#ch: grey death

[thecosmicsleep]

talking to dhourn as a female drow like

tav: "the fuck you say to me?"

dhourn: "sorry, ma'am. i didn't mean to, ma'am."

[brw]

Simon is the Avengers' Jean Grey with how often he dies at this point. Jean has died 5 times in canon (I'm excluding Logan stabbing her a bunch of times in Phoenix: Endsong because I don't think those count, or like, event deaths where she is resurrected like 2 issues afterwards. I mean sustained, actual periods of death), and Simon has thus far died 4 times to date (excluding the Korvac Saga, because everyone died there). He wants to be Jean Grey soooooo bad.

[wakeofvultures]

This started out as me wanting to draw my version of Caius' hair (because I imagined it differently from the last illustration I posted) and then turned into this.

This was just going to be Caius yelling at an idiot (a guard? Aro?) and then I drew Myrtis from my fic because she's my babygirl (also new pfp for me!). Anyway, don't ask her for help when Caius is yelling at you, she'll ignore you (unless she cares about you and she thinks the issue is worth her time).

Ultimately, despite my intentions, this just gives 'excuse me, she asked for no pickles.'

[fiapple]

literally, i love nami so much, you do not even understand. you cannot begin to fathom.

[orcasoul]

Broken Part 1

Summary: Din is on the brink of death. The only way to save him is to remove his helmet. Surely he'll understand and forgive you... right?

Warnings: swearing, description of injuries, angst, established relationship, use of Y/N.

A/N: this one has been on my mind for ages and I couldn't wait any longer. I'm a huge sucker for angst, so I hope I've got this just right.

Word Count: 5,174

"Just... a little further. We're almost... there!" Your knees feel about ready to buckle as the Razor Crest comes into view. "Din! Din, no!..." Din's heavy frame slumps from your shoulder, pulling you to the ground with him. "You... argh... you gotta get up." He's still, terrifyingly still. You press the button on Din's vambrace to lower the ramp and with your waning strength, pull the unconscious bounty hunter across the muddy ground and up the ramp, the desperation to save him overriding the burn of your exhausted muscles.

With a last tug at his wrists, you manage to drag him away from the ramp and further into the belly of the ship, immediately pressing the button to close it. You're not taking any chances. "Din? Din, can you hear me?" You shake his shoulders roughly, hoping the momentum will rouse him. Nothing. But at least he's still breathing. A little wail emanates from the sleeping bunk before the door whooses open, revealing a very worried and frightened Grogu.

In an instant, Grogu is at Din's side, having used the force to propel himself across the hull. "It's okay, buddy. He'll be okay." You don't know who you're trying to convince, him or yourself. Grogu murmurs anxiously, his large ears drooping as he places a tiny hand on Din's helmet. Without another moment to lose, you begin to strip Din of his armour, checking for injuries. There are plenty of cuts and bruises, maybe some bruised ribs, but the injuries don't appear to be severe enough to render him unconscious. "Din!" you shout louder this time "Ner Karta, please wake up."

Your frantic heartbeat thumps against your ribs, threatening to break through at any minute. You're at a loss at what to do. That's when you notice it; a sight that makes your blood run cold! A slowly oozing trickle of deep crimson, pooling on the floor by Din's helmet. "No, No, no, no," you shudder as you carefully slide your fingers under the lip of the helmet at the back of Din's head. Your stomach plummets when your fingers meet a warm and sticky substance. Blood! Din's blood!

On hands and knees, you scramble across the floor to a nearby crate, searching frantically until you find the medkit. You rush back to Din's side and with trembling hands, open the medkit and retrieve the Bacta spray. You momentarily freeze when you realise what you must now do. There's nothing else for it. To save Din's life you have to remove his helmet. A barrage of thoughts invade your mind at the same time; would Din be angry? Would he hate you? Would you hate yourself for breaking his creed? Would he understand? Would he forgive you?

Time is of the essence now, every precious second bleeding away, along with Din's life. You have to do it. You have no choice, consequences be damned! You're not about to let the man you love die, even if he does hate you afterwards. You'll accept his wrath if it means he's alive. You set the Bacta spray down beside you and take a deep breath. "I'm so sorry," you whisper regretfully, and with a heavy heart, you gently lift the helmet up with one hand while supporting the back of Din's head with the other.

The helmet rolls away from you with a clunk. Brown curls fall backwards from the most beautifully sculpted face you've ever laid eyes on. Patchy, greying scruff decorating a perfectly chiseled jaw, a strong aquiline nose that suits him so well and plush lips... He really is stunning! So much so, that you're taken aback. But you snap yourself out of it. There's no time to lose! You grab the bacta spray and roll Din onto his side to get to the wound. Your breath hitches in your chest and you spray slowly, making sure to liberally apply the treatment.

You're probably using more than necessary, thinking back to how Din would often scold you for wasting the valuable resource when you've patched him up before. But this is literally Din's life in your hands. You'll exhaust the whole supply if you have to. The affects are almost instantaneous. You breathe a sigh of relief as the bleeding ceases and the damaged tissue begins to repair itself. Grogu looks up at you with expectant eyes. "He'll be okay, sweety," you soothed, while stroking Grogu's ear, comfortingly. "Mmm..." Grogu looks back to his dad, sadly.

Once you're satisfied with the progress of the Bacta spray you unwind a sterile bandage, cautiously wrapping it over the wound and around Din's head, trying not to jostle him too much. You then shift your attention to the many cuts and scrapes littering his body, making sure to disinfect every abrasion you see. There's no way you can lift him off the floor so you fetch a pillow from your shared bunk to place under his head and drape a blanket over him. It's not much but it'll have to suffice. With the adrenaline now subsiding, exhaustion begins to sweep over your body and mind, causing you to fall back on your arse, rather un-gracefully, and catch your breath.

You hadn't noticed just how much you'd been shaking this whole time. With controlled breaths your heart rate slowly returns to normal. Grogu waddles over to you with outstretched arms. Poor little guy needs some reassurance. Your maternal instinct has you reaching for him but you stop as you notice the drying blood on your hands. "Hold on, buddy," you say, gently, then rush to the fresher to wash away the blood and horrors staining your hands. Sitting down next to Din, you scoop Grogu into your lap, cradling his head in your chest, while humming a soothing melody to calm him. "Your dad's a fighter, kid. He'll come back from this," Please, you silently beg to whoever might be listening.

All you can do now is wait. Wait for Din to wake, wait for everything to make sense again. Hopefully he won't be furious. Surely he'd understand there was no other way. Even now it feels wrong to look at his face, the very act being sacrilegious to his people. But it's too soon to put his helmet back on. The wound needs more time to heal. Guilt starts to take root the longer you think about what this now means. What you've taken from Din cannot be easily undone. Because of your actions, he is now technically an apostate. He will be cast out of Mandalorian society, exiled in disgrace and it's all because of you.

But what was the alternative? Let him die? Let Grogu lose his dad? Live with the knowledge you could have saved him, but refused? No! It's unthinkable. You know in your heart, you've made the right decision. You just hope Din will see it that way, too. You're not sure how much time has passed, or how long you and Grogu have been asleep, when you are startled awake by a low moan. Grogu stirs in your lap as you sit up from the wall you were slumped against. An equal amount of relief and dread consume you. He's okay, he's waking... But how will he react to the violation of his creed?

"Din?" you gulped, nervously. Din lets out another grumble as his head turns in your direction. You clutch a now awakened Grogu tighter to your chest, apprehension swirling in your stomach. You feel sick! You bite your lower lip, waiting for his eyes to open, for the inevitable realisation to dawn on him. Slowly Din's eyelids lift and you are met with rich, chocolate brown eyes, eyes you would happily let yourself drown in, if it weren't for the look of abject horror and betrayal staring back at you. "Wh... what have you DONE?!!" Din exploded, his face turning red with rage and his eyes filling with tears.

You're frozen to the spot, eyes wide, voice lodged in your throat, refusing to co operate. He's furious, of course he is. "I..." your voice fails as your throat constricts in panic. Between Din's shocked gaze and Grogu's little whimper, you somehow find your voice. "I'm so sorry, Cyare. I had to. You... you were bleeding." Desperation to make Din understand claws at you. "It was the only way to save-" "No!" If looks could kill, you would be dead this very second. "It was NOT the only way," Din seethed, staring daggers at you, "You didn't have to remove my helmet. You chose to do it!" You can't believe what you're hearing.

"But you would have died!" Tears gather at your lash line at the thought. "Better to die a Mandalorian than live as an apostate," Din snapped as he sat up, clutching the back of his head. His eyes frantically dart around the hull, searching for his helmet. He reaches for it but you reach for his arm to stop him. "You can't. You're still healing-" "Don't!" Din recoiled from your touch as if you'd burned him. You heart drops like a stone to your stomach. You've never seen Din so angry, so hurt, his face portraying the image of a man who has lost it all. And you did that. You took away his sacred creed and left him with the ashes. The hiss of the helmet fills the tense air as Din places it back on, the familiar T- shape in front of you once again.

Only it's directed to your lap, where Grogu sits, looking with uncertainty between you both. "Patu," he murmured, while reaching out for Din. Din gently takes Grogu into his arms, his heaving chest and taut shoulders relaxing slightly. "I'm okay, pal," Din soothed, trying to calm his foundling, but you can hear the strain in his voice as he now fights to keep his emotions at bay, no doubt for Grogus' sake. Din stands on shaky legs, your first instinct is to help him up, but you stop just short of touching him, unsure if your help will be welcomed. Without so much as a glance in your direction, Din heads to the ladder with Grogu tucked into his chest. "Din? Cyare wait, we have to talk about this-" "Just!..." Din raises his hand to stop your words, his back still facing you. "just stop," he sighs despondently. "I can't look at you right now." Tears sting your eyes as you watch him ascend the ladder, locking himself and Grogu in the cockpit, away from you.

Din sat in quiet dispair, trying to come to terms with his new reality. One where he is now an apostate... again. Sure, he had removed his helmet to save Grogu when he'd been abducted by Moff Gideon and to say goodbye, but that was his call, his decision to make. By removing his helmet, you'd taken away his choice, his creed, his very identity. You should have let him die an honourable death. Of course, redemption is possible but that doesn't change the fact that you betrayed him. He had trusted you, opened up to you and believed that you respected his creed and his way of life.

The longer he sat contemplating, the angrier he became. How could she! he thought bitterly. Not only had you dishonored the very foundation of who he is, you had also inadvertently destroyed the close bond you'd both built over the past year. He doesn't even know who you are anymore. To have done what you've done... how can he ever forgive you? His helmet suddenly feels too restrictive, too suffocating. Din pulled his helmet off with one hand while still holding Grogu close, and set it down on his lap, staring bleakly into the pitch black visor.

Until he can atone, this helmet will serve as a reminder of what has been lost. "Mmm..." Grogu tilted his head as if to ask 'are you alright?' Din exhaled, long and deep and looked at his son with a thin lipped smile, his face reflecting back to him in the childs' large, glossy eyes, the only eyes that are, by creed, permitted to look upon his face. "I'll be okay," he whispered softly, "I'll make this right." He can find forgiveness in the living waters, that part is simple enough - well maybe simple isn't the right word. He still has to live with the fact that he has grievously sinned against the creed. Even the living waters can't wash that truth away - but how can you both move forward from this? Is it even possible?

A dull, throbbing pain pulses through Dins' temples, causing him to groan and lean his forehead into his palm, his elbow resting on the armrest. He needs to calm down. He needs to think with a cool head. Grogu yawns and snuggles into Dins' stomach. "Okay you little womp rat, time for bed," Din smiled as he tucked Grogu into the crook of his elbow. After securing his helmet, Din makes his way down the ladder and into the hull, where he finds you sitting with your back pressed against the wall. His heart physically aches at the sight of your red rimmed eyes and blotchy face. You look as though you're about to say something, but he hasn't got the energy for this right now. All he wants to do is settle the kid in his hammock and rock him to sleep. So Din quickly opens the bunk door, disappearing inside.

The dim light of the hull reflects your sombre mood as you listen to Din's modulated voice, muffled by the closed door, speaking softly to Grogu. Most of the time you and Din would say goodnight to him together, every bit the picture of a happy family. But now you are shut out, physically and metaphorically, and it hurts, maker it hurts so much. You are only meters away but it might as well be the length of the entire galaxy. A short while later the door slides open and Din slowly walks out, keeping his steps light as to not wake Grogu. He turns to you for a moment, seemingly unsure of what he wants to do next. He takes a step towards you but then stops. Sighing, he turns on his heel and retreats to the cockpit once again.

Your heart sinks and lungs deflate in crushing disappointment. You can't stand it anymore. If Din won't talk to you then you'll talk to him. You bring the sleeve of your top to wipe your face - not that it'll make a difference to your puffy eyes and reddened cheeks - and steeling yourself, you make your way to the cockpit. The silence is deafening, oppressive, brutal. You gingerly sit in the co-pilots' chair, fiddling nervously with the hem of your top. Din remains motionless, staring out of the window, shoulders strung tighter than a bow. You feel invisible and you hate it. With a steady breath, you break the silence.

"Din, we have to talk about what happened." Din still doesn't look at you. "There's nothing to talk about," Din retaliated, the coldness of his tone sending shivers down your spine, "What's done is done!" You shake your head. "Please believe me when I say I didn't make this decision lightly. It was the only way to save your life. What else could I have done?" The tears threaten your eyes again as you try desperately to make Din understand. "You could have let me die an honourable death." An incredulous huff forced it's way up your throat. "How could you expect me to do that? Listen to what you're asking? Would you have let me die if I were injured?! "That's different," Din retorted, annoyance building on his voice.

"How?!" You're so close to clawing at your eyes in frustration. "Because you're not Mandalorian!" Din's booming outburst had you shrinking back in your seat, his large frame now towering over you, making you feel exposed and vulnerable. You know Din would never hurt you, no matter how angry he got, but at the same time you've never felt so small, so helpless. Is this how his bounties feel under his intimidating gaze? Din seemed to notice your unease, immediately unclenching his balled up fists and taking a step back to give you some space. After a moment of silent staring, he shakes his head and simply states, "You'll never understand."

That was a low blow! You've always respected Dins' creed, his way of life. Never asked him to go against it and never judged him like so many other's have. It's a part of him and you love all of him. Fear and despair have now given way to anger. "Maybe you're right," you glowered, "I'll never understand because if it comes down to chosing between the creed and your life, I'd chose you everytime. I love you too much to just let you die for an ideal." "And you think being an apostate is any better?" It's like talking to a fucking brick wall! How could he not see the impossible situation you'd been placed in?

"I don't know what else to say, Din..." you sigh, your shoulders slumping in defeat, "I'm sorry it's come to this, but I'm not sorry for saving your life." "Then there's nothing more to say," Din clarified with finality, sitting back down and turning to the window again. Silent tears run down your cheeks as you leave the cockpit and join Grogu in the bunk.

When you wake the next morning the bunk is empty, cold. Even though you were certain Din wouldn't have joined you last night, disappointment weighs heavily on your heart. A part of you had hoped he would calm down and come to you. You rub the sleep from your eyes and sit up with a groan, dreading the tension that will, no doubt, still be rife. "Morning, buddy..." you cooed, gently as you stood on the mattress to wake Grogu. Your brows scrunch in confusion at the empty hammock. Din must have come in to get him while you were still asleep.

Stepping into the hull, you hear babbling from Grogu in the cockpit, followed by the occasional chuckle from Din. A flicker of hope ignites within. Maybe now he's had time to cool off, you can both talk reasonably and calmly. Maybe not all is lost? However that flicker is soon doused when you walk into the cockpit and see Din's posture turn rigid, his chair not even turning so he can acknowledge your presence. The air turns icy and heavy with friction as you take a seat. "Good morning..." you offer, meekly. "Morning." Din's monotone reply confirms that he's still upset.

"Patu," Grogu smiled as he patted your leg to pick him up. You couldn't be more grateful for the distraction right now. "And good morning to you, baby," you grin as you scoop him up and place him in your lap. "You two strap in," Din orders as he fires up the engines. "Where are we going?" You bring the seat belt around yourself and Grogu. "Sorgon." Din's clipped tone is like a knife to your heart. It's the same tone he'd used when he'd first employed you two years ago, when you were both still adjusting to each others' company.

Now you realise how you've taken his caring tone, his laugh, his tenderness for granted. It feels a million miles away now. You swallow the lump in your throat and give Grogu your full attention, feigning cheery laughter while trying to ignore the 'bantha in the room' the whole way to Sorgon. The Razor Crest descends into the atmosphere, the blackness of space giving way to a dazzling blue, causing you to squint and shield your eyes. You've always liked Sorgon, visiting several times with Din over the years.

The simple, peaceful way of life is so unlike most worlds you've visited, and with that simplicity comes a tight knit community. One who always welcomes you with open arms. You've even made a few friends here, your closet one being Omera. Grogu bounces excitedly on your lap as the ship touches down on the outskirts of the small village, no doubt ecstatic at the prospect of seeing his friends again, especially Winta. "I know, I know..." you chuckle fondly, placing a kiss on Grogu's head.

Din shuts down the engines and without a word or even a glance in your direction, he leaves the cockpit. The harsh treatment makes you want to cry, but in an effort to shield the kid from any more tension you plaster on your best fake smile. "Ready to see your friends, sweetie?" Din lowered the ramp and was instantly greeted by a handful of locals, eager to welcome back the man who gave them back their home and dignity when the Klatooinian bootleggers attacked them.

He shook hands and accepted enthusiastic slaps on the back. He looked to where you stood, embraced in Omera's arms. Winta had already claimed Grogu, the two of them heading off to play with the other kids. The sight of his son playing with the other children warmed Din's heart, but that content, fuzzy feeling soon faded when his gaze fell back on you. Dread and sorrow wash over him, choking him, knowing what he has to do. Din turns to one of the men, lowering his voice. "Please, I need to speak to the village elders."

Din felt like the worst person in the galaxy as he discussed your future with the council, all the while you remained completely unaware of the real reason he'd brought you here. He'd been reassured you'd have a place here, a safe community to call home. Even through the anger and hurt, he had to know you'd be safe, protected. And since the defeat of the Klatooinian's, sorgon had become a peaceful planet again. He couldn't imagine a safer place for you to start over. Now all that's left to do is to break the news to you.

The ache in Din's chest grew stronger as he walked through the village looking for you. It didn't take him long to spot you, sitting by a fire with two other women you'd become friendly with. Din could tell you were wearing a forced smile by how it didn't reach your eyes. When your gaze locked with his, your smile faltered, replaced with a look of deep remorse and longing. Din sighed wearily and walked over to where Grogu was happily frolicking about with other kids. Again, guilt gnawed away at him as he thought about how hard this is going to be on Grogu. In time, he'll understand, hopefully.

Din catches sight of Omera and makes his way over to her. "Hi," Omera smiled. "Can I speak with you? It's important." Omera's smile dropped slightly, her face taking on a more serious countenance. "Of course," she replied. Din shifted uncomfortably, unused to asking for favours. This is the second time today. "Could you do something for me?" Omera raised an eyebrow in intrigue, waiting for Din to continue. "Would you look after Y/N? She... she's going to need a friend now, more than ever." " What do you mean?" Omera asked, clearly confused. "We're leaving, me and the kid... and Y/N is staying here... permanantly."

Omera glanced over her shoulder to you, then turned back to Din. "Is everything okay with you two?" Din looked down and placed his hands on his hips. "No." He shook his head before raising it again. "I can't explain right now, but, please, promise me you'll look out for her." Omera's face softened. "Of course I will. She's my friend." Din felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, albeit a small one, compared to the weight he'll have to bare for the rest of his life; the weight of breaking your heart and leaving you alone in the galaxy.

But what else was there to do? Nothing could ever be the same between you both again. This is for the best... at least that's what he keeps telling himself. "Thank you," Din replied with a twinge of sadness in his voice. "That... means a lot to me." He patted Omera on the arm in gratitude before making his way over to where Grogu was playing. "Time to go, pal," Din cooed as he bent down to pick Grogu up. "Say goodbye to your friends." Grogu waved as the other kids bade him farewell.

You could tell something was wrong when Omera sat beside you, her normally soft and calm mien now absent. In it's place, concern and worry clouded her features. But before you could ask her if she's okay, Din appeared before you. It's the first time he's acknowledged you since this morning. "Would you come with me for a minute?" The gentle tone of his voice and outstretched hand made your tummy flutter in anticipation. Without a second thought, you took Din's hand and stood up. But the little hope that gesture had given you was dashed when Din immediately released your hand, and you had to fight against the anguish his absent touch left in it's wake.

You silently follow Din to the Razor Crest, stopping at the edge of the ramp. "Are we leaving already?" you ask disappointedly. Din remains silent while he turns around to pick up a bag off the ramp. He holds it out for you and sighs, "I am... you're staying here." And just like that your whole world has come crashing down around you. Din's words are a punch to you gut, stealing your breath away. "What do you mean I'm staying here?!" Your voice wobbled as your veins ran cold. "I mean..." Din set his shoulders and took a deep breath, "This... us..." he gestured between you both, "it's over." Shock has you rooted to the ground. Icy chills prickle over your skin, nausea sweeping through you.

"You... you can't be serious! Din, we have to talk about this. You can't just go making rash decisions like this, please!" Your imploring eyes search Din's visor, hoping to detect even a fraction of hesitation behind it, but you find nothing but unnerving calmness. "I'm not making a rash decision," Din replied almost emotionlessly, pushing your bag of belongings into your hands, "I thought about it all last night and it's the right thing to do." "Look, I know you're upset with me but please just take a minute to -" "I don't need a minute!" Din snapped, his patience wearing thin.

Tears burn your eyes, the lump in your throat causing your voice to quiver. "But I don't understand," you begin, willing your tears to remain where they are, but your resolve is cracking with every passing second. You have to make him see how ridiculous this is! "You broke the creed once to save Grogu and you attoned. Can't you do that again?" "Of course I can," Din answered through gritted teeth. "Then... what's the problem?!" Your voice has now risen in pitch, despite your best efforts to de-escalate the tension. "The problem is you!" Your mouth snaps shut and eyes widen in response to Din's sharp words. Words lined with a razor edge, cutting straight to your core. "You didn't just break the creed Y/N, you broke my trust! The creed can be restored, my trust in you can't."

Words have now completely abandoned you, numbness slowly consuming you as you let Din's truth sink in. You now realise just how much you've hurt him. 'I thought you understood me, respected how my religion is absolute. I can't..." Din shook his head, his voice shuddering as he continued, "I can't trust you ever again. I feel like I don't even know who you are anymore." "Please..." you whimper as your tears begin to fall freely. "please don't do this. Don't leave me. I love you and I know you love me." "I do," Din agreed without hesitation. "Then we can get passed this." You reach for Din's hand but he pulls away. "No." he takes a few steps back, "Love isn't enough."

"So, what?..." you yell as your heartbreak turns into anger, "You're just gonna leave me here, after everything we've been through? You're just gonna to throw it all away like it meant nothing?!" "This is the way," Din responded, robotically, as if he's no longer a living, feeling organism. Fury welled up in your chest, until you were trembling with rage. "Fuck the way!" you exploded, wanting in the moment to wound Din as he has you, but regretting it simultaneously. Din visibly stiffened at your blasphemous insult, his fists clenching at his sides.

"I couldn't lose you Din. I saved your life and I'm not sorry. I'll never be sorry." A silence settles between you both before Din sighs and responds, "I know... I'm sorry, Cyar'ika." Din Turns to walk away but you grab his arm, spinning him to face you. "Wait! Where's Grogu?" Your eyes dart to the ramp in search of him. "He's in the ship." "You were just going to take him away from me?!..." you gasped, hand on your chest as if the action would lesson the intensifying ache, "Without letting me see him." "It's for the best. Saying goodbye will only upset him," Din spoke, now devoid of emotion, "Please don't make this harder than it has to be."

In that moment your heart shattered completely, the shards ripping you apart from the inside. They say love hurts, but that is an understatement. This raw agony feels like it might just be the end of you. "Please!" you now beg, tears streaming down your face, "He's my son too. Don't take him away from me! He'll think I abandoned him." "He'll understand.... in time." Despite Din's persistence, he seems conflicted, like he's fighting himself on his decision, like underneath all that Beskar he's hurting as much as you.

"Please Din! Please don't do this!. Don't leave me!" you sob loudly as you fall to your knees, clutching your abdomen as if to comfort yourself. Seeing you in distress is unbearable to Din, but what makes it worse is that he's the cause of said distress. He Automatically takes a step towards you, hands outstretched, seeking to hold you but he stops himself and regains his rigid posture. "I'm sorry," he mutters as he quickly spins on his heel and storms up the ramp.

The rising Crest wobbles in your tear filled eyes as it ascends into the sky, heaving breathes causing violent hiccups to rip through your airways, as you watch your family disappear forever. In your distraught state you don't notice a pair of arms wrapping around your shoulders. It's only when your head is gently pulled into a warm chest, that you realise Omera is holding you as your whole life falls apart.

Part 2

[silaslich]

If it hurts to breathe, open a window

Simon “Ghost” Riley x gn!reader

Summary - following the first mission with Soap in mw2. You meet Ghost for the first time, he’s different to the stories you’ve been told.

Wc - 10k

Cw - heavy on plot, injury/blood/death, directly follows mw2 canon, canon typical violence, plane crash

Dark clouds crowded the sky overhead, swirling in a mass of stoney graphite and charcoal grey. The butter-kissed horizon of daylight had faded into a mass of deep violet and midnight blue, melting against the sky to make way for the cover of night.

There was so much noise around for your ears to process; the trucks engine roaring as it’s tyres rolled smoothly and quickly over the damp tarmac, the loud excited voices of the men sitting next to and across from you as they chatted away- having to shout into one another’s ear over the sound of the Boeing CH-47’s rotor system booming to life as she prepared to depart onto the runway.

You kept your eyes down, staring idly at the dark steel floor, mind processing and dissecting the information you’d been given not even an hour ago.

General Ghorbrani was dead. Killed in a missile strike in Al Mazrah several months ago after being discovered working with the Russians- whom of which were supplying Iran with armour and hardware. Part of Tf-141 along with Shadow Company had been the ones to neutralise the threat and the entire arms deal.

Same shit different day, only, it wasn’t as simple as that this time. Ghorbrani had a second in command, Hassan Zyani, Quds Force Major. He’d taken up the mantle for Iran. Now it was him supplying terrorists; money, weapons, intel. You name it. The man was dangerous and he wanted retaliation for the Ghorbrani strike, he wanted revenge, that in itself was dangerous enough. Laswell was convinced he was planning something, and whatever it was, it was going to be big. She had managed to track him and found that he was on the ground in Al Mazrah, and that’s just where you were headed.

You were knocked out of your dissociative state when someone lightly punched your arm. “Y’alright?” The Scotsman was his usual optimistic self, a stupid grin slanting across his face as he looked at you.

You nodded, realising the vehicle had stopped and was beginning to empty around the two of you. Soap stood up from the bench and jumped down from the tailgate, nodding his head to the side, signalling for you to follow him. You did, adjusting your gun at your side as you landed squarely on two feet.

John ‘Soap’ Mactavish had been a thorn in your side for the majority of your military service. Despite being deployed hundreds of times in numerous countries all across the globe you still ended up bumping into that big Scottish bastard far too often. He looked out for you, although you never asked him to, he’d taken a shining to you. And you to him. Like the brother you never had, and never wanted. He always knew how to lighten even the darkest of situations; whether it was his shit jokes or stupid questions, he never failed to pull you out of your own head.

You had joined the British Army at your earliest opportunity when you left college at eighteen. With nothing keeping you tied to home anymore- you left. Without a single pence in your pocket or a dream in your head. Better to die fighting in a war than die fighting an overdose in a back alley like some do. Stuck in a town that never wakes. Dingy corner shops and abandoned parks that are rusted to death. Those same people that have been there for years and never leave. They’re too content there, you think, perfectly happy in their mediocrity. You had wanted more. You didn’t want to fade into that kind of life. Scraping together change from a shitty job to get by, meeting and settling with someone for the sake of it only to have a child entirely accidentally- stuck forever. You needed more.

After serving for a little over a decade you were drawn for the SRR, moving up rank and earning your title as Sergeant only a year later- then finally you were transferred to the SAS. Who you’d now served with for the last two years. It was worlds apart from your early army days, you hadn’t needed to go through the selection process because you were handpicked and transferred, but the stories you’d heard over dinner in the canteen and through whispers in the barracks spoke for themselves in volumes.

Soap held his rifle with two hands, keeping it close to his chest as he moved to step forward. The two of you were strapped to the gills in full gear; night vision goggles sitting atop your helmet, throwing knives strapped to your sides and your full equipment vest covering your chest. A patch of the British flag in grey, black and white strapped to your vest proudly.

You stood fast- following Soap’s back with your eyes as you watched him approach another soldier. The soldier was tall. Much taller than Soap was, and that was saying something considering the Scotsman was at least a head taller than you, the line of your shoulder just reaching the mid of his bicep. His height hadn’t been the first thing you noticed about this soldier- no, it was his mask. The crude face covering was fashioned from a black balaclava and skull mask; sewn together with thick stitches connecting them to one another and painted with thick-dull lines of off-white down through the eyes and over the teeth. You cocked your head and squinted your eyes, you were stood too far away to hear what they were saying, and with Soap’s back towards you and this soldier’s face covered nothing gave their topic of conversation away.

Simon Riley. Otherwise known as Ghost both in and out of the field, not many earned the right to call him by his real name.

You’d never met him, only now setting eyes on him for the first time; but Soap had told you all about him. Not just Soap, but near enough every soldier in any platoon you’d served with had a story to tell of the Ghost. Wether it was something they’d either seen or heard, he had a reputation. Not only was he an expert marksman; he was highly intelligent and was a master with his knife skills, but he was most notorious for his stealth and torture expertise. He was an anomaly. Not only was he greatly feared but he was simultaneously looked up to and admired, soldiers wanted to be like him. Be him.

Johnny gave the man a punch to the shoulder, identical to the one he’d just given you, from the stupid grin on his face when he turned back to face you, it was clear Soap was happy to see Ghost. The man in the mask stood for a second and you watched, he didn’t follow after Soap right away, you saw briefly that his mouth was moving beneath his mask, he was talking to someone over comms. Slowly turning to walk the other way as he did.

MacTavish approached you “let’s get ourselves a win, yeah?” he tapped your shoulder twice as he passed by you, making his way toward the helo just twenty feet behind you, now full of marines.

“Let’s” you answered him swiftly, still watching from the corner of your eye as Ghost continued to retreat further away from the transport, you turned you shoulder to follow after Soap when he was no longer in your view.

~

It wasn’t long before everyone was onboard and you were air born, flying inbound towards the border of Al Mazrah. The craft rocked and jerked with the turbulence, it was cramped and warm and far too loud. Flashing white lights assaulted your vision like beacons from time to time, breaking through the streams of deep crimson red that painted the entire inside of the holding compartment. The flight was relatively short in comparison to other missions you’d been on. Still, there was something stagnant lingering in the air, a hunger palpating the breath of these men.

Laswell’s brief had been short and sweet, a run down on enemy positions and the split teams objectives. Three words kept ringing through your skull. Capture or kill.

When it boiled down to it. Hassan was needed alive, but the reality was there was every chance that it might be forced out of someone’s hands. It was still a mission success if he was killed, but the priority was getting him alive.

By chance, Ghost had been seated directly across from you the entire duration of the transport over. With his gun held to his chest he stared forward, right through you, and you did the same. He didn’t scare you, he had no need to. However, his energy did throw you slightly. He had a calm eeriness about him, and his demeanour was even and smooth, but you had a feeling that would all change as soon as he set his boots down onto enemy ground in a few short minutes.

The helo stuttered in the air, dropping lower and cutting through the air as you neared closer to the ground. Silently, Ghost stood.

His gruff voice tore through the white noise of the whirring rotors of the craft, this was the first time you’d heard him speak.

“Bravo team offloads here. Alpha team stays onboard with the Sergeant to land downrange” the heavy footfalls of his boots echoed across the floor as he proceeded down the craft, your rank and name ringing in your ears as he continued addressing his soldiers. “Both teams meet in the middle. Remember, we want Hassan alive” he stopped at the ramp, turning back to speak again “but this is capture or kill.”

As the craft came to thudding land and the ramp began to descend with a mechanical whir, the men selected for Bravo team began to stand, migrating towards Ghost as he stood and waited. Soap stood from his seat next to you with a grunt, adjusting his gun to free up his right hand; wordlessly he held out his fist. You didn’t need prompting, you reached up and bumped your fist against his, nodding at him as his mouth quirked up, just slightly. As you looked towards the ramp your eyes were met with cold dark irises staring right back at you, neither of you made a move to break the eye contact. Ghost was momentarily blocked from your view by Soap’s back, you heard the clack of Ghost flipping his night vision goggles down “keep up, Soap” he barked as he turned to descend the ramp.

You found yourself watching them both as they left, their stances shifting low as they drew their guns and headed towards the broken sandstone structures that had been destroyed long before your teams had gotten here. The ramp shut quickly and you were airborne again, the loud deafening sound of the rotars whirring over your head kicking back into gear again. You shook your head and took a deep inhale of breath, shifting to a stance that meant you wouldn’t stumble from the turbulence.

