#car full of moments untold

[s-brant]

Cherry

As Harry and Y/N spend more time together, untold secrets from her past come spilling out and catch him by surprise. But, in the end, it only brings them closer to one another. (or hitman!h part six)

18k (18+)

Warnings: strong language, detailed conversations about childhood sexual abuse that may be highly triggering to some, referenced pedophilia, violence/threats of violence, referenced murder/threats of murder, past self harm, substance use, referenced drug overdose, prostitution, post-traumatic stress disorder, anxiety, and implied sexual content.

-

The day after Harry came home to her, Leo called them to complete another hit.

It felt different this time, to say the least. Knowing the full truth about him after meeting Garrett left her shaken as she drove, her hands gripping the wheel with enough force to turn her knuckles white. And through his typical look of hardened indifference on nights they're forced to work for Leo, she picked up on his feelings of apprehension too. As of late, he hasn't bothered to mask his emotions from his face in her presence, and when he got the call while they were sitting on the couch, watching tv in silence, she caught the slight grimace on his face when the burner phone rang.

It's not as if it was a difficult one. It wasn't anything near as dangerous as when they thought they were sneaking into enemy territory to get revenge on one of "Perez's" men sent to kill Leo. Yet, it was harder than any job they'd worked on together. It was palpable in the little moments, like when she started getting in her head about it and he reached over to settle a hand on her bouncing knee. Or, when he got back in the car after finishing the hit and leaned back against the headrest with an exhausted sigh. Knowing which people he's having them silence would take a piece of them every time.

That was a week ago, however, and they've given their heightened emotions on the subject time to settle down through a myriad of distractions—most of which being sex and baking. Well, she bakes and he stands in the corner of the kitchen with a book flipped open to a page he pretends to read while observing her out of his peripheral vision.

It's about time that Leo calls them to work for him again, though, and it has had them both on edge. Depending on how eventful the week has been for their boss, they get anywhere from one to three jobs to complete per week, but it's frequently just one. Nevertheless, Y/N's anxiety was noticeable whenever they crossed paths in the apartment, and he decided for the two of them that her unspent anxious energy could be devoted to productivity instead of further agitating her with rumination.

She asks, "What are we doing?"

The car—his Escalade, not the precious Cobra—is parked in a front spot in front of the nearest gun range. It took him promising to take her to her favorite diner where she and Alanis frequently meet up to get her out of bed at two in the afternoon on a Thursday. Being the habitually early riser he is, that simply would not do.

Harry offers a blank stare.

"It's a gun range," he says, and when she doesn't say anything in the long pause that follows, he takes it as his opportunity to elaborate. "What else would y'do at a gun range other than learn to shoot?"

What else should she have expected from him? Whenever he feels tired, sad, angry, or anything of the sort, he must either come here to shoot and put all of his frustrations into the paper target or go to the gym to hit a punching bag for hours on end.

"If this is your idea of fun, I seriously might start to question your sanity."

He unbuckles his seatbelt with a soft click and asks, voice dripping with sarcasm, "Start to?"

That's all he leaves her with before he hops out of the car and slams the door shut behind him, reaching in the backseat for a small backpack she can only assume contains guns and ammunition. It takes less than two seconds for her to follow him up to the front doors of the building, pinching his arm in retribution for how he left her behind there. To that, he pinches her ass with one hand while the other opens the door for her. To the employees waiting at the front desk, he appears as a gentleman. To her, he's the same twisted, pervy murderer she knows and adores.

"Two people for an hour. Private range," he says and holds out two fifty dollar bills the second they teach the desk. "We don't need to rent anything."

Any of the tenderness or manners he has when speaking to her in the privacy of his apartment are nowhere to be seen with strangers. It amazes her, actually. His ability shut his emotions on and off at will, depending on the company he keeps and the stakes of the situation. For the sake of practice, he keeps the mask in place every time he steps out in public. It's already harder for him to shut it off as it is with him allowing her into his life more day by day and not having to hide his feelings from her. Perhaps if he weren't a hitman, he could find success as an actor.

The woman behind the counter plasters a fake smile on her face that anyone can see right through. It's the kind of smile that says, "Fuck you," with the sweetest voice you'll ever hear. Y/N offers an awkward wave as he takes her hand and drags her off down the hallway to the private range he's been likely familiar with for years now. If that smile the employee gave him revealed anything, it was that he's well-known and hated here.

Well, she thinks to herself and visualizes every enemy they've made along the way in the forefront of her imagination, get in line, lady.

His hand doesn't drop from hers for the entire walk. In fact, it squeezes tighter once they reach the room as a way of saying sorry before letting it go in favor of pulling the backpack off of his shoulder. Ripping open the zipper without a care, he reaches in and pulls out a pair of new ear muffs for her, which she takes without hesitation.

She breaks the silence, "I'm assuming I'm here to learn to shoot because of...you know...Garrett."

Much to her surprise, he shakes his head.

"Fuck no, he didn't tell me to teach you to shoot," he says, voice deep and scratchy from the joint he smoked on the drive over. "I'm teaching you because y'need to know how to protect yourself. Sooner or later, someone is going to try to hurt you, it's in inevitable in this line of work, and even though I try to be with you to stop that from happening..." He takes a heavy breath in. "Y'just need to know."

It's something she has yet to talk to him about, if she ever will: his obsession with protecting her. It never made sense at the beginning of their relationship, and though it makes more sense to her now, the reasoning behind it is still beyond her understanding. He said himself that killing people is as natural to him as breathing at this point in his life, so what made her different? What made him go so far in the opposite direction of his nature to continually save her life? Asking him to put his seatbelt on after he held her captive?

If he feels nothing for her other than sexual attraction, and, she suspects, minor platonic fondness, then why does he act the way he does? For the sake of keeping him in her life, she doesn't complain, but the mixed signals have begun to dizzy her. What fuck buddy leaves thoughtful gifts, gives forehead kisses, and makes breakfast every morning.

Speaking of which, she has been pretending to enjoy pancakes for the past few weeks she's spent living with him. That morning after she was drugged at the club, she assumed she'd never have to have breakfast with him again in the span of her life, let alone every single morning.

Around seven o'clock each day, there's a knock on the bedroom door and a head poking on to say, "Breakfast is out there if y'want it." It hasn't changed her stance on pancakes anymore than her opinion on the shifting from disgusting to tolerable due to the constant exposure. But, the thing is, it's the nicest thing he consistently does for her. The gift-giving is kind too, but she finds meaning in the little things, and when an otherwise closed-off, cold-hearted man makes her pancakes every morning and cuts them up for her, what else can she do but accept them?

She steps up beside him without him having to instruct her. The gun he pulls out of the backpack is the same make and model of the kind she attempted to use the night they met Garrett, so there's at least some familiarity established already. What she did with it that night was guesswork, however, and today is when she learns how to handle it properly.

"First rule," Harry starts, holding the semi-automatic pistol out on display for her. "Y'have to treat every gun like it's loaded, even if it isn't."

Leather-wrapped hands handle the weapon with the utmost care. He touches it the way one would a lover, in soft caresses and squeezes full of unspoken understanding. On the side of the hand grip, there's a small button, and when he presses down on it with the tip of his thumb, the magazine ejects from the bottom and into his waiting hand.

"When the magazine is empty, y'can press that to get it out and replace it with a loaded one. This one is already fully loaded, though, so, just push it up like this"—the heel of his hand guides the magazine back up into the hand grip—"until y'hear that click." The hand he used to push the magazine back in settles on the top of the gun. "Then, for the first round, y'just rack the slide once, and you're ready to shoot."

She nods along throughout his brief lesson in loading and unloading the pistol, but, at the tail end of the explanation, she plasters a sardonic smile on her face and says, "I have a question."

The silence that follows serves as her permission to continue as he stares at her.

"When you say to treat every gun like it's loaded, does that apply during sex too? 'Cause I kinda get turned on thinking about you having your gun to my head when we fuck."

When he first got her out of bed and make pancakes midway into the day, they followed it up with a lazy round of sex on the living room couch. It wasn't the typical situation of her teasing him into it or him bending her over the nearest surface in a frantic need for her, it was actually quite benevolent. Soft, even. She was still sleepy, and he had little energy as well, so he ended up pushing her onto her back and taking her like that. At one point, her hands were pinned above her head, but that was the extent of it. He thought she felt well satisfied, but apparently not if she's hellbent on teasing him now.

He won't do anything with her here. Although she'd likely pout about it, there are security cameras at every corner of the private range, and he doesn't have the power to go back and erase the footage this time. Like he said the other week, he doesn't like to share. The mere thought of another man touching her the way he does fills him with an irrational amount of rage. He has no doubts that he would find them and kill them. If that makes him a monster, so be it. She knows good and well that she belongs to him.

Harry doesn't give in to her siren song. Yet. Instead, he hands the gun off to her and gives her a pointed look she doesn't need to delve deep into to decipher.

"Show me you can do it, then we'll get started."

She takes the gun from him with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, but right when she turns in the direction of the target, she is halted in her tracks. One of his hands is squeezing her throat just enough for her to feel it without cutting off her oxygen supply, and he uses it to pull her into him, her chest hitting his with a gentle force. The surprise is evident in her eyes as he looks down at her with his authority over her shining through in his expression.

The heat of his exhales can be felt on her face with less than an inch left between their lips, and her stomach flutters with butterflies at the close proximity. If she manages to push forward against the strong force of his hand around her neck, their lips would touch. But, they've never kissed without it being a prelude to sex, and knowing him, he probably has refrained from it to make himself feel safer in being with her, so she won't push it on him.

He says, "If you roll your eyes at me again, you won't come for a week." When her brows raise at him, as if to question how much he means it, he squeezes down on the sides of her neck harder. Still, he's careful not to press on her windpipe.

When he opens his mouth to speak some more, something stops him.

Y/N's face scrunches up in confusion at his sudden silence, as well as how his arm falls back to his side shortly after as though he was burned by touching her skin. Any of the dominance burning in his stare has fizzled out, and he takes a short step back from her.

"Fuck," he mutters, shaking his head, "M'sorry. That wasn't..."

"What are you saying sorry for?"

Something inside of him breaks a little when she asks that. Did she really not regard it as a breach of their agreement? A breach of trust? Don't get him wrong, he enjoys the side of their relationship that indulges in kinks without shame, but what he just did wasn't that. It wasn't appropriate, and while he normally wouldn't think twice about it, the look on her face when she was having a panic attack in the closet those weeks ago flashed in his mind when he squeezed her neck harder.

She never explained what happened that night, and, despite his usual affinity for annoying the living shit out of her, he didn't want to poke at the apparent bruises that presented on her that night. By the nature of her reaction to being locked in a dark room, not recognizing that it was him she was with, he assumed it was too personal to share. He didn't wonder about it any further, though. If he let himself imagine the types of things that must have happened to elicit that response from her, he'd fly off the handle.

His gaze softens.

"I said I wouldn't touch you if y'didn't ask me to. Actually, I promised you I wouldn't." After a beat of silence, he says quietly, "I know how it feels, y'know? Having panic attacks like that, thinking I'm in the past when m'not. I feel that way every time someone touches my hand, so I don't wanna make it happen to you."

With how she sighs in relief and relaxes, one would think he said something far different than what he actually did. What he finds in her eyes isn't agreement. If anything, it seems like she's embarrassed, or, at the very least, shy, and he hasn't known her to be that way around him. Not at the beginning, not now, not ever. She reaches up and tucks her hair behind her ears with her eyes averting to the floor. Everything about her demeanor is so drastically different from how she acts, it begins to unnerve him.

She shakes her head.

"It's really not that big of a deal. Honestly, that was kind of a dramatic reaction. I just get a little anxious in confined spaces because of, um," she stumbles over her words, still not looking at him, "just because of some stuff that happened when I was little. You know."

No, he doesn't know. Whatever it is she has assumed about his childhood, it isn't true. His mother loved him fiercely, and she did everything in her power to make him feel the extent of that love from the moment he was born until the moment he lost her. His father, granted, came in and out of his life whenever he was sober from alcohol and subsequently began using again.

He leans back against the wall separating them from the shooting lanes and looks at her closely, in the way people study impossible puzzles and foreign species rarely seen by humanity. For once, someone has managed to throw him off balance.

"I didn't have that bad of a childhood. My mum ran herself into the ground trying to raise me on her own. My dad was kind of shit, and a drunk, but he never hit me or touched me or anything. So, no, m'sorry, I don't really understand what it feels like."

This causes her to go quiet and still unlike anything else he has seen.

A heavy sorrow is veiled over her face as she chews on her bottom lip in thought as if debating something within herself and weighing the options ahead of her. At last, she looks up at him. Decision made.

"I don't really think about it that often." A lie. He can tell just from the way she says it that it's a bold-faced lie. Whenever he says that about anything he's been through, it isn't true either. "I've actually never really talked to anyone about it because it never seemed like that big of a deal to me, but sometimes I get nervous in small spaces, especially with men."

His heart drops.

Slowly, carefully, he asks, "What do y'mean?"

It goes without saying that if she told him to drop the subject and never ask about what happened again, he would comply. He better than anyone knows how it feels to have people questioning and prodding at details of your personal life. Everyone he knows knows little about him, and the air of mystery that surrounds him only prompts them to dig their noses where they don't belong to uncover more.

After a deep breath, she says it.

"My friend's older brother. He always picked on me, and we went over there all the time 'cause our dads were close friends." A shrug. As if the words about to leave her mouth won't knock him to his knees. "He took me into the closet. It was just one time, and I try not to think about it. Honestly, I forget it ever happened a lot of the time."

On the inside, Harry is panicking. Not only because that fight or flight mode often set off by feeling like he can't protect her from something, but also because he hasn't had to deal with anything like this in a decade. When people tell him troubling things, he doesn't care. It rolls off of him like water, exactly like the lives of the people he takes and could care less about. But she isn't just anyone. Hearing her say something like that, something that sounds awfully a lot like one of the worst things that can happen to a person, awakens a fear he never knew existed in him anymore.

It's hard to fight the tears begging to form in his eyes. He tries his hardest for her sake to not show any signs of the distress roiling like a hurricane from the inside of him. He hates overwhelming displays of sympathy, and that's all he can think to keep himself from rushing over and hugging her. Telling her that she's safe, that he'd do anything for her, anything she asks.

There's nothing else for him to say but the obvious. A statement, she shortly notices, not a question.

"He molested you."

She lets out an awkward scoff and sets the gun down on the table.

"No, I mean, I don't even think it counts. It's not like he tried to have sex with me. People who were abused had it much worse. He just pulled down my pants and said we were playing a game. He just stood behind me the whole time."

It occurs to him as he listens to her that she isn't saying this for the sake of saying it, she believes it wholeheartedly, and he thinks this is what breaks him. This is what lands the killing blow and makes the tears finally well up in his eyes no matter how many times he tries to blink them away.

"Baby..." he trails off with a waver in his exasperated voice.

A warning fires off in the look she gives him. It tells him to cut it out. It begs him, "Please, don't," but he can't control it. After ten years of hiding behind a mask of numbness and cruelty, he can't force his emotions away no matter how hard he tries. Because he does try. He knows how terrified his reaction must make her feel because he's felt that way too and knows she has refrained from reacting to the details of what's happened to him to curb that feeling, but he can't. The silent tears are already rolling down his face.

"It's really not as big of a deal to me as you think. I don't really think about it."

The utter refusal to call it what it was...

"How old was he?"

She looks off to the side, needing to avoid the sight of his tears and frustration to keep herself from acknowledging it. The anxiety burns hot inside of her and emanates out to her skin in a tingly heat that seems to pulse with every beat of her heart. There's a sense of wrongness felt whenever she speaks of it aloud. This has always been the one topic from the past that she pushes away the second it comes to mind. There's always a voice, a finger-wagging side to side to scold her, saying, "We don't need to think about it. It doesn't matter."

"Um, like fifteen, I think."

He has to take a deep breath to prepare himself for the question he doesn't want to ask but must.

"How old were you?"

At this, she turns quiet and looks down at the ground, allowing her hair to fall around her face and protect her from the eyes she feels burning into her. That tingling heat has made its way up to her head, and she has to lean against the wall to keep herself steady amidst the strange sensations of her anxiety.

She says after a half moment of waiting for her mouth to follow the repeated instructions from her mind to answer him and not allow her throat to close up, "Five."

Harry's eyes shut as soon as he hears the word, his jaw clenching hard enough to give him a toothache as he tries to shut out the voice in the back of his head screaming at him to do something, anything, about it. All at once, he imagines holding her through the worst of it, kissing away her tears, and giving her a place to talk it out without judgment. But, at the same time, he also imagines what he'd like to do to this man she's talking about. He fantasizes about the different methods of torture he would gladly subject him to before ending his pathetic, worthless life. He doesn't care what it means about him if it'd be the first murder he'd enjoy rather than resent. For her, he would become the monster everyone believes him to be.

Don't, he tells himself. Don't do it. Please, just pull yourself together. Don't, don't, don't—

Fuck it.

He allows every emotion he feels to hit him when he opens his eyes to see her standing there with her arms hugging her body like a scared little child. If she was being this vulnerable with him, he would allow her in, even if it's just for a moment, to see the full effect her pain has on him.

"Tell me his name," he says, minding his tone but still allowing her to understand how serious he is about this. "Tell me his name and let me kill him."

Her eyes widen in surprise.

"No! What"—she takes a step back to meet him again and rests her hands on his arms—"You won't even be able to find him. Their family moved away after that, and I never knew where they went. It wasn't that bad—You can't, I can't—"

She is interrupted mid-sentence by him sinking down onto his knees, laying himself before her feet with his hands coming up to grab both of hers. His head hangs down, his forehead pressed into her navel, and she can feel his body jerking gently with his stifled cries. It makes no noise, but she senses it in his movements and the tears wetting the front of her shirt.

"Please," he breathes out, voice broken in a way she has never heard it before, "Let me do it."

When she tries to shush him and pull away to get him to look at her while she dissuades him from his current plans, he shakes his head and holds onto her hands harder.

"Baby, please." At this point, it has gone from asking to begging. "Tell me his name. Tell me I can do it. I need to do it."

Y/N wrenches her hands from his grip, and he assumes it is the blunt end to this conversation. A way of shutting him down and refusing his pleading without having to say anything. That's what he assumes until he feels her taking his face into her hands, guiding his head to tilt back to look at her. How this has turned into her comforting him, he has no clue, but when he tries to say something, she presses her thumb over his lips.

"Hey," she whispers, "I'm fine. I can handle myself, okay?"

"How are you not angry?" he asks. "Y'didn't deserve that. You were five. People like him deserve to die."

The thing is, she knows he won't do it unless she tells him he can. With something as serious as this, he won't go against her word and do it anyway, he has to treat it delicately. He has to treat it with as much care as he treats her. As much as he would delight in torturing the sick pedophile that preyed on her all those years ago, it's her trauma to seek retribution for, not his. Not unless she gives him the okay to make it his problem too.

She gets down onto her knees until she is face to face with him, not giving a shit whether the people sitting and monitoring the security cameras take notice of it or not. At this angle, he can now see her eyes shining with the threat of tears as well.

"I can't let you kill him." Then, there's a long pause, and she strokes the side of his jaw with the tip of her thumb. "Not right now. Okay?"

The last part places a kernel of hope inside of him. Not right now. Not right now, but eventually, right? Someday, even if it's ten years from now, she'll tell him his name and let him do what someone should've done to him years ago.

He mutters, unable to help himself, "When?"

This is where it gets tricky for her. Is there a right or wrong answer? Can she morally condone herself giving him a timeframe on cold-blooded murder when she herself hardly regards what happened to her as the assault it was? Every murder she has aided him in committing has been against her will, with the threat of harm toward those she loves should she not comply. The only person she's willing to help him kill is Leo. After what he did to Harry, she would gladly be the one pulling the trigger.

"You can do it before we do the job for Garrett. Whenever that is, you can do it." She takes a deep breath and says, "I promise you can do it someday, but not now. It'd be stupid to risk Leo finding out or having to pay off the cops for you. We need to be careful until his brother is out of the way, then we can do whatever we want. We can go anywhere."

And even though it hurts him, he nods.

That's a fair compromise. It's obvious to him that she disagrees but is meeting him halfway due to how distraught he is over it. She has no idea what it means to him for her to do that for him, though. She would be well within her rights to refuse and call him a psychopath for even suggesting anything of the sort, but she knows him now. She knows most of his kills give him no pleasure, in fact, late at night when he can't sleep, they haunt him. But this is different. This would be for her, and she knows how thoughtless he becomes when it's her he's concerned with.

"I should be the one comforting you," he murmurs. "M'sorry I go crazy sometimes. It's hard to stop it."

She shakes her head.

"Don't be. No one's ever cared about me enough to do something like that. Not even my parents. I know it's kind of fucked up, but so am I. I think that's what makes us work so well together," she says softly.

Part of her is afraid to feel anything about what she just told him. She fears that if she rips the wound back open and allows herself to dwell on it, to truly consider the memories she has and make the effort to work through them, she'll come apart at the seams. But one thing she knows is that she feels safe with him. With him, she knows nothing like that can happen to her again, not without them getting through him first. The night at the club proved it to her. It erased any fear she had in his presence and replaced it with solace.

She clears her throat, sniffling and trying not to let herself cry.

"So, are you gonna teach me to shoot or are we gonna stay here?"

A soft chuckle leaves him at this, and he smiles with tears in his eyes. Like this, he doesn't look intimidating or commanding as he usually does. He looks scared. Unsure. Out of control in the way a person is when there's something they desperately want to fix but cannot.

"No," he says, "I can't focus on anything but wanting to kill that asshole. M'gonna have to get high or something."

She smiles.

"Well, we can make that happen."

-

The trip they made to the grocery store was interesting, to say the least.

Harry isn't touchy outside of the frequent times they have sex, but the whole time he pushed the cart up and down the aisles in search of what she needed, he had her tucked under his arm, her arm bent up to hold the hand hanging off of her shoulder. It was so strange, she didn't know whether or not to say anything about it. She's never known him to be the clingy type in the month they'd been "together", but she suspected it had something to do with what they talked about at the gun range.

Other than that, it was relatively uneventful. There was an old lady who gave them a nasty look for the constant display of affection, but they both ignored her. If anything, it made his arm tighten up around her and bring her in even closer. The only times he let go was to let her grab the baking ingredients she needed, and when she put them into the cart, he was quick to pull her back in. It was a grocery store on Garrett's territory, so they didn't have to worry about any of Leo's workers spotting them and putting a target on her back for what they'd assume is a relationship between them.

She said to him—not asked—that the rest of their night was going to consist of nothing but laziness, baking, and watching movies. To make up for the bomb she dropped on him without warning earlier, she told him to pick one she hasn't seen before that he loves. Considering his previous dream profession of being a director, she has high expectations set already for whichever one he picks.

Now, the kitchen is filled with the scent of the chocolate brownies baking in the oven. The idea came to her as they were leaving the shooting range, walking past the confused woman at the front desk a mere ten minutes after they first came in, that she could use him wanting to be high tonight as an excuse to bake. Once they got in the car, she was already looking up recipes for pot brownies on her phone.

"Y/N," he calls out her name from the living room. "I'll do the dishes later, just come here."

The movie has been up on the television for at least fifteen minutes now, and he's been trying to lure her over ever since she put the brownies in the oven.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming, but I'm gonna have to get up for the brownies in like ten minutes anyway."

Her footsteps make a soft tapping sound on the hardwood as she hurries over to the couch with an overflowing bowl of popcorn in hand for them to share. On the top left corner of the screen, she squints to read the text written there without the glasses she never wears despite getting the prescription when she was sixteen. It isn't until she's settled into place beside him with the bowl balanced on her lap that she can see it.

"Titanic? Isn't that a romance?"

She turns to look at him with her eyebrows raised.

"Yeah," he says, then asks, "Have y'seen it already?"

Actually, Y/N might be the last person on the face of this earth that hasn't seen it. She somehow went through every movie night with Alanis and Peter unscathed by the list of "classic" movies anyone born before the end of the millennium would demand she watches immediately. Seeing that Harry was born in '94 to her '01, that observation checks out.

"I haven't, but I never would've pegged you for that genre. I expected you to show me something like..." she stops and ponders it for a second. "Saw."

If she looks closely enough, she can see the apples of his cheeks flush a hue of deep pink. He shifts in his place to face her better, one leg crossing over the other at the knee and his left arm coming down to brace against the couch behind her head. It ends up making their bodies touch, the curve of her hip fitting into the side of his waist, and he reaches down with his free hand to pull her legs up over his lap. Somehow, the popcorn sitting on her stomach makes it through unscathed, short of a few pieces that fall onto her shirt.

Quicker than she can register the spill, he scoops up the stray pieces and pops them into his mouth. It isn't until he's almost through chewing them that he responds to her.

"Believe it or not, I used to be a bit of a romantic."

His face is stoic when he says it, as it always is whenever he does anything, and she has to force herself not to laugh. If she didn't know him as well as she does, she'd think he was being sarcastic.

"I have a hard time imagining that," she says.

Harry scoffs, then, an instant later, moves his arm from around her shoulders to reach for the hem of his shirt. When she asks him why the hell he's taking off his clothes, he gives her a murmured, "Be patient," and proceeds to tug it over his head. It's discarded to the side in seconds, sitting in a pool of worn cotton fabric on the hardwood floor. In its absence is an expanse of tattooed skin she knows better than her own at this point. In the times they've spent wrapped up in each other's arms in throes of euphoria, she has mapped out every ridge and soft curve of him beneath the palms of her hands.

She remembers the first time she saw all of his tattoos. It was the night after Tate drugged her, when they were playing that game to get information out of one another. Her fingertips slid down the tattooed musculature of his chest, inspecting everything from the swallows facing each other beneath his collarbones to ferns disappearing into the waistband of his pants. It still takes her breath away to see him like this, even after all this time.

When his shirt is out of the way, he grabs her hand and pulls it up to his chest. The cool leather of his gloves chills her skin to the bone, but the warmth of his bare chest, speckled with dark hairs that tickle her palm, makes up for it. He guides her touch up until her fingers are splayed across one of the matching swallows.

"These were my first tattoos. I got them right before I started working with Leo," he says, his face hardened with a feeling she can't quite place as she looks down at the tattoos. Their faces are a few inches apart. "My mum is one who put it all into m'head. This was her favorite film, and she showed it to me when I was a little boy. Since then, it was my favorite too."

His thumb rubs the back of her hand in soothing caresses.

"She used to take me to this lake near our town when I was really little, like five or six, and in summer, the swallows would be there. They migrated up from Africa every spring, and we'd have picnics on her days off work, she'd bring binoculars f'me, and we'd just watch them."

The whole time, her hand doesn't leave his chest. His deep breaths can be felt beneath her touch, a dramatic rise and fall that goes much slower than her own, and she almost stops breathing entirely. She's afraid that if she makes too loud of a noise or reminds him of her existence, he'll stop telling her about his mother and the birds they used to watch when he was a young boy. In his face, she sees the childlike joy and vulnerability he once had peeking through again as he speaks of it.

"Anyway, she'd tell me all these facts she knew about them. I got these for her too, but I mostly got them because I liked what she told me about them," he says. "Swallows mate for life. When one of them dies, the other stays with them until the end. When I was younger, before everything, I thought that was nice. The idea of someone staying until the end." The way his throat bobs with him swallowing the lump that has formed there catches her attention. "I got these on my birthday at some cheap place, but they did a nice enough job."

For a little while, all she can do is stare at his chest amidst the silence and savor the moment. There's a part of her that wishes she could bottle this feeling, the feeling of being allowed to look behind the curtain enveloping his heart that so few ever get close to touching, let alone pulling aside. It stuns her, to be honest. Just last month, she thought he wanted nothing to do with her except for her driving ability and meaningless sex. But, this...this is different, and while she wants to talk about it with him, she's too afraid of scaring him off to risk it.

Her hand slides down from the swallows, tugging his along with it, and she keeps going until she reaches the ferns peeking out of his pants. The tip of her pointer finger traces each leaf, memorizing the pattern and burning it into her mind until she could retrace it in her sleep.

In return, she says, "I've been wanting a tattoo for years but I just have never found the time or money to do it. First, it was Peter running through our parents' inheritance. Then, it was me not having enough money to feed myself, let alone go spend over a hundred dollars or more on a tattoo. Not to mention, my mom and dad would've killed me if I got one when they were alive. They were kinda strict like that."

"Strict enough to keep you from getting a tattoo, but not strict enough to stop you from learning to drive a race car?"

"Yes, exactly."

She rolls her eyes at their backward logic, even now, even when they aren't here to scold her for doing such a thing, and runs her finger along the fern tattooed over his other hip to match. Never having done it before, she starts to get curious about the logistics of being tattooed. She knows the general idea—needles dipped in ink puncturing the surface of her skin repeatedly—but she wonders how much it hurts. Surely, anyone with as many tattoos as him must be a closeted, or proud, masochist.

While her eyes are focused south, he allows a slight smile to cross his face as he watches her. The softness of her touch never ceases to amaze him. How she could ever treat someone as reprehensible as him like a creature deserving of care and warmth, he doesn't know. But she does it regardless. Despite everything she knows and has yet to discover, she touches him like he's deserving of it, and he doesn't know how to thank her without it turning into an uncomfortable conversation he's been trying to avoid at all costs.

Before he can stop himself, he says, "I'll take you to get y'first tattoo right now."

Her head pops back up to allow her to meet his eyes, and when she finds him void of any deception or sarcasm, she lets out a confused laugh.

"Are you serious? What about the movie?"

"Fuck that, we can watch it later. I know a good place that does walk-ins."

