#despite everything in his body screaming at him

[solaceseven]

Ashes of Tomorrow

↳ summary: in a world overrun by the infected, survival is brutal and trust is rare. when a lone survivor joins sukuna’s guarded group, tensions flare, and bonds form in the shadow of constant danger.

→ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: sukuna x fem!reader

→ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: apocalypse au, enemies to lovers, fluff, angst

→ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: graphic injuries, violent confrontations, emotional trauma, loss of loved ones, mature themes, and anything you would expect in an apocalypse au.

→ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 22k+

→ a/n: i’ve been debating whether to post this. it’s my first time working on something this big. please keep in mind that i'm still learning and growing as a writer. part two will be uploaded soon. i hope everyone enjoys it!

Six months. That’s how long it had been since the world fell apart.

Six months of chaos, death, and the relentless groans of the undead filling the streets. In that time, you’d lost everything—your home, your family, your friends. Five months ago, you buried your parents the only constants in a world spiraling out of control. Two months ago, the last shred of hope had crumbled when your team was ambushed. You still remembered their screams, the way they’d been torn apart while you ran.

Now, it was just you.

You’d learned to survive, though. To stay quiet, to move fast, and to keep a tight grip on the crowbar that never left your side. But survival wasn’t the same as living. With no one left, no safety, and barely any supplies, every day was a battle to find a reason to keep going.

That’s what brought you here—a decaying pharmacy tucked into the ruins of a crumbling city. The windows had been shattered, and most of the shelves were stripped bare, but there was always a chance something had been overlooked. You couldn’t afford to give up now. Supplies were running low—again—and you couldn’t afford to ignore even the faintest possibility of a find.

The building was eerily quiet, save for the faint hum of the wind pushing through shattered windows. The quiet always unnerved you. It meant nothing was here, or it meant something dangerous was lurking. And in this world, you’d learned that the latter was far more common.

You moved quickly, rifling through what little remained on the shelves. There was nothing—no bandages, no antiseptics, not even a stray pack of painkillers. Your chest tightened. You hadn’t eaten in two days, and your limbs felt like they were made of lead. The only thing keeping you upright was the faint hope of finding something useful.

A soft scrape of a boot on the tile floor broke your focus. You froze, every muscle in your body tensing as you instinctively gripped your crowbar tighter.

“Turn around. Slowly.”

The voice was low and sharp, carrying a weight of authority that left no room for disobedience.

You did as instructed, turning slowly to face the speaker. Your breath hitched when your eyes landed on him.

He stood in the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered, his face half-shadowed by the dim light filtering through the broken windows. Tattoos coiled down one side of his face, stopping just shy of his jawline. His eyes were sharp and unforgiving, as if they could cut you down without the help of the knife in his hand.

“I’m not here to cause trouble,” you said quickly, your voice steady despite the fear prickling at the back of your neck. “I just needed supplies.”

The man took a step closer, his posture rigid but calculated, like a predator sizing up its prey. “This is our base. You’re trespassing.”

Your heart sank. Of course, the one pharmacy you decided to search had to belong to a group. You’d seen enough groups in the last six months to know how this could end—most didn’t tolerate strangers. But you weren’t about to beg for your life. Not yet.

“I didn’t know,” you said carefully, your gaze flicking to the doorway. A small, calculated step back might give you the chance to run. “I’ll leave.”

He didn’t move, his eyes narrowing as if assessing whether you were lying. A moment later, a faint laugh came from behind him, and more figures emerged from the shadows.

Four of them, all armed. One with messy snow-white hair leaned casually against the doorframe, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. Another had dark hair pulled back and an air of quiet authority. A blonde stood nearby, his sharp gaze locked on you, while a woman with a cigarette dangling from her lips watched you with mild curiosity.

“You’re alone?” the man with the tattoos asked, cutting through your thoughts.

“Yes,” you answered honestly. “I’ve been on my own for two months.”

He tilted his head slightly, as though weighing your words. “Convenient,” he said, his tone dripping with skepticism. “And I’m just supposed to believe that?”

“I don’t care what you believe,” you shot back, your exhaustion bubbling over into frustration. “I’m not a threat. I just need to survive.”

His lip curled slightly, not quite a smirk but close enough to feel mocking. “You and everyone else.”

You stared at him, chest tightening as the weight of the situation settled over you. These people had a base, weapons, resources—and they were ready to protect them. Meanwhile, you were barely holding on, the ache of hunger and the gnawing fear of being alone clawing at you every second.

“I’ll go,” you said again, lowering the crowbar. “I don’t want trouble.”

You turned toward the door, but something stopped you. The truth.

You wouldn’t make it. Not another month. Maybe not another week.

Your breath hitched, and you turned back around, swallowing the lump rising in your throat. “Wait.”

The man raised an eyebrow, clearly irritated by your hesitation.

“I can help you,” you said, the words tumbling out faster than you’d intended. “I was a med student before all of this. I know how to treat injuries—stitches, setting fractures, preventing infections. You need me.”

The room went silent for a moment. The woman with the cigarette exhaled slowly, the faint curl of smoke filling the air. The others exchanged glances, their postures shifting just slightly.

But the man in charge didn’t seem moved. “We don’t need you,” he said coldly, his gaze sharp. He jerked his chin toward the woman with the cigarette. “We already have someone who knows how to patch us up.”

You blinked, your stomach sinking as your eyes flicked to her.

The woman raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of amusement on her lips. “Having a partner? Sounds useful to me,” she said with a smirk, dragging the cigarette from her mouth and exhaling slowly.

The white-haired one grinned, breaking the tension. “She’s got a point. Two are better than one, right?”

“She could be lying,” the leader snapped, glaring at him.

“She’s not,” the blonde cut in, his voice calm but firm. “If she is, we’ll know soon enough.”

“She’s alone,” the quiet one added, his tone measured. “If she wanted to ambush us, she would’ve had backup by now.”

The leader scowled, clearly unhappy about the shift in opinion. But before he could argue further, the woman stepped forward, crushing the cigarette beneath her boot.

“I’m glad I’m not the other girl now,” she said with a small smirk. Turning to you, she added, “Come on. I’ll show you around.”

You hesitated, your gaze flicking back to the man in charge. His fiery eyes burned into yours, full of warning and thinly veiled hostility. But he didn’t stop the woman from leading you deeper into their base.

For now, you were safe. But the tension in the room made one thing painfully clear: this wouldn’t be easy.

The girl led you down a dim hallway. There was a musty scent to the building, but you didn’t mind. After months of scavenging, you were used to far worse.

“You have a name?” she said casually, glancing back at you.

You hesitated, still feeling the weight of the encounter in the other room. Finally, you spoke, giving your name—a piece of yourself you hadn’t shared in a long time.

“Shoko,” she replied, offering a faint smile. “Welcome to our little slice of apocalypse hell.”

Her tone was light, even friendly, and it caught you off guard. After months of being alone—and year of studying medicine, where people tended to be formal and brusque—her relaxed demeanor was strangely comforting.

She gestured for you to follow her deeper into the base. “Come on. I’ll show you where you can sleep. We’re not exactly running a hotel, but it beats sleeping in a ditch.”

You walked a few steps behind her, taking in your surroundings. The building was old but well-maintained, with concrete walls reinforced by wooden barricades. The air smelled faintly of motor oil and sweat, and supplies were stacked neatly along the walls—canned goods, medical kits, and ammunition. The group clearly had a system, and it was working.

Shoko led you to a small room at the end of the hallway. Inside was a thin mattress on the floor with a couple of blankets folded neatly on top. There was a single metal shelf against the wall, mostly empty except for a half-used candle and a box of matches.

“Not much,” Shoko said, stepping aside so you could enter. “But it’s yours for now.”

You set your pack down, the weight of it finally slipping from your shoulders. For a moment, you just stood there, staring at the mattress. It had been months since you’d had anything resembling a safe place to rest.

“Are you hungry?” Shoko asked, leaning against the doorway.

You glanced at her, unsure of how to respond. Your stomach growled before you could say anything, and Shoko smirked.

“Thought so. Come on. We’ve got food in the common area.”

You followed her back down the hallway, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly. Shoko didn’t seem to view you as a threat, which was more kindness than you’d expected from anyone these days.

“We’ve been here for about four months,” Shoko explained as she walked. “It’s not much, but we’ve made it work. Sukuna’s the one keeping us alive, mostly.”

At the mention of his name, your chest tightened. “The guy with the tattoos?”

She chuckled. “Yeah, that’s him. Don’t take his attitude personally. He’s like that with everyone. Even us.”

“Us?”

“The rest of the group,” Shoko said. “We’re all friends. We were on a trip together when this whole zombie thing started. Stuck together ever since.”

That explained their familiarity with one another—the way they moved and spoke as a unit, how they all seemed to know what the others were thinking without speaking.

Shoko led you into a larger room, where the rest of the group was gathered. They looked up when you entered, their expressions ranging from curious to indifferent.

“Everyone, this is—” Shoko said your name, her tone casual as she took another drag from her cigarette. “Be nice.”

The white-haired man was the first to speak. He grinned, leaning back against the table where he’d been sitting. “Didn’t think the boss would let you in. You must’ve made one hell of an impression.”

“I don’t think that’s what happened,” you replied dryly, earning a laugh from Shoko.

The dark-haired man beside him gave a small nod. “Suguru,” he said simply, his tone calm but not unfriendly. “Good to have you here.”

The blonde, who was sitting across from him cleaning a knife, didn’t look up. “Don’t get too comfortable.”

“Nanami,” Shoko said, rolling her eyes. “Can you not?”

“I’m being realistic,” he replied, his voice even.

“You’ll have to forgive Nanami,” Shoko said to you, her smirk returning. “He’s just mad the world ended and he doesn’t have coffee anymore.”

Nanami let out a quiet sigh and finally looked up. “It’s a tragedy,” he said in a deadpan tone, earning a laugh from the white-haired man.

“I’m Satoru,” the white-haired one said, grinning at you. “The fun one, in case you couldn’t tell.”

“Annoying, not fun,” Shoko corrected.

“And you already met Sukuna,” Satoru continued, ignoring her.

Your gaze flicked to the man with the tattoos, who was standing in the corner with his arms crossed. His expression was as unreadable as before, but his eyes stayed on you, sharp and calculating.

“Try not to make things harder than they need to be,” he said, his voice low and cold.

The air in the room seemed to shift, the tension thickening for a moment before Shoko broke it with a clap of her hands.

“Alright, that’s enough brooding for one day,” she said. “Sit down. Eat something. We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.”

You hesitated, glancing at Sukuna one last time. He didn’t look away, his gaze heavy with unspoken warnings. But he didn’t stop you when you sat at the table, your stomach growling at the sight of canned food and stale bread.

Shoko slid a plate toward you and leaned against the wall, her smirk softening into something resembling a real smile. “Welcome to the group,” she said.

For the first time in months, you allowed yourself to feel something close to relief. You weren’t sure if you’d made the right decision coming here, but at least for now, you weren’t alone.

The group ate together in relative silence, save for the occasional joke from Satoru or Shoko’s dry quips that kept things from feeling completely somber. You were too tired to say much, focused on the stale but filling meal in front of you. Every so often, you caught someone’s eyes on you—Nanami’s sharp but observant glances, Suguru’s calm but assessing looks, or Sukuna’s unrelenting scrutiny from across the room.

When you finished eating, Shoko nudged you with her elbow. “C’mon. I’ll show you where everything else is.”

You followed her out of the room, feeling a mix of exhaustion and relief settling over you. It was surreal, being here, surrounded by strangers who were both your best chance at survival and a reminder of everything you’d lost.

Shoko walked ahead of you, her cigarette balanced lazily between her lips. “You’re lucky, you know,” she said over her shoulder.

“Lucky?” you repeated, your voice tinged with disbelief.

“Yeah. Sukuna doesn’t usually let strangers stick around. He’s a pain in the ass, but he knows how to keep us alive.”

You frowned. “He didn’t exactly roll out the welcome mat.”

Shoko chuckled. “No, but he didn’t throw you out either. That’s something.” She paused, then added with a shrug, “Don’t take it personally. He’s just cautious. Losing people changes you.”

Her words lingered in the air, a quiet reminder of what you already knew too well. You didn’t respond, instead focusing on the tour as Shoko led you through the base.

The building was bigger than you’d expected, with makeshift defenses reinforcing every entrance and window. Shoko pointed out various rooms as you passed—a storage area packed with supplies, a small medical room, and what she called “the armory,” though it was really just a closet filled with mismatched weapons.

Eventually, she stopped in front of another door. “Bathroom,” she said, pushing it open. Inside was a simple setup—a sink, a mirror, and a bucket with a lid you assumed served as a toilet.

“It’s not glamorous,” Shoko said, leaning against the doorframe. “But it works. We rigged up a tank outside to feed water to the sink. You’ll have enough to wash up, but don’t overdo it—we ration everything.”

Your eyes swept across the small space, catching sight of five toothbrushes neatly lined up in a cup by the sink, along with a single, nearly flattened tube of toothpaste. The sight reminded you that this wasn’t just a safe haven—it was their home.

Shoko followed your gaze and grabbed a new toothbrush from a nearby shelf, holding it out to you. “Here. This one’s yours now.”

You nodded, grateful for even the smallest semblance of normalcy.

Shoko let you step inside and handed you a towel from a nearby shelf. “Get cleaned up,” she said, then placed a hand on the doorknob. “I’ll wait out here.”

Before you could respond, she pulled the door shut behind you with a soft click, leaving you alone in the quiet, dimly lit space.

You caught your reflection in the cracked mirror, barely recognizing the face staring back. Dirt smudged your cheeks, and your eyes were hollow with exhaustion. With a deep breath, you turned on the sink. The sink’s faucet sputtered before releasing a steady trickle of cold water, the sound echoing faintly in the small room. You cupped the water in your hands, its icy temperature biting against your skin, and splashed it onto your face and arms.

Using the small bar of soap sitting on the edge, you worked up a thin lather, the faint scent of something herbal breaking through the musty air. You wiped yourself clean in sections with the towel, rinsing and repeating until the layers of dirt and sweat were gone. It wasn’t much, but as you worked, the cold water and the simple act of cleaning up made you feel a little more like yourself again—a tiny piece of normalcy in the chaos.

You reached for the cup holding the toothpaste, squeezing a small dollop onto the new toothbrush. As you brushed your teeth, the minty taste hit your tongue like a shock, unfamiliar after weeks of chewing on dry food and stale water. It was almost overwhelming, but the sensation felt like a step back toward normal life. Spitting into the sink, you rinsed your mouth and ran water over the toothbrush, setting it into the cup.

When you finished cleaning up, you cracked the bathroom door open just enough to peek outside. Shoko was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and looked up at the sound of the creak. She handed you a bundle of clothes—a clean but worn pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt.

“They’re a little big,” she said with a shrug, motioning to the size with a tilt of her chin. “But better than what you’ve got on now.”

“Thanks,” you said softly, taking the clothes and retreating back into the bathroom. You shut the door behind you, the faint click echoing in the quiet space.

Slipping out of your towel, you quickly changed into the sweatpants and shirt. The fabric was soft against your freshly cleaned skin, and while the clothes were a bit baggy around the sleeves and waist, they fit well enough to feel comfortable. You folded your old, grimy clothes into a bundle, relieved to finally be rid of them.

Once you were done, you opened the door again and stepped out, clutching the pile of dirty clothes in your arms. Shoko’s gaze flicked over you briefly before she gave a small nod of approval.

Shoko led you back to your room and leaned against the doorway as you stepped inside. “Get some rest,” she said, her tone lighter now. “You look like you’re about to keel over.”

You couldn’t argue with that. As you sat on the mattress, Shoko hesitated for a moment before speaking again.

“For what it’s worth,” she said, her cigarette dangling from her fingers, “I’m glad you’re here. It’s nice having someone new around.”

The sincerity in her voice caught you off guard, and you found yourself smiling despite the heaviness in your chest. “Thanks, Shoko.”

She nodded and stepped back into the hallway. “Night.”

“Goodnight,” you said, watching as she disappeared down the corridor.

You lay back on the mattress, staring up at the cracked ceiling. The sounds of the base hummed around you—the faint murmur of voices, the creak of footsteps on the floor above, the distant clang of metal.

For the first time in months, you felt a sliver of hope.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep you going.

The next morning, the faint light of dawn filtered through the boarded-up windows of your room, accompanied by the muffled sounds of movement beyond the walls. You stretched, wincing at the stiffness in your muscles. It was the first time you’d slept without fear of being ambushed in months, and it was strange—unnerving, even—to wake up somewhere safe.

After a moment, you forced yourself up. The air was cold, and the thin blanket you’d been given wasn’t much help, but you didn’t complain. You pulled on your jacket and laced up your boots, steeling yourself for another day of navigating this uneasy arrangement.

As you stepped into the hallway, you heard voices coming from the common area. You followed the sound, hesitating briefly at the doorway.

The group was gathered around a table in the center of the room. Shoko sat on the edge of it, cigarette in hand as usual, while the others stood or leaned against the walls. A map was spread out across the table, marked with faint lines and symbols in red and black ink.

Sukuna glanced up first, his sharp gaze locking onto yours. The room fell quiet for a moment, and you resisted the urge to shrink back under his scrutiny.

“Morning,” Shoko said, breaking the silence with a small smile. “Sleep well?”

“Well enough,” you replied cautiously, stepping into the room.

Suguru offered you a polite nod, and Satoru waved lazily from his spot against the wall. Nanami didn’t look up, focused instead on sharpening a blade in his hands.

“We’re going out,” Sukuna said abruptly, his voice cutting through the quiet.

You frowned. “Out?”

“For supplies,” Shoko explained. She gestured to the map on the table. “There’s a warehouse a few blocks from here. We’ve been meaning to hit it for weeks, but it’s risky.”

“Why?” you asked, stepping closer to get a better look at the map.

“Too open,” Nanami said, finally glancing up. “And there’s been an increase in infected sightings in the area.”

“Which is why we’ll stick to the usual plan,” Sukuna added, his tone firm. “Split into teams, stay quiet, get in and out fast. No unnecessary risks.”

The authority in his voice was undeniable, and you realized that while the group didn’t have a formal hierarchy, they clearly followed his lead.

“Guess that means you’re staying here,” Satoru said, looking at you with a teasing grin. “Unless you want to take your chances out there.”