“You heard the lieutenant team Alpha” your voice was clear and loud, carrying through the torrent of noise. “Let’s get this done” you added as you turned, glancing out of one of the circular windows to peer out into the navy star-speckled night sky.

The sky was one of the only things that stayed consistent in your life. When things got rough or began to drown you, all you had to do was look up. No matter rain or shine; light or dark or sunset or night sky. It always gave you a calming sense of reality, something to escape away from the unfair world you lived in. Away from the blood and the bullets.

As you casted your eyes over toward a cluster of hills nestled against the horizon, a fast approaching stream of fire and smoke stole your eye. Before you could raise the alarm, the pilot’s voice sparked your comms device to life “All stations- Razor-1 is bracketed. We’re getting lit!” His panic was evident and your heart jumped in your throat, you needed to get these men out alive.

“Alpha team hold fast! Prepare for impact” your voice was hoarse as you shouted over the pilot’s voice as he continued shouting through the comms, you urged your men to copy your actions as you held onto the supports above your head, bracing for impact. You felt the entire craft lurch and you were thrown forward, hitting your head against the metal frame of the wall as you collided with it.

“Razor 1 going down! We’re going down!” The pilot bellowed and it rang through your already ringing ears, your vision blurred and the swirl of red lights had you dazed. You tried to stand again, the missile had hit and the whole contents of the craft were flung upwards, including you and your men. You urged them to hang on, to protect themselves from injury as best they could-this was bad and you knew it. You gave them hope as your brain ran into overdrive, wondering how to come out of this.

The impact was like nothing you’d ever experienced- there weren’t any training drills that could simulate a cargo helo crashing from a missile strike at full plummeting speed. Yourself and everyone else on board were flung like rag dolls, colliding with each other, colliding with the walls and ceiling. You caught yourself on a loose seatbelt as you were sent flying forward, palms stinging as the material tore through the skin of your palms. You managed to steady yourself and were forced to watch as one soldier attempted to break his fall with his hands, his arms snapping like twigs from the g-force of the crash and the weight of his own body. You let go of the belt and landed on your back, your ribs connecting with a weapons carrier on the way down as another jolt sent you hurling at Godspeed. You heard the crunch of your bones and winced at the sting running up your side like an electric shock.

The whole ordeal was quick; as the smoke rose and the broken-frayed wiring sparked to illuminate the chaos around you, you could see clearly the full extent of destruction and devastation from the crash.

You coughed as you felt blood begin to fill your mouth and you could feel something warm oozing down the right side of your face. Before you could fully process the scene around you, your comms crackled and a voice found your ears. “Alpha, what’s your status?!” Ghost’s voice was on the brink of showing a slight slither of emotion. You felt like you were choking, the blood and the smoke, it was all too much. You blinked through the darkness and tried to gather your bearings. Rising gingerly to your knees, you were quick to have to clutch at your side, trying to subdue the pain.

Blood stained the walls and floors, bodies were slumped around you and all you could hear was the sounds of coughing and shifting that were almost muted against the sound of the fire now ripping through the crash site. “Alpha, how copy?” Ghost was there again in your head, voice rattling through your ear piece.

You cleared your throat “Ghost” you choked on the blood in your mouth “Alpha is immobile multiple critical!” You slumped down, your body ceasing from the pain as it tore through your nerves. Your senses were lit ablaze when bullets began to rain through the fire and debris, catching the metal and rattling like hailstones. You pressed yourself low to the ground with a pained grunt, pressing your thumb down on your comms again. “Shit! We’re taking effective fire!” You shouted, crawling on your hands and knees toward the wounded, planning to find a gun and cover them from the bullets.

“Sergeant, we’re moving to building 1, hold tight!” As quick as his voice was there again, it was gone.

Your eyes searched the wreckage for anything to help combat the active fire you were taking, that’s when you noticed a gun beneath one of the wounded and you crawled closer towards him. Trying to be as gentle as you could, you rolled him onto his side but he still howled in pain- despite the guilt you knew you had to press on. You nudged the gun from beneath his legs and laid him flat again, not wanting to do him anymore damage if it were his neck or spine that was injured. You grabbed the gun and moved towards better cover, the wreck wasn’t secure and it wouldn’t be long before the enemy moved closer and you’d be compromised. You didn’t open fire yet, there was no point with just one gun, you kept your eyes about you but moved to tend to more wounded.

It was clear that amongst the casualties there were mortally wounded soldiers on your hands, some already dead or close to it. You tried to make them comfortable, trying hard not to think too hard into it. You would want the same if you were in their position. You tried to drown out the noise of the shells raining through the wreckage. Spouting nonsense about nothing, humming a tune as you tied a strip of ripped cloth around someones half amputated leg. You’d seen chaos before, even before you joined the army, but you hadn’t seen this caliber of bloodied carnage in a long time- not since you’d first been deployed.

Back when the fresh faces of young soldiers are first shipped out, not knowing what lays ahead, unknowing that the friends they made in their months of training could soon be lying face down in the mud. You didn’t like thinking back to that time, but right now, you’d give anything to be back there.

You didn’t keep track of time, you thought it best not to. The fire was burning its way around you, it felt like it was under your skin, sweating from the inside out. Bullet shells didn’t cease fire upon your position, they grew erratic and laboured, like the enemy were unsure if anyone was even still alive in the wreckage. You jumped when you heard a voice in your ear again.

“Soap- we’re moving to the crash site to help the wounded. Rest o’ you hold here and cover us” it was Ghost again. The boys were close, not long and you’d have help. It might have only been seconds before you heard footsteps closing in, you could never be safe, you pointed your gun towards the noise and held your finger on the trigger. Always ready. You focused your eyes, squeezing the trigger.

“Blue blue!” A voice shouted, you dropped the aim of your gun, relief rinsing through your bloodstream as you saw Ghost and Soap enter the wreckage.

“It’s good to see you two” you sighed “we’ve got five KIA and one wounded, it’s just me and my gun” you said, eyes daring to peer outside toward the tree line, checking for more movement. Ghost stiffened.

“They’re here, get your fuckin’ gun on that tree line” he ordered, moving himself into position as Soap followed.

You raised yourself up, holding onto some webbing draping across the craft for some leverage, you’d taken more damage than you’d initially realised. It would have to wait. Coming up to stand to your full height, you shuffled yourself into a better position. You took a low firing line, flipping the night vision goggles atop your helmet into position so you could better see. It wasn’t clear, smoke still rising, but it was clear enough.

“Got movement” Soap stated roughly.

“If you have a shot, take it” Ghost’s tone was menacing, his demeanour had done a complete 180 onto its head, like you’d predicted. You were the first to shoot.

“Engage!” you shouted, spotting more shooters spilling from behind a wall. Bullets sliced through the air, the sound ringing in your ears from all angles. You hit multiples, as did the boys, the enemy gave it their best go too. Your eyes caught sight of something, you shouted as you realised what it was. “RPG!” You ducked your head, watching the men in the wreckage around you do the same, very briefly. What was left of the helo rocked and jerked from the force of the blow, more metal flying away and shredding.

“Fuck” Soap growled, losing his bearings. Ghost let out a frustrated noise.

“Get your guns up” you all continued to fire, watching more enemy soldiers dropped to the ground.

This continued, more and more soldiers spilling from the tree line and opening fire. You were low on ammo, you threw a grenade out the window in front of you and it rolled towards a cluster of wooden supply boxes, at least three men were killed when the blast went off. Ghost was opening fire like hell, Soap too, the Scotsman quickly running out and setting mines between reloading stints to fend off the targets that managed to get close enough.

“Dig in, lads. We’re not done yet” the lieutenant was still firing as he spoke, not letting his guard down once. You kept your eyes forward, squinting them when you noticed an abnormal layering of smoke begin to rise from the tree line.

“We got smoke, boys, in the tree line” you grit your teeth, knowing what this meant.

“No visual” Soap said, flatly.

You retorted “I can’t see shit”.

There was a second of silence, “incoming!” Ghost shouted.

More fire hit you, a bullet whizzed so close past your face you wouldn’t have been surprised if it left a mark. Too close. You’d not realised, but Ghost was practically at your side, covering more men coming from the tree line closer to where you were shooting.

“Take cover!” he barked, cold eyes glaring forward as he shot more rounds into the smoke. More explosions rang out, coming closer each time, rumbling the very earth from the force of it.

“They’re launching grenades!” Soap shouted.

Your gun ran out of ammo and you’d lost your hand gun in the crash, your eyes darted around, then you saw the one strapped to the lieutenant’s thigh. You ripped it quickly from the holster, adjusting your position on your knees to get a better shot. You fired through the explosions and into the darkness, hearing more thuds as more targets hit the dirt. Ghost didn’t seem to react to you taking his gun, maybe he was too focussed on the incoming fire. You didn’t catch what he said, speaking through comms to whoever was there. Your brain felt like mush and your ears were still ringing, not to mention the bleeding from your head hadn’t stopped.

“Air support is on its way” he said.

Some of the smoke started to clear. Less and less soldiers were pushing through to the wreckage, this was nearly over.

“Let’s move up. We clear this position and push forward, if Hassan is still here he’s up ahead” Ghost gave the order, Soap clearly didn’t agree but there was no time for discussion. You whistled for their attention.

“Armoured vehicles closing in, there’s four of ‘em” you stated, watching them roll into the darkness through your goggles.

The men adjusted their stances, “let ‘em get close” Ghost ordered, clearly thinking about conserving energy and ammo. You nodded.

Just as they came close enough, the three of you let bullets free, the enemy returning it back with the same fever. To your relief the skys growled over head, barely noticeable through the shrouds of smoke, turrets of bullets rained down by the hundreds, air support cleared the way for you to move up the hill.

A soldier from bravo team radioed through from where he was covering your position, “all clear lieutenant, no movement ahead” he stated.

Ghost replied straight away with a simple “rog”.

Ghost turned, not specifically toward you but toward the entirety of the wreckage, darkened eyes scanning the carnage. His thumb pressed into the button of his comms device, “air support, task a bird for casualty evac” it crackled as he waited for a response.

“Roger that lieutenant” they quickly responded.

Soap and Ghost led the way out of the wreckage and you quickly followed after them. “Alpha you’re with us” Ghost shouted, a number of soldiers joined you as they answered back a “yes sir” in unison.

Your lungs felt like they were on fire and your ribcage felt weak, hollow-boned like that of a bird. The pain was piercing you, like needles pressing deep down into the fibres of your muscles. But you kept on, legs carrying you along with the others, pure adrenaline being your only saving grace at this point. You hissed in pain as your damaged knee almost gave way beneath you, the lieutenant noticed.

“They used us for fucking bait, didn’t they?” you growled, trying your best not to look like you were struggling. Ghost cocked his head toward you.

“They’re well supplied and fighting smart, thanks to Hassan” he put it simply. Soap chimed in.

“Aye. Looks like you were right, Lt.” he said.

Your eyes took in the scene in front of you, fire and explosions lighting the way. “You think Hassan’s still here?” You asked, eyes and borrowed hand gun still aiming forward.

“Heli crash gave ‘em an opening. Let’s see if they took it” Ghost was a realist. Good to know.

All of you continued to run. Breaths heaving and bodies aching. Adrenaline fuelled your blood, you moved up quickly, arriving at the last building. You went to take positions when fire rained toward you, a soldier only inches to your left dropped, caught in the line of a sniper.

“Man down!” you shouted, unable to look at the man as you took his rifle. You dropped low as everyone around you did the same, focusing fire on the roof top of the building.

“AQ has got night vision” Soap stated the obvious, taking out two snipers simultaneously. You grunted in response, focusing your eye through the scope and taking out another shooter up ahead.

“Clear” Ghost shouted. “Move up. Let’s find Hassan, dead or alive” his tone shifted, dangerous now.

You made it to the house. Clearing the first floor, dropping anyone that moved. “We need positive ID on Hassan, check the bodies” you barked out to the soldiers behind you, sticking with Soap and Ghost as they continued to move on.

It was all negative. No positive ID from any of the bodies, he wasn’t upstairs either. The three of you continued, a door flung open, before they could even move to fire their weapon, Ghost shot a round into their stomach and another into their skull. Dropping them effortlessly like it was nothing.

The house was wrecked. A twisted mess of broken brick and fractured stone, electrical wire looming low overhead firing sparks in all directions. You stuck close to Soap as he followed Ghost, noticing that there was a voice playing through something- you all moved toward it, heading up more stairs. Ghost broke the door with a kick, no positive on Hassan, just his propaganda playing on loop through a laptop.

“Hassan’s everywhere” Ghost growled and

“Everywhere but here” Johnny scoffed.

You split off, heading off alone through more of the upstairs, the boys didn’t noticed you’d gone. They’d clearly continued on thinking you were right there behind them. You pointed your gun around the door frame of an upstairs corridor, your body following as you perceived it to be clear. Last minute, bullets flew through a compromised section of the dry wall, heading straight towards you. By some luck, you’d managed to dodge them, leering forward behind a protruding structure in the wall and retaliating with your own fire. You cleared the corridor and entered the room that the target had been guarding. Hassan had been in there.

Ghost and Soap must have been alerted by the gun fire, they came in hot, practically sprinting to your location. They stopped short in the doorway, your back was towards them, their eyes searched the room. You turned towards them, a uniform jacket scrunched tightly in your fist.

“Hassan’s uniform” you seethed. Mactavish gave out a grunt.

“So he was here” he flailed an arm in frustration. Ghost remained in the doorway, his eyes low.

“Lost him when we secured the crash site” he said simply, lowly.

The weight of Ghost’s words hit you in the chest like a bullet, but you knew they shouldn’t have, deep down you knew he was right. Soap was standing between you and Ghost, his eyes darting between the two of you.

“Are you sayin’ we shouldn’t have helped?” Soap squared his shoulders. Ghost just shrugged.

“Choices have consequences”. It was just that simple.

“All bravo, we’ve got movement out here” the voice hit through your ear piece, breaking the tension in the room.

“On the way” Ghost confirmed.

The three of you continued on. Moving back the way you’d come and heading out towards the rest of the team, they’d seen movement in a warehouse up ahead. All of Bravo and what was left of Alpha moved in, lighting up fire when they reached the rolling doors. More soldiers dropped. Shot dead. You all kept pushing through, eyes through scopes and fingers on triggers. You broke off, tucking and rolling behind a metal container, opening more fire as you pushed the enemy back with forcible ammunition. Ghost was on your tail, following after you and overtaking, pushing on through. Soap was up next and came to cover you, locking his palms together to make it easier for you to hoist yourself up on top of the container. There was another container there to keep you shielded, it gave you a vantage point over the targets that had tried to retreat to higher ground. You dropped them easily.

For what felt like the first time in hours, everything stopped. All of the noise. Everything.

“Are we clear?” Soap shouted up to you, you let out a laboured breath. You stuck your thumb up.

“Clear” you said. Your knees burned as you jumped down from the container, you didn’t give yourself a chance to ease yourself down.

“Search it, let’s see what they’re hiding” Ghost’s voice echoed through the now dying silence, the warehouse carrying the gravely baritone of his voice. You closed in on Johnny, following him as he approached one of the container doors that was ajar. From first look, it was controls. Panels and buttons and screens.

“What the fuck is this?” Soap queried. You looked closer.

“It’s all in English” you said, eyes still scanning frantically. Living up to his name, Ghost was suddenly there, behind you, so close you could feel his warmth at your back. You watched as Soap flipped one of the switches, the entire warehouse shook, the container vibrating and whirring.

All three of you stepped back quickly, eyes trained up watching it all unfold.

“Fucking hell” you breathed.

“Steamin’ Jesus” Soap’s jaw was on the floor.

“Ballistic missiles”. Ghost’s gaze hardened.

You frowned “it’s a mobile launcher”.

Another soldier chimed in behind you. “These will go 1,000 miles”.

“At least” Ghost added.

You stepped forward and moved around to the left of the container to get a better look, Soap wasn’t far behind.

“How the hell did Iran get their hands on this?” Soap growled in the back of his throat.

The men watched as you ascended the weapon carriers that were piled up next to the container, making quick work of the climb, a new shot of rage fuelled adrenaline kicking through your veins.

Ghost spoke up “7-6, get us through to Laswell” his eyes were still scanning the discovery in front of him.

“Roger, stand by” the soldier spoke quickly “Bravo 7-6 Charlie to Watcher-1, how copy?” You all waited for a response.

Laswell’s voice quickly chimed in “this is Watcher-1, send traffic” she spoke clearly.

“Laswell, this is Ghost. We got something” the concern was laced in his voice.

“You found Hassan?” She asked quickly.

Your eyes landed on something truly jolting. “Ghost, Soap, take a look at this” you urged, turning your neck to meet their eyes, their expression no doubt mirrored yours. Laswell’s frantic voice broke the silence again.

“Ghost, do you have Hassan?” She asked again.

You watched as Ghost pressed down the button to his comm, leaning down to speak loud and clear. “Negative. We found a weapons cache. Hassan’s got missiles, they’re American” a silence enveloped the warehouse.

“0-7 this is Gold Eagle Actual, repeat your last” General Shepherd’s voice was frantic.

“I’ll say again, Hassan has American missiles” Ghost repeated.

It’s almost as if the air was sucked from the warehouse like a vacuum. You would have heard a pin drop it was that quiet. The way you slumped down into a seated position wasn’t graceful or quiet, but you weren’t about to stand for any longer then you needed to. Soap snapped his neck toward you, his eyes searching yours, you nodded toward him with a half-arsed thumbs up. You saw in the way that his expression fell that you weren’t in a good way, the bleached lights of the warehouse would have left no injury of yours unseen to the eye. You’d lost a lot of blood but you’d make more, right now there were more important things to worry about.

~

Rain pattered gently across your cheeks, it’s cold chill seeping right down to your bones- forcing you to shiver. You hummed, arms crossed over your chest as you sat on the damp brick stone wall with your chin tilted skyward, more droplets cascading down your face like gentle streams over your skin.

This was probably the only thing you missed about England. The shit weather. Soaking wet springtimes and late hazy summers, rugged cold autumns and early winters smothered with snow. You struggled to remember much about them; you didn’t have fond childhood memories of building snow men and drinking hot chocolate, nor were you able to think back to a summer where you’d stay at the park all day playing football, coming home to a freezer-burnt ice cream that your mum had dug out for you.

There was none of that. None of the warm fondness or swell of nostalgic familiarity in your chest. You pushed everything away. There was nothing that you saw worthy to keep in your head; no core memories of birthdays or holidays, no movie nights in or sleepovers with friends. Your entire childhood had been stolen from you, thrown away- just like you had been.

Your memories of British summertimes were filled with laughter; water fights on the barrack fields after quitting time. Bike rides at sunrise instead of hitting the gym, even wild swims at the coast on rarer occasions.

The wet springtimes; running drills through knee high mud, purposefully hitting the ground with heavy footfalls to splash one another. Wringing out your rain soaked shirts in the locker rooms and whipping each other till your skin welted- crying with laugher till you were on the floor.

Autumn, perhaps your favourite. Walking across base - watching as the leaves fell in a blanket of umber and tawny, crunched under your boots, the smell of damp earth in the air, so fresh and free as it stole the very breath from your lungs.

Harsh winters were common, on the contrary to summer, wild swims in below freezing temperatures as part of vital training, your teeth chattering so hard you were sure they’d break. Warm hot chocolate spiced with a drop of whiskey in the evening; settled around a table, talking about everything and nothing in the communal rooms while shuffling a deck of cards- thinking about the idea of found family, realising it’s not as far out of reach as you’d thought.

Those were your memories of home, of England, your memories of the place you were born.

The military had been the making of you- there was nothing before that, you were made for this. You told yourself that on repeat, the army had saved you, put a roof over your head. There was no shadow of doubt that your life would have been very different if you hadn’t taken this route, and you were convinced that you would have been six feet under by now.

The rain was only passing. The frigid breeze carrying it ever so gently, kissing your skin. You wished a storm would come your way, wash you out and provide a much needed clarity- a reset. You did always love thunderstorms, watching the lightning split the sky, cracking and illuminating as it broke apart.

You were sitting outside. The backend of the barracks were more sheltered, further hidden from higher ups that would scald you for being outdoors so late.

After the last twenty-four hours you’d had, you should have completely crashed. Been dead to the world as soon as your head hit your pillow. But you didn’t - couldn’t. Unable to sleep, unable to settle, thoughts racing and mind following. There was so much going through your head, and that wasn’t common for you, this should have been just like any other day; any other job.

Something was different, and you knew it was far from over yet.

Soap had been by your side the entirety of the transport back to the barracks, his eyes wide and searching as he asked you question after question, barely letting you close your eyes for even a second for fear you’d slip into a coma from the blood-loss.

You wanted to bang your head against the metal of the craft as you sat there listening to him drone on. Either that or you would rip Johnny’s voice box out of his throat with your bare hands. Ghost’s fists clenched where they sat resting on his thighs.

“Leave it, Mactavish” he’d barked, clicking his tongue as he did, clearly it wasn’t just your nerves Soap was grating on.

You wanted to laugh as you watched the Scotsman shrink back in his seat, like a dog with its tail between its legs, not liking getting told off. Yet, your smile washed away, swallowed by the tension in the craft. The entire mission hadn’t gone to plan, coming up short, following dead lead after dead lead. With fatalities and injuries on top of that, it didn’t serve to keep the morale of the team up.

The three of you didn’t speak much. You could see the tiredness eating it’s way at Soap, feeling as his body grew heavier and heavier beside you in his seat. Ghost was sitting across from you, like he had done on the transport over seas chasing the dead lead, you couldn’t see him all that clearly, the night flight back to base didn’t provide much light to go by, only giving you a rough shadowed outline of where and how he was sitting.

Yet, you were sure you could feel Ghost’s mind ticking over. Almost as if you could hear the man thinking, could hear the gears turning over and over in his head as he sat there- stewing away behind that mask of his. He kept his arms folded across his chest, another barrier thrown up in defence, dead eyes glaring towards the ceiling as he rested the crown of his head against the back of his seat. He had his legs kicked out and splayed apart, resting either side of your boots, right foot tapping away in absent thought.

You hadn’t managed to sleep, didn’t even feel groggy at all, and you were always the first to sleep on transport. Usually loved getting rocked to sleep from the turbulence or terrain. There had been a running joke for years that you could sleep anywhere at anytime, your body had improved over the years at getting used to time zones and differences, it barely reached you anymore.

It was unusual. Your body wouldn’t allow you to rest, perhaps the adrenaline hadn’t subsided just yet, maybe after you’d been to medical upon landing and gotten cleaned up you’d feel better.

Negative.

Soap had marched you to the medial building as soon as you’d gotten to base, tugging you by the arm like you were a naughty child. The other soldiers had gone straight to the barracks, heading straight to their bunks to sleep off the last twenty-four hours, they’d earned it. Even Ghost went.

You shooed Johnny away as soon as you were being seen to, urging him that he didn’t have to babysit you and that he should rest up. You reminded him that this wouldn’t be a long respite. He had nodded, a smile quirking at his lips as he held out his fist, you rolled your eyes- but you bumped your fist to his nether the less.

The sweet nurse had tried to express her concerns for the state you were in, but as lovely as she was, you brushed her off. She was short and blonde, the tiredness in her pretty hazel eyes showing you she’d been in the med room since early doors. She’d urged for you to have x-rays taken of your chest, that even if your ribs were just fractured that it could potentially cause other issues if you hadn’t already punctured a lung or lacerated any other organs. You pulled a bullshit excuse out of your arse and handed it to her with the nicest of smiles, hopping down from the examination bed as you buttoned your shirt back up. She’d already cleaned and taped the wound on your head, cleaning some of your other cuts and grazes and smothering them in balm to keep anything nasty out. She sent you on your way after shoving some heavy painkillers down your throat, knowing you weren’t going to take her advice and that you’d deploy again tomorrow, and she was right- you couldn’t sit this one out now.

After leaving the medical building you’d made your way outside, and you hadn’t moved since. It must have been hours now. You stopped counting after two, letting the cold chill of the rain and wind sting your face as you perched there on that wall, content and calm. Perhaps it was the painkillers making your head foggy, calming the thrum of your blood as you stared out into the star studded darkness.

Upon hearing heavy footfalls scuffing across the concrete, you turned your attention to the source of the sound, watching a shadowy figure approaching as they descended the stairs that led back towards the main buildings. You couldn’t see all too clearly, there were no lights to illuminate the area in which you were sitting, to purposely discourage loitering. Whoever it was didn’t speak right away, you tilted your head back towards the sky, closing your eyes with a sigh. They came to a stop next to where you were sitting on the wall, not invading your space directly but barely keeping their distance.

A faint click of a lighter striking caught your attention and your eyes opened to flicker over to your left- it was Ghost.

The cigarette was already between his lips, his left hand cupping it to protect it from the wind and rain as the other hand held the lighter, dying away with a loud click.

You watched as he inhaled deeply, the swell of his chest rising as the end of the cigarette illuminated a deep amber, causing shadows to dance across his face from the glow. The mask caught you. This wasn’t the one he’d been wearing before, this one was a simple black balaclava with his characteristic skull printed onto the lower part of the face- it was already pulled up to the bridge of his nose when you had turned to look at him. There were thick smudges of black-grease paint plastered over his eye sockets, making the colour contrast with the hickory brown of his eyes.

There was something about your lieutenant that you couldn’t quite grasp fully; you’d met plenty of reserved soldiers before, closed off and more secretive about themselves and their lives outside of these walls- but Ghost was different. It’s as if there was nothing outside of these walls for him. The military and the 141 were his entire life, the reason he breathed air and woke up in a morning.

When the others made plans for leave or talked about their families, he didn’t, he’d stay and he’d listen. Never has he ever uttered so much as a word about his private life, maybe he did have one, maybe a wife and a family- but you couldn’t see it.

He was just so- unmoved. He barely showed outward concern for himself or his team, the latter more so but only if it was fatal. He knew that collateral damage was a given, he knew that every mission he deployed on he would come back with less soldiers then he left with. Ghost swallowed that pill everyday, the lives he holds in his hands, the weight of the grief on his shoulders. It was any surprise he was still standing, but you guess he was numb to it now, that’s why he didn’t feel it anymore. He was so used to death and destruction, it was starting to be ineffective at jarring him, at making him feel any kind of way about it.

Ghost pockets the lighter, reaching up and holding the cigarette between his thumb and index finger as he retracts it from his mouth, a deep-dark cloud of smoke falling from his lips as he breathes it out.

Your eyes lingered. Assessing the dressed down version of the infamous soldier as he leaned back against the wall. His boots and trousers were what was left of his uniform, from the waist up he was wearing a charcoal coloured jacket with a high collar that he’d pulled up, covering what you could see of a simple black undershirt peeking out from between the zipper of his jacket.

The darkness didn’t provide your eyes well, only when he took a drag of his cigarette could you see the outlines of the lower half of his face. Even then, you didn’t risk staring, despite your- curiosity he was still your lieutenant.

It’s normal to be curious- you keep telling yourself. He’s your lieutenant; your point of call, your lifeline when you’re out there risking life and limb. Yet, you’ve never seen his face, would never be able to pick him out in a sea of hundreds. He doesn’t owe you anything, you’re new to his charge, under his wing so to speak, but you’re leading this mission with him and Johnny- the least you should be able to ask for is some truths. Everything about him is redacted, save for his name, even then that had been hard enough to get, apparently everything about him was on a need to know basis.

The man took a long-heavy drag of his cigarette. “How’s your head?” He asked flatly, his eyes trained forward as he spoke.

His voice might not have been loud, but you’d been in silence for hours, the gravely tone of his voice hammered straight through to your bones. You watched him out the corner of your eye.

“It’s fine” you said, not really wanting to elaborate in case he tried to catch you out.

Ghost hummed “you sure about that?” He queried, tone a little harder.

When you craned your neck to look at him fully this time you found he was already looking at you, his eyes pointedly focused on the tape holding the left side of your forehead together. You didn’t take your eyes away.

“I’m very sure” you reiterated, hoping he’d drop the subject, you had a feeling he wouldn’t.

“And the punctured lung?” You stiffened. How did he know? He pushed himself up from leaning back against the wall and turned his body so he was parallel to you now, his right hip leaning into the brick as his right elbow kept him propped there. He had let go of his cigarette, his lips keeping it secure as he continued to smoke it, blowing smoke out the corner of his mouth.

You gathered your thoughts in your head, thinking of the best response you could give. The man spoke before you could.

“Your silence tells me a lot, sergeant” he huffed, taking ahold of his cigarette once more as he returned to his prior position, mirroring the way you faced forward. You kissed your lips against your teeth.

“I’m fine” you said again, you saw no point in trying to persuade him, he’d clearly already made up his mind.

Ghost made some kind of noise in the back of his throat and you heard him rooting for something in his pocket. You were surprised when a cigarette was held out towards you. You frowned, casting your eyes over to him to find he was still staring forward, mouth devoid of a cigarette and his free hand stuffed into his pocket, he’d clearly smoked it right down to the filter and ditched it.

How could you think you could lie to him? He’d seen first hand the pain you were in, so much pain you couldn’t see straight, blood staining your face as you fought for a singular breath to enter your lungs.

He was testing you now. If you refused the cigarette then he’d assume it was because you were still in pain with your lungs and chest, if you took it then perhaps he would lay off.

You made up your mind, brushing your fingers over his as you took the smoke from his hold. You placed it between your dry lips, you were still in your full gear and you knew you had a lighter somewhere, before you could start your search- Ghost already had you covered. His hand extended out toward your face with the flame dancing and licking at the breeze, you leaned in close and cupped both of your hands around his as it held the lighter, inhaling deeply as the earthy taste of the tobacco hit the back of your throat.

You’d smoked causally and socially throughout your entire army career, surely smoking through one cigarette without as much as a splutter would be easy enough.

Ghost retracted his hand and pocketed his lighter again, watching you smoke from the corner of his eye. You could feel his eyes on you, so you purposefully didn’t look his way, you gazed off into the pitch black, eyes struggling to focus on anything at all.

He stuffed both of his hand into his pockets, enjoying the quiet, listening only to the steady pattering of soft rain against the brick and concrete and the gentle sound of your steady breaths exhaling the smoke.

You weren’t about to admit that he was right, but he was right. The nicotine dried your lungs and the tickle of tobacco at the roof of your mouth and back of your throat had you gagging to cough, mixed with the subtle metallic taste of your own blood that still lingered on your palate. It wasn’t a delightful mix. You decided to distract yourself.

“Anyway, how come you aren’t asleep, Lt?” You asked, genuinely intrigued. The man quirked a brow, or at least, it looked like he did.

“Could ask the same to you” He was right but you asked first. You tutted.

“I’ve been with medical” you countered, thinking you’d caught him out.

“Three hours ago” he gifted flatly. Fuck. You shrugged him off.

“I lost track of time” you took his silence as his answer.

It was obvious that he hadn’t come out here just to smoke, there was something he needed to say, and you wished he would just spit it out. He shifted his stance, like he was in pain, you almost asked if he was okay, but thought better of it. He was more then capable of looking out for himself, when you were out in the field you’d worry and watch his six, back here- you’d leave him to it.

Ghost sighed “it’s been advised that you don’t ship out tomorrow” his words cut through you, his softened tone did nothing to soften the blow. You stiffened, shoulders squaring off as you took a deep inhale of the cigarette.

“On what grounds?” You asked quickly, tone shifting. He noticed.

“Medical” he spoke while looking at you pointedly, you laughed.

“Wow” you shook your head with a disbelieving smile “you take a little bump to the head these days and that gets you grounded?” Your question was entirely rhetorical, your head was the least severe of your injuries.

Ghost shifted his weight, still looking at you, watching as the emotions played out on your face. “listen to me-“ you cut him off.

“No, it’s bullshit” you stated with a scrunched frown creasing your face, still heaving plumes of smoke as you spoke.

“Oi” the lieutenant barked, making you freeze and look at him. “I’ve dismissed it” he said, his calm front falling back into place. Just another mask to add.

Your eyes blew wide. “You- what?” You asked, confused. He sighed, reaching over to pluck the cigarette from between your fingers, bringing it up to his own lips to take a drag.

“I think it’s best we finish what we started- all of us” he said, puffs of smoke escaping his lips between his words. He handed the cigarette back to you as he continued, watching as you brought it to your own lips to continue smoking it. “You handled the crash well” he said “would have had more fatalities if you hadn’t have helped when you did” it was clear that he believed what he was saying, you didn’t take Ghost as someone who minced his words, he said it how it was.

“Thank you” you said, simply, returning your gaze to the dark sky, rain still falling gently.

It took a few seconds for Ghost’s words to settle. You furrowed your brow in thought, offering the cigarette back to him, which he gladly took. A comfortable blanket of silence fell over you, the next few minutes were simply nothing. A void in conversation that wasn’t forced or awkward, it was just- natural. The two of you passed the cigarette between one another wordlessly, Ghost taking the longest and final drag till it was down to the end of the filter before he flicked it away, stomping it out with the heel of his boot. This signalled that it was time to call it a night, or a morning, you didn’t know what time it was. You pushed yourself down from the wall, groaning and cracking your joints as you stretched out, sitting in the cold for this long wouldn’t have done you any good.

