#consent issues

Minutes dissolved before she finally moved. One bare foot eased toward the door, the old boards creaking beneath each step. At the threshold she paused, hand hovering over the knob, then slowly pulled it open.

The hallway yawned back at her—empty, indifferent.

She crept toward the living room, hand trailing cool plaster. At the corner she pressed herself against the wall, squeezed her eyes shut for one useless second, then looked.

Nothing.

No mocking smile. No whisper of smoke.

The windows stared back, still shut and latched. The front door sat in its frame—deadbolt thrown, exactly as she'd left it.

Jack was gone.

She stood there, waiting for something to resolve. But the room held its shape around her, ordinary and quiet, save for the gentle hum of the refrigerator.

The world should have stopped. The walls should have crumbled. But the refrigerator hummed on, steady and indifferent, while dust motes drifted through the morning light as if her soul hadn't just been razed to the ground.

​She was alone. She had won.

​But relief didn't come.

As she stepped farther into the living room, her eyes caught on the coffee table—and something inside her dropped clean through the floor.

The Tupperware container sat askew on the wood. A few lonely muffin crumbs scattered across the surface like debris from a wreck. Beside it, the mug—his mug—sat there with a mouthful of coffee still left at the bottom.

​He was just here.

The man who had aimed a gun at her heart—and the man who had sat on her best friend’s sofa eating muffins.

The man who had ruined her life—and the one who had held her through the night like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

​She walked toward the couch, her legs feeling disconnected from her body, and sank into the cushions.

​The fabric was still warm.

​Alina made a wrecked, breathless sound, her forehead dropping into her hands.

​She hated him. Hated him with a purity that burned in her veins. She had meant every word she'd hurled at him—she wanted him to bleed, to stay gone, to suffer for what he’d done to her.

​And yet her hand reached out anyway.

Her fingertips brushed the rim of the mug, and the way her heart clenched made her want to hurl it across the room.

She should have scrubbed the table raw. Torn the cushions apart. Purged every trace of him from the apartment before Emma came home.

But instead, she stared at the stupid crumbs he'd left behind and felt something inside her cave in completely.

Because some devastating, humiliating part of her wanted to gather them up like relics. Wanted to press the lingering warmth he left back into her chest and keep it there.

“God, I hate you,” she choked out into the silence.

​But the air didn't answer.

The empty room just watched her—watched her sit there in her underwear, grieving a monster, losing her mind in the space between I’m free and please come back.

She'd finally cut the tether—had finally said everything she’d ever dreamed of saying to him.

Now, she was just floating in the dark, waiting for the oxygen to run out.

---

After a long while, she finally moved. Slowly, mechanically, she pushed herself off the floor and began erasing him.

She washed the mug first. Emma’s chipped little coffee mug with the fading Golden Girls decal. She scrubbed it too hard, fingers trembling around the sponge as near-scalding water ran over her knuckles.

She didn’t notice.

Then the Tupperware. The crumbs. The untouched half of the blueberry muffin—she swept it all straight into the trash bag, tying the plastic knot with tight, jerking motions as if she could strangle the memory of him inside it.

She righted the pillows. Folded the blanket.

As if restoring the apartment to its proper shape might somehow restore her too.

Rain started to whisper against the windows as she dragged herself toward the bathroom.

She brushed her teeth without looking in the mirror.

Couldn’t bear to.

Couldn’t stand the thought of seeing her own face and recognizing the woman staring back.

The shower was quick. Mechanical. Barely warm.

She washed herself with frantic hands, scrubbing at skin he’d barely touched this time, though her body still felt marked by him somehow—like fingerprints pressed beneath flesh instead of on top of it.

When she stepped out, steam curled weakly through the cramped bathroom. She wrapped a towel around herself and stared resolutely at the sink instead of the mirror.

After dressing in her room, she crossed the hall back into Emma’s bedroom to retrieve her phone from the dresser where she’d abandoned it yesterday.

But as she scanned for it, her eyes met something else first.

The comb.

Resting exactly where he’d set it down after dragging it through his damp curls with that infuriating, casual ease.

Alina froze—then picked it up without thinking.

Her thumb brushed the spine absently as her eyes drifted to the teeth—

A strand.

Dirty blond, catching sickly green when the light hit it just right, still faintly curled from dampness.

Jack’s.

Something sharp twisted low in her stomach.

For a second, she just stared at it. Then slowly—carefully—she plucked it free. The strand clung briefly to her fingertips.

So stupid.

So tiny.

And somehow it hurt more than the crumbs had.

