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reaveries · 6 months

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▬ risk

"I will save your life. I'll try for you."

pairings: re2 officer!leon kennedy x fem!reader

summary: while trying to escape the police station in the midst of the infamous raccoon city disaster, rookie police officer leon s. kennedy finds a young woman in need of his help.

content warning: descriptions of violence and gore

word count: 4.4k (estimated 21 minutes reading time)

a/n: this .... has been in my drafts ......... since april. you're finally free........

masterlist archive of our own

Revised for clarity 12/30/2023.

Leon’s gun had always been a mere extension of his arm, a tool to be honed and wielded with precision. The academy, with its spiral target walls and foam-filled mannequins, had served as his training ground, preparing him for the hopefully unnecessary evil of one day having to take a life. This unspoken burden came with the territory—an occupational hazard in the line of duty. But no amount of half-hearted demonstrations and target practices could’ve equipped him for a night like this.

Until tonight, he’d never seen a body fall lifeless due to his own hand. But if he had, he wouldn’t have expected it to stumble from its spot of decay, staggering towards him with a newfound vigor that defied everything he thought he knew about morality and his fragile existence.

Tonight has been a night of unholy firsts, and the air about him suggests it has only just begun.

The pungent metallic scent of arterial spray assaults his senses as he steps out of the shower room. His heart sinks in his chest as he takes in the sight of carnage in the westmost corridor of the police station. Uniformed men and women lie in crumpled heaps against the walls. Their bodies are mangled and torn, some so abhorrently disfigured that they’re scarcely recognizable as humans. The presence of the dead was something he was uncomfortably growing comfortable with, and yet to imagine the animosity it must’ve required to create this scene…

Well, it unsettled him, to say the least. He could’ve known them if things had gone differently.

He steps over their quiet corpses with his pistol in one hand and a flashlight raised in the other. He nudges one with the toe of his boot, aiming for their skull if they so much as twitch. But their bodies remain convincingly still, slain beyond any chance of revitalization. His grip tightens on his gun as he presses forward down the narrow corridor. If this is the result of those infected creatures he’s become acquainted with, they could be lurking ahead, waiting for him.

The rain outside stings as it pelts his cheek, dampening his uniform that’s already slick with sweat. He ignores it.

Ahead should be the S.T.A.R.S. office if the map he found is correct. Hopefully, he can find relevant information about Claire’s brother in there, something to help her find him if he should ever see her again. With a deep breath, he reaches out to turn the knob when a groan suddenly creeps from down the hall. But there’s something different about it.

It sounds alive, pained, and distinctly human.

“Is someone there?” He calls out, his voice echoing down the long hallway. The sound reverberates off the walls and fills the silence, and for a moment, there is nothing but his own breathing.

Then a low growl echoes back at him.

With an annoyed huff, he raises his gun and aims for the corner he anticipates the creature to hobble from behind. But before he can catch a glimpse of it, something moves in the darkness. It's too fast for him to comprehend, a blurring figure scurrying towards him like a feral animal. He watches in horror as it crawls along the ceiling, its movements disturbingly fluid.

As it draws closer, the moonlight catches on to the glistening texture of its skin. A grotesque tentacle-like tongue unfurls from its mouth, swinging through the air like a scythe.

“What… what the fuck?”

He fires two rounds into the fleshy matter of the creature’s head, but it makes no difference. Doesn’t even flinch. The rookie officer prepares to fire another round when the monster flings itself off the ceiling and lunges its body through the air directly toward him.

In a split-second decision, Leon throws himself into the office, his body slamming against the door before he scrambles to his feet and secures it behind him. Outside, the creature is relentless. Its wet, clobbering movements spasm through the walls. With his back pressed against the door, he braces himself as the monster rams into it with a sickening force that rattles the hinges.

It takes all his strength to keep it from buckling under the creature’s assault. The force of each blow makes his arms tremble, and he can feel his grip slipping. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple, and his heart thunders in his chest as he fights to hold the door in place.

But then, just as suddenly as it began, the onslaught ceased. Leon takes a deep breath, his heart still pounding, and listens for any sign of movement outside.

He waits a second, then slowly pulls himself away from the door.

With his chest heaving, a word comes to mind.

Licker.

He remembers the warning about these beasts scrawled on a note left by a likely deceased officer. His naive self didn’t expect to encounter one so soon.

He takes a moment to survey the room, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. The abandoned desks and personal items left behind tell him that S.T.A.R.S. personnel were just as underprepared for a viral outbreak as the rest of the city. The first thing that catches his eye is a trauma kit on the wall. He crosses the room and flips it open, finding it fully stocked. Dressings, hemostatic agents, antiseptic. A sense of relief washes over him. He reaches into his pocket to make room for the essentials, but to his dismay, finds them full of various necessities. There’s no space to carry anything in this damn uniform. With a sigh, the lid is closed and left as it was found.

“Hey!”

He nearly jumps out of his skin at the sudden noise.

“Please tell me you didn’t die,” a disembodied voice says. The end of their sentence tapers off with a shallow breath. With a sharp turn of his head, he tries to place the direction it's coming from. There’s no familiarity in their voice, which is no surprise considering he’d only become acquainted with a few officers during his orientation.

“Where are you?” He calls out, raising his flashlight in search of an answer, hoping for a door or some kind of opening.

“Linen closet. Down the hall.”

Their muffled words become clear as he approaches a far corner of the office, likely sharing a wall with the room they’re in. “Did it get you?” they ask, quieter this time.

Leon takes a deep breath to steady himself before responding. “Almost, but I’m alright,” he assures them. With a glance back to the door, he continues, “Listen, I know how to get past that thing now. Just… stay put. I’ll come to you.”

“Please be careful,” the stranger pleads. Something in their voice rings as desperation, lending to the pit forming in his stomach. It’s more than likely that whoever this is is a victim of the outbreak, clinging to their last shred of humanity before the virus consumes them. The thought of putting down another person, to see the life fade from their eyes—he’d like to avoid it if possible.

With the barrel of his pistol, he cracks open the door and peers into the corridor. It’s just as he left it, but there’s no sign of the monster anywhere. He holds back a sigh of relief as he opens the door further and steps into the hall. The ceiling, where his eyes are permanently trained, is empty. The revolting shape of the licker is nowhere to be found.

He pushes forward, boots ghosting across the floorboards and pistol drawn. His breathing is slow, his muscles tensed. He’s convinced the creature can hear the blood rushing through his veins. When he reaches the end of the corridor, he halts and peeks behind the turn of the hall where the linen closet should sit.

His heart drops.

It’s there.

Of course it’s there. Why should anything be easy for him?

Perched in the corner, its sinewy body is raised on its haunches and pressed wetly against the wall. Rows of jagged teeth have overgrown the confines of its decaying jaw, and long bone-like talons sprout from fleshy hands.

He can't afford to freeze up. One misstep is all it takes, and he’ll be gutted like the rest of them. He reaches for a hook on the holster hanging at his hips, fingers trembling as he fumbles for the cold, smooth canister he's grown familiar with. This might be his only chance.

With one finger, he hooks the pin and yanks it. The sound of it clattering against the tile echoes throughout the hallway just as a cloud of white explodes, engulfing the creature as it lunges toward him. It falls to the floor in an instant, writhing in agony as the grenade pierces the air with a sharp ringing noise.

No time to think. Leon sprints to the door, feeling the hot stench of decay brush past him as he avoids the stunned beast. The door flies open against his weight, and he forces it shut behind him.

He leans against the door, panting heavily as he tries to steady himself.

As he catches his breath, a voice whispers in the darkness.

“You made it.”

His eyes dart to the corner, where a young woman sits leaning against a washing machine. Her uniform is in bad shape, torn at her midsection and stained to the hem. It looks like blood is seeping through, smearing her fingers red as she tries to stanch the bleeding. The sight of the mess has him quickly closing the space between them.

