synopsis: N. O1 ranked podcast on Spotify worldwide: H XXX RO.HUB — welcome to a universe where heroes are worshipped like gods but behave like sinners. We pull back the capes - diving in between headlines, lust, ego, lies. Told through scandals behind the scenes and steamy VIPs events: a seductive deep-dive into what happens when extraordinary power meets pure, unapologetic human hunger. Nothing ever stays off-mic for long, 'cause remember heroes may be vincible... but their secrets aren't.
The reddish camera light flickers on.
"Before we begin, the rules" the host claps his hand together, seemingly aiming for a 'dramatic flair'. "No taboos, no limits — nothing's off the table" his stained hand roughly smacks against his co-host's shoulder. Making the poor, inattentive, man jump in his seat as the tingly pain from the previous hit dances all over his reddening flesh. "We'll guide you through a series of different topics, carefully disguised as: simple Q&As, games like 'What do you prefer' and 'What if'" an amateurishly pre-recorded, douchy sound effect blasts through the air.
"During an uncertain point in time, the rules will change!" a loose, crooked smirk stretches across his unflattering traits. "From that moment, going forward you answer with one or two words," the host dramatically sighs, using his whole body to enhance the somber meaning behind his words. "Keep it tight, keep it honest and don't get comfortable" another embarrassing sound effects pierce through the small, uncomfortable space. "Oh, yes. We're so mean! But," his co-host, shamelessly uninterested in his guest, draws phallic figures all over the interviewing sheets. "Don't worry we are graceful, merciful being. You'll be asked to 'elaborate' — if we ever see fit"
The camera shifts, jarringly grinding against the harsh pavement.
"What'd you say Dynamight," the producers laughs. Subtly leading the cameraman to zoom closer over the hero's stoic appearance. "Wanna talk dirty to us?"
Adrenaline pumps like wild fire inside the hero’s system. His whole body tingling in sweet, candied anticipation.
“Mh,” his big hand cups the back of his neck. His fingers lightly playing with his baby hair, as a faint, cocky grin spreads across his sculpted features. “I’m here. Am i not?” his crimson eyes drift to the camera. His gaze now fixated on the invisible audience. “You have me for an hour. Better, fucking make it count”
“Consent,” the host mumbles under his breath. “Or whatever the fuck that goddam term is”
Both of the men shuffle through the crumpled up stacks of papers. Their eyes swiftly dancing across the inked words. Reading and deciphering the perfect path to follow.
“You fuck, Dynamight?”
“I do”
“How many times a week?”
“Two times,” the host bites back a mocking laugh. Covering his mouth under his palm as his teeth sink deeply into his chapped lips. “Per day”
Someone in the studio clears their throat.
The host nods. Annoyance seeping out his every move. “You wrap it before you tap it?”
The hero smiles. His tongue sensually gliding over his pearly white teeth.
“Not when she begs me not to”
The other host, crosses his legs, one over the other. Now, suddenly very interested in the conversation taking place right before his very eyes.
The producer loudly clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. His eyes, again, drifting over the questions.
“Favorite sex position?”
“Huh? What is this,” Katsuki chuckles. Spreading his strong legs a little for the cameras. “Fucking high school?”
“Answer”
“Mating press,” his long fingers glide against the soft skin of his face. His nails gently scratching at his newly shaved stubbled. “Doggy’s fucking nice too”
“Gun to your head,” the producer smacks one hand over the armrest of his chair. “What if you had to choose one?”
“That person wouldn’t be alive to hear the answer”
“Jesus…” the other host inaudibly gasps. His hands, now, stiff over his lap.
A beat of silence falls like dense fog over the room.
“We - uh,” a shaky, unknown voice suddenly emerge from the darkest parts of the studio. “Can’t a-accept that as an answer”
Silence again.
“Mating press,” his thumb lightly grazes at his bottom lip. His body enchanted with the memories - almost, feeling the answer rather than thinking about it. “I can fuck deeper, harder” he pauses. “I can hear, i can see. I can guide you through it all - both mind and body” he’s rambling now. “Folding your legs for you, to feel - to really feel the things i’m doing to you, for you. No rush, no fucking runnin’ - i’ll get you there”
“So,” the host clears his throat. His head low, his eyes on the page, hiding his reddening face away from the cameras. “Not a fan quickies?”
The hero laughs. Throwing his head back, exposing his slender neck to the audience.
“I’m a hero, for fuck sakes” his voice low, dangerous. “Sometimes quickies are all we get. All we can hope for”
“Did you ever hooked up with a colleague?”
“Yes”
‘Shit’, the host is on the edge of his seats. ‘He didn’t even hesitate’
“More than once?”
“Yes”
“On the job?”
“Yes”
The cameras shifts again. All eyes locked over the hero’s enormous frame.
“Who?”
“Keep dreamin’”
“C’mon Dynamight,” both hosts unknowingly glide their bodies over their chairs. Inching closer to the hero. “You signed a contract, you have to tell us”
“Maybe you don’t know what ‘consent’ is,” Katsuki murmurs. Leaning his body closer to the producers. “But i fucking do” he scoots back up his chair. “Next”
“Fuck,” the man mumbles under his breath. “Sex in public - public spaces you shouldn’t, but would”
“Nowhere,” he swiftly wets his lips. “There’s no where I haven’t already fucked”
The producer gasps - incredulous.
“… Impossible”
“You name it,” the hero loosely smiles. “I’ve done it”
“Plane”
“Both private and commercial”
“Cemetery?”
“Night’s guard office”
“Hospital?”
Katsuki laughs. “Why do you think I sponsor so many hospitals?” his big hand messily brushing over his hair.
“Car?”
“Parking lot. Passenger seats. Over the hood. Trunk” he looks directly at the host. His ruby eyes full of mischief, begging for a real challenge. “On the highway”
“That’s all pretty basic —“
“I was the one driving”
A full beat of heavy silence stretches over the tiny studio.
“Press conference?”
The hero intakes a quick breath. His full lips stretching into a sinful, sultry grin.
“No,” the producer furrows his brows. His voice heavy with envy. “When, how?”
“If you look hard enough,” his suggestive gaze slithers over to the camera. “‘Cockwarming’ isn’t too hard to find”
A fleeting stillness blossoms around the small space.
“So,” the host breaks the silence. “‘Good image’ versus real kinks - what do you hide to prefect your brand”
“Loudmouth, rough, quick tempered” he counts the adjectives on his fingers. “That’s my brand, right?”
Everyone in the rooms nods.
“So you would think i’m dominant, almost primal when I fuck. A tease. A condescending asshole who loves to see you break beneath him,” the hero throws his head back. “And don’t get me wrong,” his gaze hardens. His crimson eyes locked over to the audience. “I fucking am”
“But,” his pearly white teeth sink into the plush flesh of his thumb. “What if I told that I wouldn’t mind being roughed around?” his voice dripping with suggestive allusion, as he mercilessly teases his audience. “Would you believe me,” he laughs, almost menacingly into the mic. “Or would you slap me around? Just to see if i’m lying…”
People gasp behind the scenes. Hands harshly covering their mouth as their bodies react to the hero’s impure words.
“Hero costume,” an image of Katsuki’s costume flashes across one of the screens. His body tightly hugged in between its pretty textured cage. “On or off?”
“It depends” the hero looks at the picture. Contemplating his body as his eyes linger over the faint, almost invisible zipper. “That beauty is a real fucking pain to get off of me,” he huffs out in a breathy laughs. “Costumes stays on, if i’m horny enough” he slowly tilts his head to the side. Leaning his cheek over his shoulder. “But, in other scenarios, we’ll take our time” he promiscuously smiles at the various cameras around him. “You’ll help me undress. You’re patient enough for that, yeah?”
‘Change it up!’ the loud, cheesy sound effect roars into the air.
“From now on,” the second host finally speaks up. “One word is all you’ll get”
“Questions frenzy!” the other host shouts.
“Ass or tits?”
“Ass”
“What’s one thing that makes you go crazy during sex?”
“Acrylics”
“Elaborate”
Katsuki sighs. “Fuck, it’s just something about the pain” his big hands hovers above his clothed chest. “Making me hurt as much as i’m pleasing you” his tongue slowly moves over his parted lips. “It’s insanity” he laughs. “Do what you gotta do. Mark me up in your pleasure, I don’t mind - not one, fucking bit”
“Ever hooked up during a crisis,” the host asks. “Or immediately after one?”
“Yes”
“Elaborate”
“‘Thought i lost you sex’ is the hottest fucking type of aphrodisiac”
“Being touched like a legend,” the man lowers his voice. The next part of the question uttered like the filthiest of riddles. “Or like a secret?”
