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kazekagevi · 2 months

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Bonds Beyond Words: If Eywa Wills It

PART ONE PART TWO

Pairing: Aged-Up!Neteyam x Fem!Human!Reader

Word Count: 3.1k

Tags: dark themes, indirect mention of r*pe, suicide attempt, eventual NSFW, aged-up! Neteyam, reader has PTSD, Neteyam dislikes humans (except for you), eventual jealous/possessive Neteyam, future Olo'eyktan! Neteyam, interspecies slow burn, angst, fluff, probably OOC, POV’s all over the place, forgive the inconsistencies.

Summary: You, a competent researcher and writer, awoke from cryosleep a year ago, only to be imprisoned by the RDA—they intended to force you and many other women into a selective breeding program to kickstart human repopulation. However, you, the other prisoners, and allied wardens formed an escape plan; it was carried out, but you are the lone survivor.

A/N and Disclaimer: This is my first x reader fic! This is also my first fic on Tumblr in years! I've been reading a lot of ATWOW fics and thought I would write my own. I am also challenging myself to write in present tense (I'm a past tense girly), so please forgive any grammatical errors. Hope you enjoy <3

This story contains explicit content and is only appropriate for audiences 18+. MDNI. Please do not repost my work.

The tracking device beneath your skin feels like a ticking time bomb—although you’re certain it doesn’t have the power to detonate, should the RDA find your location before the prison sector’s power unit comes back online, it could still bring mass destruction to this region of the extrasolar moon. As if the RDA hasn't done enough of that already.

As you walk barefoot through the unfamiliar forest of Pandora, you wonder if this is heaven. Surely, you must have died along the way—you survived the initial jailbreak, then the evasion at dawn, and managed to remain mostly unscathed from the chopper accident. On Earth, you’d feel compelled to buy a lottery ticket. The thought alone makes you chuckle, and your mask fogs in response. Your laughs, albeit quiet, turn maniacal. Maybe you hit your head hastily fleeing the first bunker, or got thwacked by metal shrapnel in the crash.

If you live, the escape will count as a partial success. Living would make you a hero; but as darkness falls on this foreign planet, you silently wish you had become a martyr like the others instead.

You’re completely defenseless. You have nothing more than your respirator mask that won’t stop fogging due to your panicked breaths, and the clothes on your back. You adorn an oversized jacket that you stole from the valiantly deceased helo pilot, and your prison uniform—it’s nothing more than a flimsy, green hospital gown.

You should know more about this place. You were chosen among an elite class of writers to research alien life on Pandora. You loved traveling and writing about new cultures—studying language, customs, and history. It was your pride and joy, your life’s work. Yet, the nightmare started the day you woke from cryosleep and you were forced into a tiny cell with three other women. In your year of imprisonment, two of them had already been selected into the breeding program, while you and the other, Claudia, were awaiting that same fate.

You almost slip on a patch of sludge and break your fall by grabbing a tree stump.

You do know, however, that this hostile environment will kill you if you don’t find the tribe you’re searching for. Certainly, your luck will run out soon.

So, you stop laughing, blink away the tears in your eyes, and regain your focus. You’d slap your own cheeks if you could, but your mask renders the act impossible. You have to survive, or else the girls’ and allied wardens’ deaths will be meaningless.

As you continue on your path, the mud starts to dampen, coating the soles of your feet. You presume this is from a recent rainstorm, or perhaps you’re nearing a water source. You swallow hard—inevitably, you’re thirsty. But if breathing Pandora’s air will kill you, the water will likely do the same.

As you carefully wade through the soppy terrain, you repeat the same phrases under your breath like a prayer or mantra. Even if you suffered amnesia and lost all your memories like a slate wiped clean, you could suffice to lose it all, except a few words which you memorized in Na’vi.

Using these phrases would determine if you lived or died, assuming you weren’t slain with an arrow on sight: after introducing yourself in the language, you must tell them you seek asylum with the Omatikaya clan at High Camp and Max knows you’re coming. Lastly, you needed to say there is a tracking device under my skin, please cut it out.

You recite these phrases again, except this time you mess up the grammatical structure on the last part. You winge, correct yourself, and continue on your course.

The planet begins to dim as time passes. As you avoid tripping over tree roots and crushing delicate flowers, you notice Pandora’s subtle glow. The bioluminescent spots that dot the terrain look like freckles on skin. It’s the first time you’re seeing the real thing up close, instead of in a tiny photograph. You’re as enamored as you are terrified.

Your feet hurt and your shins ache when night fully settles. You’ve been traveling by foot for hours. Imprisonment and preparation for forced motherhood meant there was little opportunity for exercise in the compound. Your body isn’t used to lifting heavy things or globetrotting long distances.

As you use the last of your energy reserves to think—to consider stopping in a safe area for a break—a tremendous force stops you first.

This is it, you think. You know you're going to die.

The force is a Na’vi, whom you cannot see. From their position behind you, an arm wraps around your abdomen, lifting your smaller body off the ground like a doll. The Na’vi lodges their elbow into your stomach, knocking the wind out of you, all so they can wrap their large blue hand around your small, human neck. Despite the panic, you notice how controlled the Na’vi’s grip is—just enough to hold you still without choking you. It feels like a strange paralysis. Your oxygen mask fogs as you pant in distress.

“Why I should not kill you?” The Na’vi asks in broken English. The timbre of the voice leads you to believe this one is male.

Say the thing! your mind reels. You resist the urge to flail your limbs. The slightest movements make the Na’vi tighten his grip—at this very moment, you notice his other hand holds a dagger to your throat. The space between your skin and the blade is miniscule, as is your proximity to certain death.

So you do it, you say the thing. Except, it comes out all wrong:

“My… My name is Asylum at High Camp,” you stammer in Pandora’s native language.

The Na’vi makes a sound of confusion. You won’t know until later, but Neteyam thinks your pronunciation is mechanical, unpleasant, and downright horrible.

Your chest heaves wildly and your heart thrums in your chest like a drum. The realization hits like a truck. “Wait… No, that’s not right,” you say in English. Your jagged breaths aren’t allowing oxygen to circulate in the mask properly—the same goes for your brain.

The Na’vi growls against your ear. You’re running out of time. You gather the last of your composure.

You tell him your name, properly this time, then continue with your monologue. “I-I seek asylum at High Camp, Max knows I’m coming,” you sputter like a dying engine.

The Na’vi makes another sound of confusion, yet still seems dissatisfied. He gently presses the tip of the knife to your throat.

“No! Please!” you beg. Your hands instinctively wrap around his glowing-freckled forearm, but you don’t tug.

The Na’vi freezes. You can’t see it, but something is happening.

Neteyam’s hairless brows furrow when a woodsprite lands on the edge of the blade he inherited from his maternal grandfather. The woodsprite lingers there, teetering on the edge. Then, it slots itself into the small space between your skin and his knife. You can’t help but cringe at the slight tickle of its tendrils against your collarbone.

“Eywa,” Neteyam whispers to himself. His voice is so quiet that you cannot hear.

The woodsprite travels over your clavicle and settles against the skin just below it. The woodsprite glows with vibrance. The light winks at Neteyam. He knows it's a sign. The tip of his knife drags gently against your skin, sending shivers up your spine. The woodsprite flutters away once his knife is over the spot where the tracker sits beneath the surface. His lips part—the area feels hard when he knows it shouldn’t be.

Your eyes widen. You remember your lines, like an amateur actor taking the stage for the first time.

“There’s a tracker!” you shout in English. Your shrill voice catches even Neteyam—the future Olo'eyktan—off guard.

“A tracker?” Neteyam retorts, his voice laced with aggression and uncertainty. He doesn’t recognize that word, but your tone implies grave danger.

You nod. “There is a tracking device under my skin,” you say in the Na’vi’s native tongue. “Please, cut it out!”

Fright flashes upon Neteyam’s face. Mentally, he’s reeling—were you sent here as bait from the sky demons? Is he falling into another one of their traps? Images of the tracker the Sky People lodged into the tulkun’s fin on the reefs of Awa'atlu flood his mind. His heart feels heavy when he thinks of Ro'a and her cub.

Physically, however, Neteyam does as he’s told. He would never willingly take orders from Sky People, but he knows in this instance, it’s the only way to protect himself, his family, and his clan. He must abide by these orders for the greater good.

Neteyam moves swiftly as he pins you against the nearest tree. He holds you there by your neck. Your eyes meet for a brief moment, then he zeros in on the neckline of your hospital gown. He uses his thumb to feel for the tracking device, raises his knife, and cuts.

