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wicked-mind · 4 years

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Betrayed: Chapter Five

Summary: Everybody thought Steve’s sister had passed away decades ago. But when you show up at the facility and try to attack Bucky, there are questions to be answered.

Word count: 4.2k

Masterlist

All Writings Masterlist

Warning: A bit of violence, talks of grays anatomy with no spoilers, blood draws, a hint of PTSD and torture

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CHAPTER FIVE- McDreamy

The morning after the gala, almost everybody was hung-over. It was the late morning hours before anybody even thought about getting up. They didn’t drink that often so it hit everybody pretty rough in the morning. Everybody except Y/N, Bucky, and Steve who never drank that much anyway.

Y/N and Bucky were down in the medical bay together. Y/N was having Bucky draw vials of her blood, wanting to have some on stand-by in case it was needed. She was sitting up on the medical bed, her left arm outstretched to Bucky who sat in a chair next to her, wiping her arm with an alcohol wipe. This was his third attempt at trying to take her blood, the first two unsuccessful.

“You know, if you miss my vein again I might have to rethink this friendship. I’m not a pin cushion.” Y/N smiled, a small chuckle passing her lips as she watched him clean her arm.

Bucky grins, laughing a little, “It’s not as easy as it looks, Doll. You have cold skin and tiny veins.” He picked up the new needle, his brow furrowing as he focused. He pushed the needle in, once again missing. He drew it out and looked at her, “So about our friendship.” He discarded the needle into a red bin.

Y/N almost laughed as he missed the vein again, but just a small chuckle passed her lips, “C’mon, Bucky. It can’t be that hard. Let me try.” She demanded with a smile, holding her hand out for the next needle. Bucky smiled and handed it to her. Y/N looked down at her arm for a moment, poking around on her skin before inserting the needle. The tube it was connected to started filling with her blood. She quickly connected the vial to the other end of the tube, watching it fill up before grinning up at Bucky, “See, not that hard.”

Bucky watched her, shaking his head as he laughed when she got the vein, “Now how did you learn to do that?” He questioned, replacing the now full vial with another empty one.

“Oh, Grey’s Anatomy. Netflix is great.” Y/N said, smiling at him.

Bucky nodded, having no idea what that show was. He didn’t watch too much tv. He mostly watched old movies, “Is that what you and Wanda are always laughing at?” He asked, smiling as he waited to replace the vial.

Y/N nodded, “It’s great. It’s funny, sad, tense… It makes a great show. Wanda likes McDreamy.” She said, smiling.

“Oh, McDreamy.” Bucky said with a laugh at the name. He couldn’t imagine a show where they have a doctor called ‘McDreamy’, “And what do you think of this McDreamy?” He questioned curiously, replacing the vial and looked at Y/N’s face.

Y/N shrugged, “He’s cute. Neurosurgeon, dark hair, dreamy blue eyes.” She said, examining his facial features, sensing a small amount of jealousy from him, “But to me he is egotistical, and seems to lie a lot. It’s a deal breaker.” She bit her bottom lip for a moment before continuing, “I’ve seen dreamier.” She concluded, her eyes still watching him.

Bucky smiled, removing the last vial. He removed the needle from Y/N’s arm, discarding it in the red bin. He then pulled out a small red bandaid, placing it over the puncture spot, “There, all done.” He smiled at her.

Just as they finished, Steve walked in looking at the two of them confused, “What are you guys doing down here?” He asked, walking towards them. He was wondering if they were having a ‘moment’, which he was glad to interrupt.

Y/N looked at her brother and smiled, moving to her feet, “Wanda told me that it would be a good idea to keep some of my blood in the storage in case anything happens. I think it’s a good idea too.” She said, “But nobody was up, and you were out training, so Bucky offered to help.”

“That’s very.. friendly of him,” Steve said, looking from Y/N to Bucky, then back to his sister. He wondered what was going on between the two of them. When she arrived, all she wanted to do was kill Bucky, stay as far away from him as possible. But now it was like the two of them were best friends again, inseparable. “I think Wanda was looking for you, Y/N. She wanted to go grab some lunch.”

Y/N smiled, “Lunch, yum.” She said, before turning to Bucky, “Thanks for helping me, see you two later.” She said, smiling to both before exiting to go find Wanda.

Steve smiled before turning his attention back to Bucky, “Did I interrupt another moment?” He questioned, eyebrows raised.

Bucky looked at Steve for a moment, standing from the chair. He folded his arms, “I was just helping her draw blood, is there an issue?” He questioned. He knew Steve always had suspicions about him and his sister being closer than friends. He couldn’t understand why he was so bitter about it when they were younger.

“I’m just wondering if you two are more than friends.” Steve replied, stepping closer to Bucky. His arms folded also, standing tall.

“We are just friends, Steve.” Bucky said sternly, “Is there a problem with that?”

Steve clenched his jaw, then relaxed a little, “There’s no problem with being friends with Y/N, Bucky. She just got back. I know how you feel about her, but she’s just getting back to herself. I don’t know if she needs more than a friend right now.” He said, looking to Bucky, wanting him to understand what he was saying.

Bucky nodded slowly, his brow pulled together in frustration, “You know I would never force Y/N into anything, or make her uncomfortable. It took months for her to look at me like I wasn’t her enemy, even longer to talk to me.” He said through his clenched jaw, “Have you stopped to think I’m the only one who knows what it feels like to go through what she has?” He paused, before continuing, “I’m just trying to be there for her, Steve, in whatever capacity she needs me.”

Steve was silent for a moment, before nodding, “You’re right. You understand Y/N’s trauma better than anybody. I just… Don’t push her, Bucky. We just got her back.”

Bucky nodded, “I won’t.” He promised and with that, the conversation ended. Bucky put the vial’s of Y/N’s blood into storage before exiting the medical bay. He meant what he said. He would never push Y/N into anything she wasn’t ready for. He wanted to be there in whatever way she needed whether it be a friend or more than a friend. But he would wait for Y/N as long as he had to.

“I heard there was a moment.” Wanda said across from Y/N as they were sitting and eating lunch. They sat outside, enjoying the warmth of the sun while eating their sandwiches and chips.

Y/N looked at Wanda confused, “Moment? Well, there’s lots of moments in a day. Which one are we talking about?” She asks, taking another bite out of her sandwich.

Wanda looked at Y/N with a ‘do-you-think-I’m-dumb’ look, “A you and Bucky moment.” She clarified, “Last night. At the gala.” She spelled it out for her friend.

Y/N chewed slowly, trying to think of what she was going to tell Wanda. Of course she still had feelings for Bucky. She always had and they never went away, just got buried deep down for a while, “Oh, that moment.” Y/N finally said, placing her sandwich back on its plate, “I think it was the wine. And the dress. And his suit.” She said as an excuse.

“Oh, yeah, the dress.” Wanda said, “It definitely wasn’t the fact you two still have feelings for each other.” She picked up a chip from her plate and threw it at Y/N, landing it in her hair, “I can see in your mind. You can’t lie to me. Now tell me the truth.”

Y/N picked the chip out of her hair, looking at Wanda, “I don’t know what it was, Wanda. He’s never stopped being there for me even when I hated him. He was patient with me, kind when I was nothing like that to him.” She sighed, leaning her elbow on the table so she could cup her cheek in her palm, “I may have flirted back a little and we maybe almost.. kissed… but then Thor showed up. Moment ruined.”

Wanda listened to the story, nodding her head as she took another bite. She swallowed then tilted her head at Y/N, “Did you wish Thor didn’t show up?” She asked curiously with a smile.

“I… I don’t know. I wanted the moment. It was like the date we never went on.” Y/N said, poking at her sandwich, “But I just started accepting him again, giving him a chance. I’ve started to actually talk to him again, and even though he’s everything I remember him being and I do have feelings for him, part of me is still worried I can’t trust him.” She admitted.

“Give it time, Y/N.” Wanda said with a smile, “He will wait for you.” She said, knowing what she said was true. Bucky was easy to read especially when it came to Y/N, she was constantly on his mind. Wanda didn’t even have to use her powers to know that, “So were there any other moments during the blood drawing?” She nodded towards the red bandaid still on Y/N’s arm.

Y/N laughed, “No, no moments I promise.” She said smiling, “Although, I had to puncture my own vein because he couldn’t get it. Said it was due to all the Grey’s Anatomy we watch. He wasn’t amused when I told him about McDreamy, maybe even a little jealous.” She chuckles, picking her sandwich back up to take another bite.

Wanda laughs, “Of course he’s jealous! McDreamy is….” She smiled, wiggling her eyebrows at Y/N, “Dreamy.” They said together with a laugh.

It had been two weeks since the gala. Y/N had started hearing the whispers again in her head, but they were soft. She told Wanda as promised, who said she would also keep an eye on them. Y/N hadn’t been sleeping too well since the whispers started again. Her memories seemed to be creeping back to her through her dreams. She remembered more about the other red eyes. She started to fear them less, remembering more about who they were.

Y/N had also been spending more time Bucky since the gala. Everyday they found time to be alone to talk to each other. The moments they shared together were Bucky’s highlights of his days. They would often walk around the outside of the facility, talking and laughing. Keeping his promise to Steve, Bucky wasn’t making any moves towards Y/N. He would wait for her to make her moves before making his own.

“So did you ever get those sunflowers I had Bex buy?” Bucky questioned as he walked with Y/N, smiling as he watched her movements. He would always have his sister buy sunflowers for Y/N while he was on deployment. It was evening and starting to get a little cold. He wondered if she would want to head inside soon, but knew they wouldn’t have much time to be alone indoors.

Y/N smiled and nodded, “I did, thank you. They were always sitting on my desk when I came back from a class. She even drew little hearts on the cards for you.” She chuckles at the memory, remembering how Bex was always pushing Bucky closer to Y/N. Bex loved the idea of having her best friend hopefully someday become her sister.

Bucky smiled, “Yeah, she was always making me look good.” He said, looking down at the grass as he walked. It hurt him to think about what his sister must’ve thought happened to him, but he knew Bex only thought of him as a hero since the official story was presumed killed/missing in action. Bucky had noticed that over the past two weeks since the gala Y/N had become a little more quiet as if she was lost in her head, “Have you been doing okay?” He asks, “You’ve seemed a little off.”

Y/N looked at him for a moment, then down at the grass as they continued walking. She hadn’t told Bucky about the whispers or the dreams. She bit her lip, still looking down, “I..” She began, “I’ve been remembering some things lately, from before. It’s like my brain is forcing my dreams to remind me.” She said softly.

Bucky looked at her concerned, noting that she was keeping her eyes on the grass as they walked, “I know what that feels like. I still have nightmares about the things I’ve done. They’re haunting.” He said with a sigh.

Y/N nodded, remembering her dreams. They were intense. She was remembering more about the other red-eyes like her. She remembered what they looked like, and which one the whispers belonged to. He had dark black hair that covered his eyes slightly and was always wearing a smirk. He looked pure evil to her. Y/N debated discussing more on the topic, feeling like she needed to get it off her chest. As they approached a bench, Y/N sat down, picking at her fingers as she focused still on the ground.

Bucky sat down to the left of Y/N, watching her pick at her fingers. Whatever she was remembering was obviously bugging her. He waited in silence for a moment before speaking, “You can talk to me about it, if you’d like. It can stay between us.” He promised. He wanted her to open up to him so he could help take the burden off of Y/N, not allow her to go through this alone.

Y/N sat silently for a moment longer, listening to his words. She was debating whether she could trust him with the information, the painful memories, “I’ve been remembering more of the other two like me.” She finally said softly, her eyes still on the ground. The dreams flashed through her head as she remembered them. Y/N was screaming in the memories, being held still by another man with red eyes, but he had blonde hair and had scars across his face. Alexei. She remembered as she was held, the one with darker eyes would approach her with that smirk on his face, tsking at her and saying her name as he got closer and closer to her. She remembered his name too, Dimitri. Y/N broke the silence again, “One of them was a shorter man, blonde hair. He had scars across his face, Alexei. He was the second made. The other had dark hair. Dimitri… He was the first of us and also in charge of keeping us in line when there wasn’t a mission.” She said softly, her eyes staring at the grass as if she was in a trance like she was locked in the past, “Dimitri had taken out his chip long ago, I remember his scar behind his ear, same as mine.” She gestured towards behind her left ear. Y/N looked at Bucky for a moment, noting the concern on his face before returning her gaze to the grass, “Dimitri had plans for us three. He wanted to take over the Hydra facility, be king. But he needed Alexei and I on his side to do that.” She paused for a minute again, “Alexei got in line easily with Dimitri, it didn’t take much. They were murderers in their past life and got along well, especially after Dimitri removed Alexei’s chip. But me, it took a little more convincing to make me complicit.” She said so soft it was almost a whisper, “Dimitri would have Alexei hold me still when we were all stuck together. He would say the good in me was holding me back from greatness, wanting me to comply with his plan. He was the one that gave me these scars.” She said, her hand tracing along one of the scars on her arm, the shape was of a bite, “The venom doesn’t kill us, but it does cause nasty hallucinations. It was his way of trying to get me to comply, to give into his plan. I killed a few Hydra guards in some of my hallucinations. I think that’s what hinted to Hydra of what Dimitri was doing, why they locked us away. The chips wouldn’t work when I was in these hallucinations. He’s the one I hear in my head.”

Bucky listened to her closely, his brow pulled together in worry and anger as he listened. He finally had names though, Alexei and Dimitri. Obviously Russian. He had lifted his right hand to touch Y/N’s back comfortingly. He had remembered seeing her in the hallway in the towel, noticing all the scars in the shapes of bites running up her legs until they disappeared under the towel and along her collar bones. It made his inside burn with rage. The thought of another man not only touching her, but hurting her gave him anger he didn’t know existed. His left vibranium hand was clenched in a fist, but his right hand remained soft on Y/N’s back, “I’ll never let them hurt you again.” He said, keeping the anger out of his voice, “I promise.” He swore, knowing this was a promise he would die to keep. Y/N was worth everything to him, and he would gladly give himself up to protect her if that was his only option.

“Thank you,” Y/N said softly, tearing her stare from the grass to meet his gaze. She could see the anger behind his eyes at the story, but she also saw the concern he felt for her, “They’re memories I rather not remember. I wanted to keep them buried down, but it’s nice to not have the burden on my own. He’s been whispering to me lately." She paused, "He whispers less when I’m around you, I don’t think he likes you.” Y/N said softly.

Bucky nodded, “They’ll eat you alive if you don’t let them out. You’re not alone,” He said, moving his right hand from her back to gently sweep the blonde hair away from Y/N’s face, “I’m always here, whenever you need me. I’ll keep your secrets.” He promised with a small smile. As much rage as he was feeling, it melted away when Y/N looked at him. He felt butterflies in his stomach. He felt warm around her, “If he starts whispering to you again, just come find me. I’ll scare him away.” Bucky promised with a crooked smile, the tips of his fingers still touching her face.

Y/N finally smiled a little bit, lifting her hand to touch his. She threaded his fingers through his, pulling his hand down onto her lap. She kept her fingers intertwined with his, looking down at their hands. Y/N leaned her head on his shoulder, blinking her eyes tiredly. It’d been a few days since she had a good nights sleep on account of the nightmares forcing her to remember things from her past, “I think it’s about time for bed.” She said softly, though not making any movements to head inside.

Bucky smiled as Y/N took his hand, letting her fingers lace through his own. Her touch calmed him. He was losing himself in her touch. His grin widened as she leaned her head on his shoulder. Bucky wanted to be frozen in this moment with Y/N. He would happily be in this moment forever, just Y/N and himself. He stroked her hand with his thumb gently. He couldn’t deny he was falling deeper and deeper in love with her. Every time Y/N touched him, it took everything to resist the urge to pull her closer to him. Bucky smiled a little hearing her talk, knowing their moment was coming to an end again, “It is pretty late.” He replied, continuing to stroke her hand with his thumb.

Y/N sighed, forcing herself to stand and pulling Bucky by his hand with her. She kept grip of his hand, smiling at him gently, “Walk me?” She asks, her eyes locked with his.

