#and if he didn’t have that trauma layered on with his other trauma what he actually be like

[ickyrafe]

i feel like what the anons have been saying ab ward in the twin au is so…correct? Like I hadn’t thought about his place in it much but,

It’s literally CANON that Ward and Rafe have their own dick swinging contest about who is the man…and I feel like both of them would use reader as a pawn to upstage each other even more. It’s so twisted omfg like sometimes they forget that they are literally talking about someone they’re related to, then they remember, feel slightly sick about it and then the cycle repeats.

Anytime Ward is an asshole to Rafe reader would definitely console Rafe and Rafe would only say, “You and I have very different fathers.” So then reader would feel bad and guilt trip Ward later by being all weepy - bc she’s just as protective as Rafe, but not in the aggressive way like himself, more manipulative and conniving. Ward thinks she’s sweet and vulnerable because that’s who she needs to be for him to give her what she wants.

There are just so many freaking layers in this oh my god like Ward might even treat her like that BECAUSE she looks so much like his dead wife who, idk i read this somewhere, was the ‘perfect woman’ to Ward.

Furthermore!! In my head like the sick and twisted relationship (because let’s remember that incest IS sick and twisted) between reader and Rafe started because Ward was always a dick to Rafe and was always icky to reader like he would treat her like a mini wife as anons said. They sort of had shared trauma and because reader didn’t know anything other than Ward’s subverted love, she didn’t fully comprehend the reality of her relationship with Rafe?

Rafe on the other hand I think is a freaking messed up incel so he probably was jealous (like he is w Sarah in the show) of how ‘nice’ Ward treated Reader so he has the urge to be mean to her, but then he realises that he also wants to watch out for her so he can’t do that lmao.

Anytime Ward is an asshole to Rafe reader would definitely console Rafe and Rafe would only say, “You and I have very different fathers.”

oh my god like Ward might even treat her like that BECAUSE she looks so much like his dead wife who, idk i read this somewhere, was the ‘perfect woman’ to Ward.

i’m genuinely dizzy after those points… but i 100% agree with a good chunk of this, if not all of it. rafe and twin!reader are trauma bonded with every fiber of their being and bone in their body. even just from the perspective of them being the eldest, having to deal with losing their mother and ward spiraling for a bit. that being said i don’t think ward necessarily expects or forces reader to fall into the “wife” role at all nor does he mean to treat her like one at times… it just happens. if anything he does expect her to take on a lot of responsibility because as you said, all he can see is his dead wife when he looks at her. the mother of his fucked up children. i can see him turning to twin!reader for advice and comfort as opposed to rose A LOT, and it’s even more sick because he has her in his lap the whole time, using that tone that makes rafe want to beat his face in. the vibes in the house are rancid and twin!reader knows how to play both of them just right.

[wishchip106]

imagine what the xmen would be like if charles and erik were human

i’m imagining more movie version of xmen with this

if we look at first class moira did originally reach out to charles because he’s a genetics professor and not a mutant

when charles was doing his presentation at the CIA they were not convinced until he and raven showed their mutations

honestly don’t know how raven managed to tag along maybe charles convinced everyone she could come

but like without his telepathy he probably gets rejected and he likely leaves with raven

now erik was only taken in by shaw because he bended the gate so we just got to hope he survived the ‘average’ camp experience

although nothing about the holocaust is average

it could be likely he still becomes a n*zi hunter just without the advantages of his mutation

or he just tries to live his life after that insanely traumatic experience

who knows but basically its unlikely these two will ever meet unless we pull out a romance movie type meet cute thing

now onto the actual xmen starting with the first class mutants they’d likely still live their average lives in hiding (and alex in solitary confinement)

jean would likely be going through foster systems until she’s old enough to live on her own or she gets adopted but without the shields charles put in place her powers would likely take over her and she might end up causing a lot of harm to a lot of people

storm would either been in cairo still or somewhere else but if we’re focusing on the movie timelines, her power would be very minimal

she would likely grow up living on a thief’s wage until she finds something else to do with her life (i wouldn’t know what honestly)

scott would be walking around blindfolded 24/7 as he didn’t have hank to make his glasses for him. if alex continued to stay in solitary confinement he probably had no one to feel connected with

logan would still be fitting into his ‘wild animal’ thing and just moving around bar to bar trying to find something worth doing in his life

rogue would likely of died in the van explosion

a lot of the mutant kids living in the x-mansion wouldn’t have a place to call home and the majority of them would be living on the streets getting persecuted

there would be no brotherhood OR xmen to stop humans from wiping out mutants completely

sure maybe some mutants rise up to make they’re own groups but they likely don’t have the influence of a rich old white guy

crazy how much impact these guys have on the world

both with they’re influence on mutants AND their insanely dramatic romance that lives across the ages

[fuckyeahisawthat]

Up until the almost-end-of-the-world, the way Aziraphale and Crowley maintained their relationship was through a collection of well-established and repeated patterns (dances, you might say). These little rituals were what they used to communicate affection, intimacy and trust when they couldn’t say the things they wanted to say out loud. I like spending time with you. You make me happy, and I like making you happy. We’re in this together. I’ll always be there for you, even when your own side is not.

In season 1, as the stress of the impending apocalypse puts more and more pressure on their relationship, we see their patterns start to break down, and it’s very distressing for them. They’ve been communicating like this for so long that they don’t know what to do when one of them doesn’t follow the dance steps.

When we first see them in season 2, they seem in some ways to be closer than ever. They touch each other more easily, Aziraphale in particular. Crowley is comfortable enough in the bookshop that he has a Spot for putting his sunglasses when he takes them off by the door. They’re more open about acknowledging how much time they spend together and how many things in their lives are shared.

And I think, also, we expect them to be happy. They won, didn’t they? So it takes a while for the cracks to start to show.

It wasn’t until this post pointed out that the whole season, we never see them sit down and share a meal together in the present day (no, Crowley doesn’t eat; yes, it still counts) that it started coming together for me. The closer you look, the more you realize the old patterns they’re used to relying on are broken.

Three times, we see them sit down to their usual table for two (at the coffee shop, the bar, and the French restaurant) and then almost immediately get up again. This post also points out that we don’t see present-day Aziraphale eat anything on screen, other than one of the little candies in the Bentley. This in the same season we learn that Crowley is the one who introduced him to food! It’s one of their oldest rituals!

Even one of their most visually recognizable patterns starts to go wonky this season. In season 1, when the blocking allows it, Crowley’s always on Aziraphale’s left. When they’re standing or walking side by side, and most of the time when they’re sitting side by side together (there are some exceptions due to camera angles)…Crowley’s always on Aziraphale’s left (screen right if they’re facing us, screen left if we’re behind them). It’s one of the clues about the body swap that is easy to see when you know what to look for—in Berkeley Square they are each initially sitting on the “wrong” side of the bench. It’s so reliable that Aziraphale hears a little miracle bling in the sushi restaurant in s1 ep1 and turns to his left—because that’s where Crowley would appear—only to be startled by Gabriel on his right.

Go look at the scene where we find out Gabriel and Beez are a couple. You know the one.

And of course, many people have noted that in the end credits, we’d expect their positions on screen to be switched. They’re on the wrong sides. And it’s such a long shot that I think it has to be intentional.

Some people have speculated that this means they swapped bodies again. I don’t really buy that. Rather I think it is supposed to indicate what becomes extremely clear on a second viewing, that things are Off and Wrong. They are not okay.

And the more you watch them you see that Aziraphale’s excitement during his little adventures is manic and brittle, and that he misses having a place and a purpose and a mission to do good. And Crowley is depressed, unhealthily codependent, even more hypervigilant and cagey and angry than he was before. They both have layers and layers of trauma, and no way to talk about it. They have the time and freedom now to talk about what they want to be to each other, now that they don’t have to hide and encode and maintain plausible deniability. But they have no way to talk about that either, because that’s never been an option before. They don’t know how, and they are both so, so afraid.

And in the fights they have in episode 1 and episode 6, you realize they haven’t resolved anything from season 1. They’re having the same fight they had at the bandstand. Crowley wants to run, keep the two of them safe and damn the rest, and Aziraphale wants to stay and help, believing he can make a difference even in an imperfect system, and neither of them really understands the other’s position. It’s the same damn fight. They haven’t been able to move past this impasse, and it’s the exact thing that breaks them in the end.

And it’s just. Fuck. It’s such a human thing to have happened to them. To make it through the fire (metaphorical and literal) and then have everything go to shit afterward because of unaddressed traumas and insecurities and things left unsaid until they fester.

I know this is not at all how I expected the season to go, and I think it took a little while for me to parse what was going with their relationship, because we are predisposed to want them to be happy and to want things to be easy for them now. But it makes so much sense that this is where they ended up at this point in the story.

I know they’ll make it back to each other. They both love each other too much to give up. They’ll fight their way back together, and I know they’ll figure it out in the end.

But goddamn.

[feex]

So I made a really simple AU of mouthwashing

( does have spelling errors in the actual drawing )

My page: https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSjTNuGfN/

With this AU, it’s very direct from the title but only THREE of them survive ( Swansea, Anya and Daisuke. ) meanwhile Curly and Jimmy are the unfortunate ones who don’t make it back on earth alive atleast.

[ THE ALTERED VERSION OF IT ]

Pony express didn’t go bankrupt IMMEDIATELY in this universe, instead they were just lowering pay for each member except Curly.

They were all found 3 years later after everything had transpired, due to legal action it was a whole case causing major action in response, it was only a miracle how they managed to escape this ordeal.

SWANSEA - he managed to survive being shot in the eye and head, the bullet barely reaching his brain but leaving a fracture in his skull. losing an eye in the process and left with poor vision with the other. After he went back home he was already put into proper medical care and his wife takes care of him now due to his retirement but he has managed to recover swiftly but he still struggles with mobility, Swansea was a little stubborn to retire and let his wife take care but eventually he gave in. the whole incident does have him shaken up and he feels very conflicted about everything.

ANYA - The baby was immediately terminated by the OD and there would’ve been no chance of it surviving either way by the stress of everything happening on board, Anya is still left with the repercussions of the overdose and leaves her occasionally with chronic pain. Anya has completely avoided contact with Daisuke and Swansea due to not wanting to be reminded of anything that happened on Tulpar. Anya is studying psychology as a new field rather than becoming a nurse at the moment, she is in art therapy courses and she has created things to help her express internal turmoil as she slowly recovers physically and mentally.

DAISUKE - He had managed to survive somehow with a string of luck though having surgery for his face and nose causing a slight curve on the bridge of it. he has no eye on the right ( left if we’re being realistic) with the amount of blood he had lost he has anaemia and lost some of his colour in skin, he appears a bit lighter than he usually is. Daisuke is still trying to grow his hair out, having the side of his head shaved for surgery so now his hair is even more layered and choppy. Daisuke has huge gaps in memory and doesn’t have good memory anymore, he struggles with speech and is now in constant care by his mother who now never leaves his side, Daisuke by this point has halfway recovered but he’ll never be able to work on his own and have a proper job.

Meanwhile with Jimmy and Curly.

CURLY - because of his horrific injuries it was only cruel to keep him in constant agony, Anya couldn’t handle the pressure nor the sight of him in so much pain as he was barely surviving off painkillers. she was aware of the fact he would most likely die eventually, nobody killed Curly of course but he had succumbed to the injuries he faced, the exposed skin and the trauma his body faced couldn’t handle it.

JIMMY - He was spiralling, already he knew that if he ever went back home he’d face extreme consequences and with a cowardly move he’d resort to ending his own life. believing everyone on board was already dead which he wouldn’t know what to do, this was his own way of taking responsibility.

[nouearth]

my favorite scent is you.

bruce wayne x male reader.

summary: bruce needs to be taken care of too (in which reader believes it's through the form of sex).

wc: 3.5k. genre: smut, angst (kinda?). warnings: top!bruce, consensual!somnophilia, blowjobs, slow mouth-fucking, fondling, reader is asleep, bruce and reader are the same age, reader also grew up with bruce, mentions of parental death, trauma-bonding.

notes: it's been a while since i've done a brucey smut (and also fulfilled a request), so here ya go! actually my first time writing about somnophilia, so be easy on me, lmao. it was harder than i thought! also i'm trying a new layout,,, kinda, don't mind me.

“Do you remember that night? When my parents… you know.”

It had been a little less than a decade, but the uneasiness you felt when mentioning your parents’ death was akin to hovering your palm above an open flame. The flicker of the heat frightened you. Though, you couldn’t help but feel magnetic towards it—closer and closer—until you felt a strike to your calloused hand.

Just a little more, and you’ll break free.

It was striking how your wounds maintained their novelty. Years of skin hardening, scabbing and layering over the memory of Bruce breaking the news to you on that night, and the slightest mention of your parents tore it open with little defiance.

“Yeah…” Bruce whispered, and a sudden impulse to hold you prevailed over him. He turned over on his side, slipping his arms over and under your frame, and pulled your back flushed to his chest. You eased with a melting squirm, a physical gratitude, and then another when you pressed a kiss to his forearm. “It was supposed to be Alfred telling you, but I insisted.”

“Really?” Your curiosity was piqued and you felt Bruce nod into the crown of your head, breathing you in deep like his favourite cologne. A scent he’d never wear himself because it matched you perfectly. “How come?”

“Well, I had no one other than Alfred when my parents died. He tried his best, but we barely had time to grieve. A bunch of responsibilities were bestowed upon him overnight; my parents’ estate, numerous paperworks, the press and media, not to mention the funeral service. It was… a lot for him.”

Bruce sighed, squeezing you tighter for support as he continued. “I remember reading—signing off things that I knew nothing about the very next day.” He then laughed, a bitterness surfing for air in the bass of his voice. “I didn’t even have a signature yet.”

“I’m sorry…” A heaviness sank you and Bruce deeper into the mattress. You latched onto Bruce’s arm for support, held him gently, and found levity through the brush of his lips, as if he was saying—consoling you through the black void: I’m here, I’m here. 

“Is that why you guys hired my parents?”

“Mm-hm, we needed help around the manor while Alfred had bigger duties to tend to. And I’m glad he suggested the idea as much as I was apprehensive about it. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have met such an incredible family. A year became two, then another two, then another, and…” Bruce recalled the sounds, the visions of red and blue flashing—blaring into the sky.  “Which was why I thought it would be best if it came from me. So I could be that someone that I desperately needed during my grieving.”

“You shouldn’t have been thinking about that though… I mean, what—we were only fifteen? Coming from your background, you should’ve been… cocky, annoying, emo, selfish, like every other teenager.

“I guess your personality kind of compensated for that—” He amused himself with some levity.

“Hey!” You choked out a laugh, then lightly elbowed his stomach behind you. “Ass.”

“Ow,” Bruce pressed a smile to the back of your head, inhaling your scent again. “I did have that emo phase though.”

“Oh yeah—” Within his hold, you turned your body to meet Bruce face-to-face as a flood of memories came rushing in. You greeted him with a smile that he was able to single out from within the dark. Then, he made sure your presence was acknowledged with a chaste kiss. 

“Your hair came down to your nose and stuff—oh! And you kept wearing the same hoodie too.” 

“Yeah, okay—we get it. Not my best look.” He groaned, tearing himself away from you as your descriptions of Bruce suddenly developed into powerfully cringe-inducing memories. As embarrassing as the past was, he was glad it brought you some kind of merriment. He’d been scolded multiple times by numerous people, though namely Alfred, to treat you better.

You and Bruce weren’t always close. In all honesty, it took your parents’ death that empowered you two to stick together more than ever. Where darkness used to storm over the roof of the manor, you and Bruce managed to conjure a light that illuminated a path to find sanctuary within each other.

“Thank you for all you’ve done for me.” The moonlight reflecting through the bedroom window casted shadows across Bruce’s profile. Wrinkles you’ve never noticed before were accentuated; eye-bags that you’ve been nagging at him to take care of deepened; glimpses of a boy who was forced to grow up. 

He turned when you reached over to trace over the spotlighted features. A single digit caressed the bumpy bridge of his nose; the stubble that tickled you whenever you kissed; the cut over his broad chin that was your favorite spot to kiss,; the scar over his left cheek that had been healing for months, only to restart the process again after Bruce’s late night endeavors.

“Let me take care of you now.”

You weren’t sure how Bruce took your proposal. Recalling the moment had you adding unnecessary details that all-the-more exploded the situation into a narrative you couldn’t exactly trust.

Wait… he made a weird face when I told him. I remember a face! No, idiot—he just had an itch on his cheek. Oh.

I don’t remember his phone ringing… You think he was trying to get out of the conversation? Maybe? He usually has his phone set on the loudest volume possible…

Oh god, he probably thinks I’m some kind of sex-crazed addict. Well, aren’t you— No?! I just—wanted to take care of him… We rarely see each other these days and I doubt the lunches I’d make for him add much to that narrative. I needed something more. Wow, I’ve been talking to myself for this long?

You probably look crazed, especially if someone were to walk in the bedroom at this moment, but you’d be too deep into your thoughts to hardly notice. If you did notice, you’d probably go on a tangent about how Bruce was probably disgusted by how you could even suggest a thing like that.

Your toes and fingers curled at the recollection you were certain happened.

“So… I know you’ve been out late at night—” “(M/N), it’s not what you—” “Shh, I’m too good of a catch for you to cheat on me.” “I mean, keep that cockiness up and maybe—” “Excuse me?!” “I’m joking.” “Uh-huh, well, keep joking and I might have to rescind my offer.” “Your offer?” “Look, I haven’t seen you much lately. It’s not your fault. You’re busy.” “I know—I just need to deal with this…” “Bruce, you look—you are tired. You’re overworked and whenever we do spend time together, you’re asleep!” “I’m trying my b—” “You’re trying your best, I know! And I don’t know what you do at night, not sure if I do want to know, but… two-three hours of sleep is not enough. You’re killing your body.” “Hm…” “And one day, you’re going to crack and I just…” “Just..?” “I’m not sure how to… put it.” “What is it?” “If you want to… and it’s entirely up to you, but…” “Jesus, spit it out—” “I— if I’m still asleep, and you want to somehow… relieve your stress..?” “Oh—” “I’m all yours.”

The second hand on the clock cycled slower, almost as if it was mocking you for being so desperate, impatient, and doubting. Yet, at the same time—if clocks could have a personality—there was a dormant kindness in the rhythm of the minute hand striking every corner of the wheel. Gentle and soothing, the lids of your eyes grew heavier with every passing second as the sound of the clock counted sheeps for you.

Forty, forty-one… fourty-two… Forty… three…

The floor creaked despite Bruce’s best efforts to remain light on his feet. You’ve always been a light sleeper, even at the sound of wind whistling you’d jolt up to, but surprisingly—nothing. 

As he approached his side of the bed, his eyes settled on you like always. To Bruce, it was a sweet sigh of relief to come back home to you again. Sometimes, a miracle depending on the crimes of that night. Nightly patrols have taken a toll on him; on his body, on his mentality; but being in your presence always—no matter what—brought him back to the solitude his life was at before being laboured by vengeance.

Coldly, he sat on the edge, careful to not wake you, as he dried off the damp strands of his washed hair with a towel. Then, he chased after the tremors off his bare body with several rubs of the coarse towel, gathering water molecules into the material until he was somewhat dry. It was the typical nightly routine of Bruce Wayne, in which he was guilty of vacating you of.

Bruce witnessed—took part in—how you ended your night. A late night snack, a book, a tv show—and he’d stroke your hair to the sound of his heartbeat until you were out like a light. He’d never forget to kiss your forehead as if it was an enchantment that would guard him for the rest of the night. Naively, Bruce was apprehensive of the subtle chance of reducing his survival rate if he were to miss a night of seeing you—touching you. Even if you had the biggest argument with him, even if you were in the wrong, he’d make sure to see you one last time before escaping into the shadows, saving the city—saving you.

After dressing himself in a fresh set of briefs, the soft cushions of his bed and pillows enticed him back into sanctuary. He crawled back into bed and instinctively found his arms around your body, warm and full against the recovering bruises against his own flesh. Skipping dinner was a norm, but he felt satiated when he could hear you breathe, feel your pulse, and watch you writhe within his doting affection.

“Goodnight.” Bruce muttered as he nestled his nose into your hair, another deep inhale of your scent to ground him that you were still present in his life. And then another as his head turned towards your neck, a familiar smell that taunted him to lean closer until his nose pressed softly into the crook of your skin.

White musk.

The top note of his favourite cologne on you. It lingered delightfully in Bruce’s nostrils, and there was a reason why he always urged you to spray it on date nights. It was intoxicating.

Come to think of it, Bruce’s night routine hadn’t completely checked off all of his tasks for the night. After he would come home, it was a no-brainer to shower off the sweat, dirt, and sometimes blood, from his patrols. He would scrape his hair clean with the shampoo suds, mint and cooling on his scalp. Then he’d move onto his body. The suds would trickle down his torso, gather in his muscles, and he’d add onto the bubbles with his body wash, lathering himself from head to toe. And almost always, the slightest brush of his length would break the restraints the night had locked his sanity behind. It was always you that managed to free him. As he would squeeze himself, fondle his sack while the suds dribbled down his leg and feet, he’d think of you—miss you in ways he wouldn’t dare to ignore, ways in which he was ashamed to desert you of.

“I’m all yours.” Your proclamation echoed, ran marathons in Bruce’s mind as the white musk led him astray. The simple thought of him taking advantage of you guilted him, churned his stomach until it was bundled into thick knots, but it made his heart race.

“(M/N)?” He whispered. The bed creaked when Bruce peered over you, and he was met by silence. A few soft snores joined the ticking of the clock, but for the most part, silence.

I shouldn’t… Bruce convinced himself. It was… shameful to even think of taking advantage of you like that—in your unconscious state, in your vulnerability. You looked peaceful in your slumber and knowing how hard you worked, he wouldn’t dare to ruin it because of his own selfish desires.

He sighed, rolling flat onto his back again, hoping the uncomfortable ache in his briefs would settle down in a minute or so. When it didn’t, Bruce tended to it with a brief re-adjustment of the way his length stood. Then again as he twitched in defiance.

Again, as he throbbed.

And again, when his briefs couldn’t support his throbbing erection anymore. 

Bruce turned his head to the side, scanning your unconscious state. His eyes traced the languid form of your body as it sank deep into the mattress, hugging the air to your body while he slowly pulled the blanket off of you.

The bed creaked as inch by inch, Bruce scooted closer to you, turning back to lie on his side and nearly spooning you again. His movements were sluggish, apprehensive to wake you, but at the same time, there was an adrenaline rush surging through him knowing he could be caught any second (despite your permission).

His hand felt it as it caressed your arm in singular, docile strokes. Then his breath, as he leaned closer, pressing himself against you again, and slipped a hand under your shirt. Your bare stomach rested warmly against his calloused palm, and he felt your breath hitch, your stomach tensed, every evidence of your presence, as Bruce ran a palm upwards to touch your chest once, then back down to bravely slither under the waistband of your boxers.

“Fuck…” Bruce’s breath unevened, struggling to keep a steady rhythm, when his palm gently groped a handful of your flaccid cock, a complete opposite of the shameful erection he was prodding near your bottom. You writhed once, and he quickly paused with a shudder as you suddenly turned to lie on your back, smacking the dryness in your throat away as you drove yourself into deeper slumber.

He found it unusual how you haven’t awakened by now, but the cynical part of him pleaded for you to remain asleep—until he had his way with you.

Gently, Bruce lifted your hips to pull down the remainder of your boxers off until you were bare in all of your glory before him. Your balls lay briefly in between your legs before they were back to being fondled in his warm palms. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous like this…”

Droplets of sweat formed over Bruce’s hairline as he sluggishly maneuvered himself to kneel over your unconscious state. His thighs hardened, flexed as he maintained his balance over you. He stroked his cock with his free-hand; to the gentle snores you poured out, to your slightly parted lips that he could easily spread open with his girth, and to his surprise, to the stiffness of your cock as it stirred awake from his constant fondling.

What are you dreaming about? Are you dreaming of me? Are you dreaming of being fucked by me? Bruce groaned as he witnessed the once softened features of your face stiffened into diffident lust. Your breath unknowingly quickened when Bruce began stroking your cock together with his in one grasp. Your body writhed with uncomfortable pleasure as if you wanted whatever was happening to you to stop, yet the throbbing veins of your cock begged Bruce for more—to hold you for longer, to keep doing as he pleased.

Bruce forgot what it was like to have you like this; to have you squirming beautifully beneath him, dripping in heavy pre-cum while simultaneously having your cock lathered in his own fluid. He was enticed by your every movement, squirming and writhing confined by the state of slumber as you couldn’t stop him. You couldn’t stop the uncomfortable pleasure that was happening to you because you were dreaming a dream that refrained you from resisting your boyfriend.

I know you want it. Fuck… I know you want my cum, (M/N). He paused briefly to press his forehead into yours, sweat dripping off his face and onto your body in his maneuver, and breathed languidly against your lips to find the parting in order to breathe his lewd thoughts into you. Bruce was careless, dangerously brave as he slipped a tongue inside of you to spread your mouth open further. You made a sound, but he muted it with a swallow as he ravished you like honey on a spoon. Remnants of mint lingered on his tongue, and as much as he wanted to continue tasting you, he needed to relieve himself.

He was close.

Carefully, he dragged himself over your chest and kneeled over your chest. Bruce’s cock hung heavy above your slumber, dripping in thick strings of pre-cum from the plump tip—a shameful exhibit of how much this had turned him on, how much he had been deprived of this act for so long.

Open wide. It was morbid. Bruce never thought himself of ever once doing this obscene act, but the guilt that had been the cause of his apprehension was only fleeting the moment he pushed his cock into your sleeping mouth. 

“Oh, fuck…” He was careful with you. Careful enough to not stir you awake, but courageous enough to fulfill his sense of greed. Bruce pushed deeper, and deeper until he couldn’t anymore. His thick cock steadied your breathing and in favor, your saliva warmed him with complete gratitude.

Come on, I know you can take it… His eyes darkened at your inability to take his girth. As much as it sounded like a threat, it drove him delirious knowing you couldn’t. Even in your waking moments, it fueled a sense of pride when you gagged on his cock, covered him in bubbly thick spittle, and looked like an absolute mess while attempting to swallow him again.

Fuck, (M/N)... You’d pull him out when you had enough of gagging on his cock and jerk him off instead, catching your breath in the midst of it all. He never told you, but it was Bruce’s favourite part whenever you two did this together. The pure lust in your eyes, craving for a fill that you and him both know that he would deliver upon greatly. And somehow, as lewd as the act was, you both knew it was more than sex. You and Bruce were making love, fucking with a craving that you only have for each other because it was only you two that could bring this type of pleasure to one another. 

“Fuck—” Bruce paced himself, biting back an adamant moan, thrusting slow yet filling into your mouth as he held onto the headboard. The scrape of your teeth made him hiss, but the pleasure of your warm mouth was so fulfilling that it overwhelmed any painful feeling you’ve prescribed him to.

I’m close, (M/N)... Fuck, let me cum on you… On your body, on your face, I want it everywhere on you.

He released his cock from your mouth and took the heavy girth into his own palm, pumping the muscle with a sudden vigor that had been motivated to see you covered in his fluids. Bruce’s eyes rolled back into his lids, panting heavy and harder because he was so close—so fucking close. He could see you sticking your tongue out for him, on your knees, playing with your cum-covered cock as you would wait patiently for his reward. You would begin begging for it—his cum, his cock, him. You’d worship his body, mouthing at his toned thighs, then his abdominal muscles, licking the sweat off the gutters to briefly satiate your appetite for Bruce.

Until you were gifted with his indulgent desire for you and only you in the form of thick and creamy white ropes. “I’m comin—” Bruce’s stomach sucked in hard, his abs contracting while his thighs vibrated with tremors, then with a guttural push, he released himself with a strong grunt. His grasp directed his thick and heavy loads towards your chest and stomach, stroking his throbbing cock through the glorious sprays. He sucked in his teeth to control the sounds that were threatening to burst out of his throat and whimpered with a shudder when it was unmanageable, continuing to empty his balls until he could smell the heavy sex and musk off your body.

Scanning you from head to toe, Bruce was breathless. Despite his delirious stint, it was impressive to see you drifting off to sleep like nothing had happened. Or rather, it was impressive that he had a certain amount of control to not completely make love to you like a wild mammal, rousing you from sleep.

Nonetheless, he powered through the overwhelming need to sleep to clean you up, even if you hadn’t mind the mess. And like always, he never forgot to end his night with a kiss, pressing a chaste yet breathless pant to your lips.

“Think your way of ‘taking care of me’ needs more time in the workshop , but we’ll talk about it later.” 

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. andif you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

[blackenedsnow]

Hi! I just wanted to asked if you could make a fanfic of shadow the hedgehog and mobian!reader,

the reader has a huge fascination with death and everything morbid to the point they draw,paint,sculpture disturbing stuff like that and all this fascination comes from them seeing lots of tragedies and they use morbid content as a way to try and help themselves and try to desensitize themselves from what they have seen and shadow is not very aware of all of this but he slowly finds out about it and wants to confront the reader

beautiful darkness

WARNING: Mentions of death, morbid themes, trauma processing, emotional vulnerability

PAIRING: Shadow the Hedgehog x Reader

NOTE: Hello. 🖤 I love how you’ve woven the themes of tragedy and coping through art—it's such a deep and fascinating premise. I hope this hits the mark for you. Thank you for trusting me with this request! Take care of yourself.

SUMMARY: You’ve always used morbid art to process the tragedies you've seen, creating sculptures and drawings that pull beauty from the grim. When Shadow discovers the extent of your dark fascination, he struggles to understand—but he’s determined to confront you and offer the comfort he thinks you need.

