#I will be white knuckling it until the next chapter

[meggalice]

Had to sketch out the closing moments from Chapter 13. Wow that really is an unlucky number, hey Dee? I have been obsessed with @remedyturtles' fic Fire Fight. Seriously if you haven't already go give it a read. They are absolutely killing it and the last chapter has left me in pieces, said pieces are still on the edge of my seat though.

[suguann]

✎. he’s nice. well, that’s what everyone’s been telling you.

tags. fem!reader, mild dubcon, possessive and obsessive behavior, simon is an excon, non-linear narrative for future chapters [18+ only]

part one | part two

He’s always been a little obsessed with pretty things, even as a child.

It only makes sense that the habit would follow him into adulthood.

He sees you once while he’s walking by the bus stop. A timid thing wrapped up in an oversized sweater and parka coat, not looking up from the little book in your lap until the bus stops before you and takes you away.

The next time he sees you, he makes sure to come a few minutes earlier, lighting a cigarette and keeping his distance while he watches you read the same book from the day before. Simon knows it’s you, the girl from the letters, even if it’s a big city. It has to be—his pretty, lonely, silly girl.

He thinks about walking up to you just to make sure, but he doesn’t really need to. The address on the envelope brought him here, and you’re the only one he’s seen wearing a university sweater in this neighborhood.

But when he hesitates too long, a boy starts talking to you, and he watches you smile at somebody else.

Simon runs his thumb over his bottom lip and takes a deep breath to fill his chest with the soothing feeling of menthol and the burning taste of nicotine, trying to relax his white-knuckle grip on his steering wheel. 

You’ll learn, he thinks, when the bus drives off, and the boy doesn’t follow you on. He’s a patient man—it’s possibly one of his finer qualities.

He lets his car idle as he climbs out before crushing his cigarette bud underneath his shoe, straightening his black tie, and crossing the street. The boy sees him and freezes, but Simon can only laugh, wiping blood off his cheek several seconds later.

You’ll learn.

He’s nice.

Well, that’s what everyone’s been telling you. But nice, you've learned, can mean any number of things: a nice laugh, a nice house, a nice job, et cetera.

But how he holds himself—tall, broad, and dangerous—hardly screams nice.

It’s funny because you don’t remember seeing him around the office before—the company, including IT, occupies only four floors in the building. 

Someone tells you he’s a friend of a friend. This initially sounds odd until Rose, the office gossip, says he’s someone rich who helps fund the company's social events. Hence, the crisp suit and the wide berth of space you’d give someone who wields their smile like a weapon. 

You quickly look away twice when you find that smile aimed at you, heat traveling up to your hairline at an alarming rate.

It doesn’t matter anyway. He’s not your type. 

“Enjoying the party?” 

You nearly jump out of your skin at the deep voice so close to your ear. Careful not to spill your drink, you turn your head to find him smiling down at you with a sharp curl of his mouth.

Then he’s in front of you, eyes dark and crinkling in the corners.

“Uh, yeah. It’s not bad, though,” you squeak nervously when you realize you haven’t answered him. “It’s different from what I’m used to.”

He raises an amused brow. “Oh? And what might that be?”

He’s intimidating up close, and you take a small sip of your drink to ease your nerves. “Well, no kegs or trashy music playing, and boys with egos bigger than the room.”

The man lets out a low chuckle as he considers your honest reply, and you swear you see something ripple across his features, but when you blink, it’s gone. “I suppose that differs from top-shelf liquor and live bands, huh? Which is better?”

You shrug. “Well, it depends on who you ask.” 

“I’m asking you.”

“Honest answer?” 

He nods. 

“Neither. I don’t really care for parties.”

“Then it’s quite unfortunate that you found yourself at one tonight.” He seems privately amused, in on a joke you have no part of. Then he says, “You want to get out of here?”

“I probably shouldn’t follow a stranger home,” you tell him bashfully.

“That’s very responsible of you. Then how about I get you a drink? There’s a hotel across the street, and the bar’s not shit.”

You bite your lip, and his big, warm hand is on the small of your back before you say anything. It must’ve been written all over your face like he knew you would say yes.

He’s ever the gentleman, unlike most boys your age. Though, perhaps that’s the difference. He isn’t a boy—nothing about him can hardly be described as such. This fact becomes a bit overwhelming and more evident once he has you on your back, thighs nearly up to your ears, and held in place by a firm, intricately tattooed forearm.

His smile—almost too sharp to be nice—makes your chest do this silly thing when he says, “Let’s play a game.” 

You whisper into the night air. “What kind of game?”

“It’s simple. You tell me yes or no.”

Your brows furrow, unsure of the rules of the game. “But—”

The slap against your cunt isn’t harsh, but it’s the suddenness of it, how no one has ever thought to touch you like that, is what makes you squeak and tremble underneath him—the rings on his fingers sharpening the sting—trying to scurry up the bed, but hindered by his iron grip.

“Yes or no?”

“Y-yes.”

“There’s a girl,” and then his fingertips drop down to where you're slippery-wet and sensitive, moving in hard, tight circles until you're clenching down on a curse between your teeth. "Messy little cunt."

It's too much, you think when he plugs two fingers (feeling like three of your own) into your pussy. The muscles in his shoulders roll as he shoves his fingers in and out, batting your hands away when you try to get him to slow down. Too much, too—

“It’s not. I want you to cum like this,” he says, teasing, nudging your clit with his thumb and swirling it in tight spit-slick circles; you have no choice but to chase that bright light feeling until you cum, sticky and sweaty. 

Just like he promised you would, your orgasm is a shivery thing, molten heat, incandescent, settling in your veins until it pours out of you like liquid wax against the scratchy hotel sheets, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, his fingers curl up and press into where you’re soft and tender.

He smiles. “This is fun, isn’t it, love?”

“I can’t,” you whimper, not exactly answering him. “No more, please.”

His eyes, already pupil-fat, go dark at hearing you beg, nostrils flaring. Please, the key for the small amount of mercy he grants you as he replaces his fingers with his mouth, pressing a chaste kiss to your clit and lightly sucking it into his mouth. His lips are just there, and then they’re gone.

“Say it again.”

Your response is a wet little hiccup at the back of your throat. “W-what?”

“Beg me.”

“Please.”

“Again,” he says one more time.

“Please, please, please…”

It’s all you can think to say, strung between that dreamy space and reality, that you don’t even notice him flipping you onto your tummy with ease, not until the light in the room is blotted out as he leans over you. He wraps a hand into the scruff of your neck and presses your face into the bed, the other tucked under your hips to keep them at the right angle—held down with nowhere to go.

He leaves biting open-mouthed kisses across your shoulders and the back of your neck—Simon—he manages to tell you his name from one little bruise to the next. Somewhere between the buzz in your ears, you hear him telling you that he wants you to moan it for him, nice and loud.

The haze clears a little, however, at the metal clink of a belt and the sound of a zipper coming undone before you feel his cock prodding you open—raw, without a condom.

“There you go. Lay there, and just—just give me what I fucking want,” Simon rasps as if you could actually move with his hands pinning you in place. 

There are many things you should feel: scared of his words, trapped by the rings digging into tender flesh, by his thighs forcefully pushing yours apart. The red flags look more like flashing lights at this point.

Instead, you feel wanted—your walls tighten around his cock, fluttering, pulling him deeper inside, letting him turn you inside out. A small smile buried into the pillow.

[the-winter-spider]

Invisible | Part 10

Pairings: Bucky x Reader AU

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: Angst, stupidity, annoyingness lol

A/N: This is the shortest chapter i have lol i also lowkey might add flashbacks into each chapter to add more depth and show more of the before.

The door slams behind you, leaving the apartment in silence, and for a moment, Bucky just stands there, his fists clenched, heart pounding as he processes what just happened. His chest is tight, and he feels the rage and regret building up until it erupts.

With a frustrated yell, he grabs the nearest lamp and hurls it across the room. The shattering glass echoes, cutting through the silence like a knife. Pieces scatter across the floor, a reflection of the chaos inside him.

“Goddammit!” he shouts, his voice cracking as he rakes his hands through his hair, pacing in circles like a caged animal. His breaths come fast and shallow, his mind racing through the night, every word exchanged like a dagger twisting deeper into his chest.

For a few seconds, he just stands there, staring at the broken lamp, his hands trembling. But the stillness is unbearable. He bolts for the door, flinging it open and stepping out into the hallway, shouting your name, his voice raw and desperate. He runs outside looking up and down the sidewalk “ Come on, don’t do this—please!”

But his voice is swallowed by the noise of a New York City Saturday night—distant laughter, honking horns, the steady hum of life moving on without him. He looks up and down the street, hoping, praying for even a glimpse of you, but you’re gone.

His pulse quickens, panic clawing its way into his chest. He rushes back inside, snatching his phone off the coffee table. His fingers fumble over the screen as he types out a frantic message.

Where are you? Please come back.

He hits send, but the empty silence that follows feels like a punch to the gut. He types again, his hands shaking as his heart pounds against his ribs.

I’m sorry. Just tell me you’re okay.

The seconds stretch into eternity as he stares at the screen, waiting for something—anything. When nothing comes, he dials your number, his thumb trembling as he presses the call button. He presses the phone to his ear, the ringing tone like a ticking clock in his mind.

Then he hears it: a faint buzzing, too close. His stomach drops as he turns toward the ceramic bowl by the door—the one he’d made for you last year on your birthday. A bowl meant for keys, little mementos… or your phone. He steps toward it slowly, as if delaying the inevitable, and peers inside. His chest tightens when he sees your phone lying there, abandoned.

“Dammit,” he whispers, his voice cracking. His hand hovers over it for a moment before he picks it up, his knuckles white around the edges. You’d left it behind. The weight of it all—the fight, his words, the reality of you walking out like that—hits him like a freight train.

He sinks down onto the floor, clutching your phone in his lap, his head falling into his hands. His breaths come in uneven gasps, and for the first time in years, tears spill freely down his face. He sees it all replaying in his mind: the way your face crumpled as you turned away, the sound of the door slamming behind you, the silence that followed.

Go. I don’t want you here.

The words ring in his ears, echoing with all the venom and finality he hadn’t meant but couldn’t take back. They were born out of fear and frustration, but now they feel like the truth—like he’s pushed you away for good.

After a moment, he wipes at his face, sniffs, and forces himself to his feet. This isn’t over. It can’t be.

He throws on his coat and rushes out the door, his mind racing as he retraces all the places you might have gone. First, the bar down the street—the one you’ve spent countless nights in, laughing over drinks, sharing secrets you wouldn’t tell anyone else. But it’s packed, unfamiliar faces filling the space where you should be.

Next, the café where you always get your Sunday morning coffee. The lights are dimmed, chairs stacked on tables. Closed. His heart sinks, but he presses on.

The bookstore is next. The one with late hours, where you could spend hours flipping through old paperbacks and laughing at obscure poetry collections. But it’s empty too, the familiar warmth of the shop now a cold reminder of how lost you are.

Finally, he heads to the park. The park where you’d spent so many nights sitting on the old wooden benches, talking under the stars. It’s quiet here, the hum of the city fading into the background. He sits down on one of those benches, his head falling into his hands as his shoulders shake.

He’s failed you. He’s failed himself. The weight of everything he’s been holding back—the fear, the love, the guilt—crashes down all at once. Silent tears stream down his face as he tilts his head up toward the sky, the stars blurring through his tears.

Then his phone buzzes in his pocket.

He scrambles for it, hope surging in his chest, but when he sees the name, his heart twists painfully.

Steve.

His thumb hovers over the screen before he opens the message.

She’s here. She walked from the apartment without her phone or coat. You let her walk out like that? What the hell were you thinking?

Bucky’s throat tightens, and his fingers curl around the phone. His vision blurs as he reads the words over and over, Steve’s anger matching his own self-loathing. He types out a response, but his fingers falter, and he deletes it. What could he say? There was no excuse for what he’d done.

Instead, he slips the phone back into his pocket and leans forward, burying his face in his hands. The ache in his chest deepens, and for the first time, he lets himself feel the full weight of what he’s lost.

He stares up at the sky again, the stars offering no comfort, only the cold realization that he might have pushed you away for good.

And he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get you back. But he never really had you in the first place.

As you step out of the shower, the quiet hum of voices drifts down the hall. Curiosity—and a bit of anxiety—tugs at you as you wrap yourself in a towel and press your ear to the bathroom door. Relief washes over you when you recognize Natasha and Wanda’s voices mixed with Sam and Steve’s, and you close your eyes, exhaling slowly. They’re here; you’re not alone.

Gathering yourself, you open the door and step into the living room, where Natasha is pacing, visibly agitated, while Wanda sits on the couch, her face full of concern. Sam and Steve stand nearby, leaning against the counter, both looking serious. When they see you, the conversation pauses, and Natasha stops mid-rant.

“Hey, there you are,” Wanda says softly, standing up to meet you. “Are you feeling any better?”

You offer a small smile. “Yeah, thanks. Just… processing, I guess.”

Wanda nods, gently placing a hand on your shoulder. “We’re here for you. Whatever you need.”

Natasha, however, looks ready to explode. She crosses her arms, her eyes flashing with anger. “It is not okay,” she says firmly. “You don’t just let your so-called best friend walk out alone at night, without so much as a phone or coat.”

You shrug, avoiding everyone’s eyes as you tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “Maybe… maybe we were never really friends. Maybe it was just the convenience of it all, you know?”

Wanda’s eyes widen slightly as she squeezes your shoulder, her voice soft. “You don’t mean that.”

You don’t answer because you know thats just bullshit, but thinking that hurts less, you sigh running a hand through your wet hair, glancing down as the hurt lingers in your chest. The silence stretches for a moment before Natasha breaks it, her tone gentler now.

“So… how was your date with Dean?” she asks, a note of curiosity softening her expression.

A sad smile tugs at your lips. “It was… everything a girl could dream of. He was respectful, charming… and he actually listened to me.” You laugh quietly, shaking your head. “It was perfect.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, looking hopeful. “So… are you going to go on another one with him?”

You hesitate, glancing in Steve’s direction for a brief second before looking back at Natasha. “Yeah… I think so.”

Sam shifts, clearing his throat, a hesitant look on his face. “So, I hate to be the bearer of bad news here, but… you and Bucky still live together. What’s the plan?”

You feel everyone’s eyes on you, and for a moment, the weight of it all settles heavily. You swallow, looking down, and shrug. “I don’t know,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t just… keep going back to the way things were. But I don’t know what comes next either. He’s Bucky yknow?”

Steve watches you, his face soft and understanding, and he offers a reassuring nod. You take a deep breath and settle onto the couch, feeling the weight of everyone’s concerned gazes. After a pause, you look around, your voice soft but firm. “Look, you guys can’t just be here for me. You’ve gotta be there for Bucky, too.”

Natasha scoffs, crossing her arms and shooting you a look. “As if! He’s the one who let you walk out in the middle of the night!....In New York!!! You’re too good of a friend if you’re even thinking about him right now.”

You give her a sad smile, shrugging slightly. “It’s… not about that, even if it was i wouldn’t of let him stop me, i made the decision to leave, i-i could have went to my room and --”

Natasha throws her arms up “Really? Are you kidding me? I love you babe but you’ve been defending him your whole life, he needs to take fault!”

You shake your head, your voice slight rasing “Its not that simple Nat and you know it” You hear her grumble before continuing “He’s going through something too. We’re all friends for a reason, right? We don’t get to just pick sides.”

Natasha rolls her eyes, groaning. “You’re way too good of a friend. Honestly, you’re killing me here.”

You manage a weak chuckle, but before you can respond, you hear Sam moving toward the door. He grabs his keys and his phone, his expression resolute.

Steve raises an eyebrow, looking over at him. “Where are you going?”

Sam glances back, determination in his gaze. “You heard the woman,” he says, nodding toward you. “I’m gonna go be a friend to one of my best friends.”

A surge of gratitude rises in you, and you give him a small, sincere smile. “Thank you, Sammy.”

He nods, a soft smile playing on his lips as he looks at you, and his voice holds a quiet warmth. “What are friends for?”

1 month ago

The air was crisp, filled with the mingling scents of freshly baked bread, blooming flowers, and sizzling street food. The bustling energy of the farmer’s market buzzed around you as you strolled through the vibrant stalls. Your arm was linked with Bucky’s, the two of you laughing as you navigated through the crowd, the warm Sunday morning sun casting a golden glow over everything.

Natasha and Wanda were a few stalls back, rifling through retro furniture pieces and vinyl records for their new apartment. Sam was predictably at a food truck, enthusiastically sampling every free bite they offered.

“You know where we’re headed,” you said with a grin, gently tugging Bucky toward the familiar book stall at the far end of the market.

He chuckled, squeezing your arm lightly. “Obviously. Can’t leave without finding something we don’t have space for on our shelves.”

You both were English majors, and literature had always been your shared sanctuary. The book stall was a small haven of dog-eared novels, rare editions, and hidden gems that called to you like an old friend.

But as you approached, Bucky suddenly stopped in his tracks. His grip on your arm loosened, and his head turned sharply, his expression shifting. “Kate?” he said, more to himself than to you.

Before you could even process it, his arm slipped out of yours, and he was weaving through the crowd, heading toward a figure you hadn’t noticed until now. A brunette. He didn’t say another word, leaving you standing there, your heart sinking as his back disappeared into the sea of people.

You blinked, dumbfounded. “Okay… what just happened?”

“Hey,” a familiar voice said behind you. You turned to see Steve approaching, a paper bag of pastries in hand. His brow furrowed slightly as he glanced around. “Where’d Bucky go?”

You shrugged, trying to keep your voice light. “He saw someone he knew. An old friend, I guess.”

Steve nodded slowly, his concern softening into curiosity. “Did you two make it to the books yet?”

You forced a small smile. “No, not yet. We were about to.”

Steve tilted his head, offering his arm with a warm smile. “Well, do you want to look somewhere else while we wait for him to come back?”

Your heart ached a little, but his kindness made it easier. “Sure,” you said, linking your arm with his. Steve always had a way of making things feel okay, even when they weren’t.

He led you toward the next section of the market, where stalls displayed vintage jewellery, scarves, and other unique trinkets. As you browsed, your eyes caught on something that made you gasp softly—a locket, its delicate gold surface glinting in the sunlight. It looked almost identical to the one you’d lost at some stupid college party that led to a panic attack, it had been so precious to you because it was a family heirloom passed down multiple generations that you of all people lost. It hit you hard.

You picked it up carefully, running your thumb over its intricate design. It was beautiful, and for a moment, you felt that familiar pang of nostalgia, of longing. But when you flipped it over, searching for a price tag, you found none. You sighed quietly, already knowing what that meant. You’d only set aside money for books today—not for a locket, no matter how much it tugged at your heart.

Reluctantly, you set it back down, giving it one last wistful glance before turning back to Steve. He’d been watching you, his expression soft, but before he could say anything, Bucky reappeared, his usual grin plastered on his face.

“Sorry about that,” Bucky said, running a hand through his hair. “I saw someone from college.”

You raised an eyebrow, forcing your smile to stay in place. “Oh?”

“Yeah, remember that girl I had the project with in our last year? Kate. That was her,” he said, nodding toward where she’d vanished into the crowd. “Haven’t seen her since graduation. Got her number, though!”

“Cool,” you said, your voice light but not quite steady. Your chest ached, but you buried it quickly. Even the farmer’s market wasn’t safe from heartbreak, it seemed.

Bucky held out his arm again, his smile as warm as ever. “Shall we?”

You nodded, linking your arm with his once more. “Sure,” you said, glancing over at Steve. “You coming with?”

Steve shook his head, a soft smile on his lips. “No, I’m gonna check out one more stand. Meet you guys at the benches for lunch?”

“Sounds good,” Bucky said, steering you back into the crowd. “Don’t take too long, Rogers. Sam’s probably already ordered for everyone.”

Steve waved you off, waiting until you and Bucky were out of sight. Then, he turned back to the vendor, his gaze settling on the locket you’d been admiring.

“I’ll take that locket, please,” Steve said quietly, pulling out his wallet.

[clockwayswrites]

Little excerpt of the next Masked chapter for you all:

“Hey Damian,” Dick said with a smile that he hoped didn’t look too forced.

“Grayson,” Damian sniffed.

“I brought you something!” Dick pulled his backpack off and searched around for it. He had brought something for each of his brothers. He was trying, damn it. The grey and white stuffed animal cat was stupidly soft in Dick’s hands as he pulled it out. “Tada!”

Damian leaned back. “What is it?”

Dick blinked. “What? It’s a stuffed animal. I know you didn’t get to really bring much of anything with you, so I thought something comforting would be nice.”

“I am not a child, I do not need to be comforted.”

Dick bit back the retort that Damian was very much a child and just set the stuffed animal down on the edge of the table.

“Everyone needs comfort. But it’s okay if you don’t want it! Just leave it there if not and I’ll see that it gets donated or something. It’s—yeah,” Dick said, making himself cut off any blabber. It’s fine, Damian didn’t have to like him. “I’m going to gather up Jason and Tim to play a game before lunch if you want to join us. If not, that’s okay too!”

Damian just gave a little click of his tongue and regarded Dick coldly as Dick made his escape.

One brother down, two to go. Tim next. Tim was easier than Jason.

Tim was, though, challenging to track down.

“Hey Tim, what are you doing out here?” Dick asked when he finally found Tim on a balcony that was really more decorative than functional.

Tim started and dropped his pen. It rolled off the balcony and fell, fell, fell down into the bushes blow.

Tim sighed.

Dick winced. “Sorry about that, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t scare me. I was just surprised,” Tim said as he quickly closed the folder that he had been had been working in. He hunched slightly around it. “I didn’t even know you were in town.”

“Still, I’m sorry. I’m just back until after lunch. I wanted to see you’d like to play a game. Oh, and give you these.” Dick fished the plastic box out of his bag and handed it over. “I noticed your skateboard wheels were pretty worn out, and I know you can just get what you normally have, but I thought I’d get you something fun to try too. These are supposed to be good on wet pavement and, well, it is Gotham.”

“Oh.” Tim just blinked at Dick, like he’d never been given a ‘just because’ present and didn’t know what to do, before he finally reached out and took the box. He peered at the green, wavey shaped wheels curiously. “These are great. I’ll put them on before I go out next time.”

“Yeah?” Disk smiled. “Cool. Let me know how they do, okay?”

Tim smiled shyly back. “Yeah.”

“Okay, right.” Dick gave his hands a clap. “Meet me in the living room? I’ve got to track down Jason still.”

“Try the library,” Tim suggested.

Dick gave a little salute as he set off that way. It was his first guess too. Jason always spent time in the library when he was trying to avoid big emotions and right then there were a lot of big emotions. Dick got it. He wanted to be back at the Tower curled up with Phantom. Instead he was rapping his knuckles against the door frame of the library as he entered it.

Jason was in ‘his’ seat—a seat that had remained empty since… since Jason’s death. Now that Jason was back, miraculously alive, the seat was finally be used again. It made Dick’s heart full to see it and he couldn’t help the smile that lit up his face.

“Hey, little wing.”

“Don’t call me that,” Jason growled.

Well, he wasn’t so little any more, Dick supposed. He tried not to let the response ruin his happiness.

“Sorry, Jay. I’ve got something for you!” Dick pulled out the paper wrapped package and bounced over to Jason.

Jason just eyed it warily, like it would bite. “What is it?”

“Just open it.”

“Tell me what it is.”

Dick held back a sigh. “It’s just books, Jason.”

Finally Jason reached out and took the package. He was still cautious as he pealed back the paper. Then he got that confused look on the face he had a lot since coming back.

“I figured while you were… gone,” Dick said. Jason snorted sourly, “that you wouldn’t have been able to finish the series. I know that you were reading it before.”

“You mean before I was killed,” Jason said. He threw the words out so casually, tossed between them like a bear trap. “I’m not a fucking kid anymore.”

Dick held back saying that eighteen was still basically a kid, he remembered how he had been at eighteen. He had thought himself such an adult.

Breathe. “I know you’re not. But I just… I thought you’d still like to see how the series ended. If I’m wrong, that’s okay. Maybe Damian would like to read them someday. It doesn’t hurt the library to have more books.”

“…yeah, doesn’t hurt,” Jason said. He brushed his fingers over the cover.

[ssahotchnerr]

Hey love, could you pretty please do an Aaron x reader where it’s there wedding day and she starts getting real bad anxiety about marrying him. Not because she doesn’t want to but because she feels like he is surrounded by so many amazing people who uplift him that she could never compare. Just in the mood for fluffy comfort Aaron 🥹

enough

cw; fem!reader, a LOT of angst but it's comforting??, heavy 5x9 references (i'm sobbing actually), anxiety descriptions, aaron cries 😭, comfort and a happy ending don't worry!!!! wc; 2.4k

"nervous jitters?"

"you could say that." you replied - while staring off into space, while bouncing your crossed leg, while kicking your slipper on and off your heel. your head moved downward as your fingers clutched onto the seat of the chair you were sat in, harshly enough for your knuckles to turn white.

jj pulled the curling wand away from your face an inch, "careful, try not to move."

"sorry."

yet another wave of guilt rippled through you, as this wasn't how you should feel on your wedding day.

last night, you were surrounded by the people you now consider family, celebrating a new chapter. or rather, a beginning. aaron's permanent grin was engraved in your mind; you've never seen him so carefree, happily conversing with his colleagues, gazing at you as if he'd won the lottery (to him, he had). you were positive there wasn't a second where his arms hadn't been wrapped around you.

before parting ways for the night, he had pulled you to the side, to a more secluded area. he gave you long, sweet, deep kisses, holding your body close to his, as you weren't going to see each other until the two of you officially, and finally, became one.

just as him, you had been on a similar high, more than ready for this next adventure, in pure disbelief that in less than twenty-four hours, you'd be a hotchner. so now, whatever this was, had quite literally come out of absolutely nowhere.

when you awoke this morning, rather than the excitement you had expected, you were greeted with an empty, terrifying pit in your stomach.

as the day carried on, pre-wedding activities in full motion, it followed, and the void within only grew and grew. it was gravely unsettling; you were more fidgety, on edge, you hadn't been your usual talkative self. and despite being surrounded by your newfound family - jj, penelope, and emily more specifically - you couldn't help but choose to remain alone in your thoughts.

jj studied your face through the mirror, before securing your hairpiece in place. "there." her hands found your shoulders, giving them a comforting squeeze. "sit tight, i'll be right back."

you nodded, blinking your eyes to prevent the budding tears from slipping - and to not ruin penelope's handiwork, mascara sure to stain your cheeks. she left, leaving you alone.

but as promised jj returned no more than five minutes later, only she remained at the doorway, her head peeking in. "someone's here to see you."

after giving you a consoling smile, as if she knew - profilers - she vanished, leaving door slightly ajar.

your hand had only just touched the knob when the door moved a centimeter back, slight pressure holding it still to refrain from opening fully.

"don't open it all the way."

"aaron?" at the sound of his voice, you fought the instant urge to sob. but the utmost amount of comfort filled you too. it took a second, but you found your voice, "you're not supposed to be here."

"well technically, i just can't see you."

"still." you insisted. your tone was flat, rather than being full of giddiness due to your future husband sneakily paying you a forbidden visit - like it should've. "they're going to be looking for you."

"then let them." aaron answered simply, not concerned about that in the slightest. "are you alright?"

you immediately fell silent, and aaron patiently waited a minute, but still - nothing. the extended period of quietness, scared him, given the day's event.

please, not cold feet.

and given the current circumstances, there was only so much he could do. aaron dropped his hand to his side, weaving through the small gap. "here, give me your hand."

your hand quickly found his, the promptness allowing aaron to breathe. the familiar weight felt like home; your hand always fitting perfectly within his. your hands always cold, his warm. yours soft, his rough.

his thumb drew circles on the back of your hand, an invitation to open up. "what's on your mind?"

you bit your lip in thought, taking a heavy enough breath aaron could hear it without straining his ears.

"honey?"

"first, i want to preface this that i do want to marry you. i don't want you thinking otherwise." your voice was firm, meaning every word.

"okay..." here was a brief hesitancy in his voice despite your promise; a tinge of worry, some question. however, he managed to keep his voice steady, for the most part. you, however, still recognized the waver of uncertainty.

"just," you released a breath, your voice small. "i envy you."

aaron was quiet for a moment, and when he did speak, the confusion was obvious in his voice. "you envy me?"

"you have," you took a breath, gripping onto his hand. "so many wonderful amazing people around you... i don't even know where to start. they've been with you, stuck with you, for far longer than i have. how do i compare to that? god, dave's practically paying for this whole thing. because of you, for you. no matter who you would've married, he would've done exactly the same. i'm not special."

"sweethear-"

"i want to be enough for you." tears pinched at your eyes, your hold on his hand lessening - which frighteningly felt like you were letting go completely. "you deserve," you took another breath, and this one rattled through you. "everything. and i'm afraid i never will be."

aaron only clutched onto your hand tighter, refusing to part. his eyes squeezed shut for a moment, taking a silent, deep breath. "are you wearing your dress yet?"

after all that, you weren't too sure of how he would respond, but you certainly hadn't expected that. "no? once-"

aaron released your hand. and after looking in both directions of the hall to be certain he was in the clear, he swiftly entered, the door clicking shut behind him.

"aaron." you stared at him, your eyes wide in alarm. you barely had the time to process him in his tuxedo, or have the thought to push him out. "you can't be-"

"enough?" aaron looked at you, baffled. exasperation, pain, and love all present in his eyes. "how can you say that?"

"i-"

"you... are everything. my everything." he moved to your left, pacing away for a moment, quickly internalizing a way to get it across solidly, so you wouldn't dare question otherwise again. he blurted out the first thing that came to mind, "did i ever tell you, what haley told me before she died?"

you blinked in surprise, but shook your head. while you knew the story, offered reassurances after nightmares and the topic of haley had never been off limits, aaron had never gone into detail over... the final moments. you never pushed, never asked - if it was something he chose to keep to himself, to have that part of haley close to him and only him - of course you respected that. they were vulnerable, painful memories, not easy to relive.

he sobered, his posture and expression changing before you, alight with a ghost of the past. a tender, solemn fondness was in his tone as he recalled the line. "'love is the most important thing.'"

your eyes studied his face, silently urging him to continue.

