#vanish stain removers

[gummybearstastelikesadness]

Danny, Jazz, and their parents all go to Gotham for some reason, most likely something sciencey or related to Jazz and college, IDC.

(Danny has only been in Gotham for a single afternoon and he’s already had 4 people attempt to mug him, almost been run over, and walked through what he’s pretty sure was a gang fight. But the weirdest thing that had to have happened to him so far has been the multiple random people keep giving him weird looks and asking if he’s okay way to often for Gotham don’t-trust-people City. It must be his Fenton luck.)

After all the randomness Gotham throws at Danny he like most teenagers exhausted and hungry late at night goes to get fast food. He walks into Batburger (it’s a Gotham staple he wants to know how it compares to the Nasty Burger) and the cashier stares at Danny as he orders like 12 peoples worth of food for him and Jazz.

The cashier, a literal midnight shift customer service worker asks Danny if he’s okay. Danny even more annoyed about people asking that just let’s out an exaggerated sigh and says something about being “just tired and hungry.” The cashier, who is not paid enough for this drops it, rings Danny up, and gives him an order number.

Danny’s order takes a while so he just leans on a wall and surfs the web, maybe messages Jazz or Sam and Tucker. Just vibes, leaning on the Batburger wall.

Eventually some of the bats shows up mid patrol to get something to eat and all pause in the doorway. Causing Danny to look up from his phone and see all of them looking right at him. Danny an annoyed teenager just asks them what they’re looking at.

One of them breaking out of the awkwardness asks Danny if he’s okay. Danny who’s been asked that 15+ times in the last 45 minutes just yells “Why do people keep asking me that?!?”

One of the bats responds with something like “… because you have a knife in your stomach.”

Danny looks down and sees that yes he does have a knife in him and just didn’t notice it. His only response is something along the lines of “Oh, I liked this hoodie.”

The bats are thinking this kids in shock or something and Danny’s just thinking that now he has a free knife because he’ll be healed in a day or so at most.

Danny’s order number gets called, he gets his food, and he just walks away ghosting the concerned bats.

[cheaphousespending]

Vanish Stain Remover Bar Review

We independently select these products—if you buy from one of our links, we may earn a commission. All prices were accurate at the time of publishing. Ask my mom how to get pretty much anything out of a white shirt and I already know that the answer will be: “Have you put some Vanish on it?” My mom swears by this under-$10 stain remover bar to remove blood, tomato, lily pollen, red wine, baby…

[utterlyotterlyx]

The Fox and The Fawn

High Lord Eris x Rhys!Sister!Reader x Azriel

Part Eight

Summary - Eris and your court grapple with the realisation that you left in order to protect them, whilst in Velaris, it becomes clear that you aren't as clueless as you seem.

Warnings - angst, depression, slight fluff, mentions of wing clipping, manipulation, slightly possessive Eris, unhinged Rhys, soft Az and Cass.

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven

The morning light drifting through the pulled back curtains was the catalyst of Eris' groan, he threw an arm over his face to shield himself from the pale yellow light fluttering through the room, a room that felt off somehow.

Frowning, Eris removed his arm from his face, squinting through his sleep-ridden eyes to peer at the person who was supposed to be curled into his side, head resting on his chest, and palms idly drifting over his skin. No one was there.

Had the night before been a dream?

Had he not basically confessed his love for you whilst you confessed that despite the distance that separated you, that you had knowingly chosen to soothe him Under The Mountain despite your own pain?

Eris tugged on that golden thread in his chest, wincing as it withered back to him, shivering in pain within his soul. Rubbing the spot over his heart, Eris realised that the bond hadn't snapped for you like it should have, like he thought it had.

Throwing the sheets from his frame, Eris' gaze darted about his former chambers, searching for any sign of you. He inhaled deeply, expecting your scent to flood him, but found his heart in his hands when only the faintest of trances of you lingered in the air.

Before Eris could truly lose his mind, he glanced toward the vanity, to where a singed square of parchment lay propped up against a bottle of perfume with his name delicately inscribed on the face.

He didn't need to read it to know what it said, but he had to, he had to see it for himself.

I can't let him hurt you. I'm sorry.

The page had wrinkled and darkened in places, and droplets of your tears stained the parchment in his fingers. The words on the page told him the answer to his previous thought, that the bond hadn't fallen into place for you, which in a way was better, it meant that everything you had felt and admitted was because you wanted it, not because you felt like you had to accept something.

Shuffling sounded from below, a smash of glass and a screech for Nesta, he moved to the noise, quickly fixing his briefs from the night before around his waist, his bare feet padding against the wood as he headed toward the commotion.

He heard Elain's words, he heard her mutter something about her vision, about snow-capped mountains and the dress that had vanished from its place draped over the mirror in your room. Red shrouded his vision like thick mist, his entire soul was threatening to rip itself apart, hating itself for not only letting you get away, but for also for not being able to feel you.

Every single fibre of his essence was searching for you, holding onto any speck of your scent that lingered in the air. He didn't even see Lucien through his haze, he only focused on the one person who knew for certain where you had gone.

Eris knew, but he needed to hear someone else say it.

The fox prowled ahead, fists clenched and eyes low, his molten bronze pools swimming with tamed fury as his soul remembered the touch of your lips against his, how you tasted of midnight skies and honey, it was peaceful. It was perfectly you. Dark but beautiful.

Nesta had frozen in place, the eldest Archeron surprisingly void of any words. Apparently you hadn't told a soul, that much was clear from the shock and hurt on their faces.

“Where is my mate?”

Eris’ palms lay flat against the countertop, the same one where he had held you only hours before, kissing you and telling you how badly he wanted to be worthy of you. It dawned on him that throughout that entire conversation, from your joint confessions to the kiss that confirmed everything he already knew, to sleeping in the same bed, you had already known that you were leaving.

Pain and sadness radiated on Elain’s features, her bottom lids pooled with unshed tears, and she fell back into Lucien who had crossed the room after Eris had brushed past him, “Wait, your mate?” Nesta took a step forward, her eyes growing wider as her mind span with the news.

Eris hummed softly, his eyes still cold and stoic, “I thought it had snapped for her last night, after we spoke, after the kiss,” his gaze softened slightly, “She’s gone back, hasn’t she?”

Nodding, Elain answered, “Yes. In the night,” after Eris had fallen asleep with you wrapped up in his arms, leaving him to wake up alone with a spot beside him void of life.

"Hold up. Your mate? Since when?"

Eris rolled his eyes at Nesta, running his hand over his face, "I think I've always known, but it was Under The Mountain when I accepted it. When she was walking the halls singing to herself," when in actuality you had been singing to him.

None of them could be angry or upset with you, you had done it to protect them, to make sure that they stayed alive and safe, away from any form of war or conflict.

“I can invoke the Blood Duel.”

It wasn’t an act that was taken lightly. The Blood Duel was a rarity, but it was also made for situations just like the one they found themselves in. Rhys thought that you were unmated, it was his main argument of focus, but he had no idea that your mate was itching to tear him apart. Eris could invoke it, and maybe, just maybe, Rhys would have no choice but to honour the bond and set you free before it was too late.

Lucien inhaled sharply, “She wouldn’t want that.”

“I can’t leave her there, Lucien.”

“We won’t,” Nesta moved to stand before the arched window, peering out at the pond which was shimmering in the sunlight, glittering even, “If I know her well, which I do, she wouldn’t have gone back without some kind of plan in place. That woman is the best tactician that Prythian has ever seen.”

“Why wouldn’t she tell us?”

Nesta turned to Elain who was equally as confused, they had left Velaris to follow you blindly, they were devoted to you, “She didn’t want us to get caught up in it,” a guess, but probably true. Nesta turned to Eris, “Don’t invoke the Blood Duel yet. I know it’s not ideal but maybe she knows what she’s doing.”

They could only hope that Rhys’ greed would glamour his senses, “And if she doesn’t?”

Eris couldn’t imagine it, what they’d do to you in that prison of a city. That other part of you had retreated each day, the darkness bowing to the warmth and light of him.

Nesta felt Ataraxia call to her and she flexed her digits in return as if she was holding it, “Then we go to war.”

“It’s for your own good, y/n.”

Rhys was waiting with open arms the moment you had stepped up to where Autumn met Winter, Azriel must have told him of your movements.

Your heart ached in your chest, everything was screaming at you to turn back and find another way, but you had to protect them from the monster stood before you.

The winter chill caused you to shiver, the skirt of your dress tugging you backward, willing you to move away, to go back to where you were safe and loved, “Promise me that you won’t hurt them.”

Smiling, Rhys extended a hand toward you, “If you cross that line, they will be spared.”

“Promise me. Promise me that you won’t hurt them, and if you do, the price will be your life.”

Rhys wasn’t stupid, he knew what you were doing, “I promise,” a familiar burning coiled up your right forearm and you glanced down to see a fresh tattoo inked on your skin, “Now, come.”

A shuddering breath moved through you, you stepped over the threshold into Winter and his hands were on you immediately. They were cold and calloused, there was no softness or love in his touch, just pride to have won.

“I apologise,” you frowned slightly, “I had to take some precautions.” Before you could ask about what he had done, you felt cold rings lock around your wrists and neck, you felt the power evaporate from your body, and you fell to your knees.

Clawing at the collar moulding with your flesh, you whimpered, “What is this?”

“A gift from a friend,” Rhys crouched down to your level, taking your chin on his fingers, “I told you that your power was unnatural, now you can’t use it at all.”

The voices in your mind had wailed, they screamed in protest as the power of the collar consumed them, the air fell still and you felt weak, almost mundane as Rhys’ power pulsed around you, relishing in being the strongest thing to now walk the earth.

“It’s a blessing,” he cooed to you, ignoring the cries coming from your lips, you tried to hook your fingers under it, to rip it off of you, but you had no strength, and the collar was already embedded into your flesh, “We can be happy,” his eyes shimmered and yours dimmed, “No more fighting.”

Drowning. You were drowning and no amount of air that you were gulping down was saving you. You were lifted from the ground and cradled to a cold chest, and all you could do was glance backward at the border, at where Autumn called to you before the world before your eyes vanished in a swirl of colour and you found yourself looking upward at a sky full of stars.

Nothing felt real.

Every step he took filled you with dread, you recognised the incline of the path, you’d know it with your eyes screwed shut. Shuffling entered your ear shot as well as the sound of gasps, you were sure you must have looked tiny in his arms, your face was stained with tears, your skin had gone pale, your eyes had darkened and stared blankly downward to your hands bundled in your lap.

Black veins snaked from the stone cuffs melted into your wrists, angry and poisonous, devouring you with each passing moment.

“Az. Take her will you?”

The room stiffened, but the Shadowsinger moved to you, he slid you from Rhys’ grip and held you delicately. The change of your scent was undeniable, and Azriel was sure that Rhys commanded that he take you so that he didn’t have to smell Eris for one moment longer than he had to.

Velaris could do nothing to soothe you, the looming mountains could only watch sadly as Azriel carried you to your room at the River House, the stars blinkered away entirely at the solemn atmosphere that coated the city in your silent fury. The princess had returned, but she was powerless, a lone bunny stalked by wolves.

Cedar used to be your favourite smell, but all it did was make your stomach churn and twist in agony, everything inside of you wanted that scent to be one of pine and cinnamon, they wanted it to belong to the person who had never been afraid of you even when you had given him every reason to be.

The knots in your shoulders writhed, your scars screamed as your power depleted, but you couldn’t bare to soothe it, it was the only thing you could feel aside from nothing.

“It’s alright, y/n. Everything is going to be okay,” Azriel kicked your door open as softly as he could, and his heart shattered into a million pieces when a single look inside sent you struggling against his embrace.

Nothing had changed, it looked the exact same as it had the night you had left, like it was waiting to you.

“Please, don’t do this. Take me back to him. Please.”

You knew that he couldn’t defy Rhys so openly, so foolishly. Azriel set you down on the comforter and knelt before you, his fingers drifted along the edge of the black stone collar, where the stone met the newly marred flesh beneath it, “I didn’t know that he was going to do this, I swear.”

So that explained the gasps. It wasn’t due to just seeing you in the flesh again, it was because of the collar and cuffs burnt into your skin. None of them knew of what Rhys had planned to do, that being to drain the life from you bit by bit, starting with your power, until you bent to his will and became his submissive monster.

Hazel connected with your own, and Azriel saw nothing but a wilting rose inside of you, broken with no chance of springing back to full bloom. Sat before him was a shell of the woman he used to know, and he had dealt a hand in your state, contributed to it, and it disgusted him.

“Get away from me,” your words struck him like Truthteller had become lodged in his heart, you had never asked Azriel to go away, you had always welcomed him with open arms and soothing words.

But the captured animal in front of him wasn’t y/n anymore, it was the frightened creature that Rhys had plucked from the forest and condemned to a life of solitude.

“Please, y/n-“

“Don’t say my name,” your eyes welled, “You don’t ever get to say my name. You’re not him, you don’t get to call me that.”

Hold on.

A shudder flew up your spine, the first bit of comfort you had experienced in what felt like a millennia, “Get out.”

Sighing, Azriel rose to his feet, he knew that there was no consoling you, no words that he could muster to make the situation better. As soon as Azriel left the room, closing the door with a soundless click, you found yourself staring out of the window at the stars that used to lull you to sleep but were now glowering in warning.

The valley sang with golden light, it drifted along the streets where childish laughter blossomed, it should have been comforting, but nothing about the moment was good. Nothing about Velaris felt safe. Gone were the days where you would stroll along the Sidra with Azriel by your side, gone were the days of harmony.

Hugging your knees to your chest, your mind floated elsewhere, wondering how Nesta, Elain, and Lucien would react once they realised that you had left. How hurt they would be by your abandonment. And Eris, you were sure that he would be feeling the worst out of them all, wondering why his words and admissions weren't able to convince you to stay.

All that mattered was that they were safe, protected by the bargain inked upon your flesh.

The reflection in the window wasn't of anyone that you recognised, she was pale, her eyes a shade of almost onyx bar the circle of wildfire in the irises, black veins protruded from the collar embedded into the flesh of her neck, her hair was loosely strewn over her shoulder. The life had been sucked from her soul and she had been left empty.

"Don't think about it," a shaky whisper racked through your body and you hugged yourself tighter. You couldn't allow yourself to crumble at the pain and grief, "You can do this. They're safe. You can do this, for them."

For Eris and the Autumn Court, for your friends, for the continent, you could confine yourself to Velaris if it meant sparing them all.

Time passed, time where the world beyond the window darkened and the golden hue of the valley evaporated into the night air, and it was during that time when another soul deemed itself worthy enough to find you.

You didn't feel him at first, for you were too dumb to feel anything, all of your fae senses had depleted, you couldn't feel anything. It was as though Rhys had locked you in a prison of darkness, where no feeling resided, where there was no knowing of who was coming to see you or what was coming next. A prison of solitude that even the fire couldn't touch.

Cassian sucked in a harsh beath as he stepped into the room, the entire space was freezing, soft whisps of air flew from your lips, and you shivered on the bed as you held yourself tightly in your arms. The Lord of Bloodshed crossed the room, perching on the edge of the bed, wincing when you angled your body away from him.

In that moment, Cassian knew that Rhys had lost his gods damned mind.

"I'm sorry," he wasn't looking to you, no, he was peering out of the window, wondering at what point life had gotten so fucked up. Anger bubbled inside of him as the stone collar around your neck sang with the power it had trapped inside of it. A monumental act that proved exactly how far Rhys would go to contain you.

"Is this how it's going to go? Rhys sends you in one by one to apologise, do you think that's going to wash away everything that's happened?"

Heavy eyelids greeted him just as the scent of you mixed with another had the moment he had stepped foot into the room. "Rhys doesn't know that I'm here."

Interest piqued, you glanced to him, noting the slouch in his shoulders, the messily thrown together low bun on his head, how his wings drooped lower than they had before, you noted the paled hue to his skin and how he sat with his elbows resting on his knees and staring at the floor, "Nesta misses you. She says she doesn't but I know that she does."

"Is she alright?"

"She's safe. I made sure of that."

Unlike you, you seemed to say, and your eyes confirmed the message.

