#cotton area rugs | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

syoddeye · 3 months

Text

big game

ghost x f! reader | ~5k words cw: simon lies, mean simon, red flags? what red flags, hunting, animal death (discussed), predator/prey, knives, bad restraints, bad suspension, rough (arguably bad) sex, clothed man & naked woman, blood, murder, italic abuse. please tell me if you need something tagged. a/n: a cross between this post and this post. banner by @/cafekitsune. 🔪

Simon lets slip that he owns a cabin nearly a year into the relationship. It’s the kind of thing where you could and maybe should be upset, but you play it off as no big deal. You have to. This is Simon. The man didn’t show his entire face until the sixth or seventh date.

(He joked about it, too, that first time—Breathe a word about this mug, and I’ll have to kill ya. You laughed, delirious as he split you in two. He didn’t.)

It’s a few hours away from the city, on the far edge of the boonies. It’s long beyond the truck stops and hog refineries that dot this part of the country. Far from delivery and traffic lights. Deep in an unincorporated village, in an unincorporated area. Its remoteness would make one wonder how a foreign ex-soldier found such a location, but again. This is Simon. Ages ago, you learned questions earn neither his favor nor answer.

The property is impressive for its locale. Two bedrooms. A decent kitchen. Heating and cooling. A garage and a shed. Renovated within the last decade and upgraded piecemeal when Simon has time. It sits on a lake shared by only two other cabins, both residing around a reedy bend and well out of sight.

Upon arrival, Simon doesn’t offer a tour, telling you to poke around as he unpacks the car. Well, a jerk of his head and a gruff, “Go on in.” Since you started seeing each other officially, he doesn’t often let you burden yourself with chores. No lifting a finger if he’s available.

The place is sparse. Occupied but not lived in. While stocking a cupboard, Simon explains the previous owner, an older gentleman with cheap taste, left behind what decoration remains. A few tacky fishing signs hang on the walls, intermixed with sun-bleached squares on the wood paneling. A curio box collection of novelty keychains in the hall to the bedrooms, full of states and a couple of names. The lumpy pillows on the sofa pouf tobacco-scented dust when you test its cushions.

Tiptoeing into the main bedroom, you imagine how you might spruce up the austere space. Considering he moved into your apartment after three months, you assume it’s a matter of time until this becomes your cabin, too.

(It was incredibly romantic—the move. Near sunset, Simon appeared like a specter in the pouring rain, with his few worldly belongings in tow. Kissed you hard and fast, told you he couldn’t stay at his place anymore. That he needed you. You. All your effort paid off.)

The memory brings a smile to your face.

You’ll turn the cabin into a cozy love nest like your apartment. Blankets, candles, a rug or two. Though he’ll never admit it, Simon must desire comfort like anyone else. The first night he burrowed into your duvet, luxuriating in the cotton and silk, he fell asleep like an old hound freshly sprung from a shelter. He tossed most of his stuff the next day—said you had everything he needed.

Looking around, you realize you have your work cut out for you. The austere room more a cave than a refuge. The man's bed doesn't even have a frame. Just a neatly made mattress with tucked sheets and two flat pillows. A secondhand dresser and a stack of plastic drawers for extra storage. On the bright side, the adjacent bathroom is spotlessly clean, with a caddy holding melamine sponges, bleach, and other supplies on a shelf. He's always been tidy, likely a military thing.

From the living room, you're greeted with a scenic view of the lake and the adjoining deck through the glass door. A pair of wooden chairs sit side-by-side in front of a fire pit, one of Simon's old welding projects. Down the gentle slope to the shore, a small dinghy rests in the water, tied off at the aluminum dock. A smattering of yellow and white water lily pads hug the bank.

Peaceful. Picturesque. Private.

But your eyes hitch on a strange beam.

Bolted between two mature trees, a hefty piece of timber sits within plain sight of the deck. A series of evenly spaced, fixed eyelet hooks and two pulleys catch the light when the breeze shifts the canopy of the bur oak overhead.

Simon joins you on the deck, the planks creaking beneath his bulk. A cracked beer dwarfed in his hand.

“Did the former owner have kids?” You ask as he sips.

“Kids?”

You point at the curious installation. “Isn’t that for a tire swing? Seems like the perfect spot.”

Simon stares, narrowing his eyes slightly with a chuckle. The tone of it prickles—the same snide laugh he makes at his own awful jokes. When he’s in on the punchline, and you’re not. One of the few things that sour his image.

“Kids? Fuck no,” He shakes his head. “That’s where I ‘ang deer and the like out to bleed.”

You bristle and duck the arm he means to drape around your shoulders, ignoring how he huffs baby and c’mon, don’t be like that between snickers.

He finds you in the bedroom, sorting the clothes you packed with punchy aggression, fuming and embarrassed by his teasing. Stupid and naive, that’s how you feel, for all your care and commitment. You’re just so silly, such a townie, for not recognizing a piece of lumber as a barbaric vehicle for slaughter.

Two wide mitts glide over your sides as you try your best to ignore the behemoth behind you. You are by no means small, but Simon. Fuck, Simon, you whisper, half-exasperated when he nuzzles into the crook of your neck—he’s—fuck, he is big.

It’s an hour before your clothes are finally put away, and you’re already down a pair of underwear for the weekend. Simon leaves you sated and dozing, a tactile apology accepted, and retrieves you to fix supper when he’s hungry. Later, parked in the chairs in the yard, watching the end of the sun’s march to the horizon, you broach the topic again.

“Will you take it down?”

“Sweetheart, what do ya think I do on the weekends you work?”

You shiver. Ten seconds ago, you’d’ve said read or weld or fish. It’s ridiculous how your mind cannot wrap around the idea of Simon out in the woods, stalking through the trees and underbrush, hunting. Decked out in blaze orange and realtree, rifle cradled in his hands. You know his history and what he’s capable of. What he’s done.

But this is different from his military career. Simon said he didn’t want to do any of that. Enlisting was how he escaped a lousy home life; he didn’t plan to get stuck in it for as long as he did. He confessed once, after a silly tiff over your job, that the day he was discharged was the best day of his life, second only to the day you met. That’s where the disconnect lies. Hunting and killing for sport, that’s not the Simon you know.

You tell him as much.

“That so?” His smirk matches the rising moon. A waxing crescent.

You insist.

Simon cracks his neck. “Tell you what, I’ll make you a deal,” he starts, fingers flexing around the neck of the beer bottle. “I’ll quit, if I can bag one last trophy.”

The thought of burning the beam distracts you from the flicker in his eyes. The ugly thing is the only hiccup keeping the cabin from textbook perfection. You don’t want to think of Bambi’s poor mother dangling like some macabre ornament whenever you look outside.

“Fine. What’s the trophy?”

Simon grins.

“I better win a fucking award for this. It’s freezing.” You’d said, tugging on your sneakers.

He laughed wickedly. The sound burned right up your spine.

“You’ll get a fucking award, alright.”

Simon sent you off a half hour ago if the time on his watch’s dull, glowing face is correct. He buckled it around your wrist before you darted into the woods, tightening it as far as it would go. It spins loose around the bone anyway. He warned you to watch your footing, pressed bear mace into your palm, and then gave you five minutes to make yourself scarce. Inwardly, you preen. To go undiscovered for this long—you’ve surpassed your own expectations.

However, squatting with your back to a distressingly damp tree trunk, regret eclipses pride and buzzes under your skin. Hopefully, it's not a parasite from one of the puddles you stomped through. It's out of devotion, you tell yourself, itching under a wet sock, that you agreed to this game. Out of love. There isn't much you wouldn't do for Simon. From the moment you met him, it's been magnetic. Poetic.

And that first date? Cinematic. You went out with one man and returned home with another. Your date caught Simon staring from across the joint, a mean set of eyes in a ski mask eating you alive. What kind of man lets another steal his ‘bird’? That’s what he called you—birdie. Need some company, birdie? Complete disregard for the flop-haired man across the table. Cupped a hand to your date’s ear, said a few words, and Mike or Matt or whatever his name was vacated his seat, leaving the big Brit to take his place.

Bringing him home was a foregone conclusion, the decision finalized as you watched him, absolutely rapt, stab the meat of your entree and claim it as his own. Rolled up his balaclava just enough to take a bite with a row of crooked teeth. Breath hitching at the scars, the pale white lines stretching over his chin. You didn’t even know his name when you blurted out the question. And it’s with fondness you recall the flash of surprise in his eyes at your resolute zeal. Didn't make him work for it, offered yourself up on a silver platter.

('Course, afterward, you had to convince him not to fuck you in the parking lot, promising breakfast in the morning if he slept over. He did. For two days. He kept turning up after that.)

You may be hiding in the woods, but he's the animal. Yes. A neglected stray you dedicated the better part of a year into domesticating. Lured him with food, a warm bed, and sex. Assiduously filing down his sharp teeth and rough edges with your body. Introducing him to creature comforts, to living versus mere survival.

Which, again, prompts the question—why hunting? Didn’t you take care of him? If he needed more, all he had to do was ask. Take. Prying a burr off of a sleeve, you wonder if it's like the old saying goes: you can't teach an old dog new tricks. Maybe he needs to chase or track, and you’re another soft-handed city slicker keeping a working dog cooped up in an apartment.

If you still saw your therapist, she’d probably suggest you dissect that. But you don’t, and you’re not inclined to schedule a session. Besides, Simon said all shrinks are—

A twig snaps. It shocks you how quickly you push to your feet.

Twenty feet or so dead ahead, a hulking mass moves through a thin shaft of moonlight.

You run.

Huffing and puffing, you charge clumsily through the trees, miraculously avoiding clusters of roots and shielding your face with your hands. Feels unnatural to run from him. The blood rush in your ears drowns out the heavy thuds on the ground behind you, Simon pursuing, shirking stealth for speed.

Inevitably, he overtakes you. An iron grip latches onto your shirt, and a kick sweeps your legs. The bear mace flies from your hand into the brush, clanging off a tree. You dangle for a spine-tingling second, suspended, heart lurching into your throat. He leverages your tumbling momentum to swing you to the ground at his feet through strength alone. Landing on the cold floor of the woods expels a gasp, a second following as a boot presses between your shoulders. No force behind it; its presence alone enough to keep you down. Despite the dirt and twigs surely sticking to your front and the borderline painful thunder of your heart, you smile in relief. It’s over. His last hunt. The boot lifts.

“Nice work, big guy,” You cough, breathing hard. “Can we—Simon?”

Before you can move, Simon nudges the toe of a boot into your ribs, compelling you to roll over. You startle at the sight looming above, a strangled, incoherent string of mouth noises trickling out of shock. A pair of brown eyes peer through the orbits of a skull attached to a mask. They trail from your face to your stomach, where he takes advantage of your stupefied babbling, binding your hands with cord. You meet his gaze, heat creeping up your neck, and his eyes crinkle.

About a dozen questions surface on the return march to the cabin. None survive the swirling vortex of your head, unwilling to risk appearing perfidious.

Simon flexes his grip over your bound hands. “Gonna have some fun.”

Your faith does not lapse, though fear simmers low in your belly when he doesn’t lead you to the cabin but toward the beam. A fluorescent nylon rope now feeds through the hooks and pulleys, and an oxidized steel, wide-based triangle sways freely. Beckoning. A humiliating whimper escapes as he positions you on a circle of dead grass, hands of a hangman on your hips.

“Said you wanted a fucking award.”

A fucking award. A fucking award.

Simon reclaims his watch and then methodically changes your bindings. A hand to each vertice, he fastens you to the gambrel and kisses away a rogue tear. He tugs and tests the rope. It shouldn’t induce a flood, and yet.

“Is it—Can it hold me?”

“Birdie, this is built for stags and boars. It can hold me.” He strokes your cheek, tapping the bone with a knuckle, then breaks away. “Stay put.”

As if you have a choice.

Leaving you with the frogs and crickets, you watch Simon retreat indoors. A breeze carries a cool rush of air from the lake, your thin top a poor barrier to the slight chill. You take deep, rattling breaths to slow your heartbeat, still racing from the pursuit.

A distant click breaks the quiet, followed by a low, electrical buzz and the sudden, blinding intensity of light. It sears your vision before you can screw your eyes shut, blinking away the phosphenes with a noise of displeasure. The sensation’s almost enough to knock you off your feet. You squint, sight adjusting, and track the source to a previously unseen flood lamp affixed to the oak tree some distance away.

Simon returns shortly after you regain your bearings, his imposing silhouette accentuating his mass. Closer, he’s stripped down to a fraying and stained white t-shirt, but your eyes hone in on the rig fastened around a thick thigh. The cut of the strap guides your eye to the straining denim, and the image of his dick flashes in your mind, scorching like the flood lamp.

He extracts a knife from the sheath, steel reflecting light like a mirror. You squirm, a cross between impatient and uncomfortable. Is he cutting you down already? What was the point—

He pulls the front of your shirt, setting the knife edge to the hem.

“Simon,” your voice jumps high in your throat. “Don’t you dare.”

A steady upward glide answers the warning, cleaving the material in two open drapes. The breeze hits your sweat, the band of your bra suddenly chilled and sticking, though that doesn’t last long as he slices through it, too.

“Someone could see!” you stammer, nipples tightening in the night air.

“You’re frettin’ over nothin’, sweetheart. Nobody’s out here. Open.” Simon demands, pressing the hilt to your lips. “Good girl.” he praises when you relent to bite the compressed leather between your teeth, catching a whiff of polish. He rips off the remnants of your top and bra, dropping them to the ground in scraps. A big hand fondles and weighs a tit in its palm as if he hasn’t played with it before. There’s a deep inhale from behind the mask as he swipes a thumb beneath its mass, then a chuckle. “Work up a sweat?”

The hand with the knife carefully discards the mask, revealing smears of eyeblack, and he pops his thumb into his mouth to suck it clean. A gasp slips out when he steps closer, hand engulfing the tissue again, pushing it up to glide his nose along the underside, tongue trailing. He nips, soothing after you yelp.

You mourn your expensive leggings when he shreds them next, reducing them to ribbons—another deep breath and a throaty laugh, selfish and all too pleased.

“Knew I smelled ya in the woods.”

“You ruined–you tore them–”

“Thought you’d get lucky tonight?” Scarred knuckles drag from your ribs to your thigh, squeezing, his thumb rubbing sweet circles over old stretch marks. Your wires cross, his blatant rewrite of the afternoon makes your lips purse, but his hand, Christ, your toes curl in your sneakers. “A quick screw in the woods?” He sheathes his knife to trace a finger along the crease of your thigh.

Air whistles through your teeth in a sharp inhale. He skims, dipping to gather some of your wetness, licking his fingers clean again. He hums appreciatively. “Get off on being chased? Fuckin’ dripping, birdie.”

Your hole twitches at his teasing, and you know he must see it with the sneer he gives you alongside the abrupt plunge of two fingers. The hand on your thigh migrates to your ass, pulling you snug to the webbing.

“Simon!” A curse hisses out as he burrows his fingers in as deep as they’ll go, curling—not for your pleasure, no, but to keep you there, a crude hook. The rope strains as you squirm, impaled, and stretched too tight on his hand, clenching uncontrollably as if your cunt can’t make up its mind. A flurry of sensations meets head-on with reason, and logic’s never been your strong suit. Reduced to need and want in equal measure, a single twist of his fingers confirms you’re as desperate as the night you met him.

You don’t notice his other hand abandoning your backside for the rope. What squeaks first, you or the pulleys? It’s sudden, the way you slide off his fingers with a lewd pop, feet leaving the ground. He hoists you up and up, the movement practiced, tying you off like the boat secured around a cleat hook.

Some feet off the ground, naked and shivering in the dark, exposed—you should feel fear, but the other shoe, instinct or intuition, doesn’t drop. All the vulnerability does instead is send a white-hot pulse to your clit. A plea leaves your mouth before your brain considers anything else. Pelvis tilting. He awards your eagerness with a grind of a zipper and a gratified grunt. Simon tugs his jeans and boxers down, then bends slightly to hitch your legs.

Your legs settle around him, and though he huffs when you squeeze, trying to ease the pressure off your wrists, you think he likes it. The ropes above slack little, raised higher than he’s tied you. With a massive hand back on your hip, he uses the other to feed his cock into you, bringing the line taut once more as he pulls you down.

The steady shove and fullness push a low whine from your mouth, which Simon smothers with a toothy kiss. It stings some—you’re not nearly wet enough, only quieting with the faith he’ll make it better. However, the fact that he doesn’t give you time to adjust isn’t promising.

He ruts. Barges in. Takes what he needs in full strokes. Builds a pace that rattles the hardware and your insides. The pain steadily stressing your wrists and lower back is secondary. Third, probably, to pleasure and heat, though the former isn’t building as fast as the latter. Sweat beads in your hairline and neck, collecting under your breasts and in the creases of your belly. Makes your calves slick where they press into his sides, the cotton of his shirt sticking to his and your muscles.

“Simon, I can’t–” The words eke out, abdomen and thighs burning, friction in the wrong places.

His arms flex, boots shuffling over dirt and grass to further beneath you, cock dragging along your walls at a drastic angle, head jabbing into your cervix. More support, less comfort. A bitter trade-off, exchanging one hurt for another. The pinch of his brow makes the bursting stars at the edges of your vision worth it.

Each thrust shakes you in the rope, pulleys whining in solidarity. The sound of skin slapping skin echoes across the cabin’s yard, coupling with your gasps and Simon’s ragged breaths. After a particularly harsh snap of his hips, laughter, deep and gular, trickles out of his mouth. "You feelin’ alright, sweetheart?" he drawls, voice oozing sangfroid. “Y’like your award?”

That has you shuddering. His hands settle on your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh in a way that’s sure to leave marks. “Look at you, strung up so prettily. Pretty fucking ornament.”

Bambi’s poor mother.

Simon's voice and the image of a dangling deer carcass collide, punctuated with a thrust like a battering ram. It forces another string of needy sounds. Discomfort and desire coil in your stomach, twisting into a warm mass with a life of its own. You feel every inch as he withdraws and shoves in. The heat of him, the hardness. Nylon chafes your skin, each buck a reminder of your helplessness. Restraints are nothing new, but this is—

The air leaves your lungs in one big whoosh as Simon hits a sweet spot.

You slump a bit, legs close to jelly from bracing.

Finally, an adjustment. Simon slows to meld himself further into you, and it’s then, sucking in deep breaths, you marvel at how perfectly level you are to be fucked like this. He bands a single thick arm beneath your ass in a casual display of strength, the other snaking between you. Chin to chest, he spits, the glob hitting your clit like a bullseye. You’d cringe if his thumb didn’t chase after it, spreading his saliva. The sudden break, coupled with his attention, makes you quiver. Anticipation gaining on torment. His thumb’s rhythm quickens, alleviating the aches. You’ll be sore as hell come morning, but as you have before, you’ll forgive again.

With a new, albeit haphazard, focus on your clit, he rolls his hips at a more languid pace. The shift is a knife’s edge between torture and bliss.

“Still want me to take it down? Don’t know if I will, birdie, like the idea of keepin’ you up ‘ere, ‘anging for the takin’ whenever I want ya.” A chuckle vaporizes into a hiss. “Shit, you like the sound of that?

If you could manage speech, you’d say yes. Simon’s rewired your synapses in a matter of seconds with the rough pad of a finger. He’s backlit from this angle. Haloed. Suits him, you think. What you’re feeling is rapturous, however ruthless it may be. Animalistic, really. If you let him leave the beam—this is what you’ll remember. Not some fresh-killed doe staring into nothing. But you, Simon, and the orgasm he harvests.

It creeps up on you. You howl, jerking in the ropes, muscles spasming and weeping. Revived with a burst of adrenaline, your legs try to close automatically, only to press uselessly into his sides. There’s no stopping him and nowhere to go until he’s done. Your body sags in its ties like a puppet.

Simon snarls something, and his palms return to your ass, abandoning all pretense. A haze rolls, thick as molasses, over you as he uses you to his end. He goes silent the few seconds before he comes, breathing harshly through his nose. One last snap of his hips, a deep grunt, and his cock floods your pussy. His chest heaves. Breaths heavy and stunted. Burrowing into your chest, he digs his nose into your sternum and rasps his teeth over your frantic heartbeat.

Your eyes droop along with the rest of your person. Everything disappears under a tenebrous wave.

Movement. The grind of the pulleys. The sawing of a knife. A sliver of lucidity buoys you, a headrush from popping to the surface after drowning. Your head throbs, the world spins, and by the time you make sense of it, you hear the familiar creak of the cabin steps.

Simon lays you out on the lumpy mattress, brushing his fingers over your hair and skin. He disappears, and you float in and out of consciousness. Thoroughly fucked.

You briefly wake when he tucks you in. The crux of your legs is damp, and a faint medicinal smell emanates under the blanket. Layers of gauze over aloe wrap your wrists where they lay beside your head on a flat pillow, and you wiggle your fingers experimentally.

“Sleep.” He says, poking your forehead.

Your throat hurts. “Stay.”

The bed dips when he obliges. He molds to your back, smushing your chest with an arm and cupping a tit. His breath fans over the shell over your ear, and when you’re on the edge of sleep, he murmurs something, but the words run together.

Somehow, he falls asleep before you. Sated. Ran out. You take care of him, and he takes.

An emaciated tick floats with its legs curled in on itself in a glass on the floor next to the bed. You stare at it for too long, then roll over.

Simon’s awake, though his eyes remain closed and body still. You wince, thighs rubbing together and interlacing your limbs over his. His lip twitches, but he doesn’t shove you off.

You trace a scar jutting across the meat of a shoulder and stare at his chest, pock-marked like besieged castle walls. Months ago, you asked about the stories behind the wounds. The question went unanswered, and it earned you a week of getting fucked face-down. So you simply drop a kiss to a crater on his pec and then his chin.

“You broken?” He mutters.

“No.”

“Then fix us some breakfast.”

It’s Herculean with how your flanks and thighs protest, but you hum through the kitchen and diligently rustle up the meal. Visions of a life dance through your head. An ivory lace curtain will suit the window over the sink. The smoke-damaged, yellowing cabinets need scrubbing. There’s hair stuck in the hoarfrost of the freezer, which makes you gag. Leftovers from one of Simon’s hunts.

No sooner than you plate the bacon does Simon emerge. No need to call. He’s trained.

The cell reception is terrible, one of the features that sold him on the property. Calls drop sporadically, and texts scrape by at the shed. His phone vibrates when he sets foot over the threshold—messages from his pet, all sent within a few hours. Poor thing’s bored at work. He wouldn’t know the feeling. His morning’s been productive. Enjoyable.

Simon’s lip curls, and he leans the fishing rod against the shed door. Sliding his phone into a pocket, he turns back to fetch the tackle box. He lumbers past the wriggling cunt strung up on the newly installed gambrel, the plastic crinkling underfoot. The steady drip of blood is barely audible over their whiny throes. Probably hurts. Hooks through the Achilles tendons will do that, but they’ll go quiet soon enough. If he times it right, they’ll be done when he returns for supper.