The studio was silent, except for the scratch of your pencil against paper. You were deep in concentration, eyes narrowed as you worked on a sketch—a skeletal figure cradling a wilted rose, the petals dripping into a pool of ink-black shadows. To anyone else, it might seem morbid. To you, it was therapy.

Your hands moved with practiced grace, each line deliberate. These drawings, these sculptures, these pieces of darkness—they were your way of making sense of the chaos in your mind. You'd seen things that clung to your thoughts like cobwebs: tragedies that replayed in endless loops when you closed your eyes. If you could capture those horrors, render them into art, maybe you could take away their power. Maybe you could breathe again.

But you never told anyone why. Not even Shadow.

You weren’t sure he’d understand. Shadow was someone who carried his own grief quietly, wrapped in layers of stoicism. You admired his strength, his quiet resilience. But he rarely spoke of his pain. And if he didn’t share his darkness with you, why burden him with yours?

You didn’t notice him standing in the doorway until you felt his eyes on you—a heavy presence, like storm clouds rolling in. You startled, dropping your pencil.

“Shadow!” You quickly turned your sketchpad over, heart hammering in your chest. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

He didn’t respond immediately. His crimson eyes flicked from you to the scattered pages around the room: sketches of decayed flowers, statues of distorted figures, paintings of other extremely gorey things. His jaw tightened.

“I didn’t realize you were working on… this.” His voice was low, controlled.

You swallowed hard, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s just art,” you said, trying to sound casual. “It helps me clear my head.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “This isn’t just art. These… depictions of death and suffering—what are you trying to clear your head of?”

You looked away, fingers curling into your palms. You hadn’t expected him to find out like this. He was always respectful of your space, your privacy. But now the walls were down, and there was no hiding the truth.

“It’s complicated,” you whispered.

Shadow stepped into the room, his footsteps nearly silent. He crouched down in front of you, his gaze softening, though his intensity never waned. “Then help me understand.”

Your breath trembled in your chest. The vulnerability was like standing on a cliff’s edge, the wind threatening to pull you over. But the weight of keeping it all in was heavier still.

“I’ve seen things, Shadow,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s like those memories are burned into my mind. So I create these… morbid pieces. It’s my way of trying to control it. To face it.”

His eyes searched yours, a flicker of understanding sparking in the crimson depths. “You’re trying to desensitize yourself,” he said slowly. “To make the nightmares less powerful.”

You nodded. “Yeah. And maybe it’s weird. Maybe it’s too much. But it helps me.”

He was quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable. You braced for judgment, for the cold wall of misunderstanding. But then, Shadow reached out, his gloved hand gently brushing your cheek.

“It’s not too much,” he said softly.

Your eyes widened. “You mean that?”

He nodded. “I’ve faced my own darkness. And for a long time, I thought I had to carry it alone. But seeing you… how you process your pain—it’s not weakness. It’s strength.” He paused, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want you to drown in it.”

You felt a fresh wave of emotion swell in your chest. “I don’t want to drown, either. But sometimes it feels like the only way to stay afloat.”

Shadow’s grip on your hand tightened just slightly. “I may not understand everything, but I want to try.”

The words settled over you like a balm, soothing wounds you didn’t know were still open. You leaned into his touch, a shaky smile breaking through.

“Thank you, Shadow.”

He nodded once, his eyes filled with a quiet determination.

[daydreamer-in-reverie]

I think that, as a literary device, Finnick’s story is one of the most effective ones I have ever read.

When you think of victims of sex-related crimes, you so rarely think of a man.

In our modern society, we more often imagine women to be victims of such crimes. Beautiful women who are battered and bruised, their eyes holding that faraway gleam of pain and trauma. Sex-related violence against women is such a common occurrence that it is difficult to find a woman who doesn’t have intimate knowledge about it. Perhaps not every woman has been raped but every woman knows at least one who has. As young girls, we’re told so many things to try and prevent rape. Don’t go out by yourself at night. Be careful of what you wear. Don’t drink alcohol. Fight them off. And yet, if you did everything right and still fail at protecting yourself, just give in. Better raped than dead. Come home to your family and friends hurt and bruised but alive.

And it is this message that Finnick, a man, lives by.

Better taken advantage of, bruised and hurt, than dead. Better you than your parents or your siblings or Mags or Annie. Do whatever it takes to stay alive.

And, the thing is, we didn’t have to hear this story from him. We could have heard it from Cashmere.

In his propo to the Capitol, Finnick reveals that attractive Victors are pimped out by President Snow to the residents of the Capitol. One such Victor is Cashmere.

Knowing this layer of her story makes Cashmere the picture perfect victim. A woman who is repeatedly described as beautiful. She is a typical description of what a rape victim is. Suzanne could have used her character instead of Finnick’s to portray an instance so familiar to so many women and yet, she didn’t.

She chose Finnick. And I think the reason why she did that is because hearing it from Cashmere would have made the story fall flat.

Would we have blinked an eye had it been Cashmere who revealed the horrors of being a Victor? Would we have felt anything other than a vague sense of sympathy? I don’t think so. Like so many women before her, Cashmere’s story is so familiar to us that it no longer leaves that bitter taste in our mouths. We, as a society, have been so deeply desensitized to this plight that we no longer feel the same indignation we used to feel. Instead we are resigned to our fate. Cashemere isn’t the first victim of rape and she won’t be the last.

Yet to hear it from Finnick had us shocked. Finnick? A man? Attractive, to be sure, but he is at the prime of his life and yet he is a victim? Finnick, who can wield a trident so effectively he became the youngest Victor in the 75 years the Hunger Games operated, was raped? Finnick, who has literally killed people with his bare hands, was prostituted? Finnick, who cracked jokes about killing people was whored out by President Snow?

It is absurd! It is a bizarre and strange! It has to be untrue!

And yet it’s not.

Finnick being representative of that particular storyline was effective at reminding us of what it means to be victimized like that. And using Finnick, a man, instead of Cashmere, a woman, reminded us of why we have to be rightfully angry and upset about such things instead of resigned to our fates.

Suzanne Collins is an absolute literary genius.

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

can't fight the moonlight

kinktober, day twenty-nine

a/n: this one was a fantasy that was so fuzzy and took a surprisingly long time to figure out, but the hazy dream of it kept me going till i solved the puzzle

summary: it didn’t matter what you did or how hard you tried, you had no way of overpowering the beast the moonlight turned him into. 

warnings: werewolf!bucky barnes x reader, smut, bucky's wolf form is very humanoid looking (think more teen wolf, less twilight), dubcon/noncon, predator/prey, established relationship, monsterfucking, little to no foreplay, dirty talk, squirting, overstimulation, cock drunk, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, forced breeding, belly bulge, size kink, size difference

word count: 2345

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

masterlist | join my taglist | kinktober 2023

“…and you’ve got some water in case you get thirsty and-, oh! Do you have something to eat? A snack or something?” you blabbered tensely as you helped lock the heavy chains that your partner snaked securely around his own limbs, bolting him to the cold basement for the night, “because I could go make you-”

Letting the iron in his grasp suddenly fall to the floor in a loud clang, like a volcano he exploded, “no!” heatedly throwing his hands up as he fumed, “I don’t need a fucking snack, would you just-…” catching your wide eyes, his sudden anger thawed a bit as he finally heard his own words, “I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” you clutched your hands close to your chest, the keys tight in them dug into your palms.

Head lightly tilting to the side, Bucky let out a sigh, “you’re just trying to help and I’m-”

“It’s okay, I know,” you reassured him, “it’s the moon, I get it, don’t worry, darling,” you averted your gaze, staring down at the cold concrete floor, “I’m sorry about freaking out, like I do every month, but I just wanna do something that can make this better for you, even a little bit, anything, even though I know that there isn’t anything that can, I still can’t stop trying because I hate this,” you heard your voice grow thick and tears begin to blur up your vision, “I really really hate this.”

“Y/n…” you felt his fingers gently graze your cheek, bringing your glossy gaze back up to his, “you are helping, more than you even know. Before I met you, before you moved in and started being here every full moon, I was always terrified of getting out, terrified that I couldn’t detain myself enough and someone would end up getting hurt or worse… but I’m not scared of that anymore. It hasn’t happened once since you’ve been here to bolt the chains I can’t get to on my own and lock the doors from the other side. Plus knowing that you’ll be here when the sun eventually comes up, I hold onto that, no matter how painful it gets or how much I disappear, that fact doesn’t, it stays with me, keeps me somewhat sane throughout the night.” 

Letting out a shaky breath, you blinked away the mist in your eyes, trying to be brave as you uttered, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he exhaled, gazing at you as you leaned in to seal the final padlock with a click. Getting up to your feet, you stepped towards the door, but your fingers froze on the knob as Bucky’s voice filled the cellar once more, “try and get some sleep, okay? I’ll see you in a bit.”

Glancing over your shoulder at his shackled frame, sitting against the wall, skin already glistening from the pending trauma, you promised, “okay,” even though you knew this night wouldn’t be any different from the rest. 

You could never sleep when the moon was full, never even relax enough to rest for a bit. Even though the layers of resources that encased the basement silenced Bucky’s screams of agony from the rest of the neighbourhood as well as your own ears, just the knowledge that only one floor below where you were trying to slumber, there your beloved laid in pain as every single bone in his body had to break before he could turn into a monster of the moon, that awareness kept you up better than any caffeine could. 

Locking the solid steel door behind you, so you repeated with the one atop the wonky staircase, the rest of the house suddenly feeling so cold without his presence. 

Still clad in garb you’d worn to work, you couldn’t bother to change out of it even if the dress and stockings weren’t the most comfortable clothing to do an all-nighter in, you just seized the grey cabled cardigan draped over the armchair by the fireplace and shrugged it over top.

Holding the kettle under the tap to fill it up, your weary vision locked on the ominous sphere looming in the night sky clearly visible from the kitchen window. Losing yourself to the sight, too absorbed by the troubling thoughts it brought on, you only snapped out of the trance when cold water began to flow over the side of the pot and soak your hand that clutched it. 

“Oh, shit…” you mumbled as you hurried to turn off the water and pour some of the abundances back out into the sink. 

Placing it down on the stovetop, you listened to the gentle clicking that emanated before the eventual flame as you turned the knob. The slight heat radiating beneath the kettle persuaded you to shift into the living room and with the flick of a match, light the fireplace, granting yourself more of that soothing heat to help battle the night. 

You nearly jumped out of your skin when the water came to a boil, kettle whistling like a demon to relay the message. 

With a mug of tea in your hand, you curled up in the chair by the fire and picked up the half-read book discarded on the small side table. 

This was the routine, even though you never could concentrate, you still at least tried to distract yourself. 

A sudden bang ripped your eyes away from the page they had glazed over four times by now. Your vision instantly trained on the door to the cellar, clearly visible from where you were sitting. 

As the door then began to rattle rhythmically from an unyielding force, your body jumped at every thud, the novel in your grasp tumbling to the floor. 

Frozen in your seat, you watched as the door splintered, swiftly losing the short-lived battle and flying off its hinges.

With heavy footsteps, Bucky’s visage stepped into the light, except it wasn’t the Bucky you knew, not one you’d seen with your own eyes, but only ever heard tales about.

At first, you thought he still looked like himself, but as the firelight flickered across his form, you finally noticed just how altered he was. His natural body hair had quadrupled, fuzzing up his visage and the rippling muscles that hid beneath it, those as well seeming to have swelled up making his frame nearly unrecognisable. Though he always towered above your comparative stature, his height now was something else entirely. The sight of his eyes chilled you to the very bone, the calming blue was completely drowned out by a sea of black, with only a tiny golden flicker in the middle differentiating the obsidian. Nails long and tough like claws, broken chains still clung to his form as you watched his lip curl, a low growl rumbling throughout the room and letting you catch sight of his sharp teeth. 

Scarcely breathing at all, your hopes of him not noticing your presence began to fade as he predatorily sniffed the air. 

Your eyes suddenly grew wide as you spotted a part of him begin to swell up and come into the light. Throbbing, his unusually grand length intimidatingly curved upwards, it too haven grown just as the rest of his body had. 

Finally breaking through your terror, you sprung up and tried your best to run, though you didn’t get far as, within mere seconds, the natural hunter caught up to you and tackled you down to the ground, shredding the cosy knit you wore in the process. 

Cheek smooshed against the floorboards, you trembled beneath his beefy form as his flaming chest pressed against your back, knowing full well that if you made one wrong move, aggravated him in any sort of way, he could snap you like a twig. It didn’t matter what you did or how hard you tried, you had no way of overpowering the beast the moonlight turned him into. 

As your eyes flickered to the front door, it dawned on you that if he could break not only the chain that bound him, but also the strong basement doors, then the last barrier that kept him from the outside world wouldn’t even make him break a sweat. 

Growling directly in your ear, you felt his agitated breath fan across your face as his nose buried itself in your hair. Starved sniffs slowly travelling south, your heart nearly burst out of your chest as you felt him rip your clothes to shreds. Dress tattered and hanging off of you, your underwear swiftly disintegrated completely as only your stocking truly survived the attack, still clinging around your quivering thighs with only the smallest of tears to tell the tale. 

Grinding desperately against the curve of your form, his monstrous girth nudged against you, catching you off guard as even in this petrifying form, you still felt your body respond to him. 

“Bucky, Buck!” your voice squeaked in an attempt at breaking through to him, “it’s me! It’s me! It’s Y/n!” wildly flipping you over and roughly aligning himself with your core, you desperately tried to catch his dark eyes and try again, “Bucky, please!”

Joints locking up at the sound of your shrill cry, a flicker of reignition washed over his haunting glare, softening it slightly as you finally heard him speak, “…Y/n?” his voice was much lower than you’d ever heard it, though very much still his, “oh, fuck… I-…” a shaky breath escaped his lungs as he hovered above you, the tip of his cock nuzzled between your folds, “…I don’t think I can stop…” he grunted, his hand right beside your head digging into the floorboards and leaving splintery scratches in its wake, “I can’t fight it, I’m trying, but-”

“It's okay,” you carefully reached up and touched his cheek. You couldn’t let him run out that door and take some innocent lives. At this moment, all of his focus was aimed at you, so if it could just stay there and not stray till the sun came up, if you could distract him for only a little while longer, then the night might end without any unnecessary bloodshed. So, therefore, you gave in, “I love you, I love you so much,” your glistening eyes blinked up at him as you tried to speak with confidence, “you’re not gonna hurt me, I know you’re not. It’s okay, it’s-” 

Plunging into you, an almost animalistic noise accompanied his harsh action as the beast he’d become seized exactly what it desired. All of the air got pushed out of your lungs as he buried himself in you, stretching you out beyond belief and forcing a shuttering cry to tumble from your lips. 

Never mind the fact that he wasn’t wearing a condom, a thing the two of you had always been careful about, that detail fought to penetrate through the fog he sent you into. Stunned that you could even take it all, the sensation of him made your mind melt. You felt all of it. Every vein and every ridge, every jaw-dropping detail that decorated his monstrous cock drove you to madness.

“Fuck!” he snarled, bucking his hips so hard against yours that your whole body shook, the sloppy clapping of skin against skin filled the home as he greedily rammed against the deepest spot inside of you, “do you have any idea how long I’ve tried to break out of those chains?” leaning down closer, he inhaled deeply, “I can fucking smell you…” you shivered as his nose ghosted against yours, “all the way down in the basement, no matter where you are, I can always smell you… calling for me, begging me to come and rip you apart…”

Leaning back again, his bruising grip found your hips and plucked them up, holding them tight as the rest of you still laid melted against the floor like a puddle before him. Like a ragdoll in his grasp, he moved your body, fucking your drooling pussy like the ravenous beast he was. 

As your eyes fluttered down to where he virtually split you in two, the dull bulge that rhythmically appeared in your lower stomach at each and every one of his ruthless thrusts caught your attention, the vision making you dizzy. 

You had never felt like this, never felt anything so intense in your whole life. He was just so menacing, so magnetic, so massive. Your own enthusiasm caught you by surprise, especially as your cunt soon began to cry out around him, showing your living room floor in your want as you squirted all over his rock-hard girth. 

Usually, Bucky would slow down and give you a moment whenever you had an orgasm, but in this moment, tonight, it wasn’t your Bucky that was pounding the living hell out of you, it was someone else, something else, and that creature only seemed to get even more riled up by your lewd display as he picked up his speed till his gravelly groans grew louder and his efforts began to go sloppy. 

“Please, Buck,” you mumbly pleaded, picking up on his telltale signs through your cock drunk haze, “not inside.”

But he didn’t listen to you as he just kept on fucking you till he pumped your pussy full of his cum. 

Panting and puffing above you, he still kept up shallow thrusts, rocking you against him and pushing his load out of your overly sensitive cunt with every piercing plunge. 

“Buck?” you heard yourself uttered as you found his dark gaze, though what stared back at you was not your love anymore as there was no recognition to be found in his eyes at all. 

Slamming you back against him hard enough for it to sting, you shuttered at the possibility that he was nowhere near done satisfying his carnal desire. 

But just before he could ruin you completely, a sliver of light began to dawn on the far side wall. Glancing out the window, you barely managed to spot the morning crest over the treetops in the distance. 

© 2023 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[cryb4byem]

Purgatorium Part II

Kyojuro Rengoku x ArrangedMarriage! Reader

cw: 14.1k words, canon typical violence/injury, alcoholism, mild parental abuse/neglect

part one here

Every cell. Every fiber felt like it was trying to break free from your body. You had no idea what you were about to learn, and your implosion felt inevitable if you didn’t find out. 

The head of the Butterfly Mansion, the Insect Hashira, greeted you at the door. “Thank you for coming so swiftly, and by yourself. I am aware of your father-in-law's condition as well as how young your brother-in-law is.” She slid on a pair of white linen gloves before continuing.

“I’m sure you would like to know why my crow alerted you so suddenly.” If you weren’t wracked with panic, you would’ve admired her graceful, natural beauty. It seemed her almost enigmatic equanimity was the only thing keeping those around her, including you from spiraling. 

Her measured countenance and calm voice couldn’t have contrasted more with the state of the room around her. Three kakushi were slumped over each other, their faces to the wall quietly crying. Meanwhile other small girls with similar butterfly hair clips went in and out of the room beyond her with a controlled franticness. 

“Please listen to me carefully.” Her amethyst eyes pierced yours with a seriousness that was frankly, unsettling. “There was a confrontation between the Flame Pillar and the 3rd most powerful demon of Kibutsuji’s ranks about an hour ago.” Your breath catches in your throat, at the words. The 3rd most powerful demon? 

“He sustained severe transfixion trauma to his epigastric region. We moved quickly, and kept the demon’s limb in place as long as we could, and in that time he was able to stop most of the blood loss using a breathing technique.” Your hand shakily covers your mouth, the savagery of the attack, and the horror of such an injury were almost too much for you. 

“The amount of pain he is managing while conscious is unnatural, and quite concerning. We have been trying to sedate him since he arrived, but he begged to wait until you got here.” Her sharp gaze left you finally, shifting to the floor. “Despite his state, he was quite stubborn, and resisted our attempts to give it to him anyway.” 

You speak in a tensed whisper, “C-can I see him?” Each syllable was dragged from the pit of your body, you needed every bit of strength to not lose all composure. 

“Yes, quickly please. I trust you understand the criticality of this situation.” Shinobu looked over her shoulder to a young girl with bright blue eyes and pigtails as she turned into the room that seemed to be at the heart of the commotion in the Butterfly Mansion. 

“Aoi… please pull up the sheet on the Flame Pillar.” The girl’s brow furrowed in concentration, releases as she sees you, expression softening as she nods to Shinobu before disappearing behind the room’s entryway. 

“You can go ahead now.” Shinobu tells you finally. Upon her permission you begin hurrying into the room Aoi just turned into. “I just want to remind you we are doing all we can, and he is relatively stable for now… but… just be prepared…” 

You look over your shoulder back at Shinobu, words failing you before going in. The air hung heavy beyond the doorway, three little girls stood to the back wall awaiting orders while the slightly older girl, Aoi lighty ran a damp cloth over Kyojuro’s forehead. Delusionally, you imagined it was due to his warmth, the perpetual warmth emanating from his body everywhere he went, and not the onset of a stress induced fever and intense pain.

He laid, left eye wrapped in layers of bandage wrapping around his head, the thin hospital bed linens drawn to the base of his neck. Each of his labored inhale and exhale audible, a testament to his will actively clinging him to consciousness and keeping the looming threat of bleeding out at bay. 

His right eye fluttered open at your presence even without saying a word, the keen instincts of a warrior sharp as ever. 

“My flam-ACK.” He jumped to sit up, only for a guttural cough to send an abrupt jolt through his body, putting him onto his back. Laying immobilized once again, his breathing intensifying. 

“Rengoku-sama! Your wound! Shinobu-san told you not to move!” The little voice of one of the young girls behind you calls out her voice cracking, riddled with fear. 

His face contorts in discomfort, straining to utter “My apologies…” The words tumble out almost as if he doesn’t even know who he is saying it to; the little girls, you, himself, or maybe someone not even there. 

You look deeply into his uninjured eye, the bright golden orb that even now was completely free of clouds. You kneel at his bedside, feeling tears beginning to burn in the corners of your own eyes, you try to keep your tone as reassuring as possible and not let on how terrified you are. “Everything is going to be ok, alright?” 

His lips curl into a soft smile, his gaze softens, melting into yours like a stream of amber. You waited anxiously for a response, any response.

“Are you in pain?” His gentle expression remains unchanged as if he had just awoken from an afternoon nap, looking back at you. 

“Not anymore… If you’re here, I won’t feel a thing. I am fine, please do not worry.” His eye clamps shut as another searing pain courses through his body, making his breathing stutter again with a curt strangled groan. Despite what he said, it was clear he was in agony.

“Kyojuro…” Your brow furrows with concern as your eyes rake over his battered form. You look deeply into his eye intently trying to imprint every detail into your mind, as if the light may drain from it at any moment.

You didn’t even hear Shinobu’s delicate footsteps on the wooden floors or notice her until you looked up to see her at his opposite bedside, you were taken aback by her sudden presence. You shouldn’t be surprised, she is a hashira after all. 

“I’m sorry. We cannot wait any longer for the sedative. The more time goes without it…” She spoke solemnly, as though she knew what she needed to do, but almost didn’t have the heart to do it, almost. 

You felt one of the three small girls try to pull you back by your arm, “Ma’am please! Shinobu-san needs to work, you need to leave this room!” The words don’t even faze you, unmoving from your spot at his bedside. Making it clear to the entire Butterfly Mansion your stubbornness was only matched by Kyojuro’s himself. 

“Please don’t take him from me, not now. Please don't let someone else abandon me.” 

The words echo in your mind, like a cacophony of a lifetime of anxiety thrust to the surface all at once.

“She can stay. I’ll allow it.” Shinobu spoke, not taking her focus from the vial as she filled it with a solution, flicking it firmly to disperse any air bubbles. 

You feel the small girl release your arm going back to stand with the other two. You kept looking at Kyojuro, scared to look away, as if it was the last time you would ever bask in the warmth of his gaze. 

“My flame, let me tell you a few things.”  His voice was steady but strained, each word laced with sincerity.

“You don’t need to say anything… just save your strength.” You felt as though you were pleading with him at this point. 

“You’ve done enough, just rest.” 

You want to say to him, but you could see the seriousness on his face. Every man deserves to do with their last moments what they wish, and if these were just that, you would not be the one to deny him that. 

“Please, I want you to tell Senjuro he ought to follow the path he knows to be true, whatever path that may be. Remind my father to take care of his body.”

You look at Shinobu, almost as if to ask if there should be more witnesses to what could be the last words of the Flame Hashira, but she continued working, not even glancing down at you as she began administering the vial.

“And I want you to know that I love you.”

The tears you held in your eyes finally began to escape, your vision was cloaked in obscurity, but what did it even matter? As if anything was truly clear right now.

“I love you too.” That was clear to you if nothing else. What were otherwise the three most beautiful words one could utter to another, felt like they were just another deep wound you both inflicted each other with. Had he even heard what you said? Knowing him, he would feel personally responsible for the notion that another person would be agonizing over his condition.

The onslaught of emotion finally manifests in a strangled sob, wiping the tears from your eyes with the back of your sleeve. Seeing his golden iris enveloped beneath his closed eyelid and breathing softened, it is obvious the vial Shinobu gave him had already taken effect. 

Pressing the back of two fingers to his forehead, the only thing that you can use to ground yourself is that same unyielding warmth he radiated.

—————————————

You aren’t sure how many hours you’d been in the room. Time didn’t feel like it was passing. Maybe a part of you thought that if you kept looking at him long enough, you could pretend maybe he was finally getting the rest he deserved and not in a catatonic, forced respite from the wound that should have taken his life.

“You should go home. I’ll keep an eye on him personally.” Shinobu's voice was lighter than the chirp of a sparrow. “Trust me, the best recovery is sleep. Sometimes slayers sleep for months here, regaining their strength.” 

You cock your head over your shoulder to look at her, eyes wide and mouth agape. She raised a pointed finger, she was like a doll the way a perpetual contentment was painted to her face, it was a bit uncanny. 

“Not that I’m saying this will happen here. I induced the comatose state he is in, so everything is controlled, I made the compound so that he would naturally awaken when his body is in better condition.” 

This woman was truly a genius apothecarist, how did she even learn to make such a solution? 

“I see…” You didn’t want to stand yet; you craved just a moment more in his presence. You try to smile at her genuinely, but you knew it must have looked just as contrived as hers did. You didn’t have Kyojuro’s gift—the ability to smile authentically and joyfully, no matter how bleak things appeared.

“Before you go, can I give you his personal effects?” Your eyes moved from the floor to meet hers, nodding with the same polite smile still plastered on.

Shinobu took a package that couldn’t have contained more than a couple items from one of the youngest girls that helped around the Butterfly Mansion, transferring it into your grasp. 

Removing the thread and paper encasing the items, Shinobu stood unmoving before you, her eyes following your hands. Despite the smile she armed herself with, her gaze deepened, like this was something she understood all too well. 

Seeing the familiar kaen pattern, you stroked the back of your hand across the sturdy fabric of the Flame Hashira haori. Only to freeze as you feel something solid wrapped inside of it. Without hesitation, you reached within the white accented garment to pull out a rectangular box.

Could it be? Sliding the lid from the basin of the firm container to see delicate metal and crystal intertwined to make a plum blossom hairpin, the same kind that had saved your life not long ago. Your hands tremble uncontrollably as you remove it from its resting place.

“We found it in his pocket, even with the aftermath of the battle and the panic as he was rushed in, he implored us to be gentle in handling it…” 

After your first hairpin broke he must’ve planned to bring a new one for you that morning. Even with a gaping wound, he was concerning himself with being able to offer you an undamaged gift to replace the one he initially gave you when you arrived.

You clutched the package as if it was sacred, like maybe that if you didn’t, it would all slip through your grasp and cease to be like everything seemed to at the moment.

“Thank you for everything…” You finally broke the silence, your voice barely above a whisper. You lower yourself to bow to Shinobu, before leaving, perhaps leaving a part of yourself behind as you do. 

 —————————————

There was a general malaise of silence at the house in contrast to the mid morning light, seemingly blanketing the grounds as if it was just another day. Something felt wrong about returning here alone from the Butterfly Estate. You scoured for the younger Rengoku, no doubt wanting– needing an update on the state of his older brother. 

You finally found him sitting alone in a room holding a sheathed sword in his lap. His head lowered as if in surrender, he was trembling as if terrified of what laid beneath the sheath.

You didn’t even know Senjuro owned a blade, it seemed ornamental at best. It looked as though it had never used a day since it was forged. 

Upon seeing you, his hazed and shaky expression was replaced with a mix of worry. Before he could ask you the burning question that had no doubt been haunting him, you notice a patch of tender skin on his cheek, an abrasion that looked as though it would bruise. 

“What happened to your face?” You lean lower yourself next to him to inspect, running your thumb over the skin, flushed red and running warm from the inflammation.

He turned his face to conceal the sore cheek from your view, putting his own hand over it. “One of the other swordsmen that joined brother on the mission came by the house…” His gaze faltered, shifting to looking at the ground. “He wanted to apologize… he was ashamed,  for not being able to do more in that battle.” 

“Father began insulting my brother, then suddenly was enraged by the slayer. Things began escalating. I tried to protect the slayer, and Father hit me…” 

You couldn’t believe the words you heard. You were sickened to your core. Beyond the scope of a Hashira, the scope of a patriarch, how could a father act this way? 

Words are one thing, as merciless as they were, especially to a man fighting for his life, but to strike someone so much smaller and weaker was despicable. Both were so egregious, it was impossible to even say which was worse. 

Taking a moment, you calmed yourself down, grounding your thoughts before responding. “Are you ok?” 

Senjuro kept his face angled down and the evidence of the violence that had occurred in your own home while you were out. 

“I’m fine… this is nothing.” He dragged his sleeve across his eyes with a soft sniffle, you could see how hard he worked to hide his emotions coming to the surface, there was something more important to him. “My brother… is he…?”

“He’s… sleeping, that’s all. They’re doing everything they can… ” You feel a lump forming in your throat at the words. You didn’t want to acknowledge what you were both thinking just as much as Senjuro didn’t want to. 

“I-I see.” His gaze stayed low to the ground, even as his fists balled at his sides with resolve. “Maybe… it will work now. It has to.”

Senjuro shakily removed the blade from its cover, sticking it straight in the air, looking up at it with anticipation. The sword quivered in the trembling hands of the boy. He looked up at it as if it was a beacon with the ability to connect him to a higher power. He stared up, waiting for something, anything to happen. Releasing a resigned exhale, his head dropped as the tears he had desperately held back began to flow freely. 