"If it helps, none of us knew that Rhys was going to do this. Feyre is horrified."

"It doesn't help me at all actually, but thank you for wasting your breath."

It was astounding how a voice could be so vacant, like the last of the autumn breeze before the winter pierced through it. Cassian wanted to know more, he wanted you to tell him about Nesta, about everything you had found, but he knew that you wouldn't tell him, because you no longer trusted him or saw him as anything but one of your captors.

"Did you know that he threatened to kill her? All of them?"

A low growl emitted from him, "He told me of the others," and left out the threat on his own mates life, "That's why you came back. To protect them from him."

"When are you going to realise that the real monster is the one that lurks under your own roof and not the one who ran away to be free of it?"

The silence was enough, Cassian wasn't blind to the information, his hard gaze softened and he tentatively placed a hand on yours, his rough fingers coiling around trembling bone. You wouldn't survive whatever Rhys had planned for you, you were going to die in Velaris and Cassian would have to stand there as Rhys explained to the world how the darkness had consumed you.

It would be Cassian who would have to stand across from his mate and the people you had come to recognise as your true family whilst Rhys told them of your demise. He could see their faces in the forefront of his mind.

"I think I already am," no one could deny how the ways of the Night Court had shifted since you had chosen to leave. Rhys had become a feral beast prowling in the night on his hind legs, obsessing over the thing that had run away from him. "I'll find a way to get you out of this."

Cassian rose from his perch without another word, his calloused fingers slid from your own, and he left. Silence fell on you, but you looked back to the reflection in the window, to the woman that was undeniably you, and smirked.

Playing too many games might get you in trouble, Fawn.

Rising from the comforter, you drifted over to the glass, lifting the latch and opening it a few inches, allowing the songs of crickets and rippling waters to flow to you.

The rich tone of the voice made you shudder, and you could have sobbed at the sound, at how close it felt to the shell of your ear, so close that the ghost of his breath fanned over your shoulder.

I wondered how long it was going to take you to figure it out.

You could hear his smirk through his words, Nesta. A pause. Are you alright?

Swallowing hard, you replied, I'm holding on.

You're not going to tell me what he's done, are you?

No.

The stone of the collar shone in the moonlight, the shrillness of the night air brushed along it and cowered at the ward placed on its surface.

Has he hurt you?

Finding your reflection, you exhaled shakily, struggling to find the mask you had become so accustomed to wearing, Yes.

The place that you had folded Eris into began to unwind, Y/N.

I can do this, Eris. I can survive one last performance.

Eris was no doubt pacing the length of his bedroom, hair wild and eyes simmering with leashed violence. It was a blessing that Rhys was clueless to the carranam bond between you and Eris, a bond that not even his collars could touch or absorb, it was other-worldly and transcendent, something moulded to your very soul, not your power.

Pushing the rumbling pain back inside of you, channelling it to be something much more monstrous, you felt the talons of your other mind rise from the well inside of you, water sloshing over the edges and flowing through your veins like a disease.

It was the only way to do what you needed to do, what had been so masterfully done before. The mask settled onto your features and you rolled your shoulders, welcoming the monster back to the forefront of your essence, grinning at the demon that had come to say hello once again.

The kindred spirit. The one who pitied you enough to instead harmonise with you rather than take over entirely. The one who gave her power to you to wield, who was now shaking angrily inside of you by the mere act of having such power stripped away.

You have set the stage so well, my pure thing. The talons scraped against your mind, breaking through the cracks and seeping into the emptiness inside of you. Let me take it from here, let me tuck you away into the brightest part of us where no one can hurt you.

Did they really believe that you had no idea what Amarantha had done to you all those years ago Under The Mountain?

It had been your greatest kept secret.

Smiling, you let the Queen take control, you let her guide you to the warmest place of you, where the people you loved most rested and you watched on as a bystander as she got to work.

The monster wasn't just you and never had been. You shared your body and consciousness with a queen of sorts, a demon contained in a small onyx stone that had been sewn into you whilst your body had tried to heal itself from the clipping of your wings. And instead of taking over completely like it should have, instead of devouring you, the demon sought to mould with you, it sought to become one with you, and you had let it.

And all you could do was hope that there would be enough of you left to bring back once you were both done.

Authors Note

Also realised that I really need to update my master list oops xo

Enjoy! Love you all 🫶🏻

Taglist

@mybestfriendmademe @jesskidding3 @rosewood-cafe @fandomarchiveilyd @brujitafantomatico @crazylokonugget @mai-adaptive-dreams@magicstrengthandcourage @acourtofmoonlightandstars @ysmttty @lilah-asteria @circe143 @xyzmeh @paleidiot @namelesssav @amberlynn98 @acourtofbatboydreams @azrielsmate3 @ivy-34 @mp-littlebit @honeysuckle-daydreams13 @ifonlyiwerefiction @pirana10 @donttellthecats @padbaeamidla @oucereeng @andreperez11 @demonicbusiness @megscabinetofcurios @superspideyparker @usernamesarelies

[temporaryrose200]

✩Just A Little Accident✩

✟pairing: Yan Claude X Fem Reader

✟genre: Yandere

✟warning: Yandere, mention of murder, reader being drugged.

✟one-short

✟fandom: Who Made Me A Princess

✟summary: After your maid spilled tea all over your lap, Claude knew she had gone…

✟a/n: This I meant to be a side story. Check out my other Yan Claude for this story to make sense if you haven’t. Also sorry I haven't been updated much but a lot has been going on. Going to try and update now.

Hissing in pain as the boiling liquid spilt all over your lap and in the process staining your dress. In the pain, you drop your cup and it landed on the soft glass, breaking its fall “I am so sorry my lady!” Annie your maid exclaimed, snatching up a nearby napkin and tried to remove the stain. Keyword, tried. All the maid was doing was making it worse.

Claude who was sat beside you, watching intensely, glaring dagger at the poor worker. The murderous glint in his diamond eyes sent chills down everyone including yours if you had noticed. You were much more occupied with Annie and the burning pain to even notice the emperor. Oh how Claude wanted to strangle that maid for putting her dirty hands on you, even worse hurt your fragile skin. The woman was a nuisance in the eyes of the emperor, a clumsy and idiotic person to be assigned to serve someone as graceful and perfect as you. The maid needed to go…

Placing a gloved hand over Annie’s hand, you gave the woman a reassuring smile. “If you keep rubbing it in like that, it’s just going to make it worse” you spoke softly. Eyes focusing on the large stain, you noticed how the woman began tearing up. Before you could get a single word out to calm her, apology after apology began spilling from her lips. She bowed her head in shame and her voice trembled. With a sigh, you stood up from your seat, placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and gently patted it. “I’m fine, calm yourself Annie,” You said, trying to soothe her, but she remained in her apologetic bow, her hands balled into fists and still trembling like leaf. “I’m going to just go change” you explained to the teary-eyed maid. Turning towards Claude you saw the murderous glare focused towards the maid and you felt something deep within you, telling, no yelling at you to stay. But of course, you didn’t listen. “I’ll only be 10 minutes” you timidly told the emperor. Eyes landed on you, the deathly glare that the emperor held had now vanished and had been replaced with a soft loving gaze. It made you sick.

Picking up your cream-coloured dress, you began walking towards the palace leaving poor Annie all alone with Claude. Diamond blue eyes watched you, his gaze not leaving your figure until you were out of sight. Now that his lover had gone, there’s no one to stop him for what he’s about to do next. Placing the half-empty tea cup on the garden table, Claude stood up with a dead expression. He towered over the quivering woman, who knew her life was soon about to end. The only witness to horrid scenes was a young guard, who just stood there watching.

Coming back with a freshly clean dress, you were about to open your mouth to tell Annie a funny story to cheer her up, but when you saw no sign of the maid, you were left confused. E/C eyes darted around the garden, searching for the missing maid. ‘Where is she?’ You question to yourself. “My dear, what seems to be the matter?” a familiar voice asked, pulling you out of your thoughts. Claude sat there, sipping away at his chamomile tea, he held this sickening smirk which was hidden under his cup. Stepping towards the garden table, you griped the top of your seat, feeling uneasy at the missing maid. You had an extremely bad feeling. You questioned to your fiancé to where your maid had gone off to, but there was silence after that. No excuse came from his lips.

It wasn't until you looked over at the other side of the table, a guard. He’s been here all along, maybe he might know! Opening your mouth, you stopped yourself as you finally noticed the frightened expression painted on the young guard’s face. The colour had drained from his face, his eyes widened with fear, his hand gripping tightly at the hilt of his sword, and his breathing unsteady. And that was all you needed to know and the whereabouts of Annie.

Your blood ran cold, you felt yourself shaking like a leaf. A million scenarios ran through your mind at what kind of horrible things Claude had done to her. Falling to the fall, hands covering your face, you sob. Not caring that you were ruining your makeup. The sound of the chair hitting the grass, signalled to you that Claude had gotten up from his seat. Feeling him wrap his strong arms around you, pulling you into a hug. You screamed, kicked and struggled for the blonde to let go of you, yelling insults left and right. “WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER, YOU BASTARD!? TELL ME!”

Out of nowhere, you felt a piece of cloth be placed over your mouth and noises quickly shutting you up. You breathed in the fumes, feeling your eyelids began closing on their own. To struggled to gain consciousness, but it was futile. The drug was too strong. Before slipping into unconscious you heard Claude’s voice echo in your mind. “You are mine understand. I will not let anyone hurt what is mine, only I can.”

Oh [Name], what did you do wrong to this story…

[myladysapphire]

His Sapphire Princess (VIII)

After the night in the brothel Rhaenyra is married to Laenor Velayron to protect the birth of her child. who in the years to follow is the only one of Rhaenyra's children that is believed to be his, she is loved by all in the red keep, even queen Alicent adores the girl, so when Rhaenyra proposes a marriage between Aemond and Rhaenyra's daughter Visenya, Alicent happily agrees.

The children having been best friends in their youths are more than happy to be wed but when the incident at drift mark occurs things change, will it be for better or worse?

word count: 1,385

CW: angst

Fem!oc x Aemond Targeryen (can be read as x reader)

Masterlist | series masterlist | previous part | next part

disclaimer:  i do not own any of claim any of the A song of ice and  fire characters, all rights belong to GRR MARTIN, all characters are his except for my OC

a/n its been so long since i last wrote this, i had honeslty completey forgotton about all of my fics, i do hope the writting isnt too different and that you all enjoy! sorry its short!

Also the ages of the characters as i myself keep getting confused (and i've changed some of the ages a little): Visenya - 17, Aemond - 18, Jace - 14, Luke - 11, Aegon - 20 , Heleana - 19

Kingslanding

Visenya

With her mother being the heir, she had expected a much grander greeting. She pictured a courtyard full of eager lords and ladies, eager to see her mother after years away from court. And yet as her mother stepped out of the carriage the courtyard was barren; the few lords and ladies that were there seemed shocked and unaware of our arrival. It was clear the once welcoming feeling had gone with them when they had left for Dragonstone. 

Their greeting party solely consisted of lord Beesbury, seemingly the only council member still loyal to her mother, it even seemed that the keep itself was not what was for their return as shown by the replacement of Valyrian symbols with symbols of the seven. The home she, her brothers and parents knew was long gone, and the short years they had been away had changed the keep and people greatly.  The Hightowers had easily asserted themselves into power, and it was clear that they now ruled, perhaps in her grandsires stead. With the court laced with green gowns, and the higher necklines that Alicent seemed to adore, all influecne her mother had had been removed or hidden away. 

Not that it was surprising, as most who were loyal to her mother had too moved to dragonstone alongside them. It seemed Daemon was right about the red keep becoming a viper pit, full of hightower loyalsits. 

She had quickly left her family to go find Heleana, in hopes to see nothing had changed between them, though they exchanged letters, though less so since the birth of the twins, the letters she received now were filled with rhymes and poems in them, a part of her feared her dreams had become to strong and overtaken her. 

She knew all about Aeogns life, a little of their children, it appeared Aegon was the only one keen to keep her updated on anything in the keep and seemed eager to answer her letters, though they were mostly stained in wine and gods know what else. 

But it seemed that in her years away from kingslanding the halls had turned themselves into a labyrinth, the muscle memory of walking throughout the castel had vanished, and she was left a wandering mess. 

Though she had eventually heard the clashing of swords, orienting herself somewhat, as she realsied she was about to approach the training yard.

She first saw her brothers, watching the duel in awe, enough awe to capture her own attention and move her sights to said duel. 

Aemond.

He had grown into what she could only describe as a Valyrian god. With his long silver hair and sharp features, he was even more handsome than she imagined,  

and even more talented with a sword than she would have expected. 

He moved with such grace and finesse it was hard to predict his next move, nor his thinking behind them. Perhaps he was just used to ser criston having a sparring partner, but the way Aemond moved to defeat him could only be described, at least the Visenya was…hot.  His movements were a dance, as was the way his face light when we one, even more so when he saw her brothers. The smirk he wore could not be mistaken as welcoming if anything it was menacing, but also gleeful that her brothers, that lucerys the boy who took his eye, could see the man he had grown into.

she also smirked to herself, proud of him in some possessive way. Even more proud when his face went from gleeful spite to its own form of possession at the sight of her.

They had not seen each in years, ever since that fateful night of his thirteenth name day. 

And it was clear he had missed her, clear as he quickly stopped taunting her brothers with the offer to duel to move towards her, as if she was the very oxygen he needed to breathe.

And yet, she made no effort to move towards him. Despite the want and longing to see him again, the desire to be with him and now seeing him in his entirty, all she felt was hurt, abandonment and pain.

Visenya had never felt more alone than when she returned from Winterfell to Dragonstone. With only the letters form Cregan and Aegon as company. The only scrapes she would see of Aemonds life were Aegons complaints at him spending too much time with a sword or book, and when he was not with them he was with Vhagar.

Though she had had her family on dragonstone she always felt like an outsider. As if she was watching them love and be loved and she was simply an audience member, watching from the outside.

Hells her mother had treated her that way since Jace was born. 

But with Ameond he never made her feel like an outsider. And so too loose contact with the one person who made you feel truley seen, well it felt like she was dying. Drowning with no one to pull her back up to the surface.

And yet he looks at her and all of a sudden she is finally being pulled free and her life is hers again.

But she can’t help but still feel abandoned. Why did it take her coming to kings landing, for their wedding, to finally be seen once more.

“My bethrothed” He proclaimed, the smug expression once again returning to his face. “Have you come to see me defeat your brothers?” he questioned, sending Jace and Luke a taunting glare. 

Finally moving into the training yard, making sure to sway her skirts as she went, she proclaimed “I have not, bethrothed” she then smirked looking over to Jace “ i do not wish my bethrothed to be so humiliated as to befeated by his bride's baby brother” she sent him a glare. A glare she hoped was filled with  years of hurt and anger to him.

He laughed “oh Princess, i do not know if you understate me or seriously overestimate your dear brothers abilities”

she shrugged, a look of nonchalant crossing her face, “i do not care which, then again i do not care much to see the outcome of such a duel” 

She was sure she heard her brothers say something but neither her nor Aemond acknowledged it, their eyes and ears only focusing on one thing.

Eachother.

“Then why grace us with your presence if you do not wish bto be so thoroughly entertained?” he questioned, his smile remaining taunting.

“Am i not allowed to wonder where i please, in my own home?” she snapped.

“my my, back for a few hours and we are already calling it home, have you missed me so truly betrothed?” he questiond.

“what was there to miss? with no letters or name days gifts to remember you by, oh i could even argue i forgot you, especially with all the bids for my hand i have received since our bethrothal” she smirked

Aemonds eye turned visicous, his smile flattering. His eye too began to show the hurt that she hoped her eyes portrayed.

He stepped forward, his sword taken from him and placed on the rack. His full focus moved away from the tauting he thought to be fun and games, and now stood and looked almost worried, and all too serious.

“forgotten?” he whispered, “ I am truly that forgettable my dear Visneya?”  His voice was quieter, more hurt, and spoken so sofltley it was clear their conversation should be held under more private cirmunsatnces. 