Bucky grinned down at her, “It’d be my pleasure, doll.” He said. They kept their hands intertwined as they walked towards the doors into the facility, releasing each other before they stepped through the door. Bucky again walked Y/N to her room, not entering. He knew Wanda was probably in there asleep by now. He looked down at Y/N who had paused at the door before opening it. She had turned to face him, staring up at him. He smiled down at her, lifting his right hand to touch her face again, “Goodnight, Y/N.” He said softly to her.

Y/N smiled at his touch, leaning her face into his hand slightly. His touch made her skin crawl. It was like she was a magnet to him, not wanting to separate from his touch, “Goodnight, Bucky.” She whispered back. She stayed still for a moment, not wanting to leave his touch, but then slowly slid through the door to her own room, shutting it behind her. Y/N looked at Wanda who was sound asleep. Being as quiet as possible, Y/N changed into a tank top and sweats, crawling into her own bed and quickly falling asleep.

Bucky watched Y/N disappear into her room, standing there for a moment. He wished he could follow her in and stay close to her. He tore his eyes away from the closed door, walking down the hallway to his own room and shutting the door behind him. He wondered how long it would be until he could end the night with a kiss instead of just a ‘goodnight’.

“Is this real life? Is this just fantasy?”

Y/N woke up with a jolt, breathing deeply as she could hear Dimitri’s voice in her head. She lifted her hand, rubbing the side of her head at his singing.

“I’m just a poor boy, I need no sympathy. Because I’m easy come, easy go, little high, little low.”

The voice practically screamed the song through Y/N’s head, causing her to get up and leave the room as to not disturb Wanda. She rubs the side of her head with both hands tiredly, “Is this what we are doing now? Singing?” She growled out softly to the voice in her head. She wasn’t scared of the voice anymore since she remembered him. It just made her anger grow when he was inside her head.

“Mamaaa… Just killed a man. Put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger now he’s dead..”

Y/N winced at his singing. It was off key and very bad. It was practically torture as he screamed the song in her head dramatically. She made her way down the hall, pausing outside Bucky’s door. She debated if she should go in or not as Dimitri was yelling the Galileo part of the song in her head. She touched the doorknob before deciding against it, not wanting to disturb him just for the off key singing in her head.

Y/N could feel her frustration rise as she made her way outside of the facility, her bare feet touching the cool grass. She felt as though she could scream. Dimitri wouldn’t stop singing. She gripped the sides of her head, “For the love of god, stop, Dimitri!” She growled out. To her surprise, the singing in her head stopped and she let out a sigh of relief.

“I was trying to get you outside.” The voice whispered in her head softly with a chuckle.

Y/N froze at his words, looking around slowly through the darkness. She saw a figure laying on the grass. She approached slowly, trying to discern who it was. Once she saw it was Clint laying on the grass knocked out, she got closer and leaned down, “Clint?” She whispered, shoving his arm slightly trying to wake him. He must've been out on a nightly jog. She was about to speak his name again when a hand wrapped around her throat, pulling her up onto her feet and turning her to face similar red eyes. She looked at the man in the darkness, staring at his red eyes. He had blonde hair, scars across his face. She grabs onto his arm that held her neck, trying to force him to let her go. The next word passed her lips with a growl, her red eyes staring angrily at the man in front of her with his hand around her throat.

“Alexei...”

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TAGLIST: @vicmc624 @the-ayo-lit @daddysfavoritesexkitten @springsoulofengland @tcc-gizmachine @taina-eny @dontputyourfckingdrinkonmytable @vivien-1211

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barns x reader #captain america x reader #steve rogers x reader #marvel #marvel imagine #marvelfanfiction #marvel fanfiction #avengers x reader #bucky banres imagine #bucky x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x y/n #marvelfanfic

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whump-a-la-mode · 3 years

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Signal - Pincushion

Hey uhh this is a bit of a weird one! Thanks to @suspicious-whumping-egg (aka blue fren) for helping me come up with a fun way to torture my poor lab whumpee. Also, tagging @shiningstarofwinter !

Previous entries to this story can be found in my pinned infopost (no pun intended.)

CW//Injury, mentioned amputation, blood, pins, needles, torture, dehumanization

Upon the table, Signal shook like a pinned butterfly. And, in a way, that was exactly what they were.

After all, how else could they be described, in that moment?

“Stop-” They were begging. When the experiment had started, they had tried to stop themself from doing so. Tried to keep their dignity about themself. But how could they really have something even resembling dignity when they spent their life eating out of a dog bowl in a cage? “Stop- Please please please- No, no, no!”

Their last ‘no’ resembled an anguished howl more than anything that could be described as human language. But, it didn’t stop the next pin from going in.

“Stop squirming.” The sharp voice of the one and only Dr. Crane barked, piercing Signal’s ears as though it were an airhorn. They flinched in the same manner. “I said, stop squirming!”

How could they stop squirming when their wings, no, their whole body may as well have been on fire?

“You’re okay, Signal.” Dr. Sampson’s far softer tone coaxed. “We’re almost done.”

“We’ve barely started.” The other researcher commented sharply.

They’d only just started?! If anything, that reignited Signal’s writhing. When the next pin went in, they couldn’t help but feel that Dr. Crane had placed it as harshly as she could manage, simply to make a point.

Every piece of them was in agony. Their wings were so burdened by pain that the weight was disturbed, too, to their other limbs, their chest, their skull.

But they could not move, and there was quite a paramount reason for that.

Signal should have known, as soon as they were laid out, upon the table. They knew that table. Sure, in its default state, it held no different intentions than the metal exam tables they were so often forced upon.

But, this table in particular had something very unique about it. A pair of metal flaps, able to extend from either side of its surface. The perfect size for fixing in place a pair of wings.

Most of the doctors’ tortures, they’d learned to handle. That did not mean that they cared for them in any way, shape, or form, of course. But, they knew what to expect. They understood the pain that awaited for them.

Procedures upon the wings, however? They could never get used to those. They’d always found it stupid, found it unfair, the fact that their oversized, unwieldy, feathered appendages contained the most easily-ignited nerve endings on their whole body. A single brush upon a single feather was enough to set the hairs on the back of their neck on end.

Their wings had been tortured plenty of times, of course. But this?

This was horrid. More than that, this was new.

‘We’re only measuring muscle activity in your wings.’ Sampson had spoken, oh so terribly innocently. ‘It’s only sensors. You know sensors.’

She had, of course, forgotten to mention the fact that the sensors were located upon the ends of pins, nearly three inches in length. No, Signal hadn’t found that out until they had been stretched out upon the restraint table, and the first pin had forced its way into their flesh.

How many had gone in, now? A dozen? Two dozen? They couldn’t tell, but they couldn’t stop their wings from shivering. The only thing stopping them from sobbing was the fact that they had run out of tears to cry half an hour ago.

“There. All done.” Dr. Sampson sighed, at long last.

“A-All done?” Agony alone rendered Signal nigh-speechless.

“Putting the sensors in.” Dr. Crane spoke with a laugh. “Though, maybe it would go a little faster if you would stop flopping like a fish.”

“You’re doing fine, Signal.” The lab rat could do nothing to resist as the kinder of their two torturers gave them a horribly degrading pat upon the head. “But it’ll go a lot easier if you would just relax.”

Relax? When they were being treated like a pincushion?!

“The machine’s ready, as soon as you’re done talking to the rat.” Dr. Crane interrupted.

“Yes, yes. I apologize.” Her colleague hummed. “Go ahead.”

Somewhere, a switch was flipped.

Somewhere, Dr. Crane sentenced Signal to the worst agony of their life.

Upon the table, the winged person howled. So it felt, a million and a half lightning bolts lurched through their feathered appendages and back again. A ceaseless feedback loop of agony.

They had been staying still, before. Their wings hadn’t been restrained-- there was no need, after all. The pins had caused enough discomfort to still them.

Now, however? Signal wasn’t thinking. If anything, they did not so much as have control over their movements.

They flapped their wings.

It’s hard to tell what was worse-- the pain Signal experienced in that moment, or the view that the pair of doctors had as they did so. The prior was agonizing, certainly. But the latter? The sheer amount of blood? The way that pins pierced feathered flesh, twisting and stabbing at any and all angles?

Perhaps that was even worse.

The only mercy that Signal received was that of unconsciousness. It was shock that sent them, after only a few moments, leaving their doctors to clean up their mess.

“Oh, god...”

“Are they ever going to fly again?”

“Fly? Are they going to live?!”

“That is a lot of blood.”

“The Facility. Now. It’s their only chance of keeping the wings.”

#whump #whumpblr #lab whumpee #whumpee #whumper #doctor whumper #signal #dr crane #dr sampson #i need a tag for this series huh #wing whump #winged whumpee #medical whump

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jackyjango · 4 years

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Part 1- Mouth to Mouth Combat

Pairing: cherik

Written for this prompt

Erik's empty stomach grumbles in protest. The digital clock on his monitor displays it's 2:30 PM, but he hasn't had a bite to eat since that morning. An ache has been steadily building in his head that throbs with every pump of blood through his jugular. Three ounces of coffee somehow hasn’t seemed to tame it. He needs something stronger. Something like nicotine.

He's mulling over how he wants to torture Sean for screwing up the third blueprint in a row when his phone begins to ring. Though he's set the ringing volume to the minimum, it draws the attention of his interns. Angel gets up from her seat with an excuse of locating a fallen pen while Sean leans back in his chair pretending to stretch his legs. Even though Alex’s eyes are stuck to the monitor, Erik knows that his ears are pointed in his direction. Utter bastards. At least Darwin is the only one in their lot who has the decency to pretend that he’s minding his own business. Pretend, being the key here.

Erik glares at all of them until they pretend to shrink back to work before picking up the call.

'Hello, aunt Ruth.’ He tries to keep his voice to a whisper, but it comes out as a growl. ‘No aunty, I'm not angry with you for calling. That's absurd- No aunty, I'm just at work. Yes, yes…. - yes aunty. You know I will. Of course, I will. Yes- I'm eating. He knows it too. What? This Saturday? Alright, I'll ask him if he's free. Yes, I'll bring him if he's free. Of course, I will.’

On the other end, aunt Ruth goes on berating Erik’s unhealthy eating habits without giving him a breathing pause while Erik nods and aquices to whatever she says. He’s just about to reassure her the third time that he’s been eating his meals on time when Azazel bursts into life in front of him with a hiss of air which overlaps with whatever Aunt Ruth says next.

Tapping on his watch, Azazel mouths the words: ‘Let's go.’

'Alright, aunt Ruth, I have to go now,’ Erik says, half getting up from his desk. 'Yes, yes. I'll check with him and text you. Love you, too… Bye.’

Pocketing his phone, he turns to glare at his sad-excuse of team members. Like a flock of birds dispersing at a pelted stone, they lung back to staring at the screen and tapping idle keys.

Azazel chuckles beside him as they head out into the roaring Genoshan sun.

The chicken roll they both take from the street vendor manages to vaguely quieten Erik’s stomach. He lights a cigarette after walking a short distance to the smoking zone in front of their office building. Floating the lighter to AZ, Erik sends out a text to Charles.

Hey, Aunt Ruth’s invited us to dinner on Saturday. You free?

The reply comes immediately, which means that Charles is on his free hour.

When am I not free for her cooking? Count me in! :)

While Erik sends aunt Ruth a text to confirm that both he and Charles would be coming for dinner, a second text comes from Charles.

Speaking of dinners, how does pasta sound for today?

Smirking, Erik takes another puff of his cigarette.

Are you cooking? Really?

Hey, my cooking isn’t all that bad. I’m decent. Well… mostly.

They both know that Charles’ cooking doesn’t come anywhere near the decent territory, so Erik doesn’t comment on the decency of Charles’ cooking or bring up the fact that he almost burnt the kitchen on three different occasions. Instead Erik sends out: In that case, A okay for pasta.

Stomaching substandard pasta is a small price to pay for being Charles’ roommate.

I assure you, my friend. You won’t be disappointed, comes Charles’ text followed by a grinning emoji.

The devil that he is, Az peeks into his phone and smirks. 'Taking to your boyfriend, huh?'

Erik rolls his eyes. 'Charles is not my boyfriend, Az. He's my friend, just like you are.'

Az shudders and blows out a cloud of smoke through his nose, the image rendering as the incarnation of Satan himself. 'Please, don't compare me with him.'

Erik supposes Az is right. It'd be grossly unfair to compare someone like Az with someone like Charles.

‘Hey,’ Az says, inhaling another puff of smoke into his lungs, ‘A friend of mine is playing at the pub downtown this Saturday. I’m going out with the boys. Wanna join?’

‘No, I’m going to aunt Ruth’s for dinner. You carry on.’

‘And is Charles going with you?’ Az asks way too innocently for Erik’s liking.

‘Yes.’ Erik agrees begrudgingly.

Az pins him with a look that spells out crystal clearly, see what I mean by boyfriends?

Erik barely restrains the urge to smack Az on the head. ‘He’s a friend and a roommate, Az. Nothing more.’

‘Really?’ Az asks leaning on a pillar, his movements gracefully feline; almost akin to a bored cat toying with a ball of yarn aware of the level of destruction it’s capable of. ‘Is that why you refuse to move out or is it because you prefer to travel twenty five kilometres to work?’

Okay. Erik will agree that travelling almost an hour to work is a bit of a hindrance. But it wasn’t a hindrance two years ago when Erik was looking for a place near the engineering firm he was interning at the time. He’d seen an ad on a communal mutant app asking for someone to share a two bedroom flat with. The man who had posted the ad, Charles Francis Xavier, at the time had been a freshly minted post graduate eyeing the position of a junior lecturer in the Genoshan university with a lease amount to a nice house too hefty to bear on his own.

The house itself was more agreeable to Erik and More importantly to Erik’s meagre stipend.

Charles had declared that he’s gay and a telepath the day they’d met, and that Erik should look elsewhere if he had a problem with either of those. In response, Erik had plucked the pen tucked into Charles’ breast pocket with his powers and had signed his half of the lease agreement.

Erik’s not an easy person to live with (and Az will enthusiastically attest to it). He’s weird and particular and controlling and territorial (And that’s just the first four entries on AZ’s list). He doesn’t know what to attribute it to, but living with Charles for a roommate is …. easy.

His living arrangement with Charles is comfortable. Charles doesn’t have any irritating habits. He isn’t stingy with money or particular with the groceries. He carries out his fair share of cooking and cleaning around the house. They take their turns doing the laundry and the dishes. What talent Charles lacks in cooking, Charles makes up for it in baking (And that’s coming from a man who hates anything with more than two spoons of sugar in it). He isn’t overly dirty or messy. Charles picks up after himself (except when he has finals or is in the middle of a research. The house is a dump zone for his tea mugs and their dining table is a disaster zone for papers during such bouts).

More importantly, Charles respects Erik’s boundaries. He doesn’t poke his nose into Erik’s business or needle Erik for anything he isn't willing to share. It helps that they keep their personal lives separate, too. Whatever flings he has, Charles keeps it outside of their shared home and Erik returns the favour. The only things they argue on are which show to watch on TV or which place to order in from. And all the times they’ve come very close to fighting are nights spent over a chessboard pitching points to and fro, for or against human-mutant relationships and ideologies. Erik would be lying if he said that he didn’t live for such nights.

In little over two years, Charles has become Erik’s best friend. And apart from Az (who’s more of a brother Erik can’t get rid of no matter how hard he tries), Erik doesn’t have many of them. So he doesn’t see why he should give up all of that for a few hours saved in commute to work.

Voicing any or all of it will only encourage Az to needle him more, so Erik shrugs and squashes his spent cigarette with the heel of his boot. ‘Come on, it’s getting late. I still have two blueprints to review before seven.’

Az groans at the mention of blueprints. ‘I have three to finish. God, Shaw will bite my head off my shoulders if I don’t complete it by today.’

With that, they move into the blessed cool of the air conditioned building.

Just before Erik turns on his monitor, a text alerts Erik (and by proxy all of his interns he shares his cubicle with). It’s from Charles and says: Got to get to my classes now. See you at home Erik! :)

See you at home, Erik sends and smiles to himself.

He just hopes Az doesn’t see it.