Pupils blown wide, you study his face in the moment of reprieve before he slashes at your skin. His eyes are bright yellow, like tiny suns or egg yolks. His lips are full, and as he grimaces, he reveals a shiny set of white teeth. His ears point backwards: he’s agitated. His tail swishes from side to side. He wears his hair in braids. Around his neck, he adorns an ornamental choker necklace.

You howl through your teeth. Your jaw is clenched. The pain is unbearable, but at the same time, it’s the best kind you’ve ever felt. Even if this Na’vi should kill you right after, at least in your last moments, you’ll feel free.

Blood pools around his knife as he cuts through the first layer of skin. He tries to ignore your cries as he presses his long fingertips into the open wound. He pulls when he feels a small piece of plastic; with a bit of effort, he dislodges it from your body.

You sigh in relief when the Na’vi removes it, but the pain lingers—it worsens when you press your fingertips against the wound to stop the bleeding. Your eyelids are heavy. You feel lightheaded.

The Na’vi removes his grip from your neck, only so he can destroy the tracker. Neteyam notes that trackers he’s encountered in the past tend to beep, light up, or some combination of both—this one has neither of those attributes. The uncomfortable knots in Neteyam’s stomach begin to untie, but he cannot give up his resolve. His work is unfinished.

He presses the tracker against the tree bark, grunts, and he hacks away with his weapon.

Even as you’re bleeding—potentially to death—you continue to study the Na’vi’s physique and stature. This one in particular is muscular and athletic, and presumably taller than average. The way his muscles move under his blue skin is enchanting, and the way his freckles glow, you might as well be looking up at the night sky. You’re certain this will be your last chance to witness life on Pandora, or life at all—might as well bask in it.

The tracker is chopped and diced into small pieces, like how you used to cut vegetables back on Earth. The Na’vi looks pleased with his work. Then, his hairless brows furrow again, he spits into his hand, and throws the pieces as far as he can into the Pandoran wilderness. He hisses. You think it’s some kind of power move, but you’re not quite sure, and you definitely don’t have the gall to ask.

Neteyam stands still for a moment, bloodied hands on his hips. He has yet to face the elephant in the room—or in this circumstance, the tawtute against the tree.

That blood is only yours. Your eyes roll into the back of your head; you see stars upon realizing just how much you’ve lost.

---

You wake to the sounds of beeps and whirrs.

All is quiet. You’re in a small room with white walls. The lights are dimmed. Your breaths are slow and relaxed—but as the cogs start to turn, you begin to question if you’re safe or not.

Pain shoots through your shoulder like a strike of lightning as you sit up in the cot you’ve been sleeping in. You wince loudly, and the noise echoes.

Your mind briefly recalls the events of the last twenty-four hours, leading up to the encounter with the Na’vi. Evidently, it wasn’t a dream or figment of your highly active imagination.

Your clavicle has been wrapped in a thick bandage. When you pull back the thin blanket that covers the rest of you, you realize the dirt and grime that covered your feet and legs has been washed away.

You sigh in relief. You think you’re safe, until you discover that your old hospital gown has been replaced with a brand new albeit identical one—one with the Resource Development Administration’s logo on the tag.

Your heart feels heavy.

The escape was unsuccessful. The mission failed.

It makes sense now, as your vision swims through the confined space. This must be it—this must be where they took Seraphina, and Leah, and Clover. This must be where the girls who get picked go. Where they are prepared. Where they are taken.

You sit there for a few moments, then begin to hyperventilate. The Na’vi male must have left you there to die, and the RDA must have tracked you down anyway. Given that they lost all of their prisoners in the jailbreak, it made sense. They would do anything to get you back.

You shatter like glass.

Tears prick your bloodshot eyes like thorns. You pluck each wire from your arm like guitar strings, separating yourself from any machines. They continue to beep, but at a different pace, like a sounding alarm.

You search the room for an escape. You spot a pitcher and sponge on the counter adjacent to the bed.

In the laboratory across from the infirmary room, Max looks up from his microscope when he hears a loud crash. He jumps up from his swivel chair and dashes across the hall, opening the infirmary door.

Max has no choice but to undertake—you have a large shard of glass in your hand, and you use all the force in your tired body to resist. He grimaces as you continue to aim for a critical slice on your opposite wrist. His words fail to soothe.

“Norm!” the unfamiliar man calls. “We’ve got a cutter!”

Footsteps thump down the hall, then another man enters. “Holy shit,” he says. “What the hell is going on?!”

“I don’t know!” Max shouts back.

Norm, in his human form, hops over the pile of broken glass, and crouches to meet your bleary, downcast eyes. “Hey… Hey! Stop! You’re safe here!”

You can’t stop the tears from coming. You shake your head and continue to thrash in Max’s arms. “To hell with you RDA fucks!” you spit at him.

Norm’s eyes fall shut when a glob of saliva hits his left cheek. He counts to three before responding. “We’re not with them!” He grabs your wrists. “Calm down! You’re at High Camp!”

You freeze. You choke on a loud sob. “What?” you ask weakly.

“I’m Norm,” the one crouching before you says. “That guy, behind you, he’s Max. We’re scientists allied with the Na’vi. This is the stronghold. You’re in our laboratory.”

You sniffle. The room goes silent. “But this gown?” you croak, showing him the logo.

Norm sighs. “We loot supplies from RDA… That’s all.”

“Take a deep breath,” says Max. You do as you're told, and your muscles relax. Max docks the glass shard from your hand and eases his grip. Norm nods in approval. “One more,” Max adds. Inhale. Exhale. “You’re alright now.”

Inevitably, you start crying again. But this time, your tears are joyous. The tension breaks like ice—it’s melting. You’re awash in relief you thought would never come. It’s euphoric. It’s blissful. You’re free.

A year of suffering and imprisonment is released in your loud sobs. Max catches you before you can fall to your knees on the remnants of the broken pitcher. Neither of them know what to say, so they say nothing.

Norm, the one on the floor, wipes his cheek with the collar of his shirt. Then he reaches into one of the infirmary cabinets, procuring a dust pan and small sweeper. He does his best to clean the porcelain shards quickly and quietly. “Get her an Ativan,” he mumbles to Max on his way to the disposal bin. Max swallows his nerves.

---

You’re moved into another room in the facility after your incident in the infirmary. When you come to, you feel slightly embarrassed. You didn’t even check to see if the door of that room was unlocked, which it was.

“I’m sorry about your pitcher,” you tell Max as he returns from the linen closet with the blankets you asked for.

Max chuckles. He wants to say he’s more than sorry about all that’s happened to you. He was aiding and abetting the lead warden—the one who came up with the masterplan. “Don’t worry about it. That pitcher meant nothing to me,” he assures.

You crack a crooked, uneasy smile. The Ativan is starting to take its effect. Max smiles back.

You feel grateful. The scientists here have been nothing but kind and patient.

You can’t help but also feel grateful to the Na’vi male who presumably saved your life. You don’t know where he is, how to find him, or if you’ll see him again, but you feel indebted. You want to ask Max how you can show your gratitude, but that will have to wait.

“Thank you,” you say. “For everything.”

Max nods with a crestfallen smile. “If you need anything else, I’ll be around in the lab all day. Norm will be spending some time as his Avatar, so he won’t be around until later,” he says. “You were out for two entire days, I’m sure you’re hungry. Feel free to have anything in the walk-in or pantry. We don’t always have meals together as a crew, but tonight we’ll have dinner together,” Max explains.

You’re left alone once Max is sure you’re settled and calm, and won’t break the vase on the coffee table that he does care about.

---

A/N: Feel free to leave any and all feedback on this chapter! Reblogs and likes are greatly appreciate. In part two, Norm and Max will discuss your arrival with our king, Jake Sully. <3

NEXT CHAPTER: PART TWO

#avatar the way of water #avatar 2009 #neteyam x reader #neteyam #neteyam x y/n #neteyam x you #neteyam x human reader #self insert #self insert fanfiction #x reader #neteyam sully #neteyam sully x reader #atwow

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callmedaleelah · 17 days

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toji fushiguro x non-sorcerer!reader

you are home alone while toji at work and someone tried to break into your house.

warnings : criminal scene, angst to comfort, no (y/n) mentioned, writing in second person pov, english is not my first language

[ masterlist ] | [ ask daleelah go to box box 🐭 ]

The house was still, quiet. It always felt a little too quiet when Toji wasn’t around, but it was something you’d gotten used to. You had just finished cleaning the house from top to bottom, scrubbing every inch of the floors and counters, a task that kept your mind busy in Toji's absence. The sun had dipped low in the sky, casting a warm orange glow through the windows as you padded barefoot across the floor, feeling the satisfaction of a job well done.

You made your way to the bathroom, eager to reward yourself with some much-needed self-care. The soft click of the door closing behind you echoed in the empty house. You turned on the warm water, feeling the steam rise around you as you washed away the mud clay mask from your face. The sensation was soothing, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to relax. Wrapping a towel around your head, you took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the quiet afternoon settle over you like a blanket.

