#and I’d like to not feel sick and in pain every month

[ponderingmoonlight]

Sanemi lashing out on his pregnant wife only to beg her for forgiveness later

Pairing: Sanemi x pregnant!reader

Word Count: 3,1k

Synopsis: Like every week, you find yourself on your way back from Shinobu's estate and your pregnancy check-up. Little did you know what horror awaits you at your own home with your husband almost killing two kids...

Warnings: Sanemi is mean in this one and I mean it, extreme hurt but also comfort in the end so don't worry, full Shinazugawa package regarding language and violence lol, not proofread because I have to leave now

Thank you sooo much for that cool request @itsmscoco and I'm sorry it took a while. I really hope you like what I came up with 🤍

You rub your minor belly. For a woman, a pregnancy should feel like a trip to heaven. After all, you are blessed with developing a child that is half you and half your husband. Oh, your beloved and surprisingly gentle husband who always makes sure that you get enough sleep, that you nutrition yourself properly. But even the wind hashira can’t do a single thing against your constant sickness and pain.

“Please try this out, (y/n). Don’t hesitate to come here again if you need something else. You really have an unfortunate pregnancy when it comes to nausea”, Shinobu comments gently while giving your belly a little massage.

“Don’t get me wrong, I am so excited about the honor of caring for a child in my own body. But honestly, I’m so glad when this pregnancy is over”, you huff while taking a deep breath in.

Please, don’t vomit all over the insect pillar who’s just trying to help. You’ve been here what feels like everyday since finding out you’re pregnant. Well, to be exact, Shinobu is the one who suggested that you might expect a child.

Because of your never-ending sickness.

“Oh, there’s nothing to get wrong at all! After all, your pregnancy is a rather difficult one. But I’m sure Shinazugawa is taking good care of you!”

“He definitely does. My husband is an angel”, you reply in an instant.

You can’t wait to go back home. Even though your sleep-drunken eyes won’t be able to stay open longer than maybe a few hours, even though you weren’t able to catch a proper glimpse at Sanemi’s part in the on-going hashira training until now, you can’t wait to go back home. Back into your estate, back into the arms of your beloved husband.

“Not quite the codename I’d use for him, but that’s just what love does, right? I will send a kakushi along with you. Otherwise, Shinazugawa might show up and threaten me”, Shinobu jokes while helping you to get up.

“Thank you for your help. Again.”

You pull the insect hashira into a deep hug. How lucky you should consider yourself for the opportunity to call Shinobu your friend, that Sanemi laid his eyes on you. Out of all the countless women around, the ones with faces like porcelain and bodies so well-formed you can’t hold a candle against every single one of them. But still, he chose you.

“Come on, (y/n). Why are you crying?”, Shinobo whispers into your ear while rubbing small circles onto your back.

“I’m just a little overwhelmed from everything I guess”, you mumble against her comforting shoulder.

Just a few months ago, you would have laughed at anyone who told you that your life would turn out like this. Of course, you’ve lost countless good friends and family members on the way and living with a suborn husband like Sanemi isn’t always easy. But somehow, the two of you always make it work.

Right?

-at the wind hashira estate-

“We are almost there. Are you feeling alright?”

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m just a little tired from walking, that’s all!”

Truth is, your feet hurt like hell. Shinobu reported about women who don’t even feel their baby until the second trimester. Why are your feet already swollen, your belly bloated, your guts constantly turning? And there’s still so much ahead.

“Looks like Shinazugawa-sama received a new bunch of trainees after the other corps members all landed in Kocho-sama’s hospital wing”, the kakushi next to you comments dryly.

“Was it really that bad?”

Of course you heard about the rather brutal training methods of your husband. After all, even the walls of his estate aren’t thick enough to stop every single scream from reaching your ears. But still…

“It was pretty bad. Some of the-“

Glass cracking. Screams from afar. Out of instinct, you pick up your pace until you dash towards your home, sweat now dripping from every pore. What happened? Is Sanemi alright? He wouldn’t leash out on one of his students like that. Something must have happened. A demon? No, it’s still daytime. But what is it?

“He’s back! He’s back! That cold-blooded man! Lie down and pretend that you’ve fainted!”, a blonde-haired boy screams while almost collapsing onto the floor.

“What are you talking about? What’s going on here?”, you press out.

Your lungs threaten to fail you, breath already tasting like pure iron.

Until your eyes find Genya.

Your guts twist and turn in every direction, almost force you to vomit all over the place. Genya shouldn’t be here. Out of all people, it shouldn’t be him. And who’s the boy next to him. That familiar scar, you’ve seen that boy before. Is it possible that…

“Kamado Tanjiro”, you breathe out.

Maybe that is even worse.

Your eyes dart around the area without an aim. Where’s Sanemi? Did he find them already? They need to leave before he finds out that they’re here, carry on with another hashira training.

“Please stop now!”, Tanjiro suddenly shouts while stretching out his arm in defence.

An uneasy feeling crawls up your spine, the dark claws of sickening foreshadowing. All you can do is standing death still right where you are and watch in sheer horror as your husband stomps out of your estate motion.

Is that your husband you love and adore, though? You know how untamed he can get especially when getting confronted with his painful past. It was never easy for him to see Genya join the demon slayer corps or realize that his mother could have been saved like Tanjiro’s sister.

But never in your entire life have you seen him like this. The empty shell of your husband, muscles tensed to the maximum and his empty orbs directed towards the two boys in front of him.

In this very moment, you’d trust him to actually kill them.

“What are you going to do? Are you planning to kill Genya?”, Tanjiro continues passionately.

Your glossy orbs are set on your husband. Would he really do something like that? What if you witness the father of your unborn child taking the life of two other human beings? Your heart can’t take it, knees threaten to fail you.

“Hell no, I’m not going to kill him. It would be easy enough to kill him, but since it’s against the rules and all…I’m going to ruin him beyond recovery!”

Until your blurry head finally makes a decision and allows your feet to run.

Straight towards the two boys.

Straight into the firing line.

Straight into the sight of your now maniac husband.

“You won’t do any of these things, you hear me?”, you jeer at him with your new-found courage.

“(y/n)”, Genya breathes behind you.

“How dare you to talk to innocent children like that, Sanemi?”

The man in front of you furrows his eyebrows, hands clenched into tight fists while taking a step towards you.

“Get lost. Right now”, he hisses through gritted teeth.

You swallow hard, all nerves now tingling in sheer horror. This is the first and last warning, without any doubt. The look on his stone-cold face tells you more than urgently that Sanemi isn’t playing, that he doesn’t want you here.

Maybe it’s best if you go back inside and pretend that nothing happened. He himself said that he won’t kill them, after all…

“I’m not leaving”, you bite back.

But that would mean leaving Genya alone. That would mean giving up all of your principles.

“Will you act out like this towards our child as well?”, you continue while growing bigger and bigger in front of the two boys.

He might be your husband, the love of your life. That doesn’t mean you’ll always have to do what he tells you, tough. Instinctively, you clench your hands into tight fists with your glossy eyes almost piercing through him. Enough is enough.

“If our child acts as dumb as you do, I sure as hell will!”

Oh.

Your heart drops to the floor when a nauseous wave of agony hits you with full force. Sanemi is and has always been a hot-headed man who never thought twice about the things he said. But never, not even once in your entire relationship he insulted you.

Until now.

“Is this really how you feel about me? We should support each other, you should listen to me as well as-“

“Spare me with that bullshit, (y/n)”, Sanemi spits at you.

“Get.out.of.the.way. Can’t you hear me?”

It’s like you stop living for a moment. All this time, you did your best to understand him and his grief. Everything Sanemi does comes with a logical reason behind it, even though it’s hard to see from time to time. But lashing out at you like that?

“Stop being so disrespectful to me right now. I am your wife-“

“Right now, you’re my problem”, he jeers back.

“And now get off my sight and let me finish this real quick-“

You don’t know what made you act the way you just did. Was it his cruel behaviour, the way his words cut through your heart like a thousand knives? Before your husband is even able to finish his sentence, your palm races towards his cheek with full force.

The world around you goes silent, frightful gazes glued onto you while you can’t stop your tears from falling anymore.

“Is this how you’re acting around your pregnant wife by now, how you’ll treat innocent children? If that’s the live you chose, I’m not a part of it anymore”, you hiss through gritted teeth.

Suddenly, the urge to get as far away from him as possible becomes unbearable. Your feet start sprinting towards the estate on your own, carry you into your now so empty-feeling bedroom.

And finally, you allow yourself to break down and cry.

Is this really the man you love, that you’d give your life for? Your shaky fingers caress your belly mindlessly.

You can’t stay here. Not when Sanemi showed you a completely different face today. Not when this place doesn’t feel like home anymore.

-a few hours later-

“Fuck!”, Sanemi cries out on top of his lungs while dashing towards Obanai over and over.

Why can’t he get your stupid words out of his mind? The way you stood there with tears in your eyes, how he was literally able to hear your heart crack when those damned words left his mouth. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt you, to drag you into the fuckery with his little brother and that Kamado boy.

But why did he say all those dumb things, then?

“You seem off, Shinazugawa”, Obanai comments dryly, hitting the wind hashira with full force again.

“I guess I fucked up”, Sanemi mumbles.

What if you won’t forgive him for today? Your last words haunt him since the moment you left him standing in the rain.

“I bet you can talk your way out of it-“

“Hell nah. I don’t think she wants to see me tonight.”

“Did you ask her, though?”

“Who the hell do you think you are anyway? You’re the one to talk, not able to confess your feelings to Mitsuri”, Sanemi barks at the man next to him.

“But yeah, maybe I should get going…”

Coming home never fuelled him with so much fright. What if you’re still angry at him, if you refuse to even talk to him? Or even worse, what if you’ll really leave him?

Sanemi’s guts turn in an instant, feet now picking up their pace with every step. He can’t lose you. Not you, the light of his life. Not when you are the only ray of sunshine in this rotting hell. What the hell did he do? The fact that he even raised his voice at you is unforgivable.

Finally, his fingers grab the door that leads to your shared bedroom, finally he’s able to make up for his mistakes of today-

His eyes widen in sheer horror.

You’re gone.

Right there where your head should rest, there’s absolutely nothing.

Panic starts rising up his chest, forces his heart down his throat.

Did you leave?

He yanks out of your shared room, eyes roaming around each and every corner of your estate. But you aren’t there. You aren’t here.

“My lady is at the love hashira’s estate.”

Sanemi darts up immediately, greeted by the oh so familiar voice of your personal crow.

“Is she fine, why did she-“

“With all due respect, I suggest you to control yourself before making any more insensitive comments to my lady-“

“Who the hell do you even think you are you-“

“Your earlier spoken words really troubled her and my lady certainly does not deserve that.”

Without another word, your crow disappears into the darkness of night again.

Sanemi swallows hard. Fuck, did he really hurt you that badly? He never wanted you to feel bad, never wanted to hurt you. Damn, he only wanted to show Genya and that Kamado boy their places. It shouldn’t have hit you. Out of all people, why did he have to hurt you?

“I need to tell her”, he mumbles under his breath before dashing towards the love hashira estate.

-at Mitsuri’s-

“I can’t believe Shinazugawa said something like this to you, (y/n)! You are super far away from being dumb, after all! Here, eat another pancake and stay as long as you want.”, Mitsuri babbles while handing you another plate.

Your dry eyes are barely able to stay open any longer. All the grief, explaining, fighting and crying did apparently really wear you out. Good for you Mitsuri’s estate is near by and you just know she’ll always open her arms for you.

“Thank you so much for taking me in, Kanroji. I really don’t deserve your kindness”, you sniffle.

“You have to be joking, (y/n)! It’s my duty as your friend to be there for you anytime you need me! And also, I-”

Three violent knocks on Mitsuri’s wooden door almost send you over the edge. It’s past after midnight, the time closer to the morning than evening. Who would knock on Mitsuri’s door this late at night?

“Do you think that’s a demon?”, you mutter in horror, both pairs of eyes set on the door.

“I don’t think so. Let’s see!”

Before you’re able to stop Mitsuri, she rips open the door.

And reveals no other than your husband.

“Sanemi”, you breathe out.

Tears start swelling up your eyes in an instant when a flood of memories crushes you all over again. Just a few hours ago, your husband made very clear that he doesn’t want to see you again anytime soon. How did he find out that you’re here?

“(y/n), can we…have a talk?”, he mumbles with icy voice.

“Do you want to leave me?”, you blurt out.

“What?”

Is that really how you feel, what you think of him? That he’ll turn his back on you after a fight? He did say all those nasty things to you, though.

“I think I’m going out and…cook!”, Mitsuri announces while sprinting out of the door, leaving you alone in the room with all that tension and him.

Him, the man you love more than anything else in this world. And also him, who broke your heart like he never did before.

“You have to be kidding me”, Sanemi mutters under his breath.

You turn away before you lose your composure completely.

“Why are you here, Sanemi?”

“Do you really think I’m here to dump you!? You, my pregnant wife!? You can’t be fucking serious about that!”

In the matter of seconds, you find yourself surrounded by his usual so comforting arms that now hurt like daggers against your skin.

“Please, let me go, I can’t do this ri-“

“(y/n), please.”

His suffocated voice forces your eyes to dart upwards.

Instantly, your heart drops to the floor.

Is this really your husband, crying against your shoulder while pressing your body against his?

“I’m sorry for all the shit I’ve said, I’m sorry for making you feel this way. I’d never leave you, not when I’m even lucky for calling you mine. I shouldn’t have dragged you into this, I just…I just can’t stand them…”

“Sanemi…”

“And I get that I don’t deserve you and that I’m a jerk for hurting you. I know you could’ve had every man you wanted-“

“Sanemi!”, you snap at him, holding onto his face tightly.

“But you’re the one I want”, you finally cry out.

“But your words hurt me. Is this really how you feel about me? Do you really think I’m a burden?”

“I was out of my fucking mind for saying that to you! You’re my blessing, my everything, the sunshine in this rotting hell. You’re…You’re my wife, right?”

That innocent look on his now tear-soaked face runs shivers down your spine, reminds you that even though he acted out today, this man is still the Sanemi Shinazugawa you fell in love with years ago.

“I am your wife”, you press out before a new wave of tears haunts you down.

“I’m so sorry, (y/n). So so sorry”, he mutters again and again while kissing every tear away that escapes your eyes.

“And I’ll never talk to you like that again, I promise.”

“Will you promise to not treat Tanjiro and Genya like that ever again too?”

Sanemi shifts his weight underneath you, his orbs growing hard again. Was this too much to ask for? No. Even though you love Sanemi’s rough side as well, he simply can’t do something like this again. Not when you’re his wife, not when you are expecting his first very own child.

“I will. But only if these jerks leave me alone”, he grumbles before giving you a passionate kiss.

“That might be manageable. I want to go home now…”

“No problem, I’ll carry you-“

“You really don’t have to carry me-“

“Oh, but I sure as hell will.”

“HAVE A GOOD NIGHT YOU TWO! AND DON’T ACT LIKE A JERK AGAIN, SHINAZUGAWA!”

“Did you have to tell her everything?”

“She’s my friend, Sanemi. Of course I had to.”

Tags: @chilichopsticks @hellkaiserinphoenix  @ynackerman9499 @keepghostly @beatrexworld

@froufrousnowman @hidazinie @tomiokathedepresso  @poketrainer2270 @chaoticwinnercupcake

@lees-chaotic-brain @wordskeeper @polarbvnny @sugu-love @ryva @baku2345

@komelrebi-san @kentocalls @barbuse @sunshine7queen @lavenderdrxp

@yaninnaacu @hopefulbelievertimemachine @laurencrsnt

[shouyuus]

I’m ngl.. I have modern!Vi on the brain a little too much lately

I’ve been really struggling with life recently and all I can think about is how Vi would be the absolute perfect cuddle buddy when the world is caving in

Need some hugs and kisses from her asap

:(( 🩷🩷

(I love your page. Your writing? Chefs kiss)

this is hella late u__u but thank u so much anon! also i hope u dont mind that i twisted it a bit to be a period!fic! @vifilms i hope ur feeling better bby! sfw; college roommate!vi cinematic universe

“hey sweets, i was gonna go grab a bite at jericho’s do you wanna — hey… what’s wrong?” vi’s expression shifts as she peers around your doorway to find you heaped beneath a fortress of blankets, your hair barely a smear of color amidst the rumpled sheets.

“nothing — ‘m fine — you go and have fun though!” your voice is muffled by your pillows but vi’s already by your bed, gently peeling back the covers, concern knitting her brows as she looks you over.

“are you sick? do you need anything?”

you grimace as another sharp jab of pain ricochets up your belly.

“n-no just — cramps…” you murmur, attempting to stifle a groan as you shove your face into the pillows.

“oh doll…” vi gently nudges you over to settle on the edge of the bed, reaching out to run her fingers through your hair, “those are the worst,” she coos, tracing a finger along your cheek. you nod, leaning into her touch.

“it’s okay — happens every month,” you smile weakly at her, “you think that i’d be used to it by now.”

vi laughs, shaking her head, “pain is pain, and this is some of the worst. i remember when i was 15, i fractured a rib getting into a fight with some of the neighborhood boys, and even then — it wasn’t as bad.” she nudges you over a bit more to squeeze onto the tiny twin bed with you, looping you into her arms.

there’s a certain kind of comfort in being held, the warmth of her like sunlight, coaxing your attention away from the discomfort as you close your eyes and sink into the cadence of her words.

“i thought… you were going to jericho’s?” you ask, nuzzling into her side as your bodies shift to accommodate each other.

“mm, i was just gonna grab a bite there and i was kinda hopin’ you would join me,” she grins, pressing her lips absently into your hair, “but since you can’t and delivery apps are a thing…” she trails off, her fingers soothing as they inch beneath your sweatshirt to run soft circles into your skin.

"sorry..." you say, snuggling in closer.

"why're you sorry?"

"cause... you wanted to go to jericho's with me..."

vi chuckles, "yeah, cause i like spending time with you. doesn't matter to me where though."

you soften against her, the steady rhythm of her pulse lulling you into a comforting half-sleep.

"we can order delivery from there," you murmur, letting her run her fingers through your hair, her breath even as she nods, and you feel the shift of her body against yours.

"we can, but i think a hot compress and some ginger tea might be what you need the most right now."

you pout, shaking your head, "no... don't leave."

vi laughs again, "'m not going anywhere, sweet girl. not even if you want me to."

you grin, "promise?"

vi presses a kiss to your forehead, "promise. i'll be right here when you wake up."

[thesuperiorrobin]

Last trimester~

Pairing: Husband! Damian Wayne x Pregnant!Wife! Reader

Warning: Mentions of vomiting, reader is like 6-7 months pregnant

Word count: 750

Damian is confused. Every inch of his home has been clean to the T, not a single dust left behind to stick itself on any surface it comes across. So why on earth are you still vomiting your guts out? It started once you had emerged into the third trimester of your pregnancy, everything seemed to be going smoothly, and you were lucky enough to only handle a handful of morning sickness and after a while, they just stopped. Maybe it was karma coming to bite you in the ass for bragging about not getting sick every five minutes and here you are now, sitting on the couch, relaxed as you lean back wearing a pair of black sweats and a shirt that was once too big for you rolled up over your stomach to show off its roundness.

A sigh escapes your lips as you soothe away the slight pain after the precious being you’ve been creating and holding for the past seven months has decided to be cruel and kick at you to stop. “Here you go Habibti” Damian comes from the kitchen with a glass of water in his hands as she walks over to you and passes it down to you. You take it from his hands with a small ‘thank you’. He notices that slight pain expression on your face as he watches you rub away at your belly. “Have they been given you a hard time?”

“Not as much as I’d like to admit,” you say as you take a few sips of water. Damian takes it upon himself, after watching you finish the drink he takes the glass from your hand—kneeling right in between your legs as he places the glass cup on the ground. You watch him with tired eyes as his arms lift and his warm hands replace yours; finding a spot on your stomach. His warm hands feel much better than yours, the context making you sigh out and your own hands find his to be placed on top of. Damian’s hands start to roam around your stomach, your head falls back slightly, and find yourself closing your eyes as you enjoy the warm sensation.

“I cleaned the bathrooms, kitchen, our bedroom, the baby’s bedroom, and any other spare rooms in this house” he mumbles, eyes never leaving you as you hum. “Thank you, but you didn’t need—“

“I do if unwanted smells have been making you ill” A soft smile breaks out on your lips, eyes still closed as you sigh for the nth time. “And besides, it’s the least I can do. I feel useless seeing you in such a state. I feel like I’m not doing as much as I should be doing for my pregnant wife” Damian can feel you grip his hands slightly as you open your tried eyes and glance down.

“Oh ~” you coo, “you’re doing more than enough. Trust me” he cracks a smile, hands leaving your stomach as they find a place beside your thighs. He lifts himself, but not fully as he leans over your relaxed from on the couch. His green eyes find yours:

“I love you”

“I love you too” and Damian leans down to steal a kiss, one that lasts for a while but is cut very short with a rough push on his shoulders. He takes a glance of concern. Your face is pale and a hand over your mouth.

“Bathroom?” He asked and all it takes from you is a nod and he’s rushing you into the bathroom. He holds your hair back, watching as you vomit up your breakfast lunch, and snack. You can feel his warm hand rubbing your back gently. Damian helps you up and helps you freshen yourself up.

“I don’t think he likes it in there anymore, think he just wants out” You poke at your stomach and wince when you feel a harsh kick “Rude”

“He?” Damian asked “How can you be so sure?” you and Damian are waiting for the baby to be born to find out the gender, so it’s unknown to both of you at the moment. “Call it a mother’s intuition” you shrug with a smile.

Damian pinches at your cheeks softly with one hand and the other finds a place on your stomach once more “I still think it’s a girl”

“Nope, it’s a boy. One hundred percent” he rolls his eyes, dragging you to your shared bedroom.