"and while our relationship had it's hardships, she wanted jack to believe in it - love - and had me promise her that i'd show him."

"aaron..."

"he believes, because of you."

"i-"

"i believe," his eyes found yours, full of a sincereness you've never seen from him. "because of you."

you opened your mouth to speak again, but no words came out.

"haley was right." he chuckled softly, with a small shake of his head, "honestly, and while i understand why now, for a long time i was furious she made me promise that. because i wouldn't be able to keep my word. before that... day, i'd already given up. lost hope that i could find it again, that it was even possible, or whether i deserved it. haley and i were together for a long time, you know that. being with her was all i knew, what i was used to, and part of me thought maybe someday, we'd manage to work things out. and suddenly, she was gone. it was too late - i was too late. i failed her, and i'd continue to fail her."

"and then you came into my life, and turned my world around completely. never did i think i would love again, let alone get on one knee and ask someone to marry me. but here we are. here you are."

aaron took your face into his hands, as delicately as he possibly could - as if he feared he would break you.

"because of you, i kept my promise to haley. jack knows, he sees the love i have for you every day. and although he 'ew's' at the sight of us kissing here and there, he'll grow up understanding. he'll know the importance, as promised."

"and you saved me. you saved from a looming downward spiral. i saw it happen to gideon, it's happened to countless others within the bureau, and i could've been the next. i told someone once; it's consuming, this job will eat you up if you let it. but instead of letting it, instead of ruining my relationship with jack, you managed to pull me from that impending darkness i was headed toward."

tears were continuously trickling down your cheeks, utterly speechless.

"you're enough. god you're more than enough. and if that doesn't... i'll prove it to you everyday if i have to. if you'll let me." a broken exhale left his lips, choked up. "i promise."

still unable to find the words, and actions speaking louder, your fingers grabbed onto his tux, pulling his body to yours and wrapping your arms around his middle, burying your face into his chest. in the back of your mind, you made a mental apology to penelope, and hoped you weren't soiling aaron's dress shirt too badly.

aaron's shoulders dropped at the contact, in relief. he pressed his lips to the top of your head, his arms wrapping around your shoulders and holding you close. next, he's the one who took a shaky breath.

"so, i'm the one who should be afraid."

"what?" your voice cracked, peering up at him, your chin on his torso.

"baggage." aaron sighed, tearing his eyes away from yours, his hands running along your back soothingly - or rather, to soothe himself. "i'm the widowed father. i'm the one who's never around. i'm the one who's scarred, in more ways than one. i don't want to limit you, to keep you from a life you've always imagined for yourself. like i did with haley."

"don't say that."

"every day, i wonder why i'm the one you chose to be with. wonder why you love me. i think that it's too good to be true, that i'll wake up. or someday, you will."

"aaron."

he sighed, tears sliding down his cheek.

"you are not scarred, aaron hotchner." you cupped his face and angled him so he was looking at you, wiping the droplets away with the pads of your thumb. "far from it. the life i imagine, is with you. this is it." you found it in you to let out a small laugh, refreshing after the morning you've had. "that's why i was so worried."

he also couldn't help but laugh gently through his tears. "you shouldn't be."

your hand slid to the back of his neck, winding your fingers through the nape of his hair. "you've, very unfairly, dealt with the unfathomable. the unimaginable. but that doesn't make you broken. i find it admirable actually, and it's one of the things i love about you. you're strong aaron. to go through something like that, and come out on the other side of it, both the tragedy and the recovery part of it. a lot of people wouldn't be able to do the same."

aaron looked at you, listening, his head tilting as he leaned into your touch.

"despite what you think, you're a good father. i adore you with jack. and with the horrors you see, every day, you still come home with a calm face. you never fail to give us your all - your sweet loving self. you're always present, even if you're physically aren't here. because you're out there making this world a safer place for so many others. for jack, for me. you really don't give yourself enough credit."

aaron remained silent, his gaze beginning to tear away from yours. but you stopped him, with a finger under his chin to direct his focus back to you.

"you may have scars, but they aren't you. they may contribute, but they aren't you."

"are you sure?" his voice fell to a whisper, eyes desperately searching yours, his own dampened.

you nodded earnestly, your bottom lip quivering a small amount. "i've never been more sure of anything. i promise."

and with that, aaron's lips found yours, kissing you even more deeply than he had the previous night. from the urgency that soon developed, it was clear just how needed this conversation was, on both ends. providing closure, clarity. the kiss sent a buzz right through you, instantaneously making up for the all the lost time you had spent brooding.

you forced yourself to pull away - only when air was needed, and to simply stop. you would've gladly kissed him longer, and aaron likewise, but the two of you were on a schedule.

his forehead fell against yours, a rather boyish, adorable smile on his face. "so, are we good?"

you nodded, your lips pulling into a smile as well, the giddiness you've been missing finally present. you reached up, gently blotting away any lingering tears of his. "we've always been."

"wedding still on?"

you rolled your eyes, gently smacking his chest and making him laugh. "duh."

"okay." he grinned, pecking your lips gently. "i better go. if someone catches me in here-"

"-you'll be in trouble."

"big trouble." he grinned, pulling your hands forward to bring you in for yet another kiss. "i love you. you never saw me."

you chased his lips - just one more. "never did."

aaron laughed, his brown eyes just sparkling. "i'll see you soon. you know where to find me, i'll be waiting."

[rememberwren]

Dichotomy of Thought || 11

Past and further chapters here.

Simon and Johnny make up.

|| Chapter warnings: Anal fingering, anal sex, baby-trapping, medication tampering, medication control.

-

Your boyfriend manages your medications, a one-man pharmacy. 

Every morning the pills are waiting for you on the table in the foyer beside where you deposit your keys in the evening. There are two of them. 

The first is oblong, tan. Your boyfriend hoards and hides the bottle, but you’d fished the information pamphlet that came from the pharmacy out of the trash, and you know everything there is to know about it from that page jam-packed with text. Sertraline, 50mg. Otherwise known as Zoloft. Just swallowing the tasteless pill makes you remember the even darker days than the ones you’re living now, the ones that had led you to that waiting room with your boyfriend in the seat beside you waiting for a doctor to see you. How do I know if I’m depressed, you had asked the doctor, bold as anything even with your boyfriend’s hand on your knee, or if my life just isn’t worth living? 

You’d learned. By God, you’d learned. 

The other pill is your birth control. Round, sometimes blue, sometimes white, depending on where you are in your cycle. Today it is white and—

It looks—different. 

He wouldn’t, you think to yourself, thumb nudging at the pill in your palm, like seeing it from a different angle might jog your memory of it. He wouldn’t do that. A kid is the last thing he wants. He wouldn’t sacrifice his own freedom just to keep you trapped underneath his thumb. 

Except—wouldn’t he? 

“Hurry it up,” he says, yawning, like you kept him up late last night. “I want to go back to bed.” 

You try to take a picture of the pill in your mind before you drop it onto your tongue, taking a swig from your water tumbler, but your brain feels so scrambled that you forget it right away. You can’t even remember the color—had it truly been white, or had it been the pale sky blue of  robin’s egg?

It goes down like a lump of chalk. He makes you show him your empty mouth before he’s satisfied that you aren’t cheeking the pills, and then he kisses you and tells you to have a good day at work, honey. 

-

“Rooster wants you in his office,” Jackie says under her breath, helping you hurriedly clear one of your tables. You’re slow with the splint on your smallest finger, the throb of pain lancing all the way up your wrist each time you use the damaged hand. Jackie has been an angel in khakis picking up your slack. 

You wish that you had one of the pills that they’d given you in the emergency department. It hadn’t taken away all of the pain, but it’d made your head feel light and floaty and like you could care less if all your fingers were broken. Or maybe you wanted one of Johnny’s pills—the ones that put him in a peaceful sleep. You haven’t had such a thing in so long that you can’t remember when, even your moments of relaxation tainted until ‘rest’ is just waiting for the next act of violence. 

“What does he want?” you ask. 

“Probably to tell you about the raise,” she says. She rolls her eyes and twirls a fingers, mouth set in a grim smile of comradery. “Fifty cents. Writing home about it as we speak. Or maybe he wants to grill you about who keeps stealing from the registers—like we all don’t know it’s Ruth.” 

Fifty cents. You can’t even turn up your nose at it. Every penny is one that brings you closer to that apartment across town. With a promise that you’ll return as quickly as you can, you step off the floor (avoiding making eye contact with any customers who would happily sideway you for refills or to complain) and into the back of the house. It’s quiet back here, cooler. Rapping your knuckles against Rooster’s door, you wait. 

There’s no response, and no sign of him in the hallway. Some of the line cooks are coming in, filtering toward the break room to start their shift. You feel their eyes on you as you stand impotently outside the door. One of them says something to the other, and there is laughter, too loud and boisterous for the enclosed space. Your heart has begun to pound, sweat breaking out at the nape of your neck. 

“Hey,” one of them says to you. 

“Hi,” you mutter, forcing a smile, unable to make eye contact. 

Still there is no sign of Rooster from either end of the hallway—never would you have considered the short man your savior. Heart racing, you crack the door open and see that the office is empty. You slip inside, shutting the door safely behind you. 

The room is as self-important as you might imagine: a desk that seems too large for the space, filing cabinets in the corner. There’s a corkboard pockmarked with holes after years of use, and you drift over to it, too anxious to take a seat in the chair on the other side of Rooster’s desk. A calendar is posted there, Rooster’s neat handwriting here and there. 

Something catches your eye: LOCKER CLEANOUT marked for two weeks from now. 

It seemed like the last locker cleanout had just happened. You had only collected five hundred dollars back then, but it was far too much to want to explain to Rooster, and you had nowhere else to stash it that was safe. In the end, it had sat in an envelope under the driver’s seat of your car while Rooster took the week and went through each of the lockers to ensure compliance with the restaurant’s rules (all because someone used to have a penchant for leaving snack cakes in their locker leading to a bad case of ants that almost led to the restaurant being shut down). It had been the longest week of your life, like driving around with a live bomb underneath the front seat. 

Now you have nearly two thousand dollars. Where the hell were you going to put it? 

The door opens. Rooster looks at you suspiciously, eyes flickering between you and the calendar. 

“Next time, wait outside,” he says, stepping in and shutting the door behind him. It makes your skin crawl to be alone with him, even if he’s never done anything slimier than asking you to pull a double shift. You know the darkness that lies inside men. All men. 

“Sorry,” you mutter.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, taking his seat in a squeaky rolling chair behind the desk. His smile is a dismal, strained thing, like interacting with you is just as painful for him as it is for you. “Next time, just wait.”  

-

Johnny and Simon spend the day in bed. 

Johnny’s knee is propped up on a pillow, red and swollen. Simon lets his fingers hover over it, gentle, feeling the warmth of Johnny’s skin. Johnny winces, like even the brush of air against his knee hurts. 

“It looks infected,” says Simon. 

“It’s not.” It can’t be. Johnny can’t handle that—can’t handle the idea of having to go through the surgery on his knee again, the recovery, the way recovery is just synonymous with pain. No, it isn’t infected. “Just looks like that because he hit it.” 

Simon leans down and brushes his mouth against Johnny’s thigh. It’s meant to be sweet but—well. It’s the closest his mouth has been to Johnny’s cock in more than six months, and just the sight of it has Johnny’s heart skipping a beat and picking up again in double-time, his face growing flush. Not privy to Johnny’s thoughts, all Simon does is press a chaste kiss to the skin a few inches above where Johnny’s swelling starts—nevermind what else might be swelling now, too. 

The two of them lay entwined together, Simon curling up around him. He plants a hand on Johnny’s clothed chest, right over his heart, like he’s trying to remind himself that Johnny’s here. That Johnny’s alive. The look in his eyes is far away, mouth drawn down into a tight frown. All at once, Johnny’s downright sick of it—sick of them not having anything to smile about. Sick of fighting. 

Johnny takes Simon’s hand, laces their fingers, and guides it down. Down over his slim, firm belly, watching from the corner of his eye as Simon’s brows climb up his forehead. Down until their hands cup his half-hard cock. Simon’s hand shifts straight away, fingers curling around the solid length, thumb stroking up the side, the gentle rasp of his calloused fingerpad loud against the cotton of Johnny’s boxers. 

“You’re hurt,” Simon reminds him. 

“Don’t care.” 

“I do.” 

“We don’t have to fuck. I just—” he doesn’t know how to explain, how badly he needs to feel something good. How badly he needs to know that his connection with Simon isn’t ruined. How badly he needs to see that they’re still lovers, that Simon isn’t just his live-in caretaker. How badly Johnny needs to feel like a human being—like a grown man. He finishes, a little lamely: “I just need it.” 

Simon’s grip goes firm. Johnny’s eyes shut, mouth falling open at the sensation. He hasn’t even touched himself like this in weeks, and while he hadn’t necessarily been keeping track, his cock clearly has been. Simon seems content to go on like this, mapping the shape of Johnny’s cock through his boxers, thumbing over the head until a wet sticky spot appears in the cotton fabric, his hand sometimes drifting down to cradle the warm heft of Johnny’s balls. 

Johnny, usually impatient, contents himself with this torture. Let Simon tease him all day, if he’d like, until Johnny is liable to go off at the whisper of a touch. The thought has his cock jerking toward the warmth of Simon’s palm, and Johnny groans when his grip tightens. 

“Fucking pretty, aren’t you?” Simon mutters, his eyes on Johnny’s face.

Johnny snorts. He tosses his arm over his eyes, but beneath his arm, he’s grinning. “Shuddup.” 

Simon clicks his tongue. “Be good, Johnny. Let me look at you.” 

Johnny moves his arm and gives his grin room to breathe. His head feels light and airy as Simon sits up and helps him work his boxers down his thighs just far enough to draw his cock out. The first touch of skin on skin has him hissing a breath in through his teeth. Fuck, it’s good. Just as good as it always was—maybe even better, because he needs it so bad. 

“Want you inside me,” Johnny says on a whim, feeling the truth of it in his chest. He doesn’t just want it—he needs it. 

Simon leans down and kisses him, just a little too hard to be mistaken as anything but desperate. How long has it been for him, Johnny wonders. He spends every waking moment with Johnny except his perfunctory showers. Does he indulge then, between soaping and rinsing off, holding his breath to hide his sounds while he strips his cock with one slick hand? 

It takes some maneuvering to get Johnny on his side, knee nicely cushioned. He can’t reach back and touch Simon, can’t grip his hip and pull him in closer, and it’s just another reason to miss his arm. Because there are a hundred thousand touches Simon deserves that Johnny can’t give him anymore. 

They’re lucky for the shelf life of the lube. It warms Simon’s fingers as he works them past Johnny’s rim. He takes his time, hands shaking where they touch him. 

“Need it bad, huh?” Johnny wonders. 

Simon snorts but doesn’t deny it. Just curls his fingers searching for that tender spot inside Johnny’s ass that makes him grit his teeth. His cock drools onto the bedspread, red and throbbing with his heartbeat. By the time Simon slips inside him, chest to Johnny’s back, Johnny feels liable to go off at a moment’s notice. 

For all the time they haven’t fucked, Simon remembers everything: the way to touch Johnny,wrapping a strong arm around his chest to make up for the one Johnny lacks, fingers playing with the whorls of Johnny’s chest hair or teasing one of his nipples; the way to angle his hips to nail Johnny’s prostate. 

“Quit,” Johnny groans, shifting until the stimulation isn’t so good, so dead-on. His cock aches, balls heavy and tight. “I don’t want to cum yet. Don’t want this to be over.” 

“Can’t miss Johnny; dick’s too big.” 

Johnny guffaws. The sound nearly startles him—when was the last time he fucking laughed? With you in the park—but he doesn’t need to be thinking about you now, not you with your small, soft hands and the curve of your mouth…

“Fuck—touch my cock, please touch my cock—“ Johnny whines, body trembling. He’s right there, right fucking there, too close to go back now, fuck it all, he wants to cum. Simon’s strong fingers curl around his cock and strip it firmly, and the pleasure inside him bubbles up and over, left too long to simmer. He nearly headbutts Simon in the face, his body shaking and jerking and cum splatters against his belly and the bedspread and down over Simon’s fingers. 

“Just like that—so good, Johnny,” Simon murmurs. His pale hand grips at Johnny’s sharp hipbone, cum smearing against Johnny’s skin. “My turn.” 

Afterwards, Simon gently helps him undress and goes to get them both fresh clothes. Johnny’s knee throbs freshly just from his muscles tensing, but he barely feels it. For the first time since his accident, he thinks that maybe things will be okay. He has no arm—but so what? There are many with a lot less. He’s John fucking MacTavish. He can do this.

Simon has gone still at their closet, holding something in his hands. Johnny leans up on his elbows. 

“What is it?” he asks. “Did you find my lighter?”

Simon holds up with no preamble a skull-embossed balaclava. It’s worn, the fabric gone gray at its most threadbare spots, but the image imprinted on the front hasn’t faded.

“Blast from the past,” Johnny says, throat uncomfortably tight with an emotion he can’t name. “Thought you threw those out.” 

“Thought so too.” He doesn’t look eager to throw this one out though, his fingers tracing over the teeth, like he’s tracing the lipless mouth of a lover. 

“You miss it,” Johnny says, the glow of their sex fading rapidly. Of course Simon misses it. The military had been his entire life—until Johnny’s accident. Until Simon had discharged with him, to take care of him. Johnny hadn’t just blown apart his own life by going down in the helo in Kazakhstan, he had blown apart Simon’s life too. 

“No,” Simon says simply. “It’s not that.” 

Johnny frowns. “What is it, then?” 

“The night of the poker party—I was Ghost again. It was the only way I could��compartmentalize. Stomach it. I’d forgotten.” 

“Forgotten?”

Simon glances toward him. “Forgotten how useful Ghost could be.” Reaching up, Simon slips the balaclava over his head, adjusting it on instinct until it rests just right against the bridge of his nose. His hair is getting long, little blond strands visible, curling at the ends. 

“Now I want to fuck you again,” says Johnny, just to fill the air between them, and because sex used to be such an easy way to fill it. 

Simon doesn’t smile. 

“Johnny.”

“I was just teasin’—“

“Not that,” Simon says. Even his manner of speaking seems different, words clipped, tone short and no-nonsense. “What if I wanted to go visit our neighbor?”

The question lingers in the silence between them. Johnny swallows, the sound of his throat an audible click in the tense air. 

“You,” Johnny wonders, when he can speak again, “or Ghost?” 

Beneath the balaclava, Ghost smiles. 

[rafeskai]

Life as We Know It — Rafe Cameron

Chapter One

Two opposites must navigate love, loss, and unexpected parenthood to discover the meaning of family.

Summary: When tragedy strikes, two very different individuals find their lives unexpectedly intertwined as they become the guardians of an orphaned child. As they navigate the challenges of co-parenting, balancing careers, and confronting their pasts, they discover that family can form in the most surprising ways. Through heartfelt moments and unexpected humor, they explore what it means to build a life together—one step at a time.

Pairings: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Character deaths & angst.

Author's Notes: Inspired by the movie "Life as We Know It"! Let's pretend Rafe, Sarah, and John B. had a good relationship in this one, okay?

Masterlist: Here

Your phone buzzed on the kitchen counter, the shrill ring cutting through the early evening quiet. You were in the middle of folding laundry, your small apartment illuminated by the fading sunlight streaming through the windows. It was a peaceful, mundane moment—until it wasn’t.

You wiped your hands on a towel before glancing at the screen. Unknown Number. Normally, you’d let it go to voicemail, but something about the pit forming in your stomach made you swipe to answer.

“Hello?”

“Is this [Y/N]?” a man’s voice asked, calm but with an edge that made your chest tighten.

“Yes, this is she. Who’s calling?”

“This is Officer Langley with the Outer Banks Police Department. I... I’m afraid I have some difficult news.”

The world around you seemed to blur. You clutched the phone tighter, your knuckles turning white. “What happened?”

“There’s been an accident,” he said. “Sarah Cameron and John B. Routledge were involved in a car collision earlier this evening. Neither survived. You were one of their emergency contact.”

The words didn’t make sense. They felt foreign, like they belonged to someone else’s story. Your knees buckled, and you stumbled to the couch, sinking into the cushions.

“What about Willa, the daughter?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

There was a pause, and then, “She’s unharmed. The baby was with a sitter at the time. But there’s... another matter we need to discuss.”

You barely heard the rest of his explanation, your mind spinning with the weight of what he’d just told you. Sarah and John B. were gone. Gone.

When the officer mentioned the will, your thoughts screeched to a halt. “I don’t understand,” you said, your voice hoarse. “What do you mean ‘co-guardian’?”

“They named you and Rafe Cameron, her brother, as Willa’s legal guardians,” the officer repeated.

The line went quiet as you tried to process the impossibility of his words. Rafe Cameron? The same Rafe who couldn’t string together a week of good decisions if his life depended on it?

“Is... is he aware of this?” you managed.

“We’ve been trying to reach him. He’s next on my list.”

As if on cue, somewhere across town, Rafe Cameron was staring at his own buzzing phone with a mix of irritation and curiosity. The caller ID was unfamiliar, and he let it ring a few extra times before finally swiping to answer.

“Who is this?” he barked, already annoyed.

“Mr. Cameron, this is Officer Langley with the Outer Banks Police Department. I need to inform you—”

“If this is about the stupid noise complaint, I wasn’t even here last night,” Rafe interrupted, pacing his living room.

“It’s not about that.” The officer’s tone was grave, and Rafe froze mid-step.

“What’s going on?”

“There’s been an accident. Your sister, Sarah, and her partner, John B., were involved in a fatal car crash earlier this evening.”

Rafe’s mouth went dry. He sank onto the edge of the couch, gripping the phone so tightly it felt like it might crack. “What... what do you mean, ‘fatal’?”

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” the officer continued, his voice gentle. “They didn’t survive the collision.”

Rafe’s world tilted. His first instinct was disbelief—this had to be a mistake. But the silence that followed the officer’s words told him otherwise.

“And the baby?” Rafe asked after a long pause, his voice low and strained.

“Willa is safe. She wasn’t with them during the accident,” the officer said. “But there’s something else. According to their will, you and Ms. [Y/N] are named as her co-guardians.”

“What?” Rafe snapped, his disbelief quickly giving way to anger. “That can’t be right. Why would they do that?”

“You’ll need to meet with us to discuss the next steps,” the officer said. “I’ll send over the details.”

Rafe barely heard the rest of the conversation before the call ended. He dropped the phone onto the couch beside him, running both hands through his hair as his mind raced.

Co-guardian? With her?

It wasn’t long before your phone buzzed again, this time with a text from Rafe. His message was short and sharp:

“We need to talk. Now.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The next few hours blurred into a painful haze. You and Rafe found yourselves sitting in the cramped office of the Outer Banks Police Department, a thin folder containing Sarah and John B.'s will resting on the table between you.

The room smelled of coffee and stale air, and the fluorescent lighting above only made everything feel more surreal. You glanced at Rafe from the corner of your eye. He was stiff in the chair beside you, his jaw clenched, eyes red-rimmed but steely.

Officer Langley sat across from you, his expression carefully neutral. Beside him was a lawyer, a sharp-eyed woman in a navy suit who looked as if she’d rather be anywhere else.

“The will is clear,” the lawyer said, her tone crisp and no-nonsense. “Ms. [Y/N] and Mr. Cameron are the appointed co-guardians of Willa Routledge. In the event of Sarah Cameron and John B. Routledge’s passing, the two of you are to assume all parental responsibilities.”

Rafe let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Yeah, that’s great. But let’s be real, you think either of us is qualified to raise a kid?”

“You don’t have a choice,” the lawyer replied without missing a beat. “Unless you want to contest the will, which would result in Willa being placed in temporary foster care until the matter is resolved.”

“No,” you said immediately, your voice firmer than you expected. “That’s not happening.”

Rafe shot you a glance, his eyes narrowing. “And what exactly do you think is going to happen here? You think we’re just gonna team up and play house?”

You didn’t have the energy to argue. “This isn’t about us, Rafe. It’s about Willa. She needs stability, and we’re all she’s got.”

Rafe rubbed a hand over his face, letting out a frustrated sigh. “Fine. Whatever. But don’t expect me to know what the hell I’m doing.”

The lawyer nodded, seemingly satisfied. “We’ll arrange for a formal meeting in a few days to finalize the transfer of guardianship. For now, Willa will remain with her current sitter until the two of you are ready to take her home.”

The word home hung heavy in the air, an impossible concept when everything felt so fractured.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The hours that followed were a whirlwind. After leaving the police department, you and Rafe were directed to the funeral home to begin arrangements for Sarah and John B.’s services.

Rafe took the lead, though it was clear the responsibility weighed on him. He stood stiffly in front of the funeral director, nodding silently as they walked through options for caskets, flowers, and the service itself.

“They’d want it simple,” Rafe muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Nothing flashy. Just... something that feels like them.”

You could see the cracks forming in his composure, the grief seeping through despite his best efforts to hold it together.

“I’ll handle the guest list,” you offered softly, hoping to lighten his load in any way you could.

He nodded but didn’t look at you. “Thanks,” he mumbled, his voice tight.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Later, you found yourself sitting in the corner of the funeral home’s waiting area, scrolling through your phone to contact people who needed to know. It was an exhausting task, one that made the reality of the situation sink deeper with every call.

Rafe was pacing the room, his phone pressed to his ear. From the snippets of his conversation, you guessed he was calling his father, Ward.

“No, Dad, I’ve got it under control,” Rafe said, though his tone suggested otherwise. “I don’t need you coming down here and making it about you. Just... send what you need to send and stay out of it.”

The conversation ended with Rafe tossing his phone onto a nearby chair and sitting down heavily. For a moment, the two of you sat in silence, the weight of everything pressing down on you like a physical force.

“She didn’t deserve this,” Rafe said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

You looked over at him, surprised by the rawness in his tone. His head was in his hands, and for the first time, he looked utterly broken.

“No,” you agreed softly. “She didn’t. Neither of them did.”

Rafe didn’t respond, and you didn’t push. Grief was a strange, solitary thing, and you knew better than to try to force him to share it.

But as you sat there in the quiet, Willa’s face flashed in your mind—those wide, innocent eyes that didn’t yet understand what she’d lost. And you realized that no matter how fractured things were between you and Rafe, you’d have to find a way to piece them together. For her.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The morning of the funeral was gray and cold, the sky heavy with clouds that mirrored the weight in your chest. The Outer Banks, usually vibrant and alive, seemed subdued, as if the island itself were mourning.

You stood at the back of the small church, clutching Willa to your chest. She was dressed in a tiny black dress that Sarah had once bought “just in case,” her soft curls pinned back with a white bow. She didn’t understand what was happening, her chubby hands reaching for your necklace as if this were just another day.

But it wasn’t.

The pews were packed with people from all corners of the island—friends, family, neighbors, even people who barely knew Sarah and John B. Everyone had come to say goodbye.

At the front of the church, two caskets stood side by side, draped in simple white flowers. The sight of them made your stomach churn, a wave of nausea rolling over you as the reality hit again. They were gone.

Rafe sat in the front row, his shoulders hunched, his hands gripping the edges of the pew. He was flanked by Ward and Rose, both of whom looked perfectly composed, their grief hidden behind practiced masks. You couldn’t help but feel a pang of anger toward them—toward Ward, especially. How could he sit there so calm when Sarah, his daughter, was gone?

The service began with soft hymns, the sound of the organ filling the air. The pastor spoke of love, loss, and legacy, his voice steady but kind. He shared stories of Sarah’s infectious smile and John B.’s unyielding spirit, painting a picture of the lives they’d led and the love they’d left behind.

When it came time for eulogies, Rafe surprised you by standing. He adjusted his tie awkwardly, clearing his throat as he approached the podium.

For a moment, he just stood there, staring out at the crowd, his usual bravado nowhere to be found.

“Sarah wasn’t just my sister,” he began, his voice hoarse. “She was my anchor. She kept me grounded, even when I didn’t deserve it. She believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself.”

He paused, his eyes glistening. “And John B.? He was... he was family. He took care of Sarah, made her happy in a way I couldn’t. He was my brother, even if I never said it out loud.”

His voice cracked, and he gripped the edges of the podium tightly, trying to steady himself. “They didn’t deserve this. They had so much left to give. But... they left us Willa. And I’ll do everything I can to make sure she knows how amazing her parents were.”

Rafe stepped back, his head bowed, and you felt an unexpected lump rise in your throat. For all his flaws, his grief was real, and it was impossible not to feel the depth of his pain.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

After the service, the crowd filtered out to the cemetery, where Sarah and John B. would be laid to rest. The air was heavy with the sound of muffled sobs and the soft rustle of the breeze through the trees.

You stood a little apart from the others, bouncing Willa gently to keep her calm. Rafe was nearby, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, his expression unreadable.

As the caskets were lowered into the ground, you felt an ache so deep it seemed to hollow you out. Tears blurred your vision, but you didn’t wipe them away. Grief deserved space, and today, there was nothing to do but let it exist.

When the ceremony ended, Rafe approached you, his face pale and drawn. He hesitated for a moment before gesturing to Willa.

“Can I hold her?” he asked, his voice quiet.

You nodded, carefully passing her over. She went willingly, her small hands gripping the lapels of his coat. For a moment, Rafe just stared at her, his features softening in a way you hadn’t seen before.

“She looks like Sarah,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“She does,” you agreed, watching as Willa rested her head against his chest.

In that moment, standing beside the fresh graves of the people you both loved, it became clear that nothing about this would be easy. But as you looked at Rafe holding Willa, you realized that maybe—just maybe—there was hope. For her, you would find a way.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

A few hours after the funeral, the weight of the day still hung heavy in the air as you and Rafe sat in the conference room of the law office. The small table between you seemed to represent the chasm that had always existed between you two—now more evident than ever.

The lawyers—two of them now, both stern-faced and clearly used to handling the messier sides of life—sat across from you, speaking in professional tones about the formalities. Child services was represented by a no-nonsense woman in her mid-forties who seemed to take notes every time either of you shifted in your seat.