More than the mug.

Her fingers curled instinctively.

For one horrifying second, she almost kept it.

Pressed between pages. Tucked into a drawer.

The realization made nausea rise hot in her throat.

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered shakily.

Then dropped it into the wastebasket beside the nightstand like it had burned her.

That’s when her foot brushed against something soft.

The pillow.

The one she’d hurled into his chest.

The one he’d slept against the night before.

She bent automatically and picked it up. And the second she hugged it against herself—she smelled him.

Smoke.

Rain.

That deep masculine warmth beneath everything else.

Jack.

Her composure shattered instantly.

A broken sound tore from her throat as her knees gave out beneath her.

She slid down beside the bed, back hitting the mattress hard enough to jolt the frame. The pillow stayed crushed against her chest as if it were a part of her.

Then the sobs came.

Ugly, gasping sobs that shook her shoulders raw as she buried her face in the pillow and inhaled him like something starving.

Because he was gone. Because she had told him to go. Because she meant it. Because some ruined part of her still wanted to run after him anyway...

She cried until her throat burned. Until her head pounded. Until the pillow beneath her face turned damp and cold.

Her breathing hitched weakly in the aftermath as she sat limp against the bed, hollowed out and aching.

Then she opened her eyes.

And saw a trail of white dust across the floorboards.

Her gaze lifted—tracking upward—to the source.

A small crack split the plaster just above shoulder height, jagged and fresh. Flecks of paint still clung to the edges like peeling bark.

And down below, slumped crooked against the baseboard, lay the brush.

Emma's brush.

The one she had thrown across the room with everything in her. She hadn’t even looked to see where it landed—but clearly, it had hit the wall hard enough to leave a mark. Now it sat there, wooden handle dull against the floor.

And then she saw it all: The cracked picture frame. The shattered candle jar. Glass scattered like ice across the rug.

Panic surged like a wave.

She didn’t think—just moved.

She stood and grabbed the first thing she could—a towel slung over the edge of the bed—and dropped to her knees, frantically pushing it across the floor, trying to gather the mess.

“God,” she whispered. “Shit—fuck—”

She darted into the hallway closet, flung the door open, yanked out the broom.

Glass scraped as she swept. She collected the shards of the frame, the shattered candle. Her hands trembled with every movement.

She looked back up at the wall.

The crack in the plaster was worse than she thought. A hairline vein spread downward, like a wound beneath the paint.

How the hell was she going to explain this to Emma?

She stood frozen, chest heaving, both hands tangled in her scalp—pulling so hard it hurt. Sharp little jolts like needles piercing behind her eyes. But she didn’t relent. Didn’t even notice the pain until the pressure gave way to a sudden, sick stillness.

And then—

Movement by the windows.

Not much. A tremor. A breath through Emma's white, gossamer curtains.

Alina watched as the fabric lifted, slow and ghostlike against the still room. Cool air brushed her skin—damp with the lingering breath of the storm.

She blinked.

The storm.

Her breath snagged high in her throat.

The storm!

Perhaps... she’d left the windows open without thinking. The wind had been wild, slamming through the city like a tidal wave.

A candle could have fallen.

A picture frame could have shattered.

Glass could have scattered across the floor.

Her pulse quickened.

She could feel the idea forming like a thread thrown across a chasm—thin, trembling, but just strong enough to hold onto. It explained almost everything.

​Everything but the crack in the plaster—but maybe, maybe if she—

She spun and ran.

The hallway blurred. She dropped to her knees in her room, heart thrashing like a trapped bird, and flung open the cardboard box she’d unearthed yesterday. Shoved aside old sketchbooks, broken pastels, fossilized tubes of paint.

Too slow. Too slow.

Charcoal tin—empty. Ragged apron. Brushes stiff with oil.

Then—

Titanium white.

The cracked cap barely held, paint crusted like dried bone at the edges. But it was still pliable. It would do.

It had to.

She grabbed it. Then ultramarine blue. Alizarin crimson. Yellow ochre. Raw umber. Her fingers knew the rhythm—cool to balance warmth, dark to hush the light.

She scraped up her old palette from beneath a nest of old rags and bolted back to Emma’s room.

Dropped to her knees, breath coming in short, frantic bursts.

Her supplies fanned out in a messy arc around her—brushes, palette knife, tubes.

She snatched the palette and crushed it against her lap like a shield, trembling as she squeezed out color after color in quick, uneven bursts. Her thighs ached, toes curling hard against the floorboards.