Before you could respond, Shoko spoke up. “She’s not ready for that yet.”

Your stomach twisted slightly at her words, but you didn’t argue. As much as you hated to admit it, she was probably right. You weren’t ready. Not yet.

“What do I do while you’re gone?” you asked instead, trying to keep your voice steady.

Shoko shrugged. “Stick around. Get familiar with the place. There’s plenty to keep you busy.”

“Help organize supplies,” Nanami suggested, his tone clipped. “The pharmacy is our base for a reason, but it only works if we stay on top of inventory.”

Suguru added, “And if you hear anything unusual, be ready to defend yourself. This place might keep the infected out, but it’s not invincible.”

His words sent a chill down your spine, but you nodded, determined to prove yourself useful.

The group began gathering their gear—backpacks, weapons, and whatever tools they needed for the run. Shoko lingered behind, finishing her cigarette before snuffing it out on the edge of the table.

“You’ll be fine,” she said, giving you a reassuring smile. “Just don’t do anything stupid.”

With that, she joined the others, and within minutes, they were gone.

The silence that followed was deafening.

You wandered the base, taking Shoko’s advice to familiarize yourself with the layout. The pharmacy had clearly been chosen for its abundance of supplies—rows of shelves held medicine, canned food, and other essentials, while the back rooms had been repurposed for storage and sleeping quarters.

As you worked, sorting through boxes and taking stock of the inventory, you couldn’t shake the weight of your thoughts. Being here felt like both a blessing and a burden. You were safe, but you were also an outsider, an unproven variable in a group that had clearly been through hell together.

You had to prove yourself. Not just to them, but to yourself.

Hours passed in relative quiet, the monotony of the work a strange comfort. You were just finishing an inventory of the medical supplies when the faint sound of footsteps reached your ears.

Your pulse quickened as you grabbed the closest thing resembling a weapon—a rusted wrench from a nearby shelf.

The footsteps grew louder, closer, until a familiar voice called out.

“We’re back,” Shoko said, her tone as casual as ever.

Relief flooded through you as the group filed back into the building, their expressions a mix of exhaustion and satisfaction. Sukuna was the last to enter, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on you.

“No issues?” he asked, his voice low.

You shook your head. “None.”

“Good,” he said, his tone neutral but firm. He turned to the others. “Unload and regroup in an hour.”

As the group began unpacking their haul, you couldn’t help but feel a small sense of pride. You’d survived the day without incident, and while it wasn’t much, it felt like a step in the right direction.

But you knew this was only the beginning.

The following days passed in a blur of routine and quiet tension. You found yourself settling into the group’s rhythm, though there was still an unspoken divide between you and the others.

Nanami remained as reserved as ever, focused on his tasks with an almost mechanical precision. Suguru was polite, occasionally offering a word of advice or a small gesture of kindness, but he seemed to prefer observing from the sidelines. Satoru, on the other hand, was relentless with his teasing, throwing in snarky comments whenever the opportunity arose.

And then there was Sukuna.

He spoke to you only when absolutely necessary, his tone clipped and his words laced with an authority that brooked no argument. He watched you constantly, his sharp gaze dissecting your every move. It was exhausting, and no matter how much effort you put into proving yourself useful, it never seemed to be enough for him.

Shoko, at least, made the transition easier. She’d taken you under her wing in her own dry, unflappable way, showing you the ins and outs of the base and ensuring you knew how to navigate their system.

“Don’t let Sukuna get to you,” she said one evening as you helped her sort through a crate of medical supplies. “He’s always like that. Doesn’t trust anyone outside the group.”

You glanced at her, hesitant. “I get it. I wouldn’t trust me either.”

Shoko snorted, lighting another cigarette. “Yeah, well, we’re not exactly saints. You’ll get there.”

Her words were reassuring, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that Sukuna wasn’t just being cautious. He was waiting—for you to make a mistake, to prove that you didn’t belong.

It was late one afternoon when your chance to prove yourself again came.

The group was in the common area, discussing plans for the next supply run. Sukuna was at the head of the table, gesturing to a map while the others listened intently.

“We’ll need to hit the northeast block,” he said, tapping the paper with a finger. “There’s a hardware store there. If we’re lucky, we’ll find some tools and parts to reinforce the barricades.”

“And if we’re not lucky?” Satoru asked, leaning back in his chair with a grin.

“Then we clear out the infected and keep moving,” Sukuna replied flatly.

The conversation continued, but you found yourself distracted by a low, distant noise—a sound you hadn’t heard in weeks. At first, you thought you were imagining it, but then it came again: a faint, pained groan.

Your blood ran cold.

“Do you hear that?” you asked, interrupting the conversation.

The group turned to look at you, varying degrees of curiosity and irritation on their faces.

“Hear what?” Nanami asked, his tone skeptical.

You held up a hand, straining to listen. The sound came again, louder this time, and you realized it wasn’t coming from outside. It was coming from somewhere within the building.

“There,” you whispered.

The group immediately tensed. Sukuna stood, his expression sharp. He glanced at you and Shoko. “Both of you, stay here,” he ordered before motioning for the others to follow him.

“I can help,” you said instinctively, stepping forward.

“No,” Sukuna snapped, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Stay. Here.”

Before you could protest, the group disappeared down the hallway, leaving you and Shoko alone in the common area.

Your heart raced as you listened to the faint echoes of their footsteps, followed by muffled voices and the occasional creak of the floorboards. The groaning sound grew louder, closer, until you could barely breathe.

And then, silence.

The minutes stretched on, each one heavier than the last, until finally, the group returned. Sukuna was at the front, dragging a body behind him—a man, bloody and unconscious but very much alive.

You stared in shock as he dropped the man onto the floor, the thud echoing through the room.

“He’s alive,” Shoko announced, kneeling beside the man and checking his pulse. “And not infected.”

“He could still turn,” Sukuna said coldly, his eyes narrowing.

“No,” you interjected firmly. “If he were bitten, he’d have turned by now. It only takes a minute.”

Nanami folded his arms, his expression unreadable. “He’s still deadweight. We don’t have the resources to waste.”

“We can’t just leave him,” Shoko argued, her voice calm but firm.

“I’ll handle it,” you said before you could stop yourself.

The room went silent, all eyes turning to you.

“What?” Sukuna said, his tone sharp.

“I can handle it,” you repeated, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I was a med student. Let me help him.”

Sukuna’s expression darkened, and for a moment, you thought he was going to refuse. But then he stepped back, his lips curling into a cold smirk.

“Fine,” he said. “Nanami, take him to the infirmary.”

Nanami sighed but complied, lifting the man with Satoru’s help and carrying him out of the room. The sound of their footsteps faded as they disappeared down the hallway.

The infirmary was a repurposed office room, its desks pushed aside to make space for several cots lined up against the walls. Shelves held neatly arranged medical supplies—bandages, antiseptics, painkillers—all salvaged from previous runs. The faint scent of alcohol lingered in the air, mixing with the metallic tang of blood.

Nanami and Satoru lowered the man onto one of the cots before leaving without a word. Shoko and you stayed behind, the silence between you punctuated by the man’s faint groans.

Shoko leaned against the wall, lighting a cigarette. “Guess you’re on, doc,” she said with a faint smirk. “What’s the plan?”

You moved to the cot, inspecting the man’s injuries. His clothes were shredded, blood soaking through what remained of his shirt. A jagged wound stretched across his abdomen, deep and ugly, though not fresh enough to bleed him out immediately.

“We need to stop the bleeding first,” you said, reaching into the small medical kit you’d salvaged weeks ago.

Shoko exhaled a stream of smoke and gestured toward a nearby shelf. “There’s more gauze and antiseptic over there. I’ll grab it.”

You nodded, already focused on cleaning the wound. Shoko returned with the supplies, setting them beside you before crouching to get a closer look at the man’s injuries.

“What do you think his story is?” Shoko asked, her tone light but curious.

You shook your head. “Hard to say. He’s been through hell, that much is obvious. But if he made it this far, he’s a fighter.”

“Or just lucky,” Shoko said, a hint of amusement in her voice.

“Maybe both,” you replied, focusing on stitching the gash closed. Your hands moved quickly but carefully, each stitch bringing the wound closer together. It was crude work, the kind you never would’ve considered acceptable back when you were studying medicine, but it would keep him alive. For now.

“Not bad,” Shoko said, watching as you tied off the final stitch. “You’ve got steady hands.”

You gave her a faint smile. “Thanks.”

The man groaned again, his head shifting slightly. You placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, feeling his breathing even out beneath your touch.

“He’ll need rest and fluids,” you said, leaning back to assess your work. After a moment, you sat back on your heels and added, “But he should pull through—if he doesn’t get an infection."

“That’s a big if,” Shoko said, standing and stretching lazily. “Sukuna’s not gonna like this.”

You swallowed hard, your stomach twisting at the thought of facing him. His disapproval was palpable even when he wasn’t in the room. “I’ll deal with it,” you said firmly, trying to muster some confidence.

Shoko gave you a half-smile, one corner of her mouth quirking up. “Good luck with that."

When you stepped back into the common area, the rest of the group was waiting. Sukuna leaned against the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his sharp gaze locking onto you the moment you entered.

“Well?” he asked, his voice low and cutting.

“He’s stable,” you said, keeping your tone steady despite the knot tightening in your stomach. “But he’s weak. He won’t survive on his own.”

“That’s not our problem,” Sukuna replied coldly.

You stiffened. “You can’t just—”

“Yes, I can,” he interrupted, his voice hardening as his eyes bore into yours. “He’s not one of us. I’m not risking our safety for someone who can’t pull their weight.”

You opened your mouth to argue again, but Shoko, still idly puffing on her cigarette, stepped in.

“She’s got a point, though,” Shoko said, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. “The guy’s barely hanging on. Sending him out now would just be a death sentence. We might as well have killed him ourselves.”

Sukuna’s sharp glare shifted to her, his expression darkening. “And?”

“And we don’t need that kind of bad karma hanging over us,” she continued, her tone casual but pointed. “Let him rest for the night. Patch him up properly, and send him on his way tomorrow.”

The room fell silent, all eyes turning to Sukuna as he weighed her words. His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking as his gaze flicked back to you.

Finally, he pushed off the wall and strode toward you, his towering presence suffocating as he stopped just short of invading your space.

“One night,” he said, his voice low and brimming with warning. “And if he so much as breathes wrong, it’s on you. Got it?”

You nodded, swallowing hard under the weight of his gaze. “Got it.”

Satisfied, Sukuna turned and walked away, tension dissipating slightly with each heavy step he took down the hallway.

Satoru let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.”

“Or she’s just reckless,” Nanami muttered, his tone as blunt as ever.

Suguru, who had remained silent until now, gave you a measured look and a small nod. “It was the right call,” he said simply.

You didn’t respond, your mind already racing with thoughts of what tomorrow would bring. For now, all you could do was hope you’d made the right decision.

The injured man stirred restlessly throughout the night, his labored breathing echoing faintly in the pharmacy’s quiet halls. You stayed close by, keeping a cautious watch for any signs of infection—or worse, the telltale fever that could signal the end.

Shoko had supplied you with a couple of clean rags, and you used one to wipe the sweat from the man’s brow. His skin was clammy, but his pulse, though weak, remained steady.

“Lucky bastard,” Shoko muttered from the doorway, startling you.

You glanced back at her. She had a cigarette between her fingers, though it was unlit. “How so?”

“He survived out there long enough for you to find him. And Sukuna didn’t kick his ass out the moment he saw him.”

You didn’t respond, focusing instead on adjusting the makeshift bandage over his wound.

Shoko stepped into the room, her expression unreadable as she crouched beside you. “You really don’t think he’s infected?”

You shook your head. “He would’ve shown symptoms by now. Fever, spasms, disorientation… but he’s coherent. Exhausted, but human.”

“For now,” she said, her tone carrying a note of warning.

You didn’t miss the implication. “If he shows any signs, I’ll deal with it.”

Shoko raised an eyebrow, studying you for a moment. Then, to your surprise, she nodded. “Fair enough.”

The two of you sat in silence for a while, the faint hum of wind outside filling the space. Finally, Shoko stood and stretched, her back popping faintly.

“Better get some rest,” she said. “Sukuna is going to want an update in the morning.”

You hesitated. “Do you think he’ll…?”

“Change his mind?” Shoko said. “Not a chance. Sukuna’s stubborn as hell. But if the guy pulls through, he’ll at least have a fighting chance out there. That’s more than most people get.”

She left without another word, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the sound of the man’s uneven breathing.

Morning came too quickly. By the time the group gathered in the common area, you were dead on your feet, the ache in your back and shoulders a dull reminder of how long you’d spent sitting on the cold floor.

“He’s stable,” you reported when Sukuna’s sharp gaze landed on you. “The wound’s healing, and there’s no sign of infection.”

Sukuna didn’t respond right away. He leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, and studied you with that same piercing look that made your skin crawl.

“And?” he said finally.

“And he’s in no condition to leave yet,” you said, forcing yourself to stand taller despite your exhaustion. “But if he rests for another day or two, he should be able to manage on his own.”

Sukuna’s expression hardened. “Fine. One more day,” he said coldly. “Then he’s gone by tomorrow. No exceptions.”

You nodded, keeping your face neutral. Sukuna’s decision was final, and pushing back would likely do more harm than good. Still, the pit in your stomach only seemed to grow

A few hours later, you checked on the injured man. His color had improved slightly, though his movements were sluggish and weak. He blinked up at you, his gaze unfocused.

“Where… am I?” he rasped.

“Safe,” you said simply, not offering more. “For now.”

He winced as he tried to sit up, and you placed a firm hand on his shoulder to stop him. “Don’t. You’ll tear the stitches.”

His eyes flicked toward you, confusion etched into his features. “Who…?”

“Doesn’t matter,” you interrupted. “You’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

His expression shifted, a mix of fear and resignation passing over his face. “I can’t—”

“You don’t have a choice,” you said, your tone sharper than you intended. Guilt flared in your chest, but you pushed it down. There was no point in giving him false hope.

By nightfall, the man was stronger, though still far from healthy. His movements were sluggish, and he winced with every shift, but his color had improved, and he was coherent enough to sip the water you offered him. As you helped him sit up, you couldn’t help but wonder if Sukuna’s decision had been the right one. Was it fair to send someone out into a world like this, knowing the odds were stacked so heavily against him?

But then you thought of the group—of how much they’d risked just letting you in—and you understood why Sukuna was so unyielding. Trust wasn’t something people could afford to give freely anymore. Compassion could get you killed just as easily as cruelty.

Still, you couldn’t stand the thought of sending him out with nothing. That evening, you packed a battered backpack with supplies: a bottle of water, a couple of cans of food, the blanket you’d found earlier, and a spare jacket. You tore a page from an old notebook and scribbled a few instructions: “Change the bandages daily. Keep the wound clean. If you feel feverish or the pain gets worse, don’t push yourself.”

The next morning, when Sukuna ordered the man to leave, no one spoke up to argue. Not even you.

The following morning, the man was gone. Whether he’d made it far or fallen victim to the harshness of the world, you didn’t know. No one spoke about it—not over breakfast, not during the day’s routines. The group moved forward without looking back, and you did your best to follow their lead, even as guilt gnawed at your insides.

You were restocking the med kits in the corner of the common area when Shoko appeared, a mug in her hand and a relaxed expression on her face.

“Thought you could use this,” she said, holding it out to you.

You blinked at her in surprise before taking the mug from her hands. The warmth seeped into your fingers instantly, a welcome comfort against the chill of the room. “What is it?”

“Instant coffee,” she said, pulling up a chair. “Barely tastes like coffee, but it’s hot, and it’s something.”

Grateful, you wrapped your hands around the mug and let the warmth seep into your fingers. “Thanks.”

Shoko leaned back, her gaze flicking to the supplies you were organizing. “Not bad, newbie,” she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You’re settling in better than I expected.”

“Newbie?” you asked, raising a brow.

Her smile widened. “Satoru calls you that.”

You groaned, shaking your head. “Of course, he does.”

“Don’t let it get to you,” she said with a laugh. “He’s an idiot, but he’s harmless. Well—mostly harmless.”

The comment earned a small chuckle from you. “Good to know.”

Her tone softened as she looked back at you. “For what it’s worth, you’ve been doing fine. Better than fine, really. Not many people would’ve patched up that guy the way you did, even knowing he’d be gone by morning.”

You glanced down at the mug in your hands, unsure how to respond. “It just… felt like the right thing to do,” you admitted quietly.

Shoko nodded, a thoughtful look crossing her face. “You’ve got a good instinct for this kind of thing,” she said. “It’s why I spoke up for you. I figured you’d be worth keeping around.”

Her casual praise caught you off guard, and warmth spread through your chest. “Thanks,” you murmured, the word feeling inadequate for what you wanted to say.

“Don’t mention it,” she said, waving a hand. “Don't let Sukuna scare you off. He’s a pain, but he doesn’t bite—well, not unless you really piss him off.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Finish your coffee,” Shoko said, pushing herself to her feet. “I’ll show you how to get inventory done without losing your mind.”

“Deal,” you said, lifting the mug to your lips.

As she led the way to the storage room, a small smile lingered on your face. Shoko’s steady presence made you feel, for once, like you might actually have a place here after all.

Over the next few days, the others began to warm up to you in their own ways—some more obviously than others.

Suguru was one of the first to reach out.

You were sitting near the barricaded entrance, mending a tear in your jacket, when Suguru approached with something folded in his hands. He knelt down beside you, holding it out.

“Here,” he said. “Thought this might help.”

You took the fabric, your fingers brushing over its thick, durable texture. “What is it?”

“An old tarp from storage,” he replied. “I figured you could use it to patch that up properly.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the gesture. “You didn’t have to do this.”

He shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It’s not a big deal. Besides, can’t have you walking around in rags—it’d reflect badly on us.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Thanks, Suguru. Really.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said as he stood, brushing some dust off his pants. He gave you a small nod before turning and walking away, his steps unhurried.

You watched him go, the warmth of his gesture lingering long after he disappeared around the corner.

Satoru’s approach, as always, was less subtle.

He found you crouched near the supply shelves, reassembling a broken lantern you’d scrounged up earlier.

“Whatcha doing, newbie?” he asked, plopping down beside you with his trademark grin.

“Trying to fix this,” you replied, not bothering to look up. “It’s not much, but it might help.”

