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kneelingshadowsalome · 1 year

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A Brute, An Angel... (König x F!OC)

Summary: König gets an order to make a female SpecGru sniper talk, but König doesn't want to hurt women.

Category: Smut 🔞, angst, fluff

Tags & warnings: Explicit mature content +18 audiences only, strangers to lovers (slight enemies to lovers), dubious consent, threats of rape, virgin!König, size kink, size difference, p in v, multiple orgasms, cunnilingus, squirting, hugs and cuddles, super fluffy ending. König will be named in later chapters.

A/N: KorTac and SpecGru are rivaling military contractors, Conor is König's superior (and a huge villain), and I just wanted to write angsty smut featuring our favourite Austrian boi.

Part 1/3 of Valkyrie

Read on Ao3

A Brute, An Angel...

"You're always yappin' about how ya can make prisoners talk. Now here's ya chance."

König tried his best to stand tall while Conor spat at him with a gruff accent he couldn't quite place. He could tell the man got off on this: getting a chance to order him around and making him uncomfortable. He concentrated on looking down at him — knowing perfectly well that it only pissed Conor off when he did that. As if König could will himself to be shorter.

"But she's a… She's a girl. Sir."

"She is an enemy, and we need that intel."

I highly doubt that, sir.

"What do you want me to do with her?"

"Make the captive talk. Ya don't have to do the usual. If y'know what I mean."

"Are you suggesting that I rape her, Conor?"

The fact that he used the Lieutenant's name to appeal to him on a more personal level should've spoken volumes. But it had little effect on the man everybody in the KorTac was more or less scared of.

"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm giving you an order."

If Calisto or Stiletto were here, Conor would be on the ground by now, begging for mercy. König found himself thinking what stopped him from gutting the man right then and there.

"Does the team leader know about this?"

“Never ya mind about that."

"Permission to speak, sir," Zero pushed in.

"Go on."

"This goes against the protocol-"

"Did ya give two shits about the bloody protocol when we were in Adal?"

The abrupt outburst almost made König flinch. Almost.

Zero didn't turn the slightly disgusted gaze away, but snapped his mouth shut.

"I - I can't do it," König muttered.

"You sayin' you refuse to obey an order?"

König straightened upon hearing the word 'order' but otherwise remained in confused silence.

"I suggest you carry on unless ya wanna get demoted to a fuckin' desk job. It's your call."

And with that, Conor turned and marched off. Zero followed suit, sparing a pitiful glance at König as he went.

He was left alone in the bunker hallway, illuminated by a lamp that produced an unnerving buzz.

Conor was only doing this because he liked to bully him. Somehow, somewhere, Lt had lost his humanity, but it wasn't supposed to be his problem. Not until Conor made it his problem.

Something in him made the Lieutenant tick. König didn't know whether it was because he was a relatively fresh recruit or whether it was the fact that he was a foreigner. Hell, maybe it was the mask, how could he know?

"Fuckin' jerry."

And he wasn't even; he was Austrian, but Conor didn't care, which meant that it was something else about him that got under his skin. The man had vehemently decided to hate him, and he could do nothing about it.

König turned to the door leading to the interrogation room, grabbed the doorknob, inhaled deeply, and went in.

The girl was tied to the ceiling with a grey paracord that bit into her wrists as she hung there, barely able to stand. The bastard had bound her unreasonably tight. An ugly sight, that.

But she wasn't.

The thick braid was messy, her arms were more or less bruised, and her face had dirt on it, but she was, by far, one of the loveliest beings he had ever seen. She looked like heaven and hell, an angel of war who had fought for days against overwhelming forces and only wanted to sleep.

He swallowed, glad of the hood making the blob of his Adam’s apple invisible. She stirred and looked up, eyes dark with the burned out wrath of a cornered wild thing. She looked dog-tired, and scared. Beaten. And no one had even struck her yet. Not that he knew of, at least.

She pulled herself to her feet by the rope, although it was long enough to allow her to stand, and raised her chin.

"So you're the one they sent to break me."

-----

It was him.

The man that had gotten her in this situation in the first place.

She had been stupid enough to freeze for a few moments, the crucial little moments that meant the difference between life and death, escape and capture. And for what? To watch how this beast raged on the battlefield like it was his playground, to watch how he plowed through her mates while bullets showered around him. Seemed to evade him even though he was the largest possible target in the whole damn skirmish.

It didn't really help that his gear was gone. He was still one of the biggest men she had ever seen. If not the biggest.

The black hood was still in place, though, making him look like an inquisitor. Or an executioner.

She suspected he was here to make her talk. He could probably make anyone talk... But there was a particular threat present here. She was a woman in a helpless state, and she had a hunch that this mountain of a man wouldn't shy away from any methods that would humiliate and destroy her. He probably enjoyed it: getting a little treat after a nice day in the field.

The man strode to her, and it seemed that the only thing that moved as he walked was his hips. But the sound of his weight, the sheer mass that met the floor through combat boots, made her draw back in a futile attempt to disappear somewhere between her raised arms.

He stopped a generous few feet away, crossed his arms over his chest, then unraveled them again to his sides. He was all corded muscle beneath that black shirt, the fabric barely concealing the curves of a well-built chest. The poor textile stretched from the swell of his shoulders.

She didn't say anything. She expected a punch in the face, a knee to the stomach. Something to get things started.

He walked behind her, much more slowly, the thumps against the cold, hard cement causing the hair on her neck to stand on end. He stepped close, so close that she could feel his body heat against her back.

"Listen to me." She flinched at his voice, far more high-pitched than she would've suspected from such a beast of a man.

"I'm going to help you. But you have to assist me here."

The 'here' sounded more like german for 'hier'. Through her terror sweat and confusion, she found herself wondering how odd it was that the KorTac had some German guy working for them.

"We have to…" he cleared his throat from the falsetto his voice was climbing to.

And she only now realized that he was nervous.

The soldier was fucking nervous.

"We have to have intercourse," he continued, his accent bleeding thick through her senses like some goddamn ASMR she used to calm herself with. A guilty pleasure she succumbed to when she tried to reach sleep after a mission.

Only after she got past the fact that the enemy soldier's voice made her feel tingly, she understood what he had said exactly. What he was proposing.

She knew that nerves and adrenaline were a fucked up thing. You could get turned on during the most absurd situations when the survival instinct kicked in. Those situations could include getting a target on sight and pulling the trigger, or getting hit and receiving care under fire.

Turned out that it could include the prospect of getting tortured by a 6 feet something enemy merc who whispered in her ear with a thick German accent, gently like a lover.

Perhaps this whole set-up was just another kind of torture. A good cop, bad cop routine, in which he was both of the cops. He tried to tear her walls down and make her trust him, and when she refused to tell him anything, he would get to work. Tear her nails off, dislocate joints, rape her bloody.

"I'm not going to speak."

She announced it with a far less stern voice than she would’ve preferred, and heard him swallow. Either he was damn good at acting, or he was the most socially anxious soldier she had ever seen.

He rounded her and stopped only an inch or two from her face. Which only reached the man’s chest, broad and lean, covered in that black shirt and smelling of battlefield along with his sweat - the combination hitting her nostrils as an undiluted, masculine scent. He reached a gloved hand to prop her chin up, to force her to look at him.

It was her turn to swallow, and the angle he forced her neck caused the sound of her gulp to echo in the bunker. The tactical glove had cut-proof padding on the knuckles, and it scratched the delicate facial skin, even though his touch was more of a coax than a yank. But that wasn’t what caught her attention so vividly that it nearly made her knees buckle.

It was his ice-blue stare. The eyes stood out from the holes of his mask, from among the heavily applied black facial paint like two beacons. And they were gentle. Bordering on puppy eyes. The thought alone nearly made her laugh hysterically.

Even with her faltering knowledge of human character, she could’ve bet all in that this man would not hurt her. That he was far from a torturer.

And the knowledge made her even more confused. If he wasn’t the torturer, then who was he? What the hell did he want?

“You have to co-operate.” His voice was strained with something akin to despair.

“I can only help you escape if you co-operate,” he whispered, his voice so low it went straight between her legs.

Jesus, this was not okay.

He released her chin, but she didn’t turn her gaze away. Her eyes roamed his face, or rather, the black hood that covered it. She wondered why he wore it when other soldiers didn’t bother to hide their identities. The only other man she had seen wearing a mask was Lt, with the top of a human skull attached to his balaclava. And even he wasn’t this big. Albeit menacing and shrouded in mystery that came from all things danger, death, and pain, the man before her now intrigued her far more than even Ghost did.

Why did he hide his face? Why was he so… jittery?

And why did he try to escape her gaze?

He looked like the whole situation was too much for him. To say that the man was distraught when she merely looked him straight in the eyes when he told her that they needed to fuck, would be an understatement.

If she were to choose a man to torture someone with his dick, this would be her last choice.

“What’s the escape plan, then?” She asked, still not believing for a second that he would help her, even if he didn’t strike her as intimidating anymore.

"I, uh…"

"You don't have a plan?"

"Well, not yet."

"Why am I not surprised," she murmured into the stale, dusty air of the chamber. "Why would you even want to help me?"

"I don't hurt women," he said and took a step back as if to confirm that statement.

This was so fucking ridiculous. He was a mercenary in a filthy bunker with a bound prisoner, assuring that he was a gentleman. Was she on candid camera or something?

She had never been in a situation like this. She had never imagined being in a situation even remotely close to this. She would have laughed over the absurdity of the whole thing but couldn't, because her lower lip started to tremble.

He noticed it and instantly shifted weight from one leg to the other. He tried to direct his anxiety into the leisurely movement, and it caused his hips to sway from one side to the other, making her think of all kinds of stupid associations, such as lapdance and snake hips.

With those rather tight khaki pants, it was impossible to prevent her eyes from darting to the bulging thighs and the evident package he was delivering between them.

Jesus fucking Christ, pull your shit together…

"I'm going to get you out of here," he promised.

"That's cute of you," she tiredly threw in, getting far too much satisfaction out of the reaction her words managed to pull out of him. He blinked a few times, and the colossal chest heaved as if the man was trying to catch his breath. "Funny that you need to fuck me to be able to do so."

Another switch from side to side, a sway of those goddamn khaki-covered hips.

"I'm almost positive that the only surveillance they have on this room is that camera over there. The screen is in another room," he told her, sounding stupidly proud of his debatable skills in spying. She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow. "But the guys there are usually watching tv," he hurried to add.

"I doubt they will today if your orders are to rape me." Again, he looked abashed, eyes darting to the floor and back to her. Was this guy thick in the head or something? "Probably got their beers popped and their pants down by now…" she said, and the man let out something close to a squeal.

"That is exactly why we have to… provide them with something until I come up with a plan."

She looked at him and almost smiled. Like one would smile at a daft dog that was far too eager to please.

"You just said you don't hurt women," she said.

"That is why I very much wish you would co-operate," he answered.

"You are the weirdest torturer ever."

"I - I am not a torturer. I'm just a soldier," he tried to assure her with that climbing voice. He was shitty at concealing his uneasiness. The man was completely flustered.

"Then why did they assign you with this… task," she demanded to know. It was yet again laughable: as if he was the one being grilled here. He wouldn't answer, and she cocked her head to the side.

"Ever interrogated with your dick before?" She blurted.

His hands were trembling. Slightly, but they were.

"Negative," he said, voice tight.

Was this guy….

Was he a virgin?

The twisted concept of some romantic chivalry, the nervousness, the respectful distance he kept, and the fact that his hands started shaking when she said a dirty word, all pointed to the possibility that he very much might be.

She thought he was picked because he was big, because his obvious blessings in the crotch department also held a promise of pain. But this guy certainly didn't know what the heck he was doing. And not only because he wasn't a torturer or because he didn't want to hurt a lady. She could almost swear, hand on Bible, that this man had never been with a woman. Not much further than the first base, anyway.

"Well, get on with it then."

She told herself it was only because it was useless to postpone the suffering that would eventually come anyway.

She told herself it was not because she was trying to break a Guinness world record of developing Stockholm Syndrome to this guy and his adorableness. She told herself it was definitely not because she kinda sorta wanted to see how he would act when he had to actually pull that cock out and touch her with it.

He stared at her, eyes wide beneath that oversized hood, and she could swear it was his heart, not hers, that made that thumping sound.

"I am going to touch you," he informed her. Like the dumbest moron.

If she ever got out of here, and if she ever, ever told this story to someone, they wouldn't be able to believe it.

He took his gloves off - why would he even bother to do that? - and let them drop to the ground.

His fingers were long, the fingernails meticulously cut. There were a few scrapes and scratches here and there on his palm, indicating his lack of coordination. Clumsy boy.

When he reached for her, she assumed he would go for her tits, or her waist, or grope her ass. But he didn't. Fingers cupped her face, trembling still, before they slid over her neck and grabbed her throat, not to choke, but to revel. Like she was a sculpture or something, and he wanted to know how the material felt. How soft she was.

She looked into his eyes, because eyes told everything; they would betray a flash of sadism or whatever else she still expected from this strange man. They roamed all over her, darted across her face, every now and then to her eyes, but mostly avoided her stare like the plague. He wouldn’t hold a gaze for much longer than a glimpse of a second. And there was still no sign of lust for inflicting pain. Only perplexed wonderment.

Her hands and arms were numb because of the position she was in, hands tied above her head, blood flow inhibited. But she paid it no mind as his hand traveled down her neck, caressed her collarbones, and then stopped right before he reached the gap between her breasts, free game in the white tank top she had been left with, along with her cargo pants and boots.

“Can I… May I kiss you?” He asked, his voice muffled and so thick that it was difficult to untangle what he had said.

It was such an odd request that her words left her, and she could only produce a whimpering sound at the back of her throat. He took it as a yes, and raised his hood, only enough to reveal a pair of thin lips among a light brown stubble. His mouth opened slightly, then closed, then opened again, as if he didn’t know how to proceed.