Where the hell have I been?😭

[theosang3ls]

Forbidden by Fate (pt. 1)

part two, next parts coming soon…

Pairing: Death Eater!Theodore Nott x Journalist!Reader

Summary: it has been two years since you graduated Hogwarts, one year since the wizarding war began. You were returning from your work when one of your worst nightmares came true.

Warnings: this fic covers certain triggering concepts. Please before reading its content make sure to read carefully all the following warnings: Mentions of self-harm, violence (only physical): face slapping, kicking, hair pulling, mentions of death, extreme crying, mentions of blood, even though not stated clearly; broken bones, clothes getting torn, reader gets blindfolded and tied up, heartbreak, breakup.

It’s finally here yay! this is quite long, but just the beginning of a very dark, very angsty story I have been thinking about lately. I am very excited to share the next parts with you and I’d love to hear your thoughts on this fic, taking in consideration this is not something I’m usually writing about! English is not my first language, please excuse any grammatical errors.

𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

It was another grey, heavy-skied afternoon—the kind that seemed to seep into your bones. You were trudging home from your shift at The Leaky Cauldron, your handbag slung over one aching shoulder, the hem of your coat damp from the drizzle that never quite turned to rain. Diagon Alley was quiet, almost too quiet, the kind of stillness that made your skin prickle and your heart beat just a little too fast. Every step echoed like a warning.

It wasn't unusual to feel uneasy walking alone through the twisting alleys—war did that to people. The streets felt darker now, even in daylight. But today, the dread clung tighter than usual, like a phantom wrapping icy hands around your throat. A headache throbbed behind your eyes, low and persistent, as if your body was trying to tell you something your mind hadn't caught up to yet. Something was wrong. You just didn't know what.

Maybe it was paranoia—the price you paid for being the hidden voice behind Wizards Anonymous, for smuggling out truth disguised as anonymous testimonies, for risking everything to expose the rot behind polished pure-blood smiles. Or maybe it was the date.

Today should have been your four-year anniversary with Theodore Nott.

Two years had passed since the night you left him in the astronomy tower. Since you ran, before the war could shatter you completely. And yet... you remembered every detail. His birthday. The night he first kissed you under the stars. The first time he whispered I love you, voice cracked and hopeful like he never thought he'd get to say it out loud. Those memories weren't just etched into your mind—they were carved into your soul, unyielding and cruel, like jagged scars that never stopped aching.

ೃ࿔*:･ೃ࿔*:･ೃ࿔*:･

Two years ago, on a night not unlike this one—mid-October, the wind howling softly against the windows, the air thick with the scent of rain—you had still been a student at Hogwarts, untouched by the weight of the war that would later rewrite everything. Back then, you were curled up in Theo's bed, tucked safely in his arms. He was your boyfriend, your best friend, your anchor in the chaos—a harbor you believed unshakable. Your back rested against his chest, his breath warm where it brushed the nape of your neck. You had both finally fallen asleep, cocooned in the fragile quiet you carved out for each other amidst the looming storm of your world.

You never knew what he was hiding.

Just a month earlier, Theo had taken the Dark Mark. It was still fresh—raw in his skin, raw in his soul. It seared at unpredictable moments, a living brand of shame and regret. He hadn't told you. He didn't know how. There were no words for the way it haunted him—not just the pain, but what it meant. That mark wasn't just a symbol; it was a promise to destroy people like you. Muggleborn. And that thought alone made him sick.

He had vowed to resist. Swore again and again that he wasn't like his father, that he would never be. He called the idea of blood purity idiotic, twisted. He told you he would fight it, that he would never let them brand him like one of them. But in the end, he had failed. He wore the mark now. And with it, the crushing knowledge that one day—if he followed orders—it would be you he'd be asked to kill.

He kept it from you because your love was the last thread holding him together. You were his light, his breath, the only thing standing between him and the darkness that clawed at his insides. He told himself that if he could just keep you close, maybe he could still be saved.

But that night, the truth came bleeding through.

Theo had finally fallen into a deep sleep—something rare, something precious. Your embrace had brought him peace, if only for a while. But in the early hours, something cold, wet, and sticky pressed against your skin. It roused you, and your brows furrowed as you shifted gently, careful not to wake him. At first, you thought it was sweat, maybe spilled water—but then you saw it. His hoodie sleeve was soaked through, stained a deep, spreading red.

Your heart skipped. Reaching with trembling fingers, you grabbed your wand from the nightstand. Lumos.

Light spilled across the room—and across his sleeve.

You gasped. "Theo," you whispered, horror catching in your throat. The fabric clung to his skin, soaked through with blood.

He stirred, and when he saw the light in your hand, the panic in his eyes ignited instantly. He pulled his arm close to his chest like a child clutching a beloved toy, trying to shield it from you. "Go to sleep, dolcezza," he muttered, his voice shaky, barely holding.

"What? Theo—you're bleeding," you said, your voice rising with panic. "Give me your hand."

"No," he said sharply, curling in tighter, but it was too late. You had already reached for him. "Please," he whispered, eyes wide, almost pleading.

But your hand moved on instinct.

You pulled back the sleeve—and your world fell apart.

There it was. The mark. Black and twisted, raised from his skin, surrounded by broken, bloodied scratch marks. Scars, both fresh and healing, like he'd tried—desperately—to claw it out of his own flesh. You stared at it, unable to breathe, unable to blink. The sight hit you like a curse.

Your hands dropped his arm like it had burned you. And maybe, in a way, it had.

Nausea rolled through your stomach. Your throat closed. You couldn't look away, even as Theo yanked his sleeve down in shame. The mark was gone—but the image was seared into your mind.

Tears welled up in your eyes, silent at first, then falling one by one. You didn't speak. You didn't move. You stood there, frozen, the boy you loved beside you and suddenly impossibly far away.

Theo watched you in silence, his face a portrait of helplessness. He didn't reach for you. He knew there was nothing he could say to fix it. Nothing that would erase what you had seen.

He thought you might cry. He thought you might scream.

He didn't expect you to pick up your wand and walk out of the room without a word.

But you did.

And the moment the door clicked shut behind you, he knew he had lost you.

But he couldn't let you walk away. Not without trying. Not without saying something—anything—to make you understand. To show you he was still the same Theo you once trusted with your whole heart. He knew exactly where you had gone. The Astronomy Tower. It had always been your place—your sanctuary.

He quickly changed into a clean hoodie, wiping at the blood smeared across his forearm. The sight of the Mark made his stomach churn. Not just because of the wound, but because of everything it meant. Everything it cost.

His footsteps echoed down the empty corridors as he hurried toward the tower, each step tightening the knot of dread in his chest. His heart slammed against his ribs, his breaths shallow and erratic—like his body itself was revolting against the weight of the truth he carried.

When he finally reached the top, there you were.

Sitting on the cold stone floor, knees drawn in, face tilted toward the cloudy night sky. Moonlight glinted off the wet trails staining your cheeks. You didn't turn to look, but the soft thud of his footsteps behind you was enough. You knew he was there.

You exhaled shakily, your breath catching in your throat as you tried to find words big enough to hold everything—shock, betrayal, grief.

"When?" you whispered, barely audible.

Theo approached slowly, like you might shatter if he moved too fast. He lowered himself beside you, cautious and careful, as though any sudden noise might send you running again. His voice caught in his throat.

"Last month," he murmured.

His gaze dropped to the fabric hiding his arm, and for a moment, he couldn't look at you. Guilt coiled around his insides like a serpent, squeezing tight. He hated himself—for lying, for giving in, for branding himself with a symbol of everything he loathed.

A sob slipped from your lips, sharp and guttural. You lifted your hand to cover your mouth, but the sound escaped anyway.

"Why didn't you tell me?" you cried, the words breaking apart mid-sentence.

And Theo broke with them.

That sound—your voice cracking under the weight of heartbreak—was worse than any physical pain. It shattered something inside him, something he wasn't sure could ever be repaired. He wanted to hold you, to wrap his arms around you and take the pain away, but he knew better. You needed space. You needed truth. Not comfort.

"I didn't..." he swallowed hard, the words catching like glass in his throat. "I didn't know how."

His voice was a breath above a whisper, trembling with shame. The words felt pitiful, hollow. But they were the truth. He hadn't known how to tell you that he had failed—that he had become what he promised never to be.

You didn't answer right away. You stared blankly into the sky, tears falling in silence, soaking into your shirt as your lips quivered from the cold—or from emotion. Maybe both.

"And you thought hiding it was better?" your voice finally cut through the quiet, low and sharp, laced with betrayal.

The grief had shifted. Now it burned. Now it bit.

You had been together for nearly two years. Two years of trust, laughter, whispered confessions in the dark. And still, he had hidden this.

"You're one of them now." The words slipped from your lips like a slow knife, the realisation settling in with cruel precision. They hit him square in the chest, and he felt the air leave his lungs.

His breath hitched.

"Please—" he choked out, voice cracking. He didn't know what he was begging for. Forgiveness, maybe. Understanding. For you to look at him and still see him. The boy who loved you. The boy who fought the dark, even as it clawed inside his own skin.

But all you could see was the mark. Even hidden beneath fabric, it glared at you in your mind—taunting, irreversible.

"Those people..." your voice wavered, agony bleeding into each syllable, "they vow to kill people like me." You blinked, like maybe saying it aloud would finally make it real. "And you—you—you thought it was okay to not tell me?"

The rage was back, white-hot and shaking. Your hands trembled, your voice rising, not in volume but in fire.

Theo bowed his head. He could feel the weight of it now—bone-deep, soul-deep. Guilt was a living thing inside him, anchoring him down, curling around his ribs like vines made of lead.

"I know what you believe in, Theodore," you said, your voice cracking on his name, your tears barely held at bay. "But you wear that mark."

A sob tore out of you before you could stop it, clawing its way up your throat.

"That mark means you'll follow his orders."

You raked a hand through your hair, trying to breathe, trying to keep from falling apart as Theo sat beside you, still and silent, his fists clenched in his lap, fighting his own tears.

And all he could do was sit there—haunted, helpless—watching you fall out of love with him.

That's when you broke. Utterly, completely—like something inside you had finally snapped under the weight of everything.

The sobs came fast and violent, ripped straight from your lungs. Ugly, raw, full-body cries wracked through you, your chest heaving, your hands pressed desperately over your mouth in a futile attempt to muffle the sound. Your tears streamed freely, relentlessly, until your face was soaked and your breathing turned ragged, uneven, painful.

"You promised me you wouldn't get it!" you screamed, your voice cracking into pieces.

The words pierced through Theo like a curse, splintering his resolve, his sanity barely hanging by a thread. He opened his mouth, but only a broken whisper came out.

"It wasn't that easy..." His voice trembled, fragile, nearly swallowed by the howling silence between your sobs.

You shook your head violently, disbelief and anguish crashing over you like waves. "We're supposed to be enemies," you choked, the word tasting like poison on your tongue.

Theo flinched at that—because you were right. But how could he ever call you his enemy? You were the only light in the darkness he'd been forced into. The only person who kept him from losing himself entirely. And now, the line between who he loved and who he was expected to hate had become a noose tightening around his neck.

"How are we supposed to be together, Theo?" you asked, your voice shrill with devastation. "You're supposed to kill me. To hate me. To torture me."

Each word was a dagger, twisting deeper with every syllable. Theo wanted to scream, to plead, to shake the universe for putting you both in this impossible place. But he said nothing. Because you were right.

"I can't risk this," you said, your head shaking, your breath hitching violently as the reality settled in.

You thought of your family. Of the people you loved. Of all the Muggleborns and half-bloods and blood traitors who had already disappeared. Dating Theo meant putting yourself in the crosshairs of the Dark Lord's followers. And worse—it meant putting them there too.

As much as you loved him, this was too dangerous. The war had arrived, and it had already decided your sides for you.

"We can't do this."

Those words—so simple, so final—hit Theo like a landslide.

"No, no, please—don't say that," he begged, his voice cracking, his whole body trembling. "We can figure this out. Please, dolcezza..."

He reached for you like a drowning man reaching for the shore. But even he knew. There was no saving this. No undoing the mark burned into his skin, or the horror it represented. His tears fell fast, carving silent paths down his cheeks, his lips pressed together in a tight, desperate line, trying to keep himself from falling apart.

"No," you said, your voice colder now. Resigned. "We can't."

You couldn't even look at him.

"I can't look at you knowing that... that sooner or later you'll be ordered to kill innocent people," you said, louder now, your voice edged with fury—but not at him. At the truth. At the world that made this your reality. "And you'll have to. Won't you?"

Theo's breath caught in his throat. His hands trembled. Because yes—you were right again. That's what the Mark meant. Obedience. Violence. He couldn't even stand the person he was becoming. How could you?

"I wish things were different, Theo," you said finally, your voice small now. Shattered.

You looked at him one last time, and the pain carved into his features mirrored your own. His eyes met yours—red-rimmed, glistening, pleading—but before he could speak, before he could beg you to stay again, you stood.

And you left.

Your footsteps echoed down the stairs, and then disappeared into silence, leaving Theo alone at the top of the tower.

Alone to fight the monsters clawing at the edges of his soul. Monsters that now looked a lot like him.

ೃ࿔*:･ೃ࿔*:･ೃ࿔*:･

You tried—Merlin knows you tried—to keep him from creeping back into your thoughts. But he was always there, lingering in the corners of your mind like smoke, wrapping around you in the quiet moments when you let your guard down. It was unhealthy. It was dangerous. But it was real. Because no matter how much time passed, no matter how much blood had been spilled or how many names he carried on his conscience—you knew him. The real him. The boy who shook when he held you. The boy who hated the world he was born into, even as it dragged him under.

Your grip tightened around your bag, pulling it closer to your chest like a shield, your fingers aching from the strain. The wind picked up, howling low like a warning through the alley. You didn't look back.

The first sound came softly—footsteps. Just faint taps in the distance, echoing off the cobbled walls of Diagon Alley, slicing through the stillness of late afternoon like a knife through fog. You froze. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end as your mind, ever so treacherous, sprinted to the worst possible conclusions. Maybe it was nothing. You told yourself that. Maybe just someone else heading home after work, same as you.

But still, you couldn't shake it.

You quickened your pace, trying to silence the thundering thoughts in your head. Don't be paranoid, you told yourself, over and over like a mantra. You've heard footsteps before. Still, something didn't sit right—your heartbeat skittered in your chest, and your stomach twisted as if trying to warn you of something your brain hadn't yet registered.

Then, the footsteps returned. Louder this time. Closer.

Your breath caught.

You didn't dare turn around. Instead, you veered sharply left, slipping into a narrower, less-traveled side street, the kind of alley that swallowed sound and left you far too alone. You tried to breathe normally, to convince yourself it was all in your head.

But that's when you saw it—a dark silhouette standing at the end of the alley, unmoving, faceless. A tall figure cloaked entirely in black, their robes billowing softly in the cold, damp wind like smoke curling off a dying fire.

You froze mid-step. Your blood turned to ice. Something primal inside you screamed: run. Your hand slipped into your bag, fingers fumbling blindly for your wand. You moved slowly, cautiously, as if sudden motion would trigger something terrible. Your eyes never left the figure. You prayed it would stay still. That it wasn't real.

Then you turned to leave. Another alley. Another escape.

But there—just to your right—stood another one. Identical. Waiting.

Your hand clenched around your wand now, but you didn't lift it. Not yet. You could barely think over the deafening drumbeat of your heart. Your ears rang. Your chest heaved. It felt like the very air was turning against you, squeezing your lungs, stealing your voice.

You stepped backward. Right into something solid.

Two strong hands clamped down on your shoulders. You let out a gasp—a breath that came out broken. The grip was unyielding, fingers digging into your flesh through your coat. Panic shot through your spine. You twisted your neck to see who held you, your shoulders locked in place.

And then you saw it. A mask.

Ivory, twisted, soulless.

The mask of a Death Eater.

Your entire body convulsed. A strangled cry tore from your throat as your breathing shattered into hyperventilated gasps. Fear consumed you like fire, spreading through every nerve, making your limbs tremble and your vision blur. You fought, flailing, trying to wriggle free from the grasp that held you prisoner.

Somehow—by instinct or desperation—you broke loose.

You ran.

But you didn't get far. You crashed directly into another figure, your forehead colliding with a chest that felt like stone. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, and your bag fell to the ground with a thud.

You looked up—and the blood drained from your face.

Another mask. Another Death Eater.

Before you could scream, his hand shot out and grabbed your wrists, yanking them together in one crushing grip. You gasped again, your body convulsing with terror as his laugh slithered through his mask—low, amused, like the sound of something unholy enjoying the kill before the slaughter.

You struggled, grunted, whimpered—any sound, any effort to break free. Your eyes were wide and slick with tears, your voice breaking as you pleaded, "Please... let me go..."

The Death Eater tilted his head, as if considering you, the cruel curve of his laugh echoing again. "You want me to let you go?" he repeated, his voice gravelly and muffled, every word heavy with mockery.

Then, suddenly, he did.

He shoved you—hard.

Your body flew backward, slamming into yet another figure you hadn't seen approach. The third one. You collapsed into him, your limbs tangled, breath gone.

You weren't surrounded anymore.

You were trapped.

You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms as you thrashed against the third figure's grip—his arms coiled tightly around your waist like iron shackles, unyielding and cruel. You kicked, shoved, fought back with every ounce of strength you had left. But then, without warning, he shoved you again—this time yanking at your shirt as he did, the fabric tearing with a harsh rip that echoed in the narrow alley. The sound alone made your stomach lurch.

You hit the ground hard, knees colliding with the gritty stone, the coarse dirt biting into your skin. A sharp cry escaped your lips as the sting flared up your legs. You gasped, hands splayed against the cold earth, trying to ground yourself, to make sense of the horror unraveling around you. Your breath came in short, ragged bursts, lungs burning with panic.

Then came another blow—swift and brutal.

A hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back with such viciousness you screamed, the sound splitting the air like glass. The pain was immediate, white-hot, blinding. Your scalp screamed in agony as you clawed frantically at the hand in your hair, your fingers slipping uselessly over gloved knuckles. You scratched, flailed, sobbed—but nothing loosened his grip. You remained kneeling, helpless, as if pinned by the weight of a nightmare you couldn't wake from.

The pain kept climbing, sharp and endless, until—suddenly—it stopped.

You were released so fast your body crumpled forward, and your cheek slammed against the cold, dirty ground. The impact knocked another choked cry from your lips, your face scraping against the gravel. Your chest heaved as you coughed against the dust, the taste of dirt and iron settling on your tongue.

Then—out of the corner of your eye—you saw it.

Your wand.

It had fallen during the earlier scuffle, now lying just inches from your trembling fingers. That small sliver of wood, now dulled by dust, was your only chance—your one thread of hope. It shimmered like salvation through the haze of pain and fear clouding your mind. You didn't care if it was reckless. You didn't care if it was hopeless.

You just knew you had to reach it.

Just as your fingertips brushed the wand—so close it nearly hummed against your skin—a heavy boot slammed down on your outstretched hand. A sickening crack rang out, followed instantly by a savage kick to your stomach. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs. You folded in on yourself, a choked, guttural cry tearing from your throat as you collapsed fully to the ground, your arms wrapping instinctively around your midsection.

Pain exploded in waves, sharp and unrelenting, curling through your ribs and gut as you writhed in the dirt. Your screams came louder now, desperate and raw, spilling from your lips without restraint. Your face was streaked with tears and grime, your cheek pressed into the coarse grit of the alley as you twisted, trying to manage the agony crawling beneath your skin.

Then came the voice—low, authoritative, and cruel. "Grab her."

Before you could react, rough hands seized your wrists, others locking around your elbows. You were yanked upward, dragged to your feet like a rag doll, your legs buckling beneath you. The grip was merciless, bruising your skin where they clutched you. And in that moment—suspended in their grasp, helpless—you realized the truth with horrifying clarity.

There was no escape.

You were outnumbered, overpowered, and completely at their mercy.

Your head dropped, soaked lashes clinging to your cheeks as you tried to avoid their gaze, tried to disappear inside yourself. But one of them stepped forward—closer than close—his masked face only inches from yours. You could feel the chill of his breath seep through the air between you before his gloved hand gripped your chin, forcing your face up to meet him.

Your lips sealed into a tight line, eyes clenched shut, doing everything in your power to hold yourself together.

Then came the first slap.

The sound cracked through the air like a curse, the sting radiating across your cheek as your head whipped sideways. A silent gasp slipped from you as the burn bloomed across your face. The world swayed, your knees threatened to buckle again.

And then came the second—harder.

The blow split your lower lip, the taste of blood flooding your mouth, metallic and nauseating. Your skin flamed where he'd struck you, tears now leaking freely down your cheeks as you looked up at the masked figure, terror dilating your pupils.

You hadn't even caught your breath before he grabbed your jaw—this time tighter, like a clamp meant to break bone. You winced, whimpering, your vision swimming.

"Are you in Dumbledore's Army, pretty girl?" he asked, voice like poison, coiled with venomous amusement.

It was a whisper and a threat all at once. The words slithered over your skin, tightening every muscle in your body.

You tried to breathe, to control the ragged gasps that broke your chest apart. Your lip quivered as you forced a reply past your trembling mouth. "N-no," you stammered, your voice barely there.

Another slap. Sharp. Final. "Don't lie to me." The words landed like a curse, and you knew—this was only the beginning.

"I'm not!" you screamed, the words tearing from your throat like shattered glass, slicing through the heavy silence. But your voice was brittle, shaking, barely more than a tremulous whimper. It cracked under the weight of your fear. Your lips trembled, your heart slammed violently against your ribs, and your lungs heaved as though oxygen itself was fleeing from your body. You didn't even recognize your own voice anymore—it was hoarse and raw, like something dying.

There was a pause, long enough for a flicker of hope to rise—maybe they would listen, maybe they'd just—

But then, laughter. Low, cruel, and far too calm. It crawled over your skin like icy fingertips, drawing a fresh wave of dread from deep within you. There was no warmth in that sound, no humanity. It was laughter that fed on your fear, delighting in your unraveling. It echoed like a predator circling its prey, not out of hunger, but for the thrill of the hunt.

One of them stepped forward.

