#sometimes the windowlessness is for your own good..

[formylovetodaryldixon]

"Stay with me." Daryl Dixon Imagine.

@fluffy-dixon: I have a request for you ❤️ The reader is afraid of the dark, genuinely terrified but has learnt how to deal with it somewhat but something switches and they borderline have a melt down about it and Daryl is the one that finds out. Take it where you want, I know I'll love it but I thought it was a cool idea.

A/N: Hi, love! Thank you sooo much for your request. It was so fun to write so I really hope you like it. I changed it a little bit and added Merle being a good brother–in–law haha while being an idiot too hehe. There is something hot about Daryl as your husband so here it is!

You are laying down sideways on the bed inside your cell, the warm colors of the candle flame on the small table fluttering softly on a silent night. The light fights against the darkness, wrapping you in a pleasant warmth. But when old terrors try to loom over you like the shadows in the small room, you try to focus on the small fire: every night as the sun comes down, you try to convince yourself that everything is fine, but there are sometimes when your fears make you feel blind, like being trapped in a windowless world, drowning you in the absolute darkness.

However, in the midst of the infinite night, the door opens and closes, and his strong but serene presence comes in with him.

“Can’t sleep yet?” Daryl’s voice is a low and hoarse whisper as he takes off his vest and his shirt, kicking his boots off next to lay on the bed next to you, using his right arm as a pillow, the other one finding the soft skin beneath your t–shirt. “Somethin’ wrong, peach?”

He’s around all the time, but you learned to heal your own wounds just so as not worry him.

“It’s nothing. I just can’t sleep.”

Daryl looks at you with his usual calm expression, but you can feel him getting worried.

“Ya sure? Ya can tell me.”

His unnecessary concern makes you smile a little, because behind his tough personality, it is hiding the man who always talks softly to you, who tries to protect you even from a simple nightmare. Some things are impossible for him to control, but for things he can, Daryl is always there for you.

But when your right hand makes contact with his cheek, so soft and intimate, it makes him lean to your touch.

“You are such a sweetheart.” You tease, making Daryl grunt low in disagreement, but he uses his own hand to keep yours on his cheek, loving how warm it feels.

Daryl didn’t know how to be the man who gave flowers and chocolates; he never was that kind of man, but he was always a loving husband in his own way.

“I ain’t a sweetheart.” His parted lips capture your wrist, in a hot way as he goes down a little bit, kissing your skin using his hot tongue. You find yourself licking your own lip, looking at him as he finishes his little game. “But I do love ya so fuckin’ much.”

You chuckle looking at his playful eyes as he comes closer to you, kissing you in the same way he kissed your hand. Being married to him is not a romantic novel, but it’s kind of perfect, in its own little way.

However, the complete darkness in that abandoned house makes you walk blindly. The run that had to be simple had gone wrong. But like a never–ending tale of terror, you walk and walk without reaching the exit, without being able to walk into the light you can’t see.

Suddenly, the tears on your face are burning your skin when you wake up, and your worst fear catches you like a cage. Your hands cover your face because you don’t want to see the abyss that darkness leaves, although it is not really there because of the light from the endless flame of the big and thick candle.

After a moment, you can finally hear Daryl’s voice.

“Hey. S’ okay, peach…” Using his elbow as a support, Daryl keeps repeating that everything is fine as he strokes your belly under the blanket, giving you the time to calm down. “It was jus’ a nightmare. Okay?”

It feels like you are drowning, but you use your hands to wipe your tears away, and when you drop your arms, Daryl uses his thumb to gently slide it over your skin one last time to make sure there are no more trace of sadness in you.

“Ain’t matter what it is, it ain’t real.”

You lay down sideways, closing your eyes.

“It felt real.”

Laying back down, Daryl slips his arm around your body as he strokes your back.

“Wanna tell me?”

Putting that fear you think you were overcoming in his head isn't a good idea.

“You don’t need to hear it. It’s nothing really.”

Daryl nods, not wanting to push you to talk when you are not ready, so he just holds you tight, resting his forehead against yours.

“Okay. But m’ right here with ya in case ya need anythin’. I won’t leave ya. Ya heard me?”

“Yes. Thank you.” You say softly, and Daryl smiles slightly even through his own concern.

“That’s ma girl.”

But come on, marriages are not perfect.

The moment Daryl enters the prison that night; you stay behind just for a short moment before sinking into the solitude of your cell. The world is so big in the outside, but it feels so little on the inside, almost suffocating, like a hand around your throat. However, when you take the first step into the prison’s dining room, the image in front of you is like a new way of breathtaking. It isn’t the first time Daryl holds baby Judith, but it is the first time he actually feeds her as some people of the group gathers around. And he is all smiley, loving the idea of having a baby even when in the beginning he was not founding to the idea of kids.

But when you see Merle smirking from the other door, the one that connects the dining room to the cell blocks, you want to punch his stupid face as you walk pass him.

“Are yer ovaries startin’ to itch for a baby, honey?” He chuckles, following you to your cell.

“Fuck you, asshole.”

“Hey, ya kiss ma baby brotha with that mouth?” Merle laughs. You have a love–hate relationship with your brother in law: he was an asshole in the old world, an asshole in the new one as well, but when his hand holds yours to stop you, you can see his worried expression when you turn around, even though you were actually ready to punch him. “Ya okay, darlin’? I was jus’ messin’ with ya. Ya know it, right?”

You sigh.

“Yeah. And I’m okay, thank you.”

It is the same old lie you told everyone. But they asked if you were okay because they were kind, or because they really wanted to hear the long monologue of the no, I’m not okay?

“Ya ain’t lookin’ okay. Somethin’ happened with ma idiot brotha?”

You chuckle.

“Actually… I always thought you were the idiot in that weird relationship you two had, but hey… what do I know, right?” You tease him, making him roll his eyes. “We are okay… or something like that, it’s just…”

You look away for a moment, and he breathes out a little laugh, but his blue eyes keep looking at you as he discovers the truth in your shy gaze.

“Shit. S’ happenin’ again.”

You gulp, looking back at him.

“I don’t get it.”

Merle sighs, but that condescending expression he always use with everyone turns into a soft one he only had with you.

“That thing ya have with darkness.”

“I…” Merle is the only one who knew about it, just because during the weeks Daryl spent working nights and you slept with the lamp on, he accused you of wasting electricity in the apartment you all lived, even when it was you and Daryl who actually paid the bills. Merle was an asshole 99% of the time, but he also was the person who told you that you should tell your husband about it, although you lied telling Daryl already knew about that. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, you jerk.”

You turn, heading towards your cell, missing out the way Merle shakes his head before he starts walking towards the patio. The once quiet night now fills with the heavy growls of walkers on the other side of the fence, but he ignores them as Merle sits next to his brother at that old desk.

Daryl is smoking, without paying attention to Merle until he speaks.

“I can see yer being a son of a bitch again while yer wife is being a pain in the ass.”

Daryl frowns, not understanding the reference.

“What the fuck are ya talkin’ ‘bout?”

Merle chuckles.

“S’ a quote from that stupid movie (Y/N) made us watch once. The school book or some shit like that.”

“It was the notebook, ya dickhead.”

Merle laughs with sarcasm.

“S’ the same shit.”

"Ummh." Daryl lets out smoke from his cigar before speaking again. “We’re fine, we jus’ had a stupid fight.”

Merle nods, thoughtful.

“’bout what? Ya started talkin’ shit again and she was ‘bout to kick yer sorry ass?”

Daryl looks away for a moment, internally debating whether sharing his thoughts with his brother is the right thing to do.

“S’ not of yer business.”

Merle rolls his eyes, hating that Daryl and you are acting like assholes. Funny, isn’t it?

“Suit yerself. I’ll leave alone so ya can share yer fears to the moon like a damn baby.” He laughs, but then, Merle stops, realizing something. “Ya got more candles for (Y/N). Right?”

Daryl frowns, again.

“What?”

“We ran out of ‘em and I see that she's become afraid of the dark again.”

Daryl is speechless for a moment.

“What ya mean again?”

“Shit. (Y/N) told me ya knew.” Merle clears his throat, but now that your secret had been exposed because of him, he already could hear the insults coming. “She’s afraid of the dark, brotha, terrified ‘cause the son of a bitch of her dad used to punish her with it when she was a child. She has been fine for years but it seems like her trauma kicks in every now and then.”

In a second that feels eternal for Daryl, he leaves his brother behind as he runs inside the prison, dropping the cigar, cursing under his breath for not know it sooner. He’s angry because you never told him that, but in his way there, he tries to understand your reasons when he had his own demons hiding in the shadows. The difference was that Daryl is no longer afraid of the dark since he met you.

But the moment he finds you sitting on the floor, knees against your chest and your hands covering your eyes, Daryl can hear your rapid and heavy breathing.

“Peach, hey, m’ here, sweetheart.” He sits on the floor too, taking you in his arms. “S’ okay, yer okay.”

“I know, I just need a minute.” You say, soft but unsecure words you try to hear to convince yourself you’re going to be fine. One of his hands holds your head against his chest, but his heart is beating so fast and so loud you can hear it clearly. “You’re fine, Daryl, you’re fine, I promise.”

And amidst the turbulent fears he harbors, Daryl finds the strength to chuckle, a somewhat incredulous little laugh as he attempts to meet your gaze.

“Yer really worry ‘bout me right now?” He rests his forehead against yours, again, breathing fast because the mere thought of seeing you in pain makes him feel like a scared child. But Daryl is trying not to love that much the way you always worry about him. “I think I was a fuckin' saint in other life to have found ya in this one, love. I really am one lucky bastard.”

Daryl always had pet names for you, but that is the first time he calls you love, and it’s funny and sweet that it makes you smile a little bit through your tears.

“Yer holdin’ a lot inside of ya, sweetheart, but ya can always lean on me. We got this, okay?”

You nod softly, because that is the first time when the word we doesn’t feel like you are bringing someone else down with you, and there, you know that life won’t look so dark from now on.

[ioniansunsets]

[ Within Your Grasp]

A/N: can't believe this took a year uh uh so sorry guys we will update more now...my bad..... [Chapter 0 Here]

Pairing: Knight! Kayn x Princess! Reader

Tags: Female Reader, Alternate Universe, SLOW BURN

Wordcount: 1.1k

Chapter 1.

[ A Wooden Sword ]

11 Years Old - Summer of xx87

It was the usual for you, skipping out on etiquette class, hiding from all the adults in the castle, sneaking your way into the run down training grounds.

Sure it was a little tougher now because you could only do this on days when your personal warden, Kayn, was not with you. Twice a week he leaves to train with the Knight Order leaving you in Akali’s care instead. The switch between their shifts watching over you was one of the few opportunities you could sneak away.

Running from Akali was tough but honestly, you think she lets you get away on purpose. Maybe the the camaraderie of you two being the only girls around this age stuck in the main castle. Maybe she just wanted an excuse to not have to look after you… You’d have to ask her sometime. But in the end, it was only on days like this where Kayn was off training and Akali was in a good mood could you slip away to your hideout. The uneventful repetitive castle life meant you had to find your own fun. Fun in things like this.

A little ways away from the courtyard that the actual knights practiced in. There was but a small…storage room off in the deeper parts of the castle grounds. A place you found by chance while running away from your tutor a few years back. A place that was all yours, no maids, no knights, no mom or dad.

Dark and musty, sure. Sometimes the bugs scare you, alright. And maybe light doesn’t enter as well due to the overgrown plants outside, but still, it was yours!

“ Finally.”

You slowly push open the door, sneaking in. Cobwebs lining shelves you simply could not reach. Dust kicked up in the once stale air as you ran around freely now that you were truly alone.

“ Princess-?”

Or maybe not.

As you turn your head towards the very familiar voice, your eyes meet with a confused expression. Kayn.

“ What are you doing here?” “ I could ask you the same! Aren’t you supposed to be in the main training hall? What are you doing in my hideout.”

Arms crossed, you call him out before any accusation could leave his mouth. You watch his brows furrow as he grips a rusty dull sword in his hand. Judging him as you note the sweat dripping from his brow. The small cuts and bruises on his arms and face. The boyishly cute way his hair was a mess.

“ I- Ugh….”

Kayn’s voice lowers. His hand rising to shake the sweat off the spiky back ends of his hair in frustration as he thinks about how honest he wants to be with you.

“ Master Zed won’t let me practice with a real sword yet though I’m totally good enough already.”

You watch as his gaze drops to the old battered sword in his hand. A twisted mix of a fond smile on his lips paired with his furrowed brow as his hand squeezes the handle before relaxing again.

“ I found this place last week along with all the old gear at the back.”

Kayn tilts his head a little to the room he came out of, signalling to you where he found the sword. And as you peek inside the dark windowless room, you see training equipment left by the old knight order. Things you inspected when you first started hanging out here but thought were simply worthless scrap metal. At least…until now.

You weren’t sure what came over you, maybe it was that knight training looked fun sometimes. Or that weird desire inside you to get closer to Kayn you couldn’t quite understand just yet. You walk over, picking up a wooden training sword.

“ Kaynie. Teach me how to use one!”

There was that nickname again that you wouldn’t stop using. Kayn rests his hand on his hip in frustration. A princess? Using a sword? He didn’t have anything against that, he’s seen the women of Noxus fight. But he knows training isn’t easy, he’s covered in bruises himself. Of course Kayn didn’t like the idea of potentially harming someone he was ordered to protect. The mental image of you with the slightest paper cut on your flawless skin sending his heart lurching. What was this? Fear that he’d lose his new home?

“ No way Princess! If you show up with a bruise or a cut it’s over for me!”

You watch your knight stomp over, reaching out to try and grab the training sword out of your hand. Laughing, you hold it up high above your head, making use of your recent growth spurt over the once malnourished boy. Kayn jumps, frustrated, wanting to pull it out of your hands while not being too rough with you in the process. As you now move the sword behind your back, you feel Kayn lunge at you with a little too much force as he tries to wrangle it out of your hand, sending you two tumbling onto the dusty old training mats that line the floor. With a light thunk the sword tumbles out of your hand, more dust flying into the air around you both.

