#hell has a basement floor series

[thegnomelord]

CH 3: Hold Your Demons Close Maybe Then You'll Feel Something

CW:NSFW blood, gore, mutilation, killing, cannon typical violence, child abuse (it's minor but still there), drugging, military inaccuracies, Mage reader, Monster cod AU, poly141, eventual poly141 X reader, reader isn't a good person, a few masc terms used but overall gn.

Ao3; Word count: 19.1k (It's a heckin chonker) Big thanks for @rodolfoparras and @princeguri66 for betaing for me, love you guys!

Masterlist; Chapter 2 <-Chapter 3 (You are here) -> Chapter 4

Aisha remembers the day she thought she would die.

As a gift for the 10th birthday her mother had taken her to the market in the big city. It had been chaotic compared to their little village, so many people donkey carts, and mopeds moving around like crazy ants in a freshly exposed nest. Aisha had gotten lost, swept away by the time of movement, and ended up at the entrance of a shady alley where she'd stumbled on an old beggar woman.

Long as she lives she will never forget the sight of the woman. Strip her of flesh and blood and the memory will still be etched into her bones — of ghostly blue lines forming impregnable chains across sunken sunburned skin. Of dirty rags loosely hanging off skeleton thin shoulders. Of blood crusted bandages wrapped tightly around her shaved head to not scare the children running about, the cloth dipping into the eyeless sockets of her skull. Of her asking passerby for alms with the handless stumps of her arms.

The sight alone had frightened Aisha, but then the beggar had turned her head to Aisha as if she could hear the frantic beating of her heart. A sad saccharine croon left the mage woman's chapped lips as she looked right at her. "Hello, fellow daughter of Magnus."

Her mother found her then, pulling Aisha back while shouting at the woman at the top of her lungs. Aisha's mind had been too full of thoughts to notice her mother drop their shopping in favor of scurrying out of the market with Aisha in hand. She had only snapped back to reality when her mother had thrown Aisha into her father’s rusted little car, barely able to sit up straight before they were driving home to their village as fast as the car’s geriatric engine could go.

Aisha had been locked in the room she shared with her sisters, but the door did little to mute the way her parents argued all day long, accusations of infidelity and cursed bloodlines thrown around like bird feed. Most of it flew over her head, but Aisha had understood one thing: Her parents were afraid.

The strange men came to her house just as the sun had set, drawn out by the dying light like coyotes hunting for a stray lamb. The strong stench of rot heralding their arrival made her sputter to hold back the bile burning her throat. She remembers the sparks of yellow and red and blue and all the other stolen colors of the rainbow swirling in their cold eyes.

They chatted while inspecting her like a cow in the market, their language just as rough and hard as their hands. But they lost interest quickly, unable to find what they wanted to see. They turned to throw lecherous looks at her mother and older sisters before her father had stepped between them and her, protecting his daughter now that he knew Aisha wasn't a freak. He'd tensely asked them to leave after paying for their time, standing in the doorway and only going back inside when the strange men were well and truly out of sight.

Her parents let them in without complaint; Her father held her down, his steely gaze watching the men crowd her. Her mother whispered trembling words into her ear to just be a good girl as the men tore her shirt off. Aisha's questions and pleas and panic fell on deaf ears, her mother pressing a worn hand over her mouth to silence her cries as the men inspected her chest and arms. They pinched and pulled on her skin with hands scarred like gnarled tree bark, the roughness of their palms chafing her soft flesh.

Aisha remembers the days she thought she would die.

Waking up each day to wash under her mother's stalwart gaze so she could ensure Magnus hadn't sown seeds into Aisha's body while she slept. Going each week to the village elders to drink the special brew of Morgana's tears, spending agonizing hours curled up and sobbing on the floor with a stabbing pain in her chest, her heart beating like the wings of a snared bird as the poison made its way through her system. She'd lost count how many times her heart would stutter after every bout of joy or childish argument on the rare moments the children of the village would interact with her — any lick of emotion would force her to run home to check the pads of her fingers in fear that this time magic had cracked through her skin.

She had been so happy on her 15th birthday — the danger had passed. She wasn’t a mage. She could finally live a normal life, meet a boy, get married, have a family.

She’s 16 now. All those years of worry and fear feel like childhood bliss.

Aisha knows she will die.

It happened so suddenly; When her friend had jokingly rubbed a feather duster in her face, Aisha would have never expected a stupid sneeze to force liquid frost through her fingers. Pain had raced through her chest at the speed of lightning, an unknown force pulling her arms up, and the next thing she knew she had frozen over her neighbor's entire crop field. Aisha had barely heard her friend scream over the pounding in her ears, her legs moving on their own long before her brain could understand the pain in her hands or what she had done.

Her mind might still have been reeling, but her body understood she needed to run, needed to hide, before the sun fell and the coyotes came for her.

The house she's found to hide in is one of the many corpses the Russians left behind, stripped bare to rotting wood bones and crumbling bricks, moldy wall paper peeling in long thick strips and rickety boards creaking under the slightest pressure. Gravel crunches beneath heavy tires outside the decrepit house and a rumbling engine cuts through the silence. Aisha scrambles up the stairs to the second floor, hiding in a dingy closet with it's walls closing in around her like the sides of a cramped coffin. Termite made holes in the closet door act as peepholes, letting her see into the bedroom and watch the long shadows created by the car's lights stretch across the floor.

She bites her lip as the slightest twitch of her pinky finger makes pain bloom across her entire hand, though she's barely able to move her fingers with how stiff they are. Her tan skin bellow the wrists is corpse pale and cold, blood crusting the creases of her knuckles. The creaking of floorboards has Aisha hastily pressing her ice cold hands against her lips, the taste of her blood — copper and iron with a hint of something sweet like antifreeze — failing to churn her stomach when even the hint of slowly encroaching rot has her heart clogging her throat so not even a whimper can make it past her lips.

She’s sure her lungs stop working when a man crosses the threshold into the room, and immediately she’s hit with such a strong smell of decay, like death had crawled up her nose and died there. Her throat and chest spasm with the need to cough, tears freely running down her cheeks from how much effort it takes to keep quiet, but past her blurry vision she can see the man slowly walk into the room.

He’s tall and gangly like a newborn foal, bulky clothes widening his frame that’s mostly skin and bones, thinning blond hair badly swept over a sizable bald spot. He wouldn’t be so scary if his eyes didn’t glow an unnatural mixture of toxic green and burning red— the sight alone has goosebumps spreading across his skin, followed by a deep seated discomfort as if leeches are crawling inside her bones.

“Come out little girl,” Even his voice feels wrong, like glass ground on sandpaper, but he speaks with so much sweetness it’s disgusting. “We only want to talk to you, don’t worry you’re not in trouble.” She can tell he’s not from Urzikstan by the rough accent that muddles the Arabic words he speaks.

The floorboards creak softly as she shifts. His head swivels to look around the room and the man quickly walks over to the bed, dropping to his knees to look under it. “Fuck!” His facade falls as he snarls when he sees she’s not there, stumbling to his feet like a drunk. “I mean uh- don’t worry I’m not mad kid,” He chuckles lightly, trying to put on an act of a worried Samaritan, though the attempt falls short when his predatory eyes fall on the closet she’s hiding in.

“Hey, did you find her yet?” Another voice rings from the entrance of the room, this one feminine and with a slight drawl to her words as she speaks in english. It makes Aisha jump, though the squeaking boards beneath her go unnoticed when the new voice continues. “Boss is starting to get antsy and if we don’t find her soon he’ll be sticking your ass with the pigs.”

She can’t see well, but she’s certain the man shows a middle finger to the unseen person. “Fuck off,” He spits out the response like it’s a mouthful of poison, “We both know you’re the dead weight.” He says, taking a few steps around the bed, but luckily for Aisha he stops in the middle of the room. Aisha can hear how deeply he breathes in, before something catches in his throat and he coughs. “I can smell the magic, the wench is still in the house.”

“Bullshit.” The woman scoffs, “You say that every hunt and we end up wasting our time.” A moment passes before the unseen woman chuckles and adds. “You couldn’t smell shit if you shoved your head up your ass!”

The man openly seethes, quick and heavy footsteps carrying him right up to the woman and out of Aisha’s field of view. “You take that back you fucking bitch!” The snarl is more animal than man. Aisha can only assume he punches the woman from the way the floorboards groan loudly in the otherwise silent night, shoes scuffing on the floor, grunts and swears filling the air as the noises of fighting steadily recede to another room.

She’s light headed by the time she manages to pull her hands away from her mouth enough to draw in a breath of stale air, her lungs burning from how long she had gone without breathing. Her heart drums loudly in her skull, her ears pricked to listen to the two strangers exchange angry words in a language she doesn't understand, each passing second of the continuing scuffle making confidence slowly form in her mind.

This is her chance!

. . . to do what?

She doubts she could take them on, she's pretty sure she saw a gun hanging off the man's waist, and she definitely knows she won't be able to outrun them. She's stuck. Cornered.

“Whatever, you just fin-” The sound of footsteps once again nearing the room she's in forces her body to act without her input.

Fishhooks tug on her fingers and force them to splay out flat in the air despite the pain. Her mind scrambles to think of something, anything, before unseen hands pull her mouth open. A shaky breath escapes her lungs and before she knows it words are falling from her lips, so smooth and fluent like her mind is reading a script carved into her bones. “Oh harsh creatures of brutal winter, please, I need your help-” Something cold and sharp stabs behind her chest, more of her skin turning pale as magic slowly crawls down her arms.

It hurts —

Spiderweb cracks of broken glass spread across her knuckles and a fat drop of blood rolls down her chin from how tightly she bites her lip. Her blood beads through the cracks in her skin, the dark crimson turned a light pink by the freshly exposed white light that pulses beneath her skin like a living thing.  Aisha sucks in a sharp breath before continuing, “- I beg you, give me a crumb of your power, a ball of silent snow to hide my life-” The more she speaks, the more the white light cracks through her skin until it cracks through the pads of her fingers and escapes as shoddily formed snowflakes.

They dance through the air like drunken fireflies before finding the right position and floating in the air. More of them spawn from each finger with every word spoken, taking their own place in an unknown pattern.

Slowly the overlapping snowflakes take on the shape of a scratchy circle, trembling lines forming a complex web of shapes inside it. The pain grows with it; it turns her fingers pale and numb as if she had stuck her hands in freezing water, the icy bite of frost spreading up her wrists. Her frozen skin cracks from even the slightest tremor in her hands, white speckles dancing in her crimson blood as it leaks down her palms. Each second taken to breathe and bite back a whimper disrupts the fragile collection of snowflakes, causing parts of the circle to break off and drop to the ground in big watery drops.

Her chest feels like it’s tightly packed with soaked wool, a type of pressure building behind her sternum, her shoulders stiff as her body is getting ready for. . . something good—

The closet door swings open with enough force to break it off its hinges. White light of the circle refracts off the gun aimed at her.

Bang!

A bullet tears through the magic circle and shatters it into pieces, all the pressure that had been building in her body rushing through the crumbling remains of the circle right back at her.

She screams and shakes, fat tears freely running down her cheek like the blood flowing from her palms. There’s not a single word in any language able to describe the pain rushing through her veins, the liquid agony infesting every cell — sharp and blunt and deep and gnawing, like her body is trying to eat itself, like she’s infested with maggots; the bullet that tears through her side feels like a soft mercy.

“Fucking moron!” She barely hears the woman snarl over the rush of blood in her ears. The gun aimed at her is roughly pushed down. “Are you trying to get the boss to take our heads?” The stench of rot only worsens it, disorientating her further and she’s barely able to make her fingers twitch. She’s got no defense from the rough hand that roughly grabs her by the hair and pulls her out of the closet.

“I’d rather not die from a first time mage!” The man yells, grabbing her by the shoulder. Aisha’s legs can’t support her weight no matter how much she tries, but the man is far stronger than she had expected and has no problem holding her up. Her lungs manage a pained sound before her arms are grabbed and painfully wrenched behind her back, handcuffs softly clicking as they’re tightened until the steel digs into her aching wrists.

“Oh so when I’m the one on the end of the damn spells it’s fine then?” The woman’s anger shows in the way her cracked nails dig into Aisha’s scalp and pull her head back like she's trying to take it off entirely. Aisha struggles to breathe, gasping and wriggling to the best of her ability but it’s useless and a second later a thick metal collar is tightened around her neck, rusted needles on the inside of it pricking her skin enough to draw blood.

It burns. The collar rapidly heats up like she's got a string of hot coals around her neck, the heat traveling down her skin to grip her heart in a vice. The collar is so tight she can’t even gasp, fresh adrenaline pouring through her veins as she tries to scramble out of the handcuffs, tries to shake out of their hold, tries to just get away. . . but she’s about as strong as a kitten.

“You’re expendable. The girl could make a better spell than you.” The man holding her shoulder laughs and pulls her away as soon as the woman lets go of her hair, all too happy to drag her like a sack of potatoes behind him. Each step down the stairs has the base of her spine awkwardly hitting the step, accosting her frazzled brain with even more pain.

“We got the girl, boss!” The man says triumphantly, pulling her up so she’s facing another man. Even with the tears blurring her vision, Aisha can tell the ‘boss’ isn’t from Urzikstan; He’s a pudgy little man with a wide flat nose and other features that don’t quite fit his face, but his eyes — they glow the same rainbow hue as the other two, with the same malice.

“Finally.” The boss huffs, not wasting a single second and pulling a knife from his pocket. A rough hand holds Aisha’s head so she can’t squirm away from the knife as it cuts across her cheek. Just that small cut feels like a gaping wound and a small whimper falls from her lips as the boss pulls the knife back, specks of white floating in the dark blood coating the metal. A black tongue slips from his lips to lick up the bloodied edge, the sight making her stomach curl with disgust.

Another hand grabs her cheek, cracked fingers like claws digging into the cut until blood flows over the man's fingers. The man holding her pulls his bloodied fingers into his mouth, humming. A second passes before he curses and spits at his feet. “There’s barely anything there,” He says, the hold he has on her tightening. “Barely worth the bullet.”

“Oh, that won’t be a problem.” The boss waves him off, sharp rainbow eyes looking her up and down. “Couple of grams from ol’ daddy Magnus and we’ll have ourselves a proper sow.” He reaches out to pat the top of her head, condescending — like she's just a dumb animal. “Alright, put it in the truck.” The boss orders and the man holding her complies, starting to drag her to the truck parked in front of the house.

Somehow, behind the the loud beating of her heart, she hears rumbling. Somehow, though her mind is like tangled yarn and she can barely grasp a thought, she feels something — an emotion that doesn't belong to her: Anger

Violent anger. Burning hot in the cold night, so all consuming it leaves the world around her trembling.

"Hold on-" The boss says suddenly, quickly raising his head to sniff the air. "Do you smell that?"

Tires screech against the rocky road, orange flames sparking from thin air as a motorcycle appears out of nowhere. Aisha only manages to get a glimpse of glowing orange eyes before she's blinded by bright light. She closes her eyes, heat washing over her body before she hears the head of the man holding her explode.

Shards of bone and brain matter rain down on her, sticking to her dark curly hair. The body stands for a second, unaware it no longer has a head as the charred stump of the neck steams. The body falls to the ground and takes Aisha with it, falling on top of her.

The elbow digs into her bleeding side, her eyes flying open as she struggles to get out from under the man, managing to push him off. Her gaze flies to the steaming charred stump where the head used to be. Panic rising she breathes in and oh god the smell — it’s an automatic response; Her stomach convulses and she pukes, bile burning her throat, retching and crying as the scent of her bile only makes it worse.

She feels heat rush over her and she doesn’t need to see to know your magic makes the other man and woman’s heads pop like grapes. Their bodies drop to the ground somewhere behind her, but what makes adrenaline rush through her is the soft sound of the motorcycle stand clicking against the ground.

Her head flies up to look, heart beating like a bird in the cage of her ribs; Dirt crunches beneath your boots but to her it sounds like breaking bones, steam rises off your body, the bright glow of your arms and the intense glare of your eyes behind the tinted lenses of your mask. . . it all gives the image of a demon — of something she needs to flee from.

If the people had been coyotes, then this person— no. . . the thing that had found her was a starved lion.

She tries to scramble back but it's useless when the smallest twitch of a muscle has her whimpering, blistering cold gnawing on every inch of her nerves.

You reach her in seconds, leaning down to grab her by the front of her clothes to pick her up like she weighs nothing. Your scent floods her nose, rot and just a small hint of sweetness, like honey poured on the floors of a burning charnel house. She tries to kick you but can barely move her toes, her legs just swaying uselessly beneath her. Your fingers, warm but not burning hot, hook under the steel wrapped around her neck.

Your jaw tenses, trying to remember how to speak. "Hold still." You order.

Your voice is soft. Not the velvet softness of her mothers', more akin to the smoothness of a tar pit right before it pulls a hapless creature into its inky depths. But you don't hurt her.

Metal screeches as the rusted steel bends like clay under your fingers. It only takes a few seconds before the collar clatters to the ground. The sudden release of pressure has Aisha gasping for breath so quickly she starts coughing and almost pukes but luckily her stomach is empty.

She doesn't feel you free her hands, the world spinning a thousand miles a minute before her eyes. She's forced to close her eyes shut in an attempt to fight back the nausea, rainbow spots crackling in the darkness of her vision.

Casually stepping over the corpse of the Devourer you sit her down on the hood of the truck, keeping a hand on her shoulder to make sure she doesn't fall face first to the ground. She shivers under your touch, trembling hands slowly raising to grip your wrist. You don't need magical sight to know an aborted spell is ravaging her insides; her fingertips turning black in front of your eyes and the specks of white dancing in her pupil is enough.

Judging by the way you can barely pick up the scent of mage standard rot on her, you can only assume she's a late bloomer. With a small huff you place your other hand on the middle of her chest, casting a simple circle at your palm.

Aisha gasps, fingers scrambling to try and pull your hand off, too numb with cold to register how the cooling lava making up your skin warms up. But it's like trying to move a mountain. You don't budge an inch. She can feel something inside her move, burning frost shepherded by blistering heat slinking down her fingers back into her heart, increasing speed with every inch it travels. She barely notices the aching in her side subsiding, or the sensation returning to her fingers.

You let go of the girl when you’re satisfied she won’t die from either blood loss or mana shock, leaving her to sit on the hood of the car as she looks dumbly at you.

The bullet loudly clatters on the steel hood. She turns her head and her eyes nearly pop out of her skull at the sight of her blood literally bleaching out of her clothes like it's being drawn back into her body. Letting go of your wrist she lifts her shirt, and there's not even a mark on her tan skin.

She’s no threat to you.

No sooner that you take a step away from her does Beelzebub's cold presence rush out of your heart with enough force to make you stumble back. People say it’s madness for a spell, a tool, to have personality. But the way black candlelight flames spark at your fingers and immediately rush out like a swarm of locusts to devour the three bodies is. . . it's angry. Vengeful As it should be. You can't fool yourself into thinking the way Beelzebub's magical fires eat away the Devourers hands before spreading over the rest of the body, crackling and buzzing like thousands of flies as they devour skin, then muscle, then bone until not even dust remains, is anything but vindictive.

Like erasing mistakes, it brings you a sense of satisfaction.

Your fingers twitch but you stop yourself from reaching up to trace the faint blue magic gluing your throat together. Instead, you focus on converting the mangled chunks of mana Beelzebub deposits in your chest into something you can use. Devours are a pain in the ass, so much different mana all twisted and held together with gum and staples, all of it now bashing against your ribs like wailing ghosts. With a huff you focus, the rock chunks on your arms getting wider and bigger as you store the stolen mana for later use, steam lazily rolling off your shoulders.

Aisha watches you, eyes wide, but. . . not scared. She doesn’t notice when she opens her mouth, her voice far too loud in the silent night. “Are you a jinn?” She asks, and cringes at her words. Of all the things she could have said, she chose that?

You don't know how you manage to open your mouth enough to answer. “No.” Beelzebub, satisfied as a hog in shit, burns on the ground for a few seconds in the shape of the bodies before seeping back into the earth, settling back to slumber in your heart.

You roll your shoulders. The slight bite of pain and the spasm of your muscles reminds you of the glass sticking out of your back. A grunt forces past your lips, more from annoyance than actual pain. A simple thought is enough to activate the magic you had cast on yourself, vestigial sparks flickering across your shoulders and boring a hole into your jacket. The edges glow brightly before they birth flames that eat away the bulletproof vest and the rest of your clothing until a sizable chunk of your back is exposed.

Aisha catches the edge of a small circle scribed atop your spine in the middle of your back, but her eyes are soon drawn to the mess of glass shards sticking out of your skin. There’s not a speck of blood in sight, but somehow that makes the sight more disturbing. Her gasp falls deaf on your ears, your mind more focused in trying to remove them.

Forcing your opposite hand to cool down enough so the heat doesn’t shatter the glass, you reach back as far as you can, trying to feel as best you can with your numb fingers. But your hands are stiff and unfeeling, making you fumble about like a bull in a china shop as you try to get one shard and miss. The only time you manage to grasp the sharp edge, you break it when you attempt to pull it out. A curse slips past your lips and you crush the broken piece between your fingers.

Aisha doesn’t know what possesses her, nothing good probably, but she speaks up. “Can I-” Your head turns to her so fast she startles, mouth snapping shut with an audible clack of her teeth. She can only stare at those burning eyes for a second before her animal brain forces her to look away, focusing on the gas mask portion of your mask because looking at your eyes feels wrong. But she powers through it, forcing herself to speak. “Can I help you?”

That was not what you expected.

“No.” You say, your head swiveling to glance at the road and then back up to the sky, a pulse of formless magic slipping past your fingers on instinct to ensure you’re covering all your bases as far as relative safety goes. You don’t see nor sense any form of life besides the girl, nor any mage magic save for the tracker in your pocket.

You hate to admit it, but the wraith was good. And so was the mage that made the tracker, it took you a good while until you had sensed the small piece of enchanted rock hidden in your pocket. You’re still unsure what you want to do with it, maybe you could somehow game the situation or send the monsters after you on a wild goose chase, so for now you’ve only isolated it with your magic instead of destroying it.

Aisha persists. “Please,” She grits her teeth, resisting the urge to shrink back when your eyes once again settle on her. “I- you helped me, I don’t want to hold debts.” There is a kind of determination in her eyes you know too well, the same kind Frosty had right before you and him—

If anyone asks or puts a gun to your head, you will blame this moment on many things — the fatigue, the side effects of using too much magic, the spiraling descent into lichdom, finally losing what dredges of sense you have in your no good skull;  “Fine.”

You take careful steps towards her until your knees press against the bumper before turning your back to her, forcing her to spread her legs to accompany your body. You keep your body turned in a way that still keeps her in your periphery. Not that it matters. Even if she had a knife hidden on her person nothing short of 30/06 ammo could leave any damage you couldn’t immediately heal off.

Aisha hates the part of her that regrets her decision now that she's presented with the large array of glass sticking out of your skin. She reaches out like she would try to pet a wild dog, cold fingers gripping the sides of one piece, bracing her other hand on your back. She tries to wiggle it out, and though you keep yourself from hissing, your muscles still spasm around the sharp glass. “Sorry, sorry-”

“You’re fine rookie,” You grunt automatically. “Just yank it out.”

She sucks in a sharp breath and prepares herself like she’s the one with half a ton of glass using her as a pin cushion. But she does as you say before she can shy away from it. The glass slides out easily enough, glowing orange blood staining it. Her eyes go wide when the blood suddenly drips off the shard in one continuous stream until she’s holding a perfectly clean piece of glass. The blood lands on your back and slithers up your skin into the wound, repairing muscle and flesh until there’s not even a mark to indicate where the glass had pierced your skin.

“Are you like me?” She asks tentatively, mentally hitting herself for such a stupid question; of course you’re a mage, what is she even thinking? Hoping to escape the embarrassment she pulls another shard out of your back.

“You and I are mages.” You say simply, occasionally glancing to the road and sky before turning your attention back on the girl. It feels… strange. You don't remember the last time you've spoken with someone who didn't want anything from you. Someone who didn't want to use you. Kill you.

“Ye- yeah, I figured.” Aisha bites her lip, squinting her eyes. “Why… why did you save me?” She finally asks the question that had been plaguing her.

“I just did.” You shrug your shoulder, a small breath slipping past your clenched teeth as the motion makes the glass dig deeper into your shoulder.

Aisha’s shoulders fall, a frown tugging on her lips. She doesn’t know what she had expected. “Thank you.”

Her words make your head turn to look at her fully, “Why?”

“Why not?” Another chunk of glass falls to the ground, “You saved me from. . . them. You killed to save me.” She says, nodding her head at the three body shaped scorch marks on the ground. She doesn’t know why talking about the death of them suddenly feels so. . . normal, like she’s walking through a dream and none of this is real. More like a nightmare.

“Killing bad men doesn't make me a good one.” You grunt, choosing not to voice how your motives for killing them had been far more selfish than she could imagine. Vengeance and anger are poor motives, but motives nonetheless.

Aisha clicks her tongue and scowls. “And saving me would make you bad? One good deed has to amount for something, right?”

A pregnant pause rings through the silent night.

“You are strange.” Is the only thing your mind can turn into words.

“So are you!” She shoots back quickly, lowering her head when her words register in her brain. Chewing on her bottom lip she pulls out the last glass shard from your skin, letting it fall from her fingers where it joins the small pile on the ground. She awkwardly pats your shoulder. “Who were they?” She finds her voice again.

“Devourers.” You fail to hide the hate in your tone. Stepping away from her you activate the spell you’ve cast on yourself. The magic burning at the edges of the hole in your clothing flares up, fire washing over your naked skin to reconstruct the fabric you had destroyed. “Humans who want magic, and will bleed you dry to get it.” The jacket feels bigger on you than it should, you don’t even doubt that you’ve lost a few pounds just in the past few hours as you’re forced to tighten your belt to keep your pants from sagging. "Kill them if you can, avoid them if you can't."

“Why did they want me?” Aisha asks, bracing herself on the car’s hood and slowly sliding down until her feet touch the ground. She feels lightheaded and sways on her feet, gripping the hood to keep upright. You glance at her but she just shakes her head — you two are even now, she hopes, she doesn’t want to have to ask for help for something as simple as standing.

“You’re a mage, they want magic.” You shrug, fixing the cuffs on your jacket so not an inch of your mage marked skin shows. “They want your blood, by drinking it they can use what they lack.”

Unwanted thoughts laugh at the back of your mind. Phantom pain blooms across your throat as you swallow, your lungs stuttering to draw breath. Memories you'd rather not revisit nibble at the back of your mind, just begging to gain your attention. Your hand reaches out to hold the tags—

Nothing.

You come up empty.

Your heart finally stops.

You hold your fist against your chest for a few seconds, the need to break something, even your own sternum, crooning soft melodies in your ears. Finally your fingers slowly uncurl so your palm rests flat over your heart. Your body is warm, but a blizzard rages inside your ribcage. You lost them, again. . . and you don’t feel fury, or sadness, or any other way. You don’t feel shit.

A low pathetic sound escapes you. Titanium wires stitch your jaw closed, pulled so taut you'd chip a tooth without your magic. For a split second you think of dispelling the magic around the tracker and letting them come to you. . . but you don’t; at least Taurus’s training remains effective. You’re sure your brain will let you feel anger as soon as you’ll be in a position to survive the consequences of anger birthed stupidity.

Aisha leans to her side just enough to see your front, confusion written on her face as to why you had suddenly gone quiet. Though your eyes still burn with an inferno, they feel empty to her. She remembers her father’s eyes had been the same when he had returned from fighting. “Did you lose someone?” She asks, voice soft.

“Yes.” You grunt, and fuck, it feels insulting to them how lost you sound. You’re one of the best mages on the planet for fuck’s sake, you’re not supposed to feel this way. “Lost a lot of people.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be.” You finally pry your hand off your chest, both hands now hanging by your sides, fingers curled into fists. “You had nothing to do with it.” You wish you could say the same to yourself.

You shake your head; feelings can come after the job is done. You know the general lay of the land enough to know there is a small city not far from where you are, one that isn’t too harsh on mages. It would take her a couple of hours on foot to reach, but it’s better than nothing. You tell as such, starting to walk towards your motorcycle. “Get to the city, don’t linger around here.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Aisha follows after you, struggling to keep up. “What am I supposed to do when I get there?” Her mind swirls with all sorts of questions, where will she go? What of her parents? What if—

“Do what you want.” You shrug and get on the motorcycle, the engine roaring to life. “Join the military or the circus or whatever else, just don’t stay here.” And with that you drive off.

. . .

"Well, would you look at that." A man sighs as he pulls the binoculars down to rest in his lap, a deep frown on his face. It only lasts for a scant few seconds before he smirks, crows feet forming around his eyes. "Our firebug's manners haven't changed one bit." The man chuckles and turns his head to regard his companion, eyes glowing the color of crystal clear quartz.

"Oh, I wonder who taught him that." The woman sitting next to him snarks, the blue chains marring her arms disappearing like a mirage when she dispels the illusion spell. The human skin melts away to coarse sand and weathered whalebone, red bone eating worms squirming and boring holes into the whalebone, small anglerfish lures softly waving through the air as if she's deep beneath the sea.

The man purses his lip, "I've no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm sure, mister 'I dropped a mountain on an oil rig with my second in command still in it'." Water flows between the seams of whalebone, extending past the stumps of her wrists to form hands of seafoam and salt.

She uses her newly remade hands to tug on the man’s ear like he’s a disobedient child.

The man scoffs and bats her hand away. "Hey now, you did say you wanted to go diving." He shrugs, "Oh, and looks like I won our bet." He smirks, catching the golden coin the woman throws him. Charles's face smiles on one side of it, but the man pays it no mind and puts the coin in his pocket; they’re both far too old to care about money and the dead kings on them.

“Yes, but not like that!” She snaps, not even the bandages around her head able to hide the glare she throws at him. But instead of following up on her anger she sighs and looks down at her hands. Glowing blue plankton swim in the crystal clear waters, but it feels like yesterday her hands were dyed a burning orange.

She hates what they had to do. What they continue to do. “Ifrit is still too reckless. Your plan failed.”

“No it didn’t.” He shoots back. “We just overestimated the kid again. It wouldn’t have been a problem if you hadn’t coddled them all so much.”

The man fully expects the slap on the shoulder he receives, cool water splashing on his greying blond hair. He doesn’t comment on it, simply runs his hand over the patch of wet hair. Small green shrubs bloom on the cracked earth texture of his palm, moss crawling up the crystalline outcrops along his elbow bone, little flowers sprouting in his hair and beard.

They sit in silence for a moment before the woman sighs and hangs her head. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.” Lifting her head she angles it to look at the man. “I just… I wish we didn’t have to do this.” She confesses. “It breaks my heart to see Ifrit so lost.” As much as her still heart can be broken.

“I know, I know.” He reaches out to gently take her hands into his. Though she can’t see his face, even her magic can only go so far, she knows he’s sporting a gentle smile. “Ifrit will be fine. He has no choice.”

Two jet planes fly overhead, engines screaming, blind to their existence as they rush after their prodigal soldier like bats out of hell.

The woman grimaces, water easily sliding past his fingers as she pulls her hands away. “I know,” She tilts her head towards the abandoned house, and the girl slowly walking away from it. “I suppose I’ll find something to occupy myself with.” The woman gets up, glancing at the man once again. “I hope you know what you’re doing Taurus.”

"I always do Sierra."

. . .

The atmosphere is so thick a vampire could bite into it. They all know first hand how missions can go wrong in a moment’s notice, but none of them had expected it to go this pear shaped; some of the mages they had been given are dead, the rest are all in some kind of coma, and it’s a miracle that Captain Roberts had survived long enough to get medical evac with how burned up she was. Gaz had almost lost his lunch when he’d gone to pick up the mage captain and her arm had fallen off in brittle pieces of blackened bone, fabric and skin melted together all over her torso.

"Are you boys alive?" Is the first question out of Laswell's lips when the contact her. The shoddy connection makes her face grainy and pixelated, but her voice is clear enough, tinged with exhaustion and the light of the screen darkens the bags under her eyes.

“Yeah,” Kyle says, “Besides nearly getting turned into KFC we’re fine.” He moves his wings for emphasis, holding back a grimace at how the residual soot and ash irritates the soft skin beneath his feathers. He’ll be lucky if it’ll wash out after a week, though the grime is only secondary to the stench of death and heat clinging to him.

Soap grunts, not bothering or simply forgetting to pull the frozen piece of rubber from his mouth before speaking. “O-cgh ohnlhy ah fheph burhnrs.” Spit leaks down his swollen lip as he gurgles. It hadn't been noticeable at first, but when the adrenaline wore off the pain in his gums hit him like a truck. The medic had given him the rubber to soothe the burns all over his mouth, and he would have been pissed about how much it looked like a doggy chew toy if the relief it brought wasn’t worth it. Doesn’t mean he’s any less agitated about looking like a teething puppy.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Kyle chides, singed wingtips flicking against the back of Soap’s skull.

Johnny pulls the rubber out of his mouth enough to growl back and simultaneously tries to swallow the saliva. He chokes, hitting his chest a few times and coughing, “Yae try ta talk with a burned mouth! Feel like ah’ve been gargling devil pish.”

“Boys.” Price snaps, voice as cold and hard as his reptilian eyes. “Enough.” There’s a hardness in his gaze neither men have seen in a while or even think of challenging. It’s easy to see that something is bothering the dragon, even if he doesn’t say it, and whatever it is, it’s got Price angry.

Not the usual ‘shouting and arguing’ angry Price gets when he’s given dog shit orders, no. This is the cold and silent anger that precedes the destruction of cities.

Soap looks away, biting down on the frozen rubber. Gaz mumbles an apology.

“John,” Kate begins, sensing the storm in his head. “What did you find out?”

“Ifrit knows Ruin magic.” Price says, bits of steam rising from the corners of his lips as his anger shows. He had gone centuries believing that despicable magic had finally died out and rotted away like every mage that used it. He was wrong. Very wrong.

“Shit.” Laswell rubs the bridge of her nose, “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Price’s wing flares out a bit, tail flicking side to side in a subconscious show of agitation. “I felt it.”

“Anyone care to share with the class.” Simon asks, arms crossed over his chest and claws digging into his biceps. The light pricks of pain keep him grounded enough to ensure his arms don’t turn into puffs of dark smoke; he’s had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach ever since the fight, something about you — how you moved, how confidently you used magic — he hadn’t seen it in a while.

And it didn’t bode well. It was better when a mage was scared of their own shadow and put on a cheap mask of confidence. But with you? There wasn’t even a single second of hesitation in anything you did.

Price looks at him, then at the two sergeants, finally looking at Laswell as the two exchange nods. “It’s nothing good.” A sigh leaves him. “Ruin magic is old and dangerous,” Price starts, eyes hard like stone. “The last time it was used a plague swept across Europe.”

“What?” Kyle’s eyebrows furrow. “Do you seriously mean the black death was caused by magic?”

"Yes," Kate says, "But we can have a history lesson later. Ifrit knowing ruin magic changes things, they're now our top priority."

"Ah dhogh geh-" Soap remembers they can't understand him and pulls the rubber out of his mouth. "Ah don't get it, what's so special about ruin magic? Ain't all that magical shite the same?"

"No." Price grunts, "A ruin mage needs the body of another person to learn a spell. They see anything or anyone living as chunks of meat to be used in their spells." His eyes darken, claws digging into his palms.

He shakes his head. “Did you manage to get any information about Ifrit from the tags?” Price asks. He had sent photo copies of each dog tag to Laswell as soon as Johnny had given them to him.

Soap pulls the rubber from his mouth, swallowing the excess spit before reaching out to grab the tags laying on the table. He doesn’t know why, but something about holding them feels sacrilegious to him; like he’s holding the pelt of another werewolf instead of pieces of metal.

“No, Ifrit’s tags aren’t ones made by the military.” Laswell says, and that piques Kyle's interest. He leans over to look at the tags as Johnny inspects them. The metal chain hangs loosely off his fingers, weighed down by more than a dozen tags dangling from it. They vary in damage, some are bent, some have black heat marks on them in the shape of fingertips, and some are so blackened he needs to use his fingers to feel the text. Silicon silencers prevent the tags from making noise when he lays them down in a pile on his palm, a couple of them spilling over to hang at the sides of his hand. The first thing he notices is the stench, nothing specific like the smell mages have, but it’s not pleasant either.

