#raw green rust | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lefteagleblizzard · 2 months ago

Text

ℌ𝔦𝔰 𝔴𝔞𝔶 𝔬𝔣 𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 Joel Miller x male reader

Summary: you test Joel Miller's patience one too many times, desperate to prove yourself and when a reckless act nearly gets you killed, he shows you exactly what happens when you push a man like him too far. You wanted his respect. Instead, you get his full attention under the weight of his fury, pressed face-first against a crumbling wall, held down as he fucks you raw.

Tags: Set in The Last of Us Part I. Male reader. He/him pronouns are used towards the reader. Angst. Enemies/friends to lovers. Age Gap. Protective Joel Miller. Feral Joel Miller. Some descriptions of violence. Some gore elements but not too much. Smut. Gay smut. Top Joel Miller. Brat tamer Joel Miller. Reckless bottom male reader. Size difference. Anal sex.

This was written with game Joel in mind, since I personally prefer the video game way more than the TV show in general.

ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

Words count: 5000

The streets were waterlogged veins, slick with runoff and filth. Buildings leaned like they were exhaling their last breath, brick bloated and peeling from twenty years of rain and collapse. The air hung heavy of mildew, rusted rebar, and the sour stink of stagnant floodwater. Somewhere far off, a car alarm wailed half-heartedly. Closer, nothing but the lap of murky water against concrete.

An hotel loomed up out of the sludge. Hotel Grand, half its letters rusted off the vertical sign still clinging to the brick like a parasite. Green slime clung to the lower floor. Water had swallowed the lobby up to the waist.

The glass doors were shattered. The awning collapsed on one side. Beyond the lobby, darkness pooled like oil, lit only by the glow bleeding through the grime-streaked windows.

You swam through what used to be a valet lane, breaking the surface with a breathless sigh and shaking water from your silenced sidearm. Ellie rode a warped wooden slab, her hands gripping the edges, sneakers dripping. Joel swam with one hand, the other pushing her along, grimacing every time debris scratched his arms or bumped his ribs.

He grunted as he hauled himself up the marble steps into the flooded lobby.

The water inside was of the same green tone, thick with floating filth. Soggy furniture broke the surface like dead whales, mold clawed its way up the walls in dark veins.

You walked in front of the concierge desk. Ellie followed, boots squelching. Her eyes scanned the ruin, then her face lit up. She ducked behind the desk, poked her head up and cleared her throat theatrically “Good afternoon, sir,” she said, grinning. “Do you have a reservation?”

You grinned, adjusting your wet hair and holstering your gun . “Yeah. Name’s Badass.’ Suite, preferably. Got a thing for soaking tubs.”

She snorted, biting her lip to keep from laughing. “Sorry, sir, we’re all booked. But if you’d like to wait on hold for fifteen years—”

Joel groaned from the base of the stairs, racking a round into his revolver. “Both of you, enough.”

“Party pooper,” Ellie mumbled.

You leaned down and offered her a hand up onto the higher ledge. She took it without question. Joel watched the exchange, jaw set, but said nothing. His eyes lingered on your hand a little too long.

You explored the edges of the flooded floor carefully, boots sloshing through what felt more like soup than water. Moss-covered tables leaned sideways. Chairs floated lazily past. Old room service carts lay overturned and rusted, linens eaten by rot.

Dozens and rapid splashes came from outside, in the water.

You froze, just like Joel.

Looking up from where you were, a section of upper flooring had collapsed over the years, exposing the next level up, a sharp edge jutting down like a broken tooth.

You backed up, boots hitting dry tile as you started to run.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare—” Joel’s voice tore through the lobby, low, furious, but you were already mid-air when he barked those words, fingers scraping the jagged edge of collapsed floor and making it possible to pull yourself up, ribs burning.

You pressed yourself flat to the floor just as the front doors slammed open below. Water sloshed and footsteps thundered as some bandits stormed inside

Five of them all armed with rifles, bats and crowbars. A few had makeshift armor strapped on with duct tape and salvaged plate.

The floor beneath your elbows was warped and soft with rot, carpet peeled back to reveal splinters fattened by mold, soaked deep with twenty years of decay. Every deliberate crawl scraped damp grit along your knees, but you couldn’t afford any noises. One creak too sharp and they’d be on you.

You positioned yourself right at the edge of the collapsed floor, the ragged drop-off giving you a broken bird’s eye view of the lobby below, Joel was crouched near an overturned table with Ellie at his side, his revolver steady but his jaw clenched tight.

You spotted the first enemy slinking through the murk. Shoulders hunched, rifle out. His boots sloshed through the knee-high floodwater, one step at a time, muzzle twitching with every sound.

You watched Joel stiffen. He turned, caught Ellie’s sleeve and tugged her further into cover.

You exhaled through your nose, slow and controlled. Pulled your sidearm into position, the familiar weight of the gun settled against your palm, heavy from the custom suppressor bolted to the front. Your gloves soaked from the earlier swim and your breath drew in to further steady your hands.

Thwick.

The shot barely made a sound, but the result was instant.

The man’s head snapped back, a spray of dark red painting the mold-ridden pillar behind him before his body crumpled like a marionette with its strings sliced. The splash he made landing into the floodwater was much louder.

The others whipped around, they spotted the body and your next shot lined up.

Thwick.

The second man dropped like a bag of bricks, blood painting a slick trail across the surface of the water.

You pulled back immediately when one of them had seen the muzzle glint. The crack of a gunshot exploded past your ear and whined off the half-collapsed frame beside your head, splinters lancing across your cheek. You flattened, crawling fast across the broken space toward another patch of shadow.

“Second floor! Flank left, I got him—!”

He didn’t finish. Joel rose up behind the bastard the second his attention was on you, thick bicep wrapping around the man’s throat before he could even cry out.

His forearm flexed, bicep crushing upward. You barely heard the crunch produced by the man’s neck.

Joel didn’t flinch, he just lowered the body carefully into the water without a splash.

The others moved in, furious now, stumbling forward with rage-blind sloppiness. Ellie ducked low and lobbed a brick square in the temple of one of the two bandits, stunning him long enough for Joel to stomp forward and grab him by the throat.

You shifted to a better angle and took out the last man flanking the east wall, catching him in the shoulder first, off aim, but the second shot took him in the eye, dropping him clean.

Your cheek pressed into the warm, dust-caked floor. The reek of wet carpet and decaying upholstery crowded your nose.

Below, Joel kept his revolver at the ready, his back to a soaked pillar, scanning each flickering corner of the flooded lobby while Ellie stayed close, her knife in-hand, hunched and alert.

You exhaled slowly, hand reaching for your sidearm still warm from the string of shots you’d just landed. The silencer was hot. Burned your fingertips a little as you twisted it off to check the threading. Everything is fine and clean.

The tape you’d used to hold the makeshift suppressor firm was wet, but hadn’t loosened. You dragged a cloth across the grooves to clear the grime before pushing it back into place and clicked it securely, eyes still on the ruined lobby below. Then the mag came out, only two rounds left. You yanked a fresh one from your chest rig and slapped it in with a soft thunk.

“Holy shit. That was sick!” Ellie’s voice was clear and loud as she grinned up at you, her voice pitching higher with excitement. “Dude, you’ve gotta teach me how to shoot like that!”

You couldn’t help the grin that pulled at your lips, adrenaline still buzzing in your veins. “You got it, kid.”

“Ellie. Quiet.” Joel’s voice came in low, harsh and unforgiving.

Ellie deflated immediately, her shoulders tensing and mouth snapping shut like she’d just been caught mid-crime. Her brows twitched, but she didn’t talk back. Not when Joel was in that tone.

“There’s still more of ‘em,” he said, before his gaze cut upward straight to you, his hand flexing against the grip of his revolver like he was imagining something far less helpful in it.

“You stupid son of a bitch. You think you’re smarter than the rest of us?”

Joel’s voice cracked across the room like a rifle shot. He stood with his fist clenched at his side, shoulders squared and heaving with fury, eyes burning into you like twin wildfires. His jaw was tight, barely keeping the rest of what he wanted to say behind clenched teeth.

You stood your ground, chin tilted up, voice clipped and biting, trying to mask the dull sting behind your ribs with a poorly disguised air of confidence.

“I had the high ground.” It came out too fast and defensive. The words rang with more pride than sense, tone laced with a bratty sharpness, an edge carved out of disappointment.

You had hoped that Joel might’ve seen the good in what you did. That he’d look past the recklessness and see you not as some liability he had to babysit, but someone capable he could count on.

But the look on his face said otherwise. He saw a mistake, a near-loss.

Joel’s boot scraped the floor as he took a step closer, voice rising. “You had no goddamn idea how many were comin’,” he snapped, eyes wild. “Could’ve been a dozen more. Could’ve circled. You get your dumbass pinned up there, I’m supposed to leave Ellie to come scrape your corpse off the goddamn floor?!”

The air between you went cold from the way he said corpse, like he already saw it happen. Your throat felt dry.

Ellie stayed crouched off to the side, eyes darting between you like she’d seen this play out before.

Your voice was smaller now, but no less certain, heat still burning in your chest, jaw tight and fingers twitching from the adrenaline that hadn’t fully left your body.

“I was covering you—” you started, trying to force it out with calm, like maybe if you sounded sure enough, it would change the way he was looking at you.

“I don’t need cover from someone who don’t know when to sit the fuck down and follow orders.” His words cut sharper than any clicker bite ever could.

Your breath caught mid-chest, your teeth clenching to keep the sting from showing.

You stood there, wounded and unwilling to admit it. You wanted to impress him, earn something more than that constant, irritated scowl. You wanted his respect and attention so badly it made your hands shake.

A purposely long and loud sigh left your lips. “Fine,” you muttered, voice low, rising to your feet with the groan of old floorboards under you.

You caught Ellie’s glance, sympathetic but silent. Smart kid.

“I’ll see if there’s a way to get you guys up. Maybe I’ll find you a muzzle up here while I’m at it.”

As your eyes swept the half-collapsed upper floor, something caught your attention near the far corner of the room. Stashed behind a warped vending machine, just visible through the grime-coated glass of a shattered divider, was a folded set of portable stairs. Rusted aluminum propped diagonally on one leg.

Perfect.

You crept toward it, keeping low. The moment your fingers wrapped around the cold, corroded metal, you felt how stubborn it was, heavier than expected, the rust biting through your gloves like sandpaper.

A wet, slapping rhythm echoed behind you. Bare feet moving too fast. The sound of a body flinging itself across tile, uncaring of its own survival.

The kind of noise that made your spine stiffen before your brain could even register the threat. A guttural, snarled growl that raised every hair on your neck.

You turned but not in time.

A Runner bursted out of a side corridor and it hit you hard, shoulder first, with so much force that your feet left the ground.

Your body smashed sideways into the window to your left, the cracked glass from the neighboring hotel room gave instantly under your weight, shattering in a rush of splinters and light. A mix of glass and old rainwater exploded outward as your back slammed into the floor inside, the wind tore from your lungs.

The runner’s limbs scraped violently along the ground as it scrambled after you. Instinctively, you jammed your arm under its jaw, keeping it barely away from your neck as its head twisted, trying to sink teeth into your skin, screaming rage straight into your ears.

Your free hand scraped and grabbed something sharp and cold. A shard of glass from the shattered window that you immediately slashed straight across the side of its face, cheek to temple.

Red blood sprayed and the infected reeled back, screeching until it went still. One final spasm and then nothing.

You crawled out from under it, elbows dragging you across the other side of the room floor, breath heaving, heart trying to punch a hole through your ribs.

You staggered to the far wall, collapsed against it, eyes wide, gasping. The glass was still in your hand, palms and legs trembling.

You blinked sweat from your eyes and looked for your gun half-hidden beneath a broken shelf.

The second you grabbed it, voices echoed in the hallway. The remaining bandits were coming.

You ran fast. One room to the next. Shattered doors and tilted furniture, boots pounding across buckling floorboards. No time to think or stop.

Gun tight in your grip, trigger finger itching as the bandit came into view through the gnarled remains of a splintered wardrobe.

One shot and the silenced round punched clean through his temple. He dropped without a word, limbs scattering, weapon clattering to the soaked floor.

You caught the second one mid-rotation when he realized his buddy’s death. Two rounds in quick succession to the chest and to the neck. A third bandit appeared through the jagged crack in a doorway, a hatchet swinging wide.

You pulled the trigger once but it was now empty. As fast as possible you ducked, shoulder rolling under the wide arc of the blade, grabbing the man’s arm and ramming your elbow into his ribs with all the force you could muster, a technique you learned after observing Joel for so long.

He grunted, faltered and you plunged the butt of your gun into his skull twice before he dropped to the ground.

But then a body crashed into you from the side. The impact slammed you against the wall so hard your vision burst with white. The sound that left your chest wasn’t even human, more wheezing than scream, your shoulder bouncing off rotting wood.

You dropped your gun involuntarily, it skidded across the floor and out of reach as the bandit pressed his forearm into your neck.

“Fucking stay down,” he hissed, his breath hot and sour in your face, his fist drove into your stomach once, twice, three times.

Then came a hand to your throat, a tight pressure applied almost immediately. His fingers clamped down like steel, cutting off your supply of air. You clawed at his arms, nails digging into the fabric of his sleeve, but it did nothing.

You couldn’t even hear yourself anymore. Your vision had stopped making sense a while ago. Everything was dull around the edges, your lungs screamed, throat crushed under the force that didn’t loosen no matter how hard your legs kicked or how your nails dug at the man’s arm.

Your vision had already started to darken at the edges, oxygen choking off, but the pressure on your throat vanished in an instant.

A crack of impact tore through the room, the man’s head jerked sideways violently. There was a sick, muted thump beneath it, the sound of something soft giving way.

Your knees hit the floor, followed by your palms, sucking in air so violently it burned like fire down your throat.

The bandit staggered, half his jaw hanging loose, the side of his face caved in where Joel’s baseball bat had connected as blood poured down his chest like paint.

Joel swung again, a vicious, two-handed strike that caught the man square in the face. The bat shattered, splinters raining down as the bandit reeled back, blood gushing from his shattered nose.

You stayed on your hands and knees, gasping for breath, the world tilting sideways as you watched Joel step forward, chest heaving.

He dropped the broken bat without a word and lunged. His hands gripped the man’s jacket, yanking him forward, slamming him down onto the ground with a sickening thud, one knee pinning the man’s shoulder, the other digging into his chest and bringing his fists down over and over again.

Blood splattered up Joel’s sleeves as his fists kept slamming down. Each hit was fueled by something deep and wild. Joel’s face twisted, lips curled back in a snarl, his teeth gritted. His fists kept flying, blood spattering across his forearms, painting the broken tile beneath them red.

The bandit was limp by the third punch, his face already unrecognizable, knuckles cracking against wet meat. Blood smeared Joel’s knuckles, dripped down his wrists.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been standing there, half-slumped against the wall, ears ringing and knees buckling, but it felt like the bones in your legs were no longer yours. Joel’s labored breaths were ragged, shoulder brushing brick, his posture hunched and brutal in the aftermath of the kill.

You turned your head away, cheek dragging over the soot-smeared concrete wall, a cold smear left behind from the sweat on your skin.

Your vision swam, too many colors, none of them real. The edges of your sight bloomed in watery halos that faded in and out. The blood rushing in your ears didn’t stop and your lungs still weren’t moving like they were supposed to. Each inhale felt like trying to suck air through a collapsed straw, the burn still flaring where that bastard’s grip had nearly crushed your windpipe.

You didn’t remember deciding to move. Your feet did it for you, more stumble than stride, shoulders scraping the wall as your boots found uneven purchase on the ruined hallway floor. Your left hand hovered, ready to catch the wall if your knees finally gave out, the other still trembled at your side.

You made it to the first door. Hinges long gone. Just a splintered frame and a half-hanging panel of rotted wood that you shouldered through like a drunk man. The room inside was a snapshot of nature reclaiming disaster, walls overtaken by thick curtains of ivy, damp moss blanketing what used to be wallpaper, the floor cracked wide enough in places to let thin tendrils of green poke through.

The air was damp and fungal, your boots left tracks in the damp dust. Motes danced in the shafts of light leaking through shattered slats of the blinds. A queen-sized bed sat in the middle, the old mattress stained and gray with mold. The once-white sheets had rotted into stiff brown paper.

It didn’t matter at the moment, you collapsed onto it. The mattress sank with a groan. You could feel the damp creep instantly through your pants. You let your body drop sideways first, knees angled, back hunched, then slowly, as breath permitted, you adjusted your weight until you were upright, sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows braced to your knees, face buried in your palms.

The panting came back hard. You could hear the rasp of your own breath echoing in your hands. Every muscle in your back screamed in protest when you shifted, thighs trembling, ankles sore. Your ribs creaked when you inhaled too hard, your throat pulsed with angry red heat.

And in that stillness, one thought pushed through the haze like a flare: Where the fuck was Ellie?

You hadn’t seen or heard her.

Joel must’ve made her stay back. Probably barked it at her, harsh and firm, with that tone he saved for things that could end in blood and she would’ve listened. Because she trusted him.

God, you wanted him to really see you as someone who was capable, strong. Maybe not the strongest, not always the smartest, but brave. You wanted him to notice. But instead, you just saw that damn scowl and disappointment.

Your hands dropped from your face, fingertips brushing your thighs, legs screaming in protest the second you tried to push up. Knees quivering, calves unsteady, muscles like dead cords trying to pull you into a standing position and barely succeeding. You reached for the wall, both palms out like you were bracing for a blow, each footstep more a suggestion than a choice. When you finally got upright, you leaned into the nearest support beam hard, cheek pressing to the cool surface, one hand rising to your neck.

The door banged open behind you with the slam of wet wood on tile, your spine going stiff before your brain even caught up. You didn’t need to look to know it was Joel.

You could smell the blood and sweat and rain-soaked shirt, the copper tang of violence riding the heat radiating off his skin.

Whatever humanity had been left in them back in the lobby was gone now. His gaze burned through you like a brand, black with fury, pupils blown wide, jaw clenched so hard the cords in his neck jumped with every shallow breath. Blood dripped from his knuckles, long ropes of it trailing down his forearms, some of it wet, still warm, some already drying dark and cracked over his skin like warpaint. Some droplets of blood were caught in his beard.

“Joel—”

Your voice cracked at the edges, hoarse, so brittle you could’ve sworn it fractured somewhere in your throat. You hadn’t meant for his name to sound like fear. But it did and the second the syllable left your lips, something in him snapped.

He moved fast. He crossed the ruined floor with brutal speed, fists still flexing.

His hands slammed against the wall on either side of your face, trapping you between arms that still trembled with rage. His body closed in, caging you like prey. The blood on his skin smeared against the plaster. His forehead didn’t touch yours but it hovered close enough that every pant hit your lips like fire, his chest brushing yours with the shallow rise and fall of each breath he forced through his nose.

“This what you want?” he spat, voice a sawblade through gravel, eyes burning holes into your skull. “That’s why you keep fuckin’ pullin’ this shit?”

The words came out like punches, venom and heat.

Of course he fucking knew. He always had. In a world like this, a true survivor like him learns to read people’s body languages. He knew you were gone for him.

You spent every goddamn day trying to prove to him you were worth the risk. That you could handle yourself.

He dipped forward suddenly, a grunt tearing from his chest and your body jolted when he flipped you around, palms slamming flat against the wall. Your cheek pressed to the cold surface as his chest crashed into your back with a weight that made your knees threaten to fold.

One of his hands, calloused and massive, slid from the wall to your hip, fingers digging in hard, blood-slick and unyielding. The other came up and gripped your jaw, pulling your head to the side, exposing your neck like prey to the butcher’s blade.

His beard scratched against your throat, dragging over tender skin like sandpaper and honey, sting and sweetness, it made your hands curl into fists against the wall.

His breath was hot, still panting hard from the man he killed for you, the steam of it soaking into the crook of your neck, heating your skin from the inside out.

He grunted, low and guttural, right against your throat.

He shoved his hips forward and you felt the huge bulge pressing right against the cleft of your ass. Hard and thick. You gasped again, breath catching in your throat, jaw clenched as your knees buckled under the weight of that reality.

“Quiet now,” he rasped, voice like thunder in the shell of your ear, “s’funny how fast you shut the fuck up when it counts. All that fuckin’ attitude and now I can’t even get a sound outta you.”

His beard scratched along your collarbone now, lips brushing where neck meets shoulder, breath coming in sharp huffs.

Another grunt. He pressed his hips in harder, letting you feel every goddamn inch of the hardness grinding against your ass.

His hand was under your shirt now. Crawling across your ribs, sticky with blood and gripping your waist with bruising force.

Those hands traveled lower, blood smeared in thick streaks as he reached down and grabbed your ass hard. Fingers biting deep into the flesh, spreading and squeezing until your breath left your lungs in one short, shattered gasp.

He groaned behind you, deep and wrecked and still full of that fire that hadn’t gone out.

Joel’s spit splattered slick into his palm, you could feel the rough grooves of his fingerprints as he circled slow at first, teasing the rim.

The scrape of his beard rasped against your neck, a brutal kiss dragging across your skin, scratching a red path beneath the surface. His mouth opened against the hinge of your jaw, teeth grazing enough to warn. Breath steamed, thick with the copper tang of blood and sweat as he pressed harder.

He grunted low, a guttural sound that vibrated straight through your spine as his thumb pressed forward, circling tighter now, insistently, pushing into resistance and feeling you clench around nothing. You sucked in a sharp breath through your teeth, fists balled hard enough to make your knuckles ache.

His other hand found your hip again, gripping hard, squeezing down to bruise. His thumb breached you in one slow, brutal push, the blunt tip forcing your hole open, your breath catching sharp as you felt the stretch, raw and insistent.

He worked it deeper, knuckle grinding into your rim, twisting, pulling a grunt out of your chest that you couldn’t stifle. His beard rasped harder along your neck, biting into tender skin as he pressed a rough, open-mouthed kiss there, sucking bruises into the curve where shoulder met throat.

“Shoulda done this a long time ago,” he growled, his voice a stormcloud rumble, full of ash and threat. “Shoulda stopped wastin’ my fuckin’ breath screamin’ at you and just realize that all you needed was my cock stuffed so far down that smug throat you couldn’t say a fuckin’ word.”

His breath fogged hot against your skin as he pressed another finger in beside the first. Thicker now, the stretch sharper, the burn deeper.

You shuddered hard, hips rocking instinctively away from the pressure, but Joel’s grip snapped your body back against him, holding you flush, making you take every inch he forced inside.

“None of that,” he growled, breath breaking against the shell of your ear. “Gonna open you up good to take every fuckin’ inch I give you.”

The blunt force of his words punched straight to the pit of your gut, made your cock twitch even as your body trembled against the intrusion. His fingers scissored wider, dragging at the tender rim of your hole, making room where there hadn’t been enough.

The press of his body behind you felt like iron, solid and unyielding, decades of muscle and violence caging you in, heat rolling off him in waves thick enough to drown.

His fingers twisted deeper, hitting that spot that made your hips jerk, breath stuttering, a raw noise tearing from your throat that wasn’t a word, just heat and need given sound. He curled his fingers inside, dragging along the tender bundle of nerves again, grinding that spot until your knees buckled, hands scrabbling useless against the wall.

You could barely speak, the burn of the stretch making your thighs shake, your breath coming sharp and ragged. Joel’s free hand dragged up your side, palm rough with calluses, smearing sweat and blood in its path, then gripped the back of your neck, forcing your head down, making you arch your spine and push your hips back into his hand.

His fingers pulled free slowly, dragging wet and sticky from your hole, leaving it twitching, pulsing with the need to be filled again.

Joel grunted, shifting behind you, the scrape of his belt buckle loud in the quiet, the wet squelch of fabric pushed down over his thighs, heavy denim dragging rough along his skin.

You could feel the press of him, thick and hot.

“Breathe,” he growled, the word rough and commanding. “Ain’t gonna be gentle. You want this, you fuckin’ take it.”

He didn’t wait. His hips thrust forward hard, the fat head of his cock splitting you open with one brutal push, the thickness of him forcing your hole wider than his fingers ever could. The burn tore up your spine, sharp and blinding, breath stolen clean from your chest as he groaned deep.

“Fuck—” Joel rasped, voice breaking as he felt how tight you were around him, the squeeze of your body choking him, resisting him. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you back onto him as he shoved deeper, inch by thick inch, forcing your body to stretch and take him.

The girth of him felt obscene, too much, scraping raw inside as he pressed forward, grunting with each shove, grinding his hips into your ass until you could feel the heavy drag of his balls against your skin.

Hips grinding slow to let you feel the full weight of him buried deep, stretching you open around the root of his cock. His beard scraped against your shoulder as he leaned in, breath panting hard against your skin, chest heaving with each ragged exhale.

His hips pulled back slowly, just the head dragging out, then slammed forward again, the slap of skin on skin echoing loud in the room. He set a brutal pace, hips snapping forward, cock grinding deep, rearranging you from the inside out.

Each thrust punched a groan from your chest, made your hands claw at the wall, desperate for something to hold onto as he fucked you harder, rougher, cock driving so deep you could feel the press of him against your guts.

His body loomed behind, weight anchoring you in place, heat radiating from his sweat-slick skin, hot breath panting hard into the crook of your neck.

His cock dragged out of you slow, thick and deliberate, every inch pulling free with a wet slide that left your hole clenching. You could feel the swell of his tip flare wide at the rim, the drag of thick veins scraping raw along your insides as he pulled nearly all the way out, leaving you empty for a breathless second before his hips slammed forward again, splitting you open all over again.