He bent down like the giant he was, not hinging at the hips but hunching over towards her, probably trying to appear smaller but ending up looking like there was a tower falling on her. The smell of gasoline and sweat hit her as his lips met hers, parted, and a shy flick of tongue swept across her bottom lip. She tried to remember how to breathe and ignore the rush of wetness that told her she would have no problem whatsoever with him parting her nether lips too. He captured her lip, sucked, then opened his mouth wider and hers with it.

She answered his kiss - just a little bit, and he instantly deepened it and moaned into her mouth. She fluttered her eyes open and saw that his were squeezed shut. He pressed a hand against her back and pulled her against his overwhelming body. All she could feel was muscle… and then some more. He was hard, the thick erection colliding with her stomach all but seductively. She went completely stiff, eyes wide and lips tight.

The man went even more rigid, if possible. He released her mouth with a grunt and buried his head in her neck.

"I can't -... I can't do this, I'm gonna go and tell him they need to find somebody else," he said in a strained voice, riddled with pain.

No. No.

The fuck he would.

If he would be replaced by somebody else, some crazy, blood-drunk soldier with cold eyes and a knife, some jerk-off who hadn't had a go with a woman since their last leave, she would fucking die.

"Please don't," she hushed and swallowed against him, the place where his hood and the collar of his shirt revealed skin.

"I want it to be you," she continued to whisper in his ear, meaning to say If it has to be somebody, let it be you, but choosing to deliver a sentence as persuasive as possible. As inviting as possible.

So that he wouldn't leave her in the hands of someone with no mercy.

"Scheiße…" The hot air brushed against her skin, even through that hood.

"If only I could touch you too," she said, regretting it immediately. She was acting a little too enthusiastic in the midst of her panic. Trying desperately to prevent him from leaving.

But the hand on her back moved down a bit, and long fingers splayed over the small of her back, pressing gently.

"Don't tease me," he huffed, panting although they were both quite still.

Jesus Christ… at this rate, the KorTac could hire her to do the interrogations.

She wondered whether the surveillance team was looking at the scene, which was far too intimate and loving to be an interrogation. What kind of a man would try to pry information out of someone by embracing them gently? Kissing them hesitantly?

In a way, this was torture: she didn't know what would happen to her after… whatever this was. She didn't know what procedures would follow when the others found out he had no intel for them to tell.

Let's get this fucking over with.

"What's your name?" She asked, hoping that the puppy boy wasn't naive enough to tell her his actual name.

"They call me König."

King in german...

"König…-"

She meant to ask him to touch her so that this horrible, awkward mess would come to at least some sort of an end, but couldn't find the words. His name on her tongue seemed to do the trick, though. He ground his hips against her, and had she not been tied to the ceiling, the movement would have toppled her. The hand on her back went behind her knee and raised it to his hip. Then another hand slid down to do the same to her other knee, pulling her from the ground like she weighed nothing at all.

The strain on her arms was released, and the relief was heavenly. For that alone, she could've let him do whatever he wanted to her.

"You're so klein… small," he commented with her raised to straddle his lap and her face finally on the same level as his. "Small people make good snipers," he declared with a hint of longing in his voice.

She had a terrible urge to sling the bundle of hands over his head. And not for self-defense reasons.

"I'm not that small, you're just big," she said, like a beauty to the beast, like it was a cute scene in a movie where everybody was nice to each other. Her gut feeling of the man being a virgin only increased by the minute. He was so… blameless. It was downright unintelligible that he was a soldier.

But she had seen how brutal he was on the field, how he had struck holes in her teammate with a combat knife like he was playing tag and didn't quite know the rules. Didn't know that one stab in a well-picked spot would have sufficed.

She had seen him haul a grown man with 100 extra pounds of tactical gear on him up like the poor man was a barbell, and bring them down over his knee. The sound of a breaking spine would probably haunt her dreams for the rest of her life. She had simply gawked at the display of utter, brutal violence before her. Normal men, even soldiers of a special forces tactical unit, simply didn't do stuff like that. Hands-on, down in the mud, barbarian kind of stuff from medieval times.

And now the same man was fondling her like she was his sweetheart. Like he was about to carry her in the bedroom full of roses and other syrupy valentines shit.

"And what do they call you?"

The accent was really doing things to her, along with the few german words tossed here and there, absentmindedly like candy. He was an enigma with his colossal body, croaking voice, and gentleness that surpassed even the violence.

"Valkyrie."

"You've got to be kidding me," he said, astonished.

"My team found out I used to do fencing, and I'm blonde, so…"

It was silly and the swords weren't even that big. One could hardly call them swords at all, the pointy little things they were.

But the situation indeed had taken a turn into a sick fairytale. Like, come on. Valkyrie and König? Some stupid hippie would've loved that: how it was meant to be, destined, even, that the two of them had met. That she was a damsel in distress, and he was here to save her from the ring of fire.

She stifled the urge to shake her head, to snap out of where this was spiraling into.

Affection.

They barely even knew each other's codenames. She was in a modern version of a dungeon, lit by a single light bulb, about to get raped by some edgy, mentally unstable goliath, she reminded herself. While perhaps psychologically interesting, he was not okay. This was not okay. She had been trained for situations like this.

Except that she wasn't. She was trained to withstand torture, battering, spending days in a cell where the lights never went out. She knew methods to draw the mind away from constant pain. But she hadn't received instructions on what to do in a situation where she wasn't even being questioned. Not even on the sly. Her call sign wasn't much of a secret. They probably knew who she was before they brought her to this room.

"There are many stories of valkyries in my Heimat," he prattled on enthusiastically.

"Yeah, I know the Nibelung saga," she said.

"Very heroic, very German tale."

"You ought to know."

"No no, I'm not German, I'm Austrian," he said.

This was turning into an odd conversation.

"König." She said in an attempt to bring his attention to the present moment. He fluttered his eyes, long lashes batting over that innocent-looking stare.

"Don't. Just… don't," she tried not to stutter.

He had lied to her about not being a torturer. Chatting with her like they were on their first date, discovering that they were actually intrigued about one another... It was insufferable. Although she was the one who had started it by asking his name…

"Right. Getting on with it," he said like he had been given an order. Her heart stung. Tears were welling up from the absurdity of this whole situation, from his silliness, from her having felt rather comfortable and safe in his hold. Fucking safe.

She should quit the army when she got out of here. If she got out of here. She wasn't right in the head to continue with this job.

"I've been an idiot," he told her.

You're damn right.

An idiot she could imagine herself falling in love with in another situation, but an idiot nonetheless.

"You should put on more of a fight, and…" he trailed off.

And you should be rough, you dumdum, she thought. Again, in another situation, she would've probably loved him to be rough.

"Roger," she said to him and heard him chuckle, saw how a few wrinkles appeared in the corners of his eyes. He lowered her down to the ground, and she hissed when her arms extended against the rope again. He let her go, gently, like it was his fault that she was attached to the roof.

"I would help you, but -"

"It's ok." She gave him a weighted look that told him to stop speaking. To get on with the action so that she wouldn't get attached even more than she already was.

He grabbed her by the throat again, doing a shitty job at trying to make it look like he was manhandling her. His eyes landed on her chest, and she could almost hear the wheels turning in his head, thinking about whether he should tear her top. Apparently deciding against it, he went for his trousers instead, pulling the belt buckle open with a click.

It had been a while, what with all the stress and the sleep deprivation not being an ideal combo to get her juices flowing. But nothing could prepare her for the surge of wet heat when the front of those light brown pants practically gave way for what must’ve been the largest bulge she had ever seen. It was almost vulgar, even more so when the fabric of his boxer shorts stretched at the sudden throb.

She realized her mouth was hanging slightly open, and she closed it carefully, but her lips parted again when he continued to shove both of those pants down. He didn’t even bother to take them off, and they were left somewhere mid-thigh, with belt buckle dangling in the air.

And God, he was huge.

It wouldn’t even stand up properly, even though there was no doubt that he had a full-on erection. It jerked between them like a threat, or a dare, but mostly it was just a long, thick, veined baulk that couldn’t support itself because it was just so goddamn big. He was uncut, but the foreskin had drawn back from the arousal, and the tip of his slit glistened with precum.

And he was flustered again, misinterpreting her stare as a sign of fear instead of awe.

"I promise I'll be quick," he whispered, and the first thing that her mind chirped back was Please don't. And not because it would probably be painful. But because she desperately wanted him to slide that monster in inch by inch and take his beautiful time with it.

"Uh-huh," she managed to say before the man codenamed King stretched his fingers toward her pants.

With trembling digits, he opened them and started tearing them down before realizing she could not spread her legs without him taking the pants off. And then he realized he couldn't take them off without taking her boots off.

So what happened was that her panties and pants were halfway down, and the Austrian hulk kneeled in front of her with his hooded face in level with her pussy. He turned his head to the side and leaned a bit on her thigh to unlace her boots, but she was pretty sure he did it mainly because he was embarrassed to look straight at her cunt.

She helped him as much as she could, raising her feet one by one for him to take the combat boots off. He tossed them somewhere to the side and tore her pants down, all the way down, and over her feet, leaving her in her tank top and socks.

He rose, his cock brushed her thigh, and she jerked like she had been scraped by some sharp object. It bounced at the contact, bumping against her again, sweeping a wet streak over her skin.

"Sorry," he mumbled like it was somehow worse than what he was about to do next. When he would shove… that thing inside her.

He picked her up again, almost in a hurry. Her heart was ramming against her ribcage and her mouth was dry as her feet left the ground. He was hard against her belly, flesh hot and throbbing and slick with precum that pushed out from the tip and left wet stains on her top.

This time she did raise her hands over his head and let the arms come down to rest on his shoulders. Her intuition told her she would soon need the support.

He moved her around like she was a doll, letting the erection drop between them to position himself against her slit. Her folds parted without effort as he slid against them, once, twice, before halting.

Don't comment about it, don't…

"You're wet," he grunted with delighted surprise.

"Yeah?" She said like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Just fucking do it, she yelled in her mind, lips drawn into a straight line so that even a dumbass like he could see that this was not the moment for hesitation.

And he didn't hesitate.

He searched, adjusted himself, adjusted her, spread his stance, grunted…

And it was pretty clear by now that he didn't know what he was doing. Her nipples brushed against his chest as he searched for the right spot with her in his arms, and she hoped he would've taken his shirt off so she could feel skin instead of cotton.

"There," she helped him with a whisper as he hit the right spot. He returned, probed, and she guided him. "Now up…", and he bent his knees while raising her slightly. The angle was right, and he finally drove in, slowly but surely.

The stretch was phenomenal. It hurt more than a bit after he had passed the entrance, and the delicious feeling turned into a burning sensation.

"Wait.." she begged, and he stopped immediately, panting like a runner.

"Back up a bit."

He did, pulling out almost completely before she bucked her hips to let him know he could push back in. And when he did, she gasped, and he moaned, so tight and so glorious that the sound that erupted from him was laced with pure need.

"Ach, you're tight.. soft…"

She clenched around him at his shameless commentary, and he let out another broken sigh.

Of course it's tight when you're so big..

He wouldn't go fully in, and she doubted whether he ever even could. She had never been this filled. But more was coming.

He withdrew again before thrusting back inside, deeper still.

"Oh Jesus," she gasped, "yes, just like that.." the words escaped her lips and she noticed his eyes were directed at her, drunk and half-lidded.

"Yeah…" he echoed, his voice shivering like a leaf. "Das gut?"

If her hands were free, she would've torn that hood away, buried her fingers in his hair, and pulled until he would expose his fucking throat for her to kiss and lick.

He began thrusting with a steady pace, shallow but intense, going deeper every now and then when he slipped. His hands shifted, one by one, to grab her by her butt to glide her up and down his length. It was fucking hot that he didn't need his hips to fuck her, that he could just move her around with his hands and slam her against it if he wanted to. Her ankles hooked around his waist on reflex, and her fingers flexed in the ties, trying to grasp onto something but finding only air.

"You feel so good," the short, agonized 'good' coming out more like 'gut'; and her pussy tightened, pulled, and sucked him like he was the best thing ever.

"Sch…shit," he breathed laboriously, taking a moment and thrusting even deeper, eyes closing like he was on the brink of losing consciousness..

He hit a spot that was both familiar and unfamiliar, and she was pretty sure that if someone was looking at the surveillance material, they couldn't tell whether the look on her face was of pain or pleasure. She couldn't keep herself in check, couldn't seize control anymore. She was so soaked at this point that the evidence of her arousal was heavy and loud. So audible that it made her cheeks hot.

"I wonder what you taste like," he mused, his hood shaking in sync with his thrusts. "Honey and raindrops, eh?"

"Mh," she sobbed, her thighs quivering. She wanted to spread them more, to let him see her and have a taste, to present herself for him to do as he pleased. But she couldn't move much in his grasp. It was like she had been propped up on a machine, buckled to a seat reserved just for her.

He took a wider stance as if hearing her thoughts on wanting even more of what he had to offer, and she held on to him as he shifted like the continental plates beneath her. He proceeded to fuck her while leaning his head against the side of hers, and she held on to him as he breathed into her neck. The occasional moan sounded more like a sob as his cock slid in and out, in and out, slick with her wetness.

"You're what they sing about in Rheingold," he kept talking that romantic bullshit in her ear while stuffing her with that long Austrian cock that would make most women squirt if he kept at it long enough. "Und Walküre…"

It was so good she wanted to cry. She thought about letting a tear or two slip and saying it was just for the show if he asked. Virgin or not, König was doing a pretty decent job in making her a writhing, weak mess. He was not too quick, not too slow, but set just the right, rigorous pace that would send her into oblivion. He became the fountain stone, the buoy in the storm. He was the man that would send her over the brink and the man to hold her unwaveringly as she fell.

"Not much longer," he informed her light-heartedly, like he was in the middle of a mission about to be completed. Completed to the fucking full.

She couldn't even begin to tell him that she was already there, because everything suddenly coiled and burst, and she was arching her back, making him reach even deeper, almost fully inside her, the heavy balls slapping against her ass as her toes curled and her body went completely rigid…

The sound that broke out was not a yell, nor a scream, it was a violation of her vocal cords. She had never sounded like this — like someone falling and meeting the ground with a strained, lewd groan. Like someone who had the orgasm of their life.