Up close, the damage felt louder. The crack wasn’t huge—but it was unmistakable. A jagged vein just above waist height, the plaster bruised beneath the paint.

Her throat tightened.

God.

She squeezed a line of white onto the palette. Added the faintest touches of the others—mixing with quick, precise strokes. Her eyes flicked constantly between palette and wall.

Back and forth. Back and forth—

Too light.

She added umber. Still wrong. Too brown. Panic flared again, hot and breathless.

She forced herself to slow.

Then—blue. Just a touch.

The color shifted. Cooler, quieter. Her chest eased, just a little.

She dipped a brush and stood, then dabbed it over the crack with surgical care, each stroke like stitching skin. Softening the edges. Muting the violence of it. The paint clung fast, clotting over the evidence. It dulled the contrast. Quieted the eye.

But it didn’t erase it.

By the time she stepped back, the wall looked… passable. Ordinary. The kind of imperfection no one would notice—

Unless they were really looking.

Alina squinted her eyes. The light caught the edge just so, casting the faintest shadow.

Like a memory that refused to fade.

---

She didn’t remember crawling into bed.

Only the moment the adrenaline gave out—when her knees buckled and her body simply obeyed gravity, surrendering without argument.

She didn’t undress. Didn’t brush her teeth. Didn’t turn off the lights.

She just folded.

Face‑down onto Emma's mattress, the scent of plaster dust and paint still clinging to her hair, her clothes, her skin—like evidence she couldn’t wash away.

When she woke, it was with a sharp inhale and a wince, the pale morning light pouring through the tall windows like a personal offense.

Sunday.

The word landed heavy in her chest.

Emma would be home tonight. Around four.

The thought made Alina’s stomach twist—tight and sick, a pulse of nerves that had nothing to do with not wanting to see her friend. She wanted to hear about everything. The baby. The train ride. Every small, ordinary detail.

What made her feel ill was the lies she knew she'd have to tell. Because she already knew that the guilt would be unbearable.

But there was no way she would ever tell Emma what had happened. No way.

Not about the break‑in.

Not about the tears.

Definitely not about the sick, disorienting relief she'd felt when she realized it was him—

How he’d held her so carefully.

How he hadn’t taken. Hadn’t forced.

God.

She wouldn't say a word about the muffins—how he’d insulted them like it was nothing.

How he'd used the shower—probably even Emma's special lavender shampoo.

How he’d stood in this very room like he belonged here, casually running Emma's comb through his disheveled curls.

And never about the rage.

The sudden, unhinged fury that had ripped through her at his entitlement. After what he’d done. After everything.

The way she’d hurled Emma’s things at him like daggers—like she needed to draw blood just to stay standing.

And never—never—about the way he’d looked at her when he finally understood she wasn’t going with him.

That look.

Like something inside him had cracked open and bled.

But most of all—she would never tell Emma how much it had hurt. How every part of her had to fight the instinct to give in.

To fold.

To let him take her again—anywhere, anywhere—just to make the ache stop.

The guilt sat in her chest, dense and barely breathing—quiet, patient, waiting for her to look directly at it.

She turned her face into the pillow instead.

---

After finally wrenching herself out of bed, Alina went through the motions of getting ready for the day like a condemned soul walking toward the block.

Up.

Brush teeth.

Shower.

Moisturize.

Don’t look in the mirror.

Don’t think—

Eat.

Milk. Cereal. Tasteless.

Silence.

Everything felt thick. Slowed. Like walking through molasses.

Just get through the next minute.

Then the next.

Then the next.

Because if she let herself think—

His face. Unguarded. Cracked open. Devastated.

And if she let herself feel—

His hands wiping away her tears. Strong arms around her, warm enough to make her forget—for one terrible second—all the reasons she shouldn’t want them.

The ache that opened in her chest when he whispered, I just want you.

Fuck.

That was the worst part.

The way he'd said it. So bare. So sincere.

The one thing she'd always wanted, even before she'd known it.

Because it was everything she had once ached for—

Said too late, by the wrong mouth—in the wrong life.

---

She cleaned up fast after breakfast—moving blindly, desperate to stay ahead of her own head.

She stripped Emma’s bed first, ripping the sheets from the mattress like she could tear the memory of their bodies out with them. She made up the bed with clean linens, shoved the cleaning supplies back into the closet, and did one final sweep of the bedroom floor for phantom glass.

After she was finished, she stood broom in hand, surveying the job she'd done, trying to steady her breath.

It looked ordinary. Still.

She pressed her palms briefly to her eyes, grounding herself by force.