He nearly pricks his thumb, spearing the worm onto the hook. Watches it writhe. He huffs a laugh and spares a glance back at the cabin. The two trees that once held the beam. It’s a loss to no longer watch game struggle from the comfort of the deck. He surprised himself with how he complied with his girl’s request. She earned it, he supposed. Cried and begged and bled for it. Usually, that sort of response draws his knife, not his interest. But she’s an odd one. Different. A rare beast.

He casts the line.

“Do you want to fuck me?” She’d asked all those months ago, less than a minute after he threatened to hang her date by the balls. Blunt and to the point. Refreshing. He was unaccustomed to finding them so willing, but she fucking imprinted on him like a wobbly-kneed fawn. Nosed his open, reaching hand like a stray, hungry pup. She saw him for what he was—the bigger, meaner predator. Top of the food chain. Thinks some part of her knew she was better off bowing her head and licking his cock than running. She stuck her neck out, took him home, and gave him her pussy without a fuss.

It’s cute, the way she thinks she’s made him agreeable. How she works on him and his hygiene and manners. Doesn’t get that if it were up to him, he’d sleep on the floor, in the dirt, used to a lifetime of bunking down in shitholes. The cabin’s simply suitable for his hobbies. The fact it’s a decent vivarium for the sweet girl is a bonus, a place to keep her nice and soft so long as she’s good. ‘Course, the sight of her hanging by her hands made the idea of introducing her insides to the outside cross his mind, but he won’t cut her down just yet. Not when he’s got her leashed.

Hours later, the cooler packed with largemouth bass and walleye, he unpacks the dinghy and trudges toward the shed. It’s silent, save for the insects and the birds.

The nosy prick from the bait shop sways, unmoving. Coated with his own fluids and dripping. He chuckles. He should call her.

#ghost x reader #ghost x f!reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x f!reader #mind the tags #posting and skittering off

668 notes · View notes

whocaresstillthelouvre · 5 months

Text

Green

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Female Reader Chapter Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Chapter Summary: Jackson believes in a green future, which includes marijuana. You like to get high. Tonight, Joel joins you and you get to treat him like he treats you. Chapter Warnings: Smut, marijuana use, soft dom reader, sub Joel, m receiving oral, unprotected p in v, riding Joel's thick thigh, you bite Joel's stomach (because it has to be done), Joel watching himself masturbate in your mirror, Joel drinks water out of your hands. Words: 5,100 A/N: Happy 4/20! I wanted to give you another entry akin to Golden Walkway, a little peek into the future of my Elks babies. Please note, this can be absolutely read without knowing any of the story.

Playlist

Times never change instead of hiding your illicit use from your parents, now you hide it from a teenager. Joel and you always lock yourselves away in your home so you can get high... just in case Ellie needs something. Can’t be a bad influence.

You pull the box of papers and weed out of the drawer before sitting down on your couch.

“So you never really smoked much?” you ask, leaning over your coffee table preparing to build your joint.

“Mm, never really was my thing, too risky if I got caught growing up in Texas during the 'Just Say No' years. Had football eligibility to worry about ‘n then Sarah came, just never was the time for me.”

He leans back into your armchair, brown eyes intently watching your actions. You begin to crumble weed up and place it on your rolling paper.

“Makes sense, it’s good for me when my nerves really get to me,” you begin to roll your joint, “helps kinda soften the harsh lines of reality a lot. Makes my body and my mind a little freer.”

You lick your cigarette closed and admire your handiwork, welcoming the anticipation of being with Joel while stoned.

The match sizzles as you strike it against the box and spark your joint, rotating it in your mouth to light it up. Joel chuckles as you inhale the first hit.

“What’s so funny?” you ask in a cloud of exhaled smoke.

“Nothin'. Maybe I should get high, s'making me hard just watching you do this.”

“Oh yeah?” you sit back against the soft couch cushions, joint dangling from your lips.

“Yeah, maybe I should start, never was one for smoking though.”

“Mm, I can help, I can just blow the smoke into your mouth if you want to try it." Your heart begins racing at the prospect of Joel taking you up on the offer.

“Sounds good sweetheart." He pats his lap. “Now, come sit with me, have nowhere to be tomorrow.”

You stand and grab the ashtray, resting the joint between your lips. Your bare feet pad across the plush carpet of the area rug as you walk over to Joel.

“Hi,” you smile out with a small puff of smoke.

“You look so cute like this, little cigarette sticking out of your mouth, eyes all cloudy and happy. Love it when my girl is happy.”

You giggle at his compliment as you lift your leg up to rest on the chair, your foot tightly fitting within what little room is left on the seat between Joel’s thick thighs. His mouth rests slightly agape when he looks up at you, his usual furrowed brow a lot less creased, more relaxed.

“I am happy,” you answer as his hands begin to massage your calf. “You look a lot less grumpier than you normally look. That makes me happy.”

“Oh really?”

“Yep,” you say before inhaling another hit.

“Why don’t you make me happier and sit on my lap, that’d make me really happy darlin’.”

A plume of smoke blows out of your lungs as you place yourself on Joel’s lap, knees bent against his thighs and the armrests. The denim covered shape of his half hard cock rests against your cotton shorts. Your tits underneath your faded and holey t-shirt are right at Joel’s eye level.

“S’nice,” he whispers staring forward at your chest.

“My eyes are up here Joel,” you chuckle at your own joke, taking another hit.

“I’d tell you to knock it off, but your whole body’s shaking against me ’n your tits are bouncing in my face,” Joel grins leaning forward and kissing a breast through your shirt.

Fuck, now that feels amazing.

You reach the joint out to him. “Hold this.”

He takes it between his fingers, eyes concentrating on you taking your shirt off. So much for relaxed Joel. He holds up the joint, still in his hands, to your lips.

“Take a hit baby,” his voice gravels out, his cock hardening underneath, “‘n lemme have some.”

You inhale and move your mouth to his, forming a tight seal between the two of you. Joel welcomes the smoke and sucks in as you blow out.

You grab the joint from him and take another pull as he exhales, a white cloud of smoke floating above the two of you. Your body feels so much lighter, your brain less complicated.

“Can I have that back?” he asks. “Want to do the same you did for me.”

You hand him the joint, smiling a silent agreement.

He brings it up to his mouth, holding it between his thumb and pointer, the joint disappears between his large fingers save for the glowing orange embers that light as he takes a hit. He looks so fucking tempting, his cheeks slightly puffing out filling with smoke. Everything Joel Miller does is hot, but the way he drags on a joint, pillowy lips wrapping around the white paper, broad shoulders rising when he breathes in, this might just be the hottest you’ve ever seen him. When will you ever get tired of looking at this man?

You bring your lips to his and he exhales into your mouth. Oh, this is the best way to get high. You pull away, releasing the smoke from your lungs.

“‘Bout shot, don’t you think?” he raises the joint and looks at it.

“It’s shot."

He stubs the joint put in the ash tray. A luxurious comfortable groan leaves his lips when he looks at you, eyes heavier than usual, a little red and glazed. You’ve seen his eyes glazed over with lust numerous times, this glaze is a little lighter, a little happier. You scoot farther up his lap and move a finger up to pet the smoothness of the little heart patch in his beard.

“How are you feeling?” you ask as Joel’s hands trace up and down your back.

“Good, real good,” a deep exhale out of his lips answers.

“Relaxed?” You ask, your finger moving to brush back and forth across his lips.

“Mm.”

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this free before. A light smile underneath half shut eyes staring back at you, his whole face more relaxed. He looks good this way, you love when he’s happy and relaxed, you’ve never met anybody more deserving.

“Feels good,” Joel says as you rub your finger across his soft lower lip. A deep breath leaves his half parted lips, the air blowing against your finger. “Real good.”

“Good,” your hand moves to trace around his top lip, the hair of his mustache bristles against your finger. “I like making you feel good.”

You feel the the lines around his lips rise when he smiles. “You’re so good at it baby.”

“Yeah? What do you like the most?”

“Mm, s'hard to pick. Love the way your eyes always blink as you cum for me, can always tells how good you’re feelin’ by how big your eyes get right before. Love the little gasp you always make when I start fuckin’ you. Love that you grab for my hands at any chance you get, like you need to touch me as much as you can. Love that you always need me.” The last sentence comes out the softest.

“I do need you,” you confess, “all the time.”

“I know baby,” he hugs you against his chest, “I need you too… so much.”

“But, I do also need you for sex stuff, you know?"

Joel’s chuckle vibrates against you. “My girl’s funny, real funny.”

“But really, what do you need tonight Joel?” You pull away from his chest and look him in the eyes. You love it when he compliments you, you love it when he calls you his girl. You love that he needs you just as much as you need him.

“I need you to tell me what you want from me tonight. Make me yours. Talk to me like I talk t’ya.” Joel’s eyes staring into yours as they widen with his admission. “I’m yours baby.”

A bit of trepidation lands in your brain. Joel’s always the one to depend on to chart the stars of your intimacy. He’s so good at predicting what you want, you let him navigate. The thoughts are silenced once you feel his hands move along your hips and thighs. You can tell he wants you to do this for him. You want Joel to experience what you feel after he’s done with you. You want him to believe in you like you believe in him. You sit up higher on him, feeling braver and bolder. Ready to bless him for his confession.

“Okay. I’m going to get up, walk to the kitchen to get something to drink, and when I come back, I want you to stand in front of my mirrored wall over there. Keep your clothes on.”

You’re shocked by the confidence in your voice. Joel as well, his hands pause their movement as you speak. He stares at you, his mouth slightly open in surprise.

You rise up off of Joel, folding your arms across your naked chest. “Understand?”

“Y-y-yes,” Joel stutters.

“Good,” you wink and turn towards the kitchen, your confident steps leaving a bewildered Joel in your chair. You’ve never acted like this, your brain swirling with ideas of what you want to do, what you want to say, how you want to make him feel.

You grab two glasses out of your cupboard and fill them with water. Your mouth is parched, you’re sure Joel’s is too. You walk back to your living room, your courage building with each step closer. You know you’re ready when you see Joel standing as instructed in front of your mirror.

“Hi handsome,” you walk to stand behind him, still topless and only in your shorts, his eyes moving from looking at his own reflection to your chest. You wouldn’t expect less from him, you love how he looks at you.

“Hi,” Joel whispers. You think he’s a little nervous, a little excited, he probably feels exactly how you feel.

“I’m going to watch you watch yourself get undressed. I want you to listen to me and follow my directions, okay?”

“Yes,” his simple answer resolutely spoken as you put the waters down and turn the lamp on besides you, the light bathing both of you in a smoldering golden hue. You want to fully be able to watch Joel do what you have planned for him.

“Good, I don’t want to hear much from you, okay? I’m the one talking.”

You like this feeling, you especially like the serious nod Joel gives you through the mirror.

“Take your shirt off.”

You watch Joel’s hands move to the hem of his t-shirt and lift it over his head.

“Give it to me,” you step forward and extend a hand out.

The soft gray fabric is still warm with Joel’s body heat as it hits your hand. You bring it to your nose and inhale his scent. “You smell so good all the time. I love the scent of you.” You take one last sniff before putting his shirt on, his smell now encompassing you.

“Wh—“

“Quiet,” you interrupt Joel’s protest, “I don’t want to hear anything out of you, I want to smell like you and wear your shirt while I make you feel good.”

He looks a little annoyed, you like that.

“Look at your chest. It’s perfect. I love how your shoulders are so wide and so strong. I love how your arms are muscular and yet they’re so soft when I rest my head against them. I love how soft your stomach has gotten meaning you’re well fed and healthy. You like the praise baby?”

Joel nods as his eyes darken hearing you call him one of the pet names he always calls you.

“Unbutton and unzip your pants, but don’t take them off.” Your pussy getting wetter at the thought of the sights that you’re about to see, all directed by you. All broadcast on your mirror.

Joel nods, as he unbuttons his jeans, his fingers move to his zipper and pulls it down. You love that he never wears underwear when he comes over. You love how you can see the trail of hair from his belly button down to his bush. He’s the perfect amount of hairy. He’s the perfect amount of manly. He’s just fucking perfect.

“Good. You’re thirsty right?” He nods. You lean over to the table and pick up a glass of water. “Drink all of this. Want to watch your neck move as you swallow it down.”

Joel takes the glass and brings it to his lips, his eye contact not breaking with yours through the reflection. He takes a large gulp brows wrinkling with seriousness for the task at hand, no matter how significant or insignificant it is. It’s so Joel.

“I love watching you drink. I love how small the mug looks in your hand when you drink your coffee in the morning. I love how you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand after downing a whole glass of water when you’re hot. I love how gently form your lips around a glass of whiskey.” You finish your praise as he empties the glass, taking it from him and placing it on the table.

“Good. Feel better?”

He nods.

“Take your pants off,” you think of what Joel would say in this moment. “Lemme see all of you.”

He smirks as he starts to move his jeans down his hips, he knows you’re going to love this part. His cock springs out as it’s freed, fully erect and throbbing, you knew you’d get him good and hard with your attitude. He bends over to shuck his jeans fully off, kicking them to the side, and when he stands up, shoulders back, dick hard and ready to follow your instructions, you almost fall to your knees.

“God, you’re so fucking hot, baby,” you breathe out. His smirk still remains, he knows what he does to you.

Your eyes roam his body, he’s so large and so thick, his body screams protector. He’s your protector. He provides for you. You love that you get to love him and make him feel this way.

“I’m thirsty, why don’t you hand me my glass?” You love how seriously he follows your commands, like it’s the only thing that matters in the world. You love how powerful it makes you feel to see Joel readily do your every request.

Joel turns towards the table and picks up the glass, handing it to you.

“Thank you.”

Another nod.

You quickly drink the water down, save for the last quarter of it. “You’re still thirsty, aren’t you?”

This time it’s not just one slow nod from Joel, it’s three quick nods. He’s thirsty.

“Then come stand here in front of me.”

You’ve enjoyed watching him from a couple of feet back, standing far enough to be able to see all of him in the mirror. Now that he’s right in front of you though, this is how you like him the most. Right beside you.

You empty the rest of the water into your mouth, your cheeks swelling out with the amount you’re holding. You bring your palms up to your mouth and cup them together. Joel begins to breathe heavily as he watches you spit the water into your makeshift hand bowl.

“Now, drink it up,” you order.

He moves so fast, so eager to please. Joel’s head quickly craning down as his brown eyes look up at you. Your heart begins to race as his tongue comes out of his mouth and begins to lap up the water out of your hand. “I love how you’re looking up at me, you look at me the same way when you eat me out.”

Joel grunts as he leans further forward and starts to suck the water up from your hand, never breaking eye contact. The groove of his dimple getting deeper as his cheeks hollow and he sucks up all of the water.

Now you wear Joel’s cocky smirk just like his shirt. You get to know him like he knows you, you get to play with his body like he plays with yours.

“Very good.” You move your hands to wrap around his erection, the slickness of the water allowing you to easily stroke him. A gruff breath leaves Joel’s mouth, the air landing against your face. You only leave your hands on him for a couple pumps, just enough until he begins to arch his back. His eyes widen as you remove your hands, a small “mmf” is let out of his pursed lips.

“I know, I know, I know you want more. You’ll get it soon. You’re being real well behaved for me, aren’t you?”

Another nod. Joel still hasn’t spoken a word, you miss his voice but you also like to watch him challenge himself to stay quiet.

“Face the mirror again Joel.”

He likes it when you say his name, he’s told you so many times how he likes to hear your voice say his name.

“Touch yourself for me Joel.”

His heavy eyes slowly shut as he bites his bottom lip with a moan, he liked that… a lot. He opens his eyes and with a look of determination, he spits in his hand before moving it down and gripping his shaft as he looks at you for his next command.

“Stroke yourself for me.”

He begins to slowly pump himself, savoring and watching himself in the reflection. His gaze anchoring in on pleasuring himself.

You wonder when the last time he did this was.

“When’s the last time you made yourself cum?” His movements falter as he looks up at you and takes in your question. “Go ahead, you can talk, tell me.”

“That last night you were painting f’me,” a half smile shows up on his face as he begins to stroke again.

Now you’re the one who only nods, your words lost at his confession. “Go on,” you muster up. You need to hear more.

“Went to bed that night, ’n all I could see was your pretty eyes lookin’ up at me, how you looked in those overalls, I felt like I could still feel your lips on mine.” His strokes getting quicker, his hand pausing as he twists his hand around his tip. “Was so hard for you, had to take care of things before I could fall asleep.”

Your whole body shivers, his words making your pussy begin to drip out onto your shorts. The look of his face as he recalls his memories. Those words added to all of his others that prove to you again that you have Joel’s heart, mind and body. He is yours.

“God. Th—that’s good,” you breathe out, your eyes widening when you watch him bite his lip as he squeezes his cock. He has you flustered, and he knows, his mouth grinning into the signature cocky smirk he gets whenever you get like this. As if his sense of self blooms whenever he makes your heart race.

You can’t allow him this pleasure over you, you’re the one in control tonight. You remind yourself that this is what Joel wants. You steel yourself and stand a little taller.

“Stop,” you bark out.

He obeys, mouth slacking open in shock at your raised voice. His hand unwrapping from around himself.

“Good job, I think you were getting a little too comfortable, weren’t you?”

Joel just stares at you, seems he forgot to nod.

“I can’t let you have the power tonight, can I? Acknowledge me Joel.”

“N—no,” an actual stutter from Joel Miller’s mouth. Not a grunt, not a short one word answer, an actual nervous stutter.

“That’s right. Now, I think you’ve had too much fun putting on a show for me. Go sit in the middle of the couch.”

He nods, his broad frame passes by you, he doesn’t even take the time to look at you.

You follow behind and wait until he takes a seat. You love seeing Joel on your couch, in your bed, using one of your bowls to eat oatmeal out of. You love seeing him in your space, all comfortable and domestic, but seeing him now naked on your couch, his hard cock sitting straight up, his large hands sitting atop his strong thighs, shoulders taking up most of the backrest of his seat, sitting ready to listen to your commands. This is how you really like to see him. He’s fucking gorgeous.

“So, you had your fun with your body, I want to have my fun with your body,” you stand over him. Now your body gets to loom over his.

You bring the collar of Joel’s shirt up to your nose, inhale deeply and moan. “Have I told you before how much I love how your smell? Sometimes I’ll be wearing one of your shirts to bed I’ll smell your scent on it and it’ll make me wet while I’m trying to go to sleep.” The sound from Joel’s mouth makes you bolder. “One night, I might just knock on your door, in only your shirt and my jacket, make you help me take care of what smelling you does to me. Would you like that?”

Joel shudders and furiously nods.

“Ohh, had a feeling you would,” you chuckle as you remove his shirt off of you. “I’m going to do something I've been wanting to do, okay?”

A nod, a groan, and a sigh now. The more reactions you get at once, the more you know how good you’re doing.

You pull down your shorts, and kick them aside. His fingers grip into his thighs, his forearms straining at the sight of you. He’s going through it.

“Can you see me glisten for you baby?” You ask as you lift your foot onto the couch cushion and snake your hand down in between your legs. “See how wet I got watching you touch yourself for me?” You take a finger and run it across your folds gathering your wetness. You hold it up for Joel, his eyes glued to your finger. “Open your mouth.”

He listens. You slide your finger into his mouth, his lips forming around it, a low moan vibrating against it.

“Put your hands on the couch, you can’t touch me, you can only watch. Okay?”

Joel obeys. He still sucks your finger as you straddle his thigh. His skin radiates heat against you once you place your wet pussy on it. You’ve wanted to do this since you saw his bare legs for the first time, his thighs are so muscular and yet so supple, much like the rest of his features. Joel groans as you begin to ride his thigh, rubbing yourself back and forth against his skin.

“You like how wet my pussy feels on your thigh?” You pull your finger out of his mouth. “Answer me Joel. Want to hear your voice.”

“Yes.”

“What do you like?”

“Your wet pussy on my th— I like your wet pussy on my thigh,” his low cadence and the pressure against your aching cunt pushing you close to your orgasm.

“I’m going to make myself cum on your thigh, okay? I’m so close.” You begin to grind your hips down on his his thigh, putting the perfect amount of friction against your clit.

Your hands splay against Joel’s chest, feeling his breaths and his moans rumble against your palms.

“I’m gonna cum on your thigh Joel.” You grab and pull on his chest hair as your climax reaches you, cresting over and spilling onto Joel’s thigh as you grind against it. Joel’s eyes boring into you looking forlorn and tortured that he can’t touch you as you cum on him.

You rest your head against his shoulder as you catch your breath. You need to recover quickly, you’re ready to ride him.

Joel grumbles as you stand back up.

“Would you look at that? Look down baby, look how wet I got your thigh.” You place your hands on his thighs, a hand resting in the puddle of your slick left on his skin. You lean forward as he looks down and nibble the bare skin of his heart patch before licking your way down his neck and chest. “Should probably clean that up, huh?” You ask as your rest your lips against the plush of his belly before gently biting it.

He groans as you move your mouth down, bypassing his hard cock to the side. You stick your tongue out and lick a long stripe up his thigh tasting yourself as you clean his skin. His breathing turns more labored as he watches you lick yourself up.

“Mm, wonder how I’d taste licking my cum off your cock?” You ask, nuzzling your head into his crotch, his hard cock throbbing against your cheek.

His hips jut as you turn your head and kiss the shaft of him.

“You’re going to cum fast for me, aren’t you?” You leave a kiss on his shaft higher than your last one.

“I love how hard you always cum for me,” another kiss moving your way up his hardness.

“I love the way you fuck my mouth while you cum down my throat,” another kiss.

“I love the way my name sounds as you chant it when I make your legs shake,” another kiss right under his tip.

“I love how your cum tastes as I lick it from my lips,” another kiss on his tip, tasting the precum collected on it.

“Fuck,” he finally utters, not being able to hold back as you lick along the trail of where you just kissed him.

“Shhhh,” you silence against the soft skin of his firmness. “I think it’s about time for me to fuck you, before you get any more ideas about talking.”

Another deep exhale from him, his nose flaring in frustration. You fucking love this.

“Put your hands on the top of your head, and don’t you dare lower them. Don’t touch me, okay?”

Joel nods raising his hands as you plant yourself back on the couch, straddling his legs. His eyes follow your body, his brows a bit more furrowed now.

You hover your pussy over his cock, leaving enough space between the two of you that if he really wanted, he could raise his hips and stick his cock in, but he doesn’t. He wants to do good for you.

“Open your mouth,” you angle your head forward, your lips right in front of his. Joel’s mouth opens, his heavy breathing hitting you in the face, as you lick into his mouth.

You swirl your hips over his cock slowly lowering yourself on him, you’re so soaked for him he easily slides into you.

A long sigh escapes the back of his throat as you begin to ride him. You pull back from his mouth and rest your hands against his chest. His hands still sit on top of his head, you glance up and see how he’s grabbing at his hair in exasperation.

He watches as you move your hands from his chest to yours, cupping your breasts and playing with your nipples.

“Like watching me touch my tits like the way you do? Like how I pinch and pull my nipples like you?”

High pitched moans and groans of frustration leave his mouth. Joel Miller is whimpering.

“Shhhh, shhh, I know baby. Now quiet. Want to hear my wet pussy ride you, stay quiet,” you say grabbing his jaw and pushing his mouth shut.

