#flatline guide

[byghostface]

Rq who is nika? Had some art tagged daminika cross my dash and I am Intrigued

Nika alias Flatline, a character created by writer Joshua Williamson and artist Gleb Melnikov, was introduced in Robin(2021) run—where Damian Wayne as the fifth Robin running off home attended the Death tournament on Lazarus Island.

Nika is the first opponent Damian faces on the island and she proceeds to take his first life with her signature move— ripping his heart out with her bare hand (no one actually dies, people would have three lives during the tournament on the island).

She is a Russian metahuman girl and a martial arts fighter, with the power to absorb the skills of people who had died in her hands.

Flatline(+Damian) arts from Gleb Melnikov's Twitter(X)

Here's the reading guide/list of her! Made by @/ redhoodtwt on Twitter(X)

Reading order↓ (text ver.)— Mainly appears in Robin(2021), Lazarus planet: Next evolution, and Batman and Robin(2023), with some mentions and cameos in other/different issues

Rebirth- Robin(2021)#1-8, Robin(2021)Annual#1, Robin(2021)#9~11, Deathstroke Ink.#7, Robin(2021)#12

Shadow War- Shadow War: Alpha #1, Robin(2021)#16~17, Batman vs. Robin#2, Lazarus planet: Next evolution#1

Dawn of Dc- Free comic book day 2023: Dawn of dc- Knight Terrors#1, Batman and Robin(2023)#1, Batman and Robin(2023)#6~7…(current ongoing run)

Another Flatline summary and reading list made by @/ batquinz on Twitter(X)

And here's a quick rundown of Nika and Damian's relationship thread on Twitter(X) Made by @/ nightwingstyles

Some daminika covers that I love! (they have a lot of ship names, and the most popular ones are: daminika, flamian, gravebird🪦🕊️, graverobin🪦🐦, birdskull🐦💀)

Cover art- Robin(2021)#2/ #7/ #15(1:25 variant cover)- Artist: Gleb Melnikov/ Simone Di Meo/ Mario Foccillo

And currently, Nika is in the new issue of Batman and Robin(2023)# 7!

Thank you for reading and taking an interest in Nika!! Hope you will like her as an amazing cool character!!!💀♥️

[ccynophobia]

i get a new follower;

…the first thing on their blog is a girl with a huge strap on.

[eldritchships]

Based on the comments on the romance chart I've learnt that many of you would in fact go for the extra hard and lengthy romance route for Flatline

[sixeyesonathiel]

yearning nerdjo x shy reader, fluff & humor.

a/n: this is so embarrassing bc this is literally how miserable i am irl.

satoru is down so bad it’s starting to rot his brain. like. visibly. tangibly. his leg’s bouncing under the desk like it’s on fast-forward, the heel of his sneaker thudding rhythmically against the floor tile like a metronome set to desperation. his fingers are drumming nonsense rhythms onto his scratched-up laptop case like he’s trying to decode the algorithm of your absence—tap-tap-tap, pause, tap-tap, like morse code for where is she. his eyes—red-rimmed behind silver-rimmed glasses with one slightly crooked arm—keep flicking to the lab’s entrance like he expects you to materialize in a puff of soft pink mist.

his hoodie’s three days old, and it shows: the sleeves stretched from him pulling them over his hands, the fabric bunched at the elbows. his white t-shirt underneath has a tiny ketchup stain from wednesday’s lunch. the keychain you gave him—blue enamel cat, chipped at the ear—dangles off his pencil pouch like a beacon. his code’s running fine. tabs are hyper-organized. debugging queue nonexistent. he even fixed suguru’s late-night python spiral that nearly bricked the department printer and summoned the wrath of the IT gods.

but it doesn’t matter. because you’re not here.

he’s been looking. he’s always looking.

in the hallway, in the cafeteria, in the reflection of vending machine glass. he leans his stupid giraffe neck around corners like he’s expecting a spontaneous reveal. he scopes out lecture halls he’s not even enrolled in, notebook in hand just in case. every time he hears the soft shuffle of flats in the distance, his head snaps toward it like a bloodhound. he’s started recognizing the rhythm of your steps versus every other pair on campus. your soft-soled shoes tap lighter. more deliberate. his ears practically perk up when he hears a backpack zipper. once he dropped his pen and nearly dislocated his neck looking up, thinking it was you.

and every time it’s not you, his expression glitches—eyes dimming, mouth tightening like his soul just flatlined. it's pathetic. it's art.

he sits sideways in group study like he’s waiting for you to pass by the window. laptop askew. chair half-turned. a ridiculous image—this lanky nerd in a grey hoodie and cargo pants with one pant leg caught in his sock, white wires tangled in his ears and dark under-eyes that make him look like he’s been stress-coding in a cave. (he hasn’t slept. not really. he keeps replaying the way you laughed that one time you dropped your highlighter. it echoes like holy scripture.)

his glasses are smudged. he keeps adjusting them, even when they’re fine. his knuckles are red from resting his chin on them too hard. he keeps fidgeting with your keychain when he’s not typing. thumb brushing over the worn metal, like he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he doesn’t keep touching it. a nervous tic disguised as reverence.

“dude,” suguru says, from two monitors over, voice dry, hair tied up in a lazy half-bun. “you haven’t scrolled in thirty minutes.”

suguru’s slouched in his chair, hoodie sleeves rolled to the elbows, rings tapping against his thermos. his screen's frozen on a meme. he hasn’t blinked in five minutes.

“maybe she’ll walk by,” satoru murmurs, eyes locked on the frosted glass wall outside the lab, hunched forward with his chin on his palm, as if willing your silhouette into existence.

“you said that an hour ago.”

“maybe she’s shy today. maybe she’s building up the courage. maybe she dropped her student ID and fate’s guiding her back here. what if the universe is lining up our pixels right now, suguru? what if—”

“she’s shy every day.”

“and that’s what makes it beautiful,” satoru sighs, dreamily. he stares out the window like a man in a tragic romance film. “she’s mysterious. like a foggy horizon at sea. you don’t know what she’s thinking, and that’s the best part. she could be plotting world domination. she could be drawing cats in the margins of her notes. it’s art.”

suguru groans into his hoodie sleeve.

and then like a glitch in the matrix. like god reached down and clicked “unmute” on the simulation—you pass by.

no footsteps. no warning. just a blur of your jacket sleeve on his left peripheral, and he flinches so hard he nearly spills his water bottle. the water sloshes. he slaps the bottle upright. you’re so close. the scent of your shampoo—jasmine and something warm, like vanilla and late-night bookstores—floods his senses. his head whips around before he can even think, pupils blown wide behind his crooked glasses, mouth parted like a cartoon character seeing a pie on a windowsill.

your gaze meets his.

not one second.

two.

wide eyes. startled. curious. the slope of your brows twitch upward slightly, and your lashes flutter—a beat too long, like a reflex or a stutter in time. your lips part just slightly, like you meant to say something—but don’t. your fingers tug at your sleeve, pulling it over your knuckles in that way you always do when you’re flustered. a half-step pause. your mouth twitches, just barely, like you might’ve smiled. then your gaze drops, your shoulders stiffening as your pace quickens, like you’re embarrassed to have looked at all. your fingers curl tighter around your binder. there’s a sticker on it he hadn’t noticed before.

and that’s it. you’re gone.

satoru slaps both hands over his face and releases a sound that is one part gasp, one part squeal, one part glitching modem.

“oh my god,” he whispers. “oh my god, she looked at me. TWO SECONDS, suguru. TWO. that’s statistically significant. that’s a scientific breakthrough. that’s… that’s eye contact with depth. it had nuance. it had arcs.”

“you’re not well.”

“no, listen. the way her eyes flickered? like she wasn’t sure if she should look away or say something? and her lashes twitched, just a bit. like she was nervous. did you see her hand? she pulled her sleeve down. she only does that when she’s flustered. i know. i’ve studied her. i’ve got timestamps. i’ve got spreadsheets.”

“you’re insane.”

“i’m in love.”

satoru slumps in his chair, limbs sprawling dramatically, glasses askew. he exhales like he’s just seen god. his knee knocks into the desk. his sock has a hole in the toe. the corner of his laptop screen catches the light and reflects a faint shimmer onto the ceiling, and it feels, to him, like stars. his fingers are still frozen mid-air, clutching the keychain like it’s the only proof the moment happened.

“i’m gonna marry her,” he says. “drop out, become a florist. i’ll propose with baby’s breath and carnations—those are her favorites, don’t ask me how i know. maybe a little lavender tucked in. something gentle. delicate. a bouquet that says ‘i know your soul.’”

“you need help.”

“i’ve named our cats already. ichigo, milky, and toblerone. toblerone’s the shy one. milky’s chaotic evil. ichigo wears a little red bow tie. we’ll live in a little flat above a cafe and drink lavender lattes. she’ll wear soft sweaters. she’ll draw comics on sticky notes. i’ll iron her lab coat. it'll be perfect.”

“she doesn’t even know your name.”

“wrong,” satoru says smugly, lifting a single finger like he’s presenting hard evidence. “she knows me as the guy who always looks left and right like a cracked-out meerkat. that’s recognition. that’s brand awareness.”

“romantic.”

“don’t be jealous just ‘cause she didn’t look at you.”

“she’s cute, i guess.”

“NO.” satoru jolts upright like he’s been electrocuted. “DON’T even THINK about perceiving her. your eyes? shut them. your brain? turn it off. opinions? delete them. she’s too good for this world. if anyone’s going to romanticize her, it’s me. with accuracy. and passion. and nuance. only i’m allowed to think she’s cute. and i do. constantly. it’s my full-time job.”

“fine, jeez.”

“say she’s ugly, then.”

“what?? no??”

“exactly. you can’t. because she’s perfect. ethereal. a goddess walking among midterms and overpriced coffee. and she blinked slow, too, did you notice? it was like… like a signal. maybe morse code. she’s trying to tell me something. she’s reaching out. spiritually. through kinetic energy and eye twitches.”

suguru closes his laptop with the tired resolve of someone preparing for battle.

satoru, still glowing with delusion, goes back to staring at the glass wall, head tilted, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“she looked left,” he murmurs. “that’s my side. she always looks left.”

he swears his hoodie still smells like you.

[solxamber]

I loved the platonic Malleus helps Yuu get Idia fic and I was wondering if you could so something similar with Cater or Trey or Vil or Leona or Floyd? You can choose, anything like that would be amazing my liege.

you asked and i answered, i love this concept so much

Fae Courtship 101: Romance for Dummies || Floyd Leech

In your desperation to confess to Floyd, you made the grave mistake of recruiting Malleus for help—now the only thing you’re courting is death.

For reasons beyond mortal comprehension—beyond your own comprehension—you have fallen for Floyd Leech.

Floyd. Leech.

The man who treats personal space like a suggestion, bites people for fun, and once chased a first-year across campus while laughing like a slasher villain because he was “bored.”

The man who once tried to sell you to Azul in exchange for a really nice hat. The man who could, at any given moment, be contemplating something as simple as “what’s for lunch” or something as horrifyingly chaotic as “what if I threw the prefect off the third-floor balcony to see how they bounce?”

It’s a bad idea. Objectively, scientifically, in every single way, this is a mistake.

Grim and Deuce have been holding interventions. The ghosts of Ramshackle have been looking at you like they’re already preparing to welcome you into their ranks. You're rapidly losing the moral high ground in any discussion about Ace’s bad life choices.

But the heart wants what it wants. And unfortunately, yours wants to make terrible decisions.

Which brings you here, pacing alongside Malleus Draconia, crown prince of Briar Valley, king of ominous nighttime strolls, and your designated therapist for the evening.

“I just—I don’t get it, Malleus!” you wail, gesturing wildly as you stomp through the moonlit campus. “I should like normal people! People who don’t consider attempted murder to be a love language! I should have instincts!”

Malleus hums in thought. “Hm. Concerning.”

“Exactly!” You throw your hands up. “I should be running in the opposite direction! Instead, I’m over here, wondering if he’d bite me gently if I asked nicely!”

Malleus stops walking.

You stop too, looking over to see him gazing at you with a carefully neutral expression. There’s a brief silence. A beat. And then, slowly—gravely—he nods.

“Understood.”

You blink. “...Huh?”

He turns to you with the air of a man who has just accepted a sacred duty. “You have chosen a perilous path, Child of Man.”

You stare. “I—??"

“But fear not,” he continues, raising a hand to his chest in solemn promise. “I shall help you attain your romance.”

Silence.

A breeze rolls through the courtyard. A crow caws in the distance. Somewhere, Grim is experiencing a deep sense of foreboding.

“…You’re going to what?”

Malleus nods again, expression determined. “Leave it to me.”

You suddenly have so many regrets.

Grim looks at you the way a doctor looks at a patient about to flatline. Gravely. With pity. With deep concern for the irreversible damage.

"Okay, listen hench-human, I’ve let a lot of things slide, but this? This I gotta ask—do you hate life that much?"

You blink at him. "What?"

Grim waves his little paws dramatically. "First, you fall for Floyd of all people. That’s already a death wish. And now, you’re actually listening to Malleus for dating advice? What’s next? You gonna ask Kalim for tips on financial responsibility?!"

You open your mouth. Close it. You… okay, you really have no defense. But before you can say anything—

There’s a knock at the door.

And you don’t even have to guess who it is.

You open it to find Malleus standing there, his expression set in earnest determination. In his hands is a book that looks older than your grandmother. The kind of ancient tome that looks like it holds dark secrets, forbidden spells, possibly even a recipe for soup made from human souls.

Standing right next to him, grinning like a goblin, is Lilia.

You feel your soul leave your body.

"Ah, Child of Man," Malleus intones. "I have found it. The ultimate guide to fae courtship rituals. You shall use these techniques to win the heart of your eel."

"Oh, this is gonna be fun," Lilia cackles. "Do you know how long it's been since I’ve seen these methods in action? The devastation! The absolute carnage!"

You stare at them. You stare into the abyss. The abyss grins back.

Grim looks at you, his face a perfect picture of someone watching a loved one make the worst life decisions in real time.

"You’re really doin’ this, huh?"

…You sigh. "Yeah. I’m really doing this."

You are simply minding your own business, walking to class like a normal person, when you spot Floyd approaching from the other end of the hallway.

As always, you smile at him, because you have fully accepted your fate as a fool with horrible taste in men. You expect him to either grin back or threaten to suplex you for fun—classic Floyd things.

What you do not expect is the sudden sensation of a phantom hand shoving you forward.

And just like that, gravity wins.

You crash into Floyd with all the grace of a drunk goose, smacking into his chest with enough force to send both of you stumbling. Floyd barely moves (because he is built like a problem), but you rebound like a cartoon character, nearly falling over before his hands land heavily on your shoulders.

For a brief, dizzying moment, you stare at him.

Then, slowly, your brain remembers what just happened, and you whip around—

Only to see Malleus standing at the end of the hallway, looking extremely pleased with himself.

He gives you a smug, regal nod.

He is also holding a book titled "How to Romance for Dummies."