“Both”
“Gotta choose one, hero”
“Secret”
“Elaborate”
“You’re mine,” he pauses, brushing a hand over his face. “I’m yours. Not necessarily forever, but in the lust of that specific moment” he bites back a smirk. “Desperation. Need. Hunger. We’re just animals giving in to our deepest desires”
“You seem to talk from experience”
“I do”
“You ever fucked someone in secret?”
“I did”
“You still in contact? Or was it just a one time thing, animal?”
“Fucking married her”
Everyone gasp.
“Done a threesome?”
“Yes”
“An orgy”
“Fuck, no”
“Elaborate”
“Three’s a party,” the hero rolls his eyes. “More is a fucking unnecessary crowd” his biceps harshly flexing as he crosses his arm over his big chest. “Too possessive for that shit”
“What’s one word that instantly gets you worked up?”
“Make me”
“Giving or receiving?”
“Receiving”
“Elaborate”
“Deep throat,” he sucks in a heavy breath. “I’m such a sucker for a rough mouth fuck”
“Fingering or oral sex?”
“Fingering”
“Really,” the host hums, scribbling something onto the stacks of papers in his lap. “Why’s that?”
Katsuki caresses his smile with his hand. Pulling onto his bottom lip, exposing his pretty teeth to everyone’s gaze. He rests his back against his chair. Spreading his legs wider - servicing his audience with his smug demeanor.
“It can be done everywhere,” he leans his body over his parted legs. Resting his elbows over his clothed thighs, as he pushes his tongue against his check. “I can give you what you crave. I can service your every need in every place, at every time - you just have to ask”
“Nah, better yet,” the hero adds. His eyes darkening. His pupils dilating. “Fucking beg for me to give it to you”
Another pre-recorded sound effect dances across the room.
“Last question” the second producer murmurs distracted by everything the hero said.
“Let’s finish you off” the host smirk satisfied - almost too contempt at the dirty allusion he just uttered.
Everyone in the room shakes from head to toe. Their stomach revolting as the real meaning behinds their co-workers words sets inside their systems.
“Tell us a secret,” the room falls silent. “Something scandalous that you hide”
The hero nods. Looking around the room for the nearest cameras. He turns his body towards it. Allowing his shirt to sinfully rise over his abs, following the rough movements of his arms.
“I see everything you write about me”
He whispers. His voice low, stern, gruff. A sin disguised as a simple phrase.
“You guys are fucking freaks,” his hands travel over his body. His fingers lightly following the pattern created by his veins. “Fuck,” he growls sultry. Loud enough for the mic to catch. Allowing the audience to hear a glimpse of what they so desperately crave, imagine. “Keep it up. I want more, can you give it me?”
The camera shuts off.
₊˚⊹ᰔ 𝐦 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭; 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐬 ₊˚⊹ᰔ
a/n: okay, so this was a HUGE experiment. please, let me know if you liked it 😭. also lemme know if you would like more parts? like a series?! AND ALSO, if you have ideas for the questions, or like simple thoughts or comments feel free to slide in my inbox!!!! or comment if feel up to it!!! i would so, so, so appreciate 🫶🏻
enough with the chit-chat; everyone say 'thank you anon!' — this was HEAVILY inspired by this amazing req <𝟑 .ᐟ
Warnings: Homelessness, severe socioeconomic divide, neglect
Dayton is bleeding with riots, shortages, and desperation pressed into every street. During a large-scale disturbance, Timekeeper Raymond Leon finds a medic he doesn’t recognize. She's a young, exhausted, frighteningly competent medic, and clearly out of place in a system that devours people like her. He brings her into the medic corps, to save her from the streets. But is he really saving her from himself?
A/N: Maybe a limited series if there's any interest. Going to get a little darker here...
Disclaimer:The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and darker themes. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site.
Dayton burned every few weeks. Each riot was angrier, louder, and far more desperate than the last.
Commander Raymond Leon had it mostly contained after two hours, but not before a bottle exploded against a metal barrier and a bullet grazed his upper arm. He barely felt it at first. Adrenaline did that.
“Sir,” Samuel Kors said, breathlessly chasing after him with eyes too wide for a two-year veteran. “You’re bleeding.”
Ray looked down, noticing his coat sleeve was torn. His arm throbbed. “Superficial,” he muttered.
“It looks deep,” Samuel insisted. “You need to have that cleaned.”
Ray didn’t want to slow down to deal with it. They walked briskly past overturned carts, smashed ration crates, and the tail end of a crowd that scattered like rats when they saw him coming. The air was thick with smoke and the bitter taste of fear.
“Med tent’s that way,” Samuel said, pointing toward an overburdened pop-up clinic set up in the shell of an old storefront.
Ray shook his head. “Make it quick.”
Samuel hurried him across the rubble-littered street to the long line of battered civilians waiting for care. The medic station was understaffed and overwhelmed, which was pretty much standard for Dayton these days. The shortest line had a smaller medic oddly concealed by a huge, worn jacket with the hood pulled up. The smaller hands indicated a woman, but they were steady considering the chaos all around her. Whoever she was, she was tending to a man with a fractured wrist. She was slight, positioned like she was trying to make herself smaller.
Samuel nudged Ray forward, puffing himself up. “Timekeepers take priority,” he announced loudly. Too loudly.
Ray bit back a sigh. Perfect. Nothing improved public sentiment like shouting entitlement at a line of starving civilians.
Samuel meant well, he always did, but his eagerness to “sound official” only made them look like the very thing Dayton already believed them to be. Uncaring predators in uniforms.
We really don’t need help with the antagonist image, Samuel. But Ray said nothing.
The girl stiffened but nodded quickly. “Of course,” she said. Her voice was too soft for a place like this.
Ray stepped toward her. She gestured to a chair. “Please, have a seat, sir.”
He shrugged out of his coat before taking a seat. She reached for her kit with hands that were sure and practiced. Someone had trained her well.
Samuel, still full of fresh authority, reached out and tugged back the hood that concealed her hair and face. “Protocol,” he said. “We need to verify identity.”
The girl froze for a fraction of a second, and Ray saw it. Fear. But after a moment she lifted her chin, letting the hood fall back. Her face was startling. The young woman was beautiful, dangerously so for a place where beauty invited danger. And she was aware. It was the reason she was hiding in a man's oversized jacket that had seen better days, the reason she tried to make herself small. She had the face of someone young, but the eyes of someone who’d lived too hard already.
Ray just stared at her right along with Samuel before he caught himself.
Samuel froze behind him, immediately looking guilty. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I—”
Ray held up a hand to cut him off.
“It’s fine,” she said quickly.
It wasn’t.
Ray watched her closely, unable at the moment to do anything else. “Name,” he said.
The name she gave him wasn't familiar. At least not to Zone Twelve.
“Transfer medic?” Ray asked.
“Yes. I, ah, I transferred from Zone Eight.”
Ray’s brows drew together. Zone Eight was another ghetto district, just as rough and violent as this one.
“Why transfer here?” His tone sharpened. “It’s a lateral move.”
“There was an urgent call for experienced help.” Her gaze dipped for a moment, too quickly, as she quickly gathered supplies.
Ray watched her closely. That wasn’t the whole truth. Either she was lying, or she was leaving something out.
“Experienced help?” he pressed on. “Are you experienced medical help?”
Her fingers tightened around the sterile gloves she pulled before putting them on, the smallest tell of nerves.
“My father was a doctor in Zone Eight,” she said quietly. “I trained under him.”
“Was?” Ray pressed.
She stiffened. “He’s dead.”
“How?”
A flicker of anguish crossed her face before she masked it. “Minute Men.”
Ray blew out an exhale. Minute Men always gnawed at the edges of the city like rats, picking off the vulnerable, the skilled, the useful… and then vanishing before anyone with authority could be bothered to care.
And this is exactly why the district never stabilizes, he thought grimly. We can’t afford to lose essential personnel like trained doctors to street thugs with guns and no brains. Every time someone valuable died, the whole district slipped a little further toward collapse. It meant more work for his unit. Another preventable loss in a system built to waste people.
He forced his tone steady. “Other family?”
She shook her head. “My father was all I had.”
Something cold and sharp slid under his ribs. Recognition, maybe. He knew what it was like to have no one. He also knew what it was like to lose the one person who kept you tied to anything human, but for him, that had been so long ago.
She carefully pulled his bullet-grazed sleeve up his arm, smearing blood across his pale skin as it went. Her fingers brushed his skin, her touch was light and careful.
“You’re lucky, sir,” she murmured as she inspected the site. “Half an inch deeper and you’d be in surgery.”
Ray didn’t respond. He just continued to watch her instead.