He startled, almost quailed from her. Not because of the screaming, nor the sounds she made after… but because she came, hard, while he was banging her like a battering ram.

"Genau so…" König rasped, taken aback but trying his all to cover it. He slowed down on instinct, letting her greedy pussy suck on him like it was giving him a blowjob, telling him he was a good, good boy… because her words had left her.

He moved a little, and she could see the flash of those eyes from within the darkness of the hood, knew that he was watching her intently as she swam in ecstasy with an open mouth and pinched nose and eyes that wouldn't focus.

"Schön," he continued, sounding fragile. Weak. Vulnerable…

She couldn't for the life of her look at him, look in those eyes that must've told her things she wasn't strong enough to deal with at the very moment.

Her head dropped and her thighs went slack, but König held her, steadfast like the most gallant knight. He resumed his earlier pace with caution and care, breathing distinctly with his mouth open under that black mask. She was limp in his arms, trying to hold on as best she could while listening how the cock drove into her again with moist, sloppy sounds.

The moans that followed didn’t suit a man of his build at all. She had expected brute strength and hoarse grunts, not pinched, needy sobs and a head softly pressed against her. Forehead against fucking forehead. And he probably didn't even know what it was doing to her because he was such a stupid, adorable little — ugh, big dumbass.

She wanted to grasp his shoulders, slide her hands under his mask and raise it, kiss those moans straight from his lips, and run her fingers all over his stubble, the chiseled jawline she had seen only once. She wanted to feel him, all of him, not just his hands and his cock, even though they were good. Or fucking best. It almost made her cry; the post-orgasm need to cuddle for a bit but not being able to do so because her hands were bound to the fucking ceiling of a fucking dull grey bunker.

"Can I… cum..?"

Was he asking her permission to…

"Can I cum inside… Please, I'm close," he panted.

"Yeah… Yes.."

He slowed down the pace as he drew out his own upcoming release, relishing the last thrusts like he was sampling the finest cuisine. She finally dared to look at him and saw that his eyes were open and full of naked, helpless adoration. Devotion, even.

She must have been imagining: they were only the eyes of a man who was about to nut good. But damn if that fevered, helpless stare didn’t succeed in touching her very soul. To her horror, he wasn't shy this time, but held her gaze, held it, held it — until his lashes fluttered and he went over the brink with a cry.

It echoed from the damp concrete walls, just a single, prolonged wail that eventually broke and ended in miserable panting.

She could feel his cock throbbing, shooting the load inside, emptying the whole magazine in her. How the seed welled up, unable to go anywhere before he would decide to pull out.

König laid his head on her shoulder and pulled her against him, and she was not suspended only in rope but in time and space as well. His shoulders moved up and down with the heavy breaths, and she pulled her tied hands to awkwardly brush his neck as he came down from heaven.

He was shaking. Shaking, and let out a whimper against her skin, and for a fleeting moment, she was sure he was crying or on the verge of doing so.

"König?"

He shuddered a sigh, taking a moment to himself.

She felt hollow. Not raped, not assaulted, not abused. Just hollow, knowing what had happened between them would not be a recurring thing. That there was no 'them', not really. Not in the real, actual world.

"You can let go of me now," she whispered, although that was the last thing she wanted him to do.

But he did as she proposed, lowering her down and sliding out of her only after her feet had met solid ground. He pulled out carefully, gently, like he was leaving his beloved. Warm fluid descended down her left thigh in a streak, indicating that it had been a while for him.

Her head was full of dumb thoughts, such as whether he had a girl waiting for him somewhere back home. In Germany perhaps — no, in Austria. And if he had, just how lucky that person was.

She wondered if he had found someone here, and if they were in the military or not.

She wondered if there was no one, if he was alone, and if he curled up in a fetal position every night before he fell asleep in some bed that was too small for him.

And whether he would get into trouble for violating orders.

"You were," he started, eyes directed to the ground, "magnificent."

Was I your first, King?

"You weren't that bad yourself," she complimented him back, and he huffed.

"You liked it?" He asked in a way that made her heart squeeze tightly in her chest.

"Wasn't it obvious?" She couldn't help but smile. Couldn't… Wouldn't.

"Ja," he chuckled while looking down at his boots with an interest that was totally born from shyness. "I'm glad I could please you," he said before tucking himself demurely back into his trousers.

She wondered if he was as aware as she was of the fact that neither of them had played out the part they were supposed to. It had all gone out the window the moment he had touched her again. Practically thrown out, as if they were defying death itself together.

He gathered her boots and helped her step first inside her panties and then the cargo pants. He had to go around her back and reach from behind to zip her up and put her belt on, and it was such a mundane, cute act that she thought that this was indeed the cruelest form of torture she had ever witnessed. He hovered over her after he was done, and stole a brief caress of her waist before crouching to lace up her boots.

He rose, and came back in front of her, and the silence between them stretched to a short eternity. There were so many things she wanted to say, things he probably wanted to say, thoughts buzzing in both of their heads like bees as his seed cooled down on her thigh and made her pants stick to her skin here and there.

She thought about thanking him for being gentle, but what was she really thanking him for? Raping her tenderly? With the attentiveness and passion of a lover?

Was it rape if she had enjoyed it? If she had had one of the most powerful orgasms of her life?

He was… she had no words for him. The way he had unraveled her in mere minutes was shocking. Devastating, to say the least.

"I will find a way," he promised for the thousandth time. "I will not let them hurt you."

She nodded slowly, continued to do so while looking at him, her eyes welling with tears.

“Hey, kleine Süße, don't worry.” He brushed her cheek with his knuckles, soft and sweet. "I will be your Siegfried."

She didn't have the heart to remind him that both Siegfried and the valkyrie died in that story.

Part 2:

#könig fanfiction #könig smut #könig mw2 #könig call of duty #call of duty #könig imagine #mw2 smut #konig fanfiction #könig x oc #könig x female oc #könig

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serialkillerbettycooper · 2 months

Note

Top 6 Penelope Blossom moments

6. Lesbian Nun Era Every time we haven't seen a television character in a while it should be revealed that they became a nun and realized they're gay. No exceptions.

5. Husband Poisoning Love to see her pulling a Clytemnestra and killing her husband as revenge for her child, especially given the fact that she was groomed from childhood to be his sisterwife. He had it coming <3

4. You're Killing People. Not People, Men. Her Jennifer Check slay. Also her turn as a serial killer is so funny to me she faces zero consequences for any of it until she decides she feels like it and turns herself in.

3. That Time She Put The Core Four Through A Death Gauntlet I'm going to be real with you. I barely even remember why she did all that but I fully support her. Putting everyone in dramatic outfits? Slay. Making Archie fight some guy dressed as a bear? Queen shit. Making Beronica drink poison for each other? Lesbian rights. Shooting Hal Cooper? Iconic.

2. Popping Out Of The Walls to Tell Cheryl She Murdered Their Entire Extended Family The fact that this is probably the nicest thing she ever did for Cheryl speaks volumes. Also addressing her affectionately as Nightmare Child.

1. Living In The Walls To Try Gaslight Cheryl Into Thinking She Was Being Haunted By Her Secret Triplet Julian Incredibly unnecessary. Extremely dramatic and for literally no reason except to fuck with Cheryl's head. Mother of the year.

#are we gonna have a penelope moment can we please have a penelope moment #she's great #riverdale

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tainsan · 1 year

Text

misfits VIII

⇥ pairing: ot8 ateez x fem! reader

⇥ warnings: verbal and physical abuse, anxiety, mentions of death, mentions of blood

⇥ word count: 11.1k

⇥ a/n: in this chapter it may be very triggering to those who have gone through abusive situations, please read with care. this chapter is very angsty.

⇢ masterlist ⇠

previous chapter ⇠ ⇢ next chapter

--- THIS IS AN 18+ FANFICTION MINORS DO NOT INTERACT ---

“Wait backtrack, you have known them for years?” Jisung questions, extremely confused by the story you are telling him. Jisung's touch on your back provides a faint sense of comfort amidst the storm of emotions that engulfs you. His hand moves in a soothing rhythm, gliding up and down your trembling spine. The sobs that wrack your body become a symphony of sorrow, echoing through the air, and intertwining with Jisung's soft touch. With each tremor that courses through you, he maintains a steady presence, a steady anchor in the midst of your emotional storm. His touch speaks volumes, conveying a depth of understanding and empathy that words could never fully capture.

Sniffling, you answer, “Yes, they were that group I was with in high school, the ones who I got friendly with just before my mom died,” you explain, best you can with tears falling down your face and your voice shaking in your throat.

“Huh? You said they died?” Jisung asks, confused by the sudden confession from you, your words not making sense in his head that the eight you used to love were alive.

“I knew it wasn’t true.”

“But if the police said they died, then surely it would be true?”

“I never heard it from the police, I heard it from a guy who claimed to be a family member of ‘captain’. Who is apparently Hongjoong, I guess? It never made any sense, there was no proof, only this stranger’s word.”

“That makes more sense,” Jisung admits, nodding at the information before he realises something, “that’s likely why they changed their name from KQ Fellaz and ‘faked’ their death, so they could have a fresh start.”

“I suppose so, they wanted to start anew,” you conclude, trying to find any excuse or reason for them to have lied to you.

“That’s probably why they didn't tell you then.” Jisung raises his hand to rest on your head, patting it gently in an attempt to comfort you, yet all it does is remind you of all the times Wooyoung or San would do it to you, making your eyes sting even more than before.

“But why would they hide from me? I was their friend, they said I was one of them. How could they lie to me?”

“I am sure they had their reasons. You likely weren’t that close to them back then.”

As your gaze meets Jisung's, a profound realisation settles within you. In order for him to truly grasp the gravity of the situation and provide the support you need; you understand that it is necessary to lay bare the entirety of your journey. With a resolute breath, you begin recounting everything, from the very first moment you crossed paths with them to the heart-wrenching instant when they departed from your life. Every memory, every cherished moment, to the painful goodbye.

It all began in the middle of your Senior year in high school.

“Okay, class please pay attention we have a new student.” Your homeroom teacher announces, yet you pay zero interest to the familiar lady talking at the front of the classroom, simply continuing to draw in the sketch book you brought from home.

Immersed in the classroom setting, you find peace and concentration with a single wired headphone nestled in your ear. As the sounds of commotion and chatter from your surroundings gradually fade away, your attention becomes laser-focused on the small details of your immediate environment. The rhythmic strokes of your pencil on paper create a soothing melody, harmonising with the gentle hum of music seeping into your left ear, creating a personalised soundtrack to your inner world.

Positioned near the back of the classroom, you find yourself beside an open window, inviting the outside world to merge with you. The autumn breeze delicately sweeps through the window, gracefully brushing against your skin and delicately tousling your hair. The serene atmosphere in the air instils a deep sense of tranquillity, infusing your being with an irrefutable sense of ease and contentment.

Momentarily shifting your gaze outside, you are captivated by the sight before you. The warm wind, with its tender touch, continues to playfully tickle your face as if inviting you to fully embrace the present moment. Inhaling deeply, you fill your lungs with the crisp and refreshing scent of fall, a refreshing reminder of the beauty and change that accompanies this season.

“Could I sit here, please?” a soft voice speaks out from your right, if you were even an inch to the left, you would have not heard the boy, who seems to be looking at the chair on which your bag resides. Locking your gaze upon the boy standing before you, a flicker of realisation dawns upon you, and you mentally berate yourself for your sluggishness in comprehending his inquiry. A rush of frustration washes over you as you silently curse your own slowness, your mind now grasping the meaning behind his words. With a mere nod, you hastily seize the bag lying on the nearby surface and hastily tuck it away beneath your own chair, your movements reflecting your urgency. Turning your attention back to your sketchbook, you purposefully avoid glancing at the boy who wordlessly settles into the seat beside you.

Despite the absence of spoken words, you sense an adamant intensity radiating from the boy to your left. Internally, you let out a groan, fully aware that you must address this unfamiliar stranger and request that he mind his business. Tentatively, you direct your gaze towards him, annoyed you have to speak despite, yet before you can utter a single syllable, you are captivated by the sight that unfolds before you.

The boy's face beams with an adorable smile that engulfs his entire face, rendering you momentarily speechless. This unexpected display of pure charm effectively silences your intended retort, leaving your lips tightly sealed.

“I like your drawing.” His voice is incredibly soft and serene, yet the smile on his face speaks thousands of more words. The boy's unexpected compliment catches you off guard, causing a rush of warmth to surge through your cheeks, the telltale sign of an invading blush spreading down your neck. Your expression betrays a mixture of bewilderment and surprise, as you struggle to process this unfamiliar gesture of kindness. In that brief moment, you find yourself momentarily taken aback, incredulous that such a genuinely kind individual exists within the confines of this school.

Observing the boy attentively, you notice a complete lack of any hint of teasing or mockery behind his eyes, further deepening your astonishment. A flicker of uncertainty twinkles within you as you realise that he is carefully examining the paper before you, his gaze fixated on the meticulously crafted sketch of the mesmerising person you encountered during your morning journey to the classroom. A momentary sense of insecurity flits through your mind, as you worry that he will spot every small detail and flaw etched within the artwork. Left momentarily speechless, you can only offer another nod in response, silently conveying your gratitude without the need for words. Exhaustion from the past few days weighs heavily upon you, especially the funeral, leaves you unable to form words. You aren’t sure if it’s from the grief or the exhaustion.

Returning your focus to the sanctuary of your sketchbook, you resume the gentle strokes of your pencil upon the textured paper, desperately trying to capture and preserve the exact essence of the enigmatic person you encountered earlier. Each deliberate movement of your hand serves as an attempt to etch their features into your memory, ensuring that no captivating detail eludes your artistic rendition.

“I’m, uh… Hwa, by the way, it’s nice to meet you.” The boy called ‘Hwa’ speaks out, his voice is still quiet and you’re somewhat glad that he’s so soft-spoken, not wanting to deal with loud and obnoxious people right now. Once more, your eyes drift towards the right, where the boy sits with an endearing smile that effortlessly melts a fragment of your heart. Despite the warmth elicited by his expression, you find yourself limited to another nod as your sole means of communication. This time, your gesture conveys a silent acknowledgement, silently reciprocating his unspoken sentiment of "nice to meet you too." Without delay, you pivot back to your artwork, realising that this marks the third time you have redirected your attention in the span of a mere five minutes.