Satoru leaned closer, watching you fiddle with the pieces. “Didn’t peg you as the handy type.”

You glanced at him. “What type did you peg me as?”

“Honestly? Thought you’d cry and bolt on day one.”

You shot him a deadpan look. “Wow. Glad I could exceed expectations.”

He laughed, completely unbothered. “Hey, I’m impressed! You’ve got guts, newbie. Gotta admit, I didn’t think you’d last.”

His teasing was irritating, but there was an unexpected warmth in his words. By the time he wandered off, you realized you were smiling.

Nanami, on the other hand, was quieter in his support.

You were dragging a crate of supplies across the common area when a hand reached past you and lifted it with ease.

Startled, you glanced up to see Nanami, his expression calm as ever. “You shouldn’t be carrying something that heavy by yourself,” he said plainly.

“I could’ve managed,” you muttered, embarrassed.

“Maybe,” he replied, setting the crate down neatly against the wall. “But why make things harder than they need to be?”

You opened your mouth to thank him, but before you could, he was already heading back toward the shelves, his focus back on his work.

And then there was Sukuna.

It was late, and the common area was dimly lit by the faint glow of a battery-powered lantern resting on the center table. You sat hunched over the table, scribbling in your worn notebook. The blanket draped over your shoulders barely kept the chill at bay, but the small comfort of the pages beneath your hands kept you focused.

The soft creak of a chair startled you, and you looked up to see Shoko settling into the seat across from you. She rested her chin in her hand, her sharp gaze flicking to your notebook.

“What’re you working on?” she asked.

“Just writing down what I remember from med school,” you said, glancing at her briefly before returning to your notes. “You know—stuff about infection treatments, first aid. Trying to make sure I don’t forget anything important.”

Shoko tilted her head, intrigued. “Let me guess. Wound care, fever management, that kind of thing?”

“Pretty much,” you replied with a faint smile. “It’s not like we have access to the good stuff anymore.”

She huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re not wrong. If nothing else, the basics will get you farther than you’d think. They drilled that into us pretty hard back in school.”

You paused your writing to glance at her. “How far were you?”

“Three years in,” she replied, leaning back in her chair. “Long enough to know what I was doing, not long enough to actually finish.”

You nodded, finding a strange comfort in that. “Same here. Well, not three years—just one. Still feels like a lifetime ago.”

“It does,” she agreed, her voice quieter now. “But hey, you’re not doing bad for someone who barely started.”

A small laugh escaped you. “Thanks. High praise coming from someone who’s ahead of me.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she said with a smirk, though her tone was light. She nodded toward your notebook. “What else have you got in there?”

“Just the things I think might come up. Stuff I’ve had to deal with already, mostly. Fevers, infected cuts, dehydration. It’s not much, but…”

“It’s something,” Shoko finished for you. “And that’s more than a lot of people can say. Keep at it. Writing things down helps—it’s easy to forget details when everything’s chaos.”

You hesitated before asking, “Do you ever write stuff like this? Just in case?”

She shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Nah. I keep it all up here.” She tapped her temple. “I guess I’ve always thought that if I need something badly enough, I’ll remember it. Besides, Satoru’s got a freakishly good memory for this kind of stuff—he’s like a walking cheat sheet when he wants to be useful.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, the tension easing from your shoulders. “I guess that’s one way to get by.”

“Hey,” she said, nodding toward your notebook. “What med school did you go to, anyway?”

Before you could respond, the sound of heavy boots echoed across the room, pulling both your attention toward the doorway. Sukuna stood there, his arms crossed and crimson gaze fixed on Shoko.

“Shoko,” he said, his voice sharp. “You’re on watch tonight. Get going.”

She sighed dramatically, but you noticed how she rose without argument. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, I won’t let the big bad zombies in.” She glanced at you and Sukuna. “Enjoy your chat.”

With that, she slipped out, leaving you alone with Sukuna.

“Studying?” Sukuna’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and sardonic.

“Just trying to be useful,” you said cautiously, bracing for whatever jab he was about to make.

“Hmph.” He took a step closer, his gaze flicking to the notebook in your hands. “That’s useless.”

Your grip on the pen tightened. “It’s not useless if it helps someone survive.”

He tilted his head, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “You really think you can save everyone, don’t you?”

You met his gaze, refusing to back down. “No. But I can try.”

For a moment, something shifted in his expression—a flicker of something softer—but it disappeared as quickly as it came. “Try all you want,” he said, turning away. “Doesn’t mean the world won’t kill them anyway.”

His words lingered long after he left, heavy with an unspoken truth that you couldn’t quite unravel.

You were starting to feel it—the subtle shift in the group’s dynamic, like you were slowly being woven into their fabric. The tension that had clung to your every step when you first joined had eased, replaced by a quiet understanding of how they worked together.

You and Shoko had started growing closer over the past few days, the initial distance between you shrinking as casual chats turned into something resembling friendship. She often found you during quiet moments, dragging a chair over to share a cigarette and trade stories—or, more often, her sharp humor paired with a few genuine words of advice. It became a small comfort, those moments with her, grounding you in a world that constantly threatened to pull you under.

Suguru had started inviting you to tag along on supply runs, explaining their strategies in a calm, steady tone that made everything seem less daunting. He’d walk alongside you, pointing out key routes and landmarks to remember, his voice carrying a certain patience that put you at ease.

And even Nanami, in his quiet way, had begun to acknowledge you more, offering the occasional tip or simply nodding in approval when you finished a task efficiently

Satoru, meanwhile, had decided it was his mission to “toughen you up.” Almost every afternoon, he’d challenge you to mock sparring matches, claiming it was all in the name of survival. These sessions usually ended with him grinning while you tried to catch your breath, but even his teasing felt like a strange kind of encouragement.

But Sukuna? He remained distant—watchful and unyielding, as if he were waiting for you to prove him right about whatever assumptions he’d made.

One evening, after dinner, the group lingered in the common area, the glow of the lantern casting soft shadows across the room. Satoru leaned back against a crate, flipping a pocket knife idly in his hand, while Suguru and Shoko shared quiet conversation over a deck of cards. Nanami was seated at the far end, reading a book he’d found on a supply run. You sat off to the side, carefully stitching a tear in Satoru’s jacket that he’d insisted wasn’t worth fixing. The rhythmic motion of needle and thread helped you focus, even as the group's chatter flowed around you.

Satoru, as usual, decided to shake things up. “Alright, newbie,” he said, flicking the knife into the air and catching it by the handle. “What’s the wildest thing you’ve done to make it this far?”

All eyes turned to you, even Shoko and Suguru pausing their game. Sukuna was leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, but you felt the weight of his crimson gaze on you.

You hesitated, memories of near-death moments and desperate decisions flashing in your mind. “Probably the time I climbed out of a second-story window using a bedsheet rope,” you said after a moment. “The place was overrun, and I didn’t think I’d make it if I stayed.”

“Bedsheet rope?” Shoko raised a brow, a grin tugging at her lips. “Did it actually hold?”

“Barely,” you admitted, a small smile creeping onto your face. “I landed in a dumpster, which I guess cushioned the fall. But I smelled like garbage for days.”

Satoru laughed, loud and unrestrained. “A dumpster escape? Classic. You’re officially one of us now.”

“Better than some of your ideas,” Nanami said without looking up from his book, drawing an exaggerated gasp from Satoru.

“Hey, all my plans are genius,” Satoru shot back. “Some just... don’t pan out.”

Suguru shook his head, chuckling. “Sure, genius.”

Even Shoko snorted, and for a moment, the group felt lighter, their collective laughter a rare break from the grim reality outside.

You glanced toward Sukuna, half-expecting a cutting remark, but he didn’t say a word. He pushed off the wall instead, his boots heavy against the floor.

“I’m checking the perimeter,” he muttered, heading for the door.

The mood shifted subtly as he left, but no one commented on it. You leaned back in your seat, letting the warmth of the group’s humor settle over you, even if Sukuna’s stormy presence lingered at the edges of your mind.

The next morning, the pharmacy’s halls were filled with the usual sounds of life in the apocalypse: murmured conversations, the shuffle of boots, the clatter of weapons being prepped. You were still adjusting to the rhythms of the group, waking early so you wouldn’t miss anything important or be perceived as a slacker.

Shoko was already in the supply room when you arrived, reorganizing the shelves with her usual nonchalant efficiency.

“Morning, early bird,” she said without looking up from the gauze she was stacking. “Come to help, or just bored?”

“A little of both,” you replied, grabbing a box of antiseptic wipes to sort through.

She glanced at you, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You’re catching on fast. That’s good.”

The casual praise made your chest warm, and you nodded, trying not to let your gratitude show too much. Shoko’s friendship—and the growing camaraderie with the others—was more than you’d expected after being alone for so long.

By mid-morning, Suguru and Satoru were in the common area, going through their usual supply check. Their easy banter filled the room, a contrast to the ever-present tension of survival.

“We’re low on canned fruit again,” Suguru said, examining the inventory list with his usual calm.

“That’s because you keep eating it all,” Satoru teased, tossing a can of beans into a crate with a grin.

Carrying a clipboard Shoko had handed you to update the medical supplies inventory, you entered just as Satoru’s laugh echoed through the room.

“Hey, newbie!” he called, noticing you. “How’s the Shoko torture program going?"

“It’s fine,” you said, playing along. “I think I’m surviving.”

“Good to know,” Suguru said, giving you a small nod. “We need survivors, not liabilities.”

His tone wasn’t unkind, but the bluntness still made your stomach twist.

“She’s not a liability,” Shoko’s voice cut in from the doorway, cigarette in hand. She glanced at Suguru with a smirk. “At least she doesn’t waste food or hog the bathroom.”

Satoru doubled over laughing, and even Suguru’s lips quirked upward. You relaxed a little, grateful for Shoko’s casual defense.

The lighthearted mood shifted when Sukuna entered the room. His presence seemed to absorb the air, silencing the banter as everyone straightened unconsciously.

“We’re heading out in thirty,” he said, his tone clipped. “Suguru, Nanami, Satoru—gear up. Shoko, keep the place locked down.”

“What’s the plan?” Suguru asked, already folding the inventory list.

“Pharmacy across town,” Sukuna replied. “We’re running low on antibiotics.”

Your ears perked up, but you hesitated before speaking. It wasn’t your place to offer, but the words tumbled out before you could stop yourself.

“I’ll come with you,” you said, the suggestion hanging in the now-silent room.

All eyes turned to you. Sukuna’s crimson gaze was sharp and unwavering.

“No,” he said flatly.

You swallowed but held your ground. “I know how to check expiration dates,” you argued. “I can identify what we need faster—”

“I said no,” Sukuna interrupted, his tone cutting through your words. “We don’t need anyone slowing us down.”

Before the tension could stretch further, Suguru stepped in, leaning casually against the table. “She’s been on a few runs with me already,” he said, his voice calm but pointed. “She’s been pulling her weight.”

Sukuna’s glare shifted to him, sharp and unwavering. “You’re responsible for her, then.”

“I’m responsible for getting the supplies.” Suguru replied smoothly.

Shoko exhaled a plume of smoke, adding her voice to the mix. “She knows what we need, and she’s been working her ass off since she got here. Just let her go."

Nanami and Satoru exchanged glances but said nothing, their silence adding weight to the conversation. Sukuna’s jaw tightened, frustration radiating off him.

Finally, his crimson gaze flicked back to you, his expression unreadable.

“Fine,” he said curtly. “But if you screw up, that’s on you.”

His words hung heavy in the air as he turned and stalked off, leaving the room tense in his wake.

Shoko smirked, extinguishing her cigarette. “Guess you’re in,” she said, her tone light.

The tension hung thick in the air as you geared up, your heart pounding with a mix of nerves and determination. Shoko caught you just before you left, her hand resting lightly on your arm.

“Don’t let him get to you,” she said softly. Her tone was steady, but her eyes held a flicker of concern. “He’s harder on people he doesn’t know, but it’s not personal.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you muttered, earning a small chuckle from her.

“He’s just… Sukuna,” she said with a shrug, as though that explained everything. And maybe it did.

The streets were eerily quiet as the group moved in formation. Sukuna led at the front, Suguru and Nanami flanked the sides, and Satoru kept watch from the rear. You were sandwiched in the middle, your grip on your weapon tightening with every cautious step.

The silence wasn’t calming. It buzzed in your ears, amplifying every distant rustle and creak. Shadows danced in the corners of your vision, each one setting your nerves on edge.

“Relax,” Satoru whispered from behind you. “If you keep clutching that thing like it owes you money, you’re going to wear yourself out before anything happens.”

You shot him a look but didn’t loosen your hold.

“It’s her first big outing,” Suguru murmured, his eyes scanning the road ahead. “She’ll find her rhythm.”

“Let’s hope she does,” Sukuna said, his tone sharp enough to make your stomach drop.

You bit the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to focus. You didn’t need his approval; you just had to prove you could handle yourself.

The pharmacy came into view five blocks later, nestled on a side street filled with overturned cars and shattered glass. The faint, acrid scent of decay lingered in the air, a grim reminder of the world outside.

Sukuna raised his hand, signaling the group to stop. He pointed to Suguru and Nanami. “Check the perimeter. Afterwards, see if you can find anything useful—tools or supplies. Satoru, keep watch at the entrance.”

Turning to you, his gaze was cold and unyielding. “You’re with me.”

Your pulse quickened as you nodded, following him toward the entrance. The glass doors had been shattered, and the inside was dimly lit by slivers of daylight filtering through grime-covered windows.

The pharmacy was a mess of toppled shelves and scattered supplies. Sukuna moved with quiet precision, scanning the aisles as he gave curt instructions.

“Antibiotics, painkillers, disinfectants. Check expiration dates. Don’t waste time.”

“Got it,” you replied, your voice steadier than you felt.

The two of you worked in tense silence, the only sounds the faint rustling of supplies and the occasional creak of the warped floorboards. You crouched behind a counter, sorting through a dusty box of medical supplies. Bottles of saline, rolls of bandages—your hands moved quickly, driven by the need to prove your worth.

Sukuna moved like a predator, each step purposeful. His sharp eyes swept over the shelves as he rifled through the remnants of the pharmacy’s stock. Despite his harsh demeanor, there was an air of competence about him that was impossible to ignore. He was someone you could trust to keep you alive, even if he made it clear he wouldn’t trust you in return.

The brittle quiet shattered when a sudden crash echoed from the back of the store.

Your heart leapt into your throat as Sukuna spun toward the noise, weapon already in hand. “Stay here,” he ordered, his voice low but commanding.

You froze, gripping your weapon tighter as your mind raced. He disappeared around the corner, his steps deliberate and silent. The shuffling groan of something inhuman followed, sending a chill down your spine.

A zombie.

The clash of metal against bone echoed through the pharmacy, followed by Sukuna’s grunt of exertion. Then you heard it—a second groan, closer and faster.

Panic surged through you. Another one.

You couldn’t stay put. Not when he might be outnumbered. Gripping your weapon, you crept toward the noise, your pulse hammering in your ears.

As you reached the corner, you peeked around it. Sukuna was engaged with one zombie, its decayed form lunging at him with jerky movements. He dispatched it with brutal efficiency, his blade slicing through bone like paper.

But he didn’t see the second zombie emerging from the shadows behind him. Its rotting fingers stretched toward his back.

You didn’t think—you acted.

With a burst of adrenaline, you sprinted forward and swung your weapon with all your strength. The blunt end connected with the zombie’s skull, the force knocking it off balance. It staggered, giving you just enough time to finish it off with a decisive strike to the head.

Panting, you stepped back, your chest heaving as the rush of the moment caught up to you.

Sukuna turned to face you, his crimson eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. His gaze flicked from the crumpled body at your feet to your trembling hands.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched taut, heavy with unspoken tension.

Finally, he broke it. “You should’ve stayed put,” he said, his tone cold. But there was no real venom behind the words.

You met his gaze, steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through you. “If I did, you’d be dead.”

Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or something deeper. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

“Fair enough,” he muttered. “Thanks.”

It wasn’t exactly gratitude, but it was close enough. You nodded, forcing your breathing to slow as you steadied yourself.

Sukuna turned back to the now-silent storage room, his movements brisk. “Let’s finish up and get out of here. No more heroics.”

You followed him, your grip on your weapon firm. His acknowledgment, however grudging, was a step forward. And in this world, steps forward were all you could ask for.

The walk back to the base was quieter than usual. The others were caught up in low conversations, recounting details of the trip and joking about who carried the heaviest load. You could feel Sukuna’s presence just a few paces ahead of you. He didn’t say a word, but his usual tension wasn’t as sharp. It was subtle, like he was letting himself breathe for the first time in a while.

When the group finally arrived at the base, the routine kicked in like clockwork. Supplies were unloaded and sorted, with Shoko perched at the desk, her cigarette dangling lazily between two fingers as she directed the flow of items.

"Looks like you found everything we needed," Shoko remarked, her sharp gaze scanning the bags. "Nicely done."

"Decent work," Sukuna said evenly, brushing past her leaving the room.

You stayed quiet, trying not to draw attention to yourself. Sukuna’s acknowledgement back at the store had been enough of a surprise; you didn’t want to push your luck.

But as you grabbed your own bag of supplies and moved to help Shoko, Satoru appeared at your side.

"Hey," he said, sidling up to you with a grin that could only mean trouble. "So, I hear you went all knight-in-shining-armor back there."

Your cheeks burned. "It wasn’t like that," you mumbled, focusing on unpacking the supplies.

"Really?" Satoru watching you with an infuriatingly knowing look. "Because from what I heard, you saved Sukuna’s life. That’s gotta be worth a medal or something."

You couldn’t help but laugh softly. "I think he’d disagree with you."

"Maybe," Satoru admitted, his grin softening into something more genuine. "But trust me, it matters. Sukuna doesn’t trust people easily. If he’s starting to, even just a little… that’s a big deal."

You glanced toward the storage room where Sukuna was organizing the supplies.

Maybe Satoru was onto something.

"Don’t let it go to your head, though," Satoru added with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "He’ll still find something to criticize tomorrow."

You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly. "Thanks for the pep talk."

As the day wore on, you couldn’t help but notice the small changes. When Sukuna handed out tasks for the evening, his tone wasn’t as cutting when he addressed you. Later, during dinner, he actually acknowledged you with a quiet question about the inventory—nothing extraordinary, but it was miles ahead of his usual silence.