It's impossible for her to contain her excitement at this. A wide smile makes her eyes crinkle at the sides, the hand resting on the waist of his pants frozen in place. During every wasted conversation she has had with Alanis about finding a tattoo parlor and getting one on a whim, she never imagined her first would be with anyone but her. But, now that he's in her life, it could only be him. It feels right that he's going to be the one sitting in a chair beside her, holding her hand because she's a wimp, while she gets artwork etched into her skin for eternity.

She places the bowl of popcorn onto the coffee table and stands with a giddiness she hasn't felt in years, extending her arm and making grabby hands at him.

"Let's go," she says.

He grins.

"Yeah?"

His lip is bitten between his teeth as he looks up at her, and she could swear that the look in his eyes could almost be mistaken for love. Of course, she chalks that up to her protecting emotions onto him. He made it more than clear last month that he isn't interested in an actual relationship, but the way he treats her tells a different story entirely. It may be pathetic and tragic, but, recently, he treats her better than any man she entered fleeting relationships with. What good is a title if a man doesn't do any good with it? She knows she's his. She doesn't need a label to know that he'd do anything for her.

With her nod, he reaches for the t-shirt discarded on the floor and pulls it back down over his head, his favorite movie forgotten on pause for the foreseeable future. Well, until they're back from her spur-of-the-moment tattoo appointment. The keys to the Escalade are still in his front pocket, along with his wallet in the other, so there's nothing standing in the way of them rushing out right away.

"Oh, wait!" she exclaims, dropping her arm and turning toward the kitchen. "The brownies."

Harry reaches out to grab her hand before she can walk away. He's standing up from the couch when she turns back around under the guidance of the gloved hand molded perfectly to hers, making her tilt her head up to see what he wants from her.

"One condition," he says.

She should've known.

When it comes to him, there's always something unexpected hidden up his sleeve. There's always another shoe waiting to drop. But, rather than getting annoyed as she used to, it brings a flushed heat to her face because it's so irrefutably him that she can't bear to hate it. When she remains quiet, he takes that as a strict command to elaborate, and who is he to disobey?

"I'm picking what y'get."

-

The tattoo parlor is a tiny, run-down building with dead grass and chipped paint on its exterior walls, but if Harry says they do a good job, then they do a good job. With how much ink he has on him, she can't be one to judge seeing that she hardly knows anything about it. For how unpromising its curb appeal is, however, the reviews online were stellar when she stuck a peek at her phone on the walk to the parking garage.

But, before they went inside of the parlor, she stopped him from unbuckling and looked up and down between his eyes and the pot brownie sitting in the cup holder, one small bite taken out of it for the time being, until she worked up the courage to ask.

"Can I try it?"

At first, she thought he might say no. The look on his face was one of skepticism, and even as he picked it up and broke a sliver of a piece off of it for her, he eyed her up suspiciously the whole time. Before she could take the piece from his fingers, he yanked it back from her reach and put his hand down on her arm in a silent order to pay attention to him.

He asked, "Have y'done this before?"

Beneath the question laid a deeper, more prodding one he didn't dare ask: Are you okay doing any drugs after what happened to Peter? It hadn't been something as tame as weed to claim her older brother's life, but between her experiences with him and what happened at the club without her consent, he wanted to be sure. The last thing he wanted was to have her panic and not be able to bring her down until time allowed the substance to make its way out of her system.

She shook her head.

"I haven't, but, I mean, Alanis does it, and she seems to like it a lot. You seem to like it a lot," she spoke softly. "Plus, I feel safer doing it with you. If I freak out, you're the only one who can really calm me down." She pushed her bottom lip out and batted her lashes at him for a second before breaking and begging him through a laugh, "Come on, it'll be a really memorable night. The first time I got a tattoo and the first time I tried pot."

He watched her for another few seconds with narrowed eyes, then placed the tiny piece of the brownie in her waiting palm.

"Fine. But only that much, dosing homemade edibles is sort of guesswork, so I don't wanna give you too much."

There was an undertone of an herbal flavor to it, but it was mostly hidden beneath the heaping amount of chocolate baked into it. Not particularly fond of the taste of chocolate, she had to take a swig of from the water bottle sitting in the cup holder from earlier in the day to wash it out of her mouth.

Now that she's sitting face-down on the chair with her shirt raised to expose her lower back, twenty minutes from when she first ingested the piece of his pot brownie, she doesn't feel anything.

Harry is sitting in a rolling chair he snatched from one of the other closed-off rooms designated for tattoo artists and their patrons right beside her head, watching the same artist who he frequently requests placing the two stencils on the lowest points of her back and triple-checking to ensure they're lined up correctly. After all, they'll last forever.

That was another surprise she hadn't seen coming. The tattoo is technically two of them. He said they had to go together with the idea he had, so she simply rolled her eyes and told him he could do anything except tattoo his name on her back. Or a dick. With him, she could never know what to expect. To that, he just laughed and told her to wait until she sees the finished product. He and the artist walked off to discuss the idea quietly in the next room over. Since he's a friend of Harry's, or as close to a friend of his as anyone but her can get, he was game with the surprise idea after pulling her aside and asking multiple times if she was sure.

When the tattooist leaves the room to go get something, she reaches out and pokes him on the arm a few times to gain his attention.

"Why hasn't it hit yet?"

All he does is continue scrolling through the news on his phone and say, "Don't worry, baby, it will."

Before she can say anything, Rhett, the artist, walks back into the room and asks, "Alright, ready to go?"

"Yup!"

In actuality, she's sort of freaking out internally about whether or not it'll be too painful, as well as what the actual design he chose will end up being. The arm hanging off the side of the flattened chair reaches down for his hand without hesitation, and he doesn't think twice before entwining their fingers—hers bare, his wrapped in leather. Unlike the first time they held hands the night she got drugged by Tate, he doesn't tense up and resist her touch. He distracts himself on his phone and gives her hand a reassuring squeeze at the sound of the tattoo gun being turned on.

Harry watches her over the top of his phone, noting how she taps the fingers of her free hand on the chair to dispel some of the pent-up nerves. Right before the needle touches the skin of her lower back, she tightens up the grip of her hand around his as though preparing herself to endure the worst pain of her life. As it is most of the time, though, the anticipation of the event is worse than the reality of it, and when she feels it puncture her skin, her tense body gradually sags against the chair until he feels her hand fully relax around his.

"Oh," she mutters.

He leans forward a bit and rests his other arm against his knee, clicking off the screen of his phone to put his undivided attention on her sweet face.

"What?"

She looks up from the ground at him, a soft, second-long huff of laughter falling from her lips. As soon as he gets a good look at the uncontrollable grin spreading across her face, he knows exactly what she means.

"I think it just kicked in," Y/N whispers so the man leaning over her exposed back cannot hear, but she's a tad louder than she wishes to be.

Nevertheless, his friend doesn't stop or kick them out. Harry has gotten countless tattoos while high out of his mind because they know he overpays and never comes back around when he's sober demanding to know why anyone let him get anything tattooed in that state of mind. Given how many times she expressed her consent before the edible kicked in, he doesn't blink an eye at their little side conversation.

The sound of her giggling to herself, suddenly finding her vision blurred around the edges when she moves her gaze from one place to another or moves her head with too much haste, has him fighting a smile. His free hand comes up and brushes the hair from her face, and she nudges the side of her face into his hand with a sedated happiness taking hold of her.

"My girl."

It is said so softly, she almost misses it. His lips move just enough for her to catch that he's saying something, and she knows she isn't meant to hear it. Or, perhaps, he doesn't even know he was saying it outside of the impenetrable walls of his mind. In the current state of mind she's in, she doesn't have any filter to what she's saying. Well, that isn't necessarily true. She does have full control, but she's less inclined to care at the moment.

"My man," she says back to him with a gentle sigh.

It takes a few seconds for him to understand she's just responding to what he didn't realize he said out loud. Most of the time, people don't get as affected by weed as she does, but, since it's her first time trying it and on an edible at that, it makes sense. It's a lovely change of pace in his eyes. To see her relaxed, carefree even, is something he's only seen a few times in the duration of their partnership, and, to be honest, he expected her reaction to getting high to be one of panic more than anything due to her brother.

For the majority of the time it takes her to sit through the process of being tattooed, she doesn't say or do much other than rest her cheek on the headrest of the chair and look at him. Their hands remain intertwined, the buzzing of the machine serving as background noise alongside the few times they strike up conversation to pass the time. Other than that, there's a playlist playing faintly through the overhead speakers, but she doesn't pay it any mind.

It's relaxing, in a way. The steadiness of the pain that reminds her of a dull scratch, the sound of it is like a drum, and the hazy bliss she feels from the drug in her system keeps a smile on her face—she could fall asleep from it. The only time it genuinely hurts is when he goes back over spots he's already punctured a few times already for the sake of shading. Now that she's familiar with it, she can understand why he's covered in them from head to toe.

After what feels like hours but is actually just one and a half, she hears Rhett set down his tools and looks over her shoulder to see him pick up his phone to take a picture. He wipes away the excess ink with a paper towel soaked in what she assumes is sterilized water or a disinfectant alcohol of some kind. It stings her tender skin, but she considers it a price worth paying for something she's been looking forward to for the past few years.

Rhett asks, "Wanna see it?"

She looks up at him with pure happiness alight in her eyes.

"Is that even a question?"

When he hands the phone off to her, her reaction to the image displayed on it is delayed due to her altered state of mind, but once she registers what got tattooed onto her lower back, her face goes blank. It keeps Harry on edge the whole time. He wonders while she zooms in on the small design to inspect it if she is disappointed, or if he may have taken things too far this time, but she doesn't say anything to give her feelings away yet. Rather, she stares in awe at the picture of herself she hardly recognizes.

The woman on the screen isn't a broken girl who can barely hold herself together anymore. She's proud. She's strong. She looks over her shoulder at the camera with a certainty she never knew she could possess and, on the other side of the photo, if one were to look closely, she and a man cut off from the frame of the camera hold hands. Over a month ago, she wouldn't recognize the person she's become, but she doesn't resist this change. Not anymore. When she met him, she was seconds away from losing herself forever. But, now, she's been reborn. No longer does she look for any excuse she can to tear herself down or scar her skin in a punishment blossomed by her own self-loathing, by her frustration at being the only one who survived her family's downfall.

"Y/N?"

Hearing Harry's voice has her head snapping up from the screen. For a moment, she forgot the two men were standing there on either side of her. All that existed in the world was her and the picture. Her and the realization of all that has changed in her life, and the surprising sense of acceptance she feels surrounding it.

Before saying anything to him, she looks over at Rhett and smiles.

"It's amazing, thank you so much." There's a heavy pause, then—"But, um, could we have a minute alone?"

"Sure, let's just get it covered up first."

It's difficult for her to keep her words to herself as he takes his time cleaning off the tattoos to the best of his ability, applying a moisturizer, and sticking the clear bandage over them one at a time. He explains the aftercare to her as he does it, but it goes in one ear and out of the other for her. She spends this time looking at Harry, studying the knowing expression worn on his face. It appears to her that he's studying her right back, egging her on in her exploration of him.

This is how it has always been between them—too much power and passion housed in their respective bodies to allow them to exist without butting heads—but she finds that that too has been changed in the time they've spent together. Now that they know how to work with one another, how to work around the sheer size of their personalities that beg to go to war whenever they're placed in the same vicinity, she realizes that he isn't her opposite. He's her mirror.

The hellish void she has crawled her way out of is the same one he was created in. Not from birth, but from rebirth. People like them start one way and, then, somewhere down the line, something happens. Something defining and despicable happens, something they don't expect to escape from unharmed, and they come out of the other side made anew. There are few people in the world like them, made with the resilience and natural understanding of suffering built in, but the few who exist attract each other with a magnetism stronger than anything. And, right now, something she's been waiting for her whole life clicks into place.

Rhett bids them goodbye the second she's covered with her bandages and ready to leave whenever they decide to, and she shifts around in the chair so she sits normally in it. Her legs dangle off the side, her fingers curling around the soft cushion to keep herself steady, and he stands up from the rolling chair to meet her there.

They don't do or say anything yet, instead, he settles between her legs with no ulterior motives and gives her the opportunity to speak up first. His lips twitch with the urge to smile at her, but he forces it away just in case she's infuriated with him and demands he takes her to get it removed in a month or so. Based on the way she begins to smile up at him, however, he's willing to bet that none of that will be happening.

She shakes her head at him.

"You're trouble."

It's the only thing she can think to say. The second she was shown the picture, every thought that had been floating around in her addled brain was whisked away.

Harry just smirks at her, his hands sliding around her waist and descending until they reach the two bandaged tattoos etched into either side of her lower back, right above the hand of her pants. His fingertips caress the matching swallows he chose for her as he nudges his nose into hers affectionately.

"Swallows mate for life," he whispers.

-

Thanksgiving passes with little fuss.

As per their tradition since her family passed, Y/N and Alanis spend the holiday together a few days after she went with Harry to the tattoo parlor. After they got home, they spoke nothing of it, and she preferred it that way. She didn't want things to get muddled the way they used to whenever they tried to talk about what they were to each other at the beginning. His explanation for the choice of putting his first tattoos on her was more than enough.

Since he isn't too fond of holidays, Harry had no qualms with her celebrating it without him. Before she left, dressed in her Sunday best to meet her best friend for a homemade dinner at her parents' house in Baton Rouge, he shrugged and told her he hasn't celebrated many holidays in the past decade.

He did make her take a gun, as well as a thigh holster to hide it in, just in case anything happened. Weeks ago, she would have laughed and asked what possibly could go badly enough for her to need a gun at her friend's Thanksgiving dinner, but, after everything, she took it and thanked him. The next day after she got her tattoos to match his, he took her straight back to the gun range and gave her a beginner's lesson. By the time the hour was up, she managed to wrap her head around the basics and hit the target a few times, so he felt confident enough in her to not ask to tag along. Besides, it's not as if Alanis can know about whatever is going on between them anyway.

Much to his delight, she returned without a scratch, nor a single bullet fired, and set both the gun and holster down on the coffee table for him to take back before walking off in the direction of the bedroom. When she later emerged from the shower in her pajamas, she relayed her night to him with equal amounts happiness and frustration. Happiness because she got to spend another holiday with her dear friend. Frustration because Alanis's parents get under her skin unlike anyone else can. They were harassing her for details about being her roommate—at the college Alanis doesn't even go to—and she could hardly handle it for ten minutes before she needed to go to the bathroom and take a breather from the secondhand helicopter-parenting stress.

Harry made up for it by going down on her right after she finished telling the story, though, and she writhed against the couch cushions with her fingers tugging on his hair as she came undone.

Unfortunately for her, nothing as thrilling has happened yet today.

The frequency of the jobs she and Harry have been called upon to complete on Leo's behalf has risen out of control in the week following the holiday. What used to be two or three hits a week at least jumped to six, and every single time they got a new call, they became increasingly more alarmed, wondering what has happened to necessitate Harry killing so many of his enemies. And though neither of them wanted to, they found themselves calling Garrett up as soon as they got home from the sixth late last night.

That's what brought them here—to the address Garrett texted Harry after he called to let him know that something, though he didn't know what, was going down with Leo this week. It's a private, five-story warehouse building long since emptied out for the purpose of serving as Garrett's base of operations. As soon as they arrived they were escorted upstairs until they reached the door to the rooftop and left there to wait until he arrived.

Harry is the first to break the silence.

"They're smart."

She turns her head around to look over her shoulder at him. He stands to her left, leaning against the wall to the rooftop and breathing out a large cloud of smoke through his nostrils with his vape pen raised in his hand. His hair is messy from when he woke up on the couch late this morning, too exhausted from last night's work both emotionally and physically to bother with his rigid morning routine. When she follows his line of sight, it's locked onto the closed door to the stairwell they arrived from.

Y/N walks the few paces left between them to get a better look from his perspective, their shoulders bumping with the movement of her standing back against the wall by his side.

"Not that I disagree, but why do you say that?"

He holds the pen out to her in a silent offer that she rejects with a shake of her head, then gestures with it in his hand at the door before slipping it back into his pocket.

"They've got us trapped," he says. In response to her raised brows, he continues on, "M'serious. That door is locked from the inside. If y'look closely, there's a man guarding it." Now that she is straining to see past the small window pane placed above the doorknob, she catches sight of someone's shoulder poking out from the center of the door. "The only way out is to wait for them to open it and kill them all to get past or to turn our guns on ourselves. Either way, we'd be fucked 'cause they outnumber us. It's exactly what I would've done too."

"You don't think they're gonna try anything, do you?"

He scoffs, turning to face her with a look he hopes will settle her obvious nerves. Just in case that alone does not work, he reaches out and rests his right hand on the forearm she has braced against the short wall. Whenever words have failed them in their relationship, touch has never led them astray. At one point, it was the only way they knew how to communicate with one another, but, nowadays, new paths have been traveled too.

"Fuck no, they need us too much. We're worth more to them alive than dead," he says. "But, I want y'to stay close. Keep your guard up. I trust him more than Leo, but I don't trust anyone aside from you. No one in this world keeps you safe unless they want something from you, so keep him wanting."

Morbid yet true, she finds. If it weren't for her being an asset to Harry as his getaway driver when they needed a person to fill the spot, she would've been tortured, dismembered, and fed to gators at the start of October. The only person she's met in this line of work that saved her without personal gain to be had was Harry. Even now, there's little she can do to understand why he let her live if he didn't originally intend on keeping her as his driver. It would have been smarter to kill her and dump her body in the lake he dropped her off at. A lesser man would have.

Her asking him to put his seatbelt on wasn't her giving something of value to him. Unless, perhaps, what he sought out from everyone and never received in the ten years he worked for Leo was kindness. Her chest aches at the thought, but, in that case, the advice he gave is the truth. Everyone wants something. As does she. She had multiple chances to dispose of him when he put himself into positions of weakness in front of her, but she didn't. In part, it had to do with her morals, but she wanted something from him too. She wanted it so badly, she was willing to sacrifice her good heart for it.

The sound of the door to the rooftop opening breaks her from her thoughts.

It causes Harry to side-step in front of her on instinct until he's confronted with the sight of Garrett approaching by himself. No guards, no backup short of the man watching the door. Either he's the bravest man they've ever met or the dumbest. Both of them are armed, and one of them is the most experienced murderer in the country. All it would take is one wrong glance in her direction and Garrett would be on the ground bleeding out with a round from Harry's pistol in his head in seconds.

They stand side by side and wait until he stops across from them, leaving a safe bit of distance for the sake of the man acting as her personal guard dog at the moment. The threat of death is imminent should anyone touch her, which everyone here has been briefed on time and time again.

"I had my guys look into what might be happening," Garrett says by way of greeting.

Much better than Leo and his rambling theatrics in her opinion. Short, straight, and to the point. She wonders in response to this thought if living with Harry groomed her to be more curt and intolerant of people's minor quirks. Is his "no bullshit" attitude contagious?

He asks, "What did y'find?"

Although the day is mostly warm in late November, there's a subtle chill in the air that bites at her exposed skin with how high up they are. It makes her tuck her arms closer to her body to conserve the heat emanating off of her skin, wishing she could lean up against Harry's side for comfort. Unfortunately for her, their agreement to keep their fondness for each other under wraps extends to Leo's enemies too. Simply because they're working in harmony with Garrett now doesn't mean things can't change, he reminded her before they left, so, even though it was made obvious the night they met him, they keep their distance.

Garrett turns his head to look out over the city's skyline rather than meet either of their stares.

"More people in power are taking notice of him, and he's getting sloppy trying to keep his tracks covered. Hence the increased amount of jobs for you. The only thing keeping that asshole from being sentenced to life is his brother. Soon enough, he's gonna be ordering you to kill people in congress," he says with a heavy exhale. "You know better than anyone that he won't give in. Ever. He'd rather die than give himself up, and he'll take both of you down with him."

She assesses him closely as he speaks, searching for any sign of dishonesty and finding him utterly truthful. Knowing Harry has given her a masterclass in reading people, and there isn't a person in the world, save for him should he decide to shut her out again, whose face she can't read.

"So, what do you want from us?" she cuts Harry off before he can be the one to ask it.

Garrett's gaze hurries back from the skyline to find her staring daggers at him. Keep him wanting, keep him on his toes. A soft huff of laughter leaves him, shaking his head at how the two criminals mirror one another with their glares and impenetrable masks of calculated indifference.

"The hit has been moved up. We're aiming for the days between Christmas and New Year's," he explains. "Tonight, I've arranged for you both to go undercover at a gentleman's club that Ryan"—Leo's snake of a brother, she gathers—"is meeting Leo at."

The mere suggestion of it has her stomach churning with dread, and she can already picture Alanis restrained to a chair with a knife to her throat exactly like what was done to her. The alarms sounding off in her head beg her to resist for the sake of saving herself but also those she cares for. Picturing the things Leo would do to Harry should they be found out...It would make the burns on his hand look like a mercy by comparison.

Before she can even think about rejecting it outright, Harry steps forward and says, his tone deep and unflinching, "No. Absolutely not." His jaw clenched tightly enough to make his teeth ache. "He'll recognize us both."

"Do you think I don't know what I'm doing?" Garrett counters with blood rushing to his face. "You are going to be in one of the private rooms where he can't see you. We'll have a live camera feed on the tables at all times for you to watch while she plants a recording device on one of them for us." He holds up a hand to stop the anticipated interruption and moves closer to them. Harry takes a step closer too, guarding her and sizing the shorter man up should he try anything. "Settle down, we have a wig to disguise her and we'll try to make sure they're well distracted when she visits the table."

At this point, Harry doesn't care who the man is, federal agent or not, he knows he bleeds the same as every other man he's killed. The look on his face is nothing short of lethal as he warns him, "If she gets hurt, you and every one of your men is dead. Y'got that?"

Y/N stands by and watches them go head to head from around the side of Harry's back. Where no one else can see it, she rests a hand on his upper back in the hope that it'll calm him down. Beneath it, she can sense the tension evaporating from his muscles upon her making contact. She knows him better than she knows herself, though, so she doesn't risk it. Rather than give him the opportunity to do something they'll both regret, she steps around him and places herself in front of his body.

"Just tell us where and when," she says. Her commanding nature leaves no room for further questioning, and Garrett can hear the underlying message telling him to get lost without her having to speak it. "We'll be there."

-

"I don't like this."

The dressing room of the club is nicer than she thought it would be. For some reason, she thought it'd be dim and dark and filled with workers doing drugs like every other strip club she's seen in movies or TV shows, but this is surprisingly nice. As soon as they walked in the back entrance, it became clear to her that this is an upscale club, although, the first sign of it should've been Garrett calling it a "gentleman's club". The high-class aspect does little to overshadow the debauchery, though.

She sits in front of the mirror and stares at her reflection, scarcely able to recognize herself with how they've directed her to get ready for the night. Two of the other girls helped her with the wig since most of the women, whether they're servers or dancers, wear them to prevent repeat customers from being able to recognize them out in the real world. It's a shade of pale blonde, cut with wispy bangs in the front to further conceal her features, and the makeup she applied takes it a step further. With the dim lighting in the part of the club she'll be serving, they can afford to get away with more drastic methods of altering her features. For one, her eyes are hidden behind contacts to change the color, as well as dramatic false lashes decorated with gems serving as her eyeliner to alter their shape.

Harry stands against the table with her products scattered atop it with his arms crossed over his chest. He's said the same thing roughly five times since they arrived, and she refuses to give him a different answer no matter how many times he brings it up.

She shrugs.

"Listen, I don't like it either, but what other choice do we have? It's either this or jail, so, if you don't mind, I'd like to keep us away from that option."

Tonight is his worst nightmares all wrapped up in one—being unable to protect her, risking her life, being forced to do dangerous things against his will, and, of course, having other men look at her when she's hardly wearing anything. The uniform here would offend even the worst of feminists. All there is to cover her breasts are a pair of star-shaped nipple pasties covered with gems that glitter in the light galling the mirror like a field of stars. Mercifully, the club's owner, paid off by Garrett for the night to allow her to step in for a sick server girl for the night, would have allowed her to wear a thong that matches rather than go bottomless as the other women do, but she refused.

"Please, just wear the fucking underwear," he says. "I don't want either of them to see y'like this."

The sound of her sighing again has him shutting his eyes in restraint. It's taken multiple moments like these to keep himself from throwing her over his shoulder and bringing her home. The audacity of Garrett to force her into something like this, to walk around nude for hoards of men to leer at and hit on like she's a piece of meat, almost drove him to the point of murder when the other girls briefed her on what she'd have to do to cover their friend's shift.

She shakes her head.

"You know that if I stick out or act different than any of the other girls, it'll attract attention. You said that earlier, not me, so I'm just doing what I was told."

With that, she pushes the chair away from the vanity and stands with the intention of following the other ladies out of the dressing room, but he stops her. He reaches out and wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her around until she's pressed against the table and forced to hear him out. This whole time, she's been thinking single-mindedly about the job they have to do without considering what he's been saying. She never stopped to wonder that it wasn't a matter of him being in control, but instead something that truly bothered him.

He presses his forehead against hers, his eyes shutting again to savor the moment before she's to leave him and potentially risk her life for the cause.

"Don't go."

It's a phrase spoken so softly, so weakly, that she can't help but melt into his arms with concern visible on her face. She cannot lie to herself and say this is something she's comfortable doing. It isn't. If anything, it triggers memories and feelings she wishes she could repress forever, and the last thing she wants is to allow any other man to look at her in this state, but it isn't as if they have a choice. Whatever Garrett or Leo says is what goes.

Her hands reach up to cradle his face between them, her thumb caressing up and down the edge of his cheekbone.

"It'll be okay. I won't be in there for long," she says softly enough that only he hears, "just a few minutes to bring them drinks and plant the recording device. They'll hardly notice me."

"Trust me, everyone notices you."

She doesn't understand how he manages to do this, to turn her bashful and giddy and hot in the face like she's experiencing her first crush again. In the time it took her to do her makeup and get her wig secured to her head by the other girls working tonight, she promised herself she wasn't going to cave and bend to his demands. But, looking at him now, she can't help but want to give him whatever he asks. Not only because of his compliment but because of how much it must mean to him if he's asking this kindly. Now that they've gotten familiar with one another, he knows which ways are most effective in getting her to listen to him, and plainly asking for what he wants is the one he has found works best.

The sound of music playing through the walls fills the gaps of silence in their speech, thumping with enough bass for it to be felt beneath their feet. She tries not to pay it any mind. Instead, she pulls her face back from his and tries to memorize every one of his features in case something goes south tonight.

He mutters, his face overcome with a sadness few ever see him have, "You've been taken advantage of too many times, baby. Wear them for yourself."

When they first met, she would've assumed this to be a manipulative act aimed to get her to do what he wants, but not now. The ability to tell when he's being genuine or not is ingrained in her, and her heart aches as she watches him walk off in the direction of the doors to the club. Ultimately, she knows it's her choice, and that if she wanted to, they could argue about it when they get home, but it clearly means a lot to him after the past week or so they've spent together. Not to mention, he wasn't wrong in what he said. None of this is her choice, and if there's a chance for her to take back any of her power and agency, why shouldn't she?

She looks in the mirror one last time before reaching for the thong sitting on the tabletop and putting it on. It isn't modest by any means. The flesh-toned color matches her skin, and where she'd be exposed by the thin lace, gems similar to those on her nipples and eyelids cover any bits of her that might show through. Once it's on and she knows there will be a layer separating her and the men who may grope her on her way past, she can't deny the relief she feels. She may have tried to put up a fight about wearing it, but Harry is the only person she wants to look at her or touch her like this.

A voice from down the line of vanity mirrors and tables set up for the women to get themselves ready makes her jump in surprise.

"Don't worry. Just look at all of them with bedroom eyes, keep a smile on that pretty face, and everyone will love ya."

When she turns to get a good look at the woman with the heavy southern accent speaking to her, she finds one of the most beautiful women she's ever seen. Her hair is brown, cut like a seventies movie star and styled by rollers to give her luscious curls, and her amber eyes shine in the vanity lights. What makes her face particularly striking, Y/N supposes, are her bleached brows contrasting the darkness of her hair.

Y/N offers her a fake smile as a means of thanking her for the advice, but it does little to soothe her nerves. Charming men has never been an issue for her. She'd do well at this job if it were what she set her heart on, but what she's here to do is far different. It's far more dangerous.

"Thanks," she says, walking down in a pair of stilettos that click on the tiled floor with each step until she reaches the beautiful stranger. "I'm Y/N."

A delightful little giggle invades the empty room at this.

"No, what's your real name? Out there they call me Sugar, but my real name's Dani. Short for Danielle, but that was my mom's name and that bitch split when I was ten, so..."

This question used to frustrate her when she used to go out to get drunk and hook up with random guys, but she soon became accustomed to people assuming she was giving them a fake name. Especially in an environment like this in which everyone is branded with aliases to protect them from any overly attached patrons who may try to find them outside of this place. Unlike the other girls, though, Dani's hair is her own. She wears her own identity like a badge of honor worthy of being praised by droves of drunken, rich men.

"Y/N is my real name," she says.

Dani smiles wider and wider as she continues speaking, and she pays no mind to the manager beyond the doors yelling for them to hurry up. Somehow, this smile settles her nerves and lures her into a sense of calmness she didn't expect to feel until the night ends without a problem.

She stands at a height an inch or two above Y/N when she pushes herself out of her spinning chair with a pair of long thin legs glimmering from the powder she was dusting on her mostly nude body while she and Harry were speaking amongst themselves. The tips of her fingers brush against the side of her arm until they reach where her blonde wig ends at her collarbones and twirl the synthetic strands around her middle finger. Up close, she smells divine. Whatever she wears must be heaven in a bottle.

"Well, I know you've got that handsome fella of yours to keep any of the customers away when ya leave, but nobody goes out without a new name. Management rules, not mine."

"We aren't together like that," Y/N says too quickly.