“I really don’t have any talent at all.” He looked up at you, dejection etched into every one of his features, “I prayed this day would never come, I knew I wouldn’t ever be able to carry on the Flame Hashira. This time, more than ever, my nichirin sword needed to change color. But even now, it refuses to. All because I simply don’t have what it takes.”

He set the sword down, his palms face up on his knees, silently sitting on the tatami floors. You wrap your arms around him, feeling him starting to shudder against you punctuating each sharp sob. 

“Do you want to know what your brother told me to tell you before he fell asleep?” You lower your voice to a murmur. 

“Wh-What did he say?” he stuttered, his lips pursed and voice trembling, but there remained a glint of hope evident as he stared at you, waiting intently to hear. 

You spoke steadily, trying to fully encapsulate the sincerity of Kyojuro’s words, hoping if he could hear his brother’s voice through you, maybe it would comfort him in ways you never could. “‘Walk the path you know to be true, whatever path that may be.’” 

He looked up at you, his glassy eyes widened, you could see him absorbing every syllable as if it was from a holy text leading him into enlightenment when the shoji door flew open to both of your shock.

“Senjuro! What did I tell you about the blubbering? I can hear your pathetic crying from across the house! As if Kyojuro hadn’t done enough, you had to show that Sun Breather how weak you are too! As if our family couldn’t be any more humiliated!”

Senjuro’s face drained of color, his pupils trembling at the intimidating figure in the doorway. 

“You’re the eldest son of this family now, so learn something from your fool of a brother!” He gritted his teeth, now speaking to no one in particular. “Trying to supplement his own inferiority, trying to make up for our insignificant bloodline, I have no doubt he used that cursed form to try to salvage a battle he was doomed to lose from the start. He should’ve never even picked up a sword to begin with!”

Cursed form? Sun Breather? Did he mean the boy with the earrings that Senjuro spoke of? You had learned to ignore most of what Shinjuro said; these ravings were likely just another temper tantrum fueled by the stuporous overindulgence he found at the bottom of several bottles. 

The discomfort hung like a chill in the air, filling the space between the fragmented inanities of the harsh words echoing through the room. Shinjuro finally lumbered away, the jug still tied around his wrist. You sat in the silence left in his wake, almost envisioning Kyojuro in that hospital bed, each breath he took and each pound within his chest a cry of hope.

You close your eyes for a moment before speaking in a hushed voice to Senjuro, “Your brother believes in you, always has. He’s fighting so he can be sure to come home and remind you of that himself.”

—————————————

“This hurts like hell!” The Sound Hashira grumbled to no one in particular. Kyojuro could only watch as his fellow Hashira limped from the doorway into the hospital bed the Butterfly Mansion staff had apathetically pointed to. 

The young nurses reassuring him that the Insect Hashira would be there “when she gets the chance” to treat his injuries. The adrenaline from battle must’ve finally dissipated by the time he reached the Butterfly Mansion.

After settling in with a few labored breaths, the man finally turned to his side, noticing Kyojuro in the bed beside him.“Rengoku? How long have you been up? Why are you still here?” 

“A few hours. Kocho has been keeping a close eye before she discharges me, but I should be good to go by now. Nevermind that though, what happened to you?” He had never seen the Sound Pillar as battered and bloody as he appeared before him now. 

“Remember how I was organizing some infiltration into the Entertainment District? Looking for an upper rank?” Kyojuro nodded intently, he was well aware of the operation in the Sound Pillar’s sector before he even boarded the train. 

“Well, we found it. The district is leveled, but we defeated the threat. And look, the two of us are matching now, and I even got one up on you.” The man gestured to his own covered eye before waving his left arm, permanently disfigured.

Even in this state, Uzui always had something to say to lighten the mood. Kyojuro always respected that trait in him, it was one of the primary reasons they got along as well as they did.

“You didn’t…” Kyojuro searched for the right word to describe the Sound Pillar's hobbled gait as he made his way from the entrance to the cot where he was now confined, as respectfully as possible. “Ambulate…  yourself all the way from Yoshiwara I hope?”

“Oh, absolutely not.” The Sound Hashira shook his head with pride. “My wives were there for me, of course. But Kocho said they couldn’t help me inside. Something about a very strict rule with spouses not being allowed to enter the Butterfly Mansion for any reason.” 

Uzui spoke with restlessness, trying to get comfortable in the hospital bed clearly not befitting his frame before trying to read the face of the Flame Pillar beside him. “Did she tell you about that too?” 

Kyojuro’s eyebrows knit together. “I was not aware of such a policy…” He said slowly, as if he was trying to figure out what his fellow pillar was referring to with each word. He affixed his gaze upon his comrade’s arm, bandaged shoddily in the heat of battle, severed at the wrist.

“As a dual wielder…” His lips pursed as he analyzed the sight before him. “You may have to adapt your swordsmanship.”

Kyojuro chuckled before resting his hand lightly on the covered wound punctured into his abdomen, “I was quite concerned for myself, but fortunately recovery is an option for me as well. It’s all of no matter, we will just have to train harder and get back to where we were!” 

Uzui studied the face of the Flame Hashira looking for any shred of sarcasm. “A-are you serious?” His eyes widened with shock, glancing down at the tightly wrapped bandages over Kyojuro’s chest.

“Of course I am, what are you trying to say?” Kyojuro looked at the Sound Pillar inquisitively.

The Sound Hashira exhaled sharply, lowering his eyes resolutely with a soft smile, “I’m stepping down. I’m done fighting.” Upon processing the rest of what Kyojuro confidently announced to him his head jerked to face him in disbelief. “You aren’t actually considering going back are you?”

“But as pillars-” Kyojuro was cut off mid sentence, his curiosity now only building with what his friend was telling him.

“I like to think I’m Lord Uzui Tengen before I’m the Sound Pillar.” He declared matter of factly, before his tone devolved back into its characteristic quippiness. “You’ve always blurred that line, but most bastards lucky enough to take a hole in the chest and live would see themselves the same.” 

Kyojuro tried to think back to the exact moment of impact, the demonic fist piercing his flesh, in the face of what could only be described as certain death had he drawn a distinction between the two?

Kyojuro’s ponderance was interrupted by the petite form of the Insect Pillar shadowed by the younger girl with blue eyes and pigtails coming in the doorway seemingly with no urgency at all. “Thank gods!” Uzui exclaimed, the exasperation ripe in his voice. “I thought you all forgot about me!”

Kocho spoke her voice sweet and light as ever complimented by the poignant, contented countenance she always had. “Oh dear! Of course not!” She gestured to the three youngest Butterfly Mansion girls to bring her a tray with some instruments and antiseptics. 

Tears formed in the corner of their eyes as they approached the Sound Hashira’s bedside to hand it off to their master, clinging to each other and hurrying away once they did as they were instructed. 

“Hey Kocho, do you have any painkillers or anything before you stitch me up?” Uzui spoke with a tinge of desperation, one he was clearly trying to suppress in the presence of others.

“Unfortunately, I don't recall we have anything strong enough for you here.” The Insect Pillar spoke with a curt sharpness.

The blue-eyed nurse with pigtails was much easier to read than her master. Even with the grimace she typically bore while concentrating on work, there was a particular scorn in her eyes that seemed to run deep. She stared daggers at the Sound Pillar, it was truly a distaste only unpleasant familiarity can foster. 

The Insect Pillar worked, doing little to prepare her patient for her next action, hastily attending to the injuries of her fellow Hashira. Her doll-like smile unchanging as heavy handedly she doused his deep lacerations with antiseptic before stitching them shut with fresh bandages.

Upon finishing, she walked away without another word or so much as a check in to ask how the Sound Pillar was feeling now, even though she hadn’t seemed to be rushing to another bedside as she retreated without a second glance

Uzui released the grit of his teeth following his treatment, sincerity filling his tone. “About your injury, sorry I didn’t come see you. I had my crow watch closely; it told me you were stable in Kocho’s care, although maybe that should’ve been something that worried me more than it did.” He squirmed in place momentarily, no doubt feeling some residual discomfort in the absence of anything to ease his pain before being treated.

Kyojuro shook his head “No, the staff here is the picture of gentleness and care for its patients, Kocho and all her sisters treated me with the utmost kindness and consideration.” 

Uzui looked out the doorway to see the three youngest Butterfly Sisters looking at him with aversion, still on the verge of tears, while the blue-eyed pigtailed nurse’s contemptuous stare only intensified in her master’s absence. 

The Sound Hashira chuckled to himself blithely. “Huh. You don’t say.” 

His gaze moved from the main room beyond the doorway back to Kyojuro in the hospital bed beside him. “I just couldn’t bring myself to leave the district once I stopped getting updates from my girls.” A playful smirk crossed his face again as his solemn tone brightened, “I figured mere Upper Three wouldn’t be enough to take you out. I trust you understand.” 

Kyojuro looked at him knowingly with a reassuring smile, “Of course. No need to explain any further.”

“You know, the kids that were on the train with you volunteered to come to the district with me. The Kamado boy in particular gushed on and on, don’t be surprised if you start getting fan mail from him.” 

A warm smile crept across Kyojuro’s features at the mention. Hearing they had all recovered quickly and been assigned another mission while he had been out, made every drop of blood shed feel all the more worth it. He really had been able to protect them as he was expected to after the train incident, even if he in  the end failed to finish off the upper rank. 

“Ah yes, young Kamado. Truly good natured. I’m sure he would speak fondly of anyone who fought by his side.” He folded his arms across his chest assuredly as he always seemed to when he felt idle. 

The Sound Pillar moved his one good arm casually behind his head. “I don’t think just ‘anyone’ could have done what you did in the first place.” 

Uzui sighed. “You’ve done good, Mister Flame Pillar. I think you deserve to just be Rengoku now.” Kyojuro tried to hide the thoughtful pensivity welling behind his eyes before spreading across his face. Kyojuro knew he had always been able to read like a book, trying as he might to hide how he felt.

“Ugh. No need to do the Tomioka face.” The Sound Hashira said less than affectionately, He feigned annoyance, but his genuine concern was evident. “It’s up to you of course, but I think you should take a cue from me and go home to your wife now. Give my best to your mini-me.”

—————————————

By the time Kocho had let him leave the Butterfly Mansion, she wrapped his bandages extra taught, surely expecting he would have removed them the minute he was out of her sight. She was not wrong, he had definitely contemplated tearing them off before he returned to his home. 

But he knew he ought to leave them for now. Show the bare wound? Too disturbing. An eyepatch felt too drastic, permanent. Even though he was told to be cautiously optimistic at best on recovering his sight in that eye, bandages gave the hopeful impression to both his family and himself that regaining his vision was not out of the realm of possibility just yet. 

And there was the matter of crutches. He’d declined the nurses’ offer without a second thought. He wasn’t above using them, of course—he had used crutches before when it was necessary. 

But this time felt different. This time, he had come closer to death than he ever had before, closer than he had ever imagined. The weight of that knowledge was still fresh, he liked to think that was to blame for the piercing sensation beneath his ribs rather than the obvious.

Turning the corner into his ancestral home, he was not surprised to see his brother doing his daily chores per usual. Senjuro swept the entryway with a thousand yard stare. His gaze was unfocused, the bristles haphazardly brushing over the floor as if he wasn’t truly seeing it beneath him. He seemed to move mechanically as if the incessant noise in his head left him catatonic. 

As much as he wished Senjuro would let others help him, he knew productivity usually brought him peace of mind. Likely now more than ever thanks to his extended stay at the Butterfly Mansion riddling them all with uncertainty. 

Upon seeing him, Senjuro dropped his broom, his hazed expression replaced with overjoy. He ran over stopping himself in his tracks before jumping into his still recovering older brother’s arms.

Senjuro’s smile faltered as he took a small, hesitant step back, his gaze flickering down to Kyojuro’s chest, then back up to his face. He looked scared to get any closer, as if Kyojuro was made of glass and the slightest touch would make him shatter before his eyes. Kyojuro slowly opened his arms, donning his iconic smile brimming with warmth and familiarity. A simple reassurance.

That was all needed for Senjuro’s momentary unease to be erased. Without a second thought, Senjuro closed the distance, throwing his arms around his elder brother in a tight embrace. 

He let out a slight hmph slightly faltering backward for a moment. The pressure against his abdomen was not exactly comfortable, but that did not stop him from tightening his own arms around his little brother. 

“Thank gods Kanroji-san brought some sweet potato and sakura mochi earlier! I would’ve made more if we had gotten a crow you were discharged!”

Kyojuro did not have the heart to tell Senjuro he had been living off extra salted miso soups and herbal tea since awakening, and was told to continue doing so until breathing was more comfortable.

Kocho had mentioned that at least three times as he left the manor. She must’ve correctly suspected yet again his own appetite was a potential hazard to his recovery. Even castella cake was too solid and dense for him to consume in his condition. 

“I will have to thank my former tsuguko for her thoughtfulness when I see her next!” He tried to remain as lighthearted as possible as he declared what no one ever believed they would live to hear him say.  “As delicious as that sounds, I am not hungry at the moment!” 

“Not hungry?” Senjuro repeated, his voice tinged with disbelief. “You?” His eyes raked over his elder brother searching for the cause of such an anomaly. 

Just as Senjuro inspected the state of him, Kyojuro noticed the dark circles beneath his brother’s eyes, and the complexion of his face paler than he remembered. 

“I am simply so full of energy and vitality I have no need for anything to eat! Why don’t you off from your chores for the rest of the day, Senjuro!”

“A-are you sure?” Senjuro swiftly took his broom back into his hands as if to prove he had no reason to not continue as he was. 

Kyojuro put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, a gesture that always seemed to make Senjuro feel more at ease. “Certainly, you look as though you could use rest. I will take over for you”

Not being deterred in the slightest Senjuro replied, “No I can do it I promise!” Senjuro swiftly took his broom back into his hands as if to prove he had no reason to not continue as he was before Kyojuro came.

 “She’s doing the laundry for me already outside. So at least let me do the rest of the chores!” The younger Rengoku boy seemed almost frantic as he tried to prove that he was still more than capable of carrying out his perceived responsibilities.

 Kyojuro was momentarily taken aback looking into the fuzzy silhouette of a reflection of himself, one that went deeper than their appearance. 

He had spent the better part of his life encouraging and reassuring his brother, for this exact reason. He had foolishly believed that maybe that would be enough for Senjuro to ignore the example that had been before him since their mother had died nearly a decade ago. 

There were many things he was capable of protecting him from, however there remained some things he could only try to ward off. He was more than happy to act as a human shield to all the unpleasantness of the world he had dealt with himself. 

That was not to say his brother was delicate. Senjuro’s meek and sensitive exterior was not beguiling of his fiercely loyal and indomitable spirit. His patience was seemingly boundless, while being the most empathetic person Kyojuro had ever met. Senjuro’s maturity was indeed far beyond his years.

In spite of all of this, Kyojuro wanted him to have had a normal and carefree childhood. Maybe if they were another family under different circumstances, in some kind of a perfect world, Senjuro would not be confined to doing household work all day. He would have a plethora of friends to enjoy the blissful innocence of juvenility, with two loving parents at home, and no perceived expectations he was forced to inherit or self-condemnate over. 

Most of all he would not feel the need to fight for the validation of others, or establish his worth in his actions. While he could not protect him from loss or neglect, surely he could do that much even now.

There was no use grieving over what could have been, the reality was Senjuro had begun to take after his own tendencies. Something he could never forgive himself for being the cause of if it went too far. His own resolve was still strong, but he could at least try to set an example of self preservation when Senjuro was watching. 

He took the broom from Senjuro’s hands once again, leaning it against the wall beside them.”Why don’t we both take some time off today!” He proclaimed as confidently as possible. Senjuro’s shoulders, which had been taut with unease, dropped and with them Kyojuro breathed his own sigh of relief.

He no longer protested his elder brother’s suggestion to get some rest. Kyojuro walked his little brother to his room. As he followed, the younger boy barely lifted his head, his gaze still unfocused, lost in the exhaustion that clung to him. 

Tucking him into his futon, Kyojuro adjusted the pillow beneath his brother’s head, fluffing it gently, even though he knew Senjuro wouldn’t mind either way. He moved deliberately, his smile unchanged despite his mind spinning. He couldn’t help but hope that his little brother wouldn’t notice the subtle shift in Kyojuro’s actions today—the slight urgency in his insistence. 

Perhaps fatigue dulled Senjuro’s emotional intelligence enough that he failed to detect the thinly veiled half-heartedness behind him emphasizing they deserve to both call it for the day. He had been home for moments, and on bedrest before that while Senjuro had been beside himself with worry, maintaining their home. Kyojuro felt dread pool in his stomach, the thought nearly sickened him.

Once making sure his little brother was comfortable in his futon, he rose from his crouched position to his feet again, clamping his eyes shut with a sharp exhale at the shooting pain through his abdomen at the sudden movement. 

Luckily, Senjuro had succumbed to exhaustion the moment his head touched the pillow, sparing him any more anxiety over his big brother’s condition. 

He was embarrassed at how rapidly even the simplest tasks; walking, standing, really had exhausted him. Kocho had not necessarily given him advice on activity now that he was no longer in critical condition, she just reiterated not putting “undue strain” on the body. As vague as that was, he figured he must be experiencing some version of that as his breath became more labored as he walked through the corridors of his own home. 

Almost as if moving against his will, he lowered himself into his futon. He hoped maybe he could get some sleep as soundly as Senjuro, his head barely made contact with the pillow before he drifted off  even with rays of early evening daybreak still illuminating the sky. 

He was happy he had managed to soothe the terrifying thoughts eating his little brother from the inside while he was recovering at the Butterfly Mansion. 

Hopefully, Senjuro genuinely believed things were right in the world again, and that he had no need to prove himself to those around him any further. If he did genuinely believe that, Kyojuro envied it. 

—————————————

The laundry had kept you busy from the late afternoon until the sun hung low in the sky, and you were grateful for the long days of summer, which offered a grace period of a few more hours of safety outside.

You must have looked strange in your tsumugi woven silk kimono, churning laundry by the creek. You wiped a bead of sweat from your brow, before brushing your hands over your hair to ensure the hairpin was still in place. You refocused on the task at hand, gripping the sentakubō with both hands once again. 

The water stirring and forming small whirlpools as you plunge the wooden paddle into the melange of soaking garments with a slosh. You raise the paddle up before submerging it again, fabric swirling in the sekken infused water. 

These were the ancient methods Senjuro had told you had been used for centuries in the family. 

“Drinkable well water is too precious to be used on clothes, there is flowing mountain water just beyond the gates by a small grove of wisteria trees. That’s where we have done laundry for as far back as I know of.” 

The fatigue evident in his every motion momentarily ceased for him to give you particular instructions before you handle the household laundry on your own for the first time. 

In Tokyo, you heard some families had found ways to pump water into their homes. No access to wells or streams necessary. You were unsure whether to be skeptical or amazed at the Western innovations being integrated at breakneck speed into the capital, but the Rengoku family seemed utterly disinterested and unimpressed by anything that brought them away from the techniques of the past. 

Regardless of the flow of time, the Rengoku family had yet to betray the techniques of their ancestors that had never failed them before.

Perhaps they felt both indebted and venerated by the practices that had upheld their name through generations of Flame Pillars and centuries of war against man-eating evil. Each Hashira over the ages living long enough to pass on every aspect, no matter how trivial, of traditional lifestyle to their children and then their children’s children. 

Proof of demons and time alike being unable to erode them into nothing more than history, a bloodline persisting even today, against all odds. 

Your nose prickled at the herbal scent of the laundry solution you had handled for the past few hours soaking, scrubbing the items against the ridges of a washboard before draping each clean textile over a clothesline to dry in the tepid air. 

It was dull, tedious, and somewhat exhausting work, but anything to take your mind and a piece of your heart from the Butterfly Mansion was a welcome distraction. 

As you carried out mundane household chores as of late, you had made it more engaging by picturing Kyojuro watching you with pride, a glint of familiar affection in his eye. 

It only pushed you harder to put your all into everything you did, regardless of how unremarkable it may seem to others. That was what he would no doubt do in your shoes.

—————————————

You had expected Senjuro to be milling about getting things done for the same reason when you arrived back at the estate.The broom leaned against the wall of the engawa was telling enough to you he must’ve finished his daily tasks up and retired into the house for the time being. It might have been slightly unusual, but not anything provoking much cause for concern otherwise.

You looked forward to idleness for the remainder of the evening. Slipping into fresh clothes, you made your way to your room, eager to lie down and rest. 

As you walk the corridor, a blur of fiery colors ignites in your peripheral vision beyond the sliding door of a room that had sat empty as of late. Was that? You freeze in disbelief. 

“Kyojuro?” The name slips from your lips before you can stop it, even though you know the chances of him hearing you from this distance without even seeing your lips were low, but it doesn’t stop your heart from leaping in your chest nevertheless.

Eventually he must sense your presence, his unwrapped eye meeting yours, and in that instant, it feels like everything else fades away. He shifts from his reclined position to sit upright. Even just sitting up in his futon, you notice the subtle tension in his body, the familiar way his arms instinctively cross in front of him—, a pose you know he adopts when idle, as idle as he was capable of being anyway.

You had seen him like this before, when he was always on guard, always ready for battle. The weight of responsibility had never left him, even when he wasn’t fighting. But now, in this quiet moment, it felt almost surreal. You felt a wave of relief flood over you—he was here. He was home.

You didn’t know whether to run over to him, break down into tears, fall to your knees thanking every god and spirit that was looking out for him, or all three at the same time. He watches you with that familiar intensity in his eyes, but there's something softer now, an unspoken heaviness in his gaze

“You were resting… I’m sorry for the disruption.” You did something you hadn’t done since you arrived at the house, lowering your head into a bow. It simply felt appropriate, the least you could do was show your respect, as unnatural as it felt. Kyojuro blinked, taken aback by your gesture, his brows clenching together in confusion as he watched you. 

There was a moment where his eyes seemed to search yours, as if uncertain how to respond, had a distance that great grown between you? You raised from your bow before he could tell you it was ‘not necessary for the likes of him,’ your grasp taking hold of the edge of the shoji door to drag it shut. 

“I’ll let you enjoy some peace and quiet.” Your words felt inauthentic as you spoke, it wasn’t what you wanted, but it felt like what you deserved. You wished you knew what to say to him, but how could you? You could do nothing but watch helplessly while he writhed in pain waiting for you at the Butterfly Mansion. 

Standing by watching the sparks fade his eyes, feeling the room grow colder and colder still. Was that really all you could do? 

Every night since then, you had hoped for a miracle, that you would wake up and he would be back. Now here he was and all you could do was grapple with the futility of your every effort against the inevitable, one that would have come to pass with or without your consent. Like almost all else in his life, he overcame this on his own.

He tilted his head to the side trying to catch your downturned gaze with a soft smile, “You know” He paused until your glassy eyes met his. “I’ve had enough ‘peace and quiet’ for this lifetime.” 

He hesitated for a heartbeat, there was an almost imperceptible urgency in his tone, as though the simple request held more than he could express. “I would enjoy your companionship…” His eye locked onto yours, and you could hear him telling you what he truly felt, but couldn’t bring himself to say, “Please don’t leave me alone…”

Your fists closed around your sleeves as you looked on from the doorway. 

“Could I lay beside you?” You meant to ask gracefully, but a tremble caught itself at  the end of your words. In spite of you both being wedded, something ignited embarrassment within you at your own request. You weren’t quite sure what his experience with such things were, but you certainly had none to speak of. 

You had been confident everything would be ok, but a part of you filled with dread at every crow that flew overhead. Terrified, one of them was Shinobu-san informing you regrettably that they had failed, and he was gone. You just wanted to be close to him, close enough to hold onto and hope he wouldn’t come so close to slipping away from you again. 

“Absolutely!” His boyish excitement quickly commanding sincerity, his voice lowering to just above a breathy whisper “I mean… you do not need to ask. I am yours after all.”

If anything was capable of soothing the apprehension you felt, it was hearing him deliver an enthusiastic exclamation. You studied him, your eyes drifted down again to his arms crossed on top of his chest. Whether be a barrage of responsibility or self doubt, he always carried a tension palpable in every fiber. 

In a gentler world that asked for less of someone like him, maybe he wouldn’t need to. But even if he was not of that world, you could create a piece of it for him to dwell in. A place both his weary body and mind could be at ease.

You lowered yourself into the futon, trying to not focus on your heart, beginning to quicken, as the sound of his breath became audible each inhale and following exhale affirming to you he was alive, and he was yours.

“Am I making you nervous?” You asked genuinely, seeing his shoulders tighten and arms stitch together more tautly and a rouge flush across his cheeks even in the low light. 

He conveniently subverted your inquiry, rebounding it back to you.“You are not nervous, are you, my flame?” His tone seemed to waver in its usual certainty. 

“Not with you…” Even the intoxicating stillness, you cannot help but notice his strained comportment.  “You’re so stiff…”

He spoke no doubt a bit louder than even he anticipated, “Not stiff!” His sudden surge in volume took you back, the abruptness of his response leaving you momentarily unsettled. But as his words settled into the space between you, you quickly found yourself adjusting again into comfort.

“Just a habit, I assure you.” His voice was softer this time, a hint of something more raw slipping through his usual certainty. “I have been trained to be vigilant, at all times. I suppose it’s just how I’ve learned to exist.” 

“Hm. I see…” Your brow furrowed, pursing your lips together almost imperceivably. You extend your arms to place one hand on each of his shoulders, meeting his gaze you search the embers of his unbandaged iris for any sign of discomfort before cupping your hands. 

You, for only a moment, feel the heat of his gaze rake over, consuming each inch of your form. It was enough to make your skin prickle under its blistering intensity. Being used as its fuel, a slow burn ignited in your chest, radiating outward in waves, trailing sparks down to your fingertips and toes. You pry your eyes from your own hands back to his blistering stare to catch his lashes flutter briefly, clenching his eyes shut as if mentally reprimanding himself. 

Your palms take in the dense sinews forming sharp lines and curved ridges beneath your palms, before you push them down from their contraction. His arms finally dropping from their cross to his sides. You try to cut through the tension imparting a squeeze in a circular motion to the corded muscle between your thumb and fingers. 

As the pressure deepened, a soft, involuntary shudder rippled through him, a sudden tremor that surged from his shoulders down to his spine. It caused him to partially heave forward, his posture faltering as his head tilted to the side. A strangled sound—somewhere between a gasp and a whimper—escaped his lips.

You pull back your hands instinctively. “I-I didn’t mean…”

He shifted slightly, avoiding your gaze for a brief moment,  the blush deepening down to his neck. “I... I think I made a rather odd sound just now... My sincerest apologies” He spoke just above a murmur, his tone uncharacteristically timid, and pupils blown wide. “I must have broken my Total Concentration Breathing. I-I just… did not expect that to feel so good.”  

After a moment, his voice came again, a little more vulnerable than usual, almost tentative. “May I hold you?”  For a man so often brimming with confidence and conviction, this sudden bashfulness was endearing, almost disarming.

You echoed the words that had made your heart flutter since you heard them, “I am yours after all.” As the moments stretched on, the world outside began to blur, your breaths falling in sync with his. His hand trailed absentmindedly through your hair, his touch lulling you closer to sleep. Just before the haze of slumber overtook you, you felt him press the lightest kiss to your temple, his lips lingering as though committing the moment to memory.

And so, wrapped in his embrace, safe within the steady glow of his presence, you drifted off. For even in sleep, you knew you were wholly his, and he, yours.

—————————————

Kyojuro found himself restless with the first breaks of light, the flecks of dawn slowly spreading from the base of the horizon as the sky remained inked with the deep indigo of night. 

He sat up, given the opaque darkness of the sky it was hard to believe that golden rays of light would cut through the boundless pitch black expanse above him.

Since he had awoken, he had begun to be enchanted by things he had never paid much mind to before. The way the dawn happened to bleed into night, if there was nothing else you could rely on in this world, there was solace to be found in the consistency of daybreak. 

No matter how empty the void of night seemed, the dawn would overcome it anyway, illuminating the heavens without fail. Admirable. It was truly admirable.

Turning his gaze toward you, his heart softened even further. You lay curled beside him, your expression serene in the half-light, your hair tousled from sleep. Kyojuro couldn’t help but smile—bright and warm, though he kept it quiet, not wanting to disturb you. He leaned down and pressed a feather-light kiss to the crest of your hairline, lingering for a moment as if to savor the touch.

"Rest well," he whispered, his voice low and affectionate. Carefully, he slipped from the futon, each movement deliberate and gentle so as not to disturb the stillness that wrapped around you like a cocoon.

While cooking was outside his expertise, he was more than capable of boiling water in a hagama with tea leaves. 

As he entered the main room to prepare it, he noticed his father already seated with his gaze fixed on the sky. Kyojuro’s  instincts made him want to turn around and recede right then and there, before stopping himself.

“You are up early, Father.” Kyojuro shifted his head to the side almost as if to hide his face. He could hardly bring himself to face the former Flame Hashira. In his father's eyes, the cold sweat on his brow and the ghostly pallor of his skin would no doubt serve as a (half) living testament to the very words he had insisted upon to Kyojuro for years.

His hand quivered as he sprinkled a spoonful of the tea leaves into water before beginning to boil them together on the wood stove. 

Shinjuro hardly acknowledged the presence of another behind him more than a quick glance over the shoulder. His expression was as equally austere and annoyed as usual.