You begin fucking him harder, the sound of your wet cunt bouncing on him and his whimpers the only sounds in the room. You lean forward and rest your head in the juncture between his head and shoulder. You slam yourself up and down on him, the rapidness of your movements matching the rapidness of your heart as you bring yourself close to your orgasm.

Your back straightens as you place your hands on his biceps, staring in his big brown eyes as your body snaps, your pussy clutching his cock as you cum around Joel. He bites his bottom lip fighting his orgasm for as long as he can. His biceps straining against your grasp as you feel his body begin to quake.

“Clooooose,” he husks. You slip out of him, moving quickly on shaky legs through the aftershocks of your orgasm kneeling down in front of him. His hands are still in his hair as he looks down at you, watching you seal your mouth over him. You bob your head up and down on him as he cums down your throat.

You swallow all of him down as he chants your name. His hands lower, resting against the hollows of your cheeks as you still keep his softening cock in your mouth.

You stare up at him, his hair left awry and twisted from his hands, eyes wide and still blown out as he blinks down at you, his chest rising and falling still catching his breath. He looks at you, like you’re the only thing in this world. You are the center of his universe.

#tw marijuana #joel miller #pedro pascal #joel miller ff #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #pedro pascal character fanfiction #joel miller/reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #elks #joel the last of us

430 notes · View notes

shadow4-1 · 9 months

Text

Got You! - Ghost x Reader Oneshot (NSFW)

please mind the tags on this one! this one is especially dark! tags: heavy noncon, slight dubcon, some torture, predator/prey dynamics

Summary: Being on the frontline as a Kortac hacker is just another job for you. But after a mission goes sideways, you find yourself in the clutches of a broken yet monstrous man they call Ghost.

You typed quickly and quietly on your tablet. A thick cord wormed its way from a port in its back all the way into a wall of servo units. The wall blinked and hummed, some lights flickering as you did your job and did it well.

"I can't believe they're paying so much for such little data." You murmured to yourself, eyeing the storage left on your removable drives. It was less than a couple gigabytes of intel. Off in the distance, you heard a few pops of gunfire, your fellow Kortac members keeping the area secure for you in particular.

"What a weird place to put this shit." You murmured again, glancing around at the room.

You couldn't remember where, in what country you were exactly. This was your third intel op for the week, it was all beginning to blend together. First time had been Russia, and then Spain, and then...Morroco? You were in Morroco, right? Based on the soft rug beneath your knees, the cotton drapes, and the casual color scheme, you supposed so.

All that mattered was getting the hell out of dodge. You half glanced back down at your tablet, another five minutes to completion. Most of the lights on the racks of servers had turned red, a sure sign you were doing your job correctly. Although, the more you looked around the stranger it all felt. Yes, you were a talented hacker. You'd worked hard to get where you were, but your instincts had never let you down either. Something about a server room being in the living room of a Moroccan household didn't seem right.

You heard some more insistent pops of gunfire. They weren't as far away as before. Your heart began to thump with the beginnings of anxiety. Leo, your main escort, was sure to be just outside of the cinderblock house. A part of you wanted to run to him, but you had to stop yourself. Three minutes, and you'd be able to get the hell out of there.

The pops of gunfire quickly became sprays. You heard something shatter across the street. Fuck.

"Leo!" You hissed out, grabbing your tablet, readying to rip the cord out of the back. "I almost got it!"

Thirty seconds. Come on. Come on!

Leo burst through the door, slamming it behind him. He huffed with adrenaline, forcing the door to lock and slamming a nearby bookcase against it. The gunfire was outside. You heard some yelling and returning fire. A man cried out in pain, you guessed one of yours. The glass of the living room window exploded.

Luckily for you, the servo units blocked your body from the main impact. Unluckily for your tablet, it was knocked from your grip. It skidded across the floor, screen shattered with a hole in the center.

A sniper.

You tried to reach out for your trusty tablet, but Leo had other ideas. With one of his large, tan arms, he hooked it around your center and yanked you upwards. Before you could even question him, he began to pull you towards the direction of the back of the house. Sprigs of his usually neat, slicked back hair fell across his forehead. He looked worried, an expression you were not used to seeing on the normally jubilant man.

"Leo, wha-"

You were cut off by the sound of the front door and bookcase splintering inwards. Daylight streamed into the dark house, making it harder to see. Leo practically picked you up and carried you as he ran. There was a long hallway with multiple doors that he locked behind you until finally, your path ended in a bedroom. The layout of this house was strange, but you hoped that it would help throw off your pursuers for just long enough that you could escape. It seemed Leo was thinking the same thing.

"Come on, girlie! The window, quick!" He huffed out through his thick, Australian accent. You happily obeyed, trying desperately to lift up the sill of the nearest window.

"It won't move!" You cried, throwing your entire shoulder against the small ledge. You yelped out in pain, multiple nails had pricked your palm. "It's nailed shut!"

There was a sickening crash from somewhere on the other side of the door. Leo stood tall, his rifle in hand, ready to blast a hole through whoever was planning on coming through. He looked over his shoulder, his brows furrowed in determination. Somehow, his energy was what you needed to keep from falling into a pure panic.

"Try the other one, girl! Kick it out 'f ya 'ave to!" He commanded, his low voice like a spell.

You climbed up onto the bed in the corner of the room. Sure enough, there was a skylight within reaching distance. You threw your body up the wall, the metal bed frame squeaking and shaking beneath you. You clawed and scratched, your fingertips barely making it to the ledge.

"I can't reach!" You cried. "M' too short!"

Leo made an aggravated noise in his throat, but it wasn't directed towards you. Out in the hall, there was the unmistakable sound of a door being kicked open. You glanced down at Leo, tears pricking in the corner of your eyes.

So this was it, huh?

Fucking weeks, months, of being stationed with this random man, and this was how both of you were to die. Cornered and helpless in a foreign country. A part of you supposed that maybe it was meant to be. Leo had always been kind of sweet to you in comparison to the rest of the men you worked with. Hopefully, your shared end would be quick.

Leo's eyes quickly swapped between you, the skylight, and the door. He blinked and then jumped up onto the bed with one stride. You squeaked as he pushed you to the wall, lifted the butt of his rifle, and knocked the glass out with a singular, smooth motion.

"Leo wai-"

He didn't wait. He dropped his rifle on the bed, hooked his hands underneath your thighs, and lifted you easily. Despite his help, you only managed to be tall enough to get your arms through the windowsill, but it was enough.

The door to the bedroom was thrown open with so much force that it caused the plaster of the wall to crack. Leo turned his back to the wall, letting your legs kick off his shoulders.

"It was a pleasure!" He called up to you, voice cracking.

"LEO!" You cried.

A folley of shots flashed from a muzzle in the doorway. Leo let out a garbled growl, reaching for his knife in its holster. He surged forward with his weapon, blood spots leaking into the back of his canvas vest. Leo was dying, and yet he kept fighting.

Fighting for you.

You refused to let his sacrifice be in vain. You turned your attention back to the roof beneath your fingers. The skylight was part of the floor of the flat roof of the house. If you managed to get your body through the sill, you could potentially be able to run from rooftop to rooftop to safety.

You used what little leverage you had in your arms and legs to push yourself up. It hurt, the glass dug into your fatigues and was no doubt embedding itself into your skin, but you hardly felt it.

Leo called out your name in a gritted scream.

You had to keep going.

Tears pricked in your eyes. You kept squirming and clawing your way up, pulling your right knee through the window. That was the final amount of leverage you needed. With a hard kick, you threw yourself a couple feet away from the skylight. You sucked in a well needed breath and turned over to fall on your knees.

You'd made it.

All you had to do was stand up and make a running jump to the next banister. You presumed it couldn't have been more than five feet away. Totally doable, even for your smaller stature. You got your right foot underneath you, using your hands to push up from the floor.

Something wrapped around your right ankle, squeezing so impossibly tight you felt the joints squeak. You cried out in pain, trying to right yourself, but falling onto your left side. You looked down at your legs to see what had ahold of you.

Fear froze you in place.

Through the darkened hole of the skylight, surrounded by broken glass, was the dark figure of a man's head. He was covered in all black, save for the bleached white skull he stared at you through. His eyes were so dark and smothered in kohl that only the whites of his eyes were truly visible.

He looked alien.

And he had a terrifyingly casual hold of your ankle with only one hand.

"Got you..." He hummed, his voice deep and dark and dangerous.

The panic finally kicked in, in full force. You screamed and threw your entire body weight away from the strange monster of a man. It seemed he anticipated your move because he tugged back at the same time you tried to surge forward. You gained absolutely no ground.

Tears began to blind your vision and you clawed and kicked with your free foot. You miscalculated. The extra foot was his next target. With his other hand, he snatched your free ankle into his grip.

You fell to the ground, kicking and screaming. Your leg muscles burned, your heart felt like it was about to explode with panic. You tried so desperately to use what was last of your strength to wiggle free, but it was no use.

With one very hard yank, he pulled you backward. In what felt like slow motion you watched as you were torn away from the sunny afternoon, the terracotta bricks and laundry clotheslines of freedom. You fell down and down and down into the darkness of the bedroom prison that was sure to be your tomb. Your nails caught on the texture of the wall as you belly flopped onto the bed below.

All of the air was forced out of your lungs. The fall had only been a few feet, but the impact of hitting your ribcage on the metal bedsprings of the mattress was enough to wind you. You sputtered and coughed, subconsciously curling up on yourself. The blankets tangled into the soles of your boots as you tried to put distance between yourself and your attacker.

A beat passed, and you gasped out, finally getting a lung full of air. You panted hard, putting your arms over your face, expecting a flurry of blows or a knife in your ribs.

"Who do you work for?" The man asked as he slowly stepped off the bed with heavy, measured footsteps.

Hysterically, you sobbed, refusing to look at his masked face. Despite your fear, you felt him come around the side of the bed to lean over your face. In a complete panic move, you kicked yourself backward, only serving to push yourself deeper into the corner of the bed against the wall.

It seemed the masked man's patience was dwindling. He roughly grabbed you by the shoulder and shook you with enough force to slam the back of your head against the wall. The pain, luckily, did clear your head enough to actually answer the question he asked.

"K-KORTAC!" You stammered out. "I-I work for K-Kortac! C-cyber tech o-operator!"

The man looked down at you with an odd sort of interest. He looked down at your legs, seemingly off in thought. The light that filtered down from the broken window cast him half in shadow and half in light. Behind him, on the floor, lay a body in a growing pool of blood.

"Leo..." You hiccuped out in recognition, feeling an intense pull of hysteria.

The man didn't even glance back at your fallen comrade. Instead, slowly, his eyes panned up your body until his gaze landed right on the Kortac chest insigna of your kit. Tears plinked down your lashes and into the canvas material.

The mystery man clicked a button on a comm unit tacked to the front of his vest. A man on the other end yelled out a callsign through static.

"Ghost! Ghost! How copy?" The voice had an accent you couldn't make out in your addled state.

"Copy, Soap." The masked man (Ghost, you presumed) spoke back. "Get to exfil now. Don't wait for me."

"But Ghost-"

"I said don't wait for me, sergeant." Ghost nearly yelled in annoyance. "Exfil in 40, out."

He stopped pressing the button on his comm unit and looked down at you once more. His expression was unreadable. You tried to make yourself seem as small as possible before him.

Ghost slowly glanced over his shoulder with only his eyes. He seemed to give Leo's dead body a short once over before he focused his attention on you again.

"You shag 'im?" He asked.

"Wh-...what?"

"You shag 'im?" He asked again, this time using your name to make the question somehow even more personal.

You looked up at him in a mix of horror and revulsion. What kind of question was that? This man had pursued you like an animal, murdered one of the few men you respected in cold blood, and now wanted to know if you'd been fucking that man while his dead body was still warm?

"F-fuck you." You choked out. Despite feeling drained off all your physical strength, you still had some mental fortitude left.

Ghost let out a soft huff. Whether or not it was a noise of amusement or annoyance, you couldn't tell.

You screeched as he grabbed the front of your kit with one hand. He lifted you out of the corner and slammed you back down in the center of the bed. The metal base squeaked and groaned but held up beneath the impact of your body again. You yelped out as he took his other hand and pulled out a wicked looking knife from his belt. The edges glinted with red, drying blood.

You tried to bat away his hand but he was significantly stronger than you. Even with all your might, he didn't budge. Running on pure fear and self-preservation, you dipped your head down towards his wrist. You clamped your teeth down hard against his gloves. He brought the knife up to your kit but stopped.

He made that noise again. And this time, it seemed to border on amusement.

The world turned black for a second.

When you came to, you could taste copper in your mouth. It ran hot down your nose and out the corners of your lips like drool. You groaned out pitifully, your body giving up any and all fight.

The bastard had knocked your lights out.

Despite all of your senses swimming in pain, you could feel your body physically lightening up in weight. With a bloody gurgle, you glanced down. Your kit and utility belt had been cut away, leaving you in just your fatigues.

"There we go. Good girl." He grumbled, putting his knife away. Something about the tenderness of his voice did not match up with his actions.

You whined out a cry, and he let you. He made no move to deck you again. Instead, unzipped your pants, hooked his fingers into the waistband, and yanked down.

You tried to pull your legs up and away but barely managed to twitch them. Your pants grew tangled around your still boot clad ankles. Ghost took absolutely no time in ripping it all off your body, making you sob as he twisted your already sore ankles.

"Stop..." You hiccuped weakly. "Please."

Roughly, he pushed the hem of your longsleeve up and over your breasts. He jerked it up over your shoulders so hard the fabric snapped and ripped. He threw the ruined garment to the side, seemingly too enraptured by the sight of your near naked body.

Weakly, you put a hand up to his chest as he put his knee up on the bed. There was no strength behind your push, and it seemed to amuse him. He let out a cruel chuckle and pinned your hand over your head as he positioned his entire body between your thighs.

Tears spilled so freely down your cheeks and neck that they soaked the bedsheets beneath your head. This was wrong. He had to know this was wrong. He couldn't do this. Could he?

"Please...no..." You whispered.

He didn't say anything, just breathed in slowly and steadily, eyes roaming over your entire body. He didn't move to touch you, or rip off your panties, or do anything else as monstrous as he'd done before. He just stared at you with an odd sort of fondness.

With his gloved hand he cupped at your face. You whimpered and cowered in his touch, but it was sweet, almost lover like. He wiped as much tears and blood from your face as he could, even taking the corner of a blanket to dab the excess body fluids away.

You were so confused and scared. What the hell was wrong with this guy? If he wasn't going to kill or rape you what did he want?

The hysteria finally set in.

How fucking funny was this? You couldn't find a decent man for years. Leo was the only one to come close, and even then, he was dead. And the two of you had barely been considered acquaintances. This big, fucking hulk of a monster knocked you out, ripped off your clothes, and now wanted to be tender with you all of a sudden?

You giggled once. Then that giggle turned into a chuckle. Soon enough, you were laughing softly against the hand cupping your face.

"I...what do you want?" You managed out between hysterical pants.

He didn't answer, just leaned his body down low over you. The bed protested hard beneath you both but stayed together. Slowly, he began to put his entire weight down on you.

At first, you wheezed, your beaten body unable to handle the load on top of it. Eventually, after enough time, you began to melt beneath him. Despite the discomfort of everything, his body felt warm and solid... and almost safe in a fucked up way you couldn't explain.

Ghost slid his other hand between you, cracking your legs apart. His still clothed core pressed up against yours. You knew that the too hard lump straining against the fabric was definitely not a gun.

"Why?" You asked meekly. "Why are you doing this?"

The man buried his mask clad face into the crook of your neck. He inhaled sharply before slowly breathing out.

"Mine." He admitted, giving your body an experimental thrust.

He groaned low in his throat. Again and again he thrust hard against your center, his cock grinding into your panty clad entrance.

What did he mean he "mine"? He was trying to fuck your forcefully pliant body. This man was a fucking lunatic. What in the godforsaken world di-

The head of his cock brushed up against the mound of your cunt. Despite the layers of clothes between them the head found its way just deep enough between your lips that he brushed up against your clit. Tears pricked in your eyes. Again and again and again, he pleasured you with each cant of his hips. You cried at the feeling. He wiped the tears away sweetly.

Why didn't he just rape you hard? Why did he have to drag this out, make it sweet? If he wanted your body so bad why didn't he just take it? He obviously had no qualms about using force.

"Thas' it, love." He murmured softly. "Just like that."

Was this some kind of sick fantasy? Did he truly believe you were into this? Or was he just pretending you were to fulfill some kind of fucked up need for human closeness?

He kept rutting against you, mumbling quietly against your neck. Most of it was filthy name calling, the rest was too damn sweet for the act he was committing.

"Fuckin' pretty thing you are. Not getting away from me." He muttered, seemingly half out of his mind. "Never getting away from me. Ever again."

You were so confused. Since when had you ever met this man before? You were certain you would've remembered him and all of his monstrous qualities. You tried hard to squirm away from his touch, but he kept you right where he wanted you to be.

"Never again, love. Not letting you slip through m' fingertips again." With his free hand, he pulled the front of your sports bra down. One of your breasts popped free of its confines and into his view.

"No please..." You begged.

"Should've thought of that before you ran off." He growled.

Words relaying your confusion immediately died in your throat. Ghost tugged the bottom portion of his mask up and then proceeded to pull your nipple into his mouth. He bit you hard, making you scream before letting up. He lapped at the aching bud, forcing it to harden into a throbbing peak. As if just to spite you, he traced your areola with his tongue, making your entire body shake with whiplash from the pleasure.

"Stop please!" You begged. "You're hurting me."

Ghost made that huffing noise again, his breath cooling the saliva against your nipple. He pulled your other breast out and pressed the two together. He swiped the flat of his tongue over both buds. You squeaked and tossed your head back.

"Thought you could hide behind your lil' computer, love?" He growled out, his drool leaking between your tits. "Thought I'd never find you?"

"Wha-?"

"Thought you could just drop off the face of th' Earth n' I'd never find you again?" He nearly yelled. "Should've known a slag like you was just in it for a paycheck."

"I don't...what?" You tried. "What do you mean?"

Ghost sat up to glower over your face. His jaw was set hard. You could see the veins in his neck since he'd pulled his mask up to his nose. You blinked tears out of your eyes. What you thought was the shadow of his jugular turned out to be the corner of a neck tattoo. One you immediately recognized.

"S-Simon?"

Despite his obviously bad mood he still managed to crack a smile. It was genuine and yet still so full of malice. His grin was still as beautiful as the night you'd met him. And the night you'd chosen to run away.

"I was scared!" You cried out in admittance.

"You were scared?" He chuckled. "When every night you were in my bed n' cummin' on me?"

It had been years since you'd seen him. You'd been mere weeks out of university, adrift and broke, but with a shiny new certificate in computer science. Just to get a free meal here and there, you'd found yourself going out on dates with random men. You'd never had much luck with men, and so it was easy to forget their many faces.

But Simon's you could never forget.

He'd been quiet, almost too quiet. He'd exclusively asked you questions about yourself in a much meeker voice. Come to think of it, he'd sounded like a different person the whole time. Did he do it on purpose so as not to intimidate you? Or was it a side effect of the pills he was taking while he'd been on medical leave?

He'd made it clear the two of you weren't going to be long term. And you were okay with that. It wasn't until you got a job at a programming firm that he started getting leery. When you made it clear your fling of a relationship wasn't going to work he'd retreated. And then he came back...lurking in the shadows.

"I-you were stalking me!"

"You still have no idea what I've done for you."

For a moment the two of you looked at each other. The pure terror of a moment ago was starting to wash away. This man was no longer a complete, deranged stranger willing to murder you in cold blood. He was still unhinged and dangerous, but he'd shown he wasn't going to kill you immediately. Your chances of getting out of this situation were much more likely. You appreciated those odds.

"What did you-"

"Y' think i' was a coincidence?" He hummed, cocking his head slightly. "Getting that job. N' endin' up here?"

"Simon-"

"You were meant for me." Ghost said with pure conviction. "You were meant to be next to me...under me."

The egoistical side of you wanted to fight, to scream, to make it clear you'd never want him ever again. The other side was absolutely certain that to live through this encounter was to appeal to him. You'd done it before and it'd worked. It was partially why you'd slept with him so much back then. And why you'd forced yourself to cuddle into his iron grip afterwards.

"On your back. On your knees..." He kept trailed off, eyes drooping in arousal. You felt a hard twitch between your legs.

Your stomach lurched at the thought of your dead, fucked out body being haphazardly tossed on top of Leo's. You needed to live. You'd do whatever you had too. And you knew what'd it take.

"S-Simon...I-look I'm sorry." You swallowed hard, tasting nothing but copper. "You scare me sometimes, but I-I still really care about you."

"Don't lie to me, lovie." He scoffed. The usage of his old nickname made you shudder.

"Simon...I've never stopped thinking about y-you." You sighed out, feeling your skin flush with embarrassment for admitting such a thing. It was marginally a lie since you mostly thought about him with fear in your heart. But there was a part of you who missed his body, his hands, and how'd he'd fuck you apart night after night.

"Please....I-" You slowly moved to sit up on your elbows. As you did your core inadvertently brushed against him. A warm jolt of pleasure shot up through your spine and you couldn't help but bite your lip.

There was a new tension in the air.

"Always such a fuckin' minx." Ghost growled.

"J-just for you." You admitted, forcing your gaze away from Leo's body. "I swear..."

"I know." Ghost hummed, cupping your face in his palm. The sweet gesture made your lashes flutter.

"You're a good girl." He said, as if off in thought. "Just needed a break. N' now you're back, back w' me."

"I..." You blinked, feeling tears well in your eyes. You were playing right into his hand. You knew it, and yet...a part of you didn't care.

He'd pulled strings, murdered and God knows what else just to give you a life outside of him. It'd all been one big, nasty lie just to make you feel good. Just so your inevitable fall back into his arms would feel earned. Because you didn't earn anything. Your entire life trajectory had been an unearned lie. But somehow, someway, you'd earned his affections. And that was all that seemingly mattered in your life.

"Mm...missed you, love." He sighed.

With that he kissed you softly. He was too sweet, too loving. It made your heart ache. You couldn't stop the few sobs that escaped. He didn't seem to care as he licked over your blood tinged tongue. He tasted like he'd always had. Like fresh cigarettes and bitter pine. Your head swam.

"Fuck. M' missed the way you taste." Ghost sighed, licking his lips.

He roughly tugged your panties, making the stitching pop, forcing the elastic to dig into your flushed skin.

"W-wait I-" You squeaked.

It didn't matter. With an easy flick of his wrist the entire garment came off with a rip. The amount of strength and tension used on the cotton practically burned your skin as it was forced off of you. You cried out in discomfort, trying desperately to close your legs, but it was of no use.

Without another second to lose, Ghost hooked his arms up beneath your legs and forced them up. He pushed them back so hard and so quickly he forced the air out of your lungs. You gasped, trying to right yourself.

"There w' go." He growled, staring at your now bare cunt, your knees up to your ears. He kissed your mound, nuzzling his nose into the dusting of hair, breathing you in.

A part of you felt disgusted. You'd been sweating out in the desert, sweating in fear of him, and it seemed he was drinking it all in. Truly a beast he was.

"See you haven't shaved." He hummed, giving a few broad laps to your folds. With each lick, a bit of his thick saliva grew matted into the light dusting of hair. You whimpered.