“i-“ she  could not say it, not now, she frankly didn’t even want to think about it. To be so vulnerable, especially when she knew he wasn’t the same Aemond she had first been bethtothed to, that she had grown alongside. 

Luckily Jace inruptupted the two, eager to end what was begining. “Sister,” she said, grabbing her arm, “we should go to our chambers and settle in, should we not?” he spoke, his eyes begging to leave.

She turned to look at Luke, he looked on the verge of tears almost, worried that at any moment Aemond might snap and steal his eye in an act of revenge. 

She nodded, grabbing his arm, and sending one last look to Aemond.

next part

Taglist (bold means could not tag)

@cathy1514 @iiamthehybrid @melllinaa @aleemendoza2425-blog @cassandra1995-blog1 @deltamoon666 @aelora-a @ryiana @isa-beenme @unique7676 @adriennepoison @idontknow12346hello @taragryenmoony @blossomedflowerofluv @violet-potter @flrboyd @theanxietyqueen17 @zillahvathek @dark-night-sky-99 @apollonshootafar @leavesmealobe

to be added to taglist

[florvaine]

lost comfort and found familiarity.

Escaping the prison was a mess, and Carl is devastated when he can only find his girlfriends red jacket, but not her. (afab! reader)

genre: heavy angst to fluff

warnings: death, blood, gore, panic/anxiety attack, !carls’ SA scene!, kissing.

-— DREAD BEGAN TO FILL THE PIT OF CARL’S STOMACH WHEN THE HEAVY REALISATION SET IN. That realisation was that the prison was overrun, the Governor and his goons having broken down the wired fencing with a tank and brought in dozens upon dozens of brain-deteriorated, famished walkers into the previously safe confines of the prison.

They had killed Hershel in cold blood using Michonne's katana, leaving his severed head to pool a red sheen on the grass. Somewhere in the time of his beheading bullets began to ring out around the borders of the prison.

Cars, trucks and military-grade vehicles began to fill the courtyard, Rick and the Governor are beating each other bloody with their bare hands by the overturned bus.

“Holy shit.” He hears you say, and once he looks to his left to find you, his heart hurts a little more.

You’re typically comforting smile has vanished like the peace had just a few hours ago, instead pulled in an open-mouthed look of pure shock and horror. Your eyes are blown wide, brimming with a small collection of tears. There’s dust and debris flying everywhere, staining your cheeks. A shotgun is tight in your grip, ammo stacked in your pockets and an army knife clinging on your belt.

He’s only ever seen you this devastated when the farm got set up in flames, and when you had been told that your brother had been bit.

Carl gulps, pulling you closer to him via the strong grip he has on your hand. Both of your palms are sweaty, but it was barely even registered as the tank that the Governor had hijacked shot another bomb into the crumbling, brick walls of the prison.

“We gotta go!” He says, running in the opposite direction of the explosion. You follow behind him, still holding his hand as an anchor to keep you aware of reality.

Your eyes drift around the series of events around you. The obliteration of your home, the snapping jaws of the decaying walkers that drooled and reached to take a chunk of flesh from either of your bodies. Bullets rain hell on everything that moves, sparks of orange and yellow shining from all directions, the scent of blood, gunpowder and dust is heavy as it clings to your clothes and hair.

You stumble, tugging on Carl's hand, "We have to get your Dad!" You point to where Michonne is helping him up, and the blue-eyed boy falters.

A loud bang followed by the sound of debris hitting the floor, a flash of heat passed over each of your skins. Between the flash, he sees his dad covered in splatters of blood, bruises and cuts stumbling towards a break in the metal fence.

Every sense in his body is muddled, an annoying, high-pitched ring in his ears makes his clammy hands raise upwards to press against them, sounds muffled as dust coats his tongue like thick, chalky medicine. His eyes flutter as the light passes, debris clinging to his lashes and dirtying his freckled face. Carl sniffs, his head turning around rapidly to see you again.

Except you were gone.

Just like the flash of orange light and thermal blast, you had seemingly dissipated into thin air. His first reaction is panic, in a form that roots his body into the concrete floor at the thought of you being hit by the bomb, therefore disintegrating instantly.

Carl feels sick to his stomach and he removes his hands from his ears, picking up his gun that clattered to the ground and spinning in circles to catch even a glimpse of you.

"Y/n?" He shouts even if his throat was aching from the particles in the muggy air.

There's no response, "Y/n!" He calls out with more urgency, his feet moving quick against the ground as another round of bullets pass beside him.

The shaggy, brown-haired teen dashes through a gap between the cell blocks, keeping as low as he could whilst running, pressing the sheriff's hat his father gave him just a few days prior against him skull.

Then everything stops. It's practically silent if you ignore the echoes of the snarling walkers that invaded the space. His eyes brim with salty tears, scrambling to pick up a too familiar red cloth discarded on the floor.

His heart is put on pause for a few seconds as he kneels down to claw at the jacket. Your favourite jacket. Bright red stained with black smudges and bloody hand smears, an open hole passes cleanly through both sides of the left sleeve, encircled in a deeper scarlet that dripped in a sickening curve of an open wound.

Time passes slowly, as if God himself was providing him time to grieve. You had slipped through the cracks of his callousing hands, the blood trapped under his fingernails suddenly more obvious as he scratched at the drying liquid on the jacket. His heart hurts. So does his head, a throbbing pulse that matched the pants and trembling breaths that exited his chapped lips. His body washes out any adrenaline or happy emotion an refills it with dread and mourning.

He feels like crying. Sobbing, screaming your name until his lungs collapsed and his throat was raw. Vocal cords torn, shattered like his heart that would no longer beat with the same life he had with you. His thoughts turned from joyous hope of a future with you and Judith outside the crackling prison to disbelieving hurt at the realisation you were not near him anymore.

With no body, their could be no funeral. Nobody in the limited black attire they collected throughout their time in the apocalypse. With no grave to bury you under, you could not rest.

But without a funeral or a tattered corpse of your being, Carl refused to believe you were dead.

The sound of bullets restart his heart again like a defibrillator, and he's back in the moment. There's shots in the courtyard, the boy scrambles up, clinging onto your jacket with harsh breathing.

There's two walkers further along the cell block. Carl ties the jacket around his waist. Rage slowly drips into the building acceptance in his mind, and the shotgun that he held previously was snagged up off the floor.

The gun is raised, aimed perfectly for the decaying heads of what used to be morally guided people. His breathing picks up slightly.

One shot rings out, bullet shells hitting the ground. Chunks of skin, bone and rotting organs spills over the floor and the walker hits the ground with a dull thud. He steps over the remains with what could only be described as a bitter mixture of anger and sadness on his face.

The second shot is fired, and the first victim is joined by the other. A mess of liquid ruby changes the grey hue of the floor, the sound of blood spilling like tossed water would usually sicken him.

His gaze drifts towards the bodies, and he is repulsed at the image of you, your hair splayed against the concrete and your eyes wide open yet unseeing, glossed over in grey as your plump lips turn blue, skin cold. Your chest does not rise. You are still, graceful and dead.

He blinks, and yet again you were gone. Carl looks up from the meaningless corpses.

His own dad looks back at him.

"Carl," It doesn't sound like him, there's a hint of liquid that gurgled in his throat as he spoke, and Rick gulps it down. He's breathing heavily. A collection of red patches adorn his beaten face, curls from his hair and stubbly beard pressed against the sweat gathered on his skin.

The two of them limp away from the remains of the prison, trauma and sorrow tossing and churning in their minds and stomachs. They had lost not only you, but Judith as well.

One of the only memories of his mother that he had. And the only hope that Rick had of raising one of his children without any fear even in the apocalypse.

That night the two of them exchanged no words.

-—-

1 month, 27 days and 17 hours.

That's how long it had been since Carl had last heard your voice. Him, Rick and now Michonne occupy a two story house in a leafy road surrounded by woods. They visit the neighbouring homes further down, once he even found a 112 ounces worth of chocolate pudding, and ate it in one sitting. Alone.

The words 'alone' has never been in the forefront of his mind this much before. He wonders if you would've enjoyed the pudding with him, or comforted him on his worst nights as his dad slept on the sofa barricading the front door. Maybe you would've stopped him shouting at his unconscious body.

He was terrified, that night. Because the sleeping body of his dad would sometimes look like you - except there's a bite on your shoulder and a bullet wound punctured between your closed eyes.

Now there was no resting body on the sofa as his dad was awake, alive and moving whilst Michonne helps the two of them work with their slightly tense familial relationship.

Sometimes he'd get bombarded with questions about you. He'd still answer with one phrase.

"She's alive."

The same tone, the same memory starting to form before his ocean eyes whenever he blinked. After a while it went from being a quivering statement of hope to an exclamation of law.

Every time you were brought up negativily, it ended in him storming out of the house and sleeping in a different one for the night, and coming back in the morning to his anxious dad who was very close to vomiting and a worried Michonne.

Carl knew you wouldn't just leave or give in that easily. It wasn't in your blood that stained the jacket he kept folded upstairs in one of the rooms.

He had washed it, any trace of what happened at the prison left in a stream of water; the hole from your bullet wound was sewn together as best as he could. No more smudges of soot and crumbling brick smeared down the hood and arms, no more scarlet hand prints that grabbed and tainted your clothing.

Carl had one mission that he would complete - he had to complete it before anything else.

And you were going to get your jacket back - alive.

-—-

Terminus was a horrible idea. It had been advertised as a safe haven for anyone in need of it, offering sickingly sweet luxuries that no other place had before.

Who knew it was run by cannibals that captured, disarmed and intended to eventually eat them? Not Carl, that's for sure.

They had barely escaped with their lives, and Carl could only wonder how many more times he could dodge death until it inevitably caught up with him.

But in the back of his mind, he knew he would avoid it for as long as he possibly could, because if he kicked the bucket then he wouldn’t see you again.

At least they found everyone else - including Judith. That was one miracle that Carl dreamed of, and it was accepted, so the last one was you.

Many nights and days he had spent wondering where you were, if you were thinking about him too, some other days passed with tears and muffled screams of your name; those days he’d be comforted by the tight arms of his dad or Michonne wrapped around him.

Carl would sometimes have nightmares of that grimey, old man that pinned him against the floor, Michonne and Rick having to see him at his most vulnerable in that moment. That was the one time he was grateful you weren’t there. Not because he didn’t want you to see him so shattered and broken, no.

He knew that whatever was going to happen to him, would happen to you too. And with the predator pinning him down, the company of his equally as vile creatures that held Michonne and Rick as captives. Nobody would be able to save you in time.

Part of his innocence was picked up and snapped that night. He fell asleep with your jacket over his torso, and he let his quivering frame curl into yours.

He wanted to see you again, in real life. Not a part of the fractured, twisted part of his imagination. He wished to hold you close against him, kiss you under the stars like you had done too many days ago. Everything Carl found that he thought you’d like was in a small pouch at the bottom on his bag.

A thin-chained necklace, a gossip magazine, a comic book. A small heart shaped rock that he had found. Most importantly, your jacket.

Carl was intelligent, observant. He could tell everyone had already grieved for you, mentioned your name in speeches of motivation saying ‘do it for her’. He hated it.

Another argument happened whilst they were all moving down the abandoned road, towards a new hope of life.

-—-

His father brought you up again when he saw Carl wearing your jacket. They had stopped for a break, sitting in the middle of the road whilst Daryl went hunting for anything they could eat.

“Carl,” He spoke, voice slow and gentle as if he was a ticking time bomb, “I think it’s time you let go of her jacket.”

Everyone’s eyes moved from his father to his son, eyes slightly widened and mouths clamped shut. The air becomes tense as the blue-eyed teen looks up at his father through the corner of his eyes.

Carl swipes his tongue over his lips, “Why’s that?” He spoke, Judith coo’s in his arms, pulling at the strings that tightened the hood.

Rick adjusts his stance, placing his hands on his hips and thinking of what to say to his son. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he speaks.

“I just think, well we just think that,” The curly-haired dad gestures to everyone with one hand, “It’s time to let go, son.”

Carl lifts his head fully, eyebrows knitted together in scrutising disbelief, “You all think she’s dead?” His tone is harsh, accusing and targeted to pierce their racing hearts.

Everyone knew that the mention of you being dead was something that the boy didn’t agree with. Stubborn as ever, Carl points his gaze towards his dad. His gaze as sharp as daggers and Rick knows hes in for the long run.

“She disappeared, Carl. We can only guess what happened to her.”

Carl hands Judith to Carol next to him and she takes her without looking at the boy, “You can guess, but I’m not guessing. I know she’s alive.”

“She’s got lost, nobody saw where she went. She’s alone.” Rick argued, his voice louder.

“She has a gun and a knife!” Carl replies, shouting over his father. Michonne stands up and removes her gun from her holster, as did Abraham and Tara when a branch snaps behind the wooded trees.

Daryl shows himself, empty handed. Everyone internally groans, but they give him a look to tell him to be quiet and point at the arguing boys.

Rick places his hands on his sons shoulder, looking down on him, “People have still died with a gun, kid.”

Carl pushes his dad away from him, face contorting into pure anger and vemon lacing his features, “Don’t touch me.”

“I’m just tellin’ you the truth, Carl.” Rick points at him, eyebrows raised and his voice returning to the soft, almost patronising tone from before.

“But it’s not the truth!” Carl argues, his anger put into lashing out against his own blood, “She’s alive, I know it! I see her, Dad!”

Michonne places a hand on Rick’s shoulder when she hears him sigh and prepare himself, “Don’t-”

“She’s dead! Trust me. She. Is. Dead. If you’re seeing her like I see your mother, then she is not alive anymore!”

It goes silent, a few birds fly overhead with calls of their scratchy language. Even in the open surrounded by trees it has never felt more claustrophobic than ever for the Grimes family.

Carl stiffens at the mention of his mother, the woman that birthed and nutured him through his pre-teen years. The woman he eventually ended up killing.

Rick takes his silence as an opportunity, “Let her go, Carl. That’s my only advice.”

Tears form in his lashline as he stares back at him dad, and the sheriff’s hat against his head has never felt more heavy than in this moment.

“But everyone saw Mum’s body.”

Rick has never turned around quicker than in that moment. The mention of his lovers lifeless body, deep cut in her lower stomach flashes under the glaze in his eyes and Rick swears he can see a white dress move through the treeline.

Carl continues, “We saw Mum’s body,” His voice trembles and he sniffs, “I knew she was dead more than anyone else here.”

It’s deathly silent. Everyone knows what he’s referring to, and everyone is scared shitless to say anything to either of them. Rick takes a deep breath, but doesn’t speak.

A droplet rolls down Carl’s pale cheek, and he looks down to ensure no one saw him wipe it away, “We haven’t seen hers. Until we see her body, I’m keeping her jacket. But when we find her, she’s gonna have it back.”

Rick only nods lightly, picking up the supplies he agreed to carry.

Nobody makes any objections to continuing to move further up the road - towards Alexandria.

-—-

You have never felt so close before. Yes, they were extremely suspicious and afraid of Aaron and his husband, Eric. Having been tricked into a cannibal house just a week ago does that to a group of people.

But walking up yet another road, littered with lifeless corpses of walkers with bullets making their brains paint the pavement. Carl knows only one thing.

He has never been this sure that he was going to find you.

Aaron is rattling on about what facilities they had. Running water, heating, electricity. Promises of necessaries they haven’t heard of for years now.

His dad is on edge, not particularly fond of the idea, but he knew that everyone was so tired and burnt out that they needed just the idea of a safe place to be just to bring more motivation to themselves.

So far, Aaron’s words of a 15 foot, metal wall that bordered Alexandria and protected the insiders was true, and Carl begins to feel more energetic and hopeful than before.

Carol notices this, and questions the boy, “What’s up, Carl?” She looks at him, and he looks back.

“She’s here, I know it.” He replies and then looks forward again, walking ahead of her.

Carol furrows her brows and decides to take harder and longer looks at the walkers on the floor.

The group arrive at the large, metal gate. The journey felt like hours for each of them, but extra long for Carl. He was antsy, and fully compliant to anything any of them told them to do. If Aaron or Eric told them to stop, he would. If they told him to go find a bird, kill it and bring it back, he would.