“Fuckin’—tight,” Joel snarled low, voice shredded raw at the edges, chest heaving as he buried himself to the hilt, every thrust forcing the air from your lungs, cock grinding against that spot that made your legs buckle, stretching your guts around his cock like he meant to leave you gaping and ruined, filled with the shape of him.

His hand snapped up, rough fingers curling hard around your jaw, wrenching your head to the side with brutal force and crashing his mouth against yours, lips bruising, beard scraping hard enough to bite.

His tongue shoved deep between your teeth, invasive and desperate, claiming you from the inside out. His lips pressed hard, swallowing the broken moans spilling from your throat as he fucked you harder, cock grinding deep with every thrust.

Joel groaned into your mouth, voice rough and thick, tongue twisting deep as his cock hammered into you, every inch grinding against that tender spot that made your knees threaten to give. His hand gripped your jaw tight, holding you still as he kissed you like he meant to devour you, tongue fucking your mouth with the same brutal rhythm as his hips.

You could feel him swell inside you, the twitch of his cock as it throbbed thick, grinding deep as he panted against your lips, every muscle pulling tight as he barreled toward the edge.

Joel groaned loud, hips grinding deep, cock pulsing thick inside you as he slammed forward one last time, burying himself to the root, grinding hard, body shuddering as he spilled deep, filling you with the hot rush of his cum, thick and heavy, flood after flood of warmth filling you until it leaked out around the base and dripping down your thighs.

Joel’s breath stayed ragged against your lips, the weight of him grinding deep inside, his cock buried thick to the hilt, body pressed flush to yours.

The last pulsing throb of his cock inside you made your guts ache as he stayed there for a long moment, body locked solid, his head bowed forward against the back of your neck, breath heaving, beard rough and scratching as he rasped against your skin. His fingers twitched against your waist like he wasn’t ready to let go.

He dragged himself slowly from your body, the stretch of it pulling wet and thick from your hole, leaving you aching, raw and empty in its absence.

Joel’s breath hitched again as he stood back enough for the cool air to kiss the sweat streaked across your skin. His hands dropped from your waist, dragged roughly down your sides before falling away completely, leaving you trembling against the wall.

“Get dressed.” A command, not an offer. Joel shifted behind you, the sound of him tucking himself back into his jeans loud, followed by the snap of his belt buckle.

You turned your head enough to see him out of the corner of your eye. That old familiar scowl carving deeper into the lines of his face, like what had just happened between you was something he could shove down, bury beneath anger and the weight of survival.

You pushed off the wall slowly, body aching, the mess of him slick between your legs, the sting at your rim sharp where he’d worked you open. Your hands fumbled for your pants, tugging them up with fingers that still trembled, pulling cloth back over skin that felt too raw to cover.

Joel watched, but his gaze never lingered too long, never dipped back down your body. He turned away fast, grabbed his revolver, checked the chamber with a sharp, practiced motion.

“We ain’t stayin’ here.” His voice was steady now, pushing past what had happened like it hadn’t cracked something open between you both. “Too exposed.”

You nodded again, wiping sweat from your brow with the back of your hand, swallowing down the knot in your throat.

Joel lingered in the doorway, weight settling heavy in the frame, fingers flexing slowly over the worn strap of his rifle, jaw clenched so hard you could see the twitch in the muscle there, a silent warning.

“You so much as step outta line again,” Joel growled, voice rough enough to sand the edges off bone, “I’ll put you right back where you belong.” His stare didn’t waver. “Don’t think I won’t.”

Fuck if that didn’t drag up the old self, the cocky, reckless part of you that never knew when to leave well enough alone, a smirk creeping slow to the corner of your lips, small but sharp enough to cut through the tension between you.

You met his stare head-on, that grin flickering into place like a goddamn match strike. Couldn’t help it. Wouldn’t, even if you’d wanted to.

“Is that a promise?” You rasped, voice low, playful curling around the edges.

Joel’s brow twitched, the scoff that rumbled out of him spoke louder than any words.

There was a shift at the corner of his mouth, subtle as the ghost of a breeze, a smile threatening to break out. It tugged faint at the rough line of his lips, there and gone, but you caught it. That flash of satisfaction threaded through the ironclad control he tried to keep wrapped tight around himself.

He crushed it down fast, that jaw clenching hard again, eyes flicking away as he shook his head. “Always gotta have the last word,” he grumbled, voice rough, annoyed, but the edge of warmth tucked so far down you almost missed it.

It was over, for now, but that flicker of a smile said he wouldn’t mind one bit if you gave him a reason to follow through on it.

But that was just a theory you elaborated.

Time to test it.

347 notes · View notes

thedilfdiaries · 2 months ago

Text

You found me

arthur morgan x f!reader || 1.8k

Summary: A routine trip into the woods for herbs turns violent when a coyote attack leaves you injured and alone. But Arthur finds you, and everything changes.

Warnings: just a lil fluff, Arthur fixing reader, animal attack, drawn out tension between the characters

Notes: This is a very secret spy mission I was on tonight for @thundermartini . this is just a tiny thing to say thank you for being the best of the best, for always cheering me on, for being the bees knees, the cats meow, you are truly one of a kind baby and I love you so much 💖🫂🫶🏼 anywayyyyyyyy I hope you enjoy

Masterlist

You’ve spent so much time in the woods that the rustling of the trees usually comforts you. Today, it doesn’t. Today, you’re too far from camp, your satchels too full, your boots are too muddy, and your thoughts are too scattered. The air is warm but heavy, clouds rolling in slow and low above the canopy. You don’t like the feeling, but you ignore it anyway.

You find the patch of wild mint tucked beneath a fallen log and kneel down to gather it—sharp, green, fragrant. It reminds you of Arthur, in a strange way. Something rough, wild, but useful. Healing.

You smile a little at the thought. You’ve been thinking about him more than you should.

Once, not long ago, you’d sliced your palm open on a rusted nail behind the horseshoe station. Arthur had been the one to wrap your hand, gruff but gentle, his brow tight with concern. “Gotta be more careful, sweetheart,” he had murmured, brushing dirt from your knuckles like he couldn’t help himself. You had laughed and called him bossy. But you’d watched the way his jaw worked after—like there was something he wanted to say and couldn’t.

But he keeps his distance. Like he doesn’t think he deserves to get close.

The Van der Linde gang is family, in its strange and fractured way. Arthur’s always treated you kind—respectful in a way some of the others never quite mastered. He listens to you when you speak, doesn’t scoff when you talk about herbs and poultices like the rest of them sometimes do. And he looks at you, really looks at you, like you’re not just another pair of hands around camp.

You pretend it doesn’t bother you.

The growl is quiet, almost too quiet. You hear it just as you’re reaching for another stem. You freeze, heart skipping.

The coyote lunges before you can turn.

You hit the ground hard. It’s not a clean fall—you twist wrong, shoulder slamming into a jagged root, and the pain is immediate and blinding. The breath rushes from your lungs. Claws dig into your back. You scream, shove, thrash, somehow managing to drive your blade into its side. The beast snarls, jerks away, then disappears into the brush like it was never there.

You lie in the dirt, your body screaming, shoulder thudding with pain so intense it turns your stomach.

You can’t breathe right.

You can’t move your arm.

You don’t cry, but your throat burns like you might.

Your vision sways. You lean against a tree and focus on surviving. The pain blooms and blooms and keeps blooming.

When you hear a horse, you think you’re imagining it.

But then—

“Hey!”

Arthur’s voice is ragged, raw like it’s been torn from his chest. You turn your head, barely, and there he is—boots kicking up dirt, reins dropped, eyes wild.

He falls to his knees in front of you. Grabs your face gently, cradling your jaw like he’s afraid you’ll shatter.

“What the hell happened?”

“Coyote,” you whisper, dazed. “Shoulder’s—bad. I—I can’t move it.”

His eyes scan your body, hands hovering over you without touching. You’ve never seen Arthur Morgan look scared before.

He looks scared now.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “Damn it. I should’ve come with you.”

“I was fine,” you lie.

“No, you ain’t,” he snaps, but there’s no heat in it. Just fear. “We gotta get you back. I can’t do much for you out here.”

You nod, barely.

He slips an arm around your back, another under your knees, and lifts you like you weigh nothing. You cry out without meaning to—the movement lights your shoulder up like fire—and you fist your good hand in his coat, trying to breathe through the hurt.

Arthur presses his cheek against your hair. “I got you,” he murmurs. “I got you, sweetheart. You hold on now.”

Sweetheart. The word cuts through the pain like sunlight.

The trail blurs in your vision, pine trees and dark green, the scent of horses and earth. Arthur's coat is warm against your cheek.

“I thought you weren’t comin’,” you whisper at one point.

“I'll always come for you,” he says, and it sounds like a vow.

Back at camp, chaos stirs the moment you arrive. Miss Grimshaw demands space, but Arthur doesn’t budge. He carries you to your bedroll himself, eases you down with a gentleness you didn’t know he had in him.

Then he kneels. Takes out his knife. Cuts your torn shirt open at the shoulder and exposes the damage.

You look away. You hate how vulnerable you feel.

“Look at me,” he says quietly. “Ain’t nothin’ you need to be ashamed of.”

You do. His eyes are softer than they’ve ever been. Full of something aching and real.

“This is gonna hurt,” he warns. “Bad. But I need to set it before it swells worse.”

You grit your teeth. “Do it.”

He does. You scream. The pain is so deep and so bright you think you might pass out—but Arthur’s there, grounding you, you find yourself grabbing onto his vest, your forehead pressed to his collarbone.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just lets you hold on while the pain crests and fades.

“You good?” he asks after a minute, his voice low.

You nod, your face against his chest. “Yeah.”

His hand comes up resting carefully against the back of your head. “You scared me.”

You pull back enough to look at him. His eyes are storm-dark, gaze pinned to yours. There’s a vulnerability there you’ve never seen before—not from Arthur.

“I didn’t think anyone’d come lookin’ for me that fast,” you whisper.

“I always would,” he says simply. “You know that, right?”

Your chest aches in a different way now. Deep and warm and terrifying.

The air between you feels charged. Strange and thick, like the calm after a storm—or right before the next one breaks.

When it's over—when your shoulder is finally wrapped tight and the sweat cooling on your brow is wiped away with careful fingers — Arthur’s still crouched beside you with his hand lingering on your knee like he doesn’t want to pull back, and you’re still breathing heavy from the pain.

Your eyes meet his.

And neither of you looks away.

There’s something stretching taut in the silence. You feel it in the way his gaze drops to your mouth, in the way his thumb brushes the outside of your knee without him even seeming to realize he’s doing it. You feel it in your own chest, the way your breath hitches, the way your lips part just barely.

He leans in.

So slow. Like he’s afraid to spook you. Like he’s afraid to want.

And god, you want.

Your nose brushes his. His breath is warm and smells faintly of tobacco and pine. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw again, thumb resting just beneath your cheekbone. His eyes flicker—searching yours like he’s waiting for you to stop him.

You don’t.

He gets so close you can feel the heat of his mouth against yours, your lips nearly brushing.

And then, finally, his lips press to yours.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not rushed, either.

It’s desperate and quiet and full of everything he’s never said. His hand cups your jaw like you’re something precious, like touching you any harder might shatter you. And he kisses you like he’s drowning—like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the world. You feel the tremble in him, the restraint in his shoulders, the way he’s holding himself back even now.

He pulls away just enough to breathe—but not far, never far, and then he kisses you again. Slower this time. Reverent. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the taste of you, like some part of him knows he may never get another chance.

You gasp into his mouth. Your good hand fists in the front of his shirt, fingers twisted in the worn fabric like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go.

He lets you. Stays there, close and warm and real.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathe hard, chests rising and falling like you’ve just run for your lives.

Neither of you speaks.

The quiet between you hums, charged and heavy, every inch of space that used to exist now filled with something fragile and real.

“I thought I lost you,” he says, voice barely more than a breath. Like it costs him something to admit it out loud. Like it’s the most honest thing he’s said in years.

You press your palm to his chest, right over the thud of his heart.

“You didn’t,” you whisper. “You found me.”

His eyes flutter shut. His hand comes up and wraps around your wrist, holding it there. Holding you there. His grip isn’t tight, but there’s something desperate in it. Like if he lets go, you might slip through his fingers all over again.

Then—

“Arthur!”

Dutch's voice cuts through the night sharp and loud, calling him from across camp.

It shatters the moment like glass hitting stone.

Arthur blinks, flinching like someone slapped him. His head lifts. The air between you turns colder, thinner. His hand falls from your face, reluctant.

And just like that, it’s gone. The moment—the kiss—the closeness. Gone like smoke caught in a breeze.

He stands up too fast, like putting distance between you might dull the ache settling in his chest. He clears his throat, avoids your eyes. But then—

Then he pauses.

His gaze drops back to you.

And his hand reaches out one more time—soft, hesitant. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, slow and careful, like it’s the only thing he’s allowed to do. His fingers linger just a second too long against your cheek. Like he doesn’t want to let go.

“Get some rest, alright?” His voice is rough again. Lower. “I’ll bring you somethin’ warm to eat.”

He doesn’t wait for you to answer.

He turns and walks away, the weight of everything unsaid trailing behind him like a shadow.

And you’re left there, lips still tingling, heart aching, hand still curled over the echo of his heartbeat.

The spell breaks.

The moment dissolves like mist under morning sun.

But the feeling doesn’t.

It stays.

#arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 fluff #rdr2 #arthur morgan

234 notes · View notes

pineconepie · 4 months ago

Note

parental yandere wizard becoming attached to (unwilling/unknowing) apprentice reader and deciding to keep them as their little baby <3

I hope this is good!!

TW: Kidnapping, parental yandere, descriptions of blood/violence, infantilization

...

You've always liked exploring the forest, it was different to most forests, almost straight out of a storybook. The trees were twisted with age, the flowers vibrantly bright and always in bloom no matter the time of year.

The air felt alive here. Magical. It felt more like home than your actual home.

Of course, there were some dangerous creatures that lurked the forest's depths, but you'd never ventured far enough to come across one before.

It seems that your biggest fear should've always been your own kind; humans. You always thought your demise would come from a hungry wolf or poisonous plants, but in reality?

It was a hunter's trap that crunched down on your ankle while you were daydreaming. A bear trap, the metal jaws clamping shut, crushing your bones and drawing blood.

The scream that rips itself out of your throat is loud enough to scare birds out of the surrounding trees.

Pain shoots up your leg, hot and cold at once, making it throb with each frantic heartbeat. You grip the jaws of the trap, your fingers scrabbling against the rusted iron until they're raw, trying to pry them open.

You realize with horror no one will find you out here.

Well, that's what you think, when suddenly the sound of quick footsteps and leaves crunching underfoot reach your ears. The steps slow, stop, and then...

"Oh my goodness!" a voice exclaims with dismay. Despite the panicked tone, their voice sounds soft and gentle.

You lift your head and are met with a pair of worried green eyes, wide behind thin spectacles. Their frame isn't too much taller than your own, and they have messy hair and freckles.

Even though their appearance is somewhat youthful, you can tell they're somewhere in their early forties.

"It's alright," they say, crouching next to you. "It'll all be alright, okay, sweetheart?"

Their voice is still soft, almost like someone talking to a frightened child. And, in this situation, you probably look like a frightened child, curled in on yourself and whimpering from the pain shooting up your ankle.

The stranger touches the metal gently and mutters something beneath their breath; the trap pops open so quickly that you squeak. The relief on your ankle is immediate, until you try to move it and another pained sob tumbles out of you.

You glance up at your savior who has removed their cloak, bunching it up in their hands.

"Just hold still, dearest. I know it hurts," they murmur softly, reaching forward to wrap it around your foot with great care, supporting your ankle the best they can. They give you a wobbly smile. "I'm going to take you home, okay? So I can help fix you right up."

Without their cloak, you notice they're covered in faded scars and marks.

Before you can open your mouth to ask, however, you're suddenly lifted into their arms with great strength, as if you weighed nothing more than a small toddler.

It startles you enough that you cling onto the front of their blouse.

"Careful, careful," they coo, giving you another quick smile before setting off, keeping your body pressed against theirs. You bury your face in the fabric of their shirt without thinking, sniffling quietly, still trying to ignore the pain radiating up your leg. "I'm so lucky to have found you... it's like my prayers have been answered! Maybe I am blessed, after all..."

They sound weirdly happy about this all, but you're in too much pain to really care.

And so you relax against your savior and allow yourself to drift off into a restless slumber.

...

When you wake up, you find yourself lying comfortably on a soft bed with warm blankets wrapped around you.

Your ankle isn't throbbing anymore; instead, you feel nothing more than a slight ache, now. You shift around until you're propped up on your elbows and can see your bandaged ankle resting atop a pillow.

You notice you've been changed into pastel pajamas which feel soft and clean against your skin.

Footsteps reach your ears, and you lift your head to watch as a stranger steps through the doorway, wearing that familiar kind smile you remember.

It was the same one they wore while they were scooping you up in their arms...

They hold two steaming mugs, each a dark red color. You recognize them as the person who saved you from that hunter's trap, so you allow yourself to relax back against the pillows again.

When you had first caught sight of them, you weren't sure whether or not they'd planned to bring you harm, but they seemed too sweet to mean any.

"I made you some hot chocolate," they say, walking towards the bed and setting the mug down beside you. They sit down in a chair situated next to the bedside with their own hot chocolate, blowing gently on the steam. "No one ever ventures out here. Were you lost?"

"N-No," you say, hating the way your voice quivers slightly. You clear your throat and reach for your own cup. "I live in the village closest to the forest. I... I was exploring when I stumbled across a bear trap. I wasn't looking where I was going."

Their gaze becomes sharper, but not to you specifically. "Ah. Those damn hunters." Then, they frown. "Sorry for my language."

You huff a laugh. "'Damn'? I've said far worse, I'd hardly call that a curse word." At the look they send you, you quickly say, "Maybe I look younger than I actually am. I'm not a kid."

Their smile returns. "Oh, love. If that's what you want to tell yourself."

You frown at their cryptic statement, staring at them suspiciously over the rim of your cup. You take a tentative sip, the drink sweet and creamy on your tongue, much better than the ones from the market.

"Well, whatever. I still appreciate your help. I would've bled to death out there without you. I had no idea there was anyone living out here." You blink slowly at them and continue, "So, um... what's your name?"

They grin. "Solaris, and I'm glad I could be of assistance. After all, I couldn't just leave you out there, crying like that. Positively shattered my heart!" They sigh dramatically, clutching at their chest. "Now, you have to heal. I already applied medicine to your ankle. All you need now is rest, sunshine."

You bite the inside of your cheek. "Sorry, but... how long will it take to heal? I have somewhere to be, so..."

Solaris glances over at you with an arched brow. Their lips are pressed in a thin line, though it doesn't seem as if they're mad or upset. "Well..." They pause to contemplate on something. "I'll be honest with you. I've been lonely. For so long I've craved not only an apprentice of my own, but my own baby, as well. Just before you showed up, I was pleading to whatever Gods above to grant me this wish. And then..." Solaris smiles. "There you were! Like an angel fallen from the sky. Like my very own angel."

You're quiet for a moment, blinking owlishly at them. "...And that means what, exactly?"

"It means... I'll keep you."

You let out a weak chuckle. "Yeah, okay, funny joke..."

"Oh, I'm not joking," they interrupt, turning to meet your stare. They don't hold that usual soft smile anymore. Instead, their expression has hardened, their lips now pursed in a thin line.

You swallow thickly at the sudden change, gripping your cup tighter than before. "But I can't stay. I have family and friends that will be worried about me."

"They have each other, don't they? Meanwhile I have no one..." Once again, they sigh dramatically. This time it makes you flinch. "All I have is my research and magic, and that gets painfully lonely."

"M-Magic?" you repeat, startled.

"Yes. An experienced one, in fact. Very skilled with potions and spells. Why do you think your wounds healed so quickly?" Their mouth twitches into a faint smirk. "Now I suppose you understand why trying to run would be useless. Besides, Mama just wants their precious baby safe and healthy..."

Your nose scrunches. Mama...?

"Um... sorry, but... no, thanks." You stumble out of bed, and are shocked to feel only a mild ache in your leg, the wound no longer bleeding, the skin cleanly stitched together. You limp towards the door as quickly as you can, but Solaris snaps their fingers and the pain is back, but five times worse than before. You fall against the floor with a cry.

"Now why did you make me do that?" Solaris shakes their head.

"No!" you snap. "You're insane. You aren't my mom!"

"Well, I wouldn't be opposed to a more masculine term—"

"How does 'asshole' sound?" you suggest dryly, using the nearby dresser to haul yourself onto your feet. The wood feels smooth against your clammy palms.

They hum lowly. "I'd like an apology, please. You're being a brat, and you haven't even spent a full day here yet." You only glare, which gets another long sigh out of them. "Fine. I suppose we'll do this the hard way."

The pain increases tenfold, and you nearly collapse again with a choked sob. Suddenly, the weight on your legs feels unbearable; even the task of breathing seems painful, each breath sending another sharp ache down your spine. A whimper escapes you.

You hate the tears stinging at your eyes, but the hurt is so bad that it takes every ounce of concentration not to curl up and scream.

"Apologize, sweetheart," Solaris coaxes softly. "No reason to act like such a stubborn brat. I don't like doing this to you, you're forcing my hand."

A tremble racks through your body as you sink down to your knees. "I'm sorry," you gasp, unable to bear it any longer. "Please, I'm sorry—stop!"

Finally, it ceases. The throbbing dulls to a light pressure once again.

With it, the tension drains from your muscles, and you slump backwards against the dresser.

You hug your knees to your chest and shiver when Solaris reaches forward to pull you onto their lap, smoothing down the locks of hair sticking to your sweaty forehead.

"See?" they whisper, pressing their lips against your temple. "If you'd only listened to mama like a good child... but I forgive you, my love. I always will. Now let's get you back in bed—it looks like you're going to sleep next to Mama tonight."

They lift you into their arms and tuck you beneath the covers, planting another kiss on top of your forehead. It seems they won't be leaving; the bed dips underneath their weight while they snuggle up beside you, humming a quiet tune underneath their breath.

You freeze momentarily before relaxing, letting them draw patterns along your arm, up and down and up again, the motions soothing enough that you soon find yourself slipping into slumber.

"There we go," Solaris says. "That's much better, hm? Goodnight, baby."

...

The next morning greets you with the smell of something good. Your stomach rumbles quietly from underneath the blankets.

You yawn, sitting up straighter in bed, wincing slightly at the stiffness in your leg. Although your wounds had closed, your leg was still wrapped in bandages to help ease the soreness away. You swing your legs off of the mattress and lower them down onto the cool wooden flooring below.

As soon as you're able to stand steadily, you walk out of your bedroom and wander until you stumble across the kitchen; you see Solaris bustling around the room, grabbing silverware and plates for your breakfast.

They turn and beam, seeing you standing awkwardly by the entrance.

"Good morning, sunshine!" Solaris says cheerfully. "Did Mama's little star sleep well?"

Star? That's a new one...

You merely hum instead, moving to sit in the nearest chair available. In front of you is a plate of pancakes already.

You glance back up to look at Solaris, who's watching you carefully. Only when they give you a smile and gesture for you to start eating do you grab your fork and dig in, only because you're starving. You take large gulps of water too.

"Slow down, slow down, sweetie! You'll get sick!" Solaris admonishes. Their brows furrow. "My goodness, when was the last time you had a proper meal?"

You ignore the question, continuing to scarf down your food and avoiding their eyes.

You can see them staring you down out of your peripherals.

It isn't long until you finish up your plate and you scoot out of the chair, ready to make a break for your room—until you're caught by a firm hand grasping the collar of your shirt.

The back of your throat makes an embarrassing noise, which draws a warm chuckle from Solaris's end. Your ears grow hot. Stupid.

"Ah, ah, ah! Don't be naughty," they chide, wagging a finger in front of your face. "Mama's gotta re-bandage your injury."

You scowl at them but follow nonetheless. Better to remain obedient for now.

They lead you through a narrow hall and open a pair of wide, heavy oak doors. Inside lies a study filled to the brim with books, all different sizes and colors, organized neatly on tall bookshelves lining the wall.

A round mahogany table sits at the center of the room, littered with strange gadgets and bubbling potions.

"This is where I study," Solaris explains. They motion over to a couch. "Why don't you lie down right here for Mama, sweetie? It won't take very long. Promise."

Once again, you oblige, albeit reluctantly. You plop down on the soft cushions and place both of your legs across them.

Solaris bends down to inspect the stitches before gingerly peeling the old wrappings off, tossing the bandages away into the trash bin. You peer down to examine the wounds yourself.

They're clean-cut and sewn together carefully. Almost professionally, you note.

"Will they leave scars?" you ask.

Solaris blinks. "Most likely. I've got magic, but that doesn't mean it's unlimited." They seem almost apologetic as they gently press around the irritated skin. "The wounds should stay sealed up so long as you don't irritate them."

After adding some more ointment, they wrap your ankle up anew. Next they check on your hands, brushing feather-light touches against the raw skin.

"I can get rid of these scrapes with a spell. Will that be okay, sweet pea?"

"It's fine, I guess," you say, pulling a face. "Won't hurt, will it?"

"Not at all. Just a small tickle, is all." Before you can add anything else, Solaris waves a hand over your palms, muttering a chant beneath their breath—and within seconds, your hands begin to tingle.

