Glen Powell In Hit Man (2023) Dir. Richard Linklater

I don’t have love here

Yes, Clark. I'll marry you.

—Lana Lang, Smallville, "Reckoning" (Erased Timeline)

THE ULTIMATE DADDY

Alternatively titled:  Daemon finally gets the son he worked so hard for

Do you have the full video of Bernardo Silva confronting virg?

I just know she will find her hair when he drags her to his place or even find out that he keeps it in his pocket ☠️

Mission Control 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Captain Hydra

Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

“Height?” The officer taps the nib on his notepad. 

“Ugh, tall. Er,” you keep your hand on your head. It still throbs. “Um, six foot something? He had to be bigger.” 

“Right,” he squints. “Blond, blue eyes, and a scar. Dressed in all black...” he reads it over. “And he didn’t say anything?” 

“No, sir, I told you. Did you check with security? There's cameras--” 

“Nothing there. Checked all the footage. Some glitch. Guy’s not sure. Not his problem, I guess. Paid minimum wage to sit in a room,” he scoffs. “We can file the report but we can’t do much else. No footage, no proof--” 

“No proof? Look at my head. He ripped my hair out!” You whine. 

“Yeah, well, I’ve seen worse. Should count yourself lucky he left you alive,” he says. 

You shake your head and drop your arm, “uh... thanks, I guess.” 

“Look,” he exhales. “I really don’t have much to go on but this guy sniffs around again, call. File another report.” 

“Right,” you agree glumly. “Thank you, officer.” 

He shrugs, “have a good night. You want me to stick around while you lock up.” 

“It’s fine, I wouldn’t want to waste any more of your time.” 

You sniff and turn around. You’re not surprised by his indifference or his answers. You have friends who had men pounding on their doors and the same reaction. You saw police arresting drunk girls instead of the guys who cornered them in the bathroom. There isn’t much anyone can do, it seems. Especially not you. 

You go through the closing list. You know it by rote but that night, you’re uncertain. You check the clipboard that hangs behind the counter. You’re fractured. The whole world feels like it’s strewn before you. Nothing fits together. You feel like you’re disconnected from your own body. 

God, your head hurts. 

You stop and open up the front camera on your phone. You look at the bald patch again. Near the back. You can’t really see it head on but it’s there. Or not. He just... did that? He took a part of you. 

You close your phone and put it in your pocket. You pull on your jacket and hike your bag onto your shoulders. As you do, the Pom Pom falls onto the floor. You tossed it on top but didn’t hook it on. You pick it up, quivering. That man... did he find it or take it? 

You squeeze it and grab the keys from the hook. You pull the gate across the store front and lock it. You turn to face the empty mall. 

The idea of going out into the dark and waiting for the bus is the same as scaling a mountain with your bare hands. You make yourself move. The longer you wait, the more likely you’ll miss it.  

Your steps echo around you. You flinch and glance over your shoulders, back and forth, even spinning to make sure you’re alone. 

How are you supposed to do this? After what he did to you. Did he just see you on the bus and decide to mess with you? How did he track you to the store? You had your jacket on, he couldn’t see your name tag or uniform. You didn’t have your badge out. 

You can’t figure any of it out. Would it matter if you could. 

You slow down as you approach the doors. You look out and see the bright signs for the businesses housed in the mall and the other plazas close by, headlights shining along the street. You push through the first door and stand in the vestibule. 

You still have the fluffy pom pom in your hand. You unhook your bag from one shoulder and hook it on. You trade the store keys for your house keys and poke one out between your fingers. You’re on your own. 

You walk out into the night. You don’t stop. You almost jog across the lot out to the bus stop by the road. You duck into the shelter, the lights keeping you safe in their glow. Or so you hope. 

The bus pulls up only a few minutes after. Your relief flows out of your chest as you scan your pass. You find a seat at the back and sit. You want to see everyone else. 

The tires grind the gravel and veer back onto the road. They slow again at the next stop around the corner. You watch the passenger turn and you know him in an instant. He stalks down the center of the bus and climbs the steps up to the back level. He does just as he did that morning. 

He sits beside you. You can’t move or speak. You can’t believe it. 

He must know that no one else cares. He’s counting on it. You’re breathless as you shake, your ribs wracked as adrenaline burns through you. 

“Why?” You quaver weakly. He doesn’t answer. You lean away from him and touch your head, grazing your tender scalp. “Please, why me?”  

Still nothing. 

“Why are you doing this?” You whimper. 