Under the too-big jacket, she wore her street clothes. It wasn't that unusual to see medics out of uniform, but it was frowned upon. An empty stomach rumbled while she worked, offering some explanation for the exhaustion in her expressive eyes. An explosion down the street caused the entire building to shake. It had her flinching, but she regained control with impressive speed.
Ray’s frown deepened. There was a vulnerability about her that he didn't care for. Dayton had a way of noticing vulnerability, and exploiting it. Traffickers preyed on girls who looked like her every day.
He understood why her father had trained her himself. A physician with a daughter who looked like her, a father who gave a damn, wouldn't let her out of arm’s reach. Not in the ghettos filled with men who watched for weakness. It wasn’t just mentorship. It was protection. Until he couldn’t protect her anymore. And once he was gone, if she was useful to the system, she had a better chance of survival.
His voice came out lower than he intended. “How long since you lost your father?”
She glanced up, startled by the question. “Four months,” she whispered.
Four months alone. Ray watched her clean the wound, his arm. Her hands never shook.
"How long have you been in Zone Twelve?"
This time she didn't look up from her work. "Two, almost three weeks, sir."
Samuel was watching her too and trying not to get caught. Ray saw him sneaking glances at her when he was supposed to be doing his job. And he didn’t like it.
“New medics don’t usually get dropped into riot duty,” Ray pointed out, forcing neutrality back into his voice.
She nodded as she prepared to stitch his wound closed. “There weren’t enough staff,” she said. “They told me they needed me here.”
Translation: They didn’t care if she lived through her first few weeks. Or they assumed she wouldn't last long.
Ray exhaled slowly through his nose.
Samuel cleared his throat. “You're good,” he said, almost proudly, like he'd discovered her.
Ray shot him a look that made him stop before he said anything else.
She was efficient, stitching the wound quickly before placing a sterile bandage. She taped the bandage, neat and efficient. It was one of the best field dressings he'd received in some time.
“You’ll be fine, sir,” she said softly, pulling his sleeve back down. "Just keep it clean. The bandage should be changed at least once a day. If it gets wet or dirty, change it immediately."
Ray nodded, rising from the chair with Samuel watching him like he might need help doing so.
Samuel was still staring at her when Ray pulled his coat back on.
“Eyes up, Kors,” Ray said, not looking at him. “We’re on duty.”
Samuel nodded, straightening up like he’d been caught asleep.
He led Samuel away and they got back to work. Ray resumed barking orders to his unit, directing barriers to be moved, dispersing stragglers. But he stayed closer to the clinic than necessary. Close enough to keep her in his peripheral vision, pleased that she'd pulled the hood of her jacket back up.
Ray was curious if a single word she’d said was true. Ducking into his patrol car, he shut the door and keyed in the name she gave him. A part of him expected the system to spit back no record found. She was probably some drifter using an alias, some runaway hiding from more trouble than she’d just admitted.
But the file populated instantly. Her name, her age listed as 23. Her father's name appeared, and he followed that link to see that he had indeed been a physician with a long service record in Zone Eight. He was listed as deceased due to a riot incident. Interesting. The wording made him wonder if there wasn't more to the story.
Going back to her file, he discovered everything matched what she told him. What she hadn't said? Her medical training was extensive. She'd been on trauma rotations since the age of sixteen.
Scrolling deeper into the file, he read the transfer details. Assignment logs. Resource allocations.
And then the real insult, she'd been here for three weeks of emergency deployments, and not a single senior medic signed off on her cases. They’d been using her. Burning through a trained trauma medic like she was disposable.
Housing: Pending.
Per diem: Pending.
Unit assignment: None.
Primary supervisor: Tier-3 medic coordinator.
Shift rotation: Unassigned.
Support notes: TBD.
Ray shook his head. A transfer from a sister district was supposed to be processed within 48 hours. Housing furnished. Per diem activated. Unit integration handled by a senior officer. Especially someone with her credentials. Zone Twelve’s medic chain-of-command hadn’t even bothered to pick her up. Commander Voss hadn’t lifted a damn finger.
Was he surprised? Yes. And no.
Voss was brilliant, but she triaged her people the way surgeons triaged bodies on a battlefield, coldly and by usefulness. A young transfer medic with no advocate and no time in grade? That kind of medic fell through the cracks all the time. But someone with this young woman's qualifications? Leaving that untapped wasn’t just careless. It was stupid.
Ray found himself tracking her without meaning to the rest of the day. He watched as she worked through an impossibly long line of victims. He noticed the small, careful movements of her hands, and the way she steadied crying children. She never flinched even when the wounded screamed. And every time she disappeared behind a crowd to get supplies or wash her hands, he craned his neck just slightly until he found her again.
He told himself it was situational awareness. A good medic like her was an asset. Strong medical teams could keep people alive long enough for his unit to stabilize the streets.
But Ray knew better. He stayed because something about her had captured his attention and held it.
It took hours to settle the district. By the time the crowd started thinning, smoke still hung low over the streets. Sirens echoed in the distance, and the adrenaline racing through him was starting to ease. The Med teams were dragging the last injured civilians inside while timekeepers set perimeters and directed people to return to their homes.
Normally, Ray would have been gone already. The proper reports would be filed, the schedule made for tomorrow, and he'd be preparing for the next crisis waiting in queue.
But he stayed, blaming protocol and the need to guarantee stabilization. He blamed Samuel’s overeager insistence that he rest because of his "injury."
The truth was, he didn’t know exactly why he stayed.
Samuel hurried beside him once they were just about finished, his blond hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. “Sir, seriously. I can finish this. You should get back to HQ, file the incident—"
Ray waved him off. “I said I’m fine.”
Samuel bit back whatever he was going to say, and jogged over to help break down a barricade. Ray watched him go. Samuel was one of his best soldiers, even if he was too eager, always desperate to prove he deserved the uniform.
By dusk, the worst was over. The crowds were gone, and the shopfronts were shuttered. The pop-up clinic was folding metal tables and packing its scarce supplies back into crates. Medics filtered out in groups, moving with slumped shoulders from exhaustion towards the transports. Ray watched everyone filtering out from the building, scanning for the girl in the oversized brown jacket.
But he didn’t see her.
“Samuel,” Ray called, “take the others back. I’ll do a sweep.”
Samuel frowned. “Sir—”
“That’s an order.”
Samuel nodded reluctantly. He and Jaeger herded the remaining timekeepers toward the transports.
Once the street was empty, Ray crossed back to the building that had served as the clinic today. The interior was silent now. There was trash on the floor, bloodied cloth strips, a few toppled chairs.
He walked room to room, and he found her in the very last one. An old office with a half-broken door and cracked plaster. She was huddled in the corner near a file cabinet, knees pulled to her chest. An ancient oil lamp flickered weakly beside her. Her jacket, her father's if he had to guess, swallowed her frame. Her head leaned back against the wall, her eyes closed.
She must have sensed him there. She jolted upright the instant she saw him. “S-sir, sorry... I wasn’t... I was j-just resting a minute.”
Her hands flew over the small pile beside her. A worn duffel bag, a folded shirt, battered boots, and an unopened can of ration soup.
Ray shook his head. She wasn’t resting, she was hiding. Sleeping here in the streets, alone. In one of the most dangerous districts in Dayton.
He stepped inside, his boots crunching on the debris there. “You’ve been here since the clinic shut down an hour ago,” he said. “Have you been sleeping here?”
She opened her mouth to deny it.
He saw the instinctive lie forming. Just resting, just organizing supplies, just waiting to go home. But then her shoulders dropped. The fight left her posture all at once, replaced by something tight and resigned. Fear. And not just fear of the streets, but fear of him. Of the uniform? Of what a timekeeper could do to her if she said the wrong thing?
She swallowed hard, her gaze flashing to the door behind him, as though calculating escape. It didn't take her long, wisely, to decide against trying that.
“I don’t… sleep in one place,” she said finally, her voice small. Her fingers curled around the strap of her duffel like she expected him to tear it from her. "I was just going to... sleep here tonight."
Ray just quietly studied her. She was starving and exhausted. And to top it off, she was terrified of the only other person in the building who had no intention of harming her.
“Why haven’t you been assigned housing?” he wanted to know.
She hesitated. “There’s a waiting list. They said new transfers are at the bottom.”
Translation: No one gave a damn.
His hand shot out, his fingers closing gently around her forearm. She flinched in his grasp.
“Easy,” he said.
She stiffened at the contact, her eyes widening. He pushed her sleeve back just enough for him to see the faint green glow beneath her skin. One year, bright and untouched. Her file said she was 23. She didn’t even have access to her own time.
Ray’s voice dropped. “How long?” he asked.
Her gaze met his warily. She was trembling, her wrist felt small in his hand. “Until it starts?”
“Yes.”
“Nineteen months.”