His hand reached for your face, and instinctively you flinched, every nerve in your body tensing. But the hand didn't strike—no, it lifted your chin gently. Mockingly gently. Like the cruelest kind of joke. The gloved fingers cradled your jaw, tilting your tear-streaked face toward his masked one. There was something almost reverent in the way he touched you—as if savoring your terror.

Your breath caught sharply in your throat.

You stopped breathing.

You thought, Maybe if I hold still enough... if I don't move... maybe I'll vanish into the air like dust.

But then came the question—low, cold, deliberate.

"Mudblood?"

Your heart stopped. The word struck you like a whip. Your entire body jolted violently, not from the sound of it alone, but the meaning. That word was poison. That word was a promise of death. It was the sound of every fear you'd ever buried, dragging itself to the surface.

You didn't answer with words. You couldn't. You just nodded—once—dread tightening around your throat. Your teeth dug into your lip in a futile attempt to stifle the sobs bubbling inside your chest.

And that was when he punched you.

A sudden, brutal blow to the stomach. You didn't see it coming.

You didn't have time to tense or scream before the force slammed into you like a thunderclap, knocking every bit of air from your lungs. You doubled over with a strangled cry, your body convulsing uncontrollably. A white-hot burst of pain spread through your core, paralyzing you.

You coughed violently, your breath hitching as you tried to inhale again. But the sobs broke through first—loud, raw, and full of something beyond grief. Beyond fear. It was pure agony. Physical, emotional, existential. It consumed you.

You weren't just crying anymore. You were breaking.

Tears streamed down your face in thick, endless rivers. Your nose was running. Your skin was flushed and blotchy. You weren't even aware of the sounds escaping your mouth—desperate whimpers, sharp little gasps, half-formed words tangled in panic. You were pleading without realizing it, begging with every breath, every twitch of your trembling body.

Mercy.

Please.

Don't.

And then, wordlessly, the man stepped back and raised a hand—just a signal. The other two released their punishing grips on your arms.

You collapsed.

Your body hit the ground like a sack of broken bones, knees scraping across the cobblestones. You barely managed to catch yourself on your palms, but the impact still sent shocks of pain radiating up your forearms. You stayed there, hunched, shaking violently. Your forehead nearly touched the dirt. Your hair hung in front of your eyes, sticky with blood and tears, clinging to your cheeks.

You couldn't move. You couldn't think. Everything ached.

Your clothes were torn, your lip was bleeding, your stomach throbbed with bruising pain, and the coarse ground beneath you bit into your skin. You tried to rise, but your arms gave out, and you crumpled fully onto the cold stone, breath hitching into shallow, ragged gasps. The humiliation of lying there like that—broken, exposed, powerless—was second only to the pain.

Then came the voice again.

"Look at you."

It was taunting now. He didn't need to shout. His tone was low, casual, like he was pointing out something amusing at a dinner party. "Haven't even used magic on you yet and you're already crying."

You didn't respond. Couldn't. You just stayed where you were, your eyes glazed over, your body trembling.

He stepped closer, boots crunching softly against gravel and broken glass. He circled you like you were an object. Like something to inspect. Then, a sharp laugh.

"Mudbloods are always so pathetic."

Your heart clenched at the word again. You wanted to disappear. To die. To be anywhere—anyone—else.

"But don't worry," he added, voice dropping to something near a whisper, "I'm not done with you. Not yet."

And with those words, a new wave of terror flooded your system.

You started shaking harder. Your body, despite all the pain, tried to rise, to crawl away, to do something. Your fingers dug weakly into the stone, scraping against it, tearing skin from your palms. Your legs kicked feebly beneath you. But your strength was gone. You were running on instinct and fear.

"No," you croaked. Then louder, "No. Please."

You were sobbing again, harder than before, begging him like he was something human. Like he had a soul. Your voice cracked over and over, throat raw from crying, lips swollen and bleeding. "Please don't do this. Please. I didn't do anything."

You sounded like a child. You felt like a child—small, helpless, completely at the mercy of something dark and merciless. Your body couldn't stop convulsing. It was no longer pain you felt—it was pure terror. Overwhelming. Crippling. Drowning you from the inside out.

He raised his wand.

Your breath hitched again. You tried to scream, to protest, to reach for your wand—anything—but your muscles refused to obey. You barely managed a gasp.

And then—with a twist of his wrist—

Darkness.

Sudden, absolute, and cold.

Your body hit the ground one final time.

And then there was nothing.

ೃ࿔*:･ೃ࿔*:･ೃ࿔*:･

Theodore sat slouched against the cold, iron frame of his bed, a thin cigarette dangling between his lips, its smoke curling lazily toward the cracked ceiling above. The room was dim, cloaked in the kind of quiet that felt oppressive rather than peaceful. One arm rested behind his head, the other trembling slightly as it brought the cigarette back to his mouth. The bitter taste of nicotine had long lost its bite, but it was the ritual that soothed him now—or at least distracted him from the ache rooted deep in his chest.

Sleep hadn’t come easy. It never did anymore. Each time he closed his eyes, the shadows behind his eyelids dragged him into the same hell—screams echoing in hallways, blood staining marble floors, faces of strangers twisted in pain he’d been ordered to inflict. And every time he jolted awake, gasping and soaked in cold sweat, a single truth gripped him tighter: this wasn’t a nightmare. This was his reality.

He didn’t feel human anymore—not really. Not with the weight of the Dark Mark burned into his skin, not with the echo of his victims’ cries in his ears. He didn’t deserve peace. Or sleep. Or forgiveness.

With a sharp inhale, he drew deeply from the cigarette, the ember at the end flaring angrily. The only sound in the room was the faint crackle of burning tobacco. That, and the pounding in his skull.

The door burst open without warning, slamming against the wall with a dull thud. Theo didn’t flinch—he didn’t have the energy. Mattheo strode in, looking as ravaged by the night as Theo felt. His shoulders were tense, jaw clenched, dark circles haunting his eyes like bruises that refused to fade.

Mattheo didn’t speak at first. Instead, he dropped onto the mattress beside Theo with a loud creak, burying his hands into his temples like he could dig the guilt out from inside his skull.

“Rough night?” Theo asked, stubbing out the cigarette in the overflowing ashtray beside him. His voice was low, ragged—the kind of tired that went beyond exhaustion.

Mattheo let out a dry, humorless chuckle, but it cracked in his throat. “Would be surprised if it wasn’t.”

They didn’t need to say what “it” was. The war had stripped away the luxury of vagueness. Every night bled into the next—raids, screams, firelight glowing off broken glass. And every morning they woke up still breathing was a curse more than a blessing.

“How are you holding up?” Mattheo finally asked, pulling a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lighting one with practiced ease.

Theo didn’t answer right away. He stared at the ground, his gaze distant, as if trying to count how many lives he’d taken, how many faces were lost to the blur of violence.

“Alright, I guess,” he muttered, but the words rang hollow.

Mattheo exhaled slowly, smoke curling from his lips like a ghost. “Your father needs you to do something.”

Theo let out a groan, already exhausted by the weight of a request not yet spoken. “This can’t be good.”

“It’s not.”

That was all it took. The air in the room turned colder. Mattheo tilted his head back against the wall, inhaled deeply from his cigarette, and shut his eyes as if trying to prepare Theo for the next blow.

“They caught a Muggleborn last night,” he said flatly, his voice hollow and devoid of emotion. “She’s downstairs. In the dungeon. He wants you to check if she’s still breathing… and the usual. Rattle her. Make her afraid before they start questioning her.”

For a moment, the silence in the room was deafening. No more smoke. No more words. Just the weight of the ask—the implication, the repetition of cruelty masked as duty.

Theo didn’t respond. He didn’t move. He just stared at the wall in front of him, jaw tight, the cigarette burning to ash between his fingers.

He was being asked to be the monster again. And part of him—the part he hated most—already knew he would.

Theodore let out a slow, exhausted sigh, the sound barely audible over the low hum of despair that always seemed to settle in his chest these days. This was the third time this week—the third time he was being summoned to “intimidate” someone. Another name. Another face. Another soul added to the growing collection of people he would never forget, no matter how desperately he wanted to.

“Is she part of Dumbledore’s Army?” he asked numbly, his voice stripped of emotion, brittle with fatigue.

Mattheo exhaled sharply, the smoke pouring from his mouth like a storm cloud. “She said no,” he replied, tone flat, detached. “Your dad thinks she’s lying.”

Theodore didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. His silence said everything. Of course his father thought she was lying. His father always assumed the worst—especially of people who didn’t share their bloodline. And of course, he hadn’t come to tell Theo himself. He never did. He sent messengers. Pawns. Because facing the consequences of his own cruelty was beneath him.

Theodore rolled his jaw in frustration, a familiar ache starting to pulse behind his eyes. He pushed himself off the bed and moved to the closet in silence. The simple act of changing out of his wrinkled pajamas into something suitable for a dungeon visit felt repulsive—like he was preparing for a ceremony he wanted no part in. As he pulled on a black shirt and shrugged into his coat, he avoided the mirror. He couldn’t stand the sight of himself anymore.

When he left the room, he didn’t say anything else. Mattheo didn’t follow—he never did. Not until it was over. Not until Theo came back ruined and shaking, barely able to stand. And then Mattheo would sit with him, quietly, saying nothing, letting Theo fall apart in the only safe space left to him.

His boots echoed off the stone floor as he walked through the manor, each step feeling heavier than the last. His hands stayed buried in his coat pockets, fists clenched, as if he could physically hold himself together through sheer force of will. His jaw was so tight it ached, but if he loosened it, he might start crying—and he wouldn’t be able to stop.

By the time he reached the iron door of the dungeon, his breath was uneven. He reached for his wand with a shaking hand, muttering the charm under his breath—one of the few people in the house who knew it. The lock gave a sharp click, and the door groaned open with a creak that split the silence like a scream. But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t even hear it.

You were lying on the cold, unforgiving stone floor, your body curled in on itself in a position that spoke of agony and desperation. You were blindfolded, your arms cruelly tied behind your back, and every breath you took seemed to shake you to your core. You were still in the same bloodied, torn clothes from the night before, your chest heaving, each gasp of air punctuated by the occasional broken sob. Bruises darkened your skin like storm clouds. Blood crusted on your lip. Your body trembled violently, and it wasn’t clear if it was from the cold, the fear, or the pain—likely all three.

Theodore froze at the threshold, frowning slightly. Even from this distance, he could see they had gone too far. The sight of your shivering form made something twist sickly in his stomach. He’d seen a lot down here. Too much. But rarely had anyone looked this… broken.

And then, you moved—just slightly, flinching at the sound of his boots against the floor. You whimpered, your voice cracking like thin glass.

“Please,” you whispered. “Please don’t hurt me. Please—please—”

The sound of your voice cleaved straight through him.

He staggered mid-step, breath catching in his throat. His heart felt like it had been ripped from his chest and crushed in someone’s fist. That voice—he knew it. Too well. Even broken and tear-choked, it was unmistakably yours.

No.

He blinked, hard, hoping his mind was playing tricks on him. Hoping the dim light and the blindfold and the blood had warped the truth. But then you spoke again, sobbing this time, louder, more desperate.

“Please… I’ll do anything—just don’t—”

The world stopped.

Theo’s body turned to stone. His mind screamed at him to move, to speak, to undo this—anything. But he couldn’t. His limbs felt like lead, his mouth dry and useless. He stared at you—your hair matted to your face with blood and dirt, your body visibly trembling, your lips swollen and cracked—and a tear finally slipped down his cheek.

It was you.

You. The one person he thought he might’ve loved enough to save. The one person he should’ve protected above all else. And now, here you were. In chains. Beaten. Left alone to suffer in the dark.

And he was the one sent to hurt you again.

His chest constricted violently, like something inside him had fractured. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t how he was meant to see you again—not after two years of sleepless nights filled with your ghost, not after carrying the weight of your absence like a wound that refused to heal.

You didn’t know he was there. You couldn’t see the way his face crumpled in agony, the way his hands trembled at his sides, fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms. But you could hear the silence. And to you, silence meant danger.

You sobbed harder.

“Please… please don’t touch me again…”

The sound of your voice, soaked in fear and anguish, shattered him.

Theodore turned his head, pressing a fist against his mouth to muffle the choked sound that tore from his throat. He wanted to scream. To rip the walls apart. To destroy every man who had laid a hand on you. But most of all, he wanted to disappear—to cease existing in a world that had turned him into this.

He should’ve run to you. Untied you. Held you.

But all he did was stand there—the man you once loved, reduced to a coward who couldn’t even speak your name.

Because deep down, he knew.

You were crying for help.

And the only monster in the room…

Was him.

𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

a/n: part two is almost ready!!! I really liked writing this, it’s something out of the comfort of what I’m used to! I hope you appreciate it :)

…until next time lovelies 💋

[samkerrworshipper]

movin’ out

keira walsh x reader

i wrote a fic that isn’t super depressing or smut? sorry? it’s short, it’s a little bit funky and definitely not my normal style but it’s all i could piece together atm! i don’t think it’s technically a blurb but close enough! enjoy xo

warnings: none?

It’s been too long.

It’s all you can say or think the moment you see Keira.

Between you playing in England, her in Barcelona and then you playing for Australia and her playing for England the time you two can find together is so limited. Face times, constant texts and midnight calls are good for a couple of days, sometimes weeks but after months it becomes nowhere near enough to sustain a relationship. It’s the pains and trials associated with two professional athletes being in a relationship with each other, the disconnection was hard and the added hundreds of miles between you only made it harder.

You hadn’t realised how long it had been though, and just how much of a toll that might have started to take on your partner. Between the both of you playing a mid week game and then training every day in the lead up to weekend games you both hardly had enough time to make dinner and make room for your basic needs, let alone care from each other afar.

As you look at Keira now though, you’re really having second thoughts about the lack of check ins that you’ve been having with her and the amount of interactions you’ve been having that haven’t solely revolved around football.

“Hey baby.”

Keira looks ill, and not in the sick way, just her general features. She just looks unwell, like she hasn’t been sleeping at all, like she’s on the brink of a emotional breakdown and just generally miserable. You’d offered to pick her up from the airport but she’d denied your offer and you can see why now, she looks like she’s in tatters and is about to collapse in front of you.

“Hey.”

Every syllable is deflated, like she’s struggling to piece together the energy to move her lips.

You’ve known for a while now that Keira hasn’t been happy in Barcelona. Lucy leaving had been.. it had been tough. On top of the rest of the midfield finally being in good fitness and there being a lot less familiarity for Kei it was understandable that your girlfriend would be struggling, you just hadn’t understood how much.

You push her suitcase to the side in favour of bringing her straight into your arms. The way her hands cling to your jumper makes your heart thump.

“Hey baby, I’ve got you.”

You immediately feel sick with the guilt over the fact that tomorrow you have to leave, that you have a sweet twenty four hours to try and fix whatever this problem is before you are obligated to get on a flight and fly 20 hours further away. Your stomach actually hurts at the thought, here you are with your long distance girlfriend holding onto you like you’re her lifeline and your going to be dragged away in less than 24 hours.

“Let’s go to the couch huh? Get you off your feet.”

It’s phrased as a question but really you have no intention of standing in the entryway of your house for a minute longer. You lead Keira into your living room slowly, pulling her onto your couch with you and letting the slightly shorter woman to ragdoll on top of you. You don’t mind the cllinginess, it’s a far cry from how she is with almost every other human and to know that for the most part you are the only person who gets to see this side of Keira is special.

“Arsenal put in an offer.”

It wasn’t exactly public knowledge, Leah had told you though a couple of weeks ago when it had happened, you’d been a little bit dissapointed that Keira hadn’t told you when it was happening.

“I know.”

A part of you didn’t want to hear that Keira didn’t want to come, that she’d denied the offer. It was the part of you that still felt insecure about your relationship slightly.

“They told me, management. They didn’t even think about it. Even after i’d told them I was interested in coming back, that I wanted to come back to England. A million dollars and they turned it down.”

You take a deep breath, whilst Keira had made it clear to you that she wasn’t happy in Barcelona that hadn’t directly translated in your mind to her wanting to come to England or Arsenal.

“You wnat to come, to arsenal?”

Keira looks up at you and you get a good look in her eyes for the first time since she walked through the door fifteen minutes ago.

“England first and foremost, but Arsenal with you and Leah would be ideal. Not that it seems like it’s going to happen until my contract is up.”

You smile at Keira big and wide, there hasn’t been a point in your career yet where you’ve been in the same city, she was at Manchester and you were in America, then you moved to Arsenal and there was a period of 3 months where you were finally in the same country. Then it was Barcelona and the drift had started again. The idea of having Keira in the same city as you, potentially in the same house makes you giddy. But that’s all it it, a thought, because it’s not real and you’re in the same predicament of her being in camp for the next two weeks and then flying back to Barcelona before you’re back in the country.

“That would be nice.”

You purposely murmur it as quietly as possible.

“Yeah, would be nice.”

The reality is that for both of you there is no point in dreaming about more, dreaming only leads to let downs, big soul crushing let downs.

“You’ve just gotta gold on, you’ve got Kika and Ellie and Aitana, you just need to hold onto the people you have and make the most of it. You’re winning silverware at least?”

When the sound of a sniffle falls against you, your heart only clenches more.

“I want to be here, I want to be with you, not trying to find any spare minute in my schedule so that we can see each other for a second. I’m sick of always feeling like we have to make up for lost time, I want to live with you. Get our own dog, our own home, have our things, our own lives together instead of living separately.”

You nod against your girlfriends fluff of curly orange hair, it’s not often that it’s as puffy as it is, it’s only another sign to add to the list of how Keira must be feeling.

“You know, I really like that idea.”

You focus on Kei’s hair, undoing it from the makeshift bun it’s in and tangling your hair in the roots, carding your fingers through the ends and working up to her scalp.

“Just you and me, all the time, no more constant face time, surprise visits, rewatching games, coordinating schedules. Just you and me. It’s a good dream.”

That’s the thing, it can’t be anything more than a dream for either of you, in theory it would be lovely, amazing even. But dreaming is what gives the biggest disappointments.

“Maybe more than a dream.”

You ndo to satisfy Kei, because the last thing she needs on top of her own struggles and doubt right now is yours on top of it. But in your mind it just doesn’t work out, how can you expect it to work out when realistically the both of you are always going to prioritise your careers. It’s why you’ve both worked together so well, because there hasn’t been any mistranslations about the fact that you both are always going to prioritise your careers. It’s why in your head it doesn’t make sense that Keira would leave, she’s playing at the best club in the world, she’s at the highest level she could possibly be. A part of you is slightly insecure that her priorities are shifting, and it feels good but it’s also scary. You aren’t anywhere near to shifting away from your priorities, it’s been decided since you’ve been 12 that football was going to be the one love of your life. There were never boyfriends or girlfriends or plans to have kids or go to university, it was always just football. Keira had been the one flaw in the plan, but it wasn’t a true flaw. Keira made things easier, or as easy as they could be. It was just so natural that it was just all cohesive. The distance was hard but it was what made it easier to focus on your career, there wasn’t any direct distractions in your life.

“Maybe.”

There’s a big part of you that worries that you might not be able to sustain a relationship that’s not long distance because you’ve never had to. You don’t know what it’s like to wake up next to a person and then get ready for football and prepare for a fame. Sure, over the summer you spend every waking moment with Keira, but normally there is a tournament or you’re so focused on relaxing in the little down time you have that having Keira around is just an afterthought. What you have, the love and affection from a far and occasionally for a couple of days is what’s been perfect for you, the thought of having it as a constant is terrifying.

“I invited Leah over later, I assumed you’d want to see her before camp and you’re surrounded by everyone else.”

Keira peeks up at you, her eyes wide and suddenly brimming with tears. The blue in her eyes is so much clearer when their wet, it’s like it reflects directly off of the features of her face.

“I’ll be with Leah for the next two weeks.”

The underlying tone is very clear.

“Well, I’ll never say no to a night with my favourite girl. How about thai and the love island episodes we haven’t watched on facetime together?”

You know you’ve said the right thing when Keira’s face immediately lights up, but after a few seconds it dims and all of the energy that seemed restored fades.

“I don’t want to disappoint Leah. every time I’m here it’s to see you, which I love but when she comes to Barcelona she always spends it with me.”

You lean down and plant a kiss to her forehead.

“Leah is not going to be offended that you choose to spend the little time you have with me, like I said, you have two weeks together. She will be perfectly happy with that, I’m happy to tell her that you’re overtired from the travel and I want to keep you all to myself.”

When she lifts her head up,you don’t hesitate to press what you intended to be a peck to her lips, but before you even know what’s happening Keira’s hoodie covered hands are reaching up behind your head, pulling you in.

It’s a good feeling, you like your relationship for this exact reason. You don’t know how the sparks would work, if they’d even be there if you had this all the time.

It’s supposed to be a dream to have this all the time, and yet the more you think about it, and the more the idea becomes slightly tangible the more you find yourself skeptical of the whole dream. It just doesn’t seem like something you should have.

“C’mere.”

You don’t miss the way you immediately relax as Keira completely collapses on top of you, her bones practically melting into your own. It feels so good, your body feels so much better with her around it, your head goes quiet and everything just fits into place. It’s the part of you that worries that if you have this all the time then that part, the magical part will somehow drift away and all the moments that keep you coming back will stall.

“I’ll order the thai, and I’ll text Leah. Tomorrow morning you’re going to call your agent and tell him that you want it made clear to Barca that you want to come back to England and the next offer available they should take it. Then you’ll help me pack for camp and we’ll have some really great goodbye sex and you’ll drive me to the airport and we’ll be all soppy and kiss and hug and cry. Then you’ll go on camp and tell Barca that you want a couple of days off when camp ends, and I’ll fly home as soon as my last match is over and we’ll spend whatever time we can get together. We’re going to make this work, we’re going to make something normal happen, okay?”

