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heresathreebee · 2 years

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Leonard Bast | Howard’s End (Miniseries 2019) || Drunk Sex // Spanking

Reader Is Leonard's Wife; 2k words; NO BETA/ SELF- EDITED, Swearing, Domestic Argument, Victorian/ Edwardian Evangelical Values, Injury (minor), Spanking, Both Characters Are Sexually Repressed, Stripping, Half-Clothed Sex, Breeding Kink, Creampie

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Leonard has just come home from a very long and very exhausting day of work to find you anxiously biting your nails. His heavy gaze looks at you, then down in the sink with the broken dish, and then back to you. His silence is only making your nervousness worse.

"I am so, so sorry darling," you whisper as if speaking any louder will awaken a bear out of him.

His brow furrows and you can see him grinding his teeth. "It's… only a dish, love."

Although he doesn't know why, this scenario feels vaguely familiar. You aren't usually so clumsy, though, and why would you not just clean it up? Perhaps it only just happened.

Either way, your husband sighs and shoos you away gently. He takes every broken piece and discards them properly, wincing when he accidentally catches his thumb on a shard. In his state, it makes his already simmer temper flare.

"Damn it to hell," he growls and jams his bloody thumb into his mouth.

You let out a wispy gasp, having never heard such vulgarity fall from his mouth before. You itch at your wrist as you start to second guess yourself, but you press forward anyways. His head turns when he feels your skirts brushing his trousers.

"Honestly Lenny, I don't know what's come over me," you try apologizing again as he frees his thumb and inspects the wound.

"It's nothing, dear," he replies, but it's through gritted teeth and his back is still facing you. "Go add something to the fire. I'll… fix us some dinner."

Embarrassment fills your mind and you try to beat him to it. "No, no! Let me! I-I should have done it hours ago– what was I thinking?"

It seems your husband has had enough. He watches you scurry about gathering pots and water to boil. He plants himself squarely against the counter and towers over you in your workstation.

"What have you been doing all day, darling?" He throws a few logs and stokes the fire himself. "Dinner is going to take half the night, I won't have time to read my book."

"I know, love, I'm so sorry! I don't know what's come over me, I can't hold a single thought today I'm afraid." You got the pot boiling and beans going. "I think we have some cheese and bread left."

Leonard sighs and grabs the decanter by the door. He fills a glass of brandy and leans on the counter, not ready to leave off on your argument. You aren't acting like yourself. Not once since he's known you have you been so consistently absentminded.

You smooth wrinkles out of your skirts and reach out a timid hand to touch his shoulder. "Lenny…"

"Don't. Apologize again." Frustrated, he runs a hand over his face but the angry lines on his forehead don't disappear.

"I've upset you. You've every right to be angry with me, darling," you whisper and wrap your arms around his waist, sure he can feel you trembling. "I… I think you should…"

The words die on your tongue. You feel his body shift and peek open your eyes to find him looking down at you. Perhaps this was a bad idea after all, what were you ever thinking…

"What? You think I should what?"

You gulp and ignore the burning of your cheeks. "... I think you should punish me. Like before. I-I learned last time! I did… but perhaps I need another… lesson."

Your husband's face is stone. He doesn't like punishing you– you are not a child. And he's only ever done it once before, and silently swore never to do it again. The tears on your face (and his entirely innapropriate feelings of lust) left him riddled with guilt.

Leonard stands and gently pushes you off of him. "Alright. Get on the desk and lift your skirts."

He mistakes your lip bite for apprehension and instructs himself to be a little more gentle this time. He follows you and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, watching as you lay stomach first over his desk and lifting your many petticoats to your waist and waiting submissively. He unties the drawstring on your drawers and pulls them down to expose your derriere.

This draws a gasp from you, as it did the last time he disciplined you. Leonard is thankful for your turned back as a rogue blush spread across his face. He clears his throat and sees your muscles tense in anticipation.

"Just five this time, love," he says. "Will you count them?"

"Yes," you reply breathily and squirm.

Open palmed, Leonard reels back, pauses, and swings, aiming for your right cheek. The clap of skin against skin is louder than he intended, equal to the force he used before, and your body reacts with a jerk and a surprised wail. Your heel comes up as you try to cross your legs, before settling back into position and beginning the count.

"One…"

Leonard's face burns and a droplet of sweat trickles down his collar. The second hit occurs opposite with the same force and a milder reaction from you.

"Two," went your watery voice.

Almost finished, he tries to wish away the heat under his collar.

The next slap is half the strength of the last, and you groan but don't speak. "Count, darling."

"...th-three. You can do it harder, Lenny, I can take it."

Clenching his jaw, his hand unconsciously smoothes over your abused flesh. He feels faint and the throbbing in his trousers is torturous. Why did you ask for this? Why do you want him to punish you? The next swing is back to full force and you fucking moan from it.

All thought comes to a violent crashing halt as your husband realizes where he's heard that sound before. In your shared private bed chamber, under the cover of darkness, nothing but nightshirts between you as you fulfill your marriage duties. Where your kisses were ceaseless and breathless chuckles clandestine. You were enjoying this.

"Get up." Leonard pulls you up by your arm, not bothering with the final lash. You must know he's seen through your ruse as you hide your face under your hair which is coming loose from its pins. You're still holding your skirts up and he catches a glimpse of the hair gathered at the top of your legs– which he has only ever felt before and not seen. He quickly yanks your skirts down to cover your nudity and forces your head up.

Your chin warbles pathetically and you sob. "I am sorry my love, I-I… I think there is something wrong with me…"

He can't be too angry with you. Not with the tent created in his own clothes. The hand he used to hold your head up now strokes your cheek, encouraging you not to fear his wrath which has ebbed away quickly.

He clears his throat and struggles for words. "I think… it is merely a strange reaction, darling, not a flaw in your morality."

He holds you close and swallows a grunt when your corset presses against his stiffy. You are none the wiser to his condition, simply staring at his face looking for forgiveness– this time genuinely.

He asked hesitantly, "did your father not discipline you so?"

You shook your head, then explained, "He did spank me. Only… he made my siblings and I pick a switch from a tree, he never used his bare hands. And he never made me lift my skirts or bend over…"

Oh, Leonard thought. "Perhaps it is my fault then. I am truly sorry, my dear, I–"

"Lenny," you interject quietly, "I like it. I know, I know I'm not supposed to, but… I like when you put your hands on me. And…"

Your mouth moves as you flounder for words, "no one has ever looked at my nakedness the way you do."

So you had seen him– or at least you knew how he felt about it. And how could he not feel overcome with lust at the sight of you? His very own Aphrodite. He wanted to see more of your nakedness– was that so wrong? You are his wife, afterall.

Leonard squeezes you tighter and you hug him back just as enthusiastically. Your tears are drying on your cheeks and eyes hooded, a look you give him occasionally when he crawls into bed and wraps you in his arms.

The meaning behind it is slowly becoming clearer.

"Take off your dress," he commands, and slips out of your embrace.

You obey, glancing quickly between the fire, the windows, and him. Hungrily drinking in the visage of him, tall and proud and full of desire for you. You are loosening your corset when he pulls you along to the kitchen table, still in your boots, stockings, and chemise.

"I'm not finished," you protest weakly.

It dies in your throat as soon as his lips connect with yours, the taste of brandy on his tongue.

"I must have you. Now."

Leonard lifts you onto the ledge of the table and lays you down. You gasp into his open mouth as you feel him press up against you, this time fully aware of the hardened line in his trousers. Your arms around his neck keep him close and he shrugs out of his vest and pushes his trousers aside to free his manhood.

The hand on your hip keeps you still as he guides himself into you, stretching you to the point of burning. With his girth, he must rock a few times before fully seating himself inside you and the pain subsides as it often does into insurmountable pleasure.

"Lenny," you beg and feel his hips roll down, brushing against something outside you that sparks more arousal. Your fingers twist in his hair as he begins to thrust, shallow and gentle, the anchoring hand tight and likely to leave bruises on you in the morning.

He says your name fervently, thrusting a tiny bit deeper and massaging your insides with perfect precision. "I am going to put a child in you this time, I swear it."

He braces himself on his other hand and doubles his efforts, relishing in the moans that fall freely from your lips and the image of your pleasure which he has denied himself in past love making. You look the definition of dichotomy: angelic and impish, serene yet pained, as if he's giving you everything you wanted and you still want more. Your nails dig crescent shaped moons into his flesh and he loves it.

"Lenny!" Your husband cannot know how delectable he looks, hovering over you with a few loose curls dangling over his forehead.

And, oh, how he loves how sweet his name sounds coming from you now, never wants to stop hearing it. You hiss through your teeth as the other aspect of his maleness slaps against the tenderized meat of your derriere, creating a suction from the essence your body produces to accommodate and ease your love making. It is a feeling that has you clenching around the thick appendage invading your sacred cave.

"Faster, love." You beg and Leonard obliges, widening his stance and drilling into you at a different pace. You wrap your legs around his hips and nearly scream from the change in angle. "Yes! Just like that! Oh, God!"

Leonard cannot scold you for your blasphemy as he is too lost in pleasure. The punctuated ends of your moans, the rhythmic choking of your cunny, and the tingling warmth at the base of his spine draw him in and he rests his head against the lip of your corset and slams home with his other head pressed against your womb.

He growls as he feels himself pump his seed inside you. Your thighs shake violently at his sides and you sob as your own pleasure breaks you into pieces like a china dish. He holds his hips firmly against your sex as the last pump goes, inadvertantly causing you to slide in inch up the table.

Here. I could stay right here forever, he thought. The smell of your perfume mixes with your perspiration and fills his head with clouds of bliss. His softening cock slips out of your channel and he hears you giggle, lifting his head to inquire the matter.

"I think we burnt the beans," you reply with a great big smile.

And Leonard laughs with you, brushing debris from your forehead and determined to fill you again in the morning.

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Oh, to be a young lady married for love and discovering hedonistic pleasures together 🧡

#three bees writing #kinktober 2022 challenge #tppkinktober2022 #leonard bast smut #leonard bast x female reader #black reader insert #joseph quinn character fiction

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saphirered · 1 year

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Would a Mollyxreader be possible where they briefly had a relationship when the circus passed through the reader’s hometown, but when they meet again in Trostenwald and the M9 forms, neither acknowledges that they know each other until the first night in Alfield. Molly has his drink and panic attack. The reader goes down too because they just saw Molly get shot and have emotions about it. Some combination of angst, fluff, and pda ensues

Hope this turned out how you hoped! Sorry for the wait. Currently going through all the requests assembled outside of the autumn prompts. 😘

The memory replays in Mollymauk's head, over and over. No amount of drink can quell this but he can certainly try. If he’s knocked out cold, he can’t think about this, can he? That’s reasonable logic, is it not? Not at all but that won’t stop him from doing it anyway. He blinks and again it flashes; pain spreads through his body. Arrow strikes true. He’s been injured plenty of times, has lost consciousness plenty too, but never so close to death. The suffocating earth burns in his lungs again. His eyes wander, searching for anything, anyone to show him he’s not alone, this is not history repeating itself, this won’t end in him digging himself out of yet another grave, if at all. When his eyes land on you he wish he hadn’t seen. You look at him in horror. The world turns to slow motion. You shout his name and when you try to run to him, escape the attacks of the creatures that attack you, you only manage to dodge the first, but the second rakes across your abdomen, and that’s that. You drop. Still with your last strength you try to crawl over to him, bleeding and broken, but then the blade stabs down into you once more and you are unmoving, hand stretched towards him. Your eyes close, brow furrowed in pain before you go limp. Had he the strength left to shout or cry, he would have but he feels himself slip from consciousness too. And then he returns to the tavern, pulled out of that vision again when you sit next to him.

“So what number of drink is this and how many do I need to catch up?” You make yourself as comfortable as possible. Still Molly sees the violent of blood, ash and dirt, the holes in your clothes show the bandages beneath. Even with magical healing did you need more extensive wound care. You’re out of the thick of it so that’s good at least but you’ll need another boost in the morning once the resident healer has had time to recover.

“None of your business, and none.” He answers swinging back the contents of his cup. “You should not be drinking right now.” First time ever he’s the voice of reason here. You roll your eyes and order a drink anyway. It was worth a try.

“I’ll just take a guess then. We did just almost die.” There’s humour in your voice but it’s morbid and he comes to realise this is your way of coping. He sees the tremble in your hand as you lift the mug of ale. He sees it in his own hands too. Breathing is more difficult and Molly wonders; do you feel it too? He waits for you to finish your drink and order another while he nurses a refill of his own and thinks.

He knows if he’s dead that might be it. Does he want to go? Hell no but death is part of life and he’d be a fool if he wasn’t going to fight tooth to nail to stay. That’s within his control but when he saw you fall… When that blade stabbed through your back and he swore he saw the light leave your eyes, he has never been more terrified of death in his life. This is all too much. This violence. Perhaps he is not meant for adventure. Stories are fine. Pretending in the circus is too but this is real. This is very very real. These are real people and not some strangers. He might have just met them but he cares about them. And then there’s you. He’s not spoken the words and neither have you so he doubts the others know of your previous involvement. You’ve not given them a reason to figure it out. It’s been strange but what short-lived romance he shared with you, he’s come to realise runs much deeper than he thought. He thought he could separate it, thought he could leave it in the past, if only to see if you’re still the same people, or how different you’ve become, but he can’t separate you from his past, from you now. He cares. He cares very much and the thought of losing you, especially because you tried to save him, that is too big a burden to bear upon his heart. He’s been wasting enough time.

Molly feels lightheaded, bends over the bar holding onto the cup in his hands so tight his fingers begin turning lilac. His breathing is strained and he trembles. Then he feels a gentle palm hesitantly lay against his back, another pulls the cup from his iron grip and replaces it with a warm hand. He holds on tight, not crushing, stills somewhat mindful of his strength and the fact this hand belongs to another, to you. You tell him to breathe. You tell him all will be well. You whisper sweet nothings. You sit closer to him and he is thankful for your warmth because he feels so incredibly cold. You have him sit up, have him focus on you and while he has some trouble to not let his mind slip and wander, you succeed in keeping him grounded. You never once let go of him as you stabilise his breathing until the lightheadedness fades enough to no longer feel like he’ll pass out any second now. Still his breath is somewhat shallow and the tremble remains, you force a smile.

“How about some fresh air?” It’s not quite an order but it’s definitely more than a suggestion. His lungs burn at the thought of an open space, where he does not feel confined. When did this place start feeling so heavy? You wrap an arms round him, let his drape across your shoulders. Despite Molly’s insistence he’ll be fine, you ignore him and he’s thankful because the moment his feet touch solid ground, he loses his balance and you catch him. You give him a look as if to say ‘I told you so’ and Molly cannot even find it within himself to argue or counter with some witty remark. You begin guiding him outside, through the back because neither of you feel like setting foot in that street again. The smouldering fires still remain, as does the gore and blood and you do not need a reminder of everything that happened just an hour ago.

“How-how are you?” Molly once he feels comfortable he can stand on his own two legs takes up residence at some of the empty supply crates set against the wall as you pace. He doesn’t know why he asked the question and is already quite certain he knows the answer.

“Just peachy.” You deign a sarcastic eye roll. Molly snorts. Should have known. “You?” He thinks. How is he doing? Terrible would be the short answer. The long answer, he doesn’t know how to put words to that. He takes a deep breath, his shoulders sinking. In an instance you’re at his side, your hand on his shoulder, the other lacing with his. He’s thankful for you, for your attention and your care.

“Why are you so good to me?” It’s a genuine question but he didn’t intend to speak these words aloud. You again force a half smile.

“Because months ago a man living larger than life walked into my hometown and told me he liked leaving every place better than he found it. And I thought, a man like that may have known few kind things from the world beyond the circus tent. Perhaps that could be changed.” You reminisce to all those times, when you grew closer, to something more. You recall the intricacies, and how Molly made you feel wanted and alive. When you’re with him you’re not a victim to the whims of this world, of other. When you’re with him you make your own fate. To see that same man right now, scared of something you cannot begin to comprehend. He never felt like he needed to know every single detail to understand. Neither do you. That doesn’t make this any less frightening.

“A wise man. Handsome too, he must be.” Molly finds his humour. You bump your shoulder into his and shake your head. That forced smile turns into a true one, and a giggle even escapes your lips. That’s what brings joy back to his mind. It’s so easy. It’s so easy loving you. He’s been trying to ignore it for a while, after all he left with the circus but you’d known even back then one day he would stay, and you would remain. You were given a second chance and look what you two had done with it? You’ve been dancing around each other, been denying that you were once more than familiar and instead opted for being strangers. And for what?

“Very handsome. And boisterous. Enigmatic yet an open book. A true charmer too. Anyone would be a fool to not fall for that philanderer.” You lift your fingers to his chin but he brushes them away and angles to fully face you, eyes filled with judgement and jaw dropped.

“Philanderer? Excuse you! I pride myself on my charm but I will not take judgement from your hedonistic arse, thank you very much!” He scoffs crossing his arms. You cup his cheeks and Molly forces himself to not lean into your touch.

“You’ve had plenty of positive opinions of my ‘hedonistic arse’ in the past. Something changed?” You muse. His hands land over yours and pull them from his cheeks, instead lacing with yours, playing with your fingers, brushing along every callous, cut and scrape.

“I suppose your hedonistic arse has its charms.” He sways. “Does that make you feel better?”

“Does it make you feel better?” You retort.

“If I said yes can we forget us being fools and will you let me kiss you?” A bold spark of confidence. He caught it, and used it and when you chuckle, he’s afraid he might have made the wrong move, that he might have ruined it or you weren’t on the same page. When he feels your lips against his, any doubt in his mind disappears. It’s a short and sweet peck but in that moment Molly truly realises what he’s missed and knows; he doesn’t want to miss out on any of this anymore. He’ll take every second he can get because time spent with you is never wasted.

“Just a kiss? Did you leave that creativity in Trostenwald?” He nudges that spot just below your ribs, at your side that has you double over instantly. You catch yourself onto him and retaliate, still mindful of both your injuries, but whatever pressure there was, seems to have disappeared and been replaced by this familiar comfort. You’ll have your tough times and so will he but you’re here for each other. When you can’t brave the world, he’ll hold your hand. When he feels abandoned, he’ll know that no matter what he’ll have you at his side. Not a moment is wasted.

#mollymauk x reader #critical role x reader #mighty nein x reader #mollymauk tealeaf #critical role mollymauk #critical role #critical role fanfiction #critical role fanfic #critical role imagine #the mighty nein #mighty nein

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thedo0zyslider · 9 months

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The Fleeting Gill - 2k Words

There's three people left down below, and it's gonna be one hell of an ending with one hell of an after party to go with it.

A03 Link

Martyn stood there, listening to Scott and Impulse talk further. Well, listening wasn’t really the right term, their words were falling on deaf ears at the moment. They wanted to have a cheeky little fight to the death or something along those lines. And Martyn didn’t kill his way this far just for it to end in a fair fight , of all things. This game had never been fair, and he didn’t know why it had to be now.

Some would say Martyn didn’t know what he was doing, that They were getting to his head again, but that was a lie. He knew what he was doing the minute his fingers brushed his lava bucket. He wasn’t loyal like people thought, never had been. It was always going to come down to this in the end.

“Nah, I don’t wanna play this game.” Before any of them really knew what was happening, Martyn was letting himself run on red life bloodlust at the moment, and he was pouring lava on the closest person to him. It was truly unfortunate that person had to be his ally. Scott let out a blood curdling scream, one Martyn would for sure be replaying in his mind later, but for now the blonde watched as his (former) allies' fishy flesh was seared by the hot liquid. He didn’t feel bad in the moment, just a little apathetic really.

“Oh!” Impulse exclaimed, backing away in shock. Scott was dead quickly, and it was a little gruesome to watch his flesh melt. So Martyn didn’t, just unsheathed his sword and pointed it towards Impulse.

“I wanna do it this way!” He exclaimed, watching as Impulse, still basically defenseless, started running the opposite direction. Martyn wasn’t sure what face he was making, but it was probably a little twisted.

“Doesn’t matter if you're a Mean Gill or a Bad Boy, or a Neighbor or a Clocker!” The words were just falling out of his mouth at this point, a rant the blonde would only vaguely be aware of later. Adrenaline was one hell of a drug, something like that. “You’re all going down! None of these niceties, this is a deathmatch for a reason!” Impulse screamed as Martyn caught up with him. He put up a good fight before the victor's sword went through his chest, kicking and fighting like a madman. It was useless though. Useless, but a good attempt, a praise worthy one even.

When both of them are dead Martyn feels himself laughing, it sounds maniacal, even to his own ears. “Ooh that feels good, Time is delicious!” He stands there, quite literally a madman, his clothes splattered with the blood of his friends and sword dripping with it. It’s gross and sticky, and Martyn doesn’t even realize until he’s wondering why he isn’t dead yet.

To his utter disbelief, the gods do not strike their winner down immediately. He’s left alone to wander the world, for just a little over an hour. Martyn wishes they’d killed him, he really does. Because now he has to process what he just did, who he just killed, and the way the two men’s blood won’t leave him, how it’s always under his nails. No matter how hard he washes it away

He’s sitting in his broken hourglass when it happened, red sand spilling onto the ground. He’d broken it at some point, doesn’t remember how. The blonde just remembers how the guilt’s been tearing his insides to shreds for the last hour of his life.

It’s Jimmy's voice he hears first, and the sound takes his breath away for a good moment.

“ Ten. ”

They’re counting down to his demise, his last ten seconds alive in this world. Martyn figures it out, scrambling to catch a glance at his timer, just as Skizz’s voice joins the canary’s.

“ Nine. ”

Voices started pooling in after that with every number, laying until he could no longer hear the first ones anymore. Every number more voices screamed in his head, they didn’t mix together, they clashed. They clashed so horribly it made Martyn want to rip his ears off.

“ Eight .” Chimed in Joel

“ Seven .” Said Bdubs, and Tango joined him quickly afterwards.

“ Six. ”

Scar’s voice was next, and by that point Martyn’s head was swimming; in a bad way. “ Five .”

“ Four .” Cleo said. Martyn was frozen by now, his limbs rigid as the voices spoke and his timer kept counting down and down and down-

Two came at once, BigB and Grian, and Martyn moved to cover his ears with his hands. “ Three .”

“ Two .” Etho and Pearl joined in and Martyn closed his eyes, the sound ripping through his eardrums.

“ One .” Scott and Impulse’s voices were the clearest, and the loudest and the last ones he ever heard. Martyn felt his throat begin to close up, eyes begin to prick with the beginnings of tears at the sound of the former’s voice, as his timer finally reached zero.

Scott gasped for air, scrambling up from the grass frantically. He wasn’t panicking because he was dead, he was panicking because he still felt like he was on fire . He knew that was impossible, that he was dead and ghosts physically could not catch fire, but logic never stopped emotions from doing whatever they pleased. It took about a minute of panicked breathing for the burning sensation to fade, which was frustrating because he didn’t need to breathe and acting like he still could was stupid .

There was a small crowd around him, and though the shapes were blurry Scott knew it was his fellow players, because who else would it be. He didn’t see Martyn's distinct blonde hair, so he hadn’t died yet. Part of him wondered why he was looking for Martyn, the very small betrayed part, but the rest of him was panicking a little more at his allies' absence. It seemed half of his head was still down there, in the living world, and he was worried about Martyn being out of sight for too long even though he could handle himself. Part of his brain was still worried about the blonde getting ambushed and dying and losing time and oh god what if he dies first-

A hand came to clutch his arm, muttering something too quiet for anyone but Scott to hear. “Breathe, petal.” He hadn’t even realized he was starting to hyperventilate before those words processed in his head.