The gates finally screech open, Carl feels as if his heart is going to burst open. An alarm sounds in the back of his head but not one of worry, but one of intuition that told him she was here.

He looked into the gated community as the gate opened fully, and felt alienated as soon as he entered with his group. They were dirty, hair knotty and unclean against the pristine and organised residents of Alexandria.

People poke their heads out of houses and stare, smiling or looking upon them with apathy. Every face Carl doesn’t recognise.

They get told to hand over their weapons. Their refusal is argued, and eventually they give in. It’s hesitated and unsettling seeing all their guns and knifes piled onto a trolley.

Carl is the second to last person to place anything on the trolley, his handgun is held in his hands tightly as he walks over to the collection, placing it down and reaching for his knife-

“Carl?”

It’s a voice further along the pathway into Alexandria, and he looks up in slight confusion.

His blue eyes meet hers, they’re as recognisable as ever. Finally.

His body is practically overflowing with emotion - relief, joy, sadness and the most overpowering feeling of love.

The knife clatters to the floor, there are hands reaching for him, tugging on his clothes to hold him back and the leaders that he didn’t care to remember the names of tell him to stay put.

Instead he runs. It’s a run of desperation. He’s afraid that if he doesn’t run fast enough, you’ll disappear again in the aftermath of an explosion. You’re running too, a hand against your mouth to cover sobs.

The two of you meet halfway, arms wrapping around eachother as a form of physical touch to ensure that the other that this is real.

“You’re alive,” Carl whispers, breathing heavily and clutching the back of your head that was pressed against his chest, “I knew it.”

You’re both crying, holding eachother in a tight, cathartic embrace that released any inkling of doubt that the others heart wasn’t beating.

Carl’s hands clamber to hold you face in his hands again. You let him, raising your head to look into his eyes. He runs his thumbs against your soft skin, scanning your face.

His head lowers, yours lifts, and your lips meet in a greeting that was way past it’s due date. Eyes closed, experiencing something that has only been a dream for so long. You didn’t care that his lips were chapped, he didn’t care that yours were slightly cut up from you biting at the dead skin there.

It’s messy, teeth clashing and your noses bump one or two times, but all that you care about is that he’s here, and that he finally found you.

You pull apart, and your eyes fly open to witness his still closed like he was still in shock. His lashes flutter, and you make eye contact once again.

There’s a sense of melancholy realisation that slowly ebbs through him. The fact he hadn’t been there to witness you grow up alongside him during the time you were apart. He admires the change in your facial structure, features from before stronger and more prominent to show that you had grown up.

“You’re just as beautiful as I remembered,” His thumb wipes away a few of your tears and rolls over a small scar that streches up from your jawline to your cheekbone and his eyebrows furrowed in slight worry, “What happened?”

You press yourself further against his palms, relishing in the feeling of him again, “I survived, Carl.”

His name has never sounded so good before. His brain feels funny, his heart floating as he pulls you in for another kiss. It’s less messy this time, not that either of you care.

Carl pulls away again as he’s reminded of his mission, his forehead against yours, “Your jacket,” He gives you peck, and departs again, “I have your jacket.”

His hands leave your face to pull the rucksack of his back, and in panting breaths you gasp softly as he pulls the red fabric out of the bottom of the brown bag, holding it out to you.

“I cleaned it, sewed up the bullet hole,” He holds it up, showing the messy threading, “It’s not the best-”

He’s cut off by you taking it from him with a sniffle, pressing it against your heart and clutching it.

“I love you, Carl.” Your voice trembles, and he smiles, pressing a kiss against your forehead, brushing a few loose strands of your hair from your face.

“I love you too.”

You unzipped the red jacket, struggling to get it on; Carl moves forwards to help you slide it on over your arms again.

Where it rightfully belongs.

-—-

[sumaneun-stars]

'Usual White Sheets'

Pairing. Bf!Jay x fem!reader

Genre. Established relationship, fluff 

Warnings. Mentions of blood, reader is on her periods

Even with your eyes closed, half dead, your body searched for Jay's. When your arms reached out to every corner of the bed and found nothing, no one, you opened your eyes.

“What the…'' you mumbled, looking at a probably new bed sheet, by the looks of it. Not the usual white sheets of his bed.

Adjusting to the morning light that shone through your window, you slowly sat up.

New pajama shorts.

A cloth under your lower half

No- It can't be.

Your hand searched under your pillow to grab your phone. Hurriedly opening your calendar, you groaned in frustration.

You were early this month.

You buried your face in your hands. Jay had probably woken up to a messy stain you caused, and he had changed your shorts too. You're such a wreck, y/n. 

Ignoring the pain in your lower stomach, you slowly got out of bed. While brushing your teeth, you wondered how you could ever show your face to Jay again. This wasn't the first time your boyfriend took care of you on your period, but it was never this bad. Never a stain.

You didn't know if it was your stupid hormones acting up, but you had the urge to punch something.

Careful not to fall, you made your way downstairs, whatever urge you had before vanished when you saw your beloved boyfriend making breakfast. He had his airpods on so he didn't notice when you stood behind him. He flinched a little when you wrapped your arms around his waist, but relaxed almost immediately. 

“Baby, how are you feeling? Do you need any painkillers? Hm?” Jay spoke, removing his airpods.

When he felt you shaking your head from side to side, he realized you were embarrassed,cute. Jay would be lying if he said he wasn't shocked to see blood first thing in the morning, he was mad at his phone for not notifying him about your week. He always took pride in knowing when your period came, he knew how to care for you in those terrible days. 

“Angel, there's nothing wrong in a little accident” he caressed your hand on his waist. He knew you were too embarrassed to face him. And he found that adorable.

“Little? How was that little, Jay? I literally let my disgusting blood soak your bed” you mumbled into his back.

Jay chuckled at your embarrassed state, there were times in his life where he just wanted to wrap you in his arms, squeeze your cheeks, cuddle you and never let go of you, like right now.

“Hmm you're right, so when are you gonna buy me a new bed, love?” he smiled when you laughed at his teasing. He knew how painful these days were going to be for you. He made up his mind to make you smile more. Laughter is the best medicine 

Jay took that opportunity and turned around, engulfing you in a warm hug. Sometimes Jay's warmth and scent was the only meditation you needed. 

“How is it early this time, baby?” Jay spoke while he combed your hair with his fingers. You closed your eyes at the feeling of his cold fingers run through your scalp.

“I have no idea” you cuddled into his chest. He smiled to himself looking down at you when you nuzzled your nose into his chest. Jay loved how clingy you got during your period,one of the many things he loved about you.

“Should we go see a doctor?” He kissed the top of your head, his lips lingering there nuzzling into your hair. Your limbs almost melted at the feeling.

“I used to get irregular periods when I was in high school baby, it's nothing serious” you looked up at him, kissing his chin you gave him a reassuring smile.

You both swayed slowly from side to side, enjoying nothing but each other's presence. Occasionally you felt Jay plant butterfly kisses on your head, shoulder and neck. It amazed you how he knew how to ease your internal pain. No scented candle could beat Jay's natural scent. 

“Honey, I think my curry is burning” he spoke into your hair. Chuckling, you detach yourself from Jay- but he thought otherwise.

You felt his hands under your thighs. He lifted you up and gently placed you on the island of the kitchen. He looked at you with the most ‘husband-material’ eyes, your arms still wrapped around his neck. Jay leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips trailing down your nose and pecking the tip. You felt a million butterflies awaken in your body to his actions.

He moved back and placed his palm to the side of your face, caressing your cheek.

“I think your curry needs saving, Jay” you raised a playful brow at him.

“Oh my god-” he hurriedly switched the stove off. “No!” he whined when he looked at his now black curry. 

“I made this for you especially” he pouted when you stood beside him examining the ruined matter. Your heart sank when you noticed his disappointed look, his hand still scraping the burnt parts of the food with a spoon.

“Looks like I have to buy new groceries too” you moved closer to him and pecked his pouty lips.

“And a new pan,” 

End.

[qin-qin16]

Bittersweet

During a cuddle session, the liquid that flows from Killer’s eye sockets ends up staining Color’s bones, and, like any mentally stable person, he wonders: what would his tears taste like? cw: Suggestive, they match each other's freaks, semi nudity in some sense (they are all bones), kisses with blood, this one oneshot can be uncomfortable for some people…  note: The idea for this started here!

They had always been intrigued by each other, whether it was Color feeling both intimidated and curious about Killer's black tears, or Killer being captivated by Color's various flames— he didn't even attempt to mask his favoritism, enjoying it when their emotions caused the flames to spiral out of control.

Of the two, Killer had always been the most committed to experiments (or, as Color would describe it, morally inclined towards controversial experiments). However, in their recent encounters, Color couldn't shake a recurring thought: perhaps he was as fascinated by Killer's tears of determination as Killer was by his flames. What would they taste like? Would they be similar to blood? With a harsh, bitter flavor… Or would they be bittersweet, like the words of their owner? Sweet, yet with a dry, bitter aftertaste.

Gosh, I’m such a freak, he thinks; but wouldn’t Killer be just as, if not more, weird than him? After all, both had experienced rather… questionable situations. A memory flashes briefly before his eyes: one of the many kisses they had shared, but this time with each other’s blood on their teeth, spreading more and more red across their faces.

Without even realizing it, Color runs his tongue over his teeth, as if trying to taste Killer's bitter blood again. The flames emerging from the wound on his skull dance with even greater fervor, slipping slightly out of control with such not-so-normal thoughts — but since when has their relationship been anything but weird?

“Hello? Earth to Color!” The flames then settle back to their normal state, swaying freely within his skull. “I know you think about me all the time, but how about paying attention to me now that I’m here?”

A hand moves up and down his sternum; Color can feel Killer’s fingers lightly scratching the bone, leaving fleeting marks near his ribs.

They were lying on an old bed, their bodies pressed close together, with Killer draped slightly over Color — one leg pinning him against the mattress while his hand distracted him with gentle caresses.

While Killer was still fully dressed except for his coat, Color had removed everything except for his black shorts with a white stripe on each side.

“Sorry, I was just… you know what? Forget it, it’s weird.” He runs a hand over his face, letting it rest over his one functional eye.

The other arm pulls Killer closer (is that even possible?), gently tugging him by the shoulders.

“Keeping little secrets now?” Killer purrs, “And let’s be honest, there’s nothing weirder than me in this relationship.”

Color doesn’t even attempt to respond in the same playful tone; no, he’s too preoccupied with the sensation of the black liquid trickling from Killer’s empty eye sockets, flowing down the pillow and onto his ribs.

He had never paid such close attention to this detail before, but now it was the only thing on his mind. Color knew that the texture was like touching wet paint: sticky, uncomfortable, and certainly unpleasant once dried. And the smell. He had grown used to it, but at such close proximity, he could detect a faint odor of decay; subtle, yet still nasty.

But what about the taste? The hand that had been resting on his eye falls away; the small light within his eye socket shifts to focus on Killer, or rather, on the trails of liquid running down his bony cheeks. It would undoubtedly taste awful, just like the texture and the smell.

“Color? Are you okay? You’re oddly quiet…” The playful tone had vanished, leaving only concern in Killer’s voice — a tone not very familiar to Color.

Receiving no response, not even a grunt, Killer gets up from the bed, supporting himself on his forearms on the mattress, his face not so far from Color’s.

“Is it because of Chantilly? I know I promised not to bring any more cats here, but if you had seen his little face when I first saw him,” The liquid continued to drip, trailing down his chin until it finally fell onto Color, “and he doesn’t make that much of a mess — okay, he scratched the curtain one time, but he’s still scared and—”

Fuck it.

With a slight thrust from his spine, their faces collided, a gentle bump against each other. Before Killer could grasp what was happening — or think it might be the beginning of a kiss — Color opens his mouth, revealing a tongue the same color as his flames, and in a swift motion, licks Killer’s face.

The tongue moves from the tip of Killer’s chin to the edge of one of his eye sockets, cleaning the entire area in a single lick. The first thing he feels is a certain numbness, followed by a bad taste — bitter as he had imagined; perhaps it mixed with Killer’s tears as well, which would explain the salty taste that came afterward.

Still mulling this over, Color lays his head back down on the bed, not even noticing the state he has left the other skeleton in. Killer remains still, his mouth slightly open in surprise at Color’s unusual action. Now, his face was not only smeared with the remnants of his determined tears but also had a trail of saliva across it.

However, he doesn’t stay in that state for long.

“Was that the weird thing you were thinking about, hmm?” His soul vibrates between them as Killer finally settles all his weight onto Color’s lap, straddling him. “You really are a freak…”

Before Color could defend himself, Killer had already brought their faces close again, returning the lick Color had given him — but this one was very different from the previous one. It was slow, seeming to savor Color’s face with a certain tenderness, following the same path as Color’s tongue, from the tip of his chin to the end of his eye socket.

“Lucky for you, I can match our freaks, right?”

@toffeebrew @howlsofbloodhounds

[lightwing-s]

𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐏𝐒

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 ; 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧

pairing: jason todd x fem! reader

summary: sometimes you couldn't help yourself from hating everything, sometimes you couldn't help bumping into people, sometimes certain stains were hard to remove

word count: 1,2k

links: next ; series masterlist ; general masterlist

You hated this. The loud music. The crowded rooms. The sweaty bodies hitting against each other, devouring each other with no sense of modesty, dancing to the sound of whatever horrid electronic beat sounded from the many music boxes, scattered around the unnecessarily large house.

You hated the guys, eyeing you up and down like a meal to a starved man, undressing you in their minds and having thoughts you prayed you’d never get to hear. You hated the girls judging you with their unkind eyes. And most of all, tonight you hated your neighbor more than anyone in this entire world.

“C’mon, Yn.” She tugged at the sleeve of your jacket, trying to pull you to the dance floor along with her. “Let’s have some fun!”

“I’m fine, Nessie,” you uttered through gritted teeth. “Just do you.”

Your neighbor and, pending revision, friend rolled her eyes at you, dropping her shoulder before pulling you with her towards a corner. “You can’t let that call stop you from having fun,” she stated, boring her chocolate browns into you e/c ones.

After sighing deeply, you replied. “I’ll be fine.”

You didn’t think so, but you weren’t going to ruin your only friend’s night, even if you so wished to. She had been patient with you all the time since that damned phone call, even though if you were in her place, you’d have certainly snapped at your own stubbornness.

After much insisting, she gave up and let go of your hand to move into the crowd, going to dance or make out with anyone she could find close by. You stood still in the same corner, mopping under the blinking blue, red and purple lights, arms crossed on your chest and pushing away every guy that attempted to approach you with a single hostile glare.

One hour, then two hours had passed, your patience vanishing along with the late hours of the night. You couldn’t stand it anymore, too stressed, too pissed off, to be anywhere but home.

“Nessie!” you screamed after your friend, finding her dancing in the middle of two other people. She clearly didn’t hear you, and you had to take a deep breath before fighting your way through the warzone that was the dance floor.

Pushed from both sides, you had to literally dig your way between the waves of people throwing their sweaty bodies around, receiving one and another elbows to the face and giving some back in return. 

Almost approaching your friend’s spot, she noticed you making your way towards her and proceeded to walk to you, a smile spreading on her lips.

“Yn, you came!” she joyfully declared, throwing her arms in the air in celebration, instigating her new companions to join her excitement.

“I wanna go home,” you voiced out and her face instantly fell.

“No!” was her reply. “I’m having fun,” she stood firm.

Widening your eyes and puffing your cheeks with air, you wanted to turn into a five year old just to be able to throw a tantrum and dissipate all the anger you had in yourself without looking crazy. However, you were 22, a college graduate, and thankfully too mature to do so.

“Fine!” you let out instead. “I’m going alone.”

“Go sulk into your boring ass hell hole,” Nessie insulted, clearly intoxicated, and you flipped your middle finger at her before pushing your way through the crowd once more.

Your steps were heavy, weighed down and filled to the brim with your own rage. You pushed people aside, who looked back at you in displeasure, but you were not in the mood to fake an apology to any of them. Or anyone at all. You weren’t going to see them ever again anyways.

