#fic: engravings

[sprout-fics]

Engravings (Chapter One)

(Makarov x F! Reader)

Engravings Masterlist

Word Count: 4.2k Rating: Mature Tags: Brainwashing, Emotional Manipulation, Kidnapping, False Romance, Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, Injury/Blood, Whump, Stockholm Syndrome, Winter Soldier AU, No Fluff, Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Mind the tags (Read on Ao3)

“How do you think you’ll die?”

His fingers still as they trace your bare spine.

It’s silent in the solitude of his apartment, one of many he moves between to keep safe. This is one of the nicer ones. Furnished with silk sheets, the interior is immaculately clean. Wide windows overlook St. Petersburg below, a sight you never see with towering curtains blocking the view. Carefully curated art hangs from the walls, an abstract painting flecked with gold above his bed. You see shapes in it, think you see something akin to a lynx staring back at you. There’s never anything on the counters, no mess that would indicate someone lives here. It feels too pristine, almost artificial.

Hazy, bluish light drowns both of you as you both sprawl in bed. You like it when he makes love to you here. The large space makes you feel so alone, so much closer to him, like you have him all to yourself. Greedy, you drink in his scent, claw at his back, listen to his breath stutter as he rolls his hips into you.

Makarov is silent as you tuck into his side, shift and tangle your legs a little closer to his. You can’t see his face, but you know the look in his eyes. Precise, calculating, almost detached. His silence is indicative of his answer before he even speaks it.

“With glory.” He responds, fingers resuming their lazy path. “For Russia.”

You nod without any response. You’re not sure what you expected, but it should have been that. Makarov is a soldier, just like you are. A warrior, one who will kill, die for his ideals. As much as you long after him, as much as he loves you in return, you know his death will be exactly as he says. Not gently, not beside you in old age, sighing softly into your arms with his last breath, a lifetime of joy he left behind. His mere existence speaks of violence and retribution, a danger you yourself are caught in as an inescapable tide.

You don’t remember a time before Makarov.

There’s glimpses, yes, whispers of a time before he found you, but they’re distant echoes drowned by the sound of his voice. He says you were a soldier, and you know this much is true. He says he found you dying, on the brink of death. He scooped you from the ashes, rescued you from the embrace of the grim reaper and brought you here. Home. Your earliest memory of him is when he sat in the hospital chair, looked upon you with curious, sad eyes and asked you your name.

You didn’t know.

Marionette, your callsign. A name he bestowed upon you, the one who holds the strings. You’re his blade, his weapon, the arrow in his bow. You fly in the direction of his enemies, cut them down with lethal precision, feel their heartbeats stutter and still in your hands. You’re used to the scent of blood by now, arrive back to him awash in red and let him kiss it from your lips, the taste of your murder on his tongue.

You know what the others say about you. You see them as they watch you walk with him, two steps back, by his right shoulder. A designated position. If someday he were to be betrayed, shot through his spine, you know the bullet would enter you first.

You know too that you’ve accepted this.

Marionette. The puppet, the other soldiers say. Beautiful, poised, but empty. He holds you in his palms and you go willingly, holding onto every scrap of warmth he offers like it will fill the hollow inside you. The others, they’re scared of your devotion to him, the way you’d be ready to die if he asked. Yet there’s something else there too, glimpses of desire for a thing they’ll never touch. A longing to feel your skin, to see the glimmer behind your gaze. Those who look too long disappear, and you know without having to ask that it was through his hands.

You’re his, after all.

In private he calls you милая, дорогая, любимая. Honey, darling, beloved. He cups your face in his hands and presses gentle kisses to your forehead, presses you into the sheets with endless praises of your violence. He treats you like he loves you, even though he never says it. You think perhaps it’s taboo for people like you, speaking of blessings only to have them stolen as soon as you confess. He gathers you to him when he sleeps, presses your bare form to his. You stay awake just to hear the sound of his even, steady breaths, watch how his face doesn’t soften even in sleep.

In the morning he’s gone before you rise. You tiptoe to the living room, see him standing at a crack in the curtains, awash in the hazy dawn. When you wrap your arms around his bare torso, he kisses your knuckles but says nothing. Eyes distant.

Loving Makarov is hard.

He always seems not completely there with you, eyes gazing into a distant future you cannot see. You’re stuck in the present, helplessly watching him discern the spinning axis of the earth, blinking as you see constellations sparkle in his gaze. Copernicus, he watches the stars rotate with him at the axis, tracing across their glimmering brightness like he’s drawing prophecies from the heavens. All for once was a far-fetched dream of Russia, one that becomes closer with every death in your grasp.

You don’t do it for his vision. You do it for him, and there’s some days where you wonder if you could ever stop.

“Come back to bed.” You whisper against the flesh of his shoulder, and he holds your hand to his chest where you feel his pulsing heartbeat.

“There are things to be done.” He murmurs instead. He’s silent for a while, as if waiting for you to protest. You never do.

“Dress. Eat.” He tells you in Russian, as he turns to hold your face in his hands. “I have somewhere to send you.”

That’s how you end up in Prague.

Trailing an informant, one of his own. He’s a twitchy sort, constantly looking over his shoulder in a way that means he knows he’s being followed. Your mission is not to kill him, not yet. First you must see who he meets, which enemy he speaks to, and then bury them both.

December. Snow dusts the streets. You’ve long since become accustomed to the winters in this part of the world, the way the sun hides during this part of the year. You’re bundled in a stylish coat and matching scarf- his choosing. It brings him a certain pleasure, somehow, to choose how you dress. You find you don’t mind, leaning up to his words of endearment with every fine thread he drapes you in.

It’s a shame the coat will get stained. You find he doesn’t mind that either, as if he prefers the color red on you.

You sip on coffee in a chair of the cafe, wishing instead for hot chocolate. The bitterness is familiar, even as the temptation of sweetness lingers in your senses. You hide your face between sips, pulling up the mask that covers the lower half of your face. The informant sits in a corner booth alone, leg bouncing. Sloppy. Obvious. You watch him with cat-like eyes, blinking slowly, wondering if he’ll beg when you kill him. The man that meets him is calmer, dark haired, clearly English. His mere presence seems to soothe the other man, and you watch as they discuss things in hushed detail, the informant sliding a USB across the table where their drinks sit untouched.

The Englishman leaves first, gives a small farewell and shrugs on his coat, neatly slipping the traitorous item in his pocket. You wait a minute until after he leaves, watching your fidgety comrade count on his watch by instruction until he too is supposed to depart. You’ll be back for him later. You know where to find him.

You trail the Englishman into the overcast afternoon, following his dark coat until the street is empty. Yet as you close the distance between you and the spy, a figure rounds the corner just in front of him. Your awareness roars to life a moment too late, and even though you stab your knife forward the man before you counters it easily. His movements are experienced, practiced, and strong. They counter your quick, precise agility in a flurry of movement, before at last you’re forced into the shadow of a building, his broad form crowding you from behind.

“Where is he?” The man breathes in your nape. Cigar smoke, musk, the grip on your wrists speaking of a soldier’s strength. You don’t need to ask who. You already know. You know you’ll die before you tell him.

“Minsk.” You lie easily, and the grip on your hands tightens.

“Try again.” He growls.

“You’ll never find him.” You offer instead, voice easy, almost detached. It makes him pause for some reason, and you wonder if that alone has startled him.

You don’t expect him to flip you around, press his forearm to your throat and rip down your mask.

You see him for the first time then. He’s worn in the way warriors are, years of duty etched onto his face. Thick brows, a beard, eyes that you think in another lifetime could have been kind. He stares at you with open astonishment, a bewildered shock that fades to a strange grief you can’t understand.

“You’re alive.” He whispers.

You blink at him, and for the first time feel your expression change to that of confusion. He seems to recognize you. You’ve never seen him once in your entire life.

He whispers a name, one you don’t know. Yet the voice he speaks it in is that of despair, a realization that seems to eclipse the fabric of his soul.

“What has he done to you?”