The old nickname helped to ground him, and made Scott aware of Jimmy’s familiar warmth huddled beside him. He knew it was Jimmy without looking, because A) He knew what Jimmy’s presence felt like better than anything; B) No one else radiated so much warmth and compassion and goodness that it was sickening ; and C) No one else called him “petal” or still had the scent of their flower valley lingering around them. The last part of that might’ve been in Scott's imagination, but that didn’t matter, because those three points helped his vision become just a little less fuzzy. It also cleared the ringing from his ears, which he hadn’t even known was happening until now.

He was now grounded enough to feel the other ghosts' presence around him, and felt another warmth on the side Jimmy wasn’t hogging. It took a few minutes of searching, but he eventually recognized the calm sort of compassion that was so uniquely Impulse . Scott didn’t let his mind focus on the fact that Impulse was dead and second place, or that Martyn won. He just let himself sink into his friend’s comforting presence, vision clearing just enough to make out the other people around them.

The first thing he saw was Cleo’s familiar and bright auburn red hair, her decayed face looking down at him with the most concern he’d ever seen. It was weird, because Cleo didn’t show concern that easily here, because concern was a weakness you couldn;t afford in a deathmatch (a weakness both of them still clung to anyways, damn them. And dammit his head was still down there!), and it was unsettling . He wanted that look off his bestie's face as soon as possible, which could be done easily, because he wasn’t panicking anymore. He was fine now.

He quickly stopped leaning on Jimmy and Impulse after that, propping himself up still he sat cross legged next to them. Pearl and Scar were hovering next to Cleo, both giving him undisguised looks of worry. Out of his peripheral vision he saw the bright green streak of Joel’s hair, and it was the only thing he saw of him.

“Sorry,” Scott muttered, wiping away wetness that was starting to form on the corners of his vision.

“It’s fine dude.” BigB’s voice came from somewhere on the right, and Scott felt bad for not turning to look at him. His vision, very frustratingly, was still a bit blurred.

“You’re not the first person to spawn having a panic attack.” Jimmy reassured, moving his hand into Scott’s and squeezing. He felt suddenly bad for how many things the blonde probably had to help people through since he died first everytime, because this was not the first pre-game panic attack Jimmy had helped him through.

“It wasn’t even the worst one, either.” Scar said with a lopsided smile. “Mine went on for like, five minutes.”

“That is not something to brag about dude,” A gentle scolding from Tango could be heard, a low thunk sound following as the blazeborn smacked Scar with his tail. And dear jesus, where were all these people coming from?

Scott watched, still a little out of it, as Scar giggled and Grian appeared out of nowhere to punch him lightly in the arm. Tango was right, a five minute panic attack was not funny and made Scott seriously concerned for Scar’s current mental health, but the way it had been presented was reassuring. It had made Scott feel less ashamed, less guilty of his own panic, and he could only assume Scar had done it on purpose. The man was occasionally scatterbrained, but that never interfered with his scarily good emotional intelligence.

Pearl rolled her eyes at the scuffle in front of them, no longer giving a worried look at her former soulmate. Everyone had stopped outwardly worrying about him, which was better, Scott wasn’t in the mood for that sort of concern right now. Joel gave a slightly amused huff, which reminded him that the smaller was even there, before reaching out a hand for Scott to grab onto.

He smiled, easing his hand out of Jimmy’s and grabbing onto Joel’s forearm, their in game rivalry forgotten. Joel smiled back, one that looked cocky unless you knew him, and helped heave Scott to his feet. They always did this after the games, always fell back into a familiar sense of long term friendship. They were just that after all, long time friends who just couldn’t remember it in this world.

“Good game, mate!” Joel complimented, giving him a friendly clap on the back.

“You too,” Scott returned the kind words, enjoying how the smaller laughed into the side hug he was given. It wasn’t quite as crushing as a Skizzleman embrace, but it was close enough. Joel also wasn’t a hugger, but he didn’t squirm this time, so that was progress! They’d make a hugger out of him yet!

He and Grian dragged Jimmy off to get into god knows what shenanigans, the rest of the group dispersing as well. Everyone but Scott that was, who stood there noticing that Mr. Second Place himself was still sitting in the grass, looking a little dumbfounded about something Scott couldn’t quite understand.

“Imp?” Scott asked, the nickname coming to him in the moment. “You good?” He asked, reaching downwards like Joel had done to him just a moment ago.

Impulse’s voice came out a little shaky, causing the man above him to frown slightly. “Y-Yeah I’m good,” He did take Scott’s hand, albeit slowly, and the latter did more of the work of heaving Impulse to his feet than Joel had done with him.

“Are you sure?” Scott asked, hands being placed on his hips.

“I’m sure, I’m sure!” Impulse reassured him frantically. “Just a little shaken up from, ya know, dying like that.”

“Ah,” Was Scott’s eloquent reply.

“You having a panic attack kinda helped though,” The brunette said, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly

“I’m sorry but how???” Scott damn near gaped at him in confusion. These death games gave you some weird ass coping mechanisms and stuff, but that was probably at the top of the list for sure .

“It was like, oh how do I phrase this,” Impulse began, taking a few moments to consider his words. “I kinda got focused on wanting to help you calm down, and everyone crowding around us helped ground me and stop my own panic before it got too bad, I think.”

It took a moment to wrap his mind around it, but Scott started to nod understandingly. “Speaking of dying, where’s our beloved little murder?” He asked, curiosity and an increasingly large amount of worry buzzing inside him. He and Martyn needed to have a talk, like right now . A talk more for the other’s sake than his, because Martyn was definitely going to feel understandably horrible about the last few minutes of Scott’s life.

“I…I think his timer had to run out.” Scott’s heart dropped to his stomach at those words. Martyn had to be down there for what? An hour and a half? By himself, living with what he just did to them, to Scott , to their allyship . He knew that was gonna go terribly, Martyn full on guilt tripping himself terribly. And he did not want to face the outcome of that when the blonde did finally join them. Oh, and Scott so was not mentioning that panic attack, and he’d strangle anyone who tried. Martyn would blame himself for that, when the betrayal hadn’t even caused that reaction. Scott was fine with, happy even, that his ally had been the one to land the final blow on him. It was actually the feeling of burning alive that had made him fall apart, not being betrayed. He didn’t know why though, probably some old death in a past game he couldn’t pinpoint at the moment.

“Are you gonna wait?” Impulse asked, breaking the moment of silence stretching between them as Scott thought.

“Yeah,” He muttered. “You go on ahead though,” He motioned behind them in Skizz’s general direction, practically being able to feel the latter’s eagerness to talk to Impulse from here. “You clearly have someone waiting already.” If he turned his head to look, Scott would see Tango beside Skizzle, with Etho hovering off to the side slightly.

Impulse just waved, saying nothing as Scott placed himself back down onto the grass again. He was preparing mentally to have the longest hour of his life, and then some.

The first thing he sees once spawning in is darkness, because his eyes are closed. Martyn does sense that he’s sitting down though, able to feel the grass between his fingers if he flexes them. He doesn’t open his eyes instantly, taking it all in for a moment. The fact that he was dead, and that this was an afterlife, and that he’d have to see a certain someone again. He tries to breathe, then remembers that ghosts really don’t need to do that, do they?

"Martyn!" A familiar voice exclaimed suddenly, and Martyn felt his heart do somersaults in his chest at the sound.

He opened his eyes to Scott's face staring at him, and was surprised at how happy the other man was to see him. They were sitting in plush grass, and if Martyn looked in any other direction he would see more of his fallen friends just a ways away, waiting to come and greet him. They seemed to be holding off though, waiting for the two of them to have a moment or something. Even more puzzling to the blonde, Scott drew him into a tight hug. He didn't deserve a hug, he'd betrayed Scott for goodness sake. Martyn had stabbed the other man in the back and was getting hugged for it.

He didn't deserve to be hugged, but he wanted the contact, the comfort desperately. And so Martyn gave in and hugged Scott back even tighter, burying his face in the crook of the other's neck. Scott still smelled like the salty ocean of their little isle, and the scent made his heart ache a little. The blonde was sure he still smelled like blood, no matter how hard he'd washed it away. He didn't think the smell of the liquid would ever leave him. The smell of Impulse's blood, Scott's blood.

Scott pulled away suddenly when his now light blue jacket began to dampen. Martyn had tried to stop the waterworks, he really had, but he hadn’t been strong enough this time. He'd held it in for an hour, alone in an empty world, of course he couldn't hold it in now; when he was actually around people. Great .

"Martyn, what is it?" His friend muttered, going to hold his face and thumb away tears. Why was Scott being so gentle? He didn't bloody deserve this! Not from him, out of everyone!

"Sorry, sorry," He began, trying not to choke on…whatever mix of emotions were building up inside him. "It's just…I don't deserve this."

"What do you mean you don't deserve this?" Scott asked in a gentle voice. Martyn’s gut twisted into something ugly at that. He didn’t deserve gentleness, He deserved to be whacked upside the head for what he'd done. Because that’s exactly what he’d want to be doing if the roles were reversed (even if it was a little hypocritical), and he knew Scott would be fine with that. So why? Why comfort him?

"This…this comfort! I betrayed you, Scott! I killed you…" He stopped speaking, holding back a sob. "You shouldn't be hugging me!" Martyn’s voice was small now, the smallest he’d ever heard it.

"I don't care Martyn! We're dead, it doesn't matter!" Scott hissed gently, now gripping his shoulders, no longer having claws to dig into the fabric.

In a quieter tone, Scott adds, "I'd rather it have been you than Impulse." Martyn just blinks at him, staring back at eyes he's become so familiar with over the past few weeks. They're blue now, instead of red or green or yellow, and they're worried over him. No, Martyn can still not grasp why anyone would be so considered with their murderer .

Eventually, after a good minute of just doing nothing, Martyn moves to hug Scott again. His friend does nothing but return it, and he can imagine the other’s tail wrapping around his waist. If he still had a tail, that was. All of Scott’s fish features seemed to be gone, and that's what makes Martyn realize he's no longer in his pirate outfit. It was a nice one, one of his best, but it was stained with dry blood and bad memories by the time he died.

The world around them was so silent, Martyn had forgotten other people were there. That was until there was a shuffling sound, and someone sitting on the grass next to them.

Martyn, having basically been laying on Scott, removed his head from the other's shoulder. Cleo was next to them, a smile playing on their lips.

"Hi Martyn." She said, and the blonde just huffed in response. "You two done having a moment?"

"Yeah, I think so." Scott hummed, glancing at the man on top of him. When Martyn didn’t protest, he nodded in confirmation.

"Well then, congratulations!" Suddenly Martyn was being pulled into another hug by the zombie, and he let out a yell of alarm as he was suddenly lifted into their grasp.

“Hey!” He protested, yet did nothing as Cleo gave him like, the only hug they’d given him. Ever.

“You were brutal down there dude.” The zombie said, releasing him from her hold. Martyn just groaned in response. “Don’t remind me!”

After that everyone else crowds around them as well, a series of congratulations and hugs and other forms of physical affection. Martyn isn’t very used to so much praise, long accustomed to his afterlife’s being a little sad if anything. But if Jimmy and Grian want to tackle him into a hug, if Impulse wants to assure him that he’s fine and those lost moments mean nothing, then who is he to stop them.

Eventually the group thins out, back to doing their own things, and Scott stands slowly. He takes a second to stretch, then offers a hand out to his fellow Mean Gill.

"You aren't… fishy anymore." Martyn says, looking at Scott’s hand as he takes it, only stumbling a little as he stands.

“I kinda miss the tail..” Scott’s admission is a little sad, and Martyn can’t help but giggle and pat his shoulder sympathetically.

The blonde watches, in mild confusion, as everyone makes their way to the cliff's edge. Jimmy and Joel were already sitting there, and now everyone’s joined them. Martyn apparently had missed the memo that that’s the designated gathering spot, but he gets it pretty quickly. Still he stood there after realizing, not feeling worthy to sit with those people.

His teammate’s words hadn’t fully fought off his guilt, but he would be the one to make Martyn stay with them for just a moment longer.

Scott patted the ground next to him with a smile. “Join us?” He poses it as a question, but really it's a command. To sit with them or else he’d get up and drag Martyn over himself. The blonde just smiles, and moves to join the other thirteen members on the cliff. The first thing he says to Scott is a little sad, but he can’t ignore the missing puzzle piece.

"I wish Ren were here." He muttered quietly. Scott just hummed in response. There was nothing for him to respond too, and nothing for Martyn to say. The Dogwarts banner that had been tied around his waist had made it very clear how much he missed the dog hybrid. He missed Ren, missed the comfort the man gave him, and wished he was here to see if victory, even if it was a gorey one.

The group of them sat in silence after that. Well almost silence, most of them having conversations that only the person next to them could hear. It was nice, really it was, to relax and just listen to his friend's soft voices for a while; all of them sitting on the edge of a cliff together. That was until it had to end.

"They're here." Martyn whispered. He doesn't know if anyone heard him. Scott’s grip on his hand tightened, so maybe he did. The blonde doesn't know which is better, if the whole world heard or if those two little words fell on deaf ears.

It doesn’t matter in the end really, because They're here, and none of them will remember this next time they see each other again.

Martyn doesn't know where his friends go in between these games, but he does know that he himself falls into an endless void. Though this time, as he starts to lose consciousness, there flashes of purple mixed in there as well. He wonders what all that's about as his world goes dark, still clinging onto the slipping feeling of Scott’s hand in his.

#ron.fic #ron.writing #scott smajor #martyn inthelittlewood #inthelittlewood #limited life #mean gills #impulsesv #trafficblr #silence after death

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casicroaks · 5 months

Text

Tiffany Valentine has two things in her mind: love and murder. The origins of the brains behind the infamous Lakeshore Strangler and the string of broken hearts she left along her way to Chicago, interwoven with the development of the tempestuous relationship between her and a certain Charles Lee Ray.

CHAPTER 2

[ CHAPTER 1 // CHAPTER 2 // CHAPTER 3 // CHAPTER 4 // CHAPTER 5 // CHAPTER 6 // CHAPTER 7 // CHAPTER 8 // CHAPTER 9 // CHAPTER 10 // CHAPTER 11 // CHAPTER 12 // CHAPTER 13 // CHAPTER 14 // CHAPTER 15 // CHAPTER 16 ]

NEW JERSEY, 1984

“Honey, I’m home!” I said in a sing-song voice as I stepped into my apartment. Not that anyone would answer. I lived alone. I just liked saying that out loud.

I hung my coat and threw my heels off to the side, groaning from having to walk all the way from my workplace to my home. It wasn’t that far, but my last good pair of shoes had fallen to pieces a week ago, and I was still softening the new replacements. I knew I needed to go shopping one of these days. I had only three pairs of shoes: the new red heels, some indoor slippers, and the old leather boots which I was still figuring out a way to wear with my everyday outfits. I really had no excuse not to go get myself some new shoes… Especially since, once a week, I passed by the big shopping malls on my way back home, when it was all lit up with its neon lights and looking real pretty. I admired the clothes, the shoes, the jewelry in their glass cases, trying my best to hype myself up to at least consider buying myself something, like a little present from me to me… But there was nothing I really wanted. Despite working at a beauty parlor, I didn’t care much about looking beautiful anymore. I had the same dresses as before, and I was content with them. Not happy, really. I was never truly happy with the way I looked. Just content. And spending that money I was saving (and that I always ended up spending on groceries and rent) on dresses I didn’t have any interest in just seemed like a stupid idea. Still, I went to the mall every week, like a parishioner returning to the church. It was just something to do.

The little mirror I had nailed to the wall beside the front door gave me back a blur, and I silently chided myself for not stopping by to fluff my hair and check on my makeup. Just like the shoes, even if I had gotten my hair styled quite some months ago (as soon as I had my last break-up, actually) there was still a slight discomfort to seeing it. Like I didn’t quite recognize myself yet, and I didn’t know when I would. I had tried a new hair dye, for once: I had already been blond, brunette… Anything but going back to my original black color. So, red it was. Bright red, like my mother’s.

I read once that the reason women use red lipstick instead of any other color was to attract attention to the lips, since red’s the most eye-catching color in the spectrum. Going into my little kitchen I wondered, was I desperate for attention? Yeah, probably. Was I horny as hell, already tired of my own hand and too broke for a battery-operated alternative? That too. If there’s something I learnt from working at a beauty salon is that a change of image does wonders for a woman. Even something like dyeing your hair can help you feel like a whole different person. And for the first few days, it felt like that. I tried being happier, smiling more, adding a little skip to my step, doing all the bullshit self-help articles, radio therapists and motivational speakers on TV said one should do to be happy. Tough luck. I kept wanting to leave everything, my job, my apartment, change my name and start over somewhere else again (as if that would really change anything), or just skip town and scream in some field or abandoned grounds until my lungs gave up. Like that had worked so well last time. I was so goddamn pissed at everything, and there was a point in which I couldn’t just chalk it up to my breakup. The money always ran out, even when my pay wasn’t that bad, even as I tried to eat less, watch less TV, stop going to the movies, cut down on everything but the most basic expenses. And then, then I felt like I was starving, and it was a constant pull and push between spending my week’s earnings on convenience store snacks or loading it all inside my mattress, saving up for… Something.

Really, I simply had nothing to look forward to.

Maybe I should get a cat, I thought, opening the fridge and having a gulp of milk straight from the carton, before realizing it tasted sour and spitting it out. Well, maybe a dog, then… But I remembered what Arlene had told me not too long ago. A dog, a cat, a bird –they can and will all just up and leave when they get the chance. So much for loyalty. And cages were not cheap.

I remembered I still had some discount tequila left. I had been smart then, and bought two bottles. I was about to pour myself a glass, ready to change into my nightdress and spend the night watching TV, maybe order some Chinese food, and fall asleep in the couch, and do the same the next day, though most likely without the tequila. Or I could go straight to bed (I had heard that sleeping early did wonders for one’s skin) but I wasn’t tired, just exhausted… What I wanted most was to turn off my brain. Turn off my brain, and have a good screwing. By lack of a warm body to share the place, though, the best option I had was to lock myself up in my drab apartment, find the energy to try and finger myself, and watch TV. What else was I gonna do that night, and the weekend after that, after all? Listen to my mother’s voicemails? Eat three bowls of cereal for dinner again? Try to hook up with some rando who might just keep me occupied for a couple hours?

Yeah, that was exactly what I did.

I sighed, leaving the bottle on the cabinet, and went back to put on my coat and my shoes.

“Another night, another day goes by… I never stop myself to wonder why…” I hummed to myself, giving my lipstick one last touch up in front of the bathroom mirror. “You help me to forget to play my role…”

One could say I was looking for love in all the wrong places. And that was probably right. I knew I was looking for some sort of commitment, but… Let’s just say that searching for Prince Charming in a pig pen just isn’t the best way to go about it. I was ashamed of it, I’m not gonna lie. I had hoped I would never have to get into that sort of situations. After all, I was never interested in short-term-relationships, and I liked to think that I was better than casual sex… Not that any of the people I met up with were particularly, interestingly nasty anyways. I knew what I was getting myself into, what sorts of places I became a regular of. And, admittedly, I met some handsome men, a few pretty girls. Don’t get it twisted, though; always used protection, always checked they didn’t have the shadow of a wedding band. I was killing time, but at least I was gonna be careful about it. Just because I dyed my hair red and was feeling blue didn’t mean I became someone else completely. It just meant now I was a redhead, and feeling blue.

“I, I live among the creatures of the night… I haven’t got the will to try and fight…” I sang quietly, biting down on my cigarette’s filter to keep it from being blown away by the wind on the street.

It was a cold October night, and I felt the upcoming winter on my bare legs. The shops were already decked out in their Halloween décor, to my delight. I had made paper garlands and a few other decorations to make the beauty parlor extra spooky for the festivities, but Shelley had told me that it wasn’t necessary… That people didn’t really care about all that when they went to have their nails done. What a bunch of bull. Everyone loved Halloween! And those who didn’t, they were just buzzkills. I hang the decorations anyway. But not even Halloween managed to lift my spirits.

Not too far from the dance floor of the club, just enough for me to people-watch comfortably, I nursed something called a Blood and Sand instead of my usual margarita, having decided to treat myself for once. All things considered, I was simply expecting a mediocre screwing, to be kicked out of some guy or gal’s house which I would never set foot in again, and to head back to my apartment just in time to eat Chinese and cry while watching All That Heaven Allows on the late-night programming.

I had no idea that this was the night that would change my life.

“Hey, Red –what’s new?”

I was approached by not one guy, but by a guy and his girl.

“… Is there anything I can do for you?” I asked the man who had made the question.

Of course, though, I knew what they had in mind. The blonde was kinda cute, with her big eyes and smug grin like a Barbie doll, in an easy-to-forget eye candy, background-dancer-in-a-music-video kind of way. But the guy, with the triple whammy of rather long hair, black suit and tie, and having somehow both childish and sharp features, had a much more interesting sort of odd charisma to him. He was a weirdo, no doubt about it. But I liked his style. I never told him this, but he reminded me a little bit of Heath. Maybe he just happened to be a bit high when we met, like Heath used to be constantly. Maybe it was the hungry eyes, or something in the smile… I didn’t know why, but even as I kept my sight on the girl, I was always aware of his presence, even as he walked behind us on the way to the hotel.

The blonde (I think her name was Leah, or something?) was clearly a newbie. It seemed like she had learnt anything about fucking a girl through some porn movie or something. She kissed me, but not much else; she moaned and sighed and giggled as if she was having a ball, writhing around me, rubbing herself against me. I had barely even touched her. All tease, no action. I knew her type all too well from maybe two or three bi-curious girls I had met through the same methods. Too overexcited, too self-conscious, too eager to please… Please herself, that is, and in this case, please the guy watching. She turned to glance at him every few seconds, as if she needed constant approval to continue. Didn’t seem to be thinking about me at all. It was easy to assume how that would translate when we actually did something. So much for the red hair, I thought, but I tried to have fun, regardless, as I pushed her down and climbed on top of her, pulling that tacky necklace off of her, showing her how it was done. I was a bit disappointed the guy had decided he was just gonna watch, but to each his own, I thought. Maybe he’ll come in later, when we’re already turned on, I guessed.

So… Well, if I was surprised by being approached at the bar by the two of them, I was straight-up baffled when the guy grabbed my shoulder and pulled me off the bed and onto my knees.

“Hey—!”

For a second I thought this meant we would be switching, which honestly was a relief, since despite my best efforts I was getting a bit tired of her. But then he put his hand on my nape and stood over me, and I saw what he had in his right hand. The least subtle knife I’d seen. Where and how had he managed to smuggle it in? I smiled. So that was the plan, I realized. I glanced at the blonde, letting it all sink in. Had I stepped into some kinky Bonnie and Clyde situation? Were they into some fetish stuff we hadn’t discussed beforehand? But then I looked back at the guy, into his cold blue eyes, and I finally understood this was no roleplay. He wanted to kill me, stab me until I dyed the carpet deep red with my blood. So that was what turned him on. No wonder he had seemed as bored as I was feeling so far.

And I was feeling rotten enough to actually be thrilled by this.

“Do it,” I told him, as soon as he held me by the back of my neck, pressing my throat with his thumb, before I could even think it over. And when I did, I just smiled wider. I really wanted it. After all, if he killed me… Well, at least that would spare me having to wash the dishes that night. And if my life was really going to be what it had been for the last year or so, then I didn’t care much if that was how it ended. And, if he didn’t kill me… Then –what a chicken, right? Who goes ahead and pops out a big-ass knife, ready to charge, with another woman egging him on, only to not do it? What can I say –I was curious. Besides, it would be almost hilarious; what would we even do then, if he didn’t kill me now? Would he apologize for the inconvenience and leave? Would we just go home, like when bad weather cuts a ball game short?

Did this guy really have that killer instinct? Would he actually go through with it?

And he still doubted. He kept looking at me all confused. I wondered if he had done this before, and whether he thought I was special, in some way.

