You’ve been through a lot.”

She glares up at him. “Untie me.”

He smiles. “Not yet. Not until I know I can trust you.”

He walks over to the table in the corner. She watches every movement, hyper-aware. He picks something up — a Polaroid camera.

He holds it up.

“I wanna remember this. The moment we started over.”

The flash goes off before she can turn her face.

Click.

The photo slides out, and he shakes it gently.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs.

He tucks it into his shirt pocket like a keepsake.

“I’ll be back soon. Don’t go anywhere.”

He laughs at his own joke, walks to the locked door, and disappears behind it with the click of a heavy padlock.

And then, finally, she sobs.

Because now she knows — no one’s coming.

———

The light above her flickers—buzzing, dim, sterile.

She’s still tied to the cement pillar, legs bound tight with coarse rope that’s started to burn raw against her skin. Her arms, at least, are free now. They tingle with returned circulation, heavy and aching as they settle in her lap. She hasn’t spoken. Not since she woke up.

A tray sits in front of her on the floor. Real food. A plate of chicken, rice, green beans. A metal fork. A bottle of water. Even a folded napkin, like this was some kind of picnic.

Bob sits cross-legged just a few feet away, his own plate balanced in his lap as he chews slowly. Calmly. Like this is normal. Like this is theirs.

He watches her as he eats, eyes soft, almost dreamy.

“I made your favorite,” he says finally, licking sauce from his thumb. “You always liked when I cooked for you. Remember that one night—chili, cornbread, a shitty movie on Netflix? You said I made you feel safe.”

He smiles like it’s a warm memory. She stares at the food. Doesn’t touch it.

A minute passes. Then another.

He sets his fork down with a quiet clink.

“You’re not eating.”

She doesn’t respond. Her throat is dry, lips cracked. Her hands twitch, just slightly, but still she doesn’t move.

“You think it’s poisoned?” His voice lilts up, teasing. Then flattens. “It’s not.”

She looks away.

His tone sharpens, just a little. “I said—it’s not.”

She flinches.

Bob watches her closely. His jaw tenses. He picks up his fork again and eats another bite, slower this time, like he’s performing for her. Like he needs her to understand that everything he’s done—this kidnapping, this basement, this madness—it’s all coming from a place of love.

“You’ve been through a lot,” he murmurs between bites. “I know. I scared you. I hate that I had to do it like this, but you left me no choice. You tried to run. You betrayed me.”

He shrugs, sets his empty plate aside.

“But it’s okay now. We’re back together. That’s what matters.”

Still, she doesn’t eat.

Bob stands.

Her body stiffens as he walks across the basement to an old red toolbox near the wall. He crouches, flips it open, and begins rifling through it slowly—deliberately.

Metal clangs.

When he turns around, there’s a knife in his hand.

Rusty. Dull. The kind of blade that wasn’t made for precision but for fear.

Her eyes widen.

He approaches again, quiet and unhurried. The blade dangles loosely at his side.

“I’m gonna ask you again,” he says softly, crouching beside her. “Eat.”

She stares at the food, hands trembling now.

“Eat, sweetheart.” His voice is sing-song. “Don’t make me ask again.”

Her lip quivers. She reaches for the fork.

He watches—still crouched, still holding the knife.

She stabs a bite of the chicken. Brings it to her mouth.

Chews.

Swallows.

It’s good.

She hates that it’s good.

Bob exhales like he’s relieved. Like this proves something.

“See?” he whispers, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Tastes just like home.”

She doesn’t answer. Just keeps eating, slow and cautious, every movement watched.

Bob finally sets the knife down beside him and picks up his empty plate.

“You eat,” he says gently. “I’ll clean up.”

And just like that, he hums a little tune and walks off to rinse his dish in the corner sink—like none of this is wrong.

Like she’s not a hostage.

Like they’re just… living together again.

And she eats. Because she’s starving. Because she’s scared. Because something inside her—something fragile and cracked—doesn’t know what’s real anymore.

——

The air is damp. Cold.

The only light flickers from a single overhead bulb, casting a sickly yellow hue over the cement floor. Y/N is still tied to the pillar — arms bound behind her back again, legs curled awkwardly to the side, her body stiff from being in the same position for too long.

Footsteps echo down the concrete stairs.

Bob appears at the bottom of them with a towel slung over his shoulder and something folded in his hands. A pair of leggings. One of her old T-shirts. Familiar. From her closet.

He’s calm. Smiling.

“You’re awake,” he says like it’s a good morning. “That’s good. That’s real good.”