Panic flares inside you, and suddenly your entire being is consumed in the instinct to run, run, run. The man holding you captive radiates a danger far beyond that of duty, a fear that roots inside you and cracks at the foundation of your composure. You throw a leg up between you, and in his attempt to dodge his grip loosens on you. You duck under him, seize the knife that had been wrestled from your grip. A slash on his leg brings him to a knee. You dart a distance away from him, shaking, looking back with wild eyes. Red drips from your blade.

You should kill him. You’re not sure you can if you try.

You run.

When you find the informant, let his blood pool over his fingers, you see your own fear mirrored in his eyes.

The Englishman gets away. It’s an unacceptable failure, and when you send an encrypted message to Makarov he is silent for some time before he responds.

Report back.

He’s displeased to say the least when you arrive, mouth pressed into a scowl, brow drawn tight. You try to stand tall, refusing to show just how shaken you are by the whole ordeal. You know better than to show him weakness. Yet the man’s words from before haunt you, repeating in a ceaseless echo that sends the world under you spinning violently.

Makarov paces away from you, but at the mention of the stranger he snaps to look at you, blinking in something akin to shock. It flashes over his features for only a moment before he stills back into his stony passiveness, and then it darkens into something that makes your stomach sit heavy, making you nearly take a step back at the glint that warns of danger.

He strides over to you, and this time you do falter. You’ve seen Makarov angry before, but it was always with his subordinates, the men who show fear, hesitation, those who don’t follow orders. You’ve seen him shoot a man dead for daring to question him, and as he stood over the man’s oozing corpse he had murmured that Russia’s future did not include traitors.

Yet this- as he crosses the room with surprising speed, as you reel backwards out of pure instinct, as he captures your jaw and presses you to the wall so the lynx painting rattles- is different.

“His name.” He growls, teeth bared, jaw clenched, and he doesn’t notice the way your hand encloses his wrist in a pleading grasp. “What was his name?”

“I-I don’t know.” You manage in hardly a whisper. “I swear.”

He holds you for moments longer, stares into your eyes and waits for your gaze to falter with dishonesty. Your heart beats at an aleatory rhythm in your chest, a tremble starting in your hands and spreading along the sinews of your body. Yet as Makarov waits for you to stumble, to confess something you don’t have, you stare into his eyes.

and you see fear.

The ground cracks under you like splintering ice. A flare of panic takes a frigid hold of your veins. Makarov is not afraid. He is not fearful. He isn’t scared of death, of defeat. He throws himself in the jaws of lions and peels their teeth to use as daggers. He does not waver, he remains steadfast, unmovable. So this...this....

He releases you, and it takes all your strength to not gasp in relief, practically sagging against the wall as he turns. There’s a coiled tension to his shoulders, his fists clenching and then releasing before he turns back to you, eyes almost gentle.

“I’m sorry, darling.” He murmurs, reaching forward to loop his arms around your waist. Despite the tremble in your limbs you learn eagerly into the safety of his embrace. “I shouldn’t have scared you. I just can’t imagine the thought of someone like that taking you away from me.”

He presses your cheek to his shoulder, and even though you stay there your eyes are unblinking, wide, as if seeing the first glimmer of the truth to come.

As you sleep in his arms that night, you lay awake with wide eyes still, the stranger’s words repeating endlessly in the cacophony of your mind.

“What did he do to you?”

He gives you a few days to rest but leaves you alone in the too-large apartment. You feel miniscule against the towering windows that overlook the city, and in the absence of his touch your thoughts spiral in uncertainty.

How did he know you?

You’re sent out once more, and this time you aren’t alone. It unnerves you. You’ve worked by yourself for so long that the men on either side of you on the plane feel like they crowd into your space. One of them, the younger one, is fairly talkative. You pass idle exchanges, but every time he asks something that even remotely pertains to you his older comrade hisses at him, as if they’re not allowed to know. As if the mere knowledge of you as anything other than a weapon is a sin.

The rifle in your hands is familiar, the weight grounding as you perch on a snowy rooftop, examining the ambassador’s aide just outside his home. You watch him kiss his wife, blink and feel something familiar and forbidden tug in your ribs.

The older soldier is beside you, his own sights trained on the driver. His younger comrade scans the surrounding rooftops for interference. He doesn’t flinch at the gunshot, the scream from the wife.

He does, however, collapse at the third gunshot. Not yours.

You bolt, rifle hoisted to your shoulder. The older comrade calls for his friend, and you tug him back even as he fights you. He acts as a shield when the next shot rings out, and his blood coats your arms. You duck, roll, plant yourself behind a vent cover and search for the other sniper. You find him on a taller rooftop, his sights glinting in the dawn. A shot dents the steel, and you focus your sights on its origin.

A skull mask. A reaper.

It tugs at something inside your thoughts, the same place where the stranger’s words echo. Distant, a whisper of familiarity locked behind a terrible dread. Brown eyes. The color of rust. They widen when they see you, and in his hesitation you fire a single round.

Your aim is off.

It catches him by the shoulder, and he rolls out of view. As police sirens howl, you take that moment to escape, cast a lingering glance to the neighboring rooftop and wonder why it feels as if you just saw a phantom.

You lose two men, and the deaths are acceptable. They died for the cause. Martyrs for the future that Makarov divines even as he licks the blood clean from your fingers.

It’s only then that the dreams begin.

You sleep in an empty bed. Cold, the phantom chases you through sleep. The bone white mask fades at the edges like mist. It snakes into your lungs, chokes the air and freezes your ribs. In the hollow of your chest there’s whispers of a name you don’t recognize. Yelling, screaming, hands reaching for you amidst chaos and flames. You fall through the sky, descending too quickly. Their voices are lost to the wind, and as you pull at your shoulder, the thing that unfurls above you is shot through with debris. The ground races up, up, up-

You fall, wake up on the floor, trembling, chest heaving, trying to remember where you are. Who you are.

The voices chase you on your next assignment, pulse in tandem with the heartbeat that fades under your fingertips. You try to blot them out, try to replace them with the sound of his voice, and in the midnight darkness they return, howling like the gale. Faces you don’t recognize, hands, touches, laughter.

“You were talking in your sleep.” Makarov tells you when he rouses you in the darkness of a safehouse. Your bruised ribs from your last mission heal under bandages, and as he soothes a hand over them you wince but don’t protest. “Were you dreaming?”

Yes. You think, and open your mouth to tell him, confess the chaos of your nightmares. Yet something howls in the gale inside you, screams in a soundless cry that stifles the air in your chest, sends your voice into wordless silence.

“I don’t know.” You whisper, and it’s the first lie you’ve ever told him.

After that, you only dream when you’re alone.

Never alone on missions, not again. You’re constantly accompanied, flanked, and you have the itching, uncomfortable feeling that you’re being monitored.

You try to ask why you aren’t allowed to go alone and see the way the smile doesn’t reach his eyes when he holds you close.

“To keep you safe, дорогая.” He coos, stroking your cheek with his knuckles. “How could I ever lose you?”

You accept this, but the hollow of doubt inside you wonders that, if that were true, why he would risk you at all. Hardly a week goes by without another injury, another bruise from a target, a mission, an enemy he throws you at and you carve into fatal stillness. It feels in some ways like he’s punishing you, forcing you to bear the cost of his love. Yet he presses kisses to your cuts, the blossoming yellow and purple across your skin, sighs endearments and swallows your whimpers with the slant of his mouth against yours.

Yet you fall into him, your only source of comfort, your beacon. You’re lost without him, a marionette with no master. You don’t whisper the sin of your loved confession even as it tightens in your chest, knowing he can never say it back lest it summon destruction. Taboo, forbidden, just like the doubts you refuse to share with him. You cling to him instead, listen to his heartbeat and try to synchronize it with your own.

“You’re shaking.” He whispers as you shiver in his arms following something akin to lovemaking. “Are you scared?”

“No.” You tell him, another lie. It’s not of him, never him. Not yet.