You are going to throw hands with a literal prince.

Before you can implode, Floyd’s grip on your shoulders tightens. You turn back to him, only to find him looking entirely too displeased about being your impromptu landing pad.

“Shriiiimpy,” he drawls, squinting at you like a judge in a courtroom drama. “What’s up with that, huh? Tryna tackle me first thing in the morning?”

“I—I tripped!” you stammer, trying to collect the shreds of your dignity. “I didn’t mean to crash into you, I swear!”

Floyd hums, unconvinced. Then, after a beat of consideration, he shrugs.

“Aaah, whatever.” His fingers dig just slightly into your shoulders, a slow grin stretching across his face. “You still ran into me, soooo… you owe me.”

You blink. “Wait. Owe you?”

“Mhm!” His grin widens, teeth sharp. “Now ya gotta hang out with me today.”

You blink again. Slowly. You could argue, but you have a sneaking suspicion that it won’t get you anywhere, and honestly? Maybe this is exactly the opening you need.

Maybe… Malleus isn’t that bad at this.

You take that last thought back immediately.

Because not even a day after that whole hallway fiasco, Malleus finds you again, pulls you aside with all the gravitas of an ancient ruler about to bestow divine wisdom, and insists that, in order to properly court Floyd, you must—

Compliment Floyd’s strength three times. At first, you thought, okay, easy enough, I can just tell him he’s strong and call it a day. But then—THEN—Malleus, in his infinite wisdom, handed you a quill and parchment and declared, “It must be in verse. Poetry carries the weight of true devotion.”

And now, here you are.

Standing in front of Floyd Leech. Holding a piece of paper with the most cringe-inducing attempt at poetry you've ever written in your life.

Floyd, to his credit, was already giggling the moment you approached with a look of sheer suffering. But when you clear your throat and attempt to actually read the thing—

"Oh mighty Floyd, with hands so bold—"

He just. Loses it.

Absolutely wheezing, doubling over, practically using you as a support beam to keep himself upright.

You glare at him and continue, determined to power through:

"A force unmatched, a tale retold—"

Floyd: "PFT—!!!"

He’s straight-up crying at this point. Tears. You swear you hear Jade laugh somewhere in the distance.

You don’t even make it to the third compliment. You just turn on your heel and walk away before your soul crumples in on itself like a dying star.

Malleus, watching from afar, sighs in clear disappointment. “You lack dedication,” he murmurs, shaking his head like an elder watching the youth fail at life.

You absolutely regret everything.

You don't know why you keep letting Malleus give you advice. Actually, no—that's a lie. You do know. It's because the second he heard you liked Floyd, his eyes lit up like he’d just been given a personal quest by the divine forces of romance, and now he refuses to rest until your love is secured.

Unfortunately, this means you are currently locked in yet another horrendous discussion about fae courting rituals.

"Scent-marking is a vital step in courtship," Malleus declares with the kind of grim authority that should be reserved for battlefields, not this. "He must recognize you as his."

You blink at him. "Oh, like giving him my hoodie or something?" That’s normal. That’s doable. That’s the kind of thing people do when they like each other, right? You’ve seen couples swap sweaters before. Maybe Malleus is finally onto something not-insane.

Malleus shakes his head gravely. "No. You must present him with something you have personally scented. Ideally, by rolling upon it."

Silence.

Rolling upon it.

You stare at him. He stares back. Completely serious.

You try to process what he’s just suggested. What he has just, with full sincerity, told you to do.

"Malleus."

"Yes?"

"You want me to roll around on an object like a dog and then give it to Floyd."

"Precisely."

You briefly consider just walking into the ocean.

It takes twenty full minutes to talk him down from this absolute lunacy and convince him that simply giving Floyd a sweater you’ve worn will do the job just fine. He looks at you the way a disappointed coach looks at a failing athlete.

"If you are not dedicated to the craft," he mutters, "you cannot expect great results."

You pretend you don’t hear him.

Fast forward to the next day, and you are sitting in class next to Floyd, who is draped over his desk in a deep and powerful boredom coma.

You pull out the sweater and awkwardly nudge it toward him.

"Here."

Floyd immediately perks up. Dangerously interested. He tilts his head, peering at the sweater like you’ve just handed him a rare treasure.

"Eh? What's this?"

"It's mine. You can have it," you say, trying to play it cool, despite the fact that your entire soul is trying to flee your body from embarrassment.

Floyd picks up the sweater and—without hesitation—presses his face into it.

You almost die. Right then and there. Instant expiration.

He leans back in his chair, grinning way too wide. "Heheh~ You smell nice, shrimpy~"

You barely manage to hold onto your composure. You are barely hanging on.

Malleus, watching from the hallway, narrows his eyes and mutters, "It is not the worst effort... but it lacks the impact of true commitment."

You ignore him. You ignore everything. You're just grateful that—for once—this wasn’t completely unhinged, and that Floyd somehow seems to like it.

"Nothing says romance like a meal made with your own two hands!" Lilia declares, slamming an ancient, definitely cursed cookbook onto the table.

You blink down at it. The title is in some language that makes your vision swim just looking at it. The edges are charred, the pages stained with substances you’re 70% sure are not food-safe, and Malleus—Malleus Draconia himself, looks a little unsure.

That should have been your first hint.

But you? A fool. An idiot. A desperate, love-struck buffoon? You press forward.

“Alright,” you sigh, rubbing your temples, already regretting this. “What ingredients do I need?”

Lilia beams, flipping to a page that looks like it came from an alchemist’s horror novel.

"Let's see! We’ll need:"

• Moonshade Truffle,

• A pinch of Sablethorn Dust,

• Three drops of Evernight Basilisk Extract,

• Seven Tears of a Joyful Banshee,

• And a Love-Smitten Fire Spirit’s Breath!

…

You stare.

"Lilia."

"Yes, beastie?"

"These sound like potion ingredients."

"Oh-ho!" Lilia chuckles, waving a hand. "You humans always get so caught up in technicalities. But what is cooking if not a kind of magic?"

…No. No, this is actual magic. You are not making a love potion, but this sure as hell sounds like one.

But, like the fool you are, you go along with it. You spend far too much money (your entire savings) at Azul’s Most Definitely Not a Scam Emporium for all of these ridiculous ingredients. He knows you’re up to something dumb. He does not care. He simply profits.

And now, here you are. In the Ramshackle kitchen. Grim watches from a safe distance behind a chair. Malleus stands off to the side with his arms crossed, looking like he is rethinking his life choices. And Lilia, that menace, is watching you mix the ingredients like a proud mentor.

Everything is going fine. Suspiciously fine.

And then—

"Alright, time to bake it!" Lilia claps his hands. "It says here to bake at 350 for 20 minutes!"

You nod. This is reasonable.

"However!" He flips the page. "In the olden days, we used a slightly different method."

Malleus frowns. Your stomach drops.

"Instead of 350 for 20 minutes…" Lilia hums. "It says here—750 for 10!"

…

"What."

"Don’t be shy! Give it a try!" Lilia gestures for you to do it.

Malleus shifts, looking like he wants to intervene. Grim is slowly backing out of the room. You ignore all of this.

Because you are an idiot.

You turn the oven to 750. You shove the pan inside. You watch in real-time as your dignity burns.

The oven makes a sound ovens should not make.

Something explodes. The smell is indescribable.

When you pull the pan out, it is a pile of pure, blackened charcoal.

You are horrified. Malleus looks concerned. Grim looks betrayed.

"Are ya tryin’ to kill me, Henchhuman?!" Grim yells. "I thought we were friends!"

But Lilia? Lilia is nodding approvingly.

"Ah," he sighs, nostalgic. "Just like how I remember it."

…This man should not be allowed in kitchens.

But you, an absolute buffoon, take the charred remains of your so-called courtship offering and bring it to Floyd anyway.

You find him in the cafeteria, dump the plate in front of him, and sit down. Defeated.

Floyd stares. Pokes it with a finger.

And then, he looks at you.

With pity.

"Shrimpy." His voice is gentle. You feel a chill of fear. "You goin' through hard times or somethin'?"

…

You die inside.

Your cooking was so bad that Floyd Leech—FLOYD LEECH—was feeling sympathy for you.

You have never known such shame.

You sit there, staring into the distance like a soldier who’s seen too much. A philosopher pondering the futility of existence. A person who has scent-marked a sweater and written poetry at the behest of a fae prince who thinks you’re simply not dedicated enough to the craft of love.

You are contemplating life, death, and the many, many decisions that have led you here.

And then, Jade sits beside you.

You don’t even flinch. You should. You should be wary. You should immediately launch yourself into the bushes and prepare to be interrogated in some terrifying eel version of psychological warfare. But you don’t. Because you have nothing left.

So you just turn your head slowly, look at him with the dull, hollow eyes of someone who’s really going through it.

Jade looks positively delighted.

"My, my," he says, in that syrupy, knowing voice of his. "What could possibly put you in such a state?"

You inhale. Exhale. Consider your options. Death is looking really attractive.

"I don’t want to talk about it."

Jade hums, obviously entertained, but then—then—he decides to make it worse.

"You know," he muses, "even Floyd has started to get concerned."

You blink.

"…Huh?"

"Oh, yes," he says, resting his chin on his hand, enjoying every second of this. "Between the odd gifts, the unusual behavior, and your general aura of suffering, even he has begun to notice. Which means you are being particularly obvious, because he rarely pays attention to anything that isn't entertaining."

You don’t even have the energy to be embarrassed.

"What’s your point?" you mutter.

Jade smiles like a predator about to land a final, devastating strike.

"You should simply tell him. Because this…?" He gestures vaguely at your soul-deep despair. "This is rather pitiful."

You stare.

You process.

And, somewhere in the depths of your heart, you realize he’s right.

You are in shambles.

Like, properly, horrifically, soul-crushingly in shambles. You’ve been through so much. You've spent weeks engaging in increasingly deranged behavior at the behest of a well-meaning yet hopelessly out-of-touch fae prince. You've endured ritual poetry readings, scent-marking disasters, and a culinary war crime that left you emotionally and financially bankrupt.

And now, standing in front of Floyd Leech—the very cause of your descent into insanity—you finally snap.

"I LIKE YOU!" you blurt, voice cracking like a cheap mirror. "I LIKE YOU AND I'VE BEEN ACTING LIKE A LUNATIC BECAUSE MALLEUS SAID I HAD TO FOLLOW FAE COURTSHIP RITUALS AND I—" your voice hiccups, borderline hysterical, "—I THINK I LOST A PIECE OF MY SOUL WHEN I TRIED TO BAKE THAT DAMN CAKE BUT IT'S FINE, BECAUSE APPARENTLY THAT'S JUST WHAT LOVE IS??? AND I DID IT ALL FOR YOU, FLOYD, BECAUSE I AM A DUMB IDIOT WHO LIKES YOU FOR SOME REASON."

You gasp for air, because this has been a lot.

And Floyd?

Floyd is laughing.

Not just a chuckle, either. No, this menace of a man is bent over, hands on his knees, actually wheezing with mirth as if you’ve just performed the comedy routine of the century. His shoulders shake. His teeth glint in the light. He looks absolutely delighted.

And you? You just stand there, a broken, hollow shell of a human being.

"You should’ve just told me, Shrimpy~!" he cackles, wiping a tear from his eye. "I like you too, y’know?"

...

There’s a moment of silence as your poor, battered brain struggles to process this information.

"WHAT."

Floyd grins, like you haven’t just endured weeks of psychological torment at the hands of a dragon prince. "I mean, you’re fun! You make me laugh, and I like squeezin’ ya. ‘Course I like ya!"

Before you can even begin to formulate a response, he lunges forward and grabs you in a hug so tight that your ribs beg for mercy. You are crushed, consumed, engulfed in the sheer force of his affection. Your spine may never recover, but at this point, what’s another injury to your dignity?

And honestly? You don’t care.

Because he likes you.

Floyd likes you back.

Which means—you realize, tears pricking your eyes in relief—you never have to perform another insane fae courtship ritual again.

No more humiliating poetry. No more dubious scent-marking. No more playing Russian roulette with your digestive system in the name of romance. You did it. You won.

And then Floyd leans down, cups your face, and kisses you.

It's a little rough, a little overwhelming, but you melt into it anyway, because Sevens, you earned this.

Somewhere in the distance, Malleus Draconia watches from the shadows.

Arms crossed, nodding sagely, he looks upon his greatest success.

"My expert techniques," he murmurs, pride swelling in his voice, "have secured my child of man their eel."

Behind him, Lilia wipes an imaginary tear.

"Beautiful," he sighs.

Masterlist

[rafesbuzzcutseason]

chasing city lights

chapter 12 - is that a yes?

synopsis: you move to new york to start fresh, hoping to find comfort in the city’s atmosphere. that’s when you meet sarah cameron, where she takes you to a concert and you catch sight of the lead band member, rafe cameron. it only takes a moment for you to realize you’re captivated by him. as sarah helps you navigate your new life in the city, you start to get pulled deeper into rafe's world—the music, the fame, the chaos. the more you get to know him, the more you realise that rafe is not just the rock star he seems to be. he’s wrestling with his own demons, and the last thing he needs is someone like you getting close.

masterlist

cw: language, so fluffy i can't

i recommend listening to flatline by 5SOS while listening to this chapter heheh

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the clock finally said 8pm, and you heard your doorbell ring as your heart fluttered in anticipation.

you walked to the door and opened it to a grinning rafe, holding you a bouquet of flowers and looking handsome in a black shirt and trousers.

"well look at you," he looked you up and down, "you look amazing."

"not as good as you." you replied as he pulled you in for a soft kiss, slow and deliberate, sending a rush of heat through you.

"you’re making it hard to leave," he whispered against your lips, his fingers still brushing over your skin as if he couldn’t get enough of the feel of you.

you chuckled softly, stepping back to take the bouquet of flowers from his hand. "don’t worry, you’ll get your chance later," you said, your voice teasing.

he grinned, a dangerous smile that always made your heart race. "i like the sound of that." with a wink, he offered you his arm which you took willingly, walking towards the car waiting.

the car soon pulled up to a cozy restaurant, tucked away in a quieter part of the city. it was intimate, the kind of place where the outside world seemed to disappear.

"you’re full of surprises, aren’t you? who knew the rafe cameron was such a romantic."

he leaned closer, his lips grazing your ear as he whispered, "you have no idea."

you felt a shiver run down your spine as he opened the door for you, his hand guiding you to the restaurant, leading you to a private booth.

once you were seated, his hand immediately found yours, his fingers curling around yours with a possessive, yet tender, grip.

"so how is the song doing?" you asked.

"a lot better than i thought it would," he said while giving your hand a tight squeeze. "the fans usually go crazy when they see me with a girl, but for some reason you've stolen their heart."

"smooth words cameron for someone that just admitted they'd been spotted with girls." you smirked.

"shut up, you know what i meant." he laughed. “but that’s not what matters right now.”

you raised an eyebrow, “oh? and what matters right now?”

he leaned in a little closer, his voice lowering, "what matters right now is that i’m here with you." he smiled, eyes locked on yours.

your heart fluttered in your chest, and you couldn’t hold back a smile. "i feel the same."