“Do it to me, now,” I insisted, keeping the grin firmly drawn on my face. But I kept staring back at him, watching how he faltered. Seemed like there were a hundred thoughts rushing through his head, his hand unsteady, his eyes shifting, and yet they always went back to mine. It was strangely intimate, that balance we had going, him holding me down on my knees and threatening me, but with me having a kind of control over the situation. I wasn’t screaming nor whimpering, I wasn’t intimidated at all, and that clearly threw him off his rhythm; and it was all truly much more exciting than whatever whatshername had been trying to pull in the bed.

And, because she was being ignored and she just needed to hog the spotlight, Blonde started whining. We both glanced at her, having forgotten she was there at all. The man looked back at me for a moment. She was getting in my nerves, and it was likely she was getting in his, too. If he wasn’t gonna kill me, then I might just ask him to borrow his knife and get that woman to shut up—

But then, as if he had just read my mind, he turned towards Blonde –pushed her against the floor –and stabbed her once, twice, thrice, nice and deep, right between the ribs, with the quick, confident pull and push of a professional. Oh, he had killed before. He was not a newbie at all.

And without missing a beat, he turned to me, actually smiling. “Hey, Red, wanna play?”

This had been a test all along, I thought, barely containing my giddiness. He offered me the knife. He really trusted me with it, to go on with it… Even though Blonde was gasping her last breaths already. But still, even if it was just scraps, it was hard to say no.

I let out a giggle when I got my hands on it. With both hands, like I used to. I got closer, still on my knees, and looked down at her body spread beside us. Blonde sure didn’t look as smug anymore… And then I stabbed her. Push in, pull back, with that nice wet sound, with that warmness that came with the splattered blood. My hands remained away from her, grasping the handle, but it was as if the knife had become an extension of myself –yes, I could feel her guts, sinking a bit deeper with each stab, pushing harder and carving a space inside her for me to dig through, making sure to go as far as possible, to the other side of her torso, to let the blood flow freely out of her, for it to splash all over me…

Boy, had I missed it. And even as I focused entirely on my task, becoming more and more excited, I noticed him (Charles, Blonde had called him) out of the corner of my eye, moving along with me to the thrust of the knife as I stabbed her over and over and over –and the way he did so, back and forward, tensing when we went back, letting go when I pushed on, as if guiding me from the side…

I closed my eyes and let out a euphoric laugh in sheer exhilaration, covered in Blonde’s blood. What a pleasure it was. The coldness of the night was gone, I felt my skin burning, my heart pounding, and I had forgotten all about Chinese and TV night. My lust for life had returned. God –I felt alive.

“Wow… It’s never happened like that before,” I admitted with a giggle, looking back at the guy. It wasn’t my first time killing, of course, but this was certainly different. I never had someone beside me, warming it up for me, for starters. Never had a partner in it. Maybe I never saw it as a bonding activity before. It always had been just a slipup, an accidental thing, sometimes a way to blow off some steam, perhaps even a bit of an embarrassing little secret. And there I was, thinking I had left it all behind me a year ago…

But now there was Charles, kindly inviting me along. How could I possibly refuse?

I put a hand on my chest and I frowned when I realized just how different I sounded. “Is that me?” The pure glee of it had probably caused me to slip. Shit… I thought I had managed my voice so far. Found that perfect balance between cute and sultry and kept it up for years. Now, my original voice, my annoying little voice, was back. Shit, shit, shit. Just when I had found a guy I could be truly myself with…

“Oh, it’s definitely you,” he said with a grin and a snicker, coming closer, embracing me. I smiled again, biting my lip, tasting the fresh blood. He picked me up and took me to the bed, and finally, finally I felt that great special rush of adrenaline, that kick I had been looking for for years, there, kissing him, tasting the blood on his own lips. I pushed his hair back, slick now, wanting to see his face. Charles. His cheeky grin, the devious twinkle in his eyes, his boyish charm… I could see myself getting used to it. I could see myself growing to love that face of his.

“Boy, you really know how to show a girl a good time,” I chuckled, and he joined me with his own. He leaned forward to kiss me again, but I wanted us to be properly introduced to one another, to get that out of the way. “I’m Tiffany.”

“I’m Charles,” he replied, now in a different voice, a low snarl that sounded almost menacing. But I wasn’t afraid of him. Why, after that whole display, he couldn’t scare me even if he tried.

“Know what, Charles—” I said, taking a moment to catch my breath. “You should be Chucky.” It went without saying that it would be on account of how much he liked to laugh. And besides, Charles was far too formal. And now that we had shown each other the wickedest parts of ourselves, I felt it was only natural to become more familiar with the other.

“You know what, Tiff…?” Chucky said, raising his eyebrows, giving the body on the floor a quick glance. “… You should be blonde.”

Well, good news for him, then, I thought with a smile. Bleaching black hair was a lot easier than going full red. However, as I gripped his blood-stained shirt and pulled him back in for the kiss he’d been wanting, feeling just how eager he was to keep going, he would be stuck with a redhead for the time being.

You know that one song that was all the rage that October, Like A Virgin? It was like that. Shiny and new, indeed. Best fuck I had in a very long time, truth be told, if not ever. Not that I was gonna tell him that, get his ego that blown. I would have never guessed the weirdo with the hair and the suit had it in him… But Chucky was always full of surprises.

I’m not sure how long passed then. During the eventual cigarette break, bathroom pause, and one moment in which we raided the minibar, I noticed that there was light out the window, but when I checked later, it was pitch dark. Neither one of us checked on the time at any point. I guess neither of us had anywhere better to be than there. And it suited me just right.

Apart from the pit stops, though, we truly managed to keep ourselves entertained for quite a while. What broke the spell was, because it couldn’t have been any other way, Blonde’s natural decomposition. We had switched again and now he was on top of me. I was taking him in and kissing him back, sinking my nails in his back, not a care in the world –when there was the weirdest squeaking noise, loud enough to make both of us stop right then and there. Chucky and I exchanged a quick awkward glance, but decided to simply ignore it. We went right back to what we were doing –and there was the sound again, not a squeak anymore, longer than before. He moved back and let out a deep frustrated sigh.

“Hey… I promise I won’t judge you or anything,” I said, drumming my fingers on his thighs, looking up at him as he kneeled on the bed. “… But did you just rip one?”

“What? No!” he exclaimed. “Thought that was you—”

“It wasn’t me—!”

He let out a bitter chuckle. “Right, won’t judge you or anything…”

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” I insisted, leaning on my forearms to prop myself up. “Y’know, it’s… It’s totally natural and stuff, I guess… But it wasn’t me—!”

There was the noise again, and now that we were both aware of it, we noticed the direction it was coming from. Blonde had gotten bloated and her skin was turning waxy. And, in the silence we kept for the next few seconds, we got another toot, clearly coming from her body.

The two of us burst out laughing. I had heard of bodies becoming gassy after death from some documentary on TV, but I really wasn’t expecting it to sound exactly what gassy sounded like. And apparently it was the music hour, because she kept passing wind for a while –to both our disgust and amusement.

As funny as it was, we did have stinky worm food in our hands. Once we finally calmed down, he suggested stuffing it into the closet and forgetting about it. The issue kept turning in my mind though. And what a pity it would be if we were forbidden to return to such a nice hotel some other time, if some other time could become a possibility… So, I proposed to use his handy knife to chop it up, put it into a laundry bag and throw it into the garbage. That way, at least, there wouldn’t be a dead body to link us to it. Even if it would still be hard to explain the amount of blood.

We dragged Blonde into the bathroom and took turns to hack her up. Once that was done (and it took quite a while, since we also had to break a few bones) Chucky stuffed the slabs in the laundry bag while I hosed the bathtub to get it as spotless as I could. I also took a moment to rinse Blonde’s nice purple corset. I could easily mend the stabbing holes, she was more or less my size (maybe a bit smaller), and it would’ve been a shame to throw it away along with the meat. Only then, with Blonde’s parts finally packed up and ready to go, we realized that it would seem a tad suspicious to leave through the front door while missing one person, and now carrying a big stinking bag.

“What d’you suggest, then?” Chucky asked me. I looked at him, and then at the window behind the messy, blood-dotted bed, and smiled.

I opened the window, the two of us picked up the bag and, with some effort, raised it and tossed her out into the street where it fell on the pavement with a crunch! Luckily it was either really late or really early, and there was nobody on the street to notice our suspicious behavior.

“Did it rip?” he asked, peeking out the window, lighting a new cigarette.

Hard to say with the little light. Since no blood pooled around it, though, we concluded the first half of the operation was a success. Chucky gave me an impressed little glance as he put on his coat. I put on mine, smiling wide in my satisfaction, dangling my heels in one hand.

The second half of the operation was to run like hell out the emergency exit. We giggled like schoolkids as we rushed down the stairs. He was a bit faster than me, since I was practically bouncing barefoot on the concrete steps. I gave him a couple light kicks to tease him, slipping my hands on the handrails. We weren’t rolling around naked anymore, but I was still dizzy with excitement, unable to wipe the smile off my face. Once we got to the backdoor, which was partly locked (that surely had to be a safety hazard), it was Chucky’s moment to impress me. He handed me his cigarette for safekeeping, and with a sniff and a quick rub of his nose, walking a few steps backwards, he got the momentum he needed –hopped for a bit where he stood, as a sort of warmup –and ran towards the door –and gave it one hard kick –managing to get it wide open. He grinned proudly, turning back to see my reaction, and I laughed and clapped. We hurried back to the street, to the bag that was waiting for us, circled by curious stray dogs, which fortunately hadn’t managed to open it and which Chucky swiftly shooed away. He waited politely for me to put my heels back on.

“I’ve never been around a dead body long enough to see it rotting,” I admitted as we both dragged the heavy bag towards the closest dumpster.

“There’s a first time for everything,” he said with a little chuckle. “And… Well, it was pretty warm in that hotel room.”

I snickered, standing on the tip of my toes, holding the lid of the dumpster as high as I could. Chucky picked up the bag with a grunt, swung it and tossed it into the dumpster, where it landed with a thump!, and I dropped the lid, and the operation was then done. We had both now created and disposed of a dead body. Quite an achievement.

With a long, satisfied sigh, Chucky leaned back against the wall of the alley. He took a drag of his cigarette and then offered it to me. By the faint yellow light of the lamppost beside us I noticed the pinkish lipstick stains I had left on it. I gazed at him as he blew the smoke. It could just have been some leftover smudges of blood, but judging by the shade it seemed to be that he actually had my lipstick all smeared on his mouth. Something about that sent a chill down my back.

I smiled at him, giving his cigarette a puff. He smiled back.

“D’you have the time, Chucky?” I asked him, leaning against the wall beside him.

“No, I lost my wristwatch a couple weeks ago,” he said, sinking his hands in his pockets. “Why’d you ask?”

“Wanted to know if it’s Monday already.”

He snorted. “Busy day, Mondays?”

I smiled and looked down at my worn shoes. I should have brought the boots instead, even if they didn’t match my skirt and jacket. “… Amazing, isn’t it?” If they had any traces of blood, I couldn’t tell. “All you can do in just one night.”

Chucky sighed and nodded. He handed me the cigarette again. “Yeah, well, the night’s still young, Tiff.”

We both had to take a moment to catch our breaths. We had run a few floors, dragged a whole person in a bag, been fucking for an unspecified amount of time. Exhaustion was finally kicking in. We shared a cold but comfortable silence, and I closed my eyes, feeling the roughness of the brick against my back, the light sting of the bruises on my legs, the quick but steady beating of my heart, and listening to his breathing, and, far away, the sounds of police sirens and ambulances, of cars and trucks speeding by, completely oblivious to us and to all we had done. There really were no people on the streets, only the eventual flashing lights of a passing car. Somehow that made it feel like Chucky and I were the only two people in the world.

I returned him his cigarette. He took one last puff and flicked it into the curb. I wrapped myself a bit tighter in my coat, rubbing my cheek against its fluffy collar, shivering at a cold rush of wind, my knees trembling just a bit. Chucky looked out into the streets, stretching his neck, checking if someone would come near. Then he sighed, turned back to me and looked me in the eye. A moment passed. It seemed it was time for us to say our goodbyes. And neither one of us wanted to be the one to start.

“… I had fun,” I finally said, trying to hide my… My what? My apprehension? My sadness? My curiosity? I’m not sure. I just had this sinking feeling at the idea of never seeing him again.

“Yeah… Me too,” he admitted gingerly. If we hadn’t spent what seemed to be at least one whole day together I would have thought Chucky might have been lying. “It’s… It was an interesting surprise, I guess.”

I nodded, wringing my hands. “Same here.”

He nodded, rocking on the balls of his feet, glancing awkwardly at the sides, as if that were a particularly fascinating alleyway. “So… Well…”

I didn’t care if it made things weird, I wasn’t gonna be the one to say goodbye. I didn’t want to. And I had the feeling he didn’t want to, either.

His face lit up out of a sudden. He rummaged in his pockets and fished out an old receipt and a shaved-down pencil. “Hey, uh, I don’t know if… I mean, maybe…” He chewed on his lip, looking down, clearly embarrassed. “… I don’t know, we might… Get together again, one of these days, or something…”

“Oh—”

“You got a phone?”

I snickered. “Don’t most people?”

He laughed, dropping his shoulders, loosening up a bit. “Shit, you… You know what I mean.”

I chuckled, taking the little flimsy piece of paper, holding it against the dumpster’s lid, and scribbled my phone number in the biggest, clearest numbers I could write. “Here you go, mister.”

Chucky gave it a glance, still grinning, and stuffed it back into his pocket. If there was a good moment to declare that encounter over, it was then. I waited for him to take it. There was already a promise of a future meeting. I gazed at his face, examining it, putting all my efforts into remembering every part of it. He looked back at me, still smiling. He reached out towards my face –and gently tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

That was it. I think that was when I really fell for him. My hair was caked with dry blood, my makeup was a mess, I was exhausted from the effort of running down stairs and pulling a bag with a dead body inside, and the late-night cold had me trembling like a shitting Chihuahua. But he looked at me, and I felt beautiful. I knew that, by the way he looked at me, he thought I was beautiful.

“Um… My place’s just a couple blocks away, you know,” I managed to blurt out.

Chucky’s eyebrows shot right up.

“I mean, if you’d like to wash up,” I said with a shrug. “We’re both looking like butchers, here.”

There was a pause. He seemed to be considering it. Maybe he was wondering if this could be his chance to try and kill me again, in a more intimate setting, somewhere where he might be able to pass it up as a gruesome suicide. Which I wouldn’t oppose, since, after all, anything would be better than to be unceremoniously killed in a random mucky alley. Maybe, though, he was just wondering if it was worth it.

“… Sure,” Chucky finally agreed. I grinned, noticing the smallest hint of a smile in his lips.

And with that, only stopping by the drugstore to pick up a few more condoms for good measure, I showed him the way to my apartment.

We didn’t really wash up, unsurprisingly. Once in the elevator he pulled me to him and kissed me again, and I held on to his shoulder and buried my fingers in his hair, and both of us already knew where this would end. I don’t know how we made it to my bed, but we did, and at least we didn’t have to share the room with a rotting farting corpse anymore.

At some point we did fall asleep, though. I saw Chucky’s eyes closing as he rubbed his lower lip with his thumb. I had bitten him at some point (well, more than once) but that bite was probably most likely because I had been nodding while dozing off in the middle of a kiss. He let out a sigh, and there was the little glow of the cigarette butt he left on the ashtray on my bed next to his leg. As the smoke went up towards the ceiling, I could hear him breathing softly. It was strange, to think of him as anything near the word soft. I huddled against him, covering him with one arm, smiling to myself. I felt a warm hand setting on my shoulder. It was so comforting… Then, I finally fell asleep.

He woke up before I did. I yawned and dragged myself out of bed, my eyelids still half-shut by the smudged mascara, when I saw Chucky standing in his briefs and tee, holding his blood-stained shirt in one fist and a cigarette in the other hand, with his back to the bedroom. I walked up to him, just a little surprised at this.

“Trying to sneak out?” I asked him with a sleepy giggle, taking the cigarette from his fingers.

He glanced at me over his shoulder. I looked towards where he was looking, the chimney mantle, where I had set my doll collection. It was the best place to display them –as if I actually had anyone to show them to. It was small, but I was proud of it. All of them from garage sales, thrift shops, one or two found just lying around in the curb or in a dumpster, waiting for someone to pick them and fix them up. I had only gotten to gluing one of them back together, and the cracks were still pretty obvious: they would be, until I got some new paint to cover it…

I leaned my head on his shoulder. He had his eyes wide open, wide awake, his brow furrowed, staring at my dolls. He seemed to be trying to understand something. For the briefest moment I was nervous Chucky thought I was a psycho or something.

“You like them?” I asked quietly, slipping his cigarette back into his hand.

Chucky remained silent for a moment longer, looking at them carefully, and took a drag, taking his time to answer. I couldn’t read his face. I swear he knew I was anxious about his answer.

“… If that’s your thing, Tiff,” he finally shrugged it off.

I let out a little happy squeak and hugged him tight, giving him a loud smooch on the cheek.

“Well, we all need a hobby, right?” I said with a wink.

He chuckled, and gave me a little kiss on the temple. “Ain’t that the truth…”

Sunlight was already streaming through the window. I went back into the bedroom and put on my nightdress and slippers. There was the buzzing of the radio, and the voice of a newscaster announcing the day’s weather forecast. He already made himself right at home, I thought.

“You got yourself quite a nice little place here,” Chucky commented when I came back to the kitchen.

“Yeah… I’ve been meaning to paint the walls purple,” I said, pushing my hair back. “But my landlord won’t allow it. And I can’t afford to piss him off with rent being what it is…”

“Purple… I can see it,” he said approvingly, glancing around him.

“Where’s your place?” I asked him, letting the hot water run over the dirty dishes on the sink, hoping he didn’t mind the mess too much. “D’you live far?”

“Ridgefield Avenue, other side of the river. By the S46 Bridge.”

“Quiet part of town,” I said with a smile. “I assume there’s not a wide offer of clubs by those parts.”

“You’d be assuming right,” he snickered, fidgeting with one of the buttons of his shirt, scraping the dry blood with his nail. “It’s just where I’m staying for the time being, though. I want to move closer to where the action is, leave the sidelines.”

I nodded and let out a sigh, taking in the sight of my little apartment. It wasn’t that messy, I told myself. I had a couple bags and boxes lying around from when I moved back in after my last breakup, but mostly everything was in its proper place, and it was pretty clean, all things considered. The only issue was the kitchen, the dirty dishes that had piled up, all greasy and grimy and nasty. Chucky didn’t seem to notice; or, if he did, he didn’t seem to care.

“… What time’s it?”

We both turned to the clock. Two in the afternoon.

“Fuck, I’m starving,” he groaned, hanging his head backwards on the edge of the chair’s back.

As if agreeing with him, my stomach let out a low grumble. “We got some… Some cereal…” I said before taking the box out of the shelf and realizing there was just enough for a spoonful. “We had some, at least.”

He got off the chair and picked up the rest of his clothing. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, shooting me a sideways glance while I opened the fridge, bent over and checked if there was something for us to eat.

“There’s nothing in the fridge save for expired milk, one moldy tomato and some stale bread…” I sighed.

I really wasn’t expecting any visits, after all. Even less a visit that would be staying for a meal. Best I could do was some coffee, but that wouldn’t cut it on an empty stomach.

“Do you, uh, happen to have any money on you?” I asked him, closing the fridge and looking at him over my shoulder.

“Yeah,” he said, zipping up his pants. “What d’you have in mind?”

I opened my eyes wide. Was he inviting me out? “… There’s a nice burger place ‘round the corner,” I suggested.

Before leaving the apartment and venturing out into the streets, though, we did have to wash up. I had forgotten about it already, but the two of us were covered in bloodstains, from the face to the chest to the arms and even some handprints on our legs. I wet a rag on the sink of the bathroom, sat on the toilet and washed myself off. Chucky leaned over the bathtub and rinsed his arms, face and neck, avoiding the shower just barely to keep his cigarette lit between his teeth. His stained shirt was a whole issue, which we ended up solving by me lending him an old Black Sabbath tee I had from my New York days that I wore to bed when my nightdress was in the laundry bag.

“I’ll take it with me next time I go to the laundromat,” I told him, examining the stains. They were pretty dark already. The cotton had probably already absorbed it fully. “And if that doesn’t take it out… Baking soda has never let me down before, at least where period blood is concerned.”

“Believe it or not, I’ve walked ‘round the street in broad daylight, red from head to toe, without anyone giving a shit,” he said, checking the tee’s fit, while I brushed the dry blood flakes off my hair. “It’s amazing what people don’t see.”

And so, finally looking like model citizens, we went out and had burgers and milkshakes. We were both pretty damn famished, it had to be said. We barely talked while we ate. Soon enough there was nothing but some dropped onions on our trays and ketchup leftovers on our fingers to lick off.

“I didn’t know about this place,” he said casually as he wiped his mouth. “It’s pretty good.”

“Yeah, isn’t it?”

I smiled and nodded, tapping my nail against the half-empty cup. I watched him while he sucked on the straw of his strawberry shake, wondering what would happen now. Now that we both had cooled off for the time being, I was half expecting Chucky would decide that I was a loose end, and would try to find a good moment to tie that up. So far, though, everything seemed normal. Too normal. It was like an average date with just some guy. Seeing him no longer colored by the red glow of the club, nor by the bright yellow light of the hotel room, no more blood splattered across his face, and now enjoying a burger like your average Joe, wearing my old tee, it was almost as if everything that had happened had just been a weird wonderful dream.

Though, I have to admit, I was still kind of thrilled at the fact that I had met someone who shared my specific interests.

“Hey, uh… Hope you don’t mind me asking,” I said after swallowing my last bite. “… What’s your body count?”

“Boy, I lost track years ago,” he laughed as he leaned back. “Why, do you still have yours?”

“Um… Let me think,” I said, and got to counting with my fingers. “… Hm, Heath, Jordan, Maxine, Mimi, Kenny, Tony, Carole, Roy, Leanne, Gavin, Ronnie, Elliot… Mark… Uh, I think this one’s name was Zach�� I must be missing someone, but I think those are the ones I remember the most… So, say around fourteen, fifteen. What do you think of that?”

Chucky hummed, resting his head on his hand. He thought about it for a minute. “… I mean, you know all their names, for one. So you clearly keep it personal.”

“Well, yes,” I frowned. “I’m not interested in total strangers—”

“But our first shared one was with a stranger, though,” he noted.

I blinked, a bit surprised by him specifying first. “Yeah, well—”

“Was that your first time with just, you know, a random person?” he asked, leaning forward, barely holding back a grin.

“I’m not telling you…!”

He let out a short but loud laugh. “So it was!”

I huffed. “So what if it was?”

“You’re, like, in your mid-twenties, right? So fourteen, fifteen’s not that bad,” Chucky shrugged. Now I was really curious to know his death count. I had the feeling he did remember it, but had decided that leaving that to the imagination was more impressive. “But you could do better. If you opened yourself to other options…”

I scoffed. I was thrilled, I was into him, yes –but I wasn’t that much into being talked down to. “So you say I should just go around and fuck up the first fella I come across?”

Chucky smiled even wider. “You did. I just gave you the chance. And hey, I’m no hypocrite, I won’t fault you for that. I’m just saying…” He leaned back on his chair, picking his cup and offering a toast. “It’s not exactly impressive, but you got promise, Tiff. Fifteen’s nothing to sneeze at.”

He probably knew I wasn’t really that offended, and soon enough I smiled back at him. Nobody had complimented me on my death count so far. We clinked cups, and I finally realized that Chucky wasn’t gonna kill me. There was something he saw in me that he liked. Or maybe he just wanted a side piece. I’m not a mind reader, I couldn’t know for sure. I just knew that I had fun with him –more fun than what I had had with anyone else –and that I liked the idea of staying around to see what happened next.

“I’d love to… You know, do something like this again,” I said, twirling my hair. “If you’re up to it.”