She looks him up and down as he kneels beside her.

“You’re an officer?” She asks with knitted brows. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“Leon Kennedy. I just started today,” he answers quickly, the adrenaline causing a noticeable waver in his voice.

She laughs but winces and screws her eyes shut. “And I thought my first day sucked,” she says through her teeth.

“Did that thing do this to you?” He asks, his tone gentle yet urgent, getting straight to the nagging thought in his mind.

She shakes her head, looking down at the wound with a suppressed grimace. “I thought the hallway was clear. And then, out of nowhere, it just…” Her mind seems to wander at the thought. “It came through the window. There was glass flying everywhere. It scratched me pretty good.”

Leon tilts his head to the side, trying to get a good look at the wound. Her uniform makes it difficult to see the full extent of the injury. However, the amount of blood is enough to give him an idea of the severity.

“‘Scratched’ is an understatement,” he says, looking back at her.

A dazed sort of smile finds its way to her face. “I like to be optimistic.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, or maybe precisely because of it, his smile mirrors hers. She’s not infected. Thank God.

“So do I,” he says. “Let’s get you cleaned up, alright? Then we can think about getting out of here.”

She nods and attempts to sit up straighter.

“Can you, um,” he starts to say, gesturing to the hem of her uniform.

“Yeah, I can take it off. I’m not shy.”

A blush creeps up his neck as she nimbly moves to undo the buttons of her uniform. Leon averts his gaze, suddenly transfixed by the desolate corner of the linen room. His fingers pluck idly at the skin around his nails. But from the corner of his eye, he catches her struggle to shrug off the top. It gets caught on her shoulders and refuses to slide down.

“Here, let me,” he offers reluctantly.

The room falls silent, the only sound being the soft rustle of fabric as he coaxes the shirt down her arms. She draws a sharp breath as it grazes over tender bruises and scrapes, and a strange sense of intimacy seeps in, making him feel guilty for having to undress her. As the shirt falls to the ground, revealing her white undershirt, his eyes are drawn to the dark magenta stain blossoming across the fabric.

There, at the center of it all, is a shard of glass, roughly the size of the palm of his hand. Its edges are sharp and erratic, protruding from her lower stomach.

It’s critical, he realizes.

“Sorry if it’s not the prettiest thing to look at,” she says, eyes fixated on the ceiling.

He shakes his head. “It’s not that bad,” he lies, hoping it sounds convincing.

Apparently, it doesn’t, because she looks down for the first time and sees it.

“Jesus Christ!” She exclaims breathlessly. Her hands fly to hover above the shard, afraid to touch it. “You have to take it out,” she says with certainty, clearly unable to bring herself to do it.

His medical training at the academy left much to be desired, but even he was aware of the cardinal rule when it came to injuries such as these. Under the best of circumstances, the object should never be removed, lest the victim hemorrhage and bleed to death. However, he’d wager that they were far from the best of circumstances, and the alternative wasn’t enticing. Leon takes a deep breath, then places one hand on her shoulder and the other on the shard of glass. Their eyes lock, a silent agreement passing between them.

“Stay still,” he instructs, his voice wavering slightly. He hesitates for a moment before pulling it out in one swift motion. He can feel her muscles tense beneath his hand as she reacts to the jagged edges scraping against her insides. A torrent of hushed expletives tumbled from her lips, the pain etched deeply in her features.

“There,” he says softly, immediately deciding not to let her see the piece of glass once he realizes its morbid grandeur.

He can see the relief wash over her face, but it's short-lived as her condition quickly deteriorates. The sudden change startles him. Her eyes have started to glaze over, and her head falls limply to the side. Her words are barely audible, lost in labored breaths.

“Hey,” he says urgently, reaching to cup her cheek. She responds with a groan and closes her eyes. He taps her cheek more desperately. “Hey, stay with me!”

With his other hand, he brings two fingers to the tender spot between her jaw and her neck. Her pulse is rapid but faint. Below, the stain spreads further along the cloth of her undershirt. He quickly lifts the hem, his fingers trembling as they brush against the cold skin of her stomach. Blood gushes from the wound at a frightening rate, dripping onto the floor and pooling.

His heart races as he frantically searches for something to stem the bleeding. It ends up being the closest thing: her discarded uniform. The fabric immediately darkens as he applies pressure.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

The blood seeps through, coating his fingers.

"Come on, stay with me," he pleads.

The blood flow slows a little, but only after having wholly soaked through her uniform. He undoes his vest and shrugs out of his shirt, leaving him in just the long sleeve he wore beneath. He brings the shirt to her waist and ties it tightly to keep the fabric firmly in place. As he secures it, her hand finds his arm. He looks down at her, meeting her gaze. Her eyes are glassy, and her breathing shallow.

"Don't worry, I've got you," he says, trying to sound confident.

Her fingers tighten around his arm, and she mumbles something. He leans closer, straining to hear her words.

“Don’t let me die here,” she repeats, her voice barely audible. “Please.”

He feels a lump form in his throat. "I won't... I promise."

He leans back against the wall, his eyes never leaving the woman’s face. Breathing heavily, he runs a hand through his hair. Only then does he notice her blood staining his uniform, his hands, and the floor around him. He wipes his hands on his pants, but even in the dim, cold light of the linen room, it’s clear it isn’t going anywhere.

This isn’t going to be enough to stabilize her; even someone with as little medical knowledge as him can see that it would be a miracle if it did.

But despite that, amidst the chaos and the overwhelming odds, he still clung to the tenuous belief that he could save her life. He can do what he couldn’t for the others, who’d been only slightly out of his reach and beyond saving. Saving just one person would mean this all meant something, and that he, though just one person unsure of what he’s up against, could be the catalyst for a transformative ripple, a flicker of defiance in the face of the unknown evils inside this building.

It would mean everything.

He glances at the door, feeling his stomach drop with the knowledge of what he must do. The hemostatic agents, the antiseptic—those are her lifelines. If he doesn’t act now, she will die in this small corner of the police station, and she’ll have him to thank. Acknowledging this fact sets him in motion.

In a swift movement, he picks her up in his arms, careful not to exacerbate her injuries. She stirs uncomfortably for a moment, then settles against him. Blood drips from his shirt at her waist and trickles down his arm before pittering on the tile. It’s neverending.

“Don’t make any noise,” he whispers down at her. Her eyes are screwed shut, but she nods in understanding.

Here goes nothing. He nudges the door open.

Once again, he is greeted with a quiet stillness. The corpses are still lost in a dreamless sleep, and light rain rhythmically blows in through the empty window frames. It could be somewhat comforting if he were ignorant of the foreboding presence lurking in the nearby shadows. With each soft step, he gets further from the haven of the linen room. He passes the expired stun grenade and is approaching the turn of the hall once again when she shifts in his arms. She presses her forehead against his chest, brows furrowed in an effort to stifle her pain. He can’t imagine how it must feel.

He pulls her closer, hoping to offer a modicum of reassurance. We’re almost there.

It can be said with absolute certainty that he has never moved as slowly as he did turning that godforsaken corner. And for that, he’s been blessed with a clear pathway. Somehow, the creature has not made its presence known. A thought nags at him, daring him to consider that he may have underestimated its intelligence. That it will rear its grotesque head any minute, and its mouth will pull in a sadistic grin, enravished with the idea that he could’ve fooled it once again.

But this is not the case. There, in the imperceptible darkness, inches above his head, there is a shift. It’s slight enough that he almost misses it. He doesn’t need to look up to know what it is—to know that it’s there, to know that he’s directly below it.

Somehow, he missed it.

His muscles tense, but there’s nothing left to do but continue forward.

Just a few more steps.

He places one foot cautiously before the other, careful to avoid shattered glass. The air feels thick with apprehension; every breath a calculated risk.