He walks over, crouches in front of her, and gently brushes a strand of hair away from her face. His touch makes her flinch, but he doesn’t stop.

“You must feel gross, huh? I figured. That’s why I brought this.”

He sets the towel and clothes aside and pulls a little plastic bin closer. Inside — a bottle of soap, a rag, a cheap razor, a travel-sized shampoo. He lays them out one by one like it’s a spa treatment.

“You need to be clean,” he murmurs. “I don’t like seeing you like this. Not when you’re mine.”

Her mouth stays shut. Eyes tracking his every move.

Bob stands, walks behind her, and begins untying her legs. Her ankles are swollen from the rope. He touches them softly.

“Shhh,” he says. “Don’t move yet. I’m gonna help you.”

He grabs the bucket from the corner. She hadn’t even noticed it before. It’s filled with warm water—steam still rising. He dips the rag in, wrings it out, then crouches again.

“You’re gonna wash yourself,” he says gently. “I’ll be right here.”

He unties her arms next. Her shoulders ache from the tension, and she nearly collapses forward. Bob catches her and steadies her against the pillar like he’s comforting her.

“You try to run,” he adds softly, “I’ll break your leg. You know I will. But I don’t think you’re gonna try, are you?”

His tone is so tender it almost sounds loving.

Y/N shakes her head, eyes wide. No, she’s not going to try.

He kisses her forehead.

“Good girl.”

Bob takes a step back and sits against the opposite wall, folding his arms as he watches.

“Go on,” he says. “I want to see you clean. Like you’re supposed to be.”

Her hands tremble as she picks up the rag. The water is too hot but she doesn’t complain. She dips it again and starts with her arms, wiping away grime, dried sweat, the ache of captivity. Her eyes burn with humiliation.

Bob watches. Smiling. Calm.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. “You always were. But now? You’re really starting to look like mine again.”

She keeps washing. Quiet. Terrified.

When she’s done, she sets the rag aside and reaches for the towel. Her hands barely work, but she dries herself in silence, then slowly pulls on the clean clothes.

Bob sighs softly, like it’s the best thing he’s seen in years.

“That’s better. You feel better, don’t you?”

She doesn’t answer. Just nods once.

Bob walks over and crouches in front of her again. He gently re-ties her legs with the same rope, but looser this time. Almost lazily. Like he trusts her.

“You did real good,” he whispers. “I’m proud of you.”

Then he strokes her hair once, stands, and walks back toward the stairs.

“Get some rest. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

He doesn’t say what that means.

But the lights go out again.

And the dark feels colder than before.

———

The silence is thick.

There’s no telling how long it’s been since she last slept. Or what time it is. The only light comes from a dying flashlight in the corner, casting faint, trembling shadows against the walls.

Y/N’s back is pressed to the cement pillar again, legs re-bound, arms behind her. The clean clothes cling to her skin with cold sweat. Her head hangs forward, heavy with exhaustion.

She fights to keep her eyes open. Her whole body aches. But she’s starting to drift. The tension, the fear, the sheer mental overload—it’s finally pulling her under.

She doesn’t even hear him come down the stairs.

Not until a voice—soft, too soft—breaks through the haze.

“I couldn’t sleep either.”

Her eyes snap open.

Bob’s standing just a few feet away now, barefoot, dressed in joggers and an old Navy T-shirt. He looks almost normal in the dim light—until he kneels down beside her and lays out a pillow and blanket like this is just some sleepover.

“You’ve been real good,” he says gently. “You deserve to sleep with someone next to you. So you feel safe.”

She doesn’t say anything. Her jaw is locked shut, throat tight.

Bob moves behind her, gently shifting her body. She’s too weak to resist.

Then he lowers himself to the floor—right next to her—and wraps the blanket around them both.

His chest presses to her back. One arm snakes around her middle, holding her close. She’s trapped in the warmth of him, the weight of him, even with her arms pinned behind the pillar. His breath fans over the back of her neck.

“There,” he whispers. “That’s better, isn’t it? Just like it used to be.”

Her breathing hitches.

It was never like this. Never.

But Bob’s already nuzzling into her shoulder, sighing like he’s home.

“I know you’re scared. But you don’t have to be,” he murmurs. “Not with me. Not when I love you this much.”

She can feel his heartbeat against her spine.

Steady. Unshaken. Not normal.

“I watch you sleep all the time,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s nicer when I get to feel you next to me. When I know you’re safe.”

