#Not to mention things like the different mask visions

[ccwpidsblog]

White Dress, Black Cat 𖣁 | ONYAKOPON

Summary: They said she was a witch.

She said they were all damned. Onyakopon didn’t believe in hauntings until he heard his own voice tremble at the pulpit. Now every hymn echoes wrong, and she’s waiting for him by the well, knitting as if the world ain’t falling apart. He just wanted to serve God. Now they’re standing hand in hand, watching the damned burn.

Themes: Heavy Religious trauma/themes, family dysfunction, mentions of suicide, miscarriage, mental health struggles, tall blk female reader, plus-sized reader, preacherson!ony, implied supernatural violence, psychological horror, shy!ony, dark themes and atmosphere, small town prejudice, abandonment, slow burn, smut: virginity loss (mc and ony), soft sex/lovemaking, praise kinks, soft dom!ony

Part one | Part two | Part three

Word count: 10.2k

Authors Note: Well obviously I've been really into religious themes and southern gothic themes for some reason and with my religious background it's only fair I vent through my writing lol. This was meant to be a one-shot but yk how I get lol. Very different from the usual Ony fics hope you all enjoy and I don't disappoint 🥺💔

also wanted to thank @thecoochiefairy and @2neaky for unknowingly inspiring me!! I love black love and im happy to see it on tumblr again 🩷 please don't be shy send me an ask and support me on AO3

The night pressed in thick as syrup, and Onyakopon couldn't move.

He lay flat on his back on a threadbare cot in the shotgun house behind the old

sugarcane fields, sweat slicking his brow, heart hammering against ribs that had forgotten how to breathe. The air was too still. No crickets. No frogs. Not even the wind dared stir. Just that weight, heavier than a man, darker than sin, pinning him to the mattress with invisible hands.

Something's whispering in his ear.

He couldn’t understand the words, not exactly. But the voice, it was his father’s. And then not.

His body twitched. Eyes wide, still unable to blink. In the corner of the room, where the shadow refused to dissolve, something crouched. Watching. Waiting. Its eyes were coals, slow-burning.

“Get up,” he told himself. But his jaw wouldn’t work. His tongue felt thick. Roots of a tree growing wild inside his throat.

The thing in the corner inched forward. Crawling on elbows. Grinning too wide.

And then—

A scream tore from his chest. The kind that didn’t sound human.

He sat bolt upright, breath ragged, vision swimming. The shadow was gone. But the smell lingered like hot iron and smoke. Like burnt offerings. Outside, there was a loud crack of thunder as the sky began to pour. The world had moved on. But Onyakopon didn’t.

Not yet.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and stared down at the callouses in his palms.

The tremble in them betrayed him. That was the third one this week. And in every single one, there was always a shadow. Eyes like smoldering coals. A voice that wore his father’s face like a mask. No matter how many scriptures he recited before bed. No matter how often he sang himself hoarse in praise. It kept coming back. Stronger and stronger. And every time he woke, he felt like something had been peeled off of him in the night. Something soft. Something sacred.

He refused to speak on it. Refused to write it down. Didn’t dare let it live outside his own chest.

Not yet.

Not running. Not crying. Just sitting there heavy on his heart. Another crack of thunder rumbled the sky as heavy rain pelted on his family homes roof. He rose from his bed pulling his rosary off his night stand bringing it to his lips as he said a silent prayer.

Lord… have mercy on me. I been seein’ things. Eyes in the corner, whispers in the dark, faces that don’t belong to no man. I don’t know if it’s You, or the Devil, or somethin’ in between. But I’m scared. I’m tired. I’m tryin’.

Send me peace. Send me clarity. Send me somethin’ steady, somethin’ real. A light, Lord. Just a light to carry me through. Even if I don’t understand it yet.

As he said his Amens and laid back in his bed, Onyakopon had felt for the first time think that He wasn't listening.

By Sunday morning, the dreams still hadn’t left him. They clung to his shoulders like wet cotton.

But church folk didn’t care about dreams, especially not from a man like him. broad-shouldered and Bible-raised man, with a voice like honey on fire. The kind of voice that made pews sway and Deaconess Grant shout with both hands in the air.

Onyakopon stood at the front of the little white church he'd grown up in fingers wrapped around the wooden pulpit like every Sunday, his deep waves still damp from a basin rinse. Sunlight filtered in through stained glass panes, splashing color over the choir robes and sweating faces. The fans were flapping, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus but the heat was still wrapping necks like a noose.

“There's a leak in this old building... and my soul...” His voice filled the rafters, warm and booming.

Eyes closed. He let the song carry him. He tried to lose himself in it. But then

He saw it.

It wasn’t a flash. Not a trick of the light. It was there, really there, on the third pew from the front, sitting where Sister McGee always sat, legs crossed and grinning wide like it was proud to be seen. A thing with a stretched-out face and black gums, skin that shimmered like chicken grease thrown in water. Its eyes were hollow, but it always found him.

Mocking.

Ony’s throat caught on the next word.

“...This old building—keeps o' sinkin' and my... soul”

His voice had cracked like he was sixteen again singing for the congregation for the first time, he winced. Blinked. Shook his head.

Someone from the amen corner called out, calm and easy: “Take your time, brother.”

The thing was gone.

Just a trick of the heat, he told himself. Just his mind. The back doors of the church creaked open. Slow. Dust in the light. And there she was. Tall for a woman and wide-hipped, dark-skinned kissed by Gods given sun, like the earth after heavy rain, wearing a faded rose dress with puffed sleeves and lace at the hem. Her black cat trotted beside her like it belonged there. She held a woven basket over one arm and wore a wide-brimmed hat trimmed with dried lavender.

Every voice in the room caught in their throats.

Folks didn’t speak her name. Didn’t meet her eye. The bastard daughter of sin and prophecy. The daughter of a witch. But she just walked, quietly, deliberately, like the whole town wasn't against her and took her seat on the far back pew. Sitting there there like she always had a right to.

And while the choir tried to pick up the next verse, she began to knit. Small, neat stitches. Humming the melody under her breath in a voice soft as velvet.

Onyakopon stared too long.

He wasn't the only one.

Service ended with a shaky benediction and more side-eyes than hallelujahs.

Folks filed out quickly, muttering about the heat, about the hymnbook pages sticking together, about anything but the girl and her cat in the back pew. Onyakopon pretended to help fold chairs in the fellowship hall just long enough for everyone to disappear down the gravel road.

He stepped out the side door into the sunlight, breathing like he’d been underwater. But even outside, the church still felt-strange. Like it held its breath after she walked in.

She was still in the last pew. Alone now. Knitting the same deep thread with slow, sure hands. Her cat sat curled beside her like a guardian made of fur shadows. The rest of the sanctuary had emptied out like they feared catching something just by breathing her air.

Onyakopon stood at the door a moment, one boot scuffing the floor.

She didn’t look up. Just said, soft and almost teasing , delicate voice bouncing off the empty decaying walls.

“You feel it too.”

His spine stiffened as he straightens himself up, removing his cap from his head, deep

frown lines growing between his eyebrows.

"Ma'am?"

She tugged the thread once, looped it, pulled it through. Her fingers never paused.

“What don’t belong in the Lord’s house.”

His lips parted, but he said nothing.

Then she looked up. Wide, round, doll-like eyes — so dark they shimmered. She looked at him like a mirror. Like she saw every dream he tried to forget, every shadow that clung to the edges of his soul.

Onyakopon’s stomach twisted. A chill moved up his spine slow as molasses. He hadn’t told nobody about the thing that visited him in sleep or what he'd seen — not his mother, his father or brother. This was something just between him and God. He felt his fists clench, not in threat but in defense. That kind of knowing… it wasn’t natural.

He took a step in, boots creaking on the old wood. “You been watchin’ me?” he asked, voice low and rough like split wet oak.

“No,” she said, still sweet, still calm. “You came lookin’ for me. Even if you ain’t know it yet.

He frowned deeper, throat dry. “You don't know what you're talkin' about ma'am..”

“Mm.” She glanced down. “And yet, here you are, tryin' to defend yourself to a stranger who don't know what she talkin' bout."

The black cat stretched from its place at her feet and wound around his leg, tail brushing his calf like a whisper. Onyakopon looked down, startled, as it rubbed against his dress shoes, purring deep like a hymn. He tensed, stepping forward, and his shadow stretched over her like a giant. Despite their size difference, he felt a sudden weight in the air. Her presence loomed, even sitting, somehow bigger than him. Ony was always the biggest man in any room — 6’7, broad and built like a pillar. But this woman, in a worn rose dress and knitted calm, made him feel small.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

He swallowed.

“Who are you?” he asked, voice softer now, but no less honest.

She smiled just slightly. “You already know.”

“I don’t.” She hummed again, “Your dreams are becoming louder brother,” she murmured, threading her yarn again. “Woke the sky last night, Woke the dirt.”

He blinked, unsettled. He didn’t want know how to fight it. Didn’t know how to turn off the uncomfortable truth in her voice. Her fingers moved again. The yarn wound tighter. She added, without looking

It’s this town. Folks plant their evil here, water it, pray over it like it’s corn and wheat. And it grows.”

Ony’s jaw tensed. The cat flicked its tail once like punctuation. She tied off the thread, tucked the yarn into her basket like she was sealing something sacred or dangerous.

“When you start to see the truth,” she said, standing now, her basket in hand, “you’ll know where to find me.”

She lingered in the doorway, eyes on him like she already knew what he’d choose.

“May the Lord keep you, Onyakopon. Even when the ones close to you can’t.”

Then she vanished into the rain.

The church doors creaked as he stepped out, the rain had stopped sunlight dull and sour under a heavy sky. No birds singing. Just the wind dragging itself down the road like a dying hymn.

The woods swallowed her up quick, the church just a shadow behind her. Leaves brushed her shoulders, pine needles crunching beneath her bare feet. She didn’t look back once. Mama trotted at her side, tail high, silent as breath.

“He don’t even know what he is yet,” she whispered, mostly to herself, but also to the cat.

Mama meowed low, like a scoff.

“I know, I know. You don’t like him. Sayin’ I oughta let him stay lost.”

She paused by a fallen log, placing her basket on it carefully. Sat down, drawing her shawl tighter across her shoulders.

“But he’s dreamin’ the way I used to. That means somethin’. Ain’t many left who can see past the veil.”

Mama leapt up beside her, staring off into the trees like she was waiting for somethin, or someone.

The girl smiled faintly. “You always was overprotective.”

Mama blinked slow.

“I ain’t lettin’ him close, not yet. Just watchin’.”

She turned her eyes to the sky, where clouds pressed low and the wind smelled like storm.

“When he’s ready to see the truth,” she murmured, “he’ll know where to find me.”

Mama curled against her side, purring soft and wary.

And the forest, for now, held its breath.

Monday morning came like it always did — quiet, slow, and too bright.

The sky was washed pale like a bedsheet left too long in the sun, and the town lay still beneath it. No rain left, just the memory of it in puddles and soft mud tracks. Ony didn't dream at all last night, just darkness and cold.

Onyakopon stood by the porch steps, box of his mama’s peach pies tucked under one arm, the other gripping a thermos of chicory coffee. Caleb his older brother was already loading up the truck, hands moving fast and efficient, like always.

“Quit draggin’ your feet,” Caleb muttered. “These folks ain’t gonna wait forever.”

Ony grunted, climbing in beside him.

They rode through the back roads in silence for a while, gravel popping under the tires, air sticky with heat. Every house they passed had a porch, and every porch had eyes. Folks rocking slowly in creaking chairs, faces turned their way but not smiling. At the first stop, Miss Irene met them on her porch with a crooked grin and two dollars folded tight in her hand.

“Your mama’s a blessin’, she know that?” she said, voice thin as brittle paper. “Tell her I’m prayin’ for her.”

She didn’t look at Ony when she said it.

By the third house, he noticed it, the way people didn’t laugh the same. Didn’t talk the same. Brother Johnny Al who always joked with him just nodded and shut the screen door with a quick and nasty slam. He saw the elderly man peeking from the blinds as they drove away, he should have worn his glasses today because he swore his eyes flash completely dark.

Another one of their regulars wouldn't meet his eyes during prayer, just muttered “Amen” too fast and wiped sweat off his brow that wasn’t there.

The last stop was by the church, where Sister Myra handed Caleb her tithe and asked them to “keep an extra prayer for the sinful.” She smiled at his brother when she said it, but Ony felt it cut anyway when it dropped as she looked at him duly

By noon, Ony’s chest felt tight. Not like fear like being studied. Like his skin was a page someone was reading line by line. He wondered if this is his Jesus felt when they read his commandments though Caleb didn’t notice, or pretended not to. He was good at that.

Caleb was humming to himself on the drive back, fingers tapping the wheel in rhythm, until Ony finally spoke.

“Something’s off,” Ony said, quiet.

Caleb didn’t look at him when he responded, just snorted dismissively. “It’s Monday. That’s what’s off.”

“I’m serious.” Ony’s voice was low, almost unsure. “Like somethin’ shifted. Like the world ain’t sittin’ right on its bones no more.”

“Somethin’ off,” he said again, quieter now, letting the words hang in the cab.

His long legs stretched out in the passenger seat, feet braced like he was expecting a turn that never came.

Caleb finally glanced at him, just a flick of the eye, jaw tight. Then laughed, short and sharp.

“Boy, you feel off ‘cause you always by yourself, hidin’ in your own head like some daydreamin’ woman. You need to study more. With me and With Pa. Need to find you a wife. Get you right.”

“...A wife?”

The word stuck in Ony’s throat, and just like that she was there. Not in body but in that sudden, dangerous way dreams slide into daylight. She wasn’t doing anything grand just sitting on a porch, elbows on her knees, eyes half-lidded like she knew every secret he ever kept. Humming low. Thread slipping through her fingers like it had a mind of its own. Like he did.

Ony blinked slow, like the words took a second to land again he repeated "A wife.."

Caleb went on, voice firmer now. “You feel off ‘cause you always stuck in your damn head, day dreamin’. Walkin’ around like you waitin’ on signs and visions instead of doin’ what men do.”

Ony turned to him, slow. “And what’s that?”

“Work. Worship. Wife. Provide. That’s the order. That’s how Pa did it. That’s how I do it. You think I didn’t feel strange too before I married Leah? Thought the whole world was wrong. Now look, she carryin’ my child, and I sleep just fine.”

Ony shook his head, jaw tightening. “So you think I’m crazy ‘cause I ain’t found nobody to lay up under yet?”

“I think you lonely,” Caleb snapped. “And lonely men start believin’ in all kinds of foolishness.”

They pulled into the driveway and sat in silence, the weight of everything pressing down like the summer heat.

Caleb finally broke it, voice low and hard. “I think somethin’ needs to fix you. You been strange for weeks. Folks see it. You don’t even try no more—don’t talk, don’t help with the sermons, barely speak to Ma. And now you sittin’ here talkin’ like the sky’s fallin’.”

Ony turned his head to the window, jaw tight. “You don’t see what I see.”

“No, I don’t. And that’s the damn problem. You always talkin’ in riddles. Bein’ quiet ain’t the same as bein’ deep.” Caleb’s voice was sharp. “You need to come back to earth, Ony. You ain’t no damn prophet. You just lost.”

Ony’s voice was cold, clipped. “Maybe you’re the lost one if you think a woman and a baby in this rotting town gonna fix anything.”

Caleb’s eyes narrowed. “So you disrespectin’ the Bible teachings, boy?”

Ony didn’t look at him. Just said quietly,

“Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return.”

Caleb turned to face him, brow furrowed. Ony finally met his brother’s eyes. “That don’t sound like disrespect,” Ony said, voice flat. “That sound like a man knows this world don’t owe him nothin’. Not comfort. Not clarity. Not no wife or baby to fix what’s broke inside.”

Ony opened the door and stepped out, boots hitting the dirt like punctuation. The screen door creaked faintly in the distance, wind brushing against the trees. Caleb stayed in the truck for a second longer, jaw flexing, breath shallow. Then he shoved the door open.

“You always pullin’ them verses like a blade,” Caleb snapped, rounding the truck

“Think that makes you more holy? Makes you a better God-fearing man than me?”

Ony didn’t answer, just walked slow toward the porch, hands in his pockets like nothing touched him. Caleb caught up fast, grabbing his arm. " I’m talkin’ to you.”

Ony yanked back. “And I heard you. You mad ‘cause I know what I’m talkin’ about, and it don’t line up with your little box of how a man supposed to be.”

Caleb shoved him then, not hard, but hard enough.

“You think knowin’ scripture make you better than me? You think starin’ off into space and spittin’ riddles make you more of a man?”

Ony pushed him back, this time with force.

“I think pretendin’ like a wife and a baby make the rot go away is a lie. I think that makes you the fool.”

They were close now, breath hot, shoulders squared. From the porch came a soft creak the screen door opening slow.

Their mother stepped down from the porch, robe tied tight at the waist, her expression unreadable — but her eyes sharp as ever. Leah hovered behind her, one hand on her stomach, eyes wide.

“That’s enough out here,” she said again, sterner now. “I don’t care who’s feelin’ what you don’t raise your voices like that on this land.”

Caleb’s chest was still heaving, fists balled at his sides, but he dropped his eyes. Ony, jaw locked, He looked at her, really looked at her and something in him softened.

“I’ll be back ‘fore supper,” he said quietly.

Then he leaned in, pressed a quick, reverent kiss to her forehead.

“Love you, Mama.”

She nodded, the way only a mother could like she saw through him but loved him anyway.

As Ony stepped off the porch, he brushed past Caleb, shoulder knocking into his brother’s like punctuation. Deliberate. Firm.

Caleb turned after him, lips parted like he had more to say, but whatever it was, he swallowed it.

Leah reached for his hand from the porch.

“Let him go,” she said gently.

“He don’t need to wander,” Caleb muttered. Their mother didn’t look at him when she answered.

“Maybe he do.”

Onyakopon walked with no aim, boots kicking up dust as the cicadas screamed louder than the thoughts in his head. The town stretched out around him, crooked and quiet all heatwaves and peeling paint and eyes he couldn’t see but felt. His hands were in his pockets, his jaw still clenched.

He didn’t know where he was going, Nowhere, really but it felt like somewhere

Like something was pulling.

The sun hung thick and low, dripping gold between the trees, and for a second everything felt too still like the world had paused to hear his steps. Then he saw it.

A black cat, perched on a crumbling stone fence just ahead. Its fur looked wet, almost shining. It didn’t move when he approached.

Just stared, eyes like glass marbles catching the light. He slowed and the cat didn’t blink, didn't flinch. Just waited.

Ony felt a chill crawl up his neck despite the heat.

“You lost?” he murmured, barely louder than the wind. The cat tilted its head, eyes squinting like his question offended it, then turned. Leaping down, slipping into the brush like it had somewhere to be and maybe, just maybe, he was supposed to follow. So, he'd stand there for a while listening, waiting - for what exactly? He wasn't so sure himself.

Staring at the place where the cat had vanished. His breath slowed, the tension in his shoulders settling into something heavier. He didn’t move, just listened to the buzz of the heat, the rustle of leaves.

Thinking about turning around. About going home. Sitting down with his family at dinner telling them he was ready to look for a wife, asking his father to mentor him. Mold him to be just like him and Caleb. About pretending he hadn’t felt something shift deep in his gut the second he saw that cat.

Maybe Caleb was right.

Maybe he was strange.

Maybe he was just lonely.

A sharp, irritated meow snapped him from the thought. There it was again — the black cat, now sitting neatly a few paces behind him, tail curled tight, ears pointing upward, eyes narrowed like it was waiting on a child dragging their feet. It meowed again, louder this time, then stood and turned. Walked ahead slowly, stopping every few feet like it was checking to see if he’d catch on. Ony swallowed. Then, without a word, he followed.

The cat cut through a thicket like it had somewhere to be, glancing back only once before Ony followed. Trees arched above him like ribs, the woods swallowing sound until all he heard was his breath and the soft thud of his boots on earth. It didn’t feel like he was walking anymore. More like being led. They came to a clearing a patch of light cracked open like an eye between the trees, and there she was. She sat on an old quilt, colors faded like memory, her back to him. Her clothes clung loose and thin in the heat nothing like what women wore outside the house. Nothing a preacher’s son had any business looking at. But he did.

She was knitting again. Hands moving fast, like she was trying to exorcise something with every twist of thread. Her dark coils slipped loose, brushing her cheeks as she muttered to herself, angry and fast. The cat trotted over to her and curled up like it had been expected.

Without looking up, she said, “Thought you didn’t like him, Mama.”

Ony took a careful step forward, brow furrowed. “Your mutt don’t like me?”

The girl turned sharp, like she’d been waiting on that line. Her hands froze mid-stitch, and her head snapped over one shoulder. That chubby, soft face from church? It scrunched up like a storm cloud now, eyes suddenly sharp cutting.

“Only mutt here is you.”

Even the cat hissed, low and warning, tail flicking once like a whip before settling back down beside her with a satisfied grunt.

Ony stiffened.

She wasn’t sweet like she was in the Lord’s house. Not quiet and warm like the girl humming behind the pews. Her energy was strange now. Bristled. Her lips were dry, chapped pink from too much sun, and her voice carried something jagged underneath it.

“You always follow stray things?” she asked, threading again quick and harsh like the yarn had done her wrong.

He didn’t answer at first.

Didn’t know how.

Didn’t know why his feet brought him here at all. “You was knittin’ in church,” he said finally, more to himself than her.

“I was.”

“You knittin’ now.”

“Got hands, don’t I?”

He squinted at her, frustrated and fascinated all at once. “You always talk like this?” She shrugged, didn’t look up. “Only when men ask me stupid things.”

Ony winced, rubbing the back of his neck. His boot scuffed at the dirt, slow and awkward. He didn’t have much practice with women, his world was made up of his mother, elder ladies at church, and Leah when she needed something fetched from the pantry.

“Apologies, ma’am,” he mumbled, voice low and careful.

The girl paused. Her fingers stilled against the needles, eyes flicking up to study him for the first time without all that steel in them.

“No need to apologize,” she said, gentler now. “The day hasn’t been the kindest to me.”

She yanked at her project something half-made and angry with color, thread coiled tight like it was holding its breath. “I shouldn’t take it out on you. If anything, I should be used to it by now.” She huffed, more to the yarn than to him, jaw clenching like there was more she wanted to say but didn’t trust the space between them enough yet.

Ony shifted his weight, thumb hooking in his belt loop. His voice came quiet, almost a whisper. “Day ain’t been kind to me neither.”

That made her pause again. Just long enough for the cat to flick its tail against her hip, like it was waiting too.

She didn’t look at him when she spoke next, just patted the empty space beside her blanket, fingers brushing away twigs and grass. “Well… you can sit if you want. You look like you been walking without knowin’ where to land.”

Ony hesitated. His eyes flicked down, he hadn’t really looked before, not properly. But now the way the fabric clung to her arms, the soft rise of her chest as she breathed, the bare skin of her calves peeking beneath the hem, it struck him all at once.

It wasn’t scandalous in the way church folks used the word. But it was… intimate. Delicate. Dressed like that, back home, she’d be in her own bedroom or padding barefoot through the kitchen fetching tea for her mother. Not out here in the woods with a stranger.

His throat worked as he swallowed. “You sure?”

She gave a half-smile without looking at him. “I wouldn’t’ve asked if I wasn’t.”

He rubbed the back of his neck again, cheeks burning as he eased himself down beside her careful to leave a respectful distance, hands resting flat against his thighs like he was trying not to touch anything at all. The cat stretched between them like it was measuring the space.

They sat in silence.

Not the kind that crawled under your skin like Sunday tension or lingered like unsaid prayers, but something softer. Still. Ony sat with his hands folded, shoulders loose for once. The weight he always carried in his spine, the pressure to square his chest, to be something righteous and loud — eased without permission.

The girl kept knitting. Her fingers moved fast, urgent almost, like she was working through a thought with each loop and pull. The cat yawned, curling into a perfect comma between them.

Then, without looking at him, she said it low:

“Your head’s loud again. Makin’ the wind brush by a lil too fast. Gettin chilly. ”

Ony blinked, brows pulling together.

“Just breathe,” she added.

He did. And it wasn’t a deep breath or a proud one, but something real. It slid out of him slow, quiet. A breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

The wind slowed. The trees settled.

So did he.

The silence between them didn’t ache like it did at home. It stretched warm, quiet—not something to fix, just something to feel. Ony let his eyes drift to her hands, how fast they moved, like they had somewhere to be.

“You always knit this fast?” he asked, voice low.

She gave a soft shrug, not looking up. “Only when I’m tryin’ not to cuss or cry. It helps. Pullin’ somethin’ ugly outta me and making it useful.”

Ony nodded slowly, watching the rhythm of her fingers. The thread danced between her knuckles like it knew a secret language.

“You… think you could show me how?”

That made her pause. She looked at him for a beat, then down at her lap, like she was weighing it. Finally, she held up a half-finished square of fabric — dark, tight with frustration.

“You sure?” she asked. “Most men too proud to sit still with something this soft.”

“I’m not most men,” Ony murmured, not meeting her eyes.

She smiled, not wide but real, and shifted a little to the side. " I’ll show you.”

He shifted closer, slow like the earth might split if he moved too fast. She handed him the needles, warm from her fingers, and the yarn, coarse but strangely comforting.

“Keep your hands steady,” she said, voice softer now. “Let it pass through like water. Don’t grab it so tight.”

Ony tried, fumbling at first. She reached over, guiding his fingers without making a big deal out of it. Her hands were smaller than his, but surer—she shaped him like she did the thread, gentle but firm. “You’re teachin’ me to do women’s work,” he muttered, half teasing.

She snorted. “I’m teachin’ you to keep your mind from rot. Don’t matter what shape the work come in.”

That made him smile without thinking.

“You always talk like that?” he asked. he asked, glancing at her from beneath his lashes. “Like you halfway know what God whisperin’ before He even say it?” She didn’t answer right away. Just tilted her head, lips twitching like she was deciding how much to give away.

“You asked me that before,” she said finally.

He blinked. “Did I?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Well…” He scratched the back of his neck. “You talk like my granny, but you don’t look eighty-six.”

That made her laugh—real and full, spilling out of her like light. She leaned back a little, grinning at him. “Your granny must’ve been sharp.”

“She was,” Ony said, quiet now, surprised at the warmth threading through his chest. He let the silence sit between them again, but it didn’t feel empty — it felt close. And when their eyes met for just a second too long, something shifted.

Not loud. Not sudden. Just… true.

Then nip.

“Agh—damn!” Ony yelped, jerking slightly as Mama, the cat, sunk her teeth gently into his thigh like she’d had enough of the moment.

The girl rolled her eyes. “Mama don’t like when people get too comfortable.”

“She got good timing,” Ony muttered, rubbing his leg and glaring at the cat, who looked smug and settled right back down beside her. “Guess she figured you needed some grounding.”

They both laughed, the weightlifting again, but not gone. Just resting for now. Ony glanced down at the cat, still lounging like she owned the blanket and the girl both. He reached out a slow hand—Mama narrowed her eyes but didn’t move.

“How long you had her?” he asked, voice lower now, thoughtful.

The girl’s fingers slowed around the yarn. “Seven years,” she said, quiet.

He looked up. “That long?”

“She showed up a few hours after my mama passed.” Her voice was steady, but there was something buried in it—like a scar covered by a silk scarf. “Just… appeared on the porch. Sat right at the door like she was waitin’. Like she knew.”

Ony said nothing, only watched her face.

“I like to think she is my mama. In some way,” she went on, threading the needle through the yarn faster now. “Mama always said she’d come back as a black cat. Said it’d suit her. Misunderstood. Proud. Particular. Protective.”

Her lips curved faintly. “And she was all three.” Mama let out a slow purr, as if in agreement.

“I believe that,” Ony murmured.

She looked over at him, brows lifted slightly.

“Why?”

He shrugged, then shook his head. “I don’t know. Just feels true. Like the way certain songs make you cry even if you don’t understand the words.”

She smiled at that, soft, almost grateful.

“You always talk like that?” she teased.

He grinned. “Guess we even now.”

Their laughter faded into the breeze, the knitting needles tapping steady again. Somewhere in all of it, Ony realized — he hadn’t thought about the tightness in his chest for minutes now. Minutes that felt like something more than time.

The wind shifted, sharp and sudden, cutting through the thick afternoon air like a knife dipped in river water. It brushed against Ony’s arms and made the fine hairs on his skin rise. But it wasn’t the cold that made him stiffen.

It was the girl.

She froze. Fingers gone still, the thread limp in her lap. Her body locked up like a porch swing caught mid-sway. Even Mama, curled smug and sleepy just moments ago, lifted her head, ears flicking forward, eyes narrowed at something just beyond the trees.

“You alright?” Ony asked, leaning a little closer, voice hushed like he didn’t want to disturb whatever had just walked through them. She didn’t answer right away. Just blinked like she was trying to remember how. Then nodded slowly, though it didn’t quite reach her shoulders.

“Sometimes the wind don’t come to cool,” she murmured, barely audible. “Sometimes it’s just passin’ through, carryin’ somethin’ behind it.” Ony glanced around, suddenly more aware of how quiet it had gotten. No birds. No rustle of leaves. Just wind and the low hum of something beneath it.

“What’s it carryin’?”

She shook her head. “Don’t know yet. But Mama felt it too.”

The cat was on her feet now, tail low, pressed against the girl's side like she might need to bolt — or block. “You should get home soon,” the girl said gently, but her eyes didn’t meet his. They were somewhere else. “Sun’s not as strong as it looks.”

Ony didn’t move.

“I’ll walk you,” he offered, his voice surer than he felt.

But she just gave a tiny smile, one that didn’t match the new edge in the air. “I’ve walked through worse.”

They stood at the edge of the clearing now, where the trees swallowed the sun in long shadows. Ony hadn’t realized how far they’d wandered — or maybe how far she’d led him. The cat weaved between their ankles, brushing its side against Ony’s boot one last time before settling back by her feet.

He took a step back, not wanting to go, but knowing the air had changed again. “You gon’ tell me your name?”

She paused, gathering up her needles and thread. The question hung in the air like smoke before she finally spoke, voice light but low, like a secret.

“You already know it.”

“I don’t.”

She looked up, lips curving into something half-playful, half-knowing. “Well, that’s what makes it fun.”

He gave her a look, amused and a little flustered. “Alright then… I’m Onyakopon.”

“I know,” she said softly, the smile not leaving her face. He blinked, surprised, then chuckled. “’Course you do.”

Their hands met then — a shake at first, but it lingered. Her hand was soft but firm, warmer than the wind that had just passed.

They didn’t speak as they held it. Just let it stretch, like maybe neither of them was quite ready to leave. Then her fingers curled, just slightly. “Be mindful,” she said, voice almost too quiet for the air. “Of what you carry. Of whom you follow. Everything that feels wrong right now. It's not all in your head.”

Ony’s brows drew together. He opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but she was already turning away, Mama trotting ahead like she knew the way. He stood there watching, rooted in place, as the girl moved between the trees, slipping into them like smoke. Her nightgown caught the last bit of light, white and fluttering like wings.

Then she was gone.

Like something holy. Or something beautifully haunting.

By the time Ony reached the porch, the sun was kissing the edge of the horizon, everything soaked in that strange amber glow that made shadows long and soft. His boots thudded against the wooden steps, and the familiar creak under the third board welcomed him home like it always did. Inside, the house was warm and humming with domestic rhythm. Dishes clinked softly, the smell of stewed okra and baked bread thick in the air. His mother stood at the head of the table, her sleeves rolled to the elbow, humming a hymn under her breath as she laid out silverware. Leah was beside her, placing the cornbread down with careful hands over a dishcloth.

They both looked up when he stepped in.

His mother’s eyes lingered. “Told you I’d be back before supper,” Ony said, brushing a hand over his neck, suddenly conscious of how the wind still clung to his shirt, like he’d brought the outside in with him.

"Mm make sure you wash them hands before sittin' at my table." She didn’t say more and went back to setting forks.

Leah’s eyes flickered between the two brothers as Caleb appeared from the back hall, wiping his hands on a dish towel. Ony tensed instinctively, but Caleb didn’t say anything just stared at him for a second too long. The air in the room wasn’t hostile. But it wasn’t settled either. Ony felt it swirl around him, curious and careful, like everyone was waiting for something to crack.

He moved toward the sink to wash his hands, nodding toward his mother as he passed. “Smells good in here, Ma.”

She nodded again, this time more gently, then glanced toward Caleb like she was measuring something unsaid between them.

No one asked where he’d gone.

And he didn’t offer it.

But as he dried his hands and found his usual seat, he thought of her—bare feet in the grass, humming low, thread dancing between her fingers like it had a mind of its own.

The clink of forks against ceramic was the loudest sound at the table. Ma had made stew, rich and spiced, but it tasted like sawdust in Onyakopon’s mouth.

“Had a little heat between you two earlier,” Pa said without looking up, spoon cutting through his bowl. “Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity.”

Ony didn’t look at Caleb, though he felt the verse land like a stone between them. Psalm 1:33, yeah — but it had the weight of Cain and Abel behind it, and they all knew it.

Caleb just scoffed under his breath.

“Yesterday’s service ended early,” Caleb said casually, like a man mentioning the weather. “Soon as that girl came 'long Whole congregation cleared out like they caught the plague.

Ma sneered without missing a beat. “Never met such an unlady-like woman. Wandering about with a devil’s pet, whisperin’ to trees like they whisper back. But Lord knows she can stitch. Shame every thread feel like a curse.”

Ony’s grip tightened around his spoon. He stared down into his stew, letting the broth steam up his face like fog. He didn’t say anything — not about her hands, not about her voice, not about the way she said his name like she’d always known it.

Ony felt a strange ache twist inside him at her words, a pull toward the woman Ma so openly despised. He kept his jaw tight, the silence settling even heavier around the table.

Leah shifted uneasily, but no one else spoke. The candle flickered low, and the weight of unspoken things hung thick between them.

“Boy,” Pa said suddenly, voice firm. “You best get out your head. A man’s got no business sittin’ at his father’s table starin’ off into the dark.”

Ony blinked slowly, but didn’t answer.

“You think you grown? Then act like it. Ain’t no room in this house for cloudy minds and foolish obsessions. You wanna be a man, be one. Handle your kin. Get your head on straight. Get your spirit right.”

Still, Ony didn’t speak — not to him. His eyes stayed low, locked on the chipped edge of his plate. Then, like something creeping up from his chest without permission, his voice slid out low, almost like it didn’t belong to him

“What makes her a bad person for lovin’ trees a lil bit?”

The room froze.

Ma’s hand stilled halfway to her cup. Leah’s fork clinked quietly against her plate. Caleb leaned back slow in his chair, face unreadable. Pa narrowed his eyes. “What you just say?”

“I just mean…” Ony muttered, spearing a piece of fried okra with his fork, “she’s a woman with a pet cat? That knits.” He shrugged like it was nothing, then stuffed the food in his mouth, chewing slow, like he hadn’t just cracked the air in two.

Ma’s eyes narrowed. “That thing ain’t no pet. Strays like that don’t belong in the house of the Lord — or round decent folk like the ones in our community.”

Caleb scoffed under his breath, reaching for his cup. “Ain’t about the cat. It’s the way she carries herself. Like she knowin’ things she ain’t supposed to.”

“That woman ain’t right, Ony,” Pa said, voice low and warning. “Mark my words. Ain’t no good ever come from women who walk like they float and talk like they pray to the moon.”

Ony didn’t respond. Just kept chewing, like maybe the weight of the room couldn’t touch him if he didn’t let it. But his ears were hot, and his throat ached in a way that food couldn’t soothe.

Leah, quiet all this time, finally spoke, voice soft as usual. “She knitted my apron. The one with the sunflowers. It’s… pretty.”

Ma turned sharply. “And you best not wear it again. We don’t know what spirits she stitched into that thread.”

Ony’s silverware scraped the plate a little too loud when he's told up.

“I’ll go wash up,” he mumbled, though his plate wasn’t empty. “Y’all keep on eatin’. Thank you for the dinner mama"

He didn’t wait for permission. Just turned and walked toward the back, the screen door creaking open as he stepped onto the porch, letting the night air slap him clean.

Behind him, the candle flickered.

The back porch creaked under his weight, old wood sighing like it remembered too much. No one came out here anymore — not since Granny passed. Her wicker chair still sat in the corner, covered in a thin film of dust and memories. Ony didn’t sit there. He chose the steps instead, letting the night press in close, heavy and still.

Crickets sang. The wind tugged gently at the trees, and for the first time all day, nobody asked him to be anything. He let his shoulders drop. Let his jaw unclench.

Then came the sound — soft, slow, deliberate.

The screen door moaned open behind him.

He didn’t turn, not at first, until he heard the light step on the porch — and then a bottle clink. He glanced over his shoulder.

Leah stood there, caught like a deer in her round belly stretching the front of her dress. In one hand, a dusty wine bottle; in the other, just shame.

“It won’t hurt the baby,” she said quickly, blinking like she might cry or laugh or both.

Ony raised his eyebrows and looked back out at the dark yard. “I get why you need it,” he said flatly. “Dealin’ with this family’ll make you wanna drink holy water straight from the font.”

That earned him a quiet laugh — small and bitter.

Leah walked over and sat beside him with a sigh, the bottle tucked between her knees. “I ain’t drinkin’ for real. Just wanted to hold it. Make it feel like I had a choice, even if I don’t.”

Ony hummed, a low sound in his throat.

“You and me both.”

They sat in silence for a beat, the air between them not tense, just… lived in.

“You ever think ‘bout just leavin’?” she asked, voice soft, eyes fixed on the dark stretch of trees.

“All the time.”

She nodded like she expected that. “Caleb says I should be grateful. That I’m safe here. That the Lord provided. But safe don’t feel like freedom, does it?”

Ony didn’t answer.

Not out loud and the silence stretched on the kind that didn’t beg to be filled. Just two people watching the dark, pretending the quiet didn’t know all their secrets.

Leah leaned back on her hands, her fingers curling around the edge of the step. “That girl from service yesterday…” she started, voice light but lined with something sharper, “she the reason you were gone all afternoon?”

Ony didn’t look at her. Just let the question hang there in the air between them, weightless and heavy all at once.

Leah smiled to herself, not unkind. “She’s... different. Not like folks around here.”

“She’s just a girl,” Ony said finally, though it didn’t sound convincing. Not even to him.

“A girl with a black cat and a stare like she’s already seen how the world ends,” Leah murmured, like she was thinking more than speaking. “She got the whole town feelin’ itchy and lookin’ for salt.”

Ony gave a faint snort. “You 'fraid of her too?”

“No,” Leah said simply. “But I think you are.”

That made him look at her. Really look.

She met his eyes, steady, too old for her years. “Not ‘cause she’s strange. But ‘cause she see somethin’ in you been tryin’ to bury.”

Ony didn’t respond. Couldn’t, really. His throat felt tight.

“She’s not evil. You’re right bout that part. Just a girl with a heavy hurt, a cat, and a different sense of faith. This town… it’s so close-minded, full of fear. The moment someone different comes along, folks scream ‘Satan’ or worse.”

“We used to be friends,” she said after a pause, like weighing whether to share too much. “Before her pa got caught up in some things. Before he disappeared. She was always so strange. Picking up bugs, talking to the ground, like she’d been here a thousand years instead of thirteen.”

She laughed, a soft, distant sound. “I used to joke she was a grandma reincarnated.”

Ony huffed out a soft laugh but then her smile faded, shadowed by memories. “When her daddy vanished, she was… calm. Like the universe does things for a reason. Said everything done in the dark will come to light.”

Her eyes darkened further. “Her mother got real sick after that. Took her own life.” She flicked squeeze the dusty wine bottle, then leaned in closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “Your daddy… I think he’s got

something to do with it all.”

Ony’s heart tightened. "How so?"

“She told me once, before her dad disappeared, he was there. And minutes after he left, her mother… she was found splattered all over her bed.” She made a finger-gun motion, sharp and cutting through the heavy air.

Silence fell again, heavy and still.

Then Leah sniffled — barely — and blinked fast. Her voice wavered, thinner now. “You know… she’s the one who told me I was pregnant before I even knew? I really hope this conversation stays between us.”

She paused, swallowing thickly. “Couple months back, when I was real sick and you and Caleb were out runnin’ errands… she came by. Her and that damn cat. I hadn’t seen her since we were fifteen. Daddy forbid me from ever seein’ her again. Said she was a witch. Imagine my shock when she showed up at my doorstep eleven years later — all grown, and God help me, even more beautiful than when we were kids.”

She let out a shaky breath and laughed weakly, rubbing her stomach.

“She put her hands on my belly like she already knew me. Told me I’d be the most wonderful mother. Like she saw it, clear as day.” Her voice cracked. “Knitted me a little hat… and an apron to fit my belly. Softest thing I ever touched. But then she said somethin’ strange. Told me this wasn’t the place to raise a child. Said I should leave.”

Leah’s eyes lifted to his, wet but steady now.

Leah stayed quiet for a moment, her shoulders hunched and small despite the swell of her belly. The bottle hung loosely in her grip, the wine sloshing quietly like it too was listening.

Then, almost like an afterthought—but heavier than anything she’d said before—she murmured, “Something’s eatin’ your Ma, your Pa… even Caleb. They ain’t the same no more, Ony. I can feel it in my bones.”

She stood carefully, steadying herself with the porch railing. Her eyes met his one last time.

“You take care of yourself, Onyakopon. Don’t let ‘em make you blind to what’s right in front of you.”

She handed him the wine bottle, fingers lingering for a moment on his, then let go. Her silhouette disappeared into the dark hallway behind her, door creaking shut behind her like a breath held too long.

The next morning, Ony woke to a scream that didn’t belong to him for once.

It came from the guest room.

Leah had miscarried.

The house felt like it was holding its breath, heavy and suffocating. Caleb paced the worn floorboards, muttering under his breath, his footsteps sharp and uneven. Leah sat still in the corner, her eyes hollow, the light that had shone there just the night before completely gone.

Onyakopon watched them both, the weight of silence pressing down on him. His Ma and Pa were nowhere to be found — the house was emptier than usual, shadows gathering in every corner like unwelcome guests.

Caleb’s voice cracked as he whispered to no one in particular, “This ain’t right… none of it.”

Leah’s fingers trembled in her lap, her breath shallow, as if the air itself had turned to stone.

Onyakopon stepped closer to Leah, voice low but steady.

“I’m sorry, Leah. For everything.”

She gave a weak nod, eyes shimmering with tears but empty of hope. "You got time Ony. Leave before it touches you too"

Caleb’s pacing stopped abruptly, his shoulders stiffening like a coil about to snap. He glared at Ony, voice rough and sudden.

The house felt like it was holding its breath, thick with tension that clung to the walls like humidity before a storm. Caleb paced the floor in crooked lines, muttering beneath his breath, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Leah sat on the edge of the couch like her soul had drained out in her sleep, her eyes puffy and distant. She hadn’t spoken more than a whisper since the scream.

Onyakopon stood in the doorway, watching. His parents were nowhere in sight. The house was too still. Wrong.

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ to start a fire,” Ony said gently, “but you need to sit, Caleb. You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor.”

Caleb’s steps stopped abruptly. He turned slow, like a puppet pulled too tight on its strings.

“Oh, now you care?” he said, voice dry and full of heat. “Now you got concern?”

Ony blinked. “I’ve always cared.”

“No, you don’t. You stand around lookin’ like you see through everybody, like none of this is real to you. Like we’re fools for tryin’ to build a damn life here.”

Ony’s jaw tightened. “That ain’t fair.”

“Oh, but it’s true,” Caleb spat. “You think I forgot what you said a while back? ‘A wife and baby won’t fix nothin’? You said that. You looked me dead in the eye and said that. Like all this… like Leah—”

His voice cracked. “—like the baby didn’t matter.”

Ony’s voice was low. “I never said they didn’t matter. I said it won’t fix what’s wrong with this place. This town. You know that better than anyone, Caleb.”

“No. What I know is, you mocked me. You sat at that table with your silence and your damn half-smiles and judged me. You think you’re better than me.”

“I don’t—”

Caleb stepped forward, eyes wide, glassy, something off inside them now. “You don’t? Say it with your tongue then. Look me in the face and tell me I’m not a fool for wantin’ more.”

Leah stirred, voice soft. “Caleb—”

“Don’t,” Caleb snapped without looking at her.

Ony held his ground. “You ain’t a fool, Caleb. But you’re acting like one now. You’re hurt, and I get it. But don’t come at me like I put that pain in you.”

“You put the doubt in me!” Caleb roared.

“You were the voice in the back of my head every damn day since she told me she was pregnant. And now look! Gone. Just like everything else in this cursed house.”

There was a beat — the kind of silence that comes before something breaks.

Then Caleb lunged.