Ghost pushed himself up from where he’d been leaning against the brick, now you were standing here, parallel to one another, you could see just how tall he was in comparison to you. Even the width of his shoulders were almost twice that of yours. You were forced to look up to meet his eyes, those cold-dead eyes of his. He tilted his chin down to see you clearer, that usual frown of his under the mask gone, no where to be seen. His expression was soft, almost content. You broke the silence.

“Thank you Lt” you said, watching the fabric over his brow furrow. “For not grounding me” you added. His eyes softened slightly.

“Don’t let me regret it” his voice was gruff, maybe even tired.

Your eyes hadn’t adjusted to the dark, but he was so close you could faintly see the outline of his jaw and lips as he spoke. There was only a scant amount of space between you and him. You didn’t fight the urge to reach up your hand and pinch the mask where it was pushed up against his nose- yanking it down in one swift movement. He let you do it. Didn’t even move to stop you. “Better to keep your anonymity Lt” you said, smiling softly as you moved to walk past him and head toward the steps. He turned his shoulders slowly toward you.

“You know my name” he said flatly, barely amused by your attempt to joke with him.

He was right, you did know his name, but that took the fun out of it.

You sighed “Come on, Riley. Time to get some shut eye, before we get in trouble for being out here” you adopted a horrific Manchester accent as you spoke, whatever drugs that nurse had given you, they were pretty fuckin’ wicked. Ghost clearly didn’t agree, but he also didn’t correct you when you used his surname. That was a feat in itself.

“I’m a lieutenant, what the fuck are they gonna say to me?” he grumbled, mostly to himself, but you had heard him.

You laughed softly, something warm swelling in your chest. Your initial perception of him had been cold and disconnected, he presented himself as a man who existed solely for his role within the military. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t, you were sure you’d find out. Your exchange with him this evening had showed you that he was observant and truly did value each and every soldier in his platoon. He wasn’t allowing you to be medically grounded because he believed you would be an asset to the continuation of this mission, if that man had any doubt about the severity of your injuries and the chance that you could slow them down- he would have you grounded in a heart beat. He was giving you a chance, and you were determined to show him he was right to trust you and your judgement.

You held onto this feeling as the two of you climbed the stairs, entering the halls of the barracks and parting ways to your respected quarters.

[psycho-pills]

A Second Life for Strays! ฅ (•˕ •マ.ᐟ sylus x reader fanfic // prev // next

౨ৎ⭑˚ RATING; 18+ (mdni)

౨ৎ⭑˚ PAIRING; sylus x afab!reader (not the mc)

౨ৎ⭑˚ SYNOPSIS; you are a soldier reincarnated into the world of love and deepspace, except you're not the mc. she still exists. despite looking exactly like her, you don’t act or sound the same. and to make things stranger, cats follow you everywhere.

౨ৎ⭑˚ GENRE/WARNING; angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn, (mutual?) pining, eventual fluff, eventual romance, eventual smut, cursing, graphic descriptions of violence, blood, mental breakdowns, ptsd, death, isekai, reincarnation, cats/cat puns, mc is named serenophe to avoid confusion/reader is not mc

౨ৎ⭑˚ AUTHOR'S NOTE; a gentle reminder: this is written in third-person limited with she/her pronouns. only the prologue is written in second-person. i use the terms [name] [surname] instead of (y/n) (y/ln) because it's easier for me to write. also, i know this idea is kinda weird and outlandish, but i love cats and love and deepspace, so why not combine the two? ;v;

౨ৎ⭑˚ LINKS; ao3 // masterpost

ch. one — a cat-astrophic realization! ౨ৎ⭑˚ word count; 3.9k

Where… She thinks. Where am I?

Her eyes flutter open before immediately squinting from the fluorescent lights above. The constant beeping of the patient monitor spikes in sound as her heartbeat increases. Instinctively, her hand reaches to shield her eyes, only to stop short with a sharp tug. A flash of pain shoots up her arm, drawing her attention to the thin IV tube embedded in her skin. She grits her teeth and lowers her hand, squinting through the blinding lights.

Gradually, her vision adjusts. One eye peeks open, the other still closed in protest. She slowly sweeps over the room. As her surroundings come into focus, her heart rate steadies.

The hospital room is bathed in morning light that filters through the large windows. As [Name] glances toward the windows, long shadows cross the room. Outside, there's a breathtaking view of the bustling, futuristic city below. The overall view of the world is serene, completely unlike the storm of confusion in [Name]'s mind.

The room is comfortably sized. Modern yet contemporary furniture and pale grey walls accommodate the small space. Sleek medical equipment lines the side of the room, but there's a sense of luxury present. Crisp linen sheets, plush chairs, and a vase of fresh flowers on a side table. It's more like a boutique hotel than a hospital room. 

A soft beige blanket covers her body, and the scent of jasmine whiffs up her nose. An unoccupied recliner sits in the corner near the windows, perhaps meant for a visitor; however, the room is isolated. The medical equipment strap to her arm and chest drones on. The rhythmic beeping indicated the steady tracking of her vitals. A small monitor occasionally blinks, recording her heartbeat and oxygen levels.

As she begins to stir, her body drags her down. Everything feels heavy. Her limbs, her eyelids, even her thoughts. There's an overwhelming sense of disorientation like she's floating between worlds. Memories stir, hazy at first, but slowly they sharpen. One after the other, they trickle back—chaos, pain, death. 

Her death.

Her body feels sore, but her head feels worse. She remembers the battlefield. She remembers succumbing to her bullet wound. The sensation of death still lingers like a cold shadow. Yet now, with her eyes fully adjusted, she takes in the pristine hospital room, and it becomes apparent that something is wrong.

I'm alive. 

The thought feels impossible. Absurd, even. And yet here she is—breathing, heart pounding—fully conscious. It was like she finally woke up from a long, deep coma.

With more awareness, she takes in the room. Across from her bed is a small, flat-screen television, turned off, reflecting the room's dusky mood. Besides it, a small door leads to what she assumes is an adjoining bathroom. Everything about the room is carefully designed to be soothing, sterile, and impersonal. However, it's oddly welcoming in a way she can't quite grasp.

Her body protests as she fumbles to sit up, mindful of the tubes and wires attached to her arm and chest. As she adjusts herself, she catches a glimpse of her reflection on the dark, glassy screen of the television. With some effort, she leans forward to take in her appearance better.

Instantly, [Name]'s breath catches in her throat. She pauses. Her reflection stares back at her, but something is off. Her face is hers, but it's not. All of her features are the same. Hair, eyes, mouth, nose… However, everything is just sharper now. Clearer. Her skin smoother, and her hair fuller. If she didn't know any better, she'd swear she looks almost identical to the female lead of her favorite otome game. 

But that can't be right. Can it?

A chill runs down her spine, and her eyes dart downward to her chest. Panic flares in her gut as she remembers the battlefield, the bullet wound that should have taken her life. Slowly, as if afraid of what she'll find, she hooks a finger under the collar of her hospital gown and pulls it away from her body, expecting to see a scar, a wound, anything.

There's nothing. Her skin is smooth, unmarked. No bullet wound, no scar, no evidence that she has ever been injured at all. Her heart stutters in her chest, and the panic she's been trying to suppress starts to rise like a wave, threatening to swallow her whole.

"What the hell is going on?" She croaks.

Her throat feels dry and scratchy, like it hasn't been used in days. A rough cough forces its way up and makes her wince. She tries to settle her breathing, but it's no use. The confusion, the fear—it's smothering her.

Just as she's about to lose herself to the spiraling thoughts, the door to her room clicks open. She jerks her head toward the sound. A man steps in, tall and composed, his black hair framing his face in sharp, elegant lines. His demeanor's cool but professional. There is a slight air of authority that immediately draws her attention.

She blinks, and her stomach drops.

There's no way.

Her eyes widen in disbelief as she stares at him. It can't be. It can't be. But there's no mistaking the man standing before her, his confident stride, the careful way he carries himself. His gaze idles before settling back on his notes. She knows that face, that presence. She can practically hear her heart pound louder as the impossible claws at her.

She glances at the name tag pinned to his coat, just to be sure. Zayne. It's there, clear as day. The doctor with a cold exterior and a reputation for being emotionally untouchable. Yet beneath it all, there's a hidden tenderness. He was one of them: a character she had admired, the one whose storyline was as complex and fascinating as the others.

Her mind reels. Oh, my Gods. This can't be real. 

She blinks several times, expecting his face to change into something else, but nothing happens. He's still there, as composed and meticulous as ever. The exact character she once admired behind a screen now stands right before her.

The disbelief overtakes her. It's suffocating and all-encompassing. How can this be happening? She died—she remembers dying—and yet, she woke up here. Her body tenses. Her muscles tighten as the pieces of her situation fall into place, and realization sinks its teeth into her.

She can't breathe. It's impossible. All of this, everything around her, feels like a nightmare. A twisted dream she can't wake up from. There's no way, there's no way she's been reincarnated. And not just anywhere. In the world of Love and Deepspace, the very game she escaped into for fun is her new reality now.

"You're awake," Zayne says calmly, but verging on something more unreadable. Confusion? Suspicion? He takes a step closer, his gaze lingering on her face longer than a doctor's should. [Name] can tell he's trying to remain composed. However, his eyes hold hesitance, like he's looking at something he can't believe.

Slowly, as if worried she might vanish if he speaks too quickly, he continues, "I'm Dr. Zayne, and you will be under my care for the foreseeable future." His voice is smooth, but his words are cautious.

"And you must be Miss…" He pauses and glances down at the file. His eyes squint as if the name doesn't match what he was expecting. "…[Name] [Surname]."

She swallows, almost choosing silence, but her raspy voice escapes anyway.

"Yes?"

The word barely sounds confident. She's frozen under his gaze, trapped in disbelief. Zayne's sharp eyes roam her face, drifting down to her upper body. It's not the casual assessment of a doctor checking on a patient. No, this look—it's familiar. It's the same gaze she used to see when playing the game, the moments when his character's cold exterior would briefly soften during some of his bonds and memoria. Her stomach churns with anxiety.

What. The. Fuck.

Zayne pushes his glasses up, and his professional mask slips back on. He steps closer to the bed, his expression shifting, but she can sense the tension beneath it. 

"I'm just checking for any signs of concussion or physical injuries," he says. However, it sounds more like he's reassuring himself than her. 

He leans in, and his eyes dart over her face. He scans her features for any signs of bruises or swelling. "Given your condition when you were brought in, we need to monitor for potential head trauma."

[Name] stays silent as he gently lifts the edge of her gown at her shoulder. His fingers brush her skin as he places the cold metal of the stethoscope against her chest. His touch is light and purely professional, but she can't help but feel a rising discomfort. 

Zayne may act like this is routine, but she can see the tension in his posture and how his gaze keeps finding her face. He's trying to hide it, but she can tell—he's scrutinizing her for more than physical injuries. It's like he's trying to fit together puzzle pieces from different boxes.

The metal is cold and harsh. She inhales deeply without him even asking. Then she exhales, and the stethoscope leaves her chest not a moment sooner. He scribbles something down in his notes. Almost hesitantly. 

"Everything seems to be in order. There doesn't appear to be any visible scarring or physical trauma," Zayne mutters. A bit too neutral. As he steps back, his eyes idle on her a beat longer than necessary. "Regardless, we'll run a few more tests to be sure."

She gives a slow nod, observing how his jaw tenses as he adjusts the equipment by her bedside. He's trying to play it cool, but the cracks are there. Something is bothering him, and she knows exactly what it is.

He recognizes her face.

She looks too much like the heroine of the game, the one who's the center of this world's story. [Name] isn't supposed to be here. She isn't the main character of the game. She's something else—an anomaly.

Zayne frowns when he catches her staring at him. He quickly returns to his task, clearing his throat like it can shake off his weariness. "If you're feeling any discomfort, let me know. We'll have the results of your tests soon." He says calmly, but his eyes still carry that hint of confusion.

As he jots more notes on her chart, her mind spirals. This is far more than she expected, far more surreal, terrifying, and overwhelming. She never anticipated finding herself in this situation, least of all being reincarnated into her favorite otome game. But here she is, alive in a world she once thought was fiction. 

Zayne looks at her again, his lips parting like he's about to speak. His face is composed; however, there's a shadow of skepticism beneath. Yet before he can get a word out, the buzz of his pager cuts through the moment. Instantly, the room's atmosphere shifts and his posture straightens.

The hospital's overhead speaker crackles to life, the receptionist's voice urgent: "Code Blue. Code Blue. Paging all medical personnel to surgical room two, please."

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he hesitates. Zayne gives her one last look, like he's trying to commit her to memory. When the voice over the intercom repeats the emergency, he finally breaks away. His eyes tear from her face with visible reluctance. 

"Please excuse me," he says with urgency as he prepares to leave. "If you need anything, Nurse Yvonne is down the hall." 

Without waiting for her response, he sharply turns and exits the room. His footsteps fade down the hall, leaving her alone with her racing thoughts. In his absence, the room feels eerily still, like the air is holding its breath. Then, the silence starts to eat away at her. The impossible truth digs into her, and something inside snaps.

In one swift motion, she throws the sheets away from her lower body. [Name] swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands—albeit too quickly. Her legs, frail from disuse, buckle beneath her. She stumbles, catching herself on the IV pole.

The cold metal anchors her as she settles down. Her muscles are weak, but determination propels her forward. [Name] drags the IV stand along as she shuffles toward the attached bathroom. Her steps awkward and sluggish.

Reaching the door, she kicks it open with the bare heel of her foot, too focused on her next task to bother with formalities. She lumbers inside, not even closing the door behind her. The thirst clawing at her throat is unbearable, a raw itch that she can no longer ignore. Like a starved animal, she ducks under the sink. She twists the faucet open and lets the crisp, refreshing water pour into her mouth. The liquid soothes her parched throat, the cool sensation spreading through her body as she gulps down as much as possible.

When finally sated, [Name] wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and turns off the faucet. However, just as she's about to leave the bathroom, her eyes catch something in the corner of the mirror—her own reflection. She freezes, seeing her face a lot clearer in the bathroom mirror than with the television's blackened screen. 

Slowly, she leans closer, her hospital gown brushing against the wet edge of the sink. Her breath catches in her throat as she studies herself. "It’s me," she whispers. "But… Different."

Her fingers rise to touch her face, to trace the contours of her facial features. [Name] turns her face left, then right, her brow furrowing. Despite the striking resemblance to the game's protagonist, there's something off—something that makes it evident that she's different. Something subtle but undeniable. She's not the protagonist, but she's dangerously close. It's like she's staring at a near-perfect replica with slight imperfections that make it clear she's an outsider.

A thought jolts her back to the present. Actually, she thinks, why did Zayne call me by my real name? If I look this much like the protagonist, shouldn't he have called me—

Her mind goes blank. She tries to recall the heroine's name, the one who should be at the center of this world, but… nothing. She can't remember. Her forehead creases as she struggles to dig the name out of her memory. Yet the name remains out of reach, like a forgotten word on the tip of her tongue. [Name]'s mind is foggy; that part of her knowledge yet to recover from her reincarnation. 

The blankness gnaws at her, but she pushes it aside. She can't focus on that right now. Her mind races to piece together what little information she has. Considering Zayne's reaction, he knew she wasn't her despite how closely she resembled the protagonist. That may be why he called [Name] by her real name instead. Yet this realization only poses more questions. How does he know her name? And, more importantly, who had brought her to the hospital? Zayne's words implied that someone dumped her here, but why?

Her thoughts swirl as she steps out of the bathroom, a little steadier now. [Name] is exhausted, mentally and physically, and all she wants is to make sense of this unfathomable situation. She heads back to bed, ready to collapse. But just as she's about to sit down, she stops dead in her tracks.

A plump tuxedo cat is lounging on the sheets. Its round face stares at her with a manner that borders on playful mischief. Its green eyes gleam with amusement at her shock. The sight is so unexpected that she blinks several times in a row.

"Um," she stammers, gesturing the cat away from the bed. "Can you move?"

The absurdity of talking to a cat doesn't even faze her anymore. After everything she's been through, who will judge her? She's all alone in this strange, new reality.

"Sure," the cat replies. High-pitched and child-like.

Her heart skips a beat. The cat just spoke. 

Like everything's normal, the plump creature hops off the bed and waddles to the counter. [Name] stills. Her mind struggles to catch up with the sheer insanity in front of her. She can only watch as the cat leaps onto the counter and grabs a clear plastic bag hidden in the sink with his mouth. The cat drags the bag out, dropping it unceremoniously with a dull thud. The contents of the bag spill out in front of her—her military uniform, stiff with dried blood around the breast pocket. The sight of the uniform jolts her, the memories of the battlefield flooding back too quickly for comfort.

"Change," the cat orders, his tone matter-of-fact. "We're leaving."

Her mind stalls. She doesn't move. She doesn't breathe. All she can do is stare in utter disbelief. It takes a moment before her body reacts at all. When it finally does, she starts laughing. It's loud and hysterical, almost tipping on sobs. She's dreaming. She has to be. It's the only logical explanation for everything. 

"I've officially lost it," she gasps between fits of maddened laughter, clutching her sides as tears sting her eyes. Suddenly, the room feels uncanny, like she's trapped in some B-rated horror movie. She crawls onto the bed with shaky hands, diving under the sheets and wrapping herself in darkness.

She shuts her eyes tightly, curling into herself and willing everything to disappear. A soft chant escapes her lips. Fragile. Desperate. "Wake up. Wake up. Wake up."

The silence that follows is almost palpable. Heavy. The only sound is the soft patter of paws on the tiled floor, growing louder as they approach. Suddenly, she feels the bed dip next to her head. The cat's weight presses into the pillow. Before she can react, the tuxedo cat tugs at the edge of the blanket, pulling it back just enough to reveal her face.

"Stop playing around, Human," the cat says impatiently. "We gotta scram before they find you."

Her eyes snap open, her heart hammering in her chest. The weight of reality—or whatever this is—crashes down on her like a tidal wave, leaving her breathless. 

"Who?" [Name] croaks out, barely above a whisper. "Who's coming to get me?"

The cat lets out a huff, a sound that might have been a purr if it wasn't laced with annoyance. "Do you really want to find out?" His tone is sarcastic like the answer should be obvious.

[Name] shakes her head slowly, her body unable to process the fear and confusion fast enough. She barely understands what’s happening, but something deep inside warns her that whoever—or whatever—is coming for her won’t be friendly. Sensing her resignation, the cat sits back on his haunches, his green eyes glinting with satisfaction.

"Good," the cat says with a slight nod. "The name's Spots, by the way. Not that you bothered to ask."

Another silence settles between them, until [Name] realizes Spots is waiting for her to get up. She stills for a moment, weighing her options. 

She could stay here, close her eyes, and hope this dream fades into nothingness. Maybe everything is just a product of her exhausted mind. A hallucination caused by trauma and stress. Maybe, if she holds on long enough, she’ll wake up in the real world, back to the life she knows. However, something tells her this doesn’t end with a simple waking.

The next best solution is that she could believe what’s happening. As impossible and terrifying as it seems, she could trust the cat—or at least trust that he knows more than she does. [Name] could just ignore the absurdity of a talking cat and follow him, because the alternative is facing whoever is coming for her alone. Zayne might return, but even that possibility feels unsettling. There’s too much confusion between them, and she doesn’t know if she could handle his reaction if he discovers what she’s beginning to accept: that she doesn’t belong here.

But Spots knows. He knows something about her situation. He knows what’s coming. And right now, that makes him the only source of guidance she has.

A frustrated heave escapes her as she finalizes her decision.

"Fuck it," she mutters.

Against her better judgment, [Name] slides out of bed, her legs no longer shaky as she drags the IV pole with her. She crouches down to pick up her clothes and combat boots. She glances back at Spots. He's swinging his tail lazily, eyes closed, a Cheshire grin permanent on his fluffy face.

Like ripping off a bandage, [Name] grits her teeth as she yanks the IV tube from her arm. The sharp sting makes her wince, but she pushes through the pain. She's quick to regain her composure. Without hesitation, she slips out of her hospital gown and into her military uniform. The fabric is stiff with dried blood, a cruel memento of her death.

But as she dresses, a disturbing thought begins to nag at her. If this is a dream, then… will she wake up back on the battlefield? Back in the grassy outskirts, far from the perishing city, fighting some meaningless war? Did she really want to go back to that? Can she even go back to that?

Her hand instinctively drifts to her heart, to the spot where the bullet pierced her. Her fingers brush over the dried blood. The hole in her uniform is the only proof of her last moments. She sighs and shakes her head, trying to dispel the unwanted thoughts. No. The mere thought of waking up back there—back in the war—terrifies her more than this new reality ever could.

Moving to the sink, she grabs a paper towel and runs it under cold water. Carefully, she dabs at the bloodstain, trying to clean it, but the water only spreads the mess. A frown tugs at her lips as she realizes her mistake. Spots hop down from the bed, noticing her frustration, and he is far too impatient to wait. He strolls over to her and stretches his paws against her leg, nudging her to pick him up.

Taking the hint, [Name] heaves and scoops the plump tuxedo cat into her arms, holding him close to her chest. Conveniently, Spots’ round body covers the bloodstain on her uniform.

"Ready?" Spots ask.

He gestures toward the closed door with his head, his green eyes narrowing to urge her forward.

Reluctantly, she nods and moves toward the exit of her hospital room. Her hand wraps around the cold doorknob, but then she hesitates. Frozen with uncertainty. Afraid of the unknown guaranteed outside this small, contained room. Her fingers still on the knob as she takes a shallow breath.

"Human," Spots purrs. It's a soothing rumble against her heart. "It's okay. Whatever happens, you have me now. You're not alone in this."

[Name] presses her lips into a tight line, reassured by the cat’s comforting words. Something about his presence, about his gentle confidence, calms her. It doesn’t make sense, but she doesn’t care to question it. Right now, she craves stability, no matter how strange the source. 

Without another word, she pulls the door open and peeks her head out. She scans the hallway. The sterile, quiet corridor stretches out in both directions. Unbeknownst to her, that first step beyond the door will set a chain reaction of events into motion, incidents and experiences that will shift the story she once knew, casting her into a role she never imagined playing.

"Here goes nothing," she whispers, stepping into the unknown.

ao3 // masterpost // prev // next

[areyouwell]

Autophobia

Noun: An extreme and irrational fear of being alone. Children or adults with this condition often suffer from severe panic attacks at the thought of being completely alone.

Ch.5.5

Ch.5, Ch.4, Ch.3, Ch.2, Ch.1 <--

Paring: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader

Warnings: Descriptions of a depressive spiral, atypical methods of self-harm, severe mental breakdown

Word Count: 6.8k

A/N: just a little follow-up chapter cuz if i put this all in one it would have been almost 20k words. let's not talk about how my mini-chapters are over 6k words i'm fluent in yappanese let me monologue

Taglist: @badbishsblog @reidsworld @idioticstar @toogaytofunctiondangit @ghostyv @wolviesgirl @over-bi-the-wayside @justice4billiam @holyhumorliteraturelight @cxptainbuck

The last twenty-four hours had been a complete blur. Numbly going through the motions of packing a rucksack, letting your body take you to where you needed to go whilst your mind was stuck in a loop. Eighty years. Eighty years. That’s how long you were kept from the world. That’s how long you’d been fed lies and bullshit. Eighty fucking years. And everything about your life, about who you are, what you’d been through, was in that venomous folder you couldn’t bring yourself to open. Nobody looked at you the same way. Ororo could barely stand to be in your presence, having to leave every time you entered the room. Charles kept looking at you with fucking sympathy and you wanted to knock his bald head clean off his shoulders. Scott kept apologising every time he passed you in the hallway, saying he didn’t know and would have done things differently if he had. Kurt and Hank barely knew what the fuck was going on and you hadn’t seen Jean since before the raid. 

And then there was Logan. Who kept almost tiptoeing around you, asking if you were alright every five fucking seconds, asking if you needed anything or if you wanted him to do something. Honestly, you wanted him to shut the fuck up. You wanted them all to shut the fuck up. You hadn’t processed anything. Hadn’t been allowed to process anything. After you woke up, you’d explained to those in the med-bay what Dr.Kremlin –or whatever his stupid fucking name was– had told you. Charles filled in the gaps, and you were given all of thirty seconds before you were taken upstairs to pack a bag and to meet Logan in the garage. You felt nothing as you swung your rucksack in the backseat of the beaten pickup truck, clambering into the passenger’s side and falling into dead silence. You didn’t even get to say goodbye. Not to Jubilee, not to little Artie. Not even to Kitty. 

At least your trip away made more sense now. Charles wanted you out of the mansion so he could monitor those neurotransmitters from the supposed environmental research facility without you catching wind of anything. Not that you’d know anyway, but maybe he thought it was safer if you didn’t know. What you didn’t know couldn’t hurt you, right?

How ironic did that feel?

You’d been driving for around four hours in complete silence, your head resting against the slightly smudged window, eyes trained on the outside world as it blurred past, a kaleidoscope of greens, browns and greys. Feet perched on your seat, your arms tucked atop your knees as you subconsciously made yourself as small as possible. You didn’t know how long left you had of the drive, and honestly, you didn’t care. He could keep driving forever and it wouldn’t matter to you. 

“Y’alright?” Logan broke the long silence a little tentatively, his voice hushed as if not to disturb you. You found it vaguely amusing. He could shout at the top of his lungs and it wouldn’t disturb you. Not at the moment. You didn’t care. Didn’t even care to respond. It was a stupid fucking question anyway. You’d felt like this only once before. At least, only one time you could remember, if that was even real. And it was the days that followed after Jade’s death. A bus could have hit you and you wouldn’t have been able to find it in yourself to care. 

Logan sighed through his nose. Stealing a glance at your huddled form, staring unblinking out the window, he went to rest his hand on your shoulder but thought better of it as you tensed. Seeing you like this, so utterly devoid of emotion, was almost jarring. He was used to seeing your smile and hearing your laugh. Fuck, even when you lost control and tried to kill him was better than this. At least he could smell the fear on you. But he couldn’t smell anything right now. Just the oil of the engine and dust of the seats. You’d faded. Not just your personality or your mental state, but everything about you had faded. Suppressed. This was nothing like when you lost control. He had an idea of how to bring you back then. But this?

He was way out of his depth. 

“Talk to me,” he urged quietly, and he thought his pleas had fallen on deaf ears until you finally raised your head, turning to look at him blankly.

“About what?” Though your voice was completely flat, he was still glad to hear it. If he could get a response out of you, then perhaps he could bring you back after all. If he could just get you to talk to him…

“Anythin’. How you’re feelin’. What you’re thinkin’. We have a long ways to go yet.”

Your shrug wasn’t exactly what he was looking for. “So? You’ve never had a problem with silence before.” It was all he was going to get out of you before you returned to leaning against the window, your vacant eyes falling to watch the grey skies beyond. Suffocating quiet consumed the truck once again, only the hum of the wheels against the tarmac acted as a symphony for your thoughts. “Ya know what’s fucked?”

Logan almost jumped as you talked again, not expecting you to continue the conversation. Though he couldn’t say he wasn’t glad. “I don’t even know what’s real. If it was all a simulation… I don’t even know if this is real. If you’re real. Or just another sick twisted plot produced to make me believe I’m living a life that I’m not.” It was a thought that had plagued your mind since the raid. If everything in your past had been a lie, how did you know any of this wasn’t just more bullshit spun to widen the web?

Stretching out his hand, this time he didn’t hesitate to pry your own from your folded arms, clasping your knuckles in his palm. “‘M real, sweetheart. This is real. We’re real.” He held his breath, waiting for you to pull away from his touch, but you didn’t. Instead, you raised your head from the window again, offering him a small smile that didn’t even come close to reaching your eyes. He squeezed your hand and found a kernel of hope kindle in his heart as you weakly squeezed back. You’d be okay. He’d make certain of it. It didn’t matter how long it took, or what he’d have to do. He wouldn’t stop until you were okay. “Get some rest, we’ll be on the road for a while.” He pulled your hand up to his face, pressing a light kiss against the front of your wrist where the scars from your past fed into the present, before interlacing his fingers with yours. 

“Logan?” your voice was barely audible, timid in a way that had him fighting the urge to pull over, gather you in his arms and hold you until all of this blew over and you could be safe again.

“Mmm?” was all he could say instead, always ready to listen.

“You–” you paused, finding the words heavy in your throat and stuck on your tongue. You hated feeling like this. Feeling the need to be reassured. Hated coming across as insecure or needy, but just this once, you needed to know. “You’re not gonna leave, right?”

Wordlessly, Logan flattened your hand over the centre of his chest, and you felt his heartbeat beneath your fingers. “Not whilst this is still beating.” 

It was the first emotion you’d felt since waking up, and you couldn’t stop a silent tear slide down your cheek. His devotion to you incarnate, beating beneath your palm. You knew the weight of his words, and felt their meaning in your soul. He wasn’t going to leave you. Not now. Not ever. And it was one of your fears put to rest, knowing that he wasn’t one for lying. 

“Okay.” You responded quietly, your free arm shifting to hug your knees whilst he returned your other, not letting go of your hand. And you found you didn’t want him to. You were afraid earlier that any kind of touch would send you into a spiral, but now he held your hand in yours, you never wanted him to let go. 

“Sleep, firefly. I’ll wake you when we get there.” He hushed, and you nodded, curling up against the humming door, letting the soft vibrations of the truck lull you to sleep. 

True to his word, a slight shake to your shoulder had you jolting awake, eyes flying open, heart racing as you tried your best to gauge your surroundings as quickly as you could. 

“‘S okay,” Logan soothed, and your breathing calmed slightly, whatever dreams had been haunting your unconscious mind faded into nothing with each swipe of his thumb against your shoulder. “We’re here.”

Your eyes scanned the woods beyond the windscreen as he opened his door, the hinges squeaking with age. It was dark out, meaning you’d been on the road for at least eight hours and four of those you’d been asleep for. There was the distinct smell of cigarette smoke clinging to the upholstery of the seats, and you looked down at the source, a burnt-out cigar lay discarded in the central unit, brown paper blackened at the roach. 

The door to your right opened and Logan offered you his hand. It wasn’t that you needed help, and you really fucking hoped he knew that, but you took it simply as an excuse to touch him as you stepped out of the truck, the smell of pine needles hitting you almost instantly as your feet touched soft earth. Wherever he’d taken you, this was certainly off-grid. It was so peaceful here. To the point where you’d surpassed tranquillity and landed right back into unease. It was too peaceful here. 

“Where are we?” You asked as Logan retrieved both rucksacks from the back seat, mindful not to slam the door shut before locking up the truck. Swinging both backs across each of his shoulders, he took your hand again, leading you around the hood of the truck and you finally saw your new halls of residence. 

A sizeable pinewood log cabin. Dark on the inside, but it looked homely enough. A small pair of antlers adorned the front door, piles of firewood stacked neatly beneath little shelters around to the left. You could imagine this as a forest getaway for some rich family who owned several yachts and a sports car. But when Logan produced a thick iron key from his pocket, you blinked. “Is this yours?” 

It was the most emotion he’d heard from you since he’d started driving eight hours ago, your words delicately laced with surprise. He smiled back over his shoulder. “Belonged to an old friend, left it to me when he passed.” He wasn’t ready to launch into that whole story, not yet. You had enough to deal with without him banging on about his own past. Sliding the key into the lock, he turned it anti-clockwise until the iron gave way, giving the door a gentle shove as it swung open. It definitely needed doing up, but he was happy to do that himself. “Home sweet home,” he murmured, vaguely hoping all the electrics still worked as he flicked the light switch.

The cabin was illuminated in a soft orange glow, the faux candles on the walls giving the same ambience as torch flame. The interior was cosier than you could possibly have imagined. A comfy-looking, though slightly faded brown sofa faced a broad hearth with yet another stack of kindling piled next to it, a red and green tartan print blanket draped over the back of the sofa. Logan shrugged off his jacket, hanging it on one of the multiple cast iron coat pegs lining the wall by the door, setting the rucksacks down next to the dark wood dining table. There were no arches or doorways that you could see, an open floor plan joining the small, rural kitchen area to the lounge.

A set of stairs led up to another floor behind the hearth, various antlers and horns of different woodland animals hung on almost every available wall, as well as a TV, which you weren’t expecting. Every cupboard looked identical, even the fridge, learning which one it was due to Logan immediately grabbing out two bottles of larger for you both. 

You smiled as you inhaled, and recognised the distinctive amalgamation of smells. It was him. Pure, unfiltered Logan. 

Crossing to one of the windows, you ran your fingers over the corrugated radiator, noticing the various blankets and pillows set up on the windowsill looking out into the dark green woodland beyond, brown woollen tassels hanging a little too close to the heater, to the point where you tucked them in. Staring out into the forest, you held your arm tightly until Logan’s arm wrapped around your shoulder, tucking you into his side and handing you the second bottle of golden liquid. 

“What’ya think?” He asked, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, and you moved your hand from your arm to hold his wrist against your shoulder. 

“It’s very you.” You offered as much mischief as you could muster, which wasn’t much considering your circumstances, and unfortunately resulted in a confused raise of his brow. 

“That’s a good thing, right?”