Then there’s a tug on his pants.

A deep, gurgling groan erupts from one of the corpses by his feet, and it pulls itself toward him. On instinct, he brings his boot down to silence it, crushing its skull beneath his heel before it can sink its teeth in. The woman gasps instantly, startled by the sudden jerking movement. Fuck.

Run.

The walls blur, and time seems to slow as he sprints down the hallway. The woman’s cries intermingle with the sound of talons scraping against the floor, padding down the corridor with a ferocity he doesn’t need to see to know.

Before it can reach him, he forces the office door open and kicks it shut behind him. He ignores the sounds of it screeching and thrashing about and hurries over to one of the desks, swiping the clutter to the floor before setting her down on the cool wooden surface. He wastes no time in retrieving the trauma kit and rummaging through it, letting items fall haphazardly to the floor.

The seconds are slipping through his fingers.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he says between breaths.

She watches him through furrowed brows, blinking slowly as he quickly removes the blood-soaked uniform from her waist. She says nothing, whether due to sheer incapability or hopeless acceptance.

He doesn’t notice either way.

His hands move quickly. He’s too lost in his efforts to see her watching him. Before the darkness creeps in, her lips form a short, one-word apology that gets lost on its way out, unheard by even her. The whisper of remorse dissipates in the air and fades. Then the world follows suit.

An uncertain amount of time has passed when she begins to stir. The room is blurred beneath the heaviness of her eyelids, but its meager contents slowly reveal themselves: plain wooden desks, some chairs, and personal belongings that confirm she’s in the room she suspects. She’d only been in this office once before when working on an intense, high-profile assignment. Even then, her visit was brief. There’s no reason she should be in here.

She pushes through the clouded haze and props her elbow on the desk to raise herself. Immediately, she’s struck with a burning fire in her abdomen, crumpling her back onto the cold surface. It felt like an electrical fire. Spreading quickly with a force that raised the hair on her skin.

Looking down, she saw the crimson stain on her undershirt, and the memory of the attack came back to her with a visceral shudder. The horrifying creature, the unrelenting pain, and the man who saved her. His name eludes her, the residual memories feeling like a half-forgotten dream. His face, too. Until slowly, the memory begins to sharpen, and she can see his face with full clarity. The young officer had been handsome, with an angular jaw and straight nose that lent him a serious, almost stoic look. Yet there was an undeniable boyishness to him, from the tousled hair falling into his eyes to the way he moved with an easy grace that belied the sharpness of his features. Yes, the stranger had certainly been an easy sight for her weary eyes.

“You’re awake.”

She nearly jumped out of her skin when the memory began to speak. She realized just then that it wasn’t a memory at all and that he’d emerged from a corner of the room upon hearing her awaken.

“How are you feeling?” He asks when she doesn’t respond. He’s tense, but his nervous expression seems sincere, and a strange sense of trust begins to settle over her.

“Hurts,” she grumbles. Her throat ached too. Everything ached.

His mouth flattened into a thin line, and his brows furrowed in sympathy. “I know, I’m sorry,” he says.

She notices his hands tremble slightly as they reach out to touch her, brushing warily against the exposed skin at her hip. He doesn’t seem to mind the blood staining his fingers or the hair falling into his eyes as he checks the dressing. Once it’s clear it meets his standard of approval, he looks up, and his light eyes finding hers expectantly, searching for signs of discomfort.

Then it comes back to her.

“Leon,” she murmurs absently, testing how it sounds out loud.

A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. "That's me," he says softly.

She studies his face once again, taking in the way his features soften as he smiles, the gentle curve of his lips, and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“How long have I been out?” she asks hoarsely.

He pulls the hem of her shirt back down, covering the tender skin once again. “Not long, a few hours maybe.”

She tries to sit up once again, but her body protests with a sharp pain at her side. He places a hand on her upper arm, steadying her.

“Take it easy,” he urges her in a whisper.

With a wave of her hand, she dismisses his concerns and her pain. She pulls herself off the desk and straightens her shirt. “I’m fine,” she assures him. “I feel like shit, but I’m fine.”

“You look better,” he says, observing her closely. “You have more color in your face.”

A faint smile graces her lips. “I think I have you to thank for that. If you hadn’t found me, I would’ve been done for,” she confesses. “I’d already made peace with it by the time you got there.”

He offers a modest shrug. “I’m not sure about that. You seem like you’re made of tougher stuff, deputy.”

His words prompt her to tilt her head, inspecting his face and searching for any remnants of recognition beyond their recent encounter. But apart from that, there's nothing.

“Oh. I ran your badge while you were out,” he admits, his gaze momentarily directed toward the floor.

“Is that so…” She crosses her arms with a touch of amusement in her voice. Her inner resolve slowly finds her once again. “So was all this done to impress your boss on the first day?”

He chuckles quietly, now somewhat sheepish in the presence of his superior, in a world where such distinctions no longer hold much meaning. Oddly enough, his laughter somehow finds its place seamlessly amidst the heavy air surrounding them.

Despite the lurking horrors outside the sanctuary of this room and the even grimmer uncertainties ahead, for a brief moment, none of it matters. She stands there as a testament to his actions, breathing proof that he made a difference. Placing himself in the epicenter of this diseased storm no longer feels like ill-fated martyrdom. Within these walls and in the face of the darkness that looms beyond, they are not simply spectators to a morbid narrative; they are, instead, influential participants. All hope isn't lost.

With a smug smile, he finally lifts his gaze to meet hers.

“Did it work?”

#resident evil #resident evil 2 #resident evil 2 remake #re2 #re2 remake #re4 remake #resident evil 4 #leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy fic #leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy x you #deftones #deftones inspo

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cordeliawhohung · 5 months

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Everything You Touch - Part 4

Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!Reader - part nine of "soft spot"

"You deserve better."

warnings: canon typical violence, ptsd, description of panic attack/anxiety, brief accidental/unintentional self harm, a lot of hurt, a crumb of comfort.

wc: 5.3k

Hospitals always had a way of smelling like bleach and death.

No matter how much cleaning and scrubbing was done, it always lingered in the halls and in the pores of every single brick of the building. Simon hated the scent, and he wanted nothing more than to leave that place far behind him, but he couldn’t. Not with you stuck in that stale bed with a brace around your neck.

After stabilizing your condition at a local hospital, they flew you off to St Mary’s Hospital in London as its trauma center was one of the few hospitals in the city that could handle a case like yours. Severe strangulation, a gunshot wound that had torn through your axillary artery as easy as shredding tissue paper. You should have died, and Simon was well aware of that fact, but by some miracle you were alive.

No thanks to him.

Over the last two days, Simon had heard so much medical jargon he was certain he could quit his job in the military and become a doctor. He had every single ailment of yours memorized, and he couldn’t stop repeating them in his mind. A high energy wound from a deformed round had torn through the soft tissue in your chest just under your arm, severing your axillary artery. If it wasn’t for Kyle’s quick thinking, and John’s call for an air ambulance, you would have bled out. On top of that you also had a grade two concussion, two fractured ribs on the right side of your body, and three on your left, a hairline fracture in your hyoid bone, and grade one laryngeal edema. You weren’t malnourished or dehydrated at least, and that fact alone changed everything about your survival. Had you been treated any worse, he would have been sitting next to a grave instead of a bed.

Two days. Two days of sitting there watching you slip in and out of consciousness. Whatever medicine they had hooked you up to was strong, and probably for good reason. It was selfish of him to wish you’d wake up, to wish you’d open your eyes and greet him with a smile as if everything was okay. As if he hadn’t held you through what he thought were your final moments. As if he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep because of the pure anxiety and rage that flooded his system.