He tilted his head. “Go out for burgers?”

“No, silly,” I chuckled. “To… Meet again. Do something…” I just couldn’t blurt it out. I giggled, despite myself, becoming a bit flustered. “You got my number, so… If you ever, say, wanted to… To do something…”

“Are you talking about—?”

“Both,” I interrupted him, just as a mother and her child passed us by. “Both… Both would be great.”

Chucky looked at me, slowly realizing what I meant, and nodded. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, remembering when he did that, and fidgeted with my earring. We were no longer alone with each other. We were surrounded by other patrons at the burger place, by families with their kids, by people chatting on the street… But none of it erased what had happened when we were together.

I noticed that Chucky still had a little cut in his lower lip, where I had bitten him.

I smiled. Yes –it had all been real.

“What, do I have something on my face?” he asked me, scratching his cheek.

“No, it’s nothing,” I said, looking down, still smiling. “I’m just… I’m just happy I met you.”

We had already paid. It was about to be three o’clock. It felt like we had been together for a whole week. And still, we didn’t know how to say goodbye.

“Well…” he said, shifting uneasy in his chair. “… What’s next?”

“I –I got a job,” I blurted, immediately regretting it. “And, uh… I guess that—”

“Right.”

“So… Besides, you surely got your own stuff, your own life to go back to—”

“Yeah,” Chucky nodded quickly. “I’m a very busy man.”

I just barely stifled a laugh. “I bet you are.”

He shot me a glare, but then he smiled, too.

We got off the chairs and back onto the street. We walked a bit, just to get the circulation going. I wanted to take his hand, but he had both of them in the pockets of his coat. I already felt the sadness creeping in. I wondered for how long we would keep walking (hopefully all the way to Ridgefield Avenue on the other side of the river) but we stopped by my apartment.

“Well… See you around, Tiff,” he sighed, running his hand through his hair, pushing it off his face.

I smiled. “See you around, Chucky.”

He smiled back. I looked down at his mouth, at the little cut. Even at the risk of staining my teeth with lipstick, I bit down my lower lip, as if I was trying to give myself that same cut. I looked back into his big blue eyes.

And, somehow, we both knew. At this point, even if we hadn’t talked a lot to each other, I felt I knew him inside out. I knew him without saying a word. We moved towards the other –and kissed –and we embraced like that first night on the bed of the hotel room, not too long ago, but which felt like ages –and we kissed. Everyone else in the street disappeared in a blur. There was only us, and the warmth of our bodies, and the white light of day. I knew, right then and there, that this was love.

#childs play #chucky series #fanfiction

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visceravalentines · 2 years

Text

Who’s ready to be choked tf out by this big spooky mask man?! ME. I AM. A note: I know it’s pretty common to distinguish between versions of Michael dependent on which movies you favor. I honestly like them all, and so I write him as an amalgamation of my favorite parts of each version. Just wanted to throw that out there as we skip deeper into the darkness.

Don’t Fear the Reaper: Chapter 3

Rating: Explicit

Length: 2.8k

CW: choking, manhandling, knives, fire

Reader POV

You don’t know how long it takes you to pull it together and peel yourself off the floor of your entryway. You would call into work, but your phone is on the floor of Mrs. Baker’s living room. Maybe the cops will bring it by or bag it up to take back to the station. You feel its absence, but not enough to go back for it. You don’t think work will miss you much, not yet. The weeks following Halloween in Haddonfield are liminal space. No one will question it if you miss a few days.

You need to get out of here.

It takes you half an hour to move methodically through your small house, armed with – of all things – a butcher knife, for all the good it would do you. You check behind every door, inside every cabinet, closet, and crawlspace that could fit a person even half his size. Along the way, you check the locks on every window and both doors that lead outside. Going into your own bedroom, the same room in the same layout where you spent the previous night, makes you physically ill. You find your closet deeply unsettling and move every last piece of clothing aside, just to be sure he hasn’t melted into the shadows in the farthest corner.

Even once you finish, you do not feel safe. You may not ever feel safe again.

Haphazardly you stuff some clothes and toiletries into a bag. When you catch sight of yourself in the bathroom mirror it almost sets you off again. Your face is tear-streaked, your hair a mess, your clothes very clearly slept in. It’s a wonder you weren’t arrested or worse. You look anything but casual and inconspicuous. You look like hell.

You wash up a little bit, fast. Although you know your hands are clean, you can’t shake the feeling that his blood is under your nails, in the creases of your palms, that you can still smell him in your hair. You tend to your wrist. You don’t think it’s broken, thankfully. You can’t stop looking at your neck in the mirror. Not even a scratch. How can that be?

With your bag over your shoulder, you stand at the front door for too long, trying to work up the courage to open it, afraid of who might be standing there. When you at last cross the threshold you all but run to your car. You search the backseat and even the trunk before throwing your bag on the passenger’s seat and peeling out of the driveway, heading for the city limits.

You remember your first Halloween in Haddonfield, how you made this same drive on October 29th, so sure that if you stayed you’d be next. You remember the Halloweens that followed, how you sat crammed on a couch between a zombie and a Playboy bunny and you all laughed and drank and denigrated the whole grisly tradition while surrounded by people and lights and pop music and pretended like you weren’t texting everyone you knew updates every twenty minutes. Untouchable, maybe. Tragedy isn’t real unless it happens to you, and how could it happen to you? You were never the last to leave, but you were never the first either.

When you pass the “Now leaving Haddonfield. We’re sad to see you go!” sign, you relax a little, enough to start processing the events of the last few hours. How you took a few hits from Death himself and survived. How you touched the Shape with your bare hands. How you cooked him fucking scrambled eggs. The whole thing is like a bizarre dream.

You wonder if he feels anything besides the desire to kill. Hunger, definitely. Pain, although he suppressed it well. Over the course of his life, he’s had ample time to practice. You don’t think he felt gratitude for what you did, not in any real way. Perhaps you surprised him. Perhaps the only reason you’re still alive in this moment is because you did something no one else has done for a long time: you tried to help him.

When you first moved to Haddonfield, you did the mandatory research. You know about Michael Myers’ early childhood in a cold home. You know how long he spent at Smith’s Grove under a magnifying glass. You know about Dr. Loomis, how his obsession with this apparent devil-child occluded any chance of him offering any real help to Michael. What would it be like to be raised by orderlies and physicians? How long can you treat a human being – a child – like a monster before they become one? You don’t doubt his need to kill, or its inextricable place deep in his brain. But surely this was not the inevitable outcome. You wonder if he has memories of kindness, if he would recognize it as anything but weakness. And you wonder why you are wondering about him, instead of the people he butchered two nights ago.

You are suddenly so tired. The only sleep you got the night before was feather-light and rife with mortal terror. Your body couldn’t possibly produce another ounce of adrenaline. You wanted to get much further before stopping, but when you snap awake while drifting across the center line you decide your best chance at survival is to stop driving for a little while.

At the first motel you see, you pull the car around back where it can’t be seen from the road and get yourself a room on the second floor close to the stairwell. You are all but swaying on your feet when you bring up your things. You lock yourself in very carefully, deadbolt and chain, and when you lay down you’re not sure how long you spend staring at the door before your brain forcibly hits the switch and knocks you unconscious.

It is hours later when you jerk awake to the piercing ring of a fire alarm. Suspicion cuts through your bleary panic. You swing your legs out of bed, step to where you can see the door. It is still locked. Smoke seeps in through the crack near the floor.

“Fuck.” You scramble for your pants, your shoes. The smoke is growing thicker, enough to sting your throat.

You tap the door handle. It is cool to the touch. You unlock the deadbolt and ease the door open still on the chain, getting a face full of smoke. Coughing, you peer into the hallway, blinking against the burning in your eyes. You can make out the flicker of flames against the far wall. Whether he’s out there or not, you’re out of time.

You take the chain off the door and rush into the hallway, down the stairs, the alarm still splitting the air. In the parking lot, the November chill is bracing. Shoulders hunched against the cold, you hurry to your car, looking over your shoulder at the flames leaping into the sunset sky from more than half of the windows on both stories. A horde of guests have congregated at the far end of the lot, but you feel no need to make your way over to join them. You didn’t intend to stay here long anyway; you may as well be on your way. You’ve never heard any stories of Michael Myers the arsonist, but the last twenty-four hours have seen a lot of firsts.

You toss your bag into the backseat. When you turn, he is there.

Your body lurches backwards in a flight response and you inhale sharply to scream but before the neurons fire to your lungs his hand is over your mouth, slamming your head back against the window once, twice. You stumble, losing your footing, sliding down the side of your car.

With one hand around your throat he forces you the rest of the way to the ground. His knee is between your legs, the other beside your hip, and you kick him in the groin as hard as you can. He responds by lowering himself even closer, shifting more of his weight onto your windpipe. You gasp, choke, squeak. He is so close you can see his eyes are blue. Your heels dig against the asphalt for purchase and find none. There is a high-pitched buzzing in your ears. Desperate, you reach for the mask, grasp for the eye holes. His free hand slams your injured wrist to the ground and the pain is a blinding white flash. When it clears your vision begins to tunnel.

The last thing you see before you slip unconscious are those dark, gleaming eyes.

When you awaken, it is gradually, then all at once. Your nervous system skyrockets back into an immediate fight-or-flight and you sit up quickly – too quickly – your head spins, your throat aches, your mouth is so dry. It is dark, and you are on a bed. You are on…your bed.

You are in your bedroom.

This realization is so jarring you cannot move past it for several seconds. It is nighttime. Were you dreaming? Your brain analyzes the pieces. Have you been dreaming? How the fuck did you get here? God, your head hurts.

Moving your limbs is like pulling tree roots from the soil. You are still wearing your jeans, your sneakers. You smell like smoke. It starts to come back, the fire, the drive out of town. The slam of your skull against glass, against asphalt. Your stomach lurches. Where is he?

You did not drive yourself back to Haddonfield.

Your door is shut, your closet open. You don’t see him in the shadows. You even check under your bed, though the pounding in your head almost blinds you. When you sit back up and the pain recedes, you hear it. The shower is on.

Does the Shape take showers?

Fuck.

Your heart is racing. You feel simultaneously trapped in your bed and like a clock is ticking down the seconds for you to get up before it’s too late. Time is not moving slowly; time is moving very fast.

When you make your decision it unfreezes you. You clamber off the bed and hurry to your desk, dragging it across the carpet to brace against the door. Pens clatter to the floor, not loudly, too loudly. The desk isn’t large but it might buy you time. You run to the window and pull up the blinds, start fussing with the lock. The strip of porch roof outside your bedroom is narrow, but you can fit. From there you can jump; you’ll probably be fine. From there, you can run to a neighbor’s – not Mrs. Baker – knock on their door, put them in danger –

The thud against the door elicits a scream from you that has been sitting on the back of your tongue, waiting. You whirl around and there he is, a sliver of mask through the gap, one arm forcing its way through, gripping the edge of the door. He pushes the desk aside like it’s made of Styrofoam. You turn back to the window, fumbling at the lock, but in mere seconds he is behind you, grasping the collar of your t-shirt. He throws you to the floor and then almost delicately pulls the blinds.

Scrambling across the carpet burns your palms, jars your wrist, and of course you are not fast enough. He grabs your ankle and drags you back towards him the way a cat scoops up a fleeing mouse. You kick wildly and twist yourself onto your back, landing a good solid kick to his stomach, and then his hand is back around your bruised throat, his legs on either side of you. You’re squirming like a bug about to be pinned, slapping futilely at his chest, grabbing his arms, clawing at his fingers, until you feel the sting of steel against your sternum. You go limp, strings cut, heart in freefall. Your hands fall to your sides, your fingers clench the carpet, and a whimper escapes your lips.

He presses the tip of the knife deeper against your breastbone. It feels like wet fire. Tears burn in your bloodshot eyes, but you do not look away from him. You want to close your eyes but you don’t want to die like that. You want to see it coming. His eyes are boring into you, he’s going to watch you die….

When he lifts the knife from your skin it is almost worse. You gasp, sob. When he stabs it into the floor so close to your ear that you feel the air part, you cringe in his grasp.

You see that ghostly face above you, see the eyes drilling into you, put your hands on his wrist and realize he is no longer squeezing. He is merely holding you there, waiting to see if you got the message. He smells like stale blood and…sandalwood? Your bleary eyes strain and see that he is wearing the same stained coveralls but the collar is damp. The bastard used your body wash.

You squint up at him. It takes you several tries to form words with lips and tongue, to coax air through your constricted windpipe. “What do you want?” you rasp at last.

He tilts his head, appraising.

You finally close your eyes and grunt softly, overwhelmed by pain and bewilderment. Opening them back up takes such a concentration of strength. “I don’t understand why you haven’t killed me.”

No response.

“I didn’t tell the cops anything,” you cough. “I guess it wouldn’t do much good anyway…they haven’t found you so far.”

His head straightens. He takes his hand off your neck at last and sits back on his heels, still straddling you. The moments stretch long, a blessed reprieve from the violence. You can feel your heartbeat in your skull. Every breath tugs the puncture on your chest.

“Is this what you do?” you ask finally. “You take a – a hostage and recuperate?”

To your surprise, he shakes his head once, almost imperceptibly.

“No,” you say as it dawns on you. “You didn’t expect me. I surprised you.” Your predicament is suddenly, painfully clear. “What are you…going to do with me?”

No answer comes. You notice his left fist clenching and unclenching against his thigh in what seems to be an unconscious gesture.

“You don’t know what to do with me,” you whisper. Of course he doesn’t. He interacts with people in one of two ways: with violence, or indifference. You have somehow – quite unintentionally – wound up somewhere in the center. You offered him help and then delivered, not once, but twice. When was the last time he had any human interaction besides screaming, subduing, slashing? Could it be possible that somewhere in the cold, seething coils of rage, he recognized your compassion? Does he even have a name for it?

Now is not the time to wonder. Now is the time to press what just might be an advantage – not a big one, but hopefully big enough to keep you alive.

You can scarcely fathom the words as they come out of your mouth. “What if you stay here? Until the fuss dies down. I could…I could feed you, you could…sleep here.” Oh god. What the fuck are you doing?

Surviving, you tell yourself. He will not let you go. So you have to make him stay.

“I’ll let you stay. I won’t tell anyone. If…if you don’t kill me.”

You wish you could see his expression. His eyes are penetrating, like he’s looking for the bait and switch. When he reaches toward your face, you almost choke on the breath that catches in your throat. He takes the knife in his hand, tugs it from the floorboard.

In one lithe motion, he stands, the knife loose and comfortable in his grip. He watches you. This is a test. You push yourself up on your elbows, staring at his face, not the weapon. You sit up, have to squeeze your eyes shut as the room whirls around you. Finally, bracing yourself on the mattress, you stand. You are almost toe-to-toe with him, the zipper of his coveralls level with your hairline. Can he hear your heartbeat? Surely he can. His breath rattles within the mask.

You gather your courage and turn away from him, towards the door, force yourself to walk to it slowly. You can feel his impossible eyes on you, sense his presence that snuffs out the light and vanishes the air. You have the distinct impression you have just done something incredible, like climbing a mountain or completing a marathon.

Or facing Death again and coming out the other side.

“Come on, I’ll…I’ll start dinner.”

As you descend the stairs one at a time, he follows you like a shadow.

Taglist: @daybreakmistakes

#my writing #michael myers x reader #michael myers x you #michael myers #michael myers fanfiction #michael myers fanfic #halloween fanfic #slasher fanfiction #minors dni

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wheredafandomat · 2 years

Text

Friends with Benefits

Reader x Thor x Loki

⚠️18+, swearing, angst, college au, violence, blood

Part 14

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“I’m going to fucking kill you you witless bastard!” Loki fumed, storming out of Thors room towards him as Thor continued to stumble back, wanting to avoid Lokis attack. “Why did I even listen to you?” Loki shouted, punching Thor in the jaw. “All you do is make my life a living hell and ruin things. You ruin everything.” He continued, punching Thor in the gut so he barrelled over. Breathing heavily, he glared down at Thor who was trying to catch his breath as blood streamed down his face. “Sit down” Loki ordered, gesturing to the couch. Once he did, Loki made his way towards the kitchen where he got a glass of water and a tea towel that he dampened before making his way back to Thor. He offered them both to him, both of which Thor took. “Speak” Loki commanded once Thor had taken a sip of the water.

“I’m sorry.” Thor offered, choking, probably on his own blood.

“Sorry?” Loki scoffed “you’ve potentially ruined my chances with the girl who you knew I liked and all you have to say is sorry. Come on brother, you can do better than that.” Loki spoke through gritted teeth.

“I was stupid, incredibly stupid.” Thor spoke again.

“Warmer however you haven’t quite hit the nail on the head.” Loki sneered “why, tell me why.”

In reality, Thor didn’t really know why he did exactly what he did. He knew he didn’t want you and Loki together but the full reason was still unclear in his mind. He wondered if it was simply because he could. Because he could manipulate you, manipulate Loki. Thor knew that you’d seek him for comfort, sharing your bed with him without having to feel guilty about cheating on anyone. He knew that Loki would still see himself as beneath him with the knowledge that you had rejected him. He was twisted, that much was clear but he still couldn’t pinpoint exactly why he decided he’d be a shit stirrer other than simply for the fun of it.

“I was jealous.” Thor settled, stopping his action of pinching his nose as he looked up at Loki.

“Of me?” Loki asked, taken slightly aback.

“Of what you and y/n could have.” Thor replied, looking back down. Perhaps he could see the potential and he was envious of it. Yeah he had fucked the majority of the girls on campus but none of it was real, it wasn’t love. The closest he had got to intimacy was with you. Everyone else was meaningless. Thor knew he didn’t love you but he did care very deeply and he revelled in knowing that you cared about him too.

“Of what we could have? Have you resorted in talking in riddles?” Loki derided.

“I’m being honest” Thor insisted “y/n is so precious, she just doesn’t see it. To be loved by her is a blessing, a blessing I was persistent you didn’t receive. If you and y/n did end up together, there’d be no more me and her. I’d be loveless.” He explained, letting out a saddened sigh.

“I think you’ve truly gone quite mad.” Loki sniggered “you’re telling me you thought you’d ruin any chance between me and y/n for your own selfish carnal needs?”

“Yes.” Thor nodded “although hearing it like that does make it sound ridiculous.” He admitted.

Letting out a frustrated growl, Loki quickly made his way towards Thor, lifting his hand causing Thor to flinch. “Sorry did I scare you?” Loki asked “I just wanted to replace the bloodied tea towel.” He spoke softly, removing it from Thors clutches.

“I think my nose has stopped b—OUCH.” He winced as Lokis fist made a connection with his nose again. “It’s broken.”

“You’ll live.” Loki dismissed, walking back into the kitchen where he retrieved a few more dampened tea towels and threw them at Thor. “You’ll fix this” He spoke ominously as he picked up his clothes that Thor must have brought back from your flat and entered his room. Slamming the door behind him, he released a breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding. Was it adrenaline or was it the smell of your perfume radiating from the clothes he held in his hands that made him feel nauseous.

He wanted to pick up his phone and call you but he didn’t know where he’d begin. Sorry my brother probably told you I don’t like you but in reality I actually like you a lot or sorry my brothers a fucking twat that has been standing in the way of us exploring our feelings above friendship. Sighing deeply, he sat on his bed as he brought the top you had worn to his nose and inhaled. He’d have to find out what perfume it was that you wore so he could spoil you with it, although, it would be more of a gift for him having the pleasure of smelling it on your skin.

Looking down at his knuckles, he had seen that they were looking rather sore. Now the thought of repeatedly punching Thor didn’t seem so pleasant. Again the thought of calling you was tempting but he fought it down, trusting that Thor would help clear the situation up considering that the jig was up now, he knew everything. He laid back against his bed until he remembered another detail of Thors plan. Standing up, he exited his room and entered the living room where Thor was still nursing himself.

“And why the fuck did you hire that prostitute?” Loki exclaimed.

“Jorja isn’t a prostitute.” He assured “I just paid her to have se—wait—no—she’s not a prostitute is she?”

Rolling his eyes at his brothers stupidity, Loki entered his room again as he thought about all the ways Thor had been manipulating this whole situation. Only one thought was comforting. If Thor had been trying so hard and reporting lies back to the both of you, did it mean that you liked him as much as he liked you? Was there a future for you and Loki after all?

OMG THE LOVE AND THUNDER TRAILER THOOO 😁😁

Tags:

@eyesbluelikethetitanic

@mischief2sarawr

@chaotics17

@wheres-the-lamb-sauce

@howdidurhammergrowchris

@ddeadlystbbxx

@muade-mua-de

#loki x reader #tom hiddelston loki #loki x female reader #loki fanfic #loki (marvel)#oc fiction #college au #mcu angst #thor #thor x reader #loki angst #thor odinson #thor x you

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dmitrimolotov · 2 years

Text

Bound to a Rock and an Eagle - 24

Chapter 24

No. 24: Fight, flight or freeze

Blood covered hands | “I don’t want to do this anymore” | Catatonic

1 | prev | Read on AO3

In the pitch black of the trunk, Victor looked at his hands, even though he couldn’t actually see them. He saw them, stained with blackened blood. Blood of the bodies and organs he stole to make his murderer. Blood of the victims it claimed, even the animals of the forest he imagined it had killed to survive as long as it had. The longer he stared, the redder and wetter the blood looked until he could almost smell it. The blood of his friends; his own blood.

His mouth tasted like it now.

He tried to wipe it away; on his clothes, on the carpet, he became increasingly desperate, wiping harder and harder. Even though he couldn’t see it, he knew it wasn’t coming off, it was caked into his nail beds, dried in the loops and whorls of his fingerprints, crusted under his fingernails. Everything he touched became marred.

The car braked suddenly, throwing him into the wall and snapping him out of his self-loathing.

He thought of Henry and Elizabeth in the other car. They would be stronger than this, hell, they’d followed him and broken into a building for him. They had no idea what they may have been walking into, but they did it anyway just to try to get him back.

He would do whatever it took to protect them, and get them out of this. Even if the cost was his own life. But ideally, it wouldn’t come to that.

Victor was renewed with resolve.

And then his stomach grumbled as if to remind him he was still human.

It wasn’t long before the car pulled to a stop. Victor heard the second car pull up somewhere close by and doors opening and slamming. He waited for the trunk to be opened and hands to roughly pull him out, manhandling him inside at gunpoint, but instead he was left alone.

He heard Clerval being ordered inside and Elizabeth being taken out of the other car, but he was left, from the sound of it, alone.

A cold chill ran down his spine.

Are they using me as bait?

Goosebumps crept up his arms and legs and he started feeling his way around the inside of the trunk for any way out. Most cars had an emergency release. He was sure Agatha would have checked for one when she removed the tyre iron - he now realised the other thing she took out would have been the jack - which is another useful tool he was down. He checked anyway, perhaps she was bluffing or relying on it being a short trip, or maybe just that he would be compliant…

But he wouldn’t be bait.

Victor felt around in the dark and… of course she had been bluffing again. He found the emergency release and pulled it, holding the door from the inside so it wouldn’t be so obvious if he was being watched. He tried to open it as little as he could to get a look around outside; see if anyone, his kidnappers, creature, or if he was very lucky, a bystander, was looking. He saw nobody from his limited view, and so cautiously opened the trunk, ready to spring out and run for it.

“Come along now, Victor.”

His stomach flipped as Agatha’s voice sang out from behind him and he almost fell face-first out of the car, catching his foot on the lip and tumbling out in a somersault, landing on his back. He heard Agatha laugh and lay on the driveway a moment longer, letting his nerves settle again. The sun was starting to set, getting low on the horizon and casting long shadows through the trees that seemed to move on their own. Or did they?

He squinted into the forest as he climbed to his feet. A large figure, perhaps 8 feet tall, leaned back behind a tree and vanished into the silhouettes of the forest.