The scuffle was quick but violent — desperation making up for lack of form. Ony tried to hold him off, but Caleb fought like he wanted to draw blood, like if he hurt someone else maybe the ache inside him would let up.

Leah shouted, trying to reach them, tears running down her face. “Stop it! Stop!”

Ony finally shoved Caleb back, hard enough to knock him into the wall. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Caleb’s chest heaved. His eyes were wrong not just angry, but dark, as if something else had stepped into him. Something watching through his face.

“You mocked me,” he said again, quieter now. “You cursed me with your mouth. You always did.”

Ony stepped back, heart pounding. “I ain’t cursed you. This place did.”

Leah stood between them, shaking, one hand stretched out like she was trying to keep them both from falling off a cliff.

“Please, Ony,” she whispered. “Just go."

He didn’t want to. He wanted to fix it — to fix him. But he saw the look in her eyes. That pleading. That fear.

So he turned and walked out the front door.

And behind him, the house groaned.

The air outside slapped his skin like cold judgment. Onyakopon didn’t know when his feet hit the porch or when the front gate swung open — he only remembered the crunch of gravel under his boots and the warm sting of blood trailing down from his eyebrow. His lip was split, throbbing with each breath. The fight with Caleb replayed in flashes behind his eyes, quick and jagged like broken glass.

He kept running.

Not because he was afraid of Caleb, but because he was afraid of what he saw in Caleb.

The sky above had gone dull and gray, not quite evening but no longer day. Birds had gone quiet. The cicadas, too. All that remained was the pounding in his ears and the sharp inhale-exhale of lungs trying to keep up.

He didn’t even realize where he was until his knees buckled beneath him, and he hit the soft grass with a grunt. Hands splayed wide, he pressed his back to the earth, letting the air wrap around him. He was in the clearing.

The tall reeds swayed around him like ghosts with no mouths, whispering only through movement. And the sky above looked... too wide. Too still.

He lay there, panting. Sweat mixed with blood. His chest rose and fell like he’d outrun death itself.

And maybe he had.

Or maybe he’d run straight into it.

His chest rose and fell like a storm settling into silence. The sky above blurred, hazy from tears he didn’t know he’d let fall. Grass pressed cool and damp against the back of his neck. His lip stung, and his brow pulsed where Caleb’s fist had landed. Blood still crusted warm at the corner of his mouth.

He closed his eyes. Just for a second.

When he opened them—

She was there.

Standing over him like a painting left out in the rain. Skirt brushing the wild grass, curls coiled like shadows catching sunlight, eyes so ancient and wide they swallowed the sky behind her. Her face was soft, full of moonlight and mourning. The kind of beautiful that didn’t beg to be noticed — it just was, like wind or thunder. There was dirt on her hem, leaves tangled in her sleeves like she’d risen straight from the woods, or maybe the earth itself. Her cat, that little ghost pressed against her ankles, then padded forward, tail flicking, and nipped at Ony’s fingers with a quiet warning.

He flinched and blinked like he might still be dreaming.

“You,” he whispered.

“I always come when the house sends you away,” she said simply.

She knelt beside him, hand grazing the grass just beside his temple, never touching just near enough to feel the air between them hum.

“You’re hurt again, physically this time”

“Didn’t come here on purpose.”

“I know,” she said. “But your blood always finds its way back to me.”

The cat settled between them, purring low, eyes unblinking like it knew all the secrets neither of them could say. Onyakopon studied her — the way her presence dulled the pain just by existing, the way her eyes never flickered with fear. He wanted to say something. Apologize for the world. Ask how she knew so much. Ask how she still smiled like hope hadn’t died with the rest of this town’s soul.

Instead, he asked, “You always show up like this?”

She shrugged, curls bouncing lightly.

“Maybe I’m your guardian angel,” she said, and for a second, he thought she might mean it.

Then, her voice dropped to something softer, sadder.

“Or maybe I just know what it’s like to get pushed out by people who pretend they love you.”

She stood again without a word, brushing dirt from her skirt like it was nothing new, like she’d done this a hundred times before. The cat circled his shoulder once, then darted ahead into the trees.

“You comin’?” she asked over her shoulder, already turning.

Onyakopon hesitated. He should’ve gone back home. Should’ve checked on Leah. Should’ve tried, one more time, to reach the brother that looked at him like a stranger now.

But instead, he pushed himself off the ground, every bruise and scrape a sharp reminder of what waiting there would cost.

He followed her.

They moved through the woods like ghosts her steps barely stirring the leaves, him limping just behind. The path wasn’t marked, but she never second-guessed her turns. Like the forest knew her. Or she knew it.

A weather-worn cottage appeared just beyond a thick grove of oaks, roof sagging under moss and time. Wind chimes made of bones and rusted spoons tinkled faintly from the porch. A line of herbs dried beneath the windows, and a narrow chimney puffed with gentle smoke.

“Don’t mind the mess,” she murmured, holding the door open.

Inside, it smelled of lavender, ash, and something green not rot, not decay, but age. Lived-in. Safe.

He stepped in, and the warmth hit him like a balm. The fire crackled. The cat disappeared somewhere deeper in the house. She gestured toward an old kitchen chair.

“Sit.”

He obeyed.

She moved through the space like she belonged in every shadow of it. Wet a cloth, brought over an old metal tin, crouched before him like he was something precious.

She wiped his lip first, gentle, patient. Then his brow.

“You bruise easy,” she said, voice nearly teasing.

“You always nurse people back to life in the woods?”

“Just you.”

He didn’t ask why. He just watched her, close now the fine lines in her expression, the way she focused like this mattered, like he mattered. Her touch was warm, but her eyes. . . her eyes were still carrying something ancient.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

She didn’t respond right away. Just dabbed at the last of the blood, then looked up at him, expression unreadable.

“Next time,” she said softly, “don’t wait ‘til the world breaks your face to come find me again. Too handsome for all these and bruises."

Her fingers lingered on his chin, gentle, almost tender. He caught the faint scent of lavender and honey on her skin and felt heat rise in his cheeks. His eyes flickered down to his lap, suddenly shy under her steady gaze.

For a long moment, they just stayed like that close enough to feel the warmth of each other’s breath, the unspoken words hanging in the air. The cat nipped playfully at his fingers, breaking the spell, but even then, her smile held a softness that made his heart tighten.

"You hungry?"

He smiled softly meeting her eyes again, " I could eat."

She chuckled, the sound light and unexpected in the heavy silence. “Good. I don’t do fancy, but I can fix you something real.”

She stood and moved toward the small kitchen, the cat padding behind her like a loyal shadow. Ony followed slowly, still feeling the strange comfort of her presence like the world had shifted just enough to let a little light in.

[puppetmaster13u]

Thinking about Bruce’s cousin Kate Kane in the xeno AU, and just, I am obsessed with the idea of her continuously taking care of the yautja that try to enter the Gotham area to try and hunt her family. And just, her slowly gathering technology and weapons and them working together to figure out how each of them works. 

Like she is still completely human but like hell is anyone going to hurt her family, adopted or not. The bats are already stealthy, she’s already stealthy and is one of the few to use guns, so combine that with alien stealth technology and plasma weapons? Not much is going to survive her anger.

[ferrouswheel11]

Red Robin redesign based on the idea of an inverness cape... this version of RR has returned to his detective roots, puzzling over Gotham's toughest mysteries and donning the cape and cowl when it's time for some good old-fashioned legwork.

I know in my heart tim is a Cape Guy -- the Question may rock a detective’s coat and fedora but that's not the right look for tim (not to mention batman!damian already has a claim on the coat-as-cape look). But tim is also a confirmed sherlock holmes nerd, so the two-layer inverness-inspired cape seemed a good way to subtly infuse some detective vibes into his costume.

[venomnyx]

HOUSE IN NEBRASKA — Logan "Worst Wolverine" Howlett x Mutant!Reader AO3 version Spotify Playlist

WORD COUNT — 15.4k SUMMARY — Reader gets roped into saving the timeline with ex-best friend Deadpool, coming face-to-face with a variant of Logan that uproots memories she'd long suppressed, only to find that this version of him lost her in his universe, too. TAGS/WARNINGS — she/her pronouns (minimal usage), female anatomy, flashbacks in italics, angst, enemies to lovers, alcoholism, smoking, arguments, canon typical violence, cursing/bad language, Deadpool breaks the fourth wall like twice, canon behaviour worst wolverine, religious trauma, honda odyssey scene self-insert, eventual smut, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, dirty nasty talk (logan has a filthy mouth), mentions of cocaine literally once. smut is marked after last divider if you want to skip plot but i'll kiss you if you don't!

You’re smoking a cigarette on your porch when the snowfall happens. It would be normal, you think, if it weren’t for the fact that it’s dead in the middle of July. A group of nanas, elbow-deep in the community garden soil, glance up to the sky and begin muttering prayers amongst themselves.

You’ve lived in this safe house for a while now, up in the mid-west of the Appalachian mountains, surrounded by thickets of pine and opposite a bubbling creek. You grew up somewhere near here and the locals welcomed you back with open arms and a plateful of hot food when the humans started the culling— when the X-men fell apart.

It has plenty of benefits. The smell of lavender, for one, and your cat, Kevin, loves chasing the pigeons, even if he’s not the most successful hunter. The locally sourced produce means you can avoid the poisoned food they’re distributing in supermarkets.

But, most importantly, the humans can’t find you out here. You’re lucky the gossip of your… genetics, so to speak, doesn’t leave Sunday morning church.

Things have been different, lately. The trees are shedding down to dust, people are disappearing at an exponential rate, and there was a time when you’d be on the front lines helping them. You’re on the edge of your seat waiting for the call — a learned habit — but it’s never coming. Charles is dead. Logan is dead. The X-men are dead.

The snow is warm when it lands on your skin. It feels like rot, and your solitude suddenly feels lonelier and more daunting than ever.

You reach to take a sip of your steaming coffee when you hear movement. A zipping strobe light crosses your vision and you flinch against the intrusion, but you’re not afraid. You’ve surely survived worse.

Stryker worse.

A comical and confused looking figure pops out from an orange portal, scratching the crown of his head over the red and black mask on his face. You sip your coffee as you observe him nonchalantly.

He notices you and approaches with a dainty point of his finger.

“Um, excuse me, ma’am.”

“Well, well well,” you suck on your cigarette with a frown. “Look what the cat dragged in. Got a new suit, Red?”

“What, aren’t you happy to see lil’ old me?”

“You’re on my property,” you say matter-of-factually. You had a shotgun stowed away inside for emergencies, but frankly, you never had to use it. You were enough of a weapon yourself. Consider it insurance, if the corn-syrup they’re poisoning ever finally makes it way to you.

You glance sidelong at the old ladies in their aprons, clutching one another with stern gazes in your direction. The deal was that you didn’t bring trouble their way — but it looks like trouble found you. You narrow your eyes and silently hope that this doesn’t turn messy, as it so usually does where he’s concerned.

He sighs heavily and continues approaching regardless. You analyse his stature and take notes of the weapons on his holsters and back. You reckon you could take him if it came down to it, but he didn’t seem threatening.

You and Wade used to be friends, but after isolating yourself from grief, you don’t necessarily consider yourselves to have a close relationship. More often than not he brought trouble; hence your defensive response.

“Listen, ants in your pants, I’ve done this about a hundred times,” he huffs and places a hand on his hip, waving the device around in his hand. You take another drag of your cigarette and perk your brows before rising to your feet.

“I’ve had my spleen shattered by the Hulk, about eighty stab wounds…”

He rambles on about his collection of injuries and you tilt your head with amusement. Must be another one of his famous mental breakdowns. This might be entertaining, at the very least.

“…You’ve even killed me a few times in different universes!” He claps his hands together. “And frankly, I was just going to let you die here. You’re not even canon, so you won’t be missed, but you appear to be of use to me. So I need you to come with me. Now. Please.”

What on Earth was he talking about? What on Earth was he ever talking about?

You bark a laugh. “I ain’t going anywhere with you, Red and Black.”

“Will it change your mind if I add a cherry on top?” He asks with a dry laugh before nodding enthusiastically. Manically. “You’re coming. Kevin’s life depends on it.”

“What are you talkin’ about? Are you threatenin’ my cat? That’s a new low, Wade.”

“Is it? Is it really? I am certain that I can go unfathomably lower.”

You roll your eyes, half-way through turning your back on him.

“You see this?” He holds out a gloved hand and catches some snowflakes. He rubs them between his fingers and they spark and fizzle before dusting away. “That’s not snow. That’s time death. Our universe is dying, womp womp. Stay here, sure! By all means, but—”

Your cat launches out of the door behind you, chirping and meowing to himself before promptly dashing through the portal and disappearing into the blurry void on the other side.

“Well. Looks like he made his choice.”

He sighs and lets you process. You take the final swig of your coffee and huff a breath.

“You literally have nothing left to lose. Trust me. I know. I’ve seen all kinds of you and, believe me when I say this, even though I love and cherish this version of you, this—” he points two fingers at you and gestures towards you judgmentally. “— isn’t the best look on you, honey.”

You want to dismiss him. You want to turn him away, to tell him to get lost. Grief swallowed your heroism whole, turning it into a barren wasteland of bitter indifference. You used to be bright, full of light, love, and hope.

Fucking hope. It’s the reason Logan left you to help Charles in the first place. You just wanted to settle down and disappear, to live a normal life. You lost an intrinsic part of your being when he died; you remember feeling it before you heard the news. Fucking hope.

Hope, hope, hope. Nana Rose chants on about it when she clasps your hands with her wrinkly ones, dragging you to church in spite of your atheism.

“And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts,” she chants, basket of flowers on her hip. “Romans 5:5. You’d do well to do your readin’, tulip.”

You didn’t and don’t ever usually believe a word she says, but you can feel her faith. It’s solid as steel, pouring out of her like blotting light through the gaps in the trees. Undying. And you’ll be damned if you let anything happen to her.

A flicker remains. You imagine what Charles would say to you now, how you’d hang onto his every word and he’d bring out the better of you. You truly do have nothing left to lose, except maybe your cat. Over your dead body.

“Come ooon,” he pokes his fingers together. “Fancy being a hero? One last time?”

You take the final drag before stubbing the cigarette out on your railing. “Alright, Red. I’ll bite.”

“Then suit up.”

Your friendship with Deadpool was a rocky one. There was a time you told him you’d be there for him through everything, and you technically owed him one for saving your life that one time even though your ego insists that, to this day, you could’ve taken the fight. That’s what heightened cellular control of your body is for, right? Accelerated healing? Empathetic abilities? Faster reactions, enhanced strength— you get the point.

Though you didn’t realise that returning the favour meant following him through space, time and alternate dimensions, you were a person who stayed true to their word, and you hated being indebted to someone.

So, here you were, waking up in the middle of a barren wasteland that was seconded as a cocktail soup of abandoned universal relics and heroes ripped from their worlds, accompanying your ex-best friend to restore your timeline.

But, one thing about paying someone back, it doesn’t technically count if they lie to you about the terms and conditions of the agreement. Only a few mere moments after you come to, dazed by the impact and the blaring wobbly heat of the sun, you rise to watch as Deadpool takes six blades of Wolverine to the chest.

You’re still a little dizzy when you stagger to your feet, head throbbing, as you’re trying to process if, yes, that’s exactly what you were witnessing.

“Let’s see you grow your fuckin’ head back!” Wolverine growls.

Deadpool holds his hands up in surrender. “Wait, wait, wait! I can fix it! I can fix it!”

The man in yellow hesitates. “Fix what?”

“Whatever it is that you did, whatever made you so bad—” Wade pants, catching his breath. “Those pricks at the TVA, you heard ‘em. They have the power to end my universe, but they also have the power to change yours. We get back there, and we can fix your world! Together. I promise.”

You stumble from around a pile of debris, clutching your side as a rib pops back into place. Wolverine sniffs the air, face blanching as he snaps to look in your direction.

When you first make eye contact with him, it feels as though you’re resurfacing from water after being on the precipice of drowning. Your heart leaps into your throat, adrenaline boils your veins and your lungs burst with relief of breathing.

“Troubles always gonna find you, baby,” Logan murmurs, kissing his way up from the pulse in your throat as he rocks against you. “But so am I.”

You’ve never loved him more, you think, than when he fucks you slow like this. A snowstorm rages outside the cabin, howling full of glass and needles and rattling the window frames. His skin against yours burns a fire within you, warming you to the bone. He sweeps hair away from your face before capturing your mouth in his, swallowing the sounds of your pants, threading his fingers between yours.

You could stay here forever, you think.

Your fingers shake from the whiplash of the memory. You instinctively reach towards him but you catch yourself. This was the husk of him, not your Logan. The realisation feels akin to ripping open a haphazardly sewn wound right down to the fatty yellow flesh, raw and needling and sore.

He’s broader than you remember. Hair a little darker, wrinkles a little deeper. He smells of alcohol and cigars — that much is familiar. That’s him, flesh and adamantium bone, living, breathing. Alive. The physical shell of him prods alive parts of your inner circuitry that you weren’t aware had fallen asleep, like intrinsic nerves untangling within you.

You can sense that he knows you, too, based on his emotional response. His noise is extremely loud, spilling out of the cracks of whatever wall he thought he’d successfully built up. This version of Logan certainly had a lot of secrets.

“You,” he whisper-growls. It’s almost intangible, leaving him like a breath. He pulls his blades promptly from Deadpool’s chest and kicks him backwards.

You’re starting to understand that faith thing that Nana Rose was knocking on about when he strides towards you, large and tall. You certainly weren’t a believer by any means but you’re sure you’d be the picture of unbridled worship for the way you’d fall to your knees for him.

Your empathetic power lurches for him, seeking him out as you used to — like a flower to the sun — but it physically recoils from the aura that it touches. It was all your Logan but not in a familiar way. It’s tainted, dark, and it tastes like copper and screams.

All colour melts from his face and his body shuffles in a way that indicates discomfort; a dry swallow, tense shoulders and flicking eyes that refuse to meet your gaze. He omits feelings of guilt and shame that linger on the tendrils of your empathetic powers where you connect with him.

You try to zone Wade out, squinting as you attempt to navigate through his cobweb of emotions (seriously, this guy’s aura could do with a cleanup) but it’s like wading through black-tar syrup, feelings negated by years of alcohol-abuse and avoidance. Eventually, you feel something that makes your guts twist and your legs shake: a version of romantic attraction and recognition so carnal and raw that you begin to blush, a warmth that creeps its way up from your belly. A breath escapes you like a punch.

“Well. This feels awkward.” Wade glances between you both and places his hands on his hips. “Why do you both look like you’ve seen a ghost? Do I need to call Egon Splegler and tell him to bring his ghost sucky-sucky vacuum? Oh my god—” He slaps his hands to his face and gasps sharply. “Cross-Universal lovers?”

As inappropriately timed and tone-deaf his one-liners could be, you’d never been more appreciative of an icebreaker. You think you could’ve stood there for an hour, frozen in silence, staring at a reanimated corpse, basking in the noise of his emotional frequency like an addict finally getting another hit.

But then the noise stops, swallowed up like a heaving black hole had split and atomised the tension whole with its unforgiving jaws. He closes himself off from you. Connection severed. You reach out and feel a cold nothingness similar to how, on particularly rough nights, you’d try to reach out to him after his passing. You’d clung onto his plaid shirts until the smell and emotional residue wore off of them.

“You with the mouth? To fix things?”

You nod tightly. You don’t think you can find your voice in front of him.

“Let’s just keep moving. And stay out of my head,” Logan grumbles, crossing you with a cold shoulder and mumbling something incoherent under his breath. When he’s made enough distance, you turn to your old friend with a cold glare.

“Ooh, brr. Anybody else feel a chill?”

“Wade.”

He twists towards you comically slow.

“You. Motherfucker.” You begin approaching him. He backs up slowly and holds his hands up.

“I knew if I told you the plan you wouldn’t have gone along with it!”

“Are you insane? You think multiversally grave-robbing my fucking dead ex-boyfriend is going to save our timelines?!” You yell.

“Technically he’s not dead—”

You push him. “He should be! He- he was— he is!”

“Well, this one isn’t!” He pushes back. “And I’m not sorry for finding a loophole in the plan to fry — not just mine, mind you — but both of our timelines! Did you happen to forget that? No multi-dimensional depressed Logan? Alright then! No more Kevin!”

He’s talking about your cat. Anger flares.

“Don’t you dare bring Kevin into this.”

“You forced my hand!” He yells, mouth moving alien-like behind the mask on his face. “Besides, I’m not doing this for me—”

You blink your eyes closed. You might reach the end of your tether if he said her name one more time. You’ve been in his company for approximately an hour, and he’s already drilled a hole into your brain with his incessant yapping about the “love of his life”.

“Wade, you need to move on. She clearly has.”

“I will not move on from the only people I love in this fucked up dimension. This isn’t just for Vanessa.” He shoves a glossy photograph in your face. “This is for you and blind Al and even that shit-head teenager and her pinkie-pie girlfriend! They deserve their timeline!”

“I literally don’t care about any of those people!”

Even yourself?

“Well, I do! I have people I care about! Aren’t you supposed to be a hero? God, all of you X-men are so depressing. Is it the suits they make you wear? Is that it? Can’t breathe in that thing?” He continues poking at you. “Loosen up a little!”

You straighten your posture and the black leather of your suit crackles. You swat his hands away as he continues poking. “Alright! Cut it out!”

“Think of Nana Rose.” He draws a heart with two fingers. “Little old ladies like her deserve a chance, don’t they?”

And even though humans had done nothing but wage war on your kind for simply existing, you still felt obliged to help them. Besides, the thought of other mutants — kid mutants — dying when you hold the chance to save them in the palm of your hand? You were hardly managing as you were now. You’re not sure you’d be able to live with yourself if you kept going like this.

“Alright, alright!” You huff, heart pounding in your chest. You look over at where Wolverine kicks at rocks in the distance. “Fucking hell, Red. Holy fuck.”

You say it again, only this time you scream it into your hands.

“You should’ve warned me.”

“Are we good?”

“Are we go—” You scoff. You kick his ankle, feel the bones shatter and crunch beneath your foot. He lets out a short, high-pitched yelp. “You deserved that.”

“Motherfuckermotherfucker… oh you’re lucky I feel bad about lying to you or I would’ve twisted your milk bags off for that I swear to God.” He sucks in a breath. “I’ll allow it. Just this once.”

“Mhm,” you murmur, walking forward. “That doesn’t sound like an apology.”

He limps after you, floppy ankle dragging a line in the sandy dirt. “I’ll be dead before you ever get one of those out of me! And too bad I can’t fucking die!”

The difference between this Logan and your Logan is stark, minus the uncanny resemblance. Your Logan was soft and gentle, but this version is sharper and blade-edged, and your fingers bleed when you try to touch him.

Staring at him feels like throwing up a mirror and analysing yourself, a picture of what happens to a person when they make all of the wrong choices. You’re embarrassed, almost. This isn’t a version of you that you ever want him to know, but at least you can say you’re trying.

Him, on the other hand…

“Are we going to keep up the awkward silence?” You snip, awkwardly adjusting the restraints on your wrist.

You’ve been in Logan’s company for all of an hour, and yet accompanying one another through literal time purgatory didn’t seem to irk any feelings of obligation from his end. He’d been cold-shouldering and ignoring you the entire time, even though you kept catching him staring.

“I have nothing to say to you,” he spits, wriggling uncomfortably against a very unconscious Deadpool. “You got us into this mess.”

You frown, small. You can feel hatred pouring out from him, leaving a sickly bile taste in the back of your throat. You’ve lived through enough hate for being a mutant in your lifetime, enough that you’d become accustomed to tuning it out of your radio channel, so to speak, but something about it coming from the man you loved makes it a little harder to swallow.

You’re quiet when you next speak. “Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”

He shoots you an indistinguishable look and grunts to himself. Such a Libra.

“So, what’s the story here?” Johnny asks with a sly grin. He turns to you with a glimmer of mischief in his eye. “You two know each other?”

You cringe. “Sort of. Last I remember, he wasn’t this much of a prick.”

“Oh, trouble in paradise, huh?” His grin grows. “That’s a shame. Not often we get girls like you in the void.”

“Seriously?” You say with a side-eye.

He shrugs, all blue-spandex biceps and charming smile. “No harm in trying.”

Your breath hitches as Cassandra approaches, wide eyes and tilted head aiming for you purposefully. Logan swiftly angles his body so that he’s standing in front of you and she halts as a delighted, implicating smile stretches across her face. Your chest constricts, tendrils of yearning coiling tighter. It appeared to be muscle memory: his instinctual, protective flinch. Just like your Logan used to, despite how capable he knew you were.

“Now, I’ve always wanted a Wolverine.” Her finger moves along the crowd. “Knew I’d get one eventually. But I never even dreamed of having you.”

Cassandra zips behind you and her slender fingers delve into the crevices and valleys of your brain, lips intimately close to your neck and ear. Wolverine snarls territoriality, but he’s unable to move. The urge to reach for him is overwhelming.

“Do you know that there are so few universes where you exist?” She whispers, caressing your deepest memories. “I even asked the TVA about you, in exchange for keeping the peace. I was disheartened when I found out one of you died. But you’re here! Now, I don’t believe in fate, but this almost feels like it was meant to be.”

You flinch when she uncovers a particularly fond memory, one you hadn’t been aware was so prominently in the forefront.

In the back of his truck, a cigar between his teeth, hands sliding under your shirt. In another world, he would’ve taken the time to do this properly, but living in a school didn’t exactly grant two consenting adults any privacy.

“Waited long enough for this.”

He kisses up from your bare foot to the sensitive skin of your inner knee, lips scorching against your skin.

“Logan…”

“Easy,” he murmurs, leaning away for a moment to remove his plaid overshirt, leaving himself in that white vest you could eat him alive in. “Still wanna take my time with you.”

You’re desperate, he can tell— can probably smell it, too, but you’re far too humiliated to ask him if he can.

Logan wasn’t your first by any means, but with the way you were near trembling for him truly felt like you’d be losing all of your innocence in the back seat. You’re shy and quiet, everything he isn’t. You’re infatuated with him — have been since he burst out of the lab in his grey hoodie — and have daydreamed about what it would be like to have him. You certainly didn’t let him know that right away, and with whatever shred of composure remained around his relentless flirting and teasing remarks, you tried to play hard to get.

Until you couldn’t. Because you weren’t. He had you, and with every fibre of your being, you wanted him to.

She pulls her hands from your brain with a shlick sound, rubbing her fingers together as if relishing in the produce of your memories. She grabs a rag from her pocket and smirks knowingly.

“You’re thinking of that at a time like this?” She laughs all witch-like. “Worry not; your secret’s safe with me, naughty girl.”

Wade lowers his voice and leans towards Logan. “She was thinking of me.”

“I can read between the lines, darling,” she potters on. “This isn’t about a sexual fantasy. Deep down, you just want to be wanted. To be loved.”

She steps back and extends her arms. “After all, you’ll never amount to anything in your world. It’s such a shame that your Logan left you so abruptly. Did he break your heart?” She giggles. “Why suppress your powers in his name? For a level-five mutant, you certainly don’t act like one. You can do that, here. Freely!”

Your worn thin tether creaks with exhaustion like a dilapidated bridge under pressure. There isn’t a singular fibre of your being that desires to be stuck here, but the small, angry teenage voice in your head would love nothing more than to just let go. You’d been containing your powers for as far as you can remember, and they'd always been as irresistible as the promise of Pandora's box.

But you know how that story ends.

You take a moment’s pause. “I have no interest in livin’ in a garbage dump.”

She tilts her head and neatly clasps her hands behind her back. “Do you forget where you come from? I think we both know who lives in a garbage dump.”

“You motherf—”

You’d just managed to escape Cassandra’s lair with Alioth’s foggy storm fangs nipping at your ankles when you ran across the abandoned diner.

You’re ravenous, wrist aching from how you dig at the freezer-burned ice cream. It’s your least favourite flavour but you’ve been running on fumes for the past day or so, so you’ll take what you can get, though you begin to lose your appetite when you remember Johnny, and how Cassandra had zipped the skin from him like popping a blood-filled water balloon.

Something is rumbling beneath your surface. A distinct, constant buzzing, like two atoms slowly building up radioactive energy. You’d asked for none of this, and would certainly give Wade a talking to when the time called for it, but, for now, you’re trying your hardest to make this as easy a process as possible.

Your male counterpart, however, was doing exactly what men generally do. He was making this fucking unbearable.

Logan sits across from you, brooding, fingers gripping the medicinal bottle as if it’s anywhere near appropriate to be drinking. He throws you a particularly lingering glare when he notices you staring, but refuses to maintain eye contact when you look back at him

You toss the tub and spoon across the table with a sharp clatter, your patience collapsing.

“What? Can’t even look at me?” You snap. His eyes look exhausted when they finally meet yours. Wade, being the characteristic little fucker he is, pulls a delighted, shit-stirring grin as he glances between the two of you as if watching a tennis match.

Logan gasps as he finishes taking a drink. “Not much to look at,” he says, wiping the back of his mouth.

The words twist like a fist in your gut. For a moment, you’re rendered too stunned to respond, like he’d tossed a flash-bang toward you. His casual cruelty digs deeper than you care to admit— but you’ve had far too much therapy, too much psychological training, to know he’s deflecting.

But you wouldn’t doubt for a second that there was a more beautiful version of you somewhere.

“What, you comparin’ me to someone?” You ask. You can tell you’ve struck a nerve by the way he goes for another sip. “That it?”

He grimaces.

“Do I make you feel sick? Am I making you feel sick?”

He stares at you hard, but silently. He takes a long swig of the rubbing alcohol and you cringe as his throat bobs. His silence and feigned indifference light a fire of indignation.

“You know, you’re not the only person who’s suffered. Who’s lost people.”

He laughs like what you’re saying is funny. “Yeah, right, bub, you have got no idea what loss is.”

“Oh, you are such a fucking cunt,” you spit, slamming your hands on the table as you rise to your feet. “You know what, Wade? You’re right. I can’t do this. So fuck you and fuck his timeline and fuck every timeline that had anything to do with it! I’m done.”

A wave of uncontrolled psionic energy born from your anger blasts from you upon your final words, slamming them back into their seats and sending the cutlery, nearby debris and weapons flying. The neighbouring windows smash, shattering explosively and sprinkling outside of the diner.

The simmering stops, replaced by a stifling emptiness.

“I wasn’t finished with that!” Wade cries, crouching down to scoop up what remains of the gelatinous spam.

You pause for a moment, glance at your hands, and then grab your jacket in an aggressive fit.

Wade whines your name, halfway through gagging down a forkful of cold spam off of the floor (one of which resonates with a particularly distinct crunch, but you don’t stay to find out whether or not he just truly ate glass), and he doesn’t attempt to get up and follow you as you storm off.

You take a heaving breath of hot desert air when you leave the diner. The sandy breeze tousles your hair, and with the prickly energy of an incoming nervous breakdown, your legs kick and you’re running.

“Stryker got you, too?” Logan asks, eyebrows flicking up.

You don’t look him in the eye when you nod. You cross your arms and slouch a little, caging your heart in. Stryker — the ex-militant with a fetish for experimenting on mutants — had held you captive for several years. He’d brainwashed you into using your empathetic abilities for nefarious purposes, like seducing other mutants, and sometimes important political and militant figures.

“You like me?” He questions, quieter this time.

“No… no, not like you,” you reply. “I don’t have the fancy bones. I heal fast, but I wouldn’t survive that kinda procedure.”

“Ah.”

“I don’t remember everything. Just bits and pieces. Feelings, mostly. Nightmares,” you explain. He nods understandingly. “I’m always on edge.”

“You always seem so calm,” he observes. “Nothing seems to phase you.”

“I have to be. It took a lot of pain and damage to get this level-headed,” you respond quickly. “If I don’t manage my emotions, all the emotions that I receive, touch— it all comes out. Explosively. It has to come out somehow. I could hurt people.”

“Funny. School therapist ‘n’ you’ve got the most issues,” he teases light-heartedly.

“You got no idea, lumberjack.”

You hated killing.

You’re on your knees, arms and hands and chest soaked crimson, sobbing. They’d come out of nowhere, the raiders, and they were hungry for something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. All you know is that you felt their need, their desperation, their willingness to do anything to get it.

The flash of harrowing horror someone feels before they die isn’t a unique experience. It simply varies in strength — sometimes it’s a feather-like touch that careens over you, a shuddering realisation that they’re taking their last breath, and sometimes it’s like a crack of lightning. Bloodied hands gripping your biceps with fear in a final attempt to survive. They’d rather cling to you than die alone.

You hate killing. Especially this up close.

You don’t cry for them. You don’t even cry for yourself. It’s a small emotional space where they cry vicariously through you.

You were black-out when it happened, you tell yourself, and suddenly regress to the student you used to be, sobbing on your knees in front of Charles as he tries to teach you serenity and control after an outburst had caused you to kill a nest of birds. He’d done it for Magneto, he said— so he could certainly do it for you.

You should have meditated more.

The sound of a car gurgles somewhere behind you, but you haven’t the energy to look or use your powers to seek out who’s approaching and what their intent is. You’re exhausted enough that whatever they wish to do with you — turn you to processed dog kibble, send you back into the jaws of Cassandra’s lair, kill you — whatever. Just let it happen.

A slamming car door and then the crunching of boots on gravel.

“You’re easy to track.” A pause. “You look pathetic. You done throwing your tantrum?”

Logan. Of course, it’s him.

“Leave me alone, prick.”

“As much as I’d like to, you and the Mouth still have to hold up your end of the bargain,” he quips, folding his arms across his broad chest. “Now get up.”

You glare up at him and his arms unfurl as he notices your tear-streaked face. His expression drops, softens, before it quickly ticks back up into an incredulous, irritated look.

“Are you crying?” He asks with a scoff. He pauses before dragging his hand down his face and rubbing his scruffy jaw. “Jesus Christ. Get up. Get in the car.”

“I ain’t fuckin’ around, Logan. Piss. Off.”

He mumbles a string of incoherent curses and turns on his heel. You think, for a moment and a breath of relief, that he’s truly going to give up on you and leave. He could finish this without you. It’s easier this way.

Instead, a thick bicep wraps around your middle and you’re flung over his shoulder with a yelp.

“Quit your squirmin’.”

“Then put me down!” You yell, thrashing in his grasp. He promptly ignores you, unphased by the jabs you strike at his back. You quickly unsheath the small knife from your jacket sleeve, winding up your arm before you drive it into the muscly pocket by his kidneys.

“Ow! Cheap shot, you little fucker!”

Wade sighs and clutches his hands in front of his chest romantically. “Oh, the newlyweds.”

Logan dumps you into the front seat of the car carelessly, grumbling something as he slams the door shut and applies the child locks. Petty motherfucker.

You rub the sore spot on your tailbone where you landed on a seat buckle funny. You want to bite your tongue but you’re flared up.

“We should switch places. I’m a better driver than you are.”

Logan doesn’t bother looking at you as he starts up the ignition. “Just shut up.”

“You can go on ahead and smoke a cat turd in hell, then.”

“So fuckin’ immature. Grow up.”

“Mom and Dad can you please stop fighting!” Deadpool cries out from the backseats.

You just roll your eyes, resigning into your chair and folding your arms.

At some point along the ride, Wade falls asleep, snoring soundly to himself. You’re silent in the front, drumming a beat on your knees, awkwardly thinking of something to say. You have the impulsive need to fill the silence, even if you were trapped in a crappy car with a man who had made it vehemently clear that he irrevocably hated you.

“So, if they can fix your world, what’s the first thing you’ll do?”

Logan rips his eyes towards you. “What did you say?”

“I said when you get back, what’s the first thing—”

“No, no, no— before that.”

You hesitate, wondering if you’d landed yourself in a trap based on the sharpness of his tone and the way that anger crackles off of him like static lightning.

“If… they can fix your world?”

He slams his foot on the brake and you just about catch yourself before your nose goes flying into the dashboard. Wade is thrust out of the front window, smashing through and promptly falling unconscious underneath a tree, neck broken at an awkward angle.

Your eyes widen.

“What do you mean: if?”

“That’s what Wade said—”

“I don’t give a fuck who said what. He promised me he would fix things—”

“Well, I didn’t promise you shit!”

He laughs, low and devoid of humour. “You don’t have a clue if they can fix things, do you?”

Well, no. You’ve been operating on a hunch the entire time and had half come to accept that you might be stuck in the TVA void forever. Who knows how much time has passed elsewhere?

Regardless of the fact you truly had nothing to do with whatever came out of Wade’s mouth, you weren’t about to let Mr. Worst Wolverine shit all over him and his plan to save his friends.

“Is it really that far-fetched? We made an educated wish!”

Something dark flashes across his face. You can feel hate pulsing off of him in dizzying waves, doubling with each passing moment.

“You made… an educated fucking wish?”

“What’s your problem with me, huh? Got a stick up your ass?” You reach for the car door handle, but he snaps up your wrist, holding it high. “You better let go of me right now, old man—”

“Or what, huh? Gonna run away again?” He threatens.

“You geriatric, alcoholic motherfucker. I’ve done nothin’ but try and be civil with you and you treat me like I’m the one who ruined your life! I don’t know what version of me you knew but you need to stop actin’ like I ain’t worthy of being here because of what you did!”

“Listen, I’ll tell you what my problem is with you—” he leans closer, eyes roving over you with a disgusted look on his face. “I mean, you are a ridiculous, emotional, immature crybaby. I have never met a sadder, more attention-seeking, foul-mouthed little bitch in my entire life and that says a lot because I’ve been alive for more than two hundred fuckin’ years.”

“And I’ll tell you, that bald chick was right about one thing: you will never amount to anything. You’ll never save the world. You couldn’t even save a relationship with me. I’d say you should’ve died alone but it’s one of God’s best jokes that in this universe you didn’t seem to fuckin’ die, except that ones on the rest of all of us!”

He breathes heavily when his rant finishes. You’re taken aback, jaw slack, eyes warm with the onset of tears born from shock.

“What, you got nothin’ to say, empath?”

You suck in a deep breath, blinking slowly as you flick the emotional switch off in your head.

“I’m going to hurt you now.”

He snorts. “Oh, are you?”

In a swift manoeuvre, you raise your slap him around the face. You knew better than to punch a metal skull, but you still wanted him to sting. His eyes slit, nostrils flaring in challenge.

“That all you got?”

“Not even close,” you snap back, knuckles whitening from the way you curl your fingers into your palm. “You want to play this game, Logan? Fine— but I’m not gonna sit here and keep on provin’ myself to you. I’ve had enough of your Christ-born-again superiority complex. Did you forget that you’re the worst Wolverine?”

“Oh, yeah? Well, at least I’m honest about who I am. Look at you— you’re a fuckin’ joke, pretending to be some hero in a suit made for a dead team,” he barks back, voice rising with each word. “I don’t need your bullshit “wishes”— you should know, I’ve buried people for less.”

“Yeah, because you’re so perfect, ain’t that right?” You yell, voice cracking from the power of your anger. “The almighty Wolverine— the unkillable bastard who can’t seem to hold onto anythin’ good in his life! You’ve had centuries to get your shit together, and look at you—” You look him up and down with disgust. “—still just a bitter, lonely, broken man, takin’ it out on everyone else and a goddamn bottle.”

His eyes narrow, muscles in his jaw twitching as he appears to fight and keep his temper in check, but there’s an obvious crack forming, the dam of his unbridled rage near overflowing.

“You think you know me, huh?” He murmurs, voice a deadly whisper, the calm before the storm. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about what I’ve been through. You’re nothing but a lost woman playing make-believe and hiding in the shadow of a fuckin’ merc. You’re pathetic.”

Something inside of you breaks. “I’m pathetic? Look at yourself! You’re so goddamn desperate to feel anythin’ that you’ll lash out at everyone around you for some semblance of warmth. There’s a fine line between hate and love, after all! You think you’re so strong because you can heal, because you’ve lived forever? Yeah, right— you’re the weakest, most cowardly man I’ve met in a loong time.”

The blades between his knuckles shoot out with a shink! For a moment, you think that he’s going to attack you. Hell— you even hope that he will, just to diminish some of the unbearable, stifling tension. Instead, the blades retract with a deep breath, and he grabs you forcefully by the collar of your suit, yanking you so close that you can feel the heat of his breath on your face.

His voice is low and rough, each word dripping with venom. “Go on, keep psychoanalysing me. You wanna talk about cowardice? How about leaving people who need you, just because it’s easier to run? Better yet, how about the fact that you abandoned the X-men to hide away in the mountains, huh?”

Your eyes widen with recognition.

“Yeah… Wade’s got a big mouth. Told me everythin’. You’re no hero. Hell, you’re just a selfish, reckless hillbilly who failed at pretending to be human.”

Your heart palpitates in your chest, each word coiling and slicing like blades in your intestines, but you refuse to let him see how much it hurts. Instead, your lips curl into a cold, bitter smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“And you’re just a sad, angry old man who can’t handle the fact that he’s lost everythin’. Go ahead: keep pushing people away! Keep hidin’ behind that anger o’ yours! It’s got you this far, ain’t it?! I’ve treated kids with trauma worth double yours and they were nothin’ but kind and selfless. I won’t let you project your failures onto me. I’m done with this.”

“Yeah, why don’t you walk away!”

The argument reaches a fever pitch, tension sizzling in the air between you. You’re so close, glaring at each other with so much anger, so much resonating heat, that it feels like something’s going to break. And then, suddenly, it does.

Before either of you can think, you close the gap between you, lips crashing against his. It’s not gentle, it’s not soft— the kiss is rough, violent, a clash of lips and fury. His grip on your collar tightens, and for a moment, you’re both frozen, caught in the shock of what’s happening.

But then something more fiery in nature than anger ignites, and he kisses you back just as fiercely, and maybe a little more desperate— like he’s trying to pour out all of his pain and resentment, into this one moment. Your tongues slide against each other and his teeth catch against yours as he groans into your mouth. Your hands thread through his hair, yanking him closer as if trying to hold onto something real and tangible in the chaos of the kiss, reeling from the sudden spinning in your head. It’s angry, raw, filled with all the things you’re not capable of verbalising: grief, love, yearning, reconciliation.

The result of a painful reunion.

The world falls away and all that’s left is the taste of him, the feel of his lips against yours, rough and demanding. You hate him right now— hate him so much that you can’t help but want him. The sheer intensity of it all overwhelms you and makes your fingers shake against the nape of his neck, but you can’t pull away— not now, not when you’ve tasted the wine. You’re too far gone, caught up in the storm of his intoxication, fantasising about ripping that yellow and blue suit off of him and riding him until there’s nothing left for him to regenerate.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, the bubble of the moment bursts with the sound of slow clapping coming from outside the car. You jerk back from Logan, breath coming in ragged gasps. Logan is equally as stunned, still tight-gripping your collar as if he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands.

You both see Wade sitting up, hands together, eyes wide as saucers as he takes in the scene.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Did I just wake up in a telenovela?” His voice is laced with amusement. “I mean, I know you two clearly had some unresolved sexual tension— but this? Oh, this is gold. Please don’t stop on my account, just let me get the camcorder first!”

You’re too stun-locked to respond, lips parting and closing as your brain scrambles to formulate a response as you’re still reeling from what just happened. Logan (for once) seems equally as lost for words, his typical scowl replaced with a look of confusion.

“Shut up, Mouth,” Logan barks, but there’s no real heat behind it. There can’t be, really, not when you’ve both been caught red-handed. He releases your collar at once.

Wade, however, is having none of it. “Oh, no, no, no! You don’t just get to brush this off like it’s nothing! That was a full-on makeout session! I only interrupted because I thought you were about to rip each other’s clothes off.” He sighs wistfully and crosses his legs. “Here I was thinking that you two hated each other— but I guess all that anger was just foreplay, huh?”

Your face burns with a mixture of shame and something else you’re not quite ready to admit. “Wade— cut it out.”

He grins, not deterred in the least. “Oh, but I’m loving this. All that pent-up aggression finally coming to fruition. It’s beautiful, truly.”

Logan shoots him a look that could melt iron, but Wade just simply shrugs, unfazed. “Hey, I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. Everyone being me.”

“Wade,” you warn through gritted teeth.

“Well, unless you want me to watch (which I am not opposed to, by the way) maybe next time the two of you should get a room,” he tilts his head. “Or, you know, a couples therapist.”

He then turns to address Logan directly.

“And I must’ve missed the AO3 tags because I did not peg you for the enemies-to-lovers type, Mister. Who knew all it took was a bit of hate-kissing to get the sparks flying? Don’t look so ashamed! I’m just jealous I didn’t get to you first.”

He stumbles towards the car and collapses into the back seat. “Next time you wanna bump uglies, just ask for some privacy! You can save me the broken neck!” He gets himself comfortable, man-spreading and laying his hands on both of your shoulders as you stare dead-forwards, unable to look at each other.

