#potentially triggering

[balo-badartist]

Hero’s Shade, miserable death

The blue butterfly is a constant in my Oot work: it’s symbol for Zelda and Link’s bond. I headcanon that Zelda dies young, and Link watches over their descendants faithfully, but he’s also tortured knowing that more evil might come again.

That being said, I must ask that no one tags my work under another artists au. Please. It’s very violating to the central themes in my work, and very hurtful as an artist that has their own story to tell.

[feeling-likeastranger]

You ever feel grief for the person you could’ve been if none of this ever happened to you?

[meowz-02]

Sfx makeup!!

Trigger warning!!

All fake

I couldn’t get as deep as usual because my mum Tom away my blade :(( I guess I didn’t clean the blood all they way too, because my mums bf saw some blood on the tub and sent me to the hospital to get them closed lol 💔

[sara-the-wizard]

My Everything Hurtsss

This Idea has me in a prison...

I don't know, I hope it made you laugh or something. Hope you have a great day! Lord bless you!

[redroomreflections]

Paint It Black Chapter - Friends, right?

Teen Natasha Romanoff x Teen Reader

Masterlist | General Masterlist

Summary: Natasha Romanoff has never known love—or at least, that’s what she tells herself. During her time in the Red Room, she encountered a girl whose memory was forcibly erased from her mind. Now, as an Avenger, she faces a new enemy who turns out to be more than just a threat; they share a tangled history that challenges everything Natasha thought she knew about herself and love.

Chapter Summary: Natasha learns that she and R are more than friends?

W/c: 6.7k

Warnings: This is a dark story, so read at your own risk. Mentions/hints of SA, violence, guns, and abuse. We're exploring the Red Room and Natasha's origins, kind of.

Note: This is a long one. I had it ready a month ago and well life got shitty soo.. i like it. i hope you do too.

The apartment was unusually quiet when Natasha woke up. Her arm was outstretched toward the headboard, subconsciously anticipating the pull and pinch of handcuffs and the cold bite of steel around her wrist. For a split second, she tensed, bracing for the tug that would signal another training day, another lesson, another punishment.

But it never came.

Just sunlight filtered through expensive curtains, and the sounds of a city that didn’t know who she was. The scent of burnt toast lingered through the penthouse from Karen’s poor attempt at breakfast.

Her fingers curled in the space beside her.

This was freedom, supposedly. Soft beds and unlocked doors. But her body hadn’t gotten the message. It was still awake, ready to fight, obey, hurt, or break. She sat up and rubbed the back of her neck, trying to ease the knot, but her eyes kept darting back to the spot on the headboard, expecting… what?

She had spent three years in a bedroom like this one with a pretend mother, father, and little sister. Toys on the shelf. Drawings on the fridge. Warm meals and bedtime stories rehearsed to perfection. But even then, her instincts had never dulled. The illusion had never held, or so she convinced herself.

This was just another variation of the same game.

Different set. Same rules.

She peeled the blanket off and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet touched the carpet instead of concrete. The nightgown she'd been provided was a bit too big for her, but it was better than the itchy nightdresses given by her handlers. She headed to the bathroom first, needing to wash her face and brush her teeth to scrub away the last lingering traces of sleep and nightmare.

It was all very routine.

The face in the mirror was the same as always: a young girl. Red hair. Pretty. Green eyes. Small. She'd been told a lot about the girl in the mirror: her name, age, and story. None of it was anything she defined on her own. She splashed water on her face and ran her fingers through her tangled hair. She brushed her teeth quickly, ignoring the way her arm twitched.

There were no gunshots today.

No explosions.

Nothing.

Her stomach growled.

Breakfast.

She'd learned long ago to keep her mouth shut. To do her job. To take her orders. Still, she struggled. Being twelve had its rules, and she had to learn them all over again. She padded out into the hallway, bare feet quiet against the laminate floors. As she passed your door, she hesitated. The lights were off. No movement. Still in there.

Fine.

She moved on.

In the kitchen, the table was covered in paper and grainy photos. Karen stood leaning over a mug of coffee. Ken was already seated, pointing something out on the printout between toast bites.

Natasha lingered in the doorway. She didn’t know the protocol.

“Morning,” Karen said without looking up.

Natasha didn’t respond. Her eyes scanned the table. The woman in the photos was elegant, mid to late twenties, with sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes. Classic Widow. The kind that made men underestimate her.

“She defected last year,” Ken said, tapping the page like Natasha had asked. “Dreykov’s old files say she went ghost in Berlin, but she’s surfaced here. Been leaking intel to someone. We’re trying to figure out who.”

Natasha nodded. She didn't trust herself to speak.

"You hungry?" Karen asked.

Natasha shrugged. She was, but it wasn’t her place to admit that.

Karen gestured toward the fridge. "Eggs are in the crisper. It's about all we have."

Natasha nodded. She eyed Ken, thinking about last night and how he'd been at your bedroom door when she caught him. For that very reason, she decided she didn't like him. Even as she watched him, he barely looked up from his notes, already moving on to something else. Karen sipped her coffee like this was all routine. To them, it probably was. Just another day. Another asset.

Natasha stood stiffly by the counter. She didn’t reach for the eggs. She didn’t move until Karen finally addressed her again.

“You and y/n will go to Central Park today,” she said, flipping to a different page in the file. “Around nine. Our girl usually shows up near the fountain. Light trail. No contact unless it’s necessary. She jogs.”

Natasha blinked. “Just us?”

Karen nodded like it was apparent. “She won’t think anything of kids. That’s the point.”

That’s the point.

She swallowed the bitterness on her tongue.

Karen didn’t ask if she was ready. Or if she felt safe. Or even if she understood. She just handed over the mission like passing off a grocery list.

Natasha gave a tight nod. She understood just fine.

Useful, not protected. Seen, but not seen. A tool. Not a person.

She reached into the fridge and pulled out a carton of eggs. The yolks were fresh. Good protein. Healthy.

She was still hungry.

Karen went back to the photos. "You'll get a call at eight. That's when you head out. We'll be here. Trying to get into her apartment." Karen pulled something out of her pocket. "This is a cellular phone."

"I know what a cellular phone is," Natasha muttered.

"Right. Of course. Anyway, here." She slid the device across the counter. "You'll need it."

She stared down at the phone in her hands like it might bite.

It was heavier than it looked. Sleek. Black. Nothing like the clunky handsets they'd used in training simulations. This one wasn’t for practicing field comms or running a scripted op. This one was real.

“Just answer when it rings,” Karen added, returning to her coffee. “We’ll handle the rest.”

No more instructions. No concern. No check-in. Just the phone and the job.

Natasha’s fingers closed around the device. She didn’t say thank you. She didn’t say anything.

She was already expected to know what to do.

She cracked an egg into the pan and watched it sizzle, the scent rising like something familiar, something oddly domestic. But the taste never made it past her throat. Not really.

Behind her, Karen and Ken talked in low voices. They discussed strategies, surveillance angles, and aliases. They didn’t glance her way again.

She wasn’t a child to them. She was a pair of eyes and legs that could move through a crowd unnoticed. A face no one would question. The perfect shadow.

She put the phone in her pocket.

And when the egg was done, she plated it carefully. One for her. One for you.

*****

She knocked at your door gently, wondering what she could say to make you get up.

"Y/n?"

No answer.

"Your eggs are getting cold."

She pushed the door open and stepped inside, expecting the worst. But instead, she saw you sitting atop your windowsill reading a book. She briefly read the title "Are you there, God? It's Me, Margaret." She wondered where you got that from. Books were usually vetted before being given to the widows. So she could guess you'd stolen it, but from where? You didn’t look up immediately, even though you heard the door creak open. You’d half-expected it to be Karen, maybe Ken, coming to give you another order, lecture, or something you didn’t ask for. But when you saw the flash of red hair in the window's reflection, your shoulders tensed for a different reason entirely.

Natasha.

You shifted your posture quickly, trying not to look like you’d been comfortable. Like you were enjoying the stupid book. You pressed the paperback flat against your thigh, face warming as you tried to hide the title beneath your palm. Too late. You knew she saw it.

She didn’t comment, though. She just moved toward the dresser and set down a plate with eggs and a single piece of toast so black it could’ve been used as charcoal.

“Didn’t know what you liked,” she said, voice low. Awkward, almost.

You risked a glance at her. She wasn’t looking at you and just standing there, unsure if she should stay or go. Her hands were shoved into the pockets of her sweatpants, shoulders hunched.

You cleared your throat and mumbled, “Thanks.”

It came out sharper than you meant. Not grateful, but not hostile either. Just… defensive.

Natasha didn’t flinch. Didn’t press.

"We're going to Central Park today," She said.

"What?"

"They want us to tail the mark. You and me."

You blinked.

"Karen thinks the target will be less suspicious of kids."

"Right." You glanced down at your lap. "Sure. I guess."

You weren't sure if she was telling you the truth. She could've easily been sent to ensure you weren't hiding in your room. Not that you think either of those adults out there would have cared.

"Thanks," You said, expecting her to leave the bedroom.

But she didn't.

She stayed, eyes wandering the room.

"Did you sleep well?" She asked after a few seconds of silence.

You glanced up. Her gaze was trained on the bed. On the headboard. On the indentation left by a handcuff. Then down to the pile of clothes you'd had tucked into a corner. Pajamas that you switched out for the ones you were currently wearing.

"It's fine," you said quickly.

Her eyebrows furrowed.

"No one bothered you, did they? You know, while you were asleep," She explained at the raise of your brow.

You shook your head. "No?"

You didn't tell her about the nightmare, how you'd woken up alone and scared. You had never truly slept in a place alone before. She nodded slowly, but her eyes didn’t leave the mark on the bed. You could tell she recognized it. Of course, she did.

“Okay,” she said quietly, though it sounded like she didn’t believe you. Or maybe she didn’t know what else to say.

You shifted uncomfortably, the book still warm on your side. You hated how exposed you felt. Like she could see right through you. Like somehow, she knew about the nightmare, about how long you sat frozen in bed before the sun came up, about the tears you wiped away before they could fall.

She took a step closer, then stopped again. You didn’t look at her, but you felt the tension in the air shift like she wanted to reach out but didn’t know how.

Instead, she asked, “What’s the book about?”

You blinked, thrown off by the question. You glanced at the cover again, embarrassed.

“It’s… weird. Some girl talking to God about periods and bras and stuff.”

Natasha tilted her head slightly. “That sounds… awful.”

That got the smallest laugh out of you. “It kind of is.”

She gave a half-smile. It didn’t reach her eyes, but it was real.

You looked down again, fingers brushing the pages. “Why’d you bring me breakfast?”

Her silence lingered a beat too long.

“Because you didn’t come out,” she finally said. “And I thought maybe you were… hungry.”

You nodded. That was fair.

You didn’t thank her again, and she didn’t ask you to. Instead, she leaned against the doorframe for a moment longer, then straightened up.

“We leave in 20,” she reminded you. “Be ready.”

You didn’t answer, but she didn’t wait. The door clicked softly shut behind her.

And for a while, you just sat there, staring at the dent in your headboard and wondering what it meant that she noticed.

*******

You were both in the park several hours later, waiting for the target. You sat beside Natasha on the bench, your knees pulled to your chest, and your arms wrapped around them. She was quiet. Focused.

Natasha was a people watcher. She didn’t do it purposefully; it was instinct by now. Her eyes went from couple to couple, stroller to jogger, pigeon to pretzel cart. She cataloged everything: the man's hand too deep in his coat pocket, the teen pretending not to watch a tourist’s purse, and the woman pacing near the fountain with a cell phone to her ear, glancing over her shoulder every three seconds.

“She’s not here yet,” she said, almost to herself.

You nodded, though you weren’t sure how she could tell.

“She’ll run past,” Natasha added. “They said she always does. Loop around the west side, head back toward 72nd.”

You stretched your legs and looked around. So many people. Dogs and laughter and honking taxis. It should have felt like freedom. Instead, it felt like noise. Overwhelming noise. You hated to admit it, but Natasha had the edge out here. She looked so natural in the disorder, almost like she belonged in the blur of noise and motion. Her sharp eyes, her steady breath, the way she didn't flinch when a bike zipped past too close to the curb. You, on the other hand, felt like a loose thread just waiting to be tugged.

You hadn’t lied back at the apartment. Dreykov had rarely let you out of his sight. When you were out, it wasn’t like this. It was rehearsed. Controlled. Monitored. The people around you weren’t strangers. They were extras. Props. Trained to play their part in the illusion. You had been on a handful of missions, clean, calculated jobs. Ones where the risk was low and the point was to prove your obedience, not your instincts. You never fumbled. Never failed. You were good. Better than most girls your age.

But you still felt like a baby sometimes. Out here, especially.

Not scared. No. That wasn’t the right word. You knew how to defend yourself. You knew how to kill if you had to. But sitting on this bench, surrounded by life that wasn’t manufactured or staged, made you feel like a shadow at the edge of something bigger. You didn’t know where to put your hands or how loud you were supposed to laugh.

There was no script here. No handler feeding lines into your earpiece. Just you. And Natasha. And the noise of a world that moved too fast and too freely. And even now, you weren’t sure if you were pretending to be a girl… or if you’d forgotten how to be one.

So yeah. This was different. But not impossible.

You glanced at Natasha again. She didn’t even seem tense. Just watchful. Ready.

You opened your book, but your eyes didn’t stay glued to the page. Every few lines, you looked up. Checked the path. Scanned the faces. It wasn’t just about being alert. It gave your hands something to do. A rhythm. Something normal.

Beside you, Natasha shifted. She crouched down momentarily, picking something up from the base of the bench. A stick. Then another. Before long, a small pile formed by her boots. She didn’t say anything; she just let her fingers work, arranging the sticks into a small square and lining them up flat. Careful. Precise.

You didn’t ask what she was doing, and she didn’t explain. But it was nice watching her build something instead of breaking it.

"Why’d you hide away in your bedroom last night?" she asked eventually, her voice quiet and not looking at you.

You froze a little, then turned a page in your book without reading it. "I didn’t want anyone coming in."

Natasha nodded, like she understood. And maybe she did.

"Ken bothers you," she said.