Willa, still in your arms, had drifted off to sleep, her tiny breath soft against your chest. She had no idea that her life was being turned upside down today.

“Everything seems to be in order,” one of the lawyers said, flipping through the paperwork in front of him. “Guardianship has been transferred to both of you as per the will, and now, we just need to finalize arrangements for Willa’s immediate care.”

Rafe, who had been largely silent up until this point, suddenly leaned forward. His sharp eyes met the lawyer’s, and his jaw tightened as he spoke.

“We’ll be taking Willa home with us today. Both of us,” he said firmly, his tone brokering no argument.

The child services worker, Ms. Anderson, looked up from her notepad, her brow furrowed. “Mr. Cameron, I understand the circumstances, but we would like to ensure that both of you are prepared for the responsibility of guardianship. Willa’s safety and well-being are paramount. It’s important to assess—”

“I’m prepared,” Rafe cut her off, his voice cold and final. “I’m not asking, I’m telling you. She stays with me.”

The room went quiet for a beat as Ms. Anderson studied him. You could see the flicker of concern in her eyes as she turned to you, silently asking for your input.

You hesitated. Part of you was reluctant to let Willa stay in that house, with Rafe—the person who had been nothing but trouble for years. But the other part of you knew that, for better or worse, you didn’t have many options. You were in this with him now, and if he was willing to take on that responsibility, you couldn’t exactly argue against it.

“She’ll stay with me, too,” you added softly, catching Rafe’s eye. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea to let her stay alone with you, not yet.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened again, but this time, there was a flicker of something else behind his eyes. A flicker of understanding. “Fine. We’ll take her. But we’re doing this together. It’s not just your decision, [Y/N].”

You didn’t argue with him. He was right. This wasn’t just your choice anymore. You shared the responsibility, whether you liked it or not.

Ms. Anderson nodded, taking notes. “We’ll have to conduct an assessment in the next few days, and I’ll be following up regularly. But for now, if both of you are in agreement, Willa can go with you.”

Rafe stood abruptly, crossing the room and grabbing the folder of documents from the lawyer’s desk. “Good. Let’s get this over with.”

As he turned to leave, the lawyer called after him. “Mr. Cameron, please ensure that you maintain contact with child services for further evaluations.”

Rafe gave a terse nod without looking back.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The drive to the Cameron estate was a tense one, the silence thick with unspoken thoughts. You sat in the passenger seat, holding Willa close, her tiny body pressed against you as she slept. Rafe drove, his grip on the steering wheel tight as he focused on the road, the sound of the engine and the occasional rustle of Willa’s breath filling the quiet.

When you pulled up to the house, it felt like a different world. The sprawling estate loomed ahead, the grand, cold structure seeming to mock the chaos of the day. You could feel the heaviness of the house before you even stepped inside. It was too big, too empty. It had always been a symbol of something Rafe wanted, something that didn’t fit with the life you’d grown up with.

But now, it was where Willa was going to stay.

“Welcome home,” Rafe muttered as he parked the car and cut the engine.

You weren’t sure if he meant it sarcastically, or if there was something real underneath the bitterness.

He led the way up the stone steps, unlocking the front door with a swipe of his key. The house felt colder inside, and Willa shifted in your arms as the air conditioned chill wrapped around you. Rafe glanced over his shoulder.

“I’m not leaving her with you alone,” you said firmly, setting Willa down into the nearby high chair as you followed him further into the house. “You’re going to need help. You’re not capable of just doing this on your own.”

Rafe gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “Yeah, no kidding. I never said I was. But if she’s gonna be here, she’s staying in this house. So you’ll just have to suck it up.”

You weren’t sure how you were supposed to feel in this house with him—this house that was too much like a battlefield, and not enough like a home. But there was no escaping it now. You were stuck here together, as guardians. You took a deep breath and tried not to let the tension eat away at you.

For Willa.

"She’s still a baby," you murmured, brushing a stray curl from Willa’s face. "This isn’t about us. We need to figure it out for her."

Rafe didn’t respond, but he didn’t argue, either. He just stood there, watching you with that same unreadable look he always had. But for the first time, there was a sliver of uncertainty behind it.

And for the first time, you wondered if maybe—just maybe—there was a chance, however small, that you and Rafe might actually pull this off.

© 2024 rafeskai | All rights reserved. This fanfiction is a work of fiction inspired by characters from Outer Banks, and no part of it may be reproduced or distributed without permission.

[mononijikayu]

dearest, darling, my universe — gojo satoru.

"He… he always knew what to say, didn’t he?" Megumi murmurs, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah." you reply, your voice thick with tears. "He always did." The weight of Satoru's absence presses heavily upon you, but the words on the paper offer a strange comfort, like a hand reaching out through the dark. You hold the letter tightly, almost as if you could draw him back with the force of your grip.

GENRE: post shinjiku showdown (spoilers for jjk chapter 268)

WARNING/S: domesticity, fluff, angst, trauma, implied death, violence, romance, hurt/comfort, character death depiction of death, depictions of loss and depression, depiction of blood, depiction of killing, depiction of suffering, depiction of anxiety, mention of death, mention of grief, profanity, family drama;

WORDS: 11k words.

NOTE: my brothers caught a cold so i caught it too because that's just how it sometimes goes when you're always together. i've been writing a bunch of stuff in the mean time, cause i'm strong enough at least. but i hope you enjoy this. it took me a while to write this, but it's finally done. also, listen to iu's song love wins all while reading this. love you all!!!

masterlist

u s and t h e m

if you want to, tip! <3

IT’S BEEN A WHILE, BUT THINGS HAVE CHANGED. The world feels quiet now, almost unnaturally so, as if it is holding its breath, waiting to see what comes next. The grounds are empty, unlike how they used to be. The sky is heavy and dulled gray and the wind carries a strange stillness that presses against your skin. 

Everything seems suspended, caught in a moment that refuses to pass, a calm that feels more like a warning than a relief. It’s the kind of quiet that settles in after a storm — not the peace that follows resolution, but the heavy, fragile silence that comes when everything has been ripped apart, and nothing has been put back together.

Your gaze searches for someone as you look towards the horizon. It takes you a while, but you smile when you find that figure again. You sighed, he’s been there awhile. But you don't blame him. You think that Fushiguro Megumi feels like he’d find peace, if he sits there to wonder what had been before. You find him sitting on the bench your husband had loved to sit on years ago, his back turned to you. He is still, his head lowered, shoulders slumped, and you can see the way his body trembles with each ragged breath.

He’s still recovering, as most are after the battle with Sukuna. But for Megumi, the wounds are deeper, more insidious. After being imprisoned by Sukuna, after having his body and mind twisted and torn apart from the inside out, he’s struggling to find his footing again. His physical scars may heal with time, but the ones etched into his soul are a different story.

You approach slowly, hesitant to break the fragile stillness that surrounds him. He doesn’t turn to look at you, but you know he’s aware of your presence. You can see it in the way his shoulders tense, the slight shift of his head as if he’s listening, waiting. You move closer until you’re standing beside him, close enough to see the bandaged bruises that still darken his skin, the way his hands are clenched tightly in his lap, knuckles white with the effort of holding himself together.

“Megumi.” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper, careful not to startle him.

He doesn’t respond at first, his gaze fixed on some point in the distance, his blue green eyes shadowed and hollow. You can’t tell if he’s looking at the ruins or something beyond them, something only he can see. You wait, giving him the time he needs, the space to decide whether he wants to speak or remain silent.

Finally, he lets out a breath, slow and heavy, his shoulders sagging further. “I couldn’t sleep.” he murmurs, so quietly you almost miss it. “I could still feel it. Like he’s still here… in my head… in my body. And then my dreams…. My hands and Gojo–sensei’s eyes….”

The words hang in the air, raw and unsteady, as if they barely have the strength to escape his lips. You hear the tremor in his voice, the way it quivers with each syllable. It’s a sound you haven’t heard from him before, a vulnerability that he rarely shows, and it cuts through you like a knife. Your heart aches at the sound of his voice, so broken and raw, a far cry from the stoic, determined young man you’ve known for so long.

You can see it in the way his eyes stare ahead, unfocused, as if he’s searching for something he can’t quite grasp. The way his hands tremble slightly, even though they’re clenched tightly on his knees. He sounds lost, like he’s still fighting a battle that has no end, still trying to claw his way out of a darkness that clings to him like a second skin. His whole body seems to sag under the weight of it, the invisible chains that bind him to a past he can’t escape.

“I see.” you whisper, your voice gentle, but firm. You reach out, hesitantly, resting your hand on his arm, feeling the tension that coils beneath his skin, the way his muscles are taut and ready to snap. “I’m sorry for that, Megumi.”

He flinches at your touch, just a little, his gaze flicking to yours for a brief second before darting away again. You can see the conflict in his eyes, the way he’s torn between wanting to believe you and the insidious doubt that’s been planted deep inside him. There’s a flicker of shame, of fear, as if he’s afraid of admitting just how much he’s struggling, how much of himself he feels he’s lost.

“It’s going to take some time for all of this to go and change.” he finally admits, his voice low, almost inaudible. “It feels like… like he’s still there, lurking in the corners of my mind, waiting for a chance to come back. And then Gojo–sensei’s voice echoes sometimes, whispering… and Sukuna just….It’s like he’s a part of me now, and I don’t know how to make him leave.”

His words are laced with a quiet desperation, a plea for some kind of reassurance that you’re not sure you can give. How do you tell someone that the ghost in their mind will eventually fade when you know that kind of pain never truly leaves? How do you promise a tomorrow free of shadows when the past clings so fiercely to the present?

You tighten your grip on his arm, just a little, enough to ground him, to let him know you’re here. “He won’t win. Satoru knew that too.” you say, your voice is firmer now, more certain. “Not while you’re still fighting. And I know you, Megumi. You’ve fought through worse. You’re stronger than you think, even when you feel like you’re falling apart.”

His eyes meet yours again, and you can see the doubt there, the fear. But beneath it, there’s a spark of something else, something fragile and faint, but alive — hope, maybe. A glimmer of belief that he can pull through this, that he can find himself again. His lips part, but he seems to hesitate, as if afraid of saying something he can’t take back.

“I’m tired.” he confesses, and it feels like the weight of the world is in those two words. “I’m so tired of fighting. I don’t know how much more I can take.”

You swallow hard, feeling the sting of tears in your eyes, but you blink them back. “I know." you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “I know you are. And it’s okay to feel that way. It’s okay to be tired, to need a break. But you don’t have to do this alone. I’m here, Megumi. I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

He exhales, a shaky breath that trembles with all the emotions he’s been holding in, and for a moment, he looks like he might break, like the walls he’s built around himself might finally come crashing down. His shoulders slump further, and he leans forward, just a fraction, as if testing the waters, as if trying to decide if it’s safe to fall.

“I….” he starts, his voice breaking, “I keep thinking about him… and about everyone we lost. And I wonder if it’s even worth it, to keep going… if I’m even worth it. I…I helped cause all this pain.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, and you feel your breath hitch in your throat. You tighten your grip on his arm, leaning closer, your heart breaking for him, for everything he’s endured, for everything he’s still enduring.

“Megumi.” you say, your voice thick with emotion. “You are worth it. You’re worth every fight, every tear, every moment of pain. You’re worth it because you’re here, and you’re trying, and you haven’t given up. And that… that’s everything.”

He looks at you, his eyes searching, as if trying to find the truth in your words, as if he wants to believe you but doesn’t know how. His lips tremble, and for a moment, he seems like he might speak, might say something that could change everything.

But then he just closes his eyes, a tear slipping down his cheek, and he lets out a breath, long and shuddering. “I don’t know.” he whispers, but he doesn’t pull away from your touch. He stays there, his body tense but close, and you know that for now, that’s enough.

You feel the slight tremor in his shoulders, the way he fights to keep himself together, and you wonder how many times he’s had to do this — how many times he’s been forced to stand tall when everything inside him was falling apart. You can see the exhaustion etched in the lines of his face, the dark circles beneath his eyes. He’s so young, but he looks older now, like the weight of the world has been pressing down on him for too long.

You don’t say anything, just keep your hand on his arm, feeling the faint, steady beat of his pulse beneath your fingertips. You know that words won’t fix this, won’t make the shadows in his eyes disappear. But you want him to know he’s not alone, that he doesn’t have to carry this burden by himself.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he leans into you, just a little, his head bowing as if the strength he’s been holding onto is slipping away. You don’t move, don’t flinch, just let him take whatever he needs from you, let him find some solace in the contact, in the warmth of another human being who understands, who has lost as much as he has.

“I’m scared.” he admits, his voice so soft you almost miss it, his breath warm against your skin. “I’m scared that I’ll never be… me again. That I’ll never be whole. That I’ll always feel… like this.”

Your heart aches at the confession, at the way his voice breaks, the way his words tremble with an uncertainty that shakes you to your core. You feel a tear slip down your own cheek, and you quickly brush it away, not wanting him to see, not wanting to add to his pain.

“It’s okay to be scared.” you whisper back, your voice rough with emotion. “I’m scared too, Megumi. Every day. But you don’t have to do this alone. You have people who care about you, who love you. And we’ll get through this… somehow. Together.”

He nods, just barely, and you can feel the tiniest bit of tension ease from his frame, as if your words have given him something to hold onto, even if just for a moment. His tired eyes remain closed, and he takes another deep breath, his lips pressing into a thin line, his brows furrowing like he’s trying to muster some strength from within.

“I miss him.” he confesses, almost like he’s ashamed to say it out loud. “I miss Gojo–sensei. Tsumiki, I…I still can’t…”

Silence engulfs you, heavy and unrelenting, settling like a thick fog between you and Megumi. He opens his eyes. You couldn’t help but see the light of devastation in his eyes, a light that flickers and fades like a dying star. It’s a look you’ve seen before, a look you’ve felt etched into your own reflection every time you’ve caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The eyes that have stared back at you have been hollowed out, drained of their usual spark, carrying the same weight that now rests in Megumi’s.

You see it in the way he looks down, his gaze fixed on some invisible point on the ground, as if he’s afraid that meeting your eyes might shatter whatever fragile composure he’s managed to hold onto. The devastation is so clear in his expression, so raw and exposed, like an open wound that hasn’t begun to heal.

But you share the same look, you think. Because you’ve both lost the dearest people in your lives. The ones who held you together, who gave you strength when you needed it most. You knew that too well — the pain, the grief that seems to expand with every breath you take, filling the space around you, making it harder and harder to breathe. Tsumiki, taken from him so suddenly, so cruelly. And now Satoru, your husband, the man who was everything — your light, your laughter, your reason to keep fighting even when the world felt like it was falling apart.

How much more can you both bear?

It feels like there’s a weight pressing down on your chest, an invisible force squeezing the air out of your lungs. Your heart aches with a pain that’s deep and unyielding, a pain that you’ve grown accustomed to, but that never seems too dull. It’s the kind of pain that lingers, that finds its way into every corner of your being, that refuses to be ignored no matter how hard you try.

You think of Satoru — his smile, his ridiculous jokes, the way he could light up a room just by being in it. You think of Tsumiki — her quiet strength, her gentle kindness, the way she could make Megumi laugh even when he didn’t want to. You think of how much they meant to you, to both of you, and you wonder how you’re supposed to go on without them. How do you keep moving forward when the ground beneath you has been ripped away? How do you find the strength to keep fighting when the people who gave you that strength are gone?

You feel a tear slip down your cheek, hot and heavy, and you quickly brush it away. You don’t want Megumi to see, don’t want him to think that you’re breaking, that you’re crumbling under the weight of your own grief. But maybe he already knows. Maybe he can see it in the way your hands tremble, in the way your shoulders sag just a little, in the way your breath catches in your throat like you’re fighting to keep from sobbing.

Megumi finally looks up, and when his eyes meet yours, you see the reflection of your own sorrow staring back at you. His eyes are tired, so very tired, like he hasn’t slept in days, weeks even. There’s a hollowness in them, a void where there used to be determination and fire. He looks older than he is, worn down by the battles he fought, by the losses he’s endured. And you wonder how much more he can take, how much more you can ask of him when he’s already given so much.

“I’m… I’m not sure how to do this.” he admits, his voice barely more than a whisper, his words trembling on the edge of breaking. “I don’t know how to… keep going.”

Your heart tightens, and you feel a fresh wave of grief wash over you, cold and sharp like a blade. You want to tell him that it will get easier, that the pain will fade, but you know it’s not true. You know that some losses never heal, that some wounds never close. All you can do is reach out and take his hand in yours, squeezing it gently, letting him know that you’re here, that you’re not going anywhere.

“I don’t know how either.” you whisper back, your voice thick with emotion. “But we have to try… for them. For ourselves.”

He nods, but it’s a slow, uncertain nod, like he’s still not sure if he believes you, if he believes in anything anymore. His grip tightens around your hand, almost desperate, like he’s holding on for dear life. And maybe he is. Maybe you both are, trying to keep each other afloat in a sea of loss and uncertainty, trying to find something solid to cling to when everything else has been swept away.

For a long moment, you stand there in silence, feeling the weight of everything you’ve lost, everything you’re still losing. And you realize that there’s no easy answer, no simple path forward. There’s only this — the two of you, standing together in the midst of all the broken pieces, trying to make sense of a world that no longer feels whole. And maybe that’s enough. For now, maybe that’s enough.

"I… I keep thinking he’ll walk through that door too, you know?" you finally manage to say, your voice catching on the last word. "With that grin of his, like it's all been a bad dream."

Megumi’s gaze drops to the ground. “Me too.” he whispers. "I keep hearing his voice, like he's about to make another joke… or ruffle my hair." His hands curl into fists, and he swallows hard. "I don’t know if I want to laugh or scream."

You reach out, hesitating for a moment before placing a hand on his arm. "It feels wrong, doesn't it? For him to be gone."

He nods, his shoulders slumping further. "I hated how he made everything a joke, how he never took things seriously… but I’d give anything to hear him laugh again." His voice cracks, and you see the tears he's been holding back start to gather in his eyes.

Your own tears brim over, and you don’t bother wiping them away. "I don’t know what to do." you admit. "I feel lost without him. I thought we’d have more time… that we could…"

"To live together?" Megumi finishes for you, and you nod, grateful that he understands.

For a moment, you both stand there in your shared grief, the silence punctuated by the distant sounds of the wind moving through the ruins. Finally, Megumi reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper, worn and slightly crumpled, as if it’s been handled many times. You look at him and then to the paper. You could feel the air knocked from your lungs. 

"He… he left this for you." he says, handing it over. “Ieiri–san gave this to me. He told Ieiri–san to give it to you.....if something happened, you’d be the one to need it most.”

You take the letter with trembling hands, the weight of it almost too much to bear. For a moment, you can’t bring yourself to open it, terrified of what it might say, of the finality it represents. But then you unfold it, the familiar scrawl of his handwriting dancing across the page, and his little drawing of himself on the side. You don’t know whether you were going to laugh or cry. Because, almost immediately, you can almost hear his voice speaking the words.

𝑯𝒆𝒚, 𝒚𝒐𝒖! 𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕, 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒎𝒚 𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒆,  

𝑰’𝒎 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒃𝒚𝒆𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒆𝒕’𝒔 𝒃𝒆 𝒉𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒕, 𝑰 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒓𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒕, 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒈𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝑰 𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒅. 𝑰 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒖𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝑰 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒊𝒕’𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒐𝒌𝒂𝒚. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕… 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑰 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒎𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒘.  

𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌, 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒗𝒆. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒓, 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒊𝒆𝒓… 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒆. 𝒀𝒐𝒖, 𝑴𝒆𝒈𝒖𝒎𝒊, 𝑻𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒊𝒌𝒊 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑺𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒔𝒉𝒊 — 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒚. 𝑩𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒊𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒘, 𝑰 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒐 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒎𝒆, 𝒐𝒌𝒂𝒚?  

𝑻𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑴𝒆𝒈𝒖𝒎𝒊. 𝑻𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑺𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒔𝒉𝒊. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒌𝒊𝒅𝒔, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚’𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑬𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝑴𝒆𝒈𝒖𝒎𝒊, 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒇 𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔𝒏’𝒕 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒊𝒕. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓, 𝑰’𝒎 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔. 𝑱𝒖𝒔𝒕… 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒖𝒑 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒆, 𝒐𝒌𝒂𝒚? 

𝑻𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝑺𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒔𝒉𝒊, 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒘𝒏, 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒔. 𝑷𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒔, 𝒐𝒌𝒂𝒚? 𝑰’𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑴𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝑰 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒚.   

𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓, 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 — 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒕,  𝑺𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒖.

The tears spill over again, as they have these past few weeks and you clutch the letter to your chest, your heart aching with a mix of love and pain. You look over at Megumi, who’s watching you with a mix of understanding and his own quiet grief. He didn’t say a word for a while. He just let you cry, to let out the grief that you had been holding in for so long. 

"He… he always knew what to say, didn’t he?" Megumi murmurs, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips.

"Yeah." you reply, your voice thick with tears. "He always did."

The weight of Satoru's absence presses heavily upon you, but the words on the paper offer a strange comfort, like a hand reaching out through the dark. You hold the letter tightly, almost as if you could draw him back with the force of your grip.

Megumi shifts beside you, his gaze distant. You sense he’s been wrestling with his own demons, carrying a grief he doesn’t quite know how to articulate. You remember the nights Satoru would tease him, ruffle his hair, and declare with exaggerated fondness that he was the son he never had. And you remember how Megumi would roll his eyes, always with that begrudging smile, the one that said he was secretly happy to have someone who cared so much.

"I don’t know what to do." you confess, your voice barely a whisper. "I don’t even know where to begin."

Megumi looks at you, his eyes softening in understanding. "Neither do I." he admits. "But… I think Gojo–sensei would want us to keep going. He’d hate seeing us like this, stuck in the past."

You nod, wiping your tears with the back of your hand. "He was always moving forward, wasn’t he? Never stopping, not even for a second."

Megumi’s lips twitch into a faint smile. "Yeah, always dragging everyone else along for the ride." He hesitates, and then adds, "But… it wasn’t just him. You kept him grounded. You gave him a reason to slow down, even if just a little."

Your breath catches in your throat. You never thought of it that way — always felt like you were the one chasing after him, trying to keep up with his boundless energy and insatiable curiosity. But maybe, in your own way, you had been his anchor.

Megumi takes a step closer, his hand hovering near your shoulder, as if unsure whether to reach out. "He always talked about you, a lot. Even when you weren't around." he says softly. "Not in the way you'd expect. He’d get this look in his eyes, like… like he couldn’t believe he was lucky enough to have you."

You nod, finding some solace in his words. The two of you stand there for a moment longer, letting the silence settle around you, a cocoon of shared understanding. Then, with a deep breath, you fold Satoru’s letter carefully, as if it were the most fragile thing in the world, and tuck it into your pocket.

“I know.” you say gently, a faint smile on your lips. “I was the luckiest person alive too. To have loved him. To have been with him. To…To have a life with him.”

He turns his head slightly, just enough to glance at you out of the corner of his eye. There’s a flicker of something there — a mix of pain and doubt, hope and fear. He looks exhausted, like every breath, every moment, is a battle in itself. His hands unclench slowly, his fingers twitching like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them.

He closes his eyes for a moment, a pained expression crossing his face. “I don’t know if I can ever be what I was.” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

"That's okay." You whisper back. "You don't need to be whole to be yourself, Megumi. It's...enough. Being like this, for now."

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and you see the tears gathering in his eyes, threatening to spill over. He’s still so young, you think, still so young to have been through so much, to carry so many burdens on his shoulders. You didn’t want this from him. You don’t want him to live with this for the rest of his life. 

“Do you think it’ll ever stop hurting?” he asks, his voice so soft it’s almost a plea.

You pause, considering your words carefully. “I don’t know.” you admit honestly. “I think… I think it might always hurt a little. But I also think that one day, the pain won’t be the first thing you feel. One day, you’ll wake up, and it’ll be a little easier to breathe. And then another day, and another… and eventually, you’ll find a way to live with it. To carry it without letting it crush you.”

He nods slowly, as if trying to absorb your words, to find some semblance of comfort in them. “I hope so.” he says quietly. “I really hope so.”

As you purse your lips into a tight line, Fushiguro Megumi turns his head slightly, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of the strain in his eyes. They’re the same eyes you’ve known for years, dark and brooding, yet now they seem dimmed by a weight too heavy for any young man to bear. His expression is weary, etched with the lines of battles fought not just against enemies but against the relentless tide of grief and responsibility that threatens to swallow him whole. 

You pause, taking in the sight of him. Megumi, who has always seemed so strong, so unyielding, now stands with his shoulders hunched, his frame pulled inward like a fragile fortress protecting a fragile heart. His hands, usually so sure and steady, are clenched tightly at his sides, fingers twitching with a nervous energy. 

The boy who faced curses without flinching now looks lost, as if he’s unsure of where to place his feet or how to hold himself together. You notice how his posture has shrunk into itself, his form smaller, more fragile than you remember. For a fleeting moment, he is not the stoic young man who bears the weight of the Zen’in name, but the boy you raised, the one who used to look up at you with a defiance softened by hope. 

Memories rush in, unbidden and raw. You remember the first time you took his hand, how tiny it seemed in yours, and the way he stiffened, wary of your touch. It took time for him to trust you, to accept the safety you offered in a world that had been anything but kind. He was so guarded, so determined to prove that he didn’t need anyone, but you had seen through the cracks in his armor, glimpsed the boy beneath who craved comfort and understanding.

Now, as you stand before him, you see that boy again. The boy who hid his hurt behind curt words and narrowed eyes, who watched the world with suspicion, waiting for it to turn on him. You see the boy who wanted to be strong, not just for himself but for those he cared about, who believed that if he could shoulder enough pain, he might somehow spare others from it. That same boy stands before you now, but the weight he carries has only grown heavier, pressing down on his shoulders until they sag with exhaustion.

You move closer, slowly, careful not to startle him. Megumi’s gaze flickers to you, and for a moment, something in his eyes softens, just a fraction. He looks at you as if he wants to say something, but the words catch in his throat, stuck behind the fear of vulnerability. You can see the battle waging within him — the need to be strong, to keep it all together, and the desperate longing to let someone in, to share the burden that’s breaking him apart.

“I…I’m sorry for putting you through what I did.” he whispers, so quietly you almost miss it. His voice is thick, strained with the weight of everything left unsaid.

It was hard seeing Megumi this way, you think. If anything, you still weren’t prepared to seek him out. You felt ashamed that you couldn’t do much for him. As much as you were also worried that he’d put himself at your feet, kneeling and in tears. Now your worst fear came to pass, that he would be apologizing to you for something that was not his fault. And so, you took that time — a long time, to just be alone and grieve. To let your husband’s soul rest in peace.

So your heart aches at his confession, and you step closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, drawing him into an embrace. At first, he resists, his body stiff and unyielding, but you hold firm, refusing to let go. Slowly, he relents, and he collapses against you, his head resting against your shoulder. His hands clutch at the fabric of your clothes, and you feel the tremble in his fingers, the suppressed sobs caught in his chest.

“It’s okay, Megumi.” you murmur, stroking his back in soothing circles. “You silly boy. Why are you apologizing for things that aren’t your fault, hm?”

His shoulders shake, and you feel the tears that he’s fought so hard to hold back finally spill over. He buries his face in your shoulder, his body wracked with silent sobs, each one tearing at your heart. You hold him tighter, as if you could somehow shield him from the pain, as if you could gather all the shattered pieces of him and put them back together.

He cries quietly, like he doesn’t want to be heard, like he’s afraid of what his grief might sound like if he lets it out. You just hold him, letting him take the time he needs, giving him the space to be the child you know he still is, beneath all that strength and stubbornness. 

And for that moment, you are back in time, comforting a boy who tried so hard to be brave, to stand tall in a world that felt too big and too cruel. You feel the years slip away, and you whisper to him like you did then, telling him it’s okay, that he’s safe, that he’s loved. 

Slowly, the tremors in his body begin to ease, and he pulls back slightly, just enough to look up at you. His eyes are red, and there’s a vulnerability there that you haven’t seen in years. “I’m sorry, Gen–san.” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. “I….It must be harder on you.”

You shake your head, cupping his cheek with one hand. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.” you say firmly. “You’ve been so strong, Megumi. But you don’t have to be strong all the time.”

He nods, his eyes closing for a moment as he takes a shaky breath. “I just… I miss him, Gen–san.” he admits, his voice breaking. “I miss them. Tsumiki…..I…I miss them both. And it’s…It’s my fault. If I had…”

“I know you do.” you whisper back. “I miss them too. And it’s okay to feel that way. But it was never your fault. You understand? This is not your cross to bear, hm?”

He looked at you, as though he was still unsure. But he nods again, and this time, when he opens his eyes, there’s a spark of something new there, a flicker of resolve. “Thank you.” he murmurs. “For… for being here.”

You smile softly, brushing his hair back from his face. “Always.” you promise. “I’ll always be here for you, Megumi.”

And as he leans into your touch, you realize that maybe, just maybe, he’s beginning to understand that he doesn’t have to face the world alone. That he has a family, even in the darkest of times, and that you’ll always be there to catch him when he falls. When he finally calms down, you look at him with a tender gaze. You rub the small of his back and coo towards him. You tell him over and over again that it’s going to be okay. 

THINGS HAVE CHANGED IN THESE MANY YEARS. But all the same, you were still just trying to get by without your husband. Just as you have done in the past fourteen years. Sometimes you can’t believe that it has been that long. Fourteen long years without his voice, his laughter, his warmth beside you in the dark of the night. Fourteen years of waking up every morning and remembering all over again that he’s gone.

Some days, it feels like he was just here, like you can still hear his footsteps in the hallway, the sound of his voice calling your name, teasing you with that easy smile that could always make your heart skip a beat. Other days, it feels like a lifetime has passed, like his memory is slipping further away with each breath you take, each step you take forward.

And sometimes, all you have to do is look at the world around you and see how much it has changed, even without Satoru. The world didn’t stop for his absence — it kept moving, kept spinning, kept evolving. The streets are filled with new faces, new buildings rise where old ones once stood. The skyline of the city looks different, the energy of the people has shifted, and even the quiet corners where you used to find solace now feel foreign and unfamiliar.

