#cw: violence (non-graphic)

[aplaceinthedark]

chapter ten: DOWN in HELL AFTER ALL

Summary: Down in the Shenandoah Valley, there lay a court consisting of the Grim, the Drowned, the Witch and the Watcher.

CW: supernatural themes, alcohol consumption, bodily injury, body horror, graphic violence, religious trauma, blood, physical assault, minor character death

Every chapter will have a different cw section. This is Bad Omens rpf, so obviously I don't know all the little nuances of the members or their family members.

A/N: Some things are color-coded. If any of you are colorblind lemme know. 

I breathed in, eyes slowly opening, feeling warm and…. enveloped. It was the only way I could describe the fullness I felt. Wrapped in a sweet, earthy scent, the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes fully was a tattoo of an eye, a spiderweb, and a rose on a tan neck. And that’s when I realized I was naked. In my bed. With a man.

No, not just a man; Nick. And I was… happy?

The anxiety and unsureness crept in. Barely two weeks had passed since I met him, and last night just… happened. Were we moving too fast? I mean, I sure as hell had no regrets, but… what if he did?

My eyes fell to his chest, where I finally could get a proper look at the lonely tattoo. It was a simple circle made of thorns with occasional gaps, done in a golden ink that somehow looked like liquid gold. I gently traced my finger around it.

Nick made a noise, stirring at last. I tried to snatch my hand away, but he moved the hand that had been tucked up above his head to take my hand and place it back on his chest.

“G’morning,” he groaned, his low voice raspy with sleep.

“Morning,” I said quietly.

“You doing okay?” he asked. His thumb started running circles on my hand, and I felt his other rub circles on my shoulder. I practically melted into his touch.

“Mmhmm,” I hummed.

“Good, good…” His voice trailed off. I felt him shift under the covers.

My eyes were pulled back to the circlet. “You’ll have to tell me about your tattoos sometime,” I said, my finger tracing the golden thorns again. I could see a trail of goosebumps left in its wake.

“That one… That’s for the Court,” he said. He chuckled quietly. “We used to call ourselves the Bad Omens, y’know?”

“No. Why’d you call yourselves that?”

“Because it’s considered a bad omen to see the others. Y’know, like a black cat crossing your path?” Nick said. “Needless to say, we don’t go by that name anymore.”

“I don’t know, it sounds kind of neat,” I admitted.

“Well you’re the only one.”

I swatted at his chest, and he chuckled again, squeezing my shoulders and kissing my forehead. My anxiety from earlier melted away.

Nick slowly trailed kisses down my face until he reached my lips, where he hovered for a few seconds before lightly pecking once, twice. On the third time, he lingered, licking the seam between like a plea for entrance. I had just opened my mouth when he let out a groan of frustration.

I pulled away. “What? What is it?”

“Noah… is out front,” Nick said, slightly out of breath. His lips crashed back down onto mine before pulling away again.

“If he’s going to keep interrupting, then we might as well see what he wants,” I said.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Nick sighed forcefully. Noah was about to get an earful.

Nick scrambled to pick up his clothes and put them on as I picked through my dresser for some shorts and a tank top. After I was done changing, I turned around, catching him staring. The way he was looking at me, I was certain he was about to make Noah wait a little bit more, but he then tore his gaze away and walked out.

Noah was indeed waiting on the front porch, drinking the now-warm beer I had left for him last night. To my surprise, Folio was with him. Of course, no Jolly.

Before I could ask, Folio sniffed. "You smell like sex."

Nick sighed as Noah choked on a sip. "You must be a delight at parties," I said.

"I wouldn’t know, since I’ve never been to one." He grinned.

Shockingly, Noah has remained quiet, which I thought was odd since he was so insistent that we got up. I couldn’t tell if he was conversing with Nick in his mind. Which was mildly infuriating, to be honest.

But as Nick pulled out a carton of cigarettes from his back pocket, he spoke aloud, “Spit it out. What’s so important that you had to drag us out of bed?”

“Well, I was going to tell you last night, when we were supposed to meet up. But you guys sounded busy,” Noah said, peering over his shoulder at the last word. My face grew hot.

“Well, you’re here now,” Nick said, a slight edge creeping into his voice. Noah’s eyes flashed, but it was only for a fleeting moment as he turned back around.

I glanced over at Folio, who had just glanced over at me, because when our eyes connected, he just made a face and shrugged. Yeah, that made two of us.

“We searched through the valley last night, but found no trace of any cult activity… or anything, for that matter,” Folio said.

“So if they are meeting, it’s not in the forest,” Noah said.

“They might be meeting in town,” Nick said. “They might’ve learned from their predecessors that they can’t exactly do their dirt work out in the woods.”

My gaze wandered up, and my eyes caught on my security camera. “Fuck! I forgot about that!” I exclaimed. I ran back into the house to grab my phone. I mindlessly scrolled through the app’s footage as I headed back to the porch.

“What are you freaking out about now?” Noah asked. I shot him a look and then pointed above my head to the doorway.

“I might’ve gotten a shot of the people who came to my door yesterday,” I said, going back to scrolling through footage. “Nick, you wouldn’t happen to know the person if I showed you, would you?”

“I mean, probably, yeah,” he said, exhaling a puff of smoke.

“Granted, I don’t know how good it’ll be, since there were a few nights when it would go offline and—“

“That was me,” Noah said.

My head shot up. “That was—“

“Well, couldn’t have you spying on me while I snuck onto your front porch now, could I?” Noah stated.

“Hold up.” Nick grabbed my arm, bringing me back to my phone. “Yeah, I know them.”

I scrolled back the footage until two men’s bodies walked up to the door. And one of them—

“He was the guy at the restaurant last Sunday!” I gasped.

“Should’ve realized something was up when he babbled about the Watcher,” Nick muttered. It was then his turn to go indoors. He came back out with his keys.

“You’re not gonna fight him, are you?” I asked incredulously.

Nick gave me a “don’t be ridiculous” look. “No, I’ve got to get back to Granny’s anyways. I forgot to let her know I wouldn’t be back last night,” he said.

“Dude, you’re 30,” Folio said, making Nick roll his eyes.

“Yes, I know that. I’m also a respectful grandson.”

“Hold on, I’m coming too,” I said.

“Relax, I’m not gonna fight the guy. Once I smooth things over with Granny, I’ll be back.” He kissed my forehead. “Don’t let them bully you.”

With that, he hopped off the porch and walked to his car, which the three of us watched drive off. I then turned to the two men.

“Would you like to come in?”

Folio was the first one in, bounding in and immediately lying on the couch. A part of me wanted to scold him for putting his muddy feet on my couch, but I immediately realized that this was probably the first time he’d been on a couch in ten years. So I let it slide.

Noah didn’t linger. His long strides took him immediately toward the back of my house. Confused, I followed.

“Your family lived here?” I asked.

“Just me and my mom,” Noah said, nudging open my bedroom door with the toe of his boot.

“There’s not a bomb in there,” I said.

“No, something else is in here—“ he said, waltzing in. He made a beeline for my dresser.

“Dude, what are—“ I winced as he easily moved my dresser away from the wall, the sound of scraping wood like nails on a chalkboard. He then pressed on the wall, partially lifting up a section of the wood paneling. “What are you doing?”

He inserted long fingers into the gap and pulled the panel free. Like he’s done this before. “Relax, little rabbit, I’m not ruining the property value of our house,” he said.

“I told you, don’t call me that,” I said, holding my arms over my chest. I watched as he shoved his whole arm into the hole; my mouth popped open when he pulled out a small lockbox. “How long ha—“

“I put it here when I had my doubts about Elin,” Noah said. “I didn’t even tell Nick about this.” He flicked the latch open.

Inside were papers: notebook pages, sketchbook pages, pages torn from books. There was also some little trinkets and ephemera, stuff I didn’t get a good look at before he scooped them up and shoved them into his jacket pocket. He set the empty box on the floor.

“Come on, Folio. We’ve got what we needed,” he said.

“What?” Folio and I said at the same time. Noah unfolded himself and drew up to his full height before he strided out of my bedroom. “Where are you going?”

“Nothing that concerns you, little rabbit,” Noah said.

“Yes, it does!” I shouted. “If… That’s technically my property! Everything in this house technically—“

Noah stopped dead, and I ran right into him. It was like running right into a tree; he didn’t seem that broad with all those layers of clothes. In a semi-dazed state, I was barely aware of him turning around and grabbing me by the throat.

“Hey, No—“ Folio started.

Noah growled, spitting out words that sounded similar to those he had used to command Folio earlier. They must’ve been the same, because Folio stalked outside, but not before he shot me an apologetic look.

“Wh-What are—“ I choked out.

“Listen, just because you fucked Nick once doesn’t mean you’re a part of our little club,” Noah spat out. “So do us all a favor, and keep out of our business, because it’s about to get very, very bloo—“

Noah’s words stopped dead, and he let out a choked noise. He let go of me, and I dropped to the ground, gasping for breath.

Just then, Folio rushed back in. “What? What happened?” he demanded.

“Nick. Something happened to Nick.”

It was like a living nightmare at Granny's. The rainy, late morning on the street was wrecked by flashing lights of cop cars, ambulances and whatever else. The only car I had eyes for was Nick's, and it was motionless in the driveway.

The block was cordoned off by tape and the policemen, so there was no way I could get close to see the damage.

ANYTHING YET?

I gritted my teeth together. I had sped as fast as I could in my car, while Noah and Folio ran through the forest. Something about they couldn't get in my car; not that I wanted them to, not after the shit that Noah pulled. And now, despite hurting me, here he was trying to get a vantage point from me.

HEY. ANSWER ME.

I tried to remain focused on the scene before me, though my dark thoughts were a mess in–

ANSWER ME.

A sharp pain pierced behind my eyes at his command. Fuck you, I don't answer to you!

GET OVER YOURSELF. THERE'S MORE AT STAKE HERE.

God, you think I want anything to do with you? First you pretended to be nice to get inside my house, then you tried to kill me, and now you're all buddy-buddy because Nick might be in trouble? Fuck you.

There was a presence behind me, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I peered behind me and nearly jumped. "Jesus!" I hissed.

"A lot of people say that when they see me," Jolly said. He was wearing a shirt now, and sunglasses blocked his translucent eyes.

"I thought you couldn't leave the river," I whispered. We were in the middle of a crowd after all.

"Rain."

"Really? That's how you can leave the river?"

"Well, this is a really good reason to be away, ya?"

I turned back to Granny's house. "They haven't come out of there yet. I can't tell if Nick's in there or not."

OH, YOU'LL TELL JOLLY WHAT'S GOING ON, BUT NOT ME–

Quiet! I snapped at Noah. Out of the three of you, Jolly hasn't tried to kill me!

HILARIOUS, CONSIDERING HIS BODY COUNT.

I brushed aside that comment. "Is there a way to shut him out?" I asked.

Instead of answering me, Jolly lightly gripped my chin and turned my head to face the house. Where they were bringing out a stretcher. And a covered body.

"Nick–" I jolted forward, but Jolly grabbed my arm. His grip was cold and clammy, and it made my mind reel.

"That's not Nick," Jolly said.

"Then–" Oh god.

Granny.

My stomach plummeted. Possibilities ran wild through my head, but I kept my eyes on the door, half-expecting Nick to also walk out. But my eyes were drawn back to the body as the EMTs loaded the stretcher into the ambulance. They then closed the doors and drove off. Surely Nick would've gone with her if he–

NICK'S NOT IN THERE

There was a terrifying edge to Noah's tone. With how he'd treated me, I had forgotten that he could care for someone other than himself. Granny had probably been a family member to him, as much as she was to Nick.

That's when I saw something flash in the corner of my eyes. Little eyes reflecting light under nearby bushes. With all the doors opening, they must've escaped while no one was looking.

“Come on, vännen. Let's go. There's nothing for us here," Jolly said. Which couldn't be true. Granny was the first person in this town to take pity on me. There had to be something I could do–

“Shit. Hold on,” I said practically leaving Jolly in the dust. I managed to sneak past the few policemen, which wow, they sucked, and crouched near the bushes.

“Jerry... Lydia... c’mere!” I said quietly, and making the cat-attraction sound. It took a lot of coaxing, and maybe the recognized me or the slight scent of Nick, but eventually I managed to make my way back to Jolly with an armful of cats.

“Okay, let's go."

With Lydia and Jerry safely tucked away in my room, cuddled on the side of the bed Nick had slept in, I came out of my room to see only Folio in my house.

“Taylor, I'm sorry about–”

“You couldn't help it,” I muttered. “Was that word he used a command you had to follow?” He nodded. “Then forget it. We have more important things to worry about.”

Suddenly Folio shoved his way in between us. “Seriously? Fuckin’ fighting when something bad might've happened to Nick?" he shouted. “His grandma is dead, he's nowhere to be found. We need to find out where he is.”

I trekked outside, where the rain was absolutely pouring, and Noah stood on my front porch.

“How long have you loved him?" I asked.

“I'm not dignifying that–”

“Answer the question, Davis,” I spat out venomously. “Don't fuck with me right now. I've seen how you look at Nick. Just because you're jealous–”

“Jealous?” Noah hissed, towering over me. “Jealous of what, you? You've barely known him for a week! You think you know Nick? I've known him for fifteen years."

“And you think killing me was going to... what? Clear the way? You were the one trying to get me to stay. You were the one who told me he was lonely. So tell me.. what do you want?" I angrily demanded.

“I wanted you to stay, I didn't say fuck his brains out,” Noah hissed.

“Well guess what? He was the one who initiated. And you know what? It was the best sex I've ever–"

“Jolly,” Noah said, tearing his eyes away from mine. Jolly, who had been sitting in front of the porch this whole time, turned his head towards Noah, “see if you can find anything. You're free to search as long as the rain holds.”

Jolly nodded, standing up and taking off into the woods. I was sad to see him go, as he was the one I didn't feel like was going to kill me in the future.

"Why would he be in the woods?” Folio asked.

"This has the cult written all over it,” Noah said.

My stomach churned. “Why would they want Nick? It's way past the Summer Solstice,” I said.

"That's one thing I can't figure out," Noah muttered. “Granny's death was definitely not natural; Grannies can live way past a hundred years old.”

“Wait, Granny wasn't just a nickname?” I asked.

"No, Granny is a title in their practice. She just happened to be Nick's grandmother as well." Noah said.

“Can't you just... see where he is? Through your mind-talking power?” I asked.

Noah sighed. “I tried. I can't get a feel for him. Which is another reason why I don't think he's okay.”

Something in my stomach fluttered. It’s been hours since Nick left. If something happened to him, it could already be too late. For what though, I had no clue. I was absolutely stumped.

Maybe Noah was right. I barely knew Nick. What claim do I really have over him? I was just someone who stumbled into their territory unwillingly. I hadn’t grown up scared of the townspeople possibly coming after me. I was a stranger.

I was lost.

I leaned back against the house and slowly crumbled to the ground, folding in on myself. What could I even do? I didn’t have magic powers or the ability to change into a form more suited for this. I was just a regular human, someone who couldn’t even decide what gender they wanted to be.

“Hey.”

That’s when I felt hands on my shoulders. I looked up, Folio crouched next to me, but it was Noah who was talking. “We’ll find him,” he said.

“Not for me,” I muttered.

“Maybe not," he said, shrugging, “but let's handle this one problem at a time.”

“We can find the guy who was in the footage," Folio said.

“I don't know where he lives,” I said.

“I do,” Noah said. “And he has easy access to the forest."

“You should... probably stay here,” Folio said, patting me on the shoulder.

“Why?" I demanded.

"I told you it was going to get bloody, didn’t I?” Noah said, standing up. And I’m not going to hold back with Nick's life on the line.”

I swallowed. At least he was warning me. “Fine. Do what you do," I said.

“Oh, we fully plan on it," Noah said, grinning. I swore I could hear twigs snapping with the movement.

Tysm for reading! Next chapter coming soon!

[merlinbingo]

Dreams Upon the Dunes by s0mmerspr0ssen Ship: Merlin/Arthur/Gwen, Merlin/Arthur, Arthur/Gwen Main Characters: Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, Rape/non-con Major tags: Apocalypse AU, Modern AU, Morally Grey Arthur, Awesome Gwen, Abused Merlin Summary: On the day Arthur was born, it rained. It would be the last time.

[pencil-n-pen]

ALL I DO IS TRY, TRY, TRY

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post prison! spencer x genius fem! reader

masterlist | ko-fi | next

summary: all your life, you’ve been second-best. Even now that you’ve been chosen to be an agent of the BAU, you’re just a replacement for Spencer Reid. What could change now that’s he’s out?

cw: there is a bit of an age gap, i imagined reader in her early to mid 20’s, nevermind how it isn’t accurate for working at FBI. this is a criminal minds fic, so there are graphic depictions of violence, as well as implied/referenced child neglect/abuse in readers childhood, reader is somewhat a genius

tropes/tags: slowburn on readers end, Spencer is flirting from the beginning, HURT/COMFORT, angst, bit of a sick fic in one scene, bit of soft dom! spencer as a treat

a/n : this came to me in a prophecy. full disclosure i haven’t actually seen the prison arc yet so if there’s any inaccuracies shhhhhh look at the fluff

also !! this is a LOOOOONG one. strap yourselves in. grab snacks and drinks

slipped in some very slight father figure Hotch bc that’s my crack

title taken from Mirrorball by Taylor Swift

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Spencer Reid is absolutely nothing like you’d thought he’d be.

From how the team talked about him, you’d been expecting a short, slight man. Someone quiet and meek and non-threatening.

And Dr. (Agent?) Reid was quiet. But not in the don’t-notice-me way, but in the I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-don’t-need-to-say-it way. He quietly commanded attention and respect. One look at the man told you he was not somebody to fuck with.

He was also really, really, really hot.

It was unfortunate and difficult, truly, because he’s your senior agent, someone who’s got more than a few years on you in both field experience and general age. He’s a genius- insanely good at what he does and there’s no refuting that.

But most of all, he’s kind and respectful and just genuinely a good person. And also good looking. Did you mention that yet?

He clicks seamlessly into place with the team in a way you’ve never managed to do in the time you’ve been with him. And after all, why would you? You’re just the rookie transfer with a bit higher than average IQ. Nothing to brag about. Nothing like Spencer.

You were a data analyst with the FBI before your boss told you: “The BAU is looking for a temporary genius. I put your name in the ring. Hotchner must’ve been impressed with something, cause he picked you. I know you’ve completed the training courses for their team, so pack your desk. You’ve got a new assignment.”

And just like that, every single one of your dreams came true. And then promptly burst into flames and burned to ashes when you realized what exactly your position on the team was: Temporary and replacing.

It makes sense, you guess. The team grew to rely on Reid’s quick wit and intellect. And beyond that, they’re an agent short. And you fit the bill well enough: swift and intelligent. Nothing more, nothing less. It became clear during the first few weeks that no one on the team had any intention of liking or particularly getting to know you beyond a professional capacity. And you get it, you really do. You don’t name the dog you’re gonna get rid of.

With the exception of Penelope. But you don’t think she has the ability to ignore someone without a clear reason.

So you did your job and you were good at it. Held the team at arm’s length even when they warmed up to you. Kept your head down, stuck to yourself. This way, it’s easier to stop yourself from leaning into JJ and Prentiss’s jokes, or to stamp down the glow in your chest from Hotch’s approval.

All of this hard work goes sailing straight out the window and spattering on the concrete below when Reid comes back. Because all it took was one case together- one. And then you’re hopelessly in love with the guy you replaced.

And it’s all kinds of terrible, because it’s Reid. He’s not only your coworker —soon to be ex, because now that he’s back you’ll be out of a job— but he’s also so incredibly out of your league it’s not even funny. But he keeps smiling at you and including you in conversations and saying hi to you and asking your opinion on things during cases as if you would have more to add than he does.

It’s very hard to keep him at arms length. And because Reid is Reid he drags everybody else over with him and then you’re bonding with a team you have a week left with, maybe two.

Spencer Reid has weaseled his way into your life one stupid smile at a time.

—

The case is going terribly.

What started as a run-of-the-mill serial killer case in some nowhere town turned into huge investigation because Spe— Reid figured out its relation to a cold case from a neighboring town decades prior. And then, to top everything off, just so happens to be near enough to your hometown that your mom saw you on the news when JJ was giving a statement.

And now she won’t stop calling.

Prior to this, you haven’t talked to your mom in about seven months. Now? She’s calling upwards of twelve times a day.

“Mom,” You say, tucked in one of the police stations back rooms, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I’m working, I can’t just come out to see you—“

“But you’ve never visited! And your finally in town, and—“

“I’m not in town, I’m a four hour drive away from town.”

A sigh crackles through the line, her voice tinny. “You know, your brother always made time to visit family, and your younger brothers—“

“Are younger than me and more successful, yes mom, I’ve heard it all before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to catch a serial killer.”

You snap the phone shut before she can protest, effectively ending the call. You sag against the wall, sighing deep and weary. Exhaustion clings to your bones. It’s not just your mom. This case, being physically close to your hometown, everything— it’s weighing you down. You spend more time in the hotel bed tossing and turning than sleeping.

Even Em— Prentiss had shot you look when you’d came in this morning- though jury’s still out about whether or not it was an are-you-okay look or a you-better-be-good-for-the-case look. You’re hoping it’s the former.

The room you’re in is empty- the precinct that called for the team went under renovation and remodeling last year, so some of the rooms have fallen into disuse, apparently. It’s dusty, and filled with boxes and papers and weirdly, one or two condom wrappers. You wish you were surprised.

Your phone has been put strongly on silent, and you’re not expecting anyone to find you for at least twenty minutes. Of course, you don’t need twenty minutes. You just need five.

You just need to collect yourself for a moment. A few minutes to breathe, to get your mom’s words and the unpleasant memories they bring out of your head; to will the shake out of your hands and the cold creeping in your lungs.

So when the door opens, you nearly jump out of your skin.

Spencer walks in, phone clasped in one hand and a worried expression on his face.

“We’re getting ready to give the profile.”

“Oh,” You peel yourself off the wall, discreetly wiping at your face. You hadn’t noticed the frustrated tears carving lines down your face, “Sorry, I’m coming.”

He frowns as you come closer, and panic begins to beat like a drum in your chest.

“Is Hotch upset? I just had to take a call, I thought it would—“

“Slow down,” He says, raising his hands. “Hotch isn’t upset. Is something wrong?”

“No,” You say quickly, too quickly, because his frown deepens.

“You’ve been taking a lot more calls recently and you’re always upset after they’re over. Is someone bothering you?”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “My mom. We’re a four hour drive away from my hometown. She saw me on the news when JJ gave her statement.”

Something flashes in his eyes when you say your mother, but it’s gone before you can decipher it.

“You don’t want to see her.”

He says it flat-toned and blank. Like it’s a fact.

It is a fact.

“No,” You confess, “I’ve never been close with my parents. I haven’t spoken to her beyond a text in years, and I haven’t texted her in months. Then she sees me on the news and I’m back on her radar again.”

You chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, the folly of the disappointing daughter.”

He tilts his head, questioning. “You’ve made something of yourself. You’re a special agent. That’s not nothing.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not Doctor or Lawyer or C.E.O or anything else my brothers or cousins have made of themselves, so,” You shrug. “Disappointing.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Spencer says, a small curl to his lips, “You keep all of those stupid people safe by catching serial killers.”

“You’re a doctor. Did you just call yourself stupid?”

He shrugs, mimicking your earlier action. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”

You look down to hide the smile on your face but he ducks down, catching it anyway.

“Hey,” He says, eyes catching yours, “If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

You (hesitantly) look up to meet his gaze. “Thanks, Reid.”

His face does something weird. Contorts at the words, just for a second. Like he just bit into something sour.

And then it’s gone.

“Of course.”

—

For the rest of the case, everytime your phone rings, Spencer looks at you. You’re getting close to just throwing the damn thing off a roof, if it’ll convince him to stop looking at you like that. You don’t know what to do with it. The look he gives you tastes like worry, and you don’t know what to do about Spencer Reid worrying about you.

You never meet his gaze. You know he’s looking, but you never look back.

Finally, the case comes to an end. Actually, it goes out in a literal blaze of glory— the unsub lights his kill shed on fire.

All of it would have burned to ash if you hadn’t run into the structure and and snatched the murder weapon and the most damning pieces of evidence: the printed photographs the unsub took with the victims.

It’s a win because you saved the evidence.

It’s a loss because Hotch looks pissed while the paramedics check you over.

Well. You assume he looks pissed. You’re staring resolutely at your shoes.

Finally, the paramedic gives you the all clear —just some minor burns here and there, you got lucky— and you no longer have a human buffer and excuse to avoid talking.

The silence stretches out between you two. Eventually, you cave.

“Hotch, I’m sorry—“

He holds a hand up and you clamp your jaw shut.

“Did you not hear me give the order to stay back?”

“I just thought—“

“We are a team, agent. I need to be able to trust not only that you’re going to follow my orders but be able to work together with the team. Now, you’re not doing either of those things.”

You frown. “I do follow your orders.”

He sighs. “You didn’t today. And more importantly, you’re not acting like a member of this team. You don’t call for backup. You don’t ask for help. You do good profiling work, agent. But if you can’t work with this team then we might need to reconsider your position here.”

That… doesn’t make any sense.

Hotch catches the confusion on your face. “Something wrong, agent?”

“I just— I was under the impression that I would only be working with the team for a few more weeks…?”

Now it’s his turn to look confused. “You may have been hired at an inopportune time, and until the first year is over it is a probationary basis, but pending review, you are and always have been a permanent member of this unit.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t think you’d be staying for long.”

You shake your head, your world turned on its head.

He hums. “You should buy earplugs. Rossi snores.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“And agent?”

You look up.

“You did good work today. You have a team. Learn to use them.”

He walks away, leaving you to process this crisis-inducing information.

So. You’re not leaving the team. You’re a profiler. Forever. This is your job now.

So does that mean you weren’t replacing Spencer? So why were you hired? Anything you can do multiple people on the team can do better. Why would Hotch pick you?

You stare at the pavement, which gives you a perfect view to watch Spencer’s shoes walk into view and hear him settle next to you.

“You’re a little young to be having a mid-life crisis.”

It takes you an embarrassingly long time to respond, partly because you’re not sure what to say, but also, the length of his thigh is pressed against yours and it’s hard to think when he’s emanating warmth and you can’t stop yourself from thinking about how it would feel to touch, skin to skin.

“Well,” You croak, “I did just get some pretty big news.”

He leans back on his hands, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Looking up at him was a mistake. Bathed in the glow of the ambulance and the light from the moon, you can see just how long his eyelashes are, and how his lips move when he says your name.

Oh shit.

“Sorry, what?”

His face twitches in a smile. “I asked if you were okay. You were staring.”

You flush from your neck to the tips of your ears. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

See, he always does this. Most people would end the conversation there and move on. And that’s fine. It’s normal. But Spencer asks. Like he’s interested.

You shrug. “I thought… I thought I was leaving the team in a few weeks. Turns out i’m staying.”

He starts swinging his legs on the edge of the ambulance, though where his almost brush the ground, yours swing several inches above it. “Why did you think you were leaving?”

You laugh softly. “My boss told me the position was temporary. And in my excitement of getting it I may or may not have… not read the paperwork?”

He clicks his tongue. “Oh, honey.”

The tips of your ears burn. “I was excited!”

“To get a job staring at gruesome crime photos?”

“To help people.”

“What? Data analysis not helping people enough?”

“Do I even have to answer that?”

He snorts, his body shaking against yours. “You’re a consulting analyst. That’s the big leagues.”

Now it’s your turn to huff. “Is there a big leagues for data analysis?”

He leans his head down to look at you. “Well, maybe miss smarty-pants over here made a league of her own.”

The shade of red you turn must be visible, dark and bad lighting aside. “You have an IQ of 187. Can you really call me a smarty-pants?”

He tilts his head, giving you an assessing look. You recognize it. He gives case files the same look.

A faint shudder runs down the length of your spine at that precise, clinical gaze.

It should concern you, unnerve you.

It doesn’t.

“No, I’m positive. You’re a smarty-pants.”

You look away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.

“Hey, no. Come on, you gotta own up to being a smarty-pants. Otherwise you ruin the effect.”

“Am I supposed to start wearing sweaters and Converse, then?”

“Well, that wouldn’t be owning the smarty-pants look.”

“Do we have to keep the smarty-pants thing going?”

“Took your mind off the burns, didn’t it?”

You blink, realizing that you haven’t noticed the dull sting of the minor burns littering your body for a few minutes now.

But that has less to do with Spencer speaking and more to do with the fact that he’s here. Touching you. If you focus really hard, you can feel the chords of muscle lining his arm.

“Uh,” You stutter, momentarily flabbergasted by the way he’s looking at you. Like it’s important to him— you not being in pain. “Yeah, yeah, I guess. Well. I feel them now.”

“Oh, shame. I guess we’ll just have to keep talking.”

You furrow your brows. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Shouldn’t you be helping finish wrapping up the case?”

He shrugs. “I’m right where I want to be.”

That’s a decidedly very loaded statement that are not going to unpack.

You’re not going to unpack to jolt of pure electricity you feel from it, either.

—

You may or may not have lied about just how sick you were, exactly.

“You know,” Rossi says after you hack a cough into your elbow for what has to be the fiftieth time in as many minutes, “That’s starting to sound less like the plague and more like desperation.”

You sniff harshly, taking a swig of cough syrup and praying this isn’t the king with codeine in it. You didn’t read the label very well. “What do you mean?”

Prentiss raises an eyebrow. “He’s saying that most people on their veritable death/bed opt to sleep comfortably in their own beds in their own homes rather than on a plane to hunt down a violent killer.”

You think if your apartment— it’s cozy, at least, but still a glaring reminder of the reason you told Hotch you were fine to come in- loneliness.

You have heated blankets and warm lighting and books and tea —boxes and boxes of tea— and all manner of things that make you happy. But no amount of things can replace, tangible human connection.

You knew the ache of spending the day in your apartment would sting worse than the cold. Fever, Whatever you have.

“I’m thinking of a word,” JJ says, mock tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Starts with work, ends with holic.”

“I am not a workaholic,” you wheeze. “I am fine.”

“Yes,” Prentiss says, raising her other eyebrow. Oh no. Not the double eyebrow raise. “Because this is exactly what the picture of health looks like.”

To avoid answering, you take another swig of cough medicine.

“Just do you know,” Spencer says, “You’re about one tiny sip of that away from overdosing. I’d cool it on the cough syrup.”

“But I’m still coughing.”

“Have you given it any time to work?”

“It’s been thirty-ish minutes since I took the first dose.”

He levels you with a look at your usage of dose. “Why don’t you wait a little longer before committing suicide via shallow breathing and seizures.”

You wave a hand. “It’s fine. I know how to take care of myself when I’m sick.”

“Is your version of taking care of yourself just continuously taking medicine until the symptoms become bearable?”

“You’re un-bearable.” You snort at your play on words, but grow quiet because when you look up, the entire team is looking at you. “What?”

“You never joke.” JJ says.

“And I think I’ve heard you laugh exactly two times, and I’m pretty sure one of them was a sneeze.” Rossi says, a look of vague disbelief on his face.

You squirm in place. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Uh, yeah it is. You’re definitely too sick to be on a case if you’re laughing.”

“Come on, it was barely a chuckle—“

Spencer looks around. “Yeah, what’s the big deal? I’ve heard her laugh before.”

JJ and Prentiss snap their heads to him in tandem. “What?”

Now he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”

“That’s cause you showed up late to the party,” Em- Prentiss says, “You didn’t meet her when she first came. She was all genius consulting data analyst.”

“I wouldn’t call myself a genius—“

“Yeah,” JJ chimes in, “I only ever saw her smile to be polite.”

“Wait,” Prentiss says, brows pinched, “You heard her laugh and you didn’t tell us? You knew we were trying to see who would make her break first.”

“You guys were trying to make me laugh? Is that what was happening all that time? I almost called Hotch like, thirty times because I was concerned for you guy’s mental wellbeing. I thought you’d had a nervous breakdown.”

JJ snorts. “Nope. Just tried to see if the rumors were true about all data analysts being robots.”

You cough into your elbow. “You guys make it seem like I was some sort of frigid bitch.”

“Frigid, yes. Bitch, no.”

“Hey!” You retort, then wince as the volume of your own voice makes your head pound harder and makes your throat sting worse, “I wasn’t that bad. Also, I was nervous! I’m the youngest person here by like, a long shot. I wanted to be professional.”

“I for one enjoyed it,” Rossi cuts in, “It was all blunt business. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush or gossiping. A few people here could learn a thing or two.”

“See?” You gesture. “Rossi agrees with me.”

Just about everyone on the plane gives you the exact same look. Hotch especially, who’s stayed silent during the entire exchange, looks troubled.

Once you land (an ordeal that normally doesn’t bother you, but today, had you worshipping the porcelain altar) Hotch pulls you aside.

“Agent,” He says before you climb into the car that’ll take you to the police precinct, “I can’t have an agent not at peak performance on this case.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re too sick to work this case—“

“No, no, I can work, I can do it—“

“—In the field. You’re working from the station until we wrap up. Understood?”

You sigh, knowing when you’re beat. “Understood.”

He gazes at you for a second. “You might want to call out of work entirely the next time you’re sick, you know. The less time you spend resting the longer it’ll take to get better. I expect to see you taking care of yourself at the precinct.”

You blink. “Are you… dad-ing me?”

He almost smiles. “Well, I am a father. It’s bound to come out sometimes.”

The joke soothes your concerns of him being upset with you (again.) You suppose it would’ve been warranted —Hotch never gets upset without a reason— but still. He’s the only one you occasionally struggle to read.

The good news is by the time you make it to the station, your medicine has kicked in.

The bad news is when you get to the station your medicine has kicked in.

“Spencer,” You say, spinning in a spinny chair and staring at his blurry face. “Did you know that elephants have prehensile—“

“Do not finish that sentence.” He says, glancing back at the team, all in various stages of concern, disgust, amusement, and annoyance. “Did you take non-drowsy cough medicine?”

“Yes! I didn’t want to be tired.”

He scrubs a tired hand down his face, then nudges a sealed water bottle across the table to you. “Drink that.”

You wrinkle your nose. “But my throat hurts.”

“Drink it anyway.”

You snatch the water bottle, grumbling the whole time as you crack the seal and gulp down the water, not realizing how thirsty you were until this very second.

You lean your forehead on the table head still pounding from the pressure in your sinuses. You feel a prickle in the back of your neck, signifying that the team is still staring at you.

With great effort, you lift your head, tilting your chin up and trying to summon all the self confidence you don’t actually have.

“I am making a fool of myself. Please disregard my actions until I am no longer ill. This won’t happen again.”

Words are hard. Speaking is hard. With a groan, you drop your head back on your arm.

“Ah, there she is.”

“Knew that laugh had to be a fluke.”

“Cold medicine must be working.”

There are other mutterings about stubborn geniuses and workaholics and data analysis and Spencer staying at the station and—

You snap your head up. “I’m fine. I don’t need a baby-sitter. Spencer would be most useful in the field. He’s one of the best shot’s on the team.”

“And when it comes to needing a marksman I won’t hesitate to get him,” Hotch says, “But for now, I need my two geniuses to put their heads together to solve this case.”

Feeling cowed, you avoid Spencer’s gaze as the team files out of the room you’ve all set up in, instead grabbing a file from the center of the table. You really are being stupid. You should’ve stayed home, now you’re a liability, not to mention a walking biohazard. Fuck, why couldn’t you just think before you—

“I can hear you spiraling from over here.”

You lift your gaze, eyeing Spencer who hasn’t even put down the case file he’s reading.

You look back down. “I wasn’t spiraling.”

“You’re really going to lie to a profiler?”

“We’re both profilers.”

“Yeah, well, you have an obvious tell when you’re worrying about something.”

“I do not!”

You hear the quiet shuffling of papers.

A sigh leaves your lips, and you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “I’m really sorry, Spe— Reid. I didn’t mean to drag you here with me.”

If he notices your slip up, he doesn’t give any indication of it.

“Who said anything about dragging?”

“I know you’re a germaphobe, and I’m a walking biohazard, and now you’re stuck here going over case files and, and I’m a liability right now—“

“Slow down,” He says, interrupting your slew of word vomit. His voice has dropped an octave, gaining a richer note. You should stop thinking about his voice. “I’m fine. You’re fine. The team is more worried than upset. You’re not the first person to come to work sick. And you won’t be the last.”

“They keep staring at me.”

“Because your current state and manner of behavior are disrupting their pre-conceived notions and set opinions of your character.”

You scrunch your nose. “Don’t get all clinical on me,”

You hear a small huff of laughter across the table. “I’ve come to work far worse than hopped up on cold medicine, believe me. Don’t worry about it. Just focus on working the case.”

Slowly, the itching under your skin settles, and you manage to swallow the lump in your throat. Eventually, you peel your hands away from your face and do what he says.

Hours pass by in a blur of text and you and Spencer occasionally either bouncing ideas off each other or making small breakthroughs. Spencer handles the relay of information because you can’t really go more than three full sentences without hacking up a lung. Seriously, what is cough syrup good for?

Sometime past midday, you start flagging. The words start blending and smushing together and your head gets harder and harder to hold up. You’re jolting yourself back awake every five minutes, forcing your body to just bear through the illness for the sake of productivity. You got yourself into this mess, you deal with the consequences.

You’re just… so tired. Maybe you’ll close your eyes, just for a few minutes. To get energy. And then you can get back to the case.

Just for a few minutes.

—

“She out?”

“Like a light. Powered through for a lot longer than I expected. But dextromethorphan gets us all in the end.”

A low whistle. “Poor kid. The ‘proving yourself to the team’ phase is rough.”

A hum. “I think it’s more than that.”

A beat passes.

“You got her?”

“Yeah,” Something soft and good smelling, like pine and coffee and something almost rich settles over your shoulders, “Yeah, I got her.”

—

When you wake, your neck is sore but you’re not cold, which is strange considering you remember falling asleep in a table.

Oh god you fell asleep on the table.

You jackrabbit up in place, knees knocking against the underside of the table. Hissing in pain, you tug the warm thing further around your shoulders which is—

Holy fucking shit it’s Spencer’s sweater.

Said man is nowhere to be found, and the conference/briefing room you’re in is dark. Not only did someone turn the lights off (you’re pretty sure you can guess who) but it’s dark outside. Meaning you didn’t just take a short nap.

You slept the entire day away.

Cold dread seeps into your shoulders. “Oh my god I’m so fired. Oh shit. Fuck, Hotch is going to be so pissed—“

The door opens and you stand, whirling around to face the doorway and then instantly regretting it when spots dance across your vision and your head swims.

You stumble, grabbing the edge of the chair for support and squinting at the figure in the doorway.

“Hotch?”

“Nope,” Spencer’s voice rings out in the room, “Guess again.”

You groan, sinking down into the chair. “Am I fired?”

He snorts. “Seeing as Hotch bet that you’d fall asleep before dark, I’d say no.”

“He bet against me?”

“Actually, everyone else thought you’d only last an hour. He bet for four.”

“How long did you bet for?”

He sets a mug in front of you, steaming tea wafting up and warming your face. “Three hours. You metabolize cough syrup better than I thought.”

You take the mug in your hands, warming your fingers but not actually taking a sip. “Mmm. Told you I’ve done this before.”

“I don’t think that’s the brag you think it is.”

You chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough.

“Drink your tea,” He commands softly from across the table, sleeves pushed up around his elbows and papers spread about him.

You dutifully take a sip, something restless growing calm in the back of your skull.

You eye is forearms, hoping the look-over you’re giving them is subtle. (It probably isn’t, but come on. A button down with the sleeves rolled up while you’re wearing his sweater is practically sinful.)

“Do you… want the lights turned back on? I’m awake now, so.”

He flips over a piece of paper, then scribbles something on a sticky note. “You were sleeping. And you have a headache. I can see just fine.”

“My headache isn’t that bad, really, I’m fi—“

He levels you with a look, and you sink a little lower in your chair. “Do you at least want your sweater back?”

“No. Keep it.”

“Careful, maybe I’ll just keep it forever,” You joke.

“I’d be fine with that.”

What. The. Fuck.

You stand, pushing out the chair with a loud screech. “I’m just gonna— bathroom,” You splutter, your face blazing and stomach doing a gymnastics routine, “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Bye.”

You’re screaming internally the entire way to the bathroom, and once you get there, open-mouthed silent screaming in the privacy of a stall.

Because. He said. He didn’t even look up. He just. And he. Maybe he—

No, no, no. You are not about to entertain that notion. Not again. He was just being nice. That’s all. That’s all.

Collecting yourself takes about five more minutes, and then you’re walking back to the conference/briefing room when you realize you never took the damn sweater off. He watched you scramble out of that room to the bathroom he has to know you weren’t using, with his sweater on.

This is the end for you, then. That’s it. It’s over.

You mentally slap yourself. Get it together. It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

You re-enter the room marginally calmer than you left it. You slide into your seat, sip your tea (that he made you!) and keep working on the case.

You pretend you can’t see him smirking from across the table.

—

The case doesn’t last too long. The team catches the guy in the act of beating his next victim. Thankfully, you manage to save the poor woman before he finishes his plan, and with being caught red-handed, it’s fairly open and shut. Case closed. Which is great, because you really aren’t sure how many more nights you can suffer through trying to sleep in the hotel bed.

You have this thing, when you’re sick. You can’t sleep anywhere but the couch. Your couch. You figured (apparently foolishly) that it wouldn’t be too bad, since the crux of the issue is that you hate sleeping in your bed when you’re sick, but no. You’d spent every night of the case tossing and turning and coughing yourself out. Your lungs were tired. Your body was tired. You were tired.

Spencer raises an eyebrow at you when you board the jet. “You haven’t been near-overdosing on cough syrup again have you?”

“No,” You grouse, rubbing your face with your hand. “I’m like, not even sick anymore. I just didn’t sleep well.” For several nights in a row.

“Mmm,” He hums, non-committal.

You practically collapse into your usual seat on the jet, hunching in yourself and attempting to make yourself comfortable in the seat.

You blink your eyes open when you feel the seat jostle next to you. “Reid?”

He’s already pulling out a book. “What?”

“This isn’t your seat.”

“We don’t have assigned seats.”

“No, but you always sit over there.”

“And now I’m sitting here.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to decide if you want to argue him on the point or not. You decide against it, because arguing will draw attention to the fact that you’re sitting next to each other having this conversation at all.

You settle back into your seat. “Whatever. Hope you’re not a loud page-turner.”

“Is that even a thing?”

You shrug, eyes falling shut again.

After a few minutes, you shiver, unconsciously scooting closer to the warmth of the person next to you, your sleep-addled brain barely processing the fact that it’s Spencer you’re pressing your shoulder into.

He repositions next to you, shoulder jostling you. You grumble, dropping your head to his arm. Now much closer, your nose fills with the smooth, all encompassing smell that is Spencer.

The dull chatter that fills the plane, the warm body next to yours, and, despite your earlier complaints, the quiet, gentle page-turning lull you into an easy sleep.

—

“Are you drugging her or something? I’ve seen her sleep more this week than I have in her entire time on the team.”

“The only drugging she’s done was voluntary.”

“Her neck is going to be so sore when she wakes up.”

“Sore? Mine would be broken if I did that.”

“Ah, the joys of youth.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”

“Emily don’t start—“

“Just saying, Spence. HR would get a kick out of this.”

“Not like it never happens. We’ve all walked into supply closet B at the wrong time.”

“This isn’t meaningless sex though.”

“…No.”

Silence.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

A deft hand re-adjusts your head to a more comfortable angle. “I will be.”

—

Landing jolts you into wakefulness and off Spencer’s shoulder. It’s not embarrassing. It’s not. It’s only weird if you make it weird.

When you’re all back at HQ, you pull Hotch aside.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He nods. “In my office.”

You stalk up the stairs, aware of the eyes following your back. You step into the office, shutting the door behind you and pretending it doesn’t feel like sealing your doom.

He sits, gesturing for you to do so too, but you shake your head.

“I won’t be long. I just wanted to apologize.”

He blinks. “For?”

“I shouldn’t have come in. I was a liability, and it was unprofessional. Next time I’ll act with more discretion.”

Selfish, Your mother’s words echo in your head, your father’s words following suit: Try harder.

He laces his fingers together, resting him on his desk.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

“Because Reid was gone, and you needed a ge— someone smart.”

“Every member of my team is intelligent. That’s not why I chose you.”

He reaches down, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a newspaper clipping.

Your breath hitches when you read the words on it.

“Garcia found it,” He says, scanning the piece of paper. “‘Professor’s Assistant saves college class from school shooter’. You were sixteen.”

You look down at your shoes. “It was the scariest moment of my life. I didn’t— he came in, and I was behind the door getting paper, and he didn’t see me. He… I knew people would die if I didn’t do something. I tackled him. He shot me twice before I managed to kick the gun away. I almost bled out.”

