#people are fickle sometimes

[tarantula-unofficial]

Oh you think people like you for your personality? Turn into a tarantula and see what happens.

#people are fickle sometimes #tarantula #inner beauty

[nopeleavemealoone]

Modern day school AU!!!

Chuuya was just homeschooled under an adoptive scientist father until high school and joins Sheep High(??? ig) but some circumstances ill flesh this out later lead him to change to Yokohama’s Port High.

also Odasaku is one of those assistant teachers who are like still in college and just show up sometimes to test-run be a teacher or take notes about teaching. Dazai is just that one wierdo who hangs out with the teacher assistant and that one guy in admin (ango) and doesnt make other friends until chuuya joins

#Odasaku doesn’t die he literally just goes to get an actual job #I just wanna see these two in an everyday school setting how would they react to having to take midterms with me #Or having to walk three minutes down a hall and up a flight of stairs to get to the one unlocked bathroom in the building #~Because the American school system is silly and they lock bathrooms since we keep getting fire alarms after people smoke in the bathroom~ #But no actually I am contemplating the fickle finalities of making another AU #The Circus AU is still spinning in my mind I gotta actually post about that one with new thoughts sometime soon #bungou stray dogs #bsd #bungou gay dogs #dazai osamu #chuuya nakahara #soukoku #bsd fanart #bungou stray sogs #skk #dazai x chuuya #Mine #my art

[real-live-human]

hi so idk how many responses this might get, or how quickly i'll get to them, but! i've been having some kinda art block the last couple days and not many ideas/motivation to draw my own characters. so if you see this (and if you want to, ofc) feel free to send me a reference for one of your ocs and i will draw them for you

#“another person is expecting me to do this” is sometimes the kick in the butt i need to start on something #plus drawing new characters is always fun! #and all the people i follow have such cool characters tbh #oh yea also you can send it as a dm/ask/reblog here/whatever #you can probably expect within 1-2 days turnaround but my brain can be fickle with how much time i can spend on drawing lol so no guarantees

[hansoulo]

Have you completely abandoned writing?

what happened to... hello? how are you? my name is?

#kidding lmao it's all good #it's cool that people are still interested in my works! I appreciate it very much #but I'm in a very different place in my life and I don't feel as compelled to create fanworks as I once did #sometimes I do feel guilty about leaving series unfinished or abandoning works but #at the end of the day I am a human being #with a very fickle attention span 🤠 #I do still want to finish the series (serieses?) I started but at this point it would be for my own creative fulfillment #and not due to having an audience or feeling like it's been 'too long' since updates #if people still find joy from my writing I think that's awesome #I myself have sort of moved on though #cheers! #lari speaks #anon

[elytrafemme]

thinking about how (cough syrup) tubbo, ranboo, and tommy all have big identity issues but for very different reasons

tubbo’s whole character is storm on the horizon, afraid of the future. he has no idea what his road ahead is like, and part of that is not having a good sense of what he wants from himself or anyone else, and it crumbles down into him not knowing who he actually is as a person aside from these self-prescribed patterns (being a schlatt, etc.) that give him some direction. he knows who he is -- he’s tuberculosis “tubbo” underscore -- but that doesnt neatly translate to who that name actually is 

ranboo is eye of the storm, afraid of the past. in an extremely literal sense, ranboo has no idea who he is -- he has fleeting memories, but they’re very abstract rather than concrete details, and he struggles to balance reclaiming himself with being productive. ranboo struggles with believing that his future isn’t pre-destined in a way he can’t understand, but in a practical sense, he knows what things he needs to do and what he doesn’t. it’s not that ranboo doesn’t know how to go forward -- it’s that he’s not sure who he’s going forward as.

tommy has no storm metaphor, but he’s afraid of the present. tommy knows his past very well and isn’t very keen on it, and he has a pretty hopeful grip on the future, but tommy has no idea what is expected of him to be doing in the moment. things happen around him, and he sees it all, but he doesn’t know how to deal with it. he knows who he is, and the future is bright, but every moment of the present feels like it is asking him to ever so briefly become someone else, someone he doesn’t know. 

#nightmare.cough-syrup #sorry to post analyses on my own fics but i have a lot of thoughts on this #tommy's is the most fickle i admit but i'm pretty secure in my beliefs of tubbo and ranboo's identity #also additional note that this is also emphasized by the mental health struggles of the characters #tommy's anxiety makes so many things he encounters terrifying in the moment like unexpected conversations and the like #ranboo's psychosis is in a way building off of his existent struggles with memory because he has uncertainties in what is real #and tubbo's mood instabilities (which ik some people w/ bpd have said they related to) makes him feel trapped- #-between no emotion and too much emotion sometimes and it makes it harder for him to shape himself in that #all of that to say that as these characters open up and receive more support it helps them a LOT with all these issues #and tommy's character already goes to therapy but ranboo and tubbo have a bit of a way to go until they get there #(not to say that tommy is all better he is obviously under stress due to. current circumstances LOL) #(but there is hope that's my point here)

[28whitepeonies]

Louis said the n-word, the word g*psy, has worked with zero women or PoC on his music, but you just had to bring up Harry as someone who perpetuates "everyday racism" like he's the same as Louis huh? Harry works with black and brown people on his creative projects, and has had women in his band since the beginning. Oh, but Louis is secretly a radical, so it's ok that Louis is discriminatory in life. Anything to keep stanning a boring white man 🙄

My original discussion was about Harry, some anons asked about Louis in that context so that is how I framed the answer. If it was at all unclear I think Louis makes choices that perpetuate every day racism too.

The problem I have with these asks is you do not like it when I discuss Harry alongside Louis but then you write asks like this comparing them? We can’t pretend like Harry hasn’t done or said things that are really harmful to Black people and people of colour, and that those actions don’t form a pattern of behaviour. We shouldn’t also act as if racism is of limited quantity, me talking about Harry doesn’t make reduce the points I’m making about Louis.

I am sorry if my answer was unclear, but I do also see a real difference between having a band and crew that looks diverse and making decisions that give women and Black and minority ethnic people either power or financial security, especially when those decisions are made by someone who has also acted in a manner that causes harm to those same communities.

In terms of the video that you reference, I want to be very clear that I think he could have said it. I find it really difficult to be confident about what Louis says though and always have, in part because the video quality and in part because of the point in time when that video was taken and the amount of media training he’d had by then. And if he did it’s entirely unacceptable.

I don’t think that just listing the bad things famous people do is overly useful, my point when I bring these up is that they’re examples of who Louis and Harry are, the choices they make and their worldview. I’m not friends with them, there’s no relationship where I could address any of this like you would with a friend so I’m not sure there is anything more beyond looking at this and discussing what these choices tell us about them as people.

I assume your comment about Louis being a secret radical is because I said I often like to think of him as being more radical than he likely is or we can ever know and that I try to be practical about that - I was being honest when I said that, and I do try quite hard to not let that skewer my responses, which is why I spend so much time analysing shit in responses, but I am in fact just a person with opinions and maybe I’m not the blog for you.

#I think if you had a real interest in this you’d have framed this ask very differently #I do find the suggestion that only one of them is a boring white man #quite amusing #obviously I have a lot of interest in discussing both Louis and Harry #and enjoy that #but objectively #they’re both boring white men #sometimes people send me asks about how I hate Louis #and now #this person thinks I’m a stan #fandom is a fickle creature

[clembian]

I wanna be kinder. happier. think this is something I'm deciding all of the sudden like. I don't think I'm an unhappy person but I think that a long time ago I stopped doing a lot of the things that I did for the sake of happiness. I wanna spin around in skirts and plant my fall garden and paint. I wanna do everything that I stopped letting myself do. I preach joy for the sake of joy but I rarely give myself the same grace !! I tend to fall into old habits of seeking out stuff to be upset about myself. I almost feel I'm more productive when I'm upset which. is something I want to change. need to change. I love so many things. so many people. it's about time I let myself talk about it a little more.

#i really do have so much love #sometimes it scares me. loving people. #people are fickle beings. they leave. you need to afford yourself the grace you afford others and learn how to let go #im still learning how to do that. how to rely on myself #and others. #its always been one or the other but i think i can work on allowing both #sorry this is a bit of a ramble #ok to rb #catboo.txt

[bxdtime-ceai]

i hate that my community is so small. i hate that social anxiety prevents me from meeting the people i want and expanding my community and instead puts me in the hospital. i hate that i cant get any kind of medication without losing my visa. i hate going to the straight clubs because the only other lgbtq+ night life is just very small gay clubs where i feel like i and my group are taking space that we shouldn't. i hate that i am always somewhat uncomfortable around the people with whom i am the most comfortable. i hate that even the one person i can relate to about this stuff is able to mask better than me. it's like i am set up to fail socially

#mine #personal #rant #i went to the club last weekend and was uncomfortable the entire time #partially bc it was very VERY straight vibes which is not a bad thing but its not my element #and partially bc the club = high chance for social anxiety episode #we made plans to go to the gay club throughout the night but cancelled it bc the majority of our group is straight and feels uncomfortable #but im not gonna go to any club alone #so i just go where they go #the most fun i had was smoking in the smoking room for 2 mins talking to some rando in korean and barely understanding half of what he said #its such a fickle situation too bc i cant go with too many people and also not too few #but i dont even know where the limits are #2 people is too few but 3 can sometimes be too few too #and 4 is too many #like wtf!!!!!!!!!! #and then theres the issue of even if i were to go to the gay club instead i would be taking up space wrongfully bc-- #--theyre so small and im just gonna stand around or sit on a stool or whatever barely doing anything n realistically that doesnt fit into-- #--their business model so they might ask me to leave #and theres always the issue of gay men questioning every woman in the gay club and why we are there #as if there are any lesbian clubs or bars in 95% of this country #not a single lesbian or wlw establishment in the city much less any city outside of the capital #that might be an exaggeration but there are literally none in my LARGE city #there is a total of one singular trans bar in the whole city and its brand new but hasnt even opened yet #so where am i supposed to go #but thats still ignoring the other problem which is social anxiety #how many more hospital trips am i gonna have #asexual #aromantic #wlw #sapphic

[mothygraves]

people are so rude about those really nice temporary tattoos that look decently real. "just get a real one" as if there aren't a million reasons why someone wouldn't want/be able to get a real one. it doesn't just boil down to someone being a "fake poser"

#maybe I'm biased #but I want one of those temporary ones so bad #I have sensitive skin and a low pain tolerance and high risk for skin infections #all of which would make getting a real tattoo kind of dangerous for me even though I Really want one #so bad #and some people are fickle and indecisive! #and know they are!! #so they don't want to permanently commit to something they might not want anymore in 3 months #idk I juat find the judgment and accusations to be cruel and thoughtless #I know there's culture around tattoos but sometimes there are real limitations people have #and making something pretty to accomodate that isn't a bad thing #as long as the temporary tattoo isn't stealing art or using sketchy practices then literally who cares

[kentopedia]

nanami kento, who hates dating, and didn’t do much of it in his early twenties. but now, he’s almost thirty, watching all the people he works with settle down, have kids, and he thinks he wants that. so he might as well try.

so satoru sets him up on a few dates — friends of friends, he calls them. and at the end of every one of the dinners, kento goes home empty, exhausted, because he knows what they want is not the same.

still; he thinks maybe he’s being a little self-destructive, maybe too picky, maybe he just got so used to being alone. with satoru’s insistence, he gives all the women another call, invites them over to his apartment.

the first time was a disaster… kento had barely set the dinner on the table before his cat had hissed at her, scratched her down the arm in a thin gash. and though it did draw blood, it was hardly enough to warrant that reaction.

he didn’t even try to stop her as she picked up her bag and left, huffing like she’d been morally offend. kento, though, could only smile to himself in amusement.

because maybe kento was a poor judge of character, a man who was secretly hoping nothing would pan out — but his cat could certainly tell the good from the bad.

it became a little game to him, after that. seeing if anyone could win his pet over, and if they could, perhaps they were the one. his darling animal was a fickle thing anyway. a bit too defensive, quick to bite anything threatening after years on the streets.

naturally, no one came back twice.

he was close to giving up, accepting his solitude because he was tired of empty conversations over dinner. but then, he ventured out over the weekend to a new coffee shop, during hours he normally didn’t spend out of his home, and met you.

though you only talked for a moment, kento felt like maybe he’d known you in a past life. a part of him thought maybe it was strange, the way he kept coming back to talk to you, catching you at the end of your shift to see if you wanted to grab a coffee sometime.

by the second date, kento started to think you could turn out to be his best friend.

by the third date, kento wondered if soulmates were real.

on the fourth date, almost two months later, an appropriate time to get to know someone when you were as reserved as kento, he invited you over for dinner. it was, perhaps, the final confirmation he needed to let himself be with you.

he let you through the door, smiling softly as you told him about the book you were reading, and hung his coat on the rack. a moment later, you stopped, distracted, hands covering your mouth in a gasp.

“kento! she’s the cutest cat i’ve ever seen, you didn’t even show me pictures!” you exclaim, and, a few feet away, crouched down. “look at her pretty eyes…”

“careful,” kento said, “she’s not very—“

but the cat approached your outstretched hand, sniffed once, before letting you scratch her under her chin, purring loud enough for kento to hear across the room.

“shes such a sweetheart, you told me she was mean!” you smiled, making a cooing noise as you threaded your fingers through her fur. “kento’s a liar, isn’t he… you’re so precious.”

a few moments later, she snapped her jaw at you in a biting motion, and you only laughed, withdrawing your hand. “alright, i get it, i won’t bother you anymore.”

though she still brushed against your legs, just as she did kento’s, and seemed to communicate some sort of message to him.

“do you want any help cooking?” you ask, tucking your hair behind your ears. “i’m a disaster in the kitchen, but—“

“sure,” kento said, his chest tightening as he blinked back at you, only in his apartment for minutes and already looking as at home there. he wondered if it was possible to fall in love so quickly. “but only if you want to.”

#this is very silly #i just wanted to get it out of my drafts #i’ve had this thought for a while but #i decided i didn’t want to write a whole drabble so now you get this #kento being inexperienced at dating & not enjoying it is very special to me #and so is him having a cat tehe #selfship coded i suppose bc reader is me but it’s not that obvious i hope #beloved kento 💋 ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ #nanami x reader #xoxo rylie 💌 ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ #jjk x reader #nanami x you #nanami fluff #nanami x gender neutral reader

[uraandri]

i love when stories feature a twist that completely shatters a character's worldview because not only is everything we know a lie but the very thing a character based their whole identity around has also been a lie and now we get to see the concequences of it all

#its about the legitimacy and love and what it means to be a true born son and how identity and class division and one's position in soviety #is so incredibly fickle and changes sometimes purposefully sometimes just by coincidence but still it shackles people all the same #ura.txt

[ghostheartfelt]

*:･｡☆ warnings: heavy gore, torture, hurt/comfort, whump, s/a towards reader, men being gross, gunshot wounds, stab wounds, blood and violence, branding (torture method), waterboarding (torture method), reader (thaye) is a badass, first kiss, dismemberment of fingers, eye trauma, protective!ghost, implications of smut/sex, aftermaths of torture. (there is probably a lot i missed, but idc lol all the other shit should b enough warning!!) 〔☆〕 desc: you and the 141 are deployed to austria with the intel of a drug boss known as rolmuth who is harboring romanian soldiers to the east coast to smuggle illegal mercenary personnel into america. what happens when a rapid snowstorm picks up and you (callsign 'thaye') are separated from the others then further captured and interrogated alongside your lieutenant?

—✩ PHANTOM TOUCH ✩—

word count —15.6k

a/n: sorry for my inactivity! the entire time i was workin on this shit... let me tell you.. this is 51 pages on google docs LMAO so i hope the length and word count makes this fat fucking hurt/comfort one shot worth it.

VIENNA, AUSTRIA.

“Move, move, move!” Price yells.

Snow fell and blanketed the ground beneath you, you were dressed in white camouflage tactical gear. 

Your movements were slower as you trudged yourself through the snow, you turned in every direction searching for your captain. 

Your lieutenant. 

Anybody. 

Rapid snowy winds smacked you in the face, nearly forcing your eyes shut as you traveled through the gusts. 

“Soap?!” You shout, planting your feet below into the patches of snow, 

Your arms raise to cover your face. 

“Fuck!” 