"Good." He chuckled.

You yelped when he slipped his tongue into you. It was thick and wide and he'd never had any issues getting you open this way. He much preferred to lick your cunt lips apart to accommodate him than sully his fingers. You hated this despite how good it felt. His fingers were always a bit less personal. This way? You had no choice but to watch as he devoured you like a starving man.

You supposed he was.

He'd made it clear you were his and his alone. And if that was the case, then he was only yours too. At least, you'd hoped so. You hoped no other woman would ever be subjected to this torment.

You cried out, legs shaking from the stress but also the pleasure. You tried so hard not to watch him drill his fat tongue right between your lips. He was drooling, his saliva spilling down and down over your neglected clit and onto your squashed tits. He wiggled his tongue in a way that brushed over that rough spot he liked torment. He bullied the tip of his tongue as deep as he could, letting it point right between the gummy ridges of your g-spot. You couldn't help yourself.

It'd been years.

Every man you'd ever talked to had scorned you or disgusted you. You'd never wanted to touch one until Leo had come into your life. And even then, he was untouchable. You'd been too nervous to flirt. At the time you didn't know why, but now, you'd subconsciously known you'd had a skull on your back. Perhaps you were getting a slight kindness for staying untouched all this time.

You cried as you came. Your hips bucked and writhed. Your spine protested, your head swam from the lack of blood flow. Everything floated away for a gorgeous second before your soul slammed back into your addled body.

"Fuckin' 'ell..." Ghost purred. As he talked a wetness spilled out of his mouth. For a brief second you wondered if he was really drooling that much. "C'mon, lovie. Give it to me."

"Wha-"

Ghost latched onto your clit and sucked so hard you screamed. You felt two of his fingers slip inside you with no resistance. They bullied that spot again while he forced pleasure out of your nub. The first orgasm didn't have a chance to fade into an afterglow. The second orgasm came quickly. It burned. Your belly muscles didn't even have a chance to relax.

"Simon!" You mewled, absolutely lost.

He wouldn't stop. He kept taking and taking and taking. He let his teeth graze at the sensitive flesh of your clit. You saw stars again. This time, the orgasm was so violent you screamed. Every bone in your body shook. Your eyes rolled up into the back of your head.

You came to with the warm splashes of wetness against your breasts. A familiar and yet foreign pressure in your belly was being released. More warm wetness dripped quickly onto your neck and chin. You let out a weak cry.

When you finally managed to open your bleary eyes you realized what'd happened. The entire bottom half of Ghost's face was shiny with slick. He huffed against you with pure excitement in his eyes. Your cum coated the inside of his mouth with the telltale sheen of cream.

"Knew you were a squirter." He grinned at you.

It was as if your orgasm was a feast for him. He hungrily lapped every ounce of your relief off of your body. To get to your cummy chest he released your legs. They fell apart, and you groaned in relief. Fresh blood finally flowed to your head, and you grew dizzy.

"Ah ah, no goin' soft in th' head on me now, lovie." Simon hummed as he laved his big tongue over your wet breasts. He slapped your cheek. Not enough to really hurt you, but certainly enough to clear up the stars in your eyes.

"Simon..." You hiccuped.

"Only got a few minutes left." He mused, eyes scouring over your entirely bare body.

Despite wanting to fight him, your extremities felt like jelly. You couldn't even catch your breath. All you could do was lay there in complete submission.

Without a warning, Ghost used his strength to flip you completely over. He forced you up onto your knees and pressed your face into the now tainted sheets.

You wanted to cry, you wanted to scream, but there wasn't much of a point anymore. No one was coming to help, and even if they did they'd be dead before they could process what was even happening to you. Ghost was going to take you. And you'd asked for it.

It beat death, right?

He entered you roughly from behind. Luckily, he'd prepped you well, so there wasn't any pain. Just the warm, muted burn of him stretching you open for the first time in years. You'd forgotten what the feeling of sex was like. You couldn't help the low groan that escaped your lungs.

Ghost was right there with you. He hissed loudly, gritting his teeth as he sunk right into you. His big, gloved hands palmed roughly at your ass. He forced your cheeks apart to no doubt give him an excellent view of where you joined together. You squeaked when you felt a couple of his thick fingers spread your lips apart even further.

"Fuckin' 'ell." He groaned. "Missed this tight lil' cunt o' yours."

You whimpered.

"Next time I'll make sure you get the fuck you deserve, lovie." He growled. "But m' runnin' short on time."

"Si-."

A hand roughly grabbed your throat and squeezed. You opened your mouth in shock but nothing came out. No words, no air, just a silent shock.

Ghost began to move, fucking you roughly. He wasted no time in forcing his fat cock back into those parts of yourself you didn't know existed. He kept his grip tight. You couldn't breathe in or out. Tears and panic began to well in your chest.

With the smallest amount of energy you had left, you tried to claw his hands away, but he just choked you tighter. The mix of fear, lack of oxygen, and pleasure was too much for your brain. Black spots began to form in your vision.

"There we...ngh-go." He huffed. Every thrust was punishing. You could feel his sharp hipbones and hefty balls slap into your core. Your only saving grace from the stinging contact was the cushion of your innate softness.

You began to choke. The pressure building in your chest and behind your eyes was immense. The entire room was spinning. Drool spilled past your open, air hungry lips. The black spots began to completely fill your vision. Everything started to float away into that dark, sleepy place.

"Fuck." Ghost panted, his thrusts becoming uneven. "Fuck!"

The moment he came, he let up on your airway.

Everything had turned black for you. When you finally came to, completely out of it, the entire act was over. It hurt to much to move, but you could feel the wet cream between your legs. It had been awhile but you could never forget the feeling of being stuffed with Simon's seed.

His comm unit made a static-y noise and he answered it.

"M' on m' way. Five minutes to exfil." He hummed. "N' I managed to catch a lil' bird."

Ghost didn't wait for his teammate to respond, instead he lazily got off the bed. He eyed your body, smirked, then pulled his mask back down.

"I hope you learned your lesson, lovie." He said, lovingly rubbing your cheek. "Time t' come home."

You couldn't make any noise, your voice stolen from you. You couldn't even swallow. All you could do was lay there and look at him as he took to work getting you dressed again. He was haphazard and rough. Anything he couldn't put back on you, he didn't. The last thing he adorned you with were ziptie handcuffs to your hands and feet.

Ghost then threw you over his shoulder and headed back out the way he came. He didn't even bother to walk over Leo's corpse. Instead, he opted to step directly onto the dead man's head. You closed your eyes and desperately tried to block out the sickening, wet sound.

The sunlight burned but its blinding, white rays were welcoming. You'd never thought you'd see the light of day again, and so the blistering heat of it was welcome. Something told you to relish in it, as it might be awhile before you'd get to see it again.

The position over Ghost's shoulder made it impossible to look up. The only thing you could see were the back of his legs and feet. However, you could hear the sound of men yelling and running around. They began to get washed out by a helicopter whirring, it's blades cutting the air and cooling the sweat on your skin.

Ghost stepped onto the helicopter and unceremoniously dropped you to the metal plated floor. You couldn't even groan in pain as your leg took the brunt of the fall. All you could do was lay there, restrained and in so many different versions of pain.

The small grouping of men in tactical gear hungrily eyed your body. Each one was more distinctive than the last. One of them slow whistled and when he spoke you recognized him as the man over the comm unit.

All of the men, including Ghost, stood around you. They discussed your fate, each one getting more and more creative as they went on. The one in charge, the one with the beard smiled sweetly down at you. He wiped a stray tear away from your face with the back of his curled index finger.

"Oh, don't worry about it, Simon. We'll get 'er to sing for us."

In that moment, you realized you should've asked Leo to shoot you when you had the chance.

#simon riley x reader #cod fanfic #simon ghost riley #call of duty #cod imagines #mw2 headcanons #captain price

207 notes · View notes

sophialushambience · 10 months

Text

Cotton which is made from the cotton plant, is an easy-to-produce, very versatile material that is also environmentally friendly. Cotton fibres are robust, soft, and do a great job of holding dyes. These qualities make cotton an excellent choice for living room area rugs. Rugs made of cotton are very cosy and provide a great feeling of comfort. They are suitable for any area where you could sit on the floor.

#Cotton Area Rugs #eco friendly rugs #recycled cotton #living room area rugs #sustainable

0 notes

casavanihomes · 2 years

Photo

This classic rug is made up of 100% natural jute with chindi cotton. Multicolor Jute rug with brightest color can enhance the beauty of the rug. Eye catcher rug is perfect for modern home and home décor. -> Material : Jute -> Style : Art décor -> Type : Area Rug -> Color : Multicolor -> Features : Easy to clean, Eco-friendly -> Thickness : 5-7 mm approx. -> Care Instructions : Spot clean only -> Size : All custom size, color and shapes are available. For more information visit the link below👇 https://www.amazon.com/Spinrific-Contemporary-Outdoor-Handmade-Friendly/dp/B09Z285DBV

3 notes · View notes

rugsforeverusa · 2 years

Text

Grey black rug is made up of 100% pure cotton. They are both trendy and traditional at the same time. Classic and considered, black & grey are timeless colors. They will fit anywhere and are a perfect anchor for any room that subscribes to a Bohemian design style.

-> Material :100% Pure Cotton -> Weave : Hand Woven -> Regional design : Indian Traditional -> Color : Green & Black -> Care Instructions: Normal wash -> Size : All custom size, color and shapes are available.

For more information visit the link below👇 https://www.ebay.com/itm/275416046024

0 notes

lunarmoves · 1 year

Text

love from the other side (of the apocalypse) (ch1)

pairing: DCA sun/moon/eclipse x reader

mentions: amnesia, god/fantasy au, almost-apocalypse au, gender neutral reader, no use of y/n, sun/moon/eclipse are in separate bodies, violence/death, blood, fire, injury, public execution, speculating about killing animals (questioning ability to kill them for survival, it's only a paragraph), apocalypse elements (only in this chapter tbh), ptsd, panic attack, non-sexual intimacy

word count: 17.4k+

masterlist

ao3 link

You wake up with a harsh, stuttering gasp.

It sends you bolting upright—hands frantically clutching at your chest, your face, your arms—as you choke and pull in as much air as you can through your constricted throat. You’re burning up inside, a heat spreading through your veins and lingering in your skin before it disappears as suddenly as it had emerged. A faint pain lurks in your heart—so much so that you peer down the collar of your shirt to see if anything’s wrong. Nothing but your heaving chest greets you, the glint of a pendant from a silver chain around your neck resting directly in its center. You suck in another breath and release your collar, closing your eyes as you try to calm yourself down. Your lungs burn with the need for oxygen, your chest aches with something that is not there.

You slump forward and wipe the back of your hand against your forehead. Perspiration slides down the side of your face. Your eyes close. A dream—nightmare, maybe. One that you do not recall, the details slipping through your grasp as though made of water. You sigh—slowly, haltingly—and shift yourself on the soft cotton of your bed. Dim sunlight filters steadily in from the open-curtained window to your right. Morning awaits. You look up and feel as though time has frozen around you.

Where… are you?

You’re in a room, of course. Simplistic with wooden furniture sparsely decorated throughout it. A soft rug covers the floor. Various flora decorate the windowsills and the walls. You don’t recognize it. You rub at your forehead, eyebrows pulling down as you frown.

It’s obviously your room. You don’t know how you can tell, but you do. There’s just this… feeling in the air that tells you it’s yours. Your presence lingers in every decor, every bit of clothing you spot laying about. And yet, it is unfamiliar to you. Your head hurts.

You slowly get up from your little bed and wander up to the window to gaze through it. A quaint, bumbling village greets you. People traverse the stone and dirt paths before you, amicable conversation flowing through the air as they go on with their day. Further down the path in front of you are open stalls selling fresh fruit and little knickknacks. Again, that odd sense of familiarity plagues you—but you do not know where you are.

You step away from the window, concern and confusion lining your face, and slowly make your way to your bedroom door so you can open it and step into a small living room. It’s well-lived in and warm, with a rickety wooden table to your left and a large shelf of books to the right. Plush couches surround a small fireplace with a pot set within it. You breathe in and smell a mix of herbs and fresh leaves. Familiar, yet not.

Something’s… wrong. You don’t know what, but it is. There’s this awful, awful feeling in your chest that sinks down to your stomach and lingers there like a sickness. But you can’t bring yourself to do anything other than simply stand there, idly rubbing at the area just above your heart. Your head feels like someone had stuck something sharp in it and swirled things around, leaving you dazed and disoriented.

You don’t… remember anything. You try to think back to what you did yesterday—what you did before you went to sleep—but you can’t recall anything. Not yesterday, nor the day before, nor the year, either. What did you do, what did you do? Your head hurts and you don’t know. You close your eyes and breathe for a quiet, quiet moment, willing yourself to relax. Then you open your eyes and decide to get something to drink. Maybe a glass of water will help you feel better.

You sip at the cool drink as you wander around the little cottage. Your cottage, you suppose, though it sounds… weird. Walking over to the bookshelf, you gaze at the spines of varying widths and colors neatly stacked before you. Curious, you read some of them. Myths and Legends of Pulmiv, A Complete Guide to Local Flora, Identifying Edible Plants, The Gods and Their Stories. A range of novels greet you, though centered on choice topics from the looks of things.

Just as you’re about to pick out a book from the shelf, the world suddenly gets darker. You glance around and notice that the golden sunlight that’d previously filtered through your windows is gone. A storm, maybe? As soon as the thought enters your head, a low rumble traverses through the air above you—so abrupt and sudden that you freeze and watch the water in your glass swish about. It vibrates through your entire being and makes you feel as though you are standing underneath something… big. Powerful. You blink and hold your breath for a quiet, tense moment. After a few minutes, you relax. Some thunder, then. Nothing of significance.

You return your gaze to the bookshelf after eyeing one of the darkened windows and wondering how long it’s been since you’ve seen a thunderstorm. Another sip of your water is taken, and you grasp at a random book to pull it free and read the silver engraving on its obsidian cover. Medical Practices of Today. Its weight is familiar in your hand.

You walk over to your little table and take a seat on a chair that bears the shape of having supported many before you. Some time is spent flipping through the book, your eyes wandering over the diagrams and handwritten notes in the margins of the pages—written by your hand, you’re sure. Studious, are you? A hum lingers in your throat.

Your ruminations are interrupted when another low rumble reverberates through the air a second time—thick and heavy like the pounding of a drum. Your teeth chattering in your mouth, you turn around to look at your front door in curiosity. You can hear voices outside, louder than they were beforehand.

After pushing yourself out from the old table, you walk over to the door to open it and step outside. Fresh air curls gently around your figure. The murmur of conversation grows steadily louder as you slip on some shoes and walk down the small path of your house to one of the main walkways of the village. There’s a crowd gathered up ahead, staring off and pointing to the far distance at a huge plume of dark smoke that curls up into the sky. A sky that is tinged with burnt mandarin, you notice. It makes a shiver crawl down your spine. There is no thunderstorm, like you’d thought.

“What’s going on?” you ask no one in particular once you reach the crowd. A young woman with blonde hair glances at you and does a strange double take, but it’s an old, shrunken man who answers.

“Disaster’s struck Priras'yi,” the man rasps as he points to the monstrous smoke in the south. It’s so far away that it looks a bit small to you, but you know that up closer it must be massive to be seen from this distance.

“Disaster,” you murmur, eyes unable to pull themselves away from the smoke. It’s—ominous. It makes something treacherous thrum within your bones. You feel small. Your head still hurts. “A fire, maybe? Is that why the sky looks like that?”

The young woman shakes her head. “Look closer.” She points up to a gray-tinged cloud that lingers to the east.

You follow her finger and watch as the cloud parts to let a blood red light shine through to the earth. It bathes the soil and the trees in a hellacious glow. You hear whispers around you of the rarity of eclipses—the suddenness with which this one had appeared—as it leers down at you all. It makes something in your chest pull and ache—just watching as the masked sun snakes its tendrils of baleful light across a fire-scorched sky. You reach up a hand and find yourself clasping at the pendant over your chest through your shirt.

“Was an eclipse supposed to happen today?” you ask no louder than the surrounding mumble of conversation. There are methods to predict them, you’re certain. The young woman shakes her head and you hum, contemplative.

“S’those blasted mages!” the man snarls out as he bares his teeth up at the sky. You blink at his anger and exchange a quick glance with the young woman. Confusion lingers in your gaze that deepens when you notice a sneer on the woman’s face. She quickly wipes it away and you’re left wondering if she’d even made it in the first place. “Wreakin’ havoc and nonsense! We’ll never know peace with ‘em around.”

“Can magic do something like this?” you muse. Your thumb smoothes over the front of the pendant and you can feel a raised bump on top of it from a jewel of sorts.

“I wouldn’ put it past ‘em,” he replies darkly. You frown but say nothing else, letting the silence settle between the three of you as you watch the smoke steadily climb higher into the sky.

Eventually, the crowd starts to slowly disperse as people go back to their daily chores and tasks. You take that as a sign yourself and pivot around—but as you do so, you catch the eye of the young woman. She looks like she wants to say something, her lips pressed together as her eyes linger on your form. The moment passes, however, and she turns to walk in the opposite direction as you, mumbling something incomprehensible under her breath. You blink and decide not to ruminate upon it.

And as you walk back towards your little home, you feel a faint vibration through the earth beneath your feet. Like the faint ripples in a pond after the water’s been displaced. It gives you pause, but when you look around to see if anyone else has noticed, they are all too busy eyeing the eclipse. It was probably nothing, you tell yourself.

You shake your head and spare the sky a final glance before you turn to make your way back inside, your heart beating solemnly in your chest.

The eclipse does not go away.

It’s strange, you ponder as you stare out one of the cottage’s windows at the tangerine beyond the gray of the clouds. Eclipses do not last long. Several minutes, at most. And yet, the one currently setting fire to the sky does not vanish at all. There is no night, there is no day. There is only the eclipse.

It makes unease settle thickly across the village like a particularly suffocating blanket. More glances are cast up at the sky, more murmured conversations are exchanged between passersby. No one knows what’s going on, and it doesn’t seem like it’ll be brought to light anytime soon. The thick smoke that had saturated the atmosphere disappears eventually and leaves a clear sky to broadcast the eclipse more starkly upon. You learn to keep your head down and stay inside, using the small analog clock in your living room to tell the time. You can only hope things will return to normal soon for the outside world.

Your mind is—quiet. Not empty, just quiet. You are much calmer than you thought you’d be in the face of this disconcerting fogginess in your head. It still hurts, especially when you sit and try to recall things from a time beyond your grasp, but at least you’re making an attempt. That’s all you can ask for, you think.

It bothers you, not knowing what you’re missing. It bothers you so much. The idea that important pieces of your life are missing. But you can’t muster up the energy nor strength to feel anything other than apathy towards your situation. If you can’t remember, then you don’t exactly know what you’re missing out on, and you can’t mourn the loss properly. What you don’t know won’t harm you, right?

Except it does, in its own way.

You find yourself looking at the pendant around your neck more often than not. Curiosity was what had led you to slip the thin, silver chain out of the collar of your shirt for the first time so you could stare down at the diamond shape nestled comfortably at its end. Silvery blue metal surrounded an opaque jewel shimmering with an iridescence that stole the breath right from your lungs. It couldn’t have been cheap—it starkly contrasted against the simple decor of your cottage. Still, it’s gorgeous—and it’s yours.

It becomes a habit for your thumb to smoothe over the jewel—preferably without your shirt’s material in the way, though you tend to keep the pendant tucked out of sight. A small comfort between the hours of you laying listlessly in bed, counting the seconds as they tick by while the light of the eclipse filters into your room through the window. There’s this hollow emptiness in your chest that aches and deepens when you stare up at the eclipse for too long. Your eyes burn with something you cannot place.

You are grieving—you recognize the signs—though you haven’t an inkling as to why.

To preoccupy yourself, you go exploring in your little home. It’s something to get you up and moving, at least. You search through the cabinets in the kitchen, letting your fingers trace over the worn wood that they are composed of. You find endearment in the chipped mugs hidden away near the compartment for spices and personality in the embroidered patterns left on small hand towels. You pull out book after book from the shelf in the adjacent living room and lose yourself in the creases along their pages.

You roam around your cozy bedroom, eyeing the clothing you have stored in drawers and musing if you’d ever wear them. You open a tiny container on a nightstand near your bed and find that it contains all manners of jewelry and little trinkets. Small stones that are polished enough to see your own reflection and little buttons that have been lost from a myriad of clothing items.

But what intrigues you the most is the box you find tucked away in a deep, deep part of your closet. Hidden under various shirts and jackets. You don’t know why you had thought to look there—don’t know what had compelled you to keep digging and digging—but you’re fascinated by its secrets.

You bring it to your bed and sit down, holding it carefully on your lap. It’s an unassuming thing, made from cheap wood and decorated with a small lock that you easily pop open. Within it is a singular book—a journal, you realize, as you pick it up and flip through the golden pages. There are words written along them in a style that you recognize as your own. This is your journal, and the thought makes your heart pick up its pace. Maybe there’s something in here about your past? That can allude you to even just a fragment of what you’re missing?

But no, there are no entries like you’d thought there would be. There are only fragmented sentences and short paragraphs in a language you do not remember but find your lips easily tracing. You’re… not entirely certain as to why you have this—nor why it had been sitting at the bottom of your closet, forgotten and buried. It makes your lips purse together and you close the book before setting it back in the box to place on top of your nightstand. It’s something you will contemplate upon later, you decide, when your mind has lost some of the haze it is trapped in.

‘Later’ ends up arriving faster than you’d expected—and not due to a sudden clarity.

It’s the middle of the night—around one in the morning, according to the clocks—when you get startled by screaming.

At first you’re confused, wondering what is going on outside. You glance over to your open window to see the eclipse is still as prevalent as ever—nothing has changed. So the immediate cause for the screaming being a result from a shift in the sky gets crossed out of your brain. You blink blearily, then lug yourself out of bed when the screaming only gets louder. It makes something cold and uneasy form in your stomach. Screaming is never a good thing, after all. Rarely is.

By the time you’ve shuffled your way to your front door to open it, the screaming has gotten loud enough that it has started to sound like coherent words. You rub at an eye and notice some of the other village folk wearily poking their heads out of their own homes and stores. A few of them have shawls or blankets wrapped around their bodies.

A man comes running down the path directly in front of your cottage—so abrupt and sudden that you’re taken aback by his speed and the panic saturating his movements.

“Run! Everyone run!!” he cries out, sweat practically dousing his figure. His voice is hoarse and cracks uncontrollably with the words he shouts. “They’re coming! They’re coming!! Run!”

Goosebumps erupt along your arms when his words process in your brain. Run? Now? You hesitate, legs tensing beneath you as the man continues to yell his warnings. What is he talking about? You are not the only one who’s confused.

“Run from what?!” a villager irritatedly calls back from his cottage door. “D’you know what time it is, man?! Are you insane?!!”

“E Dribh Edhur!” the man shouts back and points somewhere behind him—in the same direction the smoke from Priras'yi had been. You follow his finger and feel something drop abruptly in your stomach at a strange, ethereal glow in the distance—pulsating and growing brighter by the second. “Run! They’re coming! They’ll kill us all!” He disappears down the path, still shouting as he wakes up and warns the rest of the village.