Shoko caught you while you were restocking the first aid kits that night, her sharp eyes scanning you with a mix of approval and amusement.

"Good work out there today," she said, her voice low but sincere.

"Thanks," you replied, tucking a roll of gauze into a pouch. "I just reacted. I didn’t really think."

"That’s how it is sometimes," she said, lighting a fresh cigarette. She took a slow drag, exhaling a thin stream of smoke before continuing. "But Sukuna noticed. He won’t say it outright, but he respects people who hold their own. You earned that today."

You blinked at her, caught off guard by her candidness. "You really think so?"

"I know so," she said with a faint smirk. "Just don’t expect him to roll out a red carpet or anything. He’s still Sukuna."

The thought made you smile despite yourself. "Yeah, I figured as much."

That night, as the group settled into their routines, you lay awake in your bed, staring at the ceiling. The quiet hum of the others—Nanami flipping pages in his notebook, Suguru and Satoru trading jokes in hushed tones—made the base feel almost normal.

Your thoughts drifted to Sukuna, to the way he’d thanked you, however grudgingly. His walls weren’t gone, not by a long shot. But for the first time, you thought you saw a crack in them—a small glimpse of the person underneath.

It wasn’t much. But it was something. And for now, that was enough

The next few days passed in a tentative calm, the group settling back into their usual rhythm. Sukuna’s small shift in demeanor toward you hadn’t gone unnoticed, though no one dared to comment on it outright. His leadership style remained the same—blunt, no-nonsense, and occasionally sharp—but his treatment of you had softened ever so slightly.

It was in the little things. He didn’t bark your name like it was an insult anymore. When tasks were divided, he didn’t immediately assign you the least favorable ones. And when you spoke up during group discussions, he didn’t interrupt or shut you down. Small gestures, but for Sukuna, they might as well have been grand declarations.

Still, his trust was like the flicker of a distant flame—visible, but too far away to warm you just yet. You knew better than to expect miracles.

One afternoon, as the group gathered around the dining table for the next supply run discussion, you found yourself fidgeting with a pen, tapping it nervously against your notebook. Sukuna stood at the head of the group, a map of the surrounding area spread out in front of him, his intense gaze scanning the terrain for answers.

“We’re low on food and water again,” Nanami said, his voice calm but laced with urgency. “The nearest grocery stores are completely cleaned out. We’ll need to start looking further out.”

“That’s risky,” Suguru replied, leaning back in his chair. “The farther we go, the more likely we run into trouble—whether it’s other groups or something worse.”

“Maybe,” Satoru chimed in, popping a peanut into his mouth, “but we can’t just keep scrounging around the same empty buildings. Gotta roll the dice at some point.”

Sukuna nodded, his finger trailing across the map. “There’s a warehouse here.” He tapped a spot roughly a mile and a half away. “It’s a gamble, but it might still have something useful. We’ll split into two teams. One handles the warehouse, the other checks the pharmacy again for medical supplies.”

Shoko raised an eyebrow. “Two teams for two dangerous locations? Bold.”

“Calculated,” Sukuna corrected. “Suguru, Satoru, and Nanami—you’ll take the pharmacy. Shoko, you stay back and keep the base running.”

“And the warehouse?” Suguru asked.

Sukuna’s eyes flicked toward you, and your heart skipped a beat. “I’ll take the newbie.”

The room fell silent.

You blinked, unsure you’d heard him correctly. “Me?”

“You’re not deaf, are you?” Sukuna replied, crossing his arms. “You’ve proven you’re not completely useless. Time to see if that wasn’t just dumb luck.”

The tension in the room shifted. Satoru’s grin widened, clearly entertained by the turn of events. Suguru remained expressionless, while Shoko gave you a subtle nod of encouragement. Nanami’s lack of protest was the most surprising of all, though his gaze lingered on Sukuna for a moment before returning to the map.

“I’ll go,” you said finally, forcing your voice to stay steady.

The walk to the warehouse was uneventful at first. Sukuna led the way, his steps confident and deliberate. You followed close behind, clutching your weapon tightly and trying not to let your nerves show. The silence between you felt heavy, broken only by the occasional rustle of debris or distant echo of the wind through the ruined streets.

“You’re tense,” Sukuna said abruptly, his voice low but clear.

You glanced at him, startled. “What?”

“Relax,” he said without looking back. “If you’re this wound up, you’ll freeze when it matters. That’s how you get killed.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. “Right. Got it.”

For a moment, you thought the conversation was over. But then he added, almost grudgingly, “You did good the other day. Quick thinking.”

Your eyes widened slightly, and you couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he muttered, picking up his pace. “You still have a long way to go.”

Despite his gruff tone, his words stayed with you. Coming from Sukuna, even a half-compliment felt monumental.

The warehouse loomed ahead, its broken windows and rusted metal exterior casting eerie shadows in the fading light. Sukuna stopped just short of the entrance, his eyes scanning the area for any signs of movement.

“Stay close,” he ordered, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, gripping your weapon as you followed him inside. The air was heavy with the stench of decay, and your footsteps echoed against the empty shelves.

At first, the search was uneventful. You moved through the aisles, grabbing what little remained—cans of soup, bottles of water, a forgotten box of granola bars. The weight of your bag grew with each find, and for a fleeting moment, you thought the run might actually go smoothly.

Then, from the shadows, came the guttural snarl of the undead.

The snarl echoed through the warehouse, freezing the blood in your veins. Your grip tightened on your weapon, your heart pounding in your ears. Sukuna immediately moved into action, his posture rigid, his eyes scanning the darkness for movement.

“Stay behind me,” he barked, his voice low but commanding.

You nodded, falling into step just behind him. The guttural sounds grew louder, accompanied by the shuffling of feet against the cracked concrete floor. From the far corner of the warehouse, they appeared—three zombies, their rotting forms staggering toward you with alarming speed.

“Shit,” Sukuna hissed, raising his blade. “Stay sharp.”

He surged forward with lethal precision, his movements a blur of calculated violence. The first zombie went down with a single strike to the skull, its body crumpling to the ground. Sukuna didn’t stop, his blade swinging in an arc to take out the second one with equal ease.

But as he turned to deal with the third, you felt a chill run down your spine—a faint shuffle behind you. Your breath hitched, and before you could react, a decayed hand grabbed your arm. Panic shot through you as the zombie lunged, its teeth gnashing dangerously close to your neck.

“Shit!” you yelped, struggling against its grip.

“Hold still!” Sukuna’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

Before you could even comprehend what was happening, Sukuna was there. In one swift motion, he shoved you out of the zombie’s grasp and plunged his blade into its head. The creature collapsed in a heap, and silence fell once more.

You landed on the ground with a thud, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. Sukuna loomed over you, his face set in a scowl that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He extended a hand, and you hesitated for a moment before taking it. His grip was strong and steady as he pulled you to your feet.

“You okay?” he asked, his tone softer than you’d expected.

“I… yeah,” you stammered, still shaken. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me,” he muttered, his eyes scanning you for injuries. “You shouldn’t have let it get that close.”

“I didn’t—” you started to protest but stopped when you saw the flicker of something in his expression. Concern. He wasn’t just scolding you; he was genuinely worried.

“I told you to stay close,” he said, his voice low but not unkind. “I can’t cover you if you wander off.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you said quietly, your fingers trembling as you wiped zombie blood off your sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

For a moment, Sukuna said nothing. Then, with a sigh, he reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair from your face. The gesture was so unexpected, so uncharacteristically tender, that you froze.

“Just… stay close,” he repeated, his hand lingering for a fraction of a second before he pulled away. His gaze softened, just enough for you to notice. “I’m not dragging your corpse back to the base.”

Despite the gruffness of his words, there was an unmistakable warmth in his tone. Your chest tightened, and you nodded. “Okay.”

As you gathered yourself, Sukuna gave you a sidelong glance, his lips twitching faintly. “Guess we’re even now.”

“What?” you asked, blinking in confusion.

“You saved me the other day. I just saved your ass. So, we’re even.” His voice was calm, but the hint of amusement in his tone caught you off guard.

A small laugh escaped you, surprising even yourself. “I guess we are.”

Sukuna’s expression didn’t change, but you swore there was the faintest hint of a smirk on his face as he turned away. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Sukuna turned back toward the now-silent aisles, his posture tense but his pace slower than before. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure you were still following, and when your eyes met, he gave a small nod of approval.

The rest of the search was uneventful, though you couldn’t shake the memory of Sukuna’s hand against yours, of the subtle shift in his demeanor. When the two of you finally stepped out of the warehouse, the late afternoon sunlight hit your face, and you exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

As you walked back to the base, Sukuna kept a steady pace, his sharp gaze constantly scanning the streets for threats. But this time, he stayed just a little closer to your side.

The base came into view as the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the barricades. Relief washed over you as you and Sukuna passed through the gates, your shoulders aching from the weight of your packs. Shoko was waiting at the entrance, her sharp eyes immediately scanning both of you.

“Finally,” she said, arms crossed. “I was starting to think you two wouldn’t make it back.”

“Ran into some trouble,” Sukuna replied gruffly, dropping his bag to the ground. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

Her gaze shifted to you, and for a moment, her sharpness softened. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you replied, brushing off the lingering tension from the fight. “Just tired.”

Shoko nodded, but her frown deepened. “The others aren’t back yet.”

Sukuna’s brow furrowed, and his shoulders stiffened. “They’re late?”

“They were supposed to check the pharmacy,” Shoko explained, her voice tinged with worry. “They should’ve been back already.”

You exchanged a glance with Sukuna, unease settling in your chest.

“They could’ve gotten held up,” you offered, though your voice lacked conviction.

“Maybe,” Shoko said. “But I don’t want to sit around and wait. I was thinking of heading into the woods to scavenge. If we’re going to be stuck here longer, we need fresh supplies. I can check on the traps we set last week and look for forageable food.”

Sukuna immediately shook his head. “Not alone. If you’re going out there, you need backup.”

Shoko raised a brow, her hands on her hips. “I appreciate your concern, but we don’t need everyone exhausted before we even know if something’s actually wrong with the other group.”

“I’ll go with you,” Sukuna said, his tone brooking no argument.

“No,” Shoko countered firmly. “You just got back. You need rest. Especially if it turns out we do need to go after them.”

Sukuna scoffed. “Then she can go.” He jerked his thumb toward you.

Shoko glanced at you, her expression thoughtful. “She just got back too, Sukuna. And this was only her second real run. She needs rest as much as you do.”

“Then who the hell is supposed to go with you?” Sukuna snapped, his frustration clear.

Shoko smirked faintly. “No one. I’ll be fine. I know the woods, and it’s close enough to base. I won’t be gone long.”

“Terrible idea,” Sukuna growled.

“Sukuna,” Shoko said, her tone softening but firm. “If something’s happened to the others, you’re going to need every ounce of energy to deal with it. Same goes for her. Let me do this. I’ll be back before dark.”

His jaw clenched, the muscles ticking visibly. You could tell he hated this plan, but even he couldn’t argue with her logic. After a tense moment, he relented with a frustrated exhale.

“Fine,” he said at last. “But if you’re not back by dark, I’m coming after you myself.”

Shoko chuckled, giving him a two-fingered salute. “Noted. I’ll be back soon.”

Without waiting for further argument, she disappeared into the base to gather her things. Sukuna watched her go, muttering something under his breath that you didn’t quite catch.

“She’ll be fine,” you said, though you weren’t sure if you were reassuring him or yourself.

“Better be,” he muttered, turning toward the main hall. “Get some rest. If those idiots don’t show up soon, we’ll have to move fast.”

You nodded, the weight of the situation pressing down on you as you followed him inside. Whatever was happening, you could only hope that Shoko and the others would return safely—and that when the time came, you’d be ready.

The peaceful hum of the base was shattered by the frantic sound of footsteps and heavy breathing as the group burst through the doors. Suguru and Satoru supported Nanami between them, his face pale and slick with sweat. Blood soaked the side of his shirt, staining his usually pristine appearance.

“Get Shoko!” Satoru’s voice rang out, urgent and louder than you’d ever heard it before.

“What the hell happened?” Sukuna barked, stepping forward, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Nanami.

“A zombie,” Suguru said grimly, adjusting his grip on Nanami. “It came out of nowhere—he pushed me out of the way and got hit instead.”

“Where’s Shoko?” Satoru asked, glancing around as though expecting her to appear at any moment.

“She’s out,” you said sharply, stepping forward, your heart pounding but your voice steady. “She said she wouldn’t be back for an hour—maybe longer.”

For a moment, the room froze, tension thick enough to cut through

“Bring him to the infirmary room. Now,” you ordered, already moving ahead to prepare.

Suguru and Satoru didn’t hesitate, following your lead as they guided Nanami to the cot. Sukuna was right behind them, his expression unreadable but his presence heavy.

“I can handle this,” you said as you grabbed the first-aid kit and spread out the supplies. “Keep him steady and out of shock. That’s all I need from you.”

Sukuna’s sharp gaze flicked to you. “You better not screw this up.”

You didn’t look up, your focus entirely on Nanami’s wound. “I won’t.”

Kneeling beside Nanami, you quickly assessed the damage. Blood was seeping from a deep gash on his side, but it wasn’t hopeless. Your hands moved methodically, cleaning the wound and applying pressure to slow the bleeding. Nanami winced but didn’t flinch, his breathing ragged but steady.

“This is going to sting,” you warned, applying antiseptic before packing the wound with gauze. His eyes fluttered open briefly, meeting yours, and he gave the faintest nod.

The room was silent except for the sound of your precise movements. Satoru and Suguru hovered nearby, watching but not interrupting. Sukuna stood at the edge of the room, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but his gaze fixed on you.

As you worked, you felt the weight of his scrutiny—but it didn’t faze you. You knew what you were doing, and for once, you didn’t need to prove it to anyone.

The next hour passed in a blur. You worked with precision, your mind cycling through every lecture, every clinical rotation, every ounce of knowledge you’d absorbed before the world fell apart. Nanami groaned once as you applied pressure to the wound, the sound making your heart race.

"Stay with me," you murmured under your breath, the words meant more for your own reassurance than his. Sweat trickled down your temple, your shoulders aching from the strain of leaning over him, but you ignored the discomfort. There was no room for it now. There was only the patient on the table and the life you were trying to hold together.

When you finally finished, securing the last bandage with steady hands, you leaned back with a shaky breath. Nanami’s breathing was shallow but steady now, his color returning, no longer ashen.

"He’s stable," you said, your voice hoarse from the intensity of the moment. "But he needs rest."

Suguru let out a quiet exhale of relief, his head dropping into his hands as if a weight had been lifted. Satoru clapped a hand on your shoulder, his usual grin subdued but still laced with gratitude. "You’re a lifesaver. Literally."

Even Sukuna seemed less cold as he examined Nanami. His usual indifference remained, but the hard lines of his posture softened just a fraction. He didn’t say a word, but the shift was noticeable. The tension in his shoulders loosened, even if only for a moment.

Hours later, the base had fallen quiet. Everyone had gone to rest, exhausted from the day’s events. Everyone except you and Sukuna.

Earlier, Shoko had returned and thoroughly checked on Nanami, confirming that your work had been solid. She’d cleaned and rewrapped the wound, impressed by your quick thinking. After making sure Nanami was stable, she’d retreated to her room, leaving you to keep watch over him.

Now, you sat beside Nanami, your hand lightly resting near his, watching for any sign that he might wake. His breathing was steady but faint, each rise and fall of his chest a quiet reassurance.

Sukuna leaned against the wall a few feet away, his arms crossed. The firelight flickered across his face, softening the usual sharpness of his features. For a long time, he said nothing, just staring at Nanami with a look you couldn’t quite place.

His gaze shifted to you, his crimson eyes intense but not unkind. “You saved him. You didn’t screw it up.”

You glanced at him, his words catching you off guard. It wasn’t exactly praise, but it was close enough.

“He means a lot to everyone here,” you said softly, breaking the silence. “You, Suguru, Satoru, and Shoko.”

"We go way back,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter than usual. “We all became friends in high school. Different years, different circles, but somehow, we ended up stuck with each other.”

He let out a humorless chuckle, glancing down at Nanami. “We didn’t always get along. Satoru was a loudmouth, Suguru was too smug for his own good, Nanami was the uptight kid who thought he was too good for the rest of us, and Shoko… was the laid-back one who somehow kept us all from killing each other.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the mental image. “Sounds like you all balanced each other out.”

“Something like that,” Sukuna admitted, his voice dipping into something softer. “We went through a lot together—graduations, breakups, fights. By the time college rolled around, we were more like family than friends.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, and for the first time, you saw a glimpse of something deeper beneath Sukuna’s sharp exterior. A bond he’d never admit out loud but clearly cherished.

“You’ve been through so much together,” you said gently. “It’s no wonder he means so much to you all.”

Nanami’s breathing filled the silence, steady but faint enough to keep you on edge. Sukuna hadn’t moved, his usual tension buried beneath something quieter, more introspective.

“You remind me of someone,” he said suddenly, his voice low.

The words caught you off guard. “Someone you knew?”

Sukuna nodded, his expression tightening. “Yeah. My brother.”

The admission surprised you. Sukuna didn’t seem like the type to talk about family—much less admit to having one.

“He was younger than me. A few years,” Sukuna continued, his voice distant. “Idiot kid never listened. Always thought he knew better than me. Too brave for his own good.”

He paused, exhaling sharply through his nose. “But he had this way of looking at the world, like... no matter how bad things got, he’d find a way to make it better. It pissed me off sometimes—how naive he was. But he made me believe it, too, even if I didn’t want to.”

“What happened to him?” you asked softly, though the answer was already obvious.

“He didn’t make it,” Sukuna said bluntly, his jaw tightening. “When the outbreak started, I tried to keep him safe. But the world doesn’t care how hard you try. It just takes.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. Sukuna’s voice was calm, but the weight of his words hung heavy between you.

“I’m sorry,” you said gently. “He sounds like he was a good person.”

“He was better than I ever was,” Sukuna muttered, his voice quieter now. “He would’ve liked you.”

The comment caught you off guard, your heart skipping a beat. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve got that same stupid stubbornness,” he said, the faintest hint of a smirk pulling at his lips. “Always jumping in when you shouldn’t. Refusing to back down.”

You smiled despite yourself. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn’t,” Sukuna said dryly, but the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying him.

