#tw referenced rescue | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ashintheairlikesnow · 2 years

Text

I Knew Finn Schneider

For @whumptober 2022, day 31: “You can rest now.”

CW: Referenced noncon, pet whump, beating, blood, brief emeto, murder… the works. But this, my friends, is the light at the end of Finn’s tunnel.

Somewhere near Highland Peak in California, 2005

"Checking in?"

The young woman sitting at the desk was bright and cheerful, her voice more chirping than speech. Her thick black hair was pulled into a no-nonsense bun at the nape of her neck and she wore a plain navy sweater with a layered necklace made of brightly colorful beads and she had a pink glitter barrette at one temple, with some rhinestone stickers.

She must have caught Finn looking, because she gave him a slight smile. "My little sister helped me get dressed today," She offered, and he tried to smile back. What did a normal smile look like? He wasn't sure if his was right.

She didn't change expression, so he must have managed it.

"Kids are great," Noah said, matching her cheer as he leaned forward on his elbows, carefully taking back her full attention. "I called and made a reservation this morning? Under Ransom?"

"Ransom, Ransom… that's some last name." She had an accent, Finn thought, her consonants soft, faintly rolling her r’s.

"Yeah, we like to joke my grandpa made it up." Noah grinned, sunny and shining. Charming. Finn watched them, distantly wondering if he would smile like that ever again. “He was maybe a little bit of a criminal.”

"Nice. You're Noah?"

"That's me."

"All right, room for two, got it." She stood up, humming to herself as she fiddled with the hotel keys. "Hope you don't mind, we still do things the old way. The owner just wants to keep it all historic, you know?"

"Yeah, sure." Noah glanced sideways at Finn, who looked away. Afraid if he made eye contact, all of this would start to melt and he would wake up naked on Robert's bedroom floor. Or in his basement.

The movement made a paper on the check-in desk flutter and it caught his eye, freezing him in his tracks.

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?

It was a blurry printed out still from a security video, a man walking with hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched.

It was Robert Weber.

Even with his head ducked and a ball cap pulled low over his face - even with the photo so blurry Finn could see individual pixels - Finn knew the clothes he'd been wearing at the motel before he tied Finn up and went for breakfast, that first morning he’d been in hell. This looked like they had caught him leaving the restaurant, heading back for his truck.

Heading back to murder the hotel worker while Finn watched, leave him bleeding on the floor while Robert dragged a weeping, dripping Finn to his truck. Robert was smiling in the photo - the edge of his turned-up lips just peeked out from beneath the brim of his cap.

Excited, Finn thought with a flip of his stomach, knowing what he had waiting for him in the hotel.

Highland Peak Police, California State Police, and the FBI are looking for more information on a person of interest in the attempted murder of Kent Reyes on October 15th, 2003. A reward of $100,000 for information leading to an arrest is being offered by the Mountain Motel's owner, Charles Reston, with another $100,000 from Reston's company WRU.

The individual stayed at Mountain Motel from October 14th, 2003, through October 15th. He is described as a white male, with a slim build, approximately 5'10", with dark hair and dark brown eyes, between the ages of 45 - 55.

He drove a blue and white Ford F150 with the license plate V5G667R.

Donations are being accepted for Kent Reyes's family. Ask at the desk about donating or mail checks to-

The words blurred as tears suddenly burned Finn's eyes. He blinked rapidly, wiping at his eyes and clearing his throat.

"Are you okay, man?" The desk worker looked concerned, but Finn's throat had closed, his heart pounding. He tried to open his mouth. No sound came out.

I’m sorry, it’s my fault, it’s my fault-

"Oh, man. Hey." Noah's sympathy was perfect, smoothly focused, and he turned to put a hand on Finn's shoulder, leaning in. Finn knew not to flinch, meeting Noah’s gaze through a blur of sudden tears. "Let’s get into our room, yeah? Sorry," He repeated over his shoulder to the woman. "I'm actually driving my friend home for a funeral. It’s rough.”

"Oh, I'm so sorry. We lost one of our staff recently-“

Finn nearly choked on his guilt.

"My mother… my mother, actually. I mean, she had been sick for a long-… never mind, you don’t need to hear about my family problems.” She waved her hand, and Finn wondered with a jolt that felt like a blade in his ribs if his own mother was still healthy, if she had gotten sick and he hadn’t been there for her.

The desk worker was still talking.

“-plus, we had another just barely survive being attacked before that. I feel you.” She looked up at Finn – she was so short – and gave him a slight smile. “You be upset if you need to. It's just us, right? No problem. I’m right there with you some days. It doesn’t get easier, but it gets… it gets less heavy.”

What if the person who died is me? Does it get less heavy to mourn my own death?

"We appreciate that." Noah spoke before Finn could and squeezed Finn's shoulder once, hard, before he mercifully released his grip. He leaned over to look at the paper, briefly stilling at the image of Robert. Almost immediately, his friendly smile was back - never left, even - and he leaned over at her. "What's this about? Person of interest?”

She craned her neck, then sat back with a sigh. "Oh. That… our hotel manager, Kent. One of our staff… well. It's a hell of a story, but Kent was attacked and shot. He survived, barely, but he's still recovering."

Finn looked up sharply. "He survived?"

Noah shifted, and his fingers closed around Finn's wrist, not quite tight enough to hurt. Just a reminder that he wasn't supposed to talk unless he had to, to keep people from hearing his accent. He had to remind himself that Noah had promised that it would not be like it was with Robert, that he would live a different life now.

But the grip on his wrist made it hard to believe.

The desk worker's smile widened, a little. "He did. He's a hell of a fighter. He's doing physical therapy learning to walk again, he had to relearn… just everything. He has this goal of getting back to hiking by next winter, rock climbing the year after. He's amazing. The medical bills, though… well. I don't suppose you'd like to donate to help his family with the costs?"

Noah looked over at Finn. “What do you think? Should we donate?”

Finn thought of the hotel manager who had looked so worried for him, who had been about to go get him some help. Who, with a few more minutes, might have been able to save him. He gave the slightest, smallest nod, trying to plead with his eyes alone.

Noah sighed, then turned back with his charming smile back in place. "Sure. Add fifty dollars? Will that do any good?"

"Every dollar helps, every single one. Thank you so much." She ran Noah's credit card and then handed over the little key dangling off a piece of plastic with a room number. The sound of metal made Finn a little sick, remembering it in Robert's hand. "Here you go. Room 14, ground floor. You'll get your printed final receipt under your door in the morning. Check-out is at 11, breakfast options are available beginning at 7 am but we clear them out around 10. If you need anything, just pick up your room phone and hit 0, it'll go straight to me." She pointed at her name tag. "I'm Martina Ramirez, you can call me Marty. The night manager will be in around six, her name is Melinda."

"Got it. Thanks!" Noah jerked his head at the door, and Finn started to move, automatically following orders, taking slow, careful steps to minimize his limp.

"By the way-" Marty called out. Finn looked back, heart briefly in his throat. He felt Noah tense slightly beside him.

Marty gave him a soft, sympathizing smile. "I really am sorry for your loss. I’ve been missing my mom a lot these days, she loved this time of year up here.”

His mouth opened, closed again. He managed a half-whispered, "Thank you, I’m sure she’s proud of you," before following Noah the rest of the way out the door.

He appreciated the sympathy, but she didn't know she was sympathizing with the death of Finn.

They stepped back out into the warmth, and Noah took a breath, running a hand back through his hair. "Don't tell me I stopped at the same goddamn hotel. How the absolute hell did I manage that?”

It was the same one. Finn had known from the moment they came up the drive, the long and winding road. But it was… so hard to remember he had a voice. He kept feeling the straps of the muzzle, the pressure over his nose, as if it had never been removed. He hadn’t remembered how to speak in time to say anything about it. "Yeah," He tried, then winced as it came out like yah, unintentionally heavy with his accent. "You did."

"Fuck. Okay. Uh, well." Noah looked over at him, fiddling with the hotel key in his hands. The clinking metal and plastic would drive Finn crazy if it didn’t stop soon. "Can you handle it? We can keep going for a while?"

Finn's eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

"I want you to feel safe. Can you feel safe here?"

The words were all words he knew, but the combination baffled him. "You are… asking me?"

"Yeah. I am. Hey." Noah turned to look at him, and Finn went still, waiting for the screaming, the spit in his face, the terror. Instead, Noah paused, and then said in a low voice, "I promise you, this is not to hurt you. I am not going to hurt you."

"Yes… yes, sir." Finn didn't believe him, but Noah only sighed, glancing at the window to see if the hotel worker was watching them. Marty was on the phone, and it made Finn’s heart go cold. What if she knew, somehow? What if she was calling someone?

What if-

"You know what?” Noah sighed. “Let's just go to our room. We can talk more there." Noah walked to his truck, pulling two duffel bags out of the back, tossing one to Finn, who just barely caught it. He limped more with it in his arms throwing off his balance, but Noah didn't seem to notice. Finn trailed him to the fourteenth door, painted green with gold numbers. With a turn of the key, they stepped inside.

Finn felt his stomach twist at the familiar scent of lemon cleaning products – the same ones Robert used – closing his eyes and swallowing back the pile that threatened to rise even as a cold shiver went down his back. Still… there was no smell of decay and death beneath, and it helped him take one deep breath and then another, through his mouth, stepping into the dim space.

Two queen beds, side by side with a small cheap table between them. A phone, a lamp, a TV on a low dresser and the door to a bathroom at the end. Basic, comfortable, and clean. Finn's hands shook and he dug them into the sides of the black leather duffel bag to hide it.

"You can have the first shower, I'll go later." Noah set his bag on the bedspread and unzipped it, pulling out a thin t-shirt and plaid pajama pants, red and black against the cool pine green comforter. He glanced up at Finn still standing in the open doorway, staring inside "Listen… if this is too hard for you, we can still go somewhere else-"

"It is fine." Finn stepped forward and shut the door with one foot, pretending he didn’t almost lose his balance doing it. He shuddered as the room went dim, goosebumps rising on his arms, the outside light blocked by heavy curtains. Noah flicked on the little table lamp, adding an eerie yellow definition to everything, like a horror movie from decades ago, when everything felt like it had a film of grime over the lens. Finn dropped his bag on the other bed, hoping against hope that he was making the right decision to do so. "Do I… sleep on my own?"

"Yeah, you do. From here on out, man." Noah paused in the midst of pulling out his toothbrush and toothpaste, giving Finn a long, searching look. "Okay, listen. Now that we're alone, I have to admit-"

Finn tensed.

"-you aren't what I expected."

"I-... what?"

"Well, you were supposed to be-... I didn’t expect you to be… you."

Finn felt like he had forgotten every word of English he'd ever learned. He swam in confusion. "To be me?" He looked down at the blue-tinged veins under the thin skin just near his palms. Scarred from cheap scratchy rope but otherwise unmarked. “What did you expect?”

"Well, look. This is kind of a thing I do for work. But it’s all under the table, we don’t make a big deal out of it. Usually I pick up people who… you know what, I'll just tell you. I work with some people who buy or trade trafficking victims we find online and then free them. Usually, we get people who, you know, they got caught up in some bad shit and ended up stuck, they know the people who are hurting them. We can get them into rehab, or whatever, if they still have their passports we can just slip people out of the whole… all of it. Stranger abductions are literally less common than a one in a million chance. Plus... the news.”

“The... news?”

“You’re pretty famous, Finn. There was a nationwide manhunt when you first disappeared. It would compromise our security. You know? If I just go to the cops. Too much attention, too much scrutiny. The only way what we do works is if no one knows what we’re doing.”

Finn swallowed. His heart felt cold. Everything did. "I don't understand."

"No. Probably not, it's… a lot to explain and I’m used to not being able to, I don’t exactly have a speech ready. Just… let's get through the night. Then you and I can talk about what comes next. I'll find you someplace where you can go to the cops yourself, for home, or… whatever you want. Just don’t tell anyone about me, okay?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Okay… okay, good, that simplifies a lot-“

“No, I mean… I don’t want to go home.”

Noah blinked. “You don’t?”

“No. My mother… my mother would have to know he-... She would… that… Ich wurde vergewaltigt. I don't want anyone to know what he did t-to me. I don't want to g-go home." His voice shook so hard he was nearly indecipherable, but Noah didn't interrupt or tell him to shut up, quit whining, to go back in his cage and be silent. "I don't want-... I cannot."

"I understand. I get it, I do… Just… nobody has to make any choices now. It's not going to happen anymore, okay?”

Finn didn’t believe him. But he nodded anyway.

Noah exhaled, roughly. “Okay. Take a shower, I'll head down the road for some pizza or something, and then… you can get some sleep after we eat. You can rest, now, Finn. But… I think you probably want to be clean, first.”

He would never be clean again, but he nodded, throat tight and nearly closed with something between dread and relief. He leaned over and picked out a shirt and pants from inside the bag, travel-sized toothpaste and toothbrush, and went into the bathroom. The light was bright compared to the dim yellow in the room itself, painting everything with unflattering overdone contrast. The lemon smell was stronger in here.

When he saw the tub with its familiar shower head, for a second he felt the water, cold as ice, as it had hit his skin like a thousand knives while Robert laughed. Then he realized that it was a cold sweat breaking out over his skin, trickling down his cheek and the side of his neck. He felt stretched too thin underneath his skin, heart pounding with a dull violence. Terror washed cold down his back, and Finn knew all over again that he was about to die.

The heavy scent of blood and gunpowder surrounded him, his own muffled cries around the terrible gag as the hotel manager had jolted to the side and then collapsed, like a ragdoll thrown by an angry child. He hadn’t moved, after that.

Finn had been sure he was dead.

Robert had been sure he was dead.

Finn had been certain he’d die, too, when Robert had turned to look at him. Somehow, he hadn’t. Somehow, he had survived to be here almost two years later, looking down into the same kind of bathtub, the same shower head, and the same little bottles of travel-sized shampoo and conditioner, the same bar of soap.

He wanted to scream. It tired to tear its way up his throat to escape him, and he couldn’t quite force it back down. Finn swallowed, once and then again, but his heart felt like it would beat itself bloodily out of his chest. His stomach flipped and he turned, throwing himself towards the toilet and slamming the lid up so hard it bounced off the tank and almost hit him in the head as he dropped to his knees.

He leaned his head over and lost everything he had eaten during the drive. He threw up over and over again, until all that happened was his stomach clenching, sour spit and bile and nothing at all left beyond that.

It… helped, a little.

He was shivering by the time he could stop, but his heart had stopped pounding.

“Hey, you okay?” Noah called, voice faint and muffled.

“I am fine!” Finn yelled back, voice ragged and hoarse. “I get carsick!”

It was a patently ridiculous excuse, but Noah didn’t try to ask him to open the door, and Finn had never been so grateful to have someone be silent. He took deep breaths of the little soap in the package on the sink until the fake lavender smell overrode his memories. At least they had changed the scent of soap they used. Eventually, the lavender smell started to make him feel sick, too.

He turned on the shower and locked the bathroom door, shivering under the cold spray until it began to warm. When it was scalding, he scrubbed himself raw, washed his hair with cheap hotel shampoo.

When he came out, hair still dripping and dressed in the new, loose clean clothing with that thrift store smell, the room was empty.

Noah had left a note that said gone for pizza, watch whatever you want while I’m gone.

Finn looked through the curtains to see the truck was indeed no longer in its parking spot.

He could walk right to the desk if he wanted.

My name is Finn Schneider. I was abducted in 2003. My abductor is the one who tried to kill Kent Reyes. Call my mother or the German embassy. Call someone. Call anyone.

I'm not dead.

But in his heart, he knew better.

I knew Finn Schneider. Tell her her son died in October 2003.

His mother’s son never made it out of the house. Whoever he was now, whatever Robert had left after he had scraped Finn clean… he didn't want anyone to see what Robert had made of him.