Whether it feels right or not, it sounds right, and as much as you aren’t sure about the future you know that right now Keira needs support. She’s not getting it at Barcelona clearly and you need to give it to her or as much as you can piece together. You need to problem solve this, you need to prove that even with all of your internal doubts that you can make whatever she needs or wnats work. She might not be your priority over football, or at least that’s what you think, but she’s pretty damn close and she’s the most stable thing you’ve had in your life for the past couple of years. You’ve put her through hell, and you need to fix the hell she’s currently living in like she would do for you.

“We’ll make it work?”

You look down at your perfect fucking girlfriend, on top of you, relaxed and smiling and it clicks, it all just clicks into place.

“Yeah baby, we’re gonna make it work.”

——————

anyways have a great day or night! love you all! maybe next time i post it’ll be a orgy 🤭

[tweetybaird]

Daddy’s Girl

in which carl finds a traumatized girl and works to heal her, but ends up confusing the poor thing in the process

tw: seatbelts everyone!, very angsty, heavy talk of sexual assault, daddy issues, traumatized!reader, reader calls carl dad- carl likes it, mention of a boner at the end, THERE IS NO SMUT IN THIS, idk i dreamed about this last night lol

“i wish you were my dad”

it was on a foggy afternoon when rick had asked carl to go on a quick run, just to see if he could find any more diapers for judith as she was quickly growing out of hers. instead he had found you in a cabin, tucked so deep into the woods he almost thought he was imagining things when he saw it. but it was real, and so were you. the beautiful girl he could’ve sworn was an angel. he told you so himself, and it quickly became your nickname. my angel, sweet angel, hey angel, c’mere little angel. he knew you weren’t like other kids your age, in the sense that, you truthfully had been traumatized.

the first night you stayed with carl he felt sick to his stomach, and the feeling never truly left till the next morning. you’d asked him, snuggled close in bed that night, if you’d have to ‘lay with his father.’ carl was scared to find out what that meant, but asked anyways. “well back at home, me and my sisters had to prove our to love to our father by being intimate with him before we started dating. i never got the chance to date after laying with my father, so do i have to lay with rick now?” carl swore he was gonna puke.

it took time, months even, for him to help you understand that everything you’d been taught was not love, but abuse. you were in denial most of the time, but he was patient, and you eventually came to terms with the fact that your ‘normal’ was not everyone else’s normal. carl taught you what it meant to be held, to be cared for, to have an honest relationship with someone without any intimacy involved. then, when the time came, he taught you that intimacy didn’t have to be painful, or something you should dread.

the idea of him becoming something more than a best friend to you had never crossed his mind. sure you two did things that couples normally would, like kissing, sharing a bed, he took your virginity for crying out loud. but he knew what you’d been taught growing up and he wanted nothing less than to scare you by pushing commitment onto you. so he’d never thought to want more with you. that is, not until now.

it was a friday night, and friday nights were always movie night. this week it was carl’s turn to pick the movie, and of course he picked a horror movie. you didn’t mind so much, in fact you loved horror movies. but this one was so realistic you could’ve sworn it was truly happening. you’d been curled up in carls lap from the moment the movie started; it was coming to an end now, and exhaustion was creeping in. you sighed, pressing your face against carls neck as your eyes started to drift shut.

“see?” carl whispered, tucking a blanket around the both of you. “i told you i’d keep you safe. ‘s just a movie.” you hummed in agreement, cuddling close and mumbled some nonsense about how tired you were. carl just chuckled, carding his fingers through your hair as he started swaying slightly side to side, rocking you to sleep.

i could get used to this, carl thought. maybe she could start staying in my room every night. and i could wake her up with breakfast every morning. and maybe on those mornings where it takes her longer to wake up i could brush her hair for her. and when she gets sleepy after movie nights on the couch i could carry her up to bed like i am now, all curled up in my arms like the angel she is. and maybe-

“wish you w’re m’ real dad s’mtimes”

and i could be like her dad. and-

wait.

she… oh.

that’s new.

carl froze halfway up the staircase, arms tightening around you. the angel in his arms stirred, the sudden stop pulling you out of your half asleep state. you hummed, a quiet thing, wondering what cause all the commotion. carl took a deep breath and continued up the stairs, walking the familiar path to his bedroom before tucking you in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before leaving the room.

carls step were hurried but not loud as he walked to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him and falling forward, arms gripping the sink. that was never his plan. this wasn’t supposed to happen. all carl wanted was for you to understand what love felt like, what it meant to have a friend who wanted nothing from you, just to be there. it was during this thought process that carl realized his mistake.

he’d been correcting everything your father did to you.

my dad always made me wear a tight bun. carl learned how to do loose braids and ponytails, even asking maggie to teach him how to curl your hair. my father never let me eat sweets. carl brought you a cookie every night before bed. my dad told me that the only way to show someone you love them is by being intimate. carl taught you that you could have a relationship with someone without ever having sex.

he only ever did things right according to what your dad did wrong.

carl thought back to that moment on the stairs. the way that you’d slumped in his arms, trusting him to hold your weight. how your small fingers had gripped his loose shirt. the way a small puff of air left your lips before you spoke. the muffled words, “wish you w’re m’ real dad s’mtimes.” carl took several deep breaths to compose himself, sitting up straight and bracing himself to walk back in the room.

carl paused as his eyes noticed something in the mirror, his hand hovering over the door knob. he was hard. carl was aroused from you calling him dad.

…

fuck.

authors note: i’m back! did ya miss me🤭 part 2?

[wingedhallows]

— LEAP OF FAITH —

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ PAIRING ellie williams x reader / 2.6k words *ੈ✩‧₊˚ WARNING (modern setting) smut - MDI *ੈ✩‧₊˚ SYNOPSIS Months after a painful breakup, Ellie Williams is just trying to keep her head down — working at a quiet bookshop, healing in her own quiet way — when the last person she expected walks back into her life. You’ve changed. At least, that’s what Ellie’s trying to figure out as old wounds resurface and new sparks start to flicker. You’re sober now. Steady. But the past doesn’t disappear just because you’ve cleaned up. What follows is a slow, emotional unraveling of everything left unsaid — a story of longing, rebuilding, and the messy, beautiful chaos of loving someone who once let you down. *ੈ✩‧₊˚ AUTHORS NOTE hey babes, i've been sick for a few days - my immune system hates me but i shall deliver, so here u go :)

♡︎ navigation ♡

The bell above the door let out a soft chime, cutting through the quiet murmur of soft jazz and the faint rustling of pages. Ellie glanced up from the counter, half-expecting to see another regular — maybe the old man who always asked for spy novels he’d already read, or the college kid who never bought anything. But her breath caught halfway in her throat when she saw you.

You stood just inside the entrance, damp from the spring rain, a folded umbrella dripping quietly at your side. A moment passed, a beat suspended in air, and you smiled. Tentative. Almost apologetic.

“Hey,” you said, voice soft, a little cautious. Like you weren’t sure if you were welcome here.

Ellie’s heart thudded, sharp and unexpected. You looked different — not in the obvious ways. The leather jacket was swapped for something simpler, softer. Your eyes, once rimmed with the careless edge of late nights and too many drinks, now held a kind of quiet clarity. There was still something wild in them, but it was tempered. Controlled.

“Hey,” Ellie said after a second, clearing her throat. “Didn’t think I’d see you around here.”

“I moved back. A couple months ago.”

Of course you did. Of course you were back, just when she’d finally stopped checking every face in a crowd, every unknown number on her phone. Still, she nodded, neutral. Careful.

You stepped forward, eyes flicking around the store. “Place looks nice. Yours?”

“Mine and Joel’s. He handles the paperwork. I… handle the books.”

Your smile deepened. “Sounds like the dream.”

There was a silence. Not awkward — just full. Full of the things neither of you had said when it all broke apart. Ellie felt the memories curl up from the corners of the room — the arguments, the shouting, the helplessness in watching you unravel from someone she loved into someone she didn’t recognize.

And now you were standing here, whole.

“I’ve been sober for eight months,” you said, like you could feel the questions she wasn’t asking.

Ellie’s gaze snapped to yours. That look — the one that used to slice right through her when you were being real with her — it was back. Raw and open.

“That’s… good,” she said. “I’m glad.”

You nodded, holding her eyes. “I came by because I wanted to say that. To you. I know I don’t get to ask for anything else, but…”

She blinked. “But?”

“…But I missed you.”

Something lodged itself in her throat. A protest, maybe. Or a memory. Instead, she leaned back against the counter, arms crossed over her chest, trying to look more composed than she felt.

“You want coffee?” she asked.

Your brows rose, hopeful. “Yeah. I’d love that.”

Later that week

The rain had returned, falling in lazy sheets against Ellie’s windows as the kettle whistled. You sat curled on the couch in an old hoodie — hers — and she wondered when it had started to feel so easy again. So dangerous.

You were laughing at something she’d said, something about a ridiculous customer, when the moment shifted. Slowed. Your eyes lingered. Her pulse jumped.

“I still dream about you sometimes,” you said quietly.

Ellie looked away. “Don’t.”

“I’m not trying to mess with you. I just… I never stopped loving you, even when I was a mess.”

She stood, abruptly, the storm outside suddenly mirrored in her chest.

“You don’t get to say that like it fixes things.”

“I know. I just want to be honest.”

You followed her, slow, until you were standing in her space — too close. Close enough she could smell the rain still clinging to you, the faint trace of citrus soap, something steady and clean and new.

Her voice was quiet when she said, “I don’t know if I can trust this. Trust you.”

You reached out, gently, fingers brushing her wrist. “Then don’t. Just feel it.”

When she kissed you, it was like striking a match — sudden heat, a breathless flicker of want that flared into something hungrier. Your hands tangled in her shirt as hers found your waist, pulling you in, anchoring you. The world shrank to skin and breath and the soft sounds you made as her mouth moved down your neck.

“Ellie—”

That was all you managed before she was pushing you gently back toward the couch, eyes dark with something that was definitely not just caution anymore.

You landed on the couch with a quiet breath, half-caught between tension and surrender. Ellie hovered above you, her weight held in her arms, her eyes scanning yours like she was searching for all the cracks she used to know.

“You have no idea,” she murmured, voice low, “how many nights I hated you. And how many more I just… missed you.”

Your hands slid up to her jaw, gentle. “I hated me too.”

She exhaled, shaky, as if hearing you admit that finally let her loosen something she’d been gripping for too long.

Your fingers threaded into her hair, urging her down — not demanding, just there, present, like you couldn’t stand another second of distance. And when your mouths met again, it wasn’t soft anymore.

It was desperate.

Messy and full of all the months you’d spent pretending you were okay without each other.

Ellie kissed you like she was starved. Her mouth devoured yours, tongue sliding against yours with a kind of practiced ache — muscle memory in every movement. Her body sank against you, and the weight of her made you gasp, just slightly, enough for her to pull back and whisper:

“Still remember everything about you.”

The way her voice broke on that made your heart ache.

“You feel different,” she added, kissing along your jaw, your neck. “But you still taste the same.”

Your hoodie was peeled off slowly, with fingers that trembled just slightly, and you didn’t rush her — couldn’t. Not when her hands moved over your skin like she was learning a map she’d burned and thought she'd never see again.

Your shirt came off next, and Ellie’s breath caught audibly. She looked at you like she couldn’t believe this was real — you, beneath her again. Hers, in a way that wasn’t just physical.

She leaned down, kissed between your breasts, your stomach, like she was apologizing in fragments.

“I wanted to call you so many times,” she said, lips brushing your skin. “But I thought if I did… I’d go right back to breaking.”

Your fingers laced with hers. “You wouldn’t have. Not now.”

She didn’t answer. She kissed you instead. Deep, possessive. Then her hand trailed down — slow, deliberate — and the first touch between your legs made your hips twitch under her.

“Still sensitive,” she whispered against your neck, lips curling into something dark and familiar.

You let out a shaky breath. “Still yours.”

That cracked something in her. She groaned, pulled your hips closer, her fingers sliding through wetness she didn’t even need to coax — it was already there, waiting for her. For this. Her fingers slide through your folds, just to brush her thumb over your sensitive clit, making you mewl.

She kissed your mouth again while her fingers moved with precision — two of them curling up inside you like she knew exactly how to pull you apart. Your back arched, hands gripping her shoulders, nails biting skin. Her fingers move inside you with slow deliberation. Her eyes are fixed on your cunt just sucking in her fingers like they did the last time.

“Ellie—fuck—”

“I’ve got you,” she whispered. “I’ve always got you.”

She didn’t stop until your body was trembling, breath coming out in broken gasps, her name the only word left in your mouth. 

And then she kissed you again, slower this time, lingering.

The silence after was warm. Heavy. Sacred.

You curled into her chest, still catching your breath, and for the first time in months, maybe longer, it felt like you could actually exhale.

Ellie didn’t move for a while. Her breath was still ragged against your throat, her fingers laced with yours, the room echoing with the storm outside and the softer storm that had just passed between you. You could feel her heartbeat where her chest pressed into yours, fast and wild like she was still catching up.

Then, slowly, her hand slipped back down your stomach — teasing, deliberate — and her mouth followed, trailing kisses lower. She looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and glassy, her lips swollen, her voice hoarse:

“I’m not done with you.”

Your breath caught. “Ellie—”

She didn’t wait. Her tongue slid through your sensitive folds , slow at first, just to feel you react. You whimpered, thighs tightening around her shoulders, but she pushed them apart again with firm hands, grounding you in place.

“You’ve been in my head for months,” she muttered into your glistening cunt. “Every fucking night, this is what I thought about.”

Her mouth latched around your clit, and you cried out — not soft, not delicate. It was a sound full of want and relief and all the nights you’d spent aching without her. She worked you with a kind of focused fury, tongue flicking, lips sucking, one hand gripping your hip tight while the other slid back inside you — two fingers curling just right.

“Ellie, please—”

She groaned at the sound of your voice breaking, pulling you even deeper onto her mouth. It was messy now, wet and obscene, her tongue relentless, and you were so close it hurt. Your hands found her hair, tugging, and she moaned against you — the vibration sending you reeling.

Your orgasm hit harder this time — not sharp, but deep. Like a wave rolling through your whole body, dragging you under. You shook beneath her, legs trembling, and she kept going through it, licking you slow and lazy now, easing you down while her eyes never left yours.

When she finally pulled back, her chin was slick, her mouth open, breathing hard. She crawled back up, kissing you deep — letting you taste yourself on her tongue — and you didn’t even care, you just wanted more of her. All of her.

“Come here,” you whispered, tugging at her shirt.

She stripped it off without breaking eye contact — tattoos and muscle and scars familiar beneath soft lighting — and the look on your face must’ve said everything, because she leaned in, pressing her forehead to yours.

“I still love you,” she said, almost too quiet to hear.

You pulled her down with a soft gasp, kissing her so hard it hurt.

Then you flipped her over.

Ellie’s breath hitched as you straddled her, dragging your nails down her chest, slow and deliberate. She wasn’t used to being the one beneath. But she let you take control — let you show her how much you'd changed, how much you'd missed her. Your mouth trailed down her neck, her chest, your tongue circling her nipple until she moaned, hips twitching up into yours.

Your voice was husky when you spoke. “I wanna make you feel everything I couldn’t say before.”

She cursed under her breath, eyes locked on you like she couldn’t believe this was happening.

“Then show me,” she said.

So you did.

You moved slow at first — kissing down her chest, letting your hands map out every inch of her skin, relearning her body like a favorite song you forgot the lyrics to. Her eyes fluttered shut when your mouth wrapped around her nipple again, your hand ghosting down her stomach.

Ellie was already squirming beneath you, fingers curling into the couch cushion. “Fuck,” she whispered, voice rough and low, “you’re really gonna make me beg, huh?”

You grinned against her skin. “Didn’t say that. But it’d be nice to hear.”

Your fingers found her, hot and already wet, and she gasped — sharp and sudden — as you slid through her folds, teasing but gentle. You leaned in close, lips brushing her ear. “I wanna hear what you sound like when you need me.”

Ellie bucked her hips, and you finally gave in — two fingers sliding deep inside her, slow at first, then harder when she moaned. Your thumb circled her clit with practiced care, and you watched her unravel for you, head thrown back, hips chasing your rhythm.

“You feel so good, Ellie. Still so fucking tight,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to her throat. “You want me to ruin you a little?”

She didn’t answer right away — just groaned, biting her lip, one hand fisting in your hair. But then she looked at you, eyes wild, and smiled.

“Switch with me.”

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

Ellie leaned up, her mouth brushing yours. “You proved your point, baby. Now lie the fuck back.”

You barely had time to react before she flipped you, strong and fluid — straddling your hips, eyes burning with something deeper than lust. Possession. Longing. Relief.

Her hand wrapped around your throat, light enough to make you gasp, firm enough to pin you there. “You think I forgot how to fuck you stupid?”

You whimpered — whimpered — and Ellie smirked.

“That’s what I thought.”

She slid down your body, kissed a path down your chest, and then bit gently at your hip as she pulled your legs apart again. But this time, she didn’t go soft.

Her mouth was on you in seconds, rough and unrelenting, like she was trying to devour every second you’d been apart. Her tongue moved with filthy precision, her fingers back inside you fast and deep, curling hard — and you cried out, thighs trembling.

“Ellie, I—fuck—I’m close—”

She didn’t slow. If anything, she dared you to fall apart. And when you came, it was loud and messy, your body jerking, toes curling as heat flooded through you in waves. She held you through it, lips still moving even as your legs tried to close.

“Too much,” you gasped, pushing at her shoulder.

But she just grinned, that cocky little smirk that used to make you weak. “Then take it.”

And somehow, you did.

Later, when your chest was heaving and your body was limp and Ellie was half on top of you, pressing lazy kisses to your shoulder, you finally broke the silence.

“Jesus.”

She laughed into your skin. “It’s Ellie, actually.”

You smacked her gently, and she caught your hand, kissed your knuckles. Then softer: “I missed this. Not just the sex. You.”

You turned to her, forehead pressed to hers again. “You have me. If you want me.”

She didn’t answer right away. But her arms around you tightened, and she whispered, “Just don’t make me take another leap unless you’re gonna catch me this time.”

You kissed her slow, deep, and let that be your promise.

[wandascrush]

Welcome to the world

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Pain, birth, crying, water breaking

Cold sweat lined your forehead when you opened your eyes, adjusting to the darkness in the room. You flung your sheets off the bed and sat up, immediately holding your tender belly. You felt nauseous, cramped up, and sweaty- the worst combo. Immediately, you waddled over to the restroom, splashing cold water on your face and taking shallow breaths in and out. Phew- you were calming down, everything was okay. Just the normal symptoms when your 38 weeks, nothing new.

You hoped the warm light pouring into the bedroom wouldn’t wake up your exhausted wife that only got four hours of sleep the night before, tending to your early morning sickness. You felt bad but hey, you were equal, it’s not like you got any sleep either with this little one growing inside you. You finished drying your face off with a towel and drinking some water through the sink when you decide to head back to bed and try to get more rest, it was probably just some Braxton hicks pains. That is until you felt a gush of water down your legs, your water broke

“Nat-,” she didn’t even stir. You gripped the side of the door frame, hands turning red as you groaned out in pain, “Natty!”

Two hours later you were in a delivery room, damp with sweat and a worried, but excited, wife holding your hand. The hospital lights flooded your vision as nurses and doctors came in and out, checking your dilation. 

Tender lips brushed the top of your head, “Shhhh detka, this is the moment we’ve been waiting for, just a little earlier than planned. Breathe, that’s it, in and out, just like that sweetheart,” and when you looked into her eyes you’d never seen so much love from another human. Your stomach immediately cramped again, pain washing over you as you closed your eyes and took shaky breaths out loud.

Clint was on his way with Laura, the future uncle and aunt of your child, speeding down the highway. Steve, your baby's future Godfather, was two hours away picking up flowers for you, a teddy bear for your little one, and candy for Natty and himself. The rest of the group was getting back from a mission overseas, no doubt they would miss the birth, but you knew they’d be there ASAP.

The warm glow of the bright lights kept you up, even as you tried to shut out all other senses. Closing your tired eyes and imagining what the cries of your baby would be like was the only thing that brought you comfort. Once the pain subsided and nurses stopped poking and prodding you, images of your new family of three eased your mind.

Natasha was right by your side, rubbing your back through the pain and nausea, dabbing your forehead with a cold compress for the hot flashes and feeding you ice chips. In this moment she swore to herself you’d never looked so beautiful. You were her dream come true. All three of you. An hour later your redhead had to step out to update Maria and Fury on what was going on.

At first, sure Fury was disappointed to lose one of his best agents for a couple months for maternity leave- but he couldn’t hide his excitement either.

Laura’s sweet gaze was above you in the meantime, gently lifting your head up to press cold compresses on your neck and chest.

“Hey momma, how’re we holding up?” She grabbed some water for you and adjusted your pillow. 

“Well, for starters I feel like a tiny human is kickboxing with my insides…so right on point I’d say.” You tried to sit up on your elbows, wriggling your way through the copious amounts of hospital sheets.

It felt like hours before the nurses gave you the go-ahead to start pushing. You had never been so glad for any decision like the decision to get an epidural during delivery. Was it still painful? Hell yes. But did it hurt a lot less? Also, hell yes. Natasha felt useless watching you, not being able to help. It was like being stabbed in the chest every time she heard you scream or start to cry. The best she could do was not keel in pain when you practically broke her hand from squeezing it so hard. And then- in a magical instant- she was here. 

Mae Lena Romanoff. 

This beautiful, new child you just delivered was crying and being wrapped in a blanket.

You and your wife’s biggest dream had arrived and she was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. Her nose was the same as her momma’s, with your e/c eyes. She had a full head of brownish-reddish hair like Natasha’s, damp on her small head. You couldn’t help yourself from crying, sobbing really, as you looked at this little doll in your arms. And as you looked up at Natasha, she was crying too.

The nurses started cleaning you up and doing all the usual routines after giving birth, making sure not only your baby was healthy but yourself as well. Natasha took the baby in her arms and sat by you, marveling at this little joy she created with her wife. Her gentle arms cradled the baby close to her ear as she whispered to her, “Welcome to the world, little one. As long as I’m here, no one will hurt you. Not ever.”