#cherik #cherik fic #charles xavier #erik lehnsherr #roommate au #I’ve wanted to write this for so long now #you guys have no idea #jjcherik

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wtfevenismypage · 4 years

Text

Safe and Sound

Pairing: Spencer reid x reader

Summary: Reader goes into a coma after being tortured on a case and Reid spends all of his time with her.

Warnings: Abuse/torture, coma, probably a swear word or two

Category: Angst/fluff

A/n:I wrote this really late last night while half asleep, so it isn’t the best quality but oh well, I hope you enjoy!

Pain was the only feeling you had. It wasn't just a feeling, it was also your current emotion. You were ashamed in yourself for being so stupid.

You were moving in on the unsub, thinking it was only one person, you should have been able to take him out, but it was two grown men. Two grown men that took you out instantly.

And now you’re tied up to a chair, a blindfold tight over your eyes.

“Your friends are watching. If you try to send messages you’re dead.”

You smile sadly and look up, revealing your battered face to the men who beat you.

“I’m alright guys. Just look for the victims. I’ll be fine-”

A fist to your face cuts you off, and you let out a yelp as they yank your hair backwards.

“You all have four hours to find her. Every ten minutes we’ll carve two letters into her. If you can’t find her in time, she’s dead.”

A blade is pressed against your neck and you whimper.

The blindfold is torn off of your face and you look around with bleary eyes, observing all you can about the area around you.

An abandoned production warehouse. There’s colorful powder streaked across the walls and floor, so beautiful, yet you knew it would only fuel your nightmares for the next few months.

“You better hurry.”

The tall man behind me presses the blade into my neck, marking a shallow sting of blood on your throat.

“P-please... Please stop.”

The team could only watch in horror as you get beaten, Penelope trying desperately to track the live footage.

A firm hand is resting on Spencer’s shoulder, trying to calm him down as he glares at the screen, tears dripping down his neck.

Thirty minutes pass with no succession of finding Y/n. six letters are carved into you.

D-E-A-T-H-I.

One of the men, the taller one, walks in front of you and pinches your cheeks together.

“We’re going out, but we’re watching you. If you try and send any messages to them, We have deadly gas in the vents waiting to be released. Behave.”

They walk out, but not before punching you in the stomach, the rough leather of their gloves rubbing against your carved skin.

“Please... Guys they’re going to kill again... I... I don’t think I’m gonna make it. If... If anyone is watching this, please, Tell the rest of the team I love you all. Penelope, please keep being yourself, never lose the light that you have, it’s a beacon for others.”

Penelope’s eyes overflowed with tears as the team watches you bleed out more and more with every breath.

“Rossi, you gotta get out more man, get yourself a woman to love. There’s someone out there for you, you’ll find her soon.”

Rossi turns his head, not wanting to cry at your words.

“Emily, You are the strongest woman I know, please don’t lose your persistence. JJ, Tell Henrey I said Hi okay? You’re so brave, don’t let anyone push you around. Morgan, You keep fighting for what’s right and don’t you dare give up, the world needs you bud.”

“Hotch, it’s alright to take breaks, this team is strong, they’ll survive if you take a cheat day. You have to give yourself a chance to breath okay?”

Even Hotch himself had a tear dripping down his cheeks as you let out broken sobs, almost screaming as the pain in your stomach starts to make you dizzy.

“Spencer... Oh god Spencer... I’m so sorry... I should have waited for you to come up... I’m so sorry...”

““But if I’m... If I’m gonna die then I have to tell you... I have to tell you that I love you. I’m in love with you...”

You look around, looking at the corner where a pile of spilt boxes on the floor, Makeup palettes shattered across with broken eyeshadow on the floor.

“It was a few months ago in December, it was a cold night.” You desperately send them hints. “You had given me an eyeshadow palette. I was upset that day, and slowly, I forgot about it. But I came across it recently. I’m so sorry that I never told you. I love you Spencer... I love you so much.”

The team watches Spencer, waiting nervously as his eyebrows are furrowed together.

“I never bought her an eyeshadow palette...”

Everyone’s eyes widen.

“Garcia look for abandoned eyeshadow palette factories within a fifty mile radius.”

Hotch demands as Morgan sits Spencer down.

“Take a breath, we’ll save her.”

“Morgan, I love her too, if she dies, it’s my fault, I didn’t make it to her in time...”

“Hey kid, don’t do that to yourself, she’ll make it.”

Spencer continues to think about all the times you two had together. You were the only person who listened to his rambling, you actually listened and you liked it. You and him told each other everything, your deepest darkest secrets.

He couldn’t survive without you, there was no way. You helped him when he had nightmares, you made him coffee, you truly held his heart in your hands.

“There’s a match! 68738 Raney Street! Go get my baby!”

Reid is off in a bolt with Emily and Hotch following right behind him.

The men return to the ware house, flipping knives in their hands.

“Looks like it’s time for some letters.”

“Can’t we just finish the message? Please baby?”

The tall man sighs before crouching in front of you, pulling your shirt up and place the knife right under your boob before pressing it in, making you scream out.

“Please! Please stop!”

Your breathing is labored, the blood draining from your body quickly as he continues to slice into you like a stick of butter.

The last thing you hear before passing out is the sound of bells ringing in your ears.

“Please...”

You wake up with a pounding headache, you can’t open your eyes or move any limbs, but you can hear voices talking.

“The nurse said she had a few complications before they could get her to surgery, her heart stopped twice, but they managed to stabilize her.”

It was Penelope, you could tell by the sigh that followed she was talking with Morgan.

“What did they... What did they cut into her?”

His voice was shaky, it made your eyes tear up even when closed, and you could feel the itch slip out of your eye as Penelope speaks.

“They said death is the beginning.”

“And he’s been there since she got out of surgery?”

“He refuses to leave. The nurses told him he had to leave but he wouldn’t budge. It’s been three days. I don’t think he’s eaten...”

Another sigh from Morgan.

Your body is numb, gentle pins and needles spread all throughout your senses. More tears slip through the tiny slits of your closed eyes, dripping down to your ears.

“She’s crying... Probably a nightmare...”

Silence. You can feel yourself drifting back to sleep slowly, the gentle beep of your heart rate putting you to ease as your breathing slows down.

“I can’t believe she went through that torture for four days...”

Had it really been four days? It felt like a life time had passed from being taken from your team.

As you drift into a deep sleep, you can only relive the horrors as you remain unable to wake up.

The next time you awaken, you still can’t move or even blink, your throat dryer than before, pools of sweat at your thighs. You’re able to feel a hand clutching yours though, it’s slender and bony, long fingers squeezing yours tightly.

“You might be able to hear me, and if you can, we uh... We saved you Y/n. You’re safe now.”

Spencer.

You wanted to smile and throw your arms around his neck, but your limbs feel like lead, the heaviest lead in the world and you just can’t lift them up.

“I love you too Y/n. I love you so much. But it’s been eight days since you got to the hospital... Please wake up so I can tell you how much I love you.”

A pair of lips presses against your forehead. It tickles, warm breath from his nose gliding over your skin as he finally pulls away.

“Wake up soon Y/n...”

You slip in and out of consciousness like that for the next few weeks, listening to Spencer’s stories of the team’s current case, and relaxing to classical music as he reads books aloud to you.

They were books you loved too, fictional books about space pirates and cheesy rom-coms. You were so grateful too him, hoping you could move sometime soon so you can kiss him.

One day the nurse came in to talk with Spencer.

“Her state isn’t improving, she hit her head pretty hard when you found her, we don’t know how long it’ll be until she wakes up.”

You wanted to fight for him. You wanted to open your eyes and look at his beautiful face, you wanted to be able to hold him in your arms. So when his hand returns to your’s, you try your hardest to squeeze his hand, to let him know you’ll survive.

It takes all of your energy, but briefly, very briefly, your hand clenches softly, and you can feel his hand tense up.

“She squeezed my hand!”

With those words you swiftly passed out.

Spencer squeezed your hands days after that, it had been almost three months now, and a few days since you held his hand.

Your disheveled state was slowly improving, your sunken cheeks and deep eyebags now gone, but you still weren't waking up.

“So I brought a children’s book today, I thought you would like it.”

He begin’s reading to you, squeezing your hand every few seconds to hopefully gain some sort of reaction from you.

But once again, nothing.

“Please wake up soon princess...”

You strain your muscles harder than you ever had to before, trying so hard to tap your fingers on his hand in the tune of the distant piano playing in the background.

One finger twitches on his skin, bouncing up and down to the beat of the piano, the rest of your fingers following suit.

A gasp escapes his lips.

“Princess? Are you awake?”

How the hell do you think I’m gonna answer that Spencer you dumb-

“Oh wow princess, You’re awake! Um, Uh, Okay, I need to go get a doctor, keep your fingers tapping okay? Doctor!”

You keep tapping your sore fingers, listening to Spencer and the doctor panicking about what to do.

But then, You’re eyes slowly flutter open, the blinding light impaling your irises as the sound of Spencer’s crying fills your ears.

“Good morning Agent Y/l/n, you’ve been sleeping for a while now, I’m gonna help you sit up okay?”

You do your best to nod as the female doctor moves the hospital bed upwards, allowing you to lock eyes with Spencer.

“Sp... Spence...”

Your voice comes out broken and shattered, only a semblance of a croak, but he leans in and wraps his arms around you, making you feel safe and secure.

“Hey princess, I missed you so much.”

He presses a kiss to your head again, letting his tears fall onto your hands, which he’s held against his cheeks.

“I... I love...”

“Shhhh, I know princess, I know, just relax now alright? You’re safe and sound.”

“I love you...”

“I love you too.”

1K notes · View notes

vasiktomis · 3 years

Text

Pomegranate, Chapter 17: Quiet Earth, Part I.

John Seed x Female Deputy

Rating: Explicit.

Read it on Ao3 here!

Notes: Thanks all who have been keeping up with this! I'm so consistently floored by the amount of content creators we have in this fandom corner and the sheer level of workmanship that exists here. This is the first chapter of Pom that I'll be posting to tumblr, and I'm hoping to draw up a little sketch with each update. If you have any suggestions, I'd love to hear them! Big thank you to @shallow-gravy and @consumedkings as always for dealing with my stupidity and being a pair of top-notch angels, and also just like, everybody who takes time out of their day to engage with this? Y'all really sticking with ultra slow burn and I swear after some wicked angst in the next couple of chapters I'll finally be able to throw some well-deserved smut at you. WARNINGS: Forced conversion, descriptions of dissociation and derealisation, explicit language, sexual content, depictions of violence, guns, blood and gore. Canon-typical debauchery.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Don’t touch him!”

Mary May lunged with enough force for John to feel the wake of air sweep through him, even with how quickly she was snatched up and yanked back to her place. The soles of her tennis shoes squeaked against the floor as she was dragged to the far side of the room, unable to be trusted with providing audience to Nick’s Atonement.

A shame, really. It was nicer as a shared experience.

The Baptist rolled his jaw, off-setting some of the tension arising from the shrieks that the blonde flung at the back of his head. He righted himself, taking the tattoo gun from one of his faithful with a gracious nod, and turned his attention down to the pilot currently pinned to the floor. Without a word, he sank to his knees, straddling the man, keeping silent as he could just to listen out for any change in his demeanour. Fear. Grief. Defeat. Acceptance. A sign to prove his readiness.

Nick didn't flinch, breathing hard through his nose and watching with hateful eyes. John hovered an indicating hand over the man’s bare chest, bruised from the fight he’d put up against his capture, mentally mapping out placement. Then, he came in with the needle, beginning with the stem of an ’E’, right in the centre of Nick's sternum.

The pilot snorted, masking discomfort with indifference, turning a wince into a scoff. “Figures you don’t use stencils. I ain’t got a hope in hell of this turning out good, do I.”

That casual old Nick attitude. He missed it.

If only he’d let him do this 5 years ago. He wouldn’t have had to miss it.

John feigned offense. “Oh I’m sorry, Nick. Did you want me to do the rest in cursive? Add a feather? Infinity symbol?”

“For fuck’s sake-”

“Talk about tonal dissonance. It’s not meant to be pretty.” He grumbled. “Might’ve gotten a little more practice if you’d-”

A yell from the rear entryway pulled John’s hand away from his canvas. More squeaking. More interruption. Jerome Jeffries getting hauled into the church, held under each arm by the pair of Chosen that John had sent looking for him.

The Baptist cast a look over his shoulder at them, content with the sight of Jerome adequately beaten and bloodied. “Ahh. Pastor. Try to run and hide? It’s no wonder your flock ran astray with a shepherd so quick to leave them to the wolves.”

Jerome ignored him. No reply. No eye contact. A crime John noted to make worthy of capital punishment in the New Eden. The Pastor was set down beside Mary May, who immediately began seeing to his injuries. Murmuring bubbled between them.

“Did you reach them?” The bartender asked. Must’ve been a negative, because the next thing she did was curse.

“The Deputy was calling when they caught me.”

And if she had half the spine to come and broker an agreement for her friends, she’d be inbound.

“Could you at least gag them? I’m trying to concentrate.” John ordered no one in particular, earning another scoff from Nick. “The faster we work, the less we’ll have to get through once she arrives. The quicker we can be out of this heinous town.”

“Stay away from her, shitbag.” The pilot ground out, this time unable to save face when John retaliated, pressing the gun just a little too hard, digging down through an extra few layers of skin.

“Nick Rye, you’re a married man.” John tutted playfully, resuming his work. “That sin of yours again. Take, take, take. Didn’t think the Deputy to be your type. Wouldn’t say you’re hers, either.”

Nick looked downright disgusted at the prospect. Less concerned for the state of his wife - which meant she'd been a likely getaway. “Always been so fuckin’ jealous.”

“Come again?”

“Think folks are stupid? Think I don’t know you?”

“You don't know me, period.” John bit back, skin on the back of his neck flushing between boiling and freezing.

“Anyone else givin’ you this much trouble’d be long dead by now. That shit on the radio? Reckon you’d be talkin’ like that if your family could hear you across the river?” Nick continued, averting his gaze when John shot him a particularly poisonous look. He didn’t, however, find it necessary to respond to such a veiled accusation.

At least until -

“Everybody knows you wanna stick it to her, John-”

As if he’d been awaiting the chance, John’s free hand shot to Nick’s jaw, aching in protest when he squeezed, not stopping until he could feel the man’s molars beneath his flesh. “That’s about enough from you.” He crooned.

John had his desires, yes. He’d accepted that much. Had he not been sworn to celibacy, he might have jumped at the opportunity to respond to Cora’s advances last night. That said, she was still an outsider, and while her Atonement made the prospect less dicey, he couldn’t consciously consider laying with the woman in real life.

No matter how torturous it had become to gear his thoughts toward anything else.

He could be content with just her company, without making any further advances on her. Last night had simply been a moment of weakness, and he’d prevailed by stepping away.

“If you’ll excuse me.” John switched off the little machine once he’d completed his piece and promptly stood to beckon for replacement parts. Mary May might have gotten away with an allergic reaction last time he’d attempted this, but considering he’d be slicing it out of her within the hour, he couldn’t see any reason for her to be complaining. The bartender had been a thorn in his side from the start. While Nick and his wife had once lent John their...whatever a sinner’s closest equivalent was to friendship, Mary May had always been trouble. Wore her heart on her sleeve and trusted no one she hadn’t grown up around. Bolshie. Almost fucking killed him, once.

John busied himself with needle transfers and a pleasant expression. He could feel the woman’s eyes on him.

Did she think what Nick proclaimed? That complete and utter lie?

How fucking crass. No, he did not want to ’stick it’ to Cora. At least, as far as anyone else was concerned. He was fond of her, and - while yes, he had encountered temptation - if one disregarded the cum-stained, stolen panties in his pocket, and the conjured fantasies, and the purely incidental erection he’d maintained after the Deputy stuck her tongue down his throat last night - there was simply no evidence to suggest to anyone else that he was even remotely tempted to break the rules.

Sex was the furthest thing from his mind. It was mere coincidence that today had just so happened to fall on a morning in which he’d needed to trim.