You think about the way he would have laughed at the way the world has moved on without him, how he would have been amused at the thought of being left behind by time itself. “Can’t keep up with me, huh?” he would’ve jokes, that mischievous grin spreading across his face, his bright eyes twinkling with that endless, boundless spirit of his.

But he isn’t here to see it — he isn’t here to laugh or joke or comment on the little changes that make up this new reality. And that’s what hurts the most, you think. The small moments that go unnoticed, the daily routines that feel emptier without him, the tiny, insignificant details that made life with him so full.

You were certain that today was one of those days — a day where the past and present seemed to blur, where the weight of what came before felt particularly heavy. The morning sun filters through the kitchen window, casting a soft glow across the table. You watch as the young clan leader, Gojo Satoshi, sits across from you, his posture a mix of youthful excitement and a hint of nervousness that he tries to hide. His eighteenth birthday has finally arrived — a day you’ve both been anticipating with a blend of joy and bittersweetness. 

For years, you’ve marked this date on the calendar, circled it with a smiley face as Satoru used to do. You remember the way he’d talk about this day like it was a grand milestone, his eyes lighting up with that familiar spark as he imagined all the things Satoshi would accomplish. And now, here it is — the day that seemed so far away, so impossible to reach, yet somehow arrived faster than you ever thought it would.

Your son had taken some time off from his responsibilities, from the pressures of the Gojo clan, just to be here with you. He’d insisted on it, saying he didn’t want to spend this day anywhere else. There’s a maturity in him that catches you off guard sometimes, a quiet strength that reminds you so much of Satoru, and yet he’s entirely his own person, shaped by all the experiences and lessons that life has thrown at him. 

At times, you catch yourself taking a moment to look at him. He was the spitting image of his father. Every bit of him was Satoru. From the way his eyes gazed at you, to the way he laughs. Everything was him. You think if your husband would be here now, it would have been hard to tell them apart. But, he was all you have of Satoru. And you were still grateful for it, even if it makes you cry sometimes.

“Mom.” he begins, and there’s a softness in his voice, a vulnerability that he doesn’t show often. “I… I’m glad I could be here today. I know it’s… a lot. For both of us.”

You smile, a warm, gentle smile that you hope hides the ache in your chest. “I’m glad too, Satoshi. I’ve been waiting for this day. Your father would have wanted it to be special.”

He nods, a small smile tugging at his lips, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes — a shadow of the loss you both carry, the empty space that Satoru left behind. You know this day is as much about celebrating as it is about remembering, about honoring the promise that Satoru made to him, to all of you.

And that’s why you’re here, sitting at the kitchen table, a letter in your hand — a letter you’ve kept safe for years, one with Satoru’s handwriting on the envelope, his familiar scrawl that brings a sting of tears to your eyes. The letter he wrote for Satoshi to open on his eighteenth birthday, a letter he wrote knowing he might not be here to read it himself.

You hold it out to him, your fingers trembling slightly, and Satoshi’s eyes widen. He recognizes it immediately, having seen it once before when he was a child, when you tucked it away with a promise that it was for another day, a day when he was older, stronger.

“Is this…?” he asks, his voice trailing off, almost afraid to finish the question.

You nod, swallowing back the lump in your throat. “It’s from your father.” you say softly. “Megumi found it cleaning your father's office. It seems....your father wanted you to have something special when you're older."

For a moment, Satoshi just stares at the envelope, his fingers brushing over the edges, tracing the curve of his father’s handwriting. You can see the emotions flicker across his face — curiosity, sadness, a deep, yearning love. He looks up at you, and there’s a silent question in his eyes, one that asks if you’re okay, if you’re ready for this.

You give him a small nod, even though your heart feels like it might break all over again. “Go on.” you encourage. “Open it.”

With a deep breath, Satoshi carefully tears open the envelope, his hands steady despite the tremor you know he must feel. He pulls out the folded paper inside, and as he begins to read, you watch his face, the way his expression changes, softens, as he takes in the words that his father left for him.

There’s a chuckle, soft and low, that escapes his lips, and for a brief moment, it’s like Gojo Satoru is in the room with you both, his presence lingering in the air, his laughter echoing in the corners. Satoshi’s shoulders shake with silent laughter, and he shakes his head, murmuring, “Of course he’d say that…” under his breath.

You can’t help but smile, a tear slipping down your cheek as you remember Satoru’s sense of humor, his way of making light of even the heaviest moments. You wonder what he wrote, what silly remark he must have made, what words he left behind to make his son laugh on this day.

But then, the laughter fades, replaced by a softer look, a look of longing. Satoshi’s eyes grow misty, and his smile wavers, his breath hitching in his throat. His hands clutch the letter a little tighter, his fingers pressing into the paper like he’s holding onto a lifeline.

“I miss him, a lot.” he whispers, his voice breaking, and in that moment, he looks like the little boy he used to be, the one who would climb into your lap and ask when his father was coming home. “I miss him so much.”

Your heart breaks all over again, and you reach across the table, pulling him into your arms. He doesn’t resist, burying his face in your shoulder, and you feel his tears soak through your shirt, hot and heavy. You hold him close, your hand running through his hair, whispering soothing words even as your own tears fall.

“I know, Satoshi.” you whisper back, your voice thick with emotion. “I miss him too… every day.”

He clings to you, his body shaking with quiet sobs, and you let him cry, let him mourn, let him feel all the things he needs to feel. You know that this pain will never truly go away, that there will always be a part of both of you that aches for the man who isn’t here, for the father and husband who left too soon.

But in this moment, you also feel a deep, abiding love — a love that stretches across time and space, that binds you together even in the face of loss. You know that Satoru is with you, in every laugh, in every tear, in every beat of your hearts. And as you hold your son, feeling the strength of his embrace, the warmth of his love, you know that Satoru’s spirit lives on, in him, in you, in all the days to come.

You feel Satoshi’s grip tighten around you, his shoulders still trembling with the force of his emotions. You hold him closer, pressing your cheek against the top of his head, breathing in the scent of him, so familiar and comforting. He’s grown so much, become a young man with so much of his father’s spirit, and yet so much of his own unique strength.

“He would’ve been so proud of you, little dawn.” you whisper into his hair, feeling your voice catch in your throat. “Every day, he would’ve been so proud. I know he is… wherever he is.”

Satoshi pulls back just enough to look up at you, his eyes red-rimmed and wet with tears, but there’s a light in them — a spark of resilience, of determination, of love. “I hope so, mom.” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “I hope I’m making him proud… and you, too.”

You smile, cupping his face in your hands, brushing your thumbs over his damp cheeks. “You are, Satoshi. You’re everything he could have hoped for… everything I could have hoped for.”

He leans into your touch, closing his eyes, and you can see the way his expression softens, some of the tension easing from his features. “I just… I wish he were here,” he admits, his voice a broken whisper. “I wish he could see this… see me now.”

You nod, swallowing back your own tears, feeling the ache in your chest grow sharper, deeper. “Me too.” you confess. “Every day, I wish for that. But he’s still with us, Satoshi. In you, in me, in all the love he left behind. And as long as we remember him, he’ll never truly be gone.”

Satoshi nods slowly, taking in your words, letting them settle in the quiet space between you. You know it’s not enough to fill the emptiness, to ease the pain that sits heavy in both of your hearts, but it’s something — a small comfort, a small truth that you can hold on to.

“Happy birthday, Satoshi.” You greeted him with a small smile on your face. “You and your papa. Happy birthday.”

“Thank you, mom.”

And so, you sit together in the soft morning light, holding onto each other, holding onto the memory of the man you both loved so dearly, trying to find your way in a world that has changed so much without him. You know it won’t be easy — it never has been — but you also know that you have each other, that you have the love he left behind, and maybe, for now, that’s enough to keep moving forward.

Just as you have for the past fourteen years.

Just as you will for the years to come.

YOU DECIDED TO VISIT THAT AFTERNOON. The pond is quiet, save for the gentle rustle of leaves in the wind, the soft murmurs of the water lapping against its edges. You stand at the edge, looking out at the calm surface, watching as the light dances across the ripples. The air is thick with the scent of earth and pine, and there’s a serenity here that you haven’t felt in a long time — a stillness that settles into your bones, grounding you in the moment.

This was land that Satoru bought a long time ago, back when the world was still full of possibility, when dreams felt tangible and within reach. You remember the day he brought you here for the first time, the way his eyes sparkled with excitement as he talked about the future, about all the things he wanted to build, all the memories he hoped to create. 

He’d stood right where you’re standing now, his hands on his hips, looking out at the same pond with a boyish grin on his face. “This is it.” he’d said, his voice full of conviction. “This is where I’d be glad to build a family… a place to call home when everything’s said and done.”

You could hear the hope in his words, the unspoken promise of a life filled with love and laughter. He had dreams of children playing by the water’s edge, of long summer evenings spent under the stars, of a sanctuary away from the battles, away from the chaos.

And you had made that happen. For a while, you had built that family, that life, just as he’d wanted. You shared quiet mornings and loud, joyous evenings. You laughed, you loved, you lived. The memories still linger in every corner of this place, like echoes of a time that now feels so distant, so far away.

This is the place where you buried your husband — here, by the pond where he once stood dreaming of the future. It felt right, felt like honoring that dream of his, of giving him the home he’d always wanted, even in death. You wanted him to be where he’d always hoped to be, to rest in the place he had chosen for his family, his sanctuary. So you laid him to rest here, in the earth he once walked upon, beneath the trees that whisper his name in the wind. 

But you chose this spot for a reason. So that he’ll always be home, so that he’ll never be far from the place he loved most. You wanted him to have peace, to feel the tranquility of the land he cherished so much. And maybe, in some way, you wanted him close, wanted to be able to visit, to sit by his side and feel his presence, even if it’s just in the whispers of the wind or the quiet ripple of the pond.

You sit back, closing your eyes, breathing in the fresh air, and you imagine his laughter, his voice, his hand in yours. You can almost hear him now, teasing you about being sentimental, about spending so much time talking to a patch of earth. But you know he’d understand. He always understood you, even when you didn’t understand yourself.

You look out over the pond, the way the water reflects the sky, and you wonder what he would think of the world now, of all the things that have changed. You wonder if he’d still choose this place, if he’d still find it as beautiful as he once did. You like to think he would, that he’d still smile and say, “Yeah, this is home.”

One day, you think. One day, maybe you’ll be here too, resting beside him, sharing this place forever. Maybe one day, you’ll find your way back to him, and you’ll get to hear his voice again, feel his arms around you, and you’ll be whole again. Until then, you’ll keep coming back, keep whispering to the wind, keep holding onto the memories that this place holds.

And as the sun dips lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the water, you feel a sense of peace settle over you. Because here, in this quiet place, he is still with you. Here, by the pond he loved so much, he is still home.

You’ve walked this path more times than you can count, but today feels different. The air is heavy, thick with the weight of unspoken words and memories that cling to you like shadows. It has been fourteen years now, and in a few days, it will be official. But it was your husband’s birthday today too, and you think that maybe that’s why. Satoshi is eighteen and your husband isn’t here to see it. 

When you reach their graves, you pause, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. The air is cool, the wind gentle against your skin, but there is a weight in your chest that feels heavier than any burden you’ve ever carried. 

Two simple stones lie before you, side by side, as if they were always meant to be together — Gojo Satoru and Geto Suguru. Their names etched in the granite are stark against the soft earth, the bold characters cutting through the silence of the space around you. The sight is almost too real, too final, as if the reality of their absence is etched into the stone itself.

It was what Satoru wanted, you remember. He had told you that a long time ago, in a quiet moment, his voice uncharacteristically soft, almost pleading. “Promise me, if anything ever happens… that Suguru will be laid to rest too. That he’ll have peace.”

You’d nodded then, not thinking much of it, not wanting to entertain the thought of losing him. But now, standing here, you understand why. You understand why it mattered to him, why it was so important that they be reunited in the end.

They were best friends once — closer than brothers, bound by a shared past, by dreams of changing the world together. Even when their paths diverged, even when they became enemies in the eyes of the world, there was always something unbreakable between them, something that tied them together beyond the choices they made, beyond the mistakes and the betrayals. They were always two halves of a whole, two sides of a coin that could never be separated.

And now, in death, they are together again. You think it fitting, think it poetic in a way that only Satoru could have imagined. They both found their peace here, in this quiet place, far from the chaos and conflict that shaped their lives. And maybe, just maybe, they have found each other again, wherever they are.

You kneel down, your knees pressing into the soft grass, feeling the dampness seep through your clothes, grounding you, connecting you to the earth, to this place where they both now rest. You reach out with trembling fingers, tracing the characters of their names etched into the cold granite. The letters feel rough under your fingertips, each line a reminder of what was lost, of the lives that were lived with so much intensity, so much passion, so much pain.

“Satoru.” you whisper, your voice catching in your throat. It feels strange to say his name out loud, to speak to him as if he could still hear you. But you hope he can. You hope he’s listening, somewhere out there. “I’m back, my dearest.”

“I miss you… so much. Every day. I don’t know how to do this without you.” Your fingers move to Suguru’s name next, tracing the familiar curves and lines, remembering the way Satoru used to talk about him, the fondness in his voice even after everything that happened.

“And Suguru.” you add softly, “I hope you found peace too. I hope… wherever you are, you’ve found each other again. That you’re not alone. Stay together, hm?”

The wind picks up, rustling the leaves around you, and for a moment, you almost think you hear their voices — Satoru’s light and teasing, Suguru’s deeper, quieter, both of them laughing together like they did in the old days, when things were simpler, when the world hadn’t yet shown its darker side. It’s a sound that cuts through the quiet, a memory that tugs at your heart, bringing a fresh wave of tears to your eyes.

You press your palms flat against the grass, feeling the cool earth beneath your hands, grounding yourself in the present, in the reality of this moment. You close your eyes, letting the tears fall freely now, feeling the ache in your chest grow sharper, deeper. 

“I’m sorry.” you whisper, your voice breaking. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you… either of you. I’m sorry it came to this.”

But then you take a breath, slow and steady, and you remember what Satoru always said — that life goes on, that the world keeps turning, even when it feels like it’s falling apart. And you know he wouldn’t want you to stay here forever, trapped in the past, in the grief that feels like it might swallow you whole. He would want you to keep going, to keep living, to find joy again, even if it feels impossible right now.

You sit back on your heels, wiping at your eyes, feeling the cool breeze brush against your cheeks. “I’ll keep going.” you promise, your voice is stronger now, more certain. “I’ll keep living, for both of you. For all of us. But… one day, I hope I get to see you again. I hope we can be together again, somehow.”

The wind blows softly, carrying your words away, and you imagine them reaching Satoru, reaching Suguru, wherever they are. You imagine them smiling, together at last, watching over you, waiting for the day when you’ll be reunited. And in that thought, you find a small measure of comfort, a small piece of hope to hold on to.

So you stay a little longer, just sitting there in the quiet, in the space between what was and what is, letting the memories wash over you, letting yourself feel everything — the love, the loss, the longing. Because here, in this place, they are still with you. Here, by their graves, you are not alone.

You swallow, trying to keep your composure, but it’s hard. The memories rush back all at once — the sound of Satoru’s laughter, always so full and carefree; Suguru’s quiet, thoughtful gaze as he watches you both, always the more grounded of the two. You close your eyes for a moment, letting those memories wash over you, trying to hold on to the feeling of them, even as it brings a fresh ache to your heart.

“I miss you.” you say, your voice breaking on the last word. “Gods, I miss you both so much.”

Your hand drops to your lap, and you feel the sting of tears in your eyes, blurring your vision. You take a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, but it’s no use. The tears spill over, hot against your skin, and you don’t bother to wipe them away. You’re tired of pretending to be strong, tired of holding back the grief that’s been eating away at you ever since you lost them.

“I still can’t believe you’re gone, Satoru.” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I keep thinking… I keep waiting for you to walk through the door with that ridiculous grin on your face, like this was all just some terrible joke. I keep thinking I’ll hear your voice, calling out to me, asking me if I’ve missed you. Fourteen years and I still think like this.”

Your shoulders shake with a quiet sob, and you press a hand to your mouth, trying to stifle the sound. You feel the ache in your chest, the hollow emptiness that’s been there since the day he died. Every day without him feels like a wound that won’t heal, a pain that won’t lessen, no matter how much time passes.

“I miss you so much.” you repeat, your voice raw and broken. “I miss the way you used to make me laugh, even when I didn’t want to. I miss the way you’d wrap your arms around me, like you could protect me from everything. I miss your voice, your smile… I miss everything.”

You take a deep breath, your fingers curling into the fabric of your clothes as if to ground yourself. “Sometimes… sometimes I don’t know how to keep going.” you admit quietly. “I don’t know how to keep living in a world where you’re not here.”

Your gaze drifts to Suguru’s grave, and you feel another pang of sorrow. “I miss you too, Suguru.” you murmur. “I know you and Satoru are probably driving each other crazy up there… but I wish… I wish you were both here with me.”

You let out a shaky breath, your tears falling more freely now. “I’m trying to be strong, to be the person you both believed I could be.” you say, your voice trembling. “But it’s so hard without you. It’s so hard to keep going when all I want to do is just… just give up.”

You close your eyes, bowing your head, and let the tears fall, your shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The grief feels like it’s drowning you, pulling you under, and for a moment, you don’t know if you have the strength to keep swimming.

But then, through the haze of your tears, you feel a small flicker of warmth — a memory, a feeling, a sense of Satoru’s presence. You can almost hear his voice, playful and light, telling you to keep going, to keep fighting, to keep living. And you know, deep down, that he wouldn’t want you to give up. He’d want you to keep smiling, to keep finding joy, even in a world without him.

You lift your head, wiping at your tears with the back of your hand. “I promise I’ll keep going.” you whisper. “I’ll keep living, for both of you. But… one day…”

Your voice catches, and you swallow hard, forcing the words out past the lump in your throat. “One day, I can’t wait to see you again.” you say, your voice breaking on a sob. “I can’t wait to be with you again, Satoru. I can’t wait to hold you and tell you how much I’ve missed you.”

You reach out, placing a hand on his headstone, your fingers trembling. “Until then… I’ll keep you in my heart.” you whisper. “I’ll keep you both in my heart.”

The wind picks up once more, rustling the leaves, and for a moment, you feel a strange sense of peace, as if they’re both there with you, watching over you, telling you that it’s okay to grieve, to cry, to miss them. And as you sit there, letting the tears flow, you realize that they’re not really gone. They’re still with you, in every memory, every laugh, every tear. 

“I love you so much.” you whisper, your voice carried away in the wind. “I always will, my love. Happy birthday.”

And for the first time in a long time, you feel a flicker of hope, a small, fragile thing, but there nonetheless. A hope that one day, you’ll see them again, that one day, this ache will be replaced by the joy of being with them once more. Until then, you’ll carry them with you, every step of the way, until your paths cross again.

epilogue 

In the ethereal expanse of the afterlife, Gojo Satoru was causing a celestial commotion that even the most seasoned spirits couldn’t ignore. The gates of heaven, grand and imposing, were currently the scene of an unusual spectacle. Satoru was, quite literally, throwing himself against them, trying to push his way through the ornate barriers with a determination that bordered on absurd.

Suguru Geto, Nanami Kento, and Haibara Yuta were standing a few feet away, watching with a mix of amusement and exasperation. Suguru was leaning against a nearby pillar, his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. Nanami was rubbing his temples in frustration, and Haibara was trying very hard not to laugh.

"How long has he been at this?" Nanami asked.

"Since yesterday." Haibara snickered in response.

"I haven't had peace these past two days." Suguru sighed.

Satoru, his face pressed against the gates, was shouting, “GAH!? Let me out! I need to get back to Earth! They need me! I can’t just sit here while they’re struggling!”

Nanami, stepping forward with a calm yet firm tone, said, “Satoru, this is not a joke. You’re dead. You’re not supposed to go back. We’ve been over this.”

Satoru turned his head, giving them a pleading look. “But they’re my family! They need me! Can’t you see? I’ve got to be there for them!”

Haibara, trying to defuse the tension, added with a smirk, “Gojo–senpai, you know you can’t just break the rules. Besides, you have to admit, your dramatic exit would probably cause a cosmic mess.”

Suguru, barely containing his grin, stepped forward with a more practical suggestion. “Look, Satoru, there’s a much better way to be there for them without causing a ruckus. You can appear in their dreams. It’s a lot less disruptive and doesn’t require you to break through any divine gates.”

Satoru’s eyes lit up with realization. “Wait, really? I do that? Why didn’t anyone tell me sooner?”

Suguru shrugged nonchalantly. “You didn’t want to listen to me at all. Plus, you were too busy trying to create a celestial catastrophe.”

Satoru paused, considering the idea. “I suppose appearing in their dreams is a bit more civilized. But—” he added, frowning, “—can’t I just pop back in for a quick hug or something? A kiss, more preferably.”

Nanami shook his head, still trying to keep his composure. “No, Gojo. That’s not how it works. You’ve got to accept that you can't do what you want now that you're dead.”

Satoru, with a resigned sigh and the roll of his eyes, finally stepped back from the gates. He still looks like a child when he pouts. “Alright, alright. I’ll do the dream thing. But I want to make sure they know I’m there for them.”

Haibara chuckled. “Great. Just try not to turn their dreams into a circus act. They need comfort, not more chaos, Gojo–senpai!”

Satoru grinned, his spirits lifting as he envisioned his new plan. “Got it. I’ll keep it heartfelt and fun. And maybe I’ll sneak in a few tricks here and there. You know, just to keep things interesting.”

As Satoru prepared to set off on his new celestial mission, Suguru, Nanami, and Haibara exchanged looks of weary amusement. They knew that, despite his antics, Satoru’s heart was in the right place.

“Good luck,” Nanami said dryly. “And remember, no cosmic disasters.”

Satoru gave them a thumbs-up. “You got it! And thanks for the advice, everyone. I’ll make sure they feel my love, even if it’s just in their dreams.”

With that, Satoru faded into a swirl of ethereal light, heading toward the dreamscape to reach out to you and Satoshi. Meanwhile, Suguru, Nanami, and Haibara watched him go, their expressions a mix of relief and amusement.

“Do you think he’ll actually follow through?” Haibara asked, still grinning.

Suguru smirked. “If anyone can turn a dream into a grand spectacle, it’s Satoru. But I have no doubt he’ll manage to bring some comfort, too. Well, somewhat."

Nanami sighed, shaking his head. “Well, at least we’ve managed to keep him out of trouble, for now. Let’s hope he sticks to the plan.”

And with that, the trio returned to their celestial duties, knowing that despite Satoru’s chaotic tendencies, his heart was always in the right place.

And just as promised, Gojo Satoru did indeed make his grand reappearance in your dreams and Satoshi's, weaving a spectral thread through the fabric of your nightly slumbers. The dreams, much like Satoru himself, were a mix of whimsical chaos and heartwarming moments.

In your dream, the scene was set in a familiar place — a cozy, moonlit garden that felt both nostalgic and surreal. There, amidst the soft glow of fairy lights and the gentle rustling of leaves, was Satoru, his usual nonchalant demeanor softened by a warm, affectionate grin. He was seated on a bench, his posture relaxed, but his eyes sparkled with the same mischievous gleam you remembered so well.

"Soooo." he began, stretching out the word as if he were about to launch into one of his signature lectures. "Miss me much? I bet you didn't expect me to show up like this."

You could only laugh, feeling a mixture of relief and joy. "Satoru... this is incredible. I wasn’t sure if you’d actually come."

Satoru’s grin widened, and he leaned closer, as if sharing a secret. "You know me, always keeping my promises, even from beyond. Besides, I couldn’t let you and Satoshi have all the fun without me."

He gestured to the garden around you, which seemed to glow with a gentle, ethereal light, transforming it into a place of comfort and tranquility. It was as if he had crafted this dreamscape himself, blending his penchant for the whimsical with the tenderness of his love.

As you sat together, talking and laughing, the conversation flowed effortlessly. He shared stories from the afterlife, which he portrayed with his characteristic humor and flair, recounting celestial mishaps and the amusing antics of his fellow spirits. It was just like old times, but with a surreal twist — his jokes seemed to float in the air like bubbles, and his laughter was a melody that danced through the night. And then when it was time, he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close into an embrace and a kiss.

Satoshi’s dream was equally enchanting. He found himself in a fantastical setting, a blend of his own memories and Satoru's imaginative touch. The scene was a vibrant carnival, full of colors and laughter. Satoru was there, dressed in an elaborate magician’s costume, complete with a top hat and a flowing cape. He was performing tricks, pulling stars out of a hat and making cosmic confetti rain down on the crowd.

Satoshi watched in awe as Satoru performed, a look of wonder on his face. When Satoru finally noticed him, he winked and gave him a grandiose bow. "Hey, kiddo! Did you miss me? Hope you're enjoying the show!"

Satoshi’s heart swelled with a bittersweet mixture of joy and longing. He approached Satoru, who enveloped him in a hug that felt strangely warm despite being a dream. Satoshi felt tears well up in his eyes, but he laughed, feeling a sense of comfort he hadn’t experienced in years. “I’ve missed you so much, Dad.”

Satoru ruffled his hair affectionately, his voice filled with genuine warmth. “I know, kiddo. I’ve missed you too. But you’ve grown so much. I’m proud of you. And I know your mom is too. You both are doing great.”

The dream continued with a playful sense of magic and wonder, filled with laughter and joy. Satoru’s presence, though fleeting, was a gift — a reminder that his love and spirit continued to be a part of your lives, even if only in the realm of dreams.

As the night drew to a close and the dreams began to fade, Satoru gave one last, heartfelt wave. “Remember, I’m always with you. In every laugh, every moment, and every starry night. I’ll be cheering you on from here.”

When you and Satoshi woke up, you immediately texted each other about the dream. And back in heaven, Gojo Satoru was pleased.

[drgnmnts]

knuckles bruised (like violets) │ jacaerys velaryon x targaryen!OC

Title: knuckles bruised (like violets)

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Targaryen!OC (Daenys Targaryen, daughter of Viserys I Targaryen and Alicent Hightower)

Summary: There is no war so hateful to the gods as a war between kin, especially for those caught in between, longing only for peace as they're met with fire and blood.

_______________________________________________

Chapter 6 - Second of His Name

Conten warning: mentions of su1cide (not explicit)

Word count: 3k

Ser Criston Cole gave Daenys a fright when he woke her up, as the hour of the wolf slipped away and gave way to the nightingale. His rich brown eyes, who had always looked at her with fatherly fondness, were now dark as a raven, and the look on his face was one of concern.

“What’s the matter?” Daenys asked, sitting up on what once had been her childhood bed.

“You must come with me at once, Princess,” he said, “Her Grace the Queen has summoned you in the Hand’s Tower.”

____________________________________

Daenys could barely remember the last time she had visited her grandsire’s chamber, but she was sure she had never seen the place so crowded: Ser Otto was standing by the fire, his clothes pristine and poised as he stared at the flames; Queen Alicent, also dressed in her day garments, was sitting on one of the chairs by his desk, the other one taken by Helaena who, just like Daenys, was still wearing her nightgown. By the window, Aemond stood tall as he watched the moon set outside.

“Did something happen to Aegon?” she asked as soon as she noticed her eldest brother’s absence. Alicent stood then and walked to meet her daughter at the door.

“No, sweetling, Aegon is—”

“The King is dead,” informed Ser Otto before Daenys’ mother could deliver the news. Alicent let out a heavy sigh, and Daenys heard Helaena whimper.

As she felt all the blood in her head rush to her feet, ridding her face from any color, Daenys let out a soft “oh”. Alicent grabbed her hands and rubbed at them, her attempt at comforting her youngest daughter.

“How?” Daenys asked. Her eyes were brimmed with unshed tears, but somehow she felt unable to cry.

“In his sleep,” explained the queen, voice thick from all the crying. “A servant boy was changing the incense in his chamber when he saw him.”

Daenys sighed heavily, trying to process such grim news. 

“I must write to Rhaenyra, I think she’d prefer to hear it from me,” she said. As she turned back towards the door, however, Ser Criston blocked her path, his eyes looking straight ahead.

“What are you doing?” she asked, and once again it was Ser Otto who answered.

“No one is to leave this room until we decide what our next step will be,” the man declared.

A knot set in the pit of Daenys’ stomach.

“Our next step?” she repeated with a humorless scoff. “Rhaenyra is to be our queen now, we must send word to Dragonstone and start with the preparations for her coronation. That is our next step, what is there to decide?”

The silence that followed her question was deafening, and realization fell upon Daenys’ shoulders like a stone.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she muttered in disbelief. “That is treason.”

“It was your father’s wish,” intervened Alicent, her white handkerchief clutched in her hand. “Last night, when I visited him, he told me he wished for Aegon to succeed him.”

“Beware the beast beneath the boards…” muttered Helaena, although no one seemed to pay her any mind.

Daenys shook her head in confusion. “You lie,” she uttered, and this made Aemond turn to face her immediately. 

“Mind your tongue, sister,” he said, and his words felt like a slap on the face.

Alicent put her hands up in a conciliating manner. “It is the truth, Daenys,” she said, “I would never lie about something of this importance.”

Daenys crossed her arms over her chest, defensive. After a moment of silence that felt like a decade, she spoke again. “They won’t accept this. Daemon won’t accept this.”

“They will be offered generous terms,” said the Hand. 

“If you think that will suffice, then I’m afraid your delusions of grandeur might have gotten the best of your intelligence, Grandsire.”

Otto Hightower’s anger used to scare Daenys as a child, but not anymore, and she held his cold gaze with defiance. 

“Aemond,” he said, “escort Helaena back to her chamber. And do me the favor of finding your brother.”

With a curt nod, Aemond took Helaena’s arm with a gentleness he seemed incapable of, and the two left the room without uttering another word. The idea of staying there with her mother and grandsire sounded worse than torture, but as Daenys made her way to follow her siblings out, Ser Otto called her name again.

“I am afraid your lack of cooperation has led me to make a radical decision,” he began, as he closed the distance between them with slow steps, like a predator circling its prey. “You’ll remain in your bedchamber until Aegon’s coronation—”

“You’ll imprison me?” she inquired, utterly taken aback. “Mother!”