An hour later the room was filled with Clint, Laura, their kids, and Steve. All of them gently stroked the baby’s head, cooing and “awww”ing. You held her close and pointed to everyone in the room, “That’s your Uncle Clint, he’s going to teach you how to shoot a bow and arrow. And that’s your Auntie Laura, one of the best people you’ll ever meet. Those are your cousins that are going to play with you until you’re all grown up. And that right there, is Steve. The best Godfather anyone could ask for. Later on you’ll meet Tony and Pepper, they’ll get you into so many adventures. We’re all going to love you so much, sweet baby. ” If you could freeze this perfect moment in time, you absolutely would. You knew that as long as you had Natasha, your daughter, and this village to help raise her- your family would always be okay.

[isasweetie]

track iv. THE MAN! (feat. ceo!rafe cameron and indepedent!reader)

“i’m so sick of them coming at me again, ‘cause if i was a man, then i’d be the man”

your boss was simply insufferable. rude, strict, slimy, arrogant, and worst of all? handsome. and you had absolutely no issue telling him that — the bad things, anyway. every time he’d offer help for such a simple task, you’d push him away with a glare or a ‘get out of here, mr. cameron!’ thinking he was simply being condescending. but my god, he thought your attitude was hot.

the day he asked you if you needed help cleaning your coffee mug was when you snapped. you’d already had an awful day, and you couldn’t take him and his demeaning behaviour anymore.

“mr. cameron, it’s a fucking mug! do you think i’m that stupid just because i’m a woman? is that it? i wear skirts to work so i can’t wash my own mug!? you’re a condesending asshole!”

he takes a breath as to not yell back. “woah, hey, hey. uh, i’m gonna need to see you in my office. ten minutes, give you time to fuckin’ chill out. is it that time of the month?”

you go to lose it at him and he cuts you off. “don’t say any more shit unless you wanna lose everything, hm?”

ten minutes later, you hesitantly enter his office, admittedly a bit nervous. “mr. cameron, i just wanna say—“

“no, no. too late now for an apology.”

“but i’m really sorry—“

“show me that.”

you furrow your eyebrows. “what do you mean? how?”

he stands up and grabs your shoulders gently, then his hands slide down your arms and to your wrists. you blink, confused and having your boundaries violated.

“uh— so you don’t get me fuckin fired, let me ask you something, a little formality,” he starts. “do you consent?”

“to what?”

“not an answer. do you consent?”

having a strange burst of butterflies in your stomach, you know what’s coming. “mhm,”

“yeah, that’s what i thought,” a ghost of a smirk as he smiles and guides you by your wrists to the wall. with no hesitation, his hand is going under your skirt. “mhm. fuckin’ soaked, makes sense,”

“you’re so arrogant, it’s insufferable.”

“i’m just stating a fact baby,”

“don’t call me that, m’not your ‘baby’,”

he breaths out a laugh. “yeah, whatever you say. starting to think you’re more arrogant than me,”

“not arrogant, just don’t like you,”

“tell that to this pussy,” he cups it and you squeak, suddenly feeling extremely powerless against your man child of a boss.

“don’t wanna do this like this,” you say fastly, stopping it. “lemme— lemme do it,” he stops, hands in the air in mock surrender, taking a step back.

he certainly isn’t expecting you to drop to your knees in front of him. in his mind, a blowjob is a surrender, letting him take control. you fiddle with his fly. he goes to help and you paw him off. “don’t need help for something so fucking simple, get your slimy hands away,”

you undo it and waste no time taking his dick out of his pants. you hate the way your mouth waters. “oh.” you try to keep your composure. “thought it would be small. you give that energy,”

“gee, thanks,” he huffs. “c’mon, get going.”

“ask nicer,”

“jesus,” he sighs. “i’ll pay you extra to get going, huh? that nice enough?”

“you’re gross. talking about a ‘please.’”

he scoffs. “no fuckin’ way, you kidding me? not begging to get off, i’m not a woma—“ he cuts himself off.

all you do is harshly pinch his tip with your long acrylics, making him gasp in pain, before standing up, scoffing. “good one, really funny. sure your friends will get a kick out of it,” you dust yourself off. “you’re disgusting,”

as you walk away, you can hear him silently begging for you to come back and suck him off.

for once, you feel like the man.

[hazbinwhoree]

Come Inside

Part 2/2

A/N: The heavily requested part two.

“Well you fucking did it,” (Name) announced, storming into the living room where Adam was watching TV. “Did what,” he asked, mouth full of the ribs he was eating. (Name) threw something at him.

“Hey!” he yelped, the small object bouncing off his shoulder. He picked it up and the world stopped for a moment. It was a pregnancy test. And it was positive.

“Are you fucking with me?” Adam asked after a moment. “Does that look like I am fucking with you?” She had a point. (Name) was watching him anxiously. Adam looked back at her. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“I… I don’t know. How do you feel?” “Like I made good on a promise,” Adam smirked. (Name) threw a pillow at his head. “This is serious!” “I am serious!” Adam protested. “I said I’d put a baby in you and I did. You had no fuckin’ objections when we were doing it.”

(Name) groaned, flopping onto the couch next to him. “You’re telling me that you are ready to be a dad?” Adam placed a hand over his heart in mock hurt. “You say that like it’s an insane notion. I knew the risks, I knew this was a possibility. I wouldn’t have taken the chance if I wasn’t ready for it.”

(Name) teared up.

“Oh, shit, do you not want this?”

(Name) shook her head. “No, it’s just the hormones and the fact you actually want to have a baby with me.”

Adam laughed, pulling her into his lap. “Of course I want to have a baby with you. I wouldn’t have a baby with anyone else. Well, Eve, but I never raised Cain and Abel. In fact I was a completely absent dad–” “Babe.” Adam laughed, thinking about it. “I don’t know if that’s funny,” (Name) said.

Adam cleared his throat. “Point is, you make me want to be a father so long as you’re the mother.”

“You’re not gonna leave me and the baby like you left Cain and Abel?”

“Babe, Eve had Cain and Abel like right before she cheated on me. I wasn’t fuckin’ sticking around. Those kids are a mess too–” he laughed. “One killed the other!”

(Name) rolled her eyes, punching his shoulder. “The things you find funny are so fucked.” “Yeah but you love me,” Adam cooed, licking her cheek. (Name) squealed. “I hate when you do that! Just kiss me like a normal person, asshole!” Adam cackled.

The first trimester, it still hadn’t become a permanent thought in Adam’s head that he was going to be a father.

The second trimester, it became much more real and they started considering baby names and preparing a nursery.

The third trimster, was really bad for (Name). She was constantly exhausted, sore, hungry but sick to her stomach. The baby really did a number on her. By the time nine months rolls around, (Name) is more than ready to get this child out of her.

“GET IT OUT OF ME!” She screamed after pushing once. “Push again!” the midwife encouraged. (Name) screamed as she did.

Adam watched on in horror. He wasn’t there to witness Cain and Abel’s births, so he had no idea how brutal and scary childbirth was. He stroked back hair off her sweaty forehead, letting her squeeze the life out of his other hand.

Every time she screamed, Adam lost his shit a little bit.

“And push!” With one final push and a pained yell, (Name) delivered their baby.

It was a baby girl.

Adam had been reconsidering his eligibility for fatherhood. But when the nurse cleaned their baby off and placed her on (Name)’s chest, Adam was determined not to ruin a good thing. He may not be looking forward to the responsibilities of a father, but he would take them on for her sake.

In the following weeks, he really tries to help with the baby equally, but he’s pretty bad at it. He’d offered to take a few night shifts but would sleep straight through the baby’s crying, leaving (Name) to go soothe her. But he learned how to prepare a bottle of milk, and he learned how to change dirty diapers.

To his surprise, he actually didn’t find it all that difficult to bond with his child. (Name) even caught him baby talking once, which he fervently denies.

Months go by, and their daughter surprises them with her very first word… “Fuck!”

(Name) is appalled, Adam thinks it’s hilarious. She berates Adam for setting a bad example for the baby, when she shocks them with her second word. “Bitch.” Clear as day. Adam picks their daughter up and praises her. (Name) hits Adam’s arm.

Adam does his best to be a good husband and father, and while he’s not great at it, he is a present father and a loving husband.

[hueseok]

( 01. ) EASY MONEY, EASY LOVE.

you and namjoon have been married for five years.

despite being strangers who solely exchanged wedding vows to trick his filthy rich family into giving him his inheritance, being part of this scheme is surprisingly easy. he’s out of the country most of the time, you’re being compensated for being a model wife, and there are only a few things you two have to to do in order to keep up with the whole guise of being a happy married couple.

with less than three months to go until you get divorced, namjoon comes back from a business trip and stays with you at your shared house, waiting until d-day with the aim of sending off your odd friendship with a proper farewell. but it’s weird, because just when things are supposed to be easiest—that’s when everything is suddenly becoming complicated, and the two of you realized once again that there really is no such thing as easy money (or easy love).

pairing: namjoon x reader

word count: 3.3k

rating: NC-17

content: fluff, angst, marriage of convenience au, strangers to friends to lovers au, dash of fake dating au, and they were housemates au???? | ft. chaebol!namjoon + travel photographer!namjoon; office worker!reader

warning/s: swearing, mentions of a sickness, mommy issues, unsupportive family, depictions of loneliness / sadness, character death (no major characters though!), mentions of falling of a cliff bc of clumsiness lmao (nobody dies dw)

[ chaptex index. ]

EPISODE 01. the one with the emergency !

you shouldn’t have been too confident. if only you’ve been more humble and less greedy during your hike earlier with your workmates for the bi-annual team building event, you wouldn’t have literally fallen off the side of the cliff and ended up spraining your ankle pretty bad.

what were you thinking, honestly? you’ve never been an active person ever in your life. you hated cardio, you hated sweating, you hated waking up early in the morning to do exercise — yet for some reason, you were pumped for the activity that was scheduled for today.

it’s the reason why as you were trudging along the trail with your co-workers, yapping and laughing loudly with a close colleague, you didn’t notice that a particularly huge rock on your way set you off balance and caused you to sway to your right, plummeting over the ridge with a loud yelp.

it’s a good thing that there were paramedics stationed at the base of the mountain where all of you were trekking on, perhaps anticipating for an incident like yours to come along that’ll have them doing their duty.

as soon as your team leader used the walkie-talkie given to your group to call them for their help, there were four people with bright orange uniforms aiding you, checking your condition and placing you on a stretcher before carrying you to the monorail where you’ll be transported back down.

haein, your said close colleague, accompanied you as they brought you to the infirmary.

“were you possessed by an athletic ghost?” she asks once the doctor finished treating your sprained ankle, now advising you to get a bit of rest. “what made you think it was smart to walk too fast? you must have been crazy.”

“i must have,” you say, laughing because you rather laugh than complain about the pain that you’re feeling. it’s subsiding at the moment — thankfully — but you can only imagine what the next few days are going to be for you due to the injury. “god, i’m happy though that i didn’t get to roll all the way. if that happened, i would have suffered a greater fall and then i’d be on the news.”

“yeah. you’d be a legend to the company too. we’d make an altar in your cubicle for a good few months.”

“i’d be the story that hiking guides would share to the hikers to scare them into being careful.”

“we’d pay tribute to you at every christmas party. we’d make a slideshow and present that during the whole event.”

“really?”

“of course. i’d be in charge of making the powerpoint even.”

you stare at her, haein staring back, and then the both of you burst out laughing. you’re grateful that she volunteered to be with you when the paramedics declared that they needed to bring you down — although in the back of your head, you do think she’s just being a good friend as an excuse to not walk her way back to the ground with the rest later on after they reach the top and enjoy the magnificent view.

“by the way,” she takes a seat on the chair beside the bed you’re situated in, “someone named kim namjoon is going to pick you up and drive you home.”

the second his name tumbles out of her lips, you’re snapping your head towards her, shocked. “what?”

“when you passed out a bit after the fall, i got your phone and did the thing to make it call your emergency contact. he’s the one who answered.”

“namjoon answered?”

“yup.”

“but i… i don’t remember making him my emergency contact.”

“well, like i said, he’s the one who answered.” she shrugs. “why? is he an ex or something?”

you press your lips together, suddenly panicking at the thought of namjoon arriving here.

there’s nothing wrong with namjoon, really. he’s a pleasing person to have around: genuine, kind, and full of profound thoughts that you can’t help but hang onto every word he says.

however, as haein made evident, no one knows about your relationship with him and true nature of it — and you’ve done everything you can in the past year and a half since joining the company to keep it that way, deeming it unnecessary to disclose the fact that kim namjoon is your husband when the both of you aren’t bound to stay married forever.

to you, he’s just a ridiculously rich man who needed to get married for at least five years in order to get the full amount of his inheritance from his grandmother.

to him, you’re just a middle class woman who needed money to pay for her sister’s leukemia treatments, introduced together by a mutual friend who knew that both of you can benefit from each other’s situations.

in other words, your marriage with him isn’t technically real. and it’s why you rather not let anyone in your workplace know that he’s your husband, especially since you’ve managed to keep a low profile about it all these months. you don’t want to give your officemates a reason to gossip about you in the present time or when you divorce namjoon — the latter frankly scheduled to happen in less than three months from now.

****

namjoon arrives an hour later.

you take notice of him immediately while haein’s babbling about the book she recently read, recognizing him as the tall man who enters the small clinic.

you watch as he goes to the desk to talk to the staff waiting there, following his figure as the latter points to where your bed is. namjoon promptly turns to your direction then, your gazes meeting before his eyes focus on your sprained ankle, expression contorting in a mix of confusion and disappointment.

beside you, haein taps your arm, noticing namjoon’s arrival as well. “is that…?”

you swallow hard. “yeah, that’s him.”

“holy shit.” she takes a dramatic pause. “he’s hot.”

“don’t —” you grit your teeth. “don’t say that. it’s weird.”

“why? i have eyes — i’m just saying what i see.”

“yeah, but —”

“are you weirded out because he’s a relative? like your brother?” haein cuts you off. “wait, you mentioned before that you have a sibling. is that him?”

“he’s not a sibling.”

“then who —”

namjoon stops on the foot of your bed, causing haein to shut up now that he’s within earshot. he’s still staring at your ankle, like it inflated to twice its original size, and you actually don’t know what to say.

although you’ve developed a close friendship over the years of this sham marriage, you always seem to restart whenever he returns from a business trip of his — and it’s only been a couple of days since his return to south korea, having just come back from spain for his latest project.

it’s worth mentioning too that you do feel strange having an audience like haein around that renders you clueless on how to act.

he lets out a slow whistle, crossing his arms. “and you say i’m clumsy.”

you huff out a chuckle, namjoon grinning that releases the charm of his dimples.

“uh, i’m haein,” your friend stands up from her seat and extends a hand out, obviously enthralled by how handsome he is. “i’m the one who called you using ____’s phone. namjoon, isn’t it?”

namjoon shakes her hand. “oh, yes. it’s nice to meet you.”

“wow. you have a very tight grip.”

“haein,” you scold, slapping her wrist that causes their handshake to cease. if it isn’t apparent enough, haein doesn’t have a filter nor cares enough to stop saying the first thing that comes to her mind. “stop being weird.”

she turns to you. “i’m not being weird. i’m complimenting him.”

“how is commenting how tight his grip is a compliment?” you demand.

“it’s a compliment because i’m making it clear that i find him strong,” she explains, focusing on namjoon again. “sorry. do you feel offended by what i said?”

he appears amused. “not really.”

“see?” haein tells you.

you’re about to quip back a reply when she beats you to it.

“anyways,” she says and namjoon stifles a laugh, “if you don’t mind me asking, how are you and ____ related?”

at the question, you send him a signal with your eyes, asking him not to tell the truth, regardless if that’s wrong of you to do so. one of the things you had to keep in mind upon agreeing with this arrangement is that neither of you should ever deny the marriage whatsoever, a precautionary measure because you two were that paranoid that the news might reach namjoon’s parents.

from the looks of it, despite namjoon understanding where you’re getting at as you give him the most bizarre expressions, he does the opposite (perhaps mainly due to what was explained above), resulting into you hanging your head low, waiting how haein will react at the revelation that will be served on her plate.

“i’m her husband actually,” namjoon says casually. 

haein cackles out loud. “husband?” she repeats. “that’s really funny — you’re a funny guy. but seriously, how do you two know each other?”

he raises an eyebrow. “i’m not joking.”

“sure you are. this girl right here isn’t married.” she does a show of holding you in an affectionate headlock. “she doesn’t even have a boyfriend.”

“did she tell you that?” he’s teasing, glancing at you for some sort of confirmation.

haein averts her attention to you. 

you look at them, switching from namjoon to haein to namjoon and back to haein. 

“i mean… you never asked, and i never said i was single,” you tell haein, shrugging and acting as nonchalant as ever.

it’s half the truth, ‘cause as far as you’re concerned, you’ve been diligent in always wearing your wedding and engagement ring. you even make it a point not to appear interested in any offers of blind dates or group dates to ever imply that you’re single as well.

she gawks at you, like she’s waiting for you to take back what you said. “are you being for real right now?”

“i am.”

“if this is some elaborate prank —”

“it’s not a prank,” you say. 

there’s silence, and then she practically screams.

“YOU’RE MARRIED?” haein bellows, attracting everybody’s attention inside the infirmary. “we’ve known each other for more than a year and only now do i discover that you’re married?”

before she can berate you and force you to tell her your entire relationship history, namjoon’s asking for your bag and helping you sit up, aiming to lead you to the car waiting outside.

haein almost stops him, declaring with conviction that she literally can’t wait until the next office day to get the full scoop, but he kindly reiterates what the ER doctor he spoke with earlier said, insisting that he ought to bring you home as soon as possible so you can get the rest that you need after over exerting your body for today’s hike.

“everything. you need to tell me everything on monday,” she says when namjoon goes out for a minute to deliver your bag first to the vehicle. she’s giddy and jumpy and very hyper about what you can guess is because of her latest discovery. “also, i’m sorry about calling your husband hot earlier. i wouldn’t have done so if i knew.”

you grin, appreciating the fact that she felt the need to apologize for that. “it’s no biggie. you didn’t know.”

“yeah, which you really should apologize about.”

“i’m sorry.” your grin only stretches wider. “i’ll buy you a matcha latte on monday to make up for it.”

her face lights up.

you share your farewells as namjoon returns, namjoon saying goodbye to haein too. she leaves first, remembering that she needs to inform the rest of your co-workers that you’re fine and headed home, and once you and your husband are alone, he takes a good look at you again.

“should i carry you?” he asks.

you blink at him. he may be reliable, but he is also extremely clumsy. “you’re not asking the right questions, joon.”

“unbelievable.” he laughs. “you can really be cruel sometimes, you know?”

“i just want to be safe.” you further tease.

“then should i get a wheelchair?”

“no wheelchair please. i think i can walk to the car just fine.” you begin standing up.

“you sure?” he doesn’t even let you answer that, his hand just naturally goes to support your elbow. “you might fall.”

you pause, calculating how many steps it’s going to take until you reach your destination.

you’re fine, really. your good foot is perfectly walkable and you’re convinced it can take the burden of not having its pair in ample condition. however, you might need to hold onto namjoon for you not to fall halfway like he already stated, and you’re not really keen on being that close to him no matter how amazing his cologne smells even a few inches away.

“a wheelchair would be ideal,” you say.

namjoon chuckles, nodding and getting it with the assistance of a staff member. 

in minutes, you’re on the passenger seat and he’s climbing on the other side.

you don’t expect it but you’re relieved at the thought of coming home earlier than planned. though you’ve conditioned yourself to enjoy this team building and take this time to get into camping, you were horrified when you learned that there wouldn’t be any shower rooms or portable toilets at least at the area that you’re heading at after the hike, this retreat meant to give each one of you the raw camping experience.

come to think of it, perhaps it was your subconscious that prompted you to inflict this accident on yourself in order to avoid shitting on the ground in case your stomach hurts.

“comfortable?” namjoon glances at you. “you can recline the chair if you want to sleep.”

“oh, okay. thanks.” you smile. 

he smiles back, starting the engine.

you subtly watch him while he does that, admiring how he seems so adept in driving now compared to when you first met him. you remember his reluctance in the past to drive due to his fear of messing up, yet he managed to drive for approximately two hours in most likely gravelly roads to get where you are.

“thanks too for coming here, joon. i hope i didn’t bother you. honestly, i don’t even remember putting you as my emergency contact,” you sheepishly add.

“no problem, and i think hoseok did,” he says. “i remember him mentioning that i should put you as mine before.”

hoseok is the mutual friend that introduced you both together when namjoon was still trying to find a fake wife to obtain the full amount of his inheritance in five years time. he was aware of namjoon’s ploy and knew that you were in need of money during that year as well — and so putting two and two together, he set up a ‘date slash chemistry test’ between you and namjoon and reckoned that you could be great help to one another regarding your respective needs.

“that makes sense. i just don’t know how he did that without my knowledge.”

“well, nothing’s been impossible for hobi, so…”

you agree with a snort.

“by the way, i should mention this before you doze off,” namjoon abruptly halts just when he was beginning to drive off, “mom’s inviting us to dinner this weekend. she heard that i was back in the country and wanted to see how i am.”

you gradually digest that information, a constipated look already appearing on your face. “okay. is everyone going to be there?”

“yes, based on our last conversation.”

“should i be prepared for anything at all?”

he seems to find the inquiry funny. “no. just the usual.”

“meaning i should block off every passive aggressive comment your mom makes about either my choice of clothes and social status, right?”

“pretty much, yeah.”

you let out a groan.

“i’m sorry.” the dimples make a recurrence. “i would have declined her request but she wouldn’t stop pestering me about it.”

“god, i just really don’t like your mom, joon.” you say. “or your dad. or your older brother. i don’t like everyone, basically — except your pet dog, hiro. no offense.”

“that’s fine. i don’t like them either.” he shrugs, carrying on driving then now that the news have been shared. “plus, you know i’m on your team. i’d defend your honor to death.”