So instead, he pulled back the covers and climbed into one of the beds. He was already crying by the time his head touched the too-soft pillow, nearly flattening to the mattress at the slightest weight.

He wept, hands over his face, in the silent way he had taught himself to cry inside the cage, until he had no more tears left. Then he took the remote and turned on the television just to have some noise, shivering as he changed channels until he found something other than the news or the sitcoms that Robert loved.

He settled on a cooking show, the voices a dull and comforting nonsense. The bed warmed around him, and he felt his muscles beginning to relax, one by one, against his will. By the time Noah came back with the pizza, Finn Schneider was fast asleep.

He was curled up in a ball, his hands pressed to the lower half of his face, pressing just a little, covering his nose, mouth, and chin.

He hadn't been able to fall asleep until it felt like he was wearing his muzzle.

For whumptober: @whumpworld

Finn tag list: @astrobly @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @whumperfully @pigeonwhumps @squishablesunbeam @darkthingshappen @whumper-soot @pumpkin-spice-whump @pardonmekreature @d-cs @honey-is-mesi @whump-queen @sowhumpful ask if you want to be added to the taglist

94 notes · View notes

whumpingwithclara-alt · 2 years

Text

Hold On Rescue

Thank you thank you thank you to anyone who reads my series. You guys make me incredibly happy so one more time, thank you :) ❤️

3 days out of captivity

tw: Dissociating, referenced past truama, starvation, sleep deprivation, fever, body pains, hypothermia

Previous // ~ Jack Series ~

Nononono. Let go. Let me go, please, PLEASE!

Stop holding me, let me go, let me go.

A wail escaped his throat. The words didn't, of course, but the pained cry did. Which earned a chuckle from somebody.

He flinched heavily. Trying to open his eyes before just sagging into the person that had picked him up.

"Fuck. He's sick." The one trying to pick him up grumbled.

"Sick..?"

"Look at him, Lara. Of course, he's sick."

"Oh. Do you know what it is... or- or how bad?" Her voice dropped to a whisper.

"No. I don't know Lara." He sighed heavily. "Call Kye, I'll need him to pick us up. I am not carrying him all the way home."

"Ok... thank you."

"Mhm." The male picked him up and slung him over his shoulder. Walking away with him. Jack felt utterly useless. Just clinging to him, unable to open his eyes or mouth. "There you go. Hold on to me. Ya, you're pretty sick. Don't worry kid, we'll get some medicine in you pretty soon."

He let a weak whine escape his mouth while nodding, making his head real. He shuddered quietly, drifting off again.

----

When he came too again, he was in a bed. He recognized the softness of the blankets. The way his body sunk into it, unlike a floor which had no cushion to protect from the harshness of it.

"N-no..." He weakly managed. Trying his best to sit up, however, he distantly realized there was a mountain of blankets on him, too weak to push them off, pinning him down. "N-n-no. Please, no, no I'll be be g-good. Pl-please!"

His eyes managed open, frowning weakly, he was not back home. He was in a dark room he didn't recognize. His eyes watered and he sunk back down while crying.

Lara stared at him quietly before running off. "Kye! Kye he's awake."

"Finally. Geez. How's his fever?" He got up from the couch.

"Um... I don't know?"

He let out a soft sigh, barely there, but incredibly detectable to her. "Ok... were you scared to touch him?"

She nodded a little.

"That's ok. Hey. Deep breath. 1-2-3... and out-2-3. There you go." He went to his room and grabbed some medicine before heading in, turning on a lamp in the corner of the room. "Well, good evening."

Jack looked at him while shaking like a leaf.

"Awh, poor fella. Don't worry, we ain't gonna hurt you here. I just am gonna give you some medicine. We think you got hypothermia. And you've had a fever for a few days. Who knows what else but eh." He shrugged easily, setting everything down on the nightstand.

Jack tried desperately to follow, trying to remember what hypothermia even was. Something about being cold... or starving. Something.

Speaking of starving...

Kye sat on the bed next to him, moving his hand to his head. He really didn't have too. Jack's hair was sticking to his head from sweat, but still, he wanted to check how hot he was and shoving a thermometer in his mouth wasn't an option he had available right now. "Mmm."

Jack shivered weakly. Kye's touch was cold and steady. And Jack found himself leaning into it.

"Ok, I'm gonna uncover you. You're burning up."

As Kye pulled the blankets off, Jack whined weakly. "Pl-please d-do... don't-"

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm not gonna hurt you." He chuckled. "I just need you to take this medicine ok?" He was pouring some white liquid into a bottle cap. Chuckling at the face Jack made. "I need you to drink all of it, mkay? I know, I know." He helped him sit up before pushing the cap into his hand.

Jack shakily brought it up to his mouth. Squeezing his eyes shut while taking an exploratory sip. Pausing at the flavor, eyes fluttering open to stare at it.

"Grape." Kye offered. "It's grape flavored."

Jack glanced at him before drinking it, lightly licking what was at the bottom. It tasted like some form of candy. "Ok, one more. This one ain't gonna taste as good, but I know you can be good for me and drink it, right?"

Jack glanced up. "O-ok... ok."

"Good boy." Kye gave him another bottle cap.

He couldn't help the way his heart swelled from the praise. Leaning into the arm and holding him up while drinking it. He made a face but didn't dare complain. This medicine burned his throat a little going down. It smelled just as bad as it tasted.

"There you go." Kye looked up at Lara, she was staring at them from the door. "Laurie come in. It's ok. He won't bite." He chuckled.

She nodded while going over. Jack mumbled weakly while his head sagged. "Is he... is he..."

"No he's not dying. He'll be ok." He chuckled. "He is burning up though. Trying to cool him down by having him under the fan."

She nodded, though it was unsure. "Should I... what should I?"

"Just stay with him. When he wakes up again, I'll need you to come get me... or Ethan."

She nodded, brightening a bit. "I can do that!"

He smiled easily. "Sure you can." He looked down at Jack who was already falling asleep again. "Hm. Poor thing. I wonder who just left him outside the restaurant. I mean, if you're gonna do... that to him, at least give him a room after."

She nodded while sitting down, watching Kye gently lay him down. Pulling the blanket up and over him again, only one this time. "If he starts shaking, I'll need you to cover him up some more. Do you think you can do that, Lara?"

She took a breath before nodding. "Ya..."

"We don't want him getting sick again."

Another breath. "Yes. I can."

"Good girl. Knew I could count on you." He smiled. "I'll need to get him some food when he's up again. Would have this time if he hadn't passed out again so soon."

"What will we get him?"

"Well, he hasn't eaten in several days. But he can't have a massive calorie intake. I made that mistake once, and I'm not making it again... probably a piece of bread to start and then later we can get him some soup. It'll help his throat, though then again, he may throw it up." He pursed his lips. "Hm."

He shook his head. "Ah we'll figure it out. You sure you can watch him Lara?"

"Mhm!" She smiled shyly.

"There you go. Good girl." He gently brushed her hair before leaving.

She relaxed back into the rocking chair she had pulled next to the bed, watching him before going back to reading her book: How To Help Rescues.

Next // ~ Jack Masterlist ~

Taglist: @myst-in-the-mirror @nonsensicalwhump @thelaughingstag and thank you for the prompt @whumpmasinjuly

#whump community #whump #jack series #whump writing #whumblr #tw: dissociating #referenced noncon #fever #tw hypothermia #sleep deprivation #jack hates his voice #Lara the shy rescue #Ethan #Kye #Lara #Jack #yay lol #let me know if I missed anything

8 notes · View notes

aseasonwithclarasblog · 2 years

Text

Lost in a Dream?

Omg I haven’t written for this in so long… I’m sorry to everyone who actually cares about my writing haha. Thank you to @whumpmasinjuly for getting me to actually write this chapter. Everything is still in chronological order. Thanks if you all read it!

No longer in captivity…

tw: Disassociating, referenced rape but no details, starvation, sleep deprivation, body pains, hypothermia, numbness

Previous // ~ Jack Masterlist ~

~~~~~~~~~~

Jack was walking on cold pavement, everything around him had a slight shine from recent rain. The air was fresh and cool. The sun had set, there was still light, yet the world was quickly turning to darkness.

The air hummed a melody he used to know. The business of it. Of people going here or there.

There were adults on dates, hand-holding and giggling. Children running around, their parents trying to keep them in toe. Teenagers, older and younger than him, a group, ran by. Holding skateboards, a couple of them were further behind, on their boards to catch up. He flinched away, their laughter too loud and smiles too bright.

He kept walking on, swearing he could hear music…

In front of him was a red restaurant with white symbols. Perhaps another language, something in his mind tried to reason.

The restaurant door opened as a sweet-looking family left, and the aroma from inside filled the air. It smelled heavenly. He hadn’t eaten for a couple of days and his stomach growled angrily at him.

If only he could control the food portions he was given. He’d be good! He’d be so good he wouldn’t take much, just enough to keep his blood pressure ok. Just twice a day, he’d even skip Lily’s cookies.

He found himself walking over before freezing mid-step. Hand resting above the door handle.

What… am I doing?

Where am I?

He looked at his half-dead reflection before the realization came to him. It was just a dream. He let out a weak laugh.

Just a dream. None of this was real.

Yet, it was a break from the pain and suffering. A time to think about a better place. Then again, he was breaking the rules.

Stop being ungrateful.

Stop trying to escape somewhere else.

Stop pretending you could be normal again. You never were and you neve-

“Excuse me.” A gruff voice behind him. “Are you going inside or aren’t you?”

“I-I’m sorry, S-Sir.” He quickly pulled away from the door.

He rolled his eyes and grunted as he walked past him.

Jack’s head raised at the smell from inside. He was so close.

Why not? Why don’t you escape and give in, just this once?

The voice in his head was so small.

But it was so strong.

Too strong.

And he pushed the door open.

And he walked inside.

And for just one small, victorious moment he stood tall.

Who was he to act so confident? So proud?

He was quickly slouching again, hiding in the corner of the room where the lights were dim.

A waitress grabbed his arm and led him to a table when he failed to realize he was supposed to follow her. Her touch felt nice, like something he could trust. Someone he could lean on…

She was pushing him into a booth.

His mind went empty again, things happening around him. It was a dream he couldn’t quite catch it. And when he came too, he saw a heaping bowl of ramen was placed in front of him, steaming hot.

“Enjoy! If you need me, call me over.” She looked sympathetic to him. He didn’t know why.

He picked up the fork and lightly tried to pick up the noodles, which slipped. Frowning down at the plate, he didn’t wanna eat one or two at a time. He looked around desperately before seeing someone with chopsticks. Looking for his own but did not see any sticks on his table.

He continued to glance before seeing someone stab the noodles before swirling his fork. They collected into a bite-sized amount easy to take a full bite .

Jack smiled weakly, copying them when they did it again before tasting it, and oh-

Why didn’t they allow themselves to dream more often…

The flavor was incredible. And as it’s heat went down his throat he realized just how frozen he was. Bunching up into the booth and hungrily eating, no tiny bites just shoveling the food down. Holding the bowl in his hands. It burned, ha, as if he cared. He was eating a whole bowl of food, hot food. Food made for him. When he was done he slumped against the table. Humming weakly as the sweet waitress came over to get him to pay.

Pay? Pay with what…

You have to pay…?

He panicked quietly. Shaking suddenly.

To greedy. Greedy brat. You shouldn’t have come you shouldn’t…

Things started blurring again.

A man walked over, looking at him with disdain before hearing a sickening crack.

He was with Al, he was sure of it. Al had him in bed again and… he couldn’t remember anything.

And then he woke up. The dream was over. He tried to lift his head but couldn’t. He was soaked… did Veronica push him in the tub again?

It was quieter now. A faint sound of cars now and then and he couldn’t move. Couldn’t manage to stand.

He could lift his head, barely at that. Panting weakly, trying to fill his lungs with air.

Where- he was lost… the restaurant. The red restaurant. Maybe the back of it… it looked different but the amazingly bright red was still visible.

It wasn’t a dream…

He was lost, and alone, and the rain was starting to fall again and he couldn’t move.

So this is how it ends…

~~~~~~~~~~

Written on July 4th, 2022

Next // ~ Jack Masterlist ~

1 note · View note

luveline · 1 year

Note

hihihi! request for zombie steve au! maybe someone at the college bullies reader into thinking she’s not good enough for steve?

just gotta say that I LOVE LOVE LOVE all your works & esp this au 😩 it just does something to me

hi thank you so much for your request! I didn't make it so severe as bullying I don't think, but tw for bullying just to be safe, and suggestive! tw mentioned weight loss <3 zombie!au steve 9k words

The dinner line is long and winding. You and Steve stand elbow to elbow, the smell of refried beans and homemade tortillas near hypnotising.

"I know the tortillas are gonna taste a little weird, I just don't care," you say, the hand you’ve curled around your boyfriend's forearm squeezing enthusiastically.

"Imagine if they had cheese," he taunts.

"Don't be evil, Steve."

His laugh dissappears into the swelling sounds of a hundred conversations. It feels like high school, bodies packed into the same room like a bingo wheel, people bouncing off of one another frenetically as the night turns forward. There's a lot of happy energy in here tonight. You're contributing at least half. Not even Steve's unfortunate truths can get you down. Yeah, you miss cheese a lot, but after a full day in the pantry shift and close quarters to such gorgeous smells, you're ravenous.

Your stomach gives a rumbling groan, and Steve's pressed so close to you that he can feel it. He wraps his arm around your shoulder to kiss the top of your head.

His easy affection sates you for a while. You turn to watch the people already sitting with their meals, jealous but not too much, and find your happiness isn't grudging. You're happy to be here. You won't take this stroke of luck for granted, not again.

You and Steve get your plates, refried beans, roasted greens seasoned with a vibrant red that smells spicy and decadent. There's definitely olive oil mixed in. You thrum with pleasure but wait patiently for steve to collect his own helpings, your cutlery, and finally, your drinks.

Robin sees you coming and waves you down unnecessarily. She's sitting with a dark-haired girl called Vanessa, and another girl you're unsure of. Vanessa had been part of your rescue squad, the team of people who'd fought to bring you back to The College. You'd show her some gratitude if she deigned to look at you.

No matter how snooty you find her, Robin likes her. You try to like her too.

"Hey," you say, putting your place setting down in front of Robin to encourage Steve to her side.

He might downplay it but you know how much he loves her, and how much he'd missed her when they were separated. She's an extremely important part of his life. You wish he'd spend more time with her outside of scavenging and supply runs, but Steve is stuck to you like glue. It's awful and amazing.

"Hi, killer," Robin says.

You scrunch up your nose. "We're still using that?"

"You were impressive!" she emphasises.

Steve puts his drink down before his plate. She's quick to grab it, taking a generous swig as he grumbles and grouches.

"Do you mind?" he asks.

"I don't. Tell your girlfriend you think she was impressive!"

"She knows exactly how I feel about her."

You smile at him. You know more than enough. He's a sweetheart through and through, and though the incident Robin's referencing hadn't been one he loved, he agrees; you'd managed to cut down six zombies all by yourself when they'd split off from a herd that managed to infiltrate community defences, and Steve had thought you were a rockstar. He'd grabbed you, covered in blood and sweat, and asked you why you couldn't just stay inside, and then he'd hugged you for too long, and said later, "My girl's a fucking weapon." Like a nerd.

It's not complicated. Steve had been in danger. You'd wanted to save him, and you'd tried. Turns out he'd be the one to save you… for the hundredth time. But your efforts impressed him.

Impressed everyone, according to Robin.

"Hey, Vanessa," you say warmly.

Vanessa gives you a strange smile in return. Despite mutual friends, Vanessa hasn't warmed to you. She'd been one of the only people who'd volunteered for your rescue squad but you're starting to think that hadn't been because she liked you, exactly. She just couldn't really say no.