“ Shit. I’m so sorry-‘

Apologies and soft curses spill out from him as he quickly tries to get up from you. You however, continue to lie there in wide eyed shock. Suddenly very aware of what the other noble girls you play with meant by the tingly, fluttering feeling in their chest when they see the boys they like in the castle. Was it meant to leave you feeling this breathless? As you slowly come to your senses, you swallow hard, refocusing on the hand that Kayn held out towards you, offering to help you up. As you reach up to his calloused hand, he pulls you up with such ease that the fluttering feeling in your chest grows so bad it makes you feel sick. Staring at each other in shocked silence, Kayn’s flustered and embarrassed face almost made you forget what the two of you were fighting over in the first place. Quickly you turn and grab the wooden sword off the floor again.

“ T-Teach me how to use this and I won’t tell anyone what happened here.”

Yes, an amazing diplomatic offer once again. You were such a good princess. Coughing a little and put on a haughty smile, you do your best to regain your regal persona. Kayn messily rubs the dust off his face and clothes. Looking at you grabbing the training sword with such conviction. Your knight sighs before running off into the room to grab one for himself.

“ Ok.”

[rheanyraaaa]

Hearts like Minefields

pairing: robb stark x female reader

“i just blame everything on you, atleast you know that’s what i’m good at”

summary: You were his therapist. Then you became his wife. Now you’re trying to survive in the space between love and resentment with a twelve-year-old stepdaughter who wants to see you gone. - Part 1

a/n: fanfic i promised so long ago! it will be 15 chapters and i will be posting my others stuff aswell! and will be working on the roslin and robb fic too! :)

●・○・●・○・● ●・○・●・○・● ●・○・●・○・●

You first met Robb Stark in a gray room, under flickering lights, with two chairs and no windows. He didn’t look at you when he sat down and he didn’t speak for the first six minutes of your intake session. He just stared at a point behind your head like he was still watching the edge of a combat zone unravel. You knew that look.

You weren’t intimidated.

Nine months of weekly sessions.

Nine months of patience.

Nine months of decoding silence and teaching a man who’d never needed anyone how to sit still with his own grief, you helped him find the edge of language again, you gave him vocabulary for things that had only ever been bullets and orders before.

And when it ended cleanly, ethically you filed it away and told yourself that was it, you were proud of the work, keeping it detached and professional, but didn’t expect him to come back.

But a few months later, there he was, at your door, not as a patient. Not needing you to hold his trauma. Just needing… something.

It started with coffee. Then longer talks. Then “I’m not used to being seen like this.” Then “I don’t want to be alone.”

And now, two years later, you’re married to him. You live in a house with quiet corners and a dozen rooms that rarely feel lived in. You work with him, unofficially managing staff at his high-end private security firm. You write schedules, vet resumes, make clinical assessments of who’s stable enough to handle guarding billionaires or dodging bullets overseas.

You’re good at it. It uses all your old muscles.

But none of that matters here. Not in this house.

Because in this house, you’re the woman who replaced her mother.

And Minisia Stark will never let you forget it.

She’s twelve going on cruel. All bone and fire and bright, bitter eyes. She flits around this place like she owns it and in a way, she does. Her drawings are taped to the fridge, her shoes in the hallway, her mother’s face in the pictures Robb hasn’t taken down.

She glares at you over cereal. She sighs too loudly when you talk. She tests your limits the way her father tests yours: differently, but just as deliberately.

And Robb? He watches it. Absorbs it. And says nothing.

Sometimes you think he’s still in that windowless room, staring through you.

●・○・●・○・● ●・○・●・○・● ●・○・●・○・●

You stand at the sink now, rinsing a coffee cup, watching the winter light pour through the window like something borrowed.

Minisia slams the door as she leaves for school. You don’t say goodbye. You stopped trying a few weeks ago.

Behind you, Robb’s boots echo across the hardwood. He grunts something maybe “morning,” maybe “move” and disappears out the front.

You stare at the empty doorway. The coffee goes cold in your hands.

●・○・●・○・● ●・○・●・○・● ●・○・●・○・●

You should say something.

You should go after him.

You should care less.

You’re not his therapist anymore.

You’re just his wife.

And that’s somehow worse.

You place the cup gently in the sink.

And for the first time in weeks, you let yourself whisper it:

“What the hell did I do?”

●・○・●・○・● ●・○・●・○・● ●・○・●・○・●

[clubdionysus]

[BAD DECISION #3] Coffee

warnings: hangovers, language

soundtrack:leave (get out) - jojo, coffee - bts, hangover - woosung

wc: 2k

bd total wc: 540k (on-going)

minors dni | AO3 | series masterlist 

"No you don't understand, I'm actually dead," Hoseok groans into the staff room fridge, where his head is currently resting on an empty shelf. His eyes are closed, and he's been in there so long that the fridge door light has cut out. 

He's not been in the fridge since last summer's heatwave, so you know his hangover really must be as bad as he's making it out to be.

"Stop," you lightly scold him, shooing him away so you can grab the vitamin drink you'd put in there at the start of your shift. You swear by it as your favourite hangover cure, and in fact, it's your second of the day. Something about the ache in your head just won't budge. "You'll let the cold out, Hobes."

"Good," he huffs. "It's a sauna in here." 

It's spring, and summer is yet to fully ripen. There are far hotter days to come, but Hoseok's body is trying to flush the alcohol from his system in the easiest way possible: sweat.

"Whatever was in those little purple shots was lethal," he whines, slumping down onto the single chair in the kitchen. It's cramped, and really not big enough for two people - windowless, but at least there's a vent. 

It doesn't really matter what the staff room is like. You rarely spend any time there; always front of house instead.

For the past two years following graduation, you've been working at Pot & Paint - a painting cafe downtown, where people paint canvases while enjoying a fresh brew. 

Time passes by slowly within the four walls, but peacefully. The fumes get you a little lightheaded sometimes, but for the most part it's a dream of a job. Easy money. Hoseok had taken you under his wing in your first week, and had been stuck to you like dried acrylic ever since.

Days are relatively similar, and yet always different thanks to the customers. You have your set jobs - make coffee, clean brushes, fill water trays - but it's seeing what the customers create that really makes the job so much fun. 

You and Hoseok place bets on which half of the couple will be the better artist, on colour combinations, whatever you can think of. Neither of you ever win anything of much value ("Drinks on me", "I'll make you a coffee", "I'll empty the bins") but it's a way to pass the time, nonetheless.

You rank the best to worst of the day's paintings, but only ever out of earshot of customers. At the till, you will always smile and enthuse over their creation. What's important, you think, is that they're creating at all. To diminish someone's endeavours in such a public manner would be cruel. Art is subjective, after all.

What is objective, however, is how fucked up you both managed to get thanks to Purple Starfuckers. The bartender really hadn't been kidding when he said they were delicious. 

"Amaretto..." you begin to list, but trail off, for the fact you don't have a clue. Can barely remember how you even came across such a delicacy.

Mortifyingly, though, the events in Jimin's apartment are mostly crystal clear. The sex? Meh. A bit iffy. Not much to write home about. The disruption you caused, only to summon a topless bartender? Yeah, a lot more to write home about - but also far more cringe than you can bear to deal with when your head is so tender. 

Hoseok is none the wiser.

He'd crashed at your place and had been woken to a very grumbly rendition of Jojo's Leave (Get Out) when you found him passed out on top of your bed. He'd refused, and so you'd climbed beneath the duvet, him on top, dead to the world until Danbi came through a couple of hours later wrapped up in a blanket of her own.

"Tried calling you," she'd groaned, flopping down onto your bed. "Wanted to order breakfast but apparently neither of you seem to know how to answer a bloody phone."

"Mine's dead," Hoseok had mumbled beneath a pile of pillows. He'd migrated to below your duvet by this point, the pair of you still in last night's clothes. 

You hadn't even showered - the whole reason you'd excused yourself from Jimin's. 

But maybe it was a lie, after all. Maybe you didn't really care about making yourself decent. Maybe sharing a bed with him would have just felt too similar to sharing a bed with your ex. You weren't ready for intimacy, no matter how meaningless.

The beauty of Hoseok was that he'd kicked you fourteen times within thirty minutes. You couldn't fool yourself into thinking there was anything intimate about it.

You'd fumbled around, hunting under your pillow for your phone and almost thought you'd found it. Was about to pull it out when you realised it wasn't your phone at all. Thanked your lucky stars. Would have had no choice but to simply die if you'd started waving a vibrator around in front of Hoseok.

Still, no phone, though. Your clutch was in the kitchen, by the front door, so you assumed it must be in there.

Not checking until after you'd consumed your body weight in hangover waffles, you were confused to not be able to find it anywhere. Your clutch, your bra, your bed, the kitchen, the bathroom - you'd checked them all and yet it was still nowhere to be found. 

"You get a cab home? Might have left it in the taxi?" Danbi had suggested, which was entirely plausible. 

"Maybe," you hummed with a small pout. "I'll call them later."

Later came, and later went - still no phone. The taxi company hadn't had one handed in, which left only one location it could be. One you really hadn't ever planned on returning to:

Jimin's place.

"I don't even know his name!" You cringe when Hoseok asks you about it a little while later.  "Well, no. I know his given name, but fuck knows his family name. Wouldn't be able to find him even if I had tried."

It's not the paint fumes making you feel lightheaded today - it's the roasting coffee beans. The idea of drinking it makes you feel like you're gonna hurl, but you know your body will probably thank you for it later.

"And you're sure he was called Jimin?" He asks, staring down at his phone. He's crouched behind the front counter, not willing to deal with customers but knowing he needs to be semi-present in case the boss pops by. "Sure he wasn't called Jeongguk?"

You hum a little in confusion as you take a sip on your americano. Tastes like shit. "Jeongguk?"

"Yeah, Jeongguk." Hoseok grunts. "Jeon? Ring any bells?"

Oh, how you wish it didn't. You also wish you never made coffee, but hey, bad things come in threes, right? An awkward encounter, a mind-splitting headache and now a terrible cup of coffee. No more bad things.

Except you're forgetting the fact you also had a shit shag, so the quota of three had already been met. Your coffee's just started the cycle all over again. One down, two to go.

"Er, I think so?" You shrug, playing things so cool that Hoseok notices your change in demeanour. There's a smirk on his lips as he glances up at you. 

"He messaged me. He's asking after you."

It's at this point that you think your hangover will catch up with you, and you'll actually be sick. Right on the counter, maybe. There's a sink behind you, but you're already mortified so what would the harm be?

"Let me see him," you say almost instantly, pushing away vomit-inducing thoughts. You just want to check. Make sure it is him, and not some weird coincidence. 

Hoseok passes you his phone, and there he is: Mr Purple Starfucker himself. 

His Instagram is sparse in recent updates, but there's enough of a back catalogue to clue you in on an idea of 'him'. Beach pictures, sunsets, the kind of generic shit everyone likes, but there's something about the way he captures such scenes. Makes them infinitely more breathtaking, you think.

The gym selfies? Yeah. Leaving you a little breathless, too. That's neither here, nor there, though. You'll blame it on the hangover.

"Yeah, yeah, guy from the bar," you reply all nonchalantly, before clicking back into Hoseok's messages.

JustJK: Hey - I work at Dionysus. Think your friend left her phone there. Just let her know I have it and for her to get in contact with me if she wants to come by and get it.

Hoseok thinks nothing of it as you begin typing back - trusts you not to be doing anything untoward. Also is dying too much to care.

seokshine:  hii!! sorry it's me (the friend lol), hobi just gave me his phone!!

JustJK:  Disco Ball?

seokshine:  disco...ball????

JustJK:  You were dressed like a Disco Ball.

seokshine:  thank you?

JustJK:  You're welcome.

JustJK:  I have your phone.

seokshine:  life saverrr, thank you so much <33

JustJK:  I'm at work tonight so you can swing by the club. If not I'll be at the gym this evening? I go to one downtown so it's easy to get to. Just let me know and I'll make sure I have it on me.

The idea of going anywhere near alcohol given your current state repulses you - but equally, so does the idea of going to a gym.

The only plus side would be that you'd maybe get to see his a-

No, no, no, you mentally reprimand yourself, and cover the thoughts of his torso with mental images of Jimin - sexy, charming, average shagger Jimin - because he's the one you hooked up with. 

You'd just been reeling from the sex when you'd seen Jeongguk last night. Easy to let the hormones take over - but he'd been shirtless and -fuck - his tattoos had been so intricately carved into his skin that all you wanted to do was study them and -

Get a grip, girl.

"So?" Hoseok asks.

"So he has my phone. Left it at the club," you lie. "Says I can either get it from the club tonight or he can take it with him to the gym. My choice."

"So... watcha gonna do?" Hosoek asks, none the wiser of the mental hoops you've been jumping through from such a simple decision. Not like it's life or death. It's gonna be mortifying regardless, having to do a second walk of shame in front of Jeongguk.

And so you sigh, and type through a message back to him.

It won't be long, you figure. You won't have to stay. Just get in, get your phone, get out. Never see him again. 

Cool, Jeongguk replies. See you then. 

When you hand your phone back to Hoseok, he raises a brow. "Really? This is the decision you made?"

And unfortunately, all you can do is say 'yes', before you excuse yourself to the bathroom so you can hurl in peace.

AO3 | MASTERLIST | NEXT

[talesfrommedinastation]

My redneck neighbor Doug on 'Into the Breach'

Sorry, been busy with work and life and so has Doug.

Now, let's get onto the next episode, 'Into the Breach'.

CW: Pretty chill, by Doug's standards.

------------------

Episode 13: ''Johnny Cash would be Proud''

Welp, sometimes, you gotta go where you’re wanted. And for Little Orphan Blondie, she’s back at the Museum of Science and Industry, now doing shitty puzzles with the Jedi babies. I really do hope Gun Safety Muppet sat on one of his own guns after that bullshit, hate that blue puppet fucker. 

At least the little pink girl got to keep her souvenir doll from the gift shop that Stepsister Beth . I hope these babies are going around and stealing from the storage. I would. 