Hwa, perceptive in nature, detects your unwillingness to engage in conversation and graciously accepts your silent response. His smile remains untouched as he shifts his focus towards the front of the classroom, where your teacher begins recounting events from your weekend. While he respects your preference for silence, a sense of curiosity lingers within him, compelling him to wonder why someone as captivatingly beautiful as you would choose to remain in the shadows of social isolation.

From that crucial moment onward, it became apparent that Hwa had undertaken some sort of personal mission to forge a friendship with you. Each morning, he would approach you, eager to share anecdotes about his day, all about his close circle of seven friends, and his positive experiences in the new school. Puzzled by his unwavering interest in your life, you couldn't fathom why he found you intriguing, and it began to grate on your nerves. Despite your initial annoyance, you gradually learned that he had recently relocated from his father's home and was now residing with his mother, who he seems to prefer much more than his old man. He would go on and on about how his father was a horrible man, someone who he is very glad to not have in his life. From this information, you find yourself relating to Hwa and you almost feel grateful for his honesty and for the way he trusts you to relay this information.

As days turned into weeks, then months, Hwa's relentless efforts to elicit conversation and draw you out of your shell continued persistently. Initially, his persistence irritated you, but over time, his endearing gestures and genuinely kind manner began to chip away at your defences. Though your interactions remained devoid of spoken words, you found yourself gradually warming up to him, unable to resist the charm of his sweet antics. Each day, you maintained your steadfast silence, wordlessly lending an ear to his stories and offering the occasional nod to assure him of your attentive presence.

Hwa, driven by an unquenchable desire to hear your voice and witness your active participation in conversations, incessantly peppered you with questions. He longed for the day when your voice would join him in harmonious dialogue, surpassing the limitations of mere nods and smiles.

On a particular day, the sun begins its descent towards the horizon as you make your way home from school, the hour growing later than usual. A detour had become necessary as you sought out one of your teachers, embarking on a conversation regarding an assignment that you had fallen behind on. This particular instructor, well-informed about your personal home situation, swiftly understood the situation and granted you some much-needed leeway, even extending the offer of utilising an empty classroom for writing, while she occupied herself with grading tests. This teacher you trusted fully, her being the only person you speak with verbally. She understands why you are fewer with your words, not prying you ever. Grateful for the understanding and opportunity, you had seized the chance to make much-needed progress on your assignment.

As you traverse the familiar path home, the ambient noise of your surroundings blends with the music resonating through your headphones, enveloping you in a cocoon of sound. Engrossed in your auditory world, a distant voice manages to penetrate the barrier, capturing your attention. Swiftly turning your head, you catch sight of Hwa, jogging towards you with an infectious smile illuminating his face. The sun, in its gradual inclination, casts a warm glow upon his features, accentuating his sincere enthusiasm as he closes the distance between you.

“___.” He yells, excited to see you outside of school. When he reaches you, he is panting slightly and you realise he must have sprinted pretty far to catch up with you. Giving him a confused look, you wonder why he is near this area, never have seen him come this way before. Luckily, after months, Hwa has become accustomed to your familiar actions and wordless antics, being able to recognise what your different movements and expressions indicate. Your feelings for the man have developed immensely and you find yourself becoming extremely fond of the guy. Plus, it doesn’t help that the more you get to know him, the more you realise how handsome he is.

“What are you doing here?” Hwa questions, walking next to you as you continue to head towards your house.

“Going home.” You mutter your voice nothing above a whisper, you are shocked yourself by the words coming out of your mouth. You suddenly wonder why it is that you can suddenly speak freely around Hwa.

Immediately, Hwa’s eyes open hugely upon hearing you talk for the first time, he stops walking next to you, his mouth hanging wide open widely. Looking back at him, you giggle at his dramatic reaction, before speaking again.

“What?’’ You say, your body turning fully towards him, walking backwards, and scanning over his every reaction.

Quickly, the male bounds towards you, the smile resuming as he makes his way to you, almost jumping up and down with excitement.

“So, what did I do to deserve the ___ to finally speak to me,” Hwa asks, his voice giddy as he skips next to you.

“I don’t know, I feel safe around you...” You admit, trailing off and becoming slightly insecure about the way your voice sounds. Hwa seems to notice the turmoil of thoughts running through your head and instantly pauses your walking by grabbing your hand lightly, pulling you to look up at his warm eyes.

“You have a nice voice, please keep on speaking.” His voice is soft and peaceful, like usual, but at this moment, it sounds like music to your ears. Feeling your cheeks getting warm, you turn to look away, continuing your walk home. The both of you turn back to moving forwards and you realise you didn’t reciprocate the question Hwa had asked.

“Why are you here?” You ask, curious as to why Hwa would be in this area, never having seen him before around here.

“Ah, I’m seeing my friends, we are meeting at that abandoned warehouse just around the corner from here. Don’t tell anyone, it’s our secret hideout.” The male explains a small chuckle leaving his throat as he turns to you to put out his pinkie finger. Confused, you look up at him, wondering why he is pointing his pinkie finger at you.

“Pinkie promise that you won’t tell anyone.” For a moment he looks incredibly serious, and you wonder as to why he is so stern about the hideout of his friends. It makes you feel soft that here, an eighteen-year-old boy is so seriously making you pinkie promise something. The innocence of the action has you smiling widely, your heart melting.

“Okay, okay.” You reluctantly say, linking your pinkie with his, the both of you letting out gentle laughs. It is quiet for a while as the two of you continue on your way to your separate destinations when Hwa suddenly asks you a question.

“Would you perhaps like to come with me?” The tall male asks, hoping to spend some time with you outside of school, especially since now you are finally fully conversing with him.

Glancing at the watch on your wrist, you worry as to what would happen if you don’t show up on time home, worrying as to how your father would react. However, you realise tonight he should be out with some of his friends, drinking and knowing he will be out until the early hours of the morning. Today, it seems as if luck is in your favour. Not having any friends, it seems somewhat beautiful that Hwa invited you along to hang out with his friend group. From what you have heard from him, the group is very close and doesn’t usually spend time with outsiders. Yet at the same time, you have heard about how kind and fun they are, which makes it extremely easy to decide.

“I’d love that.”

So, you met the rest of the boys, and it was almost alien how quickly you hit it off with all of them.

“So, you must be the pretty girl who never speaks.” A cute boy with light purple hair speaks out and you suddenly feel extremely self-conscious as you realise Hwa has talked about you to his friends, even calling you pretty. Feeling your body start to get hot, Hwa places a hand on your shoulder in an effort to let you know that it’s okay and his friend is just teasing.

A jolt of surprise courses through you as your eyes land on a face that feels oddly familiar, instantly triggering a spark of recognition. It dawns on you that this is the very same male figure you had been sketching on the day you first encountered Hwa. A wave of embarrassment washes over you as the realisation hits home, leaving you acutely aware that Hwa must have noticed you discreetly capturing his friend's portrait. Yet, to your immense relief, Hwa remains tight-lipped about the situation, his mischievous wink the only acknowledgement he offers in response to your stunned expression upon seeing the familiar face.

As you meet each friend individually, a remarkable sense of astonishment washes over you when you realise how effortlessly you connect with the boys. It's as if you're engaging in conversations with Hwa himself, the connection and company flowing naturally between you. Overwhelmed by the sheer number of new acquaintances, you find comfort in only observing their banter, occasionally opting for quiet observation rather than actively participating in the verbal exchange.

Watching them interact and revel in their shared friendship fills you with inexplicable joy, for it is a feeling you had longed for—an authentic sense of belonging among friends. The ease with which you seamlessly fit into their circle surprises you, and it's not ignored by boys either, they immediately grow fond of you. They sense the immediate connection, as if destiny had intended for you to be a part of their lives all along.

This remarkable harmony that you effortlessly slot into makes it a natural progression for the boys to invite you to join them in their hangouts. The invitation comes easily as if it were given that you should be included, reinforcing the notion that you have found a place among them—a group of friends who accept and appreciate you just as you are.

There is a pure glow from each of them, yet you notice the blank, pained expressions and feelings on their faces, and it feels as if you are looking in the mirror and it is as if they can understand and relate deeply to who you are without needing to utter a single word.

Many days after this you find yourself spending more and more time with the group, finding yourself loving each of them the way you have grown to love Hwa. Turning up the music and dancing was your favourite part of your hangouts, watching as they all chanted to songs and moved to the beat. It made you feel some sense of belonging, something you haven’t felt in a very long time. Writing and singing to songs was one of the very things you loved most about the hang outs, every time they start a verse having to say the words “fix on”, or finishing it with “passion, young, fever”. The very words starting to feel as if they are engraved in your mind.

One peculiar aspect that strikes you is the fact that none of the boys have ever shared their actual names with you. Instead, they refer to each other solely by their unique and endearing nicknames. Yet, strangely enough, this detail doesn't bother you in the slightest. The absence of birth names becomes inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. What truly matters is the profound contentment you feel, having finally discovered a group of individuals with whom you can fully be yourself with.

In their presence, you experience a rare sense of comfort, as if you've known them for a lifetime. Walls crumble, masks fade away, and you can simply exist as your authentic self. The love and acceptance that enters the air create a seemingly unbreakable bond. The absence of formal introductions and conventional names becomes a trivial detail, dwarfed by the depth of connection and genuine affection that binds you together. As your relationships with each of the boys deepened, an unexpected shift occurred within your heart, surpassing the boundaries of familial affection, and evolving into a profound form of liking. You were well aware of the impropriety of harbouring such feelings for all eight of them, understanding that it was highly unlikely any of them reciprocated those same emotions. Yet, you couldn't help but acknowledge that your heart seemed to act independently, beyond the constraints of reason.

What made matters even more complex was the knowledge that two of the boys were nursing shattered hearts, their pain etched deeply upon their souls due to a girl you had never met and who, in all likelihood, you had no chance against. The stories that circulated among the group painted a picture of a messy and agonising heartbreak that had left them both broken in its wake. Despite the overwhelming depth of your feelings for them, you made a conscious decision to suppress your own desires, opting instead to provide solace and support as they navigated their heartache. Every time you witnessed their tears, mourning over the faceless girl who had captivated their hearts, an ache resonated within your own chest. It was an ache born from unrequited emotions, an emotional reminder of the distance that separated you from the love they sought. Nonetheless, you steeled yourself, pushing those yearnings aside, focusing on being the shoulder to lean on, the one who offered unwavering support and understanding during their darkest hours. It was a choice fuelled by selflessness and a desire to ease their suffering, even if it meant struggling with your own unspoken longing.

The warehouse was an unusual sanctuary for you, a place of solitude amidst the hustle and bustle of daily life. With its towering shelves of empty boxes and the faint scent of cardboard, rust and moss, it offered a kind of comfort you couldn't find elsewhere. It was where you escaped to when you needed a break from the world.

Today, you arrived early, finishing school ahead of schedule due to a teacher falling ill. Alone in the vast expanse of the warehouse, you found peace in the quiet, engrossed in the pages of a book. The soft rustling of paper and the distant hum of the outside world being the only noise surrounding you.

As you turned another page, lost in the world of words, a sudden, screeching noise sliced through the calm. Startled, you look up just in time to see the massive metal door at the far end of the warehouse creaking open, a thin beam of sunlight piercing the dim interior.

The sudden blast of light makes you squint, shielding your eyes with one hand as you try to discern who or what had interrupted your solitude. Your heart raced slightly, a mix of curiosity and caution welling within you. The warehouse wasn't a frequented place, and the unexpected visitor had piqued your interest.

Slowly, you closed your book and set it aside, rising from your makeshift reading spot. As your eyes adjusted to the newfound brightness, you made out the silhouette of a person framed by the open door.

Recognition washed over you like a gentle wave, replacing your initial unease with a sense of relief and surprise. The person at the door was someone you hadn't expected to see in this unlikely place.

“Oh sorry ___, I wasn’t expecting you to be here.” Yeo’s voice reaches your ears and you see his cute face pop around the corner as your eyes get used to the sudden flash.

“Tiny is here?” The man you know as Woo follows behind Yeo with a wide smile on his face.

“What are you doing here so early?” He jumps up to you and lays on the couch, nuzzling his head onto your lap, the action sending a rush of butterflies into your body.

“I finished early, sorry for not letting you guys know I was coming.” You apologise, feeling bashful for intruding in their personal space without their knowledge.

“It’s okay, you are always welcome here.” Yeo smiles as he says quietly and makes his way over to you and Woo on the couch.

Smiling back at him, you observe as he pushes Woo’s legs to the side before sitting at the other end of the couch.

“So what are you doing here?” Woo asked from underneath you.

“Oh I just needed some peace to read my book, this is the only place I actually feel calm.”

“I also have that.” Yeo exclaims, a bigger smile on his face, “when we are here it feels like the outside world doesn’t even matter.”

“Exactly.” You smile at him, his relatable statement causing your chest to swell for some odd reason.

“I’m going to sleep, school was far too much today.” Woo's announcement about his exhaustion draws a soft giggle from you, a gentle sound that fills the room with a sense of warmth. He snuggles further into your lap, seeking comfort after a long day. His actions create an intimate moment that's both endearing and heartwarming.

The soft giggle that escapes your throat is like music to the ears of the two men beside you.

“Where do you guys go to school? I’ve never seen you at mine.”

“Oh we go to the one just around the corner, only Hwa goes to your school.”

“I see.”

Gazing down at Woo nestled in your lap, a fond smile graces your lips. Your feelings for him have also grown deep, and his flirtatious nature has become both endearing and exhilarating, adding a touch of excitement to your interactions. His playful personality has woven a unique bond between you, one that's filled with affection and a sense of familiarity.

With a tender touch, you reach out to brush a stray strand of hair from Woo's face, your fingers gentle and caring. The small gesture elicits a soft grin from him, a silent acknowledgment that your action made him feel delighted.