"Hey," she says. "How are you?"

Civil you can do easily. You and Steve had been civil for weeks.

"I'm good! Yeah, we heard there were gonna be real tortillas tonight and thought we'd get here early, but everybody had the same idea, I guess."

She laughs politely. "We did."

You wouldn't villainise Vanessa for disliking you. You barely like yourself. And, in your opinion, you'd gotten pretty damn lucky that Steve likes you as much as he does, though a small voice whispers that it'd been a grudging sort of love, like a flower squeezing its way through two panels of sidewalk. A weed that isn't supposed to be there. You worry often and in droves that Steve will come to his senses. He's gonna wake up one day, look at your sleeping face, and realise it isn't enough.

When you'd first joined The College community, you'd thought for sure that was it. Steve was gonna trample your heart once and for all. He never did, of course. The opposite — he'd doubled down. Told you he loved you for the first time, and a second time, too.

And now, miles trekked to get you back, his calf a blistering star of heat where it kisses your own beneath the table, your doubts fade away.

Vanessa doesn't have to like you. That's not the way the world works. With Steve at your side, the rejection barely stings.

You rub your shoe gently against his ankle. He looks up at you, a crazy amount of tortilla in his mouth, and he looks so silly you laugh hard and suddenly.

He covers his mouth.

"I thought you were looking somewhere else," he defends.

"Pig," Robin says, still sipping at his cup of water.

You rub his ankle again. A joke waits at the tip of your tongue, You're lucky I love you. It would feel good to say, but it's not your thing. You've never been outwardly romantic.

His cheeks pink a little under the fluorescents.

For Steve, you can be romantic.

"You're lucky I love you," you say.

There's too much emphasis on 'love', not enough on 'lucky', and the joke refuses to land. Your voice is softer than silk. It's all too sweet.

"More than lucky," Steve says, grinning at you.

You try to put your glass of water on his tray. He puts its straight back on your own.

"Robin's gonna go get me another one," he says.

"I need one for myself," she says, unhappy.

"You have two hands."

"Will you get me a refill?" Vanessa asks.

Christopher, another of Steve's fast friends, slams his tray down next to yours happily. Jonathan is right after him, and then the table's filling up with people: Jonathan's younger brother sits beside him, and the younger brother's friends follow. They're all glued together, you swear. You recognise Dustin in the throng, his chestnut brown curls crushed under a blue hat bragging the Claypole Farmer's Market, wherever that is.

"Steve's getting drinks?" Chris asks.

"For me too, please," Jonathan adds. "And Will, if you don't mind."

"I actually do," Steve says.

"And us!" Dustin says, smirking. "Thank you, oh gracious one."

Steve looks at you for a second, slack-jawed. Can you believe this shit? He stands up, grumbling, and forces his hand between Robin's upper arm and chest to drag her with him.

"Come on, Rob, I can't carry them by myself."

"Steve, please, I'm tired," she moans, her words all lifted and croaky.

"How'm I supposed to carry them by myself? Am I a fucking squid?"

"I'll help," you say, happy to do it, anything for him and at any time.

He puts his hand out to you, a universal gesture for Sit the fuck down. "Buckley will be more than capable." His smile softens. "Thank you."

You pout at him very gently in a kissy face to watch him light up. It's cheesy and rom-com, and it works like a charm. By the time he gets Robin on her feet the tips of his ears are completely blushed, a stark red against the mousy browns and blondes of his hair.

"Hey, Y/N," Chris says, mouth full of tortilla. Boys are all the same.

"Hey," Jonathan echoes, and at least his hand is in front of his mouth, "how are you feeling? They let you back in the kitchen yet?"

"They did. Hopper really didn't like that I broke the lock down rules, but at the same time, I think he understands that I'm a grown up."

Lock down rules being, once a door is shut, it stays shut. Do not give a herd the opportunity to worm its way inside.

But you'd made sure the coast was completely clear, and after Maybelle and Pauline, your fellow kitchen staff, had vouched for that, he'd let you off the hook, and back to work. You hadn't realised how punishing not working could be, especially when Steve had stayed on shift, his time split between scrounging outside of the community and fence duty. There's nothing to stop you from spending the day thinking about what-ifs, which is veritable torture.

"You missed the kitchen? Did you make these?" Chris asks.

You turn to your food and tear off some of the warm tortilla, sighing with pleasure. "No, I'm just kitchen pantry, you know? I'm sorta like an accountant. Like Dora in the armoury, or–" You nod at Vanessa with a smile. "Vanessa. You're in charge of the toiletries and stuff, right, with Cooper and Dean, and those guys?"

She clears her throat. "It's more than 'toiletries and stuff,'" she corrects with a stilted laugh. "It's everything that isn't food. Medicine for the medic, the nursery supplies, the batteries. It's important."

"No, of course! I didn't mean to imply anything else. I can't imagine."

You're sure her smile this time is genuine. You and Vanessa can't seem to mesh because she's a little more serious than you are and your easygoing tone rubs her the wrong way, but you think your explanation makes it up.

She opens her mouth to speak when Dustin leans over the table, projecting his voice down the line. "Y/N! Are you coming to cards club tonight?"

"I don't know, babe," you say, startled at his question. "I thought so. If Steve isn't too tired then yeah, absolutely."

"You can come without Steve," Jonathan says.

"I know," you say, softly so you know he's grateful for the reassurance.

"You're the only one who can beat Will at Yahtzee. You have wicked luck," says Mike, their pale, dark-haired friend, who usually rivals Dustin for hostility. You're glad he seems to like you.

"Yahtzee isn't luck based," says Will.

The entire group groans at the ignition of a familiar argument.

"Robin, if you fucking nudge me again I'm gonna make sure this goes all over you," comes Steve's voice.

You turn in your seat to watch their procession of glasses, at least six between them with not a tray in sight. Robin looks confident, Steve terrified. You jump to your seat to rescue him, taking his third glass from the nestling group so he can pick up his pace.

"Thank you," he says, dipping his head down for a kiss.

You're surprised but never not wanting to be kissed by him, your chin lifting on automatic to reciprocate. You chase him when he pulls away, turning one kiss into two, his lips the tiniest bit chapped against yours. It's a comforting pressure.

You ease away. "Are we going to card club tonight?"

"If you want to, of course we are."

"You aren't tired?"

"You're saying I look ugly."

He glares at you, faux-offended.Your laugh is peeling, infectious to your own ears.

"No!" you deny.

"Right." He tries to be deadpan, sighing in defeat when he can't keep up the illusion. "Shit, I almost had it. S'too bad I'm a sucker for you when you smile like that."

—

Later that night, you and Steve are sitting around the very same tables that have been wiped down with a watery lysol, and you have an amazing three game Yahtzee streak going where nobody can beat you.

Steve's ears are ringing with the clattering sound of dice in the shaker, and he's freezing. It's a great night. He shrugged out of his jacket to lay it over your shoulders, and has to periodically readjust it to stop it from falling to the floor, your arms moving enthusiastically with each new shake.

Steve winces as Dustin makes a fatal mistake. He’s used his two sixes to mark a 12 in the sixes column, holding out for a yacht.

"Dude, the chances of getting Yahtzee are like, one in a thousand," Steve says.

"One in thirteen hundred," you correct, already scooping up Dustin's die to take your turn.

"One in seven thousand and seven hundred for each number," Mike says.

"Ew," Steve says, face slumped into his palm, elbow aching where it's pushed into the table. "You fucking nerds infected my girl."

"It's in the rule book," you say, shaking the circular dice container with your hand on top. You throw them out on the table and assess your given numbers with a frown.

You have three threes and two ones. You keep the threes and shake the other two dice again. Yahtzee had felt complicated when Steve first learned how to play, and now it feels maddening. It's definitely luck based, in his humble opinion, and that has nothing to do with his never winning a game, he swears.

"Does the chance of rolling a Yacht get higher if you keep the dice?" he asks, gesturing to your three threes.

"Yeah," you mumble, throwing your second shuffle out onto the table. "Yeah, but it's pretty negligible, handsome. Goes from point one to point two."

"It isn't negligible," Will denies. "It's probability, not luck, and it isn't point one, it's zero point zero eight, and it can be as high as zero point five. That's one in two hundred."

"That math isn't right," Dustin says.

"Yes, it is."

"No, it isn't."

You throw out your last shuffle and everyone leans in to see what you rolled. Your three threes are kept to one side, and your new rolls clatter to a halt in front of Steve.

"Holy shit," he says.

You rolled two threes.

"Yahtzee!" you cheer, pumping your little fist adorably. Little in that it's smaller than his, and not very little in reality. "Alright, who's next?"

"The game isn't over," Dustin says, peeved.

You peer down his scorecard. He could win, theoretically, if he were to score multiple yachts, or if he'd been careful with his aces, ones, etc.

"Nah, it is," Steve says. "Take it like a champ, Henderson."

Dustin refuses to give up, playing until the end. You score a solid 319 to his less impressive 178.

Steve robs your hand before you can agree to a rematch, forcing you to unfurl your tensed fist. He loves doing this — he presses the tips of his thumbs into the sides of one of your fingers and pushes down. It must hurt a teeny tiny bit but you never say a word, only giggle at his touch and lean toward him like you might tell him a secret. He would lament how much time he wasted being an asshole to you if he had the wherewithal. As it is, he's enchanted with you, and he isn't casual about it, pushing all of your anxiety down to your fingertips. He brings them to his mouth and kisses them each in turn.

You pull your hand away. He thinks you're standing up to leave the table, but you're moving closer to him and straightening your back. He can picture the ache between your shoulder blades as it is between his own, the weird raw feeling, a tightness.

"Want a neck massage?" he asks as you place your hand against his cheek.

You brush your thumb over his stubble. "Do you want a neck massage?" you ask, unperturbed by his sudden question. His jacket threatens to slide onto the floor.

"Are you offering?"

"Not in cards club." You look over his shoulder. "We could play poker."

"The buy-in's too expensive."

"What?" You frame his face with your hand. He's not sure you know you're doing it. "We can spare it, isn't that why we brought it?"

Buy-in tonight is a bar of soap. Half the time everybody goes home with what they brought anyways, so you're obviously not worried.

You squeeze his cheek and laugh. "You'd be cute if you were chubby."

He grabs your hand, face warped by an irreplaceable joy, a delight to have you and be with you, a sparkling kind of lightness to know you're safe and happy here. He kisses your cheek, and says, smushed up against your skin, "You're cute."

"Thank you."

He hums. "So. Poker?"

—

You have a small sink in your room with a hot and cold faucet, though no matter which one you choose, the water comes out cold. It chills your face as you scrub. When your face is reasonably wet, you lather the bar of honey soap Steve insists on keeping at the side of the sink between your fingers before dropping it imprecisely into your boyfriend's waiting palm. He laughs under his breath at the clumsy manoeuvre.

You listen to him do the same as you had as you soap your face. You give special attention to your nose, your eyebrows, and your ears. Steve laughs again as you work a small towel behind them.

"What's funny?"

"Nothing." He holds his hand out for the towel, patting down his face with less ardency. He isn't less clean for it. "You have suds under your nose. Tiny moustache."

He reaches for it with the towel, lifting your face with the back of his hand under your chin. His eyes are their forever warm brown, fixed on your top lip with a dedication that makes your baseline fondness for him surge.

"I was pretty bad at poker, huh?" you ask.

"No?" He dries a lingering stretch of dampness painting your cheek before dropping the towel behind the faucets. "You didn't win. Doesn't mean you were bad."

"Vanessa said I should stick to Yahtzee," you tell him. You pause, wanting his input, and worried you're feeling offended by something that isn't inherently offensive.

"Vanessa should stick to lawn darts," he says, chucking you under the chin.

He starts to pull his pants down like it's no big deal. It isn't, not after so many months together, you've seen him do worse in worse states than this, but it feels forbidden anyhow to watch him climb into bed.

"Could you pass me my sweatpants?" he asks, face turned into the pillow, his shoulders deflating.

"You're decompressing without me."

"Am not." He pushes his hand under the pillow, shoulder blade shifting under his shirt noticeably. "Hurry and decompress with me."

You throw his sweatpants at his calves and he does a sort of vertical dance to put them on, one leg then the other, lifting his hips and dropping heavily back into the sheets when he's done. He looks at home. His relaxation catches you off guard, a pleasure to see even if it isn't strictly new. He feels safe here with you.

"She's good at those darts," you say.

"And shit at poker," Steve says agreeably. He lifts his head off of the pillow. "Are you coming in or are you gonna sleep standing up tonight?"

You shimmy out of your stiff jeans and try not to feel the huge weight of his eyes on your skin. It's an impossible task, and you fail immediately.

"Stop looking at me."

"M'not."

You glare at him, find him absolutely looking at you. Your glare fades when you realise how loving his gaze is, how it doesn't waver for a second. He pushes the sheets down on your side of the bed and waves his arm for you to get in.

You pull on your pyjama pants and take off your bra, climbing into bed beside him. He wraps his arm around you quickly, or rather under you, his bicep crushed by your shoulders. Chills prickle against your skin as he cups the flesh just shy of your breast. If Steve wanted to touch you like that, he could. You want him just as much as you don't, content to cuddle with him, content to kiss like teenagers with nowhere to go tomorrow, content to do worse. He spreads his fingers over your torso, pinky nudging the underside. You'd let Steve touch wherever he liked, and he'd enjoy doing it, you think. That's a gift in itself such casual intimacy.

"Vanessa, is she…" Steve's minty fresh breath pushes over your face like a small gale. "She's not picking on you, is she?"

You like to be honest with Steve, and you want to be honest now — I don't know. But you hate thinking he'd have to look after you more than he does already.

"No," you say, "we just aren't a good fit."

"Like a puzzle?" Steve asks sceptically.

"Guess my pieces are a little warped after spending so much time with you."

He laughs like you're the funniest girl he's ever met, a big breathy sound with the punch of his voice behind it. "Guess they are," he says, hand climbing higher over your chest. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Never," you say lightly.

He smiles at you. You forget Vanessa's out of place comments, her weak smiles, her for-show friendliness in front of Steve. She doesn't really matter in the grand scheme of things, and letting her dictate your thoughts in gorgeous, glowing moments like this would be a waste.

"Love you," you whisper.

Steve nestles into the space under your jaw. He doesn't fit but he does, of course he does, he's your everything. If that's where he wants to sleep tonight, so be it. You turn into his grasp to take the pressure off of his arm and return his gentle hugging, forcing his face closer so you can breathe in the smell of his hair.

"Love you," Steve says. He kisses your neck chastely. "Turn the light off?"

You reach back blindly and switch off the lamp. Everything will be okay as long as you have your boy. Right?

—

Vanessa gets worse. She makes neutral comments with enough friendliness to make you wonder if she's truly being cruel? Am I just looking for a fight? What do I want?

Maybe it's Vanessa's clear preference for Steve. You could be jealous. You aren't sure what jealousy feels like in relationships until she's touching him when she doesn't need to be and smiling at him like he hung the moon. She doesn't go overboard, though. She keeps her hands mostly to herself. She goes as far as to tell Steve that she thinks you're beautiful.

You don't know how to explain your reservations to him if he can't already see it. If she'd really thought you were beautiful, surely that's something she could say face to face, rather than the unhappy little nod she gives you whenever you cross paths? Despite evidence suggesting it, you don't think Vanessa's trying to make a move on Steve.

She's a bit of a bitch, but that's not a crime. Unfortunate? Yes. Illegal? No. Immoral? You aren't sure.

It's her most obvious dig yet that manages to grab Steve's attention a second time since the poker incident.

"I couldn't let my eyebrows grow out like yours," she says, voice bubbly with a faked awe, "I think it's super cool of you."