Your dreams are the thing that terrify you, and you fear them because you don’t understand. They paint images you struggle to discern. Falling one moment, caught in an embrace the next. Gunfire replaced by the clink of glasses and a bark of laughter. Cigar smoke envelopes you, war paint smears charcoal across your fingertips. An arm slings across your shoulder in warm familiarity, hands wrap a wound, and blue eyes turn to you in an affectionate concern. They whisper a name that bores into your marrow, takes holds like rot, and the deeper you carve to dig it out the more you begin to fracture.

Doubt, and it terrifies you. You never have to doubt Makarov. You turn to his hands as they guide you, surrender to his touch as they hone the fatal edge of your killing strike. You’re his, and his alone.

It’s in Belgrade that you begin to understand.

The details of the mission are obscure. Moving a Belarusian oligarch, a team with you. Different from your usual assignments, your carefully curated wardrobe is exchanged for plate armor, gloves, bracers. You wear it like a second skin. The weight is familiar, almost relieving. There’s not much for you to do, sitting in the back of the Humvee beside the package, watching the nighttime city fade to countryside and listening to the loud thrum of the convoy. You’re still healing from your last mission, a sprain that aches in your shoulder. You didn’t protest when he pressed it, took note of your grimace and declared you fit for duty. You must have made a face, because he’d tipped his knuckles under your chin, and had forced you to meet his gaze.

“You’ll do it for me, won’t you, Marionette?” He murmured with those dark, soft, velvet eyes, and you found yourself empty of protests.

The Belarusian oligarch grumbles the entire time, and you don’t entertain him. Yet eventually he seems to take notice of you in a different sense, eyes roaming over the dip of your waist that your gear obscures, then up to your eyes hidden by your helmet. You see it out of the corner of your eye, ignore his sly murmur and hungry gaze. He plants a hand on the thigh hidden by your canvas pants, and you resist the fatalistic urge to separate his fingers from his-

A whoosh of noise, a shout by the soldier in the front seat. Garbled, surprised Russian, and you make out the shout of GRENADE!! before the world groans and twists violently around you.

The truck lands upside down, and you kick out the window to escape, haul the unconscious oligarch out behind you, then the driver. The convoy screeches to a halt, darkness illuminated by growing flames and bright bursts of gunshots. A comrade runs to assist your stumbling stance even as you try to drag your package to another truck, and he gets three steps before he crumples to the ground. The bridge where the convoy is halted is precarious, prone to gunfire, and you can hear panicked shouts as those in the trucks behind you realize the mangled wreckage of your Humvee blocks the way.

Another grenade, and this one is close. It knocks you flat onto your back, scatters asphalt and dust over you. There’s a ringing in your ears that deafens gunshots to distant pops, and even your groan of pain sounds like it comes from under water. Your helmet has been knocked from your face, and when you tilt your head to the side you see hostiles growing closer, nearly atop you.

You stand, turn, fall again as a bullet grazes your shoulder. Yet there’s a shout then from behind you, one you stubbornly ignore as you rise once more, stagger towards the edge of the bridge.

That name again, the once that’s become familiar to you by now, the one that isn’t yours. You bend over the railing, stare at the current below, racing in the darkness. The voice calls again, and you turn, stare at the face partially obscured by his helmet. Brown eyed, a mustache, younger than your spirit feels. You’ve seen him before, and you don’t know where, like he’s appeared in a distant dream.

Hands off his weapon, he takes a step towards you, repeats the name in a cracked, desperate call. You look at him, feel fear of the unknown once more pulse between your ribs. The ringing in your ears grows louder, and you stumble backwards in uncertainty. He reaches for you.

“Wait-” He tries, gaze open with despair. “Please.”

“I know you.” You breathe, seeing the way the fire alights across his brown skin in amber hues. “I...”

A step back, a stumble. You pitch over the railing, into the water.

Darkness surrounds you.

Taglist:

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@writeforfandoms @alicesfracturedmirror @soapskneebrace @badame0224 @mayhem-baby @emrzennn @papaver-decervicatus

(If you'd like to be removed from this taglist, pls DM me)

[little-pondhead]

Danny moved to Gotham.

Freakshow is touring in Gotham.

Freakshow knows Danny is in Gotham.

Danny knows Freakshow is still after him.

Danny's faith in heroes has been shattered.

Danny turns to the only person powerful enough to run Freakshow out of town, hopefully for good.

Danny turns to the Joker for help.

The Joker is looking for a new punching bag sidekick after Harley Quinn left him.

Danny is just the perfect person to be shaped by the Joker's hands.

Danny becomes the new Joker Junior.

[awoogayanderes]

it takes the comfort of one person

➪ pairing : post pm ! osamu dazai x reader

➪ sypnosis : the sins of the past don’t always determine someone’s soul

➪ other notes : i have so many ideas but i genuinely don’t know how to write them out, but here you guys go :3

“do you think i’m a bad person ?” dazai asks you, his eyes staring into yours.

“what’s this about ?” you respond, lighting a cigarette, hands trembling in the dark.

“just thinking,” he says, “well don’t,” you sigh at the young man in front of you.

you can tell this affected him by the awkward silence he returns, looking away from you.

you sigh, "the trauma you experienced is very real, and and what that man had you do isn’t okay...but that doesn’t make you an angel either,” you say, an attempt to comfort him.

dazai doesn’t say anything, his fingers grabbing your cigarette, holding it up to his lips.

“and that’s okay, if you can recognize your own actions, you are the furthest from a bad person you can get,” you continue with a soft tone.

when you turned to look at dazai, for the first time in all the years you’ve known him, you saw a light shine in his eyes.

[hopelessbluebird]

Random useless things I do in totk and botw

I avoid central hyrule as much as possible because I don’t care if he’s a video game character big man has trauma

I leave a silent princess at every memory and goddess statue

I feed my horses at least twice a day

I make sure I use my horses at least twice a week because exercise

If I’m near a hot spring I go to it bc scars uncomfy

I clear out all monster camps near roads every blood moon

I visit the korok forest a ton even though my switch will blow up bc frame rate

I’ll go piss off the yiga if I’m bored

I’ve read too many fics to stop doing this :’)

[grooviestsadpapaya]

Part of an art trade I did with @geryuthetzakandi later last year that we both forgot to post lmao. My interpretation of a lynel version of Link from their fic A Blessing Engraved in Flesh and Blood!

[klarolinexluv]

Reading a Little Women AU were Sirius is Jo, James is Laurie and Regulus is Amy and tbh I kinda wanna cry… like omg

[seriousbrat]

honestly sometimes I remember when the biggest problem in the marauders fandom were "hipster bloggers" and all they ever did was mind their own business and post pictures of redheads holding pumpkin spice lattes with bad instagram filters and a caption like "lily after james took her on their first date!! taken by a laughing marlene mckinnon" lmao. we hated them so much and for what?

[inkpot-winters]

when you write monty and regulus bonding over shakespeare except it's really just me in disguise fangirling over much ado about nothing and forcing unsuspecting fanfic readers to read regulus' (my) tangent about benedick and beatrice

[adoresia]

im showing off my homescreen hiii (its not 100% original leave me alone)

Its funny because im not obsessed with this tom Hollands spiderman i just love the movies, its ironic i haven’t made one for i/atsv or even just one dedicated to Miles ☠️ (im just lazy)

the hobie one has nothing on it. (i said im lazy 😕)

Im gonna use this as an opportunity to show off my Avatar one even though its a bit half-assed

ignore the time… and my battery 😨

its kinda ugly bye

others :

ignore the everybody loves me widget ☠️☠️☠️

okay im done bye

[sprout-fics]

Engravings (Chapter Three) (Finale)

(Makarov x F! Reader)

Engravings Masterlist

Word Count: 6.5k Rating: Mature Tags: Brainwashing, Emotional Manipulation, Kidnapping, False Romance, Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, Injury/Blood, Whump, Stockholm Syndrome, Winter Soldier AU, Psychological Abuse, Happy Ending, Some Fluff, Hurt/Comfort Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Physical Abuse, Domestic Violence, Attempted Homicide, Physical descriptions of gore, Mind the tags (Read on Ao3) A/N: The final chapter of Marionette's escape

How do you kill the person you love?