“Thaye!” A voice echoed through the snow that encased you in a blanket of long silence. 

Snow nestled into the ground below—everything around you seems to just slow down.

You traipse yourself heavily through the thickness around you as you snap a clip into your M4 carbine, swinging it behind you like it had been previously.

Thump.

Your head droops down and you feel your heart drop into your stomach seeing the body of one of the men you were deployed with face up.

His head four inches deep in the snow and his right eye completely destroyed, his chest marred with several bullet wounds.

The root of his nose is fractured to the point where it’s flattened into what’s left of his skull. 

You swallow the knot in your throat that might have also been barf trying to make its way out of you, kneeling down to peel the soldier’s dog tags off of his corpse.

Hudson “Scooter” Wheeler. 

It makes you smile slightly, your thumb dragging over the metal tag to wipe off the thickness of blood that had coated the carving of his name.

“I’m sorry, Wheeler.” 

The loss of fallen soldiers leave footprints and engravings on one’s heart that never allows them to be the same, again. 

You wished sometimes you could just be without the worry about who you have to lose and who you have to save. 

Restless nights followed by mornings and afternoons full of nothing but unpromised resolutions. You nearly felt as if insanity would be a better route than going through the pain of losing the people you stood side by side with, enduring the effects of grief, bloodshed, and war.

Although there were moments of bonding and camaraderie that were forced to turn into utter gore and distrust due to the change of the objective that deemed those to turn against one another in hopes of survival and success. 

Pride; a fickle sense that could drive an individual to the depths of madness and create a staked claim to prove more power then they own or deserve.

You didn’t understand it. Nor did you want to. 

You were left in a society where the drabness of gray ruled the world and pain of loss clenched to the soldier’s  hearts almost desperately. 

And yet that perpetual colour of gray; a colour so dull but so compelling, it still lights the depths of hell you lived in by merely a petite dose.

Your mouth had begun to feel tacky with your muscles stiffening as the weather conditions intensify by every fleeting moment. 

Inside your combat boots, you feel your feet begin to grow numb; similar to the feeling of stepping on fresh-cut grass and grazing dull needles. 

Now, you wonder what hypothermia would feel like. You weren’t used to this sort of weather. 

Even under your white half-face balaclava, you felt your lips and their absence of moisture. 

Still, you trekked forward, squinting eyes searching for any sign of life around you.  

Your face lights up at the sight of a shadow-like movement through the blistering storm and rapid winds once you wipe off the frost lingering on your goggles. 

They moved closer—it seemed to be one person. 

There’s a tree to your left—your legs manage to jerk themselves through the snow until you're beside it.

You cautiously lower your body into the snowpack below you, clutching your rifle in your grip while your eyes fixate on the moving figure ahead of you. 

Your finger grazes over the trigger of your carbine rifle.

A leg comes before the torso, then the face. 

The skull mask.

Ghost.

Relief washes over you immediately—raising to your knees.

“Lieutenant!” You call. 

His head immediately snaps in your direction, and the time spent staring at each other seemed everlasting, though in reality it was just a few seconds before his large hand was squeezing your shoulder and he was right in front of you.

“Thought we lost’ya,” Ghost rasps.

“What’s the sitrep?” 

“Enemy force has ordnance on standby—Price ordered all units to the West Safehouse,” he says.

You nod softly. 

“Why’d you hang back?” 

His eyes widen under his balaclava and you open your mouth to speak—Ghost tugs you by your vest, pulling you to the side.

“Gh—“

There’s a person behind him.

Sounds muffle around you, complete silence surrounding you as Ghost’s head is slammed with the butt of a rifle. 

Your hands reach down to pull your handgun from off of your hip, pointing it towards his attacker, squeezing on the trigger and unhesitantly dropping him to the ground before he can double back and finish him off.

No words leave your mouth as you turn in one quick jerk, the barrel of a L1A1 being aimed between your eyes. 

Not even seconds later was the thick handle of a bowie knife met with the back of your head. 

Immediately, your body meets with the snow, and you feel the coldness of the snow over your mask. 

You struggle to pick up your head, pain surging in the back of your head enough to blur your vision. 

Keeping your eyes open was a challenge—they constantly blink shut as you watch the enemy force yell at each other, manhandling Ghost by ripping his weapon sling off of him and dragging him by his fur-lined parka. 

His body was dragged up into a Humvee and roughly thrown in before you were picked up by your ankles and wrists and tossed right on top of him.

Your head slumps against Ghost’s bicep as you're washed up by incapacity, your mind fogging against your will. Enervation holds you captive and sweeps you off your feet. 

You’re met with blackness, next, yet the only thing you could think of was your failure to protect your superior.

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

You awoke to the sounds of struggling—something teetering on the floor. 

It takes a moment for you to come to your senses and stir from unconsciousness, eyes fluttering open to take in your surroundings.

The ever-present smell of waste and deteriorated flesh smacks you with reminiscence, the overbearing cold, the taste of grime, blood, and bile in your mouth. 

When you go to move your hands, they’re immobile; binded by thick ropes that with your state of exhaustion and physical weakness, would be impossible to escape from. 

Your heavy head manages to shift for oneself to observe the room—your gear was purloined, leaving you in your cargos and a tank-top.  

Below you, the ground was concrete and stained with blood that led to the large metal door that had a closed hatch. 

Vaguely, you recall in short and brief flashes why you were there, your eyes shutting for a few moments before opening once again.

Ghost.

Where was Ghost?

“Lieutenant,” you cough. “Ghost, wh—“ 

“‘M here, kid.” Ghost wheezes. “To’yr left.” 

Your head turns, stopping at the sight of his mask on the concrete, blood smeared across the maw of the skull, over the eye socket. 

“Ghost, are you injured?” 

“No.” 

Slowly, your eyes trace up the ground beneath you until Ghost’s boots are in view. 

His soles skid against the ground as he attempts to drag the dentist chair he’s strapped in. “Fuck!”

You shift in your wooden seat in an attempt to reach your hand down to pull up the velcro flaps of your cargos. You couldn’t reach.

Ghost’s boots stop skidding against the floor as the metal door’s rusted hinges creak, the door being flung open to welcome a man inside—three other men were behind him holding military grade rifles with drum magazines.

The man inside the room raises his hand, offering departure in the Hindi language, to which his men shut the door behind him.

His arms were wrapped behind his back, the sound of his heavy boots echoing off of the thick stone walls. 

He walks around the room for a while, allowing you to raise your head to take in who he was.

A European man that’s approximately 184 centimeters with long pushed back shaggy dark hair; his eyebrows arched, a bushy beard. 

On his cheek, a nasty deep laceration scar that reaches the end of his eyebrow. Under his left eye, another scar reaches the bridge of his nose. 

The man is inches from your face, now, a tilt in his head. 

“We see how long it takes to break you, Sergeant.”  His eyes crinkled as his lips upturned in a depraved smile. 

He lifts himself from his bent position, grips the crest rail of the chair, and pulls you farther from Ghost.

“Who is your commanding officer?” He asks, feet spread apart as he looks down at you to assert his dominance.

“Fuck you.” You bite back.

The man’s hand roughly takes hold of your chin, tilting your head up towards the dangling ceiling light. 

“I eat boys like you for breakfast.” 

Ghost chuckles beside you.

His eyes narrow as he releases a choked scoff, his head swinging back before bursting into laughter.

“My drug ring reigns across the entire country—my men swarm all city.” 

His accent is thick, though his English  isn’t terrible. 

“It is either you tell me now and you and friend die quick, or you die slow of bleeding until we find on our own.” 

“Good fuckin’ luck,” Ghost grunts.

You swallow thickly, groaning as the man pulls your head back by the scalp of your hair. 

You purse your lips as you collect saliva from the walls of your mouth, spitting just above the man’s eyebrow and watching as the gob runs down over his eye.

He snarls, dragging an open hand down his face. Using that same hand, the male flexes his hand into a fist and socks you in the jaw. 

“Hey!” Ghost shouts. 

You hear it pop and you immediately outstretch your neck and slam your forehead into the bridge of his nose, arms jerking in an attempt to escape your restraints. “You motherfucker!”

He lets out a groan, his head flinging back as blood streams down his nostrils, his hand trembling over his nose.

“Bitch! Madarchod! Bevakooph veshya…” He hisses through clenched teeth. “Broke my nose!” 

His palm smacks you across the face so hard, a pinkish red hue starts blossoming across your cheek. He repeats it again, then again, and again. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, bracing yourself as numbness circles inside the flesh of your cheek, a similar feeling to those static electricity globes that you’d get for your twelfth birthday and press all five of your fingertips against.

“Hey! This is between you an’ me, a’right?” Your lieutenant gives a sharp nod, trying to reason with the man. 

He stares at Ghost for a few moments, squeezing his fingers in his fist before leaving the room, the door slamming loudly behind him.

You take the moment to actually look at Ghost, your eyes taking in his features entirely.

From his long and messy dirty blonde undercut, to his shade and stubble. 

To his bruised and bloodied lips and the thick scar running from his top lip to the underside of his chin.

To his thick and beautiful eyebrows, the scar on the start of his left eyebrow, running down to the bridge of his nose.

To his deep and all familiar brown eyes—long and light eyelashes accompanying their shape.

To the scar that spread out from the right inner corner of his lip and across his cheek as if it was the engravings of a smile line.

There were several scars littered across the male’s face; each one of vast distinction from the other. 

Once again, the door thrusts open and the man returns, cotton wads up his nostrils with another male by his side, pushing in a rolling mayo stand with different tools and items you assumed were torture devices.

“Hey! Hey! What’re y’doing?” Ghost jerks in his seat, his eyebrows furrowing as the man picks up a syringe, flicking the glass and squeezing out a droplet of the liquid inside. “What th’fuck is that?”

“You will have your answer soon enough,” he simply replies. 

“Agarwal—blade.”

The second man grabs the rotary tool from off the tray, a saw blade in the other. 

Your hands tug against their bindings enough to chafe your wrists, it feels as if your skin is being shredded with a cheese grater. 

“Paip rinch, ab.”  The taller man holds out his arm, to which the man who was now identified as Agarwal hands him a pipe wrench.

“English, asshole.” You grunt.

He slings it over his shoulder and slowly walks towards Ghost as he whistles. 

Ghost’s eyes don’t avert from his gaze, even as the pipe wrench drops from off his shoulder to clatter on the floor, hanging from his wrist and dragging along the ground.

“Who…is…your…superior?” His voice is grim, each word coming out as he takes a step.

Using the hook jaw of the wrench, he lifts Ghost’s chin.

“Piss off,” the blonde huffs.

Not even seconds later does the man swing the wrench around and belt it into his stomach. Ghost lets out a wheeze, his body lurching over in reaction to the sudden pain coursing through him. 

“No!” You yell. 

“Who.” He asks again with spite in his tone—he was demanding, it no longer was a question in his favor.

“You’ll know who when he comes’a knockin’ ‘n blows lead thru th’lot of ya.” Ghost says with a slight raise in his head.

The wrench is swung back into his stomach, causing Ghost to hurl and expel vomit onto his boots.

“Leave him the fuck alone!” You kick yourself forward a bit using your boots. Agarwal’s hands grip the slat of the chair and pull you back towards the tray.

“No, no,” he nearly coos, yanking your head back by the thinner group of hairs on the nape of your neck. 

You clench your jaw and subside, lifting yourself up with your hips to help avoid the pain.

His eye’s strain, beads of sweat rolling down the end strands of his hair regardless of how cold it was inside of the formidable room.

“Get me my player,” the bearded man says as he trails his 12” redwood handle knife across Ghost’s jawline.

Agarwal’s hand releases your hair to your relief and he leaves the room. 

“Disgusting—“ the male snarls. “Making mess of my floor.”

Your eyes narrow as you watch a pool of blood start to form as he slashes Ghost’s cheek, a groan spilling from your lieutenant’s throat.

“Fuck you ‘n y’r floor,” Ghost coughs. 

He drops the wrench to the floor, then uses a rag that was hanging out of his pocket to swipe off the blood from the knife’s blade.

Two men walk in, one pushing in a record player and the other holding a tactical vest and a book.

Your vest and your book.

His name patch reads “Gamble”, the one who throws your vest and the book onto the floor. 

“Rolmuth, the woman—she has had access to our radio frequency and has been writing down our shipment codes and locations.” 

Ghost’s head raises, his pupils shrunken as he takes in the sight of the morse code book. 

The man holding the knife cracks his head in your direction before proceeding towards you.

“Thaye…” he susurrated.

You don’t flinch when his arms raise to swing the knife over towards your temple, a maniacal laugh escaping through the barriers of Rolmuth’s teeth. 

The knife lowers to release one of your hands, though before you can reach for anything, he slams your arm backward against the back leg of the chair, the feeling of your bones snapping beneath your skin causes you to let out a sharp, excruciating cry as your now-broken arm falls limp to your side.

“Thaye!” Ghost shouts. “Fuckin’ bastard…” 

“How?!” Rolmuth yelled through his teeth, lips drawn back in a snarl as he nearly foamed out of his mouth. 

His fist meets with your cheek and your eyes squeeze together in grimace to the pain as he punches you again. 

Ghost calls out your name and you can hear the metal of his chair scrape and grind against the ground. 

You feel your cheek begin to swell, the tender flesh on your face blooming into purple and blue bruises.

He walks to the record player and takes a record out of its sleeve that was resting on the shelf of the small table the player was brought in on. It has wheels on it—similar to the mayo tray.

Rolmuth blows on the record, though the sleeve looks too clean to hold any dust, then places the record on the platter. After pressing play, he drops the tone arm down.

The record scratching sends chills up and down your spine before the music almost beautifully fills the room.

Why does the sun go on shining?

You watch Rolmuth pick up a pair of pliers.

Why does the sea rush to shore?

You wonder if he’s going to try to rip out your teeth.

Don’t they know it’s the end of the world,

He clasps them around one of your fingers on your broken arm.

Fuck.

The cold metal around your finger makes you nearly want to cry.

‘Cause you don’t love me anymore?

He was going to rip off your finger.

“Who is your captain?” His hand squeezes the pliers, applying pressure to your singular finger. 

“Go…to hell—“ 

A scream rips itself from your throat as you feel your sinew and flesh tear, the pliers tearing your finger from off your bone.

“Tha’s enough!” Ghost jerks and flails in his seat, there’s a sip of panic in his voice. “Get th’fuck off of her!” 

Why do the birds go on singing? 

Rolmuth wriggled the rest of your finger off, your eyes daring to skim down to look at the bone sticking out from your knuckle. 

Blood spews out of the gore, coating your entire hand and dripping from the crevices of your skin into your lap, staining your cargos, turning their white color into several distinct shades of red.

Rolmuth sets the finger—your finger down lightly on the standing metal tray besides you. 

Why do the stars glow above?

A penetrating ringing fills your ears; one so loud it felt like it’d be the cause of your tears instead of the pain surging through the entire left side of your body.

Don’t they know it’s the end of the world?

You’re in shock, unable to speak. Your jaw is locked, your teeth are clenched so hard it feels as if you might shatter your teeth. 

It ended when I lost your love. 

Ghost’s voice echoes in the back of your mind, when he calls out your name, you’re pulled out of your trance. You jerk your slumping head up.

You want to call out his name, but it seems like your throat is swallowing every little word that is being screamed inside of your head. 

The room is spinning and you can’t feel your arm, you can’t feel the finger move that was just severed from your hand.

“Look at me, look at me, love…” your lieutenant simpers. 

Your eyes search the room until they land on Ghost’s, he sounds far away. You feel your eyes widen as cold metal wraps around another finger once again. 

Why does my heart go on beating?

Rolmuth’s lips close in near your ear as he tugs lightly at your middle finger. 

“You don’ want to lose this finger, do you?” You feel the man’s hot breath run up the side of your face and brush past your ear.

“Who…is…your...captain?” 

Why do these eyes of mine cry?

Every nerve in your body seized, your spine stiffening with every urge to kill the man standing beside you. 

Ghost coughs up blood; internal bleeding. 

“I’ll fu…cking…skin you…” you croak, your words finally becoming coherent.

He laughs. Rolmuth’s single arm raises in a humorous gesture of surrender. 

Don’t they know it’s the end of the world?