The sensation lasts barely half a minute and fades as quick as it appeared. You wiggle your fingers and gawk at how smooth and free of blemishes your skin has become.

"How did you become a wizard?" you ask them curiously.

"Hm..." They scratch their chin, clearly thinking their answer over. "Well, I grew up studying the craft ever since I was a tiny thing. My father practiced dark magic and my mother was a white witch. After their passing, I wanted to learn everything I could about what they studied and became obsessed with spells and research... But that was many, many years ago."

"Years ago?" you echo. "How old are you? You look fairly young."

Solaris lets out a laugh, patting the top of your head in fondness. "Flatterer! You sure know how to win people's hearts." They wipe imaginary sweat off their brow before answering, "Magic has slowed my aging down quite a bit. I'm actually around a hundred."

"Oh," is all you manage to utter, unable to conjure up another response. A part of you isn't entirely surprised by the fact, seeing how far advanced their abilities are.

Before either of you can speak again, Solaris cups both of your cheeks. "And you can age slower too. With me, here! Isn't that wonderful? I could even make you younger than what you are now, if you'd like. Not that it'd matter either way, since you're my baby, regardless."

You suppress the shiver trying to run down your spine. "The only thing I'd ever want from you is to take me home."

Your reply makes them frown deeply. "Now why would I want to do that? This is your new home, right here with me. And when you adjust, we can decorate your room however you want!"

"I don't want a new room," you protest. "I don't want a new home. And I especially don't want a new parent."

"You may not think so now," they reply. "But you'll warm up to it soon enough. I have faith in you, buttercup. You'll see."

The words send dread shooting down your spine.

...

After breakfast, Solaris gives you the grand tour.

"There isn't much to see, really," they admit sheepishly, rubbing the back of their neck. "My study is full of chemicals, so you can't be allowed in there alone. Even when you do agree to be my apprentice."

You look out the nearby window, and realize how high up you are in the stone tower.

Below you, the village you used to live in is visible beyond the forest; it looks like miniature buildings now, the villagers themselves nothing more than ants milling about.

"This used to be a watch tower. Hundreds of years old, mind you. I renovated it myself with a little magic and a lot of elbow grease. You should've seen the place beforehand—it was practically dilapidated!" Their cheerful chatter trails off after that, allowing you to gaze out the window once more. Then they say, in a gentler tone, "Is your old home somewhere down there? That must've been a long walk to get so deep into the woods."

"Mhm," you murmur, tracing circles against the dusty glass with your fingertips.

"Well, I think that's just about everything." Solaris pauses. "We can discuss an apprenticeship later. For now, why don't you read a book from the library downstairs? Any one you wish." When you frown, they lean forward to plant a kiss on top of your forehead. "Or maybe you'd prefer being rocked and read to in Mama's arms?"

"No," you grit out between clenched teeth. You huff and cross your arms over your chest petulantly.

They smile. "I figured. Go on, then."

You move to exit the room.

...

Hours pass, and you're painfully bored.

There wasn't anything interesting in the library, and you're too anxious about touching anything in the study. Your only form of entertainment at the moment are the birds tweeting outside, along with the clouds floating by lazily overhead.

It would almost be peaceful if you weren't stuck here against your will. If you could only escape—then, you wouldn't have to deal with Solaris's coddling any longer.

Thinking about it, your face scrunches up.

You had been on the receiving end of plenty of hugs today, as well as kisses and a good portion of baby talk.

Each encounter left a sour taste lingering on the back of your tongue.

You can't take this any longer. You rip off both of the long curtains to the side of the window, and tie them together tightly, braiding them into a rope-like length of fabric.

Thankfully, Solaris is preoccupied somewhere else, giving you plenty of time to set things up.

Your knot-tying skills are less than subpar, but you make do. Once secured, you throw the makeshift rope outside and tug on it a few times for safety purposes.

With an audible gulp, you slowly shimmy down, squeezing your eyes shut to avoid looking down below. Thankfully, the ground reaches you before anything bad can happen. When your feet touch the grass, relief floods your veins in one dizzying rush.

Freedom is finally in sight. There's no sign of Solaris anywhere.

You're about to sprint away from the watch tower as fast as possible, when suddenly an invisible force renders you completely immobile.

"Sneaky, sneaky," comes a familiar voice behind you.

When you don't respond, Solaris clicks their tongue. They snap their fingers once, removing the invisible chains around your body.

They pick you up and rest you against their hip while ascending up the stairs. "Oh dear. Now look what we've done—you ripped poor Mama's favorite curtains..."

You wriggle desperately in their grasp. "Let me go!"

"Why?" they say, sounding genuinely confused. "I made you those cute clothes. I fed you. Why run away? Do you enjoy breaking my heart?" There's a brief pause while they push open a door to a bedroom and place you inside. "Maybe a night alone in here will make you reconsider your choices."

Before you can argue or defend yourself, Solaris closes the door, and you hear the tell-tale jiggling of keys and turning of locks on the other side.

You pull at the knob and pound your fists on the wood repeatedly, until your hands sting and throb with a dull pain.

Then, the exhaustion settles deep in your bones and you fall asleep on the bed.

#answered ask #parental yandere #platonic yandere #familial yandere #forced age regression #forced agere #solaris oc #tw kidnapping #tw blood #tw injury

393 notes · View notes

grayandthyme · 24 days ago

Text

Summer of 1989 ; Chapter 2

"aren't you a lil' old for cheerios?"

♫ my tears ricochet - taylor swift ✎ read this on ao3 ✎or read this on wattpad!

previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter

tommy miller x reader synopsis: You and Tommy circle each other like old ghosts, past bleeding into every glance, every touch—until a construction notice breaks careful distance and exposes old wounds still raw. Neither of you says what you really mean, but the silence between you screams louder than words. warnings: Domestic living. Pre-outbreak. Reader is a writer. Angst. Mentions of death, and implied suicidal ideation.

w.c 10k

AUGUST, 2003

Coming back to Austin was never part of the plan.

But desperation has a way of rewriting things. Work had dried up. Your parents needed an extra pair of hands. So you made a quiet deal with yourself: swallow the pride, pack the boxes, go home.

Home. That word didn’t sit right anymore.

Still, there were benefits. No rent. Warm meals. A roof that didn't leak. Time, too—time to write from the corner of your old bedroom, the wallpaper still faded in the shape of childhood posters. In exchange, you’d help out around the house. Maybe lend your skills to the family business, if they asked.

It was manageable. Comfortable, even.

Or so you told yourself.

Until the past started pressing in, as soft as a breath on your neck. Austin carried its ghosts well, and you knew exactly which ones still lingered. The Miller family hadn’t left town. You hadn’t dared drive past their old place—hadn’t even thought about it, not really.

Too afraid you'd catch a glimpse.

Too afraid you wouldn’t.

Now, every trip to the store felt like a gamble. You kept your head down in aisles, your chest tightening at the sound of familiar boots scuffing tile. The shape of a man’s shoulders could turn your blood cold in an instant.

It wasn’t just home anymore. It was haunted.

And you weren’t sure you were ready to face the one ghost still walking around in broad daylight.

It’s stupid, really—how he still lives in the corners of your mind after all these years.

Especially now, back in your childhood room, sitting cross-legged on the same threadbare carpet, staring at that rusted metal tin under your bed.

You haven’t touched it. Haven’t dared. It’s exactly where you left it, gathering dust like the part of you that never moved on.

Was he still in town? Married? Kids tugging at his sleeves, calling him dad?

Hell, if you knew. Hell, if you wanted to know.

What you did know was this: whatever you and Tommy had, it had taken root deep—deeper than you realized until you came back. And now it stretched through you like ivy, tightening with every breath, every thought that wandered too far into the past.

It didn’t just haunt you. It hollowed you out.

You always thought teenage love was supposed to fade—burn fast, leave nothing but a scorched memory. Something you could laugh about years later, over drinks with old friends.

But this? This wasn’t that.

This was different. This one never died. And part of you was terrified it never would.

The grocery store was nearly empty—just the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional wheel squeak from a lone cart. Nine p.m. on a Wednesday was strategic. No small talk. No familiar faces. Just you, the shelves, and the quiet. You could wander without armor, float between aisles like a ghost.

A bottle of wine. A couple of wilting vegetables. A gallon of water. Your cart looked more like a motel mini-fridge than the groceries of someone edging toward thirty.

You rounded the corner, drawn by the cereal aisle like a moth to a glow. You told yourself you’d skip it. Be good. Grab something green. But what else would keep you company at midnight, spoon in hand, staring at the glow of the fridge light?

Cheerios.

You reached forward—and so did someone else.

Your hand met theirs. Warm. Small. Fingers painted with chipped purple nail polish, a fraying string bracelet wrapped around the wrist.

Something soft. Something familiar.

And suddenly, the quiet wasn’t so quiet anymore.

“Aren’t you a little old to be buyin’ Cheerios?”

The voice was laced with a southern drawl—sharp, playful, too clever for its own good. She sounded bold. Bright. And young. Really young.

You glanced over and blinked. She was young. A kid, no more than ten, maybe eleven. Big eyes, a spark of mischief, and all the confidence in the world.

Without thinking, your mouth moved before your brain could catch up.

“Where the hell are your parents?”

Smooth. Real smooth. Maybe not the best thing to say to a stranger’s child.

Definitely not in the cereal aisle. Definitely not while holding a box of Cheerios like some kind of existential prop.

You sighed internally, wondering when exactly your life had become a string of awkward moments and low-stakes public breakdowns. Before you could backpedal, a voice rang out behind her—low, worn, and gravel-thick.

“Sarah!”

It hit like a dropped match on dry grass. That voice. You hadn’t heard it in years, but your body remembered before your mind did—spine stiff, breath caught, blood rushing somewhere you couldn’t name.

Familiar. Undeniably. Panic took the wheel.

You held out the box, almost like an offering. “Here—take it.”

Your voice cracked on the edge of a breath as you gripped the cart’s handle, fingers tightening like it might anchor you to the moment. You considered walking away. You wanted to walk away.

But something in you hesitated. Stayed. Hoping—dreading—that your gut was right. That the familiar voice wasn’t just a cruel echo. There are faces that time can’t erase. Some are etched too deeply. Etched into blood, into memory, into the space between heartbeats.

“Am I even allowed to take Cheerios from strangers?” the girl muttered as she crossed the aisle, drifting back to his side with all the ease of someone who knew exactly where she belonged.

He shot her a look—half stern, half fond. Then, as if pulled by some invisible thread, he lifted his head. And your whole world tilted. For a moment, your body didn’t know what to do. Vomit? Collapse? Spontaneously combust? All of the above?

You stared. Then, softly—barely above a whisper, like saying it too loud might break something—you breathed it out:

“Joel?”

You hadn’t seen this man since—God, what? 1990? And now he was here. In front of you. Looking older, sure—but still him. Still Joel. Lines carved deeper into his face, a little more tired in the eyes, but the foundation was unchanged. Solid. Familiar in a way that made your stomach twist.

Then your gaze dropped.

Wait.

Does he have a kid?

Your brain scrambled to catch up, blinking fast as your eyes darted from the girl—still clutching the box of Cheerios—to him. Back and forth like a bad tennis match. You were trying to do the math in your head, but none of it added up, and suddenly the air felt too thin in your lungs.

Yeah. Yeah, you might actually throw up.

Joel didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you—jaw tight, unreadable. That Miller silence, always more loaded than a whole damn conversation. He definitely recognized you. You could see it in the way his eyes no longer sat tired and low.

“She yours?” you finally managed, voice rough around the edges. It wasn’t judgment, not really. Just shock. Curiosity wrapped in disbelief.

He scratched at his beard. “Yeah,” he said, simply. “She’s mine.”

Something behind your ribs clenched. Not jealousy—no, that wasn’t fair. It was more like grief with nowhere to go. Like walking through the front door of a house you thought had burned down. Because this means the chances of his brother being around are only larger.

“Oh, right—Didn't... know,” you murmured.

He gave you that look.

The same one he used to shoot your way when you were seventeen and reckless with love—when he was older, angrier, and always carrying the weight of something he refused to name. Eyebrows lifted just slightly, one corner of his mouth tugging like he might laugh, or maybe just break.

“Yeah, well,” he said, voice rough as gravel. “Life’s funny like that.”

You felt it—the sting, low and stupid, blooming behind your ribs. Your throat tightened.

Don’t ask. Don’t do it. Don’t say his name. Don’t let it crawl out of your mouth like some pathetic ghost. You’re older now. Stronger. You survived it, remember?

You even believed that for a second. Then, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out.

“How’s your brother?”

God. Fuck.

Joel’s jaw tensed, the weight of the question landing between you both like a dropped hammer. He looked away, just for a second—just long enough to say everything he didn’t. His hand rubbed at the back of his neck, and Sarah, still clutching the box, watched the moment pass with the quiet awareness only kids had.

“He’s…” Joel started, then hesitated. “He’s around.”

Around.

That word—around—cut deeper than a clean answer ever could.

Around as in… here? This very fucking store? Around as in… Alive?

You nodded slowly, lashes fluttering like your body was trying to blink away what your heart refused to accept. Of course, he was around. Somewhere.

Living a life with wide open skies and no trace of you in it. Breathing. Existing.

Your arms folded across your chest—not defensively, but like scaffolding, like something to keep your ribs from caving in. Joel shifted beside the cart. At first, it was just a glance. A habitual scan. But then—he really looked. You felt it. That weight behind his eyes.

Like he was seeing something impossible. Like he was trying to stitch the image of you now to the ghost of the girl you once were—laughing barefoot on the Miller porch, chasing fireflies, lips stained with cherry popsicles. His brother was never far behind.

Joel’s brow furrowed, and his voice dropped low.

“You grew up.”

It wasn’t said with surprise, exactly. More like quiet awe. Or regret.

You managed a tired smile. “Yeah—Life's funny like that." Only echoing his words from earlier.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” he added, his tone edging toward something heavier, quieter.

You swallowed. “Didn’t think I’d come back.”

He nodded. It hung between you. All of it.

“I’d say I’m sorry,” Joel muttered, glancing toward Sarah, who had wandered a few steps ahead, already bored of the grown-up tension. “For what he did. But I figure that ain’t mine to apologize for.”

Your throat tightened. “No. It’s not.”

A long beat passed.

Then Joel’s voice softened in a way you hadn’t heard since you were a kid and scraped your knee on his driveway.

“But he was a damn fool for leavin’ you like that.”

You didn’t respond right away. Didn’t trust your voice not to crack.

Instead, you asked, gently—like the wind might blow the moment away if you weren’t careful:

“Does he still live around here?”

Joel hesitated. That pause said more than words ever could.

“He’s back,” he said finally. “Moved back a while ago."

"My guest bedroom...” He said it like it was a joke.

You felt something in your chest slide loose. Raw. Heavy.

Joel glanced down the aisle.

“If you want…I can let him know I saw you.”

You looked away. At the flickering grocery lights, at the Cheerios box still clenched in your hand like it meant something.

Then: “No.”

Joel blinked. “No?”

Maybe?

No.

You shook your head, voice tight. “He's smart—he knows where to find me.”

And with that, you turned—hands tight around the cart handle, knuckles pale with restraint, as if you could just walk away. Like the past wasn’t licking up your spine like fire. Like it didn’t still have teeth.

You made it to the next aisle before the mask cracked.

Your hand flew to your chest, gripping at fabric, trying to anchor yourself, trying to breathe. But the air wouldn’t come. Not fully. Every inhale felt like it got caught somewhere in your throat, shallow and scraping.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, drowning out the overhead music, the hum of fluorescent lights, and the rest of the world. You leaned against the shelf, next to a row of canned beans and sadness, and let the weight settle in.

He was here.

He left and never looked back. But you? You came home.

The house felt smaller than it used to. Every creak in the floorboard was louder, every familiar room more suffocating. Being home again wasn’t as soft as you thought it’d be. It was rigid. Airless. Your old bedroom still smelled faintly of dust and childhood. But now, the walls felt too close. Too loud. You couldn’t sit still in it for long—pacing was safer. Something about the silence made your thoughts too sharp, too unkind.

You kept telling yourself you were fine. That one aisle encounter in a grocery store didn’t mean anything. That Joel’s words didn’t loop in your brain at night like a skipping record.

“He’s around.”

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“He was a damn fool.”

You hadn’t even unpacked fully. Suitcases still half-zipped, laundry spilling over the edges. You told your mom you'd get to it. You lied.

The worst part?

You started hearing things. Little things. The clink of boots outside. A truck engine that sounded too familiar. That gravelly voice, echoing where it wasn’t. You’d look out the window. Nothing.

The metal tin under your bed—still untouched—started to feel radioactive. You’d stare at it some nights like it might burst open on its own, spill out the parts of you he never came back for.

The food tasted like cardboard. You stopped writing. Sat in front of your laptop, fingers frozen above the keys, stuck in a loop of opening old drafts and closing them again.

Your mother noticed. Asked gently if everything was alright, “Just tired.” You meant... I think I’m falling apart, and I don’t know how to stop it. Until the dam finally broke. In the thick of your late-night anxiety spiral, you did what you always did when your mind wouldn’t stop racing—you fled to your laptop. The glow of the screen was a small comfort, a lifeline to something tangible.

You dove into the local municipal website, fingers trembling as you searched the address you once knew like the back of your hand: the old Miller house.

It had been sold.

Two years ago.

That meant they were gone. They weren’t here anymore. Not in that house. Not in the place that held all the ghosts you thought you’d outrun.

And, you weren’t going to camp outside the grocery store, waiting for Joel to come back, begging him to say something—anything—about his brother.

You weren’t that crazy. Okay, maybe you were.

You exhaled slowly, the breath tight and uneven as you tried to push back the anxious knot settling deep in your stomach. You mindlessly scrolled through the local ads, searching for something to distract, anything to grab onto.

That’s when it jumped out at you.

Your eyes locked on the listing: Miller Construction — bold letters beneath a grainy photo of a faded pickup truck and a logo that looked slapped together but somehow genuine.

And there it was. A phone number.

You stared at it for what felt like minutes, heart pounding in a frantic rhythm that only anxiety could compose. Your fingers itched to pick up the phone, to dial those digits and shatter the silence that had been suffocating you for weeks.

But then doubt crept in.

What if no one picks up?

What if Joel answers?

Fuck, what if Tommy answers?

What if it’s not even them anymore?

Your mind spun, painting every worst-case scenario in vivid, merciless detail.

You told yourself, Maybe it’s better not to know. Still, your thumb hovered over the screen, trembling. One call could change everything. Or ruin what little peace you’d fought to keep. The room felt smaller. The air is heavier. You closed your eyes and swallowed hard.

Just one call. But you didn’t do it. You didn’t call.

Because some battles aren’t meant to be won—not yet. Not when the wounds are still raw, and the cost too high. Maybe it was finally time to kill that stubborn dream. The one you’d been clutching like a lifeline—the future you almost had with Tommy, back when everything still felt possible.

The future where you held his hand through late-night study sessions and half-forgotten promises. You built a life together, one small piece at a time, giving him the family he never got to have. Where he escaped the shadows of his past and made his own way—free and whole.

But not in this life. No. This life was different. In this life, you weren’t meant for that kind of happiness. Not with him. And maybe, just maybe, it was time to let that ghost go.

To mourn what could have been. And learn how to live without it.

Tomorrow, you told yourself.

Tomorrow you’ll wake up, open your laptop, and finally write again. You’ll make a real breakfast—eggs, toast, coffee strong enough to chase away the weight in your chest. You’ll laugh when your dad grumbles about the news, and nod along when your mom reminds you to check the mail.

And maybe, just maybe, it’ll feel like something in you finally let go.

Like some part of that aching, hollow dream was finally laid to rest.

You’d mourned it. Buried it. Let yourself believe you’d moved on.

Or at the very least—you were trying to.

And for a while, it almost worked. You made that breakfast. Brewed that coffee. Sat at the kitchen table and filled blank pages like your life depended on it. Day after day, you showed up for yourself. Pretending the ache had dulled, that time was stitching over the old wound. And for nearly a month, the rhythm held. You wrote. You helped around the house. You laughed when it was called for, and cried only when no one was looking.

You were healing. Or faking it well enough that it didn’t matter. Until one morning, the pattern cracked wide open— and nothing felt safe after that.

The knock came just past nine. Sharp. Measured. The kind of knock that wasn’t just passing through. You shuffled to the door, mug in hand, warmth still clutched between your palms. You weren’t expecting anyone. The morning was still fragile. Undisturbed.

Until you opened the door.

Joel Miller.

Joel Miller stood on your front step like a fragment of some half-buried memory you’d spent the last two weeks trying to drown. Even his face reminded you of his younger brother.

Older now. Weathered. But still him. His voice was rough with that dry Southern rasp, “Your dad around? He said we were clear to start this mornin’.”

You blinked.

“…Start what?”

He nodded back toward the curb, where a truck idled loudly and low, “Backyard. Said it needed regrading. New fence. We're doin' a couple other things.”

You gripped the doorframe like it might help you stay tethered.

'We'

'We're'

You followed his gaze.

Another figure rounded the truck—shoulders broad, posture familiar even after all these years. You didn’t need to see his face. You knew that walk. You knew that silence.

The past wasn’t dead. It had just been biding its time. Curled in the corners of your quiet life, patient and unblinking—waiting for the right moment to crawl back in.

You stared at Joel like he’d cracked open something sacred, like he’d reached through time and dragged your ghost straight into the daylight. He stepped into the house casually, like nothing was out of place, like this wasn’t a ruin you’d spent years quietly rebuilding.

Your voice came out thin. Unsteady.

“Why—” Your voice cracked under the weight of it, barely holding shape as you forced the word out. You swallowed hard, tried again, and tried to steady yourself. “You brought him?”

Joel didn’t flinch. He stood like stone, hands in his pockets, gaze level—not cruel, just worn down by time and truth. “Didn’t know your dad was your dad until we pulled up,” he said, voice flat, matter-of-fact. “Work’s work.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. The tight coil in your chest drew tighter, shoulders pulling inward like armor about to snap shut. “You didn’t know that my childhood home was my home?” Your tone sharpened. Bitter. “That’s bullshit, Joel.”

His jaw ticked. A tiny movement, a tell. But still, he didn’t deny it. “You think I remember every address from twenty years ago?” he muttered, but it wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even convincing.

“Didn’t think you’d be here.”

Your eyes drifted past Joel, drawn like a tide to the figure moving around the truck.

Tommy.

And God—he looked good. Time had carved him into something fuller, heavier at the shoulders, solid in a way that made the earth seem to hold its breath around him. That broad back, once boyish and lanky, now bore the shape of a man who carried too much. And still—still—he moved like he used to. That quiet, slow confidence that made you fall the first time.

His hair was slicked back now, all sharp and polished like he was trying to tame it—those wild curls that once spilled like ink between your fingers. Back then, they had a mind of their own.

So did he.

Now? Now, he looked like a man trying to keep himself in check. A cowboy dressed for control. It didn’t suit him. Not entirely.

And maybe that’s what made it worse.

You stepped onto the porch before hesitation could catch up to you. The screen door gave its familiar groan behind you, the sound slicing into the quiet morning like a memory you hadn’t invited. Sunlight spilled across the wooden planks, drawing a clean line between past and present—and you stood right at the edge of it.

He looked up.

Not startled. Not surprised. Like some part of him had known you were there all along. Like he’d been waiting. And without meaning to—without even really deciding to—you spoke.

“The back door’s open,” you said flatly, arms crossed tight against your chest. “I’ll leave the front unlocked, too. I’ve got work upstairs, so I won’t be in your way."

"... Just… try not to track mud through the house.”

Your voice was ice. Not cruel, but practiced. Sharp. The kind of cold you learned to wear like armor. You didn’t look directly at him—not for more than a second. Your gaze swept across the two brothers like they were just another chore to handle. Just another thing on your list.

Then, with the kind of grace only bitterness could teach, you pulled the screen door back. Just enough. Enough space for him to walk through.

If he wanted to. Tommy’s eyes lingered on yours, searching. But you didn’t give him anything. No softness. No invitation.

Only the door. A silent challenge.

He stepped forward, boots heavy against the porch boards. Hesitating at the threshold like a man about to cross into holy ground. Or wreckage.

He paused. “Thanks.”

You didn’t answer.

And then he slipped past you—into the house he hadn’t set foot in since he left it behind. Joel gave you a longer look. Not pitying. Just tired. Knowing. You turned without a word, shutting the screen door behind you. It snapped closed with a final, decisive click.

Upstairs, you sat at your desk. Fingers poised over your keyboard. But the words didn’t come.

Downstairs, you heard the quiet murmur of male voices. Boots scuffing against the tile. Familiar footsteps in an unfamiliar context.

The past wasn’t dead. It was walking through your childhood home. It was standing in your kitchen. It was breathing your air.

You stared blankly at the blinking cursor, heart climbing into your throat. And then—uninvited, unwanted—came the thought: What if he never left this time? Would you even let him stay?

The next few days passed in a strange rhythm. Tight. Unyielding.

You kept to yourself. Mornings started early—coffee, eggs, laptop open, headphones in. A fortress of routine. You made sure to stay upstairs when the work started, and when you did come down, it was surgical.

Quick. To the kitchen. To the laundry. Back up again.

But somehow, Tommy was always there. Not talking. Not looking for conversation. Just… nearby.

He was in the hallway when you went to grab your charger. On the back steps, when you went to let the dog out. In the yard beneath your window, hammer in hand, sleeves rolled up. The exact kind of cruel coincidence that made the air feel thinner.