You leaned back slightly, drawing in a breath before speaking. “I lost people, too,” you admitted, your voice trembling just enough to show the vulnerability you usually kept hidden. “My parents. My friends. I used to think if I just stayed smart, kept my head down, I could keep them safe. But it didn’t matter in the end. I still couldn’t save them.”

For a moment, Sukuna didn’t say anything, his gaze shifting from Nanami to you. He studied you, his expression unreadable, though something in his eyes softened—just barely.

“You saved Nanami,” he said finally. “That counts for something.”

You shook your head. “I got lucky.”

“It’s not luck,” Sukuna said firmly. “Not all of it, anyway. You’ve got instincts. You’re quick on your feet. That’s what matters now.”

His words caught you off guard again, and you glanced up at him. “Is this your way of saying thanks?” you asked, trying to lighten the mood.

“Don’t push it,” he grumbled, but there was no edge to his tone.

You smiled softly, turning back to Nanami. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re a better person than you let on,” you said quietly.

Sukuna let out a low chuckle, though there was no real amusement in it. “Don’t romanticize me, sweetheart. I’m just doing what I have to.”

“Maybe,” you said, glancing at him. “But it still matters. To them. To me.”

He didn’t respond, but the silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, yes, but not in the way it usually was with Sukuna. There was something almost companionable about it, as if the space between you had shifted just a little.

As the hours stretched on, you stayed by Nanami’s side, Sukuna leaning against the wall nearby. Neither of you spoke again, but you could feel the subtle change in the air—a fragile understanding that hadn’t been there before.

Little by little, it felt like the cracks in Sukuna’s walls were beginning to show. And for the first time, you thought he might actually let you in.

Nanami stirred as dawn broke through the windows, his groggy movements drawing your attention. His eyelids fluttered before he let out a soft groan, his hand twitching as if testing the waters of consciousness.

“Nanami,” you said softly, leaning closer.

His eyes opened slowly, the familiar calmness of his gaze returning as he registered his surroundings. His brow furrowed, lips parting to speak, but you beat him to it.

“Don’t try to move too much,” you said quickly. “You’re safe. You made it.”

Nanami blinked, his focus sharpening on you. “You… saved me,” he said, his voice rough but steady.

You nodded, the tension in your shoulders easing now that he was alert. “It wasn’t just me,” you said modestly, though warmth spread through you at his gratitude. “Everyone helped.”

Nanami’s gaze softened as he studied you. “Still, I owe you,” he said, his voice firm despite his weakened state.

You shook your head. “I wasn’t about to let you die,” you said simply. “That’s not how we do things, right? We look out for each other.”

Nanami let out a quiet breath, almost a chuckle. “You’re tougher than I gave you credit for,” he said. “I’ll remember that.”

Sukuna, who had been leaning silently against the wall, finally stepped forward. He crouched beside Nanami, his sharp eyes scanning his friend for any lingering signs of danger.

“About time you woke up,” Sukuna muttered, though his tone carried an undertone of relief.

Nanami gave him a faint, tired smile. “You worry too much.”

“Tch,” Sukuna scoffed, standing back up. “You were half-dead, and I’m the one who worries too much?”

The banter between them felt lighter than usual, and you realized how deep their bond must be. Sukuna might be harsh, but the concern in his actions was undeniable.

Nanami’s gaze shifted back to you. “Thank you,” he said again, his voice steady. “If there’s ever anything you need—”

“Don’t,” you interrupted gently. “You don’t owe me anything. Just focus on getting better.”

Nanami nodded, though the gratitude in his expression didn’t waver.

Sukuna crossed his arms, glancing between the two of you. “Alright, enough of this sentimental crap. She did what she had to. You’re alive. Let’s move on.”

You shot Sukuna a look but didn’t bother arguing. Deep down, you knew his brusqueness was his way of deflecting.

“Rest,” you said to Nanami, ignoring Sukuna’s tone. “You’ll need your strength if you want to deal with him later.”

Nanami smirked faintly, already letting his eyes drift closed again. “I’m counting on it.”

As you stood and turned toward Sukuna, his gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than usual. His expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—acknowledgment, maybe even respect.

“Come on,” he said, jerking his head toward the door. “Let him sleep.”

You followed him out, the tension of the last few hours finally giving way to a strange sense of accomplishment.

The base had returned to its usual rhythm, though a lighter tension hung in the air. Nanami recovered quickly, much to everyone’s relief, and the group seemed to move with a renewed sense of purpose.

Shoko convinced Satoru to organize the medical supplies—a task he turned into a spectacle, juggling antiseptic bottles until Shoko smacked him upside the head. Nanami, true to form, was already back to work, scanning supply lists and muttering to Suguru about long-term resource planning.

You were helping Shoko patch together another set of med kits when Nanami walked into the room.

He approached with his usual calm demeanor, though his expression carried a rare softness. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

You glanced at Shoko, who waved you off. “Go on. I’ve got this.”

Following Nanami into the hallway, you felt a flicker of nervousness. He turned to face you, hands in his pockets, his gaze steady but kind.

“I wanted to thank you again,” he said simply.

“Oh,” you replied, caught off guard.

“For saving my life,” he continued. “What you did out there… it wasn’t something just anyone could do.”

A warmth bloomed in your chest, though you tried to keep your expression neutral. “I just did what needed to be done,” you said, shifting slightly.

He nodded. “Maybe so. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t appreciated. Sukuna isn’t the easiest person to deal with, but the fact that he let you handle things out there… that says a lot.”

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. “Sukuna… he’s not as cold as he seems,” you said carefully.

A faint smile tugged at Nanami’s lips. “No, he’s not,” he agreed. “He just has a way of pushing people away. But for him to trust you, even in the smallest way… it’s not nothing.”

The weight of his words settled over you, and you nodded slowly. “Thanks, Nanami. That means a lot.”

He placed a hand on your shoulder briefly—a quiet gesture of gratitude—before stepping back. “You’re part of this group now,” he said. “Don’t forget that.”

As he walked away, you stood there for a moment, letting his words sink in. Being part of the group wasn’t just about surviving together anymore—it was about being trusted, being relied on.

The group gathered in the common area, their conversations weaving together as they planned the next supply run. Sukuna sat in his usual spot near the window, his sharp gaze scanning the streets outside, though he seemed less aloof than usual.

Satoru plopped down next to you, grinning. “So, I hear you’re officially one of us now,” he teased, nudging your shoulder.

“Who told you that?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nanami, obviously,” Satoru said with a wink. “He doesn’t thank just anyone, you know.”

Suguru chimed in from across the room. “Don’t let it go to your head,” he said, though his tone was light.

Shoko, leaning against the counter with her usual cigarette in hand, smirked. “She’s already better at following instructions than you, Satoru.”

Satoru feigned offense, clutching his chest dramatically. “I am a delight to work with.”

“You’re a menace,” Shoko countered, flicking ash into an empty can.

As the banter continued, you found yourself laughing along with them, the sense of camaraderie filling the room. Even Sukuna glanced your way once or twice, his expression unreadable but not unkind.

For the first time since you’d joined them, you felt like you truly belonged. And as the group talked and planned late into the night, you found yourself hoping—not just for survival, but for a future worth fighting for.

The storm outside was relentless, wind howling through the cracks of the ruined building. Rain hammered against the broken windows, drowning the world in chaos. Everyone else was asleep, scattered around the dim room like ghosts of the lives they used to live. You sat near the window, your arms resting on your knees as you kept watch with Sukuna.

He leaned against the wall across from you, his silhouette sharp in the weak lantern light. His katana rested against his shoulder, its edge catching the occasional flicker of lightning. He looked like he belonged to this broken world—untouchable, dangerous, and carved from stone.

The silence between you wasn’t unusual, but tonight it felt heavier. The storm wasn’t just loud; it was oppressive, a forceful reminder of how small and fragile you were in a world that had already crumbled.

“You’re too quiet,” Sukuna said suddenly, his deep voice slicing through the sound of the rain.

You blinked, pulled from your thoughts. “I thought you liked it when I stayed out of your way.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “I like quiet. Not the kind that makes me think you’re plotting something stupid.”

Despite yourself, you smirked. “I wasn’t plotting anything.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, and for a fleeting moment, you thought he might actually smile. It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual guarded expression.

The wind rattled the broken windowpanes, and you adjusted your position, tugging your jacket tighter around yourself.

“What’s the point of you being up if you’re going to freeze to death?” Sukuna muttered.

You frowned, opening your mouth to retort, but before you could say a word, Sukuna tossed a thick blanket in your direction.

“Use that,” he said, his tone brusque, as if daring you to comment on the gesture.

You caught the blanket, staring at it for a moment before wrapping it around yourself. “Thanks,” you murmured.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

The two of you fell into silence again. You found yourself sneaking glances at him—at the sharp line of his jaw, the faint tattoos peeking out from his sleeves. There was something about Sukuna when he wasn’t surrounded by the others—when he wasn’t posturing or shutting you out. It was almost like he didn’t mind your presence.

“Do you ever think it’ll get better?” you asked softly, the question slipping out before you could stop it.

Sukuna’s gaze turned toward you, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly. “What do you mean?”

“The world,” you said, gesturing vaguely to the storm outside. “Do you ever think it’ll go back to how it was before?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned back to the window, his jaw tightening. “Doesn’t matter if it does or not. You survive, no matter what.”

You frowned. “But surviving isn’t the same as living.”

He let out a low, humorless chuckle. “Living’s a luxury. You can think about it once you’ve got surviving figured out.”

Something about the way he said it made your chest ache. You wanted to press him, to ask what he’d lost to make him so certain of that, but you bit your tongue.

Instead, you said softly, “It’s okay to hope, you know. Even if it doesn’t seem worth it.”

Sukuna’s gaze flicked toward you, and for a moment, you thought he might snap at you or brush off your words. But he didn’t. Instead, his expression softened—just slightly—and he let out a quiet sigh.

“Hope doesn’t keep you alive,” he muttered. But there was no edge to his tone, no real venom.

“Maybe not,” you said, meeting his gaze. “But it helps.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he turned back to the window, muttering under his breath, “You’re stubborn, you know that?”

“Maybe,” you said, smiling faintly. “But I’m right.”

The silence that followed didn’t feel heavy anymore. It was almost… comfortable. The storm outside continued to rage, but inside, for the first time, you felt a little closer to him.

“What was your life like before all of… this?” you asked, gesturing vaguely toward the broken windows, the storm outside, and the ruin the world had become.

He gave you a flat look, his crimson eyes sharp. “Why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t,” you admitted. “I just… I like knowing. It’s easier to see people as human when you know what they were like before all this.”

Sukuna’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer. But then he let out a quiet sigh, leaning his head back against the wall.

“Graduated with a degree in art,” he said finally. “Ran my own tattoo shop for a while.”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You were a tattoo artist?”

“Still am, technically,” he muttered. “Not much demand for it now, though.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “That explains the tattoos.”

He smirked faintly, his eyes narrowing at you. “What? You thought I got them for fun?”

“Kind of,” you said, shrugging. “I mean, they’re incredible. They fit you.”

For a moment, his gaze lingered on you, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then he looked away, his expression shuttered once more.

“What about the others?” you asked, breaking the silence again.

Sukuna sighed, his fingers tapping idly against the hilt of his katana. “Satoru graduated in education, believe it or not. He was a high school teacher before all this. Loved making kids’ lives miserable—but in his own weird way, I think he was actually good at it. Suguru was a psychology major. Planned to go into counseling or something.” He paused, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Nanami got his degree in business. Corporate life suited him. And you already know about Shoko—med school.”

Your breath hitched slightly. “That’s… a lot to leave behind.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “You think I don’t know that? We all had plans. Things we wanted. And then everything went to hell.”

You looked down at your hands, the weight of his words settling over you. “I was a med student, too,” you said quietly. “First year. I barely started before…” You trailed off, gesturing at the world around you.

Sukuna was quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “Why medicine?” he asked finally.

“I wanted to help people,” you said simply. “I guess it sounds kind of naïve now, but I thought I could make a difference. Maybe save a few lives.”

He studied you for a moment, his crimson eyes unreadable. Then he leaned back against the wall again, his gaze shifting to the storm outside.

“You’re still doing that,” he said, his voice low.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You’re still saving lives,” he said, his tone gruff. “Nanami wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

A lump formed in your throat, and you looked away, an odd warmth spreading through your chest. “I guess,” you murmured.

The two of you sat in silence for a while after that, the storm outside filling the space between your words. It wasn’t uncomfortable, though. For the first time, it felt… companionable.

“Do you miss it?” you asked softly.

“Miss what?”

“Your old life. The tattoo shop. Your friends. The way things used to be.”

Sukuna didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“Every day,” he admitted.

You looked at him, surprised by the vulnerability in his tone. For once, the walls he kept so firmly in place seemed to crack, just a little.

“I think we all do,” you said softly.

Sukuna’s gaze flicked toward you, his crimson eyes meeting yours. There was something in his expression you couldn’t quite place—something raw, unguarded.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I guess we do.”

The storm raged on outside, but for the first time since it began, you didn’t feel so alone.

By the time the storm finally began to taper off, Sukuna pushed himself to his feet. He stretched his arms over his head, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of his stomach—and the faint outline of abs beneath. Heat crept up your neck, and you quickly glanced away, pretending to adjust the blanket around you.

“I’ll take the next round of watch,” he said, his tone back to its usual sharpness.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to let me?”

“No,” he said simply, grabbing his katana and walking toward the door.

You couldn’t help but smirk a little. Despite the lingering edge to his voice, something about him felt… lighter.

Before stepping out, Sukuna paused in the doorway, glancing back at you. “Get some rest,” he said, almost begrudgingly.

It wasn’t much, but coming from Sukuna, it felt like a rare kind of kindness. You nodded, watching as he disappeared into the hallway.

About a week later, after Nanami’s recovery and the group settling back into their routine, you were sent on another supply run. The mission was straightforward: split into two groups, sweep a nearby grocery store, and bring back whatever hadn’t been raided yet. Sukuna took Satoru, leaving you with Suguru and Shoko.

“Stick close,” Suguru had said as the three of you stepped into the dimly lit store. The air inside was stale, the faint smell of rotting produce and damp cardboard clinging to the space. It felt eerily quiet, the kind of quiet that always made your skin crawl.

You nodded, gripping your weapon tightly. Supply runs were becoming second nature, but the unease never entirely went away. Each unfamiliar building held its own dangers, and you’d learned to stay on edge.

It wasn’t long before the shelves yielded a few treasures—some canned goods, a pack of batteries, even a roll of duct tape. You crouched near an overturned display, brushing debris aside to grab a jar of peanut butter, when the sound of shuffling footsteps reached your ears.

“Zombie,” you whispered, rising slowly.

Shoko, who was scanning a nearby aisle, lifted her head. “Where?”

You pointed toward the end of the aisle. A lone zombie staggered forward, its milky eyes fixed on you. Its movements were slow, but it was still too close for comfort.

“I got it,” Suguru said calmly, stepping forward with his machete.

But as he moved, your boot caught on a broken shelf bracket jutting out from the floor. You stumbled, and in that split second, the zombie lunged.

The jagged edge of its broken fingernails swiped across your abdomen, slicing through your jacket and grazing your skin. Pain flared as warm blood seeped through the fabric.

“Shit!” you hissed, stumbling back.

Suguru swung his machete in one clean arc, taking the zombie down before it could advance further.

“You okay?” Shoko was at your side immediately, her hands already pulling your jacket open to inspect the wound.

“I’m fine,” you said through gritted teeth, though the pain told you otherwise. The cut wasn’t deep, but it stung fiercely, and blood was already soaking into your shirt.

“We need to get back,” Shoko said firmly.

Suguru’s jaw tightened as he nodded. “We’ve got enough for now. Let’s move.”

By the time you returned, the pain had dulled to a throbbing ache, though it still made every step a challenge. Shoko had done her best to patch you up on the way back, but she insisted on a proper cleaning once you were safely home.

As soon as the doors swung open, Sukuna’s sharp gaze landed on you. His usual scowl deepened when he saw the blood staining your shirt.

“What the hell happened?” he demanded, striding over.

“Zombie,” Suguru said curtly as he helped Shoko unload the supplies. “Got too close.”

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, his focus snapping back to you. “And no one thought to handle it before this happened?”

“I’m fine,” you tried to say, but he was already in front of you, his eyes scanning the injury with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

“You call this fine?” he snapped, his voice laced with anger and something else—something that sounded suspiciously like worry.

“It’s just a scratch,” you insisted, though you winced as Shoko peeled back the makeshift bandage to reveal the cut.

“She’ll live,” Shoko said calmly, though her tone didn’t seem to ease Sukuna’s tension. “But it needs to be cleaned and stitched.”

“Then do it,” he said, his voice low and clipped.

Shoko raised an eyebrow. “You need to back off first. You’re hovering.”

Sukuna muttered something under his breath but took a step back, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He didn’t leave, though, his eyes fixed on you as Shoko worked.

The sting of the antiseptic made you hiss, and Sukuna’s jaw clenched at the sound.

“You should’ve been more careful,” he said after a moment, his tone softer but still sharp.

“It’s not like I did it on purpose,” you shot back, your voice tinged with irritation.

His glare didn’t waver, but his next words surprised you. “You scared the hell out of me.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

He looked away, his expression hardening again. “Just… don’t do it again.”

The vulnerability in his voice was fleeting, but it was there, and it made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with your injury.

“I’ll try,” you said softly, offering a small, shaky smile.

Sukuna didn’t respond, but he stayed close, even after Shoko finished patching you up and the others had gone about their business.

The base had settled into its usual quiet hum. Most of the group had gone to rest, but Sukuna lingered in the common area, his sharp gaze darting toward you occasionally. He sat at the far end of the room, his katana resting by his side as if he were ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.

For a man who claimed not to care, Sukuna was terrible at hiding it when he did. His usual scowl was still there, but it lacked its usual bite, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it.

As you adjusted your freshly bandaged wound, you caught his eye. He didn’t look away, his crimson gaze holding yours for a beat longer than expected.

“Get some rest,” he said finally, his voice low but carrying an edge of concern.

You nodded, the warmth of his unspoken care settling over you. As you lay down for the night, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of gratitude—not just for Shoko’s steady hands or Suguru’s quick reflexes, but for Sukuna’s reluctant, undeniable presence.