You shrugged, but she wasn’t really asking. Just stating facts the way she saw them. Observing. Cataloging.

“Everyone bothers me,” you said after a beat. You didn't want it to seem too serious.“I just… I didn’t want to talk.”

You felt her eyes on you, but you didn’t look up.

“He knocked,” you added. “I didn’t answer.”

“That’s good,” she said.

You blinked, surprised by the softness in her voice.

Natasha returned to her little stick house, adjusting one of the walls. “You don’t have to let anyone in. Not unless you want to.”

You didn't say anything, but that made you feel a bit better.

A minute passed. Then two.

Suddenly, Natasha nudged you and nodded toward the path. You followed her line of sight, spotting a woman jogging in a pair of black running shorts and a blue sports bra. The target. You recognized her from the files. She was exactly how Karen and Ken had described. As she whirled past you, you averted your gaze, making sure not to seem too obvious.

"Is it her?" you asked, though you were already pretty sure.

Natasha nodded.

"Where is she going?"

"West. Around the loop."

She picked up a stick and set it carefully on top of the pile.

"So we follow?"

"That's the job."

You closed the book. Your heart was racing, and you weren't sure why.

You stood up and took a deep breath, then stepped behind her.

You watched Natasha as you walked along the path, and the woman continued her jog. She slowed ahead like she’d reached the halfway point of her loop. You subtly tapped Natasha’s hand, and you adjusted your pace.

“I think I’m going to ask my mom to pierce my ears,” you said suddenly, your voice pitched loud enough to carry.

“What?” Natasha blinked at you, confused but going along. “Your parents would let you?”

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t they?”

Natasha didn’t miss a beat. “It’ll hurt.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, but that’s not the point. My friend Sarah had hers pierced, and her dad took her out for ice cream. Plus, it would make me look more grown-up.”

Natasha gave a faint smile, but her eyes scanned the path ahead. “Well, if you truly think so—”

"Excuse me," a voice cut in.

You turned. The jogger had slowed to a walk and was standing a little too close now, her breath only slightly labored, her tone casual, but her eyes too sharp.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” she said, smiling politely. “I think I’ve seen you both around. You're in my building, right?”

Natasha’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Could be."

The woman’s gaze flicked toward you next, assessing and not threatening, not precisely. Just… curious. Like she was trying to place you in a memory she didn’t fully trust.

You looked away, pretending to adjust your jacket zipper.

“The building near Columbus Circle,” she added, still smiling. Fourth floor. The one with the ugly doormat."

Something in your chest tightened. How she said it, light and teasing, made it feel like a real memory. Like she knew you.

Her voice was smooth and rich, with a faint lilt you couldn’t quite place. England, maybe. Or somewhere near it. Did she grow up there? Her skin was warm-toned and clear, even glowing a little beneath the muted city light. Her hair, long and straight, was pulled back in a neat ponytail. Too perfect for someone who’d just been jogging.

You didn’t recognize her. But something about her made your palms sweat.

There was a kindness in her gaze. Genuine, even. She looked at the two of you like she liked talking to strangers. It came easily to her.

You smiled back. Disinterested but polite. Just a kid on spring break, irritated to be stopped.

But inside, your mind ticked like a clock. You were cataloging every detail: the subtle shift of her weight onto her back foot. The curve of her smile. The faint scar just above her brow, healed but not hidden. Widow marks. Signs you’d been trained to spot since you were old enough to walk in a straight line.

And suddenly you weren’t sure what scared you more—the possibility that she was dangerous.

Or the possibility that she was familiar.

You nodded politely, your heartbeat suddenly louder in your ears. You must have been waiting too long to respond since Natasha stepped slightly in front of you.

“Nice to meet you,” she said coolly. “We’re still figuring out where everything is. Central Park’s as far as we’ve made it.”

"We're here on vacation with my parents." You joined in with much more confidence.

"Vacation." The woman smiled again, but her eyes narrowed a fraction. "Must be nice. Where are you guys originally from?"

"Ohio," Natasha answered.

"That's lovely. My mother is from Cleveland. Do you know it?"

Natasha shrugged. "I've been a couple of times. "

"Ah. I bet it's nice."

"Not bad," Natasha said, a smile playing on her lips. "Though the zoo could use a renovation. The monkeys smell awful."

You stared at her, amazed by how easily she could lie. She was completely casual, even laughing, like this was a conversation she'd had a hundred times.

"Anyway, we should be going," You said. "It was nice to meet a neighbor, though."

The woman's eyes didn't leave your face. "Right. So great to meet you. I have to run. Literally." She chuckled at her own joke before putting her headset back over her ears. You and Natasha started walking again, keeping your pace measured. You didn’t look back.

But a few steps later, something caught your eye on the ground. A small item, half-tucked into the edge of the path.

A leather cardholder. Deep brown, worn at the edges, and unmistakably expensive.

Natasha almost missed it, but you stopped, crouched, and picked it up before anyone else noticed. Your fingers ran over the monogram at the corner. G.R.

“She dropped it,” you murmured.

Natasha leaned over your shoulder. “Are you sure it’s hers?”

You opened it slowly, careful not to look too obvious. Inside: a few subway tokens, a twenty-dollar bill, a photo of a dog sitting in front of a fountain, and a business card.

Georgina Rousseau, Behavioral Specialist.

332B West Tower, Behavioral Health Center.

A phone number, an email address, a faint scent of something.

You stared at the name. Georgina. You quickly put the business card in your pocket before sliding the wallet to Natasha to inspect. If she saw you, she didn't indicate otherwise.

Your mind flickered, something shifting.

“She’s already gone,” Natasha said.

You nodded. She was. "Ken and Karen will want to know about this." Natasha nodded and pulled out the cellular phone she'd been given.

*********

Leaving an entire penthouse to two teenagers was bound to be bad news. Under normal circumstances, a party would be held. Maybe even sneaking into the liquor cabinet if the teens were daring enough.

For you, it meant another night to dive into your book.

You were stretched across the bed, fresh from the shower, hair damp and curling around your ears and shoulders. The night had gone oddly quiet without Karen’s heels clicking or Ken’s voice carrying through the study. It was unsettling how easily the silence crept in. You quite liked it.

The book wasn’t even good. Just distracting. You didn’t relate. Not really. But you liked the way it was written. Simple. Soft. The kind of soft you’d never been allowed to be.

A knock on the door made you tense for a second. But it was light. Casual.

You didn’t answer, but Natasha let herself in anyway.

She was already in pajamas. An oversized tee and shorts. Her hair was tied in two braids like she didn’t know what else to do with it. She padded in barefoot, clutching a pillow under one arm.

You blinked at her. “What are you doing?”

She shrugged and tossed the pillow onto the foot of your bed. “You said we were close enough for sleepovers.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That was for the mission.”

“Right.” She walked over to the window and peeked out at the skyline. “Well, the mission's not over. And I’m bored.”

You closed the book but didn’t mark the page. “We have our own rooms.”

“And?”

You gave her a long look. “What do you want to do? Paint our nails and talk about boys?”

Natasha grinned a little. “Isn’t that what sleepovers are for?”

You rolled your eyes and shifted to sit cross-legged. “You’re weird.”

She sat down next to the bed, back against it, legs stretched out in front of her. "Normal teenagers do these things."

You studied her a bit. The girl who had been so adamant about you not being friends was initiating a sleepover.

"Did you have sleepovers before?" You asked.

"No. Not like this," She said softly. "With Yelena sometimes." She shrugged, trailing off.

You thought about that. How different it was. How odd.

"Were you allowed to be close to each other?"

Natasha hesitated, looking down at her hands. "No, but we were anyway."

"How come you are allowed to ask questions about my life, but I can't ask about yours?" Natasha said suddenly.

"Well, there's nothing to know," You said. "Nothing worth telling."

Natasha shook her head. "I don't believe that."

You shrugged and pulled a loose thread on your pillowcase.

"You always say that," Natasha said, her voice quieter now. "That there's nothing worth knowing. But I see the way Dreykov looks at you. The way the others avoid you. You’re not nothing."

You stilled.

A beat passed between you. Then two.

“I didn’t say I was nothing,” You murmured. “I said there’s nothing I want to tell.”

Natasha frowned, and for once, she didn’t push. She leaned back against the side of the bed, the two of you sitting close, but not touching.

“I’m not trying to make you tell me everything,” she said after a moment. “I just think it's best if we know more about each other."

You swallowed, eyes still trained on the thread in your hand. Slowly, you tugged it free.

"Just a few weeks ago, you were telling me to stay away from you," You began. "You thought I'd lied to you to get a leg up with Dreykov."

"You didn't," she said quietly.

"Yeah. Because I know what it's like to be under his thumb so closely."

She was quiet for a second. "But I was right. You do lie. To protect yourself. And not just for missions."

You didn’t reply. You knew you had lied, and not always because it was necessary. It wasn't even a lie, technically. Dreykov needed her to be at her best. He was going to send her on a mission. This mission. But you didn't think the test had come yet. You didn't want to tell her that part.

“I think you lie so much, you don’t even know what’s true anymore,” Natasha added, not accusing—just observing.

You closed your eyes for a second, not out of anger but because it hit too close.

“That’s the point,” you murmured.

Natasha didn’t respond right away. She leaned her head back against the edge of the bedframe, exhaling.

“We’re not normal,” she said finally. “We’re not supposed to have sleepovers or tell secrets or trust each other.”

“And yet here we are,” you said, voice quieter than before.

Natasha gave a weak smile. “You’re not as scary as they say.”

You gave a soft laugh. “You are.”

Her head turned slightly, just enough to catch your eye. “Good.”

Silence settled again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. Just… still.

Eventually, she spoke again. “Do you want to, maybe, watch a movie?”

You blinked. “Right now?”

Natasha shrugged, her eyes darting away for a moment. “Yeah. If we’re having a sleepover... we’re supposed to watch a movie, right?”

You considered it for a beat. Then you nodded.

“Fine. But I’m picking.”

She rolled her eyes, pushing up from the floor with a grunt. “As long as it’s not that weird puberty book in movie form, I’m good.”

You tossed a pillow at her back and followed her into the living room.

*********

Clueless played low on the TV, its light casting long shadows across your faces. The two of you sat curled up, only a few inches away from each other, on the couch as you tried to make sense of the movie. Apparently, it had been all the rage last year. The movie kept playing in flickers of pink and plaid. Onscreen, Cher was giving another grand monologue about makeovers and high school politics. Her voice was sugary and confident, like she'd never once been afraid of her reflection.

You grabbed the remote and paused it.

Natasha looked over, brow raised. “Why’d you stop it?”

You didn’t answer right away. You were staring at the screen, eyes distant.

“Are girls in America really like this?” you asked finally.

Natasha blinked. “Like what?”

You turned toward her slightly, one knee curling beneath you on the couch. “I don’t know. Loud. Flirty. Ditzy?"

She shrugged. "Some. Why?"

You hesitated, a frown tugging at the corner of your mouth.

Natasha gave you a look. "Do they scare you?"

"Of course not," you scoffed, but your voice sounded unsure. "It's just different from what I thought."

"How?"

"I don't know." You paused, thinking. “I mean, technically, I’m American, right? But I was raised in Russia. In the Red Room. This kind of life?” You shook your head. “It’s like watching a cartoon.”

Natasha smirked. “A very well-dressed cartoon.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “They act like nothing can touch them. Like everything will work out just because it has to.”

Her smile faded a bit as she turned toward you. “Maybe that’s the point.”

You paused. “I think I hate Josh.”

Natasha blinked. “What?”

You pointed at the screen where Cher and Josh were mid-argument. “He’s smug. And annoying. And way too old.”

Natasha let out a small laugh. “I thought you said you liked this movie.”

“I like Cher,” you clarified. “I don’t like that she has to fall in love at the end.”

"Eh," Natasha shrugged.

"I mean, boys are stupid," You continued. "Love makes you soft."

“Soft isn’t bad,” Natasha said.

“It is where we come from,” you replied. Your voice was quieter now. “And anyway… boys are stupid.”

Natasha was quiet for a long beat. Then she said, “Not everyone wants a boy.”

You looked at her.

You didn’t blink.

Not for several seconds.

Natasha didn’t look away either.

The room got quieter. The movie still frozen on the screen behind you, bright colors casting soft light against her face.

Her voice was lower now. “Have you ever kissed anyone?”

You scoffed. “We were trained to. That’s different.”

“No,” she said. “I mean for real.”

You shook your head slowly. “You?"

Natasha didn’t answer.

She just leaned in—slow, hesitant, uncertain.

And so did you.

The kiss wasn’t perfect. It was barely anything. But it was real. Not rehearsed. Not for a mission. Not for leverage.

It was just you and her.

And when you both pulled back, neither of you said a word. When she opened her eyes, those green eyes. You did what only you could do. You panicked. You stood up, rushing to the guest bathroom, before slamming the door.

"Y/n?" Natasha called. "y/n are you okay?"

You didn't answer. You didn't want this to seem bigger than it was. This wasn't what you came for. Kissing her wasn't what you intended. Did you even like her in that way? All of the thoughts were too confusing, and you hated yourself for the tears clouding your vision. Inside the bathroom, you pressed your hands to the sink, gripping the porcelain until your knuckles went white.

Stupid. Stupid.

Why did you let that happen?

You weren’t supposed to want anything. Not connection. Not softness. Not her.

You were supposed to be composed. Cold. Controlled.

Instead, your skin still buzzed with the kiss. Your face felt warm. Your chest felt tight.

And worse, you didn’t even know what you were angry about.

Not the kiss itself. Not her.

You were angry with yourself. For reacting. For letting your guard down. For wanting something you didn’t fully understand.

You stared at your reflection and hated how young you looked.

Fourteen. Widow or not, you were still a kid.

And you had no idea what the hell to do with that.

****

On the other side of the door, Natasha was having similar feelings.

She stood still, hands shoved into her sweatshirt pocket, eyes locked on the bathroom door like it might open if she just waited long enough. But it didn’t.

She replayed it in her head—the kiss. Quick. Barely anything. But still too much.

She hadn’t meant to do it. Not really.

Or maybe she had.