You didn’t speak. Not much.

When you passed each other in the hall, it was a glance. Maybe a nod. If he said “mornin’,” you didn’t answer.

When he asked once—just once—if you wanted anything from the hardware store, you said, “No.”

He brought back a bottle of your favorite iced tea anyway. Left it on the counter without a word.

You put it in the fridge and never drank it.

At night, you heard him laughing with Joel in the backyard, low and warm. That familiar sound—the one that used to carry across your bedroom floor like music when you were seventeen—now curled around the edges of your chest like smoke.

You stared at your ceiling for hours.

On the fifth day, you handed him a beer from the fridge.

It was nothing. Just a gesture. A momentary lapse in your rigid silence. It didn’t mean anything. Not a crack. Not a thaw. Not anything.

Right?

“Here,” you said, voice flat, nudging the chilled bottle through the half-open sliding door. “It’s like... eight hundred degrees out there.”

He glanced at it, then at you. The sun caught in his lashes, sweat clinging to the edge of his hairline. He didn’t smile.

He took it.

“Thanks,” he murmured, voice low, gravel-worn.

You nodded once, already stepping back, as if you stayed too long in his orbit, you'd come undone. “I didn’t do it to be nice,” you added, backing toward the stairs. “I just didn’t want you passing out in my yard.”

Tommy lifted the bottle in a small, sardonic toast, “Would hate to inconvenience you like that.”

You didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile. Didn’t even blink.

You turned and walked away.

But it snagged something in your chest on the way out—like a fishhook caught beneath the ribs. Goddamn it. Was this how it was going to be? Was this all it was going to be?

No. No—you reminded yourself. Steeled your spine. This is how it should be.

Silent. Distant. Cold.

He left you. Walked out of your life like it was easy. Like you were just another part of the small-town scenery, he was shedding on his way to something bigger. Like what you had—what could’ve been—was forgettable.

Like you were.

You kept to that script for days.

Short answers. Avoiding eye contact. Locking yourself in your room to write and rewriting the same sentence fifteen times because your mind won't shut up.

And Tommy… he didn’t push. Not exactly. But he lingered.

Took his breaks on the back steps just under your window. Adjusted his work schedule so he was still around when you came down for coffee. One evening, you walked into the garage to grab something—and found him already inside, fixing the latch on the side door.

He startled, turned. So did you.

You both froze in the dim light, dust swirling between you. He looked like he wanted to say something. You waited, against your better judgment. But he didn’t. So you walked away. Again.

You climbed the stairs like the house itself was heavier now, like the walls remembered everything you’d said—and all the things you didn’t. That night, you sat at your desk, the pale glow of your screen washing over your face.

The document was still empty. Still waiting. The cursor blinked in the silence like a pulse—steady, unyielding. A heartbeat you couldn’t silence.

A reminder that time hadn’t stopped, even if everything else had.

And for just a moment—just a breath suspended between memory and ache—you let yourself go back.

Back to that night. The night he left.

You remembered how small you felt, sitting on the edge of your bed. Your knees drawn up to your chest. Bare skin touching bare skin, like you could hold yourself together.

The hum of cicadas outside had filled the space where his voice should’ve been. The night had swallowed him whole. And all you had left was the shape of him in your bedsheets, the echo of him in the room.

He never said goodbye.

Not a word. Not a note. Just gone.

And maybe that was the cruelest part—how he didn’t leave with a slammed door, didn’t give you a fight to cling to. He left softly. Quiet. Like he didn’t want to wake you.

Like he thought erasing himself gently would somehow hurt less.

You could survive the loss, maybe. You’d done that already—day after day.

But the not knowing. The lingering weight of all the almosts? That’s what gutted you.

Because how the hell are you supposed to stop loving someone who never let you say goodbye?

Someone who never gave you a final page to turn?

You didn’t want a clean break. You would’ve settled for jagged.

Shattered. Anything other than this quiet, aching permanence.

The grief of a love that just… drifted.

Like he took all the chapters you were meant to write together—and lit them on fire before you ever saw the ink.

How can you love someone you never closed a chapter with?

You didn’t have the answer. So you just lived. That’s all you could do.

The next morning was bleak. The kind that felt colorless from the moment you opened your eyes—sky the shade of wet concrete, air too still, too heavy.

The kind of morning where nothing quite sits right on your skin. Sleep. Sleep and read. That’s the kind of morning this was.

The boys had shown up early, hammers already echoing against the bones of the house by the time you dragged yourself from bed. The second addition—the part your parents conveniently forgot to tell you about—was underway.

A whole wing is being built like an afterthought. Like the house needed more rooms to feel emptier.

You stood in the kitchen, pouring your coffee into your chipped mug, the one with the fading rim and spider-crack down the side. Your phone was pressed between your cheek and shoulder, your mother’s voice crackling through the receiver.

"Yes, Mom… I know," you said, your voice edged with sleep and irritation. "I’ll tell them not to use the darkwood."

You stared out the window as the boys moved like ghosts across your backyard. Dust in the air. Heat is already rising off the soil. You squinted.

There he was.

Tommy.

Shoulders bent under the weight of some lumber, jaw tight, shirt sticking to his back like it was a second skin. He looked like the summer you’d tried to forget. Just older.

“I just don’t understand why you didn’t plan this before you left the country,” you muttered, lowering your voice. “You left me with the world’s most cryptic blueprint and no answers.”

Your mother sighed on the other end, already tuning you out.

“I have to go, sweetheart,” she said. “Tell Joel I said hi. And Tommy, too.”

No goodbye. You took a sip of the coffee, bitter and burnt, but it gave you something to hold. You opened the back door.

“Hey,” you called out, your voice cutting across the morning. Tommy looked up, blinking sweat from his lashes.

“No darkwood,” you said plainly. “Apparently, it clashes.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow, leaned slightly on the beam in his hand. “What the hell doesn’t clash with this house?”

You almost smiled. Almost. But didn’t let the edges of your lips rise.

“My patience.”

He let out a breath of a laugh, then nodded, and turned back to the work.

You stood there for a moment longer, your fingers tightening around the handle of the mug, watching him move like he belonged to the earth. Like the weight of the wood grounded him. Like he didn’t once disappear from your life like a ghost at dawn.

You hated that it still made your heart ache.

And somehow—worse than anything—he always seemed to know when you were watching. Like there was some invisible thread still strung tight between the two of you, humming in the silence, pulling at the air when your gaze lingered too long.

As he rounded the corner of the house, he paused—just once. Looked back.

And your eyes met. It was brief. Barely a second. But it knocked the wind from your lungs all the same. You ducked instinctively, your head bowing out of view behind the kitchen window. Staring down at your hands like they held something worth inspecting. Like you could pretend you hadn’t been caught in the act. Caught in him.

Feigning indifference. Feigning innocence.

But it was too late. The moment had already happened.

And it was enough to remind you of the thread between you. It had never truly broken.

You stayed hunched for a while, eyes on your fingers as if they might still tremble. You hated that he could still do that—look at you and stir something deep in your chest, something old and warm and traitorous.

Eventually, you forced yourself back into the rhythm. Coffee cooling beside your laptop. The dull hum of construction outside pulsing against the windows like a heartbeat.

Work. Just work. You had an article due, something about the resurgence of analog photography. But the words wouldn’t come easily today. Your fingers hovered over the keys, twitching. Restless. The sentence you typed three times already still sounded like someone else wrote it. It was so hard to write lately.

With a heavy sigh, you pushed back from the desk and wandered into the kitchen, legs stiff from too many hours of sitting in your own silence. You reached for an orange—bright, firm, promising something clean and sharp to cut through the fog pressing against your skull.

Maybe the acid, the scent, the bite of citrus would jolt something loose. A sentence. A metaphor. A way to end the paragraph that had been rotting on your screen for the past hour.

You steadied the fruit on the cutting board and pressed the knife down—careless, distracted.

The blade slipped.

It was quick. A sudden, slicing kiss across your palm. You barely saw it happen before the sting bloomed, hot and biting. Then came the warmth—blood pooling fast, dark against the pale ridges of your skin. The orange rolled lazily toward the sink, abandoned.

“Shit—” you hissed, instinctively clenching your fist. Blood welled instantly, thick and crimson, dripping in slow, syrupy globs onto the tile.

You barely had time to grab a towel when the back door opened.

“Hey, I—” Tommy’s voice stopped short. The sound of his boots scuffed once, twice on the threshold, and then—

He was at your side.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate. Just crossed the room like he’d done it a thousand times before.

Like he hadn’t been gone for over a decade.

“Let me see,” he said, low. Not a demand. Just the kind of voice you don’t argue with.

You tried to turn your hand away from him, but he caught your wrist gently, his calloused fingers curling around yours like they remembered how.

“It’s nothing,” you murmured, not trusting your voice to be steady.

“You’re bleeding all over the damn place,” he muttered, brow furrowed, eyes flicking down to your palm. The concern in his expression was too raw, too real—something that didn’t belong to a man who had left you behind without a word.

He pressed the towel into your palm, firm but careful. “You got a first aid kit?”

“Yeah, it’s—” The words stalled in your throat as your gaze lifted, catching his.

He was close. Too close. Close enough that the air felt different between you—thick with heat, tension, history. You could smell him: sun-warmed sweat, the faint bite of cigarettes, and something faintly artificial… cologne?

You blinked. He wore cologne?

For work?

Your mouth went dry.

You swallowed hard. “It’s under the bed.”

He froze for just a beat, eyes lifting from your hand to meet yours.

And for the first time since construction began, you really looked at each other—no shielding, no avoidance, no polite glances and feigned distractions. It was raw, heavy. The kind of eye contact that rattled something deep in your ribs. That said everything neither of you had the guts to.

Grief. Anger. Ache. Love. All of it—pressed into a single, suffocating second.

Tommy’s breath hitched, but he covered it with a short nod. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice rough at the edges. “I’ll get it.”

He didn’t ask where. He didn’t need to.

Because he already knew. It was exactly where you left it. Years ago—tucked under your bed, in that old shoebox, next to the flashlight and extra batteries.

Just in case.

Just in case he ever needed it.

He shifted his hand, covering yours atop the towel—a silent invitation to press down, to steady the pain yourself. Without another word, he headed upstairs—not rushing, but with a purpose that betrayed a memory sharp and certain. He knew exactly which door to find.

When he returned, he knelt before you as if by instinct—as if the years hadn’t dulled the unspoken understanding between you. The kitchen seemed to shrink around him, heat thickening the air. His presence was unbidden, yet it felt like something that belonged.

You might not pass out from blood loss, but the fact that he was kneeling in front of you.

“You didn’t have to—” you began, voice rough and tight.

“Don’t,” he cut in, quiet but resolute. And you didn’t.

“It’s fine,” you murmured, trying to pull your hand back, your voice brittle beneath the heat rising in your cheeks. “I can handle it.”

Tommy didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “Doesn’t look like it.”

His fingers were already unfurling gauze from the battered first aid kit, hands working with the same stubborn care he used to fix broken fences and busted drywall.

Steady. Precise. Unapologetic.

“You’re bleeding through the damn towel,” he added, eyes flicking to the deep red soaking through the cloth like it had something to prove.

You weren’t. He was being kind of dramatic.

And then—his hand wrapped around yours again.

Warm. Solid. Familiar in a way that made your stomach twist.

For just a breath, just a flicker of a moment—you let it happen. Let yourself imagine it was still then. It was still a hot July night, and he was slipping through your bedroom window like he belonged there.

That he hadn’t taken every soft thing you gave him and vanished into silence.

He peeled the towel back slowly, and hissed through his teeth.

“You always did this,” he muttered under his breath, almost like he didn’t mean for it to slip out. “Couldn’t cook without hurting yourself. Still clumsy as hell.”

You blinked. The words cut deeper than the blade had.

“Don’t,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, trembling but sharp as glass. “Don’t talk like you know me.”

His jaw tightened. But he didn’t let go. Didn’t retreat. His thumb moved without thinking—just once—over the edge of your wrist, where your pulse thudded wild and panicked, like it knew better than to trust him again.

“I do know you,” he aid at last. His voice wasn’t soft, or angry.

Just… worn.

Tired.

“That’s the part I can’t seem to forget.”

The kitchen went quiet—stifling quiet. Only the hum of the fridge, and the sound of your own breath snagging on the edge of emotion.

And still—he held your hand like it was something worth protecting.

Like maybe, for once, he was the one who couldn’t let go.

As if summoned by the thrum of your fear, the front door creaked open. Joel stepped inside, a paper bag slung casually in one hand, eyes narrowing the second he caught sight of the kitchen.

“The hell’s goin’ on in here?”

“Nothing,” you said too fast—your breath hitching in the middle of the word. “I’m fine.”

You yanked your hand back like it had caught flame, heat rising in your cheeks. Hold the line.

Tommy didn’t flinch, but something passed over his face—quick, unreadable. He flexed his fingers once, then raised them slowly in a mock surrender. His tongue pressed into the corner of his cheek, but the tension in the air pulsed too loudly for jokes.

Joel clocked every bit of it. His brow lifted.

Silent. Sharp. Suspicious.

You didn’t say anything else. Just turned and walked out. Quick, sharp steps—an escape. Because staying? Staying meant unraveling. Splintering the whole house down the middle.

Tommy stayed frozen, hands braced on the counter like he might push the whole kitchen away. His jaw ticked, tongue dragging over his back teeth. Joel didn’t say a word, but Tommy could feel his stare like a weight at the base of his neck.

Finally, he glanced up, exhaling through his nose.

“…Hell of a thing,” he muttered. “Cuts an orange and suddenly it’s a goddamn Greek tragedy.”

“Go get the goddamn cement bags…” Joel exhales, dragging a hand through his hair.

It had been a month since construction began.

A whole month of the Miller brothers tearing apart your backyard and piecing it back together—sweat-streaked days of lumber stacks, concrete dust, and the whine of power tools cutting through the silence you'd once cherished.

Expanding the house wasn’t easy. Adding a whole new wing wasn’t some HGTV weekend project—it was invasive, loud, exhausting. The kind of change that pressed into every corner of your life, even the ones you thought were safe. You were managing it all on your own, with your parents halfway across the world chasing their latest academic obsession, sending vague texts about ancient temples and unfiltered sunsets.

You were the one answering questions, signing off on adjustments, pretending like you had it all under control when inside, everything felt like it was slipping.

The house didn’t feel like yours anymore. Not with brothers tracking in dirt, rearranging your walls, changing the literal structure of the space you grew up in. And especially not with Tommy Miller’s ghost—his voice, his laugh, his scent—pressed into every hallway, lingering long after he'd gone for the day.

It felt like trying to build something new on top of bones you hadn’t buried properly.

Like every hammer swing was driving something deeper into your chest instead of the walls.

The heat pressed down like a second skin, sticky and relentless.

One of those nights where even a cold shower leaves you clammy, soaked through with sweat you can’t wash away.

You rose from your chair, limbs stiff and aching, the words on your screen blurring into nothing—meaningless.

Your writing, your efforts, all of it felt hollow, like shouting into the void.

Fuck. Everything felt wrong.

Downstairs, the air still carried him—faint traces of beer, the sharp cotton scent of his shirt, and that subtle, feral tang of sweat that somehow smelled like home. Like, even when he was dirty, rough, and exhausted, he was cleaner in your mind than anyone else.

Your eyes flicked toward the back door, still ajar, a sliver of the night creeping inside. Tommy groaned low, shifting his workbag over one shoulder, muscles tensing with the familiar motion.

“You’re still here?” Your voice was barely above a whisper, hesitant and rough. Bare feet slid over the hardwood, soft as a ghost’s approach. “It’s like... ten at night. You do know we’re not paying overtime, right?”

He glanced up, surprise flickering across his face, but he didn’t let the bag slip from his grasp. Instead, he let out a tired chuckle, dry and short.

“Yeah, I figured.” His voice was rough around the edges, like gravel smoothed by time but still sharp enough to cut. “Work’s slow when it’s this hot. Thought I’d get a head start, try to wrap it up before it gets worse.”

You nodded, though your heart pinched with something you couldn’t name. The space between you stretched taut, loaded with unsaid things. “You—” Your voice caught, words tangled in the tension thickening the air. You stopped yourself, the weight of what you wanted to say crushing the breath from your lungs. “You didn’t have to come back.”

His eyes locked with yours—steady, unflinching, almost unapologetic.

“I came back for the job,” he said quietly, voice rough around the edges. “…Save Joel some time.”

The words settled between you like cold stones. You swallowed hard, but the heaviness wouldn’t lift. It anchored you where you stood.

“His kid is cute,” you said then, voice clipped, sharp enough to draw blood, “Sarah...”

His niece.

It wasn’t a question or an invitation—it was a declaration, a wall built from years of silence.

Tommy’s gaze flickered for a moment—something like regret, or maybe pain—but he didn’t respond. The silence stretched. You hated how much you still wanted him to say something, anything.

Instead, he shifted his weight and muttered, “Yeah. She is.”

Your heart twisted—bitter, raw, aching in a way that felt both familiar and unfamiliar.

This awkwardness between you? It wasn’t who you were. Not the way you’d been before, back when laughter filled your rooms, when teasing and jokes were the language you both spoke effortlessly, when you prodded and pushed at each other with no walls between you.

When you were each other's first.

“How’s...” You faltered, fingers drumming nervously on the granite countertop, “How’s your dad?”

He paused, tongue pressed to the side of his cheek like he was swallowing something hard.

“Dead.” The word came out clipped, a breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a growl, frustration threading through it.

Your mouth opened, his name on your tongue, but he cut you off with a sharp shake of his head.

“Don’t do this—"

"Not tonight.”

The silence after his words was thick, loaded. You wanted to push, to ask more, to unravel the years of silence, but something in his eyes warned you off—this wasn’t the time.

Was it ever going to be?

“You left.” The words hit the room like a jagged blade—plain, sharp, unforgiving. “You slid out of my bed. Climbed out my window. And you left.”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stand taller, spine stiffening like steel under fire.

He tilted his head, that old, familiar frustration simmering just beneath the surface—like a storm you’d weathered before, one you knew too well. You've seen it before. Hell, you were there when it was made.

Your name slipped from his lips, low and urgent, a warning:

“Please.”

But you didn’t back down. You couldn’t. Why would you?

“You left,” you spat, voice breaking but fierce, “And you never came back.”

He stepped back slowly. The weight of your words knocked the breath from his chest. The work bag slipped from his shoulder like a dying limb, thudding softly against the floor.

You didn’t let up.

“Do you feel guilty?” you asked, voice trembling with fury. “Do you even want to apologize?”

Silence. So you pressed harder, cutting deeper.

“Did you like it?” The words came like venom. “Wasting all those nights I let you sleep in my room. Pretend nothing was wrong. Hiding from your father... while I—while I held you together.”

His jaw tensed. Still nothing.

“Did you like it?” you hissed. “Fucking your best friend—”

That shattered him. He stepped forward so fast the air shifted, his voice raised above yours for the first time.

“Jesus—fuck…” he barked, dragging a palm down his face like it might erase the moment.

Anger. Sweat. Shame. It was all there, bubbling just beneath the surface.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. His presence filled the kitchen like smoke from a house fire—heavy, choking, impossible to ignore.

He looked at you like he didn’t know whether to argue or fall to his knees.

“I was seventeen,” he said, low, guttural. “And I was drowning.”

You blinked, your voice quieter now. But not kinder.

“And I was there. Every single night. And you still left me.”

He stepped back, that frustration blooming into something more brittle. Regret. Maybe even grief.

“You think I haven’t thought about it every goddamn day since?” he asked, his voice cracking at the edges.

You laughed. It was short and bitter, “Not enough to come back. To apologize.” The silence that followed was loud enough to swallow you both whole.

He stared at you—really stared. But this look was different. It was weighted.

You could see it in the quiet collapse around his eyes. The carved-in creases along his brow. The lines hugging his mouth like they'd settled there after years of clenching.

He looked tired. Weathered. Older.

Hell, so were you.

But the boy you once knew—the one who whispered secrets against your bedsheets and flinched at every car door slam—he was still in there. Flickering behind the amber-brown of his eyes, freckled skin flushed from heat and memory.

“What do you want me to say?” he finally rasped, voice rough as gravel. Another step forward. Closer.

“That I love you?”

Your breath caught.

“That I was a dumb fuckin’ kid who fell for his best friend?” His voice grew sharper. “That I hated my life? That you were the only good thing in it? That every day, I thought about leavin'—and I don’t mean runnin' off to the army.” He looked at you then, unflinching.

“I mean, leaving. For good,"

"My dad ain't keep his gun in no damn safe.”

You flinched, a ragged inhale escaping before you could stop it. Your arms folded around yourself like armor.

But he didn’t stop. He took another step—careful, cautious, like you were something sacred he didn’t know how to hold.

“That seeing your face—sneakin’ into your window, smelling your shampoo on my fuckin’ hoodie—that was the only thing that made me feel alive?”

Your silence begged him not to go on.

But he did.

“That every hit I took, every time I bit my tongue bloody just to keep quiet... I did it so I could make it to the next night? Just so I could hear you laugh?”

“Just so I could feel like a fuckin’ person for once?”

He was close now. Close enough to break you.

And when you didn’t respond, when your body remained rigid and your lips sealed shut, he added—soft, but ruined. “You think I wanted to leave you?"

“I didn’t leave you—I left me.”

The words landed like a hammer to the chest.

Blunt. Unforgiving. And, final.

You exhaled, a sound more sob than breath, and your knees nearly buckled with it. Tears tracked silently down your cheeks, warm and steady like they’d been waiting all this time for permission.

That wasn’t the answer you wanted. But it was the one you got.

And God, it gutted you. Because you'd spent years stitching his absence into abandonment. Into betrayal. You’d made it about the leaving—not the why. Not the rotting town that carved him hollow from the inside out. Not the bruises he kept quiet. Not the glassy stare he wore like armor. You never realized. And now it was too late to fix it.

He stood there, just looking at you—eyes wide and wild with something close to regret. And then, his breath hitched. He lifted a hand—hesitating—like it wanted to reach for you, to cradle your cheek, wipe away the wreckage.

But it faltered. It dropped. He couldn’t even touch you.

“Fuck—” he rasped, stepping back like your pain had burned him, “I’m sorry. That was—” He choked on the next words, shaking his head like they wouldn’t come.

“Too much,” you whispered for him. Your voice thin. Broken.

His eyes flicked to yours again.

And for a second, there it was.

That same goddamn look. The one he gave you on that night—your window cracked open, the summer air thick, his hands trembling as he kissed you like it was the only thing that could save him. That night he left without a goodbye.

He still looked like that boy.

But this time, you weren’t seventeen. And this love wasn’t enough to rewrite history.

You wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand, jaw trembling. “You don’t get to do that. Drop some tragic confession and expect it to make the mess prettier. You left, Tommy. You chose to disappear.”

“I didn’t have a goddamn choice,” he said low.

“You did.” Your voice cracked on the last syllable. “You did, and you didn’t choose me.”

The silence between you turned heavy, thick with all the years lost to what-ifs and should’ve-beens.

Finally, you turned toward the stairs, wiping your face again.

“Just—lock the back door when you’re done.”

You padded up the stairs, each step heavier than the last. Behind you, his voice barely filtered through—just the edge of a broken exhale, the muffled crack of “Fuck,” and the restless shuffle of feet with no direction, no place to go.

But you kept climbing.

Because what else could you do?

You reached the landing and closed your door like it could block out the past. Like it could erase the way his words were still ringing in your bones.

I didn’t leave you—I left me.

It echoed like a curse.

You stood there still. Shaking. Eyes darting across your room like they were searching for something to hold on to—something that hadn’t already been shattered.

But everything looked different now. Smaller. Older. The bed where you once whispered into the dark with him. The chair where he used to sit in silence, a quiet escape from the bruises on his ribs. The window he’d disappeared through.

You slumped to the floor.

What the fuck were you supposed to do with all of this?

With the memory of a boy who’d wanted to die—who’d only stayed alive because of you—and the boy who never told you. Never gave you the chance to carry any of it.

Cry?

God, yes. You cried.

It wasn’t graceful—wasn’t soft or cinematic. It tore out of you like a wound reopening under pressure. Sharp. Immediate. Ugly. Loud. The kind of crying that hollowed your ribs and made your molars pulse. You cried like your body thought grief was a fire to be purged, like noise could rewrite history if you screamed loud enough. If you hurt hard enough.

You didn't even remember falling to the ground. One moment you were upright, the next you were on your side—curled fetal on the cold floor like some ghosted version of yourself. Your fists clutched the hem of your t-shirt, pulling so hard you thought the fabric might tear, might snap you out of this. But it didn’t. Nothing did.

You couldn’t breathe around it—this grief, this truth that clawed at your lungs like it was trying to make space for itself. You wanted to crawl out of your skin. Tear the memories out of your skull. Rewind to the summer of ‘89 and beg him not to go.

And the worst part?

The cruelest part?

You still loved him.

You still fucking loved him.

Through all of it. Through the leaving. Through the years of nothing. Through the not-knowing and the silence and the way he looked at you now like he still held your name behind his teeth.

You loved him, and he had left anyway.

Not because he stopped. But because he didn’t know how to stay.