“good,” he whispered, his voice soft. “because i’m not going to let you go that easy.”

you chuckled softly, taking in this side of rafe you know no one else got to witness, and hopefully no one else ever would. "i'm not going anywhere."

the night went on perfectly, the chemistry only heightening through the laughter and happy conversations. it was a dream, talking about everything and nothing, enjoying each others company in the simplest way. his hand never left yours and you found comfort in every touch he made, never being close enough.

when it came to desert, a nervous energy came over rafe. as the waiter placed yours in front of you, it had 5 words written on it. your voice caught in your throat, "rafe" you said quietly.

rafe swallowed, his fingers tapping quickly on the table, "y/n, you're the most beautiful girl i've ever seen in my life," he started, "as soon as i met you that night i haven't been able to stop thinking about you. i don't want to loose you."

your heart fluttered at his words, a rush of warmth spreading through your chest. the vulnerability in his eyes made it clear how much he was putting himself out there. rafe cameron, the guy who had always been guarded and unpredictable, was asking you to be his in the most sincere way you’d ever seen.

for a moment, you didn’t speak, just letting the question sink in. his expression shifted, a mix of uncertainty as his eyes dropped, thinking you were going to say no.

"y/n?" he questioned, a new wave of nerves taking over him.

"of course i will be rafe." you smiled, and a huge grin spread across his lips.

"well thank fuck for that." he joked, bringing you in to place a soft kiss on your lips.

"i meant it when i said i'm not going anywhere." you whispered.

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a/n: well fucking FINALLY everybody cheer i was kicking my feet writing this

taglist: @hoefordrewstarkey @marleymarleymarleymarley @bee-43 @cherryhoneybabe @skye-44 @drewrry @drewrry  @yesterdaysproblemm @pogueprincesa @dylsdaily @rafeysworldim19 @valyrianflower @kaiparkerwifes @judesgfirl @4urvalidation @chillgal135 @drewstarkeyslover @yesshewrites1 @amterasuu@babykhloutofthisworld @blushmimi  @moonywhisp3rs @rafeysworldim19 @marleymarleymarleymarley @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @vcnillafairy @bambii1i @sammyrenae68 

to remain on the taglist you must interact with the story <3

[one-chicago-writer]

Holding On

After a severe allergic reaction, you crash in the ED, Will and the team fight to save you, reviving you after CPR and intubation. When you come around, you realize that home is wherever Will Halstead is.

The emergency department at Gaffney Chicago Medical Center was alive with its usual chaos. Machines beeped in rapid succession, the sound of rolling stretchers filled the air, and the scent of antiseptic clung to every surface. You had been working for over ten hours straight, your energy waning, but the rush of the ERkept you upright.

“You still with us, Y/N?” Maggie’s voice broke through your focus as you adjusted an IV drip in Bed 4. “You’ve been running around like you’re on autopilot.”

You managed a tired smile. “Just another day in the ED.”

She shook her head, handing you a new set of patient orders. “At least grab some water.”

You nodded, but before you could follow through, Dr. Halstead’s voice cut through the department. “Y/N, I need 0.5mg of epi for Bed 6!”

You grabbed the medication, handing it over without a second thought. As you moved back toward the nurses’ station, your stomach growled. Without thinking, you grabbed a donut from the break room counter, taking a quick bite. The moment the taste of peanuts hit your tongue, your heart stopped.

You knew you were allergic. You have always been extremely careful. But exhaustion clouded your judgment, and now the mistake was irreversible. Panic set in as the familiar tightness gripped your throat. Your breath came in short, gasping bursts as your airway swelled shut. You started to stumble towards the nurses station and Maggie, but before you could, dizziness hit like a freight train, and before you could steady yourself, your vision swam. A sharp pain erupted as your head struck the desk as you went down, a sickening crack echoing in your ears, followed by Maggie yelling “Y/N!” before the world went black.

Will’s POV

The moment he heard Maggie yell your name, Will’s heart nearly stopped. He turned, spotting your crumpled form on the floor, blood pooling from a deep gash on your forehead. The pallor of your skin sent a jolt of fear through him.

“Somebody get a crash cart!” he barked, pushing past nurses as he fell to his knees beside you. “Y/N! Can you hear me?” He did a sternal rub with no response. He checked your pulse—rapid and thready. Your breathing was shallow, barely existent.

“Severe anaphylaxis,” Natalie assessed quickly as she joined Will. “We need airway support now.”

Will’s hands trembled as he tilted your chin back to open your airway. “Epi, now! 0.5mg IM, and start an IV for a second dose if needed.”

Maggie was already ahead of him, pushing the medication into your thigh. Ethan secured an ambu bag over your face, but your chest barely rose.

“She’s going into respiratory failure,” Ethan warned. “We need to intubate.”

Will’s throat tightened. “No—wait, she’s coding!”

The monitor wailed as your heartbeat flatlined.

“Starting compressions!” Will’s voice cracked as he pressed his hands to your sternum, counting aloud. “One, two, three—come on, Y/N—five, six, seven…”

“IV access is impossible,” Natalie said, voice urgent. “We need a neck IV.”

“Ethan, get an external jugular line in, now!” Will barked.

Ethan worked fast, inserting the large-bore catheter into your neck. The moment it was in place, Ehtan secured it with practiced ease

“Pushing another round of epi,” Natalie confirmed.

“Charging to 200 joules!” Natalie called, placing the defibrillator pads against your chest. “Clear!”

Will pulled back as your body arched from the shock, but the monitor remained still.

“360,” Will ordered desperately. “One more time.”

“Charging—clear!”

A beat.

Then another.

A weak, erratic rhythm flickered across the screen.

“She’s back,” Ethan confirmed, releasing a breath. “Let’s get her tubed before she arrests again.”

Will reached for the laryngoscope, carefully guiding the ET tube past your vocal cords with some difficulty due to the swelling. “Tube’s in. Confirm breath sounds.”

Ethan listened with his stethoscope. “Equal breath sounds bilaterally. Secure it.”

Will clenched his jaw as he secured the tube, watching the ventilator deliver each breath for you. The worst was over—for now.

Your POV

You surfaced from the darkness slowly, awareness returning in fragments. A deep ache pulsed through your skull, and your throat burned. Something was in your mouth—blocking, suffocating.

Panic surged through you. Your body fought against the intrusion, hands weakly moving toward the tube. Before you could pull, strong hands caught your wrists.

“Y/N, stop.”

Will’s voice.

You tried again, your body instinctively rejecting the tube. The alarms blared.

“Lets get some soft restraints in here,” Ethan instructed, securing your wrists to prevent another attempt. “She’s too agitated.”

“She needs some sedation,” Natalie said. “Pushing 2mg Ativan.”

A haze settled over you as the medication took hold, your body sinking into slumber. Will’s fingers brushed against your wrist, grounding you.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, his voice softer now. “Just rest.”

When you awoke again, the panic was gone. The tube was still in place, but the fear had dulled. Your hands remained bound, though the restraints were loose enough to provide comfort rather than restriction.

Will sat at your bedside, dark circles under his eyes. When he saw you awake, relief softened his expression.

“Hey,” he whispered. “You scared the hell out of me.”

You blinked sluggishly, your muscles too weak to respond.

He squeezed your hand. “We’re gonna take the tube out soon, okay? Just a little longer.”

You nodded faintly, exhaustion pulling at you again.

Hours later, Natalie and Ethan returned. Will was still at your side.

“Alright, Y/N,” Natalie said gently. “Time to get this tube out.”

You swallowed, eager but anxious.

“Deflating the cuff—when I count to three, I want you to cough, okay?” Natalie instructed.

You braced yourself.

“One… two… three.”

A sharp pull. Burning. A choking gasp as the tube slid free, leaving your throat raw. You coughed hard, body shuddering as Will steadied you, his hand warm against your back.

“Easy,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “Just breathe.”

Your throat ached fiercely, every swallow a raw, stinging reminder of the ordeal. Will noticed the discomfort immediately. He reached for a cup of ice chips from the bedside table, scooping a few with a spoon.

“Here,” he said softly, bringing the spoon to your lips. “Small bites.”

You parted your lips, the cool ice melting instantly on your tongue, soothing the burning rawness. Relief was immediate, and you sighed quietly, your heavy eyelids fluttering shut for a moment.

Will gave you another spoonful, watching you carefully. “Better?”

You nodded weakly, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah… thanks.”

He offered a small smile, brushing a damp strand of hair from your forehead. “Anytime.”

By morning, you were cleared for discharge. Will wheeled you toward the exit, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder.

“Ready to go home?”

You turned your head, exhaustion weighing on you and evident in your features from the ordeal, but you mustered a small smile. “As long as you’re coming with me.”

His chuckle was soft, affectionate. “Yeah, I think I can manage that.”

For the first time in days, you felt safe. Because home wasn’t just a place—it was him.

TAGLIST:

@knbubbles @zoeykaytesmom

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

Weaponized | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Part Seventeen

← Previous Chapter Next Chapter →

Words: ~4,000

Series Tags/Warnings: Violence, Trauma, No Hogwarts House, Post Hogwarts, Auror!Sebastian, Auror!MC, Modern AU, Female Reader Insert, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Forced Proximity, Ancient Magic, Mutual Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Betrayal, Reconciliation, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Divergent

Auror Division Headquarters, Medical Wing – London

The world came back in pieces—blinding overhead lights, the sterile scent of potions and disinfectant, the ache of something hollow in your chest.

You weren’t in the field anymore, that much was obvious.

The attic floor was gone, replaced by a too-firm mattress and scratchy sheets. No rubble. No heat. No burning magic surging through your limbs. Just a cold weight in your ribs and the rhythmic, mechanical ticking of a machine keeping track of your vitals.

You blinked slowly. Your tongue felt dry. Your limbs heavier than they should be. You tried to lift your hand but stopped halfway when you saw your skin was bandaged and a pinkish-yellow ooze was seeping through the gauze.

A monitor to your right let out a soft chime, and you immediately heard the sound of footsteps approaching.

The door swung open, and a woman stepped inside, her robes marked with the blue-and-gold crest of the Auror Division’s medical wing. She was older, maybe mid-fifties, with grey-streaked hair pulled into a twist and lines etched into her face from years of sleepless nights and worse.

“Well,” she said with a smile, “welcome back to the land of the living.”

You tried to answer, but your throat caught on the first word. All that came out was a ragged croak.

“Don’t strain yourself,” she added, moving to your bedside. A wand flick summoned a class of water, and she guided it to your lips with care. “Small sips.”

You drank, the cold water scraping your throat raw on the way down, but it helped. Enough that when she asked, “Do you know where you are?” you could rasp back:

“Ministry infirmary.”

“Good.”

She reached for a chart at the foot of the bed and gave it a quick glance, then waved her wand to cast a diagnostic charm across your body.

“You gave us quite the scare,” she said, her tone conversational but not unkind. “You’ve been here for a day and a half. Burn damage to the chest and left shoulder, and neural shock from the arcane surge. Nearly stopped your heart.” She gave you a pointed look. “It took two rounds of defib charms to get it going again. You flatlined. Briefly.”

You didn’t respond right away. The words hung in the air, clinical and distant, sounding like they belonged to someone else.

The healer, her name tag read Madra Fenwick, Senior Medic , continued flipping through the file as she spoke. “Whatever kind of magic you used, it nearly killed you. Burned through your reserves faster than anything I’ve ever seen. You’re still resonating with it, which is why you feel so heavy.”

You blinked slowly, eyes dragging toward the sterile lights above.

“What happened to the others?” you rasped.

“All accounted for,” Madra said. “No casualties. Several injuries, but none life-threatening.” She paused, then added, “Your actions protected one of them. It’s in the report.”

"Which one?" You asked immediately, struggling to sit up despite the sharp pull of pain through your side.

Madra placed a firm hand on your shoulder. “Easy,” she said. “You’ll tear the dressings if you move like that.”

You ignored her concern, heart pounding now. “Which one?” you repeated.

She glanced down at her clipboard. “Lieutenant Sebastian Sallow.” Thank God.

You sank back against the bed, breath stuttering as the tension in your chest released.

The healer made a soft sound in her throat—something between sympathy and warning—as she set the clipboard aside and drew her wand again.

“We’ll need to change your dressings,” she said gently. “Don’t worry, I’ll numb you first. You’ll feel a bit of pressure, but no pain.”

You nodded faintly, barely listening.

He was alive. You hadn’t failed him.

The healer murmured an incantation under her breath, and a warm glow passed over your body. A second spell followed—cooler, like mint under your skin—and the weight in your limbs lightened slightly. Not gone, but bearable.

You still winced when she began unwrapping the gauze from your left arm, the dried edges pulling at tender skin. The raw scent of potion-soaked bandages hit the air. You didn’t look. You weren’t ready to see it.

“No internal injuries, but your burns were… extensive.” she muttered. “You’ll have minimal scarring thanks to a new regeneration salve that hit the market... Though I’ll be honest, if you’d come in five minutes later, we’d be talking about you in past tense.”

You let out a shaky breath, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Five minutes. That was all that had been between you and the end.

You swallowed hard. “How did I get here?”

“Lieutenant Weasley and Lieutenant Sallow brought you in. Honestly you’re lucky they didn’t splinch an arm off given the state you were in. Your magic was so unstable, I’m amazed the wards didn’t reject the jump entirely.” She dabbed some salve on your shoulder. “I’ve seen medics botch less complicated field extractions. Frankly, you’re lucky they’re both as stubborn as they are.”

You stared at the ceiling, throat thick. You could picture it now in flashes, even if the memories weren’t there: the manor collapsing, smoke choking the air, the roar of magic flaring too hot, Sebastian and Garreth dragging you out of the rubble.

“And Sebastian… he’s okay?” you asked.

Madra’s hands paused briefly, then resumed their steady work. “Just some minor smoke inhalation. A simple charm and he was right as rain.”

“...Has he visited?” you asked quietly.

“He was here yesterday. Sat right there.” She nodded toward the chair by your bedside. It was empty now. “Didn’t say much. Just watched over you.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. The ache in your chest wasn’t from the burns this time.

“He was given time off,” she continued, almost as if reading your mind. “I imagine he’s resting at home.”

You nodded faintly, the motion small and stiff against the pillow. “Right. Of course.”

It made sense. Of course it did. He needed rest. Time to recover. The mission had been brutal on all of you. He was probably asleep right now—back in his flat, maybe still smelling like smoke, maybe still hearing the blast in his dreams.

But that didn’t stop the flicker of something selfish and shameful from rising in your chest. A quiet, aching part of you that wanted him here . That wanted to see him, hear his voice, know he was real and whole and close enough to touch.

You swallowed hard. “Did he… leave a message?”

“No.” Madra paused, then added carefully, “But he looked like he wanted to.”

You gave a small nod, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

The healer continued with her work, silent now except for the soft swish of gauze and the occasional murmured incantation as she moved from one dressing to the next.