This brings a certain smugness to Dani's face as she fiddles with the loose waves of the wig to style them to her liking. No amount of fussing will make it as pretty as her hair, but she tries her best to fix the new girl up before sending her off to live among the wolves. Everything else is deemed acceptable on a quick glance from top to bottom, so she allows her arms to fall back to her sides and looks at her in a way that cuts right through the facade of carelessness surrounding the topic of her relationship with Harry.

All she says is, "You will be."

Dani leans in and presses a kiss to her cheek, leaving a barely-there lipstick mark behind in the shape of her full lips, then turns on her heels and struts off toward the double doors serving as a divider between them and the rest of the club. Before she can push them open, she turns partway to look at her again. Her eyes narrow as if she's thinking something through to herself, and it's hard for Y/N to keep her eyes where they should be seeing that she isn't wearing anything but the same star-shaped, bedazzled nipple pasties she wears too. Well, those and her heels.

The banging on the other side of the door increases in frequency alongside the man's voice telling them to come out, but she just stands there for a few seconds and looks at her.

She smiles.

"You're sweet. Call yourself Cherry out there."

With that, she slips out through one of the doors and leaves Y/N to summon the courage to go out there on her own. The club looks packed based on the glimpse she got from the crack in the door before it swung back shut. Men were sitting around the tables in party sizes anywhere from two to six, smoking, drinking, and watching the dancers on stage while the nude server girls walked around them taking orders.

She takes deep breaths to keep from working herself up into a panic and starts to clench and unclench her first, muttering words of affirmation to the part of her that remains hesitant.

"You can do this," she whispers to herself and paces back and forth in the space between the doors and mirrors. Her breasts, unbound by any clothing or undergarments, bounce with every step, and she has to force herself not to think about the fact that they will be on display for a room full of people in less than a minute. "You can do it. It's just a few minutes, and he won't let anything happen to you."

The final part seems to do the trick. Hearing herself say it relaxes her tense shoulders and balled-up fists. She latches onto this small comfort and uses it to make herself walk the rest of the way up to the red doors. If anyone else were left in here, they'd think she's gone mad with how she's muttering under her breath to no one, but she doesn't allow judgment to seep through and stop her. Whatever it takes to get the job done is what she'll do.

Her trembling hand lies flat against the door, and she takes another deep inhale once more.

She whispers, "He won't let anything happen to you," and pushes the door open.

The interior of the lounge dizzies her upon a first look at it. In contrast to the simple dressing room she was ushered into from the back door, the high ceilings give it an enormity that towers over her. A large chandelier that hangs down from the ceiling sits as a centerpiece above the circles of tables placed around the round stage where women strip, pole-dance, and flirt with the customers in winks and smirks.

Unsurprisingly, there isn't a single woman sitting at one of the tables. She was briefed on the type of clientele the club gets, as well as what specific table Leo and Ryan would be sitting at, so it was expected. Most men come with coworkers under the guise of "working late", or at least that's what they tell their wives and girlfriends, and treat the club like their own personal brothel. Few girls are okay with being pimped out to clients, so she was told not to worry about anyone assuming her body is for sale. That particular comment got a glare from Harry directed at Garrett.

This place is a step below what Leo does, in her opinion. As she looks around, it's difficult to ignore triggering memories from the past at the sight of the other girls on display in front of the men. Every time she senses her thoughts going in that direction as she walks around to scope out the floor she's on, she redirects herself to Harry. Whenever anything bad pops up, she remembers that day when she panicked in the closet and how safe she felt with him, and the pain of it lessens.

She makes a beeline for the bar first to have a place to stand/hide while she gets control of herself.

"Hey," Y/N says to the bartender and braces her hands against the counter. "Can you tell me where table two is? I'm filling in for Angel tonight."

The bartender is a young man compared to the company she often keeps. Based on the baby-faced appearance, she guesses somewhere between twenty-one and twenty-four. He almost reminds her of Peter a little bit, and, for the first time since he died, the ache in her chest doesn't flare up at the sight of someone who resembles him. He places a reddish-hued drink in a short cup on the bar top with a muted smile.

"Table two is the closest to the stage"—Of course—"and his buddy isn't there right now, but this is for him, so just put it in front of his seat."

"Thanks."

She takes the drink from the bar top and is careful not to spill a drop of it as she tries to copy the confidence Dani had when strutting in her heels. If she's going to stick out because she's the only woman here wearing underwear, she'll make sure that she looks the part in every other way. As expected, she can feel pairs of eyes on her from every corner of the room, and she tries not to let it get under her skin. Every time she feels one of them leering at her, she goes back to that moment in the closet with Harry and allows him to calm her speeding heart rate.

Other servers weave in and out of her path, either carrying drinks or plates on trays or leading one of the men to the back for a private dance. It's a tad disorienting with the blue and red lights flashing on and off around the room, spotlights cutting through the changing colors to shine on the three dancers on stage, but she keeps her focus on the table she was told to deliver the drink. In her other hand, the small recording device is ready to be planted onto the bottom of the table. It has a sticky side for her to adhere to the table, and she already went over how she was going to do it.

She'll place the drink down and steady herself with one hand wrapped around the lip of the table to secure the device before saying she'll be right back after she completes another drink order.

A slow, thrumming song plays over the speakers for the women on stage to strip and sway to in a sensual dance that lures the eyes of the men away from her as she nears the table. Good. The fewer witnesses who can confirm her presence here, the better. Although, she admits to herself with a sinking feeling, the witness who matters most in identifying her underneath the attempts to disguise her appearance could return at any moment.

She tries to emulate the sultry attitude she sees many of the women, most of all Dani, adopt as they're making their rounds to different tables when she finally reaches table two.

"Here's the drink your friend ordered," Y/N says, leaning over the table to set it down on the coaster in front of the empty seat.

When she puts it there, she holds the edge of the table exactly as they planned and sticks the recording device to it, not allowing her hand to leave it until she's certain it's properly adhered. As she stands up to her full height, she moves the hand she used to plant the recording device to rest on Ryan's left shoulder and caress it the way she would a lover. It feels wrong to touch anyone but Harry this way, but she ignores it for the sake of the performance she must put on.

Right when she turns to leave, he catches her by her wrist and doesn't allow her to go any farther.

There's no calming herself down this time. Imagining she's with Harry does not work because, logically, she knows how deep of shit they'll be in if he keeps her here until Leo comes back from whatever "distraction" they procured for him. The lighting may disguise her for a moment, but she knows it'll only work for so long before he recognizes her. She can only imagine how worried Harry is watching her over the cameras right now.

Ryan says, "Wait. I haven't seen you around before. You new?"

She wills herself to remain calm as she turns around to face him with a smile and bedroom eyes just like Dani told her to. He's not as handsome as his brother is, but he's easy enough on the eyes. With the same jet-black hair cut short and styled with gel, he must resemble one of their parents more than Leo does, because that's about all they have in common. Their facial features differ to a degree that would have her questioning if they were cousins or brothers had she not already been informed.

The sensual dance going on less than a few feet away from him is forgotten in the wake of her arrival.

"Yeah, I am," she responds in her most realistic attempt at a valley girl accent, drawing up the pitch at the end to finish the statement sounding more like a question. She's sure not to overdo it, but if Leo comes back, she can't speak in her real voice. "My name's Cherry."

It's hard not to jump away from him when she feels his hand sliding up the back of her leg. His fingertips brush against the skin until he reaches the thong barely concealing her naked crotch from view, running the bejeweled fabric beneath his touch and allowing his palm to cup her ass cheek, and she thinks it might be one more minute before Harry comes storming in to beat him senseless over it.

His thin lips spread into a smile that threatens to make her sick to her stomach.

"Cherry," he says as if trying out the word for the first time. "They probably call you that 'cause you taste sweet, huh?"

How he manages to take something so innocent that started with her and Dani in the dressing room and turned it into that is beyond her. And she decided right here and now that no matter how many times he asks, she won't tell Harry what he said to her until the time comes to kill him. If she does, he'll snap and kill him sooner. Perhaps he's already considering it if he can see how he's touching her like she's his property within less than a minute of meeting her.

The hand not squeezing her ass lifts from his lap to reveal a folded-up hundred-dollar bill. One of his fingers hooks around the thin edge of her lacy thong to stow there between the garment and her skin. His other hand roams up from her ass to skim the small of her back, and she must resist the urge to smack it away from the healing tattoos. Having this creep touch something that holds such a deep meaning surrounding her and Harry's relationship increases her urgency to flee at a dramatic rate.

Yet, she doesn't let it ruin her performance.

She leans down until she's face to face with him, allowing her forearms to rest against his shoulders.

"How about the next time you come here, you hang with me in the back and find out?" she whispers, barely letting her voice be heard over the music and chatter around them.

It's so easy to pull men. One little flirt and he's already melting in her hands, turning starry-eyed and pliant for her to manipulate him any way she pleases. He tries to lean forward to give her a kiss, but she jerks away whenever he gets close enough. She plays it off as her being a tease and drawing out the anticipation for "next time", but there will be no next time. The "next time" will be her hitman putting this piece of shit down like the animal he is.

"Why not right now?" he asks.

She winks at him.

"Good girls don't give it away on the first date, do they?"

Hoping that'll be enough to satisfy and shut him up in time for her to make an escape, she stands back up and walks away from him without saying another word. As she turns her back to him, she shuts her eyes and silently prays that he doesn't call her back to the table. The sound of her heels hitting the hard floor is swallowed up by the music that shifts from the slow-paced song that was on to something lively and raucous. It gets a few men out of their seats to dance with server girls in the space between tables, and, as she passes by the table next to Ryan and Leo's, she sees Dani tipping her head back in laughter in the arms of a handsome older man.

It appears that they're in the clear, she realizes, now that she's made it halfway across the room without hearing his voice yelling her fake name to summon her back like a dog. That is until she sees the man walking straight at her from one of the back rooms and feels her heart drop into the pit of her stomach.

Leo.

She changes direction as quickly as she can without drawing attention to herself by looking like she's running from something and finds herself headed back toward the bar. Her mind is not in control of her decisions anymore. Pure instinct takes hold, and her legs have a mind of their own in regard to where they'll be taking her tonight. Right now, the sole requirement is that it's the opposite direction to wherever Leo is.

The bartender's eyes light up in recognition as she approaches, then widen at her slamming the one-hundred dollar bill Ryan stuffed in her thong down on the counter.

"A shot of fireball," she demands, then peeks over her shoulder with her faux blonde hair concealing her face from table two's view to see Dani dancing with the same man who embraced her seconds ago. "And leave whatever's left of the cash to Sugar."

"You sure?" he asks.

Her eyes narrow at him as he pours the shot and slides the glass across the bar to her.

She says, "Yeah, I am," then throws back the two ounces of liquor without a single grimace shown on her face on its way down.

The last thing she wants is to keep that bill knowing the disgusting hands that'd touched her while she "earned it". At least it'll be money free of exploitation and shame for Dani. A gift from a would-be friend. In another place or time in which they ended up in the same line of work for more than fifteen minutes. Perhaps it'll be the only cash she's received here without proverbial strings attached at every end.

Y/N slams the empty shot glass back down hard enough for it to rattle around in a circle on the varnished wood and departs with a quiet, "Thanks," past the rest of the tables to reach the staircase to the upper level.

The private rooms, Garrett explained to them on their way in, are located upstairs for privacy. Depending on the comfortability of the girl, private rooms are either used for one-on-one dances or prostitution. On the other side of the upper level, however, is a closed-off section of rooms interconnected by a hallway for staff. Mostly for security. They informed her that Harry would be waiting for her whenever she planted the device in the room at the very end, and she didn't think it'd feel as far as it does now.

Every few seconds, she looks over her shoulder with a paranoia strong enough to make her body tremble on her way up the stairs. Tears blur her vision, the contacts irritating her even further, and she tries to hold in the sound of her crying.

She thought she could handle it. She figured that men have done whatever they've wanted with her as far back as she can remember, so what's another night of being subjugated to this objectification again? What's another wound to add to those that fester and refuse to close unless she banishes them from her memory? She thought she could bear it, but, as she stumbles up the stairs and allows her tears to ruin her makeup, she is forced to recognize her limits.

When she reaches the locked door that separates the private staff section of the upper level from the rest, she mistypes the code on the pin pad multiple times before it finally opens for her.

She doesn't have to look up at his face to know it's Harry waiting for her behind it. He likely saw her leaving, crying as she ascended the staircase, and came down the hallway to get her before anyone else intervened or, God forbid, Ryan followed her up here. The second he appears, she rushes forward through the doorway and collapses into his embrace with a loud sob.

His arms pull tight around her shoulders, his hand cradling the back of her head where it burrows into his neck and stroking the hair of her wig down as he whispers soothing words to her.

This only worsens the cries coming from her and weakens her body enough that she leans on him for full support from her overwhelming anguish. Everything comes back to her in full force in the aftermath of what she was forced to do tonight—what happened to her when she was a child with her friend's brother, the man who left her unconscious on the sidewalk outside of that club after Peter's death, her multiple near-death experiences—it all comes rushing back.

"Hey," he whispers, pulling back and reaching for her face to ensure she actually looks at him. There are tears in his eyes too. "S'okay. You're safe, baby. I'm right here."

The mascara on her lower lash line smudges under her eyes when she wipes the tears away with her fingertips and tries to force herself to breathe deeply to keep from hyperventilating. She does way better than she did last time when he had to calm her down in the closet, and, for that, they're both thankful. Nevertheless, it still hurts him to see her this way, broken and clinging to him for any scrap of stability she can find. That was why he pushed her on wearing the underwear. Part of it had to do with his own territorial jealousy, yes, but he was mostly thinking of her. Of this. Of every man from her past and future that he wants to hunt to the ends of the earth for making her feel bad, himself included.

Guilt crushes him in moments like these. They make him reflect on every time he yelled or manhandled her in the beginning, every time he hurt her for the sake of pushing her away that had more to do with his own insecurities than it herself did "keeping her safe". But maybe the guilt is his punishment. He'll gladly stomach it for the rest of his life so long as he gets to keep her in it until the end.

He asks, "What do you want me to do?" His brows furrow as he blinks the tears away from his eyes, and he tilts her head back to keep her looking at him. "What can I do?"

Her bottom lip quivers, wet with saliva and tears that trickle down her cheeks onto it. There's nothing she can think to say.

"I don't know."

To this, his face hardens. And after a few seconds have passed of them not breaking their intense stare-down, he leans forward to press his forehead to hers and holds her in place there by the back of her neck

He promises her, "When I kill him, I'll cut off the hand he touched y'with."

The old version of her would've blanched at such a violent statement, but the version of her that exists today is calmed by it. She knows her lover now, and with that understanding, she knows that this is his way of solving things and showing how much he cares. He doesn't enjoy doing the things he's been groomed to from adolescence, but she is the only one he would willingly do them for without her holding anything over his head for leverage.

"Thank you," she mutters back.

For a minute or two, they remain frozen in time and never want to leave the sanctuary of each other's arms. Face to face, chest to chest, they stand here and breathe in each other's air in silence. They savor it. Because the second they leave, everything could change. Depending on the information Garrett picks up from the recording device, the hit could be anywhere between one day and one month away. It could either be their freedom or their damnation.

Unfortunately for them, the vibration of his phone buried deep in his pocket interrupts the peaceful moment far too soon. He doesn't let go of her as he fishes it out and checks it to see what's going on, and he doesn't need to. Upon a quick glance, he clicks it off without reacting and stuffs it back into his pocket.

"Garrett says the device is up and working," he tells her. "We can go home."

On their way down the hallway, he steals one of the coats left hanging on the rack mounted on the wall and drapes it over her shoulders to shield her body from anyone's prying eyes, as well as the colder temperature that has set in now that it's nighttime. She ties it around her waist as tight as the fabric will allow and leaves it alone. The neckline plunges deep enough for anyone who pays attention to notice her lack of clothes underneath, but, honestly, if anyone dares to say something, she might just steal his gun and pistol-whip them with it.

The path they take to the back door blurs together in her mind. Turn after turn until they reach the open air, she stays tucked under his arm and squeezes his hand with enough strength to cut off his circulation. Neither of them says a word. All they do is walk side by side in silence and know that no matter what happened tonight, once they get back home and lock themselves inside, everything will be okay again until morning.

His Escalade is parked around the side of the building, so they make for the vehicle as swiftly as possible and try to keep their heads down should either of the brothers they came here to spy on take it upon themselves to step out for a minute.

The keys are in his hand, his thumb ready to press down on the button to unlock the doors, when the sound of someone shouting his name from behind causes him to freeze.

"Harry!"

In seconds, the keys are in her possession and he's already resting a hand on the gun strapped to his hip should they try anything, but there's no need. He doesn't know how, but, somehow, Y/N picked up on who it was and he didn't. Blinded by panic, he didn't think to question whether it was a friend or enemy before reaching for a weapon to defend her with.

She slips out from underneath his arm to turn to face the man, and when he follows her lead, his shoulders sag with equal parts relief and dread.

Drenched in the rain beside a running vehicle, Zayn stands before them with an accusatory stare.

-

A/N: HOW ARE WE FEELING? WE AREN’T QUITE NEAR THE END YET BUT WE ARE GETTING INTO THE REAL SHIT NOW! let me know your thoughts, i’d loveee to hear them :)

[heartfullofleeches]

Oc-tober Day Two – Trick or Treat

Criminal Yandere – Donnie

Word Count: 1.8k

“Are we there yet?”

The cool autumn air smacks your cheek as the van hits a bump in the road. Blindfold, you sit in the passenger seat awaiting the moment your little journey ends. A chuckle comes from the driver’s side; seasonal themed music blaring from the car's radio.

To celebrate the holiday, your friend Donnie had taken you out for an evening of untold festivities. They wouldn’t give you a single hint on what the plans for the eve were, and only asked that you give them your trust. It probably wasn’t the best idea to let someone you’ve only met a handful of times before and from the internet blindfold and carry you off to an unmarked location, but they’ve given no reason for suspicion so far. They apparently went to your high school and messaged you because they recognized you. 

“Dunno.” 

The van pulls to a stop. You hear them pop one their door, open the one on their rear side, then walk around to your side of the car. They open your door and hand you the handle of whatever they grabbed. Taking off your blindfold, you see that you’re holding a plastic pumpkin pail.

“Surprise!”

Behind you is a neighborhood completely decked out in Halloween décor. Inflatable ghosts, eerie lights, cobwebs, and so much more to behold. It was a young trick or treater’s biggest dream, yet here you two adults stood – you in whatever costume you could find and them as none other than a certain crime fighting turtle. It wasn’t even a full costume. They just bought a turtle shell backpack and knitted their own mask.

“We’re… going trick or treating?”

“Yup.”

“Don’t you think we’re a little too old for this? And are you even going to be okay for the walk?” 

“Course not, and don’t worry this neighborhood isn’t that big, plus I got this if I get too tired.” Donnie shows you a cane crafted out of wood, a white cloth tied around each end. You’re still on the fence about this. “I don’t know. Besides, is anyone even giving out candy? I don’t see any kids around.”

That was something you gradually picked up during your inspection of the neighborhood. The streets were completely empty of people; even folks in regular attire. You could tell it was more of a secluded location, but there still had to be some people with children; especially with all these decorations. Donnie shrugs.

“We won’t know unless we go knock on somebody’s door. Come on.”

“Fine.” You take their outstretched hand and hop pit the car. Together, you cross the street onto the first sidewalk; auburn leaves crunching beneath your feet. Donnie lets you the lead as you draw towards your first house. A simple two story with its front lawn transformed into a graveyard. Tombstones protrude from the grass; plastic limbs and torsos spewed about and depicting the undead rising from their graves. A fog rolled by your ankles; a generator rumbling soft off somewhere in the backyard. You head up to the front door, casting your gaze at Donnie still on the steps. They wave. You turn back and ring the doorbell.

You hear a faint, “Oh shit.”, as someone scrambles to the door, the scrape of glass against another surface passing as they unlock the door. A man close to your age appearance wise answers the door, fake blood around his mouth. He looks behind you at Donnie, then back at you. 

“Trick or Treat.” You chime, holding out your bucket. It feels a little silly.

“Hey. Didn’t think anyone was coming to this neighborhood. My folks had me babysit and pass candy out, but no one’s showed up tonight. You can have it all.”

The guy dumps the entire bowl of candy into your pail; shutting the door afterwards. They’re full sized packs opposed to the fun one would see; and sweets you all enjoyed. With just one house your bag was already halfway full. You return back to Donnie who had been typing away on their phone till you walked over. They pocket the device and nod their head in greeting. 

“So how’d it go?”

“He gave me the whole bowl. The bucket’s nearly full already.”

“How about that? You can use my backpack if you need to deposit anything. Wanna head on to the next?”

You’re already on the way before they can finish their sentence. Donnie sneaks one last look at you before joining you; the house’s curtains drawn as its lights go dark. The next spot is more plain in layout. A carnival themed set with small arrows pointing down the illuminated path towards a clown mannequin on the porch with a candy bowl in its lap. You walk up to it to take one; the clowns hand shooting around yours as you go to grab it. You scream.

“Ah!” 

The clown bursts into a full belly laugh. “Surry, didn’t mean to scare ya. Just wanted to say hi. Here ya go.”

He reaches into the bowl; grabbing a majority of the treats in his large hand before tossing them into your bucket. He sends you off with another chuckle. Heart still racing, you once again head over to Donnie. Their camera shutter blinds you as they take a picture. The fear in your chest dies down.

“You saw him moving didn’t you?” You ask, slightly hitting them with the pumpkin. They raise their arm in defense.

“Course not.”

“Whatever. Can I put this in your backpack?” You unzip their backpack as they turn around, pouring your current hall in the bag. You smile, placing your hand over your heart as you start walking. “He got me good, I thought I was going to have a heart attack.”

“Scared cat.” Donnie throws their arm over your shoulder with a grin; looking over theirs as they shout. “You should be more careful next time. Don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

The clown hurries into the house.

The next place is one of the homes with a pop up ghoul in their yard. The lights are off – bowl sitting smack center on the porch. Both of you headed up to it this time. There’s no sign telling how many you could take, but you thought it would be best to ask.

“Think we should only take one?” 

“Let’s see if we’ll get in trouble for doing the opposite.” Donnie picks up the bowl, unloads every piece of candy in your bucket then rings the doorbell before sprinting off the porch. They cross the yard before you can leave it, hopping over the small hedge and onto the sidewalk. You speed after them, the street empty as you make your way onto them. You look around for them, a shadow lurking behind you as you search. 

“Gotcha.”

Donnie leaps from behind a tree and splitters their arms around you. Picking up that it's them from their voice, you laugh and playfully try to shake them off. Donnie keeps you to their chest; hands around your wrists and fingers edging towards the palm of your free hand. They just want to hold you a little longer. They let you go as candy falls out of your overstuffed pail.

“You have to admit. I’d make a good ninja.” They pant. They’re a little winded, but assure you that they’re doing alright. You continue on to the next location; picking up on a pattern with each house you visit. Every one either has a bowl left out or the residents are turning in for the night and gives you the remainder of their candy. It’s not just sweets either. Popcorn balls and other snacks fill your bag as well. You even get plastic fangs at one spot. A quarter of the way through the first street, you and Donnie take a breather at one of the houses; sitting on some old swings as you break into your stash.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Y/n?” Donnie asks, swinging their legs as they place a piece of hard candy in their mouth. They watch you as they suck on it – anxiously waiting your answer.

You push yourself forward, the wind rocking you in your swing. “Of course. I didn’t know what to expect when we first came, but it’s been pretty fun since we started.”

They smile faintly; the red glow of the coffin in the grass making their face look red. “I’m glad. I.. like it when you’re having a good time. Makes it easy for me to have one too. I’d do anything to make you happy, Y/n. No matter what it took.”

You stop swinging. Donnie stiffens, stretching as they stand up. “Anyway, my back’s killing me. I’m gonna head back to the car, but you can hit up the rest of the houses if you want. Maybe I’ll join you again later.”

“Oh… okay. See you later.”

“I’d say be safe….but I know you will be.”

-

Donnie kicks over a stray goblin statue as they stroll down the desolate road. Reaching its end, they hop off the sidewalk and towards their van. A roadblock separates the street from the outside world, a smoking police officer leading against it. They raise their hand to catch his attention. “Evening, officer!”

The cop stomps out his cigarette and waves back to them. Must be some pile up on another road. Donnie climbs into their van, retrieving a laptop from the back. Powering it on reveals a live feed of the neighborhood, filmed from various areas ranging from street lamps to doorbell cameras. They fall back in their chair as you walk by one of them, watching you in a fashion they were far more used to than in person. 

There’s still the glow of happiness on your face. Donnie marks down the timestamp for when they get home. It’ll be a great addition to their collection along with their other favorite moments of the night. Aside from one of their helpers roaming behind you for extra safety, you were alone. Donnie was lucky to have found this neighborhood. Most of the properties were on renting sites, so they didn’t have to worry about too many locals running your fun. The thought reminds them of something. They pick up their phone and make a quick call.

“Hey, the old guy still breathing?”

“For now.”

“Just leave him in the bathtub and run cold water over him, then head home out the back. Make sure you clean up and take all the evidence with you.  I saw the cans.”

The person on the other line mumbles in compliance before hanging up. Donnie goes back to watching you on the cameras as you pick up another bowl. Maybe someday they’d be able to show how the full extent of their feelings with a more in-person manner, but for now they were perfectly fine with displaying it from afar. 

[intubatedangel]

Code Red - Conclusion

I got a bit carried away with this one. It’s a long chapter, and I did consider splitting it into two, but honeslty felt it wouldn’t work as well in two pieces, it all fits together as a single unit. I really hope it is worth the read, but can’t say much else without spoilers.

I’ll be taking a break from the series after this, I’ve got some non-resus stories I want to try and write while I’m still in the groove, and I need to emotionally recover from such a heavy story.

Story Index  

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

* * * 

The sky was shrouded with a layer of grey cloud and rain pattered down, drumming lightly on the old slates. It wasn't too hard a shower, spring was more a time of drizzle and persistent light rain, rather than howling storms. Carl watched large drops splash on the ground beneath a crack in the aging cast iron gutter as he sat on the old wooden bench underneath the lean-to porch, situated next to a side door of the small, old church. Anna had often told him that she wasn't religious, but in this part of the world that didn't particularly mean much. In small villages with no other amenities beyond perhaps a pub or inn, the church was simply the place where community events took place. Festivals. Jubilee celebrations.

Weddings.

Funerals.  

Carl shivered as the memory intruded upon him again. He still hadn't been able to shake free of the images, despite counselling. Anna, laid out on the trauma bed, lifeless. Her utterly unmoving heart held between his hands. The sound too. A screaming monitor just behind him. Sarah's sobs as the young nurse cracked.

A hand on his shoulder broke him free of the grim reverie with a jump. Carl looked up to see Roger stood beside him. The nurse gazed down at him with a look in his eyes. Not quite pity, more of understanding with a sad element of helplessness. Which was more than true. They'd talked about it at length on more than one occasion since that day. Roger's presence in Trauma 3 wouldn't have changed anything, and every idea the two of them had come up with to combat the recurrent memories had been a bust. The only thing left to try was deeper, more intensive therapy.

He just had to get through today. Maybe doing that would help all by itself. Carl gave Roger a nod and pushed himself to his feet, throwing off the past and coming fully back to the present. They both stepped up to lean against different thick oak pillars, gazing out through the haze of the rain at the church's graveyard. Anna's adopted family had been a fixture of the village for untold years. There were generations of Swifts buried here.

Roger blew out a breath. "Do you know what you're going to say?" He asked.

Carl nodded, slipping a hand into the inside pocket of his black suit, pulling out a folded piece of paper. "I don't know if I'll be able to though."

"You will." The nurse said, making it seem like a simple statement of fact. A moment later he stood straighter, looking out at the road leading down to the church. Carl followed Roger's gaze, quickly locking on the long black car as it passed behind the trees. Roger turned to him, his hand landing on Carl's shoulder again. "Here she comes. We should get inside."

* * *

THE DAY OF THE ATTACK

Stelling had relented to Carl's request for 5 more minutes with a small nod, easing back from the bed to leave him to it. He turned to look at Mark, or more particularly the rapid infuser.

"Go ahead with another full round of blood products."

"This'll be all we have." The nurse warned.

"Jones will be here." Carl told him. Not that it would matter if they didn't get Anna back by the time the red bags were empty.

Through the conversation Carl's hands had continued to squeeze Anna's heart, palms and fingers pumping the otherwise inactive muscle. He feel the blood in the chambers, a glance at the monitor telling him that Anna's blood pressure, above the aortic clamp at least, was almost at a normal level. They, He, just needed that heart in his grasp to beat on its own.

He glanced at the clock. 2 of those 5 minutes had slid by already. It was so hard to tell time when everyone was so quiet. And when there was so little else to do. It also meant it had been 4 since the last round of adrenaline.

"Get me another round of epi." He said to Trish. "Inject it directly into her heart."

It was a desperate measure. It was a more desperate time. This was already one round beyond the usual maximum. She'd probably bled a few rounds out before they stopped the worst bleeding. As a justification for breaking protocol, it wasn't the best. However, the protocol was based on evidence. Any epi beyond the maximum showed no clear difference to outcomes. But if, technically, that maximum amount hadn't truly made it into her system, maybe giving her one more would make a difference.

Carl kept up the compressions while Trish filled the syringe, and stepped up beside him. "Right in there." He indicated with his finger, while still compressing. He was pointing just below where the coronary arteries branched from the aorta, and did his best to keep Trish’s target still as he made sure blood still flowed. The sheer size of the aorta would mean some, maybe even most of the drug would be sent elsewhere, but it also meant the whole heart itself would receive a decent dose at the same time.

Carl desperately hoped it would be enough.