Turning your attention to Yeo, you find yourself captivated by the subtle details that make him unique. His gaze, focused on the two of you together, holds a certain warmth and depth.

Yeo and yourself engage in a quiet conversation, and you find yourself relishing this rare opportunity to connect with him on a personal level. In the larger group, he often keeps to himself, a quiet presence in the midst of the lively discussions. It's exciting to finally have a one-on-one conversation with him, a chance to peel back the layers and get to know the person behind the reserved exterior.

The hour or so that you spend chatting is a revelation. You discover a shared interest in books, a passion that he's clearly enthusiastic about. Yeo's eyes light up as he shares recommendations from his personal reading choices, and you're captivated by the depth of his knowledge and his love for literature.

As the conversation flows, you delve into the world of books, exchanging thoughts on favourite authors, genres, and memorable reads. The exchange of recommendations feels like a treasure trove of new adventures waiting to be explored. It's a conversation that transcends the boundaries of the room and opens a door to a shared passion that you both cherish. In this moment you get an overwhelming feeling of deja vu, as if you have been in this position before, or have yet to be in this situation.

During this intimate moment, you realise that beneath Yeo's quiet demeanour lies a wealth of knowledge and a genuine enthusiasm for the things he loves. The connection you share through your shared interest in books is a testament to the richness of human connection and the beauty of discovering common ground with someone you might not have expected. It's a reminder that there's always more to uncover about the people around you, and that even the quietest among us can hold hidden depths waiting to be explored.

Immersed in the creative haven of your bedroom, you find comfort in the rhythmic strokes of your pencil against the textured paper. For the past week, you have poured your heart and soul into a meticulously crafted drawing of your eight friends, their features coming to life with each delicate line and shading. It has become your labour of love, a tribute to the cherished connections you've formed with each of them. As melodic tunes echo through the room from a speaker perched on your desk, the dulcet melodies provide a gentle backdrop to your artistic activities. The song, suggested by Woo himself, serves as a bridge, connecting your creative energy with the vibrations of the soundscape. You find yourself instinctively bobbing your head in time to the rhythm, your body swaying with harmony.

However, the tranquillity is abruptly shattered as the front door slams shut, the unexpected noise jolting you from your reverie. Your heart skips a beat, a surge of both dismay and fear coursing through your veins. The unmistakable thudding of footsteps echoes up the stairs, sending a shiver down your spine. It is your father's arrival, a presence that always harbours an air of tension and unpredictability.

With nimble urgency, you reach over to the speaker and swiftly silence the music, plunging the room into a weighted silence. The absence of melodies only amplifies the unease that lingers in the air, adding an oppressive weight to the atmosphere. Your sanctuary, once filled with the joyous sounds of music, is now stifled by the solemn hush that envelops it.

A palpable tension fills the room as you desperately hope for a stroke of luck, silently pleading for your father to bypass your closed door, his footsteps continuing down the hall to his own room. In the stillness of the moment, you remain frozen, your very breath restrained in anticipation.

But, as fate would have it, luck turns a deaf ear to your silent wishes. The door creaks open, swinging inward with a reluctant motion, revealing the formidable figure of your father standing on the threshold. His presence alone fills the room with an air of trepidation, his imposing stature and crossed arms creating an impenetrable barrier that demands attention.

Struggling to maintain his balance, you notice the slight wobble in his stance, a sign of the tumultuous emotions that brew within him. His arms remain tightly folded over his chest; a physical shield that matches the sternness etched onto his face. The weight of his gaze, intense and unyielding, seems to pierce through the silence, weighing heavily upon the room and those within it. A mixture of apprehension and anxiety coalesces within you, causing your heart to race in your chest. The air hangs heavy with unspoken words as if any attempt at conversation might trigger an unexpected tempest. You hold your breath, awaiting the next move, your entire being poised on a precipice of hesitation.

“What are you doing?” He questions, his voice slurred and unclear.

“Drawing,” With a sense of urgency, you respond hastily, your words chosen carefully to minimise any potential escalation. The desire to avoid the volatile whirlwind of his unpredictable moods propels you to seek a rapid conclusion to the interaction, hoping that your brief responses will prevent the conversation from lingering any longer than necessary. The burdensome weight of the situation and the fatigue that grips your spirit urge you to retreat, seeking solace and respite from the tumultuous presence of your father. You are caught off guard by your father's presence and the disconcerting aura surrounding him, you find yourself yearning for a swift end to the interaction. Your own emotions, a mix of weariness and apprehension, compel you to seek an expedited resolution. The weight of his unpredictable and volatile emotions, amplified by the telltale signs of his consumption of alcohol, looms heavily in the room, intensifying your desire to disengage from the conversation.

“When are your exams?” The man asks as he stumbles into your room, clearly fumbling around on his feet, unable to find balance on his feet, very clearly a side effect of the heavy consumption of alcohol.

“Next month.”

A wave of unease washes over you as your father's brow furrows once more, his expression shifting into one of annoyance. The subtle creases on his forehead deepen, forming a stark contrast against the lines of tension etched upon his face. At that moment, your heart sinks, a heavy weight settling in the pit of your stomach. The intensity of his displeasure, evident in the way his features contort, sends a surge of apprehension through your veins. Your own emotions waver on a cliff, poised between a desire to appease and a need to protect yourself from the potential fallout. As his annoyance penetrates the room, you brace yourself for what may come next, keenly aware of the precarious nature of your current situation.

“Then you should be studying.” He booms, his voice echoing off the walls of your small bedroom.

“I was going to study when I finish this.”

“Do not back talk to me.” The sound of your father's voice reverberates through the room, amplified by the alcohol coursing through his veins, causing you to flinch involuntarily. Avoiding direct eye contact, you shift your gaze downwards, unable to bear the intensity of his drunken rage. The urge to roll your eyes at his exaggerated and unjustified behaviour becomes nearly irresistible, as you struggle to comprehend why he is directing his anger at you for such a trivial matter. A sense of exasperation builds within you, fuelled by the stark contrast between the magnitude of his reaction and the insignificance of the situation at hand. The weight of his misplaced frustration leaves you bewildered, questioning the logic behind his anger. It feels like an unwarranted attack on your being, leaving you grappling with a mix of resentment and confusion. Yet, mindful of the volatile nature of the situation, you tamp down your instinctive response. Instead, you silently navigate the treacherous waters, attempting to maintain composure and seeking a swift resolution to this senseless confrontation.

“I’m sorry.” In a desperate attempt to defuse the escalating tension, you respond, your words laced with a mix of pleading and a longing for tranquillity. Your desire to return to the serene solace of your artistic endeavours intensifies, fuelling your efforts to restore a sense of calm. However, your heart lurches upward, lodging itself in your throat, as your father takes a step closer, intruding upon your personal space. A shiver snakes its way down your spine as his hand reaches out, settling heavily on the back of your neck. The weight of his touch feels oppressive, a physical manifestation of the emotional turmoil that engulfs you.

Fear dances within your veins, mingling with a sense of vulnerability. The boundaries that should protect you have been violated, leaving you acutely aware of your powerlessness at this moment. Your instinctive longing for escape intensifies, urging you to seek refuge from this dangerous environment and the touch that sends chills down your spine.

“Don’t forget who is in charge here.” Your father's whispered words cut through the air, a chilling undertone accompanying them, as his nails dig into the delicate skin of your neck. The sharp pain shoots through your body, an unwelcome reminder of the power imbalance in this unsettling encounter. Tears gather in your eyes, threatening to spill over as a mixture of pain and anxiety churns within your chest, constricting your throat. A knot of fear tightens in your stomach, intensifying the overwhelming sense of vulnerability that envelopes you. The weight of his grip and the raw discomfort that courses through your body serves as a stark reminder of the control he applies, amplifying the helplessness that grips your being. You yearn for release from this distressing moment, desperately seeking an escape from his oppressive presence and the escalating pain that continues to coil around you.

A lump forms in your throat, constricting your voice as you manage to summon a weak response, uttering a subdued, "Yes, Dad." The weight of fear and anxiety threatens to overwhelm you, making it difficult to find the strength to speak or express yourself fully.

The knowledge of past experiences with your father looms in your mind, serving as a reminder of the potential consequences that could follow even the slightest provocation. The disparity between the magnitude of his reaction and the seemingly insignificant trigger leaves you confused, the fear of setting off his anger further stifling your genuine thoughts and feelings. The urge to voice your true thoughts, to stand up for yourself, simmers within, but the fear that accompanies it serves as a heavy muzzle, silencing the words you long to say. In this suffocating atmosphere, you decide to bite your tongue, for now, choosing self-preservation over the risk of inciting his explosive rage.

“What is this shit?” Your father's voice cuts through the air with a biting edge, his disdain is evident as he questions the worth of your drawing. His harsh gaze fixated upon the paper on your desk, the discarded pencil serving as a silent witness to his disapproval.

“Just something I’m working on.” In an attempt to diffuse the situation, you reply with a hint of defensiveness, your words laced with an eagerness for him to cease his interrogation and retreat from your sanctuary. The desperate plea for him to leave you be, to preserve the sanctity of your safe space, hangs heavily in the air between you.

As he snatches the sketchbook from the desk, your nerves intensify, your pulse quickening as his scrutinising eyes peruse the paper. The tension in the room becomes almost suffocating, amplifying your anxiety to new heights.

“Who is this?” His bitter and slurred voice reverberates, the words barely coherent.

Fear floods your veins, and knowing the truth would lead to misunderstanding and potential danger. Hastily, you weave a web of lies, your words rushed and unsteady, hoping to divert his attention away from the genuine connection you share with the boys.

The man's anger escalates, his words morphing into a piercing yell that reverberates within the confines of the room. The intensity of his outburst pierces your ears, each syllable hammering into your consciousness. The weight of his disdain for your artistic talent lands heavily upon your heart, his belittlement serving as a painful reminder of the limitations he imposes upon your aspirations.

Panic grips you as your father's hand inches closer to the paper, and a sense of dread fills every fibre of your being as you realise his malicious intentions. Frantically, you reach out in a futile attempt to stop him, but your efforts prove futile as he ruthlessly rips the page from the book, tearing it down the middle. Tears well up in your eyes as a profound sense of disappointment and pain courses through your body, your hard work treated with callous disregard, tossed aside as if it were nothing. With a surge of determination, you rise from your chair, driven by an instinct to protect what remains of your creation. However, your resistance is met with ruthless force as your father forcefully pushes your body, causing you to crash onto the floor, the impact jolting through your hip and radiating pain throughout your entire being. The anguish of your shattered artwork pales in comparison to the physical and emotional pain inflicted upon you at this moment.

As you lie on the floor, a broken mess of tears and anguish, your father's rage reaches new heights. He towers over you, his face contorted with anger, grabbing the back of your head painfully once again. The proximity of his enraged face leaves you trembling, his piercing scream reverberating through your ears, assaulting your senses with an intensity that feels unbearable. In this horrifying moment, you are forced to confront the painful reality of his control, the overwhelming weight of his anger eclipsing any semblance of safety or peace.

“If I ever see you sketching again, I will not be as forgiving.” Spit flies from your father’s mouth, his breath reeking of alcohol, making you even more disgusted. Tears fall freely from your eyes as you try to maintain your composure, so as to not enrage the man even further. Your father continues his words, “Clean this mess up. I’m going to sleep.”

With an abrupt exit, the man stumbles out of your room, his unsteady footsteps resounding on the wooden floor, echoing the turmoil that lingers in his wake. You can only surmise that he retreats to his own bedroom, likely collapsing onto the bed in a drunken slumber. The abruptness of his departure offers a temporary respite, but the emotional scars and residual fear remain, haunting the air within your room. Weeping silently, your trembling hands pressed against your face, you struggle to contain the overwhelming surge of emotions that threaten to overcome you. In the midst of your despair, you survey the scattered remnants of your destroyed drawing, yearning for a miracle that would restore it to its former glory. Each torn piece becomes a painful reminder of the shattered gift intended for your only friends.

With shaky resolve, you begin the arduous task of collecting the fragmented remnants, moving them from the floor to the bin next to your desk. Each movement brings fresh waves of tears, your heart aching at the irreparable loss of the heartfelt gesture. The realisation that the memento meant to convey your appreciation and friendship now lies in ruins only amplifies your sense of devastation. As you meticulously dispose of the torn pieces, your tears fall even harder, tracing a sorrowful path down your cheeks. The weight of the ruined gift presses upon your soul, a profound sense of loss mingling with the lingering pain of the recent encounter. In this moment of vulnerability, you find solace in your tears, allowing yourself to grieve the destruction of your artistic expression and the shattered connection it represented.

As the silence envelops the house, you breathe a sigh of relief, realising that the man who instils such terror within you is finally lost in the depths of sleep. Drawing strength back into your trembling legs, you hastily slip on your shoes, a desperate urgency compelling you to escape the confines of the place you dread most.

Stealthily, you navigate the familiar hallways, your movements shrouded in silence, driven by an intense need to distance yourself from the haunting presence that lingers within those walls. The weight of your fear propels you forward, guiding your steps towards an uncertain destination.

In your frantic search for solace, you find yourself stumbling upon the empty warehouse, its vast expanse providing a sense of respite and comfort that you yearn for. Though devoid of human presence, you know deep within your soul that the very atmosphere within this cavernous space will envelop you, granting a momentary reprieve from the overwhelming emotions that threaten to consume you.

Stepping into the familiar warehouse, the sound of the large metal doors scraping against the concrete floor reverberates through the cavernous space, creating a symphony of echoes that dance along the walls. The rhythmic noise seems to announce your entrance as if beckoning invisible spectators to witness your raw vulnerability. Yet, amidst the vast emptiness, the absence of your friends accentuates the solitude that envelops you, amplifying the bittersweet comfort of this cherished sanctuary.