The charm dulled most of the pain, but not all of it. There was still discomfort, tight pulling across your ribs, an aching heat in your shoulders, the sharp sting of raw skin exposed to air before being covered again.

You bit the inside of your cheek and said nothing. Instead, your mind wandered.

Has he fed Moon?

It was a stupid question, a fragile, human thing to care about in the middle of all this, but it stuck in your head anyway. You’d left her curled up on your bed, dozing, warm and safe and unaware of the storm you were walking into.

Now you didn’t even know if she had any water. 

You could picture her blinking at the door, pawing at the bottom when no one came. It made something twist in your chest, deep and aching. She didn’t understand missions or conspiracies or ancient magic fallout. She just knew when you were gone too long.

Then you chided yourself.

Sebastian would’ve checked on her. He had to. 

Just a few days ago, you’d been curled up on his couch with a blanket around your shoulders and a terrible film playing in the background. Moon had climbed into his lap halfway through and you’d laughed, nudging his leg.

“At this point, I think you’re basically her step-father.”

He’d smirked, smug and soft around the edges, and said, “I take my duties very seriously.”

You’d meant it as a joke, but now you could only hope he hadn't.

You turned your head toward the chair by your bed again. The cushion still bore the faint impression of his weight, and you stared at it for a long moment, fingers twitching slightly against the stiff blanket.

If he wasn’t here now, then you had to believe he was doing something that mattered. That he, Garreth, and Ominis hadn’t wasted the window you bought them, that the Cornwall mission hadn't been for nothing.

The documents , you thought, heart lurching.

They must’ve retrieved them. They had to. 

You hadn’t come to Britain expecting trust, but you had come hoping for truth. Hoping to do some good with the magic that had marked you. Instead, Dominion had turned you into an experiment. Turned you into data. And now—you hoped—you had the ledgers and falsified destruction orders to prove it. To prove this wasn’t paranoia or conjecture, it was real. Tangible. A conspiracy with names and numbers and strategy behind it. 

You closed your eyes, your pulse flickering behind your temples. Please , you thought. Let those documents be safe. Let them be combing through every page right now and preparing to blow this entire thing open.

Because once you were out of this bed, once the bandages were gone and the burning in your veins dulled enough to stand again, you weren’t going to stop. They’d turned your power into a project. Turned your body into a test case.

And you were going to be their reckoning.

Clerkenwell, Sebastian’s Flat – London

The third pot of coffee was half-empty and going cold. The living room looked like a war room. Or maybe a crime scene.

Sebastian sat cross-legged on the floor, a mug cooling at his side and a growing ache in his spine. Garreth had claimed the armchair, elbows on his knees, eyes scanning another batch of field reports. Ominis paced behind the couch, wand trailing along a document as he read.

The apartment felt… off. Not just because of the mess or the tension humming through the air, but because you weren’t there.

Sebastian had grown used to you being in his space, making the place feel warmer, making it feel more like home . But now it was just three tired Aurors, stale coffee, and the weight of this entire goddamn conspiracy hanging between them.

“I keep coming back to this,” Garreth said, flipping a half-scorched memo toward the center of the rug. “Look right here. ‘Priority asset leverage pending compatibility metrics’. That’s not artifact cataloguing. That’s deployment planning.”

Sebastian leaned over to read, brows furrowing. “They aren’t just storing dangerous objects, they’re testing them. Figuring out which ones can be controlled or weaponized.”

Ominis stopped pacing. “Which would explain the tier system. It’s a scale of strategic value.”

“How many items do you think they have in their inventory?” Sebastian asked, glancing up at Garreth.

“Hundreds, at least.” The redhead replied, thumbing through another page. “Could be more. Most of the records we have are redacted but the Tier II folder has at least fifty pages of entries.”

“And they’re storing them all over the country,” Ominis muttered, pointing to a document that sat askew on the coffee table. “Off-the-record containment warehouses. Private vaults. That’s where they send them after forging the destruction orders.”

“So let me get this straight,” Sebastian started. “They send Aurors to find and intercept illegal contraband according to official protocol, and when those items are on their way to Ministry containment or destruction, Dominion intervenes,” He sat back on his hands, voice low and tight. “They reroute the artifacts. Forge the logs. Make it look like the items were neutralized or locked away, when in reality, they’re being smuggled into private vaults.”

Garreth let out a dry, bitter sound. “All under the pretense of national interest. ‘Securing magical superiority on the global stage’. I’ve seen that line in three different documents now.”

Sebastian snorted. “National interest, my arse. I’ve seen at least five ledgers now with payments routed through offshore accounts. If this is about Britain’s magical dominance, it’s a damn convenient coincidence these people are getting rich off it.”

“A lot of people,” Garreth muttered, pulling a crumpled document from the pile beside him. “Most names are redacted, but with a bit of charmwork I was able to lift the top layer of the ink on a few. Look at this.”

He tossed the page toward Sebastian, who flattened it against the floor with one hand. The faded names emerged slowly under the dim light.

Captain Hale. Major McDonald. Major Iverson. General Ambrose Fletcher. And below them, more, layered like rot in the foundation of a house. Not just people in London, but all across Britain: Glasgow, Manchester, Cardiff, the list went on.

Sebastian’s mouth went dry. "So it’s not centralized. They've got people all over, each with their own operational teams.”

Garreth nodded grimly.

Sebastian’s hand curled into a fist on the floor. “And all the while we were working inside this. All of us. Running assignments they planted, intercepting contraband they wanted, escorting files they meant for someone else entirely. They’ve been using us from the start.”

“Using her most of all.” Ominis muttered.

Sebastian swallowed hard. “Why would they put her on my squad though? It doesn't make sense."

Garreth's brow furrowed. "Bit strange, isn’t it? Surely they wouldn't want to risk her finding out about any of this. Not if they were going to all this trouble to keep Dominion off the record.”

“Exactly,” Sebastian agreed. “If she’s that valuable, Tier One valuable, why put her anywhere near artifact cases? Why assign her to me?”

Ominis leaned forward, his fingers steepled. “Maybe because proximity creates opportunity. They needed to see how her magic reacted in the field. Think about what happened in Cornwall, or in Whitechapel. Each incident gave them more data.”

Sebastian’s stomach turned. “Out in the open, in real time, with no consent.”

“Like she’s a lab rat,” Garreth said, horror dawning.

Ominis nodded slowly. “Walk her into the right conditions, drop the right artifacts nearby, watch what happens. All while calling her deployment here in Britain ‘tactical reinforcement’.”

The three of them glanced back at the coffee table.

The Tier One folder still sat unopened, the red Dominion seal half-melted from the blast. They’d all avoided it when they first laid the documents out, passed over it like it might burn them if they got too close, but now… it sat there waiting.

The silence dragged a moment longer before Sebastian finally reached out and opened it.

Inside, there were dozens of documents. Some typed. Some handwritten. Some clearly copies of older reports. Others were labeled “Field Observations.” “Resonance Spikes.” “Predicted Outcomes.”

There were graphs. Charts. Arcane diagrams tracking your magic’s intensity across different operations. And next to those, mission dates that matched your entire deployment history from Canada to Japan to Britain.

Garreth sifted through the stack with wide eyes. “They’ve been tracking her for years."

"...Do you think the Canadian Ministry knows?" Sebastian asked.

Ominis shook his head slowly. “No. If they knew, they wouldn’t have let her out of their sight. Canada treats her like their own personal attack dog. Deployed, yes, but still theirs. They wouldn’t risk her falling into someone else’s hands. Let alone a black ops project buried inside another country’s Ministry.” 

"So we need to contact them," Garreth said, straightening. “Tell them what we’ve found. Blow the whole thing open before they bury her deeper.” 

“No,” Sebastian said sharply. Too fast. 

The room stilled. Garreth blinked. 

“What do you mean, no?” 

Sebastian scrubbed a hand over his face. “We don’t even know who in Canada we’d be contacting. And if we send the wrong owl to the wrong hands, we could ruin everything.” 

Garreth sat back slowly, brow creased. “So what, we just sit on this?” 

“No,” Ominis said. "We just… wait for her to wake up. She has trusted contacts. The right names. Not just whoever's at the top of some Canadian letterhead.”

The room went quiet.

Wait for her to wake up. Sebastian swallowed hard. At the moment, it felt more like an if than a when.

After a beat, Ominis thumbed through the rest of the Tier One file, setting aside a few pages, but then brows drew together. He held up a page, eyes scanning the text slowly. 

“Sebastian…”

“What?”

Ominis didn’t answer right away. He simply turned the document around and placed it in Sebastian’s lap.

Sebastian stared down.

Post-Mission Analysis – Whitechapel Assignment Filed by: Lt. Sallow

His blood turned cold. It was his report. The one he’d filed months ago, back when you were still a stranger. Back when he hadn’t known a damn thing about you.

He’d forgotten all about it until now, but then he scanned his writing, and dread settling in his gut.

“...Subject remains emotionally detached from the team. Displays minimal engagement outside of mission parameters...”

Sebastian swallowed hard.

“...Strong tactical value, but limited interpersonal reliability. Recommend paired assignments only, preferably under direct supervision. Not suited for independent deployment...”

He felt sick.

“Why is this report in here?” he asked, voice hoarse.

Garreth reached for the paper, sliding it gently from Sebastian’s hands. He scanned it quickly, his eyes narrowing. Then he flipped it over.

On the back, scrawled in familiar handwriting, were two sets of notes. Slanted, abbreviated. Barely legible in places. But Sebastian recognized them instantly.

Captain Hale. Major McDonald. Their handwriting.

Garreth read aloud, voice tight. “ Subject’s psychological detachment confirmed via independent field report (see Lt. Sallow). Reinforces projected Tier One suitability. Minimal personal entanglements suggest low risk of internal interference.”

“Magical instability noted as tactical advantage under controlled observation. Recommend continued integration into Tier I for artifact recovery and data acquisition."

Sebastian’s voice was low, bitter. “They used me,” he said, eyes fixed on the ink. “I gave them exactly what they needed to justify classifying her like this. To keep her under their thumb.”

Garreth didn’t say anything. Neither did Ominis.

Sebastian shook his head, the guilt clawing deeper. “They didn’t even have to falsify anything. I handed it to them ."

“You didn’t know this would happen,” Ominis said quietly.

“No, but I only wrote all of this because I was…” Sebastian trailed off, jaw tightening. “Because I was pissed off and insecure and stupid."

Ominis frowned. “You weren’t—”

“I was ,” Sebastian cut in. “You remember how I treated her. I thought she was assigned to my squad because someone upstairs didn’t think I could handle things on my own!”

Garreth rubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah, well. None of us were exactly rolling out the welcome mat."

“ Fuck .”

Sebastian stood abruptly, ripping the report from Garreth’s hand, fingers crumpling the corner. His pulse thudded hard in his ears as he paced to the edge of the room and back, trying to burn off the fury rising in his chest.

 “Fuck. Fuck. She trusted me , and the whole time I—”

"—Sebastian, none of us knew , "Ominis tried. " You didn’t know."

Sebastian collapsed into the nearest chair, the document slipping from his fingers and landing on the floor. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands dragging through his hair.

"We kissed,” he blurted. “Did I tell you? We kissed yesterday. And I think I love her and now I have to tell her that I helped build the cage she’s been living in!"

Neither Garreth nor Ominis moved.

Sebastian stared at the floor, breathing hard through his nose. “Do you have any idea what that’s going to feel like? Telling her that I was working against her the entire time she was here, the entire time she let her guard down and chose to trust me?”

Ominis sat down beside him. “Sebastian… you didn’t know. You were angry and you just happened to put it on parchment.”

Sebastian gave a hollow laugh. “Yeah, well. This bloody parchment’s part of the reason she’s in a fucking hospital bed now, Ominis."

Garreth shifted uncomfortably. He glanced toward the report on the floor, then back at Sebastian.

“…Then maybe we don’t tell her,” he said quietly.

Sebastian’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “What?”

“I’m not saying we lie ,” Garreth added quickly. “Just… maybe this part doesn’t need to be in the pile. Maybe we just let the rest speak for itself. There’s enough in the other Dominion files to bring the whole thing down. She doesn’t need to know everything.”

Sebastian stared at him. “...You think I can look her in the eye and pretend this didn’t happen?”

“I think you care about her,” Garreth said carefully. “And I think she’s already carrying more than any one person should. Maybe we don’t add this weight to her back, not when it won’t change anything.”

Sebastian was quiet for a moment. "...Maybe you're right. She’s already been through hell. Knowing I wrote that report—knowing I helped them build the case against her—it won’t undo any of it. Won’t heal what they did.”

Garreth nodded. “Exactly. So maybe we just… protect her from this one thing. Just this.”

Sebastian didn’t speak for a long moment. His eyes stayed fixed on the report lying on the floor, its edges curled from the blast, his own words staring back at him.

“Alright,” He said at last, his voice rough. “We keep this between us. No slips.”

Garreth nodded. “It dies here.”

They didn’t say much after that. It was late. They needed sleep.

Garreth gathered the files slowly, stacking the Dominion documents into one of the reinforced binders they’d used for transport. Everything but the one report Sebastian had damned himself with.

That one, he left behind.

“I’ll keep these in my flat,” Garreth said quietly, tightening the strap on the binder. “I have a charmed safe. No one gets in but me.”

Sebastian nodded, still seated, still wrung out. “Thanks.”

Garreth offered a faint smile and then glanced at Ominis. “You staying?”

Ominis nodded once.

With that, Garreth slung the strap over his shoulder and let himself out.

The apartment fell still.

Moon had moved closer to the edge of the couch, her eyes open now, tail flicking lazily. The coffee had long gone cold. A draft slipped through the cracked window, brushing the curtains with a whisper.

Sebastian didn’t move.

Ominis waited a beat. Then, without looking over, he said, “So… you love her?”

Sebastian exhaled a dry laugh. "That's what you're hung up on?"

Ominis shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching. “We’ve just blown open a conspiracy operating out of our own Ministry, but yes, your emotional development remains the most shocking revelation of the evening.”

Sebastian let out a quiet snort, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t know when it happened. It just... did."

“And you kissed her,” Ominis said.

“Yeah.” Sebastian leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. “Well. She kissed me, actually."

Ominis hummed, amused. “Braver than you, then.”

Sebastian huffed a tired laugh. “Always has been.” Then he closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling slow. “...What if she doesn’t wake up, Ominis?”

“...She’s strong. You know that better than anyone.”

“Strong doesn’t mean invincible,” Sebastian muttered. 

There was silence again, save for the creak of the couch and the faint scratch of Moon’s claws against the wood floor as she stretched and settled closer to Sebastian’s feet.

Ominis got to his feet, pacing a couple steps. “She’ll wake up. And when she does, she’s going to need something solid to come back to.”

Sebastian’s throat tightened. “You think I can be that for her?”

“I think you already are,” Ominis said simply.

Sebastian looked down at his hands. The same hands that had wiped powdered sugar off your cheek yesterday. The same hands that had held your waist when you kissed.