Ray nodded. Nineteen months until her clock activated, until time made her prey in a city that would swallow her whole. Hell, she'd be dead in 19 days if he left her out here. He released her arm slowly while she tried and failed not to look terrified.
Ray knew he intimidated most people. It made his life easier. But, in that moment, he didn’t like that she was afraid of him.
Instead, he exhaled slowly. “Gather your things.”
She froze. “Sir?”
“Now,” he didn’t raise his voice.
He didn’t raise his voice, and yet she scrambled.
Ray ushered her out of the clinic and toward his car, the night air cutting sharply against the leftover adrenaline. She moved quickly, keeping her head down and clutching her bag like a lifeline. Ray unlocked the vehicle with a tap of his wrist and opened the passenger door.
“Get in.”
She obeyed, small and too quiet.
As he drove toward the residential tower, Ray couldn’t stop thinking about how easily she’d folded into the seat. How she’d barely questioned him at all.
He knew he was doing the right thing getting her off the streets. She wouldn’t last another night sleeping in alleys between shifts. Zone Eight had chewed her up, and Zone Twelve was already taking its turn.
She needed housing and stability. With her training, she'd earn her keep.
And yet, handing her off to Voss felt like shoving a match into a room full of dry kindling. Voss ran the medic corps like a bureaucracy. Her world was cold and territorial, uninterested in people unless they made her metrics look good. But she ran the medic corps and he rarely had to deal with it.
Ray had honestly never given it much thought. Until now.
They reached the administrative tower of Zone Twelve, and he led her into the building. She stayed behind him, moving quickly and silently. The elevator carried them up to the medic floor of the tower. Ray pressed his wrist to the security panel, requesting Voss directly. A few seconds later, the doors slid open, and Voss stepped out. Like everyone else, she stopped aging at 25. Even so, she was tall and severe for a woman, and she already looked irritated.
“Commander Leon,” she said. “What’s so urgent?”
Ray didn’t bother with pleasantries. He turned slightly, nodding toward the girl standing beside him, shoulders tense but chin lifted.
“This medic,” he said, “has been working in my district without housing, without supervision, and without proper unit assignment for three weeks.”
“Her transfer wasn’t flagged as priority," Voss said. "And we process dozens a week—”
“She's a priority now,” Ray cut in flatly.
But as the words left him, something clicked. Voss hadn’t looked at a datapad or asked for a name. She hadn't requested the transfer ID. That meant Voss already knew who this girl was.
Ray’s eyes narrowed, a cold line drawing across his thoughts. So Voss had seen her file, had seen her qualifications, her assignment delays. All of it. And still deemed her low priority. That told him everything he needed to know about how little attention Voss had given her, and how easily she would have let this one slip between the cracks.
Voss’s gaze moved over the girl, really looking at her for the first time. Ray saw the calculation behind the medic commander's eyes: young, too pretty, highly trained, inconvenient.
His voice dropped a degree colder, stepping in before Voss could make the wrong assumption. “I watched her work the riot today,” he said. “She’s competent. She kept her head in situations I've seen your senior medics bungle. And she’s one minute from being dead on the street.”
Voss stiffened. “Commander, with respect, medical integration is my responsibility.”
“And I am telling you to take responsibility,” Ray said in a voice cold enough to frost glass. “Tonight.”
The girl swallowed hard beside him, eyes shifting between them.
Voss paused just a beat too long, telling Ray she was already annoyed by this medic’s existence.
“If she dies on your watch,” he added quietly, “you'll answer to me.”
Voss’s mask didn’t slip, but Ray felt the shift. The woman knew he would keep his word.
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll handle her placement personally.”
Ray turned to the girl, holding out a hand with the message you're hers now.
Her eyes widened, gratitude, relief, and something else she tried to hide. She nodded.
Ray stepped back into the elevator, the doors sliding shut between them, and for a moment he caught his own reflection in the mirrored panel. He wasn’t sure whether he felt relieved in handing the girl off or… something he didn’t want to name.
He knew one thing. Handing the medic off to Voss didn’t feel like the right decision, but in that moment, he couldn't have said why.
The monthly meeting was the next morning.
But today, something felt different.
Whispers circulated through the space like static. Not the usual complaints about time quotas or supply shortages. No, whatever it was, it was more focused.
And every time Ray stepped into someone’s peripheral vision, the volume dipped. He didn’t need Jaeger to elbow him and mutter, “Something’s brewing.” He’d already felt it.
Samuel appeared at his side a moment later, practically vibrating. “Sir, Commander, just wanted to say, uh, good call yesterday.” His grin was too wide, too eager. “Bringing the new medic into the corps?”
Jaeger turned his head slowly toward Samuel with a look that clearly read: What happy horse shit are you spewing now?
Samuel barreled on anyway. “She’s impressive. Smart.” He cleared his throat, his face already flushing. “Um. She’s… nice.”
Ray just stared at him.
Jaeger’s dark eyes narrowed on Samuel as if assessing how fast whatever this was spiraling, and how much cleanup he’d have to do.
It didn’t take a genius to put together the pieces. Ray Leon brought in a young medic, delivering her directly to Voss. She was given housing, a rare scrap of empathy. An exceptionally rare event, Ray Leon and empathy almost never found themselves in the same sentence. Therefore: gossip.
Ray could already imagine the narrative forming in their heads.
Samuel, oblivious, leaned in conspiratorially. “She really seems grateful, sir. And you know, uh... if you ever need someone to help get her adjusted to the corps... I could, you know, help.”
Jaeger snorted under his breath.
Ray didn’t look at Samuel, he looked through him. Helpful, huh?
Perfect. Exactly what he didn’t need.
What made it worse was the fact that Samuel wasn’t wrong. She had seemed grateful. And she was about to become overwhelmed if she hadn't been shoved in that direction already. And she had no idea that this reaction to her presence had already begun.
But before Ray could say anything, the noise in the room dipped. Voss swept in, brisk and irritated, followed by several medics who were very obviously whispering about the same thing Samuel was, except with far less enthusiasm.
Ray exhaled slowly. Let them talk and make their assumptions. It would die down soon enough.
But he felt Jaeger’s gaze on him, already seeing the problem form before Ray admitted it aloud.
Samuel elbowed him lightly, still grinning.“I mean, who wouldn’t be grateful, sir? You really helped her out.”
Ray finally answered, not for Samuel’s sake, but to shut down the direction this conversation was headed. “She’s a medic,” he said flatly. “She needed housing. I provided it. That’s all.”
Samuel nodded enthusiastically.
Jaeger just watched and listened as he always did.
Then the energy in the room changed. Not loudly or dramatically. But heads turned, and conversations faltered.
Jaeger was the first to look, then Samuel, who damn near lit up like a power grid.
Ray looked last, and he wished he hadn’t.
The new medic stepped into the crowded meeting room, following two other medics, and holding her clipboard to her chest like a shield. The transformation in her appearance stopped him cold. She looked professional with a pressed uniform and her hair neat. She moved in the way real medics did, quiet and with purpose. The medic's teal uniform suited her well, the white stripe down the sleeve brightened her eyes. The cut of the uniform hinted at a body Ray was absolutely not supposed to notice.
She looked both young enough to soften the room, and tired enough to have earned her place in it. And God help him, she did look grateful, like she was trying so hard to belong.
Samuel made a strangled sound beside him, something between awe and panic. Jaeger, who had been skeptically unimpressed all morning, suddenly went very still.
“Oh,” Jaeger muttered under his breath.
Ray didn’t ask what oh meant. He already knew. The room recalibrated around her. Men, regardless of their station, were straightening. Medics were elbowing each other. Voices dropped as people tried hard to look casual while staring.
It was exactly the last thing she needed.
She spotted Samuel, giving him a small, warm smile. He nearly melted.
Then her gaze drifted, unintentionally, to him. Only for a second. Just the briefest moment of recognition, a nod. I'm going to try and earn what you've given me.
It hit Ray like a flash grenade.
Suddenly, handing her off to Voss looked like the worst decision he’d made in months. Not for her safety. Ironically, she might be safer with the corps. Now dozens of people were looking at her, evaluating her. It was then it occurred to him just how quickly she could get swallowed whole by this place.
"Well, this isn't going to be a problem,” Jaeger murmured sarcastically, just low enough for Ray to hear.
Ray wasn't about to admit aloud that his lieutenant was right.
The way she took a seat quietly, trying not to draw attention... while drawing every pair of eyes anyway.
It wasn’t a mistake to bring her here. No. She looked like she belonged. But giving her to Voss? Letting this room sink its teeth into her? That might’ve been a mistake on his part.
He just watched her take out her notes with her shoulders set and her face composed. She was trying so hard to be invisible, while being anything but.
This isn’t over. And Jaeger was right. This was going to be a problem.