He presses a kiss to her shoulder. Then another. Lingering.

She squeezes her eyes shut. Forces her body still. Pretends to sleep.

Bob exhales deeply, content.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he whispers. “I’ll still be here in the morning.”

And he is.

Even long after the flashlight dies.

——

The dim light from a small lamp flickers. Y/N’s arms are free today—but only her arms. Her legs are still bound, stretched in front of her like dead weight. The bruises on her wrists are healing badly, scabbed over in angry shades of red and purple.

She sits slouched against the pillar, staring blankly ahead. Her hair is dirty. Her eyes are hollow.

A new sound breaks the quiet: the creak of the basement door.

Bob descends the stairs slowly. In his hands—something familiar.

A worn leather-bound journal.

Her journal.

She stiffens.

He sits down across from her, legs crossed like a child again, flipping through the pages slowly. Reverently.

“I used to wonder what you thought about when I wasn’t around,” he says softly. “Now I know.”

She doesn’t speak.

He turns a page, trailing a finger along her handwriting. His voice warms like a match catching fire.

“This one’s from January. You wrote this the day after our first trip to Coronado.” He grins faintly. “‘I think I’m falling for him. Slowly. But surely.’” He looks up, eyes bright. “You meant me.”

Tears well in her eyes. She shakes her head silently.

Bob leans forward, smile starting to stretch too wide. Too pleased.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed. You loved me before you even realized it. I could feel it. The way you looked at me. The way you let me in.”

He flips again. Finds another page. His tone turns dreamy, like he’s reading poetry.

“‘I feel like he sees me. The real me. Like he wants to protect me.’” He laughs quietly. “And I do. I always have.”

She finally speaks—soft and trembling.

“Bob… that was before. Before everything.”

His smile falters. Just a twitch.

He stands suddenly, pacing the room with the diary still in hand.

“No. No, it’s still true. You don’t stop loving someone just because you’re scared. That’s not real. That’s panic. That’s conditioning.”

He stops, turns back toward her.

“You’re just confused because the world told you this”—he gestures to the basement—“is wrong. But what do they know about us?”

She looks at him, heart pounding.

“You drugged me. Tied me up. You kidnapped me, Bob.”

He walks toward her slowly, crouching down in front of her again.

“But you’re still here. You haven’t tried to run. You haven’t screamed. You eat the food I bring you. You let me sleep beside you. You let me read this.” He holds up the diary again, as if it’s a love letter, not a record of her life.

“You wouldn’t do any of that if you didn’t still care.”

Her mouth parts in disbelief, throat dry. “I don’t have a choice.”

Bob’s expression softens like she just told him something sweet. He strokes a strand of hair from her cheek.

“There’s always a choice, sweetheart. And you’re still choosing me.”

He kisses her forehead. She flinches, but doesn’t move away.

And that’s enough for him.

Bob sets the journal carefully beside her like an offering.

Then walks back to the stairs.

“I’ll let you read through it again tonight. Remind yourself of how good it used to be.”

The basement door creaks shut behind him.

And she breaks into silent tears.

Because she knows what’s coming next.

——

The meal sits untouched.

Bob sets a tray down in front of her like he has every day for weeks—careful arrangement, her favorite comfort food, a bottle of water with the label peeled off just the way she used to do.

She glares at it. Glares at him.

He sits across from her again, expectant. Hopeful.

“You have to eat, sweetheart.”

But this time… something inside her snaps.

Her arms are free—he’s trusted her with that much. And she uses them.

In one sudden motion, she grabs the plate and hurls it at him.

It smashes against his shoulder and shatters against the wall behind him. Ceramic shards fly. A piece of it grazes his neck, slicing the skin.

Bob stumbles back, stunned.

Then slowly—slowly—he straightens.

“Okay,” he says, almost calmly. “Okay. I get it. You’re angry. You’re scared.”

He moves toward her with hands up in surrender.

But she lunges. As far as the restraints on her legs will let her. Her nails scratch down his face—deep—leaving red, angry lines across his cheek.

He grabs her wrists in shock.

She kicks him square in the thigh, and he curses under his breath, stumbling back hard into the concrete wall.

Panting. Staring at her.

And for the first time… he doesn’t try to fix it.

He just nods once, his face stone cold.

“You’re choosing this,” he says darkly. “Remember that.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t scream.

He just leaves.

No plate replacement. No goodbye. No lock click this time—just the door swinging closed behind him.

She shivers on the concrete.

No light. No food. No Bob.

No sounds upstairs. No footsteps. No presence.