At that moment, Victor made a choice. He hoped it was the right one.

He was careful not to react to the creature as he turned and obediently followed the instructions he was given.

#whumptober2022 #no.24 #blood covered hands #Frankenstein #fic #blood #claustrophobia #molotov cocktales

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reyesmarconi · 9 months

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A compendium of childhood + youth related headcanons.

The last conversation he had with his father was two days before Ysmael Reyes disappeared. It was an argument.

Marcelo started smoking at age 17 around the time of his father’s “passing.” The habit exponentially grew when his mother followed his father, until he decided to quit. It’s been around three years since then, and now he only reaches out for a smoke when in moments of great anxiety or stress. Quitting wasn’t really about health, since he doesn’t have to worry about it much, but about the smell. At some point it stopped being a source of comfort and became a source of bitterness. He prefers it if long-term lovers don’t smoke at all – if he were a normal person, he’d be able to concede them smoking out of his sight, but the smell clings to the clothes and clings to the skin in a way his feline nose cannot simply overlook.

His mother first informed him of his father’s death in the Narrows Botanical Garden, in Brooklyn, when he was seventeen. Now he goes there whenever he needs to wear off his façade and really reflect on his life’s latest turns.

He could make a career out of playing poker if he set his mind to it. He started playing it by the time he was six, learned the rules at seven, and got decently good by twelve. His deck shuffling is on par with a casino dealer’s.

He went to church every Sunday when he was young, and the habit dissipated as he reached his twenties. Nowadays, it’s rare, but when he goes, he tends to dress up. If you catch him in a suit or formalwear on an otherwise ordinary Sunday, chances are he was at church.

The silver cross necklace he’s seen often wearing belonged to his father, and before then it belonged to his paternal grandfather. It’s a family heirloom, and it served a purpose beyond the obvious: it was a protective keepsake meant to keep both vampires and werewolves at bay. When it isn’t around his neck, it hangs from a sole nail by his dresser or sits on his nightstand. He also has an evil eye bracelet he wears for a similar protective purpose, given by his aunt Berenice.

He was a hell of a lot more temperamental in his youth, a common occurrence with puma cubs due to an inability to control their aggressive instincts or measure their own strength. Marcelo never took shit from anyone for anything in his life, and he efficiently taught that lesson to anyone that needed to learn it, usually by means of a broken nose, a black eye, and once, a set of cracked ribs. Such disposition mellowed out over the years, and people are usually unable to recall a time they’ve seen Marcelo actually angry about anything.

He also, under no circumstances, tolerates his picture being taken when he’s in his puma shape. It makes him feel like a circus freak, or a rare exhibit pet. A couple contemporary relatives on his mother’s side learned this the hard way when they tried to take a few pictures with him. He ended up shifting only to crush the camera between his maws. He was fourteen at the time.

The prince nickname actually goes way back. The maternal side of his family and, by extension, their ilk, has the tendency to refer to him as the “renegade prince” (principe rinnegato, príncipe renegado) semi-affectionately, semi-teasingly, for openly refusing to follow his father’s steps and for overall staying out of the family business. It doesn’t annoy him, per se, but it does put a wry smile on his face when he hears it.

#reyes marcelo.

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chelseasasimmer · 2 years

Note

For the sims 4 ask game~ no# 2, 5, 11, 16 aaaaand 17!!!

2) Do you randomize your sims traits or select them every time?

Answered here

5) What is one thing you WISH EA would add to the gameplay?

Honestly, I'd kill for some disability representation. Free base-game-update disability representation at that. Also I'd like the sims team to remove the erratic trait from the game. And the high maintenance trait, cause tbh that one's ableist as shit as well.

11) What is one gameplay mechanic you wish that sims 4 brought back from ts2 and ts3 respectively?

Ok, so, I've never played any Sims game besides the Sims 4. So, I don't really know what mechanics from those games aren't in the Sims 4. I guess open worlds? I know they were in the Sims 3, idk about the Sims 2 tho. And a memory system maybe. Again, don't know which previous sims games had that, but I know at least one of them did.

16) What is your favorite world in game and why?

Probably San Myshuno. Idk I just really like making my sims live in apartments. Actually I do know, it's because I can't landscape for shit but that's not an issue if you live in an apartment. Also, I know there are apartments in Evergreen Harbour, but to me that doesn't make any sense. So I just pretend those apartments don't exist.

17) Which of your sims is your favorite and why?

God, this is going to sound so vague and annoying and I’m so sorry, but I’ve been doing some makeovers of some of the premade townies (but in a save file that’s set, like, 15 years after the actual sims 4 game) and I’ve been really loving a lot of the sims I’ve made over and the personalities/lives I’ve given them. Again, that’s so vague I’m so sorry, I’ll get around to posting more about my premade blorbos one of these days.

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lovelybarnes · 3 years

Text

baby blue- b. barnes

pairings: bucky barnes x reader, tony stark bruce banner, steve rogers, sam wilson warnings: child bucky, language, this is long. why is this so long about: requested by @cherry-season (apparently can't tag you)! bucky turns into a baby/toddler and is clingy a/n: okay so i know virtually nothing about three-year-olds. can you tell? thank you so much for requesting!! I had so much fun writing this <333

[@tylard-blog1]

bucky’s day wasn’t particularly fantastic to begin with.

he was already exhausted when he woke up in the early lights of the morning, his nightmares had kept him up all night-- which you theorized was due to the mission the day before that took place in one of the same hydra bases bucky had been held in. you had frowned when you realized it the day of, turning your attention to bucky and making sure he was okay with it because if he wasn’t, you would make sure someone else took care of it. he had insisted it was fine, even though the next night proved him wrong. you had done what you could, running your fingers through his hair and humming lightly until you fell asleep and he refused to wake you up, resigning himself to a sleepless night.

his morning started with his flesh arm reaching out to feel your side of the bed, hoping to find your soft, warm skin to pull you closer, but instead being met with the unkind sheets that missed the gentleness of your body. he had frowned when he realized you had already left for a meeting with some important hotshot in space with carol (you couldn’t find a better excuse to go get breakfast at your favorite alien restaurant with your favorite aliens) and wouldn’t be back for a solid few hours too long. groaning, and with no real reason to stay in bed for any longer without the excuse of getting to feel you for a few more hours, he dragged himself out of bed.

it didn’t get much better from there, because he was greeted with the sight of sam eating the last bowl of the last box of cereal in the whole damn tower because everyone rejected to go grocery shopping. since bucky refused to eat any of the frozen breakfasts tony loved so much and the stark kid swore were “the best thing ever,” he grunted at sam and walked away without eating, knowing he’d regret it later when his stomach would growl and you would immediately know he skipped breakfast.

for some unknown reason, tony had found out about bucky’s lack of things to do, and with a few winks and manipulative large-worded engineering phrases, convinced him to join him in the lab, which bucky had only really been able to see through the clear glass that separated the lab from the rest of the tower, and from the occasions where he would take food and drinks to you while you locked yourself away inside, building something alongside tony.

being inside, so close to the various machines and objects bucky cant begin to figure out the purpose of, his memories of being in school and at the top of his math and engineering classes bubble to the surface, filling him with the pride he remembers having every day at school. the thought that he could probably understand everything if you or tony explained it to him passes through his mind and urges him to ask tony to do just that, but tony beats him before he can get the chance.

bruce is eyeing them wearily from the other side of the lab, attention mostly on the test tubes in front of him. he gives bucky a smile when he comes in, but seems to ignore him for the most part until tony shows bucky to bruce’s work station, pointing out a blue liquid in a test tube marked TESTING. bruce’s neck snaps to them when tony open his big mouth, “you know, y/n was actually supposed to test something out for me today,” tony begins innocently, a suggestion laced in his words that bucky catches but decides to ignore because of the high he feels from understanding the equations scribbled on the clear glass, “do you know where she is?”

bucky narrows his eyes at him, then looks up at the clock, realizing it’s still a while before you get back, “not even on earth,” he recipes blandly, slyly sneaking a glance at the liquid for any indications of what it could be.

tony sighs dramatically, his shoulders sagging, “oh no, how do i test this now?” bruce shoots tony a warning glance that is blatantly ignored.

bucky’s shrugging before he can help it, the reminder that since you were going to do it, what could be the harm if he did? “i could do it.”

tony claps, “great!” he gestures to a door behind him, “please go in there to sign non-disclosure agreements and wash your hands.”

bucky’s shoved inside before he can fully understand the implications of his stupid offer.

the thought of asking the basic questions he should have asked before he agreed to test an unidentified liquid comes to bucky nearly an hour later, when the small vial of weird blue liquid sits in front of him, waiting to be drunk. tony and bruce sit in chairs a couple of feet away, clipboards in both of their hands, and interested expressions settled on their features.

“what does this do again?” he asks, squinting at the vial that he doesn’t notice tony isn’t looking at, furrowing his eyebrows when tony waves him off, “something super smart. no side effects or anything.” bucky’s eyes flit down to the little vial again, before they nearly bug out of his head at the humongous laser that is rolled into the room, “what the hell is that.”

“ah,” tony grins, bouncing from his seat to stand next to his invention proudly, “this is what you’re testing out.” bucky cocks his head at the man, “i thought i was drinking blue water. y/n was going to drink blue water.” tony shakes his head, adjusting some dials on the machine, “yeah, no, it was this. pretty sure i told you.”

“you didn’t-” bruce is looking at tony in concern, about to tell him to slow down so bucky has a chance to think all this through again and maybe ask if there is any chance the laser will melt him, when tony clicks a large red button and a bright white light clouds bucky’s vision just as he sees the clock on the exact same time he saw an hour ago, realizing the clock in the billion-dollar lab is broken, and you’re probably getting home any second.

“tony!” he hears bruce yell before his vision goes dark.

it’s only a second until he can pry open his eyes again, a hand curling into a fist, ready to pound stark into tomorrow when he can suddenly feel the nails of his hand digging into his palm. the surprising feeling of it where his vibranium arm should be forces him to look down at a small arm, fully skin and thin. he looks around, noticing his surroundings suddenly have grown very large around him, and the sound of his voice is higher when he tries to speak again.

“what the f-” he mumbles, cutting himself off when a sudden memory of his ma yelling at him to wash his mouth out if he wants to talk like that floods his mind, and he stares down at himself, eyebrows furrowing when he spots his short stature and the tiny hands and feet that look up at him. realization floods him like a wave, raising his chin at the two, tall, gobsmacked men in front of. “was that supposed to happen?” bruce asks quietly, nodding slowly when tony shakes his head, “no.”

there’s a light knock at the door, your hand pushing it open before anyone can stop you, and your tired face peeks in, a glowing smiling adorning your face and your eyes searching for your boyfriend, “hey, do you guys know where bucky is-” your voice cuts through the stunned silence, pausing when you catch the little boy’s eye. at first, you stare at him, your eyebrows pulling together as you get a good look at the familiar cerulean of his eyes and scan the clothing you’d seen on bucky before. for a second, everything is silent, bucky’s eyes are wide and staring as yours bore into them, searching for something you’re nearly touching until you gasp, “bucky?” you choke, reaching for him when he nods, his legs already trying to reach you as fast as they possibly can but they buckle. bucky realizes just then how old he must be now. “oh, baby,” you murmur, gathering him up in your arms before he can fall to the hard ground of the lab. “what the hell did you idiots do to my boyfriend?” you demand, turning to the two scientists who are going over tony’s notes.

bruce glances at tony, tilting his head at him as if to say him. you roll your eyes, not having any more information than when you asked, “tony?” you growl, walking over to the man, not missing the way little bucky’s hand grabs onto your shirt.

“it didn’t- that wasn’t supposed to happen,” tony defends weakly, a lazy shrug pulling at his shoulders. your eyes flash with velvet red, and, without moving a finger, tony’s pulled in front of you, wrapped in red swirls bucky can’t help but gawk at.

“fix it.” you order. tony nods, pursing his lips, “we’ll do that.” bruce looks a little taken aback, looking up from tony’s scribbles and equations. “i don’t think it’ll last more than a day,” he offers helpfully, “whatever it was tony was trying to do wasn’t either.”

bucky’s eyes start to droop, which he assumes is an effect of the sleepless night he just had on his infant body, something that usually wouldn’t affect him in his one-hundred-and-six-year-old self. he hums when he realizes the irony, leaning his head against the welcoming crook of your neck and catching your attention. you turn to him for a moment, softening a little before turning back to tony and glaring at him, “fix it.”

steve catches you when you walk out of the lab, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head when he spots the toddler in your arms, “holy shit, that looks exactly like bucky,” he breathes, scanning the dark mussed-up hair and stepping back when bucky opens his eyes. from next to him, sam looks from bucky to you, “did you two have a kid and not tell anyone, because this-”

“is bucky. that’s bucky.” you interrupt, looking at the toddler, “tony messed up with something and… this happened, i don’t completely… bucky’s a baby.”

steve raises an eyebrow, squinting at his best friend, “ha,” he laughs, “wow, he looks exactly like his pictures. he must be about three years old.” bucky blinks at him. “his ma said he was chatting up a storm at that age, though,” steve informs, looking back up at you. sam grins, “has he said anything? i kinda want to hear if he still sounds old.” bucky frowns at him, his pout deepening when sam bursts into laughter, “his grumpy face is the same!”

you look at your boyfriend, tilting your head and smiling a little when you realize he’s right, “you’re cute,” you coo now that you get a good look at him, “you’re so cute,” you murmur, poking his nose with your finger. bucky can’t help the blush that comes to his cheeks. but he slaps away sam’s fingers, scowling at him, “no.” he argues, “no.”

sam frowns, “no old man voice.”

“i hate you,” bucky says to sam, and you laugh, “i think we should leave for now. i need to figure out what will make three-year-old bucky not as grumpy.” sam looks at bucky’s furrowed brows and the same two little lines between them, his eyes flickering back up to yours, “i think that may just be a bucky thing.”

you bring bucky to the living room, sitting him down at the edge of the couch and crouching in front of him, watching him and his little crossed arms, bottom lip jutted out against his own will. bucky isn’t used to the emotional control of a child who’s three and can’t control the frustration that’s coursing through him at the moment. the only thing he knows for sure is that he doesn’t want you to leave him again.

“bucky?” you start, looking deep into the wide blue eyes that let you know it is bucky you’re speaking to. “what do you want to do? are you hungry? d’you want to sleep?” bucky shakes his head stubbornly at you, “i want tony to fix this.”

you sigh, “i know, baby. i do too, but until he finds a cure to this, you’re gonna stay small for a couple more hours.” he pouts at that, and you smooth your thumb over his cheek, “no pouting. we can do whatever you want, buck.”

just as he’s about to reject any idea you have, his stomach rumbles loudly, directing your attention to the arms that guiltily cover up his middle. “bucky... did you eat breakfast today?” you query, a lecturing tone sneaking into your words. “sam ate my cereal,” bucky grumbles, crossing his arms.

“bucky!” you exclaim, standing up to turn to the kitchen, “that’s no excuse. i told you you needed to eat--” you’re barely three steps into the kitchen when you hear the pattering of his feet towards you, grubby hands pawing at your legs.

“don’t leave,” he whines, hugging your ankles and sitting down on the floor, “you left all morning,” he mumbles, smushing his cheeks against your calf.

“i’m sorry,” you apologize, bending over to brush away the hair that falls over his eyes. “c’mere,” you murmur, reaching down to pick him up again and bounce him on your hip while you head to the kitchen. “what do you want to eat?” bucky thinks about it for a minute, before smiling, “i want pizza and ice cream.” you frown at him, “i don’t think three-year-olds can eat that. actually, i don’t think anyone should.”

after consulting google on what three-year-olds should eat, you have bucky’s head resting on your shoulder, refusing to let you put him down even as you made him the mac and cheese he had agreed to, still a little upset over the fact you wouldn’t let him eat all the other things he wanted. the only time he let you not carry him was when he was eating, still insisting you sit right next to him to watch as he smeared cheese all over tony’s expensive table.

“okay,” you whisper breathlessly after watching him eat his third bowl of the meal, “i think that’s good.” you shove the dirty dishes in the sink, washing bucky’s hands and wiping at him cheeks with a warm cloth to get the mess he managed to create off. “did you forget how to eat?” you wonder aloud when you finally fnish cleaning him up, watching his small shoulders shrug.

“what do you want to do now? anything you want,” you propose.

“i want you,” he says, reaching his stubby arms out, “cuddles. ‘m sleepy,” he yawns, making grabby hands at you when you take too long to pick him up. “bucky,” you chuckle, complying with him and bringing him into your chest, where he leans his head on your shoulder. “you sure you don’t want to play or something? you don’t want to…” you trail off, trying to think of what three-year-olds do, “walk or read or something?”

bucky grunts in your ear, his eyelids already closing again, “cuddles,” he repeats, balling your shirt up in his little hands.

“okay,” you sigh, bouncing him gently while you walk to your shared bedroom. you pick up a stuffed animal you brought for bucky from one of your most recent missions, “did you sleep last night? is that why you’re so tired?” bucky hums, cuddling further into your chest when you lay down with him on top of you. you hand him the little dog plush, pressing a kiss to his head when he takes the gift, hugging it with you. “honey, i’m sorry,” you frown, gently threading your fingers through his short hair, humming the same song bucky sings to you when you can’t get to sleep. it doesn’t take long to lull him into the calmness of rest.

you only wake up when the weight on you is suddenly multiplied, completely taking your breath away, “bucky!-” you exclaim, rolling from underneath him to meet his closed eyes. you shake your head with a light laugh, drawing a strand of hair behind his ear before you press your lips to his cheeks, snuggling in with him again, “sweet dreams, darling,” you murmur, placing the stuffed animal he dropped on your dresser.

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wkemeup · 3 years

Text

The Only Kindness

summary: In the early days of Bucky’s captivity in Hydra, the only comfort he knows is the kindhearted doctor assigned to mend his wounds. At least when he's with her, he knows he isn’t alone. pairing: bucky x reader word count: 9.7k warnings: torture, canon level violence, unwanted sexual advances, hydra's attempts to brainwash bucky, hella angst, a/n: this is meant to sit in the world of canon and what we know eventually happens to Bucky at Hydra sooo do with that what you will. I am genuinely really proud of this one so I hope you can forgive me for the pain I cause

The first thing Bucky remembered every morning when the sting of florescent lights woke him in a cold sweat was that the arm attached to his shoulder was not his own. The realization of it hurt worse than the day before; with unforgiving metal seared into his skin, leaving behind bubbled scars and a revolting, oozing smell.

It weighed him down, slumped on his spine, pulled at his neck, and he struggled to even push himself upright. Sitting upon the thin mattress laid amongst an otherwise baron room, Bucky supposed he might have preferred the floor if not for the dark red stain at the center of the concrete.

Then, the familiar clicking of locks echoed against the walls and Bucky gritted his teeth as a stout man with rounded features and an arrogant grin strolled into the room – no, the cell – alongside two men strapped with rifles.

He clutched to the solid metal of his arm as if holding it might take the pressure off his shoulder, might subside the pain as it spread through his veins, or stop the twitching in his cheek as he tried to stifle the pain, but it was no use. He held on anyway in favor of wrapping a hand around the scientist’s throat.

“Ah, good morning, Sergeant Barnes,” Zola greeted, though there was something unpleasant in his tone. A threat, perhaps. A taunt. It was always something of the sort.

Bucky could barely muster the energy to look the man in the eye, but as he did, it was hidden under a dark, loathing glare. He spat on the floor by Zola’s feet.

“Go to hell.”

Zola jumped back and brushed at the toe of his shoe. It was amusing, at least, to see the rage boil in the man’s chest; all red faced and round and steaming from the ears. Though Bucky’s triumph was shorted lived as Zola waved a single hand at the armed guards beside him.

They lunged forward and with heavy hands, clawed Bucky into their grip by his biceps. He met concrete within seconds; the red stain laid beneath him. His knees barely had time to heal from the day before and they stung as he struggled under the guards’ grasp, raw skin and blistering burns shielded by paper thin fabric.

His face was pushed down into the stone and for a strange moment there was relief; it was cool to the touch, a break from the feverish heat on his brow.

But then, while a guard pinched at the nape of Bucky’s neck, nearly choking the air straight out of him and the other jabbed a knee to his spine, he remembered there was no relief within Hydra.

“You have a long day ahead of you,” Zola announced, a smirk growing upon his face as Bucky let out a hollowed whine. It slipped past his lips before he could smother it down. He knew then that he had lost whatever game they were playing; the win-lose of a man in chains to his captors with scalpels in their hands and venom on their tongues.

He didn’t know how long it had been since the fall; since icy waters and plummeting down to a ravine he wished most nights had swallowed him whole. He didn’t know how many times he was cut open in an unsterilized room, thrown onto a rusting metal table and operated on with cheap anesthetic. He didn’t know how many times he was strapped into a chair that set fire to his veins and left him feeling numb and empty, how many times he felt a lingering sense of dread he couldn’t quite place.

He didn’t know much at all, really.

But he knew his name. He knew his serial number. He knew Steve would come for him like he did before. He knew he’d get through this. He had to. He didn’t have a choice.

“We have much to do,” Zola announced, admiring how Bucky’s face pressed down into the concrete, how the prickles in the stone scraped against his cheek and cut at his skin— pleased to see a man brought to his knees, bowing before the greatness of Hydra. It brought Zola a sense of pride whether the Sergeant resisted or not. He would give in soon enough.

The guards didn’t loosen their grip on Bucky’s arms as they yanked him back to his knees. They didn’t give him a chance to stand either before they started to drag him from the cell.

The grip on his right arm was sure to leave bruises behind, ones to accompany the mess of blue and purple coloring his skin, but it was the pain on his left that rendered him paralyzed. It felt like his arm was being ripped straight from his body, pulled at every nerve ending until they snapped. He could hardly move.

It wasn’t until Zola made a sharp left at the end of the hall that a familiar sense of dread dropped into Bucky’s stomach. Whether it was fear, panic, resilience, he wasn’t sure, but he started to fight back as they neared a dark red door with six locks running up the side.

“No,” he gaped, barely a whisper, but it caught Zola’s attention.

Bucky thrashed in the men’s grip, using his weight as leverage despite the searing pain in his shoulder and the blood trickling down his ribs from where metal fused to flesh. His heels dug into the concrete, trying to catch against the wall to slow them down, to stop what he knew was coming.

Zola merely smiled.

It was no use, and perhaps Bucky knew that from the start, but he couldn’t be strapped into that chair without a fight. He still didn’t know its purpose but he knew it brought him pain. It disoriented him, made him forget his own name and the monsters that chained him. It forced him to remember all over again that he was held prisoner, thousands of miles away from home, presumed dead, and he couldn’t -- he couldn’t do it anymore.

“Please,” Bucky gasped and it sounded foreign in his own voice – broken. He hated it. He despised how his voice cracked, how he fell to his knees in front of his captors and begged.

Zola grabbed a firm hold of Bucky's chin, stump fingers digging into his cheeks and demanding attention. As he pulled in closer, Bucky caught sight of something strange in the reflection of Zola’s glasses.

He didn’t recognize the man staring back at him; hair grown and wild, unkept beard on his face, dirt and blood covering most of his skin. Amongst the scratches in the glass and the clouds of dirt, the reflection of the man looked tired, with hallowed eyes and sunken cheeks. He wasn’t strong enough to fight back. He wouldn’t survive if he tired.

Bucky slumped in the guards’ arms.

“That’s what I thought,” Zola jeered, a lingering chuckle etched into the trail of his voice. He waved a hand at the guards and Bucky was placed into the chair, all dead weight and positioned like a doll.

Thick, metal bars strapped down around Bucky’s wrists, his biceps, his ankles to hold him in place. He did his best to let go of himself, to find somewhere far beyond the walls of this room, away from the men who ripped him to pieces and broke him to the bare bones. He imagined something better, safer, where he was clean shaven and in fresh clothes, where Steve was waving from the end of the street and the war long behind them, but the dream was torn from him as soon as the panels clamped against his temples.