Your eyes squeeze shut, though shoot open at the rush of heat, the pliers applying clutched pressure to your finger before Rolmuth started ripping off the second finger, wiggling it until it broke off skin and sinew. 

It ended when you said “goodbye.” 

“Look at me, Thaye.” Ghost’s voice sounds desperate, so you offer him a short glance as your jaw slacks and your body retracts.

Your strained eyes snapping to the bearded man as he places down your middle finger on top of your pointer finger.

A gag surfaces in your throat and your body twitches as you watch your finger fall and roll almost as if it’s the most natural thing. 

Ghost yells your name again.

You finally focus on him, your eyes welling up, reddening and puffing against your will.

“Jus’ look at me, angel,” Ghost’s silked voice calms you, although in a manner you can’t hear him as well as you want to. 

Every muscle and ligament inside of you feels tense and stuck.

Why does my heart go on beating?

You had three fingers on your left hand—three fingers.

Thumb, pinkie, ring. Thumb, pinkie, ring. Thumb, pinkie, ring.

“Y’ll kill her, she’s losin’ too much blood—she’s goddamn delirious!”  

Gamble’s fist barrels into the side of Ghost’s head, you hear a feral groan leave his gullet.

At least I can still put a wedding ring on my left hand. You thought.

Those three fingers trembled and twitched, it was the only movement on the left side of your body besides for your left eye—is he going to take one of my eyes? Your head is swarming with thoughts.

“Ghost…” you slur, still locked onto the blonde’s eyes. 

“I know, love,” he says as gently as he physically can. “So proud of’y…” 

His speech comes out as a garble, but you’re still able to understand him. 

“‘M gon’ get us outta here…alive, a’right?” 

Your head slumps at the attempt of a nod. 

“Save y’r energy, lovie.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Agarwal grips Ghost’s earlobe, pulling him closer. You’re not able to cognize his words, but you’re aware of the vexation in his countenance. 

You flinch once Rolmuth drops the pliers on the metal tray. He removes his latex gloves that were blanketed in your gore and throws them onto your lap. 

“Clean them up—she still is of use to me.” His voice grows more distant as he leaves the room.

Gamble injects Ghost with a syringe that was hanging off of his waist, casting him with drowsiness, his eyes struggling to keep open before he’s blacked out.

“What did you do—…what did y’do to him?” Your eyebrows stitch together. “What did you do?!” 

They unstrap his arms from the chair, then his ankles.

“Answer me goddamnit...” You seethe, tears warping in your eyes.   

“Shut the bitch up,” Gamble nudges Agarwal in the shoulder before he pushes Ghost further out of his restraints, his body still and unconscious allowing the scarred man to bind his wrists with zip ties. 

Agarwal simply nods and paces toward you. The stock of his gun smashed into your jaw before you could react.

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

DAY TWO.

The woman in the doorway was bedraggled; tired eyes and shrunken tear-stained cheeks. 

There’s a light illuminating from the pulled-back curtains—a light so bright it could dry the shining tears that spill out scarlet fluid over the eyes of the miserable.

You feel only patient while waiting for the morning sun to rise over the horizon line of the ocean side.

It’s deteriorating yet caliginous frame of murky grey stone and vast sorrow of an arched entrance sat in disposition from harrowing memories filled with bloodshed, grief, and war.

Your face relaxes at the distinctly ravishing but delicate overcasted ray of light shot down from the amidst along the ruins, the melancholy ambiance nearly sent chills down your spine.

Heavenly cries of forgotten mothers begging for forgiveness of their past sins, children's playful and beatific screams, although it was nothing unknown to you.

Screams were usually followed by split rib cages and bullet wounds—tears, blood, those screams and sweat, you went through it all just for it to lie unheard and forgotten.

You searched the odd and seemingly afterlife-like realm with your eyes, you could only wonder where you were, and why you were there.

Why the flowy white dress draped over your body oscillated with the wind in a gorgeous motion.

You're lifting your head out of the water now. 

The taste of salt seems so thick, heavy. Like you could drown in it. Like you could get drunk off of it.

The waves crashing onto shore sound so loud atop the eerie silence, their white crests phasing through your body as if your presence was unknown to them.

You loved the ocean because as opposed to the ones who were supposed to; the ocean loved you and was never afraid to come too close, even at your worst.

As you move farther from shore, the water slowly travels up your body, submerging your frame. 

You close your eyes as your head is the last thing the water consumes. You feel the water bubbles tickle your skin and elevate themselves up to the surface. 

It doesn’t take long for that familiar burn inside your lungs and that familiar feeling of being gagged by the water to swarm your senses.

Your head jerks up and you let out a loud gasp as you fade into consciousness, slipping into colored imagery instead of just monochrome. 

Waking up felt like hell; your mouth was dry and most of your limbs felt unresponsive. 

Only when you see Ghost curled up on his side, laying on the floor in front of you, are you able to register where you are and what’s going on.

His knees bucked up into his abdomen  with his hands zip tied behind his back and his face battered and bruised. 

Specks of dried blood ran from his scalp down his face reaching his compression undershirt. 

He was asleep.

There was a gentle rise and fall with his chest—you could still hear his labored breaths from where you were. 

It felt colder. 

Your eyes wander down to your left hand that was wrapped in bandages that were stained red, your two fingers missing and replaced with nubs that were uneven from each other.

If your arm wasn’t broken, you could use it to break the leg of the chair and wield  it against the next person to walk through that large metal door that made you wonder if it was life or death upon you.

If your fingers weren’t missing, you could use them to untangle your restraints on your other hand.

You could barely move your wrist—the pain that swells your entire arm makes it nearly impossible.

Ghost stirs on the floor, his body curling into itself further before his legs straighten out. 

“Lieutenant,” you mumble. “What did they do to you…?” 

His eyes flicker to yours. 

“‘M alive, aren’t I?” Ghost says.

His voice is so hoarse and weak—he sounds dehydrated.

“You are.” 

Your eyes close a moment to allow yourself to breathe in the air around you.

The single door breaking up the dull room that held them hostage creaks open on rusted hinges allowing Rolmuth to enter.

Two different men from the day prior push in the same record player and the same rolling metal tray that was stained with your blood. 

“Rise and shine,” one says, his boot meeting harshly with the lower section of Ghost’s back.

 The blonde’s eyes stay intent on the movements of Rolmuth as he lifts up different record sleeves to read their names. He slides one out and places it on the platter.

That familiar sizzle fills the room before the gentle hum of the music begins.

A short gasp leaves your mouth as Rolmuth kicks down your chair by the back stile, your head immediately jerking forward before it slams down onto the cement floor.

He dismisses the two of his men.

Rolmuth’s hand levitates over the tray and he grasps an old tan hand towel, draping it over your face.

You can hear the buckle of Ghost’s pants tink lightly on the floor as he jerks himself. “Fuckin’ bastard!” He yells.

I don’t want to set the world on fire. 

It was going to be okay, you told yourself. You trained for this. Truthfully, you were one of the best swimmers on the task force. You can hold your breath—but if that rag manages to cave in, you’ll most likely panic and lose focus.

I…just want to start a flame in your heart.

“Are you ready for talk, now?” Rolmuth arches over you. 

In my heart, I have but one desire…

Your voice muffled, you call him something along the lines of an asshole and a prick, which is quickly silenced by the pressure of water that smacks you in the face.

And that one is you, no other will do…

Ghost watches the man pour a jerry can of water over your face. His breath hitching in his throat watching your body twist and turn trying to evade from the water. 

I’ve lost all ambition for worldly acclaim

Your body arches up in protest, head jerking side to side as if it would make it any more easier on you.

I just want to be the one you love…

Focus on the music, you tell yourself. You can barely hear your own voice. 

And with your admission…that you feel the same,

Rolmuth’s smile is ear to ear as he continues tipping the canister over your cloth-covered face.

I’ll have reached the goal I’m dreaming of, believe me…

You violently thrust your body, panic surging  through you as you feel water invade and swallow your lungs. 

I don’t want to set the world on fire…

Involuntarily you gasp and choke in more water, you feel your eyes roll to the back of your head.  

I…just want to start…a flame in your heart.

Your throat was burning like scolding lava, your heart throbbing inside your chest threatening to rupture. You don’t dare to make noise. 

You’re gagging, gasping, sputtering. That you can’t handle. But you don’t let yourself cry. Not like this.

I don’t want to set the world on fire, honey,

The music is starting to garble. 

Why is it starting to sound so distorted? You ask yourself. 

I…—you too—uch.  

“Stop, y’ll fuckin’ kill her! Bloody tosser!” Ghost grits his teeth before spitting out words.

Now that you have the chance to think about it, that song reminds you of someone.

I just want to start…

Your grandfather—you’d sit on that circular crocheted rug and listen to that song as him and your grandmother baked apple fritter.

A great big flame…

He loved that woman more than life itself; when she’d started to get sick with bone cancer, he helped her bathe, he helped her eat, get dressed. 

Down in your heart.

Your mother told you about how he had asked her doctor to keep the fact that she only had three weeks left to live just between them. 

You see, way down inside me,

She was still happy. So happy. He wanted to spend those last three weeks with her. He retired from his job and took her to all the places she’d talked about visiting. 

Darling, I have only one desire. 

She passed away, and he spent every day doing all her favorite things. He watered her plants, he baked. He listened to her favorite songs. 

And that one desire is you, 

He adopted a puppy—a beautiful Australian Shepherd which he named after her. Your mom would say that your grandma’s being was reincarnated into that dog. 

And I know nobody else ain’t going to do. 

Would that happen to you too? Who would you want to belong to? What kind of dog would you be? 

A deafening ringing fills your ears, you finally stop fighting. Breathing.

“She’s not movin—“ Ghost wheezes. “She’s not fuckin’ movin’!” 

He was trained for this. He couldn’t break. He couldn’t.

“Enough!” The blonde yells again.

They could crack him, but they can’t break him. They wouldn’t kill her. 

Rolmuth finally puts down the canister and removes the rag from off your face, his body bends over to lift your chair back up. 

Your body twitching, struggling to release the water clogged in your gullet

“Wake up, bitch,” he snaps and his open palm cracks against your cheek. Your eyes shoot open.

Your mouth opens, your strained and bloodshot eyes widen with horror as you vomit out water, sputtering between your lips as you hack and gag. 

The taste of bile is sickening to your empty stomach. 

Ghost calls out your name, catching your attention as you stabilize from your state of stupor. 

“So proud of’ya, Thaye,” he groans. “Y’r strong, ‘lright? We’ll kill these bastards, all of’em.” 

You can hardly spare the man a small nod before your chin is grabbed by Rolmuth’s uncut nails—blood and dirt caked underneath them.

“You tell who you are work for, I consider sparing life.”  Rolmuth runs a blade across your cheek, increasing the pressure slightly to slit your skin—a feeling similar to a paper cut. You moan in pain. “Your friend I can not speak for.”

Blood trickles down from the incise, slowly flaring through your cut and pushing from the barriers beneath your top layer of skin. 

“F…uck…—“ your silenced by sudden metal on your tongue, scraping gently like a threat. 

“I will carve out ur pretty little tongue, cut it in bits, and feed it to you.” Rolmuth coos. “Would you that, yes?” 

“Y’sick fuck, get th’fuck away from ‘er!” Ghost attempts to jerk himself up, the bonding on his ankles not allowing him to, his bruised ribs protesting in pain as he lets out a sharp breath.

Your eyes burn into his, your neck flinching as he slowly pushes the blade farther down your throat, his hand prying your mouth open. 

He chuckles lowly, small “ah’s” leaving him as he slowly opens your mouth farther to allow the tip of the knife farther down. You salivate, drool racing down your chin and over the creep’s knuckles. 

Ghost’s eyes divert from your face to the man’s hands. Disgust laced in his features. 

He swallowed thickly, he could feel his skin boiling. He wasn’t angry. 

Pissed.

He was incensed. 

More than that. 

“G..host…” your slightly muffled voice trembles.

His gaze fixes back on yours, watching as your left eye twitches at each of Rolmuth’s motions. 

“I know, love…J’s look at me, ‘lright? J’s look at me.” 

It presses onto the skin of your tongue, it’s curved edge digging into the fragile skin and tissue causing the metallic taste of iron to taint your sense of taste.

You still bore into your lieutenant’s gaze.

Saliva and blood dribbles down your neck, the sight no doubtedly arousing the male in front of you—his tongue leapt out to slowly trace along his bottom lip.

You might drown in your own saliva at this rate.

Your lieutenant purses his dry and cracked lips, but he doesn’t look away. 

He takes the blade out of your mouth, rubbing it against the cloth of his pants to clean it. 

Rolmuth raises the knife and pierces your thigh, the feeling of cold metal hitting you first along with the shock, the sound of cloth tearing.

“I want names!” The man hollered, spit landing on your face just below your eyes.

Ghost watches your pupils shrink, his own eyes widening and slowly shifting to your thigh. 

An intense tingling sensation swarms your entire leg, then a heat. A heat that felt unbearable. 

Ghost searches for your eyes again, his mouth moving, though you can’t hear anything he says.

He broke through skin and sinew, twisting the knife inside of the laceration.

“Talk, bitch!” Rolmuth’s eyes darken. 

It takes a few moments for the pain to surface, and when it does, it’s scorching. Your jaw slacks open as your eyebrows pinch together, a shrill whimper escaping you. 

“Don’ look, don’t.” Ghost pleads with you. Even he was struggling not to look at your thigh.

It didn’t take eyes to tell there was blood bubbling from the wound and dripping down your pants and trembling leg. 

A narrow vertical split across the midsection of the flesh of your thigh. Your eyes didn’t leave Ghost’s.

Was his hair bleached? It seemed like such an unnatural shade of blonde. Brunette underneath. He must bleach it himself.

Rolmuth gave it one more twist, releasing a thin, raw, scream from your throat. 

Tears stung the corners of your eyes, but you wouldn’t let them get the satisfaction of that from you. Especially not you. 

“They’ll b’ere soon, Thaye.” Your lieutenant says.

“You are weak,” Rolmuth spits. “You will break.” 

He rolls his shoulders before gripping your pointer finger and holding a jab saw above it.

Your eyes flicker to Rolmuth’s and Ghost calls your name. 

“I want a name!” Rolmuth’s scream makes your head spin. 

“Fuck y—“ your voice is replaced with a high pitched cry followed by gasps and whimpers as Rolmuth’s new blade carved through sinew and bone. He lifts up your finger against the blade and with one swift movement, your finger falls onto the floor. 

“I’ll fuckin’ kill you, y’bastard!” Ghost’s lips twitching in pain mixed in with a whole lot of anger. 

Your body jumps up, an animalistic noise escaping your throat as you swing your head back and wince loudly, the pain in your thigh 

“Name! Or I take another!” Rolmuth yells just inches from your face. 

You couldn’t handle it—your vision is swarmed by black spots and your head is killing you. Your body is in so much pain you feel so much, but so little all at the same time. 

When your eyes roll to the back of your head and lolls, you can faintly hear the man yell ‘shit’ before you’re unable to comprehend what is happening.

Everything fades into a subtle blackness, and the last thing you hear is Ghost yelling your name. Screaming your name. 

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

DAY 4

You wake up to the sound of loud groaning and thumping. 

It takes you a few moments to register that you’re awake and you can actually move. 

So you do—you upheave your head and take in the light spilling in the room from between the iron barred vent. 

It stings your eyes, blotchiness surrounding your peripheral before you’re able to adjust to the light. 

Ghost is on the floor taking blunt forces into his lower abdomen—the blonde sputters out a cough as his entire body jerks at the contact. 

The man grips the neckline of Ghost’s shirt, lifting his head from off the ground as thick red paste runs down his split and swollen lips.

His legs lift themselves up in an attempt to propel his body up and out of the man’s grasp, but he falls flat as his neck is slammed back onto the cement. 

Before Ghost can gasp for air the moment his neck is released, a closed fist slams into his cheekbone, knocking the wind out of him. 

“Stop,” you rasp. “Let’im go…”

Ghost is twitching on the floor, blood spilling from his mouth. His entire face is caked in red flakes and black and blue blemishes—the entire left side of his face is fattened with knots.

“No…” you snarl.

The man whirls his head and glares at you, an amused expression of disbelief stamped onto his face.

“No?” He says cockily.

The man paces towards you and cuts off your bindings, bundles your hair in his fist and drags you over towards Ghost, you whine and raise your unbroken arm to try and pry his hands off, but he only tugs harder. 