“You can’t be a prisoner in your own home, Daenys,” the queen said, but both of them knew that wasn’t true.

“The Queen and I cannot trust you,” he continued. “You’ve proven yourself more loyal to Rhaenyra than to your own family. I cannot have that kind of insurgence taking place in my own household, so from now on you will obey. You’ll remain in your bedchamber until Aegon’s coronation,” he repeated, “and after that you will stay here, at King’s Landing, where you should’ve been the last six years. There is no need for that marriage pact anymore.”

Daenys’ face paled, and she blinked rapidly as if trying to clear her vision and make sense of what her grandsire had said. There is no need for that marriage pact anymore. Jace’s beautiful face flashed before her eyes, and an involuntary sob escaped her lips.

“You cannot do that,” she choked out while she took a step back, as if she was being pushed by an invisible force that made her behave like a scared animal.

Alicent sighed. “Royal marriages are politics, Daenys—”

“I do not give a fuck about your bloody politics,” she snapped, and Alicent clutched her chest at her daughter’s improprieties. 

“Careful,” warned Ser Otto.

“I am a woman grown,” she continued. “You might still be my grandsire, but you’ve long lost any right to tell me what I can or cannot do. I will go back to Dragonstone.”

“You shall not,” he insisted.

Daenys’ lower lip trembled as she felt like a little girl again, restrained and powerless in a house that was ever unable to show her love. “I would sooner throw myself out my window than stay here.”

Ser Otto took a step closer. “Do not threaten me, child,” he warned again.

She knew in her bones that this battle was lost. It didn’t matter what she said, or how much she pleaded with them to let her go. This decision was clearly long in the making and not an ounce of it was improvised or prompted by her father’s sudden death: Ser Otto Hightower never did anything unpremeditated. 

Alicent tried to approach her daughter again, but Daenys was quick to remove her arm from her grasp as she took a step back. “I would like to return to my chamber, please,” she said, her voice quavering from holding back her need to cry.

Ser Otto gestured for Ser Criston to walk Daenys back to her impromptu prison cell. It was only when the heavy wooden doors were closed behind her that she allowed herself to collapse on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably as she was overcome by a sorrow she had never felt before.

______________________________

The day had dawned and turned to dusk again, and Daenys had not been allowed to leave her bedchamber. She had been served food twice, but of course she had rejected it, fearing the Hand might try to poison her to get her out of his way. She was now sitting by the bay window (which had been closed shut with locks to prevent her from escaping— or jumping to her death), leaning on the stone frame as she watched the specks of dust dance around the room with the setting sun.

Her face was puffy and red from crying, and her hair was now a disheveled mess after freeing it from her braids. She did not move when she heard someone opening the door.

“I heard you had quite the meltdown last night,” her visitor said. It was Aegon.

This made Daenys stand up immediately, defensive. However, what she saw in her brother’s face caught her completely off guard: Aegon’s face was as blotchy as hers, with dark circles under his eyes, and his sky-blue orbs now bloodshot red. 

Since his sister did not respond, he spoke again as he sat down in one of the chairs by the fireplace. “They have me walking around to sober up so I can get some rest for tomorrow.”

Daenys wondered if he even remembered the awful things he had said to her during dinner. Her expression tensed. “They’re crowning you tomorrow?”

Aegon nodded, eyes glued to the dancing flames. “At dawn. In the Sept.”

“Gods…” Daenys whispered, covering her face with her hands. That meant the ceremony would take place before the smallfolk. There was no going back after that. Rhaenyra would be devastated.

As she sat next to her brother, he spoke once more.

“I know you probably won’t believe me… but I’m as much a prisoner as you are, dear.”

Daenys turned to look at him. He certainly didn’t look happy about becoming king; in fact, she couldn’t recall ever seeing him so miserable.

“Then refuse the crown, Aegon” she said. “Say you don’t want it. Bend the knee to Rhaenyra and this whole misfortune will end before it even starts.”

Aegon laughed bitterly. 

“I begged Aemond and Cole to let me go. I would gladly get some gold, buy a myself a passage on whatever ship takes me as far away from here as possible and never set foot in this fucking shithole of a city again— sorry.”

Daenys shook her head; the least of her concerns was her brother’s profanities.

“This doesn’t feel real,” Daenys murmured. Aegon patted her knee in an attempt to give her some consolation. “What happens now, then?”

Aegon let out a heavy sigh. He looked tired, and much older than he actually was.

“I wish I knew.”

“Did they say anything about me?”

Aegon furrowed his brow in thought, as if trying to come up with the best way to word the information he was about to share with his little sister.

“They want you to bend the knee to me, of course. I suppose they intend to use you as some sort of messenger to speak to Rhaenyra, perhaps expecting her reaction to be softer if it’s you. And… well, you already know about the betrothal.”

The mere mention of her betrothal to Jace made her jaw clench, eyes cast down. Aegon noticed.

“You really love him?”

Daenys met his eyes again, and this time hers were brimmed with unshed tears. She nodded, lower lip trembling.

Aegon’s expression was a mixture of curiosity and genuine wonder. He nodded his head as he turned his gaze back to the fire. “Lucky,” he murmured.

Daenys wanted to agree, but she felt anything but. 

Both siblings remained seated by the fire until the hour grew late and someone came to fetch Aegon. They were mostly quiet, but Daenys would occasionally put her head on his shoulder, and Aegon held her hand twice. Despite Aegon’s many flaws, the eldest son and youngest daughter had more in common than they had ever realized: both ignored by their father and constantly sermonized by their mother, knowing painfully well that they were not what she had expected them to be. Aemond was loyal and upright. Helaena, kind and soft. Even Daeron, who had spent most of his life away, was said to be stalwart and chivalrous. 

Daenys and Aegon existed solely in the margins of their family, only brought to the spotlight when necessary, always to the benefit of others. Just like Daenys had been sent away in her youth to unite their family, Aegon was now being brought forward to secure the crown.

Before he left, Aegon hugged Daenys for the first time in many years. Then, she was alone again.

_________________________________

She hadn’t been able to sleep the whole night and, when the handmaids came into her chamber at dawn to help her prepare, Daenys was sure her ghost-like state gave them a fright. The women bathed her and clothed her in a simple pearl-white dress, very similar to the ones she used to wear as a little girl, and she was certain it had been her mother’s idea. The handmaids braided her hair in such an intricate and beautiful way that Daenys would’ve thanked them, had it not been for the lump in her throat every time she caught sight of herself in the mirror.

She was escorted to the Sept of Baelor by four members of the Kingsguard, and she knew Daemon would’ve found it amusing, for they were treating her as if she was some sort of criminal instead of just a girl without her dragon. 

Upon their arrival, Daenys took her place next to Aemond, but didn’t utter a word to him. She watched the small-folk enter the Sept until it was full to the brim. 

“People of King’s Landing,” began Ser Otto, his voice powerful as he addressed the crowd, “today is the saddest of days. Our beloved king, Viserys the Peaceful, is dead.”

The people audibly gasped and spoke amongst themselves, and Daenys wondered if they really felt the loss of their king, or didn’t care at all.

“But it is also the most joyous of days,” he continued, “for as his spirit left us, he whispered his final wish that his first-born son, Aegon, should succeed him.”

After a moment of confusion, the crowd applauded, as knights and musicians alike entered the premises, ready to receive their soon-to-be king. Daenys felt sick to her stomach as she watched Aegon march through the crowd, visibly upset and insecure, but anger was also starting to bubble up inside her: you shouldn’t be here. None of us should be here.

“It is your great good fortune and privilege to be here to witness this. A new day for our city. A new day for our realm. A new king to lead us.”

After Aegon had knelt before the Septon to receive his blessings in the name of the Seven, Ser Criston took the Conqueror’s crown and put it on Aegon’s head.

“The crown of the Conqueror, passed down through generations. Let the Seven bear witness: Aegon Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne.”

Ser Criston was the first one to bow his head to his new king; he was followed by Alicent, Helaena, and Aemond. When Aegon’s eyes fell on Daenys, they were pleading. She could feel her mother’s gaze, and the Hand’s, and the hundreds of people waiting for her to acknowledge her brother as her King. Whatever I do, I am a traitor, she thought.

Flexing her knees ever so slightly, Daenys curtsied to King Aegon II.

“All hail His Grace, Aegon, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

Each toll of the bell felt like a dagger through the heart; an ominous warning of the wars to come, a reminder that the situation wasn’t a dream, but real life, and so would be the consequences.

As the crowd erupted in cheers for their new king, however, Daenys felt the floor beneath her vibrate as if they were standing on a volcanic crater. Before she could even turn towards her siblings, a giant dragon, scarlet as the blood that ran through her veins, emerged through the wooden floors: Meleys.

The Red Queen screeched as she came completely into view, and amidst smoke and cries of help, Daenys felt Aemond grab her wrist as he stood in front of her and Helaena.

Princess Rhaenys looked majestic on her dragon, and Daenys’ heart leapt in anticipation when she saw her eyes scanning the family until they fell on her. Rhaenys gave her a barely-there smile.

“I am not here to shed blood,” the woman said, her voice resonating in the now quiet sept. “This war isn’t mine to begin, and I am no kinslayer. However, I cannot return to Dragonstone without Princess Daenys.”

Daenys’ eyebrows shot up as she drew a breath, her heart beating with such intensity that she could hear its thumping echoing in her ears. Aemond’s grip tightened around her wrist.

“Aemond,” she said, eyes wide in agitation, “let me go.”

Aemond’s brows furrowed in something akin to affliction, and Daenys had to peel his fingers off her so he would finally release her. Daenys looked at her family one last time: Helaena seemed miles away, while Ser Criston kept his eyes glued to the dragon. Alicent and Aegon stood together: her, with eyes wide and glassy; him, with a faint smile. From the other end of the altar, Ser Otto watched her intently. 

When Daenys made her way down the stone stairs, the dragon’s enormous head turned towards her, her threatening jaws opening to let out a warning sound.

“Vēttan se, Meleys,” said Rhaenys, and the she-dragon lowered her head. Allow it. 

Daenys lifted her skirts and grabbed onto the rope ladder that connected directly with Rhaenys’ saddle. She climbed as fast as she could, aware that the more time they spent there, the more likely it would be for someone to try and attack Meleys. 

As she settled herself behind Princess Rhaenys, Meleys taking flight shortly after and thus getting them out of the Sept, there was only one thought in Daenys’ mind, which repeated itself over and over again: 

I’m going home.

______________________________________________

If you liked this, let me know in any way! <3

Don't worry, we'll see Jace again next chapter, and I think you'll like it hehe.

Also, just a reminder that I'm open to requests if you have any! :)

And once again, thank you for your patience and all the kind comments!

_______________________________________________

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[moonmaiden1996]

Bound Fate Chapter Three

Chapter One Chapter Two

Days passed on Shanks’ ship, each one blurring into the next, and you found yourself caught in a strange limbo. You’d been taken, uprooted without warning, and now here you were—adrift among the infamous Red-Haired Pirates. The crew was constantly busy, bustling with life and laughter, but you couldn’t seem to find any comfort in the noise. Instead, you stayed tucked away in your small cabin, the walls pressing in as a dull mix of anxiety and seasickness coiled inside you. By the third day, you could no longer bear the confinement. Pushing through your reluctance, you emerged, finding a quiet nook on deck where you could watch the horizon stretch endlessly, a small attempt at regaining control over something, anything.

Each morning brought with it the same sounds: the ship’s wooden hull groaning as it carved through the sea, and the echoing, hearty laughter of Shanks’ crew filling the salt-laden air. And every single morning, without fail, there was Shanks—propped against the mast, as casual as a man could be, his trademark grin set firmly in place. He looked for all the world as though everything was just fine. As if he hadn’t uprooted your life. As if he hadn’t taken you from everything you knew.

The crew, despite their rough exteriors and intimidating presence, had been unexpectedly kind to you. They seemed content to let you be, casting only the occasional curious glance in your direction. But Shanks himself? He was proving to be impossible to ignore. No matter how hard you tried to fade into the background, he never let you slip too far away. There he was, always close enough to make his presence known, a constant reminder that you were no longer free.

To most of the world, Shanks embodied the image of a carefree pirate captain. He was notorious—one of the dreaded Four Emperors, a name spoken with a mixture of awe and fear. You’d heard the stories from the patrons back on your island. The Red-Haired Shanks was like a legend come to life, always laughing, always drinking, always the center of his crew’s universe. From an outsider’s perspective, it would seem he was having the time of his life, a perpetual smile and a bottle in hand. But you weren’t so easily deceived.

You’d begun to notice things that others might miss, the tiny hints beneath the carefree mask he wore. There were moments when the light in his eyes dimmed ever so slightly, or when his jaw clenched in frustration as if battling something deep within. Whatever this bond was that tethered you to him—it was unsettling enough to rattle even a Yonko. And as unnerving as it was for you, the idea that even Shanks was struggling made it all the more terrifying.

One morning, as you stood by the ship’s edge, hands gripping the rail, you stared blankly at the open sea. The crew moved around you, preparing for another day, but their activity barely registered. You felt trapped, your old life slipping further and further away with each passing day. Every time you caught sight of Shanks, anger would flare hot and fierce in your chest. How could he do this? How could he act like this was all some big joke while your world was unraveling?

And yet, you couldn’t shake the pangs of pity that rose up when you caught glimpses of his own struggle. You hated that part of yourself, hated how conflicted he made you feel.

“Morning,” his voice cut through your thoughts, and you stiffened, keeping your gaze on the horizon.

“Leave me alone, Shanks,” you muttered, fingers tightening on the railing until your knuckles turned white.

He chuckled, his voice light but laced with an edge you couldn’t ignore. “Now, that’s no way to start the day. With weather like this, I thought you’d be in a better mood.”

You spun around, frustration simmering beneath the surface. “Do you think the weather matters? I’m stuck on your ship, because of you. Why would anything put me in a better mood?”

For a second, his smile wavered, a flicker of something darker crossing his face—a sharp look that left you tense, wondering if he’d finally snap. But just as quickly, it was gone, his familiar smirk back in place, as insufferable as ever.

“Fair enough,” he said, raising his hands in a mock surrender. “You’re angry, and I get it. You’ve got every right to be. I’m just trying to make the best of a bad situation.”

You glared, heart pounding with resentment. “Make the best of it? For who? You? Because this is a nightmare for me. I haven’t bathed in days; I don’t even have a change of clothes or a comb for my hair.”

His eyes softened, though his smile stayed. “I know. Believe me, it’s not just a nightmare for you. If I’m honest, it’s been hell for both of us.”

You blinked, thrown by the weight in his words. An uneasy silence stretched between you as his confession settled in the space between you. Part of you recognized the strain in his tone, but it didn’t make what he’d done any less hurtful.

Shanks took a step closer, his shoulder brushing yours as he leaned against the rail. “Look, I’m not keeping you here for the thrill of it,” he said quietly, glancing out over the water. “I’m trying to figure this out. I’m trying to find a way to fix whatever happened.”

You stayed silent, watching the waves crash against the ship. “And if you can’t? If there’s no way to fix it—what then?”

Shanks hesitated, the weight of your question evident. Finally, he exhaled, the sound heavy with exhaustion. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice rough. “But I won’t stop trying until I do.”

Your heart softened, just a fraction, at the raw honesty in his answer. But before you could say anything, he pushed himself back from the railing, that charming grin sliding back into place like armor, masking the vulnerability he’d shown just moments before.

“Well, no sense dwelling on it right now,” he said, voice light again. “How about a drink? Benn’s been bragging about this new rum he picked up.”

You scoffed, putting your walls back up. “I’m not drinking with you, Shanks. Just… leave me alone.”

He laughed, but this time there was a faint edge to it, a hint of tension pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Suit yourself,” he said, shrugging. “More rum for me.”

With that, he turned and walked away, his carefree laughter echoing across the deck as he joined his crew around a card game. But even as he laughed, you caught the way his hand tightened around his bottle, the flicker in his eyes when he glanced in your direction, as if he were fighting a battle only he could see.

xxxxx

The rough wood of the railing bit into your palms as you leaned forward, glaring at the endless sea with a tight jaw. You still hadn’t cooled down from your run-in with Shanks. His cocky grin, the easy way he brushed off your protests—it all made your blood simmer. Not only had he kidnapped you, but he’d done it without a single thought to what you might need. No clothes, no brush, not even a way to wash off the salt clinging to your skin. You felt trapped and, frankly, furious.

Heavy footsteps approached, breaking your solitude, and you turned to see a man with a powerful, rough presence leaning against the mast. Tall, solid, and sharp-eyed, he had the air of someone who’d seen too much, and cared too little about most of it. His silver hair was pulled back, strands falling loose around his face, which bore the lines of time, battles, and weariness. A cigarette dangled from his mouth, its smoke swirling in lazy tendrils around him.

“Benn Beckman,” he said, his voice like gravel, deep and rough. He didn’t reach out a hand; he simply stood there, meeting your eyes directly. His face didn’t give much away, but there was something solid there—a blunt kind of honesty that demanded respect.

You tightened your grip on the railing, unsettled by his straightforward gaze. “What do you want?”

“Brought you some clothes,” he grunted, holding out a bundle of folded fabric. He didn’t add any pleasantries, and from the way he looked at you, it was clear he didn’t care much about niceties.

Reluctantly, you took the clothes, your hand brushing against his calloused fingers. “Thanks,” you muttered, though it sounded more like a challenge than gratitude. “I wouldn’t need them if I hadn’t been dragged onto this ship.”

Benn let out a low, humorless chuckle, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. “Trust me,” he said, “I’d have been the first to knock sense into him if I thought it’d change anything.” His tone was blunt, almost dismissive. “But Shanks doesn’t always listen, even to his damn first mate.”

“So…what? I just have to deal with this?” You shot him a glare, hoping he’d give you more than the usual pirate answer. But he just looked at you evenly, like he was sizing up your resolve.

“Look,” he started, voice hard and level. “I’m not here to argue with you. Just here to make sure you’ve got the basics to get by.” He gestured down the deck with a curt nod. “There’s a room below deck. Set up a basin in there for you to wash up.” His tone was matter-of-fact, almost as if he were saying, This is the best you’re getting. Take it or leave it.

His sharp gaze fell on you, unwavering. “I’ll be clear,” he said, voice lowering. “Shanks isn’t himself right now. That pollen messes with a man’s instincts in ways that aren’t easy to control. So, if he’s acting half-crazed… don’t take it personally.”

You scoffed, barely holding back a bitter laugh. “Easier said than done, especially when he’s the one who kidnapped me.”

Benn’s eyes narrowed, his face hardening, though he wasn’t looking at you exactly—more like he was lost in thought. He took another drag from his cigarette, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. “Believe it or not, I’m not a fan of all this either. But you’re here, and until we figure this out, you’re as much a part of the crew as anyone else.”

Surprised by his bluntness, you looked down at the bundle of clothes in your hands. Simple, rough fabrics, but clean, and more than you’d had since Shanks had taken you.

With a curt nod, he turned on his heel and started down the deck, pausing only once to look back over his shoulder. “You’re not a prisoner here, no matter how it feels. Shanks may be losing his head, but don’t let that fool you into thinking you’re helpless.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, and the heavy sound of his footsteps receded down the narrow passageway. He led you through the dim corridors below deck, his presence commanding but not overbearing. Despite the stoic demeanor, his watchful eyes scanned every corner and hallway, his cautious steps somehow both relaxed and ready. He didn’t speak much, just enough to keep you on track, but his silence held its own weight, a seasoned calm that felt somehow comforting.

As you ventured deeper into the ship the air grew colder and darker, with only the soft glow of Beckmans cigarette offering any light.

Finally, he stopped outside a small cabin door just off from you own cabin and leaned against the frame, crossing his arms. His gaze was sharp but not unkind, assessing you with a subtle intensity. He gave a nod toward the door. “In here.”

Curious but cautious, you stepped into the room. A large barrel filled with warm water sat on a sturdy, makeshift table, steam curling up in the cool air. A clean cloth and a small bar of soap lay beside it, along with a fresh towel. It wasn’t luxurious, but there was an undeniable care in the details. For a pirate ship, this felt like something close to comfort.

“You’ll have this space,” Benn said, stepping in after you with a slight arch of his brow. “This room’s yours while you’re aboard. It’s set up just for you, so you’ve got some privacy. You are a gentle lady after all.”

His voice was gruff, yet there was a warmth beneath it that felt sincere. You noticed his arms were still crossed, but the faintest flicker of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—a guarded softness that he kept mostly to himself. He gave you a small nod, like he’d done his part and expected no thanks in return.

“Thank you,” you said softly, still not sure how to read him.

Benn just shrugged, turning his gaze back to the hallway as if to give you a moment to yourself. “Don’t read too much into it,” he said, a smirk tugging at his mouth, the first real sign of humor you’d seen. “But if you need anything—more clothes, food, whatever—just ask. We’re not total brutes out here.”

You tried to hide a smile at that. There was something about his honesty, the way he treated you like an equal without any fuss, that felt grounding. Benn’s calm, collected nature was a stark contrast to Shanks’ unpredictable energy, and for the first time, you felt a small sense of relief on this ship.

“Look, you’re not crew, so no one’s asking you to pull weight. But if you want to stay busy, find me on deck. Could probably keep you out of trouble that way.”

You could see a glint of something almost playful in his eye, the faintest hint of a man who probably kept everyone on this ship grounded in their own ways. He gave you one last look, his expression unreadable but steady.

“If you need space, take it. But if you get in over your head… I’ve got an eye out.”

And with that, Benn gave you a nod and turned, his footsteps fading steadily down the hall, leaving you with a small smile and an unexpected sense of ease as you rummaged through the parcel of clothing, shirts, trousers, no undergarments and where at least double the size of you but it was better than roaming around the pirate ship in your scatterly clad performers outfit. The smell of smoke and gunpowder leaked from the fibers, it was what you expected from a pirate but oddly comforting. They were not the grimey garments you had been wearing for almost a week now.

Steam rolled off the water basin that was ideally sitting against the worn wooden bench. The hot water smelled strangely of lavender, filling the small, dimly lit cabin with a delicate aroma that contrasted sharply with the salty, briny scent of the sea. The room was basic but clean, with only a large barrel quarter full of icy sea water and a wooden bench that bore the marks of years of use. Its surface was chipped and rough, a testament to the ship's hard life at sea. An old wooden comb lay forgotten in the corner, a relic of a time when personal grooming was a priority, while a brand new bar of soap, with its pristine white surface, waited temptingly beside it.

As much as you yearned for a bath to wash away the grime and salt that clung to your skin, your exhausted body could not be compelled into the icy water. Instead, you opted to rinse your bottom using a stiff old flannel, neatly folded under the soap. The soap itself had a woody blend, decidedly masculine, and you cringed at the thought of how long it had sat unused in this space. Peeling the top layer of your outfit off, your nose crinkled at the sight of it falling stiffly to the floor, ruined beyond repair. Being naked on a pirate ship with a roaming Yonko was not really an option, so you pulled on the clothes, first the shirt and then the comically large pants that swallowed your frame.

Before you could even contemplate dipping the flannel into the water and using it to scrub every ounce of dirt you felt caked onto your skin, the door slammed open. You looked up in surprise, and there stood Shanks, an intense, almost wild energy in his eyes. His normally easygoing smile was nowhere to be found, replaced by a taut, barely controlled expression that you hadn’t seen before.

“Shanks?” you squealed, pushing the clothes in front of you.

He closed the door behind him, his eyes roaming over the small room and landing on you with a sharp focus, a predator assessing its prey. “What was Beckman doing here?” His voice was low, but there was an edge to it, raw and a bit possessive, sending a shiver down your spine.

You raised an eyebrow, tightening your arms in front of you. “He was just helping me out. Apparently, he’s the only one around here who realises I need clothes and some kind of…basic necessities, given that I’m here against my will.”

Shanks’ gaze tightened, his jaw clenching slightly as he took in the setup Beckman had arranged for you—the basin, the clean towels, and the quiet comfort of the room. Something in his expression shifted, a mix of frustration and…jealousy?

He forced a breath, his hand running through his hair in a gesture that spoke volumes of his agitation. “It’s not that I don’t want you to have everything you need,” he muttered, his voice softened but strained, each word heavy with unspoken emotions. “I just don’t like the idea of anyone else taking care of you.”

You blinked, unsure whether to laugh or be shocked at his possessiveness. “Shanks… I barely know you. And after you dragged me onto this ship, you don’t exactly get to act like you own me.”

He stepped closer, invading your personal space, his usual charm replaced by something darker, the effects of the pollen clearly gnawing at his self-control. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper but filled with a tension that made you shiver involuntarily. “I’m not myself around you—not completely. And if you keep pushing me like this, letting others help you…” His voice trailed off, his fists clenched at his sides, as if the effort to hold himself back was taking everything he had.

“Shanks,” you began, your tone softening just a bit before a tremendous wave of energy surged from Shanks and his fist came down on the bench. The sound echoed in the small cabin, reverberating around you as you stood frozen, the moment heavy with unspoken feelings.

You clutched the clothes closer to your chest, your pulse quickening as Shanks' low, ragged breaths filled the silence. His back was to you, one hand gripping the edge of the table so tightly that the wood creaked under the pressure. His body trembled slightly, every muscle tensed as if he was fighting an invisible force threatening to consume him.

"Take them off," Shanks growled, his voice dangerously low, a command laced with an intensity that sent a rush of heat through you.

You blinked, not sure you had heard him right, the shock of his words hanging in the air between you. "What? No!"

He turned his head slightly, just enough for you to catch the flash of his dark, feral eyes. “Take them off,” he repeated, slower this time, more deliberate, the very essence of his tone stirring an unsettling mix of fear and intrigue.

You clutched the clothes tighter, taking a step back instinctively. “What, so I can wear your clothes and you can claim me as your property?” The words slipped out, sharp and defiant, cutting through the tension like a knife.

Shanks let out a rough laugh, though there was no humor in it, only an edge of something darker. "No," he said, his jaw clenched, "because I'm about thirty seconds away from going out there and carving Benn in half."

Your breath caught, the weight of his words sinking in, heavy and suffocating. “Don't be ridiculous,” you shot back, trying to keep your voice steady, though your heart raced like a wild drum in your chest.

“What’s ridiculous," Shanks growled, finally turning to face you fully, his eyes burning with barely restrained fury, "is me wanting to butcher my first mate of thirteen years just because his scent is near you."

The room felt impossibly small with Shanks looming over you, the intensity of his presence overwhelming. Your heart pounded in your chest, torn between defiance and understanding the very real danger in front of you.

"Fine," you huffed, your voice quieter now, more measured, yet holding a trace of your earlier fire. “Give me something of yours, then.”

Shanks’ eyes snapped shut, his body shuddering with the effort it took to control himself. His fists clenched at his sides as if the simple suggestion pushed him to the brink. "Don’t make it worse," he growled through gritted teeth, the tension in the air palpable and electric. "I can barely control myself as it is."

There was a pause, tension hanging thick in the air between you, like a coiled spring ready to snap. If I see you in my clothes," Shanks continued, his voice lowering, the threat clear in his tone, "I’ll be shutting us up in my cabin. And you really don’t want the crew to hear how loudly I can make you scream."

His words sent a rush of heat through you, your cheeks flushing at the blatant desire in his tone. But you weren’t one to back down easily. “Those are awfully big words to fill,” you challenged, though your voice was shakier than you intended, betraying the flutter of your heart.

Shanks’ eyes snapped open, dark and dangerous, his control hanging by a thread. He took a step closer, his presence swallowing the space between you. "Do you seriously want to push this?" His voice was quiet now, a low growl that made your skin prickle and sent a thrill of fear and excitement coursing through your veins. "Because if you do, I won’t be responsible for my actions."

Your breath hitched as the weight of his threat sank in, the raw intensity of his emotions cutting through the air like a blade. For a moment, neither of you moved, locked in a silent standoff, the tension humming between you.

"Now," Shanks growled, his voice dark and final, "take off the clothes, and walk away before I lose it completely." From beneath his cloak, his hand emerged with a small bundle. “They are new. They will fit better and they don’t reek of Beckman.” Shanks muttered lowly, the urgency in his voice laced with something deeper, something that hinted at the turmoil within him.

The choice lay before you, clear and dangerous. You slowly reached for the clothes, your heart racing, knowing that whatever you decided, there was no turning back from the line you both had crossed. Delicately, you snatched them from his hand, it not going unnoticed that his hand was shaking, his whole body trembling with barely contained energy.

“Don’t use the soap,” Shanks said, his voice coming out in uneven pants but with a hard edge to it. “We will get you some new soap in the next port, one that doesn't smell like another man.”

It was confusing; you didn't know whether to feel angry, scared, or sorry for him. His whole body trembled, and despite the look on his face, there was pain in his eyes, a vulnerability that contrasted sharply with his usual bravado.

“Are you alright?” you asked, the concern slipping out before you could stop it.

“What does it matter to you? You're my prisoner after all, I trapped you here.” And with that, Shanks disappeared out into the corridor, unnoticed by you, along with Beckman’s clothing and, more importantly, with your old clothing. The silence that followed felt heavy, filled with the unspoken tension that still crackled in the air, leaving you standing alone in the dim cabin, the weight of what had just transpired settling like a fog around you.

xxx

Back in his cabin, Shanks finally let himself crumble, sinking to his knees as the tension he’d been holding washed over him, relentless and demanding. The pain was sharp, raw—like a fire smoldering through his veins, a burning reminder of the pollen still lingering in his blood. It called to him, an unyielding command, whispering your name in his mind, urging him to abandon all sense and find you, to get on his need and beg you to let him worship you.

The scent was intoxicating. He reached for the dress he had snatch from the floor, despite the salt and sea a faint undertone to the subtler warmth of your skin. He clutched it in his hands, the silk fabric pressing into his palm as he buried his face in it, breathing deeply, as if that alone could bring you to him.

The ache only grew with each breath, but so did the solace. The scent was faint now, but he held onto it, savoring the softness that spoke of you even through the salt and wind. Inhaling again, his mind filled with thoughts of you, and the painful pull inside him sharpened, twisting in a way that left him weak, but he wouldn’t resist it.