“Gosh, you’re both so tense.” He begins massaging. “Look— props to you both for not letting all that angst go to waste. This is a safe space, and there’s no shame in a little hormone-induced—”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Logan interrupts, revving the car back to life and shoving his prodding hands away. “Just be quiet back there.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll keep the commentary to myself. But just so you know— got that bad boy playing on repeat, right here.” He says, tapping the side of his head.

You bury your face in your hands. This was going to be a long car ride.

As the car starts moving again, you muster the bravery to risk a glance at Logan. His expression is hard to read but his energy thrums with uncertainty. The boiling hatred seems to have dialled down to a gentle simmer, mostly redirected towards himself rather than you. There’s something else— something that wasn’t there before. You rip your eyes away quickly, mind racing.

For somebody so in tune with emotions and the literal ability to manipulate them if you so desired, you were horrendous at navigating your own. You don’t know what this kiss meant, or if it even meant anything at all.

If there’s anyone you didn’t expect to come across in the void, it’s X-23— Laura. She’s taller, now, with hair down her back, but she’s still got that stern, mean look on her face that intimidated you the first time you met her.

The weak front door squeaks when you open it a crack. A girl, maybe in her small teen years, blinks up at you.

“Can I help you?” You ask, wiping your flour-dusty hands down on the front of your cooking apron.

“Are you—” she says your name.

You attempt to swing the door shut, but she jams it with her boot. You flick your eyes up, glance around for any signs of threats, and then lower your gaze to her. You wrap your cardigan around your mid-section.

“I don’t go by that name anymore. Who the Hell are you, kid, and what do you want?”

“I’m here about Logan,” she says, matter-of-factly.

Logan. A name followed by your own, both of which you hadn’t heard in years.

“He’s not here, kid. He died years ago.”

“I know,” she answers, unwavering. “I was there when it happened. Your name was the last thing he said.”

You’d let her in for a glass of sugary sweet tea that day, but once stories were exchanged you told her not to come back. She respected your wishes— she said she simply wanted to put a name to the face, to get closure, but you’d felt her desperation. Perhaps she was seeking out respite, or family, but you were in no position to be sharing your space with someone who could put another target on your back.

After introductions were made with the others who had been ripped from their timelines (Elektra, Blade and oh my god a Gambit variant with muscles so huge he could pop your head between his biceps) you excused yourself to sit outside. The buzzing emotional energy made your collar feel a little tight around the neck, your head a little fuzzy with noise, so you decided to reignite the small campfire a few yards away from the safe-house and rest there, instead.

You hadn’t realised you were being followed.

“It’s not safe here.”

“It’s not safe anywhere, Logan.”

He looks defeated, raising and clasping his hands behind his head.

“I gotta leave, baby.”

“If you leave, I ain’t lettin’ you back,” you whisper. “You don’t heal the same anymore, Logan, and you promised me—”

“I know what I promised,” he rebuts, but not angrily. You can already see on his face that he’s made his choice. He’s not coming to you to discuss it. “But I owe it to him. To Charles. He gave me everything.”

“So then what did I give you?” You ask. “Not a home, not my love, not everything?” You slam the tea towel down and turn away from him as the tears form. He’s quiet, perhaps processing everything, but you’re too impatient.

“If you’re just gon’ get up and leave, do it now. I won’t beg you to stay, Jimmy.”

“I love you.”

You don’t say it back.

You wake up with a start, damp clinging to your forehead. You immediately sense another presence and glance over to see Logan watching you with a steady gaze. His expression is soft and almost reverent at first, but his facade hardens with a quick tick of his jaw.

“You talk in your sleep.” The bottle in his hand sloshes as he takes a drink. “Nightmare?”

You sigh frustratedly when you realise it’s him. Of course, it’s him — his energy reeks of whiskey and self-loathing. You prop yourself on your elbows, massaging the sore spots on your temples where sleep fog forms.

“I can’t even get some rest without you botherin’ me? You’re leakin’ self-hatred everywhere.”

“Quit hogging the fire then.”

“Fuck you,” you murmur, but it’s without bite.

A moment passes before he fills the silence again. “What are you even doing out here, alone? Trying to get yourself killed? Pretty stupid.”

“Do you know how hard it is to sleep when nobody shuts up?”

His brows knit. “They’re all dead asleep.”

His hand runs up and down your back.

“Can’t settle?” He asks after you sigh.

“No.” You turn so you’re lying on your back, shoulder touching his, staring up at the ceiling. “Everyone is feeling so loud. It’s like a frequency I can’t turn off.”

He hums. “They’re grieving, I s’pose.”

“Even you and you always said you hated the guy.” You shuffle to lie on your side, facing him. You place a hand on his bare chest. “I can feel it, you know.”

“I didn’t hate Scott. Just found him… obnoxiously irritating.”

“Tough guy.” You giggle and stroke his cheek. “You’re turnin’ soft, old man.”

He pulls you flush against him and presses a kiss to your hairline. You lay in verbal silence for a while, soaking up his presence (god, you were so in love), but you’re interrupted when he abruptly sits up and grabs the white vest he discarded somewhere near the bed.

You lean on your elbows. “Where you goin’?”

“Let’s go for a ride.”

“What?”

“You can’t sleep here. Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

“But Charles said—”

“Screw Charles. You comin’ or what?”

He hadn’t told you he loved you yet, but at that moment you felt it.

And so you do, clinging to his mid-section on his motorcycle, head stuffed into the helmet he affectionately forces you to wear. It’s a warm night in New York, soupy with heat, but the further you get away from the compound with him by your side the more you feel you can breathe.

“’Course, you don’t understand.”

You reach for the small pouch on your hip and retrieve a cigarette. You light it between your lips, taking a seat a few paces away from him, hands still shaking a little with the aftershocks of the night terror.

“Since when did you start smoking?”

You perk a brow. “I’ve always smoked.”

He seems to realise something and simply shakes his head before returning to the vice in his fist.

“Right.”

You stare at him for a long, passing moment, before pulling out your lighter again and offering it towards him. He perks a brow.

“I know you got a cigar in there somewhere,” you say. He pauses, sighs, and then retrieves a thick cigar from one of the pouches on his suit. You lean closer, flick the lighter, and cup your hand to protect it from the breeze, shamelessly glancing at the dancing glow that bathes his face amid the firelight. You feel the urge to kiss him again, and when his eyes flick up to yours, you think for the briefest second that he wants to kiss you, too.

Swallowing, you collapse your lighter and clear your throat. You sit quietly, smoking and drinking in a silence only negated by the distant sound of chittering bugs around you. Once you’re finished with your cigarette, you toss the butt into the fire.

“We’re infiltrating tomorrow morning.”

He laughs dryly. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

Your lips tighten into a thin line. “We won’t make it without you.”

“Sure you will. I’m not him, you know,” Wolverine grumbles, slugging another shot of alcohol.

You scrutinise him from across the log. You wonder if he feels as pathetic as he looks.

“No— you got that right,” you answer. You pry the liquor from his hands but the grip he releases from the neck of the bottle must have been a mercy on his part because you knew he was extraordinarily stronger than you. “He was much braver than you.”

His eyes flicker from the flames to you as you take a long swig.

“Although probably just as stupid.”

A pause. Crackling and popping firewood fills the silence.

“But, he was a hero. And so are you.”

A beat before he spits a dry laugh, “what gave you that idea?”

You give him a once over and offer a half-smile. “That suit, for starters.”

He looks down at himself like he’d forgotten he was wearing it and wipes away a stray speck of blood from the bright material that you’re sure you might be responsible for.

“What, you like it?” He grunts.

You can’t help but smile. “Yellow suits you.”

“This is all I had left to remember you— them by,” he says, tone turning more sombre as he reminisces.

You decide it’s not the time to make another jab, so, instead, you play back and forth with the bottle for a while until the alcohol stops stinging your throat.

Something small shatters inside of you when you watch him muster the strength to look into your eyes, and his look a little glassy.

“Did you love him?”

Woof, that needed a healthy drink of courage to answer. When you hold his gaze, there’s a hollowness to his expression— an unasked question. Was there truly a version of him worth loving?

“Yeah.” You wipe the back of your hand across your mouth to cover the crack in your voice. “Yeah, I did.”

He’d insisted he hadn’t wanted you around yet he’d kissed you and now followed you to where you’d been sleeping. That had to count for something, so you extend your arm and gesture the bottle towards him— an olive branch in the form of shitty Jack Daniels. Your fingers touch when he accepts it and the brief glimmer of eye contact you share sends shivery energy zipping between you.

“I loved him,” you repeat, as if convincing yourself. A repeated balm to soothe the pain of letting him leave.

“He’s an idiot for leaving you.”

You bite back a sob-laugh, imagination caught somewhere between wondering who you’d rather beat up more: him, or yourself.

“Maybe I’m an idiot for not followin’ him.” You sniff deeply to push back the incoming sob-induced mess. “Not that he woulda let me.”

He hums resignedly.

Clearing your throat, you tuck your hands between your thighs. Swiftly moving on. “What was I— she like?”

He takes a long drink and sighs thickly when he comes up for air. He looks down at his hands when he talks as if choosing his words thoughtfully and carefully.

“Strong, smart. Stubborn. Far too fuckin’ stubborn.”

You force a smile over the flinch of pain in your chest. “Guess we got that in common.”

You reach up and twist the dog tag around your neck, feeling for the ring you’d slipped around the chain. You were never married legally but were in all the ways that mattered. Your heart aches for the brief moment of domesticity you shared with him. You expect him to be finished, but he once laughs, a smile cracking on his face.

“She loved kids— had a soft spot for the weird ones.” He squints and rubs at the flesh between his knuckles where the blades typically protrude. “Put me in my place. Stood up for what was right.”

His words strike a chord in your heart, playing the familiar tune of yearning and guilt and grief. A swelling sensation rises from your stomach and you’re not sure if you’re going to scream, cry or throw up.

“Were you—?”

“In love with her? What, like you can’t tell?” He interrupts, face hardening. Another drink. “It doesn’t matter. We argued one night and I refused to follow her back to the school, ‘bout the same time the humans went mutant hunting.”

Logan takes a moment to catch himself.

“When I came back, shit-faced from the bar, I realised I’d gotten my version of you murdered, along with the rest of them. Laid up like a fucking log pile. That’s what loving me got you.”

The gruesome imagery sours the liquor in your stomach. You push the nausea down with a hard swallow.

“I’m sorry.”

“Wh—” He jolts back, face pinched. “I got you killed, and you’re fuckin’ sorry?”

“There’s a world where you didn’t make that choice. You know, I’m not proud of who I am, either,” you answer, softly. “After you left and I lost you… I got bitter, stopped pulling my punches.”

“You never liked hurting people.”

“I didn’t.” You take a deep breath, willing away the warmth that pools behind your eyes. You quickly regain composure with a short cough. “Whatever woman you’re comparing me to, I stopped being her a long time ago. Like you told me— I’m no hero.”

He grunts, looking like he regrets saying that now. Checkmate. You’re not what either of you expected or yearned for in one another, but maybe you’re exactly what you both need.

“You know, your accents thicker.”

He says it as if to draw a line of separation, but you take it as an invitation. Your head swims from the alcohol, and against what probably is your better judgement, you inch closer to him until your knees bump against each other.

“That’s what I get for hidin’ in the mountains. Got adopted by a scary old lady and her church friends. I reckon she rubbed off on me. You’d like her, I think,” you tell him fondly. There’s something wistful about it, imagining a life with him. You grieve a life you never had but somehow, in his company, the melancholy loosens its grip.

“Maybe we got lucky,” you add flatly.

He lifts the bottle with a dry laugh. “You have a very funny idea of what lucky means, bub.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be so sure. Y’see, they didn’t get lucky. They died, ‘n’ we lost each other,” you explain, glancing up at the stars as if either version of you would ever be in heaven, as if it was as loving enough as a mother’s womb to stretch wide enough to allow space for mutants.

God probably hated you just as much as they did down here.

You lower your head onto his shoulder. “But, we’re still here. Maybe there was always space in my universe for you.”

“You’re drunk,” he observes flatly, but he doesn’t move.

“A little.” You get more comfortable against his tense bicep and close your eyes. “Humour me, why don’t you?”

He sighs, but it’s gentle. “Just for a while.”

“Good, because you’re not very good at keeping your feelings quiet. I know you like this.”

“Keep that to yourself.”

You sigh, eyes remaining closed. “We ain’t gonna talk about it, are we?” You ask, in reference to the kiss.

“Nope.”

A high-pitched whine resonates in your ears, vision blurring as if lying underneath a rippling river current. Paradox has just explained the stakes to you — to stop Cassandra, somebody would have to lay down on the wire and make the sacrifice play. This wasn’t a matter of regeneration anymore— it was being ripped apart from the seams, atomised.

It just so happens that your cat, Kevin, has been loving his little journey around the TVA. Cheater.

“You won’t survive it,” is what you say in response to Logan offering himself up for the job. What you really meant was: I don’t think I can survive losing you again.

“I know,” Logan answers. His eyes drip to where you palm at the slow-healing wound on your side, courtesy of the Lady Deadpool variant. You’re winded, running on fumes, and know you’re in no position to start throwing yourself out there as a suicide volunteer. You’d never make the journey, let alone succeed in your venture.

“That’s why it’s gotta be me,” Deadpool interrupts, peeling the mask from his face to address you both. “Neither of you asked for any of this. You were right. I lied. I lied right to both of your faces — just to get you to help me, and you did.”

“You didn’t lie,” Logan replies, throwing you a glance. “You made an educated wish.”

He reaches into his pocket and slaps the bloodied Polaroid of Deadpool’s friends against Wade’s chest. The gesture is a final, silent acknowledgement of why any of you are here in the first place, and everything that’s led to this moment.

“I got nothin’ back in my world,” he explains, the sharp arrow of his words striking a sting straight through your heart. “Let me do this. For you.”

You could see that this meant more to him, that he would only deem himself worthy and die a peaceful death if he could do it knowing he saved at least one variant of you. This is more than just a mission. This is his only chance to redeem himself, and you know you’re in no position to start trying to convince him that you’d have him either way. Fuck redemption.

You’re parallel from one another, standing just outside of touching distance. It was a cruel existence— reaching out and never quite being able to hold on. It’s inevitable, the pull you feel. You’re dictated by his gravity but cursed by the narrative.

Your chest rises and falls with shallow, laboured breaths as you attempt to process what’s happening, what he’s asking you to let him do. The pain in your side ebbs only from the comparative pain of watching another version of the man you love sacrifice himself for you.

His voice is a quiet whisper. “Give me this.”

But I love you. The words are there, hiding behind your clenched teeth, gnawing at the bars like a feral animal caged in the reminder that this isn’t — shouldn’t be — the man that you love.

Something shifts and as you’re running on the delirium of your battery running low, healing resources drained, you decide that you don’t actually care to make the distinction any more.

You’re in no condition to fight; you barely had the energy to argue with him, let alone stop him. But you can’t just let him go.

One wobbly step forward. You poke his chest, mustering whatever energy remains to express your feelings in the only true way you know how. “I…” you stammer, but you suddenly can’t find the words.

His hand reaches up and he splays yours flat against his chest. Faintly, buried deep behind the armoured layer of his suit, you feel the distinct thunk, thunk of his heart. He exhales deeply when your empathetic energy transmission reaches the other side. Your eyes connect, and even through the sharp whites of his mask, you can feel the psionic pulse resonating between you two— strong enough that the wound on your side begins to sew itself together.

“I know,” he whispers.

And you believe that he does.

He nods shortly, releases your hand, and turns on his heel. You collapse against the control centre, eyes needling through the camera footage, desperate to watch the final moments and know that his sacrifice was worth it.

It’s about the same time that Deadpool yanks his mask back on and barrels down the hallway after him.

“Wade!”

You glance back at the party as you creep towards the apartment door to leave. Your consciousness has only recently slipped back into place, having hovered somewhere above your body for the entire time you witnessed your friends atomically ripped apart, only for them to return mere moments later.

You think it might’ve been witnessing Wolverine sweaty and shirtless that was finally the last straw for you. You’re not sure you’ve recovered since.

You thought you were being sneaky about your departure, but a flat hand reaches from out of view, splays and then holds the door closed.

“You sure I can’t convince you to stay?” Logan asks, voice slow and tentative.

“I ain’t runnin’ this time, I promise,” you answer. He rests his arm on the beam above him, making him appear even taller and maybe even more imposing. Your pulse quickens as you look up at him, trying to find the right words, ones that you hope won’t give you away. You nearly squeak. “I um— just—”

He arches a brow, a hint of a micro-smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He shifts, getting closer by just a fraction. “Yeah?”

Trying to keep your distance is proving to be immensely hard when he’s gotten himself this deliciously close. His energy tastes of confidence, a stark contrast to the self-loathing only a mere few days prior. It’s magnetic. If you make eye contact now, you’re not sure you’ll be able to control yourself.

The atmosphere crackles with tension, like the static energy right before lightning strikes. His gaze is intense when you look at him, and with the way his eyes glance purposefully down at your parted lips—

Jesus. Pull yourself together.

You gently pull away from him and feel the spell of the moment dissolve. “I just… need time.”

Recognition flashes on his face, as well as a tick of disappointment, but he seems to understand.

A beat, then he taps the door before stepping aside. “Alright. Don’t be a stranger.”

Wade bursts around the corner, arms wide and voice booming. Vanessa hangs off of his arm, white teeth gleaming with mischievous joy.

“Whoa, hey there, lovebirds! What’s going on here— a secret rendezvous? Looking for somewhere to sneak off? Should I cue the romantic music or just give you two some privacy?”

You jump in surprise at his sudden entrance, flinching away from Logan as if you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t. Logan’s expression shifts from whatever tender moment was brewing, spell broken, to a mix of exasperation and resignation, jaw tightening.

“Wade,” he grumbles, voice sharp, but you can acknowledge there’s a level of begrudging affection beneath the steely surface. “Timing, as usual, is impeccable.”

“Um, actually, I was just leavin’,” you answer, tugging on your bag.

“WHAT!” Wade exclaims, face dropping. “We haven’t even gotten to our favourite part yet!”

You tick a brow. “Our favourite part?”

“The cocaine part,” he says, matter-of-factually.

“Wade, that was one time,” you pinch the bridge of your nose. “I’m sorry. Thank you for inviting me. I just can’t miss my flight.”

Dogpool jumps at your ankles, whimpering and chewing on the hem of your jeans. You give her a gentle scratch on her head, deftly avoiding the lick of her impressive tongue. Wade scoops her up, holding her against his shoulder and kissing her affectionately on her wet nose.

“You, ah, need a ride?” Logan offers.

Your heart stutters at his chivalrous attempt. “Oh, um. That’s okay— I called a cab. So.”

That was a lie. You hadn’t— not yet. You just weren’t sure if you were going to make the right decisions if you were alone in his company for an hour. Probably wouldn’t make it to the airport without fighting or crying or making stupid choices.

He rubs his jaw. “Right.”

“I’ll… see you around?”

“I better!” Wade yells, using two fingers to gesture that he’s keeping his eye on you as Vanessa yanks him around the corner gleefully.

A magnetic tether — or red string, whatever you want to call it — seems to strain when you walk away from Logan. You feel the pull in your chest, a fluttering of electricity, but you swallow the urges and ignore the way they scratch like glass on the way down.

You call an Uber, squeezing your bag tightly for a source of comfort as you crowd yourself into the back seat. You spare one last glance at the apartment and think for a brief moment you see a silhouette of someone watching you from the balcony, but they slip away into the light before you can discern it.

You know, though. Of course, you know.

You expected relief when you arrived home, but, instead, the aching, gnawing black hole in your chest seems to grow exponentially. You go through the motions— feed your cat, tend to the garden, eat the food with no appetite, go to Church.

The fixture of Jesus pinned to the cross gives you pause for the first time. You wonder if he was a mutant.

You weren’t sure how much of this “time” thing you were going to need to heal or make a decision on where you and Logan stood after everything, but only after your second night, sleepless and alone, do you start to doubt that this will be an easy process. You communicate like you know what you’re doing, but you haven’t stopped shaking since he kissed you, like a newborn foal traversing ice.

You want to do things right. You’re not trying to replace any missing pieces or live up to any expectations he might have of you. The girl he knew seemed to be a softer, sweeter (less traumatised) version of you, and you worry that you’d be constantly comparing him to a ghost of himself.

The rain lulls you as it patters on the window by your bed, but sleep doesn’t take you.

You hear thunder, you think, and wonder if the chickens are frightened in their coops. However, the distant grumble continues to grow, reverberating through the floorboards of your rickety cabin. As it creeps closer you discern that it’s not a brewing storm— but the growling engine of a motorcycle.

Awash with a deep sense of knowing, you throw yourself out of bed and knot a silk robe around your middle. The sound of the engine dissipates, replaced only by the hammering rain and the rushing pulse in your ears when you tear your door open.

You see him— all leather jacket slick with rainwater and tight jeans, brows pinched against the onslaught of the weather as he dismounts his bike.

Logan.

When your eyes meet, there’s a palpable shift in the air, and the storm, angry as a howling spirit, mirrors the turbulent emotions within you. You don’t speak, you don’t think, you just act.

Barefoot, dressed in your slip of a robe, you race down the short path and meet him halfway.

“Logan? Logan?” You call out. “What are you doin’ here?!”

“Had to see you,” he calls out between strides, voice nonchalant as if what he’s said was obvious.

You’re closing the distance. “That’s a day’s ride, and the weather—”

Instead of letting you finish, he grasps your face, kissing you suddenly and with a reverence so sincere that your knees feel gelatinous and weak. His thumbs brush away the raindrops— tears? —that drip over your crystallised lashes. His touch is both grounding and electrifying; the warmth of him pressed against you is a stark contrast to the chilling downpour.

Your fingers curl against the front of his jacket, clinging with equal fervour as if it’s the only thing keeping you anchored from floating someplace else. The strength of his body crowds over you, arm sliding down to capture you by your waist as you lean into him, syrupy-decadent and entirely reliant on him to keep you upright.

The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding over yours tasting both bittersweet and intoxicating in equal measures, like cigar smoke and peppermint gum. There’s a distinct sharpness of liqour and you wonder if he had a shot (or bottle) of courage before coming here. You breathe deeply against his skin, smelling rainwater, musk and gunpowder; your senses are completely overwhelmed by him and you’re not sure that anything could pull you away.

The red string knots.

When you both eventually take pause, gasping for air as the rain continues to pelt, his eyes lock with yours. He radiates relief, desire, and a raw vulnerability that makes your heart ache.

“You’re freezin’,” he murmurs, peppering kisses against your lips, your cold nose, and pulling one of your hands to his face to peck along your palm. You feel dizzy in his embrace, drunk on his lips.

“You should come inside,” you whisper, “before the neighbours start askin’ questions.”

He quietly nods, kissing your fingers before following you inside and ducking away from the rain.

Once inside, he shakes the rain from his hair with a flick, eyes immediately roaming around the innards of your respectable (tiny) house, the size of him immediately proportionally shrinking the interior. He absorbs your surroundings, chivalrously pretending like he can’t see every curve of you in that wet material.

You lead him towards the heath, lighting a small fire to help dry you both off. You leave, pottering around to gather some towels for your hair, and arrive back to see he’s peeled off the top layer of his clothes, leaving him half-exposed, his back an impressive marvel of rippling muscle. He glances at you over his shoulder.

You’re lost for words, but can’t just stand there ogling him. “Um, I don’t think I have any spare clothes that’ll… fit…”

When he turns to face you, his rain-slick torso shines in the firelight, skin glistening on the taught muscles of his biceps as he accepts a towel from you. Your words lag, entirely distracted by the realisation of one thing when you glance down at his v-line and dark, coiling hair that creeps down into his jeans: you’re absolutely going to have sex with this man.

You might’ve decided that when you watched the way his jeans clung to him when he dismounted his motorcycle, but that’s beside the point.

“That’s alright,” he answers, towel slung over his shoulder, eyes roving shamelessly over the damp, silky robe that clings to your silhouette effortlessly. “Don’t need ‘em.”

Your mouth dries when he steps closer to you, head angled, lips centimetres apart.

“Logan…” you breathe, tone edging toward a warning.

He presses against you, tilting you back. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop. I’ll get back on that bike and I’ll leave.”

You creep further away, trying to catch your breath. “I—”

The words don’t manifest, simply because you don’t have it in you to lie— to deny yourself of this.

He cages you in against the wall, shrinking you underneath his frame, eyes narrowed and dark as they search for yours through lowered lashes. “Tell me you don’t feel somethin’, and I’ll walk away. You won’t see me again.”

His bare-chested proximity was overwhelming you. You’re acutely aware of every inch of his skin that touches yours, pebbled nipples hard against his warm flesh, stubbled jaw nuzzling against your neck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. You feel like a teenager again, anxious and hormonal, a ball of puppy fat and unrequited crushes. The space between your thighs positively aches with heat, throbbing like a second heartbeat.

“I can’t… I can’t tell you that I feel something.”

He leans back, lips quirked with a flash of disappointment.

You blink up at him. “Let me show you instead.”

He ticks an eyebrow.

You use your empathetic influence to decrease his heartbeat, relaxing him down to the bone. He sighs, nosing against your shoulder, arms flexing as he holds himself up against you.

“Just with a little influence…” you stroke your way up from the slow pulse in his neck to his jaw, capturing him swiftly. You use your mutation to increase his heart rate this time, hiking it up to an excitable level. His cheeks begin to flush, pupils dilated, lips parted with the anticipation of your kiss. His eyes darken with something intrinsically primal and hungry.

“Does it excite you?” You ask, innocently.

He shakes his head all dog-like as if to regain control, canine showing as his lips curl into a wolfish grin.

“You’re not the only one with… tricks. I can do that, too— in other ways,” he says, tone low and suggestive. He lifts a hand, tracing a knuckle over your exposed collarbone, shifting the soft material of your robe just an inch. Your breath hitches.

“You know I can hear your heartbeat, right?”

You blush. You hadn’t known that.

You challenge his eye contact, feigning self-control and authority. The stare-down has your pulse spiking, arousal ricocheting down your spine and sitting low and syrupy in your belly.

“Your heart’s beating pretty fast, too.”

Oh, Hell. He’s got you melted like butter in a pan.

You rest your head against the wall, breath quickening. “If we do this, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

“Good,” he growls. “I don’t like to stop.”

The teasing back-and-forth game of teetering towards nearly touching finally gets the better of you. You’re weak, as malleable as soft dough, so you invite him against your mouth with a sigh-wine and a tug on the nape of his neck.

He positively devours you, a hand palming at your breast as you kiss desperately and feverishly. The shoulder of your robe slips and you’re half-exposed, the slip barely holding itself together by the loose knot on your waist. He pulls you impossibly closer, the skin of his chest flush against yours as he reaches and digs fingers into the globe of your ass, hips twitching together.

You fumble between your bodies, yanking on his belt buckle and zipper impatiently. He pulls backwards, a wet string of spit snapping between your lips as you separate, helping you with steadier fingers to remove his jeans. With equal passion, he swiftly tugs on the waist-tie of your robe and discards it somewhere on the floor.

When you’re both bare, nude silhouettes sharp and soft in the firelight, he stumbles you over to the plush rug in the centre of the room. He nods to the couch.

“Legs up.”

You obey without hesitation, taking your seat and spreading decadently for him. He kneels below you of you, hips between your ankles, and gazes at you like a hungry, stalking animal. You feel impossibly sexy and dangerous.

He peppers kisses along the bone of your ankle first, foot hiked up onto his shoulder, only breaking eye contact to flutter his eyes closed. He moves along the inner length of your leg, pausing keenly against the sensitive parts— the thin stretch behind your knee, the soft plush of your thigh. He lowers himself, scruff tickling between your legs, and then licks a molten stroke between your folds, parting you with his tongue and burying his face deeper.

You clench around his skull, mindfulness of your heightened mutant abilities long forgotten. You can’t crush metal between your thighs. Or can you?

He groans into you, varying suckling and kissing you on your clit with long strokes on the blade of his tongue to your hole, lapping up the nectar of your arousal, fingers digging bruisingly into your hips. The sting of his grip and the relentless lave of his tongue entice moans from you, fingers raking into his hair for some semblance of reality grounding in your pleasure-lapsed consciousness.

Jesus. With as filthy as his mouth was, you should’ve known he would be this good at eating pussy.

You come quick, orgasm pulsing on his lips. The burn of overstimulation seizes your muscles, writhing against his onslaught, but he shoves your hips down.

“Not done with you yet,” he murmurs possessively, leaning back to wipe his chin. “On all fours.”

You bite your lower lip, suppressing the humiliation of the intimacy (vulgarity) of it. You turn, belly still clenching with the aftershocks, arching with the anticipation, whining moments later when his mouth reconnects with you. His hands palm at your ass, spreading you wider, tongue slipping dangerously close to the tight ring of muscle.

He slides a finger knuckle-deep, miming fucking you in a rhythmic pulse. His other hand massages you, thumb sliding down until you jerk sensitively against his nudging intrusion.

You feel impossibly full and tingly, clenching around the burn of his thumb and the velvet of his finger, second orgasm surging and bubbling over with your face pressed against the couch cushion, lips agape. You’re slick, drip-dropping onto his cupping palm, every nerve in your body burning raw as his wrist works you through the pulses.

You turn over, relishing in the sight of his scruff glistening with the aftermath of your orgasm, his eyes dark with lust— a hellish man, seraphic on his knees for you. Your insides clench at the sight as he quite literally shatters and redefines what worship means to you.

“Tired already?” He hums, massaging your hips.

You perk a challenging brow. “That was just the warm-up, old man.”

“Alright,” he seethes, sucking on his lower lip as he lifts himself up to your level. “Show me what you got then, baby.”

When you kiss, his mouth slides against yours, drenched with the taste of yourself. His cock steels against your belly when you pull him close, tip pearl-smooth with precum when you reach down and grasp him with a hollowed fist. The feel of him, heavy and warm in your grip, fans to life the flames of your briefly quenched arousal, and you hungrily pull him down onto the couch beside you.

Moisture pools on your tongue as you rub him. You spit on your hand before stroking him from the base to tip, lathering him silky with your drool. You tuck your hair behind your ears, narrowing your cheeks as you slide your mouth up and down his length, fisting the inches that remain.

“Christ.” He twitches in your mouth as you gently massage the warm weight of his sac, lewd sounds emanating from where your lips and tongue meet him. “Just like that. Good fuckin’ girl,” he snarls, gripping your hair in a fist at the crown of your head. Your engine purrs with his encouragement, revving with newfound enthusiasm.

You always gave as good as you got, after all, and you’re certainly not one to back away from a challenge.

His head lolls onto the back of the couch, thighs tense beneath you, cock hot and hard on your tongue. He growls when he comes, pulsing strongly in your mouth as you lap up the produce of his orgasm, salty and molten down your throat.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

“Put those regenerative powers to good use, why don’t you?” You ask, working him through the over-sensitivity with your wrist. His eyes don’t once leave yours, even as they glaze over and flinch from the pleasure burn. There’s a sharp look of challenging determination on his face— a grit of his teeth, the furrow in his brow. He remains hard in your hands and you perk an impressed brow. Not bad for an old man.

There’s a sweet moment of vulnerability when you crawl over him, a brief sobering in the cloud of lust, a clarity of two not-quite strangers and their shared grief and yearning.

You’re not sure where this moment will take you, but the love of somebody scraping together the shards of a shattered heart for a brief time, even as it cuts their hands, holds you with a semblance of human connection so sincere that you’ll carry it with you for a lifetime.

His thighs spread to accommodate you. You hold your fingers against the thick chords in his neck for support as you fumble between your bodies, slotting him against the catch in your cunt before lowering yourself entirely.

You hiss against the intrusion and he steadies you with a hand on your hip.

“Easy. Don’t hurt yourself.”

You laugh-moan, laying your palms against the coils of hair on his sweat-shimmering chest.

“I can take it.”

The fire, intended to help dry you off, creates a heated environment that beads sweat on his temple. The only brain cells that remain coherent bounce around on lust in your skull — so you lean forward, lick the salty droplet clean, and sigh-whine as you begin rocking against him.

You fall into sync quickly, a desperate rhythm of desperate bodies. The delicious ache of him inside you is a masochistic thrill, similar to the irresistible press on a day-old bruise. The squelching shlick between your bodies is an animalistic reminder of your flesh and blood as you chase the pleasure, bouncing with vigour.

“Christ— I can feel you…” his jaw clenches with resolve, fingers digging into the meat of your ass. “…dripping all over me. You wanted this bad, huh?”

“Wanted to ride you in that fuckin’ Honda,” you straighten your posture, leaning away from him to hold your breasts, panting words between bated breaths. “Thought it might shut you up.”

His hand snaps up and grabs you roughly by the chin. “Mm… mouthy, aren’t ya?”

You grin. “You got no idea, lumberjack.”

He pulls your face against him, meeting your mouth halfway in a sloppier, fever-driven kiss that shoots arousal to your core like a shot of his favourite whiskey. Something feral stirs within you: a primal, cellular-deep need to connect with him further. Your empathetic power roils off of you like steam on a hot spring, surging into and merging with him until there’s nothing but one feeling, a black hole of unquenchable desire.

You suddenly feel as though you are him: navel-deep, a throbbing muscle with an aching desire to dive further into the serpent-clutch of your cunt, gliding through tingly, honey-silk velvet, blades hanging onto a tether of self-control as they threaten to slide out of your knuckles in ecstasy.

Well. This was certainly new. Add “voodoo sex doll” to your list of mutations.

You gasp, ripping away from the kiss, your powers recoiling back into you at whip-lash speed, dizzying in its ferocity. His eyes meet yours with darkened curiosity.

“Did you—”

“I felt that,” he grunts, tongue darting out to roll over his lips. “It always like that for you? Feelin’ so fuckin’ full?”

You half-laugh blissfully. “Only the good times.”

“I’ll show you a good time, alright.”

He isn’t gentle when he manhandles you, forcing you into an arch as he repositions and aligns himself behind your thighs, one foot planted firmly on the floor, the other bent to accommodate the new angle. He reinserts himself inside of you with ease, hands palming your hips and ass.

You feel him nudging cervix-deep and you reach out, clawing at the couch to hold your jerking body steady against the relentless slap of his hips. There’s no need to tell him faster or harder when you feel the metal plate of his adamantium hips pressing against your ass, pounding and vulgar with the sound of sweat-damp skin-on-skin.

It’s involuntary, the way you pant and cry out, intoxicated by the relentless drag and pull of his cock. He says something to you but you either don’t hear him or have enough conscious space in your sex-drunk fog to process words and respond. He slides a hand down your spine and pulls on your hair until you’re upright, breath hot when it fans against your neck.

“Where’s that mouth gone?”

You lick the drool from your lip, throwing him a glance over your shoulder. “Fuck you.”

The half-lidded up-and-down look he gives you as satisfaction grows slowly on his lips turns your bones to jelly. “There she is,” he growls back, offering a sharp slap of encouragement on your ass as he drops you back onto your front. You involuntarily grip around him, puffy clit throbbing with the almost-but-not-quite-there anticipatory build. “You gonna come for me? Yeah? I can fuckin’ feel it.”

You slide a hand underneath yourself, reaching for the swollen nub with two fingers. You’re overwhelmed with kinetic energy akin to a fizzy champagne bottle— two more shakes until you’re ready to pop.

You hear a Snikt! behind you, accompanied by a throat-caught groan, and then the distinct ripping shred of blades impaling your couch. You finally come, hard, when you feel him throbbing inside of you, followed by the decadent syrupy flood of his orgasm filling you up. He ruts into you one, two three more final times, milking himself dry, before collapsing over your body in a sweaty heap, sparing you the weight of his metal bones with a forearm propped next to you.

Shared fluids drip to the couch when he eventually pulls out of you, blades retreating into his clenched fists. The fluffy innards of the chair spill out beside you, and, while you were in no financial position to afford another, the sight entices a humoured smile from you.

“Sorry,” he says with a wince, helping you sit up when your unreliable legs shake beneath you.

“That’s alright. It’ll make for an interestin’ story,” you retort, fanning yourself with a hand. You both let out a shared laugh, mostly from the relieved delirium of it all. After a beat, you lean into him, massaging a hand across his belly. “So. We really doin’ this?”

His face softens. “If you’ll have me.”

You cup his face and kiss his cheek. “I’d take any version of you I could get.”

divider credits: @/vysleix and @/cafekitsune tag list: @bearwithegg, @uhlunaro, @sseleniaa, @jxssimae, @autumnsymphony

[celestemona]

⋆˙⟡ — FOUR TIMES MUALANI SUSPECTED SOMETHING WAS GOING ON (AND ONE TIME SHE WAS RIGHT)

pairing: kinich x reader

cw: no pronouns mentioned. ajaw is in a vacation. slight but not slight pda. mualani overreacting but she is a sweet. best friends trio. pyro vision reader mentioned. not beta-read.

reblogs and comments are appreciated ♡

Mualani knew Kinich and you were friends—close best friends, just like you two were with her—but lately, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. 

It started with little things, almost too subtle to be noticeable but somehow it didn’t escape from her perception. Things like how Kinich, ever the quiet guy, had begun lingering a little too long when he talked to you, or how you’d run all your way to the Scions of the Canopy's village just to welcome him back after a mission. 

At first, she didn’t pay too much attention thinking you guys were just being more affectionative and caring to each other. However, as time passed by, it has been shown to be more than a mutual friendly appreciation and certainly beyond a mere coincidence. 

I.

The first time Mualani noticed something different was in an early morning by the coast, watching the waves curl and crash. She often started her day stretching at the shore and riding the first waves of dawn. But this time, as she rounded a cliff, she spotted Kinich and you sitting on a rock overlooking the sea. The two of you were close enough that your arms brushed every time the wind picked up.

Kinich’s usual stern expression was softer than usual. Mualani squinted at you suspiciously. Were you... holding hands?

She jogged closer, but just as she got near enough to say something, Kinich quickly stood up, putting a considerable distance between you and himself. “You're up early,” he said, his voice in its usual calm.

You smiled warmly. “Hey girl! How are the waves? We were just discussing about it.”

Mualani tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “You were? Really?”

You let out a light and confusing laugh, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Of course.”

She didn’t quite buy it, but you didn’t give her any reason to push further. “Well, the waves are good today! You guys joining?”

Kinich only gave her a polite headshaking, while you nodded smiling. Maybe she was imagining things.

II.

Except she wasn’t. 

A few days later, you were hanging out by Tequemecan Valley' canyons with Kinich standing quietly while you and Mualani chatted. However, every time she glanced toward him, Kinich seemed to be watching you a little too intently. It wasn’t the usual hunter’s focus; it was softer, caring, almost like... adoring.

The girl squinted, pretending to be interested in some flowers nearby while keeping an eye on you two. You didn’t seem to notice anything, or if did, you didn’t mind. You just kept talking, your laughter filling the air.

When Mualani caught Kinich staring again, she couldn’t help but ask, “Kinich, you okay? You’ve been zoning out all day.”

He blinked, his neutral mask slipping back into place. “I’m fine.”

“He’s just tired from all the training,” you teased, winking at him.

Mualani raised an eyebrow, astonished by the scene before her eyes. Something was definitely going on.

III.

The third time came on a day when Mualani was guiding a group of Sumeru’s travelers near the springs when she spotted you and Kinich again, standing by the water. As she approached, she saw Kinich leaning down to whisper something to you, his lips close to your ear. You giggled softly in response.

Wait a minute... Kinich never whispers to anyone. Much less in such an intimate way and even less to make someone laugh. Mualani's instincts flared up immediately. What was he saying? And why did you look so happy about it?

She cleared her throat loudly as she walked up. “Hey. What are you two whispering about?”

Kinich straightened up quickly, crossing his arms. “Nothing important.”

You smiled at her, but there was a glimmer in your eyes that made the girl even more suspicious. “Just a silly joke,” you said lightly.

A joke, huh? Mualani filed it away in her mind. This time she was very determined to figure out what was going on between you two.

IV.

It was late afternoon, and Mualani had just finished surfing when she saw you two by the waterside. Kinich and you stood close, so close as it has strangely been, and for a brief moment, she could have sworn Kinich was about to lean in and kiss you.

She froze, watching from a distance as you smiled up at him, your palm softly pushing his chest away. Were you two really about to kiss? It couldn’t be just her angle view. Could it be?

But just as quickly as it happened, Kinich stepped back, his usual stoic demeanor falling back into place. You turned and waved at her, your smile as bright as ever.

“Lani. Hey! How was the surf?” you called out.

Mualani, still in shock, shook her head. “Uh... good. Really good.”

She stared at you both for a moment longer, convinced she’d almost witnessed something, but there was no proof. Again.

V.

In the several days that followed, Mualani continued to witness that strangeness that kept repeating itself every time you thought she wasn’t around, creating a certain tension between her and you and Kinich—although she doubted that you had noticed any difference, treating her as you always did from the beginning.

Even if it relieved her to know that nothing had changed in your friendship, the surfer couldn't help but feel upset too. Was it that bad if she found out? Didn't you trust her the same way she trusted you? She wanted to be able to release all of her thoughts and ask you if maybe there was something in your bond that was bothering you. But she didn't. And so, things remained the same.

That was a quiet evening, and the moon hung low over the mountains. Mualani had been taking a stroll, enjoying the peaceful night, when she stumbled upon you.

This time, though, there was no mistaking it—Kinich and you stood together under some trees, locked in a slow, deep kiss.

The girl’s cheeks burned as red as the pyro vision you hold so dear closely, eyes widely opening and heart skipping a beat. She gasped, louder than she intended, and both of you quickly turned toward her. You blinked twice before smiling stiffly, even daring to look a bit embarrassed, while Kinich gave her a calm look, his hands still resting on your waist.

“You two!” She exclaimed shaking her head, “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me earlier! I mean, I knew something was up, but really?”

You bit your lip while Kinich just blinked at her, slightly starting to look more guilty as well.

“We didn’t mean to keep it from you for long,” you said as you stepped out of Kinich’s arms and reached for her hand. “We were just... taking our time.”

Mualani arched an eyebrow. “Taking your time? You two were being so weird and annoying with all those suspicious interactions for weeks now! I’m supposed to be your best friend!”

Kinich rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. “We wanted to keep it quiet,” he said, his voice low. “At first, anyway.”

Mualani softened, her fake scold melting away into genuine affection. “Still, I would’ve loved to know sooner,” she said, her tone gentler now. “You know me better than anyone else. You know I would never judge you,” she sighed as she watches the sorrow on your face. “Nevertheless, I’m really happy for you both. Really am.”

You beamed and even Kinich’s usual stoic expression seemed to relax slightly.

Mualani continued, her voice full of warmth. “I’ve always known you two had something special. And now that I know for sure, you better believe I’m fully on board with this!” She shot Kinich a playful look. “Just make sure you treat (Y/N) right, okay?”

Kinich nodded, his eyes softening as he glanced at you. “I will.”

You squeezed Mualani’s hand, your eyes sparkling with gratitude and pure happiness. “Thank you, Lani. Your support means a lot to us.”

Mualani grinned, pulling you both into a tight hug. “Just don’t keep secrets from me again, alright? I’m always here for you two.”

You all laughed but shared a quick but sweet bond moment, the atmosphere light and easy. And somehow, Mualani couldn’t help but feel like everything had fallen into place just the way it was meant to.

“But just for your information. If the day comes of you get engaged and don’t tell me immediately, I’ll crash the proposal myself, make a huge scene, and tell everyone how long I’ve had to put up with your not so secret glances and not so subtle hand-holding. Trust me, it won’t be pretty!”

[rnadett]

An Analysis of the Concept of 'The Grey' in Arcane.

Also, I forgot to mention, but here's another confirmation that Jayce knew about The Grey, as he completely redesigned the mask.

The versions on the left were the last ones before Jayce, specifically designed for the concentrated gas. These still had a pipe outlet and an oxygen tank. In the version designed by Jayce, there was new technology that helped see through the dense Grey via lenses, and it directly filtered the air, eliminating the need for pipes and extra oxygen tanks.

This mask is closer to the one used by the enforcers, with the distinction that the lenses in Jayce's version are even more advanced, not only protecting the eyes but, as I mentioned, offering better vision. (This feature is visibly switchable on and off in ep 2 of s 2.)

Also here's one more thing about the grey:

It disperses quickly, even within a closed office, when it comes into contact with the air. The Grey back then was only present in Zaun because: 1. There was no ventilation system. 2. Since the factories were still in operation, they continued producing the Grey non-stop. Later, these factories were closed, and the Chem-Barons began using it for different products. The only remaining places where the Grey was still present were the closed pipe system and the fissures in the mines where it got trapped. Also, when the Grey was present in Zaun and the ventilation system was running at the same time, what do you think they did with the Grey? They let air flow from Piltover to Zaun, so that the Grey would dissolve as quickly as possible.