But she didn’t expect it to feel like that. Not like the empty rehearsals with dolls and dummies, or the Red Room training clips on seduction and manipulation. This wasn’t strategy. It wasn’t performance.

It was curiosity.

Warmth.

It was real.

And now she’d ruined it.

You ran. Not just emotionally, but physically. Slammed the door like she’d said something cruel. Like she’d hurt you.

Natasha exhaled through her nose and leaned against the opposite wall, head thunking softly against the drywall. She didn’t like this feeling. It reminded her too much of the early days in training, when she didn’t know the rules yet. When every mistake meant punishment. Uncertainty felt like danger.

She was only twelve, for god’s sake. Just a kid. But she didn’t feel like one most of the time.

She’d killed people.

She could speak four languages.

She could disassemble a pistol blindfolded.

But now she was standing in a borrowed penthouse hallway like some stupid girl in a movie—after a kiss.

The silence dragged on, heavy and uncomfortable.

She wasn’t going to knock again. She wasn’t going to beg you to come out or apologize for doing something she hadn’t even known was wrong.

But she did feel bad.

Not because of the kiss.

But because you looked so scared afterward.

Because for once, she thought she’d found someone who understood what it was like to be pulled apart and put back together in someone else's shape.

Maybe she was wrong.

Maybe she wasn’t supposed to get that close.

Her thoughts began to get more self-deprecating by the minute when the door opened from the bathroom. Her head immediately shot up as she watched you slowly step out. You didn't say much, but the short sniffles she heard from you said a lot.

You weren't okay.

You slid down in front of her, sitting against the opposite wall, your hands balled into fists by your side.

"Did he tell you to do this?" You asked quietly.

She didn't have to ask who.

"No," She tilted her chin. She was observing you. Hoping that it alleviated some pressure.

"Okay," You nodded. "Okay."

Her answer hung in the air like steam off a wound.

You wiped at your eyes roughly, like you were angry they'd betrayed you in the first place. But you didn’t move away. You just sat there across from her, breathing through the quiet.

Natasha stayed still too. She didn’t want to scare you off again.

“I didn’t plan it,” she said finally, her voice a bit hoarse. “It just happened.”

You nodded again, but it was the kind of nod that said you weren’t okay with it. Not because it happened. But because of everything that came with it.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel,” you whispered. “I don’t know what I’m allowed to feel.”

Natasha shifted slightly, arms draped over her knees. “Me neither.”

You both sat there in the narrow hallway, the tile cool under your legs, and the city humming far below. It wasn’t the Red Room, but it wasn’t safety either. Not really.

“I just…” Your voice cracked. You hated it. “I’ve only ever been his. Dreykov’s. Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve learned, it’s all been for him. "

Natasha simply listened.

"We're not supposed to do that. We're not supposed to be that for each other." You sighed. "It's...things like that come with consequences and pain. It's weird."

"Is that why you ran?" Natasha asked.

"Yeah." You looked at her, but it was like you didn't see her. "I don't know why I kissed you back." You admitted. "It shouldn't be a big deal, right? People do that for fun."

"Yeah," She nodded. "You probably know more than me."

You let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know anything, actually.”

Natasha blinked, surprised.

You gave a hollow laugh, your eyes trained on the floor. “I’ve never done anything because I wanted to. Not once. Not really. Not without looking over my shoulder or wondering what it would cost me later."

The words tumbled out faster than you expected. You didn’t look at her. You couldn’t. If you did, you might stop. And you needed to say it before you talked yourself out of it.

“I thought I was smart. I thought I had power, being his favorite. I thought that made me different. Untouchable.” You swallowed. “But it didn’t. He still—he still took things. All the things I never got to choose.”

Natasha’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

“And then you showed up,” you said. “And I didn’t know what to do with that. You weren’t scared of me. You weren’t trying to impress him. You just… were. You asked questions, you pushed back. You saw me.”

You rubbed your hand over your mouth, ashamed of the tremble in your voice.

“So yeah,” you finished. “That’s why I ran. Because no one’s ever touched me without trying to own me or hurt me. And you did it without asking for anything.”

The silence stretched between you, taut and heavy. You finally looked at her.

“Don’t say you understand,” you whispered. “Please don’t say that unless you really do.”

Natasha didn’t. She didn’t say anything. She moved closer, slowly and quietly, until she sat beside you. Not touching. Just near enough that if you reached out, she’d be there.

After a long pause, she said softly, “I don’t think I understand everything. "

You turned your head toward her, eyes glassy.

“And I’m not going to take anything from you,” she added. “Not ever.”

It wasn't a vow. Not a promise. Just words. But they meant something.

You nodded slowly, like that truth had been waiting years to be said out loud.

“I don’t want to belong to anyone,” you murmured.

Natasha looked at you.

“Then don’t,” she said. “Not even to me. Friends don't hurt friends."

You didn't know what changed between that day in the bathroom back home and here, but you were thankful for her. 

----> next part

[nikotashi]

Routine Error

✦ title: 5:47 — routine error

✦ fandom: love and deepspace

✦ pairing: mc!reader x zayne

✦ genre: psychological / sci-fi / slow-burn / soft angst

✦ warnings: injury (bleeding, non-graphic medical care), anxiety, dissociation, emotional breakdown, derealization, continue on with care

✦ word count: ~5.8k

✦ notes: the loop hasn’t broken you yet. not really. but it’s starting to fray around the edges, in small ways you can’t quite explain. this is the first time you meet zayne. not the first time you met him, but the first time it means something. he doesn’t know what’s happening, but he’s kind. careful. and for a moment, even with the pain and the blood and the dread crawling up your spine—it almost feels like safety.

prologue

masterlist

“Your voice is shaking, his hands do not—in a world that resets, he forgets, but still holds on.”

You wake before the alarm.

But it still reads 5:47. It always reads 5:47.

For a few seconds, you just stare at it. Blue digits glowing faintly in the dark, sharp and absolute against the muted shadows of your bedroom. The longer you look, the less they feel like numbers and more like a sentence — quiet, inescapable, already carved into the day before it begins.

You don’t even remember setting the alarm anymore. Maybe you never did. Maybe you stopped bothering when it became clear the world would spin the same way with or without your permission.

The sheets are bunched around your legs, twisted tight like you fought them in your sleep. You unwind yourself slowly, letting the cold air bite at your arms as you sit up. The floor beneath your feet is cool, but not cold enough to make you shiver. Just enough to remind you that you're here. That you're awake, whether you want to be or not.

The apartment is quiet. Still.

You cross the room on autopilot. Step—creak. Step—groan. You already know which boards complain the loudest, but they always complain anyway. You gave up trying to be quiet in your own home weeks ago. Or months. Or longer. Time feels like damp paper now—thin, easy to tear, always curling at the edges.

In the bathroom, the light is too bright. You squint into the mirror without really looking at yourself. Just the vague outline of a person. Sikly skin, dark eyes, sleep still clinging to your lashes like soot. You could draw this version of yourself from memory — and maybe you have. Over and over, on mission reports and napkins and the corners of maps that didn’t matter.

You brush your teeth. The mint tastes sharp and chemical. You rinse, dry your face with the same frayed towel, and tie your hair back into something that vaguely resembles control. It doesn’t help.

You tug on your uniform. Your fingers move quickly, automatically. The fabric smells like old soap and stale air. Something about the tightness of the collar makes your skin itch.

In the kitchen, the counter greets you like a blank page. You eat half a protein bar, chewing mechanically while you scroll through the mission board on your hunter's watch. A handful of field alerts blink red. You swipe past them, you’re not scheduled for any of those. You’re already going west.

You pocket the rest of the bar for later and sling your coat over your shoulder. The sleeve catches on the chair, it always does. You don’t fix it.

When you open the apartment door, the hallway is just as you left it — dim, buzzing faintly with the hum of overhead fluorescents, and…

“Morning,” says Mr. Delarose, stepping out of his unit two doors down. Same time, same tie, same dead-eyed smile under his salt-and-pepper stubble.

You nod. “Morning.”

He sips his coffee. Neither of you say anything else. You both know your roles.

You take the stairs.

—

The ride to HQ is quiet.

Too quiet.

You know every crack in the pavement by heart. Every turn the car makes. Every flicker of traffic light that never quite changes fast enough. You don’t remember memorizing them, but somehow, the route plays out like a track you’ve looped a hundred times.

A billboard flashes by on the overpass — a woman smiling beside a glass of orange soda, condensation dripping down the side. Her expression feels wrong, too wide. You blink, and it’s gone. But you’re almost sure you saw her yesterday. And the day before.

The security gate rises without delay. The same guard gives you the same nod. He doesn’t blink.

The moment you step into HQ, the smell hits you — burnt coffee, recycled air, and something faintly metallic, like rusted wires or blood diluted in water. You’ve noticed it before, you always notice it. No one else seems to.

You scan your badge. The terminal beeps in the exact same rhythm as yesterday.

At the front desk, the receptionist glances up. Her eyes skim past your face. “Morning, Hunter,” she mutters.

That’s new, you think. Or maybe she always says that. You can’t tell. Her voice slides off your memory like oil on glass.

You walk the corridor past Records, then Logistics. Left at the broken vending machine. The one with the same pack of gum stuck behind the glass. Strawberry mint. Row C3.

You’d swear the wrapper hasn’t shifted in weeks. On the third floor, you pass an open door — one of the analysts’ offices. There’s a coffee mug sitting on the edge of the desk, handle turned toward the window, steam rising slowly from it. There’s no one inside. The same mug was there yesterday. You remember the chipped corner, the sticker half-peeled off the bottom. It’s still half-peeled, and still the same exact angle. A muscle in your jaw tightens. You don’t stop walking.

—

Tara finds you first.

“Morning, sunshine,” she says, bright as always, leaning against your desk with that same cocky angle she always uses when she’s trying too hard to act normal.

You pause.

Your mouth moves before you think. “Didn’t we do this already?”

She tilts her head. “You mean, like… last week?”

You shake your head. “Never mind.” She doesn’t press. You appreciate that. Or maybe she just didn’t hear you. Maybe you didn’t actually say it aloud. She flicks her tablet open and hands it to you. “Western zone again. Another lab that’s probably more raccoons than data. You and me. Bring snacks.”

You scroll through the briefing. The same grainy satellite photo as yesterday—at least, it feels like the same one. That jagged break in the roof. The shadow that looks too much like a figure in the corner. Your thumb hovers over it. “Wasn’t this flagged for interference?”

Tara shrugs, exactly on cue. “HQ says it’s clear. Dead grid, stable air, no pings in weeks. We go in, take pics, walk out.”

“Didn't they already decommission this one?”

She grins. “Guess someone forgot to sign the paperwork. Let’s be heroes.”

You hand the tablet back. As she turns to go, something snags in your brain — her hair she just brushed behind her ear comes loose again. Just like yesterday. Same side. Same strand. Same flick of annoyance as she brushes it back again. “Déjà vu?” she asks, catching your look.

You smile tightly. “You have no idea.”

She winks. “Maybe you’re just psychic. Come on, let’s load up before the coffee machine starts screaming again.” You follow her down the corridor. The lights above you flicker once — not a full blackout, just enough to make your skin prickle.

You don’t mention it.

Neither does she

The lab sits on the edge of the western ruins like something abandoned mid-exhale. Half-submerged in soil and time, its concrete frame leans against a landscape gone soft with moss and creeping vine. The perimeter fence is rusted through in three places. No alarms. No light. The gate yawns open like it forgot how to close.

Tara cuts the engine with a low curse. “Creepy as hell,” she mutters, stuffing the keys into her vest.

You both step out.

The ground is uneven, still pocked with old blast craters and coils of twisted metal. You step over something that looks like a melted vent or an exosuit casing, half-swallowed by weeds.

Wind moves through the structure with a hollow hum. It sounds too close, like it’s whispering directly in your ear.

Inside, the dark is immediate.

Your flashlight flickers before stabilizing — a stuttering beam that stretches across broken walls, shattered displays, exposed wires dangling like torn veins from the ceiling. The air is thick with dust and static. You taste iron. “Signal’s weak,” Tara says, checking her comm. “But stable enough. We stay close, sweep in a spiral, regroup in thirty.” You nod. You’ve done this before, too many times. But something here feels different.

Like the walls are breathing.

You split off toward the northern corridor, boots crunching glass and debris. Each step echoes too long, swallowed too late by the silence. The walls are covered in peeling hazard signs and smeared fingerprints — some human, some… not quite.

You duck under a partially collapsed beam. Your flashlight catches a row of lockers, their doors warped by time. One hangs open, swinging on a broken hinge. Inside, a single boot sits upright in the dust. Still laced.

You stare at it for too long.

You move on.

The third wing is partially collapsed.

A staircase angles downward into the dark, water pooling at the bottom. You mark it on your scanner. The floor creaks under your weight. Not new creaks, familiar ones. Like you’ve walked here before and the building remembers.

The next room is a long, narrow chamber that was once a storage unit, maybe. The overhead lights are shattered. Glass glitters across the floor like frost.

Shelves line both sides of the room, bowing under old tech, cracked canisters, and containers filled with… something that has congealed into indistinguishable sludge.

The walls weep moisture. Your breath fogs.

Your flashlight flickers again.

You click it once. It steadies.

—

You step deeper into the room. Your foot catches. Not on something obvious — not debris or wiring — but a thin strip of metal barely visible beneath a layer of grime. You stumble forward, instinct jerking your body sideways to avoid hitting the nearest shelf.

But it’s too late.

A heavy crate perched on the top shelf tips as slow-motion panic seizes your chest as you register the blur of motion—

Then impact.

Pain blooms instantly, violent and raw. Something sharp and heavy slams against your thigh, throwing your weight to the side.

You hit the floor hard.

Air punches from your lungs. The back of your head skims concrete. A clang echoes overhead as the shelf above groans, metal warping under its own weight. You blink. The edges of your vision pulse. Everything smells like dust and rust and electricity. “Fuck—!” Tara’s voice bursts through comms, loud and crackling. “You okay?” You don’t answer right away. Your body’s trying to figure out what hurts most.

Thigh. Definitely the thigh. The whole leg is screaming — radiating a deep, grinding pain that makes your stomach twist.