He stayed like that, eyes closed, letting your scent linger on his skin, keeping him grounded even as the pollen made his blood sing with need. And for now, the weight of it was almost bearable.

@commanderfreethatdust

I really hope you are enjoying reading as much as I am enjoying writing this. I have already started planning a reader x Sanji and reader x Zoro fiction in the same universe.

Please like, comment, or make a request

[amywritesthings]

silver underground. | chapter 22

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader (attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin) Word Count: 5k Summary: the past and present; levi's version Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI - flashbacks, levi's pov, graphic imagery, sickness, medical conversations, panic / paranoia, mentions / canon divergence of the recently published 'bad boy' chapter (extra warnings under the cut)

Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Masterlist.

CHAPTER 22.

note: there is a presumed major character death in this chapter. please do not read if you are not in the right headspace for this content. mental health first xo

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He can’t shake the adrenaline.

Kinetic energy thrums through his veins, destroying his focus.

For the fifth time since he returned to headquarters, Levi’s hands dip generously into the pool of ice-cold sink water in the corner of his bedroom.

His wrists flick up, quick, to splash it across his face like the whiplash sting will somehow calm the fever in his heart.

A sixth time.

A seventh.

He’ll keep going until that look on your face from the forest is wiped from his mind.

(Until he stops thinking of the before, when he wasn't enough.)

His lungs constrict as he forces himself to breathe, slow and steady, though the exhales exit like strangled gasps.

White knuckles resign themselves to the mouth of the sink as he leans in. His shoulder blades detangle themselves, sorting out the tension, while his eyes wearily stare at his reflection from the watery mirror below.

I know you, you said.

Of course you know him.

You said a long time ago you’d always know him, as if he’s an extension of your arm leading directly to the beat of your very heart.

How could I forget someone like you? you'd muse. If anything, you'd forget me.

(As if that was ever a fucking option.)

When you were just kids wasting away in the bitterness of the Underground City, you likened yourself to a shadow following Levi’s every footstep.

How could you look at yourself as a shadow when you were always the only light in his goddamn life?

You may not remember everything that's happened to you, everything that's made you, but Levi has silently volunteered to carry every burden in the interim.

Yours and his.

Up a hill, down a slope, through the mud, against raging snow — he'll carry the essence of you until you come back.

Because he was there.

For most, if not all, of it, he was there.

Twin fingers, reaching high for the stream of morning sunlight.

Shoulder to shoulder in a mess of sheets; you swore you’d never get over the sensation — the warmth of the light.

He'd never forget.

Levi would come to know warmth far better than the sun above — like the ghost of smile peppered over your lips.

He rolled over to selfishly block your view.

You were better than the goddamn sun, he'd quickly come to realize for himself.

He'd never forget.

"Can you believe there's really a world out there like this that can be real?" you murmured into the hollow of his throat as he peppered a crown of kisses against your forehead.

That the two of you could lay on a mattress easily fitting the both of you, not threatening to cave in on itself.

That you both could live this secret life, as Captain and Lieutenant, until you were old and gray.

For a second he so foolishly believed you could, too.

In comparison to the Underground, the surface could be considered paradise.

Maybe still hell on earth in its own right, sure, but at least it wasn’t a life buried in a tomb.

The vibrant green of the trees. The dirt that didn’t always stink of rot. The endless blue sky above.

Warmth was a comfort so many took for granted.

You knew. You both knew.

Caked sweat and congealed blood. Green bruises and busted lips. An abyss of gray, nothingness.

That's what he understood best.

 — especially after she died.

His mother; the first concept he had of the sun.

And for the short few years she was alive, she was radiant. 

The withering city wasn’t so bad under her wing, even if the men who berated and belittled her were. 

Levi vowed he’d grow strong enough, brave enough, to make sure one day they wouldn’t have to live in a cramped space surviving on the niceties of traded goods — bodies for money, lies for survival.

Then Kenny entered his life and everything became violent.

Bared teeth and closed fists. Selfishness and territories.

Mine, mine, mine.

Except it was all his — that bastard took every damn cent he could make off of him and then some, oftentimes working him to the bone.

(You got a meanness, boy. Meanness that can’t be taught. No, that’s deep in your blood.)

And Levi believed him.

He believed him because no matter how easy it could’ve been to lie down and die, to maybe one day see his mother at the end of his dining table again, he was fully prepared to do whatever he had to in order to survive. 

To endure. 

To come out on top and never let anyone — not even Kenny the Ripper — destroy him.

Because he had memories to hold onto. 

People.

The rest of the world may have forgotten his mother, but Levi refused.

Hell, it was his only driving force.

He might have known violence, it may have infected his blood, but he wouldn’t lose his humanity and disappoint her.

And when Kenny set him up for a betting fight, usually it was with men twice his size and triple his age.

Little kids were never on the roster, but you — you were an exception.

New, but just as ferocious.

A girl, sure, but you landed the punches on him so many others couldn’t.

He remembers the way your neck felt under his bony fingers. How your teeth clenched together. How you growled like a feral animal.

One more second of that fight and you would have been able to overtake his lead — he was too busy staring, searching.

Memorizing someone who had endured, too.

You said you were a shadow.

Levi knew shadows.

If you were a shadow, then maybe he would've ignored you.

Maybe he would have left you the hell alone.

(Because at the end of the day, all of this is his fault. The memory loss, the injuries — all of it.)

After the gun fired and the crowd scrambled, Levi couldn’t leave you well-enough alone.

He couldn’t let you find your own way in the maze of a miserable mausoleum where your bodies would eventually find peace together, perhaps even side by side.

All Levi could do was selfishly keep tabs, watch your fights, see that piece of shit you called Mother berate and harass you in the comfort of alleyways hidden from plain sight.

If you didn’t die in the rings, then chances are she would have sold you off — resigning you to live out the rest of your days like his mother.

He saw the way the world was cruel to her.

He’d be damned if he didn’t stop the world from being cruel to you.

So at the end of the day, yeah, it’s all his fault.

If he hadn’t convinced you to join his two-person operation all those years ago;

If he had pushed you harder before the final job to hate him;

If he had figured out a loophole in Erwin’s ignorance of what you are to him to push you into another division that wasn’t the goddamn Scouts, claiming disruption or inciting violence—

If, if, if—

So many possibilities, so many scenarios, where he holds your fate so selfishly against his own chest in fear of dissolving it.

Yet he was so willing to finally let you go.

To do the right thing now that you’re on the surface.

Now that you are free.

An invisible string that gleams crimson is tied to his ring finger.

It dips under the sink and snakes across the wooden floorboards of his bedroom, into the hallway, and straight to you.

If only he had caught you the first time.

If only.

.

.

.

.

.

.

  In the aftermath of falling straight to the forest floor, dust kicks up all around him, invading his lungs and choking him out.

It burns, but it doesn't deter him.

Here he has only one objective.

One goal.

“James?”

He calls your name, hoping to hear something.

Anything.

The only sound that answers is the bristle of the tree branches above.

A scene so ghastly concludes with serenity and the weightless chirps of birds.

Coughing, Levi swipes at the cloud of dirt with his hands, dropping his dulled blade to the earth.

It clunks as violently as he’s moving, scrambling to find your silhouette anywhere in this goddamn mess.

"C'mon, damn it," he growls to himself, swiping at the murky air.

One step, then another.

You can't be far.

He'd fallen down with you, trying to break both of your falls, but the momentum was far too great.

At the last second, he rolled away from you thinking you'd lean in and follow.

You did not follow.

—then he sees it.

You’re not vertical, head up and feet outstretched in a daze.

You’re horizontal, lying face-down in the dirt.

Motionless.

“James?!”

Levi repeats your name, louder this time, before nearly vomiting from how much debris he’s inhaled.

He wretches, arm wrapped around his stomach, teeth grit.

He manages to get ahold of himself, to stave off the sickness, before he drops to the ground and crawls to you on hands and knees like a child.

“James, hey—”

The world stops, then and there.

You don't move. You don't respond.

His hand halts in a hover over your body, painfully aware that he cannot pull you upright carelessly.

It's so quiet down here.

Quiet, as if...

Slowly his watering eyes widen, his mind going to the place where logic can follow.

“...James,” he murmurs, voice dissolving. 

He decides to then scoop the once-hovering hand to inch it under your wrapped emerald cloak. His other hand cradles the back of your neck, mindful of the worst case scenario.

The sickening heaviness of your body greets him as he turns you over, carefully, to find your lips parted and eyes closed.

He can't tell if you're breathing.

You look like you're sleeping.

No.

No, this isn't what it looks like.

“James, shit, wake up—”

His words crack, throat dry.

“Wake up.”

Louder this time, like anger might jolt you.

Where he goes, you’re meant to follow. 

You’ll follow his voice. You’ll follow it and you’ll wake up and he’ll never forget how you scared the living shit out of him.

(Even if he will eventually forgive you for dedicating your fucking heart to a cause you didn’t even believe in.)

Logic battles with emotion.

Reality fights with fate.

Cradling the back of your head with immense care, Levi takes action and head ducks to press against your chest, desperate to find —

There.

It’s faint, but a heartbeat is still there.

“Don't do this,” he pleads under his breath. “Don’t you up and fucking quit on me now. I know you can hear me.”

The wheeze of overworked gear flies past his head in a semi-circle.

Several boots land to his west, hasty in their descent.

Luckily his head is turned to the east.

(He can hide the growing terror from his squad. He can buy himself more time to harness his panic and push it away.)

“Captain?” It’s Eld, wasting no time to rush over. He hears the quick taps of his boots running right for him. “Captain, what the hell happened?”

“James?!” Petra yelps, and he can hear Oluo gasp with finality.

No.

No, you aren’t dying.

Not today. Not tomorrow.

“Wait, don’t,” Gunther interjects suddenly.

Levi assumes it’s to keep the rest of the squad back from crowding the scene.

The blonde scout drops to his knees beside his captain, panting heavily. Levi can smell the stench of sweat and exertion radiating from his uniform.

“Captain Levi,” Eld urges once more.

“We have to get her back to the Walls," he forces himself to say, voice steady.

Levi lifts his head with practiced precision.

He meets Eld's worried gaze with a deadened stare.

"Is she...?"

"Her heartbeat is faint," Levi answers the question Eld doesn't have to finish, "but it’s there.”

Eld's face falls.

Levi hates it.

I just said it's there, damn it. Don't consider her dead. Don't.

“She saved us!”

A meek voice peeks out from behind Eld's back.

Levi Squad turns in unison — a well-oiled machine built for crisis — to find Miro Squad riding to the clearing with the extra horses.

The entire squad looks haunted, worse for wear, but they still stayed.

They still fought to the bitter end.

Like true Scouts.

Miro hops off of their horse, running over to the group first.

“Several titans attacked us. If it wasn't for the Lieutenant, we would have all been eaten alive. Please, if we can help in any way, we owe her.”

They bow as one of the other shaken Scouts pulls Levi's horse by the reins from around the back of the formation.

“Sir, Scout Rini is a doctor," Miro continues.

“A doctor?” Oluo blurts incredulously. “Out here? In the field?”

“Formerly a doctor,” Rini anxiously states while dismounting from his horse, "before I joined the cause. I — I would say I could treat her here, but there’s nothing I can do. Too much blood loss. If we can get her inside the Walls—”

“Are we going to keep wasting time talking?” Levi growls, glaring daggers at the rest of the group. “I’m not letting her bleed the hell out. Help me get her on my horse.”

No one hesitates.

Both squads rush to his aid, lifting you with utmost care.

Twenty pairs of hands and ten bodies working in tandem to make sure they don’t jostle your neck or hurt your spine.

The captain only lets go of you to hoist himself up on his black stallion, before bringing you close to his body in a side-saddle.

He can ride one-armed and keep you steady.

He refuses to believe otherwise. 

Because Levi sees it on their faces — beyond the faintest breath against his hand, there’s next to no indicators that you’ll survive.

But they don’t know you.

Not like he knows you.

“Don’t you die on me,” he murmurs against the crown of your head, lips close enough to count as a kiss.

Then he’s off.

He speeds off like a bullet on his horse, crouching over with his jaw so clenched he can feel his teeth nearly cracking.

Forward. His only goal is to push forward — past the trees, past the old villages, and doesn’t stop to look back.

“You’re not allowed to die.”

From this distance the other won't be able to hear, but you might. So he keeps talking.

Come back to me.

“Still got all that shit you wanted to do up here, right? You remember that?”

Levi wishes you could answer.

He wants to believe you would if you could.

“You still gotta get those dumbass cats of yours. You know how many of those filthy things are on the streets? You can fill an entire fucking house for all I care.”

Anything.

He’ll do anything, at this point.

“Didn’t give me a chance to… to find a damn house, to figure everything out—”

A whole world left to discover.

(You asked for his last name. A last name worth nothing, yet somehow it still held something for you. God damn it, he’d give you that last fucking name in every lifetime so long as he could still keep you in this one.)

He stops speaking when Gunther and Eld take it upon themselves to push their horses to their limits, flying past him.

They surge forward in their journey to the nearing Walls, determined to carve a seamless entrance for Levi to enter. 

Eld leans back and holds an arm up high, shooting off a red flare for the Garrison Regiment stationed at the perimeter to see:

Danger.

(Once they reached the gates, they could explain everything. A red flare is enough for now.)

Flicking his wrist to snap the reins, his horse picks up the pace and gallops harder.

Levi pulls you into his chest, ignoring the tremble in his limbs.

From fear or adrenaline. 

From both.

“We have an injured Scout, but she’s still alive!” Eld shouts to the Garrison Regiment above with an urgency Levi’s never heard from the typically stoic man. “We need a wagon and medics, now!”

Between the flare and Eld’s command, the action is already set in motion.

The gears churn, slowly opening the large stone gate just enough for humans to clear in passing. 

Eld and Gunther are first.

Levi, not far after. 

The others, including Miro Squad, arrive seconds later.

Several Garrison soldiers pull up to the gate with a wagon suitable for approximately eight, maybe ten people.

Levi continues to hold you protectively to his chest as they prepare, cradling your neck with the utmost care.

One false move and the light goes out. 

(He knows how easy it is to take a human life.)

“Levi!”

He hears the wail of Hange’s voice in the midst of the panic.

His eyes search for them in the commotion, body stonelike, only to spy their unruly ponytail flying in the wind — with Moblit not far behind.

And...

Commander Erwin?

The tall blonde causes the crowd to divide in half, shoulders adorned with the Scout emeralds.

Hange and Moblit look just as horrified as he feels.

They run right up to the side of his horse calling your name, but their voices are all but mumbles to him.

Not when Erwin’s eyes bore into his.

Although the commander's expression is one of stone, Levi can sense what Erwin wants to say.

Unspoken deja vu; they’ve seen how this played out before.

Except this time, Levi has you in one piece.

He made it back this time.

He didn't forsake you.

(And he isn’t letting a titan take you from him. Not like Isabel. Not like Furlan.)

“Levi, what happened?!”

Hange rips him out of his trance, bringing him back to gruesome reality.

Medics finally arrive on the scene. Below him he can see Scout Rini directing them, immediately stepping back into his former occupation with ease.

On the sidelines, the remainder of Miro Squad huddles together.

Eyes watery and body trembling, some cry into their hands.

Some hide their faces in the shoulders of their comrades.

She’s not dead yet, he wants to snap at them. Don’t act like she’s gone. Not yet.

(If he repeats it enough, then can he make the impossible true?)

“She played hero, that’s what fucking happened," Levi seethes after he manages to find his voice, forcing it not to crack. "Saved a goddamn squad on her own against orders. She needs a doctor. I don’t know—”

“They need to take her, Levi,” Hange interrupts with an understanding softness in their tone. “Let her go.”

The captain’s under eye trembles.

“I’m going with her on the—”

“You will,” Hange promises, nodding quickly, “but you have to let her go so they can start working — before it’s too late.”

They're right.

The medics are waiting, just on the other side to receive her.

Slowly Levi unfurls his arms, one by one, and helps gently transfer you to the people he's entrusting your life to.

As soon as you're off of his lap, however, Levi swivels his legs off of his horse to follow suit.

Hange’s eyes widen as he dismounts, but Levi’s too busy watching them set you down in a sea of blankets and gauze. 

“Levi, your shirt. It’s…”

Briefly he turns his chin to glance up at his comrade, registering what they're saying before looking down:

Maroon.

Deep, deep maroon.

His once-white button down is stained with a mixture of grimy dirt and blood.

“It isn’t mine," is all he can think of saying back.

Hange's expression shifts in seconds, a certain slant of pity he hates witnessing.

He doesn't have the energy to fight Hange, Erwin, any of them.

Not when he has to get to you.

He has to stay with you no matter what.

With that statement lingering in the air, Levi abandons Hange to trudge over to the wagon. In one swift motion, the captain hops over the siding of the transport.

His knees fall just above your head, settling in place for the ride to the hospital.

Most of the medics are too busy ripping up your uniform to check for deep gashes and broken bones, documenting them as they gear up to leave, but a few glance at Levi with uncomfortable shock.

Then one brave soul speaks.

“Sir, we’ll need you to stay back.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Levi firmly states.

“But it—”

“The wagon fits ten. If you have a problem with it, we can talk later. She's on my squad.”

She's my responsibility, damn it, and I'm failing her.

The wagon dips once again in newfound weight, and a pair of knees come into view.

On the other side of James’ head rests Hange.

“I’m going, too," Hange states firmly.

Levi can feel his expression smoothing, one of reluctant gratitude.

He catches the sentiment, buries the emotion down his throat, and drops his chin to focus on James.

“C’mon, c’mon!" they shout to the medics for him. "Let’s go! We can't waste anymore time, damn it!”

With Hange’s order, the wagon takes off. 

In the initial jolt, Levi abruptly reaches both of his bloodied palms to rest on either side of your head, keeping it in place as the horses run the wagon to the Trost hospital.

The medics and Doctor Rini continue working amongst themselves, with Hange on the ledge observing.

Seconds feel like hours.

It's agony.

“We’re almost there,” he murmurs under his breath, to you and you alone. “Just a little longer, alright? We’re in the Walls. You went back and saved almost an entire squad by yourself, you overachieving piece of shit. So don’t give up now, damn it. Keep fighting.”

Despite not being alone this time, the captain is unwilling to stop talking for a single moment.

He can sense Hange’s eyes boring down the back of his neck, but he doesn’t care for decorum.

He doesn’t give a shit if this brings more questions at his front door.

This may be your last few moments with him.

So he won’t leave.

(He never left Mom, and he sure as fuck isn’t leaving you.)

“She’ll need extensive surgery.” 

A rogue murmur catches his attention.

When Levi looks up, he sees one of the medics addressing the doctor scout. Gravity brings a grimace to her face. 

A second medic frowns. “Do you think she’s going to—”

“Don’t say it,” Rini replies softly. “What she needs is our undivided attention. This is a Lieutenant of the Scouts, and she saved my life. Treat her life as your highest priority.”

Levi decides to say nothing.

There is nothing to be said — no argument will change the outcome.

As the wagon finally arrives at Trost medical, they’re received by staff with a gurney.

They begin prepping you to be transferred, but—

In a flurry, Hange gasps and leaps out of their seat to fiddle with your neck.

The sudden touch completely throws him off, causing him to protectively curl around you.

“The hell are you doing?”

“Her necklace, Levi,” Hange swiftly states, their own voice shaking. “The doctors could break it during surgery. You know she’d never let us live it down if they destroy it.”

His heart seizes.

Hange’s act of kindness isn’t lost on him.

You loved that damn thing. 

No, you love.

You’re still there.

It isn’t just a mere memory yet.

Belatedly nodding, the dark-haired man clears his throat. "Yeah, she'd be pissed."

"I thought so," Hange exhales, finally detaching the clasps.

It's the first time he's seen you without it since you were teenagers.

(Doesn't look right, being off your neck like that.)

Eventually the medics successfully transfer you to the awaiting gurney.

Without another word to Hange or himself, the team dedicating to saving your life run into the building.

Everything was a flurry until there was nothing.

Silence.

Levi’s shoulders slump as he’s forced to watch you disappear from his sight.

There wasn’t a chance to save Furlan or Isabel.

They’d been destroyed, limb from limb, before he could stop it from happening.

He’d managed to get you this far, but…

Now it was out of his hands.

His fists clench, determined to keep your blood close, protected, in his palms.

(Helpless.)

“Do you want to hold it for her?”

Hange’s voice enters his mind as he slowly turns his chin, blue-grey eyes finding the taller scout frowning.

Their eyes are glassy in a way he refuses.

Mourning.

Slowly they extend their arm, unfurling their fingers.

A lump forms in the middle of his throat at the sight of the glittering silver in their palm, the pendant still just as beautiful as the day you accepted his gift.

“Keep it, Four Eyes, and give it back to her when she wakes up.”

(If he touches it, then you might actually disappear. He already possesses enough keepsakes from the dead with a self-inflicted burden to carry them all. The world may have forgotten them, but he hasn’t. He won’t.)

“Levi…”

“She’s going to live, Hange.” 

Whether he says it to convince Hange or himself, Levi doesn’t know. Perhaps it’s for both of them.

He knows how much they adore you.

He’s no stranger to the fact that you’ve made your own home outside of him — they love you as much as he loves you.

“She’s a fighter. Always been once, ever since we were kids.”

The lack of shock in Hange’s gaze makes him wonder how much you’ve told them about the two of you.

“She’ll fight tooth and nail to get the hell back here.”

“I know she will,” Hange laments.

A blanket of silence envelops them as they continue to wait for any news outside of the hospital, together.

The longer he waits, the closer he feels to being ten years old again.

Alone.

So fucking along and so goddamn terrified to wait for the truth.

Because it’s either one or the other.

You live, or your story ends.

Levi inhales, holding his breath.

And holds.

And holds, childishly wishing it could be enough for the both of you.

Like if he doesn’t let go until you gasp for life, then he can save you.

He can keep you.

.

.

.

.

.

.

  He finally exhales, giving in to the collapse of his shoulders.

He can’t save you, just as much as he can’t keep you.

Levi knows this.

He’s known it since the second you woke up in that hospital bed without an ounce of warmth in those eyes of yours.

That was when he made his choice to leave you be, to give you a running shot at the life the two of you had always talked about.

He thought one day was grueling.

Impossible.

One day became one week.

One week into months.

He stayed away, but at what cost?

He hasn’t slept right in this bed.

He barely eats.

He opts to show his face at the mess hall with his standard cup of black tea to keep up the appearances.

If the real you died that day, then he was certain he died right alongside you.

Now, within six agonizing months, you’ve saved yourself — chose yourself — to still somehow end up right back where he left you.

(That kiss, tattooed with the permanence of the loss of you, still burns his lips from yesterday.)

You might remember.

You might know who you really are.

You might know him.

The sink below rattles.

It takes a second, but when he shifts his dissociative stare to his thumb, he notes the tremble.

He grips tighter, squeezing, before giving up. He pushes away from it altogether, cradling his forearm to suppress it himself. 

Focus.

Find your sanity and ease it back.

Maybe you won’t say what he wants to hear, but he promised like a fool.

Don’t push me away. Don’t shut me out.

I won't, he promised. I’ll never.

Hearing the horses whinny to a halt outside, he scrubs his face with his hand and chooses to turn on a heel to stalk towards the door.

He’ll scope out how everyone’s doing, make a cup of tea, mull all this shit over—

Then he opens his door to your face.

You stand before him, hand raised like you were about to knock.

Frozen in time just like he feels.

James.

Levi can’t feign indifference when he stares back at you, not when it’s almost unsettling how much more… you, you look right now. 

Life radiates from a dead body. You’re not apologetic in getting caught, just apologetic that you nearly slammed the knuckles of your fist into his face.

For a moment, there’s silence. 

He can hear the other scouts talking amongst themselves downstairs.

And before he can say a word, you speak.

“Can we please—”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t let you finish.

There’s no reason.

Rip the bandage off the congealed blood.

Call it a day, if he is meant to lose it all.

His hand extends the door on its hinge, inviting space for you.

“Yeah, might as well.”

You step in, and Levi prepares for the worst.

.

author's note: a lot of you had asked for levi's pov on the events that went down, and i've been waiting to get his side of the story.

thank you for reading the final few chapters of this journey. you are all so very wonderful for the encouragement, the engagement, etc. on both here and ao3. i hope all of my rebloggers have a good night's sleep and a little treat; you are the soul of this story.

[julesthequirky]

The Choice: Chapter Eleven

All my work is purely aimed at those 18+ so minors kindly, DNI.

Summary: You find three of your favourite characters in your home. It shouldn’t be possible, but there they are. In the flesh. How the hell did they get there? And surely there’s a way to get them back? But as you get close to each one, the thought of sending them back proves difficult to comprehend.

Characters/Pairings: Fem!Reader x Ben (Soldier Boy)

Warnings: Smut, p in v, doggy style, dirty talk, language, finger sucking, smidge of praise kink, hair pulling, spanking, ass play, typical Soldier Boy behaviour.

W/C: 1,826

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard, sweetcheeks, and I won’t stop. Not until your pussy pops.”

His words whipped around inside your mind, turning you on to no end. Without warning, the walls of your vagina clamped down. You shuddered, unable to stop it.

He had you now. And he would get what he wanted.

You pushed up on your hands, but a hard shove on your back had you faceplanting the mattress.

“I didn’t say you could kneel. Fucking stay there until I say so.”

Yes, sir.

Oh God. Your pussy clenched at nothing, your hands fisting the bedsheets, desperate to control the need raging through you. He dropped his hand from your jaw, body retreating off the mattress. Large hands gripped the band of your lounge pants. With one tug, he had them over your ass, along with your panties. He whipped them right off, and you heard two sets of material pooling on the floor the next moment.

Ben nestled above you again, bed dipping as he retook his position over you. His bare hands gripped your thighs, and he pushed your ass up.

Cool air met your heated core. It could not render the burning intensity of your arousal as your bare pussy was presented before him.

A thick, hot pole brushed against your inner thigh, causing you to jerk. A dark chuckle escaped from Ben’s throat.

“Suck on these.”

He pushed two fingers past your lips. And you did what he asked of you. You sucked the thick digits, swiping them occasionally with your tongue. A deep groan rumbled from Ben.

“Fuck, baby. Would you suck me off as prettily as you suck my fingers? I can imagine your hot little mouth wrapped around my cock.”

Your cunt twitched. Did his filthy mouth turn you on? Yes, it did. Mark had never said anything like that to you. He had never bothered trying.

Ben pulled his fingers free, and the next moment, they were sliding deep into your pussy. You moaned, duvet soaking up the sound. Mark hadn’t made you moan like that. Ever.

Your snug muscles clenched around him.

“Fuck me. You’re tighter than a nun. Jesus, it really has been a while for you.”

You whimpered, white-knuckling the sheets as he stroked. You shuddered through each stroke, cunt pulsing around him. His fingers curled, stroking against a soft pad of tissue. You jerked forward, pussy fluttering as pleasure whipped through you.

Your body trembled. Fire churned in your belly, flaming to your core. Heat lashed, swamping down, as intensity built, tightening in your gut. He had you whimpering through each stroke, pussy fluttering around his fingers.

“Looks like you’re gunna blow.” He chuckled.

Then you did. You exploded, gushing around Ben’s fingers. You cried out his name into the sheets, riding the waves as he stroked you through them.

“Didn’t clock you for a squirter.”

He was observing as you trembled in the aftermath, catching your breath.

His fingers retreated, only to grip your thighs, pulling them apart, leaving a wet, sticky mark on one. Thumbs traced your parted lips. You shook, whining and jerking from his touch. You were much too sensitive.

Your ass stung as a harsh slap landed on your left ass cheek.

“Don’t be a baby.”

He rubbed the hot crest of his cock between your parted lips, using your wetness as a lube. Then he pressed the head to your snug pussy entrance.

“Open that pretty little pussy for me.”

Ben nudged forward. Your cunt gripped him, muscles enveloping him, stretching tender tissue for him. He was so fucking wide. Wider than Mark. You shuddered again as pleasure-pain tore through you. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. You could tell he was heavy and thick from the crown alone.

His hand fisted your hair, and pinpricks of pain rained over your skull as he yanked your head up.

“You’ve got a greedy little cunt.”

You whimpered. What could you say to that? Thank you?

Ben’s cock suddenly surged forward, punching through nerve endings, only stopping to a natural rest once his balls smacked against your ass.

You cried out, your muscles clamped, sucking and squeezing as they desperately tried to adapt to his size.

Ben was larger in all ways than anyone you’d ever been with.

He groaned.

“Fucking perfect.”

You weren’t ready, but he didn’t care. His thrusts were powerful, smacking into you with full force, taking the breath from your lungs. The metallic bed frame creaked and banged against the wall with each of Ben’s hard drives. Heat swamped your belly. His strokes were like a constant strike of a match.

You’d never come like this. Never penetratively.

They were hard, brutal pumps. His cock forged forward, bottoming out each and every time.

You moaned loudly, unable to control it, unable to keep it in. You didn’t mind the pain along your scalp, the iron grip he had on your ass cheek, and you even liked the rugged, guttural grunts Ben gave with each thrust. It had your pussy slicking, allowing for his cock to surge forward with even more ease. The sloppy sounds coming from your cunt filled the room, mingled along with sweat and the scent of sex.

This was what it was like to be dicked senseless.

Your college girlfriends had gushed about it. You could never join in; sometimes, it had you green with envy. At times, you resented them. And Mark. Especially Mark. Mark hadn’t cared for your pleasure, only his.

Your cunt clamped down hard. Ben growled. You knew what was about to happen. Heat lashed down your body.

Teeth nipped at your shoulder. Then you were hauled up, his fist still gripping your hair. Your back arched, and with the change of angle, your cunt squeezed, gripping him, as you moaned out. You were more than close. Anything could and would send you over the edge.

“Squirt your pretty little pussy all over my cock. Come on, doll.”

His hand travelled up from your plump ass cheek, fingertips skimming over your moist skin, rudely pushing your bra to cup a plentiful breast. He squeezed and tweaked a nipple.