Bro that video of Noel recognising a porn star in the audience but like ur the porn star instead. Do we see the vision?
HE'S SUCH A SLUTTTTTTTT....ok maybe one day after i finish all my uni stuff in like a month....i'll make a whole pornstar au! with liam and noel...MAYBE
Summary: Y/N is a member of the Inner Circle, and there is a decision to have a suicide mission that would help win the war against Hybern - and Y/N has to take charge of it. Azriel cannot let Y/N go just like that.
Word Count: 1.9K ish
Warnings: Mentions of death and soldiers being harmed in war, slight cursing (if any tbh i don't think so). If anything is left out, let me know below!
a/n: First Person (but I use Y/N as a character, not an OC), I am going to convert this into a series cuz I have an idea (this is going to be slightly based on Nesta’s whole spiral in ACOSF in the next few parts). All credit for the prompt and the inspiration of the first half (loosely based on the story part 1) to “Farewell my love” (written by @allthehopesforlove) - you should check it out, too. It's pretty well written (sending you much love @allthehopesforlove<3). Also, the concept of the Eight is based on Manon from the TOG series! I' 'll upload the next few parts by Jan end (I have finals in two days what am I doing here????)
14th Jan 2025, Writing 3
There is no way that the war can be won without this move. That was the consensus as we stood around the replica of the battleground - Rhys was motionless as he assessed the situation and Cassian kept pacing around the tent that swayed with the wind. Mor was leaning against the chair, her injuries preventing her from standing up straight. I looked at Azriel as he stared at the map and tried to figure out.
The move was simple - a 300 soldiers in a formation that would cleave the Hybern army at the centre, at the weakest point. With the seperation of the army into fragments, the Spring, Autumn and Day Court Armies could take over the upper flank and the Winter and Dawn Court Armies taking over the lower flank; the Night Court attacks from the back to prevent anyone else from escaping. The Summer Court would join the 300 soldiers after they had seperated the army and prevent them from joining again which would turn the tide of the war against Prythian.
All 300 would most likely die. A 95% chance according to me, Cassian agreed with that figure, if not implying that the danger was higher. Feyre was watching her mate, I think she was just scared that he would choose to be the one to lead the soldiers now nicknamed the Regiment 300. The final stand.
There were arguments made in favour and against, Rhys and Cassian at each others throats, Azriel trying to calm the whole situation down. I stood there watching them all fight and try to figure it out while the clock ticked. Hybern would not stop their planning, their tactics just because we couldnt get our shit together. The other High Lords were aware of this plan, it was Beron who had assigned the final duty of choosing the Regiment 300 from the Night Court rather than any other Court. He deemed it fair - that it was us who had to shed the final blood. Meant it as an insult but it was right.
I dont remember much because it was a blur. I had slammed my fists into the table, looked them dead in the eye and explained why it couldnt be any of them. How if Morrigan rode out, she wouldnt make it ten steps before falling dead from her horse. How Feyre could not go to war because she was not trained enough yet. How Rhysand cannot go to war because he is the High Lord and his death would mean a constitutional crisis. How Cassian and Azriel cannot go to war because they had to lead the Night Courts attack with Feyre assisting. How Amren was not going to since she had to figure out the Cauldron’s final secrets. And that only left me.
I wasn't exactly a military person, like Cassian was. I was a strategist, I knew the military tactics but nothing more. I wasn't interested in the training part of it. But I was a damn good leader, people listened to me and I could hold my weight for a while in battle if it came down to it. I could do it, I had to do it. It was the only option left and I knew that I would have to do it. If only to see my family, the Inner Circle, see the sunrise day after tomorrow.
Azriel spoke almost as a whisper, “You cannot possible think that I would allow you to go and do that. To go and kill yourself.” Before Rhys could agree with him and argue with me, I looked Azriel dead in the eye and asked him to find another individual to sacrifice then. And he had stopped breathing, his mind turning. But he wouldnt accept it, his eyes betryaed that he would have rather tied me down than let me go. That is the male I know, the one who cannot bear to accept my demise. Oh Azriel, if only you knew how much I hate this decision of mine. Sweetheart, we were supposed to have a lifetime together.
Further arguments were made but I turned to Rhys and spoke to him mind to mind. He turned to me, face to face, man to man. And I reminded him of that phrase that all good monarchs were supposed to live by. I bent the knee, bowed my head and waited for him. He took a sharp breath in and spoke in his regal voice, “Y/N, you have been given command of the Regiment 300. Ride in the name of the High Lord of the Night Court and make your last stand. Defend Prythian and may the Mother be with you.” I rose and bowed to my High Lord as I turned.
I left the tent before Azriel could grab my hand, before he could see the tears drop. Cassian held him against his will and I could hear Azriel bellowing out my name, cursing the gods for letting this happen, attempting to hurt Cassian to reach me in any way, in any form. Feyre held Mor as she mumbled about this not being fair.
The decision was made, I would lead the Regiment 300 tomorrow at dawn. I had summoned the Eight - my military advisors but more than that my closest friends, we had grown up together, seen each other do things that we thought weren't possible, reaching positions and training to higher levels. My most trusted souls. Pieces of my heart each of them. They were going to join me in the suicide mission and I had to see them all one last time before dawn.
I went to my tent to prepare my armor and set my affairs in order. I told my sentry to prepare my horse and get the men together, I would address them as Commander about their suicide mission. That I would join them in their deaths would be my greatest honor. The last stand would be made. And we would win.
I remember the taste of blood in my mouth, the feeling of sweat dripping, the tightening of my hands on the spear. I remember the feeling of my horse running forward, looking to my right and my left to see my friends, my chosen few, surging forward through the mud. I remember it all.
And I remember waking up in that godforsaken tent with that male looking at me with hazel eyes full of concern and I knew what had happened. I had forsaken my soldiers, the regiment had been abandoned. I led them into war and I deserted them to die.
Slapping his arms away and throwing it off me, I ran out of the tent. Running to see that the sun was almost setting. We had set out at sunrise, it was now sunset. No, this cannot be true. Where are they? Please don't let it be true. I gasped at the sudden pain in my side, noticing that I had an injury to my left flank. The arrow hit me when we first made contact with the army.'
The battleground was barely half a kilometer away, clutching my side to prevent any bandages from falling, I ran the distance trying to see what had happened. I heard Azriel calling out to Rhys and the rest. They were alive but I didn't care about that right now, I had to check on the Eight, my regiment. It was mostly a downhill journey, with a few slips due to loose rocks. I kept my head down to not see what was ahead, I didn't want to lose hope, and I didn't want to accept what had surely happened.
I smelt it before I saw it. I didn't hear it because they were all dead with spears and arrows jutting out of their bodies. No, that is a lie - I did hear it. I listened to the vultures and crows in the sky and on the ground. Feasting. I reached the base of the slope and I looked up at the battleground. A crematorium. A graveyard. The site of my greatest failure.
And I tried catching my breath, looking at the bodies, at the mangled flesh and bone, at the blood that soaked the mud as my bare feet made contact with it, at the horses whose legs had been twisted and intestines hanging out, at the soldiers with cracked skulls, one with his leg blown off, and another completely impaled on a spear.
I couldn't feel anything, my face was numb, and my hands were numb. I was numb. I trudged along because I had found my entire regiment dead but I had to check on the Eight. I had to see their dead eyes so I could tell them that I would join them soon. That is my punishment, that is the price for this mistake. Blood will appease blood.
So I walked to the start of the bloodshed, the site where the regiment hit the Hybern army for the first time. Where I was supposed to lay dead and broken. I was the leader of that regiment, the commander who had told them that this was our last stand. Yet I was alive and they were dead. I stepped on something and I heard a crunching noise. I took a second, hyperventilating before I looked down and saw it. I saw her.
I had found what I was looking for - the Eight lay together in a small circle, almost as if they were trying to hold each other’s hands in their last moments. It seemed that they had tried to create a triangle to penetrate the defense. It had worked but it worked because they fought to the death. The rest of the regiment must have gone through breaking the army from the inside out and the move worked. The Summer Court must have shortly followed. And they didn't stop until they had won the war.
I fell onto my knees, into the mud, and I was shaking, with grief, loss, and despair. And I picked up her body to try to bring it close to mine, to try and hold her one last time. She was long gone but it seemed as if this would help, somehow reduce her pain and make it easier for her to go. I can only imagine what it was like when she had to go, how alone she felt, how betrayed and disgusted she felt that the Commander had been saved, not them.
If I could I would have saved you, I am sorry, it should have been me, I should have died. I don't deserve to live, I will join you.
I screamed those words into the air as I held her and crawled to the rest, begging for them to wake up, to not forgive me but to punish me, telling them that I would join them. That I was the betrayer, the reason for their deaths. That they should never forgive me.