He pulls your hair up until you're positioned on your knees, chin raised up and neck tilted.

You hear a click, it wasn’t a gun. 

He unsheathed a pocket knife. It was a fairly decent size. You were tired of seeing knives.

Ghost watches the man’s hand lower to your abdomen, fingers pirouetting across your delicate skin, it sends a shivering fear throughout your entire body like electricity. 

“Please…” you meekly whisper, attempting to pull yourself away, your body is so weak from lack of use. Your voice came out as a croak. 

His other hand holds a knife that teases the neckline of your shirt. 

Ghost thrashes against the floor attempting to wrestle out of his bindings. “I’ll skin you,” Ghost’s voice is hoarse.

“How would you feel If I just…” His fingers trace along the scars on your stomach. “Touch her, ever so lightly…Right in front of you?” The man snickers.

You yelp as his knife cuts a thin line down your blood-stained neckline until your cleavage is exposed. 

Tears surface the corners of your eyes. 

No, no, no, no…

“Keep y’r eyes on me,” Ghost whispers weakly. “That’s it, love.”

You feel your shirt tear entirely down the middle and fall down your arms, pooling around your wrists. 

Your vision blurs and your mouth starts to feel dry, teeth chattering in unison with your trembling lips. 

When the knife rests over the center gore of your bra, your breath hitches in your throat and tears bead down your cheeks. 

The blade slices through the cloth and immediately your hand rises to cover your nude chest.

Ghost’s eyes stay locked with yours, one half-closed from being beaten beyond his control.

You feel his facial hair scrub raw against your skin, sipping in your fear and vulnerability.

“Team Delta en route for seaside, Corbin, what’s your report?” 

His radio.

The man pauses and takes his hand off the midline of your ribcage to grab his radio.

“Delta, this is Pooch on standby—hostages are stable, the woman is awake.” 

You release a choked sob, causing the man to release the talk button and bash it against the side of your face, sending you straight onto the floor. 

“Thaye…” Ghost croons.

You clutch your chest with your one hand as you feel the right side of your face swell. 

“It’ll ‘b over soon,” you tremble, releasing a shaken breath. “They’ll find..us…”

“Shut the fuck up,” his voice is slicked with spite. “Both of you.” 

“Pooch, this is Delta, rog that. Don’t kill our intel—0-7, signing off.” It crackles.

You lift your head and turn it slightly, blinking causes the pain on your cheekbone to burn like acid. 

“Go to h—“ the radio is bashed into your face again causing your vision to swim and make your head stumble. 

The sound of blood trickling and hitting the floor fills your ears, your left palm flattens against the cold floor. Missing fingers wrapped to keep you alive, not because they care.

He punches the radio into your right eye. You keep your head down in submission.

“You wanna act tough? Get treated like you're tough!” He yells.

His hand tugs your head back—you can see your own blood splattered against the communicator before you’re met with the same fate.

Ghost watches as the man beats the right side of your face in with the butt of the radio until it’s practically unrecognizable—caked and blistered. Bruising and swelling so tender on your skin. 

He can’t do anything.

He can only watch. 

You whimper and cry, hissing through your tears while your jaw clenched, the radio mercilessly landing on the same spot allowing more blood to cascade from the wound. 

The last hit is the hardest, sending your numbing cheek staggering back down onto the ground, you wheeze. 

If Ghost’s hands weren’t tied behind his back, the man standing above the two of you would be a mangled corpse. He knew that. 

Your breaths are shallow and rasped. It feels like hell to breathe—to move your face. Crimson just pools beneath you as Pooch flicks off your gore from his communicator.

He grunts in disgust as specks splatter onto the ‘cleaner’ side of your face. Like water spots on a windowpane or glass shower door. 

When you hear the door slam behind you, it makes you flinch. 

Your body has broken into tremors now, maybe it’s not tremors—but your spasming. 

And your hand is still covering your scar-ridden chest, but you feel like you might pass out again. 

Ghost’s own breaths are ragged—you wonder if lunderneath all the blood on your face if you’d look just like him. 

“Sleep,” he rasps. “I’ll watch ya.” 

You relax as much as you possibly can, your single eye twitching shut in favor of your other one. 

All you’ve had these past four days was sleep, yet it didn’t replenish. It didn’t make you feel any less tired or exhausted. 

With your bones feeling brittle and sore, it was hard to shift yourself into the mindset of falling asleep, but you tried. 

You felt Ghost scoot himself towards you, possibly just to shield your unclad chest and give you a taste of comfort. 

Your eyelids feel heavy with pain and fatigue, your body stilling as you allow yourself to sleep.

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

DAY 5

Your hands are tied above your head, a gag set between your teeth which you gnaw at in an attempt to drag it down to hang around your neck.

Ghost is a few feet away from you—both of you hanging on metal piping with rope around your wrists. 

Ghost’s boots were on the floor, he was too tall to hang like you, where you could swing your feet. Did they take your shoes? 

You watch the steel poker ignite in the industrial furnace; the end of it glowing all shades of red, yellow, and orange. 

It was two different tools Rolmuth was holding, now. They had two different symbols on each one that you were unfamiliar with. He was choosing.

Rolmuth spun the branding irons with his thumbs and pointers, chuckling dryly to himself as he approached Ghost, setting one of them back inside the boiler.

His boots were so loud, they echoed off the walls of the room they were in—It looked like some sort of boiler room, but you weren’t too sure. 

You two must’ve been in a warehouse of some sort. 

Rolmuth has to look up to look your lieutenant in the eyes. 

When they’d woken you up, they threw you a gray tank top, so you weren’t as exposed as you were before. 

The Hindi man pulls down Ghost’s gag. 

“460 degrees of heat on metal…” he says as he lifts the hem of Ghost’s shirt. “You talk, I spare you more scar.” 

“Go fuck y’self, y’manky twat…”  the blonde snapped.

An open mouthed yell left Ghost’s throat as the metal is lanced firmly over the middle of his stomach, tugging at his flesh and skin.

Ghost’s eyes squeeze shut as loud whimpers escape from him, ragged winces. 

“Stop!” you cry.

God, you’d never heard him in so much pain. You never thought you’d ever hear him scream in agony, in physical pain. 

You're forced to watch the smoke trailing up the rod, Ghost’s back arching in tormentation. 

“You piece of shit!” You twist and turn your body causing the rope to shred through layers of your skin. 

His muscles tense and his knuckles go white from how hard he’s gripping the pipelines holding him up. 

Rolmuth removes the metal from Ghost’s skin—it could be described as a flesh eating parasite; the way that his skin sticks to the rod as if it’s desperate for that contact.

A hitched gasp manages to make its way past his lips as he feels a tinge of relief, his body twitching and pained moans and hisses filling your ears.  

You jerk your body weight down, kicking your bare feet until you feel the metal start to dent. 

Rolmuth sets the iron back onto the furnace over a rack, he’s bending over to adjust the heat, the fire is roaring.

You tug your arms down and you let out a strained whine at the feeling of your wrists starting to bleed.

When the metal gives in above you, it creaks and drops you down.

You slide down the metal and Rolmuth’s body swings up from fidgeting with furnace levers and knobs. 

His arms are immediately reaching for his gun while you lift your legs up and kick the heels of your feet into his shoulder blades, hard. 

Rolmuth’s head slams back into the brick base of the furnace, he lets out a groan, his form dragging down and slumping against the floor.

Your body lands harshly on the ground, an excruciating response coming from the back of your head.

Black spots cloud your vision as you slowly try to regain your composure. Your vision is blurring, everything sounds far away and echoed. 

The gun slides across the floor.

Your jaw clenches as you pick up your heavy head, your eye searching for the gun regardless of the pounding that distracted you.

When you spot the muzzle, you lurch yourself forward and reach, finger grazing the trigger guard before your pulled back by your hair, earning a yelp to leave you.

Your lungs refuse to cooperate in your chest as your scalp is nearly torn from your head. 

Rolmuth growls with clenched teeth, pulling you away from the gun and towards him as he kneels himself over you.

This was the first time you were able to get a decent look at his face—if it weren’t for your messed up eye—but you only can see the rage dispersed over his face as his hands gather around your throat.

He slams your neck down, adding onto the pain thrusting through the back of your head.

“Bitch!” Rolmuth snarls.

You suck in your gag, causing panic and adrenaline to rush through your entire body as your binded hands thrash and attempt to push him off of you. 

You duck yourself, bend your leg and kick it against his ankle to heave yourself up with all your weight upwards. 

He exclaims in his native tongue, some of which you can only recognize as insults and swears.

Ghost calls your name weakly.

Rolmuth’s hands slip from your throat allowing you to breathe and sit yourself on top of him, you tug your body and maneuver yourself until you're behind the man, pulling the knot of your bindings against his throat and crossing them over. 

His neck lifts to try and give himself access to air, though you tug and hold his waist steady between your knees. 

You yell with your clenched teeth, the fabric between your lips making the muscles in your jaw ache. 

Him wheezing beneath you, fingernails clawing at your split and abused hands before he shifts.

“Thaye!” Your lieutenant hollers.

Rolmuth’s hands reach down to his vest to pull another gun, aiming it at your foot and pulling the trigger causing you to let out an agonizing scream, pain racking your entire body. 

The bullet shoots clean through, you knew that for sure. It was too close. 

Your grip on his neck loosens so you can slap the gun out of his grip.

In three quick motions, Rolmuth’s back atop you with his hands grasping your hair again, dragging you towards the furnace until your face is close enough to feel the heat radiate onto your face.

You feel the thickness of gore engulf your foot and drip down your toes onto the floor. 

Your grunting, muffled, and loud breaths make your head pound as the man squeezes your jaw and forces your neck towards the mouth of the forge. 

“No…” you snarl with bared lips, kicking your legs regardless of the pain, throwing yourself towards him to keep yourself as far from the flames as you could.

Rolmuth laughs dryly accompanying his guttural breaths, his body stretching yet keeping a firm hold on your mandible as he takes hold of one of the branding rods. 

“No!” Your eye widens and your hands reach up to push his face away from you.

“Fuck!” He growls, shaking his face to keep your hands off as he pulls the iron out of the furnace.

He wastes no time pressing it into your side regardless of the thin tank covering your skin, and the cloth does absolutely nothing in regards to the sudden gut wrenching sensation that makes it feel like your entire body was drenched in gasoline and set on fire with a blowtorch. 

Your cry is deafening to the ears and the smell of burning charred flesh is quick to fill your nostrils. You feel and you hear your skin bubble up, sizzle, then pop, then stick to the metal and entangle itself around the start of the handle taking the appearance of something similar to chewed bubblegum. 

Even trembling and shaking, you manage to find a way to position your hands so you can plant your thumbs into his eyes and use some of the only fingers you have left to press them into his eyes, causing the man to yell. 

Still, your screams aren’t matchable as your fingernails gouge into his sockets and claw at his eyelids, shredding through flesh easily as blood began to dribble down his face and over his lips like tears. You still manage to scream louder in anger than the man can in pain. 

Your fingers shove deeper into the grooves of his eye sockets, the organs are pushed so far back that blood sprays across your face and he finally releases the rod.

It clangs to the floor, and he starts sobbing in his native tongue, convulsing hands reaching up towards his red-painted face as you pull your gag out.

“Go to hell,” You seethe wobbly as you lift yourself and steer yourself behind him, taking Rolmuth by the nape of his neck and forcing himself inside the mouth, against the grills inside the furnace. 

He shrieks and cries, moving erratically as his face is engulfed by the fire. Slowly, yet quickly, his skin is shredded by the blazes and the bottom rows of his teeth are exposed. 

It takes him a while to stop making noise before you pull his head out and throw his twitching body onto the ground, then you finally allow yourself to lean against a boiler tank and take pressure off your injured foot.

You propel yourself off the tank by your palms and drag yourself regardless of your ankle to the edge of the furnace, turning yourself around to scrape the rope against the brick.

A gasp releases from your throat at the sudden relief around your wrists, the rope falling to the ground. 

“Ghost?” You lift your head. 

“‘M here.” He replies. 

“I don’t know if I can get up.”

“I know you can,” Ghost urges. “Find…” he sputters up blistering coughs. 

“…Fin’a knife, ‘n get me outta these binds, yea?” He huffs. “‘N I’ll do the rest.”

Your eye blinks as you grip the ankle of Rolmuth’s corpse, pulling him toward you to start flipping up his vest and pant pockets.

He didn’t have a knife on him. 

Got to be fucking kidding me.

A door is swung open, a singular set of footsteps stepping into the room.

Your eye searches for a weapon—anything that can deal enough damage.

A metal fire poker is hanging off the wall to your right, so you swing your elbows back and lift yourself up by the palms of your hands.

As quick as you can, you hoist yourself up by using the support of a metal deaerator, your arm sliding against it as you limp and throw yourself towards the wall creating a subtle thud. 

“What the fuck…?” A man’s voice murmurs.

You silently curse to yourself under your breath as you grab the fire poker off the nails that were being used to hold it up.

Using the heel of your injured foot, you shuffle against some shelving, looking between the gaps for the man inside the room. 

He’s holding a Fennec, nothing you haven't dealt with before. 

He’s twenty seconds to your left, carefully skimming along the floor with his eyes down the sights of his gun.

You pinch a metal screw off of one of the shelves and toss it into the corner closest to you to lead him your way. 

“Fuck,” the younger male jumps slightly. He looked young and lanky, at least from his physique.

When you hear his boots start to rub against the floor, you lift your head slightly to watch him turn towards your direction. 

Your fingers and nubs flex on the thin metal, it’s hard to gain a clear grip.

The man comes around the corner of the shelves, the sounds of his tactical gear shuffling alerting you when he gets closer until his helmet is in sight.

You immediately thrust the fire poker into the gap below his collarbone and into his scapula, dampening the fabric of his undershirt in that area as it rips. 

Out of panic and shock, his finger grips the trigger and you have to jerk him away before any of his bullets are able to hit you.

“Please!” The boy pleads, gun dropping to hang around his neck as he grips the caps of your shoulders. You only glare at him before plunging the fire poker further into that same spot until it tears and mauls through his back, sticking out on the other end.

He’s gasping out, but it’s almost like no air is exhaling, mouth held agape as his grip on your shoulders releases. 

You shout and cry out at every thrust until the hole carved into his skin is able to suck in the hooked tip. 

The male’s head falls and you allow his body to slump down and forward, the metal rod holding his stilled body up. 

You heave dryly and press a palm on the wall to support yourself, your foot is killing you—literally.

The blown out flesh and puckered skin walls made you want to barf. You could stick a finger through your foot and feel your pulsating muscles just hug around your finger. 

You lean down and unclip the knife holster from the gun belt, unsheathing it then hobbling around the shelving towards Ghost who was still hanging from the pipes. 

“Okay, okay…” you breathe sharply, struggling to lift yourself up onto the brick platform of the furnace, nearly stumbling off before you catch your footing. 

“Keep still,” you say, arching your hand to start cutting at his bondings until he’s dropped onto the floor.

Ghost lets out a loud groan, his arms clutching his ribs. They’d broken one of his ribs, maybe multiple. You both were in bad shape.

It takes him a moment to get himself off the floor as you seat yourself and scoot off of the hearth. 

He grabs both of the hand guns that had been dropped onto the floor, holding one out to you.

You unclip the magazine, then snap it back into the chamber at the sight of one missing bullet. 

It was the same one that Rolmuth used to shoot your foot. 

Ghost’s hand rests on your cheek, gently. “Y’did good, ‘lright?” He spoke with a lilt. 

“Can y’walk?” 

“A little.” You nod. “Fuckers took my shoes…” 

He lets his hand fall to check his magazine, then he nods. “‘Don’t know if I can carry ya with m’ribs.” 

“It’s okay, just don’t wait for me.” You reply.

His eyebrows furrow. “Bloody hell, Thaye, I ain’t leavin ya.” 

“I know but—“ 

“No.” 

Ghost’s half-lidded eyes glare at you, giving you all the warning to stop.

“Stay behind me.” 

He starts walking towards the door, slowly peeking it before leaving with you behind him.

Walking hurt—even while you only applied pressure to the heel on your injured foot, the muscles contracted and the pain was torturous. 

One man entered the hallway holding a box from another room, which Ghost took care of by shooting a single bullet between his eyes.