Staggering towards the worn-out couch, its faded fabric hinting at the countless memories shared upon its cushions, you allow your body to collapse into its familiar embrace. The soft cushions yield beneath your weight, conforming to the contours of your tired form. You lay down sideways, finding comfort in the familiar haven that holds so many cherished moments. The tears flow freely from your eyes, tracing glistening paths down your cheeks, as if the very fabric of the pillow beneath your head absorbs the weight of your sorrow. Every sob that escapes your trembling lips reverberates within the expansive metal room, each one a witness to the depth of your pain. The echoes reverberate through the space, intertwining with the ethereal remnants of laughter and friendship that have painted the walls with a subtle warmth. The traumatic event that has left you bruised and broken resonates within the vastness of the room, its hollowness a haunting backdrop to your vulnerability.

Time becomes a fluid concept as you lose yourself in the catharsis of your tears. The exhaustion weighs upon you like an invisible burden, the weight of the world pressing down upon your weary shoulders. Each sob drains your energy, leaving your eyelids heavy and your body craving a respite from the relentless ache. Gradually, the exhaustion takes hold, its grasp tightening around your consciousness. The drowsiness seeps into every fibre of your being, your mind and body surrendering to the lullaby of weariness. As the golden rays of the setting sun filter through the cracks in the metal walls, casting an ethereal glow upon your tear-stained face, sleep claims you, offering a temporary escape from the harsh realities that haunt your waking hours.

As the coils of sleep begin to loosen their grip on your consciousness, you are jolted awake by the sensation of being gently shaken. Blinking groggily, you try to push away from the source of the disturbance, a low groan escaping your lips. To your surprise, the sound is met with a soft chuckle, a deep voice calling your name with tenderness. A hand comes to rest on your head, its touch gentle and soothing, patting you in a comforting rhythm.

Startled, your heart skips a beat, your body tensing at the unexpected touch. The fear of encountering your father floods your mind, sending waves of anxiety coursing through your veins. In a swift motion, you sit up, the blanket slipping from your shoulders, your eyes scanning the dimly lit surroundings of the warehouse. It takes a moment for your vision to adjust, and when it does, you realise that you are still in the familiar confines of the warehouse, resting on the worn-out couch. The realisation washes over you, relief mingling with lingering fearfulness.

Peering around, you notice that darkness has descended upon the space, replacing the golden hues of the setting sun with a blanket of shadow. It dawns on you that you must have been asleep for several hours, the passage of time slipping by unnoticed as fatigue overcomes you. Your gaze then falls upon the source of your awakening, the boy known as 'Yu,' crouched on the floor before the couch. His soft grin illuminates his features, his dishevelled brown hair partially hiding his eyes, his cheeks adorned with a gentle blush.

“Are you okay? What are you doing sleeping here?” Yu asks, looking you tenderly in your eyes, causing your heart to flip in circles.

“I needed to get away from some stuff.” You answer truthfully, not being able to find the strength to lie to the boy in front of you.

As Yu's concerned gaze meets yours, the worry etched on his face, the smile that had adorned his features fades away. The depth of your distress is evident to him, and he can sense the heaviness that weighs upon your weary soul. It's as if he can see through the facade you wear, peering into the depths of your eyes to witness the pain and exhaustion that lies within.

At this moment, any trace of anger or frustration that had accompanied him to the warehouse dissipates entirely, replaced by a newfound tenderness and empathy. He is drawn to you, compelled to offer comfort and relief in the face of your evident struggle. Moving closer, his larger hand finds its way to rest gently atop yours, a gesture that sends a cascade of butterflies fluttering within your stomach. The warmth of his touch seeps into your skin, offering a respite from the coldness that had entered the warehouse. It's a simple act, but it carries a profound weight, communicating a silent message of support and understanding. In this shared moment of vulnerability, you feel a glimmer of hope and connection, as if a lifeline has been extended to you in the midst of your despair.

“What happened, Tiny?”

The nickname was bestowed upon you by the boys when you first joined their group, a playful teasing inspired by the absolute height difference between you and Yu. It quickly became a term of endearment that all eight adopted, using it to address you with affectionate familiarity. However, at this moment, as Yu's tenderness envelopes you, the meaning behind the nickname takes on a new layer of complexity, evoking emotions that elude your grasp. It's an unfamiliar sensation for Yu to display such genuine care towards you, considering his infatuation with another girl that has kept him at a distance. Yet, at this moment, you can't help but yearn for his tender presence to be a constant, for him to act as if no other girl holds his attention. The conflicting emotions swirl within you, torn between the desire to keep this fragile connection intact and the fear of revealing the recent traumatic events that unfolded hours ago, uncertain of how Yu would react.

Your attention shifts to where your hands meet, and your heart lurches at the sight of gashes and blood staining Yu's knuckles. Concern overtakes you, the worry carved upon your features as you contemplate the cause of his injuries. Questions buzz in your mind, begging to be asked, but the fear of intruding upon his personal struggles holds you back. The realisation that pain has marked his hands, mirroring the pain that has scarred your own being, intensifies your sense of worry and empathy.

In this delicate moment, a silent exchange of emotions hangs in the air, unspoken words lingering between you. The weight of unspoken truths and shared vulnerabilities creates a bond that is both fragile and powerful, leaving you uncertain of what course of action to take next.

“What happened to your hand?” you inquire, pulling his hand into your lap, and observing the wounds on his pretty hands.

Peering up at Yu, concern etched across your features, his heart skips a beat, an unfamiliar sensation stirring within him. It's a feeling he struggles to decipher, a gentle tug that seems to pull at the depths of his being. His eyes lock with yours, and at that moment, time seems to stand still as he finds himself captivated by the curiosity and vulnerability reflected in your gaze. There's a tenderness in Yu's eyes, an almost loving quality as he studies your appearance. His gaze lingers on your swollen eyes, evidence of the tears you've shed and the burden you've carried. The worry radiates from him, manifesting as a protective instinct that seeks to shield you from further pain. It's a sentiment that surprises even him, the depth of his concern far surpassing the bounds of friendship.

In this silent exchange, a subtle shift occurs within Yu, as if the barriers he had carefully constructed around his emotions begin to crumble. The walls he had built to guard his heart start to crack, allowing a glimmer of something deeper to emerge. Though he may not fully understand the extent of his own feelings, the way his gaze lingers on you with tenderness and compassion speaks volumes.

In this moment, a connection forms, the unspoken understanding between you deepening. It's as if a silent agreement is forged, promising support and comfort amidst the challenges you both face. The weight of unspoken words and shared empathy fills the space between you, laying the foundation for something more profound and transformative.

“Have you been crying?” His voice is gentle and calming, not wanting you to feel uncomfortable by the inquiry, wishing for you to answer.

“Why is your hand hurt?” you retort, his hand still resting in your lap, you trying to wipe away stray pieces of dirt in the cuts. Your hand lingers atop Yu's, a gentle touch that he usually guards against, he finds himself pleasantly surprised by the ease with which he allows you to maintain the contact. It's a rare occurrence for him to let others freely touch him, his personal boundaries carefully shielded. Yet, at this moment, he feels a sense of comfort and acceptance in your touch, as if a barrier he didn't know existed has been effortlessly breached.

The surprise intensifies as he realises that he enjoys the sensation of your hand resting upon his, the warmth of your touch bringing a sense of connection that he hadn't anticipated. There's a certain serenity in your presence, a quiet assurance that draws him in, inviting him to let down his guard and allow himself to be vulnerable. His gaze remains fixated on you, his attention solely focused on your interaction. The world around him seems to fade into the background as he becomes absorbed in this shared moment, his own emotions swirling within. It's unfamiliar territory, one he hadn't expected to find himself in, yet he can't deny the pull that you exert upon him, the magnetic force of your presence.

In this newfound vulnerability, Yu begins to question his own reservations and the walls he has built around himself. Your touch, your unwavering attention, opens up a space where he can explore and discover a different side of himself, one that embraces connection and allows himself to be seen. Hands remaining touching, a silent understanding passes between you, unspoken words painting the canvas of this intimate moment. The depth of your connection holds the promise of something extraordinary, an exploration of emotions and possibilities that neither of you could have foreseen.

“I asked first.” Yu teases, trying to lift the mood, wanting to see the smile he has grown to adore appear on your features.

“I don’t want to bother you.” You reply, your voice shaky and quiet, answering truthfully, not sure if he would be able to handle the information you so desperately need to disclose to someone.

“You never bother me,” As Yu contemplates his next move, a surge of courage courses through him. Without hesitation, he uses the hand that rests in your lap, gently interlocking his fingers with yours. He takes care to avoid smudging his dried blood on you or your clothes, a subtle gesture of consideration that doesn't go unnoticed.

The unexpected act of affection catches you off guard, your eyes widening in surprise. Heat rises to your cheeks, a blush betraying the fluttering emotions that swirl within you. You meet Yu's gaze, his eyes soft and filled with a tenderness that resonates deeply. A small smile graces his lips, a wordless reassurance that speaks volumes. In this simple gesture, he communicates a willingness to bridge the gap between you, to traverse the uncertain territory of shared vulnerability. It's a brave step forward, an offering of trust and a declaration of his sudden growing feelings.

“It’s okay, ___.” Yu whispers, his eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly as his words become more serious, “You can tell me anything.”

Sighing, you decide maybe it is okay to confide in one person.

“It’s my dad.” You admit, looking down at the hand that Yu has gripped gently in his own, his fingers wrapped around your smaller hand. Yu gives you a puzzled look, not sure what your father could have done to make you so upset. Noticing his confused expression, you continue speaking, “It is dumb, but I was working on this drawing, and he came in drunk out of his mind and started yelling at me for not studying,”

“Hold on, he was drunk?” Yu questions, starting to feel anger build up in his body.

“Yeah, but when is he not.” You attempt to joke, yet the look on Yu’s face doesn’t look amused, causing you to sigh gently, “he ripped up the drawing in front of my face and said if he ever sees me drawing again, he ‘won’t be as forgiving’, whatever that means,” you mumble, the weight of vulnerability settling upon you, you become highly aware of the depth of the information you have just shared.

A sense of unease and apprehension begins to gnaw at your insides, uncertain of how Yu will react to this newfound revelation. The silence that follows is deafening, and you can't help but lift your gaze from your intertwined hands to meet his eyes.

What you see takes you by surprise, an expression of absolute disbelief etched across Yu's features. His eyes wide, his lips slightly parted as if struggling to find the words to respond. The moment hangs suspended in time, the tension thickening the air between you. Questions swirl in your mind, uncertainty threatening to unravel the fragile connection that has been forged. Doubt creeps in, casting shadows over the vulnerability you have exposed. You find yourself questioning the wisdom of sharing such intimate feelings, fearing the potential repercussions it may have on your friendship. In this charged moment, the world seems to hold its breath, waiting for Yu's reaction. The uncertainty weighs heavily upon you, your heart pounding in your chest as you anxiously await his response.

Preparing to question the impact of your confession on Yu, your words catch in your throat, suspended by the sudden movement of his embrace. In a swift motion, he pulls you towards him, enveloping your body in a tight hug that leaves you momentarily breathless. Your head is gently guided to rest in the crook of his neck, the warmth of his skin against yours sending shivers down your spine. His hand finds its place on the back of your head, his fingers tenderly stroking your hair with a soothing rhythm. Yu's sensitivity to your tense form prompts a fleeting hesitation within him, a flicker of uncertainty about having crossed a boundary or making you uncomfortable. But when he feels your entire body relax and melt into his embrace, a surge of emotions courses through him. His heart pounds rapidly in his chest, swelling with a feeling akin to absolute adoration. It's a moment of defencelessness and connection that surpasses words, forging a bond between you that almost feels unbreakable.

In response to his comforting presence, you wrap your arms tightly around his neck, seeking solace in his embrace. Nestling into the curve of his neck, you revel in the sensation of being held, the touch of his skin against yours grounding you in the present moment. Yu adjusts his position, rising to sit on his knees and drawing himself even closer to your body. Your chests align, rising and falling in synchrony, as he positions himself between your legs. His grip tightens around you, afraid that you might vanish from his embrace.

In this intimate cocoon, it becomes clear that you weren't the only one in need of a hug. The mutual longing for comfort and reassurance binds you together, transcending the complexities of your individual experiences. In this tender moment of shared vulnerability, the world around you fades into insignificance, leaving only the warmth of each other's presence, the solace of a genuine connection, and the promise of healing.

Basking in the comfort of Yu's embrace, time seems to suspend, creating a sanctuary where worries and troubles momentarily fade away. However, your heart sinks when you feel him slowly pull away, a pang of disappointment seeping through your being. Yet, his hand continues to stroke the back of your head, his touch lingering, serving as a reminder of the tenderness you experienced.

Meeting his gaze, locking eyes with him, and at that moment, the connection between you deepens. It's as if the world around you dims, leaving only the intensity of his brown eyes that seem to hold a universe of emotions. Every fibre of your being is drawn to him, falling deeper into a feeling you've been trying to resist.

A hint of reluctance lingers in Yu's actions as he clears his throat, a signal that the intimate moment must come to an end. He slowly removes himself from your embrace, settling back into his previous position. Yet, his gaze remains fixed on you, unyielding and intense, as if he's afraid to look away, afraid to lose the connection that has formed. You find yourself lost in his gaze, a swirl of feelings and unspoken words passing between you. There's a magnetic pull, an unspoken understanding that something profound has transpired between you. It's a delicate dance of emotions, a dance that neither of you can fully comprehend but are unwilling to let go.

In this halted moment, the air crackles with anticipation, as if the next words spoken could alter the course of your relationship forever. The intensity in Yu's eyes speaks volumes, a testament to the depth of the bond that has formed between you.

“If something like this happens again, please let me know,” Yu says, breaking the silence, his voice serious, needing to protect you from whatever your father could possibly do in the future.

A meek smile graces your lips, an expression of gratitude that conveys more than words ever could. Deep within, you carry the weight of unspoken pain and secrets, understanding that some experiences are difficult to share, especially the ones involving your father. You appreciate Yu's offer of support, even though you know you can't burden him with the full extent of what you've endured.

In this moment of silent acknowledgement, you convey a deep sense of gratitude for his presence, for the solace he has unknowingly offered. It's a silent understanding that goes beyond words, a recognition of the unspoken connection between you. Despite the barriers that may exist, you find solace in knowing that there is someone who cares, someone willing to extend a helping hand.