Okay.

Okay.

Storm. Wind. Window left open. Candle knocked over. Frame fell.

She rehearsed it silently, shaping the lie until it almost sounded plausible.

Almost.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She startled hard enough that her shoulders jerked.

A text. She went to Emma's bedside and picked it up, a knot already tightening low in her gut.

Emma: Train’s pulling in early. Be home in about twenty.

Alina went cold.

Twenty minutes.

She looked around the room one last time—the swept floor, the bare space where the frame had been—and the patched up crack in the plaster.

Still there.

Still watching.

“Please,” she murmured under her breath.

“Please just… don’t look too hard.”

---

The sound of the deadbolt sliding open twenty minutes later felt like a starter pistol.

​Alina stood in the center of the living room, her hands smoothed flat against her thighs, her spine rigid. She had spent the last ten minutes pacing, changing her positioning, trying to find the exact spot to stand that looked the most natural. The most ordinary. But the moment the key turned, every posture felt like an admission of guilt.

The door nudged open an inch, sticking against the frame.

​“Alina? Ugh, these bags weigh a ton—can you grab the door?”

​Emma’s voice broke through the suffocating quiet of the apartment like a splash of cold water. Loud. Bright. Utterly grounded in the real world. A world of train delays, heavy luggage, and family gossip.

“Yep, I got it,” Alina called out. Her voice sounded brittle to her own ears, a paper-thin shield, but she forced her legs to move.

​She hurried to the threshold, swinging the door wide just as Emma was about to hoist a massive, bulging duffel bag over the welcome mat. Emma’s curls were wild from the train ride, her cheeks flushed pink from the damp Gotham air.

​“Oof, thank you,” Emma gasped, letting the bag drop to the floorboards with a heavy thud. She immediately threw her arms around Alina’s neck, hugging her tight. She smelled like wet pavement, cheap train station coffee, and the familiar, comforting scent of her lavender laundry detergent. “God, it feels like I’ve been gone for a month. I missed you so much. How are you holding up? Did you sleep okay while the storm was passing through?”

​Alina stiffened for a fraction of a second before forcing her muscles to go soft, returning the embrace.

The comforting warmth of her friend felt like a trap. Images flashed behind her eyelids—Jack standing at the foot of her bed, damp curls clinging to his forehead, the casual way he’d invaded this sanctuary like he belonged there.

​“I missed you too,” Alina murmured into Emma’s shoulder, pulling back with a practiced, fragile smile. “I'm... I'm okay. A little tired, but alright. Let me help you with the rest.”

​“Don't worry about it, that's everything,” Emma said, kicking the door shut behind her and immediately shedding her wet coat. She began unlacing her boots, talking at a mile a minute. “The baby is absolutely beautiful, Alina. She has these tiny little fingers, and she smells so sweet, and my brother is just a total sap now. He cried like three times while I was there. I took a million pictures, I can't wait to show you! But tell me about you. Did the police call again? Did anyone bother you?”

​“No,” Alina lied smoothly, her throat tight. “No calls. It was... really quiet here.”

​“Good. Thank god.” Emma picked up her duffel bag, lifting it with a small groan. “I'm just going to toss this on my bed and change into some sweats, and then I want a full breakdown of your weekend. Did you actually eat the food I left?”

​“Emma, wait—” The words popped out of Alina's mouth a little too fast.

Emma paused, the heavy bag slung half-over her shoulder, looking at Alina with a slight, curious lift of her eyebrows. “What's wrong?”

​Alina swallowed the lump of glass in her throat. She forced her hands into her pockets so Emma wouldn't see them shaking. This was it. The thread across the chasm.

“I’m so sorry, Em. The storm the other night... it got really bad while you were gone,” Alina started. “I stupidly left the window in your room open because it was so hot before the rain started. The wind was insane—it blew over the candle jar on your nightstand, and when it fell, it knocked into the framed photo of your parents.”

​Emma’s face softened into immediate sympathy, her eyes widening. “Oh no! Is the frame broken?”

​“It shattered,” Alina said, her heart hammering against her ribs like a fist against a door. “The glass went everywhere. I swept it up, and threw the broken frame out so you wouldn't step on anything. I feel terrible, Em. I'll replace the frame, I promise.”

​“Oh, sweetie, don't worry about that at all,” Emma sighed, setting the duffel bag down on the sofa instead and stepping closer to rub Alina’s arm. “It was just an old cheap frame anyway. The photo itself is okay, right?”

“Yeah. The picture is fine. I put it on the kitchen counter,” Alina answered.