Standing in front of the mirror, you unraveled your damp hair from the towel, watching it fall messily around your shoulders. You reached for the hairdryer and plugged it in. The faint hum of the appliance filled the room as you prepared to dry your hair. But just as you were about to turn it on, another sound cut through the air—faint, but unmistakable.

You froze. The house was supposed to be empty, so any noise out of the ordinary instantly set off alarms in your mind. Your heart pounded against your ribs as you strained to listen, trying to figure out if you were just imagining it. The hairdryer hung limply in your hand, forgotten.

Then you heard it again—faint but deliberate, the sound of someone jostling the front door handle. Your breath caught in your throat as the realization struck you like a cold wave. Someone was trying to break in.

Your first thought was Toji, but you quickly dismissed it. No, it couldn’t be him. He always made his presence known, either by calling out for you when he got home or by slipping into the bedroom to find you. He wouldn’t be struggling with the door. He wouldn’t be sneaking.

Fear settled in your stomach like a rock as you took a cautious step toward the open bathroom door. From your vantage point, you could see into the bedroom—your phone was lying there on the bed, screen dark and silent. The bedroom door was shut but not locked. A cold realization swept over you. You never locked the bedroom door. You never had to. But now, in this moment, you regretted it.

You stood frozen, mind racing. Should you try to lock it now? What if you made a sound? What if they heard you? What if it was already too late? Anxiety clawed at your chest, tightening like a vice as you fidgeted with the tie of your bathrobe, your fingers trembling. But you couldn’t just stand there. You needed your phone. You needed Toji.

Taking shallow breaths, you tiptoed out of the bathroom, every creak of the floorboards feeling deafening in the stillness of the house. Your eyes darted toward the door, half-expecting it to burst open at any moment. Your heart thundered in your chest as you reached the bed, snatching up your phone before turning on your heel and rushing back to the bathroom. You closed the door softly behind you, pressing the lock with a barely audible click.

You huddled beside the sink, hiding yourself near the lower cabinet, your back pressed against the cold tile wall. Your breath was coming out in shaky gasps now, the fear seeping into your bones. You quickly turned your phone to silent mode, your hands trembling as you dialed Toji’s number.

It rang once. Twice. Then again. No answer.

You swallowed hard, biting your lip as tears welled up in your eyes. The ringing seemed to mock you, each tone stretching out longer than the last until, finally, it clicked to voicemail. Panic surged in your chest, your pulse racing as the reality of the situation hit you full force. You were alone.

Your breathing grew more erratic as you fumbled to dial him again. Desperation clawed at you as you listened to the phone ring endlessly before going to voicemail once more. A sob caught in your throat as you tried to hold it back, biting down on your lip to stop the trembling.

“Toji,” you whispered into the phone, voice barely above a breath as you left him a voicemail, hoping against hope that he would hear it soon. “Toji, please pick up the phone, I need you. There’s someone… someone broke into our house. I’m in the bathroom. Please, please… come back and help me, please.”

You could hear the faint sound of footsteps moving through the house now. They were soft, but each step made your heart jolt in your chest like a drumbeat. You pressed yourself further against the cabinet, trying to make yourself as small as possible, your mind racing with a thousand horrible possibilities.

“I’m sorry, Toji,” you whispered shakily, your voice barely holding together as tears rolled down your cheeks. “I think… I think I need to call 911. I’m sorry, Toji, I need help. Please, come back and get me.”

Your hands shook uncontrollably as you hung up the phone, fresh tears spilling over your lashes. You could hear the intruder moving closer now, the footsteps unmistakable as they padded across the floor, drawing nearer to where you hid. Every breath you took felt like a struggle, the air thick with fear and tension. You pressed a hand to your mouth, stifling a sob as you heard the faint creak of the floorboards outside the bedroom door.

For a moment, everything was silent again, the kind of stillness that makes the world feel as though it's holding its breath.

Your gaze darted toward the door, watching it intently, praying that it wouldn’t open. Seconds stretched into what felt like hours, the tension mounting as you waited for any sign of Toji—or the intruder. Each passing moment felt like an eternity, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure it would give you away.

You closed your eyes, gripping your phone tightly, clinging to the hope that he would come through that door any second now. You just had to hold on a little longer. Just a little longer.

Your hand shook as you dialed 911, your fingers slick with sweat as you struggled to press the right numbers. Toji wouldn’t be happy about it, you knew that, but you were too desperate for help now, the fear overriding any concerns about what he might say. You couldn’t wait for him anymore—not when they were so close. Not when you could hear their footsteps echoing in your home.

The line rang, and for a moment, you feared no one would answer. But then, a calm voice filled your ear, grounding you for just a second.

"911, what is your emergency?"

Your throat tightened, and for a split second, the words stuck. But then they tumbled out in a rush.

“I-I think someone broke into my house,” you stammered, your voice barely holding together as you tried to keep your sobs at bay.

“Okay, ma’am, I need your name and your address,” the operator said, their voice a lifeline of calm in the storm of fear that surrounded you.

You whispered your name and address quickly, hardly daring to speak too loudly in case the intruders heard you. The words came out in a rush, the fear in your voice palpable.

“I’m all alone,” you continued, your voice shaking as you hugged your knees tighter to your chest. “My fiancé is still at work. I don’t know how many of them there are… but I can hear them. They’re in the house. Please… please come and get me. I don’t know how long I can—"

"Stay calm, ma’am," the operator cut in gently, though you could hear the urgency in their voice. "The police are on their way to your location. Just stay on the phone with me, okay? You're going to be alright."

You barely heard the reassurance as your entire body froze. The sound of footsteps on the stairs sent fresh terror coursing through your veins. You bit down on your hand, trying to stifle the sobs that threatened to escape. They were getting closer. Your heart pounded so hard it felt like it would burst out of your chest.

Then, you heard it. The creak of the bedroom door opening. They were inside.

"Shit, man," a voice muttered, low and irritated. "There’s someone in the bathroom. The light's on."

You heard another voice grunt in annoyance, and you cursed yourself silently. Of course. You had forgotten to turn off the bathroom light in your panic. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to keep yourself from breaking down entirely. Every muscle in your body trembled, the weight of your fear pressing down on your chest.

“Th-they found me,” you whispered, panic rising in your voice as you spoke into the phone. “They see the light. They know I’m in here.”

The operator's voice remained calm, though there was a new edge of urgency. "Ma'am, stay as quiet as you can. Help is on the way. Don’t hang up, okay? Just hold on a little longer."

You couldn’t answer. You were too focused on the sounds outside the bathroom. The doorknob rattled violently, and you heard one of them curse under their breath as they tried to force it open. Your entire body went cold as you realized they weren’t going to stop.

The handle rattled again, harder this time. There was a loud bang as something heavy hit the door, and you heard one of them laugh darkly.

“Come on out, sweetheart,” a voice called from the other side, dripping with malice. “You can’t hide in there forever.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you clamped a hand over your mouth to keep from sobbing out loud. Your breathing came in short, panicked gasps, your chest tightening painfully. You could hear the door creaking as they began to force their way in, the lock straining under the pressure.

“I know you’re in there,” the voice taunted again, now closer to the door. “You can’t run away. No one can witness our crime, baby.”

The sound of something scraping against the lock made your stomach drop. They were going to break in. You could feel it, the air thick with dread as the door shuddered under the force of their attempts to break through.

You cried into the phone, your voice barely audible but thick with terror. "They’re breaking in! They’re going to get me! Please! Please hurry!"

The operator's voice was still there, trying to comfort you, but their words barely registered in your mind. All you could focus on were the sounds of the intruders—the heavy thuds against the door, their low, cruel laughter as they inched closer and closer to getting through.

Your mind raced, each thought more panicked than the last. Would the police arrive in time? Would Toji? You couldn’t bear the thought of what would happen if they didn’t.

The door splintered, and you could hear their frustration turning into determination. Another loud bang, and you felt your heart drop into your stomach. It wouldn’t hold much longer.

You pressed yourself tighter into the small space beside the sink, your entire body trembling uncontrollably. Tears blurred your vision as you whispered desperate prayers under your breath, hoping against hope that someone—anyone—would come to your rescue.

Then, through the haze of your terror, you heard it: the faint, distant wail of police sirens.

The sound of the sirens pierced through your panic like a lifeline, even as your mind struggled to comprehend that help had finally arrived. You heard the men curse loudly from outside the bathroom. They shouted something incoherent, their voices dripping with frustration and panic as they realized their time was up. You heard their heavy footsteps retreating quickly down the stairs, their once arrogant bravado now laced with fear as the police closed in. The house filled with shouts—commands from the police, the heavy thud of doors being kicked open, the scuffle of the intruders trying to make their escape.