“Now your turn.” You exclaim, causing Yu to give you a confused look, “Your hand. What happened?”

Yu lets out a sound of realisation, his expression matching it. Looking down at the gashes in his hands, Yu makes an expression similar to embarrassment.

“I got in a fight,” Yu explains, his cheeks heating up, realising you might be disappointed in him.

“Another? Why now?” You question, your voice is soft and caring, making him realise you aren’t upset at him, just worried, making his heart warm slightly, despite the war and heartbreak going throughout his entire body.

“The girl that Yeo and I used to like… she has said some stuff, some stuff that isn’t true. It’s tearing us apart, all of us.” Yu’s voice is shaky, and you can tell he is deeply affected by the circumstances.

Immediately, your interest is piqued, and concern envelops your being, you can't help but wonder what could have been said by the girl to have such a profound impact on Yu and the entire group. The realisation that her words have caused a collective breakdown weighs heavily on your mind, triggering a surge of curiosity and a deeper level of concern. Thoughts whirl through your head, seeking answers and understanding. What could she have revealed that shattered their spirits? What truths or revelations could have struck a chord so deeply? You can't help but ponder the significance of her words and the implications they hold for your friends and their emotional well-being.

In the midst of your thoughts, a mix of emotions floods your being, concern, empathy, and a deep desire to alleviate their pain. The bond between you and the group becomes even more heartrending, a reminder of the connection of your lives and the importance of standing together in the face of adversity.

“What did she say?” You question, your hand coming to rest on his like he did earlier.

“She said we laid our hands on her, we hurt her, physically, sexually. But I swear on everything, I have never put my hands on her, on anyone. None of us have, we have only ever acted in self-defence. I don’t know why all of a sudden, she is making up these stories. It is tearing us apart. Every single person believes her, they are coming after us, with their fists. Someone tried to come at Captain and I with a baseball bat, and it’s terrifying us, we don’t know what to do.”

“Wait what?” Your voice trembles with a mixture of shock and disbelief as you contemplate why this girl would suddenly feel the need to falsely accuse the boys you have grown so close to. In the time you've spent with them, you have come to know each of them as kind-hearted individuals, devoid of aggression or abusive tendencies. Your experiences with them have left a deep imprint, and you find it unfathomable to believe that any of them would ever lay a hand on someone, especially a woman.

The weight of this accusation hangs heavily in the air, and you struggle to reconcile the image of your friends with the words that have been spoken. It feels like a betrayal, not just to them but to the bond you have formed, as your faith in their character and integrity is steadfast. The disbelief fuels a surge of protectiveness and a fierce desire to defend them against these baseless accusations.

When Yu raises his gaze to meet yours, the shimmering tears threatening to escape, your heart aches with empathy and compassion. The vulnerability etched across his face mirrors your own inner turmoil, as you share a profound connection and a shared understanding of the gravity of the situation. At that moment, your heart breaks for him and for the rest of the group, as you witness the weight of their pain and the unjust burden they must bear.

“I don’t know why this is happening, or why she said it was all of us. Only Yeo and I have spent time with her, she has never even met the boys. Plus, we haven’t seen her in over two months, she said it happened last month. It makes no sense.”

“Yu, if it’s not true then you do not have to worry about anything. It will get sorted, okay? You are innocent.” All you can do is bring the man into your arms once again, this time letting him weep into your shoulder, his body limp against yours. It breaks your heart to see him so vulnerable, so broken because of deadly rumours.

“We will get this sorted, Yu. I promise.”

------

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Shattered #10 - Happy Birthday, August! Part III

Previous / Masterlist

CW: kidnapped whumpee, captivity (kinda/kinda not), defiant whumpee, whumpee thinks caretaker is a whumper, forced to kidnap references, vampire caretaker, threat of violence/death, weapons, adult language (pls let me know if I've forgotten any!)

AND FINALLY! THE LAST PART FOR AUGUST AND LUCAS' BACKSTORY! 🎉 Thank you so much for your guys' patience, with this one - it means everything <3 We resume with our usually scheduled Declan next chapter! 😍 And a mahoosive thank you to @darkthingshappen for her beta and help!

---

August feels like a stranger in his own home. A prisoner in his own home; his sanctuary now nothing more than a gilded cage. He is forever and always a captive of his own compassion and a victim of his cowardice.

But August curses himself for daring to think like that. It’s unjust to think like that, especially on a night like tonight. The frantic hammering of a human heartbeat upstairs is his bleak reminder that he’s not alone anymore, and yet somehow… he’s never felt more alone in his life. The quiet has never screamed so loud, and the walls stretch to endless empty space around him.

For decades, August has been a ghost haunting this house. Lost in the in-between, a nobody with nobody. For decades, August has been at peace with that. Or at least, he had convinced himself that he was - if he dared to admit that the solitude was crippling, then the silence would drag him under and swallow him whole. Contentment was a convenient lie for the last century, but August’s loneliness is a glaring truth rearing its ugly head. He isn’t ready to face it.

Despair gnaws at his insides, sharper than the bite of the cold nipping his skin. Daylight has been and gone, and now moonlight bleeds through the dusty drapes. The ornate windows have blurred over with swirling white as the blizzard wails like a banshee and rages outside. August waits and waits, the grandfather clock in the corner ticks with a maddening slowness. He waits for something, anything and nothing all at once. He doesn’t know what. His comeuppance, perhaps? A wooden stake plunged straight through his spine?

The human is still hidden away upstairs. Hours have bled by without a sound, not a whisper of movement and not a creak of the floorboard. No doubt he is plotting and scheming, waiting for his perfect chance to strike. Who could blame him? If August were in the human's position, trapped and desperate, the only natural urge for survival would twist his mind too.

August repeats his earlier vow in his mind like a broken record, over and over. When the snowstorm clears, the human will be released, and not a second later. He is a healer, not a gaoler. Every fibre of August's being aches with the need to atone. He will right this wrong no matter the cost.

A sudden chill snakes down August's spine. A different kind of chill than the frosty air that fogs his breath. He snaps around, his eyes zeroing in on the dark figure lurking in the doorway. The human. They hadn’t made a sound, they’d just…appeared. Materialised out of thin air. Their sunken-in and bloodshot eyes lock with August’s in the dim light. His stance is imposing, his demeanour threatening. August feels strangely diminished by the very sight of him, as though he’s two inches tall.

"Hungry."

A single grumbled word is all that leaves the human's lips. Barely audible but the demand is crystal clear. Not a beg for scraps or a plea, it’s a demand. An attempt to claw back a sliver of control in a situation spiralling wildly out of reach for both of them. The terse delivery, the lack of a complete sentence - it speaks volumes. August isn't worthy of conversation, of any respect or dignity. He isn’t human, afterall - why should he be treated with any humanity?

The realisation eats away at him more than the rumbling of the human’s stomach.

That’s another thing. August forgets how quickly the human’s digestive system and their metabolism works. It’s a miracle how they live as long as they do. It’s as though the second they swallow, their belly immediately roars for even more. It must be impossible to keep up. August can’t keep up.

"I-I'll see what's in the pantry," August stammers, his voice cracking under the weight of the human's burning stare. "It- It won't be much, but..."

He shuffles towards the kitchen and its meagre cabinets. A can of chicken chunks, a tin of kidney beans, cobwebs and layers of dust line the shelves. The human catches a glimpse of the miserable sight, his expression drops to a mix of disapproval, offence and somehow, something akin to pity.

“If you plan on keeping me prisoner, you need to feed me, vamp,” the human snarls with contempt, “That’s human biology 101. Didn’t you claim to be a doc?”

August's jaw clenches. That hit a raw nerve. He wants to retort, to defend his capabilities, but the accusation lodges itself deep in August’s gut. He feels a flush of shame and embarrassment fill his cheeks, because the man’s words were a bitter truth. How can he call himself a doctor? When all he’s responsible for is pain and misery? He can’t even provide basic sustenance.

August finds himself at a loss for words. He can’t even look at the human. Instead he hangs his head and anxiously picks at the skin on his fingers. “I-I …I didn’t p-plan this. Any of this-”

“-Food,” the human makes his demand again. His fuse running short.

“H-Help yourself. You don’t have to ask. Please, just make yourself at home.”

“This will never be my home,” the human spits venomously, his hands balled tight into fists.

“No - I - I didn’t mean tha-”

The human tears past August in a huff, his body vibrating with barely contained rage. His shoulder slams into August with deliberate malice. August, however, stands firm and absorbs the shove without a flinch. He watches as the human throws himself at the kitchen with the ferocious hunger of a starved lion. He wrenches the cupboards open with bone-jarring bangs and slams them shut with enough force to rattle the windows.

“So what’s your plan?” the human side-eyes August, squatting down to the lower cabinets and flinging them open. They’re empty too. They all are, really. He groans in frustration and slams them shut. “Earn my trust to break it? I’ll be a mindless zombie in days?”

"My plan is to return you to where I found you. As soon as I possibly can. Without hesitation."

“‘Without hesitation?’” the human scoffs, a bitter and humourless laugh, “what a fucking joke.”

He snatches at cans and packets, what few there are that he can get his hands on. He crams a half-empty bag of dry pasta and a tin of peaches into his arms - god knows how long they’ve been there. Nothing that constitutes a full meal but his stockpile will stretch to a couple days, at least. August feels a weight settle heavy on his chest at that. He knows with a devastating certainty that the bridge of understanding between them is crumbling away. The human will surely disappear upstairs again, never to be seen. There will be no getting through to him. Strangers, they will remain.

The human fills his arms and races back towards the stairs. August scrambles after him, his voice tight, "Please, can we just talk? Before you-”

“NO! Don't follow me! Don't talk to me. Don't you dare come anywhere near me. Don't even knock on my door. You want to make good on your promise? I don't want to hear from you or see your face until we’re heading back to human territory. Comprende?!”

If August had a tail, it would be between his legs. His shoulders slump as he nods solemnly, shamefaced.

“I understand,” August croaks, “I’m so sorry. I won’t come near you until it’s time to go.”

“Not a moment before, and not a damn second later,” the human growls with a point of his finger, veins bulging in his neck that August can’t help but notice.

One moment he’s there and the next, he disappears up the stairs in a flash. He slams the door like a hormonal teenager and August hears the unmistakable screeching and scraping of furniture being dragged across the room all over again.

*!*!*!*!*

Lucas doesn’t count the days it’s been. He doesn’t need nor want to. Even if he tried, the numbers would slip through his fingers like grains of sand. He refuses to be one of those prisoners who scratches tallies into the walls until there’s no space left to etch, until their sanity crumbles to nothing.

Either yesterday, or three days, or a week ago - Lucas can only guess, everyday has turned to mush - the storm knocked out the power lines. The house plunged into pitch-black darkness and stayed that way ever since.

It’s now or never. The vampire or him. Lucas knows no-one is coming to save him. No-one is looking for him. He can’t afford to be the damsel in distress and wait for a saviour or a miracle. The gnawing ache in his stomach and the dwindling rations remind him that his clock is ticking.

Only one of them walks out of this alive.

Lucas grits his teeth, his resolve hardening like steel. He will be the last one standing. He dismantles his barricade, and the stake finds its way back to his palm again. His fingers curl around the splintered, shaved wood. On tip-toes, he sneaks through the shadowed hallway. A too-loud creak of the floor and Lucas freezes on the spot, his ears pricking. When nothing comes of it, he creeps on towards the stairs.

How will it feel? Brief hesitation coils around his gut. His hands turn clammy. How will it feel to take another’s life? There’ll be blood on his hands for the rest of his life - maybe guilt will eat him alive. But needs must. If he doesn’t slay the monster, there’ll be no life left to be wracked with guilt. How many countless other lives will this save aside his own?

Lucas holds his breath, cautiously poking his head through the bars of the stairwell railing. In flickering candlelight, the vampire hunches over a worn chessboard. Its face etched with an ageless ennui, it tediously moves the black knight across the squares. Somehow, its pale skin seems even more ghostly in the dim light, but Lucas notices how its dark eyes seem to hold a profound loneliness and deep despair.

The vampire was playing all by itself; the opposing white pieces stood sentinel in their starting positions. A ragged sigh escapes its lips as it captures a white pawn with a languid grace. The victory, if it could be called that, brought no spark of joy or satisfaction to its eyes. The vampire simply reset the captured pawn. And played on.

Lucas watches the vampire, his mind in turmoil. This isn’t what he envisioned; being kidnapped by a vampire. He’d imagined a life of forced subservience, drained for every drop of his blood. He saw himself fighting tooth and nail for a life no longer worth living. A life as livestock, waiting for slaughter. His grip on the stake loosens, and he stares down at it with deep contemplation.

This doesn’t feel like the nightmare Lucas had always feared it would be. This vampire, this monster that stole him… has kept to every promise it’s made. Lucas can’t believe that he’s admitting that. It hasn’t used persuasion. Why? It would be so easy, like taking candy from a baby. Lucas would have no choice but to grovel at its feet and offer it a drink from his neck. But the vampire hasn’t even tried to feed, claims it doesn’t want to feed. The vampire hasn’t laid a hand on Lucas. It’s given him peace and solitude, food and drink, endless promises to return him to human territory, safe and sound.

A wave of doubt crashes over Lucas. Could he dare to trust the vampire’s word?

“Care to join…?”

Lucas jumps out of his skin. The vampire is looking right at him, its gaze fixed and intense. For a moment, Lucas fears the worst. Has he angered the creature? But as he looks closer, he realises that the vampire's expression was not one of anger. Instead, there’s a raw desperation and longing in its eyes, a look that Lucas had never seen or maybe cared to notice before. He quickly and discreetly shoves the stake into the waistband of his jeans, and grabs the bars of the stairs like the prisoner he’s been so convinced he is.

“What do I win?” Lucas calls down. There’s still hesitation to his voice, an air of stubbornness. He’s not fully prepared to let his guard down just yet.

For the first time, the vampire actually smiles. “Bragging rights. I never lose.”