Church Lady left these guys in a shitty parking lot. Ha! Time waits for no man and she’s got a potluck with Sassy Park Ranger to prep for. 

Aw hell yeah! My boy Toaster Strudel showing up in a stolen work van. And Daddy Warcrimes and his boyfriend MBA Rob are wondering if there’s yet another sobbing family stuffed in the trunk they can ransom once they cross the border. Never change, you two. 

God MBA Rob looks and TALKS just like my asshole nephew. Ugh. “Do you think I’m lying?” “Yes!” 

Wow, Daddy Warcrimes and Julio ain’t taking no one’s shit. My boys!

Toaster Strudel even went into the Empire’s dumpster and yanked out an imperial uniform and forcing MBA Rob’s scruffy ass into it. Or maybe he hooked up with one and stole his clothes. Didn’t take Toaster Strudel for that but hey I don’t judge, that’s for Jesus and your God to do now ya know. 

(“Wait, that Echo likes dudes?”

“No, that he steals from people he’s banged. Come on now Meat Muffin, why you gotta be prejudiced and stuff, we got laws now, ain’t you seen Brokeback Mountain?”)

Oh, Stepsister Beth is on the struggle bus. Come ON, Stepsister Beth, start chatting with some of those other clones can get these babies out of here! Why all the male scientists got them windowless van mustaches? 

Scientist with bangs is a real bitch. Don’t like her. 

Look at Little Orphan Blondie plotting her way out of the Museum of Science and Industry! 

Oooh my boys going all Johnny Cash with the BLACK! Love it! And MBA Rob trimmed his ass down, looks like My Wife’s First Love in Star Trek, gotta give it to him, good look.

(“I’m assuming that’s Will Riker?”

“Yeah, Captain Picard’s Number 1.”

“Why not call him Riker since you know who he is?”

“My wife told me I’m not allowed.”

“....I’m not asking anymore.”)

MBA Rob’s super power is being a wild asshole. Ya know, that’s not always a bad thing. Man, he’s good at this. Ah, there’s Daddy Rambo shooting Stormtrooper dingbats and Toaster Strudel doing a thing. 

There’s Julio checking out the ladies on his cell phone. Wonder which lady he’s texting, lay that pipe where you can, brother. 

Is Toaster Strudel wearing jeans? Oh who cares–look at my boy kicking ass! Being all 007! Man, hope Alex-from-Manitoba is watching from heaven, proud of his boy! 

(Alex-from-Manitoba is Fives?!)

Julio fires up the stolen work truck, and off they go! Will they make it? Will they make it?! Come on, Daddy Rambo! Turn on some Folsom Prison Blues, you got this! 

Even Daddy Warcrimes knows that Toaster Strudel’s on it. No wonder they gotta sideline Toaster Strudel like this, when he comes on shift everything works. Dang. 

Woah! There they go! My boys! And Little Orphan Blondie! Woah! 

-------------------

Tagging my Cajun neighbor's fans! @skellymom @megmca @amalthiaph @cdblake1565 @sued134 @isthereanechoinhere96

[hotnbloodied]

Yan!Zhongli X Chubby Baker Reader

!Warning! This post contains yandere themes and topics that may be uncomfortable to people who are sensitive to the topic, read at your own discretion.

TW: Kidnapping, imprisonment, unhealthy relationships.

!!READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION!!

5AM; it was time to wake up and start your work day as a baker in Liyue! Bakeries are the best way to start the day in Liyue, the varieties of baked goods and with the combo of a tea to start the day there’s nothing better here! You were one of those bakers that worked at a popular bakery owned by your uncle. The staff was all related to you in some way, but unlike them you were a little more on the heavy side. You always joked that it’s because you have a bond with your bread and that’s why it tastes so good!

It was around 6AM when one of your siblings and a cousin came in for their shift at the counter. Your sibling yawned before saying good morning and your cousin started putting on their uniform. There weren't many people in the morning time but some people take freshness seriously so there were a couple of regulars. One of them being a tall man with an otherworldly aura around him at times. Zhongli was his name and when he saw you he always tried to make conversation with you. Of course you didn't think too much of it, that’s how regulars are after all.

It was one particular morning where you stepped outside the store to take a break, another baker was on staff so you could afford it. It was when you noticed the tall figure getting closer. “Oh [y/n] I don’t see you out like this often,” he says. “Yeah, just feeling the heat of the oven more than usual this time,” you said with a smile. “Is something bothering you?” You blushed, he got it right on the nose. “Actually, my parents have been nagging me on finding a spouse soon.” The man in the brown formalwear twitched slightly, “is that so?” “But I spend all my time focusing on the shop that I just don’t think about anything else you know?” “I see.”

You sighed deeply, “hey, maybe you can help me find a spouse. You seem to know a lot of people. Got anyone looking to date?” Zhongli stiffened before a smile came across his face, “well, I’m single, maybe I can interest you in dinner sometime?” You looked at him slightly bewildered. There was no way that a man with the caliber of Zhongli who’s got it all in looks and knowledge is asking you in all your fluff right? Is it a joke? “You can’t joke with me like that Zhongli,” you said with a light hearted laugh. A dangerous glint came over the man’s eyes before disappearing as fast as it came. “I’ve been meaning to treat you out to dinner anyway, as friends?” You looked back at him, “that sounds good!” “Are you free tonight?”

Later that night you were over at Zhongli’s place of residence. Apparently, he was a great chef too! “Wow Zhongli, you’re a man of many talents,” you praise him after the two of you had dinner. “Thank you, I also happen to be a man of many secrets,” he said with a straight face. You didn’t know if you were tired from work today or if it was the food coma but you were getting drowsy. “Um, I should probably get going,” you stumbled a little to get up from your chair. “Oh my, are you okay?” “I–”

Everything went black and the next time you woke up you were on a bed in a windowless room that just looked like any other room but you were shackled to the bed. “I see you are awake,” Zhongli said with a smile as he entered the room. “Is this a prank?” You asked, a bit shaken. “Of course not my love,” he sat on the edge of the bed looking at you with clear obsession in his eyes. “Why are you doing this?” “It’s because…!” He yelled suddenly causing you to flinch. “You were about to go to someone else,” he grabbed your wrist, “and I won’t let you. You’re mine.” “L-let’s talk about this!” His face darkened, “the time for talking is over. You had your chance.”

[ifdragonscouldtalk]

I think one of the really small things that broke me when I was teaching (because there were a lot of big things that are reasons I won't go back, but small broken things that make me want to) was one time a student I didnt know very well came in just before the bell rang with his breakfast. We said the pledge and during it he looked at me and indicated his breakfast and nodded towards me - so I nodded back. He'd be eating breakfast, no big deal, I'd leave him in peace until he was done. I didn't realize he'd been nodding towards the trash can next to my desk where I was standing until he god up during the moment of silence, looking so upset, and went to throw perfectly good uneaten food away. I stopped him. "Are you not hungry?" I whispered, thankful tenth graders are self centered enough that most of them werent paying attention. He just shook his head. "Is something wrong with it? You can probably run back and grab something else. Or I have my snack bin in the back you can look through." He shook his head again, looking confused.

"I thought you wouldn't want me eating in here." I tilted my head, confused and realizing we had miscommunicated, that he had misinterpreted my nod as punishing instead of accepting. I couldnt figure out why he would think that. I mean sure, they had stuck me in a windowless, carpeted computer lab, but french toast sticks arent particularly messy if youre out of elementary school, and i let his other classmates eat all the time.

"If youre hungry you can eat it. I mean, you can throw it away if you dont want it, but I don't care if you eat in here or not, unless youre planning to dump it on the floor."

He looked so sheepish at that, also realizing we had miscommunicated, but when he turned to sit back down and eat he looked so GRATEFUL. He scarfed down that breakfast, i dont know if it was because he was embarrassed or just that hungry. I learned later his housing was insecure, but he never said anything to me about struggles, never took snacks or any of the little hygiene things i kept in an open no questions asked drawer in the back of the room (unless you interrupted the middle of a different one of my classes; I'm sorry I made you tell me you needed a pad, but I thought you were just trolling for snacks for a moment and was going to grab them for you instead to minimize disruption). The thing is, he was SO SMART. He was probably the smartest student in that class, and engaged, kind and enthusiastic... but I barely saw him. He was failing my class because he was hardly at school. I got in trouble that he was failing my class because I didnt have any work or tests from him, because he didnt have a reliable way to get to school.

I enjoyed when he was in class. I was glad after that he always felt comfortable bringing his breakfast back to the room at eating at his own pace. It was so refreshing how much he seemed to actually enjoy reading when I was working woth so many students who couldnt string a sentence together without my help.

A lot of teachers find these little things that break your heart and that makes the job worth it for them. Sometimes i wish it was worth it for me.

[siflshonen]

“My official policy is that I don’t stop masturbation, but I also don’t reward it,” I told my boss in our windowless office.

All of the offices are windowless, actually. I sit by the printer in the foremost chamber of offices that spiral nautilus-like through more hallways of administrative areas and utility closets before ending in the kitchen and, you guessed it, my office. It is the central entrance and the twathole of the theatre’s staff areas. Anybody who wants to enter something that isn’t a hallway is forced to cross through my office. Then again, I must encounter them, too.

Sometimes, it seems, I have no choice but to reward masturbation because there’s nowhere to hide.

There’s a new scripted show coming up. It’s an “immersive experience”. It’s a “cocktail hour”. It’s a “burlesque show”. It has an FAQ that makes the web page three times as long as it should be. It is a massive financial risk, it is logistically challenging, it bullies out other shows because it requires the use of the entire theatre for its whole run, and frankly, it is a pain in my ass.

However, it’s laughable for me, of all people, to complain about it—it is far and away more challenging for the director, those creating the set, and especially those operating the front of house. When the front of house folks read the list of ingredients necessary for the included cocktails, I watched their faces change color as they scrolled—scrolled!—through the ingredients list for the first drink. They’ll need to make three unique ones for each of the folks in the 200+ seat theatre in the teeny weeny lobby bar.

“Dude. It’s an issue that we have to scroll just to read the ingredients for one drink,” said *NSYNC. “And this is mid-shelf stuff. Never mind stocking all these different things; this ain’t in the budget.”

The drink anecdote is a reasonable reflection of every facet of the production, but I’ll provide another one that’s not so much expensive as it is mystifying: the show has its own social media account to support the immersive experience, and to tell you the truth as the marketing person, I’m not even sure the best way to leverage the damn thing given the parameters placed on it. This is not good, as I was the only one posting on it until recently.

If the show manages to pull itself out of the hat, it’ll be something neat and novel. But for now, I don’t know what to say about it except it has given me a new distaste for immersive experiences that I did not know I had before.

For example, the most common apps and promotional platforms for experiential events basically just aim to control your ticket sales and become the ticketing platform—with a project management and promotional team attached. That’s great for an independent show that wants to travel and doesn’t have an established operation, but it makes absolutely no sense at all for an established operation. Netflix cannibalized television and movies, but I guess it’s enlightening to know that the model of a subscription-based whatever (in this case, marketing and sales) effectively trying to take the rights of one’s production can extend to experimental live shows and events. I realize that what I just wrote can describe any CRM or monthly subscription-based service, but it just stings all the more to see it in action.

The director and the performers are all sweethearts. Everyone wants the show to succeed. But hoo boy does it just seem, well, masturbatory. With luck it’ll still make somebody feel good.

[finite-breakpoints]

trembling (Angstpril 2024, #19)

Cyrus doesn't know how long he's been plugged in.

This isn't his data rig, or even like the ones the other processors use. Theirs are buffered, with transfer rates tightly controlled. Those neat little data jacks along the base of their necks and down their backs, implanted before their training, to be removed when they move on. Two input, sixteen pins each; single eight-pin output; eight-pin monitoring. It's less risky than letting the regulator circuits form on their own.

Someone's speaking -- to him? -- as the steady hum lowers, the onslaught of information -- no, malicious data, blatant lies -- lessening just slightly. They must be bringing him back up now. A voice he almost recognizes… but it's out of reach. Another cycle down, then. He's lost count.

This train of thought is as much a distraction as it is a reminder. Because he can feel himself slipping, under the weight of all of it.

All he has to do is ignore it. Let it all pass unacknowledged, unfiltered. And if not, then it must be challenged. Remember that every bit of it is false by design.

The ISOs were never the problem.

One program's perfection is another's prison.

There is nothing wrong with me -- with any of us.

He'd rezzed in with the regulator circuits, albeit with that slightly-idiosyncratic bandwidth characteristic of the Encom processors. So they'd given him one of those rigs, pulled from storage somewhere. Two input, one output, forty pins each; eight pin monitoring. Direct access, no external hardware to get in the way of the connection. Not the one he'd asked for. It's a fraction of what it could be. But it's safer that way, apparently.

Not like this, what they're doing to him now. Constantly just under his maximum capacity, something he'd never worked up to. Something Yori had said was too dangerous for him to try -- it was why she hadn't given him the data rig he'd asked for --

"Cyrus. Can you hear me?"

Yori…? No. That's not right.

She'd never do this to him.

Demeter.

"Are you back with us now, little script?" Still blurry, but yes, it's definitely her. A smile in her voice, but there's nothing kind in it. "Your throughput's been dropping. Maybe it's time for a break."

"My throughput's fine." Those bright lights sting as his vision returns. Eyes refocusing slower than they should. "Not my fault it's all garbage data."

"Is it?"

"Sure. Garbage data, propaganda… Same thing."

Her smile turns sharp for just a microcycle, before shifting back into her usual false cheerfulness. "You look exhausted. Poor thing. Let's get you something to drink, hm?"

The sudden voltage drop rips through him -- the sharp silver pain of yet another improper disconnection. He clamps down the scream in his throat as four hundred and eighty pins retract from his back, his whole body trembling.

He knows what to expect from here. The lukewarm energy held to his lips, which he now knows not to refuse. Her quiet, false sympathy as she loosens the restraints just enough that they don't hurt, and tells him that he's only making this harder for himself. That she doesn't want to hurt him -- that it would be completely painless, if he would stop fighting it. That it's his fault, really, that they've left him here alone for cycles at a time in this cold and windowless room beneath the Archives.