Soap takes a random tag and reads off the fine text —

‘JACHAL

VENENUM, ACIDUM, L9

MAJOR

O NEG

JEWISH’

“Yer telling me.” Soap huffs, taking out his own tags from beneath his shirt to compare the two, just to make sure he’s not insane and the tags don’t make sense.

“What kind of shite even is this?” Johnny’s tags sport his full government name and security name without mentioning his rank. The tags he has in his hand look more like the ones civies would get personalized than anything else. He grimaces and hands the tags over to Gaz, “Are they even real?” He asks.

“Why would someone just carry around a bunch of fake tags?” Gaz asks, inspecting them as well.

“Could be part of a wannabe militia. Wouldn’t be the first time some punks with guns tried to play army.” Ghost shrugs. “Could also be to throw us off.” Ghost suggests, tilting his head enough to see Kyle appraise the small hunks of metal. “Or it’s all for shits n’ giggles.”

Kyle’s sharp eyes spot the tag he had been looking for; the tag is the only one without a silencer, the metal caked in soot and ash that the letters are hard to see and Kyle needs to trace the metal with the pad of his thumb to understand what they say:

‘IFRIT

IGNIS, CINIS, RUINA L10

CAPTAIN–

“Whoa,” Gaz’s eyebrows raise. “Ifrit’s a bloody captain.”

“What’s someone like that doing as a terrorist’s dog?” Soap asks.

“Ifrit’s motives remain unclear, but I did find something.” Kate shuffles some papers off screen, pulling up two thin looking file folders. “Two of the tags you sent me have actual people on them.” She says, taking a paper from each folder. Even through the camera they can see how the once crisp white paper has been yellowed with age. “Lance Corporals Hutch and Lambert, both presumed KIA nearly 11 years ago along with their entire squad. Apparently they were led by Corporal Yerrow to conduct a reconnaissance mission in Iraq to investigate a human smuggling ring, but a shoot-out caused a forest fire and no bodies were ever recovered.”

Johnny sniffs the air, crossing his arms over his chest, tail tip slowly wagging. “Anyone smell bull shite?”

“You’re not the only one.” Kate turns the files so the text side is aimed at the camera. More than half of the documents are redacted to the point it looks like a rorschach test. “I haven’t been able to access the original files, if they even exist, but the agent that oversaw the mission was a predecessor of mine, I’ll see if I can get in contact with him. ” It wouldn’t be the first time the CIA covered something up, but what could have happened back then that even Kate couldn’t get to the files?

“Great, what other shite can we pile on our plates?” Soap growls, ears twitching.

“Don’t jinx it.” Kyle says, gently setting the tags on the table. 

“There’s another thing.” Kate adds, putting the files away.

“Nice going puppy.” Ghost grunts, ignoring the look Soap gives him.

“Whatever it is, it’ll need to wait.” Price says, speaking up finally. “Ifrit’s a ruin mage. We need to put it down before it melts half the country to slag.”

“That’s the problem.” Kate’s voice makes Price’s eyes sharpen, slitted pupils turning into thin black lines. “We’ve managed to identify the gas used in the terror attack. It was Sarin gas, remnants of Barkov. The same ones Makarov stole.”

“Told you they’re a damn magnet fer wankers.” Soap mutters under his breath. Price's eyes shift to him, giving him a hard look and making it very clear it’s not the time for his comments. Soap’s ears twitch and his tail curls around his leg.

“How did Al-Qatala get their hands on the gas? There’s no way Makarov would just hand over his toys.” Ghost asks.

“We don’t know yet. And we might not ever know if you don’t hurry.” Kate stresses. “The top brass figured out Khaled’s location, they think Ifrit’s going after Khaled so they’re sending troops to take them both out in one place as we speak.”

Price catches on quickly. “Kate, you’re not telling me we need Ifrit alive?” Price stresses, body stiff.

“I’m not,” Kate rebuts, just as tense. “This is an order.” Price flashes his teeth at her, but finally looks away, black smog escaping past the corner of his lips.

“If you can’t get to Khaled, Ifrit will be our only chance to get Makarov.” She ads.

“So go capture the human bomb without dying.” Gaz summarizes, claw tips nervously scratching at the fresh pin feathers growing from his forearms. “Sounds easy.”

“Walk in tae park.” Johnny snarks.

"Only the parks on fire." Ghost adds, tone dry as old bone.

Price stays still and silent for a few moments. Thunder rumbles in his chest and his tail tip lashes against the floor as indications of his anger. His claws scrape against his palms with the need to tear into the festered flesh of the ruin mage, to rip out the heart and destroy it so he can make sure that blasted magic is gone for good.

But he relents, only so he can have unrestrained access to you once they get the information they need. “Pack up. On the double.” Price growls. “We’ve got a mage to hunt.”

. . .

Why did you do it?

It had been a split second decision to divert course when you'd sensed the Devourers, and even then, the mana they gave you through Beelzebub was miniscule compared to what you were used to handling. Hell, you probably wasted more mana using the temporary invisibility spell to get close to the Devourers than what you made from them.

With Khaled's betrayal and an unknown military likely after your head, ignoring the Devourers would have been the smart move. Your ‘heroic’ act won’t earn you any brownie points with whatever made the mistake of putting you on the planet — that’s for fucking sure.

But. . . she reminded you of, well, you. The you violent flames had cremated when they first sparked across your fingers. The you you’d left behind when you took your friend’s hand and ran as fast as your legs could carry. The you you’d been forced to stuff beneath the floorboards and ignore as you lied to the recruiter. The you you sometimes wish you hadn’t forsaken for the sake of survival.

. . . eh, what does it matter? Frosty’s as dead as the rest of them and no amount of grief and tears (assuming you could even force yourself to weep) will bring him back. Maybe it’s a good thing you never found his tags, the universe’s way of keeping him from suffering the humiliation you’ve inflicted on the others.

The engine roars beneath you like a caged beast, each little rock and hole in the uneven terrain causing the motorcycle to buck, the back of the seat knocking up into your tailbone. It’s a necessary evil, driving far away from the main road with the lights off helps you evade detection slightly better, and you’ll take anything you can get. Your commander’s words are etched into your bones: “Only let your enemies know you’re coming when your knife is hilt deep in their throat.”.

The sizzle in your bones and little deep pinpricks of pain in your lower back are barely noticeable with how numb you feel. Both in body and in what’s left of your humanity. You’ve gotten good at that — turning off your emotions and doing what needs to be done; you’re sure if you got shot dead that your body would finish the mission before it figured out there was a bullet in your skull.

Sometimes you even wonder what a witch would see if she ever tried to scry into your heart. Would it still be the hellish landscape Taurus showed you all those years ago? Or would it be like Pompei? Or some other landscape of impeccably preserved tragedy?

Your fingers twitch around the handlebars in an attempt to stop yourself from reaching out for something that’s not there anymore. Some vestigial and selfish part of you whimpers and yearns for the brief respite the tags brought. Their absence feels more suffocating than all the times you’ve been hanged; more painful than when your throat had been used as an artistic butcher’s canvas.

Your magical senses pick up the life signs long before your enhanced ears hear the screech of jet engines. You nearly snap your neck with how quickly you look up, able to catch two jet planes flying overhead by the glow of their engines, trying to track both of their flight paths.

You tighten the grip on the handlebars and increase the speed. You don’t stop to see if they saw you, you know they did from the way the planes twirl in the air. . . and from the way they shoot rockets at you.

Letting go of one handle you let mana rush to your fingers, cinders burning away your sleeve and glove. Just as the rockets get close enough for you to hear their screeching you swing your arm up, a burning arch of flames following after your palm. The motion is enough to tell your brain what you want, a thick screen of roaring flames spreading out from the arc in front of you.

The missiles hit the wall of flames instead of you. You swear you nearly go deaf from the loud explosion the missiles make when they connect with your defense magic, everything around you shaking from the sudden force but the spell holds, not even a scratch in sight. The resulting smoke flares around the sides in a suffocating cloud, the thick wall of fire obscuring your vision and forcing you to blindly swerve side to side.

Your magic may protect you, but it can’t stop the rocket from hitting the ground right in front of the wheel. The whistle and screech of the missile is the only warning you get before the ground beneath you explodes and sends you flying. You hit the ground and roll, jagged rocks slamming into your bones, scraps of metal pelting your back. Magic washes over you to heal the bones you break.

It leaves you feeling every bit of pain when the motorcycle falls on top of you, pushing the breath out of your lungs. The sudden force has your jaw slamming onto the ground, your tongue caught between your teeth. Blood floods your mouth. It tastes like battery acid and burns your throat on its way down to your stomach, but it forces adrenaline to rush through your system and let you push the motorcycle off you.

Your spine cracks multiple times in the short seconds it takes for your magic to fix the bones, giving you back the sensation in your limbs so you can roll to your side and avoid another missile. You summon a few smaller flame shields to protect your head and vitals from the blast, but not from the sharp rocks that hit your back like grenade pieces.

Your vision swimming and ears ringing you scramble to your knees. You’re given no choice but to use your own blood. Even with the distraction of another missile hitting your shield, it’s easy for you to focus your mana. It flows from your heart to your fingers but you don’t let it escape like it wants. Forcing it to pool in your palms until the heat burns away your remaining glove and turns the stone of your hands into lava.

It only takes a few seconds for fat drops of brightly melted rock to drip onto the ground, and only then can you feel your blood, both the one in your veins and the rivulets of bright orange freely flowing down your back. Burning hot and brimming with so much mana it’s no problem for you to take hold of the blood you've bled. Bright crimson crawls across your back to draw a magic circle from memory alone.

Quickly hunching your back generates enough force to make your blood bust through your vessels, two arcs of blood tearing through skin and muscle like a knife. The bright glow of your blood lights up the dark, stray droplets hovering in the air like oil in water as more of it flows from your body and branches out until it resembles skeletonized wings. Fire sparks at your skin and follows the blood, forcing it to crystallize in place as ash takes up the space between the bones and cascades down in long shrouds. Obsidian sharp crystal blood digs into your skin with every little move of your new wings as they twitch erratically. Lighting races up your spine, your mind forced to create new nerves and deal with sensations it wasn’t designed for.

You summon a circle beneath your feet, ash bursting up to send you high into the air in a long continuous column like it’s the tower of Babel just as another missile hits the place you had been moments ago. The spark from the rocket ignites the ash, giving you an extra few feet in the air before you start to fall.

The leftover smoke swallows you whole, gravity forcibly tipping you back until you’re falling head first. The wind screeches in your ears and the grounds gets closer and closer with every second, the grim reaper laughing over your shoulder; you remember yelling and screaming, even passing out, many times during this type of training. Now, you are calm.

Your mind finally creates the right nerves to move your limbs. Your wings spread out with the same violence they burst out of your back, sharply pulling on your chest muscles as they swing out and down. The flap of your wings breaks off a bit of the ash covering your crystallized blood, flames burning at the tips of your wings making the ash erupt in an explosion and creating enough force for you to soar high into the air.

Flying is hard regardless of how often you’ve done this, your back muscles cramping as you struggle to use your new wings. Not that it actually is flying in the same sense the harpies or other winged creatures would call it. More like gliding with extra steps. Either way, it serves its purpose in making you airborne and mobile.

You shoot high up into the sky like a bullet, trails of ash following after you and wrapping around you like a shroud. The quick movement of your wings and sharp turns let you avoid a set of missiles shot at you, but even at your fastest speed you’ve got no chance of hitting the quick jets flying around you like flies. So instead you use simple spells and hope your aim hasn’t gotten rusty. The muscles in your core and arms tense, a circle forming flush with your palms. Mana rushes to your arms and you use the brief stability in the air between the flaps of your wings to set off your spell.

A solid beam of concentrated flame shoots out, thin as a pencil but it tears through the clouds and metal plane like butter. You manage to cleave off a wing, the wound left behind in the metal glows brightly, before a simple thought activates the latent magic and the entire jet explodes a second later.

Rockets and bullets fly at your back like plague carrying insects, only to be burned away by your magic. Your neck hurts from how sharply you jerk your head to look behind you, mana flowing to your eyes to enhance your sight until the jet is clearly visible. At least you have comfort in the fact your hand eye coordination is still as sharp as ever, another beam of fire cleaving the jet in two.

And just like that, you’re alone in the sky.

You don’t realize how rapidly your heart is beating until you take a moment to breathe, wings spreading out to let you glide through the sky. You reach into your pocket to pull out the tracker, a small piece of rich green rock. Your magic swirls across the surface of it, cinders worming through the stone; You don’t know how they found you when your magic is still active on the tracker, there are no ‘happy accidents’ in your line of work.

Gritting your teeth you dispel your magic around the tracker and toss it as far as you can in the opposite direction, wings pressing closer to your body to increase the speed of your glide.

With your motorcycle more than likely fucked, you have no choice but to rely on your bloodmade wings longer than you’d like. Using the mana you’d stuck on Khaled as a compass you let yourself fall and gain speed before spreading out your wings. The deep muscles in your back and chest scream for a second with each flap of your wings before your magic silences them, the discomfort of using temporary limbs easy to shove into the back of your mind. Your flying speed is much faster than that of the motorcycle, the ground moving rapidly beneath you.

You’re only mildly surprised to feel Khaled’s presence in his base. It’s an old oil refinery that was abandoned when the Russians restricted the production of oil in the country. Khaled found it and turned it into a bastion, hiding up high in the mountains like he’s some kind of king.

Any old dragon can attest a kingdom of steel and concrete like that won’t survive scorching flame.

Your only problem is that it’s got magic sensing tech, which just means there’s some extremely sensitive electronics that end up sparking like shoddily made light bulbs when more than just the smallest amount of modern magic is used. Sometimes you hate how thorough you are.

Luckily for you, it’s not the first time you’ve had to sneak past such tech.

You land near the base of the mountain, just at the edge where you know the range of those sensors ends. You’d like to say you land gracefully and with barely a sound, but you’re pretty sure a tank would have an easier time than you. The exhaustion and the added weight on your back doesn’t help you in any way to keep balance, making you stumble forward and almost trip on a root. Your arms spread out to grip the trees for support, but you underestimate your strength and the wood splinters under your right hand, making you fall face first.

The few seconds you spend flat on the ground is probably the longest you’ve spent laying down in the past month.

With a sharp breath you get to your feet, carefully leaning your shoulder against a tree. Your makeshift wings press against your back and pull on your muscles, but the thought of ‘what if you’ll need them?’ keeps you from dispelling them. Embers burn away the clothing shielding your front, giving yourself just enough sight of your skin to be able to cast the spells you need.

It’s one thing to push your mana to your hands and out as magic, it’s another to force the burning heat through every little capillary in your skin and pull on it in certain spots until magical circles etch themselves into your skin. It’s not that far off from using blood magic, only it requires a little less mana and focus. You’ve done this so much you could do it with your eyes closed, filling the insides of the circles with little diamonds and magical sigils only your mind can grasp.

The body enhancing spell has an immediate effect. The pain in your back disappears suddenly like it was never there, the vestiges of weakness from mana use getting pushed back to the back of your mind. It even dispels the base painful thrum in your skull you hadn’t realized you had.

With a clearer mind you go about casting more similar spells that carve themselves into your skin; one to temporarily strengthen your body beyond what you already have, another to force your mana generator to increase in productivity, yet a third one to increase the potency of your spells; Buffs that push your body past the edge of what it can take, to the point you barely feel human.

This is the closest man will ever come to godhood. ”Don’t let it get to your little head firebug.”

Your last spell to prepare is different. A dirty trick.

“Valefar.” You huff, speaking another name for a spell that deserves respect. Nothing happens at first, but then you feel it. Like a living thing deep beneath the earth, Valefar hums a soft lullaby to the tune of crackling flames. The dirt beneath you expands and black flames break through the earth, creating a spider web of dark old magic that fills up the empty root system spanning the entire mountain. The flames don’t dare touch you yet. They’re waiting. . . hungry.

Before the problematic thing in your skull can give you grief, you let the waiting beast in and welcome it like a brother. Valefar’s black flames shudder and slowly, carefully, crawl up your legs, scampering along your abdomen and kissing the sharp transition between skin and mage marks. They paint the yellow glow of your mage marks a pitch black, the magma of your arms and your crystalized blood turning black as obsidian. Even the flames tipping the ends of your wings turn black as pitch.

For a second you’re accosted with the sensation of every bit of magic you had pushed into the earth over the months, every drop of mana obediently waiting its time in the rotten root system. But Valefar soothes your mind, dampening the glow of your eyes and shrouding your brain in water cool flames. Valefar lacks the crushing weight or the freezing cold of most ruin spells, simply almost thrilled to be used.

Ruin magic is too old to be tracked by modern means, and you take the first step into the range of the sensors without fear. You knew Khaled would betray you, you’ve almost started growing old in an industry that killed its soldiers young, you knew to listen to your stomach. Khaled had been one of those people you wouldn’t trust as far as you could throw them, though you never expected him to be so brazen about it. It’s no different than the day hellfire rained down on your hea-

You stop yourself mid thought the second you register your anger trying to boil over, the burning heat inside your chest making steam rise off your shoulders. Asmodeus, the one spell you won’t ever use, sparks beneath your skin; angry, vengeful. You stifle it before it can gain an upper hand, sparks of black flame flying past your lips as you breathe out and escaping through the filters of your mask.

Taurus always blamed your hotheadedness on your magic. What is a mage if not the fire Prometheus stole for you? The suffocating hate Vesuvius spewed? The blackened rotten blood giving birth to spells like Beelzebub and Valefar?

Loud gunfire breaks through your thoughts; Khaled would never practice shooting drills in the middle of the night.

You increase your pace, turning your jog into a run. As you near the old refinery something immediately stands out to you – there’s way too many life signatures than there should be. Even without a good line of sight you can sense them, all those beating hearts and flickers of life fluttering together like moths until you find yourself with a massive pain in your skull.

Breathing out a small breath you duck behind the tall trees just at the edge of the compound. To say you’re surprised to find Urzikstan soldiers engaged in combat with Khaled’s men would be an understatement. And the army didn’t hold anything back. There’s a fuck ton of soldiers, most of them hiding behind tanks that block the only exit from the compound and sponge up the machine gun fire Khaled’s men are unloading into them. Bullets rain down on both sides, there’s even fucking helicopters flying in the air — this is a full on assault.

You can still sense Khaled is in the refinery somewhere, you would be able to narrow down on his exact location if there weren’t so many living bodies buzzing around like ants. Your mind whirls with ideas; you could use the distraction and sneak past, or you could just destroy both sides in one quick and clean attack, you doubt anyone would be able to notice you using magic when they’re more focused about the hail of bullets.

A tree branch snaps beneath you, followed by the clicking of a gun and three rounds going off. “Mage in sight! I repeat I got mage in sight!”

Nevermind.

The bullets tear through your vest but just bounce off your magic enhanced skin. You turn on your heel, holding your arm out. “Beelzebub.” Burning cold swells in your heart and crawls through your veins, black flames shooting out from your palm at the soldier. He barely has the chance to scream before the black fire eats away his vocal cords, his gun clattering to the floor. In only a few seconds the only thing left of him is the uniform and the black flames burning in the shape of a man.

Despite how stupid it might be, you let go of the fine control you have over Beelzebub. It doesn’t waste a second, thousands of little wisps of obsidian fire breaking off from the main mass and shooting out at the nearest source of organic matter. Be they tree or human, Beelzebub will devour them all the same.

Fresh mana fills your chest and you’re quick to turn it into something useful. This time it takes significantly less time to spread your wings, summoning ash beneath your feet and launching yourself up into the air.

Tree branches whack you over the head before you make it into the open air. . . and accidentally smash your head into the belly of a helicopter. A dull 'thump' sounds and you're not sure if it's your head that's empty or the helicopter.

Your vision blurs for a second, and you shake your head to get rid of the temporary headache. The helicopter swerves to the side, the tail swinging right at you, the soldiers inside yelling. Tucking your wings close to your body you fall just in time to avoid the tail, twisting your body as you careen through the air until you’ve got a clear line of sight. One magic circle is all it takes to blast a sizable hole through the center of the flying machine, taking out the engine and the blades all at once.

Quickly flapping your wings you dart up through the hole you created, ash flooding the inside of the heli as you pass and erupting in an explosion a second later. The heli plumets down to the ground but you stay in the air, spreading your wings out to soar. This high up you’ve got a clear view of everything — the entire compound, made up of two big buildings connected with a catwalk and oil storage towers; The machine gun men shooting at tanks with no regard for how many bullets they use; Beelzebub’s black flames spreading across the terrain like a forest fire, consuming everything in sight until the only thing left is scorched earth and dust.

First things first, the machine guns. Though not as dangerous to you as the tanks, you’ve had enough of them to sate you for a lifetime, and you’d rather not be on the receiving end again. With sitting ducks for targets it’s laughably easy to cast simple homing spells to kill the gunner and melt the machine guns mounted on the rails.

A bullet hits your chest, tearing through the bullet proof vest. It bounces off your skin but the force nearly knocks you out of the sky. You go with the force, tucking your wings and flipping backwards in the air until you can spread them out to glide down. You notice the snipers, two on the roof of each building, one on the middle one of the tall oil towers just behind the buildings. You go for the straggler first, diving down with the speed of a bullet.

The sniper tries to shoot you again but you barrel roll out of the way. You shoot a ball of flames at the sniper when you're close enough, completely disintegrating him on contact. Turning to your side you soar through the gap between two oil towers, making a sharp left turn around the tower with a quick flap of your wings so you can quickly soar up.

The building to your right is closer and your next target. Gliding down close to the roof you you summon your spell, incinerating the closer of the two snipers. The other one drops his rifle to shoot at you with a pistol, but you just tuck your wings close and barrel roll to evade the bullets.

Your wings suddenly spread out with the force of a tightly coiled spring, the crystalline edge slicing straight through the sniper's neck like a guillotine. You're given no time to focus on the remaining snipers when a massive artillery shell flies at you. With a swing of your arm your flames race out to collide with the shell, an explosion going off right in front of your face. Ash and soot cake on top of your lenses but that's a small price to pay when you can safely dart through the smoke cloud; looks like the tanks have noticed you.

Pulling your wings close to your wings close to your body you divebomb to take out the final two snipers. You crash into one of them, your boots making contact with his chest and the force you’ve generated from your flight means you completely smash through his ribs the second his back hits the roof. The concrete cracks beneath your boot, but that doesn't stop you as you race across it, pulling your arm back to swing a fist at the remaining sniper. The skull cracks the second your fist connects, breaking completely under your knuckles, blood and brains splattering on the lenses of your gasmask.

The roof you're on has a helicopter on it, and you think of destroying it, but the tanks present a bigger problem. Leaping off the edge of the building you launch yourself back into the air, turning your attention to the tanks. There’s four of them, all spread out in a vague arc across the empty field of land between the buildings and the road leading out. Not a problem for you.

Slowing down to a smooth glide you stretch your arms out in front of you. Your flames rush out to hit the artillery shells shot at you, but it also forces the mana Beelzebub keeps stuffing into your chest to move to your palms. Summoning four evenly sized circles in front of you is easy for a mage of your caliber. With mana burning in your palms you squeeze your hands, forcing all that magic to shoot out through the centers of the circles as concentrated beams of flame. As if struck down by some god's smite, The tanks blow up the moment your magic hits them, leaving smoldering half melted skeletons of steel behind.

You land near one of the tanks with enough force to crack the charred ground beneath you, stumbling a few steps forward. You turn your head, using the tattered remains of your jacket near your shoulders to wipe away the lenses. It makes you see the clear destruction Beelzebub has wrought, the once lush forest surrounding the compound turned baren. Yet the spell hungers still, given the chance it would easily devour the entire world, and you can feel it gnaw on the edges of your passive control in it's attempt to stray away from you. Biting the hand that feeds. Arrogant. Just like Lambert.

You're forced to snuff it out, dispelling Beelzebub before it tries to sweep through the country like all ten plagues.

A shuddering breath leaves you for the first time in a while, your lungs stuttering as you breathe in for the first time in a while. Despite how stuffed to the gills with mana your chest is, how you can barely breathe with the pressure against your ribs, you can feel the familiar sting of your bones — the cost of mana use burrowing into your marrow. The missions, the ambush, this, it’s all starting to pile on. It’s the cost, you suppose, no mortal will ever become god, this is simply a consequence for your choices.

Shots ring out above the crackle of flames, bullets bouncing off your body and only making you aware of the soldiers. Thy are too much of a problem to be kept alive, but killing them with magic would be a waste of mana considering you’re slowly reaching the breaking point of how much even your augmented body can handle.

Fortunately, you’ve got a cheap trick up your sleeve. Quickly sensing the exact location of the Urzikstan soldiers you cast another spell, circles forming beneath their feet before chains of living flame ensnare them like rabbits. "Belial." You say, your gaze fixed on the Urzikstan soldiers. 

Belial is softer on your arteries than Beelzebub, but it still passes from your heart and into your fingers like a kidney stone. Big globs of tar black lava drip from your arms, sizzling and steaming when splatter on the ground. But they don’t stay inert for long. You’ve seen the sight a thousand times; Roaches made of pure black lava crawl out of the puddles by the dozens, quickly skittering towards the hapless humans. They crawl up the bound soldiers, fiery mandibles eating away the flesh and boring holes through muscle, squirming into every orifice, infesting every inch of their insides.

The soldiers try to scream but their vocal cords are soon devoured as the roaches eat everything they deem useless. They gorge themselves on the fat, groups of them peeling off the skin in long strips until the bowels and other organs fall out to the ground with a wet 'splat' to be eaten by yet more roaches. The bodies twitch and convulse, falling to the ground when you dispel the chains. Blood and mucus froths at their mouths but the roaches drink up even that like it's the finest wine.

When they're done feasting they crawl into the body that's nothing more but muscle, ligament, and bone. A single hand motion is enough to command the bodies to rise. They do so slowly, limbs twitching and bodies shaking as the magical roaches squirm in the homes they've made between muscle fibers. The bodies stumble to their feet, eyeless slack jawed heads full of roaches staring at you.

Your control over them isn’t as fine as Jackal had over his puppets, but it’s still better than what most militaries see. Your well hidden anger bleeds into your magic, you don’t even need to speak for the charred puppets to stumble past you, seeking out to devour the stragglers you missed.

With that done you turn your attention to the large two story building where you can still sense Khaled’s presence.

. . .

"Ah still think this is bollocks." Soap growls when his head bumps against the roof of the Humvee because Price drove over yet another pot hole in the road. "Go capture tae mage that can turn yeh into a kebab, wonderful idea, no wee problem there."

"Noted sergeant." Price grunts, knuckles almost white as he grips the steering wheel. "Anything else you want to add?" He asks but receives a few grumbles in return. They've heard that one part of the army had come to lay siege on the refinery, and from the preliminary reports Laswell gave them, it didn't end well for the poor bastards.

"Do we even have a game plan sir?" Gaz asks, glancing between Ghost and Soap sitting in the backseat. "One that isn't 'let the mage shoot at us until they tucker out'?"

"Got a better idea?" Ghost asks with a small huff. "Let me n' Price do the heavy lifting." He grunts, "You two stay back and provide support."

Even with irritation nibbling on his nerves, Soap can't help himself. "Oh, you like it hot Lt?"

Gaz gives a surprised snort. Ghost side eyes Soap. "Mhm, scorching."

"We're getting close." Price warns, switching gears as the road starts going up the hill. His sharp senses already pick up the lingering hints of smoke and ash along with the tang of burnt flesh. Beneath all of that is something older: the rancid festering flesh of crumbling empires and wild animalistic grief.

Price grits his teeth. "Remember, we need Ifrit alive."

"Laswell never said we had to keep 'em in one piece." Ghost ads.

"Thank fock for that." Johnny says and bumps his shoulder against Ghost's. "Yae reckon she won't mind if ah take a few fingers off?" He asks, a mean grin pulling his lips back to bare his teeth.

"Play nice and I'll throw you a femur too." Ghost chuckles, ignoring the look Johnny gives him.

"Are we even sure this thing will work?" Gaz asks, looking down at the heavy piece of metal in his hands. It looks like a metal collar, runes and circles etched into the outside surface, tiny needles poking from the inside. Three vials filled with bright purple liquid are slotted into the back of the collar. The thing buzzes softly beneath his claws, like there’s a thunderstorm stuck inside the metal, making his fingers go numb.

"That's why we brought the arm restraints to be sure." Ghost says, absentmindedly tapping a clawed finger against the restraints he's holding. They look like big elbow length mittens made out of metal, similar runes scrawled over every inch.

Kyle purses his lips before his gaze turns to the roll of silver tape Price had haphazardly thrown on top of the dashboard. "What's the tape for? Planning to put a bow on Ifrit?"

"Got to wrap up the gift somehow." Ghost shrugs.

"Oh yeah, an I reckon the mage will just sit nice n pretty and let us play dress up." Soap snarks.

"Focus." Price orders, pulling their attention to the front windshield. The forest surrounding the main road abruptly disappears as if a god had photoshopped a different part of the world in it's place, verdant green replaced by scorched black ground and nothing else. The smell of burning metal and flesh is inescapable now, seeping through the cracks of the windows and making Gaz cough.

"Fucking hell." Gaz mumbles, tears stinging his eyes and forcing him to quickly put on the gas mask hanging off his neck. It doesn't help a single bit with the god awful smell.

"This shite is useless." Soap complains as he secures the gas mask to his own face. Soap had smelled his fair share of foul things in the demolition school, from Sulphur to gas and everything that could be used in making explosives, but the stench he's exposed to now makes everything else smell like daisies. "How the hell did the matchstick do this?" He can't help but ask.

"That's the work of ruin magic." Price says, tone hard and clipped.

They're forced to stop a little bit away from the compound as their path is blocked by the wreckage of a helicopter, the steel melted into the concrete road and the sides of the road too steep to drive around. They pile out of the Humvee, Soap and Gaz clutching their guns close; it's uncommon for them to use human made weapons when they're monsters, but Price isn't taking any chances with his mens safety.

They inch carefully past the remains of the helicopter, burnt cracked dirt crunching beneath their boots. With no trees in the way the compound is easy to see, and it looks just as bad as the surrounding area.

"Steaming Jesus." Johnny mutters as they walk around one of the four tanks, the metal melted and flames still flickering a top it. The land here looks like the hell his ma would describe in an attempt to put some godliness in him; The ground is cracked and charred black, hot under their boots. Ash and steam blanket the ground, making it hard to see where they step. Parts of the buildings have been melted, long strands of slag running down the sides of them. There's no light save the fires burning haphazardly across the ground, but their eyes can see fine in the dark.

"Should we check for survivors?" Kyle asks, finger tightly pressed against the safety switch, his wings spread out just enough to be able to quickly launch himself into the air if the need arises.

"Don't bother." Simon says, dark smoke slowly fizzling off his hands. The air in the compound feels heavy, feels like he's back in that fucking coffin. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end, anticipation crackling under his skin like static. "We didn't bring a dust bin. Or Henry the Hoover."

"Fuck Lt," Soap opens his mouth to speak more, but before he can make a sound, they hear a half mangled groan ring out from their side. Immediately raising his gun Soap narrows his eyes, managing to make out a dark outline stumbling towards them. At first Johnny thinks it’s a survivor, but then the steam clears enough to see it’s clearly not. What stumbles towards them is a completely skinned human, muscle and bone charred black, jaw gnashing as if it's already got their throat between its teeth.

Without thinking Johnny unloads a couple of bullets into the body, silenced gunshots echoing in the smoke. The body just soaks up the bullets, continuing to stumble after them. "Shit!" Soap hisses as he steps back, but before he can shoot at it again, Simon's shadows lash out at it.

The whips of darkness knock the corpse to the ground, managing to tear off a desecrated arm off in the process. A disgusting sound gurgles in it's throat as it tries to crawl towards them, the cracked bone of its fingers clawing at the ground. Simon moves his hand up and a spike of darkness erupts from the walking corpse's shadow, destroying the head in an instant. Soap doesn't even have time to breathe before the body starts convulsing, large black pustules rapidly swelling on its back. They explode without warning, black flames spewing out in a few feet around it like a miniature bomb, incinerating the corpse in the process.

A second of silence passes.

"What the fock was that?" Soap stresses, staring at the black flames as they burn on the ground.

"Belial." Price mumbles under his breath, blue eyes narrowing as a small breath of smoke escapes past his lips. "Magic made undead.” Price grunts. “Ruin magic lets the mage control the body like a puppet."

"Great." Soap grunts, trying not to breathe in the scent of burning flesh. "First the bomb shaped mage, now focking zombies? Firecracker's pulling out all the stops." Soap’s tail flicks to his leg and he grips his riffle tighter. "Shit, that smell too." He doesn't know how you keep managing to make things smell worse and worse, but fuck, he's sure the stench will be stuck in his pores for the rest of his life.

"Not a fan of barbeque?" Ghost asks as they step around the burning corpse. Or rather what remains of it.

"Not quite the cook out ah have in mind LT." Johnny grumbles.

"Remind me not to join you two at the next brass dinner." Gaz ads with a humorless chuckle before his harpy eyes spot more movement. "Tangos, one o'clock." He says, and doesn't need to be prompted to fly up into the sky to be their eyes.

"Stick close and aim for the head." Price orders, all of them slowly and quietly making their way into the compound. They encounter more zombies, some of them stumbling around mindlessly, some simply standing. Knowing where to hit they're easy to take out unawares, a couple of bullets through the skull enough to get the corpses on the ground.

Kyle lands behind them when they near a two story building. Another one is opposite it, a catwalk above them connecting the buildings together. A nearby door is torn off its hinges, smoke spilling through it into the surrounding air. It's the only place they can think of where you might be.

"Simon, with me." Price says, "Gaz, Soap, secure the perimeter." Price doesn't need to say it twice. Simon steps close to him, guarding his six as they enter the building. Large holding tanks are built in the center of the building, smoke filling the room up to their knees and the occasional cinder of ash gracefully fluttering through the air. Price automatically checks his right, eyes focusing on the stairs leading to a small room on the second floor, one set of stairs on both sides of the room. Bits of thick ash cascade down the stairs, and both of them can smell the rot.

He makes a small hand motion and Simon understands easily, leaving his side to duck behind the towering oil tanks, crossing the room and reaching the other set of stairs. Quietly they make their way up, making sure not to make a single sound. The door on Price’s side is torn off too, his pointy ear flicking as he hears what he assumes to be your voice, low and muffled, simply asking: "How?"

. . .

Your hand shakes from how hard you try to keep yourself from crushing Khaled's skull. You can already imagine the way bone would softly creak before finally splintering to pieces, the way blood and brains would squelch between your fingers. You grip his head hard enough to bruise instead, his skin bubbling and hair burning from the barely controlled heat of your hand.

Khaled looks exactly how other prideful men look when you come to collect your due — eyes wide, teeth clenched, legs weakly kicking you as you have him dangling in the air. You’d usually feel satisfaction, but the only thing in your heart right now is a suffocating cold.

The cold extends to your free hand, turning the lava into inert stone so not even a single thread of the patch laying in your palm is burned; A black decapitated right hand sits in a crimson backdrop. A crimson eye in the center of it cries bloody tears. ‘Mortem Opetere’ is stitched on top of it, boldly proclaiming what awaits you. Across both sides just three measly words turn your world upside down: ‘Red Right Hand’.

Your jaw feels welded shut as you try to open it, moving your tongue like your mouth's full of barbed wire before you manage to force out one word: "How?"

Khaled grunts instead of answering, coughing as the ash cascading off your wings continues to twirl in the air. Beelzebub’s flames dance at your feet, consuming the magical ash the second it touches the floor so the room feels suffocating, but it doesn’t make him pass out.

You grip him harder, claws of lava burning through the surface of his skin until you’re digging into the muscles covering his bones, his screams fall deaf on your ears. Even like this, barely able to hold yourself back from cracking his skull like an egg, your magic is controlled. You only let enough mana linger in your palm so the heat burns and stabs at his nerves, but not enough to completely destroy them. “How. Did. You. Get. This?” You ask again, each word like a sharp stab to your tongue.

Khaled bites his lip so hard it bleeds, glaring at you with utter disgust in his eyes. “Ask your- mh!- your commander lich-”

You notice the enemy presence a second too late, gunshots blasting in your ears. Having dispelled your body enhancing spells because of how taxing they were, you’re left with no  choice but to blindly throw up a shield of crackling flames to destroy the bullets.

You miss one.

The bullet hits the crystalized bone of your wing and it's all it takes to create a spark. The ash making up your wings erupts, the resulting explosion unable to damage your wing but it does knock you forward. Khaled slips through your fingers as you both are tossed to the ground from the force. Your magic surges through your hand even as you scramble to stand, magic circles forming in the air to shoot uncontrolled flames at the two exits of the room.