“Y/n?” she presses. “Say something.” You roll onto your side with a wince. “I’m fine,” you rasp.

“That sounded not fine.”

You glance down. There’s blood soaking through the fabric of your tactical pants. The metal beam that struck you left a shallow gash, but worse is the bruising beneath — a deep, throbbing ache spreading down to your knee. You test your weight. It holds, barely. Your vision swims, but you grit your teeth. “Shelf slipped. Nothing broken.”

A pause.

“Want me to double back?”

“No,” you say too fast. “Keep going. I’ll catch up.”

The silence that follows feels loaded, but Tara doesn’t argue. You bite back a groan and press a compression patch over the wound. It won’t last long. The blood’s already seeping through.

Your fingers are trembling.

—

You make it out of the room. Step by step, your gait turns from limping to dragging. Every movement jostles something sharp inside your leg. You can feel the swelling — heat radiating through fabric, pulsing in sync with your heartbeat. The lab seems darker now. Angrier.

Every flicker of your light casts new shapes on the walls. A broken console looks like a crouched figure and a collapsed panel groans behind you, even though no wind moves through the space.

You lean against a wall to catch your breath. Your reflection stares back at you in a half-broken screen. Blood smudged down your calf. Dirt streaked across your cheek. Hair stuck to your face with sweat. You don’t look like a Hunter. You don’t look like anything. You look stuck. By the time you reach the rendezvous point, Tara’s already there. Her eyes snap to your leg immediately. “Shit.”

“I told you—”

“Save it. That’s gonna need stitches.”

You wave her off. “HQ’s med bay can handle it.” She doesn’t look convinced. Neither do you. You climb back into the vehicle with a hiss of pain. Outside the lab, the wind has changed. Stronger now. Colder. As if the building is exhaling behind you. You close your eyes and rest your head against the window. It hurts to breathe. But worse than the pain is the thought you can’t shake:

This has happened before.

You just don’t remember how many times.

The drive back feels longer than it should.

You sit in the passenger seat, leg stretched awkwardly, breath shallow. Every bump in the road sends a spike of pain shooting up your thigh. Tara tries not to look at you, but you can feel her glancing over every few seconds, worry etched deep into the way she grips the wheel. You keep your eyes on the window. The trees blur past. Power lines stretch like spider silk through the sky. The world rolls on as if nothing happened. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe this is still a dream. Or maybe the pain means it’s real.

—

Back at HQ, you limp out of the vehicle and wave off Tara’s half-formed sentence before she finishes it. “Seriously?” she says. “Just let medical take a look.”

“I’ve had worse.” You don't look back. She exhales through her teeth. “You’re impossible.” You don’t respond. Your body’s already in motion, muscle memory overriding common sense. You move through security like a ghost, badge up, head down. Every footstep sends another jolt through your leg. You swallow it. It becomes rhythm. The receptionist at the front desk looks up and down at you, frowning briefly at the blood drying on your pants. “Agent…”

“I’m fine.” She doesn’t stop you. No one does.

You reach your desk and sit slowly, breath catching as your thigh flares up with heat. The compression patch is soaked through. You peel it back and wince at the deep purple bruise spreading beneath the gash. Swelling. Pressure. You grab another patch from your kit and press it down harder than necessary. Your vision swims. You blink it away.

The office hums around you—keyboards clacking, footsteps in the hall, someone laughing down the corridor like the world hasn't tilted an inch. You try to finish your report. You make it three sentences in before your hand starts shaking.

You stop. Close the file. Stare at your screen until the cursor blinks back at you like a pulse.

You tell yourself you’re just tired. That you need sleep. Food. Something normal to anchor you again. You try to remember the last time you ate something that wasn’t shelf-stable or packaged. Or the last time you woke up without a phantom scream curling in your chest.

You don’t remember.

Tara swings by your desk two hours later. She raises a brow at your posture—one leg out, face pale, knuckles white on your mug. “You look like shit.”

“You always say that.”

“This time I mean it. You’re limping worse than you were earlier. Did the patch help?”

You shrug. “Mostly.”

She sighs. “Fine. Don’t say I didn’t try. But if your leg turns purple and falls off, I get to say I told you so.”

“Noted.”

She lingers. “You sure you're okay?”

You don’t answer right away. “I’ve just got a headache,” you lie. You make it home before dark. The walk up the stairs is worse than the walk into HQ. Your leg is stiff now. Swollen. Every step grinds against something tender and raw. At the top, Mr. Delarose’s door is cracked open. He glances up as you pass. “Rough one?” he asks. You nod once. He raises his cup in salute and closes the door again without waiting for your reply.

Inside your apartment, you peel your clothes off in silence. The bandage sticks to your skin. You hiss as you remove it. The bruise is ugly now — dark maroon, spreading past your knee. The wound itself is red and angry, maybe deeper than you thought. You press around it and nearly black out. Still not broken, you think. Probably. You collapse onto the couch without eating. Your watch buzzes once. A field alert. You ignore it. The room is quiet, but the quiet feels too heavy. Like something's listening.

You close your eyes.

Just for a second.

You wake up with a gasp. Heart pounding. Skin damp. The light hasn’t changed. The air is still. And the clock—the clock reads 5:47.

You don’t move for a while. The numbers don’t blink. They never do. A pulse pounds in your thigh like a second heartbeat. You shift beneath the sheets, and the pain bites down hard—deeper than before, sharp enough to steal your breath. You press a palm to the spot and flinch.

It shouldn’t be like this. You should be sore, maybe. Bruised, yes. But this isn’t soreness. It’s fresh. Acute. Like the injury never healed. Like it never even happened yesterday. Except it did. You remember the impact, the scrape of metal against your leg, the sound your body made when it hit the floor. And you remember Tara. And the drive home. And the silence.

You swing your legs off the bed and breathe through your teeth as white-hot pain lances up your thigh. You lift the fabric of your sleep shorts. The bruise is already there. Not faded. Not forming. It’s identical to yesterday’s.

Exactly.

You trace the shape with your fingertip. There’s a faint split in the skin. You feel your pulse in it. Your stomach turns.

In the bathroom, the lights flicker when you flip the switch. You catch your reflection in fragments—your eyes too wide, your mouth half-parted. You look like someone waiting for an answer they already know they won’t get. You run the water, then splash your face and watch it drip onto the sink basin. You count the droplets.

One.

Two.

Three—

Your leg gives a violent twitch, and your hip slams into the counter. You suck in a breath. You’re already sweating, and you haven’t even left the apartment. You get dressed anyway. Every movement is stiff, uncooperative. You nearly fall trying to pull on your pants. The fabric drags across your wound like sandpaper. When you lace your boots, your fingers tremble. You don’t bother with food. You don’t even look at the clock this time. It’s 5:47. It always is. It never wasn’t.

You step into the hallway. Delarose is already there. Standing in his doorway, half-dressed, coffee steaming in his hand. He turns toward you—

“Morning,” he says.

Same inflection. Same tilt of the head. Same line of condensation on the side of his mug. You pause. “Morning,” you echo, voice hollow. You take the stairs.

Your limp is worse today. You try to hide it by adjusting your pace, but the weight distribution is off. You favor your right side, pulling your body unevenly. By the time you reach the street, you’re already winded.

—

HQ looms just as it did yesterday. And the day before.

Fluorescent lights flicker overhead. The badge scanner clicks open without protest. Your name flashes across the terminal. You pass the same three agents in the hallway. One of them hums the same melody under his breath — off-key, repetitive, unsettling in its cheer. You don’t realize you’re sweating until someone bumps your shoulder and you almost collapse.

Your desk is exactly as you left it. Tablet. Water bottle. Loose mission notes with Tara’s scrawl at the bottom. She arrives two minutes later. “Morning, sunshine,” she says, just like yesterday.

You freeze.

She tilts her head. “What? Something wrong with my face?”

“No, I just—” You swallow the words. “Never mind.”

She raises a brow but drops it. You don’t have the energy to explain something you can’t articulate. She hands you the same tablet. The same satellite photo. The same shadows that look too much like a silhouette pressed against the wall. You try to scroll down. The screen lags for half a second longer than it should.

When it loads, the text reads:

WESTERN SECTOR—SECURE PERIMETER—LEVEL 2

FIELD TEAM: TARA & [REDACTED]

STATUS: STABLE

STATUS: STABLE

STATUS: STABLE

STATUS: STABLE

STATUS: STABLE

You blink. The status line duplicates five times before you scroll past it. You glance at Tara. “Did you see this?” She shrugs. “HQ being lazy again. Copy-paste errors.” Your mouth goes dry. No one reacts like it’s wrong, maybe no one else sees it. You try to stand but your leg buckles. Pain explodes behind your knee. You clutch the edge of your desk, knuckles going white, sweat beading along your spine. Tara’s voice distorts in your ears. “Whoa—hey, hey, sit back down—”

“I’m fine,” you lie.

“You’re not fine.”

“I just— I need to walk it off—”

You take one step.

And fall.

The floor rushes up in a blur of static and sound. You catch yourself on one knee, gasping as the pain spikes hard enough to black out the edges of your vision. Your wristband beeps.

Vitals irregular.

You blink up through the haze. People are gathering around you. Voices blur together. The lights feel too loud. Tara kneels beside you, her hand firm on your shoulder. “You’re going to the hospital. Now.”

You want to argue.

You don’t, you can’t.

Because something in your brain whispers:

This is how it starts.

Again.

Again.

Again.

The sound of your own breath drowns everything else. Shallow. Fast. Trembling around the edges. Someone’s voice cuts through the fog, firm and close to your ear. “Stay with me. You hear me?”

Tara.

You blink once. Light fractures across your vision—cold fluorescents above, too bright. Every heartbeat sends a burst of fire down your leg. It radiates up into your chest, thick and nauseating. You feel like you’re sinking. Your fingers twitch weakly where they’ve curled around the strap of your satchel. You’re vaguely aware of hands lifting you—securing a brace around your leg, voices confirming vitals, calling ahead.

The world narrows to two things:

The pain, which pulses like a warning siren.

And the sense that none of this is new.

—

The ambulance smells like disinfectant and copper.

Your head rolls to the side. The ceiling lights blur. You hear the murmur of your name—your real name—and the buzz of scanners around your wrist. Something cold slips under your skin—an IV, probably. Stabilizers. Local pain suppressants. Nothing is strong enough to quiet the pain completely. You half-expect the medics to look like strangers.

But they don’t.

You know this one. The red-haired one with the silver pin on her collar. You've seen her before—on a Tuesday, maybe. Or every Tuesday. She adjusts your mask with careful fingers and gives you a practiced smile. “We’ll be at Akso in four,” she says.

Like a promise. You nod once, or think you do.

Four minutes. Four minutes until—

Until what?

You don’t know.

But you know it starts there.

—

The doors open with a hiss and the scent of antiseptic and ozone spills out. Akso always smells clean in an unnatural way—like nothing alive is meant to linger here. Like the air itself has been processed, bleached, and wrung out to prevent anything real from growing. You catch slivers of voices. Stretchers rolling past. Code calls. A woman crying softly behind a curtain. Someone arguing near triage. None of it feels real.

Your gurney stops. Then a voice cuts through the noise like a scalpel. Low. Precise. Calm.

“I’ll take it from here.”

The medics say something in return, but you don’t hear the words.

You hear him.

He steps into view a moment later. And for just a second, everything quiets.

His name flickers in your mind:

Zayne.

Tall. Pale. Almost too still. His white coat is crisp, his gloves already on, clipboard in hand. But it’s the eyes that catch you: that hazel green that shouldn’t be warm, and yet somehow is. They’re focused on your file, but the moment he looks at you, the air shifts.

Like someone just adjusted the gravity in the room.

“Y/n,” he says, voice steady. “Your team reported a field injury. Internal swelling, possible fracture. You’re stable, but we’re going to verify damage now and get you out of pain.”

You should answer. Should say yes, or understood, or okay. But your throat’s dry. Your mouth won’t cooperate. Zayne seems to notice. His expression shifts, barely, but something about the angle of his eyebrows softens. He moves with quiet efficiency, checking vitals on your wristband and cross-referencing them with your chart. His gloved fingers brush against your forearm briefly as he adjusts the monitor, and the contact is so careful it barely registers as touch.

Still your body flinches, not from fear, from the overwhelming sensation of being handled like you matter.

Zayne’s voice lowers slightly as he continues. “You’ve had a significant hematoma form just above the patella. Soft tissue trauma. I’ll need to relieve pressure, clean the wound, and scan for any microfractures. I’ll do everything I can to avoid surgical escalation.”

You nod, finally. “Okay.”

“Good.” He meets your eyes. “You’re lucid. That’s a good sign.”

His hands are already moving. He unbuckles the brace around your leg with slow, deliberate motions. The second the pressure lifts, a sharp bolt lances through your thigh and your entire body arches involuntarily. Zayne’s hand finds your knee—firm but grounding. “Breathe,” he murmurs. His tone doesn’t change. Doesn’t escalate. He isn’t flustered by your pain. Just present. Just there. You clutch the edge of the gurney and force your jaw to unlock. “Sorry,” you whisper, though you don’t know why. Zayne shakes his head, not unkindly. “Don’t apologize for being in pain.”

The words hit you harder than you expect.

He begins cleaning the wound, spraying a clear antiseptic mist that stings but dulls almost instantly. You watch his hands—how precise they are. No wasted movement. Every gesture practiced, but not impersonal. His gloves are warm. That surprises you. As he presses around the swelling, scanning with a handheld bio-reader, your breath catches. His gaze flicks up again.

“I’m not going to let it worsen.”

You stare at him. It’s such a simple sentence, but the knot in your chest tightens.

You look away.

Fifteen minutes pass in focused silence. Machines hum. You try to count the breaths between each adjustment of his hand, like that will tether you to the present. It works, barely. At one point, Zayne adjusts the position of your leg on the support cushion and accidentally brushes skin. Your eyes meet.

He pauses.

“I’ll give you a stabilizer before the scan. You’ll feel lightheaded for a few seconds, but it’ll pass.”

You nod, unable to form anything coherent. He hesitates—just for a breath—then gently places his hand against your ankle in reassurance. Not clinical. Not cold.

Just… human.

You feel the heat rush to your face and immediately look away again.