"You're just so stubborn," she says -- and this time, the pity in her voice is genuine. "You know who you remind me of, sometimes…"

"This will be good for you, I promise." The memory's dim -- somewhere far away, all the way across the Grid. Maybe he's only been there a few times. Can't remember -- but he should. A sense of safety, a soft voice he can only imagine raised in laughter. "Be careful out there -- and listen to Yori, alright? I'll miss you."

"Yeah. I get that a lot."

Does he? If his memories are starting to slip… it might be working. There's an empty space on the other side of the room, where there used to be a second unit. Sometimes he wonders whose it was. Feels like maybe he should know that.

"He was good at this. I think you could be, too… if you'd just apply yourself a little more."

"Can't spread your lies without an amplifier, can you? And you don't have many of us left, not now."

"You'll come around eventually." Demeter presses the restraints back into place, patting his hand. "But in the meantime… the only program you're hurting is yourself."

"I know." He takes a deep breath -- steeling himself against what he knows is coming. "That's the whole point."

"How much longer do you think you can keep this up?"

"Good question." He looks up at her, meeting her gaze with as sharp of a grin as he can manage. "Let's find out."

And then it takes him down, back into the waiting current of hate and baseless fear.

Cyrus reaches for the half-formed image in his mind, but it's a fuzzy one. A gentle smile with just a bit of mischief in it -- "See you soon, kiddo. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Something tells him that he isn't.

On the bright side… he's finally gotten the data rig he wanted.

[roselinbooks-archive]

Five Lines Tag

Thank you @queen-tashie for the tag! Instead of pulling lines from Shifting Roots, my upcoming animal fantasy novel, I am instead choosing to be bad at marketing and picking lines from WHiTE RABBiT (an ALiCE short story spin off) instead!

a line with victory

Christopher yawned. “Just a few hours away. Close enough to get there in a day, far enough that no one will come looking. Say ‘goodbye, Woodrow!’” “Goodbye, Woodrow!”

a line with failure

“Hello, Officer Brady.” Christopher’s hand gripped the steering wheel tight. Mickey wondered if he might put the car in drive, slam the accelerator to the floor, and try to outrun the cops. It would be like a real high-speed action car chase, except that their car wasn’t very fast. No. Christopher would never do that. It might put Mickey in danger. “Car’s reported stolen, boy,” Officer Brady said in his gruffest tone. “What you know about that?” “Stolen? There must be some mistake. I’m running errands today. I told Madam Margot–” “This ain’t the road for running errands, boy.” “It’s not?” Christopher forced a laugh. “You know me, always getting turned around…forget my own head if it wasn’t attached…” “Mmhm.” Officer Brady adjusted his belt. “Get out the car. Hands where I can see ’em.”

a line with hesitation

Unfortunately, Christopher did not sleep in the West Wing, or even the East Wing with the other children. He kept himself in the shadowy North Wing at night, where Mickey had never gone—not even in daylight. It felt wrong. Not a single place in Woodrow Children's Asylum felt good or bright or hopeful, but the windowless hallway to the North Wing was worst of all. It was dark, even on hot summer days. It was warm, even on cold winter nights. Sometimes, when Mickey caught it from the corner of his eye, the hallway seemed to breathe.

a line with affection

Mickey made sure he would never forget Christopher. He spent a few minutes every hour of every day remembering Christopher: the sound of his kind voice when he read stories, the vibrant blue color of his eyes, his frayed jeans that were threadbare at the knees, the way his dull black hair sometimes looked like it was graying in the dim hall lights. Most of all he remembered the way it felt when Christopher held him, brushed his curly hair, told Mickey that he loved him and wanted to adopt him someday. Had Mickey ever said it back? He couldn’t remember now. If he had, he should have said it more. He should have made it clear to Christopher that he would never, ever, have another family. I love you too, Christopher. Mickey put all of his focus and concentration and whatever else the scientists at the hospital talked about into that thought. I love you and I miss you and I want to see you. Where are you, Christopher? Do you know I need you? I love you.

your favourite line

Pain shared is pain halved. And he had so much pain to share.

Tagging: @theticklishpear @thebibliosphere @incandescent-creativity @theboarsbride @gaslightwestern and anyone else who wants to do the tag! Give me:

your most recent line

a line you're proud of

a line that makes you laugh or smile

a line you hope makes readers cry

a line that summarizes your WIP

[whitepolaris]

Old Wyoming State Penitentary

by Scott A. Johnson

Imagine yourself confined to a room five feet by seven feet with only a bare cot and toilet. Down the hallway, terrified screams and sadistic laughter echo throughout the night, reminding you that you live in what may be as well be described as one of Dante's lower circles of hell. You'll be all right, you tell yourself, so long as you keep to your tasks and don't make eye contact with anyone who lives nearby.

Now imagine that same room shared with up to five other men-a prison cell in every breath drawn might be the last and every setting heralds new terrors that come in the night.

A New but Fearful Facility

By 1873, the prison in Laramie, Wyoming, was bulging at the seams. Home to convicts from the surrounding areas, it could no longer accept new inmates, yet the stream of new arrivals never let up. The state government decided a new prison was needed, one that could accommodate the high number of miscreants who roamed Idaho at the time. Construction of what would be an enormous structure began in 1888. It took thirteen years, but on December 12, 1901, the Wyoming State Penitentiary in Rawlins opened its doors. The incarcerated were to be assigned meaningful duties that would not only put money in the coffers of both the prison and the state but would also in the prisoners the seed of a work ethic. Over the years, the prisoners manufactured brooms, shirts, and proceesed wool, when they weren't stamping out license plates.

Despite the state's good intentions, the new facility had tiny cells without running water or toilets, and their bare concrete walls bred more than a sense of punishment. They bred madness. Fights were common, as were stabbings and near riots. In just three years, the penitentiary saw several bloody battles between prisoners, one of which involved a prisoner attempting to cut another's heart out. The terrified guards, who sometimes felt themselves the real prisoners, often did nothing.

Such violence could only be tolerated for so long, prompting the construction of "the Hole" in 1906. Being confined to this windowless room was the punishment for anything from refusing to eat dinner to murder. The guilty were chained to a wall in the room and left in total darkness. During their stay, they were attended to only briefly and were fed miniscule amounts of bread and water.

It wasn't until 1914, years after the prison had already come dangerously close to its capacity, that the penitentiary cells were equipped with toilets, washbowls, and running water-cold only, however.

After several escape attempts by inmates, high concrete walls replaced the wooden stockades surrounding the prison buildings in 1915. The convicts were pressed into service to erect the walls and guard towers, partially to make them aware that escaping would be impossible.

Rough Justice

Executions were commonplace, either by hanging or by gas, but it wasn't just the state that meted out capital punishment. Prison guards often enforced their own bran of justice or simply turned a blind eye to prisoner-devised hangings. In one case, the person hanged didn't die immediately, prompting his executioners to haul hi up by the rope and toss him over the rail for a second time.

By the late 1970s, tales of abuse and overcrowding reached the state. Stories involving the horrors of the Hole and other tortures, including thumb cuffs and the insidious Oregon Boot (a heavily weighted steel shoe), reached the proper ears, prompting an investigation. In 1981, the Wyoming State Penitentiary closed its doors for good, leaving decades of abuse and agony behind.

It is impossible to identify the restless souls that never left what's called the Old Pen; they're simply too numerous. What is clear, however, is that in my places whatever remains is angry and resentful-and not at all shy about showing its feelings.

Tour guides and tourists alike have reported seeing shadowy figures disappearing around corners and malicious presences throughout the structure. There are, however, a few places deemed hotbeds of activity. The showers, were countless inmates were attacked, violated, or even killed, are the setting of many a story. Also on the list of places to be avoided are the former Death Row and the gas chamber.

However, most agree that the worst hauntings occur in the black pit called the Hole. Whatever lurks there, according to those whose job it is to walk the halls, is angry and crazed, threatening anyone who enters. There are also specific cells in which voices are heard and presences felt. Also well known is Guard Tower No. 9, in which a guard committed suicide.

The buildings stand as they did, with cell walls still bearing the markings and artwork of those who occupied them. Death Row cells are adorned with photos of those prisoners who spent their last moments inside. The old prison cemetery is visible on the grounds, and many of the tombstones lie broken or stand propped against a fence.

In other words, the prison looks no less ominous for the lack of new prisoners. Time will tell whether the awful energy generated within its walls is here to stay.

[misguidedasgardian]

The Winter Sun (22)

22. Rains of Fire

MASTERLIST

Summary: Your personal sacrifice is not enough to Aemond’s thirst 

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Fem!Targaryen Reader, one sided Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Targaryen Reader

Warnings: Cursing, medieval and asoiaf customs, AGE GAP, Cregan is 12 years OLDER than reader), arranged marriage, incest, hinted non-con, involuntary imprisonment, non con adultery, kidnapping, a little choking, body shaming (Aemond is a c*nt, I imply Reader had chubbier hips from giving birth), death of characters, war and all that comes with it, might miss some warnings

+18, MINORS DNI

Wordcount: 3.1 k

Notes: Ufff this was hard to write. I know I have to update Dragons' mistress and the White Dragon, but I had to write this first, I was just taped to the computer writting this

Cregan hand’s shaked as he read the urgent words of his sister, his eyes filled with tears as he whined, like a wounded animal 

His fist landed on the table on his tent.

He so childishly thought he could protect you, but not even an army of a thousand men could get between a dragon and his desire. He was marching to fight a war, and yet, it wasn’t enough

“How long until we reach Harrenhal?”, he asked his most trusted man, Jon, the second son of Lord Roderik 

“Two weeks Lord”, he whispered shakily

“We need to pick up the pace “, he grunted, “my wife just…”, he looked at him and he straightened his posture, “she tried to take matters into her own hands”

“Is the Lady of Winterfell alright?”, he asked, fearfully, “is the heir…?”

“The heir is fine”, he said shortly, “but the Lady of Winterfell is in enemy hands”, he said shortly, "we need to reach Harrenhal as soon as we are able, and send a raven to Dragonstone for the old gods!”, he said quickly, “we are facing the largest dragon in the world!”

The man that was around his age left the tent in a hurry, and Cregan bit his bottom lip strongly, enduring the need to cry

You had been threatened and flied willingly to the enemy hands

He didn’t know Aemond in his entirety, but… he was a man, a dark man… with dark desires. He didn’t have to be a genius or a wizard to know what that man wanted to do to you

His wife, his beautiful, smart, sweet, loving wife who had fled her own home to marry him, to escape that monster, who trusted him to protect her and care for her and keep her safe.

He had failed

In a rage he threw everything he had atop his desk to the dirty ground

You threw yourself to the jaws of the dragon to spare him, he hasn't been fast enough, powerful enough, to protect you, his own wife.

And he could only pray to see you again

It had to be at night

You had manage to hide a small knife in a gartner around your thigh, but for it to work, Aemond needed to be impossibly close, and impossibly distracted and relaxed for it to work

The mere thought made your stomach turn, but it was the only way, and if it was at night, you had a better chance to escape in the night, with Vhaelar being so close

She was injured but you could hear her sing at nights, missing you, so it was clear she was ready to fly away if needed be. 

You shook in anticipation, he had left to arrange some things, and left you alone to put on a very flamboyant dress and jewelry, like the one he gifted you in Winterfell. You whined, scared out of your mind, but you had to remind yourself that you were doing this for a reason, a good reason, for the survival of your family, your husband, your son, Sara, the North, all of them. 

You were getting claustrophobic in this windowless room, it was beautiful decorated, yes, and the candles lit up the room and their scents prevented you from smelling the burn stone and wood and the moist of something that had never seen the sunlight, but they were there, you knew it, like ghosts

Sometimes in those hours he left you, you felt like you couldn’t breathe.

A shaky maid brought you water, wine, bread, cheeses and fruits to calm your needs, and left you without even looking at you. You knew it would be futile to try and talk to her. You knew what Aemond did, killing everyone in the castle, he probably filled it with people loyal to the Greens. 

You were not proud to admit that you drank the full pitch of wine, out of nervousness, and by the time Aemond walked back into the room, you were tipsy, and on your nerves

Aemond didn’t take long to see that

“I’m sorry for leaving you for so long”, he seemed disgustingly pleased with himself, and amused by your tipsiness, “believe me when I say, I wouldn’t have left at all”

“You are here now”, you said, fighting to make it an even voice. He smiled darkly 

“I am”, he took one step towards you, and you couldn’t help but take one step back, making him smile darkly

“You know why you came”, he said

“I know”, you whined, “but Aemond… I need to know…”, he was bored pretty quickly

“Get on the bed”, he commanded, and you whined

“Please”

“I don’t want to force you”, he said simply, clasping his hands together behind his back, “it will be better for the both of us if you surrender yourself to me”, he said simply, with the edge of his mouth turned upwards, in a sick little smile

“Aemond”, you whimpered.

Of course before you kill him, you wanted to see if you could convince him to retreat, but as you could see, there was no going back on his darkness 

“Do it”, he only demanded. By your count, it was already nighttime, so this was it, this was the time to do it.

You walked towards him, turning off your brain and all your thoughts, and you kissed him roughly. He released his own hand and grabbed you almost tenderly, like he couldn’t believe this was happening. But then he kissed you back, taking control, his hands got rough, grabbing your arms, and then your sides, squeezing your flesh

“I‘m enjoying your initiative”, he whispered darkly and your lips left his, but he wasted no time in kissing you again, biting on your lips, making you cry out. When you realized what was about to happen, you needed to fight with yourself to tune yourself off. You needed to be in control if you were really going to go through with your plan.

So you needed to be in control. 

He seemed to sense your urgency, so as he kissed you roughly he led you to the bed.

You fell on top of it hazardously, a mix of limbs and arms, but you were determined. You manage to be on top of him, and your took a sharp breath, the flimsy fabric of your dress already up your thighs 

He looked up at you with wonder in his eye

This was it

And as you accommodated yourself on top of him, you looked down at his face, and he immediately could see that something was wrong, as you couldn’t hide your anger and your hate any longer, you took your hand under the skirt that was already hunched around your thighs, and uncovered the dagger

You were quick, taking both hands and raising the weapon over both your heads, Aemond opened his eye widely, his arms under your knees, he couldn’t do anything. 