For all his rough edges, Sukuna had a way of making you feel… safe. And in a world like this, that meant everything.

The small infirmary room was dimly lit, the only light coming from a battery-powered lantern perched on the counter. You sat on the makeshift cot, the ache in your side persistent but manageable. Shoko had done an excellent job stitching the gash, but the occasional twinge was a sharp reminder of your carelessness.

The group had been quieter since the incident. Shoko and Suguru had checked on you a few times, offering updates about the supplies you’d retrieved and assurances that you didn’t need to push yourself just yet. Sukuna, however, had been noticeably absent.

Until now.

The door creaked open, and you looked up to see Sukuna stepping inside. His usual sharp expression was still there, but something about it had softened. In his hand, he carried a roll of fresh bandages and a bottle of antiseptic.

“You’re due for a bandage change,” he said, his voice low and even.

You blinked, caught off guard. “I thought Shoko would—”

“She’s busy,” he interrupted, setting the supplies on the counter. “And I’ve done this enough times to know what I’m doing. Sit back.”

You hesitated for a moment before leaning back against the cot, lifting your shirt just enough to expose the wound. Sukuna crouched beside you, his movements precise as he began unwrapping the old bandage.

The room was silent except for the faint rustling of fabric and the soft breath you drew to steady yourself. His hands, rough and calloused, were surprisingly gentle as he inspected the wound.

“It’s healing well,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Shoko did a good job.”

“She always does,” you replied quietly.

He nodded, pouring antiseptic onto a clean cloth. The sharp sting made you wince, and his crimson eyes flicked up to meet yours.

“Sorry,” he said, his tone softer than you expected.

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, not wanting him to feel guilty.

The silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. As he worked, your gaze drifted to the tattoos curling around his arms and up his neck. You’d noticed them before, of course, but up close, they were mesmerizing.

“They’re beautiful,” you said suddenly, surprising yourself.

He paused, his hand stilling as he glanced at you. “What is?”

“Your tattoos,” you clarified, heat creeping up your cheeks. “The designs… they’re intricate. They suit you.”

His lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close. “Thanks.”

“Who did them?” you asked, curiosity slipping into your voice.

“Someone I trusted,” he replied, tossing the old bandages into the trash and grabbing fresh ones. “Takes time to get them right.”

As he wrapped the new bandage around your side, you hesitated before speaking again. “They’re incredible,” you said sincerely.

He shrugged, his hands methodical as he secured the bandage.

On an impulse, your fingers lightly traced one of the lines on his forearm. He stiffened slightly, his gaze snapping to you, but he didn’t pull away.

“This one…” you murmured, your touch barely brushing the ink. “It’s so detailed.”

His voice softened, almost imperceptibly. “Had it done by someone skilled. You don’t let just anyone leave their mark on you.”

For a moment, the tension between you shifted, something unspoken passing in the quiet space.

“I’m glad you’re not seriously hurt,” he said suddenly, the words coming out like they surprised even him.

Your chest tightened at the unexpected vulnerability in his voice. “Thanks to you all,” you replied, your voice steady but warm. “Suguru, Shoko… and you.”

He shook his head, standing and wiping his hands on a rag. “I didn’t do much.”

“You were there,” you insisted, meeting his gaze. “That means something.”

For a long moment, Sukuna didn’t say anything, his jaw tightening as if he was debating whether to respond. Finally, he nodded—just barely.

As he moved toward the door, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “It’s late. You should sleep.”

“I will,” you promised, watching him disappear into the hallway.

The ache in your side still lingered, but as you lay back on the cot, you realized something else had shifted. The heaviness in your chest—the weight of feeling like an outsider—had lightened, just a little. Sukuna’s walls were still up, but for the first time, you felt as if you might have gotten close enough to see the cracks.

The following days passed in a quieter rhythm. The group had decided to lay low after the supply run, taking time to rest and re-evaluate their next steps. You spent most of your time in the infirmary, both recovering and helping Shoko organize supplies. One evening, after the group had finished a simple dinner, Satoru nudged Suguru with an exaggerated grin. “We’ve got to get something fun going in this place. I swear, I’m losing my mind from all the doom and gloom.”

“Life-or-death scenarios aren’t entertaining enough for you?” Suguru replied dryly.

“Exactly,” Satoru said, ignoring his sarcasm. “We need a game. Something to lighten the mood. Who’s in?”

You looked up from where you sat, sipping from your cup of water. “A game?”

“Cards, maybe,” Satoru suggested, already pulling out a battered deck from his bag. “Or truth or dare. You know, something classic.”

Shoko snorted, leaning back in her chair. “If you make us play truth or dare, I’m outing all your embarrassing secrets.”

“Joke’s on you—I have no shame,” Satoru quipped, winking.

Nanami sighed, shaking his head but offering no real objection. Suguru shot Shoko a knowing look that said, Here we go again.

“You in, newbie?” Satoru turned to you, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief.

You hesitated, glancing at the others. “Sure. Why not?”

The game started with Satoru choosing dare and being forced to attempt a handstand, which ended predictably with him crashing into a stack of empty crates. Shoko took truth and admitted to once stealing Satoru’s wallet, just to see how long it would take him to notice. (It took a week, apparently.) Suguru picked dare and hummed a painfully off-key rendition of a pop song until Shoko guessed it, rolling her eyes the entire time.

The lighthearted atmosphere filled the room, the kind of rare reprieve everyone secretly craved.

“Your turn, newbie,” Satoru declared, pointing at you with a dramatic flourish. “Truth or dare?”

You glanced around nervously, feeling the weight of their attention. “Dare,” you said, trying to sound braver than you felt.

Satoru’s grin turned wicked. “I dare you to sit next to Sukuna for the rest of the night.”

The air shifted instantly. Sukuna’s eyes flicked toward Satoru, narrowing with icy precision.

“That’s ridiculous,” you said quickly, heat rushing to your face.

“A dare’s a dare,” Satoru said, his grin unrelenting. “You’re not backing out, are you?”

“This is childish,” Nanami muttered, rubbing his temples.

“Don’t do it if you don’t want to,” Sukuna said, his voice cold and sharp, his irritation obvious. “I don’t care for these games.”

“Oh, come on,” Shoko said, her smirk widening. “Afraid of a little company, Sukuna?”

The tension in the room mounted, and you let out a frustrated sigh. “Fine,” you said, standing before the situation could escalate further. Grabbing your blanket, you walked over to where Sukuna sat. He didn’t move or protest, though his jaw tightened slightly.

“Happy now?” you asked, throwing a pointed glare at Satoru.

“Ecstatic,” he said with a grin, clearly enjoying himself.

As the game continued, you kept quiet, hyper-aware of Sukuna’s presence beside you. He didn’t speak or look your way, but you could feel his warmth radiating off him, a sharp contrast to his usual aura of detachment.

“You didn’t have to do it,” he said quietly after a while, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

You glanced at him, surprised. “What? Back out of the dare?”

He huffed softly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I meant sitting here. I’m not exactly great company.”

“You’re not as scary as you think you are, Sukuna,” you said, your voice steady despite your nerves.

His eyes flicked to yours, and for a moment, his expression was unreadable. Then he let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Your cheeks flushed, but you refused to look away. “You don’t scare me.”

For a split second, something flickered in his gaze—amusement, maybe, or something deeper. Whatever it was, it was gone as quickly as it appeared, and he turned his attention back to the group, shutting down the moment before it could go any further.

The night wore on, the group’s laughter filling the space with an ease you hadn’t felt in months. And though Sukuna didn’t say much else, the subtle shift in his demeanor—the way he hadn’t outright refused to let you sit beside him—lingered in your mind.

The faint crackle of the dying fire filled the silence as you and Sukuna sat together. The others had long since retreated to their corners of the base to sleep, leaving the two of you behind. Neither of you made a move to get up, both content to sit in the quiet, the firelight casting flickering shadows on the walls.

“Do you think about the small stuff?” you asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

Sukuna turned his head slightly, his sharp crimson eyes flicking to you. “Small stuff?”

“Yeah,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the fire. “Like, I don’t know… food you miss. Stupid things you used to complain about.”

He huffed, leaning back against the wall, his arms crossing over his chest. “Why? You getting nostalgic over bad cafeteria food?”

You snorted. “I’m serious. Don’t tell me you don’t miss anything.”

Sukuna was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. “I miss coffee,” he said finally, the admission low but honest. “Not this instant crap we scrape together. Real coffee. Black. Strong.”

You blinked. “You’re a coffee guy?”

He gave you a flat look. “What else would I be?”

“Tea, maybe,” you teased, a small grin tugging at your lips. “Something refined to match that whole brooding aesthetic.”

He scoffed, though you caught the faintest twitch of amusement in his expression. “Tea’s for people with time to waste. I needed something that worked.”

You tilted your head, curious. “Needed it for what? Running the shop?”

“Yeah,” he said, his tone softening slightly. “Long hours. Late nights. Coffee kept me going.”

You nodded, letting the quiet hang for a moment before speaking again. “I miss real bread,” you said, your voice wistful. “Fresh out of the oven, still warm. Not this stale, packaged stuff.”

“Bread?” Sukuna repeated, one eyebrow raising.

“Don’t judge me,” you said with a mock glare. “It’s a comfort thing. My mom used to bake on Sundays. The whole house would smell like it. I didn’t realize how much I’d miss it until… well.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment, something softer flickering in his expression. “Sounds nice,” he said, almost reluctantly.

“It was,” you said quietly. “What about smells? Like fresh bread or coffee—anything like that?”

He leaned his head back against the wall, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “Rain,” he said eventually.

“Rain?”

“Before all this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the broken windows and the storm outside. “When it didn’t smell like ash and rot. Just clean rain, hitting the pavement. It was… different.”

You nodded, understanding what he meant. “I get that. The way the air used to feel after a storm, too—cool and fresh. Like it could wash everything away.”

For a moment, the two of you sat in companionable silence, the firelight dancing between you. Sukuna’s expression was unreadable, but there was a weight to his presence that felt less intimidating and more… grounded.

“You’re good at this,” he said suddenly, his voice breaking through the quiet.

“Good at what?”

“Getting people to talk,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Most wouldn’t bother.”

You shrugged, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I like getting to know people. It reminds me that we’re still human. That we’re more than just survivors.”

“Optimistic,” he muttered, though there was no venom in his tone.

“Not really,” you said, leaning back. “It’s just… I don’t want to forget who we are. What we’re fighting for.”

Sukuna’s gaze lingered on you, his crimson eyes sharp but not unkind. “You’re not what I expected,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter.

“Is that a compliment?” you teased, though your tone was gentle.

“Take it however you want,” he replied, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

The fire crackled softly, filling the quiet space between you and Sukuna. The storm outside raged on, but for once, the tension in the room felt lighter. Sukuna shifted slightly, leaning his head back against the wall, his gaze flicking to you again.

“You’ve got a tattoo,” he said suddenly, his voice low but steady.

You blinked, caught off guard. “How did you—?”

“I saw it when I was changing your bandage,” he said simply, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly, as if daring you to argue.

Your cheeks warmed. “Oh. Yeah. It’s, um… Saturn.”

“Saturn?” he repeated, his brow arching. “Why Saturn?”

You fiddled with the edge of your sleeve, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I’ve always been into astronomy. Saturn’s my favorite planet—something about the rings, you know? It’s just… beautiful.”

He studied you for a moment, his sharp gaze softening slightly. “It suits you,” he said, his tone quiet but sincere.

The comment made your cheeks burn even more, and you quickly tried to steer the conversation. “I got it a few years ago. Back when things were... normal.”

“Who did it?” he asked, his curiosity piqued. “Maybe I know them.”

You hesitated, then said the name. His reaction was immediate—a quiet scoff, followed by a faint smirk.

“No way,” Sukuna said, shaking his head. “You’re kidding.”

“What?” you asked, blinking at him.

“I know him,” he said. “I used to work for that guy. Before I opened my own shop.”

“Wait, seriously?” you said, your eyes widening. “When?”

“Couple years before the outbreak,” he said. “What year did you get it?”

You thought for a moment, then gave him the date. Sukuna’s smirk grew wider, a flicker of amusement in his crimson eyes. “I was there.”

Your jaw dropped slightly. “No way.”

“Way,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “I was probably in the back working on a piece or setting up. Funny—I don’t remember seeing you.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Imagine if we’d met back then.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and almost warm. “You wouldn’t have liked me much.”

“Oh, and I like you now?” you teased, though your tone was light.

His smirk widened. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. The thought lingered, though—what would it have been like to meet him in another life, when the world wasn’t falling apart?

Sukuna leaned back again, his expression turning thoughtful. “Funny how things turn out,” he said quietly. “All the places we’ve been, all the people we’ve met... and we still end up here.”

You nodded, your gaze drifting to the fire. “It’s weird, isn’t it? How small the world feels now.”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice soft. “But I guess it’s not all bad.”

You glanced at him, your heart skipping at the subtle warmth in his tone. “Not all bad, huh?”

He didn’t respond right away, his gaze locked on the flames. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost a murmur. “Some parts of it aren’t.”

The unspoken meaning hung in the air, and for a moment, you wondered if he was talking about you. The fire crackled again, filling the space with its gentle warmth as the storm raged on outside. For the first time in a long time, you felt the tiniest spark of hope—not just for survival, but for something more.

The days following your talk with Sukuna, something subtle but undeniable had shifted between the two of you.

It wasn’t anything overt—Sukuna would never be obvious—but there was something in the way he’d glance at you during group discussions, as though ensuring you were keeping up. A faint nod when you helped Shoko organize supplies or lent Suguru a hand with planning. And, most noticeably, how he seemed to position himself near you during outings, always close enough to step in if something went wrong.

One evening, the group had gathered in the common area after dinner. Satoru was attempting to juggle two cans and a flashlight, Suguru was cleaning one of the weapons, Shoko sat on the floor organizing medical supplies, her cigarette tucked neatly behind her ear, and Nanami was seated at the table, meticulously reviewing a list of the group’s remaining supplies, his brow furrowed in concentration.

You were seated cross-legged on a crate in the corner, flipping through a water-stained book you’d scavenged earlier that week. The quiet hum of the group’s activities created a sense of normalcy that felt rare these days, though the occasional clatter from Satoru’s failed juggling attempts punctuated the calm.

“Hey!” Satoru called, catching one of the cans before it could roll under the table. “What’re you reading over there, bookworm?”

You barely looked up. “Something about gardening. Thought it might be useful.”

“Gardening?” Satoru repeated, dropping the flashlight in his surprise. “We’ve got zombies roaming around, and you’re over there trying to grow tomatoes?”

“It’s called thinking ahead,” you shot back, your tone dry.

Suguru chuckled softly, shaking his head. “She’s got a point, Satoru. We’re not going to survive on canned beans forever.”

“Sure, but why doesn’t she do something more fun? Like, I don’t know, play a game with us?” Satoru grinned and turned to you. “Come on, newbie. Cards? Truth or dare? Something other than reading.”

You rolled your eyes. “Pass.”

“Afraid to lose?” he teased, leaning against a nearby crate.

“She’s busy,” Sukuna cut in, his voice sharp and commanding.

The room stilled, the air shifting as everyone turned toward him. Sukuna was seated near the doorway, sharpening his katana, his crimson eyes flicking briefly to you before settling back on his blade.

“She doesn’t need your crap right now,” he added, his tone flat but carrying an undeniable edge.

Satoru raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Didn’t realize I was stepping on sacred ground.”

Suguru chuckled, and even Shoko smirked, but Sukuna didn’t respond, his focus returning to his weapon.

The conversation shifted, the group’s banter filling the room again, but you couldn’t stop glancing at Sukuna. He didn’t look at you, but the faint tension in his shoulders seemed to ease when Satoru finally dropped the subject.

Later that evening, as the base settled into a quiet hum, you found yourself climbing to the roof. The stars were faint, scattered across the dim skyline like shy visitors in the night. The cool breeze was a welcome reprieve, and you leaned against the edge, letting your thoughts drift.

You didn’t expect to hear the door creak open behind you, but you weren’t surprised when Sukuna stepped out, his presence filling the space effortlessly.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked, breaking the silence.

He shrugged, stepping up beside you. “Needed air.”

You nodded, the quiet between you comfortable as you both gazed at the faint stars above.

“I love stargazing,” you said softly, your voice barely audible over the wind. “Before all this. My dad taught me all the constellations when I was little. Like I told you—I love astronomy. Hence the tattoo.”

Sukuna’s gaze shifted to you, his expression unreadable but attentive. “That why you got it?”

“Yeah,” you said, glancing at him with a small smile. “It’s a reminder of something constant, you know? No matter how much the world changes, the stars stay the same.”

He hummed quietly, his crimson eyes lifting to the sky. “Never thought about it like that.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “You can see them better now,” you said, your tone soft but inviting. “With no electricity in the city, there’s less light pollution. Lay down with me—I can show you the constellations.”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow at the suggestion, his usual skepticism evident. “You serious?”

“Come on,” you said, grinning as you leaned back and lay down on the roof. The rough surface pressed against your back, but you didn’t mind. You gestured toward the stars above. “You might actually learn something.”

To your surprise, Sukuna shifted, his movements deliberate but unhurried. He lowered himself onto his back right next to you, his broad shoulders brushing against yours as he stretched out. His crimson eyes flicked upward, taking in the night sky.

“Alright,” he muttered, his voice quieter than usual. “Show me.”

You pointed toward the stars, tracing invisible lines with your finger. “That’s Orion. You can see the belt there—three stars in a straight line.”

He followed your gesture, his expression softening as he took in the view. “I see it.”

You continued, pointing out other constellations and sharing the stories your dad had told you about them. Sukuna listened quietly, his usual sharpness muted as he seemed to absorb every word.

When you turned your head to check if he was still paying attention, you found him already watching you. His gaze was intense, his red eyes tracing your features in a way that made your breath catch.

“What?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached out slowly, his hand brushing against your temple as he tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered for a moment, warm against your skin, before he pulled away.

“You should keep your hair out of your face,” he murmured, his voice low. “Might save you some trouble next time.”

Your cheeks warmed at the gesture, but you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “You’re full of advice lately,” you teased gently.

“Don’t get used to it,” he replied, though there was no bite to his words.

The two of you lay there in companionable silence, the stars above seeming closer than they had in years. Whatever this was between you and Sukuna, it felt fragile but real.