When the painkillers finally kick in, you sag back into the bed. The ache recedes to a distant throb. Your head floats. Zayne finishes the scan and types something into your chart.

“No breaks,” he says, almost gently. “You’re lucky.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

He pauses at that. Then: “Pain doesn’t always mean it’s broken. Sometimes it’s just the body remembering too much at once.”

You don’t know why that hits so hard. Your chest tightens again and your throat closes. You want to ask if he’s talking about more than your leg. But you don’t. Because something in his eyes says yes.

Zayne finishes wrapping your thigh in a support bandage and double-checks the readings on the compression field. “You’ll need to stay off it for 24 hours. You’ll walk, but not without pain. Come back if the swelling spikes or if you feel off-pattern.” He pauses. “Actually—come back anyway. Just in case.”

You blink. “Just in case?”

He shrugs one shoulder, understated. “I’d rather see you too often than not enough.” Your throat tightens again. You sit there in stunned silence as he cleans his tools, glancing at you once more over his shoulder. His voice softens just slightly: “Someone will be in to discharge you soon.”

He moves to go. You stop him without thinking. “Zayne.” He turns. You meet his eyes and hesitate. You don’t know what you’re trying to say—thank you, maybe. Or, do you go through the same day everyday just as I?

But all that comes out is: “This… feels familiar.” He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t dismiss you, simply tilts his head slightly. “How so?”

“I don’t know. It’s like... this already happened.”

His expression doesn’t change. But he’s watching you now with a different kind of intensity. “Déjà vu?” You nod slowly. He doesn’t answer right away. Then, carefully: “If it happens again—come see me. Even if nothing’s physically wrong. I want to know.”

You swallow.

He’s not calling you crazy. Not once.

He believes you.

Or at least, he doesn’t disbelieve you.

And for now, that’s enough.

—

The ride back from Akso is quiet.

The city slides past your window in a smear of concrete and neon, shadows pooling where the sun should be. Buildings feel taller than usual. Skewed. As if the architecture’s warping around something you can’t see. You press your forehead to the glass and watch your own breath fog the surface. Your thigh aches beneath the bandage. Not as sharp as earlier—Zayne’s stabilizer is still working—but the pain is there, simmering under your skin like it’s waiting for a reason to scream again. You can still feel the weight of his hand on your leg. Still hear the softness in his voice.

“Come back anyway. Just in case.”

The words loop in your head like the time does. Like everything does. You should feel relief. You were treated. You’re safe. But safety feels fragile now. Like a lie everyone agreed to stop questioning.

By the time you reach your apartment, the pain has crept higher again, wrapping tight around your hip. The stabilizer’s wearing off. You unlock the door with a trembling hand. Inside, the lights blink to life. Everything is… the same.

But wrong.

The mug you left on the counter is still there—but the ring of condensation beneath it is gone. The shirt you swear you wore two days ago is hanging in the laundry room, freshly washed. Your terminal is powered on, but the screen reads:

“LAST LOGIN: Never”

You close it without checking anything else.

In the bathroom, you unwrap the bandage Zayne gave you. The wound looks identical to how it did before the hospital. Fresh. Raw. Untouched by care.

Your stomach flips.

You touch the skin gently and feel the heat—new, sharp, immediate. It shouldn’t look like this. He cleaned it. Treated it. He said it would improve within hours. But it’s like it never happened. Like nothing he did stuck. Your pulse pounds louder in your ears. You rewrap it slowly, breath catching with every pull of the gauze. Then you sit on the edge of your bed and stare at the clock. It reads: 12:08 am.

You force yourself to lie down and close your eyes. Sleep does not come, you just lose time.

You wake with a gasp, already knowing what time it is.

You don’t need to look, but you do anyway.

5:47.

The same brightness. The same hush outside. The same hum of the city like a throat clearing itself. You don’t move, because you can’t. Your body is caught in that awful space between sleep and knowing. Then the pain comes.

Not a ghost of pain. Not echo.

Full.

Sharp.

Your leg throbs in the exact same spot. You tear the blankets away. The bruise is there. Unchanged. You sit upright so fast your vision swims. The gauze—tied tight around your thigh—is the same one you wrapped yourself in last night. Not the one Zayne used. Not hospital-issue. Yours. Your hands tremble. You stand, wobbling. Your breath comes fast, sharp. There’s a pressure in your skull now���behind the eyes. A buzzing like an old machine struggling to turn over. You step toward the mirror. Your reflection looks back at you with a question. You don’t know the answer.

You limp down the stairs like a person halfway through a nightmare. The stairwell smells the same. You brace for it—

And there he is.

Delarose. Standing in his doorway, coffee in hand. Steam curling upward.

“Rough one?” he asks.

Exactly the same words. Exactly the same grin. But this time, something inside you breaks. You don’t answer. You just keep walking and his smile flickers.

Maybe he notices.

Maybe he always did.

—

The city feels thinner now. Like you’re walking through the shell of it. Like the real version peeled off long ago and left this one behind. Your thigh is on fire by the time you reach HQ. Every step is harder than the last. You swipe your badge at the entrance. The scanner sparks. Just for a second. But when the terminal screen lights up, your name is gone.

It displays:

IDENTITY CONFIRMED.

NO RECORD FOUND.

Then it beeps and lets you through anyway. You walk the halls, each step pressing fire up your spine. You pass the same three agents. One of them—again—hums that off-key tune. But now? Now he turns and smiles at you like he knows you. And then keeps walking. You don’t breathe until you reach your desk.

Tara arrives. She leans on your chair. Same line. Same grin.

“Morning, sunshine.”

You stare at her. Everything about her posture is identical. Every word. Every blink. But her eyes look slightly more tired. She notices your silence.

“You good?”

“No,” you say.

For the first time, you say it out loud. Her smile falters. “What’s wrong?”

“My leg still hurts.”

She gestures. “Didn’t you get it treated yesterday?”

You nod slowly. “I did.”

Tara stares. Then something strange happens. She straightens. Just a little. Her eyes flick toward your thigh. Then your face. Then—subtly—her watch. “I’ll get the med report,” she says, too casually. You barely nod. She walks away. But not fast enough. And now you’re alone again, back in the same chair you’ve sat in for god knows how many days. Watching the same screen. Holding the same pain.

Your watch blinks.

A message.

INTAKE FILE: Z. LI

TREATED: FIELD TRAUMA

DATE: [DATA UNAVAILABLE]

A beat. Then another message flashes.

FILE ERROR: RECORD UNSTABLE

PHYSICIAN NOTIFIED.

Your stomach drops. Somewhere in Akso… Zayne is seeing this.

And something tells you—

He’ll remember you. Even if no one else does. Even if this resets again. Even if everything you touch dissolves like sand in water. He will remember.

✨ author’s note

this chapter kicks off zayne’s route. his path will be a little different than the others so far, it’s going to be more focused on emotional intimacy, gentleness, and the slow, painful unraveling of safety through repetition (i swear it has nothing to do with him being my favourite). he won’t understand the loop at first—but he’ll start to notice. i hope you like the softness and the dread. there’s more coming soon 🌙 💉

- nikotashi <3

[squidfreak]

Nightnoia & Daynoia

(Nightnoia)Definition: A gender where your paranoia affects a part of or your whole identity, usually at night, whether it is positive or negative.

(Daynoia)Definition: A gender where your paranoia affects a part of or your whole identity, usually during the day, whether it is positive or negative.

Information: Nightnoia requested by an anon

(No links)

Tagging: @pwaymate

[feeling-likeastranger]

“How do you cope with having BPD?”

I don’t.

[lazyclumzycat-blog]

[monigote001]

Very simple and shitty but something

You can interpret it as you like

[kuruptt]

BILLY HARGROVE X READER

That’s My Girl Pt.3

Click here to read all other parts first.

**SUMMARY - After your father, Hopper, and sister, El, go missing for a few days, you seek comfort at Billy’s place, only to end up sleeping in his car when he won’t wake. The next day, a slip of the tongue sparks a heated argument when you accidentally call Billy by your best friend’s name, Steve. Billy drives you home, where you spend the evening with Steve, until Billy shows up, forces him to leave and tensions flare. Just as the night settles, Hopper and El return with chilling news. Something dark has returned to Hawkins. Angry/Possessive Billy. Also Fluffy/Protective/Jealous Billy.

**TRIGGER WARNINGS - Possessive relationship. Alcohol consumption and Kissing. I think that’s all :)

WORD COUNT - 5k

MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY!!!

i do not own the rights to the following characters. all characters are created and owned by the Duffer Brothers- Stranger Things.

I do not own the rights to song ‘wango tango’. This song is created and owned by Ted Nugent.

I do not own the rights to the movies mentioned. ‘Die Hard and Predator’.

I do NOT consent to have my work posted , translated or published to any third party site or app. If anyone sees my work anywhere but here, it has been posted without my permission.

Requests open !!!!! :)

—————————————————————————————-One month later:

“Just a few more minutes.” (Y/N) whispered, the words barely audible against the backdrop of a late Hawkins night.

Each step crunched softly on the gravel, the sound amplified in the otherwise silent street. A shiver ran down your spine, not entirely from the cold, the darkness here felt deeper, more profound than anywhere else in town. Probably because Neil was back in town. Anxiety tightened its grip with every shadow that stretched long and distorted from the standing streetlights.

Your father, on the other hand, Hopper, had been absent for nearly two days, a fact that gnawed at your insides. El had mentioned this was typical behaviour, but what was even stranger, was that El hadn’t been home either. A sudden call to Mike and the others quickly confirmed your fears, she wasn't with them. Mike's reassurances, though well intentioned, echoed in your mind, a hollow comfort against the rising tide of unease. He told you he’d find El and not to worry.

“She always comes back.” He’d said, a silent promise that hung in the air.

The nights had become unbearable, each one stretching into an eternity of loneliness. Tonight, the pull towards Billy's house was too strong to ignore. You imagined the way his eyes would blaze with concern, the thought of his warmth and his protective anger pulled you forward, each step a little faster than the last.

“Finally.” (Y/N) exhaled, the frosty breath momentarily clouding the air before disappearing into the night.

Billy's house stood in the distance, a dark shape against the inky canvas of the sky. The neighborhood was hauntingly still, the only sound, the faint rustling of leaves in the wind.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you hurried up the steps and along the side of the house, each step measured and quiet on the loose gravel. The stones crunched softly under your weight and you winced, hoping the sound wouldn't carry and wake anyone inside. Reaching Billy's window, you leaned cautiously, peering through the small gap in the curtains. The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of his bedside lamp that again, he forgot to turn off, casting long shadows across the walls.

There he was, your boyfriend, sprawled across his bed. His golden brown locks fell gently across his forehead, partially hiding his relaxed features. A wave of affection washed over you as you watched him sleep. In the soft glow of the bedside lamp, Billy layed face down, his back a canvas of gentle slopes and shadowed dips. The warm tones of the light kissed his skin, turning his back and shoulder muscles into vibrant tones. The subtle, contoured definition of them peeked out, suggesting the power held within. Even in relaxation, the strength in his biceps was apparent, their forms lazily pressed against the cotton of the pillow and sheets.

You tapped lightly on the window, the sound barely detectable against the night. When there was no response, you knocked again, this time louder, your knuckles drumming against the glass.

But still, silence.

"Shit.” (Y/N) whispered, the word escaping her lips like a plume of smoke.

The frustration began to mount. Why was he asleep so early? Why tonight, of all nights?

Turning away from Billy's window, you made your way to Maxine’s instead, your footsteps quickening with anticipation. You peered through the glass, hoping to catch a glimpse of the redhead. But instead of finding Max lost in the pages of her favourite comics, you saw only the still form of your friend, fast asleep.

With another deep sigh, you pivoted, this time heading towards Billy's Camaro. There was no way on earth you were walking all the way back, especially with the temperature dropping faster than your hopes of Billy waking up. You hurried towards the car, goosebumps painting across your skin as the cold of the night seized you and the soles of your feet crunching against the rough, cold concrete. Before trying the door, you closed your eyes, offering a silent prayer that it would be unlocked.

Finally, you heard a soft 'click’ and your eyes snapped open, wide with relief. You scrambled as fast as you could into the back, fingers fumbling with the soft cotton of your blanket that Billy always kept on the back seats for you. You kicked off your shoes and unfolded it, spreading it wide and instantly cocooning yourself, the fuzzy fabric a small comfort against the chill. Curling into a shivering ball, you closed your eyes, attempting to sink into a deep, dreamless sleep and hoping the night would pass quickly.

——————————————————————————-

You jolted awake to a sharp thud, Billy yanked open the Camaro’s heavy door and dropped into the driver’s seat, the worn leather creaking under his weight. He slammed it shut without a glance, it startling you as you peeled your eyes open.

“Billy.” (Y/N) called out.

His head snapped towards you, brows furrowed and eyes wide.

“Jesus! What are you doing in here? Almost gave me a heart attack.” He said, heart hammering in his chest.

You scrubbed at your eyelids with the heels of your hands, tracing lazy circles over them in hopes that it would wake you up faster and propped yourself up on your elbow.

“I… I came to your window, but you were fast asleep. I tried Maxine’s too, but she was also out, sooo, I settled for the car. Didn’t wanna walk all the way back. El and my dad aren’t home, haven’t been for a few days.” (Y/N) explained.

“How long have you been out here?” Billy questioned, voice laced with concern.

“What time is it?” (Y/N) asked.

“Almost eleven a.m.” Billy stated.

“Ummm, about seven… maybe eight hours.” (Y/N) replied hesitantly.

“You walked your ass up here at three a.m.?” Billy asked, frustration bubbling up as his chest grew heavier with each breath.

“Mhm.” (Y/N) smiled proudly.

“(Y/N), it’s not funny! Anything could’ve happened to you, and I never woulda known about it. Don’t pull that shit again. I mean i-“ Billy paused, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

You were a bundle of warmth in your beloved blanket and your features were softened by sleep. Billy’s heart swelled with affection at the sight and he sighed.

“Just don’t do it again, or at least knock louder or something. Didn’t your parents ever teach you about walking the streets alone?” He scoffed, a hint of sarcasm in his words.