He closes his eyes and lifts his chin. His hand moves from his leg onto yours and he squeezes. You tremble as his fingertips dig into your flesh. 

“Please, stop!” You cry out and slap his hand. 

No reaction. What is wrong with him? You wriggle and look at your other hand; the key poking out from your fist. You bring it down towards his hand but he’s fast. He retracts his touch and the key sinks into your thigh muscle. You screech, and he reaches across to tug the cord. 

“What’s going on back there?” The driver hollers back as he stops. 

The man stands and marches away. He doesn’t answer the driver or look back. He steps off the bus and you watch him through the window. He almost fades into the dark as he delves into the shadows of the buildings.  

“Knock it off,” the driver warns as he puts his foot on the pedal. 

You puff between your teeth and look around at the other passengers; deafened by headphones and ear buds, engrossed in their screens and pages. There’s at least ten other riders yet you’re all alone. 

You look down. You quaking as you let go of the key and it sticks out of your leg. You cringe and grasp it as tight as you can. You hold your breath as you rip it out. Argh.  

That officer was right. You’re lucky he didn’t do worse. 

Okay, I feel bad for feeling sorry for him. Did he really think that just because she was alone, she needed him? I believe he mirrored in her the feelings of loneliness and emptiness that he himself felt. Now I'm sad because even he, a monster who shouldn't have feelings, felt alone and thought that simply ripping her out of her life would be better because now both would have company. This attempt to explain yourself and try to calm her anger, Steve I know you're there... 🙇🏾‍♀️ Furthermore, her anger and frustration are real, imagine not even being able to have the thought of running away because there is no way? I know he will hurt her again and those steps of his must hurt deeply.

Off: I love the dynamic of her being angry and him just huffing and getting frustrated because he wants to change how she feels.

Mission Control 15

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Captain Hydra

Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You curl up on the couch and watch the fire. It isn’t the isolation or his silence that will drive you over the edge, it’s the idleness. There’s nothing for you to do. Not to distract yourself or to get yourself free. All you know of him and whatever he is now assures that there is no escape. You won’t even let yourself dream of the possibility or it will crush you. 

He doesn’t emerge before you fall asleep. The blackness sweeps over you as you hug yourself into the couch. A dreamless slumber has your head throbbing and when you wake, you hear the clacking of logs. A crackle of the kindling and his shadow flickers over you. His footsteps leave you again. 

Is he mad? You don’t care. You’re mad. It’s all you can feel. If you let the terror break through, you won’t be okay. No, you’ll be angry. He did this to you. He’s taken away your life. 

You can’t sleep. If you do, your head might split. You sit up when you’re certain he won’t return. You go to the kitchen and put water on to boil. 

You find the tea shop bag on the counter. You shake as you look at it. You take out the pot and the cups. You wash them in the sink and dry them carefully. Then you take out the canisters of loose leaf. You read the flavours labeled on the side. It all feels so out of place in the desolate cabin. 

You brew the apple chai and sit at the table. The scent wafts into your nose but it cannot comfort you. Nothing can. You are lost. There's no one to save you. You are certain of that. The world’s greatest hero, or used to be, is gone. He’s a shell. He’s a villain. 

You shift on the chair and let your hand wander to your thighs. The bruises remain tender. You feel rotten that you almost forgot how cruel he’d been. He can be gentle but it cannot undo what’s been done. 

You finish the tea and wash the cup. You put it away. You pace around the kitchen and the front room. Your weight makes the floor groan. You know he can hear you. You don’t care. You will never be ready for the next time... so you won’t try. 

When you venture to bathroom, you notice the bedroom door is slightly open. A weak invitation you won’t take. You lock yourself in to attend to your human needs. That’s what is so chilling. He doesn’t seem to recognise those. Not in your or himself. He’s almost confused by the most basic facets of existence. 

The more you think, the worse you feel. Not only for your own helplessness, but for him. You shouldn’t feel bad. No, he’s a monster. Yet you can’t help but suspect there’s something wrong. No, not something wrong. Something’s missing in him. 

As the morning rises outside the windows, you watch the trees. The leaves shed as the pine stands thick and dark against the paling horizon. The grass is flat and yellow around the dusting of dirt and twigs. The moon is still visible even as the sun climbs. 

You shiver and turn away. You change into the clean clothes and put the dingy ones aside to wash later. You take out the broom and sweep. You tie back the tattered curtains even as the glass lets the chill creep in. 

You feed the fire and stir around the embers. You hold onto the long poker and examine the point. You tap it on the brick of the fireplace to knock off the ash. It’s sharp and heavy. Iron. 