You’ve bathed in the blood of dozens, possibly hundreds. The violence Makarov has wound into your veins is inherent to your soul. Poisoned, your heart is dyed in ink, pulsing in glinting obsidian. If there was anything pure in you before he turned you into what you are now, it’s been swallowed by the years spent under his control, in his arms, drinking in his breath as if it were your own. The lives you’ve taken for him are a mere chill compared to his searing warmth. It burns against your skin in the light of the truth, but the pain is a bittersweet addiction you can’t release.

You know a hundred ways to kill an enemy, but you know none to kill Makarov.

It’s getting hard to maintain this farce of yours, your tender, relieved smiles at his presence, your soft sighs into his shoulder. Every time he echoes the name he’s bestowed upon you “Marionette.” a vile, sour thing twists inside you with a scream of something wrong.

He knows.

He knows, he sees through your farce, but he pretends like nothing is wrong. He presses gentle kisses to your forehead and you don’t let him see the pinch of your expression with how it hurts- the way something inside you longs for him even now. There’s a distant temptation to sink to your knees before him, confess and plead for mercy. You’re his, you’ve always been his. He loves you. He’ll forgive you, even if it means you’ll never see your friends again. If he forgives you, at least you’ll still have him, and there’s a part of you that still thinks he’s all you ever needed.

Has he engraved that into you too?

You dance around each other in this vain, feckless game of yours. You whisper his name like it’s a prayer, and his velvet eyes soften in return. Accepting your docility, as if he doesn’t see your feral nature lurking just below the surface. He embraces you, holds you tight to his chest, and you feign willingness, knowing the fatalistic gaze of him as he gazes past you. He’s playing you just as you play him, both of you waiting for the other to crack and end this macabre waltz you revolve in just like the ever-changing axis of stars above.

You’re running out of time.

You try to imbue yourself in the memories of your allies that have surfaced inside you despite his control over your mind. You think of the curling smoke of Price’s cigar, the sly sparkle of Gaz’s eyes, the bark of Soap’s laughter, the curve of Simon’s smile in the rare moments without his mask. You think about the clink of glasses in a dimly lit pub, the boxes of takeout that litter the coffee table in the rec room. You think about the despair in their eyes when they saw the thing you are now, and the scrawl of Johnny’s handwriting in the letter you wish you still had to give you strength.

We’re coming. We’ll bring you home. We won’t stop until you’re away from him.

Be patient, stay alive.

Come back to us.

Please, hen.

You think you may be dead by the time they rescue you. You think they might die trying to free you.

and you think about how cold Makarov’s blood will feel on your hands.

Maybe you can catch him while you lay in his arms in the blue light of his bedroom. Maybe you can pilfer a weapon and conceal it. Maybe you can breathe in his final, shuddering gasp when you drive the blade between his ribs, whisper a useless apology for the sin of loving him.

Maybe he’ll kill you with a kiss before you can try.

“They’ll never take you from me.” He’d told you. You know he’ll never let you leave alive.

You need to go home, and once more something secret inside you whispers that you are home.

He wakes you on a cold March morning a week after your breakdown, and as you blink slowly up at him he smiles, that gentle, heart tugging gesture that used to be the light of your entire life. Now, it makes you want to burst into tears.

“Good morning, beautiful.” He coos ever so gently, and you manage to not shy away from his touch as he smooths a hand across your bare shoulder. “Get dressed, I have somewhere to send you.”

No.

You’re not ready. You don’t know what it is, but something inside you twists in sickening apprehension at his words. Even so, you offer him a complacent smile, murmur something about coming back to bed for just a few more minutes.

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

Within the hour you are dressed in a dusk-colored coat and bundled into the back of a black van with two other men, both of them armed. Anxiety takes a foothold in your chest, and it takes effort to appear calm and composed even as the car pulls away and Makarov fades behind you.

They take you to a warehouse in a town just outside the city. It looks abandoned, but you know it’s merely a concealed location for something nefarious. Smuggling, storage, planning of logistics, a black site that doesn’t even exist on the map. You wonder if these are your executioners, if they’re taking you to a quiet, hidden spot to dispose of you. They won’t even dig you a grave, not with the ground frosted over by winter. The men at your back escort you inside, through empty corridors, down a set of stairs into a dark cellar. Every muscle inside you coils tight, ready to fight, claw your way to freedom through a path of blood.

Yet when the door to the cellar opens, all you see is a friend.

Alex.

He’s tied to a chair. Bruised, bloodied. There’s a welt above his left eye that you want to smooth over with a delicate touch, fall to your knees at his feet to undo the ropes that bind him. His head hangs on his chest, but when he looks up at you he startles, eyes wide before his expression falls into abrupt sadness. He calls your name and it takes all your strength to stand tall, to stay composed. Blank eyed, obedient. The puppet he wants you to be.

“What did he do to you?” He rasps, brow pinched in distress. He flexes his arms at the ropes, and they don’t budge. He calls your name again and it’s desperate. A sound of despair.

Movement beside you. A knife pressed into your palm.

“Do it.” Your handler murmurs in Russian. “Kill him.”

You tremble now, trying to keep your expression passive despite the looming panic rising up your chest and threatening to choke your air.

It’s a test. One you’re designed to fail.

You can kill him, watch the light from Alex’s eyes fade and his blood drain down your wrist. You could buy yourself just a little bit more time before Makarov decides to test you again, and again, until one day your usefulness to him expires and he tosses you aside.

You step closer, feel the phantom whisper of him in your ear, hands pressing your back into his front in a sinister embrace. His palms cover your eyes, blinding you.

“You don’t even have to look, darling.”

The knife shakes in your grip.

Alex turns his face to you, and the grief there makes something inside you splinter, crack and unspool in tormenting agony.

He’s your friend.

“It’s me.” He whispers sadly at your thousand-yard stare. “You know me. It’s Alex.”

“Do it.” The other handler snaps impatiently. “Prove yourself to our cause.”

“They’ll never take you from me.”

You won’t do this. Not anymore.

“No.” You whisper as something inside you finally changes along with the light of hope unfurling in Alex’s eyes. “I won’t.”

The two men behind you are silent for a moment, looking at each other, before one of them sighs.

You know the movement is coming before he lunges towards you, and easily you sidestep him, seize his arm and twist in a brutal grip. Something snaps. He screams.

The blade in your hand turns red with his blood.

As he gurgles a death moan on the ground, the other tries to raise his weapon at you. You force his hands up to the ceiling as he fires, and the bullet lodges itself in the damp wood. Two quick movements. A slash to the chest, under his bulletproof vest, and as he chokes a gasp you stab forward into the side of his neck, rip from one end to the other. Warm wetness coats your hands, and as the man slumps it drips from your fingers onto his stricken, frozen face.

You turn to Alex, and see in his eyes that he looks afraid. Afraid of your brutality, of your violence. Afraid of the weapon you’ve become. Afraid of the thing Makarov has made you.

The knife cuts away his bindings, and you drop it in favor of trying to touch him, reach and help him. You jolt when you realize how your skin has turned scarlet in the act of taking more lives. Yet Alex’s hands close over them, holding with a tight grip as if to anchor you from yourself.

“They, Price and the others, they sent me to find you.” He tells you hoarsely, rushing through his words. “They needed to know you were alive. That-”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to.

“Where are they?” You ask, gaze still bent to your hands. Soft, almost demure. Numb to the act of taking lives.

“A two-hour drive. We can make it before reinforcements come.” He declares, and suddenly you’re being pulled up the cellar stairs, past the empty corridors and into the overcast morning.

You gently pull your hand away from him. Alex looks at you, eyes stricken.

“No.” You whisper quietly, eyes full of hurt for what you are about to do. “I can’t.”

Alex blinks, and then he turns to grab at your shoulders, gripping you. “What are you talking about? This is your chance. You can escape!” He pauses, fingers clenching into your wool coat before he softly adds: “You can come home to us.” Your face pinches, you shake your head in a quick gesture that silences a growing sob.

“They’ll find us before we make it out of the city.” You tell him softly. “Makarov won’t let me go that easily.”