Ropes of dark shadows shoot out from the right doorway, forcing you to throw yourself to the side to dodge them. You get to your feet just as the shadows hit the wall at the height of your head, quickly eroding a hole into the steel; The wraith has found you, and likely the rest of the misfits too.

You're careful as you stuff the patch into your pocket, but have no regard for the muscles in your back when you spread your wings out. Fresh ash cascades down the crystalline bones just as you flap your wings to send a gust of ash towards the front of the room. Mana surges to your cold arm and melts the stone into liquid lava which you fling into the cloud of ash, the heat from those drops of lava causing another explosion. Unable to sense where the wraith is, you focus on completely blocking off the exits in your flames, bright circles forming at the doorways and white hot flames shooting up, spilling over the door frame to scorch the ceiling.

You’re too distracted to notice Khaled move "Idiot boy have I taught you nothing?" the crackle of flames and the exploding ash masking his labored footsteps. His hand grabs your shoulder and pulls you back enough to jab a cold needle of a syringe into your neck.

Your wing shoots out automatically, knocking him back with enough force to have him crash into the wall. You yank the syringe out and toss it to the ground. The glass shatters, residual drops of bright purple liquid seeping into the ground.

But it’s too late.

You can feel Morgana’s tears course through your system, burning each cell in your blood vessels like battery acid, leaving your throat feeling numb and head light and heavy at the same time. You sway on your feet before your legs go weak and you fall to your knees with a gasp as if someone had punched you in the gut, your burning fingers tearing gouges into the floor as your muscles tense and relax a million times a second. Beelzebub’s black flames shoot out from between your fingers, freezing cold solidifying around your heart and in your arteries. It's a useless attempt to stave off the serum, to give you a few seconds more to escape, but you're glad for it.

You push on the ground with all the strength you can muster and get back on your feet. The weight of your wings nearly makes you fall on your ass as you’re forced to take a few shaky steps to keep your balance. From the corner of your eye you can see Khaled stumbling away from you, to the third exit to the room which leads to a catwalk connecting this building with another.

Raising your hand you try to summon a spell to take him out, a shaky circle forming at your palm. It breaks into a million pieces when a heavy body slams into you like a train, breaking your concentration and your ribs. You’re forced back until your wings hit the wall, forcing them to spread out as some of the crystal audibly breaks and cracks, accosting your brain with pain signals your mind was never created to handle.

Your hands shoot up, “Fire-” You force out in an attempt to combat the shroud Morgana’s tears weave around your mind. A circle forms, the usually crisp lines wonky and inconsistent. A few measly sputtering sparks flicker in the center of the circle before you’re able to force a bout of unwieldy flames in the face of your opponent.

You can feel how weak your fire is, you doubt you could give a man a second degree burn, let alone scratch the fireproof skin of the dragon that comes charging through your magic. Icy blue eyes dance in the periphery of your vision seconds before the dragon punches you right in the diaphragm.

You hunch over and almost vomit up an organ as all the air is forced out of your lungs. You feel your muscles tear and ribs break, your magic too focused on healing you to numb any of the pain that comes racing to your brain. You don’t know how you’re still standing but you weakly manage to slam your elbow back into the wall, quickly cooling lava scraping the metal and causing a spark.

The ash explodes for a second time, the force of it making your wings crack further yet they still hold. It creates a hole in the wall and forces the dragon to stumble back with a cough. You tip back and fall through the hole, the whole world weighing down on your body before you crash on the hot hard ground. The sudden stop knocks the breath out of you a second time, every muscle in your back screaming at you. Your chest is steadily growing colder as Morgana’s tears bypass Beelzebub, your arms feeling stiffer with every waking second as the serum forces your mana to slumber.

Your vision swims and blurs like the lines of a water drenched painting, voices somewhere close echoing in your ears. The dragon’s cold blue eyes stare down at you for a second before he jumps through the hole. You roll out of the way with great difficulty, avoiding him just in time as the dragon’s fist lands where you had just been and shatters the earth.

Stumbling to your feet you feel your blood leak down your back, pain pulsing in your chest as your mana struggles to heal each broken bone. Your mind is scrambling for the names of the spells you haven't needed to use in a long time, your thoughts further slowed by the fact you need to dodge out of the way of the dragon's fist. “Jump.” You speak. You summon a circle beneath your feet you that launches you into the air, the whirling world almost making you vomit and you barely manage to catch yourself on an oil containment tower.

Somehow through the ringing in your ears you hear the whirring of helicopter blades, turning your head to see a helicopter quickly rise from the roof of a building and start to fly away. You don’t need magic sense to know Khaled is in it. Your hand shakes as you raise it, Morgana’s tears steadily taking more of your mana hostage to the point it's getting hard to cast a single spell. “Fire bullet.” You manage to say, shooting off a shaky ball of concentrated flames.

You miss the rotor you had been aiming for, but by a lucky chance manage to hit the tail. Your fire isn't hot enough to melt the metal fully, but it still enough to make the helicopter swerve wildly. You watch it slowly loose altitude and crash somewhere beyond the tree line.

You’re not given even a second to catch your breath before the tower shakes violently, beginning to list heavily. You catch sight of a werewolf trying to scale it and that forces you to jump off the tower. You land on the one in front of you and don't stop, leaping across the three towers. Jumping off the last one you manage to flap your wings, the pitiful explosion that goes off beneath you gives just enough lift for your slowly liquifying wings to reach the roof of the second building.

You stumble as you land on the roof, the coagulated blood forming your Daedalus wings falling to the ground with a wet 'splat'. It feels like every single inch of your veins and arteries have been turned into pin cushions, the hot lava of your arms, absent of mana, quickly cools until there’s only a thin surface of cracked rock covering your muscles and bones. Your vision swims and you can barely move your arms, trying your best to just stay upright.

Asmodeus is the only thing unaffected, burning at the back of your mind like the last star of an empty universe. It tempts you with the heat of the magic it can give, with the power you could use if you just let it in. What's a few more drops of blood when you're drowning in it?

The harpy comes out of nowhere, slamming into you with enough force to knock you off the building.

You land on your back, barely able to utter a sound from how loudly your bones crack. Your leg is numb. Lingering dredges of your magic crawl across your spine, trying to fix your wounds with the same grace as cavemen with stole tools. You whimper like a child as you try to get up, barely able to dig your fingers into the scorched dirt to get some stability.

Footsteps approach you. A boot sharply kicks your side and forces you to roll on your front. "Playtime's over." A voice rings somewhere in your ears. Your scattered brain focuses on the accent — Manchester you think — instead of the clawed hands that yank your arms behind your back. Instinctively you try to scramble out of the firm hold but it's useless and the only thing you achieve is making the enemy pull on you harder.

Your arm is forced into a sickeningly familiar constraint; The mage cuff seals around your forearm and forces your hand into a fist, the binding spells making the metal feel like your arm is coated in liquid nitrogen. Your other arm follows suit, powerful magnets activating and binding the cuffs. They lock your arms together and painfully force your chest to stick out to the point you can barely move your arm without the risk of dislocating it.

More footsteps ring behind you as you weakly struggle. "Stay fucking still." The man above you growls as he yanks the helmet off your head with enough force you’re surprised he doesn’t take your head off. You gasp as the ash and smoke filled air enters your lungs, so unused to going without your helmet. A collar is quickly snapped around your throat, so tight you can barely breathe, needles on the inside digging into your skin. The binding spell on the collar is just as vicious as the one on the cuffs, forcibly pulling your brain into the bottom of the ocean.

Your vision swims with black spots and you’re barely able to see a man squat in front of you until rough clawed fingers grip your chin hard enough to make you bleed dark purple-red blood over his fingers. The enemy tugs your head up, but you’re unable to make out more than bright blue eyes and a stupid mohawk. "Huh, ah was expecting uglier."

Spite flares in your heart. A glob of spit and red blood shoots from your mouth at his face before you can think. The slap you receive nearly knocks your head off your shoulders and bashes your brain against your skull. His claws rake across your cheek, blood pouring down your skin. "Ahgk! Fockin' disgusting-" But It's worth it to hear the man curse.

"Told you not to take it off." The enemy on top of you growls.

"Charming." A lighter voice, you think it's the harpy, ads. "He's not going to turn into. . . one of them?"

"No." A new voice joins in, hard, angry, rumbling like thunder. You think it's the dragon, but your brain struggles to stay conscious let alone try to think. "Tape."

You shake your head to be difficult just out of spite, but sharp fingers bury into your scalp and pull your head up so the tape can be sealed over your mouth.

The enemy, wraith, your mind reminds, has no problem hoisting up your cold body, manhandling you like a doll.

You’re barely conscious as you’re roughly pushed into somewhere, somewhere without a lot of space. Two unyielding bodies squeeze you in on either side, your chest is barely able to move enough to ensure your lungs get a bit of air. Panic tries to get a foothold in your mind, to make your silent heart race. The walls and ceiling feel like they’re closing in, like you’re getting squished down and at any moment your organs will rupture—

But the drugs smooth out your brain like ocean waves weather down massive cliffs, your body so exhausted you can’t manage even a small twitch of a struggle. You feel the cold muzzle of a gun press against your temple, the cool sensation making you aware of the pounding headache.

"Move," The man on your left says, voice rough like sandpaper and with a distinct accent, "An’ yer dead." His threat sounds like an order, you don’t doubt he’s just itching for you to make a single move he can justify to his brass as aggression and kill you. You know you would do the same.

The vehicle you’re in rumbles to life but you can barely feel it, body and mind too exhausted to even hold your head up. Your stomach twists and turns as if trying to find a way to crawl up through your mouth, your lungs burn from the lack of air.

“Laswell we got-”

“-bout Khaled-”

“-ead, arsonist shot do-”

“-get out, the army reinforcements are co-”

You try to pay attention to what they say, but their words bang uselessly around your hollow skull, shapes and edges blurring together into abstract art. With nothing stopping it, Morgana’s tears leisurely branch through your blood vessels like brambles, making you shiver from how cold you are. You’re stuck in maddening limbo, there’s not enough of the drug in your system to turn you temporarily catatonic — your body is too used to the drug — but at the same time it’s fucking agony.

You've done this before, you know how much small victories count. You don’t know what they want from you, but you swear to yourself not to cry from the pain, both now and when the torture starts. You’re not a fucking child, not that snot nosed private you were when you first felt the sting of Morgana’s tears, you’ve been through worse.

But the problem is, you’re not out of tricks.

Your control over Valefar slips, the exhaustion and drugs slowly wearing down the rope of control you've been maintaining for months. Since the first day you started working for Khaled. You knew he’d betray you, you had that feeling in your gut. The collar beeps as mana suddenly sparks in your chest, thawed by the ancient magic you use. Without warning the needles in the collar jab into your neck as your mana builds, pumping more of the poison into your blood.

But it’s useless, with steam starting to rise off your chest not even you are able to hold it back. A rough chuckle forces its way out of your throat. You always figured you would die by your hand or not at all.

"What’s with the giggling?" The werewolf demands, gun still trained on you. "Something funny?"

You gather your strength and slowly roll your head back, every vertebra in your spine cracking from how much damage your body has received. The trembling wall of the truck gives you the support you lack. Black spots dance in your vision, but you manage to turn your gaze to one side.

On your right is the wraith. A creature of death. Violent Death.

You feel like there’s a joke about the situation somewhere. Figures you’d be sat against the personification of violent death. You’ve been living on borrowed time for too long, the reaper doesn’t like to wait.

Shadows darkening what little you can see of his face through the skull mask, making his eyes look like you’re staring into the void.

Unnerving. 

You’ve been told your eyes are much the same.

The wraith stares at your face, into your eyes. You’re pretty sure this is the first time in ten years that someone has seen the eyes you were born with. The color is so painfully drab and human.

But it don’t last. Out of nowhere mana sparks in your eyes like a violent forest fire set off from the cinder of a forgotten cigarette. Oranges, reds, and yellows swirl around the pitch blackness of your pupil, bright and intense like staring into a black hole.

There’s no grand gesture to show the snapping of your control. Your heart skips a beat as it births Valefar, the soft cool magic nibbling on your veins as a pulse of cool mana rushes through to your fingers. You see the wraith stiffen, only barely able to sense how the world quivers.

The earth shatters.

The truck jerks forward and you almost fly out of the front windshield, kept in place by someone's rough hand gripping and pulling you back in place. The earth shakes violently as months of accumulated mana melts through rock and suddenly erupts from the ground as a beam of pitch black flames. You can feel Valefar laughing beneath the ground, inside your hollow heart. It takes joy in spreading your magic as far as it can, incinerating the arriving helicopters full of soldiers before they can even understand what's happening.

The car swerves to avoid the rocks falling from the sky, the air around you trembling as Valefar makes a crater out of the mountain. They’re lucky that your control finally evaporated when they were far enough to escape the impact zone.

You tilt your head, catching sight of the wraith. He stares at you.

Your eyelids flutter without your consent, all strength leaving you, but you manage to wink at him.

You pass out.

Tag list: @resident-cryptid @diejager @lovingtyrantkitten @lieutnt @lilpothoscuttings @krystiannng @crankyweasel @ashy-kit @fyolaizs @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @aldis-nuts @whoislucas @birdiiiiiiiiiii @thigh-o-saur @dont-look-at-me-im-shy @reaperxxxxzz @patronizingbitch @kaoyamamegami @mauvette268 @inspector-m3 @gaynesspersonified @fluffysteampunkd @fall-myriad

[stainedglassthreads]

Saw someone mention something about 'of course Gabriel would get along with a demon, he's an awful person--' and no no no you're missing the point. Like yeah, he does suck and has been awful to Aziraphale, but he's not Uniquely Awful, nor is that the reason he gets along with Beelzebub. He gets along with Beelzebub because they are fundamentally the same, because there is no difference between angels and demons in Good Omens.

One of the things reiterated again and again in the book Good Omens is how Heaven and Hell is fundamentally the same. It's noted that demon wings are not black, but white, and during what while the showdown between Adam and Satan in the series, all the angels and demons actually appear on earth and square off against each other--and the narration specifically says that you couldn't tell the angels apart from the demons. That's why Gabriel and Beelzebub get the same complaints from both Heaven and Hell about how hard it is to get the angels and demons to back down from a war, that's why Crowley says at the end of season 1 that the real Armageddon will be the combined hosts of Heaven and Hell versus humanity. It's why it was mentioned, when talking about season 1, that Heaven and Hell were envisioned as being the upper floors and basement of the same basement--is why the methods to get to both places are always in the same location! The escalators and the elevator!

And that's why Gabriel and Beelzebub got along. Because they were in the exact same position experiencing the exact same difficulties and complaints, and because they the exact same amount of actual care for Heaven and Hell--precisely zero. They fell in love because they're similar, but at the end of the day, all the angels and demons are 'similar', because the demons used to be angels too! Which we are reminded, when Crowley correctly analyzes angels like Muriel, Heaven as a structure, and guesses that they STILL haven't changed the passwords. Crowley recognizes that Heaven and Hell are the same, and are plagued by effectively the same problems, and so he rejects both. He rejects Beelzebub's offer to become a Duke of Hell, even if it would protect Aziraphale. He rejects Aziraphale's offer to become an angel again. Crowley knows that both sides are rife with systematic problems, and so he goes all-in on our side. And on humanity's side.

[dtrghost]

closeness and proximity

Side note: This is my first ever tumblr fic, so uh, be gentle!! moving on!

pairing: ghost x f!reader

synopsis: callsign is sunshine, because you're anything but. team 141 thought ghost was bad? at least they could crack a smile out of the guy from time to time, you? you were stone faced, all day, every day. until one day you're not, not with a certain someone anyway.

warnings: inaccurate military language and sequences, violence, angst, descriptions of interrogation and torture, INTENSE gore (imo), cursing, allusions to mental illness (reader has sociopathic tendencies) you get the gist. If you have a weak stomach or faint heart, please do not read this, like please.

I'd also like to start this off by saying that the mc is not a good person, and that is on purpose. I've seen a lot of the angel fics where ghost falls for his antithesis, so I decided to try something new. So here, please forgive any mistakes.

if this does become a series there will most likely be smut because,,, yes.

(update it's becoming a series so if someone wants to be tagged for that lmk cause i have so many ideas for this)

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

Word count: 3.4k

"Sunshine how copy?" Ghost's gruff, static filled voice called through coms, scope checking the parameters of the building she found herself held up in. She didn't respond at first, busy fighting for her life in a basement underneath the building they weren't aware of.

The deeper she went the harder it was to understand what was being relayed to her, so she settled on doing it on her own. He listened to a man grunt, their body dropping to the floor under her boot as she took a deep breath.

"There's a basement underground, coms are cutting out. I'm taking charge on clearing the basement. I'll report when I get to the surface. Sunshine out." She loathed her callsign with a passion. To speak it caused a burning hatred to spark in the lowest depths of her heart and made her cringe horribly. However, she knew it was better than letting everyone know her real name, so she dealt with it.

Ghost sighed, knowing she couldn't be stopped once she started. She had been on a few missions together in the past few years, he knew she was uptight and lacked the emotional capacity to make friends with others. It made him wonder why, what could've been that bad to freeze her heart over and shrink it to the size of the pebble he was crushing under his foot as he shifted uncomfortably. People would try and try to thaw her out, yet always failed.

He waited, taking out strays that attempted to heed the possible rescue requests that came from that basement, and patiently waited.

"This is Sunshine, basement cleared. Might wanna come take a look at this." His eyebrows furrowed, affirming the request and making his way down quickly, not wanting to stay in the open for too long. He made his way to the basement, eyes widening at the various bodies that trailed to wherever she was down there.

Had she done this all by herself?

He followed the bodies all the way to her, lights flickering, casting a bland white light on the concrete walls. seeing her digging through an opened trunk in a room filled with them.

"Weapons. American." Sunshine reported, glancing at him as he took his place next to her, seeing the American flag painted onto the inside of the lid. She turned at the sound of a groan, a soldier she left alive rousing to consciousness.

"Fuckin' hell. This mission was to take out ultranationalists." Ghost sighed. She didn't respond, the task force member watching her turn on her heel and grab the soldier by vest, throwing him against the wall with impressive strength. Blood flowed out of the back of his head, smearing against the wall as he slowly slid to the floor. He had never seen her in interrogation, but he had heard from those who have.

Brutal, heartless, some had to exit the room.

He wouldn't. He's witnessed plenty of torture tactics, even had to rely on some himself to get information necessary for national security. But this is another reason why they called her 'Sunshine', because to others she didn't feel remorse for what she did, some said she enjoyed it even, that her eyes brightened like the sun peaking over the horizon. Whether that was true or not he'd figure out now, as eager as he was. He watched her take out her knife, flipping it in her hand as she crouched to the soldier's level.

"Where'd they come from." She asked simply, keeping an even tone that surprised Ghost. He expected something more fierce, intimidating, but it was as if she was starting a conversation with a normal person. The victim attempted to spit in her face, but with a quick turn on the head it landed on the floor behind her. Her knife dug itself into his foot, his cries of pain echoing in the basement as she twisted it. The sounds of his bones cracking made Ghost shiver.

"Where'd they come from. Who sold them to you." She persisted, her face void of all emotion as she ripped the blade out of his foot. She sighed, turning to ghost who stood in the back, surveying the action. His eyebrows furrowed as she pointed to the door with her knife.

"Wait outside. This might take awhile." At first he didn't move, but the hint of impatience in her eyes spooked him out, for reasons unknown to him, but instinct told him to listen. So he slowly retreated and stood watch outside for anyone either getting up or rushing down the stairs. Y/N turned back to her victim, seeing two loops with chains hanging off of them imbedded into the wall. She tied his arms up, leaving his body sagging down.

Ghost listened to her repeat her questions, and when she didn't get an answer, a shout would follow. But those shouts turned to ear-piercing screams very quickly. He listened to pleads and begs of mercy to understand him, that he couldn't say anything out fear to what they'd do to him.

"Imagine what I'll do next if I don't get the response I want." She'd respond.

The bones cracking, the retch of vomiting, blood splattering onto the cold concrete.

"If you think you can outlast me, that I'll get tired of this and stop for the night to let you regain some of your humanity, you're wrong. Because unfortunately for you sweetheart." The blade tore through his skin, another bellow of pain emerging from his throat as he squirmed in his place. They were both coated in blood, her eyes dull and her ears tuning out the noise. To her, it was as if he was silent, his screams didn't penetrate through to her, and talked and talked until it drove him mad.

"I don't have all night, and I'm getting impatient. You won't die, I wouldn't allow that. I went through med school, graduated top of my class with a doctorate in Neuroscience. I know how to break." Which was evident as his leg was broken and facing different directions from the knee down to his toes.

"And I know how to fix. I'll keep you alive a lot longer than the night, and I'll do a lot worse. So if you want this to end, start talking, or you're in for a long week." Simon wondered what she was doing. His mind went over the possibilities until her victim finally cracked after the final scream he unleashed into the empty basement. He detailed a secret arms trade between an ally of the United States' and another country, which would lead to the likeliness of intentions for them.

War.

Y/N huffed, ripping off a piece of the soldiers shirt that wasn't soaked in sweat, blood, or vomit, which was a very small one, and wiping her hands clean as best as she could.

"Could've said that 10 minutes ago. Now, you'll bleed out within the next 5. Shame." Ghost listened to his anguished sobs as footsteps approached him, turning around from the entrance to see her, covered in blood. His eyes widened slightly, noticing a piece of...

Her eyes followed his to her vest, noticing a very small piece of flesh sitting between her shirt and gear before flicking it off to the side.

"Hopefully he didn't have HIV." She joked, but there was no humor in her voice, no sign of her finding it funny at all, as if she said it to just say it. Ghost didn't respond, he wasn't sure how. He slowly moved to look inside the room, the curiosity of what she did to the soldier eating him alive, until she grabbed his roughly.

"Don't." The word sent shivers down his spine, and he knew better than the disobey as she had operational command authority, and would likely court martial him if he had. So he took a step back and maintained eye contact, radioing in to Price.

"Captain, this is Ghost. How copy." He called, his gruff voice bringing a smile to her lips that he couldn't see due to her mask which was just a boring black one, decorated with blotches of drying blood that lightened up enough to see. "This is Price."

"We found weapons and gear, they're American." He went onto explain the situation, being weary of his mission leader walking around him in circles, waiting impatiently as he reported their findings.

"Copy that. I'll transfer this to Lanswell. Good work, report back to base for debrief."

"Copy, Ghost out." He connected his radio back to his vest. She took out her pistol, leading him to pull out his own. The behavior she exhibited was one he hadn't seen often, and it led to a deep mistrust he couldn't shake. She smirked, turning around, walking back in the room, and confirming her kill with a bullet between the eyes before reappearing in front of him.

He looked at her suspiciously as she gestured to the stairs, wondering who trained her, who made her into what she is now. She wasn't normal, not like the rest of them, she had no signs of remorse, care, or empathy for the people she killed, and she killed them with ease. Over 30 soldiers in one cramped basement and she came out unscathed, in tip top shape. He followed her out and made it to the landing zone where a helicopter came to pick them up.

She was silent the whole way back, Price being there to greet the two before they sat through debrief.

"Sunshine, we have orders from headquarters to have you join Task Force 141. Ghost is to watch over you. An official introduction will be made tomorrow." Price announced, not missing the tightened grip of Ghost's fist on the table.

"Copy that captain." She responded in her usual tone, only fueling Ghost's anger as he turned to glare at her, though she only ignored him, keeping her gaze unwavering on Price.

"Hit the showers soldier." Price dismissed, Y/N being the first to leave. But before she did, she turned to look down at her new partner.

"Happy to be on the team, Mr. Riley." It took his everything to not jump to his feet and knock her out, holding his breath to calm himself down as she walked away, the door shutting behind her. He hated that she had power over him, and worse that she rubbed it in his face.

"There's no chance in hell I'll stand for her being on my team." He immediately threw at him, standing up in his seat with his finger pressing firmly on the table in front of him.

"First, it's my team. Second, It's not my choice, orders are orders." Ghost growled lowly, clearly upset over the lack of fighting to keep her off, to keep her away to those he held near and dear to his heart, even if that wasn't too close to begin with. He saw her as a danger, an immediate threat, someone who belonged in an institution before they saw the battlefield.

"Then send an appeal. She's a war criminal. Tell em that!" He snapped.

"Bloody hell we're all war criminals. Then we'll be stuck in prison with her and you'll complain some more." Price groaned, rubbing his forehead, clearly irritated by his soldier's insistence.

"Not like that. Not how she is. She'll kill one of us before we get the next mission, hell she parade around our bodies like a joker and hail-" Price's hand slammed on the table, cutting his lieutenant off.

"Quiet." Ghost went silent, sighing deeply as he waited for Price to gather the right words, to somehow ease his mistrust in her, though he doubted she could do that. He watched as he shut the door and locked it, keeping his voice hushed, standing closer to his comrade.

"This is classified information, what I say stays in this room and is to never be discussed with anyone else. Is that understood lieutenant." Ghost's eyes widened for a moment before nodding in affirmation, waiting for his captain to continue.

"She- she wasn't brought up normally. As a great many soldiers weren't, hence why many of them join the ranks in the first place. She was a prodigy, she became a seal at 17, and on her second mission she was set up, deserted, and kidnapped. Nobody knows what happened to her in there, a search team was sent out, but she wasn't found til a few months later, and when she came out after she was different."

She was a child.

That's all Ghost could thing about. God knows what happened to her in there, and he didn't want to think about it.

"She exhibited sociopathic tendencies, she was closed off, didn't speak for a very long time. She failed psychological evaluation requirements, depression, ptsd, ecetera. Even then they sent her back out on missions a couple months later." Simon's eyes blew open, Price nodding glumly.

"Missions? Fuckin' hell, she needs help not special ops." He sneered, not at Price, but his anger was seeping through at rates he couldn't control. He was angry, how could they do that to someone? Did they not care, not even a little bit for her life? Her wellbeing?

"I know. But they're not taking her out any time soon, and now that she's on our team the least we can do is try to help her. I knew her before she became this. She was a kind soul." His voice dropped to a whisper, as if reminiscing, and he was. Her bright eyes, so full of potential when they met for her first mission, how she wheezed when she laughed. She was a kid, and it hurt his heart thinking about what she turned into over the last 6 years. Ghost nodded, silently agreeing to his motives before Price simply waved him off.

Simon hit the showers, scrubbing off the dirt and gunpowder that clung to his skin, watching the water turn black as the face paint drizzled down into it. The captain's words ran through his head over and over, the words going in one ear, through his brain, and out the other in a constant circle. He knew firsthand how corrupt his line of work could be, but that didn't make him any less angry when it revealed itself to him in the ways it did.

When he exited, fully dried and clothed with his mask back on, he passed by Y/N's room, noticing the light peaking out from underneath the door. He sighed quietly, his hand coming up and knocking on the door.

"It's open." Her cold voice responded, though it sounded more distant than before. He twisted the knob and let the door open, seeing her laying on her cot in deep thought. He went to question her, until he realized that she probably listened in on their conversation.

"You were listening." She nodded once, curtly and formally before sitting up and turning to look at him. Her eyes narrowed for a moment, analyzing every aspect about him. He felt like he was being stripped naked just by her look, his soul bare for her to look into.

Her eyes drifted over his exposed arms, the sleeveless tank he wore leaving them on display. He was a big guy, his arms were veined and muscled, tattoos filling up a majority of the space, combined with scars that passed through some of them. The top he wore was a bit tight, outline his chest in an attractive way, but she forced her eyes away, knowing he already caught onto what she was staring at.

"Price is right. I wasn't always like this. And I think he was the only one to notice, or at least point it out." She began, drawing attention away from the fact she just checked him out shamelessly.

"Wasn't right, what happened to you." He replied stiffly. She snickered, standing up. He watched her pace the room, twisting a knife in her hands, causing him to tense. She noticed.

"I'm not going to stab you lieutenant." She reassured, though it didn't help at all as she went on. She wasn't sure what she felt, confused for sure, as to why she was unable to emotionally process her emotions or evaluate the information she heard, as if her mind was barring her from contextualizing her state of mind. She knew she wasn't normal, but she couldn't bring herself to accept it and label herself.

"I was 17 when I was taken, you know that. Had a rough upbringing, I won't explain that to you now." She wasn't sure where she was going with this, and neither was he, but he'd listen for a bit to try and understand her more, maybe to trust her more now that she was his teammate. "I can feel emotion you know. Only to a certain degree, I can empathize. Fleeting, but it's there sometimes. I do feel some remorse, but you know how we are in this field. Weakness will get you killed, so you internalize it, you keep it buried underneath everything else, and because my everything else was stripped away with me, it just sits in here." She tapped her temple and shrugged. He understood what she meant, he did that too. He withheld his shame, his guilt, and his remorse, remaining a stone cold figure in the field. He saved the emotional crap for his time alone where he could deal with it in the way he knew how.

"You just let it sit there then?" He pressed, crossing his arms over his chest. She nodded.

"Don't know what to do with it. Lost my sense of self and all I know is this job. I do try though, I try to force some tears like I've seen others do, but the only time these.. feelings present themselves is on my missions, which is why everyone thinks I enjoy it. But I don't, for the record, I just can't control it like you guys do. And I envy you for that." His eyes widened slightly.

"Envy, huh."

"Mhm. You can talk to each other, find common ground and relate, make friends and connections. I can't because I don't feel like you guys do. And then you demonize me and outcast me more than I already am, so. Oops." He thought she was getting upset, but she wasn't, there was not a hint of anger or sadness or negative emotion in her person whatsoever, none that he could see anyway. Her arms were loose and carefree as she swung them around every time she turned her heel to pace back in the direction she just walked in.

"We can help you." Her first sign of feeling was an eye roll with a steady irritated gaze. But she didn't say anything. The idea of needing help repulsed her beyond anything else, made her want to punch a wall and scream, her eyes widened. Anger. There it is, outside of a mission too. She hummed, looking back at him.

"Alright Casper." He grunted, displeased by the new nickname which made her smile widen cheekily. She searched his eyes for a moment, finding entertainment in the small flames in his amber eyes, how they flickered and danced when he found something humorous, how they died out when he found something unamusing or boring, how they raged when he grew angry or determined to finish something with a newfound passion.

She liked to think he had that burn in his eyes when Price spoke to him about the notion of helping her, hoping that he'd care that much even if she didn't want the help, or perhaps she did, that would explain the want would it not? That was a thought for later. For now she'd do her job the way she knew how, she wouldn't change, not yet, not that she knew how anyway.

"We're going out for a drink tomorrow night, care to tag along." He offered, jousting his chin up at her in a heads up manner.

"I don't drink." She replied, monotone as she laid down on her cot, shutting her eyes with a sigh. He watched her body sink into the bed, all stress and tension releasing, and he took that as his dismissal. He shut the door behind him, releasing a breath and walking back to his room, confused and tired where he slept on the day's events.

Though he was curious on how tomorrow would turn out.

And that's it! If you want a series out of this let me know!! It's my first fic and I'll probably binge a bunch because I feel like writing. I'm still trying to figure out the whole border thing I wanna make everything aesthetic or whatever but yeah.

See you guys next time!!

[acapelladitty]

Whole Day Off: The Meal

Pairing: Jonathan Crane/Female Reader

Summary: After being invited out to attend a romantic dinner with the infamous Scarecrow, you find that his intentions are as complicated as ever as he enjoys your company. (6.3k words)

(tw for: outdoor sex, fingering, dirty talk, orgasm, mild voyeurism, cum marking, unprotected sex, mild sub/dom dynamic, possessive behaviour etc)

Whole Day Off Masterlist

Link to AO3 Series

Enjoying a dreamless sleep as your body recovers from your play, it’s no less shocking when Crane’s hands wrap around your upper arms and shake you awake with clear urgency pinching at his tone.

“Up now, little mouse. You need to get ready and move.”

“Wh-hello?” Groggily sitting up, you adjust to his presence before you with bleary features – eyes narrowed and mouth feeling dry as hell as you stretch your arms overhead. The residual aches from your earlier fuck are quick to make themselves known as you wince in discomfort.

“In a few moments, Waylon Jones, better known to most people as Killer Croc, will be visiting to drop-off some necessary equipment for my experiments. I have no time to hide you so you must play your part again as a victim and play it well.” His words are even despite the hurried tone and Crane’s hands clasp over your own as he pulls you to your feet.

Still disorientated from your broken sleep, it takes you a moment to follow his gaze but doing so forces your eyes to the dental chair and your throat tightens as you realise what he’s asking. You may have forgiven him for the mess with Sionis but you had not forgotten and the discomfort which roiled in your chest every time the dental chair caught your eye was undeniable.

At your feet, your clothes lie in a messy pile and you bend in place to snatch them up. Pulling on your long-abandoned shirt with trembling hands, you focus on Crane’s words as he explains the situation with his typical, reserved attitude.

“Jones works for me from time to time doing grunt work. He will be dropping off some electronics I require so I will ask that you remain in the chair until he has left. Your presence will not seem off if you perform accordingly.” Pausing as though considering something, he is nevertheless quick to carry on. “I understand that you have no desire to find yourself back in the chair so soon but I can promise you that this situation will be nothing like the previous.”

Padding across the floor, tracing the familiar walk to the dental chair with a zombie-like gait, you sit down on it gingerly – every nerve in your body tensed and desperate to bolt as Crane follows your footsteps to stand before you.

"Waylon Jones is not a creature built on cruelty, nothing like Sionis. More a victim of his circumstances than anything. He will pay you no mind."

Struggling to articulate the whirlwind of anxieties and questions which are fluttering through your mind, Crane seizes the opportunity to speak again.

"Do you trust me?"

The question of the hour.

Nodding even though the agreement doesn't fully ring true within your heart, you allow him to secure you into the chair. Watching him with a trembling mouth, you notice how loose the restraints around your limbs sit and the dread within your chest lightens slightly as you take the merciful act as a small, unspoken apology of the previous mistreatment.

Quick to fix you in place and beat a hasty retreat, you startle as Crane's fingers brush along your jaw - an odd look playing on his features for only a moment before he schools it away and walks back to his workbench.

Unsure what to make of that, you banish the thoughts to focus on the task at hand.

Heavy footsteps approach within minutes and the stairs seem to tremble under the weight as Waylon Jones descends into the basement.

Trapped, you can't help but feel an awe-filled fear as you watch the hulking man struggle to fit down the somewhat narrow staircase. At seven feet, he towered over Crane, a fact made worse by the sheer bulk of him as green muscle filled the space. His reptilian skin looked tough and pitted, chest and upper legs covered by clothing which was slightly torn and frayed around the edges.

Across his back lay a large sack and Waylon carefully deposited it to the ground. It was massive and you could tell that it was heavy from the quiet thud of contact it made with the hard flooring.

"Good evening, Waylon." Crane greeted coolly. "How was the acquisition?"

Opening his mouth to reply, sharp rows of stained teeth shone from Waylon's inhumane maw. "Easy. There was no one in the building so I just grabbed it and went." He growled, his voice vibrating across the room as you kept up a showman struggle against the dental chair.

"Even stole a few extra bits, just in case."

"Excellent. Your payment is in the usual place." Audibly pleased, Crane clapped his hands together as he surveyed the collection. "Your work is an impeccable as always, Mr. Jones."

As Crane speaks, something seems to catch Waylon off-guard and he goes still. His body tenses and his head almost seemed to swim in the air for a moment as he scents something out with long inhales. After a moment, his head snaps in your direction and a visceral thrill of pure fear shoots up your spine.

Padded feet move a few feet in your direction and you freeze in position, pressing your back against the dental chair as Waylon comes to a stop a few feet away. Whatever faux fear you had feigned is now fully replaced by a very real horror as you realise that Crane would be unable to do anything should this monster decide to take a piece from you.

But nothing of the sort happened.

Something almost like regret washes through Waylon’s face as he stares at you, his nose continuing to flare as he sniffs out the fear which is no doubt pouring from you in waves as phantom memories of Sionis and how much more terrible this could be nips at your anxieties.

Waylon's snout twitches again, this time with confusion in his features, and he leans in closer to give you a more definite sniff. This close, you can see much more of his animalistic qualities; the reptilian eyes a subtle yellow as they sit neatly atop his slight snout.

"Waylon," Crane's voice rings out, firm and full of harsh warning, "away from her. Now. My work is no concern of yours."

Waylon ignores him and his snout twitches as he picks up on whatever he had been suspicious of. With the confirmation comes a sudden burst of anger as his reptilian eyes narrow and his features darken as he whirls on Crane.