The Grey is a fictional gas in a CREATED show where the laws of physics work differently than in our world. Just like magic (Arcane), the Grey cannot be compared to the laws of our universe.

....

False, one-page or one-sentence ragebait posts always spread faster than detailed content, even though, to get an accurate picture,

it's important to examine the details, not just take something out of context without meaning.

If you're interested, you can find more in-depth analyses on my profiley such as why it was Heimerdinger, whose 200 years of neglect and inaction created the entire conflict between Zaun and Piltover.

(or there is the youtube link: https://youtu.be/y7Y__xyDyG8?si=Td3EuTLMMdcFkTko)

Thank you for reading it!

[mcrdvcks]

i love you, in every time ࿐‧₊ 1943 - wounds and whispers

chapter summary: After an attack on the battlefield, Logan wakes up to you as his nurse in Italy during World War 2.

word count: 8.8k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: this one is short, and the ending is a bit abrupt, but i kind of wanted it to be that way- war is unpredictable. also, the ending is a tad bit different from the other endings, you'll see when you read! anyways, next chapter is when things get a little bit more interesting...

warnings/tags: mentions of injuries, fluff, angst, war, character death(s)

series masterlist - chapter 3 → chapter 5

A mere 43 years later and Logan was already in his second war since you died that last time. Part of him almost wished that he could die, maybe then he’d see you and get to hold you forever. But that just wasn’t in the cards for him; not when he had this healing, not when he was already 111 years old.

Logan's mind was swimming in a fog of pain as consciousness crept back in. The last thing he remembered was the deafening blast of gunfire and the sharp, searing pain that tore through his side as he charged forward in the midst of the chaos. War was hell, and he’d been through more than enough of them to know that. But this—this felt different.

His eyes fluttered open, the bright lights overhead blinding him for a moment as he groaned, trying to push himself up. His muscles screamed in protest, his entire body feeling like it had been torn apart and put back together again.

“Easy there, soldier.”

The voice was soft but firm, and it froze him in place. Logan’s heart skipped a beat, recognition flooding through him even though he knew it wasn’t possible. His vision focused, and then he saw you. Standing right over him, your face illuminated by the dim lights of the field hospital.

It was you.

Logan’s breath hitched, his mind spinning. He’d seen you die—he’d held you in his arms not long before everything faded. The memory of that night, the pain in your eyes, the blood pooling beneath you—it was burned into him. He’d lost you again. But now here you were, alive, standing in front of him like nothing had ever happened.

His throat tightened, but he forced himself to speak. “Y/N?” You probably didn’t hear him, given the quiet tone of his voice.

You smiled softly, stepping closer to him, your hands working with practiced care to check his wounds. “You’re lucky, you know,” you said, ignoring the way he looked at you, as if he'd seen a ghost. “The shrapnel didn’t hit anything vital. You’ll live.”

Logan swallowed hard, his eyes never leaving yours. He felt a pull, the same pull he’d felt every time he met you in a different life. But this time, it hurt even more. Because this was the first time he’d seen you since the last time you died, and now, here you were, again, as if the universe had decided to toy with him once more.

“Y/N…” he whispered again, his voice rough with emotion.

You glanced at him, your brows knitting together in confusion. “How do you know my name?”

Logan hesitated, his heart pounding. He couldn’t tell you—not yet. Not about the lives you’d lived before, not about the times he’d watched you die. He had to keep it together. You didn’t remember him, and that was both a blessing and a curse.

He cleared his throat, managing a tight smile. “Lucky guess,” he said, his voice strained, trying to mask the tidal wave of emotion crashing through him.

You gave him a curious look but didn’t press further. “Well, lucky or not, you should be more careful out there,” you said, turning your attention back to bandaging him up. “You’re not invincible, even if you act like it.”

Logan nearly chuckled at that. If only you knew. But instead, he gritted his teeth as you finished patching him up. The pain from the wound was nothing compared to the ache in his chest. He’d spent so many lifetimes with you, always losing you too soon. Always feeling like there wasn’t enough time.

And now, here you were again, standing so close to him, your hands gentle as you worked. He clenched his jaw, his mind racing with memories of you—of your smile, your laugh, the way you’d always found him, no matter the time or place.

But this wasn’t the past. This was 1943, and you didn’t know him. He had to play it cool, keep his distance, even though every instinct in him was screaming to reach out and hold you, to make sure you didn’t slip away again.

“Thanks,” he muttered, trying to keep his voice steady.

You gave him a small nod, satisfied with your work. “Well, you’re still not cleared to leave yet, so you’re not gonna get away from me that easily.” You grabbed a small flashlight from your pocket and leaned in a little closer, shining it into his eyes to check his pupils.

Logan grunted, feeling the warmth of your proximity. It was almost unbearable how familiar you felt, even though you didn’t know him—at least not in this lifetime. His eyes followed your movements, the way you focused on him like he was just another soldier you had to patch up. But to him, you were everything.

“You know,” you started, your voice calm but a little teasing, “you really shouldn’t be throwing yourself into the line of fire like that. Kinda hard for us to patch you up if you don’t have any parts left.”

Logan gave a low chuckle, though his heart wasn’t in it. “I’ll heal,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. His voice was rougher than usual, like the words were struggling to get past the weight of seeing you again, alive and breathing.

You raised an eyebrow at him. “Heal, huh? Well, you’re not invincible, soldier. Trust me, I’ve seen men think they’re untouchable, and they don’t last long in a place like this.”

Logan looked away, trying to focus on anything other than the sound of your voice. He didn’t want to make this harder on himself than it already was. “Guess I’ll just have to be more careful, then.”

You chuckled softly, finishing your check-up and tucking the flashlight back into your pocket. “Yeah, you do that.” There was a hint of amusement in your tone, but you were still clearly all business. “Now,” you looked at a clipboard in your hands, “James, you have a different name you’d like to go by?”

Logan grunted, his gaze fixed on you. The name ‘James’ felt foreign now, like a remnant of a past he didn't quite belong to anymore. His eyes flickered to the clipboard, then back to your face. The memories of every life you'd lived flashed through his mind, each one ending the same way, with you slipping away from him.

“Logan,” he said, his voice a bit rougher than he intended.

You looked up, scribbling something down. “Logan, huh?” You nodded, writing it down. “Suits you better than James… I think.”

Logan gave a small grunt, a mix of acknowledgment and the emotions he was keeping buried. He couldn’t tell you how much it hurt hearing you say his name, knowing you didn’t remember him at all. Every time he heard your voice, it was like a punch to the gut—a reminder that no matter how many times you came back, he was always starting over, and you… you were always slipping away.

“Glad you approve,” Logan muttered, his eyes drifting away from you. He was trying hard not to stare, trying not to let the overwhelming rush of memories take over. You looked the same, almost exactly as you had the last time—before George pulled that damn trigger.

You didn’t seem to notice the tension radiating from him, too focused on the task at hand. “Well, Logan,” you said, setting the clipboard aside. “You’ll need to stay here for observation, at least for the night. Make sure your body’s handling the recovery properly. We’ve seen some soldiers who think they’re fine, and then—” You made a gesture, mimicking someone fainting, a half-smile tugging at your lips.

Logan’s eyes flicked to the floor, suppressing the mix of emotions threatening to boil over. That small smile—the one you always had, no matter how many lives you lived—was painfully familiar. Each time, the same softness, the same warmth. But this time, it cut deeper because he knew how this would end. You’d be gone. Again.

“You’re real good at this, aren’t ya?” Logan said, his voice low, trying to sound casual despite the weight of everything between you two, or at least, everything he carried alone.

You shrugged, your smile widening just a little. “I’ve had a lot of practice lately. War isn’t exactly kind to anyone.” Your eyes softened for a moment, like you were remembering someone, but you shook it off, standing straighter. “But, yeah. It’s what I do.”

Logan’s jaw tightened as he fought the urge to tell you everything, to scream at the universe for pulling you into his life only to tear you away. But he couldn’t. Not this time. He had to play along, had to act like this was the first time he’d ever met you.

He nodded, letting out a deep breath. “Guess we’re both used to it, then. War and all.”

You glanced at him, curiosity flickering in your eyes. “Yeah?” There was a pause as you sat down on the edge of the bed next to him. “You seem… different from the other soldiers I’ve patched up. Seen a lot, huh?”

Logan leaned back slightly, his hand brushing against the place where the ring still rested in his pocket. He hadn’t taken it out in years. “More than you’d believe.”

There was a quiet moment between you, your gaze lingering on him as if trying to figure him out. “Well,” you said, breaking the silence, “let’s hope you don’t add anything else to that list while you’re here.”

Logan couldn’t help the bitter chuckle that escaped his throat. If only you knew what was on that list already. If only he could tell you how many times he’d seen you die, how many times he’d watched your life slip through his fingers. But instead, he just nodded again.

“I’ll try,” he muttered, though the words felt hollow.

As you stood up, preparing to check on the next patient, you paused, glancing back at him. There was something in your eyes, something almost familiar. But then, you smiled again—kind, unaware of the history Logan held with you—and walked away, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Logan exhaled slowly, the ache in his chest growing heavier. He had to stay strong, had to keep his distance. But deep down, he knew he was already caught, already tangled in the same painful cycle.

He slipped his hand into his pocket, fingers brushing against the smooth surface of the engagement ring he’d never had the chance to give you.

Maybe this time, he thought. Maybe this time, you’d survive.

But Logan knew better than to hope.

---

You checked in with one of the doctors when Sandra, your friend and fellow nurse, put a hand on your shoulder and turned you to face her.

“Does he have a nice voice?”

You snorted, shaking your head at Sandra. "A nice voice? That’s what you want to ask?”

Sandra grinned, unbothered by your sarcasm. “Well, I saw the way you were looking at him. Thought maybe he had some mysterious, deep, soldier-thing going on.”

Rolling your eyes, you grabbed a clipboard from the nearby desk. “He’s just a patient, Sandra.”

“Uh-huh, sure.” Sandra leaned in, lowering her voice. “You didn’t exactly hurry out of that room.”

You shot her a look. “I was doing my job.”

“Mmhmm,” she hummed, clearly not buying it. “So... does he?”

You sighed, unable to stop a small smile from creeping onto your face. “Yeah, okay. Maybe a little. He’s got that gruff, low thing going on.”

“I knew it!” Sandra nudged your shoulder, her expression smug. “You’re into the mysterious types.”

“Oh, come on,” you muttered, flipping through the papers on your clipboard, though none of it really held your focus. Your mind drifted back to Logan’s face—his eyes, the way he carried himself like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. There was something about him, something that felt... familiar. But you brushed it off. That wasn’t possible.

“I’m not into anyone,” you said quickly, snapping back to reality. “Especially not a guy I’ve known for like five minutes.”

Sandra raised her hands in surrender, smirking. “Alright, alright. I’ll drop it.” But the teasing gleam in her eyes suggested she wasn’t done with the subject.

You gave her a half-hearted glare before heading off to check on another patient. But as much as you tried to focus, your thoughts kept drifting back to Logan. The way his voice had this gravelly edge to it, how it felt like he was holding something back every time he spoke. And then there was the way he looked at you—like he recognized you, like you were someone important.

But that couldn’t be right.

---

You came to check on Logan later that night before you’d head back to your quarters for some rest. The makeshift hospital was quieter now, just a few murmurs from patients in the distance. Your shift had been long, draining, but something about checking on Logan felt... different.

You pushed the door open, stepping into the dimly lit room. Logan was sitting up on the bed, his expression unreadable as he stared at the floor. His posture was tense, like he was carrying the weight of more than just a few injuries.

“How’re you feeling?” you asked softly, keeping your tone professional despite the strange pull you felt toward him.

Logan looked up at you, his eyes locking onto yours for a moment that seemed to stretch longer than it should. “Better. You know, thanks to you.”

You gave a small smile, stepping closer to the bed. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, his gaze drifting back to the floor. “Still, you’re good at it.”

There was that same heaviness in his voice, like he was holding back more than just gratitude. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but something about him felt... familiar. It was strange, like you knew him somehow, but you brushed the thought away.

“You should get some rest,” you said, checking the bandage on his side. Your fingertips lingered on the spot where the bloody wound had been earlier, but there was nothing—just smooth skin, as if it had never been there at all. Your brow furrowed, lips parting slightly in disbelief. You’d seen the gash when they’d brought him in, deep and ugly, impossible to heal so quickly.

Logan’s muscles tensed under your touch, and when you glanced at him, his expression was guarded, like he was bracing for something.

"That’s... impossible," you murmured, more to yourself than to him. "It was bad earlier. There should at least be... a scar."

Logan shrugged, trying to act indifferent, but the movement was stiff. "Guess I got lucky."

You pulled your hand back slowly, still frowning. “Lucky doesn’t cover it. I’ve never seen anyone heal like that.” You tilted your head, curiosity edging into your voice. “How?”

His jaw tightened. "It happens."

“That’s not much of an answer.” Your arms crossed over your chest, and the edge in your tone softened just a bit. “You’ve got to admit it’s... weird.”

Logan gave you a look, one that made you feel like he was sizing you up, trying to figure out how much he could say. Or maybe how little. "Weird, yeah," he muttered, voice low. "Not much I can do about it, though."

You knew a deflection when you heard one, but you let it go—for now. You weren’t sure why you felt compelled to trust him, but there was something in his eyes, in the way he spoke, that made it impossible not to.

Sitting down on the edge of his bed, you shook your head with a faint smile. "Well, however it happened, you’re lucky I didn’t call the doctors in to see this miracle." You gave him a teasing look. “You’d be their new favorite science project.”

A ghost of a grin tugged at the corner of Logan’s mouth, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Yeah, I’d rather avoid that."

For a moment, the two of you sat in silence. It should have been awkward, but it wasn’t. There was something strangely easy about being near him, like you’d known each other for years. You glanced at his hands—rough, calloused, like they’d seen more battles than you could imagine—and wondered just how much he’d been through.

"Why do I feel like there’s more to you than you’re letting on?" you asked softly.

Logan’s gaze flicked to yours, something unreadable in his expression. "You ever meet someone and feel like you’ve known ’em before?"

His words struck a nerve, sending a chill down your spine. You swallowed, the strange familiarity between you two suddenly harder to ignore. "Yeah... I guess I have."

Logan nodded, his gaze dropping to his hands. He rubbed his thumb against the curve of his knuckle—a nervous habit, maybe. Or just old memories surfacing.

"You should get some rest," you said quietly, almost reluctantly. It felt wrong to leave, like there was more to say, even if you didn’t know what.

"I’m not good at rest," Logan admitted, voice low.

You gave a soft laugh. "No one is these days."

As you stood up, Logan’s hand moved slightly—just enough that the tips of his fingers brushed yours, barely a touch but enough to make your heart skip. You looked down at him, surprised by how natural it felt, like you’d been standing this close to him a thousand times before.

For a moment, it seemed like Logan might say something—something important. His hand hovered near his pocket, where a small, heavy object pressed against the fabric. But then he stopped himself, his jaw clenching as if he’d changed his mind at the last second.

"Goodnight," you whispered, your voice softer than before.

Logan gave you a short nod, but his eyes followed you as you stepped away, like he was memorizing the moment—like it might slip away from him if he looked away for even a second.

---

The next morning, when you went to check on Logan, he was sitting on the edge of his bed, buttoning up his shirt over his white beater.

“Hey—wait.” You stepped in front of Logan, your hands instinctively finding his forearm as he finished buttoning his shirt. “You’re not cleared to leave yet.”

Logan’s eyes flicked to yours, and for a moment, something passed between you—like the echo of a memory, distant but familiar. He gave you a half-smile, the kind that looked more like a grimace, and kept working on the last button.

“Gotta go,” he muttered. “Don’t do well sittin’ still.”

You crossed your arms, not budging. “Doesn’t mean you get to walk out of here half-healed.”

His gaze darkened, jaw clenching as if biting back words. You could tell he didn’t like being told what to do, but there was something more in his expression—something haunted, buried beneath that tough exterior.

“You think I can’t handle it?” he asked, voice low, gravelly.

“It’s not about what you can handle.” Your eyes softened, a hint of frustration slipping through. “It’s about what’s smart. I’ve patched up enough soldiers to know that leavin’ too soon isn’t.”

Logan’s lips twitched, like he might argue, but then he stilled, studying you with a strange intensity. The weight of his stare made your breath hitch for a second, but you refused to back down.

“Stay,” you insisted. “At least for another day. Let the wound close properly.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, like it was more trouble than it was worth to argue with you. “You always this stubborn?”

A smile tugged at your lips. “Yeah. Part of the charm.”

Logan huffed, a reluctant laugh buried somewhere in the sound. He leaned forward slightly, his knees brushing yours where you stood between his legs. The air felt heavier—charged with something neither of you could quite name.

“Y/N...” The way your name left his mouth was different. Familiar, almost reverent, like he was tasting the sound of it after a long time.

Your heart stuttered in your chest. “What?”

Logan’s hand drifted toward his pocket, hesitating just for a beat. He seemed to think better of it and instead leaned back, propping himself on his palms like he was trying to keep his distance.

“Nothing.” His tone was gruff, evasive, but you knew there was more he wasn’t saying.

You stayed where you were, close enough to feel the warmth of him. “You’re not really going to leave, are you?”

Logan’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Shouldn’t stick around too long.”

“Why not?”

He ran a hand through his dark hair, frustrated. “I just shouldn’t.”

The words hit you harder than you expected, like they carried the weight of something unsaid—something important. But before you could push further, Logan shifted on the bed, brushing past you as if putting space between you would make it easier.

“Look...” His voice softened just slightly, almost apologetic. “You shouldn’t worry about me. I’ve been through worse.”

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean you have to go through this alone.”

Logan’s gaze flicked to yours, and for a moment, the walls he kept up seemed to crack, just a little. He looked at you like you were someone he wanted to hold onto, but couldn’t—like you’d slip through his fingers if he let himself get too close.

You leaned in just a bit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Let me help, Logan.”

The way his name fell from your lips sent a flicker of something through him—something dangerous, vulnerable, like it meant too much. His breath hitched, and for a second, you thought he might tell you whatever he was holding back.

But instead, he gave you a tight smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You already have.”

It felt like the conversation was teetering on the edge of something, but neither of you were ready to tip it over just yet.

“You win,” he muttered finally, his tone rough but resigned. “I’ll stay... one more day.”

You grinned, victorious. “Good. I’ll hold you to that. Maybe I’ll even let ya accompany me to the mess tent for lunch.” You held up a finger, playful but firm. “But only if you’re good.”

Logan gave a soft huff, the closest thing to a laugh you’d gotten out of him all day. “You makin’ the rules now?”

“That’s right,” you said with a smirk. “I am the nurse, after all.”

He shook his head, amused despite himself. “Fair enough.”

You lingered a moment longer than necessary, and Logan didn’t move away. His hand twitched near his knee, like he was thinking about reaching for you. It wasn’t the kind of gesture that strangers made—it felt too familiar, too intimate, like muscle memory.

“See ya at lunch, then,” you murmured, trying to shake off the strange pull toward him.

Logan gave a small nod, but his gaze stayed on you as you turned toward the door. Just as you reached it, you glanced back over your shoulder.

“You better not sneak out while I’m gone,” you teased, though part of you wasn’t sure it was really a joke.

Logan’s lips quirked at the corner, but the look in his eyes was heavy, weighed down with something you couldn’t quite place. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

---

By the time lunch rolled around, you were half-expecting Logan to be gone—off on some stubborn mission to leave the hospital before you could stop him. But when you returned, there he was, sitting up on the bed and rolling the sleeves of his shirt to his forearms.

"Kept my end of the bargain," he said, giving you a crooked grin that was more shadow than smile.

“Guess that means you earned lunch.” You gestured toward the door, and Logan pushed himself off the bed with an ease that didn’t match the severity of the injury he'd arrived with. You gave him a skeptical glance but decided to let it slide—for now.

The two of you walked through the makeshift hospital in comfortable silence. You noticed how other soldiers gave him nods or muttered greetings in passing, even though none of them really knew him. Something about Logan just demanded respect—maybe it was the way he carried himself, or the way his eyes seemed to see right through you.

At the mess tent, you grabbed two metal trays, handing one to him. “Hope you’re not picky. The food’s... not exactly five-star.”

Logan smirked. “I’ve had worse.”

You sat together at a small table, away from the loudest group of soldiers. For a moment, it was almost peaceful, like the war outside didn’t exist. Logan picked at his food absently, and you couldn’t help but study him—how his hands moved, how his jaw clenched like he was always bracing for bad news.

“So... you’ve done this before?” you asked, breaking the quiet. “The soldier thing, I mean.”

Logan glanced at you, something flickering in his expression. “Yeah. A few times.”

A few times. The way he said it made it sound like more than just a couple of tours.

“Must’ve been rough,” you murmured, stirring your soup. “I can’t imagine coming back to it over and over.”

Logan’s gaze lingered on you, and for a second, you felt pinned under the weight of it. Like he knew something you didn’t. “You get used to it,” he muttered, but the sadness in his voice told a different story.

There was a beat of silence, and then you leaned forward slightly, your curiosity getting the better of you. “You ever... think about what you’d do, you know, if you weren’t here? If the war wasn’t happening?”

Logan stared at his tray, his jaw tightening like he was biting back something painful. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Once or twice.”

The way he said it made your chest ache, and before you could stop yourself, you asked, “What would you do?”

Logan’s thumb brushed along the edge of his tray—a nervous habit, like he was weighing whether to tell you the truth. “There’s someone,” he said slowly. “Someone I thought about settlin’ down with... a long time ago.”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden vulnerability in his voice. “What happened?”

Logan looked away, his expression hardening like a door slamming shut. “Didn’t work out.”

It wasn’t the whole story—you could tell that much. But you didn’t push. There was something in the way he said it, like the loss was still raw, even if it had happened years ago.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, unsure why you felt the need to say it.

Logan gave a small shrug, like it didn’t matter. But you knew better. It did matter. It mattered a lot.

---

After lunch, the two of you lingered outside the tent, neither of you in a rush to return to the chaos inside. The sun was warm on your face, a rare moment of peace in a world that had been anything but peaceful lately.

“You’re not what I expected,” you said suddenly, glancing at Logan.

He raised an eyebrow. “What’d you expect?”

You shrugged, smiling. “I don’t know. Maybe someone more... closed off. But you’re not as much of a mystery as you think.”

Logan chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “You’d be surprised.”

You bit your lip, studying him. “You feel... familiar,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “Like we’ve met before.”

Logan went still, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you thought he might brush it off with some sarcastic comment. But instead, he looked at you with that same haunted expression you’d seen earlier—the one that made your chest tighten.

“Maybe we have,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

The words sent a strange chill down your spine. You stared at him, trying to piece together what he meant. But Logan didn’t offer any more answers. He just stood there, watching you like he was waiting for something.

Before you could ask, Sandra’s voice called from the distance, snapping you both out of the moment. “Y/N! Doctor’s looking for you.”

You sighed, giving Logan a small, reluctant smile. “Duty calls.”

Logan nodded, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Yeah. Better get to it.”

You hesitated for just a second longer, something inside you screaming that there was more to this—more to him. But instead, you gave him one last smile before turning away.

---

When Logan was alone again, he pulled the ring from his pocket, turning it over in his fingers. The weight of it was familiar, comforting in a way that only hurt more now.

He’d carried it through battles, through lifetimes, always hoping—maybe this time. But hope had a way of slipping through his fingers, just like you always did.

Logan clenched the ring in his fist, his jaw tightening. He knew better than to hope. He always did. But still... here you were.

For now, at least.

---

The next day you begrudgingly cleared Logan and showed him to where he would be staying before he got called away for another fight. It was a small quarters, shared with some of the other guys, but it was better than the hospital bed.

You should know. Sometimes you’ve taken power naps on those beds—when the hospital got too busy or you needed a break but couldn’t leave. They were uncomfortable as hell, but after long hours, you didn’t have much choice.

Logan tossed his bag on the bunk, eyeing the cramped quarters. It wasn’t much—just a room with a few cots and a flimsy curtain dividing it from the rest of the barracks—but he didn’t seem to care.

“You’ll be all right here,” you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the doorframe.

Logan smirked, glancing at the bed like it was just another obstacle in his way. “I’ve had worse.”

You gave him a sideways glance, shaking your head slightly. “Yeah, I’m starting to see a pattern with you.”

He chuckled, low and gravelly, the sound doing strange things to your heart. His presence was so... solid. Like he’d been through hell and back, yet here he was, standing in front of you like nothing could break him.

“Well, don’t get too comfortable,” you added with a smirk. “There’s always a chance you’ll end up back in the infirmary if you’re not careful.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the wall, his arms crossing over his chest in a way that made the muscles in his forearms flex under his rolled-up sleeves. “You worried about me, nurse?”

“Maybe I am,” you teased, keeping it light even though part of you was serious. “I don’t want to have to stitch you back up.”

He laughed again, softer this time, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than just casual. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll heal.”

The words hung between you, something unspoken settling in. There was always something deeper with Logan, like the surface of his words barely scratched at the things he carried underneath.

Before you could respond, a couple of soldiers passed by, giving Logan nods of acknowledgment as they went. You noticed the way they looked at him, like he was someone who’d earned their respect without even trying.

Logan pushed off the wall, moving past you toward the door. “Thanks for the room,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “But I could use a drink.”

You laughed. “Well, good luck with that. This isn’t exactly the Ritz.”

He stopped just outside the door, turning back to you. His eyes were sharp, but there was something softer underneath. “You wanna join me?”

You paused, surprised by the offer. “Are you askin’ me out, Logan?”

His lips twitched into a half-smile. “Just tryin’ to be friendly.”

You let out a small huff of laughter, shaking your head as you grabbed your cap and followed him. “Fine. But if you’re looking for whiskey, you’re gonna be disappointed.”

The two of you walked in comfortable silence for a while, the sound of your boots crunching on the gravel road filling the air. The base had quieted down a bit as the sun dipped lower, the day easing into a calm that didn’t come often in a warzone.

As you walked, you couldn’t help but sneak a glance at Logan from time to time, trying to figure him out. He was so... different. From anyone you’d met. From any soldier you’d treated. And yet, he felt so familiar.

You found a small spot near one of the mess tents where a few crates had been stacked up like makeshift seats. Logan grabbed a canteen from his jacket, unscrewing the cap before taking a long drink. You raised an eyebrow at him.

“That better be water,” you joked, taking a seat beside him.

Logan handed you the canteen, smirking. “Try it and find out.”

You took a cautious sip, then immediately coughed, the burn of the alcohol catching you off guard. “God—what is this?”

“Something I picked up,” Logan said, eyes gleaming with amusement as you wiped your mouth. “Figured it’d help take the edge off.”

You gave him a playful glare, handing the canteen back. “Next time, a little warning, maybe?”

Logan shrugged, grinning. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re trouble, Logan.”

He chuckled, leaning back against the crate. “Been called worse.”

The two of you sat there in comfortable silence for a few moments, passing the canteen back and forth. The alcohol burned, but it wasn’t the worst thing you’d ever tasted—not by a long shot. And it did what Logan said it would—it took the edge off.

You studied him for a moment, the way he seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, even when he was sitting still. “You feel familiar,” you said quietly, your voice almost drowned out by the soft sounds of the base around you. “Like we’ve met before.”

Logan’s expression shifted—just for a second. His jaw tightened, his gaze flickering away from you and toward the horizon. “Maybe we have,” he murmured, his voice so low you almost didn’t catch it.

The words sent a strange, unexplainable shiver down your spine. You opened your mouth to ask him what he meant, but before you could, he stood up, stretching his arms over his head like he was shaking something off.

“C’mon,” he said, his voice lighter now, almost like he was forcing it. “You ready to head back?”

You blinked, still caught in the haze of the moment. But you nodded, standing up and brushing the dirt from your uniform. “Yeah, I guess so.”

The two of you walked back toward the barracks in silence, the air between you feeling heavier now. Something had shifted—something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. But you knew it wasn’t nothing.

When you reached the barracks, Logan stopped at the door, turning to look at you with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat.

“Y/N,” he started, his voice rougher than usual, like he was wrestling with something inside him. “If... if things ever get bad, you find me. Got it?”

You frowned, surprised by the seriousness in his tone. “Logan, what—”

“I’m serious,” he interrupted, his hazel eyes locking onto yours. “You find me. No matter what.”

You swallowed, nodding slowly. “Okay. I will.”

He held your gaze for a second longer, then nodded, like he was satisfied with your answer. “Good.”

Without another word, Logan turned and headed inside, leaving you standing there, the weight of his words settling over you like a heavy blanket.

What did he mean? Why did he look at you like he knew something you didn’t?

You lingered there for a moment before finally heading to your own quarters. But even as you lay in bed that night, staring up at the ceiling, Logan’s words echoed in your mind.

You find me. No matter what.

---

The next few days were a strange mix of routine and tension. Logan stayed around the base, mostly keeping to himself, but you found yourself crossing paths with him more often than you expected. Every time, there was that same intensity in his gaze, like he was watching you, waiting for something.

It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly. But it did make your chest tighten every time you saw him.

One evening, as the sun began to set, you found yourself wandering toward the edge of the base, needing a moment to clear your head. The war, the patients, the constant pressure—it was all getting to you. And Logan... well, Logan wasn’t making things any easier.

You were so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t notice him until he spoke.

“Need some company?”

You jumped slightly, turning to find Logan leaning against a tree, arms crossed over his chest, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

“Jeez, you scared me,” you said, placing a hand over your heart.

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” he said, pushing off the tree and walking over to stand beside you. “You looked like you could use some company.”

You sighed, glancing out at the fading sun. “Yeah, I guess I could.”

Logan didn’t say anything for a moment, just stood there beside you, his presence solid and reassuring. After a few beats of silence, he spoke.

“You doin’ all right?” he asked, his voice softer than usual.

You shrugged, trying to brush it off. “It’s just... a lot sometimes, you know?”

Logan nodded, his eyes never leaving your face. “Yeah. I get it.”

There was something in the way he said it—something that made you believe he really did get it. Like he knew exactly what it felt like to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.

“Thanks for asking,” you said quietly, your gaze still focused on the horizon.

Logan was quiet for a long moment before he spoke again. “I meant what I said before,” he murmured. “You ever need anything... you come find me.”

You turned to look at him, the seriousness in his voice catching you off guard. “Logan... why are you doin’ this? Why are you looking out for me?”

Logan’s jaw tightened, and for a second, you thought he wasn’t going to answer. But then he spoke, his voice low and rough. “Because... you’re important. More than you know.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. Important? How? Why?

Before you could ask, Logan stepped closer, his eyes locked onto yours. “Just promise me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Promise me you’ll come find me if you need to.”

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. “I promise.”

Logan held your gaze for a moment longer, then nodded, satisfied. Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, your head spinning with questions.

You’re important. More than you know.

What did that mean? Why did Logan feel so... familiar?

As the sun dipped below the horizon, you stood there, your mind racing. Logan had secrets—secrets you weren’t sure you were ready to uncover. But one thing was clear: whatever was between the two of you, it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

---

On another day, you spotted Logan on the outskirts of base, sitting against a truck’s wheel with a notebook in hand.

He looked almost peaceful, maybe the most peaceful you’d ever seen him since he got here. Judging by the way he was moving his pencil, you assumed he was drawing something. You hesitated, not wanting to disturb him, but your curiosity got the better of you.

"Didn’t peg you for an artist," you said, walking over and leaning against the truck beside him.

Logan didn’t look up right away, just kept sketching, but there was a small smirk on his lips. "You learn a lot when you’ve got time," he muttered.

You glanced at the notebook, catching glimpses of rough lines and shadows. “What’re you drawing?”

He paused, almost like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to show you, then turned the notebook just enough for you to see. It was a sketch of the base—a surprisingly detailed one, with the buildings and surrounding trees, even some of the soldiers milling about.

“Not bad,” you said, genuinely impressed. “Didn’t know you had this in you.”

Logan shrugged, as if it was no big deal. “Like I said, a lot of time.” He looked at you then, and for a brief moment, there was something more behind his eyes, something deeper. “Keeps me grounded.”

You studied him, wondering what that really meant. Logan had always been a bit of a mystery, but there were moments—like now—where it felt like there was so much more to him than he let on.

“You ever thought about doing something with it? You know, beyond just sketches?” you asked, half teasing, half curious.

Logan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “I’m not the ‘show-off my art’ type. It’s just... for me.” He glanced back at the drawing, his expression softening in a way you didn’t often see. “Helps me forget.”

You nodded, feeling a tug at your chest. “Forget what?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then he said, “Everything.”

The weight in his voice told you there was more to that statement—more than you could guess. You’d learned over the past few days that Logan was carrying his own kind of burden, just like you were. And yet, somehow, it felt like his was so much heavier.

“Must be a lot to forget,” you said softly.

Logan’s gaze flicked up to meet yours, and for a second, you thought he might actually open up. But instead, he just gave a noncommittal grunt and went back to his sketching.

You watched him for a while, feeling the comfortable silence settle between you. It was odd, but Logan’s presence had become... something you looked forward to. Even with all the unspoken tension, being around him made things feel a little less overwhelming.

“I never thanked you,” you said after a while, breaking the quiet. “For, you know... looking out for me.”

Logan’s pencil paused again, and he glanced up. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do,” you insisted, your eyes meeting his. “You didn’t have to. But you did.”

Logan shifted, looking slightly uncomfortable with the gratitude, but his eyes softened. “I told you. You’re important.”

That word again—important. You wanted to ask him why, wanted to press him on what he really meant by that, but something in his expression told you he wasn’t ready to answer. Not yet.

“Just… stay outta trouble,” Logan said, his voice dropping into something rougher, more serious. “I’d rather not have to pull you out of any more messes.”

You smiled, trying to keep things light. “I’ll do my best. But, you know, being a nurse in the middle of a war, trouble kinda finds me.”

Logan let out a soft huff of a laugh, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Yeah, I guess it does.”

The sky was growing darker now, the last traces of sunlight fading. You knew you should probably head back to the barracks soon, but something kept you rooted to the spot, standing beside him. The air between you felt charged, like there was something unspoken hanging there, waiting to be acknowledged.

“Logan,” you began, your voice quiet but steady. “Why does it feel like you’ve been watching me? Not just looking out for me, but... like you’ve known me.”

Logan’s jaw tightened. His eyes shifted, as if he was deciding whether to answer that. You could feel your heart thudding in your chest, waiting for his response.

“I haven’t,” he said finally, though his voice lacked conviction. “Not in the way you’re thinking.”

The way he said it made you frown. “What does that mean?”

Logan’s gaze held yours, intense and searching. There was a flicker of something there—regret? Pain? Before you could figure it out, he looked away, his fingers tightening around the edges of the notebook.

“It means… I don’t want you to get hurt,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl. “Not again.”

Again. There it was—a crack in the wall he’d built around himself. But before you could push him on it, Logan stood abruptly, tucking the notebook under his arm.

“You should get some rest,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes. “Long day tomorrow.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his sudden shift. “Logan—”

But he was already walking away, his back stiff and his pace quick. You watched him go, your mind spinning with more questions than answers. Something was going on with Logan—something bigger than you’d realized.

And you had a feeling you weren’t going to let it go until you found out the truth.

---

The next morning you found out that Logan had already gone on some mission to Sicily. You weren’t sure why you felt sad, maybe a bit betrayed that he left without saying goodbye, but you did.

You had only known him for a few days, but somehow it seemed longer.

You couldn’t just stand around and dwell on Logan leaving without a goodbye. There was work to do. You made your way to the medical tent where a doctor had been prepping for a surgery. As you stepped inside, the familiar scent of antiseptic hit your nose, grounding you in the moment.

"Y/N, glad you’re here. We’ve got a soldier with a bullet wound to the abdomen," the doctor said, his tone brisk. "I need your hands steady and sharp today."

You nodded, pushing thoughts of Logan to the back of your mind. "Got it, Doctor."

The surgery went on for hours, the steady rhythm of your breathing matching the precise movements of your hands as you assisted. It was intense, but you had no time to be distracted. Life and death were real here, and your job was to fight for life.

When the surgery was finally over, the soldier stabilized, you stepped outside the tent to catch your breath. The sky was still overcast, and the damp air felt heavy. You leaned against a wooden post, your hands shaking slightly from the adrenaline.

Logan was gone, but the memory of him lingered. You couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d left something unsaid. There had been too many moments—too many heavy, unspoken words between you. You tried to brush it off. It had only been a few days since you’d met him, after all. But somehow, it felt like more.

"Y/N."

You looked up to see one of the other nurses approaching. "Yeah?"

"You’ve been requested to assist with another unit. They’re setting up a temporary hospital closer to the front lines. It’ll be rough, but they need experienced hands."

You hesitated. The front lines meant more danger, more chaos. But the soldier in you—the part that was here to help, to make a difference—knew you couldn’t say no.

"When do I leave?" you asked, straightening up.

"Tomorrow morning, first light."

You nodded, giving a small smile. "Thanks for the heads-up."

That night, you tried to sleep, but your mind kept wandering back to Logan. To his last words before he’d left—"I don’t want you to get hurt. Not again." What had he meant by ‘again’? It kept echoing in your mind, nagging at you.

---

The next morning came quickly, and before you knew it, you were being packed into a truck heading closer to the front lines. The landscape passed by in a blur, and the closer you got to the new camp, the louder the sounds of war became. Shells exploded in the distance, and the ground seemed to vibrate with tension.

You spent the next few days in a haze of blood, bandages, and exhaustion. There was barely any time to think, let alone dwell on Logan. But still, every once in a while, your thoughts drifted to him—wondering where he was, what he was doing. If he was safe.

It was late one night, a few days into your new assignment, when the unexpected happened. The sirens had started to blare, lights flashing around camp. That could only mean one thing- you were under attack. And judging by the loud engines overhead, none of you were going to make it out alive.

---

Logan had gone with other soldiers to Sicily for Operation Husky. He didn’t want to leave you, but part of him thought, hoped, that maybe he was your bad luck charm.

Logan stared at the coastline of Sicily, but his mind was elsewhere. The mission was straightforward—get in, clear the path for the troops, and secure the area. But no matter how focused he tried to stay, thoughts of you kept creeping back in. He wondered if you were safe. He hoped, for your sake, that you weren’t thinking about him as much as he was thinking about you.

It was torture, being away. But deep down, Logan believed it was better this way. Maybe him being around was what doomed you every time. You had died three times before, and each time, he had been there. Maybe this time, distance would keep you safe.

But that didn’t stop him from wanting you. The thought of your smile, your laughter, the way you challenged him—it made him ache with something deeper than just desire. It was like an old wound that never healed, no matter how fast the rest of him did.

One of the soldiers called his name, pulling him from his thoughts. “Logan, you with us, man?”

He grunted in response, nodding toward the others. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“Good,” the guy said. “We’re heading out.”

Logan followed, but his thoughts drifted again, back to you. He had promised himself he wouldn’t get attached this time. But it was too late for that. He’d been attached since 1854, since that first smile, that first laugh.

---

It was a few days before Logan made it back to base, one closer to the frontlines. The mission had gone as planned, but something gnawed at him, an uneasy feeling he couldn’t shake.

As soon as the base came into view, Logan noticed something was off. Smoke still lingered in the air, and there were fewer people around than there should’ve been. His gut twisted. Something had happened while he was gone.

He found one of the soldiers he recognized, grabbing him by the arm. “What happened here?”

The guy’s face darkened. “We were hit. Bombing raid. Caught us off guard. There... there weren’t many survivors.”

Logan’s heart dropped. “Where’s the hospital unit?”

The soldier hesitated, eyes flicking away from Logan’s intense gaze. “It was one of the first targets. No one made it out.”

Logan felt like the ground had dropped from under him. “What do you mean, no one?” His voice was a low growl, almost dangerous.

The soldier shook his head. “I’m sorry, man. They didn’t stand a chance.”

Logan’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. The world around him blurred as the words sank in. You were gone. Again.

Without saying another word, Logan turned and walked toward what was left of the hospital tent. He had to see it for himself, even though part of him knew it was true. There was nothing left but rubble and debris.

His chest tightened, the weight of it crushing. You were gone. And he hadn’t been there to stop it. Again.

Logan stood there for what felt like hours, staring at the wreckage. He felt that familiar, burning anger rising inside him, but it was mixed with something else this time—grief. Deep, raw grief. He wanted to scream, to punch something, anything, but all he could do was stand there, numb.

He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing against the small velvet box he always carried with him. The engagement ring. The one he had never used.

It had been almost ninety years since he bought it. And still, he carried it, hoping one day he might finally be able to give it to you. But every time, every life, you slipped through his fingers.

Logan swallowed hard, his throat tight. He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. How many more times he could lose you.

“Dammit,” he muttered under his breath, his voice rough with emotion.

He had thought putting distance between you two would protect you. But it didn’t matter. You were gone, just like the other times.

And now, once again, he was left with nothing but memories and that damned ring.

in this chapter logan is 111 years old and reader is around 24-27 years old.

[luvjunie]

— trust who?

pairing: e-42!miles x 1610!fem!reader

contains: angst, mentions of death, yandere?miles

summary: you were taken from him a year ago, and now it seems the universe has given him a chance to do things differently— and this time, he’s not letting you go. no matter what. wc: 1,648

a/n: i got a lil carried away w this one won’t lie, lol. i love this song, and i put a little twist on it to match the plot. song lyrics are in small, bold italics

🎧: Not You Too - drake (ft. chris brown)

“trust- trust who? trust me and i can set you free. left your man came straight to me you the real mvp, my love.“

dimmed hues of red lights spotted your vision as you came to, eyelids heavy as they peeled apart to reveal the room you assumed would be the setting of your demise. your head snapped up when you finally regained consciousness completely, fright-riddled eyes darting around to scout out an escape plan. but just as you went to move, you heard chains clink from above as your body swayed, and realized you couldn’t. you looked down to find your legs bound by rope, as well as your hands, as well as the rest of your body to a firm, stuffed sack.

feet dangling from the ground, you let your head fall back against the punching bag, defeated, and settled for your only remaining option. “help!” you yelled, voice rasped and weak. “help!” you tried again.

“don’t bother, can’t hear a thing down here.”

an artificial, robotic voice sounded from above, warranting your eyes to meet a masked man who resided on a high beam, crouched in place, watching you. how long had he been there?

he jumped down, catching himself and effortlessly hanging from one arm before his sneakers met the steel floor. they were untied, you noticed.

fear permeated your entire being as he strolled over to you, a semblance of uneasiness coursing through your veins, pumping into your blood and rendering your spine straight as the ominous figure stopped just in front of you.

“ple—please, i don’t know why i’m here,” the words tumbled out in a broken heap of suffocated, stifled sobs as tears welled in your eyes.

“shh, it’s okay,” he shushed you, a hand reaching out to gently pinch your chin, lifting your head back up after it’d fallen. his touch was delicate, like he was scared he’d break you.

“i’m not gonna hurt you, mi vida. i’d never hurt you… you know that.” the voice distorter cut out, your breath catching in your throat and your eyes fluttering over every inch of this strange mask. it reminded you of a ventilation mask you’d seen in miles’ room once, a mask used to protect your lungs from the fumes of spray paint.

as if your mind were working against you, you found yourself… calmer than you were just a few seconds ago, and even more confused. why did the voice sound so familiar?

something wasn’t right.

“who— who are you?” you gulped.

“you don’t remember me?” the shield over his face pulled back, the quiet sound of mechanical whirring as it revealed his face drowned out by the heavy thrumming of your heart in your ear drums.

here stood your boyfriend in front of you, the same features, but… different. his entire demeanor had shifted since you had last seen him just prior to whatever time it was now, to something sinister. his hair was longer, pulled back and braided. an accent, almost resemblant of his mother’s lingered on the tip of his tongue, dripping within the words he spoke. his face was harder, etched and carved like the weight of the world had chipped at it piece by piece, only to settle on his shoulders, leaving him with no time for himself.

this couldn’t be right.

“miles?” you choked out, mouth gaping to find your voice. “w-why… what am I—you’re, you… but different? what is this? where am i?”

a puff of air shot through his nostrils, his best effort at a laugh as a small, smile lifted the corner of his lips, braids gliding over his shoulders when his head tilted to the side.

“you came back to me, mi amor. and god…you’re even more beautiful than i remembered.” he breathed, eyes flickering with sorrow for just a moment as they studied your face, a moment that was almost too brief for you to catch.

when he’d encountered you and his counterpart on the roof with his uncle, he swore his prayers had been answered. somehow, someway you’d been brought back to him— the pain of witnessing the bullet that pierced through your chest that fateful night just a year ago drifted from his mind, and replaced itself with the all consuming, peaceful, sleeping image of you the minute he’d picked you up and cradled you in his arms. it pained him to inject you with the needle to sedate you, but he had no other choice, he could never truly hurt you. no, he would never do that.