“of course. it’s what makes attending these things tolerable.”

“well, if it makes you feel better, this might be the last family function you’d have to attend.”

you raise your eyebrows, recalling the reason why. “woah, shit, you’re right.”

in less than three months, you’re getting divorced and namjoon’s getting even more money than he already has.

in less than three months, he’s going to share some of the portion of what’s left of his inheritance and it’ll be the last time you’ll receive financial help from him.

it also might be the last time you’ll be with him in general, and though there’s a side of you that’s glad not to be tied down anymore, you can’t say that you’re glad of possibly losing contact with namjoon, having grown fond of his presence in a way.

facing him, you blurt out the first thing that occurs in your mind. “when we get divorced, can i keep my engagement ring?”

namjoon chuckles. “that’s up to you. there’s no reason for me to take it back.”

“but what if you fall in love with a woman someday and think about proposing to her?”

“then i’d buy a new ring.”

“but wouldn’t that be impractical? given that you already have an engagement ring? i mean, this costs so much i could probably buy a lot and a house with it.”

“yeah, but that’s yours. it’d be horrible of me to give her a ring already worn by my first wife.”

“first wife,” you repeat with a dramatic scoff, lips curving upwards regardless. it’s cheesy and tickles your insides. “that trip to spain changed you, joon. you’ve been too flirty since you returned.”

that coaxes out a full laugh from him. “my apologies. it’s a habit at this point.”

“what is?”

“pertaining to you as my wife.” he shrugs. “isn’t it the same for you?”

“pertaining to you as my wife?” you joke.

you don’t see him roll his eyes. “you know what i mean.”

you think about it.

had it been the same for you? there’s not a lot of occasions wherein you have to call namjoon as your husband. your dad isn’t present in your life, your relationship isn’t good with your mother to constantly chat with her (she doesn’t even know you’re married), and as for your little sister who was the root cause of why you got married to namjoon…

well, she’s in a better place right now. far better than this crazy and scary world you’re living in.

“i guess,” you say, but your tone isn’t convincing.

he nods his head in a slow manner. “hm, it does seem that way according to what just happened with haein.”

you wince. “sorry about that.”

“don’t be, i understand. i’ve been gone most of the time since you got hired in your new company — and we are separating in a few weeks.”

“time flies really fast, doesn’t it?”

“yep. we used to think that it’ll take forever before the five years are up.”

“true. we kept on suggesting a backup plan if ever we fight and get sick of each other.”

“yet here we are, still happily married.”

“ugh, there you are again!” you accuse and he laughs out loud once more. “are you enjoying cringing me to death?”

namjoon doesn’t answer, a big grin plastered on his face as he continues laughing, groaning eventually when you start slapping his arm because of how it’s obvious that he truly is enjoying this.

“____,” he complains, laughing still, “stop, i’m driving!”

you follow as he says. “you’re the worst.”

“i forgot how easy you are to tease.”

“shut up.”

he snickers, doing a zipping motion against his mouth.

gentle reminder: this author loves feedback! let her know your thoughts if you enjoyed reading this fic and you’ll add 100+ points in her writing motivation meter ♡

[cruel-seduction]

Bungou Stray Dogs

Fyodor Dostoevsky

Heyy! I hope this isn't a bother, but I'm absolutely craving some Fyodor x Reader! Sooo, imagine this—Fyodor was your husband in a past life, and now he finds you again in Yokohama, working for either the ADA or PM. Obviously, he can't just let his *wife* be with someone else, right? I’d love to see more of that whole 'immortal x mortal' vibe, ahh! And to keep it true to his character, he calls Reader 'Anna' even though they have a new name now. Hope you have a great day/night! 😊

(headcanon, fic, lines, wtv u prefer! I'm just craving for Fyodor ‼️🙏🏻)

Sorry, it took long. But I had test this whole month and I still have to give a test on saturday. But I wrote what came in my mind.

The Ghost of His Heart

Summary:

In a world where fate binds souls across lifetimes, Fyodor Dostoevsky finds the one he’s been waiting for—his wife from a past life, reborn and unaware of their shared history. Consumed by an eternal love, he is determined to remind her of the connection they once had, while she struggles to reconcile her current reality with the strange pull she feels toward him. As their paths intertwine, emotions run high, and the lines between devotion and destiny blur.

Content Warnings:

Themes of obsession and possessiveness

Past life/reincarnation dynamics

Emotional intensity and angst

Mild cursing

Subtle manipulation (non-toxic but deeply intense interactions)

GLIMPSE - “Are you crazy?” you whispered, the question slipping out before you could stop it.

His gaze softened further, and for the first time, there was no trace of his usual composure. He looked at you with a vulnerability so raw it made your chest ache.

“For you? Yes,” he said simply. “A thousand times yes.”

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

The air in Yokohama was heavy with a tension that couldn’t quite be named. It wasn’t the usual weight of humidity, nor the pulse of city traffic. No, this was something different—something darker that seemed to thicken the very air the moment you stepped into the room.

Anna.

The name, like a whisper in his mind, cut through the veil of time with the precision of a blade. Even in this new life, with all its contradictions and chaotic intricacies, Fyodor Dostoevsky couldn’t forget you. His wife, his beloved Anna, whom he had lost so many lifetimes ago—yet here you were, returned.

Not as you once were, but as you now were. You didn’t remember him. You didn’t even know him.

He watched you, hidden in the shadows of the ADA headquarters, his obsidian eyes following your every movement. You were here now, part of the Agency, fighting against the very forces he was using to manipulate this world. To control it. You didn’t recognize the mark of your shared past, but he could feel the connection. It burned like a flame beneath his chest, an ache he could never escape.

Anna, though—you didn’t even acknowledge him.

You walked past him without a second glance, busy with your tasks. Your eyes were clear and focused, the same spark of determination he remembered, yet they weren’t directed at him. They were for others, for missions, for this life you were creating, one without him.

It was an ironic, cruel fate: to love someone so deeply and to be utterly forgotten.

He knew why you couldn’t remember. The human mind, fragile as it was, could not withstand the weight of eternity. You had moved on. You had lived without him for however many years it had been since your last meeting in another life. And he had been patient, waiting. It was a sickness in his heart, a poison that burned through his veins every day he was away from you.

But now, with a single glance, you had returned to him. He had only to reach out, to remind you of everything you once were. But that was where the dilemma lay.

If he reminded you, you would resist. Your heart would rebel against the truth he would show you. But that was not the most painful part. No, the most painful part was this: you didn’t want him. You weren’t looking for him. Your heart beat for the tasks before you, for your duty to the Agency, to the people you fought beside. And worse—there were others who saw you, others who thought you belonged to them.

He couldn’t allow that.

You brushed past him once more, and this time, your shoulder brushed against his.

A fleeting, soft contact. He didn’t even need to touch you to feel the surge of energy between you. The electric charge that snapped through his body, a violent, desperate pulse of recognition. His heart tightened painfully in his chest.

And yet, you didn’t pause. You didn’t stop. You didn’t even look up from the stack of papers in your hands, the files you were carrying.

Fyodor inhaled deeply, his expression cold, unreadable. His mind worked furiously, plotting his next move. His next step.

His hand clenched into a fist.

Later that evening, he appeared in the shadows outside your apartment. He was not supposed to be there, not in this life, not in this world where he had to hide his true self beneath layers of deception. But tonight, the need to be close to you was overpowering.

You were in your apartment, oblivious to his presence. You had closed the blinds, preparing for an evening of rest after the chaotic day at the Agency.

But he couldn’t allow you to rest. He couldn’t let you forget.

A soft tap at the door. Just enough to catch your attention, yet gentle enough to be mistaken for the wind. He knew you would come. You always did, no matter how much you resisted, no matter how much you ignored him.

The door creaked open, and there you stood—wearing the soft, loose-fitting clothes you often wore when you thought no one was watching. Your hair was slightly disheveled from the long day. You looked tired. Tired, yet still as breathtaking as ever. The kind of beauty that made him ache.

Your eyes were wary when they met his, cautious. “Can I help you?” you asked, your voice gentle but firm. The same tone you used with the others at the Agency.

His breath caught in his throat. His gaze locked onto yours, and he allowed the silence to stretch between you. He could see the flicker of recognition behind your eyes—only a moment, but it was enough.

“Anna,” he said, his voice low, coated in that familiar, almost musical cadence.

“Who are you?” you demanded, your gaze narrowing. “I don’t know you. You must be mistaken. I am not Anna. So, why don’t you let it go, sir?” You laughed at your own poor joke. 

Fyodor’s lips curled into a thin smile. The mask of calm, collected indifference he wore was in place. But beneath it, something darker simmered. His eyes darkened with a possessive fire.

“I am not mistaken, Anna,” he replied softly. “You may not remember me, but I remember you. I always have.”

His words hung in the air like a noose, tightening slowly around you. You didn’t know what to make of him, this man who claimed to know you so intimately, yet his presence unnerved you. There was something too intense about the way he looked at you, as though he could see through your very soul.

He took a step forward, his gaze unwavering. “You are my Anna,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with an almost unbearable weight. “And I am your Fyodor.”

Your breath hitched at his words, a strange shiver running down your spine. It wasn’t fear—not exactly—but something dark and intense. You took a step back instinctively, not understanding why his presence made your pulse quicken in such an unfamiliar way.

“I don’t know who you think I am,” you said, your voice slightly shaking. “But I’m not... whoever you’re looking for. N O A N N A, sir. My name is Y/N.”

Fyodor tilted his head, his expression one of eerie patience. “No, you are. You are Anna. And no one can take you from me.”

And with that, he stepped closer, the distance between you shrinking as he closed the door behind him, trapping you in the silence of the room. There was nowhere to run now. He knew that—he wanted you to know there was nowhere to go.

Your heart hammered in your chest as you backed away, your eyes widening as you searched his face for any sign of a lie, any hint of his true intentions.

But there was none. Only the cold, implacable certainty of a man who had lived far too long, who had waited far too long, to let you slip away again.

The door clicked softly as it shut behind him, sealing you in the room with a man whose presence seemed to fill every corner, every breath of air. Your pulse quickened, and though you kept your composure, you could feel your resolve wavering under the weight of his gaze.

He stood perfectly still, his tall frame casting an elongated shadow in the dim light of your apartment. The faintest smile played on his lips—not smug, not cruel, but knowing.

“Do not be afraid,” he said softly, his voice like a lullaby laced with moonlight. “I would never harm you.”

“I’m not afraid,” you replied, lifting your chin in defiance, crossing your arms over your chest. “But you need to leave. I don’t know you.”

Fyodor’s eyes flickered with something indescribable, a storm that passed too quickly to be named. He exhaled slowly, his head tilting as if considering your words carefully, as though you’d just told him something patently untrue.

“You may not know me now,” he said, taking a deliberate step forward, “but your soul does.”

Your heart skipped a beat, though you refused to let it show. The strange pull you felt toward him, the way his words resonated in a place you didn’t understand, unsettled you. But you weren’t about to let yourself fall prey to whatever delusion he seemed to believe.

“My name is not Anna,” you said firmly, meeting his gaze. “I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m not her. And what the fuck. Like, what do you mean, ‘my soul knows you?’ No, it doesn’t, and neither does it want to know you, creep.”

For the briefest moment, his eyes darkened, a hint of anger flickering in his violet gaze. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the calm confidence that seemed to radiate from him like an aura.

“You are right,” he murmured. “Anna is not your name now. But names are fleeting, aren’t they? A mortal convention. What matters is what lies beneath—the essence of who you are. That… has not changed. And your soul does know me, baby.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but the words caught in your throat as he stepped closer. He was close enough now that you could see the fine details of his face—the sharp lines, the pale smoothness of his skin, the way his dark hair framed his intense, hauntingly beautiful eyes.

“Stop,” you said, taking a step back, your voice wavering despite your best efforts. “You can’t just show up and decide who I am to you. I have my own life, my own choices.”

“You do,” he agreed, his tone maddeningly calm. “And yet, every choice you’ve made has led you back to me.”

Your eyes narrowed, judging him harshly, every fiber of your being screaming skepticism.

“You don’t remember,” he continued, his voice softening. “But I do. Every moment, every word, every promise we made to each other… it has stayed with me, even as lifetimes have passed. And now, you are here. Do you think that is a coincidence?”

You clenched your fists, willing yourself to punch him in his nose if he uttered one more word. But logic warned you against it; if he was dangerous, that could provoke him. So instead, you tried to reason with him.

“I don’t believe in fate,” you said quietly, though even as you spoke, the words felt hollow.

Fyodor smiled faintly, a bittersweet curve of his lips. “You don’t have to. I believe enough for the both of us.”

The room fell silent, save for the faint hum of the city outside. You could feel the weight of his presence pressing against you—not in a threatening way, but in a way that made your chest tighten with an emotion you couldn’t name.

“Are you crazy?” you whispered, the question slipping out before you could stop it.

His gaze softened further, and for the first time, there was no trace of his usual composure. He looked at you with a vulnerability so raw it made your chest ache.

“For you? Yes,” he said simply. “A thousand times yes.”

For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. His words hung in the air, heavy with sincerity, and you found yourself unable to meet his gaze. You turned away, crossing your arms over your chest as if to shield yourself from the intensity of his confession.

“I can’t be what you want me to be,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know you, and I can’t be her.”

Fyodor took a step closer, his movements slow and deliberate, as though he were approaching something fragile.

“I don’t expect you to remember,” he said. “And I will not force you to. But that does not change what is true. You are mine, and I am yours. Whether you know it or not, whether you accept it or not, that is the reality of our existence.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine. There was no malice in his tone, no threat—only an unshakable certainty that terrified and intrigued you in equal measure.

“I don’t belong to anyone,” you said firmly, turning back to face him.

He smiled again, a small, almost wistful smile. “No,” he agreed, his voice barely above a whisper. “You are not a possession. You belong only to yourself. But your heart… your soul… they have always been tied to mine.”

The room felt unbearably still. You could hear your own heartbeat, loud and erratic in the silence. Fyodor stood before you, his presence overwhelming yet strangely comforting, like a dark cloud that promised rain but not a storm.

“I will not hurt you,” he said softly, taking another step forward. “I will never hurt you. But I cannot—will not—allow anyone else to take what is mine. You are my light, my salvation, my reason for enduring this endless cycle of time. And now that I’ve found you again, I will not let you slip away.”

His voice cracked slightly at the last word, and the sound tugged at something deep within you. Against your better judgment, you found yourself wanting to believe him, wanting to understand this strange, otherworldly bond he seemed so certain of.

But you couldn’t. You weren’t some helpless girl who let herself be drawn into something she didn’t understand, especially not by a man who seemed carved from shadow.

“Leave,” you said quietly, your voice trembling. “Please.”

Fyodor’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes shifted. Slowly, he stepped back, his hands falling to his sides in a gesture of reluctant surrender.

“As you wish,” he said, his voice soft and steady. “For now.”

With one last lingering glance, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving you alone in the oppressive silence of your apartment.

But even as the door clicked shut, you could still feel his presence, like a ghost lingering at the edges of your mind.

And for the first time, you wondered if he might be right.

[aricarianis]

CW: explicit depictions of violence and sexual themes.

John Price was the love of your life. Love is a powerful force—capable of building or destroying—and what you shared kept you bound to him for years. But only having his rough hands on your skin for a few months at a time, hearing his gruff voice say sweet nothings over the phone, missing the feel of his beard grazing your neck as his words seeped into you like venom, all wore down the foundations of what a real relationship was supposed to be.

He knew it. He felt the same sick ache in his chest every time he promised to come home soon, both of you aware it was a lie. He’d promised to slow down, to leave the job, to stay by your side, but the marriage you ended up with wasn’t the one you’d signed up for. You didn’t want a husband who vanished for months on end. When he returned, he’d devour you, craving your body like a hard drug. His hands too eager to find your sweet spots, cock too hungry to make you forget that he had lied. He'd push you into constant moments of bliss, tricking, but even his passion couldn’t erase the truth: he’d lie again.

In time, your marriage went where so many do. When he was handed the divorce papers at the base, he still tried to attack the process server. You wanted out, and nothing he did would change it—not refusing to sign, not tearing the papers up, not skipping court. You weren’t his anymore.

Life carried on, with months passing and, as usual, not a word from John. You thought losing the love of your life would be agony enough, but his indifference only added to the torment. Part of you wished you’d never met him; never knowing love would’ve been worth never knowing this pain.

The night before the hearing, you invited your lawyer to your flat to go over last-minute instructions. As the meeting wound down, a low, metallic sound came from the bedroom.

“Did you hear that?” you asked. He shook his head.

The two of you sat in tense silence for a moment, dread prickling at you. Your lawyer offered to check the bedroom, but you dismissed it, assuring him it was probably nothing. The meeting continued until, just before leaving, he asked to use the restroom. You directed him to the en suite, since the guest bathroom had stopped working that morning.

Lost in thought, you noticed several minutes had passed without him returning. Concerned, you called his name. No answer. Yelled. Still no answer. Your chest tightened, dread spreading through you like poison. Gripping the hunting knife John had given you for protection, you made your way to the bedroom.

“You can put that thing down, love. ‘S just me.” The gruff voice sent a shiver down your spine—unmistakable.

You peeked into the dark room, spotting the familiar silhouette against the dim light from the window. “John? H-how did you find me?”

“Why’d I have to find you in the first place?” His tone was cold, anger simmering beneath restraint.

“I needed space,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “Single people live alone.”

“You know damn well you aren't single.”

“I’ve been single ever since I married you.”

Your words cut deep. His shoulders slumped as he sighed, hurt etched on his face.

“Where’s my lawyer?” you asked, searching the shadows.

“He’s not our problem anymore.”

“John…” Your breath hitched. “What did you do?”

“Someone’s trying to take you from me, innit? Was it him?”

“Where is he?”

“Think a piece of paper’ll keep me from you?” His voice dripped with rage.

“Why do you care? You love your job more than you love me—”

“Don’t say that.”

“I understand, John, but this wasn’t the marriage I was promised. I’d rather have none of you than pieces,” you said, your voice thick. “At least then I wouldn’t have to lie to myself that I’ll ever have you whole.”

He breathed heavily, brow furrowing as if struggling to comprehend your words.

"Why can't you just admit you've fucked up and leave me alone, huh? You had months to pull this little stunt—it's too late to care now."

John’s expression went blank, unreadable. He lunged, disarming you with practiced ease, gripping you by the hair and throwing you onto the bed. Your back hit something solid, unfamiliar beneath the covers.

He flicked on the light, and before your eyes adjusted, he was above you, pressing the knife to your throat. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his beard scratching your skin, hunger corroding him from within.

Instinctively, you turned to the side, seeking something to help you escape. Instead, you saw your lawyer’s lifeless, bloodshot eyes staring back, ones that had met yours with empathy so many times, reassuring you that everything would be okay. His neck twisted at a grotesque angle, lips slack in a silent scream.

“I’ll hunt you down forever, love,” John whispered, his voice carrying all the rage and obsession you overlooked for years.

Tears streamed down your cheeks, your breathing erratic, heart thundering. He pulled back, holding your gaze with a look that seared into your soul, his mouth twisting into a cruel smile.

“Doesn’t matter what you think,” he murmured, voice dangerously soft. “I will always be the love of your life.”

[mentiswarden]

Charles Xavier X wife reader- Headcanons!

- He can’t stand a day without touching you

This dude is so in love with your body it’s actually scary but really cute, he won’t hesitate to hug you from behind if your working on something, cooking dinner or just doing any basic thing. He love to keep a hand around your waist or to have your head on his chest when you are in bed with him. (also he can’t sleep without hugging you)

- He loves to listens to your dream

He know you have a very imaginative mind, your dreams getting weirder every night, he finds it hilarious. Sometimes when he comes to your shared room late at night after a big day of work, when he can’t fall asleep because of all the caffeine he drank, he just hug you, putting his head on yours and dreaming with you. You know he does this and y’all often talk about your dreams in the morning.

- He hates seing you suffering

If you suffer from any disease you can be sure that he will know any hacks to make your day less painful. If you don’t suffer from any disease, if your on your periods, he will always have a little chocolate hidden in the drawer for you, bringing you a plaid and your favorites drink so you guys can lay and watch a movie or something. If your sick he will remind you after every meal to take your medicines.

- Offer you a gift every month

That’s a little habit you had since you guys started dating. He offers you a gift and you do the same for him every month. When you talk to him about something you like he’ll always buy it for you at the end of the month, it can be a book, a perfume, a piece of clothing, anything for his baby. (Also he randomly bring you flowers)

- Obsessed with your smell

When you steal him his sweat and wear it for a whole day or night, he always wear it right after you give it back just to have your smell around him all day. Sometimes if your out of town for some days or weeks, he takes one of the shirts you stole from him and put on the pillow next to him, he feels safer with your smell.

________________________________________

I hoped you enjoyed reading this! I’d like to remind you that english is not my first language and that i’m new here so i don’t really know how to make this good looking, but i’ll try and learn! I already have ideas for charles xavier and his pregnant wife reader so tell me if you think it’s interesting !! 💗

[callsign-rogueone]

rest

Brennan Sorrengail x chronically ill reader words: 2.5k 🏷: gender neutral reader, use of nicknames sweetheart and honey, implied past FWB-type relationship between reader and Bren. descriptions of pain and sickness (congrats, u now have my symptoms), downward-spiral of self-deprecating thoughts, reader shaming themself for being weak / ill, one (1) suggestion that reader wants to die but they don’t mean it, confessions of love, cuddles.  this may be the most self-serving thing I’ve ever written. I wrote it to process my grief and anger about my current situation, but I figured I’d post it for the Brennan girlies and anyone who feels like I do right now and could use a handsome mender boyfriend to make it all better.

The gentle movement of the mattress and the smell of smoke and soap and leather wakes you from your nap — Brennan is back. You roll over to face him, every muscle in your body protesting the movement. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” he whispers, brushing the hair from your forehead with gentle fingers. “How are you feeling?”

“Same old,” you murmur. 