The box had opened and dropped glass equipment, alerting four others who had been lingering in the room he came from.

They yell and communicate in their native tongue, one sticking his head out of the door threshold to aim his rifle.

Ghost fires his pistol and the man swings his head back into the room, still opening fire into the hallway.

“Fuck!” You hiss, dodging the bullets and moving quickly behind a filing cabinet, lowering yourself down. 

Ghost’s back presses against a door to your right, pulling himself out of cover to fire at the man.

Two bullets miss and the third causes his head to fling back and smear blood as his body arches and falls down to the floor.

You lift your head and aim your pistol, gasping when your throat is suddenly hooked back from behind you. 

When the combatant turns you around and attempts to make a slash at your throat, you manage to extract yourself by gripping his wrist and snapping his elbow out of place, the sounds of bones snapping as he yells.

His knife drops from his hand and you scramble to pick it up from the floor.

You groan as his boot digs into your bandaged hand before you're able to pick it up, then his hand grips your neck to lift you up.

He wraps his arms around you and squeezes you, locking his wrists over each other at your back. You clench your teeth and jerk violently in his grasp.

Ghost is fighting four other men, locking them in the crook of his elbow and smashing their skulls between the doors.

The man holding you in position crushes you in his grasp even with his broken arm. He tries dragging you into another room.

“Let me the fuck go,” you gasp, causing the man to laugh. 

“You will regret ever trying to leave your room,” he utters. 

You breathe a moment, heart pounding through your chest as you swing your head into the side of his neck and sink your teeth into his skin with all the strength in your jaw. 

Crimson liquid seeps into your mouth and down the front of your neck as you yank out the flesh of his throat. You spit out the skin and blood, wiping your mouth and tongue against the skin of your arm as the man’s grasp loosens

His shoulder blades and chest are glistening in red, gore spurting out of the torn spot in his throat as his body stumbles and he’s gargling on his own blood trying to speak.

“Fuck you…” You shutter weakly, eyes slowly skimming down to the knife lodged inside your waist. 

Shit.

He must’ve stabbed you before lifting you up, your adrenaline pumping so fiercely you couldn’t feel it until now.

You stumble on your feet slightly, shaking hands lowering to wrap around the handle and pull it out of the slit.

The runnel of red paste turns into a thick stream down as it drenches your tank top. 

You lift your head slowly and throw the knife overhead across the hallway, hitting a man who’s pointing a handgun at the back of Ghost’s head. 

It’s blade spades into the back of his skull and makes his body wriggle down onto the floor.

“Ghost…!” You gasp and press your open palm over your soaking top and open laceration. 

Ghost steps over both legs of a bloodied man before shooting him dead and advancing towards you.

“Shite…” He huffs, gently removing your hand and placing it back after gaining a clear inspection.

His hands grip the hem of his shirt and roughly tear at the fabric creating a long strip, then he moves your hand aside again to tightly secure it around your wound. 

You hiss and groan, hand gripping his shoulder as he tugs and pulls at your body while tying the knot of the fabric. 

“I’s ‘lright.” Ghost mollifies as he scoops his arm underneath your armpit.

It offers you some support as he guides you both out towards a staircase.

It wasn’t a warehouse—you and Ghost were just in a basement that was turned into a meth lab. 

Boxes and boxes full of lab equipment scattered along the floors. 

You’d never seen such a big basement, one with torture chambers and stonework rooms. 

Hell, in the corner of the room with all the steel liquid tanks and chemical barrels. 

A woman is in bright blue hazmat coveralls and a chemical mask standing on top of a metal stool. 

Ghost raises his pistol and you lower it slightly with your palm, his eyes glaring at you with his head kept facing forward. 

“You can’t miss, we don’t know what corrosives are in these tanks. Is it worth it?” You keep your voice low, personal between the two of you.

He doesn’t reply, instead he looks forward, then squeezes the trigger and picks the woman off by shooting her in the side of her neck.

You swallow thickly as her body spasms on the ground, the stool getting caught in her ankle as crimson fluid rises and bubbles inside of her mouth. 

Ghost guides the two of you up the cobble stairs, one hand dragging up the wall and the other across your lieutenant’s wingspan.

Your eyes flash at the sudden two objects being thrown down the stairs, the sudden silence as they roll down step…after step…after step before Ghost is swinging you up into arms and yelling.

He’s breaching himself through the door, into open fire before the staircase you had come up from explodes into the emitting heat compressed air and blasts behind the two of you sending you both flying forward. 

Smoke engulfs the room, giving both you and Ghost coverage to get behind cover.

You're pulled by the back of your shirt behind a deep freezer, bullets flying and hitting the metal.

“Fuckin’ pricks got us pinned!” His head lifts over to fire at three of the men who have ballistic shields covering those firing LMGs behind. “‘N I’ve got four left.”

You can’t see through the thick smoke—you can’t breathe while wheezing into the crook of your elbow. “Seven,” you inform him. 

“Cover me,” Ghost grabs your arm for a moment, letting go and serving around the freezer. 

You follow behind him with a raised pistol, shooting off at any glares you're able to see through the fumes.

Six…Five…

A man steps out from cover behind a wine cabinet, but before he can fire his rifle, you pop him in the eye.

Four…

Ghost quickly crouches down and shimmies the rifle out of the corpse’s grip, grabbing at a magazine and stuffing it into his vest he’d managed to keep.

You groan and push over a bookshelf behind Ghost once you’re both out of the smoke. He takes aim and opens fire at three men, blowing holes in their chests before he rams into the fourth with a loud yell and slams down the stock of his assault rifle into his face until his teeth and nose are finely pressed into the persian rug.

You finish off two more who try to walk through the threshold of the room, turning your head over your shoulder at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Two…

You jerk yourself away before you get slugged by a riot shield, ascending yourself and shoving your firearm past the barriers of his lips from behind. You pull the trigger and his head flings as the bullet rings out and creates a sizable hole in the back of his head.

One…

Before his body hits the tile, you take hold of his riot shield and deflect the hail of gunfire from the individual who came emerging from the threshold corner.

You walk forward until his clip is empty to drive the shield into his vest-covered chest, stunning him so you can push it aside and fire your last shot into the underside of his jaw. 

Zero.

Bullets continue spraying throughout the entirety of the house while you make sure you don’t pass out from the amount of blood you’ve lost.

You grab the TAQ-V from off the floor and click a new magazine into it, shoving a spare into your back pocket before pushing into the same room as Ghost.

He’s piling bodies on the floor, wrestling for dominance over a knife. 

You fastdraw another handgun you’d grabbed off of one of the bodies and shoot the man in his knee cap to allow Ghost to gain the upper hand and pierce the man’s temple with the weapon. 

“Thanks,” he says gruffly. 

You nod softly, inhaling sharply as you feel wet blood pool around your uninjured foot. 

They took your shoes for no reason, like they had a use for them.

Maybe it allows you to move around more quietly, but it still disturbed you that they took the time to even peel off your socks. 

“What intel did y’know that we didn’t?” His chest is against yours, head craning down to keep the conversation between the two of you.

“Lieutenant, we don’t…” You pause a moment, your head spinning. 

Hunger, thirst, the cold, the blood loss. There was so much holding you hostage and you weren’t even able to comprehend how you were still standing—limping.

“Well, Seargant?” His voice is low, still holding the same husky British drawl.

“We don’t have the time for this, for now—“ Ghost shoves you aside before you can finish, raising the muzzle of his rifle to open fire on the men entering the room.

“Fuckin’ riot shields!” He pulls you behind a flipped over tattered blue couch that had already gone through its fair share of bullets.

A bullet flies and hits the side of the couch a hair’s breadth from your face. 

“Goddammit,” he curses while replacing the magazine in his gun.

The men brandishing shields push further.

When one reaches close enough, you run in front of the shield and grab the sides before he crashes into you. 

You turn him until his body is vulnerable to Ghost, your teeth ground into each other.

“Ghost!” You yell to catch his attention, head snapping in your direction to fire a single round into the back of his head.

You throw the body off of yourself and yank the riot shield to cover yourself, ducking your head as you recoil your fist and punch one of the men baring LMGs hard twice in the jaw.

You thrust the shield into the next, throwing it into his abdomen as he topples, finishing him off by shooting him down in the chest.

One turns with his M4 raised, but you turn your gun around and bash the stock into the base of his chest, then again into his cheek, swiping your leg across the floor and knocking him down then picking his head up and slamming it down on a thick shard of glass sticking upwards to finish him off. 

Ghost drops the last body, finishing off a magazine into his vest and throwing the weapon aside. You toss him another one, which he catches with ease.

“We’ll force upstairs, look f’r our shit, ‘n leave.” He says as he picks up a frag grenade from off a vest.

“There should be Skimobiles somewhere around here, the ones they were using in the FFO,” you nod.

“A’right,” he groans while rolling his shoulders. “On my mark.” 

He trudges past bodies until he’s at the threshold of the staircase, stepping up slowly with the grenade in one hand and his gun in his other.

You follow behind leisurely, eye down the scope of your rifle. 

He pulls the clip and tosses it up, arm stretching behind to press his hand against your shoulder blade. 

“Oh shit—grenade!” A man yells from upstairs before detonation. 

“Go!” Ghost immediately backs up off the wall and skips over two steps into the corridor, prefiring as he loops around a wall.

There’s already bodies and limbs splayed across the room from the combatants who were hit by the frag.

Your back rubs against the wall as you lean to shoot down the hallway, whirring bullets firing past you.

After a few back and forths between staying flat against the wall and leaning to fire off your gun, bodies drop and you’re able to progress down the hall. 

Ghost is somewhere on the opposite side of the house, you still hear heavy gunfire.

You pause at the sight of another man at the end of the hallway and you recognize him immediately.

The look in his eyes and the scruffiness of his face made your lips stretch in almost the most feral look.

Corbin, that was his name. Callsign ‘Pooch’.

Anger burns in the depths of your lungs and stomach as you grip the wall for support, lunging yourself forward to lift your feet over each body that was littered across the hallway floors.

Sweat ran down the sides of your face and splotched down around the neck of your shirt with the blood.

You watch his face twist into a wolfish grin as he slings his gun over his shoulder and walks towards you. 

“Alright, sweetheart.” He purrs. 

White noise fills your ears.

All you can see through the glossy shine of your eyes is the man who humiliated you in front of your superior. 

All you can see through the blinding red rage is the man who beat Ghost and cracked his ribs, forcing you to watch him retract and twitch at every fleeting fist. 

Even the hail of gunfire is silent in your ears as you drag your injured foot. Everything sounds underwater, everything feels dull.

His fist intersects and meets with your cheekbone causing your head to shift to the left and your body to stumble where you stand. 

You grip his wrist and divert his second punch by lifting your arm and thrusting your knee roughly into his thigh to tamper his movements.

He groans, with grim chuckles following after. “I’m going to enjoy every last second of this,” he coos.

Your body shivers in disgust as you slide your fingers down to your waist, priming the knife stuffed beneath the hem of your shirt. “Go fuck yourself…” you hiss.

His eyes flicker down to your hand and his boot immediately connects with the middle of your torso, sending you across the floor with a loud thud.

Pooch steps between your legs and lifts your upper body by the neckline of your shirt, his knuckles slamming down to beat on your already swollen face. 

Drool and blood pour from your mouth, a strangled gasp leaving you at every punch before he releases you harshly back down onto the floor. 

Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, the pressure and swelling in your face and head being all too much for you.

A boot is savagely kicked into the lower pit of your abdomen, making you gag on air.

“Get the fuck up.” Pooch spits. 

You clutch your stomach and turn, slowly feeling for the knife, then quickly lifting the edge trimming of your tank top and grasping the handle, pulling it out and sweeping your leg around and behind his ankles to knock him off to the side.

He yells out swears as you level yourself over him, his legs kicking out to make your chest rest on the soles of his boots. 

Both of your hands grasp the handle of the knife making it easier on your lack of fingers. His hands grip your forearms as you cry out and try forcing the knife down on him.

He kicks his legs up and backwards, upending you over him and sending the knife flying. 

You hiss and give yourself no time to recover, flipping on your stomach and army crawling with your forearms to grab the knife.

He topples atop your body, planting a piercing slap across your face before reaching for the knife and propelling it downwards into you.

Before you’re able to block, the knife breaks through the skin in your stomach, your hand managing to grab his wrist before he’s able to gut you open.

You seethe and let out a sharp whine followed by a croaked cry, your other hand circling his wrist in an attempt to push him away. 

Quickly, you roll your body off to the side and let go of him, causing the knife to pierce into the wood flooring as you grip a console table to succor yourself up.

Corbin abandons the knife and flings himself upwards, swinging his gun into his arms. 

“I’m done playing games.” 

You advance on him, grabbing the rifle and pushing it into his chest before he can aim it at you.

One of your hands grip the upper hand guard while the other grips the bolt and holds the muzzle up.

You yank his body over towards the window behind you, turning your body then grabbing the man by the back of his hair and smashing his head through the glass.

It shatters from contact and leaves cuts and shards in his skin, a loud yell clawing its way from his throat.   

His finger grips the trigger and bullets roll out into the floor as you pull his head back.

You pull the rifle sling from off his shoulder, tossing it aside and disarming him from the X12 tucked into the back of his pants.

He growls at every tug of his scalp as you shoot him in the back of the leg and force him onto his knees.

A loud wail echoes the hallway from the man below you.

 “Shut your fucking mouth,” you snap.

“You don’t get to scream.”

“You don’t get to cry and whine like a little bitch.”

There’s no remorse in your voice, no sense of mercy for the man being held on his knees and whimpering.

You smack the magazine onto the base of his nose, blood dripping it’s way down his nostrils as a struggling noise spills from his lips.

“You…fucking….” he chokes on his own words. 

His entire body violently trembles at the tortured scream he releases as you squeeze the trigger again, shooting Pooch in his shoulder then proceeding to stick your thumb into the ravage wound harshly.

“Bitch! Fucking bitch!” He strains and pants like a dehydrated dog trying to jerk away from you.

You replace your finger with your foot, lowering his back against the floor as you press your toe into the bullet hole.

Another scream tears out of him as you blow another hole into the other side—his chest convulses.

Blood seeps from his mouth, you hold the grip of the handgun with both hands and sob out loud as you empty the entire magazine into his head until his face is unrecognizable to the amount of bullet holes.

You keep pulling the trigger, even as the gun starts to click announcing its out of ammunition.

The entire floor below you is covered in gore; flesh, messings of brains, blood, skin. 

So much.

Your body snaps around as a hand abruptly drapes over your shoulder, your arm raising the gun ready to bash it into the skull of the next man to try and touch you.

“Thaye, Thaye—y’got him! Thaye, he’s dead!”

Someone calls your name trying to snap you of out haze.

Ghost—your eyes soften with glistening tears as he calmly disarms you after deflecting the hit with his forearm, tossing the handgun aside so he can push you into his chest by the back of your neck.

“‘S over, sweet girl.” Ghost says with intonation. “Can’t hurt ya anymore.”

Your eyes are wide with terror, hands bundling your lieutenant’s shirt as you exhale a shaky mewl.

It’s him who releases you first, handing you your custom rifle and radio.

His balaclava is back on his face, along with the skull mask.

“Y’r vest ‘n boots are in the room I came from,” Ghost jerks his head.

You nod softly and shamble towards the doorway in the direction he’d pointed out.

You pause.

A little boy walks out of the threshold—he’s holding a gun far bigger than his head.

Your eyes widen slightly. “Did these men take you from your family?” 

You turn your head over your shoulder to call for Ghost, the sound of a bullet whirring filling your ears.

Ghost wastes no time pulling out his handgun and shooting the little boy in the head before running towards you.

Your right shoulder is screaming at you as time seems to slow down to a crawl. You hear Ghost yell behind you and the gunshot ringing as the little boy falls back and you do too, hitting the ground hard.

The masked man is on his knees in front of you within seconds, lifting your head into his lap.

“Thaye! Thaye, don’t y’fuckin’ die, not now…” He growls, applying pressure down onto your shoulder with both of his gloved hands.

Your lips slant in a tired manner, eyelids feeling heavy. His bloody hand kneads your cheek, smearing gore along your already dirtied skin.