“i missed you so much.”

“first time in a long time hurtin' deeply inside”

the hand sporting his mechanical gauntlet lifted towards you, fingers bending so the claws wouldn’t scrape your skin as he let the cold metal brush against the swell of your cheek. the sound of the steel joints ticking made you flinch, chest stuttering for breaths you couldn’t keep within your overworked lungs as you turned away from him.

you looked at him with so much fear in your eyes, when all he’s ever wanted to do was keep you safe, to protect you, to make you feel comforted and secure. and he failed at that before, he knows that, but he’s ready this time. he’d been given a second chance, and he’d be damned if he let you slip through his fingers again.

“it’s me, hermosa… it’s okay, you know me. just trust me, and i can set you free, and then we can be together. just like old times.” his brows furrowed, his tone one of sincerity as he assured you, but it did nothing for your racing heart.

“trust—“ you sputtered, voice wavering when you spoke. “trust who? you? how can i when you have me tied up like this?!” you balked, your bewilderment such a stark contrast from his bleak, seemingly unmoving disposition.

“yeah… i’m real sorry ‘bout that. uncle aaron made me, so i tried not to make ‘em too tight. you know something like this would never, ever be my idea.”

you shook your head, was this some kind of sick joke? why wasn’t he understanding a single word that was coming from your mouth?

you grew frustrated, time was not on your side, and honestly you were getting tired of this game.

“i don’t know anything about you, i don’t even know who you are. you might have his face, and—and his body,” you looked him up and down. “but you… you are not my miles.”

he felt a pang in his chest, the words you uttered, the way you said ‘my miles’, as if he wasn’t right here, as if he wasn’t right in front of you. the version of himself he’d buried in the ground with you just last year wanted to jump out and yell at you, plead with you, anything to make you see he could be just like your miles, because he was your miles.

“oh,” he pulled the skin of his cheek between his teeth as he turned away with an agitated nod, extending his arm out to point towards your miles, who was still unconscious, chin dropped to his chest as he hung from another punching bag.

“him?” his voice raised in volume and broke apart with desperation, a humorless chuckle unintentionally escaping his trembling lips. “what’s the difference? huh? tell me.” he demanded, nostrils flaring as he tried to maintain his composure, staring deep into the eyes of the girl who would’ve burned the whole world down with him if he asked. the girl who was in his grasp, right in this moment, yet still so far from his reach— reserved for the one who had everything that belonged to him.

your head whipped to where he pointed, and the moment your eyes landed on your boyfriend your blood ran cold, a pained gasp rippling your chest. “miles! oh god, please!” you called out for him as you struggled against your restraints, his counterpart interrupting you by blocking your line of your view with his body.

“cálmate,” he hummed, “he’s fine, just unconscious. i’m not cruel. is that how you remember me, mamí?” he questioned, voice bleeding with hurt.

your gaze drifted over to your miles again, hope swelling within you when you heard him groan.

“no, no, princesa. don’t look at him, look at me.” he urged.

he didn’t understand. you always used to say you would love him in every universe, that you’d find him in every lifetime, what happened to that?

“please, we need to get home, if we don’t… he won’t be able to save his father, he—he’ll die. you have to understand.” you pleaded, the tears finally bubbling over your waterline, streamlining down your cheeks.

“you are home! it’s me, mi amor, i’m right here. what about everything we went through?” he asked tenderly, voice full of hurt and eyes still soaking in the slight difference in your features. he was too distracted by the fact that the girl he thought he’d never see again, was right here in front of him to even try and comprehend what you were trying to say. “please, don’t cry. you know i hate seeing you cry.”

nothing else seemed to be working, so you settled for empathizing with him. he was still miles, after all, different universe or not, he was still the same person deep down. and from the way he was looking at you, love flowing from the eyes that held so much anguish within them, you knew some version of you had loved him, too. in the same way you loved your own.

“look, i’m sure i-“ you stopped to correct yourself, “she, loved you, but i’m not her. i’m not from here, and i’m sorry she’s gone, and i’m sorry you have to live with this pain, but, please… you have to let me go.” your tone was forbearing, words teetering off into a hushed plea, your lingering apprehension threatening to tear through the seam of your heartfelt spiel.

“let you go?”

you nodded tentatively.

he moved closer to you, to unbound you from this elevated prison, you assumed. because maybe, just maybe you’d managed to get through to him.

but this wasn’t your universe, and this… this was not your miles.

for the first time in your entirety of knowing miles morales, you felt your heart stop— and not in the way that brought a flurry of warmed, passioned butterflies to flutter within you— but in a way that invited his words to settle like ice in your bones, allowed panic and dread to inhabit your senses, clutching you in a selfish grasp of resentment that had no intentions of letting you go— you realized, as this time, his gloveless hand swiped away yet another tear you hadn’t even noticed you’d shed.

“why would i do that?”

“I've given you enough time. hurtin' deeply inside.“

- please do not plagiarize, copy, or repost my works to other platforms!

likes, comments, and reblogs are very appreciated 💗

©luvjunie 2023

[zenithsturniolo]

SCREAM, BITCH - ghostface!chris x blogger!reader

♬ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ series intro | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

chapter five: baby, pick up, i need you

this chapter will contain.. angst, mentions of death, emotional intensity, guilt, manipulation, deception, denial, breakdowns wc: 3k series summary: a dark, twisted slowburn where obsession bleeds into desire. you're a true crime blogger. he's the masked stranger recreating your cases. dual povs, filthy tension, and cliffhangers sharp enough to scar. it’s not just stalking - it’s seduction. not just fear - it’s fascination. you wanted a story. he wanted you. now you’re both in far too deep.

♯ reader pov

but nothin' is better sometimes once we've both said our goodbyes let's just let it go let me let you go

the first thing you hear through your sleep-fogged brain is a loud, grating ring. shrill, insistent, slicing straight through the haze of your dreams like a blade.

you stir, groaning softly as your lashes flutter against the inky darkness bleeding in through your blinds. your limbs feel weighted, sunk deep into the warmth of your mattress. the sound drills on. you roll over, clumsily pawing at the sheets, eyes still half-shut. after a few sluggish, unfocused swipes, your fingers brush something smooth and buzzing beneath the covers.

your phone.

you fumble it into your hand, squinting as the brightness stings your vision. the screen swims into focus, your wallpaper blurred at the edges, distorted by sleep.

your brows twitch together as last night reassembles itself in pieces: soft light spilling over café tables, laughter dancing in the space between you and liam, the way he smiled when he walked you to your door. you’d crawled into bed still smiling, texting him back and forth until your eyes gave out.

but now, your eyes scan the time. the name that flashes across your screen.

chris.

your heart skips.

you haven’t heard from him since yesterday — not even a meme, not even a thumbs-up to your last text. and now he’s calling you in the pitch dark, during the slowest, deadest part of the night.

a sinking feeling starts blooming in your chest.

you press the phone to your ear, voice gravelly. “chris?”

he says your name like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth.“fuck. thank god. i thought you wouldn’t pick up.”

his voice is hoarse, frantic, fraying at the edges like a live wire. every syllable punches out raw and rushed, like he’s barely breathing between them.

you sit up, tangled in blankets, pushing hair out of your face. “what… what happened?”

“did you read the news?” he spits the words like poison — bitter, fast, and panicked.

your stomach lurches. you pull the phone away just long enough to open your browser, tapping through the glare with unsteady fingers. the headline at the top, posted a mere thirty minutes ago ago, reads: killer strikes again. 

your skin goes cold even though you knew this would happen. your fingers tremble slightly as you grip the phone tighter. “yeah, and? why’s this different?”

his voice breaks — not just a crack, but a collapse. “he killed matt’s girlfriend.”

your heart slams into your ribs.

matt.

chris’s triplet. the one you’d never met, but felt like you knew just from how chris talked about him: stories told with so much warmth, with a love that felt fierce and unshakable. you knew how much his brothers meant to him. how tightly they were all stitched together, a thread of something unbreakable running through them.

“fuck… i’m so sorry,” you whisper, voice tight. your chest aches like something sharp’s been lodged behind your ribs.

“i don’t know what to do…” chris chokes, his voice unraveling completely. “just fucked up… fuck…”

you can hear the sound of pacing — floorboards creaking beneath his weight, the rustle of fabric as he tugs at something. he’s spiraling, caught in a loop of disbelief and guilt and grief.

“chris,” you murmur, “breathe, okay? did you sleep at all? how’s matt?”

“didn’t sleep,” he rasps. “matt… he’s at the station. they’re questioning him.”

of course they are. he was the boyfriend. and in cases like this, the boyfriend always came first. it didn’t matter that he’d probably been alibied six ways from sunday — when people are scared, they want answers, and the cops would settle for anything that made the public feel safer.

“they won’t arrest him,” you say softly, even though the assurance rings a little hollow in your own ears. “they don’t have shit against him.”

“i know…” chris whispers. “but he’s gonna be wrecked. he loved her. morgan. more than anything. and now she’s just…”

gone. just like that. a name erased. a future severed.

you exhale slowly and start moving, sliding your legs over the side of the bed and feeling the chill bite at your bare skin.

“listen to me,” you say, voice steadying. “it’ll be okay. meet me at the station, we’ll—”

“no,” he cuts you off. fast. sharp. “not the station. just…”

you pause, the silence stretching. “…alright. i’ll be over in fifteen.”

you hang up before he can argue. before that breaking sound in his voice makes your own start to shake.

you move on instinct, stripping off your sleep shirt, pulling on jeans with trembling hands. the fabric feels rough against your skin. your shirt’s slightly wrinkled, but it doesn’t matter. you brush your teeth on autopilot, swiping your phone and keys on the way out.

the air outside your apartment is biting. it slaps your skin awake the second you step into the parking garage. the world is asleep. lights hum softly, cars sit silent. even the shadows feel heavier now.

your hands tremble as you start the car, adrenaline clawing through your veins like fire. your chest feels tight, your breath shallow. the city blurs past as you press your foot dangerously low on the gas — empty intersections, flickering traffic lights, dark storefronts. everything looks hollow, like it’s holding its breath.

chris’s house looms up fast. the driveway yawns like a mouth. you barely make it to the porch when the front door swings open.

and there he is.

shirtless. sweatpants hanging low, waistband of his boxers peeking out. his chest rises and falls too quickly, like he’s been running, or crying. maybe both. his eyes are bloodshot, dark circles carved deep beneath them. his lips are raw, bitten. his hair is a mess — finger-tangled and curling in places it usually isn’t.

he looks… wrecked. not just tired, not just upset, undone. he steps aside wordlessly. you walk in.

the house is dim. not dark — but dim in a way that feels eerie. wrong. like it’s grieving, too.

the kitchen is lit faintly. nick is passed out on the couch, one arm dangling off the edge, a blanket half-slipped to the floor. his face is slack, mouth slightly open. soft snores echo in the silence like waves.

chris moves toward the kitchen, but his steps falter. he braces himself against the counter, head bowed so his hair hides his face.

“you shouldn’t have come alone,” he murmurs. his voice is low. splintered. “not after what happened.”

you glance at nick. “he fell asleep mid-convo?” you ask gently.

chris nods. “he tried to stay up… but he was wrecked.”

“you look worse.”

his lips twitch into a ghost of a smile, but it dies instantly. “they needed matt at the station. he didn’t even fight it. just… left. like he wasn’t even in his body.”

“how was he?” you ask softly.

“numb,” chris croaks. “like he couldn’t even process it. like he thought she was coming back.”

you step forward.

“i’m not ready to see him fall apart,” he whispers. “he told me… right before it happened, he told me he was gonna propose.”

your heart shatters in your chest.

and then he breaks.

he steps into you like he’s crashing into the ocean. no warning. no grace. just sudden, aching need. he collapses against your chest, arms curling tight around you, face burying into your shoulder. he clutches you like you’re the last thing he’s allowed to hold.

you wrap your arms around him without hesitation.

his skin is warm, damp with sweat. you rub slow circles into his back, whispering soft, meaningless things — anything to keep him tethered. his body shakes with silent sobs, each tremor racking through you like an aftershock.

you don’t let go. not when your shirt goes damp with his tears. not when your arms go numb. you hold him until the shaking slows. he peels away eventually. quietly. his face is unreadable now, wiped clean, but not calm.

“gonna shower,” he mutters. the words are thick. he won’t meet your eyes.

he disappears down the hallway like a ghost.

you exhale and turn to the kitchen, chest still tight. every part of you hums with adrenaline, but your hands are steady as you rinse a plate and begin scrubbing. the silence stretches long, but you keep going — because if you stop, you’ll think.

and if you think, you’ll remember this was your plan. you and chris had mapped it out. picked the area. baited the killer. and now morgan is dead. the guilt pulses deep and hard behind your sternum.

does chris blame you?

you don’t want to know.

so you clean. you tidy the kitchen. sweep the floor. stir pancake batter like it’s holy work. you move with practiced precision, sleeves pushed up, hair twisted into a clip, as the oven clock ticks on behind you like a countdown.

when nick stirs awake, you’re halfway through the second batch. he blinks at you groggily, confusion pulling at his puffy eyes.

“hey,” you say gently, trying not to startle him. “i’m chris’s friend. he called me after matt left.”

a lie, but one chris would want you to tell.

he looks at you like you’ve materialized from smoke. “why are you in my house?”

“chris needed someone,” you reply simply. “he’s in the shower.”

nick watches you for a long moment. then slumps back against the couch, defeated. drained. you plate the pancakes.

“made you breakfast,” you say softly. “eat while it’s hot.”

and for the first time in what feels like hours, the weight in the air lifts — just a little. enough to breathe.

finally, you hear footsteps echoing down the hallway. chris emerges, and your breath catches.

he’s wearing a soft baby blue hoodie, the sleeves pushed up just enough to show the tension in his forearms. paired with washed jeans and damp hair that falls messily over his forehead, he looks almost boyish—almost. the color of his hoodie matches his eyes so well it hurts. he’s clean-shaven now, his jaw stripped bare, but the hard lines of his brows are set in stone. he’s still wound tight.

he doesn’t meet your gaze.

“chris,” nick says, standing. there’s relief in his voice, like he’s been waiting for this moment just to make sense of it all. “who’s… this?”

chris explains, flatly, who you are. you try not to flinch. he hasn’t mentioned you before? not even your name? he’s been woven into your life like thread—and you, apparently, haven’t even left a scratch on his. the realization stings. makes your lungs feel too small. god, how desperate you must seem now.

“come on,” chris sighs at you, running a hand through his hair. “you didn’t have to do all this. seriously, did you clean the fucking house too?”

you brush a strand of hair off your face with a sheepish smile, nudging a steaming plate of pancakes forward. “it’s the least i could do. you guys are going through hell.”

nick tilts his head at you, something soft flickering in his expression. “i like her.”

“so do i,” chris says, but he’s not smiling—he’s staring. right into you.

you shift under the weight of it, your neck warming. “so what were you doing in the bathroom for all of eternity?”

“just needed a minute,” he mutters, voice low. “to breathe.”

his tone douses the room in silence again, grim and sticky. you exhale and clatter plates down a little too eagerly. “dig in,” you say brightly, pretending like you’re not unraveling inside.

you all eat—well, sort of. you scarf down pancakes like it’ll patch the hole in your chest. nick picks at his plate, untouched, claiming his stomach’s in knots. chris devours his like he’s starving, then keeps stealing bites from yours when he thinks you won’t notice.

there’s a strange, aching comfort in sitting with them. you feel like you’ve known them longer than a couple hours. maybe it’s the grief. maybe it’s the way their shoulders slope beneath the weight of it. the way their silence speaks more than words.

“—and nate said he’s gonna fly over for the funeral. we’ll be coming with him,” mary-lou’s voice crackles through the speaker of chris’s phone. her tone is trying to stay light, but you can hear it—the heaviness underneath.

chris fidgets constantly. cracking knuckles. bouncing his knee. nick’s lip is raw from chewing it.

“you’ll give him our numbers when he gets a new phone?” chris asks. “kid breaks his like it’s a sport.”

you then say a soft hello, introduce yourself. her voice wavers a little, but she’s kind. kind, and tired. chris hangs up, then nick’s phone buzzes.

he glances at it. stills. his eyes swim with something thick and unreadable. he flips the screen around, and you and chris lean in to read it.

MATT: coming home in twenty

chris lets out a breath like it’s the first one he’s taken all morning. you glance between them, unsure of what to say, suddenly aware of the way silence wraps around all three of you like static. you think of matt.

you’ve never even met him, and still, you ache. murdered girlfriend. hours of interrogation. the weight of reality gnawing at his throat. it’s cruel. it’s unfair. and it’s coming for him in twenty minutes.

you start clearing the plates, rinsing them under warm water. nick thanks you, and chris shoots you a quiet smile.

but then you hear nick, hushed and wary: “why’d you call her over at four in the morning? she’s practically a stranger. and why’s she doing every house chore?”

chris’s voice is low. “she’s not a stranger. i trust her. i just… needed someone.”

a beat.

“i think she needs something to preoccupy herself with.”

nick exhales hard and stands. chris follows him into the kitchen.

“i’m sorry,” nick says to you at the sink. “i wasn’t thinking straight. shouldn’t have let you do all this.”

“don’t worry about it,” you say, but you’re drained, and the warmth of the water has long since turned cold. you don’t put up a fight, wiping your hands with a rag. a brief moment of small talk follows. light, tired. and then the front door slams. 

you freeze. everyone does. the thud of footsteps. you all hurry to the hall.

matt steps into view. his posture is slouched, his eyes sunken, his face pale. he looks like someone who’s just been told something impossible, and chose not to believe it.

“yo,” he greets, voice rough. then he sees you. “uh… hey?”

“hi,” you offer, voice small. “i’m chris’s friend.”

he nods, distracted, and goes straight for the fridge. grabs a root beer. cracks it open like it’s any other day.

and that’s what’s so terrifying. he’s pretending nothing happened.

chris edges toward him, slow. gentle. like he’s approaching something wild.

matt notices, frowns. “what’s with you guys?”

“matt…” chris whispers. it’s agonizing.

“yes, chris? can i help you?”

nick’s hand flies up to his mouth. tears spill silently.

matt sees it. his eyes narrow. “guys?”

“why are you acting like this?” chris says, his voice cracking.

“acting like what?” matt barks. “you guys are fucking scaring me.”

“stop,” chris pleads. “don’t do this.”

matt sets the can down. “what?”

“she’s gone, matt,” nick says, barely audible. “morgan.”

matt blinks. scoffs. “yeah. i know. i just spent all morning saying that. jesus.”

“no, matt,” nick breathes. “she’s gone for good. she’s dead.”

and something shifts. subtle but catastrophic. matt’s face twitches. his breath shortens, his hands curl into fists.

“no. not my morgan.”

chris recoils like he’s been slapped, one hand over his mouth. he looks… broken.

matt starts muttering, rifling through his pockets for his phone. “you’re fucking with me. stop. she was just texting me. look—see? look.”

he shoves his phone at nick. “we were supposed to watch a movie. she said she’d bring snacks. look.”

nick just shakes his head.

“you don’t understand,” matt rambles, smile trembling. “they said they’ll bring her back. the cops. they said—”

“they meant justice, matt,” nick whispers. “not… not her.”

matt laughs. one, hollow sound. then dials her number. puts the phone on speaker.

“morgan, baby. pick up.”

ring. “please, baby.” ring. “i need you.” ring. “i fucking need you.”

his voice breaks. the tears come fast. ugly. helpless. nick takes the phone. matt clutches at it like it’s air. like without it, he’ll stop breathing.

“she can’t be gone,” matt sobs. “tell me she’s okay. please. please.”

nick doesn’t speak. just pulls him close. matt fights it at first—claws at him, fists shaking—but then he breaks. slumps into his brother’s arms, wracked with sobs.

“i can’t,” matt gasps, chest heaving. “i can’t live without her. nick, i can’t. i need her—please, god—”

chris stands back, frozen. he looks like a ghost. like he wants to touch matt but doesn’t trust his own hands.

you watch, eyes stinging, tears slipping down before you even notice. your heart splinters quietly. and still, it doesn’t compare to what they’re feeling.

you wipe your cheeks, step away.

and leave behind a house that now nurses broken boys.

—

you tuck your phone away, already pushing it by texting liam mid-shift—something you've gotten scolded for more times than you can count. but honestly, you weren’t really present today. your hands moved on autopilot, tamping espresso, steaming milk, making nice with strangers, but your mind was somewhere else entirely.

truthfully, it hadn’t come back since last night. and after this morning, you weren’t sure it ever would.

the air is thick with the scent of burnt espresso and oat milk, familiar and suffocating all at once. you slip into the mechanical rhythm: shout the orders, pull the shots, fake the smiles. it’s slower than usual—people are keeping close to home because of the murders—but the early rush still has its usual caffeine-fueled edge.

you prepare the next drink, barely looking at the label as you carry it to the counter.

then you freeze.

your breath hitches. your fingers go cold.

you stare at the name written on the side of the cup.

“user 187,” you call, barely louder than a whisper. your voice cracks as you look up.

and there— stepping forward to grab the cup, eyes locked on yours—

liam.

find parts of this series here !

a/n: matt my poor baby :(

🏷: @drewswife @k4urltzx @courta13 @briizysturn @y2kstarr @chriscantwhisper @tezzzzzzzz @adorechris @dolliraez @rriverscuomo @sturnsblogs @mattspillowprincess @mattsplaything @sturns-mermaid @auttysturnz @sonnyangelsweetiee @izzylovesmatt @ribbonlovergirl @k4urltzx @matts-girlfriend @pair-of-pantaloons @444sturns @weron1ka @grrrrcherries  @matts-wife @thicknick19 @slvtf0rchr1s @devotedlyteenagemusic @adoremattsturns @slut4chrisloads @cayleeuhithinknott @lyingbymalcom @sturniolo1trips @chrissbxby @alexisa78 @ariheartsmatt

divider by @anitalenia

this series is a work of fiction created for entertainment purposes only. all characters, events, and dialogue are entirely fictional and should not be interpreted as real. any similarities to real people or events are purely coincidental. credit and respect to all creators who’ve inspired similar works before me. I claim ownership only over my original writing, ideas, and interpretations. please do not repost, plagiarize, or steal. reblogs and love are always appreciated.

© zenithsturniolo

[caoimhewrites]

Trespass

(Undying Ground Pt2)

moved to @caoimhewritesfics

Some unexpected help from the masked stranger leaves you confused and dwelling on your past and this strange mans motives

CW: mentions of death, post apocalyptic world, canon typical violence, injury, grief, zombies (mentioned) WC: 2.4k

Pairing: Simon Riley x Reader. Reluctant allies to lovers

Series Masterlist → here

A/N- Simon being ominous yayyyyy

Your head is pounding. Your skull feels like shattered glass has buried itself into the crevices of your brain. You try to open your eyes only to be blinded by the light coming through the window. At least you think it's a window. The blur in your vision and pain in your skull make it hard to tell.

It takes you a few more minutes of blinking for your vision to clear and the sight of the room to come into focus. You're in a small wooden cabin. One of those cabins that's been hand built but still much nicer than the humble shack you shared with Vivienne. The memory of her still burns, like a spark in your chest, quickly catching and burning your lungs from the inside. You push the thought away as you take in more of your surroundings.

Your eyes drift across the room. Everything appears to be handmade. Wooden chairs, a table, even the single bed frame pressed against the wall furthest from where you lay… all hand built. Quite well made, in fact. The sunlight, still slightly blinding, comes in through the singular window perched above the counter in what must be the makeshift kitchen.

You can't be bothered to will yourself up off the small cot pressed against the cold timber wall, the ache in your body debilitating. A deep sigh rolls through your lungs, the silence of the room making anxiety curl into your heart.

The creak of the door and the sound of heavy, stomping boots makes you shoot up. The cut in your side burns as you move. On instinct you reach for your knife, only to feel that it's gone. Of course, you should have known. The skull faced "private property" lunatic must have taken it. You see now just how big he really is. A behemoth of a man. He's at least 6'4, his massive frame is forged from years of relentless training and hardened discipline. The only bit of skin you can see is around his brown eyes. His clothing, all black. "You're awake," is all he says as he tosses a few rabbits he caught for food onto the simple wooden table.

"What do you want from me?" Your tone is wary and guarded. You've run into plenty of people who were hardly clinging to sanity and this terrifying man is no different. Your eyes follow his movements carefully, watching for any sign of a threat. His eyes lock with yours as he stalks towards you, chair in hand. The legs scrape against the ground, a grating screech. His eyes bore into yours as he sits, leaning forward to get an even closer look at your face.

"You were trespassing." He says it so flatly, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Trespassing?" You ask, keeping your tone guarded.

"Trespassing," he echoes flatly, dark eyes narrowing like a blade being honed to a point. "What are you doing here?"

You swallow, but your throat is dry, like dust has settled there, thick and choking. “I wasn’t trespassing. I was sleeping.”

He tilts his head quizzically, studying you like a wolf watching a rabbit. "Sleeping, huh? And why should I believe that?"

“I didn’t know anyone lived out here,” you go on, slower now. "I'm just passing through."

"You didn't say why I should believe you," he says in the same flat, almost menacing voice. You can't blame him entirely for not believing you. Anyone will lie to anyone to get what they want. Ever since the world went to shit, no one could trust anyone. Even your allies could become your enemy when infected came around or food ran low.

You adjust your posture, instinctively leaning away from the masked man as unease coils in your gut. The chill of the wall seeps through your clothes as your back presses against the cold, damp wall. “For all I know,” he says, his voice low and edged with suspicion, “you’re just waiting for the right moment to knock me out, strip me of my weapons, and leave me here as bait for the infected. That way I won’t be able to follow you when you run.”

You swipe your tongue over your chapped, sunburned lips. "I lost my camp to a horde. I was just trying to sleep... honest." Your voice comes out more shaken than you intended, betraying your unease about the masked stranger.

"Hmmm," he hums pensively, fingers tapping rhythmically against his thigh. "Quite the set up you had out there with the cans. Clever." Relief runs through your veins when he leans back in his chair, seeming to believe you. The wood creaks slightly under his weight. Neither of you speak for what feels like several minutes, the silence pressing down on you.

He finally speaks, voice quiet and low, like a sound not meant to travel far.

“How long?”

You blink, confused. “How long what?”

A pause.

“How long you been alone?”

The question hangs in the air, heavier than the silence that came before it. Your chest tightens before you answer, "six days." That’s all. You don’t offer anything more. No details, no context. He doesn’t ask, and you’re grateful for it.

He asks your name, eyes watching you closely. For a moment, you hesitate, the thought of lying flashing through your mind, wondering if giving him the truth is a mistake. But after a beat, and with a sigh that betrays your uncertainty, you give it anyway.

All he gives is a curt nod, "Ghost."

---

The fire is warm and comforting against your wet skin. You hear Vivienne moving behind you, the sound muffled and distorted. The blanket over your shoulders is heavy.

Vivienne's voice echoes in your head, the words indistinguishable. You close your eyes and try to focus, but the syllables slip through your grasp like water through cupped hands. The shadows of the fire dance in distorted figures across the walls.

The wind blowing outside morphs into the cries and snarls of the infected. Vivienne's fingers curl into your hair. You try to turn, but the weight of the blanket pulls you down, holds you there. Her ghostly grip tightens in your hair.

The cold of her hands seeps into your skin, destroying the warmth and comfort that the fire had brought you. Her breath is a ghost on the back of your neck.

"They're coming. They're at the door"

Her raspy, broken voice echoes through the shack. Your body frozen in place, limbs locked. You feel the racing of your heart, feel it pounding on your rib cage like it wishes to break free from your body.

The howling of the infected grows deafening as Vivienne vanishes like blown smoke. The door shakes and cracks, darkness from outside creeping in.

You jolt awake, the ghostly dream of your friend fading, but lingering at the forefront of your mind.

The masked man, who you've come to know as Ghost doesn't say much to you in the days that follow. Not that you're conscious for most of it anyway. The cut in your side had gotten infected, and the fever that came with it left you drifting in and out of consciousness. Ghost didn't do much to help you, only lending a hand if he absolutely had to. He keeps you fed with just the scraps from his own meals.

"You'll be out of here when you're better."

You spend much time debating why he would bother taking you in the first place if he's going to hardly patch you up and send you out on your own again. In your rare moments of lucidity you notice him watching you, studying you as if you would jump up and get him at any second. Even in your best state, taking down this mountain of a man would be a ridiculous thought. His gaze always lingers, boring into you like he can see your insides.

"Here," he grumbles as he unceremoniously drops a plate of food onto your lap. It's a measly meal, scraps of rabbit and a few small potatoes, but enough to keep you going.

This was the routine. Food scraps when you're awake, one or two grumbled words, and his suspicious stare. He seemed to believe your story, what little information you gave him at least, but trust did not seem to come along with it.

You eat slowly, careful not to make a mess, even though your hands tremble with weakness, sleep and delirium still lingering. Ghost doesn’t sit. He stands by the window, arms crossed, the lower half of his mask lifted just enough for a bite of the rabbit he caught today. You wonder what he looked like under it. All you can see is pink lips and a strong jaw. The mystery of him is quite intriguing. A man all alone in what seems to be a hand-built cabin with game readily available was interesting enough, but the mask and reluctance— no, inability to hold a conversation with you only made him more fascinating. You never dare to ask him any questions though. His piercing stare and indiscernible motive kept you quiet. 

“You should change that bandage,” he mutters, eyes flicking to the old bandages over the cut on your side.

You nod stiffly, “I will.” You had to ration the small amount of supplies you had managed to grab in your escape. Ghost made it clear several times that your supplies were yours and his were his. No sharing. Supplies were scarce, painfully so. You couldn’t really blame him for being frugal with what he had. He even refused to help you change your bandages, even if you were tired and weak. He would wait until you were awake, hurl your bag at your feet and stalk off to hunt or at least that's what you imagine he’s doing. 

You haven't heard the wails or gnashing of teeth in the few feverish days you have spent here. Wherever you were, whatever he was doing was keeping them away.

Ghost stands still as he watches you, having pulled his mask back down over the bottom of his face. You shift your weight, testing the ache in your side. It’s still there, sharp and insistent, but manageable. Ghost doesn’t speak again, just watches. Always watching. The silence claws at you. You’re not sure why it bothers you so much. Maybe it’s the fact that he doesn’t look away. Maybe it’s because it makes you feel like prey. 

You lick your lips. “You could try being a little less creepy, you know.”

“I’m not the one galavanting around looking like an infected on a strangers property,” he argues, head tilting slightly.

Your eyes narrow at him, “I was trying to sleep. You brought me inside. You could have just left me there.”

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t agree either. Just turns away, stepping toward the counter. He picks up a small, battered canteen. He tosses it to you without looking. You catch it clumsily, nearly spilling the contents as the lid jostles loose.

“Drink,” he mutters.

“Thanks,” you say before you can stop yourself. The word feels strange in your mouth, like it doesn’t belong in this space. You drink eagerly, having run out of your own water supply two days ago. 

You hug your arms around your torso, suddenly cold. “Why haven’t you kicked me out yet?” The question lingers in the air between you, more dangerous than you intended.

Ghost doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. “Still deciding.”

Your brow lifts, curiosity fighting with your frustration. “Deciding what, exactly?”

Another pause. This one feels longer. Like he’s thinking about something, but the mask makes it impossible to read. He makes no move to reply to you, leaving the question hanging. 

You let out a frustrated sigh. Of course he won’t answer. Passing the canteen back to him, you speak again, “You have something against answering questions or something? You don’t have to be so… cryptic all the time.”

His expression, at least what you can see, doesn't change. He lets out an unimpressed huff, “I could kick you out right now. The infected will like you a whole lot more than I do.”

“God, alright… dramatic,” you murmur to yourself, rolling your eyes. 

After many minutes of tense silence, Ghost speaks, “You talk in your sleep. Who’s Vivienne?” His tone is stern and accusatory. Your entire body stiffens as if the mere sound of the name has reopened a wound you'd barely managed to scar over. 

You turn to face him, your voice strained and defensive. “Why do you care? She’s none of your business.”

He takes a step closer, his gaze unwavering beneath the mask, and replies with quiet intensity, “I’m making it my business.”

You let out a bitter breath, swallowing down the emotion clawing its way up your throat. “We were friends,” you say, the words clipped. “Happy now?”

You had lost Vivienne only nine days ago now but the memory of her is already slipping from your brain like a slow leaking faucet. The nightmares are a strange comfort. At least in them you can hear her voice again, even if it’s muffled and distorted. But, you won’t share any of this with Ghost. He’s not your friend and once you’re healed, you’re getting the hell out of here. He was merciful enough to let you heal in his cabin, not leaving you to run into some strong nosed infected, but he is not your friend, not your confidant. 

“Satisfied,” he nods, “We’ve all lost people.” He taps his foot for a moment as if he’s debating his next move. “You were clever.”

You blink. “What?”

“With the cans on the trees. It was… clever.” He admits it almost begrudgingly, like it pains him to compliment you, like the acknowledgement will cost him something.

“Thanks?” you offer, unsure whether to feel flattered.

He looks like he’s about to say more but he stops himself. Whatever it was getting swallowed. He opts to grab a roll of his own bandages and toss them at you. “Only use a little.”

“I have my own.” You set the bandages off to the side, hand shaking weakly, betraying how worn down you really are. 

“Not enough,” he reminds you and stalks off to the back of the cabin where his bedroom is. 

Still deciding.

The words echo in your head as you shakily clean your side, replacing the borderline decrepit bandages. Still deciding what? 

Taglist: @little-mini-me-world @angeldemon28 @iminlovewithjasontodd @i-like-foxs

[pedropascallme]

Deny Me

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x f!Reader

Summary: “'I’m fine,' you squared your shoulders, as if adjusting your posture was all it would take to convince the men around you that you were sturdy. 'I could understand a couple weeks—I could understand a month. But six weeks is—that’s appalling. It's not fair.'”

Warnings: Allusions to smut (masturbation) (minors DNI!!!!), canon typical violence, detailed descriptions of wounds, hospital imagery, allusions to PTSD, reader experiences panic attacks and a bout of depersonalization, smoking, implied age gap (ages not mentioned), enemies to frenemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, I know little to nothing about how the military works, if I missed anything please let me know!!

AN: So. Um. Never played COD. Barely understand the various plot lines it follows. But I DO understand that a man in a mask is inherently sexy. And that is my truth! Part two here <3

You hated Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley.

With every fiber of your being, you hated him.

You hated how he was so quick to pull rank; how swiftly his friends became his subordinates.

You hated the way he always spoke with such a cold, calculated indifference.

You hated the way he squared his shoulders to remind everybody of his stature; his status.

You hated his Britishisms, the way the pet names rolled off his tongue in your direction. And from anybody else, you might be fine with it, but when he called you sweetheart it made your stomach roll over itself.

You couldn’t tell why.

You hated how rookies acted as if he were some semi-legendary Adonis beneath his stupid fucking mask—which you’d also grown to hate.

You knew what he looked like under the balaclava; under the skull faceplate that made his eyes look so sunken and so attentive.

And who cares that his features matched so nicely? Who cares that his profile was just as carved as the rest of him? Who cares that the deep scars that crisscrossed over his left cheek looked almost silver under the fluorescent lighting of the barracks?

It didn’t matter that he was handsome. It didn’t matter that it was his face you thought about late at night, alone in your bed.

Certainly, he was no Adonis.

You hated the smirk in his voice, and the crease between his eyes, and the piercing edge of his gaze.

You hated that you knew, deep down, that your dislike of him was born out of convenience; that you loathed him for all the reasons that, in another life, you would’ve thrown yourself at him with open arms.

You hated that you knew you had become dead set on despising him because it was easier than the alternative.

He was an acquaintance, at best—a coworker you’d grab a beer with, under different circumstances. Mostly, though, he was a pain in the ass, and a detriment to your sanity.

You hated Ghost more by the second.

So why was it that, as you came to, bleeding out on the hard ground, he was the only thing you could think about.

You heard voices above you, a droning cacophony of accents and alarm that overlapped with each other, dissolving as they mingled with the ringing in your ears.

“Took a beating—”

“—fucking exploded before we—"

“—man down, but she’s—”

“—was beyond fucked.”

“She’s breathing,” you recognized Kyle’s voice above the panicked yelling. “Soap—she’s up.”

The first thing you noticed was how dry your mouth was, and a viscidness that clung to your side.

You tried to sit up, pushing back on your elbows against the dirt beneath you, and were met with a sharpness that ran up your lungs. You winced, coughing dry pain.

Your vision was blurry—almost watery, as if you were trapped beneath a sheet of ice and looking up through it. Still, you managed to track Gaz’s movements as he approached at a cautious speed to kneel beside you.

“Don’t move—” He held his hands out in front of him, trying to encourage you to lie still without having to touch you. “Where’s the worst of it?”

You stared at him blankly, only half registering his words.

“Everywhere,” you wheezed, and there was that same pain shooting up your lungs again, back with a vengeance. You squeezed your eyes shut, “Ribs. Left side.”

“Johnny!” Gaz’s voice carried in a way that made your skull vibrate, and you shuddered.

“C’mere, lass,” even in your sorry state, Soap’s accent was hard to miss. He gave Gaz a pat on the shoulder, encouraging him to stand and replacing him by your side. “Take yer kit off.”

“Buy me—me a fucking…” you heaved, “Drink…first…”

“Aye, she’s fine!” Johnny laughed, throwing a smile over his shoulder, though the wrinkles near his eyes weren’t deep enough for it to be sincere. “Yer bleedin’. Need t'let me dress the wound, Sergeant.”

You stared up at him, possibly concussed; definitely shell-shocked.

You swallowed the bile that rose in the back of your throat, trying to remember how you’d gotten here.

There had been open fire; there had been movement, and a tense argument between yourself and Ghost about who should lead the charge; there had been a brief period of satisfaction after you’d convinced him to let you stay up front.

There had been landmines.

“Nae, look here, lass—stay awake,” Soap snapped his fingers in front of your face. You must have begun to fade out when you tried to recall the details. He reached to unclip your chest rig, “Yer kit—”

“No.” you shook your head, and it made you feel like vomiting, but you didn’t stop. You felt a deep-seated dread pulse down your spine, and you needed answers.

You needed one answer.

“LT?” You looked at Soap, who stared back at you with a sympathetic frown, confused. “Where’s—where’s Ghost?”

“Oi,” a heavy boot stomped the dirt a few inches above your head, “Look up.”

And there he was—seemingly unscathed. It made your stomach burn, a sloppy mixture of frustration and something else. Maybe disappointment, maybe embarrassment.

Maybe.

If he had done things his way, it would probably be him on the ground right now. And if you could just hurry up and die, you wouldn’t have to eat your words about being able to front the line.

How long had he been standing there, anyway?

Your voice was shaky as you addressed him.

“Want—” you rasped, “Want you to do it.”

Soap exhaled audibly through his nose, glancing up at Simon with sharp eyes through a furrowed brow.

If words were exchanged, you didn’t hear them; and when Ghost took Johnny’s spot on the ground next to you, you didn’t see it happen, once again fading out.

“Gotta open your fuckin’ eyes, sweetheart.” Ghost’s words snapped you back to attention. He said it as if he were chastising you for forcing your way to the front of the line and, successively, getting yourself blown up.

You wanted to argue, tell him it was his fault for yielding to your demands, but all you could do was look up at him while he stripped you of your chest rig and pressed down hard around the sticky spot on your side. The action made your muscles flex, and you clenched your jaw through the unbearable pain that ran through you.

You might’ve grabbed at his forearm, but your body was numbing itself too quickly to register your own movements.

The last thing you saw were his eyes, almost frantic as he scanned your body.

But it couldn’t have been real fear—likely a figment of your imagination. Something to focus on as your body grew colder. Probably just a trick of the mask.

You wanted to rip it off.

~~~

You woke hesitantly.

You felt cold, but it was only skin deep; nothing like the chill that had infiltrated your bones when you’d started losing blood.

With a shallow sigh, you opened your eyes.

The infirmary.

You felt a level of reassurance in knowing that, if you died now, at least it would be in the comfort of a medical cot and not on the ground in the middle of nowhere.

There was an IV stuck into the crook of your elbow, padded with cotton and medical tape to keep it in place. You couldn’t feel it, but you winced at the thought of the needle in your arm, and the bruises that were scattered around it.

“Morning.” You registered Gaz sitting on a chair next to the cot.

You breathed, happy to see him. He didn’t look tired, didn’t look concerned—you wondered if you had even been here for more than a few hours.

You shifted, propping yourself up with your pillow. The pain that had been plaguing your side seemed to have been reduced to a dull pulse, but you still huffed at the feeling as you resituated yourself.

There was a piece of fabric—a shirt—draped over your stomach that you didn’t recognize. You tugged at a loose string on the hem, noticing the blood stains that had crusted over the material.

It didn’t bother you; it was probably your blood.

“Hi.” You smiled halfheartedly at Kyle, who watched on as you made yourself comfortable.

“How ya feelin’?” He tilted his head forward, smiling back at you.

Gaz was one of the few people you had bothered to get close to.

It wasn’t on purpose, and it wasn’t as if you put effort into shutting everybody else out—Gaz was just easier.

As much as you appreciated Soap’s friendship, and Price’s guidance, Gaz had the innate ability to listen. He knew when to shut up, and when to keep himself scarce; he knew when to add his two cents, and when to make himself available. He managed to be kind and collected, even in the most outrageous of scenarios, and you found him to be a tranquil presence in an otherwise stressful line of work.

Maybe it was because he was closest in age to you; maybe it was because he knew where to get cigarettes; maybe it was just the urge you had to form a bond, to experience the type of friendship that was always depicted in old Vietnam War movies.

Whatever it was, Kyle was the closest friend you’d ever had in any platoon. And you appreciated him immensely.

“Like I got blown up.” Your smile morphed into something more sincere, and Gaz laughed quietly.

“Happens.”

“Sucks,” you responded pointedly. “But I feel better than I did.”

Gaz just nodded, his lips still curled into a soft smile.

The doors to the infirmary opened with a loud scrape against the linoleum of the floor, and Soap walked in carrying a tray of paper coffee cups. He tsked at the sound of the doors, cringing slightly as they swung shut and produced the same grating sound.

“Christ, haud yer wheesht.” Soap muttered, toeing the scratch on the floor before squaring his shoulders and making his way to your bedside.

“Come bearing gifts, Johnny?” You watched him put the tray down on your cot’s side table.

“Bottoms up, lass.” Soap handed you one of the cups, and you popped the lid off to hasten the cooling process of the coffee.

The aroma of the drink on its own was enough to perk you up, and you smiled at the men who sat beside you.

“You Irish it up?” You quirked a brow, smiling at Johnny as he sipped his own coffee.

“Scots have a bit more, eh, practicality than that.” He smirked.

“And I wouldn’t let him.” Gaz chuckled, blowing gently on his own coffee.

The three of you drank in silence. The coffee was black, bitter, but it warmed you up and helped you relocate your senses.

“So,” you popped the lid back onto your cup, putting it onto the tray that Soap had left on the side table. “How’d I end up here?”

“Passed out before evac,” Gaz sighed into his coffee, clearly not too keen on having you relive the series of events. “Got you here without much trouble.”

“Aye, y’were fine,” Soap finished the rest of his coffee and tossed the paper cup into the trashcan nearest to your bed. “Wound was shallower than we thought. Fucked up yer ankle, mild burns, couple cracked ribs, but—” He gestured to your chest, which was mostly bandaged. “Fixed ye up nice.”

You looked down at your body, really taking it in for a moment.

Your chest felt heavy, constricted by the bandages that covered your ribs and side, and your ankle was wrapped, but looked much less serious. There was something sticky on the irritated portions of your skin, probably bacitracin.

“What’s this?” You finally brought attention to the shirt that still rested on your lap.

“Ghost’s.” Soap didn’t explain.

“Couldn’t find anything to wrap ya up with—fucking disaster out there,” Gaz picked up Johnny’s slack, “Used his shirt instead. Couldn’t let you bleed out, though I doubt you would’ve, either way.”

The image of Simon removing so much of his kit just to get to the t-shirt beneath it in the middle of an evac zone made you smile. You tried not to dwell on the heat that crept into your abdomen.

That explained why it was covered in blood, at least.

You nodded, sighing. “I wasn’t out long, then?”

Soap pursed his lips, almost smiling. You looked at Kyle for a straight answer.

“How long have I been here?”

“Day and a half…maybe—little more like two,” Gaz smiled sheepishly. “They’ve had you pumped full of everything. Morphine, the works.”

“Knocked ye out good.” Soap laughed.

“Better than dying.” You sighed, shaking your head. You reached out for your coffee again, finishing it in a gulp before passing the cup off to Soap to toss it for you.

“Chest feels alright?” Gaz took the lull in conversation to ask again about your state of being.

“Tight, but…” The ache was still there, and the bandages were a bit snug, but you could manage. “Yeah. Feels ok…”

“Just rest.” Gaz still didn’t look worried, and that made you feel more at ease with the situation.

“Haven’t a thing goin’ on, next few days.” Soap nodded, doubling down on Kyle’s suggestion that you commit to relaxing.

The doors to the infirmary scraped against the floor again, but you didn’t bother looking at who had opened them, assuming it was a nurse coming in to check your IV or replace your bandages.

Soap and Gaz briefly made eye contact, glancing at each other in their peripheral after watching the doors open, but you ignored it as reflexive; a nod to each other in support of their insistence that you rest.

“And after that?” You knew you were looking too far ahead—you didn’t even know how long it took ribs to heal—but a little taste of optimism from your friends would be encouraging.

“You’re out of commission.”

The deep Manchester growl rattled your train of thought, and you turned to look at Simon, who stood in front of the doors.

“What?” You looked at him incredulously—surely he couldn’t be trying to punish you for nearly getting killed; surely you had misheard.

“You’re not goin’ back out there.” Simon’s eyes flickered over your body before he let his razor-edged gaze land on your face.

“Just—with the state yer in, lass—” Soap tried to soften the blow, brows furrowing into a gentle expression.

“Not in any state.” Ghost finally moved from his spot by the doors, and in several brisk strides he was by your bedside.

You tried to chalk it up to the fact that you were lying down, but you couldn’t help but feel as though he was looming.

“You were out o’line.” You could practically see his sneer beneath the balaclava, lip curling into an ugly, twisted shape as he lay into you.

And for what?

For the first time since waking up, there was a shock running down your body; not out of any physical discomfort, but out of pure rage.

“I was doing what I enlisted to do.” You huffed, folding your arms over your chest and trying to ignore the twinge of your muscles as bruised flesh rested on bruised flesh.

He stared at you for a moment; unmoving, unblinking.

“You join the army to get y'self killed?” He said it like he thought it was funny, and that’s what really did it for you.

He could’ve excluded you from any ops in the near future. He could’ve yelled until he was red in the face about how your stubbornness and lack of awareness consistently and unnecessarily put you in harm’s way.

That much you could’ve understood. Respectively, it made sense; it was true.

But the edge of mirth in his voice as he mocked you whilst you lay drugged-up in the infirmary made your blood boil, and the morphine could do nothing to stop that.

“You can’t do that.”

In an effort to save face, you turned your attention back to Soap and Gaz, trying to shut Simon out.

“He can’t do that,” you searched their eyes for signs of support, something you could leverage, “We have a pecking order. Price has to—to...”

Your sentence fell off when you saw Soap giving Ghost a pointed look, Gaz staring at the floor, frowning.

“It’s only six weeks,” Kyle tried to highlight the silver lining, looking back up at you and giving you a timespan to consider, “Just till we can be absolutely sure you’re okay.”

“We…” Soap sighed, still looking at Simon with a subtle glare, “It’s just to make sure yer in the best shape possible, lass—nothin’ personal.” He chanced a glance at you, smiling, and you scoffed.

Taking a deep breath, you turned to stare straight ahead at the foot of the cot. “Your idea, Lieutenant?”

Simon stared down at you, saying nothing, but when you side-eyed him you could see a glint of something in his eyes that told you everything you needed to know: It had definitely been his idea.

Even if you had only been bruised, you were certain that he would've suggested the same timeframe for you to stay on bed rest, under the guise of healthcare. A sadistic form of punishment that saw you wasting away while your friends continued business as usual.

“You’re being irrational,” you scowled at him, letting your arms drop down to your stomach to give your chest a break from supporting them. “And—not for nothing—kind of a dick.”

“Easy, Sergeant.” He glared down at you.

“I’m fine,” you squared your shoulders, as if adjusting your posture was all it would take to convince the men around you that you were sturdy. “I could understand a couple weeks—I could understand a month. But six weeks is—that’s appalling. It's not fair.”

“Life’s not fair, sweetheart.” Ghost, too, squared his shoulders, and it had the effect he surely desired; you shrunk into yourself slightly. “You wanna talk about appalling? You let me know when you ‘ave to dig shrapnel out of a subordinate.”

He turned on his heel without so much as a nod towards Soap and Gaz, and you felt just as upset about his disregard of them as his vitriol towards you.

“Lieutenant!” You called after him, “Ghost!” You were aware that the conversation was over, but you were still keen to argue. “Simon!”

The doors swung open and shut again with the same piercing scrape against the floor.

You glared at the doors, your disgust at Simon heightened in your state of exhaustion.

“Johnny?” You didn’t look back at Soap, still focusing your anger on the doors.

“Aye.”

“More coffee.”