Electricity jolted through his system and his whole body tensed. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

But he could scream.

It ripped through his lungs and he was certain he’d break straight through the mouth guard and shatter his teeth if they didn’t turn off the machine soon. The sound echoing through the room was strained, broken, and Bucky might have mistaken it for nails to a chalkboard if he didn’t feel the burn in the back of his throat.

He started to lose time, unsure if it was on for seconds or hours. It was blinding. It was all-consuming. It was swallowing him whole.

“Enough!” a voice broke through. A woman’s. It wasn’t one Bucky recognized.

“No, keep it on! He can take more.” Zola.

“Are you insane!” the voice shouted again. “You’ll kill him!”

Let them.

The thought startled Bucky but it slipped from him in the seconds it took to arrive; searing pain, white hot fire washing through every muscle down to his bones. His eyes began to flutter closed, a strange sort of emptiness pulling him under, a darkness he couldn’t place, and he welcomed the escape.

There was yelling again, though this time it was coming was across the room. The machine began to power down, the whirring sounds of electricity in his ears leaving him with a numbing silence. The dizziness took hold, the hollowness, and he was surprised to find a woman staring back at him, her hands wrapped around the lever that pulled him from the fire.

“What the hell are you doing!” Zola roared, accent thick and slurring his words together. He bounded forward, attempted to push past the woman but she held her ground, hands planted on her hips.

“I’m saving his life,” she grunted back, unfazed by Zola’s finger pointing up into her face. She swatted it away, ignoring the shock upon his rounded features. “You brought me here for a reason, didn’t you? Let me do my damn job.” She glanced around the room, eyed the men with guns aimed at the ready, barrels trained in her direction. “Give me the room.”

“Not going to happen,” Zola snapped but quickly silenced as she shot him a glare that had him cower several steps in retreat. His cheeks were burned red.

The woman turned back to the man in the chair and he slumped limply in its clutches, her narrowed eyes centering on the rapid rise and fall of his chest. She held up two fingers, eyeing him carefully before she slowly moved to press them against his throat.

He winced before she could even touch him, flinching at the air itself, and she paused, bringing her hand back to her chest. She gave him a minute to watch as she demonstrated what she was trying to do by pressing the tips of her fingers to her own neck.

She tried again and this time she held his stare; calming aura nestled between the vibrant shades in her eyes, a gentle kind of patience he didn’t expect, and he hardly noticed her fingertips against his skin as she felt for his pulse, feather light and paper thin. They were cool to the touch, a comfort in the burning heat of metal surrounding him and he caught himself before he could lean into her palm.

“His heart rate is through the roof,” she said tensely, turning back to Zola and withdrawing her hand. “Unless you want your multi-million-dollar project to go to waste, clear out before he has a goddamn heart attack.”

Zola eyed her suspiciously in what appeared to be a competition of wills. She straightened her back, arms folding over her chest, and she towered over the scientist’s small frame. He glared up at her and the fury was palatable on his face; upper lip twitching, eyes narrowed, hands curling into fists.

She held her ground.

“Fine,” Zola grumbled, waving a hand to the line of men behind him until they bring their weapons down to their sides. “Give the doctor the room.”

As if she were waiting for the men to leave, she exhaled a breath like she had been holding it for quite some time. When she let her hands come back to her sides, puncture marks were left in her palms.

“I’m leaving a man behind for your safety,” Zola threw over his shoulder at he reached the door, almost like a threat.

She swallowed; jaw clenched. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Maybe not today, but it will be.”

Then, he was gone.

The door locked shut behind him and a single guard remained by the door, positioned with his finger on the trigger.

“Finally,” she exhaled, turning back with a gentle smile on her face that felt almost unsettling to be in such a cold and unforgiving place. “Can you tell me your name, soldier?”

“Uhh,” was all that left his lips and he hardly recognized his own voice. He searched in the back of his head for the answer, felt it on the tip of his tongue, and still… nothing. He glanced back up at her with clenched teeth because he knew what would happen next, what always happened next.

But instead of a harsh hand to the side of his face or the blunt edge of a weapon to his crown, she nodded, offered him a sad sort of smile, and simply said, “that’s alright.”

She glanced down at the clamps restraining him to the chair. His skin was raw underneath, bleeding a little, and she frowned. It crinkled up into her forehead, pursed out at her lips, and he decided he liked it much better when she smiled.

“Your name is Sergeant James Barnes,” she said fondly and it sounded familiar as she said it, but it still felt distant— wrong in some way. She seemed to notice the contemplation on his face. “It’ll come back to you soon. Might take longer than the last time, but it will. They haven’t perfected the science of the chair yet, it seems.”

There was a resentment laced into her words as she glared back at the armed man standing guard with disgust. She softened as she turned back to face the man she called James. It was within that moment the anger washed from her features, a kindness replacing the hatred, and she ran her fingers on the edge of the chair before she pulled away.

“I’m going to undo these, okay?” she told him and he was surprised that she waited for his nod before adjusting the mechanics on the machine until the metal snapped open and a rush of cold air swept against the blistering skin. He hissed at the sting of it.

“Come,” she requested, gesturing to the examination table in the corner of the room. “Let’s get you out of this thing, huh?”

He was thankful for that. He couldn’t stand the sharp edges anymore or the blistering heat of the arm rests. Her touch was so gentle he wondered if it could push right through him as she bent down to help tug his right arm over her shoulders.

Just as she nearly had him positioned well enough to get him to his feet, the guard standing in the corner of the room stepped forward, gun raised.

“I wouldn’t do that, ma’am.”

She clenched her jaw. “I’m fine. Let me work.”

“He’s dangerous,” the guard grunted back.

“He’s not going to hurt me,” she argued. There wasn’t a trace of hesitancy in her voice, even as she turned to the man hanging off her arms. “Are you, Sergeant Barnes?”

He shook his head.

“See?” she gestured. “Now leave us be.”

The guard stepped back, lowered his weapon, and she smiled.

“Alright then, James,” she started, “think you can help me get you to that table over there? I know you’ve lost some muscle mass but you’re still pretty heavy.”

A short ghost of a laugh escape as he let himself lean on her shoulder, allowing her to guide him towards the table. It surprised him as it left his chest, the feeling of laughter, because he hadn’t so much as smiled since the fall. It hurt, almost. But it was a nice kind of hurt.

She helped him sit on the table, just high enough to give her decent leverage, and he spotted a bag filled with what appear to be medical supplies. It contained with what he would expect; a stethoscope, bandages, depressors, but there were also needles, and shiny metal tools that made him clench his hands around the lip of the table.

“I’m a doctor,” she said, noticing his stare. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Zola’s a doctor,” he muttered back feebly, sharp images of lying awake on a cold, metal table much like the one he currently sat upon plagued his mind, memories of scalpels in his shoulder and needles in his arms.

She nodded, contemplating what he said before she frowned and countered, “Zola’s a mad scientist with a God complex.”

A smile tugged at his lips. It broke a little, but it remained.

“You can call me Y/n if you like,” she said as she began digging through her bag. She found the stethoscope and placed the ends in her ears. “I’m going to press this to your chest, alright? It might be a little cold.”

She exhaled a breath on the side of it for a moment to try and warm it, rubbing it with the palm of her hand. He was mesmerized by the small details; how she positioned herself strategically between him and the armed guard behind her, how she told him exactly what she was doing before she did it, how she gave him time to prepare, how she hadn’t once touched him without asking first.

He didn’t understand her or why she was here, but he was thankful.

He nodded at her and she leaned in closer, pressing the piece to his sternum. It had a slight chill to it but he could still feel the warmth left behind from her breath. He took a deep breath in as she instructed. She took her time, slowly moving to his ribs, and then his back. He took more deep breaths, felt the pulsing of his heart steady under her touch.

“Looks good all things considering,” she told him. Her eyes drifted to the burn marks on his right wrist, fingers ghosting over the reddened marks and her lips tug down into a frown. She masked it as she faced him again, pushing out a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Might as well attend to this, too, don’t you think?”

Yeah, might as well.

He offered her his hand.

He sat quietly while she worked, listening to her hum softly under her breath. She was impossibly gentle with him, so delicate he could hardly feel it until it was gone. Her hands were a little cold but he found them soothing against the burns. The alcohol she placed on the wound stung, made him grit his teeth and grip to the table’s edge, but she moved quickly, wincing at the way he sucked in a harsh breath as if his pain meant something to her.

When she was finished, she wrapped his wrist with a bandage from her bag and gently tapped on his knee.

“Not a lot my patients would have sat still through that without some kind of numbing agent,” she grinned, praise in her voice, smile on her lips, and it sent a flutter through his chest. “You did good, James.”

He didn’t want to tell her that he’d known worse, that the pain of alcohol to his wounds was nothing in comparison to the mutilation on his arm or the electricity of the chair. So, he focused on something else, a distant memory edging its way back to the surface, something that didn’t lie within the pages of Hydra’s files.

“Bucky,” he choked out, voice a little dry. She raised an eyebrow. “My name… it’s Bucky.”

She smiled at that.

“Bucky,” she repeated, testing it on her lips, “it’s nice to meet you.”

***

It wasn’t the last time he saw Y/n.

No, he found himself under her care more days than not. It was a simple system, it seemed. Hydra would do its best to break Bucky to pieces and they’d send in Y/n to stitch him back up; glue him together with needle and thread or scotch tape and paper mâché. She did her best to heal him and while she could not cure every wound on his body, she gave him something he didn’t have before – something to look forward to.

A kind smile. A gentle hand. A voice so soft it nestled deep into his chest and warmed the hollow ache that had made a home by his heart.

Even through the pain, through the chair, through the long hours he spent overworked in a boxing ring, he knew she’d be waiting on the other side. It didn’t hurt as much when he thought of her, he realized – the only kindness he knew within Hydra.

They hadn’t attempted to use the chair on him in a while and for that he was grateful. To save him from the pain of the electricity and the emptiness that followed, but lately, to allow him to hold onto her memory. He didn’t want to forget her name, her kindness, her light within the darkest corners of hell.

He only ever saw her in short glimpses, brief moments when the guards pushed the boundaries too far and cracked open a scar that wouldn’t stop bleeding or dislocated his arm again or fractured another bone. They’d drag her into his room, rough hands on her wrists that made a knot form deep into Bucky’s stomach, and give her minutes to work before they hulled her away.

He healed quickly, he came to find. Certainly faster than he should. Maybe in another world he would have been pleased with this. A perfect soldier. Always ready for battle.

In this world, it meant shorter recovery between trainings. It meant pushing him beyond his limits and testing the extent of his newfound abilities. It meant few and distant meetings with the kind doctor whose smile made it impossibly difficult to despise every last ounce within Hydra.

***

A few weeks since their first meeting, Bucky found himself dragged by his wrists on a familiar path into what looked like a room much like his own, only there were a few small comforts inside; a bed, a desk, a lamp, and a series of books piled on a small dresser.

Y/n jumped up from the desk, pen falling to the concrete as she stared back at the guards, agape. “What the hell did you do to him?!”

They dropped Bucky to the ground, his own arms too weak to hold himself up, and felt the harsh crack of concrete to his jawline. Blood dripped down into his eyes, clouding his vision with crimson pools of red, but he could hear the quick patter of your bare feet as you slid down to the floor beside him, shooing away the guards.

Hands ghosted over his shoulders before you paused, watching the way he sighed into the cool embrace of concrete. She glared back up at the guards, waiting on their answer.

“He’s weak,” one of the guards spat, thick accent spewing down to land on Bucky’s bare skin. “The fist of Hydra is an embarrassment. He crumbles under pressure. He needs to be pushed, to be taught what he is.”

Bucky couldn’t quite register the way her hands curled up into fists or how a harsh exhale burned deep in her chest, but she swallowed it the best she could as she muttered, “get out.”

A toe nudged at Bucky’s leg – one of the guards behind him – and he groaned as it dug into a dark purple bruise from the days before.

“You’ve done enough,” she pressed again, swatting away his leg as he tried to push Bucky over to his back to see his good work. "Now leave.”

“You don’t give us orders, princess,” the other guard smirked, yellowed teeth bared.

“We’ll be back for him soon,” the first one said, nudging his friend to stand down. “Make sure he’s ready to go again tomorrow.”

The door slammed shut and within the echo, Bucky felt the cool touch of a breeze nestle against his skin. It was a relief, as kind as the concrete, that sat in sharp contrast to the burning heat on his skin.

“Are you alright, Sergeant Barnes?” an angelic voice called. It sounded muffled, and a bit distant, but it was one he recognized.

He nodded slowly, though the concrete scratched at his skin.

“You don’t look alright,” she countered, a touch of lightness in her tone and it came as a welcomed relief.

“You kidding? I look great,” Bucky teased, half muffled by the ground. She laughed, pressing a hand over her lips, and Bucky swore for the smallest of moments that all the pain had washed from his body completely.

He could hear her riffling around the room, gathering supplies and laying a blanket down by his side, then a pillow. She was talking to herself, words he couldn’t quite hear or understand, but they were a comfort nonetheless.

"Still with me Sergeant Barnes?"

“Bucky,” he grumbled, just as she came down to kneel beside him again. “S’my name, remember? I’m supposed to be the one with the memory problems here.”

There came that laugh again, though she tried to suppress it. “That’s not very funny, Bucky.”

“Give me an ounce of humor here, doll,” Bucky smirked. It ached in his lips where the split tore through, burned in his cheeks from the swelling on his face, but he didn’t mind. It wasn’t often he had much reason to smile these days. She seemed to bring it out of him.

Y/n smiled, shaking her head. “Think you can turn onto your back? I’ve got some cushioning here for you. I’m sorry I can’t lift you to the bed.”

“Nah, this is perfect.”

Bucky summoned as much strength as his body could muster as he pushed down into the concrete with his right hand. He started to shake as pressure burned into his left shoulder and he gritted his teeth, face contorting in a wash of pain as his smirk faded away in an instant.

She must have noticed because her hands slipped gently onto his right bicep, gently easing him to turn over the metal shoulder and lay onto his back. Her touch was so feather light, he questioned for a moment if it was even there at all, but then he felt a soft squeeze, the cool press of her palms, and he sighed.

Her hands were the only ones who did not mean him harm. She healed. She nurtured. She cared.

“What are they doing to you...”

Her voice was hardly a whisper, the shock on her face evident enough of the damage on his own. He didn’t want to imagine what he looked like, but he knew it was bad. It hurt to speak, hurt to even part his lips, and his vision was tunneled and dark, cast over in shadows, and somehow, she was still clear as day.

“Dunno,” he responded, recognizing the slur in his voice. “Training me for something, I think.”

She stilled; muscles rigid as she reached into her bag for something to bandage his wounds. He could see the contemplation on her face, the worry, but she swallowed it back, pushed out that gentle, reassuring smile he’d come to rely on and began to work on the cut along his cheekbone.

“It can’t be anything good, Bucky,” she said quietly, eyes flickering to the door as if she were worried about what laid on the other side. He knew the feeling well.

***

He forgot her for the first time a few days later.

The scars were starting to heal; the gashes open on his face just days before nothing but a thin discoloration on his skin. He knew the look on Zola’s face as he emerged in his cell that morning - smug and grim, eager to wipe away the decorated prisoner of war and turn him into something empty and broken. The smirk that crept up his face was unsettling, jarring, as it crinkled lined into his forehead and a vile look in his eye.

They slammed him down into the chair, locked the restraints into place, and he only spotted her rush into the room as the machine powered on. The horror in her eyes as she met his, the quick transition to rage as she turned to Zola, and the pain took over until it consumed him whole.

He lost some time because the next thing he knew, he was sitting on a metal table and the room had emptied, save for a single guard standing in the corner over the shoulder of a beautiful woman who eased a soothing gel onto the burns on his wrist.

He studied her as she worked, quietly humming to herself, telling him what she was doing before she dared to touch him in a voice so gentle it startled him. It was familiar, he realized, the delicate intricacies of her tone, the warmth in his chest when she touched him. He wasn’t afraid of her like he was the others. He didn’t flinch under her touch.

“Your heart rate is still pretty high,” she noted, her fingers pressed to the inside of his right wrist. “Can you take some deep breaths for me?”

She embellished her own, chest rising high as she inhaled, air blowing out from her mouth in the exhale. She nodded for him, something encouraging and kind, until he followed suit. But even through the tender smile upon her lips there was a sadness there, a disappointment, and it hurt him deep into his chest.

“I know you, don’t I?” he finally said after he mimicked a few of the breaths as she requested.

She smiled at that and he felt an instant relief. Something warm and gentle. Kind.

He narrowed his eyes upon the slight curve of her lips, drawing up to her eyes where he was met with a linger sense of calm, of peace, of reprieve. “Why don’t I remember you?”

She sighed, a cautious glance back at the guard behind her who seemed to be watching with the intent to overhear. Her eyes were downcast, a nervous brush of her tongue over her lower lip, and she pushed out a smile for him.

“You will, Bucky.”

He hoped that were true.

***

Bucky was barely tied together with string and tape, broken and bleeding and covered in bruises, and yet, a smile etched onto his broken lips as he turned to find Y/n stumbling into his cell. She shrugged off the grip of a guard with an aggravated huff before he slammed the door closed behind her.

She was no longer shocked by the state in which she often saw him. His accelerated healing made the brutal look of his mutilation a bit easier to swallow he supposed or perhaps he was getting used to it. It was like a mask he’d come to wear, fading in and out depending on the day, but always present. It didn’t seem to lessen the pain in her eyes as she sat down beside him, extending a hand towards his face to touch gently at the markings.

“I hate that they keep doing this to you,” she said softly, though there was a rage nestled into the crook of her tone. She shook her head, a tense breath exhaled as she reached into her bag. She pulled out a few swabs of gauze and alcohol wipes.

“M’alright,” Bucky slurred and it didn’t seem to help his case.

“They’re monsters.” Y/n dabbed at the gash on his forehead as gingerly as she could manage. Bucky didn’t mind the sting of it, not when she was touching him so tenderly, like she was handling something precious.

He’d figured out a while ago that she was just as much a part of Hydra as he was. He never dared to ask, but he’d seen the way she looked at Zola, how she despised him as an enemy. He’d seen the clothes she wore and how they were tattered on the seams, how they discolored with use, how she'd wear them over and over again while the men in the room wore pristine lab coats and freshly laundered suits. He’d seen the dark circles under her eyes, the knots in her hair, the way her collarbone began to protrude the longer he knew her.

She was a prisoner of Hydra, too.

“They’re monsters,” Y/n repeated, tears burning in her eyes and it warped deep into Bucky’s gut. He wanted to reach out and wipe them away. He wanted to make her smile again because she’d been nothing but a light for him and now, she was flickering and fading and he was certain it would destroy him completely until she uttered, “and... and so am I,” and his whole world fell apart.

“No,” Bucky shot back almost instantly. “Don’t say that. You’re not one of them.”

“I might as well be,” she said, brushing at the tears as they spilled down her cheeks. “I’m still complicit in what they’re doing to you – whatever that is. I’m still helping them.”

“They’d kill you,” Bucky argued. “They’d kill you if you tried to resist.”

“They’re practically killing you now! How is that any better?” She pressed her palms to her face, shielding herself from him and Bucky slid down onto the floor, kneeling on the concrete in front of her, and gently rested his hands on her knees. She struggled to catch her breath between the sobs. “I keep fixing you up just to send you back out there and—and—Bucky, I feel like I’m handing you over to slaughter and I can’t-- I can’t--”

“Stop, please,” Bucky begged. He could feel the splinter nestle into his heart, cracking at the edges as it tore a sliver down the center. It burned and ached and threatened to rip him to pieces worse than the foreign metal on his arm, worse than the guards on the other side of the door, worse than the chair that stole his name and his memories, because the woman who saved his life over and over again was crying and he simply couldn’t take it.

“Look at me,” he eased, drawing his hands up her thighs, along her arms, until he met her hands resting against her face. Gently, he pried his fingers under her palms and when he was met without resistance, he pulled them away from her face. “You are the only shred of good within this place. You are the only kindness I’ve known since they threw me on that table and remade me. You are the only thing keeping me going when they’re beating me within an inch of my life, the only thing I want to remember when they try to take away everything I know. Please, don’t think for a second that you’re one of them. You’re saving me, Y/n.”

Bucky wondered for a moment if he said too much as her lips parted into shock, her eyes staring at him shocked and wide. Her breaths were coming in slow and steady as she watched him, almost as if she were waiting for him to recant, but he held his ground.

“You are good, Y/n,” Bucky continued. He squeezed her hand in his right, letting his left fall down to his side to shield her from the evil from which it was born. “You're the reason I keep coming back.”

“I’m scared, Bucky,” she exhaled, voice so low, so shaken, he could barely hear it. She squeezed his hand back. “I’m scared of what they're going to do to you.”

“I’ll have you, won’t I?” he smiled, because it was all he had left. There were no guarantees, no promises he could make to ease her fears. “As long as I’ve got you with me, I’m okay.”

He just wanted her to smile again, to be the woman who fought against Zola in a crowded room of armed Hydra agents and won, who was fearless in the face of evil, and gentle and kind in her touch.

Bucky realized that the more time he spent with her, the more she’d grown to care for him, the more he’d found himself missing her— the more dangerous they were to one another. If Hydra knew...

“You have me,” she said suddenly, a stroke of confidence returning to her voice, drawing Bucky’s attention away from the door and the men that laid beyond it. Bucky met her eye and she raised a palm to his cheek, slow and steady, always giving him the time to prepare before she touched him even when it wasn’t necessary, even after he’d grown to trust her above anyone else. She cupped the side of his face, smiling sweetly for him, sadly, as she said, “as long as they’ll let me, Bucky. You’re not alone. You’ll have me.”

Her thumb traced over old scars she’d mended, over raised edges and dried blood from the mess left behind by the dozen Hydra agents he’d met earlier that day. The tenderness within her touch was unlike anything he knew how to quantify. It sat in such contrast to the hands of men who battered and beat him within an inch of his life, to the torture of the chair, to the scalpel in the hands of mad scientists with god complexes.

There was something in her touch. Something that felt a lot like love.

Bucky found himself leaning in closer, wanting to close the space between them because any space at all was simply too much. He wanted to engulf her into his arms, protect her from the evils that waited for them outside these walls, take her away to somewhere warm and safe, somewhere she didn’t have to check over her shoulder when she smiled. It terrified him how badly he wanted it because he knew there were no fantasies in Hydra, no dreams, no happy endings. He knew it would be taken from him eventually, she would be taken from him, but it didn’t stop him from clinging on as tight as he could.

His lips touched hers, broken and splintered, and still, beautiful. He could taste the salty tang of her tears against her lips, her fingers curling around his long, unkempt hair and twisting along his scalp, breathing him in. There was a sanctuary within her arms, under her touch, that seemed impossible within these walls, and yet, here she was.

Tangible. Real. Kissing him as if he could be ripped from her at any second.

And he was.

The door swung open and Bucky jolted away from her. Y/n jumped back against the bed frame, her head hitting the cement wall.

In the frame of the door stood a guard Bucky had become familiar with; blonde, broad, reminded him a bit of Steve if it weren’t for the cold, dead look in his eyes. The burn mark across his jawline helped to obstructed the similarities.

The guard’s eyes lingered a little longer on Y/n, focusing on the quick rise and fall of her chest, the slight swell in her lips, the mess in her hair, before he gritted his teeth and turned to Bucky.

“Times up, Soldat,” he grunted, wasting no time as he pulled a wand from his belt, flipped a switch at the end, and burned the jolts of electricity into Bucky’s side. He barely registered the desperate crack in Y/n’s voice as she begged for the guard to stop.

Then – darkness.

***

“We need to be more careful.”

“They’ll find out how I feel for you and they'll hurt you.”