You huffed an exhausted chuckle, pressing your head into the space between his shoulder and chest. “Yeah. It’s a good thing.” You breathed, before raising the bottle to your lips and taking a long sip of the icy cold beverage. He held you in silence, offering to be whatever you needed him to be, and for right now, you just needed him close to you. You didn’t know what had happened in the past, and you didn’t know what was going to happen. You couldn’t hide forever, and there would come a day where you would have to face the contents of that folder. But it was enough for now just knowing you weren’t alone, and when that time came, you wouldn’t be alone. 

“There’s a bathroom down the hall or you can use the ensuite upstairs if you wanna freshen up. I can get started on makin’ dinner, should have some preservatives lyin’ around somewhere.” He looked towards the cupboards and you wished you had the energy or emotional bank to tease him properly about his cooking. But you didn’t need to, he looked back at your face of slight mock disbelief, a small, almost bashful smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “I’ve picked up a few things over the last couple months.” 

He didn’t resist as you weakly shoved at him, his smile widening as you showed small signs of your old self before your eyes took on that faraway look again and you retreated back into your protective shell. He knew it was a defence mechanism, he’d seen it in the kids now and then. When things got overwhelming or something went wrong, they’d shut themselves away behind emotional walls, appearing almost hollow before he’d sit them down and pry their emotions out one thread at a time. It nearly always resulted in them sobbing their eyes out, but it was a tried and true method.

One he was planning on using on you when he felt the time was right. You couldn’t shut yourself away forever. He wouldn’t let you, for one. There was no future where your past wins over and you remain this way. Even if it resulted in you drowning the cabin in shadow as you lost control, he didn’t care. In this state, any emotion is a good emotion. 

Setting down your bottle, you clung to his wrist for as long as you could before the increasing distance forced you to let go to retrieve your rucksack. You’d packed essentials, being under a strict time limit. A few spare pairs of clothes, toothbrush and toothpaste, cleanser, moisturiser, a Swiss army knife and as much underwear as you could stuff in the little space that remained at the top. You swing the bag over your shoulder, heading to the stairs before Logan caught your forearm.

“Shout if you need anything. I’ll be right here, ‘kay?” He looked so sincere, so serious it almost broke you. The first time he’d said those words to you, you’d laughed them off, teasing him for being overprotective. You couldn’t find the energy to do the same now, thinking back to how things had changed so much in the last day or so. Well, since you returned, really. You simply nodded in response, attempting to offer him a smile that could ease his worries but clearly failing miserably as his brows pinched in concern.

You had nothing left to give him, your emotional reservoir completely drained. So you simply turned away to head up the stairs, guilt gnawing at your chest. You didn’t want him to worry about you. Fuck, you hated it when he worried about you. Even about mundane things, you’d wave off his concerns. But you knew this was an issue that couldn’t be solved by telling him to ‘take his concerns elsewhere’ because where else would he go? You’d pried him away from his home, from his friends and teammates because he had some twisted obligation towards you. It was selfish of you to ask if he was going to leave. You’d all but trapped him into staying by asking that very question. He was too good of a man to say no, he was going to dump you off and dip. 

You hated it. Hated how much he was giving up for you. You didn’t deserve any of this, and he certainly deserved so much more. A wall erupted in your mind, locking your guilt away with everything else you were supposed to be feeling at the moment, your heart once again emptying of the hurt it had felt, leaving you with blissful numbness.

Cresting the top of the stairs, you were faced with one of the homeliest scenes in the house. A large four-poster bed piled high with various pillows, cushions and blankets stood against the back wall, yet another window seat snuggled against the window straight ahead of you, overlooking the opposite side of the forest. Two hunting rifles, one barrel crossed over the other, hung triumphantly above the headboard, yet another set of antlers positioned between the two guns, larger than the other sets you’d seen yet. You couldn’t imagine the choice of decor was Logan’s idea, at least you vaguely hoped it wasn’t, but it made you wonder who this place originally belonged to. 

Your shoulder went limp as you carelessly dropped your bag to the floor at the foot of the bed, turning to your left to see the door to the bathroom slightly ajar. Crossing over the thick rug on the floor, you pulled the door open, eyes widening in slight surprise. It was a lot bigger than you’d expected for an ensuite. A large bathtub took up most of the space, the shower standing right next to it. You were glad they weren’t one and the same, for some reason you had a vendetta against bathtubs that doubled up as a shower. Maybe the reason lay in that fucking folder, who knows?

Stripping yourself of your sweaty clothes, you cracked the window open, allowing fresh air to circulate around the room before fiddling with the taps and switches of the electric shower. You wondered how often Logan visited, considering how well kept the place was, and how well everything still worked. Steam rolled from the shower into the rest of the bathroom as you stepped beneath the stream, your skin tingling with the heat. It was a pleasant sensation, to feel something other than all-consuming guilt, sinking despondency or nothing at all. You cranked up the dial on the temperature, hissing slightly as the water increased from warm to scalding, staining your skin red raw. 

The feeling was addictive, turning ever so often to get that kick of pain on whichever side of your body wasn’t beneath the volcanic stream, inhaling as the pain drowned every other sensation in your chest and head. There was no room for anything else other than the burning against your flesh. You only wished you could turn the dial further, but it seemed you’d reached the maximum. 

It could have been anywhere between a few minutes and twenty years before Logan came up to check on you, you’d lost complete track of time. There was a soft knock at the door, a vague call of your name you barely heard and partially ignored in favour of getting lost in the heat. At what point you dropped to the floor, knees hugged against your chest, you couldn’t recall, eyes too focused on the pattern of the droplets against the tiled floor to look up as he entered.

“Christ it’s like a sauna in here, can’t fuckin’ see anyth–” He stopped instantly as he saw you huddled on the floor in the same position you’d spent a good portion of the journey in. But that wasn’t what scared him. It was the angry red of your skin that had alarm bells ringing loudly in his head. He rolled up the sleeve of his flannel shirt, preparing to plunge his hand through the cascading fall to switch the power off. But the moment his skin came in contact with the water, he hissed loudly. “Fuck! ‘S fuckin’ scalding sweetheart.” You didn’t move. Didn’t even look as if you’d noticed him. Panic surged in his veins, gritting his teeth tightly as he endured the searing burn of the lava stream to twist the handle for power, taking a breath as the waterfall eased from a deluge to mere droplets. 

Only then did you look up, as if snapped from a daze. He crouched before you as you blinked at him, remembering where you were and what you were doing. However, what you should say in this moment never came to you, only able to stare straight ahead at him, his pinched brows and wide-eyed concern only fuelling the self-loathing in your gut. You hated the way he touched you so gently as if you deserved to be touched like that. You despised the way he draped a large, fluffy towel around your shoulders as if you’d done anything to warrant such comforts. 

And you couldn’t stand the way he hooked his arms beneath your knees and carried you from the bathroom, all without a single word. And you loathed how your body reacted, leaning into his touches like you had any right to comfort. You’d all but dragged him away from the life he’d built for himself. Dragged him away from people like Marie and Bobby. Fuck, you couldn’t even think about them right now. You’d stolen one of Marie’s best friends from her, how could you ever go back there now?

Would you ever go back there now? You hadn’t even thought about it. Most likely not. Why would they let you? You’d killed a team member, been sent away for two years, lost control of your mutation, tried to kill not only another team member but the man you love, and have been lying to everyone you’d ever met because the life you thought you’d lived never fucking existed and it turns out you were over eighty fucking years old. Scott was right. 

He should have killed you years ago.

“Lemme grab some aloe gel…” you’d been so lost in your head you hadn’t even noticed Logan removing the towel from your shoulders to inspect the raging raw burns on your back and arms. You barked a harsh, joyless laugh.

“Why? What does it matter?” you asked savagely, and Logan turned from where he stood near the bathroom doorway, slowly looking at you in suspicious bewilderment. “I mean, I can just heal, so who cares? I’ll just disappear into shadow and come back good as new, so don’t bother.” You shrugged, feeling burning hatred bubble in your gut. “That is, if I come back out at all, of course. Because that threat still hangs over my head every fucking day.” The shadows writhed with your growing fury, only furthering your tirade of self-deprecation. “And hey, would ya look at that, my mutation only fucking works when I’m insanely pissed off. And I lose control completely when I’m terrified, my only fucking instinct being to survive. How fucked up is that?” You continued, laughing bitterly as you stood from the bed. “Probably some result of whatever the hell is recorded in that file. Eighty years, by the way. Eighty fucking years. Here I was, the fucking asshole who thought she was thirty-two. Imagine that?” Your fingers found your scalp, scratching desperately at the roots of your hair as if to claw your way into your own mind and pry out your memories. “And you just seem to be fucking fine with everything!”

Logan didn’t so much as flinch as you directed your inferno of rage toward him. Sure, his heart shattered with your every word, but not because they hurt him.

“I’ve lied to you. For the past couple of months, I’ve straight-up been lying to your face. About everything! I’ve dragged you away from your friends, from your family, all because I manipulated you into thinking you owed me fucking anything. All those bullshit sob stories are lies. None of them even happened. And ya know what? I can’t even say if that’s true or not because I don’t fucking know.” You gestured to your surroundings wildly, laughing manically as the shadows whipped out from the walls like vines. You always knew the day would come when you completely lost your mind. 

“I killed the woman I loved because I couldn’t control myself. I tried my fucking damnest to kill you too, because it seems I just fucking bleed toxicity. And I don’t even know how twisted that makes you for still being here. For still caring. It’s fucking pathetic. I tried to fucking kill you, and all I can see is your ridiculous, unwavering sense of devotion. Do you know how fucked up that makes you? How little must your self-worth be that you’re still here? That is if this isn’t just another simulation created to test my mental durability because who fucking knows at this point? I sure as shit don’t. And ya know what’s worse? No matter what happens, I still have to read that fucking folder. Because we sure as hell can’t hide out here forever, and the only way I can even begin to understand anything is the one thing I can’t bring myself to do.

“So instead, instead I’ll just make everyone suffer along with me. Strength in numbers, right? I’ll just force you to isolate yourself away instead of getting the fuck on with it and reading that fucking file. Nah, I’d rather torture the people I care about, because that’s just what happens. That’s what always fucking happens. And I can’t seem to stop,” your hands returned to your hair as you slowed down, squeezing the sides of your head as if to silence your mind. “It never seems to stop. It’s all just so fucking loud. I just want it to stop… I just want everything to stop…” You sank to the floor, drawing your knees up to your chest, your back pressed against the end of the bed. “I’m so tired, Logan. I’m so fucking tired.” Your voice faded to a whisper as you screwed your eyes shut, your mind still a roaring tornado of anguish and heartbreak. You didn’t want to hurt him. Fuck, that was the last thing you wanted to do, but you did it in a desperate bid to keep him safe. Maybe, if you sank enough knives into his chest, he’d walk away. The shadows receded into their natural places as you withdrew back behind the walls inside your head. 

Logan thought he’d seen vulnerability before, both in you and in others. But the way you looked now, naked, trembling on the floor, your head tucked behind your knees, hands clawing at your own hair… 

Nothing could have prepared him for that. 

He said nothing, silently crossing the floor to kneel next to you. Softly, he removed your nails from your hair, setting your arms limp by your side as he cupped either side of your jaw, raising your head to look at him. Tears flowed freely from your eyes as you desperately searched his face. What for, he didn’t know, but he let you look. He let you hunt in the corners of his brows, digging around the slope of his nose, finally returning to his eyes. What you found, or rather didn’t find, pulled a sob from your chest, and he tucked your face beneath his chin. Wrapping his arms around your naked body, he just held you as stuttered sob after stuttered sob wracked your body.

Grief was a funny old thing. Always lurking around the corner, rearing its bittersweet head when you least expected it. You cried. You cried for Jade. You cried for Rowan. You cried for the other members of NLMO. You cried for Kitty, and her guilt for hating you. You cried for Ororo, having been burdened with the knowledge not even you wanted to know about yourself. 

You cried for Logan. Holy shit did you cry for Logan. You didn’t want this for him. Only the previous morning was he talking about being a normal couple and doing ‘normal couple things’, and now he was stuck in a relationship with a woman who didn’t even know who she was. Who didn’t know what parts of her were real and what parts were fabricated? Your voice scratched your throat raw, every breath like rusty nails in your lungs as you sobbed harder than you ever remember in your life, both real and fake. 

And he held you through all of it, gently whispering sweet nothings against your damp, tangled hair, soothing soft caresses against your bare skin with his calloused hands, fingertips grazing every scar he could reach, from the healed burn on your calf to the serrated needle in your neck. His hatred for the Kreva’s only grew with each newly discovered scar on your body, even as your full-bodied cries quietened to mere hiccups of despair. 

Tentatively he drew your head away from his damp neck, using his thumb to wipe away the salty lines carved down one side of your face, and using his little finger for the other. “C’mon firefly, let’s get you changed. Gotta do somethin’ ‘bout these burns too…” 

You shook your head with teary incredulity. “I don’t understand… why are you still doing this? Why do you still care? After everything I've just said. After everything I’ve done… why?”

“Because I love you.”

Your mind fell completely silent as you stared up at him in utter, petrified shock. “What…?” you managed to whisper, to his slight knowing smile.

“I love you.”

You shook your head again, though this time you looked horrified. “You’re insane.”

Logan nodded as if he already knew this. Of course, he was insane. But not simply because he loved you. He was insane because if anything happened to you, nothing and nowhere would be safe from him. He would walk through hell itself to get you back, and make as many deals with as many devils as he needed to. What was insane was the lengths he would go through to protect you. 

“Who am I, Logan? You read the folder, you’ve seen everything… how can you love what’s in there? Who am I?” You almost pleaded with him, and he caught the sides of your neck in his palms. 

“‘M gonna need you to listen real close, okay? That folder doesn’t define you. You are who you are in spite of what’s in that folder. I didn’t read all of it… I– I don’t know if I can. But from the reports I did see, you’re still you. You were almost killed because you stepped between your brother and four bullets to the chest, and I’ll be fuckin’ damned if I said you wouldn’t do that with who you are now. What you endured is fuckin’ harrowing, I’ll be honest. There were very few happy moments from what I saw, and fuck, if you don’t you deserve to be happy, none of the rest of us do.

“I don’t know if I’d read that entire folder if you gave the rest of my life, which I’m thinkin’ is a real long time. But if that’s how long it takes for you to read it, I’ll gladly spend the rest of my days with you. I don’t give a shit where we are. At the school, in this cabin, hell, we could be squatting under a bridge for all I care. I’m tired of being too damn scared of saying I love you. Because I fuckin’ do. And you’re crazy if you think any of this changes a goddamn thing about how I feel.”

It was your turn to be rendered completely speechless. Somehow, in one fell swoop, he’d put the fears that hovered around your head concerning him to rest. The terror that he was going to leave you, the fear that you weren’t good enough, that you didn’t deserve him melted away as you peered into his hazel eyes shining with such conviction you wanted to sob into his arms all over again. 

“You love me?” you asked a little diffidently, and Logan rolled his eyes with a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth. 

“It wasn’t obvious? I love you. And before you ask; yes. This is real.” you blew out a breath as he answered your question before you’d even had a chance. How did he know you so well? His hands moved from either side of your neck to your waist, helping you back onto your feet. You continued staring at him in awestruck adoration, still unable to quite believe what he’d said. He loved you. You don’t know why it came as such a shock, he’d shown you almost every day since you danced in the kitchen. Probably before that, in the way, he’d helped redesign your room. In the care he’d taken to learn about your mutation and adapt your new living situation accordingly before he even met you. Before he even believed you existed.

You followed almost blindly as he led you back into the bathroom, opening the cabinet behind the mirror and retrieving what he went to get before you exploded in front of him. Turning you around, he swiped your hair to one side, and you winced slightly at the cooling balm touching your shoulders, his hands gently kneading at the stiff muscles. The aloe took almost instant effect, soothing the angry burns left behind by your shower.

He worked in comfortable silence, snapping the lid back of the bottle and placing it back on the shelf when he was done. His fingertips grazed up and down your slickened arm, before placing both hands back on your shoulders and guiding you back out the bathroom to sit atop the bed. 

“I love you, too.”

Logan froze. Though it seemingly came out of nowhere, you’d said it like you’d wanted to say it for a long, long time. In the moment, he didn’t think he’d cared all that much that you hadn’t said it back to him, but hearing you say those words now, those words he’d been yearning to hear since he first set eyes on you and you teased him for something or other filled him with a warm sense of belonging. 

You smiled and his heart stopped as your eyes shone along with it. How did he get so damn lucky?

Bending at the waist, he tilted your head up with a finger beneath your chin, his other hand braced against your cheek as he moulded his lips against your own, finding an instant, slow rhythm. And if he hadn’t known you were utterly exhausted, he’d have you there and then, gasping and whimpering on his cock. But he could tell by the way you kissed him back, you were shattered. Not that he was in any rush. From the looks of things, it seemed like the two of you would be hiding away for some time.

Pulling away a fraction, Logan reached for the clothes he’d pulled out for you earlier from his closet before he interrupted your shower. It wasn’t anything spectacular, just a pair of incredibly loose sweatpants and a faded t-shirt of his. He slipped the shirt over your head, biting back a smile as it all but hung off your shoulders, and you shot him a flat look. 

“I have my own clothes, ya know?” You pretended you were reluctant, though showed no signs of hesitation when he opened the waistband of the sweatpants for you to step into, pulling the drawstring tight around your waist. 

“I know.” Was all he responded, and you snorted a small laugh as he stepped back, almost to admire his work. You were positively drowning in fabric, the short sleeves of the t-shirt reaching your elbows, sweats hanging low off your hips. But it was comfy and smelt like him, so honestly it didn’t matter to you. “C’mon, I made soup.” He outstretched his hand toward you for you to take, which you did with a suspicious raise of your brow. 

“You had fresh ingredients for soup?” You asked, following behind him as he led you back down the stairs, the crackling of the lit hearth filling you with a sense of cosy tranquillity you never expected to feel again, not after everything that had happened.

“A’ight so I found a couple cans of soup and heated 'em up, same difference.” As if being parted from you robbed him of breath, Logan brought you back into his arms, feeling his chest loosen when you didn’t resist the way he walked you over to the gas stove.

“I’m going to ignore that,” you instinctively took the wooden spoon from the rack of utensils to the right of the backsplash, stirring the bubbling pot and grimacing slightly as you felt the bottom of the pan. Definitely burnt. Though you couldn’t exactly blame that on him. He’d been a little preoccupied with making sure you didn’t plunge the cabin into suffocating shadow. “A gas stove in a wooden cabin is a bold choice.” You mentioned absently, turning the dial for the gas down and watching as the blue flame lessened beneath the iron pan. Logan set his chin atop your head, arms still circling your waist.

“Not my decision. Previous guy’s choice.” he offered as a means of explanation, and you shrugged in acceptance. Much like you thought with most of the decor in the cabin, whilst there were a few things you’d noticed that you were sure were his, the rest you couldn’t see being his interior design choices. Not that Logan had much interior design, even his room at the mansion was pretty barren. 

Reaching above you, Logan pulled open one of the cupboards, keeping one of his arms still wrapped around your middle, and started rifling through the contents. There was a slight clatter of boxes before he pulled one of them out, setting it down on the counter. You eyed it curiously, a warm smile tugging at your lips as you read the italic cursive on the front of the box. 

Honey and Chamomile tea. You dropped your head back against his chest, heart almost exploding when he left briefly to retrieve two mugs, one of them you knew like the back of his hand. 

When the fuck had he found the time to grab your favourite mug? He stood next to you, gas clicking rhythmically as he went to light a second burner, the huff of ignition breaking you from your stare of wonder and watching as he placed the black kettle atop the flame. It was rudimentary, old school but you kind of liked it. It suited him. 

Logan’s heart and eyes softened as he looked down at the top of your head resting against his bicep, not bothering to fight the urge to press a kiss to your hair. 

“I love you.” You whispered, and the words struck him like a bolt of lightning, still completely unused to both saying and hearing them. He let the warmth in his chest wash over him, let the encompassing adoration flood his veins and fill his heart. He couldn’t be by your side in the past, couldn’t save you from the horrors you’d endured. But he was going to make damn sure he was there for your future, whether you’d stayed in the cabin or managed to return to the mansion, he’d ensure he was by your side for all of it. 

Never again would you face these things alone. 

“I love you, too.”

[ryomensgf]

𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗧𝗛 𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗠𝗦 !

RYOMEN SUKUNA X READER !!

CHAPTER : TWO

ᯓsypnosis. in a secluded shrine deep within the forest, you have spent all your life untouched by the outside world, a living paradox—blessed with blood that heals yet cursed with a presence that brings death. Your days are quiet, isolation absolute, until one stormy night when a presence unlike any other darkens her doorstep.

.𖥔 ݁ tags+warn. ryomen sukuna x fem reader, true form ryomen sukuna, concubine!reader, mentions of blood, violence and misogyny, heavy language, reader is powerful, eventual smut, possessive!sukuna, sukuna loves control, toxic jealousy, degradation, angst/fluff, light choking, size difference, time period heian era, goddess!demon, soft reader, more tags will be added later lmao. 2k

ch. 1

ch. 2

Kill. Kill. Kill.

It echoes in every hushed whisper, woven into the murmur of their words. They scrutinize, deliberate, weigh your worth against the fleeting measure of existence. 

Do you belong in this world? 

Are you a being worthy of humanity, or merely a mistake to be erased?

The chant is relentless. These words coil around you like an unseen noose, tightening with every beat of silence. The air thickens, suffocating in its familiarity. This judgment, this suffocating dread—it's all you've ever known.

You sit at the center of it all, draped in an immaculate white gown. It spills around you like untouched snow, your long hair cascading behind you, adorned with the delicate pattern of flowers. A stark contrast to the monks seated around you.

Or rather, the bodies of the monks.

Their robes, once grey, now drip with a deeper shade of crimson. Blood soaks their garments, clings to their skin, spills onto the tatami mats beneath them. Their faces are frozen in twisted expressions—terror, agony, and the fleeting resignation of death.

The sight of it consumes your vision. The smell of iron fills your nose. The only sound is the soft drip of blood, a rhythm as steady as your breath—or lack thereof.

You are the only one left breathing.

You blink.

Your gaze meets the man in front of you. The air around him feels poisoned, thick with the stench of decay. He reeks of death, not of one or two, but of thousands.

And yet, what he wants from you remains unknown.

You open your lips to speak, but the words falter, trapped beneath the tremor of your confusion. Even so, you force them forth. "What is it you seek?"

Is it your blood he seeks—the sacred ichor that flows through you, whispered to hold divinity's essence? Or does he seek to end you, to erase from this world the death that has dared to crawl upon its soil, embodied in your existence?

His expression remains unreadable as silence stretches between you, taut and fragile. Then, without warning, he moves. His hand clasps your wrist in a firm, almost possessive grip, and your eyes widen at his audacity.

Before you can protest, he pulls, forcing you to stumble forward. Instinctively, you clutch at your wrist—and his hand—trying to make sense of the man before you.

So, it is blood?

His nail grazes your skin, a deliberate touch that sends a ripple of unease through you. Slowly, it trails downward, pressing just enough to draw crimson beads to the surface. The sight is unnervingly familiar, yet no less disquieting.

He leans closer, the movement slow, predatory. His tongue flicks out, catching the droplets as they run along your arm. You feel the warmth of it against your skin, and your brows draw together in discomfort.

Then his nail digs deeper, his force so great it nearly bends your hand. The sharp pain isn't new to you, but the weight behind it—his intent—makes you part your lips in a stifled gasp.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low.

"This is the blood humans so desperately cling to," he murmurs, his eyes lifting to lock with yours. A flicker of amusement, or perhaps disdain, dances in his gaze. "Do you envy them? Those who revel in their fleeting comforts, while you sit here—a pitiful fool—waiting for something that will never come?"His gaze doesn't waver, and neither does the grip on your wrist.

You swallow. "Envy is beyond my understanding. This is my purpose, my destiny."

He chuckles, low and sharp, the sound rippling through the tense air. "Purpose? Destiny?" he echoes mockingly, his grip on your wrist tightening just enough to make you aware of his strength. "Such noble words for a life spent bleeding for others. Does clinging to that illusion ease the ache of your insignificance?"

His eyes narrow slightly, studying you as though your answer might amuse him further. You feel the sting of his nail press deeper, another droplet of blood tracing down your arm.

"And yet," he continues, leaning closer until his breath brushes against your skin, "perhaps it isn't insignificance you fear. It's the weight of the power you're too afraid to claim."

You flinch inwardly but force your expression to remain steady. "If you've come here to mock me, you've wasted your time," you say coldly. "You speak of power as if it belongs to someone like you—a scavenger feeding on others to sustain yourself. I'll die before I let someone like you define my worth."

His smirk deepens, a shadow of something dark and predatory crossing his features. "Oh, you'll die, goddess of death."

Finally, he releases his grip, stepping back, though the air between you remains thick with unspoken menace. "But that is after you've outlived your usefulness to me."

You sit back, hands folded neatly in your lap, your chin held high. You may not know all the ways of outsiders, but you can sense their intentions.

"If it's my blood you desire, I suggest you seek the monk." You turn your head away from him.

A flicker of something almost imperceptible crosses your mind—does this fool not realize that by standing so close to you, he is already withering? Your presence, a slow poison, is already beginning to close in on his fragile existence. And yet, he lingers. Not out of fear, but rather amusement.

"Hm, blood such as yours holds no value to me," he continues, with a sigh. "It is only humans who cling to that wretched life, living it like parasites—weak, fragile, insignificant."

He begins to circle you, his footsteps slow and deliberate, as though measuring you with each stride.

"What I seek though, is your power." He pauses, his gaze lingering on your hands. "It's insulting to see you waste such a gift on those feeble, pathetic humans who sees no real worth in you."

You meet his gaze. "And you do?"

Sukuna's smirk widens, dark and malicious, as he steps closer. "Of course," he breathes, his words dripping with something darker, deeper. "You think you control this power, but you're nothing more than a fool clinging to a flame that will burn you alive."

He stops circling as he watches you. "You don't know what it means to truly wield power. But I'll show you. I'll tear you apart, piece by piece, until nothing is left but your broken, useless shell. The blood you protect so dearly will be nothing but a stain at my feet."

His gaze darkens. "The moment you stop being useful to me, I'll make you regret the day you ever drew breath. The world will burn, and so will you, right alongside it."

A chill runs down your spine at the dark direction his words have taken. He's not here for your blood, not to erase you from this world—he's here to test you. It's no longer a mere threat; it's a twisted promise, one that chills you to the core.

But if he understands the true essence of your power, why does he linger so close? He knows well enough that if you placed even a finger on him, he would wither away, consumed by the very force of your existence. So why does he risk it?

Your eyes dart when the sickening sound of blood splattering filling your ears—too far, too close.

Your servant. 

The one who had been there, standing, waiting for you. Now she chokes, grasping at her throat in desperate, futile attempts to breathe. Her eyes lock onto yours with a desperate plea for help, but it is a plea you can't answer. She reaches out to you, but then she crumples, falling to the ground, her body convulsing, the light in her eyes dimming. Death claims her, swift and unforgiving.

This is something you've never seen before. Something your sheltered world had kept from you—until now.

You still for a moment, before your gaze shifts back to the man before you. But before you can utter a single word, the world vanishes into darkness. Pitch black.

Pitch black.

Wait.

Pitch darkness. 

It's happened before, hasn't it? 

If your entire life had been defined by silence and peace, this was the stark opposite. The dull ache in your body was what finally forced your eyes open. Above you stretched a dark, cracked ceiling. Dust swirled in the dim light spilling faintly from some unseen crack in the outside world.

You coughed, the sound rasping in your throat as you shifted to sit up. The movement brought with it a metallic clink.

Chains.

Your gaze dropped, heart sinking as you registered the source. A single chain binding your wrist to the wall behind you. Only then did the rest of the scene come into focus. You were in a dim, underground chamber, the air thick with dampness and the scent of earth. 

Your gown, once pristine, was smeared with dirt, dust, and the faint stain of blood.

Where were you? Why were you here?

Your back ached from the cold, unyielding ground where you'd clearly been left for hours. Just as unease began clawing its way to panic, the sound of approaching footsteps interrupted your thoughts.

The door creaked open, its protest loud and jarring in the silence.

"Call for Uraume," a deep voice commanded.

Your gaze snapped toward the speaker—a man dressed in a sleek black kimono. He stood tall and composed, his broad frame at odds with the softness of his youthful face. Handsome, even.

For a moment, you forgot the weight of the chain on your wrist. In your quiet, cloistered life, you'd only ever known the company of aging monks. Seeing someone so young and striking was almost disorienting.

The man steps into the room. His sharp eyes scan you briefly before they settle, studying your chained form with a mix of curiosity and indifference.

“Awake, are we?” he murmurs, his voice smooth but laced with authority. He crouches slightly to your level, the hem of his black kimono brushing the dusty ground.

You can feel your throat tighten as you try to speak, but no words come out. His gaze flickers over the bloodstains on your gown, the disheveled state you’re in. Something in his expression shifts—a faint smirk, barely noticeable, like he knows something you don’t.

“I wouldn’t bother struggling,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “The chains aren’t coming off unless I say so.”

“W-who are you?” you finally manage, your voice hoarse, either from lack of use or fear.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he rises to his feet, his movements deliberate, and turns toward the still-open door. “Wouldn’t bother to ask. You won’t see me again after this.”

Strange.

His words linger, unsettling, as he steps into the hallway and disappears. Minutes stretch by, heavy and oppressive, before another figure emerges.

“Uraume.”

The name settles in your mind like a jagged shard, bringing memories rushing back. You recognize them now—the monk from that day. Everything snaps into place like a cruel puzzle. 

You remember.

The man. The beast. The monster. Whatever it was—it took you!

“Let it begin,” Uraume says, their voice calm.

The man from before nods and walks away without another glance. Uraume steps fully into the room, their gaze flickering over you like a cold breeze. There’s no recognition, no warmth, only detachment. They approach the chains.

“Why am I here?” you ask, your voice trembling despite your effort to keep it steady.

No response.

You ask again, louder this time. The silence remains unbroken.

Uraume works at the chains, and with a sharp pull, they yank them free from the wall. The force drags you forward, making you stumble, your knees scraping against the hard ground.

“You will see,” is all they say, their tone void of emotion.

You frown at that. What you’ve pieced together so far is grim: you’re being kept captive, though the reasons remain unclear. Still, you’ve read enough scriptures to know one thing—those taken must fight for their freedom.

As Uraume drags you forward, your mind races, searching for an opportunity. Slowly, you raise your free hand, reaching toward them. But before you can make contact, the chain around your wrist jerks violently, pulling you off balance.

“Do not try something you’ll regret,” Uraume warns. They don’t even look back, as if they’d anticipated your defiance before you’d even thought of it.

You’re startled, though a small part of you—traitorous, perhaps—feels a flicker of admiration. You suppress it quickly. This isn’t the time to be impressed.

Perhaps you should’ve known this day would come. A day when those far stronger than you would come for you, dragging you away like prey.

Everyone seeks you—whether for your blood, your lineage, or, as the beast had claimed, your power. And once again, you’re reminded of your place. A doll to be dragged around, fragile and obedient.

As you’re dragged into the hallway, your surroundings steal your attention. The space is nothing like the small, cloistered world you’ve always known. The corridors stretch endlessly, their walls adorned with intricate red and gold patterns, gleaming faintly in the evening light. Servants move quietly through the halls, bowing slightly as Uraume passes. Their curious glances flicker toward you, though none linger long.

Despite your situation, you can’t help but marvel. Perhaps being “captive” isn’t so bad. After all, this is a glimpse into a world you were never allowed to see—an ornate, vibrant life beyond your previous understanding.

You notice the warm hues of the setting sun spilling through the open shoji doors, painting the halls in shades of amber and gold. Yet the stillness of the place feels unsettling. It’s too quiet, as if the air itself is waiting for something to happen.

When Uraume finally stops in front of two massive doors, you halt beside them. The doors loom high, carved with intricate designs you don’t have the time to study.

Uraume turns to you, their gaze colder than ever. “You’d better fight if you want to live.”

Before you can fully process their words, the doors are pushed open, creaking loudly.

“Hm-” You barely have time to react as you’re dragged forward.

Your breath catches in your throat. The room beyond is immense—far larger than anything you’ve ever seen. The walls seem to stretch forever, adorned with banners and torches casting flickering light. At the very back, a throne dominates the space.

And seated there, in all his terrifying glory, is a man you recognize instantly.

Him.

The monster.

He lounges lazily, legs sprawled out, his elbow propped up on the throne’s armrest. His chin rests against his fist, his crimson eyes watching you with a cruel amusement.

The room is filled with people—advisors, nobles, perhaps governors from their ornate attire. Their eyes are all on you.

Curiosity. Disgust. Contempt. Their stares pierce you in a hundred different ways, stripping away whatever dignity you have left.

You suddenly feel small, as though the room itself is pressing down on you. When was the last time you were observed like this? The memory lingers just out of reach, scratching at the edges of your mind, refusing to be fully acknowledged.