Similar to how Shinjuro kept his eyes firmly locked onto the slow ascent of the sun, Kyojuro relegated his own gaze to the kettle on the stove, barely looking away as the silence was intermittently broken by the sound of chimes swaying in the breeze.

When the water adopted the greenish hue from the tea leaves, he removed the hagama from the heat.

“Uh... tea, Father?” Kyojuro said as he set out two cups just in case. It was unusual enough his father was awake at dawn, and out of his room. He rarely saw Shinjuro eat or drink much, usually sleeping or drinking the day away, it would be even more unusual for him to break that pattern. But, he felt obliged to ask him anyway.

Shinjuro spoke, his voice gruff as it had been as long as Kyojuro could remember. “Sure.” He paused for a long time before adding, “Thank you…” 

Kyojuro looked up with shock, but only to look at the back of Shinjuro’s head once again. He poured the liquid into the cups, curls of steam wafting from each one with an earthy aroma. 

With one in each hand he brought it over to where his father sat at the edge of the room, the sky fading from nox to a peach tone as the apex of the sun became visible over the horizon line. 

He lowered his head as he placed the cup on the ground, Shinjuro’s scarred hand wrapping around it where it sat. Kyojuro slowly backed away from where he resided to leave him be.

“You can sit, son.” Shinjuro said, finally turning over his shoulder to meet Kyojuro’s gaze. Kyojuro moved closer again trepidatiously before lowering himself to the ground with a sharp exhale, the pressure on his wound making his face twist momentarily as he did so.

Kyojuro could not help but notice the thick, pungent smell of sake—a scent that had been a constant companion to his father for as long as he could remember—was completely absent this morning.

“In nearly 20 years as a pillar, I used that damned form three times.” Shinjuro spoke, his eyes not leaving the sky as he took a sip of the tea in his hand. “You’ve used it twice that I know of, but it’s been more times than that, right?”

Kyojuro did not even want to reply to his father’s probing, it would not matter anyway, they both knew the answer to the question.

The former pillar’s jaw clenched in grim recognition of Kyojuro's telling silence. However, the response was not angered, but seemed shackled with the heaviness of frustration.

Kyojuro took a long drink of the cup of tea in his hand, it was easier than thinking of the right thing to say.

Shinjuro continued, his voice steady but carrying a hint of weariness. “I practically memorized each word of the chronicles. The Breath of Flames like every other breath will always be derivative. Yet our swordsmen are the only ones who refuse to believe that. Neither the chosen ones nor those blissfully content with their own mediocrity use anything as foolish or self destructive as that damn 9th form.” 

Kyojuro knows the destruction he spoke of all too well. The gelatinous cartilage protecting the shoulders, knees, elbows, hip flexors, ankles, spine, it was all fickle. 

Once the body has worn it down, usually through decades upon decades of usage the grating discomfort of bone on bone friction rarely goes away, in many cases it can leave one chair bound from the intensity of every joint aching.

While all such an affliction can happen naturally with the flow of time, but the amount of power emitted from the 9th form was anything but natural.

The records of the ways of Flame Breathing made this clear to the user. Even by the standard of breath forms, which already amplify the body beyond its innate threshold, the concentration of power in the 9th form of Flame Breathing was exceptionally great.

The amount of strain on the body by the 9th form was more than some could handle. Some Flame Pillars of the past did not have the composition to use it more than once or twice at absolute most. The immense pressure on the body had a way of hastening degeneration. The form was strictly a last resort when facing a foe that needed to be defeated at all costs. 

The brighter and hotter a flame burns, the sooner it flickers out. Yet each time he was left with no other option but to use it, he did so without hesitation.

He had always fought to save lives with his body as little more than collateral in the grand scheme of his duty, so what did a few adverse side effects matter if it allowed him to prevail against a powerful demon that could go on to devour dozens?

Shinjuro muttered under his breath bitterly as if trying to suppress a visceral growl gathering in his lungs at the words alone. “The Breath of Flames, the Flame Hashira mantle, all of it, who gives a damn about a line of talentless fools breaking themselves just to end up average. It’s just a pitiful tale, nothing more. I’ve asked myself over and over why anyone would want to pass that on to the next generations.” 

He shook his head slowly with an exhale, his knuckles becoming lighter as he gripped his cup more tightly before releasing it again. “I knew I should’ve destroyed the infernal pages of the Flame Hashira Chronicles a long time ago.”

Kyojuro’s tone became calmer than even he knew it to be, almost as if unconsciously imitating the softness of how his own mother spoke to him all those years ago. “Whether it is pitiful or not, it memorializes their will. Their triumph, their struggle, none of it will go unnoticed, and they will be remembered fondly for their bravery and their role in our history.”

Shinjuro was quiet for a moment, his gaze distant still settled on the peach streaks as they became gold across the sky. “Did you ever read about my predecessor?” He grumbled with narrowed eyes.

Kyojuro’s brow furrowed into thought before replying. “Our grandfather, yes of course. I read about every Flame Hashira. It is a shame Senjuro and I never met him.”

“Trust me, you’re lucky you only ever read about him.” Shinjuro let out a forced chuckle before taking another sip. “Obsessed with the family legacy, he’d probably have carved ‘Flame Hashira’ into my chest the day I was born if he thought it would keep me from forgetting who I was meant to be. And just my luck—I happened to be the bastard’s only child. That meant all his expectations, all his delusions about immortality through legacy, fell squarely on my shoulders.” 

Kyojuro heard a pain in his father’s voice that he had only caught a handful of times before—a rare, almost fleeting vulnerability that Shinjuro rarely allowed anyone to see. His mind drifted back to faded, gilded memories. When his father’s smile had been constant, his pride unwavering. He could still recall the way his father’s eyes would light up as he passed down his sword skills to him and Senjuro, enthusiastic and patient.

Those memories were growing hazy with time, as though they were trapped in the mist of nostalgia, but the warmth they stirred within him was unmistakable. It was the kind of warmth that invigorated him—like the very ichorous blood of the Flame Hashira flowed through his veins, and he was destined for greatness.

“Perhaps…” Kyojuro murmured, his voice wistful, “Perhaps… He must have seen potential in you… " His eyes fell to the ground, his chest felt hollow as if the air was being drawn from it. "And that was the reason he pushed you so hard and did not ever give up on you...”

Shinjuro’s lips pressed together into a firm line. “Potential? No. He didn’t see me. Not as a person. I was a tool, a means to an end—a way to keep the Rengoku name alive, to make himself feel like he mattered.”

Shinjuro's voice held calm, but kept carrying the crushing weight of resignation.“Part of me wanted to show him I would be the last Flame Breathing user,” His eyes stayed distant, unblinking.

“Just let our name die out, fade into oblivion as a fragment of history. Just so my miserable old man’s last thought would be regret. That nothing he tried his damndest to maintain would last after one generation. I refused to be another cog in the perpetual machine.”

Kyojuro looked down at the swirls of green fluid in the cup as he held it in his lap. His voice curious as he looked over, as though trying to understand a piece of the past he had never been allowed to see. “What changed your mind?”

“Your mother…” Shinjuro’s lips twisted slightly, but not with anger—more like a quiet bitterness that he no longer had the energy to hide under anger or indifference. “But just like everything else, it was all futile, just a beautiful dream she was kind enough to let me believe in. Even for just a little while.”

Kyojuro’s eyes flickered, a quiet understanding passing between them at her mention.

Shinjuro let out a long sigh, setting his cup down with a soft clink, though his movements remained languid. “I don’t know if she fell victim to the suffering fate has ordained for us by becoming my bride. Maybe she stood a chance before then. But not us, if you’re born into it, you don’t have a choice, it's your cross to bear whether you want it or not. That’s the cruel joke. That’s the purgatory we’re bound to.”

The sun was higher now, and the colors in the sky deepened, casting a warm glow over everything.

Shinjuro’s voice broke the stillness again, his voice softer now than Kyojuro had known in so long. “I never wanted to be the kind of man to force a son to swing a sword until he vomited and his hands were torn open and bleeding. I should’ve never let either of you boys touch a blade. Just let the cycle end and be free. But you and Senjuro... you were always drawn to it. Always. I could see it in your eyes.” 

His gaze turned, albeit reluctantly, to Kyojuro, meeting his gaze in earnest. “We can’t help it, can we? It's in our blood I suppose.”

The sun was fully risen now, casting a golden glow over the room, spilling warmth across the tatami floor. Shinjuro, still staring out at the horizon, sighed deeply, a silent self condemnation. “I wasn’t capable of protecting Ruka, or the many junior swordsmen, or countless civilians, but I once hoped even a good for nothing father could protect his own children if nothing else.”

Kyojuro’s eyes lingered on his father, the warmth of the rising sun casting a gentle light on the hard lines of Shinjuro’s face. He didn’t know what he could possibly say. 

Kyojuro sat in the silence that followed his father's words, the weight of Shinjuro’s rare admission lingering in the air. He could feel the old, familiar tension between them, but it was softer now—more fragile, like the delicate balance of the morning light spilling across the floor. 

Shinjuro’s voice was both steady and solemn. "Kyojuro, you are a better man than I. You and your brother both. A strong man can learn from a weaker one how to become even stronger."

The words were unexpected, catching Kyojuro off guard. He glanced up at his father, his eyes searching the features of Shinjuro’s face for some sign that this wasn’t just another passing moment of wistful resignation. But there was no mistaking the sincerity in his tone. Kyojuro’s chest tightened, though he didn’t fully know why.

Shinjuro took a breath, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon, a faraway look in his eyes. “Just remember, you have a whole life ahead of you. It’s yours to do with what you wish.”

There was something in Shinjuro’s words that stirred in Kyojuro—a faint flicker of hope, like a spark in the dark. He wanted to say something, to respond, but the weight of the moment was so heavy, so rare, that all he could do was nod.

Shinjuro shifted slightly, the moment passing as quickly as it had come. He stood slowly, his movements deliberate, before leaving on heavy footsteps.

There was something in Shinjuro’s words that stirred in Kyojuro—a faint flicker of hope, like a spark in the dark. He wanted to say something, to respond, but the weight of the moment was so heavy, so rare, that all he could do was nod.

Shinjuro shifted slightly, the moment passing as quickly as it had come. He stood slowly, his movements deliberate, as though the weight of his own body was a burden he carried with resignation.

He gave Kyojuro one last look, something softer than usual in his eyes, before he turned toward the door. "I’m going to go check on Senjuro. He’s been having nightmares lately."

Kyojuro’s gaze lingered on his father’s retreating back. The room felt quieter now, the silence settling between them like something solid. He wanted to speak—wanted to say something that could erase the years of distance between them, and his father’s regrets.

The warmth of the sun seemed to spill into his very bones, filling the hollow places with a kind of quiet understanding. It wasn't a resolution. It wasn’t a grand moment of reconciliation. But it was something. 

A rare crack in the wall that had always stood between them. And for the first time in a long while, Kyojuro thought maybe, just maybe, it was a step toward something else. Something better.

—————————————

He awoke to start the day as he had nearly every day for the past. Getting ready at dawn as he always did, cautious not to awaken you in the room beyond the thin panel walls. Donning his corps uniform kaen haori, against Kocho’s advice to receive help. 

Moving deliberately he raised his arms to twist the thick honey blonde layers of his hair, he felt a sharp pang in his abdomen. He froze in place, his eyes widened before clenching shut. The pain forcing him to grip the edge of the nearest furniture for support. 

His hand moved from his chest back to his sides as he opened his eyes slowly, a hint of embarrassment creeping over him. It was as if he feared that when his eyelids lifted, he would find disappointed faces gazing back at him.

He continued the routine that made him worthy of the rank of Hashira. His resolve only strengthened, it would not matter so long as he could prove to himself, he was still strong, the capable protector of others.

The sun’s early light casting across his face, he moved with purpose across the same grounds that he and generations of Flame Pillars before him honed their skills in the heart of the ancestral estate. The ground beneath him was packed earth, worn smooth from endless footfalls. 

Unsheathing his katana, he took a deep breath, grip tightening on the handle of his garnet nichirin sword. But the blade that was once a weightless extension of himself felt heavier, more cumbersome. 

Performing the stances he had forged into his very bones with the years. His fluidity between each form was lacking. Even in total concentration he found himself sputtering if his chest expanded too much on the inhale. Beads of sweat rolled down his temple in the Summer sun, the brine making the unhealed gash across his eye socket sting lightly. 

He was not blessed with the near supernatural acuteness of sense others possessed. Some of his comrades had such heightened perception, blindness itself was not even a burden. But he was quite the opposite, since the mission he lost most of his hearing, he had learned to instead rely on his vision to be fully aware of his surroundings at all times. 

In the line of duty, he even had trained himself to reduce the frequency of blinking so as to not let his own inability to perceive his surroundings with his other senses create an opening for an enemy to strike. 

Each swing and subsequent sharp ache in his abdomen was a reminder that not long ago, a demon had punched straight through his body as if he were hollow. A lifetime of working towards becoming a paragon of invincibility rendered worthless in an instant. 

He had spent his life mastering control over every part of his own body. Every fiber, every nerve ending. The idea he was spared by chance was nauseating. By chance, the blow didn’t destroy any vital organs, killing him instantly. By chance, the kakushi were able to move him quickly enough. By chance, he managed to wake up from Kocho’s induced sleep at all. 

Kyojuro shifted into the next stance, forcing his body to remember the rhythm of each fiery surge of power. He longed for the zone he could so easily slip into. When each cell of his body felt as though it burned with the intensity of his soul, no amount of pain or exhaustion could dampen it. 

The searing tenacity, the flow. Wiping his brow he found the warm flow he desired, albeit in a drastically different form. A crimson streak across the back of his hand was the last thing he saw before sanguine blood obscured the vision in his left eye once again. Pressing the heel of his hand against his eye once again in an attempt to stop the seep from the wound.

—————————————

You were well aware of Kyojuro’s routine, if he was off bed rest chances are he would go back to it even against the better judgment of others, and probably himself too.

So when you saw him sitting with his back to the house, cross legged in the middle of the training field, his katana sheathed on his right side a change from it usually placed on his left. Stranger than that, you had rarely seen him take breaks much less fully sit down on the grass. 

“Are you alr-You’re bleeding!” Once you were within his earshot, you 

He looked over his shoulder with his right eye anxiously following your exclamatory reaction. He assured you with a forced cheerfulness, though the flicker of uncertainty in his voice betrayed the bravado. “Although,” he continued, his tone lowering slightly, “I fear if Senjuro sees me like this, he might go into a panic…”

As much as you wanted to scold him for neglecting his own wellbeing for the sake of others yet again, he had a point. Senjuro had just been in a state of shock wondering if he would ever see his brother again. The last thing he needed was to see Kyojuro hurt yet again.

“Yes! I-I’ll get some first aid!”

You moved briskly back to the house to retrieve some standard medical supplies. Coming out to sit on his left side in the grass, mimicking his seated position with his back to the home. From the way you angled yourself, legs folding to your side, if Senjuro happened to walk by, perhaps he would just figure you both were basking in the sun on a nice day and nothing more.

You slowly shake your head as you begin to wet the clean cloth with rubbing alcohol. “You are an exceptionally lucky man, you know that?” 

He chuckled lightly, a glowing smile spreading across his face. “I suppose I am if a beautiful lady is willing to take care of me.” 

You sigh, glancing down for a moment fighting back a grin that will no doubt spread to you like a contagion. “Look up please.” As you asked, his irises shifted upwards as you moved the cloth in your hand toward him, the laceration across his left eye freshly reopened on full display, stretching clear across his eyelid and nearly severing his eyebrow.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Kyojuro Rengoku. You know what I mean.” You can’t help but smile through the scoff you force out, your attempts to remain stern and impress upon him seriousness foiled.

Holding the damp cloth with a steady grip, you approach his eye with utmost caution, ensuring you don’t accidentally brush against his ink-black lashes. You carefully touch the rag to his face, disinfecting the length of the wound, your movements deliberate and gentle. 

“No! I am merely speaking the truth you are-” His proclamation was halted by a wince at the sting from the antiseptic’s contact with the raw wound. 

“I’m sorry if that hurts.” Your brow furrows as you pull the cloth away, necessary as it was to do, it pained you to be the cause of any further bodily discomfort for him. 

You take a minute to find the most appropriate way to say what you mean, for both of your sakes. “First they weren’t sure you would…” 

You meet his gaze tacitly before continuing. “Then Shinobu-san tells you the chances of retaining sight in your left eye was nonexistent, and here you are breathing and seeing and yet you still keep pushing yourself to the point of coming apart at the seams.” You try to mask your unease, seeing him continue working himself beyond his limits, when he is already so fragile at the moment.

“At least wear the eyepatch the Butterfly Mansion issued you!” You implore with something of a half smile. The sheer stubbornness with which he dismissed every injury, no matter how serious, would be humorous if it wasn’t so deeply concerning.

“Oh please, I need no such thing! I’m doing nothing I cannot handle, I assure you.” That authoritative voice, brimming with optimism. It was so easy to hear it, and blindly take each word as fact. But you know better by now, you could’ve told him every bone in his body was broken beyond repair and he would probably still respond that way. Even so, you want to trust him to stay within his means. 

“Ok, ok you’re ‘fine.’ I understand.” You reply resignedly speaking on your exhale. “Just please just take care of your eye. You’ve always had the most lovely eyes…” You say looking deeply into the golden rimmed eyes of the man before you.

Usually, when those  spoke of the Rengoku family, they used the word "powerful" to describe their distinctive features—sharp cheekbones, avian-esque orbs, blazing hair, and the aura of intensity that seemed to radiate from them. They served as yet another irrefutable motif that connected each Flame Pillar to the long legacy of unrivaled swordsmen bearing the Rengoku name.

“Powerful” was no doubt a compliment. He had always taken pride in the honor of possessing the iconic visage of his courageous ancestors. “Lovely” was different though. It felt intimate, a word that captured a softness. One rarely used when likening the fierce warriors of the Rengoku lineage with description, or him by that association.  

“If you like them, then I am only more excited by the prospect of passing them onto our children one day!” He exclaimed, the ever present ember burning behind his gaze billowing into a roaring inferno with joyous fervor.

Your cheeks flushed like a watercolor canvas, rosy hues blooming across your complexion. He could only surmise in that moment the evident dilation of your pupils to be a product of shock, at worse maybe even discomfort. 

He had gotten overzealous again, it was all too easy for him to put his foot in his mouth and take someone aback when he felt impassioned enthusiasm overflowing from him. However, you didn’t seem jarred or off put by his sudden pronouncement. You gaze warmed, softly smiling back at him.

“Yes, me too.” Your voice on the gentle breeze was as steady and sincere. 

But for a moment, it all fell away. The corps, his family legacy, the pillars, all of it. Holding her knees gently on the grassy Earth beside him, looking back at him. Rays of light catching against her skin, wrapping around her like a golden embrace, illuminating her form with a radiance that seemed almost otherworldly. Her hair danced in the breeze, tousling it to frame her face with an effervescent allure.

He felt warmth creeping up his cheeks, just as it had for her moments ago. He desperately tried to suppress the flush as he turned his gaze downward, focusing intently on the ground.

Death or disablement. Kyojuro knew these to be the only two circumstances in which a pillar could honorably resign from their post. Here he was, neither dead nor maimed. The verdict ought to be clear as day. He was more than aware of the inevitable weakness that all humans must experience in time. 

But to face that inevitability when he could still do so much? If he could swing a katana, he had a duty to serve. Right? His father should have continued serving as the Flame Hashira until he lost his sharpness to age. 

But the day Mother passed, something died in Father, or maybe something already dead within him had begun to fester. Kyojuro always told himself that he would not succumb to the same fate, despair would not be the death of him, certainly not if even an Upper Rank wasn’t. 

“I have… a friend… who is thinking about their future as a Hashira.” Kyojuro spoke with an uncharacteristic softness, fingers fidgeting with the hilt of his sword.

You looked at him inquisitively before having what you believe to be a revelation. “You mean the Sound Pillar?” 

“Oh… right, yes. Uzui, of course.” Kyojuro's words stumbled out, a nervous smile flickering on his lips, eyes darting away, as if relieved to hear you identify the former Hashira, already settled on retirement. 

“If he decides to retire, does it mean he has lost his passion? Or maybe he is running away?” His voice raised closer to its usual vivacity, but the typical enthusiasm felt infected with an air of apprehension. His fingers tightened around the sword’s hilt, outlining the flame insignia swordguard with a deliberate motion of his thumb.

Before you could even think to answer, he pressed on with another question, his urgency palpable.

“What if…” He paused, lightly clearing his throat adding the aforementioned yet again, his cadence returning to its equilibrium. “My friend…” 

He looked deeply into your eyes, the bright vermillion honeycomb pools poured into yours like a gentle ray of sunlight at dawn, adorning everything within with its warmth. His words regained their normal directness in earnest. “Is worried the person he loves might not want him anymore, if he isn’t strong?”

You tilt your head, your gaze previously riddled with intrigue tempered tacitly at his probing, you understood now. “I’m certain the people in his life value him for more than something as superficial as his strength.”  

You put your palms flat behind you on the tufts of grass leaning back to feel the sun warm your face.

“I don’t think of ‘strong’ as a person, I think of it as a state of being. We are all allowed to be weak and rely on the strength of others, and when others are weak we can give them our strength. No one person has to be strong all the time.” 

More importantly, you saw through the electric personality of the natural born leader to all and the brave exterior of the warrior. You saw the man beneath it all. The kind of soul that was as tender as it was resiliently fortuitous. 

Hanging on every word you notice the intertwine of his arms, crossed against his chest as he clung on your every word with rapt attentiveness. You straighten your posture leaning toward him, interlocking your fingers to the corded sinews of his forearms, pulling them from their interwoven tensed state as you had done before.

You took his worn hands in your own. “Well I hope you tell ‘your friend’ as much. Although, I would like to ask you something now if you would allow me.”

“Of course my flame, anything.” he replied, his voice filled with earnestness, a bright smile spreading across his face. 

“Did you remember what I told you in the Butterfly Mansion? The last thing I said to you before you lost consciousness?” 

His eyes narrowed as they trailed off into thought. He racked his brain for the last moment of light before his eyelids fell heavily as the sounds around him dissipated into silence. Before the oblivion of the serum he was injected with took effect, only muffled words cut by sobs come to mind.

“Please forgive me, I cannot recall.” He bowed his head remorsefully before meeting you again with a hopeful countenance. “Would you tell me again, my flame?”

A rosy hue rouges your cheeks as you fidget from side to side where you sat, part of you didn’t want to tear your gaze from the safety of the trodden Earth . But you couldn’t stand the idea of missing a moment basking in the bright eyes of the man you nearly lost.

 “I told you that I loved you...” Your voice was a murmur, barely above a whisper, and as your heart skipped a beat in your chest. “I love you. I meant it, I love who you are. That will not be changed by what you are.” 

“I have never found many things in life that I could not bring myself to love, or so I thought.” “What a fool I was. I did not even know what that word meant back then. What a truly lucky man I am.” 

You would’ve liked to sappily argue that it was, in fact, you who was the lucky one. However, you knew the endless back-and-forth that would’ve followed if you did. 

So instead, you let both your body and heart bask in warmth from two separate suns—one worlds away, and one right beside you. You let the moment linger between you, content in the quiet truth that you didn’t need to say it aloud for him to know you felt the same.

To be continued...

Taglist: @rift-and-rise @leannathespacewerewolf @hellscampcounselor @hauntedaugust @obsidianlive @oh1boy @chocolatebannana2 @erexart @vaelzz @kalypsoox @jiy-une @mayyhaps @shinykidhumanoidclam

[demonic0angel]

Dan being forced to go to anger management therapy hosted by Harley Quinn.

(I refuse to believe that Dan would be forced into anything, so this is a Dan in Arkham AU lmao)

Wraith huffed angrily. “And that’s why he deserves pain and suffering.”

Harley stared at him in fascination, tapping a finger on her lips. It had been weeks after their breakout from Arkham, and Wraith was quickly becoming a good friend of the Sirens. It had reached a point where now, he was spilling his secrets over a glass of wine (stolen from a Bruce Wayne-endorsed party), about a boy he used to be and the timeline he came from.

It wasn’t the weirdest thing ever, since this was Gotham after all, but it was still both disturbing and thralling.

Harley could not help but stare as Wraith grumbled to himself, blue eyes flashing crimson and sharp fangs being bared in a snarl. Then she asked, “Did your sister ever say anything about this?”

Wraith huffed and swirled his wine lightly. “She said it’s a form of self-hatred. Because I blame myself for our family’s deaths, I blame Danny too. But I don’t care. We are the same person but we are not the same. He is still human, while I have transcended past mankind to be something greater.” His fingers clenched on the stem of the wine glass. “It’s not fair how he gets to be happy, but I can’t.”

A god complex, a superiority complex, and an inferiority complex, all born from the loss of family and self-identity. His psyche was absolutely damaged by his previous experiences, and trauma had made him into something very, very twisted. It was probably true that he was not human anymore, but it was so interesting how he had abandoned his humanity so thoroughly and thrown it aside.

“You can’t?” Harley asked. “Or you won’t?”

Wraith’s expression twisted. “I can’t.”

That didn’t seem right.

He was happy when eating red meat and drinking expensive wine. He was rather happy when they went shopping and included him in their jokes and games. He was plenty happy when he talked about his sisters. He was very happy when interacting with Nightwing, who seemed to effortlessly peel away his layers to reveal a playful, gentle personality that did not seem to be a facade.

“You seem happy around Nightwing,” Harley said. “And us. What do you think of that?”

Wraith glared at her lightly, but he didn’t seem angry, not like how he was when he talked about his little brother, his other self. The venom in his voice and eyes when he talked about his younger self would’ve been better deserved if he was talking about the Anti-Christ, but Harley didn’t voice this.

“Nightwing has the purest soul in this world. It’s strong and beautiful because of how kind it is. It should be a crime to be cruel to it, not when he’s so… good.” His expression gentled and he swirled his wine again before taking a sip. “And you and the others are… nice to me. I don’t want to spoil your fun.”

Harley beamed. “Aww, we like you too, Wraith-y poo!”

Wraith rolled his eyes and took another sip. Harley poured him some more without him asking, and they drank their wine in silence.

Eventually, Harley said, “It’s not healthy to hate yourself so much, y’know? Maybe you don’t want advice, but I think your sister would agree with me. You should let go of the past and live in the present. That timeline doesn’t exist anymore, does it?”

Wraith scowled. “It may not exist anymore, but I came from that timeline. I am who I am because of my family’s deaths and because of Danny.” The hatred in his voice was deep and potent, making Harley shiver. “It can never let me go and I can never let it go either. The past shaped me in ways that cannot be undone.”

Harley took a sip of wine to think. Then she said, “Well. No matter what, me and the girls are here for you. And I think Nightwing really likes you too! Really!”

Wraith hummed, eyes half lidded before he turned and looked at her with a quirk to his lips like a small, genuine smile. “Yes, I know. Thank you, Harley.”

She grinned. “No problem!”

They continued drinking together in companionable silence.

[pandapetals]

Unexpected Visit

It's your first Christmas with Logan as a couple (not married yet) but someone unexpected shows up.

professor logan howlett x professor fem!reader - married couple, some fluff, teasing, no y/n used, no reader description, your an english professor, logan is a history professor - imagine days of future past logan with the white streaks in his hair, mentions of death, angst, trauma, christmas mentioned, parent issues

a/n: I wrote this to go with the holiday special i’m going to post because i know alot of people struggle around the holiday season (myself included, not me trauma dumping in this).

read on ao3 or find more parts for the series: here

divider credit: @enchanthings

As a kid, you’d always heard that the holidays were supposed to be magical—a time filled with warmth, laughter, and gifts under the tree. But growing up in a family that could barely keep food on the table, magic was a luxury you quickly learned to live without. Reality had come crashing down on you at a young age, stripping away any illusions of the "holiday spirit."

Coming to Xavier’s offered you a fresh start and a chance to build a new and hopeful life. You’d thrown yourself into your role as the bubbly, witty English professor, always armed with a quick quip or a smile that could disarm even the grumpiest students. And for the most part, it worked. Everyone believed the cheerful façade—everyone except Logan.

Even before you started dating, Logan seemed to see through the mask you wore. He’d often watch you with that quiet, penetrating gaze like he was peeling back each layer you’d put up to hide the parts of yourself you didn’t want anyone to see. He never pushed or pried, but something in his eyes made you feel like he knew.

When you finally became a couple, that unspoken understanding between you deepened. But you still hadn’t told him the whole story of your past or the truth of what the holidays dredged up inside you. And so, as Christmas approached, you kept your walls up, pretending everything was fine, even though this would be your first Christmas without your dad.

A few days before Christmas, the mansion was buzzing with excitement as everyone packed and prepared to head home. Logan assumed you’d be leaving, too, and he figured you’d join your mother to mourn together. He’d never pushed you to talk about your family, but he knew enough to sense the fractured relationship with your mom.

Yet, as the days ticked by, you hadn’t mentioned any plans. He noticed your room was untouched, no suitcases packed or tickets booked. So, that evening, he found himself leaning against your bedroom door, watching you lace up your shoes with a distant look on your face.

“I thought you’d be packing by now,” he said, his voice low and casual, though his eyes held a flicker of concern.

You looked up, momentarily surprised by his presence, but quickly covered it with a smirk. “Packing for what? You finally planned a romantic getaway for us, tough guy?” you teased, trying to deflect with humor, as usual.

But Logan didn’t smile. His face softened, his arms crossing over his chest as he stepped into the room. “Sweetheart… I thought we talked about not pretending with each other.”