He lays a hand on your forearm, and the pain dulls. You know better now than to let him block it off completely — he’d done that once before, but when he let go, it was unbearable. 

Better to sit with it, not get used to any relief — it’ll only hurt you further when it all comes back, knock the breath right from your lungs and leave you in a heap on the floor, a mess of knots for him to untangle.

He’s done enough for you already. He does enough for everyone. Never anything for himself. Or if he does, you never see it.

“Was worried about you,” he says softly, still stroking your hair.

The idea of him worrying about you makes you feel sicker than you already are, but a different kind of sick. Guilty, maybe. Disgusted — not with him, but with yourself, for being so fucking weak and needy and such a crybaby. You’re a dragon rider, for gods’ sakes. 

Or you used to be. You haven’t acted like one in months, and haven’t felt like one for longer than that. 

You’d accepted that you’d never fly again, or told yourself that you accepted it, three months ago.

“I can keep fixing the damage, but I don’t know if I can fix what’s causing it,” Brennan had told you in a whisper late one night in this same room, holding you as if he was afraid to let go, that you’d crack and splinter even further if he wasn’t pressing the pieces of you together. 

You used to be able to hold yourself together. You used to be able to do a lot of things. To spar with him, to run with your squad and mount a dragon, swim in the ice-cold streams of Tyrrendor with your friends on days off, to spend hours tangled up in bed with him after lights-out, exerting yourselves in other ways.

But then something came and ruined it all.  You still don’t know what it was — is. It didn’t come quickly — not one big wave that drowned you, not an assailant that shattered bone and sliced through tissue, but a gradual decline that you didn’t notice until it was too late. 

No, you definitely noticed. You just didn’t want to believe it. You made up excuses for everything— reassurances, placating remarks, designed to convince yourself and those around you that there wasn’t anything wrong with you.

You couldn’t sleep through the night, but that was because of the awful things you’d seen that day. But then they started happening even if you hadn’t left the barracks, even if you hadn’t witnessed any horrible sights in weeks.

You couldn’t hold on to your daggers tightly enough, struggled to grip a pen, but that was because you’d injured your hand — but that was only one hand, and months ago. Brennan had mended it for you within minutes of the injury.

Your entire body was aching, all the time, but that was normal with how much riders were required to exert themselves. You just can’t move like you did when you were younger. You aren’t a kid anymore.

But no amount of rest days, no ice or heat or elevation seemed to be enough to recover. That’s the worst of it, really. Being stuck in bed, not by doctor’s orders, not because you physically can’t get up, but because you can’t do anything outside of this room.

Not without pain, anyway, and not without pitying looks and whispered questions about what happened to you — the very same Captain that had rescued an entire squad from certain doom just last year, the most powerful air-wielder in two generations — and concerned words from your colleagues, who miss you, and tell them if you need anything, okay? They’re here for you.

But are they really your colleagues anymore? Is Deòir really your dragon anymore? He hardly speaks to you these days. He’s just too kind to admit that he’s just waiting for you to die, so he can move on, and find a new rider.

Maybe kind isn’t the right word, but you can’t think of a better one right now. It’s hard to think of anything other than how tired and uncomfortable you are.

You used to be top of the class, and now you’re struggling to form complete sentences.

“Talk to me,” Brennan coaxes, still gazing down at you, softness in his eyes.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” you whisper. 

“What?”

“I know we were… involved for a while,” you say carefully, “but you don’t need to do this for me anymore. You can’t keep worrying about me. It takes up too much time that you just don’t have. You’re running a revolution; you have more important shit to do than to play nurse.”

He furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “Where’s this coming from?” he asks softly. “What happened while I was away?”

“Nothing happened, Brennan. Nothing ever happens in my life anymore, because I spend my entire day, every day, laying here, wishing I was dead.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, but it’s too late. The words are out in the air, and he’s heard them. “I didn’t mean…” you whisper, “I don’t want to die, I just…”

Tears fill your already-blurred vision, but you can see him in front of you, the mass of his chest and shoulders, the slow movement of his arms reaching out to wrap around you and hold you close, to guide you up into his lap.

“I’m just so tired,” you sob, too-long fingernails digging into the black leather of his jacket, your hands too weak to hold on to him properly. “I’m so tired of being tired, and in pain, and feeling useless.”

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” he soothes. “I’ll keep looking. We can look together. We’ll figure out what this is, and how to fix it.”

“We’ve read every book in the library,” you sniff. “We’ve talked to every healer we know.”

“There are other libraries, and other healers,” he replies, as if it’s that simple, that easy. You suppose to him, it is that easy. To him, everything is easy. He’s not the one wasting away here, you are.

Wasting away. Crumbling. Deteriorating.  

Decaying.

“Why aren’t you giving up?” you ask quietly. “I’ve given up. Deò has, too. He hasn’t spoken to me in days.”

You know the answer, and it makes you feel sick, but you need to hear it.

Maybe that’s selfish of you, to make him declare it out loud to you, to your face, when you very well might not be alive this time next year to celebrate an anniversary — not that you’d be able to do much celebrating if you were. But that little part of you, the only part that’s left of the old you, from the reality where this could work, needs it — needs him. 

“Deò hasn’t given up on you. He went with us, as backup — that’s why he wasn’t responding. And I haven’t given up, either. I’ll never give up, because I love you,” he whispers. “I’ve loved you for years, and I’ll keep loving you as long as I live, and well into whatever afterlife I earn, if such a thing exists.”

You loose another sob, your nails scraping the leather as you cling to him tighter, your anchor in this storm, your lifeline, hiding your face in his neck and letting three months worth of tears continue to fall. 

“I’m not going to let go,” he soothes, laying a hand over yours, that’s still feebly clutching at the sleeve of his jacket. “Not until you ask me to.”

You release your grip, the ache lessening as you do, but your knuckles still throb with every beat of your heart; another reminder that even just existing is painful, that your body can’t even move blood around without complaint.

“There you go. Just breathe with me, honey. Nice and slow.”

You don’t know how long you spend there, trying to steady your breathing. Time has seemed to run together lately, somehow both fast and slow — that happens when you lose your routine, and spend half of a normal person’s waking hours asleep, and normal sleeping hours lying awake, enveloped in pain. He continues to murmur praises to you all the while; sweet, reassuring words that you don’t really process. 

“Do you want to lay down?” he asks after a while, his voice soft and gentle. 

He’s always so gentle with you. Endlessly patient, and endlessly caring.

You nod, thoroughly exhausted— the crying had zapped any energy you’d had left. You feel like a little kid again, soft and confused and small. 

Fragile. 

You’re still in your pajamas, anyway, still in bed. You’d only gotten out of it once today, to use the bathroom, but you’d forced yourself to brush your teeth while you were in there, leaning on the counter for stability all the while. That’s your idea of success and productivity these days.

“Okay. Let me take my boots off, hm?” — You nod, pulling back to let him get up. — “Alright. Can I get you anything? Water?”

You shake your head. “Just you,” you whisper. 

“I can do that.” Jacket, boots, and pants off, he settles in with you, letting you cozy up to him in a position that feels the most comfortable— or the least uncomfortable, really. He starts stroking your hair again in soft, slow motions, the weight and warmth of his scarred palm soothing your headache.

It occurs to you that you’d never responded to his declaration — the one you’d needed so badly that you’d nearly asked for it outright — you’d just clung to him and cried, and he’d held you, even though you hadn’t said it back. He’d stroked your hair and calmed you down from your grief over the life you no longer have and can never return to.

He’s still holding you, still dulling the pain in your body and in your soul.

“I love you, Bren,” you murmur. “M’sorry I didn’t say it earlier.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve known for a long time.”

“Really?”

He hums softly. “Oh, yeah. Years and years. Since you nearly broke my jaw in challenges and then insisted on personally escorting me to the infirmary.”

You laugh at the memory. “I felt so guilty about that. I didn’t want to hurt you at all. I was pulling my punches.”

It’s his turn to laugh. “It certainly didn’t feel like it.”

There’s a soft pause before he speaks again, hesitant, like he doesn’t want to bring it up again now that your tears have dried, but he knows you haven’t forgotten the pain. You’ll never forget this pain for the rest of your life, even if it goes away.

“When I was in Poromiel, I talked to a healer there who‘s seen something like this before. She wrote down as much as she could before I left, and she promised to ask around and send more information through the boys when they do their next drop-off.”

You cuddle into him closer, ignoring the ache in your back as you do. “Thank you, Bren. I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier. I guess… I’m just still not used to being taken care of. I know it’s dumb, but it makes me feel worse sometimes, even though it’s helping.”

“That’s how I felt,” he says quietly. You both know what he’s talking about— his recovery from being shot in the battle of Aretia, from dying and being brought back to life. “It was always me taking care of the girls when we were young. I was never the one who needed taking care of. It felt wrong, and I felt guilty, and mad at myself for needing the help. But you wouldn’t take no for an answer. You made an excellent nurse, if a little scary.”

“I was scared myself. Seeing you like that…” You swallow. “That’s when I knew that I loved you — you don’t know what you have ‘til it’s gone, I guess.”

“I am very much not gone,” he scoffs, offended. 

“Fine. Slipping away from you,” you correct. 

“Not doing that either. I’m staying right here.” He lays a kiss on the top of your head. “And we are going to have a nice long nap, and then I’m going to draw you a warm bath and make us some dinner, because I like taking care of you, because I love you, and because you deserve it. Okay?”

“Okay.” Another pause while you work up the courage. “Bren?” you ask softly.

“Yes, my love?”

The sweet name is enough encouragement to say it. “Can I kiss you?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

He holds you in place with a gentle hand on your back, leaning his head down to meet you. You tilt your chin up, your noses brushing.

“This feels familiar,” he muses. “Very familiar.”

You roll your eyes lazily. “If you’re going to be all smug about it, then you don’t get a kiss.”

“Well, we can’t have that.”

You rest a hand on his jaw, guiding him closer. Your fingers twitch and shake, but he holds them steady, his hand pressing yours against the stubbled skin gently — a silent statement that he’s not going anywhere, and he’s ready when you are.

Endlessly patient.

The kiss isn’t desperate and hungry like they had been before your affliction had started, when surges of need and emotion had led you into each other’s beds two nights a week — you aren’t taking from each other now, you’re giving. It’s gentle. Sweet, loving, reassuring.

Each soft movement is a promise, a whispered oath — he’s here, and he isn’t leaving. He’s determined to figure this out and fix it, with you.

You don’t need anything more than that.

He takes your hand, moving it from his jaw to his mouth — kissing your palm. “I love you,” he repeats, pressing his lips to your knuckles. “You’re important to me,” again, to the back of your hand, “and we will get you the help you need. But for now we both just need to rest.”

“Thank you.”

“Always,” he responds, helping you tuck yourself back into his arms, and pulling the blanket up over you both. 

“Goodnight, child,” Deò says softly. “I love you. We will get through this together.”

You’re a little surprised by the declaration — he’s never told you anything like this before — but you return it nonetheless. “Love y’too,” you murmur.

Sleep comes to you easily, and this time, you have a good dream.

[whiskey-tango-matcha]

Before & After (M, flu)

You guys ready for a big, contagion-filled behemoth of a fic? Well, get ready because that's what this is lmao. Everyone gets to be sick for this one! It's written in kind of the same style as Then & Now, where we're flashing back to moments in time pre-Elliot's (the 'befores' are all 'before they all worked at Elliot's' and the 'afters' are the main story, they all happen in the same week), but this time all the guys get a fun lil flashback lol. This was a really fun write, I don't love every single part of it but I do really love some moments. Found family, my beloved.

CW: Male snz, CONTAGION (like... like a lot), flu (nothing scary happens though, they're just all extra-sick. maybe less flu, more cold-plus lmao), coughing, fevers. Also maybe a little TW for family problems, neglect, etc. Nothing crazy, but everyone gets a little familial gut punch.

Okay, enough chitchat. 6K words (oops) under the cut! I hope you like it if you decide to read it! It's crazy long, so I understand if no one wants to work their way through this one lmao, but if you do I'd love to hear any feedback, good, bad, or otherwise :)

Before & After

After

This year, like all the years before it, Greyson was the one who brought the flu into the restaurant.

“Oh, Christ,” Elijah moaned the moment the chef walked into the office. “C’mon man, it’s March. I figured we’d finally broken the curse.”

Greyson rolled his eyes, pushed past his boss, and slammed himself into the second rolling chair. “I’mb fine,” he said, his voice breaking on the second syllable. “Also, Mbarch is still winter, in mby defense. Hh-! Huhh… hnnn.” The chef rubbed under his nose, an attempt to coax the sneeze out that – “Hhh! Hh – guhhh, fuck mbe” – did not work.

“Bless you,” Elijah said, a dig that prompted a watery glare from Greyson. “March is not still winter.”

Annoyed, Greyson pulled out his phone and typed ‘when does winter end’ into google. When he got the answer he was hoping for, he pushed the phone to the other side of the desk – March 20 shone bold on the screen. Elijah pushed the phone with a pen back towards Greyson. “I’m not interested in touching your infected phone, thanks.”

“Just wanted to prove I was riiii – hh… hh -? Huh – hhhh. Snf.” Once again, Greyson raised an arm to catch a sneeze that staunchly refused to come. He glanced over at Elijah with watering, irritated eyes; the other man’s face was a mix between pity and disgust. “What?” he snapped.

Both of Elijah’s hands shot up; poking the bear was obviously not the right call today. “Nothing,” he said. “That just sounds fairly miserable. Can’t wait for all of us to be in the same boat. Definitely one of my favorite traditions you’ve bestowed on us.”

Greyson sighed, which prompted a flurry of barking, painful coughs. It was only eleven in the morning, but he felt as defeated as though he’d already worked a brutal shift. “It’s too busy for mbe to leave,” he said once he’d regained control of his spasming lungs. “It’s restaurant week, for God’s sake. Any other Tuesday, I’d just go home,” Greyson glanced up at his boss and shrugged, apologetic. “Sorry, Lij.”

Elijah pulled a weary hand down his face. “I shouldn’t be surprised,” he said. “Since this literally happens every single fucking year. But god, Grey, you certainly could’ve picked a better week.”

“Do you thingk I want to feel like shi – hh! Huh – HRRTSHHZCH-ue! Fucking finally,” Greyson nearly moaned in relief. He grabbed the tissue box that Elijah had placed on his side of the desk and tore into it. “In mby defense,” he said once he’d thrown the used tissues away, “at least this year I haven’t brought ndearly as much shit into the restaurant. I feel like mbaybe you should congratulate mbe on that. Hh...hhITSZCHH-ue!”

“Bless,” Elijah said, rolling his chair more towards the door to try and avoid the worst of the backsplash. “Yeah, Grey, you’re absolutely right, I should absolutely thank you for not bringing a thousand illnesses a month into the restaurant. What a normal and hinged thing to think.”

This prompted a stuffy laugh from the chef. “Whatever,” he said. “Ndot mby fault that Reed picked up sombe airport flu. What do you expect mbe to do, sequester mbyself fromb him? It’s a thousand-square-foot apartment, Lij. Sequestering isn’t exactly its selling point.”

“Mmm,” Elijah murmured, clicking his computer off. “Are you okay to work, honestly?” He placed a rough hand onto Greyson’s forehead, frowned at what he felt. “You’re hot.”

“Aww, see that’s all I’ve ever wanted to hear fromb you,” Greyson placed a hand on his heart as he pushed his boss’s hand off his head. “I’ll mbake it through,” he said, standing to put a chef coat on. “Try ndot to get too close. HRRSZCH-ue! Hh -! HUHESTZHH-ue!”

Try not to get too close. As if any of them stood a chance in hell.

Before

When he moved there, everyone had told him Chicago is cold, as though that weren’t the most obvious fucking thing on the planet. He’d rolled his eyes; he knew cold. Hell, he’d grown up in Minnesota – if anyone knew cold it was him.

As the months went on, though, and the muggy summer turned to blustery autumn, which turned to the frigid, bone-chilling winds of winter, Greyson realized what everyone meant. Yeah, the weather was icy and the wind could cut through you to the bone – but he figured when people said Chicago is cold, they just meant the weather.

They did not.

“Chef, you’re twenty minutes late.” It was the first thing he heard when he trudged into work that morning; not a ‘good morning’, not a ‘how are you’, not even a ‘hey, you look like shit, is that why you’re twenty minutes late?’. With effort, Greyson pushed his hood off his head and blinked his superior into focus. The older chef was quite literally holding his watch up to Greyson’s face, as though he thought this may be the first he’d ever heard of the concept of time.

“Sorry, Chef,” Greyson managed, his voice a mangled knot of congestion. “The train was runnding behind. Hh-! HhhNGTSXCH-ue!” In an attempt to stifle the sneeze, Greyson managed to pop one of his ears open; the sudden clarity of sound made his head spin. Do not pass out, he chided himself silently, grabbing onto the wall for stability. The executive chef rolled his eyes.

“Don’t tell me you’re fucking sick,” the older chef sneered. If he wasn’t already flushed from fever, Greyson’s face would have flamed in embarrassment. He shook his head.

“I’mb good, Chef,” he said, swallowing hard to keep from coughing. “Just… the wind mbakes mbe… sneeze. Sorry for being late.”

His boss sighed through his nose, annoyed. “I have three projects I need you to finish by the time service starts. Do not sneeze on my fucking food, Abbott, you hear me?” Greyson nodded. “Great. Now get to the prep kitchen, and don’t let me see or hear you until service. Don’t be late again.”

The executive chef turned on his heels and slammed the office door, leaving Greyson shivering in his heavy winter coat in the middle of the kitchen. Thoroughly chided and markedly ashamed, the sous chef slunk to the prep kitchen to begin his projects; each one took longer than the last, as his health rapidly deteriorated. By the time service had begun, Greyson’s lungs burned, his head throbbed, and he had no voice to speak of – instead of having family meal with the rest of the cooks, Greyson stepped outside into the freezing alleyway and lit a cigarette, a bad idea but this comforting ritual was all he had to keep going at this point. He pulled his phone out of his coat pocket. No new messages.

Instead of taking a puff of the cigarette, Greyson let out a single, choked sob; he hadn’t felt this shitty in years. What was the point of all this, of suffering for his career, of dealing with asshole, piece-of-shit chefs who didn’t give a fuck about anyone, of living in big, cold cities where everyone was just out for them-fucking-selves? He’d lived in Chicago for nearly a year and had exactly zero friends, had been on zero dates, and had exactly zero creative drive. Desperate for any connection, Greyson pulled up his messages and typed one out.

Greyson

4:37PM

hey, mom. how are you doing?

The wind howled around him while he waited for a response. The sun was already set, and darkness had settled over the alleyway; Greyson tried to remember the last time he saw the sun, without luck. Please respond, a tiny voice in his head begged. Please.

A minute passed, then two, then ten. Service was about to start; if he didn’t get inside to the middle station soon, his chef would come looking for him – and that wasn’t something anyone wanted. Greyson pressed his lips together, coughed painfully into his coat, and stubbed out the unsmoked cigarette. One last time, he checked his phone: no new messages.

After

Per the usual, Matt was the first to succumb to Greyson’s illness.

“Already?” Elijah groaned. The two chefs were in the back kitchen, though to say they were prepping would have been a stretch. “It’s literally been one day, Greyson, how did you already manage to get Matt sick?”

The question went unanswered; Greyson was a bit preoccupied. “Hhh-! Huh...hnghh. Fugck,” he groaned, sniffling into the sleeve of his jacket. “God, that’s getti’g old. Hh-!”

“Hh’IGTSZH-ue!” Behind him, Matt pitched forward, suddenly, into both hands. “Ew, gross – HRRTSH-uhh! Hh...ITSZHH-ue!”

“Stop fuckigg stealing fromb mbe,” Greyson growled, turning towards his sous chef. “It’s rude.”

“I’mb rude?” Matt balked, snatching the box of tissues from the table that separated him from both his bosses. “You’re the one who mbade mbe like thi-ihh… HTSZHH-ue! RRSHH-ue!” This time, he managed to cover his mouth with a handful of tissues. “God, I can’t stop fuckigg sndeezing. HHITSCHH-ue!”

“Don’t rub it in,” Greyson muttered, pawing at his nose. Beside him, Elijah’s eyes were closed, his lips pressed into a hard line of annoyance. “Mbaybe we should start taking bets,” Greyson said, elbowing his boss playfully to keep the man from completely losing it. “Who goes downd first, who goes down last… mbight be a fun activity for the whole fam-”

On the last syllable of ‘family’, Greyson’s voice – which was mangled to begin with – fell off completely. Elijah swung to look at his counterpart, as Greyson’s hand flew to his throat. “Oh, fuck,” Greyson whispered.

“Did you just lose your voice?” Elijah’s voice verged on the edge of mania. “Tell me you didn’t just lose your fucking voice.”

“Umb,” Greyson wheezed, with effort. “I didn’t just lose mby voice.”

Elijah groaned. Greyson let out a small, painful cough. Across the prep table, Matt was stuck in his own personal hell.

“HRRSHH-uhh! Fu – NGTXSH-ue! Hh-! Hh’ITSZCH-ue!”

The two older men shared a concerned glance – normally, it would have been Greyson who asked, but since apparently speaking was no longer an option for him, Elijah regarded the younger chef. “Matt… are you -”

“HRRSHH-ue!”

“-okay?” Elijah finished, as Matt succumbed to a fit of ticklish coughs. He blew his nose, then tossed the tissues and nodded at his bosses.

“I’mb okay,” he said, near-panting post-fit. The heel of his hand found his eye, rubbed until both Elijah and Greyson winced on his behalf. “Christ, Chef, where do you pick this shit up,” Matt muttered, more to himself than anything. As if in response, Greyson doubled over, coughing into his sleeve until his eyes watered with the effort.

Elijah looked from one chef to the other, unsure of what to do or say; what Greyson said yesterday held true. It was restaurant week, one of their busiest weeks of the year, and no matter how much he wanted to send these two idiots home, it just wasn’t in the cards. He checked his watch – 2:55PM. Almost two hours until service.