Uraume’s grip on the chains tightens, their movements deliberate and unyielding as they lead you to the center of the room. Every step feels heavier than the last, the weight of countless stares bearing down on you. When they finally stop, Uraume releases the grip on the chains and bows low before stepping aside with graceful precision.

A hush falls over the room.

Ah, so this is what it’s about. 

You’re here to be discussed—again. Your destiny, your worth, your purpose. It’s becoming increasingly, infuriatingly predictable.

You’ve given humans everything they’ve asked for, time and time again. Yet, a single lingering doubt is enough to pull you right back to where you started. Captive. Judged.

The man on the throne moves, a subtle nod directed at one of the others in the room. Another figure is dragged forward.

Your gaze shifts to him, and your breath catches momentarily. He’s enormous, towering over you by at least four heads, his frame broad and imposing. Chains bind him as well, rattling with each forced step.

His expression is carved from stone, a stoic mask marred by a jagged scar running down one side of his face. His head is shaven, his features set in a permanent scowl.

You can’t help but wonder: is he in the same predicament as you? Another pawn in whatever game these people are playing? Will he, too, be subjected to their scrutiny and judgment? What’s his story?

The room remains deathly silent until his voice cuts through, low and dripping with malice.

“Very well,” The man on the throne drawls, leaning forward on the throne, his crimson eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "Two pitiful humans dragged before me. One trembling like a frightened deer, the other begging to be unleashed."

His gaze slides over you first, piercing and unrelenting, before shifting to the massive man at your side. He chuckles, the sound dark and predatory, as though already savoring something.

“You’ve both been granted a rare privilege,” he continues, his voice laced with mockery. “To entertain me.”

You tilt your head slightly, confusion flickering in your gaze. Entertainment? You’ve read plenty about it in the scripts—stories of extravagant performances, comedies, and dramas, but it always served one simple purpose: to entertain. However this must be something else entirely. You wonder, for a fleeting moment, if he wants you two to dance, to put on some absurd display of skill. But then again, each creature has its own twisted idea of entertainment.

“Fight.” he says, drawing out the word like a blade, “Let’s see which of you is worthy of taking another breath.”

Your eyes widen, the realization sinking in with a sharp, icy clarity. Not what you expected. No, this isn’t the playful kind of entertainment you imagined—it’s cruel, twisted, and merciless. Fighting to the death. 

You’re suddenly reminded of the tales you’ve read about kings who took sick pleasure in the suffering of others. One story, in particular, about a poor man who had to fight for his life against thousands of hunters, simply because the king found it amusing.

The king was a monster, a cruel, twisted thing. Just like the one standing before you now.

With a flick of his hand, the chains binding you and the other man clatter to the ground. 

“And don’t disappoint me. I despise boredom.”

The man beside you shifts, his muscles tensing as he sizes you up. His scarred face remains emotionless, but the way his fists clench tells you he’s already made his decision.

You’re not sure if you can fight. But you’re even less sure if you can survive not fighting.

You take a cautious step back, your heart pounding in your chest. Fight? You’ve never fought before. The very idea feels foreign, alien. 

Sure, there have been times when desperate humans have broken into your sanctuary, pleading with you to save their loved ones, but those were not battles. Those were cries for help.

There were moments when they went so far as to threaten you with knives, brandishing their desperation like a weapon, but even then, you never fought back. You simply stood, calm and still, offering your blood like a saint. 

The monks however had been more concerned with the outside world after that—tightening their watch over your sanctuary, preventing any more “incidents” from disturbing your peace.

Will you be able to fight? To hurt another person? You’ve never known what that feels like. And yet, the cruel twist of fate forces you into a corner, where your survival may depend on it.

Then It all happens in the blink of an eye.

You don’t have time to react, don’t have time to brace yourself, before a heavy punch crashes into your face. The force sends you reeling, your body hitting the ground with a raw scream, pain exploding through your skull like fire. Blood trickles down your face, warm and thick, pooling in your mouth as you stare at it in shock.

Pain. It’s foreign to you—something you’ve only heard about in stories, never truly experienced. But now, it crawls through you like a stinging parasite, relentless and suffocating, urging you to beg for it to stop.

It hurts.

Before you can even process the agony, your hair is wrenched from behind. The large man’s grip tightens painfully, dragging your head up to meet his wicked grin. His eyes are full of sadistic amusement, enjoying your suffering.

He raises his fist again.

You tremble, every muscle in your body tightening in fear. You know what’s coming. You can feel it, the pain that will follow. You shake your head, a desperate plea for mercy, though you know it will fall on deaf ears.

And then it hits you again.

The unbearable pain. It smashes into your jaw with brutal force, and you hear—no, you feel—the sickening crack reverberate through your skull. Your mind rings with a sharp, endless noise, a disorienting blur of agony and confusion. 

It’s something you’ve never known before, a pain so intense it threatens to tear you apart, to swallow you whole. It makes you want to shrink away, to disappear, to escape from the nightmare you’ve suddenly found yourself in.

Tears well up in your eyes, the sting of them barely noticeable beneath the overwhelming ache.

The punches don’t stop. They rain down on you, merciless and unrelenting. Again and again, until you lose count. You don’t even remember the last punch that landed, each one a blur of violence and suffering. Everything around you begins to slow, the world hazy and distant, as if you’re watching it from far away.

That unbearable pain.

You can barely breathe. The air is thick, suffocating. Your vision blurs, and for a moment, you can’t process anything at all.

Are you going to die?

Is this it? Is the embodiment of death finally going to vanish from existence? Would it be better to disappear now? Would it be a release from this torment? 

You don't notice when the blows cease. All you are left with is the searing, relentless pain that wraps around you like an unshakable fog. Tears, unbidden, stream down your face, yet you can't even feel them. 

The large man steps away, his knuckles bruised and stained with crimson, but the sight of him is nothing compared to the ruin he has wrought. Blood stains the floor beneath you, pooling around your body. Your face is a mask of crimson, soaked in the evidence of your torment, and your hair—your once-pristine hair—drips with it, as though the very blood has bled from your scalp itself.

A long, drawn-out sigh escapes from above you. The man on the throne, his voice cold and full of disdain.

“Pathetic,” he murmurs, his words heavy in the stillness. His gaze lingers on you, not with pity, but with something far worse—disgust, as though you are nothing more than an object meant for his amusement.

"Is this the so-called goddess of death?" Sukuna sneers, his voice thick with mockery. "I expected a far more impressive spectacle. How boring."

You cough, the taste of blood bitter in your throat, and with a great effort, you manage to raise yourself slightly, bracing on your elbows. Every movement feels like a battle against your own body, trembling, fragile. It’s a miracle you’ve survived this long. But then again, your blood... it’s different. 

Perhaps that’s the only reason you're still breathing.

Despite the fog in your mind, you lift your gaze. Through the strands of matted hair clinging to your face, you meet Sukuna’s eyes. Once amusement, now lies a cruel sick pleasure. His gaze is empty, calculating, as though you’re already a thing of no importance, just another broken plaything to be discarded once your purpose has been served.

Your blood runs cold at the thought. Once you exceed your usefulness, you are nothing.

Slowly, you turn your head, though the motion sends a sharp wave of pain through you. Your vision blurs, but you manage to focus on the man who stands tall, his posture proud as if he’s achieved something monumental. The crowd, once murmuring in anticipation, now falls into hushed whispers, their disappointed eyes trained on you. 

They, too, share Sukuna’s sentiment. They, too, are bored.

"Looks like the little bitch still got a fight in her." The large man sneers, cracking his knuckles as he steps forward, ready to strike again. His fists are tight, his stance filled with anticipation. You groan, your body aching as you sit up. There’s no way out of this. No escape.

You close your eyes, drawing a ragged breath, trying to steady yourself in the face of the pain, the terror.

But when you open them again, you’re no longer on the ground.

You’re standing, at the center of the room. Your hands, trembling, are covered in blood—dark, fresh, crimson streaks marring your skin. And the man who had been about to strike you? He lies motionless on the floor, his body mutilated beyond recognition. His organs, torn from his body, spill onto the ground, a gruesome sight of death.

What...just happened?

A shaky gasp escapes you, your mind unable to process what your eyes are seeing. You take a step back, your legs unsteady beneath you.

Your gaze snaps to the man sitting on the throne. A wicked grin twists across his face, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction, as if whatever you’ve just done—or whatever has just happened—was exactly what he wanted. 

But... you remember none of it. You were just on the floor, bleeding, and now... now, you stand here, covered in blood, with a body before you that was once alive.

Gasps echo from the crowd, their faces filled with horror and disbelief. The murmurs spread like a wave, rippling through the room. You can sense their shock, their fear, but you still have no idea what they’ve seen. What they’ve witnessed.

"There you are," Sukuna muses, his voice dripping with dark amusement as his eyes glint with cruel satisfaction. "Right there, my little pawn."

A twisted laugh spills from his lips, cruel and cold, reverberating through the room. His gaze is sharp, predatory, as if he’s savoring every moment of your confusion and the carnage you’ve just unleashed. 

This—this moment of unholy power—is exactly what he had hoped for.

tag list : @moonchhu @paradisestarfishh if you want to be tagged, make sure to comment!

[violetflowers55]

Hot & Cold - Chapter 5

(Dr. Phosphorus x fem!reader)

Synopsis: After your bathroom escapades, Phosphorus completely ignores you, much to your confusion and dismay. That is, until some guy in the cafeteria tries to hit on you. Winding up in the med bay together, you finally let out all your anger and frustrations.

Notes: Does not follow canon events really. Also chapter 6 will be delayed by a day or two, sorry! Ik i told someone this chapter would be back to smut but I decided to push it to Ch.6 so this wasn’t too long.

CW: Physical bullying, death and violence (not as graphic as last chapter). random dude hits on you. Angst kind of.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Throughout the thank you banquet, Phosphorus basically ignored you, as if he hadn’t just metaphorically set you on fire in the bathroom. The only time he spoke to you was to ask if you were going to eat the steak sitting on your plate.

“So. What was that metal thing that came out of you?” The Bride asked casually, like it was the most natural question in the world.

“Oh, that’s my, um, metal whip,” you answered sheepishly. Your powers weren’t exactly your favorite topic, but if you were going to keep doing missions with her, she should know. “I can only use it when I turn my skin to steel. It’s attached to my wrist.”

“Hm. Can you do anything else?”

“No, it’s just the whip,” your eyes darted to Phosphorus, expecting some innuendo or witty remark. He didn’t even look at you.

“That’s lame,” The Bride said, taking a glug of her beer.

“Oh I’m sorry, can you make any weapons shoot out of your body?”

She smiled. “Don’t need to.” You scoffed and rolled your eyes. “But I guess a metal whip could come in handy some day.”

Again, you glanced at Phosphorus. There were so many obvious jokes and innuendos he could make, yet he still paid you no mind. Part of you was relieved he was finally leaving you alone. It was what you had wanted from the start. You still hated him, nothing had changed that. But another part of you hurt by his sudden lack of interest bubbled up.

Did seeing you brutally murder men turn him off? No, because then he wouldn’t have felt you up in the bathroom. Maybe he just finally gave up on you. Maybe your moment together in the bathroom didn’t excite him the way it excited you. You tried to tell yourself that you shouldn’t have expected anything different from him. You tried to tell yourself his lack of interest was a good thing. But the longer he ignored you, the harder it was to ignore the nagging voice in your head.

Even on the plane ride home, he sat as far away as possible from you. Being so far away from him made you miss the heat he provided. Catching yourself staring at him, you internally cringed at yourself. You were turning into a simping schoolgirl, and you hated it. You didn’t even like him, so why did you care so much if he liked you?

When you landed, the cold grey walls of Belle Reve greeted you. You’d let yourself loosen up while away, and now you had to readjust to prison life.

“Home sweet home,” you muttered to no one in particular. Phosphorus just walked past you, but The Bride at least let out a small chuckle.

It had only been two days, and you had already forgotten how much prison sucked. The orange prison garb was scratchy, everywhere was cold, and you were surrounded by screeching monsters, all ready to fight each. That night, you laid awake in your prison cell, repeatedly reminding yourself of your rules to survive.

At lunch the next day, you returned to your usual empty corner table. Even if Phosphorus wasn’t ignoring you, friends went against your rules, making The Bride, Nina, and Weasel off limits too. You watched as the four of them got lunch together, feeling a slight twinge of jealousy in your chest. But, you were just fine without friends before, and you’d be just fine without them now.

A hand slammed down onto the table from behind you. You looked up to see a red hulking man with horns protruding from his head grinning over you.

“Hey baby,” he leaned in, his hot smelly breath hitting your face like a dumpster on a hot summer day, “What’s a pretty little thing like you doing sitting all alone?”

Standing up, you grabbed the inhibitor collar around his neck and slammed his head into the table. You were half tempted to rip his tongue out, to let out all your pent up frustrations on him.

“You must be new here.”

“Why’s that?” he asked, his voice strained from you pressing down on his throat.

“Because otherwise, you’d know I’ve killed men for less than what you just called me.” You expected the grin on his face to fade, but it seemed to grow, shifting into a more malicious one.

“I may be new here, but I ain’t new.”

The next thing you knew, you were thrown face first into the ground with such a force it actually hurt. You turned over to stand back up only to see a boot coming down towards your face. Behind it, you spotted the red man watching with a satisfied smile. You lifted your arms to block it, but ended up getting your arms slammed into your face. Not letting your recover, the goon kicked you in the stomach. You wheezed, all your air leaving your body from the blow. Before you could breathe again, he kicked you again, even harder than before. Tears streamed down your face as you tried to crawl away, only for him to stomp on your back. You screamed in pain, desperately trying to make your skin turn to steel despite your inhibitor collar.

Suddenly, you could breathe again. You turned over to see Phosphorus slamming the goon’s head into the wall repeatedly. The guy who originally approached you sat in your seat, signaling to, presumably, more of his goons. Rage filled your body. Any mercy you originally planned to show him went out the window. You grabbed his ankle and pulled him down to the ground with you. Just as you were about to punch through his skull, one of his other goons pulled Phosphorus off the now dead goon, slamming him up against the wall and snapping his forearm.

“Alex!” you shouted, worry overriding your anger.

Of course, that was when the guards finally decided to show up. One pulled you off the red guy while another pulled the goon of Phosphorous.

“Get these two to the medical bay,” the head guard demanded, pointing at you and Phosphorus, “and get this one to the morgue.” He nudged the goons lifeless body with his foot, like he wanted to check he was really dead without touching him, lest he have monster cooties.

The medical bay was the worst part of Belle Reve. You did everything you could to avoid it, not that that was really a challenge. For one thing, they kept the medical bay about three degrees colder than the rest of the prison. Three degrees doesn’t seem like much on paper, but when you’re already always cold, it’s practically freezing. For another thing, the medical bay was devoid of all signs of life. It was far enough away from everything else that you could barely hear the usual clanging and shouting. There were no TVs, no books, no games, nothing to keep you entertained. It was just you and four pure white walls. Except this time, Phosphorus was laying in the bed right next to you.

The clocked ticked as you waited for the doctor to return. Your scans showed no internal bleeding or broken bones, but they wanted to keep you for observation for the night. Phosphorus’s arm was definitely broken, but they had no clue what kind of cast to put on it. That’s what they were doing now, trying to figure what to do.

“You’re horrible at thanking people, you know that?” Phosphorous said, finally breaking the long silence.

“What?”

“I mean, I just saved your life - for the second time, I might add - and you haven’t even asked if I’m ok. The proper thing to do is to say thank you.”

“I didn’t need your help.”

He snorted. “Yeah, you had it covered. If you consider getting kicked around ‘covered’.”

You glared at him. “So why do you keep ‘saving’ me if I’m so ungrateful?”

“I dunno, I liked how you showed your gratitude last time,” he laughed lightly, grinning at you, “and I didn’t even break any limbs before. What do I get for a broken arm?”

“Oh, fuck you,” you groaned in disgust.

“That’s what I’m hoping for.” he teased, acting like he hadn’t just ignored you for 24 hours.

“What the hell is your deal?” you snapped, glaring at him.

“Woah, what?” he said, taken aback by your sudden anger.

“I’m serious. First you follow me around like a lovesick puppy. Then you fuck me, agree to forget about it, but don’t actually. Next you ‘save’ me and feel me up in the bathroom, only to act like I don’t exist until I need ‘saving’ again. So seriously, what the fuck is your deal?”

He stared at you in shock, his jaw hanging open stupidly. When you realized you weren’t getting a response, you turned back to face the wall with a huff. The white walls didn’t ignore you. They didn’t make your stomach churn. They were consistent, reliable.

Christ, am I seriously praising walls right now? What is wrong with me?

You needed real answers, and you needed them now.

“Why do you keep saving me?” you asked, turning over again to face him.

“I told you, last time-“

“No, I want the real answer. I have my suspicions, but I want to know why you keep saving me when I don’t need saving.”

He looked at you, dropping his usual mask. “What are your suspicions?”

You bit your lip, unsure of whether or not to say it. If you were wrong, it would fuck everything up. But there was no way you were wrong, and you needed to hear him admit it.

“I think you’re trying to pay penance for getting me locked up in here in the first place.”

His face went through a myriad of expressions before he spoke, a mix of confusion, anger, sadness, and others you couldn’t discern.

“I’m sorry, what? You think I got you locked up in Belle Reve?” he was more serious than you’d ever heard him be before.

“Oh, don’t play dumb, you know-“

“Wowww, so now I’m dumb? First I’m a traitor, and now I’m an idiot?” he raised himself on his good arm to stare you down as his spoke, his voice dripping in sarcasm and venom.

“Oh please, you know exactly what I’m talking about. I rob a bank you wanted to rob, and two days later Batman’s locking me up for that heist and a million others crimes. It’s not rocket science.” If he wanted to be sarcastic, two could play that game.

“Yet somehow you put two and two together and got five.” He laid back down flat on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He sounded detached, like he was genuinely hurt over your accusation. You scoffed at his dramatics.

“Are you seriously going to try to tell me you had nothing to do with me getting caught?”

He turned and looked at you before speaking again. There was a mix of sadness and anger in his eyes.

“I’m saying you only have yourself to blame for ending up here, just like the rest of us.”

As his words started to sink in, the doctor returned to take Phosphorus and get his arm casted. You watched him as they rolled his bed out. He didn’t look back.

You flopped back on your bed and stared up at the ceiling. He was right. You only had yourself to blame.

Fuck.

[captain-joongz]

Abraxas; Masterlist

Pairing: mafia boss!Min Yoongi x police office!reader

Genre: humour, angst, investigation themes, dark themes, enemies to lovers, slowburn, eventual smut, some fluff

Summary: My downfall ended up being a story in three acts. The introduction, the seduction, the damnation.

Or; Young and fresh out of police academy, I set out to take down one of the biggest gangs in Seoul. I didn't expect the whirlwind my life would become after meeting the one and only Min Yoongi. Caught between two worlds, it was hard to say whether I was pulled down or returned where I always belonged.

Current word count: cca 78k

Warnings: dark themes, talks of illegal activities, murder, sexism in the workplace, brief reader x OC, eventual smut, innacurate description of police work, some slight stalking (reader tailing Yoongi), each individual chapter will have its own warnings

A/N: welcome to my new and very first series! I will attempt to update this every month, so it's done quicker. Hope you enjoy your reading, don't be shy and feel free to interact!

Taglist is open! Let me know if you wanna be added ^^

playlist / songs that fit the vibe : daylight by david kuschner, love again by dua lipa, let the world burn by chris grey, nothing matters by the last dinner party, killshot (slowed + reverb) by magdalena bay, a little death by the neighbourhood, adore adore by yoav, little girl gone by chinchilla, play with fire by sam tinnesz, the night by choi baek ho, astonist's lullaby by hozier, take me to church by hozier, smoke sprite by so!yoon!, all the good girls go to hell by billie eilish, my strange addiction by billie eilish, nobody's soldier by hozier, wet nightmare by bibi

Act 1;

Ch. 1 | Interlude I. | Ch. 2.1 | Ch. 2.2 | Ch. 3.1 | Ch. 3.2 | Interlude II. | Ch. 4 | Interlude III.

"That which is spoken by God-the-Sun is life; that which is spoken by the Devil is death; Abraxas speaketh that hallowed and accursed word, which is life and death at the same time. Abraxas begetteth truth and lying, good and evil, light and darkness in the same word and in the same act. Wherefore is Abraxas terrible."

- 3rd sermon, Seven Sermons to the Dead, Carl Jung

The First Companion | An Old Friend | Boy Warrior |

Act 2;

TBA

"The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Who would be born must first destroy a world. The bird flies to God. That God's name is Abraxas."

- Demian: The Story of Emil Sinclair's Youth, Hermann Hesse

The Prodigal Son | Enemy of an Enemy is a Friend | The Golden Maknae |

Act 3;

TBA

"It is splendid as the lion in the instant he striketh down his victim. It is beautiful as a day of spring. It is the great Pan himself and also the small one. It is Priapos.

It is the monster of the under-world, a thousand-armed polyp, coiled knot of winged serpents, frenzy.

It is abundance that seeketh union with emptiness. It is holy begetting. It is love and love’s murder. It is the saint and his betrayer. It is the brightest light of day and the darkest night of madness.

To look upon it, is blindness. To know it, is sickness. To worship it, is death. To fear it, is wisdom. To resist it not, is redemption.

It is the delight of the earth and the cruelty of the heavens. Before it there is no question and no reply.

That is the terrible Abraxas."

- 3rd sermon, Seven Sermons to the Dead, Carl Jung

Epilogue

[thecosmicsleep]

the way grey has gone through a bajillion and one appearance changes

[thewhumpcaretaker]

⚜ Marquis of Los Angeles: Ch. I - Lucky Find

ཐི♡ཋྀ Thank you for the beta-read, @evrensadwrn! ཐི♡ཋྀ

Summary: On a visit to his home country, Sebastian LaCroix has the good fortune to find a beautiful and powerful Marquis dying of a bullet wound. Why not take him home as a ghoul?

Author's Note: Okay, um...remember when I said this was a one-shot? Excuse me while I spit out another enemies-to-lovers slowburn because I can't help myself. I may or may not finish it, but I'd rather give the story plenty of room to breathe than rush through it, even if I don't get to the end. I'm excited to see where it goes!

TW: hallucination, kidnapping, religious imagery, vampires doing vampire stuff

If you have a century or two to wait, sometimes the world delivers gifts, just lying there, ready to be pocketed. A seashell, pearlescent and only a little chipped at the edges. A shiny new quarter forgotten on the sidewalk. Los Angeles.

It even might deliver what Sebastian LaCroix would have called, in his day, a “dandy”, freshly dying, on the steps of the Sacré-Coeur Basilica.

Only minutes remained until sunrise. LaCroix’s heart, though it had no need to beat, contracted in terror at the nearness of sunlight, at the piercing golden glow already illuminating that beautiful creature’s parted, breathless lips. This was risky business, swooping in like a vulture at such a time. A little longer, and they might never have met. Sebastian thought of that too often in the days and years and centuries that followed.

Only minutes remained until the bullet in his brain would have laid waste to the most vigorous life force Sebastian had ever encountered.

But as matters stood, he watched from the shadowy columns where he had chosen to shelter during the daylight hours of his visit to France, and clung to the sound of a distant pulse. It persisted (though feebly) even once its scent exploded into open air.

A great bulk of a man in a dark overcoat bowed down his head and sighed. He lifted Vincent’s body with the solemnity of one who knows what death means, and carried it within, into the shadow where Sebastian waited, under those forgotten awnings just beyond the pews. The carnival of stained-glass light pouring through the windows did not penetrate there.

As they passed, the man halted, overcome with a sudden unease, and could not move his feet. Sebastian smiled on him, an open hand outstretched. “Would you allow me to bless this man before he passes on?”

The man had, of course, no choice, and he would not remember laying his charge at Sebastian’s feet, or saying, “Who are you, sir? A man of God?”

“Think of me as a healing angel.”

He stared, knowing quite frankly that this was bullshit. He could see a barely restrained urge to devour flaring up within Sebastian even now, not so different from the look his own superior had worn on occasion, equally recognizable on both kindred and kine. “If you are an angel, then so is he.”

.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸. ཐི♡ཋྀ.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.

There was never total certainty that it would work. A headshot was unfortunate to say the least, and even with a truly massive outpouring of vitae, the bullet still had to be pushed out of Vincent’s brain, dragging on the neurons as it went.

There wasn’t physical pain, exactly. No nerves are to be found in the grey matter. Inside the brain itself, the only pain is mental.

Time and place fragmented themselves, breaking apart in front of Vincent to form a dazzling kaleidoscope. He was drifting on his back, through a flooded Château de Versailles. The water must have been deep, because he was lifted so high, close to the frescoed ceiling where angels leaned down over him amongst the roiling clouds. Why was the palace full of water? No…not water. Blood. Of course. He was being carried up to judgement on the tide of blood he’d spilt, that was it. He could hear his own music coming from another room, the reveries he used to play at the piano, but it was wildly distorted, devolving into devils’ trills. The angels crawled down over the mountains of clouds, over the ledge of the upper moulding, down the columns on all fours to descend on him, snarling as angels never snarl, with fangs at their lips. Their unnatural motions sparked a total horror in him but he could not flee, could only float paralyzed on the sea of blood that was starting to seep into his mouth, into his eyes. They were upon him, someone was bending over him, a face that flickered and distorted and jeered. A devil. His father. Then John Wick. His heart strained with wild terror.

“Your heartbeat is growing stronger. Good. It took long enough.”

And the face resolved. It was, at least, none of the faces he had feared a few moments ago. And it wasn’t unpleasant to look at, with strikingly high cheekbones and full lips, with a strawberry blond slick of hair and eyes like pools of pale honey. It had a magnetism about it, deeper than its inherent charm and beauty. He had trouble looking away from that face – it was in focus even though the rest of the world remained blurred, and it made something sickly sweet well up inside of him. He could have forgiven the cruel satisfaction painted all over it, but that sweet magnetism, tugging on his heartstrings…he could not forgive that. He decided that whoever this was, he disliked them very, very much.

For a few moments, Vincent tried to speak, but his brain had not yet made contact with his tongue, it seemed. He just gasped and gasped until the man laughed and held up the bullet, coated in blood. “Can you believe this little scrap of metal was all it took to put you into a state of such total confusion? And you would be far worse off if I hadn’t taken a liking to you. Life is so fragile.” And the man…well, there was no getting around it. He popped the bullet into his mouth like a candy and licked his fingers, apparently savoring the taste, before pulling it out of his mouth again, sucked clean of blood. He swallowed and grinned widely, this time baring fangs.

Okay. So he was still hallucinating, then. Good good, nothing to worry about. Just slowly breathing his last breaths on the steps of the Basilica, hallucinating violently while John Wick probably gloated over his body. It was fine! Everything was fine. The world started to go fuzzy and dark at the edges as his wild gasping continued.

“Oh no no no, you’re not passing out again just yet. Solo jet rides are interminably dull. We ought to use our time wisely and get to know each other.” The man slapped lightly at his cheek, trying to keep him conscious. Vincent felt his brows furrow, and couldn’t control his muscles enough to wipe that affronted look off his face.

“Who…who…” do you think you are, that had been his intention for the sentence. But he couldn’t quite get there, and the man answered just the same.

“Sebastian LaCroix, Camarilla Prince of Los Angeles and your new regnant.” The man took his hand and shook it. “Of course, none of that means anything to you just yet, but it will very soon.”

It didn’t, except for “Los Angeles.” Vincent was still catching up to the part about “jet rides,” and noticing that the ceiling above them was curved in the manner of an aircraft cabin. Where the hell was he? Was he…kidnapped? A feeling set in then. Whether it was made of greater parts relief or sinking dread, he couldn’t tell. But he had the feeling that this was far too vivid to be a hallucination.

He wasn’t dead after all, and Sebastian LaCroix, whatever he may be, was real.

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Hey Guys!

Another weekend without a fic list ready or any asks, so I took it upon myself collect some fics for a Spooky-Themed list that I will probably have never gotten an ask about anyway. Since I've a lot of Halloween lists, I thought I would try something different and put out some Horror and Thriller Themed fics! I went through my MFL list and tag-searched "horror" and "thrilller", so these fics are ones that the author has tagged as such, so I can't guarantee frights... but I hope that y'all will enjoy this list anyway! I haven't read any of these so please heed the tags!

AND if you have a fave horror or psychological thriller story you've written or want to recommend, PLEASE do in the notes or reblogs and I'll add them to this list!

Happy Spooky Season, everyone!

HORROR / THRILLER FICS (MFLs)

See also:

Halloween Fics (Oct 2018)

Halloween and Ghosts (updated Oct 31/21)

Halloween Fics 2023 (MFLs)

5FF: Spooky Saturday Edition (Oct 31/20)

Ghosts / Figments (Updated Oct 2023)

Within by songlin (T, 992 w., 1 Ch. || Horror) – Amazingly enough, John notices it first. It must be something to do with combat instincts, or paying attention to nagging feelings despite any amount of contradictory evidence, or just paranoia. Whatever it is, it boils down to this: something is wrong.

Little Slices of Death by Enterthetadpole (E, 994 w., 1 Ch. || Friends To Lovers, Horror, Humour, Happy Ending, Case Fic, Romance) – Sherlock Holmes gets involved in a case where the victims and crimes that are eerily similar to the works of a certain horror author stories. Will he solve the case before the people around him die around him?

I O U by MintoKitsune (T, 1,299 w., 1 Ch. || Horror / Drama, Kidnapping) – Moriarty kidnaps John and leaves Sherlock a little message... A short one shot about Jim being his mean ol' self. (FFNet)

These Hands of Yours by okapi (E, 2,700 w., 1 Ch. || ACD Canon || Supernatural Elements, Horror, Hands, Anal Fisting / Fingering, Halloween) – Holmes has casts made of his hands. Watson falls in love. So do the hands.

The Babadook by CatieBrie (T, 6,886 w., 1 Ch. || Babadook Fusion || Post-TRF, Horror, Demonic Possession, Violence, Halloween, Grief, Angst with Happy Ending) – “A children’s book,” John mutters as he flips it open. The pages are scrawled with beautiful charcoal lines and thick black ink. The cover, bright red, edges the open pages and something tugs at the back of John’s brain. It’s a familiar feeling, black and tarrish and thick in his thoughts. He shakes it off and picks the book up off his bed, turning so that he can sit on the edge and spread the book out across his knees. If it’s in a word or it’s in a look, you can’t get rid of the Babadook. He turns the page, ignoring the pressure building beneath his chest. There’s a closet on one page; paper doors meant to be opened by the reader flutter as John reads the text on the other page.

Black Cat by CatieBrie (E, 7,158 w., 1 Ch. || Psychological Horror, Supernatural Elements, Disturbing Themes, Body Horror, Sex, Major Consent Issues / Possible Rape, MCD, Intent Magic, Ambiguity) – He’s watching Sherlock crawl up his body, doesn’t have to see to know he has a blade tucked away somewhere, knows his body will react no matter what. “Do you know what this is, John?” Sherlock holds up a doll made of rudimentary cloth stuffed with god knows what. It’s wearing a crude rendition of John’s favorite striped shirt, denim pants and the hair is too fine and blonde-shocked-grey to be anything else but his. John tries to answer, has no voice, shakes his head. “It’s a poppet.” Sherlock explains, pushes the arms together and John’s limbs react, snapping to his sides and remaining there even as he tries desperately to struggle free.

The Spirit Child by VelvetMace (M, 7,287 w., 1 Ch. || Psychological Horror, Disturbing Themes, Horror, Gore) – A small wooden box filled with clay and feotus bones yields more than just clues to a violent murder. A Halloween Story. Read at your own risk -- and I do not say this lightly.

Leaves by DiscordantWords (NR, 7,513 w., 1 Ch. || Dreams and Nightmares, Dream Sharing, Halluciinations, Horror / Unsettling, Ambiguous/Open Ending) – It came on a Wednesday, with the post. 

Ruins of the Dark by philalethia (M, 8,205 w., 1 Ch. || Dark Sherlock AU ||  Post-TRF, Horror, Supernatural Elements, Blood and Gore, Suicidal Thoughts, Extremely Dubious Consent) – Three years after “The Reichenbach Fall,” Sherlock comes back. But he comes back wrong.

The Web by DiscordantWords (M, 8,421 w., 2 Ch. || Post-TRF, Horror, Spiders, Horrific Imagery, Spying, Mild Gore) – Moriarty is dead. That doesn't mean he isn't watching.

I Could Try by Arcwin (T, 9,583 w., 5 Ch. || Greek Mythology Crossover || Post-TRF, Orpheus and Eurydice Myth, POV John, Pining John, BAMF John, Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Horror, Angst with Happy Ending) – John is grieving Sherlock's death post Reichenbach until one day, he sees the violin case, and something inside him tells him to pick it up. Crossover between BBC Sherlock and the Greek tragedy Orpehus and Eurydice, wherein Eurydice is killed for her beauty and taken to the Underworld. Orpheus, being the son of Apollo (the God of Music and Medicine) travels to the Underworld to convince (via playing his lyre) Hades and Persephone to let Eurydice go. Orpheus then must travel with Eurydice behind him, not looking back, until they exit to the land of the living.