You feel that new, fragile thing inside you clench with the hurt of your words, how desperately you want to follow him. “I can’t get you killed for this. You- you go. I’ll distract them, make sure you get to safety.”

Alex’s grip softens, but his voice remains hard. “I’m not leaving you.” He declares with unwavering conviction. “We’ll find a way. I can’t just-”

“Go.” You gasp, cutting him off. “I need- I need to go back. I need to end this.”

You look at him then, eyes brimming with tears. The truth of what you need to do aches in your bones, a sorrow that grows tenfold at the devastation in your friend’s eyes.

“I need to kill him.”

Alex blinks, swallows.

“He’ll try to kill you.” He whispers.

You nod, and at last resignation settles into your soul with a sigh. “I know.”

Yet then you manage to smile past your tears, head tilting and eyes fond.

“I’ll follow you soon.” You tell him softly. “Don’t wait up.”

Alex holds you to his chest, red hands pressing your face to his shoulder. You can feel his rigid frame as he tries to contain his protests.

“Be safe, sister.” He tells you in Arabic. “Come back to us.”

“I will.” You promise, eyes closing and swallowing down a sob. “I will.”

---

As Alex makes his escape, you find yourself once more throwing yourself into the jaws of the lynx.

The drive back to Makarov’s safehouse is quiet, almost peaceful. The scant brightness of the winter sun glints off your dull-eyed gaze. The blood on your hands and clothes dries by the time you pull into the garage, hit the button to the beautiful, pristine apartment that overlooks St. Petersburg. You close your eyes, swallow down the howling voice inside you that screams in anguish at the sin you are about to commit against the man you once loved, and somehow have been taught to love still.

There’s no guards at Makarov’s door, and it makes you falter unexpectedly. Even so, you cautiously tread inside, the knife in your grip concealed in the sleeve of your blood splattered coat. The smell of food wafts from the kitchen, and as you step inside you see him at the stove, tending to something mouthwatering. It’s only then that you catch sight of the set table, the flowers in a vase, the fine silverware and white napkins set just so.

“Welcome back.” He tells you without looking at you, and you notice how nicely dressed he is, pressed shirt sleeves rolled neatly up to his elbows. “Go change. There is a dress for you in the bedroom.”

You don’t move, caught entirely off guard by this...this display of romanticism he never once has offered in the time you’ve known him. It’s sinisterly amorous, deceptively charming in a way designed to unsettle you. It finds its mark, because something inside you squirms with abject, growing discomfort, knowing something is wrong.

It’s then that you see the pistol laying beside him on the counter.

Soviet era, semi-automatic. Nine-millimeter.

“Dinner will be ready soon.” He tells you blankly, still not looking at you, as if he doesn’t even consider you a threat.

The water runs pink in the bathroom. You try to find a way to conceal your knife on your person, but the dress he’s set for you offers little excuse to hide your weapon. Red, the color he adores you in, and your hands fumble as they try to drag the zipper up your spine. When the bedroom door opens you can’t contain a flinch. Yet Makarov is silent as he crosses the room, bare hands sliding the zipper up your spine in a slow, suggestive gesture. When he’s finished, his arms snake around to hold your hips, nose descending to the exposed flesh of your shoulder and tracing along the skin. He breathes in your scent, and you can’t help but ease somewhat at the sinister seduction he offers to you.

“Come eat.” He whispers breathily. “You’ve had a long day.”

His grip on your shoulder is unrelenting as he escorts you to the immaculately set table, popping his chin on his hands as he sits across from you with slow blinking eyes.

You look down at the steak on the fine china. Your stomach clenches in disgust. Poisoned, your mind whispers.

“I’m not hungry.” You whisper, your voice sounding more fearful than you’d hoped.

Makarov huffs a little sound that sounds almost amused.

“Do you think I’d stoop so low as to poison you, Marionette?”

You freeze.

As you look up from the steak to Makarov, as horror dawns across your expression, you realize he knows.

Makarov tilts his head and observes you with a slow, cruel smile.

“My greatest prize.” He purrs. “Come to kill me? How ironic.”

You feel the blood drain from your face. The apartment around you seems to spin dangerously. Heartbeat hammering, you look quickly to the steak knife beside the plate. Yet Makarov follows your gaze, and before you can grab for it he reaches forward with a disappointed little sigh and takes it from your grasp.

“Please, Marionette.” He tells you with false sincerity. “We’re trying to have dinner.”

“Is that what this is?” You ask hoarsely, throat dry. “I could have sworn this is you taking your time to gloat before you kill me.”

“Kill you?” He laughs, eyes sparkling with cruel glee. “Why Marionette, you haven’t even heard my offer yet.”

That makes you pause. You look at him, shoulders rigid, and Makarov’s eyes glimmer like the stars above.

“I’ve known about this farce of yours for a while, beloved.” He tells you, and the low timbre of his voice makes your chest tighten with an aleatory mix of emotion. “I was willing to overlook it as long as you did your job correctly, performed as you were meant to. After all, I’m so very fond of you.”

You spit a curse at him in Russian, and Makarov doesn’t even flinch.

“Of course, now that your friends are getting close to finding us, it is time to look at different options.”

You stiffen impossibly further in your chair, sitting elegantly in your lovely red dress, blood still under your fingernails, staring at the man holding you prisoner with noxious dread.

The smile Makarov gives you is ominously affectionate.

“I’ll give you one last chance, Marionette.” He offers silkily. “I’ll let you live. I can promise no harm will come to you. I won’t make use of your skills, and I won’t force you to kill your allies. You can stay, and you will be safe.”

“Under what conditions?” You ask quietly.

Makarov observes you, unblinking like the lynx painting that hangs above your dreams.

“You will never leave my side again.”

Your heart cracks against your ribs.

Stay with him. Protected, not forced to murder anyone, beside him always.

It’s what you’ve always wanted.

To be at his side, to walk beside him, not two steps back like the weapon he’s made you as. To fall under the wing of his protection and be his, only ever his. To be not his puppet or his tool but as his. Perhaps...even to be loved by him in the way you’ve wanted since the moment he found you.

It doesn’t make any sense. Why spare you? Why keep you beside him when he knows you want to take his life? Why take the risk?

You blink, and suddenly his words make sense. Why else? To keep you only as a shield, as insurance against your allies hunting him down, trying to kill him. Not as his weapon, no, but as leverage. The second Price and the others step too close he’ll hoist a gun to your head, force them to lay down their arms for the cost of sparing you.

In your dream, Price and the others look upon you with despair beyond the sights of the pistol in your grip.

“Stay with me, Marionette.” He purrs, head tilted at you with fixated intent. “Give in, and I’ll keep you safe.”

You swallow, feeling sandpaper scrape at your throat. “As your hostage?” You ask, voice trembling.

Makarov smiles. It looks almost kind.

“As my beloved doll.” He returns sweetly. “Perfect and beautiful just the way you are meant to be.”

You can imagine it. Just as he says, you’d be nothing more than a prize sitting amongst his trophies of war. Clad in beautiful clothes, pristine, at his side as a display of his power over you. Nothing more than a puppet, a captive, his marionette. You’d sit like a lachrymose dove in his golden gilded cage, staring up at the stars and wanting desperately to fly. Wings clipped, you’ll slowly rot until you once more become an empty shell whose only purpose is to love him.

An empty, soulless existence. Worse than the one you’re living in.

Makarov is silent as he waits for your answer, and you look upon him, this man you had once existed for. You remember his passionate embraces, his claiming kisses and soft strokes along your bare body. You remember a time when all you had ever wanted was for him to confess his adoration for you, tell you how beloved you are to him.

You look upon him now, and you see the man who offers a beautiful cage.

“I’m leaving.” You tell him, voice trembling with the strength it takes to speak. “I’m going to leave you, Makarov, and when I do, I’m going to learn to live without you.”

The light of false kindness in his eyes slowly fades to a blank, detached apathy.

“Darling.” He whispers, words low with threat. “You’ll never leave me.”

He reaches for the pistol.