He should have made their deaths slower. He wanted to, anyway. For the time you had spent sleeping in the hospital, he kept replaying the way Bukin had called you darling. He hated the way the bile rose to his throat whenever he thought of it, and he knew he should have caused more pain, should have drawn his death out. When he was younger, before he joined the force, he was an apprentice to a butcher. People weren’t all too different from pigs, and he was still just as good with a knife. But he couldn’t take that luxury when you stood there to watch it all.

A soft sigh brought him out of his thoughts, and Simon’s eyes landed on you again. It was impossible to tell if you were just visiting for a short while, or waking up for real, but just as he did the other times, he reached forward and took your hand in his. Your hospital wristband rustled against the fabric of your blankets, and he found his fingers absentmindedly playing with it. Because you had arrived at the hospital with a gunshot wound, and there was slight concern about someone coming after you, they had given you the fictitious name of Jane Doe in an attempt to protect you from further harm that could come your way. Your date of birth was also wrong, as they made you three years older than you really were.

“Si-...?” you attempted, but your voice failed halfway through. It was like that time you were a kid sick with laryngitis. Your voice was much deeper than it was supposed to be, and the words refused to vibrate properly in your throat.

“Hey,” he said softly, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles, “try not to talk too much. Your throat is still pretty swollen.”

Everything felt light, like you were floating, but not in a way that was comforting. It reminded you of how everything felt when you first woke up in that basement. How sick you felt and how Leon wrapped his arm around you to keep you upright. Or that rot in your chest as you sat crumbled in the sand on the beach. The overwhelming scent of his cologne on the jacket he made you wear, his hand on your wrist, hands around your throat, choking, crushing, breaking-

“Sweetheart, hey, hey,” Simon said softly. As he reached out and wiped the tears that you hadn’t even been aware was streaming down your face, you tried to remember the last time you had heard him speak so softly to you. Like he thought his voice would shatter you. “You’re alright, you’re safe. I’m here now, yeah?”

The heart monitor showed proof of your anxiety, but as Simon kept talking he filled the noise in your head with him instead. It was just him and his thumb wiping gently at your cheeks. He was so warm, and you found yourself taking breath after deep breath in an attempt to calm yourself down. His mask was on, that same odd skull patterned one he wore when he saved you, but his eyes were just as expressive.

You reached your other hand up and gently pawed at the plastic brace around your neck. After wiping away another stray tear, Simon grabbed that hand and gently pulled it away from your throat. Holding both of your hands in his, he continued to rub his thumbs across your knuckles.

“You’re still pretty swollen, so you’ll have to keep that on. Try not to move your neck,” he instructed as if he was a doting parent.

Was this real? Were you out of that basement, out of Leon’s reach? It had to be real. Simon’s touch was as soft as it always was, and the scent of the hospital was just as stale and vile as you remembered it being as a child. You attempted another deep breath, but you became suddenly aware of the pain that coursed through your body and winced. Everything hurt, but it felt far away at the same time, like you felt the aches through a veil.

Sniffling a little, you snaked one of your hands out of Simon’s and reached for his left arm. Everything was fuzzy, but you remembered that he had been shot in his arm. Johnny had cracked some sort of joke about it, so you knew it wasn’t bad, yet you still worried. Even as you laid in a hospital bed hooked up to machines and tubes, you still worried about him.

“Just a flesh wound sweetheart, nothin’ to worry about,” he assured you. His eyes studied you for a short moment before dropping down. You thought he looked at your throat, until you remembered the new pain that blossomed in an odd area along the side of your chest. “Should be more concerned with the wound you got.”

You made a pitiful attempt to look down at yourself, but the brace on your neck made it impossible to do so. Which was certainly for the best, because you didn’t want to know how badly it would have hurt if you bent your throat in such a way. Instead, you pulled your hand away from Simon’s arm and gestured to your chest with a quizzical look on your face. Or, at least what you hoped was a quizzical look.

“Yeah,” he confirmed as he grabbed your hand again. It was like he couldn’t stop touching you. “Got a few fragments left in you, but nothin’ the doctors couldn’t handle. Guess we got you in the best goddamn trauma center in the country.”

Even with everything that happened, he tried to make light of the situation; probably in an attempt to not worry you. Maybe you shouldn’t have been worried. It didn’t hurt to breathe anymore than it had previously, so the bullet hadn’t gone through your chest or punctured a lung. You were lucky that it wasn’t worse.

God, what a sour thought that was. Thinking you were lucky; thinking you should be grateful to have survived such atrocities.

Your vision grew a little fuzzy, and you found yourself staring off into space as your mind wandered again. Everything felt too real and so fake at the same time; like the pain was faux. You should have been able to hop out of that bed and head to work, and your co-workers wouldn’t even spare you a second glance because there was no way you were gone for as long as you thought you had been. Yet at that same time, you should have been dead. Should have been laying splayed out on your back with dry eyes that stared up at the seagulls finding solace and food in the flesh of your body. Perhaps a part of you did die; some part of you was left to rot in that orchard.

“Wh-t h…ppened?” you asked. Voice still failing you, you made sure to choose simple words. Tingling pain mingled in your throat, and your mouth felt itchy.

“The boys and I brought you home,” Simon answered softly. But that answer was too short - too blunt - and even he knew that, so he swallowed and tried again: “You were in pretty rough shape. You’ve got a few fractured bones and your throat is messed up bad. But you’re safe now, they can’t hurt you. I promise.”

Such a funny way to say that he killed them. Not that you blamed him at all; how could you when you had attempted to slaughter Leon with a steak knife? You remembered exactly what it was like standing there as you watched Simon dig the heel of his boot into Leon’s shattered arm. Remembered what color dead grass turned when blood pooled under it.

Fertilizer. That’s what he had called you. A task that ended up being bequeathed to him instead.

“I need you to get some rest, yeah?” he continued. “Doc says he won’t send you home until you’ve healed up some.

It wasn’t much, but you squeezed his hand in response. You weren’t sure if it was because the state your body was in or because of the various medicines they pumped through you intravenously, but you were tired. The type of tired where you didn’t care if you woke up or not. Simon carefully raised your hands up and pressed delicate kisses to your knuckles through the fabric of his mask. When you were in that basement, all you wanted was for Simon to hold you, to feel his touch again, to be bathed in his warmth. Now that you were finally out, everything felt muted. Everything was spoiled.

No, you were just tired. That was all. So you closed your eyes again and listened to the steady hum of the machines around you. They sounded similar to the machines your mother had been hooked up to when receiving treatment when you were a kid. You used to take naps listening to those beeps. Things always had an odd way of coming back to you. Comforted by the auditory proof of your own existence, you faded away into sleep once more under Simon’s careful gaze.

But what Simon didn’t know was that the very moment you finally woke up, the nightmares began. They chased after you in sleep, in consciousness; it didn’t matter. Even in death Leon’s hands still wrapped around your throat; even after you were well enough that they removed your brace; even after the swelling went down; even while holding Simon’s hand. Always small. Always weak.

Things only got worse when you were well enough to be sent home. There was something dehumanizing walking into your home and not being able to recognize the smell. It was cold, bitterly so, as the drafty window was something your landlord still refused to fix. Boo, who had grown much too big much too fast and was without his cast trotted towards the entrance as a cooing mess. In what was surely an attempt to trip you, he rubbed against your legs in greeting, and Simon assisted you in settling in.

And though everything was the same as how you had left it, something was wrong. A crawling feeling overtook your skin every time you looked at the floor in the living room. The air smelled stale like you were in a coffin rather than a home. Dinner tasted more like blood than it did soup. Did it all change in such a short amount of time? Did you just not recognize it? Or was it just you that had changed? A stranger in your own home?

“I want to shower,” you said suddenly.

It was the first thing you had said throughout the entirety of dinner. You stared down at the half eaten bowl of soup in your hands. Your voice sounded better, and your throat didn’t spasm every time you swallowed, but you were still restricted to a liquid food diet more or less.