Lucas hesitates, a mixture of curiosity and trepidation coursing through him. Perhaps this game of chess would help pass the time before he goes back, and maybe, just maybe, it would give him a chance to glimpse into the mind of this vampire. He nods and heads down the stairs as the vampire frantically and meticulously restarts the board.

“I’ll let you go first, of course. Give you a headstart. It would be unfair otherwise,” the vampire lightly teases.

Lucas moves first, his fingers hesitating slightly as he places a white pawn forward. The vampire responds with equal care, its movements precise and deliberate. They play in pregnant silence, the only sound the soft click of the pieces against the board. An eternity and a half passes before the silence is dared to be broken.

“I’ve been thinking,” The vampire ponders, “when the power is restored, is there anyone you could call? Just to let somebody know you’re safe? That you will be back as soon as you can?”

Lucas leans back, his eyes glued to the board, and without looking up, simply replies, "Nope."

“No-one at all? Not a single soul?” the vampire presses.

“That’s what nope means, don’t it?” Lucas takes a pawn, and the vampire uncomfortably shuffles in its chair. “You know that no-one’s looking, that’s why you chose me, remember…?” a condescending smirk curls on Lucas’s lips. Like he can afford to prod and jibe. He’s feeling more at ease, his confidence growing with each passing moment.

"Anyway. You must be the softest leech going. Either that or you're playing the long game. The self-restraint is mind-boggling... don't you want a bite? Bet the smell is driving you almost cuckoo," Lucas outstretches his arm and waves it underneath the vampire's nose.

Lucas doesn't know how much he even believes what he’s saying anymore. His thoughts are a whirlwind. He has been so hellbent on survival, on staying one step ahead of the vampire, that he hadn't had a second to breathe and take a step back to really think about what was happening. He watches the vampire's face closely, searching for any sign of weakness or desire. Is the restraint genuine, or is it just a facade?

Instead the vampire’s face falls and it gasps, reaching out for Lucas’s wrist, “Your wound-”

The gash on Lucas’ palm is deep, the edges jagged and uneven and the skin around it is inflamed and swollen. Lucas had bigger fish to fry than worrying over a silly little cut, but now he notices it, he feels it throb with dull pain.

“That’s not looking good. Would you let me take a look at it?”

Lucas quickly retracts his arm and cradles his hand defensively. His eyes narrow. “If you win. If you win, maybe I’ll let you. But what do I get if I win?”

The vamp seems satisfied by that. So certain of its inevitable triumph. “I told you. Bragging rights.”

Lucas isn’t so certain that the vampire will best him. He remembers the long days spent practising his moves against the undefeated champion. His grandpa was tough, but Lucas had always held his own. There were times when he thought he might just be able to beat him, but the old man always managed to pull through.

A flicker of nostalgia and a flicker of grief passes over Lucas's face. “My grandpa. He was the undefeated champ. But I got pretty damn close on occasion. This will be childsplay.”

The vampire’s face softens, its voice gentle, “Is he…still with us?”

“If he was, do you think I’d be sleeping rough on some sopping wet cardboard?” Lucas makes another sharp move, capturing one of the vampire’s pieces. Silence fills the air, and Lucas sighs.

“Why aren’t you using persuasion? You could easily win this. Make me move my knight and the game’s all yours,” Lucas suggests, shrugging. The vampire lets out a low chuckle, his eyes scanning the board as he calculates his next move. But Lucas's words lingered, a nagging thought in the back of his mind.

“No…but, in all seriousness…why - why aren’t you using persuasion? Like, at all? I’d be powerless to stop you. I’d… be y-yours,” he stutters. “Entirely at your mercy. You wouldn’t have to follow through on your promise to free me.”

The vampire's ruby-red eyes widen in shock. Its mouth drops open as though he’d been struck. It averts its gaze down to the flickering candlelight.

“Why would I?” the vamp laments, “I don’t want to use persuasion. To what aim? I’ve made a promise to you, and I intend to keep it. I value your trust, and I would never do anything to jeopardise it. You deserve your free will. Your choices and your thoughts are, and will always be, your own.”

“I didn’t choose to be here-” Lucas' lips respond quicker than his brain can comprehend. He can tell those words cut like a knife to the vampire.

“No… you didn’t.” The vampire whispers, its tone heavy with guilt. “And that will haunt me for as long as I shall live.”

Lucas is taken aback. He’d always assumed that vampires were cold, unfeeling monsters - devoid of all emotion. But here, he saw something different. He feels something different. The vampire’s words were filled with a mournful regret. He fears he’d been too quick to judge, too eager to paint the vampire as a villain. Maybe there is more to this creature than meets the eye.

The wind suddenly picks up outside, it howls and screeches, whipping against the glass. Lucas stares out the window, a chill running down his spine as he watches the snow swirl and fall.

“I hate to say it… I am glad you are here. Not out there tonight,” the vampire says, watching the blizzard too with a heavy heart.

"Yeah. Me too,” Lucas mumbles.

"What would you do?” the vampire frets, dragging itself back to the game’s attention and playing its turn, “If you were? Where would you go?"

"I...I don't know,” Lucas shrugs, “Loiter somewhere warm inside until they chuck me out?"

"Is there truly no-one you could go to?"

"No-one. I – I don't have any family left. And try making friends in a nomadic lifestyle. I'm never in one place long enough to keep friends. And if I'm honest? I'm shocked one of you lot hadn't snapped me up sooner. I was...kinda expecting it."

Every night was a gamble, every morning was a blessing. Lucas always had to be careful, to seek refuge in shadows and find safety in numbers wherever possible. He knew it was coming sooner or later. He was always a sitting duck for a vampire to come along and nab.

“Forgive me if I do say, I am glad I was the one to snatch you up. And not another.”

The walls Lucas put up seem to be slowly knocked down brick by brick. He doesn’t feel like a hunted animal or a captive anymore. He doesn’t feel like he has to look over his shoulder at every turn. It feels almost…safe.

“Yeah… guess I probably lucked out, huh?”

Silence falls once again, Lucas looks down to the board. But now he sees an opportunity. With a swift and decisive move, Lucas advances his rook, placing the king in check. The vamp’s king is trapped, cornered by Lucas's pieces.

There’s no escape. The vampire’s face falls as it realises. Lucas has won the game.

“There’s no way-” the vamp mutters, shaking its head in disbelief. “Well played,” he concedes, offering a hand out to shake. Lucas takes it readily.

“I - I know we made a deal, but please may I look at your wound?” the vampire tries its luck.

“Finee,” Lucas rolls his eyes jovially, “Guess I’m feeling benevolent. Coming off a high from my win.”

*!*!*!*!*!*!*!*

The human sits on top of the examination table, swinging his legs nervously like a child. His eyes flitter around the room, eyebrows furrowed. There’s no sign of the destruction and chaos he unleashed last week.

August approaches him and gently lifts the human’s hand, examining the slash across the palm. “This looks deep,” he murmurs to himself, turning the human’s hand to different angles and reaching for a bottle of antiseptic.

“Luckily, I don’t think it’s infected. Just a bit swollen. I have some antibiotic ointment - neomycin - and we’ll dress the wound. Shouldn’t give you too much trouble.”

As August pours the antiseptic onto the wound, the human flinches and hisses through his teeth. His eyes squeeze shut, snatching his hand away. The sudden movement startles August, who flinches back too, his heart hammering at his ribs.

"Are you alright?" August asks once he’s caught his own breath, his voice filled with concern. He tries to appear confident and in control, but the truth is, he’s just as nervous as the human.

"Yeah, I'm fine," the human replies, his voice a bit shaky. "It just stung a bit, is all."

August nods, his eyes filled with a strange intensity. "Want to know something?" he asks. The human nods, his own eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

"I used to be terrified of humans," August confesses.

The human’s eyebrows shot up. "You? Scared of humans? A vampire?"

“My mother spun tales of hunters, mobs, and lynchers. I was taught hell hath no fury like a human. I grew up believing our own blood bags would tear me limb from limb should they grab hold of me. I thought humans were my natural predator."

The human is silent for a moment, his mind racing. "…when it was the other way around," he finally finishes. “I’ve lived my entire life in fear of you - of your kind.”

“Me too. Our practices are cruel-”

“What makes you so different?” The human cuts in, desperate for answers, “Why - Why are you being kind to me?”

August gently applies the ointment to the human’s wounded palm, then a clean bandage securing it with a strip of medical tape. He places a cold compress on the area to help reduce swelling and pain.

“Kindness costs nothing, but means everything,” August explains, “You were not put on this earth to suffer, or to be my food. Nor would I ever want that. You deserve your freedom - your humanity. I will live my life, and you will live yours.”

“Why-Why did you take me? If you never wanted me, if you never wanted this … why am I here?” the human croaks, tears brimming in his eyes.

“I was left with no choice, I promise you. I - I took you to save you. My family - they forced my hand. They said they would take you if I didn’t. They would hurt you. They would make your life a living hell. It was the only way I could stop them - It was the only way I could make sure you made it home again-”

A tear freely rolls down the man’s cheek, he quickly swipes it away. “You…You saved me?”

“I’m so sorry it had to happen this way. But I would do it ten times over if it meant I knew you were safe in my hands.”

The human closes his eyes, and exhales a deep breath of relief. August can see the weight of the world lift from his shoulders. “T-Thank you,” the human whispers.

“Please,” August shakes his head in abnegation, “Don’t thank me. I don’t deserve gratitude. You deserve every apology I could ever utter, and still it would never be enough.”

August scuttles across the room to his cabinets, rummaging around for the painkillers he knows are hiding in there somewhere.

“August?”

August’s heart leaps. He stops still, the world stops still. It’s the first time the human has spoken his name. Not vamp, not leech, or monster. August. It’s like music to his ears.

“My…My name is Lucas. Lucas Slater. I - I thought if I gave you my name… I was giving myself away. But I trust you with my name.”

It’s not much, but it’s more than August could have ever hoped for. It feels like the sun rising after a long, dark winter. His legs feel as if they might give out beneath him, he has to lean against the countertop to steady himself.

“Lucas.” August whispers to himself. He can finally put a name to the stranger. “It’s - It’s nice to finally meet you, Lucas.”

*!*!*!*!*!*

The day finally arrived. The day Lucas had been waiting for was finally here. Hometime. To where or whatever his home is supposed to be. But home has never been just a place to Lucas. It’s always been a feeling, a sense of belonging. This house, that was supposed to be his prison, has become more of a home in this short time than he has ever known in his entire life. The days spent with August felt like a new lease of life, their connection grew day by day. At night, Lucas slept like a baby, without a care in the world. In a toasty bed, and not on cardboard and newspaper. With a warm belly, and no starved rumbling. For the first time, he feels that sense of belonging he’s craved.

He’s never belonged anywhere, and neither has August, it seems.

The snow has melted, revealing a landscape that was both familiar and foreign. It looked so much like human territory but felt worlds apart. As they drove through the countryside, Lucas couldn't help but think about all he would leave behind. The vampire's old, dusty house had become his asylum, a place where he felt safe and protected. He had grown to trust August, to rely on him.

Lucas couldn't shake the feeling of dread that had been gnawing at him all morning. He knew his time with August was coming to an end, and the thought of leaving filled him with a sense of loss. He had grown to respect the vampire, more than he ever thought possible. He glances at August in the rearview mirror. His expression is unreadable, dormant. He’d been quiet all morning. He stares absentmindedly out the window, lost in thought. Lucas wonders if August feels the same way. They both live such lonely lives. A nobody with nobody. What if he stayed? Would that be so awful?

They continue driving in silence, the only sound the gentle hum of the car’s engine. Lucas watches the road pass them by from the window, edging closer and closer to human territory. Lucas feels his stomach sink. Going ‘home’ shouldn’t feel like that. This isn’t right.

"Stop the car," Lucas blurts out.

"You want to get out here? We're still miles away yet!" August queries.

"No, I... I've been thinking," Lucas stammers. "How do you... feel about a new roommate? I guess I'd feel bad leaving you to your lonely, boring self with your dusty, old books."

Lucas silently scolds himself, using his humour as a shield. He lets the mask slip, and his lip wobbles with impending tears.

"I - I have nothing back in human territory. You plucked me from the streets, my cardboard bed, my only possession was a paper cup with a few coins... I'll do anything. Odds are another vampire will find me again in no time and I - I doubt I'll be as lucky to get another one as kind as you - it'd be like lightning striking the same spot twice."

"If you truly wish to stay, you're more than welcome..." August began, his voice soft. "The guest bedroom is yours for the taking, stay as long as you need or want. Please do not stay on my account, or out of fear of me. You truly are free to go."

Lucas hesitates, a thousand what if’s fill his mind. This is quite possibly the most idiotic choice he’s ever made, but it just feels right in his gut. It’s the path he’s meant to take. "I - god this is so stupid, I barely fucking know you but... I think I trust you. If this kindness is all an act or a game then hey, props to you for keeping it up this long, you deserve to feed off me."

August can't help but smile, a gentle expression that warmed Lucas's heart. "Only if you're absolutely, positively sure. You can change your mind at any time. But...I'd like that. I'd like that a lot."

Lucas takes a deep breath. He rests his head against the window. "Turn the car around. Let's go home."

---

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@thecyrulik @t0rture-me @redwhump @the-cryptid-finch @snowstuffscuff

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @wolfeyedwitch @interdimensional-chaos @termsnconditions-apply @whump-blog

@leyswhumpdump @not-a-space-alien @onlybadendings @darlingwhump @sparrowsage

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@whuarri @33-sdtr-45 @pigeonwhumps @canislycaon24 @the-whumpers-grimm

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@only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @androgynousqueenie @yetanotheraltwhumpblog @fiifii000 @that-one-small-world

@doodlepoodle154 @sodacreampuff @cupcakes-and-pain @topsheepstudent @mylovelyme

@anonfromcanada @astrokea @turn-the-tables-on-them @bloodredfountainpen @fleur-a-whump

@tobiaslut

#Shattered #August Crinamorte OC #Lucas Slater OC #flashback #vampire caretaker #bloodbag whumpee #angst/fluff #whump #whump writing #whump community #whumpblr #whump blog #whumpee #whumper #captivity #defiant whumpee #vampire whump

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