Words cannot describe the feeling that takes root in your gut. Your eyes glance around, taking in the expressions of the villagers around you. Some are clearly perturbed as they stare off at the increasingly luminescent glow, then the back of the shouting man. Some have disappeared back into their homes, a grumble on their tongues. Yet others tentatively step outside and jog after the man. You feel conflicted for a terrible, terrible moment. What should you do?

The answer comes to you when the ethereal glow suddenly vanishes—as though it had never been there in the first place. You stare wide-eyed at the spot in the sky it had been in and hear the low mumble of confusion from the others as they look around uneasily. There is a moment of silence. One second. Two seconds.

BOOOOOOOOOOM!

The ground shakes beneath your feet as a blinding flash of light strikes down at the far edge of the village—away, thankfully, from your home. You gasp and stumble a little, hearing yelps from around you that turn into distant screams and cries from the spot the light had touched down. You tense and grip at the edge of your door, something cold spreading through your veins when dark smoke starts to drift up into the tangerine sky.

You need to run.

With all the strength in your body, you wrench yourself away from the door and hurdle into your little home. A bag gets snatched up from its position near the fireplace so you can start cramming as many things as possible into it. Some food, a waterskin, a sack of coins. You whirl into your room and grab a jacket along with some spare clothes and a small blanket. Your eyes frantically dance about, looking for anything else you can take with you, when they land on the box atop your nightstand. Your breathing bates.

The journal is important—you know it is. The familiarity that lines its pages is something you cannot ignore. You can feel it deep within your bones. It’s a part of you, so intricately woven into what makes you you. You’re certain. You may not remember, but you know that to leave it behind will be a mistake you may never recover from. You don’t even blink as you find yourself shoving the box open and stuffing the journal into your bag. You can find all of the secrets within it when you are safe.

You dash out of your room and jam on your shoes. More screaming has erupted around the village, echoing frantically within your ears. It only makes your heart beat faster—causes perspiration to dot your forehead as you grip tightly onto the strap of your bag. You rush outside and yelp as you nearly collide with someone running down the main path. More smoke has risen into the air, stinging at your eyes and your nose with something that burns. You breathe heavily and take a precious second to look around.

People—young and old—run down the paths with fright and horror lining their faces. A mother grips tightly onto her stumbling child before she swoops them up into her arms and races towards the trees. Others barricade their doors and peek hesitantly out their windows before pulling their curtains shut. There is so much panic, so much terror saturating the air that you feel like you can’t even breathe. Glass breaks as someone knocks into one of the outside stands selling kitchenware. A child cries out helplessly for their father. Someone trips and falls, then picks themself right up like nothing had happened.

You need to r u n.

As though a switch has gone off, you bolt down the path in the general direction people seem to be going. Towards the forest—hoping to get away from everything and lose themselves in the trees. Your eyes glance about, trying to glean some kind of context from what’s going on. The ground rumbles through your soles, screaming in the far distance gets louder and more chaotic. You keep an eye on the smoke in the air drifting up between buildings, apprehension seizing your gut in an iron grip. Definitely don’t go over there.

You make a sharp turn and yelp when you run into someone. It’s so harsh and jarring that you’re knocked back onto the stone ground. You just barely manage to hold onto your bag, your head spinning from the abrupt collision. They don’t even stop to say sorry or help you to your feet—they’re long gone by the time you even open your eyes.

You’re about to scramble back up when you feel two hands suddenly seize you under your arms from behind and hoist you up into the air. You yelp and turn around in surprise only to see the young blonde woman from earlier. Her green eyes are wide as she clamps a hand down on your wrist—tight. “There you are!” she rushes out, breathless, and starts tugging you back down the path hurriedly. “Thank fuck I caught you. Come on!”

“Wh— wha—?” you choke out confusedly, but she doesn’t seem to hear you. You’re forced to stumble after her, arm extended between the both of you as she skillfully cuts through the village.

She takes you on a different route, weaving between people as she ducks through an alley and heads for an opening in the forest that not many others are rushing towards. Your mind struggles to keep up, so burdened by the panic of not only yourself but the people around you. But it makes sense, your reasoning breaks through the fog, to diverge from the crowd. You’ll be safer that way.

The forest seems to eat you alive as you and the woman dash beyond its dark treeline. The terrain here is rougher—uneven—so you’re forced to concentrate more on your steps to avoid tripping over tree roots or running into low-hanging branches. It doesn’t help that the lighting provided by the eclipse is a bloody ruby color. You’re not sure how long you run for. It feels like forever. But eventually the screaming fades away into the distance and all you can hear are your harsh breaths and the beating of your heart in your ears. There’s a stitch in your side that grows more and more aggravated the longer you run.

Mercifully, the woman brings you both to a stop at the edge of a small, bumbling creek. You gasp and pant for air, bending over to rest your hands against your knees as she lets go of your wrist. Her own breaths come in short, sharp bursts and she wipes her forehead before she kneels at the creek to splash some water onto her face.

It takes you a minute before you’re able to speak, heart rate steadily calming down. “What— what was that? What happened?”

“I don’t know,” she replies, plopping herself down on a grassy part of the ground. The forest quietly teems with sounds of wildlife—chirping birds, rustling leaves, trickling water. You glance up and see only the trees’ canopies above you. She wipes at her forehead again. “I can only assume it’s the same thing that happened at Priras'yi.”

The glow did come from that direction. You swallow heavily, but before you can say anything, the woman looks up at you, a crease between her eyebrows. “When’d you get back? I didn’t know you were in Nash’yi. You could’ve… I dunno, said hi.” Her gaze averts from your own to stare down at the creek.

Your jaw tenses at her words and you claw for a response in your mind. “I… not— not long.” Did she know you? Was that why she had looked so surprised to see you when you first saw her? Your mouth feels like it’s lined with cotton. Something bursts to life within your veins, igniting feeling into your limbs. Answers, you can get answers.

The woman hums. “Yeah, okay. I guess things did get kinda hectic, huh?”

“...Right,” you say quietly, your eyes flickering to the ruby light that paints the flora around you. “Uh— listen, I—”

“We should keep moving,” she inadvertently cuts across you as she picks herself up from the ground and brushes her clothes off. Like you, she has a small bag with her, slung over her shoulders. “The farther we get from Nash’yi the better.”

She starts following the creek. You grip tightly onto the straps of your bag and follow behind her. How are you going to even begin to broach the topic of your memories? Start small, maybe. “Listen, I… I need to ask you a question.”

Her head tilts to the side to indicate she’s paying attention. “Okay. What is it?”

She’s rather blunt, isn’t she. You lick at your chapped lips and hesitate for only a second. “Just… It’s gonna sound odd, so don’t… freak out, or anything.”

At this, she turns her head to look at you with a quirked eyebrow. When she seems to register the tension lining your features, she pauses and completely turns around to face you. You stop just before her. “…What is it?” she repeats again, only a little bit wary.

You look right into her eyes, hoping to portray your seriousness in case she thinks you’re joking. “What’s… your name?”

The woman stares at you for what feels like a long, long time. It gets to the point where you start to feel the jitter of anxiety, your hands fidgeting together as you try not to let her silence bother you.

“You don’t remember,” she eventually says quietly, breaking the tension that’d fallen between the two of you like a thick blanket. You shake your head and something seems to change in her expression, though you can’t quite put your finger on what.

“How much?” she asks after a short moment. She… isn’t reacting how you’d expected. This odd calmness is starting to unsettle you.

“Everything,” you whisper, as though scared to admit it out loud.

Without warning, stress suddenly coats her expression as she reaches out to grip tightly at your shoulders. You startle, but are stricken by the wild look in her eyes—terrified. Desperate. She brings herself close to your face—so much so that your noses nearly touch. “Tell me you didn’t go back to Bharv'yi.”

“What— no? I don’t—“ You struggle with your words, not understanding what she’s saying. Bharv'yi? What? She blinks at you, her head jerking back slightly as though reeling herself in.

“No, no, you wouldn’t.” She releases you abruptly, her gaze far away as she mumbles to herself. Her eyebrows furrow together as she pinches at the bridge of her nose. “It makes no sense. I hadn’t seen you for a few months, there’s no way you would’ve—“ She mutters something incomprehensible. You don’t have the strength to interrupt her and ask what the fuck she’s talking about.

“Uh— did we know each other? Were we friends?” you tentatively ask in an attempt to break her out of her hazy ruminating. It works, and she glances at you with an unreadable expression.

She takes a moment to reply. “I guess you could say that. More acquaintances than anything.” She trails off into a distant look as though reminiscing of simpler times, then quickly snaps herself out of it. “C’mon. We need to keep moving. I’m Vanessa, by the way.”

You nod and tell her your own name—more out of habit, really—and feel your cheeks warm when she gives you an odd look. Right. She would already know your name, wouldn’t she. Whoops. You rub at your face as you follow behind her, the two of you steadily picking your way through the forest.

Dirt and leaves crunch under both of your shoes. Vanessa doesn’t look back at you as she asks “So what happened? What’s the last thing you recall?”

You hum as you ponder her question. “I only remember waking up in my bed a couple days ago. Everything else is… foggy.” Had it been a couple days ago? You’re honestly unsure. It feels like it happened just yesterday. Have you slept at all since then? You curse the stagnated sky for warping your sense of time.

Vanessa makes a small sound of acknowledgement but says nothing else. You wonder what she’s thinking about. Not being able to see her expression makes her infinitely more difficult to read. You stare at the back of her head and let out an inaudible sigh.

You walk for hours. Not much is said between the two of you—not after your initial conversation by the creek—but you find that you don’t mind all too much. Your mind is busy turning over the events that’d just occurred, dissecting them every which way. An ethereal glow in the sky can only mean one thing, really. What had that man said before? E Dribh Edhur? Beings not of this world—not made of flesh and blood like the rest of you. Here to “kill us all.” And it makes you wonder why any of this is happening. You wish it wasn't.

You glance up at the sky through the trees where the eclipse’s light steadily shines down upon you. Everything seems strangely connected. You don’t know if you have a solid basis for your theories but… it’s difficult to think otherwise.

Eventually, Vanessa brings the two of you to a stop in a small clearing—messily hidden by various shrubs and low-hanging branches. There is just enough space for you both to relax, something you are grateful for as the soles of your feet ache from all the walking you'd done. The adrenaline from earlier has finally worn off and you find yourself teetering on the brink of exhaustion.

You plop yourself down on a dry patch of grass and shake your bag off your shoulder. It hurts from carrying it. You rub at the muscles there and do your best to stretch it out. Vanessa says nothing as she starts gathering dry leaves and twigs—likely to start a small fire. You pull your waterskin out from your bag and take a much needed, long drink. Cool water dribbles out of the corner of your lips that you wipe away with the sleeve of your shirt.

You don't know what time it is. Not having a clock of sorts will be detrimental in the long term, you think, if you are to keep fleeing from Nash’yi and whatever had caused all that devastation there. You're not sure if you can go back, but you're not willing to try with how many unknown factors there are. You wish you knew what was going on. So desperately. This kind of unease will be the death of you, in the end.

You watch as Vanessa takes a small dagger out of her pocket—gleaming metal that looks sharp enough to cut something with the slightest of brushes—and starts striking a stone against it to create a spark. Something queasy swirls around in your gut as you watch her—a strange feeling that makes you look away and focus on getting something to eat from your bag. Vanessa tries to get the kindling to light, but she has no success, and you try to ignore the bout of relief you feel when she huffs and gives up. She kicks away the leaves and twigs in frustration, then settles on plopping herself on the ground using her bag as a pillow.

You pretend to be busy with your own bag for a bit, then give up and pull out your small blanket so you can lay down as well. Suddenly you're not that hungry anymore.

Staring up at the gently swaying leaves from above, you decide to break the oddly tense silence. “You… mentioned you hadn’t seen me for a few months, earlier. Was I not in Nash’yi?”

You hear more than see her head turn to look at you and you look back, staring right into her green eyes from where she lays parallel to you. She’s the first to look away. “No. I don’t know where you were. You left a lot, actually. Always heading in the direction of Priras'yi.” She lets out a sigh. “Dunno what you were up to. Work, maybe. Wasn’t any of my business anyways.”

Curious. Did you travel a lot? You wonder why. You hum thoughtfully, thinking back to the way she’d called you both acquaintances. Tentative friends, perhaps? “How did we meet?”

She doesn’t answer—not immediately. You almost wonder if she’s fallen asleep. She hasn’t. You hear her shuffle a bit and glance over at her as she turns onto her side—her back facing towards you.

Her voice, when she speaks, is barely above a murmur. “We were both born in Bharv'yi,” she says and you find yourself hanging onto each and every one of her words. “A small village at the foot of… of a dormant volcano. There weren’t many kids there, so we all at least knew of each other.”

Bharv'yi, huh? You wonder if you have any family there. “Where is Bharv'yi?” you ask curiously.

Vanessa turns her head to look at you over her shoulder from a sharp, green eye. “I hope you’re not thinking about going there,” she snaps slightly, then seems to collect herself at the confused look on your face. She quiets down and looks away. “Bharv'yi is empty. No one lives there anymore.”

You’re almost afraid to ask, but you do anyway. Trepidation grips at your throat. “…What happened?”

It’s so quiet you can hear a pin drop. Vanessa sighs and mumbles something under her breath that you can’t quite make out, but before you can question it, she answers. “Plague,” she grits out, then falls silent once more, an unspoken request lingering in the air to cease your questioning.

You take a moment to watch her. And there’s this odd, squirming feeling in your stomach. That writhes and bothers you persistently to a point where you realize she’s… lying to you. She’s not telling you something. Something important. But you haven’t the strength nor courage in you to press, not with how much she’s curled herself into a ball, shoulders tense around her head. You exhale gently through your nose and look back up at the sky through the canopies. You’ll figure it out in another way, with or without her help.

As you lay there, flat against the ground, there’s this faint rumble that you feel through the earth. That reverberates through your body in a whisper and causes the hairs on your arms to prickle with unease. It’s gone almost as soon as it had started. If Vanessa had felt it too, she gave no indication. You decide to not think too heavily about it. You’re exhausted, but your mind feels too busy to rest—pondering about the not-so-distant future. So you lay there and count the number of leaves you can see from your position, blinking heavily from time to time.

“What do we do now,” you whisper into the quiet air after what feels like hours of listening to the sounds of both yours and Vanessa’s breathing. You know she’s awake—indicative of the shifting you hear from her form as she tries to get comfortable on the forest ground. You finally close your eyes in an attempt to block out the ruby light that shines down from above.

It takes a moment before Vanessa responds. You hear a soft sigh.

“I don’t know,” she says quietly back.

You were standing at a fireplace, mixing something in a large pot.

Around and around and around, went the wooden spoon in your hand, carefully stirring the thick, creamy liquid within. You hummed lightly as you grabbed a pinch of seasoning from a little container on the counter nearby and dashed it into the pot. A savory aroma filled the air—warm enough to make your stomach feel full, though you had yet to take a bite.

You didn't so much as bat an eye when you heard a door behind you open. It didn't matter if you locked it; he would always manage to get in.

“Coming in the front like a normal person?“ you teased as you swirled the spoon around the circumference of the pot. Fire licked at the bottom and up the sides of it, a certain warmth caressing your face that you knew you'd eventually need to step away from. ”A miracle!“

A chuckle was all you got as a response, a dark shadow looming over your smaller form as large hands gripped at your shoulders. ”Maybe I should go back to simply appearing in your living room, if you would prefer that.“

”No thank you!” You swatted at his lower hands to stop him from reaching over to mess with your soup. He didn't know much about human food, not really, so his curiosity—more often than not—led to him being a nuisance in the kitchen. “Gave me a heart attack every time."

He hummed—a deep thing that seemed to nearly reverberate against your back, where his chest was pressed against it. And before you could stop him, one of his hands darted under your arm to snatch at the spoon in your grip and tug it away swiftly. Like he was merely plucking a blade of grass. You jerked slightly and attempted to snatch it back to no avail. He was too tall. ”Hey!“

Up and up the spoon went way beyond your reach. And you realized just a bit too late that the hands around your shoulders had tightened and turned you about so that you were properly facing him.

The spoon got placed on the counter and you were swept away in a cradle of arms and hands. One gripped at your dominant hand, another placed itself between your shoulder blades, and two more nestled themselves on your sides. You quirked an eyebrow up at him, head craning back, and met the orange glow of his eyes as he stared down at you like he was starved.

”My time is short, Spruo'nil,“ he murmured as he guided you slowly about in a large, sweeping circle. No rhyme nor rhythm to his steps. Just a smooth little walk that had you focusing on where you stepped to avoid tripping all over him. ”Won't you indulge me?“

You huffed and accidently stepped on one of his feet—the shadowed material of his shoes scuffed by the slippers on your own. ”Well if you want to see me embarrass myself, be my guest.“ Your gaze glanced over at the pot still sitting over the fireplace, bubbling away. ”And my dinner better not burn.“

All you got was the glint of sharp teeth in a dastardly smile. And away you both went. Hands guided you around, directing your motions in experienced patterns. A warmth surrounded your body, your heart. You laughed when he lifted you up in a little spin, then yelped when he squeezed at your sides in a way that made you nearly jitter right out of your skin. All while the burning light of a sun dipping far below the horizon coated the insides of your little home through an open window as though from a painter's brush.

”Where did you learn to dance like this?“ you found yourself murmuring breathlessly as you felt yourself get bowed in a deep dip and pulled back upwards like it was nothing. And to him you supposed it really wasn't.

”I have had millennia to do what I pleased,“ he answered, not thinking much of his words. The difference between you and him was stark at times. It made you ruminate to yourself quietly at night, when you sat alone in the darkness of your bedroom.

”So you learned dancing. Anything else you holding back from me?“ you asked with a silly little grin. He only grinned wider—sharper—and spun you out in a wide circle with a deep laugh. He said something you couldn't quite make out—muffled as though under water. The room rotated around with your spin—his hand gripped tightly at your own—then it began to shake and shake and shake and sh—

”Hey, wake up.“

You jerk awake, hazily blinking eyes up at Vanessa who abruptly lets go of your shoulder and raises her hands as though in surrender. Your head hurts for some reason. You swallow thickly and sit up, body aching and groaning with having spent who-knows-how-long laying on the hard earth. Your heart beats solemnly in your chest and there's this— this sinking feeling in your stomach that grows deeper for reasons unknown to you.

Vanessa gives you a look and digs around in her pocket for something. She pulls out a folded handkerchief and holds it out to you. ”Clean yourself up. We need to get going.“ And then she stands, walking back over to her bag so she can rummage around in it.

You take the piece of cloth gingerly and look down at it, smoothing your thumbs over the small embroidered patterns along its edges. Hesitantly, you touch a finger to your cheek and are surprised when it comes back wet. Your head hurts.

You wipe away the wetness clinging to your cheeks and offer the handkerchief back to Vanessa. But she shakes her head and hoists her bag back onto her shoulders. ”Keep it,“ she says, her gaze averting from your own. You watch her carefully for a moment, then nod in thanks and stuff it into your pocket. You shake out your little blanket and stuff it into your bag once more. Then you're both back to walking—slowly picking your way through the forest. The light of the eclipse still haunts you, ever present and ominous now in its glow. Exhaustion still seeps itself into your bones and you wonder if you will ever truly feel well rested again.

You step under a particularly low branch and watch as two bright blue birds dart overhead—unbothered by the current plight. ”Should we... try to find another village, maybe?“ You try not to think about Nash'yi too much, the devastation you left behind. You hope others have been able to escape like you and Vanessa.

Vanessa spares you a single glance from where she walks only slightly ahead. ”We could. It might be better to avoid them, though.“

You frown. “That won't be good in the long-term.” You dread to think that you'll be on the move for the unforeseeable future. “We'll need supplies. Food.“ The things you have on you now definitely won’t last forever, nor are they the best for a life spent out in the woods.

She snorts. ”We have food all around us.“ She gestures out at the forest, where the bumbling of life surrounds you. It exacerbates something queasy in your stomach. Can I kill something? you wonder, the thought striking you like a bolt of lightning. Wring a little creature's neck, or spear something into its soft, plush body? Can you bear to get your hands coated in warm, ruby blood if it meant your survival? You stare down at your open palms, then curl them into fists that you tuck away at your sides. You're not sure.

”I don't know how to hunt,“ you say eventually, forcing your voice not to crack. “At least… I don’t think I do.”

“Good thing you’ve got me, then,” Vanessa remarks in an odd, stifled manner. You’re reminded of the sharp dagger she has, tucked away in her pocket.

“I still think we should check out another village.” You’re slowly getting tired of being lost among the trees with no particular direction guiding you forward. You need a goal of sorts. “Maybe someone will know something we don’t?” Information is key at the moment.

“Or maybe those fucking Er o Aiwenor will have gotten there before us,” Vanessa retaliates sharply. You blink at the strange words (a language you do not have the knowledge of, yet seems familiar, somehow), but it’s not all too difficult to understand what she’s talking about—or rather, who. You don’t question her. “They’ve gone to Priras'yi, they’ve gone to Nash'yi. There’s a pattern.”

“We don’t know that they’ve been to Priras'yi for sure,” you argue, even though you know the likelihood is rather high. It only makes sense logically that they have. Vanessa gives you an exasperated look that tells you she knows you don’t quite believe in your own words. You bite at your lip. “Maybe we’ll be able to beat them to the next one.”

“Terrible idea.” Vanessa scoffs. “Do you know how fast they have to be to move from Priras'yi to Nash'yi in like— half a day?”

Fair point. “Okay, look. We can at least find a proper road to traverse,” you grumble as you stumble over branches and jagged rocks that stick out from the ground. “And see if we can scope out a village from afar. We don’t know where E Dribh Edhur are going, precisely, so I think we can approach the next village to see if they were impacted or not.”

She growls softly under her breath, then lets out a loud sigh. You are nothing but persistent. “Fine! Fine, we’ll go to the closest village. But if I see any smoke or ethereal glowing coming from it, I’m gone.” She shoves past a few branches. “And we’ll walk at the side of the road, near the trees.” You can work with that. It’ll be worth it in the end, you think, to at least glean some understanding of what may be going on. It’ll help you both judge your next actions.

Vanessa leads you throughout the forest until the trees start to get more spaced out and you break free onto a little road. The dirt is compact with all who have traversed atop it before and you glance down both ways to find it empty. Desolate. Not a soul in sight.

It’s a bit… foreboding. You grip tightly onto the strap of your bag.

Vanessa doesn’t seem too bothered by the empty eeriness of the path—though if she is, she hides it well. She stays close to the treeline until it widens out into a large field that surrounds the both of you on your left and right. It allows you to look around better—out at the tall, swaying grass with bright flowers interspersed between them. You’re able to look up at the widening sky, the ashy clouds that drift leisurely across its burnt mandarin gradient. You glance up at the eclipse, then focus your attention on the road ahead. At least you’ll be able to see anything easily from afar as you walk through the field. Though… that likely means they can see you easily as well.