He watched Trish guide the point of the needle towards the indicated point. Her hands were tightly controlled, not even a single tremor. The needle pierced the aorta just above the ventricle, sliding in just a tiny distance. Trish held the barrel with one hand, keeping the tip of the needle where it needed to be, and eased the plunger in with the other. Carl's massage pushed the drug into her system, and her heart.

Trish extracted the needle, stepping clear of Anna's chest, limiting any potential to accidently introduce an infection, in the increasingly vain hope that Anna would survive long enough for that to be a concern. Carl had hoped for an immediate response to the adrenaline, but Anna's heart didn't react.

Come on baby. Come on. Come back to me. Come back to me baby.

He repeated variations on that refrain in his head as he stared at her face.

He never even noticed the moment he started saying it out loud.

"Carl....Carl!"

Everything looked hazy, until he blinked away his tears. As his vision cleared he became aware of everything.

Sarah was sobbing. She'd detached the ambubag and dropped it next to Anna's head. The monitor behind him continued to scream, Anna was still asystolic. Her heart refused to even twitch. It laid there in his hands, lifeless, just like the rest of her body.

The surgeons had stopped working. He raised his head, to see Jones stood inside the trauma room, a large bag slung over one arm. His other was wrapped around Lucy as she buried her face in his shoulder. Trish laid her hand on Carl's elbow. He couldn't look at her.

Instead, his gaze drifted towards Stelling. He didn't expect it, but she looked broken. Her eyes glistened with her own tears. "Carl, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She took a shuddering breath. "It's been 35 minutes. I...I have to call it." She looked at the clock, one hand gripping part of the sheets in a knot. "Time..." Her voice cracked. "Time of death, 04:17"

* * *

Anna was able to feel Carl's compressions. But not much else. Her abdomen no longer existed to her senses. She did not feel her lungs inflating. The pulses from those compressions had slipped beyond her. She only felt the physical squeezing of her heart by his hands. And even that was fading away from her.

Please don't stop.

Her mental voice had barely the strength of a whisper.

Don't let me go.

She felt so insignificant. She tried to cling to that feeling of her heart being massaged, but it too was beginning to fade. Even though she was in a lightless void, a greater darkness seemed to be drawing in around her.

The squeezing of her heart stopped. Not like her sense of it faded away. It simply stopped.

They had stopped.

No...

She whimpered as that final darkness started to rush in at her.

* * *

Carl's world was ending. Tears tracked down his face, soaking into his mask. He looked at her blank face, her empty eyes.

She can't be gone.

But she was. Her heart, cradled in his hands, lay totally still.

He heard others crying around him, in a far off, disconnected way. He couldn't move, his body frozen.

She's gone. Anna's gone.

* * *

I'm so sorry Carl

The rushing darkness was close to snuffing her out completely. Close to erasing everything she was. Her memories of the past. Her feelings in the present. Her hopes for the future.

No.

All those dreams of times with Carl. Of love. Family. Life.

Not like this.

She wasn't pleading.

She was pissed.

I won't leave him! You hear me! I will NOT go!

Anger had never really come easily to her. It had always seemed like a waste of energy.

Now, she raged, pulling on every memory, every emotion. Every dream.

You think I'm just going to let you take all of that from me?!

She roared at the eternal darkness.

FUCK YOU!

She drew all her rage into a single point and cast it out like a supernova, a brilliant flash in the darkness.

* * *

Anna's heart twitched in his hands. For a long moment he thought he had imagined it. Then it quivered, wriggled, and began to squirm. Carl's head snapped around to the monitor, that persistent whine had gone, replaced by the two tone alarm, and a coarse v-fib was juddering along the screen.

"Charge to 50!" He called out, spinning around to grab the wand like paddles.

"Carl..." He heard Stelling saying something, but he blocked her out. Thankfully Trish had set and charged the defib.

Carl turned to back to Anna, plunging the paddles into her open chest, placing them around her shivering heart.

"Clear!" He shouted, even though no one was touching her. They'd all stood back after giving up.

He pressed the buttons.

Anna's heart spasmed once as the shock jolted through, the muscles throughout her chest giving a tiny jerk. Time almost stopped. Anna's heart fell still. For an agonising, endless moment, it stayed still.

Then it moved.

A co-ordinated contraction, first the atria, then the ventricles.

The monitor bleeped, once, twice, three times. It continued bleeping.

And Anna's heart continued beating.

* * *

She's alive.

Carl finally breathed again, his brain buzzing as thoughts ran into one another. But that was the most important one.

Anna's alive!

"Get the vest! We need to cool her down!" He shouted. Her body was alive, he needed to keep her brain that way too. He looked beside him to Edwards, wordlessly asking for an update.

"Renal artery is grafted, it'll hold for long enough." She said. "We can pack the rest and give her a few hours at least." She said, with a relieved sigh.

"Keep that infuser going, just like you have been." Carl told Mark. It wasn't much of an apology for his earlier forcefulness, but the nurse nodded, his expression offering forgiveness.

"Carl." It was Stelling again. "You need to leave her to us."

"Not yet."

"Now." She didn't shout, but her voice held the same unyielding command he often used. Unsurprising really. He'd learned it from her. "I can forgive your actions so far. But it's time to step aside." She held his gaze for a moment, then looked down at Anna. "We'll do everything we can. I promise."

A small part of his mind snarled at that. She had literally declared the love of his life dead. But he knew the senior doctor well. Where there was real hope, she would fight for her patients. Anna had that hope now.

Finally, Carl stepped back from the bed. His knee's trembled, and he had to place a hand on the crash cart to steady himself for a moment. The last hour had been a chaotic, terrifying, adrenaline rush. With Anna back, and nothing left for him to do, it finally started to hit him. He pulled off the glasses, mask, and gloves, letting them drop to the floor as the nurses followed their orders. He only had eyes for Anna.

Before the bed got too busy he slipped around to the top of the bed, next to Sarah. The nurse was still taking shaky breaths, but she had reattached the ambu-bag. She eased to one side for him, letting him close enough to lean down over Anna's head.

"I love you Anna Swift." He breathed, as he laid a quick gentle kiss on her forehead. "I love you."

He stood straighter, moving out of the way as the nurses arranged the cooling vest. The surgeons were working both sites, packing sterile gauze into her chest and abdomen and preparing to cover the sites temporarily before they took her to the operating theatre. They left the aortic clamp in place for now. He watched on as the whole team worked together to gently lift her up enough to slide the vest underneath her, extracting her shredded clothing at the same time.

He could feel himself trembling, the shock ramping up as he found himself unable to take his eyes off the blood soaked bundle that had been dumped on the floor. He jumped when Stelling put her hand on his arm. "Carl." She said quietly, the stony voice of his boss replaced by the compassion of a friend. "Go and get cleaned up. We'll let you know if anything changes." He struggled to nod, but the comforting squeeze Stelling gave his arm helped.

His legs felt like lead, and there was a constant ringing in his ears. He had to keep glancing at the monitor to confirm it wasn't an alarm as he backed out of the trauma room. Though the windows he watched as they got the vest wrapped around Anna's body and switched the ambu bag for a ventilator. It was one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do, but he finally dragged himself down the hall enough to take her from his view.

* * *

He shuffled down the corridor, pushing through the doors and heading for the staff room. He ignored all of the stares at his bloody clothes. All the questions from nurses and doctors. The words themselves didn't penetrate, but it was clear they knew now that it was Anna in trauma 3. His lack of response probably didn't help them, but he simply couldn't.

He finally made it to the staff room. He trudged to his locker, fingers refusing to cooperate as he manipulated the lock. Eventually he pulled it open. A change of clothes hung there, but he ignored them. Instead, his hands went to his jacket, finding a small box inside one of the pockets. His hand clamped around it, pulling it out.

It was all too much. He staggered back until he managed to brace his hand on one of the sofas, then he sank down until he sat on the floor. His mind was spinning beyond his, beyond anyone’s control. He'd come so close to losing her. He still might.

 He wept.

 He didn't know how many people came through. They said things to him. Gave comforting squeezes on his shoulders. An occasional one sided hug. Some sat by him for a time. It all just passed him by. He simply stared at the bank of lockers. At one in particular. Anna's. Daylight started shining through the lone window, casting a wedge of light across the lockers. To his perception it seemed to jump across lockers in small movements as the sun rose. The rest of the time all he saw was Anna laying on the landing covered in blood. Anna mouthing three words to him. Anna staring past him. Anna with a tube shoved down her throat. Anna receiving deep compressions. Anna with her chest open and her heart in his hands.

Finally, someone managed to break through to him. They had been sat beside him for a while. And he'd been vaguely aware of a conversation between the one next to him and someone else. He just wanted them to go away. To leave him alone. But they wouldn't. The person moved to kneel in front of him.  

"Carl. Come on mate." He said, shaking Carl's shoulder, first gently then more aggressively. "Don't make me slap you."

Carl blinked, his eyes finally moving to look at Roger.

The nurse let out a breath. "Good. Listen. She's out of surgery. She's still with us. You hear me? She's still with us."

Carl tried to reply, but his mouth was dryer than the Sahara. He opted for a nod.

"That's it. They're gettin' her situated in the ICU, but you're going to have to change before they let you in, yeah?"

Carl glanced down at himself. The blood, Anna’s blood, on his clothing had dried, turning to a coppery colour. He gave another nod. Roger stood, and held out a hand, helping to haul Carl to his feet. Pain shot through his back and legs. The physical sensations helped to pull Carl back together more than the words. He must have winced or groaned.

"Yeah, 6 hours sat on the floor will do that to you." The nurse said, trying for a bit of levity.

It had been that long? Roger kept him steady as Carl found his feet. He finally parted his hands. The small box had left deep indentations in his palms, but he kept it from view. He started towards his still open locker.

"I'll get those. You get into the shower."

Carl's knees protested, but he took a step. He clapped a hand on Roger's shoulder and gave him a nod. He tried to say something but couldn't find the words. He just nodded again.

The nurse reached up and mirrored Carl's gesture. "It's ok mate. I know."

Carl slowly made his way to the shower, not letting the small box out of his grasp, as awkward as it made the process.

* * *

Carl sat beside the ICU bed. Machines whirred and whooshed and chirped around him. But he could only look at the figure on the bed. Anna looked a mess. But an alive mess. The ET tube was still held in her mouth by the tube holder, and she was wrapped up in the cooling vest. He could just see the bandages through the translucent material, taped over her chest and abdomen. But her skin had colour to it, her lips were pink.

The neurologist had been to examine her, but the findings were inconclusive. There was some damage. She'd been in cardiac arrest for more than half an hour. Nobody was getting through that unscathed. But at this point they had no way to tell just what had been affected, or how bad it was. The EEG monitor was encouraging though. A halo of electrodes ringed her hairline, the wires running to the screen that showed good steady spikes. Neurology wasn't his department, he couldn't interpret them to any significant degree, but he knew one thing. Spiky brain waves meant she wasn't brain dead.

A nurse was fluttering around the machines, checking readings, adjusting levels. Carl said nothing while she was there. He simply held Anna's hand. It chilled his fingers a little, with the vest covering her completely, but he could withstand that. Eventually the nurse wrote one last thing on the chart, and with a small smile, she slipped out of the room. Carl watched her go. Then his hand slipped into his pocket.

"I'm sorry." He said to Anna, almost pretending she wasn't unconscious. "I lied to you, earlier." He took a shuddering breath as he pulled out the small box. He shifted her hand, exposing her fingers, and cradled it as he placed the box half in his hand, half in hers. "About the accountants."

He sighed. He could feel the tears prickling his eyes again. "My grandfather. He did leave me a trust, but they didn't need managed. Not today. Or yesterday, I guess." He said with a chuckle that almost became a sob. "He left me a trust that I was only to use for three things. Education. A home. And..."

Carl looked up at Anna's face. Her beautiful face. His heart ached, desperate to see those eyes open.

"And a ring." He whispered, gently opening the small box.

Inside laid a gold band, wide, but not excessively so. With a series of small stones set into the band itself, forming a palindrome of ruby, sapphire, diamond, sapphire, ruby.

He'd seen her admiring it in the window of the jewellers. Seen her wide eyes and radiant smile. That reaction told him everything he needed to know. She wanted him just as much as he wanted her. And that ring was the perfect one for his perfect partner.

"So please. Anna, baby I'm begging you. Please wake up so I can put it on your finger."

* * *

13 MONTHS LATER

Gravel crunched beneath the wheels of the black car as it made its way down to the church. Flowers adorned the trees that lined the trail, bouquets of pink and white. It was a long trail, almost frustrating by the time it pulled up outside the main door. Anna struggled to contain her excitement as her dad stepped out and rounded the back, coming up to her door and helping her out of the vehicle. Anna hid the wince, the scars were still a little tight, but she could bare it, especially today.

"Are you ready Petal?" He asked, looking her in the eyes.

She nodded, struggling to find any appropriate words, before realising that words were mostly meaningless. She reached out and pulled him into a hug.

He chuckled. "I'm so proud of you." He said into her hair. His voice was thick, heavy with love, true pride, and tinged with the memory of how she was a year ago. " Let's go." He whispered, as they both heard the first few notes from the organ.

As they walked into the church Anna was comforted by the steadfast presence of her father. She might have been adopted, but he was her father. Her hand laid on his arm gently, but he held it firm, ready, just in case. It had been a long year, and she was still recovering. The tingles and numbness in her right side could still come unexpectedly.

They stopped just inside the outer door, beneath the stone vaulting. Literal centuries of brides had stood right there, waiting for the right moment in the music. Trish was there, along with Anna's niece and a young boy, barely even 4 years old, one of Carl's cousins. Trish was already crying, a huge smile on her face. She approached tentatively, but Anna accepted the hug without tottering. It was Trish's turn to be unable to speak. She pulled back, nodded, still with the big smile, and hugged Anna again.

"You're going to make me late..." Anna whispered to her.

Trish finally retreated with a shared grin, and the organ music launched into the main theme. Trish shepherded the children around the corner, leaving Anna and her father in the vestibule, waiting for the cue. Her dad laid his hand upon hers, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"Let's go kiddo."

The music came around to 'the moment' and Anna stepped onto the aisle confidently. She looked around, greeted by the sight of so many familiar faces. Plenty of family, hers and Carl's. Colleagues and friends, the line there was pretty blurred. She didn't want to consider the bill for agency staff the hospital was taking. They hadn't complained though. Perhaps it was the trusts idea of a wedding gift. Even Dr Stelling was there.

It didn't matter how many times Anna told the trauma lead that she understood her actions, the senior doctor was endlessly apologetic. It was genuinely becoming annoying. Part of Anna wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her while screaming 'You don't need to apologise again! I would have done the same thing!' She was glad Stelling had allowed Carl to give her that last jolt, but...ugh, I'm over it, why aren't you, she thought.

The steady arm suddenly felt firmer, and Anna caught herself. She hoped nobody noticed. That was the biggest lingering issue. If she got distracted her mind could float off and leave her limbs behind. Totally normal, for someone who had been dead for half an hour, apparently. In time it would hopefully get better. It was still irritating.

But it did force her to focus, and what a sight it was. Carl stood before the altar, in a frankly ...mmmmfff... fitting suit. She was sure she hadn't forgotten a word, an embarrassingly common occurrence in the last year. For once she knew what she saw was beyond such petty things as words.

Many would say it was a pretty standard suit. But with Carl in it... How do you clothe the perfect man?

He'd been the first face she truly saw when she awoke. He'd held her as emotions pulled her apart and she dragged herself back together again, a beacon when communication was almost impossible. He'd held her arm as she took her first steps on wasted legs, steadied her as she relearned balance. He read her favourite books aloud to ease her off to sleep despite the beeps and bongs of various monitors. He had taken her home, to their home, and cradled her when the nightmares came. As she gradually returned to who she once was, he was there. Always waiting, ironically she reflected, patiently, until she was ready for the next step.

It had been a long year, and at times it was terribly hard. But it only served to deepen their love for each other. The ring was on her finger throughout. And, once her recovery permitted, they'd been able to have some moments of ... fun. Considering they were both employed in the medical profession, they ought to have seen it coming. They'd both been terrified when the doctor asked them to come and double check some results from a routine post-'event' exam.

Anna's hand drifted towards her belly, where the bump was only just starting to show, and Carl's joined it as she alighted the small set of steps up to the altar. His fingers lingered for only a moment though, they had ceremonial obligations to fulfil. Anna watched the embrace between Carl and her father, and realised just how bonded the two had become. If, in some bizarro universe she ever tried to divorce Carl, she had no idea who her father would choose.

Roger's presence behind Carl was also an element she would never have foreseen. They'd been colleagues, sure enough. But something around the 'event' had changed their relationship on a fundamental level. Men. They were weird.

And then Carl took her hands, and it was just the two of them. Nobody else mattered. The vicar was giving his spiel, and Anna was slyly glad she could blame the 'event' for her distraction when it came to the parts that actually needed her input. The truth was she didn't care for anything else but him. His eyes. His smile. Him, standing there before her. It took her a moment to realise what the vicar had said, until Carl unfolded a piece of paper. His voice barely wavered as he read out the handwritten vows, and Anna's heart became physically, metaphorically, and eternally, his.

THE END

* * *

There we go, didn’t want to say this upfront in case of spoiling it, but I hope I made some people reading cry as much I did when writing. It’s the ending I always had in mind but it was so intense to write. Hard but exhillirating. I was up to 2:30am doing the first draft because I was so into it. I sincerely hope everyone enjoyed this series, and I will be back with more stories from Anna and Carl eventually.

[nightmare-niko]

The Untold Tales of Echo Valley

Chapter one

Warnings: mentions of death, cursing, minors drinking alcohol/ smoking, vampire themes(blood violence etc), potential gruesome imagery

Copying or translating my writing is not allowed. If you see my work on another site it is stolen. Reblogs are appreciated and encouraged.

The large moss covered castle looms in the distance as Valentina Morgan drives through the fog covered streets of Echo Valley. The engine of her 1969 Mustang hums, drowning out the sound of her neatly manicured fingernails anxiously tapping on her steering wheel. She doesn't want to go back to school, not after the incident, and not after last night's dream. But she would rather spend her days in the busy Echo Valley Preparatory school than in her cold and empty castle back home in Romania.

The road was fairly empty, like it always was. Valentina wished the roads were full of traffic and life, she’d feel safer that way. As she approaches the castle, the once thick fog thins. To the outside view, Echo Valley Prep looked like a bland and boring school.

To the rest of the world, the town of Echo Valley was a small backroad town full of hillbillies and rednecks. But to the residents of Echo Valley, it was a beautiful town full of life and energy. The land around the school was green and beautiful, it was full of grass plots and cobblestone roads. There wasn't a parking lot or convenient store in sight, only small family owned businesses. Just like towns used to be before capitalism.

A chill runs down her neck as she pulls her car to the side of the winding road by the girls' dorms. Is it too late to turn back?

“Val!” The familiar husky voice of her best friend snaps Valentina out of her panicked state. Emerson Chatam was a reserved girl, many people knew her as one of the quiet loner girls. Her peers thought she was strange, everyone but Valentina. “You're back! No one thought you were gonna be here today!” She pokes her head into Valentinas rolled down window. “Everyone but me of course, I knew you couldn’t resist, princess.”

Princess was the nickname given to Valentina by Emerson the first time they met. When she let it slip that over one thousand years ago she was royalty, the teasing was relentless. But know, three years later, princess was a name only for Emerson. Val was Ems princess, no one else’s.

“Yeah well, i didn't want to come back but,” Valentina shrugs. “This old castle is way better than my old castle.” She gets out of the car and leans up against the door.

“Still shaken up from that night?”

“I don't wish to talk about it. Not yet.” Her once thick Romanian accent know dull with time. Spending all of her time in Echo Valley made her feel normal. As normal as a centuries old vampire in a seventeen year old girl's body could feel.

Valentina takes a moment to take in Emerson’s new look. When she last saw her best friend, she had short blonde hair and dressed just as plain as every other regular student in Echo Valley Prep. But these days, many months later, her hair was back to its natural light brown, and it was longer. She wore black thick squared glasses and her once basic style now screamed ‘mysterious loner girl’. With the same busted up converse and tattered jeans, Emerson was cool now.

“New look, huh?” She fixes the tangled necklaces hanging from Emersons neck.

“Yeah, my moms sent this box of a bunch of their old things, there's some things you might like you can look through.”

The Chatam sisters were like a second family to Valentina. She only had brothers, and she was the youngest of her family. But with Emerson and her younger sister Wayland, she felt like their older sister and she loved them just as much. The two witches were seen as the weird girls. Valentina and her brother were popular, Val was the captain of the school's cheer team, and Caius was the jock type. Valentina and Emerson were an odd pair, but they worked.

“I'm glad you're back. Really.” Emerson takes Vals hand gently into hers. “And I'm sure the others would be too, especially Jonah.”

The name makes her blood run cold, colder than normal. Jonah was a young warlock who Valentina cared for greatly. When she left nearly four months ago without notice, she knew that Jonah was going to be the most affected.

Valentina clears her throat, “we should go inside, where’s your truck? I can help you with your things.” She dodges the subject.

“Uh, I actually stayed here for the semester break. No point in going home when I can have the witch's floor all to myself?”

The dorms were located in the towers of the castle. The boys had the front two towers, overlooking the south woods. The girls had the back two, facing the west woods and the creak. Each dorm tower was separated by floor, the most dangerous vampires and werewolves were on the top two floors. Witches and warlocks on the bottom floors and the vampires and werewolves that were not deemed a threat occupied the middle floors.

“You just wanted a place to smoke without getting caught.” Valentina kicks off her car and walked to the trunk to get her bag.

“Damn straight, princess” Emersons lips curve up into a mischievous smile. The two girls make their way towards the castle.

“So uh, what are the odds you've got something strong enough for this old lady?” The question was out of character for Valentina, but she didnt care. Her cheer team friends would freak if they found out, and she would get kicked off the team. But Valentina also knew that her cheer friends probably didn't even realize she had gone home because it wasn't cheer season.

“Something strong enough for my princess? Of course I do.” Emerson links her arm with Valentina as they make their way into the tower.

[paenling]

a fort of lovers’ teeth

I was chosen as a backup gifter for the Phandom Holiday Truce! This is a gift for @bubblegumbeech​ :)

[Ao3 Link]

Word Count:  9114 Warnings: Horror elements, supernatural violence, some scary imagery

At the moment Star looked up, several things happened at once. The pleasant autumn evening turned bitter, raising a ripple of gooseflesh on her bare arms. Her skin crawled; an almost-touch slid down her spine, prickling between her shoulders. The wind ran its claws through her hair. A strange pressure stole the air from her lungs.

And Paulina was gone.

(Full text below the cut!)

Paulie was waiting for Star when she got off work at the mall. They walked shoulder to shoulder on the way out to the parking lot, chatting idly as they went. Star wrestled with her bike lock in the pink light of the setting sun, but basked a little in the warm rise and fall of her girlfriend’s voice.

“It’s not too late for dinner,” said Paulina beside her, “if you’re up for it. We can also pick it up and eat at your place if you’d rather be in your pajamas.”

Star shot off a quick text to her parents to let them know she was with Paulina, then bent to unzip her bag and put the lock away. “No, no, I don’t mind sitting down. It’s been way too long since we went out,” she replied. “Did you still want to go to that new—” 

At the moment Star looked up, several things happened at once. The pleasant autumn evening turned bitter, raising a ripple of gooseflesh on her bare arms. Her skin crawled; an almost-touch slid down her spine, prickling between her shoulders. The wind ran its claws through her hair. A strange pressure stole the air from her lungs.

And Paulina was gone.

Star leapt to her feet, not caring that her bike fell to the pavement with a clatter. She sucked in a shaky breath and cast about, only to find the lot was empty. No people, no cars. The nearest street lamp guttered but didn’t go out. Its light was cold and dim, easily outstripped by the fullness of the moon. She looked back down. Paulina’s pink bike was still leaned halfway up against the rack, lock unfastened and swinging limply, as though it had been dropped. As though the hands touching it had simply vanished.

A sickening chill washed over her and tears pricked at Star’s eyes, but she steeled herself. This was Amity Park, after all. Weird things happened all the time here. Buildings and vehicles tended to get damaged or destroyed, and that was scary, but almost nobody ever actually got hurt, she tried to reassure herself. It didn’t work; this felt different. 

Ghosts wanted attention from the living, but Paulie had vanished without a sound. Something was wrong.

The street light flickered a little more insistently, dimming almost to nothing before popping back to its expected brightness as though nothing had been wrong with it. The next lamp started to dim and flash, then the next, then another—a quickening trail, leading away from the mall. Whatever had taken Paulina was moving.

Star fought her trembling limbs to right her bike and mount it. As she gave chase, the flickering lights began to move faster. The icy air burned in her lungs, but she stood on her pedals and pumped her legs regardless. What she was going to do when she caught up to the thing, Star wasn’t sure, but she knew she had to keep up with it—no one would know where Paulina had gone if she didn’t. 

When the distance between them finally threatened to close, the invisible ghost leapt ahead of her with a burst of energy and a bang like a gunshot. The bulb over her head exploded. Star shouted and swerved to avoid a rain of shattered glass, but her front tire slipped off the curb. 

Her bike slid out from under her, the top tube crashing between her legs in a starburst of eye-watering pain. The bike tipped over and Star kept going forward without it, skinning her chin and forearms on the asphalt as she went.

It took untold ages for her to come to a stop, and even longer for the world to quit spinning around her. Her racing heart screamed with urgency, but her limbs wouldn’t cooperate, and it was all she could do to grit her teeth until her body finally forgave her. Breathless and swearing, Star rolled onto her back. She propped herself up and craned her neck, squinting into the row of street lights ahead of her. 

None of them so much as winked. Star let herself collapse onto her back with a strangled sob. She’d lost them. 

What could she do? Call the Fentons? She sat up again and fumbled through her pockets for her phone, but sometime between leaving the mall and getting here it had gone from half-full to entirely dead. The lights, the chill—the ghost must have sucked the power out. What now? She swore and glanced over to her bike, sprawled out on its side like roadkill. 

Her phone was out, but she could go to Fentonworks and get help directly, she decided. As much as the crash had hurt, nothing was broken, and her bike didn’t look seriously damaged. She could ride again. That could work. She started to get up, but for the second time that evening the air was stolen from her lungs.

A sudden absence appeared in the space beside her, a frigid photonegative of human presence. It rippled into the visible spectrum, looming and backlit by unearthly green light. A ghost.

She shrieked and scrambled back, groping for something to defend herself with. Her fingers closed on a decent-sized shard of glass, thick and sharp. Star brandished it in front of her even as it cut into her palms, heart thundering in her ears. Not that it would do anything against something already dead, she thought bitterly. Oh—she was going to die, wasn’t she?

“Star?” The voice, despite its hair-raising harmonies of electric discharge and radio static, was familiar enough to punch the fight right out of her—or most of it, anyway. “Are you okay?” 

His pale irises left afterimages like radium floodlights, tracking her with concern, or at least interest. Cast in the vibrating shadow of his own ghostly aura, his downturned mouth glowed in the dark as though under blacklight. It somehow managed to bare just as many teeth as his usual Cheshire grin. Despite the uncommon expression on his face, there was no mistaking him.

“Phantom?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” He lurched into her space and pulled the glass from her hands—intangibly through her hands, she realized after a beat, because they were still clenched into red-streaked fists. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine,” she said. She knew she was a mess, but she had to try.

Phantom leaned in far too close for comfort. He huffed icy breath in her face, anxious green tongue flicking out past his lips. His attention lingered conspicuously on the stains between her aching fingers. “You’re bleeding. Go home and get that looked at, there’s—”

“A ghost? I know.” She set her jaw and pointed past the broken street lights. “I think it went that way, and I’m coming with you.”

Phantom narrowed his eyes and backed off, albeit unhappily. “Are you crazy?” He hissed, lips peeled back to reveal vibrant green gums and fangs as long as her fingers. “No way! This ghost is new. I don’t know what they want or how they’ll take it when I tell them ‘no.’ Not risking it.”

Star felt the need to point out that, for all the people in Amity Park who loved their resident Phantom to bits and trusted him implicitly, they always did so from a very safe distance.

Even if she’d long since outgrown that unfortunate crush, maybe it said something about Paulina’s dubious attraction to men that this was the only guy she'd ever really been into—ambiguously posthuman nightmare fuel with far more teeth than sense. In blurry photos and distorted phone footage it was easy to insert the image of a dashing white-haired youth, just an upstanding guy with ghost powers, but in person it was very clear he was anything but. 

Star would be lying if she said she was never glad to have him around, but she held fast to her reservations. Someone had to. Right then and there, close enough to count his white eyelashes in the dark, she wasn’t especially willing to change that.

Ordinarily, she’d cut her losses and leave it at that. But for Paulina? Star was willing to test her luck.

“Listen,” she insisted. “I’m not asking. I’m coming with you. That thing has—it has Paulina! And I’m not leaving her behind, especially if it’s as dangerous as you say.”

All at once, Phantom’s aura of vague menace sharpened to a threatening point. Faint green sparks arced over his narrow shoulders. At first Star flinched, but as it settled she could tell by feeling alone that his anger was no longer directed at her. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t still lash out, though—he was still a ghost. Unpredictable, erratic, irrational.

“They took a hostage?” he breathed. The static beneath his voice crackled louder. He sounded enough like a Geiger counter for Star to edge away on principle.

Still, she nodded. “Please, Phantom. I need to know she’s okay.”

She hadn’t expected her begging to work, but the ghost softened immediately. His long ears drooped just the barest bit, and his lips relaxed to hide his teeth. “Dammit. Fine.”

“Really?” 

“You think we have time to argue? C’mon!”