Your smirk faded, replaced by a look of resignation. For a moment, you looked down, fiddling with the laces on your shoes. “I’m not pretending,” you said softly, your voice lacking its usual bravado. “I just… I don’t want to go home for Christmas. There’s nothing to go home to.”

Logan’s brows knitted together, his voice gentle as he stepped closer. “You still have your mom—”

“Logan, stop.” The words came out sharper than you intended, and you stood up, wrapping your arms around yourself defensively. “I don’t… I don’t want to deal with her, okay? You met her at the hospital—she wasn’t exactly the nicest woman in the world.” Your voice wavered, the wall you’d tried so hard to keep up beginning to crumble. “You know my relationship with them—my parents was complicated.”

Tears started slipping down your cheeks before you could stop them, the weight of the year—of loss and complicated grief—finally surfacing. You tried to turn away, but Logan was already there, closing the distance between you in a few strides. Without a word, he pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly against his chest. His hands were steady, his touch warm and grounding as one hand cradled the back of your head, the other wrapping protectively around your waist.

He didn’t try to shush you or tell you it would be okay. Instead, he just held you, letting you fall apart in his arms. His thumb stroked the back of your neck gently, grounding you as he whispered, “It’s alright, darlin’. You don’t have to put on a brave face with me.”

You buried your face in his chest, letting yourself finally break down in a way you hadn’t let yourself do since your father passed. “I wanted so badly to be okay,” you choked out. “To just… move forward. But I don’t know how to do this, Logan. Holidays are supposed to be about family, but what do you do when… when you don’t have one anymore?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hazel eyes filled with a mix of empathy and fierce protectiveness. “You’ve got family right here,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “You don’t need to go anywhere if you don’t want to. Stay here—with me.”

His words settled over you, a quiet promise that you weren’t alone, that you had someone who would stand by you, even when you didn’t know how to hold yourself together. The walls you’d put up felt paper-thin, and for once, you didn’t try to rebuild them. Instead, you leaned into him, letting the warmth of his presence melt away the loneliness that had been eating at you.

“Are you sure?” you whispered, looking up at him, your voice barely holding back the vulnerability in your heart. “You’d really want to spend Christmas with me? Even if it means cheesy movies and too much hot cocoa?”

Logan’s gaze softened, a gentle, lopsided smile tugging at his lips. He lifted his hand, brushing a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb. “Sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice rough but steady, “there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. Besides…” He paused, a hint of a smirk appearing as he looked at you with that familiar, affectionate glint in his eyes. “I think we both deserve a damn celebration this year. Don’t you?”

A soft, shaky laugh slipped from your lips, the sound mingling with the quiet stillness around you. You clutched him a little tighter, pressing yourself against the solid warmth of his chest, letting the safety he offered melt away the lingering ache. For a moment, you let yourself imagine what it would be like—Christmas with Logan, a cozy fire, the two of you wrapped in blankets, sharing simple moments that felt like home.

You looked up at him, noticing the faint lines around his eyes and the way his gaze held something deeper and tender he didn’t share with just anyone. Logan, who had spent so many years keeping people at arm’s length, was here, with you, willing to make this season something special. You knew the holidays hadn’t ever meant much to him; the closest he’d come to family was the X-Men, but there was always that quiet yearning, that sense of longing in his eyes you could recognize as your own.

A mischievous smile crept onto your face as you tilted your head, running a finger along his jaw. “You know… for a grumpy, tough guy, you’re pretty soft.”

He chuckled, the sound low and genuine, vibrating through you as he wrapped his arms more securely around your waist. He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead and lingering there, his breath warm against your skin. “Only for you,” he murmured, his voice so soft it almost blended into the quiet around you as if the words were a secret meant just for you.

𓂃

The mansion felt eerily quiet, the sort of silence that settles in when everyone else has left and you're finally alone. The last of the students and teachers had headed off for their Christmas plans, leaving only you and Logan behind. For a brief moment, you allowed yourself to feel the odd comfort in that—knowing that neither of you had a family to go home to, that somehow, you’d ended up here together. It almost felt like fate, like you’d been meant to find each other.

As Logan wandered back from the foyer, having just waved goodbye to Xavier, he looked at you sprawled across the couch, a playful smirk on his face. “Looks like it’s just you and me, sweetheart. What’s first on your holiday agenda?”

You grinned, half-sitting up. “Well, I doubt you’re up for decorating cookies or watching Christmas movies…” But before you could finish, Logan crossed the room in a few strides and scooped you up effortlessly.

“It’s not exactly the first thing on my mind,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek.

You laughed, giving him a light swat on the back as he threw you over his shoulder, carrying you with ease. “Logan, you’re acting like a teenager who finally got the house to himself.”

He grinned, undeterred, “Well, isn’t that what’s happening?”

He was halfway to the stairs, clearly intending to carry you all the way up, when the sudden chime of the doorbell echoed through the empty mansion, stopping him in his tracks.

You twisted around, trying to look over his shoulder. “Expecting someone?”

Logan set you back on your feet, frowning as he glanced toward the door. “Not that I know of,” he muttered, his expression already shifting to that familiar look of cautious alertness. He moved toward the foyer, and you followed close behind, almost colliding into his back when he stopped abruptly just a foot away from the door.

You noticed him take a deep breath, his nose twitching slightly as he caught a scent through the door. His expression shifted, the guarded edge softening just a bit. He turned back to you, his gaze gentle but wary.

“It’s… your mother,” he said quietly.

Your stomach dropped. “My—” The word caught in your throat as a wave of complicated emotions washed over you. You hadn’t seen her since your father’s funeral, and even then, the conversation had been brief, tense, and peppered with her usual backhanded comments.

Logan placed a steadying hand on your shoulder, searching your face. “You okay?”

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine. I just wasn’t expecting her to show up here.”

With a nod, Logan opened the door, and there she stood, wrapped in a heavy coat, her expression a mixture of displeasure and discomfort as she took in the mansion’s grand foyer.

“Well,” she said, her gaze sweeping over you with a critical eye before landing on Logan, her brow raising slightly. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you decided to stay here rather than come home.”

You forced a smile, though it felt brittle. “Nice to see you too, Mom.”

She glanced around the mansion, her lips pursed in that familiar way that meant she was about to say something judgmental. “This place is… large. Lavish. I imagine it must feel like a vacation for you.” Her tone dripped with the kind of passive-aggressive disapproval you’d grown up with, a reminder of every time she’d scolded you for wanting more than what you had.

Logan shifted beside you, his gaze hardening just a fraction as he observed the exchange. “Can we help you with somethin’?” he asked, his voice calm but laced with a protective undertone.

Your mother’s eyes flicked to him, a hint of surprise crossing her face. “You must be Logan. You know, I always thought my daughter would end up with someone… different.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, but he held his ground, giving her a steady, unflinching look. “Guess life doesn’t always turn out the way we expect,” he replied coolly, his arm subtly sliding around your waist, a quiet but unmistakable show of support.

You took a breath, steeling yourself. “Why are you here, Mom? I thought you knew I wasn’t coming home this year.”

She let out a heavy sigh, crossing her arms. “I came because I thought maybe you’d change your mind. It’s Christmas, after all. Family should be together.” Her gaze softened, but there was a flicker of resentment there, hidden just beneath the surface. “Though I see you’ve found… other company.”

“Mom, please,” you murmured, feeling Logan’s fingers gently squeeze your hip, grounding you. “I didn’t come home because it didn’t feel right. You know that things between us have been… complicated.” The words were careful, and a bit restrained, but you could feel the weight of the unsaid things pressing against your chest.

She scoffed lightly, waving her hand as if brushing off your feelings. “Complicated? You act like you were the only one who had it rough, but I was there too, you know. I did what I could.”

You swallowed, fighting the bitterness rising in your throat. “Did you? Because most of what I remember is you pretending everything was fine while I had to deal with… with everything else.” Your voice trembled slightly, but you steadied yourself, Logan’s presence beside you giving you strength.

There was a beat of silence, heavy and uncomfortable. Your mother looked away, a flash of guilt crossing her face, though she quickly masked it with a defensive huff. “I didn’t come here to argue,” she said tightly, her gaze darting between you and Logan. “I thought maybe you’d appreciate being with your real family for the holidays.”

Logan’s arm tightened around you protectively, his voice low but firm. “She is with her family,” he said, each word deliberate and unyielding.

Your mother’s eyes narrowed slightly, her lips pressed into a thin line as if weighing her next words carefully. Before she could respond, you gently placed a hand on Logan’s chest, signaling for him to let you handle it. He gave you a quiet nod, stepping back but lingering just out of sight. 

You took a breath, focusing on her. “Mom, I know you tried… in your own way. I don’t blame you for everything, and I know it wasn’t easy back then.” Your voice softened, a hint of vulnerability slipping through. “But this… this is where I want to be. With the people who make me feel safe, who understand me. Logan is a part of my life, and he’s not going anywhere.”

For a moment, something flickered in her gaze—regret, maybe, or the faintest trace of understanding. She looked away, her fingers fidgeting with the strap of her purse as she took a shallow breath, pulling her mask back up. “Well,” she said finally, her voice cool but wavering. “Then I suppose this place has changed you.”

You felt a pang in your chest, a mixture of sadness and relief. “I’m still the same—”

“No,” she interrupted, shaking her head. But her expression softened, and for the first time in years, you caught a glimpse of something real beneath her hardened exterior. “No, you aren’t. And that’s… that’s a good thing,” she admitted, her tone almost reluctant, but honest. “You seem… stronger. Happier. I can see that this place, being a teacher… it suits you.”

A soft, bittersweet smile tugged at your lips, the weight of years of complex emotions between you and your mother settling in your chest. “I am happy, Mom. I know this isn’t the life you imagined for me, but it’s what I want.”

She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, but the tension in her posture told you that accepting this wasn’t easy for her. The silence between you was heavy, lingering like words unsaid, regrets unspoken. You could feel the moment slipping away, but before it did, you took a chance, your voice soft and tentative.

“Would you… would you like to stay for dinner?” you asked, the invitation hanging in the air like a fragile hope. “Logan and I, we were just about to cook something together.”

Your mother’s expression tightened, her gaze flicking to the mansion’s grand interior, then back to you. She shook her head, her lips pressing into a faint, strained smile. “No, I don’t think so. I have a long drive back,” she replied, her tone polite but distant. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

You swallowed the disappointment, forcing a small nod. “Alright,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Just then, Logan stepped back into the doorway, a touch of nervousness in his expression, though he masked it well. He extended his hand toward her, attempting to make a good impression, the slight unease in his eyes showing how much he cared about this moment—for your sake, if nothing else.

“It was see you again, ma’am,” he said, his voice gruff but genuine. “Your daughter… well, she’s one hell of a woman. Just thought you should know.”

Your mother glanced at his outstretched hand, hesitating for a split second before giving it a quick, almost dismissive shake. She offered him a tight-lipped smile, but there was no warmth behind it. “Yes, well,” she replied, her tone clipped. “You two… take care of each other.”

Logan’s jaw tightened slightly, but he kept his expression polite, not pushing for more. You could tell he was trying, in his own way, to bridge a gap that had been there long before he’d come into your life. But your mother’s gaze had already drifted past him, her focus elsewhere.

You watched as she adjusted her purse on her shoulder, giving you a final nod. “Goodbye,” she murmured, her voice softer, almost reluctant, but the wall between you both was firmly back in place.

“Goodbye, Mom,” you replied, feeling a pang of longing that you knew would remain unanswered.

When the door clicked shut behind her, the silence settled thick around you, the weight of unspoken words and lingering disappointment pressing down on your chest. You barely noticed Logan stepping closer until you felt his hand on your back, a gentle, grounding touch that anchored you in the moment.

“You okay?” he murmured, his voice soft, searching your face for any sign of the hurt you might be hiding.

You nodded, though your eyes stung with unshed tears. “Yeah… yeah, I’ll be fine,” you whispered, managing a shaky smile. “It’s just… complicated. It always has been.”

Logan wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close, his chin resting on your head. “You don’t have to explain, darlin’,” he murmured, a comforting rumble against your hair. “I get it. And for what it’s worth, I’m here. I’m always here.”

You let out a soft, shaky breath, pressing your face into his chest, absorbing the warmth and strength he offered. “Thank you,” you whispered, feeling the weight begin to lift if only a little.

As he held you, Logan pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his fingers brushing through your hair. “She’s a fool if she can’t see how incredible you are,” he murmured, his tone laced with a quiet intensity. “But lucky for me, she’s leavin’ you in good hands.”

You laughed softly, a mix of relief and affection as you looked up at him, brushing a tear from your cheek. “I’m pretty lucky too, you know.”

Logan’s lips curved into a gentle smile, his thumb tracing your cheek in a tender gesture. “Guess that means we get our quiet Christmas after all,” he said, a playful glint in his eyes.

“Yeah,” you replied, feeling the weight of the past begin to ease, replaced by a warmth that only Logan seemed to bring. “Just you and me, tough guy.”

[lostintransist]

Chiseled Heart | Part 3

CW: A man being creepy at the gym

AO3 | Part 1

“She gave me a gift card.”

König stares at his boots, arms crossed and shoulders resting against the back of his therapist’s couch.

“I’m not seeing why this makes you so upset.” Rich shifts in his chair across the small room, putting his stylus on the screen of his tablet. “Last time we talked you told me you were worried about a woman you had helped at the gym since she had been hurt and now you’re mad that she gave you a gift card to say thank you for the help?”

Frustrated, König turned to stare out the window. Sometimes squirrels would scamper down the powerline and give him an excuse to avoid trying to find words. He doubted he would find the words for this feeling in any of the languages he knew.

“I am…upset because,” he pauses, collecting his thoughts, “Danke was enough.”

“Do you feel like it’s fair to say you are upset because the exchange of money changed the interaction for you?”

“Ja,” he nodded.

“Okay,” Rich glances at his watch. “Can I give you my thoughts on the matter? I know you’ve been working at understanding others more.”

König narrows his eyes but nods his consent. He had worked with Rich for enough years to trust his opinion.

“You said she told you that she would bring a card the next day you saw each other but insisted after you walked her to her car, right?”

“Ja.”

“Okay, did you consider that she felt like asking for help needed something in return? Walking a woman to her car is a layer of safety, a measure of security that to her must have been a weight off her shoulders. She doesn’t know you well but wants the exchange to be equal. Could it be that she didn’t want to burden you?”

König turns the words over in his mind. You had been so apologetic even ask you asked for his help. The only time König had ever feared for his life had been under the hands of his vater.

“Help is no burden,” he argues, not quite willing to concede the point.

“I don’t imagine that it is, you work hard to be kind. I am saying that from her perspective, help and kindness are not guaranteed. By virtue of being a woman, she is always at a disadvantage and will do what she can to keep herself safe.”

He grunted.

“Sorry König, this might be one of those times to use radical acceptance. You will never understand the fear of existing in a small body where every man is a threat.” Rich shrugged one shoulder.

A moment passes in silence before König reveals the other reason the interaction bothered him so much.

“She has started to appear in my art.”

That got a double eyebrow lift from Rich. It wasn’t often that König caught his therapist by surprise.

“You’re art is how you process a lot of the trauma from serving right? How do you feel that your gym buddy is in your art?”

“Conflicted.”

Rich said nothing, only noting something on his tablet.

The silence compelled him to speak more. Rich knew it and König knew Rich knew it.

“Carving her feels different. Pulling memories from stone reminds me of the sting of pain.”

“How does carving her feel?”

“Freeing.”

Rich studies König. König leans over and picks through the basket of fidgets that sat at the end of the couch.

“Do you want to go into that more or leave it for now?”

König delayed answering until he pulled puddy between his hands.

“Leave it.”

“I’ll make a note to check back on the topic next time we chat then. How is your art selling right now? It’s still on display at the gallery right?”

They drift into more familiar and safe discussions.

There is only five minutes left. He has been watching the clock. There wouldn’t be time to get deep into this.

“Tell me to stop, to stop talking to her.”

Rich’s brows lift with confusion, it is also in the lilting of his voice, “You want me to tell you to stop making a human connection? The goal we’ve been working toward for nearly seven months now?”

König scowled as he shifted on the couch, arms folding across his chest. It sounded stupid when he put it that way.

“It’s okay to be scared König. This is a big step.”

He doesn’t reply, debating how to settle this struggle within himself.

“Did you already schedule your regular appointment with the front desk?” Rich asks, letting the topic drop.

One thing he excelled at carving had always been hands. The intricacies and the expressions that can be found in fingers had fascinated him. It was your hands he pulled from a small chunk of granite. Before he knew they were your hands he had carved a delicate ring on the left hand. The fingers on the left hand curled over the right ones, the piece ending below the right wrist. The pose reminded him of how you held pressure on your bleeding finger those weeks ago.

Frustrated he set it aside to continue on a massive piece. With a view into a building, as wide as he is tall, a house of worship is starting to come together. He carved out the rough shapes of the pillars and dug through the stone to what he had decided to be the back wall. Now came the time-consuming work of removing stone until he could begin to carve the bodies that lay scattered along the floor. This had been one of his worst nightmares. They had been too late.

Music drifted through the space from his built-in speakers. König worked late into the afternoon until Feather, the gallerist, arrived to peruse his recently completed carvings to see which she would like to house and which would be listed on the website or hawked directly to wealthy buyers.

Feather looked like she ran an art gallery. Her bold colors, expensive suits, matching lipstick, and perfectly done hair always set König on edge. Even in her heels, the top of her head reached his elbow. He remained seated as she let herself into his studio.

“Ah! There is my favorite artist. Where are the new pieces for me?” She breezed past him as he stayed seated on his stool. Feather knew where the new pieces would be by now.

Ignoring her, König focused on his carving. He could not work while anyone else existed in his studio but this process of removing stone to access the image didn’t count.

After several minutes Feather appeared in his line of view.

“I want the whole lot, stellar as always my dear.” She spoke with a crispness to her words, as if her job required a level of uppityness.

“Same terms as always,” König fiddles with the edge of his chisel. It needs to be sharpened soon.

“Agreed,” Feather crosses her arms. Her eyes drift over his current work in progress before she turns and points to the hands he had set aside.

“How much for the hands?”

A chill wraps itself around his spine.

“Not for sale.”

A good business woman Feather narrows her eyes at him and throws out a number much higher than they usually agreed upon for smaller pieces. He lifts a brow before shaking his head.

She tried three more offers before sighing and folding her arms dramatically.

“König I know all artists are finicky about their work but I have a patron who has been asking for something like this for a long time. He would pay through the nose if I sent him a photo. He would pay especially well since it is your work.”

“Goodbye Feather,” he pulled the remote from his pocket and increased the volume of the music.

He didn’t create for money. König carved images from stone because if he left them inside they would fester and canker his soul.

Feather got the message and fired off a text to him before leaving of when her team would be by to pick up all the pieces agreed upon and confirmed his payment would be sent via wire after they arrived at the gallery. He marked the messages as read and set all his tools in their home nearly an hour later. Eating a quick meal he readied himself for the gym, and more of you.

His time with KorTac gave him the ability to appear focused while his mind drifts. Sliding through his thoughts König cannot quite decide how to feel about the interactions he has had with you. Bringing you up in therapy hadn’t helped yet.

When the doors move and allow you entry König is shocked at your smile as your eyes find his. He reciprocates the small wave you give him as you head into the changing room. Then curses himself for the niggle of brightness that your smile brought. Continuing his workout König kept you in sight but did not approach. He had been stilted and stiff when you had pressed the gift card into his hands on Wednesday and didn’t know how or if he wanted to try and bridge that gap.

A man approaches you four different times in the span of twenty minutes. When you finally snap at him, anger contorting your face, you point to König. He watches as you stomp away from the man and approach him instead.

Any anger disappeared from your eyes by the time you reached him. You folded your arms tight to your chest and blinked rapidly as if to fight back tears. When you stopped you stood entirely too close for the acquaintances that you were.

“König?”

“Ja?”

“Can you bend down a moment for me?”

He does as requested, not pausing to think that he should not accept orders from you.

“There is a man that is bothering me and I told him you were my boyfriend. Can you pretend until he leaves?”

König can only blink at you before glaring at the man in question. The prick sneers a huff of breath in your direction.

“How does one pretend to be a boyfriend?” He keeps his volume low.

“You could put a hand on my waist or something? I just need him to leave me alone. The reason I like this gym is most of the guys only talk to me when they have a correction or to encourage me to hit a new PR. I don’t want to leave but if he keeps bothering me I am gonna have to go home,” you tighten your folded arms to your chest, clearly upset.

Following the twitch of his muscles König pulls you into a hug, resting his chin on the top of your head as he lets his killer face stare out at the man who bothered you. The fucker tries to maintain a sneer, but when your arms slip around König’s waist and the hateful glare pummeling him from across the gym becomes too much he man left in a tizzy.

When you pull back from the hug König struggles to return his hands to his sides and not leave them trailing the top of your hip bones. His fingers ache both from the touch and the lack of contact.

You rub a palm under one eye, wiping away the wetness that collected there.

“Thanks, sorry. I had a bad day at work and then the nonsense with a guy being a jerk I might actually call it a night.” You sniff lightly, giving him a watery smile.

“We can work out together if you want?”

König took whatever courage he had found a way to take the reigns and shake it until the bastard had to be dead in his skull.

You rub a thumb beneath your nose, face contemplative.

“That would actually be okay, yeah.”

He blinks at you, unsure why you would say yes. And then unsure of how to make this work.

“I don’t want to disrupt your routine,” you rush to fill the silence that had grown between you, “I can do whatever you are doing today, provided we fix the weights for me.”

Nodding König replies, “Company is welcome, but no offering to pay.”

You tongue at your teeth behind your lips.

König gives a startled laugh. You had labeled the feeling he and his therapist were unable to articulate.

“Okay, you are uncomfortable with thank-you gifts. Got it.”

“Ja, help is given, not bought.”

A beautiful blush stains your cheeks. The sight of your blushing smile sticks like a bur on a sock as he walks you to your car and waves to you as you disappear into the night. The change in color on your face haunts his dreams.

Masterlist | Chiseled Heart Masterlist

@backseatsoldier minor updates from what you read but 😘

[freakingholland]

"Cold cloths, warm hugs" Jason Todd x gn!reader

A/N: My first ever Jason x reader fic whaaat! I have such a soft spot for this guy ugh <3 also this is so fluffy and silly, I'll see myself out!

Warnings: not proofread, swear words, Jason is feeling unwell so a mention of headaches? use of painkillers

Summary: You and Jay have a night off, what could possibly go wrong? (fluff, hurt/comfort-ish)

Word count: 850 +

If you enjoyed my work: Ko-fi.com/freakingholland

questions/requests/ideas here! - rules here

masterlist (needs a proper update)

-

You were in the middle of watching some kind of lighthearted show on your night off. Jason had a night off as well, the two of you had been sitting on a couch and simply enjoying each other’s presence. Jason had been reading a book curled up next to your tucked figure, as your back was leaning against the opposite arm of the couch. Unexpectedly his reading session got disturbed. At least you thought so since he had gotten up from the couch, tossed his reading glasses aside on the coffee table and went to the kitchen without a word. At least 5 minutes had passed, and he didn’t return.

“Hey- you alright in there?”

-

“-Yup, just a sec.”

He didn’t sound very convincing. His response seemed wavering, and it was enough to make you a bit wary. As you didn’t want to possibly annoy him with your raised voice, not knowing the problem yet, instead of shouting from the sofa, you went to check on him.

His head was hanging low as he was standing with his hands resting on the counter. There was an unscrewed bottle of painkillers and a now empty, wet glass. You went behind him and put your hand on the small of his back.

“What’s going on baby?” Your heart ached at the sight.

“--Headache.” He whispered through gritted teeth. His tone made you uptight.

“I- I- gotta lie down.”

“-can you get me a cold-- towel? Please…” He spoke quietly while turning to go to your bedroom. Your hand dropped to your side.

“Course. You’re nauseous?”

He slightly leaned on the doorframe before going further away from you. He shut his eyes as the light hit his face when leaving the kitchen.

“Yeah…”

He then faltered to rest up.

“Shit.” You cursed under your breath putting your head in your hand when he left.

You were hoping that you’d have a calm evening for once, you deserved to have it. It’s been a while since something bothered Jay to that degree, whether it was a patrol injury or sickness, and the fact that he was hurting on his day off made you genuinely irritated.

On the positive side – at least he didn’t try to hide the fact that he was feeling unwell. He also asked for some help without much frustration. It took months to get to this point, but encouraging Jay to open up and communicate more has been paying off. Grief-stricken conversations still happen every so often. Hell, it would be beyond belief if they weren’t happening considering the extent of past trauma that Jason has suffered through.

But his mental health really did improve over the months of you two dating.

You put on the kettle to make him a nice warm cup of tea. With the help of a stool, you managed to find his old but beloved wonder woman mug. It took some digging in your cabinet that really needed a proper cleanup. When the tea had been made you moved on to rummage through your closet to find a cloth for a cold compress. Placing three cubes of ice in between the layers was enough to make the cloth cold.

“Babe did you drink cof—“ you stopped halfway through your whispered question when you were walking into your shared bedroom.

You suddenly stopped in your tracks realizing your possible mistake. Jay was already dosing off, curled under a blanket. His lips were slightly parted. There was a noticeable change in his posture, there was less tension within his upper body, his arms seemed more relaxed than before. You didn’t think he would be falling asleep this fast, but you figured the headache must have been bad and that the painkillers actually started to kick in.

 The sight made you sigh as you’ve been unnoticeably holding in your breath. You tiptoed to his bed side table and put down his mug of steaming tea. You then carefully kneeled down next to the bed in order to place a compress on his forehead without startling him too much. You gently pressed it onto his skin, making sure to place it slightly over his eyelids.

“That feels so nice.” He muttered.

“Shhh ignore me and go to sleep.”

“I don’t wanna ignore you--, come here.”

You stood up and walked around the bed. Before joining Jay, you opened the window to let some fresh air into the room.

“Baby please…”

“’Kay ‘kay I’m coming.”

You carefully crawled under his blanket and big spooned him.

“You know what? I can already feel the headache going away just cause you���re hugging me.” He continued verbilising his loopy thoughts.

“Oh yeah? It must be some kind of magic.”

“Yeah, it’s Y/N’s magic.”

“Just don’t tell on me. Peeps might burn me at the stake.”

“Fuuuuuuck no I wouldn’t let them.”

“Oh, I know you wouldn’t big guy. ” you said running your hand through his hair.  

Jay rolled to his side to embrace you in a hug. He nuzzled his face into your chest and sighed with relief.

“JACE that’s cold! Stop it!” you winced and laughed as the compress touched your warm skin.

“It wouldn’t feel so cold if you weren’t so hot.”

“I think we gotta check your temperature…”

-

Stay whelmed xx

Tori

[twola]

Passerine : Chapter 4

PAIRING: High Honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader

Green-scarved attackers leave you and Arthur in a precarious place - forced to address the impasse between you.

Warnings: This fic has graphic descriptions of non-consensual sex, violence against women, the trauma thereafter, and somewhat unhealthy coping mechanisms. If any of that content makes you feel uncomfortable or triggers you, this may not be the fic for you.

Told you it wouldn't be a year between updates :)

But seriously - I love hearing from you guys - that really helped push me to get this out more timely.

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

You wipe your brow against the heat. If you thought Clemens was hot, Shady Belle was goddamn sweltering. The nape of your neck was never dry, and the ends of your hair curled around your face from the humidity.

“Hey there.” 

You look up from the tub of dishes you were scrubbing behind Pearson’s wagon. Susan has finally given you some leeway, and the tub was dragged to a shady spot to give you at least a little bit of a reprieve from the heat.

But not much.

“Hey.”

Arthur stands in front of you, heaving a heavy sack of corn off his shoulder to the dirt below. He grunts slightly, circling his shoulder, before righting his hat and moving closer into your personal space.

“How’re you feelin’ this morning?” He asks, dipping his hands into the water quickly and shaking the wetness from his fingers. He stuffs his hand into his satchel and grabs his worn leather riding gloves, pulling them on.

“Same as yesterday. Hot and fat.” You respond, sighing as you roll your shoulders with a near-imperceptible wince. Your gaze settles on the tub of dirty dishes in front of you.

That gets a small smile out of him. A silence settles between the two of you as he wriggles his fingers on one hand, the leather sticking and whining with each stretch of his digits.

“How’s your shoulder?” You nod up to him, still not making eye contact.

“Feelin’ fine, you ain’t gotta worry about me.” He nods, intently staring at the soapy water in front of you.

You frown before looking back in the tub as well.

It’s a strange space you’re in right now. Your stomach is swollen up and your back starting to sway. You still had a couple of months before the child’s arrival. You’ve had to shed your layers even further from Clemens, where an old cotton shift is nearly all you can fit in at this point. Tilly and Mary Beth were working on a few dresses for you, but they weren’t done yet.

“You was up early.” He says, searching for words to continue the conversation - unfortunately, it wasn’t going well.

“Ain’t sleeping much these days.”

Arthur simply murmurs in response.

Up in the room of that old plantation house, Arthur’s bedroll remains on the floor, to which you complained, but he would hear none of you sleeping on the ground in your condition.

Sharing a bed was never brought up. It was a canyon between the two of you - the more your belly grew, the more you withdrew from him. You didn’t talk about it. About the baby. About the future. Arthur was unfortunately relegated to watch you grow and not address any of it. He didn’t know what to do - were you going to stay this way until the day you gave birth?

“I’m sure Abigail is grateful to John and you and Dutch for bringing Jack back.” You whisper quietly, looking at the boy running around the old abandoned fountain, an unfortunate breeding pit for mosquitos.

“Maybe John will step up after this.” Arthur eyes the shadow behind Jack.