“Okay, listen up you sick fucks,” Elijah regarded the two chefs. “It’s time to take a nap.”

At the word nap, both chefs visibly deflated. “Lij,” Greyson whispered, “mbuch as I love that idea, like ten out of ten, would a thousand percent love to participate… we just have so mbuch prep to do for restaurant week.”

“Yeah,” Matt said, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand. “Like, we haven’t even gotten to half the mbenu. Hh-!”

“HHUHETSZCHH-ue!” This time, it was Greyson who doubled over to sneeze – a sound so harsh, Elijah was sure he wouldn’t even be able to whisper after it.

“Ndow who’s stealing,” Matt muttered, his sneeze obviously lost. They both glared at one another, then turned when Elijah began speaking again.

“Par the menu down,” he said. “It was choice of? Now it’s not. You two need to take some medicine and lay down, at least for an hour. I wish I could send you home, but I can’t.” He pushed a hand through his hair; obviously, this wasn’t a decision he wanted to make, but he had to do something. Otherwise there was just no way Greyson and Matt would make it through service.

“You’re sure, boss?” Matt asked, desperation painted on his face. If he could have made a sound, Elijah was sure Greyson would push back on this idea – as it stood, the executive chef just pressed his lips together, swallowed painfully. Elijah nodded, one curt, small nod.

“I’m sure,” he said. “Now, let’s get you two medicated.”

Before

Night was coming.

During the day, being sick with nowhere to go was not ideal, but ultimately it was fine. Matt would pick up extra hours at the diner – washing dishes, bussing tables, anything that didn’t involve having to speak – and stay there from open at four a.m. until they closed at six in the evening. It was hard to work while ill, yes, but it was easier than roaming the streets of New York with nothing to think about except how shitty he felt.

At night, though, the diner was closed. On normal days, Matt would crash at a friend or coworker’s house; he’d buy beer, or dinner, or weed and in return, he’d be granted a night on their couch, or their floor or – if he was lucky – a night pressed up against them in their bed. But those rare times when he was under the weather, he didn’t get invites to anyone’s home, no matter how close he thought they were. His weed and beer money never seemed to be enough to get any of his coworkers to bring an ailing Matt to their apartments, heat him up a can of soup, allow him a quiet night in a warm bed.

“NTSHZH-ue!” Matt sneezed painfully into his too-light jacket and shivered in the cold of the Manhattan evening. This was the third time he’d been sick since he was kicked out of his final foster home the day he turned eighteen, and each time went the same: he couldn’t manage to swing an evening at a friend’s house. The shelter turned him away – if we let you in, we get everyone sick, and then we’re taking care of a hundred sick homeless people. Sorry, it’s just policy. – and all his former foster parents let his calls go to voicemail. When it was finally too late to try anything else, Matt would find a bench in the park, put his backpack on his front with his jacket zipped up backwards over it to keep anyone from stealing it, and try to get some fitful rest until it was time to work again.

Eventually, just like every other time he’d been sick while living on the street, the cold and the elements would catch up with him. He’d end up with walking pneumonia, end up sleeping for at least one night in a bed in the ER. When the accounting department would ask where to send the medical bills after he’d been pumped full of antibiotics, he’d give them the address of one of his former foster families. Serves them fucking right, he’d think as he walked out of the emergency room.

Then, he would wait. He would go to work, get back to crashing on couches and sleeping with people he had no interest in just to get the sweet relief of one night in a bed, and he’d wait for the inevitable next illness to strike. Wait for the cold night to overtake him once again.

After

In the past, it had always been a toss-up as to whether Mark would fall victim to the yearly Greyson Flu. There were some years where he’d be the last to get it – usually a week or so after everyone else had recovered, which was exactly Mark’s style. Hold it together until everyone else is okay, he’d tell himself when he woke up with a sore throat and aching joints, and hold it together he would, until it was safe to take a day off. Then there were years where Mark was the only one to avoid the flu; his immune system tended to be better than the other manager’s, and he was the best at taking care of himself, though that wasn’t exactly a hard prize to win in this restaurant.

This year was different, though. This year, Mark and Matt were officially an item.

“NTSHH!” Mark wrenched to the side, attempting to hold back the sneeze that snuck up on him just as Elijah passed by the office. At the stifled sound, Elijah’s head turned on a swivel to see Mark, doubled over his elbow.

“No,” Elijah groaned, the look on his face so devastated that Mark felt his ears burn with shame. “Mark, please tell me you aren’t sick, too.”

Mark shook his head, attempted to keep from sniffling, and said, “I’mb ndot.” Wrong choice of words, he chided himself after hearing how congested his voice came out. Elijah looked like he might cry.

It was Day Three of the restaurant’s latest pestilence. Restaurant week hung over all of them like a wet blanket, soaking them to the bone, too heavy for anyone to remove. Each night had been busier than the last, and tonight – Friday night – was to be the busiest one of them all. Mark swallowed around a throat on fire. “I’mb sorry,” he whispered to his boss, sniffling. “Mbatt likes to snuggle whend he’s sick. Hh…hhETSCHH-uh!”

Taking pity, Elijah found one of the myriad tissue boxes placed strategically for the chefs on the line and brought it to Mark, who begrudgingly took one. “You’re supposed to be my rock, Mark,” Elijah said, his voice light and joking, but the words stinging the younger manager all the same. The GM sighed, pulling a hand down his face. “Greyson!” Elijah called towards the prep kitchen while Mark blew his nose.

After a beat, they both heard a hoarse call-back. “What?” Greyson asked. Elijah rolled his eyes, annoyed.

“Come here!” he yelled.

They both heard an audible groan from the back kitchen – at least his voice is back enough to groan, Mark found himself thinking – and then Greyson was standing in the doorway of the office, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel.

“Does it look like I have nothigg going ond?” Greyson asked, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. “I’mb ass-deep in yellowtail right ndo – ahh… ahKTXSHH-ue!” The chef attempted to stifle the sneeze into his elbow, then attempted to clear his throat – both attempts seemingly in vain.

“Bless,” Elijah said, automatically, before pointing directly at Mark’s face. “Look what you fuckin’ did. Asshole.”

Greyson’s eyes shifted towards the younger floor manager. Mark knew what he looked like; his eyes were red-rimmed, his mouth partially open in order to breathe, his nose scarlet and glistening. He had the flu, same as Greyson. They both looked like shit.

“Oops,” Greyson said, pressing a hand to Mark’s forehead and wincing. “To be fair to mbe,” Greyson said, turning towards Elijah, “this one’s mbore Mbatt’s fault than mbine.”

“Matt’s only sick because you are physically incapable of keeping germs to yourself. Now my fucking floor manager looks like he has a fucking wasting disease on the busiest night of the month.” Had they forgotten that Mark was still there? Or did they assume the fever had fried his brain past the point of understanding them?

“C’mon, Lij, he looks…” Greyson glanced back at Mark, made a little face. “He looks fine...ish.”

“No one would want him touching their table. I wouldn’t want him touching my table with a ten-foot pole.”

“That’s a little drambatic, don’t you thingk?”

“You kndow I’mb right here,” Mark broke into the conversation suddenly, prompting the other two to shoot their glances his way. “Right?”

With that, the wind was taken out of both Elijah and Greyson’s sails. “Sorry, Mark,” Elijah said, pulling a hand down his face. “You don’t look like you have a wasting disease.”

“Okay,” Mark said, brilliantly. “Thangk – GTSZCH-ue!” He sneezed into his lap, then lapsed into a fit of coughing. From above him, Mark heard Greyson snort out a laugh.

“Oh, fuck,” Greyson said, laughing and coughing at once. “Oh, jesus christ, we are so fucked.”

The laughter was as contagious as the illness Greyson brought in – Elijah was doubled over as well. “The fucking timing,” he guffawed. “The timing is just… it’s impeccable.”

Mark looked from one of his bosses to the other – Greyson doubled over coughing, Elijah crouched into a ball laughing – unsure of what to do. “Uh,” he said, “does all this mbean I can stay and work?”

If it was even possible, Elijah started laughing harder. “Fuck, Mark,” he sobbed with laughter, “you literally have to stay. We have no other choice but to put your half-dead ass on the floor.” Greyson grabbed his stomach, hysterical.

“Fuck, we have to stop I’mb gonna keel over,” he said, wiping under his eyes. “Oh, mby God.”

Behind them, Matt crept up from the prep kitchen. “What the fugck is goigg on up he – hh! HhITZSCHH-ue!”

This seemed to be the nail in the coffin; Greyson and Elijah fell to the floor in hysterics, with Matt and Mark groggily staring down at them. “Uh,” Matt said, wiping under his nose, “are they gonna be okay?”

Mark just blinked, bleary. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he said. “NTSHZCH-ue!”

Before

The phone lit up for the third time that hour, buzzing angrily in an attempt to get Mark’s attention. On the top of the screen, the word that always sent a pit directly into his stomach: Dad.

With effort, Mark rolled over on the uncomfortable dorm-room bed and picked the phone up off the side table. For a moment, he considered tossing it across the room, watching it shatter into a million pieces, never having to speak to his father again – a freedom he couldn’t even imagine. He answered the phone.

“’Lo?” Mark croaked, biting his cheek to keep from dissolving into a fit of coughs. He hadn’t spoken in almost three days, not since he’d gone to the campus infirmary for a Z-pack in an attempt to rid himself of the illness one of his roommates had so kindly brought back to their dorm, and his voice sounded rougher than he thought it would.

“Mark, that you?” his father boomed on the other end. “It’s your dad, why the hell didn’t you pick up the first time?”

A vein in Mark’s head pulsed at the immediate accusation; he’d texted his father after the first call that he was sleeping, but apparently that wasn’t an acceptable excuse. “Sorry,” he said, yanking the phone away from his face to cough into an elbow. When he brought the phone back, his dad was already speaking again.

“-money for the goddamn cafeteria, I thought we talked about this.” The tail end of a sentence, but Mark instinctively knew what the first part had been. His mother and father got a bill for the campus cafeteria, despite the fact that Mark had promised to get a job to cover his own food expenses at university. Fuck.

“I’mb sorry,” Mark said again. “I’ve been lookigg for work, but it’s hard to find sombewhere that’ll accommodate a student’s schedule. Hh – HRRSXHH-ue!” This time, he didn’t have time to pull the phone away. On the other end of the line, his father grunted.

“You sick?” he asked after a beat; an accusal, not a concern. Mark swallowed hard.

“Ndo, sir,” he said.

“Good,” his father replied. “Figure the job thing out, Mark. I get another damn grocery bill from that school, and I’m done paying for any of those damn classes. Got it?”

Mark pressed his lips together. Do not cry on the phone, do NOT. “Yes, sir,” he said, his voice small.

“Mom says hi,” his dad said, though Mark knew she hadn’t. “Talk soon.”

The line was cut before Mark had a chance to say goodbye – not that he wanted to. He let out a pathetically soupy cough, and put his head in his hands, defeated. What the fuck kind of parent says that shit, he allowed himself to think. The angry tears he’d held back during the call fell before he was able to sniff them back again. Fuck you, Dad.

For the next six weeks, until he finally found a part-time catering job, Mark would avoid the cafeteria completely; he’d scrounge from his friend’s leftovers, be the first at the dorm parties to shove cookies into his pockets, live on dollar gas station burritos so that he wouldn’t hear from his dad again. For now, he gave in to his baser desires: turning the phone over in his hand, Mark viciously hurled it across the room, cracking the screen into a million tiny webs.

After

By the time Sunday – the final day of restaurant week – rolled around, the restaurant could have been better classified as a biohazard unit.

“Last big night, guys,” Elijah said to the coughing, sniffling servers during the week’s final pre-shift. “Let’s just get through it and… and then we-ehh…” The servers all groaned as Elijah pitched into his elbow. “NGTZHH-ue!”

“Not you, too,” Riley, Elijah’s lead server, moaned. “Who’s going to help us on the floor now?”

Elijah flushed and cleared his throat. “Fuck off, all of you,” he said. “I’m fine. One sneeze does not the flu make. Let’s get back to the task at hand, hmm?”

They all knew, of course, that the denial was in vain. Elijah had felt the tendrils of a nasty fever work their way behind his eyes post-service the night before, and had only made it until four p.m. today without any accusations due to an arsenal of meds – meds that seemed, at this point, to be losing their ability to help him. His lungs felt heavy, his head and body ached, his nose was sore from sucking nose spray in every five fucking minutes. Despite the fact that they’d barely gone over any reservations, Elijah dismissed the servers to go eat family meal early; he needed to remedicate.

In the kitchen office, Matt and Mark were taking their Greyson-mandated nap on the pile of old tablecloths and coats; since his fever had broken, the executive chef seemed mostly-recovered and had taken charge of medicating and babysitting the younger managers. Elijah wasn’t about to complain; he had enough to deal with without doling out meds every five minutes. Perched in his office chair above the sleeping couple, Greyson was playing a loud-ass game on his phone with one hand and coughing into the other.

“Is there not anywhere else you can do that?” Elijah whispered, sitting quietly in his office chair. “Can you not see them trying to fucking sleep?”

“Oh, please,” Greyson said at full volume. “They’re out like fuckin’ lights. Watch.” He used the toe of one of his clogs to gently kick Matt’s shoulder. The sous chef let out a little cough in his sleep and rolled closer to Mark, not opening his eyes. “I snuck a little Nyquil in their teas,” Greyson admitted, laughing a little.

“Why would you do that?” Elijah asked, pressing his fingers into one of his eyes. “We still have service tonight, dipshit.”

“Oh, this was hours ago,” Greyson said, turning back to his phone game. “They’ll be good by five.” He shrugged. “Maybe. I was over listening to them coughing.”

“I’m over listening to you coughing, but you don’t see me drugging yehh – HNXTSH-ue! Huh - ! HRRSCHH-ue!” Elijah cleared his throat into the sleeve of his shirt, grimacing at the pain there. The soft sshhh of the box of tissues being slid across the desk prompted his eyes to shoot up from his elbow.

“Bless you,” Greyson said, pointedly. “Man, took you long enough to catch it. I feel like I should give you a prize or something.”

Elijah pulled a few tissues out and cleaned himself up. “I have ndot caught it,” he said, sucking in through his nose. “Until service is over tondight, I am well. I am healthy. I – HUHESTCHH-ue!” This time, he was unable to even partially stifle. Greyson made a noise of sympathy in the back of his throat, reached across the desk to put a hand on his boss’s arm.

“Yeah,” he said as Elijah blew his nose. “That’s not really how being sick works.”

Before

In his hand, Elijah held the key to the rest of his life.

He honestly couldn’t believe it was real; a key, a real, physical key to the restaurant he’d dreamed of since he was a child. Sliding it into the lock for the first time, Elijah could feel his life changing. The door creaked open and there it was: his restaurant, in all of its dusty, ripped-to-the-studs glory. Elijah pressed his lips together, on the verge of tears – nothing could ruin this moment for him. Nothi-

“NGTZSHH-ue! HRRSTSHH-ue! Fuck,” he wiped his nose with the back of his hand – ugh. Nothing could ruin this, he repeated to himself, not even this bitch of a cold he’d picked up at work three days prior; he’d been laid up in bed when he got the call from the commercial Realtor that actually, the keys would be ready for him today, if he wanted to pick them up. Never had he ever bolted out of bed so quickly.

Elijah walked carefully through what would one day be the dining room of Elliot’s, pressing his fingertips into the stone walls as though introducing himself to them. Hi, he whispered to the walls, the ceiling, the floors, the hundred-year-old stove that he was sure was a fire hazard. I’m home. Elijah had the sudden urge to call his parents.

It wasn’t an urge he had often; in fact, he’d only mentioned once in passing that he’d been trying to purchase a restaurant to them, and that was almost a year ago. But he needed to tell someone, needed someone to share in this excitement with him. He dialed his mom’s number.

“Hello, may I ask who’s calling?” his mother answered, formal as ever even though she knew exactly who had called. Elijah smiled into the phone.

“Mbom,” he said, his voice hoarse and congested. “It’s me – it’s Elijah.”

“Oh, Elijah, hi honey,” she said, distracted. “Is something wrong?”

“Ndo, mom, sombething is actually… ambazing,” Elijah said, still looking around his dark pre-restaurant. “Is dad there with you?”

“Mmm, yes, he’s watching golf, is this important honey? We were about to head out to the Club.” The Club. That was what Elijah’s parents called the only restaurant they’d ever cared about while he was growing up – the country club that was their pride and joy to be a part of. Elijah rolled his eyes.

“It’s really important,” he insisted. “Please – just put mbe on speakerphone. I have sombe huge ndews.”

The moment huge news came out of his mouth, Elijah knew he’d made a mistake. Immediately, his mother gasped and called to his father in delight – oh, no, Elijah thought.

“Honey! Greg, honey, it’s Elijah, he’s going back to school! He’s going back to medical school! Isn’t that right, sweetie? Huge news! Yes! Oh, we knew you’d go back. We knew this whole restaurant thing would blow over.” His mother’s voice tumbled out so quickly she was nearly breathless. Elijah felt his head spin.

“Mom, I-”

“Back to medical school, that’s great, son!” Elijah’s father bellowed from what was obviously the other side of the room. “My son, the doctor,” he mused.

Mouth dry, Elijah managed to speak over his parents, who were now discussing who at The Club they would tell first. “Mbom, Dad, please,” he managed, before dissolving into a coughing fit. His mother tutted.

“Oh, you sound terrible, sweetheart. All those nights up late studying, I’m sure!” The glee in his mother’s voice made Elijah sick to his stomach. He cleared his throat as well as he could.

“I’mb ndot going back to medical school, mbom,” he managed. On the other end of the line – silence. Elijah was fairly sure he could hear a distant sob from his mom. Finally, Elijah’s father spoke back up.

“Why would you tell your mother that, then? Christ, Elijah, haven’t you put her through enough?” Greg, never quick to anger unless it involved his wife, audibly sat back down in his chair. He mumbled something Elijah couldn’t hear.

“I – I didn’t tell her that,” Elijah said, voice raising like a teenager’s. “She didn’t even let mbe finish what I was saying.”

“You said you had huge news!” his mother bawled. “What else was I supposed to think it was?”

Without thinking, Elijah pulled the phone away from his ear and once again looked around his restaurant. Fucking medical school. He’d dropped out almost ten years ago, and here they were, still holding out for him to be their perfect little doctor. Looking for a reason to brag about him at the club. As it stood, he wasn’t sure if his parents even told their friends they had a son.

Elijah glanced back at his phone, where his mother was still crying on the other end; silently, he pressed the end button and put the phone back in his pocket. Elijah closed his eyes and attempted to take a deep breath without coughing. Nothing will ruin this for me, he thought as he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Nothing.

After

Keeping the post-restaurant-week, thank-god-that’s-over manager meeting had been Greyson’s idea; Elijah had said they should cancel, but Greyson insisted they keep it on. Since he was the only one well enough to execute it, and since Elijah needed the distraction of being around other people to keep him from his flu-ridden agony, he’d agreed. He hadn’t known that Greyson intended to host a meal and a mock-funeral for the week they’d just had, but somehow, it was the perfect salve to the burn that was restaurant week.

“Dearly beloved,” Greyson said from behind the line, mimicking a microphone with his hands, “we’re gathered here today in his hellhole of a kitchen in remembrance of the Week From Hell.” He raised his paper cup filled with whiskey, and Elijah, Matt, and Mark copied the gestures with their cups of tea. “May it forever rest in agony, and may we never have to speak of it ever again.”

“Amben,” the three other men called from the couch they’d dragged in from the host stand. Elijah suddenly turned into his sweatshirt to cough, prompting a groan from Matt and Mark beside him.

“Every timbe you do that you yank the fuckigg blanket off me,” Mark grumbled, pulling the blanket they were sharing back over his lap. “I’mb fuckin’ cold, boss.”

“Oh, please forgive mbe,” Elijah croaked when he was finally able to compose himself. “I’mb so sorry that the illness you gave mbe caused mbe to cough and mbake you cold.” He pulled a tissue out of the box on Matt’s lap between them and wiped his nose. “I’ll self-flagellate in the street as soon as I’mb able to mbove again.”

This prompted a laugh, followed by a soupy cough, from Matt. “He got you there, babe,” he said, touching his boyfriend’s face.

“Alright, alright, enough bickering,” Greyson called from behind the line. “Soup’s almost ready, are you assholes eating on Elijah’s nice couch?”

Greyson bowled the soup up, pushed a serving into each other man’s hands, and took his seat at the end of the couch next to Elijah. Silently, they all dug in.

Mark and Matt glanced over to Elijah for confirmation – the GM just shrugged, exhausted.

“I certainly can’t get up,” he said. “So I guess the answer is yes.”

“Fuck, that’s good, Chef,” Matt moaned, sniffling into his soup. “I don’t thingk I’ve had a real mbeal all week.”

Greyson raised an eyebrow at his sous. “Uh, thanks – I mean, that’s fairly concerning, but thanks anyway,” he said, prompting a laugh from all of them.

Without warning, mid-laugh, Elijah’s breath hitched. “Hh-! HRTSCHHH-ue!” Before he could realize what he was doing, the GM had turned towards Greyson and sneezed, mostly uncovered, into the chef’s face. Belatedly, he covered his face with his hand while Matt and Mark howled in laughter behind him.

“Bless you,” Greyson said, wiping his face with his hand. “Asshole.”

Elijah smiled – the laughter from the two younger chefs was contagious – and patted his friend’s shoulder. “I’d say sorry,” he said, “but to be fair, you’re the onde who got us into this mbess.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Greyson said, rolling his eyes and smiling. “Whatever. Just eat your soup, dickhead.”

The four of them, squished on the tiny couch like sick little sardines, must have been quite the sight; spilling soup on the expensive couch, coughing into a shared blanket, laughing and shoving each other gently when someone sneezed too close to someone else. From the outside, Elijah was sure that they looked crazy – who the hell came into work the one day they were closed? – but from the vantage point of the couch, he couldn’t think of one single place he’d rather be. In this kitchen, on this couch – with these men. With his family.