…

If, however, she were to decide that she wanted to continue what she’d attempted last night, then surely he couldn’t be to blame if he only failed to stop her. It wasn’t technically fornication if he didn’t initiate it. Nor was it considered intercourse if -

“Brother John.”

John jumped, heart stopping, whipping his head around to the Chosen standing at the door of the church.

“What?" He asked thickly.

“The Deputy’s arrived.”

Right on cue, the crackling of gunshots drifted in alongside the Chosen’s announcement.

“Tell everyone to hold their fire.” John ordered. “We have them outnumbered tenfold. The Deputy can’t be stupid enough to create a hostage situation. Direct her here, and peacefully.”

The Chosen’s throat bobbed, swallowing back outrage, and John squinted hard at him, trying to dispel the flicker of green light in the mist outside as it settled against the man’s temple.

“John, I don’t think-”

He never got a chance to act on that incoming insubordination.

Instead, he jerked, cut off by a sickening crack as a section of his skull blew out of his head. Red mist and liquified brain matter followed, splattering against the doorframe, and the Chosen slumped lifeless onto the front step.

John wasn’t so much shaken by the killing as he was irritated by everyone else’s apparent refusal to let today go according to plan. Maybe also the pile of brains and hair now sitting on his once-pristine red carpet. He’d made this easy for the woman: kill everyone he could round up, leave her with no one to claim duty to, and get this all over and done with. Have her home by mid-afternoon. Embark on a new chapter and achieve salvation. It was that simple.

Woe to him for trusting in her common sense.

“Fuck’s sake. Wrath begets more wrath.” He muttered, smoothing a hand over his chin. He didn’t have the patience for this any longer. “Fine. Sister -”

A woman stood from the pews as soon as John made eye contact, equally as unshaken by the scene mere feet away.

“Send out word: the Deputy wants to sacrifice her friends for the sake of a fight.” John punctuated the end of his sentence with a click as he returned his focus to jamming the needles into his tattoo gun. “Give her what she wants. Take her by force.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The smokescreen was beginning to clear, but despite the weight it was taking off her lungs, Cora would’ve preferred it remain just a little longer. At least until they’d cleared out the town. Had they been quicker, it might have lasted longer. Covered their approach to Fall’s End. Given them more cover to sneak about unseen.

The streets, while still hazy, were visible now. It wasn’t a difficult task watching Peggie silhouettes run from building to building in search of her team. Resistance members and civilians were either in the process of being rounded up, or littered the road and pavement, dead. The Ryes, Mary May, and Pastor Jerome were yet to be seen amongst either group.

Same went for Boomer.

Aside from the barking of orders from Chosen and faithful, there was little sound. Knowing how much of a fuss her dog had put up the last time he’d been caught by the Project struck Cora’s nerves. He was his own alarm, and he would not go peacefully.

Not hearing him was an indication of the worst.

Some part of her brain argued against the idea. Vouching that John wouldn’t have hurt the creature. That was her dog. He had to be an exception to the massacre, no matter how vicious he behaved.

She had to find him, and creeping through the rear entry of the Spread Eagle was the first point of call.

Luckily enough, the back door had yet to be boarded up. Peggies who rushed past covered windows hardly stopped to peek inside the place for fear of being tainted by the presence of alcohol. Sneaking in was simple enough, too, at least once Jess had picked the lock.

“I’m going to pretend that door was open.” The Deputy murmured her equivalent to praise, passing into the building.

Grace headed straight in after her, taking a left to search for any sign of Mary May while she took a right toward the stairs.

“You pretend the Cook’s head was already gone when we found him?” Jess whispered.

“Freak accident. You all saw it.”

“First floor’s clear.” Grace announced from the serving hatch in the kitchen, clearly unhappy about it.

“Right.” Cora acknowledged, “I’ll check up top.”

The second story was as dead-quiet as the first. Furniture had been knocked over in the hallway and bedrooms had been raided. None of it indicated anything good, but she still had to know.

Cora pushed open the door to her room, and while she held no expectation of what she’d find, her heart sank anyway.

It was empty.

Boomer was gone.

Only his makeshift collar and a tattered bandana remained atop the rug he’d been snoozing on that morning.

Her dog.

John had either taken him or killed him, just like the rest. He’d do the same to the rest of her team. She should’ve taken the Baptist’s offer before the latter had even become a possibility.

“No sign?” Grace affirmed once the Deputy slipped back down to the first floor. “My guess is either they’re in hiding, or John’s giving them special treatment. If they were dead he’d be parading them.”

Sharky and Hurk exchanged a frown when Cora offered only a nod, notably more meek than usual.

“Was he in there, darlin’?” Adelaide asked, a little too gently not to invite a sting to her eyes.

Cora felt her jaw clench. It was a different breed of nausea, trying to keep her composure under the scrutiny of the rest of the team. She managed to shake her head, and Adelaide’s hand found her shoulder.

“Could still be with the others, yet.” The woman offered.

“So how do we find them?” Jess asked.

Find John Seed, of course.

“Finding them’s one thing. Getting to them might be the harder part.” Cora began. “The smokescreen’s only getting thinner and there’s Peggies everywhere. It's grasslands from here to the hills. No way we can herd everyone across a field on-foot, safely. We’ve got to make sure they stay freed, first.”

“And?” Jess huffed. “We’re gonna kill some Peggies, right?”

The blonde considered that.

“We split up. Search the buildings for anyone who hasn’t been caught yet. Round them up and plant explosives as we go. With enough chaos, maybe we can have a shot at turning the tide in the short term.”

Sharky was practically trembling. “Explosives, like, everywhere?”

“Everywhere. The more damage, the better.” Cora replied. “Adelaide, Xander, pair up. Sharky and Hurk, same with you.”

“And us on range?” Jess grinned, trading a look with Grace who maintained absolute stoicism. “I’m so into that.”

“No.”

…

“Say what?”

“No more ranged attacks. I need you and Grace to head back to the van -”

Jess was advancing on her before she’d even finished her sentence.

“You’re pulling me outta the fight? The fuck gives?” The huntress loomed over the Deputy, incredulous. Cora made an effort to stay put, but Jess’s insistence managed to outweigh her stubbornness, forcing the blonde to compromise by leaning as far back as she could without falling.

“We can’t keep running on short-term wins.” Cora insisted. “We have to put our foot down. No more small assaults. No more hoping John gets demoralised enough that he hands himself over.”

Sharky frowned. “What’re you saying?”

She met his gaze, puffing out her chest, retaking her space. “I’m saying the Henbane Bridge is unmanned right now. If we get word to the County Jail, there’s no roadblock to stop them from helping us win this. John Seed’s throwing everything he can at us. I say we try for the same. I say we end it for good. We’re gonna take back Holland Valley. Today.”

“...You really like that dog, huh.”

“That too.”

Jess looked unconvinced. “So the two of us are running errands while the rest of you are holding the fort? Fucking bullshit.”

“I told you. No more range.” Cora bit back, jabbing a thumb toward Hurk and Sharky. “You’d rather send Boshaws and Drubmans to convince Tracey to send us her best people? No offence.”

“None taken, bitch.” Adelaide grumbled.

Grace exhaled, throwing away momentary hesitation. “We’ll be fast.”

Cora traded a nod with the sniper before looking to Jess once more.

Still unconvinced.

“They have cars with guns on them, remember?”

The corner of Jess’s mouth ticked. Temptation.

Mission accomplished.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The tacky fucking carpet was the first thing she noticed, creeping along Main Street. Bliss petals had been sprinkled all over the road leading up to the church.

The carpet ended at the door. An invitation if she ever saw one. Boastful. Arrogant.

A pang of dread ached through Cora's bones, holding her in place while she drew her revolver. It could be an ambush. It probably was an ambush, but there was nothing she could feasibly do to avoid it. If the others were in there, then she couldn't wait around any longer.

She had to do this. At least hold out until Jess and Grace returned, with or without help.

She'd been running for long enough. All other options had been exhausted. At least John offered the least awful defeat.

Drawing close to the entrance, the Deputy pointedly avoided examining a dead crow that had been impaled upon the wall. She inhaled, holding the breath in her lungs, steadying her heart rate.

It was only freedom.

She opened the door, immediately training the gun out before her, following its guide into the room.

About a dozen Peggies dotted the space, leaning against walls, lining the pews - all angled at the pulpit, observing Nick on the floor. He stifled a cry while John sliced through the final remaining layers of skin binding the tattoo to his chest, peeling the word 'GREED' out of his flesh. Blood pooled on the floor around them, and the moment John had stepped away, the pilot was descended on with antiseptic and bandages.

The Deputy waited for nausea at the sight to take its course. It never did. She was all but numbed to the sight.

"Deputy, run!"

Mary May's voice cut through the silence, and the bartender lurched from her own spot on the ground. Guns raised all around the room, swinging around to aim for Cora.

”Hold!” John barked immediately, unconcerned when the Deputy shifted her aim to him. Instead, he busied himself with washing his sullied hands. “Hold your fire.”

His followers obeyed.

Cora, meanwhile, cocked the revolver in her grip. One foot edged into the room, and she glanced around for the Project’s captives before returning her gaze to John. All on the other side of the room. Pinned. Fuck.

“Hope County Sheriff’s Department.” She announced, staring the Baptist down, ignoring the grin that crept onto his face - like he found it fucking funny. “Weapons on the ground. Step away from the hostages.”

“Hostages?” John snorted. He gestured Pastor Jerome, Mary May, and Nick. “These are guests! This is their Atonement. This is your Atonement.”

“Drop the fucking weapons.”

John’s patience thinned. Quickly. “I’m not doing this with you.” He replied simply. “Not today.”

With his own look around the room, John inclined his head. An unspoken order to which everyone carrying a gun turned them on her allies.

“We both know you don’t have enough bullets for everyone. Nor do you have the time. So why don’t you put down my gun and surrender.”

“Don’t-” Mary May was cut off with the tap of steel against her temple. Warning.

John was right. She was outnumbered. There was no chance of getting any of them out with force alone.

She inhaled. Exhaled. Watched the fondness slip back onto John’s face like it had never left, and set the gun on the floor.

“That’s my girl.” John murmured. Then, he motioned. “Get her ready.”

Cora’s stomach dropped as two sets of arms coiled around hers, each pulling and pushing, prickling at her skin with unfamiliar, sickening touch. Biology told her to resist. Escape the sensation. The downward pulling.

“No, stop it.” Escaped her while she squirmed. “Get off. Stop touching me-”

“Her friends can’t be far. Find them.” The Baptist ordered, turning away toward the pulpit.

Cora’s knees hit the floor. There was no holding the repetition of protests, but even as she consciously elevated the volume of her voice, it grew quieter in her ears. Calculated attempts to jerk away and make an escape became automatic twitches.

One of John’s followers - a female - crept into view, fingers tugging at the top button on her uniform collar. John readied a tattoo gun over the woman’s shoulder, and the Deputy’s mind screamed alarm bells. Get out. Escape. Fight back. Regain control.

“I won’t hurt you, sister.”

This time, she sank, curling forward, angling herself away from the woman. Another attempt, and she wrenched away again, snarling. Then, the Peggies around her must have gotten tired of all the fuss, because the tear of cotton clawed at her ears. Ringing through her brain.

Her back felt cold all of a sudden.

Green material slipped down her arms, and at the sight of her own uniform pooling in shreds in her own lap, Cora ceased her thrashing. The shredded shirt was yanked from her belt and tossed aside, and she watched with growing resignation while John turned back around.

His gaze found hers. Then flickered downward, first to the compression bra, then a margin to the right. “Here I thought you’d be unmarked.” He commented, inspecting what was visible of the old ink on her lower ribs while he approached.

Hands pressed against Cora’s shoulders, and she drifted back until her shoulder blades hit the floor.

John continued to loom until he stood directly over her. He sank to his knees, expression softening with his descent until he was on all fours on top of her. He looked almost adoring, and she hated how it comforted her, just slightly. She hated how the hands had disappeared from her limbs, and yet she still made no further attempt to escape. He had every ounce of power now.

She didn’t know she’d started trembling until his free hand swept over her collarbones, mapping out her chest, calming the gooseflesh beading on her from the chill, or the fright, or perhaps just that this whole thing felt so humiliatingly exposing.

A blush swelled over John’s throat, maybe indicating some straying line of thought. He snapped out of it and settled to sit on her hips. “This looks familiar, doesn’t it?” He teased, hovering the tattoo gun right over the centre of her sternum.

“Dont.” Was all she could manage. Weak. Pleading. “I don’t want you to.”

“You have no idea how good you’re going to feel after this.” John cooed.

One of his fingers drifted along her jaw. An attempt at comforting her, but to no avail. He looked equal parts gentle and feral with excitement.

The machine buzzed, lowering pitch when the needles finally pressed into her flesh.

This was it.

She’d lost. There was no going back, anymore. No more normal, no more ridding herself of this family. They’d taken everything, and now they were claiming ownership over her, too.

The others were being hunted. It was only a matter of time. John was working too quickly. They’d be gone before the Cougars even crossed the river.

Cora’s nerves muted. Sound closed to just the rumble of blood in her ears. She receded into herself. Found a backseat in her mind, away from the sensory overload and the humiliation and her own failure while her body quietly continued: ”Dont, don’t, stop.”

She’d lost, and John wouldn’t stop. Not while he was branding the evidence of his victory into her flesh.

Defeat tasted worse than anticipated.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Bullets whizzed overhead while Sharky and Hurk took cover beneath the window, watching helplessly as the aisle of potato chips and bar nuts was torn to shreds by the onslaught. Dorito dust filled the shop like mustard gas.

“Cuz, I think they found us!” Hurk barked, snapping an arm over his head in defence when a stray round ricocheted off the front counter.

“What gives you that impression?” Sharky hit back, hurriedly setting down his shotgun and shrugging his backpack to the floor.

“How many are there?”

“How about you check?”

A moment of quiet occurred while the cousins glared at each other, leaving their standoff to a battle of no blinking. Then the Peggies outside must’ve finished re-loading, because the back wall of the shop was suddenly being shot into swiss cheese.

They were okay. Everything was cool. Addie and Xander had taken their share of explosives and gone the quiet route. Grace and Jess were gone. Shorty had disappeared into the church, and while he couldn't count the best, Sharky was pretty confident that John had caught her.

Could they have kept on looking for survivors and breaking out captives? Sure - but why do that when they could kill, like 40 birds with one stone and beeline for the gas station? It was conveniently across the road from the church, empty of any and all life barring the dormant tanks underground. An explosion that big was sure to fuck up like a good portion of Main Street. Not even the Chosen would be able to resist checking it out.

Disconnecting the safety switches had been easy. He’d been arrested for doing it like 5 times already. Cops, Peggies; it didn’t matter - Sharky knew what he was doing, and without the giant swinging dick of the law hanging over him, the man was on a mission. Cultists shooting at him was fine. He was used to that.

Threat of death or no, he wasn’t giving up the chance to see this place blow sky high.

“We’ll be outta here any second, Hurky.” Sharky assured. “Just gotta sprinkle a little C-4 around the place and we’ll be gone before it even goes off.”

Hurk was sweating. A lot. He was accustomed to being shot at, but normally, he had more than just Sharky to get him out of a tight spot. “Alright, bro. Gimme some. Many hands and what have you.”

“Fuck yeah. First step, toss some at the tanker outside. We wanna get the place as fiery as possible up here to wake up the big boys underground, and-”

Sharky stopped in his tracks, eyeing the backpack he’d just been in the process of unzipping.

“-uhh.”

“Uhh?”

“Hurky, can I be real with you?”

“Is now the best time for a deep and meaningful?” Hurk hissed, crawling toward him nonetheless.

The arsonist stuck his hand down the pack, rifling through fluff and mesh. “I, uh, I think I brought the wrong bag. And by think I mean know without a shadow of a doubt.”

Hurk watched as his cousin tugged the green, furry headpiece of a dragon out into the open.

“You brought-...”

“I brought my fursuit.”

“Not the C-4?”

“Not the C-4.”

“Okay, bro. That's fine. I'm not mad. Human error. Not even a little bit?”

Sharky checked again, just for good measure. “Nope...so, uhm...you got a match?”

Hurk ran a hank through his hair. “Not to poo poo your ideas, but that probably ain’t the best move.”