He nods, putting the clipping down. “That’s who I chose. Not the genius. Not the consulting data analyst. Someone who wants to help people.”

He puts the clipping back in his drawer. “I’m not going to write you up for not having a healthy work-life balance. No one in this bureau does, and if they say they do, they’re lying.”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “Now I look stupid for asking to talk.”

“It’s not an imposition. You’re a member of my team. That makes your wellbeing when you’re on the job my responsibility.”

Unable to form a response to that, you manage to stutter out a thank you, and then flee from his office, collapsing into your chair at your desk with a sigh.

A mug is set in front of you. Different mug, same tea, same hand.

“I think you need to reevaluate your opinion of Hotch and what kind of person you think he is.”

You take the mug with a glare. “I was reasonably concerned.”

“You thought you were going to get written up for coming to work sick?”

“It was a logical conclusion to draw,” You pause, taking a sip of the tea, which is just as good as it was last time. Actually, it’s slightly sweeter, and it soothes your throat more. “And stop profiling me. What’d you put in this?”

“Stop being so easy to profile,” Spencer says, crossing his arms. “Honey. They didn’t have any at the station.”

It’s quiet for a few moments: him staring at you, you pretending he’s not staring and sipping your tea.

“You should go home.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re still sick. Don’t tell me you just can’t wait to write all this paperwork.”

“Maybe I am.”

“No you’re not,” He picks up your jacket from where it’s hanging off the side of your cubicle and plops it in your lap. “Go home. I’ll sick Hotch on you.”

You stand, shrugging your jacket on and pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re a cruel man.”

“Mhm. Sure. Go home.”

You grumble all the way to the door, but quiet when you look back to see him watching you fondly. He gives you a little two finger wave, and with the sheer amount of heat that rushes to your cheeks, you have no choice but leave immediately.

Stupid genius co-workers.

—

The next week brings wellness and a lull in cases.

Unfortunately, that also means you don’t have an excuse to put off your paperwork any longer.

Spencer taps the top of it with a slender finger. “Did it get bigger since the last time I saw it?”

He’s hanging around your desk for… some reason. He came to drop off paperwork from your last case, and then stuck around for some unknown purpose.

“No,” You groan, setting your mug of coffee aside and grabbing the first paper off the stack. “Still the same pile I’m procrastinating on.”

“Good luck,” He huffs, finally turning and walking back to his own desk. It’s still in your eyeline, if you crane your neck a little.

You sigh, grabbing your earbuds from your desk, knowing you can’t put the paperwork off any longer. You’re pretty sure Records is going to start sending you death threats soon.

Making your way through the pile is slow going. It’s terrible. The only part of working with the BAU you hate is the paperwork. It’s tedious and never-ending and it always gives you a headache.

The only times you get up are to use the bathroom and get more coffee. JJ kindly tells you that you should probably leave your mug in the break room after your sixth or so trip. Spencer, somehow, appears in the room, and rattles off the symptoms of caffeine overdose.

You leave the mug there.

You continue working well after everyone else leaves. It gets dark, people go home, office lights go off, and while the pile has largely decreased in size, it’s still not finished.

You have to finish. Hotch had made an offhand comment about turning in your paperwork on time and now you have to finish it. To show him you’re not lazy.

You’ve only got a little bit of paperwork left when a hand taps you on your shoulder.

You yank your earbuds out, blinking blearily. “Wha?”

Spencer’s face swims into view. “Come on, time to go home.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you didn’t fall asleep and forget to go home. They do lock the doors at a certain point. Ask me how I know.”

Your brain is moving like sludge, and it takes you several minutes to process what he says. He continues standing in front of you, patiently waiting for you to respond.

“But… the paperwork.”

“Will be here tomorrow. Come on, up we go.”

You whine as he takes your hands, hauling you to your feet. You attempt to scrub the sleep out of your eyes while messily moving papers about so your desk doesn’t look like a copy machine threw up all over it.

He pushes your jacket into your hands and you shrug it on, grumbling all the way through the doors and out to the parking lot, Spencer in tow. He follows dutifully behind you, and everytime you look back at him to voice your complaints all he does is smile.

“It’s cold.”

“That does tend to happen in winter.”

When you get to your car, he reaches out, tugging on your wrist.

“Hey,” He says, looking down at you, eyes deep pools of some emotion you can’t identify, “Drive safe, okay? It’s icy.”

“My commute isn’t that bad. And I’m,” You break off with a huge yawn. “Not even that tired.”

“That doesn’t inspire much confidence, smarty-pants.”

“Oh, so we’re locked into the smarty-pants thing, huh?”

“Yep.” He says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and popping the P.

“Well then what am I supposed to call you? Robot-Reid?”

“How about Spencer?”

His words hang in the night air, mingling in the puffs of air from both of your mouths.

“…What rhymes with Spencer?”

“Sensor, denser, dispenser—“

“Dis-Spencer,” You say, smiling to yourself. “I like the sound of that one.”

“You know dis comes from—“

“The latin word dis, and the prefix is used to denote a reversal of absence of an action, expressing negation, or expressing completeness or intensification of an unpleasant or unattractive action.”

He chuckles, smiling down at his shoes. “That’s why you’re the smarty-pants.”

“Oh please. You know all of that and then some.”

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”

You both stand in the cold of the parking lot, neither willing to leave yet.

Before you can think better of it, you dart forward, throwing your arms around Spencer’s neck and mumbling “Goodnight, Dis-Spencer.”

You step away quickly, awkwardly giving him a small wave before hurrying into your car and driving away.

Smooth.

—

The next case is… really rough.

Two spree killers, working as a team. A father and a son; the son was groomed into the lower position.

Not anything you haven’t seen before. Trained for. Studied.

No amount of studying could have prepared you for the cold grip of dread that gripped your throat like a vice when you finally confronted the unsubs, and heard eerily familiar words uttered from the father:

“You’re a good for nothing son! I wouldn’t have had to do this if you weren’t such a disappointment of a child! Why couldn’t you have just been more like your siblings?”

The son was killed before anyone could intervene.

Wrapping up the case left you shaken— you’d watched with hollow eyes as the boy’s body was zipped in a body bag.

A hand landing roughly on your shoulder shoves awareness back into your body and you flinch, hard, whirling around with your shoulders raised to meet the oncoming threat.

Only it’s not a threat. It’s Hotch. And he looks concerned.

You force your body to relax. “I’m sorry, I’ll go help question the rest of the family—“

“Are you okay?”

You blink. “What?”

“Are you alright?” He asks again.

“Yeah, I’m, I’m okay. It just… reminded me of something.”

Hotch purses his lips but doesn’t say anything. He looks he’s going to say something, but then decides against it.

“Help Reid get the last of the evidence. Once you two are finished head back to the station. We’ll meet you there.”

You nod, inwardly relieved about not having to deal with the family members. You might start actually crying.

You sidle up to Spencer who’s tagging blood splatters on the carpet. He wordlessly hands you a pair of gloves. He doesn’t ask. You don’t tell.

You work side by side for the better part of two hours, occasionally conversing with the local police or helping the crime scene investigators tag evidence.

If he knows what’s bothering you, he doesn’t say. You wouldn’t have an answer anyway. You’re far too gone in your own head.

You follow Spencer to the break room back at the station, watching him quietly make two mugs of tea. He presses one into your hands with a gentle command to let it cool for a few minutes. The mug is warm in your hands. Spencer is standing next to you, a mug of his own in his hands. Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

You chant this mantra in your head while you wait for the rest of the team to come back.

Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

Spencer doesn’t ask before sitting next to you on the jet. He just does. He hands you a book, then opens his own.

You don’t read a single page. He must know. Still, he says nothing, just presses a little closer to you when he sees your hands shaking.

The team gives the two of you space when you finally land. You stumble off the jet, trip backpack slung over your shoulder, legs wobbly and breath uneven.

You’re not sure why the case upset you this much. Your parents don’t upset you this much. They just— they make the same kind of comments, and so did that father, except now his son is dead because he killed him—

“Hey,” Hotch approaches you slowly, makes sure you can see him. You hate that he feels the need to do so. “Take tomorrow off. Stay home. Recuperate.”

“I’m fi—“

“We all have tough missions and I would do the same for any agent,” He says, clasping you gently on the shoulder. “Besides. We both know you haven’t been sleeping well.”

Your lips twitch. “Isn’t there a rule against profiling each other?”

“That rule is for all of you. Not me.”

He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before departing.

You manage to haul yourself into HQ and out to the parking lot, cursing as your cold fingers fumble with your keys. Frustrated tears begin to well in your eyes and you press the heels of your hands to your face, sucking in a shuddering breath and begging it all to just stop.

Someone gently pries your hands open, pulling your keys out of your clenched grip. Your shoulders shake as you heave, gasping for cold night air that burns on the way down.

A hand finds its way to the back of your head, pressing it forward into something warm and solid. Another arm wraps around your waist, keeping you close, while the hand on your head drifts down to your neck, squeezing and rubbing intermittently.

“I’m sorry,” You cry, rubbing your face and smearing your tears across your hands, “I don’t know why, it just—“

“You don’t need a reason,” Spencer says, spreading his hand out wide so it covers the entire nape of your neck, “Sometimes it all just gets to you.”

You nod into his chest, lowering your hands from his face to wrap around his torso, clutching it like a lifeline.

“I don’t want to go home tonight,” You whisper, ashamed. “I’ll dream of it. And them. And it’ll be cold and alone—“

“Come home with me,” He says, voice a little breathless while he holds you closer, “Come home with me.”

He says the last part a little desperate.

You sniff. “Okay.”

You hesitantly pull away from the hug, but not before Spencer’s hand moves from your neck to your face, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks on your face. He drops his head down, and you feel the gentlest brush of lips against the skin in between your eyebrows.

“Let’s go home.”

He tugs you along by the hand, helping you into his little old car, tucking your bags into the backseat. He lets the radio play softly while he drives, loud enough to quiet your thoughts a bit but not so loud as to overwhelm you.

He helps you out of the car when you arrive to the apartment building, carrying one of your bags up the stairs- you’d insisted on carrying the rest of your stuff.

He unlocks the apartment door, ushering you into the warmth and comfort that is Spencer’s home.

It’s exactly like you pictured, if not tidier. A bit more modern than you’d imagined. Books are everywhere of course, but so are knick-knacks and trinkets and other little bits of things that are so decidedly Spencer. There’s even a quilt on the couch.

He sets your bag down by the door. “The shower is down that hall to the left. Use whatever products you need to. Do you have any clothes to change into?”

You chew on the inside of your lip. “In my luggage, yeah, but they need to be washed.”

“I can put them in the wash while you shower. In the meantime, you can borrow something of mine.”

You shuffle in place. “I don’t wanna impose—“

“Please let me do this for you.”

The raw, rough edge to his tone makes you pause. You nod in acquiescence.

He takes your hand in his again, tugging you into his bedroom. With one hand, he opens drawers, handing you his smallest pair of sweatpants, and a large, worn, and incredibly soft Caltech sweatshirt.

“I’ll have to cuff these,” You mumble when he hands you the sweatpants, “My legs are half the length of yours.”

“You’ll make it work, I’m sure. Now shoo. I’ll have laundry and food finished when you get out of the shower.”

The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is clean and neat, and to your relief, houses more than just a five-in-one in the shower. Spencer actually owns multiple products for you to choose from and it hits you while you’re lathering the body wash you chose because of how good it smelled that you’re in Spencer’s shower, showering with his body wash, about to put on his clothes.

You’re going to smell like him. His clothes will smell like him. Everywhere in the apartment smells like him.

You decide to blame the near permanent flush on your cheeks on the heat from the shower.

When you exit the shower, fresh and drowning in Spencer’s clothes, he’s standing at his kitchen island, putting the final touches on two bowls of soup.

You almost tear up again. “You made me soup?”

“It’s widely regarded as a comfort food for people who are ill or otherwise sad, and is most commonly made in the wintertime.”

He gives you a little jazz hand, gesturing to the soup as if saying ta-da!

You really do tear up then.

He’s in front of you in an instant, hands poised to help. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Do you not like soup? I can make something else, or we can order in, or—“

You scrub at your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You’re just, you’re just really sweet.”

His face softens. “Oh, honey.”

He envelops you in the second hug of the night, except this time you’re crying in earnest now. Your crying about your parents, about the nights you went to bed hungry because your Dad told that you were smart, and to figure something out, but you were too young to work any of the kitchen appliances. You’re crying about your first best friend, who ditched you the second your brother asked her out. You’re crying about all the classes and friendships you missed out on while you were in the hospital with gunshot wounds. You’re crying about how your parents didn’t visit you once. Not even when you were in the ICU.

Spencer holds you through it all, a steady rock against the battering waves crashing in your head.

After a few minutes, you wear yourself out, quieting down to sniffling, your shoulders hitching.

He pulls back, studying your face. “Are you ready to eat some soup now?”

You nod, blinking the final tears out of your eyes. “I got snot on your shirt.”

“That’s why we invented washing machines.”

He keeps up a stream of idle chatter while you eat, explaining all the different major soups in the world and where they came from. It’s a balm against your weary mind, lulls you into peace and safety.

Or maybe that’s just the effect Spencer has on you.

When you finish your food, he takes your bowl, deposits it in the sink, and then takes your hand and leads you to his bedroom.

“I don’t have a guest room, so you can take the bed,” He says, voice soft. “There’s extra blankets in the closet next to the bathroom if you get cold.”

He turns to leave, but a stab of panic slices down your chest, and your hand is reaching out and grabbing his wrist before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, turning back around. “You want me to stay?”

You take your lip between your teeth. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He studies you in the dark of the room— clad in his clothes, face puffy from crying.

The muscles in his jaw work.

“I can’t do this platonically. If we do this—“

You surge up on your toes, grabbing his face and smashing your lips together so quickly your teeth clack.

He goes rigid, then kisses your right back, hands coming up to cup your face, squeeze your neck, smooth over your shoulders.

You pull away first, looking at him through your lashes with hazy eyes. “I can’t do this platonically either.”

He traces the planes of your face with his thumb. “You have no idea how long and how much I’ve wanted to have you right here, just like this.”

“Crying and sad?”

“Dressed in my clothes, in my apartment, in my bed.”

You pause. “You know, tonight, I can’t, I’m not going to have—“

“I’m not interested in sex with you tonight,” He says, reading your mind, “I just want to get that empty look in your eyes gone.”

“Just?”

“Well,” He says, tugging you down onto the bed with him, crawling under the covers and covering you both, “There are other things. A lot of other things, Like this,”

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“And this,”

He pulls you flush against him under the covers, tucking your head under his chin.

“But mostly this.”

He presses one last kiss to the crown of your head.

“Really?”

“Really.”

It’s quiet for a moment before his voice breaks the silence.

“After I got out, all I wanted was something soft and gentle. Having something, someone soft and lovely to hold was all I looked forward to. And then I came back and I met you, with your polite introductions and the way you care so deeply about so much and I knew. I knew who I wanted to hold.”

“Wow,” You breathe, “Yours sounds so poetic. Mine is much less so.”

“Mmm,” He hums, “And what might that be?”

You press your face against his chest and mumble so quietly you’re wondering if he can ever hear you:

“I just wanted you to choose me. I wanted to be someone’s first choice.”

He’s so quiet after that you think he must not have heard you.

You’re on the verge of sleep when you hear his whisper:

“There couldn’t be anyone else for me.”

જ⁀➴

EDIT: if you want to be tagged in the sequel when it’s posted, please comment “tag me please!” or some variation of THE POST LINKED HERE !! if you comment asking for a tag on this post, you will not be added to the tag list. tag lists are hard to keep track of, so please keep them all in one place !! :)

EDIT TWO: THE SEQUEL IS UP !! It is linked at the top of this post under “next” :)

[marvelsswansong]

perfectly poisonous pair

summary: the three times Coriolanus realizes you're his perfect match, his eternal soulmate: darkness and all.

tags: coriolanus snow x fem!reader, possessive and dark soft!Corio with equally unhinged reader (an anon previously said morticia x gomez addams vibes), fluff, violence, non-canon compliant, CW for graphic descriptions of violence, kidnapping, murder, possessive/dark thoughts - please take care of yourself first!

☆ word count: 6K+ words ☆

⚠️ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞.⚠️

Marriage is, at first instance to Coriolanus, an institution and an act that he doesn't quite see the point of.

The legal and financial benefits, sure. But committing himself to one person, to be bound to them body, heart and soul for the rest of his life? That level of vulnerability and permanence feels too foreign. Too abstract, even, that thinking about it quickly makes his stomach churn with sickness.

Coriolanus spends the majority of his upbringing, consoling himself that he doesn't have the time to worry about such things as romance. After all, there was always the next bill to pay and the next threat of eviction to dread.

Not to mention, he thinks, no one will truly ever get him. Not even grandma'am or Tigris understands his inner being. The man deep within his guts, the cunning voyeur who enjoys violence and manipulation. And if they only knew, he believes, they'd be horrified.

No one really knows Coriolanus for who he is. And no one will truly be able to understand what it's like to feel and think like him.

So marriage is completely out of the question for him.

At least for a long time.

Until he meets you.

------------------------------

the beginning: "must be a coincidence."

You're the first person (other than the wide-eyed idealist, Sejanus) to treat Coriolanus with kindness at the academy.

You come in as a transfer student mid-way through the semester and he comes to notice the small ways with which you show your appreciation for him. Slyly backing up his answers in class discussions. Smiling at him in the hallways. Sticking up for him in conversations, not caring if the others give you odd looks for defending a 'clear outsider' amongst them.

"If you ever need anything, you can always count on me." you'd once told him after school, his knees barely brushing against yours in the car you've invited him into so that he wouldn't have to walk home in the freezing cold.

Suppressing the urge to interrogate the reasoning behind your kindness, his numb fingers felt sudden warmth when you delicately placed a crumbled up note into his fist with your address in it.

"Stop by whenever you need something. Don't suffer alone, okay?"

He never takes you up on your offer.

At least, not until a few months later, when he finds himself knocking on your door late at night. Three in the morning to be precise, with a busted lip and dark red stains blossoming across his white shirt.

And when you open the door, you don't react to his disheveled state in the same way he'd expect from his family. No pity and shock like grandma'am, nor is there a trace of light apprehension and fear like there would be from Tigris.

Instead, your eyes crinkle with kindness as you invite him inside your home and sit him down on a nearby chair in the living room.

"How bad is it?" you ask, cutting him off with a stern glare before he can lie. "And don't lie to me, Snow. I need to know if you're going to need a drive to the hospital instead of my attempts at first aid."

Sighing, the blonde gives in, his bones aching too much to put up a fight.

"Not that bad, I promise." he grumbles, trying to keep his breathing normal as you lean in closely to examine his injuries. At this proximity, he can see the reflection of the overhanging yellow lights in your irises, your eyebrows furrowing in concentration before you leave the room and return with a soft towel and warm bowl of water.

"Could you look up for me?" you question, your cold fingers steadying his neck to carefully crane it upwards.

The warm, wet fabric in your hands then trace the edges of his jaw, picking up the droplets of blood scattered across his face.

Keeping his eyes forward at the line of bookshelves by the fireplace, time seems to slow down. His senses are overwhelmed by your hairwash - rosemary and vanilla, he thinks - and the room is awfully quiet. All he can hear is the muted sounds of your soft breaths and the rustling of leaves outside, the pale moonlight creeping in through the gaps of the floral curtains in the dead of December.

"Do you mind me asking what happened?" you ask, now switching your attention to the trail of blood buried into the crevice of his neck. You cringe right afterwards, almost wincing at your audacity. "Sorry, you don't have to say if you don't want to."

If anything, it just makes him smile. He likes seeing you embarrassed, he thinks.

"No, it's fine. I'll say. It was just... a party gone awry. Felix managed to convince everyone to go downtown."

You frown at the mention of the downtown area - it was common knowledge that it wasn't safe to wonder the south of the Capitol this late at night, especially if you were obviously from central.

"And then?"

"Got jumped. Felix and his friends ran away quickly. Sejanus got caught up in the mix and I couldn't just... leave him."

Coriolanus hates admitting the slightest sign of weakness, that perhaps he had a friend he cares for, so he's eternally glad that you don't dwell on it. Humming in response, you squeeze the towel in your hands, the water below now a murky shade of brown.

"And how much of this blood is your own? Do I need to get the sewing needles out?"

"I-"

His response is staggered by brief flashes of the fight playing in his mind. He recalls there being a lot of heavy breathing and fast movements. A slash there. A broken nose there. His feet driving down onto the man's chest repeatedly, down, down, down - he hears bones cracking at some point and Sejanus is suddenly pulling him backwards, begging him to stop but Coriolanus can't-

"Coriolanus."

Your voice snaps him out from his dazed state. He then swallows nervously, not knowing how much is safe to disclose.

"I'm fine. Really. Just some bruises and a split lip. The blood is from dodging a few knife attacks and the criminals stabbing one another."

It's a half-truth, really. Coriolanus had dodged a few stabs his way, but only because he tripped the man charging him and grabbed the knife instead to drive it into the man's sides. Enough to severely wound, but not kill. He feels the soles of his left shoe drag on the floor, the fabric nearly coming off from the repeated force with which he'd stepped on the other accomplice's ribs. It makes his jaw clench with embarrassment.

If you notice it's a lie, you don't say anything.

You ask him if he can undress, so that you can wash his clothes for him. After all, you tease in a lighthearted manner in an attempt to lift the mood, you still have school tomorrow at eight.

"You can leave the dirty clothes hanging by the chair outside the bathroom. I think you're overdue for a long, hot shower."

All arguments die in Coriolanus' mouth when he realizes how nice this feels. The foreign comfort of being cared for by someone else, of having his guard down and following someone else's lead for once. So he wordlessly follows you to the bathroom in the back and discards of his dirtied clothes outside.

The hot water is a nice luxury, the scalding temperature starting to erase his memories of the fight. He rubs his scalp raw and watches the water beneath his feet fade into the drain, the steady dripping of water droplets calming his mind.

When the blonde finishes, he comes out and sees that you've folded a set of new, clean clothes for him by the door of the bathroom (your father's old clothes, he learns). Once changed, he wanders outside and finds you hanging the freshly washed clothes outside on your front lawn.

"You should go home, Corio." you say quietly. "Your cousin and grandmother must be worried sick." you look back at him, a reassuring smile on your face.

"How... how can I ever repay you for all this?" he finds himself asking, desperate for an answer. Surely, you'll want something back for this. Certainly, this was all to get something back from him-

You shake your head sideways, waving your hand in dismissal.

"There's no need to repay me. I like to think you help me out every day at school, so think of this as more of... a much delayed gift."

Once you're both back inside the house, no longer shivering from the cold, he finds the silence to be oddly tense. You're in your sleepwear, after all, a silky night dress stopping right above your knees with a gray knit cardigan on top.

He swallows, nervously. He hopes you can't tell how fast his heart is beating.

"Uh, thank you. Seriously. I owe you."

"You really don't."

"I really do."

You roll your eyes playfully.

"The only person who owes me anything is Felix. He shouldn't have suggested you all go to downtown when it's dangerous, and he especially shouldn't have left you and Sejanus to nearly get stabbed to death." you spit, and your angry expression makes him chuckle.

"Ah, well, but he is the president's son. What can we do." he jokes. A small grin flickers onto your lips for half a second at that comment.

"So he is. Good night, Corio. I'll see you tomorrow."

It's initially an uneventful day for Coriolanus the next morning when he walks into the academy, naturally catching your eyes from across the room. You give him a reassuring nod from behind the door of your locker, where the majority of your attention is being held up by an overeager Felix - your assigned partner for the week.

Due to his schedule, Coriolanus doesn't see you again until lunch time. By which the newest rumor sweeping the academy has been the sudden violent illness which has fallen upon the president's son.

"I heard he was puking blood." he hears Clemensia whisper to Arachne, who nods furiously.

"Sejanus had to carry him to the medic's office - Felix looked like a half-dead ghost."

He's itching to speak to you as he quickly rounds the corner and runs up the flights of stairs leading to the library, where he's shared many lunches with you before. He knows your favorite sport by heart, that being the cozy seat under the large arched windows overlooking the front lawn.

As expected, he finds you there, sitting cross legged and gazing out towards the lawn. Upon closer inspection, he sees that you're watching Felix get escorted into a dark vehicle, an unreadable expression on your face.

"Have you heard that Felix is sick?" Coriolanus carefully asks, sitting down from across from you. You turn to him, your face scrunching up in sadness.

"Yes I have. Terrible news, really. Something about nasty nausea and uncontrollable vomiting."

Your tone is sympathetic and your face has all the features of genuine worry, but there's a small twinkle in your eyes that indicates a secret.

It makes Coriolanus delirious with want.

"And would his illness have anything to do with you being close to him as his project partner?" he questions, sliding in closer towards you to keep his voice down.

He looks down at your lips then back up at you, smirking.

"Just seems strange, don't you think? Given that he seemed just fine last night?"

A half-second smile, you shrug.

"Must be a coincidence."

He kisses you right then and there.

---------------------------------------

the point of no return: "you're quite a messy lover, Coriolanus Snow."

Finding you is a miracle to him.

And now that you two are officially dating, he sees the glimmer of hope for something permanent like marriage in the future.

But Coriolanus is still unsure of the publicity of that kind of arrangement, which leads him to request that you two keep the relationship under wraps. At least until graduation, he justifies, to keep the romance hidden away from the judging eyes of the faculty and fellow classmates.

You don't seem the least bit bothered by the news, your lips only quirking up into a warning smile as you tease that you may then have to bring other men as dates to public events to save face.

At the time, he'd just shrugged at that, playing it cool. "I don't get jealous easily." he'd said confidently.

Oh, how he was wrong.

It's only after he becomes your boyfriend that he becomes acutely aware of and sensitive to how desirable you are to others. Visitors to the academy flirt with you openly, not knowing that Coriolanus is watching from the background, fuming with anger. Your male classmates are too eager to carry your books for you, their body leaning ever too close towards yours when you ask them to pass on the papers in class.

But this, right now, seeing you with another man at the spring gala... It feels different.

Those people, the strangers and classmates, you let down firmly but gently. Those people, you wouldn't even let their hands hover above your skin, always placing a firm distance between you and them. Those people-

Fuck.

You didn't smile at those people like you're smiling at this date of yours. The tall, dark haired man's arm is lingering just above your waist, too close for Coriolanus' comfort, and his thoughts turn lethal when the man leans down to whisper something in your ear that seemingly makes you laugh.

It takes everything within him to not lose control then, when Sejanus speaks up.

"You alright?"

His friend's voice cuts into the tirade of violent thoughts playing in Coriolanus' mind, the whiskey starting to taste sour in his mouth. Forcing another sip of alcohol, he meticulously coaches himself to nod along, feigning disinterest in you and the mystery man.

"Just fine, Plinth." he grits out, but with his steely blue orbs not deviating from where you and your date are standing, it's obvious to any bystander that he's lying. So Sejanus chuckles, nudging the blonde playfully.

"Yeah right. Though, I'm not surprised that (Y/n) brought him along." Sejanus takes a sip of his wine, before pausing at seeing the blonde's expression remain hardened. "You do know who he is, right?"

"Am I supposed to?" Coriolanus scowls.

"That's Harrison Bramford. His grandfather was one of the main generals back in the days of the war and his family single-handedly leads the weapons manufacturing industry in Panem."

"Hm." is all Coriolanus says in response, the revelation doing little to appease his anger. His left arm rises in a reflex to force more alcohol down his throat, only to find the glass half empty.

"I need another drink." he announces, not caring to hear his friend's response.

Sliding into the bar, he hears your soft laugh and whisper before you disappear into a nearby hallway, leaving your 'date' alone. Out of the corner of Coriolanus' eyes, whilst he leans forwards and pretends to watch the bartender grabbing him another glass of whiskey, he sees the tall dark haired man also beelining towards the bar.

"Vodka on the rocks." Harrison growls, nearly slamming his glass down onto the counter. It's only then that Coriolanus lets himself look into the man's light green eyes, taking care to keep his expression fairly neutral and his voice calm.

"Rough night?" Coriolanus asks, deciding to play the unassuming role of a concerned stranger. Harrison chuckles, wiping his hands on his thighs whilst shaking his head.

"You have no fucking idea. Women are such pieces of work."

The blonde tastes blood with how hard he bites his cheek in an effort to stay silent.

"Your whiskey, sir."

He's grateful for the interruption of the bartender sliding his drink down towards him, as with every word leaving your date's mouth, Coriolanus is feeling his rage boiling and threatening to spill over like toxic waste.

"This chick asked me to come here tonight, you know? Me. A Bramford. I put up with her annoying stories and stupid questions all night, I even held her fucking bag for her to go to the bathroom." the man rants, his skin starting to twinge red with how fast he was speaking. "But will she even let me kiss her? Nooooo. Apparently it's too quick. Wouldn't even let me grab her ass."

It's then that your boyfriend finally loses it, and there's a muted sound of something shattering and the feeling of something sticky and hot running down his right hand. There's a few gasps of shock, the bartender hurrying over with a spare napkin as Coriolanus' blue eyes adjust to the blurry scene in front of him.

He's shattered the glass in his hand.

"Shit, you alright?" Harrison asks, leaning over to see and then pulling back with a disgusted expression after seeing the bloody sight. Remaining calm whilst pulling out the chunks of glass, Coriolanus chooses to play nonchalant, shrugging his shoulders.

"Yep. Sorry, not used to..." he pauses, trying to find the right excuse. Instead, he finds a brilliant plan. "Not used to going so long without smoking."

The dark haired man nods in agreement, seemingly sympathizing.

"Ah, I get you. Nasty withdrawal symptoms, huh? Seen a lot of my buddies get them whenever they try to quit smoking."

Securing the makeshift tablecloth wrap around his injured hand, Coriolanus pushes his chair in with his legs, his uninjured hand strategically reaching into his pockets.

"I think I need a cigarette. Care to join?" he asks, already knowing the answer from the overwhelming scent of cigarettes spayed over the man's clothes.

"Why not."

Suppressing a smile, the blonde leads the drunken man out the door and far away from the venue, down a few shady alleyways and into narrow dirty streets crowded by graffiti and trash bags.

"Uh... you sure this is the right way?" the man behind nervously asks, and Coriolanus almost wants to roll his eyes at how pathetic he finds the man's fear.

"Don't worry, Bramford. Just avoiding the 'no smoking' signs and security guards by the venue."

Once the blonde is sure that they're both sufficiently far away from the venue, at a dead end alleyway sandwiched between a run down bike shed and abandoned dumpsters, he stops in his tracks. Coriolanus then uses the split second of confusion felt by the other man to strike him directly in the chest, forcing the taller man's entire body down.

Grabbing the nearest object next to him - a wooden crate- Coriolanus smashes it into bits on the man's head, whose face is now pressed up against the dirty cement.

"You absolute piece of shit." Coriolanus swears, adrenaline pumping through his veins in irregular rhythm as his boot kicks into the pained man's ribs repeatedly. "You disgusting, vile, privileged piece of shit."

Each insult is compounded by a stronger kick, the three glasses of whiskey and pure rage emboldening his thoughts and strengthening his attacks. Coriolanus thinks he may have heard a bone or two cracking, but he isn't sure. He can't even bring himself to care, not when his mind's fixation switches to the enticing sight of a broken glass bottle laying to his right, the jagged scars glistening under the moonlight. Coriolanus snatches it up in half a second, before pressing the edges of the makeshift blade against the whimpering man's throat.

"W-why are you doing this?" Harrison barely gets out, mouth already filled with blood, his gasps stuttered in pain.

The blonde only chuckles, his left knee coming down to press the man further into the ground, right hand beginning to trace the edge of the glass down the man's neck.

"Because, Bramford. You denigrated the love of my life. You dare try and place your filthy hands on her. Hell, for the crimes of your family and your disgusting behavior tonight, I should do the Capitol a favor and ki-"

"That's enough, Corio."

Your boyfriend nearly drops the bottle in his hand out of shock at hearing your voice ring out from behind him, the development so unexpected that for a second he almost wonders if he's hallucinating. But no, when he tilts his head backwards, he sees as clear as day you standing there with an amused grin on your face.

"Darling, I-" Coriolanus begins, stepping back up carefully and setting the glass bottle aside (but far away from Harrison's reach).

You just shush him, that ever-so-understanding twinkle in your eyes, your heels clicking on the uneven cobblestone as you stand with your body right up against his.

"I warned you about this, you know." you sigh. Coriolanus frowns, confused.

"What?"

"That you'd be jealous. He's just a toy, love. Nothing happened nor was ever going to happen tonight." you assure him, taking his uninjured hand in yours and squeezing it in comfort. You frown at the sight of his other bloodied hand, but he waves it off as an explanation for a later time.

"It's not that I don't trust you, petal. It was just... this scumbag was speaking about you in a revolting manner. I just couldn't contain myself." he slowly explains, a mix of guilt for being caught and anger for not being able to finish his actions creeping in. "He deserved it."

"Not denying that, love." you assure him again, smiling. "But goodness... What a mess you've made. You're quite the messy lover, Coriolanus Snow."

Coriolanus then can only watch, mesmerized, as you walk up next to Harrison's squirming body on the floor. Crouching down next to the man, you tut, as if you're saddened by the sight in front of you.

"Here's what's going to happen. We'll do you the favor of making it looking like you had too many drinks and got robbed. We'll take your wallet and expensive jacket. You'll survive, only a few major injuries but nothing life-threatening, and that's the story you'll tell your father and his friends." you pause, letting out another sigh, as if explaining this whole ordeal is tiring you. "In return, I will keep quiet about your nasty drug addiction to your father. One more strike and you're out, as your daddy said, so let's not aggravate him further. Deal?" you ask, smiling sweetly.

When the man stays silent, only letting out pained breaths in response, your right hand snaps out to press his face further into the concrete.

"I said, do we have a fucking deal, Bramford?"

Coriolanus finds himself completely transfixed by the attractive sight playing out in front of him: your pretty face scrunched up in fury, your delicate fingers dipped in blood as the man beneath you pathetically sobs and agrees. You then smirk, harshly dropping the man's head back down. Your boyfriend is by your side immediately, taking off the man's jacket as you pocket the wallet, your eyes finding Coriolanus' once more.

"I think I'm in love with you." the blonde confesses, the words coming out faster than he'd anticipated. It's a mix of things that causes the sudden confession, the adrenaline from having beaten a man nearly to death, the way your hair is being caressed by the harsh winds, the smell of your sweet perfume mixing with the harsh stench of copper in the air...

It's all making him dizzy and lovesick.

But all you do is roll your shoulders back and chuckle, kissing him quickly on the lips.

"I know."

But, Coriolanus thinks, you can't know - the real depths of his love, the unbridled fire now lapping at his skin, the overwhelming desire to claim you as only his.

And when he finally comes back home, he digs through his cabinets and finds the family ring. Swallowing thickly, he stores it in a small jewelry box and tucks it right underneath his bedroom's windowsill.

One day, he knows. He'll marry you.

----------------------------------------

the final act: "sorry for worrying you."

He'd meant to propose sooner.

He really did.

But then the games happened, his victory came with the assistant position to Dr Gaul and a full ride scholarship to university from the Plinths, and you'd be called away to District 2 to assist on your family's business operations.

Coriolanus missed you, fiercely. No amount of blurry phone calls and monthly visits lasting no more than the short weekend could satisfy his ache for you. Your melodic laugh. Your soft touch. Your witty observations and jokes, your soft breathing on his chest when he'd hold you at night.

But it's necessary, you'd remind him, lips trailing across his cold skin. It was how you and him were going to conquer the Capitol. Together.

On an assuming Tuesday in April, on the day you were due to arrive in time for Tigris' birthday, the phone rang in the mansion. The housekeeper, mid-way through dusting the library in preparation for your arrival, had come running into Coriolanus' room without even knocking. He'd woken up bleary eyed, a few swear words of annoyance on the tip of his tongue, all of which dissipated upon seeing the alarmed look on the housekeeper's face.

"It's for you, sir. Says it's urgent."

Brows furrowing, but not thinking anything much, Coriolanus answers the phone.

"Coriolanus Snow speaking." he mutters into the receiver, eyes still foggy from the remnants of sleep. The voice on the other end chuckles, a dark and pompous sound which makes him scowl in annoyance.

"Mr.Snow... when was Miss (L/n) set to arrive in the Capitol?"

The sinister question jolts the blonde awake immediately, a quick glance at the clock hanging by the door confirming his worst fears. It was four am, at least three hours past the time you were set to arrive.

"Is this a ransom call?" Coriolanus growls into the phone, his fingers clutching the receiver so tight his knuckles were beginning to redden. Teeth aching with how tensely he's clenching his law, his frantic eyes find the housekeeper's worried ones, before he urgently signals for the older woman to fetch the guards roaming the front of the property.

The stranger on the other side only chuckles in response, clearly gleeful at the distressed sound of Coriolanus' voice.

"I'm not sure, Mr. Snow. Would you like to perhaps ask her instead?"

The string of curses and violent threats bubbling under his throat never get spoken when he hears the sudden shuffling of feet and muffled arguing on the other side of the phone, before your voice fills his anxious ears.

"Hi, Corio."

Huh.

You seem awfully relaxed for someone taken as hostage.

Yes, he recalled having numerous discussions with you about such a scenario occurring once Coriolanus' status was elevated in the Capitol and you'd agreed to take on some share of the family business. And your boyfriend also knew that you'd grown up training in archery and fencing, so it wasn't as if you were wholly unprepared to defend yourself.

But still, it shocks him how your voice is completely aloof and calm, with even a hint of a smile at the end of your sentences.

"Hi, darling. Are you alright?" he carefully responds, pondering if you are perhaps being held at gunpoint and forced to speak in an unnatural manner. But you just hum in response, the same noise you'd make if he'd asked you something simple like what you wanted on your toast, nonchalant as ever.

"Yes, I'm perfectly fine. Just don't forget to water the lilies, they get very temperamental this time of the year. Wouldn't want a repeat of last April, now would we?" you joke, and Coriolanus feels himself slightly relaxing into the conversation.

"Of course not."

"And don't forget you promised me pancakes the moment I came back to the house. I've been missing your banana pancakes dearly."

He can almost picture your smile at that comment.

"Well then... you should hurry back soon." he calmly responds, only for the phone to then be ripped away from you and the stranger's voice returns - grating and aggravated. Coriolanus can tell that your kidnapper is frustrated and dumbfounded by your seemingly calm disposition and mundane conversation with your boyfriend, a revelation which fills him with great satisfaction.

"If you still want her alive, leave a suitcase of $20,000 by the coordinates sent to you. You have two hours."

As if on cue, the housekeeper rushes back in with a note - tied to a bird sent over to the house, she says - and the security team behind. Unravelling the coordinates written onto the piece of paper, and looking back at the clock, Coriolanus' mind whirls with endless possibilities.

Explaining the situation in brief, he directs three of the guards to go out into the location with a briefcase loaded with fake cash - one to drop off the bag, the other two to keep extensive watch to see who picks it up. The other two, he commands to stay by watch at the house.

Sitting in an unmarked van whilst staring at the spot where his security guard had placed the suitcase, Coriolanus' leg won't stop bouncing up and down.

He's riddled with anxiety and doubt, hating himself for being unable to protect you, worrying about your whereabouts. As even if you sounded awfully calm and capable on the phone, a part of him can't help but wonder if that was all for show, to prevent him from worrying too much.

A torturous hour passes before Coriolanus gets a call from the housekeeper.

"Sir, she's home."

He nearly drops the phone.

"What?"

"Miss (Y/n) is home. She is sitting in the kitchen, having a cup of tea as we speak."

It's a blur as Coriolanus commands the car to race back towards the house, his heart nearly pounding out of his chest as he bursts through the doors of the main hallway.

And there, calm as ever with a light grin on your face, is you.

You're sitting in his favorite velvet cushioned chair by the dining table. Your face smeared with blood, your clothes are torn and hanging in loose threads, and your hair is wet, red crimson droplets falling onto the floor in steady drips. And as the sun rises over the estate, the golden light illuminates your hairline and Coriolanus swears he sees a halo above your bloodied form.

"Hi, love. Sorry for worrying you."

Without a single word, he rushes over to you and nearly yanks you up to a standing position, backing you up against the wall to kiss you fiercely. Your knees almost buckle from the force with which he grabs your neck, his shaky breaths so desperate, his hooded eyes still looking into yours as his left hand suddenly shows a ring box in his hand.

"Marry me, darling."

You blink twice, surprised at the sudden action, as he chuckles and laces his fingers with yours - blood on blood.

"We're perfect for each other. You are my soulmate, my perfect pair: body, heart and soul. Truthfully, I've had the ring with me for almost two years now, but it never felt... quite right." he pauses, taking in your shaky, happy smile. Your cold hands warming in his embrace. "Not until now. You're the one for me."

"Even if I bleed all over your kitchen?" you croak, as he slides the cool metal onto your ring finger, before kissing your bruised knuckles.

"Especially if you bleed over my kitchen. As long as it's not your own blood, of course."

It's you who closes the gap this time, nearly tackling him with the force with which you kiss him, arms encircling around his back. Smiling into the kiss, he tastes the mix of your strawberry lipgloss and the metallic hint of blood on your lips, an intoxicating combination.

When you two finally part for air, the silver band now glistening on your ring finger, Coriolanus chuckles.

"Now, would you like those banana pancakes?"

------------------------------------------

epilogue: "nonsense, darling. I'd clean blood off of you forever."

"I think I'm starting to see a gray hair. on you, Corio."

Your husband scowls at the playful joke in the bedroom mirror, standing up to straighten his tie as you get changed in the walk-in closet.

"Please, I'm barely 30. Are you sure you're not hallucinating, darling?" he fights back, and you peek out half-dressed from the closet, pouting.

"You're questioning my eyesight now? How could you be so cruel."

Your faux sour expression is quickly kissed away by two cold hands cupping your cheeks, and you would've lost the balance in your heels had he not steadied you immediately, his hands dropping to your waist.

"Aw, I'm sorry, petal. Will you ever forgive me?"

You pretend to think about it, cocking your head sideways.

"That would depend."

"On what?"

"Mom! Dad!"

Your snarky response is cut off by the sound of small feet pattering on the marble floor, the front doors swinging open as a small figure runs straight to you and crashes into your legs. A spitting image of you and Coriolanus, your daughter, looks up from your knees before grasping onto her father's hand.

"Up, please."

Clearly amused by the sudden burst of energy in the room and his daughter's politeness even in moments of silliness, he crouches down and picks up the squealing child who comfortably settles into his arms.

"Guess what."

"What is it, honey?" you ask, brushing the stray hair out of her eyes.

"I got the highest score in my entire class on my math test."

"Wow, that's incredible, sweetheart." Coriolanus practically melts on the spot, bouncing the child up and down as she giggles into his neck. "You are the smartest person ever, Belle."

"Not as smart as mommy." she sasses in response, looking up at you for approval. You coo, ruffling her hair affectionately before looking up at your husband with raised eyebrows.

"See, Corio? Even our daughter is kinder to me than you are."

He rolls his eyes in response, left hand sneaking out to pull you in close as his lips kiss the top of your head.

"Nonsense. I love both my girls equally." he says, only for the picture perfect moment to be interrupted by another figure rushing into the room.

"Mrs Snow, the car's just arrived for you by the fr-" the intern freezes in his steps, having clearly caught the Snow family at a private time. You of course don't mind, just being amused by the situation, and your daughter is just curious at the new person who just walked in. All the while, Coriolanus' reaction couldn't be more different, his glare sharp and mean.

"I thought I made it clear, I don't want to ever be disturbed when I'm with my family. Unless it's an absolute emergency." Coriolanus states, his tone icy and unforgiving.

By the furrowing of his eyebrows and the cold stare in his eyes, you can already anticipate the flurry of murderous thoughts filling his head before you cut in. After all, the interrupting intern, a 17 year old boy by the name of Elijah, is only trying his best. And you find him oddly endearing and sweet, particularly with how badly he tries to impress your husband.

"It's fine, Elijah. Please ignore my husband's rude comment. I'll be right out."

Setting your daughter down, Coriolanus leans forward and growls into your ear, watching the young boy scatter away quickly.

"You're too nice to him, darling. Don't you think we should dispose of him and get a new intern...."

You slap his shoulder.

"What do I always tell you? No need to create unnecessary messes. Besides, he's really good with Belle and easy to control."

He smirks at that, irises filled pink.

"You're probably right. Can't have another bloody mess on your hands to clean up."

"Or vice versa."

He leans in close, cold lips touching your forehead.

"Nonsense, darling. I'd clean blood off of you forever."

And he truly means it.

a/n: andddd that's another major Corio fic down! thank you to everyone who showed me love on my last Corio oneshot ("melting snow") and for those who answered my poll - dark soft! and possessive Corio won out but girldad!Corio also got a TON of love so I included it a bit here and will probably write a whole standalone fic with girldad!Corio as the concept. thank you again to everyone for remaining patient, I had writer's block for a bit and I've just had the most awful few weeks ever (mental health wise and life wise) so it was difficult to find moments to write.

as always, please leave a like/comment/reblog/ask if you enjoyed. the interactions is what motivates me to write! I hope you liked it hehe x

[aleksatia]

🧡Caleb - Five Years Later

The third in a series of stories exploring MC’s return after five years of silence. Others are coming soon — links will be added as they’re published.