“A bath would be easier,” Simon countered. His spoon had been clinking against the side of his bowl for some time, but you knew him better than that. He had probably finished eating quite some time ago. “Can’t get your wound wet. I could run one for you.”

You swallowed another spoonful of soup. It wasn’t until your stomach began to churn that you realized it had gone cold. “Okay.”

Neither of you moved for what felt like forever. Weights kept you held down by your ankles, and all you did was move your spoon around the thick liquid in the bowl. You almost hadn’t realized that Simon stood from his seat until his hand brushed against the side of your face. You didn’t jump, but your heart lurched so hard it almost hurt, and still you gazed up at him with dull eyes. His hand smoothed over your hair, eyes studying your face carefully, before he slowly leaned down and pressed a firm kiss against the crown of your head.

“C’mon,” he said, pulling away. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You followed behind Simon as he led you to the bathroom. Boo trotted along still hellbent on tripping you and purring the whole time while doing so. He didn’t seem scared even when Simon turned the water on, and he perched himself on top of the counter behind you as you began to undress. Healing was agonizing, and taking longer than you wanted it to, and tasks such as dressing and undressing were no longer as simple as they used to be.

That deep ache in your chest had dulled over time, but hadn’t quite gone away, and was still aggravated whenever you bent over, but you were still able to get your pants and socks off with relative ease. The real trouble came when you tried to take your shirt off. Raising your left arm was impossible with your wound, but you tried your best to wiggle out of the clothing anyway. A particularly painful pinch shot through your chest when you attempted to raise your arm, drawing a wince out of your sore throat.

“Here,” Simon spoke up softly.

He was very well versed in taking your clothes off, but he had never been so gentle about it before. You let your arms go limp as he slid the fabric of your shirt across your body, freeing your right arm and exposing your torso. He moved the collar over your head, and gently straightened your left arm so he could slide the rest off of you. Due to your injury, you weren’t able to wear a bra, so you were fully exposed to the chilly air.

A fuzzy paw tapped your back and you turned around to give Boo some much needed and deserved attention, but the moment you caught sight of yourself in the mirror, you froze. Maybe you just hadn’t paid attention, but you couldn’t remember the last time you looked at yourself. Really looked at yourself. Stale bruises littered the delicate skin of your throat. Pale red burst capillaries stained the whites of your eyes, though there were very few left over after your time healing.

Then, of course, there was the obvious. Thick gauze covered the wound itself in order to keep it clean and avoid infection, and it was then that you realized you hadn’t actually seen the damage that had been caused. You had seen the blood that poured from it, and felt how terribly the bullet burned as it tore through you, but hadn’t seen how bad it mangled your flesh. You were sure it was for the best, in some way, but you didn’t need to see it in order to tell the extent of the damage.

The gauze stuck to the side of your breast and extended up over your chest and under your armpit in order to stay secure. Without an exit wound there was no need to patch up anywhere else on your body, but you could see the bruising peek out from underneath the pristine white dressings.

Simon’s fingers ghosted along your right shoulder as he stood behind you. His eyes found you in the mirror, and it took you a moment before you were able to do the same. You wanted to tell him how silly you thought it all was. How you felt so terrible despite the evidence of your pain being so minimal. You thought that after everything you went through, you would be nothing left but a pile of flesh and blood. There should have been more scars, some sort of disfiguration, and yet you were the same woman just painted a different color.

Your body healed faster than you did.

When you were ready, Simon helped lower you into the tub where the steamy water enveloped your body. As much as you wanted to lay back, close your eyes, and let go, you needed to stay sitting up in order to keep your dressings dry. Boo hopped off the counter with a chirp before jumping up to sit on the edge of the tub. Curious, he pawed at the water before leaning down to drink from it.

“Why’d you have to snatch up the weird one?” Simon asked teasingly, though his voice fell flatter than he would have liked.

You tried to laugh, or smile even, but nothing came. There was something strange about talking about such domestic things. After everything that had happened, you had expected all the good to be sapped from your life. It felt like the only thing you should have been allowed to talk about was pain and death and yet there you were, sitting in a tub with your cat drinking up the water like an idiot.

As Simon settled on the floor next to the tub, you noticed Boo’s right paw was deformed. For the most part it was intact, but it seemed flatter than his other paw. You remembered his pained squeak when Leon had attacked you, how he had gotten in the way and fell victim to another one of that monster's merciless acts.

“His paw,” you pointed out softly, hand sloshing in the water to point. Boo took your pointing as an invitation to sniff your finger, and then lick the water that dripped from it.

“Yeah, got messed up pretty good,” Simon concurred as he leaned across the tub to grab your body wash. “Had him in a cast for a bit. Strong little bugger. Shoulda seen him hobbling around with it on.”

He presented you with your body wash and a fresh rag and you contemplated the items for a moment before carefully reaching out for them. It had been a long time since you washed yourself with items that belonged to you. You breathed in the familiar scent of the soap as you rubbed it into the rag and then along your skin. It didn’t smell how you remembered it, but it was better than plain water.

You thought back to the time you and Simon had gone on holiday when that terrible nightmare of your father plagued you. You remembered how Simon’s arms wrapped around you and held you close to his chest as you let the water wash over you. He had asked you if you wanted to talk about it; he always had a habit of knowing your feelings better than you did. Though talking about it would have done some good, you said no. Why had you even done so? What was the reason? Were you afraid? Whatever it was, you regretted it, because you feared then that you’d never be able to talk to him about anything ever again.

Would never be able to tell him what happened; what Leon said, what he did. How he tried saying he and Simon were the same - that your lover was a violent man. That he liked to watch you squirm. How could you tell him all of that? About how you fell to the sand hoping and praying to feel his touch again? How you had to wear Leon’s coat? And the scent that clung to it - clung to you - no matter how much you scrubbed, and scrubbed, and scrubbed, and-

“Hey, easy,” Simon warned softly.

His hands carefully wrapped around your wrists and pulled them away from your body. Fresh abrasions prickled across the now raw skin on your wrist from the intensity of your cleansing, and the rag was promptly removed from your hand. Simon attempted to get you to look at him, but your vision was too blurry to see anything correctly.

“I can’t,” you spoke, and it was only then that you realized you were crying, “can’t get clean, can’t do it, Simon I- it’s-”

Water sloshed around you, and Boo ran off as it spilled over the side of the tub. Strong arms wrapped securely around your center as you felt your back collide with something firm. Simon had climbed into the tub behind you, fully clothed, with legs on either side of your body. His chin rested on top of your head and you found your arms wrapping around yourself as he embraced you.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he coaxed as he swayed as much as the confines of the tub would allow him to. “I’m right here. Need ya to slow down and breathe, yeah? Just focus on me, nothing else. It’s just me and you.”

If it wasn’t for Simon holding you together, you were certain you would have crumbled. It wasn’t a pretty sight or feeling; being broken. That knowing even in death Leon still had a hold of you. But you focused on Simon, how his legs had to be bent in order to fit in the tub with you, how you could feel intermittent kisses to the top of your head. The tattoo on his arm glistened as the water clung to his skin, and you found your head falling back to lean against his chest. You listened to his breathing and tried to match his pace; felt his heart thud against your back and willed your body to steady itself. Boo licked himself furiously in some corner, paws having gotten wet from the displaced bath water.

Nothing had changed.

“Your arm,” you said between stuttering breaths.

“It’s fine,” he assured you.

You knew that it probably wasn’t. Warm water had a particular way of making fresh wounds sting, but worrying about it wouldn’t change anything. Even though you wanted to, you needed to focus on staying with Simon and not slipping away somewhere else again.