Puzzlebox by  standbygo (E, 9,867 w., 5 Ch. || Hellraiser Fusion || True Love, Supernatural Elements, Psychological Horror, First Kiss, Post S2, Angst with Happy Ending) – A love story with horror. A horror story with a happy ending.

Apprehension by BashfulBunny (M, 14,339 w., 19 Ch. || Thriller, Romance, Kidnapping, Drug Use, Medical, Undercover, Road Trips, Hurt/Comfort, BAMD Captain John, Action/Adventure, Falling in Love, Angst with Happy Ending, Mercenary John, Fluff and Angst, Protective John/Sherlock) – John and Sherlock have never met and don’t know each other. For some reason John kidnaps Sherlock (maybe he thinks he’s working for good people, while in fact they are bad and lie to him; he’s got an order to kidnap Sherlock Holmes and deliver him to somebody. John himself isn’t a bad person though). John is protective. When he realises that he, in fact, has done a really bad thing (and was lied to, depending on the scenario), he saves Sherlock (from his employers perhaps) and wants to take him back where he’d taken him. But he won’t be able to get rid of Sherlock easily, or at all for that matter. Sherlock won’t go.

Scream! by johnwatso (E, 15,250 w., 8 Ch. || Scream Crossover || Post S4, Horror / Slasher, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Case Fic, Minor Character Death, Copycat Killer, Three Garridebs Moment) – An unknown number starts calling Sherlock and asking questions about horror movies. John is pretty sure it's a serial killer.

The Writing on the Wall by grannysknitting (M, 24,139 w., 11 Ch. || Pre-S2, Horror/Supernatural, Mild Gore) – Lestrade notices John behaving oddly at a crime scene. Unfortunately so does Mycroft. What is it about the people living at 221B? (FFNet)

Still of the Night by michi_thekiller (E, 30,762 w., 22 Ch. || 1950s Dark Vampire Greaser AU || Vampire Sherlock, Greaser Sherlock, Nerd John, Rape/Non-Con Elements, Period-Typical Homophobia, Horror, Seduction) – 1.) Curfew must be obeyed. 2.) Streets must be clear by sundown. 3.) If you find yourself out after curfew, seek shelter at the home of a friend, relative, or neighbor whom you know and trust. 4.) Under NO CIRCUMSTANCES should any unknown persons be allowed into the home after curfew.

From a Well, Dark and Deep by Vulpesmellifera (M, 32,691 w., 18 Ch. || Post S4, Supernatural Elements, Horror / Mild Body Horror, Bed Sharing, Possession, Hand Holding, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Coming Out, Alternating POV, Nightmares, Caring John, Happy Ending) – Sherlock Holmes is desperately trying to reconcile his newfound memories and feelings within his transport—a transport that won’t quit with the nightmares and the strange, fiddly anxieties that crop up at the most inopportune moments. On the advice of his psychiatrist—not that he’s thrilled to be taking the man’s advice, but needs must—he's going to mark the anniversary of Eurus’ torments. That explains why he visits the well. What he finds at the well, though, is entirely unexpected. Meanwhile, John Watson has finally come to terms with something he’s ignored his entire life. He’s ready to share that something with Sherlock, except Sherlock isn’t acting himself. It's not the time for confessions, and John determines he must get to the bottom of his best friend's affliction before he can reveal anything. Part 3 of Vulpes' Halloween Johnlock

Slender: However Improbable by philalethia (M, 33,378 w., 5 Ch. || Slender Man AU || Post-TRF, Case Fic, Horror, Science Fiction, Supernatural Elements, Mild Gore) – Six months after The Fall, John is falling apart. Then a homeless woman is thrown from the roof of St. Bartholomew's; a tall, thin man in a black suit begins follow him; and John slowly realises that both he and Scotland Yard are very, very out of their depths.

Where The Ghosts Have Voices by HappyJuicyfruit (M, 37,691 w., 12 Ch. || Supernatural AU || Ghosts, Magical Realism, Light Horror, Fluff and Smut, John Can See Ghosts, John Whump, Emotional Manipulation, Dark Magic, Coma, Injury Recovery, Blow Jobs, Anal, Happy Ending, John’s Past, Mr Holmes, Powerful John, Holmes Brothers, Sherlock’s Past, Past Viclock, Drug Abuse, Hair Pulling) – John has lived his whole life as an outcast. It is only when he meets Sherlock, that be realizes being a freak might not be such a bad thing, and that the curse he has lived with his whole life may be a gift after all.

This Is Family by SaraStarchild (T, 39,840 w., 16 Ch. || Hereditary AU || Psychological Horror, Body Horror, Demonic Possession, POV Third Person Limited, Protective Mycroft, Cults, Mycroft Whump, Sherlock Whump, Major Character Death, Graphic Violence, Retelling) – When the Holmes family's secretive mother and matriarch, Ellen Holmes, passes away, the family she leaves behind – father Martin, sons Mycroft and Sherlock, and daughter Eurus – begins to unravel cryptic and increasingly terrifying secrets about their ancestry. The more they discover, the more they find themselves trying to outrun the sinister fate they seem to have inherited. This is, pretty much, a word-for-word retelling of the 2018 Ari Aster film, Hereditary. Part 1 of Sherlock Halloween Stories

Emergency by EmeraldUrAFreak (M, 40,353 w., 24 Ch. || Teenlock AU || Teen Romance, Drug Use, Angst, Hospitalized John, Broken John, John Whump, Absent Parents, Sherlock Fixing John, Insecure John, Younger John, Older Sherlock, Helping Each Other, Papa Lestrade, Case Fic, Alternating POV, Mild Gore, Horror, Non-Graphic Violence, Corpses) – Recovering drug addict Sherlock Holmes meets supposedly permanently hospital stuck John Watson. As they become friends- and maybe even more - they have ups and downs finding out each other’s pasts. Sherlock is shocked at how deep John's goes resulting in a case of new stakes. Fixing old relations and creating new ones that are hard to keep in this dreadful time. They never knew what was waiting around the corner.

The Straw Man Fallacy by Vulgarweed (E, 40,422 w., 8 Ch. || Wicker Man AU || Ritual Sex, Sacrifice, Mystery and Horror, Romance, Fuck or Die, Dubious Morality, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pagan Festivals, Public Sex, First Time, Case Fic, Virgin Sherlock, Scotland, Kilts) – Summerisle is not a welcoming place to visitors, but it shows its best face at May Day. For ulterior motives.

Curse of the Were-Tuna by WhoGroovesOn (E, 46,916 w., 9 Ch. || Were-Creature AU || Nudity, Aquariums, Fish, Body Horror, Curses, Cuddling, Romance, Transformations, Frottage, Anal, Fem! Moriaty/Moran, First Time) – John couldn’t help but feel as though the large tuna beyond the glass was staring at him, which was weird because it’s not like fish had eyelids, they always seemed to be staring at things.

Distortion by holmesian_love (NR, 51,585 w., 23 Ch. || Post S4, Faked Suicide / Suicide Attempt, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Examination, PTSD, Psychological Horror, Blood, Spiders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Parentlock with Rosie, Angry John, Confusion) – John Watson is persuaded to move back into Baker Street with Rosie. The friendship -though delicate - is mending slowly after everything they've been through. That is, until strange events start happening to John which begin to disrupt the happy life they have been creating. Is there a medical explanation, or is something more sinister at play? Will they discover the cause before it tears them apart for good?

To Be Human by ohlooktheresabee (NR, 78,437 w., 13 Ch. || Post-THoB, Graphic Violence, Synesthesia, Case Fic, Serial Killers, Kidnapping, BAMF John, Sherlock is a Mess, Asexuality/Demisexuality, Torture, Protective John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Medical Procedures, Queerplatonic Relationships, Asperger Syndrome, Thriller, Insecure Sherlock, Touching, Caring John, Affection, Hurt Sherlock, Touch Starvation) – There is a serial killer on the loose with a penchant for collecting the brains of his victims. Sherlock, John and Scotland Yard are on the case, but something about the chosen victims has Sherlock on edge. While they piece together the clues that will lead to the killer, John begins to realize that the way his best friend thinks may sometimes be more a hindrance than a help...

The Killing Principle by Vulpesmellifera (E, 104,593 w., 46 Ch. || American AU || Gay John, Serial Killer Mary, Bum Appreciation, Sherlock is William, Dating Difficulties, BAMF Sherlock, Slow Burn, Thriller, Confessions, Whump, Angst with Happy Ending, Minor Character Death) – John Watson served twice in AmeriCorps, married his high school sweetheart, and then entered med school. A sudden arrest and accusation of multiple murders ends his promising career, irrevocably altering his life's trajectory. Acquitted of his wife’s crimes, John spends the next ten years as the maligned ex-husband of convicted serial killer Mercy Mary. A job offer draws him out of hiding and back to Connecticut - the very state where the crimes were committed. He needs the money, and the job is a dream. Then he meets the brilliant William Vernet, and it seems like he has a second chance at life and love. But the past has a way of catching up.

Monsters in the Woods by ArwaMachine (E,114,760 w., 16 Ch. || 1980′s Summer Camp Horror AU || Character Death, Violence, Gore, Spooky Stuff, Blow Jobs, Anal, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Period-Typical Homophobia) – John isn’t particularly sure why he took the counsellor position at Camp Baker Stream, an American-style summer camp for rich kids. He isn’t fond of the wilderness, nor is he fond of kids. He also isn’t sure if he’s fond of his cabin-mate, a strange bloke named Sherlock Holmes who seems perpetually on edge and more than a bit of an arse. It certainly doesn’t help that apparently the camp has a sordid past—a series of gristly murders that took place eight years ago, perpetrated by one James Moriarty. Sherlock seems convinced that the events of the past are doomed to repeat, but that idea seems to fall in the realm of the impossible. That is, until camp counsellors start going missing… Inspired by every 80s slasher flick that is so bad it’s good, this fic merges summer camp horror tropes with the BBC Sherlock universe, adding a sprinkle of smut for good measure!

Welcome to Silent Hill by Cleo2010 (M, 130,227 w., 37 Ch. || Silent Hill Fusion || POV First Person Sherlock, Unrequited Love, Psychological Horror, Violence / Gore, Monsters, Nudity, Drug Use, Harm to Children, Cults, Distressing Imagery, Torture, Death) – John is missing. When Sherlock receives a text summoning him to Silent Hill he's intent on reclaiming his friend but the town has other ideas. Our detective must battle through a world shaped by his own troubled psyche as he uncovers the town's secrets, attempts to find John and hunt down Jim Moriarty. Part 1 of the Welcome to Silent Hill series

In the Deep, Where Dark Things Sleep by HardlyFair (M, 184,979 w., 26 Ch. || Scorpio Races AU || Graphic Violence, 1960′s, Slow Burn, Past Drug Use, Bed Sharing, Water Horses, Folklore, First Kiss/Time, Horror Elements, Vet!John, Protective John, Magical Realism, Horse Racing, Mutual Pining, Angst with Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort) – The closer time crawls to November, the more water horses the Scorpio Sea spits out. The colder Thisby becomes. Sherlock Holmes is an islander - completely surrounded by the water. John Watson, he knows, comes from the mainland and lives for the Races. On the first of November, Sherlock will race. The man holding steady by his side is someone he never expects. A Scorpio Races AU (Maggie Stiefvater), but no knowledge of the book needed.

WORKS IN PROGRESS

Closure by S_IRIS (E, 28,718+ w., 12/45 Ch. || WiP || Alternate Universe || Viclock then Eventual Johnlock, Falling in Love, Horror, Case Fic, Adventure of the Gloria Scott Adaptation, Emotional / Psychological Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Angst with Happy Ending, Slow Burn, Sherlock in Denial) – After a brush with death, Sherlock is convinced by Victor to recover in their country house and give their crumbling marriage one last chance. But the retreat turns into a nightmare when Sherlock starts to feel a malevolent presence in the house and finds no one believing him except the son of the missing groundskeeper.

The Things That Haunt Us by BRNZ (E, 92,993+ w., 18/? Ch. || Graphic Depictions of Violence, Dead People, Child Death, PTSD John, Psychological Horror, Nightmares, Bed Sharing, Heavy Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Developing Relationship, Childhood Trauma, Domestic Bliss, BAMF John, Friendship / Love, POV John, Pining John, Therapy) – What happens when a post war vet with PTSD takes up with a madman detective and they spend time investigating and solving some truly horrific crimes? How does the doctor who can kill with steady hand process all that additional trauma? How do we recognise that our past still haunts us, in ways we don't realise? When you are caught in a vicious cycle of needing the thrill of the chase, and having to deal with the fallout...what happens when you might need to choose between the two for your own sanity? The story of how two damaged men managed to find their way back to each other and begin to make a future together.

[celtigxr]

THE PINK DREAD - CH. 33 (Masterlist)

Chapter Summary: As the Valyrian houses gather for the anticipated dinner party, King Viserys has an unexpected announcement to share. Word Count: 6070 CHAPTER WARNINGS: We're still talking about menstrual blood. I also only proof read this once, cause ya girl is getting lazy. So apologies for types/grammatical errors, and odd sentencing/wording.

Series tags: Aemond x Plus size!OfC, Aegon x Plus size!OfC, Celtigar!ofc, Plot with Smut, mdni 18+, Aemond End Game, Angst, Comedy, The Dragons Don't Dance, slow burn, friends to enemies to lovers, enemies to friends to lovers.

Credits: Lace Banner by Aquazero, pearl divider by Pommecita

Notes: This is another one of those chapters I'm not particularly happy about. I think my problem is that I absolutely LOATH writing scenes where there are more than four people. Because there are just too many moving parts and I feel like I need to acknowledge everyone's existence. It's tiring. Anyway, I hope this reads better than I feel like it does.

The Small Council Chamber was at its fullest for the first time in years. Though there was a single marble left unclaimed in the centre of the table, a white and grey granite sphere that would belong to the Master of Ships. Alas, with Lord Corlys occupied near a decade in the Step Stones, and now incapacitated to near death, the subject of anointing a new master of ships was broached several times in the past, and that day was no different. 

“Word has it that the Cannibal has moved all the way north west, settling in the mountains around Iroman’s Bay. Dalton Greyjoy told me himself that the Ironmen have begun preparing ships with scorpions, and arming themselves with harpoons, ready to take down the beast,” Larys leaned back in his chair, eyes casting over the nearly full table before landing on the King. “He said that he is willing to take down the nuisance at your pleasure, your Grace, and all he asks is for a seat on this Council and a bride with a generous dowry.”

“Of course he did,” Lord Bartimos rolled his eyes.

“Your Grace, we do need a Master of Ships,” the Lord Hand reminded, and everyone’s eyes strayed to the lone marble in the hexagon. “Lord Dalton is an exceptional sailor and captain, and has one of the largest fleets in the Seven Kingdoms, next to the Redwyne’s.”

“Yes, but might I remind you of his reputation,” Daemon shot Otto a look. “He’s done far worse than I, and yet you kept me farther away from this Council.” 

“Daemon, please,” Viserys lifted his hand, already tired. “We are not going to bring up the past today…” He turned to look at Barty, who appeared to agree with Daemon, predictably. With a sigh, Viserys lifted his arms, “Tell Lord Dalton I will think on it. Until then, there are many others that we must consider.” 

“Like who, your Grace?” Lord Wylde raised an eyebrow. 

“Lord Manderly, for example, or Ser Cedric Redwyne, Lord Corwyn’s most accomplished son,” The King answered swiftly. “Not to mention, Lord Clement and Arthor Celtigar, Bartimos’ sons. Clement has possessed the seas since his youth, and knows Lord Corlys personally.”

At the mention of his sons, Barty’s chest swelled, “It would be a great honour, my King. My boys would make you proud, should you have them.”

Rhaenyra glanced at the Hand of the King; he appeared as if he was holding on by a thread. His mouth opened to say something, but instead he clamped it shut after sharing a look with his daughter beside him.

Having a Celtigar on the Small Council again would impede Otto’s ambitions. With Bartimos back, Rhaenyra could tell that the Hand was becoming more irate and impatient, making his motives clearer with every desperate attempt at salvaging Hightower power. His plan was thwarted when Viserys’ health improved; he was no longer addled with Milk of the Poppy and strained with pain, making it easier for Otto to manipulate by the power of suggestion and urgency. Ever since Lyonel Strong had stepped down as Hand and was tragically killed in the Harrenhall fire, Otto’s re-admittance into the position was merely due to the lack of better prospects. At that point, Viserys’ relationship with Bartimos was strained, otherwise the Claw Isle lord would have taken Lyonel’s place. 

However, now they are friends again, it was only a matter of time before Viserys realized he could replace Otto with him. The man’s presence in the Small Council while not having a title to belong there was enough of an implication. It would only take a few pushes until Otto finally snaps, forcing the King to do so. Ultimately, that would be a win for Rhaenyra, ensuring that there is no more Green influence whispering in her father’s ear.

Rhaenyra swiveled her eyes to Alicent for a moment, before moving her gaze onto her hands folded on her lap. She and the Queen have been cordial since Visenya’s funeral, though they have yet to share any true moment of reconciliation. At most there were glances of pity, sadness, longing, mutually understanding that they both wished to bury the axe. It was just a matter of who was going to lower their weapon and make the first wave of the white flag. After her conversation with Jacaerys the night prior, it would appear that she would be one to do that. 

Otto was wrapping up the final details of the Tourney, after making suggestions for possible low-born men to be knighted and even chosen to be a Kingsguard. Then he asked if there was anything else that needed to be brought up before they departed, and Rhaenyra felt a sense of deja vu. 

“Yes, there is, as a matter of fact,” she stood up slowly as everyone remained seated. “Several years ago, I stood in this Council Chamber with what I believed was a wise and honourable offer… I said it then, that we are one house, but we have since been divided all these years.” Her eyes roamed the table, noting everyone's expressions one by one. Daemon looked expectant, Otto looked too controlled, Alicent appeared conflicted, and her father’s pleasant smile of encouragement filled her with hope. The first and last time this was mentioned in this room, Alicent barred more mental strength than he. 

“His Grace wishes this to be a season of peacemaking, which I heartily agree… As does my son, Jacaerys, who was the one to bring this up to me.” Bartimos tilted his head towards Daemon, his brow furrowed.

 Rhaenyra turned to address him first, “Lord Bartimos, your daughter is simply lovely. You know well that I adored her when we both resided in the Red Keep, as I did her mother… A union between our families would have been ideal, yes, but I made a promise to my son that I would give him the liberty to choose, as my father gave me when I was his age.” 

The Lord of Claw Isle seemed to deflate in his seat, his eyes seemed to age as he blinked defeatedly, “My Princess, I would like to apologize for any insult my daughter has—”

Rhaenyra smiled and lifted her hand up to stop him, “Apologies are not necessary. There was no insult to be had… On the contrary, Jacaerys and Valeana got along well enough, but nothing beyond cordial companionship. Instead, your daughter has inspired my son…” Rhaenyra trailed off and looked back to Alicent. “He has approached me to inquire about the possibility of taking Princess Helaena’s hand in marriage. As it happens… He has already discussed it with her privately.” 

Alicent straightened in her seat, her mouth hung open with the incapability of articulating a response. Her eyes casting over to her father did not go amiss, and neither did Daemon’s look towards Bartimos. 

“Helaena has not mentioned this,” Alicent stated, her tone betraying her need to disbelieve her ears. 

“It appears to be a new development,” Rhaenyra folded her arms in front of herself diplomatically. “Though Jace has said he wished to court her quietly and without stress to ease Helaena’s mind.” 

“Well now,” The King finally spoke, his smile widening. “I did not wish to say it… But this was something I always wished had happened all those years ago.”

“But your Grace, we have already discussed betrothing Aegon with–” Otto was promptly cut off by Viserys.

“It was discussed and I made the decision of it not being discussed further,” Viserys looked at Otto, his purple eyes wide with the unquestionable authority of a King. “Helaena is too soft for Aegon. You of all people understand his appetites, as you spend most of your day containing the deplorable truths he hides in Flea Bottom. I know he loves his sister, but it does not go beyond that… And I believe everyone in this very room could all agree… He does not wish to marry Helaena, as much as she does not wish to be married to him.” 

The Lord Hand visibly sunk into his chair, his hands lifting in a feeble attempt to convey surrender. “Aegon is your first born son, your Grace. If there were anyone to marry first, it would be him. He is well past the age.” 

“I’m aware, Lord Otto,” The King smiled ironically. “Though as you are all aware by now, Aegon is in a very unique situation. And if the whispers have any merit,” His eyes flickered over to Larys, “It’s the same situation as my other son.” 

The King fell quiet, looking down at his four fingers as they drummed the marble sitting in its nest in front of him. Then he moved his eyes onto his friend, Barty, who sat at his right. Bartimos stared back, his jaw taught as they silently communicated the obvious. 

“I am inclined to allow the chips to fall where they may,” Viserys finally says, lacing his eight fingers in front of himself. “For my daughter, Helaena, however, I wish the world for her… And what better world can I give her than one where she is to be a future queen of the Realm, to be married to a honourable, compassionate, and strapping man like my grandson? Alicent, my dear, do you not agree?”

The question was a challenge, to gouge a reaction out of his wife. If Alicent did not agree, she would voice it. But something kept her lips buttoned, and she looked wide eyed between her husband, her father, and her former friend. If only Rhaenyra could read her mind, to know what she knew, to feel what she felt. Instead, the Princess waited with baited breath. 

Alicent slowly stood up from the table, her fingers anchoring her body on the table as she did. Her eyes found Rhaenyra above everyone else’s, effectively avoiding the imploring eye of her father. With a swift movement, she grabbed her goblet, and raised it to the Princess. 

“I agree,” her answer fills the room, stirring emotions. “It is time we repair the rift between our families, and make our house whole again.” 

When Valeana woke up that morning, it was earlier than she typically would find herself in. Shyla was missing from her bed, which only reminded her of her dream. A wave of nausea hit her; it felt like guilt, it felt like loss. It was so much simpler then, to choose both and have them willing. But it was not reality, as much as she curled back into her pillows, hoping to fall back into that dream that ended so unsatisfyingly. 

There was a distinctive squish between her thighs when she moved, and she internally groaned and threw her head back. She must have bled through her rag during the night. Carefully she moved her body over to inspect the sheets underneath her, finding it clear, thank the gods. Then, Valeana quickly strapped on Lady Footlyn so she could clean herself at the washing basin in the corner. A meticulously humiliating process she had to do every single morning the last few days; every moon for the last 8 years. Only 40 more to go. 

Though when she pulled up the damp cloth, she didn’t find what she expected. Her moon’s blood was over, what remained was slick, translucent, with a pinkish hue (likely remnants of her blood). Cringing at herself, she resumed her cleaning, ensuring that her thighs were thoroughly dry. At least she didn’t need to plug herself with cotton anymore. 

Over breakfast, it was collectively decided that Shyla should no longer suffer another night trying to sleep next to Valeana. Apparently, she had snored so loud and stuttery, Shyla had to check to make sure she was breathing several times.

“You sounded like you were a street cat being mounted by a direwolf, Val,” Shyla rubbed the corners of her eyes. An apt description, considering what she was dreaming that night. Unfortunately, there was a lack of Cregan. Perhaps another night. 

Floris was violently reluctant in giving up her single bedroom, but it was put to rest when Shyla expertly handled it. 

“It’s alright, Floris. The settee is kind of comfortable… I guess I can stay there for, what…two more moons? My neck won’t hurt forever.”

So, it was decided. Floris’ single room would be Valeana’s. The transition between rooms was a series of glares and muttered remarks as trunks of clothing were moved from one room to the other. When it was all settled, Val collapsed on the larger bed with a sigh. Floris’ former bedchamber was smaller, situated just above the one Valeana shared with Shyla. Stairs lead to it, a circular room in the spired tower above their family’s wing of the Holdfast. There was a larger tower on the opposite end, where her parents’ were. Unlike her former accommodations, this one’s balcony was considerably smaller, just enough for a lounging chair and a tea table.

Aemond would have a harder time climbing up there. 

Val lolled her head towards the inconspicuous bookcase, now empty of Floris’ belongings. Almost forgot about that. She lifted herself up on her elbows and looked around the room, now truly taking in how blissfully removed it was from the rest of the apartment.

A smile crept on her face, slow and devious, just as her hand moved up the hem of her skirt. 

The highly anticipated, but even more dreaded gathering of the Valyrian houses would take place that evening for supper. Valeana had spent the entire day making Queen Alicent’s dragon dress with Rosy in the private confines of her new bedquarters to kill the day. While her maid could not talk, she was actively listening as Valeana imparted ideas for her own gown for the Creature Ball. In the end, she decided to be a white lioness, a homage to her mother.

By the time it was time for her to get dressed for supper, the Queen’s dress was practically finished. All that was left was a final fitting to ensure everything was in place, which they had plenty of time for. The Creature Ball would not happen for another moon, at least, some weeks after the Tourney and the Victor’s celebration in the pavilions was over.

There was, however, a formal dress code for the evening. Everyone must wear the colours of their house, which meant that the Celtigars will be garbed in whites and reds, including Floris. 

“Why was she even invited,” Valeana ranted to Rosy as the girl helped her pull the solid vermillion dress over her head. “She’s not a Celtigar, she’s not Valyrian.”

And yet Floris wore Celtigar colours, a red bodice with matching tiered layer, an ivory skirt underneath and trumpet sleeves. A ridiculously extravagant dress that expressed something that she clearly is not. All that was missing were crabs embellishments, like Shyla’s. 

Her younger sister’s dress was mostly white, save for the inside of the corset in the front, and the stripe of red on the hemline of her skirt, sleeves, and square neckline. Her mother wore a solid red dress, much like Valeana’s, but hers had far more bedazzlement with pearls and polished quartz, which matched her statement necklace. 

Valeana had a fair amount of vermillion and ivory coloured dresses, enough to fill two trunks over had she brought her entire wardrobe with her to King’s Landing. Though there was one in particular that was her favourite, one that she had only worn once at her coming out ball on her 18th name day two years ago. It was a bit romantic, perhaps a little much the evening, but the King did request his guests to wear formal attire. And Valeana was feeling particularly romantic that evening. 

The skirt was slimmer than her usual gowns, but still held a petticoat underneath to keep shape. Though unadorned with embroidery, it was flowy and delicate. What made the dress her favourite work was the sleeves and the neckline. The sleeves were trumpet shaped, though entirely made out of vermillion dyed veil-type lace that exposed her arms from shoulder to wrist. The dress itself was designed around this fabric, so the lace was the focal point. The bodice had a lace corset in the front, and the neckline was sweetheart shaped, bordered by more lace that framed the tops of her bosom, clavicle, and over her shoulders with a patterned fringe. 

Rosy plaited her hair intricately, though its loose appearance made it appear effortless to anyone who didn’t look too close. Four smaller braids beginning from her scalp met in a knot at the back of her head, and the rest of her hair was pulled into two thick messy braids. 

Valeana stood after strapping on Ser An-toe-knee Woodsby, then shook her hips around, making the dress swish around her legs. Looking up at Rosy, she asked, “How do I look?”

The mute girl communicated with her hands, a language that Val slowly learned over time. Her fingers made a crown on her hand, and then she covered her left eye before pointing at her heart. 

Prince Aemond will love it. 

Valeana smirked bashfully, “And what about Prince Aegon?”

Rosy stared at her with a tilt of her head as she considered the question. Then she motioned with her fingers around her chest, and made a squeezing motion. 

He will enjoy that part.

Valeana threw her head back in a laugh, then turned around to go find her shoe for her right foot. Her eyes glanced at the bookcase, the one that hid the hidden passageway, and she couldn’t help but involuntarily swallow at the mere possibilities this room offered. 

The dinner was being hosted in the Holdfast’s private ballroom, designed for family-only events and intimate parties. The Celtigars are the first to arrive, Bartimos leading the charge in his ivory doublet, trimmed in red, marching red grabs on his shoulders. Ursula behind, then Clement in a dark red doublet, and Arthor wearing similar. The girls filtered in right after, Floris, Valeana, Shyla. 

There were two tables positioned in a T shape, but separated by a platform. The smallest table sat horizontally on the platform with larger chairs. Two in the middle that faced the hall itself were the tallest, and the most ornate, a visual indication that it belonged to the King and Queen. The longest table was placed vertically below the platform some distance away; it had a total of fourteen chairs.

“I suppose that is where us kids sit,” Arthor comments as he moves around his family to take a gander around the ball. 

There was a band in the corner, playing lightly to create a background ambiance. Drapes were pinned to the ceiling, red, black, white, aquamarine; the colours of the Valyrian houses. Valeana noted green was distinctively vacant in the decor, as were the Hightower banners. On poles that flanked the fringes of the ball room, the sigils of House Targaryen, House Velaryon and House Celtigar stood proudly one after the other. At the very end of the ballroom, beyond the modest dance floor, was a statue of a dragon with three hands, candles were placed on its pedestal, illuminating it from below. 

Valeana stared at it for a moment, examining each head closely, particularly the one in the center that faced the room, eyes trained forward. 

The dragon must have three heads, a voice echoed in the back of her mind.

Not long after their arrival, Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon strode in with their litany of children, save for the younger ones, Viserys and Aegon, who likely were put to bed by then. After the obligatory formal greeting, the growing crowd began to mingle. Clement went to crowd Daemon, and Jacaerys slowly made his way towards Valeana, who lingered around the statue. 

“The milkweed plant worked,” Jace said cheekily, his hands behind his back. 

Val grinned at him, “I told you. Did you talk to your mother about it?”

He nodded, “I did. She told me she had wished for it years ago, but was thwarted by Alicent. I’m guessing the Queen wished Aegon and Helaena to be wedded, but that was not going to come to pass…”

She hummed in understanding, “And what does Helaena think of it?”

“She has told me she cares for me, but she does have reservations about being Queen. I assured her that if she wishes it, she will be Queen in title only, and that she does not need to be obligated in affairs of the court. I only wish for her to be contented, and not forced into a loveless marriage where she is not appreciated.” 

Valeana smiled softly and placed a hand on his bicep, “You’re a sweet man, Jace. She is very lucky to have you.”

He looked down, suddenly overcome with bashfulness. Jace nodded his thanks, and then lifted his gaze up at her, “You look very pretty, by the way. That colour suits you.” 

She pursed her lips sheepishly, “Thank you, my Prince.” 

“Are you sure I can’t change your mind about us? Aegon the Conqueror had two wives—”

“Don’t push it.” 

Upon entering the ballroom, Aemond’s eye immediately found her, like a moth to the moon. The vibrant red of her dress contrasted greatly against the canvas of grey stone and wooden floors, like an orange-red rose growing on a vine along the face of the castle. He barely registered the formal greetings towards the King, he was too busy examining the narrow space between his Valeana and Jacaerys. He locked eyes with his nephew, and the insufferable bastard smirked at him before turning to her and saying something. 

Aegon appeared at his side, just in time for Jace to walk away from her, “Does he believe he still has a chance with her?”

Aemond could only grumble in response as Jace strode by them. “Uncles,” he greeted with a short nod of his head, and a faint smirk at the end of his lips. Aemond’s body prickled; he was so worried about Aegon, he had forgotten about Jace. He did not seem to appear a threat anymore, with Valeana very obviously showing disinterest in the forced courtship, but that was contradicted by their show of friendliness. 

Did she grow close to him during that day in the Godswood? He didn’t ask how the ride had gone when he was on her balcony, he was too consumed with the need to be with her, he had pushed it out of his mind completely. 

His father and mother moved to their centered seats at the table on the platform, which signaled everyone to do the same. Without being instructed, it appeared that everyone knew where they were to be seated. The elder generation took their place at the King’s table; Bartimos on Viserys’ right, and Otto on Alicent’s left. Rhaenys sat across from him, Daemon across Alicent, Rhaenyra across her father, and finally, Ursula sat across from her husband. 

At the longer table, it was a bit more chaotic as people scrambled to claim seats next to people they wished to be rooted next to, and actively avoided those they didn’t. Aegon and Aemond shared a look before they practically scrambled towards the approaching Valeana, who was about to take a seat next to her brother. Aegon, though, rested his hand on the small of her back, and guided her to the other end of the table. 

“Where do you think you’re going, Lady Valeana?” He smiled against her ear as he pulled out a chair near the end of the table. After he tucked her in, Aegon settled into the seat on her right, next to Helaena. Aemond took the seat on Valeana’s left, the very end of the table. 

Even though everyone in the room presently was aware on some capacity of his affection for Valeana, Aemond still had to keep the appearance that he wasn’t. He hadn’t the opportunity to end things with Maris, and the servants and guards that milled the room were just as responsible for the whispers as the ladies of court were. The last thing he needed was for Borros Baratheon to learn about his dishonourable snubbing of his daughter through a maidservant. 

Aemond was about to place his hand discreetly on Valeana’s knee underneath the table, but he looked up to realize he was sitting directly across from Lucerys, who watched him with oppressive entertained scrutiny. Valeana must have sensed the tension, because she turned to him with concern etched in her features. No words were said, but her hand reached under the table and squeezed his thigh comfortingly. The corner of his lip twitched at the contact. 