I cried into the mud with their bodies next to me. My wound had already been bleeding profusely and I thought it to be poetic justice that I, too die next to them from a wound I received at the battle that they died in. Except they would die a warrior’s death and I would die a coward’s death. Right next to them.
This is what I deserve. And there was only one person to blame for this.
You really didn’t know why you and your roommate never really got along. It was just a fact that you didn’t. It was something about his nonchalant disposition or the way he blasted punk music right next to your shared wall at ungodly hours of the day. And truth be told, it he was annoyingly good looking.
Not that it mattered. When you moved in together, you barely exchanged any words and your conversations have never quite gone further than that. You usually ignored eachother, or just let the other think that. Truth was that you were both so caught up watching in silence, you didn’t notice the other persons eyes. You had accidentally revealed secrets to one another without realizing. Like the ones that make you storm into your apartment, fuming.
You slammed the door behind you angrily, shrugging off your jacket with a force. Hobie was on the couch, watching you with an intrigued face as you struggled to take off your second shoe.
“You alright-”
“Do you have a crowbar?” You ask suddenly, you jaw clenched and your breathing heavy. You were making this all up at you went.
His eyebrows furrowed, “Why would you need a crowbar?”
“Just answer the question, Brown,” You huffed, storming off into your room. He followed behind you.
“No, I don’t have a crowbar,” He tells you, watching you strangely until you start stripping off your pants. He turned around quickly, crossing his arms. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” You groan, pulling on black sweatpants and a black hoodie. You looked at Hobie for a second, taking in his larger build, narrowing your eyes at his back. “Do you have a baseball bat?”
“What’s the sudden interest in blunt objects?” He asked with a teasing lilt. You closed your eyes in annoyance, sighing slowly. He noticed, nodding, “Yes, I have one. Are you tryna kill your ex or something?”
You pushed past him, going to grab your pair of converse from the entrance of the apartment. “Something like that.” He raised an eyebrow at you. You stopped for a second to look at him, “You wanna come?”
He tilted his head at the invitation, unsure if you were serious. He had a feeling that regardless of the situation, he would be needed. As spider-man or as Hobie. “Why not.”
"Go put on a hood,” you told him, finishing the knot of your shoelaces. Right as he was starting to turn down the hall, you called out, “Bring the bat and your web shooters.”
Warnings: Plenty Sexual Tension (and innuendos), man playing guitar at you
WC: 2000
Author's Note: I took forever to write this, SO much has been going on. I swear to god, that fanfic writer curse is a real thing. In any case, they still aren't in each other's pants, writing smut scares me just a bit because I DREAD the word 'member' like it's out to kill my family. Anywaysies, please enjoy!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Oy, get those shoes off. I don’t want you tracking dirt onto my floors.”
You obliged, leaning your hand against the wall for support as you slipped your foot out of your shoes, and then the other. You couldn’t say his home was anything beyond what you would have expected: it had an arranged mess type of look to it, punk themed magazines strewn along tabletops and shelves, though not quite organised in any particular manner. Along the walls were paintings and artworks, beautiful displays of bold and striking colours, posters for bands you’d only ever heard in name. Down the hallway, to your immediate right was a kitchen, a single plate and fork sitting in the sink impatiently waiting to be washed. It was nothing large, not as though he would have needed it to be, but it seemed well suited for the space. Further up ahead was a couch cradled to the corner of the room, a forest green complemented by orange pillows.
“Welcome to casa de Brown, breakfast is from 7 to 10, and we don’t do lunches here, so don’t expect it.”
“Ah, and what of dinner?”
“Depends, will you be having dessert at the dining table or on the countertop?”
“How much of a mess do you intend to make?”
He shrugged, an almost coy smile spilling against his lips as you walked ahead of him, immediately drawn to a collection of guitars displayed above his couch – that was what you’d come to see, after all. They weren’t anything particularly expensive or extravagant, a fact that seemed strongly contrary to what the persona he had constructed in your presence suggested. If anything, they looked mildly aged.
“These are awfully boring for an alleged rockstar,” You said as you placed a knee on the couch, leaning forward to strum a finger across the strings, only to be met by an off-key sound. “Yikes, out of tune too? Not helping your case here, Brown.”
“You judge a man by the look and sound of his instrument, ay? Just let me get my girl, I named her… Actually, I didn’t name her, but that’s nunya business.”
He walked through a door beside the couch, leading to – what you could only assume was – his bedroom. You took a seat, hands folded over one another in your lap, it was almost polite, something uncertain. The whole place smelled of him; that natural unfamiliar scent you’d find in every place that wasn’t your own. You pulled one of the persimmon cushions into your lap, an immediate gust of that wooden undertone he carried with himself, a pleasant aroma by all means. It almost felt intimate, the way you could imagine his skin bearing the exact sensation with your teeth pressed to his throat. You’d hope in such a situation you’d be feeling more than just the way he smelled, perhaps it would be his coarse hands wandering below your shirt, exploring the warmth at your abdomen – if he were bold enough, possibly lower.
“Here she is, the beauty.” He held up an electric, pressing a kiss to the upper bout. Its body a stark faded red, covered with a couple doodles and stickers, strings fraying ungracefully past the tuning pegs. In its odd and chaotic look, it presented a pleasant contrast – reminded you of him in the same way pets supposedly resemble their owners.
“I expected something a little more impressive,” you retorted as you leaned back into the sofa, your arms crossed, cozying into the seat as if it were your own.
“Well, if that was the case, the audience would be staring at the guitar and not the stud playing it. We can’t have that, now can we?”
“Go on, then. Give me a show, pretty boy.”
The way you said that stroked something in his ego, he felt it in the way his tongue caught against his teeth; abundant hesitation. He felt himself weak in the palm of your hand, the way you spoke grazing against something delicate, something sensitive and unseen. The way you moved your tongue had his throat full of all the things he couldn’t say, his wit robbed from him in the broad daylight of your affection.
A bulge pressing against his cheek from the inside, he hung the strap of the guitar against one shoulder, the instrument pressed against himself diagonally. His fingers found the frets with apparent ease, his right hand resting on its waist, confirming the thing was a long term partner of his.
He pointed to a large black wire curling beside a comparatively small amp, something that could almost be called compact. “Be a doll, yeah? Grab that cable there.”
You obliged, standing beside the machine, holding the very end of the wire – the part that would attach to the guitar.
“Just like that… D’you know how to turn it on?”
As he plugged the cable in with a satisfying two-part sound, your fingers trailed over the very top of the amp, searching for a switch. “Isn’t that what I’ve been doing?” A soft click hit the top of the system, a gentle buzz pouring from the front as he placed his fingers over the strings, something hinting at expertise in the way he did it.
“Alright, any requests? I don’t usually give my fans this opportunity, so you better pick something good, yeah?” He placed his fingers on individual strings, running a dark pick down the strings, a warm hum seeping out of the amp in response.
You stood, approaching the bookshelf beside him; more vinyls than there were books. You ran your finger over the sides of them, pushing them apart to get a peak at the names of the albums. A monochrome sleeve caught your eye, bright orange words in opposite corners, a dark airship occupying a large chunk of the cover: Led Zeppelin. You pulled it out from the shelf, holding it with both hands, briefly admiring his taste.
He watched you pick it, the way you moved your fingers in a cautious way, as though you were at risk of tearing the thing apart with your mind; he admired the back of your figure, up and down, his eyes lingering at certain parts of you. He knew the risk he put himself at, guiding you to his home, the subtle pour of light through translucent curtains hardly illuminating the desire that pressed against his torn denim jeans. “I can’t quit you, babe.” With a sharp downward strum, he played the first chord of the second last song on the track list. He said it with playful ignorance stuck to his lips, his fingers trailing down the fretboard, picking the strings his fingers held down against the instrument’s neck, pressing and pulling with an arrogance that could only be found in mastery.
“You wouldn’t be the first,” you placed the vinyl sleeve back on the shelf, your eyes strictly on his as you ran your fingertip over the edge of it, slowly pressing it back into its nook between the other vinyls. His eyes flicked downwards to the motion of his own fingers, you took the moment to sit back down, leaning back as far as you could, legs crossed. He was the performer, you were the audience.
You watched, the way he moved his fingers, the way his eyes kept finding yours; a very distinct glint in his eye asking, “Yeah? You like this, don’t you?” Of course he knew the answer to it, he was nothing if not self assured. You heard the squeal of the strings as he pressed them into the board, stretching out the sound, distorting it in a pleasant way. There was a way he smiled, as he ran his fingers up and down the throat of the instrument, it begged for so much more attention than just a mere glance. Something in the dim sparks in the room glistened against his skin, shining against his silver adornments.