~~~

A week later, you were back on your feet.

The nurses had given you enough ibuprofen to last a lifetime, maybe two, and then they sent you on your way.

The hurt was still there; every time you coughed; every time you stretched your left arm too suddenly, but it was fading.

It wasn’t really the pain that bothered you now. It was more so the waking worries, the shakiness of your breath, and the way you jerked awake each night in a frenzy of twisted blankets and sweat and nausea.

You tried to suck it up; you were hardly the first soldier to have an experience like this. You tucked your head between your knees when you had to, but never your tail between your legs.

You refused your need for help. You refused to acknowledge any weakness.

You hated the notion that this stretch of forced bed rest was only proving a dismal point; you weren’t cut out for the task force. The people that whispered in the halls about you being nothing more than something for the men to look at were likely finding their evidence in this extreme shortcoming of yours.

You kept your distance from Simon in order to avoid any further conflict. But he always did a good job of making himself unavailable, even at the best of times, so you hadn’t had to tiptoe around the barracks.

You walked into the mess hall on a whim. Your appetite was still mostly touch-and-go, but you knew the least you could do for yourself after everything was eat.

Gaz waved you over to the usual table, and you set your tray down across from Johnny.

“Need a new callsign.”

“Don’t like Bravo-Nine?” Gaz looked at you over a spoonful of applesauce.

“No, not—you know what I mean. Soap; Gaz; Ghost; Berserker.”

You’d been doing a lot of thinking over the course of the week; maybe Berserker wasn’t you.

And you’d laughed at the thought initially—of course she wasn’t you. That was the whole point. She was a projection, symbolic of you. It’s not like Simon was Ghost.

You had rolled your eyes at the comparison, trying to stifle any more thoughts of him.

Eventually, you’d decided that the ritualistic version of yourself was inadequate—or perhaps you were inadequate to call her a representative.

You were no Berserker. You were the Sergeant who cracked three ribs in one go after going in blind and setting off a landmine.

"Hard thing to change," Gaz quirked a brow, "Sticks with you."

“It’s a good name.” Soap picked at his fingers.

“Feels wrong now,” you tried to explain, “A berserker would’ve been able to handle some scrapes.”

“A berserker would jump’t the chance to run onto a landmine.” Johnny countered with a smirk.

“Thought about your other options?” Gaz spoke up again, stopping an argument before it had the chance to begin.

He was always good at that.

“What about, uh…” He tilted his head back, squinting at the ceiling as he tried to come up with something.

“Tits McGee?” Soap laughed at his own suggestion.

You flicked a pea from your tray at him, but it veered off track and hit Gaz in the cheek.

“Oi!” Gaz wiped the moist spot it had left on his face with his hand, cringing. “No friendly fire at the lunch table.”

Soap barked a laugh, and you kicked him under the table as you stifled your own laughter.

“What’re you lot on about?”

And there was Simon.

Always when you least expected him; ready and willing to ruin a good time.

Ghost sat down next to you like it was nothing; like he hadn’t just chewed you out a few days earlier for nearly dying.

He was taking up too much space—at the table and in your head. You tried to ignore him, but your smile wavered.

“She’s changing her callsign.” Soap gestured to you with his chin.

“Doesn’t feel like a true berserker,” Gaz smiled, eyes darting between you and Ghost. “Tell him.”

Kyle knew how upset you were, and he had said he wouldn’t get in the middle of it. But it was clear that he was now attempting to take on the role of peacekeeper, if only to keep mealtime pleasant.

You shot Simon a sidelong glance, nodding in response to Gaz’s prompt. You didn’t want to grace the Lieutenant with a verbal reply. He didn’t deserve one.

“I suggested Tits McGee.” Johnny smirked into his drinking glass, and this time you stomped on his foot under the table. He winced through a chuckle.

“Fair idea.” Ghost huffed out what could’ve been mistaken as a laugh.

You grit your teeth.

“What about something…scarier…?” Gaz spoke as the thought came to him, looking at you again. “Give Ghost a run for his money.”

Soap swallowed the water in his mouth, eager to toss out suggestions.

“Reaper.” He let his voice drop an octave for emphasis.

“Spirit.” Gaz quirked a brow at you, expectantly, as he silently asked for your input.

“She wouldn’t wear it right.” Simon shook his head, crossing his arms.

Your nails bit against your palms. It seemed like you couldn’t do anything right, as far as he was concerned.

“Shut up.” It came out muttered and withdrawn, but it felt good to get it out all the same.

“You ‘ave something t’say, love?” Simon looked down his shoulder at you, and the moment you looked back up at him, you knew you’d made a mistake in thinking you could keep it together.

“Yeah,” you glared, standing from the table. “Fuck you.”

You left without clearing your tray.

~~~

You never thought you’d find a barracks bed so spacious, but your own bed felt huge compared to the medical cot you’d recuperated in.

You pressed the heels of your palms against your eyelids, appreciating the silence and warring with yourself about why you always let Ghost get under your skin the way you did.

You heaved a sigh, stretching your arms out. You made sure to rest your left arm at a more practical angle even when you extended it.

Relief for the rest of your body wasn’t worth the jolt in your side.

After the incident at lunch, you fell into a repetitive pattern; mind wandering to Simon, chastising yourself for letting him live so comfortably in your head, then trying to focus on something—anything—else.

And you didn’t appreciate the way your body reacted to the thoughts of him, warmth swelling in your stomach and fingertips grazing your waistband.

It was a losing battle.

He had the ability to be kind, and it was a rarity, but a welcome one.

When you’d started as a rookie, you understood why people worshipped him; he was strong, capable, and, for the most part, managed to stay humble.

He was competent. And that was nice.

For a while, even you had fallen victim to the cult of personality that trailed him—it was hard not to.

He was just a person, a soldier like any other, but he could seem like so much more than that at times. You admired him, his drive, his passion.

He was merciless in his work ethic, unforgiving in his reproach, but he had his moments.

You’d knocked on his door early on into your time at the base.

It was nothing more than a work-related rendezvous, impromptu but necessary; you had reports he needed, and that was all. But you still felt a sort of buzz, a sense of pride nipping at your heels for being trusted enough to take on a task as menial as paperwork.

He’d opened the door, and you’d been left to stare up at him.

“What’s'is?” He nodded his chin down at your hands.

“I—the reports you needed,” you handed them to him, “They’re all in proper order.” You hesitated, “I think.”

He had stared down at you.

“You think?”

“No, I…I know. They are.” You didn’t want to be overly confident, but you did feel as though the reports looked good—better than good, even.

“Good to be certain.” He’d folded the reports, almost fidgeting with the paper.

“Yeah,” you nodded, unsure of what to say now. “It’s...all there.”

There was another pause. He let your words hang in the air, leaving you to stand awkwardly in the threshold of his room.

“But, uh—that’s all,” you nodded again, trying not to squirm in the silence he created. You looked at the ground. “Thanks for…trusting me, Simon.”

You turned to walk back to your own room, but he cleared his throat.

“Simon?” He seemed confused, and for a moment you wondered if you had gotten his name wrong, “We on a first name basis, love?”

“I just—that’s your name…” You'd probably gone pale at that point, but you tried to recover. “I figured, I mean, in your own room…do you want to be Lieutenant?” You stuttered through an explanation.

He had narrowed his eyes at you then, but there was no malice in his gaze; if anything, he just seemed more confused than he had been.

“Ghost is fine…” He spoke as if he were questioning himself.

“But you’re not Ghost,” you doubled down, smiling sheepishly, “I mean—not here, you’re not. Not to me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t really think of you as Ghost unless we’re…out, somewhere,” you tried to sound nonchalant, but the words spilled out as you tried to avoid the repercussions of disrespecting a superior officer. “And—I dunno. You’re kinda scary when you’re Ghost. Your name…suits you…”

You searched his eyes, still trying to read whether his bewilderment would morph into anger.

“It humanizes you. And I…I like that.” 

“You like Simon.”

“Yeah.”

He shifted his weight. “A’right.”

You waited for more, but it never came.

“Yeah,” you repeated, finally finding the willpower to walk away. “Goodnight, Simon.”

“G’night.” He watched you leave before shutting the door.

You couldn’t help but smile at the memory, despite yourself. So you tried to remember what had made you hate him in the first place, just to torment yourself further.

It had been the day following that conversation.

He had been brusque, finding you in a common area with Gaz, playing a watered-down version of blackjack—no bets, just yelling and laughing as you continued to fall short.

“Redo them.”

“What?” You’d looked up from your hand.

“Redo them.” He repeated as he dropped the stack of reports onto the table in front of you.  

The reports you had been so excited to hand over to him.

“But what’s—”

“Fix. Them.” He’d gritted out, and you didn’t have the strength to look him in the eyes. “And be fucking certain they’re in order this time, sweetheart.”

“O—ok…” You conceded to his demand and rested your palm on the stack of paper in a gesture of submission.

He walked out without another word, leaving you to stare down at the reports he’d returned to you, feeling well and truly insufficient.

You had decided, in that moment, that you hated Ghost. And you hated Simon Riley just as much.

You had never been able to figure out why exactly he had switched up the way he had; if you had done something to get on his bad side, if it was delayed payback for calling him by his name. No matter how curious you got, you never asked, simply putting him on your bad side, too, just to keep things fair.

You heaved a sigh, sitting up in bed and staring at your room.

It was messy in a very minute way. You had clothes that needed washing, and a stray sock on the floor; your bed wasn’t made and there were reports on your desk that needed filing.

Clean to an onlooker; filthy to a soldier.

Your eyes wandered to Ghost’s shirt where it hung on your door.

You still hadn’t given it back to him, too dead set on eluding him at all costs after the ordeal in the infirmary, but it was casting a dreary shadow in your room. You didn’t want it near you, despite the way you’d clung to it when you’d woken up, and despite the way you’d managed to avoid returning it even when you’d had ample time to do something as simple as hanging it on his doorknob.

You didn’t know whether you should treat it as if it were a talisman or an omen, but given that it was stained in your blood, you leaned towards the latter. 

You stared at it for a few moments before finding the motivation to get up and grab it off the hook it had been dangling from.

Maybe you could treat it like an olive branch, even if it was only for this particular occasion.

He’d have to offer you a whole tree to make you consider allowing him on your good side for anything else he’d put you through.

~~~

It was relatively quiet in the barracks, and you felt like you were missing out on something. But you knew it got like this sometimes; weeks of high energy often resulted in a lull.

Simon’s room was at the end of the hallway, shrouded in shadows where one of the hall lights had gone out. His door had the same menacing energy that he did, and you felt insane for comparing the man to a door.

But were you really that far off?

Rigid, unfeeling; Ghost was essentially just another fixture—in the barracks, on the force, in the quiet corners of your mind.

You quickened your pace in an effort to get this over with. The sooner you gave him his shirt back, the sooner you could quell the feelings of frailty and lousiness, the sooner you could rid him from your thoughts—at least for a little while.

You stood in front of his door, and before you could question your true intentions, you knocked.

He opened the door in a huff, and you found yourself taking a step back. He didn’t say anything, fixing his unforgiving gaze on you.

“This is yours,” you held up the shirt, “Figured you might want it back.”

You watched his eyes scan the shirt in your hand before flicking back up to your face.

“Covered in your blood.” He looked like he was quirking a brow beneath the balaclava, and you suddenly felt irate—why wear the mask in his own room?

“Well, I haven’t really had time to wash it, considering…” You motioned up and down in front of your chest with your free hand. “But, um…Johnny said it was yours, and I felt bad holding onto it, given that I don’t really have any…need for it now.”

“Why would I want it back?” His tone was flat.

“It’s your fucking shirt.” You heaved a sigh, realizing that your attempt at diplomacy was going unheeded.  

“Don’t want it.”

Nothing else. Not a word—not a ‘thank you’ or a ‘happy to see you out of bed.’

Nothing to suggest he even cared about what had happened, or that he had any inkling of what was still going on in your head. He didn’t even question you about your outburst in the mess hall. He was completely cold, fully detached.

Typical.

“Well,” you swallowed the urge to push him, to see his feet slip out from under him and watch him stumble. “Fuck me for trying, Simon.”

You turned to make quick work of walking away, fidgeting angrily with the shirt in your hands. But he was clearly in the mood to argue.

“Oi—” You heard his footsteps behind you, “You mad?”

You scoffed. “Shut up.”

“Are you mad at me?” He clarified, catching up to you as you stormed down the hallway.

You didn’t answer him until you got back to the door of your room, opening it, and standing in the doorframe.

It gave you a sense of power, being in your own space.

“Am I mad at you?” You swiveled to stare up at him, your tone venomous. “Fuck you, Ghost.” You could no longer deny yourself the satisfaction of shoving him, and you pushed against his chest hard enough that he swayed back slightly.

“Watch it.” He glared down at you like he was trying to burn a hole through your head.

“Please—or what?” You challenged, “You’ll make me sit on the sidelines for an extra week? You gonna snap my neck in my own fucking room?”

Once you started, you couldn’t stop, and every single issue you had with him was coming to the surface.

“You won’t do shit. You never do shit—not unless it’s in the job description. You ignore everything so dutifully, Simon, like it’ll just disappear if you don’t give it the time of day,” you were yelling now. “Cause that’s what you think, right? That problems and people will vanish when they realize they’re not good enough for Lieutenant Riley?”

“Wasn’t personal, sweetheart—you’re in no shape to be out there.” He sighed, and it just fueled your rage.

“I don’t take anything you do personally,” you pressed a finger into his chest for emphasis. “You walk around here like you own the place, Lieutenant, and you don’t. You don’t get to call all the shots—I don’t care what kind of hard-on you get for the authority you have in one-four-one.”

“Sergeant—” You could tell it was taking effort on his part to stay stoic as he stood in your line of fire, and a vicious part of you wanted to see him break and fight back.

You wanted him to give you a good reason to hate him. Something that might finally stick. 

“I’m not fucking finished,” you cut him off, eager to express every single detail about him that made you feel so incensed. “You are the epitome of ego, you are indisputably one of the most self aggrandizing people I have ever had the misfortune of meeting. All you are is a fucking killer, just like the rest of us, but you seem to think you’re God’s gift to SAS—because what would one-four-one be without you, right, Simon? What would any of this be without you!”

You took a deep breath, and it made your ribs settle over your lungs uncomfortably, but you were nowhere near done.

“You act like you don’t care about the praise, the commendation—but you fucking do, and that’s why you turn your nose up at it. Cause you think you deserve it. And why the fuck should you acknowledge any compliment to your skill? Why should you acknowledge something that you already know to be true?”

Suddenly, you were cackling; manic with hatred, confused by your hostility towards him.

Ghost stood silent, and you wished he wasn’t wearing the mask so you could see his face and analyze how your words were hitting him.

You wanted to see the upset on his features—never mind how pretty he might look, carved in agitation.

“You don’t pay attention to the way people shy away from you, or the way the rookies worship you, or the—fuck, Simon, the women! You don’t care about how girls look at you! Because it’s what you think you deserve!” You couldn’t stop yourself from throwing that detail in, but you quickly recovered from your thinly veiled barb of jealousy.

You lowered your voice, wanting to hammer home how deeply, truly repulsed by him you were.

“You are so fucking aloof, it’s insane,” you hissed, “Ignore me all you want, Lieutenant, but I’m not fucking going anywhere. Am I mad at you? Fuck you, Simon.” You focused now on catching your breath, but you wanted to make sure he knew you meant it: “Fuck. You.”

He hadn’t moved the whole time, staying in the same spot in front of you throughout your rant.

Maybe he was thinking about the situation at hand. You wondered if he had actually listened to anything you said, or if he was too baffled by the fact that he was being screamed at by a subordinate to even hear you.

Maybe he’d hit you. You would, in his position.

“S‘at all?” His tone was casual, maybe a bit gruffer than normal, but that did nothing to subdue your rage.

All you’d really wanted was a reaction, and he wouldn’t even give you that.

“Get the fuck out.” You took a step back, slamming the door in his face.

You leaned against the door, breathing. Your side felt like it was splitting—maybe the stitches were under pressure, or your ribs had been held too taut against your lungs when you yelled.

You’d take an ibuprofen later. Now, you clutched his shirt in your fists, and tears slid off your cheeks to mingle with the bloodstains.

~~~

An hour or two later, you felt somewhat more under control.

You tried to shrug off your emotions, burying them somewhere to keep them guarded and stop them from getting to you.

You shoved Simon’s shirt under your bed. Out of sight, out of mind.

You saw no point in wallowing—you’d had a week to do that in the infirmary. Now you just wanted some semblance of peace, a good night of sleep.

Distracting yourself with paperwork seemed just as good. But your hands were shaky, and you quickly grew frustrated.

Be fucking certain they’re in order. You heard the words in Simon’s voice, clear as day, as the memory bounced around in your head.

You shoved yourself up from your desk chair at the same moment you heard a knock on your door.

You hesitated.

“Yeah?” You called out, walking slowly towards the sound.

“Got you something.”

Gaz’s voice was cheery, and you let out a brief sigh of relief upon hearing him—initially worried that Ghost had come back for retribution.

Relief may not have been the proper word. Still, you opened the door.

“Didn’t even ask who it was.” Gaz smiled when you ushered him in.

“What’d you bring me?” You ignored his teasing with a grin.

“First," he made himself comfortable on the edge of your bed, "Tell me if you’ve got a light.”

You quirked a brow at him, taking the hint. You rummaged through your nightstand to locate a lighter, finding one and handing it to him.

“Solid,” he took the lighter, reaching into his pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. “Go ’head.”

You smiled, shaking your head with an amused huff. “Inside?”

“You deserve it.”

“With my…” You tried to appeal to your better judgement, the stitches in your side a reminder of the turmoil your body had only just experienced.

Kyle looked at you expectantly, holding out the pack, and you let your sentence trail off as you fished a cigarette from the box.

“Terrible influence, Garrick.” You perched the cigarette between your lips, waiting for him to light it for you.

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” he smiled, watching you puff smoke as he lit your cigarette. “You need a vice. Heard you tore LT a new one.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes. You moved from the bed to open the small window in your room, resting your hand on the sill and watching the smoke trail up into the night air.

“Word travels fast,” you almost smirked at the knowledge that people had heard about your row with Ghost. “He had it coming.”

Gaz got up from your bed and walked over to lean opposite you against the window.

“Only person that’s ever done it,” he wedged the window up a bit more when the smoke blew back into his face. “Long as I've been here, at least. When Soap’s mad at him, he just listens to songs about stickin’ it to the English.”

“I know,” you ashed the cigarette, smiling, “I have his playlist.”

Gaz laughed, and you stamped the cigarette out on the outer part of the sill, walking back to your bed and taking a seat. Gaz watched you, analyzing your movements before he pulled the chair from your desk and sat.

“You, uh…” He chewed the inside of his cheek, “He was glued to you, Ghost was. Wouldn’t leave your side.”

You furrowed your brow, looking up at him in confusion. You didn’t know where this was coming from—or why Kyle would bother to tell you right now, rather than while you were still in the infirmary. Or why he'd tell you at all, for that matter.

“He wasn’t there when I woke up.” You scoffed halfheartedly, unsure of what point you were trying to argue, or why you were trying to argue it.

The thing is, you had questions—but it was easier to inquire with a reserved disbelief than it was to ask anything up front. 

“He was there before that, though,” Gaz fiddled with the lighter, flicking it on and off. “We—y’know, Johnny and Price and I—we made him leave.”

“Just because?” You tried to sound amused, but the curiosity gnawed at you.

“Needed a shower, hadn’t eaten.” Gaz put the lighter down on the desk. He rolled his shoulders back, pressing his palms to his thighs with a sigh.

“So?” You prompted when Gaz had stayed silent for longer than you anticipated.

“So, just…” He cracked his neck before looking back at you, “Maybe try not to take it all out on him.”

“Take what out on him?” Your tone went sharp, and Kyle made a face.

“You know what I mean,” he backed down slightly, but continued with his effort. “I think he’s…unhappy.”

“I get blown to smithereens and we all throw Simon a pity party?” You felt your skin growing hot, unnerved by the notion that you were supposed to go about business as usual after such an event, while everybody around you seemed to have more sympathy for Ghost and the grave he’d dug for himself.

“You cracked three ribs!” Gaz smiled, trying to ease the sudden tension.

“It was enough for LT to throw a hissy fit over!” You snapped back, perhaps a bit too harshly, and Gaz let his smile fade, ready to concede to you.

You continued to seethe for a moment longer, staring at Gaz’s feet. He dipped his head down, trying to get you to listen.

“I think he’s unhappy because he wasn’t there when you woke up.” He said simply, his voice gentle. He wasn’t trying to upset you, just attempting to share his opinion and see whether or not it improved anything.

“Hardly my fault…” You frowned, finding his gaze again and crossing your arms.

“Yeah, no, I know—believe me, I know,” Gaz rubbed a hand over his face, “But he was…so…He was fucking besides himself with worry—or, I mean, it seemed like it. Didn’t leave the infirmary til we pushed him out a few hours before you came to. And I think he was really set on being there to see you through it.”

Gaz looked at you. You looked back, tilting your head in silent encouragement; you were listening.

“It’s like he…built up this idea in his head about…” he trailed off, “And then it didn’t happen. And he doesn’t want to feel stupid, so he’s just angry instead.”

You nodded, taking in the revelation that maybe Ghost wasn’t mad at you, but at himself; that he was facing a similar struggle from you as you were from him.

It didn’t make you feel better. If anything, it made you want to knock sense into him all the more.

You’d laid out your cards—it was his turn now. If he had such big feelings, he could either suck it up and ignore them, or he could come out with them. And nothing Gaz said or suggested could make you change your mind.

You scoffed, shaking your head. But you smiled a little, subconsciously reassured.

“That’s my hypothesis, anyway.” Gaz shrugged, returning your smile ten-fold, and you felt yourself relax a bit, feeling the tension dissipate.

“Big word.” You laughed softly.

Gaz grinned. “Read a book or two.”

You reached out to snatch the pack of cigarettes from him, fishing another out for yourself before pushing the box back into his hands. He put them away, handing you your lighter.

“Not joining me?” You nodded towards the pocket he’d shoved the pack into, speaking through your hands as you lit the cigarette.

“Nah,” he shook his head, sighing. “There’s…mm—I didn’t come to see you just so we could talk about Ghost.”

“You talked about him,” you mumbled, “I listened.” You moved to the window again. “What else?”

“We’re shipping out,” Gaz sighed, “Next week.”

You went quiet, picking at one of your fingernails and watching your cigarette burn.

“…Without me.” Your words came out small, disappointed.

“Yeah,” Gaz’s voice went soft around the edges. “First time in—”

“Yeah.” You cut him off.

You knew how long you’d been in 141; and it felt like eons to you, despite the fact that it had been only a tiny fraction of the time everybody else had been on the task force. You didn’t need the reminder now—not when you already felt like an outsider.

“All of you, then?”

You looked back over your shoulder at Kyle, and he nodded.

“Price too?”

He nodded again. You took a long drag of your cigarette.

“In and out,” he tried to make it sound like fun—and really, it was, to an extent, but your thoughts were elsewhere. “Won’t even be a full forty-eight hours, way we’ve got it planned.”

You smiled—he always downplayed it, but you wanted to believe him.

Without Gaz and Soap around, you’d be bored out of your mind. You could handle a couple days, but anything longer than that seemed dreadful.

You didn’t let yourself fall into the vortex of thoughts that opened up relating to Simon; you refused to acknowledge the way your stomach tensed at the idea of him on a mission without you, the way sweat beaded on the skin of your back at the notion that you wouldn’t be there to watch him—you didn’t know what the feeling was, but you knew you didn’t like it.

“I believe you.” You flicked the cigarette out the window.

“Good.” He said simply.

It was another hour of banter before Gaz decided to call it a night, by which time the strange feeling in your stomach had begun to feel more akin to a hunger pain.

“Hey,” he nudged you with his shoulder as you walked him out of your room, “Don’t think too hard about it, yeah?”

“About what?”

“Ghost—and him being…”

“Being Ghost.” You offered sardonically with a smile to match, but Gaz took it in stride.

“Mm,” he nodded, “Ghost being Ghost.” He added, “You were the one that wanted his help, remember.”

He didn’t clarify, but you knew he was talking about how you’d pleaded for Ghost to be the one to treat your wounds as you lay bleeding.

You nodded, sighing an affirmative.

When you shut the door behind Gaz, you found yourself standing frozen in the same spot you had been in after shouting at Simon.

It was significantly more tranquil now, but it still made you feel a sense of unease.

Did you feel bad? And if the answer was yes—did you feel sorry for yourself, or for him?

You got in bed and curled into yourself, suddenly feeling like it was too big and almost wishing you could be back in the infirmary.

At least you could sleep in that cot; the morphine drip kept you in a steady, sleepy haze and removed all of the anxiety induced by your near-death experience.

Against your better judgement, you threw your hand over the edge of your bed, contorting yourself as comfortably as you could to lean down and grab Simon’s shirt from the spot you’d chucked it beneath the bedframe.

If he was so adamant that you keep it, you felt as though it was only fair for you to use it.

You draped his shirt over the foot of your mattress, and you instantly felt as though the bed had shrunk down to fit you exactly; it was cozy, it was made for you, and not hundreds of recruits just like you.

He took up too much space at the table and in your mind, so what was a little space in your bed?

It’s not like this changed anything. You were still upset, still frustrated, still completely and utterly confused. Simon’s shirt was simply an added presence that helped quell the shakiness in your hands as you moved to switch off the light.

And it added a bit of fuel to the thoughts you’d deemed taboo.

~~~

You hadn’t been trying to count down the days until the force left, but it was hard not to. You knew that them leaving base would mean radio silence and a consuming sense of loneliness.

You couldn’t tell if the feeling in your gut was a product of the unfortunate event you’d just lived through, your intense dosage of Advil, or just the crushing fear of being left behind.

So, you’d tried to make the most of things as the week went by; and maybe you sat at the dinner table a little longer than you needed to, even when Simon cared to join; maybe you didn’t say anything when Soap tried to look at Gaz’s cards over his shoulder.

You wandered into the transport bay on the morning they were set to leave, and they were all standing at the ready.

It almost had you laughing; little toy soldiers, all lined up.

“Where you off to?” You sidled up next to Soap as he fiddled with his chest rig.

“Need to know basis.” He grunted, pulling at the strap around his shoulder. He looked up at you with a grin. 

You rolled your eyes, returning the smile.

“Then tell me all about it if you come back in one piece.”

“Always do, lassie.”

You cringed. “Don’t tempt the fates, Johnny.”

Gaz appeared in your peripheral, and you turned to him.

You couldn’t decipher his gaze; if he was nervous or if he felt sorry for you.

“Gonna miss ya out there, Sergeant.” He smiled softly at you.

“Yeah,” you walked over to him, slinging an arm over his shoulder, “I know.”

“Always the picture of humility, you are.” He smirked, and you punched him in the arm.

“Take care of yourselves.” You knew they would—they always did. And it wasn’t like you had anything to worry about; it was one operation, a brief mission to wherever the hell, and you’d see them in a few days’ time.

As cocky as Soap could be, he was right: they always came back in one piece.

Unlike you.

Price cleared his throat, cutting short the banter between you and the Sergeants that flanked you.

“Captain.” You looked up, offering him a nod.

“Sorry to see you sitting this one out.” He was being sincere—that was something you appreciated about Price; he didn’t say anything he didn’t mean. “Won’t feel the same without you.”

“Yeah, well,” you still didn’t know how to take a compliment from him, “I’ll be good as new, soon enough.” You added; “Only a month left, and then I’ll be back at it.”

He nodded, and you saw his cheeks broaden, offering you a small smile.

“Don’t let that arm go stiff, Sergeant.”

“Roger that.” You responded with a similarly minute smile.

You turned your attention back to Gaz and Soap, hoping that getting enough face time with them now might hold you over while they were gone.

Ghost stood in the corner, checking guns for loose ammo and saying nothing. He barely looked your way, and when he did, you tried to hold eye contact.

Maybe you were trying to scare him, wear him down a bit and make him nervous. Realistically, though, the man that stood a few yards away from you would never consider you a threat.

And you knew that. But you couldn’t admit that you were looking at him just to look.

You wanted him to squirm under your gaze now the way that you always did under his.

The door to the bay opened and you knew it was best to see them off before they loaded—you were a soldier, not a would-be widow; you couldn’t bear the feeling of being left behind, but the idea of watching them leave was even worse.

“Alright,” you rolled your neck, trying to appear indifferent to their departure. “Be good.” You looked pointedly at Soap, who nodded, saluting.

“Aye.”

“You too.” Gaz pressed a finger to your chest, feigning menace, and you rolled your eyes as you watched the Sergeants gear up to go.

Ghost still hadn’t said a word, but you found yourself being pulled into his orbit as you turned to leave.

It was no big deal. He was standing by the exit, anyway.

Still, you stared at him as you walked out, waiting for him to say something. Or not.

He gave you a curt nod in an effort to catch your attention.

“See you in a few days, sweetheart.” He kept his voice low—maybe out of habit, maybe because he wasn’t sure if he wanted you to hear him.

You huffed at him, frowning at him but refusing to respond.

His eyes shifted beneath his mask, but he didn't speak anymore. And you didn’t care.