“I thought of you. When I was in Urzikstan,” he said when your breathing finally slowed. He placed another quick kiss to the top of your head and loosened his grip as he ran his hands gently up and down your arm. “Couldn’t get you off my mind. Kept thinking ‘bout every moment I ever spent with you. That god awful movie we saw together at the cinema. The first time we kissed. You’re the only thing on this earth I care about and I fucked up. This shoulda never happened and that’s on me.”

You shook your head, skull rolling along his clavicle. A pulsing pain bounced along the soft tissue of your brain as it protested the movement, but you did your best to ignore it. “Stop,” you said, but you weren’t mad. You were too tired to be mad. “I already know what you’re going to say. I don’t care.” You paused to swallow, your voice still not used to speaking so much at once. “Doesn’t matter whose fist comes at me, I’ve been doing this my whole life. But I’ve never had someone to pick me up until you. So don’t-” Your voice failed you, and you weren’t sure if it was because of your throat, or because of the cry you tried to suppress. “Don’t you fucking dare say it.”

So he didn’t. All of those words on his tongue dissipated and dissolved into his blood where it festered and boiled. He didn’t agree with you a single bit. Had he torn that picture of you to shreds the moment he found it in his pocket, Bukin would have had nothing to use against him. Would have never found you. It wasn’t supposed to be like that at all. You were the one who was supposed to take care of him because you were supposed to be unharmed. Instead, he suffered from a broken nose and malnourishment, and you had taken the bullet meant for him.

Instead he relished in the fact that he had you in his arms, that he could breathe in your scent, feel your warmth. It shouldn’t have happened at all, but he was going to take what he could get.

“This can’t be comfortable,” you pointed out after a while as you tugged on his sopping wet jeans. You said it as if Simon hadn’t tried to confess something, as if you hadn’t just experienced a panic attack; like things were okay.

“Been through worse,” Simon said dryly.

“Really?” you asked as if sincere. “I think wet jeans are what nightmares are made of.”

It wasn’t funny, but Simon laughed anyway and tilted his head to the side to press his lips against your temple. He was always touching you, always kissing you, as if he could wash everything away with his hands alone better than any body wash could. Maybe he could. His hands were certainly kinder than your own.

Once the water grew cold, Simon helped you out of the tub. He stripped his own soaked clothes off, and it was then that you noticed just how… skinny he looked. Between the hoodies he always wore and bundling up in the cold winter weather, you didn't realize just how much weight he had lost. The scar on his ribs stretched tight with his skin, and his veins protruded more than you remembered. Even with his state he came back for you.

A fresh and thick towel was used to dry you off, and Simon made sure to do all of the work. From what little of your torso that had gotten wet, all the way down to your feet. He didn’t take nearly as much time drying himself off before quickly ushering you into the bedroom and assisting you in getting dressed. After taking the myriad of antibiotics, probiotics, and painkillers you had been prescribed, you found yourself laying in bed, staring up at the ceiling while Simon shuffled about.

Eventually several layers of blankets had been tossed on top of you, and Boo purred at your feet, content to finally have his family back in one place. Simon settled under the covers next to you, and you instinctively curled into the warmth of him. Everything was soft and fuzzy due to the oxycodone flooding your system but you were still very much aware of the way Simon’s fingers traced up and down your left arm.

“Ischemia,” he said slowly.

“What?” you hummed, half awake.

“Ischemia. Bad blood flow,” he repeated. “Doc told me to keep an eye on the blood flow in your arm.”

“Because of the wound?” you asked, to which he hummed in response.

Things grew quiet as he ran his hand up and down your arm. Boo continued to purr up a mad storm while your fingertips were poked and prodded at. Simon watched carefully at how the color would push in and out of your nail bed, providing proof that your circulation was fine. Once he was satisfied, he studied your face, taking in how your eyes darted underneath the lids, the soft rise and fall of your shoulders. Everything in him was telling him to pull you tight and don’t let go, but he was terrified he’d crush you.

“I wasn’t afraid of dying,” you admitted suddenly, causing Simon to pause. You said it like you had answered a question nobody asked. Your eyes slowly fluttered open, and he took notice of how unfocused they looked. “I was just afraid of… not… being able to see you again.”

What was he supposed to say to that? How was he expected to form words when the love of his life looked at him like she’d die without his presence? A tight line formed along his lips as he lifted his hand to rub against your cheek.

“You should get some rest,” he diverted.

You knew exactly what he meant by that, but your eyes closed anyway as you reached your hand up to rest on his. Even moving it that far sent a pang of pain shooting down your arm and through your chest, but it was worth it to be able to hold him.

“Can we talk about it later?” you asked quietly.

“‘Course,” he promised.

After laying there for a moment, Simon reached over and turned the side table lamp off, plunging the room into darkness. It was strange laying in bed. He couldn’t quite recall the last time he had fallen asleep in such a comfortable position, as he spent his entire time captive falling asleep in a chair, which proved to be a difficult habit to break.

He wondered what it must have been like for you, down in that basement; a civilian mixed in military matters. Blood soaking into the bed sheets stained his vision almost worse than the Polaroids that had been taken of you. Sometimes he’d wipe his hands off on his pants because he still felt your blood staining his hands through his gloves. Every waking moment he heard Bukin calling you darling like it was played on repeat on his own personal broken record.

But there was no time for regret, grief, or anything else that tempted to poke at his heart and mind. There was limited space in his life, and in that moment, and forever more, it was reserved for you. Only you, and your laughter and your soft touches and the way you looked at him. He loved you. He loved you so fucking much it hurt. But there wasn’t space for that either; that terrible realization of just what he would do for you. No, for the moment it was only you, him, and that stupid cat purring at his feet, and that was enough for him.

tags: @ghostlythots @archonsabyss @crowbird @beware-my-thorns @koko-1025 @nessaasstuff @escapefromrealitysm @ilovehyperfixating @babygirl-riley @theloneshadow24 @ashableketchup @violet-19999 @ocyeanic-dani @paigetaylor628 @curlygirls-world @gaebestie @datlilwrench @ryisghost @suffering-and-happy-about-it @achelois-is-here

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#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #soft spot #f!reader

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ay-heart-collection · 2 months

Text

Story writing: The Assassin Lesson

Greetings everyone. I am trying to get back some story ideas of heart back in my mind with AI support.

I understand that many people feel resistant to AI currently, but I think it could be a chance for some of my buried ideas digging back to light. I think it should be OK for make use of it for drafting and brainstorming. Wish you will accept it and like it.

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The Assassin Lesson

In a training site of an assassin group, the mentor lady of the group stood before her class of aspiring young assassins. The leather suit covered by hooded cloak outlined her beautiful body curves. Her piercing gaze surveyed the room, which cause the atmosphere become thick and heavy, but brought a hint of anticipation to the class.

As one of the master of assassin in the group, the lesson of the mentor lady was focusing on the fatal spots of the human body. Before she began her lesson, she brought a beautiful female with a slender figure to her students. She was a young thief captured in an incidental encounter during a mission. Her upper body had been stripped naked, with her wrists bound with tight restraints, stood at the front of the class. Her eyes wide with fear.

"Today, we shall delve into the skill of piercing the human heart."

The mentor lady began, her low and commanding tone sending shivers down the spines of her students. With a swift motion, she spread out a drawing of a human heart, its delicate form sketched meticulously on a piece of parchment.

Walking towards the captive, the mentor caressed the girl carefully, and made use of some simple drawing tool against her bare chest. Soon, a line art appeared between her petite but firm breasts, aligning it with the actual size and position of her ribcage and her heart beneath. The students leaned forward, their eyes fixated on the scene unfolding before them.

"Now, observe," the mentor said, her voice unwavering.

"The human heart was protected beneath the ribcage, nestled within the chest cavity. To truly strike a fatal blow, one must understand its position and structure."

She pointed to the various parts of the heart drawing on the captive, her finger tracing the major arteries and ventricles. The young thief’s chest rose and fell rapidly, her breath shallow and uneven. Which felt like the mentor’s finger directly touching her myocardium.