"And they call me the monster." Waylon snarls lowly. "You're fucking them too? Using them like that?"

Truly furious, it was a frightening sight as Waylon stands to his full height and raises a threatening hand - the claws gleaming in the dim light - to Crane's chest. Shocked by the turn of events, any words you have die in your chest as you watch Crane refuse to back down.

"Waylon-"

"Don't ask me to work for you no more. No more favours, no more help. We're done."

Moving quicker than a seven-foot reptile should be capable of, Waylon pushes at Crane's chest with enough force to knock him clean onto his ass as a mixed expression of fury and confusion flashed across his features. It’s violent and shocking, a show of aggression which only amplifies the fear in your heart as sweat breaks out along your panicking limbs.

Still moving, Waylon was quick to return to you - his hands pulling free the restraints quickly as your struggle became real, not wanting this hulking beast to grab at you.

Mistaking your panic, Waylon wraps his arm around your body and picks you up easily as though you were a bag of sugar. Your breath catches in your lungs as he places you gently over his shoulder and you can feel one massive hand pinning itself to your lower back to secure you in place.

"I'll take you outta here, Miss. You can go to the Thompson clinic and tell Leslie you need help. She's good people. She'll help."

Through the shock and panic, something finally clicks in your mind and you burst into action, a surge of strength pulsing through your veins.

"I'm OKAY!" You yell, beating your fists on Waylon's scaled back as you watch Crane righting himself to his feet - his own breath clearly knocked from his lungs. "I’m okay! P-put me down, please!"

Waylon seems hesitant, pausing at the foot of the stairs, but follows your demand as he is unable to ignore your outburst and carefully plucks you from his shoulder to place you on your feet.

He says nothing, nostrils flaring as he watches you fix your outfit with trembling hands.

"I'm okay." You repeat. "He's not like th-he didn't rape me." You add explicitly, heading off the misunderstanding at its core.

"You sure?" Waylon asks, his back relaxing slightly as he settled onto his heels. "You don't gotta be frightened, his gas don't work on me."

Interesting to know.

"I'm sure. I come here because we're," you pause - unsure how to explain the mess that was your fraught relationship as you catch eyes with Crane for a moment, "seeing each other." You finish lamely.

Moving to stand behind you, the agitation which rolls off Crane makes the hair on the back of your neck stand to attention and you can feel how unhappy he is with this turn of events.

"Waylon, people can't know about her." Crane's low voice brushes past your ear and you lean back into him in a show of solidarity. "Sionis had a similar run-in and he has already come too close. You know what kind of man he is and if he knew the truth then…"

It's a subtle manipulation but one you play into as you allow fear to swallow your features. Waylon nods quickly, understanding alighting in his expression as he glances between the two of you.

"Secrets safe with me, Doc.” Waylon straightened his back to his full height, his head almost brushing the ceiling as he assumes a more relaxed stance. “And you seem nice.” His reptilian head tilting in your direction, Waylon continues as his gaze flicks to Crane. “She's pretty and seems nice. Too nice for-"

Waylon cuts himself off, a guilty look blossoming on his features as he realises the insult that he almost gave without thought.

Crane finishes it for him.

"Too nice for me. You're not wrong, Mr. Jones."

x-x-x-x-x

With Waylon gone, Crane’s agitation seemed to ebb and flow as he paced the basement with a firm determination.

“Waylon is dependable and discrete. His knowledge won’t impact anything.”

Unsure if the statements were directed at you or more of an external monologue, you answer regardless as you finish slipping your feet into your shoes.

“He seems fine enough. The papers and news are always very cruel about him and the things he’s been accused of.” And it was true. A Killer Croc appearance on the news was irregular and often accompanied by alleged sightings which contained footage that put the Bigfoot evidence to shame in terms of how shoddy it was; anything to bolster the reports of cannibalism and cruelty. “He also knows how to treat a woman.”

Responding to the tease with a thoroughly sour look, Crane stops his movements long enough to pin you with a scowl.

“Am I to take that as a criticism?”

“Take it as you like.” You answer evenly.

“In that case, I will discard the invitation to dinner which was simmering within my thoughts.”

Now wait a minute. “Dinner?”

“Yes.” Crane nodded. “Did we not discuss sharing a meal? I know your apartment was suggested and offered; however, I do realise that such short notice wouldn’t be considered polite or feasible.”

Your underfed stomach making itself known at the very prospect of a decent meal, the subtle rumble perks your attention up as you pretend to consider the offer – a recollection of actually offering your own apartment lacking in your memory.

“It would be rude of me to decline such a generous offer, Dr. Crane.”

“A dinner then. Meet me at this address at 7pm and I will reserve the space.” Scrawling the information on a slip of paper that he snatched up from his work desk, Crane thrust it within your hands. “Get a cab. I’ll also arrange the return trip.”

Not feeling like you had much of a choice in the matter as you look at the address - the restaurant not too far away based on its postcode. Excited by the prospect, you give an eager nod as a girlish flutter afflicts your stomach; your mind already vaguely scoping out your wardrobe for something nice to wear.

“Sure.”

x-x-x-x-x

Nervously tugging at the edge of the tablecloth as your fingers dance along the tacky red and white plaid, the passing waiters occasionally flick their eyes towards your table as they hold off on making any approach until your other guest has seated himself. Having elected to throw on a simple black dress paired with some low heels, you had even made enough of an effort to put on a little makeup – your eyes enhanced by a smudge of eyeliner while a neutral red colour tinges your lips.

Catching a cab had been easy enough and you were five minutes early, a fact you had made the host aware of as you walked in and requested the table for Gruidae, following Crane’s earlier instructions to use the false name. He had made the booking, and the spot you were reserved was far from the bright lights which flooded the centre of the restaurant. It was a nice, intimate booth with comfortable room for two while allowing for a little privacy.

Speak of the devil.

A dark shape covered the table for only a moment as Crane walks past your elbow, stopping at the side of the booth as he pauses to take in your appearance – a choice while allows you do to the exact same as something fond curls in your chest at the sight of him.

Surprisingly, Crane also seems to have made an effort.

More used to seeing him in his lab coat and simple shirts, the deep brown suit which hangs off his body is quite stunning, if a little outdated. A grey shirt, one you don’t recognise, sits below the suit jacket and the ensemble fills him out nicely as it takes the edges away from his gaunt frame.

“Hi.”

“Good evening.” Crane replies evenly, seating himself across from you as he unbuttons his jacket. “That’s quite the dress, little mouse.”

Pressing your elbows together to enhance the low dip of your cleavage, you don’t miss the way his eyes drop to enjoy the view before darting back up to your face.

“This old thing?” You smile, careful not to catch the edge of the brand-new dress on the wooden leg of the table. “I wasn’t sure how intense the dress code was. Your suit is lovely, by the way, makes you look very handsome.”

He shrugs the compliment off with ease, a disbelieving casualness that speaks to how rarely anyone much say something positive about him.

“It’s cold out there and I doubt my typical attire would be appreciated.”

“The lab coat?”

“I was thinking more about my costume and mask, witty girl. A touch too recognisable to allow for a nice meal.”

Feeling slightly embarrassed but enjoying the teasing quality of the simple conversation, you let it slide as your waiter appears by the side of the table.

“Some drinks for the table?”

“Large glass of house red.” Crane answers without missing a beat, his gaze settling on you as he continues. “And?”

“Vodka and lemonade, with a splash of blackcurrant.”

“Excellent. I’ll get those through for you.”

As the waiter departs, his polished back shoes tapping along the tiled flooring, you notice Crane watching you with a question lurking in his gaze.

“Yeah?”

“I just wasn’t expecting you to order a hard spirit.” He confesses with a deadpan tone. “I was expecting something more muted. Or sensible.”

“I like vodka.” Feeling defensive, you drop your elbows from the table. “Mixes with anything and doesn’t cloud my judgement as much as wine.”

A fact which makes the slightest smirk touch at his lips. “Why the need for a clear head? Are you nervous, little mouse?”

“No.” You lie, butterflies fluttering within your chest. “I’m just not much of a risk taker.”

At that, he can’t hide his disbelief as a scoff quickly fizzles into a doubtful stare. “Is that so? And what would you call agreeing to attend a dinner with a wanted madman? A person who has mistreated and abused your lovely body in the most carnal of ways?”

Smiling politely at the waiter, his sudden reappearance causing Crane to drop his point as he accepted his glass of wine without thanks, you take a short sip of your drink as you fix Crane with a teasing look.

“I call that a free dinner.”

“And what gave you the impression I was paying for this outing?”

“I seem to recall you coming into a substantial amount of money recently from a mutual friend of ours. I assumed that some of that money would benefit me in some way. Since, well, you know…”

Trailing off, you offer him a sweet smile and Crane is unable to hide the amusement which floods his features as he finds himself manipulated into agreeing.

“In that case,” he sipped from his wine, “I suppose that it would be the polite thing to do.”

x-x-x-x-x

After another two rounds of drinks and a dinner which was admittedly quite delicious, your decision to wash away the creamy carbonara which now sat warmly in your stomach with a lemon and raspberry cheesecake – the tartness of the dessert cutting across your tongue beautifully – was one which you couldn’t hide your pleasure at.

Humming away contentedly as you cut another small piece with your fork, you allowed Crane to continue with his discussion. Maybe it was the wine or maybe it was the comfort of such a tasty meal, but the reserved nature which Crane always revelled in had mellowed and with it came a great opportunity to ask questions which you had always been too nervous to.

“And which of the other costumed villains do you have the least amount of time for?”

It also turned out that Crane was quite the opinionated man when it came to his thoughts on others. A trait which you would have easily describes as ‘bitchy’ had it been applied to any other person.

“Joker is the least dependable to associate with but a necessity if one wishes to remain aware of the more dangerous plots occurring across the city.” Crane scowled, his spindly finger tapping his glass as a subtle flush sat high on his cheeks. “Dent fears me in a primal way and his fear manifests as aggression which makes any interaction a risk as he is very vocal in his desire to blow a hole in my chest with his magnum. Recent events have also placed Sionis low on my list.”

Pleased with that, you tilt your head and give him a small smile, ignoring the little voice in your head that was determined to remind you of his guilt in that manner. The restaurant around you was quiet with only a few other tables filled with various pairs and one small family tucked away in one of the corner booths. All people with their own lives and absolutely no awareness of the monster who sat amongst them nor the woman who he held within his grip.

“If you are finished, I will settle the bill and meet you by the front doors.”

Glancing down at the almost empty plate, you can’t face the last few bites and so you give him a quick nod, standing from your chair as you drain the last of your drink – the ice clinking against your teeth.

Moving to walk past him, you pause long enough to run your hand across his shoulder as your head drops to his cheek.

“Thank you for dinner.” You mutter, pressing a soft kiss against his jaw, the stubble there grating against your lips.

His response is a non-committal grunt and you fight the urge to roll your eyes as you pull your jacket on and head towards the front door of the restaurant. Stepping out into the cold night, you shudder at the sudden chill as your eyes take in the surroundings.

Above you, the moon hangs against the blackened sky in a lovely crescent shape. The streets are dead, only a few shambling bodies of finished workers and drunks from the bar two blocks over stumbling their ways home. Feeling pleasantly warmed due to the vodka stirring your insides, it still isn’t enough to combat the cold air and you cross your arms to your chest since you are unable to do much about the chill accosting your bare legs.

Crane joins you quickly enough, the scent of red wine on his breath as he passes you closely. Curious as to how he plans to get you home, you voice your concerns.

“Are we getting a cab?”

Standing to his full height, Crane tilts his head down at you and his features are as stoic as ever but a slight playfulness seems to be touching at his eyes.

“On such a night? No. I think we can manage the short walk to the warehouse. It should take around ten minutes.”

Taking his arm within your own, a bold movement which causes him to cock a brow, you allow him to lead you on the correct path as you mutter beneath your breath.

“What was that, little mouse?”

Crane’s elbow digs into your side as he awaits an answer and you glance to the side as you meet his gaze head-on.

“Cheapskate.”

His response is a measured huff, somewhere between annoyance and amusement, but he doesn’t deny the claim as his long legs march across the sidewalk forcing you to keep pace.

It really is a beautiful night and your thoughts are jumbled as you walk in a companionable silence. Dinner had been lovely, not just the food, but to get to watch the infamous Scarecrow in a much more relaxed and intimate setting was interesting. He was as brash as ever, his twisted morality making his answers to questions honest and refreshing as much as they were, at times, concerning.

Even his body language was more relaxed as he wined and dined.

The tension which littered his every word and action appeared lessened, his lips quicker to quirk into genuine amusement as he enjoyed your discussions. Your life, much less interesting than his, had taken up less of your shared time as a wicked curiosity controlled your own tongue – forcing you to ask questions about a world you had no interest in visiting.

So lost in your own thoughts, when Crane eventually tugs at your arm to grab your attention it comes as a genuine shock and you gasp in surprise.

“I have been considering your denial that you engage in risk taking behaviours.” He says, his head twisting to either side as he examins the empty street around you both. “It interests me.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Curious to why he had stopped, you follow his gaze to see the same emptiness filling the space. Apartments surround you, some with lights on and most without, and to your right is an alleyway which leads to the emergency fire exits of two separate apartment blocks.

“I think it’s a claim we need to further examine.” Thin hands shift to drop to your waist, snaking their way within your jacket to grip at your dress where it covers your hips. It’s a rough touch, one which makes your cheeks flush as you feel the air between you thicken as he stands before you, blocking out anything which isn’t him.

“You say that like I’m not walking back to your basement with you.” You counter, your own hands coming to a rest atop his forearms, fingers stroking along the thick material of his suit. “A place where i’ve been tied up and abused more times that I’d like to count.”

“I wasn’t thinking of waiting that long.”

In a flash of movement, his hands grow even tighter around your hips as he pulls you into the darkened alleyway to your right – the only illumination coming from the crescent moon which hangs in the sky and the neon flashing of a nearby pharmacy sign. So caught off guard by the sudden change of position, you issue a short yelp as his hands push you roughly against the wall, the harsh brick pressing against your back as his much larger body caged your own.

Anxiety clawing at your chest as your eyes struggle to accustom themselves to the darkness, Crane’s enveloping presence also sparks heat in your groin; your cunt clenching pitifully as warmth floods your lower stomach. His touch is always electric and here, in this filthy alleyway where anyone could be watching, it feels even more alive.

Bearing down against you, the scent of his cologne is strong and his leg moves to fill the space between your thighs. His groin hot against your hip, you can feel the growing hardness there as he assails you. Sighing as his hand rides up your dress, you spread your legs apart to allow him easier access as his fingers ghost across your thigh.

“Dr. Crane?” You interrupt, tone forcing itself to be as empty as his own, if a little strained as your heart flutters.

“Yes?”

“Your hand is up my dress.”

“And how does that make you feel, little mouse.” Playing the game, Crane’s piercing eyes pin you into place in a way his hands never could.

“It’s hot.” You groan, shifting your weight so that his hand is forced to move across your panties; the fabric there already feeling wet as he thumbs it lightly. “It makes me feel wanted, but I’m scared that we’ll get caught and someone will see us.”

“Scared, witty girl? Oh, I doubt that.” Crane chuckles, his voice low and dangerous. “We haven’t played with your true fears in too long. This here, what you are experiencing, is a mild anxiety nothing more, but I may have a cure.”

“A cure? What- oh.” Your question is killed off by the sudden pressure of his fingers as he slips them past your panties to sink two digits into your cunt, the flush of pleasure making your grip of his arms tighten as you press down on his hand.

“Responsive as ever.” He mutters, fingers gently curling within you as he pumps them slowly, taking his time to feel out every slight flutter and clench of your walls as he teases you. “I think that fucking a known supervillain in a filthy alleyway is a perfect method of exposure therapy to overcome that pesky anxiety.”

Shuddering into his chest as you press your head forward, your right hand trembles as it fumbles messily with his fly – desperate to please him as his fingers slipped free of your cunt to stroke smoothly along your slit.

It takes only a moment for you to free him, snaking his cock through the opened fly as it juts free proudly, the length twitching in your grasp as you match your movements to his own – the alcohol in your veins making you bold while your head spins.

He doesn’t make a sound but his lips part slightly as you stroke your hand across his length, its weight familiar and heavy in your palm as the velvety skin responds to your attention by growing stiffer with every passing moment. You both continue like this for a few minutes, the silence only punctuated by deep breaths and restrained grunts, your own control much less practised than Crane’s as you use his chest for support.

“The Scarecrow demands payment, witty girl. He had fed you, watered you, and allows you to walk safely through these evening shadows safely.” Growling the demand into your ear, his lips tickle your skin and you can’t help but give a childish giggle in response before gathering yourself as you tighten your grip on his cock.

“And what does he want from me?” You moan as Crane’s middle finger rubs delicately across the hood of your clit, gently stimulating the nub below. “I don’t have any money to offer him and I’m too weak and helpless to survive any of his wicked experiments.”

“Lies.” Crane accuses, breaking character for only a moment before regaining his composure. “But the Scarecrow has a different fate in store for you. You who spreads your legs so easily for a monster that you would let him fuck you in this decrepit alleyway if he asked.”

“God, yes, I would. Please-please ask him to fuck me.” You stutter out, rolling your thumb across the sensitive line between his cockhead and shaft – a motion which you know drives him wild.

It gets the desire result and your breath catches in your lungs as his hand pulls free of your panties to instead grip your shoulders, forcing you to turn around as face the wall as he maintains a rough presence against your back.

Flipped in position, the cool brick of the wall is rough against your face and you bring your forearm up to act as a barrier as you feel his hands pulling up the hem of your jacket and dress, exposing your underwear and ass to the night breeze.

“I’m going to fuck you right here and now, little mouse.” Fingers squeezing your ass roughly, Crane grinds the tip of his cock against your cunt as he croons the words into your ears. “And if anyone sees us then all they will see is the great Scarecrow and his willing mistress, a foolish little mouse who lets a monster use her for his own pleasure.”

His words going straight to your cunt, your thighs rub together for only a moment before being forced apart by his hand as he guides his cock to your aching hole.

His mistress.

His dear one.

Sentimental musings quickly put to bed as he wraps his arm around your waist, thin fingers delving within your cleavage to grope roughly at your left tit as he sinks his cock within you in one sharp thrust; your cunt so wet and willing that he meets almost no resistance as he buries himself fully.

Body aching with need, you meet his savage thrusts with enthusiasm, pushing your ass against him as he ruts within you – his thin body pressing against your back and making you feel every inch of his presence as he consumes you, inside and out. Groaning and mewling, the noises reverberate in the alleyway until Crane’s fingers press into your mouth, two digits pressing down on your tongue to mute you as much as possible.

His free hand also snakes its way around your body as his long limbs allow him to access the front of your sex, a cruel finger quickly resuming his torment of your clit as you buck and writhe against him.

Of the things that you liked about him, his quick study and commitment to retaining your every reaction is certainly up there and your legs feel unstable as he manipulates the sensitive hood and skin surrounding your clit without touching the nub itself.

Unable to speak due to the fingers in your mouth, you bite down on the digits roughly and bask in the pained growl which issues into your ear as he retracts them. He responds in kind though, his breath hot on your neck for a moment before blunted teeth sink into your skin in a rough bite, his tongue massaging the mark as you arch your back into him.

“Dr. Crane!” You moan, the words punctuated by a shuddering breath as his cock continues to glance off your cervix in a deliciously uncomfortable way. “Jonathan, please, I-”

“I think I like it when you say my first name, witty girl.” His groin flush against your ass as he remains buried to the hilt within you, Crane’s breathing was stilted and punctuated by soft pants of exertion. “I should hear you beg with it more often.”

A statement which makes your cunt spasm as the heat and merciless pressure of his cock finally snaps the tight band of arousal which had been steadily building within your groin, your release hitting with a guttural groan as you bury your mouth within your forearm to mask the sound. Pleasure cascades through you as your cunt is filled and pulses around him.

Determined to reach his own end, Crane revels in the way which your cunt wraps around his cock, every spasm and clench of your orgasm pulling him deeper as it milks him for what it’s worth. His hand, mercifully, drops from your clit and instead returns to your chest, his fingers pinching viciously at your nipple as he uses your body for leverage.

You recognise the tell-tale warnings of his release before it hits. His breathing grows even more erratic as his thrusts grow sloppier, hands increasing their grip as if to pin you in place and leave you unable to escape while he marks you as his own. With an animalistic grunt that almost matches your own, his mouth presses against your neck as he buries his cock as deeply as possible within you.

Heat floods your cunt as you realise that, in the whirlwind of the moment, neither of you had bothered with any protection and the realisation makes you groan as you feel the fullness of his release coating your walls. Your birth control would take care of any peskiness but the sensation of him filling you in such a primal way makes your cunt spasm anew as you grind against him.

It’s not until he pulls out a few moments later that you relax your body, almost falling backwards into him as you feel him tucking his softening cock away. Your jacket and dress are still ruched up around your waist but you’re content to remain like this as you feel him shift your panties back into position. His fingers brush your sensitive hole and you shudder in place as you feel the wet discomfort of your mixed release as it leaks free of you to quickly stain the fabric – your thighs feeling just as damp due to his earlier teasing.

Your head feels light as Crane spins you in place, twisting you so that your back is now pressing against the cool brick of the wall. His face is flushed, the sharp features mellowed by his satisfaction but his eyes remain as piercing as ever, the irises appearing darker due to the dilation of his pupils.

“You’re going to walk home like this.” Crane purrs, his hand cupping your sex through the panties, smearing the mess there further with his fingers. “As a reminder of who you belong to and just how far the Scarecrow will go to teach his little mouse how to overcome her petty anxieties.”

The sticky mess between your legs is uncomfortable but hot as hell and you nod dumbly in agreement, the inhibition of the vodka mixing with the recently-fucked bliss to make you painfully compliant as you keep a soft hold of his shoulders for balance.

His hand pulls free from under your dress and he quickly fixes the rest of the material for you, tugging at the base to even out the hemline before adjusting the neckline to ensure that your chest was covered. Letting him do as he wished, you instead focus your attention on his expression, drinking in the familiar haze which settles across his features when he’s also freshly fucked and clearly pleased.

“Thank you for dinner.” You hum out once again, voice sated and almost drowsy as you allow him to take the lead and link his arm within your own – his auburn hair in a state of disarray due to the breeze and the sweat which sits on his hairline. “It was nice.”

His head turns to you as he fixes you with an unreadable expression.

“Think nothing of it. I feel it was somewhat overdue and owed.” He comments, eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the shiver which consumes your upper body at the chilly evening. With a smooth movement, his hands slip within his pockets to pull free a pair of thin, dark gloves; his fingers quick to pass them to you silently as he presses you to place them on.

Thankful for the small gesture, you smile up at him as your thighs stick together uncomfortably with every small step. You pull the gloves on, the material clearly too big for you but effective nonetheless as it kept the cold from your fingers.

In the frigid night, the moon hanging high against the bleak sky, you tuck your body as closely to Crane’s as you reasonably can as you seek out something unspoken which you doubt he is capable of giving. He allows it though, his arm linked within your own acting as an anchor more than anything but his thoughts are his own as he mindlessly leads the way back to his warehouse hideout.

Bringing your free hand to your chin, you inhale deeply and find satisfaction in the fact that the thin leather of the gloves holds a muskiness which you recognise as something uniquely him and you allow that small comfort to warm your thoughts as you ignore the pleasant ache and fatigue which makes your body feel heavier than it should.

Still, not the worst dinner you had ever sat through.

[wasawattpadkid]

Housewife

Part - 7

Summery: Billy and Stu have been planning these murders for quite some time. Everything is going to plan until you show up. What happens when they meet someone who is just as mentally deluded as they are?

Pairing: poly!ghostface x fem!reader

Warnings for this series: murder, blood, smut (will be more in depth on smut chapters), power dynamics, a dash of sexism, knives, stalking, perverse behavior, cheating,

Part 1

It was the sleepover you never had. Although there was no pillow fights and a little too much Tom Cruise, you had the best time you've had in a while. "God you sound like Billy." Sydney laid back in her bed toying with her hair nervously. "I'm sorry, I'm not trying to be hateful. It's not just scary movies either, you haven't seen any classics?" Tatum snickered throwing her stuffed animal in the air, catching it as it fell back down. "Well you haven't seen any new movies. It's like for the past 6 years you've been locked in grandmas basement."

"Maybe you're right." You sat on the floor organizing your bag. "Do you have any songs or movies you like that your dad or someone else in your family doesn't like?" Sydney asked genuinely curious. You thought about it for a second but your silence answered the question for them. "You've been totally brainwashed babe." Tatum quipped in a way that made you feel a little ashamed. "Y/n there's nothing wrong with liking the things you do, but you should be doing it because you like it and not because someone else does."

"Yeah you need to take notes from Syd here. She is thee feminist. Billy and her have been dating for over a year and she still hasn't slept with him." The brown haired girl looked upset at her friend's honesty. "What'd I say wrong? I wish I could do what you do. I know If I left Stu to his own devices he would just find someone else to help him out." You looked to the floor ready to throw up at a moments notice. That's what this was. You weren't special. Billy took an interest in you because he thought you would put out unlike his girlfriend. "Y/n?"

"I should break up with my boyfriend." You said flatly, all the moisture from your mouth disappeared at the realization. "Huh?" Sydney asked confused by the switch up but Tatum however was your number one cheerleader. "Hell yeah kick that bastard to the curb! What did he do?" Dylan wasn't even that good of a boyfriend back home you weren't sure why he wanted to keep things long distance. This whole discussion though made you want to change some things. "He still lives back home and I just really want to start over now."

You rang up your boyfriend and called it quits. The yelling on the phone was a surprise but Tatum quickly took the phone from you saying something you weren't really sure you were allowed to repeat. Sleeping in a house that wasn't your's was hard especially when you kept thinking about the two men you knew a little too well. Sunday morning was a blur, it consisted of cereal, the news going on about the murders, and school gossip. Eventually you and the girls made it back to Tatum bedroom.

"Hello you must be Y/n." The cop held out his hand for you to shake, which you did. "I'm Dewy." He said. His awkward presence was somehow comforting. "Ew dipshit don't flirt with my friends." Tatum complained making Sydney crack a smile. Red sprinkled his cheeks as he tried to defend himself. "You're fine. It's nice to meet you, Dewy. So you're a cop?" You point to the badge just trying to make conversation. "Here we go." Tatum whispered and Dewy smiled. "I'm actually a deputy." He tapped his badge with pride.

"He's just like Arnold Schwarzenegger... In kindergarten cop." Tatum made fun of him again almost making you crack a smile. "I think it's cool." He looked over at Sydney noticing her quietness. "How are you Syd?" She nodded with a fake smile. "Yesterday was hard so today has to be better." Dewy nodded. "I'm sorry to hear about your grandparents." Tatum's brother looked at you as he spoke. The word "grandparents" made you look up. "Oh um... Thanks." You weren't quite sure what the appropriate response to that was. "I'm going to use the bathroom." You excused yourself leaving the three of them together.

"Why would you bring that up?" Tatum scolded. "What happened to her grandparents?" Sydney asked. Dewy leaned on the door frame looking down the hallway making sure you were out of ear shot. "They committed suicide together. Both of them took a handful of sleeping pills, and she found them." The two girls felt bad hearing the information. Tatum remembered a commotion happening at the house down the street but she never knew what exactly had happened. Just that you moved in shortly after.

You walked back to the bedroom once you dried your face off from the water you threw onto your skin. "Well I've got to get going. Do you girls need anything?" He asked and everyone said no. Dewy left with a wave shutting the door behind him. "Sorry he's not very socially aware." Tatum apologized but you just nodded. "It's fine. Really." They didn't believe you but they dropped the discussion anyhow.

The day went on with Tatum doing your nails and trying on half the clothes you brought over. You offered Sydney to join in but she declined. Later on you and Sydney talked about what books you had read which Tatum was not interested in at all. It was much harder keeping them two entertained than it was with Billy and Stu. There didn't seem to be much common ground between the girls. You slept much easier than the night previous. Maybe you were finally settling in.

"Wake up girls." Tatum's mom beat on the door making everyone but Tatum jump up. You groaned as Sydney went to wake up her friend. You pulled a pair of bell-bottoms from your bag along with an old band shirt. It wasn't what you'd normally wear to school but you didn't have the time nor energy to doll yourself up. "I like the grunge look on you." You felt partially offended by Tatum's compliment because there was nothing "grunge" about your look. The outfit consisted of jeans, a shirt, no makeup, paired with hair you hadn't had the chance to fix.

"You look comfortable." Sydney chirped meaning well. Their back handed compliments made you want to crawl in a hole. You sat down with the girls in the kitchen, quickly eating breakfast before Dewy came to take you to school. You offered to just get your car but Dewy refused saying he was fine to drive. The thought about skipping the day completely had crossed your mind multiple times.

The moment the car stopped at school you said goodbye to your friends. "I've got to go grab some things from my locker I'll catch you at lunch." You didn't give them time to protest. Unfortunately for you Stu was at your locker waiting patiently for your appearance. "Yo Betty Crock- Pants?" You weren't in the mood for either one of their antics. "You look lovely today." He said like a kid with a crush. Stu swayed back and forth on his heels waiting for you to acknowledge his existence. "Did I do something wrong?" You slammed your locker shut making him jump.

"I'll take that as a yes." You turned to walk away but it never did any good with Stu. "I can't fix this if you don't tell me what's wrong." You stopped, looking at him with tears stinging your eyes. "We can't do this Stu." You pulled him to the side out of everyone's way. "You and Billy are my friends." The emphasis on friends made his heart shrink a little. "I would hope so after everything-" He tried to crack a joke to make you laugh but he didn't realize you felt like the joke was on you. "Would you just listen!" You cut him off grabbing the attention of some bystanders. You waited a moment for people to pass by before speaking.

"This cannot happen. Me, you, and Billy, can no longer happen. No more hanging out at my place, no more ambushing me in public bathrooms," He smiled at that not being able to take a single thing seriously. "No more hanging around at my locker. Tatum and Sydney are sweet girls who don't deserve what we did to them. As long as they are in the picture I'm not going to be, understand?" The bottom line was you weren't a plaything and you weren't a homewrecker. Stu however took it the way he wanted to.

"I understand. I'm sorry if we overstepped." You were ready for him to get on one knee and embarrass you into forgiving him. This was a nice change. "Thank you Stu." He smiled. "Will you still hang with us at lunch?" Damnit. "No Stu, I won't. I've got to make new friends. Since day one all I've known is you and Billy. And now that I've gotten to know Sydney and Tatum, I realized I need my own thing." The bell rung ending the conversation prematurely. "See ya Stu."

"Shit, Shit, Shit," Stu repeated the word over and over like a small prayer. He walked the halls quickly finding Billy's first period class. Stu waved like a mad man trying to get his friend's attention through the window. "May I go to the bathroom?" Billy asked already getting up from his seat. "You may Mr. Loomis." The boy wasn't too happy with the sudden distraction. "This better be good." Billy started walking towards the bathroom with Stu in tow.

"Y/n is dropping us." Billy stopped in his tracks at the confession. Calmly he took a breath saving his anger for a secluded spot. He picked of his feet once again heading towards the restroom. Stu was terrified not only of losing you but also of his friends short fuse. The moment the bathroom door was locked he exploded. "What the fuck do you mean?" Billy cursed as he pushed open each stall checking for anyone. "She said it was wrong what we were doing to Tatum and Syd and as long as they were in the picture she wasn't going to be." Billy grabbed Stu's shirt by the collar. "This shit wouldn't have happened if you didn't call Sydney the other night."

He pushed his friend backwards letting Stu's back hit the wall. "How many times do I have to tell you I didn't do it man?" Billy didn't believe him. Stu was always doing something he shouldn't be. "We'll go back to our plan. Do everything exactly the same way just a little later than we hoped." Billy breathed out thinking of how to pull this off. "Syd's mom's anniversary was Saturday."

"You think I don't know that dipshit?" He pointed in Stu's face. Running his hands through his hair he tried to calm down. "Neil killed Casey and Steve on Wednesday night. That's when he told Syd he was leaving town." Stu just nodded along listening to Billy. "With all the publicity of the murders he wasn't able to kill anyone's else so he calls his daughter Friday night."

"How does he know she's with Tatum?" Billy paced back and forth. "Neil's been stalking her because she's his next victim. He sees Syd leave his house with Tatum. Anyway he scares the shit out of his daughter Friday night laying low till Monday. Ghostface will make a guest appearance today to meet Syd. Himbry will have to close shop because of the killer. You'll tell everyone you're throwing a party to celebrate the break. Invite Syd and Tatum since Y/n is such good friends with them now she'll have to go with them."

It was like watching a genius at work. Stu really believed Billy could pull it off. "Neil kills Himbry. They went to school together back in the day it could be old revenge. At the party I'll take care of Tatum first but you'll have to send her to the garage and make sure no one goes with her." Billy looked at Stu waiting for him to promise to do his job. "Yes Sir." Billy looked at his boots piecing together the rest of the puzzle. "Neil kills Tatum after that I show up to apologize for being a shitty boyfriend. I'll take Syd up to your room that's where you'll have to "kill" me. You'll grab Sydney and bring her to the kitchen. We'll reveal everything blow her daddy's brains out and then Syd is the cherry on top of a really fucked up cake."

It was a good plan in Stu's eyes. "Where does that leave Y/n?" Billy smiled "She's going to rescue us. Neil's dead and so is his daughter. We've been stabbed left for dead but poor Y/n comes along and calls the cops helping us live to see another day. All we have to do is hit her hard enough to keep her out for awhile. Which means before I show up late I'll need you to get her alone in a room. I'll show up dressed in black and knock her unconscious. You'll go back to the party and I'll show up fashionably late."

"I could kiss you." Stu said happily throwing out his arms. "Don't make me stab you early." Billy threatened. Stu's smile dropped. "Now I'm going back to class I'll see Syd later today just keep being your bubbly self. You got that?" Stu nodded happy everything was going to work out after all.

"It was just some sick fuck having a laugh." Tatum tried to convince Sydney. "She's right Syd I mean those assholes were running up and down the hallways with masks." Sydney shook her head at you sure of what she saw. "It was him. I know it." You walked down the steps right next to your friends. "From now on you are not to be alone. You pee, I pee." Tatum added. Stu ran up spouting some gibberish giving you and the girls a flower. "Darling, I don't know what you did Sydney but on behalf of the entire student body we say thank you!"

Tatum tapped her boyfriend with the flower. "Stop it Stu." She gritted trying to tone down his behavior. "You know I say," He picked Tatum up throwing her over his shoulder. The very cute display made you advert your eyes. You didn't know why you were upset this is exactly what you asked him to do. But it still somehow felt he was going out of his way to upset you.

"Impromptu party tonight, my house. To celebrate this little scare storm, what do ya say?" You and Sydney kept walking while Stu trailed behind. "Are you serious?" Sydney questioned the insane kid. "Parents are out of town." He smacked Tatum's ass causing her to sqeek with a laugh. "If this little vixen doesn't invite the whole world we'll be fine. Mix in with the gathering, mix in with friends." He sat Tatum down letting her talk to Sydney.

You watched Stu trying hard to convince Sydney to go. "What do you say Syd? I mean Pathos could have it's perks. Y/n's never been to one of Stu's parties." Tatum said dragging you into it. "I don't really have party clothes plus what if the killer is there?" You questioned. "I'll totally protect you. Yo I am so buff, I got you covered girl." Tatum laughed at her boyfriend. Sydney whined not liking the idea at all. "I mean come on Syd. For me? It could be fun." Stu proceeded to kiss Tatum's neck bringing back all too fresh memories. "Okay, whatever." Tatum squealed.

"Nice!" Stu said "Make sure you girls bring some food when you come over." Stu left you and your friends to go run off somewhere. "I think I'm just going to head home for tonight." Sydney piped up. "No way. If I'm going you have to go." You threw your head back with a groan. "I don't even have clothes for a party." Tatum spun around. "Now that I can help with."

You raised your hand in protest. "You're not dressing me up like a prostitute." Sydney smiled knowing exactly how Tatum would've dressed you. "You're no fun." Tatum teased as you walked back to Dewy's car. Sydney looked at the ground while you and Tatum discussed what you'd wear. Something wasn't sitting right with her but she wasn't sure what it was.

(if your name has a line through it Tumblr wouldn't let me tag you.)