"Vanessa," Robin says, eyes on her plate, an inquisitive twist to her voice that you've come to know as her sarcasm, "we're in the apocalypse."

Steve, who'd seemed torn between speaking up and genuinely confused about the comment Vanessa'd made, chokes on his food beside you, soup dribbling down both corners of his mouth as he laughs. You wipe the corners of his mouth with your long sleeves.

"Jeez, you're like my baby," you say. Your voice is occluded by Jonathan's silvery giggles.

Steve swallows roughly, "I resent that."

He still lifts his chin so you'll rub the bead that's escaped down his throat.

Vanessa ends up laughing too, says, "I think I'm just crazy tired," punctuated with a high-pitched laugh.

"Honestly, me too," you say, because maybe she is, and maybe she needs just a little smidge more benefit of the doubt.

"I've been keeping her up," Steve says smugly.

"He still making you read that King book? The Gunslinger?" Jonathan asks. "Will wants it whenever you're done."

"Every night," you say.

You're pretending it's a chore because that's what you and Steve always used to do. These days room for sincerity is much larger, but it's fun to give him a hard time when, at the end of the day, you'll crawl into bed together and tuck his face into your neck, flipping to the dog-eared page of your worn paperback to read in dulcet tones until he's a dozing weight warming your skin.

Steve looks for your hand under the table and lets your small group of friends laugh at him. Chris makes a whipping sound through the corner of his mouth. It's surprisingly accurate, and it makes you laugh worse, leaning your weight into Steve's arm for support in an action so familiar it's entirely thoughtless.

"It's not that funny," he murmurs, breath tickling your forehead.

"M'not laughing," you say.

You are most definitely laughing. It's a good moment, even if Vanessa's comment sticks around underneath to nibble at your heart.

He doesn't let your hand go for a really long time. Not when you're taking the plates up to the dirty dishes trolley, or on the walk back to Little Hawkins' with everybody in high spirits. He struggles to unlock your door one handed and he's still insisting when you try to tug away from him.

"Let me make the bed."

"We're getting back in 'n like, ten minutes."

"You're tired?" you ask.

"No. I just wanna lay down with you."

He says it simply. Concise, with neither affection nor anything less. It's damn near factual. Steve just wants to lay down with you, out of everything in the world he could do. He could be haunting Robin's room, stealing snacks from under her bed and claiming them as bribes for not tattling on her to Hopper. He could be with Dustin in the new rec room —aptly labelled Nerd Club, when put to a vote— arguing on how to spend the valuable alloted half hour of TV time.

He could stay with you and insist on other things. Reading. Self-defence. A walk around the community. Sex. An early night. A cold shower.

But he's content to lay with you, to share one another's space without asking for anything else.

Though you won't rule everything out. His kisses lately are a lot more than you're used to.

"Let my hand go, you fiend!" you declare, overcome with a rush of affection for him. "I'm gonna make the bed and we're gonna lay down and then after that we're gonna go bother Robin."

"You know, I'm not sure I like this you and Robin thing."

You tug your fingers from his. It's like trying to escape a sticky fly trap.

"You mean us being friends?" you ask.

You throw all of your throws and pillows onto the ground and grab your thick quilt, shaking it out over your mattress as Steve groans.

"Exactly!"

"I thought you wanted me to have friends?"

"Of course I do, you word-twisting douche."

"Nice, nice. Dustin or Mike?"

"I stole that one from Will, thank you very much."

"See! You have upwards of four friends, Steve, and I'm not allowed to have any?"

He grabs you from behind. You drop the quilt with a sigh, going limp as a fish in his arms. He staggers backward under your dead weight but manages to keep you up, breath tickling the inside of your ear as he says, "No, you're not. Just me." He kisses your ear.

"I tried that and everyone got mad at me."

"No, they didn't."

They really didn't. You cover his arm with your fingers, rub your fingertips over the hill of his arm. His arm hair is soft.

"Steve."

"What?" he asks, his hands crawling down to cover your stomach.

"Don't squeeze me."

"You're very squeezable."

"I was way more squeezable before, remember."

You'd lost some weight from the start of the apocalypse to now. Steve hates it. You're perfect, he'd said once, no matter what. But still, he laments your lost weight for what it represents — times where you and he had struggled to survive.

"I'm working on that," he promises.

You turn your face, shifting in the circle of his arms to meet his eyes. He has gorgeous eyes. You'd admitted that to yourself a long time ago but each time you really stare into them it takes a moment for it to settle. He is a pretty, pretty boy.

He's looking at you with a soft smile. Then, for a split second, you swear his eyes rove up to your brows. It's more than likely your imagination.

"Let me finish making this bed," you say, turning back to the discarded pile of pillows and blankets.

"You want your jammies?"

You snort happily. "Yeah, sweetheart. Lay 'em out for me, please."

—

For the last week or two, Steve has noticed a change in you. You've changed a lot since you met him (for the second time). You've gone from prickly and distant and somewhat distracted to determined, vigilant. You may not come on scrounging missions outside but you're brave, and you've survived more than he ever wanted you to have to go through.

This change is distinctive. It's like you've reverted to how you acted when you were more friend than girlfriend; you're self conscious.

He really hates it.

He can't work out what he did, or what happened, but it sucks. He sucks.

"There has be be something you want," he says.

You're standing with him by the south fence. He and his team are about to head out for the shopping mall for as many blankets as they can carry.

"I just want you to be careful," you say.

You look tired. It's early in the morning, and you'd woken up earlier still. Your hair is freshly washed from a cold shower.

You're still not comfortable showering without him, but of course the other girls aren't comfortable with him sitting in there when they're naked. You've had to schedule your showers for the dawn hour.

"I'm gonna be careful for free," he says, pulling at a wet strand of your hair. He scratches lightly around your ear before hooking his fingers underneath it, his thumb drawing from your cheek to your lips. "Pick something you want and I'll find it. You know, Robs said we might be able to pass by a real small cherry garden on the way home. Do you–" He should know this. Why doesn't he know this? "Do you like cherries?"

Thankfully, you laugh at his question and let your face fall into his hand. He thumbs your ear lobe gently.

"I don't want anything at all. 'Cept for you to be extremely careful," you say.

He pulls you in for a hug, smashes a messy kiss to your head, and tries to pull away because he's cool and the guys are watching.

You're less quick. You rub your cheek against his chest.

"Please, Steve," you whisper.

He frowns. There's something you're not telling him. He wishes you would, but clearly you don't think you can. He's gonna try to do whatever it is he needs to do to get you there.

Steve takes your face into both hands.

"I will be super careful, dummy. That's my middle name, I'm Steve Careful Harrington," he says.

"I thought your middle name was Danger?"

He kisses you. "No? Who told you that?"

Your laugh is pretty enough to keep him smiling for most of the hike to the mall, until Robin says, mid sentence, "–Jeez, you're pathetic."

Pathetic for you is something he doesn't necessarily mind being, but pathetic in general he cannot abide. He spends the rest of the hike stepping on the sides of Robin's shoes as she retells the plot of Murder on the Orient Express. Steve had seen the movie once but he's never read the original novel. Lucky him, Robin had an Agatha Christie phase when she was twelve, and she knows all the best parts.

Hike is a strange word considering all of their walking is through steep roads. They move past rundown cars, streets and streets of abandoned houses scraped clean. There's an elementary school with a rusted playground in front. Vegetation has already started to spread through the packed wood chip flooring, and one of the swings has a broken chain. Steve hadn't realised how quickly human things fell into disrepair when attacked by the elements and left maintenance.

The mall is a better example. Smashed glass lays around the entrance in tiny pieces like a huge back of upturned sugar, and bluegrass eats its way between paving stones. The team consists of eight people, including Steve, Robin, Christopher, and one of the College's co-leaders, a mister Jeremy Livingstone. They make their way carefully through the glass and grass in a wave of crunching footsteps to the front of the mall, where Steve wedges the flat blade of his knife between the automatic doors and works them open. When there's enough room for a second hand, Chris slides in beside him, and they work the doors open. Steve's biceps are burning by the time they're inside the mall.

"Alright, guys," Jeremy says. "There's a bedding store toward the back of the mall. We'll go there first, and then we'll try to work through the list of requests. Blankets and sheets are our second priority. Staying safe and alive is first. Only grab what you know you can carry, you can bring back whatever you want, just… don't be greedy. Alright?"

They head out for the bedding store at the back.

"How much stuff can we carry?" Robin asks him. "I have weak arms. I'm a weakling."

"Isn't there uh, a fancy storage place? We could drag a suitcase back."

"For two hours?"

"Is it two hours? Livingstone! You want me and Robin to grab some suitcases?"

Everybody fills a suitcase with sheets and blankets in plastic wrap. The brand new stuff feels like a luxury, and Steve dibs a double mattress bedspread made of Egyptian cotton, knowing that'll make you smile. Now he's got your mattress up on those crates from behind the cafeteria, your room has really come together. Blankets and trinkets and sweet glassware. You have a small shelf of books, your clothes, your pens and pencils.

Steve'll bring you anything you want, only you don't seem to want anything at all.

He'll just… have to bring you some of everything.

—

Your tears taste salty. You feel gross for licking a tear off of your top lip but nobody's around to see you do it; Steve might not be home until dark. You have time to get this upset out of your system.

You'd been asked by Maybelle to swing by Armoury and Amenities, an unofficial name for the building where the community keeps the bulk of its collective resources, for a new propane tank. You'd gone inside, said hi to Cooper, said hi to Vanessa, explained why you needed the propane, and left.

Or, you'd tried to leave. The propane tank was heavy, and the front door had been difficult to open one handed. You'd swung it open, quickly put your hand back on the tank to stop yourself from dropping it, and watched in frustration as the door slammed closed before you could worm your way out.

"She's the one who got, like, taken?" came Cooper's voice, pretty much as soon as the door stopped bouncing. His voice echoed from the next room.

"Sure, taken."

You'd stilled instantly.

"What, you think she wanted to go?"

Vanessa sighed. "No, I don't think so. She didn't try very hard to come back, s'all I'm saying."

"Chris says Harrington's infatuated with her. Like he's under a spell," Cooper said, chuckling.

"It's gotta be some kind of magic, she's… Well, God knows he'd have his pick if he came back to reality. You have the catalogue? I wanna note the propane before I forget."

And that had been that.

You don't understand why Steve loves you, sometimes. You know he does. It isn't up for questioning. Love with Steve is a lot of things — long talks in the mornings about anything and everything, his fingers tucking your shirt into your jeans. It's him pulling your hood over your eyes whenever he's behind you and laughing when you grumble. It's hiding in places you shouldn't be, hand in hand. It's miles of Indiana highway. It's heart-racing anxiety that one of you might not make it to the end. Love with Steve is a devotion: he takes care of you. He's taken care of you ever since you met.

You haven't stopped to wonder if you deserve it in a long time.

I don't, you think, half tears and all heartbreak. You don't deserve it. You don't deserve Steve. He's too good, the kind of good that starts life in the marrow of bones. He's sweet and soft-handed with a softer heart. He looks like a dream, and it shouldn't matter but it does. His voice is the only one you like waking up to, his lips hovering by the shell of your ear.

Time to get up, dummy. Rise and shine, angel. Baby, come on. We slept in, loser, and you need to get dressed. Hey, are you listening to me? I miss you, wake up.

"Y/N?" Steve asks, trying the handle.

You flinch hard, and your heart jumps with you. A flip flop somersault feeling in your chest that plummets to your stomach. You scratch madly at your cheeks with two woollen sleeves and stand up as he opens the door.

"Hey," Steve says, and he's safe, he's alive and well and home again.

He stands in the doorway with a bulging rucksack on his back, windbreaker zipped tight to his neck, hair a windblown mess. His nose is red from the cold and his cheeks are ice-bitten, though the colour is coming back to his skin slowly.

You don't feel as though you deserve him but you can't help yourself from springing into his chest, arms around his waist before he can blink. Before he can see the wet mess of your face, and your tear swollen eyes.

"Hey," he says again, leaning a great deal of his weight over your shoulders. He sniffs your hair. "Hey dummy. Told you I'd get home fine, huh?"

You try not to breathe too loudly against his chest. The fabric of his coat is stiff and cold, a contrast to your heated skin.

"Hey," he says, for a third time. This time it's all powdered sugar soft. Concern and exhaustion wrapped together. "I know, I'm sorry it took longer than usual. It's my fault, I wanted to get you something 'n' I made us all late coming home, I know you worry."

You don't answer again. You don't know how to explain it to him. You can barely understand it yourself. You cling to him and his solid mass until he gives in, his mouth pressed to your temple, his arms tightening behind your head. He shields you from the world for a handful of long, stolen minutes. There's nothing but his hugs, no sound to battle the plastic sounds of his windbreaker or the blood rushing between your ears.

"I didn't mean to worry you," he murmurs.

You don't trust your voice to come out whole.

He freezes under your touch. A slow hardening. His hands pause where they'd been rubbing short, featherlight lines.

"I'm sorry," you say, enthusing your tone with some self-deprecating cheer. "You're tired, I'm sorry. You wanna sit down."

"I really do." He laughs.

You peel away from him, the two of you sheepish and awkward and it's so unlike you, unlike him. You think you've made a fool of yourself as he takes off his rucksack, laying it carefully on the floor by the bed as you turn to your shared dresser and rummage through the top drawer for some clean clothes for him to take when he showers.

You've freaked him out, and he thinks you're a weirdo, and he's gonna realise you don't deserve him and you never could. You're bad at nearly everything, and you're a total slob, and you should've tried harder to get back to him, and it's all your fault. Misery grips you and drags you down hard. It spirals, surface level comments from a shallow, jealous girl, they twist and twist until you feel wrung out and useless. And now Steve's home, and you're–

"Are you mad at me?" Steve asks.

You wince and face him, his sweatpants pressed to your chest. "What?"

"You're not talking to me, and you only ever used to do that when you were mad."

You pass him his sweatpants, clear your throat. "Stevie, I'm not mad at you."

"Then what's up?" He unzips his windbreaker, keeping his eyes on you. "I know it's something."

You force yourself to keep a mild smile. You can't think of a lie — you don't want to lie.

Steve frowns as your face crumples, a large palm leaping to the curve of your neck.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

You can't align this Steve with the one you knew in Hawkins. He's so different. Or maybe he isn't different at all, and you're lucky to see the depth of his feelings, the expanse of his goodness and his heart and his secret smile, corners pulled up and eyebrows pushed down just so. It says, You're okay, because we're gonna do this together. The world will keep spinning for us as long as we want it to.

"I had a bad day," you say.

"Are you sure? I've seen you on some bad days, baby. This doesn't feel like that, you know? And I get that I don't always know what to say, but I promise I wanna know. Whatever it is that's been making you all grumpy."

His smile glows, his eyebrows rising. His teasing tone toward the end of his reassurance is a lightness you cling to.

Lately, everything has felt so heavy.

"I'm worried I don't…" Even attempting to say it has your throat aching. You cover his hand with yours. "Steve, I– I feel bad lately. I feel like I'm bad."

He shakes his head, strands of his brown hair unsticking to dance in front of his eyes. "You're not bad."

"I don't deserve you."

He stares.

"Being with you now, having you look after me, I didn't deserve you when I met you." A tear gathers in the line of your lashes. "I don't deserve you now. I'm just me, I'm useless, and you don't have to be with me and I've," —you take in a shuddering breath, and step away from Steve's hand— "been trying to work out why you're still with me and it doesn't make sense. Why do you stay with me?"

"That's a stupid question," he says.

You try to swallow a lump. It stays right there in your throat.

"I got a policy against stupid questions, remember?"

"Steve…"

He cuts you off, tangling his fingers with yours, and easing you close until his breath is warming your lips and you can see the honey-browns that circle his pupils. They feel bigger the longer you look at them.