"The atria, the ventricles, the aorta," the mentor continued, her voice filled with an unsettling mix of knowledge and detached fascination. "Each component is vital to the heart's function, and each represents a potential fatal spot."

The young thief visibly trembled, her eyes darting around the room, searching for an escape that was not forthcoming.

"One wrong move, and the heart's delicate rhythm is disrupted," the mentor said, her voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "A swift and precise strike, however, can send the body into an irreversible state of shock."

At this point, the mentor paused, allowing her words to hang in the air, the weight of her lesson sinking in. The students exchanged glances, fully aware of the power they were being entrusted with.

"Now, my dear students," the mentor said, her voice rising with an unsettling intensity, "let me introduce the tools we mainly use for piercing the heart.”

The mentor's eyes gleamed with an aggressive pleasure as she revealed an array of common weapons used on the table with a quick motion. As she began explaining each weapon in meticulous detail, the captured girl's terror was palpable, her eyes widening in fear as she gazed upon the deadly tools before her. Feeling as if these sharp edges had already torn her horrified heart.

"First, we have the thin, needle-like stiletto blade," the mentor said, her voice dripping with a chilling enthusiasm. "Its slender form allows for precise entry, slipping between the ribs without causing unnecessary damage."

As she spoke, the mentor demonstrated the correct posture for piercing, gently pressing the stiletto against the girl's exposed skin, mirroring the intended action. The girl's heart beat erratically, a visible thumping against her left breast. She shivered, her body tensing involuntarily at the sensation, a cold sweat forming on her forehead.

"Next, we have the wickedly serrated dagger," the mentor continued, her voice filled with a sinister delight. "Its jagged edges can tear through flesh and bone, ensuring a quick and devastating stab."

With a swift motion, the mentor mimicked the piercing action on the girl's skin, her hand moving in a delicate manner. The young thief let out a stifled gasp, her heart pounding even harder in her chest, as if resisting the impending violence. Beads of crimson blood welled up where the blade had made contact, as a testament to the sharpness of the weapon and the fragility of human flesh.

The mentor's eyes narrowed, relishing in the power that played out before her. She continued her lesson, each weapon explained and demonstrated with excellent precision.

"Now, behold the slender yet deadly rapier," the mentor said, her voice taking on a haunting resonance. "Its long, piercing blade can navigate the narrowest of spaces, reaching the heart with deadly accuracy."

The mentor positioned the rapier against the girl's skin, her hand poised to demonstrate the thrusting motion. The captive's breathing grew shallow, her body trembling uncontrollably under the weight of her fear. As the mentor made a swift but soft thrust, the young heart skipped a beat, as if mirroring the terror coursing through her veins.

As the mentor moved through the remaining weapons, the captured girl's terror only intensified. The mentor's explanations were accompanied by demonstrations on the girl's soft skin, each movement were calculated and precise. The pain and fear etched on the captive's face mirrored the darkness hidden within the mentor's own soul.

"In the next section," the mentor lady paused a second, staring at the captive. "We are to demonstrate the precise locations where the weapons should enter the body, piercing the heart." The terrified thief stood frozen, her eyes wide with fear, as the mentor approached her with a gaze of dominance.

"Pay close attention, my dear students," the mentor commanded, her voice laced with an eerie calmness. "As we delved before, the human heart was well protected within the chest cavity. To penetrate the heart efficiently, we must aim for specific entry points. Allow me to explain."

The mentor positioned herself behind the captive, placing her hands on the girl's shoulders, as if guiding her through the macabre lesson. The captive's body trembled beneath the mentor's touch, her breath was quick and shallow.

"First," the mentor began, her voice resonating with authority, "We have the area between the 3rd and 4th rib, near the sternum. This position allows for a quick and efficient stab, aiming directly at the center of the heart's chambers."

With precise movements, the mentor's hand mimicked the action of a weapon, her fingers hovering just above the inner side of the captive's left breast, indicating the location. The captive flinched, a shiver coursing through her body, as if she could feel the cold steel of an imaginary blade piercing her flesh.

"Next," the mentor continued, her voice low and steady, "we have the space between the 4th and 5th rib, commonly known as the apex of the heart. Representing the tip of the left and right ventricles. Striking here can disrupt the heart's rhythm and lead to swift incapacitation," the mentor paused a bit, "And this is actually my favorite piercing spot."

The mentor's hand shifted slightly lower, held tightly under the left breast of the young thief. Her heart raced in response, the rumbling apex hammering against the palm of the mentor. She bit her trembling lip, her eyes darting nervously between the assassin students and the weapons displayed on the table.

"Moving on," the mentor said, her tone filled with a chilling precision, "we have the area below the xiphoid, right below the heart. Here is the blind spot of the ribcage coverage. A well-placed strike here can cause severe damage from the bottom of right ventricle."

The mentor's hand descended further, hovering just above the captive's abdomen, her fingers poised as if preparing to strike. The captive's breath hitched, her body tensing as if bracing for impact. The room seemed to grow colder as she saw the focused eyes of the assassin students.

"And finally," the mentor concluded, her voice dropping to a chilling whisper, "We have the area over the clavicle. This position allows us to bypass most of the chest armor and ribcage, to penetrate the atria and aorta directly, provided the weapon is long enough."

The mentor's hand moved to the captive's collarbone area, caressed the pulsating veins underneath. The captive's eyes widened, a mix of terror and realization reflecting in their depths. The mentor's teachings had painted a dark path ahead, one that demanded a cold and calculated approach for her fellows students.

"And NEXT..." the mentor scanned the room, her eyes flickering with amusement.

"Is the time for PRACTICE."

Hearing this, the captured girl’s heart sank to the bottom of abyss. She knew that her doom was imminent. Her heart raced uncontrollably, pounding against her chest as if desperately trying to escape its impending fate.

The mentor asked her students if any of them would like to recommend themselves for the upcoming practice session. Excitement filled the air as most of the girls eagerly raised their hands, their faces lit up with anticipation.

With a sinister smile, the mentor selected a student from the eager faces. The chosen student stepped forward, took down her hood, her eyes shined with expectations and determination. The mentor allowed the student to have her pick of weapon and piercing spot, relishing in the power dynamics that played out before her.

The student's gaze lingered over the arsenal of deadly tools, selecting a weapon with a menacing aura. She ran her fingers along the blade, savoring the anticipation that filled the room. With a wicked grin, she turned to face the captive girl, her voice dripping with delight.

"I choose the serrated dagger," the student declared, her voice tinged with a chilling excitement. "And I want to strike at the apex of her heart, just like the mentor I admire."

The captive girl's eyes widened in terror, her breath catching in her throat. The mentor's own smile widened, seeing the fear etched across the captive's face. She nodded approvingly, allowing the student to proceed with her choice.

The student approached the captive girl, her movements deliberate and calculated. The air grew heavy with tension as the serrated dagger glinted ominously in her hand. The captive girl's heart was beating in an insane rhythm, facing the incoming intent to kill with full of fear and despair.

As the student positioned herself, the mentor watched intently. Her eyes glimmering with a twisted joyous. The student's hand trembled with anticipation, staring at the throbbing point below the left breast of the shivering young thief. Her blade poised to strike. The captive girl's body tensed, her eyes locked on the weapon that would soon pierce her vulnerable flesh.

"Don’t blame me." whispered by the young assassin.

In one swift and merciless motion, the student thrust the serrated dagger right between the 4th and 5th rib, torn the captive girl's heart from the apex. The room seemed to freeze in that moment, the sound of the blade piercing flesh echoing through the air.

The captive girl let out a choked gasp, her eyes widened with agony. Her body kneeled down, convulsing with the searing pain that seeped through her being.