Part 8

Taglist: @katie-tibo @agustdeeyaa @bowlofceral @gonnapermashift @tati-the-fangirl @kozumewhore @tatijoestar @illyanam1011 @c4rved-pumpk1n @msghostface @gojosbucket @sammanna @lokigirlszendaya @reneki @fetusharryluvr @kadu-5607 @pumpk1n-writes @lovekeeho @tojisblood @zeysartzone @bluedevilss @life-of-music3 @flyestvenustrap @littleblondesoprano @imobsessedreader @loomiscorpse @nicciekawegosblog @reneemunson @miss-puregotti @ksgsfsgaj @zoleea-exultant

[thoughtsfromlayla]

26 Ways of Taking You: I for Incubus

Summary: You suppose the deal technically went correctly, but when the incubus said he required your life force, you thought he meant... well your life.

Notes: ~2.9k words. I don't know what I wanted to do with this fic, all I know was that Dream would rock an autonomous tail.

Warnings/Tags: MDNI - 18+, Incubus!Dream x Reader, dubious consent ngl, demons do not care for condoms or sex safety, Dream has a tail and it does things, does this count as ritual sex, size difference, belly bulge, womb tattoo hehe, his wiener is weeeeeird, his tongue is weeeeeeird

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“Hoc carmine, dae…daemo—erm, daemonium somno accerso qui vocatis respondeat meis. Quis mihi det quod quaero. Quis mercedem suam accipiet pro suo servitio?” You read out, stuttering on a few pronunciations.

The circle of candles flickers creating shadows over your kneeling, naked form. You frown at the old parchment still, looking between it and the chalk-drawn symbol in the middle of your basement floor. You are sure the symbol was drawn correctly and the candles were placed just like the diagram. So then… Why isn’t anything happening?

Maybe you read it wrong. You squint at the parchment again and begin to chant once more. “Hoc carmine—”

The candles went out and you suck your lips in to suppress the scream that tried to burst out. Your sick mother’s room was just above the basement that you find yourself in and you didn’t want to cause a scene. 

“What do you want?” A voice calls out, slow and seductive in the shadows. 

You blink a few times, trying to will your eyes to get used to the sudden darkness in the room. The creature didn’t speak again, waiting impatiently for your request. It has been years since the last time he was summoned, and he was positively starving for some human flesh. 

“My mother, she’s sick,” you explain, your own voice echoing back to you in the tense atmosphere. 

“How drab, how boring,” it tsks with a click of his tongue. “You wish for me to make her well and ‘you’ll do anything, I promise’,” the creature says mockingly. 

You don’t respond for a moment, the demon you summoned summarizing the speech you had spent the last week practicing to a mere few words. “Yeah… that’s pretty much it.”

“Very well, what do you have to give in return for my service?” It asks you, still veiled in the darkness. “But know this, I am quite indifferent to your human, materialistic objects. Money will have no benefit to you tonight, little one.”

“Well, what do you want then?” You ask in a shaky breath. You can’t see him, but you can feel his eyes raking over your naked form. 

“Your life force seems good enough for me,” it hums in thought. “Young… vital… yes…”

Your life force for your mother’s health? That was an easy decision, but when faced with the uncertainty of death do you hesitate. You still had so much of your life ahead of you. Friends to meet, foods to try, hell you haven’t even found a romantic partner yet. But, your life isn’t the one that’s dying right now. 

“Okay,” you breathe out shakily. 

“Then the deal is set.”

The candles flicker back one by one until the shadow reveals itself to you within the circle. His legs are crossed, his arms resting on his knees. He is every bit as the paper described him: hair as dark as midnight, skin pale as death, sullen black eyes with the stars within them.

The parchment fails to mention, however, the thin tail that was swaying back and forth within the barriers of the summoning circle. Or the horns that protruded out of his head. The demon smiles at you, a haunting image full of sharp teeth and a darting, long tongue that licked his lips. 

“Release me from my confines and we can set the plan in motion,” he whispers in a low growl to you, moving to stand on his haunches. His figure seems to grow with the one subtle movement, towering over you as you swallow.

“I release you,” you command with a tremble in your voice. 

Nothing physical changes around you but the shift is noticeable anyway. The candles blow outward from him as if trying to escape their own wicks. The smell he emits permeates your nose, something like soot and flames and a tinge of death.

You blink and he lunges at you, pining you to the ground and an unexpected scream leaves your lips. It didn’t hurt, not much, except for the wooden floor digging into your shoulder blades, but you still screamed. 

“If you want it to be easy, do not scream. Your fear makes you all the more tempting,” he purrs into your neck and you turn your head away. 

Your body trembles under his gaze, eyes roaming around the basement space of your childhood home. They lock onto a random water stain as you try to distract yourself from your imminent death. The stain looks like Elton John, you thought to yourself before squeezing your eyes shut. 

You feel his breath over your skin and you’re begging he’ll do it mercifully, straight for the neck and then you wouldn’t feel the pain of your body being eaten by all of those sharp teeth. But it doesn’t come.

Your eyes snap open as you feel the undeniable slimy and wet sensation of his forked tongue on your neck. It stops just over your jugular, feeling the erratic pulse through the vein. Thick, fast, so full of life and he groans at the rhythmic thump against his tongue. 

His tail moves along your leg, feeling the soft skin beneath its silky scales. The ticklish sensation makes you squirm in its grasp, kicking your legs fruitlessly against it as it crawls higher on your thigh. The point of it settles between the sensitive heat before your legs and you let out a broken gasp.

Oh, my god. He’s not going to kill you. He’s going to fuck you senseless!

“I thought you were going to kill me,” you pant as his tongue licks the hollow divot above your collarbone. 

He hums as he tastes the adrenaline in your sweat. “One does not kill off the lamb for meat when it can still provide wool.” He pauses for a moment, pulling away from your neck to look at you. “You thought I was going to kill you?”

You look back at him, your eyes meeting the endless void that is his. “Well, yeah. You said ‘life force.’ That seems pretty… death-y to me.”

“Why are humans so dreary?” He asks himself before he remembers that he is here to feast on your body and returns his lips to your body. 

You don’t bother with a response, not when your back was arching at the way his lips trailed down the valley between your breasts. His lips hover over your left breast, feeling the blistering speed at which your heart pounded in your chest. 

The ever so subtle thrum of life makes his eyes flutter in satisfaction, the feeling of life something he has missed the feeling of. Your body was so warm against his cold one, he just couldn’t help sealing his lips across the nipple. 

“Holy…fuck,” you curse out at the sensitive sensation.

The fork in his tongue lavishes around the peak, it meets the sensitive bud and then spreads out again as his mouth continues to suckle on your breast. The moans he manages to elicit from you are quiet and restrained and he needs more from you. 

“This deal is two sided,” he begins, whispering in a gruff voice as he moves over to your other breast. “If you want your mother to become well again, I need you to start making more noise.” 

The tail that was obediently nestled between your legs begins to move higher, the blunt point of it finding your enlarged clit easily. You couldn’t help the moan that escapes your lip when it slides across the sensitive nerve, using your own arousal to its benefit. 

“Yes, just like that,” the demon praises as he hears your broken gasps and moans. His own groan vibrates against the smooth skin of your breast as he indulges himself against the thrum of your heartbeat again. 

Your hips buck involuntarily against his tail, the sensation something you craved. Then you would squirm away with a whimper on your tongue as the sensation grows too much, too quick. The longer the tail swirled around your weeping cunt, the harsher you began to clench around nothing. It gives a rewarding slap down on your clit, eliciting another wonderous moan from your throat. 

The demon has returned to your neck, rekindling his fascination with your neck and the vein it housed. He bites into the skin, watching with sick satisfaction as the blood trails down the muscles of your neck. Pleasure succumbs to pain and pain to pleasure once again as he soothes over the bites with his tongue. The saliva is cool against the wounds, stopping the bleeding all the same. His lips ghost across your neck, satiating his own greed and biting down again just to taste the iron. 

“Red looks good on you,” he hums, his arms entrapping themselves around you as your back arches off the ground again. 

With ease, he rests you on his squatting lap and the obvious hard arousal he sports lays heavy against your stomach. The demon looks around the basement before he eyes landed on an abandoned work bench. In two strides he makes it there and unceremoniously drops you onto the table. The tools clatter as you're dropped down and even with your body on an elevated platform, he still towers over you. 

You looked absolutely ravishing in his gaze. Wide eyed with lust blown pupils, the ragged breathing from your dried lips, and the dried blood that ribbons down your neck like a gift just for him to open. His hands go to your hips again, lifting them to meet his. 

In the dim light, you notice his cock, or should you even call it that if it was as ribbed and as thick as it was? He paints himself with your wetness, using your own arousal to coat himself as he pushes the blunt of his head against your entrance. His tail finds itself wrapped around your thigh again, tightening on itself like a python upon its prey. Your thigh pudges against the bondage and it's the only grounding thing against your overheating body. 

He gives an experimental push forward, groaning at the way your arousal squelches around him.

"Breathe," he tells you.

You let go of the breath you were holding, taking in a shaky breath and allowing your body to grow limp in his hold. At the next exhale, he smiles, a disturbingly haunting and arousing image, and he gives into you the first two inches. 

Your breath stills in your lungs again, head snapping to the wooden table beneath you and you can see the stars dancing across your eyelids. The stretch was foreign, intrusive almost, as he takes you slowly. You need to breathe. Fuck, how do you breathe? Your body racks as it takes in a shaky breath and he stills within you. 

“Scream my name,” he commands in a growl above you. 

“Daemonium somno,” you simply moan. Your eyes meet him again in a desperate attempt at connection. 

“No,” he scowls, pushing a little further into your cunt. “That is my title. Say my name, little one.”

“I—I don’t know it!” You pant out, stuttering your answer. The further he pushed, the more of your ability to think seems to vanish into thin air. You’re sure you saw the name in passing somewhere, in the old leather bound book from which you ripped the ritual parchment from.

The incubus holds your hips down to sustain your squirming. He lets out a satisfied groan as he sees himself full in you, the defining shape of his cock bulging from your stomach. You were so warm, it enveloped him like the life you represented. He takes his hips back, eyes never leaving his own cock impression as it descends. When he pushes back in and your body trembles beneath him, his fingers trace the outline of his cock. 

“Repeat after me, little one,” the demon commands. “Mor-phe-us.”

“Mor…” you gasp as his hand trails under your breasts again. “Mor-phe…” the words get caught in your throat. 

“Yes, just like that. One more try, one more,” he coos above you, rutting his hip against your cunt again. 

“Morpheus!” You cry out, head thrown back as he pulls out and pushes in again, slowly and inch by thick inch. 

“Again,” he instructs. His cock warms itself in you, the coldness slowly ebbing away as it nests in there. Each pulse from your cunt conforms itself towards the shape that is so uniquely him. 

“Morpheus!” You scream again, your nails finding purchase against his arms and he hisses in pleasure as you draw black blood from his skin. 

Your back is arched like a taut bow, your thighs trembling as he lifts a leg above his hip, only to drive himself deeper into you. Only to satiate his own ego as he sees your belly bulge with himself. Your moans are nothing but a discordant symphony in his ears; so chaotic yet pleasing as he inserts himself over and over again. 

Morpheus’ tail unravels itself, wanting a taste of something other than the skin around your thigh. There is a wrapping imprint on your skin, something that will take months to heal and remind you of the incubus Morpheus for days to come. It teases the sensitive peak of your breasts, ghosting over your breasts, wrapping itself around the mound and squeezing tightly to massage them. 

“Oh god!” You jolt at the sensation. 

“There are no gods here.” Morpheus condemns your outburst with a particularly hard thrust, bruising your cervix and you cry out for him again. 

Morpheus continues you fuck you, his hands bringing your hips to meet his thrusts, spurred on by the sound of your babbling nonsense. Occasionally his name would fall from his lips amongst the pleas of ‘too much,’ or ‘so good,’ that he doesn’t really know or care if you want to stop. 

Each drag of Morpheus’ cock has you reeling in pleasure and the promise of the most earth shattering orgasm is just on the horizon of your grasp. You’re simply begging now—please, please, please, please!—the words barely heard above the erotic sound of slick squelching and the creek of the tool bench beneath you. 

His tail slithers away, and Morpheus smirks as you whimper at the lost sensation. Your whimper turns into another moan as it finds itself against your clit again, rubbing it in fast circles in sync with Morpheus’ thrusts. 

“Oh, fuck. I’m going to… going to…” you try to warn but it just comes out as a stuttering mess, again. 

“Come for me. Give me your vitality.” Morpheus’ voice penetrates the sex-numbing haze that your mind was in. 

Your walls clench around him like a vice, your orgasm taking over your entire body as it shakes each one of your muscles. Your mouth is gaping open as it tries to take in as much air as possible, your chest heaving with breath. The moment shakes you through your core, igniting your nerves with life at the sudden release. 

Morpheus spills himself into you and you groan at the sensation of his cold seed taking residence inside of your cunt. His hips stutter, indulgently giving away to a few more pumps just to feel your walls spasm around him as his cock pumps within you. 

“That was…” you swallow, resting your head on the table again and closing your eyes. You take a deep breath, feeling your heart start to slow down as Morpheus softens and pulls out of your now weeping cunt. A few large drops of your mixed orgasmic releases fall to the basement floor and you grimace at the thought of cleaning it.  “Do you do other deals? Like… what if I want a million dollars right now or something?”

“One deal per summon as per the old laws I’m afraid, little one,” Morpheus chuckles, the sound coming from deep in his chest. “But…”

A warm sensation spreads across your lower stomach and you prop yourself up on shaking arms to look. Morpheus’ nail draws an intricate rune on your lower stomach, just over where your womb is. The nail cuts at your skin, and you see the blood dewing on your skin but no pain follows. It glows for a moment before dying down into simple black ink. 

“If you wish to make another deal, this binds you to me. It will only be me that will come to answer your prayers,” he promises but it almost sounds like a threat with the way his tongue licks across his lips. “Your vitality is addictive on my body, little one.”

“And what about my side of the deal? My mother?” You ask.

As if on cue, you hear your mother calling your name in the kitchen above. She wasn’t even able to get out of bed a few moments ago, but the way the pots and pans were banging against each other was telling enough that Morpheus held up to his end of the bargain. 

“Thank you,” you sigh out with relief. 

“I will see you soon, little one.” One blink and he was gone already. 

The summoning circle has been erased from the floor and the candles look like they were never burned. But the tattoo over your womb remained, so did the bruises of his bites and tail that wrapped around you. They were the only signs that anything happened at all. 

“Are you going to come up here and help me or do I have to do everything by myself?” Your mother shouts at you. 

“Coming!” You reply back after another deep breath. 

Now, where did you put your clothes?

Having fun times in the basement sounds like tetanus waiting to happen.

So that's your lesson, get your tetanus shot before you go summoning demons. Be safe out there.

♡ Yours, Layla

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[bobby-r2d2-floyd]

The Nanny (Hangman x Reader)

authors note: so, hangman won by a long shot in the poll, but for the few that voted for the rest, they're still coming! i have to deal with the bs with my basement and i am a college student, so i have to deal with my coursework as well.

inspired by @roosterforme

this will be a mutli part series, im not sure how many parts though

pairing: jake "hangman" seresin x benjamin niece!reader; established mav x penny

warnings: some swear words and an inaccurate depiction of how social workers handle dropping a baby off to its living, absent father. also cyclone is a dad bc jon hamm if a dilf.

not proof or beta read, we die like men.

summary: Hangman wakes up one day to a social worker and an infant on his doorstep. the infant? his 3 month old daughter.

word count: 1.9k

-----------

It was the one day that the Dagger squad had a later morning (11am, per Maverick’s request), so when the pounding on Jake’s door woke him up at 8:45, he was a little pissed.

He stumbled out of bed and the arms of some red head whose name he definitely doesn’t remember, throwing on a shirt along the way to his front door where the pounding is originating from and reverberating through his skull. “I heard you the first fucking time,” he curses out, throwing the door open and preparing to unleash verbal hell on the person standing at his doorstep.

All the words die out though when he sees an older woman standing there with a sleeping baby in a car seat at her feet. “Jacob Seresin?” she asks and his eyes bounce between the infant and the woman.

“Yes?” he asks, voice cracking a bit as he looks back to the woman.

“Do you mind if I come in?” he nods and moves aside as she picks up the car seat and steps inside. “My name is Caroline Husband, I’m a social worker for the state of California.” she tells him as she sets the seat down on his coffee table, “and this is Avery. Your daughter.” 

Jake feels his heart stop as he looks down at the little girl, “what, what do you mean?” he sinks down to the floor on his knees, heart racing and Caroline gives him a small smile.

“Her mother-” she looks down at the paperwork she was holding, “Samantha Barnes, passed away from complications shortly after birth, you were listed as father on the birth certificate.” 

Samantha Barnes… Jake remembered her with a small smile. They were briefly exclusive before she had disappeared one night, leaving behind the memories and a note saying she needed to go back home to help with her ailing father, her last living relative that she still spoke to.

“H-how uh, how old is she?” he asks, taking her small, but definitely bigger than a newborn, hand in between his finger and thumb.

“She spent some time with a foster while the state was waiting for you to return stateside. She just turned 3 months old.” Caroline forms him, which makes sense as he was just in the middle of the ocean for the last five months. “I have some supplies in my car that her foster mom put together for you, should you choose to keep her.” 

“Choose to?” he asks, as if there was any other option for him. The second he found out Avery was his, there was never any other option.

“You can alway sign your parental rights away, there’s plenty of families looking to adopt babies.” she says and he shakes his head.

“No, she stays with me,” Jake says as he stands and Caroline smiles up at him.

“Well then, there’s all the information that you need. Her old foster mom made a list of information for you, her pediatrician, what formula she was feeding, how to prepare bottles...” she goes on to tell him more necessary information about Avery but tunes her out as he watches the little girl start to wake up and look around, well, as much as a 3 month old can, he supposed. “Here’s my card, it has my personal cell phone number on the back should you not be able to reach me at my office in the event of an emergency.” 

He takes it with a smile and a thank you before walking Caroline to the door to help her bring the items in from her car and as quickly as she was here, she was gone. Leaving Jake to sit on his couch as he stares into the eyes of his daughter. 

He kicks out his guest after 15 minutes of sitting there before he’s googling how to put a car seat base securely into the back seat of a F-150. After fighting for what felt like an hour (only 10 minutes) he has his daughter secured in his car before driving way under the speed limit to The Hard Deck, only 45 minutes late to meeting up with the rest of the Daggers but as soon as they see him walk into the bar with a car seat, all the teasing for being late blows out of there mind. 

“Do we need to call the police?” Bradley teases and Jake lets out a nervous laugh.

“No.. no police needed.” Jake says as he sets his daughter’s car seat and diaper bag in the middle of the pool table the team was surrounding.

“Well, then who is this?” 

Jake takes a deep breath before answering, “this is my daughter, Avery Seresin.”

Immediately the team has plenty of questions for the team’s resident playboy. He explains the situation as best he can with the information he got from Caroline.

“I never even knew Sam was pregnant. She never said anything and then she was gone.” Jake says softly as he looks down as his daughter in his arms, sleepily drinking from the bottle he made and Penny gives him a smile.

“You seem like a natural already.” she says, snapping a photo of the daddy-daughter moment and he smiles.

“Yeah, I was still around when my sisters started having their own kids, all girls too, ironically.” he responds with a small laugh and the movement of his chest startled Avery awake and she starts drinking more steadily again.

The squad takes the rest of the day before the bar opens with turns holding the newest member of the team. Aside from Jake, Bob and Natasha were the only other two who seemed comfortable enough to hold her without needing any instruction on support for her head. 

“Does Cyclone know you have a kid yet?” Mav asks as he takes his turn holding Avery, seasoned from when Bradley was a baby and he used to watch him while Carole and Goose needed alone time. 

“Fuck, no not yet.” Jake groans as he rubs his hands over his face. “I need to go see him.”

“Go see him now, between Penny being a mom and me dealing with Bradley as a baby there’s plenty of experience here to watch Avery for a bit while you try to get some time to adjust to dad-life.” Mav says and Jake looks over at him.

“You’re serious?” 

“Yeah, besides, Avery is already better at 3 months than Rooster ever was.” Mav teases and Bradley makes a couple of offended noises before being slapped in the chest by Natasha. 

Jake nods, “okay well here’s her-”

“Hangman, get out of here. I did all this with Amelia.” Penny says as she pushes him towards the door and Jake pulls her into a hug.

“Thank you so much, Pen.” he says, meaning it too since Penny is the closest thing to a mom that he has since he hasn’t talked to his real mom in years. 

The drive into base wasn’t a long one, but felt like it was with how often he was checking his backseat and not seeing his daughter before remembering she was safe with Penny and Maverick at the bar. 

Walking into Admiral Simpson’s office, Jake broke out into a nervous sweat. “Um, excuse me, sir.” he says as he knocks on the open door.

Both Admiral Simpson and Admiral Bates looked up at him from where they were sitting at the desk discussing some news that they received from higher ups. 

“Can I help you, Lieutenant?” Cyclone asks and Jake nods, taking that as an ‘okay’ to walk into the office.

“Yes actually, I uh.. I was wondering if I would be able to get leave, sir. I had a surprise visit from a social worker this morning and-and my infant daughter.” he says as he straightens out his back and rolls his shoulders back.

“You have a child?” Cyclone asks, closing the folder that he had open to focus more on Jake. “Since when?” 

“Well, as of 9am this morning, sir. Her mother passed away after she was born and no other living relatives so… She’s currently with me. Well, not with me Captain Mitchell and Penny Benjamin are currently watching her.. sir.” 

Warlock and Cyclone share a look and Jake stands there nervously, “I know that this is short notices but all I’m asking for is a week to figure things out, find a sitter, get some kind of a routine started for-”

“Okay.” Cyclone says and Jake looks at him instead of the spot that he had been looking at on the wall. “You only want just one week?”

“I can have more, sir?” Cyclone nods, having recently become a father himself and knows how important bonding is for parents. 

“Unless something urgent comes, how does three weeks sound?” he asks as he pulls something up on his computer and begins to type.

“I would greatly appreciate that.” Jake says with a small smile and Cyclone nods, ending the conversation and Jake starts to walk out of the office.

“Seresin?” Warlock calls out and Jake turns around, “congratulations.”

“Thank you, sirs.” 

Jake drives back to the bar already feeling lighter than he had in the last 6 hours, and upon walking back into the watering hole, he sees a red faced Avery and a panicked Rooster.

“Bradshaw what did you do to my daughter?” 

“What did I do? She threw up on me!” he says, holding the infant safely, and at an arm's length away. 

The rest of the team is laughing behind him and Jake just takes Avery and lays her against him so her head is on his shoulder, “well I’m sure you deserved it.” 

Bradley glares at him before wandering away to the bathroom to clean up. Jake smiles and rubs his daughters back as she babbles in his ear.

“How did talking to the boss go?” Penny asks and Jake smiles.

“Really good, actually. Said I can have three weeks as long as nothing urgent comes up that’ll need the full team's attention.” 

“Well, if you ever need a nanny so you can have a break and none of us are available, my niece just moved to the area and is looking for work.” Penny says with a small smile as Jake moves to sit next to her. “Plus she has a degree in early childhood and special education.” 

“Okay, yeah I’ll let you know.” he says with a nod.

“Well, you can meet her tonight, she’s supposed to come and help me out here for the night since Jimmy can’t make it in.” Jake just nods and Penny pats his shoulder that Avery isn’t sleeping on while she stands to start opening duties for the bar. 

Jake didn’t end up meeting Penny’s niece that night, or any time in the following week. In fact, it wasn’t until the last week of his leave that he met her. 

Jake was holding Avery as he walked into the bar before it opened, she was babbling up a storm and he took his sunglasses off to put on the top of his head when he saw someone new behind the bar, head thrown back and laughing at something that Bob had said. 

You look over at him and he swears his heart stopped, “Hi! I’m Y/N Benjamin, but you can call me Saturn.”

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next part

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@mandylove1000

[jungk0oksthighs]

Pi Gasu | When Two Become One

Pairing - jungkook x reader

Genre - smut, angst, E2L, vampire!jungkook

Word Count - 8k

Jungkook has been keeping you close upon the revelation about the Pi Gasu curse. Warnings: swearing, mentions of death, terminal illness, unintentional violence / injury description, explicit sexual content, painful sex, biting, heavy angst

SERIES MASTERLIST

Being cursed for death doesn’t seem too far afield from what’s written for everybody in this world. People breathe, sleep, eat, breed and eventually they wither and die. Of course there are vices that consume humanity between its beginning and end. Drugs, alcohol, lying, cheating, stealing, fucking everything with a pulse in a three hundred mile radius. And that’s only to name a few.

Death is inevitable for every living, breathing thing. One way or another life ends. No matter how beautifully written the book, or in spite of the end being premature, or even how peaceful the final chapter may be. That’s exactly what it is – a finale. Everything else is irrelevant in that moment. The sins, the celebrations, all the regrets and false promises truly mean nothing when it’s time to close the book.

We’re all born to die.

But to die before you’ve really lived? It’s pitiful. You don’t have a vice, there’s no morally grey area that intrigues you. Well maybe there is one. It’s tall, dark and sinisterly handsome with a knack for taking your breath away whenever it speaks in romance riddles. Whenever it embraces you you’re left wordless, and on the rare occasion it’s lips have moulded against yours it’s enough to consume every fibre of your being.

Unfortunately for you, it’s the same vice you’ve been staying with for almost three weeks now.

The curse of the Pi Gasu has plagued your thoughts ever since Jungkook told you about it. How you and your twin brother Eddie are cursed. How your biological father was a vampire. How Eddie’s terminal illness is nothing more than a transition into immortality. And how his transition will only be completed the moment you die. So it’s all real, the scary monsters and spooky tales. The vampires, werewolves and demons. The witchcraft, the potions and curses. It’s been a rough couple of weeks for you hiding out in Jungkook’s house that’s for damn sure.

Which leaves the question: why are you hiding out in his house?

It was something the monster in question deemed necessary, now that he knows the truth of your linage he wants to protect you from vampires. As Eddie’s transition painfully drags itself to almost completion, your scent has only grown all the more enticing to the undead.

The Pi Gasu curse births a born predator, a powerful vampire, and when the DNA splits itself in the womb the other twin, the human twin, is cursed for a short-lived life plagued with the unwanted art of seduction. Everything about you mesmerises a vampire, securing your death and completing Eddie’s transition into eternal darkness. Restoring the balance in the world, one death for immortal life.

It’s been unbearable for both you and Jungkook to be around each other as your scent flourishes, drowning him, so much so that you’re staying in a small spare bedroom on the highest floor away from his choice of bedroom – the basement.

It's decorated nicely, the bedroom you’re staying in, as is the rest of his home. Plain and simple, added touch of personality. Almost like he saw the room in a catalogue and thought; 'that's what humans live like, I'll copy it.'

You’ve been in the basement many times, hell he’s nearly taken you to heaven and back again within those walls on multiple occasions when you used to fool around together. But it’s out of bounds right now, for no reason other than your safety. You know that he’s insisting you stay here for your own good, to stay alive, because he’s told you that he needs more time. More time to find a cure for the Pi Gasu curse, but so far his efforts have been futile.

Of course there was the spark of hope that perhaps if you turned into a vampire, Eddie would be saved and you could avoid being buried deep in the earth or being scattered in the sky. However, after much researching Jungkook and his for lack of better word friends Taehyung, Seokjin, Jimin and Namjoon all found no evidence to support the theory.

Apparently Jungkook isn’t willing to risk it regardless, he shut you down very quickly when you asked him to turn you. And not just because it’s illegal, but because he doesn’t want that life for you. He’s determined to find another way. And as you’re currently cooped up in his home asking any of the other vampires you know through association to turn you is somewhat impossible.

“Maybe I should just ask him to get this over with and kill me already.” You whisper at your reflection in the mirror, brushing out your wet freshly-showered hair.

That’s the inevitable, right? You’re going to die anyway so what’s the use in prolonging it? Eddie will be saved, Jungkook won’t have to fear that you’ve been found and killed by a vampire every damn day. It’s been a few days since you’ve even seen Jungkook’s face, usually he knocks on the bedroom door to let you know there’s food waiting for you before disappearing into the basement. It must be becoming a chore for him to take care of you like this, as much as it’s becoming a chore for you to stay put and wait for a miracle. You’re bored, broken and ready to face reality.

You were born to die.

Slowly, you push the bedroom door open, contrasting against the quickening of your beating heart. You’ve given him time and he’s found no cure. You’re ready to embrace death if it means your brother can be saved.

Skin still damp from the hot shower you cling onto the small towel that barely covers your modesty, making your way downstairs in his eerily homely home. It’s warm, as it has been throughout your stay here. Usually he would never feel the need to turn on the heating, but with a human under his roof he’s grown considerate of your comfort. Jungkook’s basically doing what he can to keep you alive, all while staying well out of your way and in turn not killing you himself.

Before you even have chance to call out his name in the open living area, he’s resting against the doorway in front of you – like he sensed you coming. Water beads trickle down your exposed skin when you stand completely still, frozen, staring at the vampire who’s hellbent on protecting your soul.

Jungkook swallows, wetting his lips all while his eyes slide over your body and drink in what you’re wearing. Well, what you’re not wearing. Unlike you he’s fully clothed, a shimmering red bomber jacket thrown over a zebra print sheer shirt that hangs just over his black belt. All tied together with ripped black jeans and bare feet. His disregard for colour palettes or themes when it comes to fashion choices never fails to amuse you. No human would ever dress like that.

“Did you need something?” His voice is flat, unreadable, much like the expression blanketing his sharp profile that’s only softened by the wavy locks of raven hair tickling his thick brows, “Are you out of clean clothes?”

“No… I just-, I just wanted to see you I guess.” You sigh absentmindedly, shaking some excess water from your hair, “It’s pretty lonely up there.”

The look on Jungkook’s face is nothing short of pained when his eyes squeeze shut, he looks almost guilty before he pinches the bridge of his nose, “Y/N… I’m sorry. But it’s for your own safety.”

“You’ve never hurt me before.” You mumble, averting his gaze.

And he hasn’t. Initially when you first met Jungkook all those months ago you were terrified of him and the prospect of what he could do to you. He’s strong, a lot stronger than a regular bitten vampire, he’s a Pi Gasu vampire, much like your brother he was born for this life. It’s in his veins and always has been. Even before his twin sister died and secured his place in the immortal world, the monster he became lingered beneath the surface. Waiting. Begging to be freed.

But then you got to know Jungkook on a personal level, and he would do anything to keep you safe. The fact you’re standing in his house proves the fact on some level, despite having no soul, he does care about you. There have been moments together, heated moments, moments that will last an eternity in his mind, where he could’ve succumb to his inner demon and blood lust. But he didn't.

Jungkook’s features soften upon meeting your eyes, his doe-like eyes may be crimson red in colour but they’re swimming with emotion, enough to make you drown in them, “Truthfully I don’t know what’s worse,” He frowns, pierced lips parted, “Staying away from you makes me crave you more, but being near you…”

“Makes you want to kill me.” You clear your throat, somewhat overwhelmed by his presence.

A while ago he’d asked you if you believe in fate, soulmates, convinced that you and he were tied by the beauty of the moon. But as you watch the man in front of you physically struggle to breathe around you, you’re reminded that it’s nothing more than the curse of the Pi Gasu.

The corners of his lips quirk up into a soft smile, “It’s not the curse.” His voice is low, it’s still equal parts infuriating and endearing that he can read your thoughts and you’ll never get used to it. “You’re… It’s…. It’s more than that. If I were only interested in you because of the curse you would’ve been dead a long time ago. The curse complicates things, but, well…”

“Maybe it’d be better for everyone if I just died already and got this over with.” You chuckle, while you’re trying to ease the budding tension with a joke at your own expense it’s obvious Jungkook doesn’t see the funny side. His frown deepens, a small hum escaping him.

“Is that how you really feel?”

“I’m just saying…” You sigh, squeezing the towel wrapping your body a little tighter, “Eddie will transition into a vampire, he won’t be in pain anymore… And you won’t have to waste time searching for a miracle. You can go back to your normal life before we met—”

“My time will never be wasted when spent on you.” He takes a step forward, surprising you, his jaw clenched so tight you wonder if vampire bones are capable of shattering, “If it takes me forever to find a cure then so be it, I’m not prepared to let you die.”

You try to reason with him, shuffling a cautious step in his direction, “I don’t want my brother to be in pain anymore, if dying is the only way—”

“I’m not going to let that happen!” The projection of his voice startles you, but not as much as the loud bang followed by bricks crumbling around his feet after he punches the door frame does. You stare at him wide-eyed and frightened, unable to peer away from the way his chest heaves up and down with each angry breath. “I need more time… I’ll find a way.”

At this you lose it, laughing humourlessly before you match his volume and rage, “There isn’t another way Jungkook! You’ve tried!” You rush over to him, until you’re in arms-length distance and being mindful not to step in the aftermath of his temper, “I can’t live like this anymore, knowing that it’s hurting my brother… I just-, I want this to be over with. I’m ready.” You sigh, eyes fluttering shut. It’s such a relief to say that out loud.

Jungkook swallows, dark eyes zoned in on your face, “Well I’m not ready to lose you Y/N.”

“It has to be this way, to save my brother.”

“I'm not letting you go, not yet. You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you,” He begins, trembling tattooed hands gently finding purchase on your bare shoulders, “You’re the poem the universe wrote only for me.”

A tiny gasp betrays you when his inked fingers find your chin, tilting your face up to meet his. It’s indescribable how beautiful the man is standing before you, even in his human life he must’ve been the most handsome person around. His eyes are dark in colour, framed by even darker delicate lashes. The pits of your stomach ignite with desire, along with an uncontrollable need to be closer to him. A pull so inhumane and sewn deep into your soul that you struggle to compare it to anything you’ve ever experienced. It's Jungkook’s breath warm against your lips that breaks you from the trance, gazing up at him with big eyes.

“I know you feel this too… This comfort, this desire…” He whispers, until his lips are a hair away from yours, his own eyes sliding shut, “The ache in your heart, is my promise to you that this is more than the curse. You belong with me.”

“Then change me.” You plead quietly, cupping his angled jaw with your hands, “There’s no way to beat the curse, if it’s death that completes his transition… Technically I’ll be dead. Change me.”

“There’s no guarantee it’ll save you brother, there’s no guarantee you’ll even survive it… There’s no evidence of a Pi Gasu twin being turned. It’s too risky. Your life isn’t something I’m willing to take chances on.”

You sigh again, pressing your forehead to his, “Please, Jungkook.”

“You may have nothing to lose, but if we do this I’ll lose everything.” His whisper comes with his arms snaking round your back, pressing your body to his own. “If you die—”

“We don’t know that I won’t survive it,” You hold his face tighter, silently begging him to grant this wish for you, “I can’t tolerate the thought of my life causing my brother pain anymore. Please, for me, please. It will work—”

“Do you realise what you’re asking of me?” He bites, and for a split second you swear you see his chin quiver. “I could never forgive myself if it didn’t work, if you died before I had the chance to really be with you.”

His admission sends a rush of guilt over you, you are asking a lot of him but there is no other way. He’s searched, his friends have searched, and no cure has been found. If you’re going to die regardless, at least it won’t be in vain.

“Then be with me.” You whisper, “Take me, however you want me, have me.” You kiss his cheek, not missing the way his hold of you grows stronger.

“It’s too dangerous.” His face his scrunched tightly, as though he’s having a difficult time being so close to you. Where his skin is usually ice cold his cheeks feel flushes beneath your palms, “If I lose control, even for a second…”

“You won’t.” You hush his concerns, thumbs tracing back and forth on his skin in an attempt to comfort him, “And if you do… You could change me. This will work, I promise.”

"What if it doesn't?" He whispers back.

"But what if it does?"

Large palms make their way up your back until they find purchase in your damp hair, and at that exact moment nothing else in the world matters. It’s both a blessing and a curse to feel for each other so deeply, so unwaveringly, that when his lips find yours you simultaneously feel broken and complete all at once. When he kisses you you’re left breathless, haphazardly grabbing at his body to get impossibly closer to him, something he reciprocates wordlessly.

Jungkook’s hands are all over your frame, his lips crushing yours hard enough to bruise, with such urgency it makes your head spin. It doesn’t take you long to slide his jacket from his broad shoulders, messily clawing down his back when his tongue elegantly glides into your mouth and dances with your own. You stand there for some time, embracing each other, kissing as though it’s the last time, choking on the thick sea of words neither of you are too brave to speak.

It's then that you’re being whisked downstairs faster than you can humanly process. Your back hits the mattress on the large bed centred in the basement, Jungkook’s body atop of your own and strong arms caging you in. His lips never leaving yours, kissing you with so much yearning and lust that it’s enough to make you feel as though you’re the only two people in the world. When your arms reach out to his shirt buttons the towel you’re wearing falls open, revealing your entirely naked body underneath him.