But all of that felt distant. You were curled up on the cold bathroom floor, trembling uncontrollably, the phone still clutched loosely in your hand though you’d forgotten about it entirely. The tears didn’t stop as you sobbed quietly into your hands, your entire body wracked with emotion. Even though the danger seemed to have passed, the fear lingered, a weight that pressed down on your chest and made it hard to breathe.

The sound of the bathroom door being forced open startled you, and you flinched, your breath catching in your throat. You looked up, tears clouding your vision, to see a policewoman standing in the doorway, her expression soft but determined as she searched the small space.

“Ma’am, it’s clear now,” she said gently, her voice calm and reassuring as she reached out a hand toward you. “We got them. You can come out now. You’re safe.”

Her words washed over you, but it took a moment for them to sink in. You slowly reached for her hand, your body trembling as she helped you stand. Your legs felt weak, as if they might give out beneath you at any moment, but she held you steady, guiding you out of the bathroom. Every step felt surreal, the world around you moving in a blur as you tried to focus on anything—something to ground you.

Outside, an ambulance was parked at the front of your house, its lights casting a soft glow in the darkened street. The paramedics greeted you, their voices calm and professional, but you could barely register their words. They wrapped a warm blanket around your shaking body, and you sat down on the back bumper of the ambulance, staring blankly ahead. The paramedic spoke softly as he checked you over, his hands gentle, though his voice seemed to echo in the distance.

“Your heart rate is high—likely from the shock,” he said. “Do you have any internal pain, ma’am?”

You shook your head weakly, not trusting yourself to speak. Your throat felt raw, your voice small and cracked as you tried to take sips from the water bottle they handed you. Everything around you felt muted, as though you were seeing it from behind a glass wall—just out of reach, too far for you to fully understand.

Then, through the haze of your thoughts, you saw a familiar car screech to a halt at the curb. Your breath caught in your throat as you saw him—Toji—leap out of the car and rush toward you with wide, frantic eyes. His normally calm and collected demeanor was completely gone, replaced by a desperate look of fear and concern. The sight of him broke through the numbness that had taken hold of you, and fresh tears welled up in your eyes.

“Toji…” you whispered, your voice breaking, but he was already there, pulling you into his arms before you could even finish.

The moment his arms wrapped around you, you collapsed into his embrace, sobbing into his chest as all the fear and tension came pouring out of you. He held you tightly, his strong arms encircling you, grounding you in a way nothing else could. His hand cradled the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he pressed his face into the crook of your neck. You could feel the way his body shook, the tremor in his hands as he held you like you might disappear if he let go.

“Doll… I’m so sorry,” Toji whispered into your hair, his voice rough with emotion. “I’m so fucking sorry I wasn’t here. Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

You couldn’t answer, only shaking your head weakly as you buried your face deeper into his chest, your tears soaking into his shirt. His scent surrounded you—familiar, comforting—reminding you that you were safe now, that Toji was here. The tightness in your chest began to ease, replaced by the overwhelming relief of being in his arms again.

“They… they caught them,” you whispered shakily, your voice trembling. “The police got them.”

Toji’s grip on you tightened for a moment, as if the very thought of what had happened made his blood boil. You could feel his breath hitch against your skin, a mixture of anger and helplessness weighing on him. But when he pulled back slightly to cup your face, his touch was impossibly gentle. He brushed away your tears with his thumbs, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a fierce intensity.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” he whispered, his voice rough with guilt. “I should’ve been here. I should’ve been the one to protect you.”

You shook your head, more tears spilling down your cheeks. “I called the police…” you whispered, guilt twisting in your chest. “I’m sorry, Toji… I didn’t know what else to do.”

Toji’s expression softened, and he let out a deep breath, his thumb brushing over your cheek as he stared at you with something close to tenderness. “Fuck, doll… don’t apologize. You don’t need to say sorry for that,” he said softly, his voice steady now. “I don’t care about the police or any of that. What matters is that you’re okay. That’s all I care about. You did what you had to do, and I’m proud of you for it.”

His words broke something inside you, and you let out a sob, collapsing into his chest again as more tears streamed down your face. Toji’s arms tightened around you, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, holding you as if he could shield you from the world. He murmured quiet reassurances into your hair, his voice low and soothing as he rocked you gently back and forth.

“I’m here now,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your temple. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got you, love. I’ve got you.”

And in that moment, with Toji holding you so close, you believed him. Despite the chaos that had unfolded, despite the terror that had gripped you, you felt safe again in his arms. His warmth and strength were enough to chase away the lingering shadows of fear, and for the first time since it all began, you allowed yourself to feel at peace.

#daleelah writings 🐭#jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu toji #toji fushigro x reader #toji fushiguro #jjk toji #toji x reader #toji x you

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shaisuki · 1 month

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“aren't you cold swimming at this hour?”

his boots crunched the dried leaves below him. a snap of a twig can be heard in the dark forest. the glow of the moon illuminates the area making it brighter. a gentle wind blew and hoshina wonders if you're cold.

there his subordinate half submerged in the shallow waters of the spring. showing no signs of hypothermia and just basking in the glow of the moonlight and the feeling of water in your body. slowly, he trudged his way towards you. stopping beside in the pile of your clothes.

“are you not cold, vice captain?” you asked him the same question and he gives a small smile. if soshiro were just a mere human being and didn't know this subordinate of his basking in the moonlight, he might have mistaken you for a water nymph. the water rippled and you turned your head sideways to look at him.

your hair are loose. strands sticking to your cheek and cascading down your back. droplets of water rolls down in the crevices of your body. down in your plush curves dripping in the calm waters, creating a ripple. like a man possessed and without a word. he slowly stripped out of his upper clothing. showing his lean muscles, his pale skin glistening. followed by his boots and only leaving him in his loose pants. barefoot walking unto the ground. slowly sinking in the soft mud below his toes and he submerged himself. walking towards the water nymph that might disappear if he takes off his eyes from his plush figure.

the water's nice but leaning on the cold side and hoshina grits his teeth to not let the coldness sink to him. “the question doesn't matter now. it is that why i find you naked here. not too late for it, eh?”

“afraid our other subordinates will find me here? bare and naked?” hoshina chuckles at your quipping. his closed eyes opening and showing the deep violets of his eyes. he grabs your shoulder until it slowly descends on your flabby arms then it was holding your plush waist. he moves the loose strands of your hair to show him the face of the woman who have bewitched him. “that's the least of my worries, wife.”

lost in each other's gazes, it was the feeling of the puffs of air being emitted in your mouth that he realizes he was slowly inching his face to meet your lips with his. brushing his lips to yours and looking in each other's eyes. then a kiss bloomed, under the pale moonlight.

lean muscles meets the soft flesh of your own. coldness engulfing you both that it was the passion behind the shared kiss are both keeping you warm from the cold.

“if one of the soldiers find you here, they will drown.”

“how is that?”

“such beauty in here, they can't control their selves and would drown for a glimpse of you.”

“oh yeah?”

“take me as an example, i wouldn't be here with you if you didn't bewitched me.” cold fingers grazed over your hardened buds. shivering, and it was easy how the mere of touches coming from him got you tingling.

“want to take this somewhere?” doe like eyes stares at him and he breaks out in a grin. “gladly.”

there under the moonlight, you both made love of each other. the cold, crisp air being tinted of hot pants and the once quite night are filled with soft gasps and moans. whispers of each other's name while both of your body melded together as one. hoshina hopes that no will wake up if some soul founds you and him and look at your body, they won't see the sunrise tomorrow.