And that? That broke you worse than if he’d said he never loved you at all.

authors note: hi .. was this bad.. idk feedback is like so appreciated.. i am intimidated.

special thanks to nic and kaylee for beta reading.. ilyvm (@/joelmillers-wife , @/sassconvict)

previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter tags list: @noorvell @yearningforsolitude @umadirectioner

114 notes · View notes

angelofthenight01 · 5 months ago

Text

Mission accomplished

Yelena Belova x Reader

genre: enemies to lovers || warnings: none

tovarish = comrade

The wind whipped at your face, carrying the gritty scent of industrial decay. You clung to the rusted railing of the abandoned factory, your grip tight, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Below, the fight was a chaotic ballet of fists and blades, a whirlwind of black leather and determined snarls. And right in the thick of it, moving with lethal grace and pure, unadulterated fury, was Yelena Belova.

You'd been tailing her for weeks, ever since your handler had assigned you to monitor her activities. She was a ghost, a shadow, a whisper in the underbelly of the world, and tracking her had been a frustrating, infuriating game of cat and mouse. But you were tenacious, skilled in your own right, and you'd finally cornered her. Maybe cornered wasn't the right word, considering how easily she seemed to be handling a half-dozen goons at once.

You were supposed to take her out, a clean extraction. But something about the way she moved, the sheer, raw power, the almost desperate ferocity in her eyes… it had stopped you. You found yourself studying her, more than acting against her.

She spun, a blur of motion, and a man’s grunt echoed through the factory floor as he went down, clutching his throat. Her gaze, sharp and piercing, flicked upward, meeting yours. For a brief, terrifying second, everything else faded. Her green eyes, even in the low light, burned into yours, a challenge, a warning.

Then, she was moving again, a whirlwind of destruction, leaving unconscious bodies in her wake. You watched her finish the last one off, a sharp, efficient jab to the throat. She straightened, breathing heavily, and finally, properly noticed you.

"You," she spat, her voice low and gravelly. "Following me again, tovarish?" She wiped a smear of blood from her cheek with the back of her glove, her eyes never leaving yours.

"Work hazard," you replied, dropping lightly from the railing to the ground. It wasn't the most impressive landing, but you didn't let her see your hesitation. You kept your movements loose, ready. "You're making a lot of noise, Belova. I was curious."

A smirk twisted her lips, a flash of white teeth in the dim light. "Interested, or concerned?"

"Neither," you lied, drawing out a small, curved blade from a hidden sheath in your boot. "Just… efficient."

She laughed, a short, sharp bark, devoid of humor. "Efficient? You were watching me from the rafters like a… a frightened sparrow.” She moved closer, each step calculated, predatory. “Come down here, little bird, let's see how efficient you really are."

The fight was fast, brutal, and exhilarating. You traded blows with a ferocity that surprised even yourself. Her attacks were precise, designed to exploit weaknesses, and your own years of training met them with an equal, if slightly less refined, ferocity. Your blades clashed, sparks flying, the air thick with the scent of ozone and sweat. You feinted left, moved right, and used the momentum to push her back. She met it with a force that nearly buckled your knees, a snarl ripping through her.

For the first time, you felt a thrill that wasn't about completing a mission. It was the thrill of the hunt, of meeting an equal, a force of nature as wild and untamed as yourself. You wanted to push her, test her limits, see how much she could take, and if you were honest, push your own too.

The fight culminated in a brutal grapple. You were chest-to-chest, breathing hard, your blades pressed against each other, the tension between you almost palpable. Your eyes locked; hers were burning with a fury that matched your own, but something flickered beneath the surface, something that sent a shiver down your spine.

"This could go on all night," she said, her voice breathless, a hint of amusement coloring it. "Or," she added, lowering her voice to a husky whisper, "we could find something more... productive to do."

You pushed against her, just enough to create a fraction of distance. “Productive?”

“We’re both tired of this dance, sparrow,” she said, her gaze intense. “Let’s see what else we can do together.”

You knew you should report her, report the fight, report the… weird, charged energy that crackled between you. But you didn't. Instead, you found yourself agreeing. Maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe it was the intoxicating pull of the woman before you, but you let her lead you away from the factory, into the heart of the city's hidden shadows.

The lines between enemies and something… else blurred with each passing day. You met in secret, training sessions that became something more intimate, arguments that turned into heated debates, and then, eventually, something akin to… a reluctant, dangerous trust. You learned her vulnerabilities, her past, the ghosts that haunted her, and she, surprisingly, seemed to learn yours. And with every shared glance, every brushed hand, the tension simmered, threatening to boil over.

One rain-soaked night, hiding in a derelict subway station, you kissed. It was desperate, fierce, and tasted of rain and metal and something deeply, terrifyingly real. You pulled back, both of you gasping for air, your lips tingling with the aftershock.

“This is… complicated,” you said, your voice trembling slightly.

Yelena smirked, that familiar glint back in her eyes. “Complicated is fun, sparrow.” She reached out, her fingers tracing the line of your jaw. “And I’m not one for simple.”

The world outside the subway station was still dangerous, still filled with threats. But you no longer faced it alone. You had an ally, a partner, an adversary who had become something else, something more. You knew this could end in flames, but for the first time, you didn't want to run. You were ready to face whatever came, together. Because sometimes, the most dangerous enemies make the most captivating lovers. And with Yelena Belova by your side, you knew chaos was only just beginning.

#yelena belova x reader #yelena belova #yelena x reader #yelena

126 notes · View notes

luciacaminoz · 2 months ago

Text

NEW GAME+ (2.6k)

"Third law of Kindred kinematics," Julian calls, voice slicing through smog and car-horn-choir blare. He taps his temple. "Momentum's a bitch until you become the bitch."

March 2021

Sol crouches, calves coiled, eyes tracking the labyrinth of rooftops and laundry lines spiderwebbing across Colonia Independencia. The night market’s cacophony—braying norteño accordions, sizzling cabrito, vendors hawking bootleg PS5s, Cartier replicas, Trump piñatas—thrums five stories down.

A neon crucifix above the club, Carnicería Diablo, dominates in cherry-red over the green glow of OXXO and farmacia signs this side of the district. Monterrey’s greater skyline pulses in the distance—a sodium vapor haze of LED billboards plastered with Tecate, telecom scams, and a vaping Santa Muerte.

She takes off running, sneakers pelting sun-baked aluminium, the warehouse rooftop groaning under weight as she vaults an HVAC unit. Julian echoes ahead:

“Castillo!” His silhouette leans on a satellite dish two buildings over, backlit by the Fundidora smokestacks and a yellow sickle moon. “The whole point is that you’re supposed to keep up!”

She snarls, rousing the Blood—reigniting veins like struck matches. The leap sends her arcing over a yawning alley where dumpsters reek of lye and rotting carnitas, and for three glorious seconds, flight feels possible…

Then her knee buckles on impact.

“Fuck—!”

Sol slams into a small water tower, claws screeching against rusted metal. Julian’s laugh bounces off the Banco de México’s glass facade as he zips onto a fire escape, effortless.

“Oh man. Gotta stick the landing, chica.”

“Eat shit!” She flings a loose bolt at him. He ducks, still laughing, and jumps the railing straight into a sprint across the steel bar latched between tenements.

Sol grits her teeth and pushes off the tower, vitae drumming in her ears; dead nerves lighting up, stretched puppet-taut.

The city becomes a strobe—glimpses of a meth cook’s startled face in a garret window, feral cats scattering from overturned buckets, Julian’s black windbreaker flapping like a raven’s wings. He hurdles an electricity box with arrogant finesse before he’s a glitch, rocketing ahead.

“Left!” His voice comes from everywhere and nowhere.

She swerves hard, nearly clotheslining on a low-hanging cable. A Chihuahua yips from a rooftop garden, tiny teeth snapping where her ankle just was.

”Wrong left, Solona!”

She pivots back, claws gouging mortar as she flings herself onto a wrought-iron balcony. The metal shrieks. Her knee slams into a potted bougainvillea—petals explode like confetti.

Julian’s perched another storey up, hood pulled low over his eyes, grinning down.

Dick.

“You’re thinking too mortal. Flow with it.”

Flow with it.

Jesus, she wants so badly to fuck him off. Instead, she leaps for the drainage pipe.

Her foot slips.

Julian’s hand clamps her wrist mid-air—then a sickening full-body lurch as he yanks her up beside him.

“Relax,” he says. His thumb brushes her raw knuckles. “You’re forcing it. Let the Blood lead.”

She shoves him off.

“I am.”

“No. You’re button-mashing then panicking. This isn’t Protean, Sol—and you aren’t manipulating vitae with Sorcery. Celerity’s about rhythm. You’re all…” His palm slaps the low wall of concrete beside them in an unpleasant staccato. “When you should be…” His fingers dance smooth up her arm, light as a MIDI beat.

Suddenly she’s trying hard not to smile.

“Stop flirting with metaphors.”

“Who’s flirting?” Julian pulls her in by the elbow, pecks her nose. “Again.”

———

First foothold: crumbling concrete. Second: a railing crusted with pigeon shit. Her muscles scream, legs pistons with stripped screws—every part of her body suddenly fledgling-fresh, mortal-clumsy. The world blurs at the edges, colors smearing like wet ink, and—fuckfuckfuck—she’s overshooting—

—Until Julian’s arm hooks her waist.

“Solona. You’ve gotta feather the gas, not floor it.”

Sol jostles free.

“I know.”

“Do you, though?” He twirls what looks like a USB, taunting. “Because that was—”

She swipes for it. Julian fucking dissolves, reappearing six feet away atop an AC unit.

He tuts and pockets the drive, phone (matte black, graphene-thin, quantum circuitry prototype) already in his other hand. He points with it. “One more time. From the PEMEX sign.”

“Julian—”

His phone chirps a Mario power-up sound.

“Again. C’mon.”

———

Vitae’s still humming wrong—like chewing foil, like fucking in someone else’s skin—as she sprints along the gas station’s platform onto the farmacia. For a second’s stretch, she flies by spires gutted into strip dens and nightclubs, over cartel-owned taquerías, above abuelitas pushing strollers around the plaza of Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de la Soledad. Julian flickers between adobe and solar panels, occasionally pausing to mock-applaud.

Gravity remembers her once she’s airborne.

Sol hits the next roof’s edge too hard, too fast, ribs audibly cracking against parapet, claws scrabbling for purchase. Mortar dust fills her mouth as she dangles, legs kicking over a sixty-foot drop.

“Fuck!”

Julian’s there instantly, hauling her up by the scruff of her hoodie.

“Fucking Looney Tunes Discipline. I hate it,” she spits.

“Hate it faster.” He fires the thumb drive-sized device into the air—it sails across another gap, lands with a clink in a zinc chimney. “Next one’s got a timer. Tick-tock.”

———

She almost clears.

Almost.

Her shin splats against the ledge. Vitae sprays. She eats shit, claws shredding concrete until she grinds to a stop.

Julian’s waiting, picking at his nails with his karambit.

“Six seconds.” He checks an imaginary watch. “That grandma with a walker down there could’ve outrun you.”

Sol coughs gravel out of her throat, then rubs the rest from her palms.

“Fuck your metrics. And fuck that grandma.”

“Fuck your form.” He holsters the knife, looking at her, serious. “You’re burning through blood like a Toreador at Coachella. Short bursts—controlled, yes, but let vitae carry you. Observe—” He demonstrates, blurring strides with preternatural precision between each frame of movement, “—then reset. Like, y’know, checkpoints.”

———

So that’s what two miles round of AC units become—blink to the first, pause, blink to the next. Her vision swims in technicolor motion, kaleidoscopic afterimages—Mexican flags, flailing limbs, Julian’s smirk—astigmatisms of her own making.

Here, the EDM lounges of Zona Rosa war with Bad Bunny bleating from armoured Suburbans stuck bumper to bumper; here, diesel rain and fried masa cling to the humid Spring night.

“Better,” Julian says. “Now add a wall run.”

Add a wall run—wh—motherfu—

He launches himself at a neighboring building, sneakers hitting brick at a 70-degree angle, displacing air so seamlessly it’s pornographic.

And then he’s gone—no tell-tale, footsteps barely kissing rebar.

Sol—still jagged, coltish; arguably a little more fluid—follows only the idea of Julian Sim until the last of Monterrey’s colonial corpse gives way to the cranes of half-built luxury condos and mirror-chrome high rises.

Her young Sire’s a suggestion in techweave and neon-trim when he slows, rippling back into her line of sight to drape them both in the not-there. Light bends as they pass security cams, Julian staying within range to better flex Obfuscate. It probably would’ve been the easier choice of Discipline for her arsenal too, if—

“Keep the pace!”

Short bursts. Checkpoints.

They slalom through Calle Morelos’ circuit board esophagus of pristine tech start-ups, soldered with glass walkways, six lanes of headlights, screaming ads for Pacífico and VPNs. Julian dances ahead, but Sol’s not lagging far behind.

Her next leap sings smooth as a struck bell, braid arcing like a scorpion’s tail, rust flakes kicked up behind her on sheet metal. Julian's piercings flash when he glances back, grin softening at the edges.

She rolls, liquid shoulder-tuck; comes up running, bones intact—vitae burning through marrow like fucking nitrous, laughter unfurling wild in dead lungs.

Julian whistles.

"There she is."

They gain storey upon storey, the Haqimite electric, the Caitiff stick-shift, racing through the carcass of opulence—future penthouse suites now just I-beams and Ethernet cables.

Sol vaults on gazelle legs over a pallet of marble, soars through a cloud of fiberglass dust, and lands a neat meter from where Julian perches like e-boy Icarus, sneakers swinging above oblivion on the 18th floor.

A crane hook scrapes idly against naked concrete, plastic sheeting snapping in desert winds. Distant gunfire, three blocks east, percussive as a bassline. Suburbia sprawls for miles to the south, narco-mansions manicured and glittering all through the foothills of Sierra Madre in the north.

“Admit it,” he says, leaning back on his hand. “You missed this.”

“Missed your bullshit? Like a fucking migraine.”

He laughs. The wind whips her hoodie tight when she turns. His gaze lingers. She pretends not to notice.

Sol makes a point of surveying their midnight spread of Nuevo León once more as Julian chatters—about the city, the safehouse, their ghouls. Not the op. When she does flop beside him, feet also dangling, she stares ahead.

“You did good,” he says.

Their hands brush, then Julian’s pinky hooks hers. The motion itself is a relic.

Sol stiffens but stays. She glances at him.

He’s already looking.

A car backfires.

“Last stretch.” Julian nods toward the next buildings cutting smog. Smaller, plainer apartment complexes that will no doubt extort based on location alone once complete. “Race you?”

———

Sol’s surge is crystalline.

Julian’s right—Celerity isn’t Protean’s feral lunge, or Blood Sorcery’s calculated simmer. It’s rhythm.

She sees him ahead mid-vault, one arm outstretched behind, hair fanning like ink spilled in zero-G. Sees her own hand reaching—

Their fingers brush.

Julian's smile unfolds frame by frame: the curl of his bottom lip, the tapered apple of his cheeks, diamond-cut incisors—mesmerisingly symmetrical.

Sol's chest hits his back—

—and they’re a double helix spinning weightless—

—the city dilating below—

—a Bosch triptych halogen-spotted—

—gravity reasserts.

They crash through a skylight into an unfinished loft—glass explodes, shards spattering like prismatic shivs in the rich gleam of Monterrey’s nightlife.

Julian’s laughing.

He manages to land in a crouch for that microsecond before Sol hits half-sprawled on top of him, talons buried in the meat of his thigh.

"Fuck!"

"Sorry!"

He grabs her wrist, yanking her claws free.

"Put those things away. They’re banned.”

And then Sol’s laughing, righting herself to straddle him.

Shared Blood syncopates; rushes to pool where cold skin meets cold skin—an old tug of vitae, ten years frayed, easier to ignore now… uneasy in its familiarity. Julian's hands rest at her hips; one thumb digging into the hummingbirds there, the other circling. Her Beast purrs under his attention.

Below, in the neighboring apartments, a señora screams about flying demons.

"You really gotta work on your dismount,” he murmurs.

Sol’s eyes are flame-flecked staring down at him, pupils still slit with Protean bleeding through. Julian’s are black holes, event horizons.

The world narrows to:

The tick of her nail against his earring as claws retract.

The rogue strand of black hair stuck to his temple.

The tremble in her lower lip.

The way his Blood suddenly thrums beneath her palm, sparking warmth, simulating life—for her.

Julian’s hand rises—a languid arc, giving Sol every chance to pull back—and cradles her jaw.

“Solona…” has never sounded so much like surrender.

Time collapses honey-thick.

Slow as gangrene, sweet as sepsis.

The kiss unfolds in negative space—

Her mouth finds his.

His lips part.

She bites down just enough to taste the salt-iron synaptic burst, wintergreen gum of him, and Julian groans, low and wrecked, flicking into her fangs. His tongue drags deep along hers, insistent, sucking gently.

Dust motes spiral around them, suspended in strips of moonlight like Denver’s snow. She fists his jacket and grinds down where they’re pressed together—he makes that noise, that fucking noise, the one that starts in his diaphragm and splits into a whimper. His hands slip under her hoodie, skating up her waist, ribs, spine; Sol breaks the kiss to wrench the thing off—

A laser dot blooms red on Julian’s temple.

Celerity—him? her?—tears them sideways before the shot cracks reality back to real-time.

The Beast rattles caged and violent through bodies in a startled feedback loop. Sol’s shoulder dislocates with a nauseating pop as they go rolling across subflooring. The round pulverizes the pillar Julian’s head had just been in front of.

“MOVE—”

She’s already on her feet, dragging him by the arm into a sprint. Three more shots web the walls as they drop through holes between floors.

They hit the first intact emergency staircase by the 8th landing, Julian hacking the whole fucking grid with one hand while Sol half-hauls, half-guides him with the other. A door blows inward from another round—she feels the heat blister her cheek and panics, hissing and spilling back into a service corridor.

Fuck—neither of them have Kevlar tonight.

“Incendiary! What the fuck do we—”

“Left! Left left LEFT—”

Julian’s free hand vise-locks around her wrist as he pivots. Sneakers skid in tandem through standing water and discarded safety netting.

The corridor dead-end’s with an empty elevator shaft, car stranded above between floors. Bullets stitch the air behind them.

“JUMP!”

Maybe her equilibrium short-circuits.

Maybe Julian pushes her.

The ground tilts.

A drunk’s vomit hangs mid-air, chunky and iridescent, far across the lot.

The first delicate clinks of Modelo as a toast is caught in bird’s eye tableau.

An organillero’s note warps infinite, final fermata, outside fine dining.

Windshear.

Fear and velocity braid with the Blood.

Two Kindred ricochet off galvanized support beams like fucking pinballs.

The trumpet blows.

Laughter; someone drops their beer—more laughter.

Vomit splatters cobblestone.

Sol’s knees give way at the bottom. Julian catches her elbow, pulls her up running. They hit a clean sprint through the ground level, emerge out onto the construction site.

“See? Rhythm!”

“Fucking move your ass!”

Police sirens wail across downtown’s throb of traffic and tourists; more gunfire—not sniper rounds; seemingly unrelated—popcorns in a favela alley.

Somewhere, the norteño band butchers Depeche Mode for a bachelor party.

Somewhere, a shovelhead gets their throat torn out.

A quarter-second burst risks them through a gap in tail lights.

Neon smears at the marquee—7-Eleven green, taco stand orange, strip club pinks and violets.

Kine-slow, predators blend with prey: a crowd of football fans stumbling from a cantina; Julian’s hand still grasping Sol’s wrist.

They slip under a gothic arch into community gardens. It’s a chessboard of terracotta and steel to the rooftops. They drop down on the other side—an empty backstreet lined with dumpsters—and Julian flicks the not-USB from his pocket.

Hunger gnaws at Sol’s broken ribs.

Both vampires are a mess—plaster and scratches all over their hands and faces; her leggings and hoodie torn where she snagged on rebar and fell through glass, the outer thigh of his joggers partly shredded from her nails.

“Fuck, we were sloppy.”

“DAAE?” Sol scans the balconies above.

“Not that simple,” Julian snaps, eyes glued to his phone. Blood trickles from his nose.

“Then who? Sabbat? The fucking cartel?”

“Safehouse first.” His fingers fly over the custom rig. Sol keeps watch, claws out and twitching. “There’s an entrance into the sewer system beneath the grate here; two tunnels come up the other side of the Santa Catarina, but—”

“So come on—”

“Almost…” Julian mutters.

“Julian.”

“Got it.” He stabs a final key.

Ozone.

The district plunges into darkness.

Screams, gasps, shouting, car alarms, backup generators, trumpets, four wasted white guys still singing Personal Jesus at the top of their lungs—noise dulls to a submarine hum.

Julian’s mouth is fever-hot on her, Blush boiling beneath his skin.

Light calluses skim her cheeks; the faint ridge of scar, catch in her baby hairs. His fingers thread into where waves have frayed loose from braid, tugging her head back to deepen the kiss. Her moan vibrates through her molars and he echoes it; she feels it when he stops thinking, stops scheming, stops being Julian Sim, fucking Messiah of the Masquerade’s Collapse—and for a moment, it’s the turn of the millennium and they’re fledglings again: Sol too-eager, too-hungry, too-curious, pressed against the Geo’s hood under a Sonoran night sky, Julian’s nervous little laugh in her ear—“I mean, we’re technically dead but I guess—”

He pulls back now, forehead to hers.

“Safehouse—”

She drags him in for one more kiss.

When they separate, Julian’s grinning, all fangs and fuckery.

“To be continued?”

“Get in the sewer.”

"Told you there'd be a jacuzzi."

¡BIENVENIDOS A MONTERREY!

[previous prompt]

[all prompts]

each time i tried to paste all this into the ask my app exploded but thank you so much T_T i continued on from cicatrix for you but ended up cutting the real hot tub part bc it was getting far too long (explaining the layout of the safehouse & having nadia/elena interactions & building on some of the story here). had to split it—there is a smutty part ii coming for this one (yes i need plot with my porn…)

(btw ive two more prompts in my inbox rn but if anyone wants to send more feel free i love these. doesnt have to be a kiss prompt either it can be whatever ^^ hypothetical sudo the chihuahua custody battle etc)

#jez writing #vtm #vampire the masquerade #vtm night road #julian sim #oc: soledad #x: exit wounds #art tag #st: new game+#my babies..

73 notes · View notes

skyward-floored · 9 months ago

Text

Whumptober Day 1: Race against the clock, panic attack

Hello everybody and welcome back to the fourth year in a row of me beating up nine blond guys (plus others) for a month, please enjoy the show 👍

Warnings: fire, smoke inhalation, minor injuries, and a panic attack.

Ao3 link

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He had maybe five minutes left.

Wild tore through the smoke and flames of the burning dungeon, squinting through eyes blurred with painful tears for any flashes of green or grey, a familiar pelt, dusty brown hair... anything.

All he saw were flames though, colored an unnatural reddish tone. Wild leapt to avoid some as they flared up, then stopped to hack through the cloth he’d tied over his mouth, throat burning from the smoke.

He was hating wizzrobes more by the second. He’d defeated the group of them that had swarmed him and Twilight, but they’d been black-blooded, and exploded into flames as they’d died. It was just unnatural the way their fire was eating at the rocks, melting pillars and devouring walls. How they’d set fire to an entire dungeon largely made of stone was beyond him.

And of course, all this had happened right after Twilight had been snatched by some weird hand-monster and disappeared.

Of course it had.

Now Wild had mere minutes left before the whole place collapsed or he passed out from smoke inhalation, and he had no clue where Twilight was.

“Rancher?!” Wild shouted in a rasp, then doubled over into a coughing fit again. The smoke even tasted unnatural, thicker than woodsmoke, and sweet, but in a sickly way.

Something cracked off in the distance, and the ground trembled beneath Wild’s feet. He dragged in not nearly deep enough of a breath, and kept running, occasionally squinting at the tattered map in his hands. There was only one area he hadn’t been in yet in his search. Twilight had to be there.

Wild leapt over a fallen pillar and entered the last room, squinting through smoke and heat. His eyes fell on a cage at the back wall, and he gasped, the figure inside unmoving.

“Twilight!” Wild shouted, then coughed, already working his way across the room.

Twilight didn’t say anything in reply to his voice, and Wild sped his steps, ignoring the rawness of his throat and the sting in his eyes. There were some of those blade trap things that had been in an earlier area of the dungeon in the way, but Wild deftly avoided them, even despite several being on fire.

He finally reached the cage, and dropped to his knees beside it, breathing hard.

“Twi,” Wild gasped, the words more of a cough than a greeting, “Twi, can you hear me?”

Twilight was huddled in the very back corner of the cage, his hands over his head. His eyes were squeezed shut, and he didn’t reply to Wild’s voice, staying curled up in a ball. Fear shook through Wild at the sight of Twilight so vulnerable, that something had happened to him, that he was hurt, that something was wrong—

“I’ll get you out,” Wild reassured in a voice he tried to make comforting, already feeling for any weakness in the bars. “Hold on.”

He located a portion of the cage where the metal was weakened, bars rusted and loose. Magnesis was hard to use when your hands were shaking, but after a few tries and some help from an old sword, Wild managed to tear the loose metal away, and bolt inside.

Twilight was breathing hard, his eyes open now and reflecting the flames, and Wild grabbed his wrists, giving him a quick shake.

“Rancher, hey, come on,” he croaked. Twilight’s glazed vision flicked to Wild’s face. “Link, wake up, I need you with me.”

Twilight still stared at him, eyes eerily blank, but then they focused, and he gasped, lurching backwards from Wild as he looked around in terror.

“No— no, what—”

“Link,” Wild repeated, heart pounding wildly. He inched closer to Twilight. “Don’t look at the flames, look at me. We need to get out of here.”