"How can you ask me that?" he says gently. "You know how much I love you… Right?"

You nod and knuckle a tear off of your cheek. "I know," you say, and you're crying now, little bubbling sobs that wobble your shoulders.

"Listen, if I haven't been showing it I'm sorry, and I'll prove it to you. I don't want you to question it."

"It's not you," you say, pressing your forehead to his collar, craving his comfort so much that you don't care if you don't deserve it.

"Everybody knows that line is a lie," he says.

"I'm not lying. Everybody knows I'm the part that doesn't fit."

"Who's everybody?"

You try to backtrack and pull away, but Steve won't let you this time. "I'm just having a bad day," you say, "and you've had a long one–"

"Stop it." Steve looks at you seriously. He takes your face into both hands, like he always does when he's worried. "I don't care if I crawled home with two broken arms, loser. I gotta know what's wrong. All of it. And you need to tell me."

He thumbs at your damp cheeks.

"Okay," you mumble, embarrassed and relieved at once. "I'll tell you."

You insist that he take his shoes off and stretch out in bed even though he's got dirty jeans on, and he doesn't wanna get your nest of throw blankets dirty, so he peels out of them and sits in his boxers at the top of the bed. You slide in next to him, and he works his arm over your shoulder, and you cry like a baby when he calls you honey under his breath.

—

"And these are for you, too," Steve says, pulling a slightly smushed box of cherries from the bottom of his rucksack.

You look beautiful. Afternoon sunlight drips in from a crack in the curtains, kissing up and down your smiling cheeks. Your eyes are still puffy, but your smile hasn't moved all morning.

"You didn't get anything for yourself?" you ask, though any outrage for him you harbour is hidden by your awe. "I don't remember the last time we got fresh fruit, and you didn't even put them at the top of the bag."

"You're such a whiner. Just try one."

Your fingers play delicately over the punnet of cherries. The cherry garden had had a lot of supplies left to 'borrow', and after a sickly half an hour of him and Robin staining their teeth, he'd managed to grab a perfect box's worth for you. Perfect before they got squished, that is.

"You should have the first one," you say.

"No," he says, and shoves the box at your calf. "They're for you. If you like them, I want you to eat all of them and throw up like a godzilla."

"Not sure you're remembering that movie right," you murmur, plucking one of the cherries out of the box.

You bite into the cherry and your eyes screw up. "Oh wow, that's sour. I don't…" You finish chewing, and Steve is rocketed to cloud nine when you go in for a second cherry, and then a third.

Last night had been tough. Steve spent a long time talking you down from what'd been sewn into your head, and he'd pulled the truth from you in strings. Vanessa had been cruel to you on more than one occasion now, which Steve had known but not to the full extent, and her last comment had been too much. Steve, unapologetically, hates her.

But Vanessa isn't the sole problem.

You're having a really hard time. All of this has been so much for you. It is, in Robin's words, the fucking apocalypse, and between nearly starving to death and all the shitty things that have happened to you, he isn't surprised to find you're fragile. And he doesn't say fragile, meaning weak. He doesn't know a lot about the world but he knows the human brain and body isn't built for this. You're his girl, and you're hurting, and while he knows objectively this isn't his fault, he vows to do a better job at protecting you.

He won't fail you again. He can't.

He watches cherry juice escape out of the corner of your mouth.

"You're cute," he says. "Where's the disposable? Pass it over."

"You are not taking a photo of me right now, baby."

"You look beautiful."

"When will we ever get the photos developed, anyway?" you say, laughing, kissing juice off of your fingertips.

He leaps for the camera and tussles you when you fight back. You laugh and lose, weak with giggles as he holds you away, his fingers pressing into the soft plush of your waist.

"Jonathan does all of that stuff," Steve says knowingly.

He gives you a little shove. You cover your face with your hands, words muffled, "Thought the camera was for me?"

"We're sharers. We share things. Look, if you don't smile for me I'm gonna take a picture of you in your underwear."

You throw your hands over your lap and he snaps a photo of your shy face.

"Shithead fucking pervert," you say.

Steve knows he's off the hook when you laugh.

He's gonna give Vanessa the coldest shoulder anyone has ever given, and if she were a guy Steve would defend your honour in a more physical manner. He'd suggested a verbal defence last night but you'd begged him to never, ever bring any of it up to Vanessa or your friends. It startled him —you have nothing to be ashamed of— but he'd agreed. Whatever's gonna make you happy is, perhaps cornily, what he wants to do.

Right now, making you happy is gifts on the floor of your tiny shared bedroom, pantsless but, fascinatingly, with socks. He points the camera at your ankles.

You grab the new blanket he'd given you and drape it over your legs. "Pervert," you reiterate.

He puts down the camera.

"Not my fault they made you perfect."

"Who's they?"

Steve shrugs, and can't keep the smirk off of his face as he says, "They made every damn inch of you perfect, especially but not limited to your pretty eyebrows."

Your smile settles into something more timid. You push your hill of gifts aside, careful not to spill your cherries, and walk the short distance on knees to wrap your arms around his neck. Your face fits into the curve of his neck exactly the way it always will. His hand cups your lower back.

"Love you, Harrington," you say.

"How much? 'Nough to let me have some of the cherries?"

You shake your head gently, the tip of your nose bumping his Adam's apple. "No…" you say apprehensively.

"No? You don't wanna share with me?"

"No." Your mumbling is adorable. Steve wants to eat you alive, or at the very least kiss you until you turn to jelly in his arms.

If he starts now, he can be done by dinner.

"Five seconds to change your mind. After that I'm taking all of them by force. Five, four, three…"

You shriek, and even your shrieking is a sound he wants to hear. You drop away from him and grab the cherries, cornering yourself too fast as you stagger to your feet and hide by the desk. Shoulders against the cabinet, you grab up one of your rare books like a shield, and you glare at him over the cover.

"You said they were for me!" you say, real panic in your voice. You know from experience Steve will tickle you until you can't breathe.

"They are for you! I love you," he says, words dripping with a false sincerity (though he loves you, undeniably). "I'm just trying to help you, sweetheart. You don't want my help?"

"You keep your help away from me, beast."

It doesn't take him nearly as long as he'd thought to melt you. He tickles you, and he steals a handful of your precious cherries, and when he kisses you dizzy it leaves red-pink splotches over the column of your neck, his smile temporarily printed into your skin.

—

ty for reading <3 I hope you enjoyed, and if you did pls consider reblogging <3<3

#steve zombie!au #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #stranger things

927 notes · View notes

miscellaneoussmp · 3 months

Text

Holy shit, a proper fanfic? It's more likely than you think. I'm normal about hgduo, I'm so normal about hgduo and that's why I wrote this. Anyways, here's Cellbit throughout the years (cw/tw: blood/violence/death mentioned/referenced throughout, general Cellbit fuckery, highly repetitive narration):

Cellbit is just thirteen. Well, in actuality, he doesn't know his name, and his age is just as obscure when he meets Badboyhalo. The demon teaches him all sorts of things like how to not waste food, words to use instead of swears, and a fun game. 'Fetch' Bad calls it. Cellbit thinks the demon is lying to him sometimes. He laughs every time Bad yells at him for swearing, but he tries not to most of the time. It's not his fault that he didn't see that arrow, or maybe it is? Bad teaches him to be aware of his surroundings.

Cellbit is sixteen, well in actuality he still doesn't know his name instead Bad calls him a flurry of assorted nicknames ('Little one' the demon seems to settle on when he thinks Cellbit is sleeping. In reality, he doesn't sleep). He doesn't know how long it's been when he loses sight of Bad. He thinks he must be feeling empty. Alone, maybe? He doesn't know. He walks off the battlefield with an iron knife in hand and the taste of iron in his mouth.

Cellbit is just nineteen. Well, in actuality, people call him Cell, and he finally knows how old he is as the courts seemed hellbend on proving his age when he sits across from a psychologist. They seem nervous, maybe it's the mutliple armed guards? Who knows, certainly not him. They ask him a very simple question: Why? Cell answers truthfully for once, "A demon told me not to waste food, so I don't." He shrugs like it's the most mundane thing in the world, and to him, it is.

Cellbit is twenty-six when the cargo ship he snuck on runs aground. He tries his best to ignore the looks from nervous brown eyes and pissed off green eyes. He introduces himself with his full name in front of the people who live on this island. One of those people is Bad. It feels nice to know that his oldest friend now knows his name. Cellbit meets his son for the first time, and he thinks the world of the little one.

Cellbit is twenty-six when he thinks he's fallen in love. Cellbit is twenty-six when he makes the worst decision in his entire life. Cellbit is twenty-six when he wakes up with a white streak in his hair. Cellbit is twenty-six when he gets engaged. Cellbit is twenty-six when he gets married.

Cellbit is twenty-six when his son goes missing along with the rest of the children on the island. Cellbit is twenty-six when he pushes himself headfirst into looking for any clue possible. Cellbit is twenty-six when he meets his sister. Bagi is twenty-six when she finds her brother. Why did she get to be happy? Why did she not find him sooner? She wasn't. She tried, and she was so close. Cellbit is twenty-six when he gives up his knife to Bad. He'll get better use out of it. Cellbit is twenty-six when he picks up a different blade. His mouth is filled with the taste of iron again. He wants his son back. He wants the children back. Rage consumes his very soul. Bagi is twenty-six when she realizes her brother is the murderer. 'Is he proud?' The question goes unanswered. Cellbit is twenty-six when he feels thirteen again. "Do you like it?" He asks, his voice far too soft. "You've gone soft." He hisses to his oldest friend. Cellbit is twenty-six when he confesses murder to his husband.

Cellbit is twenty-six when he enters hell for the second time in his life. Under the red sky feels like home. He feels alive. This time, Bad is his enemy. Cellbit is twenty-six when his son dies. Cellbit is twenty-six when he takes a final ten seconds to say goodbye. Cellbit is twenty-six when he hunts people down for fun with Baghera. Cellbit is twenty-six when he's sure the demon is lying to him. He feels empty again. Cellbit is still only twenty-six when he and Baghera are rescued by their children. A fresh start. Cellbit still feels empty.

Cellbit turns twenty-seven, and he celebrates. He celebrates with his son, his niece, and his oldest friend. They celebrate with fighting mobs.

Cellbit is just twenty-seven when his oldest friend, Bad, forgets his name. Cellbit is just twenty-seven when his mentor, Bad, forgets to write a letter. Cellbit is just twenty-seven when the question he asked long ago is answered. 'I'm proud of you, you know that, right?' Cellbit doesn't even know. Cellbit has just turned twenty-seven when the person who knows him the best, Bad, dies. Cellbit doesn't even know.

#qsmp #qsmp fanfiction (sorta)#qsmp drabble #qsmp writing #qsmp cellbit #qsmp badboyhalo #qsmp hgduo #qsmp mocking jays #i just i could be normal for five seconds #i hope yall enjoy!!! it's been a while since i posted a proper fic

53 notes · View notes

aftgficrec · 1 month

Note

oh i caught you open! can we get some either andrew & kevin or neil & kevin being best friends and supporting each other? i feel like they're not explored enough and the potential is right there :)

Luckily, Kevin and Andrew’ friendship is a topic the fandom is pretty interested in. So much so that we’ve split this ask. In this post we’re concentrating entirely on Andrew and Kevin, Neil & Kevin’s friendship will be will be addressed in another ask. - S

Some previous recs:

Andrew & Kevin’s friendship here

Kevin & Andrew’s relationship here

Kevin as Andrew’s best friend here

Kevin’s friendship with Andreil here

‘Where The Wild Things Are’ here

‘I know that you'll come if you want’ here

‘N for nebulous’, ‘And Then There Was One’ and ‘Wear it to Eden's’ here

‘Reckless’ here

‘Trust Me’ here

‘Searchlights’ here

‘fugue in red’ here

splinters beneath our nails by mostly_maudlin [Rated T, 3719 words, complete, 2023]

Andrew hasn’t decided what to do about Kevin Day. A few days ago, he’d have said that Kevin was dead to him. If things had gone differently, that might still be true. Today, he walks up to the car and throws open the door.

Not again by LetThemCuddle [Rated G, 698 words, complete, 2023]

Andrew circled the stony striker when silence answered him. “Hello? Anybody home? The answer is yes, a lot of nobodies, just one is missing. I’ll give you three guesses.” “Pass.” “Never took you for a quitter. This is quite refreshing.” The goalie quipped, lighting a smoke. “Come on, the cars’ still running.” “I’m going to stay here.” Kevin’s quiet voice echoed through the abandoned stadium. Somber, lacking the usual spiteful energy he towed.

right on time by dayurno [Not Rated, 10915 words, complete, Aftg Mixtape Exchange 2023]

"Has your Butcher called back yet?" Oh. “No,” Kevin replies, frowning slightly. “It’s understandable. He is a busy man.” “Kevin Day making excuses,” pulling away, Andrew puts down, “at this rate, you might just write his name on the margins of your books with hearts around it.” “What? No, why would I do that?” “Why wouldn’t you?” Kevin gives him a perplexed look. “Andrew, do you think I like the Butcher of Baltimore?” Alternatively, when the Butcher of Baltimore issues an order for his subordinates to bring him his childhood idol, he forgets what his choice of career entails. Kevin would hold it against him if he didn't find the man so fascinating.

tw: (accidental) kidnapping

Rescue Me by Demiwitchwoodwalker [Rated T, 4564 words, complete, 2022]

“I can protect you, from him and yourself,” Andrew said in a tone Kevin couldn’t quite place after a long moment filled with nothing but the muffled noise of the game playing on Kevin’s laptop. “I can help you stay instead of running further or back.” Kevin stared at him then, finally letting himself actually look at him, and the same feeling from before returned, feeling like a hand clenched itself around his lungs and heart. He pushed his laptop closed, the game’s audio abruptly cutting off, and turned slightly to face Andrew, whose expression had shifted back into the grin that seemed to constantly be present in the day and whose eyes looked almost dead. Kevin’s lips parted, words rising in the back of his throat, but he couldn’t get them past his tongue. How was he supposed to do this? The memory of Andrew the night before floated through his mind again, when he was as close to sober as he could get, more vulnerable than Kevin felt he’d ever seen a person despite the fact that Kevin was the one halfway through a breakdown. "Why?" --- Aka, how Kevin and Andrew make their deal. (Potential triggers are listed in the tags, please be careful!)

tw: self harm, tw: panic attacks, tw: implied/referenced suicidal thoughts

The Tide by zoeellendraws [Rated G, 20473 words, complete, 2022]

Kevin and Andrew participate in a showcase that could make or break their ballet careers and discover a promising new talent in the process. Or Mysterious Ballet AU

tw: implied/referenced violence

I came for the safety (stayed 'cause you made me feel) by Charcoalll [Rated M, 4621 words, complete, 2021]

“Day? We’re gonna get you out of here okay? Minyard’s gonna make sure you get out of here and down to the bus” Kevin looked over Wymack’s shoulder where he could see the figure of the small blonde man. Kevin nodded, how could he do anything but nod? These people were sticking out their neck for him in a way he couldn’t remember anyone doing before. No words could ever describe his thankfulness. Or: A little glimpse into Andrew and Kevin's relationship before, during and after AftG.

tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced alcohol abuse

biting down by vincevangothh [Rated T, 2257 words, complete, Aftg Exchange 2017]

kevin learns that in order to understand something, you have to allow yourself to learn, and talks to andrew about neil. '“Did I or did I not tell you that you have asked as many free questions as you are permitted to today?” This time, as Andrew snaps, Kevin hears it. “Free?” he asks around a mouthful of rice, swallowing hastily before he continues. “So if I give you something, I can ask more?” It's a rhetorical question, but Andrew grants him a small nod anyway. “Neil and I have - had - a thing.” Kevin agonisingly anticipates his next words as Andrew scoops up another mouthful of food. Static silence stretches out between them until he swallows again. “Truth for truth. For everything you ask me, I ask you something.” “Deal.”'