You hear him approach. You drop your arm and turn to face him. He has something in his hand. He looks at it, then you. He stops on the other side of the couch and his eyes flick down to the poker. You glance at your hand then relinquish the poker to the stand. 

You cross your arms and step away from the fireplace. You glare at him. He squeezes the notebook in his hands, the pages curled at the edges. A pen is tucked into the bent spiral. 

He turns it and offers it over the couch. Reluctantly, you near and lean in to read the page. There’s ink scratched in the same tortured writing as the food packets. 

‘I keep you safe.’ 

You blink at the page then take a breath. You look him in the face. He rescinds his reach. 

“Safe from what? The only person who’s hurt me is you.” 

His eyes round and he looks down at the book. He searches the page. His thumb runs up the spiral and he slides out the pen. He puts the tip to the paper but doesn’t write. He pauses and thinks. 

When he does, he shows you the page again. Another word. ‘Need’. 

Your chest squeezes and your stomach churns, “you need what? To hurt me? To feel better?” 

His cheeks pinch and his eyes crinkles as his mouth draws in a line. He angles the pen around the notebook and taps the word ‘safe’. 

“No, I’m not safe,” you argue. "Not with you."

He drops his arms in frustration. His jaw squares and he puffs out deeply. He shakes his head then brings the notebook up again. He writes. The next words he shows; ‘Alone. Both’. 

You bite down on bile. He just doesn’t get it. 

“Yes, I was alone. I didn’t care. I was... me.” You insist. 

His forehead lines and the scar down his cheek tautens. He nods. 

“I would rather be alone. Do you understand that? Can you? Do you understand anything? Huh?” 

He stares at you and his throat bobs. He pushes his chin up. He closes the notebook. He flings it one way, then the pen in the other. 

You brace yourself as he twists on his heel and his shoulders square. He stomps across the room as he raises a fist and hits the wall. The planks crack and splinter as he growls. He doesn’t look back as he retreats to the bedroom and slams the door. The whole house shakes with his anger. You do too. 

You shouldn’t have said any of it, but maybe you don’t care. You’d rather he just hurt you already. Waiting is much more painful. 

Natalie Dormer icons 250x250

Thank God she now has Sarah and Calliope or she would be easily swallowed, even the queen is distilling poison against her. Waiting for Sarah to highlight this jewel for her only son 🤭

upon his grace 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power dynamics, cheating, bullying, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are called to court after the end of the civil war, but find yourself facing many challenges, expected and not. (fantasy medieval au)

Characters: king!Steve Rogers

Note: friday!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You are summoned to the queen’s chambers shortly after your arrival. You come together with the other young ladies from courtyard in the corridor just before a set of painted doors. Within, Queen Margaret keeps court with her ladies, of whom you are to be one of. The thought alone has you devilishly unnerved. 

The guards in their livery greet you with dull eyes. The groom announces your purpose and receives little in return aside from the one soldier’s lazy reach to tap upon the door. He lifts the lever and eases a space between the wood. 

“Your highness, you’ve some ladies requesting an audience,” he drones through. 

There is some movement from within. A lady servant appears in her white cap and beckons you inward. You are further intimidated by the formality of it all. Marcia and Marigold rush ahead to be first and the three earls’ daughters from the White Plans take up their train. You glance over at Calliope and trail after her. 

The doors shut at your back and the lady maid retreats, her soles scuffing amid the murmur around you. You look around the skirts of the other debuts and see women in recline, others perched upon cushions and stools, all at leisure with needle, book, or frame. There is another at the window, sat between two ladies on the bench, the late afternoon breeze stirring the long waves that hang around her face, the rest of her chestnut hair twisted up behind her hood.  

The lady maid stands at the wall in deference, “your highness.” 

The brunette raises her chin and her eyes narrow at the lot of you. You can barely see much past the shoulders of the twins and the other ladies clustered closely in shared apprehension. Still, the twins stand tall and the other ladies hardly seem as wrought as you in the ceremony of it all. 

“The twins of...Mawsley, is it?” The queen declares, “yes, your father proved himself a valuable asset, didn’t he?” 

“Your highness,” the twins recite in unison and bow, “Marcia,” the first introduces herself, “Marigold, the second adds. 

“How keen,” the queen chimes, “you look as the same person. How amusing.” 

“Thank you, your highness,” the sisters chirp. 