“Yeah, they did actually. But somehow they skipped the lesson on muscle cars and bad boys.” (Y/N) giggled, a playful tone in her voice.

Billy chuckled softly, a warm sound that vibrated through the small space and braced himself with his boots against the front of the car, pushing himself back and reaching out to you, his arms encircled you and he drew you closer. Crawling forward, carefully manoeuvring through the narrow space between the front seats of the Camaro, you parted your legs and straddled Billy. You spread the blanket wide, cocooned him in its folds and settled against him, the solid contours of his chest a comforting presence beneath you.

Enfolding you into a protective embrace, Billy’s gaze remained focused on the house, his expression unreadable. He showered your head with warm, soft kisses and the silken strands of your hair teased and tickled his lips with each press. Despite the tenderness of his touch, you couldn’t ignore the strong tension in his jaw, the muscles flexing and relaxing with a frantic rhythm. Every couple of seconds. Clench, unclench. Clench, unclench. It didn’t stop.

“You’re freezing, I’m taking you home.” Billy insisted, his tone brooking no argument. “You’re going to bed for a couple hours, you understand me? I’ll swing by at four, stay with you the night if you want me to.” He added.

“Okay.” (Y/N) scoffed.

Usually you’d argue, push back against his bossy tone. But the cold had seeped into your bones and exhaustion weighed you down. He was right… sleep was a necessity, not a suggestion.

You crashed your lips against Billy's, a desperate move fueled by adrenaline and a need for connection. The initial impact was electric and you opened your mouth wider, inviting him in. His tongue met yours, a heated dance of exploration, swirling and tangling with a hunger that mirrored your own. His hands, rough and warm, moved back and forth against the sides of your waist, igniting sparks beneath your skin. Your hands framed his face, fingers digging slightly into the stubble along his chiseled jawline as you deepened the kiss, pulling him closer.

You could feel the frantic beat of his heart against your palms as you broke apart, breathless. Without a word, you hopped off his lap and slid into the passenger seat, the air suddenly cooler against your flushed skin. Billy watched you, his eyes now dark and unreadable. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken desires, before he finally started the engine, the roar abruptly ending the intimacy you just shared. He shifted the car into gear and the sudden acceleration pressed you back against the seat as he sped off, the world outside a blur.

The entire car ride was filled with unease. You sensed something was off with Billy, but you couldn't quite place it.

“Stev- uh, I, uh, Bil-' (Y/N) started, but Billy cut her off.

“What did you just call me?” He snapped.

It had to be the dream. There was no other explanation for almost calling your boyfriend by your best friend's name.

“I didn't mean to, I-“ Billy cut (Y/N) off for the second time.

“Didn't mean to? How do you NOT mean to?” He grit out, glaring at you.

“It's because I had a dream and I was thinking about it. I accidentally said Steve. I honestly didn't mean to, Billy, please just leave it.” (Y/N) pleaded.

“Steve, huh… King Steve.” Billy scoffed, a sarcastic chuckle escaping his lips. “My girl dreams about Steve Harrington, can you believe that?” He mocked.

“No, it wasn't like that, Billy. You were there, yo-“

For the third and final time, Billy cut (Y/N) off, but this time, with music.

He cranked the radio to full volume and ‘wango tango’ blasted through the car.

You covered your ears, the sudden noise jarring after just waking up. The vibration made your head pound. Billy sped up, slapping the steering wheel in time with the music.

“So what you like it here now” He hissed.

“No, Billy, stop.” (Y/N) pleaded.

“No? Then why are you defending it? ‘Cause of Steve?” He asked, raising his tone.

“I’m not, just stop!” (Y/N) shouted.

He turned, head tilting lazily and giving you a heavy lidded look before turning back to the road, noticing a group of teens on bikes appearing in the distance. The same teens that you had recently became friends with.

Mike, Will, Dustin, and Lucas.

“Oh these your new hick friends?” He yelled, pressing harder on the gas.

“No, Billy, stop.” (Y/N) shouted.

“I guess you won’t care if I hit ‘em then huh, I get bonus points if I get ‘em all in one go?” He asked, a dangerous edge to his voice.

“Stop!” (Y/N) shouted, grabbing the wheel and swerving the car away from the teens.

You weren't one hundred percent scared. You knew Billy wouldn't put you at risk, that's exactly why you swerved, you knew he'd never let YOU get hurt, but sometimes you couldn’t help but fear for the safety of others when it came to Billy and his temper.

“YEAHHH, that was a close one huh!” Billy yelled as the car sped off down the road.

You glanced through the smudged back window of Billy’s Camaro, the air was heavy with pine sap and the distant chirps of birds, but inside the car, it was quiet, too quiet.

You exhaled sharply, the breath catching slightly in your chest before you turned back to face forward. The leather of the passenger seat creaked beneath you as you shifted, the lingering scent of cigarettes and cheap cologne suffocating you in the confined space.

After a few more minutes of winding through the forest flanked road, the Camaro rolled up the leafy drive, crunching slowly to a stop outside the cabin.

Home… Or at least the closest thing to it these days.

Billy parked with a jolt of the brake, letting the engine settle for a moment. You sat in silence.

The orange glow from the porch light that you forgot to turn off, flickered softly, moths orbiting the bulb like lost souls drawn to a dying flame.

You opened your door, stepping out slowly into the humid air, the soles of your shoes sinking slightly into the mossy earth. Then you turned, leaning into the open door.

“Are you gonna come in or not?” (Y/N) asked, watching him bathed in the soft light of the morning sun. She kept her voice calm, inviting, not pushing.

Billy drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Nah, princess.” He muttered, not meeting your eyes. “Got places to be. I’m sure Steve’ll come over.” He mocked.

You blinked, the name hitting like a backhand.

“Shut up, Billy.” (Y/N) snapped, voice cracking a little. “Just come in and calm down. I’ll get you a drink or something. Don’t make this a thing.” She added.

And just like that, he snapped.

His voice dropped low, edged with something crueler than anger, defensiveness dressed in spikes.

“I don’t need you to do anything for me.” He spat. “In fact, I don’t need you at all.” He finished.

The silence that followed was so loud it rang in your ears. You just stood there, chilled despite the now warm air, staring at him like maybe he’d take it back.

But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. He’s too stubborn for that.

“Fine.” (Y/N) said quietly, trying not to tremble.

You slammed the door harder than you intended. The sound echoed into the trees.

Your boots thudded up the wooden steps, dry leaves crunching underfoot. Inside the cabin, the air was cooler, but no less smothering. The porch light continued to flicker behind you as the Camaro tore off, dirt spraying and his engine growled into the quiet of the morning, leaving nothing but leaves and regret behind.

You stood still for a beat, then moved quickly, hand trembling slightly as you reached for the phone on the wall. Your fingers knew Steve’s number by muscle memory, before you could think twice, you were already halfway through dialing.

He answered after the second ring.

“Hello?” Steve’s voice was warm, calm and steady in a way Billy never quite managed.

“Hey, uh…” (Y/N) swallowed. “Wanna come over? My dad and El haven’t been home for a few days. And me and Billy just, argued. I could really do with th-“

Steve didn’t let you finish.

“Of course.” He said firmly. “I’ll be there in ten.” He finished.

He hung up before you could respond.

You set the phone back in its cradle and exhaled slowly. The quiet of the cabin settled in around you like a blanket, one too heavy to feel comforting. You moved on autopilot to the kitchen, reaching into the freezer for a box of Eggos. Your new go to comfort food, thanks to El.

The toaster clicked. You busied yourself with syrup and sprinkles, ignoring the ache in your chest and the ghost of Billy’s words in your ears. ‘I don’t need you.’

You didn’t hear the knock at first, but the second time it was louder, almost cautious.

“Come in!” (Y/N) called out, not moving from the kitchen.

The old wooden door creaked as Steve entered. He looked like he’d slung any clothes on that he could find, button down half untucked, hair ruffled, but not messy, still very Steve.

“Heyyy- Oh, Eggos. Nice! El really got you addicted to these damn things, huh?” He said, stepping into the cabin and rubbing the back of his neck.

“I can’t stop eating them.” (Y/N) laughed weakly. “They’re like… edible therapy.”

Steve grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“Come on. What happened?” He questioned.

He crossed his arms and leaned against the counter, the posture casual, but there was a tension in his shoulders. He was listening closely.

You hesitated, then unloaded it all. The ride home. The silence. The comment. The name.

Steve blinked, then let out a laugh, a short, stunned one.

“You called Billy… me?” He asked, eyes wide.

You nodded miserably.

“Oh man. That must’ve hit him like a brick to the balls.” He shook his head, chuckling. “I’d give anything to have seen the look-“

You swiftly cut him off.

“Steve!” (Y/N) hissed, embarrassed.

“Sorry, sorry, that was mean.” He said, holding up his hands. “But come on, it’s a little funny.” He added.

You gave him a look, but couldn’t hold back a small smile. Somehow, Steve always knew when to lean into humor and when to back off.

You wiped your hands on a dish towel.

“I didn’t really plan anything for us to do. I guess I just needed someone to talk to. But we could… watch a movie? Or something?” (Y/N) asked softly.

“Yeah. Let’s do it.” His answer was immediate, like there was never a question.

You both wandered to the couch, the old cushions sagging under your combined weight. The cabin’s interior was all warm wood and mismatched thrift store furniture, lit by the flicker of a single table lamp. After twenty minutes of indecision and a very heated debate about whether ‘Die Hard’ counted as a Christmas movie, you finally settled on ‘Predator’.

It was a little on the nose, but it worked. The comforting boom of action scenes filled the silence between you, until your breathing had settled and the tightness in your chest had begun to loosen.

Steve draped a blanket over both of you at some point, casual, like muscle memory. It smelled like the woods and clean laundry. It smelled like home.

You baked a cake during the second movie, something halfway between chocolate and vanilla, with uneven frosting and too many sprinkles. Steve swore it was the best damn cake he’d ever had. You talked about the madness of Hawkins, about how things had changed and how they hadn’t. About the weird void left after the supernatural dust had settled.

By the time you checked the clock, it was after 11 p.m.

You were leaning into Steve’s shoulder now, your legs stretched across the couch. The TV glowed dimly, playing trailers you’d seen a thousand times. Outside, the forest was quiet. No monsters. No chaos. Just fireflies blinking lazily between the trees.

And still, no sign of Billy.

You stared into the half finished plate of cake and whispered, “Do you think he meant it? That he didn’t need me?”

Steve didn’t answer right away. He glanced at you, his expression soft.

“No.” He said finally. “I think he’s scared. I think he always has been. People like Billy… they push away the people they care about the most. Because losing them would hurt too much, you know?” He added.

“That’s not fair.” (Y/N) swallowed.

“I know.” Steve said. “But it’s true.” He added.

You nodded, tears pricking at your lashes, but you didn’t cry. Not yet. Instead, you leaned in a little closer. And Steve let you.

For now, it was enough.

——————————————————————————-

Billy’s pov-

“That’s how you do it, Hawkins! That’s how you do it!” Billy’s voice cut through the air of the crowded garden, a proud roar as he slammed his hand down on the keg.

The garden erupted with cheers, but Billy barely noticed. He was in his element, king of the night, undefeated, the name on everyone’s lips. The ‘Keg King’ crown wasn’t just a title, it was his identity, and tonight, he was ruling without contest. The party belonged to Tommy H, of course, one of the town’s notorious instigators and Billy was a regular at these wild gatherings. He moved through the crowd like he owned it, his signature look impossible to miss.

Worn denim jeans that hugged his lean frame, cinched by a scuffed black leather belt that had seen better days but carried its own rugged charm. His black leather boots scraped against the concrete floor, matching the jacket slung over his broad shoulders, no shirt underneath, just the raw confidence of a guy who knew exactly how to turn heads and push limits.

“Hey, didn’t bring your girl tonight, Billy? What’s the deal?” Tommy’s voice slithered into his ear, laced with teasing menace as he clapped a heavy arm around Billy’s shoulder.

The heat of the crowd pressed in, but it was Tommy’s words that stuck like a thorn.

Billy shrugged him off, his jaw tight.

“Nah, she’s sleeping.” He said, voice low and clipped, hoping to end the conversation there.

Tommy smirked, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

“You sure about that, man? Nancy Wheeler’s over there, you see? And Steve? Still a no show. You don’t think that’s a little bit of coincidence?” He jabbed the air with a finger, clearly enjoying the reaction he was provoking.

Tommy loved stirring the pot, thriving on drama and watching the chaos unfurl. Billy felt the familiar rush of blood surge in his veins, a sharp mix of anger, jealousy and something more vulnerable he hated to admit. His temper flared, his fists clenched and without a word, he pushed Tommy’s arm away.

He stormed through the house, the noise of laughter and music fading behind him like a bad memory. His boots hit the porch hard, echoing against the wooden steps as he made his way to his sanctuary… His beloved, unmistakable Camaro. The sleek machine sat under the streetlamp’s dull glow, its blue paint gleaming faintly, waiting like a loyal beast.

Billy slipped inside, the worn leather seat molding to his frame like it was made for him. He plucked a cigarette from the crumpled pack on the dash and pressed it between the fullness of his lips, lighting it with a practiced flick of his lighter. The first drag burned sharp and fierce, a bitter comfort against the storm raging in his chest. With a slow, deliberate motion, he shifted the car into gear, the engine growling to life, powerful and restless, just like him, as he peeled away from the curb and disappeared into the night.

—————————————————————————————-

(Y/N’s) pov-

You and Steve were sitting cross legged on the worn wooden floor of the living room, playing continuous rounds of Snog, Marry, Avoid. A ridiculous, childish game that somehow bubbled laughter from both of you, the kind of laughter that made the weight of the day seem lighter.

“Uh, I’d definitely avoid Tommy, at all costs.” (Y/N) said, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “Can you even imagine th-“

Before you could finish, the front door slammed open with a force that shattered the peaceful bubble of your moment. Your laughter cut off instantly.

Billy stood in the doorway, his presence like a sudden storm. His head tilted back as he laughed, a dark, sinister sound that sent a chill down your spine, before his eyes locked onto yours with a sharp, challenging gaze.

“Really?” His voice was low, almost mocking, as he cocked an eyebrow.