Original ask that sparked this continuation.

Sylus | Rafayel | Zayne | Xavier (coming soon)

CW/TW: Grief / Loss of a loved one, Terminal illness, PTSD themes, Emotional trauma, Mentions of death / implied past death, Medical procedures / hospitals, Restraints (medical context), Panic attacks / nightmares, confinement / loss of agency, Non-consensual medical intervention, Self-worth / guilt issues, Power imbalance (emotional), Non-graphic violence, Brief medical body horror, Touch-starvation / intimacy after trauma, Bittersweet tone, heavy emotional intensity, Hope & love, but not always soft

Pairing: Caleb x former partner!you Genre: Sci-fi drama, heartbreak and healing, soul-deep devotion. Heavy on angst, soft on reunion. Enemies to… something more broken and beautiful. MC Context: You disappeared five years ago. He never forgave you. Now you’re back — with a secret that’s killing you slowly. Summary: Admiral Caleb was forged in war and tempered by loss — and you were the one wound that never healed. When fate throws you back into his orbit, neither of you are ready for what resurfaces. Letters, graves, rain-soaked rooftops, and the love that refuses to die quietly. Word Count: 8.4K — stand-alone… for now. 🥀 This story was loosely inspired by Caleb’s latest Myth. Just a touch of that vibe, y’know?

Author’s Note: Okay, full confession — I cried from the first word to the very last. Maybe it’s just me (I’ll admit, Caleb is my soft spot). Or maybe… it just hit something. Either way, I’d love to hear what you think.

The anniversary of Josephine’s death — and Caleb’s own — landed squarely on an unscheduled visit to Lincon City.

The admiral rarely returned. Not unless duty bared its teeth and dragged him back. Too painful. Too empty. The wounds too fresh, even now.

He had once been Colonel Caleb of the Farspace Fleet. Now, promoted to the soulless rank of Admiral, he moved like a ghost through corridors lined with medals and silence. But today… something clawed at him. A compulsion. A tremor from a buried place.

He bought lupines. Tall, excessive, dignified in a way grief never is. The kind you buy for someone who will never see them. And then he walked — alone — to the cemetery.

He had only been here once before. With you.

Josephine’s grave was strangely well-tended. No weeds. Edged clean. A vase of pink lilies — fresh, impossibly so — sat nestled against the stone like someone had just set them down and whispered something soft and final. Her favorite flowers. He remembered.

His first thought: the groundskeepers. Maybe the city did something for the dead on anniversaries. Some quiet bureaucratic kindness. But that didn’t explain the lilies. How would they know?

His eyes scanned the black headstone. “Josephine,” carved in solemn, obedient serif. A name, a dash, two dates, and silence. His grandmother. Gone six years.

She hadn’t died of age. The blast had taken her.

But you — you were different.

Five years. Five years since you vanished. Gone not like a candle snuffed, but like smoke ripped from the air.

He had never accepted it. Not really. Some part of him believed you were taken. That you had been forced to go.

Because the truth — the one that stared back at him in sleepless nights and shattered mirrors — was that you did leave. You walked away. No message. No farewell. Just absence.

The storm was building in the clouds above, heavy and low like judgment. Thunder sat unspoken just beyond the hills, crouching. Caleb stood still, arms at his sides, as the sky thickened.

Why?

It was a question that never left. A question with a thousand answers. Each one sharper than the last.

The scent of wet earth rose in the air. Ozone, crackling like something electric and cruel. His hand twitched toward his wristwatch. He was due back. His itinerary was brutal. The war waited for no one — not even the grieving.

He knelt, placed the bouquet down with the softness of ritual. A last gesture. A futile offering.

Then his eyes drifted. To his own gravestone.

There it was. Cold. Familiar. His name, etched beneath hers, waiting for its second date.

And something else. A white envelope.

Untouched by time. Unsullied by rain or rot. Resting gently, like it had grown there.

His breath caught.

The lilies. The letter. The impossible coincidence.

Then the first drop hit — heavy, warm — against his cheek. A second, on the envelope. Then more.

Drip. Drip-drip. Drip—  Draaip.

The kind of rain that doesn’t fall, but descends. Like judgment. Like memory.

Caleb stepped forward. One foot. Then another. His boots sank slightly into the earth, as if the ground resisted.

He reached out — hands trembling, trembling — like the time he pulled an FS-90 out of a death spiral back at the Academy, nose brushing the snow-capped ridges of the mountains peaks.

He lifted the envelope. It was light. Too light. But on it — one word, scrawled in handwriting he knew too well.

Caleb.

Nothing more.

He shoved it into the inner pocket of his uniform, as though it were explosive. As though it might burn through the fabric and into his chest.

And just like that — as if spurred by some instinct he couldn't name — he turned on his heel and walked fast, too fast, back toward the car.

His heart didn’t race. It pounded.

Like thunder.

The drive to the airfield felt like a lifetime, though the roads were mercifully clear. No evening traffic, no pointless delays. The driver, attuned to the admiral’s mood, pressed hard on the accelerator, but still — Caleb tapped his fingers against the armrest with restless urgency, the motion sharp and impatient.

The envelope continued to burn in his chest.

Rain traced thick, winding rivers down the window, a slow, rhythmic descent like tears he never shed for you. When you left, it wasn’t just his heart that broke. It was his soul, his body, his being. Everything cracked and caved inward — except his eyes. Those remained stubbornly dry.

Now, though… he was close. And that made him angry.

Furious, even.

It infuriated him that just as he had begun to stitch some version of his life back together — a life without you, without your voice, your touch, your name — you reappeared. Like a ghost. Too close to ignore, too far to hold.

If you had wanted to return, you would have come back. Not like this. Not through riddles and shadows and silence. You would’ve stood at his door, or on a tarmac, or behind him in some briefing room like the world hadn’t ended. And he — damn him — he would have forgiven you. Instantly. Because that’s who he was. That’s what you had always counted on.

And that was what made him want to scream.

He didn’t want to forgive. He didn’t want to read your damned letter, to parse your reasons, your pleas, your desperate little words asking to be understood.

He didn’t want to analyze your cruelty. He didn’t want to empathize with it.

For the first time in five years, Caleb felt like he could finally, truly erase you. Not forget — never forget — but cut you out like rot. And live with the absence.

The letter pressed against his chest like a bullet. He placed his palm over it, broad and unsteady, as though trying to keep it from puncturing skin. As if it hadn’t already pierced him, deep and final.

The only sane choice would be to throw it out the window. Let the wind take it, let the rain dissolve it, let the world carry it into the dark.

Maybe you hadn’t even meant for him to find it. Maybe this was a confession to no one. A whisper into the void. Maybe it wasn’t meant for him at all — just for yourself.

To ease the weight.

To breathe again.

Selfish.

Selfish to write it. Selfish to hope for release, when he was still walking in agony, flesh and blood wrapped around something broken.

He didn’t want you to breathe.

He didn’t want you to be free of the pain, not when he was still wearing it — every day, every night, every silence between heartbeats.

How dare you write to him?

It was beneath an admiral to take the controls.

But today, Caleb didn’t care.

Protocol could burn. Chain of command, procedure, rank — all of it. He needed to feel the illusion of control again, even if it came in the form of a military jet barely older than some of the crew still stationed on the tarmac.

He didn’t ask the pilots to stand down. He ordered them. One glance at his face, and none of them argued.

The rain was steady now, carving grooves into the tarmac like old scars. The cockpit smelled of steel, vinyl, and cold systems spinning up to life.

Caleb slid into the pilot’s seat. No ceremony. No reverence. Just quiet, deliberate motion. The envelope — that stupid, unbearable envelope — landed in the co-pilot’s seat like a stone slab. Heavy enough, he thought, to drag the aircraft down with him.

And maybe that would’ve been for the best.

He ran the preflight checks by muscle memory.

Fuel quantity. Sufficient. Confirmed crossfeed valve closed.

Hydraulic pressure. Green. Full.

Flight controls. Surfaces free and correct — elevator, rudder, ailerons.

Navigation systems. Online. INS aligned. No drift.

Avionics. Check.

Oxygen. Flow normal, regulators armed.

Engine start. Ignition armed. Starter sequence began. One engine, then the second — turbines spun up with that low whine that sounded too much like a scream if you listened the wrong way.

He couldn’t breathe. But he was going through the motions.

Flight clearance received. Tower approved for immediate departure.

The jet eased down the taxiway, engines rumbling like restrained violence beneath him. His hands on the throttle were steady. Too steady.

Takeoff checklist. Flaps set. Trim neutral. Brakes released.

He pushed the throttles forward.

The aircraft responded like it wanted to run. Acceleration pressed him back into the seat. Rain lashed the windscreen. The moment the wheels left the tarmac, the ache in his chest twisted tighter.

There. He was airborne.

And it didn’t help. Not like it used to.

Altitude climbed. Ten thousand. Twenty. Forty. Cruising.

He stabilized at 37,000 feet and did something he almost never allowed himself: he engaged the autopilot.

The moment the system took over, he tore off the harness with a sharp, frustrated motion. The metal buckle clattered against the seat.

His hand reached for the envelope.

It was still warm from being pressed to his chest. He turned it over in his fingers, letting the edge bite into his skin. He very nearly tore it in half.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he broke the seal, carefully, precisely — like disarming a mine.

And there it was. That handwriting. Your handwriting.

Messy. Crooked. Rushed. Impatient. Every letter a little too hard, as though you’d nearly punctured the page. You had always gripped your pen like it was the only thing anchoring you to the world. You hadn’t changed.

For a long moment, Caleb didn’t read. He just stared at the shapes of the words. The loops and slants. Like he was watching you from the other side of interrogation glass — close enough to touch, unreachable all the same.

And then he started.

Once. Again. A third time.

Each pass scraped deeper, like reading the report of his own autopsy.

His hand trembled. He didn’t even realize he was breathing too fast until the cockpit hissed a low-pressure warning. He ignored it.

He slammed the harness back across his chest and keyed the comms.

“Control, this is Delta-Two-Alpha requesting vector for immediate return.”

There was a pause.

“…Confirm that, Delta-Two-Alpha. Reason for return?”

He took the yoke again, flicked autopilot disengage with a sharp tap. The jet jerked slightly, now fully under his hand.

“Command directive,” he said flatly.

Another pause.

“Understood. Return approved. You’re clear for turn on heading zero-one-five.”

Caleb didn’t wait. He threw the aircraft into a steep bank, cutting through the clouds like a blade.

He knew where to find you. He had known before he stepped into the cockpit. He had known standing at the grave, the envelope still untouched.

But he hadn’t wanted to find you then.

Now?

Now he didn’t have a choice.

The viewing deck of the Linkon TV Tower was nearly empty.

Closing time was drawing near, but the rain had chased away what few tourists and visitors remained. You stood at the railing in a long lavender raincoat, hood pulled deep over your head. The fabric clung to your arms and back, soaked through. Your sneakers were long past wet, the chill of the concrete seeping into your bones. But you didn’t move. Didn’t shift. As if the weather had pinned you here in time, or maybe memory had.

The city below had disappeared — swallowed by fog, by stormclouds, by everything that refused to be seen. No headlights, no stars. Just the endless roar of rain and the cold sting of being the last one left.

Your fingers rested lightly on the metal bar. Your eyes were turned upward, into the vast nothing. Watching clouds drift across an invisible sky. You might have stood there till morning, if not for the footsteps behind you.

Slow. Measured. Not security. Too quiet.

“I would give a lot to know what you’re thinking right now,” said a voice too worn to belong to the man you once loved.

You turned slowly.

Caleb stood a few paces away, still in uniform. The rain hadn’t spared him. His hair was damp, the shoulders of his coat dark with water. But he stood like the storm couldn’t touch him. Like it wouldn’t dare.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” you said.

“I almost didn’t.”

You smiled — not from joy, but from pain that needed a face.

“I thought maybe you’d moved on by now,” you said. “Married. Found peace.”

“I’m not built for peace,” he said flatly.

“No,” you murmured, “you weren’t. But I hoped... maybe you’d become someone who was.”

He took a step forward, his boots clicking against the wet metal. “You hoped I’d forget you.”

“I hoped you’d survive me.”

The words hit. You saw it — the smallest shift in his jaw, the flicker in his eyes. But his voice stayed calm.

“You knew I wouldn’t.”

You didn’t deny it.

“I wrote the letter because I needed to say it. Not because I thought you'd ever read it.”

“You didn’t want me to.”

You hesitated. “No.”

“Then why leave it where I’d find it?”

Another silence. Then: “Because I wanted to believe you wouldn’t come.”

Caleb’s expression didn’t change, but his gaze sharpened. The air between you grew tighter, like a pressure drop before impact.

“I read it,” he said.

Your breath caught. “I know.”

“I know everything now.”

You nodded.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t accuse. But his voice was a blade dragged slowly across flesh.

“You could’ve told me. You could’ve stayed.”

“I couldn’t breathe, Caleb.” You didn’t mean to say it out loud — but the truth had a weight of its own. “You loved me like I was something to guard. Not someone to hold.”

“I was trying to keep you safe.”

“And I was trying to live.”

His lips parted, as if to argue — but nothing came. Because you both knew: you were right. And so was he.

You took a step closer, rain dripping from your sleeves.

“I didn’t want you to be there when it started. I didn’t want you to watch me fade.”

“And now?”

“Now it’s too late.”

Caleb looked at you like you were a puzzle he used to know how to solve. Like something once sacred that had rewritten itself in a language he couldn’t read.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” you said.

“Good.”

Your breath hitched — not from the cruelty of it, but from the honesty.

“I just wanted to see you again,” you whispered. “Once. Before...”

You didn’t finish. You didn’t need to.

He stepped closer. This time, the space between you nearly vanished. But he didn’t reach out.

“You always ran when it got quiet,” he said.

“And you never let anything rest.”

He didn’t deny it.

“I hated you,” he said, voice rough. “For five years, I hated you for leaving. For taking my soul with you and vanishing into nothing.”

You closed your eyes.

“And now?”

He hesitated.

Then: “Now I just hate that there’s nothing left to save.”

The rain didn’t stop. Neither of you moved.

But something broke, quietly — not between you, but inside you both.

And maybe that was the beginning. 

Or the end.

He stepped closer. Not to you — no. To the railing.

Leaning casually, almost carelessly, over the edge, he stared down into the city’s abyss. The lights below were blurred by fog, rain, and altitude — a slow-motion fall into nothingness. Even resting like that, shoulders relaxed, head tilted slightly as he looked down, Caleb seemed impossibly distant. Removed.

Admiral.

Not just a rank anymore. Not a role. It had consumed him — the strictness, the cold efficiency, the discipline etched into every movement. He was the title now. All calculation, no softness. All control, no warmth. A man weaponized by grief, then sanctified by command.

“Do you remember the last time we were here?” you asked quietly, your voice fragile, almost drowned out by the rain.

He didn’t answer at first.

You studied his face — the years had been merciful to him in the way they only are to men shaped by war. Just over thirty. A trace of silver at the temples. Skin clean-shaven, jaw locked, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass.

He looked like marble come alive. Cold, perfect, untouchable.

You wanted to reach out. Just to touch his face. To feel warmth. To remind yourself he was still made of skin, not armor.

“We saved a lot of people that day,” you added, almost to fill the silence. “From Wanderer.”

“I remember,” he said, his voice low. “On the train ride here, you fell asleep on my shoulder. There was some romantic song playing on loop — too sweet to ever be real.”

You smiled, barely. It hurt. “Caleb… would you still do it now? Jump like that? Into the void. As if death is something you can bargain with. Something you can command to pause.”

He tilted his head, still watching the city below.

“I can stop a fall. I can control flight paths. Bend gravity to my will. But not death. If I could…” He paused. His voice dropped lower, quieter. “I wouldn’t be here.”

When he turned to you, the change was surgical. A full turn of his body, attention locked on yours. His eyes scanned your face with precision, not feeling.

He looked at you like he was trying to remember.

Like five years had burned away not just the love, but the memory of it.

“Tell me,” he said, “do you think I’ll be able to save you this time?”

The question landed like a shard of ice in your spine. You flinched — not visibly, but inside, where it counted.

There was something wrong in his voice. Not anger. Not desperation. Just… wrong. Like he was rehearsing something he didn’t understand.

“I’m not asking you to save me,” you said. “I never wanted that. I never wanted to be your project. Your fragile rose behind glass — something that, if shattered, would take your whole world with it.”

He didn’t reply. But he looked away. Not down. Not up. Just… away.

And then — a sound behind you.

A door creaked. Footsteps, hesitant. The voice of someone too young, too aware.

“I— I’m sorry— sir— admiral— I didn’t— The tower’s closed, I—” The poor security guard stumbled over every word as he recognized the face that had appeared in military reports, field briefings, and news feeds. The ghost in the sky. The man who never fell.

Caleb turned slightly toward him, not quite sighing — more like resetting. 

“Where are you staying?”

You blinked. “Caleb—”

He raised a hand, not unkindly, but final.

“Where.”

You swallowed. “The Midland Motel. Down by the shuttle terminal.”

He said nothing, just nodded once and began walking. You followed.

You knew you shouldn’t. But you were too tired to argue. Too wet, too cold, too broken.

He didn’t offer his coat. Didn’t say a word. Just pressed the call button for the lift and waited in silence.

The car ride was quiet. The city blurred past in gray, streaked neon. His vehicle — black, sleek, military grade but dressed as civilian — moved like a shadow through the storm.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t speak.

You kept your arms wrapped around yourself in the damp raincoat, your soaked sleeves sticking to your skin.

He brought you to a hotel you didn’t recognize. Modern, expensive, silent. The kind of place that smells like clean money and consequence.

At the front desk, he handed over a card — no hesitation — and said, “One bedroom suite. Highest floor. Immediate check-in.”

No questions asked.

The elevator ride was wordless. The carpet muffled your wet shoes.

He opened the door. The lights came on softly. Beige walls, minimalist decor, glass and brushed steel. Tasteful. Lifeless.

He handed you a folded robe from the closet. “Bathroom’s through there,” he said. “Go shower. I’ll order food.”

You took the robe with slow hands, staring at it for a moment too long.

Then, wordlessly, you turned and walked into the bathroom. The door closed with a quiet click behind you.

Warmth. Dry tile. A mirror.

And, for just a moment — silence.The kind that wraps around you like grief you haven’t cried yet.

The robe was too large. Too soft. Too warm.

You could have wrapped it around yourself three times and still gotten lost in it.

On the small round table near the panoramic window, a meal waited. Caleb hadn’t bothered to order anything you used to love. He remembered, of course — that was never the issue. He simply hadn’t tried. The selection was closer to a field ration than a dinner: high protein, complex carbs, dense fats. Efficient. Precise.

You weren’t hungry. You hadn’t been for a long time.

He’d removed the jacket of his uniform, now down to a crisp white shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow. And still, something in the room made it feel wrong to sit without permission. He didn’t even look at you — just gave a practiced gesture toward the chair.

You sat on the very edge of it.

Your gaze lingered on the veins in his forearms, raised and defined — marks of control, of command. Of power. Hands that once cradled you through entire nights, hands that had trembled against your skin as if you were the only thing in the world keeping him human.

Now, all of it felt like a dream.

You broke off a piece of warm bread. Turned toward the rain outside. Watched the world bleed behind the glass.

“Did you see a doctor?” he asked.

Not worry. Not fear. Just curiosity. Clinical, detached. A data point to confirm.

You shrugged slowly. “Yeah. Dr. Zane was the first. Then came the rest.”

“And he didn’t tell me anything?”

“Doctor-patient confidentiality,” you said. “I asked him not to.”

“So I wasn’t worthy of the truth?”

You exhaled — sharp and stung, like you’d been slapped. “Caleb… do I really have to explain this? I was trying to spare you the pain.”

He laughed. Cold. Harsh. Suffocating.

The room, already dim, felt darker suddenly. As though the lights had dimmed in reverence to his bitterness.

“Spare me? Oh, brilliant. You really did a hell of a job. I didn’t suffer at all. You disappeared and I just breathed a sigh of relief, right? Out of sight, out of mind — that’s what you think?”

“It’s not the same.”

He slammed a fist down on the table. Plates jumped. Glass cracked under his hand.

“If you had died in my arms, at least I would’ve known. I would’ve known you didn’t leave because I wasn’t enough. Because I loved you too hard, too deep, too much. I would’ve known you had no choice.”

“You wouldn’t have let me die in peace!” you shot back, voice rising. “You would’ve torn the damn planet apart looking for a cure. You would’ve ripped through every system, Farspace tunnel, shouting that it’s almost over, that we’re so close, just hold on—”

He stared at you. Unblinking. Breathing slow.

The storm inside him didn’t explode. It collapsed, inward — contained by the vice grip of discipline. Of rank.

“If loving you with everything I had — completely, recklessly, overwhelmingly — was a crime…” His voice was low now. Not soft. Deadly. “Then yes. I’m guilty. You pronounced the sentence without a trial, Pip-squeak. And I served it. Five years, no parole.”

He stood, pushing away the untouched plate. The chair didn’t scrape. It moved like a blade being sheathed.

“But let me tell you something.” He turned his gaze on you like ice hardening in place. “Love, when betrayed and ground into dust, doesn’t always fade. Sometimes… it turns into contempt.”

The word hit like a slap across the soul.

You couldn’t speak. Your breath stalled in your throat.

“Eat something,” he said. “And get some rest.”

“And you—?”

“I have too much work to babysit you.”

“I don’t want to stay here!”

He paused by the door. Turned half toward you — not enough to be kind.

“Well, that’s a shame,” he said. “Because I do. Sorry, sweetheart, but tonight? You don’t get a choice. I may be, as you so astutely pointed out, a cold-hearted bastard — but even now, I can’t let you wander the streets in wet clothes, racing to meet your own end.”

With that, he slid back into his uniform jacket in one fluid, dismissive motion and stepped out.

The door closed behind him with mechanical precision. The lock flashed red. Like a warning.

Your only way out now was through the window.

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

Most likely, you just shut down — the body giving out where the soul had already emptied. There were no tears. No breakdown. Just the vast, aching silence of being done. As if the last thread tethering you to this world had snapped soundlessly in the night.

Caleb had been the only family you ever had. He didn’t want to be your partner anymore — that, at least, made sense. But now he didn’t even want to be your brother. Not your anchor. Not your history.

He had become a stranger. And you had made him that.

You had no one to blame. No one to curse. The damage had your fingerprints all over it — deliberate, cruel, irreversible.

You regretted it. You knew it was a mistake.

But what could you do now?

Five years ago, you walked away — selfishly, completely — leaving him alone with the bleeding wreckage of his own love. And you hadn't spared yourself either. You’d just taken the pain and buried it, hoping time would do what courage couldn’t.

And now, with the same selfish silence, you had come back. Uninvited. Unexplained. Unhealed. You didn’t know what you’d hoped for — redemption, maybe. A flicker of warmth. Or just… recognition.

But instead, you lit the same fuse all over again.

You knew, even before boarding the train, that he’d find you. Even if he wasn’t looking. Even if he didn’t want to.

And still — you came.

The knock at the door startled you. You shot up, heart hammering in your throat.

Room service? Caleb? No. Caleb wouldn’t knock.

A second later, the door’s lock blinked with coded lights, and a young man in a tailored aide’s uniform stepped in. He was polite enough to knock. But not enough to wait for a response.

Not Liam. Someone much younger.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he said with crisp formality, almost saluting before catching himself.

He tried — really tried — to keep his gaze level, but you could see the questions in his eyes. He didn’t know who you were, why you were important, or why the Admiral had seen fit to personally house you in a suite normally reserved for political dignitaries.

“I was ordered to bring you a change of clothes and arrange breakfast,” he said. “Admiral Caleb instructed me to return in thirty minutes and escort you to the hospital.”

You blinked. “Tell the Admiral that’s unnecessary.”

The aide offered a tight, apologetic smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. “He also told me to inform you that, if you refuse to come voluntarily, I’m authorized to use force.”

The words hit harder than you expected.

You swallowed, fighting the wave of humiliation. Of course he would go this far. You shouldn’t be surprised. And yet, it burned.

“I see,” you said quietly. “Then I’ll just have coffee.”

The aide hesitated. “Ma’am—”

“You’re not going to shove breakfast down my throat, are you?” you snapped, sharper than intended. “Fine. For the sake of compromise — coffee. And a yogurt. That’s it, Lieutenant.”

He nodded with practiced obedience. “Yes, ma’am.”

And then he left, leaving you alone with your rage and your helplessness.

The coffee tasted bitter. The yogurt was sour. Your taste buds had changed — everything had. Food had stopped being pleasure long ago. It was fuel now, nothing more. You absorbed calories. Not flavor.

Another memory — gone.  Another joy stripped from a life grown colorless. Another piece of yourself you hadn’t noticed was missing… until Caleb reminded you it was never coming back.

Some part of you expected they'd take you to Akso Hospital.

It would’ve made sense. Zayne knew your case better than anyone — your body, your history, the long and winding ruins of your health. But Caleb didn’t trust him anymore. Not enough to put your life in his hands.

Zayne had already failed him once — by keeping your secret.

Instead, they brought you to an unfamiliar place. Private, sterile, quiet. Too many white walls. Too much controlled light.

Caleb was already there, standing in the center of a vast conference room surrounded by doctors in crisp lab coats.

Even without a word, he commanded the space. In uniform, he looked taller than any of them. Broader. More permanent. Even the chief physician seemed to defer to him instinctively, as though gravity itself bent slightly in his direction.

You paused in the doorway, watching the way their attention latched to him — every word, every breath, every small flick of his hand. He wasn’t just giving orders. He was delivering truth.

And it made your blood boil.

With silent, focused fury, you crossed the room. Stopped too close. Closer than decorum allowed. Closer than memory permitted.

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

“You’re doing exactly what I was afraid of,” you hissed, voice low and sharp, aimed straight at his throat. “I’m not a lab rat. I’m not your property. You don’t get to manage me. I have a right to my own choices.”

He looked you over slowly, without shame or apology — from your scuffed shoes to the oversized hoodie and jeans that hung loose on your frame. He’d remembered your size, but even so, they fit like clothes left behind by a body that used to be stronger.

“Fine,” he said simply. “You can leave.”

You blinked. Taken aback. Then pivoted sharply. “And I will.”

“Just know,” he said, his voice still maddeningly calm, “if you stay — I’ll stay too. If you stop running, you’ll have the chance… to live what time you have left not alone. Not in silence.”

You froze.

One breath. Another.

Your shoulders sagged. The sharpness in your spine dulled. And slowly, you turned back to him.

His face hadn’t changed. That same cold mask. Not unkind — just unreadable.

“You’d stay?” you asked, barely audible.

He exhaled, finally. A quiet thing. His fingers brushed the edge of a metallic button on his uniform — a nervous tic, barely there.

“We were family once,” he said softly. “No one should die alone.”

Your lips parted slightly, as if to answer — but no words came.

There was no sentiment in his voice. No drama. No heartbreak. Just a statement of fact.

Death wasn’t something that scared him. It was a language he knew fluently — one he had spoken too many times, in too many places, across too many battlefields. He’d seen it. Worn it. Come back from it.

Even now, he didn’t flinch from yours.

It was just another ending. Another line of code. A final set of coordinates.

No pleading. No shaking. No denial.

And somehow — that was exactly what you needed. Not mercy. Not hope. Just someone to stay.

For once, it didn’t matter what you deserved. It mattered that you weren’t alone in this room. Not anymore.

The carousel of tests spun you until nightfall.

Scanners, probes, bloodwork, neurological assessments — round after round until your skin felt bruised from inside out. You were growing irritable, frayed at the seams, more from the dread than the procedures themselves.

They weren’t just gathering data. They were preparing to keep you here. Not for a night. Not even for a week. You could feel it — that low hum of administrative inevitability, ready to steal your time in the name of preservation.

You hadn’t even tied the hospital robe back around your chest when the door hissed open again.

“Oh, do come in. Why not take a piece of my liver while you’re at it?” you snapped, not bothering to turn.

“Your liver’s fine,” came the reply.

Of course. Caleb.

You turned too fast — too defensively — forgetting the robe was still gaping open. Not exposing skin, no. That wasn’t the issue.

It was the mark.

A thick, black web, raised and pulsing, spidered across your chest, the origin rooted deep in the center — where the Aethor Core was housed. Where power should have blossomed. Where your strength was supposed to live.

But it didn’t pulse with life. It cracked. You were coming apart, slowly, precisely, down the middle. Left from right. Light from shadow. Every beat of your heart was a fracture.

You covered your chest too late. He had seen.

He approached, unhurried. Unstoppable. The kind of step he used when nothing in the world could change his mind.

He pulled off one glove with a smooth, practiced motion and pressed his palm to the place where the damage burned hottest.

Right over your heart. Where it splintered loudest.

You closed your eyes. Pain hit like a detonator — sharp, white-hot, cellular. Like a memory of impact. A blade. A bomb. A scream that had never been given voice.

“At any moment,” you whispered, answering the question he hadn’t asked.

He nodded. No surprise. He already knew.

He knew what the Evol had become. That your body couldn’t carry what it was never designed to hold. That the Core — meant to empower — was now the source of slow, elegant devastation.

He knew you were made of chaos. Born to fracture. Destined to burn.

You, who had broken him. And so many others in your wake. Your love had never healed. It had only bled slower.

He didn’t flinch.

He pulled away from your chest, reached for the t-shirt folded over the back of the chair, and helped you slip into it. His touch was clinical. Gentle. Resigned.

Not cold. Not warm. Just necessary.

You swallowed against the lump rising in your throat. It didn’t move.

“Come on,” he said, voice suddenly softer. “Let’s go.”

You blinked. “More tests?”

“No. There's a fair. In our old district. Crowds, noise. Bad music. Terrible food.”

You snorted — just once — but held back the gallows humor itching to spill from your lips. Too early for jokes about death-day parades.

“All right,” you murmured. Pulled your hoodie over your head. Slipped on your sneakers.

You bent to tie the laces, but before your fingers reached them, Caleb was already kneeling before you.

Kneeling.

Your breath hitched.

Just like back then. Just like a lifetime ago.

You shifted your weight awkwardly, as if the floor had gone uneven beneath your feet. The moment was too intimate. Too real.

“An Admiral tying shoelaces,” you said with a weak smirk. “Now that’s more paradoxical than the Colonel ever was.”

He looked up at you. Fingers tightening the knot. A ghost of a smile pulled at his mouth — brief, boyish, and so devastatingly familiar it made your chest ache.

“Let’s agree I outrank your dignity today,” he murmured. “Don’t make me invoke protocol Alpha-Pip-Squeak.”

At some point, it started to feel like time had folded in on itself.

The sounds, the smells, the fireworks, the shrieking laughter of children, the curling smoke from endless food stalls — it all swirled into a surreal kaleidoscope of celebration. A world too alive.

 Too bright.

It felt wrong. Your heart was failing, slowly betraying you, yet the world kept spinning, singing, dancing without hesitation.

At first, it stung. The unfairness of it. The cruelty.

You didn’t want to die. You didn’t want to vanish into memory.

You had dreamt of children — your children — running through crowds with cotton candy bigger than their faces, covered in chocolate and ice cream. You used to see your future so clearly: a wide house with a garden and a swingset, and somewhere up in the attic, a claw machine you’d insisted on installing, turning the whole floor into a chaotic arcade.

Your eyes filled with tears.

You blinked them away, catching Caleb watching you. You smiled.

“Smoke,” you murmured. “Got in my eyes.”

He nodded. Didn’t believe you, but let you have it.

He wasn’t wearing his Admiral’s uniform anymore. Jeans. A T-shirt with a stupid graphic. A jacket. A cap. He looked familiar. Almost close. Almost yours.

You walked slowly, shoulders brushing occasionally, hands near but never touching. Neither of you tried to bridge the gap. It would’ve felt dishonest. And you were grateful for that honesty. Even if it hurt.

You took a few shots at the game booths. Your hands still remembered. When you won an oversized plush flamingo, you handed it to a girl with bright red ribbons in her pigtails. She couldn’t have been more than six.

You asked her name. Rolled it around on your tongue. You could’ve named a daughter that.

Caleb noticed when your steps started to falter. Without a word, he led you toward an empty table at the edge of the crowd.

While he went for food, you let yourself sink back into the chair, exhaustion tugging hard at your spine. Your eyelids fluttered, but you refused to let sleep steal this. This might not be happiness, but it wasn’t pain.

And that was enough.

He came back with a platter full of street food. You wouldn’t taste much of it. But you remembered. You knew. And for now, that was enough, too.

“It’s a clear night,” he said. “Wanna ride the Ferris wheel?”

You nodded. You’d say yes to anything that would delay the return to sterile rooms, to IV drips and ticking clocks.

The cabin swayed gently as it rose. Wind cooled your cheeks, carrying away the stubborn tears that kept threatening to fall. But you wouldn’t cry. You wouldn’t let grief ruin this night.

“Are you still angry?” you asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you still… hate me?”

He didn’t answer right away.

His gaze drifted over the glowing chaos below, where lights bled together into a gold-and-rainbow puddle of motion and life.

“No,” he said at last. “And I never did.”

He turned toward you, reached up, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“I said it in anger. I was too furious to mean it.”

“I deserved it.”

“You deserved my anger,” he agreed. “But not this. Not a slow, painful fade. Not the kind of desperation that makes you choose impossible things.”

“Caleb…” your voice cracked. “Please… don’t say goodbye yet. It’s not time.”

“I’m trying to be honest,” he murmured. His eyes dropped to your hands, folded like a small prayer in your lap. He looked like he wanted to reach for them — but didn’t. “I’ve learned what hiding the truth from the people you love can cost.”

You swallowed. “I’m… still someone you love?”

He nodded, steady. “There’s no one closer.”

“Then promise me—”

“No.” The word was sharp. Too fast. Too raw.

“No,” he repeated. “I won’t even try.”

“But you could be happy again. If you let yourself open up—”

“Could you?” he cut in. “Could you promise that if I go first, you’ll find someone else? That you’ll love another man? Hold his hand, kiss him, like I never existed?”

Your answer was immediate.

“No.”

Too quick. Too honest.

And he knew. You both did.

Whatever tied you together was deeper than flesh, deeper than time. You could peel away the skin, erase the past, burn the memories— but your soul would still reach for his in the dark.

And his would still be holding on. Waiting.

Until the next life.

He didn’t take you back to the hospital.

By now, he knew what you had understood five years ago. It was pointless. There was no cure.

You lowered yourself carefully onto the bed, curled up on your side. You looked at him — just a silhouette in the dark, and still somehow larger than life.

“Stay with me tonight,” you whispered.

He didn’t hesitate.

He slipped off his jacket, climbed in beside you. Didn’t touch. Just lay there — facing you.

You stared into each other’s eyes for a long time. Until they closed on their own. Until sleep claimed you.

And the nightmare followed.

The same one, always the same — your body splitting apart, bones breaking under pressure, your chest tearing open as the Core rejected you, gave birth to a creature that looked almost like you. But not you.

Black. Cold. Merciless.

Your body left behind, hollow — a deflated skin, a costume discarded.

You screamed. But you didn’t wake.

You thrashed, fighting against the blanket, clawing at your chest, trying to force the monster back inside, back into the dark where it belonged.

Hands. Strong, steady, familiar.

They caught you. Held you. Rocked you.

Lips brushed your temple. Words — soft, foreign — spoken in a language your heart remembered even if your ears couldn’t make them out.

“No… please…”

Caleb held you like a child, pressing your face against his chest.

Tears — hot, fast — fell onto your cheeks. Not yours.

His.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. You hear me? You’re not alone. I’m right here. I’m not leaving. I swear to God, I’m not letting go. Come back to me. Please, come back…”

“Caleb…”

“I’m here. I’m here, baby.” His arms tightened, anchoring you in place.

“I’m so scared,” you whispered, fragile.

“I know, Pip. I know.”  His voice cracked — raw, guttural. “I’ll take it all. All the pain. I’ll kill every monster in your path. I’ll tear down the night itself. Just say the word, and I’ll burn this world to the ground to bring you peace.”

“I love you…” The words came with sobs now, spilling out, no longer held back.

His lips kissed your forehead. Your temple. Your cheeks.

“And I love you. My girl. My sunshine. My joy. My… Pip-Squeak.”

“I’m sorry I stole this time from us.”

He shook his head, still holding you like you might slip through his fingers.

“I forgave you a long time ago. How could I not forgive you? God, how could I ever stay mad at you? I’ll be here, right here, until your very last breath.”

He kept whispering. Murmuring softness into your hair. As if the five years of agony had never happened.

 As if you’d never left.

And slowly, gently, you drifted back into sleep. Held in his arms. Wrapped in his warmth. In his love.

With one thought cradling your soul: If the universe is kind — let me go like this. Let me go in his arms. Let me go loved.

All morning, Caleb didn’t let go of you.

Like he was making up for every moment of distance, he kept touching you — a fleeting kiss, a gentle brush of fingers, little gestures wrapped in warmth and care that tore your heart in half.

You didn’t want to let go of him either.

And when you loved each other, it wasn’t just love — it was desperation.

Through trembling limbs, through broken breath and quiet cries, the pain poured out. The guilt. The fear.

It wasn’t sex. It was absolution.

Then he drove again.

Said he wanted to show you something. You didn’t look out the window. You looked at him. Held his hand. Silence said more than words ever could.

You only grew uneasy when the car pulled up in front of a building — far too official to be anything like a park or a gallery.

“Where are we?”

“It’s… a military lab,” he said, with a small, apologetic smile. Then he kissed you again. “Just need to drop in. Work.”

You followed him inside.

A narrow, impersonal room. Cold lighting. The air too clean.

Caleb gestured to a chair. You sat. He knelt next to you. Kissed you again — too gently. Too long. Something about it felt… wrong.

“I’m sorry, Pips,” he whispered. “I just… I can’t do nothing.”

“Caleb? What are you doing—?”

You saw the glint of metal. Just before the needle plunged into your artery.

“CALEB!”

“Even if you hate me for the rest of your life, I have to try. You have to live, baby.”

You wanted to scream, to shove him, to run —  but your limbs turned to jelly.

You slumped into his arms. And everything went dark.

The lab was silent.

Sterile.

Lifeless.

Two rooms. One pane of glass between them — just wide enough for you not to miss a single second of the show.

You were strapped to a hospital bed. Wires trailing from your arms and chest. Your head throbbed.

Across the glass — Caleb.

“No. No, Caleb, stop! This is insane!”

 Your voice cracked, but your chest—  your chest was… light. The weight, the crushing pain — gone.

You began to thrash. The heart monitor shrieked in alarm.

You pulled at the restraints — raw, bloody skin tearing against metal cuffs.

You didn’t stop. Didn’t care.

Slippery with blood, your wrists finally slipped free — it felt like peeling flesh from bone.

You tore off the tubes. Fell from the bed.

Your legs wouldn’t hold you. So you crawled.

Crawled to the glass.

“CALEB!”

You slammed your fists against it, over and over again.

He lay on the other side — restrained. But the straps couldn’t hold the violent spasms. And the glass couldn’t muffle the sound of his screaming.

“CALEB! YOU PROMISED!”

You forced yourself upright, pounded your fists until your knuckles split open.

“You promised… you said you’d stay… you said you’d be there until my last breath— CALEB— !”

Your voice disintegrated into a scream.

You kept hammering. Like a moth caught in a jar, helplessly throwing itself against the cruel, unyielding glass.

Kept crying.

The door hissed open behind you. A man in a lab coat.

You lunged at him — knocked him flat. Ran.

Another body in the hallway — you shoved them aside.

You found the next door. Slammed your palm to the entry panel.

It opened.

“CALEB—!”

You collapsed onto him, draping your entire body over his, as if your weight alone could stop the process.

Black veins had begun to trace up his neck. The same pattern that once bloomed across your chest.

“How could you…?” Your voice broke into pieces. “You can’t leave me… you promised…”

For a moment, his eyes found yours. His hand twitched. Reached.

You seized it. Gripped tight.

Tried to unbuckle the straps.They didn’t give.

Hands grabbed you from behind. Dragged you.

You fought like a wild thing. Thrashed. Kicked. One of them fell — you crawled back to him.

Then two more came. You were screaming. Your throat raw.

“No! Don’t take him! DON’T TAKE HIM FROM ME!”

And just before you could lunge forward again—

Another needle.

Your body gave out. Everything dimmed. Collapsed.

But even in that final, spiraling moment—

You whispered one last time: “Caleb…  please… don’t leave me…”

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Your heart hadn’t beaten this steady in years.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

It would’ve been better if it had stopped.

You didn’t open your eyes. You didn’t ask where you were. You knew.

You were in a world where he was gone.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

You used to live with physical pain — you knew how to endure it. You knew how to die with it. You’d pictured your grave more than once — just beside the one marked “Josephine.”

The one where, for a time, they’d already carved “Caleb.”  Now they’d just correct the second date. As if it had all been a clerical error.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Shut up,” you muttered, ripping the sensor from your finger.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeep.

The monitor whined in protest.

You clamped your hands over your ears, buried your head under the pillow.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeep.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

“What the hell?!”

Another monitor?

You pulled the pillow away. Opened your eyes.

On the second cot, just a few feet away— Caleb.

Alive. Awake.

His monitor was singing the same rhythm. And on his lips — the hint of a smile.

“You bastard!”

You flung the pillow at him. He caught it.

“Did you mourn me?”

“That’s still pending! You—YOU!!! You took my Aethor Core?!”

You looked around for something else to throw. He raised his hands in surrender.

“Easy, Pip-Squeak. I didn’t take anything. Your precious Core is right where it belongs — in that merciless, vengeful little heart of yours.”

“I’m merciless? You made me believe you were—!”

You stopped.

Because you knew. God, you knew you would’ve done the same.

You slid off the cot carefully, clutching the IV stand for balance. Crossed the short distance to his bedside, testing each step. Sat down on the edge. 

You reached for his hand. Fingers trembling, unsure. But the moment you touched him — he was warm.

Not fading. Not cold. Not gone.

Warm, alive, present.

And it shattered something inside you.

“You weren’t dying because of the Core itself,” he said gently. “It was the energy feedback loop. The Core stopped syncing with your biopattern. Basically, your system crashed, and the power cell started pulling directly from your heart to survive. Which, you know, kinda fatal.”

“So what… you swapped our batteries?”

“In layman’s terms — yes.”

“And that doesn’t kill you?”

“My protocore’s a lazy old tank,” he grinned. “It got a nice boost from yours. Just enough to last me, I think.”

“You swear that’s the truth?” you arched a skeptical brow.

“I do.” He reached up, hesitantly, brushing your cheek.

You didn’t pull away.

“I told you I’d take your pain.”

“And you also promised you’d stay with me till my last breath,” you whispered, lips nearly brushing his.

“And I intend to keep that promise,” he said, pulling you close and kissing you. “And if you try to run again, just so you know — I’ve got a year’s supply of those sedative syringes.”

You let out a small laugh, nudged him gently, then climbed onto his cot, curling into his side, head on his shoulder.

“I’ll keep that in mind in case you pull another stunt like that. Admiral.”

His arm slipped around your waist. His grin widened — softer, familiar. Like the old days. Like he was just your Caleb again.

“Well,” he said, “those are consequences I’m willing to accept.”

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

His heart beat stronger.  And yours — yours found his rhythm. Matched it.

Perfectly. Just like always.

Because the truth was simple.

You couldn’t exist in a world where one of you was missing.

[cookiesupplier]

chapter eleven: JUST wouldn't STAY DOWN, part two

Summary: Down in the Shenandoah Valley, there lay a court consisting of the Grim, the Drowned, the Witch and the Watcher.

PLEASE READ THIS NEXT SECTION

These next three updates will deal with very dark themes. I would HIGHLY suggest that you be in the right mindset to read these, otherwise I'd recommend you take a good step back and wait until you are. Please, take care of yourselves, cryptids 😘

CW: major character injuries, mentions of religious sacrifice, mentions of mockery of religious themes, ptsd, supernatural themes, large canine, whatever you want to call what Noah is, body horror, graphic violence, angst, blood, torture, graphic depictions of vehicular crash scenes

Every chapter will have a different cw section. This is Bad Omens rpf, so obviously I don't know all the little nuances of the members or their family members, and technically Bad Omens doesn't exist in this universe.

A/N: So the next two chapters are super long, so I'm splitting them up to be bearable, and because I'm a sadist that likes to watch you all suffer. I’m writing this as I go, so I'd rather you all have semi-frequent updates.

Some things are color-coded. If any of you are colorblind to blues, reds or greens, lemme know.

FEATURED CREATURES:

If you want to be on the tagged list, lemme know.