His heart was your aim, and as you were lowered the knife into him, he went in so slow you cursed yourself, that is what it felt like, but as you were lowering the knife with was like incredible speed, you were pulled backwards, as sharp nails grabbed you by your hairs and scalp

You whined in pain as you landed on the floor in what seemed to be slow motion, you tried to protect yourself from hitting the stone floor but your arm landed awkwardly, your leg twisted as well. You were not injured, but hurt. Something or someone kicked your hand, the knife flying over the other side of the room, and as you tried to stand, Aemond had done so, and right by your side, was a woman with long dark hairs, sharp green eyes and her face twisted in rage

Aemond could not believe what his eye was seeing

“Do you think she would’ve come freely if you hadn't threatened her?”, she asked bitterly, “she came here to kill you”

“Fuck you!”, you screamed, your nerves in the edge of your skin, you had failed, fatally 

Aemond looked at the scene developing in front of him, his witch, Alys Rivers, the woman he had taken to bed to assert dominance, he could have never imagined she was the owner of a dark power, and then, the woman he truly wanted, on the floor crying in anger, married someone else and had his child, having tried to kill him after she pretended to wanted to be with him. 

Even though Alys knew what his aim was -you-, she even helped him to get to you, and yet, she, as any person would be, was jealous of you, she believed she was the one Aemond should be with, should want, she could give him a child, she could give him everything you could, and more, she could give him dark powers.

Aemond soon was angry, he had lost control of the situation, he had let himself be blinded by you. 

“It’s me who you should be with”, she said bitterly, looking at you still on the floor, pitifully, “it is me who had been faithfully by your side all these months, and it is me who can give you everything you want”

“Get out”, he said bluntly, taking Alys by surprise

“What?”, she snapped, still not impressed

“Get out”, he was fuming, Alys contained her anger, walking away from the room, closing the door with a surprising strength

“Aemond”, you called, scared of what you were seeing, he was very angry, enraged. He grabbed you by the neck, not squeezing but still you couldn’t breathe, he threw you on the bed and as you recuperated, he went to the door, opening it and barked orders to a soldier on the hallway that you couldn’t hear, and the he turned towards you, grabbing his own dagger from his belt

“Please!”, he threw himself on you, straddling your middle, making it hard for you to breathe but he immobilized you. “Please!”

“You are just a tricky little whore!”, he shouted, you had never seen it this angry, he was usually so contained within himself 

“Aemond please don’t do this, please!”, he sliced the top of your dress and then he ripped it off with your own hands, at once you were completely naked underneath him, and then a shaky soldier entered the room, in his hands there was two thin, short chains

“No”, you whined with tears in your eyes, “NO!”, Aemond trapped one of your wrists no matter how hard you fought him, he was stronger than you in aspect, quicker, smarter…

He closed the other ends around the wooden frame of the bed. 

And one you were immobilized in one arm, he went for the other , and he chained you to the bed like you were an animal

The guard left without even looking at you, but you could tell he looked troubled, but there was no time for you to concern yourself with such things, Aemond was looking down at you with a hunger in his eyes that scared you

“You are certainly looser that the last time I saw you”, he mocked, grabbing your chubby hips, you whined, motherhood certainly had taken a toll on you

“Fuck you”, you spit out

“But no matter”, he whispered, “it is still you”

“Please Aemond, it is not too late!”, you begged, “please don’t do this”

“Why can’t you see?”, he growled, “you had been mine all along, it was a mistake on my part to make you believe you had a choice”, you cried underneath him, once he realized you were tied up nicely and tightly, he separated himself from you to undo his breeches, he didn’t even undressed fully, he didn’t even get his clothes off

“Like I said, you are already married, so for now, you are my whore”, he growled, “But I will not forget what you tried to do, you tried to kill me, and your husband will pay the consequences”

“NO!”, you cried, twisting and turning underneath him, crying bitterly, “you promised”

“You have to understand, that my promise is no longer valid after you tried to stab me in the heart”

“You have no heart”, you cried, “please don’t do this”

“I could have been nice, and gentle”, he growled, “but you are more dragon than lamb, are you not?”, he teased, he released his cock, and you whimpered at the sight 

“You are going to give me real children”, he whispered darkly, “dragon princes”, you only shook your head, but you had to look away as he pushed your legs open and placed himself between them

You couldn’t even look at him as you let him take you.

They weren’t advancing fast enough

Cregan thought bitterly, two weeks had passed since he receive the dark news from Winterfell, he knew Aemond had you in his power and he knew what he was capable off

They had already passed the Crossroads Inn and he knew it was a matter of a few kilometers until they could see the burn and cursed towers of Harrenhal

His army was great, he had met men in all the Northerner cities he went through on his journey South, he had a power of ten thousand men 

He would siege the Castle, he knows it will take the lives of many men as Harrenhal was huge and completely defendable once you could take it, but if he could convince the Kinslayer to come and face him face to face, relying on his hate for him, he could take him in a hand to hand combat

But his plans were… mercilessly destroyed

They came at first light, storming his camp, an army of Baratheons and soldiers from the Royal army as well

The surprise factor did take them by surprise but only for a moment, as they retaliated fiercely, they were the winter wolves, the wildest army Westeros has ever seen.

The battle was brutal, mounted soldiers galloping through the tents and breaking havoc, hard tall men throwing them off their horses with axes of war hammers

Cregan, fueled by rage, cut enemy soldiers in half with the strength and power of Ice, his Valyrian sword, screaming in a rage, seeing red everywhere, the battle was soon pretty even, even though the wolves were being attacked by double the numbers

But Cregan had no space on his mind but for one thing

“KINSLAYER!”, he called, freezing everyone around him, and for his luck, or curse, Aemond answered the call, appearing through the soldiers and smoke, and destruction

“Stark”, he called back, soon they were in the middle of a circle, surrounded by men that had stopped the slaughter just to witness something that was going to be written in the storybooks 

“Where is my wife?”, he asked, on guard, with his sword between his hands

“My whore is in Harrenhal, waiting for me in my bed”, he wanted to jump him, cut off his head, but he had to be smarter, he had to beat him. 

“Release her, and I will march away”, he said firmly, Aemond only chuckled, his own sword on his hand, ready for the kill

“I will carve your heart out and present it to her as a wedding present”, he breathed out

“You will have to kill me first”, he threatened, putting himself in a position for attack

“After you are dead, I’m going to fly to that wasteland you call home, I’m going to take your widow in your bed, and I’ll give her my children”

“You are never going to touch her again!”, he growled

“I already did, make her bleed on my cock”, that was not true, but Cregan didn’t care as that was the last straw, with a war cry he threw himself towards Aemond, Ice on hand

The clash was brutal 

Both blinded, one by power and lust, another for love and desperation. It was a fight for the ages, the single strength shown by both in their encounter made the hearts of everybody who was seeing it clench.

The battle around them also continued, each soldier inspired by their leader, soon Cregan and Aemond both got pushed around by the own fights going around them

“But don’t worry, I don’t care about that little brat, I’m going to leave it there”, Aemond teased, “lets see how long it takes your bastard sister to find him in the snow after I take her eyes”

“ARGH!”, Aemond's sword, that was not Valyrian steel, got split in two by the sheer force of Cregan and Ice, Aemond grabbed a shield from the ground, Cregan was stronger than him, but he was way faster and leaner. quicker on his feet, so he managed to dodge every heavy attack, slower by the size of the sword. 

With a growl, and fighting against himself, Aemond retreated, taking advantage of his soldiers around him, Cregan tried to reach him, but his path was cut by Green soldiers 

“FIGHT ME AEMOND!”, he screamed, “CRAVEN!”, but the silver haired man disappeared between his men, walking away from him.

The royal army with the Baratheons surrounded the Northmen, making them so tightly against one another they could barely move

Cregan could barely breathe, as he looked around in desperation, it was a sickening moment, in which for him, all hope was lost. Jon was by his side on a second

“My father is leading half the army to surround them, we are going to be fine!”, he managed to scream, Cregan had to believe him, but the sheer force of the attack was unbelievable, the worst part wasn't even… Cregan gasped loudly, as he watched frantically for the skies. 

They had placed his camp on a valley, that was their first mistake, even though he had placed watchers on any high point around it, they had been clearly slain without anybody knowing, so they were in the worst place possible 

It was moments that felt like hours, as the Northmen fought their way to make room, to recuperate ground, but they were having a hard time doing so, and that is when… all hell broke loose

“DRAGONFIRE!”, screamed another one

“COVER OUR LORD!”

“NO!”, it all happened so fast, Cregan remembered being pushed to the ground, in the reduced space, in the mayhem, in the midst of battle, someone hit him in the head, it could have been a foot, it could have been a shield of the pointless part of a spear, but he lost himself in the roar of battle.

More notes: THIS WAS INTENSE, I couldn't bring myself to write *that* scene, but still you get the picture... Don't hate me please, you know, or at least some of you know, that I'm a sucker for happy endings... hehe this isn't over yet!

taglist!

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[embossross]

From His Mind to Hers

chapter 8 >> Chapter 9 (Interlude)>> masterlist

✣ Pairing: Hanma x AFAB fem!Reader

✣ Warning: 18+, minors DNI; unhealthy relationships & dark content

✣ Chapter CW: hanma has violent thoughts

✣ Story CWs: patient/doctor relationships; smut (oral, ptv, pta, etc.), degradation, stalking, torture (not of y/n), murder, discussions of trauma and abuse, drug use, and more

✣ Synopsis: Forced into therapy, Hanma expects to waste his time and yours, but you’re not about to let the chance of a high-profile and higher paying patient slip through your grasp. The fact that you’re both attracted to each other doesn’t hurt either.

✣ Word Count: ~2.5k+

Sometimes an emergency looks like a crowd. The troops marshalled, bodies colliding like pinballs in a machine. Then, other times, an emergency looks like this.

A quaint pre-war house far from Toman’s usual haunts. The kind of neighborhood where everyone properly separates their recyclables lest the neighborhood grandmothers raise their quiet version of hell. The kind of neighborhood that only hears sirens when an old man falls in the shower and shatters his hip. Decorated with bric-a-brac and greenery, amid a dozen identical houses is the home of Kisaki’s maiden aunt, a sixty-something widow who favors her left-side because she can’t hear so much as a shout into her right ear.

Here, in the early pre-dawn hours, Kisaki calls together the men he trusts most, the inner circle of the inner circle. Paranoid as he is, that circle consists of only Koko and Hanma. The three men sit in the windowless basement, fending off the auntie’s many attempts to serve them breakfast as they discuss the morning’s leak.

It happened like this.

On the stroke of midnight, an unknown poster released a zip file titled “Toman’s Secrets_2018” onto a dark web brokerage site. The contents were locked behind a paywall, but in a good faith gesture, the poster released unredacted hundreds of emails between Kisaki, Koko, and Inupi from the last two weeks. The website advertised that the rest would be released to the highest bidder with the auction starting at ¥15,000,000.

The post was live for four minutes before it pinged an alert to Toman’s cybersecurity team. Twelve minutes later, the entire site crashed along with any archive of the post.

In the sixteen minutes that passed from start to finish, eighty-five visitors saw the incriminating post.

“The problem is that fucker, Inoshita,” Kisaki rants. “How much do we pay him to keep us safe? Seriously, guess how much? Almost a hundred million yen a year! And what does he do? He lets us get hacked. Doesn’t notice – fucking Kokonoi had to realize something was up – and then, he lets it get posted on the fucking internet for anyone to see! If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this was an inside job.”

Kisaki paces the length of the basement like a firefly trapped in a jar, flinging himself recklessly against his cage. His jaw twitches between breaths, a paranoid tick that when partnered with the glint of mania shining off his glasses makes him look truly deranged. A haunted insomniac, Kisaki wastes the nights as his mind supplies the worst-case scenarios, the ones where he’s betrayed, arrested, shot, strung up, laughed at. Now, he can hardly tell if he’s awake or lost in one of his bad dreams.

“It could be the HJK. Weaken our position before the final negotiations in the hopes to sweeten the deal. We talked about this, knew it might happen,” Koko suggests reasonably. Seeing someone else panic always mellows him out, like he can outsource his own fretting.

Of all of them, Koko has the least to worry about anyway. At the first sign of trouble, he probably moved all his money to the Virgin Islands and chartered a jet on standby to whisk him away. There are dozens of wealthy men – the kind who supposedly built their fortunes on the straight and narrow – who would love to conscript Kokonoi to inflating their own bank accounts. He’s in no danger.

Kisaki, on the other hand, has reason to be paranoid.

“Doesn’t mean Inoshita wasn’t their mole on the inside,” Hanma offers.

“It’s not the HJK. They want this deal as much as we do. Weakening us is one thing, but this could be a killing blow. What if the police get their hands on those files? We’re flat on our asses if that happens,” Kisaki snaps.

“Was anything incriminating in the email previews?” Hanma asks.

Koko shakes his head. “Everything we write is coded. Neither of us would ever say anything incriminating in an email. You could get a sense of some of our operations and use that to set up a sting, but nothing that would hold up in court. If you got the whole thing though? You’d be able to track the money, and that’s where things get real bad for us.”

While they sit with their thumbs up their own asses, the guy behind this is somewhere laughing. Hanma should be out there, hunting, sniffing out the fucker and acquainting him with the taste of fear. Instead, he’s hunkered down in a room with no windows, listening to the thumping footsteps of a batty old lady overhead. He tells Kisaki as much.

“Oh, you’d find the guy behind this, huh? Like you found out what the Haitanis were up to when I asked? I didn’t realize Detective Galileo was on the case, excuse me. I’m so relieved now. Problem solved! Tell me, Shuji, what the fuck have you been up to the last few weeks? Other than wasting our time and leaving us vulnerable. Tell me!”