​“See? No big deal. It was just a storm,” Emma said with a warm, dismissing wave of her hand. She picked up the duffel bag again, turning toward the hallway. “I'm just glad you didn't get cut trying to clean it up. Let me just drop this off—”

​“I can take it in for you,” Alina offered quickly, reaching for the handle of the bag.

​“Alina, stop, you're treating me like a guest in my own house,” Emma laughed, a genuine, easy sound that made Alina’s stomach violently churn with guilt. “I've got it. I'll be right out.”

​Alina stood frozen in the living room, listening to Emma's footsteps disappear down the hallway.

She counted the seconds.

One.

Two.

Three.

She waited for the sharp intake of breath. For the pause that would mean Emma had caught it—the faint chemical smell of paint still clinging to the air, the slightly indented patch of plaster just above waist height...

“Hey, Alina?”

​Every muscle in her body tensed—toes curling into the floorboards exactly as they had when she was mixing the paint.

​“Yeah?” Alina called back, her voice barely a whisper. She cleared her throat, louder this time. “Yeah, Em?”

​“Where did you put the broom?” Emma asked, her footsteps muffled as she walked back toward the doorway. “I think I see a little bit of glass under the dresser, I just want to sweep it up before it tracks somewhere.”

​Alina let out the breath she’d been holding, the relief so intense it made her feel faint. Emma hadn't noticed the wall. She hadn't seen the scar.

​“It's in the hallway closet,” Alina said, her voice suddenly bright. “I'll get it for you.”

​“No need,” Emma said, stepping out of the room. She had already changed into an oversized fleece sweatshirt, her red curls pulled back into a messy bun. But as she walked past Alina, she paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she looked down at Alina’s bare legs.

​“What's that on your leg?“ Emma asked, frowning as she pointed toward Alina's upper thigh, just below the hem of her shorts.

​Alina's heart stopped. She looked down. In her frantic, panicked rush to paint over the crack in the wall, she hadn't realized that a tiny, jagged smear of Titanium White and Raw Umber had rubbed off her palette and onto her skin. To anyone else, it looked like a smudge of craft paint.

​But to Alina, it looked exactly like the color of a bruised wall. It looked like the color of a lie.

​“Oh,” Alina stammered, her mind racing, searching for another thread, another cover-up. “I... I dug out some of my old art supplies yesterday. While you were gone. I was trying to paint to pass the time, and I guess I got a little messy.”

​Emma looked at the smear, then up at Alina's pale, drawn face. There was a long, agonizing beat of silence where Emma’s eyes didn't just look—they searched.

​“You were painting?” Emma asked softly, her tone shifting from casual roommate to the protective, worried friend who had pulled Alina out of a media circus. She stepped closer, her eyes dropping to the faint, purple-green shadow of a thumbprint-sized bruise on Alina's wrist—a remnant of Jack's grip from the day before. “Alina... did something happen while I was gone? Truly?”

​The kitchen refrigerator hummed. The evening light shifted, casting a long, cold shadow across the floorboards between them.

​Alina stood on the edge of the chasm, the weight of the secrets—the crumbs, the tears, the phantom heat still lingering in her skin—threatening to pull her under.

​She forced a breathless, self-deprecating laugh, pulling her leg back slightly.

​“No, Em. I swear,” Alina said, her voice steadier than her racing pulse. She lifted her hand—carefully keeping her sleeve down to cover the faint bruise on her wrist—and gestured vaguely toward her bedroom. “I told you, I dug out some old paints. I... I had a bad night. The storm, the news... everything just got so loud inside my head. I started painting like a manic person just to keep distracted. I guess I just made a mess of myself.”

​Emma’s eyes didn’t leave Alina’s face. ​“Lina,” she repeated softly, her brow furrowing as she stepped a fraction closer. “You’re white as a sheet. And you’re shaking.”

​“Because I barely slept, Em,” Alina countered, adding a sharp, desperate edge to the truth. She let her shoulders drop, let the exhaustion show—that part wasn't a lie, at least. “The storm was so loud. Every time the thunder cracked I thought—” She swallowed. “I kept thinking I heard someone in the room. That he'd come back.“

​Emma’s expression broke. The suspicion melted entirely into deep, aching guilt.

“Oh, God. I shouldn’t have left you,” Emma whispered, wrapping her arms around herself. “I knew it was too soon. I knew being here alone would trigger something. Alina, I am so sorry.”

​“Don’t,” Alina said, the guilt slicing through her gut like a razor.

It was too easy.