John sits in the decrepit gazebo, carving what looks like a child’s toy in his hand. It was comical in some ways, fearsome looking, scarred John, working on a toy for his son. Finally, after so long, it seems that he is starting to acknowledge the poor boy - having gone through some kind of terror when he was taken.

He and Abigail hadn’t yelled at each other in a day - there’s a secret wager among the girls about how long it is that is going to last.

Karen bet the high end, having kept the knowledge that Abigail was in John’s room this morning to herself.

You breathe out heavily through your knows and let a low groan out, one hand on your lower back swayed under the weight of the child growing within.

He wants to reach out and touch you. He almost does, for a moment, spread his hand out over your belly, to try and feel for movement. He wants to pull your chemise up and press against your bare skin. He wants to worship your changing body.

But every time he tries to bring up the baby, you shut down. That darkness under your eyes returns. This chasm widens.

He steps one step closer, his hand moving to his gun belt, as was apt to happen in times of discomfort.

“Y’ want to go into town? I’ll take you.”

Your eyes move back to the dishes, and you fish the next dirty one from the tub.

“Not really. I’m fine.”

Arthur frowns but acquiesces. He bids you a good day before heading out to the hitching post, off to head back into town to meet Trelawney to discuss the next job.

-

Your spry gelding has been woefully neglected, you being unable to ride the way you want. He stands bored amongst the other horses, listless while you can’t give him a good run.

“Kieran.”

The poor boy almost drops his coffee, fear alight in his eyes for a moment. “Y-yes ma’am? Does Mr. Morgan need anythin’?”

“What, Arthur? No. I’m asking for a favor.”

“O-oh! Of course! What d’ya need?”

“It’s been a while since my boy’s had a hard ride… obviously I can’t-” you motion to your abdomen.

“Oh, oh! A-absolutely. I can take ‘im out for a ride.”

“Well I was wondering if I could come along… maybe just to get out of camp and watch you run him in the field. I’m so bored here.” You sigh. 

“You sure that Arthur ain’t gonna come after us?” Kieran asks concernedly.

“I’m sure it ain’t any of Arthur’s business. Besides, it won’t be like we’re going far. Maybe on the other side of that old battlefield near the Braithewaite’s land. Plenty of room out there.” You scowl, offended that Kieran insinuated you needed Arthur’s permission to function. God, you were pregnant, not an invalid.

Kieran looks hurriedly to the ground before quickly shuffling over toward your horse, who finally picks up his head and whinnies excitedly as his reins are untied from the hitching post.

You follow, smiling and brushing down your horse’s mane, whispering sweet affections to him as Kieran adjusts the saddle. After a few moments, he steps back to allow you to get yourself up on the horse.

Okay, maybe you were a bit invalid right now.

“Uh, can you… help me a bit?” 

Kieran blazes red for a moment before nodding, awkwardly placing his hands on your waist and helping heave you up on the horse’s rump. He climbs into the saddle and meekly leads the two of you toward the old battlefield and the road toward Braithwaite Manor. 

After a slow, hot walk to the open meadow, the two of you finally reach it. He quietly helps you slide off the horse’s rump and into the long grass of the meadow, where you take a few steps to stand under the shade of a tree.

Kieran then digs his spurs into your gelding’s side and the horse bolts, rearing before galloping off through the meadow. You lean against the tree, idly rubbing your hand over your growing stomach as you watch Kieran ride your horse hard, getting a good run out of him. It’s a good half hour of circling the meadow at various speeds before they slowly plod back to you.

“Ah, there’s my boy!” You pat his mane affectionately as your gelding pants, satisfied. Kieran leans on the pommel with one arm, smiling for once.

“He’s a good boy. I can make sure I take ‘im out every couple days for a run-” The man frowns slightly again, “with your permission, of course, ma’am.”

You nearly roll your eyes at him. 

“First, you’re doin’ me a favor, stop calling me ma’am. Second-”

A gunshot cracks far too close to you and your gelding rears, screeching as Kieran tries to calm him. You’ve stumbled back a few steps, clutching at your belly with one hand.

“Kieran Duffy, you’re a goddamn dead man!” 

Cold steel is pressed between your shoulder blades and your stomach drops to your feet.

One, two, three, four armed men encircle you and Kieran, who hushes your gelding. For a moment, his hand hovers over the gun on his hip, but you groan in pain as the barrel of a repeater digs into your back. A large hand clamps down on your arm roughly.

Two men muscle their way over to your horse and proceed to drag Kieran down from him, his face slamming against the red Lemoyne dirt.  The men start to kick at the adopted Van der Linde, and the unfortunate man tries to curl up in a fetal position but it is of no help. His gasps and moans of pain start to fill the air, overpowering the cicadas in the humid afternoon.

You just stare at the green scarves around their necks and bite your lip hard enough to make yourself bleed.

“C’mon, Colm’s waiting.”

-

The ropes chafe around your wrists as the O’Driscoll pushes you forward. You try your damndest not to stumble, and it is some small mercy that your wrists are bound in front of you as compared to behind you. Your dress, the old short-sleeved shift, is now dirty beyond any salvation and covered in horse hair and mud. Your captors were kind enough to place you on a horse sitting up, as compared to slinging you over the horse’s rump as they did to Kieran.

“This boy you’re associating with here… he’s done some real wrongs against us. Gotta assume that you have too if you’re with him.” The man grabs your chin roughly, forcing you to look at him.

A few hours of riding later, you’re out of the swamps before the men stop, guiding their horses off the northward road and into a small wooded glade as the hills start to rise. You vaguely recognize the area - it's not too far from Clemens, near the state line with New Hanover. The four men that found you had a campsite set up just off the road.

Kieran tries to muscle in between you and the O’Driscoll, his hands bound behind him, bruises blooming bright across his face. 

“She ain’t got nothin to -” 

Kieran’s plea is cut short with the sickening wet sound of blood bursting from his nose as the butt of a revolver whips across his face. He crumbles to the ground as you gasp. You stoop down to try to reach him, and as he rolls into a seated position, the blood from his face drips all over your dress as he coughs. You try to stymie the blood with the hem of your skirt but with your wrists bound, you just end up getting it all over yourself and him.

“Pretty sure I didn’t ask you, y’dumb sack of shit.”

Kieran gets yanked away from you, whimpering, and dragged further from the campfire back toward the woodline by two of the other men, rough and tumble and dirty. You’re pulled up roughly by your arm as your captor sizes you up. He pauses as you recapture your balance.

“You-you're that girl from up in Cumberland that ol’ Donal dragged back in-” The O’Driscoll sneers with recognition, “Said your cunny was one of the tightest one’s he’d plowed-” 

You recoil in revulsion, a physical reaction to the man’s reference to your assault. His coy and callous words about the rape that haunts you each and every day. The man’s eyes dart down to your abdomen, and your hands shoot up to cover it as if to hide your pregnancy from him.

“You got a damn O’Driscoll in your belly!” He howls in laughter, pointing at the child that grows within you.

Something deep and ancient and animalistic within you snaps like a leather whip. Suddenly this child in your belly wasn’t a burden. Suddenly the circumstances of its beginning didn’t matter. Suddenly, this raggedy outlaw in front of you was threatening your child. You scowl, your hands protectively over your stomach, the child agitated within, kicking at you as your blood rises. Righteous anger, for the first time since your ordeal, courses through your veins.

“My baby ain't no O’Driscoll,” You hiss, your bound hands clenching in rage, “This baby is Arthur Morgan’s - ‘nd he’s gonna come and skin you alive.” 

The hot anger sizzling through your blood, you know, would match Arthur’s. You can see, in your mind’s eye, your lover coming in, guns blazing, ready to tear anyone who threatens you and your child limb from limb.

A flash of something crosses the O’Driscoll’s face. Maybe fear, maybe recognition. His haughty smirk falls. Annoyed, he yanks you forward and forces you to your knees as you yell obscenities at him. Your hands are then bound behind you and the ropes threaded through the spokes of the wagon wheel you are forced to sit against.

The soft crackles of the fire ten feet away and the chirp of the crickets are foreboding in your gut - and for good reason. 

Kieran’s screams echo through the night and are a sound you will never forget.

-

“What do you mean you haven’t seen her? How th’ hell do you lose a pregnant woman?” Arthur stomps through the front door of the plantation house with Sadie trailing behind. 

“I ain't babysittin’ her Arthur - I’m just sayin’ I haven't seen her since this mornin’.”

“Arthur-” Dutch calls from the stairs, “Come up here, son - we have to talk. Missus Adler, will you excuse us?”

Arthur lets out a long breath through his nose. “Comin’-” he yells up to Dutch, and turns to Sadie, “Will you go find her? She’s been a goddamn hellcat with how angry gets nowadays.”

Sadie rolls her eyes, “Gosh Arthur, I wonder why.”

Arthur waves his hand at Sadie dismissively as he bounds up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He moves through the room where Dutch has stored his gramophone and the camp funds to find the older man out on the balcony. 

Dutch smokes a cigar, looking out on the decrepit fountain in the front of the manor below. He holds another one in his fingers, offering it to Arthur as he comes closer. Arthur grunts and takes the cigar, pulling a box of matches out of his satchel with the other hand.

Dutch motions toward the skyline of Saint Denis in the distance, barely visible over the cypress trees in the swamp. “Now… the trolley bus station…” The cigar’s end glows red between his fingers, “I went down there… I took a look at it… I think we can hit it.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow as he lights his cigar, puffing it to get it lit before holding it between his fingers, “I ain’t never robbed in a city before,” he replies with uncertainty.

Dutch smirks with that boisterous smile that Arthur has known for years. “Yeah, well you leave the planning to me, You’ll ride with me?”

“Always.”

Dutch grabs Arthur’s shoulder to reassure him. “Gonna get enough to get on a boat. Raise that kid o’yours on a mango farm, with no worries in the world.”

Arthur frowns, at both the mention of the baby and this harebrained idea of going to Tahiti of all places. Dutch senses his trepidation.

Dutch sighs, looking out over the balcony as a plume of smoke drifting upwards. He squints up the road leading toward Scarlett Meadows, placing his hands on the worn railing, “What the–”

Mary Beth’s scream cuts through the quiet.

-

Sadie Adler is quite unperturbed by the blood spattered all over her blouse. Frankly, she seems quite comfortable partly drenched in the lifeblood of O’Dricolls - doling out her divine justice for the wrongs hoisted upon her.

Arthur, however, is mad as a grizzly bear. 

“The last time I saw her she was with ‘im.” Sadie nods at poor Kieran’s headless body, where Javier and Bill hoist him up for burial outside of camp. Orville Swanson seems suddenly quite sober as he holds the decapitated head, slowly trailing the other two.

Arthur grinds his teeth so hard that most of the state could probably hear him. Scowling, he surveys the carnage outside the old house before stalking toward the horses, some of them having broken their hitches and darted further into the woods.

“Charles!” Arthur barks, “Missus Adler.”

Sadie nods, shouldering her rifle. Charles joins in, trotting from where he had just thrown a corpse into the bayou to follow the other two over to the horses from the old plantation house.

John Marston leads Old Boy out of the woods and swings up on him, leading the half-bred to where the other three horses have gathered.

“Marston.” 

“You helped me get my son back. I ain’t… Ain’t gonna stand by watchin’ you try to get yours back.`` John adjusts the strap of his repeater across his chest. 

Arthur simply grunts, too aggravated to show any thanks. He digs his spurs into his horse’s side, and with a high whinny, Arthur urges the mare into a gallop as they leave the plantation. Taima, Bob, and Old Boy fall in line.

He grips his revolver hard, standing in his saddle as the mare runs blisteringly fast up the road, through the old battlefields, and north into Scarlett Meadows.

-

The shouts and yells and gunshots have you huddling against the wagon wheel, your arms scream in pain as you try to tug at your bindings, your knees drawn up close to try and shield your belly from whoever is rolling in on your captors. Was it more O’Driscolls? Was it Lemoyne Raiders? 

A pair of boots sidle up in front of you. You look up in fear, your heart racing, and a gasp escapes your mouth as you stare up at the owner of said boots.

Arthur stands in front of the wagon, his whole body heaving with labored breaths. Blood is spattered up the side of his face, his hands tightly around a shotgun, still cocked and smoking from its obvious use.

“Darlin’-” 

Overwhelmed, you moan and start to collapse forward. He moves with a speed that betrays how wound up he still is from the fight, throwing his shotgun to the ground and catching you, whipping out his knife from its sheath and cutting the ropes that bind your arms.

Immediately, he heaves you up in his arms as if you were nothing as he stands up from his knee. With his arms looped behind your back and under your knees, he crushes you to himself for a moment.

“Are you hurt? What’s all this blood?” Arthur frets, looking over your bloodstained shift, eyes darting over your belly, searching for a possible injury where it was coming from.

Instead of answering you throw your arms around his neck, burying your head into his collarbone. 

“Sweetheart, y’gotta tell me-”

“The blood is Kieran’s,” You croak, “Ain’t mine… I’m alrigh’... we’re alrigh’.” You trail off and then begin to weep into Arthur’s shirt.

You can almost hear his jaw clench. A darkness shrouds his face as he carries you back into the campsite, shot up and full of bodies. You turn to see the carnage.

Sadie continues to loot the bodies of the fallen O’Driscolls, kicking each one as she finishes for good measure. Charles walks Arthur’s mare and Taima from the woodline where they had ditched the horses. 

Arthur’s shotgun is picked up from the ground. Clutching once more at Arthur’s shirt, you make eye contact with John Marston, who stares back at you with an unreadable expression.

-

The door latches behind you - at least as much as it can physically latch, and silence finally falls in this old room, the oil lamp throwing yellow-orange light and casting shadows around the room. The floorboards creak under the heavy footfall of Arthur’s boots as he moves toward the center of the room, one by one taking the weapons off of his person.

A repeater was laid against the table. A rifle balanced on his clothing chest. He shrugs off his bloodstained brown leather jacket and tosses it to the floor before looking back up at you. The simmering vein of anger in his blood seems to have been assuaged on the ride back, where he clutched you in his arm tight enough that the devil himself would have to pry you from his grasp.

“Y’sure you're okay? Y’sure all that blood ain't yours?”

You nod, trying to stave off the tears that threaten to fall from your eyes, failing miserably as your chin quivers and your lips purse. Arthur yanks his hat off and lets it drop on the table as he closes the distance between you. 

“Sweetheart-”

His hands reach toward you, but you immediately grab him by the wrists before he has a chance to pull you into his embrace. Pulling his hands downward, you place them broadly across your belly, his eyes widening as he spreads his fingers out over the swell. You place your own hands over his, pressing against them so he can feel the movement beneath your skin.

His cornflower-blue eyes track up to yours, and with a shuddering sob, the wall you’d been building between yourself and him finally crumbles.

“I-it’s yours-,” your voice cracks as tears freely flow down your face, “It’s yours, Arthur. This baby is yours and mine a-and-”

He removes one hand from your belly and pulls you into his warm embrace, kissing the top of your head gently as he traces soft circles on your skin with the remaining hand.

“Always was, darlin’.” The timbres of his low voice are comforting as you weep into his work shirt. “Like I told ya - that child is mine. I'm gonna be its pa.”

You sob harder into his warmth, your fingers tightening in the fabric as you clutch at him. One of his hands finds your lower back and gently rubs circles in soothing motions. 

“No.. no I mean…He… didn’t, he didn’t-” you stutter, hiccuping.

“Y’ain’t gotta say anything bout him-” Arthur cups the back of your head, trying to prevent you from going down that road.

“I- I don’t know why it was stuck in my head. Like I couldn’t think it was possible that it wasn’t his… but - but he ain’t, it’s not…”

“Sweetheart-”

“He didn’t finish in me. It - it was only once and he didn’t finish in me.” You spit out, as if the words were venom in your mouth. You squeeze your eyes shut against your body's physical reaction: a shudder of revulsion as past scenes invade your mind again. But speaking it aloud, getting it out in the open, there was something freeing about it.

Arthur clutches you to him, tucking his chin against the crown of your head.

“N-None of them O’Driscolls touched me.” You whimper into his chest.

You feel his arms tighten around you, as he breathes in to seemingly center himself again, the rage from before threatening to lash out once again.

“I’m still gonna hunt down every one of them and -” He snarls lowly before you bury your face into his chest, 

“Don’t. Don’t - don’t leave me. I need you here.”

He breathes out slowly, calming himself down before he cups the back of your head. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

After a moment to collect yourself, you look up at him, one of your hands tracing up his broad chest, his neck, your fingers weaving through his short beard.

“Arthur,” you sniffle, rubbing at your wet cheek with the back of your other hand.

“You don’t gotta do anythin’.” He interjects, his thumb catching your jaw before wiping the opposite cheek.

Your brow crinkles and you step up on your toes and press your lips to his forcefully, which he meets your fervor almost immediately.

You open your mouth to him and he groans lowly, drawing you even closer in his embrace, awkward with the swell of your child between you. 

He draws away from your lips slowly, and his hands trace up your body to cup your cheeks gently - far too gently for a gunslinging outlaw. 

“What d’ya want, sweetheart?” His low voice rumbles before he presses his lips to your forehead. You let out a breath and lean into him, reaching up on your toes to press your lips against his again, arms wound around his torso. Your belly presses against his, preventing you from melting fully into his arms.

The words tumble from your lips before you can stop them. 

“Will you touch me?”

So long ago, you had timidly asked him that in front of a campfire in West Elizabeth. You had begged him, pleaded, to have him take away the pain and memory of your ordeal. To have the last person who touched you do it out of love, not power and control.

Arthur smiles, like the morning sunrise, and draws you up for another kiss.

“Ain’t nothin’ I'd like more to do.”

There are several more moments of kissing, the wet sounds of mouths meeting the only sound in the room before Arthur bends to pick you up, hooking his arm beneath your knee and carrying you to the rickety old bed, laying you down gently with a kiss to your forehead.

“I ain’t… I’ve never done this with someone in your… condition.” Arthur stutters sheepishly as he slides one of his suspenders down his arms.

You smile and reach up to grab the other suspender and peel it downward. “I’ll be okay. Just be gentle.”

The cotton straps swing by his side as he leans over to take his boots off, they clunk to the floor heavily as he tosses them away. He leans over you and works your boots off, tossing them to the floor in a pile near his own.

Hands move slowly - gently, with purpose. His shirt falls to the floor. Your bloodstained skirt follows. The ruined blouse. They all pile on the floorboards until your lace-trimmed chemise is all that covers your body. You give a lopsided grin as he reaches toward your neckline. 

“What?” He grins, tracing up to one shoulder and pushing the strap down your bicep.

“Reckon I look a little different since the last time we did this.”

The cotton is peeled downward, exposing your swollen breast and darkened nipple. 

“Reckon you’re even more beautiful now.” He drawls before fully leaning over you and pressing his lips against the top of your breast, and you mewl in response, your sensitivity so heightened as he works his way down, letting his tongue lave over your nipple. You arch your back, chasing the feeling, whimpering as his lips close around your nipple and gently suck upon it for a moment.

Your fingers weave into his hair, and you yelp as he sucks harder, yanking on his hair in overstimulation. His mouth pops off your nipple as he rears up immediately, concern alight in his eyes.

“S’okay - just a little sensitive.” You ruffle his hair affectionately as he whispers an apology, sheepish as he leans up to kiss you quickly, his grip on you not nearly as strong. 

“C’mon now,” you pull your chemise over your head, tossing it over the bed and moving one of his hands to your hip to push down your drawers. Arthur’s breath stutters as his hand traces back up your thigh as you kick the bloomers off, some of his earlier fear and reticence leaving him. 

“Christ,” he breathes against your skin as he buries his face in the curve of your neck, “Yer so beautiful like this.”

His large hand dips between your legs and you whimper as you spread them to grant access. His fingers immediately part your folds and it’s only half a moment before he finds that little nub of your pleasure, circling it with his finger as you begin to mewl softly, your eyes fluttering closed as he leans over you.

You stutter in gasping notes, needy whines filling the room as he touches you. He rumbles his assent, pleased, “It’s been killin’ me not to touch you.”

“Really?” You breathe, and he takes the opportunity to slide his thick trigger finger into your cunt, and your back arches in response.

“Course- you, you’re,” he stops and groans in your ear as he pulls his finger out, near dripping with your essence, “You’re the prettiest damn thing I’ve ever seen, carrying’ my child.”

“Yours.” You croon in response.

He agrees with a smirk, knowing he’s finally helped pull you from the abyss of denial, “Mine. Just like you, yer my girl.”

Arthur slides his finger back in. You gasp, high and flighty, blushing and needy. Your hands clutch at the old sheet laid out on the bed. 

His other hand brushes a few strands of your hair from your forehead, tucking them behind your ear. He smiles, dangerously fond, and leans over to press his lips to yours and smothers the noises of your pleasure.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is the wet squelching of his hand, gently, slowly thrusting in and out between your spread legs. When he moves to hold himself above you again, he runs his gaze up and down your body - your bite-swollen lips, your heaving bosom - darkened nipples spit-slicked in the evening light.

The roundness of your belly where his child grows. 

By the time his gaze returns to your face, he finds you waiting. Your eyes open wide and searching for his. 

“Arthur.”

“Mm?” He nods, drawing his finger out from your body. You grab at his wrist to ground yourself.

“I want you.” 

Arthur smiles in response, pressing a kiss to your forehead as you lay on his bed. He stands up to his full height from where he leaned over you and unbuttons his pants, pushing down both them and the short drawers he had taken to wearing in the Lemoyne heat. After the fabric reaches his saddle-hewn thighs, it falls to the ground, pooling at his feet, leaving all six feet of him bare for you to see.

His hefty cock stands at attention, darkened with blood and wet at the tip. A testament to his reciprocated want.

“Here, turn over,” Arthur helps you to roll onto your side, facing the wall, and he slides into the bed next to you, its old wood creaking with the weight and movement. Arthur holds a hand tightly to your hip as you lay on your side away from him, squeezing affectionately as he settles in.

Flushed against your back, even with you large with child, Arthur dominates you, his arm curling up and over your torso. He’s warm and strong and hard against you.

“You tell me if anythin’ doesn’t feed good, alrigh’?” He rumbles into your ear as his hand, having moved down to your thigh, pulls your leg backward and over his own hip.

You nod vigorously, unable to articulate any words as you feel him guide his cock between your legs, tucking it between your folds and giving a few languid, gentle thrusts to coat himself in your slick. You grab at the hand spread out over your thigh and interlace your fingers; he squeezes your hand in response.

Arthur grits his teeth as pulls his hips back, the head of his cock catching on your opening. He presses inward, his hardened flesh pushing through the rim of your cunt. You gasp in return, feeling the first inches of him enter your body. 

He leans up on one elbow and presses his lips to your temple as you whimper.

“Okay?” He whispers, remaining still, only half buried in your warmth.

You whine a little and wiggle your hips, he groans as another inch of him slips in. He presses forward, fully sheathing himself in you, and you whimper again, cunt stuffed full of him.

He allows you time to accommodate him - the dual pressure of him and the child pressing on your hips is nearly painful in a way that you can’t get enough. You tip your head back, breathing out as your whole body presses back against his - even swollen with child, you feel small against him. All muscle and corded arms and his broad chest-

Arthur gives an experimental, shallow thrust of his hips. His cock halfway leaves you before pushing into you again. The whimpering escaping your mouth escalates into a moan, and he curls his body over yours, his stubble against your cheek, and you can feel him smile against you.

“There’s my girl.”

He does it again. And again, and again, until he is throwing his hips against yours, panting wildly in your ear as he fills your cunt over and over.

Arthur’s hand moves from under yours on your thigh to cradle your belly and the life growing within. You feel fit to burst - the fondness overflowing from your heart at his gesture, the rhythmic slapping of his skin against yours, the filling and emptying of your core with all of him - it is only moments before you stutter out a breathy jumble of words.

“M’ gonna-ngh- Arth… Arthur, I’m gonn-”

He holds himself still, a feat in itself, and rubs at your clit with two fingers, leaving you a gasping, shuddering mess as he works an orgasm out of you.

“There we go, there’s my girl.” He whispers again in your ear as you shudder and shake and gasp, his cock still buried to the hilt within you. As you come down from your high, he gently pulls out, laying on his back and grunting as he takes himself in hand, pumping his cock until he breathes out heavily, coming all over his belly as he finds his pleasure.

You lay still for a few moments more, recovering and catching your breath. You feel Arthur unwind himself from you and get up from the rickety bed. With some measure of difficulty, you turn yourself around, facing the room instead of the wall. One of your hands subconsciously begins drawing small circles on your stomach as you watch Arthur wipe his own clean of his spend with an old bandana.

Arthur tosses the soiled bandana to the ground. He goes to reach for a fresh union suit before you make a sound of disapproval.

“Come sleep with me.” You plead, and the smile he gives you in return assuages all fears as he drops the union suit and takes the last few steps between the bed and where he stood.

With a bit of finagling, he slides into bed and pulls the old blanket over the two of you.

He returns to you as you wind your arms around his neck, your naked bodies pressed against each other, the swell of your child between you. One of his hands rests on your belly, and for the first time in months, you fall asleep at peace.

[amethystwrytes]

Safe. (Part Two)

Pairing: Hwang Hyunjin x Fem. Reader x Lee Minho

Summary: A broke ER Nurse offers up her services to a large crime organization in exchange for much higher pay and benefits that are unconventional, but lucrative. The life proves to be questionable at best, and downright isolating at worst which leaves her feeling unsure, unstable and dangerous. 

Warnings: Explicit language. Explicit depictions of sex (some chapters will be more explicit than others sexually). Violence. Blood. Trauma injuries. (Organized) Crime. Emotional manipulation. Medical inaccuracy galore. Smoking. Past addiction. 18+ Only.

Chapter WC: 6.5k

Read Pt. One Here

- PART TWO -

When you wake up this time, unlike the previous evening,  you’re on the couch in the living room. You hear whistling and dishes clanking from the kitchen, and the roar of a load of laundry going. You sit up and rub your eyes. You know Hyunjin isn’t feeling well enough to be bustling about your kitchen and Seungmin would never. So, you’re not surprised to see Han Jisung floating around the kitchen, putting things where they don’t go, while he flip flops between whistling and singing random songs. 

The scent of coffee is in the air, and that takes precedence over other thoughts. So you lift your stiff body off the couch to greet him. 

“Where did my best buddy go off to?” you joke dryly as you grab a mug from the cupboard. 

“Oh! Good morning, uh…Seungmin? He and I switched out shifts, I didn’t figure you cared so we didn’t wake you up,” Han explains, tossing a dish towel over his shoulder. 

“Thank you for cleaning,” you look around. He’s cleaned everything from last night, the counters, the floors, the sheet you put over the dining table is in the laundry, along with some bloody towels and clothes. The kitchen and dining area look like a normal house again, and not a surgery center.

“Eh,” he shrugs, pouring himself a refill, “I assumed it was a hard night if you passed out on the couch, just wanted to help. Um…how is he?” Jisung asks. 

“Let’s go see, besides, he needs to eat here in the kitchen, needs to walk around so that wound doesn’t start healing in the wrong position,” you say, then take a big gulp of coffee before setting it down on the counter. 

Hyunjin is awake when you and Jisung walk into the room, he’s got his tongue tucked between his teeth and he’s concentrating hard on an open notebook, a simple #2 pencil seems to be possessed by something as he drags it across the page. For several seconds he doesn’t even seem to notice anyone has walked into the room until Jisung runs into the chest of drawers near the door. 

Like a shot, Hyunjin snaps the notebook closed and his face goes from wild concentration to that cool, unbothered demeanor you’ve grown accustomed to with him. 

“What are you drawing?” you can’t help but wonder. 

“I just like to doodle, it’s nothing,” he says a little too quickly and you get the feeling he doesn’t want you to see his work, fine, you’re not here to argue. 

“Up you go,” you stand by his bed and beckon him with your fingers. “We’re going to go eat at the kitchen table, you need to walk around.” 

“Uh, pardon? Was it not you that sewed my damn side back together last night? Can’t you just bring it in here?” he asks. 

“You have stitches Hyunjin, there are women in hospitals all over the world right now who just had seven layers of their guts sliced open, a literal human being dragged out, and then those guts stitched, cauterized, and stapled back together - and they have to get up and walk as soon as the spinal block wears off - so get your ass up, go sit at the table, and I’ll make you some breakfast,” you instruct, patting the side of his face with a smug smile. 

“You’re kind of mean, you know that?” he half smiles. 

“I know,” you wave as you walk back to the kitchen. 

“Seven fucking layers? I didn't even know there were seven layers…” you hear Jisung whisper as he assists Hyunjin out of bed. 

🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️

Later in the afternoon Minho pays another surprise visit. You think he must favor Hyunjin, he’s never been this diligent on checking in. Or, maybe he wants to make good on his promise to make you his when there wasn't a man bleeding out on your table. The thought gives you an unhealthy excitement.

“You’re alive!” Minho grins and gives Hyunjins shoulders a shake. 

“Yes sir,” he nods, “Gonna take more than some bitch ass blade to take me out.” 

“Of course,” Minho smiles, then looks at you, “You did wonderfully love. He looks right as rain.” 

“Well, I’d still like to monitor him for infection, though I do have him started on antibiotics, but yes, I think he’ll be back to normal in a few days,” you report. 

“Good! Then you’ll both join me this coming Saturday evening,” Minho casually goes to the fridge and plucks a water out. 

You and Hyunjin look at each other quizzically. You’ve never been asked to do anything aside from bandaging Minho’s guys. 

“You mean me?” you ask, looking around. Jisung is upstairs taking a nap, so there are no other people in the room. 