And for the first time in a long while, you felt like you weren’t just surviving—you were living.

part two coming very soon. let me know if you want to be on the tag list.

[embbarnes]

Подарок. | W.S

summary: You give the soldier a present for Christmas.

warnings: Fluff & Angst | Winter Soldier!Bucky | Post!CA:TWS | PTSD mentions | Mention of medical treatments | Recovery | Brief talk of nightmares

a/n: Sort of unofficial part two to Sugar Plums since I had a few people asking for a part two. Same universe I guess, with some time between. Uhh probably rushed idk. To be edited later. ;; wc: 3.3k

Recovery.

Fickle, fragile, exhausting.

He gradually accepted being called Bucky, though the name stirred something uncomfortable within him each time it reached his ears. Steve, ever persistent and hopeful, would use various versions of the name - Bucky, Buck, or sometimes James - in his unwavering attempts to resurrect the friend he once knew, unable to accept that the Bucky from his memories had faded away like footprints in snow.

Winter had completely erased the old Bucky.

While these names would trigger a subtle internal struggle, he maintained an almost perfect mask of indifference, with only the slightest furrowing of his brow betraying any sign of his inner turmoil.

You, however, carefully navigated between calling him Bucky and Soldat, aware that using his old code name might reinforce programming you wished to help him break free from. Yet there was a slight relaxation in his shoulders when you used the familiar designation, the way it seemed to ease the constant tension he carried made it impossible to completely abandon - his comfort, however small, had become your priority.

Even if that comfort stemmed from a dehumanizing name.

It required negotiation and persistent discussions to convince Tony to finally allow the soldier access to the medbay wing for his necessary medical treatments. Despite the soldier's extended stay in the tower passing without any concerning incidents, Tony maintained a strong hesitation about providing medical assistance. His deeply-rooted skepticism and apparent distrust were sources of frustration for you, though you consciously chose to avoid escalating the situation into a full-blown argument, knowing it would only make matters more complicated.

You had already gotten into intense scuffles with Tony over the soldier’s stay, how he needed to be looked over, physically and internally. The dislocated arm Steve caused never healed, and he had been carrying his arm awkwardly close to his body. Other physical injuries on top of the apparent dehydration and malnourishment, he was constantly under a veil of sickness.

The situation was particularly delicate because Soldat struggled with being in the presence of the other tower residents. He was acutely aware of how everyone seemed to cautiously moderate their behavior around him, treating each interaction as if they were navigating through a minefield of potential triggers. Like they were walking along eggshells every time they were near him.

It felt like he was walking on glass.

You were his only source of comfort, though traces of caution still lingered in his demeanor. He knew you posed no threat to his wellbeing. You had been patient and gentle the entire time, regardless of his panic or prone sense to lash out if he got stressed enough.

Long nights stretched endlessly in the sterile medbay rooms, where you faithfully maintained your vigil in the uncomfortable chair positioned beside the standard-issue medical bed. The soldier’s bed remained empty, as he consistently chose to rest on the cold floor instead. Sleep was an elusive companion for him, a nightly battle he rarely won. More often than not, his rest was violently interrupted by his own terrified screams or desperate shouts, his body jerking upright with defensive movements, arms swinging at invisible threats.

You would spend countless minutes trying everything in your power to bring him back to reality and calm his frantic state. Sometimes, despite your best efforts and gentle words, the situation would escalate beyond your ability to manage, forcing the medical staff on standby to intervene with sedatives to prevent him from unintentionally causing harm during these episodes.

Luckily his recovery progressed slowly but surely, transitioning from those intensive IV treatments in the clinical environment of the medbay to the more comfortable setting of your personal quarters. His sleeping arrangements evolved as gradually as his treatment; first from the hard floor, then to the modest couch tucked against the far wall, and finally to your bed.

These days, he found his rest beside you each night, his body instinctively seeking comfort by curling close to yours, desperately trying to make up for all those decades of disturbed sleep and haunted dreams.

Over time, his attachment to you had grown increasingly intense, and he began experiencing waves of jealousy whenever your attention was directed elsewhere. You helped around the tower a lot, so you tended to be distracted with tasks or aiding in another’s need. The soldier didn’t like it, so he began leaving his mark on you. It started subtly at first, he would rub your clothes on himself, in his mind it was good enough that you smelled like him. He saw it in a documentary once, of animals, but he had been in such a dehumanized state for so long, it made sense to him. His body’s scent on you, others would back off. That would work.

But, no, it wasn’t enough.

One day, crossing an unspoken boundary between you, he started placing love bites along your skin, positioning these tender marks from your neck down to your shoulders, eventually becoming bold enough to venture lower, marking your chest with these plum bruises.

The possessive displays sent warmth coursing through your body, and you willingly accepted his territorial behavior. After all, you had become his sole source of comfort and security in this world, making it perfectly natural for him to want to claim you in some way - whether through his distinctive scent (you knew about him rubbing your clothes on his body) or these carefully placed marks. His need to establish this connection, to make his claim visible, he was terrified you’d be taken from him.

Progress was being made in your relationship.

While he was still cautious with physical contact, he had begun to allow gentle touches and brief moments of closeness, though always within carefully maintained boundaries. He was like a cat, deciding when he wanted physical attention and when he wanted it to stop. The challenge of memory recovery remained a significant hurdle in his healing process. You had to help him remember specific things, he often mixed Russian and English, or plainly forgot the simplest of words.

He couldn’t for the life of him remember what a pillow was.

When Steve would speak to him, sharing stories and memories of their past, Bucky would often find himself lost in confusion, unable to connect with the vivid recollections that Steve so enthusiastically shared. The determination in Steve's eyes was evident as he tried desperately to help his lost friend remember the bond they once shared, but for Bucky, these memories remained frustratingly out of reach.

Steve's enthusiasm was well-intentioned, but sometimes, it manifested as an overwhelming flood of information and expectations. You could sense Bucky's growing distress during these interactions, the way his shoulders would tense, how his eyes would dart anxiously around the room. The stark reality was that Bucky's memories of Steve were minimal at best, yet Steve continued to share detailed accounts of their past experiences with increasing intensity.

Your became a careful mediator, providing emotional support to Bucky while gently helping Steve understand that his passionate approach was more hindering rather than helping the delicate process of memory recovery.

Bucky would get frustrated with himself during his journey of recovery. His collection of journals became a sanctuary for his fragmented memories, filled with carefully preserved photographs (provided by Steve), detailed notes written in an unsteady hand, and hastily scrawled thoughts or recollections that would suddenly surface from the depths of his consciousness throughout all hours of the day and night. These journals became both a source of comfort and torment, evidence of his struggle to piece himself back together like a puzzle without a photo.

Even with help from you or Steve, he maintained strict control over his recovery process. He deliberately chose not to document anything that Steve mentioned or tried to convince him of, instead focusing solely on recording memories that emerged organically from within his own mind.

Having experienced decades of mental manipulation, he didn’t want anyone influencing his thoughts or memories ever again. He couldn't bring himself to simply accept Steve's version of events without questioning them, needing to verify everything through his own recollections.

You knew it hurt Steve to see Bucky this way, how he refused to listen or believe him, but you couldn’t blame the man. Either of them, really. It was delicate, it took a lot of patience on everyone’s part.

Bucky’s dedication to recovering his past manifested in sleepless marathons that would stretch on for days at a time. The soldier within him approached the task with military precision, attempting to reconstruct his shattered memories in a specific manner. Yet despite his efforts, the majority of his recollections remained disjointed and fractured, with memories of his time with HYDRA dominating his consciousness more than anything else.

While Bucky was trying to recall his elusive past, you dedicated yourself to helping him build new neural pathways and retain more recent experiences, hoping to make his daily life more manageable and give him a sense of independence. The simplest tasks had become foreign territory for him - the muscle memory and basic understanding of everyday activities having slipped away like water through cupped hands. Modern appliances like microwaves, coffee makers, or the oven had become objects that he approached with confusion.

His relationship with food had become particularly concerning. Unable to prepare proper meals, you would find him furtively consuming makeshift sandwiches, but only when he believed he could finish them before being discovered. His posture during meals was hunched, protectively positioning himself over his plate or bowl, shoveling food into his mouth at an alarming pace, his entire body tense as though preparing to defend his meal from unseen threats.

Food aggression, apparently, wasn't restrictive to just animals.

Among the numerous concerns, his recurring nightmares stood out as the most troubling and pressing issue. The frequency and intensity of these night terrors had become increasingly worrisome, regardless of how well he had progressed otherwise.

Night after night, his anguished screams would pierce the darkness, and these episodes gradually evolved into extended periods where sleep became completely impossible for him to achieve. Bucky would remain awake for days and nights at a stretch, fighting against his own exhaustion, scribbling nonsense into his journals until his body would finally surrender and he would collapse into a brief, troubled slumber.

This cycle would repeat, each time more severe than the last.

Your began looking into different methods that might help ease his troubled sleep so that Bucky could experience the simple luxury of peaceful rest. Your research led you through a wide array of options; from various herbal teas and natural sleep remedies to more conventional medical interventions. However, given his strong aversion to pharmaceutical solutions, you deliberately steered clear of medication-based approaches, knowing they would likely be met with resistance.

Over time, you discovered that a soothing routine of warm herbal tea and gentle companionship proved to be an effective remedy for his nightmares. The nightly ritual of sharing your sleeping space had become second nature, and you observed how this consistent presence brought him the comfort and stability his life lacked for seven decades. His sleep patterns were delicately intertwined with his emotional state, thus during periods of anxiety or perceived threat, his rest would become noticeably disturbed and fitful.

However, your unwavering presence served as a constant source of reassurance, creating a safe haven where he could finally find peaceful rest. Plus, it helped him regain new memories to write down and you could see how proud he was every time he recounted something from his past.

Christmas morning.

Every corner and crevice of the tower sparkled with festive décor, tinsel draped from every available surface, and twinkling lights illuminated the halls in a dazzling display. It was an extravagant winter wonderland that bordered on excessive, but that was exactly Tony's style - he approached every holiday with unbridled enthusiasm, and Christmas was undoubtedly his crowning achievement.

With his seemingly limitless resources at his disposal, there was nothing holding him back from creating the most elaborate celebrations possible.

Aka…he was rich so he could.

In contrast to Tony's lavish approach, you took a more modest approach when it came to gift-giving. The act of receiving presents always made you somewhat uncomfortable, as you found far more joy in being the one doing the giving. You selected meaningful presents for each team member, carefully considering their individual interests and preferences. You couldn't match Tony's extravagant spending (something he never failed to remind everyone of that morning), but you firmly believed that the genuine thought and personal consideration behind a gift carried far more significance than its monetary value (Tony disagrees).

Bucky perched uncomfortably at the far end of the plush couch, his posture tense and rigid while the other team members enthusiastically tore through their wrapped presents with childlike excitement. Your general annoyance with Tony's characteristic swagger and showmanship failed you this morning, a warmth spread through your chest at the genuine joy radiating from Pepper's face when she discovered the exquisite diamond ring he had carefully selected for her and presented after she freed it from the tight wrapping paper.

You stayed by Bucky all morning, carefully observing his reactions to the bustling holiday atmosphere. It was clear he was struggling to process the overwhelming sensory experience and you didn’t blame him. The twinkling lights and shimmering tinsel to the constant chatter and laughter of the group, on top of holiday music and the smells of breakfast and baked goods from the kitchen, were surely a lot to process. His discomfort grew and you recognized the telltale signs of sensory overload in his slightly widened eyes and shallow breathing. The social expectations was clearly taking its toll.

He had wanted to try, he wanted to sit down with you that morning, but he had been struggling.

Your gift pile was modest, exactly as you had requested. You insisted that presents weren't necessary, you found yourself the recipient of a generously stuffed Christmas stocking and an assortment of small, meaningful items carefully chosen by your teammates in a way that made it impossible for you to object to their kindness.

When Steve presented Bucky with a collection of carefully preserved mementos from their past, but the soldier's response wasn’t what he wanted. His eyes fixed on the items that should have sparked recognition, should have ignited memories of happier times, but instead were met with blank confusion and growing distress. You sensed the uncomfortable scene and noticed the mounting anxiety in Bucky's expression, you decided to intervene with a present you got for him.

"Here, I got this for you." You handed him a carefully wrapped bag with delicate tissue paper peeking out from the top, rustling softly with each movement. "Nothing all that special but...I figured it might be nice to have something like this." You replied gently, your voice carrying a hint of nervousness as you watched him, waiting with anticipation for him to open the gift.

Bucky held the bag tentatively, his eyes fixed on the festive baby blue packaging adorned with an intricate pattern of darker blue ornaments. The glitter-coated decorations caught the light as they spiraled across the surface of the bag. He had to blink a few times to refocus his eyes, his hand slowly reached up and grasped the white tissue paper that had been carefully arranged at the top, concealing the gift. He pulled it free, soft crinkling sounded as he removed it.

He reached into the depths of the bag, his fingers brushing against something soft before grasping it. As he drew it out, his hand revealed a charming stuffed elephant, its plush grey body soft to the touch. The toy was perfectly proportioned, with endearing fat limbs that dangled naturally from its tear-shaped body. Its oversized ears flopped gently and its trunk curved in a friendly manner that seemed to welcome embrace. The stuffed animal sat comfortably in his hands, sized just right for holding close and cuddling.

"Elephants are known for their memories, you know." You gave him a gentle, encouraging nudge, your voice soft and hopeful. "Who knows? Maybe having this elephant around will help spark some of those lost memories of yours. They say elephants never forget, after all."

Bucky turned to face you, his expression one of confusion and curiosity. His eyes held that familiar, guarded look the soldier usually carried - a careful blend of wariness and interest that never quite revealed his inner thoughts. He examined the stuffed toy with an almost childlike fascination, as if encountering one for the first time.

His flesh hand explored every detail of the plush elephant with careful attention, fingers trailing along the soft fabric. He wrapped them around the trunk, testing its flexibility, then moved to rub the floppy ears between his thumb and forefinger, then squeezing the body gently as if checking its softness.

"There's something else too." You smiled warmly, gesturing toward the bag with enthusiasm. "Go ahead, take another look." He complied, reaching in until his hand emerged clutching a brand new journal. Following the theme, the journal was decorated in a soothing light blue shade, its cover stamped with a delicately printed elephant in the center. "I noticed your other journals were getting pretty full, so I thought you might need a fresh start. This one's got plenty of space, lots of room for all those thoughts and memories you want to keep safe."

His hands gently set the items down after examining each one carefully, his eyes lingering on every detail as if trying to memorize them. Then he turned to you, his expression unreadable. "You...got these...for me." Bucky spoke slowly, each word carefully chosen, as if he was having trouble processing the simple act of kindness. "To help me remember?"

"And, the elephant will be a nice cuddle buddy for those long nights you tend to have," you explained softly, watching his reaction. "It has special infusions of lavender and bergamot oils that I picked specifically to help you sleep better. The aromatherapy might even help soothe away those bad dreams you've been having. Well, at least according to the sales clerk." You reached out and lifted the soft plush elephant, bringing it to your nose and inhaling deeply. "See? It's really calming, isn't it?"

He took the toy back and smelled it deeply, letting out a contented sigh as the aroma filled his nose and sent waves of comfort through his body, making him feel warm and fuzzy inside. He carefully lowered the elephant into his lap, treating it as if it were made of delicate porcelain. His throat tightened with emotion as he swallowed hard and looked back at you, his eyes wide with disbelief and gratitude.

"All this for me?" he whispered, his voice barely audible as he struggled to process the reality that someone would think to get him anything at all (Steve didn’t count). The concept of receiving gifts was so foreign to him, so far removed from his perception of what he deserved, that he could barely wrap his mind around it.

You thought maybe it looked sill to some people, but it was more about why you got it, not what you got him.

You nodded, offering a warm smile, "Yes...I got this just for you."

The soldier's gaze slowly drifted back to his lap, his fingers lingering momentarily on the thoughtful gifts before carefully pushing the journal and elephant to rest beside him. He then leaned forward quickly, closing the distance between you and wrapping his arms around you in a tight embrace. The display caught you off guard, given his usual hesitance to initiate any form of contact beyond nightly cuddling or his possessive love-bites.

After you recovered from the sudden gesture, your arms encircled him in return. You drew him closer as he nestled himself against your body, seeking comfort in your warmth and smell. It was one of the only things he could consistently rely on.

A knowing smile played across your lips as you whispered against his ear, "I take it you like it?"

"...Да."

Thanks for reading. -em 🌿

Dividers by @/strangergraphics | Images found on Pinterest.

[inkyarcturus]

Okay so im stopping for the rest of the night (idk if I said but I’m doing all of these with a mouse and my wrist kinda hurts after a bit ;-;) - but I’m actually kinda cooking and want to make it the last request I had a fleshed out piece-

TO THE ANONYMOUS PERSON WHO SAID “For the art requests, maybe teen Severus and Remus being buddies (or less of enemies)?” Here is a lil sketch :D

Yall see the vision?