The same hands that had written that report.

“Get some sleep,” Ominis said finally, heading for the door. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” Sebastian muttered, a faint smile ghosting his lips.

“...And Sebastian?”

He looked up.

“I’m not going to tell you what to do, but... the truth has a way of getting out, one way or another.”

Sebastian’s smile faded.

Ominis continued, softer now, “Better she hears it from you.”

And with that, he left, the door clicking shut behind him.

← Previous Chapter Next Chapter →

Banner Credit

[softiekatz]

Clag getting pegged by his gf who sweetly and gently tops caressing his body lovingly and praising him as he takes the strap. She teases him and his hole a little before thrusting it in to make him needy and whimper. Face down ass up and clutching the sheets.

“blush & burned”

mdni

wc: 4,757

warnings: smut, pegging, edging (a bit), dom/sub dynamics

quick a/n: might be a bit slower doing requests since I am now employed 😖 (unfortunately). but I promise I will get to everyone’s request !!

You’d always had a more dominant streak in you; quiet, steady, tucked just under the surface. You used to think that maybe it would soften, fade out, disappear once you started dating Claggor. That something about his sweetness, his softness, would pull something gentler out of you in return.

But it never really had.

If anything, being with him had only sharpened it. You craved that control, that slow-burning power. The way his breath would hitch when you pressed your hand to his chest. The way he’d whimper when you teased him just right. The way he’d whisper “please” under his breath when you were going down on him; desperate, needy, almost reverent.

It lit you up from the inside. Every time. It soaked your panties in seconds.

What you hadn’t expected was for him to be the one to bring it up first.

It was late. You were both curled up in bed, sleep-soft and tangled together, limbs heavy with that lazy kind of exhaustion that didn’t quite push either of you over the edge into sleep. The room was dim, quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside and the even softer rhythm of your fingers brushing across his chest.

Then, out of nowhere, he mumbled, voice thick and shy:

“Hey… so I’ve been thinking and… god, this is gonna sound so stupid but… would you ever, like… want to peg me?”

Your brain flatlined for a second, just blinked out like a light, and then surged back to life, quick and hungry. You sat up slightly, eyes flicking down to his flushed cheeks and then the blanket, which was already starting to tent from how turned on he was just from asking.

“I mean… yeah,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady even as heat flooded your core. “I’d love to. But what’s bringing this up now?”

You traced slow circles on his chest, coaxing the words out of him gently. But he hesitated.

“Claggor,” you said, your voice low and warning, playful but firm as you raised an eyebrow.

He exhaled a soft sigh and looked away, a blush blooming across his neck and ears. “It was just this porn I saw, okay? And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it…”

You grinned, more fond than teasing, and leaned in closer. “Yeah? What happened in it? Tell me.”

He squirmed a little, and your smile only widened as you felt the tension in his body, the nervous anticipation under your hand.

“It was this guy… and his girlfriend,” he started, clearly struggling to describe it without dying of embarrassment. “And she was just like… pegging him. But she was all soft with him, talking to him the whole time, and he was… he was really into it.”

His voice was barely above a whisper, his eyes glued to the blanket as if it could swallow him whole. You could see how hard he was now, already twitching beneath the covers.

Your chest swelled with something warm. You weren’t laughing at him, you would never. But god, the way he got flustered like this, it made you want to eat him alive.

“Claggor, baby,” you said, brushing your fingers up to his jaw and gently guiding his face to look at you. “Do you want to try that? For real?”

He nodded, slow and shy.

You kissed him before he could second-guess himself. You couldn’t help it. He was too sweet. Too brave for bringing it up. Too damn irresistible.

“Okay,” you whispered against his lips, “but you have to promise me something.”

He looked up at you, still breathless. “What?”

“If we do this, you have to tell me if anything feels off. If you want to stop, if you need a break, anything. You tell me. Got it?”

He nodded again, more firmly this time, and slid his hand over yours. “Promise.”

What Claggor didn’t know, what he couldn’t have known, is what he’d just awakened inside you. That part of you that had been waiting, simmering just below the surface for someone like him to come along and say, please.

He wanted that part of you?

You were going to give it to him.

You were going to ruin him, in the best, softest, sweetest way.

And he was going to love every second of it.

—

The next day, you went on a mission.

You walked into the sex shop like a woman possessed, heels clicking, head high, and fire in your eyes. You didn’t hesitate, didn’t pause, didn’t wander. You knew what you wanted. What he wanted. What you were going to give him. And you were going to make sure it was unforgettable.

Your fingers trailed along shelves of silicone and leather, teasing over textures like you were already imagining them against his skin. You didn’t need help. You were experienced enough to know exactly what size strap you’d need to stretch him just right; not too much, not too little. Just enough to make him whimper, to make him melt for you.

You picked a sleek, midnight-black harness, adjustable, sturdy, meant to fit snug and secure around your hips. The kind that said I’m in charge, without needing a single word. The dildo you chose was curved just slightly, enough to hit the perfect spot, and long enough to keep him begging for more.

And then… the lingerie.

You hadn’t planned on it, but the second you saw it; black lace, sheer, high-cut with delicate straps and a plunging neckline that left very little to the imagination. You knew it was coming home with you. You imagined the way his eyes would widen when he saw you in it, the way he’d lose every coherent thought the second you stepped into the room.

Power wasn’t always loud. Sometimes, it was in the slow glide of silk up your thighs, in the way you crossed your legs and looked at him like he belonged to you.

You tossed in lube; water-based, high quality, and a bottle of toy cleaner like the practical bitch you were. No fumbling, no guesswork. Just precision and intent. You were going to take care of him right.

At the register, the cashier raised their eyebrows slightly at your haul, but you just smiled, cool, confident, almost predatory.

You weren’t just shopping.

You were preparing for a devotion.

Because Claggor had asked you to take control. He’d given himself over to you in that breathless, blushy voice, and now? Now you were going to show him exactly what that meant.

By the end of the night, he’d know who he belonged to. And he’d be begging for more.

—

Claggor came home later than usual, he’d texted you from the train, apologizing for running behind, promising to make it up to you. He had no idea what was waiting for him.

The apartment was dark when he stepped inside, save for the soft flicker of candlelight dancing along the walls. The air was warm, scented faintly with something heady, amber and spice, and there was a hum in the air, a quiet electricity that made his breath catch.

“Hello?” he called out softly, unsure.

“I’m in the bedroom,” you said, your voice low and smooth, like velvet laced with honey and command.

He swallowed and stepped further in, slipping off his shoes and setting down his bag with nervous fingers. Something about your tone, something in the way the room was lit, the scent, the silence, made him move slower. Cautious. Curious. Turned on without even seeing you yet.

When he pushed open the bedroom door, he froze.

You were standing at the foot of the bed in a silk robe the color of wine, lit only by candles that cast golden shadows over your skin. The robe clung to your curves, slipping off one shoulder just enough to hint at the lace beneath, black, sheer, sculpting your body in all the right places. The sight of you made his jaw go slack.

His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but no sound came out.

You smirked.

“Don’t speak,” you said, taking a slow step toward him. “Just listen.”

He nodded, wide-eyed, his cheeks flushing already. You could see the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, see the outline of his growing arousal in his pants.

You circled him once, slowly, like a lioness sizing up her prey. Fingers skimmed his chest, down his arm, across his lower back, gentle, but firm. Claiming.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” you murmured, your lips brushing just beneath his ear, “and I’ve been thinking about what I’m going to do to you.”

A sharp inhale. You smiled.

“Take your clothes off, Claggor.”

He moved almost on instinct, hands fumbling slightly with his buttons, his gaze flicking to you every few seconds like he needed the reassurance that this was real. That you were real. That this was actually happening.

You didn’t help. You didn’t touch. You just watched, arms folded, eyes sharp and hungry, as he stripped slowly down to nothing, standing naked and flushed before you in the candlelight.

“Good,” you said, stepping closer, pressing a hand to his chest. “Now get on the bed. Face down.”

He blinked, breath catching again, but obeyed immediately, crawling onto the bed on trembling limbs. He laid flat, his arms stretched out above him, his face turned to the side as he waited, completely exposed, completely obedient.

Exactly where you wanted him.

You stood at the foot of the bed for a moment, savoring the view. His pale back, the curve of his waist, the way his legs tensed with anticipation. You could see the way he was already hard again, pressing into the mattress, twitching with need.

You slipped the robe from your shoulders and let it fall to the floor.

He couldn’t see you yet, not like this, but he would. He’d feel every inch of you, your dominance, your care, your hunger, pressed into him, surrounding him, unraveling him.

“You’re already shaking,” you murmured, your voice low and pleased, your fingertips tracing lazy patterns down the length of his spine. “Poor baby… you haven’t even felt me yet.”

He whined softly into the pillow, hips pressing forward on instinct, seeking friction. You smiled against his skin and kissed the place just behind his ear, your hands trailing down to part his thighs just a bit wider.

“You’re doing so good for me,” you said, reaching for the bottle of lube you’d set nearby. “But I need you to breathe, Claggor. Deep. In and out.”

He nodded quickly, his cheek still pressed to the mattress. “I—I’m okay,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I just—fuck—I want it so bad, but I’m nervous.”

You didn’t mock him. You didn’t rush.

You bent forward, lips brushing his ear again. “I know, baby. But I’ve got you. You know I’d never hurt you, right?”

“Yes,” he breathed, his voice so soft you almost didn’t hear it.

“Good. Then let me take care of you.”

You kissed his shoulder gently before sitting up. He jolted slightly when he felt the cool slick of lube against him, but you were slow, deliberate, rubbing it in with firm, soothing fingers. The first touch to his entrance was featherlight, teasing, circling without pressure.

He gasped, hips twitching.

“Oh my god,” he whispered.

You smirked. “Sensitive already?”

“Y-Yeah.”

“Mmm. That’s perfect.”

You eased your thumb just beside the tight ring of muscle, not pressing in, just tracing him. “You look so pretty like this. Open for me. Desperate.”

He moaned, low and needy, and you finally gave him what he was silently begging for. Just the tip of your finger, slow and gentle, sliding past the initial resistance.

His whole body jerked.

“Oh—oh fuck—!”

You stilled instantly, your free hand pressing between his shoulder blades. “Breathe, Claggor. You’re okay.”

He moaned again, but this time softer, melting into the mattress as his body adjusted. “It’s… oh god, it’s so much,” he gasped. “But good—so good.”

You leaned over him again, lips brushing his cheek, your voice firm but affectionate. “You’re taking it so well, sweetheart. I told you I’d take care of you.”

And he was, you could feel how tight he was around your finger, how his hips instinctively rocked back, greedy for more despite how overwhelmed he was. His cock was trapped against the sheets, leaking already.

You moved slowly, working him open with practiced ease, teasing him with little crooks of your finger that made him sob into the pillow.

“Fuck, fuck—” he whimpered, his whole body trembling. “More, please—”

You chuckled softly and pressed a kiss to the small of his back.

“You’re not ready for more yet,” you whispered, slipping a second finger beside the first but not pushing in. Just teasing. Just threatening. “You don’t get to rush. You asked for this, remember? Now you’re going to feel every second of it.”

His answering moan was nothing short of broken, hands fisting the sheets, thighs trembling under your weight.

Claggor’s breaths were already shaky, his body tense beneath you, caught somewhere between eagerness and overload. His hips flexed again, trying to chase more pressure, but you stilled him with a firm hand on his lower back.

“Ah-ah,” you murmured, your tone rich with amusement. “You don’t get to move unless I say.”

He whimpered, pressing his forehead to the pillow, his hands gripping the sheets like they were the only thing keeping him grounded. You trailed your fingers down the back of his thigh, tracing the edge where skin met bedsheet.

“You’re not used to this yet,” you purred, slicking up your fingers again. “You’re not ready for how good this is going to get. You think you want it now, baby, but you don’t even know what you’re begging for.”

His hips twitched again, desperate, involuntary, and you laughed softly, pressing your hand harder into his back until he went still beneath you again.

“That’s better,” you said, almost cooing. “Good boy.”

A soft, choked sound left him at that. Praise always did him in, made his body go pliant, made his cock throb against the bed, leaking into the sheets without even being touched. You let your fingers ghost over his hole again, already shiny with lube, but still untouched enough to keep him aching for more.

He was so reactive, so eager. It was intoxicating.

You circled your finger again, barely dipping in—just the tip, and then pulling back out, again and again. Every time he pushed back, trying to take more, you’d stop completely. Deny him. Keep him hovering right on the edge of something electric.

“Please,” he whispered, voice cracked and trembling. “Please, I—”

“You what?” you asked sweetly, dragging your fingernails gently down his ass, making him shudder. “Use your words, Claggor.”

“I want—need—your fingers,” he gasped. “More. Anything. Please—please, I can’t—”

You rewarded him by finally pushing your finger in deeper, slow and steady until your knuckle brushed against him. He cried out, a ragged sound into the pillow, his thighs trembling under your weight.

“There you go,” you murmured, leaning down to kiss between his shoulder blades. “See? You’re doing so well.”

You started to move then; careful, curling your finger just so until his breath caught again. He moaned, louder this time, hips jerking down into the mattress.

You added the tiniest twist, brushing right over that spot inside him that made his whole body seize.

“Oh my god—!” he sobbed, panting hard, his voice high and desperate. “That—what was that—?”

“That’s me,” you purred, curling your finger again, slower this time, dragging it right over that spot again just to hear him break. “That’s what happens when you let me take control.”

He gasped, whimpering into the mattress, his legs kicking weakly as you worked him open. You added a second finger after a while; just as slow, just as deliberate. He went taut beneath you, overwhelmed, but not resisting. If anything, his body craved it now, opening up so sweetly around you, even as he sobbed from the pressure and the pleasure colliding inside him.

You leaned forward again, your chest pressing against his back, silk and lace whispering against his skin. Your voice was soft, cruelly gentle.

“You’re dripping all over the sheets, Claggor,” you murmured in his ear. “I haven’t even touched your cock and you’re this far gone? What are you gonna do when I fuck you, baby?”

He moaned like it hurt to even think about it.

“Please, please let me cum—” he begged, rocking helplessly back onto your fingers.

You laughed darkly, pulling your fingers out with a wet sound that made him cry out in protest.

“No, no, no—please—!”

You kissed the back of his neck, slow and indulgent.

“Not yet,” you whispered. “You don’t cum until I say. You wanted to be ruined, didn’t you?”

He whimpered something close to a “yes,” too incoherent to form words now.

You got off the bed slowly, deliberately, letting him hear your movements, feel the absence of your warmth as you stepped away. He tried to look up, confused and whiny, but you hushed him with a soft click of your tongue.

“I’m just putting it on,” you said, reaching for the harness you’d laid out earlier. “You’ve taken my fingers so well. Now you’re going to take this.”

He groaned into the mattress, both overwhelmed and so fucking ready.

And when you stepped back into view, silhouetted by candlelight in black lace and sleek leather, the strap-on thick and shining between your legs, he went silent; eyes wide, lips parted, staring like you were some divine force sent to destroy him.