@ladyveronikawrites @lilhobgobbler @signs-of-ill-portent @roley-poley-foley @badhedonist @screamsinsilver @kingdomof-omens

@deathblacksmoke @cookiesupplier

“So when did you learn how to practice?” Noah asked.

“I didn't. It just… I don't know,” I said, sighing.

This trek through the woods was a lot faster, even though I kept tripping and falling, due to not having Nick keeping me upright. At one point Noah suggested Folio carry me on his back, even going so far as to call it a “furry piggyback ride” after we refused the first time. Needless to say, we refused again.

Unfortunately, Folio ran on ahead to scout the area in front of us, with Noah acting as the middle man if we had to change directions because of the terrain. Which left me with the man who just this morning had me pinned to the wall by my neck.

“So how long?” I asked. Noah made an inquisitive grunting noise. “How long did you have feelings for him?”

Noah was silent for a while, almost making me think he wasn't going to dignify me with a response, until he finally spoke, “Not too long before shit went down, actually. We… bonded a little after we watched Folio get killed.”

“Bonded? Is that a euphemism for–”

“No, get your mind out of the gutter,” Noah snapped. “We kissed once, okay? After i lost my mom, I stayed over a lot. Nick wasn't into it, and I respected that. We stayed friends, and I got a girlfriend soon after.”

“Elin?”

“God, don't fucking remind me. That bitch deserved her fate,” Noah growled. The thought of what that fate probably was had me pushing through another several moments of tense silence.

“You didn't get over him, did you?” I asked quietly.

“I did, in fact. When I was in service to the original Watcher as the Towering Man,” Noah said with a bitter laugh. “Being over six feet tall was a curse in school, and the Watcher just loved to rub my face in it.

“I would wait for Nick to realize that I wasn't dead; that I was right outside in the woods behind his house. Nick used to search the woods after the search parties gave up, turns out. I thought he had just given up. So I left, and didn't see him until the next Summer Solstice.

“I guess seeing him with you… brought back old wounds. And I acted on them.”

I couldn't feel angry at him. Just… pity, I guess. “You got serious anger issues then. Probably should see a therapist about that,” I stated.

Noah was about to respond when he suddenly crouched down, pushing me down with him. “You see that fire?” He hissed.

We crept up on the scene before us. It was… horrifying. That was the only way I could describe it, but even then, it felt inadequate. It looked exactly how I’d imagine a cult would look like: dark clearing, candles, an altar.

I could only count ten members. They all wore black cloaks, and black masks that mimicked a deer’s skull and antlers. They all stood in pairs, except one who stood before a tall effigy made of thick branches, twigs, vines and leaves. And tied that effigy, in some kind of terrifying mockery of the crucifixion, was Nick.

I had to clamp my hand over my mouth to middle the sound of my choked sob. From this distance, I couldn’t see if he was alive or not; just that he was covered in blood.

“What do we do now?” I asked.

“Wait for Jolly to lure them to the river. He's not far,” Noah said.

My stomach churned when I looked back at Nick. A part of me wanted to rush the cultists and get him down, but I knew with my disabled hip I wouldn't be able to take on ten people who may or may not have something to stab me with. At least one person had to if they were going to try to sacrifice Nick.

Just then, one of the cultists brought out a small drum, starting to tap out a rhythm that was simple but loud. I could compare it to what my heartbeat felt like.

The one that was closest to Nick, who stood out amongst the others because their mask’s antlers were blood-red instead of black like the others, held up a hand. “We will now drink from the Cup of Fate,” the leader called out.

“Come on, Jolly. Any second now,” Noah hissed from behind me.

“Our words uttered into the formless void.”

“Our words uttered…” the cultists parroted back.

“Reverberate through the space between space, between space.”

The rhythmic beating of the drum and the smell of smoke was almost hypnotizing. More so than the one time I heard Jolly’s guitar playing…

“We are heard by THAT WHICH WATCHES OVER US, so it may lift one heavy, eager eye in our direction.”

“You don’t think they have the drink to dispel Jolly’s näcken song, do you?” I whispered to Noah.

“We are heard by those who shall always be nameless—“

“Fuckin’… shit!” Noah cursed.

“—whose incorporeal arms reach for us—“

“Alright, Folio, get in there.”

“—uniting us in unbodied observance, until we are heard no—“

The chant was cut off by the sound of a long howl. The drum stopped, and when the howl faded, I could hear the sound of a guitar and a clear voice singing:

“If God came down from His kingdom; He came down from His home, and we asked Him if He would take us back, He would surely tell us no.”

Noah had warned me of Jolly's songs, which was why I brought some small ear plugs that blocked out certain frequencies. It just so happened to block out any siren-esque frequencies as well.

What they didn't block out was the absolute chaos that came next.

They didn't block out the sounds of creaking wood and snapping branches behind me as Noah shifted into his other form. They didn't block out the sounds of Folio’s paws thundering through the forest, nor his snarls. They didn’t block out the screams as some people were ripped apart by Folio’s jaws. I had to block it all out myself.

I looked up as Noah’s deformed shadow fell over me. He looked down at me through a deer’s skull, which from this angle, I could see was melded to his face. His large, glowing white eyes pierced the darkness.

GET TO NICK.

I didn't need to be told twice.

As Noah loped towards the remaining cultists, I bolted towards Nick as fast as I was able to. I almost slammed face-first into the effigy when I skidded to a stop, but I caught myself by digging my fingers into the cracks between the sticks. The carnage behind me was still unfolding, even as I heard Noah unleash an unearthly shriek. Using a small pocket knife to cut Nick’s legs free, I soon had to climb the effigy to free his wrists.

That's when I heard a small noise come from him. I pressed a hand to his chest, feeling his heartbeat and his chest rise and fall. I almost collapsed in relief. “Nick? Nick, hold on. We're gonna get you out of here,” I sputtered, moving my hand to cup the side of his face. His eyes fluttered open at the touch. They looked drained of color in the dim light.

“Hey, you’re gonna be alright, okay? I’m gonna get you out of here,” I repeated, trying to keep him conscious. “I'm gonna cut this one rope, and I'll try to catch you, but we might take a fall–”

I had cut through the rope, finally freeing him, and Nick started to slide down. I managed to catch him, but I couldn't compensate for the near-dead weight in time. As my footing slipped, I tried to catch us by grabbing onto the effigy. The wood tore my hands up. I hissed in pain, but held on for dear life; more for his and less for mine.

My feet touched the ground, followed by Nick's. Luckily he was only half a foot taller than me, because otherwise this would've gotten awkward as I wrapped his arm around my shoulders.

I searched wildly for Noah. Thankfully, he was easy to spot. I got him!! I screamed out into the ether in his direction.

GO! RUN!

Just then, a dark force barreled into me, launching me and tearing Nick from my arms. As I landed on my bad hip, a visceral scream of pain tore up my throat. In my dazed state, I barely saw the same force kick me with what seemed to be supernatural strength, as I heard bones crack as I flew several feet away and landed on my back.

“You who are empty, I shall guide your step. Lo, though you envy, envy not. Lo, though you covet, covet not.”

Despite the agonizing pain in my side, I managed to turn myself over onto my stomach. Vision spinning, I was able to find Nick, who had managed to push himself up onto his elbows. I started to pull myself toward him.

“You who are empty, I shall see through your eyes. Lo, though you toil, toil only for me. Lo, though you suffer, suffer only for me.”

A strong hand grabbed the back of my skull, tearing some of my hair out from its bun and my scalp. The pain was dulled, thanks to the adrenaline. The voice that hissed in my ear was the same voice as the leader.

“You who are empty, I shall be with you and within you. You who are empty, you shall want no longer.”

He suddenly let me go, a wave of dizziness and fog overcoming me as I collapsed back to the ground, face smashing into the hard ground. I groaned into the pavement as the adrenaline faded, and my entire left side felt like it had been scorched. I couldn’t feel my legs.

I sucked in a deep breath, though it hurt my chest to do so, and shifted my head to where my cheek was pressed against the hot asphalt. Someone’s headlights illuminated the entire crash scene, but my eyes immediately fell upon a masculine body that was several feet away, blue-gray eyes fixed on me. Eyes that pleaded for me.

I forced my body to move, even if it was just my arms. I clawed at the blacktop, my weak strength barely getting me off the street, and I barely felt the twinge as my fingernails split and broke.

YOU CAN'T SAVE HIM.

Yes, yes I could. If my stupid body would just cooperate–

YOU ARE WEAK.

Why wasn't I moving?

YOU ARE EMPTY.

No. Not this again.

My brother was dying. Again.

And I was being forced to watch. Again.

Tysm for reading! Chapter twelve, part one coming soon!

[yinyuedijun]

NIGHT FLOWER: part i

Your place in the world was one of a tool. This was true of every slave: you were all things to be used. Kakavasha understood this about you, and he understood this about himself. It was how he survived all those years ago, and it’s how he survives now. And so, when Aventurine goes into his first heat in years and decides to suffer it alone, you can only think of one way to get him to accept your help: You offer to let him use you.

written for @/lorelune's spring fever collab & @ficsforgaza

13.5k words of omegaverse, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, angst with an eventual happy ending. gn alpha reader + omega aventurine (they each have both amab and afab genitalia). explicit piv sex, reader bottoms, the sex is consensual but emotionally complicated and deeply sad. cw slavery, racism, gendered violence, including very brief and non-graphic (but direct) references to sexual abuse during slavery. the sa and slavery are not eroticized. dead dove do not eat, mdni.

thank you to @acerathia, @minnaci, @owlespresso for all your help with beta reading and to @kosmiccarma for brainstorming omega aventurine hcs!

“I’ve alw███ l█ved ███, Ka██v█s███”

You knew it from the moment you met him.

Gaunt, pallid, weighed down by heavy chains. Irises that glowed like the auroras back in your world. Delicate features that made every passerby in the market stop to read the description on the placard. (Sigonian, it said, although you couldn’t read at the time. Avgin. Male. Omega. Sixteen years old. Sixty Tanba, no tax.) He had an all-consuming scent that was impossible to ignore—one that possessed you, made your heels dig into the dirt, every atom in your body resisting the impatient jerk of the chains at your wrist. Even through your muzzle, through the perpetual stench of carbon-steel and blood, you could smell it: honey and wildflowers. A fragrance that settled deep within you, flooded you with a warmth that felt like home.

Aventurine is not a spiritual person. He once told you this, his smile cold in the glow of an artificial moon. He'd been deeply religious as a child, but hasn’t since cared for fairy tales about fortune and fate, three-eyed goddesses or merciful rainfalls. Hasn't thought about anything like a destined love. He thinks the idea of a true mate is laughable, that no such bond could ever be forged between an omega and an alpha. That nothing so unconditional could ever exist.

You know differently, of course. You've known it from the moment you met him, from the second you laid eyes on him and thought, I need to help you, and I need to protect you, and I need you to be safe, and you’d never once heard the word ‘love’ in your life—slaves are never loved by their masters, after all, and you'd always been nothing but a slave—but every atom of your being knew that you loved him, that you'd always love him.

And when your master cradled your face that night and crooned that he owned you, that you'd always be his obedient, alpha pet—for the first time in your life, you knew that he was wrong.

You didn't belong to your slaver.

You belonged to him.

To Kakavasha.

These days, Aventurine does not smell like honey, and your jaw is not restrained.

Your muzzle was one of the first things that Aventurine threw away when he bought your freedom. According to the Amber Era system, it had been several months since the murder of your shared master. Ninety-five Star Calendar days after the Interastral Peace Corps had arrested Kakavasha. An entire rotation around the black hole at the centre of your wretched galaxy, all of which had been spent in the captivity of some new mistress. She picked you out because she liked your calming scent and the look of your face, but mostly she used you for the fighting pits just like your old master.

Aventurine had been sitting in the audience of your final match, then bought you out right after you won. “I’m in need of a fighter,” he’d said, smiling in his thick furs and jewels. He played the part of a slavemaster perfectly, his gloved hands wandering the span of your aching shoulders, touching the bloodied maw of your mask. “And I’d be willing to pay top credit for yours.”

She protested. You were her most prized possession, one of her greatest investments. Slaves from your planet were hard enough to come by—alphas capable of reproduction, nearly impossible. And you were so well-behaved, so poised, so endearing in a way that was rare for alphas. She was fond of you. Her omega slaves were fond of you too. They would be distraught if you left, and that would complicate her household affairs—and surely Aventurine, as a respectable owner of human capital like herself, could understand how inconvenient that would be?

Aventurine bared his teeth in a gracious smile. (You’d never seen Kakavasha make such an expression before—so disarming, so cunning, a crescent moon beneath snake eyes. He’d never smelt like this either, like an expensive cologne layered with bleach, and it left you feeling nauseous, wondering if he was ill.) He flirted his way into her good graces, made her an offer she couldn’t refuse, and then he brought you into the first-class ship on which he’d arrived. You were so stunned by its luxury—the handwoven carpets, the crushed velvet seats, the imported tea from several galaxies away and the custom-ordered outfit he had bought for you—that you nearly missed the tremble in his hands as he punched numbers into the remote control lock for your chains.

He had regained his composure by the time he pulled away your muzzle, though. He threw it carelessly to the ground—your titanium chains, too. Then kicked both away with his shined leather shoes.

“There,” Aventurine said, smiling cheerfully. “Much better, don’t you think?”

“Vasha—” you started, voice thick with wasted grief, and all you wanted to was reach for him, to double check that he was real, but he placed a finger to your lips and stopped you. You stiffened at the satin touch, but he seemed unbothered.

“‘Aventurine’,” he corrected.

You stared blankly. “What?”

“‘Aventurine’. Like the gemstone. That’s my name now.”

“You—” Your voice caught in your throat. You realized that you’d been holding your breath. You always had the habit of holding your breath in the luxurious, private rooms of very rich men, because you never liked what happened in them. Forcing yourself to breathe, you asked, “You gave yourself a new name?”

“No. The IPC gave me a new name. They gave me a job, too.”

“A job?” you asked, voice faint. Now that you were breathing again, you were noticing once more just how bizarre he smelled. Sterile and expensive and completely foreign. “You’re free now?”

“Well, I’m a freedman, but I don’t know if I’d call myself free. I’m a bit… indebted to the IPC, let’s say. But that’s fine. I can’t complain. I mean—look around. This beats the fighting pits, doesn’t it?” He gestured lazily at your surroundings, and you nodded.

“It’s nice here,” you replied, feeling absurd but not knowing what else to say. Once Kakavasha got talking, it was impossible to get a word in edgewise.

“You like it here? Good. This room’s yours. Mine is the next one over. You’ll live and work here, with me. I’ll make sure you’re paid well. Full benefits, vacation, salary, and overtime. The standard pay for your role is seventy-thousand credits per month, but I’ll see if I can get you more. HR is pretty strict about their hiring policies, but—”

“You’re hiring me?”

Aventurine went very still, his smile tightly controlled. His eyes remained fixed on you, but they seemed less snake-like, now. They looked more familiar. More afraid.

“I’m offering, yes,” he said neatly. “You’ll be part of my personal security detail. I don’t have the contract for you to review yet, unfortunately. I didn’t arrange one ahead of time because, well”—he laughed, as if this were polite conversation and he were making a joke about the weather—“I didn’t know if I’d find you alive. But things worked out in my favour. They always work out in my favour. I’ll make sure they’ll work out in your favour too, so long as you’re with me. So you’ll consider it, won’t you? Staying with—working for me, I mean.”

Your eyes went soft. Beneath the artificial fragrance, you finally caught a hint of his familiar scent—more wildflower than honey at that moment, the way it always is when he’s scared.

“Kakavasha—”

“Name your price,” he said loudly, “and I’ll match it.”

You sighed. “Vasha,” you said more gently, and his shoulders relaxed at the subvocal shift in your timbre, at the famed alpha Voice that necessitated your muzzle, “I don’t care about the money. Of course I’ll stay here. But—what happened? Why did you kill him yourself? Why didn't you let me do it? That was the plan. It was always supposed to be me.”

It was my job, you thought then, just as you had thought to yourself every night, curled up in your bed and trying to recall the scent of fresh honey, to keep you safe.

He shrugged and said, “It would have been too risky to involve you.”

“You were caught and sentenced to death. The risk was already too high.”

“But the stakes weren’t,” he replied simply, and before you could ask what he meant by that, he continued, “and it worked out, didn’t it? I work for the IPC. You work for me. We’re freedmen now. Whatever I've lost, it doesn't matter. Our gains far outweigh it.”

“And what have you lost, Vasha?”

He smiled at you, charming and distracting. A crescent moon beneath snake eyes. “Nothing of value,” he reassured you, and even though you could feel the calm of an omega’s voice washing over you, even though it released all the tension in your body, all you could smell was cologne and wildflowers, and you knew that he was lying.

Vasha once told you, curled up and quiet on the basement floor, that he despised his eyes. They were supposed to be a sign of blessing from Gaiathra Triclops, but they'd never brought him anything but trouble. They were the first thing that the slavers always noticed about him, the feature that made him such an alluring commodity. Their aurora glow, their strange beauty, their promise of a rare opportunity: a chance at owning a specimen of an exotic, endangered species, possibly the last of its kind. These are all things that you've heard in the parlour of your master’s house as he entertained rich company, the crowd of them gawking at his human curios.

Avgin are said to make the most beautiful slaves, he'd often say. And Avgin omegas are said to be the most beautiful among them. What do you all think? They'd all hum, peering closely at Kakavasha’s features, and inevitably someone would joke, I think I'd like to borrow him sometime, and then they would all laugh while your pulse ticked up and you imagined tearing at their throats. Vasha would search for your gaze in these moments, giving you a long, pointed look: Don't do anything stupid.

He’d always been so blasé about it, the way people fixated on his Avgin blood. You'll never understand how. He didn't react to any of the comments, the groping, the innuendos. He was, however, distinctly unimpressed at the way that your master liked to play him up as a rare and expensive acquisition, as a sign of his own status. It's embarrassing to watch, Kakavasha had remarked. Everyone knows that Sigonian slaves are uncommon but cheap—people always think we’ll bring them more trouble than our worth. This was how Kakavasha had ended up in the market in the first place: because his last master had been robbed, and he'd been wrongly blamed for it.

The blame, to this day, has never stopped. People—powerful people, politicians, businessmen, socialites—look at Aventurine’s eyes and immediately reach for their pockets. You've seen it for yourself, these spineless despots and scammers feeling for their wallets. Sigonian, you know they're thinking. Liar, cheat, thief, whore, worthless, worthless, worthless. Your hands tighten around your blade each time, a loaded gun with a finger on the trigger.

Alphas are said to be violent by nature. Aventurine has often called you the one exception to this rule: the most docile, good-hearted alpha he's ever met. But this is a lie. You do have a predator instinct, and it comes out in full-force whenever you’re around these particular types of men. These types who notice Aventurine’s eyes and see a thief; these monsters who see his irises and imagine what it would be like to bed him. You’d kill them if you could. It would be so easy, especially now that you are an IPC dog. The Company is already such a violent force; what would be one more murder?

But Aventurine has never ordered you to punish anyone. (Don't do anything stupid, he always tells you with a glance, smiling through every humiliation.) Nor has he ever seemed bothered enough by these meetings to try concealing his heritage.

A fellow Asset Liquidation Specialist once asked why he didn't just hide his eye colour—it would likely be better for fostering relationships, negotiating deals—but Aventurine had shrugged it off. I'm a gambler working with the IPC, he'd said. Do you really think a pair of coloured contacts would make anyone trust me? He'd laughed, and his voice had carried a threatening edge, and his coworker had shifted visibly at it. Being an Avgin is the least threatening thing about me, wouldn't you say?

You think that Aventurine likes being seen as a threat. Sometimes you wonder if this is why he doesn't mind wearing his eyes so much, but abhors keeping his scent. He washes his clothes until they're free of his disarming sweetness and then masks himself with an unsettling blend of ambergris, jasmine, and wood. And he is on suppressants all the time—hasn’t had a single heat since the day he killed his master. Hasn't smelled like himself, either.

At the end of the day, it’s manageable being an Avgin in this business, he often comments, spraying half a bottle of masking cologne on himself, but you can't be an Avgin and an omega. Wouldn’t you agree?

You'd know better than me, you reply, noncommittally—and truthfully.

But you're an alpha, he observes. Don't you have an opinion?

You don't pay me to have opinions, you always remind him, stone-faced. You pay me to stand here and look scary. And Aventurine always laughs at this, and he always wires you money and calls it a bonus as he pesters you for an answer, and he always gets distracted and starts scrolling through all his shopping wishlists instead. I saw this thing the other day and thought of you. And this too. Would you like either of them? Would you like them both? I’m a very generous manager, you know. I'll buy you anything you like.

But even though he always gets distracted, Aventurine never forgets. Sooner or later, he inevitably circles back to these questions—these anxieties about his scent, about his eyes, about his blood. He never cares for anyone else’s opinions, but he's always been curious about yours. Even when he was Vasha, he wanted to know what you thought.

He’d been sixteen years old and delirious with heat the first time he asked you, face wrinkling with pain as he spilled his thoughts. It was so incoherent, so sad, you thought it must have been about a fever dream. Mama Fenge, he kept saying. Mama Fenge blessed me, She blessed me, I'm blessed, it rained when I was born—did you know that? My luck, I was lucky. The Katicans, they never caught me. They got everyone else, but not me. I was blessed by Her. I'm going to save my people. I will. I'll save my sister. My eyes are proof. My mistress liked them. Said they're beautiful. Worth sixty whole coppers. A blessing. He pulled you close, pressed his scalding face to your scent gland, and his whole body shuddered with relief. This was the first and only time he'd allowed you to hold him, and it was only out of desperation, out of his mind. Do you like them, alpha? Do you like my eyes? Why? Is it because they're beautiful? Because they're from Gaiathra?

“I like them because they're yours,” you'd replied, and Kakavasha had laughed deliriously.

This is when he told you he hated them: I'd close them forever, if I could.

When you were younger—dumber—you had a habit of squirrelling away every spare coin you came across. You collected them in a little purse that one of the omega slaves had sewn for you—a thank-you for always keeping the other alphas away from her—and you hid it underneath a loose floorboard. By the time that Kakavasha was arrested, you'd saved up twenty-nine Tanba. You’d wanted enough to buy Kakavasha’s freedom and then to set him up for a comfortable life.

It had been a stupid plan. An embarrassing one. If you ever confessed it to Aventurine, he'd laugh at you. Slaves can't buy other slaves, he'd say. Leave the schemes to me next time. You’re too good-hearted for it.

You’d already known that, of course. You knew that you didn't have the status to buy him or mate him or even just provide for him, but you wanted to. God, did you want to—you spent every waking moment thinking about it, every sleeping moment dreaming of it. It wasn't even that you desired him, though he was beautiful and fragrant and more delicate than anything that had ever touched you in your life, which was only your master’s hands and your muzzle and your chains. Aventurine would feel so soft in comparison, you’d always figured. It made your heart ache, thinking about getting to hold something so lovely.

But really—that desire came second. What came first was how mated omegas feel safe around their alphas, and you so desperately wanted him to be safe. Kakavasha had looked so frail, so grim, as your master took his chains and led him home from the market, and you could smell the fear coming off him in waves. And you could do nothing to stop it. You had nothing you could use to stop it—nothing other than your hands that could kill for him and your pheromones that could soothe him and your useless heart that wanted to collect sixty Tanba for him. That was all you had.

So you failed in the end. Of course you did. You didn't have the status to buy him or mate him or even just provide for him. You couldn't even do for him the one thing you could have done—which was to kill. And Kakavasha suffered for your incompetence. He had to dirty his hands with blood and gamble his way into wealth and then suddenly he was freeing you, not the other way around.

And now you are comfortable. You'll lead an easy life from now, Aventurine reassured you when he brought you onto his ship all those years ago, and he's kept that promise. What about you? you'd asked him then. Will you lead an easy life with me, if you're working for the IPC? And he had smiled and lied to you: Yes.

It had been a painfully obvious lie. If you were a smarter person, you'd have never believed it in the first place. Aventurine has no interest in leading an easy life, because an easy life would be less profitable, and less profit would mean less safety. And he is always, always worried about being unsafe. It is indiscernible to everyone but you—an alpha (his alpha, always his, even if he doesn't want you) who has watched over him for so long that you can detect every shift in his scent. No matter how much cologne he drowns himself in and no matter how strong his suppressants are, you know when he is afraid.

And here is the bitter truth, the ultimate proof of your shortcomings:

Aventurine is always afraid.

It is a beautiful day on Agnisahr, and you can tell that Aventurine is about to throw up from worry.

You're sitting in the middle of stunning wealth—Aventurine in his feathers and jewellery, you in your tailored jacket—in a lobby made from marble and pale sandstone, with a view of palm trees and rolling, scarlet sand dunes beyond the window. The waitstaff addresses him as Honoured Guest and they keep his crystal chalice filled constantly with water—one of the most expensive commodities on the planet. Aventurine has been drinking from it religiously, which is strange as he typically has the habit of forgetting to hydrate. A faint wildflower scent is drifting from his slender form. These are the only giveaway to his mood: he's otherwise as pokerfaced as ever, smiling calmly as he discusses his plans to sabotage the local government and acquire the planet for the IPC.

“This is a very dangerous mission,” you state flatly.

“All my missions are dangerous.” He takes a sip, one pinky up. “The IPC pays me well for a reason. As they say—”

“‘High risk, high reward.’ I know.” You try not to sound bitter, though you allow yourself to sound tired. “I still do not think the risk is worth the reward in this case.”

“I think over 5.6 million in credits is a great reward, actually. We could do a lot with that kind of money.”

You raise a brow. “What could an extra 5.6 million get you that you can't already buy?” It is—as Topaz would say—‘chump change’ in comparison to his current wealth, which sums to a number so vast that you can't wrap your head around it.

Aventurine pretends to miss the point. “Tons! We could buy a new spacecraft. Get another mansion. Or—we could take a vacation to Penacony. I hear it's quite nice there.” A playful smile. “I could get us a penthouse unit. With a featherbed.”

You frown. Sometimes Aventurine likes to flirt when you're being stubborn—not out of interest, but as a ploy to distract you. He’d developed the habit after he joined the IPC. It used to fluster you, but now it only makes you cross your arms.

“You could die,” you point out.

“You'll protect me.”

“No, I won't. You always find a way to get rid of me when things are most dangerous.” You give him an accusatory stare. “You never let me do my job.”

He's too shameless to deny it. “And it's worked out fine, hasn't it? I haven't died so far.”

“Yes. Just by dumb luck.”

“I beg to differ. My luck is quite reliable.” He sets down his glass. Glances back outside. A microexpression, brows knotting for the briefest second as he studies the sky. “I'm not worried.”

“You're a shit liar.”

That gets him to look at you, letting a small frown pass over his face. “No, I'm actually a great liar. You're just too good at reading me. It's very inconvenient, you know.”

“I can't help it.” You lean toward him, making a show of it as you sniff. An orchid-like scent—faint but unmistakable—has seeped into artificial ambergris and wood. “It's hard to ignore.”

He hums. He isn't frowning anymore—but doesn't look happy, either. “I should change suppressants.” He taps the side of his empty glass, fidgeting. Aventurine never fidgets: it's an amateur giveaway. “These ones clearly don't work well enough.”

“That won't help. I know you too well.” Your eyes soften. He's looking outside again, the blues of his irises distant. “You're worried, Aventurine. More than usual. Let’s back out of this—let Jade handle it.”

“The mission isn't what's bothering me,” he says patiently. “I just don't like this planet.”

“Because you can tell it's dangerous.”

“No. Well—it is, but nothing I can't handle.” He leans back. “I just dislike the weather here.”

You arch a brow. “...the weather?”

“Yes,” he says neatly, “it's too dry here. I'll break out.”

You open your mouth. Close it. It is possibly the most absurd thing you've ever heard, and certainly the worst lie that's ever come from him. For as long as you've known him, Aventurine has had flawless skin, marble-smooth, and ever since being freed, he’s never really cared much for looking handsome so much as looking rich. But he maintains his serious expression: all-in on the farce. “Did you know that outside the capital, this planet hasn't had any natural rain in a quarter of an Amber Era? And the stellar winds are terrible. I don't know how people live on a planet like this.” His eyes narrow at the cloudless sky. “The IPC is going to need to do a lot of terraforming if they want to make this into a merchant hub.”

“Aventurine.”

“It'll be a pain crossing the desert—the elements will ruin my clothes, you know,” he continues. “It won't be so bad while we're on the ships, but we’ve got to go outside from time to time. Can't make any friends otherwise.”

“Aventurine.”

“And there's nothing to do for fun when we’re not working.” He sighs dramatically. “I can't wait to get our 5.6 billion and leave for someplace else. I'm being serious about Penacony, by the way—”

“Aventurine.”

“—though not about the featherbed. I'll get you your own room, obviously. And I'll buy whatever dream experience you’d like. What kind would you want?”

Finally allowed a chance to speak, you say, “One where you retire.”

“Retire? Why would I ever do that?”

“I don't know. Maybe you decide you've made enough money.”

“No such thing.”

“Then you can settle down with someone.”

That makes him smile. It feels mocking. “Me? Settling down? With who?”

“Who knows. Someone who will treat you better than the IPC, I hope.”

“Anyone that nice would run in the other direction. But never mind me. This would be your dream experience. What happens to you in it?”

“I stop chasing after you and get to live out the rest of my days in peace,” you say dryly, and Aventurine blinks. “Please stop deflecting. The IPC gave you a suicide mission. We will both die if we stay here.”

He looks serious now. “I wouldn't let you die.”

“You can't know that.”

“Well, I do. And I've got decent chances at surviving too—at least one in ten.”

You feel like sighing—a deep, aggravated noise is heavy in your throat—but Aventurine doesn't enjoy it when you show anger around him. It's the one omega instinct that he can't ignore, you suppose: unease around an aggressive alpha. Voice tightly controlled, you say, “You’re going to bet your life on one in ten?”

  “Sure. My chances were worse on the last planet, and things worked out great. It'll be the same on Agnisahr.” Aventurine raises a hand, calls for the bill. The conversation is over. You lean back in your seat, watching sourly as he pays tens of thousands of credits just for water.

“You know, they say the royal family is backed by an Aeon,” you can't help but point out, once the waiter is gone. A last-ditch effort. Aventurine smiles at it, amused. Like you're a child.

“So what?” He glances outside, at the desolate landscape beyond the oasis—nothing but red sand, a blue, rainless sky, and two radiant suns shining above it all. “The protection of a god is nothing compared to the schemes of human beings. And gods abandon their people all the time, anyway.”

During your tenth day on Agnisahr, you realise that something is deeply wrong.

It takes you some time to understand what’s happening. At first you think that whatever political danger you’ve intuited is much worse than you thought, and that’s why Aventurine has been so pale, so discomforted, so exhausted. Then his scent starts changing—he switches clothes two, three times a day (because of all this heat during Agnisahran days, he tells his new business associates) and spritzes his nape with his cologne almost religiously—and you wonder if he is sick with something. If the food in this planet has something that disagrees with his Sigonian biology, or if he has picked up one of the local filoviruses, or if someone’s poisoned one of his meals because they’ve correctly identified him as a threat. Aventurine dismisses every single one of these theories when you bring it up, and—as if in denial—only attributes it to the weather. (I’ve never done well in deserts, he tells you, his eyes on his phone screen. I'm not used to them. It is above 300 Kelvin, and you do not see a single bead of sweat on his neck, and his cheeks are not even a little flushed.)

You only figure it out when he is too ill to get out of bed one morning and forbids all the IPC staff from coming near his hotel room. It sets off alarms immediately—Aventurine, no matter how sick, will work and see through meetings as long as he is mentally capable of it—and so you naturally ignore his orders and check on him, using the spare key to his sleeping quarters that you're given as a policy. And as soon as the door cracks open—as soon as you step inside only to be hit with a violent, cloying sweetness—you realise what’s happening and slam the door shut behind you.

“You’re in heat,” you blurt out, and Aventurine—a shivering, panting mess on the bed—groans in response.

“Why are you here?” He turns toward you, still lucid enough to glare at you through the tangled mess of his hair. His voice is weak, but no less self-possessed: “I was very clear—no company today.”

“I am your personal bodyguard,” you remind him mildly. Your voice is calm—both non-threatening and non-condescending. “Those orders don’t apply to me. If things feel suspicious, I look into it. And they felt very suspicious.” Your brow knits as you study his clothes. Mulberry silk clings to his form, soaked through with sweat. Thin, eucalyptus sheets are tangled up around him. There are only two pillows. No water bottles. No knotting toys.

Nothing.

“You didn't know you'd be in heat,” you realise. “What happened to your suppressants?”

“I don't know.” There’s a quiet, frustrated edge to his voice. Vulnerable too. It makes you think of when you were both still slaves, and Aventurine was confined to the basement of the manor—the one that all omega slaves were made to ride out their heats in. Either they would do it alone or were ordered to spend it with some alpha, usually either a friend of the master or an alpha slave he wished to reward. That's when they're most pliable, he'd tell his guests, or sometimes even you. They get so desperate they'll present themselves to anyone. Then amused laughter from the other party—How obscene!—as you looked away, blood hammering in your ears.

You had been your master’s favourite. His most obedient, most profitable pet—striking enough for his guests to admire, deadly enough for his audiences to bet on, docile enough for him to enjoy. Good enough for him to reward, and he often rewarded you with his most beautiful slave: his Avgin omega. Just don't mark him, he’d said, fastening the muzzle around your mouth. It'll ruin his market value. Who knows if someday he'd sell Kakavasha off to some alpha master who wished to claim him, he said. Though I don't think there's anyone in this star system who'd want a Sigonian for a mate, let alone a Sigonian slave. Then he’d paused, eyes scanning over you. As if contemplating. But maybe they'd try to get Avgin whelps out of him, he added, and you felt like throwing up.

You'd never mate him in those moments, your muzzle always prevented you from saying. You didn't even want to think about touching him, and he didn't want to think about it either. Even in the cruel grip of his heats, with nothing but the thin mat beneath him and his slave’s rags around him, Kakavasha hadn't wanted any kind of contact from you, rejecting any chance of solace. Don't, don't—not again, not again, he'd begged. Then as the nights marched on and his mind grew hazier, he’d start whimpering too: It hurts, alpha. It hurts. Help me. It hurts. Don't touch me. Not again. It hurts. It hurts. Stop it, please stop it.

It gutted you.

It went against every instinct, not to touch him. To let him lie there, in scorching, lonely pain, when all you wanted to do was to dispel it. It would be so easy to press yourself against him and let his skin cool against yours, do the one thing that your body was good at other than killing. But not again, not again, I can't anymore, I don't want it, I never wanted it, and all you could do was sit there, unmoving. Watch as the most delicate, precious thing you had in your life shatter.

And standing here now, watching Aventurine shatter before you once more—it is unbearable. He needs a nest, you keep thinking. He needs a nest and some water and some kind of touch, some kind of relief, but not again, not again, and you’re still a slave, still a worthless and stupid slave, and Kakavasha is still crying on a basement floor and you can't do anything for him.

“You need help, Aventurine,” you say, voice soft, and his whole body tenses. His scent dips, and the scent of florals overwhelms you.

“No,” he breathes, “I don't.”

“You do. You're sick.” You bite your lip. Your heart splits as you suggest it, but you say, “I can call a professional.”

“No,” he spits. The facade is gone. The poker face has cracked. The anger and the pain and the fear are all on full display, and his voice sharpens: “No strangers.”

No foreign scents, you realise he's demanding. A new scent would probably make him feel unsafe.

Then let me help you, you think of pleading, but not again, not again, and you're filled with so much shame at the thought that all you can do is look away.

“Then—can I do anything?” He goes still. “Not—not that, but something to make you more comfortable. I can build you a nest, at least—”

“No.” He takes a deep, shaking breath. “No nests. I don't need one—”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don't,” he says. His voice is wavering now, on the verge of crumbling with fever and pain. “I've never—I’ve never needed a nest, I don't—I don't want to—” He presses his face into his pillow. “I need—I need to be alone, fuck—”

He doesn't mean to whine. The cry for distress is instinct, something that all omegas are programmed to do in heat. You’ve heard that they’ve evolved to make this noise as a way of appealing to nearby alphas for help, but you think this must be a lie as you never once saw your alpha master giving mercy to any of his omega slaves. Still, whether it is your biology or not—the noise that Aventurine makes has your heart aching so much you can't help but step forward. But he shakes his head and inches away, shuddering violently, and then his voice echoes again in that cold basement—not again, not again, and don't touch it anymore, don't use it anymore, don't use me anymore, not again, and it's all you can do to back away until your spine is pressed against the door.

“I'm sorry, Vasha,” you say, strained. “I’m sorry. I'll leave you now.”

As the door shuts behind you, you catch a final glimpse him—face pressed into the pillows, shivering.

If you didn't know better, you'd think he was crying.

When you were both slaves, Aventurine hated seeing you during his heats.

Kakavasha was normally calm around you. Most of the time, he was even friendly (he was friendly to everyone whom he thought could be useful), but he was different during his heats. Sometimes he was vicious; mostly he was withdrawn. Nearly always, he wanted to be left alone. In those moments, all he could register was your alpha scent and his memories of what other people had done to him during his heats. And while you'd have hated to leave him, despised the idea of him being offered to another alpha—even more than that, you hated violating this boundary of his. Hated that you were allowed to do whatever you wanted to him. Hated being the reason he felt so unsafe.

Hated being an alpha.

Now that you no longer have the orders of your slavemaster hanging over you, it is the least you can do to respect Aventurine’s wish of being left alone. He has every right to privacy, and you have every obligation to give it to him. But instead you have been standing here, outside his door, for a full system-hour.

Every time you try to leave, your body is wracked with anxiety. The thought of other people—other alphas—coming near him in this state makes you seethe, your hands flexing at your side. The predator instinct comes out, and the people around you notice it. Every person unlucky enough to walk down this hall scurries away under your glare, even the other IPC staff wandering about to look for Aventurine: Must be their mate on the other side, they remark to one another, and then they're gone.

It is a hard thing to hear. You are not his mate. You are not even a heat partner. If you were, then he wouldn't be in so much pain. Not now, and not back then.

Aventurine has never had easy heats. You keep replaying your memories of all his past ones, each one a wound in your heart: the aching sweetness of nectar and honey; his withering body as he clutched his abdomen and curled up; the tears and sweat staining the mat beneath him. And above all: the fear. The scent of it, the sight of it, the sound of it in his voice. Stronger today than any other day.

By instinct, you know that he cannot persist like this. That this time is somehow worse than all those other times, and that he will become seriously ill if left alone.

After nearly an hour and a half, you finally open the door, fearing the worst.

“Aventurine?” you say quietly, but there's no response, and your stomach drops as you see him.

His body is pale, listless. If it weren't for the fragrance washing over you or the sweat on his temple, you'd worry that he was dead.

Tentatively, you reach out. Rest a hand on his forehead, and it scorches you. He stirs at the touch, doesn't open his eyes—but the quiet sigh of relief is unmistakable. His fingers twitch, as if wanting to reach for you.

“Aventurine,” you say gently. “Aventurine, I'm going to take care of you. Is that alright?”

He doesn't respond. You grimace, pulling away to fetch things for him: several spare pillows from the closet, an extra blanket too. From his suitcase, you grab a few of his sweaters, all thick cotton and fleece. He’d had a sense that Agnisahr would be cold at night. Deserts always get cold after sundown, since sand doesn’t retain heat, he'd told you while he was packing. Or I think so, anyway. Don't know why. Must have read it somewhere. Then he’d given you a long, unreadable look before saying, Make sure to bring a jacket. The warmest one you have. The elements on a planet like Agnisahr can kill a person—even a person like you.

I’m sure I’ll be fine, you’d dismissed him. I can survive anything. Any kind of weather, any kind of illness, any kind of pain: these are all things your species is known for being able to endure, the trait that made you such a prized slave in your master’s eyes, such a useful agent at the IPC. You hadn’t given Aventurine’s warning any thought and hardly paid attention to what you’d thrown into your own suitcase.

It surprises you, then, that you find one of your sweaters in his luggage. Made from Sedanian cashmere and heat tech designed by the Intelligentsia Guild. Cloud-soft and warm to the touch. Aventurine had bought it for you before you were deployed to Jarilo-IV to collect intelligence for Topaz. Warmest thing in the known universe, he’d commented. One of a kind, too. Remember to wear it, alright? Don't let my money go to waste, now.

You stare at it, kneading the fleece between your fingers. You hadn’t mentioned wanting to bring this sweater. You’d lost it in your closet some months ago and forgot about it. Aventurine must have remembered and gone looking for it, because—why? You aren't sure. Probably because it’s warmer and softer than anything he owns, you guess. Of course he’d want to wear it.

You throw it into the pile of things you’ve collected for him.

You take it all to his bed, the mattress dipping as you sit next to Aventurine. One by one, you scent each item with your wrist, watching him carefully the whole time. You’re quiet as you lay them out around him, leaving him undisturbed as you build a nest. You order water and electrolyte drinks too, and you’re quick about going to the door when you hear room service knocking—with how feverish he is, he probably badly needs it.

Aventurine is awake when you come back. His breathing is still laboured, pained—but calm.

“I said I didn’t need a nest,” Aventurine says, though he doesn’t sound angry. You wonder if he’s too weak to be. His voice is faint, and his eyes are barely open—focused on the pile of blankets and clothing around him.

“You’re welcome.” You open a bottle of water, hold it out to him. “Drink.”

Aventurine pauses, stares at the offering like it's some kind of foreign object. But he accepts it eventually, sitting up and taking it from you. He winces with the movement, which he tries to hide. He ignores your frown as he drinks, and he doesn't stop until the bottle is empty.

“There are more,” you say, pointing at the several additional bottles on the nightstand. “And some food and some painkillers. I don't know how well they’ll work. This isn't a normal heat. If you're alright with it, I'll call a doctor and—”

“Everything smells like you,” he says quietly, and you stop.

“...yes. Unless they’re mated, nests usually feel most comforting to an omega when they smell like an alpha.” You swallow, looking away. “...you don't have a mate, and you didn't want a professional, so this was the only option I could think of. I'm sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he says. He picks out one of the sweaters that have made its way into the nest, the Sedanian one. “I don't mind it.”

“Oh.” You let out a breath. “Then—can I call a doctor?”

His grip on the sweater tightens. “No.”

You frown. “Aventurine—”

“I’ve never needed a doctor before,” he says. He sounds unbothered, but he's fidgeting with the sweater now. “I don't need one now.”

A lie. He almost certainly needed a doctor in some of his prior heats, but you don't push the matter. “Maybe you don't need one,” you say instead, “but it would help.”

“I don't need help,” he says, and you look at him in disbelief. He catches your expression, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Not more than you've already done, I mean.”

“I’ve barely—”

“Contact Topaz. Tell her I'm incapacitated. Tell her…” He hums. “Tell her I have food poisoning. The personnel too. It's not time-sensitive, our business on Agnisahr, so it shouldn't matter if I need a few days off.”

“You really need—”

“Give my regrets to our Agnisahran friends. Deliver it in person. They see you as my right hand, so they’ll most appreciate it coming from you. Topaz can help you with the verbiage. And—try to socialise with them a little, won't you? I think that little omega princess of theirs likes you. Some of the courtesans too, and they have surprising influence.”

“I do not want to be around any omega other than you right now,” you say before you can stop yourself, and Aventurine stops, blinking. His expression is blank, if perhaps a little curious—but his scent shifts. You can't identify how. You add quickly, “I’m not leaving you alone when you’re this sick.”

“Ah. Right.” Aventurine looks away. His voice sounds strange, and his heat must be getting to him again, because it carries a hint of pain. “But you have to. The IPC’s goals take priority.”

You frown. “Your life is more important than the IPC,” you say, and he laughs. Loudly.

“What? This is just a heat. I’m not going to die.”

“You don’t know that without seeing a doctor.”

“I do. I’m willing to bet money that I won’t die.” He cuts you off before you can reply: yes, you're always willing to bet on your life. “And even if I do, that would still be less important than Agnisahr. Do you know how many resources are on this lifeless rock?” His mouth slants. “If we mess up here, I’m dead anyway.”

“I wouldn’t let them touch you.”

“Yes, you would—because they would kill you too.” Aventurine sighs. His eyes close, and his brow creases—a sign that whatever reprieve he was lucky enough to get is about to end. “Go do what I asked. Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll… see a doctor if you do.”

You stand immediately. “Alright. I’ll be back to check on you.”

“I know.”

You stop at the door, giving him a long look. Seeing him like this—lying on a proper bed, cradled in a warm nest, with water and food and medicine nearby—you feel a little better. This is leagues beyond what he’d been afforded in his days as a slave, at the very least. Even if he isn’t free, at least he isn’t trapped.

But it still doesn’t feel good, having to step away. The last thing you want to do is talk to other people, pretend to have interest in other omegas. There are an astonishing number of them who are interested in you on this planet—that princess, and some baron’s son, and one of the prince’s favourite paramours—but you can’t bring yourself to care even for business purposes when Aventurine is like this. You can't act as if you are enjoying yourself when you know he is in pain.