“Go away, Billy.” (Y/N) said firmly, sounding braver than you felt, trying to keep your voice steady despite the sudden tension.

He smirked, the cocky grin you knew too well.

“You want me to go away?” He questioned.

“Yeah. You don’t need me, remember?” (Y/N) shot back, her tone dripping with mockery.

Billy laughed, brushing it off like a challenge.

“Come on, baby, I was just pissed.” He said, his gaze flicking over to Steve and his voice suddenly hardened. “You. Out. Now.” He demanded.

Steve’s jaw clenched, but before he could reply, you stood, planting yourself between the two of them.

“No, he doesn’t need to go anywhere.” (Y/N) said firmly, the authority in her voice surprising even herself. “This is my house. I decide who stays or goes.” (Y/N) finished.

Billy’s smirk faded for a heartbeat, replaced by something sharper.

“Last time I checked, sweetheart, you’re my girlfriend. That means I have a say in whatever the hell I want.” He stated.

“Last time I checked, I didn’t need you either.” You scoffed.

Your words hit him like a tone of bricks all at once and for a brief moment, he was still.

“You don’t need me, huh?” His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.

“Uh-huh.” (Y/N) muttered, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor, unwilling to meet his gaze.

Steve’s eyes flicked rapidly between the two of you, caught in the storm brewing in the room.

Billy sniffed up, exhaled sharply and closed the door behind him, sealing you all inside. He leaned back against the solid wood, tilting his head until it rested on the door and looked down at you through half lidded eyes, another cocky smile playing on his lips.

“You want me to leave, huh?” His voice was low, teasing. “You don’t need me. Is that right?” He asked.

“Yeah.” (Y/N) replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Show me.” He demanded, stepping closer.

“What?” (Y/N) looked up, meeting his eyes.

“I said, show me.” He cocked his head down. “Show me you don’t need me, baby.” He insisted.

“How?” (Y/N) whispered, heart hammering against her ribs like a caged bird.

“Oh, you need me to help you find a way?” He asked, his smirk deepening.

“No.” (Y/N) replied firmly.

“Uh-huh.” He mumbled, folding his arms, eyes heavy and unreadable. “Show me, angel.” He asked again.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you stood and walked towards him. You glanced up briefly to meet his eyes (smiling and chewing his gum lazily) before reaching behind him and pulling the door open.

Billy shifted his weight, blocking your way as he slammed the door shut again. You frowned, trying once more, only to be met with the same immovable barrier. He wasn’t budging, not without your permission.

“Need help, angel?” He teased.

“No.” (Y/N) rubbed her tired eyes, the frustration building.

“You sure? All you gotta do is ask me to move, baby. Use your words, tell me what you need.” His voice was soft now, almost coaxing.

The shift in his tone sent a shiver down your spine. Billy noticed immediately, his smirk widening.

“Yeah, didn’t think so.” He chuckled, wrapping an arm possessively around your waist and guiding you towards the kitchen.

Your head hung low, shame prickling at your cheeks. You hated that you always gave in to him. You hated that you couldn’t resist his cocky grin and those deep, demanding eyes. You avoided Steve’s gaze as you followed Billy, allowing yourself to be lifted and placed gently on the counter.

Billy’s hands settled on either side of your legs, his body leaning in, narrowing the space between you. His eyes roamed over you, while he continued to chew his gum with lazy confidence.

“Who do you belong to, sweetheart?” His voice was a low rumble, filled with possession.

You looked down, fingers twisting nervously.

“Look at me, baby.” He commanded.

You obeyed, eyes locking with his.

“Who do you belong to?” He repeated, his voice softer but no less intense.

“You.” (Y/N) whispered.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.” His smirk deepened.

“You. Billy.” (Y/N) said louder, stealing a glance at Steve, who looked away awkwardly.

“Good.” His grin widened. “And you’re not going to pull this shit again, are you?” He questioned.

“No.” You promised.

“What was that-“ He started, but you cut him off sharply.

“No, Billy.” (Y/N) repeated.

“Good girl.” He said, his voice thick with satisfaction.

Billy pushed away from the counter, towering over Steve, who was now fiddling with his hair, clearly uncomfortable.

“Beat it, Harrington.” Billy growled.

Steve raised his eyebrows, smirking.

“Gotcha.” He responded sharply.

You jumped down from the counter and stepped forward.

“Steve, I’ll call you tomorrow.” (Y/N) promised.

Billy’s laughter echoed in the room, his gaze locking with yours as if to say ‘No, you definitely won’t.’

“Yeah, I had fun hanging out with you tonight. Maybe we’ll do it again sometime?” Steve asked, heading for the door.

Billy’s jaw clenched, fists tightening once more. Steve caught the signal and slipped out, the door slamming behind him.

Billy exhaled heavily and turned back to you, but before he could fully face you, you pulled him close, your legs wrapping around his waist. Your lips found his, fierce and demanding, swallowing the tension between you.

Your tongues collided as you breathed deeply into each others mouths. His breath was heavy with smoke and booze, the remnants of Tommy H’s party clinging to him like a second skin. Your hands traced his jaw, slid down his neck and pushed his leather jacket off, revealing the hard planes of his chest and the heat radiating from his skin.

Billy pulled back slightly, smirking. He knew exactly how to get under your skin, knew how your body answered to his every word and touch. And he used it to his advantage. And as frustrating as it was, you never complained.

“I knew you didn’t want me to leave.” He chuckled, closing the gap again, your lips teasing his just before you pulled away, making him groan.

“That’s a dangerous game, baby.” His voice dropped, a low rumble. “You know that.” He added.

“Thought you didn’t need me.” (Y/N) teased, smirking.

“I always need you. I’m sorry, alright.” His eyes softened.

“Show me.” (Y/N) challenged.

Billy laughed, tilting his head back, loving that you’d flipped his own words on him.

“You want me to show you?” He asked, sweat glistening on his sun kissed skin, pooling faintly at his collarbones.

“Uh-huh.” (Y/N) murmured.

“Alright. I’ll let you think you’re in control. Just this once.” He grinned, closing the distance and kissing you deeply, then stopping abruptly with a furrowed brow, realising what you just did.

There it was. That eye roll. The one that had stolen his heart from the start.

“Did you just roll your eyes at me?” Billy’s voice dropped, fingers tightening on the counter.

“Maybe.” (Y/N) teased back.

Billy’s body tingled with a feeling he could never describe , a feeling only you gave him and lifted you effortlessly, your legs curling around his waist as he carried you to your bedroom. He laid you down gently before climbing on top, hovering over you, lips trailing hot, wet kisses along your neck.

You let out a soft moan, knowing, in that moment, Billy was about to show you exactly who you belonged to.

—————————————————————————————-

Later, tangled in the sheets, breathless and exhausted, you rested in Billy’s arms. The cigarette smoke from earlier still lingered faintly as he gently played with your hair, his skin warm against yours. You looked up at him, your heart melting at the sight of a man who adored you more than words could say.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. “I didn’t mean all that shit I said.” He added.

“It’s okay.” (Y/N) replied softly. “Me too. And I’m sorry for calling you Steve, but it really was an accident. We’re just friends.” She promised.

Billy looked away, shadows flickering behind his eyes as if he knew something you didn’t. But you brushed it aside, curling closer into his chest.

“I love you, baby.” He murmured.

“I love you too, Billy.” (Y/N) yawned.

“Come on, go to sleep before I ask you to run away with me or some crazy shit.” He teased, taking a drag of his cigarette and staring out the window.

You smiled inwardly. You absolutely would. You’d do anything to be with him.

“Why don’t we do something tomorrow?” (Y/N) asked.

“Like what?” He asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe take Max to the mall, or something.” (Y/N) suggested.

Before he could answer, the door slammed open with a force that shook the entire cabin.

“THREE INCHES!!!” Your dad’s voice boomed.

“Dad! Shit, um… We were just- Billy was- I…” (Y/N) stumbled, searching for words.

“Is it okay if Billy stays the night?” (Y/N) asked, voice small.

Hopper sighed, rubbing his temples.

“Sure, kid. But for the sake of your poor old dad, leave the door open. Three inches!” He spat, glaring at your half clothed boyfriend in disgust.

“Where have you been? It’s been days!” (Y/N) pressed.

Hopper’s eyes darkened.

“There’s something going on in town. I want you as far away from it as possible. I’ll explain everything tomorrow but for now-”

He stopped suddenly, hearing the door of the cabin open and sensing a presence behind him. Pivoting sharply, his gaze landed on El.

“Where the hell have you been?!” He demanded an answer.

Hopper’s face hardened as he noticed the tears still fresh on El’s cheeks. Something was very wrong. Her eyes never left you.

“El, are you okay?” (Y/N) asked, voice laced with worry. “What’s going on?” She finished.

El’s wide, glassy eyes flicked over to Billy, just for a second, but that second was enough. It wasn’t just a look, it was a warning. A silent message, heavy with urgency and something darker… Something familiar.

Billy’s jaw tensed, his expression shifting in an instant. The air around him seemed to thicken, his posture rigid as the weight of her meaning sank in. That look, he’d seen it before. Felt it. Lived it. And now, it was back.

He sat up and his arm tightened protectively around your waist, almost instinctively, like his body remembered something his voice didn’t yet say out loud. A flicker of fear crossed his eyes, but it wasn’t for himself. It was for you. And he knew what it meant, for Hawkins, for all of them. But more than anything, he knew what it meant for you.

El took a steadying breath, her gaze sweeping the room one last time, Billy, your father, then finally landing on you. Her voice was low but firm, cracking slightly under the strain of whatever she had just faced.

“It- is not - safe.” She said. “You, are not safe. We need to leave. Now.” She demanded.

Part 5 anyone ??? :)

Click here to read all Billy fic’s :)

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[swimmingdeepbelow]

Warning for spoilers of Hannibal and all the extreme tws that come with it

I just started e1 and holy shit??? That opening? God damn!

The SA implication isn't fun

The slight ablism around the 5 min mark is unfortunately era accurate.

I'm really excited for this! I've been getting sucked into the fandom hardcore for months and finally broke lol

[justarithinnngs]

Spaces. (Squid Game x Player!Reader)

Chapter 1 - Dynasty

Warnings: death (character death), terminal illness, mentions of medical trauma, mental health struggles, emotional distress,

It was a perfect night. The kind that felt like it could stretch on forever—easy, light, and full of laughter. (Y/N) sat at the bar, leaning over to listen to her best friend, Jiwoo, as she rambled on about some guy she’d met earlier that evening. The music was loud, and the chatter was lively, but for a moment, everything felt right. (Y/N) could feel the hum of contentment in her chest, the steady beat of happiness she always found when she was with her friends.

“…And then, I swear, he tried to impress me with some lame pick-up line about my shoes,” Jiwoo laughed, her voice barely audible over the beat of the club. “Like I didn’t know exactly what he was doing.”

(Y/N) giggled, playfully nudging Jiwoo’s arm. “Classic. But hey, at least he tried, right? Most guys wouldn’t even bother.”

Across from her, Soojin joined in, raising her glass and grinning mischievously. “Maybe he thought your shoes were worth impressing. But knowing you, you probably just went along with it.”

(Y/N) laughed again, a soft, genuine sound that could be heard above the noise. It was the kind of laugh that made others smile, the kind that came easily to her. She loved moments like this—being surrounded by her closest friends, the ones who knew her better than anyone. The night stretched on, filled with shared jokes, teasing, and stories. In the midst of all this, (Y/N) was happy. She was light, unburdened, free.

But her friends knew something she didn’t always recognize herself.

“You’re too nice for your own good, you know that?” Jiwoo had said earlier in the night, a serious edge in her voice that was rare for her.

(Y/N) had smiled it off, tossing her hair back. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re always the one to look out for everyone,” Jiwoo had continued, a hint of concern creeping into her tone. “You’re always helping people, always trying to fix things. You need to be careful, (Y/N). It’s gonna catch up to you one day.”

(Y/N) had laughed it off, but deep down, she knew they were right. She was the one always trying to make everyone happy. The one who stayed up late to listen to someone’s problems, who would drop everything to help a friend in need. It wasn’t that (Y/N) minded. She couldn’t imagine being any other way. Her kindness was like a light, and it radiated from her in everything she did.

But now, as the night wound down and she stepped out into the crisp air with her friends, a sudden shift of unease began to settle deep in her gut.

“Are you okay to get home?” Soojin asked, her voice tinged with a touch of concern as she linked arms with (Y/N).

“Yeah, I’m good. Just a little tired, that’s all,” (Y/N) smiled, waving off any worry. “I’ll be fine.”

“Call me when you get home,” Jiwoo added, glancing at (Y/N) with a look that made her hesitate. “We love you, you know that?”

(Y/N) grinned at her friends, pulling them in for a tight hug. “I love you guys too. Now, go home and get some rest. I’ll be fine.”

But the moment she stepped inside her apartment, the weight of everything from the night seemed to press down on her, and she knew something was off. Her phone buzzed as soon as she closed the door behind her.

It was her mom.

(Y/N) had spoken to her mom earlier that day. She’d been worried about her dad, who’d been feeling increasingly unwell. His health had been declining for a while, but they hadn’t been able to figure out what was wrong. At first, they thought it was just stress. Then they thought it was something minor, maybe just exhaustion. But as the weeks went on, things weren’t improving, and now, it felt like the weight of it all was suffocating her.

She answered the call, trying to shake off the remnants of the night’s fun, bracing herself for the conversation.

“Hey, Mom. How’s Dad?” (Y/N) asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

There was a long pause on the other end, and then her mom’s voice came through, softer, more fragile than usual. “Sweetheart… We got the results back.”

The words hung in the air, a sharp sting that immediately made her heart race. “Results? What do you mean? What’s going on?”

Her mom took a shaky breath, and in that moment, (Y/N) felt her entire world tilt. “It’s… brain cancer, (Y/N). Your father… it’s brain cancer.”

There it was. The words hit her like a physical blow. Brain cancer. Those two words, so simple, yet so heavy, dropped like an anchor into her chest, pressing the air from her lungs.

She gripped the phone tighter, her fingers trembling. “No… No, that can’t be right. He’s… he’s been feeling sick, but not like that. Not—Mom, there’s got to be a mistake. Please, tell me there’s been a mistake.”