Intense pleasure shattered through your system, racing across your skin. The strength of your orgasm had you screaming his name, had your eyes rolling to the back of your head, and whiting out.

“Don’t you dare pass out on me, now, girly.”

You came to, a palm slapping your cheek. Your eyelids fluttered open, and a slight whine escaped your lips as you felt Ben’s cock stroking lazily inside your oversensitive pussy.

“On your elbows.” He commanded, and you did as he asked.

He smacked your thighs with the back of his hand, pushing them further apart.

“Good girl.”

A different type of pleasure rolled through you. You liked it when he praised you. A sense of satisfaction came over you, and you fought the smile on your lips. Which disappeared as soon as Ben pressed a wet thumb into your puckered starfish.

You whined, bucking. You didn’t like that. The harsh sting of a slap settled on your ass cheek.

“Don’t be a baby. You’re gettin’ my fingers in your ass.”

Ben refixed one fist in your hair and fucked you slowly as his fingers teased your asshole. He squeezed your globes, occasionally alternating as he slid fingers over your hole.

You whined. The angle of his cock had you chasing a second orgasm faster. His playing sent tingles spreading across your ass, settling into your cunt. Your clit throbbed, wanting that release, but you couldn’t have it. Not yet.

Ben pumped faster, managing to slide a finger into your rectum. The penetration of his finger alone made his cock feel tighter in your pussy. He’d taken up all the remaining space.

Ben stroked until you were a shaky mess, on the brink of another orgasm. You clutched the sheets, desperate for it. Ben added another finger in your ass. That familiar pleasure-pain whipped around like a swirling vortex.

“Please, Ben.” You begged.

You wanted to cum. Oh, my God, it was right there, right on the cusp.

Ben slammed back into you, striking that final match and fucking you into oblivion. You cried out, gushing everywhere.

Ben’s thrusts began to stutter. Both hands gripping your hips, grunting with each effort. He roared out as thick, hot ropes of cum lashed your inner walls. He didn’t stop until he had sunk every last drop within you.

You collapsed onto the mattress when he finally released you. You hoped Ben didn’t want another round. You didn’t think you could go again.

Drowsiness settled quickly, and you couldn’t fight as it took over.

*

It was dark when you awoke. The curtains were closed, and everything was quiet except for Ben’s snoring. You were in bed. Ben must have placed you there after passing out. The urge to pee pressed on your bladder. You didn’t want to get out of bed. It was so warm. But needs must.

You slipped out of bed, being careful not to wake Ben. He had left you in your bra and t-shirt, though he hadn’t adjusted your bra back to cover your exposed breast. From the din, you saw the outline of your panties and lounge pants, along with his sweats.

As your eyes adjusted, you spotted your pyjamas from the end of the bed. They were tangled up in the sheets on Ben’s side.

Just great.

You silently headed to the end of the bed and carefully detangled your pyjamas. Ben stirred. You froze. But he snored loudly and rolled over. Relief akin to the incredible orgasm you’d experienced earlier washed through you.

Thank fuck.

You snuck out of your room, picking up your panties along the way, opting out of using the en-suite for fear of waking Ben up. You walk along the hallway, hoping not to get caught by Dean or Beau. You had no idea what the time was.

You made it to the bathroom with no issues. Sitting on the john, relieving yourself, you peered down. Ben’s seed had dried on your thigh. You hadn’t even thought about protection. It hadn’t even occurred to you or Ben in the heat of the moment. You were an adult. It should have.

Idiot.

You could get pregnant.

Shit.

He was a Supe. You were a human. Becca and Ryan came to mind.

Oh God.

What had you done?

You held your head in your hands. Your brain scrambled to remember where you were in your cycle and how long ago it had been since your last period. You’d never been good with remembering. Except the week prior, as your tits would ache like fuck. That’s when you knew you were near.

What if he did? Would you keep it?

Would you? You had no doubt that in your mind, you would. Though with your luck, it probably wouldn’t take.

Tags: @yvonneeeee, @curlycarley, @angelbabyyy99, @sassy-pelican, @eretsupremacy89, @fanfic-n-tabulous, @deans-spinster-witch, @k-slla, @afro-hispwriter, @tiredstrangerr, @zemosdarling228, @justjensenandhisalteregos, @ladysparkles78, @nescavaneck, @winharry, @stellasfictionalworld, @mishkatelwarriorgoddess, @freefallthoughts, @realityshifter111

[peachesofteal]

Dead Disco / Chapter 4

Dead Disco Masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 3.3k words - AO3 18+ Minors DNI, no smut but mentions of sex, eating issues, feelings of anxiety, depression, sadness. Relationship issues. Established throuple. Conversations.

It’s possible you’ve had a stroke.

One minute, you’re alone in the hotel room, half asleep on crisp white sheets, and the next, you’re in the apartment, your small bag slung over your shoulder, Simon’s knuckles white around the handles of your suitcase, Johnny standing in front of you with a hand outstretched like you’re a deer he might startle. You must have had a stroke, because how else did that happen so fast? Maybe you’d been knocked unconscious or tripped and hit your head. Or you’re stuck in some sick nightmare that’s pretending to be dream, because-

“Darling?” Johnny pulls your attention easily, hand closing over yours, it’s warmth a safe and comforting thing that you thought you might really never feel again. He looks at you expectantly, and you take in the door frame that you’re standing just on the other side of, your body not quite across the threshold yet.

Were you really doing this? Going back? 

You wanted to leave… didn’t you? 

Did you? Did you truly want to leave? 

Or was it easier to leave, then be left. Was it easier to leave, so you could be found. 

When you look at them, something burns in your chest. They look exhausted, and an entire new layer of guilt lays upon you, knowing that they’ve already been back for hours, but haven’t been able to rest.

Simon says your name, quietly, but his voice carries the warning of a promise he made two hours ago, the assurance that no matter where you went, he’d always bring you back. That he and Johnny would never give up, they’d never let the ugly things that live inside your head win. That he’d remind you, again and again, until you don’t remember anything else. Until you only recognize the truth.

You want to fight them. A part of you, the desperate part, the violent sliver that blackens a piece of your heart, says you will. You want to scream and yell and throw something. Break something, damage something other than yourself. It’s not that easy, you want to tell them, you don’t understand. Your heart thumps wildly in your chest. What if you’re making a mistake? It was always them, and then you… wasn’t it? Wasn’t it? You gulp, and you know it’s audible, because Simon shifts his weight, tensing, like he’s preparing to dart out into the hall after you. Is it real? Could it really be, the three of you… and not them then you? 

Johnny’s thumb rubs a gentle pattern across your knuckles, and it draws you in, your body naturally seeking his, your feet moving on their own until your curling into his chest, face buried in his shirt, fingers clutched in the fabric like it’s your only lifeline. A bag drops, a door clicks shut, a trio of locks slide into place, and then Simon is on you both, heavy arms pressing your bodies together, a mouth mussing along your freshly washed hair.

“Let’s go to bed.” Simon suggests, stroking a pattern up and down your spine. “We can talk more when we’re up, how does that sound?” You murmur non-committal nonsense into Johnny, who turns you in the direction of the bedroom, and you walk one step in front of them until you’re folding onto the mattress, sinking into the too familiar comfort of the big bed. Tomorrow, you promise yourself sleepily, tomorrow you’ll get your head sorted out.

“I’m confused.” Your phone is squeezed between your ear and your shoulder while you probe a mango that looks awfully green, and Johnny sighs on the other end of the line. 

“Dinner. Dinnae tell me you’ve got plans?” 

“What? No… I don’t. Are you… are you inviting me over to like, eat dinner?” A meal? Like actual food? And not just you spread out on the dining table like last weekend? 

“Aye, love.” The mango flexes in your grasp, the soft points of its flesh surrendering under the pressure of your fingertips. 

“Tonight?” There’s a pause, swift silence and the phone goes dead quiet, like the line has been muted. A few seconds pass, and you discard the mango carelessly in frustration before he comes back on. 

“No, tomorrow?” 

“O-okay. Sure. Dinner, tomorrow.” Dinner. You’re going to have dinner with them. You steady your breathing to try to get a grip. It’s not like you haven’t shared meals before. The three of you have eaten takeaway in bed at least twice, and you’ve all eaten out together, or had breakfast in the morning together. 

But this sounded… it felt like something else. 

“Our place, nineteen hundred.” 

“What time is that?” 

“Seven. See you then, yeah?” 

“Um. Yeah.”

Your stomach is thrashing when you stand in front of their door the next day. Your confusion about the invite for dinner has blossomed into a full-fledged panic, and you’re mostly convinced that this is the goodbye dinner, that they’re going to cut you lose now, sever the connection that’s been brewing between the three of you without a second thought. 

These thoughts, this spiral has forced you into a new realization, a terrifying one, a truth that sits uncomfortably in your belly, its reality forcing you to swallow your nerves while your finger hovers over the doorbell. 

You like them. You don’t want them to cut you lose. You want to stay. You want… more. 

 You’ve already told yourself; you won’t beg them. You won’t plead, you won’t try to convince them to keep you. It’s pretty clear they’re happy together, your intermission in their life probably something they’ll wipe their hands of as soon as you’re out the door tonight. 

Still, something in you burns for them. Pulls you towards them, like they’ve got their claws in you and won’t let go. 

You smooth the front of your dress and ring the doorbell. You try not to fidget, try not to touch the black fabric that sits just a little snug, that outlines your body in all the right ways, and your fingers are wrapped around themselves when the door swings open wide to reveal Simon on the other side. He looks you up and down indulgently, and something flares in his eyes, a heat that you can practically feel while his jaw flexes behind the mask. 

“Hi.” You want it to sound confident, comfortable, but it comes out as a hoarse whisper. 

“Darling.”

It’s the heat that wakes you. Your body is pinned between them, the three of you easily falling into the usual sleeping position, you on your side, Simon at your back, Johnny half sprawled, your face on his diaphragm so he can stretch his arm above your head. Usually, he falls asleep scratching his nails into Simon’s scalp, and you fall asleep with your hips pressed back and a flat palm on Johnny’s rib cage.

Today, you’ve woken up exactly the same, except Simon’s cock is flush with the curve of your ass, and you can feel the heavy hardness of it when you shift. A delicious daydream forms in your mind, and you think about reaching behind you to free him from his briefs when Johnny grumbles, his eyes blinking open with a disgruntled mmph. He stuns you, still, with how beautiful he is. How perfect he is, how even when he’s just waking up, he still manages to look like something etched by a god. Your heart swells when you look at him, the overflowing feeling nearly smothering you beneath it's pressure, and you resist the urge to stroke your fingers along his jaw. Love. It's love, it's love, how could it ever have been anything other than love? 

“Good morning.” You whisper, even though you know it’s well into the afternoon. He rolls completely, tucking you into his body closer, and you feel his hand card over Simon’s side.

“How did you sleep?” He croons above your ear, accent still thick with sleep, and you shrug.

“Fine, I guess.” You trying to make the shush motion with a finger against your lips, but Johnny just smiles. A big hand, not Johnny’s, pats your hip.

“Breakfast?” Simon mumbles in your hair and you nod.

“Breakfast sounds good.”

Johnny makes pancakes. You assume it’s because he knows they’re your favorite, and because there are no fresh groceries in the apartment, no eggs or fruit or anything else.

“I could go down to the supermarket, if we want? Grab some-“

“No.” Simon pours a mug of black coffee and points to the counter stool. “Sit.” He’s still in his briefs and nothing else, the cut of his hips on display just above the waistband, and your eyes trace his form briefly. A magnet that's settled behind your heart springs alive, trying to pull you towards him, trying to push you right up against him. The feeling intensifies as you watch him, and your stomach flips. It's love, the thrall, the pull, the power of what you feel. The intoxication of your adoration, the connection you have with him. It threatens to end you, right there on the stool and you cast your eyes down to break the spell. He sets the coffee in front of you and turns to where Johnny stands at the stove, placing a kiss on his shoulder before getting himself his own cup and sitting down next to you, a thigh just barely touching yours. 

“How’re you feeling?” Johnny probes, and you gnaw on your bottom lip and look down into your lap. Get your shit together. Get your head together. 

“I’m okay.” You shrug, and Simon scoffs into his mug. Johnny stands with a hand on his hip across the countertop, looking back and forth between your plate of pancakes and your face expectantly. Just eat. Make him happy. You love pancakes. Discomfort settles your bones. The edge of the fork bites into the skin of your palm. “I am feeling a lot.” You disclose it cautiously, staring down at your plate, watching the syrup ooze around the contents of your breakfast.

“Will you tell us? What it is you’re feeling?” Simon persuades, his hand just hovering in your line of sight. Not touching you, but close enough. In case you need him. You draw a deep breath, filling your lungs with as much air as you can manage before letting it out in a whoosh.

“When you’re gone… and even sometimes when you’re here, it’s too easy to feel like this isn’t real. It feels like... you could never come back, because you don’t have to. It’s not like you need me.”

“What’s making you think that?” you notice the way Johnny’s gripping the countertop, fingers wrapped around the edge like he’s trying to snap the slab free, knuckles white, forearms tense. Tension runs through him from head to toe, and you feel the urge to reach out and comfort him, to mold your body into his, feel him against you. You’re hurting them. You’ve hurt them. Is this really what you wanted? 

“I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Yer not eating?” You swallow the dry fear in the back of your throat and try to give Johnny a smile. 

“I did.” He raises an eyebrow. “Eat some.” You clarify and shift nervously. “It was good, you did great as usual.” You give him a cheeky smile and he returns it, but it slips from his lips easily, and he returns to folding his hands in his lap. 

It’s something he does when he’s nervous, you’ve noticed. When he’s anticipating something. He’s been jumpy since you got here, and it’s done nothing to alleviate your fears and everything to confirm them. 

They’re giving you the boot. You can already tell. 

You try to keep it together, try to focus on having a good time and enjoying their company, but you can’t stomach the reality of the situation… or your food. It’s a bad habit, something you’ve picked up over the years, the eating thing. It’s not something you’re proud of, of but also something you can’t shake. It plagues you, and you-

“We want to discuss something with you.” Johnny says, and you give them both a polite smile, forcing yourself to not to stand up and bolt in that very second.

It’s going to be fine. It’s just like getting dumped, which you’re fairly good at. You can do this. 

“Okay.”

“We’ve really liked having you around,” Your mind strays, zoning out for a moment while you think about how much you’ll miss them. How it’ll be different, not waking up between them or spending long nights in their apartment with them. How you’ll miss the way Johnny rubs your back, the way Simon soothes you with a simple, gentle touch. How- “and we don’t want you to get the wrong idea about us, we-“ 

“What he means to say is…” Simon interrupts, and then pauses like he needs to collect his thoughts. “We’ve been spending a lot of time together, the three of us.” Your heart goes from fast to superspeed, it’s pulse thundering in your ears. You fight to steady yourself, your head, your heart, anything to get control of your own mind and not break down at the table. “And we enjoy it. Enjoy… you.” 

“Not just the sex.” Johnny cuts in, and you nod. 

“We’ve had a lot of fun.” You agree and Simon frowns, something like disappointment, or sadness, casting a shadow across his face before it clears and he’s reaching across the table for your hand. His touch calms you, and when you look up into his eyes, there’s something there that surprises you. Something tender, and soft. Something like adoration. 

“’S not just fun, darling. You’re precious to us.” Your head feels light, and you look at them both with wide eyes. They’re holding hands, and Johnny looks like he’s grasping onto Simon for dear life in this moment. 

“I don’t understand... you two are… in love. I thought, we were just… having sex?” your mouth feels like cotton, and you grope blindly across the table for your wine glass without taking your eyes from them. When you find it, you down the dark red liquid without a second thought, gulping loudly. 

“Aye, but… we want to spend more time with you. If you’d like that.” 

“More time…” 

“Dating.” Johnny smiles at you, his gorgeous, easy way of it settling a wild flare that’s gone off inside your heart. 

“You… want to date… me?” You nearly laugh at the absurdity, but hold it back, not wanting to insult them and the serious expressions they’re wearing. 

“You’ve given us something…” Simon trails off, lost somewhere before he comes back, eyes clear and focused on you. “You’ve given us something we didn’t know we could have. Didn’t think we had a capacity for, and now… we don’t want to be without you. We miss you when you’re not with us.” The room suddenly feels incredibly hot, like someone’s turned the heat on high, and even though you’ve just finished your wine, your mouth is completely dry. 

They want you. They don’t want to get rid of you… they actually want you. Something dark and sharp twists in your mind, something full of doubt and loathing, something that tells you to run away. They won’t want you anymore once they get to know you. Truly get to know you. They won’t keep you. Don’t get confused. 

Johnny politely clears his throat, and then drags his chair until he’s right next to you, soft gaze peering down with wonderment, like you’re some magical… unicorn.

“We wan’ be with you, love. The three of us, together.” 

The blackout curtains make the bedroom effectively dark, the only light a small one, and you bury your face in the pillow when you feel weight shifting, the heap of blankets you buried yourself under being tossed around until you feel the heat of a body next to yours. You reach for it instinctively, the ridges of scar tissue in very specific spots signifying who it is. You feel his lips above your ear, and then he’s pulling you into him, cradling your head with the back of his hand. He pulls the blankets back up overtop the two of you, enclosing you both underneath, shutting out the light. You had managed to slip away from breakfast unscathed, but it didn’t matter. They’d always find you.

“When I first fell in love with Johnny, I pushed him away, I hurt him intentionally in hopes he would grow to hate me.” Simon’s voice is low, nearly a whisper, and you close your eyes and fall into it. “I was… scared. Of him, of what he made me feel. I was afraid that once he knew me, knew who I was, he’d be gone.” He strokes a hand up and down your spine, and your fingers tighten in the blankets that you’re holding. “He made me feel out of control, and I was terrified of being abandoned by him. Every time he went out in the field, I convinced myself he wasn’t coming back. And then when he did, I treated him harshly.” Oh, Si. You bury yourself farther into him, placing a soft kiss where his neck meets his shoulder. Cool air slips in an opening and the mattress dips again, Johnny’s body molding to your back, his embrace pulling the three of you tighter together under the blankets.

“Simon…” you whisper, but he continues on.

“I had treated him poorly because I was enraged by my fear. My fear of losing him, my fear of being alone again, my fear of being abandoned by him.” He pauses, chest expanding with a deep breath. “I can’t tell you I know exactly how you’re feelin’ but I do know what it’s like to be afraid to lose. I know what it’s like to be a captive of your head, your own thoughts.”

“I…”

“Like I said last night, as long as you want us, we’ll never give up on you. We’ll drag you back to us every time. I know, we know, that deep down, you know the truth. You know we love you, darling. And even though you lose yourself sometimes, we will always take care of you. We will always be here for you.”

“You’re never on the outside with us, but I understand how you might feel that way sometimes.” Johnny offers, and you nod silently. “Simon and I spend a lot of time together when we’re away. I know it hasn’t been easy, being the one always left behind.” Tears roll down your face now, and a thumb wipes across your cheekbone. “But we miss you every second, think about you every second. It’s hard because we can’t call, can’t text, but when we’re not with you, we feel like we’re missing a piece of ourselves.”

“And maybe we haven’t done a good enough job, communicating that with you, making you feel safe and secure.” Simon murmurs, and you shake your head.

“No.” you choke. “N-no it’s not your fault. I- I’m supposed to tell you…when I feel bad.” How can you explain? “I don’t know how to explain it, I… just… ran away. Instead of talking to you.”

“You ran away because you thought you were being abandoned.” Simon kisses you gently on the forehead, and Johnny presses his lips to your shoulder. You try to say yes, say no, say you’re sorry, but nothing comes out but a choked sob.

“But… we need to know if you still want this, love. If you do, we’ll list the flat tomorrow and start looking for a new one together.” Johnny’s voice wavers, and you feel his grip tightening. “If you don’t think this… us, is something you want anymore, you have to tell us. You have to decide what you want.”

The room falls silent except for the sound of your lungs heaving, your breaths wet and syrupy from crying, your heart breaking wide open. Do you really want to be without them? Do you really want to be left feeling like you do when they’re gone? You love them, do you actually want to give them up? 

Do you want this?

[hungermakesmonsters]

(Once Bitten) Twice Shy

Chapter Eighteen

Plot summary : Desperate to get away from your controlling family, you take a job in New York as a wealthy vampire's blood source. A million dollars awaits if you can make it through a year, but life with Billy Russo is not going to be as simple as you think.

Pairing : Billy Russo x Reader

Story Rating : R  Chapter Rating : R

Warnings : [This is a fic for 18+ only, minors DNI] Violence. A lot more violence than usual. All chapters will contain mentions of blood. Please check the warnings on each chapter if you choose to follow this story. 

Word Count : 4.3k

A/N : if you haven't already voted for what you want to see me write next, you've got a day and a half left

CHAPTER ONE | CHAPTER TWO | CHAPTER THREE | CHAPTER FOUR | CHAPTER FIVE | CHAPTER SIX | CHAPTER SEVEN | CHAPTER EIGHT | CHAPTER NINE | CHAPTER TEN | CHAPTER ELEVEN | CHAPTER TWELVE | CHAPTER THIRTEEN | CHAPTER FOURTEEN | CHAPTER FIFTEEN | CHAPTER SIXTEEN | CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

MASTER LIST

Chapter Eighteen

It felt like the world was unravelling around him, like he was coming apart at the seams. While he’d said the words hours ago, it wasn’t until that moment that he started to feel the weight of them. He loved you. He loved you in a way that he’d never allowed himself to love anyone else. He loved you in a way that was so deep, so visceral that if he lost you, he knew he’d never recovered. 

You were inexorably linked, two halves of one soul. You were everything to him and Billy knew he couldn’t go back to the empty, bleak life he’d been living, no matter how many times he’d tried to convince himself overwise over the last couple of months.

His knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel, running a red light to get to Krista’s building. Frank and Madani were talking but, to Billy, it all just sounded like static in his ears.

He couldn’t lose you.

He wouldn’t.

Pulling up, he killed the engine and before anyone could think to speak or question, he was out of the car, clearing the steps to the building two at a time. Frank and Madani had to rush to keep up with him, each still talking, calling after him. But Billy didn’t care about waiting, about figuring out ‘what to do’. No, Billy knew what he was going to do; he was going to make Krista talk, he was going to make her understand why fucking with you had been the worst decision of her life

It was a blur and, for a few minutes he lost himself; he kicked the door open and the next thing he knew, he had his hands around her throat, with Frank yelling at him to calm down.

“Where is she?” The voice that left his lips wasn’t quite his own.

“Gone. I don’t know where,” Krista answered, grinning despite the grip he had on her. “You’ll never find her. Just like you never found Mary.”

Somehow Frank managed to wrench Billy away but Krista didn’t even try to escape. She was enjoying the scene playing out before her, she was taking pleasure in his pain, glad that she’d had some small part in causing it.

“Mary?” It was Madani who spoke, gun drawn, stepping forwards. “Mary Poots?”

“Poor little Mary,” Krista said in a sing-song tone, barely holding back a laugh. “You thought you could replace me with someone so... fragile...”

“You killed Mary Poots?” Madani tried to continue her line of questioning despite the fact that Krista’s attention was fully on Billy.

“Now you’re going to lose the new one,” Krista carried on, all eyes on her. “I’ll take the next one, too. And the one after that. All of them. Every last one, until I’m all you have left.”

“You’re fucking insane,” Billy spat and that drew a laugh from Krista.

“If I am, it’s because of you, because you infected me...” she laughed again. “Or, no, I suppose it was Layla... not that it matters. You fuck up everything you touch, don’t you, Billy?”

“Just tell me where she is!” Billy demanded.

He lunged towards her, but Frank was too quick, too strong, wrapping an arm around him and holding Billy back.

“I don’t know,” she answered, still smiling, seemingly unbothered. “I never asked and he never told. You shouldn’t worry, I’m sure she’ll make a beautiful bride. Her fiance was so happy to finally have her back.”

Billy snapped and snarled, struggling against Frank and against himself, his last shred of control quickly starting to split and fray. He wanted to kill her, wanted to do what he knew he should have done months ago.

“She’s not worth it, Bill,” Frank told him, trying to pull him away.

“You’ve just confessed to murder in front of a Federal Agent,” Madani finally piped up, earning a laugh from Krista, before her attention shifted to Frank and Billy. “If Justin Drake has her and they’re still in the city, we’ll be able to track her down.”

“And what if she’s not still in the city?” Billy snapped. “There’s only a few hours until dawn...”

“We’re going to find her,” Madani answered, her tone sharpening to match his.

“And what about her?” Frank dared to ask, drawing all eyes back to Krista.

“I can send someone to pick her up.”

Krista finally moved, attempting to bolt for the door but, somehow, Billy managed to wrench free of Frank’s grip and lunged for her, knocking into her so hard that they both fell to the ground.

She ripped and tore at him with her nails, sinking her fangs into his shoulder and not letting go until his elbow connected with her face. They rolled, Billy ending up on top before she caught him across the face, clawing at him. She rolled him, straddling him as she landed another hit across his face while Billy’s hands gripped her throat.

By the time Frank pulled her away, they were both bloody and bruised, each bearing the marks of each other’s hatred. She kicked and screamed against Frank’s grip as he pushed her face first into the wall, pinning her there while Madani cuffed her to a radiator.

“You think that’s gonna hold her?” Frank asked, eying Krista as she dropped to the ground.

“It’s all we can do for now,” Madani answered. “We need to move.”

“She needs to die,” Billy snarled.

It felt like his body was vibrating with rage, like the thing inside of him had finally won. But, before he could move, Frank was on him, forcing him backwards, hands shoving him so hard that he knocked the breath from Billy’s lungs.

“You wanna waste time on her while your girl’s out there? You wanna throw her life away and yours just so you can settle a score with this crazy bitch?” He barked in Billy’s face, shoving him again. Billy didn’t have an answer. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Now fucking move, this guy isn’t gonna find himself.”

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

It felt like the world had tilted on its axis and gripping the edge of the table was all you could do to keep yourself from falling. It had never made sense why he wanted you, why he’d been so adamant; you weren’t anything special, you weren’t worth anything (certainly not when compared to the amount of money your parents owed him). But, now you finally had answers, it made even less sense.

He was doing this because you looked like a distant relative who you shared only a fraction of your DNA with. 

He was doing this because she had denied him, just like you were trying to deny him.

He wanted you to be a vampire, to spend an eternity at his side.

“No.” The word fell from your mouth with a certainty that you didn’t feel.

“You don’t have a choice,” he retorted, already sounding like he was done with your denials and insolence.

“Yes, I do,” you answered back, remembering all the times Billy had told you as much.

You hadn’t believed it at the time, you’d thought that it was just a line, something he was telling you to make you feel better but, now, faced with someone who wanted to remove your choice, your agency, you realised that Billy had been right all along. Lifting your head and sitting a little straighter, you silently promised yourself that you weren’t going to cower before him, you weren’t going to let this sorry excuse for a man decide your future.

“You can do what you want to me. I’ll never be yours,” you told him. “Even if it takes my whole life, I’ll do everything I can to escape you.”

“I don’t know what you think you can -”

“I’m not afraid of you anymore,” you interrupted, not letting him get the upper hand, not letting him treat you like the naive child you had been when you last sat across from him. “You will never get what you want from me.”

Anger flickered across his face and it took him more than a few seconds to tamp it down again. Obviously he hadn’t been expecting such resistance from you.

But then came the laugh, a sound that caused dread to coil in your stomach.

“Like I told you; I’m a patient man and I have an eternity to bend you to my will,” he sai, his voice softer than his expression. “There might be nothing I can do to you anymore, but I already told you that your sister, her children...”

“You won’t hurt them.”

“How are you so sure?”

“Because you’ll lose your leverage over me if you do,” you answered, trying to hide the discomfort in your voice, hating that you were gambling with your sister’s safety. “And if you think I’m being difficult now, you’ve got no idea how much worse I can be.”  

Drake let out another callous huff of laughter, a twisted smile pulling at his lips.

“You’re right, but there are other ways to hurt you, aren’t there? Other people close to your heart...” he trailed off for a moment, letting his words sink in. “What about William Russo or his little human friend? Karen is it?”

As much as you wanted to remain defiant, the thought of anything happening to Billy made you feel sick to your stomach. You couldn’t let anything happen to him. You wouldn’t. 

Before you realised you were doing it, your hand was gripping the knife in front of you. 

It took him by surprise when you lunged across the table, aiming the blunt knife towards his chest despite knowing that it wouldn’t be enough to kill him. You didn’t care. The outcome of this didn’t matter; either he would die or you would. Either way, Billy would be safe.

Plates and glasses smashed as you half-fell over the table, tipping his chair back and knocking him to the floor, you on top of him.

His fingers gripped your wrist, stopping you as you tried to bring the knife down, holding the tip only a few inches from his chest.

There was noise all around you and it wasn’t until some time later that you realised it was you, that you were screaming, telling him you were going to kill him, that you wouldn’t stop until he was dead.

The struggle felt like it lasted a lifetime when, in reality, a few seconds after you’d cleared the table, one of his goons had arrived and pulled you off him. Kicking and screaming, you were carried back to your room and thrown inside.

You landed with an awkward thud, pain radiating up your bad arm despite the cast. But, seconds later, you were back on your feet, banging against the door, trying to get out, only to find that you were locked in. But that didn’t stop you from continuing to kick and scream at the door, telling him that you were going to kill him, that the only way he’d stop you was by killing you.

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

After they’d left Josie’s, Frank had text Karen to let her know what was going on and where they were headed. She decided to stick around and keep asking questions around the bar, making sure that nothing had been missed but, after half an hour or so, she decided to call it a night and head home.

She left with your suitcase, having stuffed Bill the Beagle back inside, rolling it along the sidewalk behind her. Her apartment was only a couple of blocks away and, despite the late hour, she’d never felt particularly unsafe walking home from Josie’s.

“Hey, uh, excuse me Miss?” A voice rang out.

Not thinking, Karen stopped and turned, seeing a large man dressed in a dark suit heading towards her.

“Can I help you with something?” She asked, finally noticing the limo parked in front of Josie’s.