Just an echoing, hollow silence so loud it feels like punishment itself.

Days pass like that. Or maybe it’s just hours that feel like days.

He doesn’t speak to her.

Doesn’t visit.

She tries to scream once. But there’s no answer.

She tries to sleep. But her stomach twists, growling. Her throat aches. Her arms shake.

And somewhere on the second or third day—when she’s nearly delirious—she hears it.

The creak of the door.

And then nothing.

And then…

A quiet plate, sliding across the floor to her.

He doesn’t look at her.

He just says softly:

“You ready to be good again?”

And she breaks.

She nods.

Tears spill silently down her cheeks as she nods, nods again.

And finally eats.

———

She’s still tied to the cold cement pillar, the rough rope biting into her skin, legs still bound tight. The faint light from a flickering bulb overhead throws jagged shadows on the walls. Her muscles ache, every movement stiff and slow.

Bob sits cross-legged in front of her, the tray with their food set carefully beside him. His eyes never leave her face.

Without warning, he reaches forward, brushing a stray strand of hair from her forehead. His fingers are gentle—too gentle—sending a shiver down her spine she can’t control. She freezes, heart pounding, unsure if she should flinch or stay still.

“Shh. It’s okay,” he murmurs, voice low but urgent. “You’re safe here with me.”

His hand lingers, brushing again, tracing a slow path from her temple down to her cheek. She flinches just slightly, eyes wide but silent.

He leans closer, tilting her chin with a fingertip until her gaze meets his.

“I’m not going to hurt you… not if you’re good,” he says, the psychotic warmth in his tone twisting the meaning like a knife. “You belong to me. You always have.”

His palm presses lightly against her jaw, thumb tracing tiny circles as if soothing a frightened child.

She wants to pull away but can’t—his grip tightens just enough to stop her. Her breath catches, a mix of fear and something darker twisting inside her chest.

“Look at me,” he demands softly, and when she blinks, he leans in and brushes his lips against her forehead—a kiss, but not quite tender. More like a claim.

Her body tenses, a storm of emotions crashing inside her. She wants to scream, to shove him away, but her throat is dry and trapped beneath the weight of his gaze.

He smiles then—half-sweet, half-mad—and settles back, fingers still resting lightly on her skin.

“You’ll learn to like this,” he says quietly. “We’re going to be together. Forever.”

The room closes in around her, the rope, the silence, the faint scent of his cologne all pressing down.

And despite the terror, despite the captivity, a small part of her mind whispers that maybe, somehow, he means it.

——

She’s still tied up—legs bound, arms just recently freed, wrists raw from the rope’s coarse bite. Her eyes dart around the dim basement, exhaustion and fear weighing heavy behind her lashes.

Bob sits on the cold floor a few feet away, calm and collected, his voice low but insistent.

“Say it,” he commands softly.

She doesn’t respond, only blinks, trying to make sense of the madness swirling around her.

“Say it,” he repeats, stepping closer. “Say it loud enough so I can hear it.”

Her voice barely a whisper, trembling and raw: “I’m yours.”

He nods slowly, a twisted smile curving his lips. “Again.”

“I’m yours,” she forces out, more confident but still uneven.

“Good girl,” he croons, eyes gleaming. “Now mean it.”

Her throat tightens, but she forces the words: “I belong to you.”

He leans in, brushing her hair back as if she were fragile china.

“That’s right. You’re mine. No one else matters.”

She shudders, a mix of disgust and a creeping, confusing warmth stirring inside her.

“Say it like you mean it,” Bob insists, voice dropping to a near whisper, fingers tracing her cheek.

��I’m yours. I’m yours. I’m yours,” she repeats, each time more automatic, like a mantra beaten into her mind.

He grins wider, eyes wild yet pleased.

“That’s my girl.”

The basement feels colder, darker, but with each forced phrase, her will feels thinner, slipping further away into the fog of his control.

———

She’s still tied up—legs bound, arms just recently freed, wrists raw from the rope’s coarse bite. Her eyes dart around the dim basement, exhaustion and fear weighing heavy behind her lashes.

Bob sits on the cold floor a few feet away, calm and collected, his voice low but insistent.

“Say it,” he commands softly.

She doesn’t respond, only blinks, trying to make sense of the madness swirling around her.

“Say it,” he repeats, stepping closer. “Say it loud enough so I can hear it.”

Her voice barely a whisper, trembling and raw: “I’m yours.”

He nods slowly, a twisted smile curving his lips. “Again.”