“Fuck! Fuck!” he curses loudly. “Stay awake, love, please…”

God, he was hurting, it hurt to have your head against the burns on his stomach, but he wouldn’t let you die.

“Babygirl,” he says weakly. 

All you can see is an uncleanable amount of red seep and cover your shirt.

Your lungs clutch together inside your chest, labored breaths escaping you with a strained noise.

“I know…I know—keep those gorgeous eyes on me, sweetheart.” He inhales a shaky breath, flipping up your blood-crusted hairs from sticking to your forehead.

You whisper an apology, catching his attention as you grip his waist. Ghost’s eyebrows furrow.

“Don’t. Don’t say sorry,” he says. “You did this, you saved our lives, love.” 

“‘M just finishin’ the job, ‘lright?” His split and bloody lips find a place on your temple, planting a raw and long kiss to your throbbing skin.

“…’least I got to see your face before—“ 

Ghost holds you, squeezing your hand as a slight warning. “Don’t talk like that.” 

It was a demand. 

“That an—“ you spur into a coughing fit, blood spraying onto the man’s vest. “…Order, Lieutenant?” 

“Spare y’r energy,” he huffs. 

“Simon—“ you slur.

“Stop.” He snarls.

Your ragged breaths start to stray, causing panic to surge through the man above you.

“No,” he growls, squeezing your smaller hand in his a bit tighter than before. “Don’t, Thaye,” he says through clenched teeth.

Your body falls limp in his lap, the grasp loosening on his shirt making his heart pound through his chest, a painful pounding that felt similar to acid reflux.

“No!” Ghost yells, desperately palming at your tangled hair in panic. “Fuckin’ massacre,” he exhales shallowly.

One arm scoops beneath the back of your knees, the other across your shoulder blades with his hand holding your arm. 

A loud strained groan claws it’s way from his gullet at the sudden pain inside his ribs as he lifts himself up and off the floor. 

His muscles tighten inside his body, a burning sensation in his abdomen as he clutches you close to his chest, feeling your blood seep into his shirt.

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

The gentle rhythmic beeping and steady flow of air through your nostrils was something that felt unreal and forced.

You slowly flutter your eyes open to light slipping in between the beige curtains. Your eyes are half-lidded and threatening to close against your will as your bandage wrapped hands rests atop the metal railing on either side of you.  

It smells of strong floor cleaner and hand sanitizer, a scent that is slightly uneasy on you as you slowly slip back into consciousness. 

Your muscles feel tight in your body; pain racking your shoulder and neck as you crane it to take a look around the room. 

The walls are spinning and the ceiling above you is spiraling making you sick to your stomach. 

On the bedside table to your left—closest to the window—there’s flowers. They’re too withered to try and recognize what kinds, shredding to flakes in your fingers when you caress them between your pinky and thumb.

Your hand drags up to pull nasal tubes out of your nostrils. It’s almost as if you’ve forgotten how to breathe air, throat tightening and lips so still from lack of moisture.

There’s a penetrating migraine in the back of your skull as you carefully swing your legs over the side of the bed, the thin baby pink and spotted hospital gown flowing down your sides leaving you slightly exposed in your thigh region. 

Bare and bandaged feet slide along the smooth cold tile, sending chills up your body as you grip the IV stand with your trembling hand, the other holding onto the bed railing for support. 

You groan and strain as you struggle to lift yourself up, propelling upwards with your palm and grip on the stand until your knees straighten and your standing up somewhat decently.

Where was Ghost? Is Ghost alive?

So many thoughts coursed through your head along with the punishing feeling of dehydration. 

You guide yourself using the wheels on the IV stand towards a counter, your hands gripping the handle of the sink and pulling it upward.

A choked moan manages to break from you as you scoop the water in your hands and swill the rich liquid. 

Water dribbles down your chin, which you wipe away before lifting your head to look into the medicine cabinet mirror. 

Your hand rests on the wall in front of you as you heave.

They cut your hair shorter, not too short but enough so that it was comfortable. Your entire right side of your face being bandaged, stains of blood being a faint copper color.

Bandages wrapped around your neck and reached down your shoulder you’d been shot in.

Your hair had been taken care of neatly while you were in a coma, that was obvious.

Ghost. Where?

You grip the IV stand and hobble towards the door, turning the knob and gripping the threshold with your other hand as you step out. 

A nurse pauses in her tracks, rushing to your side in an instant. “How are you up? Your injuries are critical,” she gasps, palm flattening against the small of your back.

“My lieutenant—…my lieutenant…” you say in an undertone.

“You need bed rest, you’ve only just woken up.” Her voice is gentle yet commanding.

“No,” you bark, shuffling out of her hold. “Please take me to him.” 

The woman bites her lip before nodding hesitantly, hand against your back again to guide you towards his room.

It was only a few doors down from you—when the nurse opened the door, allowing you into the room.

You see the back of Ghost’s head facing in your direction, his hair tousled from the bandages wrapping around his head.

“Ghost,” you call.

His head turns from facing the window to facing you, you hear him murmur your name in reply.

“Y’minx,” he breathes. “Hell y’doin’ out ya bed?”

You carefully walk yourself towards him, the nurse holding her hands atop her chest nervously. The sound of the plastic wheels of the stand makes his breath hitch in his throat, the sound of reassurance that you were alive.

“You okay, big man?” Your voice is hoarse from lack of use, but he’s able to that you perfectly.

“D’ya ever worry ‘bout y’self, love?” Ghost asks with a tinge of humor. 

Heavy casting was on his right leg, bandages and patches on practically every inch of his body—similar to you.

“Sometimes,” you smile softly and push strands of his hair out of his face, your heart slightly shatters in your chest at the sight of him flinching at your touch.

Ghost scoots himself over slightly, wincing at the sudden movement.

You seat yourself beside him on the large gatch bed and his hand pushes you down to lay beside him.

“Wait, Mr. Riley—“ the nurse takes a small step forward.

“I’ll ‘b fine,” he grunts.

Her eyes blink slightly as she takes a few steps back, her lips separating to speak though no words come out. She simply turns on her ankles and closes the door behind her.

Ghost secures an arm around your waist, pushing your back flush against his bandaged chest.

Your eyes trace his tattoos and the muscles of his arms, every scar and blemish.

“Where’s the force?” You ask quietly.

“Left recently,” he mumbles back tiredly, pressing his nose into your hair. “Y’smell like pomegranate—got y’self a damn spa crew while y’were out?”

You laugh dryly, breaking into a light fit of wheezes.

“Not too hard, Seargant.” Ghost’s finger tucks a loose strand of hair from your bangs behind your ear.

Your wet bandages on your hands rub against his knuckle as you hold onto his hand, he seems to pay no mind.

You turn your body slightly so you can get a better look at his face. “Odd seeing you without your eye black.” You quip.

His closed eyes open to look down at you. “Mm, might as well see m’down in me knickers then, eh?” He chuckles huskily.

“Very funny,” you roll your eyes lightheartedly. 

You catch his small glances to your lips, his hand leaving your chest to run his thumb down your bottom lip until that same hand is cupping your cheek lovingly.

His eyes narrow, he’s sleepy, but you still catch yourself propping your body up with your elbow and closing the gap between the two of you. 

Instantly, his head cranes and tilts to deepen the kiss, his fingers gently sliding down the side of your face to press his thumb into the underside of your jaw and drag his fingers along the nape of your neck.

Ghost breathes into your mouth, the taste of mint leaf and citrus enveloping your taste buds as his tongue laced over yours.

The kiss was passionate, you feel his eyebrows furrow showing his desperation as you both kissed softly at a gentle pace and motion.

Your eyes flutter open as you feel his warm lips leave yours with a quiet pop, both of you panting lightly with his forehead pressed against yours. Ghost’s eyes are unable to open for a few moments after you disconnect. 

When they do open, your eyes bore into his brown orbs, the dark purple hue circling under his eyes showing his deprivation of sleep.  

When he feels you buck gently back into his groin, he releases a small grunt, lips meeting yours again for a small chase kiss.

“Not like this,” he says quietly. “I’d take you on this bed right here, right now, but y’ve recently waken up ‘n we’re both still in r’covery.” 

You hum in agreement, his hand finding it’s place on your chest once again with the knowledge of your lower abdomen injury.

“‘N to b’honest—‘can barely feel m’damned balls, feels like ‘ve got whiskey dick.” He grumbles, and you bite your lip to suppress a giggle.

“Simon!”

“Don’ you laugh at me, woman.” Ghost lowers his head into the crook of your neck, biting the skin gently 

“My deepest condolences, Lieutenant,” you purr, catching his lips in another kiss when you jerk his head upward with your uninjured shoulder. He growls against your mouth in reaction.

There’s a long yet short line of silence as you turn towards his back again, your legs tangling with his as you hold your lips against his knuckles.

“Y’have no clue how strong you are.” He swallows the knot in his throat as he speaks. “God, Thaye, they…they told me there was a chance y’d never wake up.” 

“Hey,” you hum. “Stop that, I’m here now.” 

His eyes stare blankly at the wall ahead of you, maybe even the same wall you were staring at—if your eyes weren’t closed already. 

“I just don’ know what I would’ve done if I made it outta there ‘n y’didn’t make it with me.” He says. 

“Y’r the reason I made it out with you in the first place. If y’hadn’t pulled that barmy stunt—“ he pauses, and you feel the rise of his chest and the fall as he exhales deeply.

“Y’survived internal bleeding, trauma to the head ‘n eye, two broken ribs, second and third degree burns, asphyxiation, dismemberment, stab wounds and gunshot wounds..” Ghost squeezes his fist tighter against your chest. 

“So did you, Si.” You coo softly. 

“Christ…” he mutters. 

His fingers interlock with yours best they can, regardless of the most of them being numbs on your knuckles, and it wasn't until your hand rested on his chest and rubbed over the raised scars, that he realized he hadn't been touched so gently in nearly eleven years. It wasn't a new feeling, but it was a feeling that he had craved desperately. 

Never had fallen in love before, but he knew you had bad experiences with it—figuring out that your ex-fiancé had cheated on you while on deployment. Someone had to love you, and he was skeptical of it being him, but it was clear you loved him too and now he was scared you’d stop. 

But hearing your gentle breathing as you slipped back into sleep hunched into his form led him somewhere he’d never been. You cleared his mind and cleared away his thoughts. For the first time, he doesn’t want to look away from what he has the ability to feel.

#simon ghost x reader #ghostheartfelt #ghostheartfelt writing #simon ghost riley #ghost #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley #ghost cod #ghost mw2 #ghost mw2 hurt/comfort #ghost modern warfare #simon ghost x you #simon riley x y/n #simon riley imagine

[bonchobrick]

Duke and Danny bestie fic im co-authoring with some cool people for Patrol Partners! :D

A fic where Duke knows a lot about Gotham’s new problem, ghosts. The Waynes think the worst and assume he’s had some terrible experience with ghosts in the past (in reality is just very happy to talk about his best friends culture and doesnt realize how odd it is that he knows all this stuff)

Or

Duke is pretty much just vibing, the bats are having a meltdown, and Danny is having a blast!

—-

Then Duke pops the question

“So, what are you guys researching?” He asks raising a brow to the papers littered all over the room

Collectively the entire room groans as Duke absentmindedly picks up a paper on the table with the failed, static over-run image.

“We don't know!” Steph bemoans frustrated

Tim starts, “There are new entities–”

“Creatures.” Bruce corrects

Tim casts a piercing glance at his father, “I am pretty sure those are entities. Eye witness reports state that they look fairly human-like–”

Bruce challenges him right back, “Eye witness reports were also very likely to be unfactual, they seemed partially intoxicated. It’s more likely they are some kind of mutated animal.”

His son’s teeth grit, “Even so we still can’t rule out–”

“Oh right, the ghosts are back in town,” Duke's comments, gaze absorbed in the static image

Silence drowns the room as their weary eyes blink at Duke, processing what he had just said.

Then it clicks

“R-repeat that?” Tim stares intensely at Duke

“Um, the ghosts are back? That's what these are.” Duke nervously replies confused, “It’s been a bit since they visited Gotham

Tim opens and closes his mouth, immensely struggling to find any words to say. It seems like the rest of his family is fairing no better, some of them letting out noises of surprise and shock with others trying to hear if they heard that sentence right.

“There used to be ghosts in Gotham?” Bruce says incredulously

“Yeah?” Duke tilts his head, “I mean they don’t like living here with the corrupt ectoplasm but I’m friends with a few ghosts?”

Jason springs on him with wide eyes, “What are ghosts like, personality-wise?”

Duke thinks and responds with the first thought that comes to mind, “Fickle, they can be super friendly or super destructive. They do whatever they’re in the mood to.”

“Are they aggressive?”

“Sure? Sometimes?” Duke blinks at them bewildered before a petty smile crosses his lips, “They can be, hmm, commanding.”

Dicks eyes turn cold and protective, “What–”

“Listen guys,” Duke backs away from the discussion going with his internal task list in mind, “I gotta go wrap up putting together all my documents for my topic on my science fair project so uh, see-ya!”

The second youngest bounces out of the cave and the rest of the family stare dumbstruck at him.

New entities (ghosts?) pop up in Gotham + Duke describes them as fickle and commanding =

Duke is being made to do things for Ghosts who can be kind and cruel which =

= Duke is being bullied by Ghosts?!

Not on their Bat-watch!

Damian is already sharpening his ‘not murder tools’, Tim has sprung into research on the bat computer and the rest of the family have already dipped into Gotham ready to search for these perps!

Paranoid Family #1 will help Duke’s ghost problem starting now!

( pssst heres the fic :)

#dc x dp #dp x dc #danny phantom #batman #danny fenton #duke thomas #fanfiction #batfam #jason todd #bruce wayne #i have no clue what to tag this tbh #dc x dp fanfiction #dc x dp crossover #we needed more duke fics in the world okay #Duke: did you know that ghosts live in another realm known as the Ghost Zone and it is entirely made up with the good version of Lazarus Pit #batfam: that is horrifying wtf #Batfam: duke.. how the hell do you know that #Duke: shrugs and walks off #the link SHALL BE POSTED once all chapters are up #this is just an excerpt from one of the chapters I wrote #i hope yall like this #or dont #im sleepy so im gobna tak a nap

[pigcowboys]

what i'm tryna say is . . .

pairing: percy jackson x gn! reader

summary: you make a point to finally confront percy about why he's been acting so distant.

warning(s): slightly angsty at the start, mutual pining, idiots in love, interrupted love confession.

part 2 part 3

when it came to feelings and relationships, you had to admit. you weren't the best at them.

you weren't stupid. you knew when someone's intentions weren't as platonic as they wanted it to seem. television taught you that -- though tv wasn't the same as reality and sometimes things aren't as forward as they usually were made to be, people just don't work like that.

you kind of hated that fact, actually. the fact that people were so complicated annoyed you so to speak. especially when it came to the various relationships in your life. your relationship with your mother was..rocky. so, the fact that your father was that of an immortal all powerful deity didn't help at all. you hated the fact that the gods were so fickle with the way they spoke to their demigod children.

they'd abandoned them, yet couldn't even offer them a direct sentence or word of advice. it seemed so bittersweet to you. the existence of camp half-blood was a comforting thought yet, challenged you with hard questions at the same time.

why couldn't the god protect their children themselves? why the hell would they just their put kids in danger knowing there was monsters out to get them? and most of all, why didn't they care enough to stick around?

these questions were built on nothing but anger and hatred yet, you couldn't stop them from popping up whenever you had a moment to yourself. this kind of stuff was complex, hard to understand. it was probably why you even hated thinking about it for too long.

you tried your best to avoid bringing up complex feelings, you really did. but.. sometimes you had to face your fears. or -- something like that you figured.

you idled in front of the poseidon cabin, an unnerving feeling in the pit of your stomach as you tried your best to put on a brave face. you had nothing to be scared of, honestly! it was such a stupid situation you'd found yourself worrying about. it'd only been a few weeks since percy, annabeth, grover and thalia had returned from their quest to find artemis.

you practically busted your ass making your way over to find percy and the others, a comical grin on your face being met with the tired and shaken up faces of the group. thalia left with the hunters, nico was informed of the death of his sister and everyone in the camp seemed to be in grimmer spirits than before.

percy included.

he seemed..distant -- in a way. it made you wonder about what the hell happened on the quest. what he had to witness while he was out on the open road. it made your heart hurt for him. i mean, how could it not? percy was like a shell of his normal self and you hadn't a clue what it was about, especially when he started to avoid your presence around the camp.

it was the main reason you were situated outside his cabin, hesitating to knock on it as your head raced with questions. something in the back of your head told you to just go back to your own cabin and hold your tongue. a part of you wished you'd listened to it, sucking in a breath as you knocked earnestly on cabin 3's door.

you exhaled shakily,

“hey,” you started, pausing as you tried to find something to say. you and percy hadn't spoken in weeks, what could you say..? he looked back at you with wide eyes, like he hadn't expected to see you here at all. you couldn't blame him -- you didn't expect yourself to be there either.