Twilight’s breathing sped up, his eyes reflecting the flames as he stared at them. Wild tried to catch his gaze but Twilight wasn’t paying any attention to him, pulling his hands away and digging his fingers into his scalp, breath wheezing as his chest heaved.

“Twi,” Wild begged, snatching his hands away from his hair. “Come on, I’m here to help you! We need to go!”

Wild gave his hands a tight squeeze, and Twilight flinched, blinking hard as his shoulders hitched up. His eyes darted around, and Wild got up in his face so it would be much harder for him to see the flames.

“Link, please, breathe,” Wild pleaded. “We’re not going to make it if we don’t go now!”

Twilight flinched again at the shout, then swallowed, his eyes suddenly fixing on Wild.

“W-Wild,” he said in a shaking voice, and Wild nodded, squeezing his hands. “Wild, what...”

“Wizzrobes, magic fire, you got snatched, I beat the wizzrobes but they set the place on fire,” Wild quickly explained, and swallowed as he looked over Twilight. “Did that hand thing hurt you? Are you okay?”

Twilight’s breath hitched. “No. Yes. I mean I... I think so?”

His gaze flicked to the flames again, and Wild felt a tremor go through him, panic in his expression. Wild let go of his hands and took his shoulders instead, giving him another shake.

“Twilight. You can’t freak out now, we have to get out of here,” Wild said firmly. His throat scratched as he spoke. “We...”

Wild fell into another coughing fit, breath tight, throat burning. It took him much longer to stop coughing than the last time, and getting in air was a lot harder, tears dripping from his eyes with the effort.

A hand clasped at his shoulder as he wheezed, and Wild glanced up to see Twilight looking at him. Twilight was still breathing fast, face pale, eyes wide, but his expression had slipped to an emotion Wild was more used to seeing on his face.

Worry.

“Are you okay?” Twilight asked, and Wild nodded, wheezing as his fit finally ended.

“Yeah... just... smoke,” he rasped, careful not to fall into another fit when he spoke. “Place is gonna... come down... need to go.”

Twilight looked out at the dungeon, flames roaring as they devoured the old temple, and he swallowed thickly. But when he looked back at Wild he nodded, and they both got to their feet, legs shaking for different reasons.

Twilight had an iron grip on Wild’s arm as they finally left the cage, and the two began to work their way back to the entrance.

It wasn’t easy. Everywhere Wild looked there were more of those reddish flames, purplish-pink at the center, plumes of sweet-yet-rancid smoke roiling through the air. A lot of the path he’d taken to get to Twilight in the first place just wasn’t there, and they had to pick their way around all kinds of rubble.

Everything seemed like it was on fire now, and sweat and tears poured in equal amounts down Wild’s face, eyes burning with smoke. They rushed back through the temple, dodging falling stone and roaring flames, Twilight shaking every time the fire got anywhere near them.

Wild glanced at him, the rancher’s grip on his arm nearly bruising, and swallowed.

Wild knew Twilight was wary around fire. He’d seen him stay back whenever Legend got out his fire rod, or Hyrule lit his sword up in flames, and generally fight fiery enemies from as far a distance as he could. He’d even teased him about it, and Twilight had shoved him and teased him right on back about being too willing to solve his problems with fire.

But this was more than wariness. This was straight-up terror at the sight of the flames, and Wild had never seen Twilight so blatantly afraid of something before.

What had happened to him?

A huge pillar came crashing down mere feet away from them, and Twilight and Wild scrambled back against the wall, heat pressing against their faces. Wild heard Twilight’s breath catch, and he tugged him in a different direction.

It was getting harder and harder to breathe, even with the cloth over his mouth. Wild’s steps faltered suddenly, and he stumbled against a part of the wall, breathing hard. They didn’t have time for him to stop, but he had to catch his breath, just for a moment.

“Wild? You good?” Twilight asked, voice raspy, but less so than Wild’s was.

Wild straightened, but before he could assure him that he was fine, a scratch in his throat made him cough, and before he knew it he was practically bent double, dry, wracking coughs pouring out of him.

Somehow he landed on the floor, and Twilight’s voice was frantic in his ear, a hand pressing at his back as it tried to help him.

Panic lurched in Wild’s middle, the lack of air only making his breath speed up. His world narrowed to the tightness in his lungs, the way they refused to take in as much air as he needed, and the dry feeling in his throat that made him want to cough with every breath.

The worst of it finally faded, but the fit had sapped most of Wild’s remaining energy. His head was spinning, throat dry as bone, and his breath was little more than desperate wheezes.

“Wild?”

Wild managed to raise his head and look at Twilight, the rancher‘s face pure alarm.

“Can you walk?” he asked, and Wild swallowed, trying to raise himself up on shaking legs. He got about halfway before a tremor shook the ground, and both he and Twilight lost their balance.

A portion of wall abruptly collapsed nearby, crashing to the ground mere feet from their boots. Flames burst into the air, and Twilight scrambled backwards, pressing one arm over Wild while the other covered his face from the sparks. Heat roared against them, and Wild felt it sear his uncovered skin.

More of the wall collapsed around them, and though Wild tried to scramble to his feet, his legs were like chu jelly when he put weight on them.

“Can’t...” Wild wheezed when Twilight looked at him, his chest too tight to explain further.

He couldn’t walk, not like this, not with his head spinning and vision darkening at the edges. The flames would overtake the structure any moment now, and he was slowing Twilight down.

“G-get out... Twi...” he managed to rasp.

“Not without you,” Twilight said firmly, and he looked at the flames, fear still reflecting in his eyes. He exhaled shakily, and then his face hardened with determination. “Come on Wild. We’re getting out of here.”

He clutched Wild’s arm, then pulled him to his feet, slinging Wild’s arm over his shoulders. Wild stumbled against him, but managed to keep his balance with Twilight’s firm grip.

Twilight began pulling him through the blaze, dodging flames and collapsing architecture, and Wild stumbled clumsily beside him. He was slowing them down, badly, but he didn’t have the breath to insist Twilight leave him.

We’re not going to make it! he wailed inwardly, but Twilight kept dragging him, hands shaking where they supported Wild.

Fire dripped from the wall beside them like a living thing, and Wild felt Twilight violently flinch from it. He just kept going though, even despite the spreading flames and nearly unbearable heat.

Wild found himself relying more and more on Twilight as they went, his legs refusing to behave. Despite how he tried to walk himself, most of his weight was soon being supported by the rancher.

Are we close? Wild thought blearily, fighting the urge to stop and cough violently into his arm. He’d lost the map, and anything that would have given away which room they were in was either in flames or actively falling to pieces.

“We’re almost out, we’re almost out, we’re almost out,” Twilight began to repeat under his breath, and Wild would’ve joined him if he’d had any breath to. “Please light spirits we’re almost out we’re almost out—”

An ominous crack rang through the dungeon, and Wild heard Twilight’s breath catch. His steps sped up even more, and Wild did his best to hurry along with him, breath wheezing, eyes teary from smoke and yet much too dry.

The walls melted and crumbled around them, the ceiling warping and groaning as flames ate away at it. A light different then the fire glinted in Wild’s fading vision, and Twilight let out a guttural cry as he ran towards it.

Flames roared, something crashed, and Twilight threw him and Wild out of the dungeon.

They tumbled down the stairs that had led to the door, and the structure collapsed into itself with a roar behind them, a blast of hot air sending them both to the ground. Wild might’ve passed out for a moment, but he honestly wasn’t sure.

A violent wheeze escaped him, his chest tight and aching, vision still darkened at the edges. He might’ve been shaking, but he couldn’t even tell he was so dizzy from the lack of air.

A hand pulled the cloth at his face down, then settled in his hair, and Wild blearily recognized it as Twilight’s, the other hero��s face streaked with ash.

“We made it,” Twilight croaked, and Wild coughed, trying to reply, but unable to get the words out. “We m-made it pup. Thank you.”

Wild pulled in a rasping breath, tears still dampening his cheeks, but he managed a weak smile. Twilight let out a short, panicked laugh, and curled around Wild where they were both lying in the grass. Despite how overheated he felt, Wild appreciated the contact.

He listened to Twilight’s heart hammer in his chest, the panic he’d been fighting away obviously breaking free. Twilight let out another panicked laugh, this one a fair bit more hysterical, and held Wild tight.

Wild clutched back as best as he could, and relief and exhaustion suddenly swept over him, intense and thick.

They’d made it.

Despite everything, they’d made it.

And Wild’s body took that as a sign that it was finally safe to pass out.

#whumptober 2024 #day 1 #race against the clock #panic attack #linkeduniverse #linked universe #lu wild #lu twilight #fic #linked universe fanfic #writing from the floor #keeping with my tradition of beating up twilight on day one <3 #sorry bro but also not really

135 notes · View notes

rocknroll7575 · 3 months ago

Note

So you liked knightcrown. I will give you a thought , they ever after arc but gillian some how arrived and thinks to the clockwork orange she arrives to find jaune after the paper pleaders save him.

So when team rwby arrive jaune is now the rusted king and gillian the summer queen. They have kids

Firstly, I don't just like KnightsCrown, I fucking love it! I kept it alive! Anyway! You have asked, and so you shall receive!

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Gillian clenched her teeth as she hurled the clock fruit to the ground, watching it roll away before coming to a stop against a bed of thick, twisting roots. A bitter curse tore from her lips.

"Damn it!" she cried, her voice sharp with frustration.

She lifted her gaze to the sky, heart pounding as an unsettling realization took hold. The vibrant hues of dusk had vanished, swallowed by an unfamiliar darkness. Stars twinkled in patterns she didn't recognize, and the moon, now fuller than before, cast a pale, eerie glow over the landscape.

It wasn’t just her imagination.

Time had been reversed.

A cold weight settled in her chest as the truth set in. She was supposed to find Jaune. She had fought so hard, struggled so much to reach him. And now, she was trapped in the past, stranded in an era she didn’t belong to.

Gillian clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms as she let out a low, frustrated growl. But before she could fully give in to her despair, her instincts flared—voices, soft but distinct, drifted through the air.

Her muscles tensed as she shot to her feet, her bow already in hand. With practiced efficiency, she reached over her shoulder, grabbed an arrow, and notched it, drawing the string back just enough to be ready. Eyes narrowed, she tuned out the pounding of her own heart, focusing instead on the voices whispering through the trees.

She turned her head slightly, angling her ear toward the sound. 'There! To the left!' Gillian thought

Moving with measured steps, she wove through the dense underbrush, slipping past thick foliage and gnarled branches. The air smelled different here—earthy and damp, tinged with the scent of something ancient. She ignored the strange plants curling toward her boots and the odd flickers of light dancing between the trees. None of it mattered right now.

What mattered was what lay ahead.

After what felt like an eternity, she pushed past a final barrier of leaves and emerged into a clearing. What she saw made her breath hitch.

A group of creatures, no taller than her knee, gathered in a loose circle. They were star-shaped, their bodies appearing as though they were crafted from folded paper, glowing faintly as they murmured among themselves. In the center of their gathering lay a figure—a man, unmoving.

Standing over him was a massive Jackalope, its antlers glinting in the moonlight, its ears twitching as it regarded the fallen figure with a mix of curiosity and wariness.

Gillian's grip tightened on her bow, but when her eyes landed on the man sprawled in the grass, her breath caught in her throat.

Even beneath the unkempt hair and the beard that now covered his face, she knew exactly who he was.

Jaune.

Her heart stammered.

She darted forward without hesitation, shoving past the small, paper-like creatures as a sense of dread clawed at her chest. Her knees hit the soft earth beside Jaune’s motionless body, hands trembling as she reached for him. His face was twisted in pain, beads of sweat forming along his forehead. His breathing was shallow, labored.

"Jaune! Jaune!" she cried, her voice raw with desperation. She carefully lifted his head, cradling him in her arms. His skin was unnaturally warm, and a sickly pallor had overtaken his usually fair complexion. "Open your eyes! Please, Jaune! Say something!"

There was no response.

Her stomach twisted, fear gripping her tighter than ever. Just when she thought she had finally found him, he was slipping away before her eyes.

A soft voice interrupted her panic. "He's been poisoned," a small green star-shaped creature stated matter-of-factly, stepping forward from the gathered group. "His steed came to us and asked for our help,"

Gillian tore her gaze from Jaune and looked at the strange being. "You can help him?" she asked, hope laced with uncertainty.

The green star gave a reassuring nod. "Yes, we are the Paper Pleasers, helping is what we are, and helping is what we do,"

Gillian hesitated. The creatures were strange, their very existence unlike anything she had ever seen. But she had no other options, and time was slipping away with every second Jaune remained in this condition. Her grip on him tightened as she swallowed down her doubt.

"Then please, help us," she said, her voice quieter now but no less urgent.

"We will," a pink star chimed in. "But we must take him back to our village, there, we have what we need to heal him,"

Gillian nodded, shifting to try and lift Jaune, but his weight was more than she anticipated. She gritted her teeth, struggling to get him off the ground, her muscles already straining under the effort.

Before she could collapse under his weight, a presence loomed beside her. A firm, yet gentle force pressed against Jaune, easing the burden. Gillian glanced to the side and saw the Jackalope, its massive form lowering to assist her. The creature’s deep, intelligent eyes met hers for a brief moment before it knelt slightly, revealing a saddle strapped to its back.

Realization dawned on her. The Jackalope wasn’t just helping—it was offering to carry him.

Without wasting another second, Gillian adjusted Jaune’s position and, with the Jackalope’s assistance, carefully lifted him onto the saddle. Her hands lingered on him for a moment, making sure he was secure before stepping back.

She exhaled, glancing down at the Paper Pleasers. "Lead the way," she said.

And with that, they set off into the night.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

As they followed the winding path toward the village where the Summer Queen resided, Little practically vibrated with excitement, his tiny form nearly bouncing with each step. His ears twitched, and his paws fidgeted as if he could barely contain himself.

Ruby noticed his enthusiasm and chuckled. "What’s got you so excited, Little?" she asked, watching as he practically quivered with anticipation.

"We’re going to meet the Summer Queen!" Little cried out, his voice full of wonder. "She’s said to be the most beautiful queen in all the land! And the Rusted Knight serves her!"

Ruby tilted her head. "I don’t remember reading about the Summer Queen in the book," she admitted, frowning slightly.

Blake, walking beside her, nodded. "Neither have I, but there’s so much about the Ever-After that wasn’t in the book," she said, her amber eyes scanning the unfamiliar landscape.

The Ever-After had already proven to be far more mysterious than they had imagined, and the mention of a Summer Queen and the Rusted Knight only deepened the mystery. Who was this queen, and could she really help them?

As they neared the village, a small but sturdy wooden wall came into view, enclosing the settlement within. The scent of wildflowers and warm earth drifted through the air, mingling with the distant sounds of voices and activity from within.

Just as they reached the gates, they groaned and creaked open, revealing the figure that emerged from within.

A young man, seemingly their age, stepped forward. Unlike the whimsical and strange inhabitants of the Ever-After they had met so far, this one looked unmistakably human. He was clad in gleaming white armor, polished to perfection, with an elegant silk cape draped over his shoulders. The fabric shimmered under the light, almost as if infused with a rainbow’s glow.

His shaggy black hair was slightly tousled, and sharp blue eyes studied them with curiosity and caution. At his hip rested a sword, its handle intricately designed to resemble the twisting roots of a great tree, as if nature itself had shaped it.

His expression remained unreadable as he finally spoke. "Who are you?" His voice carried a steady authority, though not unkind. "And what brings you here?"

Weiss took a step forward, composing herself before answering. "We’re here looking for help," she said, her voice firm but diplomatic. "My name is Weiss, and these are my friends—Ruby, Blake, and Yang,"

The young man’s gaze swept over them, measuring, assessing. Then, his grip on the hilt of his sword loosened slightly.

"Help?" he echoed. "Then you’ve come to the right place,"

The young man turned on his heel and gestured for them to follow. "Come with me," he said simply before leading them through the village gates.

The group exchanged glances but said nothing as they stepped inside, curiosity tugging at their thoughts. The village was unlike anything they had seen before—quaint yet vibrant, with buildings that seemed to blend seamlessly with nature. Vines coiled around wooden structures, and soft lanterns cast a warm, golden glow over cobblestone streets. The air carried the scent of blooming flowers, and villagers of all shapes and sizes bustled about, their chatter filled with laughter and song.

As they walked deeper into the village, Yang decided to cut through the mystery hanging over their guide. She folded her arms and glanced at him. "So, uh… I gotta ask—are you… human?"

The young man gave a small nod, his expression calm. "I am," he confirmed.

Yang raised an eyebrow. "Then that means you're from Remnant, right?"

To their surprise, he shook his head. "No," he said. "I was born here, just like the rest of my brothers and sisters. But my parents… they came from Remnant."

That caught their attention. Weiss furrowed her brow. "Your parents?" she repeated. "Is your mother the Summer Queen?"

The young man’s lips curved into a fond smile. "She is," he confirmed. "And as for my father… well, you may have heard of him. The hero of the land himself—the Rusted Knight."

Ruby’s eyes widened. "Wait, what?" She turned to Blake, who looked just as stunned.

"That wasn't in the book," Blake muttered, crossing her arms in thought. Then her expression darkened slightly. "Didn't the Rusted Knight sacrifice himself for Alyx?"

At her words, the young man came to an abrupt stop. His entire demeanor shifted—the warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by something cold and unwavering. His jaw tightened, and when he spoke, his voice carried a firm edge.

"That's a lie," he said, his tone serious. "Alyx poisoned my father and left him for dead."

Silence fell over the group like a heavy curtain. The story they had all grown up with, the legend of Alyx and the Rusted Knight, was unraveling before their very eyes.

Weiss, Ruby, Blake, and Yang stared at him, struggling to process the weight of his words.

Another part of the tale they had believed to be true… had just been revealed as a lie.

The path led them to a grand manor, its stone walls draped in ivy, with tall windows that reflected the golden hues of the setting sun. It stood as a testament to both elegance and warmth, a home that had clearly been lived in and loved for many years.

As they stepped inside, the air was filled with the soft sound of laughter. In the spacious hall, two young children with golden hair played excitedly, giggling as they tumbled across a plush rug. Nearby, a man and woman watched over them with affectionate smiles, joining in on their game.

The young man leading them stepped forward, his voice warm with familiarity. "Mother! Father!"

At the call, the two adults turned, and in an instant, Team RWBY felt their breath catch in their throats.

"Jaune!?" Ruby gasped, eyes wide with shock.

Jaune Arc stood before them, older than they remembered, yet unmistakably him. His golden hair was longer, streaked with hints of silver at the edges, and there was a wisdom in his eyes that had not been there before. Despite the years, his smile remained the same—gentle, warm, and full of the quiet strength that had always defined him.

"Hey, Ruby," he greeted with a small wave, as if they had just seen each other yesterday.

Beside him, the woman—Gillian—smiled, her gaze shifting from Jaune to their son. "Ren," she said softly, "Will you take the twins outside and fetch Jeanette and Luna? We have guests,"

The young man, now revealed to be named Ren, nodded in understanding. "Yes, Mother." He turned to the two little boys, who were still grinning from their game. "Jax, Finn, come on," he called, motioning for them to follow. "Let’s go find our older sisters."

With excited laughter, the two blonde-haired boys scrambled up and raced toward their brother, their tiny footsteps echoing through the hall as Ren led them outside.

Once they were gone, Jaune and Gillian stepped forward, both regarding their guests with warmth.

Jaune’s gaze swept over Ruby, Weiss, Blake, and Yang, a flicker of nostalgia and relief crossing his features. "I’m sure you all have a lot of questions," he admitted, his smile never fading. "But can it wait until the rest of our kids get back?"

He crossed his arms, tilting his head slightly.

"After all," he added, his voice filled with quiet meaning, "You guys are the reason we’ve been waiting for so long,"

Indeed, the team of four huntresses had a lot of questions they needed answering, but they were even more in shock that their friend was now older, married, and had kids. They really needed to know how that all came to be.

#rwby #rwby meme #rwby au #rwby asks #knightscrown #rwby jaune x gillian #jaune x gillian #jaune arc x gillian asturias #rwby volume 9 #jaune arc #gillian asturias #rwby rising dawn au

48 notes · View notes

d0xxingcl0wn · 26 days ago

Text

CHOICE - Tim Wright x Reader

CHAPTER 1

Chapter 2

----

WARNING: Home Invasion, Graphic Violence, Attempted Murder, Use of Weapons, Mild Profanity Noun: Invasion - an unwelcome intrusion into another's domain Words: 3071

-----------

The crunch of leaves underfoot marked each step I took. Cold air bit at my exposed skin and seeped through my clothes. The sharp scent of damp earth and raw vegetation clung to me, tainted by a faint trace of cigarette ash. Overhead, the moon cast broken beams of light through the trees, illuminating my unfamiliar path in scattered fragments. The stars were hidden behind long branches heavy with lush green leaves. My crowbar dragged behind me, my grip loose on the cold metal, eyes fixed on the ground ahead.

An annoying headache mocked me, making the journey even more unbearable. If I'd known any better, I might have turned back and dug myself a grave just to escape the pounding in my skull. But I bit the inside of my cheek and kept pushing forward.

I lifted my crowbar and slung it over my shoulder. My gaze dropped to my feet, watching every root and fern I stepped on. Maybe I did it to avoid the monotonous sight of overgrown bushes and weeds—or maybe to avoid the moonlight that stabbed at my eyes. Not that I could think straight anyway; the migraine was too unbearable to form a coherent thought. I let out a low groan and brought a hand to my face, rubbing my eyes hard with both thumbs.

After what felt like hours of trudging through the dark, the distant rumble of engines began to cut through the silence. It was faint at first—just a low, rhythmic growl—but it grew steadily louder. I knew I was close to the highway. The forest thinned out around me, the trees growing sparser and more brittle, as if they, too, were retreating from civilization. Cracked pavement peeked through the underbrush, and the air started to smell faintly of rubber and exhaust.

I pushed past a final wall of bushes and stepped onto a patch of short, dew-dampened grass. In the pale moonlight, I looked left, then right—an old habit, even though the road was nearly empty.

Wasting no time, I approached the edge of the highway, slipping my free hand into my pocket. I swung one leg over the rusted railing, then the other, and stepped onto the blacktop. The road stretched out wide and silent, lit only by occasional passing headlights. Luckily, it was late—too late for much traffic. Still, I kept alert as I crossed, my pace quickening with each step. The soles of my boots scuffed against the rough surface until I finally reached the other side.

There, a tangle of side roads sprawled outward like veins, quiet and uninviting. I pulled a crumpled scrap of paper from my pocket, reading the jagged handwriting under the dim glow of a distant streetlight. Just an address—barely legible, almost like a dare. I tucked it back into the depths of my jacket and moved forward.

Mailboxes lined the roadside like sentinels, each one labeled with names I didn't recognize. I followed them down a narrow lane, my eyes scanning every driveway and house number, waiting for something—anything—to match what was written on that paper.

A worn-out mailbox stood at the edge of the driveway, leaning slightly to one side like it had been forgotten by time. The chipped paint and crooked numbers made me pause. Just to be sure, I pulled out the crumpled slip of paper again and compared the address scrawled in ink to the one printed faintly on the side of the mailbox. A perfect match.

I gave a slight nod—maybe to myself, maybe to no one. Just a small ritual of acknowledgment. I had found the place.

The mailbox creaked as I opened it. Inside, a handful of envelopes sat untouched. I flipped through them, noting the name printed on each one. Only one name. No "Mr. and Mrs." No roommates. No family initials. Just one occupant—alone.

I glanced up at the house beyond the mailbox. No bikes in the yard. No toys scattered on the porch. No leash, no dog bowl, no barking from inside. It was quiet—eerily quiet. The grass was short but patchy, the porch light flickering faintly as if it hadn't been changed in years.

A solitary life. Isolated. Predictable. Easy.

I slid the mail back in, shut the box, and stepped back onto the cracked path leading up to the door. My hand tightened around the crowbar at my side.

Tonight, would be simple.

I reached for the front door, easing the screen open without a sound. Locked. Predictable.

I scoffed under my breath and stepped off the porch, circling toward the tall wooden fence that wrapped around the backyard. The moonlight barely touched the yard, and the overgrown bushes lining the property provided decent cover. I tried the gate—unlatched. Too easy.

I slipped through and quietly shut it behind me. The curtains on the back windows were drawn tight, giving me cover. No need to crawl or crouch; the fence was tall enough to keep me hidden from curious neighbors or passing headlights.

I moved across the yard, each step deliberate. The grass was soft underfoot, slightly damp with dew. At the back door, I wrapped my fingers around the handle, already preparing to wedge the crowbar into the frame if I had to.

But to my surprise, the knob turned.

The door swung inward, just enough to throw me off balance. I stumbled, catching myself with a quiet grunt as I crossed the threshold.

I paused. Listened.

Nothing.

The house was silent.

I pulled the door shut behind me and stood there for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the dim interior. The smell of dust and stale air hung in the space—untouched, undisturbed. I tightened my grip on the crowbar, feeling its cool weight in my hand.

I was in.

I moved through the kitchen with careful, deliberate steps, placing each foot lightly on the tile to avoid even the smallest creak. The clutter on the counters—dirty dishes, an open cereal box, an old coffee mug—meant nothing to me. I wasn't here to clean up, and I wasn't staying long enough to care.

The house was small. No second floor, no dining room—just a tight cluster of rooms wedged together like an afterthought. I stepped into the living room. Sparse furniture, outdated carpet. My eyes landed on a pair of rifles mounted in a glass case above the fireplace.