You wonder about telling Topaz the truth. You wonder if she’d be worried enough about Aventurine to let you neglect this mission and cover for you instead, without letting Jade or Diamond or anyone else dangerous know. Not that you think that anyone at the Company particularly cares about Kakavasha—it’s only that he’s valuable. Aventurine of Stratagems is valuable. How many worlds have fallen because of him?

But he seemed unwilling to bet on his worth to them. Which is startling, given how often he's bet on it in the past.

“What’s so important about this planet,” you can’t help but ask, “that the IPC would rather you die than lose it?”

He’s silent for a long moment. His eyes are closed—hidden—but you can see his knuckles whiten as he clutches the Sedanian sweater.

“Copper,” he says. “They want it for the copper.”

When Kakavasha first suggested a friendship to you, it had felt like something in between a proposition and a threat:

Go ahead, he'd said. Use me as you wish. You can even stab me in the back if you want. Just be mindful of this: I don't make deals that don't pay off.

It might have been a strange way of making friends in any other circumstance, but in a house of slaves, it was a natural one. You had not been a clever person—still aren't—but you understood that your place in the world was one of a tool. This was the place of all slaves: you were all things to be used. Your body was a thing to be used. It was valuable for its strength, for its hardiness, for its threat in the arena and for its convenience in your master’s bed (or in a dark basement, or within a heat house, or inside whichever omega your mistress ordered you to calm down). It did not surprise you that Kakavasha wanted to use it as well. It did not surprise you that Kakavasha expected you to use him in return.

You never would have, of course. Kakavasha was not a thing to be used—he had always been a mate. Though you were happy to let him use you, because all you were was a tool anyway, so it was really all you could offer him: to be used.

None of this has changed for you. You don't think any of this has changed for Aventurine, either. With each new friendship he makes, he repeats those familiar words: Use me as you wish. And with each person who accepts, this is exactly what they do: they use him, and they use him, and they use him until suddenly they notice he's tricked them and they've got the losing hand.

You damned gambler, they always spit. You Sigonian wretch. All you know is how to manipulate people. Thief, liar, cheat, whore. Despite all these insults, Aventurine always smiles at them. Cry as they might, he’s won his bet and has their world in his palms.

Winner takes all, he sometimes gloats.

Winning and losing. Using and being used. Exploitation and treachery. This is all Aventurine knows; these are his great guiding principles in life. (He's told you this point blank, stacking up chips in his favourite gambling dens with a self-satisfied grin.) You often find yourself coming back to these conversations, particularly when you need to convince him of something.

And right now, you very badly need to convince him of something.

Aventurine is ignoring his doctor’s advice. His suppressants are unstable in extreme temperatures, he's been told. During travel on Agnisahr, they'd degraded, and now he’s experiencing his first heat in several years. Of course it's going to be painful, his doctor had said. I can prescribe you some medication to ease the symptoms, but really—nothing will work better than a heat partner. It doesn't need to be a mate. Any alpha will do.

The doctor had been an alpha. You had asked for a beta or omega, but alphas tend to dominate in Interastral Medical Schools, so they're in short supply. Aventurine had been still the whole time, face unreadable, but you could tell he wanted to throw up at the stench of an unfamiliar alpha. You had stepped between the two of them, not bothering to hide the animosity in your voice. We’ll take the medication, you had said, and the doctor had sniffed the air and nodded at you in approval.

Probably won't need it. An alpha like you could sort him out with just a few rounds, he told you, and both of you stayed quiet as he left.

You still aren't talking, or even looking at each other. Aventurine has lay down in his nest again, closing his eyes, while you stand as far away as physically possible—at the door where you'd just shown the doctor out. With the room shut off again, windows closed and door locked, Aventurine’s scent is starting to flood your senses once more. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him shivering.

“What do you want to do?” you ask.

“Nothing.” He swallows. “I'll be fine.”

He's afraid. You can tell he's afraid. And you can tell he’ll be more afraid if you take even a single step closer to him, so you nod and say, “I'll go pick up your medication, then,” and Aventurine doesn't stop you. You can see him curling up in his nest, face pressed into the cashmere sweater.

But he still doesn't stop you.

After a few more days, Aventurine finally breaks.

There is a rare sag to his shoulders when he calls you to the room, along with a taste of dread in the air. You haven't seen him so vulnerable in years. Aventurine is not an open person, so cunning and self-possessed in his wealth—but Kakavasha was more brittle, more powerless, flayed raw and open even though he didn't often get the whip. (It would ruin his value if he ever scarred—his looks were his greatest selling point, your master said.) He was especially defeated when forced to spend his heats with an alpha he didn't want. You wonder, a vice grip of pain around your heart, whether this entire situation is simply an extension of that. Whether he is calling you here against his will, this time compelled by his pain, rather than his master. Whether this luxury suite feels like that wretched basement to him.

He doesn't look at you when he talks, nor does he sit up. He remains curled in his nest, nearly clinging onto the blankets and clothes.

“That stupid medication,” he pants out, sharp even in his heat, “isn't working.”

“I can tell.” Your brow knots. He’s in so much pain, it is palpable. “I”—you hesitate, voice dropping. “Can I help you?”

He goes quiet. As both Aventurine and Kakavasha, he has always been disinclined to accept help from other people. There is no such thing as unconditional help in his mind—only leverage and weakness. He hates it when people have leverage over him, and he hates being weak. Both are things that can be exploited, and Aventurine always needs to be the one doing the exploiting. He always needs to be in control.

Even like this, the last threads of his sanity about to snap, with every circuit of his omega biology trying to drag him into insensible lust, he fights viciously to be in control.

Winning and losing. Using and being used. Exploitation and treachery. Control and being controlled. This is how he's always lived. This is how he's always survived.

This is the only way to let him maintain control when he is most afraid of losing it.

“I don't mind,” you say quietly, “if you use me.”

Even through the haze of heat, Aventurine’s eyes sharpen. “What?”

“I don't mind if you use me,” you repeat, voice neutral. Unfeeling. The proposal might sound cruel to someone else, but not you. After all—your place in the world is one of a tool, and this is what you've always done as an alpha and a slave: sleeping with people to take care of their needs, or sometimes just their desires. It did always make you feel strangely hollow, but you think it will feel just fine with Aventurine. All you've ever wanted to do is keep him safe, and surely, this will do that, but—

“I'll only help if you want. I don't want to force it.” You lower your eyes. “But if you do want it, I'll be careful with you. You can lead. I promise.”

“...I know.” Aventurine’s voice is weak, cracks with pain, but you can tell he's speaking with clarity. “I know you will be.”

You look up. “Then you'll let me help?”

Aventurine looks away—a sign that he cannot adopt his usual smile. He’s clutching that sweater again, pressed close to his chest.

“Just your wrist,” he says quietly.

You listen carefully. “What?”

“I just—I just want your wrist.” He looks away. “Your—your scent gland. Only that.”

“Okay.”

You get up, then falter. When it was your job to comfort your mistress’ omega slaves, you were told to enter their nests—no permission needed from them, no permission needed from you, because only her permission ever mattered for anything. The omegas were usually too delirious to care, often had even begged for it with the state of mind that they were in. But Aventurine is different. He's not like you, and he's not like them. He's never bent to any of his masters’ wills. And even if he did, you wouldn't want to have him bend to yours.

Instead of climbing into his nest, you ask, “Can I sit on the bed?” He doesn't answer. “Just the edge of it,” you add, and you hear him exhale.

“Fine,” he says, breathing measured.

“Thank you,” you say, and he gives you a confused look. But then you're reaching out with a hand, offering it, and he is quickly distracted.

Aventurine drops the sweater, grabs your hand almost immediately. He turns over your palms, fingers tracing your heartlines—as if testing you, as if mapping out territory. He runs his thumbs along the veins of your wrists, too, right over your scent gland, and you have to force yourself not to shudder at the feeling. You only stay still, letting him explore the contours of your hands, letting him acclimate to the feeling of your skin. He laces his fingers with your own, a latticework trap, and he finally drags his wrist along yours.

Both of you inhale sharply.

You can't react. You know it'll scare him if you do, but it's hard to keep still. The way his scent blossoms, the way it mingles with yours, the way it all washes over you—what you're doing can hardly be called touching, but you feel like you're going mad. Especially when he flushes like that, his vibrant eyes fluttering shut. Especially when the sweetness of honey overtakes your senses. Especially when you can smell the way his body is reacting, all that wetness and heat and slick dripping between his legs. You don't miss the way his thighs rub together, nor the hard outline of his cock straining against his pants.

Aventurine shudders. He brings your hand up to his face, rests his cheek in your palm. His skin is flushed and burning with fever, and it's no wonder that he's sighing with relief at your touch. You try not to stare at the way his mouth falls open. He looks at you for a moment, his gaze a hazy violet and blue—before he closes his eyes again and presses his lips into your wrist.

Fuck.

“Aventurine—” You have to stop, voice strangled, when you feel the full softness of his lips working against your skin. He’s panting now, laboured breaths sweeping over your veins. Then you feel his teeth catch, a gentle nip on your flesh, and when he groans into your racing pulse—deep, relieved, desperate, a noise that makes your gut flare with heat—you realise you can't do this.

You pull back your hand, and Aventurine startles.

“Aventurine,” you say, voice strained. Maybe we should stop, you want to say, but he cuts you off.

“I need”—a shaky breath—“I need more.”

You watch Aventurine carefully. His pupils are dilated, blue irises nearly eclipsed. His cheeks are rosy, and he can't stop panting. You can fully smell his arousal now, even through his silk clothes. He's desperate, needing to be filled.

But he also looks torn. His brows are knotted, and you can taste a faint hint of fear in the air now. His knuckles clutch at the sheets, almost white, and he stares at them. He can't look up. He can't look at you. His whole body is tense, like he wants to bolt—and if he weren't so weak, you think he might actually.

“Are you sure?” you ask.

He doesn't nod. He also doesn't shake his head. His arms clutch at his midsection as he winces. He doesn't look like Aventurine. He looks like Kakavasha. It makes your heart ache as you watch him give into his body’s demands, wearing the same expression he did on the day your master bought him.

“...don't use your Voice on me,” Aventurine—Kakavasha—says quietly.

It takes you a moment to realise what he's asking. “I won't.”

“And”—his eyes somehow grow even more evasive, hidden by his long lashes— “don’t touch my commodity code.”

His commodity code. His commodity code that is seared into his scent gland. His code that, if you kiss, will ease his agony instantly. His code that, if you bite—will chain him to you irreversibly.

“Of course I won't,” you say instantly.

He closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath.

“And—” Aventurine looks away, jaw tight. His voice is quiet but wrought with tension: “—I don't like when people put things inside me.”

Something claws the walls of your heart.

“That's fine too,” you reply. “I don't mind doing it the other way.”

Aventurine’s sigh is nearly inaudible, but unmistakable. His scent shifts a little bit, the wildflower fragrance fading ever so slightly. But he doesn't come to you. He merely sits there—waiting. Expecting. Maybe dreading. Even in the senseless daze of heat, he’s too anxious to move.

You approach slowly. Though you're overwhelmed by the bouquet of his scent, though you feel a curl of heat in your belly in response to it—you are slow. Alphas are supposedly victims of insatiable lust whenever around an omega in heat, absolved of every action they take, but you are convinced this is a lie. You have never once wanted to handle Aventurine with such cruelty. You think that inflicting violence on him, more than anything else, would go against your biology. Every molecule in your body would reject putting him in such pain or inciting such fear. So you are careful when you approach him, slow as you inch up to him—but you do not think it helps.

Aventurine lies down, his face turned away from yours. His eyes squeeze shut, like he's expecting this to hurt. Uncertainty gnaws at your gut as you lean over him, draping your body over his—the only position you've ever taken an omega in, other than mounting them from behind.

(You do not want to mount Aventurine. You never have. It is an impersonal position, a position that omega biology supposedly would force him to enjoy, a position that alphas have likely dictated him to enjoy. You think there is nothing you would hate more. In your weakest, most selfish moments, in your worst ruts, when you’ve allowed yourself to fantasise about mating Kakavasha—you are always facing each other, and he is always looking at you with his eyes you've always loved, and it always feels intimate. Never impersonal. Never dictated. Never forced.)

Aventurine is so honeysweet beneath you. More fragrant than any omega you’ve ever been with. You glance at his commodity code, trying to ignore the scent of his branded skin, then lean down to press your face against the other side of his neck, where a faint scar mars the otherwise flawless slope of his nape. Like every other omega slave you've ever slept with, the scent gland there has been excised: a precautionary measure to reduce the risk of an unwanted mating bite.

(Not unwanted by them—the wants of a slave never matter—but unwanted by their owners. A mating bite would ruin the code seared into their neck, claim an omega more deeply and permanently than any titanium collar or carbon steel chain. It would hurt their resale value. Only owners are allowed to claim slaves in such a permanent way—and the wants of a slave have no relevance there, either.)

It's a funny thing, this surgical scar. Even with their gland missing, you've noticed that most omegas like having their neck scented by you anyway, probably from some vestigial instinct. You guess that Aventurine won't be any different, that maybe it will comfort him. But when your lips skim the scar left on him by his owner, his entire body stiffens beneath you. His fragrance cuts into your lungs, sharp.

You recoil, as if burned by the touch of him.

“Sorry,” Aventurine is quick to say. He tries to glance at you, but his diamond pupils quickly avoid you again. “Don’t worry about me. Just do whatever you need to do.”

“But you're scared,” you point out, and you see his brow twitch. “You’re scared when I touch you.”

“Not scared,” he lies. “Just…”

When his eyes finally look at you—land on your lips—you understand.

A bite would claim an omega more deeply and permanently than any titanium collar or carbon steel chain. If you lost your mind—give into the insatiable lust of an alpha whenever around an omega in heat—you might bite him, and then you would own Aventurine.

And Aventurine would rather die than be owned by anyone again.

He doesn't need to finish his sentence. You already know what you need to do.

“It's okay,” you say gently, and his brow knots. “I have an idea.”

Aventurine is always afraid.

This is a fact that has haunted you since the day you met him. You've wondered about how to fix it—the bare minimum as his mate (always his, even if he doesn't want you)—and you’ve never quite pinned down how. Because when someone has spent their life in perpetual fear, how do you make them feel safe? When their life is constantly at risk, how do you ever make them feel calm?

You still aren't sure of the answer. But after seeing Kakavasha become Aventurine, you now have a good guess.

It is clear from his scent that Aventurine does not feel remotely safe right now. Not when you leave to fetch something from your own room, and not when you return. The anxiety thickens when he sees, in your hands, a very familiar muzzle.

Aventurine stares. He is not smiling, but he also does not reveal his discomfort on his face, even as beads of sweat line his temple. But his voice is too controlled, too calm, when he asks, “You kept the mask.”

You nod.

“I told you to throw it out,” he points out, “when I freed you.”

“I know. Sorry. I don't know why I kept it.” You remember how tightly you clutched it before the incinerator, thinking about how strange it would feel, discarding something that you'd worn everyday since you presented—but you don't tell him this. Instead, you say, “But it’s convenient.”

Before Aventurine can say anything, you toss him the remote.

“You’re afraid of my bite and my Voice, but you don't have to be with this,” you explain. Your tone is gentle, soothing. Probably disarming coming from an alpha, with how he is in heat. Perhaps that's why he’s studying the remote rather than chucking it away. “You'll be in full control if I wear this.”

Control. Mere seconds after you say it, you can smell his fragrance change again, mellowing. It's only a brief moment of calm that fades when you latch the mask onto your face, but he doesn't smell as nearly as stressed before.

Aventurine watches you carefully as the carbon steel swallows your maw, its old and familiar edges biting into you. For the first time in years, you cannot tell what he is thinking—truly poker-faced even to you.

“You aren't bothered by wearing that thing while we do this,” he says—asks?—and you shake your head. The muzzle was part of you for years. You were wearing it when you killed someone for the first time. You were wearing it when you went into rut for the first time. You were wearing it when your master had sex with you for the first time. It doesn't bother you that you’ll wear it when you have sex with Aventurine.

If you could speak, you would ask him, Why do you think it would bother me? But all you do is gesture for him to sit up. To switch places with you. You lie down—something you've never done with an omega—and wait for him to get on top.

Aventurine stares at you for a long, quiet moment. It's followed by a sigh of relief. Disarmed, he—for the first time in any heat you've witnessed—finally relaxes. His scent wafts over you as he climbs between your legs, and you can feel the heat radiating from his hands as he parts your thighs, almost scalding.

He doesn't bother getting you ready, too needy to think rationally, but he doesn't have to anyway. You've been wet ever since you felt his mouth touch your wrist, hard ever since you heard him groan into it. You're equally desperate to get some relief as you feel his cockhead sliding against your opening, leaking all over your entrance as his slick drips onto your thighs. His breath shakes as he enters you, and he can't hear it with how you're muzzled—but you groan just as deeply as him at the tight stretch.

You hear him swear when you clench around him, watch him lean over you. His arms shake as he supports himself, refusing to succumb to his heat even as he chases his relief. You seek out his gaze (just as in your dreams, facing each other, intimate), and his neon eyes catch on your eyes for a brief, breathtaking second—

—before he looks away.

There's a flash of—you don't know what, maybe pain? Or fear?—in his irises as he does. A twitch of the brow, a tell he'd normally rather die than let slip. You have the realisation, as Aventurine moves inside you, that even while you're muzzled, even while he has complete control over you—he still can't stand having sex with you. Probably because he can't stand being in heat in general, you tell yourself. Don't touch me, don't touch me, don't use it anymore, don't use me anymore. He'd have this reaction to anyone.

Still—you didn't expect him to have this reaction to you.

Your hands twitch, possessed by an old instinct to cover your eyes. But you'd probably scare Aventurine if you moved your arms, so all you do is dig your fingers into the sheets and squeeze them shut. You tell yourself again and again that he'd hate having sex with anyone in these circumstances—not just you. And then you tell yourself, as a desperate, broken moan leaves his branded throat, that he would also come inside anyone in these circumstances, caught within the cruel grip of his heat.

Aventurine stills inside you as he finishes. He pants, sweat dripping down his temple as he shudders in his ecstasy, his spend hot and thick inside you. You can feel his fever break as he comes down from his high, the heat coming off his body easing into a manageable warmth.

Do you feel better, you try to say, but you can't move your mouth while your mask is on. So you wait patiently for Aventurine to come back to himself, watching him carefully as he pulls out and rolls onto the mattress beside you. He finally glances at you then. His eyes narrow once they land on you, confusion flicking through them. Then displeasure. He reaches for the remote.

To your surprise, he immediately punches in the code to unlock your muzzle. Aventurine has apparently remembered the numbers after all these years, as if the moment he freed you has been since seared into his memory.

“Are you okay?” is the first thing you say, and Aventurine gives you a confused look. He’s still panting, dazed, so you ask, “Can I check your temperature?” And when he nods, you confirm your suspicion: he's still much too warm.

There is an ache between your legs and a strange hollow in your gut (because you aren't very experienced with receiving, you think—your body likely just isn't used to the feeling of it), but you quickly forget them. All you can think of is Aventurine, and how he’s still unwell, and how you need to comfort him. The instinct is so strong that you don't even say anything as you get up, straightening out your clothes.

“Are you leaving?” Aventurine asks. His voice is neutral, completely unbothered, but the thought is so horrific to you that you turn back to him with wide eyes.

“Of course not. I'm going to get you water and medicine.” A beat. You stare at Aventurine’s eyes, then think about how he hid them from you during sex. The hollow feeling comes back, but it's mostly eclipsed by your anxiety at the next thought: “...do you want me to leave?”

“Do you want to?”

“I—” I'd rather die, you think. Being forced to leave him right now would feel like tearing out a piece of yourself. You don't know if there's an alpha in this world who could leave their mate in the middle of a heat. And even if he is unmarked, unattached to you—you still think of yourself as his mate. (His, always his, even if he doesn't want you.) “I would prefer not to. I am your heat partner. I'm supposed to take care of you.”

You hear a quiet breath. “Right. Of course. You're always so conscientious.” Aventurine nods, as if convincing himself of something. “Try not to take too long.”

“I’ll come back soon,” you promise, and the air sweetens. Encouraged, you add, voice gentle: “I’ll bring that medication, and then we can have sex as many times as you need after I come back. I'll make sure you're not in any pain anymore.” You pause, studying him. “Is there anything else you need to feel better?”

His fragrance changes once more, this time in a way you don't totally recognize. “No.” His voice sounds strange. His scent is still foreign, fluctuating, possibly hinting at some kind of pain. The heat must be getting to him again—and of course it wasn't enough, what you just did, what you can provide. He likely needs to be filled to get any kind of lasting relief, but you left him empty. “No, that's all I want.”

You nod, forcing yourself to look calm. Ignoring the emptiness in your gut. It didn't feel bad, but you hope it'll feel better next time you have sex. You think it will. Alphas are supposed to be filled with an insatiable lust near omegas in heat, after all. And even though you’ve never felt that before—never felt anything sleeping with all those omegas in your mistress’ house—you are sure you'll eventually feel it around Aventurine.

But the feeling never comes. Even though you can tell that his heat has returned by the time you're back—sweat beading his temples, laboured breaths at his lips, his bottoms now discarded, with full evidence of arousal between his legs—you don't feel much of anything as you reach for your mask again.

“Don't,” Aventurine says, before it can clasp around your face. You give him a curious look. He explains, “Don't. I don't want to have sex again. Not yet.”

You stare at him, shifting. Uncomfortable. Uncertain. Not knowing how he wants to use you. “What can I do?”

He gives you a long look. “Come here. I… I want your scent gland.”

It's a sensible request. If there's a way to seek relief without fucking someone—without fucking you, which he clearly hated doing—you're sure Aventurine would prefer it. So you climb into his nest, holding your wrist out for him, and—

“No.” His voice is quiet. “I want the one on your neck.”

“...oh.”

You stand there, not sure where to move. If he wants you in his nest again, or if he’d rather do this standing. You’re relieved when he demands, “Lie down.”

You expect him to get on top of you when you do. Assume that he wants complete control—but he instead lies down beside you. Presses his body into yours, and then his face into your neck. His nose and lips brush against your scent gland, a full-body shudder running through him, and—

—and now you know for a fact that it is a lie that alphas want nothing other than to fuck an omega when they're in heat. Because even like this, with his lips sweet on your neck, with the sheets soaked with his slick, with his spend leaking out of you—you do not want to have sex with Aventurine. You only want to hold him. You only want him to keep scenting you. You only want to scent him back.

You only want him to feel safe.

You breathe in deeply, lungs flooded by honey. You think of what it felt like to hold him in that cold basement, when he was delirious with fever and pain, and you think about how different his scent is now. How much sweeter it is. How much calmer he feels.

“Do you feel better?” you ask, and he doesn't respond, but you know the answer. His hands come up to dig into your shirt, and he presses into you like you're a sweater in his nest. Silence blankets over you both, calm and warm. His laboured breath starts to improve.

He does eventually speak.

“Has anyone ever told you,” he says, “what you smell like?”

You stare at him. Your master used to say that you smelled good, but he'd never elaborated, and you hadn't wanted him to. “No.”

Aventurine breathes in.

“You smell like—” A little sigh, shaking and feverish, leaves him. “You smell like rain.”

Your eyebrows tick up. “Rain?”

“Yes. Or not just rain, but”—he pauses, next words quiet—“more Iike after it rains. You smell like the desert after a rainfall.”

“Oh.” You don't know what to say to that. Feeling distinctly like it's a silly question, you ask, “Is that a good scent?”

“Some would think so. Especially to people from the desert. You probably smell like a blessing to them. Although…”

Aventurine goes quiet again. You stare at the chandelier above you, all crystal and white gold, and wait.

“Although?” you prompt.

“...although I wouldn't really know,” he says. “It’s just a hunch. I bet it's why so many omegas on this planet like you.”

You couldn't care less about those other omegas. All you care about is Aventurine. “And?” you say. “Do you like my scent?”

His reply never comes. He just breathes deeply again, seeking relief from your neck—not intimacy. Any alpha’s scent would work; that doctor told you so. Any alpha’s touch would work, too. There are no special feelings involved here. Your place in the world is one of a tool, and tools are never especially liked nor disliked. Their value exists only in how they can be used.

You don't know why you even bothered to ask the question.

But then something strange happens: Aventurine curls against you, pressing even further into you. His lashes flutter against your pulse again; it ticks up in response, beating fast against his lips.

“I do,” he says quietly. “I do like it.”

You swallow. “But I guess that's because you're in heat. Any alpha would smell good to you, wouldn’t they?”

“No.” His fingers dig into the fabric of your shirt. “No, I like it because it's yours.”

You know better than to read too much into his response. Aventurine had already said it earlier: No foreign scents. He's only tolerating this whole arrangement because you don't smell unfamiliar to him. Only able to use you because you are the least threatening option.

But the words break something in you—break the thing that made you unable to throw out that little pouch of copper coins that you were saving up for Kakavasha’s freedom, the part of you that made you wear that carbon-steel mask for him. It is this part of you that has your eyes squeezing shut and your arms wrapping around him. You know he’ll recoil, reject you, but just this once—you need to try.

Aventurine doesn't push you away.

He melts into you instead, inhaling deeply. Your scent gland tingles with the warmth of his breath, the feeling of his lips. He seems—comfortable.

You can't fathom why he’s staying in your arms. Perhaps he's simply desperate for some kind of relief from his heat, just like when you held him in the basement while he was delirious from pain. But Aventurine had spoken to you with clarity just now, and his skin doesn't feel scalding so much as warm, and his scent is so different than from that moment. So sweet and so gentle, without a trace of fear. It makes your heart squeeze. As much as you've always wanted Aventurine to feel safe, you'd never imagined that his scent would be so beautiful when he is.

It makes your heart ache. You've never held anything so lovely before, and you’ve never felt so warm before, and it all makes up for how badly it hurt to let Aventurine inside you. How hollow it made you feel to let him use you. How none of that matters as long as you can keep him safe like this, because you belong to Kakavasha. You'll always belong to Kakavasha, in a fate that was chosen for you on the day you met him.

You're his, always his—even if he’ll never want you.

end part i

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additional end notes

[aplaceinthedark]

chapter five: GETTING OUT is not ENOUGH

Summary: Down in the Shenandoah Valley, there lay a court consisting of the Grim, the Drowned, the Witch, and the Watcher.

CW: supernatural themes, ptsd, large canines, bodily injury, body horror, graphic violence, blood

Every chapter will have a different cw section. This is Bad Omens rpf, so obviously, I don't know all the little nuances of the members or their family members.

A/N: Some things are color-coded. If any of you are colorblind lemme know. 

I took in a slow, quiet breath, trying to will my hands to still as to not show the fear that was creeping up my spine one vertebrae at a time. “Was he found?” I asked, even though I had a feeling I already knew the answer. My voice shook no matter how hard I fought to contain it.

Steeling myself for her answer did nothing when it came. “No, dearie. It's been several years since he vanished into the woods. Even Nicholas has moved on.”

Probably because he knows the man is alive, I wanted to say. “But… if they never found a body… maybe he just moved away?”

Granny gave me a funny look. “Are you okay, dearie? You look like you've seen a ghost. “

I think I have. I handed her back the news article. “When does Nick come home again?”

I was done.

On my way back to my house - what used to be Noah’s house, I had learned - I tried calling Nick. When he didn’t answer, even though I knew he was with a client, I sent him a snap I had taken of the news article on Noah’s disappearance. Let him open it on his own time; I was going to get answers whether I had his help or not.

I wasn’t going to wait for Noah to come over; I was going to look for him.

I barely stopped in the house. I threw my bag onto the couch, not caring when the papers spilled out and made a mess. I then changed into some cargo pants and boots, and grabbed a water bottle and granola bars.

My eyes happened to land on an apple. Despite being angry, I grabbed one and put it on the plate outside. I looked up and waited, like it would summon the Watcher instantly - because I had no doubts in my mind that it was the Watcher I was making the offerings to.

But of course, the woods remained silent, or as silent as they could be at four in the afternoon. Then the offering would have to be for good luck, because I guess I was going to have to find Noah the old-fashioned way.

I looked up at the sky. I had maybe a couple of hours of true daylight, at least, but I wasn't going to let this stupid town's fairy tales spook me into what I could and could not do.

That's probably what Noah said before disappearing.

I groaned internally. I did not need to scare myself into abandoning this mission.

As I was about to take my first step into the woods, my phone rang. I flinched at the sound. Lighting up the screen was the picture of Nick flipping off my security camera that I had pulled from our test run. I hit ignore, but a few seconds later, he tried again. This time I just put my phone on silent.

No distractions. Time to go in.

And wouldn't you know it, nothing exploded as I took my first step into the woods. I let out a breath that I begrudgingly admitted to holding in. And then I walked in the direction that Noah had said his house - not my house - was in.

After a few minutes of walking, I realized Nick must've stopped calling, but when I checked my phone it said that I had lost service. That couldn’t be right; the house was just behind me—

No. No it wasn't. In fact, I couldn't even see my house anymore. Like I had walked for hours and not a few minutes. I didn’t even recognize the trees I had just passed.

Dread settled into my stomach, but I kept going, ignoring the rhyme that was repeating in my head; one that I had read in the library:

But if you venture far from home / If deep into the woods you roam / You’ll see what seems a moving tree / Coming toward you: that is He.

“Get a grip, Taylor,” I muttered to myself. I wasn't going to see the Watcher.

I wasn't going to get lost.

“Shit! Shit shit this shit—“ Nicholas cursed to himself as he repeatedly hit his steering wheel.

Taylor wasnt picking up their phone. He had been with a client when they initially called, and he hadn't looked at his phone until the shop was closed. And then he got the snap that made his blood freeze.

He hadn’t seen that article in years. He thought he had thrown it away, actually. Once Noah had come back, he hadn't needed the reminder of one of the darkest times of his life. Granny must’ve saved it, or had a copy of her own, or… whatever. That didn't matter.

Now here it was, biting him in the ass.

A part of him wanted to blame Noah. If he had just waited, and not “introduced himself” - Noah's words, not his, and definitely not Taylor's - he could've avoided this. But here he was, speeding back to New Hope a day early, trying to figure out how best to tell Taylor the truth.

Two hours later, he was jumping out of his car into Taylor's driveway. Their car was in the driveway, but none of the lights in the house were on. The automatic light came on when he stepped onto the porch; hopefully they could see he was there, surely. He then saw an apple was placed on the plate. They couldn't have gone to bed already, could they? It was only just past six.

He pounded on the front door, calling their name, but there was no answer. Nothing stirred past the window curtains. Against his better judgment, he tried the doorknob, and with a lurch of his stomach discovered it unlocked. He slowly opened the door, calling out again. Still nothing.

And with that, a horrible thought came to his head. What if they went into the woods?

Nicholas whipped around, staring into the treeline. That was the one rule he was fine with breaking; nothing out there scared him. Not until now. Especially now.

"NOAH!" he yelled out into the green.

Normally it took Noah a bit to appear, but with the fear in Nicholas' scream, he practically materialized out of the woods before the last echo of his name faded away. "What?" he asked, his angular brows creased in confusion.

Nicholas breathed out heavily. "We've got a big problem," he said, "and an even bigger hell to explain it."

I was irrevocably and utterly lost.

What I had thought was only fifteen minutes ago, I had given up and turned around, thinking I'd be back home before the sun sank way below the treeline. When I looked at my phone, I saw that those fifteen minutes had somehow become over an hour, and I was still nowhere near my home.

Worst of all, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched.

The sounds of my boots stepping on pine needles and rocks seemed deafening in my ears. My phone's flashlight barely seemed to penetrate the darkness, but it at least gave me the ability to see where my feet were stepping. It was practically all that my phone was good for, since I hadn't found a signal ever since I stepped foot in these stupid woods.

I cursed myself for the millionth time. Stupid woods, stupid Nick, stupid boots, stupid Noah even though I've only known him for half an hour and he might not even be Noah, if Noah's dead. Oh, and stupid me for thinking this was... well, I knew it wasn't a good idea, but–

Halfway through a step, I heard leaves crunch behind me, like I had finished my step but I hadn't. I froze, a sudden chill descending over me. I could feel the eyes watching me grow stronger. My heart was pounding so bad I thought that whatever was stalking me could hear it. It had to, because I could hear it coming closer. With my heart in my throat, I turned around.

As my eyes locked with what was coming towards me slowly, my body cut all communication. No matter how much my mind screamed at me to run, my legs wouldn't cooperate. I couldn't breathe.

The only way my mind could describe it was it had to be a wolf. It was still too large to be a regular wolf, but it was way too big to be a dog or coyote. It also looked too feral. Its body was thick with muscle, its broad body covered in a light fur that shined silver in the small light from my phone. When its eyes passed over me, I caught a glimpse of a mix of dirt brown and grass green. They looked almost... human.

And those eyes were focused on me.

My knees finally gave out, and I collapsed to the ground. The spell broken, I tried to scramble backwards and get up at the same time, but I just fell onto my back everytime. The creature was faster, and soon it was towering over me. I squeezed my eyes shut as it leaned close, snarling. I could feel it's hot breath wash over me. A whimper clawed its way out of my throat.

Please... I didn't survive that accident just to get mauled to death by this creature.

Suddenly, there was a loud roar from behind me, and I heard the sound of trees being snapped. Then something leapt into the air, colliding with the creature on top of me. The void of bitter cold it left in its wake when the creature's hot and sticky breath vanished made me scream. I opened my eyes just as I heard the loud sound of bigger bodies hitting the ground.

Bodies. Plural.

My mind reeled. The wolf-creature lay on its back several yards away, but it got up quickly and shook off the debris it had collected in its wake. And standing between us–

I almost collapsed again.

The new creature had its back to me, but that didn't stop my fears. If the wolf was big, then this creature absolutely towered over me. Its movements were quick, jerking, and its joints sounded like bark being peeled from a tree. It was humanoid in shape, its broad torso covered in whorls and symbols that made my brain hurt to look at. But my eyes were quickly drawn upwards, towards the thick, branch-like antlers protruding from beneath that thick mess of long hair.

The Watcher of the Woods.

It let out a roar that sounded like it could've been words, but it was in a way that I couldn't even think of understanding. It made my head hurt just hearing them. Judging by the sound that came from the other creature, it hurt it too. But then it began backing away.

The Watcher had commanded it to leave. And it understood.

After the wolf creature disappeared, its tail proverbially tucked between its legs, the Watcher turned and faced me. It was at that moment I turned and bolted, but didn't get very far when I heard a voice in my head.

WAIT.

I stopped, freezing at the familiar voice. It wasn’t full of the arrogance that I had heard, which nearly threw me off. I also didn’t expect to see a human hand come down on my shoulder and spin me around.

“Are you okay?” Noah asked. Gone was the Watcher, but he was shirtless, showing off every inch of his skin that, from his neck to his hips, shoulders to fingers, was covered in tattoos.

I backed away, Noah letting me go easily. “What… what are you?” I asked, fear soaking my every word.

“I… It’s better if we go back to your place. It’s not safe here—“

“No fucking shit! I just got attacked by some… wolf, and… and you were some… tree thing a-and… you’ve been missing for seven years—“

“Taylor—“

“No! I’m leaving, going back to my house, and going back to fucking sleep, because obviously I’m having a nightmare!” I yelled at him, turning away.

I felt his hand grab me again, and I swung. My just connected with his cheek, and with a loud curse that didn’t cover the sound of twigs snapping, he let me go. I then bolted.

Despite my feet probably bleeding with blisters, the adrenaline from the fight had them running as fast as I could go. I didn't even know which direction I was going, as long as it was away from him and his dog. I thought I could hear him behind me, but for all I knew, it was just my heart pounding in my ears. I just had to get away; get out of here—

My foot connected with something, pulling my leg out from underneath me. For a moment, I felt weightless as I soared to my downfall. It almost felt familiar. When my body connected with the cold, dark earth below, it almost felt like hitting pavement.

But I didn't stop there. I kept tumbling, skidding across the ground as I felt every rock embed into my skin. Until my head hit something hard, and I fell into dark oblivion.

Tysm for reading! Next chapter coming soon!

[povbarnes]

Sunshine.

Pairing: Post!CW!Bucky Barnes x Mutant!Fem!Reader

Summary: Bucky has a nightmare, you help him forget.

Word Count: +4K

Warnings: +18, Slight angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Non-graphic description of violence, Bucky Barnes is miserable poor thing, Reader is utterly in love, but so is Bucky, Bucky calls reader Sunshine and Sunny because of her solar powers, Smut, Dry humping, that becomes not-so-dry after a while, Maybe improper use of the metal arm?, i’m not sure, No use of Y/N, Imk if i missed or forgot anything!

A/N: okay. here’s the thing. school’s been CRAZY and i couldn’t write anything for a loonnngg time, so this has been sitting in my drafts for ages. i genuinely love this one guys, and i would really like to explore Bucky and Sunshine’s (that’s you) relationship more, but for now, this is a one shot. if you guys like reading it as much as i loved writing it, i’ll probably write so much more for these two. oh and btw, MY REQUESTS ARE OPEN! send away! okayyy i’ll leave you to it now, enjoy <3

It is still pitch black outside when Bucky wakes up, panting from a nightmare that takes a good minute for him to snap out of, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

His eyes search around the room for something, anything that can cause danger other than himself, but finds nothing except your sleeping form peacefully laying by his side. Sight of you alone is enough to steady his racing heart a bit.

A deep exhale leaves his parted lips, and his eyes linger on the warm glow that surrounds your body, illuminating the dark room. “I’m like a bedside lamp,” you said once, giggling without knowing you were breathing life into him with every little laugh you let out.

He tries to let the warmth and light radiating from you to calm his mind, strip away the fears that his nightmares brought onto the surface, again.

The energy surrounding your body is still striking to him, amazes him each and every time. The way you actually glow even more so in the dark and give off a warmth that Bucky won’t even try explaining to himself, making you seem like an otherworldly being in his eyes even when he knows there are people, gods, with extraordinary abilities walking around the earth every day. Even with the feeling of the metal and the power that came with the serum just existing in his body. He still can’t believe you are real.

When you first told him your powers were related to solar energy, his initial thought was that you were able to absorb energy while the sun was up. He hadn’t learnt just how wrong he was until you started sleeping over at his room. No, you weren’t absorbing energy, you were basically that damn star personified. His little sunshine.

He looks at your sleeping figure, and he can be a selfish man when it comes to you, but not selfish enough to wake you up when you look as peaceful as you do in this moment. He will just get a glass of water and try to force himself back into the world of nightmares that he has to visit every night.

But you stir just as he starts to get up, your eyes blinking open, your glow faltering when you see him awake and leaving. He hates seeing it happen.

What he loves, is that your glow has a mind of its own, that it intensifies when you are happy or excited, it helps him in keeping you that way, always happy, always content.

He hates it when he sees it falter, lose its shine whenever you are feeling confused, upset or defeated. And he hates it more when he causes it, even if it’s for a moment.

“Buck?” Your voice is laced with sleep, and he quickly takes the one leg he took off the bed back. “Did you have a nightmare?”

He hates that this is now your reality too.

“Yes, baby,” he says, his hand finding your hair and running it through it slowly. Warmth fills his body immediately, and he can’t help the small smile forming on his face.

There’s no point in hiding anything from you as you can always tell, but he wants to. He wants to hide his past from you, his dreams, the person he was. He doesn’t want you near it, near any of it. Not his memories, not his nightmares, not the violence that seems to follow him wherever he goes. “Go back to sleep, I will too.”

“No,” you murmur, shaking your head slightly. You are getting up in an instant, sitting on the bed with your legs crossed. “I know you won’t be able to.”

Bucky wants to kick himself.

“Sunny, sweetheart, go back to sleep.” He knows you won’t.

You sigh, looking into his eyes for a couple of seconds before moving to place yourself on his lap, his hands automatically falling to your waist.

He is lightened by your glow, everything but the two of you swallowed by complete darkness. “What was it this time?”

He knew the question was coming, you asked it every time. And every time, he tells you he doesn’t remember. Usually, it’s a lie. A lie that you allow.

But tonight, he is so tired, so worn out by his own subconsciousness, a part of himself still feeling like he’s in the goddamn dream. Like he’s about to look into your lightless eyes any second.

The reminder sends a shiver up his spine, and he considers what to do as he looks into your warm eyes. With those same eyes’ ice cold versions playing in the back of his head, he decides he doesn’t have the energy to lie to you. At least not tonight.

“James?” You push, gently, and his head drops to your sternum, forehead resting there as he sighs. “I saw you.”

He feels you nod even though he can’t see it, and hears how your heart starts beating just a bit faster. You are probably surprised he even decided to tell you about it. “How did you see me?”

His face scrunches up, arms wrapping around you, trying to convince himself that that was a dream, and this is real. That you, are real.

“He got you,” he says, not specifying who. He doesn’t want any of their names lurking in your mind. He hates himself enough already that he’s even telling you about this. “He used you to get to me.”

You don’t say anything and he’s grateful for it, or maybe not. Because he isn’t sure if he could continue talking if you interrupted him right now, and he isn’t sure he knows which of the two options he wants to go through with.

“I was trying to get to you, and-“ His breath hitches, your arms immediately wrapping around his neck, holding him close to your pounding heart.

He tries to let the sound ground him to reality. To you.

“I was trying to save you, I- I swear. But suddenly, you were the one I was chasing.” He can feel how you clench your teeth, but you keep quiet.

“You ran like hell,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper. A short, humorless laugh leaves his lips. He says the next words like it is the most ridiculous thing he ever had to say. “From me.”

Would you ever run from him like that? Would he ever give you a reason to? The thought so sickening to him that he needs to take a second to recollect himself.

“But you weren’t fast enough.” He pauses again, his heart squeezing in his chest as if it doesn’t want to keep on beating. He considers if he can physically go through this again to tell you the whole thing.

You are still silent, but he can sense you are expecting him to continue, so he does.

“I can still feel it around your neck,” he lets out, chocking around the words, forcing a deep breath through his nose. “The look in your eyes, the way you squirmed and pushed to get away from me.”

Your arms get tighter around his neck, pulling him impossibly close, contrary to how you tried to push him away from you in his dream.

He inhales your warm scent, you are everywhere, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. If he could stay like this forever, he fucking would, without moving even a single muscle.

“It was just a dream, baby,” you murmur after maybe a minute or two of processing his words, one of your hands moving to stroke his hair. “You won’t hurt me.”

“You don’t know that.”

You pull back to look at him, and he is met with your furrowed brows when your eyes find his. The way you pout at him almost makes him smile at your adorable face before it is replaced with the images of that same face looking up at him in horror and disappointment, the split second of ease he felt disappearing just as quickly as it appeared.

He tries to look away, but your fingers immediately find his chin to bring him back to you. “I do know it.”

“James,” you whisper cautiously when he doesn’t answer. He watches as your eyelids flutter for a split second before you take a shaky breath. “You could never hurt me.”

His head falls back down on your chest, breathing in your scent while trying to get rid of the images from his nightmare invading his head.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice gruff and laced with desperation. “You know that’s not true.”

He wants you to run. He wants you to get as far away from him as you can before he somehow gets you hurt. Because he knows it’s inevitable, he knows he ruins everything he touches, but he is too damn weak and selfish to let you go. So he needs you to go and never look back.

But you don’t.

Instead, you’re here, on his lap, hugging him like your life depends on it, running your fingers through his hair, occasionally scratching his scalp and making his eyes roll.

He doesn’t deserve you, but you are here and so goddamn stubborn, and he can’t seem to give you up.

A selfish, selfish man.

You take a deep breath, taking his head in your hands and moving so he’d look at you.

“Let me see?”

He frowns, his head tilting a little. “What?”

“Your hand,” you clarify. “I wanna see.”

Bucky’s heart sinks to his stomach. “Sunshine, what—“

“Please?”

You had never asked anything about his arm before, and he’s suddenly aware how he never talked about any of his bad and ugly with you. How he always just swiped it under the rug inside his head because it terrified him, and you were as graceful as you’ve always been to never ask. He knows you know, hell, the whole goddamn world knows, but maybe he liked pretending for a while. And you allowed it. Maybe you felt it was too early to ask or maybe you thought he would shatter in the palm of your hand if you did but you never asked, and it just crosses his mind that you might’ve not felt as comfortable around him as he thought you have. The thought shocks through him, leaving him startled, staring at you for a long moment.

He’s sure you can see how taken aback he is, yet you patiently wait for him to comply, not pushing him. At least not with your words.

He wants to say no, to be done with this subject before it even starts, but he never seems to be able to when you look at him as you do in this moment, all wide eyes and pouty lips, basically pulling his strings with the tips of your fingers. He knows it’s not about seeing the metal, but feeling it, and asking about it. Acknowledging it. Acknowledging what it represents, the things he went through. The things he did.

He doesn’t know how long he just stares at your face before he finds himself raising his arm between your bodies. “Move back a little for me, baby.”