“I can’t lose you, Bucky.”

He couldn’t get the words out of his head. Familiar voices: a man’s and a woman’s. He’d heard them spoken aloud; of that he was certain. But they were distant, far away, as if he’d heard them uttered on a film screen in passing. They couldn’t be his own memories. He was a blank slate. He was empty.

A woman stood across from him, approaching him slowly as the machine powered down. It was loud in his ears, echoing enough to pulse tremors into the back of his head. He didn’t dare show an ounce of the pain he felt. He’d come to know the consequences of that, even if he couldn’t quite remember what they were.

“I’m going to help you to the table, alright?” the woman said, gesturing to the metal desk to her left. There it was again— that familiarity.

She smiled kindly at him, as if looking into the face of a man she knew, but he did not know her. She must have sensed his hesitancy because she held up her hands out for him to see.

“I just want to examine you. Make sure you’re okay. Can I do that?”

He narrowed his eyes on the woman, listening intently to her heartbeat. It was a strange sound, one he shouldn’t be privileged to hear, but he found the skill useful. He could listen for the inflections in the rhythm, pulse points and skips that told him when a person was lying.

Hers was steady. Even. He nodded.

He was surprised at how easily he allowed her to guide him to the table, how he didn’t question as he let her place a hand on his inner wrist to check his pulse, how he didn’t flinch when she approached the scars on his shoulder. It was like he knew the routine, understood the subtle intricacies in her gestures warning him of what she was about to do before she even laid a hand on him.

A relief was evident in his muscles. He felt a calmness wash over him the longer she stood at his side, recording his vitals, running a hand soothingly along his arm. It seemed personal, the way she touched him, like she was preserving something – or guiding something home.

He wanted to ask her name, why she was treating him so kindly when all he knew within these walls was the cruelty of violent men, when the guard who stood at the back corner of the room cleared his throat.

“You almost done, sweetheart?” The guard spat the pet name like an insult and the kind woman standing beside the Soldier flinched. She tensed quickly after that, mustering out a brave face as she turned back to the armed guard defiantly.

“I’ll be done when I’m done, Bronski.”

The Soldier wanted to smile, though he wasn’t sure why. A swell of pride beamed in his chest as Bronski’s smirk dissipated, replaced with something colder, darker; a bruise to his ego. The woman turned back to the Soldier, exhaled a heavy breath and offered him a short smile; calming, reassuring. The edges of his lips started to curve in response until –

Bronski crossed the room in four long strides, grabbed a tight hold of her arm and yanked her swiftly away from the Soldier. She collided against his chest, caged against him under the firm hold of his grip.

“You think you can mouth off to me, bitch?” Bronski sneered, shoving her against the desks at the far side of the room. Viles of serums and chemicals spilled over at the impact, glass shattering, and the Soldier began to stand from his position across the room, his hand curling into fists.

“Stop looking at him! He’s not going to help you,” Bronski taunted as her eyes flashed back at the Soldier, pleading at some unknown force he couldn’t quite understand, though he listened to its call. Bronski towered over her, easily overpowering her frame, and pinned her to the wall.

The Soldier took another step forward, another inch closer to what he was sure were near fatal consequences, but there was a voice screaming in the back of his head, an instinct he couldn’t drown out, a desperate need to protect a woman he didn’t know.

“You think we didn’t notice, huh?” Bronski growled, his hand sliding down her side, tracing over the curves at her waist and the Soldier felt a sudden twist in his stomach, a dead weight sinking him into the ground at the sight. “You think we can’t tell you got it hot for the asset? He’s weak. Pathetic. Why don’t you try being with a real man instead? I’ll show you a good time, princess...”

Her eyes were on the Soldier, holding his gaze though she was shaking; trembling and afraid. He didn’t like that.

“Get away from her.”

Bronski froze. He managed a slow glance over his shoulder to find the Soldier standing just a few feet away, hands clenched at his sides, fuming as his eyes flickered between the Hydra agent and the woman he held pinned to the wall.

“Don’t be a fucking hero, Soldat,” Bronski spat back.

But the Soldier did not move.

“Get away from her,” he repeated, his voice low, mechanical. He could feel the rush of adrenaline building in his veins, the chaos of the rapid thumping of his pulse. He wasn’t used to such reactions, such intensity, when all he’d come to know was a crippling emptiness. It was unpleasant.

“What are you going to do about it?” Bronski taunted, a sick smirk upon his face. He dismissed the Soldier, didn’t dare to think he’d disobey direct orders, and turned back to the woman.

She tried to slither out of his hold, but his grip on her wrists was so tight his nails had dug puncture marks into her skin. She was shaking, tears burning into reflective lenses over the gentle hue of her eyes; kind eyes that should not bare such a weight.

Bronski leaned in closer, his mouth pressing against her neck, her whole body stiffening at the touch, and the Soldier snapped.

He rushed at them, his left hand clamping down around Bronski’s neck until he started to gag. Bronski released her wrists, allowing her to sink to the floor in a fallen heap. Bronski scratched at the hand at his neck, gasping for air as his skin turned bright red, then blue, but he was only met with metal. It could not feel. It could only maim.

There was a rage storming inside the Soldier, a mission he’d assigned for himself, as he threw Bronski across the room. It didn’t take much effort. The Soldier was stronger than most men. They underestimated him, believed him to be feeble and weak because he was submissive. But not now. Not when they threatened her.

“Soldat!” Bronski choked out, his voice damaged. Broken windpipe. The Soldier smiled.

Slowly, he took a knee at Bronski’s side, grabbed a firm hold of his collar for leverage, and barreled the closed end of his fist into the man’s face until he could no longer see the smirk that had pressed upon his mouth as he dared to touch his girl. He didn’t stop until Bronski was no longer begging, until he was silent, and blood caked between the panels of metal in his fist, until he heard a voice calling behind him—

“Bucky! Bucky, stop!”

He froze. There was that name again...

He blinked a few times, a sharp piercing in the back of his head painful enough to obscure his vision and he dropped Bronski from his hold. A hand slid down over his shoulders, guiding him away from the body on the floor. It was that same familiar touch; one he knew well.

“Bucky, look at me.”

He did.

Her hand pressed sweetly to the side of his face, like she was trying to memorize him. He leaned into the touch, something he was sure he hadn’t done in years, and yet, within her arms it felt like the most natural thing in the world, like maybe he’d done it a dozen times before.

When he met her eyes again, he understood why.

“Y/n?”

She nodded, tears spilling over her cheeks as she threw herself into his arms. She molded so perfectly against him, his healer, his savior. Bucky knew they wouldn’t have much time before the Hydra infantry arrived and discovered what he’d done. He didn’t dare spare a glance back at the body on the ground.

“Y/n... I—”

The doors swung open, slamming in echoing shocks against the walls, and chaos ensued. Swarms of armed Hydra agents ascended into the room and tore Y/n from his arms, separating them as they restrained Bucky back into the chair. It was the only thing that could hold him.

“Leave her alone!” Bucky roared, that same rage returning to him in fire as two guards pinned Y/n’s arms behind her back, holding her steady as she desperately fought against their hold. “Get your hands off of her!”

Zola appeared at the frame of the door, eyes narrowing on Bucky. The room fell silent.

“Impossible.” He followed Bucky’s eyes to where the guards were restraining Y/n. “The programming should not have failed so soon after he was wiped. How?”

“He’s got a crush on the doc, sir,” one of the guards reported snidely. Bucky recognized him from the many trips he spent dragged along the hallways smearing blood into the concrete before he was dropped off at Y/n’s door.

“Interesting.” Zola crossed the room, hands grasped behind his back as he paced. His eyes fell on Y/n, studying her. “And is it... mutual?”

She didn’t respond, though when her tear-filled eyes flashed over to Bucky, he had his answer.

“Wipe him,” Zola ordered.

The machine started to power up and Bucky found himself fighting against the restraints though he knew it would do no use. Tears were openly streaming down Y/n’s face as she watched him, his name on her lips as she desperately tried to break the guard’s hold on her.

Zola seemed unbothered by the scene. If anything, he was amused, like he was watching lab rats in a cage. “Separate them. I don’t want her interfering with his programming again. We’ll make use of her when the time is right.”

Bucky tried to call her name, but the electricity had already taken hold, submerging him into the darkness.

***

The Soldier was used to his routine. Breakfast at dawn. Then training. Dinner at sundown. Sleep. It was reliable. Simple. The Soldier found a peace in that.

It had been months since he’d seen anyone outside of the two guards at his cell, the parade of uncontrollable human experiments, and the short, stout scientist. It was better this way, they told him. Less stimulation. He was important, meant for incredible things to better humanity. They needed him focused and alert.

He had little room for anything else. Focus on the mission at hand. Complete the task. Reward will follow.

Something as trivial as memories got in the way of that. The Soldier could not afford such a distraction. He was not tied down by a name or a family, by relationships or desires. He was a weapon. Made to be used. He was not capable of more.

“I want to have you looked over before we send you out for your mission today, Soldat,” the scientist said as he examined the Soldier from across the room. The man carried power within Hydra but he was small, cowardly, and he would not dare enter a room with the Soldier without a guard in place. He gestured to the door and the guard with a thick burn down his jaw moved towards it. Blonde hair, blue eyes, broad. He seemed vaguely familiar, though it felt distasteful in his mouth.

A woman was pushed through the doors and into the baron room. She shook off the grip of a Hydra agent with a grunt before she realized where she was. Her eyes fell on the Soldier and he expected her to cower in fear; they all did upon seeing him. Word traveled fast of what he was capable of. And yet –

There was relief in her shoulders, a sigh. She almost smiled before Zola turned in her direction and she pushed it away into a tight frown. The Soldier narrowed his eyes.

“Get to work, Doctor,” he ordered, though it sounded more like a warning.

She nodded, stepping in closer to the Soldier though she was hesitant in her movements. She wore dark circles under her eyes, a redness within the whites. Her clothes were old, torn a little at the edges, and dirty with use. But still, she offered a kind smile as she approached.

“How are you feeling?”

The Soldier didn’t know how to respond to that. No one had ever bothered with his answer. He stayed silent.

“You can talk freely,” she encouraged gently as she approached his bedside. He sat on the edge of the cot, tension burning through his body as it always did when he wasn’t alone. One word out of turn resulted in punishment. He knew well enough not to tempt it.

She seemed to understand he would not fall into the trap, and she nodded in acceptance.

“I’m going to take your vitals, alright? I’ll start with your heart rate.” She held up two fingers, gesturing as she pressed them against her own neck. Seemed harmless enough, though he suspected he didn’t have much of a choice anyway. It was strange she acted as if he did.

Regardless, the Soldier nodded.

As she touched him, something seemed to break. She clenched her jaw tightly, trying to focus on the rhythm of his heartbeat, but he could hear the distress in her own. Quick, pounding, uneven, and she pulled her fingers away before he questioned the slight tremble in her touch.

He wanted to ask if she were alright because something about seeing her upset was unpleasant for him. She wanted to say something, that much he could tell, but she bit her tongue.

“You’re here for a reason, Doctor,” Zola taunted from his position in the corner of the room. The woman flinched though she kept her back to him. Her eyes flickered to the Soldier as if he were an anchor. Zola smirked. “Go on. Test our programming. Why else do you think we kept you around?”

Then, he exited the room. The guard followed behind him until the Soldier was alone with the woman.

She swallowed; eyes cast down as if she were afraid to speak. For a while, she continued to take his vitals – checking his blood pressure, his eye movement, examining the mess of scars on his shoulder as they attempted to heal. All the while, so impossibly gentle, so kind in her touch, that he started to wonder if he’d felt it before.

When she was finished, she took a step back. It was only then that the Soldier noticed the reflective marks on her cheeks. Had she been crying? Why did the thought alone make his stomach twist into knots painful enough to nauseate him?

“Bucky?”

He narrowed his eyes, confused. She reached out for his hand, though she stopped herself before she could touch him. It seemed agonizing; the restraint visible on her features.

“Bucky, please tell me there’s still a of piece of you in there,” she begged. He found himself wanting to lie, to pretend to be this man she craved, just to make her happy. He didn’t know why he cared so much, why it bothered him to see her cry. She was a stranger.

“You don’t recognize me at all, do you?” Her voice was so small, so broken. She was never afraid of him, he realized. No – it seemed she was more afraid of his answer. He did not respond. He didn’t know how.

She nodded, clenching her jaw as tears spilled from the corners of her eyes and the Soldier managed to break the heart of a woman he didn’t know. Another casualty in his wake.

“Excellent,” Zola sneered, appearing back in the doorway. The doctor took a step back and it surprised the Soldier when the space between them felt like an assault. Zola grinned as he moved closer to the woman. “Hydra thanks you for your service.”

“Fuck you,” she spat, just before she landed a closed fist against the bridge of the scientist’s nose.

The Soldier flinched, stunned by the woman’s brazen as she stared into the face of the mad scientist. The tears hadn’t yet dried and still – she was fearless. Zola laughed as the blood dripped down into his mouth. A guard wrapped a vicious hold around her wrist, beginning to drag her out of the room, but she turned back to the Soldier.

“Don’t give into them, Bucky! You have to fight this! You’re good, do you hear me? You’re not one of them!”

Her voice echoed in the room even as she was shoved through the door and down the hall. He listened for the last remaining vibrations of her voice, of her struggling, until it was silent. He wondered about this man she referred to, why she thought he was worth fighting for. He thought about whether he was the man she spoke of.

“Distractions, Soldat.” Zola tsked. “You are magnificent. You are the fist of Hydra. Do you understand?”

He nodded. It pleased the scientist.

Zola explained the mission he was about to embark on at dawn. He listened to the instructions, the details, the purpose – all the while wondering about what became of the kind doctor who called him by a name he didn’t recognize.

Then, when he was finished, the scientist left and the Soldier was alone— just as he always had been.

---

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes x female!reader #bucky barnes fluff

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gotnofucks · 3 years

Text

The Unreformed Rake

Pairing: soft!dark Ransom Drysdale x Reader

Summary: Ransom Drysdale is a notorious rake, but he seems to have taken a shine to you. When he plans to make you his, nothing would stand in his way. No is not a word he understands.

Words: 3k

Warnings: Slightly dubcon touching, fingering, semi-public touching, forced marriage hinted, 18 + Only

A/N: This is my submission to Siri’s 5k Softdark challenge. Congratulations love @stargazingfangirl18 , you do us hoes so proud and keep our punanis so happy! I chose the prompt “Come on, just a little taste”. It’s highlighted in the text.

If your corset was a millimeter more tighter, you’d be dead. The mammas cared more about getting their daughters married off than about them making it alive through the ball. You were glad that as a second daughter you didn’t have too many eyes on you. All you had to do was let three to four men twirl you around the dancefloor to appease your mother, and then you could sit back and enjoy watching your older sister Anika try to catch a husband.

Mostly, the balls weren’t too bad. You got to meet with your friends and eat some delicious food without the constant supervision of your mother, sometimes you’d even find a decent dance partner who wouldn’t step on your toes or whose hands wouldn’t wander south of your back. You could have made it through the evening unscathed had one handsome rake not made an appearance.

The moment Lord Huge Ransom Drysdale stepped into the hall, all eyes were on him. And his were on you. He made a spectacular vision, donning the bright colours that most gentlemen stayed away from, and yet he looked more masculine than any of them. The eyes of every unwed lady followed his movements, their mothers urging them to approach him despite his reputation.

Everyone knew Huge Ransom Drysdale was a notorious rake; his stories were told at tea parties in hushed tones and often accompanied by giggles. He was proficient in the art of leaving a trail of broken hearts and stuttering men, but more than that, he was a master at getting under your skin. His eyes hadn’t left you for a moment, fixating on you and your current dance partner who was glued to your side like lichens to rock.

“You dance most marvelously Miss Y/N, would you do me the honour of the next one too?” He asked, looking smitten at you.

“Now now Allen, you wouldn’t hog Miss Y/N’s attention all for yourself, would you?” Lord Drysdale’s mocking voice carried over to you, the man walking languidly until he stood before you. “There are a number of other ladies in want of a partner, if you’d be kind enough to relent Miss Y/N’s hand to me.”

Allen bowed to him, recognizing the superior title and the man who held it. Placing a small kiss on the back of your hand, he beat a hasty retreat from you side like the coward you knew him to be. Lord Drysdale chuckled, raising a brow at you before offering you his arm. You had half a mind to turn your nose at him and storm away, but your mother would have conniptions if she learnt you said no to a Lord.

“You have a lot of nerve and no tact Your Lordship” You said in a whisper, allowing him to grip your hand and bring you closer. The music began and he spun you out gracefully before bringing you back into his body, much closer than was socially acceptable. His fingers were firm around yours, the hand on your waist tight, singeing the flesh underneath with his touch.

“You know I am a tactless bastard, that shouldn’t be news to you.” He said with a charming smile that could fool anybody but you. He put a façade better than any theater artist you knew. He led you around the other dancing bodies dexterously, not looking away from your face. After a moment, he abruptly asked, “Who were those three morons you danced with earlier? Didn’t I sent word that you must keep your dance card empty but for me?”

An appalled gasp escaped you and it was with restraint you kept yourself from bolting away from him. “Are you having me watched?”, You hissed in anger, wrinkling your forehead. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Of course I have people keeping an eye on you. Can’t let anything happen to my future wife.”

Because you couldn’t leave, you did the next best thing. You stepped on his toe with all your might, digging your hell into his feet until he groaned in pain. He retaliated by moving his hand from your waist to your backside, giving a firm squeeze to your ass that had you choking on a scandalized scream.

“Hugh!” You chided through gritted teeth, looking around quickly to see if someone had noticed. Amidst the sea of dancers, nobody focused on you alone, but it would be enough to ruin a lady’s reputation.

“You know that’s not what you call me.”

His blue eyes turned darker, more challenging and predatory as he leaned closer until his chest brushed against you. You struggled, trying to put distance between you as discreetly as possible but he wouldn’t give.

“Let go!” You said, digging your nails into his shoulder to no avail. The thick padding of his clothes prevented any harm.

“Say my name.”

It was an order, one that if not met would hold consequences. People thought they knew the philandering Lord Drysdale, but they had little inkling to the danger that resided just beneath the surface. You knew. Your gaze dropped away from his, head a little bowed in defeat.

“Ransom.” You whispered, and he let out a shuddering breath as if his name on your lips had taken away more from himself than from you. He wouldn’t let you address him as anything else, not you who he claimed would be wearing his ring soon.

The dance slowed to a stop, people clapping, and you pushed away from him, halfheartedly joining in the applause. Ransom stood too close, his hand on your waist still fast and you slapped it away in irritation.

“Look, just stay away from me. I don’t want mamma to see us together.” You said, weaving through the throngs of people and trying to escape him. He followed, keeping at your heels with no problem, playfully pulling at your sleeve.

“Stay away?” He scoffed, almost as if in wonder of your audacity to even demand that. “You’re gonna be Lady Drysdale soon, you need to get used to my presence. I will always be close. Very close.”

You turned on him, raising a finger and wagging it in his face. Heat was settling over your face and neck, seeping beneath your neckline and into your chest that was heaving. Ransom’s eyes trained on the rise and fall of your breast, a wolfish grin on his face as he licked his lips in appreciation and anticipation.

“I am not going to marry you Ransom!” You yelled in a whisper, amazed at his arrogance. “You keep away from me.”

In a second his fingers encircled your wrist, pulling you away from the floor into the shadowy corners as you protested. Sweeping aside the curtains, he pushed you into an alcove, pressing you in deeper with his body as the curtains fell again to shield you from curious eyes.

“We’ll have to do something about that mouth of yours.” He hissed cruelly, caging you between his massive arms. “You can’t go around speaking to me like this.”

His face neared yours, eyes dark and dangerous as they glared into you, his mouth opening slowly. You knew what was going to happen and you turned your face at the last second, his lips finding your cheek instead. Warm breath fanned your already heated skin, a flutter of butterflies setting your nerves astray.

“Stop! This isn’t proper.” You said, squirming as Ransom refused to back away. He chuckled in derision, forcefully turning your face to his. You hated how he still looked so beautiful, despite the sneer and arrogance.

“Wouldn’t be the first time we did it. Or did you forget about those stolen moments after the lakeside picnics? What about those walks in the park where I’d press you into a bark of tree and ravish this sinful mouth? We’re long past proper my darling, and the only reason your virtue is intact is because I am affording you the dignity to keep it until our wedding night.”

Your gaze lowered in mortification, those shameful moments coming back to you as flashes behind your eyelids. He had been far too powerful, too intense to refuse. In your weakness, you’d allowed him liberties that made guilt settle like weight on your chest every time your mother bragged about your modesty to other mammas.

“That was my mistake, Ransom. I’m supposed to marry a man of impeccable standing, someone who holds everyone’s good opinion. After Anika gets herself a man, it’ll be me, and my mother would never marry me off to a rake like you.”

His chest expanded in indignation under your hands, and he held you steady as he ground himself against you. Anger, jealousy, and sheer disbelief at your words was evident in his glare, and you shivered in fear as his lips skimmed over your jaw.

“You will marry me, mamma or no mamma. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to make you mine.” He promised, eyes glinting in warning. “What’s that saying? A reformed rake makes the best husband, ain’t it?”

“You’re not reformed.” You countered, captive in his hold. A part of you that you refused to acknowledge didn’t want to leave at all.

“That’s true.” Ransom said, smirking. “I am a rake, its time I play to my reputation.”

He kissed you hard, his tongue pushing past your lips without preamble. You couldn’t help moaning into his mouth, your fingers clutching his collar for dear life, knees threatening to collapse as he kissed you like a man starved. You knew he had a talented tongue by his charming words, but there was more to it than merely speaking. He discovered you, explored you like an untouched cave and brought you back to life.

Nobody could make you feel like he did. You had no patience for conceited, blustering men, but Ransom was more than that. He was a force that overpowered your life like winds did to fallen leaves. He carried you with himself, unrelenting, persistent. He was passionate and hungry, he was obsessed. After the first time he had kissed you in the park, he promised he wouldn’t kiss anyone again. He promised he’d make you his, and that if any man tried to claim what belonged to him, it would end in a duel.

In his kiss, you felt his possessiveness. You felt his raw power and lust that had led you to sin on more than one occasion. Saying no to him was difficult, mainly because you were most yourself when with him. He gave you wings unknowingly. He gave you the freedom to rebel unknowingly. To him, it was your claiming. But hadn’t you claimed him too in one kiss? Hadn’t you transformed the rake into a marriageable sort in one kiss?

“Ransom, we can’t.” You breathed against his lips, both your mouths swollen and glistening.

“Yes we can. We will.”

His hand ventured south of your neck, dipping into your neckline and brushing against the plump swell of your breast. You sputtered, not knowing if you were urging him or objecting. He pressed you hard into the wall, trailing his lips from your neck to your chest, sucking and nibbling with utmost patience and care. You whimpered at his assault, soft mewls spilling from your mouth and you rested your head back, unable to control the heat that simmered in your core.

“There is no power in the world that can stop me from making you my wife.” He said, looking right into your eyes as he sharply pulled and tore a rip into your bodice. You screeched, thumping your fists against his chest before he gathered them in one arm and held them above your head. “This is just a preview of what will happen between us when you take my ring and name.”

Pushing away the limp fabric from your breast, his mouth enveloped your nipple in one fell swoop. You cried out in pleasure, his warmth spreading into your own body and you feared you’d burn. A fire was simmering between your legs, wet and wanting, chanting his name. His teeth gently grazed your nipple, causing you to whimper, a sound he captured in his mouth.

“Look at me.” He ordered, and you opened your eyes without having realized they were closed. The blue in his had never been darker, almost black like the night sky that swallowed down everything in its path.

“Please don’t.” You begged. “I have sisters whose reputation are tied with mine. You’ll ruin us all.”