“uh, can we talk..?”

percy shut the door behind you as you strolled sheepishly into his cabin, looking around the practically empty cabin as you stood in the middle of the room awkwardly.

percy walked over to you nervously, leaning against the frame of cabin 3's bunk bed as he turned to face you with a concerned expression. “what did you wanna talk about?” you paused, analyzing percy's worried gaze

“are you avoiding me?” you blurted out suddenly.

percy blinked a few times before his eyebrows furrowed. “..what are you talking about?”

“i mean.. i haven't seen you in so long? are you like” you cleared your throat. "do you not wanna be friends..anymore?"

“no.” you turned to him. percy's face was slightly flushed though, you couldn't pinpoint if it was because of the fact the sun was boiling today or for..another reason.

“it's not like that.” he added, rubbing the back of his neck. “i've just been..feeling weird, i guess.”

“and you didn't feel the need to tell me about it?”

he paused.

silence fell over the two of you as you began to regret ever coming to cabin 3 before percy spoke once more.

“i don't think i feel the same way i did..” he trailed off. "about..us."

your heart pounded in your ears as your eyebrows furrowed. “what you don't wanna be friends anymore?”

“are you." he sighed in frustration. “no, that's not what i meant.”

you felt slightly jittery now, it must've been your body growing tired of the still position you were in. the vagueness of percy's words were starting to cause thoughts to race in your head as well. why couldn't he just be honest? what excuse is so great that it makes up for the fact he's been ignoring you all this time?

“then,” you mumbled. “ what did you mean?”

percy sucked in a sharp breath, shifting on his leg as he crossed his arms impatiently. he looked like he was trying to psych himself up to say something. he locked eyes with you before shuffling over sheepishly and gently directing you to a sitting position on his bed.

you tapped against the frame of the bunk bed absentmindedly waiting for percy to continue.

“you're uh..” he paused again. “i don't want to just be friends.”

you shot him a confused look. “you wanna be..best friends?”

percy deadpanned. you felt slightly bad for still not getting what he was trying to say. though, what were you supposed to assume when he kept talking in riddles? percy's hand inched towards your own that rested on the bed slowly before he cleared his throat.

“i like - ”

“percy! you have to..” annabeth trailed off, observing the scene in front of her with calculated eyes. she bit back an amused grin, shaking her head slightly. “did i..walk in on something?”

“no!” percy exclaimed, moving his inching hand away from yours to rest in his lap. his face was red and his lips were folded into a thin line. “uh - we weren't doing anything.”

you eyes percy curiously before turning to annabeth. “what's going on?”

“chiron's asking for him..” her eyes shifted between the two of you. “i can tell him you're busy..”

“you don't have to,” you stood up from the bed, dusting yourself off. “i was gonna..leave anyways.” you turned to percy. “catch you later, i guess.” percy nodded his head, waving at you robotically.

you shut the door behind you, trying your best to shake off the awkward conversation.

you weren't able to decipher what percy was saying to you, nor did you even get a straight answer about why he'd be avoiding you. you squinted your eyes as the sun shun over your face.

why were people so complex?

#percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson fluff #percy jackson x reader #percy jackson x y/n #percy jackson x you #x reader #x reader fluff #mutual pining #love confessions #pjo fluff #fluff

[tojiwrd]

6: fate is fickle ; gojo satoru

pairing gojo satoru x fem!reader

summary when satoru breaks off your engagement, you understand and accept it. but when he marries someone else, you don't understand because he didn't want to be tied down.

content warnings mentions toxic family, mentions of forced marriage, emotional infidelity, lots of crying, drama drama drama, confrontation, lots of reminiscing. also not proofread so im sorry for any mistakes !!

word count 4k

a/n sorry for late update lomls my gojo fate is fickle ver. came back into my life after three years of silence so this is chapter is coming straight from my bones guysssss . also i am so so so grateful for the support on this fic, genuinely makes me so happy i love u guys sm thank you SO much !! <3 also credit to the person of the art!! i can't find their name so if anyone knows then lmk <3

send thoughts ↞ prev next ↠ to be added to taglist

Gojo Satoru didn’t get on one knee and ask to marry you. He did it when the two of you were in the apartment he bought just a few months prior, laying on the bed as the small opening of the curtains let a thin stream of silver streams in. It wasn’t that he wasn’t prepared because when he slipped the question while the two of you were facing one another, a hint of sleep heavy on the eyes on his moon-kissed face, he backed it up with the ring he’d carefully tucked away in his sweatpants. You swore your cheeks were hinting a fresh glow for the next week.

Maybe it was dumb to think you and Satoru, only twenty-five, would’ve worked out when he proposed on a random Sunday in bed. It did seem dumb, though, while you sat across Hana who was relaying her own proposal story. You’d tuned it out, not wanting to hear her drone on about how it was the most perfect, breathtaking moment when he got on one knee at a rooftop restaurant. You didn’t want to be there, partially because you truly felt as though Hana was painting Satoru out into someone he wasn’t, and partially because you were human and humans tend to get jealous sometimes. 

It was meant to be a simple brunch with ten people, friends of friends of friends. You had Reina right next to you, Reina, whose eyes were continuously twitching as Hana would relearn a new moment from that picture-perfect night and feel the need to share it with everyone on the table. You could also see some of your own friends who were aware of yours and Satoru’s relationship look at her, then you, with furrowed brows. Hers mostly out of confusion, and at you to ask why the fuck are you quiet?

“Ugh!” One of the girls, Jia, exclaimed as Hana finally seemed to get to the end of her engagement story. “I wish I had someone like Gojo Satoru; all these men are so unromantic and act like genuine children.”

Truthfully, if Satoru wasn’t your ex-fiancee, you would be on the same boat as the girls who were unaware of your past relationship. Hana’s story, from the pieces you forced yourself to hear, was dreamlike. A small part of you wanted to tell her that her romantic and unchildlike husband had proposed to her, too, right after he’d done some other things that would end that conversation immediately. But you didn’t because it wasn’t Hana’s fault, even though your mind kept putting some blame on her, that Satoru broke it off with you.

“I hope all of you find somebody like Satoru. He truly is the best,” Hana replied dreamily. 

You clenched your fists. Reina slammed hers on the table. 

“You’re so delusional, Hana, it’s concerning.” You wanted to raise your arms and pull Reina down and ask her to shut up. To not cause a scene. But Hana looked at Reina, a confused, concerningly kind expression covering her features and you realized there lived a monster in you that wanted to see Gojo Hana crumble. “Don’t look at me all coy, high, and mighty. You don’t know shit about your husband. Why don’t you skip over these semantics and really tell them the only reason the two of you got married was because your parents forced you to?”

You delighted in the flash of anger that slid across Hana’s face as she pursed her lips, trying to find the right words. You leaned back and stared, an uncharacteristically numb look covering your features. This, a part of you realized, might be detracking you from your healing process but it was fun.

Hana looked around the table and noticed how all eyes were fixed on her figure. If there was one thing you’d learned from girls' brunches, it was that everybody loved when it blew over and left one or many people scathed. She sputtered over her words, the tangle coming out completely incomprehensible and you almost felt bad. Almost felt bad because it wasn’t expected of her to admit to a whole group of socialites that the marriage to the Gojo heir wasn’t out of love, but out of an arrangement that went in their favor. If you were in her place, you, too, would’ve waxed poetic about your marriage because if the truth would bring the palpable exciting energy down, you would feel bad.

“Perhaps it was suggested by our parents,” she started, glaring at Reina with faux sweetness. “But it was only because our parents saw how in love we seemed with each other.”

You tried to hold yourself back but it was just so simple for you to scoff at her words. When Reina looked at you, a sheen of anger coating her eyes, you pushed yourself to talk. “It’s not love if he cheated on someone with you.”

You had thought about this moment before; you’d wondered if, were you to ever meet Hana again, you would drop the ticking time bomb in her presence that might either blow up her entire marriage or just cause a small blip in the working systems of it. But saying it now, after hearing her say all Satoru had said about you was that your fathers worked together, felt completely underwhelming. Though the shoe was dropped and it was clear everybody managed to get a small tatters of it to whisper about with other people, it felt wrong. Wrong because the way Hana looked at you, eyes brimmed with tears and brows coming together in sadness, you had most likely broken a piece of her.

She gulped then cleared her throat. “Can—Can we talk outside? Alone?” she asked and, without sparing a glance at anybody on the table except for you and Reina, she walked to the sliding doors of the restaurant and into the glaring sun above. 

Reina placed her hand on your forearm and said, “Come on, let’s go.” It was surprising to see a miniscule hint of guilt on her features, and you realized you had to have the conversation. 

Hana had most likely heard the clicking of yours and Reina’s heels because she didn’t turn back to face the two of you. “I know you and Satoru had something going on.”

You froze, stunned and silent. 

“I had heard from my mother that you both were in a relationship. He never mentioned it to me, though, and I didn’t mention it, either.” She turned around, eyes wide as she looked down and shuffled her feet in anxiousness. “I don’t know how it ended or when it ended, but I thought when he—he finally acknowledged there was something between us, the two of you were over. I didn’t want to know. We did get married because our fathers told us to, but I wasn’t lying when I said he was sweet and caring.” Her stare burned you like a billion matches. There was truth in her words, you knew—

“You homewrecking bitch!” Reina’s voice cut off your train of thought as she walked towards Hana, an accusatory finger pointed in her direction. Once again, you didn’t stop her even though you probably should’ve. “If you knew he was in a relationship, how could you even think of flirting with him? They were engaged. God! I swear, both you and Gojo are two peas in the same pod. You deserve each other.” Her words were also ringing through your head and there was confusion bubbling up within the same pot as growing anger. 

“Why’d you pretend not to know when we saw you at the club?” you asked, finding your voice again, in a calm tone that surprised you, too. 

Hana shook her head. Her face had curled up into fury, and you wondered if her nice, docile, angel-sent-from-above personality was a card she held up her sleeve the entire time. “I didn’t care. I didn’t want to know because Satoru was mine—is mine. You weren’t a part of his life anymore, so I didn’t want to add any worries that were misplaced.”

You wondered if you should tell her that Satoru had tried reaching out to you at Suguru’s gallery. 

“If he had told me he was with you, I wouldn’t have tried anything with him.”

You were sure you had moved past everything. 

After more than a year of avoiding any fire from your past with Satoru, the past two weeks had been filled to the brim with situations revolving around him. It was easy to ignore what you had with Satoru when he seemed like a distant memory and then a mere ghost in your thoughts. But when he’s insistent on giving you answers you never asked for, answers you didn’t want to know, and his wife had made an appearance that caused your brain to run without stopping, it was difficult to treat him the way you had. 

No matter how much you wanted to ignore everything and reset your brain back to its default settings, you couldn’t when the world was caving in on you and reality seeped through its cracks to light a bright, pertinent light in front of your eyes. You hated Gojo Satoru with every inch of your bones, but you were never truly able to forget just Satoru himself.

Your mind had an interesting way to deal with the pile of information dropped onto your shoulders. You should’ve been reliving how Satoru made your blood boil when he got engaged with Hana, how he carelessly broke your heart because he began falling for somebody else, somebody brand new while he was taking space on your bed every night. You should’ve been, but you weren’t. 

‘A relationship broken is always a relationship that could’ve been,’ is what you’d read once graffitied onto a brick wall you were leaning against with Satoru once in the middle of the bustling city streets. You’d pointed it out, he’d agreed. He’d agreed. You wish he hadn’t because there was a fragment of you that wished he remembered those words now. The devilish part of you wished that’s what he remembered, recounted abruptly while he was sleeping next to his wife. 

You wished he’d think of the could’ve been’s instead of the measly fears he told you about at the gallery. 

You also wish you had those fears, too. You loved Satoru to a point that he was in everything you did; your clothes smelt like his detergent because you would always take your laundry to his house for the weekends. The lamp next to your bed had his bracelet wrapped around it because he thought it was too loose on his wrist and he’d lose it. You would always accidentally call him because his contact was on your home screen, causing you to press on it when you were scrolling (he always picked up and he always talked to you for hours after, making you forget why you had opened your phone in the first place). The tattoo, a small design of baby’s breaths, on your hip reminded you of how he had held your hand through the pain. 

You knew Satoru’s dreams. You knew Satoru’s biggest fears. So, why did he never tell you the fears he had for the two of you?

As soon as the thought hit your mind, it was followed by you harshly reprimanding yourself by reminding you that it was because he was getting excited over someone else’s calls, someone else’s dreams.

“Y/N, honey.” You heard your mother’s voice call from your ajar bedroom door before she hesitantly stepped in, heel-clad feet grazing over the off-white floor with footsteps following behind her. “Your friend from the gallery here to see you.”

You knew exactly who she was talking about which is why you raised slightly from your bed, a panicked look in your eyes, and only began pleading with her to tell him you weren’t here. Before you could even utter a complete, coherent sentence, Suguru had walked in with his head down and your mother simply walked out of the door, sparing you a sad smile. She didn’t know any of what had happened, but she most likely sensed it wasn’t anything worth toasting to after seeing Suguru’s mood and your reaction. 

“Please, Suguru.” Your voice wobbled, a slight hiccup in your words because this was too much. Even though Suguru was somewhere on the top of your least-favorite people list at the moment, he didn’t deserve to see you get angry at him without having control over your words. “Leave.”

“Listen, listen, Y/N. I just… I heard some stuff and I needed to check on you.” His words were hesitant, as if he’d rehearsed them but had changed the script at the last minute. He walked closer to your bed and you couldn’t find the words to ask him to leave. “Hana told me—”

You snorted, cutting him off. “Hana told you what? That I ended her perfect, dreamy image of her marriage in public? Are you here to—what? Reprimand me? Tell me I was wrong—”

“Fuck, no. Stop, just for one second.”

You did stop because Suguru seemed more tense than you knew what to do with. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Y/N.”

You stared at him, unblinking. “What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he quickly addressed, his body finding its way to the edge of your bed. “I want to say I’m sorry, and you don’t have to accept it. I was wrong—I realize that now but… I was scared, Y/N.”

“Scared of what? I wouldn’t have been any worse if you’d just told me what you knew, Suguru. You hid it from me when you saw how I was going insane the month after the breakup.”

“I was scared of this. How you’ve been feeling since Satoru told you the truth himself.” You couldn’t reply to that. “But I want to tell you that even though I hadn’t told you about it, I did let Satoru know really well what he did was wrong. Not that it’s any better, but I never supported what he did. I—I couldn’t stop him from marrying her because… well, because he’s Satoru. I shouldn’t have assumed you were okay, especially not after finding out about Hana after three months. But I thought you were and—I don’t know, I wasn’t thinking straight.

But I heard from Hana earlier today about what had happened at brunch. She said she was scared Satoru would find out what she said and I—I have no idea why she trusted me with that information. I’m not friends with her. I don’t know why she told me.”

You took in a deep breath processing all the information Suguru kept on dropping. “I’m not telling Satoru anything.”

“But she—”

“She nothing. I don’t want to hear it, Suguru. Whatever she did, even if she actively tried to sabotage me and Satoru, it was on him that he let her.” Your phone lit up from beside you and you glanced at the time, internally thanking whoever controlled it for the real excuse to kick him out of your house. “I have plans with Kento. You need to leave now, actually.”

You didn’t miss the way Suguru’s face flashed with a hint of disappointment at your words. 

Kento Nanami wasn’t understanding—not truly—which is why you were surprised that halfway through your date, when you told him you had to talk to Satoru, he understood. He walked you out of the restaurant, a calm, unwavering hand on your back and told you that no matter what happened, he’d be there by your side. 

And though you knew you had people by your side, you really couldn’t remember who and felt a flutter in your chest. 