“I’m yours,” she forces out, more confident but still uneven.

“Good girl,” he croons, eyes gleaming. “Now mean it.”

Her throat tightens, but she forces the words: “I belong to you.”

He leans in, brushing her hair back as if she were fragile china.

“That’s right. You’re mine. No one else matters.”

She shudders, a mix of disgust and a creeping, confusing warmth stirring inside her.

“Say it like you mean it,” Bob insists, voice dropping to a near whisper, fingers tracing her cheek.

“I’m yours. I’m yours. I’m yours,” she repeats, each time more automatic, like a mantra beaten into her mind.

He grins wider, eyes wild yet pleased.

“That’s my girl.”

The basement feels colder, darker, but with each forced phrase, her will feels thinner, slipping further away into the fog of his control.

———

She’s still tied up—legs bound, arms just freed but wrists sore and trembling. The dim basement air is thick, heavy with tension and something unspoken.

Bob sits a little too close, watching her with those wild, desperate eyes.

“Say it,” he demands softly.

She swallows hard, voice barely a whisper, “I’m yours.”

He nods, satisfied, but his smile flickers when she suddenly looks up, eyes shining with something fragile.

“Can… can I have a kiss?” she breathes out, almost afraid of her own words.

Bob’s grin twists, hunger and tenderness colliding. “You want a kiss?”

Her heart stutters. “Yes.”

He leans in, slow and deliberate, brushing his lips against hers—too much and not enough all at once. His hand cups her face, thumb stroking gently, but there’s a sharpness behind the softness that makes her stomach twist.

Pulling back just a little, he murmurs, “You’re mine. Always.”

The room feels smaller now, tighter. She closes her eyes, wanting to believe him, wanting something real to hold onto.

But the moment breaks as he shifts back, eyes darkening.

“Say it again. I want to hear you mean it.”

Her voice cracks, repeating the mantra like a broken record: “I’m yours. I’m yours.”

Another pause, then a whisper, “Can… can I have something to eat? I’m… hungry.”

He reaches over and places a small bowl by her side, watching her carefully.

“Eat,” he commands softly.

She picks at the food nervously, eyes never leaving his face. The hunger gnaws, but fear wins over.

Bob’s smile returns, sad and fierce.

“You’re doing good. You’re learning.”

———

The silence is strange tonight.

The ropes are gone.

She blinks slowly, rubbing her wrists, the skin raw but free. Her legs are wobbly, unused to standing. She feels weightless, unreal.

Bob stands at the bottom of the stairs, watching her with a look that borders reverence.

“I’m not gonna stop you,” he says, voice calm, low. “If you want to go… go.”

She stares at him.

He gestures toward the door at the top of the steps — the same one she used to scream at, kick at, pray would open.

“It’s unlocked,” he says. “You can leave. Right now.”

No restraints. No threats. Just her and the door and the breathless space between them.

She doesn’t move.

Bob’s voice softens further. “I won’t follow you. I won’t drag you back. You have a choice now.”

The words settle in the stale air.

She looks at the door. Then at him.

Her legs ache to run. Her body knows it should. But she stays frozen in place, pulse thudding in her ears.

“You’re free,” he whispers, stepping aside. “If that’s what you really want.”

A long silence.

Her mouth opens, closes. She steps forward—half a step. Her eyes drift up the stairs, to the door, the faint outline of freedom waiting on the other side.

Then she turns back to him.

He watches her closely. Waiting.

And when she crosses the floor and walks straight into his arms, something in him breaks. And heals. All at once.

She buries her face in his chest.

“I don’t want to be alone out there,” she whispers.

His arms wrap around her slowly. Possessively.

“You won’t be,” he murmurs into her hair. “You’ll never be alone again.”

He kisses her temple with a kind of worship, the door still open behind them.

But she doesn’t look back.

And she doesn’t leave.

[semisasseater]

BUT I SEE HER IN THE BACK OF MY MIND ALL THE TIME ─ se-mi

⤷ Like a fever, like I’m burning alive, like a sign

│pairing : gf!se-mi x dead fem!reader │ genre : angst, tragedy, psychological horror │tw : graphic violence, murder, blood, self-harm, suicide, hallucinations, grief, trauma do NOT read if you don’t like this│summary : after losing you in the brutal chaos of the night, Se-mi is consumed by grief, guilt, and an unrelenting thirst for revenge. She knows exactly who killed you—Nam Gyu—and she won’t let him get away with it. │wc : 1k │authors note : uh i don’t have anything to really say expect don’t read if your sensitive to these topics ;-; not proofread. part 1

if you enjoyed likes or reblogs would be amazing! feedback is appreciated also requests are open!!