When turning a corner, about to step into the foyer as you approach the front door, a great wall bumped into you, sending you a few steps backwards, and the group around you let out shocked gasps. His drink poured over your chest, leaving you soaked in cheap alcohol and stained in red.

“FUCK!” you screamed out, rubbing furiously at your shirt with your jacket’s sleeve, tears slowly forming on your eyes. Your anger, if possible, grew by the minute, and you both wanted to punch the idiot that had done this to you and curl down in a corner and cry.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” said the male voice, apologizing with a little bit too much excitement. Drunk, awesome. “I did not see you there.”

He was kneeling down, picking up his cup and the ice cubes that had fallen to the floor. Gross.

“Obviously,” you whispered, hoping to flee this place as quickly as possible, but the tall man crouched down stopped you from taking any step further.

“Someone is angry,” he joked while standing up, mere inches in front of you. “Would you want to go somewhere where I could calm you down a little?”

He jiggled his thick eyebrows at you, other intentions evident in his offer. Finally getting the chance to stare properly at the clumsy douche that turned your white t-shirt red, you found his bright blue eyes that annoyed you just as much as his eyebrow move did.

“Why the hell would I ever want to go anywhere with someone like you?” Eyeing him up and down, you caught a glimpse at the tattoos decorating his arms, hands and neck. He smelled and looked like trouble, the kind of guy your p… You were always warned about.

“Ooh,” he blew. “Little Miss Stuck Up is angry angry.”

“Fuck off,” you swore, trying to push him away from you, but he didn’t even flinch.

“What? Don’t think we’d make cute babies?” he teased out of nowhere, stepping aside to let you pass.

“Why would I ever want to have a baby with you?” you asked over your shoulder, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Why would I ever want to have my dick inside you in the first place?” he asked back, forgetting his early offer, before you both rolled your eyes and walked in different directions.

You tried to dry the stain on your shirt as you walked away, continuously rubbing your chest as you left the house and on your entire Uber ride. You tried to wash it off when you got home, but the red stain wouldn’t disappear, not in the first, second or third tries of your washing machine, and neither the ones of  your desperate hands.

The stranger, whoever he was, made sure he’d leave his mark on you and that pissed you off even more, not because it was your favorite white t-shirt, not because it was new and expensive. But because it wasn’t just the stain he had left you with, as his bright blue eyes stuck to your head the entire weekend, as you sulked on your boring hell hole of an apartment.

As the weekend came to an end and the early morning sun announced the arrival of Monday, you stepped inside your regular gym. Freshly showered, headphones stuck to your ears, as you wished to relieve all your accumulated rage on every machine you could touch.

The gym was your haven, your place to find peace on stressful days and distract yourself from the world around you. You were ready to leave the place feeling refreshed and powered up for a new week of hard work and hustle.

You were gonna be fine, it was all gonna be perfect. If it wasn’t for you crashing into a large back, a water bottle splashing liquid on your face, and the same pair of blue eyes turning around and meeting yours again.

“Fuck!” you two said in unison.

This was going to be one hard stain to get rid of.

.

.

tag list: @igotanidea

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[oftenwantedafton]

wither | steve raglan x female reader

a supernatural serial killer AU

rating | explicit

part 1/?

words | 4k

cw | blood and violence

ao3 link

His prey has broken through the line of trees bordering the forest.

He allows the distance between them to lengthen, to give his intended victim a false sense of hope. His own pace is casual, unhurried. The man fleeing from him is careless in his passage. Frantic. He disturbs the layers of leaves and pine needles on the floor of the woods, his nervous fingers scrabbling along the loose bark of several trees, exposing the raw wood beneath. Even an amateur hunter would find this easy sport. For one such as him, a taker of lives and stealer of souls, it is pitifully obvious, lacking any semblance of a challenge.

The fleeing man’s breathing rasps harshly and a flock of birds rise from the tree limbs overhead. It is a spring day, warm, the buds of new leaves just forming in soft shades of pistachio green. The animals dwelling in that quiet preserve depart as soon as they sense the killer’s presence. Instinct has driven the beasts away. If only his prey had harbored that same sense of awareness; if only he hadn’t been duped into thinking he was just an ordinary human like himself.

Now it is too late.

More signs of disturbance reveal the desperate man’s panicked passage, making it simple to track his quarry to where he has finally collapsed with exhaustion, fatigue driving him to his knees beside a cemetery that looks as if it has sat forgotten for many decades. The irony that this is the spot the man has chosen as his last stand is not lost on that terrifying figure and his lips twitch in a condescending smirk.

The murderer halts before him, looming over the frightened man, coldy regarding the trembling lashes and quivering lips and his cruel half smile deepens, further drawing attention to the dimple bracketing one side of his bearded mouth. The kneeling man cowers and trembles as he should, surrendering to the unstoppable force that sheaths the knife he’d been carrying throughout the chase, the blade disappearing into the leather holster at his waist. It is a threat that he does not need to use to achieve his goal; he has that power gifted in his own hands.

A sudden chill curls around the pair, the scattered undergrowth nearby wilting, becoming brittle and brown. The emissary of death’s eyes become black, ink spilling across the surface of each orb, eliciting a final whimpering plea before he attacks, the soft sound evolving into a scream of terror as he reaches inside that wretched mortal, his hand passing through and cleaving the layers of skin and fat and muscle and shattering bone, wrapping around his heart and squeezing until that vital muscular organ ceases it frantic beating.

Then it is silent, save for the carrion eaters that have been drawn to the scent of a fresh kill. The crows perch in the trees nearby and observe as the killer pauses to remove a pack of cigarettes from his pants pocket. The opposite hand, the one he’d retracted from his victim, bears no signs of the destruction he’d caused; not so much as a single drop of blood staining his fair skin, unlike the gaping, bloody wound he’s left behind. An inside job, he likes to call it, grimly smirking around the unlit cigarette slotted between his lips as he observes the fragile wisp of light hovering in his spread palm. A weak soul, hardly worth keeping. He exhales and it flickers like a candle caught by a draft, struggling to stay lit until it extinguishes, dissipating and vanishing, leaving his hand cradling empty air before he digs the lighter free from his pocket to ignite the end of his cigarette at last. If only he had the gift of flame; it would be convenient for times like this. Instead his power issues from frozen realms, icy and solemn, like the cooling corpse on the ground.

Now all that remains of what had once been a middle aged security guard for a struggling department store is the sack of meat at his feet. He could leave the body to be discovered, to be ravaged by nature and the elements, but he hasn’t been in this town long and he’d rather not draw attention to himself this early in the game. The man’s sudden absence will be noted and questioned, of course, but there is nothing specific to guide authorities to this particular location. There will be time enough later for the cat and mouse games with those justice seekers. This was a mere appetizer, a brief dalliance to get his feet wet, to see what offerings this location has.

He enjoys the pretense of being one of the humans nearly as much as he enjoys the killing; blending in, seemingly ordinary, a violent creature that is walking unknowingly in their midst. He changes names and alters his face each time he travels. Sometimes he visits large cities. Other times he takes up residence in smaller towns. This is one of the latter. Slower paced. Less densely populated. But still full of opportunities, like this latest masterpiece lying in a crumpled heap before him.

He glares a warning at the obsidian birds still waiting for him to depart so they might more closely inspect what he’s created, walking in brisk strides to find the black sedan parked just off the dirt road nearby. It’s seldom used, the path already showing signs of reclamation from the nearby vegetation. Even if the man had been able to find his way back here, it would have done him no good. No one was around to help.

The killer lifts a shovel from the trunk of his car and pauses with the tailgate still lifted, clutched in one hand. Someone is approaching. Still a ways off yet, but his supernatural abilities allow him to hear the footsteps even at this distance. Slow, meandering. A casual, thoughtful stroll. Lighter tred. Female, perhaps.

He shuts the trunk and returns to his victim. The braver of the crows have shifted to the ground near the body, but they have not dared touch it. They scatter now as he draws close, leaning down to grasp one of the dead man’s hands, then straightens and begins dragging him along, past a gap in the crumbling stone wall encircling the forgotten eternal resting place. He shifts the earth swiftly, the soil surrendering to the superhuman strength that seeks its displacement. The body is dumped unceremoniously in the center of the hole he’s created, soon covered once more, hiding the unfortunate man’s remains.

The cigarette clutched between the murderer’s lips has gone neglected and he returns his attention to it now, tapping the ashes onto the ground and taking a drag while he leans the shovel against the wall nearby and then rests his own body against it. He doesn’t need that support, of course; it’s merely for appearances.

An excuse for the freshly dug grave is already forming in his mind as he waits for the female—he is able to discern now that she is indeed a member of the fairer sex—to reach him. He could dispose of her as well, if need be, but for now he thinks he will wait and see what this encounter will entail. The darkness has slipped from his eyes, leaving the pale blue irises in its wake once again. He rakes a hand through his graying tresses and unknots the tie at his neck, the black fabric loosening and sliding free before he rolls it up and stuffs it into his pants pocket.

One of the crows has followed him, watching him from the safe distance of a nearby tree, head cocked and beady eyes watching as he unfastens the first couple of buttons of his uniform shirt and exhales another cloud of smoke into the air, then rotates its head to watch as another trespasser reaches the far end of the graveyard.

***

You’re such a cliché, and you know it.

Typical misunderstood adolescent who doesn’t quite fit in anywhere, an outsider among the other outsiders. The music tastes of the heavy metal band followers mixed with the fashion style of goth youth blended with the good grades of the student elite. Everything clashing together, leaving you in exile.

So you’re a loner. Alone, even in a crowded room. Isolated. You’re not sorry for it; you’ve just come to accept that’s how things are.

Afterschool one Monday afternoon finds you walking through the woods. Cutting through the cemetery. Not the one that’s actively being used downtown; this one is old. Abandoned. The wrought iron gates are rusted, bent, swung wide and left open in a permanent invitation to enter. The rows of grave markers are slender slabs of stone carved with weeping willows and angels, the epitaphs for the beloved deceased often worn away. Some of the headstones have fallen over, broken to pieces from the ravages of time, the weather. Vandals. You hate to see that. Let the dead have their proper rest.

The graveyard isn’t empty today. No longer abandoned, put to use once again in this, the modern day and age. The soil has been overturned, a very obvious incriminating shovel nearby. And close to that, leaning back against the crumbling stone wall that encircles the cemetery, your school guidance counselor, a newer part time employee. The one that also moonlights as a rent a cop for one of the department stores at the mall on the weekends. You’ve seen him around. You haven’t met formally yet. Career path planning went alphabetically. But your turn is arriving soon.

Maybe sooner than you think.

You halt, staring. He’s still dressed in his security guard uniform. The tie is missing, the top two buttons of the shirt unfastened, exposing a heather gray undershirt beneath. He’s got bruised looking shadows under his eyes, as if he’s been awake all night. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to the elbows, and he’s smoking.

You’re not really sure what to make of the situation. It looks as if your new school guidance counselor has just buried a body, but surely that can’t be right. There has to be an explanation.

“Found a deer someone had left on the road. Thought I’d give it a proper burial.” His voice is coarse. He’s been a lifelong smoker, you’re willing to bet. Sneaking cigarettes from his mother’s purse as a teenager, maybe that was how it had started.

His explanation seems plausible. You feel your shoulders relax and you nod. So that was it, then. Maybe he’d been the one to hit the animal and just didn’t want to own up to it. But either way, it wasn’t a crime. And it was kind of him to take the time to lay it to rest, before the scavengers got to it. One of them is there now, a crow perched on one of the higher branches of a pine tree, squawking in protest. A missed opportunity at a meal. You know they turn their prey inside out and it makes you shiver. You enjoy horror movies, but that doesn’t mean you want to take part in one in real life.

“I recognize that uniform. I work at the same academy. You want a ride?”

The tall man’s voice brings you out of your reverie. He shuffles his feet, disturbing the carpet of dead leaves at his feet. Memories of previous seasons left to decay. You like the sound those leaves make when you walk through them in late autumn, when they’ve had a chance to dry out. Crisp and crackling. Hoodie weather. You can’t wait until the fall.

But it’s spring now. The trees are budding. Pollen coats every surface, wreaking havoc with your allergies. Your school cardigan is tied around your waist. Later on in the year, the leaves will fill in again, shading you. But for now, there is this exposure. You’re out in the open. And the man is still waiting for an answer.

“No, thank you. I enjoy walking.”

He nods, as if expecting this response. The end of the cigarette glows and he sends a cloud of smoke upward. He must smell like that smoke. Like ash and the forest soil he’s just dug through: a rich, earthy scent. Your eyes slide away from his and fall on the shovel again. Newer. Not something he’d found lying around in the remains of the decaying graveyard keeper’s shed. His own possession. Why would he carry such a thing around in his car? A little odd, that.

Your gaze flicks back to the guidance counselor’s pale blue gray eyes, and his lips twitch in a smile, as if reading your thoughts.

You shiver, even though the day is warm, and you continue on your way.

***

It’s your turn.

You’ve received the letter in the mail that states when you’re due for your first meeting with the guidance counselor. Steve Raglan. That was his name. You’ve been struggling to recall it since your strange encounter in the cemetery.

There are a few chairs lining the wall outside his office. You occupy the second one. Beside you another girl fidgets, snapping the gum she’s chewing loudly. She’s in a lot of your classes. Another senior. You’ve never spoken, and likely never will. She’s dressed for cheerleading practice. Whatever has brought her here must have been important, to interrupt that activity.

The principal’s door swings open and your classmate’s name is said sternly. Oh. She was in trouble. Huh. You wonder what it might be for. She lurches to her feet and follows the woman inside her office, the door shut firmly behind her. Moments later, the guidance counselor’s door opens with a slow creak. Steve looks much different today. Well rested. More put together. Dockers and a short sleeved, windowpane checked shirt and a dark tie. Aviator glasses in place. A welcoming smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You’re beckoned inside.

The office is cramped, stuffy. The windows are open but there isn’t much air exchange happening. The furniture crowds the narrow room: filing cabinet, desk, office chair, the chair you’re directed to sit in. That’s all. There isn’t room for anything else. It’s almost like this space was created for him as an afterthought. Repurposed.

Steve settles into the worn looking office chair and gestures for you to sit across from him. There are tears in the leather. Or faux leather. Perhaps it isn’t genuine. You can see the foam padding beneath in places. Loose threads. More than one tear along the armrests as well. Battered, like the desk separating the two of you. Deep gouges in the surface. Chipped varnish. Fading stain.

“Hi,” he says, when the silence stretches between you. The door is closed. He should have left it open. Maybe the air would circulate better. But perhaps it’s for privacy reasons. To make you feel more comfortable.

It’s not working.

You squirm in your seat, fussing with the pleated plaid uniform skirt draped over your thighs. “Hi,” you return softly. You feel foolish. You wonder what he’s waiting for. He’s the adult. Surely there’s a way this is supposed to go. With him directing things. Guiding, you know, like a guidance counselor should. Maybe it’s because of the other day. Maybe he feels awkward about it. God only knows you do.

“Listen, the other day, I—”

“—Hmmm? Oh, that. I thought we’d cleared that little confusion up.” His fingers drum on the desk. Clean, trimmed nails. Long fingers. Smooth cuticles. You had a bad habit of biting yours. He’s smiling, and it’s yet again one not mirrored in his eyes. You have a hard time meeting his gaze and attempting to return a smile of your own.

“Yes. Yes, we did.”

Another pause. You count your heartbeats occupying the silence. Too many. Way too fast.

“Good.” Steve leans forward and the chair creaks in protest. “I’ve had a look over your file. Good grades. You’ll have your pick of colleges. It doesn’t seem as if you’ve applied anywhere yet. You need to get going on that. Most students have already begun submitting applications.”

“I’m not most students,” you mumble.

“Tell me about that.”

“What do you mean?”

“What makes you stand out? That’s going to give you an extra edge when you apply. The grades will open the door, but extracurricular activities are what will push you through it.”

“Oh. I don’t know.” You realize you’re still making knots, twirling the charcoal colored plaid fabric around your fingers, and you force them to be still. “I’m not really social. I don’t like sports or cheerleading or yearbook committee. None of that kind of stuff.”

“What do you do in your free time?”