By the time you reached Satoru’s (and Hana’s) apartment, the urge and confidence you felt when you came up with your plan ebbed away into pieces and left you lying there in a situation you weren’t sure you could face. You raised your hand up to press a finger against the doorbell regardless, trying to force away the thought that you would see the apartment you helped him move into and decorate. You briefly, for a second, wondered if he had changed it. You also wondered if it would hurt to see the small paintings you’d bought as a present for his new apartment not be in the spots of the wall Satoru put you on his shoulders to pin.

When the door opened, you were met with the same eyes that had haunted your dreams and nightmares. His mouth opened, wide enough for a fly to fly into, then he schooled his features into mere curiosity. You realized that you were the one that sought him out this time, you were the one who dropped in unannounced at his house, which meant you should speak. 

“I need to talk to you.” And frankly, at that moment, you didn’t care if Hana was lurking behind him and able to hear you initiate a conversation with her husband. That was what he was: her husband before your ex-fiance.

He breathed out and shook his head as if willing himself to speak, too. “Yes. Yeah. Come in, Y/N.”

And you did. You saw the walls, the paintings, the small hearts on the corner of the dining table you drew with a sharpie, the couch you picked out, and even the necklace you had forgotten that peeked from under his coat on the coat hanger. You didn’t comment on it, though. 

“Do you want water? Tea? Liquor?” 

You almost laughed at the anxiousness in his voice. “I’m good. This won’t take long.”

Satoru’s expression was what you could confidently call crestfallen, and he didn’t try to hide it this time. You forced yourself not to think about it. You merely went down to the couch in his living room that you picked out and placed yourself on the left corner because you always used to sit on the right. It helped you see the TV better. 

“She isn’t home.” You knew who he meant by ‘she.’

“Goj—Satoru, I need you to do something,” you said, unsure of how to start it off. In all fairness, you hadn’t prepared what you were going to say, it was just a messed up, jumbled backbone of stuff that you knew you had to tell him.

His reply was instant. “Anything.”

“I need you to not feel guilty or—I don’t know, keep feeling guilty but just keep it to yourself, okay?” You sounded like you were talking like a preschooler, and it wasn’t much different because Satoru looked at you with the hopeful eyes a kid has before you reject their wishes. But Satoru wasn’t a kid, Satoru was a man who made poor choices and hurt someone by doing something unexcusable, and that made it okay to tell him to stop. 

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t talk to me. If we’re in the same place, don’t talk to me. Don’t ask me not to hate you. Don’t tell me you regret what you did to me.”

It hurt to break your heart by your own words. 

“Y/N, don’t do this,” he trailed off, eyes wide and filled with fear now. “Please.”

“Stop.” Your own eyes brimmed with tears you weren’t going to shed. It was fine dealing with Satoru when he tried to talk to you, but doing it on your own terms gave you an inexplicable feeling of sadness you hadn’t expected. “You’re being selfish.”

“No. How…”

“You take when you want, Satoru. You know more than anybody else that I loved you and lost myself when I couldn’t. You were there that night in the car, holding me when I cried when you left me. You left me!” you exclaimed, pointing your index in his direction that would’ve jabbed him in the face if he wasn’t further away. “You were there even after you left me. You’re there now, making me all confused and angry, when you know you can’t give me anything. You don’t have any intention of being somebody I need in my life, so leave. Make this easier for me and leave. Let me live my life while you live yours.”

He had shifted down the couch, and though he was still not too close, it felt too close. 

“Don’t—fuck, don’t say that, love. Please. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

You flailed your arms in the air, his words not helping your case at all. “You can be sorry a million times over, but what’s done is done. You can’t… Fuck, Satoru. You can’t do this.”

A moment passed. Then another. He placed his head in his hands, facing ahead while you faced his shaking body. 

“I love you,” he said, and you were lost. 

“Don’t do this to your wife, Satoru. You love her. You’re supposed to love her. Don’t do this to someone else.”

“I love you,” he repeated, his eyes now looking into yours with a familiar fire of determination. “You know that, right? You know that I love you?” His words broke out into a sob that ripped directly from his scratchy throat. “Tell me you know that.”

“Then please leave. Don’t show up. Stop showing up, and stop explaining something that can’t be understood.”

And when Satoru placed a hand on your cheek, you didn’t push it away because you saw that previous fire dwindle within a second. He tugged his lower lip between his teeth as he scanned your warm face, your glassy eyes, and he noticed how you were shivering under his touch. You didn’t push it away because Satoru might’ve been selfish, but you were, too. And you would inhale the embers of him before they turned into ash.

“You want this?” he asked, but you could see he knew the answer. You didn’t reply. He continued, “I’ll leave you alone, if that’s what you want. But—But I want you to know I wanted it to be you. When Hana walked down the aisle, I thought of you. I wish you’d come. I would’ve never said ‘I do.’ I swear. I’m sorry I fucked up—I fucked us up. I got carried away and…”

You smiled sadly. “Don’t do that to her. You have a chance at being happy, Satoru. Don’t ever do what you did to me again.”

“Do you?” he asked.

“Do I what?”

“Have that chance at being happy?”

You thought about the question and Kento’s name flashed in your mind. It might have been small compared to the colossal amounts of feelings you felt with Satoru back then, but it was something. Even though you didn’t shake under Kento’s touch or feel your stomach turning upside down everytime he smiled at you, you felt safe and you knew that if you could stay, Kento would stay, too. 

“I do.”

He inhaled a sharp breath, a single tear falling from his eye. “Is it wrong that I still wish it was me?”

You wanted to say no, it isn’t because a part of me wishes it was you, too. You didn’t. 

He continued, “I can’t let you go, Y/N.” 

Another tear, then another, till they continued streaming down his face. You couldn’t stop them. You couldn’t react to them. Not even when he took his hand away from your face to messily wipe them away between sobs and hiccups. 

“You said you didn’t deserve me, and you were right. Remember that.”

And even though a larger part of you didn’t want to leave, you left, afraid that you might end up entangling yourself in his arms to cry with him. To get one taste of his lips for the last time before deciding to fuck it all and make one kiss more. To hold onto him for longer, forever. You left because you weren’t sure you could tell Satoru to leave again. You thought you still loved Satoru just not in the way you used to. But when you saw him pleading for nothing because there was no good outcome for the two of you, you realized you might still love Satoru the way you used to, just less and concealed by the hurt. You would’ve chosen all the bad outcomes and then some more if you stayed a minute longer.

#gojo x reader #angst #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #gojo angst #gojo satoru #gojo satoru angst #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru x you #jjk angst #jujutsu kaisen angst

[after-witch]

TPOF!Ren Imagine

Title: TPOF!Ren imagine [Ren Hana x Reader]

Synopsis: What if you were taken by Strade? What if you escaped, leaving Ren behind? And what if you just happened to bump into Ren, years later?

Word count: 2100ish

note: kidnapped reader, drugging, descriptions of violence and torture, scars, kidnapping, descriptions of noncon sex, just a stream of consciousness written imagine that I did before bed because I have no self control, take that as you will

Imagine Strade has kept you. You spend weeks, months--more?--being tortured in ways you could never have imagined. But you live. Somehow or another, you live.

You're kept there, like Ren, as an interesting pet. And the two of you share a tentative bond, in time. He did help you, after all...

But... you're afraid of Ren. A little. Not because he's ever been mean to you or hurt you without Strade forcing him to--but because you know that Strade can be fickle. He might decide he likes Ren better, and get rid of you.

Or maybe someone else he brings home will catch his eye, and he'll ponder getting rid of one of you... and who is more likely to go to make room for another long term victim, you wonder, the boy with fox ears or plain, simple you? It's obvious.

So sometimes, you're afraid of Ren. Afraid that Ren's existence will eventually mean your demise.

But you have your moments together.

Moments where you curl up in Ren's nest of a bed, letting his warm tail wrap around you, ignoring the way your shock collars occasionally clink together while you snuggle. Sometimes you whisper things to each other. Hopes. Fears. Secrets. Dreams for the future, which are sometimes shared fantasies of escaping together, going somewhere, starting anew.

There are shared pains, too. You sneak into the bathroom and clean each other's wounds, as much as you know Strade will allow without crossing an unspoken boundary. You press cool cloths to his burning cuts, he gently massages your healed but always-aching broken fingers.

Sometimes, Strade makes you hurt each other. Usually, Ren wins out in the end. But you have no chance against claws. You don't hold it against Ren after the fact, but sometimes when you're sharing a bed at night or a quiet moment when Strade is out of the house, you can't help but think about the way his claws rip through your flesh or the way his knot hurt when Strade yanked him out early.

And one day... Strade is dead. You scream for Ren when it happens--some new victim he's captured finally getting one over on him, not without their own fatal wounds--and Ren watches Strade die, and you watch Strade die, and then the two of you are standing over his gaping-mouth corpse.

The two of you head upstairs, the basement thick with quiet, and for the first time you don't have to worry about hearing Strade's footsteps come up them.

Ren's collar comes off first. Then he helps you with yours.

And you should--say something. You should tell him that the two of you will leave, go to the police, find an apartment, figure out what to do--something, anything.

But in the moment, you panic. You panic because you see in Ren's eyes that he wants you to stay with him and you're so afraid of being trapped again.

You bolt. You bolt out the front door and don't look back. You hear Ren shout your name and the pad of his feet up to the front door, but he doesn't cross the threshold.

You should go back for him. You should tell the police that he's there. But you're afraid. Your face was on Strade's streams. Who knew what sort of people watched them? What if you were recognized? Strade wasn't shy about the fact that powerful people watched his streams. What if... one of them was connected with the police department?

And so you don't say a damn thing. You pick up the pieces of your life and there's a part of you that you left in that damned house with Ren that rots and festers, but you can't let it stop you. You hate yourself for leaving. You hate yourself for not going back.

But you might have hated yourself if you stayed, too.

And then it's been years... and years.... and years.

You still suffer from your time with Strade. Mentally. Physically. The scars have faded, but they never go fully away, some white-blanched and others still retaining a tinge of vivid pink. You hate those the most.

And there's the aches and pains, too. Arthritis in your fingers and hands. A fracture in your foot that didn't heal properly, but you didn't have the health insurance to get it fixed, and now you walk with a limp and cane on bad days.

You get nightmares. Most of the time, you're right back in the house or the basement. Being tortured. Slow and thick dreams that are usually coupled with sleep paralysis. Ren is in them, sometimes, and he's scared and hateful and you wake up with that gnawing, awful guilt.

But you force it down. You have to--Ren was an adult, too, just like you. That's how you cope with the guilt. You tell yourself that he left the house and found himself a small place to live and he's doing fine out there. Working at a bookshop or some anime collectible store. Something that helps him get by. He'll have scars and nightmares, too, but he'll be okay, for the most part.

Just like you are.

Because you've moved on as much as one could, considering. You have a spouse--ten years together, now--and a house with a little yard and a career that leaves you comfortable enough, financially. You don't have kids but your spouse has nieces and nephews that you enjoy spoiling now and then, and that's enough for you.

You were so hyper-vigilant after your initial escape. You wore wigs, and went outside only rarely. You hopped around from place to place, used fake names. You had locks upon locks upon locks on your doors. You never went home the same way twice.

But over time... you gradually stopped worrying. When 1 year became 5 years became 10 years, when time aged your face and slowed your racing heart. When you got a long-term partner and stopped hopping to new places every year, terrified that someone would come find you.

Over the years, you stop looking over your shoulder everywhere you go. You stop assuming every stranger staring at you on the bus recognizes you from Strade's streams and is going to kidnap you and kill you. You stop thinking about it as an immediate threat and treat it like past trauma--to be dealt with, sure, but to be tucked away for your sanity.

And one day, one ordinary little day, you're walking around a secondhand collectible store to look for a particular book when you bump into someone.

The first thing you notice is that they're wearing a nice suit, tailored, like they're going to a business meeting or live in a big city where such outfits are considered casual wear.

The second thing you notice, when you look up at their face with an apology on your lips, is that underneath the hat that they lift every so gently, they have fox ears and scars and red hair peppered with just a dash of silver.

It takes you a moment. Two moments. Three moments.

It's Ren.

Older, like you. But Ren, clear as day, there is no doubt about it.

Relief and an awful, stomach-churning anxiety spread through your gut at the exact same time.

"Ren?"

He doesn't react at first, merely stares at you, and your nightmares come back to you: those nightmares where he hates you, where he tells you that you left him there like he's nothing, where he throws back all your whispered conversations in the dark back in your face.

And then a little smile splits his face and the gut-churning fear in your stomach recedes just enough for you not to shake when he places two hands on your shoulders, steady, and firm.

"Hey. It's okay. It's been a long time."

You break into something like a laugh, and tears prick at your eyes before sliding down your cheeks.

"How..." You don't know what to ask first. How is this possible? How are you? Why are you here? Are you okay?

And finally you settle on something that's eaten away at your soul, bit by bit, since you ran away.

"I'm... sorry." You can't look him in the eye. "I shouldn't have just left that day. But I was scared, and I--"

He places a finger to your lips, and the claw at the end seems sharper now, polished and carefully filed.

"Don't," he says. "It doesn't matter now." He has a coolness to his voice, a shrugging tone to it all. You wonder if it matches your own tone, sometimes, when you're confronted with reminders of the past.

"Do you... want to get coffee or something?" You ask, and you immediately feel stupid, asking if someone who was tortured alongside you (who hurt you, too--but he had to) for coffee like they were an old high school friend.

But he smiles, a little grinning pep to it now, a little bit of an edge with his teeth showing, and says, "Sure."

You leave the shop together, book forgotten, intent on catching up.

It should bother you, that he didn't look actually surprised to see you. It should bother you, that he swept you out of the store so quickly.

But you're too overwhelmed by his presence to notice little things like that.

You don't even notice the black car parked down the street that turns only only when Ren leads you into a coffee shop, pulling around the corner into a nearby alleyway.

You don't think twice about Ren texting someone after you arrive. You don't think twice about Ren ordering for you, motioning for you to find a seat, insisting on taking both cups to the little stand with sugar and creamers himself.

You don't think twice about the taste of the coffee being a little off. Ren put in too much sugar, probably. You used to take it much sweeter, back then, when Strade allowed the two of you to indulge in cup after cup to stay awake for nighttime streams.

It's a shame the hyper-vigilance ebbed away, really, because if you had noticed any one of these things, maybe you would have left the situation. Though, in the end, would it have stopped him?

You focus on awkward small talk. Asking what he's been up to (running his own business) and how he feels (better than ever) and whether he's okay (are you?).

He asks you questions, too, and you find yourself spilling it all too easily. You talk about your spouse, your cute little home, the garden you planted, the books you've read, the little career you've built. You ask if he still likes anime and he smiles, and then your hand is on his arm--you can see some of the scars on his hand, and your own, too--and feel so bad so you start to apologize again---

That's when things get... woozy. Your hand slips from his arm, and you can't grasp your coffee cup. You mumble something about not feeling good.

Ren is standing right away, helping you to your feet. He pulls out his phone and says he'll call an ambulance. You try to wave it off, you're fine, you're just overwhelmed, you didn't eat much today. He insists you sit down and if you weren't so dizzy you might realize something is wrong as he leads you down the street, into an alleyway, where at the end there is a shiny black car with tinted windows.

"I'll take you to get some help," he says, and you don't question it, because your mind is foggy and you can't see straight, and it's just Ren, isn't it? It's just Ren.

It's not until you're bundled into the car with Ren taking the spot next to you in the backseat, his worried expression smoothed over into something cool and triumphant, that the sense of wrongness hits you. Even through the fog of your mind, it hits you.

"Ren? Ren?"

"Shh."

That finger is back on your lips, but this time his finger pivots sideways, a claw lightly tracing one of your facial scars. You can feel it slicing open, like a papercut.

The little blossom of pain is a good distraction for the punch of the needle that he jabs into your thigh a moment later.

You have just enough time to gasp and mutter something, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Nothing comes out. You see him watch you for a moment, eyes half-lidded, before he stares ahead at the driver.

"We'll have time to talk later. When the drugs wear off."

The last thing you see before unconscious is his smile, almost a grin.

#the price of flesh #tpof #ren hana #btd2 #boyfriend to death #afterwitch writes #mmm I wanna flesh this out into a fic #but just brain dump for now