You smirked, climbing back onto the bed and straddling him once more.

“You ready, baby?” you asked, teasing the head of the toy between his thighs, sliding it along the mess you’d made of him. “Or do I need to tease you a little more first?”

His body shook as he tried to form a reply.

But at this point?

You already knew the answer.

You held the base of the strap, slowly, carefully guiding it to his entrance, letting the slick head press against him without pushing in just yet. His body jolted from the contact, and he gasped, hips rocking back instinctively, trying to take it.

“Mmm, not yet,” you warned softly, hand firm on his hip. “You don’t get to fuck yourself on it. I said I’d take care of you, let me.”

He whimpered, burying his face in the pillow. “Please�� please, I want it, I need it, I can take it…”

You leaned over him, voice like velvet and heat against the shell of his ear. “Oh, baby… I know you can. I just love hearing you beg for it.”

He moaned like he was falling apart under your words alone.

“You’re doing so well for me, Claggor,” you murmured, sliding the head of the strap just barely in, enough to breach him, just the tip, and his body clenched hard, sucking it in like he needed it. “That’s it. Breathe. You’re okay.”

He gasped, his whole body trembling. “F-fuck—it’s so big—”

“Shhh,” you soothed, rubbing slow circles into the small of his back. “You’re taking it like you were made for this.”

Bit by bit, you sank into him, watching the way his body opened up so beautifully around you. His thighs trembled, his hands curled in the sheets. He was panting, already whining with every inch, his cock hard and untouched beneath him.

“Almost there,” you whispered, your voice low and reverent, as if this was something sacred. “God, look at you. So perfect for me. So good.”

He made a wrecked sound in his throat, like your words alone were going to tip him over the edge.

You bottomed out slowly, hips flush with his ass, and held there, letting him feel the fullness, letting him shake and gasp and moan while you rubbed your hands over his hips and kissed between his shoulder blades.

“Oh my god,” he sobbed. “You feel so good—fuck, it’s so much—it’s so good—”

You didn’t move yet. Just stayed still, letting him adjust, letting the anticipation swirl like lightning beneath his skin.

“You’re doing amazing,” you whispered. “You’re taking me so well, Claggor. Just like I knew you would. Look at you, baby.”

“I c-can’t—” he choked, face buried in the sheets. “I’m gonna cum, I swear—if you move I’m gonna—”

You grinned, leaning down so your chest pressed into his back, your lips ghosting over his neck. “That’s okay. You can cum as many times as you want tonight. I’m not stopping.”

He whimpered at that, half pleasure, half fear at just how serious you sounded.

You rolled your hips slowly, just once, and he screamed.

“Oh my god—”

His whole body shook as he came hard against the sheets, untouched, wrung out from nothing but your strap inside him and your voice in his ear. His thighs clenched, stomach contracting, his moans rising into desperate sobs of pleasure.

You held him through it, whispering praise against his skin.

“That’s it, baby… fuck, you’re so pretty like this. You did so good. You came just from me being inside you—god, look at you.”

He was still twitching, oversensitive and gasping, but you didn’t move much. Just shallow, slow thrusts to keep the pressure there, keep his body humming with overstimulation.

“You think you’re done?” you murmured, voice honey-sweet and merciless. “Claggor, I haven’t even started ruining you yet.”

And beneath you, he sobbed something that sounded like your name.

Begging for more.

Begging for mercy.

Begging for you.

You let him breathe for a moment, your body pressed over his, the toy still snug inside him, twitching with every shallow rock of your hips. Claggor was whimpering quietly, his body boneless beneath you, and yet… still twitching for more.

You kissed the back of his shoulder, your fingers brushing over the curve of his spine. “Still with me, baby?”

He nodded, dazed. “Uh-huh,” he managed, voice rough and thin. “Don’t stop. Please… please keep going…”

You smiled. God, he was perfect like this, half-broken, flushed, pliant, and begging. You adjusted your grip on his hips and slowly pulled out a few inches, watching his hole twitch around the loss.

His breath caught. He was so sensitive now, every movement making him jolt.

Then you thrust back in. A little harder. A little deeper.

Claggor cried out, his back arching, legs shaking beneath you.

“F-fuck—!”

“That’s it,” you murmured, setting a slow, steady rhythm, letting him feel the full drag of it every time you pushed in. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Wanted me to fuck you properly.”

“Yes—yes,” he moaned, burying his face in the pillow. “It feels—oh god, it feels so good—”

You reached under him with one hand and slid your fingers down his chest, his stomach, until you found his cock; still half-hard, twitching and messy from before. He gasped when you touched it.

“Already came once, and you’re still this needy?” you teased, stroking him slowly in time with your thrusts. “I knew you were greedy, Claggor, but this… this is something else.”

He was already moaning louder, the pleasure rolling through him too quickly to catch his breath.

“Fuck me,” he sobbed. “Please—don’t stop—don’t stop—”

You thrust deeper, faster, your hips meeting his with soft, wet sounds, the harness snug against your thighs. He was taking you so well now, body completely open to you, gripping the toy like it belonged inside him.

“Such a good boy,” you breathed against his ear, thrusting deep and holding it, grinding against him. He screamed, shoving his hips back.

“You love this, don’t you?” you whispered. “You love being filled like this, used like this, mine.”

He nodded, trembling. “Yours—yours, please—”

You kept your rhythm steady, fast now, deep and relentless, the toy sliding effortlessly in and out of him, hitting his prostate with every stroke. He was sobbing into the pillow, begging between broken cries.

“Gonna cum again,” he gasped. “Please—please let me—”

“Cum for me,” you said, voice low and commanding. “Do it, baby. Show me how good I fuck you.”

That was all it took.

Claggor came again with a choked scream, his entire body convulsing under you. He made a mess of the sheets, thighs trembling violently, cock pulsing in your hand as his hole clenched hard around the strap still buried inside him.

You didn’t stop right away. You fucked him through it, deeper, slower now, dragging out every second of his orgasm until he was shaking, until he went completely limp under you, whimpering from the overstimulation.

Then, finally, you slowed to a stop and leaned down, wrapping your arms around his waist and holding him as he came down, pressing kisses to the back of his neck, his shoulder, his spine.

“You did so well,” you murmured against his flushed skin. “So perfect. My sweet, perfect boy.”

He whimpered softly, no words left in him, but the way he turned his face toward you, the way he curled his fingers over your hand on his stomach, told you everything.

He was yours.

Totally and completely.

—

The room was still glowing in the soft amber candlelight, shadows flickering against the walls as your breathing slowed. Claggor was quiet beneath you, his face pressed into the sheets, his whole body flushed and trembling with the aftershocks.

You stayed still for a moment, just resting your weight gently over him, your hands stroking along his sides, grounding him, letting him know you were still there. Still with him.

“Hey, baby,” you whispered, voice low and warm. “You okay?”

He let out a tiny sound, somewhere between a breath and a laugh, and nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “More than okay. Just… kind of floating.”

You smiled, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck. “You were amazing. So good for me.”

Slowly, carefully, you pulled out, watching as he winced just a little at the loss. His body was sensitive, pliant, flushed. You reached for a warm towel you’d left nearby, because you’d planned for this, and gently cleaned him up, murmuring soft, sweet things the whole time.

“You did so well,” you said again, wiping him down gently, your touch reverent. “You took it like a pro. Made me so proud.”

Claggor’s hand reached for yours, squeezing your fingers tightly. His eyes were glassy with exhaustion and affection. “Didn’t know I’d like it that much,” he mumbled, cheeks red. “But with you? I trust you.”

That hit you right in the chest.

You kissed his knuckles, then set the towel aside and slipped out of the harness, tossing it to the side before crawling back into bed. “C’mere,” you whispered.

He came willingly, almost boneless, folding into your arms with a soft sigh. You wrapped him up in your silk robe, not caring that it was wrinkled now, and pulled the blanket over both of you.

He tucked his face into your neck, warm breath brushing your skin. “You’re still shaking,” you murmured, running your fingers through his curls.

“I know,” he admitted, voice muffled. “But like… the good kind.”

You just held him tighter. “I’ve got you.”

There was silence for a while. Just your fingers stroking through his hair, your other hand resting on his back, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. You kissed his temple.

“I loved seeing that side of you,” he whispered eventually. “You being so in control. It… made me feel safe.”

Your throat tightened a little. You hadn’t expected that; how deeply this would connect you, how vulnerable he would let himself be, and how much trust that took. You kissed the corner of his mouth and whispered, “You are safe. With me. Always.”

Claggor smiled, sleepy and sweet. “I love you,” he said, soft and true.

Your heart stuttered, then settled, full and glowing.

“I love you too,” you said, voice thick with emotion. “So damn much.”

You held him until he fell asleep, his body warm against yours, breath evening out, your fingers never leaving his skin. And even after he was asleep, you stayed like that.

Watching him.

Loving him.

Guarding the softest, most beautiful parts of him.

[byghostface]

Hello! Nika fan here! Uhm, curious, as you seem like a Nika expert, how do you explain her personality as a character? 😅 Sorry, sounds stupid, but I really wanted to understand her more! Detailed or in simplistic form, I don't mind one or the other.

Hope you have a good day! Love your art! ❤️ 💀 ❤️

Hi there! Thanks for the question and take an interest in her!!^ ^♥️ (I tried to keep it simple but I keep adding details about her, so it has become a lengthy description, but you can scroll to the bottom I have the simplistic version of it)

Detailed version↓

I would say Nika is a quick wit, bold, resilient, stylish, rebellious, and very much an independent person. Sometimes a bit of a showgirl in her own playful theatrical way.

→Painting her face with skull makeup. Her trademark move by tearing people's hearts out. Presenting herself in distinctive outfits. Kneeling as a sign of respect when she first meets with people whom she holds long admiration for - Batman, her (past) mentor Lord Death Man. When she goes undercover with Damian in Gotham High, she shows up dressing to her own taste in clothes, even though he tells her to be inconspicuous.

"Sorry, I don't do inconspicuous."

Batman and Robin(2023)#8 -Artist: Nikola Čižmešija-

She tends to make silly nicknames for people, like throwing it in between conversations as a not-serious jab/comment: Damian- little birdie, Bruce- Daddy bat-brucks (reference Annie), Ra's Al Ghul- old fart😭(cus he is in ghost/spirit form, and properly bugging her for a while…)

The interests she has are drawing and opera. She also mentioned she's a K-pop stan, so I imagine she is interested in different ranges of music.

"—wander around an old folk's home and like… pick up painting or opera, y'know?"

Nika is an easygoing, open-minded and curious person (reads Damian's manga and talks to him about it). She's not very good at picking up social cues (saying death-related jokes at bad timing or it didn't land well) despite that, she still pays attention to what people are saying and observes people well (discuss the fighting skills of tournament fighters with Damian, and showing concern about Damian's injured arm).

"It's good. I like that it's a romance about an art school. But also about being competitive…"

And oftentimes she lives in her own head (obsesses with death and honing her newfound powers). It improves after she meets Damian and considers other possibilities in life other than death and killing.

"Life can be more than just being really good at killing people. You've proven that a few times."

Batman and Robin(2023)#7 -Artist: Simone Di Meo-

She likes to handle things at her own pace/plans and has the confidence in herself to do it correctly. So she has the bad habit of saying white lies or doesn't tell people the whole picture/exactly what she is trying to do.

Sometimes doing things head-on fearlessly because she has ambition and pride in herself (calls dibs on Damian's first match, keeps fighting in the death tournament attempt to gain victory, takes over Lord Death Man's empire, takes inspiration from Talia and makes a new outfit for herself).

When first met, people might find Nika quite rude/careless. Once you get to know her, she's just very straightforward and honest when expressing her feelings. She can be pretty brash, had short-tempered to people who are disrespectful/annoying to her.

"If you really are this badass that you think you are, you'll respect me."

Nika is a person of a free spirit with a strong will and motivation. She would follow reasonable orders/rules from ppl whom she respects, but she would get irritated when people tried to hold tight control over her and tell her what she should or shouldn't do, it might signal her that they don't trust/have faith in her (like her family). And if she feels like being overlooked/underwhelming, she tries to rebel and manage things on her own terms (run away from home to learn more about her powers, overthrow Lord Death Man, handle Mila's situation, go to Gotham to see Damian after his lack of contact/attention to her even though he calls her his girlfriend first).

Simplistic version (summary)↓

Prominent personality trait— Quick wit and easygoing, with a strong will and motivation. A confident, resilient, fashionable, and challenging person.

Hobby(so far)— Drawing, k-pop, opera.

Social ability— Tends to be playful, joking around with people, and likes to nickname them as a not-serious jab/comment. Mostly minding her own business, and not relying on other people much. Kind of a lone wolf who values her own time and effort.

Goals(so far)— Relying on her obsession with death to make sense of life. After the tournament and managing Lord Death Man's criminal empire she wants to slow down a bit to enjoy/explore her life.

With Damian— Playful, free talking and showing more emotions with him. Honest to him with times (resolved misunderstanding with him quickly). Likes his accompany a lot.

With (her older sister) Mila— a bit melancholy but not afraid to fight against her when she is being disrespectful/harmful.

And Ty for liking my art!!💝 I must say my portrayal of Nika still has some level of my preference/fanon in it (I love my art, but I'm not always satisfied with how I portray her within my ability). So take it with a grand of salt and give comics a try if you can! (For Nika, Robin2021, Lazarus planet: Next evolution, and Batman and Robin2023)

Have a great day anon, and thanks for reading!!🫶⚰️💀🦴♥️

[medfetai]

Mallory’s Flatline

An Original MedFetAI™️ Story

Mallory Hayes was thirty-five, athletic, sun-tanned, and independent—a wilderness tour guide back from a two-week hiking expedition. She walked into the ER at 6:48 pm with nothing more than a vague complaint: “I just feel… off.” Her voice was steady, but she looked pale beneath her freckles. Her pulse was fast, but nothing alarming—98 bpm. She laughed with the triage nurse about hiker’s paranoia, downplayed the dizziness, and shrugged when asked about any pain.

Vitals were taken. BP 114/76. O₂ sat 97%. Slight tachycardia, mild temperature of 37.8°C. She mentioned having had a brief fever during her trip, chalked it up to sleeping outside. The nurse noted that her skin felt slightly clammy. Mallory dismissed it. “Probably just dehydrated.”

At 7:15 pm, she was placed in a curtained bay and told to rest while they ran labs. She kicked off her boots and lay back in the paper-draped bed, her sports bra damp against her chest, a thin ER blanket pulled over her hiking shorts and bare legs.

7:22 pm. She sat up suddenly. Her chest hurt. Not sharp, not crushing—more like a pressure building beneath the sternum. She leaned forward. “Something’s not right.”

Her nurse returned just in time to see her sway. “Mallory?”

Then the monitor alarmed. Pulse dropped rapidly—98 to 44. BP unreadable. She slumped sideways, the monitor flatlining.