Ransom smiled, and you gulped because he looked almost tender. As his fingers trailed down your front to gather the layers of skirt above your knees, he bumped his nose in yours. “Never. I am a Thrombey-Drysdale. I’ll take you, and I’ll save your family. Everything I own is yours.”

The look in his eyes was such that you didn’t protest as he traced your thighs, approaching the apex. He didn’t look away as he reached your moist core, nor when he found your sensitive nub and ran circles around it with his fingers. You moaned, biting your lip to stifle your voice as his breathing picked up. Your scent filled the small niche you were in, his chest digging into yours, hand buried between your legs.

A strangled cry did escape when you felt him at your weeping entrance, threatening to breach the untouched walls of your virtue. You shook your head, asking him not to cross the boundary that will change everything between you.

“Come on, just a little taste.” He urged, pressing inside with one finger. He delved in slowly, his intrusion felt against the spongy walls of your sex and you trembled. You were panting you realized, hips gyrating almost subconsciously to mirror his movements.

“Ransom” You moaned, pushing forward. You had to do something, anything. You felt about ready to combust.

“I know. I know. Look at me and remember the pleasure I can give you. Remember the love I will shower on you.”

Another finger joined the first, stretching you until it burnt. You held onto his arms, breath coming in sharp intervals as he moved in and out, the obscene sounds of your essence mixing in with your laboured breathing.

“Do you feel the fire my darling?” Ransom asked, and you nodded. He rested his forehead on yours, forcing you to meet his eyes as he sped up, the heel of his hand digging into your nub. “Look into my eyes and let go. Come, now.”

Your back arched and your pressed forward into his body, quacking in pleasure as sensations that had no name wrecked your whole body. Your teeth sank into his neck to hold in your scream, whole body vibrating and undulating in ecstasy. You remained like this until you caught your breath, sweat gathering above your lips and brow. He looked ravenously at you. He looked in awe too.

Raising his hand, he showed you his fingers soaked in your wetness and slowly he brought them to his mouth and sucked. You gulped, suddenly feeling empty as Ransom closed his eyes in the relish of your taste. When he finally looked at you again, you knew you were lost. The wolf had had his taste of blood. There was no escaping.

He kissed you slow and soft, sharing your taste with you and pulling you closer into him. It didn’t seem like he would part. For all you knew, the world had burnt away leaving only this niche in the wall intact, two people who were just learning to explore each other the only ones alive.

“Do you know, or should I say?” He asked, and you sucked in a breath. Who would have thought this day would come?

“Say it.” You answered. You knew, oh yes. But you needed to hear. You needed to watch those beautiful lips curve around words that bound you to him in something far more potent than marriage.

“I love you.” He said, sincerely, truly and with no hesitation. He loved you. Lord Hugh Ransom Drysdale loved you. Your eyes glistened with unshed tears and you stood on your toes to brush a kiss against his lips.

“I love you, Your Lordship.”

His arms came around you so strong that they felt like chains. You stayed in his embrace, disheveled and disoriented. You never expected your evening would have ended like this.

“Remember my love, then. And forgive me.” Ransom said. Before you could ask him what he meant, he threw apart the curtains that contained your sin and bared you to the world. The first person gasped aloud, and then ten more. You stood paralyzed, holding a hand against your chest to conceal the peeking flesh behind.

Ransom stood before you, nonchalant. Whispers flew around, taking the form of a vicious wind that swept across the ballroom until your mother was running towards you, scandalized. She took one look at you and staggered back, falling behind on the people who rushed forward to help.

“You – no. It couldn’t be.” She sobbed, holding a hand to her heart as if asking it to stay inside. You couldn’t say anything, shame written on every part of you. Ransom cleared his throat before looking at you softly, uncaring of others who gossiped when his lips pressed on your forehead.

“I plan to do right by Miss Y/N.” He announced, removing his coat and draping it around you. Pulling you out from the alcove, he put an arm around you and tugged you at his side. He glanced at you mother who was on the verge of fainting, a small tilt to his lips. “Madam, with your blessings, I would like to wed your daughter and make her an honest woman.”

You hid your face into his chest, not bothering to see your mother’s response. He had compromised you. He had ruined you. Ransom Drysdale didn’t take a no, and he fought hard for what he wanted.

“I hate you.” You whispered, heartbroken. Had he waited, you’d have said yes yourself. Ransom read the question in your gaze and stroked the curve of your cheek.

“I have done my waiting. No more of it. You’re mine now.”

#siris5ksoftdarkchallenge #soft!dark ransom drysdale x reader #dark!ransom x reader #ransom drysdale x reader #soft!dark ransom drysdale #ransom x reader #ransom thrombey x reader #ransom drysdale

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brisbookmark · 3 years

Text

The Three Times Jason Wasn’t Saved- and The One Time he Was

Jason Todd x Reader

Warnings: detailed descriptions of torture, angst, character death, blood, needles, knives/ cutting, batfam au where the gangs all here, Robin!Jason, reader can summon weapons, sad ending

One

His head hangs, he doesn't have the energy. His feet barely touch the ground, and yet he makes no move to stand himself up. They're tingly and fuzzy and cold, as are his hands that are tied above his head.

Jason Todd hangs in chains like a slaughtered pig, and his breathing is hoarse. His dull blue eyes land on the bloodied crowbar laying on the floor. It's his blood, and it makes him groan in pain. Hyper realization of his injuries hits him and he whimpers. It's low, pathetic, and his breathing picks up.

He doesn’t remember how to wear clothes that aren’t covered in dirt and grime and acid. The fabric of his robin suit sticks to his skin, blending with his wounds. Every small move of limb sends fires of pain throughout his body, and he tries his hardest not to make a sound.

The Asylum wing is freezing and he’s cold, skin almost blue. He shivers every once in a while- it’s different from when the Asylum is scorching hot and he feels like he’s in hell where he belongs. The hair he used to keep so elegantly messy, it's dirty and scorched and matted and greasy against his head.

And he’s scared.

He knows that if he looks up, he'll see pictures. Taped to the dusty and damp walls of Arkham Asylum. Red circles trace each of their faces, and whether or not it's paint or blood he doesn't want to know.

It’s blood, it’s always been blood.

He can't bear to see their faces right now. Barbara, happy and smiling next to Dick as they enjoy a Gotham carnival. They're happy without him, he always held them back. He was too dependent on Barbara as a sister figure and was just an annoying kid to Dick, they're better now.

Bruce. With a child on his shoulders. The son Jason could never be. A new Robin, one that could properly fulfill his duties. He was the failure, he was never going to be what Dick Grayson was. Maybe his replacement could, his replacement wouldn't let himself get captured.

Barbara and Selina and Alfred who had only ever taken care of him.

All with red targets around them. Everyone he'd ever cared for. Marked.

Everyone except Y/N, who's picture lay in pieces on the ground. Unlike the others, it wasn't taken by Joker's goons, and it wasn't recent.

It was her student ID from their first year at Gotham Academy. She was young, really young, eyes still bright and skin untainted by the scars of vigilante work. And she wasn't even looking at the camera but rather off to the side, caught by surprise when the photographer flashed his equipment. She hated pictures, and going to school was never a part of the deal. She’s mid laughing and so alive and happy in a world where Jason never hurt her.

He'd stolen it soon after it was taken, sticking it in his wallet so she'd be forced to ask him for his own. You couldn't access the Academy Library without one after all.

And the Joker had found it in his pocket and took it and ruined it and tore it and left her in pieces in the corner, her name never spoken from the maniac again.

Jason assumed that was good. Better to be left in silence than threatened and marked for death. Hell, he couldn’t remember how long it's been since he’s seen her, and he softly starts to whisper her name. She promised him a night out once he found his mother,

No, he couldn’t.

Maybe the Joker couldn’t find her, hadn’t figured out her identity. He could keep her safe.

"What's that my boy?"

"No.. no," Robin pleads, the voice of nails on a chalkboard sending fear into his every bone. "Not again, not again."

The Joker comes into view and a weak cry comes from Jason's lips. His body jerks and another cough wracks his body, warm blood spilling from his mouth. Broken ribs, internal bleeding, punctured lung, he has no idea what it could be. If only Alfred were here, or Dick. To let him rest as they fixed him up, took care of him.

His chin is grabbed harshly, the bruising making it worse. The Joker laughs, pushing his face upwards and close to his own. He can smell death and acid on this villain, and Jason whimpers again.

"How long do you think it's been, Jason?"

The robin doesn't answer. He can't keep track. He tried counting the amount of times Joker visited him, but then again, that was most likely more than once a day. And sometimes it was Harley, or a low level goon dressed like Batman and Nightwing and Batigrl and her.

Time is a blur to him, he's been in pain too long. Everything hurts, even if someone were to save him now, he feels practically gone already.

He wanted someone to save him.

"What about it Jason? You think Bats will come? Save his precious son?" The Joker prods, mouth wide.

Jason wants to say it. But the words dont leave his mouth.

"Go on, don't be scared Jason. Tell me, tell dear old Joker."

"HE'LL COME FOR ME!" he yells, and it uses all his strength to just move his jaw.

"Even when he's better off without you?" The Joker asks, and he bends down to lift the bloodied crowbar.

No. Please, anything but that.

"He's going to! He has to!" Jason screams, and then tears start streaming down his cheeks.

The metal finds its way onto his hip, sending his body swaying helplessly as he cries.

"Tell me, who's hurting you?" The Joker asks, grin never leaving his face as he hits Jason again.

"Please stop, I'll do anything," the boy pleads, desperately trying to think of anything else. If only the Joker would end him now, let him go free.

"Who's hurting you Jason?"

"YOU!" He shrieks, the crowbar smacking painfully across his chest and ripping at the skin. It's like his lungs have collapsed, he no longer has bones.

"Wrong!"

"The, the Joker-"

"WRONG AGAIN MY BOY."

Jason looks up at the pictures on the wall, squeezing his eyes shut. Blood pours into his mouth and he spits it out, shaking in his chains. "Batman.. batman is hurting me."

The next hit never comes. "Attaboy," The Joker mutters, and then he leaves.

Two

He returns the next morning. Jason assumes it's the next morning, as he's in a new purple suit. Harley gave him a dosage some odd amount of time ago, it must be a new day. His limbs are numb, his wrists are cracked and bleeding. He tries to keep his tongue in his mouth but his jaw is slack and disfigured, it’s increasingly difficult.

Jason hasn't slept in days. Dark circles accessorize his black eyes, it's a miracle he can see at all.

The green haired man sets a timer in the corner of the room, and the Robin's brain goes into endless loops of trauma. The crowbar, the explosion that almost killed him. His mind wandered to warm arms pulling him out, thinking Bruce had pulled him from the rubble. Except it wasn't his father at all.

Batman hadn't even tried.

"Jason." The Joker says sweetly, walking around the boy like a predator. The robin is helpless, he's lost all feeling in his limbs. "I thought I might tell you a story today."

The dark haired boy stays silent. He doesn't cry, he doesn't scream, he prays to a god he doesn't know for it all to stop. A bullet, a poison, the world ends in a fiery explosion, he didn't care.

"Jason."

"Just kill me already," he pleads, voice cracking and desperate.

Loud laughter echoes through the room. Jason's head hurts from the sheer volume, and it doesn't stop. It gets louder, and it carries around, and Jason lets out hushed breaths.

"I can't kill you boy, we're a great team you and I! Would you like to hear my story?"

Jason closes his eyes in anticipation for today's beating.

The Joker grabs his face again, and Jason is groggy. Fading in and out of consciousness. But as his eyes are forced open and the first thing he sees is a blade, Jason screams.

It's a dull knife, long and serrated and bloody and dirty. And in its reflection is the lunatic's face, grinning like mad. The light catches on the razor as the Joker's eyes go wide.

"Wanna know how I got these scars?" He sneers, and Jason cries. He struggles to get away, hanging helplessly from his suspension. Nothing works, and two goons from the shadows hold him still with no thought towards his bruised and broken body.

He's in agony, and he's begging. He's in insurmountable pain and he can't do anything about it. The razor is brought to Jason's lips, presses to the side of his mouth with dull pressure.

He’s muffled now, and he continues fighting.

"Just,, like, this!!" The Joker yells, dragging the blade upward through Jason's skin at a slow agonizing pace. He wants this to be slow and torturous, and Jason only cries and shakes. It hurts, god it hurts, he's being cut open, and the blood and tears mix and cause him more pain,

He almost wishes for the crowbar again and once the knife is finished on one side, he screams again. His blood bleeds from the blade and falls onto the floor, joining the rest from the past days. Months? It couldn’t have been years.

“Such a handsome young man,” the joker croons, erupting into even more laughter. “Tell me what brought the chicks in, your crippling daddy issues or your criminal record?”

Jason couldn’t answer if he tried. The Joker grabs his face, almost smelling his newfound wounds, and then pulls back, leaving him in a hanging sway.

“Let me go..” he pleads, mouth sore. His bright blue eyes are so devoid of color it hurts, and he closes them. Blood and dirt clumps on his pretty eyelashes.

“Now I don’t think I can do that dear Jason.”

Joker licks the blade clean, it catches on the man's tongue and cuts him, not that he cares. Jason's glad he's not forced to swallow the damn thing.

Well, be careful what you wish for.

Its sharp edge is brought down his jaw, down his neck, so close to his jugular veins, if only he could shift and catch himself on the blade, he could end it all.

He starts crying.

He doesn’t know when he stops.

The Asylum walls go black, and he's shrieking. Harley Quinn brings a bat to his body as the Joker moves his knife, and it finds solace along Jason's cold chest.

One cut. Two cuts. Jason screams more. His throat is raw, he doesn't even know where his terror is coming from anymore, it'd been beaten out of him.

"Bruce-, bruce stop-"

The Joker laughs. "AHA, the boys learning, don't you see? That's right, that's right."

The cuts are few, and after a while they're bearable. The hardest part to deal with is Harley"s high squeals as she beats him. She calls him cute, handsome, a songbird.

Songbird.

"You can't.."

"I can't what Jay darling? Hmm?? What can't I do?" The Queen of crime pouts, and Jason sees red.

"Don't say that," he spits, finding his voice. "That name isn't for you bitch."

The next time the knife touches his skin, it's coated in acid. And he's yelling for it to stop, he's pleading, thrashing around.

His kicks find Harley and he's flown forward and backward, still chained to the ceiling. Its desperate.

"JAY DARLIING," she sings. "Puddin what else gets our birdie going?? Mm? What makes him sing like a good pet. Oh this is exciting!"

"SHUT UP-"

"Jay," Harley flutters her eyelashes, bringing herself close to his face. "Baby? Love? Is it sweetheart?" Her mouth is wide, eyes deranged. "Perhaps it's Mister J! He stares into her gaze, and for a second the jester flinches.

If Jason wasn't suspended and restrained, he'd kill her. He knew it and she knew it and Joker most definitely knew.

"Well Jason, kill her then! Do it loverboy, why won't you end her?" He croons, and Harley feigns sadness.

"I-" he starts, unwilling to let himself hang in shame. How could he do this?

"Oh come on angel! Why don't you try?" She shrieks, and then Jason is shouting, further tearing into the cuts along his mouth as he brings his legs up, attempting to wrap them around Harley's neck.

He doesn't get very far. Someone holds him steady, and the stinging knife is brought back to his chest. An H. An A. Another H and an A.

Straight across his chest, and then it begins again. Jason's breathing is labored from his attempt to retaliate, and he slips back into his daze of unconsciousness. He can't do this much longer.

THE.

Jason can see it in the mirror on the opposite wall. He doesn't remember when that got put there. If he could reach something with his feet he could throw it. Break the glass, pick it up with his feet again perhaps, end this torture-

JOKES.

Jason feels like vomiting.

ON.

Jason vomits on the ground in front of him. Sweat sticks to his skin and he's pale, he feels a fever growing on him. The knife continues lower to his bruised skin. This couldn't get worse, could it.

YOU.

The words are engraved on his body, marred by the blood dripping from it. Jason's eyes roll to the back of his head. The trauma puts him to sleep, and the Harley Quinn whispers another "Jay Darling" into his ear before departing.

Three

Y/N’s picture is gone now, he can't even piece it together in his mind anymore. The scraps are scattered and disintegrated into dust.

This time he hears Harley before Joker, she's hanging off of the clown's arm, looking at him with the adoration of a psychopath. In her hands is a long poker, tip red hot, and she swings it without a care in the world. She giggles as her love comes closer to the half dead boy, untying his chains.

Jason lands on the floor, a crumpled heap of skin and broken bones. His head hits the ground, but it's the most beautiful thing he's touched in a long time.

He doesn't move, curling into a protective ball.

"Mister J our bird isn't moving," Harley whines, kicking him in the back. He groans, shielding himself as best he could. There's nothing on the ground that's usable, not even a sharp stick or rock, there's a used abandoned needle but it sends him into nausea.

The Joker's laughing brings him back to reality as he attempts to crawl away. The floor is appalling, disgusting, a mix of wax and blood and body fluids that he wished he could forget, but he's let go.

Jason slams his hands on the cement, using the force to wake him up and pull himself forward. His legs don't work, he's going delirious again, and then there's the sizzle of water behind him.

"Where are you going birdie?" Harley asks, and the Joker takes another step closer.

"No, no, NO-" Jason pleads. Please let him go, dead or alive he doesn't care. Just get him out of here, make it stop. It's the only word he knows at the moment, every syllable is tortuous to pronounce. He bangs his head on the cement. God he’s going insane.

Stop touching him. Stop hurting him.

He’s been beaten and tortured and degraded in the worst ways possible. He couldn’t remember what it was like to be human. And still, this was the worst pain yet.

He's pinned down as the hot poker nears his face, the symbol bright red on the end. Like a branded piece of meat. His flesh burns and sizzles as the Joker gives more pressure, and Jason's never screamed louder.

It's in the intense silence within which he screams with his whole body. It forces its way from deep in his throat, demonic and angry and scared.

He's hiding a truth from himself, and soon he's not screaming from the burning, but rather that he's stuck here. Forever.

Edged with the tantalisingly sweet release of death, the Joker will never give it to him.

The Joker will never let him die, he will never let him go. And now his cursed J is on Jason’s cheek, he’ll forever be the Joker’s pet.

When the brand stick is taken off his skin, Jason is sweating and pale and falls asleep.

"What a shame you couldn't handle it."

Y/N runs through the hallway with desperation. She'd tracked down Harley one night and by some god forsaken miracle, the deranged woman had blood on her skirts.

Another miracle hadY/N sneaking into Wayne Manor to ask Barbara to help her, analyzing the blood samples to track down the Joker.

They found something better.

For a second she believed Bruce's high end, most technologically advanced equipment was wrong. Babs assured her it wasn't. That was Jason's blood on Harley, less than two weeks old.

"Jason?"

The boy looks up, whimpering. He almost doesn't hear her.

"Oh Jay," she whispers from the hallway. She's just a shadow but Jason knows it's her. No one has ever said his name with such gentleness.

The woman lets out a sob. He's here, he's alive, he's gonna be okay.

Jason holds back sobs of his own as she runs to him. Her fingers are first to touch him, resting on his chest and trailing over his scars, his wounds and his blood. His torn clothes, the dirt and acid burns. Her hand stops over his heart, beating so slow she would have believed him to be dead.

But this is Jason. He's not dying anytime soon. Especially not if she can help it.

Tears stream down her face as she wraps her arms around him, holding him close.

He's gonna be okay.

Y/N is immediately supporting him as she conjures a knife to cut him down. His arms are free and he nearly goes unconscious.

She catches him before he can fall. It's not like the Joker when he needs to crawl away like a wounded puppy. He welcomes the other presence in the damp room, shaking. Jason lifts his head, and he doesn't even have to move until she's at his side. It's so different.. he forgot what this feels like.

Jason forgot what it felt like to have emotions besides fear.

He curls into her lap, slowly using her body to sit up.

"Jay look at me, please," she murmurs, holding his face and brushing the hair out of those colorless eyes. "Oh my god I knew it.. I knew you were alive.. Jay I'm so sorry-" she stops herself, kissing the top of his blood matted head.

That doesn't matter now.

"I'm gonna get you out of here, you're okay sweetheart. Stay awake okay? Okay. Stay awake for me please."

Jason nods, hanging onto her. If he lets go, she'll leave. He'll lose her and he'll be stuck here again. She'll fade away.

It hurts to move, every bone and every limb is on fire. Then she's grabbing him and they're standing up, she's practically half carrying him.

Mumbles of his name fill the empty asylum wing. Js and Jason's and Jay's pass her lips as if just repeating it is gonna make him alright.

One step, and Jason crumbles. He can't walk, it's a miracle he can feel his legs at all. "I'm not going anywhere," he mutters.

She doesn't say anything. She knows.

Footsteps in the background. Walking, jogging, running.

Maniacal laughs and snarls and spit.

Y/N bends her knees and slings him over her shoulder in a fireman's carry, and then she starts running. Down one hallway and then the next, the Arkham Asylum is a maze.

"Jay, side of my mask, the-"

"Comms," he finishes, holding the button to turn it on.

"Bat? Batgirl, do you read me?" The girl whispers, ducking into an alcove.

"I'm here. Did you..?"

"I've got him. Babs, he's alive, Jason's alive, he's breathing-" It feels so good to say, to not just breathe an empty statement.

Crying comes from the other side of the comms. Barbara composes herself enough to speak, but even then, emotion hangs in her voice. "Let's bring him home then, where are you right now? Dicks outside the Asylum with Bruce, don't worry about the thugs or the cameras, we have it covered."

"I'LL FIND YOU BIRDIE!"

"The Joker's here," Y/N tells Barbara and the air hangs with a pregnant pause.

"Okay, Tim's gonna have you turn right, we got his signal."

The woman turns, ducking into the darkness.

"Y/N,." Jason wheezes, hanging onto her shoulders with the strength he could muster.

"Jason if this is one of, one of your 'if we don't make it out' speeches-"

"Nevermind," he replies, wishing he had the energy and the ability to smile. She does, she smiles for the both of them- even if he can't see it from this angle.

"God I'm going to make him pay for this. Writhing and screaming and begging for me to end him," she threatens, listening for the next of Barbara’s directions.

She's told to go right and through a door.

There's two sets of footsteps now.

Y/N continues, trying to fill the silence. The Joker won’t track her voice, the alarms are too loud. "That doesn't matter now, I guess. You're alive and I- we thought you were dead and it took so long for me to accept that, and I still don't know how I found you but I did and Jay I'm so proud of you-"

"Hey this doesn't mean you can give me a speech of your own," Jason interrupts, and she cracks another smile. She’s rambling like she always does when she overthinks, and he closes his eyes to imagine that they’re once again on a Gotham skyscraper with a bottle of champagne. Spilling secrets and laughing like they weren’t masked vigilantes with secret identities.

"I love you Jason, and you're not leaving me again."

"HAHA I LOVE THIS GAME-" The Joker yells. His psychotic grin fills Jason’s vision as the maniac throws open a hatch, jumping down into the room. Jason is dropped to the ground and Y/N has her sword in hand, stepping in between the two men.

His vision is blurry, he can’t see anything, and the ground is warm.

He can’t succumb. Jason stands up again, grabbing a pistol from Y/N’s leg and he shoots. The feel of a gun trigger isn’t unfamiliar.

Yelling fills the room, as does the clash of metal and fists, Jason smiles as the Joker cries out in pain. Another door opens, there’s girlish laughter now, and so many footsteps. He keeps shooting, dropping enemies like a second nature because he was Jason Peter fucking Todd.

Jason’s ribs get stomped on again and he loses his gun, and metal echoes on the ground as something is dropped. Three gunshots ring through the room.

No.

The Joker and the Harlequin keep laughing in glee, and Jason blacks out from crying again.

Cold hands grab his face. The man who laughs is, well, laughing and pulling Jason’s face close to his own. The smell of death fills his senses and Jason opens his eyes.

"How long do you think it's been, Jason?"

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