But when you walked out of the transport bay, you could feel your heart racing, challenging your mind.

~~~

Admittedly, it was calmer with them gone. But you were bored, and feeling more outcast and alone than you’d care to confess.

It gave you time to work on the reports that had started to pile up, and even more time to debate where exactly you stood with Simon.

And then you debated whether that was something even worth debating.

He was an asshole. He was your superior. But he was also, in a twisted sort of way, your friend.

And you’d never heard him call Soap or Gaz sweetheart.

He was an ally in dark times, who used his own clothes to stem your bleeding—something he’d only done because you, in your weakest state, had begged for his help.

And you still didn’t really know why you had asked. And you didn’t like the fact that the time you spent alone with your thoughts was bringing you closer and closer to figuring it out.

You thought a lot about Gaz's words, his explanation for Ghost’s behavior: he’s unhappy, he wanted to see you through it, he built up this idea.

You still couldn’t fully wrap your head around what the idea Gaz had mentioned was, and you had been too proud to ask for any clarification.

Simon’s shirt was still unceremoniously draped over your bed, and despite the comfort it brought you, you tried to ignore it.

Two days came and went, and by the third day you had allowed the initial drops of worry to seep in.

It didn’t last long before the whole dam exploded.

And then it all started to blur together, like you were lying on your back in the dirt again, feeling like your head was being held underwater.

In the early hours of day four, commotion in the hall roused you. It wasn’t as if you had been asleep, but facing such loud noise after midnight still made you grumble as you padded to the door and flung it open. Walking down the hall, you didn’t care that you were barefoot, too intent on giving into the curiosity that was tying your stomach in knots.

You heard Price’s voice first, the sharp pinch of his words as he demanded everybody move out.

That was your first tip off that something was wrong.

And then Soap rushed past you without so much as a first glance, let alone a second, as he booked it in the direction of the infirmary. There was a hand on your shoulder, then, and Gaz offered a look of sympathy, but his eyes were glazed over and intense in a manner that didn’t suit him at all.

He tripped over himself as he followed Soap.

“Gaz?” You called after him, suddenly frantic and in need of answers.

One answer.

“Garrick?” You started to follow him, but it didn’t feel real; you felt like you were looking down at yourself as an outsider, your legs moving on their own as you sped barefoot down the hall, floating. “Kyle!”

That finally got him to snap to attention, but he kept walking as he spoke to you over his shoulder.

“Ghost—” his voice was shaky, and you had to wonder what had happened—what he had seen, “Direct shot.”

You felt a final tug at the knot in your stomach, and you thought you were going to be sick.

You stopped following Gaz, standing still in the middle of the hall. You felt directionless.

You drifted through the barracks in an unstable haze, almost numb but still all too capable of feeling the anger that had started to bubble within the uneasiness of your stomach.

He was supposed to be untouchable, unstoppable—invincible.

But he was bleeding out in the infirmary just like you had.

He was merciless, yes, and he was unforgiving—but he had his moments.

You wouldn’t have taken a bullet for him. Would you? Certainly, you would’ve done something.

You would’ve tried.

If you had been there, you would have forced him to do things the way you wanted to, the way you always did. Forced him to see it your way and come to an agreement in your favor; forced him to walk in the direction you chose; forced him to follow your pace, stayed in front of him like you always did; forced him to follow your trail.

And he would’ve listened, just like he always did. Because he, in his own way, seemed to approve of your drive.

And then maybe he would have walked back into base on his own two feet. And it could’ve been you lying on a cot in the infirmary.

As it was meant to be.

Somehow, you found your way back to your own room, some guiding force helping you shut the door, pushing you towards your bed.

The numb and the melancholy made way for a stronger sense of fury the moment your eyes fell onto his shirt, wrinkled and pushed to the foot of the bed.

In a fit of blind rage, you grabbed it and began whipping it against the bed; a toddler throwing a tantrum. You smacked it against your mattress as hard as you could, trying to strike fabric with fabric until the fear dissipated.

Because that’s what it was. Fear.

Because without Ghost, what was 141 worth?

Without Simon, what was any of this worth?

There was a knock on the door, and Gaz pushed himself into your room without waiting for a response.

“He’s—”

“Get out.” You were panting, still clutching the shirt in a white-knuckled fist.

“Listen, Ghost is—” Kyle looked exhausted.

“Get the fuck out!” You screamed, burning your lungs in the process and letting the pain in your ribs punish you from the inside out.

You didn’t care. You couldn’t care.

Gaz closed the door in a hurry, and you continued to watch on. He cast a vague shadow beneath the door, and you waited to see if he’d venture back into your room.

“He’s going to be fine,” you heard him sigh behind the door, “He’s up. He—bloody hell—he tried to tell them how to do the stitches.”

You breathed.

You hadn’t realized you had been holding your breath.

You heard Gaz’s footsteps echo through the hall as he walked away, and you crumpled over your mattress. The anger and fear didn’t vanish with this new revelation; it all worked together to create an anxious giddiness.

He tried to tell them how to do his stitches.

You knew he was a good nurse in a pinch, but you were fairly certain that he didn’t know how to do stitches. You didn’t even think he knew how to sew.

Cocky motherfucker.

Maybe it was the adrenaline that lingered from your outburst, or the sense of relief that flooded your senses, but when you pushed yourself up against the headboard of your bed, your hand found its way beneath your waistband.

You had to get this energy out somehow.

So you circled your fingers around your clit, thinking about him—not for the first time, not for the last—and tried to find some kind of relief to distract yourself from the rollercoaster of emotion you’d just been on.

You reached for the shirt that you’d left in a heap on the bed, straining your fingers to curl against the spongy spot on your front wall. But the effort you put into stretching for the shirt where it lay on the edge of the bed made your side split at the exact moment you began to call his name.

And you started sobbing.

It was pained, not at all reluctant—an all at once reboot for your body, shedding itself of all the intensity you’d just put your mind and heart through; finally accepting that you yourself had been hurt, and that you had no idea how to bear this cross.

You stopped trying to make yourself cum, planting yourself face down on your pillow and biting into it to silence your wails. But the tears kept coming, and soon you were pressing your face into nothing but a sopping wet piece of bedding, stained with your tears and your drool and your snot.

You clung to the shirt, subconsciously bringing it up to your face.

It smelled like the iron in your blood, crusted over and lingering in the woven material. And beneath that, his scent still clung to it. You breathed deep, huffing the smell of him.

You must have looked absolutely insane. And you felt like you were; choking on your cries, burying your face in fabric that had been soaked in your own blood.

But it was ok.

He was ok.

And you were in love with him.

☆Like my work? Buy me a ko-fi :)☆

[vinnyvamppp]

Can I request for Ladybug! Reader? I saw a TikTok video where Marinette was telling some heroes she could just Miraculous ladybug everything back to normal and they want to hire her because of that.

So imagine this but with Invincible, Reader's like his next door neighbor - yes she witnessed him learning how to land and she got pissed at that cuz IT WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT

I like the idea of her revealing her identity to Mark so she can join him in missions whenever, so anytime he destroyed half of a city she just Miraculous ladybug everything and goes "YOUR WELCOME ASSHOLEEE!!"

And maybe during the Invincible war, she lucky charms a whip while fighting a variant (either Mohawk Mark or No goggles Mark cuz they freaky like that) and she goes wtf am I supposed to do with this?

(sorry I'm rambling a lot I just like the potential of this concept)

Friendly Neighborhood Inconvenience

NOTE: THIS IDEA WAS SOOOO FUN, Its 1 am for me and I've been giggling away while typing. I've taken a different approach to my usually long writing to make this more conversationally driven. I'm not straying too much so the vision is accurate. Up and away!

Synopsis: Mark Grayson, is your biggest inconvenience and friend... whom you also live next to. Super-powered besties...? :) Warnings: None, my first non-smut-related blog yes yes! Just two idiots with powers. Mark Grayson x Ladybug!Reader Word Count: 1,000

You knew Mark Grayson was going to be a problem the moment he crashed into your backyard.

Not metaphorically. Not in a "he’s my annoying next-door neighbor" way. No, Mark Grayson, your classmate, occasional physics partner, and guy who still owed you ten bucks from a group project, literally smashed into the ground outside your window at 2 AM. 

You had been peacefully sleeping, dreaming of things far, far away from the absolute disaster that was your life, when a loud THUD shook your house. The crashes you had been imagining in your dreams began to manifest outside of your home. Were you under attack? Has the house shifted? Did your insomnia finally catch up to you? You jolted awake, heart racing, and sprinting as you immediately threw open your window to find Mark groaning in a crater. Oh…

"...Are you serious right now?"

He looked up, squinting and disoriented. "Huh—? Oh. Uh. Hey, neighbor."

"You woke me up," you deadpanned.

"Sorry," he wheezed, struggling to stand. His hands planting themselves against his knees.

"Mark. Why are you in my backyard." Your fingers gestured to the now three unevenly placed craters, one having a busted water pipe.

At that, he winced. "I was... learning how to land."

"You… know how to fly?” Correction: Barely. “...In the middle of the night?"

"Y-Yeah?"

You sighed so hard it could’ve put out a candle. "Grayson, I swear to God, if you ever—"

His attention suddenly turned towards his bedroom, the voice of his mothers concerned cries calling out for him jolted him into focus. And then he zoomed away, barely getting his balance, leaving you seething in your pajamas.

Yeah. Mark Grayson was going to be a problem. One you couldn’t avoid. Mark thought he was so slick. Just how did he manage his grades being so reckless? He’d show up to school exhausted, disappear at the most inconvenient times, and had that whole "Oops, did I break another building? Teehee!" energy about him. You knew. Oh, you knew.

Because the second you saw him with a black eye in the hallway after a “plumbing accident,” you put two and two together. You’d seen Invincible on the news. You’d seen him stumble into your backyard like an idiot. Not to mention the various times he’d confidently strut into his home WEARING HIS COSTUME. Though, you always assumed he was just into comic con and somewhat of a superhero nerd.

So when the time finally came to throw off the mask, you did it spectacularly.

Mark stood in your living room, eyes wide, staring at you in full Ladybug attire. "Wait—YOU’RE LADYBUG?!"

You smirked, spinning your yo-yo. "Surpriiiise~!"

"But—how—why—?!"

"Bro, did you really think you were the only one sneaking around at night?!"

Mark ran a hand through his hair, still struggling to process. "You fix everything after my fights?"

"Ding ding ding!" You clapped your hands. "Every time you break a city block, I put it back together. Every. Single. Time."

His jaw dropped. "Oh my God."

"Oh your God is right. Do you know how hard it is to undo your messes?! Half the time, I don’t even know what I’m fixing! You knock over a skyscraper, I gotta wing it! And every fight wrecks at least ten buildings!"

Mark laughed, but there was guilt in his eyes. "...So, uh. Guess this means you can help out more?"

You crossed your arms. "Help? Babe, I’ve been your cleanup crew this entire time. You should be helping me."

And thus, the most chaotic partnership in hero history was born. Cecil had been hounding you anyway, so this panned out in your favor. Being close and personal to his hero-ly escapades made the clean up easier to maintain… for your sanity of course. You had been through some rough days. Fought some wild villains. But nothing could have prepared you for an entire army of Invincibles tearing through the planet. Honestly, you were terrified; and left ragged, but keeping your wits about you would be the best bet you had for survival. 

You were dodging a punch from one of them, Mohawk Mark, which was an awful fashion choice, by the way, when your Lucky Charm activated. Perhaps it was something helpful like a pair of shears to correct his funky haircut. A bright light flashed, and in your hand, you felt—

A whip.

You blinked.

"...What the hell am I supposed to do with this?!"

Mohawk Mark lunged at you with a cheeky grin, enthralled more than anything. “Didn’t know you were into that, could use another one of you.” He teased.

"Shit—!"

You improvised. And like a thirsty mutt, he hounded you like a new obsession. Who knew men with harems could be so freaky? Later, when the war was over, when the dust settled and the leveled cities were, miraculously, nearly restored, you stood next to Mark, arms crossed, glaring at him.

"Go ahead," he muttered.

"You know what I’m gonna say," you grinned, nudging him slightly.

He sighed.

"Go on," you sing-songed.

"…Thanks."

"And—?"

"...Sorry for all the messes."

You smirked, patting his shoulder. "See? That wasn’t so hard. Now go buy me dinner, asshole."

Mark groaned. "You're never gonna let this go, huh?

"Not in a million years." Secretly, he would be happy too, but the poor boy was embarrassed from being proven wrong that his lips sealed shut. As Mark begrudgingly led the way to the nearest burger joint, you grinned, spinning your yo-yo around your finger. The city skyline gleamed, perfectly restored, thanks to you. The world was safe again—also thanks to you. And despite the chaos, the near-death experiences, and the fact that you were probably stuck dealing with Mark’s messes forever… you wouldn’t have it any other way. Ugh, I just love writing in-character stories. I HOPE THIS LIVED UP TO YOUR REQUESTS EXPECTATIONS LMAO.

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[cressidagrey]

The Witching Hour - Chapter 3 - Feyre

Summary: 

5 Times members of the Inner Circle get absolutely terrified by Azriel's...whatever she is, and 1 (of many) times Azriel thinks that his witch was the best thing that ever happened to him.

Warnings: 

Seeing the future, mention of nightmares, implied ritual sacrifice?, mentioned stabbing, implied assassination, mention of psychological torture

(super pretty dividers by @cafekitsune)

Her sister's honeymoon phase after her mating ceremony seemed to have come to a...stop. Or maybe it had crashed and gone up in flames.

But then the tension between seemingly every member of their family seemed to be rampant. Nesta was pissed off at Cassian, Cassian at Azriel, Azriel at Rhys.

It was like watching a storm cloud roll in and darken the sky - the tension was thick and heavy, oppressive even.

Feyre had tried to talk to Rhys about it, but he dismissed her concerns with a vague response about "stubbornness" and "new bond adjustments."

But Feyre knew something was awry. Nesta and Cassian seemed to be avoiding each other like the plague, exchanging terse words whenever they had to interact.

Azriel was unusually quiet, his eyes scanning the room with a wariness that spoke of some deep-seated worry.

And Rhys...well, he was a mask of composure, his true feelings hidden beneath a veneer of politeness.

So Feyre had pulled out big weapons: taking her sister book shopping. Rhys had Nyx for the day... Elain was uninterested and had holed up to garden... visions were plaguing her again.

And so Feyre found herself leading Nesta through the winding streets of the city, determined to coax her sister out of her shell and get her to talk. But as they walked, Feyre noticed just how out-of-sorts Nesta seemed, her eyes distant and her step almost mechanical.

"Nesta," Feyre began tentatively, her voice breaking the silence between them. "Are you...okay?"

Nesta's eyes flicked to hers, and for a moment an expression of intense pain crossed her face. But just as quickly as it came, it was gone, and Nesta had schooled her features back into a stoic mask.

"I'm fine," she said, her voice cool and measured. "Just a bit tired, that's all."

Feyre saw right through the lie, but she knew pressing would only backfire. She didn't want to push Nesta into shutting her out even more. Instead, she tried a different tactic.

"You've been...different lately," Feyre said softly. "Quiet. Distant. And I know something's been going on with you. Cassian's been the same way."

Nesta stiffened at the mention of her mate, her jaw clenching.

"Cassian...Cassian is a fucking idiot," she bit out.

Feyre's eyes widened at Nesta's response. She had expected tension, but not outright anger. She had seen them fight before, often in a somewhat humorous way, but this...this was different. This anger was deep, steeped in pain.

"What happened?" Feyre asked, her voice gentle.

"What happened?" Nesta repeated, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "What happened? Cassian - that fool of a male - happened. He's...he's impossible to deal with. Stubborn, arrogant, and so damn overprotective it's suffocating."

Feyre could only blink, startled by the venom in Nesta's words. "Overprotective? Isn't that a good thing? He cares about you, Nesta. Wants to keep you safe. That's his job."

"He's trying to protect me from Azriel!"

Feyre was taken aback by this admission. "Azriel? Why on earth...

She paused, her mind trying to process this new information. "What's he trying to protect you from?"

Nesta let out a frustrated huff, her eyes burning with emotion. "Azriel found a solution to my nightmares. Cassian doesn’t like it."

"Found a solution?" Feyre asked, her curiosity piqued."And Cassian didn't like it?"

Nesta let out a bitter bark of laughter. "He didn't just not like it, he downright hates it. And me for agreeing to it."

"And...what is this solution?" Feyre prodded, still trying to grasp the situation.

Nesta's expression hardened even more, her gaze turning cold. "A dreamcatcher spell," she gritted out.

Feyre felt a chill run down her spine. "A dreamcatcher spell?" she repeated.

"Yes, a damn dreamcatcher spell," Nesta hissed, her anger flaring again. "And Cassian refuses to understand that it's helping. He's too blinded by his stupid protective instincts to see that it's actually working."

"But..how is it helping?" Feyre asked, her mind swirling with questions.

Nesta's face softened, a hint of vulnerability showing through. "It's...quiet. It's peaceful. For the first time since the war, I'm not drowning in nightmares and reliving memories every time I close my eyes," she confessed.

Feyre's heart ached at her sister's words. She knew the anguish those nightmares caused, the terror and pain that they brought. To see Nesta finally find some relief from them..it was a miracle. But the divide between her sister and her mate...that was concerning.

"And Cassian...?" Feyre asked tentatively.

Nesta's face contorted into a scowl. "He's being a pigheaded fool, as usual," she grumbled. "He's convinced the spell is doing more harm than good, that it's somehow going to hurt me or control me."

"Did Azriel cast the spell?" Feyre wondered, brows furrowing.

"No," Nesta said, her voice dripping with annoyance, "Cate did it."

"Who's Cate?" Feyre asked, dumbstruck.

"Cate is...a friend of Azriel's," Nesta explained vaguely, her tone becoming guarded.

Feyre frowned, sensing there was more to the story. "A friend? Do I even know her?"

"I don't think you do," Nesta said evasively.

Feyre's suspicion grew. "Then how come you do?"

Nesta let out a heavy sigh, clearly reluctant to answer.

"Azriel brought me to her, for the spell. She's a witch. Cassian hates her for some reason. Apparently, she stabbed him once and he still holds a grudge," she added, her voice hard.

Feyre's eyes widened, her mind reeling at the thought of a witch powerful enough to piss off Cassian. And to know Azriel personally enough for him to take Nesta to her for a spell...

"And this witch...she was able to...?" Feyre trailed off, her question unfinished.

"To make the nightmares stop?" Nesta said, a hint of relief in her voice, "Yes. She did what everyone else failed to do. She gave me a bloody break."

Feyre felt a pang of guilt at that. She too had tried to help, but nothing had worked. And now, this mysterious witch had come in and done what all of Feyre's attempts had failed to do.

But why? She mused, her mind working at a frantic pace. Why would this witch help?

Feyre looked at her sister, taking in the less tense lines of her face, the less haunted look in her eyes. Whatever the reasons, this Cate had clearly helped. Helped in a way none of them could. And for that, Feyre was begrudgingly grateful.

"You don't..." Feyre began cautiously, treading lightly, "You don't think she's doing it for a price, do you?"

Nesta snorted. "I think the price is Azriel's presence in her bed," she said drily. "The two of them have an… arrangement."

Feyre's eyebrows shot up. She had expected many things, but this...this was not exactly among them.

"An arrangement..?" she repeated weakly.

Nesta gave her a sardonic look. "You know, the kind where two people agree to please each other without any strings attached?"

"I know what an arrangement is," Feyre muttered, feeling her cheeks heat up. It had been no difference then what she and Isaac had done. 

It was just… "But...Azriel and a witch. Really?"

Nesta shrugged. "I don't know the details. Apparently, they have a history. All I know is that they have some kind of...open agreement."

Feyre's mind struggled to process this information. Azriel, her normally stoic and reserved friend, involved in a sexual relationship with a witch. And by the sounds of it, a witch that was both powerful and dangerous enough to scare Cassian.

"And…you're okay with this?" Feyre finally asked, her voice tinged with bemusement.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Nesta retorted, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s none of my business who Azriel sleeps with They're both consenting adults. They're not hurting anyone. Why would I care?”

Feyre felt her cheeks redden a little more at her sister's bluntness.

"What about Elain?" Feyre wondered. "I thought her and Azriel..."

"You didn't warn him off?" Nesta asked surprised.

Feyre could just stare at her.

"I thought you or Rhys warned Azriel off her, because of Lucien," Nesta clarified.

"Wait," Feyre's mind was still playing catch-up. "You thought...we warned Azriel off dating Elain because of Lucien?"

Nesta rolled her eyes. "Well, yes. I mean, Lucien is her mate. And a High Lord’s Son. I thought you didn't want the political ramifications of that fallout." 

Feyre had to bite back a scoff. She found it ironic - and mildly annoying - that her sister would assume she would do something like that. 

"No, in case you were wondering," she said, trying to keep her irritation in check. "I did not warn Azriel off." 

Nesta shrugged. "Elain…Elain probably needs to heal on her own before she even wants another male again anyway," Nesta said quietly. "Her visions are...rampant again."

Feyre's heart ached at the mention of Elain. She knew her sister had been struggling silently, suffering in ways Feyre could only imagine.

"That witch doesn't happen to have a solution for that either, doesn't she?" Feyre asked sarcastically. 

"Feyre, you are a genius," Nesta breathed, grasping her arm and dragging her down the street, almost stumbling in shock. 

"What? Where are we going?" Feyre asked, confusion lacing her tone.

"To see Cate," Nesta said, determination in her voice. "We are going to ask her if she can help Elain. Maybe she can... I don't know, do some other kind of spell."

Feyre couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope. If this witch could help Nesta, then perhaps she could help Elain

"You're sure this Cate would be willing to help?" Feyre asked, her voice hesitant.

Nesta's eyes flashed with determination. "If she can help Elain...she better be willing. Come on."

Feyre swallowed her trepidation and allowed herself to be pulled along. Elain was suffering, just as Nesta had been. If there was even a chance this witch could help... well, they had to try.

They walked in silence, Nesta leading the way. Feyre felt a mix of anticipation and unease. This Cate was evidently powerful, but the little knowledge she had of her was unsettling. A witch who had stabbed Cassian… But the hope of helping Elain overshadowed her doubts. If this strange, mysterious witch could offer any assistance, she would gladly take it. 

They finally reached their destination. Feyre's breath hitched as she took in the unassuming townhouse. It looked harmless enough, its windows shuttered, but Feyre could feel the power surrounding it, tingling against her skin, almost sentient.

Nesta didn't seem phased, marching up to the door and knocking firmly.

A moment of silence, followed by footsteps approaching the door. Feyre held her breath, bracing herself.

The door opened. A massive black jaguar stared at them,  its golden eyes fixed upon them. It had apparently opened the door. 

Feyre almost let out a scream, a startled gasp escaping her lips. Nesta, unfazed, spoke up, her voice firm. "We're here to see Cate." The jaguar's eyes narrowed slightly, as if assessing them. It tilted its head to the side, almost as if in question. And then, as if understanding their words, it let out a deep, rumbling purr.

And with a final glance at them, the jaguar turned, vanishing into the townhouse.

“Thank you, Bella!” Nesta called after it, getting a lazy swipe of its tail in response. 

Feyre found herself staring after the vanished jaguar, her heart still racing from the shock.

Nesta, however, seemed perfectly calm, a small smirk playing on her lips. "That's Bella," she explained. "You'll get used to her...she likes playing with Azriel's shadows." 

Feyre blinked, trying to wrap her mind around the fact that a jaguar was friendly with Azriel's shadows, of all things. Nesta walked into the townhouse and Feyre followed along. 

It seemed empty. Obviously furnished expensively but…no traces of any fae…at least until they reached the living room. 

Of all the things Feyre had expected...it was not a blood-splattered naked female sitting on the floor, a crystal ball before her.

Feyre froze in the doorway, her eyes wide with shock.

The female, her skin pale as snow, was clearly in some sort of trance, her long red hair cascading down her bare back. But what caught Feyre's attention was the blood smeared all over her body, stark against her ivory skin.

For one crazed moment, she was reminded of Amarantha.

For just one moment, she was utterly terrified. 

But the red hair seemed to be the only similarity. 

And Amarantha had been ugly compared to this woman... compared to cascading ruby red hair and skin as white as freshly fallen snow...against full, round breast, the dip of her waist and the swell of her hips...she was gorgeous. 

Feyre's mind continued to whirl as she took in the image before her. The female's beauty was breathtaking, almost otherworldly, and yet the blood staining her skin somehow only served to enhance her appearance, adding a dark, almost feral undertone to her loveliness.

Feyre’s fingers itched to paint the scene before her…

Nesta stepped into the room, clearly not fazed by the scene. "Cate?" she called out.

And then suddenly magic sparked from the crystal ball and the female's gaze cleared, from near white to brilliant green. "Ah, Nesta and Feyre." Her voice was soft, melodic, and yet strangely commanding. "I've been waiting for you."

"You knew we were coming?" Feyre asked, finally finding her voice.

"Of course I knew," Cate replied, a sly smile playing on her lips. "I see many things."

Feyre's eyes flicked to the crystal ball in front of the female, a mixture of curiosity and unease in her gut. "You..see the future?" she asked. Was she a Seer like Elain?

Cate regarded her with a considering glance. "I see fragments. Possibilities. Many of them. How decisions impact them…and how it could be…" she said that with a near longing glance to her crystal ball, gently running a hand over it.

Feyre couldn't help but feel a tiny shiver run down her spine. The idea of fate in the hands of someone else...But this was not the reason they were here. She gathered her courage and spoke up. "We're here because..."

"You're here for Elain, aren't you?" Cate finished, her tone almost knowing.

"She's a seer like you," Nesta said but Cate hummed consideringly, making no move to cover herself...or wipe off the blood...wherever that had come from. 

Only now Feyre realised that it was smeared over her, not just splattered. Like the symbols drawn on her body, covering her, meant something…Feyre just didn’t know what. 

Feyre swallowed, trying to not let the naked female's lack of modesty distract her. "We were wondering if you could...help her." 

"Help her how?" Cate asked, tilting her head.

"She's been having...visions," Feyre admitted, her voice strained. "Unpleasant visions. And they've been…..affecting her."

Cate regarded them with an appraising glance. "Affecting her, how?"

"Nightmares, mostly," Nesta answered, a sharp note entering her voice. "She's been…..not coping well."

Cate's expression didn't change. "Is that all?"

Nesta bristled and Feyre had to place a hand on her arm to restrain her.

"What do you mean, 'is that all'?" Feyre asked, attempting a more reasonable tone.

Cate just shrugged, her eyes flickering to the crystal ball again. "Nightmares are not an issue. I can make them go away with a mere flick of my wrist."

Feyre felt a rush of relief. That was more than she had expected. "You can?"

Cate fixed her gaze on Feyre once more, a hint of challenge in her face. "| can. But as a Seer myself, the nightmares are not the problem."

Feyre's heart sank. "Then what is?" she asked quietly, dreading the answer.

Cate let out a sigh. "It's her visions," she said bluntly. "Powerful, uncontrolled visions. The kind that comes without warning and at the most inconvenient times...." Cate looked at her, a hint of pity in her gaze. "Elaine's power is trying to break through. And my best guess is that she's subconsciously resisting, refusing to let it out. She's untrained. It's not surprising.”

It was the last thing she wanted to hear. Elain and Nesta had gone through enough. They had all gone through enough. 

Didn’t they deserve something that was…

Finally, Feyre spoke up again, her voice small. "You said you could make the nightmares go away. Can you...do the same for the visions?" she asked, her voice pleading.

"No," Cate said evenly. Feyre's heart sank once more. "How would you like it if I amputated your sword hand without a reason? The visions aren't the problem. Her lack of training is."

Feyre couldn’t help but flinch at that metaphor. "So you're saying...there's nothing we can do?" Feyre asked shakingly. Elain was just supposed to live like this?!

Cate sighed again as if she had been expecting this."What I'm saying is, is that you can't give Elaine a potion and make the problem go away. It's not a disease, it's her power trying to express itself. And it will only persist until she learns how to control it,” she explained. 

Power trying to express itself. Elain would have to learn to control it...but how?! 

"How would she learn?" Feyre asked, desperation colouring her words.

"She needs a teacher," Cate said, her gaze flickering to the blood staining her skin. "Someone who can guide her."

For a moment, Feyre wanted to ask about the blood. But she pushed it aside, focusing on the more pressing matter.

"And who would be that teacher?"

"You have a few options," Cate responded, her tone nonchalant. "I can teach her. Or I can find someone else who can…that will probably take a year or two…there aren’t that many of us," Cate admitted drily. 

Feyre's breath caught in her throat. This woman, the blood staining her skin, her blatant disregard for nudity... she was powerful and dangerous, that much was obvious. 

But a year or two?! Elain should just live like this for another year or two?!

But then, for a female that was immortal and was probably…centuries old if not more, then what was a year or two? Nothing. 

Was it wise to allow Elain to be taught by someone like her though? Somebody that Cassian clearly didn’t trust?

Azriel and she seemed to have some form of agreement, but Feyre was weakly wondering if…Azriel was kept safe from her wrath because he was warming her bed. 

Feyre glanced over at Nesta, silently seeking her opinion.

Her sister's eyes were guarded but there was an undercurrent of trust in them.

"You..you would teach her?" Nesta said carefully. 

"I could,” Cate agreed with a careless shrug. “But I highly doubt that your mate would allow that, High Lady."

Feyre's heart jumped in her chest, dread filling her at the mere mention of Rhys. "What do you mean?" she asked cautiously.

"Rhysand wouldn't want me anywhere near your sister," Cate said with a grin. "'I am quite sure he would rip my heart out of my chest for even suggesting this."

She swallowed. 

Rhys was probably not gonna take the fact well that they had met her without telling him a word. But then he hadn't told her about the dangers of the pregnancy so feyre figured that he owed her one. 

"How do you know Rhysand?" she demanded instead. Did Rhys also hate her just like Cassian seemed to?

"Your mate and I have had...past interactions," Cate said carefully, a hint of amusement in her voice. "Let's just say he doesn't approve of my methods, which are...a touch different from his."

Feyre felt a pang of curiosity, mixed with a hint of dread. Rhys was a male with many secrets, and here was this female, sitting there casually and talking about them.

"And what exactly are these…methods?" Feyre asked, her voice guarded

"Oh, you know, things like manipulating dreams, altering memories, and the occasional bit of psychological torture," Cate replied casually as if discussing the weather. Feyre's blood ran cold. Psychological torture? 

"What do you mean, 'psychological torture'?" Feyre asked, her voice a mere whisper.

Cate just shrugged, her expression unbothered. "Oh, nothing much. Just making someone relive their worst nightmares over and over again, twisting someone's thoughts and desires until they're barely recognizable, playing with people's fears and insecurities..."

Feyre felt bile rise in her throat. Cate's words were so nonchalant as if she found discussing such acts normal. But it was horrifying, the thought of someone playing with their thoughts like that, twisting them like pieces of clay. Her mind immediately went to Rhys, as it always did.

Hadn't her mate been forced to do the same?

"I am also of the stab first, ask questions later, school of thought,” Cate tacked onto the end. 

Nesta snorted. "Is that what happened to Cassian?"

Cate let out a laugh at the comment. "Pretty much, yes. Your mate has a tendency to barge into other people's territories uninvited. I merely reminded him that it's generally a bad idea," she said easily. 

Feyre felt a small shiver run down her spine, realising how close to death her brother-in-law could have been. But there was also something nagging at her mind, some sort of confusion.

 Rhys didn't trust this female, that much was obvious. But Cate seemed to know Rhys well, had clearly encountered him before...and she wasn't in the least bit afraid of him...

"Why does Rhys have such a problem with you?" Feyre found herself asking, her voice almost reluctant.

"Ah, Rhysand is just like every other high lord," Cate said, her tone almost mocking. "He doesn't like people who don't fit into his neat, little worldview. I'm considered a 'wild card', something to be wary of. I'm not afraid to challenge him or do what l feel is necessary to get results. And I don't follow the traditional rules laid out by high lords and their courts."

Feyre found herself taken aback by the female's words.

Rhys, as arrogant and over-protective as he could be, was usually so tolerant of others, welcoming them to Velaris without a doubt. The fact that he had such an obvious grievance against this female was unexpected.

"What kind of results?" Feyre couldn't help but ask, morbidly curious.

Cate sighed. “With power like mine comes responsibility,” Cate replied, a sly smile playing on her lips. She was sidestepping the question, Feyre realised. "Or dealing with troublemakers and threats, like a certain Night Court general who decided to invade my home."

Feyre felt her heart skip a beat. Cassian had..invaded her territory?

"You stabbed him, didn't you?" Nesta chimed in, her voice almost bored.

Cate let out a bark of laughter. "Of course I stabbed him. He invaded my home. Did you expect me to offer him tea and biscuits?"

Feyre felt a mix of horror and fascination at the nonchalance in Cate's voice. Yes, Cassian had invaded her land, but the idea of someone casually and unapologetically stabbing another...And Rhys' vehement dislike of the female made a little more sense now.

"Have you..." Feyre began, her voice hesitant. "Have you...harmed anyone else from the Night Court?"

Cate's eyes glittered with a touch of mischief. "Oh, let's see. I've stabbed Cassian, threatened Mor with bodily harm, beat your mate into the dirt once and had a lovely chat with Azriel once or twice," she said, ticking each incident off on her fingers. "Does that answer your question?"

"Is that what you call what you and Azriel are doing?" Nesta asked drily.

Cate let out a bark of laughter, clearly amused by the question. "Oh, my encounters with Azriel are...complicated," she said, a sly smile playing on her lips. "We have a bit of a...history."

"What kind of history?" Feyre found herself asking, unable to quell her curiosity. Cate's smile widened, her eyes taking on a calculating gleam. "Oh, you wouldn't believe what Azriel and I have done together," she almost purred, her tone dropping to a suggestive purr.

Feyre felt a wave of heat rush through her. She had an idea of what the female was implying, but somehow she had a hard time imagining Azriel with someone so... unrestrained, as Cate seemed to be. Then again, what did she really know of her mate's shadowsinger?

"Is it something I want to know about?" Nesta drawled, her tone dry.

Cate raised her eyebrows, a slow smile spreading on her lips. "Oh, I'm sure you'd be absolutely scandalised if I told you what I do to your dear Azriel."

Feyre felt heat spreading to her cheeks, the mental imagery of Cate and Azriel together doing...anything...was stirring something deep within her. But she forcibly pushed the thought away, focusing on the matter at hand.

"We're getting off track," Feyre said firmly, her voice a bit more high-pitched than usual.

Cate arched an eyebrow, clearly recognising her discomposure. "Are you sure? I could tell you more about the things your shadowsinger and I get up to..."

Feyre could hear Nesta suppress a snort, clearly amused by her apparent discomfort. But she ignored her sister, fixing Cate with her most stern glare. "We're not here to discuss your. relationship with Azriel," she said, her voice a touch shaky.

"Suit yourself," Cate said with a shrug. "Although, I must say, Azriel is quite... adventurous, when given the proper motivation."

Feyre felt her cheeks heat up even further, and Nesta let out a snicker, clearly struggling to hold back laughter.

"Can we get back to the matter at hand?" Feyre snapped, her irritation growing by the second.

Cate chuckled, her smile widening. "Of course, High Lady. You were wanting to discuss the issue of your sister and her pesky visions, weren't you?"

Feyre took a deep breath, trying to calm the heat in her cheeks. "Yes," she said, her voice still a bit flustered. "How about you...come to lunch later this week?" 

Cate's smile turned cat-like, clearly enjoying her discomfort. "Lunch, hm? That could be arranged."

Nesta raised an eyebrow. "And we can...expect you to have more clothes on by then, I presume?"

Cate let out a bark of laughter. "Are you saying you don't appreciate the view?" she asked, gesturing to her unclothed body.

"I think I'll appreciate some food in my stomach more than your…assets," Nesta replied with a smirk.

Cate chuckled, clearly unbothered by the comment. "Fair enough. I'll bring a dress if that will soothe your delicate sensibilities."

Feyre almost snorted at the implication of 'delicate sensibilities ...Nesta was anything but delicate. 

And Feyre was quite sure she was going to regret this lunch.

[jessamine-rose]

𓇢𓆸 Withering Purpurbloom ࿐

Read my Yandere! Capitano fics first ૮ ྀི◞ ⸝⸝ ◟ ྀིა

Aahh hello, Capitano nation……how are all of you?? At first, I had no plans to write an angst fic about his “death” in 5.3, but I kept getting ideas for Damsel! Darling’s reaction </3

With that in mind, I figured I’d write just one story where his death is final. This is only an alternate timeline in the Herbarium series, and I hope you all cry enjoy this tragic ending to CapiDamsel’s dark fairytale .°(ಗдಗ。)°.

Tw:: YANDERE, Stockholm Syndrome, blood, offscreen death, implied self-harm, mention of abuse from darling’s backstory

Note:: Fem reader who is smaller and weaker than Capitano, takes place after 5.3 story

♡ 4.8k words under the cut ♡

On the day of your husband’s death, you were preserving flowers.

Just the common flora that grew around your home. It was a frigid day in Snezhnaya, and your morning stroll had been bountiful. As you pressed each flower between the pages of your notebook, you thought of the Captain miles away in Natlan.

His last letter was written before his battle with the Pyro Archon. The words of his past self had brought tears to your eyes, though you made no mention of that in your response.

How is he? What has happened in the days since he sent his letter? Has he read yours?

You added the last flower and closed your notebook.

All of the flowers were for him, to be enclosed in your next letter—assuming that his mission had to be extended. Your gift would make for a nice reminder of Snezhnaya.

Of you.

The flowers were still fresh on the night of the messenger’s arrival.

✿ ⚘

You don’t believe it.

This must be a joke. Another betrayal, even.

As usual, your guard speaks to him first. But when they come inside, the messenger’s hands are empty of letters and parcels. You are asked to take a seat on the sofa.

The messenger repeats what he told Cyane.

“The Captain has departed from this world.”

No.

You stare at him, eyes wide.

Despite his mask, his sorrow is evident. He doesn’t stop there, rambling about battles and souls and a god who presides over death.

Capitano…someone like him wouldn’t go down without a fight.

There is the sound of glass shattering—are the servants listening in? Cyane stands next to the messenger, a grim expression on their face.

He won’t stop talking.

Why is he saying that your husband sacrificed himself? That death is the end he had been trying to reach all along?

No, no, no. He wouldn’t do such a thing. Not when he has you. Not when he knows that you’re here, waiting for him to come home.

Your vision blurs.

The room closes in on you.

The messenger’s mouth is still moving, but you can no longer tell what he is saying. There is a different noise—your own voice?

But what makes you think you are more important?

“My lady!” Cyane rushes to your side but you slap their hand away.

Dizzily, you stand up. You rush past them, out of the living room, through the front door.

You have to leave.

How long has it been since your husband’s sacrifice?

Which direction is Natlan?

The sky is dark.

There are no flowers in sight.

But there are traces of the messenger’s footprints, leading the way out of the woods.

In your haste, you trip and fall into the snow.

Cold. It’s so cold.

Hands wrap around your upper arms. That is when you panic and struggle in the grasp of your unknown assailant, fear overriding all of your thoughts.

“Don’t touch me!”

“My lady?” It’s one of the Fatuus who guards the estate. Private Herkyna tries to help you up but you flinch nonetheless.

Cyane runs outside. “Unhand her! Lady ______ is not to be—have you forgotten the orders of the late Captain?!”

The late…why are they already calling him that?!

Private Herkyna lets go of you. Now she is bowing and apologizing profusely. You don’t see the messenger anywhere—is he still in your home?

Cyane walks over to you and crouches to your level.

“Lady ______, please.” The pity in their gaze is unbearable. “Come back inside.”

“N-No.” Your voice comes out in strained whispers. “You’re lying. Let me go. Let…”

Cyane holds out their hand but you turn away. The snow is numbingly cold yet you grip it with both hands, if only to ground yourself to something physical.

When you look up, the sky is empty of stars.

“Let me see my husband!”

This can’t be true.

Yes, that’s it. This must be a dream, just another nightmare crafted by your fears and memories. Soon enough, you’ll open your eyes and see the stars in your husband’s gaze. And when that happens, he will comfort you, pull you into the warmth of his embrace, tell you it was all a dream that will never come true.

✿ ⚘

Ideally, you’d be in Natlan by now.

But there is only so much authority you hold as the wife of the First Harbinger, so you are still awaiting approval. From who, you don’t know.

Until then, you refuse to believe in the rumors.

You have to see Capitano with your own eyes. Only then can you believe that he is truly gone.

In the meantime, you are incapable of waiting.

Time passes slowly in the manor. It has always felt too big, too quiet in Capitano’s absence. But back then, you could sustain yourself with the promise of his return.

Come to think of it, did he say anything about coming home?

He always made that promise, before his missions and in his letters, but on the day he left for Natlan…his last words to you were a prayer for your everlasting happiness.

It’s not just that. The servants have gone into mourning. They don’t know how to act around you, with their piteous gazes and fruitless attempts at comfort.

You don’t talk to any of them. You keep to yourself, drowning out their words, drifting from one room to another in a disoriented haze.

A family portrait hangs in the living room, depicting you and Capitano. He’d kept his mask on, of course, to conceal the abyssal rot consuming his body. As for you, your lacy gown made you look like the princesses in your storybooks.

His face is still vivid in your memories, along with his loving expressions. But when you stare at your husband’s painted imitation, all you can see is the black void of his mask.

✿ ⚘

Three days later, Cyane brings you to Capitano’s office.

“Cyane,” you whisper, “why are we here?”

They speak carefully. “When I was selected for this job, the Captain gave me access to special documents. I was told to only open them if we received news of his…absence.”

Absence. That is the word they use around you these days.

Well, they aren’t wrong. From what you heard, your husband is still in Natlan.

Cyane unlocks the door, stepping aside so you can enter.

The office is familiar. In the past, you avoided that room and only went there if Capitano called for you. But later on, you became a frequent visitor of your own volition.

The desk is empty. So is the chair behind it. On the days he worked from home, Capitano would be here, signing documents and speaking to subordinates. Whenever you visited, he’d adjust his sitting position so you could make yourself comfortable on his lap.

Cyane walks over to his desk and takes out a set of keys. They unlock the leftmost drawer.

Inside is a leather folder engraved with Capitano’s insignia and two names—yours and Sergeant C. Naiad. That, too, has to be unlocked.

It is filled with several documents written in familiar handwriting. A few words catch your eye, and that is all it takes for you to step back.

“What…what is this?”

“I opened it as soon as we received the news,” Cyane explains. “The Captain left this behind to ensure your welfare in the event that he died in battle.”

Died. But he technically isn’t…

“Cyane.” Your voice comes out in a deathly whisper. “Did you know?”

Just how long has he been planning this?

They shake their head. “I knew nothing. When the Captain gave me the key to this drawer, he phrased it as a contingency plan, not…an inevitability.”

Cyane explains the documents to you. There is a signed will. A pension that ensures all of your needs will be met for the remainder of your life. And many other considerations.

One document provides options for your living situation. If you want, you can stay in Capitano’s estate; you have sole ownership. Otherwise, you can return to Mondstadt or relocate to another nation entirely. Wherever you go, the Fatui will permit it and your servants will follow you.

It’s funny, really. Had your captor died a few years ago, you would’ve felt relief. Joy. Freedom. But at this moment, your chest feels hollow.

Has Mondstadt changed?

It should be safe, seeing how Capitano brought justice upon your tormentors. Mondstadt Library will still be there, though you doubt that your coworkers missed you. As for the meadow…it was never yours to begin with.

You have nothing to return to, really.

How can you return to your days of barely living? What is waiting for you in the nation you once called home?

The last document is a sealed envelope.

Cyane gives it to you. “I didn’t read this. It’s for your eyes only.”

Wordlessly, you accept it. The envelope is thicker than any of Capitano’s previous letters. Your name is written on the back, the handwriting still familiar.

With that, you leave the office before Cyane can say another word.

You don’t read the letter, however. It is slipped between the pages of your notebook, joining the flowers you’d saved for your husband.

✿ ⚘

The condolences are insufferable.

Thankfully, you don’t receive any visitors or official summons from the Fatui. But sympathy gifts begin to pile up in your estate, all from your husband’s colleagues.

You’ve overheard the servants predicting a funeral in Zapolyarny Palace. It will likely happen, seeing how all of the Harbingers gathered to “mourn” La Signora.

Hopefully, you won’t be invited. From what Capitano told you, the meeting will only be a clash of egos, insincere pleasantries, formal discussions in which your husband’s death will be referred to as a necessary step in the grand scheme of the Tsaritsa.

There are also rumors that there is more to Capitano’s plan than his sacrifice. But you’ve yet to receive any official confirmation.

There is a vase of lilies from a long-forgotten acquaintance. A maid asks if you’d like to preserve it, and your response is a blank stare.

The flowers are left to wilt.

✿ ⚘

Your hobbies are your only distraction.

A week later, you continue your morning strolls. Cyane escorts you as usual, but there are more Fatuus in the distance. They are likely here to stop you from running off to Natlan.

…Snezhnaya feels colder. At this time of the year, most of the flowers have shed their petals and returned to the earth. Those that remain are all picked and passed to Cyane.

You can give them to your husband when the two of you reunite.

To think that the last time you walked around the woods, you were picking flowers without a care in the world. Though your morning strolls are more enjoyable in Capitano’s company.

The rosebush is still there. But its flowers are gone; all that remain are frost-covered thorns.

A year ago, you learned that the rosebush was artificially planted in the estate. It’s just like your husband to perform these quiet gestures for you.

Back then, you were still afraid of him. Nonetheless, he remained patient with you.

Your hand wraps around a barren stem.

The thorns are sharp, just the way you remember them. Capitano always told you to be careful when handling the roses. He’d even offer to pick them and remove the thorns for you.

He was gentle with you, too, the first time you pricked yourself on these flowers.

But it’s different now. These thorns are pricking your palm in different places. There are no white petals to absorb the blood. It is Cyane’s hand that catches your wrist, their urgent tone that breaks the silence. It is a healer, not Capitano, who treats the wounds.

Later, you flip through your notebook. Capitano’s last letter included several Natlanese flowers. Even during his most important mission, he’d taken the time to pick them for you. It was always your favorite gift, not just the flowers but the knowledge that he was constantly thinking of you.

Cyane hands you the flowers you’d picked earlier, newly thawed.

Your notebook has run out of blank pages, but you refuse to get a new one. You stack layers of flowers and parchment paper between the final pages, then you slam it shut and press down on the cover. The flowers flatten.

Still, your notebook won’t close fully.

✿ ⚘

These days, you hide in the library.

In the beginning of your captivity, there was a single stack of books in your room. As the months passed, it expanded to a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, followed by a personal library. Your husband had always been supportive of your hobby, so long as it wasn’t used “as a means to avoid him.”

The entire library is yours. Every time you receive a new book, you write your name on the front page and place it on a specific shelf. Unlike the books you handled as a librarian, your books are arranged according to your own system of classification.

A week before the messenger’s arrival, a set of books was delivered to the manor. In addition to sequels, there were new titles which you expressed interest in but never mentioned to Capitano. You assumed that it was Cyane who told him.

One of the books was written by a Snezhnayan author, but he’d purchased a translated edition. Thus, you were able to read it on your own; there was no need to wait for Capitano’s return.

The Snezhnayan titles take up their own bookcase. Unlike their newest addition, the books are all printed in their native language. As such, you couldn’t read them without Capitano’s help. By now, your proficiency has improved but you haven’t touched those books ever since he left.

What was the last book he read to you?

It was a love story about a cursed dragon and a captive princess. In the end, the dragon’s curse was lifted with true love’s kiss. And they all lived happily ever after.

But that was an adaptation of a fairytale. The original story ended in tragedy.

✿ ⚘

One night, you dream of your husband.

In your dream, you reunite with him in a meadow of dandelions and Inteyvats.

He wears a pristine uniform with an eight-pointed star over his chest. His mask is off, revealing a face free of scars and abyssal rot.

His cursed appearance had never bothered you, at least after you got used to it.

His eyes are the only part of his body which remain the same. And yet those deep blue stars are gazing at you with indifference. The same emotion that you’d seen, time and time again, in the eyes of your foster family and caretakers from Mondstadt Orphanage.

He doesn’t acknowledge you. Is it because he doesn’t recognize you?

Perhaps that is it. After all, just as Capitano’s old body has been preserved, so has yours. Every inch of your skin is covered in old bruises and wounds, along with the pain of each memory.

Your voice is audible, restored to its original state before you began speaking in whispers. When you call out to him, there is no pain in your throat.

But he doesn’t respond. Behind him, you can make sight of a war-torn battlefield.

You run towards him but the meadow stretches, widening the distance to him. Capitano turns around and walks in the direction of the battlefield, leaving crushed flowers in his wake.

Is it because he doesn’t know you? Or has he simply tired of protecting you?

In the end, even this imaginary version of your husband didn’t hesitate to discard you.

✿ ⚘

Your trip to Natlan is finally approved.

A group of Fatuus, including Cyane, make preparations to escort you. An official report confirms that you will be welcomed by the Captain’s remaining soldiers stationed in Natlan.