The code team descended instantly. A nurse ripped the blanket down, then pulled off her bra with scissors to clear access to the chest. Her toned torso was slick with sweat. Defib pads were slapped onto her sternum and side. “Charging to 200!”

Shock. Her back arched. No response.

“Intubate her,” the resident ordered, pushing the laryngoscope into her open mouth, tongue slack. The tube slid in with practiced urgency. The bag-valve mask hissed rhythmically.

Compressions began. Her chest caved rhythmically under the weight of two sets of gloved hands. Her sternum snapped under the pressure—subtle at first, then more obvious. The resident called for epi—1 mg IV push—then another.

7:29 pm. V-fib. Another shock. Her body jumped again. Still no pulse.

An ultrasound showed a pericardial effusion. “Tamponade,” someone said grimly.

They cut. A rapid thoracotomy was performed—chest wall opened in one clean motion, ribs spread. Her left lung sagged to the side. Blood pooled fast.

Suction. A cardiac needle. Fluid aspirated from the pericardial sac. Mallory’s heart fluttered briefly—an agonal blip—then stopped.

Internal massage began. Gloved hands cradled her heart, pumping directly. Epi again.

She remained unresponsive. Skin pale, lips blue. Her opened chest heaved with each manual squeeze of her heart.

Thirty-five minutes. No electrical activity. No contraction. The room was soaked in silence except for the rhythmic beeping of equipment refusing to give up.

“Time of death,” the attending whispered. “7:56 pm.”

They closed her chest carefully, placed a clean gown over her, and turned off the monitor.

Her boots still sat neatly at the foot of the bed. Muddy. Untouched.

[the-tin-dog]

- Europa Chronicles 7 -

Hard to describe what it felt like walking out of the brief room after that funeral. If we were at full Terra gravity, the weight of the air woulda crushed us.

Didn't have too long to think on it though, suddenly a pitched screech filled the tunnels, as every one of us got a priority alert on our wrist communicators.

If I'm being honest, it took us all a bit to even realize what the damn thing meant. It was a code none of us had seen, to be honest, most of us never expected to see it.

“DO I HAVE FROSTBITE IN MY EARS? Why don't I hear movement out there, soldiers? Does this look like a drill we are being attacked! Move out.”

With the discipline we'd all thought had worn off by now, we snapped to it. No longer were we friends with an Angel, we were the weapons of a Demon.

Something about these halls felt different this time. We'd all spent years and lives carving out tunnel after tunnel, command hub cavern after cavern. But actually seeing why? Feeling for the first time like this was a real war, we were here as real soldiers… it felt strange. When you’re fighting the ice it's like you’re fighting your own body. Every move feels hopeless, it feels draining. Like a slow painful torture. You can kill a Zealot, sure. But you can't kill the cold. Jove claims all in the end. Picking up the standard issue rifle, bolting on the heavy ThermaVac armor plating, guess we found a new way to die. Funny how Terrans can do that.

The bulkhead flashed it's warning, I led my squad into the surface heat lock.

The engineering personel shutterd the heavy titanium hatch once more and clicked over the com

“Alright squaddies I this doesn't happen much so let me refresh your training!

Bolt into that crash seat and listen up! The Heat Lock will begin cycling as you ascend vertically with enough force to turn you into meat pie on Terra Gravity. Double check that latch on your visor! The Heat Lock is designed to reduce base Temp to Europa surface as fast as possible without blowing that glass straight into your eyes, but this has one hell of a thin margin of error. If your ThermaVac is compromised at any point in time you’ll learn what real cold is the hard way got it? Godspeed. May the Angel guide you to Jove.”

With that, the lift shot up, ascending through tunnel after tunnel after tunnel. The thermometer read cycled down. The read out was exclusively in Kelvin, only number that made since in this cold.

The lift speed and came to a stop.

“Heat cycle complete.”

“Airlock cycle initiated”

“Warning- Venting Atmosphere”

And just like that the front door shot open, and we all hit the ice as our boot spikes dug in. My HUD showed the flatline before I even saw the projectile. A constellation of frozen blood, ice, and metal drifted in the low gravity like a violent nebula, made of the souls of our comrades.

“Cover the sides! Stay low! Make those shots count, we don't know how long our ammo is going to last and it's a long walk to Terra for more!”

The squad open fired in all directions, as we finally saw the Zealots charging in. It was over as quick as it started. We lost a lot in the initial ambush, but we were all surprised to see our screens clear of any hostiles. My visor pinged, a request from recon.

“Sgt. Donovan, of the 67th Division. Go Recon.”

“Sgt. Donnovan, This is 2nd Page, Turner of the 93rd Recon Division, Command requests reconnaissance of the casualties. We've never seen a top-side attack before and are asking all squad leaders to document Intel.”

“Ten-4, Page, I've disabled link jammer, go for remote Jack in.”

My helmet cam flickered, a small display in the left showing what the cam received. I flicked my eyes to dismiss the window. Scanning the battlefield, all the frozen blood looked like the Eye of Jove itself had wept over us. Gusts of wind kicked up, yet the weight of Jove's Tears held them solidly to the ice below.

Red sure is a color you don't forget out here.

“Get a close up of that ThermaVac, Sgt. First time we've seen a zealots surface technology.” I expanded the window again, and used the glove controls to zoom in, scanning for composition and electrical components just as much as visual. As the camera made it up to the visor, I gasped.

“Recon. You seeing this?”

“Uuuh teeenn four Sgt. Return to base immediately and report your suit to engineering for a full visual memory wipe. Debrief with your CO immediately following. Do not speak to anyone until after Debrief. This is an order from Terra Command.”

“Ten-4.”

I looked back down at the zealots body, still in disbelief. “Well damn kid. Guess you remembered not to fidget with your rifle this time, huh?”

-- War Forever--

- Part 1

[nethhiri]

Chapter 55: Flatline

Warnings: references to rape, violence, murder (ish)

Curiously, you woke up without the familiar cage of Kid's arms around you. Stretching out, you could feel that Killer wasn't beside you either. It took a few seconds in your groggy state to notice, but the shower was running and there was a fast-paced rhythmic thumping sound followed by a string of strangled moans. Oh. While this normally would have encouraged you to go join them, you were understandably not interested in sex in the least bit. Physically you were fully healed and, while you could participate in that aspect, mentally you were not there yet. 

You thought about waiting for them to finish, though depending on how long they had been in there already, that could take a while. It was also a reminder of something that you didn't want to dwell on, another way you weren't the same person you were several weeks ago. Killer had been thoughtful enough to bring some of your own clothes to the room for you, so you grabbed them and tossed them on. It was a few minutes of fumbling with where the holes were on things and how to figure out if they were right-side-out or not before you could get them on. The shoes weren't as hard as you thought they would be. There wasn't any underwear, which was odd, but he probably just forgot.

You got to the hallway and had to pause, remembering where everything was and trying to imagine spatially where it would be. You didn't get far before there was a wet nose prodding under your arm. Mini slid her head under your hand to guide you to the deck. There were people on deck, you could hear them talking, getting slightly more hushed when they noticed you there. The majority of them hadn't seen you at all since you had been back. The sound of someone running and feeling of arms wrapping around you alerted you to the presence of Quincy. 

"Y/N! It's so good to see you out." She squeezed you once and let you go. "How are you doing?"

"Probably better than most would be."

"Yeah... If you need to talk or anything... I mean I'm sure Kid and Killer have it covered but..."

"Thanks, Quincy. I'll..." You were about to brush her off, but it might actually be nice to talk to someone else. "I'll keep that in mind." 

She bounded off to complete her duties. You didn't really have anything to do. You didn't even know where you were going. You could go to the infirmary, though it wouldn't do any good to be there. Mini helped you wander around until you found yourself leaning against her, sitting in the skull at the ship's bow. It felt good to walk around, and even better to breathe in the fresh, salted sea air. The sound of the bow cutting through waves was calming. You had a lot of bottled anxiety given your new normal and you hated it. This was the first time in your life that you weren't confident in anything that you did and you were very unsure where you were headed. With the loss of your log pose, you had no way of tracking down the last person on your hit list. If you were lucky, maybe you could torture it out of Warthin. At least you had that to look forward to. 

"Mind if I join you?"

The voice made you jump. 

"Sorry!" 

"For a big guy, you're light on your feet."

There was a faint jingle as the hoops on Heat's belt dinked together when he sat. "I didn't mean to be." 

The two of you sat there in silence. You continued to half-meditate, yet there was something prickling at the edge of your mind. It feels like I'm being watched. It was such a strange feeling and it was beginning to unnerve you. At the same time, you thought that you could tell where it was coming from.

"Heat? Are you staring at me?" 

"O-oh. I didn't think you could tell." Heat paused. "Wait. How can you tell?" 

"I... don't know." 

"It's just... you look so sad. I've never seen you like this." 

Hearing that, coming from the saddest looking guy to ever do it, made you snort. "Yeah, well, when you've been assaulted and permanently maimed, let's see how well you handle it." You thought about how little you knew of Heat and his scarred smile. In reality, he probably had been through something similar. Maybe that's why he was eternally sad-looking. Maybe you had more in common than you thought. You were instantly guilty. "I didn't mean that. I wasn't thinking." It was silent and you thought he might have left.

He laughed, despite what you thought was a fairly mean attack. "Now I know you aren't doing well. You? Apologizing for being mean?"

That made the ghost of a smile appear on your face. 

Heat rested a reassuring hand on your knee. "I like it when you're mean to me anyway." 

You were grateful for Heat trying to make it seem like a normal day even though your comment probably did wound him deep down.

"It won't be permanent." Heat scooted next to you and put his arm around your shoulders, resting his head on yours and giving you a side hug. "Kid is going to fix you up, just like he did for me. Maybe he'll even give you an upgrade, too." 

"I hope it's not fire breath or one of us will have to leave," you deadpanned.

"That's the Y/N we know and love." Heat ruffled the hair at the top of your head and patted it before getting up. He did have other duties to attend, but he wanted to check on you first. "And then when you feel up to it, you can try to fix the other one with your devil fruit."

"I already tried." A frown settled on your face. "I can't make something from nothing."

Heat was confused by this. "What do you mean 'from nothing'?" 

"I need at least a part of something to restore the rest of it. I can't create something out of thin air." You sighed. You really didn't want to be thinking about this, which is why you came out here in the first place. "And that eye is long gone by now." It had been over a week since Warthin had gouged it out of you and who knows what happened to it afterwards. 

Now Heat understood. You didn't even know they had your eye. He told Killer that he thought it was a bad idea to keep that from you, but obviously he didn't listen. "Y/N... " Heat tore his eyes away from you. He wouldn't be able to tell you if he watched your face.

You gave him a puzzled look.

His face was one of concern and perhaps regret. He was silent.

"Heat?" You prompted, suspicion evident in your voice.

He didn't want to get Killer in trouble like this, though he did make it clear he thought it was wrong to keep your eye from you. 

"Heat, tell me," This time your tone was serious. It left no room for him to back out of whatever he was trying to tell you.

"Please don't get angry." He knew those words would have no hold over you. 

Your heart sunk, knowing whatever he was about to say was most assuredly, going to make you angry. 

Perspiration broke out on Heat's skin after seeing the dark change in your expression. He couldn't backtrack now. And he couldn't lie to you. Maybe he could frame it in a positive way to soften the blow. "It's actually good news when you think about it-"

"HEAT, JUST FUCKING TELL ME." The anxiety of what he had to say was eating at you and you could already feel your temper flaring. 

"Your eye is fine. It's here. We have it."

"What?" Venom dripped from your voice and you stood up.

Heat backed up a step as you walked towards him. "Warthin sent it to us along with the video transponder snail." 

"So you've had it this entire time," your voice cracked as it boiled with anger, "and you all let me think I would never see again." 

"That would never be true, even if it really was gone. Kid can fix anything."

"So that's it? He kept it from me so that he could make me completely dependent on him? Held it hostage so that he could be a knight in shining armor huh?" 

"No! Killer thought-"

"Killer!?" Kid had done some stupid stuff before that made you mad, but Killer had really never done anything that hurt you. It was hard to believe that Killer could do something so cruel. 

"He thought it would be best to wait until you could heal. He was worried that you would fuck up your eye if you tried to mess with it too soon!" 

"That is not a choice that he gets to make." You stepped to Heat until your chest was flush with his body. "Do you know what was the most traumatic thing for me?" You paused. "It wasn't being force fed every day. It wasn't getting beaten. It wasn't having a permanent brand carved into my skin. It wasn't being raped over and over and over again, not even when it was broadcasted, not even when it was multiple people, and not even when a fucking beer bottle was shoved up my cunt. It was getting my fucking eye ripped out and wondering if the last  memory I had of Kid would be him getting shot in the head, wondering if he was alive or not. Or if all my memories of Killer would slowly be replaced by the last face I saw, the face of someone I despise. I was more worried about what you would all think of me if you found me than if you were actually coming at all. What would I be without my eyes? What worth would I have? And the whole time I've been back, I've been stuck in an endless loop of these fears. I have been tormented every fucking second of every fucking day that once you all realized that I was useless, the only reason to keep me here would be to fuck me, because that's about all the worth I have right now. And even then, why would you want to, after seeing what he did to me?"

You shoved Heat aside in your anger and made a furious beeline back to Kid's cabin. Your throat was pained from yelling and the way the air was cold against your cheeks made it known to you that tears were streaming down them. It was unknown if it was your ominous aura that kept people out of your way, or the haki you didn't even know you possessed leading you in a clear path. Even in your rage, you didn't want to harm either one of them. That was the shitty part about catching feelings. It made you soft. Before, you wouldn't hesitate to start swinging. That didn't mean you weren't going to go apeshit though. You kicked the cabin door open so hard you could hear the frame splinter. 

"WHAT THE FUCK, ROTTEN?"

"SHUT UP, KID!" You and Kid were both shocked at how vicious you sounded. You could sense Killer somewhere in the room, taking a millisecond to locate him. You pointed at him. "GIVE ME MY FUCKING EYE!

"Y/N-"

"And don't say a fucking word because I don't want to hear anything you have to say right now!" You were livid and it bled through in your voice the way it cracked and was slightly raspy from screaming. 

This was a complete betrayal. How could they do this to you and claim they loved you? You cried in their arms and bared your heart to them. They knew how much torment you had endured and all the fears that seeped into your mind. They consoled you and reassured you that you would see again, all while having the ability to do so right that instant, yet still withholding that information. How could they have been extending your anguish purposefully like that? It was not an accident or a misunderstanding. It was a deliberate choice to keep you from seeing. The heart you bared to them, that loved them, that only kept beating for them, they held it in their hands and crushed it. 

Killer silently led you to the infirmary, where he had placed the jar with your eye in it on one of the highest shelves. He could almost imagine a hole burning through his chest with the way you were projecting vitriol towards him. He could feel it flowing freely from you. He could hear it in your heated breaths as you followed him. Killer knew there was a possibility that you would be pissed. He didn't think you would be this mad. He expected to be yelled at. The way you were completely silent after you had screamed at him was unsettling. He wanted you to say something, even if it was just more yelling. His own heart was sinking, realizing that this might have been the wrong call. 