“And those gowns, wonderful. I may have to ask after your tailor,” Queen Margaret preens, “and where is the Countess’ daughter? I recall I met you once when you were still a child.” 

Calliope steps dutifully, “my mother sends her regards.” 

“Oh, yes, that poor widow,” the queen bemoans, “she is ever steadfast despite her plight.” She takes pause as you sway to see her, “and the rest of you, forgive me, these last days have been a whirlwind and I’ve heard an endless slew of names one after another. 

“Lady Selene,” the very lady proclaims. 

“Lady Ameri,” she bows in quick succession. 

“Lady Dorida,” the last shows her courtesy in an elegant bend. 

As you come forward, the twins push their arms together as if to block you out with their sleeves. You sidle side to side and sweep around their skirts with an ungraceful stumble, “your highness,” you greet as if you have something stuck in your throat. You swallow before you can muster your own name and title. 

“Woodsdam,” the queen tilts her head and looks from the lady at her left shoulder to the one on her right, “I’ve never heard of it.” 

“Neither have I,” the leftmost agrees. 

“Farmland,” the right says. 

“Yes, your highness, my father is a farmer, but an earl as well,” you supply. 

“Mm,” the queen looks down her nose as her lips thin, “it appears the Woodsdam style is much... defined. I don’t think I’ve seen that style gown since my grandmother was still on earth.” 

You look down at your modest cotton. The square cut of your bodice is much different than the other ladies’ rounded collars. Your mother crafted the dress from pieces and the seams are tidy, yet it does lack a similar flair to the others around the chamber. You raise your eyes and keep your composure as best you can. 

“Many thanks, your highness.” 

The queen scoffs, “quaint, indeed.” She sits straighter though her posture is already unyieldingly staunch, “ladies, please acquaint yourself. And be certain to pay heed to these ladies who know well the ways of court. For all that’s changed in these past years, we will retain as ever our elegance and our etiquette.” 

You peer around, uncertain what comes next. A lady stands and calls to Calliope, “Lady, it is me, Gwendolyn, of the Spades. Near Clovers, you will know it?” 

Calliope accepts the initiation and there is a swift storm of voices swirling around the lot of you. You flutter hopefully that someone might think of Woodsdam or might’ve been to the waterfall near Aquil, not far from your father’s hold. The twins confer still with the queen and her ladies, trilling and giggling, as Serena and Dorida marvel over another ladies’ sewing frame, and Ameri is overly familiar with a lady swollen with child. 

You drift away from the centre of the chamber, trying not to draw unwarranted attention. It would do little for any to note your insignificance. You’ve all to soon faded into obscurity. No one cares for a farmer’s daughter. 

“Eh, do you read?” The question startles you and has you spinning to face its speaker. She looks as she sounds; squawkish. Birdlike. Her blond waves are woven with strands of silver and her hooked nose is not unbecoming. 

“Yes, lady, I do,” you answer, uncertain if she is genuine or she means it as jab. 

“Have you read Corswin? He wrote a fair tale about a shepherdess.” 

“I’ve not heard of him,” you recover your confidence at her interest. It is clear she humours you, that she is speaking to only keep you from floundering. 

“I must lend you a book or two,” she insists, “come sit with me. These old hens grow tiresome.” 

“Many thanks, my lady,” you accept and claim the stool next to her, shifting it closer. 

“Sarah,” she gives her name, “Woodsdam. I’ve never been. I hate the swamps.” 

“Oh,” you nod, “yes, it isn’t very swampy. Only in the rainy seasons but we get the sun.” 

“Mm, still, I’ve been down Ashton and I hated the place. My horses caught some sickness there,” she gripes, “perhaps though, your home is more pleasant. A woman old as me, though, I don’t venture far as it is.” She tuts and taps her oval nails on the book in her lap, “if my son wasn’t so foolish as to take up his sword, I’d still be in my library, hidden away from these chits.” 

You clasp your hands together and smile. She’s amicable and you wouldn’t want to bother too much. She flutters the pages of her book and huffs. You look around, sensing some intrigue from the other ladies though they do their best not to let their flitting eyes be caught. 

“All these birds know how to do is cloister themselves up like nuns,” she bemoans, “I’d as soon be out in the sunlight. If I were home, I’d be in my courtyard with a better book than this,” she wags the volume in agitation, “and you, lady? What is it you do on the farmstead? Chase hens?” 

“We have geese,” you say, “though they aren’t truly kept. They sort’ve linger around. And some cattle.” 

“It does sound rather bucolic, this must be all so drab to you, castle walls and dusty tapestries.” 