#♱ ⋮ shai's works⸝⸝#chubby reader #kaiju no.8 x reader #kaiju no.8 x chubby reader #kaiju number 8 #kaiju no. 8 #hoshina soshiro smut #hoshina soshiro x reader #soshiro hoshina #hoshina x reader #anime smut #anime x reader #anime x chubby reader

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vryfmi · 1 year

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book!l&co character lineup

finally finished extended version of my L&Co designs, based on their book descriptions! it took months, but im happy with the results

ID of designs + thumbnail-sketch under the cut

[image ID: two digital drawings of characters from Lockwood and Co books, done in semi-realistic style, black lineart and plain colour against grey background.

image 1: from left to right there are full body drawings of George Cubbins, Anthony Lockwood and Lucy Carlyle. George is standing facing left, slouching, he's looking at the viewer with indifferent expression. he's fat, light-skinned and has medium length fair hair. George's wearing round glasses, red t-shirt, baggy jeans, unzipped grey hoodie and sneakers. he has a grey sport bag in right hand and a black messenger bag across left shoulder. next to him there's Lockwood, he's standing half turned to right, he's facing the viewer with a gentle smile. Lockwood is paler than George, almost a head taller and slim with short, slightly wavy, black hair. he's wearing a grey three piece suit with white shirt underneath, as well as smart black shoes and a purple tie. on top of it is a black greatcoat. Lockwood stands with one hand in pocket and another resting on rapier's grip. the sword is in its scabbard attached to Lockwood's belt. furthest on the right is Lucy, she's standing half turned to right, head facing left with a curious look directed at the viewer. her skin is light and her hair is warm brown, slightly uneven and spiky with middle parting. she has a wide frame and is the same height as George. Lucy's wearing a baggy orange sweater, plaid grey skirt, black leggings and tall dark-brown work boots with iron patches. she's holding onto a strap of her rucksack that is on her right shoulder. there's also a belt on top of the sweater which holds her rapier.

image 2: from left to right there are full body drawings of Flo Bones, human version of the skull, Quill Kipps and Holly Munro. Flo is standing half turned to left, facing towards the viewer with a smirk. she's light-skinned with long dirty-blonde hair, and her face has smudges of mud all over. compared to previous pictures, she's almost as tall as Lockwood, but not quite. Flo is wearing long blue puffer jacket on top of her darker clothes that resemble one of fisherman's with mudded thigh-high rainboots. she stands with one hand in jacket pocket, one raising a brim of straw hat with a knife. said hat has a fishing hook stuck on its brim and two lavender stems attached to hat band. next to her is the skull in his human form. he stands half turned to right, slouching, hands in pockets, with head thrown back with a wide smirk across his face. skull is very thin and not really tall, he is tanned and freckled with spiky dark hair. skull is wearing ill-fitting clothes: a white old-timey shirt that is slightly too big and grey trousers that are too small and short. he stands barefoot. third from the left is Quill Kipps, he stand half turned to right, crossing his arms, head facing left with a look of annoyance. Kipps is short and slim, he has ruddy and freckled skin and short ginger hair. Kipps is wearing a grey leather jacket with Fittes logo on it as well as two medals, tight black jeans and chelsea boots. his rapier scabbard has a baldric type of belt. rapier itself has green gems on a hilt. finally, there's Holly Munro, she's standing half turned to left, head facing right with a gentle smile. she's pretty tall and slim with deep rich black skin tone and black shoulder length curls. Holly's wearing a white short lantern sleeve shirt with a blue dress with a cloth belt wrapped around and tied into a bow at the back, as well as low heel shoes. she has a light-blue scarf wrapped around her head. Holly also has white small earrings and beige nail paint. all of the characters have artist’s watermark at the lower right side of them./end ID]

bonus sketch

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leviathanleva · 4 months

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Daisy

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Fem Reader [DARK FIC]

Description: Cooper Howard was not a kind man, he cared for nobody, but himself. Then he found you, a lost little dove, barefoot and crying, torn dress and big innocent eyes staring at him like he was a hero. He knew you’d be a burden, he knew you couldn’t survive in the wasteland, he was doing you a favor.

But he couldn’t pull the fucking trigger...

........................

[MDNI, Mention of Suicide, Smoking, Non-consensual Choking, Alcohol Consumption]

[6.6k words] 🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

Chapter 9 "The Glass"

Good things never lasted.

You were going to get a bitter reminder of that little fact by the end of the day and looking back, you wished you’d just died the night before when you were happy.

Cooper had left before sunrise, rasped a few commands to stay put and that he wouldn’t be long, to talk to Mitzi if you needed anything and put it on his tab. You’d been too drowsy to consider the anomaly, him leaving you to your leisure, out of his sight for more than a few moments. Your answer had been barely coherent, muffled into the pillow as your body lay squished between the mattress and the ghoul. Sloppy palms had given your plushy hips a few squeezes, a brash peck or two to your shoulder and he was gone.

You awoke properly a few hours later, late into the morning. The bleary memories flooded back, but the warm sunlight and the clinking and buzz of life stirring from the main floor kept the dread from sinking too deep.

He’d be back, you weren’t abandoned, the leathery bandolier discarded on the couch said as much, it eased your uncertainty the moment you’d spotted it behind a curtain of messy hair. And until then, Mitzi would be your consolation. Harmless naivety had you imagining serving customers and clearing up tables while indulging in idle chatter together, counting caps and scribbling orders while immersed in a lighthearted repartee.

After a prolonged yawn and a thorough stretch that earned a few satisfying pops from your back, you slid from beneath the heavy, woolen comforter. Your boots are neatly set on the floor beside the foot of the bed, tights stuffed inside one of them while your socks occupy the other; you fiddle with them, pull them on, and tie them securely.

A peculiar, but not unfamiliar symphony catches your attention and you peek out the window curiously. The huddled, snoozing brahmin from last night are now serenely moping around the front yard, grazing at the scarce weeds that sprout around the vegetable garden or sunbathing on the powdery ground. There’s a person tending the plants, clad in a large straw hat and baggy clothes, ankles deep in mud and with an empty bucket on their hip along with a pair of rusty sheers.

Fingers comb through your hair and pat it down to a barely presentable state before you rub the sleep out of your eyes and roll the stiffness out of your shoulders. Standing, you shake the numbness off and tap the tip of your shoes into the floor to set them in place.

The smell of coffee lingers, sharp and bitter, it leads you through the mouldering corridor and down the creaky stairs, into the bar. The music still plays and the shadowy figures are now nothing more than brooding travelers nurturing either a hangover or sleeplessness. Daytime is less kind to the appearance of the guesthouse, specs of dust can be spotted in the brash sunrays flooding through the windows, the time-touched signs on every bit of furniture are obvious now. The omnicity and furtiveness have vanished, all is mundane and regular; the cigarette smog yet persists, rivaled only by the stench of old grease being reheated to prepare the breakfast items from the menu.

“Cooper’s runt.”

Your head snaps to the bar and there stands a beefy woman who would easily beat most if not all her clientele in arm wrestling. A stick-and-poke tattoo of a cupid is proudly displayed on her shoulder, a mane of curly black hair is tied back into a low ponytail, beady eyes are eating you up like a snack and you instinctively straighten out some of the less defined creases in your dress.

“Uh…Good morning?” you bear an uneasy smile, hoping that her comment was one of bluntness and not hostility.

The gold in her mouth glints as she beckons you closer with a canine grin.

“Indeed a good mornin’. Not a single raider got cooked on the fence yesterday and m’ dogs didn’t stir all night!” leaving the pile of caps for later, she rests an elbow on the counter and extends a hand to you. “I’m guessing Mitzie was too hyper to give me a proper introduction. Happens sometimes when unfamiliar faces stop by, don’t mind ‘er.” you shake her hand with hesitancy and pull away too hastily for someone who’s trying to mask their intimidation. She scoffs at your skittish nature. “M’ name’s Monique, owner of this fine establishment.”

As if on cue with you sitting on one of the bar stools, a strikingly large hound pokes its head from behind the mass of stained coffee cups yet to be cleared for washing and greets you with a bellowing bark. You start with a choked cry and recoil as the furless beast strains forward with a twitching snout, eager to give you a good sniff.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Bucky, down!” Monique is quick to scold the dog and its once perked ears lower, the energetic whining, however, doesn’t waver. “What I tell you ‘bout scaring customers? You ain’t a pup no more.”

She pushes down on his massive head until he’s out of sight, but the visually grotesque mutt is far from discouraged. Carrying the heart of a Labrador, he’s set to complete his innocent mission of establishing a new friendship and add it to his vast collection.

You hear the patter of clawed paws and soon he reappears, having circled the counter and now eagerly sat beside your chair, beaming up at you while his curious nose pokes at the side of your thigh. Your first instinct is to stiffen, Bucky isn’t the only mongrel you’ve seen, but the rest had all been rabid and out for blood, driven mad by both homelessness and radiation.

“He don’t bite.”

You vaguely register his owner’s quip, attention glued to the shiny slobber being happily spread over your tights.

There are dogs like Cujo and dogs like Lassie and your caution was founded, but it was doing Bucky a disservice. Poor bud was pleading for a pat and a good belly rub. Gathering enough courage to still the shakiness of your fingers, you plant them gently over the pooch’s wrinkled forehead and let them rest there to see his reaction. He’s delighted, the stump of a tail on his butt almost vibrating when you reach to scratch behind his chewed-up ear.

“Good pup.” you mirror his doggy grin, lovingly assaulting him with both hands now and he’s happily melting against your leg, snout stuffed into your dress and dampening it with open mouthed, hot huffs. “He’s lovely.”

“Of course!” Monique shrugs with a prideful snort. “I trained ‘em.” she’s back to counting yesterday’s profit while comparing separate piles to the list of orders.