It’s a while before the field transitions back into a woodsy area, and as you make your way around a wide goose neck in the path, Vanessa suddenly grabs your wrist and tugs you over to the shade beneath a tree.

“Look.” She points up ahead as she hides herself behind a shrub. You follow her finger and notice a few cottages along the path, leading up into a small village in the distance. You can’t see much from your current position, but you can at least see a few buildings along the village’s outer perimeter.

You observe it for a few moments, ears perked to listen for any signs of E Dribh Edhur. There isn’t any smoke from what you can see. No screaming either. Maybe… maybe it’s safe.

“Should we go?” you ask Vanessa in a quiet voice. “It doesn’t seem like E Dribh Edhur have been there.”

She tenses her legs and seems to eye the village with a critical eye. You press further. “Come on, I know you know we need information. We can’t be running around blindly like this.” From what you’ve seen of her, Vanessa seems like a logical person. You wonder what’s swaying her judgment.

“Okay, okay. Carefully,” she whispers back to you, then creeps out of the treeline to make her way down the road. You follow after her, dirt changing into cobbled stone the closer you get to the village. You’re on high alert, ready to run at the slightest of signs. But nothing really happens. There’s only this quiet in the air that is broken by the sounds of your shoes on the brick beneath you.

As you and Vanessa enter the village, you begin to hear a gentle murmur of conversation around you. And the deeper you get, the more you are greeted by the disheveled aftermath of a chaos you had only briefly touched not too long ago.

Buildings lay in ruins, stone infrastructure crumbled in pieces along the pathways. Bodies line the streets, some covered with red-tinged sheets and others still laying bare in piles organized by those who are still alive. You try not to stare as you watch two haggard-looking people carry a body past you and Vanessa—a strange hole burnt through its chest in a way that makes you grip at the pendant over your heart. Nothing human could have done that.

There’s a scorched, ashy scent in the air from a fire that had ravaged another section of the village. You exchange tense glances with Vanessa. No one pays you much attention, too caught up in the grief they’ve found themselves drowning in.

“They were here,” you say quietly, trying your best to ignore a woman as she wails over the chest of a man propped against one of the still-standing buildings. Death lingers heavily in the air. You’re lucky you’d arrived after E Dribh Edhur had and not before. Lucky, you think bitterly as you pick carefully by destroyed homes and toppled fruit carts.

Vanessa looks around tensely, ready to leave now that you've both seen the village’s ruins. You are not going to find many supplies here, but you can at least ask one of the survivors for information.

Before you can, however, Vanessa speaks up in a low mutter. “They didn’t kill everyone.”

You nod as your gaze moves around. “No, they didn’t.” Indeed, there are more people left in the aftermath than you’d thought there would be. You can see a few children being swept away into an intact cottage, their eyes covered by their parents’ hands. An old couple picks at the ruins of their little garden. A young man carries a woman over to a pile of flour bags stacked against a wall, setting her on top of them so she can sit. It is, admittedly, not what you had expected. ‘Kill us all’, huh? you think to yourself critically. Clearly not.

“Is it… random?” you ask her, uncertain. Vanessa’s jaw only clenches tight before she grabs your wrist and starts pulling you along quickly. You stumble a bit at her sudden movement, but follow her quietly. She does not lead you back to the woods. Instead, she walks around the village, her eyes darting from all the bodies on the ground to all the people who still wander about. She takes extra care to make sure she passes by everyone, purposely seeking them out, in a way. You wonder what she’s searching for. She doesn’t say anything to you. You’re lucky the village is a rather small one, for she takes you about the entire thing before pulling you into an empty alleyway.

She glances side to side—at the empty entryway to the piles of garbage bags crowded in a dark corner—then leans in to whisper to you. “None of the people who’ve died were Ingóle Gul.”

You blink at her in confusion. There it was again—that familiar language she seems to know. “Were what now?”

She gives you an odd look and repeats herself as she pulls away. “Ingóle Gul? Ones who partake in magic?” She looks like she wants to say something else, but you beat her to the punch, stunned by her previous words once you’ve processed them.

“Wh— You can tell? How?”

She blinks back at you. “You mean you can’t?”

“What are you talking about?” You stare at her. She stares at you. Confusion doesn’t even begin to cover it.

“...Ingóle Gul can sense other Ingóle Gul,” she begins slowly in a way that makes you realize what she’s telling you must be something you should know. But you don’t. For obvious reasons. She looks concerned when she continues. “Even if one has died, magic tends to linger in their bodies longer than their souls do.” She pauses, then in a quiet, quiet voice asks “You can’t sense them?”

Sense them? You shake your head then pause once you realize what she’s implying. For some reason, you think back to the little book you’d found in your closet, with words written in a language you’re unable to decipher within its well-worn pages. Heart in your throat, you find yourself hesitantly saying “...Am I supposed to?”

“You don’t remember.” She seems frustrated, not that you can blame her. She glances around the both of you once more to ensure you’re alone, then leans back in closer to you. “Can you sense your magic?” she whispers hurriedly. You hadn’t realized earlier, but she has a hand on your shoulder, her grip tightening minutely upon it. You hardly notice.

You have magic. The revelation washes over you like a tide rising to meet the shore. Somehow, you’re not as surprised as you’d thought you’d be. Maybe you’d always known. You suppose that answers some of your questions—gives you a piece of yourself that settles itself easily in your mind. And you concentrate for a few minutes in an attempt to sense something, anything. But you… don’t exactly know what you’re looking for. You feel… like you. Normal. You shake your head. “No, not really.” You’re not sure if you should feel disappointed.

Vanessa seems stupefied, her eyebrows dipping low over her eyes. “This makes no sense. Magic is an innate part of us; you should be able to sense it.” She frowns deeper. “I can sense the magic in you, so it’s… definitely there.”

That is certainly something to ruminate on. You try again to reach within yourself in an attempt to feel what she’s sensing but you don’t… know. If anything, you feel rather silly. It’s a bit frustrating. You wonder if it is somehow related to your lack of memory.

“Does this mean we’re… safe?” you eventually hesitantly ask, thinking back to the body you’d seen earlier with the hole burnt through its chest. You try to suppress a shiver from running down your spine at the thought of that happening to you. “If they’re not killing Ingóle Gul?” The words seem to tingle on your tongue.

Vanessa hums thoughtfully and releases your shoulder so she can cross her arms over her chest. “I’m… not sure. We don’t know if this applies to other villages, after all.”

“Why would they not do the same thing in other places, though?” you ask doubtfully. Your gaze flicks to the entryway of the alley, where a few people had suddenly passed by, then flicks back to look Vanessa in the eyes. “That doesn’t make sense consistency-wise.”

“Do I look like I know the minds of higher beings?” Vanessa retorts bluntly and you raise your hands up as though in surrender at her tone. She sighs. “Sorry. This is all just so… confusing.”

You offer her a sympathetic look. It really is. You feel like you’re lost within something that is beyond your understanding—your comprehension. You don’t have the full picture, and it’s driving you insane, bit by bit. You rub your chin, thinking about what you both can do now. You waver for only a split second before you say “What if we… went back to Nash'yi?” At her raised eyebrows you rushedly elaborate. “I mean… you’ll be able to sense if the same thing applies there. And… if Nash'yi is anything like this village’s aftermath, then I don’t see why we shouldn’t go back.” Your logic seems sound in your mind.

Vanessa’s lips twist as she chews at them. She seems oddly unsure. Reluctant, almost. “I don’t know…”

“Come on, what are the odds of E Dribh Edhur visiting the same place twice?” you ask her in an attempt to get her to agree. “I know we both would rather be in our own homes anyways,” you add on. “At least now we know E Dribh Edhur aren’t killing everyone like we’d thought.”

Vanessa looks at you, jaw moving slightly like she wants to argue. Her foot taps incessantly against the ground. Then she glances up at the sky peeking through the space between the two buildings you both hide within and lets out a long suffering sigh. She grabs your wrist and starts tugging you back out of the alley. “Okay. Fine. Let’s get out of here.”

And back you both go, ducking your heads down as you retrace your steps and exit through the blighted village from where you’d entered not too long ago.

It’s strange, you ponder, retracing your steps to go back to Nash’yi. It makes you feel as though the last few days (Days? you think uncertainly to yourself. You don’t know.) had been a waste. But well… what else were you supposed to do with so many unknown factors lying about? No shame in going back. At least the terrain is familiar now. It brings some semblance of ease in your journey.

Vanessa has questions for you, you know she does. You’re surprised, though, when she stays quiet during your trek through wide fields and bumbling forests. When you glance at her face, she looks like she’s lost deep in thought. Contemplating things you can only vaguely guess at. And you decide not to bother her—at least not yet. You have your own questions and you’re itching to have them answered.

Eventually, as you both take a quick break by a little river to refill your waterskins, you muster up the courage to ask her one of your questions. You tuck your waterskin back into your bag and pull out the little journal you’d found in your closet. You take a moment to just… look at it. Then, you extend it to Vanessa and clear your throat. She turns towards you. “Does this… seem familiar to you?”

Her green eyes dart down to the book in your hand before she takes it and runs her fingertips across the worn cover. “This is your Lúthparv,” she murmurs and at the confused look you send her, she clarifies. “Your spellbook, basically. You brought it with you?” Without knowing what it was? goes unsaid.

“It seemed important,” you say quietly, your gaze lingering on it. You think back to the old, shrunken man who’d cursed up at the sky when the eclipse had first occurred and the words he had spoken. You know now why the book had been hidden so carefully in your room. You look back up and make eye contact with Vanessa, who’d been carefully watching you. “Can you understand what’s written in it?”

She hums and flips open the journal, flicking slowly through page after page as her eyes glide across the strange words upon them. “They’re healing spells, mostly,” she eventually says. She glances quickly up at you—so fast you would have missed it if you hadn’t already been looking at her—then back down. “You are”—she pauses and corrects herself—“were, a healer. It was your way of…” she trails off and swallows thickly, avoiding your gaze. “...helping others.”

You have the feeling she was going to say something else entirely, but you don’t push it. You gesticulate at her to pass back over your journal and she complies. Opening it up to a random page, you look down thoughtfully at the practiced scrawl of your handwriting. Healing, huh? You tuck that information away for later. “Do you know any spells? Can you show me?” You are curious, you have to admit.

Vanessa frowns slightly for a short moment and looks down at her palms. You wait patiently as she seems to contemplate something, taking the time to slip your journal back into your bag. Then—just as you’re about to tell her to forget about it—she lifts up her hand and spins two of her fingers in a clockwise direction, murmuring something under her breath that you’re unable to make out. But you don’t ruminate on it long, for a bright light starts to glow in the air—coalescing and getting brighter until a small butterfly appears above Vanessa’s hand.

You watch it, enraptured by the iridescent glow of its wings. It’s made of light, you realize, after watching it flap around in circles in the air above both of your heads. Its brightness stands out in the dark, bloody shade of your surroundings. It’s—oddly captivating. You feel like you can follow it around for hours.

“Wow,” you breathe out softly. Wonder dances across your eyes. “Can anything be done with magic?”

Vanessa shrugs, one of her hands tightening on the strap of her bag as she stares up at the butterfly with an unreadable look. “With the right practice, sure, though there are limits.” She hesitates, then, and you see out of the corner of your eye as her head moves from observing the butterfly to looking right at you. A quick glance is all you spare her. And when she speaks, her voice is… tense, almost. “You’re certain that you don’t feel your magic? Have you tried using it?”

“There’s nothing.” You shake your head. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

Vanessa goes quiet, and you look over at her to see her watching the butterfly once more. Thoughtful. “Magic doesn’t necessarily need spells to make something happen,” she starts. One of her hands reaches up, and the butterfly lands gently on the tips of her fingers. She pulls her hand down to look at it more directly. “You should be able to feel it inside you if you focus. It’s like a…” she trails off as she searches for the right words. “Like a— thrumming, almost. Under your skin. A tingling.”

You consider her explanation and find yourself looking down at your hands. You flex your fingers slightly. A thrumming? You close your eyes and attempt to search once more for this feeling. But, like in the village you’d just left, you don’t feel anything. You’re just… quiet. It’s a disheartening thought.

“I can’t feel a thing,” you tell her soon after with a sigh. Your hands drop back down to shove themselves into your pockets in an almost sullen manner.

“Hm.” Vanessa seems to eye you. “Strange. Maybe it’ll come back to you with your memory?”

You shrug and kick aimlessly at a loose rock near your foot. It rolls down into the river, landing with a small splash. “That’s what I thought. Who knows at this point.” Everything is so… uncertain. You’re starting to loathe it.

Vanessa goes quiet, shifting her gaze back to the little butterfly sitting on her fingers. She seems to hesitate before saying, in a quiet voice, “Listen, I know it’s… frustrating, not being able to remember.” She pauses, as though searching for the right words. “Like there’s this— this feeling you have, deep down, that’s so familiar yet…” She makes an odd face, voice lowering and taking on a defeated tone as she murmurs “…you just don’t know why it’s there.”

Vanessa has a faraway look on her face that makes your guts twist into knots. How does she… know? You hang onto her every word—a sinking realization manifesting itself as you consider the implications. You want to ask her so many things, get her to spill parts of herself a past version of you had known about, maybe.

But then she looks at you and there’s a devastation to her eyes that steals your breath away. You swallow down the questions that had been forming on the tip of your tongue and nod. “Yeah… yeah. You’re right. Thank you for that.”

And maybe it was something you said, but she looks surprised for a split second. You wonder why. She takes another short moment to observe you, then flicks her fingers with the butterfly perched on them in a little swirl. It disappears with a flash of light. You’re sad to see it go. Vanessa hikes her bag further up her shoulders and gestures at you to follow her once more. “Come on, let’s keep moving. Try not to think about it too much.” If only it was that easy, you sigh to yourself.

Later—as you both settle down for a few hours of sleep—you find yourself slowly flipping through your journal. Your Lúthparv, you remember Vanessa calling it, foreign against your tongue. You’re leaning up against the trunk of a tree with Vanessa off to the side somewhere, curled up into a ball, though you don’t think she’s really asleep. Overhead, leaves rustle along to the movements of a cool breeze, making you tuck yourself farther into the jacket you’d brought with you.

You flip to another page. Everything you’ve seen so far within the book is written in that other language. There’s absolutely nothing you understand. You’d been hoping to see small notes or passages in a language you can read, but there’s nothing. Only those healing spells, you’re presuming. Still, they’re interesting to look at and they make you ponder upon your history as a healer. It feels right, though. You think back to that book on medical practices you’d found in your cottage what feels like ages ago. Yes, it makes sense.

As you make your way deeper into the journal, you notice the slow appearance of little drawings. Sketches of plants with labels and notes next to them. Some of them are colored, but others are rough linearts that range from taking up half a page to a quarter or less. You tilt your head as you observe one of the drawings: an inked depiction of a tendrilous plant. You wonder about its significance, especially within your spellbook. Important flora, maybe? You flip to another page.

The drawing that greets you is of a mandarin-colored flower—bright and vivid against the pages of your book. Its petals surround a sunshine yellow face that makes you pause for a moment to blink slowly at it. There’s this strange feeling in your chest. It almost reminds you of—

“What’re you doing all crouched in the dirt, Nettsya?”

You glanced up with a grin, waving your quill in the air as you used it to prod at a little cerulean flower before you. Its petals curled upwards, basking in the little sunlight that snaked its way through the canopy overhead. “Cataloging! This forest has loads of magical plants, you know.”

He hummed, his shadow encasing you as he leaned over your form. “And which one is this?” A golden finger pointed down at the flower you were currently perched in front of.

You tapped a finger against the open page of your Lúthparv, propped on top of the hand not holding onto your quill. “This is a Lhun flower. It’s useful for treating infections. Small thing, isn’t it? One pinch of a salve made from this can last for weeks!”

“It’s certainly incredible how much diversity this land has!” he replied cheerfully. You nodded and recapped your little ink bottle so you could store it back in your bag with your quill. Now that he was here, you likely wouldn’t be getting much work done. He stepped away from you so you could stand and look up at him properly without straining your neck. “Are you planning to gather any?”

You shook your head and closed your Lúthparv with a small snap. “Not today, I’m afraid. I’m just scoping out this area. I hadn’t gotten the chance beforehand.” You waved your free hand at him as an indication to follow you as you picked your way through the trees and shrubs once more. “I’m trying to decide which ones to include in my garden. It’ll be handy to have them nearby in case I need to make some ointments.”

“I see!” Small twigs snapped under the weight of your steps. You had to glance behind you every once in a while to check if he was still trailing after you; his footsteps were nearly silent against the forest floor. “What about that flower over there?”

You looked in the direction he was gesturing at and saw a small, mandarin flower poking out from between two roots of an oak tree. It was quite hidden; you wondered how he was able to see it. You changed direction to walk over to it and crouched down, head tilted to the left in thought.

“I recognize this one,” you murmured as you reached out a hand to gently brush against the silken petals of the flower. He stepped up next to you and bent down at your side, the warmth of his body brushing tenderly against your form. You opened up your Lúthparv and flipped through it until you landed on a familiar page. You tapped it. “Aha! This is a Naru flower. Its magical properties allow it to accelerate the healing process of any wound. Very useful.”

“Amazing,” he breathed and you glanced at him with a grin as you shut your Lúthparv once more.

“It is! Actually…” you trailed off as you looked at the yellow head of the Naru flower, then back at your companion—his bright, sunny face. “It reminds me of you!”

“Little old me??” He pointed a hand at his chest in question and you nodded, leaning forward slightly so you could carefully pick the flower. You held it up so that it was level with his face. He gave you a curious look and although you could not make out the pupils of his eyes, you could tell he was looking right at you.

“Yes! You both have the same color for your faces!” You snickered and swirled the flower’s stem between your fingers so it rotated about in a circle. Then you bowed your head a little and presented the flower to him all dramatic-like. “For you, my liege.”

He cocked his head as he looked at the flower. Then carefully, oh so carefully, he pinched at its stem and held it up in front of him, holding it like it was something precious. Something he could easily crush between his fingers if he was not cautious enough. He seemed to contemplate the flower for a moment, then turned his burning gaze back to you and extended out his hand.

Delicately—like he was brushing away a strand of hair from your face—he tucked the flower behind your ear. His hand lingered at the side of your face, and you felt as though all the air in your lungs had been sucked away—fleeing from your lips in a single, swift movement. Your gaze was frozen upon his own, a flush crawling its way up your neck.

His eyes upturned in delight, hand falling away from your face. “I think it suits you much better, Nettsya!”

You blinked at him in an owlish manner, then reeled yourself in, looking away embarrassedly as you shoved him lightly on the shoulder. “You little—”

Something slaps itself over your mouth.

You jolt from your stupor, rapidly blinking yourself into awareness as you stare with wide eyes in front of you. Vanessa has her palm clamped over your mouth, her index finger of her other hand pressed against her lips as she crouches before you. There’s a moment where you will your heart rate to slow down—where you take the time to bring yourself back to awareness—before you realize there’s a rustling sound somewhere in the near distance. Getting closer and closer.

You immediately tense, hands gripping tightly onto the open edges of your journal as your eyes dart around to try to locate the source of the rustling. The footsteps. You can’t make out much with the shade of the trees and the bloody light of the eclipse, but you try.

Vanessa lowers the hand pressing against her mouth to slowly take out her dagger from her pocket. Its blade gleams sharply in the dappled light through the trees’ canopies. She releases your mouth and slowly stands, positioning herself in a defensive stance with her front facing the direction of the footsteps and her back towards you. Perspiration gleams at the back of her neck. There’s a strange wetness along your cheeks that you notice when a small breeze drifts lazily by, and you reach up to hurriedly wipe at your eyes.

Louder and louder and louder, the footsteps approach, and you find yourself praying they will pass by without seeing you or Vanessa until eventually—

Someone steps into sight from between two trees.

Immediately, Vanessa slackens. The movement is so jarring that your eyes dart up to her, wondering what’s wrong. Her sharp, green stare is trained on the man before the two of you, the hand holding onto her dagger lowering slightly. What is she—

“Michael?!” she suddenly blurts out incredulously. The name from her lips makes you snap your eyes back at the man, watching as his own blue eyes widen considerably.

“Vanessa?!” he says, just as surprised. They are locked in a strange stare off, broken only when you finally decide to slowly stand. Michael’s eyes automatically slide from Vanessa to look at you and—

He pales.

He says your name—and the mere fact that he knows it has you freezing in place, heartbeat thumping in your ears. “You— you’re—” he stutters, looking as though he has seen a ghost.

Vanessa casts you a quick look over her shoulder, her eyebrows furrowing, then turns back around so she can stalk over to Michael. You watch as she grabs onto his arm and pulls him closer so she can whisper something to him. And all the while his eyes never leave your form. It’s starting to make you feel a bit uncomfortable. You shift in place and busy yourself with storing your journal back in your bag.

“Nothing at all?” You hear Michael murmur to Vanessa, who gives a terse nod. He looks like he’s deep in thought, one of his hands rubbing lightly at his chin. He frowns. “Shit.”

“I’m guessing we know each other,” you finally speak up, if only to get them to stop whispering about you so blatantly. Michael nods as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants, and it makes you realize he has a book satchel hanging by his waist. Curious.

“We do,” he replies eventually. “Or rather, we did. You really don’t remember anything? Not even how this happened?” You only shake your head at him. His frown deepens.

“Michael,” Vanessa interrupts, a seriousness to her expression that’s familiar to you. He forces his gaze away from you to look at her. “Do you have any idea of what’s going on? What’s happening? Why are Er o Aiwenor roaming the earth?” Her questions make you look at Michael expectantly. Does he know? How? Can he finally give you both some of the answers you’d been desperately searching for?

Michael sighs, his gaze momentarily flicking up at the mandarin sky peeking through the canopies, before he returns it to Vanessa. “It’s K’esyo,” he says quietly. You do not recognize the name, though Vanessa seems to. “He’s gone mad. I tried to stop him but”—he swallows heavily—“he’s gotten too strong. And with Tsoræ missing…” His sentence trails off and he makes no attempt to pick it back up, having moved his gaze to look at you once more. But this time, there’s something in his eyes that makes your breath halt in your lungs. Calculative. Contemplative. Like his mind is racing a mile a minute.

“I…” he begins, then pauses to close his eyes for a short moment. And when he reopens them, there’s a certainty to his gaze that surprises you. “I need you both to trust me,” he suddenly says firmly, looking from you to Vanessa. You… don’t know how to feel about that. How can you trust him when you’ve technically just met him?

She’s quiet when she responds. “You know we do.” We do? The words make his jaw shift as he nods at her, then glances at you. His stare makes you sigh after you mull his request over for a bit.

“I don’t have a choice, do I?” you ask, not without a sense of resignation. You’ve been placed in a precarious position with your memory loss—having to rely on the people who surround you and seem to know you better than you know yourself. It’s… frustrating. Your hands grip at the strap of your bag.

Michael at least has the decency to appear sorry before he wipes the look away to get down to business. “There’s a village a few miles down that way.” He points a thumb behind him, in the direction he’d just come from. “I need you both to get there as fast as you can. If you’re lucky, you’ll beat him to it.”