Manipulating Emma’s kindness felt monstrous. But she had to do it. If Emma knew Jack had been in this apartment—if she knew he had slept in her bed, eaten her food, sat on her couch with damp hair and a crooked grin—

Alina couldn’t bear to imagine what would happen.

To protect Emma, she had to let her believe she was falling apart.

​“It’s not your fault,” Alina murmured, forcing herself to cross the small distance between them and rest a hand on Emma’s shoulder. “I wanted you to go. I’m glad you went. I just... I need to clean up my mess, and I need to wash this paint off, and then I just want to hear about the baby. Please.”

​Emma swallowed hard, looking at Alina’s hand on her shoulder, then up into her eyes. Slowly, she nodded.

​“Okay,” Emma whispered, rubbing a hand over her tired face. “Okay. Go wash up. I’ll... I’ll sweep up the rest of this glass, and then I’ll bring the pictures into the kitchen and make some tea for us.”

​“Thank you,” Alina said.

​She turned and walked down the hallway, every step a calculated effort to remain upright. When she reached the bathroom, she shut the door, locked it, and leaned her back against the wood.

​The silence of the room closed in on her, heavy and absolute.

​---

The kitchen was too quiet.

​Even with the kettle beginning to mutter on the stove and the glossy baby photos spread out on the formica table, the silence between them felt brittle, like a thin pane of ice waiting for a heavy boot.

Emma was trying—God, she was trying so hard—to chatter about her niece’s tiny socks and her brother’s ridiculous new dad tears, but her eyes kept darting to the hallway, then to the rain-streaked window, then back to Alina’s pale face.

​“It's just too quiet in here,” Emma muttered, rubbing the back of her neck. “It feels like we're hiding in a bunker. Let's just... let's put on some white noise. A cooking show or something. Just so I don't feel like I'm whispering in a church.”

​She reached for the little under-cabinet black-and-white TV tucked near the toaster, flicking the plastic dial.

​The screen crackled through a wash of static before sharpening into the harsh, high contrast image of Gotham Evening Pundit.

​Alina’s breath hitched.

It wasn't a cooking show.

​Three talking heads sat behind a curved glass desk, but the center seat belonged to a man whose navy suit looked crisp, his hair perfectly shellacked into place, completely recovered from the sweating, trembling wreck he'd been just days ago.

​Kip Farthington.

​The graphic beneath his face read: LIVE CALL AFTERMATH: JOURNALISTIC BRAVERY OR CRIMINAL OBSESSION?

​Alina went cold.

Emma muttered, “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” reaching for the dial again—

But Kip started talking.

And something in Alina froze.

“Now,” Kip continued smoothly, fingers steepled beneath his chin, “before the outrage brigade begins sending letters, let me make something very clear: Miss Vale is, first and foremost, a victim.”

A breath.

“But…”

There it was.

That awful little pause he loved.

The one that made people lean in.

“One has to acknowledge the unprecedented nature of this case. Gotham has seen hostages before. Survivors before. But this?” He smiled faintly. “This is different.”

One of the female panelists shifted uncomfortably.

“Kip, I think we need to be careful not to speculate about a traumatized wom—”

“Oh, I agree,” Kip interrupted instantly, all practiced concern. “Completely. Which is precisely why people deserve honest discussion instead of sanitized PR statements.”

He turned slightly toward the camera.

“We are talking about a woman held in isolation with the Joker for nearly four months.”

Alina’s stomach tightened.

“She returns home…” Kip continued, voice measured, “and he risks exposure to call into a live broadcast the moment she appears distressed.”

Another pause.

“Not angry. Distressed.”

Emma’s hand slowly lowered from the television dial.

Kip leaned back in his chair.

“That is not the behavior of a man protecting an asset. It’s the behavior of someone emotionally invested.”

A woman on the panel frowned. “Or obsessive.”

Kip gave a thin smile.

“Well, obsession and attachment often overlap in psychologically distorted individuals.”

The panel gave uneasy little chuckles.

Alina felt sick.

“And frankly,” Kip said, smoothing his cuff, “the public is asking questions law enforcement seems unwilling to.”

His eyes sharpened slightly.

“What exactly happened down there?”

Emma whispered, horrified, “Oh my God…”

Kip spread his hands in false innocence.

“No, really. We’re expected to believe the Joker—arguably the most sadistic criminal Gotham has ever produced—kept a beautiful young woman hidden away for months and simply… played cards with her?”

A few nervous laughs from the panel.

Alina’s face burned.