Once Bucky has melted into a satisfied puddle on the floor you’re left to awkwardly eye the place while mulling over what to say next or if you should at all. Without Cooper standing between you and the world, it became difficult to find your courage and be your own entity. You’d never been apart, you’d grown co-dependent and not only on his marvelous gunslinging but on his presence as a whole. Starting from him being your only means of familiarity and safety, to you clinging to him now as your single source of comfort. You relied on him for everything. If that bit of info had been obscured before, pushed to the back of your mind due to bigger problems needing solving, now it was blatantly obvious.

The bartender was no danger, she was great albeit a little rough around the edges, and her pet being this friendly spoke more than words ever could. Still, a mental barrier prevented your voice from showing. You were mute and bolted to the stool until an event requiring a change happened.

“So you here to chat or can I getcha anything?”

Monique, the absolute angel of a woman, had finished up her daily counting of caps and was expectantly staring you down. You doubted she was aware of her kind act, but were grateful regardless because if she hadn’t spoken up you never would have, not for a while at least.

“Is there coffee?” you perk up at the offer, display the sweetest smile you can make up, and drown the dreary train of thought that had been on its way to ruin your day.

“Mitzie! Cup o’ coffee for Doe Eyes!” she leans back to holler at the kitchen door, then turns to you. “Ten caps.”

You had a nickname already, how quaint.

“Actually, can you put it on C –”

“– I’ll pay.” your second favorite ghoul steps out of the kitchen with a tray in hand and you were expecting her to be just as cheery as the previous night if not more, but she’s anything but. “You can make it up to me with a good chat, yeah?”

She’s looking at you with incomprehensible unease which sparks worry in your gut. There’s a weight to her movements, something fowl plaguing her that can’t be blamed on just lack of sleep, but by her droopy eyes, you can tell that’s also a factor.

“…Sure?” is all you manage before she sits beside you and pushes the steaming mug towards you.

“Ma, I’m sorry. Can you please serve breakfast for me? I’ll take over after this, just…” she doesn’t finish, the rest of the words between her and Monique are exchanged non-verbally and the stout woman flares up.

You expect her to say something by the way her jaw tightens and her beady eyes narrow, she doesn’t. Instead, she spares you a glance that lingers too long for it to be anything but disheartening and leaves. You follow her until she’s out of sight, made anxious by their queer exchange and vaguely acknowledging the unbearably scalding cup of coffee in your hands.

“Right…Before I say anything I want you to at least consider my words, okay?” there’s an urgency to her voice, she’s drumming her fingers over the counter, and her baby blues turned ghostly grey are glued to you to make sure your attention is solely centered on her. “This isn’t just me spouting shit to scare you off or stir trouble.”

It’s unnerving, Mitzie’s shift of character is turning your friendliness into apprehensiveness. You’d be empathetic to her perturbed state, but all emotion is overwhelmed by the incessant foreboding forming a lump in your throat.

“What?” you blurt while nervously tracing the edge of the cup. Shifting more comfortably into your stool, you lower until you’re nearly lying on the bar with ears strained and a whirring mind. “Mitzie, what’s going – ”

“ – Promise me.”

There is nothing subtle about the way you’re etching closer to her, anyone with one good eye would spot the direness in your conversation. What you wished for was to know why there were such macabre undertones to her speech. A night had passed since you’d last seen each other. What could have possibly happened for her to look as though she was about to attend a funeral?

With the way she’s positioned, body directly facing you and her head slightly rolled to the side, she can easily switch from watching you to checking the entrance of the guesthouse. She does just that, gaze darting back and forth and waiting for something, anticipating. It’s nerve-wracking, makes your stomach coil.

What the hell is going on?

“I…Sure, okay. I promise.” you answer, obliging her in the hopes that it eases some of her worries. “What’s going on?”

She nudges you to drink before your coffee gets cold, then combats your question with her own.

“How long have you known Cooper?”

“Couple months…Why?” your best efforts to keep an even, soft tone fail and your reply comes out curt and snappy.

“What do you know about him?” she gives you no room to breathe, fires another inquiry even with your apparent skepticism towards the conversation.

The music and simmering liveliness are drowned out by the steadily increasing beat of your heart. Your surroundings fade, blocked from your peripherals until it’s only you, Mitzie and Bucky as he soundly snoozes in your feet. You envy him and his ignorance.

Her question does more damage than intended.

Truthfully, you know nothing of your short-tempered companion, you wouldn’t even know his name if it hadn’t been for the slip-up in Tillburry. You’d based his adamance of keeping you uninformed on his lack of trust, but by the incredulous way Mitzie had asked, you began doubting that excuse. You’d traversed enough land and shared countless nights huddled together, sharing a meal, sharing everything, watching each other’s backs. Surely by now, you’d earned the right to know at least his age, yet he’d revealed nothing to you. You light up the conniving musing with the scalding heat of your drink and let simmer away as you respond.

“I mean…Not much, but –”

“– Fucking typical…” she snarls, doesn’t let you finish, already knowing the answer, her gaunt features turn malignant, and the grimace she bears is bone-chilling. Mitzie checks the horizon beyond the freshly wiped windows, shifts uncomfortably, as if ladened by her uniform, and continues with urgency. “Listen to me, I know his words probably outweigh mine, I mean, we’re not really friends you and I. And you don’t have to believe me…but for your own sake I hope you do.”

She’s gesturing down with her hand, palms spread and visible to soothe your hastily dissipating patience. Your prickliness doesn’t wane and the more she tries to tame it while spouting gibberish the worse it gets. You cross both legs and arms, barricading your tumultuous heart from the trepidatious babbling and letting go of the politeness keeping the bubbling vulgar words out of your vocabulary.

To hell with manners and formalities if you were going to be interrogated without being given a reason why.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“He’s not a good man.” she whispers while cupping her mouth and it’s low, but with enough certainty for you to hear perfectly. “Cooper. He’s bad…real fucking bad.”

“You aren’t telling me anything new.” you shake your head with a series of blinks, unmoved. Her deciding to sit you down and work you up for a serious conversation to tell you this while Cooper is away instead of simplifying it to a passing comment while she’s working is more of a surprise than the information itself.

Was this fiasco truly about the bounty hunter’s moral compass? Really?

“You don’t get it…” she clasps a hand over her forehead with a pained expression and a groan, then lets it slide down to rub her eyes. “He doesn’t care about anybody. He sure as fuck doesn’t care about you. You just can’t see it yet.”

“That’s a bit presumptuous, isn’t it?” you deflect with a half-frown. “I mean, sure. He’s not great, but he’s been patient with me, he’s a good friend. He’s kept me alive so far when he could have left me behind plenty of times.”

“Yeah? Good friend?” there’s mockery hanging off every word, then Mitzie pauses as if debating whether she should say more. For a moment she’s mournful, regretful that she’s burdened with ripping apart the delusion you’ve lived in thus far. “So did he tell you he has a family?”

The world stops, you falter.

“What?”

To behold a human break from the utterance of so few words is a sad imagery.

“Told me one night when he was high off his ass.” her words cut deep, slice through your cool demeanor until you’re left bare before the raw turmoil that beats you down until you’re physically doubling over. She grips your hand as a reminder that she’s still there and not hurting you out of spite. “A daughter and a wife. He’s looking for them, Honeybee. He isn’t making friends with you, he’s using you.”

You look at her hand over yours. It reminds you of his.

“That’s not…”

Unlike her who is high on alert and jumping at every creak or shuffle, you’re far away. Ripped out of your body as her truths knock on your skull and try to sink it, you’re scrambling to regain feeling in your legs, fighting to remember how to move your lips to form a coherent sentence. Heat rises from the bowels of your stomach to the peak of your neck, nips at your ears until you’re conscious of their existence, and submerged in an almost deafening screeching.

“His daughter’s name is Janey. Ask em yourself if you don’t believe me.”

Searing pinches assault your scalp, you scratch them away, but more appear and you’re left pulling at fistfuls of hair to ease some of the pulsing tension rendering your vision doubled. You have to grip the counter before you tumble off the chair, any sign of balance or proper motor function is gone, overshadowed by that screaming that’s tormenting your hearing and making your teeth ache.

A daughter…a wife…

You’d had your tongue ravaging the mouth of someone’s husband. What the actual fuck. You would have let him take you if he’d so wished.

Cooper falls in your eyes then, his pedestal – desecrated, his value – diminished. You hoped the love would die, that your affection would flee just as fast as the shame had settled. But it doesn’t, he’d made damn sure you’d stay a loyal bitch, had worked your cogs from the start until you were enamored.

You felt disgusting, wanted to crawl out of your skin.