You’re confused and it seems like you’re not the only one. “But why—” Vanessa starts to ask, only for Michael to tug her closer to him so he can mutter lowly and quickly into her ear. It leaves you standing there awkwardly, unable to make out his words over the sounds of your beating heart and the bumbling of quiet wildlife around you. You’re not quite sure if you like Michael or not.

He releases Vanessa after a few moments. She stares up at him, lips drawn in a tense line before she flicks her gaze at you for a split second. You stare wide eyed at her, hoping she’ll give some sort of indication as to what she’s been told. But she only looks back at Michael and gives him a short nod.

“Okay,” she breathes unhappily, tugging herself out of his hold. It makes you falter. What about your plan to go back to Nash’yi? “Fine. I’ll… trust your judgment.”

He exhales in relief and tousles his brown hair. “Thank you.” Somehow he looks even older than he was a few minutes ago.

“Where are you even heading to?” Vanessa then asks curiously—a way, perhaps, to change the topic. She glances at you again, but you’re too busy frowning down at your shoes to really notice. One of your hands reaches up to grip at your pendant inside your shirt. Secrets secrets secrets, what are they not telling you?

Michael’s jaw clenches minutely. His head jerks from side to side—as though checking to see if you were all truly alone—then he lowers his voice some. “I’m going to Bharv’yi.” Your head snaps up to look at him. Bharv’yi… Vanessa had told you about it, hadn’t she? Your birth village. Abandoned due to a plague. Why is he going there? You peek at Vanessa and see that her lips have thinned, fist clenching around the dagger she’s still holding in her hand.

“It’s Mripitru isn’t it?” she demands in a voice with the barest hint of a tremor in it. Mripitru? An odd shiver scuttles down your spine at the name, like spiders crawling along it. Michael doesn’t say anything, but his silence is as good of an admission as any. “I knew it. He’s getting stronger, isn’t he?”

As though on cue, a faint rumble echoes through the dirt beneath your feet. You’re able to feel it more than the previous whispers you’d noticed when you were still enough or resting directly upon the ground. A thick silence envelopes the three of you, broken only when Michael lets out a long suffering sigh.

“I don’t want you to worry about that,” he says wearily, avoiding eye contact with Vanessa for a minute before he finally looks back at her color drained face. His voice gets stronger—firmer—when he adds “Let me and the others deal with him. You just… go to the village. Please.”

For a long, long time, Vanessa glowers at him. You can tell she does not approve of his actions, but there’s something holding her back from snapping at him. You’re having trouble reading what that may be. Your eyes linger on the rigidity of her shoulders to the white-knuckled grip on her dagger.

“Okay,” she eventually grits out, then abruptly spins on her heel to start marching away into the forest. You stare at her receding back, befuddled. Wait— she’s leaving already? Now? You didn’t even have the chance to ask Michael any questions, and it’s clear he has answers—

But when you turn to look back at him, he’s already disappeared beyond the surrounding trees, taking your sinking heart with him. Shit, shit, why do you feel so… alienated? It’s not a good feeling. You bite at the inside of your cheek and decide to rush after Vanessa.

“What did he tell you?” you ask her breathlessly once you’ve jogged to catch up with her long strides. There’s a tense bubbling in your gut that only exacerbates when she shakes her head. She’s stashed her dagger back into her pocket, you notice.

“I’ll tell you later,” she says vaguely, keeping her attention focused ahead of her. It does nothing to quell the foreboding feeling crawling in your gut.

It doesn’t take you both long to stumble across the village Michael had been talking about.

Vanessa leads you through desolate streets, your breathing bated as your steps echo against the cobbled paths. It’s very… quiet. There’s not a soul in sight and it makes your skin crawl with unease. Why would he send you to a lifeless village? Your eyes drift from the dark windows of the gray brick and wooden houses lining the streets, to the empty stalls interspersed in front of them.

“I don’t get it,” you whisper to Vaneesa as you both creep your way down the village paths. “Why did Michael want us to come here? There’s nothing here.”

Vanessa shrugs, but you can see the way her green eyes glint as they dart from side to side—analyzing everything around her. You strain your ears in an attempt to hear something, anything, but there’s only the distant rustling of leaves or quiet whisper of the wind. You frown and glance up at the eclipse standing stark in the clear sky, present still after all this time.

Like this, you continue through the village until you pass through a grimy alleyway and emerge at its other end. Suddenly, you’re standing at the back of a crowd—that had been so quiet and still that you almost startle in surprise at the appearance of people. It’s quite a large crowd, you note, as you look around and exchange unsure glances with Vanessa.

“What’s going on?” you murmur to Vanessa, leaning close to her ear to avoid disrupting the awful silence encompassing the area. She only clenches her jaw and gently grabs your wrist to tug you around the back of the crowd. Looking for a better spot to see what’s going on, you realize. No one pays you any attention.

It’s not until you both manage to nestle yourself in a small opening in the crowd that you realize why they’re here.

Vanessa’s grip on your wrist tightens abruptly. “Shit,” she whispers just barely over the mounting horror invading your body. “It’s a fucking lynching.”

There, in the center of the crowd, is a stake on top of a wooden platform. There are two people tying up an unconscious woman to it, bounding her in thick rope as her head lolls around her neck. There’s some strange rune on her forehead, painted in black ink. And now that you’re so close to the crowd, you can hear the occasional whisper or murmur amongst one or two people, but they are all mostly just… watching.

“We shouldn’t be here,” you whisper hoarsely, your throat dry as though it has been lined with cotton. You can’t tear your gaze away from the unconscious woman’s face, and there’s this ill feeling bubbling to life in the pit of your stomach. Vanessa swallows and opens her mouth to say something when she is interrupted by a loud voice.

“We are all gathered here today,” a middle-aged man begins as he stands next to the stake. You hadn’t even noticed him stepping up onto the platform. There is a torch in one of his hands, unlit, and he carries a practiced air to him that tells you this is not his first time doing this. “Because a mage has been discovered in our midsts!”

The crowd starts to mumble. You look wide eyed at Vanessa who growls lowly under her breath. The man sneers as he reaches his hand out and slaps the woman across the face unforgivingly. She jerks awake, blinking groggily at first, then rapidly to take in her surroundings once she’s woken herself up more. She tugs against her restraints, looking down at her body only for her head to snap up, eyes suddenly wide like disks.

“Wait!” she screams, and the sound is so desperate that you feel something tug at your heart. “Wait! Please—”

“Mage!” the man booms over her screams. “For your crimes against humanity, and your willingness to partake in sacrilegious acts concerning magic—”

“No! Please! I’m— I’m not a mage!” she pleads, and you can see the tears starting to stream down her face. She tugs viciously—hopelessly—against her bonds.

The man’s voice grows louder, trying to drown out her own. “You are to be burnt! At the stake!”

“Please!” the woman screams, loud enough that her voice cracks like a piece of glass. Your hand clenches around your pendant, and there’s this tiny little voice inside your head yelling at you to do something. But Vanessa’s hand has moved from your wrist to your shoulder, and you look at her despairingly, everything you want to say reflected in your eyes.

She only shakes her head. “We can’t.”

“But—” you start, only to cut yourself off when she gives another sharp shake of her head and pointedly looks around you. A few people closeby are starting to give you sidelong glances. You quiet down once you realize. Attracting attention now would be a detriment.

“We can’t,” she repeats herself to you quietly. You can see the way she chews at her lip, feel the way her grip tightens on your shoulder. And you know she wants to help just as much as you do. But she can’t. And neither can you. It would be a death sentence.

The realization is as horrifying as it is heartbreaking.

You close your eyes for a moment as though to ground yourself—as much as you can. To resign yourself to the helplessness you will have to bear standing here. And when you open your eyes to look back at the woman, you find that she’s staring right at you.

“Please,” she begs, eyes clouded with tears. You can’t force your gaze from hers, no matter how much you want to. She then looks somewhere to your side—at Vanessa. Her voice breaks. “I don’t want to die.” It’s said like an admission. A prayer.

“May Kunsyo have mercy on your soul,” the man says gravely as he lights the torch. Your breath catches in your throat at the sight. And it makes you feel… sick. Nauseated. Your head hurts. But before he can set the stake on fire, there’s a bright, blinding flash of light.

It shoots through the air, stark against the sky, and makes you lift a hand up to shield your eyes. There’s a choked sound, and suddenly everything goes quiet. Frighteningly so. You slowly lower your hand after a moment and stare up in shock at the platform.

There’s a hole burnt straight through the chest of the man holding the torch—sizzling bright red at the edges. He’s dead right where he stands, ruby blood spilling from his lips. Dark. Terrifying.

And as he finally falls over, torch dropping from his hand, all hell breaks loose.

Screams erupt around you. More flashes of light blitz through the air, striking people down where they stand or run. They drop like flies and there is no time to grieve, only panic panic panic. Fires burst to life along some of the houses to your right. Smoke starts to drift into the air. A faint rumble resonates through the earth.

But you— you are frozen in place. Watching as the fire from the fallen torch spreads rapidly to encompass the entire platform and the stake. Listening as the accused woman shrieks and cries with the pain of being burned alive. And you can’t breathe.

You can’t breathe.

You’re burning up inside, a heat spreading through your veins and lingering in your skin. There are flames licking at your legs, your arms, your chest. There is ash in your lungs and fire dancing across the corneas of your eyes.

You can’t breathe.

There’s a vicious pounding in your head—like the beat of a drum, heavy and incessant. Your head hurts. Your head hurts. Your head hurts hurts hurts. Sound has distorted itself, becoming muddled and thick within your ears. Your heartbeat is the only thing you can hear. There’s a coldness spreading throughout your limbs and—

You were standing in the middle of a village.

It was dark—your surroundings lit only by the dewy glow of the full moon. You breathed laboriously, pulling in each breath deeply and exhaling them heavily through your nose. In and out. In… and out. In… and… out… A high pitched ringing sound echoed in your ears. Persistent and all encompassing. Your head twitched to the side slightly, pupils dilating.

There was something thick running down your fingers, dripping onto the dirt beneath your feet and sinking into it. You blinked slowly and looked down at your hand—coated in a dark, dark liquid. A heavy, metallic scent lingered in the air. You breathed in. You breathed out. You couldn’t feel a thing.

Something wet was splattered across your face. You reached up to touch at it, and when your fingers drew back there was a splotch of ruby on their fingertips. You licked at your lips—chapped and cracked. And in the back of your mind, there was this voice. Faint and insistent. But you pushed it away, banished it beyond your consciousness, though it kept coming back. Again and again and again. You growled lowly under your breath.

Your eyes slowly glanced about, eyes burning with the slightest of motions. There were dark lumps scattered around you. Encased in the shadows of the houses that lined the path you were on. They were motionless—uneven. You stared at a puddle that leaked out from underneath one of them—obsidian in the moon’s lighting.

That voice got stronger. Your arm jerked out, your fingers curled into claws. Your eyes gleamed and a wide smile stretched unnaturally across your face. A laugh lingered on your tongue, hysterical.

Someone took in a sharp breath behind you.

Immediately your head snapped around. And all the breath was sucked from your body at the sight of a frail girl. Green eyes stared widely at you from behind a curtain of blond hair. They flicked to the lumps around you, then at your hand, and finally landed on your face. She seemed to pale.

You reeled yourself in, banishing the voice once more and locking it up in a box. Temporarily, at least. Time, you just needed time. Slowly, you turned around and held up your hands as though in surrender.

“It’s okay,” you rasped out in a voice you did not recognize, yet was certainly your own. You knew it was. “They’re gone now. They won’t hurt anyone ever again.”

“You…” she spoke up in a teeny, tiny voice. She swallowed thickly and wrung her hands together. Again her eyes lingered on the sight behind you. “You—”

“There was no other choice,” you cut across her so she wouldn’t have to say it out loud. Make it even more concrete. The high pitched ringing continued on. “I have to leave now.”

“Leave?” she whispered, looking even more frightened than she had before. She stepped forward, then stopped when you took a matching step back to maintain the safe distance between the two of you. “But… will you be… okay?”

“I’ll be fine. Listen to me,” your voice lowered, commanding her attention to emphasize the seriousness of the situation. “Run from this place.” Her eyes widened, and you poured every ounce of urgency into your voice as you said “Run and never come back.”

“But what about—” she started, but you shook your head—maybe a bit too viciously than you had intended.

“Don’t worry about me,” you told her, legs tensing as you turned around to face the open path before you. The moon loomed overhead, a silent watcher. “I’ll figure things out. Just leave.” You peeked at her over your shoulder, a finality to your tone as you felt the voice return once more, crowding into your mind. Whispering in your head. You closed your eyes and forced yourself to focus. You were in control. “There is nothing for us here anymore.”

And before she could utter another word, you took off, a plume of dust left in your wake as you let your legs guide you out of the village and—

Something yanks at your wrist and you feel yourself get snapped out of your stupor and torn away from the sight of the stake before you—forced into motion with legs that feel heavier than you’re used to. But still, you take step after step after step. And you use all the strength in your body to pull the trembling pieces of yourself together.

You blink into a hazy awareness and it’s like an implosion of sound in your ears. Vanessa’s shouting something at you as she pulls you through the crowd of panicked people. Buildings burst into flames and crumble before your eyes with a devastating roar. There is smoke and dust and debris in the air—clinging to the wetness on your cheeks. A beam of white light darts past you and strikes a man running somewhere behind you. There’s no time to think, only run. You are not safe—not in this chaos.

Someone collides into your shoulder and nearly makes you fall over. But Vanessa holds on tight and guides you quickly around a corner. You shake your head in an attempt to clear the fog in your mind—to maybe vanish the heavy thumping within it. And that’s when you hear it.

A sudden, sharp cracking sound followed by the groan of collapsing wood.

And you have just enough time to look up at the crumbling building at your side before you gasp and abruptly shove Vanessa out of the way.

Something heavy slams into your body. You fall forward with a cry and feel the weight of what feels like the world land on top of you. Your arms had instinctively darted out in an attempt to catch yourself, but you still hit the ground hard enough that it shocks you. Debris crumples over you, dust erupting into the air that you accidentally inhale.

Everything hurts.

It is so, so dark.

Your ears ring with a high pitched sound, your vision murky as it swims before you. There’s something compressing your chest, making it difficult to breathe. You inhale slowly, carefully. You exhale, wheezing on the tailend of the breath. It’s hot. You’re going to die here. Your cheek presses against something cool—the ground, you realize after a minute. You’re going to die here.

Distantly, you can hear Vanessa shout your name. You haven’t got the strength to reply, a sharp, burning pain in your left leg getting stronger and stronger the longer you lay there. You close your eyes for a moment—just a short moment, really—and when you reopen them, you see Vanessa scrambling over you. Burnt mandarin light peeks through the debris still covering you.

“Shit,” she curses, hands frantically tossing away pieces of wood and brick. Her voice sounds murky—like she’s underwater. Her lips tremble. “Shit, shit, shit. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

You can’t even say anything, the burning pain you’re feeling in your leg too much to deal with. You’re dying, you must be. Your head hurts so much. Vanessa continues to curse and mumble to herself as she painstakingly clears the rubble around your upper body, leaving a thick, wooden beam pinning your legs to the ground.

You have just enough strength to prop yourself up on your elbows. It makes the world spin around you, causes your arms to shake with the effort. You look hazily to the side as Vanessa huffs and strains to lift the beam from your body. But it’s too heavy. It’s too heavy.

Perspiration lines her skin and yours; it makes grime stick uncomfortably to your skin. She curses and tries to lift the beam again, her teeth gritting together. But she can’t do it. She can’t. The realization makes something cold plunge into your gut. Screams continue to echo around you. You are going to die.

“I can’t— I can’t…” Vanessa pants and looks down at you, trapped. Her hands tremble into fists. Her eyes gleam with unshedded tears. She breathes out shakily and looks up at the tangerine sky. You are able to see the bob of her throat as she swallows heavily. “I.. I can’t…” You want to reassure her—want to tell her… something. Anything. But you can’t. Dust coats the inside of your throat. Another rumble vibrates through the ground.

Vanessa looks back down at you. And then something catches her attention. Her head turns to her right. You watch as her eyes widen and her chest freezes on a sharp inhale. But before you can move to see what she has noticed, she’s already bent down in front of you, resolve plastered across her face.

“I’m sorry,” she says hurriedly—gravely—as her hands fumble with her pockets. You stare up at her in confusion. There’s a furrow to her brow, a hardness to her lips. A sort of hesitance lines her actions. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I have to— Here.”

She takes one of your hands and wraps it around the handle of her dagger. She’s giving it to you, you realize eventually as you stare down at the gleam of its blade. Why is she giving it to you?

Your mouth opens, maybe to ask her what she’s doing, but before you can say a thing, she stands up and casts you one final glance. And then she’s gone, disappearing somewhere to your right. It takes a moment for you to process.

She left you.

The betrayal hits you harder than anything you’ve ever felt before. But there’s no time to despair. Something prickles at the back of your neck—makes your hair stand on end. And for some reason, you look to your left.

Up ahead on the cobbled path you’re on, there’s a tall, dark figure walking in the distance. Getting closer and closer. Fire lines the area around it, casting its elongated shadow upon the ground in front of it. The eclipse looms overhead, stark against the sky. You squint at the figure, trying to make it out beyond all the dust in the air. There’s something… off about it. Something that makes your heart beat quickly in your chest. It seems to suck in the shadows, the darkness, around it. Something intangible and smoky billows out behind it.

As it approaches, you notice that its torso looks strange. It’s very lithe, for one thing, unnaturally so. And there are these strange protrusions from its sides that you soon realize are arms. It has four of them. The upper two have these strange bracelets strapped to their wrists; one a sunshine yellow and the other a cool blue. They glow bright and vivid against the murky air. This is no human.

And when it finally gets close enough, you realize it has two large, glowing eyes. Burnt tangerine in color with small, black pupils. And it’s looking right at you.

Your head hurts. There’s this ache in your chest that feels as though you’re grieving. But you don’t know why, you don’t know why. Something warm and wet runs quickly down the curve of your cheek.

You can’t move. Your head hurts. You are frozen in place, paralyzed by your surmounting fear and the debris crushing your legs. Heat swathes over your body and turns your skin sticky with sweat. You feel dizzy—nauseous—the edges of your vision wavering. The figure eventually stands directly before you, and you are forced to crane your head up up up, just to look at it. There are these triangular attachments around its circular head, varying in color, but that reminds you of a strange flower. And you just know, deep down, what this figure is. This being. Static lines your skin.

You are looking at a god.

He bends down slowly and reaches out a large, clawed hand to pick up something on the ground right in front of you. Your pendant, you realize, which had slipped free of your shirt in your fall. He looks down at it.

His eyes widen, pupils disappearing.

He says something, deep like the bellow of brass, but you don’t hear a thing. Pain, overwhelming and overstimulating, washes throughout you, and the last thing you see before you black out is the curve of a sharp, dangerous smile.

part two

#lftos au #dca x reader #daycare attendant x reader #fnaf sun x reader #sun x reader #dca fanfic #moon x reader #fnaf moon x reader #eclipse x reader #fnaf eclipse x reader #fnaf sundrop x reader #fnaf eclipse x y/n #eclipse x y/n #fnaf moondrop x reader #moon x y/n #sun x y/n #fnaf sun x y/n #shay scribbles daydreams

122 notes · View notes

testingthewatersss · 9 months

Text

Where you left me Trigger warnings for PTSD, mentions of war, torture, flashbacks etc. Bucky Barnes x F Reader Chapter 3 5570 words fluff, angst, comfort. 18+ MDNI

Bucky comes home

Once she’s alone, she really focuses in on her task.

It’s a little after 7pm when Bucky is finally on his way back to his suite. It had taken an extra 2 hours after the meeting had officially ended for him to shake Steve, and Sam, and their overly excited chattering, he’d nodded along for the most part, but had drawn the line at grabbing Y/N and heading to a bar for the night.

He’s tired. He’s more than tired. The nap he’d taken earlier has only worsened how badly his body needs to rest, and although he’d barely managed to force down the sandwhich and protein shake Steve had presented him with for lunch, he had, in fact, forced it down, not that it had done anything to ease the aching in his head.

The pressure behind his eyes is distracting, it’s throbbing, he’s squinting, even though the hall way lights are dimmed in the evenings.

He nearly trips over a cardboard box. That startles him. He mutters a curse and looks around.

Oh, god.

There are at least 7 half collapsed containers.

Despite himself, he panics. The route to his room is normally pristine, he doesn’t like the change, he can’t help but worry that something’s wrong, that maybe Y/N has left- that maybe someone came in and took her-

His door opens without any resistance when he touches it and then his heart stops.

He blinks jaw slack, frozen in position.

There has to be a mistake.

This, isn’t his room. This, is beautiful.

There’s a woven, intricate, piece of art is hanging over the bed, which is now made with plush, cream sheets- There’s a deep navy throw over the edge of it, it’s glowing in the light from the row of candles which are placed across his dresser, which now holds a few trinkets he recognises from Y/N’s apartment.

It smells like baking, like cinnamon and vanilla and home.

He takes a tentative step inside, terrified that he might do something wrong, that he might breathe too heavily and cause everything to melt away.

“Hey, handsome” a familiar voice coos, making his head snap to the right, away from his newly decorate bed- to her, “Long day?”

She’s wearing a soft cotton top, and shorts, her hair is damp and curly, face fresh and smiling.

Bucky Barnes has never felt luckier.

He opens his mouth to reply, but then he sees the rest of the room illuminated behind her silhouette.

His couch is in the same place, but now, instead of glaring white, the carpet beneath it is covered in a huge, pile rug- it’s coloured with areas of soft orange, deep turquoise and pastel pinks that have been woven in to look they paint strokes.

The glass coffee table is gone, replaced by a low, pine surface that looks old.

There’s art on the walls, there’s a framed picture of them both nestled amongst the budding collection of charcoal sketches.

Suddenly, he sees something that makes him tilt his head, a disbelieving chuckle escaping his lips, despite how exhausted and pained he’s been feeling all day.

Next to the edge of the couch, there’s a huge wicker basket; and it’s full, of thick, soft-looking quilts.

They’re different colours and fabrics, he can see the textures shifting in the folds that are escaping the edges of the containers.

“W-what’s that?” he asks, voice totally awed

Y/N follows his train of site, concerned that her plan has back-fired, that he hates the changes she’s made, that she’s offended him and over-stepped.

“This?” she asks, pointing towards the blankets

He nods, silent.

“It’s a basket full of blankets” she tells him, a little uncertainly

He gasps again, before looking at her with an expression so sweet that she can’t help but smile at him.

“Why?” he whispers, not understanding what he could have possibly done to deserve any of this.

“Because” Y/N replies softly, “Nobody is ever going to be cold in here”

Bucky feels his heart swell impossibly in his chest. He’s so overwhelmed that he barely hears the mechanical grind of his arm as it falls lamely by his side.

“Jesus christ, Y/N/N”

“Do you like it?” she asks at last, feeling a little nervous again, “I know it’s a lot, I can always-”

“Do I like it?” he echos, staring at her, now, instead of his new home, “Doll, I’ve- I’ve never seen anythin’ like it- I- I don’t know what I did to deserve this- to, to deserve you- I-”

Her lips are against his before he can finish speaking.