He made a low sound like an idling motorcycle and wrapped his long black tail around her waist. Reflexively, Star threw out a hand to brace herself against him and immediately recoiled, shivering and revulsed. He was impossibly smooth to the touch and so cold beneath her palm he almost felt wet. She wiped her hand on her shirt to try and escape the sensation of slime between her fingers, but nothing came off.

“Jeez, I showered this morning,” Phantom quipped, but it was clear his heart wasn’t in it. He gently tightened his tail under her armpits and hoisted her to her feet. Each motion was delicate, but Star couldn’t help the jump of her heart, the fear of being constricted. As soon as her legs were under her, thankfully, he withdrew and offered up his hand instead.

“Can you track them down?” Star asked. She hooked her arm around his elbow with an ill-repressed shudder.

“Sure can,” he chirped, but that false cheer did little to disguise the tautness in his grip. Ghosts weren’t supposed to have things like tendons or bones, but they also weren’t supposed to exist, and Star was acutely aware of his tense bicep trembling against the crook of her arm. He seemed just as nervous as she was.

A prickling cold rippled over Star and she couldn’t keep from yelping. Her stomach swooped at the realization that gravity no longer applied to them, then dropped out of her entirely as the street fell away. She clung to Phantom despite herself, aching wherever his icy flesh touched her skin. Rooftops blurred below them and whatever time they’d wasted bickering was easily made up.

Almost as soon as they passed out of town limits Phantom pivoted. He exhaled a frigid plume of blue vapor, breath rattling, and turned sharply perpendicular to the highway.

“Down there?” Star asked. “In the woods?”

He answered her with static. It was something like garbled radio chatter that resolved only vaguely into words she understood. “Yeah. Getting close now. Don’t be scared.”

Was she afraid? Despite all the ways Phantom unsettled her, she found herself feeling relatively safe in his presence. He was dangerous, but not to her, at least not then. Whether he was capable of real altruism or not really didn’t matter, even if the Drs. Fenton insisted otherwise. Star didn’t care if he was secretly selfish as long as he kept people safe when it came down to the wire—and he did, so she wasn’t really worried for herself.

Wind groaned through the browning leaves, and branches reached towards them like talons as they descended into a bank of fog. She was worried, though.

Taking hostages didn’t work if there was nobody to ransom with. That it stole her in relative secret meant this ghost wanted something with Paulina, and that terrified Star. It hadn’t been long since she’d been taken, less than ten minutes at most, but anyone from Amity Park could tell you just how fast a motivated ghost could work. Dread swelled in her heart at the thought of what might have already happened in that short time—what she might discover when Paulina was finally found.

Star drew her free arm up around herself, shivering in the chill. 

She startled when Phantom shifted without warning to hold her against his breastbone instead of his side. His response was immediate: the aural static that followed him rippled, white noise giving way to something more purposeful, a steady, rhythmic thrum like the purr of a big cat. He put both long-fingered hands on her shoulders and squeezed gently, stroking with his thumbs. Star realized, between the touch and the vibration, that he was trying to soothe her.

“She’s probably not hurt,” Phantom said more clearly, though his echoing voice was still an octave lower than usual, warped strangely around the oscillating rumble in his chest. “I don’t smell any blood.” 

It was meant as a reassurance, clearly, but Star’s brain just stuck on the fact that he could.

“Okay,” she breathed. “Alright.”

It was undoubtedly a night for ghosts. Under the cover of the trees the pale moonlight only hit the ground in patches. Not sure what she was landing on, Star wobbled in the dark when she was lowered to the ground. Everything else was cast in deep purple shadows that invented ominous silhouettes from the bracken and moss. 

Phantom’s tail turned to legs when he touched down in front of her, heavy white boots perfectly soundless even as Star snapped twigs and rustled through the leaf litter. The length of his tail had obscured his true height while they were flying, so she was surprised and a little disturbed to realize he was shorter than her. He didn’t look back but kept cocking his head, tipping one pointed ear or the other towards her to verify her presence. Then they walked in silence. 

A little while seemed to stretch on forever until Phantom stopped short. He paused, shivered, and huffed out a billowing puff of blue vapor. Star was too late to hold her breath before she walked right into the cloud—and into Phantom’s back. Alarmed, she clapped her hands over her mouth and stumbled away, unwilling to breathe it in and risk making any more noise.

He whirled, hands raised as though to placate her. “Hey, shh! You’re fine. It’s just my ghost sense, alright? Means we’re getting warmer.”

She took a tiny sip of air. It tingled and chilled her throat like menthol, but otherwise didn’t bother her, so Star allowed herself a bigger breath. “Sorry.”

Phantom just shrugged. Though green sparks leapt over the ridge of his spine and danced between the white spikes of his hair, which stood on end like raised hackles, he didn’t lash out.

Instead, he sucked the lingering blue mist in through his mouth and swished it around, then blew it back out of his nose. She wasn’t sure if he was smelling, tasting, or employing some entirely different ghost-exclusive sense for which Star had no analogue—but either way it seemed to tell him something, because he nodded to himself and stalked ahead of her with newfound certainty.

He led her to a clearing under a sheer rock face that was overgrown with moss—and sheltered beneath it, the narrow entrance to a cave. Already claustrophobic at the thought of it, Star shuddered.

“Is Paulina in there?”

“Pretty sure,” he replied through another puff of icy mist. “The other ghost totally reeks, so I can’t sense her real well—but she’s definitely close.”

“Okay. Do you—” she swallowed. “Do you have a plan?”

“Not a great one,” he admitted, “but yeah. I’m gonna be loud, go off on ‘em for crashing my haunt. Once the fighting starts, I’ll need you to grab Paulina and book it back to town while we’re busy.” He paused to look over his shoulder, lambent eyes meeting hers with eerie intensity. “Can you do that, Star?”

Star nodded. “I… think so.”

“If you’re not sure where to run,” he added, “‘away’ is a good place to start. Worst case scenario I’ll find you guys after and take you back myself.”

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

At his nod she darted out from the cover of the trees and up to the mouth of the cave. Her heart sank at just how much narrower it was than it’d looked from afar. Assuming she could fit in at all, she’d have to shimmy sideways into the fissure.

“Hello? Is somebody out there? Hey! ¡Ayúdame!”

“Paulie!” Star cried. “Paulie, it’s me!”

Before she could answer Phantom shot past her, phasing intangibly into the dark crawlspace. Then, just as suddenly, he burst out again—this time with Paulina under his arm. He shoved her unceremoniously into Star’s arms and darted off without another word, but she found herself far too relieved to be bothered by his roughness.

“Paulie,” Star breathed, stroking her girlfriend’s tangled hair with both hands and swiping mud from her cheeks. “Paulina, what happened?”

“I don’t know!” She began, but didn’t finish. Her breath hitched painfully in her throat, escaping as an airy little whimper. Star turned around.

Paulina’s kidnapper was shrunken and blue-skinned, so miserably corpse-like that Phantom’s gaunt angles and radioactive pallor seemed positively robust by comparison. It hung belly-up and motionless in the air, disoriented for only a moment before its face twisted in rage. Righting itself, it lurched towards them, webbed hands thrust forward and groping.

Star shrieked and wrapped her arms around Paulina, striving in vain to shield the taller girl with her body. The moment hung suspended. Every shuddering breath carried weight like rolling thunder, a backdrop to the rapid drumbeat of her heart in her throat, hummingbird-fast like it yearned to escape her entirely. She didn’t want to die.

Then the moment collapsed. Claws swiped close enough that she could feel the disturbed air against her face, but it didn’t get the chance to try again—Phantom lunged in from the side and shoved the monster away.

The ghosts tumbled through the air in a snarling tangle of limbs before breaking apart to face one another. They howled and chattered in that uncanny language of the dead, teeth bared and aurae strobing against the night. 

Phantom’s thunderous aura of dielectric puncture and possessive indignation crashed against a visceral impression of rushing water, yawning depths too far down to see the sun. A roiling wave of alien emptiness nearly bowled Star over, making her heart pound and temples throb with pressure. She knew enough to realize the feeling wasn’t her own, but couldn't tell which ghost it had come from.

“I’m scared,” Paulina gasped, and Star remembered herself.

“We’re okay,” Star assured and kissed her sweaty forehead. Together they stumbled into the sparse cover of the trees, where she rushed to check for injuries. The sky above rumbled with thunder, and some first tentative drops of rain began to patter through the leaves. “Listen, Paulie, we’ve gotta go. They won’t stay distracted forever. Are you hurt?”

“Ah, a little,” said Paulina, voice trembling. “My ankle—I think I twisted it. But I’m—I’m okay, I think.” Her breath hitched and she slumped further. “I don’t know.”

Star looked down and her blood ran cold. Paulina’s left ankle had started to swell, definitely sprained if not broken. Already knowing the answer, she asked, “How far can you walk?”

“I’m sorry—I don’t know.” Her lip wobbled and a sob escaped her. “A little, maybe. Not far.”

Star just nodded mutely. There was no way she could carry Paulina all the way back to town by herself—but if she gauged where the fight was going, or even made a good guess, they could hobble the other way. Bit by bit would be better than nothing. That would be enough, she decided. It had to be enough. 

Adrenaline sang in her veins. She scrambled to get her shoulder properly under Paulina’s arm and hauled her to her feet, wincing at her stifled cries.

Even without the complication of injury, getting out of there was easier said than done. Like watching a car crash, she struggled to pull her gaze away from the fight. Just as much as a physical brawl, it was also a deafening psychic screaming match—one so horribly overwhelming that Star found herself almost mesmerized.

Daytime ghost battles were convincingly civil, all closed-fist martial arts and comic book one-liners. One could be forgiven for feeling protected when the town mascot was cracking puns. 

Under the cover of night, though? The rain was coming down harder now, and it was already near-impossible to tell just what the ghosts were doing through the thickening fog. Star still knew where they were, though—it felt like she could track them by ill intent alone. It really was like a horror movie.

The newcomer radiated a deeply wounded, covetous sort of hate that made Star suspect it was only recently dead and very, very mad about it. Phantom’s familiar protectiveness, on the other hand, was all tangled up with a frankly concerning sense of raw appetite so uncharacteristically virulent she nearly forgot that he was the one helping her. 

If she'd arrived from the outside, not knowing who was who, Star honestly wouldn’t have been able to say which ghost was “good.” 

Maybe it was the urgency of an injured human so nearby or an unknown enemy more so than the dark, but they fought like feral cats, all teeth and claws. It was expected of the rampaging newcomer, but Phantom was just as bad, and that shocked her more than she liked to admit. Star hadn’t even realized that Phantom had claws until he was lunging to swipe them at the other ghost’s belly, blue mist billowing from his unhinged jaw.

Lightning illuminated the fight in flashes. The kidnapper swung with clumsy, open-handed strikes, but there was wrathful power in its arms, each as thick around as Phantom’s waifish body. An unfamiliar voice howled over the thunder, bubbling and shrill like a drowning scream. Phantom trilled and darted out of reach, visibly flagging even at a distance.

It only took one bad dodge for the fight to turn around. He buckled after only a handful of hits, then writhed when the kidnapper tore at his hair with one hand—it wrapped the other around his neck. 

Star’s fear that he’d be strangled to death was assuaged only when the kidnapper wound up and threw him. Thunder boomed overhead. Paulina screamed in her ear when he slammed into the clearing where the girls had been only a minute before.

Ghosts didn’t need to breathe, but Phantom heaved. Greenish froth gathered at the downturned corners of his mouth. Looking rabid, he arched and spat ectoplasm, coughing wetly as he peeled himself out of a shallow crater in the mud. Battle-frenzy was obvious in his eyes.

Afraid that she’d somehow set him off if she so much as twitched, Star just froze. He was protecting them, he wouldn’t hurt him, he was helping—but Star couldn’t move. Paulina shook her shoulder, begging her to snap out of it, but Phantom had already seen them from across the clearing.

“Hey, what are you still doing here?!” He feigned a lunge and snapped his green-stained teeth for emphasis. “Get going!”

Any further reprimand was cut off when the other ghost appeared behind him. It grabbed Phantom by the ankle and yanked him back, dragging him on his belly through the mud and the leaves. He slid limply along, still staring her down with open desperation.

“Star!” Paulina cried. “You heard him!”

Her body finally began to move, but Star couldn’t stop Staring. Just when she was starting to worry he wouldn’t fight back, Phantom lurched up and twisted to throw an absolutely vicious punch. The blow snapped his enemy’s head sideways with a sickening crack. Glow guttering, it dropped like a stone, but Phantom wasn’t done. He dove after it.

That retaliatory aggression chased the interloper away from the hillside far better than anything else he’d done so far, and Star knew there would be no better window of opportunity.

“Sorry,” she gasped, and surged forward, carrying as much of Paulina’s weight as she could bear. 

Star was no slouch, and she had walked the woods before, but this was far beyond hiking trails. Between the mud sucking at their shoes and dead leaves made slippery by the rain, even the flatter sections proved to be nightmarish. The pair of them groped and stumbled through the dark, tripping on roots and sinking into the wet soil. Once their adrenaline-fueled scramble had finally taken them as far as it could, they collapsed together in a heap. 

After a moment to catch breath they crawled to take some meager shelter from the weather. Curled up and shivering beneath a looming black tree trunk, they held each other for a while. 

“Think you can try walking again?” Star eventually asked over the drone of the rain. A flash of greenish light flickered through the trees.

Paulina grimaced. “I don’t think so. It’s too slippery. Besides, where would we go? Do you know the way back to town?”

She shook her head. “Not even if it was light out.” A pause. Thunder crashed overhead. “We could use GPS. Do you have your phone with you? Mine died.”

“No, sorry. I think I dropped it in the parking lot or somewhere.”

“That’s okay. Probably no service now anyway,” Star said. She swallowed hard. “I think… We might just need to wait until somebody comes looking for us.”

“Don’t worry, cariña. The ghost boy will save us,” Paulina assured, despite everything. “I know he will.”

How can you possibly be so confident in that? Star didn’t ask. “I really hope so,” she said instead, hoping her voice seemed to tremble more from the cold than from her nerves. Clearly unfooled, Paulina leaned over to kiss her on the cheek.

Of the two of them, only Paulina had a jacket, so they each took a sleeve and pressed together beneath it to try and keep dry. Mumbling apologies and comforts alike, Star just rubbed Paulina’s arm in hopes of warming her up. Paulina ran her trembling fingers through Star’s wet hair, flinching into her whenever a distant shriek reminded them of the vicious fight still raging dangerously nearby.

Then it went silent.

Long minutes passed, measured only by the distant roll of thunder. The trees groaned in the wind, and the time grew impossible to tell once the moon slipped behind the clouds. It was still pouring when Phantom eventually came to find them. 

Diffused by the fog, the glow of his eyes bobbed unsteadily through the trees. Then came a weaker smear of diluted green from his dripping nose. Pale hair stood out next from the dark as he approached, surprisingly long over his face with its usual volume plastered down by the rainwater. Only about ten feet away did his silhouette finally resolve, revealing his whole front side caked with mud and leaves from being dragged across the ground. With his aura so dim he looked almost like a teen their age, miserable and shivering.

“Phantom!” Paulina cried. She yanked on Star’s arm as if to say I told you so. “There you are! Did you win?”

Nevermind his busted nose, he was limping badly enough to crack twigs on the way over. Nothing had dripped below his knee yet, but luminous ectoplasm beaded along a line on his trembling thigh, on the same side as Paulina’s sprained ankle.

“Yeah,” he croaked, wiping green blood from his lips with the back of his glove. “You okay?”

“We’re good now that you’re here,” exclaimed Paulina. It was made considerably less convincing by how heavily she leaned on Star as they stood up, and Phantom frowned down at her bad leg.

 “Her ankle is messed up,” Star supplied. “I think maybe sprained.”

Phantom scowled. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault. If I’d been faster you wouldn’t’ve gotten hurt like that… None of this would’ve happened.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Paulina assured. “Trust me, ghost boy, I’ve gotten worse from cheerleading. It’ll heal. But I’ve got to know, do you know why that thing went after us? Why it took me?”

“Honestly?” Clearly searching for words, Phantom stalled. When he hummed to fill the silence his voice came as an otherworldly buzz that made Star’s neck prickle. “Well… We, uh—I wasn’t really in a great place to ask, but I’m pretty sure you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. So the good news is you weren't targeted, I don’t think.” He hesitated, voice tapering to a vaguely electronic crackle as he trailed off. “So yeah.”

“The bad news?” Star prompted.

“Just that we can’t know for sure, I guess? So I’d keep my eyes peeled if I were you, and maybe think about getting your hands on a lipstick laser or a specter-deflector or something. Just in case.”

Paulina frowned at that. “But we’ll be okay, right?”

“Only after you get that looked at,” said Phantom, jerking his chin to her raised leg.

With that he took a hesitant step closer, reaching for each of them with blunt-fingered hands. Clearly unused to such familiar touch, his cheeks flushed deeply green when Paulina collapsed readily against his arm.

But, more importantly, Star eyed his injuries warily. She couldn’t tell if the sluggishly-bleeding cut was deep, but it looked long and ragged enough that he’d probably need stitches. With that in mind, it seemed prudent to point out that, “You’re pretty hurt yourself. Can you carry us both safely?”

Immediately sobering, Phantom straightened up and nodded. “I’m… fine,” he replied, a lie so obvious that even he cringed. He rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand, some kind of nervous tic, and amended, “Fine enough. Not gonna drop you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Of course not,” said Paulina. “Let’s get out of here.”

He frowned, but reoffered his unoccupied arm. Star hesitated—only for a fraction of a moment, but it was more than enough. The ghost stared at her half-raised hand like she’d just slapped him, cloudy green eyes twitching in their sockets as he scrutinized her. Star averted her gaze.

“Oh,” he eventually said, a little dumbly. “I scared you too, didn’t I?” He shook his head and muttered, “What am I saying? That’s stupid. I know I did.”

“Yeah,” admitted Star. Phantom withdrew his arm. “You did.”

“The other ghost was way scarier,” Paulina declared with finality, elbow pressed pointedly into Star’s ribs. 

Star took the cue to offer her arm instead. Phantom blinked slowly, head cocked and mouth parted with apparent disbelief. After a moment he reached out and Star held her ground, letting him close his frigid fingers gently around her wrist. The fine blonde hairs on her forearm stood on end and her skin immediately tingled with icy pins and needles. 

Phantom just shook his head, shrugged helplessly, and finally kicked off the ground. His legs dissolved into a misty tail as they took to the air, rippling behind them like a long black ribbon.

Paulina let out a squeal of delight as the ground retreated from beneath them. Despite everything it was no doubt a dream come true, and the smile she sent over Phantom's shoulder was equal parts relieved, giddy, and reassuring. Star couldn't tell if it was because of the extra passenger or the fact that he no longer had an urgent pursuit to motivate him, but he flew considerably slower on the return journey than he had when they’d left.

Eventually, they slowed and banked down into the parking lot behind Amity Park General. 

It had grown late enough that only a handful of cars dotted the near-empty lot, their shells shiny in the rain like so many sleeping beetles clustered together on the wet pavement. Most of them occupied employee spaces, so there’d be plenty of people there to take care of them in the clinic even though the day staff were out, but the hospital was still eerie and liminal in the quiet of the night.

Phantom lowered the girls delicately to the ground maybe fifty feet from the leeringly red URGENT CARE signage that marked the entrance to the hospital. Immediately boneless on touching solid pavement, Star swayed a little before regaining her bearings, and winced in sympathy when Paulina hopped awkwardly to avoid putting weight on her bad ankle.

The ghost held himself strangely, palms to the ground while his tail curled close to his body. “Odds are nothing will happen,” he said in lieu of goodbye, “but if you feel like something’s even a little bit weird, you should go see the Fentons right aw—”

Paulina bristled, leg twitching like she wanted to stomp but thought better of it. “Seriously? But they hate you!”

Just like that, his expression of big-eyed wariness closed off into something far colder. “…Danny doesn't.”

“No, he’s just terrified of you,” she scoffed. “Like that’s so much better.”

Phantom’s dim glow flickered, eyes blazing with radioactive threat. He frowned, gaze drifting to land on Star. His greenish tongue flickered out between his teeth and she knew immediately that he was doing that thing again, scenting for blood—or sensing her fear. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, voice brittle. “You shouldn't have had to see me like that. I know better—I’m supposed to be better, but I—I got so worked up that I totally forgot about making you guys feel safe.”

“You helped us,” Star argued without much conviction. “It’s fine.”

He worked his jaw and his wet hair rippled as though gravity had faltered around him, but held his tongue. “I guess. It doesn’t matter. Just go to Danny. He’ll help you, alright?” 

Neither Paulina nor Star got their chance to argue—with a final nod he retreated backwards into the treeline and flickered out of view. The background hum of his aura faded more slowly, but once it was gone the air immediately grew less bitterly cold, the rain less harsh, and Star felt a pressure lift from her lungs that she hadn’t even realized was there.

Exhaustion washed over her without warning, and she nearly buckled beneath even Paulina’s sparing weight. By that point the last of the adrenaline had bled out of her, leaving her feeling hollow and spent. Absently, she supposed she must finally be crashing. It was about time.

“I’m okay,” promised Star even as her knees knocked together. “Let’s get out of the rain.”

Paulina nodded. “The ER’s right there. I can walk to the door just fine,” she said with a grimace. “Don’t worry about me.”

Star knew better than to push it. She allowed herself to be comforted by her girlfriend's gentle hand on her shoulder, each leaning into the other for support as they shuffled under the awning and into the clinic. Their wet shoes squeaked loudly against the linoleum floor, water dripping off the ends of Star's hair while Paulina's flats left muddy smears behind them where she dragged her bad foot.

Paulina slumped onto the first available seat she spotted as soon as they passed through the automatic doors, wincing as she sat down with a groan. While her girlfriend melted wearily into the cheap plastic waiting room chair, Star approached the reception desk.

"Hi," she said dazedly. Her voice sounded strange to her without the drone of the rain as a backdrop, weak and scratchy as if she'd been gargling glass. 

What was she supposed to do? Her mental image of emergency rooms almost always involved wailing sirens and nurses swarming around people on gurneys about to die, not two beat-up kids just… walking in all by themselves. 

Thankfully the man behind the desk seemed more than willing to pick up the slack. He hesitated for hardly a beat before his lined face softened just enough that Star felt marginally more comfortable. 

“Hi there, sweetie. I’ll need some information from you, alright? Can I have your name?”

“Oh, it’s not for me. I’m tired and kinda scraped up, but I’ll be okay. She—” Star paused to turn around and point back towards Paulina. “She’s the one who needs a doctor.”

He raised a brow and typed something into his computer. “Alright, we’ll need her information. Can she come up to the front?”

Could she? Probably, but Star wasn’t going to make her. To that end, Star ferried all the questions, answers, and documents between her and the desk so Paulina wouldn’t have to walk too much on her bad leg. The receptionist went on to request her ID, then asked for her mailing address, insurance, and the name of her primary care doctor. Her ID and insurance card were still in her bag at the mall, so she could only shrug and offer Mr. Sanchez’s phone number instead, which was thankfully accepted at least as a stopgap. 

Only after all that did the man finally ask, “And could you please confirm the reason for your urgent care visit?”

“Sprained ankle. We want to make sure it’s not broken.”

Once everything was done, the man behind the counter offered Star a half-hearted smile. “Alright, then just sit tight for a minute and we’ll have someone to look at you soon.”

With that Star shuffled to collapse into the seat beside Paulina, who sighed and leaned over so their shoulders could touch. Within moments Star’s eyelids began to grow heavy, head lolling against Paulina’s, but her nerves were shot far too badly for sleep.

Her thoughts were magnetized to the memory of Phantom’s face when he realized how he’d scared her. Wide-eyed and wounded, he’d looked—well, he’d looked something close to devastated. It left a sour taste in her mouth. Even before they’d started dating, she and Paulina used to fight about him, whether he was good or bad.

Even if ectoscience as a field was rife with bias, Star had decided that the Fentons were sometimes right about some things. Namely, that ecto-entities were unpredictable, and Phantom was no exception. As far as ghosts went he had immense restraint, and she didn’t think he would hurt her on purpose—but that was a very low bar. 

To Star it was just common sense, the same kind of healthy, respectful fear one harbored for tornadoes and riptides. Coyotes ate people’s cats because they were hungry, not because they were evil—but they still did it, and they’d keep doing it. Thinking of the Phantom as a force of nature disqualified acts of malice, which made her position moderate. It made sense. Didn’t it?

Someone said something, but Star wasn’t listening. She did, however, jump alert when Paulina squeezed her hand. “They called my name,” she explained softly. “You wanna come with?”

The nurse was a middle-aged woman with frizzy red curls spilling from beneath a pink bandana, deep lines around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. They stood together to greet her, but the nurse bustled over to stop them. 

“None of that,” she scolded without heat as the girls sat back down. This close, Star could read her lanyard and put a name to the face—Monica Moreno, N.P. “Someone should’ve given you a chair. You wait right there, alright?” 

With that she turned on her heel and jogged to the other side of the entrance. The nurse pulled a squat gray wheelchair away from the line of identical chairs against the far wall and pushed it over to the girls. She bent over and put her arm under Paulina’s, lifting her gingerly to her feet.

“Lean on me as much as you need, and—” Paulina faltered, but Star grabbed her by the elbow before she could lose balance and helped her slide into the chair. “Perfect, thank you, sweetie.”

Star nodded. “Can I come with her?”

The nurse looked to Paulina, who nodded eagerly, and said “Of course.”

Once inside the room Star helped the nurse haul Paulina up onto the examination table, then pulled a chair away from the wall to take a seat of her own. The nurse asked some idle questions about how Paulie was feeling as she pressed and tapped at Paulina’s bruised ankle.

“Does it hurt when I do this?” A nod. “Can you lift your foot? Good. I know it hurts and the swelling looks nasty, but your range of motion isn’t too bad.”

“Is it broken?” asked Paulina.

“I don’t think so.” Seeming satisfied with her examination, Nurse Moreno stood and picked up a clipboard from the counter at the back of the room. “How did it happen?”

“Oh, you know,” said Paulina. “It happened when I was running away. Ghost attack.”

“That sounds like a pretty scary experience,” Nurse Moreno offered, brows creased with vague pity. Ears burning, Star just shrugged.

“Seriously,” Paulina agreed. “But it was alright! The ghost boy swooped in so we could get away. He was amazing.”

The nurse nodded solemnly, as though that wasn’t really an answer she needed to hear. “Phantom, you mean?” Her warm expression darkened minutely, lips pressed into a thin, displeased line. “Ghosts are dangerous, you know, even that one. You kids really shouldn’t be getting too friendly with it.”

“Him,” Star blurted before Paulina could make the same correction. “Phantom’s… a him.”

She wasn’t immediately sure of why she’d bothered. Star had hardly been picky about that sort of thing before. She hadn’t cared either way, referring to him in accordance with her present company—with her peers Phantom was a “he” or sometimes even a “they,” while with adults he was more often an “it.” Somehow, though, it crossed a line this time. Maybe the other ghost was an “it”, but not Phantom. Not anymore.

Each time his mood soured even the barest bit a part of her had felt like she was staring down a loaded gun, but he’d—there was nobody around to perform for, but he’d had moods. It wasn’t manipulation, and neither was it just instinct or compulsion or whatever else drove dangerous animals to do what they did.

Like a person—like a kid—he’d reacted with flippance first, then concern, as though the risk to Paulie’s safety had genuinely shaken him. When the fight turned, his grim determination gave way to naked desperation, like he was terrified for their lives if not his own. That wasn’t monstrous. It was human enough. He’d shrugged off life-ruining injuries like they were paper cuts, unaffected by the pain, but there was such hurt in his eyes at the thought of being feared. 

Maybe for the first time, Star couldn’t help but see him.

Looking up, she noticed that Paulina and Nurse Moreno were both staring at her, faces pinched with obvious concern. “Are you alright, sweetie? Does it hurt anywhere?”

Star blinked, found herself crying, and was immediately mortified. Not even at the height of her freshman year crush had Paulina ever been so sensitive. To her watchers, she realized, she’d burst into tears just because a random stranger had offhandedly misgendered a posthuman wild animal.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffled. Her eyes prickled and her cheeks felt on fire, mixed embarrassment and exhaustion curdling whatever relief had eased her in the waiting room. Star wiped furiously at her eyes and swallowed hard, feeling utterly ashamed. “I think it’s just—it’s catching up to me now.”

“Oh, Star,” Paulina crooned.

That wasn’t a lie, exactly, but it felt woefully incomplete even as she said it, like she was missing the vocabulary to explain herself. Her whole body felt tender and fragile, like a raw nerve, and she desperately wanted—needed—a hug.

Nurse Moreno stepped away from the examination table to kneel in front of Star and rest a gentle hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay,” she said. “You’re alright, honey.”

Her voice was warm with genuine care, but Star didn't feel all too comforted. A sour taste lingered at the back of her throat.

“You were super brave,” assured Paulina from the table. “Really.”

"Thanks," she managed, still feeling vaguely queasy. "I'll be okay. I just—Phantom—”

The nurse narrowed her eyes. “It—he didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“No!” Star shouted, then amended more softly, “Sorry, no. He was good. He helped us. I just—he was scared, too and—” She shook her head. “Nevermind, it doesn’t matter. I just need to sleep, I think.”

“Are you absolutely sure, honey?”

Star nodded as vigorously as she could manage. “Yes, I promise. I’m just tired.”

“If you say so…” Nurse Moreno replied, clearly unconvinced but probably not paid enough to push the issue. If she wanted to argue, she didn’t show it. Instead she just stood up and turned away. Now facing Paulina, she pulled a sheet of paper from her clipboard and passed it over.

“Well, this looks like a second degree sprain to me,” she said.

“I think I got a first grade one once,” mused Paulina as she skimmed the paper. “When I was cheerleading. This is worse than that?”