He stepped closer, his fingers dancing up and down the strings in quick practiced languid motions, a slight enchantment in the way he moved the whole thing in the slow swells of sound, pushing it forward with the rest of himself – there was his performer’s flare. You had to admit, the guitar pressed against his torso really did prove to be a good combination, a distinctly alluring match up of his arms straining to strum at the right speed, the effort to urge the right sounds out of the thing. He was good at making it loud, he played it hard enough for it to still be pleasant. His fingers dug hard into certain notes, a tense vibrato spilling out onto the living room floor.
“Eyes on me, yeah?”
He gradually got closer to the couch, the instrument uncoiling the tangle of wire beside the amp as he approached, his fingers held across the board to hush the thing in the meantime - almost like a hand pressed against a mouth, just to make sure things weren’t too much of a ruckus.
You kept your eyes on him, eventually looking up at him from the seat. He looked almost cocky, your face something of an inch above his belt. He rearranged his fingers against the fret, his other hand held back as if he were admiring something below him.
“Think you can tame it?”
You offered him a scoff coated in the remains of an upward tilt against your mouth, eyes keen on his as you answered, “Didn’t think you were the type to want to be played with, superstar.” You moved your hand forward, closer to the space where his abdomen would meet his thighs, sedulous fingers running over the strings, a soft sound followed by a single harsh note where your nail met the last string. His focus was on your hand, the way it moved, the way your eyes focused right ahead, the faint colour of your iris peaking through curved lashes. His breath gently pressed out his lips, the sharp ends of his imagination catching on the soft fabric of reality.
The things he wanted to do to you clawed down his back, chains of the foreseeable consequences keeping his hands from wandering to your throat, from tipping your head up, from letting your lips feel the rough tip of his thumb, begging for entry before running it against your tongue. He’d hold you there, bass on the line.
“Something caught your tongue, Brown?”
You gave him an almost coy look, big eyes looking right up at him in something alluding to your lips pressed against the very bottom of his torso. A warm and loving mouth lathering him in sensations that could only be appreciated in incoherency. He smiled all the same, his own dark eyes running down along your cheek, down to your jugular, as if he were staking the kill.
“You know just what you’re doing there, don’t you?”
“Oh, and what is it that I’m doing to you, hm?”
You snaked your fingers away from the strings, north bound. Cold fingertips slithering just above his belt, contact made against the warmth of his torso. Conflicting sensations sparking between the two of you, the kind that would shatter glass. You flattened your palm just above where his jeans hung on to his torso, running it up against his stomach; appreciation in each divot your fingers conquered. He relished in that frigid hand slaughtering every inhibition, deliberate forgetfulness in every possible repercussion to be had.
(Y/N) grimaced, staring at the dark streets of Zaun. Although it had been long since she returned to Zaun—a little under a year—it still felt like home. Trudging through the alleys with her head down, her hands in her pockets, (Y/N) kept her ears open for any movements, her paranoia heightening by the second. That’s what growing up in Zaun did to you, after all. It had kids hiding whatever piece of treasure they managed to get their grubby hands on before hiding away themselves, the fear of being caught consuming them.
Her nails digging into her palm at the memory, (Y/N) huffed.
Finally, after a few minutes of walking, her eyes lit up as she spotted the symbol of the Last Drop. Shoving her hands deeper into her pockets, she quickened her pace and entered the bar, only to be immediately regret it. She scrunched her nose, disgusted at the smell of booze and drugs in the air. Rolling her eyes at the drunken makeouts taking place by the walls, (Y/N) made her way towards the bar. Taking a seat on the stool, she glanced around, curiosity swirling within her.
“On the house.” The bartender suddenly offered, pouring her a drink as he winked at her. “The name’s Terence.”
Hiding her grimace, (Y/N) merely nodded as she unenthusiastically replied, “Thanks.”
Still, she didn’t touch the drink and instead, continued looking around. “So…” she began after a moment, turning her attention onto the bartender. “I’m looking for someone.”
Looking her up and down, Terence paused his polishing of a glass cup as he smirked. “Not from ‘round here, huh?” He threw his unstained cloth across his shoulder as he purred, “For a pretty thing like you, I could help.”
(Y/N) internally gagged, and yet, hid it from showing on her face—she didn’t think she was doing such a good job, though. “Do you know someone by the name…”Powder”?”
At the mere mention of the name, Terence’s eyes widened as the glass slipped between his hands, smashing onto the ground. Few turned their eyes onto the scene only to look away moments later: it wasn’t too surprising nor entertaining to watch.
(Y/N) flinched, taken aback.
Terence, paying no heed to the broken glass that decorated the floor, instead leaned in and hissed, “Are you insane?” Shaking his head, his head snapped upwards before his eyes darted around, almost in fear someone was listening. “You might have a death wish but don’t you go dragging me into it.” With that, he turned, his back facing her, making it clear their discussion was over.
Shocked, (Y/N) remained seated for a few seconds before she stood up and left, her mind still processing the events that had taken place.
Neither she nor Terence seemed to notice the figure at the top of the stairs, eyeing the back of (Y/N)’s figure with interest.
———
Sighing, (Y/N) trudged the streets, her hands in her pockets as she mumbled to herself, “Shit.” She wasn’t sure if she would be allowed back into the Last Drop: she noticed the bouncers at the doors glaring at her as she left, as if they had somehow heard of Terence’s outburst despite it not occurring merely seconds before she left.
Running her hand over her face, her eyes glanced around before landing on a specific monument known to all of Zaun, even (Y/N). Her feet treaded to a stop as she arrived by Vander’s statue, and she couldn’t help but admire the names scratched onto the bottom of the statue, a symbol of those who missed him dearly. She ran her fingers over the names, her lips curling downwards as she did so.
After a moment or two, she pulled her hand away and was about to walk away when a voice stopped her.
“What’s the deal with y’a, toots?”
(Y/N) turned, her eyes widening to find a girl—roughly around her age—with long, messy blue-haired with distinctive twin braids that reached her ankles. She leaned against the statue, merely watching her with interest.
Withholding a shiver, (Y/N) scrunched her eyebrows as she retorted, “And you are?”
Releasing a dark chuckle, the girl jumped down and slowly walked towards (Y/N), an eerie smirk on her lips, as if she knew something hilarious (Y/N) didn’t know.
“You’re not from ‘round here, are ‘ya?” She said as she circled (Y/N), a little giggle—although nothing pure, instead, almost sadistic—escaped her lips.
(Y/N) frowned. “Been a while since I’ve been back.” She answered honestly.
Nodding, the girl awed, “That makes sense…” she chuckled, “‘cuz everyone knows me!” She raised her hands up, chuckling, “I’m infamous, y’a see.”
(Y/N) nodded, slightly confused. “Alright then.” She waved to the girl, turning as she said, “See you ‘round, I guess.”
“Ah, Ah, Ah, toots. Now, who said—“
Interrupting the girl, the sound of a gunshot echoed across the area, followed by a startled scream.
Her eyes widened, (Y/N) turned around to find the weird blue-haired girl hunched over, clutching her shoulder as she glared into the distance.
“Shit!” (Y/N) followed her gaze, her eyes locking onto a man at the top of a nearby building, a long gun in his hands that aimed in their direction once more.
“Get down!” She shouted, but it was no use.
Almost strategically, the next bullet aimed at the blue-haired girl’s thigh, resulting in another startled cry from her lips.
Her eyes filled with panic, (Y/N) muttered under her breath, “Shit. Shit. Shit.” She dashed towards the girl—hunched over and heavily bleeding—and wrapped one arm around her neck as she carried her into her arms. The sound of a gun echoed once more, only this time, it aimed at (Y/N).
“Fuck!” She cursed, ignoring the aching pain on her shoulder. Luckily, the bullet grazed her and yet, that still didn’t mean it wasn’t painful.
Carrying the weirdo in her arms, (Y/N) dashed into the alleys. Despite it still being her first week back in Zaun, she remembered the alleys like the back of her hand and knew that the sniper wouldn’t have enough range to aim at them from there.
Panting, she pulled the girl tighter towards her chest as she pushed herself forward despite her aching feet.
When she caught sight of an abandoned, partially collapsed building, she dashed inside. She grimaced at the sight of shards decorating the floor and instead, moved towards the back of the building. She assumed this used to be some arcade, due to the games that filled the room. The sound of a wince entered her ears and (Y/N) pulled her attention away from the room and towards the girl in her arms.
“Shit, are you alright?” She laid her down on the floor, leaning her back against the wall.
The girl only groaned, mumbling incoherent words under her breath.
(Y/N) thought she heard her say “Fuck you, what do y’a think?” though she didn’t take much offense to it: the girl was bleeding, after all.