Kid followed the both of you, also freaked out by the way you lit into him and were now clearly brimming with wrath. Part of him was there to back up Killer, and by how unpredictable you were being, he didn't know if that meant physically or with words, or emotionally. He could see from behind you, how tightly your fists were clenched, and the short moments where your devil fruit flickered to life within them. The hair on Kid's neck stood on end as he realized that he and Killer were within an arm's reach and could peel their skin off with a simple touch, if you really wanted to. It looked like you were fighting to contain it. 

You heard the sound of glass sliding on the counter to rest in front of you. After making sure your hands were clean, you felt around in the jar until something slimy bumped your hand. Scooping it out, you held it, feeling around for the various attachments it should have. There was no foul stench from the jar. That was a decent sign that your eye hadn't decayed yet. The harsh smell of formalin burned the inside of your nose and throat instead. The tissue was dead, but preserved. You could work with that. It was heavier than you thought it would be, as you ran water over it. If you put it back in as is, the formalin would give you a chemical burn on the inside of your skull, which may actually be preferable to whatever you were feeling currently. 

Taking a deep breath you tilted your head back, separating the eyelids on the left and dangling your eye above the opening. You lowered it back into its original setting, using your devil fruit to part the newly forming scar tissue that had filled the empty space your eye's absence had left behind. Your power worked at the neural tissue, reforming bonds with the nerves in your eye. The foreign feeling of your brain being altered made you lightheaded and ill. As the nerves in your eye made connections, light, without color or shape, became visible to you. It was like someone was shining a light through fog. Your breath caught in your throat with hope. You were afraid to breathe until it was done. Shape came next, in the form of blobs in varying shapes of gray. Tinges of color crept into the blobs and they began to sharpen. The colors became more saturated and the blobs turned into more recognizable shapes. The readjustment for your brain made it ache. Vision was not unfamiliar to it. The portions used for vision had begun to be allocated to other functions, so reversing that did take time. It was a soreness akin to using a muscle that hadn't been used in a long time. When the shapes became clear and the color had fully returned, it was still slightly off. Holding your hand in front of you, it looked sideways even though you knew it was straight. You rotated your eye in its socket until everything was going in the right direction, then you healed the musculature around the orb, securing it in place and making it able to move. You could let your breath out. You made several slow blinks, moistening the long-dry eye. You could see.

You turned cautiously, stopping, unsure if you wanted to look at either of them right now. Continuing the turn, part of you was relieved and you wanted to cry tears of joy that you could see again, that you could see them again. The other part of you was utterly mangled, seething, unwilling to give them the time of day. Your newly restored vision only settled on each of them for a millisecond before you breezed past them, yanking Kid's pistol from his belt as you did so. Whatever they said to you as you went, you didn't hear it and you didn't care to. Right now, even though you wanted to really let them have it, you didn't want to say something you would regret. The feelings you had for them held you back. The same feelings are what made you so livid in the first place. If you didn't love them, their actions wouldn't have hurt you this badly. 

So you would do the next best thing, take it out on someone who really deserved it. 

Mini followed closely behind you as you stormed out on deck and down into the bottom level of the ship. The bubbling anger that was roiling within you was laced with a certain malicious giddiness. Finally. Finally, you were going to give that sick piece of human garbage what he earned. The sound of several heavy footsteps followed you. You ignored them. When you slipped into the ship's dungeon, you slammed the door behind you and sealed it with your devil fruit. The heavy footsteps stopped at the door for a time, and eventually walked away. 

You turned your attention to the man at the far end of the room, one you would never mistake for another. Your steps were solid and intentional as you stalked towards him. His eyelids were sewn open and he was swollen with joints at unnatural angles. In spite of your hostility towards them, you couldn't help but feel your lips tug up in a smile at what was surely Kid and Killer's work. It was incredibly satisfying to see Warthin sagging in pain. He recoiled at the sight of you, appearing as if he was trying to disappear into the wall behind him. You raised the pistol as you neared, firing one shot into his abdomen, reloading, and doing the same thing, then again, and again, until you had one bullet left. With that one, you ended your walk by pressing the barrel into his eye. You cocked it, letting him get a good look at the person who was going to end him.

And pulled the trigger.

Next

Tag List: @bbnbhm @nocturnalrorobin

[ramblings-in-imagination]

Not Just Bad Sushi (Part Seven)

The rig doors slammed open with a deafening clang as the doctors descended like a swarm of angels and warriors. “We’ve got a mid-twenties female, suspected septic shock from a ruptured appendix, BP’s tanking, heart rate 140, unresponsive!” Hen shouted as they yanked the gurney out, IV bags and monitors swaying dangerously.

Buck’s heart nearly stopped as he and Eddie jogged alongside the gurney, their hands brushing hers, helpless to do anything but stay close. Her face was pale and drawn, sweat-soaked hair plastered to her forehead.

“Keep the fluids going,get a central line in stat!” a trauma nurse yelled, already prepping the crash cart.

Evan’s breath came in frantic gasps. “Don’t let go, okay?” he whispered, his hand tightening around hers as they wheeled her through the trauma doors.

But suddenly Bobby was there, blocking Evan’s path with a firm but fatherly arm. “Buck, let them work,” he urged, his voice low and steady.

Evan’s chest heaved. “Don’t keep her from me….don’t keep her from me!” he shouted, trying to surge past Bobby, but Bobby’s grip only tightened.

“Buck, you’ve got to let them help her,” Bobby insisted, his own eyes glistening.

Eddie moved to Bobby’s side, wrapping an arm around Evan’s shoulders as Evan fought against them both. “Evan,” Eddie said, his voice breaking, “please—please, hermano, let them save her.”

The fight drained from Evan’s body in an instant, his knees buckling. Bobby and Eddie caught him, holding him up as he crumpled.

“God, I should’ve stayed home,” Evan sobbed, his tears falling freely.

Meanwhile, Chimney, his face pale, stepped aside and pulled out his phone. His hands shook as he dialed. “Maddie,” he said as soon as she picked up. “You need to get to County General. Now.”

Through the small trauma window, Eddie watched as the doctors surrounded her, a flurry of activity he’d seen a thousand times but never like this. His lips moved silently, Spanish prayers falling from his mouth like a lifeline.

“Por favor, Dios,” he murmured, his eyes locked on her pale face. “No la dejes ir. Dale la fuerza para quedarse con nosotros.”

Every second felt like an eternity as the team worked: lines inserted, fluids bolused, oxygen flowing, every action a desperate attempt to keep her tethered to life. Eddie’s chest heaved with the weight of fear and love, and he prayed the doctors’ hands were guided by something greater than medicine.

And through it all, Buck’s tears wouldn’t stop, his eyes locked on the woman who held his heart, his world shattering as he prayed she would fight her way back to him.

Inside the trauma room, alarms wailed like a siren song of panic. The team’s faces were set in grim determination as her heart monitor suddenly flatlined, sending a jolt of dread through the air.

“Get me the pads, charge to 200!” the trauma doctor barked, already positioning the defibrillator

Evan’s heart lurched, and he lunged toward the glass. “No! No—she can’t leave me! She can’t!” he screamed, pounding his fists against the glass.

Eddie, tears streaming down his face, was next to Buck, his mouth moving in frantic Spanish: “Dios mío, no me la quites, no me la quites… ella es mi hermanita, por favor, por favor.” His voice trembled with every word, eyes never leaving her motionless form.

Evan’s sobs were raw and broken, his voice cracking as he fought against Bobby and Chimney’s grip. “She needs to stay….she needs to be here for me! I need her…..she can’t leave me, Bobby, she can’t!”

Bobby’s own eyes glistened as he tightened his hold, his fatherly strength the only thing keeping Evan from throwing himself through the door. “Buck,” he said, his voice low but firm, “you’ve got to let them work. She’s a fighter….you know that. Let them bring her back.”

“Charge again—300!” the trauma doctor’s voice rang out, the defibrillator charging ominously.

Eddie’s prayers grew louder, his voice trembling with desperation. “Por favor, Dios… déjala pelear, déjala vivir…”

Another shock. Another jolt. Another second that felt like an eternity.

Outside the room, time seemed to freeze, every breath held, every heartbeat suspended…..until, finally, a rhythm returned on the monitor, fragile but there.

And in that moment, Bobby and Chimney felt Evan’s legs give out once again, the young firefighter collapsing in their arms, his soul shattered but his heart still stubbornly hoping.

[merbear25]

CW: dark (slightly abusive) themes, some stockholm syndrome, gn!reader

Bubbling, bubbling

The beakers overflowed with more than just chemicals. Fumes which carried the pressure you'd put on yourself seeped into your lungs. Each expansion of the sensitive organ made the thin tissue burn: a trick of the mind but with real affliction. Everything you thought you were and wanted to be depended on this. To prove you were meant to be there, that your prior success wasn’t a fluke, a bead of sweat trailed down the side of your face as the fear of failure coiled around you.

Eyes that followed you wherever you went, although a shiver running down your spine was the only thing alluding to their presence.

“Don't let what's been festering ruin your potential.” Something you were told long ago that echoed in the caverns of your mind, self-doubt often acting as a silencer to it.

Anxiety pricked your sides as if to watch itself drip out of the incisions. A long sigh passed your lips to ease your rising nerves. “I can do this.” Words of encouragement that were on the verge of flatlining, and yet you forced them out all the same.

You steadied your hands while transferring each drop. When the final one fell, the twisting clouds dissolved. A change in color that held a murky threat, the desired shade gave you more than relief. Placing the project in a holder, you sat back in your chair to allow the success to wash over you. With the strangling grip around you loosening, you could finally breathe.

Waiting, waiting

You drummed your fingers on the metal table in anticipation. Not knowing when he would deem you worthy of his time, you looked down at your recent accomplishment—in other words at what he could do with his eyes closed.

The sudden unlatching of the lock made you jump. He had casted you away to prove a point, one which you were likely to spend many more of your days trying to make up for, but that was if you were lucky.

“For your sake I hope you finished.” He approached you from behind, daring you to turn around to face him. Looming over you to grab the vial, he placed his hand on the table—trapping you in your place. He held the deadly liquid over your head, pretending that the only reason for doing so was for good lighting. A humph that could be read as approving or the prequel to your demise made you wince.

When he placed it back down, his sigh bordered more on satisfaction. “Very well, you may stay.”

“Oh thank you, I won’t let you down—” Your gratitude was promptly thrown into the guillotine of harsh reality.

“Be sure that you don’t because if I catch you making such careless mistakes again, you’ll have something worse than these four walls to look forward to.” His eyes held yours in a spoken contract.

Thumping, thumping

Your heart heeded his warning. You lowered your head and nodded at the conditions you were already well aware of. A smile spread across his face at your submission, and the slight optimism further casted you in his shadow.

“Now that we have that settled, I was thinking you’d be the perfect person to help me with something.” 

The ominous insinuation had your mind racing to how else he planned to punish you. Setting you free from the room wouldn’t have been enough, and if you ever hoped to salvage your reputation, denying him would only end up hurting you—even more than whatever he had in store for you at that moment.

“Of course, whatever you want.” Your voice lacked all the life it once had.

“Don’t be so gloomy. You’re still a part of the team. That’s more than many of the others can say.” A dark chuckle sent dread tingling through your body. Goosebumps spread over you at the thought of those who couldn’t live up to their potential.

“Right, I’m so… very thankful for the second chance you’re giving me.” A forced smile was a smile nonetheless. 

You would come around to him once again, he was sure of it. There were things he could offer you that others could only dream of, so the loyalty you had would be your guide through the many dark days that lay ahead.

“You are, aren’t you?”

You had no choice but to agree.

“Then let’s not waste any more time, shall we?” The piercing white light from the hallway was far from heaven sent, instead hellfire rebranded.

“Yes, Master.”

[hyperfixiation-station]

Lighter Pt.3

TW: Mentions of injuries, swearing

Summary: So you made it through the night. Now are you gonna wake up?

Part 1

Part 2

Over the course of the next four days Ghost, and sometimes Soap, do what they can to bring you back. Soap drops off your favorite blanket, the dryer sheets you use, and your MP3 player. Sometimes, while he forces Ghost to sleep, he’ll sit with you and tell you about his day, how annoying the new recruits are, and how Brenda in HR changed her hair again. 

Ghost doesn't leave your side, even to sleep. He simply curls up in the chair until Soap leaves. He does everything he can to stimulate a normal day for you, even washing your greasy hair one night. He doesn’t say much, not like Soap does, but his presence is constant, and he hopes you can feel him. 

He’s holding your hand, nearly a week after the ‘ventilator scare’, as Soap dubbed it, when something changes. At first, he can’t figure it out, but as he scans your body he notices your eyelids are fluttering. 

He watches with bated breath as your eyes flutter open. 

“Y/N?” He whispers hoarsely, watching you squint. 

“Y/N.” He says sharply as he watches your hand come up to your face, tangling the wires. For a brief second he panics, thinking you are going to rip them out. 

“Y/N.” He says again. This time, your head turns towards him. His stomach drops as your face somehow pales even more and you start gagging. He presses the call button before carefully helping you sit up, rubbing your back as you dry-heave. 

“Sorry, I'm sorry, I’m sorry.” He whispers. His eyes flick to a glass of water that Soap had left for him and he grabs it, still supporting you with his other hand. He guides it to your lips, tipping it slowly into your mouth so you don’t choke. 

Satisfied, he slowly eases you back down, brushing your hair out of your sweaty face. 

“Simon?" Your voice is hoarse and weak and barely audible but it’s your voice. Ghost could almost cry. 

“Bloody hell Y/N. You scared me.” He murmurs hoarsely. His hands shake as he caresses your cheek with his thumb. 

“You got shot, and then, like a bloddy fuckin’ idiot, you had me cauterize it and went into shock.“You lost almost a liter of blood, and flatlined twice while they repaired your hip.” He carefully grabs your hand, minding the wires. 

“Wha’ hap…” Your voice trails off, and it scares him just a little.

“Oh.” Your response is so low he almost doesn’t catch it. But he does, and it makes him smile slightly. God how he missed you.

“Yeah, oh.” He says softly, the elation at seeing you awake quickly being replaced by guilt. He squeezes your hand, subconsciously seeking comfort. 

"How do you feel?" He brings his hand to your face, brushing your hair out of your eyes again, running his thumb under your eye. 

The nurse finally comes in, but it is too late, you have already fallen back asleep. She checks your vitals and makes a note in your chart before exiting the room, leaving Ghost alone with your limp form. There is fear in his heart that you won’t wake up again, the only reassurance he gets is from watching the steady rise and fall of your chest, a silent but clear sign that you are still alive. 

“T’red.” You mumble. He smiles sadly, watching as you struggle to focus on the hand on your cheek.

“I bet. Go to sleep so that you can heal and I can yell at you for being stupid without feeling guilty.” He murmurs softly, hand trembling on your cheek.