“Mitzie…” sullen, destroyed, humiliated, still you defend him, still you fight against the stinging reality that burrows into your flesh and writhes until you’re close to hurling. Still, you try to keep the halo above his head from completely cracking while gathering the pieces of your scattered mind, alone, of course, because you know he’d never do what you do for him. “That’s none of my business, neither yours.”

Preserving his reputation while yours crumbles away, pathetic. Have you no self-respect? No. Not when it comes to him.

“Yes it is!” she exclaims, spills too much too brashly in her frustration. “I saw you through the keyhole…last night.”

Her vigor fades at the repulsion plastered on your face. You rip away from her, refusing all contact except that of your hardened eyes burning into hers for answers.

“You were spying on us?”

The bridge she’d built between you was burnt, the gates to your impressionable mind shut before her. The trust she’d earned was stomped and left to rot. That single jumble of a confession thrown in the hopes of convincing you further tore apart any ounce of tolerance you had left.

With a slack jaw, she watches your lids close over guttural anguish and your mouth twitch into a thin line as you hold back the bitter betrayal from surfacing.

“Enough…”

Your voice is unrecognizable.

Fuck her. Fuck him! Fuck everything…

You should have never stopped at this damnable place.

“Wait…Wait, please, wait, wait, wait.” she clings to your arm before you’ve walked too far, baby blues dashing around random spots in search of a proper expression. “I was scared for you.” she confesses over hoarseness due to either a dry throat or uncontrollable emotions. She’s shaking you, desperate to make you understand and giving no fucks about how stupid the pair of you look or how much attention she draws. “You can’t trust him, please listen to me! He’s leading you to slaughter!”

“I don’t trust rats.”

Glistening with stifled tears at the absolute hatred in your snarl, Mitzie loosens her hold and her head dips. Too kind to push her away and leave, too hurt to accept her accusations as the truth, you’re stuck in a limbo of numbness and hollow pain. You’d urge her to cry if she’s so riled up, would have lent a shoulder and cried with her. But there is only so much a person can take.

Blow after blow, you’re left too stunted to express anything despite everything inside you twisting.

“There’s…a place.” she murmurs while tugging you to the stairs where shadows reign to hide both of you from curious onlookers and save you the trouble. “It’s half a day away from here. Super Duper Mart. It’s…It’s an organ harvesting business.”

“I’m not…Get to the fucking point.” you command, but your tone wavers and your mouth shuts before an unsolicited sob escapes.

“Please, let me go…Please…I can’t anymore…”

“Ghouls need a certain substance to stay sane. All of us do. Super Duper Mart sells it. Usually, we sell a kidney to get a few vials, it grows back in a day or two. Or a ton of caps, but not a lot of people can afford that.” she swallows something vile, and rearranges her next words in a way that doesn’t outright spit at everything you’ve known to be your existence so far, your false reality. “Or, we sell someone else’s organs.”

You shudder, lean against the railing before your knees give out, and suck in a shaky breath as the ice licks your spine raw.

“Please don’t…”

“Let me live a lie. Let me die happy.”

“He only stops here when he’s going there.”

“Mitzie.” your warning falls on deaf ears.

“You’re a product, not a person.” she chokes you with harsh facts, steers the reins of your sanity towards a meltdown and it doesn’t take long for your mouth to drip with blood from biting open wounds into your bottom lip. “Not to him.” she catches you when you wobble, blows at your face because you’ve turned ghostly pale. “You need to get the hell out of whatever shit he’s gotten you into. Leave before it’s too late.”

“Where the hell am I supposed to go? I don’t know shit about surviving alone…I depend on him for everything.” you croak and taste bile on your tongue.

“You could stay here…” she mumbles, salving over the gashes she caused. “Could always use another pair of hands, if you’re willing to pay for your supper in labor.” she pats your head, brushes the hair to expose dead eyes staring right through her, but that doesn’t stop her from playing hero. “I talked with ma already, and Cooper isn’t stupid, he wouldn’t pull a gun here. Just tell him you don’t wanna travel with him anymore when he’s back. Or I can do it, I don’t mind.” she’s so kind, a sweet deformed woman, a sisterly guide trying to save you from the jaws of the reaper. “You have a choice. You have a chance. Please…”

But you don’t want her. You want him.

You wave a deathly calm hand and draw an end to her verbal molestation. Whisked away by the last burst of energy available, your back greets her as you ascend the stairs, leave her and everything she’s thrown at you behind. Trapped into the premises of your head, you forget speech and hearing as she meagerly calls to you for an answer.

Uncaring for your mental limitations as she is, Mitzie doesn’t pursue. Maybe it’s best you contemplate your next actions in solitude.

Tear-stained vision leads you to the safety of your room before you crumble to the floor, looming over the toilet as you lurch spit and air. You wish to be rid of this entire experience, throw up everything you’ve heard and said.

Nothing comes out.

The ringing subsides along with all worldly sensations just a moment later as you lie limp inside the bathroom with eyes rolled into the back of your head. Darkness has consumed both thought and feeling, lulling you into still nothingness. Steady breaths cast a sheet of vapor over the cool tiles.

Woe is you, weak, pathetic thing, dreaming of adventure and independence, freedom and love. Here is your independence now, your freedom, your love, your pleas were answered. Take them. You’ve wanted them for so long… Take them now.

It’s the scratching that pulls you out of unconsciousness. Fingers twitch to life first, then your senses return albeit groggy and dull. You’ve no interest in company, but the single needy whine amidst the determined scraping makes you overturn that decision.

With no recollection of when you’d fainted or for how long, you’re whimpering and nurturing a heavy migraine.

Bucky, your savior, lets himself in happily when you manage to crawl to the door and open it. The mere sight of him, so glad to see you again and wagging that stump of a tail, draws the last straw of your composure. You claw at him until he’s sitting between your legs, resting a slobbering snout against your shoulder as you weep into his thick neck, possessed by ugly sobs that shake your entire being.

He snaps his jaws a few times, a gentle brute, as you hug him close and suffocate in despair and loathing until you’re spent. He stays with you when you stand on wonky feet and pop a Rad-X before taking a shower that lasts long enough to count for two. Ever loyal and eager, you bathe him as well while he tries to bite the water current.

A clean boy, the goodest of boys, the crutch to your broken self. He licks the droplets off your calves as you let your dress dry you off and don’t bother to towel your hair.

Nobody told you drinking on an empty stomach is a death sentence, but you’re desperate to quiet down your wounded soul and racing imagination so the outcome would have been the same. The bourbon is sweet against your throat, doesn’t burn one but this time and Bucky is a warm, soft pillow to your floating head once it becomes too heavy for your shoulders to bear. Tucked into the couch and comforted by nasal puffs as your companion drifts in and out of sleep, you’re too exhausted to keep crying but the dry, infrequent sobs persist.

An eternity passes before the dog’s ears perk up and you’re woefully unprepared for the discussion that is to come.

The light from the corridor is blinding. The ghoul is standing at the door, a dark silhouette whose shadow stretches far into the room and almost reaches you. A hand comes up to shield your eyes as you groan.

“Well, well, well.” he sneers and switches the lamp on for you to see the demeaning smirk. His expression as a whole is not kind, Bucky, the wonderful boy, is currently in his spot and Cooper isn’t one for sharing. “See you’ve replaced me already.” he gestures towards the exit, holding the door open, and spits a harsh command. “Get!”

You don’t want to be left alone with this man, preferring to leave along with the dog and it shows by the anxiety burdening your features. The alcohol lingers still, makes your limbs feel like stone as you sit up and rub at your reddened, puffy lids.

Your pulse is already picking up speed when he slumps in the chair opposite to you and lights a cigarette before tilting his head back. The question is readied on the tip of your tongue and you’re irritated because it’s so damnably difficult to voice it. You press an attentive hand to your neck to encourage something to come out while the other sinks into your thigh until the flesh changes color.

“Are you gonna sell me, Mister?” you shoot in between plans on how to approach the matter and let loose a curt breath, relieved that it’s out of your system.

The casual swaying of his knee stops.

He straightens up, abandoning his nonchalant posture to give you a good once-over with the smoke secured between his lips.

You’re an unmistakably macabre sight even under the weak glare of the dying lightbulb. Bloodshot orbs nestled into a saggy face, sucked-in lips framing a ghost of a frown, he couldn’t see how contorted your body was from behind the table, but by the hung shoulders and lowered neck it’s obvious the rest of you isn’t pretty.

There’s a great amount of bourbon missing when he decides to pour himself a glass midway through his examination.

But all those factors can’t compete with the title you’d used to address him.

Mister.

You hadn’t used that since you’d learned his name and it was the first red flag he’d picked up, a warning that something was terribly amiss, that something vital had occurred while he’d been gone and now it’s his turn to have a taste of it.