The scent of your exposed flesh must’ve been like heat from a foreign country smacking Jungkook straight in the face when stepping off a plane. He pulls back ever so slightly, calming himself, steadying his breathing while burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“I want you to know…” He exhales, voice thickened by bloodlust and greed, “That whatever happens, if this doesn’t work… In my own way, in my own morbid, sinister and selfish way. Not once in my centuries of existing have I ever felt this way about anyone.”

“Jungkook…” You whimper beneath him, ridding him of his thin shirt. You'd almost forgotten about the countless tattoos decorating his physique. The dark sleeves, the intricate artwork littering his entire body. The muscles on his body. He really is breath taking.

“To know you is to love you Y/N.”

Wet kisses smother your neck, filled with emotion and truths untold that have you sighing in bliss. He’s omnipresent, you can feel him in every inch of your body, his voice haunting your thoughts and his touch burning your flesh. His tongue glides over a sensitive spot on your neck and that’s when you feel his fangs, sharp and threatening, scratching the spot through the kisses. Jungkook’s movements grow more frantic, his mouth lapping up your taste before he hisses against you, shaking his head of the intrusive thoughts.

“It’s okay…” You whisper, “It’s okay… You won’t hurt me, I trust you.”

You feel his small smile against you, “A foolish mistake on your part.”

With your earlobe pinched between his teeth he rests his weight on one arm, snaking the other down to cup your breast. When his thumb grazes your nipple you both groan, overwhelmed by lust. Every nerve in your body is aflame, singing a song written for only Jungkook to hear. When his hand travels further down your bare body, until his fingers toy with your folds you lose all sense of who you are.

“Please,” You beg shamelessly, “Please touch me.”

“Once I start I won’t be able to stop Y/N,” Where his whispered warning should bring you to your senses, it does nothing save for fuel the burning desire in your body, “Being… Intimate with a vampire, it’s-, it’s not going to be like it is in the movies. It’s rough, it’s painful and it will hurt. Are you sure you want this?”

“I’m sure,” You nod along a little too eagerly, ready to be thrown into the volcano. “Come here…” You gently grip his head and tug his neck to your lips, peppering the clammy skin with lewd kisses, “Can I-, um…”

For the first time in a while you hear him chuckle, his white smile so boyish and bright you almost miss the threat of his predatory fangs completely, “You can. Don’t hold back, get a good amount of blood in case this ends badly. Bite me like your life depends on it.”

Because it does.

With a lot of effort your teeth sink into his flesh and the familiar taste of iron coats your tongue. It’s not pleasurable, not for a human, to taste blood. But the moment is intimate, like you’re tasting the forbidden fruit you’ve been told to avoid your whole life. You’ve tasted his blood before when you fooled around, mostly because he didn’t want to hurt you and knew a drop of his blood would help repair any injuries sustained. But this time it's different, this really may be your last night with him if things turn sour.

Soon your biting turns to kisses and Jungkook lowers his lips to the shell of your ear, his voice raspy yet serious, “Are you sure about this?”

“Positive.” You murmur against his skin, jaw falling slack with a gasp upon the sensation of his nimble fingers drawing firm circles over your sensitive area.

It’s euphoric, the feeling of coming undone beneath a monster you’ve lusted for since the moment you met him. Your body caged under his, his muscles sheltering you from the outside world. Like a rose guarded by it’s thorns, two halves a whole, neither one existing without the other. And as his ministrations grow more deliberate, dipping into where you crave him most, the rose begins to shed it’s petals. Layers of doubt, fear, uncertainty, falling onto the bedsheets with your discarded towel. Walls crumbling, only leaving the part of your soul that yearns for more. Your body language is something he is fluent in, understanding completely what you want and how to give it to you.

As you watch him slither down the sheets, until his face is buried into the plump flesh of your thigh, you feel like you’re falling. But he doesn’t let you touch the ground, catching you, he takes a deep breath through flared nostrils to steady himself before heavy eyes flicker to your face. Perhaps the most sinful feature of human nature is to give what we most wish to receive, and in this moment the only thing clouding the limited space between your bodies is the mutual need for intimacy.

To be loved.

Jungkook’s losing his mind, every ounce of self-restraint slowly dissipating into the carnal desire to claim you. To make you his in every sense of the word, until your minds, bodies and souls are eternally intertwined. His bare chest rises and falls in rhythm with your pounding heart, the scent of you flooding every sense he possess. Subconsciously his jaw tightens upon seeing your wet pussy shimmer in the dim lighting of the basement. The monster inside him has never been so painfully close to the surface in your presence, it’s a battle he knows he’ll ultimately lose and the neediness smothering your pretty features is far from helping the situation.

Open-mouthed kisses guide him to your swollen clit, where he takes it between his lips and begins to lap it up with a flattened tongue, sucking and licking until you’re writhing on the bed in equal parts shock and desperation.

“Fuck… Jung-, hnnng.” You moan breathlessly, feeling akin to being on cloud fucking nine, body tingling in every way imaginable. His licking grows heavier, more determined and erratic, barely giving you time to even out your unsteady breaths, “Shit, Jungkook.” You mewl, pushing your hips up to meet his greedy mouth.

His muscular arms sling themselves under your thighs, a bruising grip on your hips when he drags you closer to his face, the bend of his nose now flat against your core. You're no match for the shapes he's creating with his tongue. you don't stand a change against the harsh sucks and groans he's delivering. It’s as if he’s enjoying this equally as much as you, thick brows pinched in concentration while the hold he has on your bones turns painful. Hearing you cry out from the combination of pain and pleasure only spurs him on more, smothering himself between your legs where he eats you out so ravenously your legs twitch and tremble either side of his face.

“Jungk-, ohhh…” Your eyes glide back into your skull, hands roughly and quickly finding their way into the depths of his raven hair. With urgency you push his bangs away from his face to get a better view of the unholy display unfolding before your very eyes.

The dark veins framing his hooded gaze should deter you, turn you off, make you scream for an entirely different reason. But they don’t. In spite the noticeable bruising around his eye sockets, drawing attention to the beast inside him, you’ve never wanted him more.

It’s when he looks up at you that you realise exactly what he was referring to earlier. Despite having consumed his blood the strength he’s grabbing your body with hurts. You’re frowning, lips ajar to allow your shallow breaths and quiet whimpers escape freely. The pain is soon forgotten about when Jungkook hisses against you, sucking in a sharp breath before diving right back in, visibly losing control.

We don’t fall in love with the pure intentions in people, we fall in love with the darkness we recognise in others. From the moment your eyes met his, you knew there was something inside his demonic stare that felt like home. It’s all overwhelming, contradicting, confusing, but boy is it addicting.

It’s a stab to the heart and being brought back to life in the same moment, knowing it hurts but unable to pinpoint where. Just knowing you want more of it, until you’re gasping for air and drowning in the sea of possibilities. Further proving that if it doesn’t hurt, ache and bleed, it’s not love; and the way he holds your body strong enough to break it has you finally making sense of the term ‘to love someone to death’.

“Jungkook… I’m-,” You pant, tugging and pulling his hair, “I’m close. Please…” Your body shakes and jolts with ecstasy, the fire in your stomach never burning hotter. The pornographic sounds of him savouring every drop of arousal you’re giving him floods your ears, fogs your mind and throws you head first over the edge.

“Fuck! I’m coming! I’m coming! Don’t stop!”” You gasp, back arching from the sheets, hands flying to your scalp to helplessly tug your hair.

Your frame is punched with the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had, pulsating with pleasure that comes in white-hot waves. Had Jungkook been human the way you’re pressing your thighs together from the overstimulation would have his eyes pop out his skull. Instead his face stays there, stare hungrily dragging itself up and down the spans of your sweaty body. His movements slow into an eventual nothing, aiding you ride out your high, until he’s suddenly above you, crashing his face to yours in a bloodthirsty kiss.

“Take more,” He orders, craning his neck to give you easier access to where you bit him previously, “I’m-, have more. Please. I’m not gonna be able to hold back much longer, I don’t want to hurt you.” The genuine pain weaved into his words sparks a panic inside you, this is him holding back? You think about how tightly he held you, how your bones almost crumbled beneath his fingertips. So you do as he says, biting him again until a soft moan emits from his pierced lips and catches you off guard.

“If this is too much for you…” You say quietly, guilt eroding your insides, “We don’t-, I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this for me. If you’re not having a good time—”

You’re cut short by the sound of Jungkook’s breathy laughter, sounding disbelieved. He meets your eye contact with a smirk, still panting for air, “How can I put this to you?” He’s laughing, wetting his lips between smiles, “To call what we’ve just done ‘a good time’ is a fucking insult. I’ve never felt seduction like this, I want to have you, to take you, to consume you in every way imaginable until you’re mine.” There’s a possessiveness to his tone, one what reignites the fire of passion.

“I’m already yours.” You whisper, in what feels like a very profound moment where time itself comes to a halt.

Jungkook stills, swallowing the needy noises that threaten to betray him when you start kissing his neck again, softly, featherlight, showing him no fear or hesitation. You want this, just as much as he does, “Everything I am, everything I have to give, is yours Y/N.”

And just like that he’s kissing you again, feverishly, hopelessly, like a love sick fool glutton for punishment.

The tension picks up quickly, atmosphere shifting into something more sinister as Jungkook begins to lose his resolve. His body is tense, jaw tight, eyes slid shut and white teeth bared in a threatening snarl against your cheek. A hand reaches out to the wooden bedframe to steady himself, but instead it crumbles between his fingertips and he has no choice but to keep himself still to stay calm.

“Are you okay?” You peer up at him, expression innocent yet screaming concern.

Jungkook growls, he knew this moment would happen sooner or later but he doesn’t have time to dwell on the specifics. When his eyes lock with yours they’re deep red, rich, oozing lust, a born predator stalking his prey.

“You’re mine.”

A moment later he’s shed of any clothing, hovering above you, chest heaving up and down while panting for air. Your scent is everywhere, it’s enough to make his eyes roll back into his skull when he bites his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. The tattoos, the muscles, the bumps and bends of his body have you silently pleading for him to take you, it’s the last thing Jungkook sees in your eyes before the monster inside finally takes over.

The lust that overcomes a vampire when aroused is like nothing any human would understand. The need, the urgency, the craving that weighs down their limbs and clouds their judgement. Any rational thinking dissolves quickly and the frenzy kicks in strong. With flared nostrils and unsteady deep breaths he lines his cock up to your entrance, hands trembling with anticipation and greed.

“Take me Jungkook,” Your voice is like that of an angel’s when it lands on his ears, quiet and calm, “I’m yours.”

With that statement your walls struggle to accommodate the size of his length as he pushes into you, the two of you groaning and gasping at the new mind-blowing sensation. Your hands are pinned above your head, held in place by the bone crushing grip Jungkook has on them with one hand, the other pawing at your left breast while his tongue finds your other nipple, swirling against it hungrily.

“Fuck!” You cry, never feeling so full in your life, “Jungkook… Oh my-, oh-, nnngh.” You whine pathetically between tiny breaths. You were warned that being intimate with a vampire was no easy feat, you knew it would hurt, and yet you’re still surprised at just how much it hurts.

“Who do you belong to?” Jungkook growls against your skin, pulling back his hips until he’s almost fully out of you before slamming himself back inside. Your organs already feel bruised, bones aching, head spinning. Yet there’s something tremendously addicting and pleasurable behind the pain.

“Y-you.” You hiss.

The roll of his hips is already overbearing, physically and emotionally pushing you to your limits. With each feral thrust you feel weaker, legs shaking in time with your pants for air. You’ve never given much thought to why mating with a vampire is illegal, Jungkook had explained to you that it’s extremely dangerous and the repercussions of these actions. Yet to experience it first hand is another thing entirely. The stretch is almost too much to handle, so much so that you shriek when you’re equally blessed and cursed by a particularly harsh thrust.

“Aaah!” Your eyes squeeze shut, mirroring the way your walls tighten around the girth currently stuffing you senseless.

“Fuck. Oh fuck.” You barely register the words lost to the sound of his moans and groans against your flesh, too caught up in your own self-awareness and thoughts. This is really happening, you’re fucking Jungkook. And Jungkook is annihilating you.

Once you’re adjusted to the brutal pace he’s set, plunging in and out of you, the pleasure slowly creeps up on you like a stalker in the night. It’s there, you can sense it, you know it’s coming and you cling onto the feeling of growing arousal inside you as a way to deal with the aches and pains spreading your frame. Focussing on how good this feels, you manage to find a sense of bliss.

As though he read your mind, Jungkook snakes a hand down your body to your clit, rubbing the area firmly to amplify the pleasure you’re feeling. The movements of his hand match the snaps of his hips. Hard, deep, inhumane, but it’s enough to regain some strength in your limbs and reignite the fire of passion in the depths of your abdomen.

“Shhh, shit-“ You choke out, completely enamoured by the sensation, “Keep going. Just like that.”

"I knew you'd be able to take me," He gasps when you clench around him again, "Fuck... Mmmph."

"Please, don't stop..." You whimper, your second high fast approaching thanks to his huge cock effortlessly brushing past your most sensitive spot with each roll of his hips, "Please."

"I could fuck you for eternity." He spits, lips tucked between his teeth while trying to remain calm, tightening the grip of your bound hands with his own, "I'm going to fuck you for eternity baby. Every night, mmmph, forever."

"Forever." Your voice is barely audible over Jungkook's loud moans every time he fucks into you, the sound alone sparking a whole new wave of need inside you.

“You’re mine,” He reiterates between ragged breaths, “All fucking mine.”

“All yours.” You sigh, growing hotter and sweatier all while being drilled into the mattress beneath you, “I’m all yours, and you’re mine.”

And that he is. He’s spent the last eight centuries guarding his heart, guarding it so viciously that others questioned if he even had one. It may not beat, it may not pump blood through his body, it may not work at all. But even then, in its broken, shabby, moth-eaten and frozen state. It belongs to you. Each part of his being, both man and beast, is undeniably, unfathomably, and uncontrollably yours.

He can’t blame the curse for his feelings, the fact alone that you make him capable of feeling anything is all the proof he needs that you’re his mate. His true mate. Just because you’re a Pi Gasu, a blood singer, doesn’t mean the emotions surging his core aren’t real. He’s fucking you hard enough to break you, to kill you, if it were nothing more than the curse drawing him to you he would’ve bitten and drained you by now, he's being intimate with you because he wants to.

Therein lies the biggest mistake Jungkook could’ve ever made. With your naked, exposed, vulnerable body quivering beneath him – he thinks about your blood. The romantic taste it leaves on his tongue, the thick scent of it flooding this entire room, his nostrils, how your arousal makes it sweeter…

“Jungkook, oh my—” You whine, muffling your shy moans behind your teeth that are sunken into your lips.

Without warning the grip he has of your hands tightens again, and your eyes fly open in a panic when you hear, when you feel the bones in your fingers snap. You stare at Jungkook, dumbfounded, in a state of shock. But he’s too zoned in on your neck to notice your features, he hasn’t registered what’s just happened despite the fact your fingers are like putty in his hands. His grip tightens once more, this time your wrist shatters like the bedframe did earlier, and you can’t help but scream.

"Ahh!"

“Shit shit shit, fuck!” Jungkook snaps out of his daze, face full of horror upon seeing what he’s done, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” In a frenzy of contradicting emotion he takes his hand away from your wrist, grabbing your hip to still your bodies – except the pressure from his vice-like hold is strong enough to crush your bones.

“Ahh—!” You’re coughing, spluttering, crying when it feels as though your hipbone has been ground down to dust and popped out of socket, paralysed with pain.  “Jungkoo-, plea-, stop.” You choke, and the red tinge to his eyes quickly fades into chocolate brown. He raises his shaky hands to prove to you he’s not going to touch you, withdrawing himself from your body entirely.

“I-, Y/N… I’m sorry. I-, I lost it… Fuck, I’m s—”

“It hurts-, it-, it hurts.” You sob, physically incapable of moving your broken body on the bed, “Please… M-make it stop!” You’re roaring inconsolably, which tugs on the vampire’s heart strings a lot harsher than he’d prepared for. Nothing could’ve prepared him for seeing you in this much agony, nothing could’ve prepared you for feeling this much agony.

“I'll make it stop,” He nods once, twice, three times to syke himself up, “This is going to hurt, but it’ll take away the pain soon I promise.” With your eyes squeezed shut you manage to nod at him, giving him the only confirmation he needed to lower his lips to your jugular.

It’s a bittersweet moment for him, finally having the consent to bite you. But at what cost? He hurt you, something he’d promised himself he’d never do. And biting you now, after you’ve consumed his blood is going to change the course of your life forever. That’s if it even works… It should’ve prevented your bones from breaking, but it didn’t. Shaking the intrusive thoughts from his mind he kisses your neck tenderly, fluttering his eyes shut as mutual greed and despair takes over his immortal being.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, before plunging his sharp fangs into the supple skin of your neck as easy as a blade through soft butter.

The second your blood stains his tongue, it’s over. Not just for your mortality, your soul, but for Jungkook too. It was one thing to drink your blood from the donation vials you’d gifted him previously, but to feast on you in such an intimate way in such a sacred moment is unbearable. He grips your body tightly, shattering a few of your ribs in the process to tug you even closer, all while his eyes roll into the back of his skull. You taste like every sonnet ever written, like every genuine smile you’ve ever gifted him, he’s never tasted such romance that it’s impossible for him to stop.

“Jungkook…” You’re growing weaker by the moment, the agony broken bones forgotten about, replaced by a searing hot pain on your neck that makes you want to shriek and sob. Except you’re too frail to move, to complain, instead having to take the hurt for what it is and pray that it’s over soon.

“Jung-,” You’re lightheaded, rapidly emptying of blood as your eyelids grow heavy. It’s a selfless thought, your final one, prompting the corners of your lips to curl into a smile. At least your brother will be okay. “-Kook… I-,” Your breaths slow, as does your heart, but you’ll be damned if you die without speaking your truth, “-love you.”

Your heartfelt confession forces him back to reality, he gulps, somehow finding the inner strength to stop and let go of your body. With a heaving chest and aching heart he retracts his fangs, replacing them with a soft kiss to the wound he’s created. A kiss so heartfelt that Shakespeare himself would have difficulty describing it. It takes him a selfish moment to steady himself, to fully shake the demon within to the back of his thoughts and appreciate your words and their magnitude. His forehead rests against your cheek, his hair damp and wayward, sticking to his skin as he smiles.

“To say I love you too would be an understatement,” He exhales, withdrawing from your face when you don’t react, “Y/N?”

Death is so beautiful. To have certainty, no yesterday and no tomorrow, no misery or doubt, just eternal peace. Envy brews inside Jungkook at the prospect of those capable of dying, to be the first to say goodbye, to lay forever in the soil and be a part of something more. The circle of life, the balance and harmony of the universe. At least that’s how he viewed death until he saw the light fade away from your eyes.

“Y/N?!”

He sits back on his knees, panicking, only now registering just how much damage he’s caused. Your body is warped, a mangled version of the epitome of beauty it was before. Not once has Jungkook ever felt remorse for his killings, it’s not in his nature. But the sight before him has him feeling sick to his stomach. He did this.

“Y/N?! No, no no no no…” Frantically shaking his head in denial his hands find the towel, covering your intimate areas with it to spare you some dignity, “Come on… Come on… The venom should be working, stay with me baby, stay with me!”

Love never dies a natural death. It withers away from the wrongdoings of the person we trusted most. The deceit, the pain and betrayals. It dies because of us, the consequences of our own actions. In it’s final hours love hurts so much that we feel numb to the pain, and even though we know the inevitable is coming, the execution destroys us.

And Jungkook loved you so much that it killed you.

“Please, you can’t leave me! You-, we were meant to be forever.. Please, come on come on come on...”

For the first time in his immortal existence Jungkook is scared. You should’ve turned by now, you should be like him. He’s turned many before, all of which showed signs of life after death within seconds of dying. It was a risky move to make, turning you when knowing of your lineage and the Pi Gasu curse, but even he must admit deep down he thought this would work. The silence in the basement is deafening, not even a trace of you beating heart remains.

"I've searched for so long to find you, please," He's desperate, leaning down to bite the other side of your neck. Your wrist, your arms, his fangs even make their way down to your thighs to bite you there too. The venom should be working. Why isn't it fucking working?!

It's then that he maps out a plan, one that will end his anguish if you really are dead. He’s to report your death to the council, they would never let him live knowing that he mated with you, never mind the fact he murdered you. The council consists of the world’s oldest, strongest vampires that implore the laws and see out punishments for ones broken. He’ll be executed. He knows first hand that he will suffer, it will be torture, the same pain he inflicted on others when he was a part of the council before he fled. Even then, nothing could ever hurt him more than living, if that’s what he is, knowing what he’s done.

“I’m so sorry,” His quivering lips part, allowing sobs to escape freely.

Even in death you take his breath away.

Unbeknownst to Jungkook you’re screaming for him not to worry, soul banging against the flesh of your body as the venom of his bites spreads your veins. It’s indescribable, agonising and paralysing. Internally you have the energy to run a thousand miles, the room smells different, there are dust particles falling in front of your eyes that you so desperately want to catch between your fingertips that feel restored to their usual structure. Yet you can't bring your body to move a single muscle.

You’re pleading, begging for him to stop crying and see that it worked. It worked. Eddie's transition will be complete just as you finish your own. You’re right here with Jungkook, where you’ll always be.

Forever.

“I should’ve never put you at risk like this… I-, I should’ve shown more restraint. I should’ve never let this happen.” He continues, sparks igniting your skin when his cool fingers trace your profile before he shuts your eyelids for you.

“I spent centuries searching for you, longing for your touch… Only for my touch to be the weapon that kills you. I would’ve given you the world and yet I’m the one to take it from you. The irony of loving someone so much it kills you is wasted on me, I feel nothing short of heartbroken.”

Please, please don’t cry, you think, please.

The world’s greatest love stories are defined by tragedy, and there is nothing more tragic than finally embracing your adoration and love for someone when it’s too late. How selfish of you both, to only truly appreciate the other and the comfort they brought you once it faded into darkness. It takes every ounce of strength, every shred of adrenaline in your body to flutter your eyes back open. And when you do, you're greeted with the sight of Jungkook sobbing into his hands.

Your voice is hoarse, throat burning, as though you've just died and come back to life, but when it registers in your mates brain his gaze snaps to yours instantly, and he grins.

"I-I'm thirsty."

x

[deliciousangelfestival]

3 Billion Divorce - Lloyd Hansen Series (Completed)

Character: Lloyd HansenxFem!Richreader

Summary: Reader became a rich heiress after her grandfather chose her as his successor. This reason was enough to make her relatives want her gone. Our reader is a fighter; when she finds a chance, she offers a fake marriage proposal to a sociopath mercenary. 

Words Count: 1750

A/N: Finally, I'm back. Never thought that I could make a post with Lloyd. It's been a while since the last time I posted. Hope you like it. Feedback and Reblogged are appreciated. Thank you!!!

The Italic font shows a flashback scene.

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Sometimes, simple things like waking up from a good sleep and having a coffee in the morning sound easy. To you, it sounds impossible. 

Because of everyday… 

Dangers always come to you. You must pay this price when you accept your grandfather's will. 

Four years ago,

Your grandfather wrote your name on his will to become his successor and owner of all his assets. But you have to be 35 years old before you get everything.

After the lawyer revealed the will, your relatives wanted you dead, so the grandfather's money would go to charity, and they could use it. 

Since then, your quiet life has turned to hell. 

Your relatives have hired multiple killers and assassins to kill you or make it look like a suicide. It's been four years of living like this. 

And there's only one more year left, the chasing getting more intense that you can't bear it anymore. 

Like today, you’ve been hiding in the back seat inside your car because a black Cadillac has been chasing you all day.

“I had enough with everyone who wanted me to die. What a family huh? They were born as elites but they’re monsters.”

Your old bodyguard Jimmy, an ex-Navy hired to protect you who was busy shooting the other car, said, "Y/N. To beat a monster, you have to make yourself a monster."

His words got you thinking. You want revenge on your relatives, but you don't have the ability since they have already bribed the police and judges. You are already powerless; the only person who always stays beside you is your old bodyguard. 

Before you could even get any idea, another car appeared from nowhere and hit yours.

“Jimmy!” You screamed the name that protected you before you lost consciousness.  

When you woke up, you already being tied down on the chair.

You look at your surrounding where you got kidnapped. It’s different than usual. Usually, it’s a dark basement with a horrible smell. 

But right now, you’re inside a nice room with a marble floor and Roman pillar. There’s also Renaissance painting and sculpture.  It seems like you’re in a mansion or something like that. 

The door suddenly opens, making you nervous because you are mentally unprepared to meet someone who will kill you. 

A group of men who wear bulletproof come inside the room. Lastly, a man who wears a black turtleneck and light brown pants. But you can see everything he wears is from a luxury brand. 

He leaned down and smiled at you. 

"Hello Princess, my name is Lloyd Hansen. Welcome to my home”. His voice was low and deep. 

‘His mustache looks ridiculous.’ You thought. 

His hand grabbed a screen tablet to show you the money that had been transferred.

“Someone really wants you dead. Look at the money they gave me. This is the biggest payment that I have received." You could feel the joy when he explained while you have a life crisis.

You wonder how much your relatives pay to make you go. When you saw the number… 

Ooh, it made you fume with rage. 

40 Million Dollars?!

Your life is only worth 40 Million?! 

With all the money you will get from your grandfather, your life is worth more than 40 Million. 

‘You have to make yourself a monster.’ You remembered those sentences from Jimmy. 

That gave you an idea. 

This man Lloyd Hansen, you could use him to be the monster to finish all relatives that want you dead.

"Mr. Hansen, I  don't want to die."

He nodded. "Me too sweetheart. But I've already got the money. They really want you to be gone quickly. Such a shame."

"If I gave you a proposal to make you richer, would you listen to my offer?"

Lloyd tapped his watch. "You have 3 minutes, sunshine."

“First of all, are you single Mr.Hansen?”

Lloyd let out a big laugh. 

But you didn’t laugh; you studied his character. After spending time with your bodyguard Jimmy, he taught you how to read people. You figure this man Lloyd is a sociopath, and seeing him acting childish like this, you take a bet that he is still single. 

With this, you took a chance and gathered your confidence. “I assume you are, that made my plan easier.”

You took a moment before offering the proposal because he would end your life if he didn’t like it.

"3 Billion Dollars."

'WHAT!' His soldier gasped when they heard the number.

Your offer got the attention, "I will give you 3 billion, but I want you to do something for me."

Even Lloyd never expected that. He did a background check on you. 

You’ve been trying to stay alive for 4 years. That's when he knew you're an extraordinary woman.  

One of his soldiers steps in, "I volunteer Miss Y/N."

Before you could see who it was, Lloyd had already shot him.

He smiled. "I could swim in that money, what can I do for you?"

"Marry me."

Lloyd's brain circuit stopped for a second. He laughed again, but he stopped when he saw you being serious.

"I didn't expect I would get proposed like this."

"You know I'm a rich heiress, and I will get my money next year. While waiting, I need someone to protect me and keep me alive. After that we will get a divorce and you will get other 2 billions. Right now, I could give you 1 billion. What do you think?"

There was a moment of silence. You could only hear the clock ticking. After he hears your offer, Lloyd turns his back and looks at the big French window. You couldn't see his expression. 

Suddenly he turns around and walks towards you. Lloyd got on his knees and grabbed your hand. "You got yourself a husband, Mrs. Hansen."

'Yeah, you caught a monster.'

-One year later-

Lloyd arrived at your company and saw your bodyguard, Jimmy. Lloyd clicked his tongue. “Where’s my wife?” Jimmy pointed to the door behind him.

Lloyd pushed the door and saw you look busy signing some documents, not glancing at him. 

He told your secretary, who was already scared, "Get out shithead."

After your secretary left, he turned around and saw you had crossed your arms while looking at him. Ooh, so you’ve been waiting. 

He always loves your confidence. This trait must be one reason your grandfather chose you as the successor. 

Lloyd smashed a piece of paper on your table. "What the fuck is this?"

"It's a divorce paper."

"Yeah, and you didn't even think to discuss it with me first ?"

"It's been a year Lloyd, we made a deal. Remember?"

It made Lloyd silent. 

Of course, he remembered. 

Lloyd wishes he could stop the time.

After he agreed to marry you, his life became more exciting. 

Lloyd always dealt with different hitmen, politicians who wanted to steal your assets, assassins, and taking revenge on your relatives who wished you were dead. 

With the 1 billion, he could get all the resources and finish his job quickly and quietly. He got new clients every day. 

But most of all, Lloyd cherished the time spent with you. He loves every moment. You have a sharp mouth, don't take No for an answer; he likes it when you act like a boss to him. He wants to obey your order. 

And… 

The sex was also excellent. You weren't tempted at first. But who can't resist the charm of Lloyd Hansen? At first, it was just pretending to act like husband and wife. Give each other kisses on the cheeks, then move to the next step because of the alcohol effect that leads to sleeping together. 

When you fell asleep on his chest, his fingers brushed your hair. You gave him a soft kiss on his forehead; it made him like a teenager who was drunk in love. 

You were there every time he got hurt. You hired the best doctor to treat him. No one ever does that to him. He knew because you needed him to stay alive. But when he saw you holding his hand while he was bleeding, Lloyd knew you cared for him. 

He likes having you near him and can't bear letting you go. 

Lloyd realised his feelings when Jimmy came and gave him the brown envelope. 

Lloyd knew what was inside the paper, so he ignored it. But that damn envelope keeps coming after you get the inheritance and you have left the house that you two shared.  He felt like a used rag that you could just throw away. 

He can’t imagine seeing you being single, and another man will try to pursue you. 

"If you sign it today, the other 2 billion will be transferred to your account."

"I don't want to."

"6 billion then."

Lloyd's hand touches his left chest.

"What hurts me more is that you have the money and could finish this as soon as possible."

Then both of you will be strangers; NO, he didn't want that. 

"After you use my body, you throw me away? You hurt my feelings sunshine."

You walk away from your table to stand in front of him. 

"Lloyd, that's part of our deal. You protect me and I owe you one.” 

You couldn’t believe he’s the same man who wants to kill you, and now he’s begging you not to leave him.

“And I paid my debt with money that I promised."

He sighed and said, "I do love money."

Lloyd held your hand that still wore the wedding ring; he rubbed it gently. 

"But my dear wife, I love you more."

Your breath hitched when you heard his sudden confession. You were stunned to speak. 

Lloyd grabbed your chin and gave you a passionate kiss. "I won't let this marriage end with divorce." 

Lloyd kissed your forehead before he left you. Before he reached the door, he saw from the mirror your reflection. Your fingers touch your lips. At that moment, he knew you shared the same feelings. He will give you an offer that you can’t resist. 

A/N : This Series has Completed.

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

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[emmabirb8]

Ok ok, but have you thought about the fact that throughout the series, Nandor has saved or protected Guillermo's life just as much as Guillermo has saved and protected Nandor's? Because I have, and I am feeling Ways about it.

Obviously, Guillermo has always gone  above and beyond for Nandor as far as familiar duties go, and he has slain countless vamps to protect not only Nandor but also the rest of the household. It's a given and it's been a given from the start that Guillermo would do anything to keep Nandor (and his other housemates by extension) safe. He has outright said they are his found family, and it definitely shows. 

Well, in a slightly subtler way, the case is the same for Nandor. God, the things that Nandor has done for Guillermo - the risks he's taken, the knee-jerk reactions, the choices he's made? It is profound.

Consider that Nandor a. as a vamp is not expected to care about his familiar beyond using him as a tool to get things done, b. believes acting "aloof," aka unbothered and unconcerned, is key, and most importantly c. struggles heavily with identifying, working through, and expressing his emotions. AND YET, without even stopping to think about it, he:

Stepped in to stop that hungry vamp at Simon's club (Manhattan Night Club)

Refused to let Guillermo be eaten by the Vampiric Council (The Trial)

Stopped Topher from drowning him (Resurrection)

Kept Guillermo's slaying a secret after discovering that he had dusted Carol (The Return)

Told Celeste to "be kind to Guillermo" when he thought she was gonna be his new vampire mistress (arguably, this counts bc he was making an effort to ensure Guillermo would be treated well and kept alive under Celeste's watch) (Collaboration)

Defended him against the wrath of Nadja and Laszlo (the housemates Nandor has known, lived with, and loved for far longer than he's known Guillermo) who were 100% prepared to kill him every single night for a month while he was imprisoned in the basement (The Prisoner)

"Yanked" Guillermo away from the line of fire when he was acting as bait for The Sire and attempted to fix the situation himself (The Escape)

Immediately dove into the sewage hole in the floor to rescue Guillermo when he fell in (Reunited)

Volunteered to battle him in place of a more dangerous vampire at the Night Market (The Night Market)

Made sure he was okay at the end of the fight after pretending to snap his neck (The Night Market)

Nandor is the KING of repression, but actions speak louder than words, babes. This is not even counting the times he has shown outward kindness, affection for, and attachment to Guillermo to the point where it's entirely too conspicuous for anyone to believe he's not in love with him. (Tho he's apparently managed to fool himself well enough, hasn't he? lmao) 

Hell, I'm in a listing mood - let's recount those moments too, shall we?

Just off the top of my head, Nandor has canonically also:

Made Guillermo a glitter portrait depicting the two of them together as vampires as a gift to celebrate his anniversary of becoming his familiar (that he was clearly proud of and excited about and that clearly took a lot of effort and planning ❤) in the very first episode 

Held him up above his head to help him reach higher places when dusting and held him up in front of a mirror so he could experience the sensation of flying (like what vampire does that fr???? he was down bad even in the earliest eps) 

Become a blubbering mess worrying where Guillermo was while high on drug blood 

On multiple occasions actually took him flying by wrapping his arms tenderly around him 👀, then admitted he was his friend out loud in front of Nadja and the camera crew as early as ep 4 after feeling guilty about accidentally dropping him during a flight

Played chess with him (and it's implied this is a regular thing for them 🥹)

Been visibly upset each time Guillermo has left - it's heavily implied he missed even the smallest gestures like the hand holding, and he outright verbally expressed his hurt feelings in front of the entire Theatre des Vampires

Been distraught enough after the Celeste situation that he attempted to "win" Guillermo back first by talking to him and then by giving him another gift with the "beating off" pillow, and then actually complied with Guillermo's requests to be more respected and given breaks after that

Taken the time to go down and keep Guillermo company while he was imprisoned in the basement and made a genuine attempt to give him better quality food

Urged Nadja and Laszlo to treat Guillermo with more respect and to try to take an interest in his life at the casino

Reacted in a way that wasn't even the slightest bit angry (and in fact, he appeared grateful for it besides becoming excessively horny on main) about The Slap

Said he has "grown to have some affection for" Guillermo out loud to his face (which, for someone as repressed as Nandor, is huge)

Offered a very blatantly romantic turning scenario in which he expressed a desire to share soil with Guillermo, which, again, is huge 

Become markedly upset that Guillermo never showed up at the train station to accompany him on his trip

Started making steps in the direction of reversing their dynamic in s4 by doing things like helping Guillermo dry off and getting him a glass of water after he fell into the hole, paying more genuine attention to him and his life, expressing a desire for Nadja and Laszlo to be more serious and respectful of him, valuing his input (esp for the dick wish), and being appreciative of all the work he has constantly put in for him (whenever using his new penis 😏) 

Offered Guillermo the position of best man at his wedding which was clearly of utmost importance to Nandor, even more so than finding someone to marry in the first place 

Actually remembered the exact amount of years Guillermo has been his familiar/bodyguard and called him his "closest companion" in front of lots of other (arguably dangerous) vampires 

Been so excited and proud of Guillermo's moves when he was battling other familiars at the Night Market to the point of exclaiming "that's my fucking guy!"

Called Guillermo his friend out loud again when he got visibly worried he may have killed him

Admitted to Guillermo that he was afraid right before his wedding (!!!!), looked at Guillermo longingly/lovingly, accidentally revealed his desire to literally hug Guillermo close and kiss his face through his wish about Marwa (!!!!!!), and took a moment to whisper sweet nothings to Guillermo and cover him up when he discovered he'd fallen asleep (!!!!!!!!!)