“Yes, I mean you,” Minho confirms. “This Saturday I’m hosting a meeting of sorts with some of our associates. Specifically, I want to ensure they’re on our side of things. The intel on your attack leads to Kim Taehyung. I guess those guys that attacked the three of you were planted there by him. I’ve had just about enough of the Kim organization pushing back lately, after we’ve been so generous in letting them live and operate around the gun sales - but the attack on the three of you last night - in addition to him selling to our clients, that was the last straw,” he explains. “I plan to obliterate their ops, and make sure Kim Taehyung never sees another daylight.” 

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, you have no idea who Minho is talking about but the visions of all the ways this Kim Taehyung is going to pay for what he’s done is overwhelmingly gruesome. 

“Anyway,” Minho clears his throat, “Saturday at the Casino, I’ll make sure our business partners and associates are all on the same page, if not then I’ll assume they’re enemies now, but in order to keep the tension down I’d like it to be casual - which is where you come in darling,” Minho looks at you. 

“I don’t understand…you need first aid on site or?” 

Minho laughs, “No love, I want you there as my date, so to speak, I’ve told the others to bring their wives, mistresses, whomever - it’s a party, and I want to keep it light, I’ll look less uptight if I’ve got something to occasionally hold my attention,” he smiles, then looks at Hyunjin, “I’m sure Kim will have some of his guys planted around the casino and I want them to see you there Hwang. I know they targeted you because of your reputation as my best, and they need to know it was barely a scratch.” 

Hyunjin nods, “Of course.” 

“Good, then it’s settled.” 

You say nothing, still too stunned to speak. You don’t really want to go to his Casino. You don’t want to be seen as his…anything. You feel like you’re being debuted as something you never agreed to, and you’re also sure if you bring it up he’ll brush it off as nothing, that you’re reading too much into his invitation or worse, he’ll be livid for your insubordination. You don’t like this, you didn’t agree to dates, or public appearances. When Minho approached you in the hospital parking lot that morning all those months ago, the parameters were clear: He’ll pay you and keep you supplied with medical necessities if you tend to he and his men. Period. 

And yet. On the other hand, you can’t quite explain the flicker of giddiness in your stomach at the thought of having a night out with him. It’s exciting and yet simultaneously makes you hate yourself. 

This is your fault. You never should’ve fallen for that face, that misleading smile that conceals the evil within, that makes you think he’s harmless. He’s not, and you climbed into bed with him literally and figuratively, you’ve done this to yourself. You know you’re in too deep even as he looks at you now from across the room and motions up the stairs with his eyes, the excitement pools immediately between your legs and you get up and lead the way, not caring your house is occupied with two other people, not caring about Saturdays Casino night, only caring about feeling good. You’re in too deep, and you don’t think you can pull yourself out.

🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️

“So, about Saturday,” you say, pulling the sheets up under your arms, concealing your nudity. 

“Hm?” Minho is just out of the shower, he wraps a towel around his waist and sits back down on the bed, picking his phone up to check it. 

“I’m just a little concerned…” you trail off, not sure what to say or how to say it. 

“If you’re worried about what to wear, don't be,” he says casually without looking up from his phone, “I’ll send Christopher over with dress options and accessories that afternoon for you to choose from.” 

“That’s not really what I’m worried about, but that’s nice of you,” you say. 

“Then what?” he finally looks over at you. 

“It’s just…It’s just that surely there’s someone else you’d rather have with you than me, I’m just for emergencies you know? Medical emergencies,” you clarify. 

He laughs dryly, “You said you felt lonely here, that you’re not sure how to act normal when you’re not with us, so I figured I’d take you out into our world, that way you don’t have to worry about how to act or not act. It’ll be fun, you’ll get to dress up, have drinks, eat delicious food, and play some games if you’d like. Why are you concerned?” he looks genuinely confused and closing in on irritated. 

“People are going to think we’re together,” you blurt, “I mean Seungmin already - ugh, it doesn’t matter, but I just want us both to be clear about things, about this,” you gesture towards the bed. 

“I see…” Minho says tightly, “So, you don’t want to be seen with me, is that what I’m getting from this?” 

“It’s not that! I mean if you want to whittle it down, completely ignoring all context and nuance then fine, but what I’m actually saying is that I’m just a nurse, when we made this arrangement you never said anything about going to Casinos or being on your arm to keep things casual amongst your associates. You told me that you’d pay me to take care of any injuries your guys get and that’s the position I accepted. Then we started fucking each other, and now we’re going to be playing a couple at your Casino and that’s…a lot,” you explain. 

“Right,” Minho looks half amused, half pissed as he gets off the bed and starts dressing himself. You watch in silence as he flits around the room without a word and you grow increasingly nervous. It’s as if the very temperature in the room has dropped. 

“Can you say something, please? It’s not my intention to hurt you-,”

“I don’t know what you want me to say. Me coming up here and fucking you a couple times a week is perfectly fine, but suddenly I ask you to do me a favor - which is just to spend an evening out with me at a fucking Casino for God’s sake - and that’s the line you draw? That’s too much?” he looks at you, and you’ve never seen him look that way before, not at you. It chills you. 

“I just-,” 

“Stop talking,” he sighs, “You’re prettier when you don’t talk.” 

Your eyes widen at his words. 

“What? This is what you expect of me, correct? The big, bad, wolf? Fine. So here’s how it works now - I tell you where to be and when to be there, and you’re there. I enjoy fucking you, very much, but at the end of the day you can just be my employee. Now, back in the hospital I’m sure that comes with boundaries and scopes of responsibilities but here, all it comes with is: I tell you what to do and you do it. There is no HR complaint box, there’s you getting in the car I’ll send for you Saturday, and smiling and pretending like you’re having the time of your life while I assess the people in attendance to see if I’m going to allow them to live and operate their organizations peacefully in this city, or if I’m going to have a very bloody few months on my hands.” 

You shake under the covers, fight the tears that are burning your eyeballs. 

“Do you understand? Have I made myself unclear in any way?” he asks. 

You shake your head. 

“Words please,” he stares into you. 

“Yes. I understand,” you answer, hoping he doesn’t see the way your chin wobbles. 

“Good. Then from now on we don’t have to flirt around what we are or aren’t, since that’s so fucking important to you suddenly. You’ll  know exactly where you stand,” he heads towards the door, “Oh, and before you get any bright ideas about running back to your miserable life at the hospital, try to remember you don’t walk away from this life. You don’t walk away from me. There’s not a hospital on this planet that will hire a nurse who sells controlled drugs out of her house.” 

“I don’t sell-,”

“Oh don’t you?” he slowly walks back over and leans down close, “Because the cops on my payroll who will turn this house upside down if I ask them to, will write a report that says differently - think of the pharmacy you’ve got going on down there, my goodness. Jail time won’t suit you Kitten, so be a good girl,” he grabs your chin and kisses you hard on the lips. 

You watch in absolute horror as he opens the door and steps out, your face hot and wet with tears, jaw clenched so tight in fear that you feel like your teeth might break. 

“See you soon baby.” 

🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️

“___?” 

You hear Hyunjins voice softly call through the closed bedroom door before he gently opens it. 

“What are you doing in here?” you demand, not bothering to roll over to look at him. 

The room is dark, you’ve laid in the same spot, naked, all day. Your pillow is damp with the tears you’ve shed between cat naps. You’ve no idea what time it actually is but his wound needs to be cleaned and the dressings changed. He’s probably also not had any more medication, and you’ve no idea what his vitals look like but you imagine he’s still dehydrated and weak from all that blood he lost. 

“I haven’t seen you all day, I just…I wanted to make sure you were alright I guess,” he says, and you can hear his uneven steps hobbling towards the armchair in the corner of your room. 

“You shouldn’t have walked up the steps, you’ll put too much stress on the wound,” you say flatly, though you can’t seem to find it within you to care. 

“I’m turning this light on,” he says. 

“Don’t! I’m not dressed,” you say, your chest flooding with shame and humiliation, a fresh batch of tears start flowing. 

“Hey,” he stands up again and you hear him grunt, “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” you sob, which only makes more tears because how pathetic is it to say I’m fine when you’re clearly not? “Just go back downstairs - I’ll be there in a minute okay? Please Hyunjin…” 

“Okay,” he says softly, “but if you’re not down there within the hour I’m coming back up here and annoying the shit out of you until you get up and eat something.” 

“Fine.” 

When you come down into the kitchen you say nothing to the two men who sit at the table. Jisung still seems to be on duty and is enamored with some game that’s too loud on his phone. Hyunjin on the other hand, you can feel staring at you as you make your way to the fridge and grab a yogurt. 

You eat it standing over the sink, your back towards the men. 

“What have you had to eat or drink today?” you ask Hyunjin as you toss the spoon into the sink, the half eaten yogurt into the garbage. 

“I’ve eaten, and I’ve been drinking the gatorade and water back and forth. I’m fine,” he says with an emphasis that implies he knows you are not fine. 

“Good, let’s go to your room and take a look at that wound, I’ll get your vitals too for good measure, then I’m going to bed,” you tell him. 

At this Jisung looks up from his phone, “Haven’t you been asleep all day?”

“Well, considering I didn’t really sleep last night, and honestly the fact that you people keep me from sleeping most nights, I figured I’d fucking play catch up Jisung. Is that okay with you?” you snap. 

“Yeah, jeez,” he huffs, “Sounds like you need it.” 

🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️

“Ouch,” Hyunjin winces as you peel the bandage off his stitches. 

“The wound looks good, it’s a little sticky but that’s normal. Tomorrow we can have you leave the bandage off, let the air get to it,” you say. 

“What happened?” 

“You got stabbed in a fight,” you answer as if you don’t know what he’s really asking. 

“When Lee left and you didn’t come back down I figured you were just taking some time, and then an hour passed and I thought you were just napping or something, but then the whole day went by and I thought he…” Hyunjin trails off. 

“Killed me?” you finish for him, hyper focusing on carefully opening the clean bandages. 

“I mean…I know that doesn’t make any sense, but yeah, kind of,” he nods. 

“Well, I’m not dead,” you say. 

“I can see that. Did he… do something else…” he trails off again and his dark eyes meet yours for a split second before he looks back down. 

You know what he’s implying and it makes you feel sick. You’ve never done anything nonconsensual with Minho, but that was before his fucking second personality showed up. 

“The only thing that happened in that room was me being made painfully aware of what I’ve really gotten myself into Hyunjin.” 

“What have you gotten yourself into?”

You sigh, your fingers faltering over his skin as new tears make their way down your cheek, “You know. You know exactly,” you sniff. 

Hyunjin takes the pad of his thumb and wipes some of the tears away. 

“Seeing you cry kills me,” he says softly, “When we first started bringing the guys here, I thought you were this tough, bitchy Nurse Ratched type, you’d tell us all what to do, what to get, make us tell you what happened like fifty billion times. Then I realized what you were really doing.” 

You sniff and wipe your tears with the back of your hand, “What are you talking about?” 

“You make us do all those things, you talk us through everything so we won’t freak out. You’re tough, I’m not saying you aren’t,” he laughs, “but you’re sweet to us, to every patient you’ve ever had probably. Like last night when Felix and Bin were freaking, and you asked them about the knife and what happened and made them part of it so they had something to do - that was intentional.” 

“You heard all that?” you wonder. 

“Well yeah, some crazy nurse had her finger in my guts, I wasn’t taking a snooze,” he smiles. 

You laugh through your snot and tears and he smiles. 

“I guess my point is that I don’t know what Lee said to you upstairs, but I do know what you’ve gotten into because I’m in it too, in the thick of it. I’ve killed people ___, but you, you heal them. So if there’s even a shred of goodness in any of this, it’s you. You are the good, and I don’t want you to forget that.” 

You smile and look up at him, “Why are you being so nice, hm? I think the entire time I’ve worked for Lee you and I have spoken maybe three times in passing.” 

Hyunjins smile falters a little as he looks down at you, “Just because you’re always too busy to notice me doesn’t mean I don’t notice you,” he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear then clears his throat, “And I’m not being nice, I’m being honest. Okay? Forget whatever Lee said to you, we all get chewed out from time to time when he’s in a bad mood but that’s just part of the business. I’ve got your back, okay?” 

You nod, and because you need the extra confirmation you look at him, “Promise?” 

“I promise.” 

You tape his new bandage on and squeeze his hand, “Thank you Hyunjin.” 

🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️

You sleep all night, it’s the first night in a long time that you’ve slept well. Surprisingly. Minhos words haunted you. He had been like a light switch going from light to dark. You had known from the get go that Minho was dangerous, you weren’t that naive, but he’d never made you feel like you were in danger. Well, that certainly was no longer the case. Maybe you slept so well because now there’s no confusion, no guessing about where things stand. He’d said that you weren’t his prisoner, and maybe you weren’t locked up or chained, but in every way that matters you are most definitely his prisoner. 

When you walk down stairs you’re disappointed that Jisung is gone, you owe him an apology for snapping at him. Instead Seungmin is back, making a mess in your kitchen and not caring to clean it. 

“Are you really necessary?” you groan, smacking his arm and shooing him from the kitchen. 

“Meaning?” he frowns. 

“Is the security detail necessary? I mean, nothing has happened this entire time and I’m getting tired of you all tracking your shit all over my house,” you gripe as you pour yourself some coffee. 

“It’s not your house, is it?” Seungmin sneers, sitting down at the table with the breakfast he helped himself to.

“You’re a dick, you know that?” you smile as you sit across from him. 

“And you-,”

“Shut the fuck up!” Hyunjin whines sleepily as he walks into the kitchen from the guest room. He’s getting around better. His hobble from yesterday has turned into a minor limp today.

“Minho says he’s been texting you with no response,” Seungmin chastises Hyunjin before his butt hits the chair at the table. 

“My phone’s in the room,” he whines, bracing himself to stand back up. 

“I’ll get it,” you say. 

You see the phone on the bedside table and walk over to it, Hyunjin has left the notebook he’d been sketching in yesterday on the bed, wide open. You feel bad for peeking, considering he didn’t seem like he wanted anyone to see his drawings, but you can’t stop yourself from looking down at the page. 

To your surprise, he’s drawn you. You pick up the book and stare at the lines. It’s good, really good actually, and you start flipping through the pages. Most of them are of you. Standing over the dining room table, sitting on the side of his bed, smiling, sad…he’s drawn you at least ten ways and all of them make you feel so…seen. If anyone ever asked you to describe yourself, you’d never be this kind. Never this beautiful. Never this vulnerable. Is this how he sees you? 

“Like them?” Hyunjin asks from the doorway and you drop the notebook back onto the bed. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, “I should’ve asked to look.” 

“It’s okay,” he shrugs, “It’s not that I’m violently opposed to people looking. I mean, Jisung brought it to me yesterday while you were sleeping and I know he snuck a peek. It’s just…” he trails off. 

“Personal?” 

“Yeah.” 

“May I?” you pick the book back up slowly and he nods, limping to the chair nearby and sitting down. 

“These are so good Hyunjin, truly,” you tell him as you flip through more images. 

Hyunjin seems to have drawn everyone around him to perfection. They could be black and white photographs. There’s Seungmin, whose grumpy, distanced demeanor is so well captured you giggle. Felix's angelic, ethereal face with every freckle included. Changbin’s thoughtful expression that he always wears, like he’s constantly planning his next steps. Jisungs sweet smile. Even Minho, whose eyes are just as dark and wild on the page as they are in real life. Then there’s pages of you, more than the others and you feel your face heat. 

“You draw me a lot,” you state quietly. 

“Yeah.” 

“Why?” 

“Like I said sweetheart, just because you’re always too busy to notice me doesn’t mean I don’t notice you. I like drawing you, it relaxes me,” he chuckles. “The lines of your profile, the way your hair falls in your face when you’re working, the expression you wear when you're worried about us,” he looks at you, “I love watching you. You’re so beautiful.”  

“I didn’t realize…” you say softly, suddenly at a loss for words, as you place the book gently back on the bed. 

Hyunjin licks his lips and shrugs, “That’s understandable, I mean, Lee demands most of your attention since you’ve been around, and when he’s not here you’re usually elbow deep in blood so I just keep my distance.” 

At the mention of Minho you’re reminded of the reality of your situation and you take a breath, picking up Hyunjins phone as you originally intended. You walk it over and gently hand it to him, his fingers envelop yours for a moment and he looks up at you wantingly. You remove your hand from his as gently as you can and lay it on his shoulder giving it a squeeze. 

“Don’t look at me like that, okay?” you say softly. 

“Why not?” 

“It makes me want to kiss you,” you say shyly. 

“Would that be so bad?” he half smiles and you screw your eyes shut. 

“I’m not a whore for you all to pass around,” you say stiffly. 

“No, you’re not, is that really the impression you got from everything I just said? That I think you’re the resident whore, here for our pleasure?” he frowns. 

You sigh, “No, I’m sorry I just…” you grab his hand again, “I’m scared of him, Hyunjin. Terrified. I’m scared to do anything that will make him angry.”

“He doesn’t have to know, and I’ll protect you,” he whispers, his fingers tracing lines down your arm, he grabs your hand and kisses the back of it. 

“He knows everything, eventually, and you and I both know he’s the only person you can’t protect me from,” you pull away again and this time leave the room. 

🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️

Later that evening you sit in the living room with Seungmin and Hyunjin watching some horror show on Netflix. You’ve not paid a bit of attention to it, though Seungmin is hooked from his favorite recliner. Every few moments you look over to the other side of the sofa and see Hyunjin looking back at you in the darkness, playing with his bottom lip and looking like he wants you so badly it makes your insides clench. You’ve never been so grateful to have Seungmin sitting in your living room, because you’re not entirely sure you wouldn’t crawl over to Hyunjin and take his lips with yours if Seungmin wasn’t there. 

Suddenly your phone rings and movie night comes to a screeching halt. 

“Hello?” 

“Jeongin got shot!” Jisungs voice cries into the speaker and Seungmin and Hyunjin both stiffen up. 

Jeongin is the baby, and the other men treat him like their pet. They love him, from what you’ve observed, and you know your every move is going to be watched like a hawk. 

“Where?” you ask, standing up to flick lights on in the kitchen. 

“At some assholes house, we were there to ask some questions about what happened to Hyunjin and-,”

“Where on his body, Jisung?” 

“Shoulder, in his shoulder,” he answers. 

You breathe a sigh of relief, you can handle a shoulder. 

“We’ll have everything ready, come quickly,” you say, then hang up the phone and get back to work. 

🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️

“You’re not to use this arm for several days, you hear me?” you look at Jeongin who looks way too proud to have gotten his first gunshot wound. 

“Yeah, I hear you,” he smiles, a little dopey from the pain pill you gave him. 

“You’re lucky I was able to pry that thing out of you whole,” you remind his smug ass. 

“Mmhmm,” he yawns. 

“Someone drive this kid home so he can sleep,” you laugh. Jisung rushes to Jeongin to help keep him upright.  

“I’ll drive them home,” Seungmin offers. 

“Make sure to remind him not to sleep on that side, and keep his arm in the sling while he’s up and about,” you tell them as Seungmin and Jisung help Jeongin out the door. 

“Thank you sweet princess,” Jeongin grins like a doped up disney character and blows you a kiss from across the room. 

The door shuts and you start cleaning up the mess. It was pretty clean, so not as much blood as there was with Hyunjin just a few days prior. You toss the sheets into the wash, and get rid of the bullet you pulled out of Jeongins shoulder. Everything else goes into a steamer for sanitation. 

“You did good, taking care of the kid,” Hyunjin says walking into the kitchen. In the rush of things you’d almost forgotten he was here, almost forgotten about the suggestive things he’d said to you earlier. Now you’re alone with him. 

“It was an easy one,” you shrug, not turning around, instead you start on some dishes left over from supper. 

“I locked up,” he says, voice getting closer, “checked the perimeter outside, we’re all good.” 

“Thank you,” you slightly turn your face and give him a soft smile. 

“You’re welcome,” he whispers, you can feel him behind you as you splash suds around the sink, you can feel his body heat against your back. 

You turn to face him, drying your hands on the side of your shirt, “What are you doing?” 

“I’ve never had the chance to be alone with you,” he shrugs. 

“We shouldn’t be close like this…” you whisper. 

“Why not? Don’t you feel something here? Because I do, and maybe it’s just the stupid crush I’ve had on you since you started, but it feels deeper than that,” he whispers back, his hand falls gently on the small of your waist, pulling you impossibly close. 

You laugh, resting your head on his shoulder, “I’m so turned around I don’t know what I feel, or what I want, or what to do with myself.” 

“Then let me help you not feel so turned around,” he says, he lifts your chin up with his fingers and brushes his lips over yours softly. 

It starts so slow, so soft it feels like kissing a ghost. His lips roll against yours with more and more pressure, your back pressed against the kitchen cupboards. You let your arms wrap around him, being careful not to hurt him where he may be sore and his hand gets buried in your hair, his thumb tracing gentle lines over your cheek as he anchors you to him. 

His tongue darts out and you meet it with your own, his urgency more palpable now, his body pressed harder against yours. He makes a soft noise into your mouth and you melt, not a moan, but a plea. It’s not until he attempts to lift you up onto the counter that your eyes pop open and you pull away. 

“You’ll hurt yourself,” you remind him breathlessly. 

“I don’t care,” he smiles, pressing himself against you again, capturing your mouth once more. 

You wrap your arms around him again, but then a familiar pounding hits the front door. 

“Minho.”

You both say it simultaneously and leap apart. 

To be safe, Hyunjin picks up his gun from the side table before he opens the door, you’ve come to recognize this as standard protocol with them anytime someone opens a door. You wonder if they do this everywhere, or just at the safe house, it must feel ridiculous to have to open your own door armed. 

“Where is he? Is he alright?” Minho brushes past Hyunjin and comes in, looking for Jeongin, “I came as soon as I saw the text. I was in a meeting.” 

“He was shot in the shoulder, I pulled the bullet out whole, patched him up, gave him something for the pain and sent Jisung and Seungmin to drive him home and get him settled. He’s fine,” you report. 

Minho sighs with relief and nods, “Good, thank you.” 

The room goes silent, the only noise is Hyunjin sitting down on the creaking couch. You’ve got no idea what to say to Minho, the mere sight of him makes your skin crawl, makes you angry, but most of all makes you scared. You ball your fists up in case your fingers start to tremble. 

“I uh, I owe you an apology,” he looks at you, closes some of the distance between you but not close enough to scare, “The things I said yesterday, I think I was a little too harsh with you, I hope you can forgive me Kitten.” 

He touches the side of your cheek gently and you fight every fiber of your body not to recoil, afraid he’ll take it personally and hurt you. 

“Of course,” you manage, though your voice sounds shaky, breathless. So you clear your throat and look at him directly, steeling your nerves, “Forgotten.” 

He smiles and pulls you into him, resting your head snug between his neck and shoulder and you wrap your arms around his waist. Looking beyond into the living room Hyunjin stares at you, your eyes locked in a knowing glance, a sad smile on his face. 

“Good,” Minho says gently, then kisses your cheek. He heads towards the living room to sit with Hyunjin while you finish what you were doing in the kitchen. 

“How are you feeling, then?” he asks. 

“Sore,” Hyunjin shrugs, “Don’t feel much else.” 

“How about I drive you home tonight?” Minho suggests and you drop the plate you were scrubbing into the sink with an annoyingly loud crash. 

“Oh, I…uh,” Hyunjin looks in your direction, “If the doc gives me the go ahead then sure.” 

“Darling? What do you think? I feel like Hyunjin would rest better at home, in his own bed, can you get anything he needs to take with him?” Minho asks. 

“Um, sure,” you nod, not really having a better reason and not good enough at lying to think of anything. “He’s been on antibiotics more than 24 hours and there’s no sign of infection or any other issue. The wound will be sore for several more days but you can treat that with Acetaminophen or Ibuprofen. I’ll get your antibiotics and some clean bandages,” you smile. “Oh, but you will need to come back in about a week so I can remove the stitches.” 

You gather up Hyunjins things, his antibiotics and stuff he’ll need to treat himself at home. You feel robbed of time with him and it makes you feel ridiculous. You know this is probably for the better. Minho was very plain with you in that he’s not your boyfriend, but all the same, something tells you he doesn’t share well. All Hyunjins crush will achieve is both of you dead or at least very fucked up. Besides, you don’t know what you feel, you’ve not had a spare moment in the last few days to slow down and work yourself out - such a thing will probably take a lifetime you think. 

“Here’s a bag of everything,” you hand it to him back in the living room, “I want you to continue the antibiotics twice daily until this bottle is empty. Try to let your stitches air out when you can, but keep a clean bandage on when you sleep, or if anything is going to be rubbing against it. Okay?” 

“Got it doll,” he nods, “I’m going to go grab my stuff, be right back.” You watch as he skulks off to the guest room, leaving you alone with Minho. 

“I really am sorry, ___,” he wraps his arms around you from behind, “I hope you know I’d never harm or hurt you unless I had to.” 

You could pick apart that sentence for a year and still not unpack all the things wrong with what he just said. You want to snap at him, push him off you, but now you know what devil lies under that surface of sticky sweetness. 

“Stop apologizing,” you force a smile, “You’ve been under a lot of stress these last few days, and I shouldn’t have even said the things I said. You’ve been good to me Minho, let’s just put it behind us,” you lie to the best of your ability. 

“I don't deserve you,” he brushes some hair out of your face and kisses you softly. You try not to think about Hyunjins lips on you just moments ago. “Christopher will be here around one or two in the afternoon tomorrow with your dresses, wear something pretty for me, yeah?” 

You nod and smile as Hyunjin walks back into the room, a bag of his personal effects over his shoulder. 

“Thank you for everything ___, I owe you,” he smiles and pats your shoulder as he and Minho make their way out the door. You lock it behind them then turn to face the house you’ve been living in for the last few months. You’re alone again. 

You couldn’t sleep if you wanted to, so you decide to go strip Hyunjins bed and toss the sheets in the wash. When you pick up the pillow to remove the case you see a folded piece of paper underneath. You recognize the sheet from his sketchbook and frantically unfold it. 

It’s a sketch of you, with a note.

This one is my favorite so far. You’re the good in this shit show we’re stuck in, don’t ever forget that beautiful. Love, Hyunjin.

Endnotes:

1. Taglist: @katieraven @linocz @screamobubbles @hpnsfwaddict @simpforleeknaur @the-sweetest-rosie @hyunjinhoexxx @aeri-skzver @mbioooo0000 @seungminindabuilding @moni-logues @shioriyametho - if your @ is in bold then I couldn’t tag you for whatever reason - if you need to adjust settings go do the thang or if I need to do something let me know (I am not technologically competent).

2. Eeek! Part two. I am always so nervous to do multi-chap fics bc I worry people won’t like the direction I’m going and that it will effect my decisions lol also I just typically like working with smaller worlds BUT this fic has thus far been a fun little ride, so I hope you all like it. More to come soon, and as always here’s your virtual smooch😘

[fluff-lover]

Healing Touch | Chapter 5: Return Home

Chapter summary: You and Logan travel to Alberta in search for some answers as he slowly regains his memory.

Masterlist

This chapter contains a lot of Logan’s origin story, but it’s more based on the comic than the movie X-Men Origins: Wolverine.

7K words… who am I?

It’s been a few busy weeks to say the least.

After you and Logan agreed on working on his trauma together, you started having small sessions at night where you would use your power on him. In each session you placed your hands on each side of his head while he laid down on the lab’s bed and started healing his amnesia. You worked slowly, not wanting to trigger any bad memory without warning. 

There was only so much you could do, and there was no guarantee any of it would work. Your powers only worked on a physical level, meaning you could heal parts of Logan’s brain that didn’t heal on their own, despite his enhanced healing. But Charles saw this as an opportunity to train and even expand your powers, hoping that in time you would be able to heal the emotional type of wounds, or be the one to caused them.

Fragments of Logan’s memories began to resurface, scattered and incomplete, like pieces of a puzzle he wasn’t sure how to assemble. He remembered his parents: his mother, Elizabeth, and the man he believed to be his father, John Howlett. He could recall the house he’d grown up in, the details hazy but still familiar. He even knew his name wasn’t really Logan. But that was where the trail ended.

What had happened to them? How had he discovered his mutation? The answers felt just out of reach, buried beneath layers of fog he couldn’t penetrate, no matter how hard you tried.

In search of more answers, you started planning your trip to his childhood home: Howlett Estate. You would take a flight to Lloydminster and then drive for two hours to Cold Lake. Originally you suggested taking a smaller plane from Lloydminster to Cold Lake’s regional airport, but took pity on Logan’s distaste for flying and decided to rent a car instead.

You knew this would be hard on Logan, facing his memories and old traumas wasn’t easy, so you wanted to make sure this was a pleasant trip.

Coincidently, the trip took place during Jean and Scott’s wedding, so Logan wouldn’t be in the mansion during that time. Hopefully this trip would also help you rebuild your trust in Logan. Despite reassuring him over and over again that you’d forgiven him already, your friendship changed and required a lot of care to go back to how it was before.

The day of the flight you had maps, flyers and all kinds of accessories for your trip, and you had a blast going from one place to the other in the airport, getting lots of snacks and things to pass the time. Logan was never too far behind, following you around and indulging on anything you wanted.

Despite his nervousness, Logan enjoyed seeing you so excited and bubbly, but most importantly, so relaxed around him. He worried your friendship was ruined when he first hurt you but you were slowly building the trust back up.

It was only after you landed at Lloydminster and got in the rental that the real fun started. 

“I booked the cutest, cosiest looking Bed & Breakfast I could find, it’s adorable.” You said as you entered the address to the GPS. Logan groaned from the driver’s seat.