“Um…I read. Listen to music. Play video games. Make jewelry. Draw. And no, I’m not an artist. Just sketch for fun. The usual teenage stuff.” You shrug your shoulders.

“Where do you see yourself in the future?”

“Fuck if I know.” The profanity slips out unexpectedly and you feel your cheeks flush. “Sorry,” you apologize hurriedly.

“I’ve heard the word before. Even used it myself.” His lips twitch in a smirk, then lie flat. “You’re holding back. Not telling me everything.”

“I…I’m not, really. There’s not much to say. I haven’t applied anywhere yet because I have absolutely no idea what I want to do with my life. I just know I don’t want to be stuck in retail for the rest of it.” You sigh, glancing at the pencil cup on the man’s desk. It’s overloaded with writing utensils, nearly filled to bursting. You can’t quite make out what the lettering on the front might be, but you bet it’s some cheesy platitude like Winners Never Quit or World’s Best Counselor or…

Steve reaches for the cup, rotating it around with one swift wrist movement.

I hate Mondays

Well, that was still corny, but it earns a little huff of amusement. Then you realize what’s happened. He’d known that’s what you were looking at. What you’d been wondering about. You look the unspoken question at the bearded man.

“I’m not a mind reader. Life would be a hell of a lot easier if I was. I’m just very observant. Reading people. Aware of what’s around me. Who’s around me.”

“I guess that must be helpful for your job.”

He blinks placidly. “Sometimes.”

“So what do you see when you look at me?”

Steve doesn’t answer this challenge right away. Instead he leans down to pull open one of the desk drawers, setting a pack of cigarettes and a lighter on top of your folder still lying shut on the desk blotter.

“Want one?” He offers, upending the pack until several cigarettes begin to slide free, selecting one at random and slotting it between his lips.

“What, are you joking? You’re not allowed to smoke in here.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

This time the smile does reach his eyes. Mischievous. Twinkling. You suppose he’s kind of attractive, for an older guy.

Steve stands, walking over to the window behind you. There’s barely space to stand in front of it. You hear the soft click of the butane lighter being used and decide you’re going to turn your chair around if he’s going to keep standing there.

The guidance counselor watches as you rearrange the position of your seat, one thumb absently stroking along his bottom lip before taking another drag. You settle back into the chair, feeling more awkward than ever. He’s practically looming over you now.

“So? How about it? Interested?” He holds out the pack to you but you shake your head.

“No. I don’t smoke.”

“Never too late to start a bad habit.” He smirks and then sighs, setting the pack down on the narrow window ledge beside the lighter. “No, you’re right. I should quit. Just enjoy it too much.”

“Aren’t you worried about getting caught?”

He aims a stream of smoke towards the window. “Not really. People tend to be oblivious about what’s directly in front of them.”

You suspect there’s more buried in that statement, but you’re not going to explore that now. “You don’t really give the type of advice I’d expect to hear from someone in your position.”

“Depends on who I’m talking to.”

“So I’m getting special treatment, then?”

“Maybe. Do you want special treatment?”

A little flutter in your gut. His voice is light, but those words sink right down inside you. There’s something really off about this man. This man that buried God knows what it broad daylight in the woods. It was just a deer. That’s all.

“I’m going to give you an assignment,” he says, perhaps taking your lack of answer as a type of response after all.

“You’re not a teacher,” you argue.

He points towards you with the hand now clutching the cigarette, sending a little jab of smoke between you. “Now see there you’re wrong. It’s my job to instruct. That falls in my jurisdiction.”

“What’s the homework?” You ask warily.

“You’re going to come up with a list. Five possible career choices. And you’re going to write at least three pros and cons for each.” The cigarette is back in his mouth. Its length is disappearing rapidly. You wonder how many packs a day he goes through.

“If I knew all that, I wouldn’t be so stumped. I have no idea what I want to do, I told you that already.”

“Think about it. Seriously. Have it ready before you come see me again.”

“That’s like doing your job for you,” you protest.

“You’re going to have to take a leap of faith here and trust me when I say I know what I’m doing.” Steve steps towards you and you instinctively lean back, catching a whiff of ash and cologne as he stubs the end of the cigarette out onto the ceramic plate sitting on his desk that looks identical to the ones used in the cafeteria. It probably came from there. The fragrance he’s wearing is nice. You like it. Enticing without being overpowering. You’re still not sure that you like the smoke, though.

He straightens, still looking down at you. “You’re going to keep this a secret, right?”

You swallow nervously. “What?” Your mind races to catch up to what he’s implying. Did he mean the burial? The assignment?

“You know. The indulgence.” His voice practically purrs and you find your fingers buried in your skirt again when he drops the pack and the lighter onto the desk.

“Oh. Yeah, sure. I won’t tell.”

“Good girl.”

Oh, fuck. That warm feeling is back, throbbing to remind you that the cigarette hadn’t been the only thing ignited.

“You can leave now. Don’t forget the assignment. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon.” He moves to open the door and the draft of air from the hallway is clear and fresh. You struggle to your feet, gathering up your backpack from where you’d tucked it beside your chair and put the furniture back in place before ducking out of the office without another glance at Steve.

You take your usual route home, your pace slowing once you reach the cemetery. Your eyes are drawn to the newly churned earth, and you immediately think about your strange guidance counselor. You could probably dig with your hands if you were that worried about what lies beneath that surface, but that would be foolish, wouldn’t it? You shouldn’t be making such a big deal about this. It’s just roadkill, like he’d said. You should just leave it alone.

People tend to be oblivious to what’s directly in front of them.

Steve’s words echo in your mind.

You turn away and continue walking home.

[mcntsee]

Fires of Passion, Ashes of Hate III

Previous part Next part

Summary: Lovers (mentioned) to enemies.

Warnings: Hate (?), blood, injuries, and cursing.

notes: Kaz’s pov. Flashbacks are in italics (and separated so it’s not as confusing!) This is also not my fave, but definitely not the end. I think I will add two more parts.

* ੈ✩‧₊˚

He was taken aback upon returning to his office. He anticipated she would clean up, but the speed at which she did it surprised him, especially considering her current condition.

He hoped she suffered while cleaning.

The room greeted him with a transformed aura, and the absence of his bedsheets caught his attention first. Emitting a frustrated groan, he headed to the bathroom, half-expecting to find the missing sheets adrift in the sink.

The diluted acrid aroma, a blend of faint metallic and medicinal notes intermingled with the scent of blood, assaulted him. It teased his nostrils, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake—a unique freshness saturated with chemical nuances.

He didn't have to play the guessing game; that unmistakable scent was her customary "solution" for banishing bloodstains from fabric or similar items.

She had given him the recipe- if you could even call it that, for this solution a few years ago.

* ੈ✩‧₊˚

They had been on a job, interrogating a member of an emerging gang that took pleasure in causing havoc for The Dregs, and it had gotten ugly very quickly.

Upon returning to Kaz's room, he swiftly approached the sink, eager to salvage his dress shirt from the stubborn stains of dried blood.

Futile attempts at scrubbing failed to free the shirt from the stubborn bloodstains. Turning to him, she asked if he had any hydrogen peroxide in his office.

She quickly retrieved the bottle from where he directed her, “Got it!” she said as she returned to the bathroom. Once back to his side, she outstretched her arm, wordlessly requesting his blood-stained shirt.

She poured a small amount over the stains on the shirt, and they both observed the peroxide fizz as it reacted with the blood.

As they waited for the blood to vanish, she explained that hydrogen peroxide is effective in removing bloodstains from clothes because it breaks down the proteins in the blood upon contact, aiding in lifting the stain.

Ever since that day, he made sure to always have a bottle in his office.

* ੈ✩‧₊˚

The realization struck him like a lightning bolt. He always had a bottle tucked away in his office, especifically, in his desk. He hastily released the bedsheets he had been holding, allowing them to sink back into the solution. He walked out of the bathroom and headed straight for his desk, the loud thumping of his heart echoing in his ears.

“Fuck.” He didn’t have to reach his desk to spot the portrait and the note that now rested on it.

In her gracefully hurried, all caps handwriting that he had grown accustomed to, the note conveyed a simple message: ‘Thought you hated this.’ The letters maintaining their characteristic slight tilt to the right.

* ੈ✩‧₊˚

“You can’t know that just from my handwriting, Kaz.”

“But I can, love.”

Kaz constantly sought new methods to read people better. Recently, he had come across a book dedicated to deciphering a person's personality through their handwriting in a bookstore.

Initially, he dismissed the idea, but considering the contracts he dealt with—agreements on distribution, territory allocation, sales, ownership of buildings, quit claims, and more—he decided to delve into the book. To his surprise, the insights proved to be quite valuable.

"Alright then, Kaz, what secrets does my handwriting unveil?"

His gaze lowered to the note in his grasp, scrutinizing each nuance of her penmanship with thoughtful precision.

"Your handwriting slants to the right, suggesting you're friendly, social, and impulsive."

He pointed at the note, feeling her body shift closer to him. Her warmth and scent enveloped him as she peeked over to try and see her own handwriting.

He cleared his throat before continuing, "Block letters can indicate that you repress your feelings, often due to a sense of suspicion or defensiveness."

His eyes lifted to meet hers, and for a moment, he found himself captivated. She focused on the note, her hair cascading down, framing her face, while a few strands on the other side were gently tucked behind her ear. Her brows furrowed in concentration, and her tongue peeked out to wet her lips as she rested her chin on one hand, absorbed in studying her own handwriting.

Her lips moved, but he paid them no mind. He felt like he was seeing her again for the first time, his gaze lingering on the details that had become familiar yet felt new in that moment.

“Kaz?”

“Yes?”

Her laughter resonated like a sweet melody, drowning out the surrounding noise and captivating his senses in its enchanting rhythm.

“Go on. Tell me more about my handwriting.”

“Right.” he mumbled, before returning his gaze to the note. He pointed to a particular word, noticing her I’s adorned with dots snugly placed near the stem. “Dotting your I’s closer to the stem means that you are organized and methodical.”

They had spent the majority of the afternoon delving into the intricacies of her handwriting, dissecting each detail he could uncover and telling her the meanings behind them.

* ੈ✩‧₊˚

He had loved her handwriting as much as he loved her, but seeing it now, mocking him, only intensified his resentment towards it.

With a grunt, he leaned forward, his hand snatching the letter from his table, and then crumpling it. "Ungrateful brat," he muttered.

He then looked down at the portrait, and a softness crept into his eyes.

The portrait was meant to be erased from existence. He thought about setting it on fire, ripping it to shreds, throwing it in the trash—anything to obliterate it. Yet, he hadn't been able to take any of those drastic measures. Instead, he found himself spending countless hours gazing at it, tracing her features repeatedly until he believed he had them memorized.

Just like he was doing now.

Her face bore fading bruises from previous days, with her hair elegantly braided, allowing a few loose strands to frame her features. The colors of her clothes harmonized flawlessly with the hues of her eyes. She looked lovely and he… well, he looked in love.

The artist had assured them not to worry about staying still, so they hadn’t. They had been chatting and whatever it was that he had said, had made her laugh, a moment perfectly frozen in time by the artist.

With a sigh, he turned the paper around. On the back, the worn-out handwriting, identical to the note’s, said: "My boy and I." The heart she had drawn next to the message now half-covered by a coffee stain.

He slowly tore his eyes away from it, gently folding the picture he hated so much and putting it back in its rightful place—hidden away from everyone, hidden away from him.

It had been a couple of weeks since he last saw her. Usually, he would spot her down by the market, trying on whatever items she liked, laughing with people. Sometimes, he'd catch a glimpse of her at the café closest to the harbor, looking out the window and sipping on whatever drink she craved that day. But the absence of her familiar presence began to stir a concern in him, raising questions about the uncertainty of her well-being.

The hasty patch-up he attempted on her wounds was far from ideal, and the risk of infections lingered in his thoughts, and if she had caught one, he doubted she had survived it.

Or maybe, she hadn’t faced an infection but encountered the person who initially injured her.

These lingering fears were the reason why he was hiding in the shadows of her home.

"Came here to return my portrait, Brekker?"

He emerged from the shadows, the rhythmic tapping of his cane against the floor marking each deliberate step as he approached her.

“I burnt it.”

The smirk on her face gradually faded, the subtle shift in her expression nearly escaping his notice.

As he studied her face, he couldn’t help but compare it to the mental image of the portrait he had in his mind.

He noticed the changes in her face, the presence of dark circles beneath her eyes, and the new scars- a horizontal one on her left cheekbone, another by her temple, and one near her lower lip.

Still, she was breathtakingly beautiful.

“Then, what are you doing here, Brekker?”

What was he doing here? It was a valid question, one he held the answer to but was unwilling to reveal. After all, what could he possibly say? "I just wanted to make sure you were alright"? Truthfully, he wasn't concerned about her well-being; he simply needed to figure out whether he should revel in her demise or begrudge the fact that she was still breathing.

At least, that's what he told himself.

Her laughter echoed, surprising him with the sound, and their eyes locked once more. "I'm alright." Fuck, was he that easy to read?

"And you think I care because…?"

"Why else would you be lurking around?"

With a resigned exhale, he cast his gaze downward, surrendering to the persistence of her smirk. His thoughts raced, attempting to conjure a more convincing alibi, almost expecting the effort to result in visible steam rising from his head.

“You owe me new bedsheets.”

She didn't. The blood had vanished flawlessly, leaving the sheets looking as pristine as they always had.

She hummed, playfully tapping her chin with her index finger, deep in thought. After seconds of silence, she finally asked, “Is green still your favorite color?”

* ੈ✩‧₊˚

“Why does it matter?” Kaz asked, a solid hour ticking away as he tossed out every color he could think of. “It matters because it’s my favorite, handsome.” Y/N playfully responded, a teasing glint in her eye.

“It’s just a color!” Kaz insisted, his tone growing louder and sharper—a shift not lost on Y/N. Yet, her composure remained unscathed. Others might’ve balked, made a swift exit, but not her.

But then again, no one would be asking Kaz Brekker to guess their favorite color.

“How can you say you love me-“ Her hands. Saints, her hands speak louder than her words, Kaz thought as he observed their rapid movement. “-when you can’t even tackle the basics about me?”

That had hit a nerve. Not too long ago, he had mustered the courage to tell her that he loved her, and now, she was making assumptions based on color preference.

“Alright. What is my favorite color then?” asked Kaz. As y/n paused for a second, Kaz wished she would let it go, recognizing that she, much like him, didn’t know his favorite— “Forest green.”

Oh. Kaz wanted nothing more than to erase that smirk from her lips. "Impressed?" she taunted, her tone rubbing salt in the wound.

For a moment, Kaz entertained a barrage of biting retorts, but the truth lingered in her ever-growing smile, making any counterattack futile. Instead, he drew a deep breath, revisiting their conversation from months ago— which’s point had been to know the answers to these simple questions. “I didn’t think of you as someone who could be left speechless, Brekker” she remarked, her words hanging in the air. “I must say-“

“Burgundy.” and just like that, her smirk was replaced by a softer smile. “It compliments your eyes.” He added as he looked up to meet her face. “That’s your favorite color.”

* ੈ✩‧₊˚

“Not just any green-“

“I know, I know. Forest green.”

She then motioned with her head for him to follow her. Reluctantly, he complied, feeling trapped in the situation he had created for himself.

They strolled through the market for a while, his pace frequently interrupted as she got distracted by various trinkets along the way. He sighed, the repetitive interruptions making it feel like the hundredth time, until they finally reached their destination and entered.

“Oh me, oh my.”

“Hello, Lenire.”

Y/n offered a greeting as they entered the store. Kaz recognized both the shop and its annoying owner, having frequented it with her about a thousand times to purchase various pieces of furniture. Kaz struggled to recall why he had deemed the owner annoying at some point in his life.

That is, until she started making foolish comments, “Now, this is a surprise I wasn’t expecting.”

With a resigned sigh, he asked, "What is?" only to regret it as soon as she provided her answer.

“I never expected to see this-“Lenire rapidly pointed from him to her and back to him, “- couple back.”

Rolling his eyes at the store owner's foolish assumption, Kaz heard y/n let out a humorless laugh before assuring her they weren't back together.