“Oh, it’s all so wonderful,” you expound. 

“It is?” She drawls tritely, “aren’t these ladies of ours so polite? The way they whisper about our hems and our titles. Don’t let yourself be fooled, though I suppose that should be as good a warning against myself. Ladies of the court are like crows; the like shiny things and the hold grudges, and sometimes, they needn’t even a reason to peck your eyes out.” 

You close your lips and swallow. Her tidings only underline the unwelcome forged in the queen’s introduction. All you might forgive is at least she seems genuine in her girding. You look down at your skirts and run your fingers down a crease. 

“The dress is not so hideous,” she assures gently, “some of the ladies do forget we did just fight a war. There are those without silks and without food in their bellies. They should weigh their fortune that they are still alive and well.” 

Your eyes meet and she looks a little less stony. She turns her head to the window and her gaze drifts into the distance. You follow them with a sense of solemnity. Again, you snare a few glances from the others. Many men died, women and children too. It wouldn’t do to care so much for what people think of your wardrobe. 

👑

Your first day at the castle ends in a fine supper of freshly baked bread, beef with gravy, and seasoned scallions, onions, and sweet herbs. It is not so hearty as your mother’s stew which you share as often with the servants nor so delicious. It’s a different sort of taste but not unpleasant. 

You retire at the queen’s behest. She declares she must see to her husband and several of the other ladies claim the same of their own. You rise and wait courteously to tail after other ladies, not wanting to get underfoot as you so often did on the farm. As you stand aside, Lady Sarah swats you with her book. 

Skirts swish against the rows of chairs and benches that line the long table. The dining chamber is set with the portrait of peregrine and similarly hawkish depictions woven into tapestry and tablecloth alike. Despite the uniform decor, the furniture is mismatched and the hews of wood and metal alternate with each piece. 

“Don’t fear the stampede, little calf, run with it,” she chides, “ah, I’ve decades upon these sows and they plod like heifers.” 

He uncouth words draw your surprise. She laughs at the look you send her and waves you off with the hardcover. She shoulders past you without pause. 

“One day you will see, it is better to speak the truth than let it shred up your soul,” she tosses over her shoulder. “Ah, naivete, how entertaining you are.” 

Her voice carries and you notice how the other women shy away from her. There’s a glint of deference to the tilt in their chins as they part for her like a like drawn in the sand with a stick. You wonder how she can be so bold and why the other might tolerate it. As Queen Margaret girded, you are to maintain propriety. Sarah seems to carry the same manners as any farmhand you’d known. 

You hurry to meet Calliope near the door as she departs. She seems the tamest of the lot thus far. Sharp-witted but not needlessly cruel. She turns her head slightly in acknowledgement of your presence. 

“There you are,” she mutters. 

“Did you enjoy the afternoon?” You ask brightly. 

“Enjoy? I tempered it,” she retorts, “I’ve the measure of most ladies.” 

“The measure? They were all quite friendly.” 

“You are too friendly,” she admonishes, “this is court, you cannot be so simple. Each lady is attached to a lord, thus they work upon his purposes. Her ears are always listening, eyes always seeing.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You represent your father and though mine may be in the ground, I carry his mantle all the same. We are our houses, not ourselves here,” she keeps her voice low and slows markedly to keep away from the others, “you should count yourself fortunate for my wise counsel, lady, for no other would give it.” 

You chew on her words, tasting their bitterness, “so why do you, Lady Calliope?” 

“For I despise those twins and I know they aren’t so keen on you,” she sighs, “and I saw you as any other did with the dowager.” 

“The dowager?” You echo. 

“The king’s mother, Lady Sarah,” she sends you a sharp look, “don’t tell me you didn’t realise?” 

“Oh? No? She spoke of books and her gardens, she didn’t mention...” you peter off and snap your mouth shut. But she had, she did say her son ran off to war. “Oh!” 

“Oh! Indeed,” Calliope mocks and shakes her head. “Look, I’ve not the patience for these women, but you’re not so bad. You don’t speak without meaning. Shall we be companions?” 

“Pardon?” You let your surprise bleed through. 

“I need at least one person I might stomach, how about you? I don’t think the others are so eager to be friends. Marcia did say how you look like a peasant.” 

“She did?” You frown. 

“Hm, you need me,” she insists, “you can’t let yourself be so whimsical. Never mind what they say or think. What do they care so much for anyhow? They are a duke’s daughters, they will do well enough.” 