The long table was quiet as everyone settled, only the sound of music and the shuffling of servants were heard. Even the King’s table was subdued with its chatter, reduced to murmured compliments. The tension hung in the air like the wrought iron candelabras that were suspended from the ceiling with thick chains. The weight of Vaemond’s sudden and brutal execution was still a fresh memory, but there was also something else amongst the adults that appeared to keep their shoulders squared. Particularly the Lord Hand, who’s eyes were darker than usual. Aegon caught his eye before their grandsire moved it onto Aemond. A silent reprimand, though neither prince knew what they were being scolded for. 

The first course was gradually spread along the tables; smaller fare such as mutton stew, fresh bread and soft butter, cured sausages and spiced olives. Grilled vegetables and various sliced cheeses, accompanied by jams from different fruits; fig, grape, strawberries. Salt water oysters were piled high on a bed of salt, next to it were steamed mussels in a red sauce. 

“Let us pray before we begin,” Queen Alicent said loudly enough for all in the room to hear. Her piousness is not shared with most in the room, but none seemed to protest, save for the slight exasperation found on Daemon’s features. Everyone collectively bowed their heads and wove their fingers on their laps, everyone except for the Blacks, who only folded their hands. 

Aemond respected tradition, even if it was from his mother’s side. He and his siblings may have been raised to worship the faith of the Seven, but They held very little value in their life. Aemond, too philosophical, too agnostic, would say that Their existence is both plausible and impossible. If the Father was just, the man sitting in front of him would have paid for the sin of slicing Aemond’s eye clear from his head. If the Mother was merciful, the woman sitting next to him would have both of her legs. Life was not fair, the gods less so, but out of respect for deities that he may one day face, he bowed his head and prayed when he was supposed to.

Aegon, on the other hand, was different. He believed in the Seven, sure, but also believed they didn’t love him; that they turned their backs on him the day he was born, and decided that he was their mistake that they were trying to forget. It should have been Baelon that survived, not him. Baelon would’ve been the heir his father always wanted. 

“May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love,” Alicent led the prayer. “May the Smith mend bonds that have been broken for far too long. May the Maiden shower us with love and light during this Royal Conclave. And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the gods give him rest.”

There was a notable shift to the atmosphere that could be tasted on the tip of everyone’s tongue at the mention of Vaemond. Lucerys’s mouth pinched and his eyes roamed the table before resting them on his lap; his step-sister beside him blinked rapidly, as if she was trying to keep a stoic face; Rhaenyra stared vacantly at a spot on the table, her nostrils flaring; Daemon rolled his eyes to the back of his head; Valeana gave a barely audible sigh through her nose, the creases between her brows deepening. 

Before people could tuck into their meals, the King pushed himself up, his weight held up by his cane; ivory and ironwood, a dragon nesting on the top. Everyone looked up at him expectedly and he looked at all their faces with a smile so contented, so peaceful, it was enough to forget that all other individuals in that room hated the other for one reason or another. 

“This is an occasion of multiple celebrations, it seems,” his mouth widened as his teeth peaked from behind his lips. “Tonight is the first night in generations that the three great Valyrian houses are united under one room. The Targaryens, the Velaryons, and the Celtigars all survived the Doom of Old Valyria.”

Aemond’s eye drifted over all the faces here present. There wasn’t a single true Velaryon by name present; the only two that held blood of a Velaryon were Targaryens by name. No, the Velaryons were nearly a dead line. Vaemond’s sons were the last true Velaryons, but they were not here. They were no older than Aemond’s nephews, Viserys and Aegon the younger, and by now they would be learning that their father was dead. That half his head rolled around like a flipped coin on the flagstone floors of the Throne Room, less than a minute after he shouted ‘bastards’ at the top of his lungs.

“And we sit here today, as one house: The House of Valyria. Proud, ancient, and forged in fire and blood, in salt and sea,” Everyone raises their goblets in murmured agreement. “It truly gladdens me to be part of this historical moment. Our families will now no longer be divided, but blended. My grandsons, Jace and Luke are set to be married.” 

Aemond felt his blood drain from his body instantly. His brow furrowed, his heart ached in a pang of betrayal. His brother felt no different; they both turned to the woman seated between them. Valeana hadn’t seemed to notice this, as she was looking at Jace with a slight smirk upon her lips, and that made it all the worse.

The implication of their father’s speech was thick in the air, and hard to ignore. Both Princes exchanged glances of disbelief, and yet the way Valeana and Jaceaerys were speaking with each other when they first entered… What the hell was going on? Was… did Valeana…? No, no, surely not…

Aemond’s fingers were visibly trembling under the table, his eye prickling, and his ribs felt like they were going to crack under the pressure of his rapidly beating heart. Aegon was less conserved than he; his mouth twisted as if he was trying to swallow down bile. He lifted his hands and placed them on the edge of the table, ready to push his chair away and leave the room. 

But then the King continued. 

“Luke will marry his cousin, Rhaena, and together they will one day become Lord and Lady of the Tides. And as for my eldest grandson, Jacaerys, my daughter’s heir… Well, he has asked for the hand of the purest soul in this room. It fills my old heart with immense joy to announce the betrothal between Prince Jacaerys and my little butterfly, my daughter, Princess Helaena, the future King and Queen of Westeros. I wish them a lifetime of happiness, peace, and prosperity.” 

“Here, here,” someone had said through the sounds of clapping. 

Aegon had made a brief screeching noise with his chair in his failed attempt to leave. He instead spun to Helaena sitting next to him, who held a sheepish, shy smile, lavender eyes avoiding everyone in the room, other than Jacaerys who was watching her with fondness. 

“Helaena and–” He began, but cut himself off, turning back to Valeana. “Were you aware of this?”

Val leaned back into her chair, her fingers laced innocently in front of her, “I kind of had a hand in it.” 

Aegon practically sunk in his chair, his hands raking into his scalp. The adrenaline seeped out of his pores and landed on the floor. He lulled his head to look at his sister, and then back at Valeana, “I do not know if I feel better.”

Valeana raised her eyebrows, “Did you think he was referring to me?” 

He leaned into her, his voice a whisper, only loud enough for her ears, “Darling, I was very nearly going to kidnap you right here and now.” 

Aemond physically felt like he nearly avoided a landslide; visually, he remained impassive, if not a bit bothered around his one expressive eye and flared nostrils. Still his shoulders relaxed once the relief washed over him like a cool breeze on a humid day, which softened the blow of the knowledge that Jacaerys was marrying his fucking sister. A development that he realized was his second least favourable probability, right next to Jace marrying Valeana. 

No, he thought as he glanced at Aegon, leaning into her space like she was the only source of heat in the middle of winter. The third least.

Facade be damned, he could not sit silently by while his brother was allowed to publicly stake his claim on his woman, like she was some newly discovered, unoccupied patch of land. Aemond leaned back in his seat haughtily, and without a word spoken, he reached under the table and scooped up Valeana’s left hand that sat idly on her thigh. Ignorant to his intentions, she instinctively wove her small fingers in between his large ones, likely believing for a split second that he simply wanted to convey relief in the shadows. However, he had no intention of keeping it in the dark any longer, not now when the stakes were growing too high. 

It was a simple gesture, but one that conveyed a very large statement. Aemond pulled their conjoint hands above the table and laid it between them, his thumb moving rhythmically over the back of her palm. Those closest to them had their attention ripped away from their plates and conversations to stare. He could feel her hand tense in his, and he watched her in his peripheral as she turned to him, mouth ajar, eyes wide. 

Aemond tilted his head in her direction, eye lifting to meet her marbleized peridots, blinking up at him in shock. His smile coiled at her reaction.

“Ao jurnegon gevie isse bona grēza, ñuha jorrāelagon (You look beautiful in that dress, my love),” his voice was velvet on bare skin, soft, sensual, erotic. “Absolutely stunning.”  

On her otherside, Aegon leans forward into the table to openly glare at his brother. His jaw rotates as he grinds the back of his teeth; the only visual proof of him trying to contain himself. In the end, he huffed an ironic laugh, and then smirked at his brother’s brazenous. 

Aegon moved his chair closer to Valeana, the legs roughly screeching against the floor hollowly. With his side now flushed against hers, he draped his arm around her shoulders and leaned in to give her a peck on the corner of her mouth. 

“How lucky am I to have the most gorgeous creature on earth at my side,” his tone was saccharine and sanguine, his eyes were predatory and possessive. 

Valeana could do nothing but remain trapped between them, not knowing where to rest her eyes. When she found the most neutral point, it was Lucerys and Rhaena who sat across from them. The latter looked partially mortified, partially intrigued, and the former seemed like he was about to combust from amusement. 

On the other end of the ballroom, on the platform, seated at the end of the shorter table, Otto Hightower watched the whole thing from his perch. His chest swelled with a sigh of exhaustion and growing impatience. He was getting too old for this shit. 

“Seven bleeding Hells,” he muttered, loud enough to garner the attention of his daughter beside him. 

“What is it?” Alicent asked in a low tone, her brow creased in concern. 

Otto turned to her slowly, “Your fucking sons.” 

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR SNEAK PEEK Slowly he turned around, his one eye peeking over at Luke over the bridge of his nose. His nephew was laughing; eyes squinting in a mischievous glint as he stared at Aemond, and then back at the roasted pig…  And then onto Valeana, who was unaware of it all.  Suddenly the table jostled, the bang of Aemond’s fist on the table immediately halted everyone’s chatter and movement, bringing their collective attention to his side of  the table.  Fisting his cup, Aemond ascended from his seat and extended his arm, his eye trained on his nephew in front of him. “Final tribute...”

Notes: F I N A L T R I B U TE Get ready for a whole chapter dedicated to fucking speeches XD Because by god... I'm never...I'm never gonna watch that episode again, I've seen it too many times to write this chapter and the FemAegon oneshot.

Tag: @queen-of-elves, @keylin1730, @anakilusmos, @weepingfashionwritingplaid, @sugutoad, @desireangel, @t0biasparabatai

( if you wish to be tagged for this story, just give me a reply! )

Please do not re post, redistribute or plagiarize my work. The only other place this story is posted on is ao3 under the same username.

[jisokai]

You always thought the circus was where you yearned to be. At least, until it finally let you in—and introduced you to Hanta Sero.

[circus AU where seamstress!reader and acrobat!sero realize that their lives have been running parallel for a long time, and it’s up to you to weave them together]

part 1: one brighter than the rest.

sero hanta x reader ch 1/6 | 12.1k words | masterlist | ao3 cw: mentions of past death of a family member notes: chapter song is gloria by kendrick & sza

the circus arrives in Milan, and you arrive at the circus. someone special welcomes you personally.

✰.

"Inside every adult there's still a child that lingers. We're happiness merchants—giving people the opportunity to dream like children."

-Guy Laliberte, co-founder of Cirque du Soleil

The circus is coming. For you.

✰.

The knock on your door is five minutes late. It raps with firm rapidness, demanding a sense of urgency. You scramble to stand from your seat, dishes clattering against the table when you bump it with your knee, and scurry to greet your guest. He looks unamused when you tug the door open, eyes barely darting over unkempt hair and wrinkled clothing—maybe because he looks the same. You don’t bother with greetings, instead informing him that you’ll open the garage.

You kick the door closed as you start down the hall. The floorboards squeak under quick steps, feet threatening to slip from the softness of your socks. They’re struck with a chill on the soles when they land on bare concrete, carrying you along the wall to press the button on its surface.

Light slowly floods your workspace, trickling in from the bottom as the shutter lifts from the ground. Green grass and grey pavement fill the frame, soon joined by the red brick of neighboring buildings. The chilly air of February rushes in, prickling your uncovered arms with goosebumps. Grating sounds soak the air, rusted joints running along the frame of the large garage door.

The man is still by your front door, typing rapidly on his phone, when you step out onto the driveway.

“Qui!” You wave him over.

It successfully grabs his attention, pulling his head up and starting towards you. He looks annoyed.

“I don’t know Italian.”

You blink in realization. “Oh,” you say, preparing your brain to switch to English. “Sorry, I was telling you to wait by the garage.”

He nods curtly, eyes moving from you to the mannequin near the center of the room. He slips his hand into his pocket, digging out a key. “I’ll back up the van.”

You use the time to wheel your work to the edge of your studio. Tender fingers carefully grasp the waist of the wool figure—now draped in layers of delicate fabric and feathers—as you press your foot against the latch of the wheels, unlocking them. The mannequin gently rolls forward with your guidance until you step on the lock again. You look fondly at the gown, recounting the many transformations it went through to get here. Sleepless nights, panicked phone calls, trial and error. Despite the vexation this dress throttled you with for the past few months, a tremor waves through your heart knowing that you’ll part with it soon.

You turn to retrieve three other items. The first is a massive headpiece, delicate and jarring as you walk the display head to sit next to its counterpart. The other two are boxes, one filled with extra fabric and feathers, folds and wispy tufts spilling from the rough cardboard, smaller containers of beads and faux jewels shaking within. Another is a carefully organized plastic bin: your essential tools, the only orderly part of your process.

The man stops the van just before the garage door, right as you set the box behind your mannequin. He moves to open the metal doors, the click of the latch and squeaking hinges welcoming you into the dark space. There’s an assortment of cardboard boxes coating the floor—makeshift cushions, so the mannequin won’t slide en route. You unlock the wheels of the figure once again as the driver pulls out the ramp. Once it rests steadily on the ground, you push forward carefully.

You pause at the sound of rustling behind you. Turning to see the man lifting the box of fabric, you relax at the sight and continue your journey onwards. You nudge boxes with your foot, still bare of shoes, and slip the support of the mannequin between them. When it’s far enough inside to put you at ease, you hurry back down the ramp to retrieve the headpiece.

Once your supplies and costume pieces are secured in place, the driver looks at you expectantly from outside the van. You shake your head as you walk down the ramp.

“I’ll sit back there with it,” you tell him, unwilling to take the smallest chances. He nods unbothered. “I’ll just be a minute.”

You head back through the garage and into the hall, pulling your socks off and strewing them across the ground. You quickly gather your essentials and slip on a new change of clothes—wrinkled and sloppy, but warm enough to withstand the chilly air. You step haphazardly into your shoes and inhale the remainder of your breakfast before returning to the garage. You smack the button on the wall, dash to the closing door, and then step over the sensor while crouching under the door in time to leave. The driver is still waiting, eyes passing over you when you scurry into the back.

He pauses before closing the door, metal slamming against itself with a clang. You are shrouded in darkness, eyes fuzzy as they slowly adjust. You catch the silhouette of bundled feathers, the curve of fabric wrinkled around the waist of your model. A sliver of light peeks through the corners of the van, enough to vaguely illuminate the royal red of your gown. You carefully slip your legs under the cage of the skirt, holding the support stand between your calves while your feet press against the top of the pedal. The dress is still warm from your garage, warmer than the cold bench you’re seated on. You grasp the neck of the display head at your side, holding it sturdy as the engine thrums to life. The first lurch of the car has your heart pausing in anticipation, body clenched to keep everything steady, but you relax when the vehicle presses forward smoothly.

Once you confirm the steadiness of your hold and the driving, you fumble for your phone. The time reads just a quarter past noon—you’re moving faster than expected. You open your messages and send a one-handed text that you just left your apartment. The response is immediate: ‘See you soon!!’

You cradle your projects for nearly half an hour. Despite the darkness, you can follow the journey of the van from the sensations of the drive alone—the turns from one road to another, the oscillation between smooth pavement and bumpy cobblestone paths. You know this route from the western outskirts of Milan into the Cerchia dei Navigli, a bustling center of ornate gothic structures, rich opera history, and lines of designer boutiques. The essence of fresh pasta dishes and red wine wafts through the openings of the van. The storefront of your favorite osteria runs through your mind, spilling clusters of tables and chairs into the street, along with clinking glasses and the ting of silverware.

You relax, imagining the comforts of your regular places. Their distant visuals soften the thumping in your chest.

It’ll be fine. You know your client will like your work, you know the gown functions as it needs to, and you know your craftsmanship. Your work is good. You know this. The only variable left is transportation, which has nearly come to an end. You feel the van stop, the engine quieting with it. 

Your legs relax and loosen their hold on the mannequin. Clanging erupts from the back of the aluminum cage, the driver pulling the doors open. You’re momentarily blinded by a burst of sunlight, reflecting off the white and red fabric you are parked before—stretched canvas taught against the framed structure beneath. You waste no time standing and shoving boxes out of the way, unlocking the mannequin wheels to walk it down the ramp. The driver watches closely, but waits silently as you reenter to get the headpiece.

You hear a shout as you walk down the ramp. It comes from a soft voice, sounding almost nervous. “Aizawa-san!” It calls, a stream of Japanese following. The driver turns his head at the sound. You realize it must be his name, recognizing the honorific.

When you step down onto the plaza, you catch sight of the owner of the voice: a man with striking green curls, some sticking against his forehead and cheeks. He wears a tight-fitted top that reads “practice shirt” and a pair of athletic shorts. He converses with who you assume is Aizawa, and you realize he must be one of the acrobats.

His eyes dart to you, then the mannequin head. His eyes brighten, almost shine, and suddenly you are bombarded with a slew of questions, spoken in heavily accented English.

“Wow! You must be the artist Kendou commissioned! Is that Momo’s costume? It’s incredible! It reminds me of Carnival in Asakusa—”

The rest of the words pass through you, a jumble you can hardly understand—both from the speed of his rambling and his accent. But you smile brightly at the compliment. The mention of Asakusa Samba with its feathers and accessories, patterns blending traditions from across the globe, was exactly the vision. Yours takes a much more modest approach, but the influence is clear—at least for someone who knows their Carnival. You appreciate someone who can trace those lines of inspiration, pick apart your brain and your thought process. It strikes you with a special sort of pride.

Before you can respond, the man you’ve decided is Aizawa interjects. “Midoriya.”

The mumbling halts and now the curly man is blushing, waving his arms around. “Gah! Sorry... I—”

Aizawa cuts him off, saying something in Japanese and gesturing to the van. To get your boxes, you think. He turns to you. “Which one should I carry?”

Your stomach clenches. You don’t like the idea of either being out of your control, but the answer is obvious. You hand him the mannequin head, watching as he grasps it by the neck and then immediately turns to walk away. You hold the waist of your mannequin and follow him slowly. The eagerness in your heart, the prospect of being so close to finished, calls you to sprint forward, to see this through. But you force yourself to walk slower than normal, to let this final moment stretch on a little longer. You know when you return home later, to a studio empty of its recent fixation, you’ll feel hollow inside.

As you wheel the dress along the giant tent, your eyes drift up its shaped canvas cover, stark against the blue sky. Yesterday this piazza was empty, holding its usual clusters of tourists and performers and lingerers. Overnight, a structure large enough to hold a stage and an audience was erected. People knew the circus was coming—Hoshi no Sākasu, Circus of the Stars—and yet as per usual, it appeared in an instant. Impossibly. 

You feel giddy, brimming with curiosities about the magic these people can conjure. How does an auditorium simply appear? And in the middle of one of Milan’s most notorious attractions, now fenced along the edges. But Hoshi no Sākasu is notorious for these sorts of stunts. You’re familiar with the circus, having been a fan of costumes and impossibilities since a child, but you’ve never known magic like this.

Your eye catches a gap in the fabric, a flap gently brushed open. You can see the stage setup at the front, the congregation of various athletes on their props. You yank your head forward, away from the tempting preview of the show to come. You don’t like to spoil these events for yourself, too invested in viewing the delivery of a performance as an unsuspecting spectator—a blank slate for a story to unfold.

You hear a huff beside you: Midoriya, having caught up somehow carrying both boxes—your plastic bin awkwardly small under the larger cardboard box. You feel some unease at his determination to make one trip, but your watchful eyes don’t catch any real problems with his method.

“It’s okay to have a look,” he says somewhat breathless. “Knowing what happens behind the scenes can make the performance more enriching!”

“And ruin the surprise?” you ask. “I’ve never seen a Hoshi no Sakasu performance. I want my first time to leave me blown away.”

He gapes. “You’ve never seen one? I thought circus costuming was one of your biggest inspirations. You said you’ve seen nearly a dozen of Cirque du Soleil’s shows, and you’re familiar with most other major circus productions.”

A wave of embarrassment rolls over you. The feeling festers in your shoulders, making you want to hide behind your mannequin. It’s one thing for people to know your work, mostly opera gowns and period dresses. It’s another to meet someone who’s read you, articles and interviews you couldn’t force yourself to relive. Not that you made any particular fumbles, but you never do well under spotlight. You prefer the shadows of the costume rooms, creating opulent or kitschy regalia for others to flaunt.

“It is. I have,” you respond. “But your circus has only toured in Asia. And I can’t watch online performances before the real thing.”

Midoriya makes a thoughtful noise beside you. You worry that he’s going to launch into another tirade of mumbling when you see Aizawa enter the next flap of the tent. You decide to speed your walking to a normal pace.

“Is this the wardrobe?” you ask.

Midoriya brightens, switching gears with ease. “Yes! Kendou and Momo are there now. These tents are such interesting spaces—”

You see it for yourself when you enter, carefully pulling the loose canvas aside to roll the mannequin along. The room is large with awkward corners, the chord of a circle. You catch the section of the wall with the stage entrance where the performers are currently congregated behind, separated only by a curtain. Chattering and clattering waft through the opening, the ambiance of their practice. There are props strewn about backstage, scatterings of belongings laying on tables with giant mirrors, and an array of costumes hanging on moveable coat racks. Your hands grip the waist of your lay figure, itching to sift through the final designs for the show.

You stop yourself when you catch fiery orange hair. “Kendou,” you say excitedly.

She leaps to you, away from Aizawa and the headpiece, and gasps, eyes twinkling with excitement as she calls your name in return.

“Wow,” she says, running a hand slowly over the dress. She gently lifts the base of the first layered skirt ruffles, threading her fingers along the wrinkles, the transition of red to white beneath. “You dyed it perfectly. And the details... just wow. I knew you were perfect for the job.”

That sensation of pride creeps back up your body, pulling you to stand straight with a grin. This piece was one from your roots—reaching back to your early works of parade dresses and costumes based on the birds of your home. You consider yourself an expert on the matter, emulating silhouettes and movements of macaws, toucans, hummingbirds. Even the mythical creature you were challenged to emulate for this dress, the mighty phoenix, you knew was well within your wheelhouse.

The process, admittedly, was the most challenging part. Rather than starting with fabrics and textures, design for this production began with a clear goal: the phoenix, and the mechanics of the gown in the illusion that would unfold. You started with white fabric and a silhouette, working with the proportions of Momo’s body and the creature in your objective. Then you iterated through textures, round after round of cutting fabric edges, stitching, adjusting, deciphering the best method of wrapping the fabric on Momo’s body. Afterwards came sizing, which involved a plane ride from Musutafu to Milan, for Momo to try on the prototype, finalize the details of the fit, and test how the fabric and headpiece would move during the choreography. Once you knew her patterns, it was time to dye and cut and stitch, a grind to complete the final work in just two weeks. You finished the base of the dress in two days, the headpiece in two, and spent five grueling over details—sewing in stones and feathers, and making additional fabric details to fix in place. You gave yourself a few days to stop thinking about it as best you could, before spending the past days fine-tuning the details.

Momo approaches, eyes glassy with awe. “It’s incredibly beautiful. We were right to trust you. I can’t believe this is the result.”

You appreciate them, their trust. The gown was just a swath of white fabric when they visited, still rough around the edges. Enough to understand how it would move and appear in silhouette, but requiring an active imagination to see it as a finished piece.

But enough praise. You want to see it on.

“Shall we?” you ask. 

The energy shifts immediately. Kendou is behind you, taking in your instructions for the best process to get the gown from the mannequin to Momo. You first unlatch the crinoline from the waist of your figure, gently pulling it down. Kendou has to help you remove the figure from the support so you can free the hoop skirt and hand it to Momo. While she steps out of her outer clothes and brings the frame in place, you notice neither of the men have left. Aizawa watches blankly while Midoriya averts his eyes, choosing instead to stare at the headpiece on the table.

Once the support is secured, you remove the dress from the mannequin. You make a show of where the zipper starts and how far it runs for Kendou to reference. You lift the sleeves upwards, Kendo’s sturdy hands assisting you, and Midoriya steps in to help, carefully grabbing the bunched fabric of the skirt. It lifts easily over Momo, lowering in time for her to slip her arms through the sleeves. Once her hands appear from cinched wrists, you immediately begin to adjust, picking at the fabric around her waist to smooth out any twisting. Kendou traces along the neckline to straighten it. You look at Midoriya, the way he awkwardly tries to fluff the fabric over the hoop skirt. You swoop in to help, fingers confident as they unpin the bundle of chiffon at the back, letting it spill vibrant orange—hot magma, you think—onto the ground, protected by a sheet. 

You hear Midoriya squeak as your hands skirt past his, essentially smacking them aside.

“Sorry!” he squeaks. “The other costume crew are out right now. I don’t normally get to help.”

You huff with a smile. “It’s fine. You like being on wardrobe duty?”

“Yes!” he says immediately. “It’s interesting to think about what types of fabric or shapes suit the acrobats and their acts. It really brings the characters alive, and yet not something I’ve had many chances to explore!”

You hum in agreement as you turn to the table with the headpiece. You gently work the elastic off, gripping at the hard plastic further up. Once secure in your grasp, you turn to hold it over Momo’s head, her hands meeting yours to catch the edges. It sits snug and straight despite the asymmetrical display of feathers. They fan to your right and sway gently with her movement. You let Kendou fuss with the details, ensuring it sits comfortably while you take a step back to admire the costume in full.

Even in the backroom, the costume has a magnifying presence. It commands attention. You let your eyes scan down Momo’s figure, the details of the feathered top that transitions into the mask, swirls of wire and mesh covering the top of Momo’s face, pointed dramatically at the ends in a sharp beak. Delicate pieces of wire frame her like a halo, tipped with feathers and sparkling gold jewels. They bounce softly with the slightest turn of her head, twinkling under the lights.

Her collarbones are framed by a heart-shaped neckline coated in sheer ruffles. They match the fabric of the shoulders and arms, cinched and falling in a classic bishop sleeve, sporting additional ruffling at the wrists. The chiffon is a bright red, tipped with the pop of orange. The bust of the dress is a contrasting dark maroon, coated with your signature detailing—intricately sewed jewels, beads, and buttons in abstract swirling patterns. The detailing trails down the waist, and fades into the front of the skirt. The fabric below the hips is generously layered, appearing dark and red as it sits upon itself and runs an inch on the floor. The transparent ribbons of orange lay elegantly on the ground, wrinkled carefully to retain volume. One of the bottommost layers of fabric is embroidered with the cursive swoops of your artist’s name: Verde, meaning green in both Italian and Spanish.

When the outfit is secure, Momo takes a few steps as a test. The fabric flutters over her arms and swishes around her waist. She experimentally spins, only about a quarter turn, and your breath hitches. The layered skirt lifts perfectly, exposing the bright white fabric below. You can imagine the act with full clarity, what will unfold on the stage.

“Ugh,” Kendou groans with delight. “It really... It's perfect. I couldn’t have dreamed of anything better. It’ll be the center of the show, like we wanted.”

Your heart swells further at the compliment. This is what those sleepless nights and raw fingertips were for, what they amount to. Not the praise, but the fulfillment of a vision—a dream finally coming to life.

Midoriya breaks you from your trance. “This is incredible! The costume crew and Momo have kept the rest of us in the dark the whole time. The others are going to be blown away when they see it.” He traces a gentle hand along one of the layers of the skirt. “Is it silk and chiffon? I’m trying to learn more about fabrics.”

You nod. “Chiffon for the sheer fabric, but a silk alternative for the skirt and bust. I’ve been experimenting with different alternative fabrics, and your team agreed to let me use plant lyocell after looking at my other pieces and how they’ve aged. It’ll be fine since Momo’s act isn’t demanding on the costume.”

Midoriya’s eyes shimmer, but Momo chimes in before he can respond. “I hope my performance can live up to the extravagance of this dress. I’m sure you have a critical eye for opera with your line of work.”

You roll your eyes. “You and your voice are stunning. It’ll be the best performance I’ve ever seen,” you reply honestly. “I’ve never been to an opera with an entire circus backing it up. Besides, I’m tired of standard gowns.” It pays well, with old money and prestige, but you inch closer to losing your sanity everytime you make another sleek, dark gown. You want flare and drama and the room to be eccentric. This commission was heaven sent, for giving you something you’ve been craving.

“Ever think about circus costume?” Kendou asks. “Full time, full commitment?”

You freeze. Your eyes blink rapidly, your heart following its pace. You tread carefully, unsure if this is a job offer or a thought experiment. “In my dreams. Never thought it was possible, though.”

You see Momo’s eyes widen at the admission. Kendou continues, “It is, for you. You should consider it.”

Your fingers tingle, body thrumming with anticipation. You think you might be sick. You look at her pleadingly. “Kendou, I have orders through June—”

She shakes her head. “Afterwards. Our traveling season ends in September. October is when we start preparations in Japan.”

There’s a lump in your throat you can’t swallow. You try to calm your expression, knowing you look like a deer in headlights, but your mind races with possibility. Then it fills with logistical questions—your home, your studio, the language barrier. You try to blink them away as you look into Kendou’s teal eyes. They’re strong, intense. One eyebrow is quirked, challenging you. For a moment you see the bright blue of the sea in her irises, waving against the black sand of her pupils.

She speaks before you do. “Just think about it, yeah? You have time. We can talk it over.”

All you manage is a nod, afraid of the noise you might make if you speak. Your eyes move to the others in the room, Momo’s curious gaze and Midoriya’s shining expression. Aizawa still looks bored, unbothered, and you find comfort in his nonchalance.

You clear your throat, ready to change the topic. “Okay. Is there anything else we need to run through? Adjustments? Final touches?”

Kendou waves her hand, turning back to Momo. “You should go, take the day off. You know I won’t botch your work. It’s perfect anyways.”

Despite your hammering heart wanting to run yourself out of the tent, your mind whirs at the potential work to do. “Are you sure?” you ask. You trust Kendou and her skillful touch, but this was your baby for months. Your stomach clenches knowing it’s no longer in your hands.

“Go,” she says, then turns to Midoriya. “You too, you should get lunch together. We need to get the dress on the stage, and we don’t need you pulling a muscle last minute again.”

His freckled face flushes, eyes widening comically. You see the start of a protest form on his lips before you interject. “You get to have real Italian pizza yet?”

He shakes his head slowly, eyes trailing to you.

“C’mon, I’ll treat you,” you say. You would rather run out of here alone, to call your friend Chiara and hyperventilate over Kendo’s offer. But you’re drawn to circus people, those who get paid to make a spectacle of themselves. You can postpone your breakdown to indulge in time with a professional clown.

He flushes a shade darker, before stuttering through an, “O-okay!”

Kendo’s mouth smirks in your periphery while she examines the details of the dress, fussing over the ruffles on the shoulder. “Change into something warm,” she instructs.

The tumble of syllables that fall from his mouth are incoherent—you can’t tell if they’re Japanese or gibberish, maybe both. He scurries to the tables where bags and clothes are gathered, pulling out a square yellow pack. He grabs for a pile of fabric and then rushes into one of the changing stalls.

You pull out your phone, glancing at the time before opening your messages. You send a slew to your friend, getting the main point across that you need to talk later. Desperately. You notice a recent message from your sister and quickly swipe it away without reading it.

Aizawa’s voice pulls your attention back. “Do you need a ride?”

You turn to him, shaking your head. “No, we’ll be in the area. I can take the mannequin back with me on the metro later.” You pause before adding, “Thanks for driving. I can’t stand packing costumes. And sorry for the awkward first meeting... Aizawa?”

He nods, affirming the name. “It’s fine, it wasn’t any issue. It’ll have to be packed when we’re on the road, but Kendou will manage fine.”

“Aizawa’s one of the producers,” Momo says.

Your eyes widen, heart stumbling to your stomach. A producer? You recount the way you hurried him along just an hour earlier. Maybe he was nonchalant about Kendo’s job proposal because he was planning to make her rescind it. He laughs dryly at your expression.

“Don’t worry,” he says with a dark mirth. “I know how you costume people get, especially close to showing.”

You are saved by the return of Midoriya, dressed in a silhouette you think is quite stylish, but you have to suppress a grin at the clash between the garments. Bright dotted yellow lays against patterned maroon, flush against saturated cobalt painted with white details. Primary colors. You like this guy.

You tell Kendou that you’ll be back after lunch, at the very least to retrieve your lay figure. She and Momo wave you off with smiles. Midoriya leads you out of the tent and into the brightness of the day. Cool air nips your face and hands, but it calms you, brings ease into your body.

You look around the piazza. The paved square is fenced, littered with guards outside the perimeter. Over the top of the large tent is the pointed roof of the Duomo di Milano. 

“How do you do it?”

“Huh?”

“The tent,” you clarify, turning to meet his eyes. “How does it just… appear? Without warning—without anyone seeing.”

A cheeky grin crawls along the side of his face. “Can't say,” he answers vaguely with a hum, before diverting his eyes.

You huff, turning back to the blue of the sky. Is that the sort of thing you would get to learn about, to understand intricately, if you joined them? You want to whine in annoyance, but the tufts of clouds leisurely drifting above catch your attention. You think you can make out a rabbit, hopping to an apple twice its size. You’re about to point it out when Midoriya speaks.

“I don’t know where we’re going... ” he trails off, his smile now embarrassed. 