You slide yourself down his legs, and his arm raises slowly between your bodies, your light making the silver shine, the look on your face shifting from anticipation to something Bucky dares to think looks almost like awe.

You move an inch closer which makes him stiffen immediately, but you don’t take your eyes off of his arm for even a second before you are reaching out to him, a hesitant hand slowly approaching him.

As soon as Bucky realizes you intend to touch him, he flinches so hard that your glow falters, looking up at him with eyes filled with worry. The room is swallowed by complete darkness for a moment before the light forms around your body again, and your face is back in his vision.

His voice is strained when he speaks. “What are you doing?”

Your answer comes in a hushed tone, and it’s not nearly enough convincing. “It’s okay, Bucky. You won’t hurt me.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ —

Your heart is beating as if it wants to break open your ribcage and hug the man sitting under you. You wonder if he hears it.

You reach for the metal in front of you again, this time more determined than before. He lets you, although he looks like he wants to throw you off of him and run without looking back once.

You have never pushed him like this, always cautious of his scars and vulnerabilities, but he deserves so much more than he gives himself credit for and you are past your limit of letting him drown in his enormous pool of self-hatred. He should know. He should know how much you appreciate every single part of him. And he should believe it.

You look up into his ocean blue eyes you love so much just when your index finger is about to make contact with the metal, shining in all its glory.

He’s hesitant, you can see, but you keep your stare into his eyes, waiting desperately for his permission once again.

When he gives you a barely there nod after a good couple of seconds, you can’t help the soft smile appearing on your face.

He inhales sharply when you gently press your finger to one of his knuckles, making you look back up at him.

“Please be careful,” he pleads, making your heart clench in your chest. You don’t know why he asks you to be careful, what he’s afraid of. It’s not like his arm has a mind of its own. Maybe he is afraid it does, you can’t tell. Your smile widens just a little regardless, and you nod. “I will. I promise.”

You let yourself feel his hand for a moment, reveling in the feeling it gives you, not quite describable, not quite unfamiliar either. You’ve felt it before, sure, on your skin, squeezing your hips when he was buried in you, or caressing your leg when he let himself feel it for just a second before pulling away. But you’ve never held it before. He always keeps you on his other side, away from the arm, away from danger.

As you trace your finger on the metal, you are so focused on the reflection of your glow on his arm that it catches you off guard when he shivers beneath you, muttering a low curse under his breath.

Your voice is barely above a whisper when glance up from his hand. “What?”

He slightly shakes his head, looking as surprised as you are. His brows knit together as he gulps. “Nothing, I—“

He can’t finish his sentence when you move your finger again and his head tilts back just a little, leaving you stunned as you watch him clench his teeth.

Your voice is excited to say the least when you speak. “Can you feel that?”

He nods, looking at you with hooded eyes. A glossy sheen is covering his forehead, tiny droplets of sweat forming almost immediately.

For a second, you just stare at each other. Silence grows, as well as your excitement. “Do you… do you like it?”

He doesn’t answer for at least a minute, making you wait in anticipation. But you are patient with him, almost afraid that you’ll scare him off.

You get your answer when your finger involuntarily twitches after keeping it so still. His eyes flutter shut, and his voice is barely a whisper when he answers your question. “Fuck, yes sweetheart. Yeah, I do.”

You stare at his hand in marvel. “What does it feel like?”

“I don’t know,” he answers, breathless. “Not the same as you touch my other hand,” he pauses, watches you move your fingers on towards his wrist. “Sensitive,” he murmurs then. “But different, I don’t know. I can’t describe it. It just- it never felt like this before.”

You nod, your fingers not stopping their movements for one second. In no time, Bucky is panting underneath you.

Your mind is going thousands of miles per hour, countless very impure scenarios running through every inch of your brain when he murmurs, almost to himself, “You’re so warm.”

Maybe it feels different because of your powers, maybe it’s different because it’s you, you don’t know. But if you can make him feel good in any way that you can, you will take that chance, without a single doubt.

“Buck,” you say with your heart in your throat after your hips involuntarily twitches against him and he gasps, looking up at him with wide eyes.

He looks disheveled.

“Hm?”

“Do you think…” You pause, trying to decide whether or not this is a good idea. But the doubt leaves as soon as it appeared when you see the state he is in. Still, it all comes out in a rush, your cheeks turning a shade of pink. “Do you think you can… uh, you know? Just from this?”

You don’t think there has ever been a moment you have seen Bucky this dumbfounded before.

It doesn’t last long, though. The look on his face is quickly swapped with something different, something darker as you give him a tentative grind, the bulge in his briefs pressing so deliciously against your clothed core. “Sunny, do you know what you-“

“No,” you cut him off, a chuckle escaping you. “I really don’t.”

Your heart is racing, making you feel dizzy and disoriented but your focus never shifts from the man in front of you.

“I don’t know,” he answers your original question after what feels like an eternity. “I don’t know- maybe.”

Well, fuck me.

You have to remind yourself over and over again to stay calm, that this is about him and not you, as you continue moving your palm along his arm; only this time, pressing harder. Both your fingers and your hips.

You start rocking against him gently, and it’s almost like you can feel every nerve in your body waking up. Your one hand continues to move up and down on his metal arm, the other finding home in his hair. Your fingers tangle in the long strands, pulling just enough to make his already uneven breath stutter.

“You never really touch me with your metal hand,” you breathe out, his eyes, now dark blue, staring into yours with an intensity that can knock you out of your mind if you are not careful. “You don’t even hold my hand.”

“Doll,” he starts, but you shake your head.

“No,” you say, firm but still gentle, and press your hips just a little harder, making him hiss. “Do you think I can’t tell?”

“I need you to know, Bucky,” you continue when he doesn’t say anything. “I love you. Not just the good bits. All of you.”

He opens his mouth to say something when his eyes flutter and roll back, hips suddenly lifting up. “F-fuck, baby, you’re killing me.”

You smile, and an incoherent sound leaves his parted lips. Next thing you know, he’s pulling his arm from your hold, wrapping both of them around your waist in a way that makes your breath hitch. He is pressing to you so good, your hips barely needing to move to send pleasure waves through your body.

His voice is shaking when he whispers into your neck. “Closer.”

You don’t think you can get any closer than this.

His hands, both of them, find your hips, guiding you, making you move as he pleases and you are suddenly standing on that edge, ready to jump.

“Oh fuck,” you breathe out, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

BuckyBuckyBuckyBucky

“You feel me?” He asks you, and you almost laugh. Can you feel him? He is everywhere, all your senses conquered by him.

His lips brush that sweet spot on your neck every time he speaks, his breath tickling your skin, making you frantic in your movement, pressing into him more, your underwear basically nonexistent with the way it’s soaked through.

You nod.

“Yeah, you do. You feel what you do to me?”

Another nod.

Because you do. And he has to as well. It’s not just you, it’s him too. Every time he makes you come, every time he makes you breathe out his name into the darkness of the night, every time he takes your hand or wraps his arm around you, every time he so much as looks at your way, he undoes you. Then puts your pieces back together.

He has to know it. Feel it. So you ask him. “And do you feel what you do to me?”

He groans, lifting his head to look at you. “Yes.”

You nod, breathless, “Good. You better.”

A chuckle leaves his lips, and it makes you smile, like it always does. His hands are firmer around your hips, moving you on him as he likes, making your stomach clench and your breath stutter. “James,” you breathe. “Are you gonna come for me?”

His eyes squeeze shut, hands around your hips get impossibly tighter, although you know he isn’t even using the quarter of his strength. His voice is trembling when he manages an answer. “Fuck, doll. Yes. Yes, I am.”

His pull on you becomes more frantic, urgent, and you know he’s teetering on the edge right behind you.

Bucky’s jaw goes slack as he watches you fall apart with a silent cry, eyes never leaving your face until he pins you to him with a harsh pull, and lifts his hips before his head finds a home back in your neck, letting out a breathy moan.

You can feel the mess you both made, and maybe it should gross you out, but it doesn’t. Nothing about him does.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, his face buried in your neck, your arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingers caressing his damp hair. But it takes a while for both of you to come down the high, breaths slowing down eventually.

Eventually, you find your voice again. “Are you okay?”

He huffs, and wraps his arms tighter around your waist if that’s even possible. “Yeah, baby. Are you?”

“Mhm.”

Another beat of silence passes.

“Do you wanna shower?” You ask, and he is so quick with his answer that it makes you bite back a laugh.

“Absolutely.”

You smirk, standing up and holding out your hand to him. “You are washing my hair.”

“When have I not?” He says, a small smile that makes your heart clench in your chest forming on his face. It’s all that matters. After everything he went through, everything they made him go through, you just want him to be happy. He deserves to be happy.

“And we can order food after?” You ask, looking over your shoulder to him, batting your eyelashes in a way that makes him look at you a bit longer than he usually does before the side of his mouth ticks up.

“Absolutely.”

You stop just outside the bathroom door, turning towards him, reaching for his other hand, the metal hand. “And you know I love you?”

He pauses. Pauses enough to make you sigh, drop his hands to hold his face between your palms. “I love everything about you. I will always love everything about you. Nothing you can say can change that. Got it?”

You watch as his jaw clenches, feel it inside your palms. You watch as his eyes look just a little more shiny than they should. “I will never hurt you, I swear.”

“I already told you. You could never hurt me, James,” you repeat, smiling at him as your fingers caressing the soft skin under his eyes.

“I love you,” he whispers eventually, like he doesn’t trust his voice to not waver otherwise. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You shake your head before pressing a light kiss to his lips. “You just exist. And you are you. That’s enough, James.”

He is enough.

He is everything.

And maybe one day, you can make him believe it.

likes, reblogs and comments fuel me, love you all!

dividers by @cafekitsune <3

[twola]

Passerine - Chapter 6 [Finale]

PAIRING: High Honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader

Wading through blood, you must confront the reality of where the road has taken you.

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

chapter cw: graphic childbirth, smut, violence, blood, illness, graphic rape, death.

This is it, folks. Thank you for coming along for the ride. Please, I'd love your feedback after all is now said and done. Feel free to leave a comment or hit up my inbox. See you in the New Year.

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous 

The wagon roughly bounces on the path, your teeth sink into your lower lip to stifle a groan. You cannot stop the tears from streaming down your face, not anymore.

One of your hands lies upon your distended abdomen, the child's movements having grown frantic and agitated.

Jack looks at you, fearfully, as he’s clutched in his mother’s arms. Another jostle of the wagon and the boy buries his face into Abigail’s bosom. 

Sadie drives the wagon, cursing each time it hits a rough patch in the road, which is often this north in Roanoke. 

From the ride to Copperhead and then turning around and piling into a suspiciously procured wagon, the last two days have been hellish. One hiding in plain sight along the river and the marshes, and the second was riding by night north again, trying to at least get past Annesburg. Ambarino -it would be safe there -

A horse pulls up next to the wagon, and a dirty and disheveled John Marston looks down at you, then down the bed of the wagon with a grimace, clutching at his bloodied arm. “How is he?”

Tears spill from your eyes anew as you look down. 

Arthur, bloodied, bruised, and barely breathing, lies in the wagon bed, his head perched upon your thigh, your hand lightly draped over his collarbone.

You can’t respond.

John realizes this, looking up the trail again as the horse plods forward next to the wagon. “We need to keep moving, get to Ambarino.”

Abigail, who has been quiet for most of the ride, pipes up. “John. We need to find somewhere to hunker down. Soon.”

“I know-”

“No, I mean now. She ain't gonna give birth in the back of a wagon.”

John’s eyes dart back to you, wide and fearful. “Shit, shit, alright,” he looks up the road again, then looks behind them.

He figures they are just north of Annesburg, he chews his lip before remembering,  “Arthur told me of a widow that lives up at Willard’s Rest. Kind woman. We can see if she’ll take us in.”

Abigail reaches over and places a hand on your belly, frowning when she feels how hard it is. She looks up at you, “Don’t you worry, we’ll get you settled.”

Another burst of tears overflow from your eyes. Your hand clutches at Arthur’s shirt, but your lover does not respond.

-

God bless Missus Balfour. She missed not even a step when a wagon and rider full of women and bloodied men appeared at Willard’s Rest, this safe haven hidden away off the road, far, far north of civilization. 

“Here, here, you can put him in that room there. Let me get this room ready for her. I’ll boil some water.” 

John and Sadie half-carry, and half-drag an unconscious Arthur up the stairs as Charlotte slowly walks you into the house, her arm under your shoulder. Abigail follows with the little shadow of her son directly behind her and rubs at her brow tiredly when they reach the kitchen.

Jack tries to bury himself in his mother’s skirts. She frowns down at him for a moment, and when John reappears from the other bedroom, she leans down and kisses Jack on the forehead. “Jack, I’m gonna need you to go with your father. You gotta stay with him and help him, alright?��

John looks as if he is about to say something, but wisely closes his mouth as Jack leaves his mother’s side to tuck himself against his father.

Abigail gives John a tired look, her brow furrowed and serious, “Please, take him a bit away from here. For a while.”

“What, wh-”

“So he don’t hear the screaming. John, please.” Abigail takes John’s hand and squeezes it, whispering low in an attempt for her son not to hear.

John blanches when he realizes what she’s talking about. He steels his jaw and nods, his other hand falling on his son’s head. He nods to Abigail, taking her hand and pulling it up to his lips quickly. “I hope everythin’ goes alright.”

Abigail’s brow falters, and she leans forward and catches him quickly on the lips, surprising him. He quickly recovers and kisses her back, and they both pull back slightly and lean their foreheads against each other, “Me too, John, me too.”

Your groan from the bedroom takes them from the moment and John’s mouth falls into a straight, hard line. “I’ll take him over by the waterfall. Far enough not to hear, but we’re close if you need anythin’.”

Abigail nods a quick thank you and darts into the bedroom.

John looks down at his son, the son for so long he had ignored, “C’mon now, let's get to see if we can get some fish for dinner. That’ll make everyone happy.”

-

Abigail leans over and undoes your boots as you sit in the bed, and after she works them off your feet, she helps you swing your legs up and sit atop the bed, as you breathe heavily. The tightening sensation in your abdomen comes again, and you hiss in pain.

“Breathe through it, that’s it.” Abigail takes your hand and lets you squeeze it. When the pain subsides, you let out a deep breath.

“I’ll be gettin’ everything together. You’re safe, and you’re gonna have the most beautiful baby.” Abigail cups your cheek gently, lovingly. Assuringly. You nod and her hand squeezes yours again before she leaves the room.

You close your eyes, the aching in your hips is near unbearable, and the pain that comes every few minutes is like a bolt of lightning strikes you at your core.

“You must be his wife.”

The dark-haired homeowner steps through the door, carrying folded linens and a large bowl of water, steam wafting upward as she sets it on the dresser.

You're genuinely surprised at the statement, unable to respond at first, “I-….”

“He’s a wonderful man, your husband Arthur. Probably saved me from starving. He couldn’t stop talking about you, his wonderful wife, how you were back home about to have your first child together, how he couldn't wait. He is smitten with you, dear.”

Oh god, your Arthur, your wonderful, sweet… dying Arthur.

“He’s, he’s…. agh-!”

You double over in the bed, clutching your belly and wincing, yelling out in pain as your belly tightens and hardens. Charlotte takes one of your hands in her own and lets you hold it through the contracting of your body.

Abigail bursts through the door, followed by Sadie. Grimacing, she rolls up her sleeves, muttering to Charlotte and Sadie to lay you back from your sitting position. Your head falls back on the pillow as you gasp in pain, clutching at your belly. Abigail pulls up your skirts, folding them at your hips. A warm liquid trickles against your inner thighs as Abigail mutters to Sadie, and the two women manipulate your legs to slide your bloomers off. 

Another pain, and this time you cannot help the moan escaping your throat as your abdomen tightens. It's like your body is collapsing in on itself, and you are barely cognizant of the women in the room. Charlotte steps in and helps as well, and by the time the pain lets up, they have stripped you down to your petticoat shift, have propped your legs up, and your knees falling open.

You're in so much pain that you don't think about decency at all, Abigail propping herself between your legs, your entire lower half on display. Another strangled cry claws its way out of you as you throw your head back.

“Arthur-” you call out in vain, “I need Arthur-”

“I know, honey. He’s just in the other room.” Sadie pats your hair back as she holds your hand.

“H-how am I supposed to do this without him?” You weep, squeezing your eyes shut against the waves of pain.

Sadie frowns, looking across the room at Charlotte. The women share a knowing, pained glance between them - a look of familiarity, of pain, of uncertainty.

Of losing one’s other half.

-

The shitty, ramshackle cabin smells of unwashed men and rotting food. Arthur doesn’t know what’s going on -why is he here, what is this place?

Two men sit at a table, playing cards and drinking from open bottles of whiskey.

Their vests are green. Arthur seethes and goes to pull his gun from his belt, to find that there is none. There’s no gun, no belt. He looks down, and frankly, there is no him. He is not… really there.

His confusion is interrupted as a half-dressed man bursts through a door from another room, hoisting his pants up as he steps in.

“Donal, you rat bastard - how’d you pick up a thing like that?”

The dark-haired man laughs as he places his h cards down. “Enjoy it while she lasts - I’m sure she won’t be so tight when we take ‘er back to Hanging Dog.”

The returning man rebuttons his pants before sitting down in an empty chair, “‘er cunt is still real nice.”

“Wait till you fuck her ass, talk about real nice.” The third chuckles, taking his bottle of whiskey and taking a long drag.

“Ain’t you worried about Van der Linde?” 

“Naw, ain’t no one comin’ for her. She ain’t anyone important.” Dark-haired man takes a large swig of whiskey before slamming the bottle on the table. He takes his gunbelt off and places it on the table as well as he stands up.

“Now if you excuse me, think I’ll fuck that tight little hole again.”

Why couldn’t do anything, why couldn’t he kill them? What was this all?

The door swings open. That old, dirty, ratty bed where he found you, it’s there. Lantern light spills out, casting shadows through the room. Arthur is able to follow, somehow, in this incorporeal form.

You’re curled on the bed in a fetal position, nude and unbound. Your skin is peppered with bruises and your hair disheveled and dirty.

Arthur has never felt so helpless, like he was on the outside, looking in. 

“Come on now, get on your back f’r me. Been thinkin’ bout you all day.”

The terrible clicking sound of a belt being undone pierces the stillness. You don’t move on the bed. The O’Driscoll starts to work at his trousers as he approaches your battered form. His pants drop to the ground as he reaches the bed. He manhandles you onto your back with no resistance, no fight in you.

He climbs atop you, parts your legs, and settles himself between them. The O’Driscoll spits in his hand slathers it over his hard cock, and without any preamble or gentleness, he pushes himself inside your abused cunt.

Arthur is stuck - he can’t look away, he can’t do anything. You don’t scream, or cry, or fight. You simply squeeze your eyes shut for that moment of penetration, completely resigned. Is this… is he seeing what happened to you? This, this heinous violation that happened because he wasn’t able to keep you safe.

The O’Driscoll moans in pleasure and Arthur wants to tear the world apart. Your body moves back and forth on the bed with each heinous thrust of the man on top of you. He grabs one of your legs and pulls it to rest on his shoulder. You don't react at all, staring at the wall.

“P-pretty miss.”

You need him, you need him, and again, he cannot keep you safe. 

Arthur sees red, unable to do anything but watch.

You turn your head, catching Arthur’s gaze. Your eyes are dull, worn, dead. You can see him, the first acknowledgment from anyone all night.

You open your mouth and the most blood-curdling scream he has ever heard fills his ears.

-

Arthur’s eyes open;  his vision blurred for several moments before being able to focus on the ceiling.

The screaming - it's not from his dream, it’s real, it’s happening right now - you need him-

He blearily awakens, his mouth filled with the coppery taste of blood as he pants. He struggles to sit up, but finally does so, his head spinning. He feels so weak. Another pained scream from down the hall. Wheezing, he clutches at his chest as he sits up in the bed. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, blood staining the fabric. 

He hears Abigail through the wall, some sort of murmured affirmation that he can’t understand.

The baby-

Arthur slides from the bed onto unsteady feet, nearly falling as he stumbles forward and grasps onto a dresser to stay upright, loudly panting. 

Another scream. The baby, you’re having his baby-

He wipes his mouth again as he looks around, recognizing the bedroom as one he’s seen before - he’s up at Willard’s Rest, Charlotte must have taken them in.

Arthur musters the little strength he has and takes step after unsteady step, leaning against dressers and the wall as he exits the bedroom and slowly drags himself down the hall.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, breathe through it.” 

God bless, Sadie Adler is here too.

Arthur sucks in a loud breath as he leans against the frame of the open door, quickly exhausted by the exertion he has already gone through. It takes moments for his vision to correct and his lightheadedness to subside a little. Only then is he able to take in what is happening in this other bedroom.

You recline against Sadie, who rubs at your biceps gently as Abigail sits between your spread legs, arms bloodstained up to her elbows. Her brow is furrowed in concentration. Charlotte Balfour leans over and places a wet cloth against your forehead, wiping away the sweat.

He must be dead, he must be. There’s no way on god’s green earth he’s seeing this. He’s completely unnoticed by the women, all rightfully focused on birth and life and not on a dying man.

“There we go. Alright, come on now honey.” Sadie coos gently. You grab at one of her hands and she holds it with the strength that Sadie is known for.

Abigail looks up to see Arthur leaning against the doorframe. Heaving breath, trying to keep himself upright. For an instant, she wants to go to him, but another scream escapes your throat and she immediately turns back to you. She mutters something to Sadie that Arthur cannot hear, and Sadie moves to let you lay down in the bed as a racking sob shudders out of your body.

“Couple good pushes left, you can do it-” Abigail places one of her hands below your knee and pushes your thigh back to round your belly. Sadie does the same with the opposite thigh, one hand free to brush back sweaty strands of hair from your forehead. Abigail nods to Charlotte and the latter takes Abigail’s place at the side of the bed, taking your thigh in her hands, holding it back the same as Sadie.

You scream again, head craning back on the pillow. Your hands clutch at the bedding beneath you with an unmatched strength. 

“Yes - yes, there we go, here we are-” Abigail mutters, her free hand disappearing between your legs.

Your voice, rough and abused, suddenly changes tone. From fearful and pained to something fierce. The scream from your lungs is one of determination - of strength and power and by god, he’s never been so in awe of you.

Arthur’s heart stops beating at this moment, and he nearly forgets the weight in his chest that makes it nigh impossible to breathe.

“Now push-” Abigail orders.

A fresh burst of tears works its way down your face as you suck in a breath and clench your teeth as you follow Abigail’s instructions. A defiant yell claws out of your throat. Arthur’s hand squeezes the doorframe with a strength that nearly escapes him, all from you. He wheezes, trying to keep quiet as the birth unfurls.

Fitting, a dying man witnessing this space of women delivering life. Fitting, that he's at the very least able to see this feat of strength from you, after everything you’ve been through. 

But in this moment, you didn’t need saving. Not by him.

Your screams are of strength, not fear nor pain.

You didn’t need him. 

You’d be fine, even after he’s gone.

One last strangled cry from your throat and you grit your teeth, pushing with every fiber of your being. Sadie leans forward and pushes your thigh apart just a bit more, Charlotte following suit on her side of the bed.

“Yes, yes, that's it!” Abigail exclaims.

The world slows, collapsing in on itself, he wasn't just watching the labor of a woman, he was staring at the birth of stardust, creation, and holiness incarnate. He, the sinner that he is, does not deserve to bear witness to such a thing.

From his vantage point leaning against the doorframe, he sees the baby’s head appear between your legs, cradled by Abigail’s waiting hands. 

He can’t hear the women’s exclamations, a tinny sound having taken over his hearing. Arthur watches you suck in another breath and bear down once again.

In a rush of blood and fluid, Abigail catches the child as you deliver. 

Arthur has never seen something so beautiful in his life. All the riches in the world, he’d have traded for this moment. The three women murmur joyful praises at you as Abigail rubs at the newborn roughly swaddled in the clean linen. 

The tinny noise goes away when the babe wails, a high-pitched screech that fills the room, over your panting, over the beating of Arthur’s heart, the crackling of his lungs. 

“Oh honey, y’ did perfect.” Sadie grins, letting your thigh down gently as she leans over toward the table and picks up her hunting knife. Abigail coos at the baby and undoes the linen enough to make that pulsing blue-white cord, the last connection between you and the child, accessible for Sadie to cut above the child’s stomach. Charlotte blots your forehead again with a wet cloth, holding your hand as you try to crane your neck to see your baby.

Abigail smiles as she places the newborn on the bed and wraps it tightly in linen with practiced ease. Once satisfied, she nods up to Sadie, who with Charlotte, slowly and carefully adjust the pillows behind you and help to pull you into a reclining position.

Abigail places the child into your waiting arms.

The baby wails and it’s the most beautiful goddamn sound that he’s ever heard. This sight is the most beautiful goddamn thing he’s ever seen. You, in all of your glory, settling in on the other side of childbirth.

And then reality crushes back in.

Arthur can taste the coppery blood in his mouth, and he slumps down the doorframe as he coughs, losing his breath as the back of his hand is covered with blood. Through his fading vision, he makes eye contact with you, hazy, but perfect lying there on that bed, holding his healthy child. You look horrified as you try to get out of bed, crying out in pain as Abigail and Sadie try to push you to lie down gently again, the baby wailing against your breast. Charlotte begins to round the bed to reach toward him as he collapses.

Crumbling to the floor, blood bubbles across Arthur’s lips as he wheezes, drowning in the weight of his own sins.

-

Your head pounds as you awaken, being jostled roughly and uncaringly. It takes you a moment to realize you are gagged, something tied across your jaw. Your eyes dart back and forth as they get used to the light in the room.

You know this room. The pit of your stomach opens up as you are roughly placed against an old bed, and you can see your companion.

Dark, greasy hair. Dark, ruthless eyes. A green scarf tied around his neck.

Companion, captor, rapist.

‘Ello there love, time for us to get to know each other.

You try to claw at him, but he proves to be too strong - and the both of you tumble onto the dirty old bed. He is able to hold you down as he stands up, one elbow across your back and his hand encircles your neck, pushing your face into the mattress.

You’re just gonna make this worse for yourself.

You scream against the gag, in rage then in pain when he pulls your arms backward and tucks them behind your back. Rolling you over, he keeps weight and one on your shoulder, your arms scream in pain as he holds you down.

He snarls as he catches his breath, pulling his knife from his belt.

You goddamn witch, I should kill you instead of fuck you. But it’s been so goddamn long since I’ve gotten my cock wet-

He draws the knife’s blade slowly across your collarbone. You stop fighting, afraid that the blade is going to pierce your skin. Instead, he starts drawing it down the front of your blouse, and buttons start popping and flying as he drags the blade against the fabric. He reaches the last button before your blouse gets tucked into your shirt and places the knife on the bedside table. 

This is takin’ too long. He smiles, and your stomach drops as he takes a fistful of your blouse and rips. 

You scream into the gag again as he continues, tearing the blouse off of you, the sleeves falling down your biceps, disconnected from the rest of the fabric.

His arm moves from where he holds you down to land on your chemise’s neckline and you immediately take advantage of his weight being gone, trying to sit up and throw an elbow. He is wise to your moves, however, and catches your arm as you swing it.

Fuckin’ Van der Linde whore-

The O’Driscoll backhands you across the face, leaving you smarting and gasping out in pain, falling back to the bed.

Another rip. Your chemise is torn at the neckline, between his two hands, and he continues to tear the cotton in half, your breasts uncovered as he looms over you. You can taste blood in your mouth as your eyes water over, dizziness taking over your being.

You can feel the cool knife blade against the curve of your waist as he slides it against the ties of your skirt, pulling the blade up and slicing through the strings, placing it back on the table side as he starts to pull your skirts off, his grubby fingers digging into your skin, gathering your bloomers as well as he works them down your hips, thighs, and legs. Your knee-high stockings get pulled from your feet.

You begin to weep as the O’Driscoll strips you naked on that shitty bed, every scrap of clothing gone. A rough, dirty hand squeezes a breast, grabs your hip, smacks your ass. Fingers reach to toy with the dark curls hiding your cunt.

He leans over you and pulls the gag down, smirking evilly.

Your man isn’t here to save you. He’s not coming. It’s just you and me like it always has been.

Like it always has been. 

Like it always has been.

You know how this ends. You know what happens next. You know the pain, and the shame, and the pity and hurt in Arthur’s eyes when he finds you. 

You cannot keep letting him do this. He’s right, Arthur is not coming.

The O’Driscoll stands to full height and begins to undo his gunbelt, a sickening grin still on his face. He looks down, starting to unbutton his pants and you see the glint of the knife on the side table as the lantern light flickers. With his eyes off of you, you swing your arm up, grasping the knife and immediately turn it on him before he has a chance to react, jumping up from the bed.

You sink the knife into the O’Driscoll’s neck. He sputters in surprise for a moment as he rears back, his blood spraying out between your bodies. 

You grit your teeth and pull the knife out of his neck and immediately plunge it in at a different angle. Warm lifeblood splatters all over your chest, your naked breasts, your neck, your face. The man makes a gurgling sound as he begins to slump forward on top of you. You let go of the knife and push him with all of your might, and he rolls to the side off of you, off the bed, crumbling into a jumble of limbs on the floor, blood seeping out of the holes in his body.

You lean over and pull the knife from his neck.

You stand above him as he dies, his blood dripping down your naked form. For so long, this man has controlled you, taken your body as his own, and held you down in fear and nightmares, long after his death. But now, now you stand above him, knife in hand, like a warrior queen. 

You are unashamed of your nakedness - you needed no armor to vanquish him. You are unashamed of the blood - it is not smeared between your thighs as evidence of violation, it is splattered across your face, your breasts, trailing in rivulets down your belly and your legs.

The O’Driscoll shudders in a death throe, his eyes wide as he stops twitching.

You grip the knife tightly in your hand. He’s dead, he’s dead and he can’t hurt you anymore. He can never hurt you again. 

The room begins to fade away.

And for the first time in so very, very long, you wake up in your bed, alone, at peace.

-

The oil lamp flickers, casting a shadow throughout the room. You frown, mentally taking note to get more oil the next time someone goes to town. 

You tiredly wipe the table of crumbs with an old rag, collecting said crumbs in your hand and tossing them in the sink, along with the dirty dishes from dinner. You had no desire to address those dishes tonight, the sun has long gone down. Sighing, you wipe your forehead of dotted sweat with the back of your hand as you clear the rest of the table.

A muffled bang comes from the door, and you hurry toward it before another knock rings through your house. Opening the door, it takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the darkness.

John Marston stands in your doorway, holding a large canvas sack over his shoulder. You smile and step out of the way for him to come inside. He does so, stepping immediately toward your newly cleaned table and placing the sack down on the table. You consider scolding him, but hold your tongue as he unrolls the canvas, a large, paper-covered slab of meat as his bounty. Freshly shot, you know, Abigail having mentioned that John was out hunting this morning.

“Guess you were successful?” You laugh as John rolls his shoulder.

“A little bit.” He mutters, rubbing at it.

“Gettin’ old there, cowboy?” You tease, and Marston scowls back at you, his scars across his face always making him look more severe than you know he is. But the scowl does not remain long.

“Shaddup.” He laughs in that rough voice that brings you such comfort.

You laugh as well, placing your hand on his bicep, “Thank you, John, this means a lot.”

“You sure you’re alright out here? You know Abigail would rather you stay with us.”

“John, I’m fine. Besides,” You motion over to the wrapped flank of meat that he has placed on the table, “You provide enough as is.”

He rolls his eyes, “You do know I’m gonna get an earful from Abby when I get back to the house.”

“John Marston, both you and I know that you was gonna get an earful from her no matter what my answer was.” 

He smirks, looking at his feet. Still bashful, after all these years. He looks up again, that half smile across his face, the silvered lines of his scars visible through the beard that doesn’t grow along them.

His gloved hand reaches toward you.

“You let me know if you need anything. Seriously. You know I watch out f’r you.” John squeezes your shoulder in a comforting manner. 

You smile, brushing his hand from your shoulder, and reach around his shoulders to bring him into a hug, “Thank you, John.”

“You’re family to us.” You can feel him nod, wrapping his arms around you and squeezing gently.

“You tryin’ to butter me up to watch the baby?” You smirk as you unwind yourself from him, laughing.

John scratches the back of his head sheepishly, tilting his hat for a moment before resettling it, “I mean… an extra pair of womanly hands carin’ for a baby is always welcomed.”

“Think it’ll be a boy or a girl?”

“Abigail thinks it’s a girl. Says she’s feelin’ different this time around.”

“And you?”

“I don’t do a lot of thinkin’… you know that.”

“You’re a silly man. Now go back up that hill and take care of your pregnant wife.”

-

“Mama.”

You crack one eye open. The sun has risen in the east, and the door to your bedroom is open wide, and a small shadow appears at your bedside.

“Susannah.”

“Mama please-”

You sigh, yawning before giving in, knowing you can’t win this fight, “C’mon now, come get into the bed.”

The girl giggles and dives under the blanket that you hold open. You wheeze as she climbs over you, a knee to your belly, a hand squishing your breast, and finally her small body curls in against you under the warm covers, and you blow away a few strands of sand-colored hair from your face as she tucks her head upon your breast. You close your eyes again as you wrap your arm around her, hoping she will fall back asleep with you.

Blessed silence.

“Mamaaaaa-”

Interrupted.

“Yes, dearest?” You sigh, but you can’t help but to smile as the small body next to yours squirms under the blanket.

“Tell me about the house by the waterfall again.”

“Sweetheart, I’ve told you about it four times this week.”

“But I wanna hear it again.”

You sigh, looking up at the ceiling, but start the story anyway,  “You were born on a bright, sunny day… like today.”

She crawls up to look you in the face, “And everyone was there.”

“Yes, everyone was there. Abigail and Sadie and Missus Charlotte helped me bring you into the world, just like how I’m gonna help Abigail bring the new baby into the world in just a few days.”

You kiss her forehead, brushing the mess of her honeyed hair back. “And when you came, and you cried and cried, but it was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard.”

“Before you were born, your papa said he loved the name Susannah. That’s why you’ve got that name,” You poke her little nose and she giggles, just like every time you tell the story. What joy simple things bring to a child.

The songbird that perches outside your window chirps gaily. It sits outside most mornings, and you have grown accustomed to its song, greeting you in bed. A horse whinnies from outside and your daughter bolts upright, throwing the blanket off her body and half off of yours. In a jumble of limbs, she bolts out of the bedroom, “Mama, mama!”

“Susannah, mind your shoes!” you call as you climb out of the bed, but secretly you want to run as fast as your daughter as you find a robe and throw it over your nightgown. You know you just scolded her to put on her shoes, but you also forego anything on your feet as you hurry toward the thrown-open front door, where Susannah bounds out as fast as her little legs can take her.

“There she is!”

Oh, your heart. Oh, your world. You have to hold onto the doorframe as you watch your daughter dart from the front door across the grass to the hitching post, several strides away. The large horse, tied to the post, swings its head toward the joyful shouts of the child. From behind the horse’s rump, a figure strolls around, tall and strong and bursting with excitement.

He stoops down on one knee and catches Susannah as she throws herself into his embrace.

“How is my favorite girl?” He easily swings the child up into his arms, holding her out and twirling her in a circle before gathering her into his chest. 

“I missed you so much, Papa.” She buries her head into his shoulder. 

“I missed ya somethin’ awful, sweetpea.”

The man looks up at where you stand in the door and smiles. His dark beard is long, his hair unruly underneath that old gambler’s hat.

He marches toward the door, and when he’s a step away from you, he lets your daughter down, who immediately latches herself to his pants leg.

“Susannah, Go on and get dressed. Give your father a moment to wash up.”

She scrunches her little nose in mock irritation, but dutifully does so, scooting past you and into the house, leaving you and him alone in the threshold of the door.

“Missed you somethin’ awful too, darlin’.” 

You smile as his hands find your hips, “You owe me, Arthur.”

Arthur snorts, and his lips press gently at your exposed neck, “For what, leavin’ you with the little one while I rode a cattle train all the way to Denver ‘nd back? Sounds like you got the better end of the deal.”

You lean forward in his embrace as he rests his chin on the top of your head.

“Think you should stay closer to home next time.” You muse as you close your eyes.

Arthur’s hand creeps up from your waist and cups one of your breasts, squeezing firmly. You squirm in his embrace, gasping. 

“Stop - Susannah is right there, you-” You push his hand away from your chest but he only chuckles in your ear as he unwinds himself from you.

“I’m bringing her up to Abigail’s. She can watch ‘er for an hour or two.”

“You just got back-” You are cut off when his hand darts forward and grabs your rear through your robe and nightgown. You can barely keep yourself from squealing.

“Yeah, and I need to make love to my wife ‘til she can’t take it no more.” Arthur rumbles roughly into your ear with a tone of voice that goes straight to your cunt. You are unable to find the words to respond as he pulls back and nods, a smirk painted across his face.

“Gimme fifteen minutes. You better be naked in that bed when I get back, woman.”

You frown as he rights his hat back on his head.

“You know how obvious that is going to be?”

Arthur waves his hand dismissively, “You didn’t notice me takin’ Jack out on so many rides nine months ago?”

“Mama, can Jack take me for a ride on the pony?” Susannah darts past you, having changed into a cotton dress and thrown little boots on, her hair a disheveled mess.

“Ah, ah, come back here missy. Go get a ribbon and let me tie your hair up.” You scold, and your daughter scowls back at you with a nearly identical look before stomping back to her room.

Arthur chuckles, and your finger wags at him, “Don’t think I don’t know where she gets that from.”

“Her mother, exactly.”

“You son of a -”

Your daughter reappears and you close your mouth before cursing. She holds a ribbon out as she marches to you, turning around right in front of you so that you can reach her hair.

“Mind your mother, Miss Susannah.”

“Papa-”

“Or there won’t be any pony rides. I’ll tell Jack to have you clean out the pony’s stall today.” Arthur laughs, completely unable to be serious.

“Ew!” She shrieks, her hand darting upward to give you the ribbon. You laugh to yourself, taking the ribbon and gathering her hair into a ponytail, tying it up and over her head. Once secured to your liking, you gently tap her shoulder and she bounds toward Arthur, who immediately scoops her up into his arms again.

Arthur juggles the five-year-old onto his hip, to her joyous, shrieking laughter, “C’mon, let’s go up and save Jack from his daddy’s chores.”

As he opens the door to the cabin, Arthur glances back at you, his eyes darkening, “You best be ready when I get back.”

You roll your eyes, but secretly, a shiver goes down your spine at his implication. He gets like this - ravenous, hungry, passionate whenever he comes back from a cattle drive. As much as you hate the weeks alone, the amount of money Arthur brings home makes the ranch nearly abundant. Last year both John and Arthur went, and kept the families fed throughout the winter comfortably.

Of course, this year Abigail threatened to castrate John if he left her alone for six weeks at the end of her pregnancy… so this drive, Arthur went alone.

You pick up his mud-speckled leather coat, laying it over the wash bin. The sack of clothing Arthur left outside the door was sure to smell of a cattle herd - he was smart enough to leave it on the porch this time.

You make your way back to your bedroom, sighing as you idly rub your back. Your gaze catches the mirror above your bureau and you slowly walk toward it.

You stand in front of that mirror, pulling your nightgown up, up and over your knees, your thighs, your hips, your belly. You pull the fabric over your breasts and finally your head, holding it in one hand as you look at yourself.

There are no scars, just like that night standing in front of the fire in Valentine. There are no outward signs of what happened to you those years ago. Placing the nightgown atop your dresser, you glance in the mirror one last time. You see fuller hips, silvered lines at your belly, your breasts flatter against your chest.

A half smile comes across your face. No, the scars on your body were not from the O’Driscoll that raped you - they are from growing and birthing the best thing that has ever happened to you.

You look away from the mirror and let a breath out through your nose as you climb back into bed. Flopping back against the pillows, you smile to yourself as you wait for your husband’s return, naked in the marital bed as requested.

It is not several minutes more before you hear the front door slam and smile to yourself as you hear Arthur’s heavy gait beeline toward the bedroom.

The bedroom door swings open as Arthur barges in, and his hungry eyes immediately devour you whole as you recline into the pillows.

“Jesus Christ.” Arthur huffs, unable to move for a moment, staring at you. He pulls his hat from his head and chucks it to the floor.

“C’mon, ain’t known you to be one to keep your lady waitin,” you smirk, some of that old flirtation that you had at the beginning of your relationship shining through. You open your legs to bare your cunt, the dark hair parting as you spread your thighs further.

You’ve never seen him strip himself down faster. Boots tossed across the floor, his shirt thrown over the dresser haphazardly. He steps out of his pants and leaves them in a pile on the rug.

Fully nude, he climbs onto the bed, his hulking muscles undiminished by the years. Maybe, at first, in those months when he was bedridden at Willard’s Rest, where he slowly recovered from tuberculosis and you recovered from the ordeal of childbirth - was he a lesser man. But now? Now he was the Arthur you knew and loved - the Arthur who could tear men apart.

But you feel nothing but safe. You giggle as one of his hands immediately cups your cunt.

“Wife.”

You smile, your hands brushing down his shoulders to his biceps to his forearms.

“Husband.”

He parts your folds gently, rumbling as his other hand encircles his blood-hardened cock. He looms over you, and there is a secret sweet part of you that feels safe and protected underneath all of him.

“Sweetheart.”

He presses that trigger-worn finger inside you.

“Arthur-”

Your husband leans down and presses his lips against yours, his coarse beard tickling your chin as he begins to swirl and thrust that finger inside your cunt.  You moan into his mouth as you begin to cant your hips, wanting more, more.

Arthur lets go of his cock to steady himself against your bucking, groaning at your desperation. His hard shaft smacks against your inner thigh and you mewl and gasp as he slides a second finger into your cunt. He begins to rut himself against the jointure of your thigh and hip, his cock settling in there as he prepares you, eases the way, ensures that he would never, ever hurt you.

God, you love this man so much.

He pulls his fingers from your body and immediately smears your slick on his shaft, the head of his cock already weeping. His eyes trail from his cock up your body to lock with yours.

You raise your arms, open wide, inviting him into your embrace and he smiles, knowing he is home. Arthur takes that hefty cock of his and lines it up with your cunt. 

He grunts as he pushes into you, his head slipping inside as you whine; throwing your head back onto the pillow. He lowers himself down on top of you, plastering his entire body against you, and the two of you wind arms around each other’s boulders and your angles hook behind his back.

It’s slow, and full, as that first press inside always is. A strangled noise claws out of your throat as you dig your fingers into his back as those girthy inches stretch you. He rumbles against your neck as he works his way inside, his breath warm on your skin until he is hilted completely within you. He raises his head and kisses you headily.

Your bed is far more spacious than the small tent in Big Valley that saw your first coupling. 

“Don’t know - how many times,” his breathless voice is interrupted by the frenzied kisses he gives you, “...I had to fist m’cock at night - thinkin’ of you and this perfect little cunt.”

Arthur begins to thrust his hips against yours, finding that rhythm perfected by years of experience together, “My perfect little wife-“

“Missed you so much, Arthur.” You throw your head back against the pillow as he continues to roll his hips against you, his cock dragging in and out, in and out of the vice grip of your cunt, “I love you so much -”

A particularly deep thrust makes you gasp and Arthur groans into your hair, panting as he continues his pace, “God, oh darlin’ -my darlin’ girl… I love you-”

He grabs your hand, pressing it down on the bed next to your head, interlacing your fingers as his pace slows, becomes more measured, deeper. The gold bands around your ring fingers make a soft clink against each other, nearly unheard among the sounds of lovemaking. 

You cry out as he hits that spot within you again and again, sending you careening toward completion, the sensitivity of your channel making your legs shake and your breath hasten even more. 

“Ar-Arthur- oh… I’m gonna-“ you whine breathlessly, squeezing your eyes shut as your husband groans in recognition. 

“Come fer me, that’s it, come for me-” Arthur orders, throwing his hips roughly into yours in desperation, wanting, needing you to fall off the edge for him.

You cry out loudly as you throw your head back on the pillow, your hand squeezing his as the other claws into his back as you come, your entire body clenching as your arousal gushes around his cock. 

“Yes, yes - oh, my perfect girl, oh-” Arthur praises you as you ride out your release, and gives three more heady strokes before he finds his own. You come down from your high just in time to dig your heels into his tailbone, the sign for him not to pull himself from your velvet heat.

His hips stutter, and he lets out a long breath as he stills, cock twitching as he comes inside you. You whine as you feel the warmth bloom in your core. He cuts off the sound from your throat by kissing you, hard and fast, needy and desperate.

“My…” he pants between kisses, “pretty little wife-”

You smile breathily against his lips, “My strong, handsome husband-”

The wet sound of lips meeting lips takes over for several moments before Arthur slides himself from your body, settling on his side next to you before laying his head upon your breast. 