“I’ve entertained the thought.” he scoffs through a meager smirk. You give him a look that washes away all hues of jokingness, the tiny hint of concern he displays would have been comforting, but you’ve been disturbed to where his crumbs of affection are useless. His hat is tipped to one side, guarding his shifting expression as he asks: “Was goin’ on, Darlin’?”

You want to scream. Yell all that you’ve been told and beg him to assure you none of it is true because, for God’s sake, he’d kissed you the night before and now you know he has a family waiting for him somewhere. You want Mitzie to be the villain who’s causing mischief for the sake of it because he’s your hero and he’s supposed to save the day. Deep down, you know your wishes will go unanswered and maybe that’s why you don’t completely break down before him.

He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve anything.

“Are you going to sell me?” you repeat with more force and less uncertainty, fueling yourself with enough malice to keep you from backing out of the confrontation. You won’t falter, you refuse.

“Who you been talkin’ to?”

He’s evasive and it’s tugging at your nerves. Despite your desperation for answers, you decide to at least respond properly, you’re weakhearted unlike him, you’re prone to show sympathy.

“Mitzie.” a hand comes up to rub away the goosebumps on your upper arm and your gaze steers away from his. You’re not keen on putting Mitzie in the spotlight, but you’d rather be truthful, maybe it will push him towards reciprocating. Guilt sprouts in your chest before you curtly remind yourself that you’re not the bad guy here. “She told me a few things…”

His apprehensive visage turns vicious, lanky limbs become taut, and his clothes squeak in strain as he settles into a less open posture. If he’d had any intent on taking down walls to let you in, it had died by the utterance of that name. His lips are pulled back in a nasty snarl.

“Should’a stuffed a bullet down ‘er throat long time ago.”

It’s an insult to you and your intelligence, he’s painted you as gullible while dismissing Mitzie’s credibility without even giving a reason. He doesn’t need to defend his stance, either you believe him or you don’t and you have for the longest time, but when so much information has been thrown at your face regarding him and he can’t even refute the claims, you’re left second-guessing.

“You’d rather kill her than answer my question?” you’re revolted at his savage revelation and it shows in the twisted way your tone lowers. But you're empathetic even to the undeserving and watching him lash out like a cornered animal causes you to soften. “You know I’d trust your word over anyone else’s.” your attempt at reaching past the acidic, gruff exterior he’s hidden behind fails, he’s not interested in being vulnerable or deepening your bond, he’d rather stay a feral simpleton. Another insult, another stab at what you’d thought was a connection in the making. You swallow through a tight gullet, pained beyond belief. “You’re despicable.”

“Watch yer mouth, Missy.” he spits back.

He dares to scold you when he’s in the center of the dilemma. He demands respect when he’s the cause of the anguish poisoning your once hallowed spirit. He’s the problem and he has the audacity to treat you like a misbehaving child.

Angry tears weigh on your lashes, you grit your teeth to strangle a sob that threatens to rob you of all the authority and composure you’ve built.

“You never answered my question.”

The lamp flickers in an ominous prediction of his next words.

“And what if I do?” detached, cold; not a human, but a creature made of melted skin and unfathomable disregard for other beings speaks to you. A spiteful, ugly man who you’d grown to cherish so passionately is throwing bile at you because he’s not the misunderstood morally grey Superman you’d hoped for, he’s just a pile of shit and the best you could do is walk away. He’s terrible and he lets you know by continuing to belittle you and all the love you’d shown him. “Gonna snap outta your teenage dotin’ ‘nd see me the way I am?” with a cruel smile, he shrugs. “Told you I’m rotten, Sweetheart. Didn’t listen, did ya?”

You don’t regret what slips off your tongue next.

He deserves all the despair you’ve felt, the betrayal. You’ve long since drowned in hopelessness, submerged in scenarios of how you’ll go on without him as chances were – he’d probably leave after all this, his persona was unmasked, he had no reason to stick around anymore. He should at least be ashamed of his actions, but to do that one needs to have a conscience and so far he’s not shown signs of any.

You don’t mean to stoop to his level, but his ridicule is just that contagious.

“Janey?” a palpable pause, so thick with dread. You don’t leave it there; you plunge the knife deeper. “Is that really your daughter’s name?”

He’s on you in an instant.

Having lunged out of his chair, he’s squeezing your throat so ferociously you choke. He’s ready to kill and by the way his pupils shrink, he just might.

Demonic above you, forcing you down onto the sofa, he looks like he’ll rip you apart.

“Never say that name again. Ever!”

He’s a nightmare. His devastating grimace will forever stay burned into your memory. But for once you’re ready to fight back and you do so with vigorous hatred.

“Don’t touch me you fucking freak!”

You manage to slide your knees between your bodies and kick him with all your might. For the first time, your actions have an effect, he stumbles back, nearly knocks the table over. You’d thrown him off with such force it surprises both of you. Delicate things can also be fierce. But were you delicate? Not anymore, not like before. The wasteland had taken its toll on you, he had as well. Stripping you of all your beauty, now you were just like the rest of them – cruel, gross, burdened, haunted.

“Don’t ever touch me you manipulative, disgusting, vile – ” you jut a shaky finger at him, longing to berate him all night, but your voice cracks and you shut your mouth as if he hadn’t already seen how shattered you are.

You suck in a tattered breath and stand. The barrel of his pistol points at you as you lean closer, he cocks it without hesitation, but you don’t flinch, instead grabbing for the matches and box of cigarettes he’d left next to his now spilled drink. Maneuvering sluggishly, you sit on the windowsill, facing away as he audibly plops back in the chair and slams his glass into the table before pouring another batch of bourbon. Like drowning in alcohol could fix all this shit…

Typical for him, you’re not surprised.

Never in your life have you lit a match, but you’d rather waste his entire box than ask him for help. You pinch a smoke between your lips, your first and hopefully last, strike the match and it flares to life.

Bitter and chalky, leaves your tongue dry and your head light, a physical manifestation of death, you like the taste and the suffocating fumes that circle your nose despite the open window. You’re supposed to cough and recoil, throw it away because it’s suicide wrapped in paper, instead, you look back and toss the two little boxes to their owner, hoping to hit him.

The night is cold, the chill is pleasant against your skin, it sweeps away a part of the haze you’d been engrossed in during the day.

“You never told me you had a family.” it’s more of a shared thought than a statement; you stare up at the sky, dangling one bare foot into the air until the steady breeze numbs your toes. “Never told me you were looking for them.” your battle zest dissipates as you continue mumbling out the decrepit sorrowful melody of your heart. “Never told me fucking anything…”

“My family ain’t none o’ your concern.” comes a hiss from behind you to deter your scornful moping. You scoff at that, shake your head at your stupid, unwavering faith in him rather than his reply.

You’re still trying to find a spec of goodness after all this, it’s laughable.

“I thought we were friends…or…or partners.” you toss the cigarette bud when the flame scalds your fingers, let the smoke exit your lungs through a heave. “You’re supposed to share with me!” hands obscure your face from the world as you suffer through a few sobs and swallow mouthfuls of tears. “I care for you so much…I’d do anything for you. But you’re just – ”

He’s cruel though, whether screaming and kicking or on your knees crying, it makes no difference to him. He doesn’t care. Did he ever?

“We ain’t no friends.” he states it as the fact it is. “We ain’t nothin’.”

“You’re right…” you nod, giggle even as you wipe your cheeks dry. “Friends don’t sell each other for organ harvesting.”

You never heard the new batch of vials clinking in his coat pocket, didn’t see the freshly stitched scar in the middle of his back, where his kidney used to be. How were you supposed to know when he never told you anything?

So it comes as a surprise when he throws the spare glass and it shatters next to your head and makes you wince. His sudden burst of anger is a mystery and it’s his own fault.

For once he’d been good, for once he’d put someone else before himself and this is what he got.

“You know what’s really pathetic?” you let go of a bitter laugh, wet and putrid, but it’s shortlived, you return to curling up and mumbling because he doesn’t deserve to know how precious he is to you, but you want to let it all out and be done with this. “The only reason why I’d be sad if you sold me is that I’d be away from you.”

“Don’t fuckin’ say that…”

A blip of something other than rage or mock, but he’s too late to the party. You’ve already dedicated to demolishing all that he’s poisoned with his touch, all his self-control and stoicism.

“I’d rather die by your hand than be taken away.” you glimpse down at the shards scattered next to your thigh to find your reflection in much the same state - broken. “I’m a coward, I guess. I never wanted this life…but I’m too scared to end it myself.”

Crack

The glass shatters in his hand, the only reminder left of the paradise from the night before, he’d broken both of them, first yours, then his. The pieces spread, deftly falling to the floor as the bourbon drips from the edge of the table.

“Good night, Mister.”

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

Chapter 10 >>>

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