The floor was cold beneath her. She had been sitting here for hours, unmoving, staring at the dark stain on the ground—the only thing left of you.

They had taken your body away, sealed you in one of those black and pink coffins, stuffed you into a furnace like you were nothing. Like you never mattered.

But you did.

You were everything.

Se-mi dug her nails into her palms, jaw clenched so tight she thought her teeth might crack. She could still hear your voice. That final, broken whisper.

“Get out of here… for me… okay?”

But how could she?

How could she leave when the last place you existed was right here?

Her mind was fraying at the edges, unraveling thread by thread, a gnawing, maddening rage eating away at her insides. And beneath it all, a thought burned like fire—

“This is my fault.”

If she hadn’t left. If she had just stayed. Maybe she could’ve taken the hit instead. Maybe she could have stopped it from happening.

But she didn’t.

And now you were gone.

Se-mi exhaled a shaky breath, dragging her fingers through her tangled hair. Her eyes were hollow, ringed with exhaustion and something feral.

She knew who did it.

Nam Gyu.

That smug bastard had always had it out for both of you, spitting insults, pushing buttons, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And he had taken his chance the second the lights went out, leaving your body crumpled and bleeding on the floor.

He left you there to die because he killed you.

Se-mi’s fingers twitched.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew nothing would bring you back.

But she could make sure he never walked away from this either.

The announcement rang through the room.

“Player 381 eliminated.”

Y/n was dead. Another body burned. Another pile of money added to the piggy bank.

Everyone moved on.

Se-mi didn’t.

She watched her die. Watched the number disappear.

And then she knew.

Tonight, it was over for Nam gyu.

The others had gone to sleep, exhaustion keeping them in their beds despite the horrors of the last few days. But Se-mi was wide awake.

She stood over his bed, her gaze sharp and empty, her fingers curling around the metal fork she had swiped earlier. Her breathing was slow, steady.

This was it.

She moved with eerie silence, lowering herself onto his bed, hovering above him.

Then—

BOOM.

The pillow pressed over his face before he could even make a sound. His body jerked beneath her, limbs flailing, trying to shove her off. But she was ready.

The first stab went into his stomach.

The second into his chest.

The third—his hand.

Every wound a reflection of what he did to you.

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t stop when his blood splattered across her face.

Didn’t stop when his body convulsed beneath her.

Didn’t stop when his muffled screams turned into choked gasps, then silence.

Even when she knew he was gone, she kept going, blade plunging into him again, again, again.

Until there was nothing left.

Nothing but a corpse.

Nothing but the suffocating, crushing weight in her chest.

Blood dripped from her hands, soaked into her clothes.

She should’ve felt something.

Relief. Satisfaction.

But all she felt was empty.

Her hands trembled as she backed away from the bed, heart hammering, breath ragged.

And then—

“Do it Se-mi.”

She froze.

That voice.

Her head snapped up, eyes darting across the room.

And there you were.

Standing in the shadows, your silhouette cast against the wall.

“Do it. Kill yourself.”

Se-mi’s breath hitched. Her vision blurred, her chest tightening.

“We can finally be together if you do it. You can’t live without me can you?”

Tears welled in her eyes.

No.

No, she couldn’t.

You were everything.

She took a step forward, reaching out taking your hand, taking her to where you died.

“Pick it up Se-mi.”

Her gaze fell to the ground.

The glass shard.

The same one Nam Gyu had driven into your body.

Her fingers curled around it, lifting it, the weight of it familiar, cold.

Her whole body shook as she brought it to her chest, right above her heart.

Her breathing steadied.

She closed her eyes.

“We can finally be together Y/N.”

And then—

…

The glass plunged into her heart.

A sharp, piercing pain spread through her chest, but she barely registered it. Her body swayed, blood dripping from her lips.

She smiled.

She could almost see you now.

Waiting for her.

The room spun.

Her knees buckled.

She collapsed onto the cold, bloodstained floor.

Her vision dimmed.

And then—

Darkness.

The morning announcement rang loud and clear.

“Player 380 and Played 124 has been eliminated.”

The guards moved efficiently, lifting her lifeless body and placing it into a pink coffin.

Another two numbers gone.

Another pile of money added.

And the games continued.

As if nothing ever happened.

As if you, Se-mi, and Nam gyu never existed at all.

@semisasseater