His hands find her waist- he tugs her in to his front, frantically trying to prolong the affection, to show her how much he adores her, how infinitely important she is to him

“Bucky” she purrs, finally breaking away for long enough to nuzzle into his cheek, “You really like it?”

“I love it” he tells her, turning to look around again;

Every time he blinks he notices something new, a new detail, a new object that has appeared during his absence.

“How did you do all this?” he asks when he spins to take in the kitchenette, and it’s new array of appliances, “Y/N/N, it’s been less than 6 hours”

She laughs lightly, padding over to the counters, opening the drawers to show him his new plates, they’re cream, and un-polished, rimmed with gold paint.

Their are matching bowls, and mugs, as well.

And, as Y/N tells him happily, he is now the proud owner of a proper espresso machine.

“I kept the jar of… uh, instant stuff you had, it’s up there” she nods to one of the higher cupboards, “and, I’m afraid the food isn’t arrivin’ until tomorrow, so the fridge is still a pickle only zone”

“The food?” he echos, wide-eyed

Y/N scoffs gently, arm reaching out to stroke his vibranium fingers, where they’re poised against the dark marble unit-

“Yeah, sweetheart, I ordered some groceries for us, but I didn’t think you’d mind a take out tonight?” she pauses, watching him blinking at her with an expression she still can’t quite classify, “I’ll cook for us tomorrow-”

“You don’t have to do that” he tells her, suddenly bursting with the need to let her know that he’s grateful, “This is so much, doll- it’s-you’ve- you’ve already done so much for me- I-”

“Hey” she coos, seeing how he’s quickly becoming flustered, “I know I don’t have to, I know you’re not asking, Buck- don’t worry”

He nods and starts playing with her fingers as she tickles them over his smooth metal palm.

“I… I’m just grateful, Y/N/N” he whispers, feeling the need to divert his gaze, again, “so grateful”

His eyes float over to the corner furthest from the window, to the spot on the floor to wear he’d confessed to sleeping earlier. There’s a huge pillow there now, it’s velvet and plush, and the softest shade of violet.

“Oh, sweetheart” she sighs, really seeing the sudden onset of emotion on his face, “It’s alright, come here”

As soon as her arms open in invitation, he moves into her embrace, he buries his face in her neck and takes what feels awfully like his first proper breath since that morning.

“How was the briefing?” she asks, not even attempting to move away from the hug now that his hands have slipped into her back pockets,

“Long” he mumbles, “Stevie’s over the moon, doll- so is Nat- they- they can’t wait to see ya properly, they wanted to take us out tonight, to, to celebrate-”

“They’ll just have to be patient” she chuckles quietly, kissing his hair, “We’ve got plans tonight”

“We do?” he asks, unsure, still hiding against her front, “What’re we doin?”

He doesn’t want to go out, or do anything other than this. He would, if she were to ask, but he really doesn’t want to have to be around loud noises, or crowds or-

“We’re staying in, orderin’ a pizza, and gettin’ an early night.”

Bucky is so relieved that he can’t help but laugh as he finally draws back a fraction, staring earnestly into her eyes.

“That sounds perfect” he says shakily, “I… I can’t think of anythin’ I’d rather do”

Y/N beams at his response, making him flush pink.

“Why don’t you get changed, sweetheart” she suggests kindly, seeing the tension in his brow, “is your head still botherin’ you?

He’s half way towards his dresser when he hears her,

“I…” he murmurs with a short nod, “I had lunch”

“Maybe you just need to get some proper rest” she says softly, sitting down on a stool by his newly renovated ‘breakfast bar’

“Maybe” he agrees absentmindedly, listening to her ask FRIDAY to place a ridiculously large order from their favourite pizza place.

He opens his draw and finds himself once again awestruck.

The old clothes he’s had since he’d first arrived at the tower are still there, but there are newer additions as well. He’d never gotten round to buying himself anything, he’d taken what he’d been given and been grateful. Steve had gifted him the leather jacket he wears for his birthday, and his combat gear had been updated by SHEILD, but the civilian items he had, were sparse and generic.

Metal fingers furl in the soft wool jumper that’s at the top of the newest pile of tops. It’s a deep teal, it’s so smooth that the sensors in his hand barely prickle at the contact.

He flips through the collection and sees at least 10 sweaters, all different colours, all ridiculously thick and comfortable looking.

“I guessed the sizes” Y/N admits from behind his shoulder, “but I figured you could do with some more layers”

“You shouldn’t have, doll” he murmurs, turning too face her, “you’re spoilin’ me-”

“That’s my job” she whispers, pecking at his cheek, “Plus, you’re always buyin’ me things, ‘bout time I evened it up a little”

He scoffs shyly, averting his eyes back towards the dresser.

“Thank you” he murmurs, too overwhelmed to counter her again.

Y/N takes that as a victory, she gives his arm a gentle stroke from behind, before heading back to the couch, where she curls up under one of their new selection of blankets, with the TV on a low volume, and a cup of real coffee on a coaster within reach.

Bucky dresses slowly, every movement making his eyes narrow with added discomfort.

He wears boxer shorts and one his new, thick, sweaters.

It’s endearing, the way he’s fussing with the hem, like he can’t believe it’s real, that it’s his, and nobody is going to take it from him.

Comfort, is a luxury. It’s something he never takes for granted.

For a long time, it hadn’t been something worth even dreaming about- not that he got to dream often- but now, it’s something he’s surrounded by, even if he chooses to avoid to most of the time.

It’s not always a deliberate act of self-punishment, although, sometimes, that’s exactly what it is. Mostly, it’s because it feels wrong, it feels dangerous, like a trap he’s been caught in before.

But with Y/N, beckoning him over, draped in soft fabric, and offering a warm, non-violent embrace, he can’t bring himself to care.

There isn’t any price, no matter how terrible, that he wouldn’t pay to be allowed to stay exactly where he is.

“I don’t deserve you, doll”

Y/N blinks up as he pads up to where she’s waiting,

“Of course you do, Buck- You deserve the world”

There’s a smile on her face that nearly makes him cry. He’s so grateful that he can hardly bare it.

He slips in on her flank, flesh arm wrapping around her shoulder, so she can rest her head on his chest;

She kicks the blanket she’s using over his body, covering his legs with the warm, knitted material and rubbing her shins against his.

Bucky feels his head loll back at the contact, and it’s only then that he realises all the pillows he’s surrounded by.

There are several, small cushions decorating the previously barren couch. They are varying shades of pastel pinks, and blues, and the two behind his neck feel so soft he finds himself wondering where she managed to find all these so quickly.

“I ordered it all this mornin’” Y/N tells him calmly, eyes rolling up to look at his face, “Whilst you were napping”

He squints, nuzzling the top of her head again, tucking her even closer to his side,

“How’d it get here so quickly?” is the only question he can think to ask,

“Money” she replies easily, looking back towards the TV, “and I pulled the Stark card, people make things’ happen if they think Tony’s involved.”

Bucky hums at that, still totally uncomfortable mentioning the man by name. It feels like more familiarity than he deserves, even though the billionaire has long adjusted to his presence, and is rarely anything other than civil.

“Has he been by to see ya’ yet?” he asks, knowing how important his friendship is to the woman he loves, “I bet he’s happy you’ll be close by for a while”

“He came by just as you left” she tells him, “We got lunch before he had to run back to the lab”

He smiles, happy that she’s had company, that she hasn’t been alone all day. Despite everything, he likes Stark, he respects him, and is genuinely grateful for the way he’s become so tolerant to his presence, and for the way he’s always keeping an eye out for Y/N, it makes him feel better knowing that he’s her friend, even though he suspects he’s more like a brother, with how long they’ve known each other, and everything they’ve been through.

“He helped me get all this sorted” she tells him softly, already anticipating the guilt her admission is going to breed, “He insisted, before you say anythin’- I told him not to, but he wasn’t havin’ any of it.”

To her surprise, Bucky just scoffs, before humming gently against her hair.

He’s too exhausted to do anything about the feeling of unworthiness that’s heavy in his gut. It’s been a fixture of his being for so long that it barely seems to matter anymore, even when it stirs to life, sending sparks of shame up to his chest, making him blush red and embarrassed at the idea of a man who’s parents he murdered, not only taking him in, but now helping shift furniture for his benefit.

It’s pathetic, really, laughable, that after everything, an act as small as this still provokes a reaction.

‘Sergeant Barnes, sorry to interrupt, but your food is outside- Ms Romanoff has offered to bring it to you-’

“I’ll go, FRIDAY, tell Nat not to bother” Y/N replies cheerily, ignoring Bucky’s offer to go instead.

He looks drained, he looks like the journey downstairs and back up might be a little too far, especially if the others are buzzing around.

Her suspicions are confirmed when he doesn’t fight her, when he lets her go without objecting or insisting on joining her.

It doesn’t take long, she does make a quick detour to the common room, where she presses a box of fries into Tony’s lap, pecking his hair and waving cheerily at the others before saying goodnight and bringing the rest of the food she’s carrying back to her new room.

Bucky’s waiting for her, almost exactly where she’d left him. His eyes are wide, hair a mess, and he’s drowning in gentle layers of fabric.

She grins at the sight, putting the pizza boxes and soda cans down on the coffee table, before curling up beside him, again.

They laugh at the dumb sit-com that’s running on the TV. They joke about the characters, and how they don’t act like anyone in the real world ever would.

They eat, Y/N teases Bucky about the smear of sauce that’s clinging to the corner of his mouth. She uses her thumb to wipe it away, and he kisses her knuckles, more affectionate than usual, which is saying a lot, considering he boarders on touch-starved at the best of times.

He’s delicate, it’s glaringly obvious, despite his attempts at hiding it behind surly, sarcastic commentary, and playful pecks at her cheek.

When she chuckles he’s fighting the urge to flinch, and he’s clinging to her fingers whenever she’s not using them to eat, and when he finishes his own pizza, she catches him looking at her, with wide, hopeful eyes.

She offers him what’s left of the one she’s been picking at, but he refuses with an expression that’s almost distressed, and she realises that he’s yearning for approval as opposed to any more food.

He’s trying.

“How’s your head?” Y/N coos, as he wonders back over to the couch, after having disposed of the empty cartons,

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, pressing against his skull to try and relieve some of the pressure that seems to only be increasing inside.

“Not great?” she guesses, voice deliberately tempered, as he crawls back into place beside her, “Let me see”

He looks at her curiously as she cups his cheeks in her hands.

His own palms fall away, back to the hem of his new jumper, he tugs at the material, watching at her openly as she starts to stroke his temples, nails barely grazing his hair line.

“Watcha’ doin, doll?” he asks, voice small and shy, “It feels good, it, it’s lovely-”

“Shhhh” Y/N hushes him gently, shifting one of her hands over, so she can run her thumb across his brow, “You’re really tense, sweetheart, try and relax a little”

“I’m… I’m sorry” he murmurs, letting out a frustrated breath as he tries to make his shoulders sag, “I’m not doin’ it on purpose”

“I know” Y/N soothes with a patient smile, “Don’t be sorry, Buck, it’s been a long few days”

It’s been a long few decades, he thinks sadly, letting his eyes flutter shut for a moment.

She lightens her touch, caressing his cheeks, stroking the hollows under his eyes before tickling a line up across his jaw, to card back his hair. He keens into her fingers, almost purring in delight as she uses her knuckles to scratch at his head.

“Oh, god” he shivers, “Oh, god, Y/N/N”

It’s blissful, he can’t remember the last time someone just… touched him like this, just, gently, with no ulterior motive, without him having to earn it some how, or having to fear the consequences.

He supposes it will have been with Y/N, she indulges him often, she holds his hands, like they haven’t killed men double her size, she strokes his back when he can’t sleep, she kisses him, and lets him kiss her.

Still, almost a hundred years of solitary confinement, bar the occasional torture break, has left him desperately hungry for physical contact.

Skin on skin something he’ll never take for granted again.

There was a time, not so long ago, that he would have died (happily) or (not so happily) killed just for a moment of it.

Just for the most innocent, fleeting, brush of someone else’s skin against his own.

Hell, he’d have done just as much to have been allowed to feel his own hands against his body, and this, this is so much more than that.

His lower lip is trembelling, his eyes still wide and trained in on Y/N’s face. She can’t help but let one of her palms float down, to cup his jaw with her thumb sweeping across the pouting skin of his mouth.

“Hey” she purrs, “You doin’ okay?”

Finally, Bucky nods, tentative- afraid of discouraging the way she’s being so overt in her affection.

“Tired” he admits, voice cracking, “I- I’m tired”

Y/N hums in agreement, continuing to stroke his hair back,

“Where do you wanna settle?” she asks softly, “We can stay here… We can go to the bed… we can do whatever you want, handsome”

The bed looks inviting, but, he really, really doesn’t want to move.

“Can, can we stay here?” he asks, shyer than he’s been in a long time, “Please”

She beams at him, shifting a little so his head is settled in the dip of her lap, so one of her hands can loop across his chest, whilst the other stays against his brow.

He clutches the hand he can reach in his own, bringing it under the covers, so that he can play with her fingers.

“I- I- I- might” he gulps, “I- uh”

Her brows raise when he falls silent, letting out a frustrated breath and tensing his upper body involuntarily.

“I have nightmares”

That’s not new information. Y/N has spent enough nights with him to know about the terrors that plague him. She’s spent enough mornings trying to coax him out of his own head, to know, how violent his dreams can be.

She doesn’t remind him of that, though. She just nods considerately, before squeezing his palm.

“I’m stayin’ right here” he hears her promise, “nothin” she continues, “nobody, is goin’ to hurt you.”

The plates in his metal arm groan as he flexes his hand, bringing that one up to cup the one of hers that he’s already clutching to his chest.

“I.. I just, I should warn ya’-” he mumbles, “I- I’m worse, here- I-I-”

“You, are fine, sweetheart” she cuts in, “No matter what happens, okay? You’re goin’ to be just fine.”

“As long as I’ve got you” he murmurs, feeling her nails on his scalp again, “I- I don’t want to scare you off, Y/N/N- that's all”

Y/N lets out a laugh that’s almost silent, shaking her head as he looks up at her face.

“You’ve got me” she tells him, “I’m right here, I’m staying, right here, Bucky, I love you.”

He believes her. Despite the way he hates himself, despite the way that he can’t bring himself to consider that he might be worthy of Y/N’s affection, he believes that it’s genuine, and that if she really sees something in him that’s good, then maybe, just maybe, he’s on the right track after all.

“God, doll,” he whispers slowly, “I trust you- I, I really, I really trust you and, I- I know I tell ya’ often, but it- it still doesn’t seem like enough, I- I adore ya’…”

His words are so honest, so laced with heartfelt sincerity that Y/N feels herself blushing a little at his love-sick expression.

“Y’know-” she soothes, brushing a stray curl back away from his eyes, “-I think you might be the most beautiful man in the world”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes with a tightlipped smile that looks awfully boyish, even with the layer of thin stubble clinging to his jaw.

“and, for what it’s worth” he hears her drawl, “I adore ya’, too”

There’s a lilt of humour in her tone, but it’s gentle, it’s fond as opposed to mocking, and even though his cheeks once again fill with colour, he can’t help but think that it’s due to the way she’s still showering him in gentle touches instead of anything more humiliating.

A few seconds of quiet pass, Y/N could’ve been tricked into thinking that he’d fallen asleep, if he hadn’t flinched in place at a sudden burst of noise from the television that has been running all this time; the laugh track is glaring, she quiets it instantly, regretting the way the remote control is just far enough away for Bucky’s head to shift as she reaches for it.

“Sorry, handsome” she murmurs, sinking back into position with a sympathetic sigh, “Come on, get comfy, you’re alright.”

The nape of Bucky’s neck is aching now, too-

He shuts his eyes, rolling onto his side, so his cheek is nestled against into her thighs.

Y/N reaches down, stroking his arm as she pulls the blanket up higher towards his chest.

“Please, doll, don’t- don’t leave me here if I pass out”

Her heart cracks, she shakes her head, feeling his fingers tightening around her own, again.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere without you.”

He seems to like that, his shoulders unfurl a fraction, even though the tension he’s holding in his back pull them back together after a single, forced inhale.

Y/N lets her free hand trail down across his jaw, she rubs her thumb in a careful circle over his temple, seeing the way the muscle that’s visible seems to relax a little under the attention;

“Good?” she whispers, her own head finding a pillow, so she can settle too-

“So good” he murmurs, hoping that she’s not thinking about stopping.

“Good” she says decisively.

Now that she’s certain that she’s not adding to his discomfort, she readies herself to continue the rhythmic tracing of his face until he’s deep enough asleep to stay that way without it.

He grumbles a little, whispering complaints about the show that’s still running in the background, but refusing her offer of shutting it off. All in all, she’s pleasantly surprised with how easily he drifts off on her lap.

She stays awake for a few hours, watching television half-heartedly, and stroking his cheeks. Occasionally, she catches herself soothing the unconscious man with murmured terms of endearment; He seems to like it, even though she doubts he can actually hear her, with the way he’s snoring.

That makes her smile, him being deep enough asleep to snore.

Before long, Y/N is past out too, with one hand still clutching his under the covers, the other laced through his thick mess of hair.

He stirs a few times during the night, shifting a little to mewl in place against her front, body tensing and shaking until she reacts, until her fingers grazing his temples as she hushes out a calming breath to quiet him.

“Baby” she whispers, when she hears him whining into her chest, “Baby it’s alright”

Despite the fact that it’s late, that he’s been passed out for hours, by now, Bucky seems to hear her.

His shoulders unfurl, and as she blinks at him, ignoring the sleep clouding her vision, she’s almost certain that she catches him smiling.

“That’s it” she praises, unable to hold back, “sweetheart”

Her thumb grazes his cheek, drawing a shaky breath from his lungs.

“Y/N” the sleeping figure sighs, nuzzling into her collar-bone, “is…is everything alright?”

Bucky’s eyelids flicker as he teeters on the verge of waking fully, his voice is so quiet that Y/N has to strain to hear him;

“Yeah, baby” she’s quick to reply, “everythings’ alright, you’re restin’, you’re doin’ real good”

She shuffles, feeling the weight of him adjust too, his head staying firmly against her chest.

“l-love you” he murmurs, one of his hands releasing the one of hers that he’s been clinging too all night, so that it can float up to the hem of her shirt, where it tangles in the fabric, “can, can I keep this sweater?”

That exhaustion ridden question pulls a quiet, genuine laugh from her chest. She nods, kissing his hair and guiding his cheek up so that she can plant a kiss against the stubble.

He swoons at the tenderness of the gesture, he’s desperately grateful to be awake enough to feel the warm tickle of her lips against his face.

“Of course you can” she soothes, “You can keep everything, it’s yours, it’s for you”

It’s his.

The smile he dons is drowsy, his eyes are still shut, he’s still, mostly asleep, but he’s aware enough to keen out towards her voice, towards the gentle embrace she’s shrouding him in.

And just like that, he’s silent again.

Y/N follows suit, slipping back down into unconsciousness almost instantly.

Another few hours pass, the world outside spins from dusky grey to deep, starless black, and everything is peaceful, until Bucky next whimpers.

This time, the noise is strangled, it’s loud enough to rouse Y/N almost instantly, her eyes training in on him, and his parted lips as the source of the disturbance.

His body is shaking, the heavy, pliancy that had been filling him before, replaced with cramp-inducing stiffness.

She strokes his hair, again, repeating her earlier words of assurance.

When he wakes enough to feel her fingers, he shudders, before begging her not to stop, control waining at the soft tug against his brow.

“I won’t” she promises him gently, hating the way his words are cracking and so blatantly laced with desperation, “I’ll keep goin’, I’m right here”

He nods a little, metal fingers tugging anxiously at the hem of his new jumper.

It’s soft and he loves it.

He loves the idea of having things again, things that nobody can take from him.

He loves her.

He loves her more than any of it- suddenly, he’s reaching over to hold onto to her waist, smooth fabric totally forgotten.

“Sweet, sweet boy” Y/N murmurs indulgently, brushing his cheeks again, “what woke you up, huh?”

His brow furrows, teeth tugging at his lower lip until he lets out a nervous breath,

“I-I- was havin’ a bad dream” he admits, blinking up at her in the dark, “I was, I was on my own”

Y/N shakes her head, pecking at his brow.

“You’re with me” she reminds him softly, “You’re with me, and you are never, going to wake up on the floor alone, ever again.”

There’s something about time she’s spent sleeping with him tucked, safely in her arms that makes her words come easily, without hesitation.

Her mind is clouded, she’s being pulled back towards sleep with every deep inhale she’s managing to take, but still, she knows what she’s saying is true.

and so does Bucky.

He keens out in response to her promise, his hands tightening around her, his nose rubbing against the skin of her throat as a soft, muffled sob leaves his lips.

The idea of him being woken by some terrible nightmare, the idea of him coming round in a fit of panic, and throwing himself to the ground as he tries his best to remember where, or when he is, is suddenly even more sickening than it had been earlier, in day light, when the exact patch of floor he’d resigned himself to resting on had been plainly visible.

“Never” she repeats, voice melting into his hair, “never, I promise”

Blue eyes are on hers, they’re tired, they’re bloodshot and shining wet, in the dim light of the room.

“I…I’m sorry I upset you” he whispers, “I didn’t- I didn’t mean too”

Y/N feels her head tilt, she’s confused, and it shows.

“What are you talkin’ about?” she asks, stifling a yawn as she reaches over to tuck a stray curl back behind his ear, “you haven’t done anythin”

“Earlier” Bucky murmurs, “When… when I told you, when I told you where I- where I used to sleep, it- it upset you, I- I shouldn’t-”

His remorse is palpable. Y/N guides him in for a kiss, a proper kiss, against his lips, that makes his breathing slow.

“I wasn’t upset with you” she tells him firmly, breaking away enough to let him rest his brow on hers, “I was upset for you, Bucky, there’s a difference.”

Even in the dark, she can see the cogs turning in his mind. She smiles, and rubs her nose against his, treating him to another gentle kiss before cupping his jaw in her free hand.

He’s still clinging to the other one, he squeezes her palm and blinks slowly, looking over at the digital clock that’s being projected against the far wall.

It’s 4am. He’s usually wide awake by now. He’s usually coming round from some terrible dream, or trying to run around the compound’s track in a bid to burn off the remnants of adrenaline, and kill time until he can call Y/N, or join Sam or Steve to spar.

But now, he doesn’t have to worry about any of that, he’s draped in warm, soft, fabric that is so dense he can feel it despite the layer of brushed wool he’s wearing. He’s pressed, tightly against his lovers chest, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he feels like he could just…go back to sleep.

Y/N seems to be have been considering the time, too, and she seems to have come to a similar conclusion, regarding what she wants to do.

“Whadd’ya say, sweetheart” she coos, carding his thighs with her legs, boxing him in and drawing him back into position, “we’ve got nowhere we need to be until later, why don’t we get some more sleep?”

He smiles, tentative and hidden into her chest, before nodding, stubble grazing her skin-

“That sounds’ perfect” he whispers, half slurring

1 | 2 | x | 4 | 5 | 6

#bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barns x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes angst #bucky x you #bucky x female reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky fanfic #the winter soldier x you #fluff #x reader #drabble #series #BBwhereyouleftme

54 notes · View notes