Hanma could kill him, both of them, Kisaki and Koko, before either could fight back. A bullet to Kisaki’s temple. Koko would dive to the ground, go for his own gun, but there is no cover in the wide-open basement the old lady uses for laundry. And, Koko isn’t much of a shot. He’s only gunned someone down once. Meanwhile, Hanma’s gun would already be drawn. He could turn it on Koko before the other man has a chance to take aim. The old lady upstairs wouldn’t hear the bullets. He could put her down nice and humane without her ever realizing what was happening and be on his way.

The only evidence of this vivid fantasy is the twitch of Hanma’s forefinger. Three flicks. One for each gun shot.

“Where would you even start?” Koko asks.

“I’d kill two birds with one stone. Haitani! I’ve been saying it from the beginning. He’s our guy. I gun him and his runt kid brother down, and then, you’ll see there will be no more leaks, no more posts. It dies with them,” Hanma says.

“You haven’t found any evidence to tie them to the HJK,” Kisaki says doubtfully.

“Exactly! I’ve found fucking nothing. There should be something. A little scheme here or there. No ways those fuckers are keeping their hands out of our territories entirely, but they come up like ghosts when I look. Your auntie’s less clean than they are!”

Hanma’s conviction that Ran was up to no good strengthened with every day that passed. He never underestimated the man, remembered the way he lorded over Roppongi through his own strength, remembered searching for the boy after his release from juvie, fascinated to stare into the face of a murderer. What he found when he searched that face was pure ambition, unmitigated ego, power.

The version of Ran that Hanma constructed through word of mouth in the last month is to be despised, a label-whoring, double-talking golem with no blood in his veins. Just a smirk as he evades Hanma’s every attempt to find him out.

It’s enough to drive a man crazy.

“You can’t just off the Haitanis. They’re too big. It would be an obvious hit, and there would be a massive investigation. Our people on the inside are saying that the body count’s too high lately. You keep killing people, and it fucks up the city’s murder stats. The police will have to do something soon, and the Haitanis could be the final straw. They’ll write in the papers that there’s a turf war, get the public all in a panic, the politicians will foam at the mouth, and we’ll have a team of auditors up our asses for the next decade,” Koko argues.

“Who cares about that?” Hanma snaps.

The problem with Koko, of course, is that he, like Haitani, lacks blood in his veins. He replaces with shiny coins and foreign currencies.

“I care! I care about the future of my fucking empire. And, I’m not gonna let you burn it to the ground just because you’re having a tantrum,” Kisaki hisses.

 Kisaki points a finger in Hanma’s face, close enough that Hanma’s breath could fog up his glasses. Kisaki is shorter and weaker, but as he glares up at Hanma, it is the glare of a god who knows his power.

Quietly, but no less venomously, Kisaki continues,” You, Shuji, are a dog. A dog. You can whine and bare your teeth and bark all you like. Why? Because you aren’t going to bite anyone unless your master tells you. I’m your fucking master, Shuji. Me. I tell you who to bite, when to bite, how fucking hard to bite. And I’m telling you to tuck your tail between your legs and lay low until this blows over, or, so help me, I’ll put you to sleep myself.”

The nail of Kisaki’s pointer finger is trim and clean as it waves in Hanma’s face. Hanma could bite it clean off at the tip before Kisaki finishes his speech. He debates it, imagines the taste of blood and gristle, how he’d swallow down Kisaki’s howl alongside it like a wine pairing.

Violence permeates from his skin, a smell that only the initiated would recognize. As it settles in his bones, Hanma has no choice but to obey, to serve it up blood. His whole being demands it.

So, it’s important he leaves, here and now, or his decade long friendship is going to end with the boss man dead on the floor. A sad downfall to the grand empire they once built together.

“Fine,” Hanma seethes. “I will leave the fucker alone for now. And you can cry from your jail cell how you should have listened to me. Sound good, Master?”

“Good boy,” Kisaki says, but his eyes glaze as they rescan the screenshots of the night’s post. Already, distracted, like Hanma is merely an obstacle to handle.

Hanma stomps up the stairs, ignoring the sympathetic smile that Kokonoi tries to give him. Rage is blinding, and the edges of his vision are blurred with it. It obscures time and logic, too, so that Hanma returns to himself some time later, not knowing where he is or how he got there.

He takes stock of his surroundings.

The roar of a subway train as it speeds by beneath his feet tells him he’s at a station. A sign overhead reveals it’s Tokyo Ginza. Men and women with pressed hair and suits, backpacks and briefcases, rush by every few seconds, so enough time must have passed for the start of the morning commute. In front of him is a line of pay-by-the-hour lockers, and his hand is held around a small, plastic square inside an open locker.

Yes. His phone. Kisaki made them lock up their phones in storage to avoid the risk of a trace. He’s returned for his phone.

The sharp return to the material world doesn’t quell the murder in his heart at all. He is well-versed in waking up from blackouts in strange surroundings. If anything, the disorientation only heightens his need to take action.

There is time to return to Kisaki, to crack his skull in sacrifice to the demand for retribution that roils his guts. Or, he could find Haitani. He could reclaim his free will, figuratively kill Kisaki and the yoke of control he claims over him and have the satisfaction of obliterating a sword enemy off the map. Or, he could disappear into the dingiest streets of Tokyo, prowl for a fight, leave an abundance of broken bodies – not dead so as to spare the police’s precious murder rates – but hurt enough that Hanma can wash clean the violence that possesses him.

Hanma takes a step towards an oncoming train, half an idea already formed in his head, when the phone rings. Your name lights up the screen.

Today is meant to be his first real session in weeks after things went off track at the horse races. He’s seen you, but not in the clinical setting of your office. He had been looking forward to it, imagined that guilt would eat you alive when you fucked him in your office. There would be no denying your culpability then, the reality of your choices, no way to forget that he is your patient first. Hanma thought that would be a delicious comeuppance for you, a little game.

But now…

“I can’t come in today,” Hanma says before you have a chance to greet him.

“What? You want to meet somewhere else?”

Your voice is delicious. A little raspy, like maybe this is the firs time you’ve spoken this morning. Such a little thing, but with his heart already pumping with fury, he hardens in his slacks. Wanting to fuck doesn’t even slightly decrease the violence in him.

“No, I can’t see you today,” Hanma says. “If I see you, I’m going to hurt you.”

No answer, just your heavy breaths, like maybe you’re lifting something heavy or moving quickly. Hanma doesn’t hang up. Just listens.

“Are you losing control right now?” you finally ask.

“Hmmm, I’m completely in control,” Hanma drawls, breaking into a giggle that is decidedly out of his control. “I mean, I’m going to enjoy every minute of what I do next.”

“Are you bored?”

“No, Doc. I’m not bored. I’m fucking pissed.”

“Is there a difference between when you lash out when you’re bored versus when you’re just angry?”

“Hmm…Intention. It’s the difference between eating a good meal you ordered and a good meal you cooked yourself. I’m going to eat well today.”

His feet take him deeper into the belly of the city as he takes the escalators two steps at a time. Two trains roar into station and drown out your next response. Hanma has to ask you to repeat yourself. Two minutes until his train arrives.

“Let me help you!” you shout to be heard.

“Help me?”

“Yes, help you!” you shout. “You asked me before how I intend to divert you when you’re losing control. Let me show you! Give me the chance to show you how you can control it.”

“You don’t want to see me right now, Doc. If I see you, I’m going to hurt you.”

“I’m asking you to trust me. Meet me at Shidoshita Beach in two hours. If you’re still feeling this way when we’re done, I won’t stop you from doing whatever you need to do. But give me this chance,” you plead.

“And if what I need to do, I do to you?”

“I’m trusting you, too, Shuji. Meet me at the station. Two hours.”

The phone beeps twice to signal the end of the call as his train pulls into the station. And he doesn’t move a muscle as he debates where to head next.

[neruomancer]

Paranormal/Unnatural agencies ranked in how toxic there work environments are

Delta Green (Delta Green) 4/10

There is a reason it is called a 9mm retirement, it is very low on the scale but not the worst. Most Agents in Delta Green commit horrible crimes against humanity themselves to complete there missions, so they aren't worst then the average cop. They usually do not get the choice if they are recruited or if they retire, most either die horribly or wish they did. You are not paid for your time and in fact have to use days of from your own job to perform tasks mandated by your handler. You also have to potentially get yourself in trouble at your job such as abusing work funds and resources to perform your duties, if you refuse they can and will frame your for crimes you did not commit(as opposed to the ones you did do) or just kill you and deliver a triangle shaped flag to your grieving and confused loved ones. You sometimes get to blow shit up or use fun tactic cool gear against shambling horrors from beyond the stars and neonazi canon fodder.

FBC Federal Bureau of Control (Control) 6/10

It is a government job so you do get federal holidays off, benefits and you can accrue time off during the Oldest House Lock Downs. Downside is you will either be chained to a desk in a windowless brutalist nightmare office under a dick head supervisor who is mad that they aren't in the old boys club and so they take there frustrations out on you, or you will be taking endless road trips to no name towns mostly for false alarms or to die horribly. No smart phones so you can't scroll during your lunch breaks in the Oldest House, there is a lot of paperwork (like warehouse amounts of paperwork) and a lot of running around a non euclidean Kafkaesque nightmare. No smoking but you see other agents smoke all the time, but the moment you do it you get caught and it is bullshit.

SCP Foundation (SCP Foundation) 5/10

Unless you are on the O5 council or you are a superstar researcher, no one cares about you and you are mostly like going to die in a containment breach and this is speaking as an actual employee of the Foundation not a D-Class. Everything is covered in black marker so good luck trying to get access to [REDACTED] files, you will either go crazy as a researcher or you will get turned into hamburger as a MTF your choice. I would say the saving grace for working at the Foundation is they are well resourced, I don't think you will have huge problems with money or company facilities. If you ever see something beyond comprehension you can simply submit to use amnestics to cope, it is probably for the best.

Ordo Veritatis (Esoterrorist) 8/10

Honestly you won't find a better secret society of paranormal investigators, since you are going to be dealing with horrors from the void you are going to need proper mental health coverage so the OV will cover the cost of professionals in there group that specialize in treating person's affected by occult horrors. Field agents, monitor station analyst and researchers are rotated for mental health reasons and to not weaken the membrane between conventional reality and a supernatural void in which spawns monstrosities. You do need to schedule time off work to perform duties assigned to you but what can you do, you need to uphold the masquerade of reality. A big downside is that you are dealing with creatures that wear human skin masks and cultists that are trying to invite them into reality via rituals, so death is ever present.

Q Division or The Laundry (Laundry Files) 1/10

Ah fuck where to begin, you do not have the choice to be recruited the government slaps paperwork on you and then binds you with a magical ward that swears loyalty to the agency (as is standard practice in most occult intelligence agencies in this universe). It is a government job, but it is more like a desk clerk then anything else so benefits are are shit, vacation or pto is non existent. Your supervisor is involving you in petty office politics and that actively gets in the way of your job (which is stopping eldritch abominations from using peoples brains as server towers). Your boss is either an eldritch abomination themselves or where once a person like you who had transformed from there most recent promotion into a gelatinous mass. Even if you die, because in your living life you held secrets related to your work a sorcerer from a rival agency can resurrect your ghost to interrogate you, so to prevent that the agency you work for binds your body into a zombie to work forever as a file clerk of somekind.

[brunchable]

Conflict Resolution Chapter 2 — Reprimanded || Surgeon!S.S. × Asian!Reader.

Warnings: Coarse Language, Sexual Elements, Medical elements

Pairings: Stephen Strange x Asian!Reader (OC)

Summary: After the incident at the Examination room, you and Stephen vent your frustrations to your mutual friends.

A/N: I have no ownership of this story, all credits go to Kate Canterbary for her book, The Worst Guy.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Ainsley

No one could keep a good bitch down…but that didn't mean she wouldn't end up on the floor. The two-hundred-odd pounds of man on top of her, well, that was not part of the plan. The code green lockdown of the emergency department wasn't on the list for today either. Neither was the formal reprimand that was handed down by the Chief of Surgery, nor was the disproportionately severe and pointless consequence that he imposed. 

Sometimes, bitches overshot the mark. Sometimes, they made a mess. The problem with being a savage-hearted bitch who was also a recovering people-pleaser was that you still had the "pleasure to have in class" good girl wandering around inside your head. On days like today when she couldn't decide whether to sit in the corner and panic or drown you in a highlight reel of your all-time worst moments until you were forced to admit you were a giant fucking fuckup, it was tough to find the truth. 

You did not have to deal with any reprimands or consequences because of your actions before. Nobody who is truly a compulsive people-pleaser and strives for perfection has ever gotten herself into the kind of trouble that involves wagging fingers and frowning deeply with disappointment.

People like you, you'd sooner condense ourselves down into smaller and smaller particles and disappear altogether than land in a situation where you're straight up told to your fragile little faces you weren't good or right or enough. 

And yet you were furious. You were break shit and scream furious. 

"It would be great if you could sit down for a second," Christine Palmer said, holding up her surgical-glove-clad hands to stop your pacing. The women's changing room inside the attending surgeon's lounge wasn't big enough for any real pacing, though it was adequate for some abrupt marching. 

"Just sit down, babe, and we'll clean up those cuts and make sure you don't have any chunks of glass in your arm. I think it would also help"—she motioned up and down her chest—"to breathe a little." 

The general surgeon—and your upstairs neighbour—gestured to the sofa beside her. You didn't want to, but you sat. It was that or pace your way into a panic attack and you really didn't need to call more attention to yourself today. 

"I'm fine," you said to her as she lifted your arm for inspection. "It's nothing. All superficial. Nothing worth noticing." You winced at the dried blood streaked from your bicep to your wrist, "It looks worse than it is. You should see the other guy." 

She brought a gauze pad to your upper arm. It was the one spot that hadn't been covered by Stephen's considerable mass. 