You react entirely on instinct, shove the entire table towards him so it hits him in the stomach. Makarov catches it, but not in time, and he grunts as his features morph into a scowl. You stand so the chair topples behind you, lunge for him just as his hand closes around the gun. You manage to hoist it high and away from you, eyes wild as every instinct inside you roars to life. The skills he’s carved into you, the lessons of the weapon he’s made you, now turn against him in a desperate bid for survival.

Makarov curses at you, and as you follow his motion he drags you across the table, knocks a leg so it falls. You find your footing anyways, use his imbalance to shove him against the too-large windows that overlook St. Petersburg. Makarov rams his head against yours, and it sends you reeling for a moment, grip loosening on his wrist. He shakes it loose, but before he can fire you yell, plant a strike to his arm to buckle it. A shot rings out, and it goes wild, shattering the vase of roses on the kitchen counter.

Makarov grapples for you, his hand closing around the lower half of your face as you pin his arm to the curtains. You bite down so blood fills your mouth, raise a leg between you so you can kick out one of his legs. Makarov falters, and as he does you twist, reaching for the gun once more. Yet Makarov anticipates your movement, and as he rapidly adjusts you manage to only knock the weapon from his hands. It slides across the tiled floor, well out of reach.

In your surprise he catches you off guard, and the world spins around you as he snarls, hoists you and throws you through the glass table.

The impact makes something crunch inside you, broken glass slicing your skin as you fall on your side, pain blossoming brightly in your ribs. It stuns you, the hurt fracturing outwards and robbing the breath from your lungs. The impact rattles you from head to toe, and even as you are winded you try to roll and push yourself up, to face him once more.

Makarov’s hands find you before you get the chance.

He forces you violently onto your back, chest heaving as he leans over you, hands snaking up to grip your neck in a strangulating hold. It takes a moment for your head to clear, but when it does you struggle, choking in pain at the suck of air that doesn’t reach your lungs. Makarov’s thumbs press into your airway as he straddles you, ignoring your flailing hands as they try to scratch at his face. He grabs at them with one hand, struggling for a moment before he hauls both far above your head. It gives you only a moment to breathe before the choking hold returns, starving you of air.

You trash, flail, but with every movement Makarov’s hands seem to press down harder. His eyes stare down above you, mouth a grim set line as he watches the horror and desperation transform your expression.

Black dots threaten your vision, and you feel your strength beginning to fade. The only thing left is the constellations in his eyes, glimmering darkness that you once had looked upon with adoration.

“Vlad...imir-” You wheeze, tears falling.

He blinks, expression faltering.

At your fingertips, a piece of glass.

You stab it into the meat of his palm, loosen his hold as he cries out in pain. He relaxes his grip on you, and without thinking you surge upwards so the killing edge finds its place in his throat.

Blood coats your hands.

Makarov reels backwards, grips at the wound where blood rushes forth. He falls off you, and as he does you suck in a desperate gasp of air, filling your lungs with oxygen and coughing at the crack of your ribs as they seize. Glass digs rips at your dress, embeds itself into your flesh, and even as you rise you cut yourself further still, whimpering until at last you brace beside Makarov’s form.

There’s a wet gush of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, the shard of glass dyed red as it does nothing to stem the flow of blood that stains his collar, puddles on the floor. His hands weakly try to stop it, but he too seems to realize it’s too late. It’s over.

His eyes find yours. Confused, for a moment, but then blinking in a distant realization you don’t understand. He’s weak as he reaches for you, and you expect him to try and grab at you in a last-ditch effort, to take your life so you both tumble down to the fires of hell together.

Instead, his hand strokes a gentle, scarlet path onto your cheek.

You blink down at him, horrified, and Makarov’s eyes blink at you once, twice...

A slow exhale. His hand drops to the floor.

and slowly, the constellations fade.

The divine stars turn dark.

-----

It’s dark when the truck pulls up to the cabin.

Gentle hands shake you awake, coaxing you out of dreams. Your head lolls in your fatigue, but it lifts at the careful encouragement spoken in soft Russian. You yield to it, allow yourself to gently be helped from the passenger seat and onto your feet. There’s a thick blanket tucked around your form, and as you steady yourself you hug it tighter to keep the frigid cold at bay. Your too-large clothes hang loose from your form, and as you take a step forward you sway unsteadily.

Nikolai’s hands land on your shoulders, and you sag into his safety with relief, eyes fluttering with exhaustion.

He keeps you pressed into his side as you’re escorted forward, murmuring in Russian.

“Careful, Солнышко. Easy, I’ve got you.”

You don’t say much, glassy eyes focused more on your socked feet than where you’re being led. You can feel the way Nikolai’s fingers grip you, know from his touch alone how much it pains him to see you as a mere shell of your former self. It hurts somewhere deep inside you, a distant pain hidden by the numbness of the thing you’ve done.

A few more steps, and a door bursts open. You lift your gaze to take in the brightness that spills from the cabin, but it’s overshadowed by the rapid motion of figures quickly moving towards you. There’s a shout, a cry of your name, and the next thing you know you’re being passed from one set of arms to another, pressed into a smothering embrace.

“Soap.” You hoarse.

“Thank God.” He rasps, voice muffled by the blanket surrounding you. “Steamin’ Jesus, hen. We thought, we thought-”

He tenses in alarm as you abruptly sag into him, the strength in your legs giving out. Yet then there’s a second set of arms, and you lift your face towards the scent of cloves and gunpowder.

“Gaz.”

Gaz bends so he can look at your half-lidded eyes. You think you see tears.

“That’s right doll, it’s me.” He tells you, and a hand strokes your face. “We’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Snow crunches under footsteps. A smoke-laden voice. “Get her inside.” Your captain murmurs softly, voice muted. Resigned.

“Price.” You try, twisting to look for him. You see him just off to your side, and his eyes are caught between bitterness and heartbreak, an anger and sadness that you wish you could comfort. You reach for him, but all you manage to do is put yourself off balance, the pain in your hip flaring as you stumble. Gaz yelps as you sink downwards.

A larger set of arms, skeletal gloves. Ghost’s hands scoop under your legs and haul you upwards. You whimper at the pain from the movement, and you feel him gentle at the sound.

“You’re alright, pet.” He offers softly, and you somehow find it in yourself to nod, relax into his hold.

There’s murmurs as you’re carried into the warmth of the cabin, and you hear Price ask something to Nikolai in a low, grave voice, to which Nik merely shakes his head in disbelief.

You’re set near the fire, and the flickering glow warms you though. Someone tucks another blanket around your shoulders, pushes a steaming mug of tea into your hands. You look down at it hazy-eyed, shell shocked and numb, trying once more to tell yourself you’re safe. You’re home.

At last, you look up at them.

“He’s dead.” You announce hoarsely. “I killed him.”

The group is silent. There’s no cheering or cries of triumph. It’s a victory, but it has come at a great cost. Instead, their eyes are sad, bitter, staring at you like looking at an empty, lost soul.

Soap crosses the room first, sits beside you and hauls you gently against his side. It’s a wordless gesture, and you know it’s because there’s nothing he can say. Instead, you lean into him, feel your throat clog with the emotion of finally being held by someone you trust.

“Is Alex safe?” You ask in a wavering voice.

Price nods. You swallow down a sob.

“He came back.” Gaz tells you softly, reaches forward to take the mug from your bandaged, shaking hands and sets it atop the woodstove. “He told us what you did, that you went back by yourself. We...we thought...” He trails off, and you see the pain in his eyes, the way they’re glassy with tears.

“I’m sorry.” Soap offers then, voice cracking, his hand on your shoulder bunching the blanket in his grip. “We should have tried harder, we should have never stopped looking for you, we-”

“It’s not your fault, Johnny.” You tell him gently, with a weariness that sits heavy on your soul. Johnny grows silent, but after a moment he sucks in a breath, rubs at his face vigorously to erase the tears there.

“Johnny’s right.” Ghost offers sorrowfully, and when you look up you see the full extent of his emotions play out across his bare face. “I should have grabbed you in Minsk. I shouldn’t have let them take you.”