“He called her doll on live television,” Kip continued. “Not ‘hostage.’ Not ‘Miss Vale.’ Doll. A term of intimacy. Possession, arguably affection.” He tilted his head. “And unless we’re all willing to suspend reality entirely… there are implications there.”

One panelist cut in quickly, visibly uncomfortable. “Kip, I really think implying sexual coercion on national television when the woman herself has not disclosed—”

“I’m not implying anything,” Kip said smoothly. “I’m saying the dynamics here are… complicated.”

His gaze slid toward the camera again.

“And frankly, some of Miss Vale’s responses during the interview raised questions.”

Alina stopped breathing.

The blood drained from Emma's face.

Kip’s voice softened into that faux-sympathetic cadence.

“The way she reacted to his voice. The emotional response. The visible attachment.” A tiny shrug. “Trauma bonding is real. Dependency is real. We have to ask whether Miss Vale is entirely reliable regarding her captor.”

The kitchen seemed to tilt.

“She may very well still be psychologically under his influence.”

Emma snapped, “I'm turning this shit off—”

But then Kip said the one thing he should never have said.

The thing that crossed from invasive into unforgivable.

“Because at a certain point,” he said thoughtfully, “one has to wonder whether Miss Vale is frightened of the Joker…”

He smiled faintly.

“…or frightened of how much she misses him.”

Silence.

Even the panel looked stunned.

One woman immediately said, “Okay, no. That’s deeply inappropriate—”

But Kip kept going, riding the momentum now, too intoxicated by his own insight to stop.

“I’m serious. Watch the footage. The tears, the body language, the way she responded to his attention.” He leaned forward. “People don’t want to say it because it’s uncomfortable, but emotional dependency between captor and captive is well documented. And frankly?”

Another tiny smile.

“I think Gotham deserves to know whether the Joker’s favorite hostage came home missing him more than fearing him.”

Emma lunged for the television.

The set clicked off hard enough to rattle the cabinet.

The kitchen dropped into dead silence.

Emma stared at the blank screen in disbelief.

“That smug, disgusting piece of shit,” she whispered, her voice cracking with protective fury as she turned toward Alina. “We’re suing the network. I'm going to ruin that bastard. Alina, don’t listen to him. He doesn’t know anything.”

Alina didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Barely breathed.

Because somewhere beneath the horror, beneath the shame, beneath the sick violation of hearing her private devastation dissected on live-television like gossip—she couldn't ignore the truth.

Kip’s words weren’t a lie.

They were an autopsy.

He had reached through the screen, peeled back her skin, and pointed directly at the rot.

And now she had to live knowing everyone else could see it too.

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

A/N:

I’m so sorry for the long wait. This chapter took forever for reasons that were part real life and part writer paralysis. No idea why the Emma-coming-home scene was the thing I kept procrastinating on, but apparently it had to fight me personally.

But I’m still here. This story is still alive. Alina and Jack are still haunting me daily. 😭

Thank you so much for waiting, reading, commenting, and caring about this story even through the long gaps. It means more to me than I can properly say!

I’ve got the next two chapters mapped out, and I absolutely CANNOT WAIT to write them. I’m so incredibly grateful to you all for keeping me motivated. No matter what happens, I WILL FINISH THIS.

I’m still completely and utterly obsessed with these two, as you can probably tell by the drawing I started. Like, do I have a child, a marriage, a life, goals, responsibilities, and approximately forty-seven other things I should be doing? Yeah. Am I going to sit for hours and draw a fictional clown and his even more fictional lady love instead? Hell yeah. 🖤

See you guys in the next one, which will hopefully be WAY sooner than four months. 💜💚🖤

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

Taglist: 💚 (please let me know if you'd like to be added)

@furisodespirit @blackholeofcreativity @readingafterdarkness @captivatinqg

Navigation Links:

Zoro loves kissing him, loves hearing Luffy moan, loves the panting sound he makes. Zoro can kiss him forever. Can give up breathing to keep kissing him. Which makes the fact that Luffy is always the one to break the kiss first to breathe an annoyance.

He feels Luffy pull away. Grabbing the back of his head, Zoro pulls Luffy in closer. Deepening the kiss. Kissing Luffy like drinking, dulls his self control, leaves him craving more and more. He feels Luffy try to pull away again. A part of Zoro just wants to continue the kissing. Ignore Luffys hands trying to push his chest away. Theres a dark voice that whispers to Zoro he can keep going, keep taking pleasure, keep enjoying this moment. Zoro never listens to the voice though. He loves Luffy, he would never hurt him.