“I do. Can we exit from the north?”

He nods. You start walking left of the duomo’s face, towards one of the restaurants you frequent when you’re in town. Midoriya trails behind you, easily falling into conversation with his questions.

“Will you be coming to the opening night?” he asks.

You grin sharply, side-eyeing him. “Of course, and with impossible expectations.”

You expect him to flush like earlier, but a determined smile crosses his face, the acceptance of a challenge. “It’ll ruin any other performance for you.”

Your face lifts in surprise at the declaration, teeth sinking into the smile you try to fight. You believe him, having heard nothing but genuine and limitless praise from anyone who’s seen a Hoshi no Sākasu production. They’re known for intricate plotlines that unfold through deliberate acts, ones that overlap seamlessly. This show in particular, Gōyoku, has garnered immense hype leading up to its first performance, only a couple nights from now. It seeks to blend their usual rich use of Japanese culture and aesthetics with Italian influence, specifically through the addition of an opera performance. The eve of the first show will mark the start of a festival in the piazza. They’ll perform for five nights, ending the day before the Ambrosia Carnival begins, bringing four more days of festivities.

You’re somehow lucky enough to exist at the perfect intersection of opera gowns, bird costuming, and Italian residency—the exact background the costuming team sought. You nearly leaped out of your skin when you saw the email, ready to shelve any and all projects out of the way for this opportunity.

“I don’t doubt it,” you tell Midoriya honestly. You’re not hard to entertain when it comes to the circus, awed at performers in general—especially when they’re pushing the boundaries of their bodies. You had naive dreams for yourself at one point, visions of swinging through the air or twisting yourself in knots, but it didn’t take long for you to realize your heart was in the creation of the gowns instead.

You converse with Midoriya easily. He likes to talk about designers, asking your opinion on gowns or looks that have been circulating lately. By the time you reach the trattoria, sunken between the walls of the adjacent establishments and coated with ivy, you’ve managed to switch the conversation onto him: what pulled him to be a circus freak.

He’s as talkative when he’s the one answering questions, mumbling as he recounts an old figure in a notorious Japanese circus who inspired him.

“Toshinori Yagi was big in Japan for a long time. His range was incredible—he would perform up to seven acts during a show.” You let your eyes linger on Midoriya’s turtleneck while he talks, the bright yellow stark against the creamy beige of the wall behind him. Primary colors, you think again, like the notorious Yagi—or All Might, his stage name.

“Yeah. And then got Houdini-ed out of showbiz,” you add with an amused grin. You remember the news, when another performer asked if it was true he could withstand punches to the gut, landing one on him before he could prepare. He only lasted two more shows before his body gave out on stage from the abdominal trauma. Luckily unlike Houdini, Yagi survived the incident, but could no longer perform like he used to. “Only to turn around and become a legend in costuming.”

Midoriya beams. “Of course you’d be familiar! He’s one of my mentors. I met him as a kid, and he encouraged me to train and audition despite having a late start.”

You hum, curious. You look out the window to your side, people strolling down the cobblestone in long coats and scarves. You wonder how late a start can be, to still have time to make it in the industry. You were lucky as a kid, to have been exposed to your line of work so early—to be given these tools and connections before you even entered high school. You wonder what your life would have looked like if you tried to barrel down a different path, one that wasn’t reaching for you so tightly.

“So what’s your stage name, Midoriya?” You say his name with uncertainty, unsure if you heard it right.

He grimaces bashfully. “Sorry, I never introduced myself. On stage I’m Deku, but Midoriya is fine.”

You hum, and return the introduction. “Though it seems like you knew all that,” you say.

He nods across from you. A waiter interrupts his would-be response, asking what you’d like to order. You ask Midoriya if he has any food restrictions, receiving a shake of the head, before naming a few different dishes to the service. They nod and gather the menus before hurrying off. 

“I got classics, don’t worry,” you say with amusement. “This place is a good baseline for the rest of your time here. You like Italian food?”

“As much as the typical person,” he says. “But we don’t eat it much in Musutafu.”

You hum. “The Japanese food here is pretty hit or miss, but I can recommend a ramen place if you get desperate.”

He looks at you curiously. You return the expression. 

“Would... you really consider it?” he asks. “Coming to Japan for us?”

You blink, not expecting him to ask, then sigh. “I’d love to,” you say honestly. “But it’s a big change, And I have a network here. I could ride my career until the end.”

It’s true, you’d be comfortable in Milan. There’s always work, always opportunity for you. You have friends here, communities you’ve become a part of.

Your gut churns. But it’s the circus.

“But it’s the circus,” Midoriya says. You widen your eyes. “Your interviews always talk about how much you love the circus.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “Hey, I’m not famous enough to have people memorizing articles written about me.”

Midoriya’s jaw clenches, eyes widening. “Sorry!” He waves his hands energetically—very Japanese. 

He averts his eyes. You think he looks guilty.

You laugh.

When the food is served, you insist that Midoriya eats as much as wants, whatever he wants. He reaches first for the pasta, eyes brightening as he shovels arrabiata into his mouth. 

You nod at the reaction. “You have to admit that good Italian food makes a difference.”

His hum and eager eating is approval enough. You make a show of cutting the pizza and nudge a few slices his way. In return, he pushes the pasta forwards for you to have a bite.

By the time you finish—using your language advantage to ensure Midoriya doesn’t foot the bill, before strolling out into the cool air—nearly an hour has passed. Midoriya starts a series of rambling as you return to the tent, happily bragging about his friends.

“I’m so excited for you to see Momo’s performance, she has such an incredible voice. And the act that she put together with Hagakure and Mirio is spectacular. Based on your interests, I think you’ll really like Sero and Tokoyami’s act. And Keigo too! Kacchan has one of the most intense, so he’s a typical audience favorite. We have an incredible build team that has been working on our special effects, and they really went all out for him. Kaminari and Tetsu have maybe the coolest—”

It continues all the way back to the dressing room, and even when you open the flap to step inside. You blink in surprise at the new faces sharing the room with Momo and Kendou. The singer is out of costume, dress hung at the front of a coat rack, and she calls your name. You wave as you walk over.

Momo introduces you swiftly—to a princely man and two smaller women—before clutching your hands. “No issues! We went through the choreo and it was perfect.”

You smile, an unexpected relief wafting through you. “I’m so glad. I can’t wait to see you in action.”

You take a long look in her eyes, pools of darkness with a shimmer. You realize—for the first time with full force—that this production has its own intricate meaning to Momo, likely more than whatever it could mean to you as an outsider. You grasp her hand in return, memory flooding with countless conversations to brainstorm ideas, random calls despite the seven hour time difference to ask for an opinion or show your progress. You think about the first call you had with her, just to get to know her.

You think the costume is an ode to how you’ve learned to understand Momo: the way she moves, the curves of her body. But it’s just as much an ode to how much she’s letting you in, giving you full reign to share everything you’ve ever known and loved about creating costumes.

There are words resting on the tip of your tongue, one’s that feel like a closure you aren’t ready for. It’s too soon and you’re not willing to do this with an audience, to taint your farewell with the prying eyes of those who don’t understand.

You think Momo feels the same. She says gently in effortless Italian, “I’ll see you in two days minimum, right?” The night the festival opens, the night before the first showing.

“Of course.”

She leans in for a hug. It’s a short and gentle embrace, but its essence is layered. Complicated.

“We’re all about to head out for a break.” She nods to the others gathering their things at the tables. “I wish we had time for you to meet them properly. You’ll stay after the show, right?”

“You could not pay me to stay away.”

She laughs quietly, then slips you a gentle smile. “Perfect. See you soon.”

You nod and watch as she turns away to join the others. Your eyes linger for a moment before you begin towards your mannequin. You take a few steps, ready to rush home and frantically call Chiara. As you scurry over, your eye catches a book resting on one of the dressing tables. It’s small, but looks familiar. You stop in your tracks when you catch the title: Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda.

If We Stretch Stars Like Silk

Your breath catches at the sight. It’s your childhood favorite, one you keep at your bedside after all these years—one with yellowed paper and a peeling cover, worn and faded with love. Nearly every page has a faint crease in the corner, where you’ve folded it over to mark your spot or make a note to come back to. The copy in front of you is old, with vintage font on the front and a blotch of water damage seeping through the top half. You catch the edge of a receipt peeking through, just a quarter into the volume: a bookmark, for someone who started recently.

You can’t help the twitch of your lips as you step closer, the lull of your childhood dreamspace drawing you in. You brush a finger along the dark edge, slipping where the receipt is wedged and taking a glimpse at the pages. You blink in surprise at the neat script in the margins, hiragana and the occasional kanji. Your eyes run over the markings, wondering what they say, until they drop lower and land on a line of Spanish written with a similar diligence.

You pull your hand away, letting the book close.

“¿Hablas Español?”

Do you speak Spanish?

You snap your head to the voice, deep and a little rough. You catch two different eye colors—Todoroki, you recall from Momo’s quick introduction.

“A little,” you say in English, betraying your mother tongue. You don’t know why the lie slips from you, especially when your eyes land on Midoriya lingering with the others. Your early life is easily accessible information—one quick search would surface the real answer.

“I love this book,” you add, as if offering truths will balance your dishonesty.

Todoroki hums in agreement. “It is quite beautiful.” His English flows easily, and with a nearly flawless American accent. “Another performer is reading it with me right now. He and I have similar taste, and I’ve been working on my Spanish.”

It makes sense, the book being targeted towards children with simple vocabulary and a whimsical plot. You longed to be part of the story when you first read it—a tale of two boys in different worlds. They came to know each other when they stumbled across a pond, seeing each other instead of their own reflection, the water a portal to bridge opposing universes. They could only ever cross through at night, by grasping at the stars twinkling in the reflection. They thinned out like ribbons of thread, and could be woven into a rope to climb through. On cloudy nights they could only look at each other with longing. 

In your adolescence, you imagined living in a third world, one where you could reach through the water and grasp them both, to be together forever. With you.

It planted dreams of weaving your own fabrics from scratch, like your grandmother did. But eventually you learned to sew.

Based on the bookmark, you think Todoroki has only just learned of the pond, the one Santi nearly falls into when he lands eyes on Marco for the first time. There’s a tug at your heart, calling to reach for your copy. You miss your boys, your adventures together.

“Your thoughts so far?” you ask.

You watch as Todoroki’s eyes narrow lightly with thought. You are struck by how beautiful he is, the soft skin of his face against sharp features. Your eyes trace his scar, curious towards the story behind it. You think he’d look striking wrapped in deep blue fabric—loose linens breezing against his body. With a high collar, maybe.

“It is a book that allows people to dream,” he eventually says.

Your smile is uncontainable. “Wait ‘til the actual magic happens.”

Midoriya’s voice breaks the conversation, calling for Todoroki. The taller man responds in Japanese, before translating for you.

“Sorry, but we are leaving now,” he says. “We can walk out together.”

You nod and abandon the table for your lay figure. You reattach the mannequin head before unlocking the wheels of the body. You crouch to grab the handle of your tool bin. Todoroki moves to help, but you shake your head. You’ll have to take it on the metro yourself anyways.

The others wait as you cross the room to the entrance, wheeling your figure along. They similarly try to help, but you smack away their hands. Kendou rolls her eyes, but then offers you three tickets and a plastic card. You let go of your mannequin to take it, reading your name across the top of the ID and the words “Costume Crew”. 

“In case you run into issues with security,” she explains. “But you shouldn’t.”

You nod, shoveling the card away before continuing to roll the dummy along. The cast members walk with you to the station, at the northern edge of the piazza, before saying their goodbyes.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay taking your stuff back alone?” Midoriya asks.

You nod with amusement. “This isn’t my first rodeo, Deku.”

He flushes.

You say your farewells, and receive particularly meaningful waves from Momo and Kendou, before walking towards the elevator. Taking the metro home is annoying, as it normally is when you have to transport your mannequin. But it’s routine, and you manage well enough. The afternoon is unhurried, offering abundant space in the train car, escaping glares that would have pointed your way if it were the end of the workday. While you wait for your stop, you check for a response from Chiara. She messaged you an hour ago, a simple, When and where?

You respond, My place in 30?

The transfer is easy enough, rolling from one train to the next. When you finally rise back to ground level and walk through your neighborhood, you’re nearly skipping. You have to reign your energy in to not look like an idiot. When you finally reach your building, you wrestle with your keys and fling the door open at lightning speed. Once your mannequin is locked in place and your tools are safely on the ground, you inelegantly crumple onto the floor.

You bury your head in your hands as you recount the day and all that passed: your mortifying introduction to the producer, the final passing of your precious gown to its new owner, the tension of potentially being offered a job, how you forced one of the performers (with the help of Kendou, admittedly) to get lunch with you, running into your childhood friend—that precious book you want to spend the night cradling with a flashlight under your covers.

Chiara storms in minutes later, the clack of her heels sharp on your floor. You hear her yelp at the sight of you before grabbing ahold of your arm and yanking you up. You look at her defeated.

“I’m tired of your cryptic bullshit,” she grumbles in sharp Italian, dragging you to the couch. Your legs weakly oblige. “Spill. What the hell happened? Did the gown get ruined? Do I need to call Davide?”

You look at her helplessly, shaking your head. You inhale. “I think they offered me a job.”

Her flawless face holds irritation for one more moment before her jaw drops. “What!?” she shrieks, grabbing your bicep tightly. Manicured nails dig into your skin.

You nod silently, slowly.

She gives you a few hard shakes. “What did you say? Holy fuck, are you accepting? You have to accept this, right? Oh my god. … Tucano—this is incredible.” Her voice softens by the end, the usual effect of the nickname.

“Chia,” you plead. She frowns at the tone. “I don’t—I don’t know? I’ve been in Milan for a while, it’s home to me. I can’t just leave my friends and my clients, and—” you pause, thinking of your late grandmother, your abuela, the reason you came here in the first place. When she fell ill and you needed money to take care of her, later taking her with you to a country with a higher success rate for her surgery, where you hoped to extend her life just a little longer, selfishly. You already uprooted yourself and your family, only for it to be abuela’s end. What would it mean to leave again, to keep running?

Part of you knows you’re kidding yourself. You may have left home to support your family, but now you stay gone to avoid seeing them, to avoid confrontation.

“I just… I can’t just leave.”

You watch her face, the way it falls sadly. “Tucano… you can do whatever you want. I thought… I thought this was your dream, the costumes. And for a circus. Not an opera or a show, but those freaky acrobats you fawn over.”

You glare as the last words leave her lips. Your eyes bore into her brown ones, her thick lashes. They match the darkness of her hair: perfect swooping waves that end above her shoulders.

“I know, I know,” she says with a sigh. “What? Do you need help processing? Brainstorming? Pro and cons list?”

You huff, not sure yourself. Her sharp eyes watch you closely.

“Well…” she tries. “If you got a job offer, then the dress was a success, yeah? Wanna debrief me on that?”

You groan as your mind reminds you of your faux pas with Aizawa this morning. “I totally offended one of their producers. I thought they were sending some random stage guy to give me a ride and…”

A dark brow lifts in curious delight. Her mouth quirks as you relay your demise. You’re about to scowl when she laughs. “Okay, but the dress. The dress made it?”

Your shoulders drop. “It’s perfect. They loved it.”

A sharp grin splits her face. Your heart squeezes when you recognize pride, for you. “As we knew they would! And that calls for celebration.”

You smile at the sentiment, your nervous heart relaxing slightly. Chiara reads you easily by now, like fluency in a language just by watching from the outside. Despite the scoffing and bullying, all her comments and faces are expressions of love. She reminds you of your sister: observant because she cares, but also to maximize her fuel for making fun of you. All the while knowing when to soften the edges, when to remind you that you’ve done a good job.

Momo in your finished gown flashes in your mind, and you agree that you deserve to have a moment of celebration. But you can’t escape the hollowness that follows, the emptiness of an undressed form. The lack of something to fixate on, to obsess over, to give your life purpose.

“Hey, you’re gonna see your costume again in a couple days. You can’t get your post-commission depression now. You can mope when they leave, okay?”

(Reading you like a poem—seeing meaning between the lines, meaning in mere fragments.)

You huff and nod, sulking. Chiara laughs at your grumpiness. 

Her presence soothes your nerves from the day, ones you pushed aside in favor of parading the streets with Midoriya. Your conversation continues, stretching through the afternoon as you cover the rest of your day. You ignore her suggestive looks as you talk about your time with Midoriya and the embarrassing feeling of knowing someone researched you so thoroughly. 

You don’t mention seeing the book. You think she’d talk about fate and signs if you let it slip, and then you’d be back to terrifying career talk.

Eventually you flip the conversation to her and her day, the clients she saw. She spent her morning at the studio, her usual dolling up of models for their shoots. It’s how you met, in your early days after arriving in Milan—you dressing up performers while she touched up their faces. She stayed with the company while you left for freelancing, preferring to have more say over your projects. Part of you envies Chia’s regular schedule, what you had to give up to keep yourself afloat. But part of you knows this is the dance you have to do with your craft: the hectic oscillation between losing yourself in a project and the following period of nothingness to recover. 

You talk until the sky darkens, the creeping beginnings of evening during the winter. The clock has hardly reached six, but you want to whip up a lazy dinner and retire for the evening. The call of Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda is still prevalent. You have a yearning for nostalgia.

So you boot Chiara out of your place—with a promise to see her for the first night of the festival—and claw through your freezer for some pre-prepared meal to heat. You find a crinkly package of stew that brings another round of longing through your heart, reminding you of abuela’s cooking. You know your decision, succumbing easily to a night of swaddling yourself in childhood comforts.

And you do. Half an hour later you are curled on your couch, your fluffiest blanket strewn over your shoulders. You sink into its plushness, the tickles of its fibers brushing your arms and neck. Hot stew rests in your lap while the book rests atop the arm of the sofa, spine worn enough that it rests flat without the assistance of your hand. You soak in the story of Santi's life, his home in Colombia. The simple but beautiful prose paints pictures of beaches and mountains, of boisterous streets striped in vibrant warm hues. You lovingly run your hand against the paper, smoothed and worn, some of the words fading. You take your time, smiling when you imagine the way Santi trips and nearly falls into the massive pond, how it flawlessly reflects the night sky onto the ground.

You set the book down after he and Marco finish their chat through the mirror of the water, the portal crossing worlds—universes. You find your eyes heavy, falling like Santi’s when he rolls along the grass, laying on his back to soak in the stars above.

In the morning you find that your dreams are hazy, not an uncommon occurrence. You frown as you close your eyes again, struggling to recall the scenes you danced through. You were laying in the grass, on the edge of the lake. There were beautiful stars, the kind you only see when you’ve taken trips north to the Alps.

But there was someone with you. A boy, a similar age as your dream self, as Santi and Marco—ten at the oldest. He watched you closely, purposefully. All you can remember were his hair and his eyes: dark. So dark they felt like a void, or a portal. Darker than the night sky.

The earth spins twice and you are preparing for the opening of the festival. It’s a collaboration with the local scene, vendors and entertainers from the city popping up their own tents. Hoshi no Sākasu has a few of their own near the large auditorium top, decorated with streamers and lanterns, selling traditional Japanese desserts and street food. The circus will wander north and then west on its journey through Europe and the Americas. With each stop they’ll invite the festival cultures of each country to meet their own.

You prepare at Chiara’s, her apartment deeper in the city and therefore closer to the Duomo. You begrudgingly pull your costume from the rack in the garage and sleeve it into the garment bag. You roll the length gently before placing it into a box, the soft protective cover scraping against the cardboard. You pull the matching mask and headpiece from their shelves and rest them on top.

The air is chilly when you make your way outside, biting at your exposed forearms. Perfect weather for your costume, and a night of dancing.

You let yourself into Chiara’s, calling out into the warm space. The only response is the ambiance—the thrumming of the heater. You set your box by the door and pull out your costume to hang on the rack, then invite yourself into the hall. Faint rustling sounds from the bathroom, the click of a plastic case, the tap of brushes rolling against each other. You grin and tug on the door.

The sight is not unusual: your friend with a handful of palettes—awkwardly shoved between each finger—and shoveling through her drawer of liners, lipsticks, and brushes. Her organization is as absent as yours, a nightmare to anyone who’s had to work with you both. But it means the two of you understand the chaos of each other’s systems, their inexplicable order.

She grins sharply at you. “Ready to transform?”

“Always.”

You’re dressing as your classic tonight, the guacamaya verde, or the green macaw. Birds are your specialty to begin with, a fixation passed from abuela to you. While she spent most of her time dyeing their silhouettes and features onto hand-woven fabrics, you ode to them in the shapes and details of your costumes. Feathers and beaks and fluttering fabrics like wings always make an appearance on your body during a festival or parade—but the vibrant green is your signature, the reason you chose Verde. 

Chiara sits you in the kitchen to get to work. The makeup is simple, familiar: sparkling green across your eyelids and glitter along your temples. 

She watches you closely as she presses powder against your eyes, the soft edge of the brush drawing the green to reach your temple. Her eyes are wide and her mouth parts, like she has something to say, to ask. You think it’s about the job offer, any new developments on what you think you’ll do with your life moving forward. You don’t implore, and neither does she.

She finishes quickly and leaves to do her own makeup in the bathroom. In her living room you pull the costume from its bag and step out of your clothes. The pants slide on first—long and loose with a cinch above the ankle. The fabric is soft where it brushes your skin, and the brightness of green brings a smile to your face. You slip the top on next, careful to avoid smudging Chiara’s work. Your arms come through the long sleeves slowly, careful not to grab the wrong piece, and shrug your shoulders to settle the garment in place. It’s your favorite part of the outfit, more than the headpiece. Layered fabric runs down your shoulders and arms to your back, expanding like wings when you lift your elbows from your waist. Their pieces flutter against you, like a cape. Tufts of feathers spring from your shoulders to match the headpiece.

You wait until Chiara emerges in her own red version of your costume to put the mask and headpiece on, fixing the wire frame over your face before sliding on the band, unrolling layers of fabric and feathers down the back of your head.

The two of you stroll confidently down the street, the swaying of your feathers and fabric catching the eyes of passersby. You walk along cobblestone paths, warming your body in the cold. The feeling of the soft fabric sliding across your skin, the sway of material cascading through your hair, is almost euphoric. You could skip, swing your arms and twirl, even. But Chiara is stern beside you, raising eyebrows at the giddiness on your face.

You start in defense, “I just—”

“I know,” she cuts you off. “But let's make a fool out of ourselves once we’re around other fools, yeah?”

You want to say that everyone in Milan is a fool. But you walk faster, and you ask about her upcoming clients to distract yourself.

The conversation halts when you reach the entrance of the piazza, eyes gleaming under the lights. Hoshi no Sākasu’s giant tent stands tall on the northern edge, with rows of square stalls spread along the southern half. The sun set a couple hours prior, the blackness of the sky now cradling the illuminated lanterns and string lights. You breathe in the ambiance of the fair, the sounds of vendors talking with customers and squeals of children running along the market rows. You can hear faint live music, the strumming of a guitar and the long notes of the standup bass. 

You squeeze your fists tightly in excitement, calming yourself to keep from sprinting your way to the entrance. 

There is no admission fee, just a few guards to glance at Chiara's bag. You can’t help yourself once you’re inside, and pace through the first line of tents. You stop once you’re fully swept into the sounds, blinking happily as you take in the venue. You don’t know where to start, eyes trailing along the options to make a decision. Most of the vendors are local, but you spot the stall closest to the stage tent, carp lanterns catching your attention. Before you can take a step closer, a hand clutches your wrist.

It’s Chiara, panting. “Shit, you’re like an unleashed dog.”

You grin and let your wrist slip in her grasp to clutch her hand. Then you march along, tugging her behind you. She doesn’t complain, happily following your lead.

Your heart sings as you gravitate towards the carps blowing through the air. You compliment other costumes and you notice, and flourish under the praise you receive for your own. This is what you love, you think. This is why you’re still here in Milan even after abuela passed. The ambiance and the community, the noisiness of vendors and live music streaming through the night.

And admittedly, sometimes you like to indulge in the fantasy of being a performer, for others to look at you and assume you’d be on the stage. 

You spot Kendou—your first sighting of any crew members—just before you make it to their tents. Her hair is what catches your attention, the fiery orange, but your eyes dart to her outfit next. She wears a deep teal dress that resembles a cheongsam, only with longer sleeves that fan out towards the ends. It’s layered with a black laced corset that bursts black feathers from the back, trailing down her dress like a tail. Her face sports a simple mask, the texture twinning her corset, with additional feathers sprouting from the edges and bunching behind her head.

She smiles when she sees you, running to gather you in a hug. You let go of Chiara to return it, and then swiftly introduce them.

“I love your costume,” you tell her. The blend of the Italian corset with the traditional Eastern dress is striking, and a thoughtful bridge between the origins of the circus and their first stop in Milan.

Her eyes shine as she compliments you in return. Chiara watches in amusement as you two ramble about the intent behind your designs, the methodical details. Kendou asks about your strategy for layering the fabric of your wings, while you ask about her process for the feather detailing.

A shout from the tent pulls her attention away, a slew of rough Japanese. She looks at you apologetically. “Sorry, Satou needs me to play messenger. I’ll see you in a bit, yeah?”

You nod. “Any recommendations?” You ask, tilting your head to the stall.

She walks over with you. “Get some noodles, yakisoba or okonomiyaki. Then come back for some taiyaki. Satou’s desserts are the best.”

You take her advice, getting one of each and awkwardly shovel the noodles in your mouths as you stroll along the vendors. You spot other performers and crew, realizing their costumes are all an interesting mix of traditional Japanese styles with European circus garb. You recognize the two smaller women you met after your lunch with Midoriya and wave to them across the crowd. They’re dressed in conventional clown outfits, but softened in pinks and green. The smaller one has a frog mask tied to the side of her head, while the other sports a conical farm hat to contrast pink frills.

After circling back to the stall for taiyaki, your heart starts to pull towards the music. You look at Chiara knowingly.

“Itching to dance?” she asks. 

You nod.

“I’ll be fine,” she tells you. “But I’ll probably leave soon—there’s a bar nearby I haven’t been to yet. Text me if you need anything? And stay at mine if the train isn’t running.”

You squeeze her hand before the two of you part, and then rush towards the music.

The musicians are gathered by the end of the market line, filling the piazza with melodies near the entrance point. People are gathered by the adjacent seating, individuals and couples and families. The windy notes of the accordion settle into your shoulders, moving experimentally to feel out the rhythm. You take another glance around the area and notice nobody is dancing.

Except for a young girl, maybe four or five. She wears a frilly green dress and a plastic Hyottoko mask, the ones sold at the circus’ stall. she jumps excitedly with the sound of the tambourine and flails her arms. You smile at the sight and skip over to her, giving your body a twirl when you’re just a few steps away. She shrieks with giggles, pointing at the faux wings settling down your back. You laugh at her reaction and reach for her hand to guide her through a spin. Your eyes scan the area, looking for her parents, and you wave when you see them.

The camaraderie of your small dance partner is what gives you the confidence to dance freely. Even after living in Milan for years, you still don’t have a grasp on their dance styles. The large, swooping movements are foreign to you, your hips instead naturally searching for the faster patterns of latin rhythms. The girl erupts into another fit of giggles at your movements. She tucks her hands behind her back and kicks her feet forwards in traditional Italian style. You smile and mirror her, the wide fabric of your pants billowing with each drive of your foot.

Eventually the song comes to an end and you stop to take deep breaths. Your body thrums with heat and energy, the beauty of movement. You squat in front of your new friend and raise a hand for her to clap. She does with a grin, and you tell her, “Grazie.”

She runs to her family, squealing as she grabs her father by his leg. He waves before standing, moving to leave. You sigh and twirl yourself again as another song starts, reaching within you to sustain the confidence for a round of dancing alone. You look up as your body slows, taking in the dark, starless sky. Your arm bumps someone and you jolt, “Scusa” already on your tongue.

It dies at the sight before you: another Hoshi no Sākasu member. Aizawa, you think for an instant when you catch dark hair and eyes, scruff along the jaw and lip. But his eyes are wider, sucking you into them with a gravity you’ve never felt before. He’s a little taller and leaner, with a crooked grin you can’t tear your eyes from. He’s charming, in a rough way—an charm of honesty, authenticity. 

Your first thought is that he would look breathtaking draped in silken black fabric, the perfect coupling to the air of mystery that sits about him. Instead he wears a long jesters hat, black and splattered with yellow stars and crescent moons—shapes you just felt yourself missing from the clouded night. He has a Hyottoko mask of his own tied against the side of his head, cheeks puffed and winking. His top reminds you of a kimono, but tucked into harem pants. You smile at the clash of shapes. You love this circus.

“Sorry,” you say instead. The sound is breathless.

His eyebrows raise while his grin widens. You can’t look away. When he speaks you think you can hear the edges of an accent—a  familiar one that blurs your vowels together, one that blankets your own English. “Would you like a partner?”

A smile pulls at your cheeks, one you can’t suppress. “Absolutely.”

You receive an equally large grin in return. It’s cheeky, with a glint of impish whimsy. Your heart races at the touch against your hand, a searing heat that catches you off guard. He steps back, offering a space between you.

“Sorry in advance,” he says. “I’m not so familiar with Italian dances.”

With the accent on his tongue and how he holds your hand in front of him, your mind immediately thinks: salsa. He gives you a mischievous look before pulling you close, slotting his leg between yours. A hand comes to your waist, fiery heat gently pushing along as he takes two quick steps to the side. Your eyebrows jump in amusement, and you can’t stop the laugh from bubbling out of you. Bachata, of course, you think as you raise your free arm to his shoulder. 

The current song is faster than the previous, but still not suitable for the rhythm of your dance. You don’t care, relishing in the feeling of your quick steps and the sway of your hips. He must have noticed your roots when you danced with your small friend. You wonder how the two of you must look, a vibrant exotic bird paired with a clown of three origins. His body moves fluidly with yours, hips and torso and arms gliding like the smooth curve of a wave. You fall into the feeling of him, his hands as they carefully trace under the fabric of your wings to rest by your shoulder blades. They’re so warm, solid fire tracing your skin. You take the signal, throwing your head back in a swoop that he supports. You thank your lifelong experience of costuming when you lift your head and both the headpiece and mask are still attached.

He grins sharply before his eyes narrow in a playful challenge. You feel his hand drag yours upwards, preparing to spin, and you follow his lead, twirling in three full circles. The flowing fabric of your costume billows around you, trailing your movements like an afterimage. As his hand lowers, it cradles your neck before returning to your waist, holding you close against him as you continue to step in tandem, bodies nearly molded into one another.

The song lets your body flow freely, following his guidance. You think you’re somewhere you’ve never been before, high in the clouds, between stars. It isn’t until the song ends and his dancing halts that you realize the world has momentarily faded away—only to remember that you are still on earth. Your chest heaves gently, catching your breath as you stare intently at your dance partner. His face is flushed, and a meaningful smile is plastered across it. His eyes are shining, longing for something. He almost looks nervous, the opposite of his confidence when he asked you to dance.

He’s about to speak when a shout breaks his eyes from yours, looking past you. You turn to the sound, letting your body part from him, to see another crewmember: a blonde waving your way. With disappointment in your heart you step back, giving him his opening to leave. The hand on yours clutches tighter when you start to slip away. Your stomach tightens.

He turns to you, eyes sharp as they stare into yours. A wave of conflict rushes over his face. Confusion sweeps through you. You’re sad to part too, but he looks almost desperate. You don’t know why.

His hold loosens, moving to press his palm against the back of your hand, tracing the front with his thumb. He slips the one on your waist to meet your palm, now holding your hand over his chest as if in prayer. His touch is soft, a little clammy. His eyes linger on your fingertips thoughtfully before coming to your face. They stare deeply, curiously. You start to feel embarrassed under his gaze, at how he seems to know something you don’t. Your body buzzes with a feeling you can’t describe.

“Thank you,” he finally says. A sad smile spreads across his lips.

You blink in confusion at his words, but ultimately nod. “Of course. Thank you, too.”

He drops your hand and starts to turn away. He pauses and looks back with his mouth ajar, like he’s going to add something. But he stops, then furrows his eyebrows as he looks down to the pavement. You aren’t sure what’s going on, or if you should ask. You decide to say something, in hopes to ease him.

“I’ll see you around,” you add. 

He blinks in surprise, eyes jumping back to you. A small smile spreads across his face, releasing tension in your chest you didn’t know was resting there.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll see you.” 

Your eyes trail the long points of his hat, watching curiously as the blond meets him halfway. You sigh and turn to the musicians, their cluster near the market tent. You resist the urge to look back, to see the man who held you so passionately. You listen for a few moments as the song floats by, the steady rhythm of the tambourine.

But now that you’re alone, you have no motivation to dance.

thank you for reading! any feedback or love is appreciated <3

i've done quite a bit of research into the cirque process/behind the scenes and i can't find much on costuming, so a lot of this is based on my own experience (not in costumes but very adjacent). every production/company has their own way of doing things though so it would probably vary.

the word "sākasu" is pronounced "sah-kah-soo" or more commonly: "sah-kah-s" since the "u" in "su" is often dropped. this also can be read as the word "circus" with a japanese accent, which is literally just how katakana works. it's not essential to the story, but i just felt like it might be important to mention.