Reasons by orphan_account [Rated T, 1895 words, complete, 2016]

“You took me with you when you recruited him,” Andrew muttered, but he knew Kevin was listening. They both knew that it was the closest Andrew could get to a thank you, so they both kept quiet. A list of the times Andrew met Kevin, interwoven with the list of times Andrew met Neil.

Kevin, Andrew and their friendship by @andrews-jort-loving-pipe-dream [tumblr, 2023]

“Why are we here?” “I'm here because it's Josten's birthday next week. You're here because you can't be alone.”

Andrew and Kevin watching a movie together after one of them wakes up from a nightmare. by @foxesbettingpool [tumblr, 2018]

He’d been up the majority of the night, wasting away on a bean bag chair with textbooks, papers, and a mountain of notes surrounding him.

tw: nightmares

Future Andrew & Kevin hc by @thepalmtoptiger [tumblr, 2018]

Andrew and Kevin stay close friends after leaving the Foxes and going pro.

Kevin asks Andrew to be his best man hc by @palmettofoxden [tumblr, 2017]

Kevin asks Andrew to be his best man at his wedding and Andrew just stands up and walks out of the room without answering or even reacting.

Art

andrew & kevin brotp edit by @mint-and-memories

Andrew and Kevin meme art by @foxhole-doodles

38 notes · View notes

ifbench · 7 days

Text

Gates, Super, and Adventure Squad Event Interest Check!

So! In the nearly four years I've been in the PMD fandom, I've noticed that the vast majority of the PMD fandom doesn't care about any of the games after Explorers. Gates consistently gets hated on, Super is often treated the same as Gates, and nobody ever talks about Adventure Squad.

So, I'm gonna try to change that, with an event that's all about these three underappreciated games.

The rules are simple:

No Explorers-centric content. It can be referenced, but it cannot be the focal point of any of your submissions. Same goes for Rescue Team.

Please include "tw post apocalypse" on any submissions you make that are of a post-apocalyptic nature. Post-apocalypse makes me extremely uncomfortable, especially in regards to PMD, so I'd rather not see anything like that.

No NSFW content, if that's ok.

No bashing any of the PMD games, please.

If you're interested in this, please reblog this post!

#pmd #week of gates #week of super #week of adventure squad #pokemon mystery dungeon #pmd event #pokemon mystery dungeon event #pmd gates #pmd3 #pmd2.5 #pmd4 #pmd super #pmd adventure squad #gates to infinity #super mystery dungeon #pokemon super mystery dungeon #adventure squad

23 notes · View notes

beautifulbrainrot · 11 months

Text

i'm writing a multi chapter fic! and i desperately need help Imfao. i'm bad a summary's and naming things but i'll try! it's also gonna be autistic!spence and autistic!reader cus yeah

so! it will be quite dark in the later chapters so please do not read if any of these things trigger you

TW: self harm, referenced drug use, suicidal ideation, kidnapping, referenced sexual assault (not in this chapter)

Spencer is pining hard for Agent (Y/N) (L/N), But she's seemingly oblivious. When she goes undercover as bait for the Unsub, who's victims resemble her, she gets kidnapped. After being rescued, she's isn't the same person. Can Spencer bring her back from the darkness? Or will she be lost forever .

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction

92 notes · View notes

serickswrites · 7 months

Text

Higher Love VI

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Epilogue

Warnings: referenced captivity, referenced restraints, referenced drugging, referenced noncon, rescue, hospital, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery, hurt/comfort

Whumpee wasn’t soaring anymore. They weren’t sure where they were, but they knew they weren’t high. The bed was soft, but not as soft. There were sounds that hadn’t been there before. Smells even. And Whumper was not next to them.

Whumpee blinked open their eyes in confusion. When had they closed their eyes? Where were they? Where was Whumper?

“You’re in a hospital, Whumpee. You’re safe.” Caretaker’s warm voice came from somewhere to Whumpee’s right.

Whumpee turned their head. It was all they could manage. “Caretaker?” Hospital. Caretaker was here. They were…free?

“Hey, Whumpee. It’s good to see you.” Caretaker gave a smile, but their face was still pinched with worry.

“I missed you,” Whumpee whispered. Their throat was dry. How long had they been asleep?

“I missed you.” Caretaker held out a cup with a straw to Whumpee. “Drink.”

Whumpee sucked down the water. They were so thirsty. “How….how long was I asleep for?”

Caretaker frowned. “A few days. They decided it was best to put you into a medically induced coma while they detoxed you from the drugs Whumper gave you.”

Drugs that Whumpee begged for. “I….I….I needed them.”

“What?”

“I…I…had to have them. When….when they…touched me.” Tears stung in their eyes.

Caretaker moved to take Whumpee’s hand, but stopped. “Honey, no one’s blaming you.”

“I am. I wanted to be high. I had to be high. Because every time Whumper touched me my body, oh God!” Whumpee sobbed as the memories flooded them. How could their body respond to Whumper’s touch? How could they react that way? How could they?

“Whumpee, honey, Whumpee, look at me,” Caretaker said in their most soothing voice.

Whumpee wrenched open their eyes enough to look at Caretaker. “Honey, I want to hug you, is that ok?”

Whumpee nodded and Caretaker leaned over and wrapped their arms around Whumpee. Whumpee sobbed into their chest as they rubbed circles on their back. “It’s ok. It’s ok. You did what you had to do to survive. Nobody believes you wanted this. Nobody. You were doing what you had to do. It’s ok. It’s ok. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

And Whumpee let Caretaker hold them as they sobbed. Hold them as they cursed Whumper. Cursed themself. Cursed the world. Whumpee let Caretaker hold them because they felt safe in Caretaker’s arms. They felt loved. And most of all, they felt like they didn’t need to be high.

Tags: @anonintrovert@badluck990@ha-ha-one@kn0ckme0ut@outlawaries@clever-kills@you-are-so-perfect-that-i@ash-skylard@keeper-of-all-the-random-things@watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees@kyoukatsuki@selenenyx0124@watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

#serickswrites #whump #whump writing #whumpblr #whump community #tw referenced captivity #tw referenced restraints #tw referenced drugging #tw referenced noncon #tw rescue #tw hospital #hurt/comfort #hurt/aftermath #hurt/recovery #caretaker and whumpee #queue

51 notes · View notes

ashintheairlikesnow · 1 year

Text

Why You?

CW: PTSD, panic attack, hallucination, traumatized whumpee, escaped whumpee, some referenced gore from the past

Death Valley

For @amonthofwhump day 8; holiday haunting

Wichita, Kansas, 2012

A man who had once gone by Finn Schneider sat in a diner just before midnight, sipping weak but scalding hot coffee and waiting for his breakfast plate to be ready. The diner held a scattering of people other than him - a group of five drunk kids who couldn’t be more than teenagers, giggling to each other, a boy and girl shooting each other lingering looks that told the man that they would probably be kissing before the night was out.

The girl had stolen the boy’s hat five minutes ago and currently wore it with the bright and shining smile of the triumphant. The boy slid her sidelong smiles.

How long did it take him to realize what it meant when girls stole his sweater, his coat, his hat? He couldn’t remember, really. At some point, though, he understood that it was the same as a sign waved in the air, interest made clear without words.

There were a couple of truckers meeting for what passed for dinner at midnight, too. They’d nodded to him when they came in, thinking he must be one of them. He figured it was the eating-at-midnight, the loneliness, the heavy canvas coat he wore against the frigid chill of wind outside.

Noah had given it to him, congratulated him on your first Carhartt, now you’ll fit right in behind the wheel with me, and he’d worn it ever since. Noah was off on a different job, and it was up to the man - who currently called himself Henry Schmidtgall - to try and fit in by himself. Mostly, that meant saying as little as possible to hide his accent and wearing these heavy coats and gloves and a thick hat.

He was on his way from his last job in Illinois, near Chicago, headed up to Montana. There were some people he’d pick up in Colorado, three or four, and then he’d head north for the border and hope they made it before the snows fell.

Meanwhile, he sat in a diner in Kansas freezing his ass off. The chill air from outside made its way through the big glass windows, and he looked out to see absolutely nothing beyond the bright streetlights flooding the small parking lot. Not that there was much to see.

He hated driving through this part of the country.

There were no trees to stop the wind, for one, no real hills to slow it down. It blew across the fields and plains and cut like a knife. Half the time he thought if he forgot to wear gloves it would slice his skin right open. This time of year, there wasn’t even corn to rustle.

The waitress stopped over to refill his coffee, and he smiled at her, distant and unfocused. Over the tinny speakers, country music played, low enough to mostly escape notice, occasionally breaking into his thoughts as the singers wailed a particularly emotional line. The booth squeaked a little when he shifted, but he ignored it.

One of the teenagers threw her head back, letting out a bright burst of laughter that traveled through the diner like a gunshot. Everyone tensed a little, then went back to their soft conversations or - in Finn’s case - to staring at nothing.

Two waitresses argued over politics by the countertop, the cook occasionally chiming in while bacon sizzled and eggs fried in a saucepan to one side. The man who used to be Finn Schneider barely listened to them. He didn’t know anything about American politics and he didn’t care, either.

The bell over the door jingled as it opened, a merry little sound, and he looked up on pure instinct.

Then he froze.

His hands clamped down around the cheap ceramic coffee mug until the heat burned his palms, and still he held on. The chill was no longer on the outside of him, but boiling up from within, traveling up his throat and turning into the softest whimper.

Luckily, that came just as the chorus of the song hit its crescendo, and the tiny noise he’d made was smothered by she was the one that got away, the one that wrecked my heart…

Hesitating just inside the door was a woman in her midtwenties with black hair that flowed loose down her back like water, blown around by the freezing wind. She had a cell phone up to her ear, wearing tight black jeans that flared out over heavy boots, a thick sweater and the same kind of coat the man who used to be Finn Schneider was wearing over that.

Finn saw her in profile, left side only, her aquiline nose and light brown skin, one green eye - he was sure it would be green, although he couldn’t see from here - and full lips. She laughed, to whoever she was talking to. “Yeah, I’ll call you when I get back on the road,” She said, her eyes scanning over the booths and tables, taking in the sparsely populated little place. “Yeah, I try my best to be. Mmhmm. Love you, too.”

She shifted, shoving the phone into her pocket.

Finn stared at her, years falling away. If she turned her head, he knew she’d be missing one eye. The right side of her head would be bashed in, crushed bone and brain and so much blood. If she turned, he’d see one green eye ringed in a little line of brown, just the one, an empty marble in a broken face.

He never did quite understand what had happened to the other eye.

He last saw her on Robert’s living room floor, a dead body dragged along on a trash bag with her hair a terrible halo clumped with blood and gray matter. He’d listened to the awful, final sound of her body thumping down the basement stairs, disappearing into the dark. Then he’d seen Robert bring up the barrel with little left inside but bones he’d bury somewhere in the wilderness while hunting for new victims.

What had her name been?

Robert had shown him the driver’s license, made him hold it and smear his fingerprints all over the thing. A smiling, pretty woman’s face with long black hair. Nicole Chumani. Age 24, address somewhere in North Dakota.

Robert had commanded Finn to read every detail out so he couldn’t look away from it. Hair, black. Weight, one hundred forty-five pounds, height, five feet six inches…

Only when Finn had broken down into tears inside his cage, Robert disgusted by his emotions, had he taken the license back and driven her body away to be dumped with all the others. She’d been in California, Robert had said cheerfully, to visit a friend who came out here. She’d been to California to have a nice visit, and she’d had one, and then she’d run into Robert at a rest stop at 3 AM when he was hunting.

And then-

She’d been buried in the woods, with the others Robert didn’t keep in his basement. Somewhere in the woods, somewhere along a highway in Wyoming, somewhere no one was ever looking for them.

And here she was, now.

When Finn glanced down at the floor, he could see the blood dripping and puddling there beneath her feet, bits of gray matter floating in it. Bone, like shards of glass, the slight curve of a skull.

“Just you, sweetheart?” The older waitress called out, a woman in her fifties maybe. The dead woman smiled, giving a nod in affirmation. “Sit wherever you like, it’s too late for anybody to be all that picky.”

She laughed in response, and Finn blinked, watching her back as she walked to a booth, pausing just before it. Bloodied footsteps trailed behind her. His heart stilled as he waited for her turn around - to see that bashed-in face, to throw up all over the table and to have only coffee inside of him to lose - and then it began to beat again. The heavy thump of it knocked the air from his lungs.

She turned his way as she sat down and he realized it wasn’t Nicole Chumani at all.

There wasn’t any blood on the floor.

No bone or brain.

He blinked, rapidly, and shook himself like a dog shaking off water.

She didn’t even look like Nicole Chumani, and her eyes were clearly far too dark to be green. Her hair was too long, although didn’t he read once that hair keeps growing for a while after you die? Her face wasn’t broken at all, wasn’t bashed in and destroyed by Robert’s hammer blows. She had two perfect dark eyes.

She glanced over and caught him looking at her - staring - and Finn immediately looked back down at his coffee. The next time he chanced a look, she had her phone in her hands, and he knew what she was doing.

He knew.

She was taking a photo of him, maybe, or just describing him in a text to someone she trusted. Guy staring at me, creepy asshole.

It was only-

She’d just looked like-

He almost asked. Do you remember Nicole Chumani? She went missing in 2003? But of course she wouldn’t, they probably had never heard of each other. How many people lived in the States, that he should assume any one person would know about any other? This woman would have been a teenager when Robert dragged a body across the floor in front of Finn’s face.

It would have been fine, if he had died, and Nicole Chumani had been the one who lived. She would probably have done a better job with her life than he’d done with his.

A plate was set down with a clatter in front of him and he jumped, heart in his throat, eyes jerking up to see-

The waitress, blinking with surprise. “You all right, hon?”

Finn swallowed, once, twice, three times. “I-... yes, thank you.” If he kept his sentences brutally short, he could mostly cover up his accent. Noah told him to, that he needed to not seem like someone who didn’t belong here, but it was hard when he belonged nowhere at all. When he shouldn’t even be alive. When he should have been buried in the basement with the rest. “More coffee, please?”

She nodded, bustling away. His stomach flipped at the smell of the cooked eggs and bacon in front of him, the toast with its little cups of butter and jam. He wasn’t hungry any longer, but he made himself spread the butter anyway, take a bite of crunchy browned bread and salty fat.

The waitress poured his coffee back up to the top, then glanced up at a clock that hung on the wall near the door. “Merry Christmas,” She said, with a solemn thoughtfulness.

“Wh-... what?” Finn blinked.

“It’s after midnight, hon. Merry Christmas.”

“Oh… ah, Merry Christmas, thank you.” He caught himself before he could say danke.

She walked back over to her argument over the President with the other two, and Finn ate some bacon with a tongue that did not taste it, with teeth that were barely aware as they chewed. He could feel the woman in the other booth looking at him, still. Wondering why he had stared at her like that.

There was nothing he could have said to ease her mind, now that she was worried over him. No way to say, look, I’m sorry, but you look just like a corpse I once knew-

He had to stifle a giggle, put a hand over his mouth. Hysterical fear threatened the edges of his vision, settled like a weight against his back, ringed him like the bars of his cage.

He didn’t dare look her way again. Not only because he knew what he looked like, but because he was terrified that if he did, she would be missing half her face again. She would point at him, glaring with her one baleful remaining eye, and ask with a mouthful of missing bashed-up teeth and cracking broken cheekbone what made you so goddamn special? Why did you get to live and I had to die?

And he’d have to say, I don’t know.

He fled into the night a few minutes later, his meal barely touched and a twenty dollar bill left on the table.