The more time they spent in the store browsing for new bedsheets, the more annoyed Kaz got by Lenire. It reached a point where he quickly scanned the section they were in, pointed at a random bed set, and said, "That one."

“Then get it.”

They approached the cashier, Kaz holding the bed set and placing it on the counter, waiting for the owner to announce the price.

Kaz had fought back a laugh as Lenire exaggerated the quality of the bed set, claiming it was one of their finest, before telling them the price, which made him turn to y/n with a smirk, ready for the anticipated flush of embarrassment as she realized she lacked the funds. However, to his surprise, no such reaction occurred. Instead, she nodded calmly, effortlessly retrieving the required cash from her bag to settle the payment.

The only reaction he received from her, after the owner concluded the transaction, was a cheeky wink as she turned to face him.

"Thanks, Lenire," she said with a nod before turning around and exiting the store, leaving him and the bed sheets behind.

"Where did you get the money?" he asked as he approached her outside the store.

She remained silent for a moment as she began to walk, her steps deliberate and measured, leaving him to catch up as he trailed behind her, waiting for her to say something “Lehos’s house.”

And just as he had started to catch up to her, he stopped in his tracks, watching her move further away.

Her ability to infiltrate the house undetected, especially while injured, left him stunned, questioning how she managed such a feat, let alone pilfer from the premises without notice. That is, of course, unless she had done it before getting injured.

He harbored no doubt in her ability to accomplish such thing if she were so inclined. After all, they had spent numerous years engaging in similar activities, repeatedly slipping in and out unnoticed, whether for jobs or merely for amusement, without ever facing repercussions.

But without him?

He couldn't shake the notion that she had likely executed similar jobs in the past. In fact, he had been driven by the urgent need to infiltrate Lehos' house under the assumption that she might beat him to it if he didn't act swiftly enough. Yet, the undeniable confirmation of her solo endeavor left him with a lingering sensation in his chest. Was it betrayal? Or perhaps a tinge of hurt?

“Is that how you got hurt?”

As if she had just realized his absence from her side, she too came to a halt, her feet firmly planted in place. Her gaze fixed straight ahead, as her shoulder dropped, “Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

She turned to face him, her gaze piercing as one eyebrow arched inquisitively. “Why?”

“Because if it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be here.”

"I'd consider it a win-win. I survive, and you end up with new bedsheets."

He despised her habit of responding with unrelated quips, deflecting from the original question. It was one of the few things about her that had always bothered him —a trait he’d detested from the start.

“Well?”

“Well what, Kaz?”

“How did you get hurt?”

He watched her as she rolled her eyes and slightly shook her head, ignoring his question once again and turning around to resume her walking.

Before she could move away, he seized her forearm, yanking her forcefully towards him, letting the bedsheets fall as he pinned her against the wall with a swift, aggressive motion.

“I should’ve let you die.” He leaned in close, his breath hot against her skin as he spat out his words.

Her own bruised face inched closer to him, her eyes lifting to meet his, “Why didn’t you?”

“Your demise will be at my hand.”

He staggered backward as she pushed him away, her teeth gritted in pain as she clutched her side. With a low hiss, she countered, "We'll see about that."

“You are just as broken as the day I left you.”

“Last time I checked, you were just as messed up as me.”

* ੈ✩‧₊˚

taglist!: @moonstruck-poet @the-dumpster-fire-of-life @littleshadow17 @izzyisstuff @amybonehouse @justvibbinghere @circus-of-thoughts @anonymous-creep hope you guys enjoyed it! <3

[xuchiya]

"CHAPTER THREE: Words of Affirmation" || kim hongjoong || [a mini-series]

| genre: non!idol hongjoong. ceo! reader. angst. fluff. slice of life | mentions: different language. Korean (Hangul). Tagalog. unfair treatment. love language list

The next few weeks passed by and you were receiving complaints from the other departments because of Hongjoong. At first you receive from your subordinates from across the hall about your secretary sending a wrong file, which at the end— you tell Hongjoong about the details of the requested file that the subordinates were requesting. Then, it leads to another incident where he emails the accounting department the wrong documents to which when they receive it is filled with empty spaces and wrong grammars. You guided Hongjoong in writing down the documents.

That is until incident after incident that the whole floor of your (plus your subordinates and the accounting department) were sending you emails about Hongjoong’s lousy work attitude. You hadn't heard anything about the rumours involving Hongjoong and the visitor, but something about his demeanour told you that something was off, you knew there was something about that day you found him and the whole company in a different aura.

It was as if an entity came and left with a stain, leaving your co-workers, staff and including Yunho and Hongjoong to feel it. And you do not like how it is affecting their whole stamina, energy to walk through the day

You sigh, opening another complaint email before you close the tab; at the right time, Hongjoong walks in holding the documents that you requested for the Technology department. As you watch Hongjoong approach you, take notice of his body and its language. Over the past few weeks, his usual confident and efficient manner had all but vanished. He seemed distant, his focus shattered into pieces. His tasks, once carried out with precision, were now riddled with mistakes—papers shuffled in the wrong order, files misplaced, and even the smallest errands turned into clumsy missteps.

Sighing softly, you took the papers from his hand. “We’ll be having a meeting with the board. Please prepare the meeting room.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, bowing his head before turning to leave. Your eyes followed him until the door closed behind him, and only then did you allow yourself a deep sigh. You removed your reading glasses, placing them on top of your head, trying to shake the unease that had settled in.

The final straw came when you saw him bump into Jongho, your IT director, in the hallway. The papers he was carrying scattered everywhere, and his apology was fervent, almost panicked. It took your bodyguard’s gentle intervention to remind him to breathe and limit his words. This was not the Hongjoong you knew—the one who always seemed in control, handling even the most stressful situations with calm precision.

Jongho, though younger in years, had seniority in experience and merely brushed it off with a kind remark, “Being new in the environment can be a struggle.” But you knew Hongjoong wasn’t struggling before. Something had changed, and it concerned you deeply.

You couldn’t pinpoint the cause of his distress until Seonghwa, your mentor, whom you had called yesterday to consult about several matters—including Hongjoong—joined you for tea one afternoon.

As you tilted the teapot, pouring tea into his cup and then yours, you apologized, “I’m sorry, Hwa, but our tea time might be cut short. The board wants to hold a meeting before they leave for their international conferences.”

Seonghwa sipped his tea calmly, his eyes never leaving yours. Yet, you noticed the subtle roll of his eyes. His tongue grazed his upper lip to catch a stray drop of tea before he sighed softly, placing his cup down on the saucer with a gentle clink. “Darling, you mean their vacation with their mistresses…” His voice dripped with venom, yet it was as smooth as butter to which you threw a napkin at him, “Hush.” He leaned back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. “Tell me… what is this aura I’m sensing? It’s so compelling, I could feel it from two blocks away.”

You chuckled, leaning back in your seat. The two of you sat on opposite sides of the sofa in your office. You glanced down at your manicured nails. “I’m not even sure what kind of aura this is. It’s like… it’s here to drain my staff’s energy, and now they’re working as if they’re forced to.”

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow. “That’s not what I meant, but let’s address that first.”

This time, you arch your eyebrows. “What do you mean?” He took another sip of his tea before setting the cup down again. “Mr. Piolo has been visiting your office for almost a month and a half now.”

Curiosity and fury sparked within you. That man never seemed to miss an opportunity to complicate your life—and the entire company’s, for that matter. Ever since you have risen from the ashes of total labor, he has taken bitterly to your success rather than being thankful like the rest of the people who witnessed it. But you were also perplexed. Why hadn’t anyone reported his visits to you? And why hadn’t Hongjoong mentioned him at all?

“He does?! And no one bothered to report it to me?!” Your hand flew to the bridge of your nose, feeling a sudden of negative energy surging and an intuition concluding inside your head. Seonghwa, who has been sipping his tea, smiles behind the cup as he finally pokes the bear awake with his heel boots.

“I must say your readings are getting better but to answer your question, I heard it from Yeosang— he reported it to me and confirmed it through one of your subordinates. Your secretary had taken a toll on those words.” Your fist curled tightly, if angry smoke can be animated in real life, your nose would be like those angry bulls seeing red. 

The anger bubbled up inside you, hot and unyielding. How dare someone come into your space and treat your people this way? Hongjoong had always been loyal, diligent, and now this?

You, as a CEO and caring person in one body, you were determined to justify any of your staff whatever situation they are in and you will never let any kind of entity walk all over them; you are determined to wipe those smug faces and curse them—

“Before you start cursing them in your head, darling. I am intrigued by this—other— aura you are giving.” Your eyes blink in confusion, glancing at his sudden change of expression. It went from having a teasing smirk in his lips, “O-Other aura? Did you Yeosang speak about another thing here inside my company?” 

Seonghwa chuckles, “Darling, do I really have to read it for you?” 

You were quite frustrated, curious and drained from the numerous times your emotions clashed together in a day. And now that you are inside the meeting room discussing the next project that Jackson offered but since he is not able to come by, his partner was the one discussing it. 

As you were rubbing your forehead rather frustratedly, your eyes strained on Hongjoong. He is standing near the door of the meeting room, the gentle lit of the projector creating a soft shadow on his facade. It's an innocent, harmless person with boba eyes that you lately notice were dimming and his aura. Your intuition comes back again as you read his body language again and he seems to be uncomfortable yet intrigued with what is happening.

Beside him is Seonghwa, throwing judgemental looks on anyone around (except for you).

Your thoughts were spinning, trying to piece together the puzzle of Hongjoong’s distress and Mr. Piolo’s unreported visits. You were so lost in your contemplation that you barely registered the murmurs around the boardroom table until someone cleared their throat, snapping you back to the present.

“—ma’am, what do you think of Jackson’s idea?” one of the board members asked, his voice cutting through the fog in your mind. You blinked, quickly gathering yourself. Rockwell, Jackson’s  head of marketing, had been outlining a new strategy to revitalize the brand’s image. You nodded, grateful for the chance to refocus.

“Rockwell, tell Jackson about his new idea that it is good and that the extension of the idea a while ago with this may result in good rate in the market in 2025,” you began, leaning slightly forward to show your engagement, Rockwell smiles brightly on your tone, “I think your proposal is intriguing. However, I have a few concerns about the budget allocation. Can you walk us through how you plan to ensure we stay within our financial targets while implementing this strategy?”

Rockwell smiled, clearly pleased you were engaging with his idea. “Of course. I’ve considered the current budget constraints and believe we can reallocate funds from underperforming campaigns without compromising their effectiveness. Additionally, I propose a phased rollout, starting with a pilot in key markets to gauge the response before fully committing resources.”

You nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense. I’m particularly interested in seeing how the pilot performs. If it’s successful, we can look into scaling it further. Does anyone else have thoughts on this?”

The room murmured with agreement, and a few members offered additional insights. You noticed one of the board members, Mr. Holland, watched you with an unreadable expression.

“Excuse me,” said Mr. Holland, one of the older board members. He had been watching you closely throughout the meeting, his sharp eyes missing nothing. “You seem rather preoccupied today. Is everything alright?” His question was pointed, and you could feel the weight of the room’s attention shift toward you. Mr. Holland’s amused smile deepened slightly, but he remained silent, waiting to see how you’d respond.

You gave a polite, measured smile, careful not to reveal too much. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Holland. Everything is fine, just a lot on my mind with the upcoming projects. But I assure you, I’m fully focused on today’s discussions.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on you a moment longer” Or perhaps … you were preoccupied with the issue of employees?” Your eyebrows frowned. The weight became more heavy as you notice Hongjoong’s body flinching from the tone and topic. You sigh, mentally rolling your eyes, “Mr. Holland, I assure you that this issue has nothing to do with you nor concerns the board members—”

“What if it does? What if it affected the company’s rate or reviews? What are you gonna do?” He stood up, his round stomach brushing against the table, causing it to shift slightly. No one moved to adjust it as he began rounding the table like a predator circling its prey. The atmosphere in the room grew tense, the other board members exchanging uneasy glances.

“Mr. Holland,” you began, keeping your tone steady, though you could feel the tension rising in your chest, “I assure you, this issue has been handled internally. It has no bearing on the company’s rate or reviews. Our focus today should remain on the agenda.”

He stopped directly across from you, his eyes narrowing. “Handled internally? That’s what concerns me. This company runs on transparency, doesn’t it? And yet, here you are, dismissing something that clearly affects your staff’s morale.”

You noticed Hongjoong flinch again, his discomfort evident. The room was silent, waiting to see how you would respond. You knew this wasn’t just about the issue at hand—this was a power play, and Mr. Holland was testing you, pushing to see how far he could go.

"If I remind you, Ms. Kang, that you are the CEO of this company and should know her people and their capabilities, skills and mostly their names and titles, no matter the language barrier." His eyes subtly flickering behind you. You scoff but not evidently to the eyes of the board members.

Tapping the butt of the pen, not making eye-contact with him as you spoke. "If I remind you, Mr. Holland, that I am the CEO of this company and I should know my people and their capabilities, skills and mostly their names and titles." 

Mr. Holland nods, his pride swelling in his chest as he looks around as he just won the biggest prize in the carnival, showing off.

Taking a deep breath, you decided to address the situation head-on. "But I don't need to be reminded of my position to know when my people are being underestimated." You continue, finally meeting Mr. Holland's gaze with a sharp, unwavering stare. "I chose my people who work here for their exceptional talents— not for how well their existence rolls off your tongue. SO, unless you're suggesting a different reason for recognizing skills, I suggest you focus on contributing to this company instead of belittling my employees."

Mr. Holland's smug expression falters, his pride deflating as he realizes the room's attention is now on him, but not in the way he hoped. He was not satisfied with your answer but before he could go on further, Seonghwa— who insisted on staying after your tea time, who had been watching the exchange with a keen eye, finally spoke up.

“Mr. Holland,” Seonghwa’s voice was calm but carried an unmistakable authority, “perhaps it would be best if we allowed the CEO to manage internal affairs as she sees fit. We trust her judgement, after all. And unless there’s concrete evidence that this matter is affecting our bottom line, I suggest we move on to the next item on the agenda.”

Mr. Holland paused, weighing his options. His gaze flicked between you and Seonghwa, and finally, he relented with a slight nod. “Very well,” he said, his tone begrudging. “But I’ll be keeping a close eye on how this develops.”

As he returned to his seat, the room exhaled collectively, the tension easing slightly. You shot a grateful glance at Seonghwa, who simply gave you a knowing smile, as if to say, We’ll discuss this later.

The conversation resumed, but the atmosphere had subtly changed. You could sense the undercurrents of curiosity and perhaps a hint of suspicion among the board members. As the meeting continued, you made a mental note to address Hongjoong’s situation and Mr. Piolo’s visits as soon as possible. 

Night had fully engulfed the entire sky and was littered with thousands of small stars, yet your face was lighted by your computer screen and your fingers dancing on the keys of your keyboard.

“Talk to him. He is a guy with openness yet he is closed.” 

Seonghwa's voice and advice echoed in your mind as you glanced at the time in the bottom right corner of your screen—00:43. With a sigh, you saved your work and shut off the monitor. Grabbing your bag and phone, you prepared to call Yunho to start the car, but something caught your attention: the light was still on in your secretary's office.

"Hongjoong?" you called softly as you peeked inside, only to find him slumped over his desk, papers crushed beneath his sleeping form. You frowned as you stepped into the room, noticing that the documents weren't company-related. Instead, they were handwritten pages—an apology letter, a list of his perceived failings, and another letter that caught your eye.

"Resignation?" The word tumbled out of your mouth, your heart sinking like a stone. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you realized how deeply this must have affected Hongjoong, driving him to the point of wanting to step down. You look at his face, noticing some dark circle underneath his eyes, his eyelashes were such an umbrella to cover them yet it was no use when those were evident and took most of his features.

His eyes were sunken when you talked to him about the meeting. He never met your eyes like he used to when he is confident and worried about other stuff. Had he been carrying this burden alone for weeks, too afraid to confide in you? Was he worried you might react harshly and end his career?

With a slight shake of your head, you crumpled the resignation letter and tucked it into the pocket of your winter coat. Stepping closer, you reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. A small gasp escaped your lips as your fingers made contact—it was like a jolt of electricity, not painful, but enough to remind you of the conversation you'd had earlier.