So just like that, they were fucked.

Jess and Grace still hadn’t come back. The others were nowhere to be seen. Shorty was holed up in that church, and he and Hurk were about to be rounded up by born-again virgins.

Shit, if that were the case -

“Well, if this is gonna be the last opportunity.” Sharky grunted, tugging the suit out and unzipping the back. “May as well enjoy our last minutes of freedom, huh?”

Hurk took the cue, creeping across the destroyed shop floor and reaching for a popped bag of pretzels. He sat back against the wall, leaning against the rocket launcher he’d propped up against the corner.

“Man.” The brunette sighed, staring at the floor. “If only we had some other kind of ranged, explosive device.”

“No shit.” Sharky agreed. “Some high velocity shit would fix this.”

They exchanged a sympathetic look once the arsonist had zipped himself up and crept over and sit beside his cousin, both leaning on either side of the RPG.

Hurk held out the bag.

“Pretzel?”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Was that so bad?” John asked, placing the tattoo gun aside and framing the Deputy’s marked chest. ’WRATH', in true black, beading with blood. The skin surrounding the text was mottled and inflamed. Excess ink covered the area in patches, gathering in the dip of her cleavage, disappearing beneath her sports bra.

All that sin, already leaking out through the exit he’d made for her.

Gorgeous.

Cora didn’t respond. That was fine. Shock was normal. She’d thank him once this was all over. For now, she just trembled, lock jawed, dissociated gaze searching what John had thought was him until he sat up. No, instead she was watching the ceiling.

John flashed a smile, blocking out a tiny streak of dread at the sight of the woman so vacant. Sweeping a lock of stained hair over her shoulder, he smoothed his fingers past her neck, attempting to gently angle her focus back to him. “Hey. You can come back now. We’re all done.”

You're finally on the other side. React to it. React to me. Look at me-

The boom came first, hollow and deep, and John felt the floor beneath him rumble. Chandeliers and decorations wobbled from the disturbance. Several of his followers shot from their seats, immediately abandoning the Resistance leaders they’d guarded in favour of pacing back and forth, trying to get a look at whatever was happening outside.

“Is this it?”

“Is it the Collapse?”

“It’s time?”

“John, is it the Collapse?”

The panic escalated quickly, forcing the Baptist to break his attention away from the empty woman below him and rein in the flock.

“Calm down.” He exclaimed, “It’s not the Collapse. It’s probably just-”

Another boom. Almost deafeningly loud.

This time, the whole church shook. Windows shattered in their creaking panes and smashed to the floor while pews squealed heavily in protest.

Contrary to his assertion, John dove down, covering the Deputy with his body. Holy shit, was it the Collapse?

The tremor must have been enough to snap Cora out of her trance, because a muffled “Get your tits out of my face.” buzzed against John’s chest.

Tragically, however, the Baptist never got the opportunity to reply to her. Had it not been for the fucking tennis shoe colliding with the side of his skull, he imagined he’d have something very clever to say. Alas, pain shot through his head and he jerked to the side, fighting against the blow to stay put. A snarl from Mary May, his apparent attacker, sounded in retaliation. She dove into him, knee driving into his ribs, throwing him off of the Deputy.

His thoughts left him for the briefest moment, overtaken by ensuing gunshots and shouts and the shrieks of the bartender as she was clawed away from him. Her hand shot forward right as she was yanked up, intended as a punch. It didn’t land, and John couldn’t help but shoot her a smirk for her failure.

“Deputy, gun!”

Nevermind. It wasn’t a punch after all. Mary May had been pointing over his shoulder at the revolver that had been surrendered on the floor. His revolver. The same one Cora was now scrambling toward.

No.

John lurched, heart leaping into his throat.

Not now. Not after he’d won. Not when they were so close.

His hand found the leg of Cora’s pants, wrenching, pulling her away from the weapon, and she kicked against him. Her finger tips slid against the barrel of the revolver, tugging it into her palm.

God wouldn’t fucking undo his victory.

John snarled, catching the Deputy’s wrist when she tried to aim - at him no less. Without her own recovery time achieved, he was able to wrestle the weapon from her easily enough, flattening her struggling body beneath his just long enough to hook an arm around her waist. He twisted around, holding the woman’s back against his belly. Her squirming ceased with the press of the muzzle against her head, and the moment her allies had taken notice of the change, everything went still.

Finally.

A little civility.

Several of John’s followers lay on the floor, either dead or close to it. Only a half-dozen remained, though the pair of Chosen had survived and placed themselves closest to their leader.

Pastor Jerome had procured a handgun from within his own bible - something that pulled a breathless laugh out of John as he surveyed the others. Nick hadn’t been able to arm himself, but he’d still tackled one of the faithful to the ground. His knuckles were bloodied. A familiar sight. Mary May had wrestled a gun of her own away from the woman who’d seized her. She aimed it shakily at John.

Armed but outnumbered, outgunned, and now, they were in check.

They never learned, did they?

“The way you people behave, you’d think salvation was a bad thing.” John tittered. “Right. Now, let’s try this again. Atonement, or damnation.” To punctuate his meaning, he tapped the muzzle against Cora’s head. She grunted in protest, and he ignored her. Of course it was a bluff. No one else knew that but him, though. It was too risky a move for the Resistance to let him do away with the one person that banded their factions.

She was their leader. They couldn’t lose her.

John looked around the room once more, locking eyes with Jerome first - then Mary May. “Are we going to behave?”

The answer was immediate and clear: a gunshot cracking through the Baptist’s ears and the flash of a blast spilling from Mary May’s weapon. Cora’s elbow driving into his stomach and the reaction time of his Chosen snapping to attention, covering him, already hauling John out of the church and onto the street.

Fuck no, he wasn't leaving without his prize.

"GRAB HER!" John howled, struggling against the attempts to get him to safety. "Leave the rest!"

It was a reluctant effort, but the Deputy was yanked along as well, shoved into Johns arms on his repeated orders, with me, with me.

“Mary May, what the fuck!” The Deputy roared over her shoulder.

“Sorry Deputy! I missed!”

Missed?

“You sure about that? Jesus fucking Christ!”

More shots sounded, but only the noise pursued them from the building. It wasn’t until John had shoved Cora into the back of the waiting truck that he realised how warm his hand had gotten. Wet, too.

“Get to the ranch!” One of the Chosen snarled up front, casting a look back at the Baptist while the vehicle took off, watching as he peeled away from the blonde to inspect himself.

Blood.

He was bleeding. But where from? Barring the sting of his scabs and that kick to the head, nothing hurt. There were no wounds hiding under his sleeves or -

A hiss sounded from the Deputy beside him, curling in on herself.

Shit.

She hadn’t elbowed him.

“Cora-” John scrambled for her. "Cora, let me see."

“Told you not to call me that.” The Deputy grit out, kicking at him until she’d well and truly jammed herself into the corner of the seat and the car door. Her left hand gripped her right forearm, just below the elbow and to no avail. Crimson coated the skin on her side, encasing her arm completely and seeping through her fingertips.

She was bleeding. Not heavily, but steadily.

”Deputy.” John bit back, advancing. “You’re hurt. Let me help-”

Just like that, the kicking resumed. “Don’t touch me-DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME-”

“For once in your fucking life, just relax!”

Only incomprehensible snarling came in response.

John rolled his jaw, brimming with as much irritation as he was adrenaline. The Resistance had made their choice. Regretful, but final. He’d gotten what he came for, and he wasn’t intending on losing her just because she was too stubborn to accept help.

He glanced at the revolver still in his grip. Then back at Cora, rotating the grip toward her. A threat. “Are you going to let me help, or am I going to have to calm you down?”

“Don’t you dare.” Her words came hoarse. She gave scowling a red hot go, but without the rationale to deny him, the Deputy lacked conviction. She exhaled. “Fuck it. We've done this enough already. You get ten minutes. Then you’re under arrest.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her cheek twitched. A weak chuckle. The slightest flash of acknowledgement as she let him press his weight over her forearm. Thankfully, the wound wasn’t pulsing; nor was there a puncture wound. A gouged strip had been carved into her flesh where the bullet had grazed, but nothing vital seemed to have been struck.

“That - you can keep saying.”

"You're a flirt when you're in shock, Deputy." Had John not been too busy regulating about a dozen other emotions, he might have flushed at her words. For a moment, he just sat there, basking in the borderline friendliness on her face. Then, it occurred to him that they were among watchful company, and he cleared his throat, returning to his task.

Minutes passed. No more words were exchanged. Not until they’d passed the Rye and Son’s sign.

The Chosen in the front passenger’s seat looked over his shoulder, dismissing another over the radio before regarding the Baptist. “The Resistance isn’t making ground. The faithful are still rounding up stragglers, and we’ve taken casualties, but numbers are looking strong. Medic will meet you at the ranch, John. We can deliver our newest sister to the Gate while you recover.”

John inclined his head. “Much obliged. We need this one to stay with us until she’s completed her vows. She can’t be trusted unsupervised, but I won’t put the responsibility of containing her back on our people again.” He looked to Cora, then. Her face had run pale and she’d gone clammy, but she remained upright. Just...woozy. Pacified, for now.

He’d got what he came for. Fuck the rest.

“I have something to say.” The blonde announced, swaying against John’s arm. “I know why Mary May shot me.”

“This another one of your jokes?” John deadpanned.

“This one’s funny, I swear.”

“...go on, then.”

“It’s because I never tip.”

For a moment, Cora looked very satisfied with herself. Then, she retched, slumping forward into the Baptist’s lap when he instinctually jolted out of the potential line of fire. He hurried to steady her, keeping tight hold over her wound, and grimaced while the noise escaped her a second time.

Thank God nothing came out; his shoes would’ve been the first to know about it.

The Deputy didn’t sit back up.

That was fine. So long as she wasn’t dead. So long as she wasn’t fighting back.

“It’s all the sin escaping you.” John explained, off-handed, when a complaining grunt sounded below. “Evil being expelled from your body. You’ll feel better soon.”

“Pretty sure it’s my blood pressure, actually. Soon as I’m good again, you’re history.”

When one disregarded the fact that she’d had a gun trained on him earlier - and the blood drying uncomfortably on his clothes - and the persistent pounding of a headache from Mary May’s heel, this was almost pleasant. The quiet roads. The Deputy, all but atoned with her head on his thigh. Not fighting back. Conceding defeat. Peaceful.

He got what he came for.

He’d won.

He was saved.

Passing his thumb over Cora’s ribs, John’s attention was pulled back to the old ink peeking out from beneath the band of her top. Text, blurred and flattened enough to be years old, and too obscured to decipher.

“Thought I’d be your first.” The brunette murmured.

“Jealous?”

Yes.

“Don’t be ridiculous. What’s it say?”

“‘The Mountains Are Calling’.”

A sickening wave of dread passed over the Baptist. The rock forming in his throat, icy and bitter and seizing him against any reply.

The mountains are calling.

Jacob. Joseph. The Trials. Atonement wasn’t the final step. Handing her over to his brothers was the final step.

He got what he came for, but the woman in his arms wasn’t the trophy intended for him.

He was saved. He’d redeemed himself. He’d completed his task and Joseph would permit him beyond the gates. That was all he was supposed to do. That was enough.

That had to be enough.

“‘And I Must Go’.” John completed quietly.

Cora tilted her head a little, not quite looking at him - almost like she was trying not to. “You know John Muir.”

“Not enough to warrant a photo on the bedside table.”

“Shut up.”

There was nothing convincing about the chuckle he offered. He was too busy observing her, studying the side of her face. Committing her to memory as if he hadn’t spent years acquainting himself with every spot and micro-expression.

“Maybe working for you will be bearable.” She murmured, and John’s heart only sank further. "If I don't manage to arrest you."

The mountains are calling.

She still had no idea that all the promises he’d made her had been fabricated. That she wouldn’t be staying. That he’d lied to her.

The mountains were calling. In a few days time, she’d know it. She’d despise him. She’d be taken off his hands and he’d assume his regular duties once again.

He’d saved both of them.

Cora’s thumb absently grazed back and forth on his knee. Ignorant. “Can I ask something?”

It took everything in him not to mirror the action against her skin.

“Of course.”

“Can I start next Monday?”

"What happened to you being such a workaholic?"

"To be honest with you, I'm really fucking tired."

She’d be incredible. Jacob would love her. Joseph would be proud. John had accomplished something near-impossible for his family, and even if the Deputy hated him - even if she forgot him entirely, he was content with the knowledge that he’d have brought her to salvation.

Even if they never saw each other again, he’d know that she’d passed through the gates. That she’d climb to the surface once the world had been scorched clean. She’d rebuild, and marry, and have children, and he’d do the same.

Hopeful anticipation and the agony of longing had never felt so similar before.

“Fine.” John smiled, giving in, sliding his fingers up her arm and coaxing a stray lock of hair out of her face. There were no promises he’d be able to do it again after this. “But on one condition.”

“What?”

“Spend those days with me.”

Cora stirred, angling to peer up at him out of the corner of her eye. She smiled crookedly.

“Deal.”

#far cry 5 #john seed #cora stammos #far cry 5 fanfic #far cry 5 oc #john seed x female deputy #all hail cora's big fucking muscles #no beta we die like men

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ditttiii · 4 years

Text

Enchanted To Meet You || 5.5 || JK’s Interlude.

Banner by: @thebannershop

◈ Summary: No one ever told you that you had a soulmate or—soulmates, for that matter. Humans don't have soulmates, but shapeshifters do. What are you supposed to do when the seven members of the worlds biggest boy band turn out to be your soulmates—only for you to realise that they aren't even human

BTS is on a hiatus and ARMY thinks they are completing their mandatory military service. You believe that too, at least you did until you realised that you had adopted them and that one way or another they were gonna live with you—as Hybrids because apparently, you all are soulmates.

◈ (Hybrid AU // Soulmate AU) (Fluff // humour // smut // angst // eventually NSFW) (NC-18) (Ot7 x Reader) (slow burn)

◈ series master-list

◈ Word Count: 2051

◈ Warnings: Maybe one curse word? PG-13 (sfw)

You're the debt that brought me back to my life 너는 내 삶에 다시 뜬 햇빚 The Second Coming of My Dreams as a Child 어린 시절 내 꿈들의 재림 I don't know what this feeling is 모르겠어 이 감정이 뭔지 Is this a deceitful dream? 혹시 여기도 꿈 속인건지

Jungkook hates quite a few things in his life at the moment—hates having to hide from his soulmate, hates that he has to pretend like he was just a rabbit and not a living, breathing human too, however more than anything else he hates himself.

God, he despises himself now more than ever. He had hurt you, made you cry, made you fear your own home. He was supposed to be someone you felt safe with, and yet he almost gave you a heart attack today.

Jungkook at the moment feels like a fraud, a sham as he gazes at you—looks at your peaceful, sleeping face. Small, warm puffs of breath hits his head and he feels his fur move under the soft force.

‘Tingles’, He thinks.

He feels your warm presence cocoon him as his body heat mingles with yours. Here, curled beside your sleeping figure like this, he can't help but curse himself. His self-loathing at an all-time high, as he thinks back to what had happened a few hours ago.

He knew it was a possibility, knew that it could happen.

The chance of you coming home suddenly and catching him in his human form wasn't an improbable one.

Jungkook, though, couldn't stand it anymore. It wasn't like he would have died if he hadn't shifted, but being a rabbit all the time wasn't the most comfortable feeling ever either.

His bones ached, and his muscles were sore because of the prolonged shifted state.

He also wasn't used to being in his animal form for an extended duration of time. He'd usually shift back after a few hours, and so this wasn't a problem he had been aware of before.

The feeling of staying shifted for days on end had him feeling claustrophobic. It was the kind of claustrophobia he thinks he would experience if he was locked inside a too tiny box with his limbs wrapped awkwardly and uncomfortably close to his body.

Suffice to say it wasn't the most comfortable state of being.

His plan was to make use of the few minutes while you were out shopping to shift back to his human form and just stretch. He hadn't planned on staying like that for longer than maybe ten minutes. But when he had shifted-back the relief—oh god, the relief was almost intoxicating.