“I’m regretting this already.” He joked. “You know what? I take that back, I regretted this the moment you gave me a plane ticket.”

You laughed. 

“Oh come on! It wasn’t so bad! I took your nausea away, didn’t I?” 

His frown deepened.

“I still don’t like flying. If men were meant to fly, we would be born with wings.”

“Good thing I’m not a man.” You joked. “Be glad I got us a car instead of another flight for this part. Just drive, old man.” You said before opening a bag of snacks.

“Old man? Fuck off.”

You giggled.

“Aren’t you like a thousand years?”

Logan scoffed.

“...No.” He said after an awkward silence. “Your math is off. Also, don’t eat in the car, you’ll leave crumbs all over.”

You giggled again, and despite his grumpiness, Logan smiled.

“Whatever you say, grandpa.”

“Fuck you!” He said, but there was no malice in his voice. You just looked at him and took another bite of your snack.

“I’m hungry!” You said as an excuse. “Do you want some?”

“Nah, I’m fine. I don’t like candy.” He said, throwing you a look.

“Who the hell doesn’t like candy?” You asked dramatically “I think I have some Sour Patch kids around here, you’ll like them.” You said as you looked through your back.

“What makes you say that?”

“Because… your face looks like you’re constantly sucking a lemon.” Logan turned his head to look at you in disbelief. “Hey! Eyes on the road!”

“What do you mean I look like I’m sucking a lemon?” He asked confused.

“You know…” You pursed your lips, frowned your brow and raised your shoulders, trying to give your best impression of Logan. “Like you’re sulking.”

“I don’t sulk.” He said.

“Right… And I don’t cry while watching The Notebook. Are we just telling lies now?”

“Just give me that.” He snatched the bag of sour candy from your hand. “You’re terrible, you know that?”

“Yes, but you love me anyway.” You smiled and Logan just shook his head in defeat before pouring some candy straight into his mouth.

The ride was filled with banter and jokes. Seeing Logan so relaxed and somewhat happy made your heart flutter. You had never seen him like this, and you hoped it would last.

Watching him drive with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a relaxed smile on his face also did things to you. He looked so handsome, you would try to steal glances every once in a while.

When you finally arrived at the B&B you squealed in delight and jumped out of the car. The building had a “cabin in the woods” feel to it, but much bigger in dimensions, and it was surrounded by a large garden.

“It’s perfect! Just like in the photos! Isn’t it lovely?”

“It looks like a flower shop threw up on it.”

“Ew.” Your face quickly dropped. “Just because of that, you’re carrying the suitcases while I check us in.” You said before stomping towards the door.

“I was carrying the suitcases anyway!” Logan grumbled.

He took the suitcases and quickly caught up with you as you made your way to the reception. There you were welcomed by a sweet looking old lady.

“Welcome! You must be the honeymooners, the Wyatts!” She greeted them.

You quickly shook your head, your belly filling with butterflies at the idea of the two of you looking like newlyweds.

“Oh no, we’re not together. I mean, we’re together, but not together-together… We’re not married!” You tried to explain awkwardly while Logan tried not to laugh. “We booked two bedrooms under the name Howlett.” You said, your face growing hot.

“Yeah, we book two rooms in case the first bed breaks.” Logan joked, making you open your eyes so widely he thought they would pop out of your head.

“Logan!” You hissed and slapped his chest. Logan simply smiled and winked at you. Any other time you would be giggling like crazy at the idea of Logan and you breaking a bed, but you weren’t alone. The lady looked back and forth between the two of you before handing you two keys.

“You have room 13 and 14, they’re down that hall, across from each other. Breakfast is served from 7 to 10 in the dining room.”

You took the keys and nodded your head.

“Thank you ma’am.” you said before walking away fast, your face warm.

Your room was beautiful. It was tastefully decorated, had flowers on pretty much every surface, and the bed looked very cozy. You jumped on the mattress while Logan put your suitcase down.

“Comfortable?” He asked.

“Mhmmm.” You were barely audible with your face squished against the covers. Logan chuckled.

You felt the bed dip and raised your head to see Logan sitting down on the foot of the bed. He looked like there was something he wanted to say, so you sat up on the bed to give him your full attention.

“So, um… Listen,” He cleared his throat. “I just wanted to say… I appreciate everything you’re doing for me. You didn’t have to do any of this, but you did, and I wanted to say thank you.” 

You smiled shyly. Logan wasn’t a man of many words, so when he opened up like this you made sure to appreciate it and soak into the moment.

“Nothing to thank me for. Helping people is what I do, it’s what I love. Maybe I never realized there are other ways I can help other than using my powers.” You shrugged. “I guess I never had a friend that mattered to me as much as you do.” You said with a certain vulnerability in your voice. Of course you left out the part of you being completely, utterly in love with him.

The admission took Logan by surprise. How could you, a sweet, selfless, beautiful woman not be surrounded by people you loved and loved you back.

“Why?” He asked. You tilted your head and frowned.

“Why, what?”

“Why me?” He shook his head, confused. “Not only I didn’t do anything to earn your friendship, but I also hurt you. You could have so many friends, so many people, why did you stick with me?”

You stared at him for a moment in shock.

“What do you mean you didn’t do anything to earn my friendship? You’re the first friend I made at the mansion.”

“That’s it?” Logan scoffed.

“For starters.” You placed your hand on top of his and gave him a reassuring squeeze. “Logan, you earned my friendship with respect and support. Most friendships don’t start with great gestures, they start with kind words, spending time together, showing kindness. My first morning there I was nervous but you told me I would be okay. Words matter, Logan. And I knew I wanted you officially in my life the day you took me to the hospital to help. Remember?”

Logan looked down at your hands together and nodded.

“I remember thinking I had never seen anything like it. Not only you healed those kids, but the relief their parents must’ve felt…” He said softly. “And you never cared about people giving you credit…”

You chuckled. 

“It’s better that way.” You shrugged. “I also knew we would be friends when you started training me. You didn’t think I would be useless on the battlefield just because I don’t have fighting skills. I appreciated that, I appreciated you having faith in me.”

Logan rolled his eyes.

“I couldn’t have you running around trying to save everyone but not knowing how to protect yourself.” He said teasingly.

“I would’ve been okay. I can heal, remember?”

“Just because you can heal doesn’t mean you should allow yourself to get hurt in the first place.” Logan whispered.

Those words touched you deeply. Without even thinking you leaned in and kissed his cheek. Logan blinked and looked anywhere but you, the tips of his ear turning red.

“I think that’s the sweetest thing you ever said to me. Thank you.” You whispered.

Logan cleared his throat and got up, dropping your hand in the process.

“Right. Of course. Anyway, we have a big day tomorrow, right?” He rubbed his palms on his jean-clad thighs, looking awkward as hell. You nodded your head. 

“Meet me at 9 for breakfast and we’ll head to the Howlett Estate afterwards.” you said. 

“Aye Captain!” He picked his suitcase on his way to the door and turned to look at you. He looked like he wanted to say something again, but this time he just pressed his lips into a thin line.

“Good night, Logan.” you said after a moment. 

“Good night, sweetheart. I’ll see you in the morning.” he winked at you and walked out.

-

Logan was used to sleepless nights, but tonight felt different. His mind kept drifting to you, no matter how hard he tried to push the thoughts away. At one point, he got up, rummaging through his jacket until he found his lighter. The one you’d given him. He turned it over in his hand, his thumb brushing over the engraving, something he often did when he thought of you.

Yet you managed to get him flustered all over again. The little kiss on the cheek you gave him earlier was driving him mad. It had been so long since he felt anything like this, so kind and gentle, so intimate without being sexual, he didn’t know how to act about it.

There was no way he could keep denying it: he had feelings for you. Could you possibly feel the same way? Your last conversation was about your friendship, how come all the sudden friendship wasn’t enough? Where did all these feelings fit in?

Logan raked a hand through his hair, frustration tugging at him. You were everything he wasn’t: beautiful, sweet, kind. The kind of person who made the world a little brighter just by existing. Surely you didn’t feel the same way about him... right? You were kind to everyone; that was just who you were. It didn’t mean you liked him.

Still, he couldn’t ignore how deeply these feelings had crept up on him. They hadn’t come all at once but had grown slowly, quietly, in the peaceful moments you’d shared: the late-night talks, the easy silences that somehow said more than words ever could. He hadn’t even realized how much you’d come to mean to him, until tonight. Until that kiss.

This would explain why he felt so jealous of Alex Summers, why he was so traumatized by the sight of your blood on his hands. Only you could get him to board a plane willingly, so what else would he do for you?

“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, his voice heavy with frustration. Things were about to get a lot more complicated. There was no way he could tell you how he felt. You deserve the best: someone kind, someone who could give you everything you deserved. That wasn’t him. Not after everything he’d done. Especially not after that night…

The memory hit him like a punch to the gut. The night he attacked you. The guilt from that moment never left him, gnawing at the edges of his mind. You’d forgiven him, but he hadn’t forgiven himself. He didn’t deserve someone like you, not after that. Not ever.

Logan sat back on the edge of the bed, staring down at the lighter in his hand. His thoughts spiraled, a storm of self-loathing and regret. He convinced himself, as he always did, that he was destined to be alone. No good woman would ever settle for someone like him, let alone you.

-

The next morning arrived with an unexpected cold, so you threw on your warmest clothes and headed to the main hall for breakfast, excitement bubbling inside you at the idea of finding out more about Logan’s past. 

But the feeling wouldn’t last. When you got to the dining room you found Logan was already there, looking grumpier than usual. He had a deep frown on his face, and looked at his coffee cup as it had personally offended him.

“Hey, good morning.” You greeted him.

When he looked up at you, his face softened and his shoulders seemed to relax.

“Morning. Slept well?” He asked as you sat down across from him.

“Not really, I guess I was too excited about today to sleep. What about you?”

Logan mulled over it for a moment.

“Same.” He said simply.

“Are you okay?” You asked. “We don’t have to do it today if you’re not ready.” You reassured him. He quickly shook his head.

“No, there’s no point dragging this on any longer.” He ran a hand down his face. Your heart ached for him, he looked tired and angry.

“Logan…” You went to reach his hand, but he quickly pulled it away.

“You should go get some breakfast, we have a long day ahead.”

You got up and headed to the table where the food was served. If Logan wanted to be a grumpy cat, so be it.

He really did look like he was sucking a lemon.

The ride to the Estate was quiet, a big contrats from the ride the day before. There was no banter or jokes, just music playing softly on the radio.

When you finally reached the Estate, you let out a whistle. 

“Damn, Logan! I didn’t know you grew up filthy rich.” You joked. The main building, a manor that seemed frozen in time, stud tall and big at the top of a hill, surrounded by a vast land.

“Neither did I.” He said with a somber tone. Being back here after so long made Logan feel uneasy, like he was entering a sacred place that was prohibited to him, while at the same time walking into a dangerous place. Either way, he didn’t want to be there. You could tell this wasn’t easy for him and you wanted to make him feel at ease, but you could only help him as much as he would allow it. And right now he was being too stubborn for that.

When he parked the car you both got out, but as Logan headed to the door he noticed you weren’t following. Instead you stood by the car, arms crossed on your chest and a pout on your face.

“You coming or what?” He asked annoyed.

“No.” You stomped your foot like a child about to throw a tantrum. “Not until you tell me why you’re being such an ass this morning.” You pressed.

Logan glared at you.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Come on.” 

You shook your head.

“Nope. Something happened and I wanna know what.”

Logan groaned.

“Coming here was your idea, so come on, let’s get moving.”

But you didn’t budge, shaking your head.

“You’re doing it again!” You said.

“Doing what?” Logan asked confused.

“Pushing me away.” You replied, your voice shaking. It made Logan stop in his tracks. He had sworn he wouldn’t push you away again. With a defeated sigh he ran a hand down his face and walked back towards you.

“I’m sorry sweetheart, I didn’t mean to. I guess I’m really stressed right now, not knowing what we may find there.” He said pointing at the building with his thumb over his shoulder. “I barely got any sleep but I don’t mean to take it out on you.” He reassured you.

Damn, you really had him wrapped around your finger, didn’t you?

“Why didn't you just tell me? You know you can tell me anything.” The sad look on your face, with a little pout on your lips, made Logan’s defense crumble.

“I know, I’m sorry sweetheart. You already did so much for me I didn’t want to burden you with something else.”

You pouted even more.

“After all this time you still haven’t learned that you’re not a burden for me.” You shook your head and stepped closer. “I guess I’ll just have to keep reminding you.” You took his hand and walked towards the door. “Come on!”

Logan smiled softly. Of course you forgave him right away, you just couldn’t stay mad at him.

He was so screwed!

“Is it anything like you remember?” You asked him and he looked around the building.

“Somewhat, yeah. But mostly things look out of place.”

Several families lived there after the Howletts, and in the latest decades functioned as a museum, so changes were to be expected, but at least most of the structure was left the same since the last time Logan was there.

You were spotted by an employee behind a counter.

“Welcome to Howlett Estate! Would you like a guided tour?” He asked.

“No.” Logan said simply. You threw him a look.

“We would like to explore on our own, but we may have questions for later.” You added politely.

“Okie dokie! Here are some flyers and you can use your phones to download more information.” 

You took the flyers and smiled.

“Thank you!” You said before taking Logan by the arm and walking away. “I like him, he says okie dokie.” Logan simply rolled his eyes.

Stepping into the museum felt like traveling through a time machine. The furniture, the lamps, the carefully preserved clothes, all of it carried the weight of 200 years of history. You couldn’t help but wish these artifacts could speak, sharing the stories they had witnessed. How many footsteps had echoed through these halls? How many secrets were tucked away within these walls?

With your arm gently hooked around Logan's, you strolled at a leisurely pace, making sure he didn’t rush through the space. You wanted him to take it all in, to truly absorb every detail around him.

In the main room rested an imposing portrait of the Howlett family: John, Elizabeth and little James.

“Is that you?” You whispered pointing at the boy on the painting.

“I think so.”

“Awww you were so cute!” You gushed. Logan blinked and looked away, the tips of his ears turning pink. “Look at those little shorts!”

“I looked ridiculous in those clothes.” He deflected.

“Uh I’m sure they were very fashionable at the time.” You shrugged. “Your mom was very beautiful.”

Logan stared at the woman in the painting with a newfound pain in his chest: he craved for a motherly love he never felt. For someone who lived such a long life, he surely missed out on a lot of things.

“She really was.” He said softly.

You stayed quiet, knowing Logan needed a moment to process everything. There were signs of recognition in his eyes, but you didn’t dare to ask. If he wanted to share a memory with you, he would let you know.

You moved from one room to the other, until you reached a children’s bedroom and Logan stopped in his tracks.

“I remember this place…” He walked in slowly, taking everything in.

“Yeah?” You were curious. “Was this your bedroom?”

“I think so. It looked a bit different then, but yeah…”

“You had a big ass bed.” You pointed out the fancy mahogany bed. “I bet you were very spoiled.” You teased, but you dropped your playfulness when you saw the lost look on Logan’s face.

“I remember spending a lot of time in bed. I was a sickly kid.” He then walked to the bed and stared at it for a moment. You could almost see the wheels turning in his head. Suddenly Logan pushed the bed to the side, as if it weighed nothing.

“Logan!” You chastised. “We’re not supposed to touch anything!”

“Just keep watch.” Logan said before kneeling down and reaching behind the head of the bed.

“What are you doing?” You asked before leaning against the door, watching out for anyone coming your way.

“I left something in here…” he tapped around the wall until he heard a hollow sound. The room had clearly been reformed through the years, but to Logan’s surprise his little hidden spot was untouched. With one of his claws he managed to pull out a piece of skirting board and there it was: his little box of treasures.

He quickly put the board back in its place and then moved the bed.

“What is that?” You asked as you both sat on the bed. Logan opened the tin box, dust flying everywhere, and was met with little pieces of his childhood. There was an uncharacteristic tenderness in the way Logan picked the first item, his movements careful and deliberate, a stark contrast to his usual rough manner. 

It was a little lead soldier.

“I remember this, my grandfather got it for me during a business trip.” He said before going for another item, and then another, and another. “He wasn’t very nice, so little things like this meant a lot to me.”

In the box were all kinds of things a boy could treasure: a few colorful marbles, a feather, some coins…

“It’s like a time capsule.” You whispered before reaching in and taking a postcard from the box. It had a beautiful painting of a rose. You turned it around and read outloud “Love you forever, your little flower -Rose.” You smiled softly. “Mmmm who’s Rose?” 

Logan took a moment to think before picking the car.

“A childhood friend.” He said. It was a lie, or at least not the whole truth. Logan and Rose’s story was a long and messy one, one that ended in tragedy.

“A childhood friend.” You repeated with a scoff. “I didn’t know you called your friends “little flowers”.” you teased, elbowing him playfully.

Logan rolled his eyes.

“Shut up.” He said before snatching the card from your hand and placing it back in the box. If it wasn’t because of the shy smile on his face you would think he was actually mad.

Then something in the box caught his attention and his smile dropped. You watched as he carefully picked up an old pocket watch from the box.

“This was my father’s.” He said softly. “It was broken, so he didn’t use it anymore. He told me I could keep it and maybe one day I would figure out how to fix it.” He frowned, caressing the watch with his thumb, the same way he did with his lighter. “That day never came.” He said sadly.

You watched him quietly, before placing your hand on his back and rubbing soothing circles on it.

“You just got a piece of him back, that’s something…” You commented.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“Excuse me?” A voice behind you said. You quickly threw your coat on Logan’s lap, hiding the box, before turning to see a tour guide standing by the door. “You’re not supposed to sit on the bed.” He said, a disapproving look on his face.

“Right! Of course! I’m sorry!” You jumped from the bed and walked towards him. “So, I have some questions, I saw there are a lot of portraits on the staircase, are they members of the Howlett family? Who are they?” You talked fast, pushing the guide out to the hall to give Logan a moment alone. You gave Logan a pointed look over your shoulder before stepping out of the room.

Logan kept looking into the box before finally closing it and putting it in your bag. He would look more into it later, for now he had to make sure you weren’t getting in trouble.

He found you asking all kinds of questions to the poor guide, who looked confused and flustered.

“... so if the mattresses were filled with feathers, how many geese or ducks would they need to fill in a king sized bed?” you asked.

“I wouldn’t know, ma’am.”

“I imagine it would be a lot!”

“Right.”

“And they made their own candles, right? Now, how do you make a candle?” You asked, playing dumb.

“I think that’s enough, sweetheart.” Logan said, stopping by your side. The guide sighed with relief.

“I have one more question!” You said before turning back to the poor guy. “What happened to the Howlett family? Are they still around?”

“I’m afraid the family’s history is a tragic one. For starters John and Elizabeth’s first son, John Jr. passed away when he was a baby. Years later they had their second son, James. There aren’t any actual records, given the time, but for what we could gather James was an illegitimate son Elizabeth had with the groundskeeper, Thomas Logan. Either way John raised James as his own. Not that he had much of a choice, at the time it would’ve been a massive scandal if people knew James was a bastard child.” while the guide talked and pointed out some portraits you glanced at Logan. There was a storm brewing behind his hazel eyes and you worried he would lash out any moment.

“Whether Mr. Howlett knew or not isn’t clear, but we do know he fired Logan. One evenight Thomas returned and the two men fought to death. It’s believed that he came back to take his son away and was killed in the process, not without mortally wounding John first. Still, someone must’ve taken little James, because he went missing after that. People in town searched for him, but he was never found.”

Slowly and very discreetly you stood by Logan and took his hand. With a squeeze to his fingers you told him you were there for him. This couldn’t be easy for him to hear. He squeezed your hand back, your touch grounding him.

“Feeling incapable of carrying on without her husband and her soon,Mrs. Elizabeth Howlett took her own life. The Howlett name remained, thanks to John’s father, who kept the place up and running until his death. He never stopped looking for James.” The guide concluded.

There was an extended silence, as everything seemed to sink in.

“That is very sad.” you said softly after a moment.

“Indeed.” the guide said. “Anything else you’d like to know?”

You looked at Logan and he shook his head.

“No, that would be all, thank you.” You replied.

“Of course, don’t forget to stop by the gift store!” the guide said before retreating away.

You turned to look at Logan fully.

“Are you okay?” 

Logan barely nodded his head.

“Enough for today.” He mumbled before walking away. 

It wasn’t long before you were both sitting at a table in the far corner of a bar. Logan knocked back drink after drink while you nursed a beer. The tin box laid open on the table while Logan inspected some of his old “treasures”. You were quiet for most of it, but you were worried about him and couldn’t keep silent much longer.

“Are you okay?” You asked. “I know today was intense and a lot happened, but did you at least get some answers? Any memories?”

Logan nodded before downing another drink.

“He was wrong.” He mumbled.

“Who?”

“The tour guide. He got most of the story right, but some details were wrong.” Logan took his father’s watch with a longing look. “My father didn’t kill Thomas Logan, I did.” He confessed. “That night I found out I was a mutant, I killed him with my claws… I was just a child.” He shook his head in shame.

“Oh Logan, I’m so sorry.” you said placing a hand on his arm.

“Thomas Logan was my biological father, but he didn’t mean anything to me. John Howlett didn’t raise me to avoid a scandal. He loved my mother and he loved me. In my heart he will always be my true father.”

“What happened after?” You asked.

“Rose and I ran away with help from my grandfather. The memories get hazy after that, but I do recall…” He took a deep breath. “I recall killing Rose by accident.” He said sadly.

“Oh, Logan…” You didn’t know what to say. 

“I hurt everyone I care about, even before I knew I was a mutant I hurt my family.”

“No, Logan, stop. The way you were conceived wasn’t your fault, you didn’t choose to be your father’s son. You didn’t kill your mother, that’s on her.” You shook your head.

“What about Rose, uh? Or the others that came after her? My life is an endless battle, one death after the other.” He shook his head in defeat. “You should go back to the Mansion without me.”

Your heart dropped.

“What?” the question came out in a shaky voice. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“Angel…” Logan sounded exhausted. “I’m a bad man. You don’t need a bad man in your life.”

You frowned and felt hot tears threatening to spill out. 

“Logan, I need you to listen to me.” You said while taking his hand over the table. “I know you say you’re a bad man because you feel guilty, because you have a conscience that weighs on you. But what if I told you that doesn’t make you a bad man. It does the opposite.” He looked at you confused. “A bad man doesn’t care if he hurts someone else, he only cares about himself. A bad man doesn’t have a conscience. And this, James Logan Howlett, is how I know you’re not a bad man. Because you care, I know you do, you care so much and behind this tough exterior there’s a good man craving forgiveness, companionship and even love.”

Logan looked at you for a moment, his eyes going from one side of your face to the other, as if he was memorizing your face.

“Sweetheart…” He breathed out.

“Please don’t leave me.” you begged, catching him by surprise. “You left once and it nearly killed me, please don’t do it again, don’t push me away.” Without realizing, tears started rolling down your cheeks. Logan reached up to touch your face and your eyelids dropped as he wiped your tears.

Your heart ached for him. You were convinced he would never love you back, not the way he loved Jean, but when he touched you like that you couldn’t help but feel a little bit of hope.

In the meantime Logan wondered how he got someone like you to care for him so much, to see the good in him when he couldn’t see it himself. You were so beautiful and if it was up to him you would never cry tears of sadness ever again.

“It’s been a long day, we both need some rest.” He said, both of you exhausted.

Once back at the B&B Logan walked you to your door.

“Will you be okay tonight?” You asked softly.

“Yeah.” Logan replied without thinking too much, before frowning and rubbing his neck. “I think so...” he added unsure. “...probably not.”

“We can stay up and talk a little bit more, if you want.” You offered.

Talking was the last thing Logan wanted to do.

“Angel…” He stepped closer, something shifting in his eyes. He lifted a hand to your face, so slowly it felt as if he was trying not to scare you, and placed it on your cheek. Your breath hitched and you tilted your head against his hand, seeking his touch. “I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me.” Logan whispered.

As if drawn together by an invisible force, you stepped closer until your chests were nearly brushing. Logan hesitated, his gaze searching yours for any sign to pull away, to stop. But all he found was an invitation: a soft, loving look that made him feel like the only person in the world. It was as if nothing else existed, no one else mattered, and you wanted him just as much as he wanted you.

“I would do anything for you, Logan.” you confessed. 

And that was all Logan needed to take the next step. He leaned in and pressed his lips against you in a chaste, tentative kiss. Your hands moved up his chest to rest on each side of his neck, pulling him closer, his free hand resting on your hip.

When Logan pulled back he didn’t go far, he rested his forehead against yours. You opened your eyes slowly and looked at him still trying to wrap your head around the fact that he had kissed you. You dreamed of this moment so many times, you weren’t ready to let go.

You tilted your head up and kissed him again, this time with more enthusiasm as the initial shock washed away.

Logan wrapped his arm around your waist while you ran your hands up his neck and your fingers through his hair. When your tongue slipped past his lips, Logan let out a low growl and pulled you closer.

“Fuck, sweetheart…” He hissed against your lips. “I should’ve kissed sooner.” He said before kissing you again.

“I wish you had.” You whispered. 

Logan pressed you against your door, wanting to feel you impossibly close.

“I don’t think I can stop.” Logan admitted. 

“I don’t want you to stop. I've wanted this for a long time.” You said, but before he could kiss you again you pulled your face away slightly. “But I need to know…”

Logan pulled back to look at you better and waited.

“Yes?”

Suddenly you felt like you couldn’t speak, no words would come out of your mouth. When Logan saw you struggle, he tilted your chin and made you look at him.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry if I pushed you too much.”

You quickly shook your head.

“No, it’s not that… It’s just that…” You took his hands, wanting to ground yourself. “If we’re going any further, I need to know it’s not because you can’t be with Jean.” You looked at him shyly. “I don’t want to be your second choice.”

Logan stared at you for a moment in shock. He knew you were aware of his feelings for Jean, you even held him when he cried over her engagement with Scott. So it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that you had your doubts. He wanted to shut those doubts down fast.

“You’re not.” He said. “I’m an idiot, this entire time I’ve been pinning after her yet you were here by my side, putting up with my crap.” He shook his head. “All those times I talked about her, did I hurt you?”

You chewed your lower lip as you tried to come up with an answer. But you didn’t need to, Logan saw right through you.

“Oh, sweetheart…” He pulled you closer and kissed your forehead. You instantly clinged onto him. “I’m so sorry.”

“You didn’t know.” you tried to comfort him. “I’m sorry I killed the mood.”

Logan chuckled lightly against your skin.

“You didn’t kill anything. I’m glad we talked about this.” He pulled back and cupped your face. “I don’t want Jean, not anymore. I want you, even though I’m convinced I don’t deserve you.”

You rolled your eyes and gave his shirt a little tug.

“You keep saying that, can I convince you otherwise?” You asked with a flirty tone as you played with his dog tags. Logan smirked.

“Perhaps I can be persuaded.” He flirted back.

You quickly opened your bedroom door and pulled him inside. You couldn’t help but giggle as you pushed his jacket off his shoulders and he kicked the door shut. This was everything you dreamed of! Logan easily picked you up by your thighs and you quickly wrapped your legs around his waist.

“You better not drop me!” You laughed.

“Never!” He chuckled and kissed you again.

Logan set you down carefully on the dresser where he took his time tasting your lips and exploring your mouth. Your hands wandered all over his chest, his broad shoulders, his biceps… you wanted to touch every inch of him. You couldn’t get enough of him.

At one point he pulled back and caressed your cheek.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic softness. His eyes held a rare tenderness, mirrored in the gentle way his fingers brushed against you. It was a good thing you were sitting down because your knees were weak and you felt like melting inside. “My sweet little angel.” Logan added before kissing you again.

Your hands worked on unbuttoning his flannel and quickly pushed it off his shoulder, dropping it on the floor next to his jacket.

“Logan…” You whispered against his lips. “Take me to bed…”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

You spend the rest of the night in Logan’s arms, making love and having all kinds of conversations in between, from deep and revealing to fun and silly. But you only had so much energy, and after the fourth round your eyelids started to drop. Logan watched you as you curled up against him, his fingertips caressing your arm up and down. You were breathtaking and he kicked himself for not realizing sooner.

At one point you felt the sheets rustling and the bed moving. You turned to see Logan sitting on the bed, slowly dressing himself. With your eyes heavy with sleep, you tried to sit up, lifting yourself up with your elbow.

“What are you doing?” You asked softly.

Logan turned to look at you and smiled at the sight: you looked adorable, half asleep, your hair a mess, your lips bruised from all the kisses. and the sheets barely covering your naked body.

“Go back to sleep, baby.” He whispered.

Your heart dropped.

“You’re leaving? Why?”

The worry and sadness in your voice didn’t go unnoticed to Logan.

“It’s not what you think.” He shook his head and leaned to kiss your forehead. “I just can’t fall asleep next to you.”

“Why?” you pouted.

“I’m worried I may hurt you again.” He admitted.

You looked at him for a moment, giving him your best puppy dog eyes.

“I wish you didn’t leave.” You wanted nothing more but to sleep in his arms.

“I know, baby, I know.” He sighed. “I’ll keep working on it, I promise. I just don’t want to hurt you.”

You reached for his hand. What he didn’t know is that this was hurting you too.

“Will I see you in the morning?”

Logan smiled and lifted your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles softly.

“Darling, after tonight, you won’t ever get rid of me.” He chuckled and leaned to kiss you. “Get some sleep, I’ll bring us breakfast in a few hours.” He promised.

“Mmmokay.” You sighed and nuzzled your pillow. “It better be a good breakfast, with lots of kisses.”

Logan chuckled and got up.

“All the kisses you want, my angel.”

--

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