Dorkily but sweetly prevented Guillermo from falling in the bg shot of Go Flip Yourself (like, truly, why would he care omfgggg he's so in love it's making him look stupid)

Actually made a very misguided but solid follow-through attempt to fix the Freddie situation as soon as he realized how upset Guillermo was about it

IT'S JUST SOOOO MUCH!!! I've been going through the series highlighting Nandermo moments for creative idea purposes in these last few weeks, and I can honestly say that I believe there are possibly more instances where Nandor has hinted at or displayed his feelings toward Guillermo than there are of Guillermo hinting at or displaying his feelings for Nandor. It's fucking insane you guys. 💖

[thegnomelord]

Everybody stop what you're doing, I have just come up with the best/worst dad joke I want Ifrit to say

Ifrit: What's the difference between a fridge and a butthole? Ghost: What? Ifrit, stone cold monotone: The fridge doesn't fart when you pull the meat out. Ghost: *Starts wheezing so hard he falls on the floor*

[fancyfeathers]

Idk where the fuck this came from but…

Stuff the darlings do in my The Games We Play of Dust and Ash (Yandere Moriarty the Patriot) series

James’, Moran’s, Herder’s, and Louis’ darlings have all gotten high before in the basement when James and Herder were gone, Moran was not gone and he laughed his ass off when he found out and Louis was the one who caught them. No one knows where they got the stuff.

Louis’ darling will read spicy books that are written in French and Louis doesn’t know what they are about so he asks William. She does this for this purpose as to make William’s life a living hell.

William’s darling will get burn out when she is stretching for ballet, so many times William has found her in various poses that she stopped in mid stretch and find out she has been like that for hours and she can’t feel her feet anymore, when she says this it always gives him mini heart attacks.

Sherlock’s darling writes letters to William’s darling and pays kids in her neighborhood to go out in the middle of the night and slip them into her bedroom window, since William’s sleep schedule is all messed up he never notices and William’s darling hides them underneath the carpet in their bedroom. A lot of the time these are two letters, one to William’s darling from Sherlock’s darling and the other one to Albert’s darling from Mycroft’s darling, her sister.

The darlings of the three Moriarty brothers always insist on getting their own compartment on the train ride to and from Durham because one compartment for all six of them would be much to crowded for eight hours, and also so they can close the curtains, lay out the pillows and blankets they brought all over the compartment and play games for the train ride and or gossip of talk about things the brothers would not approve of. Most of the time by the end of the trip is they find the three of them asleep and brothers have to clean up their darlings’ mess before the train stops.

Mycroft’s darling sneaks out of her house to go visit Sherlock’s darling at her apartment across town. Normally she will be gone for days and by the time her caretaker, who she is staying with until she is married, tells Mycroft that she is gone, she is back in her room at the estate by the time he gets there like nothing ever happened. On one of these outings, Sherlock’s darling took her to a cabaret where she met Moran’s darling and the three of them got drunk back at the apartment and this was Mycroft’s darling’s first time getting intoxicated.

Sherlock’s darling has spiked Sherlock’s tea before to see if he would notice, to see how sharp he was, he did notice, so while she wasn’t looking he swapped their cups but before she could drink it he slapped it out of her hand and it broke on the floor. Miss Hudson was pissed.

Milverton’s darling and Sherlock’s darling are sisters and Sherlock’s darling has offered to try and frame him for a crime and her sister tells her not to because Sherlock’s darling is employed at one of his newspapers and could make her life a living hell. Also no one knows Sherlock’s darling has a sister, not even Sherlock, well Mycroft’s darling knows but has no clue who she is.

James’ and William’s darling have talked shit about people they worked with at the opera together, but they both agree that the orchestra conductor was hot. They have said this in front of James and William

Moran’s and Albert’s have gotten drunk together before, but no one knows about it since it was in Moran’s and his darling’s room and many people in the house were gone besides Louis. Though Albert did notice a bottle of wine missing from the cellar.

Louis’ darling had accidentally almost burn down the kitchen. She was making tea for herself and reading too close to the stove and lit her book on fire. When Louis rushed in and out out the fire and asked if she was okay she just cried about her book. The next morning she woke up to see a new copy of it on her nightstand.

William’s darling, the shyest little thing, she has the mouth of a sailor, but only in French because the stage hands and the ballet mistress at the opera swore so much in French that she picked it up. At first she thought no one could understand her but then she learned that Albert’s and Louis’ darlings also spoke it but she didn’t care what they heard, then she found out William spoke it…

[sawyerslvt]

Johnny or Leland? | Episode 3

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This is a choose your own ending story. I have also included links to porn in this series, for better visualization ;) Word Count: 2,324 Warnings: MDNI, smut, porn links

He throws you onto the cold and dirty stone floor. You're in a small room. You can't make out the layout of this basement. He walked a long way to get here and it seems like the biggest basement ever. He latches the wooden door and there is a mattress leaned up against the wall. He pulls it down, laying it on the ground. You’re confused by his mannerism, he’s not acting like he’s about to kill you. But really, what do you know? you havent been killed before, so you continue watching him. He walks over to you and pulls out a knife from what you presume is his back pocket. You close your eyes and try to pull your knees closer to your face, scrunching up as much as possible. You know these are your last moments and you think of Leland. What the two of you could've been, you really liked him and the thought of never seeing him hurts so, so much. The tears start streaming down your face as you mumble to yourself. You don't know what you're saying, maybe you're praying. Praying that if there is a God, for him to be merciful. Please forgive your sins.

The man turns you over and pulls on your wrists, cutting loose the rope holding them together. He continues to do the same to your ankles and you're so confused, you start to get a headache. You see the man hunched over, sliding one of his arms under your knee crease and the other to support your back as he lifts you up. You're being picked up and held in his arms. Being only inches away from his face reminds you of your initial attraction to the man. There was no denying that he was beautiful, broken and all types of messed up… but hypnotizingly beautiful. You continue staring at him, trying to look for any facial expression willing to reveal the answers behind his mystique. He looks down to you and chuckles. “Enjoying the view, princess?” you blush and look down. Why the hell are you blushing? He places you down on the dirty mattress and you feel how your ankles and wrists are sore. You rub them, trying to soothe the pain. The man is towering over you, watching you from above. “You ready to try this again?”. You look up at him with a confused expression, not knowing what he’s referring to.

He gets down, sitting on the mattress with you. Your back is close to the wall and you continue backing up as he gets closer to you. You feel the cold stone wall behind you, stopping you from continuing further. The man is only an inch away from your face. You didn't even realize that you're sitting with your legs spread open. He sees the opportunity and takes it, letting his hand find its way to your already wet pussy. You flinch and let a small gasp escape from your lips caused by his fingertips grazing your slit. “oooh, so close… but I need that moan darlin’”. He’s smirking but his eyes are focused on your lips, thinking that any second you'll give it to him. Once again he starts rubbing your clit with his thumb only for a short moment before he pounds his fingers into your tight pussy. You don't give him the satisfaction but it doesn't stop him. He forces his fingers in and out of your cunt. At first he's going slow, but eventually increases the intensity and force. You have your hands laid on either side of you, gripping onto the mattress, shutting your eyes but holding back with all your might. You bite your lip and that's when he grabs your face, forcing a pouty expression onto it. 

He gets close to your lips and licks them, taking turns sucking on your bottom, then top lip. You don't kiss him back but he doesn't ask that of you. You don't have to do it back, he still has full access to you, sliding in and out of your pussy and sucking your soft lips, tasting you. You grip the mattress harder but there is only so much you can do. “You’re a tough one to crack. I like that about you darlin’”. You hate the way he’s talking to you. No matter what you do, he likes all of it, you can never win with him. Thinking of that fact made your brows furrow and your expression turn sour. The man notices your angry facial expression. “What’s the matter baby? Is big ol’ Johnny being mean to you?”. Your eyes widen at him telling you his name. “...johnny?”. Your voice is soft and you say it like you don't want him to hear it. “fucckk, don't say it like that doll… you’re too much”, he leans closer to you and you look down to see his cock growing in his jeans. Your facial expression stays mad and he decides to play along. “Alright sweetheart, you’re mad at me? Keep it up, let’s see how long it lasts”. 

Your hands are still by your side, legs still spread. Johnny starts going down on you, not breaking eye contact until he's only an inch away from your wet slit. You brace yourself for him, gripping the mattress harder and holding your breath. You hear Johnny chuckle between your legs, distracting you for a second, which gives him the perfect opportunity to connect his tongue with your slit. He drags his tongue through your folds and you let out a gasp from how good it feels. You feel him smirk as he's licking you, tasting you. “You taste amazing darlin’” his voice is husky and he’s hungry for you. The more he gets to taste you, the more erratic his movements become. The whole time you're still holding your breath and refusing to moan. At this point it's become a game, and he was working hard to win… but so were you. He slides his left hand under your top and starts playing with your nipples between his thumb and index finger. He’s pulling, twisting and rubbing them, making your back arch. “Good girl, just like that”, his voice is gentle and you're confused by how you're craving this psychopath. 

His tongue is sliding between your folds and one hand playing with your nipples. Without any form of warning, he slides his two fingers inside your wet hole and directs the tip of his tongue to focus on your clit at the same time. He caught you so off guard that a moan accidentally escapes your mouth. You smile to yourself, slightly disappointed that you lost at your own game but impressed that he was able to break you. “fuckkk, that was the cutest thing i’ve heard”. His voice made you weak and you responded by giving him another moan. “Not so angry with me anymore, are you?” He continues forcing his fingers deep inside you, rough and fast as he’s sucking on your clit. He's moving his tongue in circles, then moving his head side to side and making loud slurping sounds, devourings your sensitive pussy. He can't get enough and he’s eating your pussy desperately. It’s so intense your eyes roll to the back of your head and your moans are bordering on screams. 

♡Porn Link♡

He moans and groans between your legs until he can't hold himself together anymore. He gets on his knees and starts unzipping his jeans. You watch him and his eyes are narrowed, eager to feel your insides. He whips out his cock and you subconsciously open your mouth, leaving it open. Whether it was because you were shocked by his massive size or preparing yourself to taste it, you didn't know. Either way, you wanted him bad. Your back is still leaned against the wall and he comes close to you, until his dick is right in front of you. “open your mouth sweetheart”. His voice is demanding and deep. 

You open your mouth and wrap your soft lips around his tip. “Mmmh, just like that. you're such a good girl” you blush at him praising you and it makes you want to pleasure him more than anything just to hear his voice. You suck, putting pressure around his tip as you circle your tongue, tasting his precum. He was already hard and you wrap both your hands around his cock, stroking his shaft, back and forth as you let your lips suck on his tip. You feel his cock twitch and you move one of your hands to his balls, massaging them, encouraging him to cum in your mouth. He takes notice of your sneaky schemes and pulls his cock out of your mouth. 

He backs up a bit and pulls on your ankles, making you slide towards him and laying flat on your back. He shoves his fingers in your mouth and forces you to salivate around them, your mouth is wet and he leaves a string of spit as he exits your mouth. He brings his wet fingers to your pussy and rubs it for a little bit before he aligns his cock with your entrance and slowly enters your pussy. You're soaked and he glides in easily. “You’re so wet for me princess”. He grabs you by your hips and places you on his lap, so he can shove himself deeper. But he doesn't move and you're desperate for his cock to pound into you. With his huge cock inside you, you move your hips in circles and hump up and down and his cock, fucking him as he’s just stood there smirking at your erratic movements. “God, you’re so beautiful, doll”. Finally he grabs hold of your waist and thrusts into you, earning a loud moan from you. He grunts with every deep thrust, holding your waist to keep you still. He pounds hard into you and both of you moans and groans fill the empty room. 

♡Porn Link♡ 

“mmh… i'm gonna cum Johnnyy”. Your voice is weak from all the pouding into your already sensitive pussy. “Not yet princess, hold it for me”. He’s not done with you and pushes your thighs backwards, making you hold them so he can have a perfect and open view of your wet and abused hole. It was too much to ask of you to hold your orgasm. “i-im sorry… fuckkk im coming!” You can't hold it any longer and cum on his dick. He feels your walls tighten around his cock but he doesn't stop thrusting. “I told you not to cum princess. you're gonna have to live with the consequences”. He’s talking to you like he’s a disappointed parent. He pushes on the back of your thighs and somehow gets even deeper than before. Your tight and pulsating pussy can't handle it and your whole body shakes as he’s pounding into you. “fuckkk, im gonna cum in your tight little pussy”. You feel his warm liquid fill you up and shoot deep inside you. You’re squirming from the overstimulation but his cum coming in contact with your walls made all pain go away. 

♡Porn Link♡ 

He pulls out of your cunt, breathless and exhausted from the intense sex. You feel the mixture of both your cum drip out of your pussy and soak the mattress beneath you. He watches you like he's an artist admiring his beautiful piece of art hung in a museum, proud of his masterpiece. You swear, you're seeing stars and you're laid flat on the mattress just thinking about how your life has come to this. You remember Leland and an insane wave of guilt hits you as he’s probably worried sick for you, and you're getting dicked down by the man who beat the shit out of him. A tear falls from your eyes. You feel Johnny crawling over your overpowered body, he hovers over your face and notices your tears. “What’s wrong darlin’? I hope I'm not hurting you”. His voice is gentle and you're surprised by how genuine it sounds. “...you’re not”. You feel bad for making him worry for you as well. Why do you care about his feelings? You don't know, maybe it's the people pleaser in you. 

He puts his hand on your chin, lifting your head to face him. His body is massive and you feel small under his big shadow. “Can I kiss you?”. His question catches you by surprise. Not long ago, he was rearranging your guts and now he’s asking to kiss you? You’re confused by his logic and you feel pressured by his question. Not because you don't want to, more over that you actually do. You shouldn't want to kiss him, but looking at his lips made your heart race. You know they were soft, he gave you a taste of them earlier and ever since you haven't stopped thinking about them. You give him a weak nod and you blush, trying to avoid his gaze. He doesn't waste any time and leans in to connect his lips with yours. His lips are soft and you moan into his kiss. You hate the way he makes you feel. He didnt act like a killer, he didnt kiss like a killer, he didn’t fuck like a killer. Your tongues are craving each other as they twirl together in a synchronized rhythm. He breaks away from the kiss and looks deep in your eyes. If you were a little crazier, you would think his eyes looked sad. “I’m gonna take care of you”. His voice is soft and genuine and just by pure reflex, you lift both your hands to cup his face. He leans into your hands, closing his eyes and taking a deep sigh. His handsome face being held by your hands is tugging at your heartstrings, you can't decipher the feelings you're experiencing. 

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credit for dividers: @y-onb <3

[jasntodds]

Caving In [2]

Pairing: Gar Logan x Fem!Powered!Reader, Jason Todd x Fem!Powered!Reader

Words: 7,611 

Chapter Warnings: Swearing, angst, descriptions of bruises (no colors, just shape and tint), mentions of sleep deprivation and some paranoia, mentions of death, mentions of the joker being the joker, there’s a teen wolf reference, a mention of being held captive and tortured, fluff, a mention of food being withheld

Summary: ❝Tell me Atlas: What is heavier, The world or its people’s hearts?❞ You never expected your life to end up this way, turned upside down by an infamous Gotham villain. It’s been a living hell, every single day, until Dick Grayson brings you to Titans tower where you meet Gar Logan and Jason Todd.

A/N: Hey, look chapter two up on time!! Things pick up in chapter 3, I promise!! I am easily motivated to post more often when I get feedback 😂 The first few chapters take place between season 2 episode 1 and season 2 episode 2. You can add yourself the tag list below, ask me to be tagged, or you can follow my library blog @jasntoddslibrary​ ​ and turn on notifications if you prefer that!!

series masterlist | masterlist | tag list

The next morning comes around and you’re taking the time you have alone to shower. It’s barely four in the morning so no one else is awake and you’re pretty grateful for that right now. Before going to bed the night before, Rachel stopped back by your room and offered you some clothes she thought would fit okay for the following day. So, you’re the only one awake and figured it'd be really nice to have a proper shower for once. But the shower isn't the relaxing thing you expected.

This is the first time you’ve seen yourself in a mirror since being put into a basement for several months. It's the first time you’ve seen yourself at all but this is also the first time you’re getting a look at how the tower is seeing you. Your right eye has a deep bruise. It looks a little swollen still even though you feel like you can see fine out of it. The cut on your lip is still open and the cut on your cheek is red. Bruises in the shapes of fingers are dark on your biceps, right over the scar on your right bicep. Another bruise in the shape of a shoe is on your back. The more you look the more bruises you find and you wince, finally understanding all of the sympathetic looks you’ve gotten. Not that they know about the bruises across your back and stomach but they saw your arms.

You thought it was so weird Dick wanted to help but seeing yourself in the mirror, you completely understand because if you saw yourself on the street right now, you'd be livid and force that person to come with you. Your head hangs and it's kind of like you understand and a feeling of maybe wanting to tell them what happened comes over you.

If you tell them, maybe the looks will stop because you’re healing and they'll know. It's just kind of an elephant in the room as much you want to avoid it in your head, it's there. And every single time they look at you, they're just going to want the full story. The looks won't stop until they know. And all you can do is sigh because it’s four in the morning and sleeping for an hour has you feeling a lot more feelings that you ever really liked. So, you swallow the lump your throat and go for the shower.

After the shower, you find yourself in the kitchen looking for food. You find some cereal, Cheerios, and otp for that. At this point, you’re not going to complain about whatever cereal you have. Once you have your bowl, you move into the living room and turn the TV on, sitting on the floor at the small coffee table like you used to do when you were a kid. You find Avatar: The Last Airbender on one of the many streaming services connected to the TV and call yourself content.

You eat in peace watching a childhood favorite of yours and it feels easy. You feel at ease here and it feels like it could almost feel like home if you put in a real effort to give it a chance. If you could find a way in yourself to really trust these strangers. It'll be hard but maybe it'll be worth it, early mornings alone in front of TV with some cereal.

By the time six rolls around, the lack of sleep and paranoia has started to catch up to you. This place feels safe but it also feels too good to be true. There’s a little humming in the back of your head, telling you not to trust anyone because anyone can say they’re one thing and be the opposite. You used to be so trusting of people, not naïve or anything like that, but trusting of people in general but now, it’s hard to imagine people just being nice to be nice. What if you fall asleep, really get some sleep, and they turn on you? What if they’re working with him? And he comes to take you back? Maybe you’ll get lucky and everyone will leave the tower so you can get some real peaceful sleep. You’ve gone longer without sleep, you’ll be fine. You’re always fine.

"Good morning." Dick's voice scares you while you’re stood sink washing your bowl.

"Fuck," You groan, turning to look at him. "Do you always sneak up on people?"

Dick chuckles softly. "Sorry, it's a habit, I guess." Dick didn’t think he had been all that quiet.

You roll your eyes before going back to cleaning your dish you used for cereal. You haven't had cereal since you were put into foster care. It wasn't the best cereal or anything, you’re a Trix person but it was a lot better than the chicken noodle soup you’re used to. It felt almost nostalgic and you got to just sit in the living area, watching old cartoons you used to love as a kid, in peace. Until now, with Dick awake anyway.

"Right." You say softly.

Dick watches you from the back as he stands at the kitchen island, taking notice in the coffee cup sitting on the counter behind you and the empty coffee pot off to the side. You seem jumpy, though that might just be you. This is a new place to you and after whatever you’ve been through, it's fair to be a little jumpy but it makes him wonder.

"Did you sleep last night?" He asks, walking over to the coffee pot to make himself a pot.

"'Course." You lie, not looking up from the dish that is definitely clean by now but it's something to do with your hands.

Dick uses the sink to fill up the pot, you glancing at him for just a second. "Hmm." He hums. "More than an hour?"

You pause and let out a sigh. How long has he been doing this? You weren't saying he's good at it but how does he just know shit?

"No." Your voice is filled of shame. "I-i-it's weird, being here."

"It's okay." Dick reassures you as he gets his coffee going. "I didn't sleep much when Bruce brought me home, either."

You start drying your bowl, turning to face him. "What's he like? I mean....was he nice to you? You're here so..."

Dick nods and then shrugs. "He tried his best."

"That's a cop-out for saying he sucked." You raise your brows, resting the bowl to the side before grabbing the spoon and drying it. No one with good parental figures just says they tried their best. But, since Dick is here taking in strays that need help, maybe the Bruce guy didn’t do a terrible job. Even if this whole thing is weird.

Dick chuckles. "It wasn't all bad." Dick leans against the counter, facing you as he waits for his coffee.

"Must be nice." You mutter, a sense of envy comes over you. But it just slipped out. Being jealous doesn’t make a situation better. "Sorry."  You apologize.

"It's okay." Dick assures you. Dick knows he got lucky with Bruce even if Bruce wasn’t the best. Dick still got lucky. "Where ya from?" He asks, trying to change the subject a little bit but still find something out about you.

"Gotham." You roll your eyes. "Fit right in now with all the freaks Gotham breeds, huh?"

"You're not a freak." Dick says calmly.

"Mhm, sPeCiAl." You mock and then Dick catches the hit of a smirk on your face.

"You're a smartass, you know, that?"

You give him a cornered grin. "It's the only thing not damaged about me so far. Gotta hold onto it." You snicker to yourself. "What about you? San Fran?"

Dick shakes his head. "Gotham." Dick goes to grab his coffee that's finished brewing.

"Shut the fuck up." You scoff. Apparently, if people get to escape the hellscape of Gotham, they end up in San Francisco? Literally, across the country which, if you’re being honest, completely makes sense.

"Honest, so is Jason." Dick says, pouring his coffee into a mug.

"Gar?" You raise, wondering if everyone is just fleeing Gotham.

"Ohio."

"Rachel?"

"Michigan."

You hoped finding out where everyone was from would make more sense. Maybe Dick found a bunch of kids who needed to get the hell of out Gotham and brought them across the country? Something? But, finding out it’s just Jason, you’re back to this being weird.

“How did you end up with Gar and Rachel then?” You ask.

“I was detective in Detroit.” Dick explains. “That’s how Rachel found me and then we ended up in Ohio where she met Gar.”

“That somehow clears very little up but okay.” You nod your head. Why did he take Rachel to Ohio? And who the fuck leaves Gotham to go to Detroit? And how the hell did they end up here? Nothing makes sense but you’re just gonna let it go for now. "So, did you and Jason know each other then? Both from Gotham and ended up here, seems like under better circumstances than us."

Dick shakes his head, taking a sip from his mug. "No, we just...know the same guy."

You narrow your eyes at him, grabbing your own mug and taking a sip. Bruce. It sounds stupid to you because you’re just fishing for information now. But, Dick knows a Bruce from Gotham. Bruce Wayne lives in Gotham. Bruce Wayne adopted a Dick Grayson who, if rumor is right, became a detective. Jason can fight, assuming Dick can, too that's a bit weird. Gotham doesn't breed heroes usually.

"So....what? You both raised for Bruce Wayne or something?"

"What makes you think that?" Dick chuckles, wondering why you'd come to that conclusion.

"Your name is Dick and Bruce took in a kid named Dick Grayson like twenty years ago. Rumor was he left to become a detective or something." You state, taking another drink of your coffee. "Kind of public information."

"Yeah," Dick chuckles. "Yeah, Bruce Wayne took me in."

"Interesting." You hum, looking at your dark coffee.

You feel like you’re having a fever dream. You cannot possibly be talking to a fucking Robin. That doesn't make any sense and at this point, you’re completely convinced the sleep deprivation has kicked in. But you’ve done your share of research into Batman and Robin. It's always been this mystery. Who's behind the masks? You don't like mysteries and you could never figure out the motive behind them. Why start saving people if not to kill the real problems of Gotham? It's not like they were taking down petty thieves or something, they were dealing with real grade-A psychos. But, maybe Bruce Wayne makes sense. He has the money to pull it off.

"So...your thing is combat?" You question, silently fact-checking yourself.

"It is." Dick nods once.

"You're older than me...." You trail off and Dick watches you, waiting to see where exactly you’re going with this. He doesn't mind you figuring it out, but he does think it's interesting that you’re openly figuring it out in front of him. Maybe it'll help you trust him a little more.

There are tons of videos and pictures of Batman and Robin fighting the bad guys. One of your past times was watching the Robin-centric ones, something about him being a sidekick seemed odd. He always seemed to hold himself just fine and Batman didn't seem like he needed some sidekick. It was weird but you watched because you were curious who they were and how they could fight. But now you’re here with Dick Grayson who was raised by Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson is taking in kids with superpowers. And you always thought a new Robin came in at the end. Fighting style was different and there was a big height difference.

"Are you Robin and is Bruce Wayne Batman?" You ask, your voice is a little loud as if to not believe you’re asking that question.

Dick laughs. "You got me." Dick smiles at you. "I'm not Robin anymore, though."

"Jason, right? He took over?" You verify and if this were two years ago, you’d be freaking out. As much as you do not get the whole thing, it was still really cool to be in the same city as Robin and Batman. They’re actual heroes. But, this is now.

"He did." Dick nods, almost impressed you figured it out after less than a day of being at the tower. “How’d you figure it out? Was it that obvious?” He asks.

“No,” You let out a mix of a huff and a laugh. “It was more of a shot in the dark. You shoot enough times, you’re bound to hit something.”

“Alright.” Dick laughs softly. “Fair enough.”

"Cool." You say, pushing off of the counter you were leaning against, choosing to leave with this new information.

"That it?" Dick asks, amused by your reaction.

You pause with a shrug. "Yep." Your word is short and sharp as you go to walk away before stopping. Actually, it bothers you. At the end of the day, Dick Grayson, the original Robin is standing in front of you and it bothers you. It’s cool, of course because he was Robin but above everything, it doesn’t sit right. "Actually, I got a fucking question." You turn to face him.

"Okay." Dick gives you a questionable expression, not sure where the change of tone came from.

"Why didn't you guys just kill the fucking Joker?"

Dick looks down, almost as if he's ashamed of the answer. "We're heroes, we don't kill people."

"Right, okay," You suck in a breath, feeling the fire in your stomach boil and your hands growing warm. "So, as heroes, your response is to just keep letting that fucked up, psycho clown roam around Gotham and keep killing innocent people like some sort of sick Saw movie?" You snap, your voice raising with every word.

In some sick and vengeful way, after your mom was killed, you got it. In a way, you understood how people become villains. Not villains to the actual villains, but villains to the heroes because it is their job to protect those who cannot protect themselves. It is their job and allowing people like The Joker to just keep escaping and killing more and more and more people, that’s not heroism. It’s cowardly.

"It's not like that." Dick sighs, realizing this has backfired greatly. "We can't go around being the judge, jury, and executioner. It's a dangerous road you don't want to go down. Trust me."

"Right, except he didn't kill your parents, right?" You ask, feeling the water brim behind her eyes and then the feeling of hot coffee stings your hands, the mug melting with your grip. The rest of the mug slips from your hands, shattering on the floor.

"Hey," Dick puts his mug down quickly, rushing over to you.

"It's fine." You look at your hands, the glowing of green starts to fade. You walk over to the garbage, tossing the remainder of the mug into the trash. "I'll clean it up, sorry." You barely look at Dick as you grab paper towels, wetting them and ignoring the shaking of your hands.

You always thought you had a lot of control over it or that you would at least notice if you were using your powers but you didn’t. It’s shameful and embarrassing. It was an accident and accidents happen but the very idea of not being able to control your powers just because you’re mad is terrifying. What if you get mad at someone and use your powers and hurt them? 

"It's okay." Dick takes them from you. "I got it. Are you okay?" There are no hints of anger across his face or in his voice. He just looks worried.

"Yeah, I'm fine." You shake your head, no burn or blood in sight, your hands no longer glowing. "It doesn't hurt."

"What happened?" Gar asks, strolling into the kitchen, seeing you and Dick look like you were in the middle of something serious, although you were kind of hard to ignore. It got a little loud at the end of your argument. That’s why Gar is walking in.

"Dropped a mug." You keep your stare on Dick, lying to Gar. You brush past Dick and then past Gar. You just wanna run away from it all. Sometimes, things are too much and you wanna run as fast as your legs will let you go.

"Y/n." Dick calls.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, okay?" You stop just long enough to look back at Dick. "Just let me know when we're leaving." You mutter before walking back down the hallway and to your room.

Gar watches you and then looks back to Dick. He doesn't have any idea what he walked into and now he just feels awkward but he feels bad for you. You seemed really upset and you sounded upset when you were yelling at Dick. He heard you asking Dick if the Joker killed his parents. Of course, Gar knows what happened from last night but hearing that kind of reaction doesn't sit quite right. They're all just a bunch of kids. Kids who don't deserve to be in pain.

"You okay, Dick?" Gar asks walking over to him as Dick cleans up the spilled coffee.

"Yeah, it's okay, Gar." Dick assures him.

Gar nods. "What happened?"

"It was accident." Dick says.

"I mean...I heard you guys. I wouldn't be surprised if you woke up Rachel and Jason, too."

"Shit." Dick sighs, standing back up. "It'll be alright, she's just going through a lot. Just give her some time." Dick gives Gar a soft smile before throwing the paper towels away and grabbing a few more.

Gar nods, looking to the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. Gar knows what it's like to be alone in grief. It's hard and scary. Even having someone to just sit with him would have been easier but he was just thrown into a manor with a bunch of older people who didn't get him. He was only even there because he could suddenly turn into a tiger. Maybe he should leave it alone but he can't. He just wants you to know it's going to be okay.

Gar grabs himself a bowl of cereal and makes a plant-based drink for the morning. He waits in the kitchen, slowly eating as Dick eats his own breakfast. Dick told him to leave you alone and he's not going to do that but he doesn't want Dick to know. He doesn't really like going against what an authority figure says, even though he does it anyway. It's more the getting caught that he doesn't like. But what else is he supposed to do?

After Dick leaves, Gar waits a few more minutes then hops off his chair and heads down the hallway. Dick went the opposite way so Gar walks with ease down the hall and to your room. The door is shut and he can hear the TV playing softly. He picks up his fist and knocks softly. He waits, shifting his weight from his toes to his heels, almost expecting you to either tell him to go away or open the door and slam it. But you don't.

"Hey." Gar gives you a kind smile as you open the door.

"H-hey?" You ask.

Gar sucks in a breath. "Are you okay?" He asks.

You deadpan. "I would be a hell of a lot better if I wasn't asked that again today." You snark, watching the disappointment in Gar's face. "I'm sorry. I--I-do you wanna come in?" You ask, opening the door fully and Gar nods, leaving the door open as he follows you to the couch you and Rachel sat on the night before. "I've got some issues with Robin and Batman." You admit as you sit down.

Gar looks a little too concerned for your liking so you talk. If you talk, maybe he won't be so concerned and a part of you wants to know if it's a you thing. Everyone always seem to love them both, Robin and Batman, and they can do no wrong, they even helped the GCPD. You have thought for a while that maybe your disdain isn't justified and maybe it's not. Maybe killing people, even people like the Joker is wrong but what else is there to do? Because Batman and Robin didn't do anything to fix Arkham. If they don't fix Arkham, what else is there to stop these people like the Joker who get out and they kill every single time without fail? It's like it's a sick little game. He's Jigsaw and Batman is the cop trying to find him, everyone else is stuck playing the Saw games.

Gar nods. "Because the Joker killed your parents?" Gar asks, pretending like he doesn't know anything. "I overheard."

You nod. "My mom. I-uh, I was...I was at the movies with a friend. I got the notification that Joker was out again...killing people....same place my mom was that night." Your chin wrinkles as you swallow the lump in your throat.

That moment, you knew. You called your mom a hundred times but there's a pit that forms in your stomach when you just know someone didn't make it. Someone you care for. It's not anxiety or being pessimistic, there is a pit that grows and you just know. You knew but you called and called and called. The phone rang and rang until it died. Gotham PD showed up on your friend's house the next day and told you. They wanted to take you and do the whole foster care situation right away but your friend's mom convinced them to give you a day with them first. You fled that night. The night your mom died was the last night you ever felt safe. It was the night you felt something that wasn't sad or angry. It was the last night you weren't haunted.

"I'm so sorry, Y/n." Gar's brows wrinkle, the knot in his stomach growing.

You nod, looking away from him as you try to breathe. "Had they just fucking killed him," Your voice breaks as you look back at Gar and you hate it because this is a weakness. You can't seem vulnerable, not around these people because the second you show your vulnerability, it's so much easy to be used and manipulated. But you can't help it. "She would be alive but they just....called Arkham good enough." You pause. "It's not fair." It’s a choked whine that leaves your throat.

You gasp as tears start to flow down your cheeks, the tears burning a few of the cuts on your cheek. Gar moves closer to you and he's hesitant at first because he doesn't know how you'll react but the only thing he knows how to maybe help is to hug you. So, he pulls you into him and wraps his arms around you tightly. You stiffen for a second and it stops you from crying. You haven't been hugged since the night your mom died. It's a weird feeling to have someone hug you but you'd be lying if it didn't feel comforting. And he's very warm and he smells like strawberries and that seems to be the most comforting.

Your favorite fruit is strawberries and every summer, you and your mom would make chocolate-covered strawberries. There isn't a time you can remember when you weren't completely stocked during the summer and it's something you cherish now.  Gar smells like strawberries and that small little thing, is the most comforting thing in the world to you right now. So, you just cave into him, sobbing.

The thing about being held captive and tortured is that it's made you hard. Being captured and tortured changed a part of you. You were never so closed off and calloused, always a bit sarcastic and snarky but not like this. Being held stripped you away of the rawness of emotion. It's like it turned you into this fossilized version of yourself. Hard and cold exterior that would just turn to dust if opened up. You’re only a memory of the person you used to be, sitting here and crying to Gar is just the visual representation of who you were before the big bang. And it hurts, it is agonizing but something about the way he's just letting you cry into him feels cathartic. You’re not in that basement anymore. Your wrists are free. You are free. And you can show all of your emotions without fear of repercussions from it. You’re allowed to be scared and angry and sad and happy. You don't have to hide anymore.

"S-sorry." You pull away, wiping your eye and wincing at the pain from the bruising of your right eye.

"It's okay." Gar assures you, still having his arms around you loosely. "I, uh, I get it." He looks away for a second, pulling his arms back as if realizing he doesn't need to hug you anymore. "My parents died, too."

You watch the normally cheery boy, square his jar and go distant with his stare. "I'm sorry." You sniffle. "What happened?"

Gar sucks in a breath, sitting back against the back of the couch. "Same mysterious disease I had but they didn't make it."

You nod, matching his position and tugging the sleeves over your hands. That explains part of how he ended here. He really doesn’t have anyone, just like you. "I'm really sorry. That sucks."

Gar nods. "Yeah, but, uh, it's okay because I'm here and this is a family. It's not the same but," Gar tilts his head back and forth a few times, looking for the words. "It's really nice if you give it a chance. Dick isn't out to get you or any of us." 

"I didn't mean what I said." You say honestly. "I mean, I want the Joker dead, he's a fucking piece of shit sad excuse of a human but...I mean just about Dick. He's been nice."

Gar offers you a side smile. "Yeah, he's a cool dude." Gar chuckles softly. “He kind of takes getting used to, too.” Gar jokes a little. Dick sometimes comes off as cold but Gar has kind of figured that’s just what being raised by Bruce gets you. Jason is like that, too and Gar doesn't think it’s a coincidence. 

"Thank you." You give him a sad and small smile. "You're like...a really nice person."

Gar huffs with a chuckle, looking away from you and all he can think is that someone has to be nice around here. Dick is sometimes...well a dick. Jason is an asshole. Rachel sometimes can be a little bit of a bitch to Dick and Jason, usually deserved but a bitch nonetheless. He has to be the nice one even if he wanted to get nasty. That would just cause more tension and Gar doesn't like tension.

"Thanks." Gar sighs, looking around your room. "Are you gonna decorate today?" He asks looking back to you, changing the subject and hoping to make you feel better.

You shrug a shoulder. "I dunno. Not sure if Dick really wants to take me shopping after that." You laugh softly. "I don't know how I feel about it, anyway. Feels....really fucking weird."

"Yeah," Gar nods in agreement. "But he just wants you to have a space of your own, that's what he told Rachel and me when he took us in. He'll give you a spending limit."

"Is this Annie or something?" You quip.

Gar tilts his head back with a laugh. "Well, it's a hard 'nough life for us." Gar says with a smile.

You let out a genuine laugh and it makes Gar's face light up. Your laugh is bubbly and loud, almost booming. It's a bit contagious actually and it makes Gar have a little bit of a sigh of relief. If you’re laughing, there's hope for you, especially after that whole talk you just had. You’re funny.

"You're funny, ya know?" You ask once your laughter calms down.

"Oh..." Gar shifts his sheet, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. "You, uh, you think so?" He gains a cheesy and awkward smile making you giggle a little.