Zoro releases the death grip he has on the back of Luffy head. There’s a part of him that aches when Luffy pulls away panting. Zoro starts placing kisses against his cheek. Leaves bites on his neck. Zoro loves to hear Luffy gasp, loves the sound Luffy makes. Loves that Luffy pretends the bites hurt.

“I love you.”

In between the bites and the kisses, Zoro whispers the same promise over and over in Luffys ear. Because it is a promise. The kisses are a testament to that. The bite marks that go away by morning are proof of that. Zoro loves Luffy. Loves him with all his heart and soul.

Elijah would never stain Lucien when he was this flirty even when he had lost most of his senses, and after over week kept in this room to be used by all of the family while the ring and cage kept him from finishing, there was nothing of the Elijah the world knew.

If he was human, he would have died, but that was the fun of such durable toys.

If death was a mercy Elijah could reach, he would have claimed it hundred times since he became Lucien’s.

“Luc-sir-mas-please.” Elijah gasped and Lucien made the move himself to lift Elijah's face to meet his, with the tip of his shoe.

Wide teary eyes met his. His flushed cheeks and red swallow lips from his own teeth made a picture along with his hair, long like Lucien had him grow, hung limply around his face.

“What are you?” he asked flatly, refusing to let his enjoy of the other’s state be visible even if it seemed Elijah wouldn’t notice in his current state

“Yours.” Elijah breathed without hesitation, leaning closer as if was drawn to him. “Yours.” he repeated rocking slightly, rutting against the floor for the release he knew only Lucien would give him

Lucein allowed a smile to appear as he reached forward to catch Elijah by the throat, ELijah whined when he did nothing but hold him.

“Yes,” he nodded, the lack of hesitation and clear devotion was always nice but this once it wasn’t what he wanted. He had broken Elijah of his denial of that years ago, with the help of his siblings, this was another lesson he had decided to make final. ”but What are you?”

“A thing,” Elijah answered just as unhesitatingly, “A thing to be used.” He added, “A thing for pleasure, comfort or satisfaction of the family.”

Lucien leant forward to tease a brush of affection, by brushing his lips to Elijah’s hair, damp and filthy as it was. This was a far better reaction than the night he finally broke the last of Elijah’s resistance, and Lucien was a kind ruler to reward such.

“And isn’t that better than what you had before?” he asked, as he drew back “Doesn’t it make your life easier, no more doubt.”

Elijah nodded vigorously, almost choking himself on Lucien’s hand as he did.

“Th-thank you for teaching me my place. Thank you for showing me my purpose.”

“Good pet.” he praised, letting go and watching as Elijah’s eyes widened before crumpled to the floor without his hold.

“I’m not sure.” he drawled, listing as Elijah’s heartbeat jumped and sobs joined the tangle of pleas leaving the other’s mouth.

“Please,” Elijah begged, speaking to his shoes as he shifted against the floor, desperation growing “Please use me. please-”

No doubt, Elijah feared being left in the room for longer.

“pleasepleaseplease-”

“Up.” he ordered, cutting off the words with a curl of his finger, smiling softly as Elijah rose like a puppet. He swayed and like the puppet he followed Lucien’s hand as he gestured to the seat beside him, standing himself when Elijah sat.

Elijah flinched looking up at him in confusion, likely fearing being left more than any pain, made clear when Elijah relaxed as Lucien moved his hands to his belt and fly.

“Now you're going to be a good seat for me” he explained, freeing himself of his pants and underwear and reaching out to free Elijah’s cock from the cage, a plain metal thing compared to the silver and opal cock ring, that was just Elijah.

Elijah whimpered even if the ring still kept Elijah from release.

“and I'll finally let you come, is that what you want?” he finished as Elijah recovered.

“I’m-” Lucien watched as Elijah’s lips trembled and his tongue appeared to wet them. “yours to use how you wish.” he finished, brown eyes meeting his and mind so open Lucien barely had to look to find the truth in his words. “A thing doesn’t have wants.”

Excellent, he thought, straddling Elijah, feeling every shake under him.

He had no doubt Elijah could recover himself eventually if Lucien left him alone but Lucien would be ensuring this lesson settled deep, much like Kol’s on his mind uses for anything outside of sex.

Lucien did love turning the most intelligent of the Mikaelson’s boys into his personal empty head sex toys. 

He met Elijah’s open month with a deep kiss, swallowing Elijah’s moans as he sank down on him and keeping his own muffled at the burn, having prepared himself before he entered.

He was gentle as he used Elijah.