“Don’t go away for so long anymore. You gotta stay closer to home.” You muse as you run your fingers through his hair. The honey-blonde strands by his temple are peppered with grey- along with his too-long beard. Weeks in the saddle left your husband looking like a rugged mountain man whenever he returns. You’ll have to cut it later; it is growing longer than you like it.

He snorts playfully as he rolls off of you, sitting up on his elbow, facing you in the bed. With his other hand, he grabs the sheet that had been kicked away in the haste of lovemaking, pulling it up to pool around both of your waists.

You cannot help the smile that cracks across your face. You grasp his hand, his callused, rough hands that have built your home and provided for your family. The hands that rocked your daughter to sleep when she was a baby. The hands that keep you safe, warm, fed. 

The hands that pulled you from your pit of misery those years ago. Maybe if that hadn’t happened - maybe - maybe that tawny-haired girl running around the house wouldn’t be here. Maybe Arthur would still be robbing and stealing and ushering himself to an early grave. Maybe he would have bled out on that mountain in Roanoke instead of being dragged out by John.

It hurts, still. Every so often on quiet nights, you awaken sweating and fearful and an O’Driscroll’s laugh echoes in your mind. But then - you turn into Arthur on those nights and he holds you through ‘til the morning. He whispers sweet nothings until you drift off again. He reminds you of his love for you, through words and touches and enveloping you in the most intimate of embraces. The circle of gold around his left ring finger, though tarnished as he never takes it off even when he works, still glints in the morning light. 

And those nights that he’s out on the cattle trail? You pull yourself from your bed and pad quietly over to the other bedroom in the cabin, gazing through the sliver of the door partway open to see your daughter, born of struggle and the razor’s edge of that pain. How perfect she is. What joy she brings.

There will always be a part of you that O’Driscoll scarred you that night.

But maybe, just maybe - it fades, little by little over time. 

Arthur playfully squeezes your hand in return, “Them weeks too long f’r my girl? Miss me that much, huh?”

You bring his hand up from where he holds yours to spread flat across your belly, and you lean toward him with a smile on your face and lightness in your heart.

Arthur Morgan’s eyebrow arches with confusion.

The songbird’s luted melody softly echoes through the window of your bedroom, the mid-morning light spilling out over your sheets, over your bodies in your warm, well-loved marital bed.

“No, silly man. I’m pregnant.”

[almostfoxglove]

THE PRETTIEST

a ghost!max phillips series

RATING: Explicit (18+) | PAIRING: Max Phillips x f!Reader STATUS: In progress

SERIES CW: Smut, voyeurism/non-consensual voyeurism (he's invisible and reader doesn't know he's watching), discussions of death, and reference to/descriptions of canon-typical violence, blood, gore, and body horror. Descriptions of injury. Slow burn, eventual romance. Ghost shenanigans. More to be added as series goes on.

read on ao3 | main masterlist | get notifs

SUMMARY: After a restructuring at the company, Max finds himself dead—this time for good—and haunting his old duplex. Lucky for him, you move in. Now he'll do anything it takes to have you. OR: the ghost in your apartment wants you desperately.

ONE: ANNOUNCEMENT (chapter post)

TWO: INTRODUCTION (chapter post)

THREE: CONSIDERATION (chapter post)

FOUR: VISITATION (chapter post)

FIVE: RESURRECTION (part I) (chapter post) new june 24th!

SIX: RESURRECTION (part II)

dividers by @saradika-graphics

NOTE: I have officially moved away from tag lists, so please follow @foxglovenotifs and turn on notifications to get alerts for future updates!

[hellooldshame]

White

Mark Grayson x Reader (Angst)

Synopsis: You always thought Mark looked good in darker clothes. You didn't like seeing him wearing white.

CW: Angst, gn!reader, reader referred to as "beautiful" one time, childhood friends to lovers, grief, coping with grief, non-graphic violence, major character death

Word count: 2.3k

A/N: I got carried away again writing this. You know this was supposed to just be mini scenarios or a drabble. Hope you enjoy despite the sad sad.

Mark Grayson was Invincible.

When he first got his powers it was a matter of testing his limits. Bullets, lasers, punches. Everything bounced off and nothing left a permanent scratch on that perfectly untarnished body. You were skeptical but relieved when a black eye healed overnight.

"Hormones and puberty," was the lamest excuse Mark could give. He was terrible at keeping secrets and when you're as close as you two were—12 years and an awkward introduction—it wasn't hard to put the pieces together. Heroes hid in plain sight but you never did think he was ordinary.

When the Graysons first moved next door, you were peeking into their backyard. Tool boxes, chests, and several cereal boxes propping you up to just barely get a glimpse of a father, who was much bigger than yours, and his son. When the boy turned towards your direction and your eyes met, you felt the world spin. Probably because the cereal boxes collapsed and you were falling backwards into grass and cornflakes.

The next day, the lady—you very soon learned was named Debbie—had to explain to her husband that it wasn't an attack or threat when a note was left on their front porch. Messy handwriting on a ripped out slip of a notebook, a cartoon character printed out on the corner of the paper. "Get out of my neyburhood," scrawled in marker, letters written backwards because they had to give you some slack. It was impressive for a five year old to be writing full sentences, mistakes and all.

When you jumped the gun and asked Mark out before Amber could, you wished an alien crashed its UFO into the school. You hit it off easy as friends, sure, but dating was different. It was easy to claim how worrying about ruining the friendship was dumb. "Just confess," was easier said than done now that your mouth ran faster than your inhibitions.

Alien invasions didn't happen until later that week. At the moment, you were faced with the boy you grew up with. Awkward smile pressed into a thin line on his lips. You were ready to punch him and claim it was all a joke. Hurried words stopped your clenched fist from swinging, coupled with reddening cheeks that were quickly matching yours.

The second confession came as soon as the Flaxan fiasco ended and Nolan had come home. You told Mark you knew about his powers as soon as you heard him eat shit and leave a crater in his backyard.

When his father beat him to a bloody pulp, it was envying that his teeth grew back. It would've been funny. Maybe it would've been better if he had gone a moment with missing teeth that reminisced his childhood photos. You could almost smile at the idea of cyan and yellow zip by. Too fast for hellos lest someone notices the gaps.

It was hard keeping him in high spirits at that time. Most of the healing process was him saving the world and going on missions. It was a distraction more than a solution. You did your best to be supportive but months upon months of him leaving and coming back only to be sent to space again was getting too much.

When Mark disappears into the portal one last time, you wished you got to talk to him more. Regretted that you didn't tell him how hard it was. How much it hurt that you were left behind every time. You wished you had the chance to scold him and complain about everything because at least you had the chance to be with him for longer.

Mark came back in clean clothes but was devastated. Gone for barely a few minutes but had looked like he aged by months. He never told you what happened after he killed Angstrom Levy. But whatever it was had him jumping the gun just like you did in highschool. Relief, fear, regret, and determination all swirling in those surprisingly bright eyes despite the trauma. A desperate voice with an even more desperate question.

You were both too young but had gone through too much for two eighteen year old idiots. Somehow too young with too much time lost. You said yes.

You would've preferred him in a black suit. Selfishly, you wished he was next to you instead of across. White didn't suit him. He looked good in darker clothes.

Mark Grayson was Invincible.

But your husband was not an immortal.

When the old Guardians died, Mark needed you to come with him. It was raining that day. It rained just as hard today that the scene was nearly identical. Only now, it was you next to Debbie and Eve and that bastard Nolan wasn't around to recite a eulogy bullshitting about friendship and honor.

You considered pulling an Olga. Falling to the ground and sobbing. Cursing the corpse for staying pristine. For closing the wounds that kept your husband looking young and beautiful but not enough to wake him up. You understood what she meant now, two years ago. God, it had only been two years since everything went to shit. You were barely married a year.

No, you were luckier than Olga. You got to see him in the casket. Him and all his unblemished glory. It wasn't right that your brain played tricks and made you think the body was breathing. As if to give you hope that this was some morbid, tone deaf prank. That any second now he'd open the closed casket and tell you it was all a joke.

Debbie's devastated cries practically chastised you to keep calm. She had been so levelheaded during the first funeral. Then again, she didn't have to shed tears when her husband and son were alive and well. Now she had neither and a one year old tween to care for. You weren't going to take away her only moment to breakdown and grieve. Because Debbie was too strong and kind. If you started crying she could very well wipe her tears and comfort you.

You held her close, both to comfort and hold her up lest she fall and get her clothes all muddy. It was Eve's turn to speak as you held Oliver's hand. The Graysons lost too much in such a short span of time. Lose one gain another. Add one and end up subtracting a member. You should've known the family was cursed to fit only three.

Slowly the box was lowered and you hoped Oliver didn't mind how tight you squeezed his hand. Maybe he'll see it as you trying to comfort him too. Holding Debbie was keeping you standing, and Oliver's small hand squeezes in return kept you from crawling towards the descending coffin and following Mark down.

Black didn't suit you. You wished you were wearing white instead.

...

It was hard coping with the loss. It would always be hard to cope with loss. Having something to distract her, Debbie managed to go day by day. Oliver kept growing in significant rates that she couldn't really risk neglecting or shutting him out. And he needed the support. Maybe Debbie needed it more in the form of Oliver.

Apparently, he had really good memory. This wasn't technically his first death in the family. You had a talk with him about death and loss and he was surprisingly mature about it. It was relief if not a bit of a concern at how fast he was maturing. You'd always wished for a quiet life—nearly begged Mark on occasion to retire for the mundane. You hoped Oliver had the chance to at least get some semblance of childhood without the hero baggage. He proved to be the best in coping with the situation.

You had stayed living with the two of them. It was the most logical thing and you knew Debbie needed all the help she could get. Eve and William came by often as well to pitch in however they could between classes—you took a leave of absence to grieve. Meals were lively, no one ever letting things go quiet for too long. You all needed the noise. Needed something to keep your attention from the empty seat next to you. Recently, you had a feeling Oliver got into a few extra scrapes just so everyone else worried about parenting instead of...

It was getting a bit hard living in the house. Not to anyone's fault. You all tried to cope and grieve in your own ways. Debbie kept that practiced smile despite her brows knitting in worry. But in the dead of night, when it was too late for Oliver to still be awake, you could hear muffled sobs through the wall. You didn't blame her. She had barely just gotten over her grief with Nolan. And now with-

You used to come to her room, comfort her, and wipe a few of your own tears. She seemed to appreciate the gesture, grateful for your hugs and the shoulder to cry with. After all you, were her kid too, by law. She was elated to have you call her "mom" even before you got married. But you noticed the sobs get quieter, that they would come later in the night. It didn't take much for you to realize she was hiding the grief from you too. You understood that she didn't want you to worry or see her so devastated so often. It was why you didn't cry in this house either.

You knew Oliver would hear it, super hearing and all. Had a feeling he heard his mom's cries too. The kid, for all his maturity, wouldn't know how to comfort someone. Let alone the woman who raised and showed only strength around him. He needed a solid support and you wanted to be that for him until Debbie got better. He listened to you well and went to you to talk about things after all. Despite the grief, you could see things heading to some form of normalcy.

Three months. Usually, that was the benchmark for broken up couples to move on. You were nineteen and if things were different you technically had the right to date someone new. But did the same rule apply for married couples? Despite the vows "til death do us part," you had no intention of parting with anything.

The house was quiet when you got home, a very rare occurrence. A regular teen would use the chance to indulge. You used the same chance to make as much noise as you could. The problem with an empty house meant it was quiet. So quiet that your brain had to compensate with thoughts. Thoughts of things you hadn't stopped thinking about since- since the funeral. Since the all too sudden death. Since Mark.

Tears well up in your eyes faster than you were planning. Just his name had your heart aching. You couldn't tell if it was good or bad luck that you could still vividly remember him in white. Of all the things seared in your mind, it was the most recent image of him instead of the best. You had pictures, looked at the wedding photos so often that the pages were starting to discolor. But whenever you lied in bed it was his sleeping eyes that stared back.

It started with shallow breaths. Choked whimpers trapping in your throat because for a while you'd forgotten how to wail. You'd tried so hard to keep it all in that now you were struggling to get it out. You slept in his room, on his bed, in his sheets that still smelled like him even after you lived here for a year. Despite trying, you could not ignore that everything reminded you of Mark Grayson.

The whimpers turn to sniffles that give you enough air to babble words of sorrow. The ring on your finger was a reminder that you would never forget. It was a shackle you insisted on wearing. Heavy and painful but the one thing you had left of him that mattered the most. It was hard to scrape together money for a ring. It was even harder to plan a wedding on such short notice. The romantic man that he was, insisting on a celebration instead of just going to court.

The ache in your throat got worse as you cried loudly, screaming like you were being tortured. Because you were. Because you spent your entire life loving one man and losing him so soon. Not even an eighth of your life. Not even a fraction of his.

You collapse on the floor of your shared room, clutching the sheets of the bed. You felt the sound echo back at you when your face pressed on the mattress. You were a total mess. But you needed to cry. You needed to let this out before it made you crumble. Before someone gets home and sees that you weren't moving on at the same pace as them. Before anyone realized that this destroyed you more than-

The knock on the doorframe was drowned out by your wailing but you still heard it. It made you stiff, fear jumping in you that it shocked the grief of the moment right out. Thoughts ran through your head faster than you had the time to process. Fear curled into shame and you turned to apologize after wiping what was admittedly a really snotty nose.

Lips part to talk but a voice spoke first that had you turning faster. It was familiar. Painfully, horribly, impossibly familiar. You hadn't stopped hearing the voice that you would have thought it was a hallucination if you didn't see him standing at the doorway. Alive, healthy, not a single scratch or bruise in sight, smiling at you so sweetly. He wasn't in the white suit that haunted your dreams and you were too relieved to care what color he was wearing.

"Why're you crying, beautiful?"

A/N: idk what dead people wear in America during their funerals tbh. Cos where I'm from they wear white. Truly a not American moment bdjsbsn.

In any case, yes. Major character death indeed. Idk if I should expand more on this cos the idea is very much a set up for variant x reader

Idk if I've seen this concept before but Like- in which the variants meet a Y/N who lost their Mark. Because I love a replacement and unhealthy rebounds lmao.

It's 1 am and I got work in the morning but I really wanted this out before I gotta lock in. I still need to edit the animatic too

Anyways thank you for reading. Please comment or feel free to send asks cos I low-key wanna talk and imagine the variants in this situation.

[diagonal-queen]

Omg you're backkkk<3 I hope uni's going well for you!

Maybe the Hunting Dogs with a s/o who's kind of mean/petty?

Hunting Dogs with a mean S/O

♡ pairing: Fukuchi Ouchi, Jouno Saigiku, Tecchou Suehiro, Teruko Okura (platonic), Tachihara Michizou x gn!Reader

♡ synopsis: How are the Hunting Dogs with a mean and petty S/O?

♡ cw: Swearing, u r a BULLY >:((, dw it's pretty chill though, non-graphic NSFW with Jouno, teensy bit of NSFW with Tachihara, mentions of violence, crime and torture

note: ahhh hello yes i'm back! uni's pretty great actually. i love being able to tell people i go to law school lmao, it makes me feel smarter than i am. uhh but i've been swamped and a bit busy, and i'm going back home for a week so i might not be super active over the next couple weeks, i'm so sorry my babies </3 but i'll still be lurking in case you wanna chat! as always, apologies for errors and i hope you enjoy x

Fukuchi:

Mf you think he cares?? He hired Jouno and Tachihara because they committed crimes, and he's more than happy to keep Teruko around. Bro doesn't give a FUCK that you're mean

If you're dating Fukuchi you clearly do give a shit about the welfare of society and world peace, so your individual quirks are just that. Quirks

He will fully let you just be a dickhead sometimes, because...like, why not?

I feel like Fukuchi is obviously often a very intimidating individual who strikes fear and commands respect from everyone else. But you? You just walk all over him

In some ways for him it's probably kind of refreshing to have someone around him who doesn't idolise him at all, or look up to him as a superior. It gets exhausting, for sure. Sometimes he just wants to be humbled and that's so okay Fukuchi, you deserve it actually /mean-spirited and condescending

Don't get me wrong it's not like you're an abusive partner! You're still obviously nice to your partner and you love him, but you definitely don't go out of your way to sugarcoat things or try to avoid any necessary confrontations

And Fukuchi genuinely really respects that about you. He's pretty similar like that, though still definitely goofier than you

I mean he won't want you sitting around with an RBF when he's at formal events and whatnot, because that really wouldn't have the best impression, but he's usually very gung ho about letting you be yourself

You're lucky he loves you man...lmao

Jouno:

He loves it. Full stop.

You two are just sadist central over here. Like he'll be torturing a suspect and you're just watching. Bored. Not a care in the world

(Jouno, I don't think you're legally allowed to invite your partner to watch you do your job- much less one like this, but...eh...)

You two are always just talking shit about people to each other, and like when you're out in public on dates you're just whispering to each other and judging people T-T

Lowkey kinda gets turned on when you guys argue. He thinks it's hot when you get heated and angry. Usually it ends in rough "passionate hugging", and the pillowtalk is when you both actually resolve the issue (dumbasses)

He might even purposefully rile you up sometimes because mf is just THAT much of a horny degenerate. You guys can call him classy and gentlemanly all you want, but we all know he's secretly deranged

Like an angry, horny goblin with a knife...someone stop him

Tbh you should probably bully him a little bit every now and then. I think he needs to be taken down a peg sometimes

Hey, he's more likely to listen to you than Tecchou, isn't he? Besides, it's nothing genuinely malicious. Just couple's banter

Oh, you guys are fucking LEGENDS at the couple's banter. Though you never do it in public, because a lot of the times the things you both tell each other as jokes can come off as really cruel jabs

Nah your senses of humour are just not family-friendly (violent and malicious)

You guys have very strange ways of showing your love and affection. But, hey, it works for you and that's what's important :)

Tecchou:

Ah yes, arguably the least meanie of all of the Hunting Dogs. Yeah uh he doesn't really like you at first

Tecchou doesn't understand being mean just for the sake of it. I mean like, for Teruko, she uses it in her career, and Jouno is sadistic and weird and also uses it in his career. You're just petty because you can be

But the more time you spend together the more he realises that you're really not that bad- you're really just more of the loveable asshole type

An acquired taste, yes, but this is Tecchou we're talking about! That's his thing!

He learns to appreciate the things about you that many others would probably consider flaws. He influences you for the better definitely...

...BUT you also kinda make him worse

He will adopt your 'deal with it bitch' attitude sometimes, but it doesn't hinder his relationships or work so it's fiiiiine

(Jouno isn't a huge fan of it though...but at the same time he kind of respects you)

Tecchou probably won't admit it but he really likes to listen to you rant and bitch about people you don't like. He just likes to listen to you be angry about trivial things, he finds it equal parts endearing and entertaining

If you're mean to someone who deserves it? Well I mean...who is he to stop you?

At the end of the day you're definitely emotionally self-sufficient, so that's one less part of you for him to fret over. All's well that ends well or some shit idk

Teruko (platonic):

You guys are literally the best of friends

She's the loud fiery kind of mean and you are the 'I will straight up meticulously ruin your life' kind of mean

You on some r/nuclearrevenge type shit and she fucking loves that for you

Like she's fully willing to plot and scheme with you and do whatever mean shit you suggest. You two are menaces and she should absolutely not be a military soldier

Teruko WILL smite your enemies. And by smite your enemies I mean she will actively do what she can to ruin the lives of people you don't like, with absolutely no remorse (pretty sure she actually commits crimes to do this)

She LIVES for your cruel one-liners and clever insults. Every time she hears one she absolutely hollers

Teruko enjoys it when you're mean to the other Hunting Dogs (except Fukuchi). They can handle a couple bitchy words so it's not a huge deal, but she's just extra amused by it

For the record you're not *mean* mean, you're just...humbling them (which let's be real they could use from time to time (Jouno, again, looking at you))

Nobody is surprised by your guys' friendship really

You're a dangerous pair. Please stop

Teruko kinda likes that you hold grudges so frequently because she'll never tire of hearing you shittalk the same exact people and events over and over again

She'll shittalk them too

Dia doesn't approve of this friendship

Tachihara:

You guys know that scene in B99 where Jake says that he can't decide if he's scared of Amy or turned on by her and then decides that he's both? Yea, that's Tachihara with you

He is a good person at heart, and outside of his mafia gangster persona he's really not that mean, and as such he does not encourage mean behaviour. But like, when you do it? Mm...

Bro is WHIPPED

Lowkey he probably gets some of his mafia persona ideas from you 💀

His mafia coworkers have no questions about how you two get along, and they generally like you. The other Hunting Dogs have a few more questions

Tachihara isn't some shy, quiet introvert, but he is generally pretty chill and a nice person. They like to playfully tease him about how different the two of you are (though if it gets too far he knows he can count on you to rip them a new one with no issue)

Dw they still like you though! Especially Teruko

He has absolutely no problems with you for being cold and blunt. It's nothing he himself can't handle, and in some ways it actually makes talking to you easier

Again, I'll stress that you're not mean to him, you're just not the most lovey-dovey person out there. But you DO put effort in and that's what Tachihara cares about, even if it isn't in a stereotypical way

If anything else, you're certainly loyal!

Tachihara loves you for all of your different eccentricities, and he's also kinda turned on by them. Win-win? Win-win.

taglist~ ♡ @gettinshiggywithit, @fyodorhatr, @flower-of-darkness, @bejeweledgirl, @kokoenjiandco, @pinkiipeachiikeen

[baruque-ya]

You're Trouble

CW: Alcohol use, Mild mention of violence, Existential angst, Intense and invasive kissing, Slow burn, Non-romantic flirting, Light Smut, Masturbation (M!Receiving), Blowjob (M!Receiving), Light humiliation, Joker being Joker, Mentions of Violence (implied Joker-style chaos, not graphic), Light Existentialism (talks about falling, prisons, emotions), Sarcasm & Mockery (because… it’s the Joker, duh), Mentions of Batman, Dialogue heavy, Canon-adjacent Joker (Batman: Killing Time)

Character: The Joker (Batman Killing Time)

Male!Reader

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A/N: Hello my baby kangaroos inside the pouch, testing the waters here to post full smut in the future, if you like the way I write, I will post more, male reader again because yes! But I write for others too ok? Just ask in the question box, don't be shy, I'll do my best to answer and write what you want. If there is any mistake, sorry!

…⁠ᘛ…⁠ᘛ…⁠ᘛ…⁠ᘛ…⁠ᘛ…⁠ᘛ…⁠ᘛ…⁠ᘛ…⁠ᘛ…⁠ᘛ…⁠ᘛ…⁠ᘛ…

Summary:

You and the Joker have been "friends" for some time, even though you have many differences in practically everything! The weird clown hasn't left you alone, practically following you everywhere until you accept his presence.

And this led you to go on walks in random places that he chose himself, to drink, smoke and talk, even though there wasn't much to talk about with an insane guy like him.

Until one night, he asked you out for a drink again. You took it normally, thinking it would be like any other night, but things ended up escalating to the other side too quickly.

The city lights below you blinked like a field of fireflies caught in a jar. You were perched on the rooftop terrace of an abandoned high-rise, two glasses of Jack Daniels catching moonlight.

Your fingers curled around your glass, warm whiskey seeping into your palm. The Joker sat across from you, legs dangling over the edge, bright purple suit glowing in the dim glow of neon signs.

You were…”hanging” out.

You took a slow sip, the burn chased your spine, it felt nice, simple, you looked at him, the corners of his painted smile lifted in what you’d call a grin, if you didn’t know better.

“Ever watch bats fly?” he asked, voice low and theatrical. “They’re weird. Like umbrellas with attitude.” He tipped his head back and laughed, a sound that would scare most folks, but you simply shrugged.

“Not really” you said. “I prefer pigeons. They’re honest.”

He cocked an eyebrow, if you could call those irregular lines eyebrows.

“Pigeons?” He snorted. “Birds that shit on your head and then vanish? Romantic.” He waved a finger in mock salute. “To true love.”

“Sure, nothing says romance like bird droppings” you rolled your eyes.

He leaned forward, face painted grin inches from yours, and repeated, quieter this time,

“You think the same too?” His eyes glittered, as if you were about to confess your undying love, when really you were just thinking about lunch.

“Huh? No” you blinked.

He shrugged and tossed back another shot, the glass hit the floor with a tinkling clink, liquid ran over his purple pants, soaking in.

“Me neither” he said, wiping his cheek with a gloved finger. “I’m kidding.” He flashed that grin. “Love’s overrated anyway. Unless you count my love for chaos.”

You coughed, almost spitting whiskey across his shoes. “Your love for chaos isn’t exactly… subtle.”

He feigned offense. “How dare you? My chaos has nuance, elegance, like a ballerina on cocaine.”

You leaned back against the cool brick wall. The breeze picked up, carrying the distant wail of sirens.

Batman was probably out there, beating up thieves or something, honestly, he needed a hobby. Maybe knitting.

Joker tilted his head, watching you watch the city. “Speaking of hobbies” he said, a weird clown, who seemed like he was reading your thoughts, “why do humans wear socks? Have you ever wondered?” He looked genuinely puzzled. “Feet get sweaty. Isn’t that good? Like a swamp.”

“No. Feet smell. Swamps smell. You’d have two bad smells. That's a double-fault stench.” you stared.

He chuckled. “Ah!” He snapped his fingers. “But don’t you think sweat is sexy? Like evidence of effort. I mean, look at me, paint doesn’t get applied itself.”

“Paint doesn’t sweat, either.” you squinted

“You’re fun.” He patted your shoulder and you flinched at the cold leather. “Bet Batman doesn’t pat your shoulder.” He laughed again, that high-pitched sound like glass breaking softly.

“Batman doesn’t pat shoulders” you said flatly.

“Exactly.” He stretched his arms out wide, as if claiming the world. “We’re special.”

You took another sip, watching him look out over the rooftops. “You think about Batman a lot,” you noted.

He spun around, grin widening.

“Batsy? Nah.” He shook his head. “He’s a killjoy. Always cleaning up after my parties. And manners, he has none, never even wrote me a thank you note for the Riddler-themed balloons last week.”

“He probably thought you were holding a hostage party.” You laughed, louder than you meant to.

“Details” he said, waving them off. “His sense of humor needs work.” He leaned closer again. “Besides, I like talking to you.” He winked, grossly.

“Why?” you swallowed.

He opened his arms. “Why not?” He whispered, voice silky. “You know I’m trouble, right?”

“Yeah.” you nodded. “I know you’re trouble.”

He sat back, glass in hand.

“But hey! Trouble is such a…’bland’ word. I prefer ‘adventure’! Yeah!.’” He grinned wide. “Chaos with decorum.”

“Chaotic decorum. You’re making up words now?” you snorted

“Language evolves.” He tapped his chin. “Also, I might be high, whiskey makes me philosophical.”

“You’re always philosophical, about absurd things.” you smirked.

He looked offended again.

“I’ll have you know my questions are legitimate.” He leaned in, eyes flashing. “Like, if you could be any condiment, what would you be?”

“Condiment?” you blinked

“Mustard, ketchup, Sriracha—go.” He nodded as if it made perfect sense what he just asked.

“I’d be Sriracha.” you drained your glass.

He clapped once. “Hot, popular, a little dangerous.” He tapped his lips. “I like the cut of your jib.”

“Really? I'm scared, I'm going to sleep with my eyes open” you mocked.

He stood up, teetered, nearly fell off the ledge, you grabbed his arm, he steadied himself, grinning strangely.

“Balance is overrated,” he said, sliding back. “Gravity can suck it.”

“We should talk about something cool.” you exhaled.

He folded his arms.

“Like relationships? Feelings? Things you can’t stab with a knife?” He winked, then cocked his head. “What’s cool?”

“Moments like this maybe?” you looked at him.

He hummed. “Moment, nice word.” He took a long pull from his bottle, he’d ditched the glass and passed it to you, you hesitated, then took it, warm whiskey dripped down your wrist.

“You okay? Or…too okay?” He watched you.

“I’m fine” you sighed.

“Fine is a prison.” He eyed you.

“Sometimes prisons are cozy” you shook your head.

He laughed, tossed his head back. “You’re weird.” Then he sobered. “I like weird things.” He slid to sit next to you.

For a second, you forgot to hate him, city lights gleamed off his pale face.

“Tell me something.” He whispered, his voice was soft. “Tell me about you.”

“If I tell you, you're going to use this against me” you crossed your arms.

He shrugged. “I use everything against people.” He touched your arm. “But I’ll promise…no bones”

“I work nights.” you swallowed.

“Night owl?” He arched both painted eyebrows.

“Yeah, I handle the night shift at the archives downtown.”

“Archives…old books, dusty secrets, spooky.” He tapped his fingers.

“Someone’s gotta organize all the boring parts of history” you nodded.

“Boring? History is just a series of stories people tell each other to avoid chores” he whipped his head around. “

“That explains a lot.” you laughed.

“Do you know…what my favorite story is?” He leaned closer.

You shook your head.

“The one with the punchline nobody saw coming” He smiled wide enough to reveal shiny teeth.

“That’s almost poetic” you offered him a wry grin.

“Almost” He shrugged.

An awkward silence slid in, sirens wailed below, closer now. Batman? Police? Or maybe an ambulance.

You glanced at Joker, then at the ragged edge of the roof.

“Ever think about falling?” He asked.

“No” you looked at him like he was insane.

He laughed. “Sure you don’t.” he pointed at your chest. “Your heart might fall if I asked you to do something crazy.”

“Save the cheesy lines.” you rolled your eyes.

“Says the guy who calls pigeons romantic” He brushed off his lapel.

“They look happy” you looked down at the pigeon population below on a nearby rooftop, three birds arguing over a discarded hot dog bun.

He laughed again. “Happy pigeons.” He turned solemn. “You know, you’re one of the few folks I don’t want to hurt.”

“That’s…disturbing” you kept breathing while looking at him from the corner of your eye with suspicion.

He shrugged. “Maybe.” Then he flashed a grin. “But it’s true.”

“I don’t trust you.” you met his painted stare.

He leaned back, legs hanging again. “Fair.” He exhaled. “Trust is overrated.”

You took another sip of whiskey and stared at the horizon. Gotham’s skyline looked like a jagged smile, mirroring his own grin. The city had a pulse. You could almost feel it, thumping under your boots.

“What are you thinking?” He snorted.

“Nothing.”

“Big mistake. Nothing is the most dangerous thing you can think of” he clicked his tongue.

“Yeah? Because Batman thinks?” You swallowed.

He laughed. “Batman thinks too much.” His eyes glowed. “He needs to lighten up.”

“He’d lock you up in a second if he could” you snorted.

“Then I’ll just break out” he shrugged.

“Classic you” you rolled your eyes

“To classic me” he lifted his bottle.

You tapped your glass to his bottle. Liquid sloshed and spilled, you both laughed, then lapsed into a comfortable quiet, for a person who thrived on chaos, Joker could be…oddly chill sometimes.

“Do you ever wonder why we enjoy terrible things?” He broke the silence.

“Like chaos?” you blinked.

“No, like horror movies, roller-coasters, spicy food.” He shook his head.

“Adrenaline” you considered.

He smiled, almost gentle. “True.” He pointed at a skyscraper. “But also…because we like feeling alive.”

“That sounds…not insane” you stared.

He gave you a small salute. “See? I have depth.” He grimaced. “Not too much depth or I’ll drown, but a little.”

“You tread the shallow end” you chuckled.

“That’s where the party’s at” He beamed.

You watched his face, the city lights flickered across his mask of makeup, for a split second, you saw something raw, something human.

Then he winked and it was gone.

The night wind whipped the Joker’s purple coat like a twisted banner against Gotham’s cloud-choked sky.

Below you, the city lights blinked furiously, like mad fireflies trapped in a concrete cage. You clutched the bottle of Jack Daniels tight, your only anchor to keep from getting swept into whatever hurricane he brought.

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes flashing like blades.

“Hey” he said, his voice a whisper, like an invisible hand wrapping around your neck. “Ever thought I might be into men?”

Your chest tightened.

You swallowed hard, trying to stay composed.

“Didn’t...really think about it” you answered, aiming for nonchalance.

He approached, footsteps silent, stopped just a breath away, his gloved hand hovering.

“Surprises spice up fate,” he murmured, head tilting, a faint smile curled across his smeared dark red lips. “And I’m all spice.”

The concrete vanished under your feet, he climbed onto the ledge and gestured you closer with an almost imperceptible nod.

“Come on.”

You took a shaky step, balancing at the edge, every fiber in your body screamed this was insane,he held out a hand, like he was offering the keys to something forbidden.

“Closer.”

You were nose-to-nose, he lifted his chin, studying you like a sculpture, a strand of green hair fell across his face, dancing in the breeze.

“So tortured…so deliciously complex.”

He whispered like peeling paint off a wall, his fingers traced your jaw, cold as needles.

Then he leaned in, and your lips met.

A slow, deliberate collision.

Electricity shot through you, his lips moved with surgical precision, peeling your world open, his tongue pressed into yours, exploring, invading, sending shivers down your spine.

He pinned you against the ledge, a silent threat, his other hand tangled in your hair, deepening the kiss until you couldn’t breathe.

Your heart was pounding loud enough for him to hear, you tried to pull away, but your body betrayed you.

His pull was gravity.

He broke the kiss suddenly, his voice brushing your skin:

“You taste better than Harley.”

You snorted, breathless from the intensity.

“You’re sick ….Seriously you mentioned a woman you barely kissed?

He chuckled, low and rough.

“Sickness is just the mind stretching its legs, And I kissed her many times, yes, you just didn't see it.” And before you could reply, he kissed you again, quicker, dirtier, like he was stealing not just air but your thoughts.

The ledge creaked under your weight, the city held its breath, you gave in, gripping his coat, hating how much you wanted the next second.

When he pulled back again, your foreheads touched. He whispered:

“This was just a sample.”

“You think you're too much, uh?” you whispered back, voice breaking.

He smiled, eyes glittering with excitement.

“Exactly.”

You stood there, pressed together in silence, breathing each other in.

Then, something shifted, he spun you around, pushed you against the wall at the edge of the rooftop, the concrete scraped your back, but the heat of him was everywhere.

He stared with narrowed eyes, that lazy grin spreading like wildfire.

“Let’s see how much you can handle” he whispered, his mouth brushing your ear.

What followed wasn’t just kissing, it was a ritual, his mouth found your jaw, trailing madness down your skin.

He bit, tugged at your bottom lip, tasting you like a strange fruit, somewhere between twisted affection and theatrical hunger.

“You’re such a mess right now, you know that?” he breathed between kisses.

“Shut up” you muttered, head tilted against the wall.

“Oh, but talking is half the fun” he grinned, tongue tracing the corner of your mouth. “You blush when I kiss you. Worse when I look after.”

Your face burned, but you didn’t move. Couldn’t. He kissed like he wanted to crack you open.

There was no romance, only conquest, consumption.

He grabbed your collar, yanking you forward hard enough to make you stumble, he laughed at your reaction.

“You’re like modern art, beautiful, but no one gets it.”

“Would you stop with these meaningless comparisons?” You shot back, voice rougher than you expected.

He pulled you in again, a long kiss, suffocating, time slipped, lips, tongue, teeth, whiskey-breath.

He was everywhere, and somehow laughing.

When he finally pulled away, you were breathless, dizzy, legs shaking.

He, of course, looked like he’d just stepped off stage.

Then again, he approached you, grabbing your neck with an even grip, the cold leather of the glove sending shivers down your spine, making you suck in air between your teeth.

“You melt so easily.”

His grin was predatory, those long, gloved fingers slid under your waistband again, this time with a purposeful urgency. You inhaled sharply as he pressed you into the cold stone wall, his chest flush with yours, heat radiating through your layers.

His other hand found the buttons of your shirt and tore them open, fabric ripping off.

The wind rippled the torn cloth, exposing your chest to the night air, he traced the curve of your collarbone with his tongue, flicking it just enough to make you shiver, his gloved hand moved lower, sliding between your underwear and skin, brushing against the ache he’d already ignited.

“Pathetic how one touch undoes you.”

His voice was velvet edged with steel, you gasped, fingers tangling in his coat, body arching into the sensation, he captured your mouth in a bruising kiss, tongue darting like a snake, tasting you with both hunger and malice.

He broke the kiss to smother your lips with whispered cruelty:

“I should take care of you properly, you look so desperate.”

His hand tightened, pressing through fabric until you could feel the slick sheen of your own arousal, he groaned low in your mouth.

He stepped back, eyes dark, with deliberate cruelty, he hooked both thumbs under your waistband and dragged your jeans down in one smooth motion, your knees buckled, but he caught you, one arm wrapping around your waist.

Then he knelt, mockingly regal, his gloved fingers ghosted over your hips, brushing the cleft of your butt, drawing a stifled groan from deep in your throat.

“Look at you, so ready and needing every inch of me, so desperate you can't even form a sentence....what kind of whore are you?” His voice was mean, every word and curse dripping from his tongue like poison, something that should offend you actually incited you even more.

He then took off his own jacket and shirt.

His hand went to your cock, which was already hard and with a red bulbous head and dripping pre-cum, you had never felt so needy for a minimal touch from that man as you were now.

He made a slight face of disgust and intrigue as he held your cock in his gloved hand, his hand closed around the length and moved with gentle pressure up and down, and with each movement of his hands, cum dripped and stained his purple gloves and lubricated them to make them easier to move.

Joker's abnormally red tongue flicked out, and he stared deep into your eyes as he ran his tongue over the tip of your cock.

“J-Joker…i….please” you begged, you knew it was humiliating enough but who cares? Your pants were already down and your dick was already out being held by him, any honor you had was long gone.

“Shut your mouth boy” His voice came out serious making your mouth close instantly and then he smiled “You only speak when I tell you to”

The man's mouth then wrapped around your cock, sucking greedily, his head moving back and forth, as he stared deeply into you with those cold eyes, a mix that left you disconcerted.

You moaned, a tearful moan, not knowing what to do, but the pleasure was too much, you knew that it was all just a need for touch.

The clown continued sucking you, squeezing your thigh to balance himself and his other hand squeezing your ass, her hand wrapped around his scalp, tugging on his green hair, making him let out a grunt of approval.

His mouth was filled with your length, you felt him take you deep down his throat, it was incredible how he seemed dominant and submissive at the same time.

Your eyes rolled back and closed tightly, Joker made sure to let out moans of approval as he sucked you, as if he were tasting the best candy in the world, and you knew it was just to tease you more, his tongue also worked eagerly, making sure to lick every inch and every vein of your cock.

You then felt a tightness in the pit of your stomach, your body shivered and you grabbed Joker's head and pushed to go deeper on his cock, finally cumming down the throat of the man who only audibly breathed deeply through his nose.

Your hand then fell to the sides of your waist, releasing Joker's head, the man moved his head away, removing his mouth from your already soft cock, he looked at you with an indecipherable look, cum slowly fell from the corner of his mouth, the makeup on his face was smeared, as was his dick which had some white stains from his makeup.

“That was unexpected, holding my head huh? How naughty” The clown mocked in a hoarse voice.

Your breath hitched, here, on that rooftop, the world narrowed to the curve of his smile and the thrill of his touch, he withdrew his hand, letting you squirm in silence, and stood again, shirtless now, scars and tattoos gleaming under the city lights, he pressed you back against the parapet.

He captured your lips in a final, searing kiss, slow, consuming, making you feel your own taste, his hands roamed freely, memorizing your body, making you ache for more.

When he finally released you, you sagged, trembling, he stepped away, and put on the clothes, straightened his coat, voice low and dangerous.

“Remember this whenever you think you can resist me.”

You swallowed hard, skin buzzing, he brushed a speck of dust from his glove.

“Now get dressed, good boy.”

You fumbled with your clothes, heart pounding like war drums, he watched, satisfaction curling his lips.

“Perfect, do you hate me a little less now?” he asked.

“I hate you more” you said, eyes on the floor.

“That’s just another way to say you love me,” he grinned, smearing lipstick and spit across his cheek with his thumb. “I know these things.”

You looked away, your whole body trembled.

“Will we do this again sometime?” he asked, eyes flickering with mischief.

“Maybe.”

And he laughed, loud, joyful, insane.

You backed away, took the stairs down, and up there, at the edge of the world, he stayed.

A living bomb, a disaster in smeared lipstick, and unfortunately…the only kind of madness that make you feel alive.

And you can’t wait for the next time.

@baruque-ya

[luciellita]

the Haitanis only sister being traumatized at a young age due to her brothers enemies and a situation in their new gang occur that triggers that past event ?

The Taste of Rue

"He prided himself on how the people feared their names. But now, standing in front of his battered sister, he realized how much she feared it the most."

╰---•❥ Written by: Lucielitta

CW: long. non-consensual implications, sexual assault (off-screen), trauma aftermath, graphic emotional breakdown, guilt, disturbing imagery, mention of violence, psychological horror, implied suicidal ideation, familial angst Genre: dark psychological angst, hurt/no comfort WC: 9,200+ If you have any specific requests, you can fill out THIS form~ Thanks for reading!

A Haitani Brothers x Sister Reader Oneshot.

She wasn’t known for anything except the blood that tied her to them, and that blood had a way of staining everything it touched.

That which once strengthened them crushed her— their influence, their name. It had been a crown upon their heads, something they wore with pride, but now he saw it for what it was—fragile, like a flower sown in the wrong soil. It reminded him that power had never been unbreakable; it was delicate. No matter how strong men were, even they had weaknesses. And his greatest weakness was the fear in her eyes.

It started small.

A slight hesitation before speaking. The way her fingers curled into her sleeves when they stood too close. Her breath shifted when Ran casually draped an arm over her shoulder, his usual lazy grin plastered across his face.

At first, they didn’t think much of it. Maybe she was just tired and moody, or perhaps she was still shaken by what had happened years ago. She was always strong; he had seen it himself. She had known their world since they were young, seen its horrors, yet never crumbled under its weight.

But it kept going. Days stretched into weeks, and it didn’t fade.

She stopped meeting their eyes.

Not completely, not at first. But there was that faint hesitation, a cautiousness that wasn’t like her. She avoided their gazes like a dangerous thing, something she feared would pierce her, something that could rip open the carefully built walls in her mind. As if looking into her, their eyes were like staring at a monster waiting to pounce, the realization creeping in that they weren’t untouchable. They were human. They were flawed. And the lines between her family and the monsters she had come to fear began to blur.

Rindou noticed it first, and the change gnawed at him in ways he couldn't describe. He wasn’t as carefree as Ran. He didn’t hide behind his laid-back attitude as easily. He saw it, every subtle shift, every small movement that she didn’t think he noticed. The way her hands would tremble when she picked up a glass of water, as though the simple act of holding something steady was a struggle. He saw her staring at them, watching, but not really seeing them. Her eyes would linger on them longer than they should, but it was never a look of recognition or comfort. It was different. Something darker. Something uncertain.

And when she looked at Rindou, her gaze would flicker down the moment he glanced her way as if he were something to be feared, even though he had never harmed her. He was a heavy drinker. That was no secret. But it never mattered to him that she steered clear of him when he was drunk. He thought nothing of it, knowing full well that he had never once harmed her in his haze. But to her, it was like a wall she couldn’t cross. She would back away, slowly, deliberately, whenever he took that first swig of alcohol. Even if he was just joking with her, even if he smiled, the distance was always there. It was an instinct, the kind of carefulness that came from a trauma that ran deeper than any words could express.

And Ran.

Ran didn’t understand. Not at first. She had always been close to him, always the sister he could tease, always the one who shared a quiet moment of calm in a world full of chaos. But now, there was something in her that was... broken. Something fragile that he hadn’t noticed before, something that slipped past his usually sharp senses. She was always careful with him, always watching his moods, but now, it was as if she was waiting for him to snap. Waiting for the other side of him, the one he had buried deep beneath layers of jokes and arrogance. It was more than just caution; it was fear. Fear twisted in her eyes when he raised his voice, fear when his temper flared. And it wasn’t just fear of what he might do-it was fear of what he had done.

The distance between them stretched. She wasn’t his little sister anymore. She was a stranger, walking on eggshells around him, as if afraid that the slightest misstep would cause the world to fall apart.

Then came the moment—the first trigger.

The sun had barely risen over the city as she made her way to someplace, the streets still quiet, save for a few early risers. She kept her head low, her hoodie pulled up to shield her face from the world. Her mind replayed the conversation from last night with her brothers, the weight of their words still pressing on her. Things were changing, maybe for the better, but it wasn’t going to be easy.

As she walked past a narrow alley, a sense of unease crept up her spine. Footsteps echoed behind her, quick and heavy. She turned her head slightly, catching a glimpse of three menacing figures closing in on her. Panic surged in her chest as she picked up her pace, but it was too late.

A rough hand grabbed her by the shoulder, yanking her into the alley. She stumbled, her backpack falling to the ground with a thud.

“Well, well, look who we’ve got here,” one of the men sneered, his voice dripping with malice. He was tall, with a scar running down the side of his face, and wore the insignia of a rival gang her brothers had tangled with lately. 