The conviction in his voice makes you pause, and you want to tell him it’s not his fault either, that he was just trying to figure out a way where you both made it out unscathed.

“It doesn’t matter.” Price murmurs grimly, bent forward in his chair, staring down at his clasped hands. He looks defeated, head drooping towards the floor. There’s no declaration of triumph in his voice at killing the man they’ve been hunting for years. Not when you’ve come back to them like you are now. He stands, gently pads over to kneel at your feet. You feel something dull stifle your chest as he turns his heartbroken gaze to you. “What matters now is that you survived. You made it out, and you came home to us.”

Home.

Your real home.

It breaks the dam inside you, and you feel your face scrunch before you suck in a gasp, begin to cry with fat, hot tears rolling down your face. Price hushes you, drags you into his arms, and you fold into him with a gasping wail of relief, of grief, of emotions you’ve yet to name. Johnny tucks into you from behind, followed by Kyle, and soon you feel the added weight of Simon wrap around you as well. They hold you, your brothers, listen to you shudder and weep in their arms. You feel them cry with you, grateful and grieving for all that was lost, and the price it cost to return you to them.

You don’t know how long you cry. It feels as if you cry for every single day you were caged, weeping for the time you lost with them, and the things you were forced to do in the time you forgot them. You weep for the lives you took, for the bruises you earned, for the words you believed, and you weep for the thing inside you that will forever remain changed because of it all.

Exhaustion takes hold as you empty yourself of cries, and you’re gently carried to a bed further inside the cabin, where a body, then another, lay down beside you and let you curl into their warmth. You drift to sleep, safe in the arms of those who love you.

As you rest, Nik relays to the others the story you told him- of how you escaped.

You’d taken the pistol Makarov gave you, shot the guards that had come to his rescue, and had driven far out to the other end of the city. Injured, bloodied, in nothing but the dress Makarov had given you, you had run for the better part of a day before finding a way to contact Nikolai. He was the one who had found you collapsed in the dark bushes of a park, hidden amongst the branches like a nestling fawn. There, you’d collapsed into the snow, gripped the spent pistol Makarov had tried to use on you, allowed frostbite to take its hold, and prepared to die.

Instead Nik collected you into his arms and brought you to a safehouse. It was there that he tended to your wounds, to your broken ribs and injured hip from being thrown through the glass table. Bruises litter your right side, a circling of dark coloring around your neck, a welt across your forehead, all things you earned in your bid for freedom. He’d removed the shards still sticking from your skin, had cleaned and dressed your cuts and taken your dress to burn it in his stove. You’d stayed awake throughout, told Nik of the thing you had done. You cried into his arms as you confessed your sins, begged for a forgiveness he could not offer.

He’d held you, kept you safe, and he brought you home to them.

You don’t dream as you sleep in the arms of your brothers.

The rest of the story comes slowly over the next few days as you rest and recover. You’re never left alone, scarcely without someone to lean into, to be held by, and for this you are grateful. Grateful you are too, of the gentleness your friends give you as they care for you. Warm food, hot tea, a place by the fire, clean clothes, and tender hands that redress your wounds. They listen to you as you tell them the story from the beginning, from the day you woke up without a name to the day you earned it back. You tell them of the one named Marionette, the beautiful puppet held by his strings. You tell them of a life that was not yours to control, and of how you escaped.

Johnny sleeps by your side, soothes your restless slumber. Gaz pushes food into your hands and reminds you to eat, to earn your strength back. Ghost gently re-wraps your ribs, murmurs soft praises as you bite down on complaints. Price tucks you into him as you sit on the couch, listening to him read novels you don’t care to know the names of, until you fall asleep once more. You’re cared for, tended to, and the beloved touch of them slowly eases the wounds on your soul.

They cry for you, your friends. Soap weeps into your lap and sobs apologies for being unable to rescue you. Gaz holds you in his arms and cries for the things Makarov did to you, of the ways you were changed by his machinations. Simon looks upon you with tears when you forgive him, forgive all of them for not coming sooner.

When you cry into Price’s arms, finally confess to him that you once loved the man you killed, you feel his silent tears stain your shoulder. He’s quiet, angry, and you know it hurts because it wasn’t him that killed the man who took you from them.

In the days that follow you slowly regain your strength, and you know it will take many months to come before time gently washes away the things you can allow yourself to forget. Your family will stand beside you, protect you and shelter you as you find yourself again. They’ll hold you when the nightmares try to drown you, when you hear his voice in your thoughts and grasp desperately for them. They’ll stay with you as the pain slowly fades, as you learn how to smile again. They listen to the sound of your laughter and scarcely conceal their tears of joy.

It takes days to secure a safe path out of Russia with Nik’s help. In that time you hear how Makarov’s death has changed the world. Without their Copernicus, Russia’s ultra-nationalists flounder. Nik holds you with a soft smile when the others aren’t looking, and thanks you for doing the thing nobody else did. You think maybe you’ve earned an ounce of forgiveness with Makarov’s death.

You dream of him.

In the blue light of his bedroom, with the lynx painting, of soft words in Russian, of how his smile never reached his eyes. You dream of his final act- gently stroking your face, and of the hesitation in his gaze when you called his name in a breathless cry.

It’s a gentle dawn the day you leave Russia. You stand outside swaddled in the borrowed clothes of your friends, looking at the soft blue dawn that draws over the horizon. You think of that morning in St. Petersburg when you asked him how he would die.

“With glory. For Russia.”

You wonder if he loved you, at the very end.

There’s something inside you that remains a fragile, brittle thing. It’s changed by the time you spent with him, by the way he hollowed you out inside. Someday it will heal, will be filled once more by the beloved laughter of those you love, and the tender embraces of those who care for you.

You know that some things will forever remain the same, with the memories that you keep of him.

To the stars, you pray for the day to come soon when his engravings will finally fade.

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---

Thank you for reading Engravings.

[garoujo]

roommates to lovers my beloved ᐡ´ㅠ ‧̫ ㅠ`‍ᐡ

[awoogayanderes]

somehow in every single universe, you and dazai are together.

by mere coincidence, you come across each other’s lives and stay with one another

you’re the reason he does the things he does

you’re the reason why he’s alive but you’re also the reason why he’d take his own life

you’re the reason why he joins the port mafia but you’re also the reason why he leaves

you’re the reason why he became a better person but you’re also the reason why he became the port mafia leader

you’re the reason he’d save other lives for but you’re also the reason why he’d kill anyone for

dazai knows this, dazai knows that you are tethered to him and that he is tethered to you

you two are soulmates since birth, soulmates to death, soulmates beyond death, soulmates.

so when you ask if you two would be together in other universes or worlds, he can’t help but crack a sincere smile before answering yes.

[hopelessbluebird]

Love how Teba sent a feral, battle sick, arsonist after his kid and expected him NOT to come back with a traumatising destiny and knowledge on how to start a fire anywhere anytime

[albino-pony]

If any of you sees an 'audiobook' of "Engraved in your Mind" made by this person (or anyone), just know that I never gave them permission.

[starlitangels]

Ring

@floofdeloop has held a headcanon since before I joined the fandom properly and was still shyly lurking in the tag that mates wear rings so... yeah. 1.8k words (Psst! Zozo, this is the Sam/Darlin’ fluff I was telling you about!)

—

“That’s new,” Sam remarked, nodding down at my hand. I looked down.

“What, the ring?”

“Yeah. You’re not much one for accessorizin’.”

I shrugged. “Not practical when I tend to not get any warning before needing to shift.”

“So what’s with this one?” Sam wound his fingers between mine and raised my hand to his lips, kissing my knuckles.

I shrugged. “Unmarried mates don’t have to wear rings to show they’re mated, but some of them do. I don’t know if you’ve noticed that David does. Ash and Milo too, actually. And all their mates. David’s kinda traditional that way, and... well. You’ve seen the way Ash and Milo fawn over their mates.” I let my eyes fall to the ring. “Guess I just...” I shrugged. “It’s simple, it’s not particularly fancy or expensive but... I like a small display to remind myself that I’m wanted.”