Her mother’s voice cracked. “I wish it were, honey. I wish it were a mistake. But… it’s not. The doctors—they said it’s advanced. We don’t know how much time we have.”

A hollow silence swallowed the room, and for a moment, (Y/N) couldn’t speak. Her breath came in shallow gasps, and all she could hear was the sound of her own heartbeat, thundering in her ears.

The world outside her apartment, the noise of the city, the memories of the night—everything blurred, faded into a hazy mist. Her heart felt like it was being squeezed in her chest, each beat slower, more painful than the last. Her mind couldn’t grasp what her mom had just said. Brain cancer? Her dad, the man who had taught her to ride a bike, the one who made her laugh so hard she’d cry, the one who held her when she was hurt… he was sick. So sick.

“No…” she whispered, her voice barely audible, cracking under the weight of it all. She sank down onto the couch, the phone still pressed to her ear, the words spinning in her mind like a broken record. No, no, no.

Her mom’s voice came through again, gentle, but full of sorrow. “I know, baby. I know it’s a lot. But we need to be strong now. We need to be there for him.”

(Y/N) shut her eyes, squeezing them tight, as if she could block out the reality of it all. But it didn’t help. It didn’t change anything.

She could feel the spark inside her—her energy, her light—slowly dimming. It wasn’t something that happened all at once. It wasn’t a switch being flipped. It was the slow, agonizing realization that her world had just shifted, irreversibly. She wasn’t the same girl who had been laughing with her friends just hours ago. That girl was gone.

Her voice cracked again, this time louder. “I… I don’t know what to do, Mom. I don’t know what to do.” Tears blurred her vision, and she wiped at her eyes frantically, but they just kept coming. “I can’t lose him. I can’t lose him. Please, Mom, please tell me there’s something we can do.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone, and for a moment, it felt like time itself had stopped. Then, her mom spoke, her voice trembling, but filled with quiet strength.

“We’ll fight, (Y/N). We’ll fight for him. We don’t know how much time we have, but we’ll fight. You’re not alone in this.”

But (Y/N) felt alone. She felt the weight of the world pressing down on her chest, and for the first time in a long time, she didn’t know how to keep going. The energy that had once been so full of life, so vibrant, felt hollow now. Her father, the one person who had always been her rock, was slipping away from her, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Her sobs echoed through the quiet apartment, her body wracked with grief she didn’t know how to handle. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. And she didn’t know how to fight against it.

She couldn’t be strong anymore. Not tonight. Not yet.

[nikotashi]

Unwavering

✦ title: unwavering

✦ fandom: love and deepspace

✦ pairing: mc!reader x sylus

✦ genre: hurt / comfort

✦ warnings: emotional trauma, anxiety, ptsd, mentions of sedation

✦ word count: ~2k

✦ notes: this chapter is told entirely from your perspective, delving into mc’s raw experience with trauma, anxiety, and ptsd. it explores themes of deep emotional distress and the difficult, yet tender, process of finding comfort. please be mindful of any content warnings, and take care of yourself while reading

part one , part two

masterlist

“Her soul’s storm unleashed, a broken sob in the dim-lit air. In his steadfast embrace, she found solace, knowing he would be there.”

Hours later, or perhaps only moments—time was a broken thing, splintered into meaningless fragmaents—you stirred. It wasn’t a sudden awakening, but a slow, molasses-thick return to a hazy awareness. The darkness hadn’t vanished; it merely receded, pulling back from the immediate edges of your mind like a receding tide, leaving behind a damp, chilling residue. The pounding in your chest has softened to a dull throb, a bruised ache that was manageable, a vast improvement from the searing pain that had consumed you.

You were warm, impossibly warm, cocooned in soft, unfamiliar silk that smelled faintly of a clean, subtle cologne you now instinctively associated with safety. Your head rested on a pillow that was soft, almost cloud-like, a stark contrast to the cold, hard floor you remembered. The relentless drumming of the rain outside had mellowed to a steady, rhythmic hush against the windows, a quiet lullaby instead of a frantic assault.

Your eyes, still heavy with the sedative, fluttered open. The room was dim, the heavy curtains still drawn against the full light of day, but enough soft, filtered glow permeated to reveal deep, rich colors around you—dark wood, muted fabrics. This wasn't your small, sparse apartment. This was vast, luxurious, and undeniably his.

Then you saw him. Sylus. Still there. He was seated in a large, leather armchair positioned near the bed, his head tilted back, eyes closed, in what seemed like a light, watchful doze. His presence was a solid, unwavering anchor in the vast, swirling uncertainty of your mind. A quiet, almost irrational wave of relief washed over you, mixing with a familiar surge of self-consciousness. To be seen like this, so broken, so utterly reliant. The humiliation tried to creep in, but the lingering effects of the sedative kept its teeth dull, its claws retracted.

You shifted slightly, testing your limbs. They felt heavy, as if made of lead, but the tremors were gone. Reaching out, your hand found the space on the bed beside you, cool and undisturbed. You remembered holding his hand, the last thread of consciousness before sleep had claimed you. Had he stayed like that? All this time? The thought was both comforting and unsettling. You wanted to speak, to confirm he was real, but your throat felt thick, your voice trapped somewhere deep inside your chest. You simply watched him, this silent guardian in the dim light, and the quiet comfort he offered became the only truth in your still-fuzzy world.

The urge to move, to confirm that your body still obeyed, grew. You pushed gently against the soft mattress, your muscles protesting with a dull ache but no longer the searing pain. Slowly, carefully, you tried to sit up. It was a laborious effort; your limbs felt weighted, heavy with residual sedative, and your head swam with a dizzying lightness. The world tilted slightly, and for a terrifying second, the edges of the room blurred. You gasped, a small, choked sound, and instinctively swayed, your hand reaching out to steady yourself on the soft sheets. The movement, however subtle, broke the quiet spell.

At your faint gasp, Sylus stirred. His head, which had been resting against the back of the armchair, lifted with a precise, immediate awareness that belied his earlier slumber. His eyes, sharp even in the dim light, found you instantly, wide and alert. He moved without hesitation, pushing himself up from the chair with a fluid grace that made him seem less a man and more a shadow detaching from the darkness. In moments, he was by the bed, his strong hand gently settling on your arm, preventing your sway from becoming a fall.

"Hey, easy, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice low and steady, a grounding force amidst the lingering haze in your head. His thumb brushed a soft circle on your skin, a familiar, comforting gesture. "Take it slow. You're still coming down from the sedative."

The soft murmur of his voice, the warmth of his hand on your arm, began to slowly pull you fully from the sedative's grip. You looked at him, truly seeing the faint lines of exhaustion etched around his eyes, the slight rumple of his clothes. He had been there. All night. Watching over you. A wave of guilt, sharp and sudden, cut through the remaining fuzziness.

"I'm sorry," you managed to whisper, your voice still rough, barely audible. Your gaze flickered from his face to the armchair, then back to him, filled with a profound regret. "I... I woke you. You were here the whole time." The words felt inadequate, clumsy, a poor apology for the burden you knew you had placed on him. You felt the blush creep up your neck, hot against your still-pale skin, the humiliation returning with sharper teeth now that the sedative's dulling effect was fading.

He didn't flinch, didn't pull away. Instead, a soft, almost imperceptible smile touched the corners of his lips, a gentle softening of his usually stern features. He moved his hand from your arm, only to gently cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a lingering, unseen tear track near your temple. His touch was warm, steady, and utterly dismissive of your apology.

"No trouble at all, sweetie," he murmured, his voice a low, reassuring rumble that seemed to smooth away the edges of your burgeoning shame. His eyes, deep and unwavering, met yours, holding your gaze with a quiet intensity that left no room for argument. "I told you I'd stay. And a little rest in a chair isn't 'waking' me." He paused, his thumb still gently stroking your cheek. "You needed me. That's all that matters." His words were calm, absolute, leaving no room for your self-recrimination. He simply was there, and it was, to him, the most natural thing in the world.

His words, firm yet infinitely gentle, were a balm to your raw nerves. They cut through the lingering fuzziness of the sedative and the sharp sting of your guilt, leaving behind a surprising sense of quiet. You wanted to argue, to insist you were a burden, but the energy simply wasn't there. And more importantly, the conviction in his eyes, the steady warmth of his hand on your cheek, made it impossible to refute. He truly believed it. You simply needed him, and that was enough.

A heavy sigh escaped you, not of despair this time, but of profound, bone-deep weariness. Your muscles, which had tensed in your aborted attempt to sit up, now relaxed, sinking back into the soft luxury of the bed. The warmth radiating from his hand spread, lulling you. The distant roar of the storm, which had previously echoed the chaos in your mind, now sounded like a far-off, rhythmic whisper. Your eyelids felt impossibly heavy once more, fluttering briefly before succumbing to the overwhelming urge for rest. The humiliation receded, replaced by a profound, if fragile, sense of safety. You leaned into his touch, your cheek resting against his palm as the world gently dissolved into soft, hazy tranquility. You weren't fully asleep, not like before, but the fear had finally loosened its grip, allowing for a peace that felt like the deepest slumber. You simply rested, truly rested, perhaps for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

You lay there, caught between waking and the deep, drug-induced calm, your cheek still cradled in his palm. The desire to truly sleep, to fully escape, was immense, but something held you back. Perhaps it was the lingering haze, or perhaps it was the quiet weight of his presence. Slowly, carefully, you let your eyes flutter open again, just slits, looking up at him through the soft, filtered light of the room.

He was still watching you, his gaze intense, almost palpable. But as your eyes, still slightly dilated from the sedative, focused on his, you saw something you hadn't expected. Beyond the unwavering concern, beyond the steadfast protectiveness you'd come to rely on, there was something else in the depths of his eyes. A flicker. Not of doubt, not exactly. More like a profound hesitation, a vulnerability you rarely witnessed. It was a fleeting shadow, quickly veiled, but it was there: a hint of something deeper, something burdened, perhaps even a reflection of a pain he kept locked away, mirroring your own. For a split second, you felt a curious pull, a sense of shared understanding that transcended your present weakness. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the moment passed, and the comforting weight of the sedative gently pulled you back towards the soft edges of conscious thought.

His gaze softened imperceptibly, as if he sensed your subtle shift in awareness. He opened his mouth, and for a moment, you thought he might finally ask it – the question that hung unspoken between you, the one that burned in his eyes even as he tried to hide it. What happened? The words hovered on the tip of his tongue, almost visible in the subtle tension around his jaw. You braced yourself, even in your hazy state, for the difficult questions, the inevitable rehashing of the terror.

But then, the tension eased. His gaze, still gentle, dropped from your eyes to your cheek, his thumb continuing its soft, rhythmic stroke. The question, if it was ever truly formed, remained unvoiced. Instead, his voice was a low, steady rumble, a promise whispered against the quiet hum of the room. "I'm here," he murmured, his thumb now brushing along your hairline. "I'm not going anywhere. Just rest." The words were a lifeline, anchoring you. He offered no demands, only his unwavering presence, a solid, unbreakable comfort that allowed you to finally, truly surrender to the peace he offered.

Hearing those words, "I'm not going anywhere," something profound shifted within you. It was a simple phrase, yet in your fractured state, it felt like the most monumental promise ever uttered. Your eyes, already glistening, filled with hot, unshed tears, and your lips began to quiver uncontrollably. A broken sob, raw and untamed, tore its way from your throat, startling in the quiet room.

His hand slid from your cheek, down to cup your jaw, his thumb still gently stroking. You looked at him through the shimmering veil of tears, a moment of deep uncertainty gripping you. But when you met his gaze, you saw it—the profound worry that clouded the depths of his eyes, an open concern that mirrored your own pain, stripping away your last defenses. Without thought, you pushed yourself further up, propelled by a desperate need for contact, for solid ground. Your heavy limbs responded, clumsy but determined, and you shifted, turning your body towards him, until you were half-sitting, half-clinging, nestled awkwardly in his lap. Your face buried itself in the crook of his neck, and another shuddering sob escaped you, louder this time, as the dam finally broke.

His arms came around you, not with force, but with an immediate, gentle embrace that felt like the world solidifying around you. He pulled you closer, nestling you securely against his chest, the warmth of his body seeping into your chilled skin. One hand, large and firm, moved to your hair, his fingers slowly, rhythmically combing through the tangled strands at the back of your head. The gentle pull was surprisingly soothing, a tangible focus in the storm of your grief. His other hand settled on your lower back, beginning to rub slow, comforting circles, a steady, grounding pressure that communicated everything his voice couldn't yet.

"That's it, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice a low, rough whisper against your ear, barely audible over your own ragged sobs. He made no demands, no inquiries, simply letting you release the torrent of pain. "Let it out. I've got you." Each word was a soft caress, raw with genuine empathy, holding no judgment, only boundless patience. "You're safe here. So safe." He continued his rhythmic strokes, his presence an unbreakable shield against the terrors that had consumed you. Your cries, broken and uninhibited, were the only sounds in the dim room, and he met each one with a quiet strength that promised he wouldn't flinch, wouldn't leave. He was simply there, a solid anchor, allowing you to finally shatter without fearing you would truly break.

✨ author’s note

this chapter is a little shorter than the others, but you get a whole lot more soft sylus. i hope you like it regardless

- nikotashi <3

[patches4thechaos]

FULL DRAWING UNDER THE CUT, MIND YOUR WARNINGS ⚠️

SPOILER WARNING FOR THE GAME OMORI

⚠️CONTENT WARNING FOR DISTURBING IMAGERY, BLOOD, AND DEPICTIONS OF SUICIDAL METHODOLOGY ⚠️

you cannot flame me I warned you 👍👍

hi how’s your day going

I love sketching the horrors :)

[mechs-headcanons]

TimxMarius time! (might be triggering? Mod can you put warnings in tags if it is?)

The crew mocks Marius for calling himself a doctor because what he studies isn't something normal on their planets.

Except Tim. Because Marius is studying war ptsd. Tim has war ptsd. Marius helped Tim. Tim hasn't lost it because of Marius.

Tim is the only one actually respecting Marius' title.

aw:( yeah:(