You carry on next to her. You feel as if you’re being pulled in all different directions though all tell you just the same. Be wary 

This series should have much more recognition, it's one of the best I've read in a while and I've read a lot of stuff.

She clings to whatever little relief she can get for her rest and at least now he is willing to learn how she likes it. The fact that he stopped makes me think he would stop completely if she asked him to. And about her leg, i'm afraid of a worse infection or something, i need her to heal soon.

Mission Control 21

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, blood, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Captain Hydra

Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Indomitable. Of the man words you would use to describe the soldier. So it is that there is no resistance left in you. 

The buzz of your struggle for your very life slakes away and you’re left depleted. As if to balance the scales, he helps you wash away the blood. You maneuver around your foot in an effort to keep the bandage and wounds dry. By the end, you can barely hold your head up. 

He carries you to the couch. His avoidance of the bedroom is noted. Your mind tiptoes back inside, the gruesome sight etched into your brain.  

He covers you in a blanket before he builds a new fire. The crackles eases you. You wallow as you are, body ensnared in a shell of agony and shock. Your eyes close without meaning to. 

His shadow moves around you in the din of subconscious. The black tides ebb and flow, swirling in your head, lifting you into the flicker of the room and plunging you back down. His footsteps pace through the distortion of your fatigue. 

The fires snapping and cracking stays constant. Then there’s something else. Thumping, scraping, sounds that blend together into a grating drone. 

You wake to a pang that throttle your voice in your throat. You lurch and try to pull your foot away from the snare. The soldier clamps onto your ankle and keeps your feet in his lap. He rewraps your foot and calf in a fresh length of bandage. 

You whimper and whine as he secures it. He hushes you through his teeth. He trails his hand up your leg and rests it on your knee. He looks at you as you fall back and pant. 

Fuck. The pain never quite went away but its more unbearable than ever. Your body will never be the same again. It will never be yours. 

You pull your feet off his lap, a strangled grunt forcing its way from your throat. You turn onto your side to face the back of the couch in an effort to hide your grief. Hours ago, maybe longer, you were happy to be alive. Now you’re back to dreading your existence. 

The couch shifts with his weight. He stands on the groaning floor and his shadow ripples in the glare of the fire. He touches your back, nudging you, and brushes his hand down to your hip. He clutches you as he angles himself down behind you. 

You don’t move. You let him move you. He crowds you into the couch as he lays himself flush to you. He hooks his arm around your middle and nestles in under the blanket. His warmth, despite his unwelcome, is a comfort. More than the pain, you loath the cold. 

He tickles along your stomach. You shiver. The heat of his body clouds around you as his fingertips explore your body. You have nothing to hide beneath but the blanket and he’s invaded that.  

He fondles your chest. There’s a curiosity in his touch that keeps you from fighting. That and what you know for sure. It’s all futile. All of it. You may have fought for your life but without him, it was a losing battle. He holds your life in his hand just as he holds you. 

His thumb rolls around your nipple as he feels it harden. He flicks it, circles it, pressing against it. His touch grows firmer as goosebumps graze your skin. 

His fiery breath plumes into your hair and his hand crawls back down your stomach. He flutters over the soft flesh of your stomach, lingering on the cushion there. It’s not so much as it was only weeks ago. As his hand drifts lower, you tremble. 

He traces the lines of your pelvis and pets the curly tufts of hair. He combs through the wiry strands and twirls them around his fingertips. His breath grows jagged. He grunts as he presses against you. 

You close your eyes. He pets you until your flesh is hot. He slides his fingers down and prods until your part your thighs. You murmur as he curls his fingers and slips between your folds. You bite your lip as he presses against your clit roughly. 

You wince at he pushes hard, rubbing you until the friction scalds. You close your legs against him and reach to stop his hand. To your surprise, he stops. He tenses. You won’t make him stop, but you can’t let him hurt you anymore.” 

“Softer,” you whisper, “nicer.” 

Your turn your hand to stretch over his large one and extend your fingers along his. You guide his fingertips and rock his hand gently. You lift your leg again and arch into him. You might not want it or have asked for it but the thought of release is the only relief you can imagine. 

He moves to your whim. You feel his muscles relax as he gives over control to you. Your body responds despite being whittled away in the shadow of the last days. You slicken against his touch. 

“Like that,” your hand falls away. 

He keeps the slow, steady motion. You sigh. You give in entirely as he keeps going. Your nerves tie around his fingertips and a cluster thrums in your core. You sink against him and hum. You focus on the climax, letting the rest of this twisted world drift away.