“You’re Ran and Rindou’s sister, right?” another one chimed in, stepping forward. He cracked his knuckles, his grin wide and threatening. “They’ve caused us enough trouble, so maybe it’s time to send them a message.”

Her heart raced, shaken, thoughts flashing behind her eyes, but she forced herself to stand her ground. “I don’t have anything to do with them,” she spat, trying to keep her voice steady. “Leave me alone.”

“Yeah, sure,” the third guy laughed, stepping closer until he was inches from her face. “You’re their blood. That’s enough.”

Before she could react, the first man swung his fist, landing a hard punch to her stomach. She doubled over, gasping for air, but they didn’t give her time to recover. Another punch hit her across the jaw, sending her crashing into the brick wall. Pain exploded in her ribs, but she bit down on her lip, refusing to scream.

The three men circled her like vultures, taking turns with their kicks and punches. Her vision blurred, the world spinning as the brutal assault continued. She wanted to fight back, to scream, but she knew it would only make things worse. These guys didn’t care who she was; they just wanted to hurt her because of her brothers.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they stepped back. One of them spat on the ground near her, sneering. “Tell Ran and Rindou we said hi.”

With that, they disappeared into the shadows of the alley, leaving her crumpled on the ground, bruised and bleeding. She lay there for a moment, her body aching from the beating before she slowly pulled herself to her feet. Her legs felt like jelly, but she forced herself to move, her hoodie pulled tight over her head to hide her swollen face.

She prayed, no, she wished this would pass, that this wouldn’t be seen. The last thing she needed was for them to start a war over this. She just wanted to disappear into her room and pretend it hadn’t happened.

The apartment was empty, just like she’d hoped. She let out a shaky breath, the tension in her shoulders easing just a little. She ran her fingers over the bruises on her arms and ribs, wincing at the touch. They had really done a number on her. But the physical pain wasn’t the worst part. It was the anger bubbling up inside her, the anger at her brothers for dragging her into their world, at herself for not fighting back, and at the fact that, no matter what she did, she couldn’t escape the shadow they cast over her life.

She slumped down on her bed, pulling her knees to her chest. The silence of the apartment was comforting, but it was also suffocating. She didn’t want to be alone, not really, but the thought of facing Ran and Rindou like this… was unbearable.

So, for now, she’d keep quiet. She’d handle her feelings first. She’d hide the bruises, put on a brave face, and hope that they never found out. But deep down, she knew it was only a matter of time before the truth came crashing down around them.

As she lay there in the dark, her body aching and her mind racing, one thought kept repeating in her head: ‘How much longer can I keep this up?’

The answer, she feared, was not long at all.

Her thoughts stretched time into something long and heavy, but the faint rattle of her bedroom door knob made the beat of her heart stutter, the sound cutting through the stillness like a knife.

“Oi,” he muttered, voice getting louder in her head.

“You good?” he called. “I’ve been calling you for a minute, and you wouldn’t answer.”

A frown creased his brow as he pushed the door open, the creak of the hinges revealing the dimly lit room. His sister was curled up on her bed, her back to the door, her hoodie pulled up over her head like she was trying to hide from the world. Rindou felt a brief flash of annoyance. She was always shutting them out, but then again, he couldn’t blame her. They had never made it easy for her to get close to them.

She didn’t move. Rindou’s frown deepened as he moved closer, his instincts flaring. Something was definitely wrong.

That’s when he noticed the faint marks on her wrists… bruises. His heart skipped a beat, and his earlier irritation was quickly replaced with a sense of dread. His eyes darted over her form, and he noticed how tense she seemed, how she was trying to bury herself deeper into the bed as if she didn’t want to be seen.

“Hey, what the hell?” Rindou reached out, gently tugging on her shoulder to turn her over. His eyes widened when he saw her face.

The bruises. The cuts. The swollen eye. The exposed blue-black blossomed like night flowers across her cheek and jaw.

“Shit.” The word escaped his mouth before he could stop it, his chest tightening with a mixture of anger and shock. “What happened to you?”

She winced, pulling away from his touch and turning her face back toward the pillow. “It’s nothing,” she muttered, her voice barely audible.

“Nothing?!” Rindou’s voice was louder now, the shock wearing off as anger quickly took its place. “Who did this? Was it someone from that club? Some random guy?” He grabbed her arm again, more forcefully this time, his mind racing with the worst possibilities.

She flinched at his touch, her whole body stiffening in pain. “Let go, Rindou!” she snapped, yanking her arm away. “I said it’s nothing!”

“Nothing?” Rindou’s jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides. “Don’t lie to me. Did someone jump you?” His eyes flicked over her face again, piecing together the ugly truth. “This is because of us, isn’t it? Who was it?”

She stayed silent, biting her lip to stop herself from saying something she’d regret. She didn’t want him to know. She didn’t like either of them to know. This was her mess to deal with. But the anger in Rindou’s eyes told her she wouldn’t be able to keep it from him for long.

“I don’t know who they were,” she finally mumbled, her voice strained. “Just some guys. They didn’t say much… Just that it had something to do with you and Ran.” 

Rindou’s blood boiled. Rival gangs. Of course. They had come after her because they couldn’t touch him or Ran. Cowards. Absolute cowards. His hands trembled as he clenched them into fists, a white-hot rage building inside of him. 

“I’m gonna kill them,” he growled, his voice dark and full of venom. “Whoever did this, they’re dead.”

“Rindou, no,” she protested, sitting up despite the pain. “You can’t do that! It’ll just make things worse. I don’t need you guys starting a fight over this.”

He whipped around, his eyes blazing. “They beat you! You think we’re just gonna let that slide?!” His voice cracked with emotion, the anger barely masking the fear he felt for her. “I’m not gonna let them get away with this.”

She shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes. “I don’t want more violence, Rindou. That’s what I’m trying to get away from. You and Ran—everything you do just makes things worse. I don’t want to live in your world.”

Her words hit him like a punch to the gut. He stood there, stunned into silence. All the fights, all the bloodshed, the way they ruled over Roppongi. It had never occurred to him just how much it was costing her. She had been dragged into their mess, and now she was paying the price for it. 

For a moment, Rindou didn’t know what to say. He had always been the one who enjoyed the thrill of the fight, taking pride in the fear and influence their name inspired. He prided himself on how the people feared their names. But now, standing in front of his battered sister, he realized how much she feared it the most. 

He swallowed hard, his anger ebbing as guilt began to creep in. “I… I didn’t know,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t think it would hurt you like this.”

She sniffled, wiping at her eyes. “You guys never think about me. You never think about how it feels to be the one stuck in the middle.”

Rindou stepped closer, hesitating before reaching out to touch her arm gently. “I’m sorry. I swear, we didn’t mean for any of this to happen to you.”

She looked up at him, her bruised face softened by the vulnerability in her brother’s eyes. For the first time, she saw that he wasn’t just angry, he was scared. Scared for her.

But she… she was scared of him. Of them.

Days and nights have crawled by since then, the bruises still blooming beneath her skin.

The room smelled of old wood varnish and cooling coffee; the curtains, half-drawn against the late afternoon sun, cast slanting shadows across the floor in long, broken stripes. Dust floated in the light as if the air were still, swirling only when someone moved. She sat on the couch, back hunched, sleeves pulled down over her fists, eyes fixed on the swirling steam rising from her untouched mug, before tapping away at her phone.

Ran sprawled lazily on the armchair opposite, a cigarette burning between his fingers, ash curling toward the floor. Rindou leaned against the side of the couch, arms crossed, gaze heavy and silent. There was something sharp in the quiet today, something serrated just beneath the stillness.

“So,” Ran began, voice casual but weighted with something that scraped against the walls of her chest, “you haven’t been eating properly lately.”

Her shoulders stiffened. She blinked at the screen, eyes flicking to the steam of the mug, its wisps curling up and vanishing before they reached her eyes. She didn’t respond.

Rindou let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oi. Answer him.”

“I’m fine,” she whispered. The words left her lips like moth wings, brittle and hollow.

“Fine,” Ran repeated, flicking ash onto the tray, his eyes dark beneath the fringe of pale hair. “Right. That’s what you always say.”

She didn’t flinch, but she didn’t look at him either. Her gaze skated over the room, over the peeling paint along the side of the TV stand, the silent flicker of the TV screen on standby, and the tiny chipped ceramic cat on the windowsill that watched her like an omen.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he said, softer now. It wasn’t a request.

Her eyes flickered up, just for a moment, before darting away again, like a trapped sparrow beating against glass. “What do you want me to say, Ran?”

“An honest answer would be nice,” he replied, his voice laced with a smile that never touched his eyes. “But you can’t even give us that anymore, can you?”

She curled tighter into herself, tucking her chin to her chest. The anger in the room was thin, quiet, threaded with frustrated desperation neither brother could voice.

Rindou shifted his weight, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots. “You’ve been avoiding us.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Bullshit,” Ran snapped the sudden bite in his voice, making her flinch before she could stop herself. “Don’t lie. You’ve been brushing us off all week, barely saying two words, acting like we’re diseased or something.”

Her throat worked as she swallowed, but no words came out. The silence felt like oil sliding down her lungs, thick and choking.

“Yesterday,” Rindou began, voice low, almost careful, “I asked you if you wanted to come with us for dinner. You said you were busy. Busy doing what? Busy out? Or sitting alone in your room like that?”

She didn’t answer.

“And the day before that,” Ran continued, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, cigarette smoldering forgotten between his fingers, “I asked you about something. You changed the subject so fast I almost thought you were gonna give yourself whiplash.”

She drew in a quiet breath through her nose, her eyes flickering with pale, watery defiance as she lifted her mug, fingers trembling just enough for the ceramic to clink softly against her teeth. The steam was almost gone now. Its warmth was only a phantom whisper on her lips.

“I was busy cleaning my room,” she said finally, her voice gentle and flat, like a pale rag wiping down a stained countertop, like it was merely a fact filed into conversation with no further meaning. “I had to reorganize my shelves. And… you know. Laundry.”

Ran scoffed, the sound thin and sharp, like a blade slicing down the belly of her lie, letting its hollow guts spill out across the floorboards. “Laundry,” he repeated, an echo that made the word rot in the air. He sat back, staring at her through the drifting ash, his cigarette burned down to the filter, but he hadn’t noticed. His gaze flickered over her with something tired and cruel. “Right. Of course. Laundry. How could I forget your… busy schedule.”

Rindou’s lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes were pinned to the floor, lashes hiding the flickering darkness there. A tendon in his jaw jumped. He breathed out, slow and quiet, like each exhale was siphoning poison from the veins of his patience.

“You’re lying,” he murmured.

Her head tilted, gaze flicking up with that wide, unblinking emptiness. “I’m not.”

“You are,” Ran said simply. His voice wasn’t angry anymore. It was… disappointed. Bruised. Like something precious had been dropped and cracked, the hairline fractures growing by the hour. “But fine. If you want to lie to us, that’s your choice.”

“I’m not lying,” she repeated, her voice trembling now, shaking around the bones of the words as if they were shards cutting into her tongue. “I just… I just didn’t want to come, okay? Is that such a crime? I wanted to be alone. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Rindou echoed, finally looking up at her, his gaze slicing through her skin like rusted wire. His eyes were so still. There was no anger in them, no spark, only something aching and heavy, like wet cloth nailed to a wall, sagging with weight. “You’ve been snappy at us for days. You cut us off when we speak. You won’t even look at us when we’re talking to you. You brush us off like we’re strangers asking for change on the street.”

“I just wanted to be alone,” she said again, louder this time, but her voice cracked at the edges, fraying like an old thread pulled too tight. Her fingers tightened around the mug until her knuckles glowed white beneath the skin that seemed almost translucent in the weak sun.

Ran flicked his dead cigarette into the ashtray, the butt bouncing off the rim with a hollow clink. “Then just say that. Don’t lie. Don’t pretend you’re busy doing pointless shit like… reorganizing shelves. Do you think we’re idiots? Do you think we don’t notice?”

“Stop,” she snapped, the word tearing out of her throat like a broken glass bottle, cutting her lips on the way out. The mug rattled against the saucer as she set it down, eyes blazing with something ugly and uncontained. “Stop it, okay? Stop… interrogating me like this.”

“We just want an honest answer,” Rindou said quietly, his arms still folded, hands gripping his sleeves so tight the tendons stood out like white bones beneath the skin. “Why are you avoiding us?”

“I’m not avoiding you,” she hissed, breath coming shallow now, her ribs aching like they were splintering under her skin. “I’m just… tired. Can’t I be tired for once without you two crawling up my spine about it?”

The silence that followed tasted like rust and old pennies. Ran’s gaze stayed on her, eyes half-lidded, his expression unreadable and heavy as black stones in a riverbed. Rindou let out a slow, shaky breath through his nose, then pushed off the couch, boots creaking against the floorboards as he walked toward the kitchen without another word.

Ran remained seated, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed slightly as he stared at the floor. The light slanting in from the window split his face in half – one side shadowed and sunken, the other pale and hollow, the light picking out the tired lines carved beneath his eyes.

She stood abruptly, the motion rattling the table. The mug sloshed, dark coffee sliding down the white ceramic-like blood trickling down porcelain skin. She scoffed a bitter, broken little sound that felt like it tore something inside her chest as it left.

“Whatever,” she muttered, the syllables small but sharp. “I’m done with this.”

She turned, stepping over the broken bars of shadow on the floor, her feet silent on the wood. Ran didn’t look up as she walked past him, only exhaling softly, almost inaudibly, like something in him was deflating, collapsing in slow surrender.

As she reached the hallway, Rindou’s voice drifted out from the kitchen, quiet and frayed.

“Let her go,” he said to Ran, though it was more a plea than an instruction. “She won’t talk today. She… she never does."

In the living room, Ran sat in silence, head bowed between his hands, cigarette smoke still lingering like ghost fingers against the ceiling.

In her chest, her heart beat a thin, uneven rhythm, each thud scraping bone. Her vision blurred at the edges as she walked down the narrow hallway, her hands trembling at her sides, nails digging into her palms.

There was something bubbling inside her. Something dark and boiling, tar-thick and rising, clawing at her throat with hooked fingers. Something that wanted to scream, to tear at her skin and let the seething swarm pour out. But she swallowed it down, as always, letting it churn behind her ribs, letting it gnaw at the cage of her bones.

In the bathroom mirror, she didn’t look at herself as she turned on the tap, cold water splashing against porcelain like distant rain.

She felt it, that madness that was quiet, undulating. She felt it cracking through her mind, seeping out behind her eyes in tremors of shadow and distant sound. The world felt thin here. Almost too thin to stand on. Almost too thin to breathe in.

And in the living room, the brothers sat in their silent frustration. Letting her off the hook. Letting her slip further away like a severed lifeline sinking into nothing, leaving them clutching nothing but silence.

And somewhere within her chest, something broke. Something monstrous and small and trembling. Something that wept even as it laughed.

She must’ve thought she could hold it in despite the noise, bury it just like she always does.

But today, it began quietly.

A quiet so deep it felt like the world was holding its breath, waiting for something to break in.

They were in the warehouse, shadows pooling around crates and steel beams, dust motes drifting through grim fluorescence. The scent of engine oil, rust, and stale cigarette smoke clung heavily to the concrete, curling into her lungs until she tasted metal every time she swallowed.

She stood off to the side, half-hidden in shadows, arms wrapped around herself, fingers curled tight into the hem of her sleeves. Her brothers’ voices murmured over paperwork and profits, numbers and trades, the empire of their underworld shifting beneath their words. She didn’t hear them. Her ears buzzed with something thick and low, like the sound of blood rushing through the hollow tunnels of her veins.

“Hey,” Ran called over his shoulder without looking at her, his voice low, tired, fraying at the edges. “Go grab the paperwork from the van. Now.”

She flinched, mind turning back to the present, nodding quickly, feet moving before thought could catch up. The soles of her shoes slapped against the cold concrete, echoing in the wide empty space as she stepped out into the waning light.

The van sat in the alley, quiet and waiting, paint flaking along the rims like peeling scabs of an old wound. She tugged the passenger door open, rummaging in the glovebox with trembling fingers until her nails scraped cardboard and metal and she found the stack of papers clipped together, stamped in harsh red ink.

She turned, ready to flee back into the dim safety of the warehouse, only to freeze.

They stood there. A small group. Black jackets soaked in the alley's shadow. Cigarette tips glowing like angry eyes. Their grins split open their faces, baring teeth yellowed with nicotine and rot. Her chest constricted, her heart slamming against her ribs so hard she felt her vision stutter with every second she stared.

“Well, look who it is,” the leader drawled, his voice curling around her like thorned wire, slicing delicate skin as it pressed close. “Pretty little bitch. Didn’t think we’d see you again so soon.”

The papers slipped from her hands, scattering across damp concrete in a soft, papery sigh. She backed away a step, legs trembling so hard the ground quaked beneath her feet.

“Stay… stay away,” she whispered, the words tasting of bile and old blood. “I… I don’t want trouble.”

It’s them, the ones who messed with her weeks ago, just for having the names of her brothers.

“Oh, but you are trouble,” he laughed, stepping closer. “Your big brothers in there? Let’s see how tough they act when you're screaming.”

His voice warped in her ears, words stretching and bending like molten metal poured down her ear canals, sizzling through brain matter.

Because suddenly, she wasn’t there.

She was back there. Back then. Years ago…

Hands grabbing her hair,  slamming her head against the brick until her teeth rattled and stars burst behind her eyes in tiny flickers. A voice curling into her eardrums with sick amusement:

“Don’t cry.”

Her vision split. Two visions layered atop each other in flickering reels:

One. The man before her, grinning with rot, words dripping venom.

And two. The men back then, maybe 3, 4, or 5 of them, hands pawing under her shirt, breath sour with cheap liquor and honest brutality.

“We’re doing them a favor, you know,” one slurred against her ear, tongue wet and thick. “What do you think happens when you’re part of their world?”

The world now and the world then blurred at the edges, smearing like fresh blood and rain under her trembling fingers. The leader reached out to grip her chin, forcing her gaze up. She blinked, and his face became his face, the one who had pressed a knife to her throat, smiling with rotted teeth and shadowed eyes.

Her knees buckled. The alley tilted. Her vision stuttered and strobed.

“Don’t cry,” he whispered in her memory and in her ears now, voices overlapping like two jagged blades scraping together with that unbearable sound she couldn’t turn away from, no matter how hard she clapped her hands on her ears. “Don’t cry, little thing. It’ll hurt more if you fight.”

She fell to her knees, breathing ragged, tears blurring the filth-streaked concrete beneath her. Their laughter surrounded her like crows gathering on bone branches.

She couldn’t tell if she was in the present or the past anymore. Her vision unfocusing as it relived memories.

A hand suddenly fisted in her hair and ripped her upright. Her scream was silent, caught in her chest like a trapped bird, wings shattering against bone bars.

The leader smirked, leaning in close enough that she felt the heat of his rot-stained breath on her lips. “What, cat got your tongue?” He shook her once, hard enough that her teeth clacked together. “Go on. Scream for them. Scream like you did last time.”

Scream. Don’t cry. Scream. Don’t cry.

The words danced together in her skull, cracking against each other like dry bones in a funeral pyre. She tried to focus on the papers scattered around her feet, ink bleeding into damp concrete, the smell of oil and blood mixing in her nose until it was all she could taste.

Then he slapped her.

Her head snapped sideways, pain flowering bright and hot along her cheekbone. Something inside her flickered. Dimmed. Went silent.

She fought back her mind, screaming away at her thoughts, bringing herself up to run.

But one of them lunged. She stumbled back, panic spiraling up her ribs harshly, lungs seizing as some paper fell from her hands in a flurry of sheets. She turned, bolting again for the warehouse door, but they followed, their laughter bouncing off the alley walls like echoing gunshots.

She burst inside, breath ragged, eyes wild, and the underlings froze. Ran’s gaze snapped to her, cigarette dangling forgotten between his fingers, lips parting around a question he didn’t get to ask.

Because they followed her in. They stepped over the threshold with slow, confident strides, like wolves entering an abandoned chapel, the smell of blood trailing behind them in memory.

“Ran Haitani,” the leader crooned, his voice dripping with mockery as he spread his arms wide. “Long time no see. Mind if we chat about your little whore here?”

The air snapped.

Rindou moved first, grabbing one of their men by the collar and slamming him into a stack of crates, the crash echoing. Ran’s smile was slow, feral, cigarette trembling between his lips as his eyes turned black with fury.

She watched it unfold with numb horror, like her mind was submerged in water, everything muffled and distorted. The rival leader sneered down at her where she crouched to gather the scattered paperwork, his boot stepping down on her fingers. Pain flared, sharp, and immediate, but her body didn’t move. She only stared up at him, eyes glassy, silent tears sliding down her cheeks.

“Still so pathetic,” he murmured, leaning down to grip her jaw tight enough to bruise. “No wonder you—”

His words cut off as Ran’s fist collided with his temple, knocking him sideways into the shutter with a metallic screech. Chaos erupted – shouting, fists slamming into flesh, blood blooming across the concrete like a bouquet of crushed roses bleeding underfoot. The warehouse trembled with the violence, men grunting and screaming, the wet crack of knuckles against jaw echoing in her skull until it was all she could hear.

She stayed on her knees, trembling, papers soaked in spattered blood, breathing in ragged gasps as the smell of iron filled her nose. Ran grabbed the rival by the hair, dragging him upright, his eyes wild and unseeing.

“You think you can touch her?!” Ran roared, voice shredding the air. “You think you can fucking touch what’s ours?!”

The rival only laughed, blood bubbling between his teeth. “Yours? She’s everyone’s, isn’t she?”

Ran screamed as he slammed the man’s face into the steel beam, again and again, until the laughter turned to choked gurgles. Until his screams turned to silence. Until the only sound left was Ran’s ragged breathing and her quiet sobs echoing through the warehouse like a broken plea.

Outside, thunder growled, rolling across the covered sky as heavy rain began to fall, pattering against the shutter in soft, mocking applause. The storm had come.

And in her chest, beneath the terror, something cold and monstrous uncurled, lifting its head to the scent of blood and ruin, whispering in her mind with words like rot and ruin and finally.

Her mind was elsewhere, flickering to the past that fogged up her mind, overlapping with the present, the distant sounds of fighting humming in her ear till it went silent.

The rival gang was dragged out by the underlings, unconscious or bleeding, their bodies leaving smears of red across the concrete like silent accusations.

But inside, the warehouse was not silent.

It seethed. Loud and overwhelming.

“Are you fucking insane?!” Rindou’s voice cracked through the silence, sharp as a whip, his hair hanging damp against his forehead from the rain splatter at the door. “You just stood there! You let them follow you in here!”

She crouched against the wall, arms wrapped around her knees, trembling so hard her teeth chattered. Her eyes flicked up to him, wide and empty, pupils blown black.

“I–I didn’t… I couldn’t—”

“Couldn’t what?!” Rindou’s voice broke, strangled with disbelief and frustration as he threw his arms out. “Couldn’t scream? Couldn’t fight back? What the fuck is wrong with you lately?!”

“Rindou.” Ran’s voice was low, shaking with unshed rage, his chest heaving as he wiped blood from his knuckles onto his slacks. His cigarette had fallen somewhere during the beating, crushed beneath his heel. “Back off.”

“No!” Rindou shoved him in the chest, hard enough to make Ran stumble back a step. The sudden movement made her flinch violently against the wall, like a roach scuttling from a looming boot. “No, Ran! She’s been fucking up for weeks. She’s out of it all the damn time, she barely talks, she doesn’t listen—”

“Shut up,” she whispered, voice thin and fraying like rotting thread.

But Rindou didn’t shut up. His voice rose, sharp and brutal, slicing into her like broken glass. “You don’t get to do this! You don’t get to act like a ghost when we’re risking our necks for you every fucking day! You almost got Ran killed today! You almost got yourself killed again! Is that what you want?!”

“I SAID SHUT UP!” Her scream tore from her throat, shredded and raw, echoing off the steel beams and rattling the glass windows. Her hands clamped over her ears, nails digging into her scalp as her vision blurred with tears. “JUST SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!”

The storm outside roared in unison, wind howling through the cracks in the rusted walls, rattling metal sheets like the death rattle of a dying god. Ran stepped forward, voice trembling as he reached for her, but she flinched away, pressing tighter into the shadows.

“What happened to you?” he whispered, the words breaking around the edges, crumbling like dead leaves in winter. “What the fuck happened to you, huh? You used to tell us everything. You used to look at me.”

Her breath came in short, sharp gasps, ribs fluttering beneath her sweater like frantic birds trapped in a rusted cage. The smell of blood and rain clung to the warehouse air, thickening with their ragged breaths, mixing with engine oil and stale cigarette smoke until it coated her tongue like ash.

Her eyes darted between them. Ran stood with his fists trembling at his sides, blood smeared up his wrists like black vines in the flickering fluorescent light, and Rindou pacing in restless, furious circles, his boots scraping harshly against the concrete.

She pressed herself closer into the shadows, knees drawn to her chest, fingers clawing at the fabric of her sleeves until her knuckles burned. She couldn’t stop shaking. The world felt thin, stretched tight as old leather, fraying at the edges with each ragged inhalation.

“Answer me,” Ran said finally, his voice low, scraping out of his throat like something rusted and broken. His eyes burned under the swinging light, black and gold and furious, but beneath that fury lay something deeper, something hollowed out and aching. “What happened to you?”

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Her mind was a kaleidoscope of broken images, a horrible light tinted in red, fractured memories flickering too fast to catch:

Rough hands grabbed her hair, slamming her face against the brick.

“Don’t cry,” one whispered.

Then the smell of beer and sewage and rotting teeth.

“You’re just a little toy, aren’t you?”

She screamed into her own clenched fist so no one would hear.

“Why won’t you fucking speak to us?!” Rindou snapped, pulling her mind away from the silence, his voice slicing through the silence like a blade. “Why do you always shut down like this?! We’re trying to HELP you!”

“Rindou—” Ran’s voice wavered with something tired and broken. But Rindou ignored him once again, gesturing wildly at her trembling form curled against the wall.

“She just STANDS THERE, Ran! She just fucking stands there and lets it happen! AGAIN and AGAIN and AGAIN—”

“Stop…” she whispered, voice cracking like a snapped wishbone. “Please stop… please…”

But Rindou kept yelling, and her mind kept flickering:

Five shadows looming over her.

“Don’t fight back. It’ll only hurt more.”

Pain blooming deep inside like a dead flower rooting through bone.

And the screams that no one heard.

Ran moved.

His footsteps echoed across the warehouse floor, deliberate, each step reverberating through her chest like distant thunder rolling across dead skies. He crouched in front of her, his expensive slacks smudged with drying blood, his hair falling over his eyes in damp strands. His hands hovered by his knees, fingers twitching as if unsure whether to reach for her or to let them curl into fists again.

His voice came out quietly. Too quiet. Like the calm before an executioner’s axe.

“You know what you are?” he whispered. The restraints in his words had fallen off, the long-awaited frustration and concern smudging his way of thought.

Her eyes widened, pupils blown black in the dim light, tears brimming like shattered stars on the verge of falling into the wrong time.

“You’re just like them,” Ran murmured, his words curling around her throat like barbed wire, pressing down until her breath caught in jagged sobs. “Letting men do whatever the fuck they want to you. Just lying there. Just… taking it.”

The world stopped breathing.

Her mind didn’t flicker this time. It shattered.

Because those were the same words. The exact same words. Spat into her ear by a man reeking of sweat and sour, disgusting beer, his fingers digging bruises into her hips as the alley pavement dug into her spine:

“Just lie there, little bitch. Just take it. That’s all you’re good for anyway.”

A sound tore from her throat, animalistic, ragged, a keening sob that curled up from the deepest pit of her stomach and split the warehouse air in two. Her vision whited out at the edges, her body convulsing as if struck by a live wire, nails tearing into her scalp as she tried to claw the words out of her ears, out of her mind, out of her soul.

She heard them laughing in her memory. Felt their hands again. The pain. The tearing. The helplessness. The shame. The disgust. The sense of her body becoming something, not hers, just a slab of flesh to be used and discarded and mocked.

“Don’t cry,” they whispered in the black hollows of her skull, their voices slithering through her veins like parasites. “Don’t cry. Just take it.”

Her scream rose, shrill and broken, echoing off metal beams, rattling the crates stacked high like tombstones around them. She pressed her forehead to the concrete, nails scraping at the floor until her fingertips burned, sobbing so hard her chest seized, breath coming in ragged, choking gasps.

Ran’s eyes widened, horror flickering through the black rage as his words replayed in his own mind, and he realized what he had said, what he had done. He reached out, voice trembling.

“No—no, hey. Hey. I didn’t mean—fuck—I didn’t—”

But she flinched back so violently she slammed her skull against the wall, pain blooming red and sharp behind her eyes. She didn’t feel it. Couldn’t feel it. The pain in her body was nothing compared to the pain tearing her mind into ribbons, curling her consciousness into something small, cold, and silent.

Rindou’s breath hitched, his anger draining into something horrified and helpless as he watched her crumble, watched her sob, and scream into the floor as if trying to vomit the memory out of her lungs.

Outside, the storm raged, wind howling through cracked windows, rattling metal sheets, and rolling thunder across the sky like the growling of some ancient, monstrous god. The rain lashed the shutter in furious, mocking applause.

And within her, something small and innocent curled up in the dark and died quietly, leaving behind only the cold echo of rotting words:

“Just take it.”

She pressed her forehead harder to the floor, her screams dissolving into silent sobs as her tears pooled beneath her face. She no longer felt the concrete against her skin, no longer heard Ran’s desperate, broken apologies or Rindou’s quiet curses. She was elsewhere – in that alley, under those hands, under those words, with no sky above her and no light left to bleed.

All that remained was darkness. And the taste of iron in her mouth, slick and bitter, as if her soul itself was bleeding out between her teeth.

What happened to me…?

At thirteen years old. Thirteen years old. Too young to be involved, yet too old to be spared in their world. She never carried a weapon, never wore blood on her hands the way her brothers did, but her name, their names, was enough to spark hatred, enough to start a war.

A rival gang that had since been gone, crushed by the Haitani brothers, stood up from the rubble, and there, a few of its loyal followers burned with the fury of hatred in their presence. They were here to set a reminder. That her name, their name, is enough to ignite the fury of those who had lost everything. It didn't matter that she was only a child; the blood that ran through her veins, the same blood that bound her to them, became a reason for violence. And in their eyes, that blood was all that mattered.

She was only a bystander. An innocent.

But in the eyes of their enemies, she was something else entirely.

"You’re that girl," a voice rasped, thick with contempt. "The only sister of the Haitani brothers, huh?"

That was when rough hands grabbed her, pulling her back into the dark alley, where the shadows swallowed her screams. The cold press of metal against her skin told her everything she needed to know: This was not an accident.

There were three of them. Or maybe four.  Or more. Her memory blurred at the edges, smudged by fear and the dim light of that alley. But what she did remember, clearer than the number of their shadows, was their faces. Boys, really. Sixteen, seventeen at most. Their skin still clung to the softness of youth, but their eyes… their eyes had already rotted into something mean and hollow, something far too old for their unlined cheeks.

“What do you think happens when you’re part of their world?” his voice slurred, heavy with the effects of alcohol. His breath reeked of cheap alcohol, and his body smelled like sweat. His face was twisted with malicious amusement as his fingers gripped her chin, forcing her to look him in the eye of a man who was about to leave her with a warning.

Her stomach churned, and she tried to pull away, but his grip tightened, like iron against her fragile skin. 

“Look at me. Really look at me. See what they’ve made of us.” His words were slow and deliberate, like each syllable was a cruel lesson he was forcing her to learn. “You think your brothers are different? They’ve got a name, don’t they? Something powerful.” He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her face. His breath, she could taste it now, bitter rot fermenting in the hollow of her throat long after he spoke.

She couldn’t breathe.

Her chest heaved shallowly, her heartbeat galloping so violently that each throb made her ribs ache like they were cracking open to reveal the screaming creature inside. “You think your brothers are different?” he repeated, voice slick with drunken certainty. “You think they don’t do this, too? You think they’re saints?” A low chuckle rasped through his throat, a bubbling tar-like sound that dripped disgust into her ears. “They’re men. All men are the same.”

“They’ll touch you just like this one day, princess,” another voice whispered, a different man behind her, she realized when rough fingers tangled into her hair and pulled her head back. “They’ll hold you down just like this… just to remind you whose world you’re in.”

Her thoughts scattered, fluttering like broken-winged moths across the pitch darkness of her mind. My brothers… my brothers wouldn’t… But the words were weak, even in her own head, and the press of his thumb against her lower lip forced the air out of her lungs in a silent sob.

She smelled him, smoke, sweat, stale liquor soaked into his jacket and skin, fermenting with rage and hopelessness. Her stomach twisted again, nausea rising like sour bile, and tears burned her eyes. Her cheeks felt cold where the tears slid down, but the rest of her burned with the heat of fear, a fever that rotted her from within.

“Don’t cry,” he mocked softly, his breath wet against her cheek.

Her hands trembled uselessly against the wall, scraping against damp concrete as she tried to find leverage, to pull away, but their bodies crowded her in, pressing her small frame into the wall until her spine ached and her chest compressed with each rattling breath.

“We’re doing them a favor, you know,” he continued, stroking her cheek with the blade’s edge, just enough to sting. A thin warmth trickled down her jaw, tasting like copper and tears when it reached her lips. “We’re teaching you what happens when you belong to boys like them.”

His laughter came again, sickeningly gentle as if he found poetry in her terror. His thumb smudged her tears into her bleeding cheek, mixing pain, salt, and humiliation into a single bruise of a painful memory.

Will Ran look like this when he’s older? With glazed eyes and slurred words?

Will Rindou’s fingers tremble from rage like these do, gripping me so tightly my bones feel like wet twigs about to snap?

She felt it, the seed of horror blooming slow and acidic in her gut, curling around her ribs and pressing into her heart, beating with a new rhythm: They’re men. All men are the same. Your brothers are men, too.

“No,” she whispered, the word breaking under her tongue like a dying moth. A flicker of defiant whisper clung to her little mind.

“No?” His grin widened. She could hear his teeth grinding together, yellow and chipped. “No? Look around, girl. This is all men are. This is all your brothers are. This is all you are.”

He pressed closer, his chest flattening hers, breath fuming with sour alcohol as his hips brushed hers, a silent threat painted in his proximity, in the casual possession of his touch. Another set of hands ghosted down her arms, a grip that wasn’t meant to hold her up but to weigh her down like chains sinking a corpse to the ocean floor.

She tried to pull her mind away from her body, up and up into the quiet, where the stars burned without consequence. She tried to imagine Rindou’s laugh, or Ran’s quiet hum when he thought no one was listening. But his words kept clawing at her, staining every memory with oily fingerprints:

“You’ll never look at them the same way again.”

She could hear her pulse pounding in her ears, a thunderous roar of something wild and dying.

“You’ll flinch when they touch you,” he murmured, his voice syrupy-slow and rotten-sweet. “You’ll wonder if they’ve touched someone like this, too. If they’ve held someone down. If they’ve pressed a blade to a throat and laughed like this.”

Her tears flowed freely now, her body shivering violently as the world became a tunnel of sounds – laughter, drunken breathing, the metallic scrape of a blade, the ragged intake of her own broken sobs.

And somewhere deep inside her chest, something small curled up and died. Something that smelled like warmth, family, and safety. It shriveled, blackened, and fell into the pit of her stomach, where it dissolved into rot.

They’re men. All men are the same.

She didn’t know if she wanted to live or die at that moment as their hands moved over her like shadows crawling across a corpse at dusk; slow, invasive, cold with intent. Each lasting second bruised her ribs, her thighs, and her arms, hitting her like iron rods wrapped in velvet, leaving no marks the world would see but carving wounds she would never find the bottom of.

Her reality ripped louder than her clothes did when rough fingers slipped under the fabric and tore away innocence she hadn’t even realized she was pretending to wear. Their breaths poisoned her skin, leaving trails of heat that burned long after they pulled away. Every time she flinched, it fed their laughter, until their amusement was dripping off their tongues like saliva from starving dogs.

Fight. Please… fight back. Her mind screamed until her skull rang with it, but her limbs were locked in trembling paralysis, pinned beneath the heavy certainty of their strength, of her smallness. 

One of them whispered something against her ear, words slick with mock affection, but all she heard was the wet sound of his lips, the smell of rotting alcohol curling down her throat like bile. Another pressed his hand to her chest, fingers splayed out possessively, and pushed just hard enough to collapse her lungs around her heart, to make her vision bloom white and her knees buckle.

She didn’t know if she wanted to live or die. She only knew she wanted it to stop.

Their words melted together into one monstrous thought, whispering the same truth over and over again:

This is all men are. This is all your brothers are. This is all you are.

Just hands grabbing roughly, molding you into their palms with words too mean and harsh for a little shadow.

Because at that moment, as the moon glowed dimly and indifferently above her, she could not tell where the monsters ended and her brothers began.

Will I ever be able to face them again as my brothers…?

Or will they always be criminals first?

Ran realized too late.

Too late, it was too… late.

Here with his sister on the ground, eyes shattered like glass, spilling her cries to dry.

The knowledge cracked open in his chest like a rib splitting under blunt force. It came with no warning – no gradual dawning, no creeping suspicion – only a sudden, brutal clarity that left him reeling, knees trembling beneath the weight of it.

It was the letter. From years ago.

He found it by accident lately, crumpled at the bottom of an old drawer he never bothered to clean. Yellowed, edges torn, and curling like dead leaves in autumn. It smelled faintly of old sweat and iron. His fingers moved through it as he unfolded it, the paper soft and thin, fragile like memory itself.

Years ago.

He remembered now. It had arrived in silence. No name. No signature. Just words scrawled in jagged black strokes, the letters pressed so hard into the paper they tore tiny wounds through it.

What do you think happens when she’s part of your world?

We’ll leave you a reminder, Haitani.

She’ll never look at you the same way again.

He read it once. Blinked. Tossed it aside. Another threat among thousands. Another meaningless bark from dogs with broken teeth. That’s what he told himself. That’s what he believed.

Until now.

Until his mind, so sharp and ruthless in every other regard, turned over this memory with a sudden, sickening slowness, revealing its rotten underbelly. Until he saw her face again – that day, she came home shaking, silent, her eyes two shattered mirrors that reflected too little of everything. He remembered thinking she was just tired. Just tired. That’s what he told himself. That’s what he believed.

“She’ll never look at you the same way again.”

He heard them as if whispered directly into his ear, a rasping, gleeful voice slithering through the hollow caverns of his skull.

The room spun. The ceiling folded down towards him, the floor rose to meet him, and the walls narrowed in a pulsing rhythm that matched his ragged breath. He pressed his palm against his chest and felt his heart pounding like fists against a locked door.

Why didn’t I ask her what happened? Why didn’t I force her to speak?

He remembered her silence. The way she scrunched her nose at the smell of whiskey and beer. The way she wouldn’t let him touch her hair, wouldn’t meet his eyes. The way she flinched when Rindou’s laughter echoed too loudly through the halls. The way her shoulders curled inward whenever men in uniforms passed too close in the street as if bracing for an impact only she could see coming.

All these years. All these silent screams vibrated under her skin, invisible strings pulling her mouth into small, brittle smiles that never reached her eyes. All these years, she was living with that letter burned into her flesh.

She’ll never look at you the same way again.

His breath came short, ragged, scraping his throat raw. His chest felt too small for his lungs. He pressed his back to the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the cold tiles, knees drawn up, elbows propped against them as he buried his face in shaking hands.

“Fuck…” The word rasped out of him like blood from a slit throat. “Fuck… fuck…”

He remembered her eyes. Wide, glossy, distant. He remembered her trembling hands.

He remembered her silence.

How many times had he teased her about it? “What’s wrong with you today, princess?” he’d drawled, ruffling her hair roughly, not noticing the way she flinched. How many times had he told Rindou, “She’s just moody. Leave her alone”?

How many times did she swallow her screams in front of him, thinking – knowing – that her pain was too small, too unimportant in the vast empire of their name?

Ran’s shoulders shook as he sat there, surrounded by the quiet hum of the rain, and the ticking clock, the hush of distant traffic. The world went on indifferent. Unaware. Unchanged. But inside him, something burned down to blackened bone.

They left her a reminder. And he never saw it. They left him a warning. And he never heard it. They left her broken. And he never noticed.

What do you think happens when she’s part of your world?

He can hear them laugh, those ghosts from the past. Boys whose names he never learned, whose faces he never saw. He saw their shadows slithering over her small frame in his mind and heard their laughter spilling over her tears like sewer water over pale lilies.

His stomach churned with rage, so sudden and vast it almost drowned him. But beneath the rage was something far worse, far heavier:

Guilt.

Because this was his world. Because he thought she was safe, just because he was her brother. Because he believed love was enough to keep her untouched by the darkness, he wielded it like a weapon.

But love had no power here. Not in this place. Not in the world, he had carved with bloody hands and smiling lips.

“She’ll never look at you the same way again.”

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw sparks of blue and white explode behind his eyelids. Anything to drown out the memory of her broken smile. Anything to silence the echo of that letter’s truth.

He didn’t notice Rindou standing closely, noticing the shift in the room. It was personal, heavy, like a secret buried too long in the walls of your own home.

Their sister now sobbing quietly yet brokenly onto her knees, too deep into her mind, scrubbing her skin raw with a memory she wished she could erase, and Ran, who seemed to be suddenly hit with a heavy realization.

Rindou went silent, pale, eyes wide with dawning horror as he read the shift.

Ran didn’t see the way Rindou’s lips trembled, the way his shoulders caved inward, the way he whispered, how he shook Ran lightly, tapping at his sister for some answer:

“…Hey, what’s wrong… what happened…?”

“Tell me… Hey…”

Because Ran was somewhere else now. Somewhere deep inside himself, curled around a rot that spread through his veins like fire.

And all he heard was her silence. All he felt was her trembling. All he saw was that day – the day his little sister came home forever changed, her eyes wide and blind, her voice stolen by ghosts he never avenged.

The guilt chewed through him slowly, methodically, like worms hollowing out a dying tree. Because no matter how many men he killed, no matter how many debts he collected in blood, no matter how many empires he built or burnt to ashes…

…he could never undo that moment.

She’ll never look at you the same way again.

And the truth was: she never did.

And that... left him feeling bitter, like the taste of rue on his tongue; sharp, acrid, unpleasant, the kind of bitterness that clings to the back of your throat and refuses to be swallowed, the kind that reminds you some regrets were never meant to be forgotten.

What do you think happens when she's part of your world? We'll leave you a reminder, Haitani. She’ll never look at you the same way again.

If you have any specific requests, you can fill out this form! Thank you~

Link~

hiii I'm backkk! just noticed that this request has been in my askbox for months, so I decided to write it today. sorry it's late! I might publish more this month if I can.

this was nice to work on. thanks for the request! Hopefully, I got it right

Requests are still open for hcs, oneshots, or whatever you want! :) Can be female, male, or gender neutral, whatever you guys prefer.

[kaden9]

Love I buried in a badge.

caitlyn x fem!reader angst

CW: heartbreak, betrayal, implied police violence, emotional abuse, past relationship trauma, aftermath of assault (non-graphic), crying, guilt, angst, not lore accurate

word count: ~800

“You chose duty over me.”

“No, I chose Piltover. I thought you understood that.”

She did. Gods, she did. That was the worst part.

Caitlyn stood in front of the little apartment tucked in a quiet corner of the Undercity—the one she used to sneak into late at night, her boots left by the door, her badge set aside for you. Her knock was soft, hesitant. Part of her hoped you wouldn’t answer.

You did.

Eyes swollen, arms crossed, you stood there with the look of someone who had bled dry from crying and still had more to give.

“What are you doing here?” your voice cracked.

“I… I made a mistake,” Caitlyn whispered. “I thought I was protecting you. But I destroyed us.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “You don’t get to say that now. Not after disappearing for weeks. Not after walking past me on the street like I was no one.”

“I couldn’t face you. I couldn’t face what I’d done.”

“And what did you do, Caitlyn?” Your voice trembled, sharp and cruel in your grief. “Tell me, so I can at least hate you properly.”

“I let them take you,” she admitted, breath hitching. “When they raided the safehouse. I knew it was yours. I knew. But I told them to go anyway.”

You went still. That silence was worse than any scream.

“I thought if they arrested you, you’d be safe. Safer than being with me. But they didn’t arrest you. They hurt you.” Her voice cracked. “I saw the report. The bruises. The—Gods, I’m sorry.”

Your jaw clenched. “You let them beat me to a pulp and called it protection?”

“I didn’t know they’d—”

“You didn’t want to know.”

She reached for you, but you stepped back.

“No,” you said. “You don’t get to touch me like you still love me.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks, lost in the rain. She looked at you like you were already a ghost.

“I never stopped loving you,” Caitlyn said softly. “But I killed that love the day I betrayed it.”

You closed the door before she could see you fall apart too.

And outside, Caitlyn stood in the rain until it washed away everything—except the guilt.

That, she would carry forever.