Noted.

I glanced over the back of the couch to make sure the resident wasn't there. The cushions were sunken and stained, but otherwise undisturbed. No threats. No need to linger.

A narrow hallway stretched ahead, ending in two doors. One stood wide open, revealing a plain bathroom—clean enough, nothing unusual. I walked past it, toward the second door.

The bedroom.

I turned the knob slowly, pushing the door inward with the tips of my fingers. The room was dim, the curtains drawn tight, no lamps left on. I stepped inside, quietly pulling the door shut behind me. The air was still. Heavy. A faint scent of detergent and something older—dust, maybe, or sweat—clung to the air.

My eyes adjusted slowly, pulling shapes out of the darkness. A bed sat near the center of the room. Sheets rumpled. A shape under the blanket.

I tightened my grip on the crowbar.

For a moment, I considered waiting. Just standing there in the dark, watching them breathe, letting the moment stretch until fear did half the work for me. I could wake them. Make it personal. Make it slow.

But the migraine pressing behind my eyes reminded me otherwise. I just wanted to be done. To go home.

I raised the crowbar over my shoulder, adjusting my stance. My other hand found its grip, steadying the weight.

One breath in. One breath out.

Then I swung.

The impact was... wrong. No sickening crunch. No muffled squelch. Just a soft thud. A hollow one. The resistance was all fabric and pillow stuffing.

I froze.

They weren't in the bed.

They knew I was here.

The metallic click of a gun cocking echoed behind me, freezing every muscle in my body.

I didn't move.

A bead of sweat slipped down my temple beneath the suffocating heat of the plastic mask. My breaths came slow, quiet, deliberate. I closed my eyes for a second and listened — to the silence, to the tension, to the threat breathing down my neck.

"Drop the damn crowbar," a voice said — calm, firm, and close.

Not panicked. Not trembling.

My target had a steady hand.

I hesitated, running through the options in my head. I could lunge. Maybe. Close the gap. Hope they hesitated, flinched, misfired. But judging by their tone, their stance, the fact that I hadn't heard a single shuffle from the closet until now... they were ready. I'd get a bullet before I got a chance.

Slowly, I opened my hand. The crowbar slipped from my grip and hit the floor with a sharp metallic clang. I didn't flinch.

"Turn around. Now."

That voice — still no fear. Just command. Assertive. Like someone who'd made up their mind.

I stepped back once, then pivoted on my heel.

And there they were. Standing across the room, gun pointed square at my chest.

I scanned them quickly — calm eyes, steady breathing. I followed their gaze and saw it then: the blanket shoved awkwardly against the closet door. That's where they'd hidden. They'd waited.

I clenched my jaw. I should've checked. I should've scouted the whole damn room.

They stepped forward cautiously, keeping the gun trained on me as they reached for the wall. The overhead light snapped on with a harsh click, washing the room in a sudden yellow glare.

I groaned, squinting through the brightness. My eyes took a moment to adjust, the mask only making it worse. But I forced myself to look. To focus.

I studied their face.

And for the first time at all... I saw the same thing they saw when they looked at me:

Someone prepared to kill.

1.1 - Your POV

I gripped the gun tightly; finger curled hard around the trigger. My breathing was heavy, loud in my own ears. God damn it—someone really broke into my house.

And tried to kill me.

The muzzle stayed trained on his chest. One twitch, and I could end this. A clean shot. A fast one.

"What the hell are you doing in my house?" I demanded, voice low but firm I didn't yell. I didn't need to.

Sure, my hands trembled slightly, a fine shake I couldn't control—but I was allowed that. I was standing across from a masked intruder with blood under his nails. Fear wasn't weakness. It was survival.

He didn't answer. Just stared. Eyes narrowed. That silence made my skin crawl.

I kept the gun steady and let my gaze sweep over him, taking in everything I could.

He was tall—maybe six feet, give or take. Broad-shouldered. His hair was dark and cut short, just brushing the tops of his ears, with rough sideburns framing the edge of his face. The mask covered most of his features, plastic and expressionless, making it impossible to read his intentions.

He wore a dull, orange-brown jacket—thick, utility-style, something you'd wear to keep warm on cold nights. It hung heavy on his frame, creased and worn. His jeans were either deep blue or black, hard to tell in this lighting, but there were stains near the bottom. Mud, maybe worse. His boots were black, scuffed at the toe, thick-soled.

His hands caught my attention next.

Big. Rough. Blood crusted under his fingernails. But they didn't shake.

He wasn't scared.

And that terrified me more than the gun in my own hands.

I didn't lower my weapon. Not an inch.

My arms ached, my fingers numb from how tightly I was holding the gun, but I kept my stance solid. He moved—a slow, deliberate shift—and raised one hand in a universal gesture: wait.

My finger twitched on the trigger. Then, he began to crouch. Not fast, not threatening. Just enough to keep my nerves stretched taut like piano wire. His other hand reached for the crowbar on the floor, fingers brushing the handle.

I didn't wait to see what he'd do next.

I fired.

The shot cracked through the room like a whip, and the recoil jolted up my arms. The muzzle flash lit his figure for a split second. The bullet slammed into the red metal of the crowbar just as his hand gripped it.

Sparks scattered. Metal screamed.

He jerked his hand back with a hiss, instinctively recoiling as the crowbar skidded across the wood with a harsh scrape, landing several feet away—well out of reach. Smoke curled from the barrel of my gun. I didn't speak. I didn't blink.

He looked at me then—not just a glance, but something deeper. Measuring. Reassessing. Maybe for the first time, he was second-guessing himself.

Good.

"In less than five minutes, the cops will be here to drag your sorry ass out of my house," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady, strong. I squared my shoulders, widened my stance—tried to make myself look like more than I felt.

"You better pray they don't bury you in a cell for the rest of your pathetic life."

Still, he said nothing. His silence was louder than any threat. Calculated. Controlled. Not the behavior of a panicked rookie. My brow tightened. Something felt wrong.

Then he looked. Just a quick flick of the eyes—toward the window.

My instinct betrayed me. I followed his gaze. And that was all he needed.

He lunged.

I barely had time to react before the full weight of his body slammed into mine. The air shot from my lungs in a single burst as I crashed hard onto the wooden floor. The gun flew from my hand, clattering somewhere to the side—out of reach for both of us.

I struggled, but he was already on top of me. One of his hands gripped my wrist, slamming it against the floor. The other pinned my arm at the elbow. I thrashed beneath him, legs kicking, but he hooked his knees around mine and locked us into place. Pain shot through my back—sharp, hot, blooming from where my spine met the floor. I gritted my teeth to keep from crying out.

"Get the hell off me!" I spat, voice ragged, pushing every ounce of strength into resisting.

He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His mask stared down at me—blank, emotionless, inhuman.

But his eyes...

His eyes were focused. Cold. Like this was just business to him. My heart thundered in my chest. This was turning fast. Too fast.

My heart thundered in my chest. This was turning fast. Too fast.

His knee pressed into my thigh, pinning me down with a precision that made it clear—this wasn't his first time doing something like this.

The floor was cold against the back of my arms. I could feel each grain of the wood digging into my skin as I writhed underneath him, breath coming out in sharp, ragged gasps. Sweat stung my eyes. I blinked through it, trying to shift my weight—anything to buck him off.

His grip on my wrists tightened, and I heard the faint creak of my joints under the pressure. My own hands were starting to go numb. I gritted my teeth, biting back the scream clawing its way up my throat.

Somewhere nearby, the gun lay silent and useless—too far, maybe two feet, maybe ten. Might as well have been on the moon.

I twisted, arching my back, trying to throw him off-balance. He adjusted instantly, shifting his weight like a boulder falling into place. I felt the impact of his elbow against my ribs—hard, but controlled. A warning.

"Get. Off," I growled again, more animal now than anything human.

He didn't flinch.

His eyes, just visible behind the eyeholes of that plastic mask, never left mine. They weren't wild or angry or even excited. They were empty. Calculating.

I could feel the heat radiating off him, the damp musk of sweat and something else—metallic. Like rust. Like old blood.

The house around us felt quieter than it had ever been. Like the world itself was holding its breath. No cars outside. No wind. Just the sound of us—my sharp breaths, the creak of the floor beneath our bodies, the thudding in my ears like a war drum.

I had no idea what he was waiting for.

He was just starting. No narrow in his eyes. Maybe his eyes softened ever so slightly. Maybe the pain was just too much for me.

Maybe he was deciding whether to kill me.

Maybe he just liked watching people struggle.

I tried to flip our positions—wrenched my torso, kicked at his legs—but we both knew I wasn't getting anywhere. The pain in my back blazed like fire. It stole my strength. I could barely hold myself up, let alone overpower him.

I grunted. Thrashed. Pulled at his arms. Pushed at his chest. But his grip was iron.

The sudden sound of sirens—distant, but growing—pierced through the chaos. My ears perked up. Hope cracked through the haze of panic. They were close. Close enough to matter. His head snapped toward the bedroom door. Then to the window. And then... he looked back at me.

His hands moved fast—too fast for me to react. They wrapped around my throat, fingers pressing hard. Crushing. No warning. No hesitation. My mouth opened in a desperate gasp, but no air came. The world narrowed. Everything tunneled into that pressure. I clawed at his wrists, nails digging into skin. I could feel his pulse under my fingertips. I scratched deeper, trying to draw blood, to hurt him. But he didn't flinch.

The sirens were louder now. Tires screeched somewhere outside. A car door slammed. Footsteps. Yelling.

The front door crashed open.

He moved in a blur—releasing my throat just long enough to slam my head against the floor. The impact exploded behind my eyes. Light and sound blurred. My vision splintered like broken glass. A sharp, metallic taste filled my mouth.

I barely registered him standing, grabbing something—my gun?—and shoving it into his coat.

"Fucking bastard," he muttered, low and bitter.

I heard the scrape of the window lifting. Cold air rushed in. My fingers twitched, trying to push myself upright, but my head felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. The crowbar scraped against the wood floor as he scooped it up. Then... silence. One last thump. He was gone.

Just then, the bedroom door burst open—too late.

Boots stormed in. Flashlights. Shouts. But the room was already empty of him.

I tried to speak—tried to say something, anything—but only a croak came out. The police surrounded me, one of them dropping to his knees beside me, shouting into his radio.

I blinked slowly, vision swimming.

He got away.

#fanfic #writers on tumblr #tim wright #marble hornets #masky marble hornets #masky #creepypasta #creepypasta masky #tim masky #masky x reader #tim wright x reader #creepypasta x reader #x reader

34 notes · View notes

pancaketax · 2 months ago

Text

What Remains | Chapter 17 The Art of Breaking Things (Tony Stark x M! Reader)

TW : Graphic Description of Physical and Mental Torture, Humiliation, Dehumanization. Summary : You’re tortured—body and mind—by Matthew, who pushes harder every time you refuse to break. Burned, beaten, humiliated, you cling to silence like a final shield. But in the end, you’re left alone, broken, with only one thing holding off death: time. Stark has hours to pay. If you’re lucky. And the silence that follows is heavier than pain.

word count: 8.1k

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Matthew yanks you violently off the street, making you stumble harshly onto the sidewalk. You don’t even have time to scream before you're dragged, forced, into a narrow alley, squeezed between two grimy buildings. The air is thicker here, saturated with humidity, as if even the light itself refused to enter. He pulls you further, all the way to a rusted metal door, which he bashes open with his shoulder. The shrill screech of the hinges tears through the silence, twisting your stomach even tighter.

He shoves you inside a crumbling, half-collapsed building, abandoned for years. The walls are stained with green patches, devoured by moisture and mold. The musty smell is almost tangible, a slimy presence creeping into your throat, making you gag. Every step causes the floor to creak beneath your feet. The ceiling drips steadily, drops falling into a rusted basin in the corner of the room, adding a morbid rhythm to the scene.

You don’t even have time to take in the place when a sharp crack slices the air.

Pain slams into your temple like a bolt of lightning. His hand crashes against your cheek with brutal, almost calculated force. A ringing bursts in your ear, your head slamming against the metal doorframe with a dull thud. A burning heat explodes under your skull, radiating down to your jaw. You stagger, barely staying upright, the metallic taste of blood already stinging your tongue.

But he doesn’t let you fall.

He grabs your collar like someone gripping an overstuffed bag, yanks you upright with a snap, prevents you from collapsing. You’re hanging between his hands like a limp puppet, legs trembling, breath caught, unable to grasp how everything escalated so quickly.

He wants you to feel every second of your powerlessness. Every moment etched into your flesh like an unerasable scar.

He throws you to the ground with calculated brutality, like tossing a worthless sack of meat. Your body crashes onto the rotting floorboards, pain flaring up in a dry wave from your back to your neck. The wood groans beneath the impact, a cloud of black dust rising around you, stinging your nose, clinging to your damp skin. The stench is unbearable — a blend of moldy wood, dead rodents, and damp earth. It feels like you're sinking into an open grave.

You want to move.

You want to get up, scream, fight, grab onto something, anything. But he's faster. And he doesn’t wait.

His foot slams into your stomach with the raw force of a sledgehammer. You feel your ribs squeeze under the blow, air rushing out of your lungs in a strangled gasp. Your chest collapses, like it’s been crushed between two iron plates. A blinding pain explodes. You choke, unable to breathe, muscles frozen from the shock.

Your body folds in half from the blow. Your mouth opens in silence, but no scream escapes. Just a rough, pitiful gurgle. And him, standing above you, barely panting. As if this was just the beginning. You roll to the side, half from reflex, half from survival instinct. Your arms curl protectively around your shattered abdomen, but another kick slices through your flesh like a stake. It rips a cry from you — raw, guttural, animal. Your breath shatters. There’s no more air. Nothing left.

The metallic taste of blood rises in your mouth. Hot, thick. You feel it slide against your tongue, sink into your throat clenched tight from pain. You want to spit it out, but you can’t. You’re drowning in your own saliva, your own nerves giving out one after another.

— You really think I’m just going to kill you?

His voice cracks like a whip — too close, too intimate. A moist whisper dripping into your ear, trembling with restrained excitement. His breath, hot and foul, scorches your cheek. It reeks of cold cigarettes and fury.

He drops into a squat with a sharp motion. You hear his knees strike the rotting floor. Then his hand slams down on your head, seizing a handful of your hair with brutal force. And he pulls.

Your neck twists back with a sinister crack. Pain bursts from your skull like an electric jolt. Every root, every nerve screams under the tension. Your jaw clenches, your eyes fly open, drowning in panic. His face is there. Inches from yours. Distorted. Red. Twisted by something sick. He smiles. And you can't tell if he's about to kiss you or rip your throat out. You see his eyes. Two bottomless black voids. Nothing but a flicker of pure hatred, a sick glint of greed burning like oil on fire.

— "So you're working for Stark now, huh?"

His grip tightens in your hair. One notch more. Enough to make your scalp feel like it's about to tear off. You grit your teeth. You won't give him that pleasure, that whimper. But the burn is there, searing, anchored in your skull like a rusty hook.

— "You’re fucking lucky, you know that? Because if you were just some lost little shit... I’d have already killed you."

His voice is slow. Mocking. He savors every syllable like a twisted caress. You feel his breath against your cheek, hot and acidic, like it could melt your bones from the inside. A smile twists his lips. Slowly. A sadistic smile, the grin of a predator sure of its power.

— "But no. You, you’re a goldmine."

And he lets go. Your head drops back brutally, no control. The back of your skull hits the floor. A dull, sick thud. Your vision blurs instantly, streaked with white flashes. A starburst of pain explodes in your skull, radiating down to your jaw. For a moment, the world tilts. And he laughs. Softly. Like it was just an appetizer. You feel your strength draining, second by second. Your whole body is caught in a vice of pain, every muscle on high alert, but he gives you no chance to recover.

— "Just one question."

With a sharp, brutal motion, he flips you over like a bag of meat. Your shoulder blades scrape the rough floor, rotten wood tearing through your clothes and into your skin. Before you can even register what’s happening, his knee slams into your sternum. A brutal, wet crunch echoes through your ribcage. You try to breathe. You want to inhale. Nothing. Your lungs convulse in the void, desperate, helpless. You open your mouth, frantic, but only a choked gurgle escapes, a twisted, inhuman rasp.

Panic crashes into you. Your heart pounds against your temples, frantic. No air. The world goes blurry, the edges of the room rippling like underwater.

— "How much would he pay to get you back in one piece?"

You look up at him. Your gaze meets his. A graveyard chill spreads through your chest. He knows. He already knows. And it makes him smile. A slow smile, stretched, almost tender. A parody of affection painted on a mask of sadism.

— "Let’s find out what you’re really worth, kid."

You want to scream. Push him off, run, scratch, bite, crawl, beg — anything. But your body won’t move. Your chest still tries to rise, gasping, in a mockery of breath. Air remains stuck somewhere in your throat, as if your own body had turned against you.

And he doesn't move.

His knee stays there, planted in the center of your sternum, heavy, unrelenting. You hear cracking sounds. One by one. Bones. Your bones. Your ribs, crushed under the pressure. The pain is total. A devouring black tide, consuming everything—breath, thoughts, will. He looks at you with a curiosity almost fascinated. Like a kid pressing down on a bug just to see how far he can squash it before it stops moving.

— "Funny, isn’t it?"

His voice oozes a sick pleasure, almost a warped tenderness. You feel his fingers tighten in your hair, then a brutal pull—your head yanked back before being slammed against the grimy floor. A dull thud echoes in your skull. The back of your head strikes the boards with a wet, sticky sound.

The smell of stagnant dust, rotting wood and rusty metal fills your nostrils. You feel your own blood seep into your mouth, slide slowly against your tongue, flow down your throat. Salty. Warm. Too familiar.

— "You’ve always had a face that begged for trouble."

His thumb brushes your cheek, slowly, as if petting a cat—then, with a sharp motion, he grabs your jaw and squeezes until the bone threatens to snap. Your teeth grind together painfully. You feel your jaw about to dislocate under the pressure.

— "Think you're clever with Stark behind you?"

You want to answer. Spit something back. Provoke him. Anything. But nothing comes out. Your throat is dry, your mouth clogged with blood and saliva. He sees it. And he doesn’t like it. He wants a reaction. He demands it.

He requires it.

His fist hits you without warning, a blast of raw violence. The pain is searing. Your cheekbone explodes on impact. Your eye pulses, throbs, radiates heat. Your skull bounces off the floor like a deflated ball. The shock echoes through your brain, a deep pounding that grows louder. You can't even feel your face anymore. Only the sticky warmth of blood pouring down, and flashes of white light bursting behind your eyelids.

You try to keep your eyes open, but the world tilts. The room spins, swells, distorts like a panicked camera. Sounds stretch and warp. You're not even sure you're breathing. You're not even sure you're here.

Matthew laughs. A thick, guttural laugh, dripping with the vilest satisfaction. Not a laugh of humor. A butcher’s laugh. A hunter’s. The laugh of a man who's never felt more in control, savoring every second of his domination.

— "Wanna see something funny?"

His fingers finally leave your jaw, leaving your skin painfully imprinted. For a quarter of a second, barely a heartbeat, you think it’s over. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, uneven, like a buoy ripped from the sea. But it was just a trick. A trap.

You see his foot rise, a dark silhouette against the dim exterior light, then crash down with inhuman force.

CRACK.

It’s not an external sound. It’s you breaking. Your ribs, fragile and already battered, give under the pressure. The pain is blinding, absolute, radiating through your left side like a fire ignited inside your ribcage.

Something breaks. Something tears.

Your back arches, your whole body convulses in agony, and a scream bursts from your lips—primal, tearing, slicing through the damp, stagnant air of the room. And him—he was waiting for it. Hoping for it. He tastes it like a triumph.

— "Ah… There we go! That’s more like it!"

His foot hovers for a second above you. And then he does it again. Again. And again.

Each impact is more brutal than the last. Each blow a deliberate, precise act of cruelty. His foot crashes down like a hammer on glass. You feel your ribs cracking, your skin stretching, your muscles twisting. A dull, wet sound accompanies each strike—the disgusting sound of a human body reduced to an inert, vulnerable mass. Your body spasms uncontrollably, jerks of pain wrenching you from yourself.

You claw at the floor with your nails, trying to escape, crawl, move an inch away—but there’s nowhere to go. Only the cold wall behind you, and him. Always him.

— "Gonna cry now?"

He leans over, and his hand slams into your throat with such force it rips a choked gasp from your lungs. His fingers clamp like a steel trap around your windpipe, merciless, squeezing without hesitation. You feel the cartilage compress, the air cut off instantly.

He nearly lifts you from the ground, just enough to snap your neck's alignment, force your head back. His thumb presses your chin upward until your vertebrae groan, your throat stretched like a wire ready to snap. His face twists into a grotesque expression. A mix of pure excitement and hateful rage.

— "Huh?! That’s where you’re at, huh?"

You open your mouth, but no sound escapes. Your breath stolen. Your scream smothered. Black stars explode at the edge of your vision, flashes like silent lightning splitting your temples. Everything goes blurry. Everything fades away.

You feel your body struggling in vain, like a trapped animal. You want to scream, beg, bite, fight back — but you can’t even breathe anymore. Only that suspended moment, that unbearable vertigo. And the weight of his hand, relentless.

Your body begins to weaken. Your legs won’t hold you, your arms weigh a ton, and your breath shortens, harsh and ragged, caught somewhere between your chest and burning throat. You want to curl up, disappear, become empty so the pain will slide off without catching. But he’s not finished. He looks at you with an almost awed glint in his eyes, as if he’s finally discovered the best part of the show.

— "You’re fragile, you know that?" he murmurs, his sweetened voice laced with disgust. His hand slides down your arm with unbearable slowness, his fingers brushing your clammy skin as if testing its resistance.

Then he finds your wrist. The broken one. The one you protect without even realizing it. The one Stark examined, Bruce scanned, Peter glanced at with quiet worry. Matthew recognizes it. He grabs it. And with a swift, almost surgical twist, he jerks it.

Pain explodes instantly. It’s not a burn or a blow. It’s lightning ripping through you, shooting to your skull, reducing your entire being to a pure scream. You scream. A hoarse, raw cry torn from your guts. It shreds your throat, it tears the air, it tears you apart. It’s the cry of a body being crushed. Of dignity fracturing like bones under his grip. You’ve lost control. Your arm flails uselessly, and you feel your wrist swelling, pain flooding in like acid tide.

Matthew watches you, impassive. No — satisfied. Like a child crushing a bug and watching the twitching legs. He tilts his head slightly, almost tender. Then he finally lets go of your wrist, dropping it like useless trash. You collapse, your breath jagged, your throat raw, your cheek on the dirty floor. And he smiles.

— "There. Now you sound real," he says. And you want to disappear.

Until he sighs. Not from boredom — from contentment. A slow, satisfied breath, like after a hearty meal or a night of pleasure. And that sound, more than the blows, turns your stomach. He leans toward you, his words dripping like poisoned sugar.

— "You're cute when you're obedient."

A shiver runs through you, icy and foul, sliding down your spine like rancid oil. You want to rise, spit in his face, scream that you're not this, not this trembling thing he’s delighting in breaking. But you can’t. Your body responds only to pain now.

— "I wonder if Stark’s ever seen this version of you?" he whispers, mocking, his voice dripping with obscene amusement. He tilts his head, eyes gleaming like a predator savoring victory, taking time to admire the terror in its prey.

— "The little Stark Industries prodigy… on his knees, shaking, at someone’s mercy." He laughs. A fat, empty, unbearable laugh. And that sound hits you like another punch. Your stomach contracts. You want to get up, gather whatever pitiful strength remains, to throw a punch, a curse, anything. But your body stays there, inert, broken, paralyzed by fear and exhaustion. He feels it. He knows. He revels in your stillness like an offering.

And maybe that’s the worst part. This complicit silence between your breathless body and his endless cruelty. You’re just an empty puppet. And he’s taking full advantage.

His hand tightens slowly around your neck, his fingers pressing into your skin with deliberate slowness — almost tender, if not for the pain radiating into your jaw. You feel each knuckle, each squeeze, like a chain closing around your throat.

— "I'm going to call Stark now." His voice carries that false softness, that singsong tone that never means anything good. He’s playing. Enjoying himself. Like a cat with a mouse whose legs are already torn off.

— "And he’ll realize you’re not that important after all."

He pulls something from his pocket. You hear plastic crackle in his hand before you see it: a burner phone, plain, worn, probably stolen or bought to disappear right after. A banal object — but in his hands, it’s a weapon. He turns it on. The screen glows with a pale light. He taps a pre-saved number. No name, just digits. Your heart skips a beat.

He leans closer, pressing the phone against your bruised cheek, the screen nearly glued to your sweat-soaked, blood-streaked skin. The light outlines your face, illuminating the wreck you’ve become in a few hours. You’re forced to watch, to see the name appear, to hear the beeping tone echo on screen. A slow, repetitive pulse, vibrating through the rotting walls, like a muffled alarm. Each ring is a slap, a violent reminder of what you’re no longer: free, strong, dignified.

He doesn’t even look at you anymore. He stares at the screen with a smile glued to his face. He’s not waiting for a response. He expects nothing from the other side. Because to him, placing the call is already a victory. He’s reduced you to this — a voice that might beg. A proof of weakness to flaunt. A bargaining chip to threaten or break to get more.

And you, lying there helpless, hear your own breath tremble, caught in your throat, while the ringing continues, obsessive, like a countdown to the ultimate humiliation.