It's potency so concentrated, he had ended up groaning out loud as his eyes rolled to the back of his head.

The numbing, constant aching of his bones and muscles, more than anything else, had left him feeling exhausted for the last few days. The pins and needles feeling when he had shifted back was enough to send him tumbling down onto the floor, as his unsteady feet refused to hold his weight.

Jungkook had been practising boxing with his trainer before all of this had happened. He also had a black belt in Taekwondo—the very principle of which was to harness an indomitable spirit. He was fit, active, athletic and buff. Staying shifted for extended periods into a form so much smaller than his human one, was borderline torturous at times.

Jungkook simply did not know how he was supposed to hold back.

He had many qualities that he was admired for, but iron like self-restraint wasn't exactly one of them. Maybe, more like the lack, thereof the aforementioned, self-restraint would be more appropriate.

Jungkook wasn't born talented. Not like the rest of the band members. As a student, he wasn't really the brightest pea in the pod either, his math skills are still nothing to boast about.

What most people saw was the end product, the final result that would come out after Jungkook would spend hours, days—months, perfecting it. He had said it before, but in reality, he wasn't as perfect as his stage persona portrayed him to be. While BTS's Jungkook was perfection personified, with his precise dance timings and on-point vocal notes, Jeon Jeongukk struggled.

When Jeongukk had first joined BTS, he had been more of a dancer than he was a singer. He had never, ever had the assumption or even the hope, that he would be chosen as the main vocalist. When he was rejected during the auditions for Superstar K, the talent show, Jeongkook was heartbroken.

It wasn't something he had ever talked in-depth about to ARMY, but his confidence in his vocal skills had taken a hit that day. He had chosen his then idol, IU Noona's song, and had sung it for weeks, perfected every single note until the feel of that vibration, the beat of that rhythm had synced to his very pulse.

But he was rejected, cast out before his audition could even be broadcasted.

He till date can't fully understand why bighit, let alone seven fucking agencies, had thought he was worth their time. Maybe it was fate playing its card and bringing him together with his soulmates, or it was just a coincidence—he didn't know why and probably never would.

He knows that it wasn't exactly a necessity for all of his soulmates to be idols, you clearly weren't. He knew precisely how lucky he was, and was therefore so utterly thankful that he could share his passion and love with all of his soulmates.

Yes, All of his soulmates, you included.

Jungkook isn't a snooper, not really. Sure, he has always been curious by nature, and his maknae persona only fuelled that image, thus overtime making him seem more like the baby in the group—but no he wasn't a snooper.

He knows how much he values his personal space and, so would never deliberately try to breach upon someone else's but you—god you, made him do things he would never choose to do before.

He hadn't wanted to, or well maybe he did want to, but he definitely didn't mean to. It wasn't like he had been planning to check your laptop folders.

No, because when just stretching hadn't quite fully loosened his body, he had thought he'd do a quick dance routine and get the blood flowing. How was he supposed to know that he would find BTS songs, their songs, his songs on there?

He shouldn't have been surprised, but he still was. Their fandom was pretty big, and the chances of a college girl listening to their music were pretty high. You were part of the demographic that they aimed and catered most towards, so it was to be expected, but it still caught him by surprise.

Dressed in one of your loose hoodies and a pair of loose pyjamas, he looks at the screen.

His breath still hitched in his throat as his eyes widened, glossy, doe-like large and oh so so curious.

His grip on the back of your chair slips, as he stumbles before getting a hold, and slowly sinks down onto the empty seat. Thinks about how you have probably spent hours pouring over your medical texts in the same exact chair, and that makes him feel closer to you.

He has been curled around you, has slept with his face literally pushed into your cleavage, but somehow the simple act of sharing a space that you spent a lot of your time in, sends his heart racing as a small smile overtakes his lips and he bites them to stop it from spreading entirely.

He fails, of course, he does.

He clicks on the folder titled 'BTS' and watches a list of sub-folders pop up on his screen. His heartbeat rises—thuds and beats strong enough that he feels it in his ears, in the back of his throat, in the wrist that touches the table as he glides the mouse across the surface.

His palms feel sweaty, and he feels this anxious feeling pool somewhere deep in his stomach, as his gut squeezes. It feels like his conscience is telling him something. That he shouldn't be doing this. This feels like something dangerous, but something he desires. The folder the screen displays the apple to his Adam.

You? his forbidden fruit.

His breaths grow shorter, as he unconsciously tries to be as quiet as he can be and leans forward to look at the vast array of songs you had. As his eyes rake over the meticulously named albums with their years after them written in brackets, he almost chuckles.

He isn't surprised to see that you were anal about categorizing your songs too. From what he had observed of you in the last few days, he would be more surprised if you weren't.

His finger glides over the scroll wheel of the mouse, as he reads the titles of the songs. Every single song they had released was on there—Official and covers.

Every. Single. One.

Whether you were just a really dedicated ARMY or it was because of the soulmate bond, he didn't know, but it doesn't matter to him what the reason was.

Because there they were, he and his hyungs splayed all over your computer screen. Their photoshoots all lined meticulously year after year, their random pictures that you had probably picked up from twitter or weverse grouped by year and then there were screenshots.

Screenshots of tweets, weverse, certain parts of interviews of theirs, that you had ever liked were all there. It was fascinating, surreal, insane to be able to see himself and the hyungs through your eyes, the eyes of their soulmate.

Somewhere, between finding you in that shelter, to now living with you, he had stopped thinking of you as human, as someone different.

Yes, you weren't quite the same as he was, but he didn't care anymore. Because you loved him, you cried for him, you laughed with him and more than anything else you completed him. Filled his aching, longing soul with love until it overflowed and he felt full, content—sated. His thirst for your presence quenched, for once in all his life.

However, the realisation that he had found his last soulmate hadn't fully sunk in yet. He couldn't even imagine what the others must be feeling right now, he was sleeping curled around you and, yet all he wanted to be was closer, it was this all-consuming feeling that kept pulling him under, dunking him in its depths.

The crazy part was he didn't even mind it anymore, he would drown in the deepest depths if he could feel your hand pulling him closer in there, your lips locking with his as you breathe air into him, save him, make him yours.

Kami, he wanted you to make him yours, mate him, mark him.

He knew it wouldn't happen anytime soon, you didn't even know they were your soulmates. Sure, you liked them as artists, but what teenage or college girl didn't have a favourite band? They could very well just be a passing fascination for you at this point, a fleeting interest, a secret guilty pleasure before you move on with your life.

Wasn't that how fame usually worked? It was eager, intense, loud until it suddenly wasn't and one was left with a gaping hole in their heart, that they aren't ever able to fill after.

Jungkook didn't want that, he didn't want that for his hyungs either. It was something he had figured out years ago. He wasn't about to let this fickle, fleeting fame catch him in its lusty claws.

He would give this life his all, pour literal sweat, blood and tears into it, but once his extended contract ends, he will step back.

He will bow down low as the curtains close for the stage of 'The Golden Maknae' and, the path paves for Jeon Jeongkook. The boy who had come from Busan with a heart full of hopes and dreams and had ended up achieving and getting more than he had ever even imagined or hoped for.

He would be thankful to his fans, to his company, to his Hyungs, to this industry, for taking care of him and letting him fly under their warm protection, but he would be done. As the curtains fall close, the mask will slip, and he'll turn, and you will be there.

You with your bright grin and glimmering eyes would look on at him proudly, and he'd kiss you, hold you and know that he didn't want fame because he had you.

And you were all he had wanted for as long as he can remember.

After all, you are the cause of his euphoria, a home with you his utopia.

Filling in the plot, adding it the finer details.

Since the taglist is pretty long now and I can’t continue to keep them all in my comments, I will be putting the taglist up here from next chapters onwards. Tumblr is glitchy and some of you might not be notified so I am sorry about that. However, if you are a regular reader and have left me feedback time and time again, whether it was a comment or an ask with your thoughts on this story, I’ll tag you down in the comments since I know you definitely do read the work and appreciate it and I am so grateful for your support.

Thank you for reading 💖

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evermetnotforgotten · 3 years

Text

In the future, post captivity.

Content warnings: negative self-talk, referenced physical self-harm and alcohol use, references to past torture and noncon, v brief mention of emesis and drugging.

His fingers don't work like they used to. They're shaky and frail, and Niels can't hold down the strings long enough to play an E chord, let alone anything substantial. When he plucks at the guitar it recoils from his chemical-hardened fingers, as if to say don't touch me,and it aches.

It used to be so easy. He'd shred his way up and down whatever sparked for hours, acoustic or electric, just riding the high of note after note after note. Now it's little more than Mester Jakob while his mind substitutes the lyrics:

Little Niels, little Niels

Who are you? Who are you?

You are just a failure, coward and a liar

Bim bam bum, bim bam bum.

Still, Niels tries, and though the positioning of his arms is strenuous after mere minutes, he stubbornly slouches back into the couch to try to gain more support. It only serves to make him cramped and twisted. Frustrated he groans, shaking his left hand out to banish the pins and needles already starting to bloom there.

"Hard to be Jimi with a broken body and a dumb brain, huh…" He mutters to the four wooden elephants on the mantelpiece in Danglish. "Should have gotten him to zap me into finally learning modes."

Niels straightens, and tries again. Flubs the first transition.

Tries again. The notes are buzzing and clumsy.

And tries again. And again. And again.

It's only when Niels hears the car pulling into the driveway that he remembers he's supposed to have put dinner on half an hour ago. He swears under his breath, sets the guitar on its stand, and reaches just past the couch for his walking frame. He just manages to put the rice in the cooker before he hears the sound of the front door unlocking.

Fareeha calls from the hallway, amongst the bustling sounds of cotton shopping bags. "Hi—Esther, here, here—are you awake? Niels?"

"I'm awake, need a hand?"

"Yes, sorry—we just have a couple more bags to bring in."

After they finish dinner and while the girls study, Niels listens to Fareeha's day. She massages his sore shoulders, talking about the coffee with her mum, the business doing well, actually, the collies they saw at the park that reminded her of the one she had growing up.

Niels listens, and listens well. It's the least he can do, when he can't participate.

Weeks come and go, but he finds himself drawn back to the strings again. Somehow it's worse than last time, his perpetually aching back protesting just from sitting upright.

He shouldn't have even tried today, because he's been short of breath since yesterday, and hasn't really slept for forty-eight hours. But sometimes, between night-terrors, between the stretches in which Niels feels like he just might die at any moment, he wants to feel alive. For once.

Niels pauses the world's worst rendition of Nothing Else Matters to answer the message lighting up his phone. Graham.

hey. you free?

Literally always, Niels messages back. What's up?

levs started drinking again

Niels glances at the empty bottles of Asahi lining his desk, before he taps back. Shit. Really?

yeah. something happened. and i think were in trouble

He taps back, letting autocomplete take over where his fingers fail. That's vague. Details.

While the little "..." cycles on the screen, Niels puts the phone in the knitted pocket on the walker, and shuffles down to the kitchen. Fareeha and Esther are away for the weekend, and Clara is half-watching a movie in the living room. Niels offers a cup, smiles at her absent ja, and sets out two large mugs.

It's been good, just the two of them. While he can't keep up with his daughter's constant buzz of energy like he used to be able to, he can at least watch and encourage Clara through her karate training exercises.

Niels settles on the little beige container of liquorice tea that never fails to remind him of the Aussies. Makes that, and a mint hot chocolate. When he sits down on the couch next to Clara, the new green bubble from Graham is already nestled there, filling the bottom of the screen. There's a nervous spill in the words, a hand that it had taken years for the man to feel even remotely close to showing. Even though they'd met each other at their respective worsts.

i dont know how much I can tell you. he hasnt gotten out of bed for a couple of weeks. had to get rid of the bottles we had lieing around

And then: its bad. i dont know what to do

Niels frowns in concern. Has he been going to work?

The ellipses cycle for a long while, long enough for Clara to take notice that Niels has joined her. He gestures to the characters on the screen. "What's this one?"

"Moana, dad. You've seen it…"

Niels hums. "No, I would have remembered it…"

A ping.

he punched his manager and got fired so no

Niels can almost hear Fareeha's shocked oh nej, Lev,as if she'd been right there reading over his shoulder. Can almost see Graham's jaw, clenched as it would have been as he'd typed out the words.

Well that's one way to resign.

no kidding

im worried hes going to hurt himself

i think he already has

The stress must show on Niels' face, because Clara turns the volume down and huddles a little closer to him with a soft 'okay?'

He nods, and though he raises the phone out of her reading view, he puts his other arm over her shoulder. Holds her close.

We are here. How can we help?

Niels stares at the opposite wall, guitar laying flat on his lap, fingers curled loosely around the neck. It's late, but he hasn't moved to turn on the light. Can't be bothered to get the walker, or call for someone to help him. His phone sits discarded beside him, still shining its message into the dimming evening sun.

He runs the pad of his thumb over the bottom strings. E, A, D, and a soft scratching noise left in the wake of each touch.

Niels flinches when the metallic sound of it slams a memory forward—the collar, primed and whining and ready to send pain through every inch of him, the twisting feeling that he'd done something wrong, wrong, wrong—he curls his hand over the neck quickly to silence it. Feels the tightness in his chest, his throat. Curls forward with a shaky sigh.

He knows that none of them had long, really. The things they'd been through, the things they had done, could only shave years off the lifespan. And though it was always a toss-up whether they exploded or imploded, they were never going to get back the full allotment of time on this earth they had been promised. In among the myriad other things that will never be as they were, that fact is just another drop in a vast and endless sea. As is this.

Half spitefully, half uncaringly, Niels lets the guitar fall. It hits the floor with an reverberating twang, and a thud.

The bedroom door opens, and as the harsh hallway light floods inward, Niels turns his head away. The bed dips beside him as Fareeha climbs closer, creaks slightly as she leans forward to pull the guitar up, drag it safely back onto the bed.

Then, a kiss is pressed to the back of his shoulder, over the shirt. Another, and another. Slow movements, to give time to pull away.

"Dessert?" Fareeha asks. "Fruit and yoghurt."

Letting out a breath, Niels turns his hand upward for his wife to take in her own. The sight of her ring, plain gold on slender fingers, is enough to cut through the thousand voices in his mind. To bring him here, to the present, though half-steeped in the past as it always is. As it always will be.

"I should have stayed," Niels murmurs, shaking his head. "When Laura got us the gig. I should have stayed, Fifi. And then. None of this…"

He feels Fareeha tune in, hold him a little tighter. The familiar scent of her peach shampoo envelops him with the squeeze of her hand.

"I wanted you to stay," she says, voice cracking. "But I wanted you to go, too, so you could live your dream."

"Some dream it was," Niels laughs bitterly.

"You should have seen your face when she called you." Fareeha moves forward, her eyes huge and soft in the darkness. "You were so excited. I love seeing you like that."

It's been four years since he went to Australia, chasing a dream. But the dreamer is a completely different person, to the one he is today.

"I helped him kidnap them."

He watches Fareeha's eyes flicker as she catches up with the sudden information. Struggles with the nausea threatening to overtake, disgust at himself he'd thought was dormant since they'd gotten free, rearing its head and roaring once more. Pushes through.

"Sold them down the river for a piece of steak and a bed to sleep on. I… gave Graham the drugs to keep him sedated. After I helped put them both in his car. I tied Graham to the pole in that fucking death building. I made up the room that Lev was… that he was… because I thought I could still have the chance to see you again. He said that once he had what he wanted, he would think about letting me go."

The confession numbs him, but it's so laughably past too late for it to matter. The phone on the bed pulses once for attention, message still unopened despite having already been read in preview. Fareeha is a statue, long dark hair framing her face in gentle waves.

Niels closes his eyes as she takes his face in her hands. He wants to, needs to utter the last of it, but the love in her stare is intense and unbearable.

"I heard the guy rape him… that very first night. I made the bed in that room… and I still ate the steak."

It's a weightless thing, the quiet horror left behind in the wake of his words. Like so many universal truths knocked loose, scattered. If he keeps his eyes shut, Niels hopes he will never have to see the way he's let her down. Let them all down.

"You had so much done to you. All of you. But Niels… he was a monster. And you are only a man."