You don’t pack much. You are only traveling to reunite with your husband, after all.

This is different from the trip you had in mind. Before, you’d envisioned Capitano bringing you to Natlan for a vacation after his victory. He only had good things to say about the nation.

It was a year into your marriage when he told you about his battles in Natlan, his previous life in Khaenri’ah, the souls he’d carried in his heart for the past five hundred years. What he didn’t tell you was the sacrifice required to grant salvation to his fallen comrades.

Sometimes, you forget that he has lived a whole life before you.

It’s nothing to be jealous over, not when the same can be said for you.

But in those moments…it became clear that you were only a short chapter in his life.

You tell the servants to prepare clothes suitable for Natlan’s climate. When you check your luggage, you are pleased to note that they didn’t pack mourning attire.

You still wear your wedding ring, with its little flowers sculpted from gold and jewels.

There was no romantic proposal or wedding. A few days after your abduction, Capitano simply slipped it onto your finger. From then on, he began calling you his wife.

It was a perfect fit. Capitano had his own ring, and you rarely saw him without it.

Similar to him, you wear it around your ring finger. Other times, you hang it from a necklace chain, keeping it close to your heart.

✿ ⚘

In Natlan, you introduce yourself with Capitano’s family name.

Until now, you aren’t used to hearing a surname after your first name.

In Mondstadt, only your first name is registered in official records. When you were part of your foster family, you had no opportunity to use your new name; you only know that “______ Maier” was written in adoption papers long reduced to ashes.

In contrast, your name is registered with Capitano’s family name in Snezhnaya. And when you began accepting his love, you were all too happy to use it in conversations.

It was a significant decision. To him, who had lost his family in the Cataclysm. To you, who never had a family before him.

You also know about Capitano’s true name, though you rarely use it out of respect for his past. But whenever you dared to call him Thrain, his reaction was one of affection.

Now, in Natlan, you hear his true name spoken in reference to a legendary hero. But you don’t ask for those stories, and instead focus on your husband’s soldiers.

They are visibly somber, eroding what is left of your hope. Worse are their thoughts of you.

Prior to their mission, you were mainly known as the mysterious wife of Il Capitano with your frail countenance and melancholy gaze. But now there is a different tone to their whispers.

“The Captain’s widow is here.”

“Was her gaze always this dim?”

“Poor thing…you can tell that something has broken in her.”

Rotchev brings you to a monument honoring those who lost their lives in the war. The Captain’s image is sculpted on it, and it isn’t just his soldiers who visit it. An elderly man named Munay offers to host you in his home, out of gratitude to him.

…The nation seems lovely, and you can see why it never left your husband’s memory. But grief plants persistent seeds of resentment, and you have little reason to enjoy Natlan in solitude.

In the end, you are introduced to Ororon, the Natlanese hero who worked closely with Capitano.

He is awkward around you, if not surprised by the revelation that the Captain was married. He does recall a few instances when he spied on him picking flowers; when he gives the names, you recognize those flowers from his last gift.

He agrees to bring you to him.

✿ ⚘

Here he is.

Your husband sits upon a throne surrounded by dark ice. A stairway leads up to him.

He looks like a character straight from a fairytale. A dignified ruler. A lonely warrior distanced from those he saved. Or perhaps even a sleeping beauty waiting for his beloved to wake him.

Cyane guides Ororon away from the Throne of the Primal Fire, far enough to give you privacy but close enough to come to your aid if anything happens.

With that, you walk up the steps. You don’t stop until you’re right in front of him.

Up close, your husband looks the same. His chest rises and falls with steady breaths.

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Capitano?”

Silence. He remains seated.

You reach out to him. “It’s me, ______.”

Cold. His body is so cold.

Still, you don’t let go of his hand. The muscles are relaxed and when you check his palm, you find his wedding ring under his gauntlet. But the warmth of his touch is gone.

You look up. “I’m sorry for making you wait. I tried…I really did try to come here as soon as possible.”

The silence is stifling.

Carefully, you kneel on the space between his legs so you can face him. Up close, you can peer into his mask. But no stars gaze back at you, only darkness.

Why would he do such a thing?

“This…isn’t the end, is it?” You speak louder, as much as your voice permits. “You didn’t get the Gnosis, after all, and the Tsaritsa…there must be another phase to your plan.”

Why did he save you if he knew your story would only end in tragedy?

Your vision blurs.

“Please. Tell me you aren’t gone.”

Blinking back tears, you shake him by his shoulders. But the only sounds you hear are the clink of chains, your unsteady breaths. The cracking of your voice.

Why have you been holding on to false hope?

Desperately, you tilt his head and bring your lips to his.

…They’re just as cold. Unresponsive.

When you pull away, he remains asleep.

“Thrain, wake up!”

What made you think that life would play out like a fairytale?

That is when you give up.

The tears won’t stop.

It’s so hard to breathe.

“Could…Couldn’t you have at least told me?” you shout. Your voice breaks again, coupled with a familiar ache in your throat. “Why…?”

What is left of your future?

How could the gods be so cruel as to deprive you of love time and time again?

For once in your life, couldn’t you be less selfish?

You cover your mouth but incoherent noises continue to spill from your lips. It’s too loud, all distinction lost between your words and your sobs. So noisy.

But Capitano’s response is nonexistent. This body doesn’t hug you; neither does it carry you out of this horrible place. It remains still, cold as a corpse, indifferent to your grief.

You bury your face into his coat and continue crying.

✿ ⚘

At some point, you cry yourself to sleep.

When you wake up, the sky is dark. You’re still clinging to Capitano’s body but a blanket covers you—did Cyane check on you? Nothing else has changed.

By now, you’re exhausted. Your voice has reached its limit, and your tears have dried. Numbly, you change your position so you can sit on your husband’s lap.

For the next few minutes, you just stay there. Taking in the silence, the familiar shape of his body, the ambience of his final resting place.

Here, the sky is foggy. There are no stars in sight.

Finally, you turn around to face him.

“Thank you for everything,” you whisper. Your throat hurts but you force out the words. “Capitano…I’ve missed you. I hope—”

I hope you come back.

But you dare not say it, thinking of your time in Mondstadt Orphanage when such words were a cruel wish. Back then, goodbyes meant that someone was leaving for a happier place. Why would anyone want them to return—discarded, faded, like you?

So you don’t say it. Your husband has suffered enough.

Instead, you take your notebook out of your bag. “Here, this is for you.”

You flip to the final pages. Then you take out all of the flowers you’d preserved from the beginning of his mission—the Natlanese flowers from his gifts, the Snezhnayan flowers picked since the day of his death.

You slip each flower into his coat pocket, close to his heart. When you touch his chest, you feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Well, there’s no denying that he loved you. Not as much as his comrades, but enough that he made room in his heart for you.

You stand up and fix the creases on his clothes. Another kiss is given but again, no reaction.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be back,” you tell him. A ghost of a smile makes its way to your face. “I still have so many flowers to offer to you, after all.”

With that, you walk down the stairway. Before you head in the direction of the exit, you turn back to look at your husband.

…He looks tranquil. Preserved in death, just like your flowers.

Wherever it is, may his soul rest in peace.

✿ ⚘

Cyane says nothing when you approach them, eyes red and voice hoarse.

Neither does Ororon, though you can tell he is resisting the urge to ask questions. Before you go separate ways, he asks if you are leaving soon.

“...No,” you whisper. With the pain in your throat, you are barely audible. “I’d like to stay longer. I still have so much to tell my husband, after all. Thank you for showing me the way.”

Cyane brings you to the Fatui encampment. The soldiers look even more concerned when they see you, but you walk past them and enter your husband’s tent.

It’s still furnished. When you go through his things, you find your letters, including the last one you sent him. A locked box containing every flower you’d gifted him. Reports written in Cyane’s handwriting. A Withering Purpurbloom that didn’t make it into his letters.

The flower is added to your notebook. You can give it to him when it is fully preserved.

Sighing, you lie down. Now that you’ve seen your husband…what’s left to do?

There is the matter of your future. You don’t want to move out of Snezhnaya; the manor has too many memories you can’t let go of. Maybe you can arrange for regular visits to your husband’s body. You don’t know if it’s grief or hope that makes you unwilling to leave what remains of him.

For now, you might as well honor his wishes and read his last words to you.

You wrap yourself in his blanket; if you close your eyes, you can pretend the warmth is from his embrace. Then you take his letter out of your bag and open the envelope.

…There are so many pages. A past version of your husband awaits you, preserved in paper and ink. And this certainly won’t be the last time you read his message—you’ll read it again and again, as with his other letters, until you can memorize it by heart.

“My beloved flower…”

✿ ⚘

The night before your husband’s departure, you stayed awake to enjoy your remaining time together.

He told you not to force yourself but you were stubborn. This would be his longest mission and for just one night, you wanted to spare him of the voices within his heart.

You helped him pack his bags. Capitano read one last Snezhnayan story to you, then he shared anecdotes from his past. The two of you went outside to view the stars and when you found none, you turned to him and said that his gaze would suffice.

Before dawn broke, the two of you cuddled in bed.

“Will you miss me?” you whispered. This time, you didn’t hold back your yawn—you made Capitano promise to wake you up in a few hours.

By now, that question had become part of your routine. His answer was always the same.

“I will.” He pulled back to look at your face. But his arms were still around you, caging you in his embrace. “From the bottom of my heart.”

There was a soft light in your eyes as you met his gaze, committing his face to memory—his scars, his abyssal rot, his loving expression, those deep blue eyes that held the stars.

Your hand moved lower to his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat. “I’ll miss you too.”

His kiss was warm. He felt your smile against his lips.

With that, you closed your eyes and fell asleep. There were so many more things you wanted to tell him, but you decided to save it for another day. For your future letters. For your inevitable reunion. For the happy future in your delusions.

As for Capitano, everything had already been said and written.

“May you thrive in the peaceful world I leave behind to you.”

 ♡

Happy Ending coming someday!! ヽ(；▽；)ノ

…And then Capitano got resurrected and they lived happily ever after hahahaha /deranged. 

Just to be clear, Capitano isn’t dead in my I Love You, Darling universe. This fic doubles as an alternate ending AND a prelude to my next fic, which is a canon-divergent happy ending. If Hoyoverse resurrects Capitano later on, assume that this fic + the continuation are both canon to the Herbarium series (*≧∀≦*)

Fufufufu so what did you think of this tragic ending?? *evil laugh* Like I said earlier, I’m not into angst but I had fun writing this fic. I even slipped in a few parallels to Herbarium for eagle-eyed readers. Also, a big thank you to my long-time beta-reader @diodellet <3

Lastly, I want to say thank you to everyone who has expressed their love for CapiDamsel!! Capitano and Damsel will always occupy a special place in my heart and don’t worry, this isn’t the last you’ll see of them. For now, do share your tears and reactions with me >:’3

Tag a Capitano enjoyer!! @bye-bye-sunbird @leftdestiny-posts @harmonysanreads @brynn-lear @naraven @mochinon-yah @pranabefall @euniveve @limeiyuan @stickyspeckledlight @teabutmakeitazure @dawn-sky-collective @poetics-of-fuubutsu

[autumnheartsprice]

bf!simon riley x medic!reader

im a sucker for anything tf141 x medic! reader so here we are

|no warnings really, mentions of heat stroke, fluff, angsty i guess but like not really at all? idk anymore. not proofread|

Well, how did the task force find out the medic was dating the Simon Riley?

Instead of hiring some random guys, the boys took it upon themselves to fix up the landscape around the base and tend to all the things that's broken throughout the past few years. It was a few weeks until their next mission, that was fairly easy too, so they took it easy and didn't force such a harsh schedule upon themselves.

It was the middle of the summer, the sun right above their heads as they were in a heat wave - but who knows the next time they'll be free to even do this? Gaz and Soap were picking weeds as Soap complained about the heat non-stop, Price was in his office doing paperwork, but Ghost was doing all sorts of tasks and working himself up.

His phone vibrates in his pocket and he takes a small break to see who it was, only to see your name next to a heart as the most recent notification.

Y/N🖤: You better be taking it easy out there.

S.R.: Always, love.

He got back to work, sweating through his black clothes but continuing to work anyway. "Ay, L.T., you're looking a bit hot, why don't you go take a break?" Soap calls out while wiping a bead of sweat away from his forehead. "Nah, I'm good." He stubbornly mumbles back.

He ran out of water a while ago but was too occupied to go get some more. He was starting to feel nauseous but blamed it on only having a cup or two of tea this morning with nothing to eat. As his vision doubled, he shook it off and decided to take his gloves off as if it'd fully cool him off. Soap nudged Gaz to look over at him and they both watched him silently as he was acting differently.

Ghost gets up from his crouching position and gets a wave of dizziness, he opts for reaching out for the nearest thing to stabilize himself but it turns out he was way further than he thought and lost his balance.

As he fell onto the ground, slightly bumping the back of his head, the two were quickly up and running towards Ghost and trying to get his attention. He was staring up at the tall trees in a dreamy state and panting heavily. Soap pulls his phone out and quickly dials the medic, telling her what happened through a strong, yet scared Scottish accent and telling her to hurry.

The medic runs up to the kitchen and grabs a cold water bottle from the fridge and a clean rag before running outside to find Gaz and Soap crouching down next to Ghost. She unscrew the cap of your bottle and pours some onto the rag; she gently wipes the liquid onto his jaw and cheek before placing it on his forehead and hoping it'll cool him down through the fabric on his mask.

She pulls out a blood pressure cuff and thermometer and starts doing both at once. Ghost moves his eyes over to stare at her and reaches out to grab her thigh, "Mm baby.. you didn't.. you didn't need to-.. come out here.." He mumbles as soon as she takes the thermometer out of his mouth and check it, normal temp. "Don't try to sweet talk me, I told you to take it easy." Soap and Gaz give each other a confused look at the way the two talk to each other .

"My love.. I was going.. easy.. must've just.. lost my balance.." He's deliriously talking at this point. "Ay L.T., I told you to take a break because you looked rough. Working yourself like a dog out here." Soap argues.

Ghost watches her give him a 'I'm gonna fuck you up' stare and he groans. "Baby.. I'd never lie.."

"Really? You're going to say that while you're about to have a fucking heat stroke?" Her voice is harsh but it's hard to be mad at him while he's in such a state. "Love.. I'm sorry.. please don't curse at me.." He mumbles, gripping the fat of her thigh.

She sighs while pressing the rag into his forehead more to let it take its effect more. She convinces Gaz to help her take his hoodie off, and it reveals his arm filled with tattoos.

She moves him into her bedroom and opens the window to let some air come in. After replacing the rag with a colder one, he starts to get less delusional and forms more complete sentences. He cuddles into her and almost, almost, gets her to forgive him. "Baby, I'm sorry.." he mumbles into your chest. "You're stupid."

He sighs before replying, "I know, I know.. I can make it up to you later?" He suggests, earning a smack on the back of his head.

She texts the other medic that she can't finish your shift but it was almost time for nightshift to come in anyway. After hitting the send button, you get a notification from a new group called "???" with her, Soap and Gaz. The first text reading, "Soo... are you two together or what?" from Gaz. After replying yes, Soap states "Gaz, you owe me a 20 now."

[s-4pphics]

click! 4 (e.w.)

SYNOPSIS: you need a roommate, and you love eggplant. [college au]

WORD COUNT: 6.7k 

WARNINGS: photographer/roommate!ellie, ocs an artist with a rep and black, angst… these hoes toxic, crazy sexual tension, kissing!!! :), fondling, dry humping, fingering!!, some dirty talk uh oh, slight unrequited love, bad communication… like awful, more slut shaming, mentions of awful parents, brief mention of alc and weed

This eucalyptus face mask is not doing what it’s supposed to! 

Ultimate calming effect! Relaxation is at your feet and on your face! 

… Yeah, right. Why is your blood pressure touching the ceiling, then? 

It’s fucking Sunday and it’s dark outside. It’s not even seven yet. You can hear rustling in the living room and you know Ellie’s prepping for today. Your anxiety is through the roof and in the clouds! 

Why the fuck did you accept this much responsibility again? What if you look like a fucking idiot and she fires you? Is this even a job if it’s a one-time thing? Your hands are sweating. Is it too late to jump out your window and plummet to your death?

Meow! Meow! 

“Good morning, baby girl! Are you hungry?” You hear Ellie coo through the wall and your heart sores. You'd be smiling so wide if this mask wasn’t solid concrete. 

You walk into the living room and are blinded by the bright ceiling lights. Your bill is going to skyrocket! 

“Hi.” 

Ellie, cat in arms, jumps at your voice, spinning to face you. Your skin is on fire as her eyes glaze over your appearance, cheeks tinting and fingers twitching under the thick fur. 

“Hey… you look… you look nice,” She mutters back, and you smile. 

“Thank you.” 

Meow!

Ellie’s brow arches at the baby. “Yeah? You think so, too?” 

Meow! Meow!

Ellie sets her down and lets her roam, shoving her hands into her sweats. She takes a step closer. “What’re we gonna name her?” 

“Toothle— “

Ellie rolls her eyes, “Oh my god, that’s so fucking basic.”

“Well, excuse me! I’ll shut the fuck up!” You snark playfully, “What were you thinking, Ms. I don’t fuck with animals?”

“I already told yo— “

“AHT, AHT!” You hold a finger up to hush her and she scoffs, “Toothless is one of the best animated characters of our time! Loyal, cute as fuck! Fuck everybody else in that movie! Show the drag—”

“Pickle.” 

“What.” 

“I’ve been calling her Pickle! Her name is pickle.” Ellie’s smiling at the pattering kitten, and, for some reason, you don’t fight her on it. She looks so happy; Pickle it is. 

She’s clicking her tongue at Pickle who rubs against her covered leg. With those gray sweats on, she’s luring two cats over—

“You ready?” Ellie exhales. Your eyes widen, yanked out of your drifting thoughts. You nod gently, jitters kicking in your fingertips. 

“Sorry you had to wake up this early. It takes a while for me to edit and all that, but— “

“Ellie, don’t worry! I’m — I’m excited! Just, uh… Just guide me, I guess. You’re the one with the vision.” You’re not sure if the shoot or Ellie is making you nervous. She smells so good, freshly showered and warmth radiating off of her. 

“… Guide you?” She smirks. 

Suddenly, the air is hot. “Yeah, like… tell me what to do… f-for the shot.” You awkwardly point at the set. 

“Giving me permission to use you?” She wisps and your lashes flutter, head bobbing dumbly in approval. The other cat has made her appearance! She’s meowing! Somebody stop her! 

“Alright, then… go sit.” Ellie’s head nods towards the black stool in the middle of the backdrop, and you’re moving like a trackstar, plopping down on the stool. Ellie clicks her tongue again and Pickle meows. 

“Gonna put her in my room for now. Don’t wanna scare her.” She scoops Pickle up and waddles into the short hallway, giving kit-kat one last kiss before softly shutting her door. 

Your catless roomie is in front of you in an instant, fiddling with that big ass umbrella before adjusting her tripod. 

“So, explain. What does all this do?” 

“Um…” she looks through her camera lense. Right at you, “Different things. Has to do with light control for the most part. Red is your color, by the way.” 

You gaze at your fit; You’re going to cry. “Thanks.” 

“Mhm.” 

Some silence passes before Ellie grumbles, “You’re slouching.” 

Your shoulders instantly straighten. Maybe too much, “No, I’m not.” 

A blank look from Ellie as she peeks from behind the lense, “Don’t slouch. You’re the star, remember?” She jabs jokingly. You take a deep breath. Another clumsy adjustment trying to find a pose. 

Ellie snorts as she watches you struggle, and you pout. “I'm sorry! I don’t know…” You move like a robot and she laughs. Why is she walking closer? Oh, fuck— 

“Here.” Her hands grab your shoulders, and you go lax, right in her grasp, allowing her to move you however she wants. Her touch is melting your skin through your sleeves. 

“Just… stay there.” Three wide steps, and she’s behind her camera, “Chin down a little.” She mutters. She’s encouraging with every instruction you follow, and you’re relaxing. Your movements are small, but by the series of bright flashes, they must be good enough to capture. You hope. Please, God. 

“Stay right there. That’s perfect.” 

“That’s it. Yeah, put your leg there.” 

“Twist your body a little.” 

I like that look, that’s good. Keep doing that. 

You don’t know what your eyes are doing, but Ellie's eating it up. She doesn’t know what her words are doing for your confidence. She’s in your ears, in your presence, encouraging everything you’re giving the flashing camera. Your poses get bolder, eyes going softer the more you inspect her. 

“Chin down again. Like… look through your lashes…” 

Ellie’s so focused on you and it’s making your mouth water. She’s so calm and controlling, but not overbearing. She lets you take the reins and yanks them when she’s got something. The twist of your wrist, the flutter of your lashes, the doting expression on your face. It’s sparking something in her, you can see it from where you sit. She's so attractive when she’s working. 

And then she smiles and your heart leaps. Flash. 

“You like this.” She notes. 

Another flash when you smile, “A little. This is fun.” 

“Oh, yeah? I’m getting booked for your grad pics?” 

Not if you fail statistics! “Gonna have to ask my dad! He’s picky!” 

She hums with a light chuckle. “You look good in these. He’ll like me.” 

More flashes, and there’s scratching at Ellie’s door. She sighs like it pains her to continue, “Hold on, baby! Almost done!” She coos at Pickle. 

She mutters, “I’m gonna take, like… ten more. The mood’s gonna change a little if that’s cool.” 

You stop yourself from slouching. “Sure, uh… what do I do now?” 

“Imagine love as a vice. Think about the turmoil that comes with losing that feeling for somebody.” 

Your mind instantly whirls to Dina and your heart cracks. What a turn of fucking events! 

“Um… is that like… isn’t that like, a lot?” 

Ellie’s unfazed, “Emotions are a lot. That’s the point.” 

You don’t like this anymore. Vulnerability. Blegh. “… Okay.” 

She’s waiting on you, but you’re frozen. You can’t stop thinking about every moment you and Dina spent together. Everything was so… good. It was filled with happiness. You anticipated every day that came because it meant you’d see her. 

“Alright?” 

You look up at Ellie’s call. You ignore her. 

“Am I emoting well?” You snicker sarcastically. You’re aching inside. 

She studies you, all over your face, but you’re stunted. You don’t know what to say.

“Yes.” She whispers, and you nod, mind wandering to the darkest parts of your memory. You miss being happy. The camera’s flashing, but you’re unperturbed. How much will you be able to ruin before you die? If your wallowing is jeopardizing the shot, Ellie doesn’t comment on it. You focus on the clock ticks coming from the kitchen. 

Ellie’s gentle voice pulls you from underwater after a while, “Okay… I think that’s it.” Your breath is ragged and your fingers won’t stop twitching. You’re up from your seat with a breathy okay, sliding into the kitchen and stealing a water bottle from the fridge. There’s cluttering behind you but you’re desperately downing your drink. 

She's closer than you think. Right behind you, actually! You almost choke when her hand softly closes around your bicep.

“Hey, um… You okay?”

You swallow harshly and nod, blinking away tears; She’s so close, “Love fucking sucks.” You joke wetly. 

A laugh that caresses your ears escapes her, “Damn. Fuck that shit, then.” 

“Finally, someone gets it! Fuck, like…” You set your water down and wipe away heavy droplets with your free arm. Ellie’s eyes travel over your face, lands of green sparkling in her pupils. 

“I really appreciate you doing this for me.” She whispers. 

“Of course!” Your smile is delicate, “I hope there’s something in there you can use.” 

Her head shakes, smile as gentle as rose petals, “I got it, trust me.” 

The silence that follows is heavy, your breaths in sync. “Was… Are you okay?” You’ve never seen her eyes this delicate. You nod, eyes dropping to her mouth on instinct. You’re suddenly back in your car, you and Ellie leaning over the center console to get to each other. Her breath is hitting your face again, and you’re itching for her to kiss you. 

She’s reading your body language the closer she gets, checking in, memorizing every green light you’re giving her. 

“Ellie…” You can’t even hear yourself. Her hand unravels from your arm, frosting your sizzling cheek like snowflakes. Her warmth is engulfing you, and with one last breath, her lips connect with yours. It's short lasting, though. Ellie pulls away, shock plastered on her face. 

She's stuttering and slowly backing away… or something like that. You’re not listening, nor do you want an apology. You grab the drawstring dangling from her gray hoodie and yank her closer, mouth pressing against hers. 

Ellie’s stiffness melts, weightless against you as your mouths mold together. She's sighing, arm wrapping around your waist, warmth simmering between your closed bodies. Your arms wrap around her neck as she inches forward, small steps until you're pressed against the marble. 

The kiss is slow and steady. You both give in to each other, studying, memorizing every inch of her mouth. Gentle smacks sound in the silent space of the kitchen, clammy hands traveling anywhere they can reach: the nape of her neck, massages on your hips, steadying your stumbles as you push against her. Your fingers inch upwards until they're at her sloppily done bun, loosening the hair tie and pulling as gently as you can, soft strands wrapping around your digits like vines. 

Ellie’s humming and her hips push against you, so you pull again, smiling gently into the kiss. She pushes again, harder this time, hips languid as they trap you against the counter. Your thighs widen for her, and she takes the lead, hands digging into your thighs and lifting you onto the granite. 

The kiss turns desperate swiftly after, Ellie’s tongue pushing past your mouth, her hands slowly pulling your tucked shirt from your pants. You’re biting at her lip, caressing her thighs over her sweats, trapping her between your legs, keeping her close. 

One last wet smack and you’re traveling down her jaw to the side of her neck, littering kisses all over her burning skin. You try not to make your inhales too obvious, but you can’t help it. Her scent drives you up a wall. 

She follows your lead, trailing sloppy kisses down your neck, sucking the skin, lightly scratching at the skin on your hips. She yanks you closer, nearly sitting you on top of her, ass barely on the counter—

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!

You both jolt like you’ve been caught, a thin line of spit connecting your bottom lips. 

“Expecting someone?” She mumbles dazedly, and you silently deny. “Are you?” 

“Be serious.” She says flatly. 

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK! 

The pounds on the door aren’t shit to Ellie, apparently; Her lips are back on you in a second. A gasp surges through you, “Oh, fuck! What if someone saw Pickle and they’re tryna— “

“She’ll be fine,” she whines between suckles on your throat. 

You whimper wantonly, but the knocks get aggressive. It has to be Carol! You don’t want Ellie to stop, but you push her.

“E—Ellie— “

She releases you with an annoyed huff, giving you enough room to hop off the counter. Scratches and meows alert you once more, and you run to the front door, whisper-yelling to Ellie, “Hide Pickle! Hide her!”

“Okay, okay, damn,” She sighs in annoyance, heading back down the hallway. You can hear Ellie’s soft shushes to the kitty, meows swiftly replaced with purrs. You think Pickle has chosen her favorite parent. 

You yank the door open and your heart plummets. 

“Hey, uh… hi.” Abby’s voice cracks and her nose is glowing red. Your heart pulls in your chest at the sight of her soft eyes. 

“Hi, Abby,” You say softly. She shyly peers at her feet. “How are you?”

A soft smile spreads across her face, “I’m not here to talk about me, I wanna apologize. I, um… I wanted to call but I thought I’d do it in person.” 

“No need. I’m sorry, to— “

But Abby isn’t having it, dropping onto one knee in the middle of the complex hallway, taking your hand in hers, “Oh, how I treated Thee, for I am full of regret. What do I owe Thou the pleasure of forgiveness?” 

You holler laughter, “Bitch, is that a question? What the fuck do I say to that.” 

“… I actually don’t know, what the fuck— “

“You’re actually the fucking worst, get up,” You’re pulling your friend to her feet and wrapping your arms around her neck, pressing light kisses to her cheek. She lifts you and carries you inside, kicking the door shut. 

“Was it Carol?” 

You barely hear your roommate from behind you. Abby sets you down, and you’re met with a… blank Ellie. This version of her is almost unfamiliar. 

“Hm?”

“Was,” Her eyes flicker towards your friend, “Was it Carol?” Your eyes flicker to Abby, confused as ever. 

“Um, no, thank God, right?” You laugh awkwardly, “Ellie, this is Abby. Abby, this is Ellie, my new roomie.” 

Abby slaps on her signature smile, extending her hand in greeting, “Nice to meet you. I heard a lot.”

Ellie’s eyes flicker between Abby’s hand and her face, eyes squinted. She only nods before murmuring to you, “Pickle’s fed. Lock the door if you leave.” 

Your mouth drops, but before you can say anything, Ellie’s door slams shut, lock clicking, barricading herself, shut off from the outside. Pickle scurries into your open space at the noise. A stunned Abby finally drops her hand and turns to you with an expression reading I told you so. Your heart jolts and it’s painful. 

“C’mon,” Abby coos, hands massaging your shoulders, “I owe you pancakes.” 

You try to smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Not like it should at the mention of a free meal. For some reason, you feel guilty. 

IHOP needs to have their holiday menus all year round; These cinnamon roll pancakes are fucking lethal! You shoved your platter down and already want seconds. Abby’s too sweet to you. 

“Abby.” 

“Hm?” She gnaws at her turkey bacon. 

“I’m in a predicament.” 

“What’s the matter.” 

“I think I like Ellie.” 

Your friend pauses before sighing, “Alright. So, what’s the plan?” 

“To die, I think. That’s the only plan.” 

“Don’t say that,” she chuckles. You shrug. 

“We made out and I liked it,” You whisper, “Like, a lot.” 

“Did y’all smash?” You shake your head. 

“Are you gonna tell her?” 

You scoff, “Did you miss the part where I said to die? I’d rather die. She hates my fucking guts all over again.” 

“I don’t think she does.” 

“You don’t know her, Abby— “

“I know a jealous munch when I see one,” She smirks, “I was one for a long time.” 

Your jaw drops, “Really? With who?” 

She grins, but it doesn’t meet her eyes, “Don’t worry about it.” 

You pout. Why didn’t she tell you?! Poor thing. You place a comforting hand on top of hers.

“Promise to tell me before graduation. I need some shit to look forward to.” 

“Like you’re gonna remember.” 

“Fuck off! I never forget anything!” 

“Yeah, anyway, your roomie was jealous— “

Your shoulders drop and your eyes roll. Ellie and jealousy? Together? Bullshit. Tomfoolery. Fake news. 

“Abby, I can't tell her— “

“Can’t or won’t?” Abby arches a brow, “You know what you do and don’t want. You’re creating stupid rules that combat your feelings and wonder why you end up hurt. Cut it out.” 

… Either face your fears of abandonment or die alone. Interesting ultimatum. You choose the latter. 

“You’re very easy to read, believe it or not. You like her. Accept it or move on,” Abby mumbles around her extra-crispy hash brown. 

You sigh. You’ve accepted it a long time ago; That's the issue. The only thing that can help you right now is more fucking cinnamon roll pancakes. Abby better leave this apology tab open. 

You’re hit with the usual warmth of the apartment the second you step in, finding Ellie on the couch with her feet kicked up, mindlessly fiddling with your favorite pen. Her silence makes your skin crawl; You never know what she’s thinking. 

“So, what,” You shrug, setting your to-go bag on the counter, “Are you just gonna pout or are we gonna have an adult conversation?” 

“I don’t think you’re capable of that,” She mumbles. 

“What does that mean?” 

“It means what it sounds like. You’re fucking immature and inconsiderate.” 

Your heart nearly stops, “I’m— “

She slices through your words, “Save that I don’t know what you mean bullshit for someone else. If you and that bitch are still fucking, why the fuck did you kiss me?” 

Her accusation makes you snap, “First of all, I haven’t fucked Abby in weeks! And even if I did, that’s none of your fucking business! I can do whatever the fuck I want and I don’t need to explain myself to you! And you kissed me first so don’t start!” 

A grin grows on Ellie face, head tipping back onto the couch as she laughs to herself, sighing in disbelief, “I never thought I would regret a kiss so much in my fucking life, oh my god.” 

You scoff, ignoring the sudden ache in your chest, “Fuck you.” 

“You want to.” 

You hate how heat builds in your stomach, “I want to?” You snark, “You shoved your tongue in my mouth a few hours ago. You want to. Don’t fucking piss me off.” 

You stomp to your room before Ellie can say anything above her laughter. Your door slams and you pace across your small room. You ignore the stress building deep in your joints; The term is almost over. You don’t need this fucking bullshit on your back right now! 

To think you and Ellie were starting to get on good terms. If she wants to play that game, then fine; You’ve mastered the sport at this point! The kiss meant nothing to you either!

You hope her Christmas is fucking awful and she finds nothing but a pile of fucking rocks in her marijuana sock. What a cunt—

Meow! Meow!

Your heart pulls at the small scratches at your door. You need your baby to give you some love since a certain someone won’t. Pickle calls out until you open the door, but your sad smile disappears at the sight of that someone propped against your door frame. 

“She wanted her mommy.” Ellie nods down at the kitten rubbing against your leg. 

“Fuck you.” You spit. 

“Fuck you.” 

“Fuck you!” You shout and lean closer, but she doesn’t seem threatened. That same sparkle in her eye is back, and, suddenly, your body’s flaming for another reason. The tip of her nose twitches, once, twice, three times, and you refuse to hold back any longer. 

You grab her face and kiss her. Kiss her as hard as you can. She’s so fucking aggravating; Why can’t she ever mind her fucking business? You’re sick of her clocking your pussy! The kiss is hot and quick and it sends vibrations down to your toes. It’s not until gentle purring fills your ears that you gasp and separate from your roommate. 

You bend down to pick up your little princess. Ellie’s lips reconnect with your neck the second you're upright. “Did she eat?” You mutter. 

“Mhm. Twice.” You nod and kiss her small, furry head, “She’s gonna be scratching at the door.” You ponder to yourself. 

“We’ll make it quick,” She mumbles in between harsh sucks to your throat, nibbles at your lobe. You escape the attention for a split second to grab Pickle’s small toy mouse from your dresser, tossing it down the hall and into the living room. Her small paws skip across the floor as she slides the trinket all over the hardwood. 

“We’re not fucking.” You say harsher than necessary. 

“I didn’t ask.”

You gently shut the door and jump Ellie’s bones, releasing all your pent-up frustration and anger into another kiss. The formerly gentle tugs of her hair are replaced with harsh yanks that expose her throat. Seconds pass and she’s pushing you onto your unmade bed, body bouncing before she climbs on top of you, reconnecting your mouths in the sloppiest kiss you’ve ever shared… It’s doing something to your cooter, though. You’re wet as fuck. 

Ellie’s fully onto top of you, body almost overheating from the layers of clothes between you. Her hips are sharp when they push into yours, swallowing all your stunned gasps and pleasured sighs. Your body is on fire and it’s making you lightheaded, but she feels so good on top. 

Ellie’s cursing against your mouth and she bucks into you, right against the muscle of your thigh, and you just watch the flames spread in her orbs. Not the comforting greenery that you could get lost in for days. The trees are black and surrounded by clustered rubble. She’s grunting against your cheek, her nose hitting yours with every thrust. 

A bold hand creeps between both your bodies and slips right into her wrinkly sweats, beneath her underwear, fingers drenched in seconds. You smirk when she whimpers your name between swears, palming the bud that throbs like a beating heart. Blush tints her cheeks the wetter she gets, pooling in your hand as you grind into her clit. 

Ellie’s cute. You’ll give her that. So, you rub her harder. 

“Agh, fuck, fuck— “

You're snickering to yourself but Ellie doesn’t care. She’s whining like a little bitch and humping you like a dog… 

Does she top? You should ask her after this. Post-nut gay quiz. 

“Finger me, put your— oh shit— “

“Hmm…” You suck your teeth, “Nah.” 

She glares down at you, leaving fiery holes in your cheek, “Don’t f—fucking piss me off right now.” 

You halt all your movements. “That’s all you’ve been doing since you got in this bitch. Shut the fuck up and take what I give you…” You pause, “Or get the fuck off me. Your choice.” 

A full one-eighty, truly. How she goes from looking at you with intent to kill to a wounded puppy in seconds. Poor thing wants a treat. Your entire hand is drenched in her juices; She can wait a little longer. 

“You ate my fucking Doritos.” 

“W—What?” She sounds like she’s going to cry. You can’t stop smiling. 

Slow circles on her clit, and her body wracks on top of you, “The ones I hid in the cabinet… Nasty little thief. Gonna buy me some more?” 

Her breathing is so rapid, “You’re so s—stupid fuck— “ 

“You’re gonna do more than that… gonna show me what’s in that fucking portfolio like you promised.” You whisper, hot against her face. 

This is the strangest dirty talk you’ve ever partaken in, but Ellie’s losing it on top of you. She hasn’t shut up yet. She’s hiding her face in your neck, words vibrating against your skin. You don’t know what she said, so you stop again. She sobs. 

You sound sweeter than candy, “What was that?” 

Ellie doesn’t answer. Just pants into your skin. You pat her clit a few times and she jerks to attention. “I asked you a question.” 

“Feels,” She heaves, “Feels so fucking good— “

“I didn’t ask you that.”

“I’ll show you — fuck, okay? Okay, okay, m’so close— “

Your thumb brushes against her clit, “I wanna see it after you nut.” 

She gasps words miles per minute, “I promise, Ipromise, touch me keep touching me— “

Ellie attempts to grind into your hand once more, but you stretch, slippery fingers sliding lower until the tip of your index catches onto her pulsing hole. You can barely hear, but she’s begging. Thank God you trimmed your nails. 

You push in gently, Ellie’s teeth grazing the skin right underneath your ear. A shiver runs down your spine. She grins before biting down on it. You moan into the boiling air. Your finger gets swallowed by her walls; She’s so fucking tight and soft and she’s clenching with every moan, your thighs squeezing around her hips. 

Ellie continues to grind on top of you, practically riding your finger, her moans increasing in volume. 

“E-Ellie, look at me, sit up—“ She doesn’t hesitate, clammy forehead resting on yours as you stare into her glossy, lustful eyes. They’re fluttering with every deep grind of your arched digit and your heart skips a beat. 

“Gimme one more, stretch me out,” she exhales onto your lips

“Sure?” You breathe. 

She groans, “Yeah, fuck, m’gonna cum when you do— “

“You gotta cute face,” you whisper and giggle when her eyes squeeze shut in embarrassment, middle finger popping past the small entrance 

“Fuck, babe, s’right there— “

Your walls clench at the name. Now you’re whining, “Gimme it. Hurry up so I can play with my kid.” 

“O-Our fucking kid—“ She chokes. 

You hum playfully, “Oddly domestic. Is this what marriage is like? Quickies in the laundry room when the baby’s watching Cocomelon?” 

“No — fuck, do you ever shut the fuck up?” You can’t even move from hard her walls are choking you, “M’cumming, Jesus fucking— son of a— “

Ellie’s walls grip your fingers as she trembles on top of you, lips crashing onto yours as she groans in your mouth, and you smile. You should’ve spit on her tongue, but you held back. She’s not ready. Fucking gremlin. 

Her orgasm rocks her into exhaustion, her body going completely limp on top of you as her hips twitch into your touch. You stare up at the ceiling, mind racing. 

You technically didn’t fuck! Your pussy is quite convincing. You didn’t, but you want to! 

“We didn’t fuck.” You mumble. 

She huffs dryly, voice low. Here comes the goosebumps! “Sure.” 

“We didn’t,” you bemoan and pull out, slick smearing on both your clothes before you present the wet digits in front of your face. Ellie finally lifts her head to join the inspection of your drenched, wrinkly fingers. She smells good. 

“Go wash your hands,” she croaks. 

“Mind your business.” You suck them clean and she snorts, rolling off and onto the bed. You sit up to open the door for Pick-Pick, but Ellie grabs your bicep. 

“What?” 

“You… You don’t want to…?” 

You look around blankly. 

“Do you want me to do something… like an exchange?” 

You’re not sure how to answer, but thankfully, curious meows and light scratching distract the both of you. You’re moving like a robot into the living room, Ellie right on your tail, cooing at the baby who rubs all over her. 

You take a seat on the… lavender-scented cushion. She bought a new freshener. 

“Ellie.” 

“What.” 

“I don’t like you.” 

A scoff from her, “I don’t care.” 

You pause. “… Wanna sniff my punani?” You mock. 

She takes a seat, swiftly followed by Pickle, and turns her head in your direction, lip between her teeth, “Can I?” 

“What.” 

“Just a whiff.” She hums between snickers. The sensors in your brain are on fire. Ellie is so confusing. 

You scratch your ear, stealing her habit, “You… You want to?” 

She grabs your discarded pen from the coffee table, “You want me to?” 

Yes. “No.” 

Ellie nods and continues to fiddle with it, obnoxiously clicking it over and over. She doesn’t fight you on it. How embarrassing. You really need head. 

Your eyes meet your sock-covered feet, “… I was just kidding,” You mumble. 

More pen clicking. “Come here for a second.” Your feet carry you at her grumble, plopping down onto the lavender-scented cushion. New freshener. 

“Is this gonna be… a regular thing?” 

Your head shakes a ton. It most definitely will not. You can’t take your eyes off how Ellie flips her pen. Her hands are bewitching. You need them in your throat again. 

“I think we… just needed to get it out of our system?” You suggest. Unfortunately, it seems neither of you are convinced. 

Pickle climbs up your sweatshirt, head rubbing against your chin. You peck her nose, “Why do you think that.” Ellie asks. 

“I’m not fucking someone I live with.” Your words are blunt, but Ellie doesn’t seem shaken by them. 

“Why.” 

“Because.” You say with finality. 

She sighs, “Because you’re scared of getting your feelings hurt by someone you care about again?” 

The bomb she drops is unexpected, but causes even more damage. Your shoulders immediately tense, on guard, “What the fuck…” How did she…

Ellie winces, “Don’t uh… don’t be mad…” 

“Why the fuck— how do you even know that?” 

“Dina told me.” She blurts and you jump from your seat, glowering at the girl who sheepishly taps her fingers on the couch. 

“The fuck do you mean Dina told you— “

More word-vomit. How long was she holding this shit from you? “S-She was my roommate. She’s the reason I got evicted— “

Your throat is closing, “…Is this a fucking joke?”

Ellie cowers at your tone, “Not really.” 

“When the fuck were you going to tell me that you’re friends with my fucking ex?!”

“We’re not friends!” She says meekly. “And you weren’t official— “

“It doesn’t fucking matter, Ellie! What the fuck!” Your efforts of holding tears back fail, as usual. You’re sick of crying in front of this broad. “She fu—fucking ruined my life!” The stares you get will never fail to make you sick. 

Ellie’s eyes remind you of glass. Breakable. You holler through sniffles, “Is that why you called me a fucking slut! Because that bitch told you some fake ass, fucked-up story about me whoring around campus?!” 

“Dude, I’m— “

“I fucked over the sweetest fucking girl on campus, right? The world’s best fucking pitcher got her heart broken by some low-life fucking artist with no future!” You rant until your breath is short, “I was fucking in love with her! I-I wanted to be with her, I would’ve died for her! I’m— “

Your hands desperately grasp at your chest to get your heart to ease the knocking against your ribcage. 

“You think I-I’m fucking easy, right? That’s why you came onto me earlier? ‘Cuz I’m a fucking whore?! A desperate sl—slut with no self-worth— “

The space you found comfort in is rapidly filling with darkness; You’re being sucked into a void of nothing and you can’t think. Ellie doesn’t move, just stares over you with feeble pupils, hand clutched around that pen, the end of it leaving an indent in her sweats. 

Pickle plops down onto your feet as you cry. You take her into your arms and hold her as close as possible, scurrying into your room. You fall back against the door and it slams, sliding down the wood as Kit-Kat nuzzles your chin. She’s the sweetest fucking thing in the world. How could such an angel be left in the snow to die? 

Time moves in a blur as you weep. Your mom would’ve held you if she were here. 

What you would give for some parental guidance. You almost called your father. 

Almost. 

Click, click, click, click, click—

One, two, three, four. Breathe in, Breathe out. Five, six—

Thank God for your fucking custom pen. The noise is enough to distract her from breaking down in your tiny living room. She should’ve snagged Pickle before you did; She needs a fucking hug. 

Ellie hates being yelled at. More than anything. More than you. God, she fucking despises you. 

You look and sound nothing like her mother, but you’re oddly alike. She pondered whether or not that was the reason she was drawn to you; She always finds herself trapped in spaces with fucking deflectors. 

She hasn’t even begun editing the photos from earlier. At this point, she doesn’t even want to use them. It’s a shame your eyes are so expressive; She would’ve burned the pictures she took of you the second you left with that bitch if she wasn’t so crunched for time. She needs to submit them so she can get the fuck out of here. 

You’d be an excellent actress; You have emotions down pact on camera. The dark part of her brain convinced her that you were thinking of her with that doting, yearnful look in your eye. 

The photography company keeps sending her emails about completing her work profile and her fucking portfolio submission. That’s the only form of motivation she has left, and even then, she hasn’t revisited those photos. She doesn’t have much time to make them perfect. 

Ellie swallows the lump in her throat over and over, thumb pressing down, down, down. She can’t stop clicking your fucking pen. Just don’t cry. 

Your sobs almost get her there, almost push her over the edge, but she shuts her eyes and counts each click, matching them with every heave she releases. You, somehow, sound just like her fucking mom. 

And Ellie, despite the backwards relationship between the two of you, still fucking kissed you. She should’ve died right there in front of you. What a fucking joke. 

But she couldn’t stop. She didn’t want to. She’s never experienced affection like that; It was passionate and made her itch with a desire she hasn’t felt in a long time. All she wants is for someone to love her, hold her like you did, touch her like you did. She’s never felt that euphoric in her life, never witnessed so many bright colors at once. 

Whoever told her being alone was easy was a fucking liar. No one should wake up and want to die every day, so why does she? Everyone thinks she prefers silence, but she doesn’t. Ellie craves contact in all forms. In any form. Desperately. 

Why did it have to be you? Why the fuck did it have to be you. 

Her brain is telling her she can’t wait to move out, so why is her heart amidst decay whenever she thinks about it? She’s going to suffocate in here, so she rises, pen still in hand, and snags her puffer and beanie from the couch. Her feet shove into her boots and she’s out, the front door slamming shut. She didn’t even bother to lock it. 

Ellie takes the stairs and leaves the building on autopilot, no destination in mind. Just stomping through the splintering cold like a fucking yeti. Every breath oxidizes in a cloud before her as she recalls where she fumbled with you. 

Dina. 

Ellie’s cold hands frost her face as she wipes it, making sharp turns and stumbling on ice. She wants to go home; She misses her dad. 

Dina seems to be the only thing you two have in common. You both might hate her more than each other. The horror she felt when her ex-roommate taped that eviction notice on her door is incomparable. Ellie was a struggling entrepreneur and practically fucking homeless overnight. All because Dina’s new fucking side piece. 

Ellie and Dina, friends. Wait until she tells you about how she almost beat her and her girlfriend’s ass. If you’re even willing to listen at this point. 

Ellie continues to walk, hands tucked under her armpits. At least she’s not simmering anymore in her rage anymore. She blocks down the way when she realizes she forgot her fucking phone. This would’ve been a perfect time to cry to her old man. 

You’re not out of Ellie’s system at all. You’ve, unfortunately, claimed residency inside of her. 

You’re scribbling with spilled wine on your shirt, outside noise muffled by the plugs in your ears. You don't recall leaving your room, grabbing a bottle and downing its contents, but the remnants of broken glass acts as a decent reminder. 

Your hand is cramping from its grip on a new pen, but you can’t stop gliding the tip across the sixth sheet of printer paper. You hate what you’re drawing; The details are perfect, inked scratches practically muscle memory, and you despise it. It’s always her.

You’re going to be alone for a very long time. You’re too destructive for companionship, you’ve learned. How ironic: the one aspect of life you crave is becoming your demise, and your downfall is going to be tortuous. Recovery is never long lasting for you. 

So, you sketch. And scratch. And erase, start again, hoping, praying, for an outcome that doesn’t feel so lost. You’re destroyed and desperate to find comfort. Was your father right when he called you sick at age twelve? Maybe something is truly wrong with you. Maybe one of the reasons why you constantly push and mask and hide. 

Every insecurity you’ve garnered in high school is flourishing in adulthood, thick as vines and as strong as tree bark. Deflection is an art that you’ve mastered out of preservation; Too bad it’s trapped you in isolation. 

The green in Ellie’s eyes holds stories. Somehow, this month feels like centuries. Centuries of studying the mass area of blossoming, healthy land beneath her pupils. Her eyes are sacred, almost too sacred to manipulate, but you draw them anyway. 

You want to touch her again. You want her to touch you. Just one last time. You’re already a fucking failure; One last mistake wouldn’t hurt. 

A teardrop musses the paper, so you scrap it like the others and start again. Ellie’s eyes are too pretty to be smudged. 

You can’t stay here anymore. You hope Amaya understands. You hope Ellie understands. 

You’d give anything to be able to call your mother. 

You hear the front door open and close for the hundredth time tonight, followed by swift clicks of a pen. Guilt floods your system. You peer at a sleeping Pickle on your mattress before standing, opening your door to see Ellie entering hers. Your intoxicated brain notes the sex lighting in her room; Red LED. You talk before thinking. 

“I didn’t mean to yell at you.” She jumps and turns at your cracked voice, eyes red. She smoked; you can smell it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to— “

“I’m submitting my portfolio in the morning. I’ll be out by Christmas.” She says, monotone. Lifeless. 

A dry huff escapes your closed throat. Your heart is breaking. Just a little, “I guess, uh… I can’t see it anymore, huh?” She doesn’t answer. 

“Do you regret taking those pictures?” She mumbles.

You don't hesitate, “Not at all.”

She nods. The silence that follows is thick, weighing at both of your shoulders, holding you in place. Ellie’s breathing is finally steady, and it’s calming. 

“Go to bed.” She whispers before entering her room, gently shutting it behind her. Some tears fall before you follow her lead. 

Pickle is sitting on the edge of your bed, just watching you. You smile sadly and whisper, “At least you love me, right?” 

A gentle blink from her. You sob; Another pair of green eyes to bring you comfort. 

“I love you, too.” 

heyyyy: @starologist @hrtmal @ohlawdthebirds @villainousbear @timmy-27 @inf3ct3dd @aouiaa @shurisbigtoe @emothurman @lonelyfooryouonly @imelliesgf @baumbii @brackishkittie @littletinyladybugs @r1miese @horror-whoree @elsbunny222 @elliesatchel @makemescreamel @lav3nd3rhaze @elliezflower @ellieloml @ellies-princess @saverdelrey @womenofarcane @muthafuckingstargirl @mina-281 @yuckyfucky @aimformyheartt @elstoy @skylerwhitwyo @sawaagyapong @nil-eena @dewylittlestars @sakiigami @feelsoseencantdream @ellieslittlegf @fictionalgap @liabadoobee @whooknooows @sarahsmileslikesarahd0esntcare @qtgaslighter @p4ison1vy @eviestevie-14 @weaselot @elliewbbg @elsmissingfingers @lmaoo-spiderman @lyssaspengler @elliewilliamsmunch @gummydummykj @kiwikeysblog @juniorsfav @louleele @alittlextrahoney @tohoko @333-starhotline @girlkissersco @saplingkoi @crxmxnzl-c0rpzes @elliew-illiamsmissingfingers @diddiqueen @alexisvs-world @mostlyhornyandsad @lolaaa699999 @elsblunt @niyahlovesu @randomhoex @sunnmoon @elliesaesp @callmewhenyoukan @rubycruzsbitch