It couldn’t be a coincidence; Josie’s wasn’t the sort of place anyone would want to leave a limousine, especially not twice in one night. Karen took a step back, realisation causing her blood to turn ice cold in her veins.

“Yeah, I think that suitcase belongs to a friend of mine,” he answered, slowly stepping towards her. 

The moment he started to move, Karen reached into her purse, trying to find her gun but not taking her eyes off of him for even a second.

“Funny,” she answered, “because this case happens to belong to a friend of mine.” 

Gun in hand, she lifted it, pointing it straight at him, causing him to stop dead in his tracks. She couldn’t be sure if he was a vampire or not, but she wasn’t going to take any chances, and aimed the gun at his chest. It might not kill him, but it would definitely slow him down.

“Where is she?” Karen demanded.

“It’s none of your concern,” he answered back, daring to take the slightest step but hesitating  again when Karen lifted the gun a little higher, aiming for his heart.

“I said, where is she?” She repeated, taking a step of her own.

“She’s with her fiance and if I were you, I’d just hand over the case.”

Karen opened her mouth about to refuse again when he moved, clearing the distance between them with a supernatural speed, knocking the gun from her grasp and into the road. As she moved to grab the suitcase, he struck her with the back of his hand, knocking her off balance and sending her to the pavement.

Karen scrambled for the gun but, by the time she had it, he was almost back at the limo, throwing the case into the passenger side before moving around to the driver's door.

As he started up the engine, Karen noticed a taxi and quickly tried to flag it down. When it didn’t stop, she stepped out into the street in front of it, making it stop for her.

“Follow that limo,” she told the driver as she climbed into the back.

“Listen, lady, I -” the driver started to refuse.

“No, you listen, the piece of shit that owns that limo has kidnapped a friend of mine and I have a gun, so you can either follow that limo and get paid at the end of this, or I’m going to have to take your taxi.”

The threat hung in the air for a few seconds. She could see the driver wearily eyeing her in the rearview, no doubt taking note of the gun in her lap and her split lip.

“Alright, fine, just don’t go doin’ anything crazy,” he muttered before starting after the limo.

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

They were barely outside of Krista’s building when Frank got the call. Billy watched as his friend's expression dropped from one of calm control to absolute rage in less than five seconds. He’d been busy listening to Madani, to all the measures she was putting in place to try and track you down; tracking the limo, credit cards, checking hotel guest lists. It only vaguely occurred to him that it wasn’t until then that he heard your so-called fiance’s name for the first time tonight.

Justin Drake.

Not that it mattered what his name was; he’d be a dead man the moment Billy got his hands on him.

But, for a few seconds, all of that stopped mattering and his attention was fixed on Frank.

“Are you okay?” he demanded of the person on the other end of the call. “Did he hurt you?” There was a pause for an answer that Billy couldn’t quite make out over the sound of traffic. “Where are you? No - no, stay outside and wait for us. We’ll be there in five minutes.”

“What’s going on?” Billy asked the moment Frank ended the call.

“He sent one of his goons after the suitcase. Karen followed him back to the Park View hotel, she thinks that’s where he’s got her.” Frank explained.

A second later Madani was relaying that information on her call, but Billy was already moving for the car, and Frank was quick to follow.

“Wait, I can get back up and -” Madani started, falling into step behind the men.

“We ain’t waiting,” Frank answered.This time it was his turn to be angry. They’d gone near Karen and, now, it was personal for him. 

The conversation continued as they got in the car and carried on until they arrived at the hotel; Madani wanted to wait for back-up. Billy and Frank didn’t. It was that simple. They weren’t going to wait.

“You can help us, or you can stay here,” Frank told her, though his attention was immediately focused on Karen the moment he saw her, his blood starting to boil at the sight of her split lip. “We’re killin’ this fucker.”

“Yeah we are,” Billy responded.

Frank gave Karen some quick instructions, telling her to go wait in the car and to stay out of the way. He tried to tell Madani to wait with her but the Homeland Agent refused, trying one last time to convince them to just wait a few more minutes for back-up to arrive. Before she could even finish, Billy was moving past her and heading for the hotel’s entrance.

He moved through the lobby, drawing stares from everyone that looked his way; blood from the wounds that Krista had inflicted was still fresh on his clothes and he looked as if he’d just torn someone apart with his bare hands.

By the time he reached the front desk, there were already two members of the hotel security team standing there.

“I’m Agent Madani with Homeland Security,” she spoke before anyone else had the chance, and before Billy had the opportunity to do anything stupid. “You have a Justin Drake staying here, I need access to his rooms, now.” 

“I can’t just -” the receptionist started to answer.

“He has a woman with him up there, doesn’t he?” Madani asked, stepping up to the desk. “A woman that turned up earlier tonight?”

Billy took a step forward, getting ready to take matters into his own hands.

“I can’t reveal -” the receptionist tried again.

“He kidnapped her,” Billy snapped, “and he’s planning on hurting her. So you can either let us in peacefully, or we can make you.”

The security guards moved closer but then, at the sight of Frank stepping forwards, they seemed to shy away.

“We can wait for a warrant, or you can let us in now. Either way, if anything happens, it’ll be on you,” Madani explained. “Call Homeland - hell, call the cops, the FBI, whoever you want. Have us arrested when we’re done. But if anything happens, her blood will be on your hands.”

“And we’ve got Karen Page from The Bulletin sittin’ outside waitin’ for her friend to come out, so I suggest if you don’t wanna be named as complicit in this...” Frank let the threat go unfinished.

The receptionist had turned snow white, her hands trembling as she handed over a keycard and directed them to the elevator. The two hotel security members followed after.

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

You heard the commotion before everything went to hell.

There was a phone call; from what you could gather they had a friend in the FBI who’d gotten wind of a Homeland investigation, and there was about to be a raid on the hotel. They needed to get out of there, as quickly as they could.

“Come on,” he demanded, holding out his hand to you.

“No.”

“I’ve had enough of your games,” he muttered, his voice changing, turning softer. “Now, come with me.”

When he held out his hand again, you took a step towards him, wanting to do exactly as he said.

“N-no,” you said, shaking your head, trying to block him out, trying not to let him sway you.

“Come on, come with me. Right now,” he tried again.

Again you took a step, then another. Something inside of you told you to stop, to fight him, but you couldn’t. All you wanted to do was go with him.

“That’s it, come along and -”

“Boss, they’re in the elevator!”

The sudden disruption was enough to snap you out of it. You stepped back, reestablishing the space between you. You weren’t going to make this easy for him. 

“Told you I’d never be yours,” you muttered defiantly, triumphantly.

You both knew that there was no way that Drake was going to get out of this, at least not with you at his side. He’d have to let you go if he wanted to escape.

But you realised all too late what letting go looked like to Justin Drake.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” He asked, starting towards you. “I would have given you everything if only you’d chosen not to act like a tempermental whore. But it’s really no bother. I’m sure when your niece is old enough she’ll be far more amenable, far more grateful for what I have to offer.” 

You stepped back as he closed the distance, until you found yourself against the window.

“At least I get to have one last taste,” he muttered darkly.

“No!” 

Your arms shot out, trying to push him away, trying to keep him from biting you. But he was bigger than you and infinitely stronger. He pushed you back, held you in place despite your thrashing and screaming. You tried everything you could to stop him from pressing closer and closer, trying to turn away as he bowed his head towards your neck.

“Not so defiant now, are you?”

“Please, no - no!” You screamed and begged, tears streaming down your face.

He bit down. Hard. 

Fangs tore through flesh, but rather than lingering to feed, he pulled back, his lips and chin dripping dark with your blood.

It took a moment for you to realise that blood was slowly filling your throat, that he’d left you with more than just a puncture wound.

Your hand lifted as he pulled back and started to walk away, feeling the wound he’d left and the way blood was spurting from it. Lightheadedness quickly over took and you found yourself sliding down the glass and onto the floor. Desperately you reached for the hoodie you’d discarded on the floor when you’d changed for dinner, pressing it against the wound, hoping you’d survive long enough to see Billy one last time.

You weren’t sure what was happening, but you heard gunshots and shouting. Then someone was at your side, her hand holding the hoodie tighter against your wounds and shouting for Billy. 

Madani.

(What was Madani doing there?)

“Hold on, help’s on the way,” she told you, but the words barely registered.

You had so many questions but it seemed too late to try and ask them.

But finally - finally  - Billy was at your side. Dropping to his knees, his eyes filling with tears at the sight of you.

“B-Billy,” you managed to choke out despite the blood filling your mouth and lungs, “you’re h-here...”

You felt him squeezing your hand, holding you so tight, like he never wanted to let you go. There were tears in his eyes as he looked down at you and you knew exactly what they meant; you were dying. In your efforts to save him the pain of watching you die, you’d brought it about decades early.

“I told you,” he muttered softly, “I’ll never let you go.”

Madani continued to press the cloth against your wound but you could tell from Billy’s face that it wasn’t helping.

“S-sorry,” you tried to mutter, wishing that you had more time, wishing that you could apologise properly.

“Don’t,” he told you, “don’t try to talk. Just - just stay still, stay with me, it’s going to be alright.”

“I l-love -” you couldn’t finish, there was too much blood and you were starting to feel so cold, so tired.

“Hey - hey, hummingbird, keep your eyes on me. It’s going to be okay,” Billy told you, but his voice sounded so far away. 

You struggled to hold his gaze, some part of you glad that you’d gotten to see him one last time, but the rest of you hated the agony on his face and the tears streaking down his cheeks. 

“I’m sorry,” he told you, squeezing your hand tighter, like he was trying to hold you in this life and not let you slip away. “I love you and - and I’m sorry, I know you’ll hate me but...”

The rest faded into the sound of your own panic, some part of you knowing what he was trying to tell you, knowing what he wanted to do. You tried to shake your head, tried to pull at his hand but you were so weak you could barely move. 

You were so far gone that you didn’t hear him screaming and pleading with Frank, nor did you hear Frank’s initial refusal and Billy’s threat to do it himself. 

Your eyes went wide when Frank loomed over you, looking at you for a moment, an unspoken apology colouring his features. You tried to speak, trying to say something - though, confronted with your own death, even you weren’t sure what you wanted anymore. But you felt Billy’s hand squeezing yours and some piece of you wanted to hold on, wanted to have his hand in yours for longer than this moment, longer than the six months that you’d had together. 

You wanted him.

You wanted the man you loved.

(It wasn’t fair. You didn’t want to die. You didn’t want to leave him.)

But it was too late. Your eyes fell shut and you let out a gurgled breath, and the last thing you heard was Billy’s shouts.

End Note : So, yeah... I have a lot of feelings about this chapter. I know it jumps around and I'm not the greatest at action sequences (I'm working on it). And I know people won't like the ending and so on, but I'm having fun. I'm not sure if next week will be the last part now or if I'll have an epilogue the week after to tie up loose ends. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this and it wasn't a let down! Also I'm sorry if any typos slipped through, I lost a night of writing to go see Deadpool last night..

As ever, thank you so much for your support/reading/liking/reblogging/screaming at me in the comments! Have a great weekend!!

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[srslyblvck]

the devil you know, avengers

pairing: avengers x fem!reader, bucky x fem!reader

synopsis: the avengers seem really desperate as they come to you—the person who went under their skin like no one else to help them win against hydra. while they are walking on eggshells around you, you are having fun causing chaos.

warnings: mentions of y/n (maybe), blood, violence, gore

word count: 3k

chapter: 4/?

author's note: so, i have decided it will be a bucky fanfic but don't worry i might've a Tony fanfic in my drafts ;) even though its a bucky fanfic, it won't circle around him. i will sprinkle a few interactions in between :)

series masterlist

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ THE AVENGERS' MEETING ROOM was packed, the atmosphere heavy with the usual intensity that came with mission briefings. You sauntered in last, as usual, cuffs still secured around your wrists, a casual smirk plastered on your face. Tony had his holographic display already up, and Steve was standing at the head of the table, arms crossed, as they reviewed the details of the next mission.

You’d done this a thousand times before. You’d faced Hydra bases, taken down their agents, and laughed in the face of danger. Fear? That was for other people.

But the second the image of the Hydra base appeared on the screen, your stomach twisted into knots. The layout of the building, the way the halls curled around each other like a labyrinth—it all looked too familiar.

Your grin faltered, and for the first time in a long while, you felt something you hadn’t felt in years. Not since… that day.

Tony pointed at the map, his voice sounding distant as he explained the base’s location. “It’s buried deep underground, north of the border in an old military bunker. It’s heavily guarded, but that’s not the problem. The problem is—”

You weren’t listening. You couldn’t. You were too busy staring at the base. That base.

The place where the old you had died.

Hydra had been holding you there for years. Torturing you. Experimenting on you until you weren’t even sure who you were anymore. The person you’d once been, the version of you that might’ve had hope, that might’ve cared about anything, had died in that place. And the one who had survived, the one sitting in this room now? That person had been born in blood and pain.

You hadn’t thought about it in years. You’d buried it deep, locked it away, but now, seeing the base on the screen, it all came flooding back. The hallways where you’d been dragged, beaten, starved. The room where the experiments had been done. The man—him—the one who had orchestrated it all. He had been your tormentor, your creator. Your weakness.

He was probably the only person who could still make you feel fear. And that terrified you.

Steve’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts. “This is where we go in,” he said, pointing to a section of the map. You didn’t catch any of the details—your mind was still replaying the past, flashing images of dark hallways, sterile rooms, and the sensation of cold steel against your skin.

Your heart pounded in your chest. You were barely aware of the fact that you were gripping the edge of the table, your knuckles white. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the screen. You felt trapped in that place all over again, your breath coming in short, shallow bursts.

Suddenly, there was a loud bang as Bucky slammed his metal hand on the table.

You jerked back, startled out of your trance, blinking rapidly as your vision cleared. Everyone was staring at you. Steve, Tony, Natasha—hell, even Clint was giving you that curious side-eye. The room was silent, the weight of their gazes pressing down on you like a thousand pounds.

You tried to compose yourself, forcing the cocky smirk back onto your face. “What?” you said, leaning back in your chair, feigning nonchalance. “Did I miss the part where we sing Kumbaya?”

Steve didn’t buy it. His jaw tightened, and he exchanged a glance with Natasha, who raised an eyebrow in your direction.

Bucky, still glaring, leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. “You zoned out. Hard.”

You shrugged, brushing it off like it was nothing. “Just... reminiscing. You know how it is with Hydra. They always bring back fond memories.”

Steve wasn’t convinced. He crossed his arms, looking at you with that unflinching stare. “Are you ready for this or not?”

The question hit harder than it should have. You wanted to say no. You wanted to tell them all that this was a mistake, that going back there would dig up too many ghosts, too many memories. But you couldn’t let them see. You couldn’t let them know. If they found out about your past with Hydra—about the things they had done to you—they’d ask questions. They’d get too close.

And there was no way in hell you were letting them get close.

You stared at Steve, then glanced back at the picture of the base on the screen. The layout seemed to pulse in front of your eyes, like it was pulling you back into the past. You swallowed the rising anxiety, forcing it down. You weren’t that person anymore. You weren’t weak. Not anymore.

“Yeah,” you finally said, your voice more controlled than you felt. “I’m ready.”

Steve studied you for a moment longer, clearly sensing something off, but eventually, he gave a short nod. “Good. We leave tomorrow.”

The meeting resumed, and everyone turned their attention back to the mission briefing. But you weren’t listening. You couldn’t shake the feeling of dread gnawing at your insides, the quiet terror that had settled in the back of your mind.

You just hoped, when the time came, you’d be able to face your past and make it out alive.

For now, you leaned back in your chair, your sarcastic mask firmly in place, and tried to ignore the fear bubbling just beneath the surface. You couldn't afford to break. Not in front of them.

Not yet.

The quinjet’s engines hummed steadily as the Avengers flew toward the Hydra base, cutting through the dark sky like a blade. Normally, this would be your moment—the time where you'd fill the air with your trademark sarcasm, toss around a few cocky remarks, and maybe needle Tony about something inconsequential. But this time, you were silent.

Dead silent.

You sat in the back, eyes fixed downward, not moving. Not even a twitch. The cuffs around your wrists felt heavier than usual, as if the very act of wearing them was pulling you down, anchoring you in a place you desperately didn’t want to be.

The others noticed, of course. They always noticed.

Natasha glanced at you from the cockpit, her eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion. “What’s up with her?” she muttered to Clint, who sat next to her.

Clint shook his head. “I don’t know, but she's being way too quiet for my liking. Last time she was this quiet, she blew up half a building.”

“Maybe she's cooking something up,” Sam chimed in, his voice low, leaning closer to Tony, who was seated in front of him. “she always have some scheme brewing.”

Tony didn’t respond immediately, but he shot you a glance, noticing the way you hadn’t said a word since boarding the jet. That wasn’t like you. Not at all.

“Yeah,” Tony finally said, keeping his voice low so the others could hear. “She's too still. It’s weird.”

Steve, standing near the ramp, kept his eyes forward but spoke under his breath to Bucky. “You think something’s wrong?”

Bucky watched you carefully, his sharp eyes taking in every detail of your demeanour. You weren’t slouched in your usual carefree pose. You weren’t grinning or making any sarcastic comments. You were… withdrawn. Bucky frowned. “Maybe. She's not acting like herself.”

You didn’t hear their whispers. Or maybe you did, but it didn’t matter. Your mind was far away, lost in a haze of memories and dread. The Hydra base loomed ahead, growing closer by the second, and with it came the gnawing sense of fear you thought you'd buried long ago. The closer you got, the tighter your chest felt, the more your hands itched for something—anything—to cling to. But instead, you just stayed still.

Too still.

When the quinjet finally touched down outside the base, everyone moved into action, gathering their gear and making final preparations. But you just sat there for a moment longer, staring blankly at the floor. It wasn’t until the others started filing out that you finally stood up, moving with a slow, deliberate pace.

And then, something even stranger happened.

You didn’t ask Natasha for a gun. No quips about “aesthetic” or sarcastic remarks about how you preferred to handle things. You just stood up, wordless. There was no smirk, no glint of mischief in your eyes. You barely glanced at the others as they filed out, exchanging concerned glances among themselves.

But just before you reached the ramp, you turned to Tony. His helmet was off, and he was watching you with a curious, almost cautious look. You didn’t meet his gaze right away. Instead, you licked your lips nervously, your eyes darting to the floor before you finally spoke.

“If anything goes south,” you said, your voice quieter than usual, “you’ll be here, right?”

Tony blinked, caught off guard. That wasn’t a question he expected from you. He recovered quickly, though, masking his surprise with his usual sarcasm. “Yeah, of course. Why? Afraid the big, bad Hydra agents are going to rough you up?”

He waited for you to snap back, for the usual banter that followed his remarks, but you didn’t say anything. You just nodded, once, and turned away, disappearing into the shadows before anyone could react.

The rest of the team exchanged glances, confused.

“Okay,” Clint said, adjusting his quiver. “That was weird, right? I’m not the only one who thought that was weird?”

Natasha nodded, eyes narrowed. “Very weird.”

Steve frowned, watching the shadows where you had vanished. “She's not acting like herself.”

Tony, still standing there, stared at the spot where you had stood. “Yeah,” he muttered under his breath. “Something’s off.”

Inside the Hydra base, things should have felt familiar. The usual goons were patrolling, and the security systems were the same old setup Hydra liked to recycle. But tonight, something was different.

You weren’t relaxed. You weren’t playing your usual game of cat-and-mouse with the guards. Instead, every step you took felt heavier than the last. Every movement felt tense, as if the walls themselves were closing in around you.

When the Hydra agents appeared, you took them down quickly—too quickly. Normally, you liked to toy with them, let the shadows dance around their heads before striking. But now? Now, it was all business. No fun, no play. You moved like a machine, dismantling the guards with precision, making sure none of them got close enough to slow you down.

The whole time, your eyes darted to the doors, to the shadows, to any corner where someone might be hiding. Your pulse quickened, and your heart pounded in your chest as you snapped your head toward every tiny sound, every creak in the floor.

Your past was coming back in flashes—glimpses of the room they had kept you in. The cold, sterile environment. The experiments. Him. The man who had stripped away who you used to be. You shook your head, trying to clear the thoughts, trying to stay focused, but it wasn’t working.

You reached the main control room and began downloading the data you had come for. The process was slow, painfully slow. You stood there, back rigid, tapping your foot nervously as the download bar ticked upward. You kept snapping your head at the door every few minutes, expecting someone—or something—to burst through it. Every second felt like an hour, and your nerves were wearing thin.

The download finished with a soft beep, and you quickly removed the drive, pressing your earpiece. “I’ve got the data,” you announced, your voice clipped. “I’m heading back.”

There was a pause on the other end, but eventually, Tony’s voice came through. “Copy that. Bring it in.”

You turned toward the door, gripping the USB drive tightly. The fight was over, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was still lurking, waiting. The fear gnawed at you, louder than before.

The door to the control room creaked open, and the sound alone made your heart stop.

He stepped through, calm and composed, just like you remembered. The years hadn’t changed him at all. Same sharp features, same cold eyes. His presence was like a living nightmare come to life, pulling you back to a time you had buried deep. You wanted to move, to act, but you couldn’t.

You were frozen.

He smiled—a slow, knowing smile that sent a shiver down your spine. “Well, well,” he said, his voice smooth and taunting, laced with familiarity. “I had heard the rumors. Seen the news. But I didn’t believe it until now.”

Your hands clenched into fists, and you felt yourself start to shake, the tension creeping up your spine. The shadows around you twitched, eager to react, but you couldn’t summon them. Not now. Not with him standing there.

“I must say, I’m proud of you,” he continued, stepping closer with deliberate, casual movements. “Look at you. Out there, making a name for yourself. I always knew you had potential, but this? This is far beyond what I imagined.” He glanced around the room, then back at you, his smile faltering just a bit. “And yet... what’s this I hear about you working for the Avengers?”

You swallowed hard, trying to suppress the fear clawing its way up your throat. You forced yourself to speak, your voice quieter than you intended. “I’m not working for them.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by your defiance. “Oh? Really? Then what are you doing? Tagging along with Earth’s Mightiest Heroes, fetching intel for them like a good little soldier?”

“I’m not one of them,” you insisted, but your words lacked the bite you needed them to have.

You wanted to be tough. You wanted to summon the arrogance that you always carried with you. But not now. Not when he was here. He had taken that from you years ago, stripped you of everything, left you as little more than a shell. Even now, years later, with all the power you had gained, all the independence you had clawed back, he could still make you feel small.

He clicked his tongue, stepping closer, and you instinctively took a step back. “Disappointing,” he mused, his voice growing colder. “I trained you better than this. I moulded you into something stronger, something unstoppable. And now look at you—running around, playing hero.”

Your chest tightened, and you could feel the anger starting to boil underneath the fear, but you couldn’t act. Not yet.

“You’re not my trainer anymore,” you spat, but the tremor in your voice betrayed you.

His eyes flashed with something dark, and he stepped forward in a blur, his hand striking out faster than you could react. The blow landed hard against your side, and you stumbled, gasping for breath as the pain radiated through your ribs.

He was on you in an instant, his hand wrapping around your throat, forcing you to the ground with a sickening thud. You could feel the cold, sterile floor beneath your knees, the weight of his hand choking you, keeping you still.

“You think you’re your own person now?” he hissed, kneeling down beside you. He produced a knife from his coat, the blade gleaming under the dim lights of the control room. “Once upon a time, you were my perfect little puppet. You did everything I told you to do. You would’ve slit your own throat if I asked.”

He pressed the flat of the blade against your cheek, and you sucked in a sharp breath, fighting the panic that was rising in your chest. His grip on your neck wasn’t tight enough to kill, but tight enough to make your head spin, tight enough to make you fear that at any moment, he could.

“Now look at you,” he continued, his voice softening almost mockingly. “You think you’re free? You think you’re your own person? Don’t fool yourself.”

You gritted your teeth, your vision swimming as you struggled to breathe. You wanted to fight back, but every fiber of your being felt like it was paralyzed. You could barely move, let alone summon the shadows that had always been at your command.

His grip tightened for just a moment, cutting off your breath entirely, and he leaned closer, his eyes locking onto yours. “What do I want? Simple,” he whispered. “I want the world. And I want you back.”

The knife moved, slowly slicing across your cheek, and you felt the sharp sting of the blade cutting into your skin. Warm blood trickled down your face, dripping onto the floor as the pain flared through you.

You bit your lip to keep from crying out, the taste of blood filling your mouth. But before he could do anything else, before the terror could take hold, you vanished.

You reappeared in the quinjet, materializing in the shadows near the back, your sudden presence startling the hell out of Clint and Sam again. But this time, there was no snarky remark, no teasing grin.

You were standing there, silent, trying to catch your breath. Your cheek was bleeding, your neck red and raw, and your lip bruised and swollen. You could barely keep yourself standing. You felt like a shell of yourself, your body aching from where he had struck you.

The others noticed immediately.

Clint stared at you, eyes wide. “What the hell—?”

Sam looked up from his seat, alarmed by the sight of you. “What happened to you?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Instead, you staggered forward, pulling the USB drive from your pocket and placing it on the table in the center of the jet. Your hand was shaking as you dropped it, and you didn’t meet anyone’s eyes as you turned away, walking silently toward the dark corner of the quinjet.

The others exchanged glances, confused, concerned, trying to piece together what had just happened.

Bucky stepped forward, eyeing the drive, then looking at you. “Who beat you up?” he asked with genuine curiosity. “You never come back like this.”

You didn’t respond. You just stood there, back against the wall, your breath shaky, trying to hold it together. Trying not to let them see how rattled you were. Trying not to let the fear consume you.

They couldn’t know. Not about him. Not about what he could still do to you.

So, you stayed in the shadows, silent, as they all watched you with growing confusion, their whispers filling the quiet, unsure of what had just happened.

dividers by @dollywons

[arctrooper69]

As Iron Sharpens Iron

"As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another" Proverbs 27:17

Beta-read by @dragonrider9905

Chapter 5:

Previous // Next

Warnings: Hurt feelings and misunderstandings.

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You felt like you were going to throw up.

“....useful asset… reckless…. irritable… not a member of the team to me…”

You'd gotten back to the ship earlier than planned, entering quietly as not to wake Omega. You froze upon hearing your name in Hunter's voice and then in Tech’s. It felt wrong, listening in to a private conversation, but you couldn't stop the way your heart sped up, sending butterflies swirling about your stomach upon hearing Hunter's voice. He sounded confused, upset even. So against your better judgment, you stayed. Now you wished you hadn't.

Is that really what they think of me? Reckless, irresponsible. An asset.

Not even a member of the team. An asset.

You curled into the pillow, hidden away behind the thick curtains that Wrecker had hung around your bunk.

Probably so that they wouldn't have to see me - so that they can just forget I'm here until I'm useful.

Tears burned hot, soaking the pillow in a silent grief. It hurt. You thought you'd finally found a home - finally found where you belonged. Now you knew that was a lie.

First Hunter. Now the whole squad.

The jagged remains of wishful hope that still lingered in your chest fractured further, splintering like glass.

You could still see it clearly. Though it was only a glimpse caught in nanoseconds, the sight of it branded itself behind your eyes like a hot iron. Hunter and Tara, lips locked in a moment of passion. Her fingers tangled in his hair. His hand on her waist.

The datapad lying forgotten on the bunk at your feet chimed loudly, drawing you back into the moment with a start. Almost instinctively, your fingers curled into fists, hands shaking, nearly drawing blood as your fingernails dug against the skin of your palm, clenching ever tighter until the skin around your knuckles turned white. Another mission. Echo must’ve been out at Cid’s. You scrolled through the dossier he’d sent, annoyance flashing across your face. They’d already assumed you’d be ready and able like nothing had happened.

Nothing has happened - at least not to them.

It was so easy to forget that all the turbulence that boiled under your skin was simply a product of your own mind.

One more mission. One more day.

You’d give them this. One last mission because you couldn’t bear to let them down. No matter what they thought of you, the love you felt for this squad was still there scrambling in a desperately futile attempt to repair the shattered pieces of hope that stubbornly refused to leave. Hope like that was dangerous. You’d only get hurt again - yet it continued to fight back.

But what if…

No.

Could it have been a misunderstanding?

No. Stop.

Am I overreacting for nothing?

If you keep this up you’ll just end up worse than before. Just accept that you don’t belong here. One last mission then you’ll leave.

But I don’t want to go…

Yes you do. It’s better this way.

Taking a deep breath, you wiped your face and quickly headed to the fresher keeping your eyes down lest anyone see the telling red-rimmed, swollen eyes and splotchy patches adorning your face.

It’s all professional now. This is just another job. The mission comes before all else. Emotions get you killed.

The cool water soothed the heat of your skin. You stared into the mirror making no attempts to dry the wet dripping down your face, allowing it to wash away all evidence of hurt. It was surprisingly easy to allow yourself to slip back into the gruff bounty hunter facade you’d kept up for so long before joining the Batch.

Focus on the task at hand. Get the job done.

Sitting back down on the bed, you drew the curtains again and unlocked the small trunk that held what little belongings you had. Sitting inside was the trooper doll companion you were making for Omega - stuffed with one of Hunter's old bandanas. It was only half finished.

And probably won’t ever be now, you thought as you picked it up, fingers running gently over the soft material. The tears threatened to come again at the thought of a memory that was no longer yours to make.

Something stuck out from beneath an extra jacket. Against your better judgment, you pulled it out and sighed. A bittersweet nostalgia knotted your stomach. There you were beside Hunter - Omega squeezed between you, smiling proudly despite the grime that covered her tunic. It was her first training exercise. You smiled proudly down at her. Even Hunter sported some semblance of a grin.

The fingertips encroaching on the sides of the image denoted Wrecker as the camera operator. Tech and Echo engaged in ship repairs in the background.

What you wouldn't give to go back to that time. Everything seemed simpler then.

Swallowing hard, you put the holopic back at the bottom of the trunk, covering it fully with the jacket. You shoved the remainder of your supplies into your pack and shut the trunk, letting the lock click into place with a resounding finality.

Clenching your teeth, you took a deep breath. One more mission. One more day.

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