He grabs your hair again, his fingers digging into your scalp, and with a sharp tug, jerks your head back violently. Your vertebrae protest in a silent crack, sharp pain slicing up your neck, making your skull hum like a cracked tuning fork. But he doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t soften. He doesn’t care. He wants you stretched, exposed, offered.

— "Come on, pick up, asshole." His voice is snide, mocking, impatient, like he’s already savoring the upcoming show.

The phone buzzes in his hand. Beep. Then another. Beep. You feel tension thicken in the building’s humid air, each second tightening the knot in your gut. And suddenly — a click. The line opens. No doubt. The call went through. And that’s when he changes.

His voice shifts in a fraction of a second. The sneering tone vanishes. The insults fade. In their place, syrupy politeness, fake sweetness, the tone of a well-mannered parasite who knows he’s latched onto something valuable.

— "Good evening, Stark."

And immediately, he throws you to the ground like a sack of meat. Your back hits the rotten boards with a dull thud, and a strangled gasp escapes your throat — shock, pain, terror all in one. He did it on purpose. He wants Stark to hear. To make the impact echo. To let that gasp say more than any word ever could.

Then comes silence. One of those heavy, stretched, deadly silences. You hear only your ragged breathing, your racing heart, and in the receiver… a breath. Light. Controlled. But unmistakable. He’s listening. He’s there. And the tension turns glacial, like the blood itself freezing in your veins.

Then Stark’s voice. Calm. Controlled. But sharper than a scalpel. Each word placed with surgical precision, a cold threat oozing through the circuits.

— "You just made a fucking mistake." No yelling. No panic. Just that implacable statement — a promise.

Matthew chuckles. Not loudly. Not like some manic burst. No, it's a low laugh, grating, self-satisfied. A laugh reeking of cruelty and the smug certainty that he's got the upper hand.

— "Yeah? You think so?"

With a flick of his foot, he flips you onto your back, carelessly, like someone turning over a corpse just to check it’s really dead. Your head hits the floor with a dull crack, and you taste blood in the back of your throat.

— "What I think is, you care way too much about that kid. And that might cost you."

His hand slides slowly down your jawline, brushing the bruises, the cuts, the marks he's etched into your skin with blind rage. It's not a tender gesture. It's possession. Mockery embodied in a touch.

You try to turn your head, to recoil from that repulsive contact. But his fingers tighten around your face, forcing your gaze toward the phone.

— "Take a good look, Stark." His voice is thick with perverse glee. "He's not as strong as you think. Actually, he's... fragile." And without warning, he presses down hard on your fractured wrist.

Pain erupts through your arm like a grenade. Your vision blurs with searing tears, your back arches, and a scream bursts from you — raw, ripped, inhuman. It bounces off the bare walls, saturating the already stifling air. Matthew bursts out laughing.

— "You hear that?" He tilts the phone toward your mouth, like he's offering your agony live. "Beautiful, isn’t it? I think he's starting to learn his lesson."

Then, nothing. No sound from the other end. Just silence. A deathly silence. So thick it crushes your chest even more surely than Matthew's weight. A silence that says something just broke. Something Matthew may not have expected.

Then Stark speaks. One sentence. But every syllable slices like a blade honed against stone. Cold. Precise. Irrevocable.

— "You're dead."

Nothing else. Not a word more. None needed. Matthew doesn’t laugh. His smile freezes, just for a second. He flinches, almost imperceptibly. Like a cold current just ran down his spine. Then he straightens up, swallows the jolt, and puts his mask of arrogance back on.

— "You're right. I'm mortal, after all." He chuckles again, but the confidence is gone. "But before that... you're gonna pay, Stark."

He grabs you roughly under the shoulders, yanking you toward him like a weightless sack of sand. Your body screams in silent protest. Your ribs, your wrist, your skull — all shrieking. You don’t even have the strength to groan. Just a strangled gasp escapes as he hoists you up, the cold barrel of a gun suddenly pressed to your temple. He holds you like a trophy. Like a living threat. Like a ticking clock.

— "Ten million." His voice is steel. "And he sees him alive."

Then comes silence. Icy. Not a breath, not a sound, not a word through the speaker. A silence that presses. That claws. That devours. A silence that says death is no longer a threat — it’s a promise.

Then Stark’s voice returns. Lower. Slower. Each word dragged with surgical precision, like driving a blade into the moment’s flesh.

— "You have no idea what you’re doing."

No yelling. No screamed threats. Just that unbearable gravity in his tone. That promise of vengeance that won’t come in a flash of rage, but in a storm that leaves nothing standing. Matthew freezes for half a second. Just long enough for you to feel it. His fingers, clenched at your nape, tighten. A shiver runs down his spine, but he straightens immediately, violence reasserted on his face.

You feel his breath against your ear — hot, damp, animalistic. He looks at you the way one evaluates a stolen object. Gauging the value of a bargaining chip.

You're no longer a person. You’re currency.

— "You’ve got twenty-four hours."

A beep. Sharp. Final. The line goes dead. But not him. Not you. Not this creeping nightmare latched to your bones. Matthew remains still a second, frozen in a temporal fracture. Then he explodes. A swift, brutal motion — the burner phone flies from his hand and smashes to the ground with a sharp crack, small, insignificant, yet soaked in fury.

The smile he’s worn all along falters. A fraction of a second. A crack. Then he looks at you again. And you know it’s only just beginning.

Something’s changed in his eyes. A spark. A feverish glint replacing the simple rage. He’s not just hitting to blow off steam now. No. Now, he’s playing. He’s calculating. He’s savoring.

His smile returns. Slowly. Like a blade being sharpened. And this time, it’s worse than before. Worse, because he got what he wanted. Because he knows Stark heard. Because he knows Stark is coming. And that certainty? It intoxicates him. It makes him almost euphoric.

— "So now, we wait. Like good little boys."

He raises his hand. You see it. You know what’s coming. You can almost feel the air tremble around his fist. But your body is too heavy. Too slow. Too broken to react. Your eyelids flutter, your mind fights to stay present, but your muscles no longer respond. And when his fist slams into your face again, it’s the end. Everything goes black. The world disappears in a cold vertigo. A sticky, bottomless black hole that devours all.

You feel your body slipping backward, as if swallowed by an endless fall. You are nothing but pain. A dull, boiling pain that throbs in every corner of your being. Your brain tries to hold on to something, anything. But everything unravels.

Every nerve screams. Every bone grinds. Every part of you feels like it’s about to break, like a dam under pressure for far too long. You have no idea how much time has passed. Minutes. Hours. Days maybe. The world has lost all shape. All color. Just this void. And the burning.

Time stretches, warps, dilutes. It has no logic anymore. No rhythm. It collapses like your breath—irregular, chopped. Sometimes, you think you’re falling asleep, fading out, but the pain always pulls you back—a jolt, a spasm, a nerve twitch. You don’t even know if your eyes are open. You don’t even know if you’re breathing. Every movement, however small, is a tidal wave in your shattered chest, a ripple of fire in your wrist. Your skull pounds to the beat of a distant war drum.

You still hear his voice. It floats there, between your own body’s shallow sighs. No more screaming. Now it whispers. Sometimes, it laughs. And that’s worse. You want to hold on to something. A thought. A memory. A face. But even that, he’s taken from you. There’s nothing left. Nothing but pain. You drift somewhere between the void and a pain so sharp it seems to have hijacked your breath, your pulse, your entire being. You’re just a body in fragments, suspended in a black sea. Each heartbeat hammers your wounds like a rusted mallet, pumping a slow, searing poison through your veins. One pulse after another, like a sentence being carried out.

Then, slowly, you surface. Against the current. Pulled upward by a cruel force, a glacial drag that refuses to let you sink. And it’s the smell that greets you. The stench hits you first. Rancid. Foul. A blend of stagnant damp, rusted metal, dried blood, and animal sweat. The air is a swamp—thick as tar, laced with mildew and fear. Every breath is a battle, each inhalation a burn in your throat. The floor beneath your skin is freezing. Jagged. You feel the splinters, the cracks, the grime embedded in the cement. You’re lying on a hard surface, no warmth, no comfort. Your body is frozen, numbed by the blows, the cold, the shock. You want to move. You just want to turn your head.

But at the first attempt, a searing pain erupts in your chest, stabbing through like a spike. Your crushed ribs scream in unison. A muffled groan escapes your cracked lips. You swallow the rest. You swallow it all. Even that—you won’t give to him. And yet, a sound slices through the silence. Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Deliberate.

They echo in the enclosed space like a countdown to judgment. The echo slides along the walls like a serpent. He’s not walking. He’s circling. Like a predator around a wounded body, waiting for the perfect moment to bite again. Then his voice. That laugh you’d recognize anywhere. Wet. Smug. Foul.

— "Oh… waking up, are we?"

Matthew.

Your stomach clenches. You tremble. From pain, from exhaustion, from rage. But in his eyes—it’s fear. And he likes it. It excites him. You can hear it in his voice, in his breath. You open your eyes. Slowly. Your eyelids are heavy, glued by sweat and blood. Your vision is blurry, distorted by tears, the harsh light, and fever. But his silhouette stands out. Unmistakable. He’s right there. In front of you.

Sitting on a rickety chair, legs apart, elbows on knees, as if watching a show. His face is lit by a sickly flickering neon above, deepening the shadows under his eyes and the vicious line of his grin. A predator’s grin. A hunter’s grin. You want to speak. You want to scream. You want to bite. But your throat is on fire. Dry, choked by panic, pain, and the memory of his hands. No sound comes out.

And he laughs.

— "Shit, you really look like hell now."

He watches you like a painter before his canvas, eyes scanning each mark, each bruise, each freshly inflicted wound—as if claiming his work, a blood signature carved into your skin. His gaze is both possessive and cruel, assessing the worth of your suffering. Casually, he drags on a cigarette, the smoke tangling with the already suffocating air, adding another layer of unease. Then, almost theatrically, he reaches toward you and, without hesitation, presses the ash into your skin. The burn is sharp, sudden, unbearable—a sting that makes you groan involuntarily, your head hitting the wall in an uncontrolled reflex.

Matthew bursts into a hoarse, inhuman laugh—like a predator roaring at its victory.

— "Think I like seeing that look on your face," he sneers, his voice soaked in perverse sadism.

Without waiting for you to catch your breath, he lunges forward and grabs your face. His thumb presses against your brow with clinical precision, and pain shoots through your skull as if every nerve ignites at his touch. He pulls you closer, forcing your gaze up, and with terrifying intensity, he says coldly:

— "Stark thinks you’re important, huh?" His pupils, gleaming with sadistic thrill, lock onto yours with ruthless determination.

— "You’re nothing but a pawn," he adds, merciless. You try in vain to look away, to escape this mirror of your own misery, but he holds you with brutal strength, chaining you to his control.

— "Look at me," he commands, then, as quickly as he grabbed you, he releases you.

Like in a horror film, your body—broken by pain and fear—slumps against the wall, powerless, with no energy left to fight back. You want to fight, to defend yourself, to scream, but you’re spent. Your mind and body have hit their limit. Matthew rises, circles the space slowly, looming like a beast prowling its prey. Then, without warning, he lunges and grabs your throat with a devastating motion. His grip is deliberate violence: a brutal hold, tight, calibrated not to knock you out, but to make you feel every second of your helplessness. In a chilling tone, he whispers,

— "If Stark shows up… I want him to find you on your knees." His smile widens—cruel, perverse—before adding with a stinging tone,

— "Broken."

A jolt of pain shakes you, your breath shortens, and your vision begins to blur. The impact has drained you, like a puppet without strings tossed in the chaos of a game you no longer control. Then Matthew pulls back and, with terrifying calm, sits back down, crosses his arms, and throws at you, detached:

— "You’ve got less than twenty-four hours before Stark pays." A merciless sneer draws across his face, heavy with dark promises, before he adds in a low, menacing voice:

— "And I’ll make sure every hour counts."

The atmosphere inside Stark Tower has become suffocating. A raw, stifling void fell over the room the moment the call ended. Not a word. Not a breath. Even the screens—normally vibrant and full of motion—seem frozen in a glacial suspension of time. The air hums with an electric tension, ready to snap at the slightest spark. But no one dares to move.

Tony remained there, unmoving, bolted to his leather chair as if the slightest motion might shatter the already precarious balance of the moment. His phone still rests on the desk—black, silent. Harmless. And yet, charged with threat. As if the poison distilled by that voice—Matthew’s—still clings to the walls, to the skin, to every frayed nerve.

His gaze is fixed, locked onto some invisible point ahead. But inside, everything is turmoil. A methodical chaos. His jaw is clenched so tightly you can almost hear the tension in his muscles. He hasn’t blinked since the call ended. Hasn’t drawn a full breath. He’s frozen in a state of absolute alert. In his mind, the words loop. Ten million. Or he dies. The echo seeps in, corrosive, like a blade jammed into his neck. He hears the scream again. He sees the blows. The blood. The bastard’s laughter. That parasite. That piece of shit.

Tony calculates. He maps trajectories in his head, estimates response times, potential locations. He pictures walls, angles, shadows. He does what he does best: finds the weakness. But this time, there are no elegant solutions. No multiple outcomes. Only one end. Matthew is not walking out of this. Not this time. Not after this. Not after what he’s done.

A sharp crack slices through the silence. Tony’s hand slams against the desk with a contained, brutal force, like thunder in a room already saturated with tension. The wood groans under the impact, and the noise, sharp as a blade, startles Pepper. She doesn’t cry out. Doesn’t flinch. But her fingers, clenched around the tablet she held, tremble—just enough to say she understands. She hasn’t spoken since the call ended. Not one word. But she knows. She knows exactly what’s brewing in the shadow of this silence, between Tony’s held breath and the icy fire in his eyes. She’s seen him like this before. Once. Maybe twice. And that look, that hollow black void that takes him over when his anger crosses a certain line… it’s never good. Never.

— “Tony.”

Her voice cuts the air like a fine blade, unwavering. Calm. Steady. But firm. The quiet authority of someone who’s been through every war by his side. Who knows his cracks. Who’s seen them open before. But he doesn’t really hear her. Not truly. His eyes remain fixed somewhere in the shadows. Black. Completely black. A void. His face is still, carved in cold rage. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. His breath is slow. Mechanical.

It’s an expression he hasn’t worn in a long time. Far too long.

And Pepper knows. When that look returns, something’s about to fall. Something is going to die. She steps forward—quick, determined. Her heels barely tap against the floor, but each step is a declaration of the battle to come. She moves around the desk without hesitation, comes to stand right in front of him—close enough to force eye contact. To make him see her. Hear her.

— “You can’t charge in blindly.”

A suspended silence. Then, finally, a blink. He closes his eyes. Slowly. As if the gesture costs him something. His head turns toward her, millimeter by millimeter. And when his gaze locks onto hers, the air between them turns to stone.

— “Look at me, Potts.”

The voice is low. Razor-sharp. Icy calm. Each syllable falls like drops of mercury onto an already frozen surface. A distant tone. Dangerous. One she never wanted to hear again.

— “You really think I’m just going to sit here and throw money at it?”

Pepper freezes. Just a second. It’s not a question. It’s a verdict. And it’s exactly what she feared.

— “We don’t even know where he took him.”

She tries. Again. But already, she can feel him slipping. Drifting to the other side. Where emotion is replaced by the machine. Cold revenge. Strategic intelligence weaponized.

— “I’ll find him.”

His fingers latch onto the desk edge, dig in like claws. Knuckles whitening with pressure. He doesn’t tremble. He doesn’t raise his voice. But everything in him screams. A silent rage. Surgical. And this time, she feels it—this isn’t Iron Man speaking. It’s the man. Tony Stark. And he’s ready to burn the whole city down to bring him back.

— “And then what?”

Bruce’s calm, deep voice cuts through the silence like a slow, deliberate blade. He’s just walked in—no noise, no display—but his presence shifts the entire room. It’s not a reproach. Not a command. It’s a question. But it holds an entire world of meaning. He heard the call. He saw the tension in Stark’s frame, the microscopic tremors in his hands still flat on the desk. He knows. He knows exactly what’s unfolding. And more importantly, he knows what Tony is capable of when fury eclipses reason.

— "What are you planning to do, Tony?"

There is no anger in his voice. Not like in Pepper's. No fear either. Only that heavy concern, laid down softly, almost paternally. The way you would speak to a man standing at the edge. Because he’s seen him jump before.

Stark doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are locked onto an invisible spot on the wall, frozen, opaque. He seems absent—but Bruce knows him too well. He’s not lost. He’s assembling everything. Every variable, every scenario, every option. It’s a silent storm behind those empty eyes.

And at the heart of that storm, one single certainty burns: he will find him. And he will make him pay. Dearly.

He rises in one sharp, abrupt motion, as if sitting one second longer might make him explode.

— "I’ve got work to do."

His voice is dry, metallic, stripped of all warmth. He grabs his phone in one hand, his glasses in the other—automatic, precise movements, like a machine rebooting with a single directive: locate, strike, eliminate. He doesn’t even glance at Pepper as he passes. He moves around her without slowing. Without a word.

— "Tony!"

She tries to stop him, just to make him pause, think one second longer. But he ignores her. He crosses the room like a heat-seeking missile. Unstoppable. Bruce, still standing motionless, watches the scene. His crossed arms slowly relax as he lets out a tired sigh.

— "He won’t wait."

— "I know." Pepper’s voice is tense. Exhausted. But she’s already calculating too.

He nods slightly.

— "Then we better make sure he doesn’t do something stupid."

His gaze stays fixed on the place Stark just vanished from, as if he’s afraid the whole building might follow the billionaire’s rage. Because with Stark in that state... there will be no half-measures. Only consequences.

You don’t know how long you’ve been here. There are no more points of reference. No more day, no more night. Just this dirty, pallid light pinning you down in a morbid in-between. The concrete beneath your back is freezing, uneven, but your skin is burning. The fever rises in suffocating waves, gluing your clothes to your sweat-soaked body. Every breath is torture. A sharp blade lodged in your side, slowly slicing the inside of your ribcage with every movement, every sigh. You breathe in fragments. You breathe offbeat.

The room is a prison of concrete and mold, drowned in a swampy gloom. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling, squeaking, suspended from a wire that's far too long, swaying at the slightest draft. Its light flickers, pulses, like the beat of a sick heart. Shadows crawl across the damp walls, twisting into monstrous shapes, puppets of a cruel theatre. They distort, stretch, merge with you. Sometimes, you think you see something move—but it’s only your fever. Or your mind, slowly breaking.

And the silence. The real kind. The one that doesn’t comfort. The one that clings to your skin, screaming of absence, of solitude, of death waiting to happen. That silence is worse than the blows. It's full of what might come. It devours you from within.

Then, footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Steady. The sound of a verdict approaching. They echo off the walls like an ending. Each step makes your stomach churn. You recognize it immediately. That rhythm, that weight, that way of walking like the world belongs to him. Matthew.

He had left you alone. You don’t know for how long. Maybe hours. Maybe a day. But he always comes back. He never truly disappears. He haunts you even in his absence. And when he returns, it’s always worse. Like a nightmare you thought was over, coming back crueler, more inventive.

You feel him before he even speaks. His gaze pierces you through the darkness. You feel it crawling across your skin, your wounds, your weakness. You close your eyes, but it doesn’t help. He’s here.

— "Still holding on, kid?"

His voice drips with pleasure. That filthy pleasure of seeing you on your knees, broken, on the edge. You don’t answer. You can’t. Your throat is on fire. Your mouth, dry. And more than anything, you don’t want to give him that. Even if you have nothing left.

You fixate on a spot on the wall. Anything, just to avoid meeting his eyes. But you already know he’s coming closer. That he won’t leave you be. Not yet. Not now.

Your body is nothing but ruins. A carcass, wheezing, too weak to sit up, too damaged to even shiver properly. Every part of you is a silent scream. Every bone seems ready to break again. Your muscles are raw cords, pulled to the limit. Your breath is shallow, erratic, caught in a vice of pain and fever. You don’t even know how you're still holding on.

But Matthew can’t stand that. The silence. That muteness that slips through his fingers. That refusal to scream. He takes it as an insult.

A metallic sound rings in the muggy air. Something he picks up, without hurry. Then, the blow. Brutal. An explosion inside your skull. Your head slams against the wall behind you with a dull, animalistic thud. You feel the stone scrape your skin, a hot wetness dripping down your neck—blood, sweat, you can’t tell. Your jaw clenches. You resist the scream, the primal urge to cry out. You give him nothing.

— "I said: still holding on?"

His voice is harder now, clipped. He wants to hear you. Wants you to crack, to beg, to plead. He wants to rip away the last shreds of dignity you still have. Reduce you to flesh, to barely human breath. But you don’t scream.

You hate him too much for that.

Even if your body shakes. Even if you are nothing but pain and vertigo. Even if every nerve in your back screams for it to end. You cling to your silence like a weapon. One of the last things he hasn’t taken from you. A thick silence falls again in the room. Heavy. Viscous. Suffocating. Then he crouches. Slowly. Too slowly. Like a predator approaching a dying prey, not to finish it off, but to watch it suffer from up close.

He’s there, right in front of you. At eye level. And you can feel his breath.

— "You think Stark’s coming, huh?"

He pulls a cigarette from his pocket, rolls it between his fingers like he’s got all the time in the world. Lights it with a lazy, ceremonial gesture. The crackle of tobacco cuts through the silence, a harsh soundbite in this endless night. He takes a long drag. And looks at you. Like he’s already savoring what’s next.

He exhales slowly in your direction, a calculated, calm provocation. It hits your face—thick, acrid, blending with the room’s stench, with sweat, with dried blood. It makes you cough, stings your throat, but you stay silent. Still. Only your gaze locked on him.

— "You think he really cares that much?" The laugh that follows is low, filthy, soaked in that smug contempt that makes you nauseous.

— "You’re no more special than the rest. It’s just a game, kid. He pays. He gets his toy. And he forgets you in a week."

You slowly lift your eyes to him, each blink sending a pulse of pain through your temples. But in your gaze, despite the fever, despite the tremors, there’s something even he can’t stomach. A cold hatred. Silent. Relentless. And he sees it. He feels it. He loves it. His smile stretches. Slowly. Disgustingly. Then, without warning, his expression shifts. Freezes. Closes off. There’s no more amusement in his eyes. Just a primal, instinctive command: strike.

His fist flies before you even have time to see it. It cuts through the air—fast, brutal—and bursts your brow open with a soft, horrible thud. Your head jerks to the side under the impact, slams against the wall. A white light explodes behind your eyelids.

The pain is immediate, explosive, and your vision blurs at once. Blood trickles down your temple in a warm line, sticky and inevitable. You feel it seep into your mouth, metallic, nauseating. You don’t move. Not a cry. Not a word. But it’s your gaze he’s aiming for.

— "Stop looking at me like that."

His voice is harsher. Deeper. A new tension, colder, more direct. Because he knows. He feels that despite everything he’s done to you, he hasn’t broken you. Not completely. And that, he can’t stand.

He grabs your collar with a dry, brutal grip, lifting you a few inches off the ground—just enough for your feet to lose contact before dropping you back down. Your legs buckle instantly, unable to support your weight. You collapse against him like a puppet whose strings were cut, your body heavy, slack. A broken puppet. And he knows it. He sees it. He feeds on it.

— "Still wanna play tough?"

His voice is low, mocking, but he doesn't wait for an answer. Because he knows he's pushed you to the edge. Because he knows that answering means playing his game. And you refuse to give him that. You stay silent, despite the tension in your throat, despite the rotting adrenaline twisting your gut. He sighs—a long, impatient breath, as if your resistance is nothing but an annoying whim.

Then, slowly, like one savoring a meal long prepared, he lifts his hand. The cigarette, still lit, glows between his fingers. He brings it closer to your arm, just above the bruised skin. The heat brushes against you at first, a scorching breath, almost bearable. You tense despite yourself. But you don’t move. You want to believe he’s bluffing. You want to believe he’s only after a reaction, a flicker of panic, a flinch.

But no.

He’s not bluffing. The cigarette presses against your skin with a vile sizzle, the hiss of burning flesh twisting your insides. A wave of raw pain shoots through you, blinding, inhuman. You gasp. You clench your teeth. But no scream comes. Only that awful sensation, that searing burn drilling into your bones, branding itself deep into your flesh. Matthew clenches his jaw, his features tightened with a dull fury he no longer bothers to hide.

— "You’re exhausting, you know that?" His tone is sharp, irritated, but not tired. He still has energy to burn. He just wants it to hurt. He presses the cigarette against your skin again, grinding the ember with a slow, controlled twist—like plunging a blade just for the pleasure of it.

This time, you can’t hold the moan back. It slips out—hoarse, muffled, broken. And he smiles. A satisfied sneer, almost relieved. He got what he wanted. A sign. A crack. He straightens slowly, like he has all the time in the world, like there’s nothing more urgent than watching the damage.

— "You’ve got a few hours left before Stark pays."

His hand drifts lazily across the rotting table until it finds the gun lying there like a stage prop. He picks it up, twirls it between his fingers with the ease of a man who fears nothing. Then, without warning, he points the barrel right at you. Not to shoot. Just to remind you it could happen. That it will happen.

— "If you’re lucky."

And without another word, he turns and walks out, leaving you alone. Alone with the searing pain on your charred skin. Alone with the taste of blood, the gnawing humiliation, and the sticky dread settling in. An anticipation that tastes like nightmares and smells like dried blood.

taglist🥂 @9thmystery @defronix @lailac13 if you want to be part of it here

41 notes · View notes