The man who used to be Finn Schneider was in Dodge City before he stopped feeling the weight of one single eye on his back.

@finder-of-rings @endless-whump @arlinthesnep @thefancydoughnut @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @burtlederp

@whumperfully @pigeonwhumps @squishablesunbeam @darkthingshappen @whumper-soot @pumpkin-spice-whump @pardonmekreature @d-cs @honey-is-mesi @whump-queen @sowhumpful

#amow winter whumperland 2022 #finn schneider #death valley fic #whump #holiday haunting #day 8: holiday haunting #gore #ptsd tw #panic attack tw #Hallucinations #visual hallucinations tw #referenced eye whump #traumatized whumpee #trauma response tw #escaped whumpee #freed whumpee #rescued whumpee

64 notes · View notes

factorialsotherfandoms · 4 months

Text

So um I wrote about xcom!Chayanne yesterday and I don't have the energy to do his whole rescue and I'm not in the mood to hurt him as much as something before that would need, but also idk about you but **I** need some follow up from that. Get the baby a hug.

TW: badly injured child, referenced child abuse, hospital setting, talk about a child very nearly dying (in the past)

Philza knew it wasn't good - he'd seen the poor kid pass out, for fuck's sake - but he had not quite realised how bad it was. He hadn't been working with the sort of tech the infirmary has, too focused on keeping the two kids alive to think about the implications of their injuries.

The tablet Doctor Ruiz hands him, though... One kid - the one currently curled up with Roier as they both sleep off their injuries - he knew about. The broken bones about match what he predicted, looking at the poor sod. There's a worrying amount of head trauma, yes, but bar an inability to talk the kid had seemed alert and aware. Bit hard to tell with children, but he'll hopefully be fine.

It's the second he worries about; he had not even realised the kid was injured until he passed out in Missa's arms and, fuck, Philza doesn't think he'll ever be able to forgive himself for that. The scars, the cuts... the last of their splash potions hadn't woken him, but had at least closed up the wounds and bought some colour back to the kid's cheeks.

He'd known it was bad, he had, he swears, but this... The scar pattern, the slightly sticky marks on his chest, the breaks in his ribs... Not just current ones, either, but on the x-rays he can see evidence of them having been broken before. Similar places, too.

There are other scans, too, ones of a sort that Philza does not understand. They show the child's organs, presumably damage to them, but he really wouldn't know.

They still don't scare him as much as the x-rays of his ribs, if only because he only understands the latter; he flicks back to them, and stares in horror.

"Is that...?" he hands the tablet back to her - he isn't a doctor, he could be wrong, he just picks shit up here and there.

Her face is grim as she nods.

"Fucking hell," he breathes the word out; it makes a lot of sense, now, why she had insisted on this boy being on a bed alone, surrounded by wires and monitors instead of letting Missa hold him. "Do we know what happened?"

"I was hoping you could tell me," she says, folding her arms around the tablet and clinging to it. "If I had to guess, shock from one of the scarring injuries. His biology is... Strange, though - human blood is compatible, at least, and his vitals are stable. I have no idea if they are /good/, but they are stable."

"Will he be okay?" he asks.

"I..." it's never a good thing when the doctor fucking hesitates to answer that question. "If he heals like a human and my guess is correct? Yes. If not, it is outside my expertise."

Philza takes a deep breath, calms himself, and nods, "thanks for the update."

She nods, "I'll get started on the reports; I just thought you'd like to know."

"Oh I fucking hate it," he replies. "But it's better than not knowing; you handle the reports, I'll keep an eye on the kid."

She nods, and vanishes.

And, fuck, how is he going to tell Missa? The man's already attached, and it's not an easy thing to tell someone - 'oh, yeah, that kid we rescued? His heart stopped recently enough his ribs have barely started healing from being broken during CPR, and he still had gunk from a fucking heart monitor on him. Also? Not the first time it's happened'.

Philza runs his hands over his face and, fuck, he wishes he had made that bitch /suffer/. For all her talk of honour, she'd done her fucking best to murder a /child/.

It's too late now, already dead under Jaiden's knife, but fuck he wants her to suffer more. The kids are, what, ten? Something like that?

And don't try tell him that it wasn't the Assassin - Philza /knows/ swords, and hers are a perfect match for the scars and wounds littered all over the poor boy's skin.

Given the chance to fight her again, he'd rip her apart with his bare fucking hands. Or, let Cellbit do it at least. He does have more the talent for it these days.

But, there's not much to be done, not now. The Assassin is dead, and the kid is in an actual fucking infirmary. Jaiden and Roier both need to stay, to the concern and delight of the other little boy, while after getting patched up Missa and Philza elected to stay with this one. Cellbit's off somewhere - probably struggling to pull things from the archive with one arm in a cast - and Etoiles elected to get some fucking sleep.

It seems like a good idea.

Philza doesn't think he can, not without nightmares of a little boy bleeding to death, alone and scared, in a prison cell.

Or stabbed again - Missa did say both boys had tried to fight the Assassin; for all Philza admires their persistence, fighting back on the wounds they have, he's fucking terrified for them.

And, thinking of Missa, the man is waking up. Philza turns his attention there, watching him get up.

"Hey Missa," he smiles over, but he knows it looks thin.

He gets a smile back, as Missa scoots himself up to sitting.

The smile falls as soon as Missa lays eyes on the kid in the bed.

"How is he?"

"He had to be resuscitated."

Philza realises his mistake as he sees absolute terror consume Missa's features, and a terrified whine.

"Not today!" he clarifies, quickly, loudly. "Jesus fuck, I would have woken you if it was today. Sorry, sorry - recently, though, his ribs are still fucked up. Maybe a few days ago? Week at most?"

The whine turns from terror to heartbreak, Missa scrambling over with his too-long limbs. He picks up the boy's hand, clinging to it and muttering rapidly in Spanish.

Philza doesn't try to translate, not when the kid is obviously the one addressed - if anyone at all.

"Fuck, Missa, it wasn't even the first time either. Doc says he'll be fine so long as he heals like a human - and he's got human blood and human organs so we should be okay - but, fucking hell mate, I just..."

What does Philza even say? He permits the words to vanish into Missa's whine.

He reaches across, resting his hand atop Missa's. It takes the man a little bit to stop whining and ask "do we know why?"

"Not really," Philza feels his grimace. "We're hoping shock from the other injuries. It's bad, but now they're healed or healing... Easiest shit to fix, out of the options. Can't see anything else, doesn't mean there isn't."

There's another pained noise from Missa. Philza reaches up, absently wiping at his tears as he looks away to the boy's face. It takes a bit for Missa to collect himself up, clinging to the boy's hand and brushing his hair from his face.

"He's safe now?" Missa asks.

"He's safe," Philza confirms. "And once he's better, we'll find somewhere safe for him to stay."

It's a long shot, but they have some ideas of places safer than an airship full of the government's most wanted, at least.

Missa's fussing also seems to have awoken the boy; Missa startles, and turns to him, and when Philza's eyes follow he sees the little red flames in place of eyes watching them both.

Missa speaks something soothing in Spanish; Philza is still too furious to speak calmly enough for an injured and probably scared child.

The boy tries to sit up, only to flinch; Philza catches him, and helps him back down. Across the room he catches Doctor Ruiz's eye - she just gestures for him to go ahead and returns to her paperwork.

"Hey now," he tries to be gentle, but his voice is not really having it. "Lay back down. Your friend is just over there, see?"

The kid turns his head, and does relax a little when he spots the other boy. He still does not speak, glancing around but always returning to Philza and Missa.

"You're safe here," Missa promises. "Philza and I won't let anyone hurt you."

The kid glances between them; Philza tries to back Missa up with a nod.

He looks... confused, more than anything, glancing back at the other child, then at the adults. It takes a little bit, before he raises his arms and...

"Oh..." Philza whispers.

Missa leans down first, doing his best to avoid any of the wires or tubes surrounding the boy.

Philza follows a bit later, putting one arm across Missa's back and, with a lack of space, brushes a the child's hair with the other.

"We fucked her up," Philza promises. "She won't be hurting anyone again."

The boy does not stay awake long, his body brutalised and exhausted. Within moments of the hug starting he has fallen back asleep. Both Philza and Missa are reluctant to let go, but know that they must.

Missa sings lullabys, the music keeping Philza more to the present. He does not have much of a singing voice, so he fetches blankets instead, hoping the pressure will be comforting to the boy.

"He just wanted a hug," Missa's voice is broken. "Phil, Phil, he just- just a hug..."

Philza's own heart is a ruin, too; he opens his own arms up, and gestures Missa over. He wraps his friend in his arms, lets him cry into his shoulder.

If he also cries into Missa's hair, then it is his secret to tell.

#qsmp x xcom #qsmp fanfic #qsmp philza #qsmp chayanne #qsmp missa #chayanne will be back to his own stabby self soon #he's just had... an extremely shit time #give him a few weeks and he'll be terrorising his parents #who will be his parents by then #for now they're just guys who got a bit attached both ways

20 notes · View notes

pixelated-whump · 5 months

Text

TWs: Referenced trafficking (I intended it to be like... hybrid trafficking but you can imagine it as whatever), Suicidal Whumpee

Beneath the cut is a short drabble I wrote surrounding a scenario in my head, but I barely know anything about the fandom I wanted to write it for, so I made it more ambiguous.

Whumpee barely has the energy to lift their head as someone enters their cell. “Are you here to kill me?” They rasp, a glimmer of hope in their chest. They can finally rest.

The person looks taken aback by their question. They pause for a moment before answering. “No, I’m here to rescue you. I’m with an organization that gets trafficked people back home.”

Their response is carefully crafted. Whumpee hates them for it. “...Why? Why me..?”

The person approaches them carefully, like they’re a cornered rat. “Why wouldn’t I help you?” They ask, kneeling in front of Whumpee. Their face is so kind.

“I don’t want to live,” Whumpee says softly. “You’d be doing me a favor by killing me.”

The person purses their lips. “Forgive me for being selfish, but I don’t want your blood on my hands.”

Whumpee lets their head drop back onto their arms. The person places a gentle hand on their back. “Can I pick you up?”

“...Yeah.”

#tw trafficking #tw // trafficking #tw: trafficking #tw sui ideation #tw // sui ideation #tw: sui ideation #whump #whumpee #caretaker #at least that's what i intended lol #whump tropes #whump prompts #whump scenario #whump ideas #whump drabble #i think #pixel's whump

21 notes · View notes

aheckinmess · 3 months

Text

Hollow Harmony || Present Mic x OC

(One-shot series 1/3 chapters posted - posts regularly on Saturdays) Read on AO3.

Tags: Graphic violence, Hizashi Yamada x OC, Present Mic, Present Mic saves the day, Hizashi Yamada is a ray of sunshine, angst, hurt/comfort, scared reader, pro hero rescue

Word Count: 4,364 words

Summary: Ichijiku Aoki has lived in hell with Kigai as her captor for three years. During a chance encounter at a dance club, she runs into her first breath of fresh air in years: Hizashi Yamada. Kigai makes it clear that Ichi belongs to him, so dare she hope for a better life and an escape from her prison?

Author's Note: I haven't posted fanfiction in years, but after a two-year obsession with My Hero Academia, I have more than enough content to share. This first series is pretty dark, but there's some comfort and sweetness along the way. Enjoy.

TW: Implied/Referenced Sexual, Physical, and Emotional Abuse

Chapter 1: Time Signatures

Ichijiku (Tigress)

In another life, listening to the pulsating beat of the music in the club might be fun. I might feed off of the voices singing at the top of their lungs, or delight in the changing colors flashing all around the dance floor.

But I’m not living in another life. I’m living in hell.

“Give her another shot.” Kigai’s voice rises over the crowd as he gives me a look. Don’t you tell a goddamn soul what I’m doing or you won’t live to see the sunrise. His quirk stretches into my mind and reminds me just who I belong to. Of course, the bruises littering my thighs are testament to that too. Kigai would never let me go out in anything other than skinny jeans, so it’s not like anyone can see, though.

No one ever sees.

The bartender gives me a smile and I play the perfect part of being his playful partner, leaning over to give Kigai a kiss on his cheek, a loving gaze, and a swat at his butt while bile turns over in my stomach. I throw back the shot of tequila before Kigai puts his hands at my hips and looks directly at me. You’d better get out on that dance floor and pretend you’re having a good time. People have started looking at you. “Why don’t you go have some fun, sugar? I know you don’t feel good, but the dance floor has always helped you clear your mind.”

He plants a slow and tender kiss on my lips, but all I feel is dread. I want to feel happy. I want to feel a flutter in my chest. I want to feel anything. Anything but Kigai.

You’re mine, Ichi. And don’t you forget that. His eyes bore into mine and then he turns away, laughing at a joke Shihito tells him. I can feel his gaze follow me as I put on my brave face and walk through the dance floor.

In some ways, I’m grateful for the tequila. Otherwise I’d never be able to play like everything’s fine. Winding my way through the undulating bodies feels easier to bear than seeing that look on Kigai’s face. The threat that always lingers there. In this mingling of bodies I can close my eyes and lose myself to the music, feel the beat move in conjunction with me instead of forcing me to move with it.

The only time I’m conscious of is the time signature in the music. Minutes could pass, or it could be hours. What’s important is that Kigai doesn’t cut in and I can’t see those eyes trapping me in their domineering gaze.

For the first time in three years, I’m reminded of the better parts of life.

And then the better part of life bumps into me.

“Whoops! Hey there, little lady. Sorry for the intrusion.” A blonde man with a broad smile and glasses apologizes to me. “Did I hurt you?”

For a moment my breath is taken away and my façade cracks. The best way I can describe him is pure sunshine. He only looks at me for a moment with that grin but the warmth seeps into my skin and makes me yearn for a normal life. My throat gets tight. Help me. I want to say. Please make him leave me alone.

“Woah, hey, is everything okay? Did I really hurt you?” His puts a soothing arm on my shoulder as he makes himself heard over the crowd. “Why don’t you come sit down?”

“No!” I panic, forcing a grin on my face and hoping that he’ll shake it off as me being drunk. That’s what everyone else has done. “Really, it’s okay. I just get emotional when I’m drunk. I’m sorry. You just took me by surprise.” I shake my head as if trying to clear my mind and turn away from him. You’re too pure for someone like me, too beautiful for this world. If Kigai knew I slipped up…I can’t drag you down into this. You could get hurt.

“Hey, wait!” I hear him call behind me, but I ignore it and keep moving.

My feet rush towards the bathroom. I head inside and slam the first stall door I see before heaving into the porcelain bowl. Get it together, Ichijiku. I’ll kill Kigai. We can’t. I sob in the stall. We can’t do anything. Kigai has my family on his radar. We’re stuck! What a foul sack of shit. He’s not worth the stripes on my skin. I want to die. I know, Little Cub, and I’d surely embrace death knowing that you didn’t have to suffer this any longer. But we have to hold on. Change is coming. I can feel it in my bristling fur.

There’s a banging at the door that I know means I’m in trouble. I quickly wipe the tears from my cheeks frantically and flush the toilet before wetting a paper towel and dabbing under my eyes. Breathe. Get it together. We’ll survive. I’m right here with you.

I step out of the bathroom and Kigai’s hand wraps around my arm as he pulls me aside.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” He puts on a concerned simper, feeling my forehead with his free hand. You’re supposed to tell me where you’re going and why. You were trying to run away, weren’t you, bitch? “I thought you were hurt. Did you get sick?”

“I think I drank too much.” I sniffle, looking down so he can’t use his quirk and I don’t have to listen to his haunting voice in my thoughts. It’s a mistake.

His hand comes under my chin. To an outside party it might look like he’s being a tender lover, but there’s bite in the way his fingers dig into my skin. You know I hate when you look away from me, whore.