The nurse nodded. “A little. I don’t think you need an X-ray or a boot tonight, but you should follow those instructions and follow up with your primary care as soon as possible…”

Star tuned the rest of it out, feeling boneless and drained, wrung-out like a dish towel. Even though she wasn’t officially admitted, Nurse Moreno pitied her enough that she offered to help clean up her cuts before she left, but Star insisted she’d rather do it at home. Paulina was helped back into the wheelchair and the nurse pushed her out into the lobby, where the receptionist lent her the phone so she could call her dad.

Mr. Sanchez answered before the first ring had even finished. He immediately got to shouting in frantic Spanish, loudly enough for Star to hear him and even recognize a few words through the bad landline speaker. Once Paulina managed to soothe him she stumbled through a hasty outline of the situation and copious assurances that they wouldn’t keel over before he arrived.

He promised to be over in ten minutes and made it there in eight. He’d obviously been worrying himself sick, hair and clothes rumpled and eyes faintly red. 

Star fidgeted beneath his searching gaze, only looking up to mumble an exhausted, “Thanks, Mr. Sanchez.”

In response he just nodded, clearly spent, but gave her a gentle clap on the shoulder as she climbed into the back of his car. Paulina took the passenger side and Mr. Sanchez folded the front seat down so she could stretch out her leg, muttering as he folded his jacket and fiddled with its placement as a cushion under Paulina’s ankle.

“How does that feel, sweetie? ¿Te sientes cómoda? Ah, let me—”

“I’m fine, Papá,” Paulina groaned. “I swear. I just wanna go home.”

At Paulina’s request he drove them back to the mall to retrieve their things, which were mercifully still laid out exactly where they’d dropped them. She retraced her steps to scoop up Paulina’s dropped purse and her own half-zipped backpack.

As she bent to retrieve her wallet, a sense of sickening deja vu washed over Star. Her skin prickled with cold, gelid needles tracing the raw edges of her scrapes. Limbs heavy with the instinctual impulse to freeze, she slowly turned back around. 

Only once her back was to the road did she hear it, an anguished whimper, a groan—a creak like splintering wood. Static. It seemed to come from right behind her, but when she whipped around there was no one else there.

She jumped up and glanced to where Mr. Sanchez was wheeling Paulina’s bike up to where he’d parked, heedless of the blanketing dread that thickened the air. That, it seemed, was something meant just for Star. 

By now she’d found an inkling of recognition—it was that empty feeling again, that terrible, sourceless hollowness. He hadn’t noticed. Heart quickening, she cast her gaze up and down the adjacent street, searching for a flicker of radioactive green or glowing red eyes. There was nothing.

Star ignored her aching body and unsettled mind to scurry back to Mr. Sanchez. Despite his gentle assertions that he’d take care of it, she helped load their bikes into the trunk. The sooner they were out of there, the better.

"Is that everything?"

She nodded and pawed idly through the pile of stuff in her lap. The metal clasp on Paulina’s purse was freezing when she rolled it between her fingers. "I think so."

With that Mr. Sanchez pulled across the row of unoccupied spaces so they could turn around. The blast of the heating system didn't quite dispel the chill in her throat, but it helped her relax at least a little bit.

Part of her ached at the thought, but she hoped, cruelly, that it was Phantom. Guilt and fear knotted her stomach in turns. She hoped that seething appetite was a permanent fixture she’d just never been close enough to notice, something he just let slip during the fighting. Even now that she was sure he could feel, that he would suffer for it, she hoped he was empty and miserable and lonely and hungry—because if he wasn’t, something else was.

“Oh,” she hurried to say as they peeled out of the lot, “is it alright if I stay at your house tonight, Mr. Sanchez? I’d just rather not be by myself, if that’s okay. My parents are out of town till Monday…” 

And as far as they were concerned, she was staying over with Paulina anyway. She swallowed and glanced over at her girlfriend, who was nodding off with her head against the window, then back up to the rearview mirror so she could see Mr. Sanchez’s face. 

His mustache drifted up in a fond half-smile, harsh lines loosening around his eyes. “Of course, estrellita. You're always welcome.”

Star had honestly expected a little more scolding from Mr. Sanchez, but then again it wasn’t like they could control who or when or where the ghosts attacked people. He was clearly careworn and she expected there might be a lecture and maybe even a harsher curfew in Paulina’s future, but not punishment.

The drive back wasn’t long, but even that small distance was a relief when it was taking them away from the mall. Star took a cue from Paulina and pressed her cheek against the window, eyes dragging on the unshattered street lights as they slid by. 

She wondered what had happened to the other ghost. Trapped in Phantom’s thermos, most likely—which led to the question of what he was doing. If he was alright. Had he come down from the same adrenaline Paulina was sleeping off? There was the broken nose and the gash on his thigh, and goodness-knows how many broken bones Star couldn’t have seen. 

For his sake she hoped the Fentons were right about ghosts not feeling pain.

Eventually they pulled into the driveway of the Sanchez house and up into the garage. Paulina’s dad circled the car and opened the passenger side to wake her up and carry her into the house. He batted away Star’s attempts to help, insisting she make herself at home instead—a sentiment Paulina echoed vigorously despite being barely awake. 

She hauled herself upstairs and invited herself into the shower, borrowing one of Paulie’s towels and a set of her spare clothes. The sting of body wash in her cuts helped to wake Star up, but only a little, and she found herself resisting the pull of sleep almost as soon as she’d stepped out of the tub. She toweled herself off and wrung out her hair without bothering to blow it dry, eager to collapse facedown on Paulina’s soft queen mattress.

As she was exiting the bathroom Mr. Sanchez met her in the hall with a sleepy Paulina in his arms. Star rushed to open the bedroom door and dig up another set of pajamas for her girlfriend. The pair of them fretted over Paulina for probably longer than was strictly necessary, piling up pillows to elevate her leg. They set her up with water, ibuprofen, and a lunch box ice pack to lay over her ankle. 

After much bickering, promises in the double-digits, and a similarly long string of combative “I love yous,” Mr. Sanchez finally relented to his own exhaustion and set off to bed. As soon as the door clicked shut behind him Star climbed into the bed next to Paulina and let herself melt.

“Come here,” said Paulina, patting the sheets next to her. Star scooted up and curled beneath her arm, eyes already stinging with unshed tears. “It’s okay, it’s over.”

Paulina had spent her emotions crying in the woods, but now it was Star’s turn to finish what she’d started at the clinic. She didn’t have the words to explain these feelings—it wasn’t grief, exactly, but an overwhelming pathos nonetheless, and it crashed over her like a tidal wave.

Paulina stroked her hair and murmured sleepy condolences, combing through and untangling the damp strands with her fingers. Her wet hands felt almost shockingly cold whenever they brushed against the flushed shell of Star’s ear, her cheeks red from crying.

Phantom’s touch was corpse-like because that’s what he was. He had touched her, had held her hand and rubbed her shoulders and coughed his stale breath into the air and been dead for all of it, and that had made sense. He was a ghost, but something had been missing—something she’d done her best to ignore.

It was so easy to forget that, for ghosts to be dead, they had to have once been alive.

And Star hadn’t mourned him. Nobody had.

A whimper escaped her and Paulina crooned. “Hey, cariña. You wanna talk about it?”

“Now now, Paulie,” mumbled Star. She swallowed and added, “Sorry, I’m just tired. Maybe later.”

Paulina thumbed a tear from her cheek and kissed her temple. “It was so scary,” she said instead of pressing. “You were amazing.” Another kiss. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” Star sighed, and let restless sleep take her.

Later never came.

[marypsue]

Fic ask but 🥺🤩and 🤲! Or ⛔️

[from this meme]

🥺 Is there a certain type of moment or common interaction between your characters that never fails to put you in your feels?

What I like to call "the thirteen-o'clock moment", after the climactic scene in Jim Henson's Labyrinth, when a character finally understands, after a long and arduous journey (through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered), that all that they need, they have. These are the story moments I live for.

🤩 Who is your favorite character to write?

This is a cruel and unusual question to ask of me, a person who collects favourite fictional characters like pogs.

I gotta say, though, I have never had quite as much fun writing a fictional character as I've had writing Bill Cipher. He's just so gleefully, audaciously, bad-joke-fully awful.

🤲 Would you please share a snippet of a wip?

Have a sample from the Stranger Things ageswap AU that I swear was written before season four was even announced:

...

Mike’s dad is waiting in the parking lot with the Beemer when Mike gets out of class. It kind of puts a crimp in his halfassed plan to try to catch Will before he heads home, but it also gives Mike an excuse not to hang around with Max and Lucas, so he can’t be too mad about it.

“Call me if you hear from Dustin, okay?” he says, to Lucas, as they step out of the stale hallways of Hawkins High and into the crisp November air.

“Yeah. Same to you,” Lucas says, giving a halfhearted wave as Mike jogs across the concrete and asphalt to his dad’s car.

Karen’s sitting shotgun. She flashes Mike a smug grin, and jabs her thumb back over her shoulder at the backseat. Mike rolls his eyes, but he goes around to the back door.

There’s a huge platter of deli meat and cheese back there, and another one full of veggies with a little carton of dip in the middle, along with a full box of donuts. Mike stacks the meat on the veg and pushes the donuts out of the way so he can sit. “What is this? Are we catering a PTA meeting?”

His dad frowns into the rearview mirror. “Sorry, forgot about your project. I can drop you at the library once we’re done. I just thought we could take some food out to the Byers’, let them know we’re thinking of them.”

“Food?” Mike gives the deli platters another look. “I think usually people give casseroles.”

“You know Dad’s been banned from the kitchen since the Thanksgiving incident,” Karen pipes up, and their dad rolls his eyes.

“Was that Lucas I saw?” he asks, obviously changing the subject. Mike groans, letting his head flop back against the headrest. His dad leans past Karen, waving at Lucas like a huge dork. Mike squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see the look Lucas must be giving them.

“Who’s that girl with him?” Mike’s dad sounds a little too deliberately casual as he asks, “New girlfriend?”

Mike groans again. “Dad. Can we just go?”

His dad sighs, but he finally puts the car into gear.

“Where’s Carol?” Mike asks, as they head south through town.

His dad’s eyes flick up to meet his in the rearview, but it’s Karen who answers, with just a hint of sarcasm. “Too busy working.”

“Well, her job is so important. Those old ladies’ hair isn’t going to cut itself,” Mike agrees, and Karen snorts. Their dad lets out another long-suffering sigh.

“Would you two cut Carol some slack? I know you love your mom, but you don’t have to pick sides.”

“Who’s picking sides?” Mike asks, and Karen nods. Mike wonders if she’s just agreeing with what he’s saying, or if she knows what he means. He’s not picking on Carol to defend his mom. His mom’s let him down way more than Carol ever could. At least he doesn’t expect anything from Carol.

If they’ve got to pick sides, Mike’s picking his own first. Every time.

The Byers’ house even looks sad, all small and dark and shabby, with its porch roof hanging low over the front door. Mike stands awkwardly in its shadow, trying not to let the top tray go sliding off the bottom one, trying not to knock them both all over his sneakers, as his dad knocks.

“Shit,” Mike’s dad mutters, glancing back at Mike and Karen. “Should’ve got buns too -”

The door flies open. Joyce’s dad always kind of looks like he’s glaring, but Mike thinks this glare is more surprised than unhappy. “Steve?”

Mike’s dad spins back to face the door, like he’s just as surprised by Joyce’s dad as Joyce’s dad is by them, even though he’d been the one who drove out to the Byers’ house and knocked on their door. “Jonathan! Uh, hi.” He gestures lamely behind him, at Mike and Karen. “We brought food?” He makes it sound like a question.

Joyce’s dad looks around between the three of them like he really can’t believe his eyes. “Food,” he repeats. And then, offhand, “Hi, Karen.”

Karen raises the hand not holding the box of donuts in a half-wave.

“Figured you’d have enough casseroles,” Mike’s dad says, getting a little of his composure back. “Look, man, I’m – we’re all really sorry. I hope she’s okay.”

Joyce’s dad’s expression softens.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I do too. You – wanna come in?”

Mike’s only been inside the Byers’ house once or twice, picking Karen up or dropping Joyce off. He doesn’t know the way to the kitchen. Luckily, Karen marches in like she owns the place, and all Mike has to do is follow her.

They’re trying to figure out how to fit the deli platters into the fridge with the margarine tubs full of leftovers and the jug of milk when Will walks in. “I heard the door. My dad said you were in here,” he says, and then beams at Karen. “Hi, Karen.”

Karen beams right back. “Hey. Finish that dragon painting yet?”

“It’s still in progress. I haven’t figured out how to get the scales to glint gold just right yet.” Will raises a hand to rub the back of his neck, his eyes flicking up to meet Mike’s as he says, “Want to check it out? It’s in my room, down the hall. If you figure out what it’s missing, let me know.”

Karen gives him a double thumbs up, and dashes out of the kitchen. She’s back in a second though, poking her head around the doorway to say, “Make sure you get one of those donuts before your dad eats them all,” and then she’s gone again.

“You paint,” Mike says, in the silence Karen leaves behind her. It’s stupid. He knows this isn’t what Will wanted to be alone to talk to him about.

The look Will gives him is wary. “Yeah.”

“Cool. That’s cool,” Mike says, aware that he sounds like a total braindead idiot. But Will smiles, a little, so he figures it’s probably okay.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, definitely. I mean, I paint like my dad cooks. And my dad’s cooking is why you guys got the deli special.”

Will lets out a bright, surprised laugh. It’s surprisingly nice to listen to. He casts a guilty glance back over his shoulder, towards the living room where their parents are still talking, but the smile doesn’t totally leave his face.

It starts to slip when he turns back to Mike, though. “That girl -”

“Gone when I got back this morning.” Mike shakes his head. “I left some food and a change of clothes. In case she comes back.”

“Good idea,” Will says. “Are you going to go check?” He takes in Mike’s look of confusion, and explains, “If she came back.”

Mike hadn’t thought about it.

“Later,” he says. “My dad’s on some kind of parenting kick. And -” He stops before he mentions Dustin. After all, it’s not like Dustin’s missing. Mike just…doesn’t know where he is right now.

Will nods anyway, though, like it makes sense.

“After dinner?” he asks.

“Nine?”

“Nine,” Will agrees. “Meet you there.”

And then the conversation grinds to a creaking halt. More to save himself and Will from standing around blinking at each other in awkward silence than anything, Mike says, “So…dragons?”

[5sosfanfictioncatalogue]

Fics Including Ashton’s Family Masterlist

Ashton/Mashton- Lower Left (ao3) - MichaelTheMicrophone G, 1k

Summary: Ashton gets appendicitis while only his sister and brother are home. Lauren calls his bandmates and they come over with Michael, who also has appendicitis. They are taken to hospital by their bandmates.

Crowns and Riches. (ao3) - snickerz luke/ashton G, 9k

Summary: Prince Luke meets Stable Boy Ashton, his mother informs him that he is betrowthed to be married, he agrees at first but starts to develop an untold amount of feelings for the boy which are later returned, he is faced with the dilemma of what he is expected to do vs what his heart and soul is telling him to do. (A whole lot of fluff)

despite the weather, it gets better (ao3) - bellawritess michael/ashton T, 1k

Summary: The phone rings at three in the morning, and Ashton sometimes wonders what would have happened if he’d just slept through it.

First Family Meetings (ao3) - allsassnoclass (brightblackholes) michael/ashton G, 1k

Summary: Michael meets Ashton's family for the first time.

He Drove Away The First of September, But I Remember (ao3) - senioritastyles michael/ashton G, 6k

Summary: "Hi." He calls, catching the cute worker's attention.

The worker looks up and fumbles around to put his phone away, his face awestruck as he looks at Ashton. "Uh, hi."

There's an awkward moment of silence as they both stare at each other, the sounds of the carnival fading into the background and Ashton feels his heart leap when the boy smiles. He's got on tight black skinny jeans and a Metallica t-shirt, his waist surrounded by what looks like a combination of a fanny pack and an apron. Ashton knows it's probably full of money and tickets even though no one is approaching is the booth to play, and he can't help but smile back at the boy. He's completely stricken by the boy's beauty, mesmerized by the enticing features and pale skin.

Or: Michael and Ashton meet right before Ashton has to go back to school.

It's Too Cold Outside For Angels To Fly (ao3) - lukey_irwie luke/ashton T, 66k

Summary: Ashton Irwin is a volunteer at a homeless shelter in London. On a snowy November night he helps his step father find people to take to the shelter and ends up finding this boy named Luke. Ashton thinks Luke is gorgeous and slowly falls for the younger boy but he knows he can't do anything about it. First off, it's against the rules, secondly, Luke has been through a lot and a boyfriend is probably the last thing he's looking for, third, Luke probably doesn't even like Ashton back and fourth, Ashton is kind of still recovering from a previous relationship. But what if Luke does like Ashton back, will Ashton admit his feelings or continue to push them aside?

Or the one where Luke is homeless and shaken by his past and Ashton is the human embodiment of an Angel who rescues him. Luke starts falling for Ashton despite knowing Ashton would never love someone as worthless him.

Also the one where everyone can see Ashton and Luke like each other, except for Ashton and Luke of course.

It was fate all along (ao3) - Abbypd calum/ashton N/R, 4k

Summary: When Ashton hits a boy with his car, he really didn't expect to fall for his victim.

Maelstrom (ao3) - merlypops luke/ashton E, 225k

Summary: Ashton is struggling, Luke is hiding, and Michael and Calum just want to make things work. (And maybe Ashton and Luke fall in love too. Maybe.)

never know what you've got until it's gone - @sup3rbloom (haveufoundwhaturlookingfor) calum/ashton, michael/luke T, 10k

Summary: Ashton's had the biggest crush on Calum Hood since forever. Luke knew this. He only had the best of intentions when he brought up Ashton's crush to Calum. He never thought about Ashton potentially finding out.

The Cabin (ao3) - xdistorted_cliffordx luke/ashton T, 57k

Summary: Luke's family finally bought a lake cabin like Luke had always dreamed they would have. He's always been jealous of schoolmates that would always spend their summers there and brag. But now he could brag about it as well. He has a place to relax and escape reality. It was a douche bag free zone.

At least, until he meets his neighbor Ashton.

The Only Exception (ao3) - BrokenTailLights luke/ashton N/R, 7k

Summary: Where Luke is Ashton's only exception

ups and downs - @sup3rbloom (haveufoundwhaturlookingfor) ot4 T, 8k

Summary: Ashton finds out he's pregnant in the middle of 5 Seconds Of Summer's North America tour. Telling his three boyfriends the news doesn't go as smoothly as he hoped it would.

You and me; we can take the world (ao3) - Abbypd michael/ashton, luke/calum, former Ashton/OC T, 47k

Summary: Or yet another Wedding AU nobody asked for but I decided to write anyway.

[seokjinsonlyone]

I, C, U 🤭

I: The most interesting voice or style in K-pop?

tbh i just gotta shout out to the tannies first and foremost bc tbh each of them got like the most unique voices in the kpop industry like none of them sound like anyone else i just had to say that first

but imma shout out to tae specifically!! he the reason i'm here to this day i remember my cousin playing the truth untold in the car one day and i had a full stop moment when i was like who the one with that deep voice and he's had me in a chokehold ever since

also! yeonjun from txt like very distinct tone i only had to hear him once and could pick out his voice from the lineup

and!!! wooyoung from the rose his voice is vv unique and honorable mention to mingi from ateez

C: A color that you think your bias looks good in?

maybe it's the bora in me but jin gon eat down in purple every time

U: The most unusual group?

unusual as in sound? personality?? if we talking sound then imma go wit nct like they got some of the wackiest sounds i've ever heard and yes i'm looking at sticker but like i be eating it up too like it's good to me 😭 personality wise maybe p1harmony like i love keeho i do and the rest of them boys they really be cracking me up

you can ask me more kpop asks if you'd like 🥺👉👈

[oddygaul]

REDLINE

I’m not going to backdate this too far - the whole reason I’m doing this is realizing the frighteningly quick rate at which I forget my critical thoughts on a work, after all - but a few things from the past few months solidified enough for me to still be able to write about them.

So, what better way to start this blog than with Redline? In August, I had the privilege to watch Redline on a rented-out, full-size theater screen with about 30 other people I love who also love this stupid fucking car movie I’ve forced them to watch for a decade.

I’m not writing my thoughts on the entirety of Redline… this space is intended to be much more about the thoughts I can’t get out of my head after just experiencing something, rather than holistic reviews of everything I’ve engaged with. There’s so much I could say and have said about Redline, but this will just be what I took away from this particular viewing.

The experience of seeing it in a theater setting truly is special. Even putting aside the Rocky Horror-esque fun of having the whole theater yelling along to their favorite moments, Redline is a movie with such attention and care put into the audiovisual experience that it felt fresh seeing it so huge, even having watched it untold dozens of times before. In particular, I’ve always been immensely impressed with Redline’s audio design - not just the music, but the foley, the FX, the panning, the soundscape - so hearing it on a theater speaker system was a treat.

As time goes on, the only thing that gets harder to swallow every time I revisit Redline is its gender issues. Nowadays, I’m always dreading the restaurant scene where Shinkai’s harassment is played for laughs, and breathe a sigh of relief once it’s passed. In general, Redline is very contradictory in its treatment of its women characters. Often they are strong, relevant to the plot, have plenty of agency, hell, it even passes the Bechdel test (although that likely shows the flaws of the Bechdel test more than anything)... it’s just the way the camera looks at them that feels scummy, and to a degree is baked into the character designs themselves.

Sonoshee is, by all rights, the deuteragonist of the story. She has more depth and nuance introduced to the audience, in terms of backstory and personality, than anyone outside of JP; she’s easily one of the top 3 racers in the movie; and, we see her accomplish so much on her own (from defining, genuine character moments, to pure badass anime shit, like shooting a missile out of the sky with a handgun). Despite this, the camera leers at her so repeatedly that it becomes hard to ignore, from her Gainaxing after winning Yellowline to the topless scene in Act 2. The latter is sort of played off as self-aware with the “nice shot of my ass, guys” quip, but it doesn’t change the fact that she’s objectified in a way none of the male characters are*. The really unforgivable one, I realized on this watch, is the worm’s eye shot during the flashback, when Sonoshee’s digging her car out from the dirt. It’s a pretty high-emotion scene throughout which Sonoshee is sobbing, and serves to show both her passion for what she does and her level of determination to be set apart from all the other racers. There is, narratively, absolutely no fucking reason for there to be an ass shot here**. And yet.

Anime in general, of course, is no stranger to sexualized women, ogling camerawork, and sexist character tropes. The frustrating thing about Redline is, they really didn’t trip up at all in the writing - there’s solidly written women characters with agency, who aren’t falling into the most common tropey pitfalls - they just couldn’t shake the fanservice camera angles endemic to the medium for the most important woman in the movie. No male characters are treated this way by the camera; honestly, no other women really are, either. The SuperBoins are horny as hell the whole movie, but they are FULLY in on it, it’s their brand and they’re taking it to the bank. When we see the camera on them, it’s literally a diegetic camera that they’re performing for, Bayonetta-style. It’s just with Sonoshee that they seem to undermine her character at every turn by reminding you that, yes, while she is a real person with dreams and flaws who’s one half of an otherwise shockingly wholesome romance story, she’s also a hot anime girl, so please go ahead and objectify her.

Anyway, I still love Redline, despite that flaw. It remains an absolute testament to the medium of animation, and I’ll never stop being sad Koike hasn’t done more in the setting since. After this rewatch, I even saw the first ever hint of a theme, with the die-hard traditional racers who refuse to use new machines representing the old guard of traditional animators giving it one last hurrah before the switch to a digital workflow… but I think I’ll save that for the next rewatch.

*We get a grand total of ONE male booty shot, it’s Old Man Mole, and honestly, it’s debatable in terms of sexualization.

**The only way I can find to give benefit of the doubt, were I to want to do so, is that Koike honestly is just a weird little freak that loves animating every motion of the human body he can. This is the man who came up with and directed World Record just to capture all the minutiae and physical nuances of a running figure, after all. Given the legitimately tough camera angle and torsion-filled full-body movement, from a purely technical perspective, it is a very well-done shot. But I don’t actually know who boarded or keyed this, and even if that was their real motivation, it doesn’t really matter when the viewer obviously isn’t going to see it this way at first blush.

[homefashionss]

The Untold Story: How Lincoln Cars Revolutionized the Automotive Industry

When we think of American automotive brands, names like Ford and Chevrolet often come to mind. However, there is one iconic brand that often goes unnoticed but played a significant role in revolutionizing the automotive industry - Lincoln. Founded in 1917 by Henry M. Leland, Lincoln cars quickly made a name for themselves with their luxury, elegance, and attention to detail.

One of the most notable contributions of Lincoln to the automotive world was their introduction of several innovative features that are now standard in modern vehicles. For instance, it was Lincoln that first brought power windows to the market back in 1940. This revolutionary feature not only added convenience but also improved safety by allowing drivers to keep their full attention on the road workshop manuals.

The Rise of Lincoln Cars

The rise of Lincoln cars marks a pivotal moment in the history of the automotive industry, where elegance met innovation to redefine luxury on wheels. While many are familiar with the iconic Lincoln Continental, few know the untold story behind its creation and the lasting impact it had on car manufacturing. One fresh insight is that Lincoln cars were not initially intended to be luxury vehicles. In fact, when Henry Leland founded the company back in 1917, he aimed to produce Liberty aircraft engines during World War I.

It was not until after the war that Leland decided to transform his factory into an automobile production plant. Despite facing initial financial setbacks and fierce competition from brands like Cadillac and Packard, Leland's determination and attention to detail eventually set Lincoln cars apart. From their distinctively sleek designs to their groundbreaking engineering achievements, such as being one of the first car manufacturers to adopt V12 engines, Lincoln quickly became synonymous with high-quality craftmanship and sophistication on American roads.

The Birth of a Legend: Henry Leland

The birth of a legend: Henry Leland. He was an influential force behind the rise of Lincoln cars and the subsequent revolution in the automotive industry. Leland, a machinist turned business tycoon, had a vision that went beyond manufacturing automobiles; he sought to redefine luxury and precision engineering.

Under Leland's guidance, Lincoln Motor Company emerged as a pioneer in several groundbreaking innovations. One such innovation was interchangeable parts production – a concept that drastically reduced costs and allowed for efficient and speedy assembly line production. This revolutionary approach not only transformed the way cars were manufactured but set new standards for other automakers to follow.

Innovations that Changed the Game

When we think about revolutionizing the automotive industry, certain names come to mind: Ford, Tesla, Toyota. However, one name that often goes unnoticed is Lincoln. While not as widely recognized as its competitors, Lincoln has played a significant role in innovating the automotive landscape and reshaping what we know about luxury vehicles.

One of the key innovations that set Lincoln apart was their introduction of the automatic transmission in 1940. This groundbreaking technology eliminated the need for drivers to manually shift gears while driving, opening up a new level of convenience and ease on the road. Furthermore, Lincoln's commitment to safety cannot be underestimated either. In 1955, they became one of the first automobile manufacturers to offer seat belts as standard equipment in all their vehicles. These safety features were well ahead of their time and would later become industry standards.

Setting New Standards in Luxury

Lincoln cars have long been associated with setting new standards in luxury, but many are unaware of the untold story of how they revolutionized the automotive industry. The brand's commitment to elegance and craftsmanship has consistently pushed boundaries, redefining what it means to drive in style. From the iconic Continental to the modern Navigator, Lincoln has paved the way for a new era of sophisticated driving.

One key aspect that sets Lincoln apart is their dedication to creating a truly personalized experience for their customers. Unlike other manufacturers who mass produce vehicles, each Lincoln car is built with meticulous attention to detail and tailored to individual preferences. This level of customization was virtually unheard of when Lincoln first introduced it, but now it has become an expectation among luxury car buyers.

Lincoln’s Impact on American Culture

Lincoln cars are more than just vehicles; they represent a storied history that has revolutionized the automotive industry. While many associate Lincoln with luxury and elegance, few people realize the profound impact these cars have had on American culture. Beyond being a symbol of prestige, Lincoln cars played a significant role in shaping transportation standards and setting new benchmarks for innovation.

One of the key contributions made by Lincoln to the automotive industry was their introduction of advanced safety features. In 1955, Lincoln became one of the first car manufacturers to offer seat belts as standard equipment in their vehicles. This move not only improved passenger safety but also set a precedent for other automakers to follow suit. Furthermore, Lincoln's commitment to safety extended beyond seat belts; they continued to invest in research and development to introduce cutting-edge technologies such as anti-lock brakes and airbags over subsequent decades.

[borahae-777]

The Truth Untold -- Chapter 18: You Are The One Who Made Me

Pairing: Taehyung x Jungkook, Yoongi x Jimin

Word Count: Fic in progress, 190k so far. 3k-5k per chapter

Chapter Summary:

He crawls into bed next to Taehyung and wraps his arms around his sleeping form. He tugs him in under his chin and kisses the top of his head as he feels himself start to drift off too. He inhales the scent wafting from his hair and something clicks inside him. This is all he’s ever going to need. More than the band, more than the music, more than his friends. It hits him how long he’s been in love with this man but in complete denial of it. Years of history bolster them and he doesn’t know how he could have been so blind. He may be asleep, but Jungkook can’t wait any longer to say it out loud.

I love you.

Warnings: Eventual Smut, BDSM, 18+, MxM

Taehyung is in the studio with Yoongi a few weeks later going over their song to make sure it’s album-ready. He appreciates his hyung’s perfectionism, this song is everything to him. It’s a love letter to Jungkook when he thought he’d never get to have him again. Now they’re finally free and this song is the magnet that drew them back to each other.

“Hyung, I think it’s absolutely amazing. There’s nothing else we need to tweak. It’s done.”