He was obviously a big guy—tall, broad, all those fun things—but he'd felt like a slab of solid muscle over you. It was excessive, really. He had enough. A full head of dark, thick hair—no receding hairline, dignified dusting of grays on both temples. A very slight, tan complexion that seemed impossible considering he spent most of his waking hours in cold, windowless rooms. A jaw that managed to be both smooth and sharp. Worst of all, he'd been gifted an outrageously gorgeous  cheekbones and eyes as blue as the ocean in Maldives. He was merely the recipient of heaps upon heaps of physical gifts. It was excessive and you knew what excessive looked like. Your father was the top plastic surgeon in California. Excess put you through medical school.

"I did see the other guy," Christine said. "He's the one who sent me up here." 

"Why?" You wailed, so much louder than necessary. 

"Because he's busy digging glass out of his own arm," she replied. 

"But I need help doing it?" You blew out an aggravated breath and frowned down at your scrub top. It was ripped in a few places, bloodied in others. You wouldn't be able to wear it again. Not to work. "Sorry. Ignore me." 

Christine was the last person you needed to yell at today. You didn't need to yell at her at all—you were friends. You weren't besties who lived in each other's back pockets, although not for any lack of pocketing attempts on Christine's part. 

You were excellent when it came to having a small crew of close friends who you knew well enough to be selected as a bridesmaid in their weddings though never close enough to be the maid of honour. You were terrible at the bestie thing. You just didn't understand how to let anyone into that much of your life. 

"Believe me, I am," she said. "I have some residents who want to learn compassionate holds. I'll page them up here if I need to restrain you." 

See? This was why you were friends. She could joke about these things and you could laugh in response because you shared a humour that was as dark as dirt. You watched as she discarded another gauze pad into a metal basin. It sparkled with tiny, tiny flecks of glass. 

"I still don't understand why Strange tackled me like that back in the exam room." 

"Because that's what he does," she said with a laugh. 

You glanced at her. "Throw people across rooms? The bruise forming on my ass is no joke." 

"He takes care of people." She said this as if you were extremely dense. "He's probably furious he missed this spot on your arm." 

"We're talking about Stephen Strange? The one who lives in the apartment above you?" 

"One and the same," she murmured. "You'd have a better feel for him if you spent more time with the group." 

Another reason you weren't on the best friend tier: Christine's social batteries far outlasted yours. She loved meeting up for drinks after work, brunches, dinners, farmers market visits, all of it. She wanted to go places and see people, and you needed a week to recover from a single outing. Most days, she ate lunch with Strange, Lincoln Campbell, the cardiothoracic surgeon who lived in your apartment before you did, and Anthony Druid, the neurosurgeon who'd lived in the building a few years ago. If you did that much peopling every day, you'd be catatonic within two weeks. It wasn't an exaggeration, it was your nervous system. 

"I don't make a habit of hanging out with people who condescend all over my specialty," you said. 

"Sorry, honey, but you do now." She dropped a shard of glass into the basin. "At least for the next eight weeks."

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ 

Stephen 

He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. "This isn't even my fault." 

"Are you sure about that?" Anthony asked as he distributed sandwiches from the delivery bag. After the shitshow in emergency—and the fallout in the Chief's office—he'd dragged Stephen to the park across from the hospital complex with the promise of lunch. 

"On this specific occasion, I am one hundred percent positive I didn't create this problem," Stephen said, "I'm just picking up the tab for it."

"What did the Chief say?" Lincoln asked. 

"Yeah," Anthony said. "I can't imagine he came down on you at all in this situation. Accidents happen. You got into it with Park but you're his boy, so—" 

"I am no one's boy, Druid," Stephen snapped from behind his hands. "I'm an accomplice in trashing an exam room; I get the same slap on the wrist as anyone else who's too stupid to get out before the ceiling comes down." 

"Yeah, except you don't get the same slap," Anthony said with a laugh. "I realize you're unaware of the privilege afforded to you from being the guy the Chief of Surgery trusts to save the day—" 

Stephen reached over and stole his apple. "Shut your mouth with that nonsense." 

"—but you are still the guy who coordinated the largest and longest all-hands response to a crisis situation this hospital has ever experienced." Anthony flattened his hands on the picnic table. "You are the guy who stepped out of his practice to lead pandemic operations for six months and—" 

"It wasn't like I had anyone getting hit by cars or fucking themselves up on trampolines and ladders when the world shut down." And if he hadn't done it, he would've lost his mind from standing by and doing nothing. 

Lincoln shook his head. "Hate to break it to you, Strange, but you're the guy. You're definitely the Chief's guy. You're also our guy because you got all of us through it too. So, you need to deal with the fact that you play on a different level now. You're on the soon-to-be Chief of Emergency Surgery level. You're not on the level where you get penalised for a loud disagreement with a colleague." 

"Funny you mention that," Stephen said with a bitter approximation of a laugh. "Seems I won't be chief of anything until I can make it through a conflict resolution course with Park."

Anthony shrugged. "No sweat. That should be easy." 

At the same time, Lincoln hissed out a heavy "Fuuuuuck." 

"Yeah. There it is. Somewhere between no sweat and fuuuuuck." Another bitter laugh broke free from his chest. "It would be one thing if I had to do a program on my own. But with Park? Kill me." 

"Wait a second with that," Anthony argued. "She flies way under the radar but she's the best reconstructive person we have. I go to her skills lab sessions whenever I can and learn something new every time. Same with Campbell. He sends all his residents to those sessions too." 

Stephen glared at him as hard as his exhausted eyes could. "She's a little high octane, wouldn't you say? Pulled down half the ceiling with one hand." 

"You are literally the only person who doesn't like her," Lincoln said. "Something to think about." 

"It's handy that I have eight weeks of therapy with her to think about it, then," Stephen grumbled. The memory of your clenched knuckles and the curtain balled in your fist pushed itself forward. You must have yanked the hell out of that thing. Nothing else could've set off that chain of events. It was impressive in an alarming, give the lady a wide berth sort of way. 

Beside him, Lincoln crumpled the butcher paper from his sandwich and held the ball between his hands. "If I had to guess, I'd say this conflict res thing is some kind of human resources requirement following any incident between staff, but you have to know this is a mild response. No administrative leave, no suspension of privileges. All that said, Stephen, I want to make it clear to you that she's the one taking the penalty here." 

"And yet I'm still the one in therapy with her," Stephen argued. "For two fucking months."

"You remember what it was like to be the problem-child surgeon," Lincoln said. Stephen shook his head as a gust of bone-chilling air cut across the park. 

"Please don't remind me of my fool-ass days. You know I'm sensitive about that, Campbell." 

"I'm just saying," he continued, "Park is probably feeling like a problem child right now. You have nothing to worry about. Your contract will get renewed. You'll sail through this and get the chief gig. You'll have your pick of the best candidates for fellowships. You'll get to research whatever the hell you want. You'll get to take sabbaticals whenever you feel like it. Nothing on the road ahead of you will be altered by this incident. Park, on the other hand, will have to work this out of her reputation. She hasn't even been on staff that long, right? I lose track of time these days." 

"About two years," Anthony said. 

"She has a lot more to lose than you do," Lincoln said. Not wanting to concede this point, Stephen yanked up the collar of his jacket against the wind. 

"Just so you know, it's too damn cold to be out here." 

"It's fifty-one degrees and sunny, Strange," Lincoln said. "This isn't cold." 

Essex, the neuro fellow he'd lost earlier in the day, jogged toward the table. "If you want to talk about cold, let me tell you about Minnesota and—" 

"Does it look to you like I need another Minnesota story right now?" Stephen asked him. "And why the fuck haven't you answered a page in the past six hours?" 

"I don't enjoy it," he said simply. "I really don't." 

Stephen pointed toward the hospital. "Go away. Go ignore pages to the nurses' faces and see how well that turns out for you." 

"But food. Lunch," he complained. 

Lincoln bobbed his head, saying to Essex, "You have your orders." 

"Boy has a death wish," Anthony murmured. 

"There are days when he's less mature than some of the worst first-year residents I've met," Stephen said. "Then there are days when he's, like, fucking gifted." 

"I don't even know how to teach to that," Anthony replied.

"Me neither." Lincoln gestured to Stephen’s forehead, asking, "Is that your blood?" 

"Probably," he replied, reaching for the other half of Anthony's sandwich. He didn't care what it was, he just needed to eat some more before he fell over and died from the horror show of this day. "Between physically shielding Park from the consequences of her actions and getting an earful about professional conduct from the Chief, I haven't really had time to deal with my own problems." 

"Why are you sitting here feeling sorry for yourself?" Lincoln asked. "It's just couples therapy. It's not the end of the world." 

"He always feels sorry for himself," Anthony said under his breath. 

"You did not just call it couples therapy," Stephen groaned. "And I don't feel sorry for myself. I just hate the idea of an hour a week spent with Park and a PsychD talking about feelings and shit. I have other things to do. She has other things to do. And it's not like anything is going to come of it. Nothing's going to change. She's still going to screech at people about staples and I'm—" 

"Stop whining," Lincoln said. "And if you think you're getting assigned a psychology doctoral student for these sessions, you're forgetting, once again, that you're the guy. You're getting top brass for your couples counselling." 

Stephen stole his apple too. "Fuck my life."

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Ainsley

"I'm shocked that Stephen hasn't glared his way out of this," Christine said. "He's so good at it. He just beams that hairy eyeball at people and they fall in line real quick. I do it and I look like I'm having a stroke." 

"Mmhmm." If Strange did anything with precision, it was glaring. The man did not smile. He was a human storm system. His shoulders were a mountain range that could block out the sun, and turning his scowls into a full-body statement. 

"I bet there are a ton of politics at play," Christine continued. 

You studied her as she opened another packet of gauze. You hated the politics game. You sucked up to no one, kissed zero asses. That worked for you because you were in the beautifully fortunate position of being only one of a few surgeons at this hospital specialising in reconstructive surgery for burns and other complex wounds, and that position came with enough built-in authority to save you from needing to get down in the trenches of any political. 

"What do you mean?" 

"Well, you know," she started, "Stephen's in line for a chief job." 

"That might be unofficial information," Christine continued. "You didn't hear it from me." 

You gave her a quick smile. "Of course not." 

"Anyway, it's not like a formal reprimand is that bad," she said. 

She was lying and you could tell but it was kind of her to try. "I'd like to believe that."

"I'm sure everyone gets a note in their file at one point or another," she went on. "Trust me, it won't matter in a year. You'll forget about this and it will drop from the collective memory soon enough. I went through some hell when I was a resident. I had a relationship with another surgeon, it went bad, I was branded with the scarlet letter. Everyone said all the worst things about me. All in the past and I hardly ever think about it, but believe me when I say I've ridden that roller coaster and puked when I got off. It's going to be okay. We're getting through this, babe." 

Since you had nothing left to lose today, you said, "The Chief knows my father. Same intern class, or something." 

"Oh, shit." Christine knew enough about your father to understand the significance. Nearly everyone in surgery knew of him but Christine was one of the few who knew it was an emotional sinkhole for you. 

"Thought I'd cleared all the possible connections here but I missed that one." 

She packed up the used gauze, shooting yoy a concerned glance, "How did this come up for the first time today? That sounds like some first-rate horseshit to not mention it until now and—" 

"Doesn't matter," you said with a resigned shrug. "He expected me to be a carbon copy of my father and was disappointed to discover I am nothing of the sort and, well"—You sucked in a breath because you were not going to cry or break things—"he doesn't want me making a habit of destructive tantrums." 

Christine whipped off her gloves. "What the hell?" 

"It was so wonderful to be lectured about my conduct and sentenced to eight weeks of counselling and reminded to be a good little girl all in one afternoon. It's really fun to get the disappointed daddy treatment when you're twenty-seven years old. And it's coming from your boss, who thinks it's okay to invoke your father in conversation. Kinda thought I'd passed that phase of my life but nope. Here the fuck I am."

She stared at you, nodding slowly. "That really sucks. I'm sorry." 

"Thanks." 

"What did you say? Please tell me you told him where to shove that." 

"I didn't. I just kind of shut down." That was the most mortifying part. The shame of failing to stand up for yourself when it was most essential slapped hard. You'd love to say this was unusual for you, yet this messy little pattern was uncomfortably familiar. 

"I'm sorry that happened," Christine said. "But eight weeks isn't that long. And it's with Strange. You'll have fun." 

You stared at her, unamused. "Hardly. He's the worst. He's the most arrogant surgeon in the hospital. No, wait. He's one of the most arrogant surgeons I've ever met, and that is an accomplishment considering my dad's ego needs its own area code." 

Christine gave an impatient sniff that said she very much disagreed with you. You allowed her to sniff at you because she was the absolute best at letting people vent and then giving top-notch advice. She didn't take any of her own advice but that was an issue for a different day. 

"He isn't that bad. He likes to pretend he is but he's not."

You were treated to this man-sized cloud of arrogance at least twice a day as your schedules often aligned to guarantee you'd leave both the Columbus Square you called home and the attending surgeons' lounge at the same times. It would be tolerable if he wasn't so busy being drunk on his own exaggerated sense of self-importance that he fully ignored your attempts at polite conversation. 

You didn't understand why everyone liked him so much and willingly spent time with him outside work. You had to constantly remind yourself that figuring him out wasn't worth your energy or attention, and you didn't have to keep going out of your way to connect with him as a colleague or neighbour when he couldn't manage complete sentences for you.

You reminded yourself, but you hadn't broken the habit of doing it yet. "Christine, the guy growls at people. We see each other almost every day and the only form of greeting he can manage is an irritable-looking jerk of his chin or a grumble of word-shaped sounds." 

"Yeah, he's a little rough around the edges," she conceded. "But it's all bark, no bite." 

"Maybe he shouldn't bark! Why can't we ask that of people? Don't bark. Don't treat female staff like children. Don't slut-shame anyone." You sent her an apologetic frown. "I'm not calling you a slut." 

"Yeah, I know, I know," she muttered. "You psychotic bitch." 

You shared a bitter laugh, the kind that cleansed wounds and taught scars how to stretch beyond their limits. You had it good but that didn't mean the good was easy. 

"I should've ignored the whole thing," you said, mostly to yourself. "Should've let it go and spared myself all of"—you gestured to the barely there cuts on my arm—"these brand-new problems." 

"Would you have actually let it go?" Christine shrugged. "Or would you have resented the decision to make your professional expertise less important than avoiding a difficult conversation?" 