Niels doesn't know what to do, how to react, save from give his phone to Fareeha for her to read. She tilts her head, hair rushing forward to brush his arm as she reads Graham's text.

Four words, but there's a hopelessness in them that Niels feels down every grate and crack of his bones.

they are pressing charges

"Oh nej," Fareeha breathes. "Oh… oh, nej."

The next day, Niels puts the Yamaha in its case. Slides the case under the bed.

#lgm writing #angst #niels ottosen #fareeha scarlett #clara & esther #noncon tw #referenced or implied noncon #references to past torture #emesis tw #self harm tw #death thoughts tw #alcohol tw #drugging tw

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cherrywoes · 3 years

Text

ii. come with me, destroy the masses.

tw (general): graphic descriptions of blood, gore, sexual content, violence, homicide, physical torture, psychological torture, rape, dubcon, drugs, overdosing, suicide, cannibalism (brief desc/mention), knife play, wax play, dacryphilia, sadism, masochism, bdsm, corsetry, human trafficking, drug trafficking, oral fixation, thigh kink, stocking fetish, food play (and more to be named.) tw (this chapter): stabbing with knitting needles, mention of oral sex, mentions of displaying heads upon mantles, blood, gore, etc.

“MAMA, YOU LOOK like you were drowned in a river and left to dry out in the sun,” were the first words that Akamine Jun’ichi said to you when you exited the prison facility with a grace only you could have afforded. He was dressed to impress in a two piece suit, the back panels hanging a few inches lower than normal and fluttering in the slight breeze. His hair, dyed to such a blue fluorescence that it was almost too bright, had been grown long, longer than you had seen him last, and now framed his face in feathery layers with the rest tied to the top of his head in a messy knot that was almost stylish. The hair pin he’d shoved through it was just a little bit too ostentatious, but he wouldn’t be Jun’ichi if he wasn’t the least bit over extravagant. You observed him with an amused half-smile upon your lips, eyes darting down to the gold rimming the seams of his expensive dress shoes and the gold plated spikes embedded in the back heel. “Ah, or should I have said your beauty has not faded a day since you went in?”

“Oh, you know I hate dishonesty,” you tutted, reaching up and patting his cheek condescendingly. He leaned into it slightly and you smiled knowingly, withdrawing your hand before a crimson blush could make its way up his cheeks and fluster him. Where Nao was like your child, Jun’ichi was your doting husband, always quick to defend you and flourish at your side—you could always count on him to have your best interests at heart. While easily flustered by any smidgen of affection you gave him, he was quick to recover, clearing his throat and giving your mundane sweatpants and shirt a cursory once over. You sighed and lamented,”They burned my clothes when they were done using them as evidence. That was an expensive pair of Louboutins I lost; I’d rather like another pair of them.”

“As you wish.” Jun’ichi bowed slightly at the waist, almost mockingly, but you adored him for his candor. He plucked a new cell phone from his coat pocket and handed it to you with a flourish. When you raised a fairly bushy and unplucked eyebrow, he said, carefully,“Your last phone was… a bit outdated, [Name]-sama.”

You scowled at the dark screen of the Samsung. Technology had advanced while you were rotting away in a cell block, that was for certain. A quick press of a short button on the side sent you to a home screen; from there it was easy enough to figure it out, though you didn’t like change. You much preferred your flip phones and old burners compared to the pricey piece of technology in your hand; it was fragile and felt like it could break easily. You examined the lavender casing on the back and the three cameras in the top left corner, eyes narrowing in displeasure.

“Fine.” Tucking it away into the waistband of your pants, as there were no pockets to be had, you fixed him with an irritated stare. “But we need to make several stops before I’ll feel like myself again. You haven’t emptied the coffers while I was away, have you?”

Jun’ichi laughed lightly. “No, I merely filled them. You may take a look at your account on your phone if you like.”

When you glowered at him at the mention of the phone, he looked away.

“Perhaps not,” he mumbled, as an afterthought. In an effort to draw your attention away from the shiny new toy he had bought you, he said,”So, to the salon? Your hair looks very unhealthy.”

“No, the seamstress.” You reached up and plucked the collar of your cotton and polyester t-shirt with a grimace. It was cheaply made and something you wouldn’t have been caught dead in if you had a choice; you much preferred silks and pure cotton and the comfort of a nicely pressed pantsuit or jumpsuit. “Mixed fabrics make me itch.”

“Of course.” He gestured for a car idling at the curb of the police station. You watched the sleek black Lincoln pull out and begin to drive towards you, your eyes flicking over the shiny new finish and the dealership plates still screwed into the front plate. The driver was unrecognizable to you, with his hair buzzed short and a plain black suit to match his unassuming appearance. He wore sunglasses as well and you attempted to peer past them, but found it worthless to do so. You trusted Jun’ichi to vet the staff properly, and if he didn’t, you would have his head—whether it was between your legs or on your mantle was his decision to make. He was lovely at apologies, but you weren’t in the mood to deal with another betrayal—Nao’s already stung quite considerably and your temper would flare if you had another. You hoped his teeth were sitting on your desk, waiting for you to admire them: the gold caps had been quite nice and you were debating having the diamonds embedded in a dog collar so you could leash it around his throat and walk him around in public and within your manor just to humiliate him a little more. He hadn’t cried when you had pulled out his teeth, but maybe he would at the thought of public humiliation. He always was sensitive to his image.

Your parents would be so disappointed that you forewent the traditional Yakuza punishments. It was a pity they were too dead to see the empire you had built from their ashes.

“Did Nao return to the manor?” You inquired as Jun’ichi opened the door for you politely. He hummed in an indication for you to elaborate, hand pausing on the door and the other held aloft to help you into the cabin. “Did he put his teeth on my desk like I asked him to?”

“Ah.” Your advisor grimaced, as if imagining the pain his subordinate had gone through himself. He was always the sympathetic one, even if you forbid him from doing anything to help the people you punished. “Yes, he did. By the cup of red pens, I believe.”

With a curt nod of satisfaction, you stepped into the cabin and allowed the door to shut behind you. It was a luxurious car, of that you were certain, the leather soft and buttery and surprisingly real. Faux leather was disappointingly common in most cars you had purchased, even from luxury dealers like Mercedes and Lamborghini. You ran a finger down the seam of stitching on a corner, watching the flesh of your thumb catch on them as you went. You ignored the bustling city in favor of examining the car, uninterested in the changes that had occurred in the time you had been incarcerated. You were eager to return to your throne and get back to work; after all, no one ran the underworld quite as well as you did. You trusted Jun’Ichi to keep things stable, but he was soft and malleable, a trait you should have beaten out of him years ago; but you had needed that softness during that time in your life, and while it wasn’t a regret, it was a mistake you acknowledged with your heart.

You pulled your new phone out of your waistband with a tired sigh. You felt you could do with a few hours of sleep in a proper bed with satin sheets and a weighted duvet, but there was work to be done that couldn’t wait a second longer. Ten years was too long to be out of the game. You had meddled in affairs, of course, but you had never been able to get to the full extent of your former power while you were trapped in that prison. Now that you were free, there would be several people who would pay dearly for what they had done to you—but first, you had to lay low. Your release had been a secret thanks to hush money paid to several media outlets and cops, of which you had no doubt paid a small fortune for. You didn’t want rats scattering back into their hidey holes and popping back out to be menaces when you least expected it.

Before you could explore the features of your sparkling new touch screen phone, a call came through. The contact icon was blank and only displayed a gradient of color, but you recognized the number typed into the contact name well enough.

“Swipe right to answer it,” Jun’ichi offered helpfully.

You frowned and did as he said, holding the phone up to your ear and hoping you didn’t accidentally press something wrong. You were rewarded with an excited yell on the other line.

“Lǎo bǎn niáng!” You pressed your lips together at the term but did nothing to correct it. “You’re out of prison! I was wondering when you would finally get out; I’ve missed you over the years.”

You could practically hear the pout in Huang Jinhai’s voice when he spoke. The man was over fifty years old, yet he still acted as if he was a sulky teenager, which wasn’t much of a change since the last time you had spoken to him. The prison didn’t allow you to collect calls from China, citing you were a ‘risk’, so you never spoke to him as often as you got to with your own syndicate, which wasn’t often at all. “Shū fù, you know as well as I do that they would never allow me to call you. It is nice to hear your voice, though.”

Jun’ichi caught your eye in the rearview mirror. You scowled at him and jerked your head to indicate he should look forward and away from you.

“Ah, I can hear the lie in your voice even over the phone.” You repressed a sigh at the sniffle you heard over the line, turning your head and knocking it against the window. “But that’s an issue for another day. I had a gift sent to your manor house when your lieutenant told me you would be released—I think you’ll love it when you see it.”

A flash of color caught your eye. You turned to look out the window, holding the phone slightly askew from your face. “You know I don’t like surprises.”

“But you’ll like this one, I think.” He laughed. “Knowing how you are, you’re eager to get back to work, so I’ll let you go.”

You hung up before he could take you on another tangent. While you loved your uncle, he could be a bit much, even for you at times. The fact that he had somehow gotten a ‘surprise’ into your manor was interesting, however; his last surprise had been a very crude rendition of a Jackson Pollock painting, however it had been all over your bedroom and in blood and various entrails you weren’t keen on identifying at the time. He was never one to do things in halves, your uncle, so whatever surprise he had gotten you was doubtless something to be wary of.

By the time you had thought through all of the possible things he could have done to your home, you had arrived at the seamstress’ home. It was a small thing nestled between family owned bars and shops catered to foreigners, and in a shady enough area as well. There were thugs crawling around every corner, some from syndicates you knew and some that you did not—several hosted fairly visible tattoos of panthers on their arms, exposed by short sleeved shirts and wife beaters that looked to have seen better days. While they weren’t clean, per se, they appeared well taken care of and the stains on their shirts were old blood or sake stains. Their shoes denoted a fairly well off syndicate as well, cleaner and fancier than their clothes; their jewelry as well, the same panther motif hanging from gold or silver chains or even studs in their ears.

“I see you’ve let interlopers into our midst,” you noted quietly. Your fingers began tapping a rhythm on the window button, counting each panther you saw on the street. You could see Jun’ichi stiffen in the front seat, leather creaking under the sudden shift in weight. The driver paid no mind to it and waited for you to either step out of the car or deal with Jun’ichi while he still sat in the front seat, in the perfect position for you to rip the drawstring from your pants and slide it around his throat and choke him with it. Sliding your fingers off of the button and to your phone, you idly checked the time and glanced at the driver, still silent. “Your failure will not go unpunished. For now, I think, I don’t want to keep the seamstress waiting.”

You leaned forward and snatched the sunglasses off of the driver’s face. You saw his eyelashes flutter in surprise as you were setting them upon your own nose, hooking them behind your ears. When you were satisfied with how you appeared, you stepped out of the car. You didn’t wait for Jun’ichi to follow you; you didn’t trust yourself not to force him to his knees and beat him with his own belt buckle for his indiscretion. There were too many panthers roaming the streets for your taste; they likely reported to someone within the area and your low profile would be blown far too soon.

The inside of the seamstress’ home was quaint and humble. Littered with silks and numerous fabrics, it was a mess of chaotic order, and there were several needles within grabbing distance with enough length to puncture through someone’s eye and into their skull. You picked one up as Jun’ichi squeezed through the door behind you, pressing the sharp tip to your finger and watching a bead of blood well up from the slightest pressure. Other than Jun’ichi’s breathing and your contemplative hum, the house was quiet besides the settling of the wooden support beams and rustling of fabric from somewhere deeper within.

“So the Monster of Tokyo returns,” a wizened, cracked voice sussured. Nestled in the darkest of corners and between large bolts of fabric, Fushimi Chinatsu looked up from her complex knitting pattern with a smile and the corners of her eyes crinkling. Her needles snapped together with a metallic clack, the yarn discarded into a small basket hidden near her feet. She stood slowly, the sound of her bones protesting the only other audible noise in the room, her spine bowed and her neck hunched. She wore a humble outfit of a skirt and a modern graphic t-shirt that was slightly too-large to accommodate the scoliosis in her spine, looking entirely out of place among the yards of silk and lace. Other than her dark, beady eyes and silver hair, Chinatsu was every bit the grizzled ex-Oyabun that you recalled her being. As she drew closer into the light of the windows facing the road, a tattoo of a spiraling dragon and white koi came into view, once hidden by the shadows. “I wondered when you would finally one-up those dicks playing law and order.”

“Fushimi-sama,” you greeted her cordially, the smallest of smiles on your face. “It’s good to see you.”

She laughed, an inhuman cackle that had the hairs on your arms and neck standing on end. “And it’s good to see I can still tell when you’re lying. Don’t worry, [Name]-chan, your secret is safe with me—I have a few more years in me before I hit the grave.”

“I’m surprised you’re still alive.” Slowly, you put the large needle back where it had been laying. Chinatsu watched your movements like a hawk, dark gaze following your hand as it moved away from the needles to pluck at samples of fabric lying beside it. “I would have thought you’d be dead by the time I got out.”

“By natural causes or by my brother-in-law?” She remarked snidely. When you gave her a loose shrug and a quick raise of your eyebrows, she snorted. “Either is likely at this point. But I don’t think you’re here to discuss my death, Akamine-sama, unless I’ve done something to slight you in the past?”

“No, you’re right.” You examined a sample embroidered with cranes and white lotuses; for a kimono, most likely, with the quality of the fabric. “I’m here for new suits. In the same style as usual, of course, and with payment in full.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Chinatsu was deceptively calm as she lifted a spool of crimson red thread and an equally as livid vermillion silk to compare, holding them up for your inspection. You didn’t miss the slight tremble of her hands as she did so. “I believe a red suit would be in style, no?”

“That would be perfect.” You picked the needle back up and twirled it across your knuckles and between your fingers. “But first, I need to take care of some business. You’ll understand, won’t you?”

You reached back and yanked Jun’ichi forward by his tie. Not expecting the sudden show of force, he fell to his knees, the wood groaning under his weight and the sudden movement. You barely detected the splintering of a singular board beneath his knee. His eyes went wide as you grasped his hands and placed them together in a mockery of prayer.

“Akamine-sama…” Chinatsu tutted. “Prison seems not to have blunted your blade.”

The needle punctured through Jun’ichi’s palms with one quick, precise thrust. There was a momentary pop as it broke through a joint and ligament in his palm. He didn’t scream—your men never screamed—but he did let out a strangled breath at the needle jutting out of his hands, pinning his palms together in front of his face. You had avoided anything purposefully crippling, but blood streamed down his wrists and disappeared into his suit sleeves regardless.

After a moment of consideration, you patted his cheek mockingly and turned your back on him. Then, you turned and pointed to the steadily growing puddle of blood between his knees and underneath his hands, giving Chinatsu an inquiring look.

“Can I get that shade of red?”

i. i wish i could say i'm sorry. | masterlist. | iii. speak my name, tremble with fear.

taglist (open):

#haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyū!!#haikyuu x reader #oikawa x reader #oikawa tooru x reader #toru x reader #oikawa toru x reader #iwaizumi hajime #ocs #yakuza au

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jemej3m · 4 years

Note

Listen bud, hunger games au, Andrews the mockingjay, Neil’s been captured by his dad aka the game maker

if you’re looking for an extended hunger games au @gluupor‘s on ao3 is my all-time favourite, but here’s a oneshot (are oneshots all i know how to do??)

Andrew doesn’t want to be here. The whole place is writhing with death and misery, but there’s a whole camera crew asking him to interact with these people, these men and women and children who are fighting and dying for an idealistic cause.

Andrew is not an empathetic person. Kevin says that doesn’t matter. Just the sight of him, with his Mockingjay pin, will be enough to inspire hope.

At least he’s here, shepherding Andrew around, doing all the talking. Nicky’s being all amicable too, crouched by overcrowded beds and talking nonsense. Aaron’s probably somewhere, being useful.

His team. His support. Coming out onto the front lines with him, because they genuinely believed that Andrew was going to change the world.

When Andrew volunteered in Aaron’s place, he didn’t think he’d ever see his family again.

Just goes to show: nothing is predictable. Not in a world like this.