"Yeah! Of course, I do." You smile sweetly at him.

"Hey, do you wanna play Xbox?" Gar asks, enthusiasm in his voice. He likes talking to you and you seem like you’re doing better talking. Plus, video games are what Gar always uses to escape from all the shit, maybe it’ll help you.

"I have literally never played Xbox in my life." You blink at him before gaining a smirk.

"Excuse me?" Gar's eyes widen. How have you never played Xbox? He's certain it's the best gaming system to exist.

"Always a big fan of PlayStation." You laugh, finding his shocked expression funny. He does wear his emotions on his sleeve. "But...I guess I could make an exception for you." You give him a corned grin, watching him shift again. Something about certain things you say make him nervous and you kind of like the bubbles that form in your stomach when it happens.

"Okay, okay." Gar stands up quickly, gesturing for your to follow his lead. "I'll change your mind."

You do as he directs. "You have a lot of confidence." You pat his shoulder.

Gar's eyes narrow slightly. "I...can't tell if you're being serious."

You laugh once more. "Eh, half and half." You shrug a shoulder.

"Right." Gar nods, keeping his eyes narrow but there's a smile tugging at his lips. "Come on." He nods his head in the direction of the door, reaching for your hand. You take it without hesitation and he leads you  to his room.

The day goes by, Dick looking for you, he finds you with Gar in his room a few hours later. You had left the door open so it wasn't too hard to find you. You were both yelling, very excitedly at the TV and when Dick found you, you were plopped in two chairs beside each other, a control in each hand. You both were laughing and Dick never would have known you were new to the tower by how comfortable you looked and it gave him some hope. There's some type of hope for you. No one is ever just some lost cause. Dick hated to break it up but Jason and Rachel were already waiting for Gar in the training room.

While the others trained, Dick and you went on your shopping run. Dick took you to a few stores to pick out a few outfits, pajamas, training clothes, and just a few things for your room. It was weird for you to just be out in the open, shopping as if you weren't just held captive the day before. But, something about Dick did feel safe. Maybe it was the fact he was Robin. He might have helped the Joker stay alive by simply not killing him, but he did put him away several times. And, now you have somewhere to run to if Jerry happens to show up.

But that's not all. It was just bizarre to have this stranger buy you things. You were never one that really liked accepting things from people like this. Presents, sure. Everyone likes presents but this just felt like charity and it took everything in you to refrain from snarky comments the whole time. But you did it and you had a good time. You got some take out and you got to actually have one of your favorite take out foods. Dick didn't ask about how much you lit up at the thought of it for lunch, he already had an idea why. He figured maybe it'd be better to leave all of that alone and just have a few hours to let you just be.

"So," Dick asks as he drives them back to the tower.

"So." You state, looking over at him. He just has this look like he wants to ask questions. "Okay." You sigh. "Ask the question you want and I will not give you a bullshit answer."

Dick chuckles. "Alright," He nods. "How much control do you have of your powers?"

You look ahead of them as your light turns red. "This much." You open the palms of your hands, the palms turning green. Then, you close them, the green fading. You do this a few times with ease, ending with spirit fingers, your hands glowing a neon green. "Why?"

Dick's brows are furrowed. "Just curious, how do you do that?" He pauses. "What about the mug this morning?"

"Control or the whole acid thing?" You shrug, looking in front of you. "And apparently, my mom and the Joker are major triggers, learn something new every day, I guess."

"Understandable. And both, I guess."

"Uh...control well. I was traumatized." You scoff. "Control is easy when you're in a life or death situation. I mean...like learning it. Don't have a fucking choice if you wanna live. The acid though, uh-huh." You shrug. "I think about it I guess and then it just happens."

You remember when you found out you could produce acid. You were mad at Jerry for injecting you and then getting mad at you for it. It was about seven months after living with him and at that point, you were just so sick and tired of it all. All you wanted was to rip Jerry’s throat out with your bare hands. And then, your hands starting glowing, acid leaking from your palms. It was a shock, for sure, but it was a bigger shock that Jerry didn’t realize the chemical burn on the floor was from you. He just thought he spilled something and hadn’t noticed it prior. You considered some kind of weird luck. From there, it was just making sure it never happened in front of him.

Dick hums to himself. "Think you could try and show Rachel how you control it?"

"Uh...sure?" You question him. "Isn't that like...your job, Bat Boy?"

"I don't have powers like you guys." Dick states, the light turning green. "Rachel's powers are just really strong and she's had a lot happen recently."

"I have heard." You sigh. "I mean...I can try." There's a sense of empowerment you feel with Dick asking for help with Rachel. He trusts you, at least a little bit which is kind of nice. "I-it's just...I-I melted a mug today. I don't have that much control, apparently."

He nods with understanding. "You have enough to help."

"Well, alright then. Does that mean I get to learn to fight?" You give him a hopeful smile. 

"How are you feeling?"

"Great." You give him a thumbs-up even though he’s watching the road.

"Are you lying?"

"Yes, yes I am." You laugh softly. "Uh....my face is still pretty sore. Arms and legs still feel a bit weak...." Your eyes go distant as you stare in front of you, flashbacks of the torture clouding your vision and the endless cycle of either not being given food or given the bare minimum.

"You need to get better first." Dick states, his voice unwavering.

"Shouldn't I still be preparing though? Like...I don't know. Small stuff."

"Not yet."

You sigh but don't fight him. Jason owes you one for the bet. If Dick doesn't think you’re strong enough to at least learn something, you'll just ask him. He don't seem like one to follow the rules anyway. It’s just a precaution to protect yourself, just in case.

When you get back to the tower, Dick helps you bring your stuff to your room. It's not a lot by any means, just some clothes, a few vinyls, and some art for your walls. Dick leaves you to yourself and you look around your room, gaining a genuine, happy smile. This is your space to make yours so you get to work.

You dig out a Fall Out Boy vinyl from one of the bags and put it on the record player that was already in your room. You turn it up as loud as it will go, the sound of music feeling almost riveting. Another thing you’ve missed more than you actually realized and then you start getting your room together.

A few hours go by and your room is coming along. You’ve moved a few things around and got your posters hung up. It doesn't feel quite like home yet but Dick said if you stay, you can get more stuff to make it more yours later. So, this is a start and it fills your chest with a sense of warmth as you look around until there's a knock on your door. You turn the music down before opening the door and you’re met by Gar in a green pullover and black joggers.

Gar's eyes glance behind tiy and then back to you. "Hey, uh." He scratches the back of his neck. "We do movie night in the living room sometimes, did you wanna join? Rachel and Jason are in there now."

"Uh..." You stutter. They do movie nights? Is this really some found family shit? The way everyone talks about Jason you find it a little hard to believe he'd actually part-take in any group activity that didn't involve punching each other. But you don't have anything to lose. If you want to stay, that also involves effort from you and Gar will be there. "Sure." You give a soft smile before walking over to your bed and grabbing Gar's hoodie. "Thanks." You hand it back to him and he gives you a closed smile, raising the fabric to say you’re welcome.

"Anytime." Gar smiles, jerking his head towards the living room. "I'm gonna put this away, meet you in here?"

"Okay." You say with ease before turning on your heels, heading down the hallway and Gar can't help but watch you with a goofy smile.

You just have on black sweatpants and a pink hoodie but you look comfortable and you didn't look annoyed when you opened the door. That seems to be your general state of mind, annoyed. From what Gar has seen. Of course, you’ve loosened up when he's talked to you but you always looks very annoyed beforehand.

You walk into the living room seeing Rachel all the way to the left and Jason sitting all the way to the right, facing the fireplace. They truly could not be any more apart, eyes on the TV that's mounted above the fireplace and you find it a little comedic. They must really hate each other. So, you take a seat by Jason, mostly because you think it's funny to bug him and you could just tell sitting by him would irritate him. Plus, that leaves room for Gar to sit on the other side between you and Rachel.

"Can I fucking help you?" Jason snarks as he looks to you.

"What're we watching?" You ask, an innocent smile pulling at your lips.

"It's Jason's turn so probably something gory." Rachel remarks with wide eyes laced with annoyance.

Jason turns to face you, which moves him a little too close to you. His eyes look you up and down, just once before landing on your eyes. "Don't worry, if you get scared, I'll protect you."

Rachel nearly rolls her eyes into the back of her head with Jason's comment, fake gagging while you sit with your mouth slightly ajar, nose scrunched and forehead wrinkled. You sit somewhere between appalled and grossed out. This kid surely has never dated a single human. There's just no fucking way with the lines he pulls. But you shut your eyes for a second, choosing to not even play into that game. Instead, you’re gonna play your own.

"What movies were you thinking?" You ask, matching Jason's position, knee bent and flat on the couch, you facing him as your knees touch.

Jason gains a smirk in just the left corner of his mouth. "We could watch Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Hostel, or Saw IV."

His stare is directly at you and it's a taunt. But you find it funny, not even bothered by the distaste of his comment, in fact, he plays into your hand. He thinks you need protecting from a horror movie and that of all people here, you'd go to him? When Gar is right there?

"Texas is a classic, assuming you don't mean the shitty ass remake from 2003. Hostel's alright if you're into Eli Roth. Saw series has always been good gore. Never quite cross that line into torture porn." You smile at him, it's a sweet smile while you lean your elbow on the back of the couch and Rachel sits behind you completely entertained. All she can think is that they needed someone who can match Jason's energy.

Jason's face softens, just for a split second. Your response caught him off guard and he was so sure you'd be against watching any of those. He thought maybe he'd get a rise out of you for suggesting them or offering to protect you or maybe get something better than that out of it. But all he got was whatever that was. It was his turn and those were the three he was considering but Gar and Rachel don't really like the movies. He assumed you wouldn't either, especially if what they found on the computer the night before means what they think it means.

Gar comes in a few seconds later, seeing you and Jason facing each other in a way that almost seems like some weird face-off staring contest at this point. He glances at Rachel who shrugs but she has a smirk that's begging to be broken into a laugh. Just a tint of burning coats Gar's stomach as he sees the two of you and he knows what it is but he pushes it down. He shakes his head and walks up to you.

"Everything okay?" He asks, his voice cautious as he looks between the two of you before sitting on the opposite side of you.

"Fine," Jason mumbles, finally breaking the stare and sitting normally on the couch before grabbing the remote. "Saw it is."

"Ugh, why do you always pick gory movies, dude?" Gar groans, tilting his head back.

"Don't like gore?" You ask with a laugh.

"You do?!" Gar's head shoots back up, a grimace on his face. He doesn't mind it in older films, the effects weren't great then. But the newer ones tend to turn his stomach. Horror is great, but gore? Not Gar's favorite.

"Yeah, of course. They're fun." You shrug, switching to sit forward, pulling your legs up under you and Gar keeps the grimace on his face. "What?"

"He doesn't know why anyone wants to volunteer to watch gore." Rachel snickers.

"Because you can shut the movie off whenever you get too scared and the effects are cool." You shrug and it makes Gar give you a shy smile. "I can hold your hand if you want?" If you said it to Jason, it would have been sarcastic and rude but with Gar, it was a genuine and sincere offer.

Gar's cheeks burn with the offer and his stomach flips, unlike you and Rachel, he didn't find the offer a bit cringey or lame. Your smile is gentle and sweet like honey until you realize that you just pulled what Jason did and it seems you realize it the same time Jason does.

"Did you just take my fucking line?" Jason scoffs.

"No, yours was weird, mine was nice." You retort, internally kicking yourself for it.

"It's okay." Gar whisper, shifting in his seat a little. He was never really good about things that might be flirting or not flirting and just being nice. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." You smile softly at him, your heart sinking a little.

"Okay, turn on the movie." Rachel looks between the three of you, not sure what the hell is going on there and not even wanting to know.

Jason turns the movie on without any further argument. The four of you settle into your spots as the movie starts to play and despite the fact you’ve been at the tower for just over twenty-four hours now, you feeling pretty comfortable around them. The three of them make it easy. None of them feel threatening, even with two of them having powers. They don't feel "special" as Dick put it. All three of them just feel normal and normalcy is something you’ve craved for two years.

And then there's Gar who can't keep his eyes on the moving, partially because he finds the gore a bit nauseating but also because he can feel you glance at him every now and then. He can't tell if the glances are because he doesn't like the movie so maybe you’re checking on him which is a strange thought, that's kind of his job. Or maybe it's because he's sitting too close to you, he doesn't feel like he is. When Gar looks over, it looks like he's sitting just as far away as Jason is so maybe that isn't it. The one thing he does know is that he doesn't mind you glancing at him.

The lack of sleep for you, however, is definitely catching up to you. Your eyes are weighed down, heart rate is slowing down and you just feel like maybe you could rest your eyes for a few minutes. Saw IV isn't even one of your favorite Saw movies, you won't miss much. And the next thing Gar knows, your head falls onto his shoulder. He straightens his back quickly when it happens, catching him off guard but then he looks at you, asleep and he doesn't have the heart to wake you up. A caring small comes to Gar's lips as he looks back to the TV and he kind of likes your head on his shoulder. Maybe it means you trust him and after everything, he can only imagine what you’ve been through, that's kind of a big deal on day two.

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[raineandsky]

#46

It’s dark, blindingly so, in this dingy little basement. 

Thick metal bracelets encase the hero’s wrists, even thicker metal chains linking them to the wet brick wall behind them. They’re just long enough to give the hero the tiniest slither of hope in their movement, but just short enough to make an escape just out of reach. It’s infuriating, and they have no doubt that their captor did it on purpose.

“What a wonderful evening to see each other,” a familiar voice drawls from the abyss beyond, and the hero squints slightly to try and make anything out. “I hope my little prison has treated you well.”

They can see the shape of someone walking just beyond the shadows, their shoes clicking against the concrete floor. “Like hell it is.”

Their nemesis hums a laugh, the sound reverberating like a song out of tune. “I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here, hm?”

The end-all question. They’re not sure they want to know. The thoughts of the answer are making them nervous. They can’t let on to that though, so they raise their chin defiantly and spit at their feet instead.

The shadow dips their head down ever so slightly, glancing at the disgusting fleck on the pristine leather of their shoe. “Well, that’s a little rude, isn’t it?”

They finally step out of the shadows—the villain, because who else—to grace the hero with a self-satisfied grin. Their hands are conveniently hidden behind their back, and the hero tries to not let their haywire thoughts show on their face. What ungodly contraption do they have in their grip? What are they planning to do to them?

The villain takes a smug step closer. It takes all the self-restraint the hero has to not shy away from them. “I’m not telling you anything, asshole.”

The villain’s grin only grows and they bark out an amused laugh. “Oh, I don’t need to know anything. I need you to do something for me, darling.”

“Go to hell.”

Their hands move, and the hero can’t help but flinch back in horrible anticipation at whatever agony they’re about to experience. A second passes, nothing happens. The hero glances back to the villain, where they’re looking overly proud of the reactions they’re getting, holding out a bottle of thick pink liquid.

“I can’t open it,” the villain tells them after a moment of confused silence.

“Good. Keep your neon poison in its bottle.”

The villain’s expression morphs into something between entertainment and disbelief, glancing at the plastic in their hands like they’re missing something. “It’s… juice.”

The hero pulls a face at the name. “You’re calling your poisons juice now?”

“Wh– no!” The villain looks like they’re contemplating hitting their nemesis round the face with their poison. Their juice? “I got this from the shop down the road, you moron! I need you to open it so I can drink it.”

“So…” The hero’s stare locks onto the bottle with a frown. “You sent your goons after me, took me from my own home, chained me up in your goddamn basement, and the only thing you’re getting out of it is an open bottle of juice.”

The villain smiles like they’re at an understanding, and the hero didn’t just lay out the stupidest series of events they’ve ever experienced. “Precisely.”

What. “You’ve lost your mind.”

“That happened a long time ago, darling.” The villain shakes the bottle at them expectantly. “You’re the strongest person I know. Open it.”

“You’re a villain! Do it yourself!”

“My speciality is inventing, you idiot! I can’t open bottles that are super glued shut!”

“Invent something to open it, then!”

“No!”

The hero is let out ten minutes later, and the villain is left with a defeated bottle cap in their possession.

[sixhours]

Chapter 23 - The Ghosts of Babylon

Hey folks, this is a dark one. CW: Suicide attempt. Please take care of yourselves.

Series Chapter Index | Read on AO3 | Complete

Rating: Explicit, 18+, here be smut and violence Series tags: Joel Miller x You, Joel Miller x Reader, Joel & Ellie, mostly follows canon, LGBTQ+ characters, y/n is bi/pan, y/n is ~45, violence, pregnancy, abortion, medical trauma, emotional trauma, panic attacks, sex work, suicide, smut, slow burn, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, romance, no use of y/n, reader has longish hair, Joel can lift you, smallish age gap (~11 years), I've probably forgotten some so please let me know <3

~*~

As the weather closes in, any good faith you might have built up with Joel is lost, and he stalks around the little farmhouse in a broody stupor. You get the impression he would live at the bottom of a deep bottle of bourbon if given the opportunity.

Hell, you’d like to join him.

He drags two dusty mattresses down from the second floor and puts them around the potbelly stove, then goes foraging in the basement. There’s a small stash of homemade canned goods that still have tight seals; the rest of your food will have to come from outside. He clears a path off the back of the kitchen to the forest, where the thick tree cover has prevented the snow from drifting, presumably so he can hunt and cut firewood.

He shoulders his rifle and goes out to the barn to look around, mutters something about finding an ax, and you watch from the kitchen window as he wades through waist-deep drifts. He returns with the ax, as well as a hacksaw, a box of candles, and a pair of snowshoes in need of repair.

The only silver lining in this situation is the chance to rest your broken ankle. You decide you need to reset the bone if you want any chance of keeping your foot. Easing out of your wrap, you tenderly prod at the swollen flesh, trying to get a sense of where the bones have shifted and where they need to go. It’s hard to feel anything, your fingers are numb with cold.

When Joel comes in with a load of small branches for firewood, you look up at him from your mattress on the floor.

“I need your help. And your belt.”

He grunts, setting the wood down at the door. “Why?”

“I need you to pull on my foot so I can reset the bone.”

You show him how to wrap the belt tight around the top of your foot, trying to ignore the roiling unease in your stomach. This is going to hurt.

“You’re going to pull as hard as you can,” you say, handing him the loose end of the strap. “Don’t stop until I say so, even if I scream.”

He grimaces. “Alright.”

“On three, ready? One…two…three.”

The pain is blinding as Joel leans back, straightening your foot, like a hot knife cutting through you, and you struggle to stay conscious.

“Hey…hey!” Joel’s worried voice, calling you back.

“I’m here,” you spit, speaking through gritted your teeth. “Oh holy mother of fuck that fuckin’ hurts.”

You lean forward blindly, putting your fingers around the ankle, prodding through the hot white pain. But you feel it, the edge of the bone at the top of the joint as it slides back into place with the right pressure.

“Stop,” you grunt, and he eases his grip on the strap, letting your foot down as gently as he can.

“The splints,” you grind out, gesturing to two scraps of wood you’ve set aside. “One on each side. Wrap ‘em tight.”

He does, securing your foot as you lay back, heaving and shaking. It hurts worse than when you broke it, but the bones no longer feel wrong .

Joel is watching you with thinly veiled concern as if he’s fighting a battle within himself to stay aloof. His fingers flex and clench at his sides.

“Gonna rest now,” you mumble, exhausted, flopping back on the mattress and feeling the deep, angry throb of your heartbeat in your foot. You close your eyes and wait until you hear Joel leave.

~*~

You settle into the tedious routine of survival. Find food, stay warm, sleep, repeat. Most of the work falls to Joel since you’re forced to stay off your feet until your ankle heals, but that’s probably for the best. The two of you circle each other like wary dogs, rarely exchanging more than the bare necessity of words.

Joel repairs the snowshoes with some twine he finds in the barn and goes off to set snares and hunt, returning with a doe that he dresses and strings up outside the kitchen, muttering about rigging up some kind of drying area in the basement.

You’re never truly warm, dressed in layers that never feel quite clean. Joel finds an old feed tub half buried in the backyard and drags it inside so you can clean yourselves in the rusty, lukewarm water and scrub the most visible grime off your clothes. He ducks outside when it’s your turn to bathe, standing stoic and hunched in the cold until you’re dressed.

Eventually, you’re able to put the tiniest amount of weight on your bad ankle. You still need the crutch, but you’re able to get yourself off the floor and maneuver around the farmhouse without Joel’s help–not that you’ve asked for it.

He has taken to carving when he’s not doing the manual labor of keeping you both alive. He brings in sticks and chunks of wood, stripping the bark with his knife and digging into it, smoothing it, hissing softly at every splinter and nick.

The isolation sinks into your bones during these short winter days, eating you from the inside. There’s nothing but time–time to lay on your mattress and listen to Joel’s stony silence and the angry thwick of his knife against the wood, time to think about everything that’s happened, to think about what you’ll do when you leave the farmhouse. No matter how many times you try to imagine it, you can’t see that future. You walk up to the gates of Jackson and the dream dissolves in a flood of shame.

Joel leaves the maps spread across the kitchen table and pores over them, retracing the routes you will eventually follow to get back to Jackson, as though he can see his daughter’s face in the winding roads.

~*~

On the shortest day of the year, you open the kitchen door and stand in the cold, aided by your crutch. Joel is off checking the snares; you can see his bootprints leading down the path away from the house. It snowed again last night, fat white flakes that only serve to remind you how trapped you are.

You tuck your fingers into your jacket pocket, fingering a crumpled ball of paper nestled deep in the seams. Frowning, you pull it out, unfolding it.

Don’t get your hopes up. –JM

You blink, the tears surprising you with their fury.

But you did, didn’t you?

The note conjures images of a puny orange on the near-empty shelf of your fridge and the feel of the countertop under your back as he pushed into you. It’s the smell of bacon on a Sunday morning, playing Boggle on the living room floor. You remember when his hand at your back meant love and reverence. Even if the words never made it into the open air, you knew that warmth.

And you never deserved any of it…but oh, how you’d wanted to. You’d wanted to believe you could have that much.

Now you live in a purgatory of your own making–with him, but not; together and never more alone, with the home you’d found on the verge of being lost forever.

This is your fault. You lied, you led him on, and worst of all, you lied to yourself. You let hope grow in poisoned soil and now the tree bears poisoned fruit.

But the note– the stupid note –is the thing that breaks you. It flutters to the floor as you crumple onto the wet ground, grateful Joel is away so he won’t hear your sobs. You cry until you feel drained, empty, like the husk of a tattered cocoon. You’re no longer here; you’re somewhere back in Utah in a jail cell with FEDRA, you’re curled in the back seat of a broken-down car with your face pressed to the mildewed upholstery, you’re waiting for a death that doesn’t come. 

When he returns, you’re lying on your mattress, facing away from the door, away from him.  You hear him stoke the fire and put the cast-iron pan down, the sizzle of fresh venison being tossed in. The smell of cooking meat makes your stomach turn. You pretend to be asleep when he tells you there’s food.

~*~

You don’t move from your bed the next morning. You’re vaguely aware of Joel’s pacing the kitchen floor, and once you feel him kneel beside you, the warmth of his body closer than ever in the cold room, but you won’t allow yourself to feel it.

His hand finds your shoulder, shaking you. “Hey.”

You close your eyes and burrow deeper into the safety of your blanket. He stands up after a time, and you hear the door close, the crunch of snow under his boots outside. Sleep drags you under with murky claws, promising blissful indifference.

His footprints on the floor bring you back. The light in the room has gone soft and golden, the glow of a winter afternoon. If you stay here, in this very spot, you won’t be able to do more harm.

“You awake? I made food.”

You don’t answer. You have a distant memory of playing a game with your father as a young child, hiding behind the sofa. If you can’t see me, I can’t see you.

“Hey,” his voice, closer to your back. “You need to eat. We’ll be on the road in six, eight weeks. Can’t have you fallin’ all over the place.”

“Not hungry,” you mumble, pulling the blanket over your head, eliciting a frustrated grunt from over your shoulder.

“C’mon, it’s not funny. Get up.”

His hand pulls the blanket back, exposing you, and you gasp at the sudden influx of cold air. “Get up.”

“I’m not–”

“Get the fuck up,” he growls. “Not gonna have you starvin’ on my watch.”

One strong hand comes up under your arm and hauls you into a sitting position. He unceremoniously drops a plate in your lap and takes a seat in a chair across from you. He leans forward, glaring at you until you take a piece of the venison and put it in your mouth. Only when you’re chewing the tough, grisly meat does he pick up a fork and take a bite of his own.

You don’t taste the food, barely able to choke down your meager portion. The meat lands in your stomach like a stone, and for a few minutes, you’re convinced you’re going to vomit. You close your eyes, swaying, willing the nausea away.

“I told you to leave me.” The words are so quiet, barely a whisper, but you know he hears them. There’s the clink of his fork on his plate, a sharp intake of breath.

“Don’t.”

You look at him from under your lashes, feeling heavy, numb. The throb in your ankle is nothing compared to this ache, this terrible pain that you can’t give voice to; you don’t deserve that measure of relief. You turn over and curl up on the bed, shivering but not feeling the cold. 

At some point, you wake. There’s a soft blanket draped over you, and you can feel Joel, still sitting in the chair at the foot of your bed. You recognize the quilt as the one he’d brought stargazing.

Was that really just a year ago?

In the dim light, you can make out a stain on the fabric; it smells like coffee, and an icy grip cinches tight around your gut. This time, you do throw up, leaning over just in time to avoid soiling the mattress.

He’s at your back again, hand on your shoulder, holding your hair.

“Shoulda told me you were sick,” he mutters.

You shake your head, retching until you taste bile. You want to tell him that you’re not sick, that this is just penance, your fair due. He stands. You hear him put the kettle on the stove, adding wood to the fire, digging through his pack for something.

Eventually, he kneels next to you with a mug of warm water. You take it, sip at it, trying and failing to rid your mouth of the awful taste of your insides. He hands you a rag and you wipe your mouth, then he uses it to cover up the mess you’ve made.

He’s sitting next to you on the floor when you turn over. Now the ache in your stomach is a physical one. He pulls the quilt back over your shoulders and you shut your eyes tight. You can’t look at him, can’t look at his face when he’s being kind. You flinch away from his touch when his hand grazes the hair at your temple.

Please stop , you think. Please just stop .

And he does. When you open your eyes after a long stretch of silence, he’s sleeping on the floor facing you, head pillowed on one arm, his hand resting next to yours on the mattress.

~*~

The fire has died by the time you wake again. The air outside the quilt is icy, but you are surprisingly warm. You open your eyes to Joel’s body curled around yours; at some point, while you were sleeping he crawled under the blanket, onto your mattress.

Your first instinct is to push him away, as though your touch is a poison that can be absorbed through the skin. But in your weak attempt to do so, your hands land on his chest and stay there, rousing him from sleep. He blinks once, twice, sleepily taking you in. Then his nose brushes yours and your lips are touching, he’s kissing you, rolling over you, pinning you against the bed.

You jerk your head to one side when you feel that vicious tenderness rising within you, push it down the way you push his head down to your neck, your clavicle. He bites the skin, sucking you in, hard enough to leave a mark.

When he tries to kiss you again, you reach down between you to take him roughly in your hand through his jeans. He groans, grinds out your name against your neck, and a spark of bitter hope blooms inside you.

You know this way.

He’s rough one moment and tender the next, bruising your hips and soothing your wounds, as if he can’t decide whether to make love to you or fuck you until you bleed. He’s too quiet, and you miss the ringing of his filthy mouth in your ears.

You yank down his jeans and pull out his cock, stroking him until he’s thrusting shamelessly into your palm. You run the tip of your thumb over the head, slippery with precum, and roll him back onto the mattress, moving down his torso. He groans when you take him into your mouth.

“Fuuuck.”

There he is.

You take him in as far as you can, swirling your tongue and lapping at the sensitive flesh under the head of his cock until he’s panting, hips rolling under you, fists in your hair.

“M’ not gonna last,” he gasps, pulling you up to him, sitting up to hold you. The position is too familiar, too close. When his hand reaches up to stroke your cheek, you guide it to your throat, pressing on his fingers to tighten his grip. You work the buttons of your jeans and slide them down your hips as his tongue traces the shell of your ear.

When he leans up to kiss you the third time, you roll off him, arching your back and lifting your ass. There’s a pause in which all you can hear is your mingled heavy breathing, as you wait to see if he’ll take the hint.

“Fuck me,” you whisper, hating the way your voice sounds, watery and frail.

You feel his hand on your hip, almost tentative, and then the mattress shifts behind you. He enters you at an angle that used to be his favorite, in one full thrust. It hurts, and you want it to hurt more. You shove back into him, taking him in before you’re fully ready, feeling the tiny tears as you stretch, the blunt force of him at your cervix. He answers with a hoarse cry, one hand gripping your ass while the other slides up your back. You arch back into him, meeting him thrust for thrust.

You’re so wrapped up in the sensation of being filled, of being used, you don’t notice when one hand moves around to your front and slides between your legs…finding you dry.

He stills, breathing hard.

“You–you’re not–”

Suddenly he wrenches out of you and you’re pitifully empty and exposed, cold air replacing the heat of his body like a fire doused with ice water. Your hips are dropped onto the mattress and he’s stumbling toward the door, pulling up his jeans. You watch numbly as his fist makes contact with the wall, leaving a blood-smeared imprint in the plaster.

“Fuck!”

You hear him pulling on his boots, shouldering his rifle, the door slamming behind him.

Tears sting your eyes. You claw at your jeans to cover yourself, drawn into a ball on the mattress, feeling that icy grip on your stomach. You couldn’t even do this, this one simple thing, and it hurts, it hurts so fucking much.

~*~

He stays out all day, not returning until the sun kisses the horizon. You’re sitting in a chair, half asleep when you hear him outside the back door. You can still feel him inside you, the throbbing ache where he’d penetrated you, but that problem feels distant like it’s happening to someone else.

Joel drops his day’s kill–two rabbits–outside the door. He doesn’t talk to you as he dresses them over the stoop at the back of the house, cutting the bodies from stem to stern, carving out the insides, cutting off chunks of meat, and tossing them into a bowl.

You unfold yourself from the chair and put the cast iron on the stove, tossing a new log on the fire. It’s too fresh, still half frozen, and it smolders, sending smoky plumes into the air.

You cook the gamy, chewy meat with a can of baked beans from the cellar pantry; they’re cloyingly sweet, the meat dry but somehow oily at the same time. You don’t taste it, barely notice the textures on your tongue. Bite, chew, swallow, repeat.

You can still smell him on you when you go to bed, when he blows out the candle and you’re cast in darkness with only the glow of the stove between you. 

~*~

You wait until you hear his breathing deepen in the familiar way it does. For a few minutes, you allow yourself to close your eyes and listen, holding this moment alongside all the others like it.

You creep out of bed and slip on your boots and jacket, foregoing your crutch; you can put enough weight on your foot now to make it to the woods. You ease the kitchen door shut behind you, wincing at the soft snick as it latches, holding, waiting to make sure he doesn’t stir.

You make the slow, stumbling trek across the packed snow path that leads to the woods behind the house. Moonlight creates deep shadows under the trees. You’re unaware you’re trembling until you look down and see your hands, shaking, backlit by the moonlit white canvas. There’s wetness on your cheeks, but you don’t feel it.

When you can’t walk any further, you ease yourself down against the trunk of a tree. You pull the gun out of your pocket, surprised at the weight of it. You’re mesmerized by the glint of the reflected light on the dark metal. You feel yourself bringing it up to your mouth, almost involuntarily, and for a moment you wonder if maybe you’ve been infected all this time; if this is how it feels to lose control.

The barrel is cold at the top of your mouth and you hold it there, still trembling, thinking of the parts of the brain the bullet will penetrate as it moves through you. You find yourself reciting the bones and soft tissues, reducing your body to a list of parts and systems.

Your eyes find the stars; your finger finds the trigger.

It will be fast. It will be painless.

You swallow and taste metal, waiting for your finger to apply just the right pressure, waiting for your body to respond, to finally soothe the ache you’ve felt since you left Jackson. When it doesn’t happen, you jerk the gun away from you, breathing hard.

You’re such a fucking coward.

You imagine your name echoing over the landscape, calling you back to a world you don’t deserve to live in.

I can’t go back. I can’t–

You’re not imagining it. 

He’s standing there in the icy halo of his breath, saying your name.

“Give…give me the gun.”

He approaches you slowly, never taking his eyes off the gun, watching it like it was a rabid animal with teeth and claws.

“Please, baby…”

“I can’t,” you whisper, shaking. “I can’t.”

“You can,” he says. He’s almost to you now, he’s kneeling, crawling to you. “Please…just…give it to me.”

You watch, detached, as his hand covers yours, covers the gun. His eyes meet yours and you can see the unshed tears, feel his hand trembling against yours.

“Please,” he whispers.

Your fingers slowly release their grip, letting him take the handgun. There’s a sharp intake of breath as the cold metal leaves your hand, as he fumbles at the switch and unloads the cartridge into his palm. Some last store of strength inside you collapses when he reaches out to take your hand and you fold in on yourself, letting the darkness drag you under.

Joel pulls you to him, rocking back, until he’s sitting on the icy ground and you’re cradled in his lap like a child. His hand cups the back of your head and you can hear his heart thrumming at the pulse point in his throat, hear the rasp of breath in his lungs, feel the shaking in his hands. He’s whispering words into the crown of your hair, words like no , and please , and sorry , but you don’t hear them.

You aren’t here anymore.

~*~

You don’t remember walking back to the house, but you’re sitting in front of the fire, wrapped in a blanket with Joel holding your face in his hands. He’s talking but you can’t make out the words. Your tongue feels like lead in your mouth but you want to tell him to stop, to let you go.

He pushes a mug into your hands, his fingers wrapping yours around it. In the candlelight, you see the wet tracks down his cheeks, feel the heat of the stove at your back. The heat softens you, melts you like wax, and suddenly you are so fatigued you can barely hold your head up.

Then you’re in a bed–Joel’s bed–wrapped in his bedroll and a quilt and he’s holding you like you might float away. You want to tell him that he’s crushing you, but your eyes won’t stay open long enough for your mouth to form the words.

~*~

The first thing you notice is the heat. After weeks of fighting off the cold, you’re finally warm. You realize you’re practically swaddled, anchored by Joel’s arm around your waist. You open your eyes to him.

It comes back to you in pieces; the moonlight, the stars, the gunmetal taste at the back of your throat. He watches you with red-rimmed eyes. You understand, without asking, that he’s stayed awake like this all night.

His hand comes up to trace the skin at your temple. At this moment, you don’t know if you hate him or love him. There’s still an icy hopelessness twisting at your insides that no fire or body heat can touch.

“I found the note.”

You blink, furrowing your brow. You hadn’t left a note…had you?

Then he shows you the crumpled ball of paper clutched in his palm, the one you’d tossed on the ground.

Oh. That note.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, grip tightening around you. “I’m so damn sorry I made you think there wasn’t anything left.”

You try to shake your head, but it’s a slow, painful effort, and your eyes close against your will, sinking back into his warmth.

~*~

He doesn’t leave your side for days. Even when the firewood is almost gone, even when the food supply is dwindling, he stays in the kitchen, whittling away at wood scraps, keenly attuned to your every breath, every twitch, every sigh. At night, he locks you in his arms like they’re a straightjacket and watches you sleep.

By the fourth day, he’s swaying on his feet from the exhaustion of keeping vigil. More than that, he’s driving you fucking crazy–as if you weren’t crazy enough.

“Christ,” you whisper, watching as his head dips forward and snaps back up for the third time in as many minutes. “Take a fucking nap, Miller. I’m not gonna off myself.”

He glares at you, the expression only serving to make him more tired as his eyes flutter shut without his consent.

“Shit,” he mumbles, shaking himself awake again.

You groan. “Go to bed. I’ll be here when you wake up. Alive.”

You don’t tell him that you don’t have the energy to kill yourself even if you still want to. He must sense it, though, because he stands, sways, and stumbles into bed. He’s asleep before his head hits the mattress.

Joel sleeps for hours, and you let your mind go blank, folded in your chair with your bad foot propped up, staring at the curling flames in the stove’s belly. Sometimes you can still feel the gun in your hand; you close your eyes and see the winter snow pierced by stars at the back of your eyelids. It feels like standing on a precipice and leaning forward. You feel hot tears slipping down your cheeks.

When the dark thoughts come, circling like vultures over carrion, you slide out of the chair and insert yourself into his arms, tucking your head under his chin and breathing him in. He doesn’t wake, but his grip on you tightens, cementing you to him with a sigh and a muffled snore.