"I would've moved on," you said, and that was at least forty percent true. "Eventually." 

"But what does that really mean?" she asked. "Would you have written off the stapling issue as 'neurosurgeons gonna neurosurgeon'? Or would you have planted that seed in your field of fucks and let it grow?" 

"Field of fucks. For sure. I'd bring up that issue to Strange every time I saw him and I'd drive him insane with it, nice and slow. Only way to farm a field of fucks, Christine. You gotta long-game that shit."

Christine hummed as she pushed to her feet. "Eight weeks of counselling will be fun for you two," she drawled. 

"Don't remind me," you said with a groan.

Tags: @winsteria @classicrebound @gwephen @patbrdac @goldencherriess @elizabethdarcy29 @strangeobsessed @strangelockd @lady-harvey @mirikusashes @rbymoon @k1mikoz @allie131313 @strangesthirdeye @nicoletk @sleutherclaw @dragonqueen89 @bloodyxsaint @3443652 @pinkthick @iamdedsthingz @casualimaginesfluffwagon @im-akira @faltinestrange @ilikedarkrai @alicia-c37 @phatm00d @xunquish-blog @keistange @omgstarks @jotaros-bara-tiddies @gaitwae @sherlux

[trippin-over-my-fandoms]

The Prince of Shadows - Chapter Three

(Image of Karl from this wonderful artist)

(Lemme know if you’d like to be added to a tag list!)

Chapter Two - Here

Rating- T

Content Warning for: medical practices, description of blood being drawn

Words: 2750

The only way to know his eyes are actually open in the pitch black darkness of the room is the small red light from the camera in the upper left corner. Otherwise he’d always question whether he was awake or if his eyes had been glued shut. He’s supposed to still be asleep, shouldn’t even be awake to experience the surrealness of open eyes against black nothing. He’s supposed to have a perfect nine hours of sleep, only supposed to wake up when they come for him. But he can’t help it. He’s been waking up too early these past few weeks because he keeps dreaming. He can’t sleep correctly when he can’t get comfortable enough, even though the bed hasn’t changed and neither has his routine. He’s begun to wonder if it’s the medications. He doesn’t know what’s in those little cups they bring to him daily, sometimes twice a day. So many colors and sizes and they won’t tell him what they’re for or what they do. Not all of them anyway, some of them they’ve told him are vitamins. He might believe it. Maybe.

It could be all part of their plan. Maybe they know he’s awake. Maybe they’re watching him right now and can see his eyes are open. Maybe they’re writing on their clipboards and noting his restlessness. Maybe.

Still, when he hears the mutters voices outside his door he closes his eyes and pretends he was asleep all along.

“Seven o’clock, let’s get him up,” says the muffled voice from the other side. He wouldn’t have heard them if he wasn’t awake. Just quiet enough to be heard over his own breathing, quiet enough they’d go unnoticed if he was asleep.

The panel light above him turns on and slowly brightens to a dim setting that isn’t too harsh on his eyes, allowing them to adjust to the change gradually. The soft yellow tint aids in the transition and mimics the tone of sunlight through a window in the otherwise windowless room. He’s still unsure if someone outside controls it or if it’s on a timer. It seems so regular and so smooth he’s just about convinced himself it’s automatic. Has to be.

The lock on the door disengages following the muffled beep of the card reader beside it. He keeps his eyes closed until he hears, “Good morning Karl,” from Dr. Mayze, then slowly blinks them open to hopefully sell his act of being asleep the past few minutes, hours maybe. It’s hard to tell in the dark.

“Good Morning,” Karl echos, sitting up slowly and noting the lightness in his head as he does so. That wasn’t there before. Maybe there has been a change to his medications.

“If you follow me we’ll perform your checkup as usual,” Dr. Mayze holds out her hand for him to take the moment he’s out of the bed. Karl isn’t a child anymore but still it seems she insists on the almost ritual. He’s convinced she means it to retain innocence, as if holding her hand hasn’t led him to rooms where he’s been subjected to immeasurable pain before. But he’d never act out. Not when there's always at least two heavily armed guards hovering around.

Karl could take them all easily. If it weren’t for the device around his neck.

Karl takes her hand and allows himself to be led out of the room. It always feels good to stretch his legs when he’s been cooped up for so long. Lights out may be at ten at night but he’s locked up by eight. It leaves him to his own devices for two whole hours in a small and quiet room, rarely anything ever to do. A pen and a piece of paper or a book if he’s lucky.

While the lights in the room had been soft and dim, the ones in the hall are a hard white that make him squint, too bright against the equally white flooring and walls. The pristine walkway makes his head hurt and hard to focus. He only grips onto her hand tighter. If he faints then maybe one of the two armed men trialing behind will carry him back to his room. He hopes it’ll be his room anyways. Karl hates to imagine that he’d wake up in an observation room again.

“What day is it?” He asks, focusing for a moment on her pace and trying to match it. Anything to distract him from the creeping feeling of nausea.

“April 18th, 1984,” Dr. Mayze states, almost robotically, “Why do you ask? A little early for your birthday isn’t it? I promise I’ll tell you the minute it’s October,” her tone changes to sickeningly sweet, too nice for how automatically he had originally replied.

Karl simply shakes his head. He sets his gaze back to the hall in front, feeling no better in his attempt to distract himself from feeling so ill this morning.

April. Almost ten months since he’d spoken to Mama last. He misses her so much. Karl still holds onto the hope that one day they’ll let him return to her, that he’ll get to leave all the pain this endless nightmare of a place has inflicted on him. Dr. Mayze may take care of him diligently and regularly but she isn’t Mama, far from it, he is her job and nothing more. Despite her act, Karl knows she doesn’t really care for him. Nothing like Mama does.

It takes every ounce of courage within him to ask, “Has the phone to Mama been fixed yet?”

Dr. Mayze sighs, Karl can’t tell if she sounds irritated or remorseful, “Not since the last time you asked me that same question.”

“I’m sorry,” Karl mutters, shoulders sagging in defeat. He’s beginning to wonder if they’ve given up on getting in contact with her. He just wishes he could hear her voice one more time.

“They’re working hard, I assure you. But you need to be prepared if they never get it back online,” her words hurt his heart to hear. She might as well have shot him. While the idea had certainly crossed his mind while trying to fall asleep the past few months, hearing Dr. Mayze voice his greatest fear is a horrid blow. Karl tries his best not to tear up, worrying over that he may never hear from Mama ever again.

“Come on, cheer up,” Dr. Mayze says, noticing his despair which only makes Karl feel terrible, “Stand up straight. I’d like for you to meet someone.” She leads him around the corner and into the day room.

While the room is typically empty- today a young man, who couldn’t be much older than Karl himself, awaits them. He sits on one of the white couches, standing once he’s aware of their arrival. There’s a third guard with him, standing by the exit door, looking as plastic as the rest.

Dr. Mayze walks Karl to the pale green chair in the sitting area, the usual spot where his checkups are conducted. He’s silently obedient as he sits down, eyeing the stranger. He’s wearing a white coat like Dr. Mayze, probably another scientist. There’s a name tag clipped to the lapel but Karl can’t read it from where he is.

“Karl this is Dr. Birkin. He’s new to the Umbrella family and is going to be conducting your check up for me today,” Dr. Mayze’s smile is large as she introduces the man to him. She seems proud to have him as their guest. Dr. Birkin on the other hand seems stiff and eager to get things moving, Karl can tell by the slight twitch in his hands.

Then Karl catches a glimpse of the metal tray on the tan coffee table, placed neatly next to all the regular equipment. A needle and four small vials lined up perfectly on the shiny surface, accompanied by a blue elastic and two cotton swabs.

“We have to do blood again today?” He swallows back the lump in his throat. He’s not afraid of needles but he hates being poked. It’s been happening too much to him recently.

“I’ve already told you, it’ll be part of the procedure for the rest of the week. Just while we run a few tests.” Dr. Mayze pats his shoulder, her reassurance feels as fake as the fur rug beneath his feet. He’s tired of tests, Karl just wishes someone would tell him what’s wrong with him so he’d know when he’ll finally get to go home. He doesn’t feel sick, not normally, not every day is like today. But there's been something wrong with him for years now and he’s beginning to wonder if they’re actually trying to cure him or not.

Don’t they know the cadou is supposed to keep him from being sick? Maybe they don’t know, maybe Mama didn’t tell them. He’s tried before but they don’t listen. They don’t say anything, they brush him off like he’s clueless. He isn’t, Mama told him what it was, that it was supposed to protect him. He just wishes it could protect him from these people and all their “tests”.

Maybe he could if it weren’t for the device. The cadou gave him his powers and Mama had said he’d been born special too. But the device is stronger than him and Karl won’t risk pain just to try and run away. He wouldn’t even know where to go to get out. Maybe if Mama was waiting for him on the other side he’d try. But she said she’s far away.

Why can’t she come and get him? They probably won’t let her in. She must have tried, surely. Maybe she doesn’t know where he is exactly, just that they’re miles apart. Maybe.

Karl hates not knowing.

He does his best to sit still, curling his toes in his socks to relieve some of his nervous energy. He’s gotten in trouble for squirming during injections and checkups. He’s gotten better since he’s gotten a little older. Karl greatly misses the days when they didn’t do this, when they just wanted to teach him English so he could understand when the doctors were talking to him and the day room was fun, when he got to watch tv all day to practice his words until it was time to talk to Mama. Now they just want to hurt him all the time.

Dr. Birkin does the whole process like Dr. Mayze would, in the exact same order too, Karl wonders if she told him how to do it. He checks his eyes, his heartbeat and heart rate, listens to his breathing and the cadou inside of him. He seems particularly fascinated by the cadou, muttering, “Incredible,” just like all the other doctors who've seen him. Karl wishes Mama was here to tell them all about it, she was always so proud of what she created. She used to talk about it so much and how special it was. He had been so nervous when she first gave it to him but now he understands that it is truly a gift.

“Isn’t it?” Dr. Mayze smiles, patting Karl’s head as she adds, “Our Karl is certainly a marvel of science.” Something in the way she says it makes Karl’s stomach flip, causing him to feel even more nauseous than he had in the hall. Almost as if they don’t plan on letting him go. Ever.

“He really is. I’d be interested in developing a new strain of T from his DNA. If it’s half as powerful as you had mentioned then our project won’t be entirely lost,” Dr. Birkin speaks to her as if Karl isn’t even in the room.

Dr. Mayze doesn’t help him feel any better about it either, leaving his side to stand next to Dr. Birkin instead, “That’s why you’re here isn’t it? Spencer trusts you or else you wouldn’t be one of the youngest among us, William. Just wait until we get you set up with a sample of megamycete he procured before-“ she stops, stares at Karl for a moment as if she’s just caught herself about to say too much.

Before what?

And they have megamycete? Did they get it from Mama? Is Mama here? No- she said she wasn’t. She’s far away…

What’s going on? What do they want to do with him? It doesn’t sound good. In fact, it sounds as if they want to keep him like the rats and rabbits they had brought to show Karl when he was small, the ones they said helped with their experiments.

Maybe this is a dream. Maybe he just needs to wake up.

“Let’s get this over with first, shall we?” Dr. Mayze says, and Karl really wishes she hadn’t, it only brings Dr. Birkin’s attention back to the set of needles and vials.

He isn’t restrained but he can’t help but feel like he is. Having said nothing since arriving in the day room, Karl feels far more trapped than usual. He’s always known that they know far more than him but to know that they have plans for him? To get a glimpse into what they do outside of his treatments and tests? It’s unnerving, it leaves him feeling inhuman.

While Dr. Birkin gets the needle and vials ready, Dr. Mayze rolls up the left sleeve of Karl’s shirt and preps the inside of his elbow. The band she ties around his arm feels tighter than normal and the alcohol she swabs on his skin feels colder than ice. Perhaps he’s just too paranoid today.

She steps out of the way once her prep is finished and Dr. Birkin approaches with the needle. Karl does his best to sit as still as stone but even then his arm feels like it’s on fire the moment Dr. Birkin slides it into his skin.

Karl flinches harder than he meant to, shouting “Asta doare!” His throat feeling sore as he tries to hold back tears. He wished Dr. Mayze was the one doing this, she’s far more gentle, he barely feels it when she does it.

“English, M-1!” Dr. Mayze snaps when she hears the Romanian. She’s always so strict whenever he doesn’t use English. It’s annoying, frustrating, because Romanian is his first language and his default, it’s hard sometimes to remember to use English.

M-1. He hates that name. It’s not even a name. It’s what all the doctors called him before they knew his name, before he knew English and could correct him. But it’s still printed on the card outside his door.

He is just a rabbit to them after all.

“I said it hurts!” Karl whines, correcting himself. Her harshness with him upsets him, and though he tries his hardest not to cry he still feels a tear escape. He reaches up to wipe it with his free hand, careful not to move too much.

Karl looks at anything other than the blood being drawn from his arm. Dr. Mayze only looks down on him, none of the comfort from earlier, “It’ll be over soon just be patient.”

It feels like hours before Dr. Birkin finally pulls the needle out and covers the small wound with the extra cotton swab. Karl goes to take it from him and hold it on himself but Dr. Mayze is shoving a paper cup in his hand before he gets a chance.

“Take these and you can go back to your room,” she says, a cup of water ready in her other hand for him.

Karl swallows them down quickly, not even caring to count them let alone look at them this morning. He just wants to go back to bed, go back to sleep and wake up finally, wake up and be home with Mama.

“Let’s go,” Dr. Mayze nods towards the hall and Karl nearly jumps up out of his seat, “Dr. Birkin I’ll meet you upstairs if you’d like to go ahead and get these samples to the lab.”

Karl doesn’t care to look back at him, he just hopes he never has to see him again. He doesn’t even want Dr. Mayze on his heels escorting him back to his room. But she has to unlock the door. Has to lock it behind her.

It doesn’t matter. Karl would rather be locked in, isolated and alone than spend another second with them. He doesn’t want to find out anything else. Doesn’t want to know how unlikely it’ll be that he ever gets to go home.