“I agree with you there. It’s great. We need a title though.”

“I have one. What do you think about The Truth Untold?”

“Taehyung, that’s perfect. It encapsulates the feel of the song. Well done.”

“Thanks, hyung. I’m excited to share this with the fans. It feels like my way of telling them who I am. Speaking of which, when are you and Jimin going to tell everyone that you’re together? You’re still hiding and it’s completely unnecessary.”

“I know. I was ready to tell people right away and at first Jimin agreed, but then something happened and I don’t know what it is. I’m tired of sneaking in and out of each other’s rooms in the middle of the night. He’s been off, has he said anything to you?”

“No, not really. I know he’s not okay, but all he’d tell me is that it had nothing to do with any of us and that he’ll get over it. It’s not like him to act this way.”

“Try and coax something out of him. I don’t mind not knowing what it is. I just want him to be able to talk to someone.”

“I think I will, hyung. Maybe I’ll go find him right now. Are we done here?”

“Absolutely, go find Jimin.”

Taehyung gives Yoongi a back hug, ignoring the whining objections and jogs from the room smiling. He’s come to appreciate his friendship with his grumpiest hyung so much, their connection is a bit different than his with anyone else. It also gives him the ability to watch over Jimin and Yoongi’s relationship. He trusts them, but he will always worry about his soulmate.

He walks out of the company and gets into the car waiting for him in the parking garage. He asks the driver to stop at the store to grab some of Jimin’s favorite snacks and then take him to the dorm. He’s hoping they can have a low-key night and he can maybe get some answers as to what’s been going on. He arrives at the dorm and makes a beeline for Jimin’s room, knocking with his foot since his hands are full of food. The door opens and Jimin’s face breaks into a smile seeing Taehyung standing there.

“Taetae! You know we can’t eat like this, we’ve got three nights at Gocheok coming up next week!”

“Eh, live a little Jiminie.”

Taehyung pushes into the room and drops all the snacks on Jimin’s desk before throwing himself onto the bed and crawling under the covers. He’s immediately tackled and tickled, shrieking and squirming. They wrestle for a bit before he wins by sinking his teeth into Jimin’s shoulder and the other man gives in.

They pass the next few hours like they would any other night: movies, snuggles, jokes, games. It’s nice to just relax with your best friend sometimes. Taehyung doesn’t want to ruin the mood, and is too content at this moment. He decides that if and when Jimin is ready to talk, he’ll go to someone. There’s no need to push. He seems much more like himself tonight anyway.

********

Jimin has just walked out of the dressing room, hair coiffed and makeup perfect. He heads towards the stage for his sound check and feels his nerves jangling. Performing at Gocheok is so meaningful to them and he wants to be perfect. He’s giving himself a pep talk when he hears someone call his name and turns to see Dae-Hyun tentatively walking towards him.

“Jimin-ssi, hi. Could we talk?”

“No, absolutely not. You don’t get to try and explain yourself now.”

“Please, what I have to say is very important. I care about you so much.”

“That’s hilarious, Dae-Hyun. Could have fooled me.”

Jimin turns his back on the other man and stalks out towards the stage, determined to succeed more than ever. He refuses to let Dae-Hyun find out how much losing his friendship has impacted him the past few weeks. He’s starting to remember why they don’t make friends outside of each other. Who else can they really trust?

He heads to the stage and watches the rap line finish up their soundcheck, getting lost in the way that Yoongi raps. His smooth cadence, the rhythm that bounces through his body, even the way he holds the microphone. Jimin can’t believe he’s lucky enough to be with such an incredibly talented and sexy man. He’s going to try his best to not get distracted by him on stage. He wishes they had fanservice duties like Jungkook and Taehyung. They get to hang all over each other when they perform.

They finish up on stage and Yoongi turns and catches his eye. The gummy smile that spreads across his face is worth the pain they went through. That smile is for him and him alone. He wants nothing more than to run to him and plant a kiss on his lips, but he can’t do that here. He knows it’s time to tell the members about them, but he’s scared. He likes living in their own little private world.

“Ready Jiminie? Go do what you do best.”

“Thanks, Yoongi-hyung. You guys were great.”

Yoongi subtly runs a hand down his arm and across his palm, the most daring they have the ability to be in front of all this staff. Even that light touch makes Jimin grit his teeth and take deep breaths. He can’t get aroused here and definitely not in these pants. He loves ARMY, but he doesn’t need to show them that much of himself. He clears his throat as he walks onto the stage and sees Yoongi smirk at how flustered he is at something so small.

The rest of the night goes smoothly, they’ve accomplished something amazing here. Everyone played their parts perfectly and are feeling confident about how the next two nights will go. They’re in the dressing room removing their makeup and stage clothes, excitedly chattering about the highlights of the night, when Namjoon suddenly stands up and excuses himself to make a phone call.

Jimin shakes it off and grabs his bag and shoes. He tells everyone he’s going to head back to the dorm and meets Yoongi’s eyes as he walks out the door. He excuses himself too and follows Jimin out of the room to grab a car together. They sit in the far back, on opposite sides of the seat and staring out the window. The building comes into view and Jimin’s pulse speeds up. They exit the car and head upstairs, Yoongi following him into his room.

The door barely closes when he has a hand against his throat shoving him up against the wall of the entryway. His air cuts off and his eyes half-close as they focus on Yoongi’s face. He has that perfect look on his face, that look that says Jimin is in for a wild ride.

“So Jimin-ah, did you think you were funny running your hand along my hip when you walked by me on stage tonight? How about when you backed up into me as you bent over to pick up your water bottle? Does that amuse you? Hmm? Teasing Daddy?”

Jimin can only nod and smirk, unable to get enough air to respond with words.

“You little brat. You’re in for it now.”

Yoongi leans forward and runs a tongue across his parted lips before he releases his throat in favor of grabbing the hair at the back of his head. Jimin tries to resist, but is forced down to his knees. Yoongi unbuckles his belt and pulls his pants down to his knees without ever releasing his hold on his hair.

He shoves his already-hard cock into Jimin’s mouth, pushing as far in as he can until he hears and feels the choking he was looking for. He’s looking down as if he’s a god sneering at a lowly follower. Jimin’s veins are molten lava as he savors the weight of Yoongi sliding back and forth over his tongue. He lets out little whimpers, playing into his punished sub role.

“That’s it, that’s my little toy. You like this don’t you? Daddy using you?”

Jimin groans and swirls his tongue around Yoongi’s head in response, opening his mouth as wide as possible. His own cock is aching, he’s desperate to be touched and can’t control his next move. He reaches down and starts palming himself through his pants, needing some sort of relief.

“Excuse me, what do you think you’re doing? Absolutely not.”

Yoongi pulls his cock out of Jimin’s mouth and hauls him up with a tight hand on his jaw. He grabs the collar of his shirt and drags him across the room, throwing him down onto the floor in front of his dresser. He knows what to do without being told, excitedly digging through his drawers for their restraints while trying to keep a straight face. He pulls out the pile of soft cuffs and hands them to Yoongi.

The restraints are soft velcro cuffs, one for each limb if they want, with loose straps hanging off of each one. Yoongi had found them while searching the internet for bondage items and brought them to Jimin to see if he liked them. They’re incredibly versatile and they’ve found very fun ways to tie Jimin up with the different straps.

Yoongi orders him onto the bed and he lays down on his back like a starfish, not knowing which limbs are going to be cuffed. He closes his eyes and feels a strap tighten around each wrist, body breaking out into goosebumps. He’s told to sit up and the straps pull down until his hands are tied together tight against his lower back. He wriggles around, pretending to break free and gets the response he wanted.

“You really don’t learn, do you?”

Yoongi shoves him backwards until his back is pressed up against the headboard and holds his head still. Jimin grits his teeth, knowing what’s coming next and feeling more eager for it than ever before. The sharp strike of that big hand against his face makes him cry out and clench his legs together, trying to do anything for his leaking cock. His mouth drops open and his eyelids are heavy.

“There you go, that’s the obedient face I wanted. Now let Daddy do what he wants.”

Yoongi reaches forward to open the buttons of Jimin’s shirt and peel the jeans from his legs. He’s glad he decided to forgo underwear today and based on the look on Yoongi’s face, he’s not the only one. He watches his boyfriend’s face turn hungry as he kneels between Jimin’s open legs. He leans forward, stopping just short of Jimin’s cock and it jumps in anticipation.

“Oh, does someone still want to be touched?”

“Mmph. Please, Daddy.”

“I don’t know, Jiminie. Are you going to be a good boy from here on out? No more pushback?”

“I promise, I promise. I’ll be the best little toy you’ve ever played with.”

“God, I love when you beg.”

Yoongi closes the gap and takes Jimin into his mouth in one quick stroke. He squeezes his base with one hand as he slides back and forth, tongue slipping up and into his slit. Jimin’s body bucks forwards and he feels a lightning bolt shoot straight up his stomach. Yoongi has gotten so good at this, taking him deeper little by little. He’s convinced that someday he’ll be able to deepthroat and there’s no way that that blowjob will last long. He can feel the tingle starting in his toes that means he’s getting close and he starts to twitch. Suddenly the perfect wet heat surrounding his cock disappears and he almost screams at the loss.

“What a good boy. I think you’re ready for more, don’t you? Do you remember your safe gesture?”

Jimin snaps his fingers in response and Yoongi smirks before leaving the room entirely. Jimin is confused and excited, while also a little scared, being left alone tied up like this. He knows that he could be left here for any amount of time, whatever his boyfriend decides. The door opens again a lot sooner than he expected, Yoongi walking in holding a bag. He pulls out a bottle of lube and a ball gag, sending anticipatory shivers up Jimin’s body. No time is wasted as the rubber ball forces his mouth open, tightly tied behind his head until his only choice is to clench down on it hard with his teeth.

He looks down his body and sees Yoongi squeezing lube from the bottle onto his hand, assuming he’s going to stroke him with it. His hand passes right over Jimin’s needy cock and behind until his fingers are stroking his ass. He gasps and gets a heady rush, they’ve discussed having sex and how to be safe about it, but Yoongi has never been ready. Could this mean…?

He draws in a sharp breath and dribbles a bit of saliva out of the side of his mouth when he feels one slender finger penetrating him. He grunts around the gag in his mouth and meets Yoongi’s eyes, trying to express how badly he wants more. He watches one eyebrow cock and a smirk grow across his face and knows he understands. A second finger spears in beside the first and they curl until they brush his prostate and he bucks up off the bed again, moaning. The fingers move inside him in every possible direction, preparing him for what’s to come. When a third joins them, he’s panting and sweating.

“Look how hungry my flower is. Maybe he wants something different here?”

Jimin tries to push desperate, pleading noises past his gag. There’s nothing in the world he wants more. He groans as he feels the fingers pull out of him, Yoongi climbing up his body to untie his ball gag and pull it from his mouth. He feels spit fall in a cascade from his lips, and knows how much the other man loves to see that.

“I’m going to need you to confirm that you’re okay with this, Jimin-ah.”

“Yes. Yes. Yes. YES. Please. Please.”

“Okay sweetheart, make whatever noise you want for me.”

Yoongi undresses and grabs the bottle of lube again, coating his cock in it, and Jimin is treated to the sight of the man he loves stroking himself. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that Yoongi isn’t nervous at all about his first time with a man. He knows that in reality, he’s snapped into his dom space and will radiate confidence no matter what he may actually be feeling. He positions himself to line up with Jimin’s entrance and slowly starts to push his way inside.

“God. Hyung. The way you stretch me is so fucking good.”

“Call me that again.”

“Hyung.”

“Fuck, Jimin. You’re so filthy and so so so tight.”

Yoongi’s brow furrows as he continues to push until he bottoms out, drawing a long and low moan from the back of Jimin’s throat. He stills for a second, seemingly gathering his composure. He leans forward and plants a soft kiss on Jimin’s lips, almost a reassurance. He reaches back and unties Jimin’s hands, too impatient to remove the actual cuffs and Jimin immediately reaches up to cup his face and pull him in for another kiss. That makes Yoongi start to thrust back and forth and Jimin’s eyes roll back into his head.

Yoongi grabs the back of his neck and starts picking up speed, small puffs of breath coming from his mouth. Jimin whines at every thrust, reveling in the feeling of being filled to the brim. He brings his hands down to Yoongi’s ass and pulls him in tighter so that his stomach brushes up against Jimin’s cock.

“Yes, just like that, you feel amazing. More, hyung, more.”

Yoongi lets out a higher pitched groan than Jimin ever expected to hear from him and speeds up. The room fills with the sounds of panting, moaning, and skin hitting skin. Jimin thinks he can’t possibly take any more pleasure when he feels a hand wrap around his cock and start to stroke at the same rhythm as he’s being fucked. He screams at the top of his lungs.

“That’s right, darling. Scream for me. Scream.”

“Yoongi! Hyung! Daddy! Fuck!”

“Cum for me, Jimin-ah. Cum for me.”

Jimin tumbles over the edge, stars exploding behind his eyes. The orgasm never seems to end. It’s an exquisite pain traveling through every single inch of his body, he can barely catch his breath. His head feels fuzzy and he slightly registers the feel of Yoongi emptying deep inside him. His grasp on the world is faded, muffled. He floats in clouds of bliss and pleasure. He could stay here forever.

“Come here, sweetie. Let me clean you up.”

He feels something warm and wet swipe against his aching hole, run along the insides of his thighs and up over his stomach. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows he’s being cleaned up, but his limbs feel like concrete and he can’t seem to form words. The warmth disappears and he shivers as the cold air hits the now wet parts of his body. He feels the bed dip next to him and arms wrap around his body.

“Can you tell me your name?”

“Mm.”

“I need you to tell me your name, honey.”

“Mmph. Dunno.”

“Yes you do, come on my perfect boy, what’s your name?”

He feels soft kisses traveling over his face and a hand stroking up and down his arm. He starts to feel like the world is coming back into focus. He opens his eyes and turns his head to the side and sees the face of the man he loves. He hums under his breath. He smiles and leans forward to kiss those perfect lips.

“My name is Jimin. Your name is Yoongi.”

“There you go, welcome back.”

“That was kind of insane. How are you feeling?”

“Me? This is your aftercare, Jiminie!”

“I know, but this was essentially you losing your virginity all over again. Are you okay? Do you have any questions?”

“I’m okay. It’s you. I knew everything would be amazing. I was right. I couldn’t have asked for anything more.”

Jimin’s heart swells and it takes all of his willpower to not tell Yoongi that he loves him right then and there. He knows it’s not the right time, knows they need to talk to the members first. He knows it’s too early, that Yoongi is nowhere near there yet. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t yearn to tell him every time they look into each other's eyes.

He sighs and curls up on his side, burrowing his face into Yoongi’s bare chest. The soft strokes along his back are making him drift off already. He doesn’t know what he was ever scared of. He’s taken care of, safe here. He decides to say it in his head if he can’t say it out loud.

I love you, Yoongi.

********

Jungkook walks out onstage on their last night at Gocheok for his solo song, trying to bask in the beauty of this experience. Now that it’s coming to an end he feels that familiar tug at his gut. Every winter when they go on break to fine-tune the new album and stop performing for awhile, Jungkook feels like a part of him was left behind in all the venues they played that year. It’s not that he doesn’t love creating, but the stage is where he thrives.

He hits every note perfectly and can’t help but break into a bright smile as the crowd cheers. The rest of the group joins him onstage for the next song and Taehyung runs a hand along the back of his neck as he passes by. He’s never been more grateful to the fans for shipping them, they can get away with so much mischief on stage. He runs forwards and intertwines their fingers, laughing and waving as the roar of the crowd intensifies. This is everything.

When they say their final goodbyes later that night, Jungkook tugs Tae into a dark corner behind a curtain and kisses him slow and deep. He knows he shouldn’t, but they’ve learned that if they keep it to five seconds it’s too quick to get caught. He might take advantage of that discovery much more often than he should. “Take me home, Tae. I don’t want to go out with everyone. I just want to be with you tonight.”

“Let’s go grab our things, baby. We can relax at home. I’ll tell everyone.”

The two head to the dressing rooms to change and grab everything they need, quickly telling the group that they’re going to go home. No one questions them, they’ve all been very good about letting the maknaes have as much private time as they need. They get into one of the waiting vans at the private entrance and almost nod off on the way home. Taehyung can barely focus enough to put his key in the lock so Jungkook scoops him up into his arms and takes the keys.

He walks into the dorm, snuggling Tae’s head into the crook of his neck and kicking off his shoes. He carries him down the hall to his room and lays him down, smiling softly at the small noises that murmur from his slack lips. He goes to his dresser and grabs a set of his own sweats to change Tae into. He walks back over, pulls off his shoes and socks, and gently changes his clothes. He tugs the blankets out from under him and tucks him in, heading to the bathroom quickly to brush his teeth before hurrying back.

He crawls into bed next to Taehyung and wraps his arms around his sleeping form. He tugs him in under his chin and kisses the top of his head as he feels himself start to drift off too. He inhales the scent wafting from his hair and something clicks inside him. This is all he’s ever going to need. More than the band, more than the music, more than his friends. It hits him how long he’s been in love with this man but in complete denial of it. Years of history bolster them and he doesn’t know how he could have been so blind. He may be asleep, but Jungkook can’t wait any longer to say it out loud.

I love you.

********

Namjoon is sitting in the BigHit conference room the day after their last show at Gocheok, tapping his pen on the table. For once he’s here before the CEO and that makes him even more nervous. He’d received an email after their first night at the Sky Dome saying that the private investigator had done some digging and will have a report ready by this morning. He had rushed out of the dressing room and called Bang Si-Hyuk immediately, wanting information sooner. The man had explained that he didn’t know anything more and that by the time they met this morning he’d have all the information.

Namjoon has been on edge ever since, worried out of his mind about who might be making their lives harder. He wonders if they’ll know exactly who it is and take care of it, or if there will just be loose theories to chase. He hasn’t told the others anything, they still don’t know that the note was left for Jungkook in the first place. He doesn’t want to scare anyone until he has actual answers. He nearly jumps out of his skin when the door at his back opens and the CEO walks in. He stands quickly to bow and wait for him to say something.

“Hi Namjoon. Great job at Gocheok this week, you all really impressed me.”

“Thank you, PD-nim. I’ll tell the others.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure you want to know what the investigator found. He made a list of the staff that were in Taiwan with you, both our people and the outside staff. He then dug into their backgrounds to see who might be a suspect. He doesn’t think whoever left the note was working with someone else, so that discounted the staff that doesn’t belong to us. Here’s a list of seven people who work with you all on a regular basis and would have had access to the dorms. I know all seven of these people and I would be shocked if anyone was the culprit, but this is the best lead we have for right now.”

He slides a piece of paper across the table and Namjoon grabs his pen to make notes next to each name.

Yang In-su (Director’s Assistant) So Kyubok (Stylist) Pyeong Hak-Kun(Cleaner) Ja Sang-Hee(Label Representative) Lee Dae-Hyun (Not a possibility) Gyeon Jiwoo(Makeup Artist) Park Kwan(Production Assistant)

“Thank you for hiring the investigator. I’ve taken my notes on the list, one name needs to be removed, but the others are worth looking into. Most of them are new to our staff, it could be any one of them.”

“Who needs to be removed?”

“Lee Dae-Hyun, he’s a close friend of Jimin’s and we’ve all started to become close with him as well. We haven’t seen him outside of work in a few weeks, but we intend to make more time to hang out with him now that things are quieter. He wouldn’t do this.” “Namjoon, I advise you to be cautious even when you think you know someone. You never know what’s going on inside their heads.”

“With all due respect, I don’t want to live my life that way. We’re able to choose who we can trust for ourselves and it’s been great for us all to make a friend outside our idol bubble. Don’t investigate Dae-hyun. He’s a good person.”

“Alright, I’ll strike him from the list and tell the investigator that you agree on the other six being possible suspects. I’ll contact you once we have more information.”

“Thank you for all your help, PD-nim.”

Namjoon stands and bows before walking out the door and down the hallway. Instead of heading back to the dorm he makes a beeline for Genius Lab where he knows he’ll find Yoongi. He wants to talk to him about the list of suspects and see if he should go to Jimin to have him warn Dae-Hyun that they may be investigating him. It’s time to bring someone else into the loop on what had happened in Taiwan.

********

Yoongi hears a knock on the studio door and is surprised to see Namjoon standing there. It’s early enough the morning after a show that he imagined everyone else would still be sound asleep. He hasn’t been to bed yet himself, he felt energized and inspired after their last show at Gocheok and came here to tie up some loose ends before he went home. As usual, the hours disappeared and the sun had risen before he realized how tired he was.

He lets Namjoon inside, stifling a yawn and feeling concerned at the conflicted look on the leader’s face. That never brings good news with it. He wishes he could confide in him the way he used to, he wants to tell him everything about Jimin, but they both have to be on the same page and tell everyone together.

“Hey Joonie, is everything okay? Why are you up so early?”

“I had a meeting with Bang and I’m feeling a bit worried. I was hoping I could bounce some thoughts off of you.”

Namjoon goes on to tell him a story about a note left on Jungkook’s door in Taiwan and a lump grows in his throat. The poor maknae must have been terrified, he understands why they kept this a secret from the rest of him. He’s surprised he didn’t hear it from Taehyung, they’ve been working on the song together for weeks. Unless Tae doesn’t know? No, that’s not possible. He must.

“Wow, Joon, you didn’t have to carry this on your shoulders alone all this time. I understand wanting to take it off of Jungkook’s mind, but you need to let some of us carry the burden with you sometimes. You’re wearing yourself thin. What did Bang say today?”

“He gave me a list of suspects that the private investigator is looking into. All staff members who are relatively new to working with us, were in Taiwan, and have at some point in the last few months been in the dorm as well.”

“They don’t think it’s possible that someone had help? There could be multiple people involved in order to cover up any sort of trail.”

“Not so far. It’s not impossible, but it’s not an angle they’re looking into right now.”

“Okay…so what is it that’s worrying you?”

“The list had seven people on it. I struck one from the list and told Bang not to investigate him, that it definitely wasn’t him. Dae-Hyun.”

Yoongi’s eyes widen hearing Jimin’s friend’s name. He can’t imagine that being possible. They would have been able to read any sort of ill intention coming from him. Though, come to think of it, he hasn’t seen Dae-Hyun around in awhile and Jimin never brings him up anymore.

“Hyung, do you think I need to talk to Jimin about Dae-Hyun? To make sure he can be trusted? To have him pass along a warning? I’m not quite sure how to deal with this.”

“I’ll take care of it, Namjoon. I’ll talk to Jungkook and make sure it’s okay to bring Jimin into the loop and then I’ll talk through it with him.”

Namjoon lets out a deep sigh and gives him a look of relief. He feels for the leader, he has had far too much stress all these years. He takes care of everyone so well, it’s time one of them takes the lead on something.

“Stay here and rest a few minutes, I’ll just wrap up this last track and we can head back to the dorm together and both get some sleep. I just need ten minutes.”

As Yoongi fiddles with the controls, his mind goes back to where it has run back to for three days now.

Jimin told me loves me as he fell asleep. He wasn’t even aware of it. He had just been deep in subspace and it was an incredibly intimate experience for us both. Should I bring it up? Should I let it go until he’s ready to say it to me consciously? Should I tell him first? God, I love that man. I’ve been such a coward, I should just tell him. No, focus on this Jungkook issue first. There’s plenty of time for all that later.

[tommylindsay]

Beholding of Storm's Ancient Gravy

A regular night in the Rocks. Pub, club, gaff - in that order. The Maple Leaf, Storm then Damo's flat in salubrious Pytchley, knocking naggins of rum down us like we were still in the queue for the junior disco. It was one of those nights - where you get a taste for the golden brown devil, burdening your left shoulder with whispers of self-denial.

Moments lasting forever in ten minutes flat. Before you know it, the dim yellow bulbs are out from above you, you lose a tenner in a black cab in three seconds and then you're getting an earful of Jason Derulo five yards from the speaker. It was a regular night. Good chat with Jenny, Damo and Kris. Old times. New times. Meeting new people, old people. Two quid pints going down like it's Fresher's Week. Invincible. Pushing yourself and others and no-one backing down. Fivers flying out your account left, right and center Hefner-style. It's getting better and better and it won't stop there.

Music fills your body, your arms, your soul. You don't even like the tunes but it's the same every week but so what? Nothing stands in your path. Three hours and four of the same Vengaboys tracks later, after timing your ventures to the cubicle well to avoid the jumpered badgers with baggies of Trebor, your luck would soon run out. You come face-to-face with Five Foot Fergal with his forearms in his pockets. He was in the middle of smashing the sink off the wall with a football sock full of table tennis balls when you walked in on him. It was a regular night no longer.

He asks what you're doing here and you go "Nothin', mate" but then Five Foot Fergal goes "Disnae look like nothin', mate" and that's your secret weapon down the kermit. It was your moment to enter the nuclear attack codes from your safety deposit box but every single digit was wrong. Five Foot Fergal stops the ceramic barrage and turns to face you with his sunken blue eyes and clicks his fingers twice. Suddenly the door behind you shuts tightly, vanquishing the Venga Bus once and for all. Instead of dealing his infamous shin-kicking with all five of his steel-capped feetsies, he turns to the cubicle on the far end and pushes the tiled wall inwards.

You've no choice but to follow him in to the unknown abyss, minding your feet on every step on the staircase. Unbeknownst to you, Five Foot Fergal is already fiddling on a rudimentary kitchen counter-top at the foot of the stair well. When he realizes that you've finally caught up with him, he pulls a light switch to reveal sick-green wallpaper, a sink with a tap shaped like a question mark and a black bucket in the corner.

Without a word, Five Foot Fergal reached for the bucket and swept it through the full basin like Ganymede wading his pitcher through the rivers of Dardania. You are presented with the bucket and the inside is of a putrid black and green mix with a spoogey texture like PVA glue. Twinkles of red were dotted around like encrusted gems in a foul mixture. Five Foot Fergal gave the bucket a swirl like a fine glass of Claret so the bogey juice leaked down the side. It was a slow and laboured dripping as though it were manhandled chip shop gravy down a styrofoam cup.

That being said for the look. The smell was something else.

The smell was heavenly, unmatched, unheard of, unsmelled of. It hit your nostrils like a mint tulip candle. Bergamot and fireworks. Barbecue and wine. Opel Fruits and your boyfriend's car. The stench provoked untold flashbacks to infinite peace and happiness at the peak moments of your life. You were happier then. When Nicorella said she'd be with you forever before she pawned your SNES for a teaspoon of White Lightning. You were still in school with no responsibilities. It smelled of staying up to 5am and getting away with it. The mufti days where you got past the bucket without them seeing you. Understanding nothing. Believing in the future you now occupy and not knowing the truth about it. It was everything you could ever want. Life beyond this.

Five Foot Fergal was looking at you with a twinkle in his eye and a saber-toothed grin. You didn't have much time left to accept his offer. Grabbing the bucket with both hands, you necked it.

You did not wake up in Damo's flat. Damo wasn't speaking to you no more. You woke up with a wet arse and a chewed ecto in your pocket, surrounded by trees and people walking their chained boxer-dogs. There's nothing on your phone.

Oh well. It's a shame you couldn't see Jenny off. It was her leaving do. You probably can't come back to the office now. Definitely not your own home. The saving grace is that you didn't get barred anywhere you went so that's something.

[catsvrsdogscatswin]

Higurashi Month 2022, Day 9: Shattered

The parfait, creamy and shining and drizzled with luscious fruity syrup, shattered in her hand. The restaurant's customers halted their conversation as dozens of eyes turned her way, a low buzz of speculation starting up, but Shion could no more have paid attention to them than she could have flown. She mumbled something vaguely apologetic, her head feeling numb, and swayed her way to the breakroom. Or maybe staggered. It was hard to tell.

Her hand was a pulsing point of pain, and dully, she looked down, seeing tiny twinkling shards of glass lodged in her flesh, blood oozing over her pale hand like the raspberry syrup drizzled over the parfait. At any other time, Shion might have laughed, but now…now she wasn't sure if she could ever laugh again. All the light and joy and laughter had been sucked from the world the moment she heard the news.

It couldn't be true. It couldn't.

Moving hastily now, and with more control, she started shedding her frilly, revealing work uniform. Shion didn't care that undressing made her hand burn as the glass shards dug deeper into her skin, or how she was leaving blotchy red handprints on the custom fabric. She didn't care about it when she pulled on her street clothes, and she didn't care about the twittering of her fellow waitresses as those not occupied with a task gathered around her or hovered at the edge of the room. Someone grabbed her wrist above the bloody palm, distant words about bandages and cleaning it echoing faintly in her ears, and with a sudden flare of anger and strength Shion wrenched her arm away.

And she began to run.

She burst through the doors, weaving between confused and concerned customers and anyone who might try and make a grab for her, ducking under worrying, reaching hands. Her low heels clattered on the steps up to Angel Mort as she took them three at a time, recklessly, not caring about how it made her skirt ride up her thighs, or how high the chance was of breaking a heel and falling. If she could have flown, she would have done that, but there was no time, not even an instant, to grab a car or a bike and hotwire it. Every moment, every half-second of pause between her and her destination, was an untold agony that could not be endured. She would run until her heels gave out, then run barefoot on the dirty pavement, and when her legs finally failed her she would dig her newly-healed hands into the pavement and crawl.

Anything to get there in time to confirm this news to be a lie.

She could never have done this in the city, where cars were whizzing by on the streets and you actually had to pay attention to traffic lights. Shion only paid enough attention at each intersection to make sure she wouldn't be run over when she dashed into the street, uncaring of which color the lights had been. She ran, and she ran, and she ran, until at last she reached the police station. She smacked the door open with her injured palm, feeling the glass dig deeper like the agony biting into her heart, and surveyed the room full of startled policemen with wild eyes.