(Y/N) winced at the sight of the blood leaking from her wounds. “I gotcha.” She stammered. Rising to her feet, she darted across the room searching for anything useful that would assist her in cleaning the wound. Luckily for her, she found a few bottles of water hidden away in the bottom drawers, along with a—surprisingly—clean pair of cloth.
Urgently, (Y/N) grabbed it and made her way back towards the girl, beginning the process of cleaning her wounds and making sure it wasn’t infected.
“You’re alright.” She reassured her as she wiped away the blood. Ripping off her own shirt—leaving her in only an undershirt—(Y/N) began to tie her shirt around her wound on her thigh before making her way onto her shoulder wound.
“Stay awake, alright?” (Y/N) urged as she wrapped the now-bloody cloth around her wound.
The girl’s eyes flickered onto her before she huffed and groaned, “Fuck. You’re hot.”
Startled, (Y/N) paused in her movements before she snorted, “Shit, you’re insane.” After she finished tying the cloth, (Y/N) pulled away and sighed, “Well, did the best I know of. You should get that checked out though.”
Sitting down cross-legged in-front of the wounded girl, (Y/N) stared at her for a few seconds before she randomly snorted, bursting into a cackle.
“What’s so funny, toots?” The blue-haired girl huffed, her powder-blue eyes flickering onto her.
(Y/N) chuckled. “Just that—when you said you’re infamous, I didn’t really think much of it but I guess it’s true.” She leaned against her knee, chuckling. “You got a bad reputation, huh? Someone’s after y’a?”
The blue-haired girl snorted. “Something like that.”
(Y/N) laughed. “Well, stick around me. I’ll take care of y’a, um…”
“Jinx.” She finished, her eyes glinting despite the bloodied wounds she’d incurred. “The name’s Jinx.”
Frankenstein!Max...Scientist!Neil Warnings :: Toxic Dynamics, Possessive Behavior, Minimal Angst.. Camp Camp AU. Aged up characters.
Synopsis :: After his creator forgot to lock the doors after leaving to go discuss future plans, this was Max's chance to escape this life of boredom and despair.
a/n: I haven't wrote in awhile, so this is probably going to be buns.. But my boyfriend helped with the process of it! SO THANK YOU MY BABY PRINCE @maxneilious. He REALLY likes this AU. So I'll probably make a series out of this!
It was the afternoon of the day Cornelius had to go to a meeting, discussing the changes they had to do in the laboratory for the experiment, with his sister, Nicolette, that he hadn't seen ever since they were sent off to the orphanage. He was nervous, of course, this was his sister, that probably had a more fortunate life than he had.
He tidied up his appearance, combing his hair upwards, buttoning up his scarlet suit, before exiting out the door, his hand grazing the doorknob, before he remembered something important, his creation,
Neil sighed, he had totally forgot to tell his creation, whom he had named Max, that he was leaving for the afternoon, and probably for the rest of the day, leaving the creation unsupervised. He quickly let his hand off the knob, before rushing down the grand stairs, into the gloomy basement below, where he'd kept his creation there for the mean-being, all to himself. "Maxwell." He called out.
A small tug from his pant leg quickly startled the scientist, kicking the creatures hand off of his pant leg, which was now stained with black.
"I should've taught you not to touch without permission," He scoffed, tracing his steps before looking back at Max, "Could've gave me some sort of diseases."
The boy was created recently, a amalgamation of the multiple…Donations, into one : His droopy, green eyes staring up at him with hurt, clutching his hand with the other, discolored one, shivering.
Pieces of lazily sewn on cloth was all that he wore, he clearly needed new clothes, but Neil didn't have enough funding to get Max his own clothes just yet.
"Max…" His eyes softened, kneeling down to cup the rugged skin of his creation "I'm going off for a few hours, are you going to be alright in the meantime?:" Neil muttered, trying not to scare the boy. Max's eyes light up, before nodding. The idea of being left alone from the scientist, felt like a piercing weight had been lifted off his shoulders.
He had only been created a few days ago, but already knew that this was no way to live : Locked in a neglected prison, with an overbearing mad scientist that never lets him breath at times.
But this was his moment. His moment to finally escape this place, away from his creator.. Even if it was a bit hard to…
Cornelius gave a warm smile, his thumb caressing the stitching on his cheek, before finally letting go, standing back up again, patting off the dirt on his clothed knees, before stepping off, up onto the grand stairs.
The creature just sat there, motionless, waiting for that classic sound of the doors closing, and the locks clicking shut. He heard the door, yes, but something felt missing : the door lock. Max tensed up, before sprinting up the stairwell, stumbling in the process of running, his shaky, his colored hand gipping the doorknob, before opening it slowly, the sun scorching his sensitive eyes, never have seen the sun up until this very moment.
He stumbled out, seeing the busy street before him, crossing the street, was a bustling market ahead of it, with many ladies and misters wearing equally as fancy suits. Max tilted his head : None of the ladies and misters were wearing something like himself, so he got back on his feet, slowly closing the door before looking around the lab. He stumbled across a grand door, leading to, what he thought to be his master's room
The bedroom wallpaper was chipping, looking like it hadn't been kept in decades, It was clean, but it felt, uncanny. With only the basic necessities in the back of the room. No clutter, no nothing.
There was a small closet at the side of the bedroom wall, some clothes fallen from his creator leaving in a hurry. Max curiously looked down, kneeling down to slowly pick up the leftover clothes on the lavender-smelt tiles. He came up to his feet again, and with his lack of knowledge, put on the clothes the floor had given him, like it was destiny. He adjusted his posture, almost falling back in the process, not knowing how to work his back very well after being created : But the countless training Neil forced him through,, all was worth it for his "function". That's what he said, of course.
Max felt ready.
Ready for the real world outside that door a few feet away. He walked out the Lab, which he figured out that it was a dingy apartment, not like the big and fancy Laboratory that Neil was blabbing about ever since he was made. He walked down the apartment stairs : He could already feel the stares of bystanders walking by, looking at the creature with confusion, almost disgust as he crossed the road.
As he made it to the market : All the noises were overwhelming, all the talking,, all the noise, all the stares, it was all too much.
He froze, he couldn't move, it was all too much. He shouldn't have went outside, he thought. Tears were trailing down his scarred face, his brows furrowed, a frown painting his face a long with it.
But then, he perked up. The smell of bitter-sweet frosting, and fresh strawberries wafted near his scent. He quickly recovered from his recent breakdown, before looking at the stand : A sweet lady, probably in her early 20s, was selling cakes of many flavors, which caught his interest. He slowly walked towards the cake-stand, tilting his head as he looked at the woman.
She eventually noticed, staring into his green eyes, before giving him a warm, comforting smile. Max didn't know what this feeling was. It was a warm feeling in his heart, which made it raced.
"Hello there!" The woman finally spoke, he found interest in the boy, especially his appearance.
"Are you interested in buying some cakes? I notice that you have a keen eye in the strawberry cheesecake.. Our best seller!"
His gaze quickly went back to the woman as she kept talking about the cheesecake.
Her gummy, wide smile, it felt, genuine, like she was happy to have him here at her stand. So he learn, and slowly, and painfully, copied it. It felt like needles prickling at his face, but he endured it.
"Do you want it? Free of charge, since I never seen you before in the area."
She grabbed a clean plate, reaching her gloved hand to place the cheesecake onto the floral plate.
Once the plate was in his shaky hands, he placed it back onto the table, picking up the cheesecake with one hand, taking one,, small bite, which felt weird on his teeth, but…
It was amazing! Nothing he had ever taste before in his short life.
He rocked side-to-side, the smile getting wider on his stitched face. Before he could take another bite, he froze, hearing that familiar, grating voice.
"Maxwell."
He yelled, his face red with anger and jealousy, seeing his creation out, talking to some cake-lady lower class whore? He couldn't accept this. He tossed the plate against the market pillar, breath heaving with anger. "What are you doing out." He loudly whispered to the creature, grabbing his wrist tightly.
"Sir- I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to anger you—"
"ZIP-it. Go sell your shitty cakes to someone else."
He yelled, dragging the upset boy back to the apartment building.
Once they got back inside, he tossed Max onto the couch, taking off his gloves, pacing around the room.
"What was I thinking. I should've double checked my locks before going out! Why did you even want to go out anyways? Do you need more time outside of your basement I kept you in for your safety."
Max perked up from his upset expression, nodding eagerly. The Scientist sighed, pitching the bride of his nose. Even if he wanted to keep his creation safe, he couldn't let him go sad, he just couldn't. "Fine. If you want to go out, up to you! Just know that heavy supervision will be on you."
Max sighed in annoyance, which was way louder than he wanted it to be, which angered Neil, but he chose not to question, before storming back into his room. Leaving the boy there, annoyed out of his mind.