“Honey, you only had one shot. When did you become such a lightweight?” He laughs. I’m sick of your damn excuses. He runs his fingers through my hair and his hands cup my cheeks as he kisses my forehead. “But if you need to take a seat, go ahead.” Stay where I can see you.

“Thanks, love.” I return his gesture of affection with a hug and a peck on his cheek.

For a while, I sit at the bar again, scrolling through my phone to look busy. I can’t see Kigai, but I don’t need to. His gaze always follows me, even when he’s not in the room.

“It looks like you needed a break, huh?” The blonde from earlier takes residence in the seat next to me.

I turn to look at him as I nurse a lemonade. He’s like a breath of fresh air.

“Yeah.” I look down at the table again and trace around the rim of my glass. “Sorry about earlier. I think I’d been dancing too long and was getting overheated.”

“Yeah, the dance floor can get overwhelming if you’re not used to it.” He laughs. The sound sings through my bones.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Yamada Hizashi. But you can call me Hizashi.” He tilts his head like a puppy and the lights around him make him appear almost angelic. “What’s yours?”

“Ichijiku.”

“Nice to formally meet you, Ichijiku.” He answers. “Was that your boyfriend I saw earlier?”

“Yes.” I smile into my cup to hide the disgust in my eyes. God, I wish he wasn’t. “He was making sure I was okay.”

“Ah, good to know. From back there it looked like he was going to hurt you, but I was obviously mistaken. I’m glad you’re safe, you know?”

Something about the way he says it makes me look up at him and feel more hope than I have in a long time. I feel seen and heard. After a cursory glance around the club without seeing Kigai, I feel safe enough to answer.

“Kigai’s not a dangerous man. He doesn’t hit me and he likes to make sure I’m taken care of.” My eyes scream the opposite. I hope he catches it. I hope he doesn’t. “He knows my favorite colors and we watch my favorite movies all the time and he loves me. He never calls me names and he always asks before he touches me; Kigai doesn’t want to hurt me.”

Hizashi’s hand moves closer to mine and when I look at him I don’t feel sick.

“So you don’t need my help at all, do you?” He asks. He doesn’t break my gaze.

My lips part in a relieved gasp; I’m ready to tell him everything, but my eyes hold terror as Kigai catches my gaze from across the room. What the hell are you telling him? His smile follows me even though he’s standing beside the DJ. Abruptly, I stand and move away from Hizashi.

“It would be better if you stayed away from me.” I hiss under my breath, cursing myself for wishing for a normal life. Cursing myself for dreaming that I’d ever be able to get away from Kigai. What was I thinking? If Kigai finds out, it’ll be my head. But at least Hizashi knows. Maybe he can get help! Why would he help me? He probably has no idea I need help. I was reading too much into it. No one ever notices the bruises. Or they make excuses if they do. That’s right. No one cares about you. Who cares about a stupid whore? She’s not a whore. Kigai’s a manipulator and a rapist, and that’s all there is to it, fiend.

“Are you looking at my girl?” I’m suddenly face to chest with Kigai. Shit. He was closer than I realized. Fuck!

“Kigai, honey, it’s okay. I was just coming to find you. It’s fine.” I place my hand on his arm and squeeze, trying to redirect him.

“No, it’s not fucking okay.” Kigai growls, glaring bullets into Hizashi’s eyes.

“Hey, man. You have the wrong idea.” Hizashi puts his hands up, looking composed and calm. See? He knows nothing. Everything you told him went straight over his head. “She bumped into me earlier and I was just making sure she’d gotten back to the bar safely.”

“She bumped into you? Or were you trying to cop a feel?” Kigai snarls, dangerously tense.

“Kigai, please.” I beg, pulling at the front of his shirt to make him look at me. Why the hell did you let him get close to you, huh? You know you belong to me. Not some sleaze who’s just going to fuck you and leave you out to dry. After everything I’ve done for you. His words reach into my mind and I do the only thing I can to get out of the situation. I reach up around his neck and pull him in for a kiss.

Thankfully, Kigai seems to take the bait. He becomes more possessive, gripping my hips so hard I know there’ll be bruises there in the morning. His tongue invades my mouth and he tugs fiercely at my lip. When he pulls back, he still turns a fiery glare onto Hizashi.

“Don’t you get near my girl again, got it?” Kigai wraps an arm around my shoulder and pulls me close to him. My eyes lose their shine. I guess that’s it. We’re stuck again. All in good time, Little Cub. All in good time.

He pulls me away and I risk one last glance back at Hizashi. One last hopeful plea begging him to help, but he’s not looking back at me.

. . . . .

Six months go by that Kigai refuses to take me out again. For six months he beats the lesson into me.

“You were trying to be a clever little whore, weren’t you?” His foot connects with my jaw, but I don’t make a sound. I take it. “Thought you had a savior. Someone to take you away from me, right? But you’re mine! If you left me do you know what that would mean for your family? For you?” He yanks me up by my hair. “They’d be up shit creek without a paddle and it’d be all your fault!”

“I’m sorry, love.” I whimper out, hating the taste of the words on my tongue. “It won’t happen again.”

“Damn right it won’t.” He lets go of me and I catch the brunt of my weight on my arms. Tears trickle down my cheeks and then suddenly he pulls me into his arms and then onto his lap on the bed.

“You know I love you, right?” He coos in my ear, saying the words that my heart wants to hear in the most twisted tones. “It’s just…seeing you with that other man…mmm…I hated seeing that. You know he was just trying to manipulate you, right? Use you when you were vulnerable?”

You’d know all about that wouldn’t you? I wish I could have been more specific…told him something more concrete. Then maybe I wouldn’t be stuck here. It’s not your fault, Dear One. “I know, Kigai. I’m sorry. I wasn’t feeling good and I just wanted someone to talk to.”

His grip tightens on me. “You could have found me.”

“You were busy, Kigai, I didn’t want to ruin your time.” I turn and kiss his cheek to make the comment more believable. “I love you.”

“Mmm, that’s what I like to hear.” He kisses under my ear and it burns. Nauseous flames swim along my body until he leaves me broken under the covers. I curl up into a ball as he gets up from the covers and starts grabbing his clothes. “C’mon, baby, get your clothes on. I think you’ve learned your lesson. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

I don’t question it. I’m silent as I pull on my clothes and fix my hair. When I’m ready, I take the arm he offers me.

“You’re gonna like this, baby.” He rubs a small bruise he made at my neck, smiling as we head out into the street and he looks at me. You’d better not tell anyone it’s anything other than a love bite, got it? Or I’ll have your family hunted down with a snap of my fingers. “Look at how beautiful you look with my marks on you. Everyone will know who you belong to, yeah?”

“Of course. Only yours.” I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat.

Before long he leads me to a karaoke bar. The sight of it puts a pep in my step; even though I’d rather be here with anyone else except Kigai, this is the most I’ve gotten out in months. I’ll take what I can get.

“A karaoke bar? How did you know?” I giggle, kissing his cheek as I slip into the assumed role.

“I know my babygirl.” He pauses to kiss me roughly outside the door before pulling me inside. He pays for the two of us before we’re taken to a private room where a few of his friends are waiting. “I hope you don’t mind, some of my buddies came to join us.”

“It’s okay.” I promise, even though seeing all of them makes my heart sink. “As long as they don’t bother me.”

“They’ve already been warned, babe, they’ve already been warned.” Kigai winks at me. Don’t test those waters after I’ve let you out. “Would you like to go first?”

“Yes, please.”

Once again, the music distracts me from my own crumbling little world. Life seems full of more promise as the notes spill from my lips.

“Hey, Takamaru! I’ve gotta take a piss. Keep an eye on my girl, okay? Make sure she doesn’t get into too much trouble.” Kigai chuckles and glances at me before he leaves. Don’t do anything stupid.

“Sure, man.” Takamaru doesn’t even look in Kigai’s direction. He’s too busy focusing on Shihito’s selection. “What the fuck, man?! You’ve sung homura three times already! Pick something new.”

“Shut up, Taka, it’s the only song I know.” Shihito huffs, pulling up the microphone again.

“Hey, do you guys mind if I go grab a snack?” I ask, wanting to get some fresh air without Kigai hovering over me. If he gets back before I do, I can always blame Takamaru. He never goes too hard on his buddies.

“Sure, Ichi. Can you grab me a granola bar while you’re at it?” Takamaru tosses me a couple yen.

“Sure thing.” I nod and head towards the vending machine on the balcony.

I walk by a room where I hear such sweet sonorous notes I can’t help but glance into the window. Hizashi?! My feet stutter and I nearly trip. I have to keep walking. Kigai is liable to beat him up if he even sees he’s in the same building. If I were to stop and wave? Impossible. I force myself to keep walking until I make it to the machine.

Once I’ve got a pack of crackers and Taka’s granola bar, I hang over the railing and take a deep breath. When did this all start? Why did I let myself get roped into this? I hate this… None of this is your fault, Little One. Kigai is a manipulator and a fiend. And his quirk makes it inanely difficult to give any sort of proof to the authorities of your predicament.

“Fancy seeing you here.” Hizashi’s voice joins me on the balcony. I jump back as if stung and start backing away from him. His moves his hands from his pockets and holds them up in surrender. “Woah, hey, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” I turn to look and make sure Kigai isn’t headed back to our karaoke room and then back to Hizashi. “You can’t be here.”

“Is he hurting you?” He asks me bluntly, eyes somehow fierce and kind all at once.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I choke out, starting to speed walk back into the building. This can’t be happening. Kigai’s going to kill him if he sees him anywhere near me!

His hand grabs my wrist and I’m forced to pause and turn back to him.

“Is he hurting you, Ichijiku?”

The first time I saw his gaze in the club, I nearly lost myself. Seeing it now, so intentional and worried…I feel I have no choice.

“Yes.” I hiss, eyes watering. “Yes, he hurts me. All the time. For big things, for little things. But I take it, okay?” Part of me is angry. Not even at Hizashi, just everything in general. Why the hell am I in this predicament? What did I do except love people and want them to love me back? It’s okay. You’re allowed to be angry. Especially at this situation. “I take it because Kigai says he’ll hurt my family if I don’t. Because they’ll die if I don’t suck it up like a good girl, alright? And he’s going to hurt you too, Hizashi. He’ll hurt you really bad if you so much as look at me. If you’re so much as seen with me.” I keep glancing back, waiting at any moment for Kigai to round the corner and exact his punishment. “So go! Leave me alone. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt for my sake…please.” I beg, finally yanking my hand free of his hold.

When I hear Kigai’s voice down the hall, I don’t look back. I rush back into the room just in time and hand Taka his granola bar. I start nibbling on my crackers so I can compose my face before he walks in. I smile at him and offer him a cracker.

“Oo, got me a snack, baby?” He takes the whole pack and leaves me the one. “Thanks.”

The rest of the evening, I’m too nervous to sing like I want to. I pick one or two songs to make sure Kigai’s off my scent, but mostly I watch him and his friends sing. In reality, I keep watching the door to make sure Hizashi doesn’t walk by.

By the time we get ready to leave, it’s dark. I assume that Hizsahi is long gone, because as we walk by his room on our way out, it’s empty and quiet. Thank you, Lord. He deserves a better lot in life than this.

“Damn, Kigai, every time we go out for karaoke I forget just how shitty of a singer you are.” Taka teases as we give the desk lady her key back.

“Hey, man! I’m not that bad. At least I can carry a tune.”

“Barely.” He snorts, before nudging Shihito. “And this fucker only has one song he can sing!”

The ribbing continues as we walk out the door. I keep my eyes down and my arm wrapped around Kigai’s until a group of voices convene on us and someone suddenly pulls me out of Kigai’s grasp.

“Police! Get on the ground, now!” Someone barks out, and my brain struggles to keep up.

Kigai and his pals look shocked to say the least. Kigai is the only one who tries to struggle, of course. “Get the fuck off me! Let my girl go! Babygirl, tell these fuckers to get off me!”

“Don’t hurt him!” I call out, aching heart bleeding for him even in spite of all the bruises he’s left on my heart and my body.

“Get on the ground.” The cop repeats, needing two more officers to help bring Kigai down to the ground. “Sir, you’re under arrest.”

The world around me sways. My breath gets shaky and I start crying as I beg them to leave him alone. What am I doing?! I want them to take him but… He’s a manipulator. He’s made you afraid and obligated to him. I want him out of my life. I don’t ever want to see him again. My pleas ultimately die down as my sobs get louder.

The weather is colder in the darkness. My body starts shaking and I start swaying.

“It’s okay, ma’am. We’ll get it taken care of. You’re safe now.” The woman holding me rubs my shoulders and starts looking around. “Can one of you grab a jacket for–”

“I’ve got it taken care of.” Hizashi’s voice melts into my eardrums as the police get Kigai into the back of their cruiser. I wrap my arms around myself and then he’s got something warm and soft wrapped around my shoulders. “Here. Take my jacket.”

I turn to Hizashi and then back to the police cruiser. I look at the woman.

“Excuse me, Officer?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Th–That man…Kigai…he…he said he’d hurt my family if I ever turned him in. Are they–”

“This young man here told us the story. We’ve got a unit at their house.” She assures me, rubbing my shoulder. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore, honey. We’ve got it all covered. We’ve been trying to find definitive evidence to put this guy away for years.”

I look at her, disbelieving. “H=How did you find any evidence?”

The officer looks at the cruiser as Kigai is hauled off, before she looks at Hizashi with a smile and then back to me. “Your friend here said that he recorded your conversation in the karaoke place. He said he’d previously met you and was suspicious of the situation.”

“I hadn’t seen you in months. I was scared I was too late to do anything, so when I saw you…” He pauses. “I started recording on my phone before I walked over to talk to you. I was hoping that maybe if I was blunt enough…you might tell me what was going on.” Hizashi admits sheepishly. “So we left as soon as I got the evidence just in case your group was planning on leaving soon.”

For a long time, I just stare at him. I memorize everything I can about him. The way his hair frames his face and the small, pampered mustache making his smile pop out on his face. Then there’s his eyes.

One look and my body works without my permission. I wrap my arms around him, tackling him into a hug and feeling three years of pain and grief claw out of my chest and manifest as sobs.

“Thank you, Hizashi.” I hold his back in a death grip, and I feel him pat my back delicately.

“I couldn’t sit by and watch you get hurt without doing anything.”

“Ma’am, would you like me to walk you to your home?” The officer asks me, also reaching over to rub my shoulder.

“I don’t have anywhere to go right now.” I admit with a sniffle. “But if you can go with me to grab my stuff from Kigai’s, that would be great.” I turn to Hizashi. “Will you come with us? Please?”

“Of course. I won’t leave you alone right now. That a problem with you, Officer?”

“Not at all.” She assures.

When we make it to Kigai’s house, there’s blue and red lights flashing there too. Hizashi steps with me inside as the officer gets debriefed on other things found out about Kigai’s dastardly affairs. “It’s just down this hall.” I assure him.

Going back into Kigai’s room sends a cold chill down my spine. You’re mine, whore. You belong to me, understand? I pull Hizashi’s jacket tighter around me, before steeling my nerves and grabbing my bag and stuffing it.

“Anything you need me to grab?” Hizashi asks as he looks around.

“No. I don’t have much.” I toss in my phone and charger, a few changes of clothes, toothbrush, hairbrush, and a few other necessities. “I think that’s all.” I say once I’ve got everything together. When at last I turn to him and meet his gaze, I’m expecting to hear foul words stabbing into my brain.

He is not Kigai, Little One. It’s going to be okay.

My nose quivers as I look at him. “He’s really gone.”

“He won’t hurt you anymore, Ichijiku.” Hizashi nods. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

I don’t have to be afraid.

-------------------------------

Continue Reading... Chapter 2

9 notes · View notes