"Come, my dear," the mentor held up the young thief, and let the outstanding student to listen to her last heaving chest. "Remember this faltering heart sound, representing our power, and the fragile of life." Her desperate heartbeat, staggered with the spurting sound of blood, echoed in the mind of the student.

Her heart, the very core of her existence, reacted with a final surge of desperation. It beat wildly, as if fighting against the intrusion, a futile attempt to cling to life. But the cruel reality of the situation prevailed, and with each weakening beat, the girl's life force slipped away.

The mentor watched with a twisted satisfaction as the young thief's body slumped, lifeless and still. The room fell into an eerie silence. The mentor's eyes gleamed with a sense of accomplishment, reveling in the darkness that had unraveled within her students.

"Observe, my dear fellow students," wiped the stains on her student’s cheek, she declare to everyone with determination. "This is what we have, the power deciding life and death. But remember, the fleeting nature of life binds us all. We have to be skilled to avoid becoming the next fallen heart."

The End

#female heart #dark cardiophilia #Gif included #Story writing #AI Support #Heart stab

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cerise-on-top · 4 months

Note

Hi❤️

I was wondering if u could write about how you think Laswell, Rudy, Alejandro, and Valerie whould react to having a spouse who works in the funeral business (or more specifically a mortician) Thank you!! I love your stuff btw!!!

-🍒

Hello! Sure I can! Thank you for the request! In all honesty, I did not know exactly what a mortician actually does, but I tried to research it! Sorry if it isn't as accurate, I tried! And thank you for the compliment!

Alejandro, Rodolfo, Valeria and Laswell with a Mortician!S/O

Alejandro: Alejandro has a deep connection with his culture, meaning he also has a fair amount of respect for the dead. He’s not particularly religious, not Catholic and not a follower of Santa Muerte either, but he does hold certain beliefs since that’s what was ingrained into him from his parents. He has an even higher opinion of you once you tell him that you’re a mortician. You dress the dead, you embalm them, you make sure they’re well taken care of before they’re being bidden farewell to by their friends and family. That’s one of the highest honors anyone could ever achieve. He’s lost far more people than he would like to admit, but sometimes he would comfort himself knowing that you might be the one to tend to them, making sure they would be well respected and would reach the afterlife in more than just torn rags. He’s well aware you’re not the grim reaper and won’t transport the dead to the afterlife yourself. Still, he knows your job is also a rough one and that one must be talented in many fields in order to work as a mortician: You need to know how to work with finances, you likely need to have a good immune system, you need to not be squeamish around the dead, you need to have a degree, you need to agree to work during odd hours and so on. He’s well aware of all of that, but he also knows that working with the dead can take its toll on you when grieving families tell stories of their deceased ones. Alejandro will do what he can to support you, he’ll let you vent whenever you need it, be your support system in general. There’s barely any job holier than yours, so whatever it is you need, you have his full support and his full respect.

Rodolfo: In all honesty, Rodolfo would not know what exactly it is that you do. He’d have a general idea, yes, but you’d have to tell him. It’s not like you won’t ever have the opportunity to do so, though, since he’ll be more than happy to ask. How was your day today? What did you do? Anything interesting happen? He’ll listen intently and try to figure it out from there, but if he has questions he will ask them. In all honesty, he’s not the biggest fan of corpses since they’re usually a bad sign, especially on the battlefield, so he sometimes does wonder how you do it. Working with corpses every day? Touching them like it’s nothing? He can do so too, although he gets a bit queasy when he has to touch one with his bare hands. Especially one that has been dead for a while now. That’s why he has a lot of respect for you, you have a tough job but you do it well, and for that he applauds you. If you ever need some advice or just need someone to vent to, he’s more than happy to be of help. He’s really not bad at finances and it isn’t that easy to shake him anymore either, so you can tell him whatever you want. No judgment from him either. He supports you and will listen, but you might not want to go into excruciating detail about how you replace the blood with formaldehyde through the arteries. Something like that won’t leave his mind for a while, but he appreciates the honesty and another learning opportunity. He still has some ties to his culture, but not as much as Alejandro. Your job is formidable and potentially dangerous, but he won’t romanticize it. Will ask you if you’re doing well, though. Although it’s not as likely to become sick as one might think with the right equipment, he’ll always worry about you potentially catching some sickness. Would jokingly ask you whether or not you’re afraid of zombies.

Valeria: Might disguise her genuine question as a joke, but she would ask you if you also cremated people. Naturally you do, it’s part of your job. Say yes and she’d ask you how booked you are. She is serious about having you cremate some of the people she gets rid of, in all honesty. So if you ever have too much work, it’s likely because of her. Tell her to slow down and that a cremation machine can’t burn that many bodies in a day and she might listen to you, from time to time. You’ll still end up with extra work, but it won’t be as severe as before. She has a weird fascination with your job. Tell her all about it, she’ll genuinely appreciate it. You can even tell her the most disturbing things. Plus she’ll eat up the weird things as well, such as you hearing strange noises at night as you put on the makeup of a deceased woman. Will crack jokes about how it’s the dead haunting you in particular just to see your reaction. The stronger you react, the more likely she is to continue. Her favorite part of your job is the cremation, actually. Fire is nice, fire is passionate, fire leaves little trace. Isn’t above sponsoring your funeral home either, buying you a nice and powerful cremation machine to make the process go faster, gas costs and consequences be damned. While she does have a pretty good grasp of what you do, you can expect her to sometimes ask weird questions. Have you ever cremated someone alive? Do corpses stink? How long would it take for an embalmed corpse to be broken down? She doesn’t particularly worry too much about you getting sick, she knows your equipment is there to handle most of the things that might be considered dangerous, but if you ever complain about it, she’s more than happy to find more useful equipment. Not the best at listening to you vent about how rough your job is, but she tries. She’s great at finances too, so you can always go to her as well, but she doesn’t do as well with the emotional part. The people lost someone? Let them be sad for a few days, it’s got barely anything to do with you. She’s not the most empathetic towards people she doesn’t know or care about.

Laswell: She’s worked with quite a few morticians throughout her life, mainly to get a good look at a corpse and see if there are any clues left that might help her. It’s usually the job of someone who performs autopsies, I know, but sometimes you just need to do the job yourself if you want it done right. She knows fully well what you do at your job, she knows many people, after all. Although she does find it interesting that that’s the job you want to do for the rest of your life. You could be anything, yet you wish to work with the dead? It sounds a bit macabre to her, but she respects your decision. Not at all squeamish around the dead, she’s probably had to handle a few corpses herself throughout her life. Whether it was with gloves or not she’d rather not tell. Although she knows a whole lot about your job, she’ll ask you anything and everything about it either way since you seem fairly happy whenever you get to talk about it. You’re a skilled person in many regards, which she can definitely respect. If someone she knows well or likes dies, then she’ll likely refer the immediate family to you, she knows you do your job well and with lots of love. That way you can keep your job and always keep the money coming, but you’ll also never run out of anything to do anyway. If you ever find yourself in need of a good and trustworthy pastor, she can refer you to one. Laswell knows all kinds of people, plus she’s more than happy to help you out whenever you need it. She’s well aware you did your studies well to be where you are right now, so you’ve more than earned that support. But, like all the others too, she’ll also support you emotionally. Being a mortician can be draining, so she’ll listen to you whenever you need and, if it’s what you want, give you some advice. While she’s not always empathetic towards people, she can be, but most importantly, whatever helps you is good for her soul as well. She does want you to flourish in your job.

#cod #cod x reader #alejandro vargas #alejandro vargas x reader #rodolfo parra #rodolfo parra x reader #valeria garza #valeria garza x reader #kate laswell #kate laswell x reader #I've been seeing a lot more requests for mortician!readers over the past few years #must have become a fairly popular job then #I'm glad since morticians are always needed! I can respect them!#that kind of work sounds scary to me but I'm glad there are people out there who do it #morticians are so cool!

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