The look in Sam’s silver eyes softened. “Oh darlin’,” he whispered gently, wrapping me up in his arms and holding me close. I still hadn’t gotten over the feeling of safety and comfort that came with being held by someone who was stronger than me, for once. Sure, David was stronger than I was—and Asher might have been too—but I’m pretty sure both David and I would rather kiss a venomous snake than hug each other.

Maybe that wasn’t quite the case anymore, but I still felt less than no desire to hug my alpha.

“Why are you making a whole thing out of this?” I grumbled into Sam’s shoulder.

“Because it means somethin’ to you,” he replied. “So it means somethin’ to me.”

I groaned a little in complaint. “It’s not a big deal.”

Sam chuckled. I felt it in his chest. “I think it is a big deal and you’re pretending it’s not.”

He was right but he didn’t have to say it. I scrunched my nose in irritation, wrapping my arms around him and holding him tight. I felt more than heard his chuckle of amusement as he rested a hand on the back of my head.

“I want you for as long as you’ll have me, darlin’,” he said quietly.

“You may regret that statement later,” I pointed out.

“Not if it’s you.”

—

“Sam! I wasn’t expecting you. What’s up?” Vincent asked the second the door to his house opened. Vincent’s silver gaze clocked Sam nervously picking at his nails.

“I found out yesterday that shifter mates wear rings, and I figured I’d ask for... advice.”

“From me? The guy who was unempowered before he turned?”

“Not on magical culture, dumbass,” Sam retorted. “I... I was thinking about getting one myself. My partner said I didn’t have to, but I... I think it’s important. It’s a big deal to them and they don’t wanna admit it. I’m sure it’d mean a lot to them if I wore one too.”

Vincent’s face split into a wide, bright, gleaming smile. “Ahhh. So you did come to the right guy after all. C’mon inside.” He opened the door wider and beckoned Sam in. Already considering regretting asking Vincent’s advice, Sam crossed the threshold. 

The front door shut behind him with a sense of finality. This was happening. He was committing to this.

Sam Collins of a year ago would have been terrified. Sam Collins of now could not be more determined and excited.

“Okay,” Vincent said as he led Sam into the living room and scooped up a tablet where it had been sitting on the sofa cushions. “My number one priority when choosing rings for any occasion is style. Do you want a beveled edge? What do you want it to be made out of? Durability versus safety. A tungsten ring will shatter before it warps around your finger but it also oxidizes fast and loses its shine. Gold is super malleable so the purer it is, the less likely it’ll retain its shape even though it looks amazing.

“And do you want something engraved on it? Inside? Outside?” Vincent slid a silvery ring with a gold stripe running around the center and passed it over for Sam to inspect. “That one’s cobalt chrome. Same stuff aircraft is made of. It’s durable but maintains its shine. It should also shatter before warping, which is ideal in case your hand ever gets smashed. Look inside the band.”

Sam did as instructed.

Everything 07.10.20 was carved into the inside of the band. Sam scrunched his eyebrows and looked up. “Huh?”

“The promise I made to be with my partner through everything, and the day we met,” Vincent explained. “That’s the only ring I wear every day. All the others are interchangeable. That’s the one I value the most. It’s not the most expensive ring I own by any means, but it means the most to me.”

Sam nodded in understanding. “I see,” he said. He handed the ring back. Vincent slid it back on.

“It mostly comes down to personal preference, but I’m more than happy to go over stuff with you. I have a friend in the city who’s a jeweler if you want something super custom. And I’m sure William has a random assortment of gemstones from throughout the centuries that he’d be willing to let you pick a little jewel from if you want.”

“That might be a little much.”

Vincent shrugged. “Up to you.” He waved the tablet in his hand. “Come sit down. Let’s look at some options.”

Sam sighed and followed his brother to the sofa.

—

The ring I’d started wearing was silicone. It would tear off if I had to shift at a moment’s notice. It wasn’t particularly expensive and I’d bought a bunch of spares.

But I’d started to get used to it. Twisting the simple black band around my finger when I was thinking. Feeling like something was missing when I left the house without it. Given it was silicone and I wasn’t particularly concerned about tarnishing it, I’d fully stopped taking it off for most things and just left it on.

I found myself fidgeting with it while I sat at the pack meeting. I’d tuned David out a while ago without realizing it or meaning to. When my attention span snapped back to the here and now, I blinked hard and shook my head—and caught Asher and Milo both casting “furtive” glances toward my hand. Irritating as it would be to put up with their teasing, I didn’t take the ring off. Nor did I hide it with my other hand. Just kept twisting it around my finger. If either of them had a problem with me wearing it, I’d beat them both up.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I slipped it out of my pocket and peeked at it, trying to be subtle and unobtrusive.

Sam: Meet me at mine after your meeting?

I replied with a thumbs-up emoji. A promise that I’d send a more adequate reply later but acknowledging I got his text.

I spent the rest of the meeting antsy. Sam probably just wanted to relax with me, but part of me was nervous. Had something gone wrong? Was he okay? His clan? My pack? Had he heard something from William from one of William’s hundreds of contacts? My thoughts did nothing but spiral as I sat there, staring through the whiteboard David was standing in front of.

Once the meeting was over, I didn’t stay to chat. I definitely avoided Asher and Milo as they tried to head me off on my way to the door. I was a bit quicker than both of them and slipped out.

Swinging a leg over my motorbike, I gunned its engine and left the security office behind.

Twenty minutes later, I was shoving the kickstand with my foot in Sam’s driveway. He was sitting on the porch, long legs extended down the stairs, leaning back on his hands. Cowboy boots, faded jeans, plaid flannel unbuttoned over a T-shirt. The usual.

“Everything okay?” I asked, yanking my helmet off. Trying not to look frazzled. Years of emotional suppression left me pretty good at sounding unbothered.

“Everythin’s fine, darlin’,” Sam said.

“Just wanna chill?”

He shrugged. “Little more’n that,” he said. He sat up properly so he wasn’t leaning back on his hands anymore and beckoned me to come sit beside him. I did, letting him wrap his right arm around my shoulders.

“What do you mean?”

“I wanted your opinion on somethin’.”

“Okay?”

He brought his left hand in front of him, palm up like he wanted me to put my hand on top of it.

But there was a ring on his finger—the same finger I wore mine on.

I took his hand in both of mine and raised it closer to my face for thorough inspection.

It was a metal ring inset with some sort of stone around the middle. David’s was similar, but the secondary ring—the inset—on David’s was a dark, rich wood. This was a clear stone with milky, translucent veins and flecks of blue.

The metal was bright and silvery, but it didn’t look like silver. It was... too pale to be silver. “Wait—is this platinum?” I asked.

Sam didn’t answer immediately. “Part of it,” he said. “The other part’s stone.”

I shot him a look that said, “No duh, Sherlock,” and then smiled. “I figured that much out. Moonstone, if I’m not wrong.”

“Surprised you guessed.”

I shrugged. “I was one of those rocks-and-minerals kids. Got a lot of guff from Ash for always having a cool rock I found in my pocket or my backpack.” I looked back down at the ring. “It’s beautiful. But—I mean—you didn’t have to. I—I just got mine as a reminder to myself.” Only Sam being sweet could make me fumble with my words like a nervous teenager. “I mean—this looks really expensive and—”

“Darlin’,” Sam interrupted. “It’s important to you, so it’s important to me. And I like this one.” He set his hand that was around my shoulders on the back of my head. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I like the reminder that I’m wanted too?”

I blinked a single tear out of my eye that I hadn’t realized was welling up. I raised a hand to wipe it off but Sam caught my wrist, encouraging me to just let it slide down my face.

“I love you, Sam,” I said.

He gave me a gentle smile. “I love you too, darlin’. So much.” He pressed his lips to my temple. “And the ring wasn’t as expensive as you think.”

—

Tag list: @zozo-01 @thegoldenlittlerose @mainhoesstuff 

[minimitchell]

does it ever randomly hit anyone else that ben and callum really are married. like they’re husbands.