Andrew beelines for the lonely kids, the ones without parents, shunted into the corner. There’s one with a stump instead of an arm, like Kevin, and one who was avoxxed in the raid, like Nicky’s boyfriend. They all learned sign language for him, so Andrew kneels on the floor and says hello.

The kid’s eyes light up when he realises Andrew can talk to him. The others get excited too, crowding around.

They ask him questions. He talks whilst he signs, keeping his voice low. He tells them what sunrise looks like from the capitol’s training tower, how to properly throw a knife, why you choosing your family is important, and protecting them even more so. Their eyes are as wide as saucers, drinking in every word. Andrew has always been good with kids.

He realises that the cameras have been trained on him and stops talking. The kids get sad, but then a nurse comes around to move Andrew along so that they can have their checkups. Andrew hoists himself up off the ground, ignoring his cousin as he comes closer. He has tears in his eyes.

“That was beautiful,” he says. “Neil would -”

“Shut up,” Andrew snaps, because there’s a lot of things he tries not to think about, and Neil is one of them.

His and Neil’s story is a long one. Andrew was in the 5th district, the fostered son of the mayor. He had a best friend, one he didn’t tell anyone about lest his older brother, Drake, discover how pretty Neil was. Neil’s mother was overprotective, hiding him away from the public eye, but together they would climb outside the district’s boundaries and play together in the woods.

Then Andrew met his biological family when Major Cass Spear was invited to the 12th district for diplomacy. He decided to stay. He was twelve at the time: he and Aaron entered the reapings that year. His cousin had three years left, but would never be voted in: he was also the son of a terrible mayor. When Nicky turned 18, Tilda died, his parents disowned him, and he looked after the twins for another 2 years before Aaron was reaped and Andrew took his place.

That year, a scrawny seventeen year old from the 2nd district, who wasn’t a career tribute, volunteered himself. It wasn’t until Andrew had met all the tributes in the capitol that he realised who that kid was: Neil, his childhood best friend, who was fulfilling an old promise of protection.

Andrew had hated him quite a bit for it: only one of them was meant to escape the arena. There were bets placed on how soon Andrew would kill him and how. None of them knew the truth. None of them knew that Andrew would rather die than kill Neil.

So, in the end, when it’d just been the two of them, they swore a truce. They fought against the capitol’s attempts at whittling them down till the capitol gave up. Andrew thought they’d beat the system: it took him a hellish victory tour, another trip back to the arena and losing Neil to the capitol to know that wasn’t true.

Neil. Neil, Neil, Neil. The other reason Andrew doesn’t want to be here. Neil’s back in district 13, recovering from his weeks spent being tortured at the capitol’s hands. The rebels weren’t given the chance to grab him before the capitol snatched him away. Andrew had paced grooves into the ground during his absence.

And when he came back? Well, Andrew would’ve rathered that Neil forgot him entirely. Instead they - his father, his worst nightmare and most talented gamemaker in the capitol - had turned Neil against him. Made him loathe Andrew with every fibre of his being. Enough so that he’d tried to strangle Andrew when they’d first been reunited.

He is better now, but still avoiding Andrew at every possible junction. Andrew inexplicably still wants to stay by his side. Abby says his memory will return with time. Andrew will just have to wait.

Nicky’s eyes go wide. “I thought you were going to sort things out with him -”

But then Kevin is yelling, sirens are wailing. The hospital begins to dissolve into panic. Andrew only has to hear someone yell “Bombs!” to understand, being directed out of the building. Someone’s trying to set up artillery to shoot them down. It’s too late. Andrew’s lot makes it out, but only a handful of patients are able to stumble out after them before the building explodes. Andrew looks over his shoulder as they’re running towards where their helicopter is descending. The warehouse structure has collapsed inwards. Those who hadn’t died in the explosion are being torn apart by shrapnel and debris. All those kids. Gone.

“Turn the camera on,” he murmurs, holding out his hands. The bomber planes aren’t turning around, but there’s a second fleet of carrier craft behind them, bringing peacekeepers by the dozen.

“Andrew,” Aaron says, stricken. The camera’s red light is already flashing.

“This is what you get for remaining neutral,” Andrew spat out, flinging a pointed hand behind him at the burning hospital. “Massacred. Think about that next time you assume the capitol will be on your side.”

He’s facing away from the carnage. It’s the only reason that he doesn’t see the peacekeeper aim and fire. He doesn’t even realise he’s been shot until the rest of him start screaming.

By then it’s too late: he’s falling, falling into darkness, wishing that he’d never involved himself in this stupid rebellion in the first place.

He blinks awake and stares at the ceiling. District thirteen, being a burner district, doesn’t have many variations in its ceilings, but Andrew knows this one all too well.

He’s in the hospital.

His hands go to his arms: the armbands are still there, but they’re rolled down and his knives are gone. There’s a morphine drip in his left elbow and fluids in his right. He can barely feel his body.

“I have your knives,” says a familiar voice. Andrew has to be dreaming.

Neil’s appearance has always fluctuated: when they’d first met, his hair had been black and his eyes natural blue. During the games he’d started off with brown hair and brown eyes, but a lack of resources meant that he’d ended up forgoing the contacts and letting his roots grow out. He’d forgone the brown eyes but kept up with the dye till the second games, which hadn’t lasted long enough for any major changes.

Now he is fully and unequivocally Nathaniel Wesniniski, son of Nathan, scarring on his cheeks, arms and torso telling a narrative that is a hard-won fight. Nathan and his lackey Lola had both been killed brutally in Neil’s rescue. Andrew is glad.

“Hey,” Neil says, when Andrew isn’t exactly forthcoming. “How are you faring?”

“You’re not here to finish the job?”

Neil’s lips quirk. “Drama queen. Your suit was fitted with kelvar: there’s a lot of bruising, but you’ll be fine in a week.”

Andrew drops his head back down onto his pillow. “Dammit.”

Neil snorts. He’s in a good mood. Andrew can tell he’s still on edge, but he was always a paranoid kid. It’s not going to take some genial bedside manner to undo everything his father did.

“I know that everything they told me was fake,” he says, looking at the knives in his hands. “I have always been a jumble of identities and false pretences. This shouldn’t be news to you.”

Andrew just hums. He can’t even wiggle his toes. How the hell did they had stuff this strong down here? They were all eating onion slop rations but had morphine good enough to even send Dan into a spiral.

“I gave this knife to you,” Neil continues, holding up a sleek blade. Matte black. Andrew’s sharpest blade and perfectly weighted for throwing. “This was my mother’s. You must have been very special to me if I gave you this.”

“I hate you,” Andrew says.

“Are you sure?” Neil asks. “Because I’m not.”

Andrew just huffs.

“I remember...” he hesitates. “I remember us. Together. In your district 12 victory house, after the tour...then again, in the tower before the 75th games.”

Andrew stares at the wall opposite him. He really doesn’t want to have this conversation. “It didn’t mean anything.”

“I think it did,” Neil says, softspoken. He’s never soft-spoken. “My father - he couldn’t create new memories. He could only twist old ones. For me to hate you as much as I did, I must have really...You know. Lo-”

“Don’t,” Andrew says, because this a war and if he hears something like that fate will go against him. “I’m not your answer, Neil.”

Neil shrugs. “Okay.” Then, with methodical precision, he checks Andrew’s vitals, removes the needles and rolls up his bands. Then he slides the knives in place, fingertips briefly brushing over Andrew’s skin. Andrew, for some reason, lets him.

“Your last morphine dose was seven hours ago,” Neil says, settling back into his chair. “It’ll wear off soon. You were asleep for nearly 2 days, did you know? Aaron says the bruising is horrific. You probably won’t be able to move for another 3 days. But hey, at least all the districts are in revolt now. You getting shot on camera actually helped the cause...”

He chatters innocuously. Andrew listens. Neil’s still nervous, still schooling his bodily reactions of hatred and disgust, but he’s here anyway. Distracting Andrew from his own snare of a mind.

Maybe there’s goodness in this terrible, terrible world.

Maybe Andrew can have it.

He’ll just have to live long enough to find out.

yeehawwww

#andreil #hunger games au #andrew minyard #neil josten #tw: canon typical violence #andrew is good with kids fight me #is that??? a love confession??????#all for the game

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whumblr · 4 years

Text

Hiding

Home is where the hurt is: Part 1 - Continued from Part 7

With a hint of Whumptober’s Day 11 - defiance for today.

Tagging: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @hurtmebeautifully @rougenoirofthepurpleterror @barbed--wire

Jay noticed his laptop on the couch next to Zayne. Definitely not where he left it. He threw him an annoyed glance. Really?

“There’s a password on it,” Zayne said, as if there shouldn’t be one.

“Yes, it’s what Mr Gates put on there to keep people like you out.” Jay snatched the laptop away and turned to put it on the kitchen table. He startled when he turned again, Zayne now standing right in front of him.

“Tell me.”

“The hell?! No way!”

“What are you hiding? Embarrassing porn?”

Just his daily schedule, half his life and maybe some confident documents. God, if Zayne would know where to find him all day, if he knew how many extra hours Jay still had on overtime, fuck, he’d take full advantage.

“You are not getting into my laptop!”

A quick knock and a sudden rattle from down the hall made Jay jump. Someone was at the door.

“Jay? You’re home, right?” A muffled but familiar voice came from outside the front door.

Oh god, Dennis. Jay hadn’t seen his best friend all week and he did want to, but why did he have the worst timing ever?! Now what, should he pretend not to be at home? But he probably heard the shouting, right? With a startled expression he turned to Zayne. Like he’d have the answer. Like he wouldn’t make things worse.

“Friend of yours?” Zayne muttered. He was trying to hide it but the sudden interruption had surprised him as well.

The panic in Jay’s eyes told him the guy had no story ready for this.

Zayne held up his hands and nudged his head. A casual ‘well, okay then’. He stepped back and gestured for Jay to go get the door.

Relieved, but not fully assured that Zayne wouldn’t suddenly bust out, Jay pushed himself away from the table and shuffled to the door. He doubted Dennis was here for a quick visit and while he could really use a friendly face, the atmosphere would undoubtedly sour with Jay being on pins and needles.

"Why is your door locked?” Dennis said by means of hello. “You usually have it open when you're home."

Good question... With the ease Zayne displayed entering the house, whether the door was locked or not, Jay had to admit there wasn't much logic in keeping it locked. Maybe it was more for his own peace of mind.

“Ah, I… I was just about to take a shower.”

Dennis accepted the excuse and stepped past him. Jay scuttled after him in a slight panic but, thankfully, no one was in the living room. He did notice that the adjacent door to the bedroom was now closed. The homewrecker in hiding. He let out a sigh of relief. He could not bear having to introduce Zayne. As what, exactly? Distant cousin? Annoying ex? Stalking criminal? He should sort out a story, in case stuff like this would happen again.

“Tea?” he heard himself say. He kept his ears open, hoping to hear the front door as Zayne would leave, but so far nothing yet. The bedroom led to the bathroom that was also connected to the hallway. A small loop. Zayne would have an escape. If he wanted to.

“Sure. Or get something to eat and follow up with something stronger at the pub?”

“Ugh, like you read my mind. I just got home.”

“Figured,” Dennis smiled and dropped on the couch.

Jay used to work with Dennis directly and they became good friends. They did investigative reports and crime journalism together. But ever since Jay switched departments two years ago they only worked together on stories occasionally. Shame really because they worked well together. Dennis still called in some of his help every now and then. Jay always happily accepted. It was fun, spending long nights together trying to uncover a snippet of goods in piles and piles of documents. Searching for that ‘gotcha’ moment. He still did a lot of investigative reporting, but on safer issues like current affairs, politics. The work had them both conducting interviews and fact checking out and about, but they usually tried to come together at least for lunch a couple times a week.

But well, busy week. And Jay was still hiding some injuries so he had made sure to avoid the office for a bit.

“We didn’t really time our out-of-office days too well this week. Thought I’d drop by to catch up. Thank god it’s Friday, right?”

Jay made a grunting approving sound. “You have no idea.”

“Rough day? I heard you shouting.”

“At my laptop,” Jay quickly covered and nodded at the kitchen table. More like ‘over my laptop’ but, details. “But yeah, rough day. I’m exhausted.”

“You seem stressed, yeah.”

Jay, being a twitchy mess at this point with the remains of his panic still lingering in his fingertips, couldn’t disagree.

“Tell you what.” Dennis got up. “I’ll go down the road and bring back curry, you take a shower and get ready to unload.”

That was amazing in more ways than one and Jay almost wanted to hug him. He would have an excuse to kick Zayne out, be spared of a horrible evening filled with more bruises and injuries, and start the weekend with his favourite meal. An actual evening off. Wow. That had been weeks. He wanted to shower Dennis with gratitude.

“Thanks, man,” was all he could bring out. Gotta keep it cool. No one breaks down over curry.

As soon as Dennis made his way out, Jay heard a voice behind him.

“Aw, ain't that nice of him. You got a real pal there.” Zayne stood in the doorway to the bedroom.

So he was still here. Eavesdropping prick.

“Get out. He’ll be back in ten minutes.” Jay pushed past him into the bedroom to rummage up some clean clothes.

“That’s no way to ask for a favour.”

“Could you at least act worried about having to go to prison if he finds out what you’re up to?”

“Relax Jay, he’ll just think you’re trying to hide that we’re dating.”

Oh god fuck no. Why couldn’t people just assume that hiding strange men in bedrooms meant that you were being tortured in your own home? Fuck today’s society. This is why criminals get away with shit all the time. Because people think you’re fucking them.

“I’ll let you off for tonight. Just do a teeny tiny thing for me.”

Jay backed up when Zayne advanced on him. The back of his knees hit the bedframe and he fell down, sitting on the mattress. Zayne loomed over him.

“Get on your knees.”

Jay snarled. Throwing away his dignity couldn’t be called a tiny thing.

“You don’t want to show any bruises, now, right? Or a reddened cheek. He just saw you. Would know something happened.”

Yes… he would. And all the excuses in the world wouldn’t prevent the tiny seed of doubt that would sprout. Dennis was no idiot and Jay already expected he knew Jay was hiding something.

“Besides, he seems like a nice guy. I bet he'd invite me to stay for dinner should he catch us."

Of all the terrible things he threatened, having dinner together was actually the worst scenario in Jay's mind. Fine then.

He slid off the bed and let himself fall to his knees. Zayne, asshole that he is, didn’t move an inch, leaving Jay just a very small space caught between the bed and Zayne’s legs. Jay’s fingers scratched over his thighs as he tightened them into fists.

“Now, ask me again.”

Jay took a deep breath, hoping to fill himself with patience. “Please, Zayne, leave the house before he comes back,” he grit out through his teeth, speaking to the floor.

“Look at me.”

Jay closed his eyes before he craned his neck and looked up. “Please,” he said again, locking eyes with Zayne. “It’s just a change of plans. Please just go.”

Zayne hummed and took a step back. “Weeellll,” he drawled, enjoying the desperation that shone through the anger in Jay’s eyes. “Guess I can reschedule. Rain check?”

“Rain check,” Jay accepted eagerly, relieved there were no further conditions. Yet.

“I’m sure you’ll make it up to me next time.” Zayne winked and stepped away, leaving Jay on his knees. With a cheerful ‘see ya’ he was gone.

Outside Jay heard the heavy sound of a motorcycle revving up and puttering off. The panic in his stomach finally settled, the knot in his chest now undone. If Dennis had even the slightest idea how much he had saved his evening. Jay pushed intrusive thoughts like ‘next time will be two-fold’ out of his mind and just appreciated an evening without pain.

The excuse of taking a shower was a welcome one. He washed away the cold sweat, letting all stress drain away. And when he stepped out of the bathroom, the most amazing spicy smell wafted from the living room where Dennis was stalling out a feast. It almost felt like life was back to normal.

He joined Dennis, who did seem to notice that he was more relaxed now, but he didn’t say anything. Jay knew he owed him big time. He spoke through a mouthful of rice.

“Drinks on me tonight.”

Continued here

#whump #h/c #defiant whumpee #angst #whumpfic #forced to kneel #forced to beg #Home is where the hurt is #Jay #Zayne #Gotta offer Jay a bit of comfort every now and then

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