“I am intrigued by this—other— aura you are giving.” Was this another reading that you missed? Misread? 

With a gentle push on his shoulder, you wake him up, “Hongjoong, wake up.” It stirred him awake, his eyes were in veiny red from his short nap and the sight of drowsiness was adorable. He might look like this when he wakes up in the morning, probably the way he rises up on his bed with no clue of what time or what dimension he is at. 

Your eyes widen from those thoughts, quickly straightening your body and a loud clearing of your throat, “Come on. There’s no midnight bus at this time.”

“W-What?” He looked around, disoriented, rubbing his eyes as he slowly came to. The dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced under the harsh office lighting. He blinked a few times before his gaze settled on you, a flicker of confusion crossing his features.

“There’s no midnight bus at this time,” you repeated gently, offering him a small smile to ease the tension. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride home.”

Hongjoong blinked again, his sleep-addled mind trying to process your words. “You don’t have to, ma’am,” he murmured, trying to gather the papers scattered on his desk. “I can manage.”

But you shook your head, placing a firm yet gentle hand on his shoulder. “I insist. You’ve done enough for today. Let’s go.”

With some reluctance, Hongjoong nodded and slowly rose from his chair, his movements sluggish. You noticed how he swayed slightly on his feet, exhaustion weighing him down. Without a word, you took the papers from his hands and neatly stacked them on his desk. “These can wait until tomorrow.”

He didn’t argue, simply nodding as he followed you out of the office. The walk to the parking garage was silent, the only sound being the soft echo of your footsteps against the concrete. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, noting how he seemed to retreat into himself, his usual confident demeanour completely gone.

Yunho waves when he sees your figure and nods his head on Hongjoong, to which he nod his head too. Yunho opened the car door on the backseat. As you take a seat inside, you notice Hongjoong not knowing where to sit; whether it be in the passenger seat or beside you until Yunho gestures something and then the door beside you opens and Hongjoong takes the seat on your right side.

 Once in the car, the silence between you was heavy, almost suffocating. You could feel the unspoken words hanging in the air, and you knew you needed to address the elephant in the room. Yunho started the engine and pulled out of the parking space, the city lights blurring past you. After a few moments, you finally spoke, breaking the silence. “Hongjoong,” you began, your tone gentle but firm, “I saw the resignation letter.”

His head snapped towards you, eyes wide with panic. “I-I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean for you to see that. I was just… I thought…”

You cut him off, glancing at him briefly. “I’m not angry, Hongjoong. But I am concerned. You’ve been carrying this weight on your shoulders for weeks— month or more even! And I didn’t realize how much it was affecting you.” At the end of your sentence, your voice softened; your heart breaking that most of the time, Hongjoong kept to himself that it affected his work.

He looked down at his hands, which were clenched tightly in his lap. “I didn’t want to burden you with my problems,” he admitted softly, glancing outside. The city lamps are marked like a star shining in the night sky, tall stark buildings past them before looking down. “I thought I could handle it, but… everything just got too overwhelming.”

You nodded, understanding the pressure he must have felt. “I appreciate your dedication, but you don’t have to go through this alone. I’m here to help, not just as your boss, but as someone who cares about your well-being. I look after my staff— they do work for me and I want them to achieve their dreams by being happy, not stress.”

Hongjoong looked at you, a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. “I’ve been struggling… With the language barrier, the workload is okay–  I manage but just… everything, I feel alone and everyone looks at me differently. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“You haven’t disappointed me,” you assured him. “But I do want to help you. How about this: I’ll arrange for you to take language lessons during work hours. You’ll still be doing your job, but I’ll make sure you have the time and resources to improve your language skills. It’ll be a year-long process, and by the end of it, I’m confident you’ll feel more comfortable and capable.”

Hongjoong’s eyes widened, a mix of surprise and relief washing over his features. Hongjoong’s heart was leaping out of his chest, the way he observes the light in your eyes as you spoke about in helping him. With thousands of reasons, yet one of them meant love and Hongjoong could feel his entire face thinking that immediately, “You’d do that for me?”

“Of course,” you said, offering him a warm smile. “You’re a valuable member of this team, Hongjoong. I want to see you succeed, not just in your work but in your personal growth as well.” He was silent for a moment, clearly overwhelmed by your kindness. “Thank you, ma’am,” he finally said, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” you replied softly. “Just know that I’m here for you, and I want to see you thrive.”

As Yunho approached the small house in Busan, the tension in the car had eased, replaced by a sense of understanding and mutual respect. Yunho pulled up to the curb and put the car in park, turning to face you two, “Ma’am we arrive.”

You nodded, looking outside your window. The house isn’t modern yet it feels cozy, with the vine wrapping around the house with lamps hanging outside the door that made it look more aesthetic looking. “Beautiful house.”

“Take the weekend to rest,” you told him as both of you stepped out of the car and in front of his gate. “Come back on Monday ready to start fresh. We’ll get through this together.”

Hongjoong nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Thank you, ma’am. I really appreciate it.” You returned his smile, feeling a sense of satisfaction that you had managed to ease his burden. “Get some rest, Hongjoong. We’ll talk more on Monday.”

He nodded again, opening the gates and stepping in the front yard. Before closing the gate, he paused, looking back at you with a newfound sense of determination in his eyes. “I won’t let you down,” he said quietly.

“I know you won’t,” you replied, giving him an encouraging nod. You waved as you got in the house and Yunho made a U-turn and disappeared down the street. Hongjoong stays in front of the yard as he waves a little before the black Honda makes a turn from where you both came from.

As he did, his hand that was waving went to clutch his heart. It is his first time his heart felt alive and lively with blooms of beat. 

“ehem.” Hongjoong squeak in surprise as the familiar, teasing tone of his older brother echoes the night. When he spun on his heel, he was met with his mother smiling widely and his father looking proud; in the middle is his brother with his eyebrow arched with a teasing smirk.“Honey … who’s the girl?” His mom giggles. Hongjoong thought that it would be a long night.

[sitp-recs]

considering is close to halloween now (ok it’s october 1st but lmao) do you have any spooky / halloween related recs? it can be drarry or femslash or wolfstar or whatever. i’ve never read any fic in the hp fandom with halloween in mind before :0

Happy Halloween season! 🎃 Absolutely, I don’t have the stomach for gore but I do love myself some spooky reads. Here are some of my faves - they’re all Drarry but I’d suggest checking the 2022 HP Fear Fest masterlist. Enjoy! 👻

I Demand a Soft Epilogue by @the-starryknight (M, 1k)

James didn't arrive on the Hogwarts Express, and so Harry hasn't slept in a week. Something has brought him back to the stoop outside a building marked "Library" in gold letters. He's going to go inside. Maybe the Librarian can help.

The Heart of the Manor by kedavranox (M, 4k)

In his efforts to remove the taint Voldemort left on the Manor, Draco hires a team of Curse-Breakers. But what will happen when they stumble upon something older and more insidious than simple Dark magic?

The Other Cottage by @corvuscrowned (T, 6.5k)

If Pansy wasn’t shagging Ginny Weasley, Draco would never have been dragged to Luna’s ridiculous Halloween party in the first place - meaning he wouldn't be sitting in the corner of the room with Harry Potter all night. But when a strange comet passes overhead, things start to get even weirder than usual.

Doppelganger by @writcraft (M, 7k)

It was just a silly dare, but one ill-advised trip into the Forbidden Forest changes Harry’s life forever.

Saltwater Stain by @the-starryknight (M, 9k)

Seven days stuck on a boat investigating a rogue ghost wouldn't be so bad if Harry didn't want Draco so much. Draco has his rules and Harry's content to follow them, but the air feels different away from the shore. Is it possible that the sea could offer Harry something impossible on land?

And So Death Took by @icmezzo (E, 25k)

Fairy tales may soothe small children into slumber, but some stories themselves refuse to sleep. The Tale of Three Brothers, retold.

In Our Blood by secretsalex (E, 38k)

Draco is an accomplished pure-blood curse breaker, and Harry is tasked with accompanying him on his latest job—cleaning up the Van Boer mansion, which has been under a devastating fertility curse for seven generations.

Yours is the Earth (Hold On, Hold On) by chickenlivesinpumpkin (E, 127k)

After a serious accident in the Forbidden Forest, Draco's personality begins to undergo subtle changes. At first, Harry credits this to a new enthusiasm for life. But as the days pass and Draco's behavior becomes more and more mysterious, Harry begins to suspect that something bigger--and darker--is at work.

Forgive Those Who Trespass by Lomonaaeren (E, 135k)

Harry Potter was convinced he had an ordinary, if inconvenient, life. Then Ron and Hermione vanished in the Department of Mysteries. And the only person who may know where they are is a mute Draco Malfoy.

[lucid-ivory]

ex Anam Cara

Anam Cara is a phrase that refers to the Celtic concept of the "soul friend" in religion and spirituality.

summary: reader was betrayed by a friend who somehow ended up leading the cartel you were "hunting". you showed no mercy.

characters: ghost, soap, price, gaz & alejandro x fem reader

genre: angst-ish with comfort

cw: typical violence, gore, implied SA attempt

note: reader is young, again. "he" is just an imaginary villain aaand there's a long introduction.

you've known him for long enough, maybe there was a spark between you two.

you barely had alone time for yourselves, but maybe that was better.

the other friends in your group never said anything, at least in front of you.

he was...

gentle, caring.

lovely.

but he vanished.

Your teammates, including you, were tied to different chairs in an eerie room. Walls were covered in dry blood and you all could see cut limbs from people that don't exist anymore scattered all over the floor.

You knew for a while already he was in charge. All the clues you've found just reaffirmated this.

Fortunately for you, the adrenaline in your brain wasn't letting you feel. Why would you care now about all the memories you had together along with the other friends? Your mission was to make it out alive before he sold your organs for a simple gram of any drug he could find.

The rest of your teammates knew how hard this case was for you: betrayal was nothing unknown for them, though you were kind of new to this.

You had him in front of you, almost wanting to make you submit; you felt his punches and harsh words, you heard him admit everything he's done, you've heard him whispering all the cruel things he'd do to you. In his eyes, you were the traitor for exposing his business.

You expected the worse: he knew your fears, your triggers. He knew how much splitting your arms open would make you cringe, he knew how humiliated and dirty you would feel if he just did filthy and profane things to you in front of the other men, your so called "teammates". He convinced you they would enjoy it.

All of you were tied , but only you were threatened. It's like he didn't see the rest.

You felt irritated, your arm was shaking though not in fear precisely; you felt the need to punch, cut, split open, harm, hurt, kill. You felt responsible and almost guilty for leading your team to this place, for bringing up this cartel.

What about the rest of your friends?

They weren't clueless.

You still remember this girl that suddenly vanished too. She was close to you. You remember the police saying how she simply ran away. And now you remember his words from some seconds ago, explaining how he tortured her, how he ate her alive, how he "made her a woman" only to finally kill her and pick her organs like anyone would pick cherries from a tree.

To sell them later.

"What did you expect me to do?"

His words only made you want to bite him and spit his skin far away like a savage animal would.

"Hm. You'd be expensive".

Your wrists were burnt from all the friction with the goddamn rope that was holding you in place, but you weren't even able to feel it. You just needed to free your hands, and then you'll think what goes next.

His fingers started undoing your hair that you usually kept in different hairstyles to not bother you. It was almost loving, he did it carefully.

You did not want his hands on you, you did not want him near you or anyone else. You could only use your teeth, and so you did.

A hiss of agony was heard, as if he was still trying to play tough in front of you. He tried to remove his hand from you, but you kept biting through only to free yourself from his threatening aura.

Your teeth were now stained crimson, and he stared almost in horror at his hand as he finally removed it. You groaned and spat the blood.

Ghost was the only one who felt almost proud at seeing you in such a violent and primal state. He knew he didn't have to worry, at least for now. He was convincing himself you could handle this.

Price was worried, though. He wasn't fond of the way he was "caressing" you after so casually explaining how he would "physically corrupt" you.

Soap was almost as angry as you, about to go feral. He appreciated your emotional and physical strength to just bite him as if you were some sort of dog; using the last resources you had.

Gaz didn't do or say anything. He was just constantly looking at Price. Maybe that's why Price tried to act rough in front of him. If the leader is scared, everyone will get scared.

"Leave her alone, cabrón!"

His words were ignored.

"I always wanted it to be you".

You almost froze, eyes sharp staring at him as if you were about to snap at any moment.

"But she was always hanging out with us. She won it".

"You fucker! You killed her!"

A different type of hate and disgust could be heard in your voice.

"She was your friend, I know. Mine too."

You let out a heavy breath along with a shaky groan.

"..you killed her..."

You could simply repeat your words all over again. She wasn't missing, she wasn't kidnapped, she was killed. By *him*.

If it wasn't for the situation, your reaction would almost be fascinating and mesmerizing. Strong.

You felt the blood on your wrists, and a kick on your stomach. You were now laying down on the floor, you don't even know when it happened.

He grabbed you by the shirt, he screamed in your face, he punched your stomach again. You couldn't breathe.

The rest of the team could only sit and watch you in agony, watch you being dragged by him almost as if you were...

...dead?

You struggled, but you still managed to move around and kick. They knew you were still alive, but probably on the verge of passing out.

But everything went for the better when you got rid of the rope holding your wrists and you managed to punch him in specific parts of his legs that would make him see stars for a while. Your wrists ached and stung, burned by the friction with the rope. You didn't care, you went for it, for everything, for the sharpest tool you could find to cut his ankles and legs. You threw him on the ground, you opened his throat. The men swore they could see you almost trying to drink his blood. You stabbed his chest and stomach several times, enough to make him unrecognizable.

Soap looked at you amazed, almost with some sort of psychotic smile on his face, he never expected to see you in such a state of pure rage. Ghost calmly watched you do your job. Gaz was surprised, almost... terrified.

When you were done with your massacre, your whole body was covered in blood and you were breathing heavily. You were sure you probably hurt yourself too in the process, but the fear and shock in your brain wasn't letting you realize. You stopped, and stared at the mutilated body below you. Nothing felt real anymore. You killed lots of people already but... it was never that bloody and violent. It was never someone close to you.

You slowly got up, your hands weren't dirty with blood; they felt stained.

"Good job, mi chula".

You faked a smile at Alejandro and proceeded to use the same knife to cut the other ropes that were tying the rest of your teammates to their chairs. Your hands were shaky and everyone noticed, you simply said it was the adrenaline.

Price could almost hear your heart crushing, it was like he read your mind: you didn't want to be there anymore. You wanted to cry your eyes out. You killed him in the most disturbing way possible.

Maybe your mission was already done. The cartel would not work with all the people and their leader being dead.

[...]

"It's okay, you're okay".

Ghost wanted to comfort you. Your eyes were watery, your leg was non-stop bouncing and your hands were still shaking yet you would never show your panic.

"You did great, Sergeant".

You turned around to look at Soap on your other side, crouching on the floor next to you, holding onto the chair in which you were sitting.

Price was in front of you with his arms crossed. This type of violence wasn't anything new for them, but this kind of reaction, especially coming from you, was.

You were surrounded by the entire team, and you didn't quite know if it was comforting or overwhelming.

"It could've been worse, trust me. I thought he was going to kill you right there".

Gaz still looked terrified; terrified of you, and terrified of the entire situation they just survived thanks to her.

"You saved yourself, and us too." Price said. "Maybe you deserve a higher rank."

"You were badass back there, querida" Alejandro continued. "No need to cry".

It almost felt unreal how everyone was trying to cheer you up. Their words still didn't help that much as you simply stared at some empty point of the room with your eyes wide open and your entire body still shaking.

"Betrayal hurts, Sergeant. But by the way you're still trying to keep your tears inside I can guarantee you were made for us".

You let out a shaky breath.

"Thanks, Ghost..."

You barely finished your sentence when you were immersed in warm, tight hugs and friendly pats.

shorter than i expected it to actually be and it's a bit shit but hope there's someone out there who likes it 😭 also this is my first time writing an actual story instead of just headcanons so i'm not sure if it's fine. ALSO my requests are open !!