"Oishi!"

The old fat detective had actually gotten to his feet, and Shion rushed for him, grabbing his collar in her bloody hands and shaking desperately.

"It's not true!" she cried in his face. "It's a lie, right!? It has to be a lie! Satoshi-kun can't be dead!"

"Sonozaki-san –please!" Oishi grunted, levering a hand between them to try and pry her off. The others hovered around her, babbling faintly about assaulting a police officer (or was that a memory, a distant and echoing thought of how much trouble she'd be in for this), but Shion could not hear or think past the ringing in her ears, and she would not be pried away. "Calm down!"

"I won't calm down, I won't, I can't!" Tears filled her eyes. "Tell me Satoshi-kun's okay!"

There was a hint of auburn hair at the edge of her vision, the familiar white flap of a labcoat, and Shion whirled around as she felt the pinch of a needle in her skin. It jarred the device loose, but as the syringe clattered to the floor Shion saw that it was already empty, and the room was spinning around her.

"Please…" she croaked weakly, her tears spilling down her face.

And then she collapsed.

~*~

Shion's hand was neatly bandaged when she woke up again, with a faint stinging underneath that reminded her of antiseptic. She was laying on a bench in a grey room that she recognized as the police station, underneath someone's uniform coat. She pushed it aside as she sat up, her eyes searching the room for Satoshi-kun. He would be worried for her, if he'd heard she collapsed. He would want to come and see if she was okay. He was that kind of person.

A tight fist of fear closed around her heart as she saw that the area around her was empty, that there was only Doctor Irie sitting at a desk that clearly wasn't his, fiddling with a syringe case. As he restlessly flipped the lip open and shut, open and shut, Shion saw with surprise that there were two needles inside, both empty. When had he used the second one? And for what?

"Coach?" she asked, her voice raspy from fear and the dryness of her throat, and his head jerked up as he slammed the case shut, like it was a guilty secret. Kind eyes fixed on her from behind his glasses, and Doctor Irie immediately rolled his chair sideways, coming out from behind the desk.

"How do you feel, Shion-san?" he asked.

Drained. Exhausted. Her very spirit felt rubbed harsh and raw, like a friction-burn on her skin. Her throat was sore from shouting. And most of all, cold fear pulsed along her veins like blood.

"I'm fine." she said hoarsely. "Is there any water?"

Doctor Irie got her a paper cup, and Shion sat up to drink it. She drained the cup to the bottom in one swift gulp, before setting it aside and looking at the doctor. He seemed –worried. Stressed, beyond what Shion's wild ranting and collapse could have accomplished.

She figured it was as good an opening as any.

"It's not true, right?" Shion asked, no longer screaming the words frantically, but just as desperate to believe them, to hear him say yes. "I mean, you're the only doctor around here. They would've called you in for an autopsy. It's- it's just some stupid rumor, isn't it?"

Doctor Irie did not say anything, his lips compressed into a thin line. He did not look at her. There was pain in his eyes.

"Coach?" Shion whispered, her voice sounding even more fragile than it felt.

Doctor Irie did not respond.

Oh.

So…it was true, then.

"Ah." Shion said simply, all the fight, all the energy, all the hope draining out of her as her body drooped. It felt like the gears of the world had twisted hideously out of order, grinding and meshing back together into this obscene, hurtful, impossible truth, and she couldn't do a thing to stop it. She was just a helpless girl, unable to fight against the raging currents of reality any more than a wisp of straw could hold back a hurricane.

Shion started to weep.

She was too wrapped up in her grief to notice or care where Doctor Irie went as he stood, because the bottom had gone out of her world and there was nothing, nothing, to care or hope for again. She cried until her cheeks were raw and her throat was even scratchier than before, cried until the very act of sobbing hurt, and still she had not even dropped a fragment into the ocean of her grief. She was only ruthlessly dragged back to reality when she heard the door opening, and then it was because there was a dull, deadened part of her that still dared to hope that Satoshi-kun was still somehow okay. But it was just Doctor Irie, arguing softly but furiously with Detective Oishi.

"-to give her some time, for pity's sake!" Coach was saying in an angry undertone, his gentle face harsher than Shion had ever remembered seeing it. But Oishi shouldered him aside, his bulk and training making it easy for him as he forced his way into the room. Doctor Irie watched him with a sour twist to his mouth, but Shion just stared at the old man, her swollen eyes dull and lifeless.

"Sonozaki-san." Detective Oishi said aloud after a pause as they all regarded each other without words, addressing her directly. Shion found that she didn't have the energy to care as he ponderously settled into a chair across from her. "I want to talk to you about Hojo-kun."

"He's dead." Shion choked, finally voicing the awful, awful words as two more hot tears etched their way down her sore cheeks. Detective Oishi fumbled in a pocket for his packet of cigarettes, pulling one out and lighting it. He seemed to need something to do with his hands.

"Do you know how he died?"

She shook her head.

"It was at the festival." Detective Oishi continued, holding his cigarette between two fingers and regarding the glowing ember at the end thoughtfully. "Apparently, some people heard screaming in the woods: the festival being what it is, nobody was as quick to help as they might be at another time of year. Still, nobody had time to do more than start getting worried before Tamae Hojo staggered out of the woods, covered in blood. Her own, and her nephew's. She told the crowd that she had been attacked, and her attacker was dead."

Hatred smoldered in a tight, curled coal within Shion's chest as Detective Oishi stuck the cigarette back in his mouth and took a long draw.

"We've been putting the facts together after the event. Hojo-kun quit the doctor's sports team a few weeks ago, didn't he?"

"H-he was saving money for his job." Shion quavered, knowing it for a lie.

"But he took the bat home." Detective Oishi pressed. "He then called the Sonozaki household the night before the festival, asking your sister to take Hojo-chan with her to the festival. According to Tamae Hojo, he then told her about some illegally dumped furniture in the woods that might be worth some money. When she went out to investigate, he appeared and tried to bludgeon her to death with the baseball bat he had retained from his team."

"She deserved it." Shion croaked, and admission of guilt or not, she wouldn't take those bitter words away. Detective Oishi regarded her with something almost like sympathy.

"Whether she deserved it or not, Hojo-kun still concocted an almost textbook scheme for premeditated murder." he said, and Shion swallowed her tears, her rawness, her sharp and bleeding edges and compressed them into a crystal of diamond-hard fury in her chest as she finally straightened her shoulders and looked the detective in the eye.

"So what?" she spat. "What does any of that have to do with me? He's dead."

Her voice broke on the last word, as much as she tried to keep it strong. More tears warmed her eyes, but she stubbornly clamped down on the welling grief.

"Were you an accomplice?" Oishi asked implacably, holding her gaze. Shion's eyes widened a little –of all the accusations, she had never expected that one.

"I- no." she whispered without thinking, guilt pressing on her chest like a stone. "If I was, I would have- I would have helped. He wouldn't have failed."

He wouldn't have died.

"That's enough, detective." Doctor Irie said, his voice sharp as he went to put his hand on Shion's quivering shoulders. "Shion-san does not have to stay here, and she does not have to answer your questions. I think you should be ashamed of yourself, pouncing on a grief-stricken girl like this. Come."

This last was addressed to her, and Shion stood up, unable to think of a reason why she shouldn't. She let Coach pull her out the door because she could not think of where else she could go. His grip was firm, but kind as he ushered her into his car, watching her out of the corner of his eye to make sure she was buckled in before starting it up.

Shion let her body slouch against the outside door, her very thoughts numb and unmoving. She felt oddly calmer, now, than she had been when she ran out of Angel Mort, and her thoughts were clearer.

That didn’t make it any better.

In some ways, it made things worse, because the memories that played out before her eyes were shown with aching clarity –Satoshi, patting her head; Satoshi, protecting his sister; Satoshi, sounding out her real name for the first time with wonder rather than disdain on his tongue; the underground Saiguden, where she had sacrificed so much to keep them together. Gone, now. All gone, or all worthless, and more tears etched their way down her face as Coach drove quietly through the streets, weeping silently now rather than sobbing.

She didn’t care where she was going. Doctor Irie could have been taking her to be dissected on a slab for all Shion cared: without Satoshi, life wasn’t worth living.

As though her thoughts had stirred him, Doctor Irie began to speak. His voice was low and calm, his eyes averted, and somehow that made it easier to listen. She supposed he had practice in dealing with people deep in the throes of grief: he was a doctor, after all.

“I want you to call me if anything happens.” Coach said softly. “Grief is- this is a lot to deal with, especially alone. You should talk with your sister, your friends, your parents. If you don’t want to- that is, with your family situation-”

“What?” Shion croaked waspishly.

Doctor Irie drew in a long breath, his whole body expanding with it, before he let it out in a whoosh.

“Strong grief can have…adverse effects on someone.” he said slowly, his eyes sliding even further away from her. “Some people even report hallucinations…formication…”

“Formication?”

“The feeling of bugs crawling on your skin when nothing’s there.” Doctor Irie replied gravely, his fingers shifting slightly on the driving wheel. “It’ll make you want to scratch at your skin, which can cause irritations, rashes, even lesions. Promise you’ll tell me if you start feeling any symptoms? I have a medicine that will help.”

A medicine to help with grief. Shion coughed out a laugh at that idea, a harsh and bitter thing that crawled out of her throat like a clot of blackness. There was no medicine in the word that could help her, not any more.

Her mind dwelled on that as Doctor Irie drove her into the village, watching the familiar sights slide by with unseeing eyes. Satoshi…Satoshi-kun was dead. He was gone, and never coming back. Shion would never be able to fall in love with him, go on a date, hold his hand…so much of her life was gone.

Hojo.

Tamae Hojo.

Shion’s lips drew back in a snarl as the hated name and face oozed to the forefront of her mind. That bitch had tormented Satoshi-kun, and now, now she dared to take his life away, take him away from those that needed him. Poor Satoshi-kun. He had done so much to try and protect his sister, and when he had finally been pushed so far as to try and take her tormentor’s life, he had proven too frail to finish the job.

No, it wasn’t his fault. He was strong. He played baseball, he was a sportsman. He had tried his best to take his sister’s future into his own two hands, because he cared for her that much. That was how intensely and nobly he loved. It was Shion’s fault for not protecting him better, for not offering to help on that “business” he was skipping the festival for. She would have been able to help. She should have been helping, should have helped Satoshi-kun murder his aunt as Oishi suspected her of doing.

She would.

The answer came to her in a moment of breathless clarity, and Shion almost laughed. Yes, she could still help Satoshi-kun. Why waste her time grieving when she had a whole lifetime of sorrow ahead of her? Why spend days collapsed in grief when a far more productive use of her time was revenge?

Yes, she could see the shape of it now. One to die, one to disappear, and Satoshi-kun had already filled the first place. Shion might be an outcast in her family, but she was still a Sonozaki. She could still use the underground torture chambers, could still abduct a hated enemy of the village. No one would shed a tear or bat an eye when another Hojo went missing, after all. And then, oh, then, once Shion had gotten that bitch exactly where she wanted her, trapped her in the underground Sonozaki vaults…there was nothing she could not do with her. Shion could spend days tormenting the woman who had torn out her heart, making Tamae Hojo wish for death with every breath she took.

Shion set her mind on that path as her injured hand throbbed and pulsed with an echo of pain and Doctor Irie’s car whooshed past the chittering cicadas that filled Hinamizawa’s rural roadside.

AN: Formication is actually a real side-effect, involving the hallucinatory sensation of bugs crawling on or under your skin. It can be triggered by meth or other types of drugs, as well as some mental conditions.

[betwecouldmakesome]

I wrote a jatp fic if anyone would like to check it out!

[dreamingofaizawa]

Powerful Ch. 1

Yakuza! Shouta Aizawa x Fem! Reader

*Mafia AU* Quirkless as well

Warnings: Arranged (sort of) marriage, brief mention of champagne, mentions of violence (nothing too specific). In later chapters: Probably smut

Word Count: 3.4 k

Author’s Note: ALRIGHTY here we go. I just had a fixation on Mafia AUs and, of course, it’s Shouta. What else did you expect? I’m a sucker for arranged relationships. Also he’s a little ooc in here, more confident, more ‘I want it I got it’. Hey, he’s the most powerful man in Japan, might as well have him act like it right? Anywho, I have no clue how many chapters this’ll end up being. Let’s just say this is ongoing for now.

Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4

Enjoy~

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25 years old and you haven’t been married off yet. This was strategic on your father’s part. As a rather low-ranking clan he’d purposely saved you, his eldest daughter, for marrying into a higher ranked clan. You’d bring immense honor to the family name. If only you’d known what you were getting into, maybe you could have been better prepared for your world to flip on its head.

The black velvet gown you wear is tailored perfectly to your form, accentuating every curve and dip on your body. The skirt fanned out around you gracefully and a short train trailed behind you as you stepped through the grand doors of the massive mansion. Tonight is the annual celebratory ball, held to celebrate successful unions and achievements. This one was particularly special, you just didn’t quite know it yet.

Since the event wasn’t mandatory, you were told to go in alone as a representative of your clan, while Mother and Father attended to more important matters. Before you even stepped in you fixed your posture and schooled your expression, keeping your form humbled. Heavens know what could happen should you irk the wrong clan.

Inside you were met with an onslaught of mixed everything, mixed drinks and colors and styles. Some wore traditional Japanese kimono, others more modern versions of the garment and others, like you, wearing more extravagant european or western style clothing. Though a rather interesting mix, nothing quite clashed which you were slightly grateful for, since there was no possible way you could make it through the night without a headache if there was an unpleasant mix of visuals.

You strode through and instantly met several lower clan heads that you respectfully bowed to and engaged in pleasant small talk with, moving from person to person, couple to couple and paying respects to all of them. You kept a small smile, a pleasant facade as you waltzed over the hardwood flooring. It took almost two hours of endless conversation before you managed to catch a break in the madness, snatching a small flute of champagne from a waiter and leaning up against a wall for a breath. 

You still hadn’t noticed the pair of dark eyes that studied you from the moment you arrived.

____

You struck him as intriguing at first. From the moment you walked over the threshold his eyes drank you in, studying you, observing and judging just as he had with many other women before you. No one here knows it, but the man is looking for a bride. Someone who could stand by his side,improve and uphold his image, help him wield the power that is the Yakuza. Yes, rank is important, but Shouta is too picky to care about rank. He is looking for a specific type of woman, one that can hold untold depths of power without crumbling under the pressure or getting swept up in the rush of it all.

A woman, he decides, like you.

You held yourself with grace, pride and humility. You seemed to understand your position, your probable low rank, while also not undermining your importance nor worth. A woman like you is hard to come by in this world, most just as power hungry and ruthless and greedy as their husbands, all while putting up a cotton candy sweet mask and using it to disguise their conniving ways. 

But in truth, that’s what it took to live this kind of life, isn’t it?

It was clear you knew that, while still managing to feel genuine in everything you did, even with an action as simple as sipping champagne. At the same time he can’t deny you are quite beautiful, soft lips and softer eyes, fingers gently grasping your glass with unmatched elegance and an unwavering strength in your posture. You’d bowed before many this evening, and yet you stood taller than even the highest ranking clan heads without challenging a single one of them. Bamboo in this forest of tall, unyielding trees. Capable of wielding so much power.

For a split second his mind wandered to other things, filthy moments shared in the privacy of his chambers, shared breaths and shimmering sweaty skin. He wondered what you would be like underneath him, if you would be a brat or willingly submit yourself to him. He hopes it to be the latter, but wouldn’t completely deny the chance to tame someone difficult. How would you look pinned under his weight, completely helpless to his hands that have killed and tortured? Would you claw at his shoulders or grip the sheets instead? What would you sound like? Your image plagued his mind even if only for a moment.

He’d studied many women over the few hours since the event started, none of them giving him a good enough first impression for him to continue watching further than a minute. There was no question in his mind now. You’d be returning home with him tonight.

____

You had just finished your drink and set the empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray when suddenly the ballroom fell extremely silent. All heads turned, eyes focused on the man that began his descent from the balcony overlooking the floor. He’s gorgeous, long black hair pulled into a low bun and exposing the light scruff on his chin and impossibly sharp jaw, a deep scar curved under his right eye. The full black satin suit is fitted to his form, strong shoulders and rolling muscle evident even under the thick materials. Ink peeked over the collar, a hint at what was definitely intricate sleeves and detailed artwork. His steps were measured, calculated and purposeful as he made his way down and across the floor, the entire room bowing down at his presence. 

You know who he is, as does every person here. Top rung of the ladder, Oyabun of the most powerful clan in Japan, his name widely known through the entire organization and yet almost never spoken. Shouta Aizawa, a name both respected and feared, holding unknown power and strength. His reputation is enough to make anyone feel small in his presence, known for his cold demeanor and the violence he’d committed, many losing their fingers, loved ones, and their own lives for misdeeds against him. He’d done most of that himself, marking him as a very dangerous man to be involved with, and an ally everyone wanted backing them.

You bowed down respectfully just as everyone else did, waiting patiently for a release, whether it was from the man himself or a collective understanding that it was alright to rise once again. The former was the first to come to fruition, though you didn’t expect him to be so close to you as he said it. Your eyes met with sharp onyx as you fixed yourself upright. It made you freeze in place, not quite tense, not quite relaxed, your expression hopefully not showing the utter shock you were feeling.

“What is your name?” You blinked only once before your mind caught up, and you willed your voice steady as you responded. What had you done to piss him off? What punishment awaited you for what you didn’t know you’d done? Despite fearing what may come, you don’t dare speak out of turn, even to beg for your life. His next words were addressed to the entire ballroom, you included, his smooth, deep voice booming out and yet somehow not loud at all.

“Any transgression against this woman is a transgression against me. As my future wife she is untouchable, and will remain that way until I explicitly state otherwise.” A collective hushed gasp sounded through the massive hall, your own eyes growing wide and your heart damn near stopping as your brain dissected the information. He just made you his fiance, with no warning, no hesitation, and full confidence. You are now engaged to the most powerful man in Japan, and you have exactly zero say in the matter. Really though, you never expected to be able to voice any opinions considering the patriarchy of the organization, so that bit of shock was quickly overlooked.

“It’s time to retire, little one.” His hand was held out to you, waiting for your own. You blinked, deciding it was best that you saved your shock for later you focused on the here and now and what to do in this moment. Taking a breath, you schooled your face into a pleasant smile and placed your hand in his waiting palm, allowing him to tuck you into his side as you both walked out the front doors and climbed into a black limouzine.

You didn’t allow yourself to relax, sitting silently next to the man as trees and telephone poles whizzed by the vehicle. It was tense, to say the least, his hand possessively sat on your knee as his eyes remained fixed in front of him and yours did the same. Neither of you talked, you slightly out of fear, of respect, and slightly out of sheer shock, your mind just barely able to keep itself together. He remained silent for a purpose. He would talk when you were alone, or when he felt like talking. Which isn’t right now.

You let your mind whirl a bit, worrying about what this meant for you. Worrying about how this powerful man would treat you, how he acted behind closed doors and if he even cared about you or what you might have to say. It’s nerve-wracking, suddenly bound to a power such as him, not knowing what could happen next, not knowing what to do next. There was nothing that could have prepared you for this.

The car slowed as it pulled up to the gate of the enormous estate, shaking you out of your thoughts, and once it opened the drive to the main house took nearly five minutes on its own. It’s a modern home, several stories tall with the top clearly penthouse-style with a full glass wall that overlooks the landscape, the rest of the huge inner home hidden behind crisp walls.

At a full stop, a man opens the door for you, the Oyabun having already exited and held a hand out for you to grab once again, strong muscles pulling you up with ease and leading you through the building and into an elevator. The silence is stifling as you wait for the machine to come to a stop, the soft chime indicating you’ve landed. 

Now you’re completely alone with him.

He leads you in and stops in the center of the large main room, stepping away and turning his scrutinizing gaze onto you. You do your best not to tense in front of him, not to show fear, partially for his comfort though you’re sure he’s used to it. His shoes clack softly, rhythmically on the polished wood floor as he begins to circle you, like a predator eyeing its prey, eyes burning paths up and down your form. You barely keep from squirming under his intense gaze, managing to keep still from sheer willpower. He stops suddenly behind you and you feel his warmth as he leans in close before a hand presses into your mid back and another gently grasps your shoulder, gently making you straighten even more, stand even taller.

Once he’s satisfied with your posture he rounds you and tilts your chin just a tad higher with a hooked finger. He’s silent as he shapes you, adjusting your body to his liking. You let him tenderly push and tug, grab and knead and trail those deadly fingers over you until he stops before you, studying you once again. 

“You’re my fiance now. You will hold yourself as such, radiate power as I do and command the attention of a room with only a glance.” The reminder of just what was happening made your breath stutter a little, and his hand came up to grasp your chin, making you look up into his dark eyes.

“You will learn, little one, to be the powerful woman I see.” He was so close, the heat from his body rolling over your skin and his breaths fanning over your face. Then he was walking away, motioning for you to follow as he led you to his chambers and bathroom to get cleaned up. You’d be sleeping with him from now on, he said, handing you a robe to change into after you’ve bathed and guiding you into the bathroom before closing the door and leaving you alone with your thoughts as you set to cleaning yourself.

Given you don’t screw things up, you are going to be the most powerful woman in Japan, solely because of a sudden arranged marriage dropped seemingly from out of nowhere. But the longer you think about it, it isn’t really out of nowhere is it? The Oyabun is 30 now, and until tonight hadn’t named a wife, nor any love interests, and therefore no possible heirs. If the man were to die for any reason, those chances only increasing the older he gets, the power vacuum his absence would create would be absolute madness. You’re part of a strategy, just as before. Just as always.

Yet there was no denying he’d struck something inside you. Of all the women in that hall he approached you, a woman he didn’t know from a low ranked clan, for reasons you could only barely begin to guess. He’d called you powerful earlier, the sincerity in his voice making your mind spin. Did he really see you as powerful? And the name he’d used for you felt far too tender on the tongue of such a dangerous man, though you understood the nod toward your previous rank. 

Father and Mother must be either confused, shocked, or overflowing with joy right about now. Confused as to why you haven’t returned, shocked, happy, or both at the news had they learned it. With your mind processing everything, your body finally begins to feel fatigued. 

You shut off the water before drying yourself, patting your hair in the towel before pulling on the fluffy robe. It was clearly meant for him, the fuzzy black garment large around the shoulders and sleeves engulfing your hands, the garment nearly touching the floor where it’s meant to hang several inches from it on his frame. Despite swimming in the robe, you couldn’t help but feel a bit vulnerable. You’re bare beneath it, not having planned to not return home. Still, it’s late, and the Oyabun needs to shower as well. With a steadying breath, you step out into the room.

He’s standing near the bed, the top half of his clothing discarded and bare skin exposed, along with the heavy tattooing and scars along his body. Dragon scales decorated his skin, along with delicate swirls heavily resembling smoke and clouds that followed the curves of his corded muscles. He is undoubtedly a beautiful man. You don’t realize you’re staring until a miniscule smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Enjoying the view, little one?” You blink away your daze and shift your eyes to the side, feeling the slight burn in your face at being caught. Instead of answering the cheeky question you choose to change the subject.

“I’m finished with my shower, Oyabun.” He hums, a low sound you can feel in your chest.

“I can see that, little one. And you call me Shouta.” You take a quiet, sharp inhale and nod.

“Yes, of course...Shouta.” His name feels heavy on your tongue, a name that people didn’t normally dare speak. He’s silent as he gathers his things and moves toward the bathroom, stopping momentarily by your side. You’re confused a moment before his calloused fingers gently grip your jaw and turn your head, his lips pressing softly against your temple for a split second before he’s disappearing into the bathroom. 

You stand in shock, the tender touch unexpected. Shaking your head, you decide it’s best to lay down. Hopefully you’d fall asleep by the time he finishes bathing, but you doubted it. You’re proven right when, in the midst of mulling over your own thoughts, he emerges in nothing but sweatpants, dark hair still damp as it fell around his shoulders. You managed to avert your eyes before he could catch you staring for a second time tonight, and it wasn’t long before he slipped under the blankets next to you.

There wasn’t a single word shared between you as he flicked off the lights with a remote and settled into the plush mattress. There was no movement from the man as you lay with your back to him. You aren’t entirely sure if the lack of movement unsettles you more than if he were to be shuffling around. It felt like hours had passed in the darkness, your eyes had adjusted and you couldn’t sleep despite how exhausted you felt. 

Your mind raced with questions. What happens now? What happens with your clan and parents? Would you have clothes soon? How would he treat you? How were you supposed to act around him? When is the wedding? Is the engagement already official? What if you disappoint him and fuck everything over? The entire situation makes you anxious, for more than something as trivial as your own safety. You shift onto your back and listen to Shouta’s soft snores, signaling his sleep. As silently and gently as you can, you slip out of bed.

You have no clue what you were going to do or where you were going to do it, but you had to get away from him if only for a moment, to let yourself breathe and think. Almost mindlessly, you find yourself staring out of the glass wall and out into the night. This far out, you can see the stars in the night sky clear and bright, and it was a sight you missed having lived in the city most of your life. Right here you have room to think, space to spread your thoughts and calm your mind to keep from jumbling everything in your brain and stressing over it more. 

From what you can tell there is a very small chance Shouta would treat you maliciously, so for now you don’t have to worry about that. Considering his power and status, you won’t be without clothing for long. The thought was silly in the first place, but stress tended to make you question even the most ridiculous. As for how you’re meant to act, well that would have to be tested. He’d already told you how to appear to the public, so that shouldn’t be too hard, but being alone with the man was driving you insane.

Soft footsteps broke you from your thoughts. You spin around, suddenly very much on guard, before Shouta’s voice broke through the darkness, his figure slowly approaching. 

“What are you doing up, little one?” You bite your lip and turn to gaze outside again, hugging your arms tight.

“Just thinking. I apologize for waking you, Oya-… Shouta.” His warmth hit you before his skin did, chest pressed into your back and large rough hands gripping your shoulders firm but gentle. His breath is hot on your ear and neck, sending a shiver down your spine. Such an intimate action from him only hours after he’d made you his fiance was quite the shock in and of itself, only enhanced by the fact that this man is known for his cold nature.

“Thinking about what?” His hands smoothed down your arms, following them around your waist and encompassing your hands in his, tugging you into him further. Unnatural as it may seem, it feels good, his warmth. In the arms of such a dangerous and powerful man you should feel small and scared, but you don’t. You aren’t entirely sure what it is you feel. Truthfully, you don’t have the energy to answer his question properly.

“About a lot of things. Too many things.” Right now, the only thing you want to do is melt into the man’s arms. His presence is suddenly comforting, instead of worrying, and you feel safe in his embrace. You sigh and lean into him, fatigue finally beginning to tug at your body and mind. Strong arms scoop you up like nothing, and suddenly you’re being placed down on the bed before he climbs in and pulls you onto him. An arm circles your waist while the other cradles your head, a tender kiss placed at your hairline.

“Sleep, little one.” His fingers thread through your hair, massaging your scalp lightly. It’s a soothing action, especially after nearly giving yourself a headache from stress. It isn’t long before you’re nodding off, relaxing into his body and letting his steady heartbeat lull you to sleep.

[delicatewerewolfsoul]

pairing: johnny x reader

genre: fluff, comfort, slice of life

word count: 580

[01:55] The moon was shining so bright tonight. You sat on the stairs in front of your house, looking up at the bright silver light on the sky, smiling softly at it. Your grandma was definitely right, the best nights were always the ones with the full moon and the sound of the crickets. The water hit on the beach slowly, silvely as well as it reflected the color of the moon. "This night is the best, isn't? No bothers, loud cars or high scary skyscrapers, those scare the shit out of me" Johnny says as he joins you on the stairs. "What are doing here so late btw? You finished your job long time ago" he says looking at you. "I would say the same for you... What are you doing here so late?" You says looking back at him. "I came here for you..." he says, "but if I'm unwanted, I'll just leave" he says standing up, and you stand up as well, confused as to why he got irritated so easily. "Well, since you came here anyway, just stay" you say sitting back down and he quietly joins you as well. "Now tell me... What brings you here?" you say titling your head at him and he scruffs at you. "I heard you had problems with your car and that you also sprained your ankle coming back. You should have called me. Take care of yourself please, don't close up, lean on someone else too, it won't hurt. Not all people are bad people okay? What would we do if it became something too serious?" he says seriously scolding you. You sigh and turn back at him "look who is talking... If you want me to do that, then please try to open up more, all you do is take care of other people selflessly, when are you gonna take care of yourself too? Talk about your feelings. I wish you also treated yourself, acknowledged your own feelings, seriously". And with that, as you kept on nagging at him, something sparked into him. His heart felt warm and a sudden urge came as well. "Y/n can you look at me?" he says softly, gaining your attention, and as soon as you turn around, soft lips land on yours. A small peck, something that ended too soon, but still held so many untold emotions. A strong hand around your wrist, holding onto it as delicately as it could, while he pulled away, and looked seriously into your eyes. "Then let's date each other... Let's date... That way, you'll ask me for help when you need it and I'll have someone to talk about my feelings, how does that sound?" he says and you just stay still for a moment, not really believing that this happened. "Seriously tho? Why would we date?" you say and he laughs at you. "Because I like you of course... And you like me as well, if those rumors are true after all" he winks at you and you turn away from kinda embarrassed from the sudden yet sweet turn of events. "Let's try then" you says softly, not even looking at him. "I should get going then... Also! Wake up early tomorrow amd wear something light.. I'm off!" He says and waves at you as he turn to walk away. "Why tho??" you says back at him and he just laughs. "Our first date of course, isn't this what couples do? See ya tomorrow" he says ruffling your head.

[Loosely based on Hometown Cha Cha Cha, and it's super life lessons that I adore]