[the-holy-ghosted]

he probably broke up a few fights between fitz and crozier right? probably? that's the only excuse i have for this

[classyrbf]

PERSONAL TRAINER! — GOJO SATORU

SYNOPSIS...just some small little nsfw headcanons about personal trainer!gojo hehehe

INFO...personal trainer!gojo x fem!reader, gojo is touchy and pervy, sex in a gym, sex in the showers, oral (f!receiving), rough sex, praise, nipple play, not proofread

OTHER...likes and reblogs are appreciated

personal trainer!gojo who you have the fattest crush on. You didn’t expect your personal trainer to be the hottest guy you’ve ever laid eyes but here you are

personal trainer!gojo who claims he’s a hands on trainer, demonstrating moves and helping you adjust your position and posture

personal trainer!gojo who is right behind you as he bends you over to make you touch your toes, his large hands on your as he pushes you down further and further “You got it…there we go. Yeah, good job.” You swear you almost melted right then and there

personal trainer!gojo who begins to compliment you everytime you walk in the gym, noticing how you always have your matching set on and how he can tell the workouts are really starting to shape your body like you hoped

personal trainer!gojo who gets you all hot and bothered when he’s doing push ups shirtless, sweat dripping down his godlike body, his grunts and groans filling your head with such perverted thoughts that you had to excuse yourself to the bathroom

personal trainer!gojo who pretends like he doesn’t know he has an affect on you, purposely doing what he does just so he can see you get all flustered and riled up, he thinks it’s so cute

personal trainer!gojo who has you two do a late night workout session with only you two in the gym, you come in with your matching set and water bottle with a smile on your face, not a single thought behind those eyes on what he plans to do with you

personal trainer!gojo who makes you lay on your back and stretch your legs upward and toward your chest, his hands gripping your calf and pushing back, hovering over you as hiss at the stretch. “You can take it, I know you can.”

personal trainer!gojo who notices you look away from him, avoiding eye contact as he pushes your leg further and further, his hips pressed up right against your throbbing heat. His hands glide down to your thighs now, tossing your legs over his shoulders. He knows exactly what he’s doing

personal trainer!gojo who has you leggings ripped open minutes later with his thick cock shoved inside your pussy, pounding you into the gym floor while you cry out his name

personal trainer!gojo who’s got you bending in all types of positions, each one making your eyes roll back at the way he hits that spot deep inside you. “This is what we were practicing for, sweetheart.” His chuckle sends chills down your spine

personal trainer!gojo who has cum around his cock so many times you can’t even form words, mindlessly babbling before you’re squirting around his cock again, screaming in pleasure

personal trainer!gojo who eats pussy like a champ, slurping, licking, spitting all over it while he moans at your taste and scent. He’s got your legs pushed back all the way to your chest as his tongue expertly circles your puffy clit, taking one of his long, thick fingers to rub against your g-spot

personal trainer!gojo who even fucks you in the showers, hot water cascading down your skin, his hands mushing your face up against the wall while he fucks you like a slut but tells you how much of a good girl you are for taking him so well

personal trainer!gojo who loves your titties so much, always cupping them, squeezing them, twisting your cute perky nipples until you’re a whining mess

personal trainer!gojo who is still your personal trainer despite everything that happened between you two, allowing you to come over his house to workout instead of the gym just so he can have you all to himself and fuck you whenever he wants

personal trainer!gojo whose idea of cardio isn���t running or walking, no, he just ends up fucking you in his bed for several hours until your both dazed and drunk off of sex

personal trainer!gojo whose only plan now is to train you to take his cock until you become absolutely addicted to the way he stretches you out and makes you cum so hard

[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere Soldier x Reader - NonCon

Yandere! Soldier with his foreign accent and foreign guns. With muscles that show even underneath all his body armour.

Yandere! Soldier who's part of a platoon sent to keep an eye on your neighbourhood. Who's looking for insurrectionists hiding in plain site.

Yandere! Soldier who's suspicious of everyone and everything.

Yandere! Solider who notices you all too quickly, with your books and your pamphlets. Who's immediately suspicious about the people that come and go from your apartment at all hours.

Yandere! Soldier who barely even waits for permission from his commander before he's leading a squad to bust down your door.

Yandere! Soldier who somehow ends up in your panty drawer and who lingers far longer than he needs to. Who searches through them - ostensibly for contraband - just so he can feel the silk and lace on his calloused hands. Who keeps picturing these lacy little things under your neat pleated skirt.

Yandere! Soldier who's pissed as hell when he can't find any evidence of rebellion. Hell, even those pamphlets you were carrying around the other day are gone. Who's disturbed by how calm you are - despite a bunch of soldiers ransacking your place.

Yandere! Soldier who grabs onto your wrist right before he leaves, who looks into your eyes and says that he knows something about you is suspicious. That you might have escaped this time but at some point, you're going to slip up.

Yandere! Soldier who can't help but notice how fragile your wrists are, how delicate your neck looks. How helpless you would be if it weren't for your frighteningly sharp tongue.

Yandere! Soldier who grins just a little when you threaten to demand a replacement door from his Sergeant.

Yandere! Soldier who finds himself stopping outside your apartment more and more on his patrols. Who tells his squadmates that he's suspicious of you, when really he just wants a chance to watch you go about your day.

Yandere! Soldier who finds himself gripping his rifle when he sees you walking alone with your male classmates. Who more than once has them stopped and searched.

Yandere! Soldier who takes his frustration out on his sparing partners - to the point that no one wants to train with him for fear of splintered bones.

Yandere! Soldier who keeps running into you. And despite his body armour, his rifle, his rank and power, you never seem impressed or even afraid of him.

Yandere! Soldier who watches as the martial law on your city becomes stricter and stricter. First the curfew, and then the armed checkpoints, and then the armored vehicles parked on seemingly every street corner.

Yandere! Soldier who knows what really happens to suspected rebels when they're held for questioning. Who keeps thinking of your wrists dwarfed by his hands. Who keeps thinking of your pretty hands mangled by the interrogators.

Yandere! Soldier who finds himself alone outside your apartment, so nervous that his hands are trembling. Who knocks and knocks on your new door until you open it, still sluggish with sleep.

Yandere! Soldier who doesn't give you a chance to scream as he shoves his way into your apartment and kicks the door closed behind him.

Yandere! Soldier who manages to hold onto you even as you kick and bite and swear at him.

Yandere! Soldier who hisses at you to just shut up and listen. That for once, he's trying to help you.

Yandere! Soldier who has to literally grab you by your collar and slam you against the wall before you stop trying to bite him.

Yandere! Soldier who tells you that the army intends to arrest you tomorrow morning on suspicion of insurgency. That he knows a place where you'll be safe.

Yandere! Solider who doesn't listen to your complaints or objections. Who zip ties your wrists together and gags you before hoisting you up on his shoulder.

Yandere! Soldier who doesn't even notice you banging your fists against his back.

Yandere! Soldier who drives all the way across the city in an armoured vehicle with you tossed across the backseat. At the checkpoints, his fellow soldiers just smirk and tell him to enjoy himself.

Yandere! Soldier who brings you to an old room in an old building. Who tosses you down on the bed and suddenly realises just how close you are.

Yandere! Soldier who slowly leans down to kiss your cheek. Who smells your perfume and feels himself slowly going feral.

Yandere! Solider who kisses down your jawline and then down your neck, his lips as light as feathers. Who runs his palms up your waist, marvelling at the softness of your skin against the roughness of his hands.

Yandere! Soldier who pins your hands above your head so he can admire your body stretched out underneath him.

Yandere! Soldier who knows this is wrong. Who knows it's going to hurt you and haunt you. Who feels his heart clench when he looks into your crying eyes.

Yandere! Soldier who knows, but fucks you anyway.

Yandere! Soldier who is so gentle, that you almost wish he meant it. Who keeps one arm wrapped around your waist the entire time. Who keeps whispering to you in his native language, his voice rough as in prayer.

Yandere! Soldier who keeps his forehead pressed against yours even as he thrusts deep inside you.

Yandere! Soldier who stays inside of you even after he comes. Who just wants to feel the warmth of your body under his. Who wants to pretend that the little muffled sounds you're making are out of affection.

Yandere! Soldier who cuts your bonds away with his combat knife. The blade catches the moonlight and it breaks his heart when you flinch away from him.

Yandere! Soldier who tries to convince himself he did the right thing. You're safe from the interrogation room, aren't you?

Yandere! Soldier who looks at your tears in the moonlight and realises his love was the worst thing that ever happened to you.

Yandere! Soldier who falls asleep with you in his arms, his dog tags pressed against your shoulder blades. Yandere! Soldier who knows that he's a monster, but holds you all the same.

Yandere! Soldier who whispers to you just before he falls asleep.

Мне жаль

I'm sorry.

Но я люблю тебя

But I love you.

[dawnwriterimagines]

Traitors Among Us

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x Fem!Reader Task Force 141 x Fem!Reader (Platonic)

PART 2

Part Three: The Guilty Plea

Part Four: The Verdict Due

Summary: You're a rat, a traitor. At least that's what Task Force 141 believes due to the evidence and claims scattered against you. It doesn't matter what you say, everyone's against you, ready to end you for it...until the truth comes out.

Warning(s): Torture, Heavy Angst, etc.

If you liked this would you Buy my a Coffee?

---

Drip.

Drip..

Drip...

Your shoulders seize up involuntarily as freezing droplets continue to hit your skin, eyes squeezed shut to try to ignore the sound that had been going on for who knows how long.

Another drop of water hits your spine from the faucet placed above you, it's cold as it runs down your bare skin. It feels like ice. Hitting the same spot over and over and over...

Drip...

Not even able to take a deep breath, you release a strained cry, it can hardly leave you, not that you hadn't cried enough already. You could feel the dried blood, tears and snot still on your face and a testament to your torment. You haven't been able to get the metallic taste of your blood of of your mouth since you got in here.

You breathe slowly, trying to relieve the pain in your chest. Body positioned downwards, chest pressed down to your knees, a leather buckle holds you down and over a metal stool. Wrists torn open by old shackles and stretched upwards to connect to the steel pipe in the middle of the room.

The stress position had been Johnny's idea, putting you in it to begin with. The bastard...

Kyle had been in and out to collaborate with Price on the interrogation, he didn't have the heart to do you any harm like his Captain. But, that didn't stop him from stomaching your screams as he turned the handle up, piercing cold crashing down atop you, it beats down on your back, by the time it's done your shaking, and your skin a bruising purple hue. It goes on like that for hours, even as you beg. He reads you the files again.

Price would then take the baton from the corner of the room, the side of your face already swollen from the last strike, you were seeing red out of your left eye and soon you wouldn't be able to see out of it if the swelling continued.

"Please..." you shivered, miserably.

"Over in a jiff, love, but i need somethin' from you, you know that." Was his reply, he tapped the baton against the metal below you, the reverb makes you jump each time, leaving you to stare at it as you watched his boots walk around you.

"Cap'n, It's not...It's not--me..." you tried, breathless. "I'd never.."

The steel baton came down on your shoulder, first. There was an immediate response from your constricted muscles, limbs that had all tensed up at once despite their numbness. Pulling at the shackles that kept you in place, the hit shocks you, nearly silencing you completely, it hurts, then it burns. Mouth open in a silent scream, you squeeze your eyes shut in an effort to block out the pain that crawled through your shoulder. "It's not me!"

You've been suffering from hypothermia for a few days since then. Your shoulder crushed right out of place or just plain broken, you weren't sure. It's not like you could feel much of your arms in this position.

It hurt. Not just the painful strain that this position was currently putting on your muscles, but everything else...

Of course, you've handled torture alike this before. Captured and tortured by enemies, ransomed for pay and fought tooth and nail to live, then found your way from that hell...only for the men who you'd kill for, to do the same thing to you with no remorse.

In the quiet of the empty room, you sobbed in agony. Squeezing your fists, but you couldn't even feel them, as far as you knew your fingers could only twitch in response to your demand.

You weren't sure what you were doing here.

Well, you knew. There was a mole, all evidence pointing to you, whatever it was had completely stunted their mission earlier in the week, left them hiding in a safe house for days until they were picked up by evac. Apparently, you'd leaked mission details to some hostiles over seas, you weren't sure which ones, they were hoping you could tell them. You had absolutely nothing, lost.

Of course, they didn't believe you. Although you expected to have at least a sliver of trust, someone to speak up against these claims and believe you...

It must've been too much to ask.

It came out of nowhere, at first you had been in bed with Simon, your fucking Fiancé, then that meeting with Price, then just...they'd cornered you in that room. Knocked you out without even an explanation, woke you up strapped down, confused, stripped of your uniform and feral as you demanded answers. Nobody listened to you.

That first night you thought you were gonna die. The second night you thought you had. The third night you were just convinced this was your hell.

You were soaked to the bone, and unable to stop shivering. The only sound you could hear was your own chattering teeth in this never-ending void of darkness.

It was so fucking dark in here, your eyes darting around to every corner, hoping for even a measly crack of light that your eyes could adjust to. Every sound, scratch, scrape or click made you jump, you couldn't see shit in here, so just about everything made you hyper aware. You couldn't help your anxiety as the sound of the faucet, the constant drops against your spine, the jingle of your shackles and the whimpers that echoed against the walls as you struggled to comfortably breathe. Maybe it was the thought of a mouse crawling up the stool and along your skin, or someone in here just staring at you in the corner, or the door finally opening for Price to start slicing into you demanding answers you didn't have.

You were on the cusp of losing your mind. If you hadn't already.

But it's been a few hours since then...

Maybe even a few days...

It could even have been a week.

You weren't too sure.

Simon had been the last one in here. He'd pulled the strap loose around your neck, hauling you up to an upright position by your jaw, eliciting a whimper from your lips. Able to breathe a bit easier, your lungs finally decompressing and you gulp down air greedily, "Simon..." this had been the first time you'd seen him since. He wears his balaclava, he is Ghost, not your Simon Riley.

As your bloodshot, swollen eyes raise to look into his cold ones, so unfeeling. You hadn't even realized you were so hopeful for his trust in you until then, looking at you like you were absolutely nothing to him, the same look he always had before pulling the trigger. "Simon, please, stop this..." your words slurred by your shivering, exhausted. "You know me...please."

Your tears slide over the leather of his gloved hands, while he holds tight to your face and cuts your pleads short with a painful squeeze. "Shut up," he says. His eyes are blank, but his voice is low and seething. "Shut the fuck up!" Simon harshly grits out to you, jostling you harshly. You squeeze your eyes shut, weeping miserably, throat closing up to your agony.

He had to know that you would've never done this to him. He should've known that. Given you the benefit of the doubt at least. You'd have never done this to him...

"I'm sorr-" you try, he squeezes harder to silence you swiftly, and snatches a tiny bowl off the tray he'd brought in. Raising your jaw a bit higher, he pours down a chunky broth into your mouth, letting it all just fall down to your throat. It's disgusting. He doesn't ease up for even a second as you toss and turn your head to breathe.

"Don't say a fucking word," he seethes, his hand enveloping your neck and keeping your head raised upward. "As if I should believe you..."

He then takes the next cup to do the same, your eyes bloodshot wide and you jerk away from him as you choke, unable to stomach anything, but he doesn't let you. This time you inhale accidentally, blocking your airway, eyes watering as you writhe for oxygen, your shackles clang violently as you attempt to retaliate, the first fight you've put up in days. His grip doesn't let up, even as you struggle and start to vomit up whatever he decided to shove down your throat.

When he finally lets go, you curve over and heave up whatever's left in your mouth, hyperventilating as you empty your guts on the floor. Hacking up whatever you can, it hurts, your throat burning from the sobs that leave you in between coughs. "If you love me, if you--ever had--" you spat at him. You'd given him everything, every part of yourself, nearly given him your life in the battlefield, and yet...it wasn't enough. "You would fucking believe me!" your voice cracks with the effort it takes to scream at him, to curse him to hell.

"My trust? That's what you want," Hollow eyes stare back at you, his attention flickering around to the uncomfortable shift of your shoulders in those cuffs. Your swollen left eye that had been hit so hard, the white of it had filled with blood. The black and blue littering your sides and your spine, the loss of color in your skin from the stress position and the cold that had you uncontrollably shivering. "You've had it before. You must've sold that to them too."

Your head drops to the stool again, releasing a heavy breath. "It wasn't worth much, if it was so easy to lose..."

Usually it's not very easy to set Simon off, you've known him always to be quite mellow, besides the barely concealed rage he had settled in his chest since you've known him. But, today, you were an exception.

Fisting a hand in your hair, Simon yanks at it, pulling you upwards for your to face him. His other hand coming up to wrap around your throat before your tortured scream can even manifest. In that moment, it feels as if he'd snapped your spine in half, having not used the muscles to stretch that area in over a week. Your shackled wrists shifting in the cruel position.

His eyes are wild and rageful, the balaclava that covers him twists just the same, his grip very telling to his violence as he squeezes down any chance at air or even a sentence. "Easy to lose..." he repeats, spitting in your face as he strangles you. "Easy t'lose your life! If you don't tell me the fucking truth," he pulls out the knife you'd seen him slit so many throats with before, you hear the familiar sound of it first then its cold steel pressing into the side of your ribs. "I'm gonna carve out your heart, and I'll take it real slow, let you feel every little thing I do to you in here," he shakes you harshly as a startled cry escapes you, your tears are burning hot against your cheeks. "You don't get to cry. Or whine. Or beg!"

"Stop--" you try to squirm away from him, to get as far away as possible, from this place, from this moment.

"Just tell me the truth," Simon's face twisted in agony, for just a second, his thumb drags along your jaw, meaningfully. "You'd be doing us both a favor..."

As his vast hand finally loosed around your neck just enough to hold you up, awaiting the bitter truth. Simon's knife catches on the protrusion of your ribs, nicking the skin, drawing blood on purpose. You stare up at the ceiling, the flickering old lights, the dripping faucet that's tormented your already fragile state for weeks now. "The truth..." you spoke, hoarsely. "You've all shown me...it doesn't matter to you. If it ever... Believe what you want--" you close your eyes, you're exhausted. Sleep had evaded you for days. "You and your truth and this team, you can all go to hell."

And finally he lets you go, letting your fall forwards, unable to find the relief of a cold floor but back to the strenuous position you'd been placed in. "AH!" nearly popping your shoulders out of place, or maybe they had, you bite down on your tongue, shaking in silence.

If you could see Simon's face, you could've relished in the uncertainty flickering in his eyes, the sudden doubt that led his knife back in its holder and his nails to bite into the flesh of his palms. He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing leaves him, instead he stands there.

You can't say a thing to him now, everything that's happened was just a little reminder that whatever you said, whatever you did, it didn't matter. Their minds had already been made. You really would die here.

Simon stands there a little longer, he doesn't say anything, you're not sure if he stays there to watch your suffering a little longer or to wait to say another heart-wrenching thing. Maybe he's just there to wait for you to die. But, he just watches as you wretch and cry in a ball atop that stool.

He leaves not long after, he didn't bother to strap you down this time. He left the old light on, but it must've been older than you thought.

The single bulb fizzled out completely hours ago. Not unless one of them decided to cut the silence and turn on the light to start another 'questioning', so suddenly being able to see more than darkness wasn't anything to be excited about.

They'd leave you in the dark until then, to await the next moment any of them would grace you with their presence.

To be honest, you'd imagined you'd be stronger than this. But, there was nothing to hold onto, so what did strength matter?

It was too late anyway.

They'd broken you days ago.

---

The truth had come out, two days later.

"Oh god..."

"Oh my fucking God," Simon rushed down the corridor, Price tailing right behind him. "Oh my God!" his normal monotone voice now a mess of fear and panic, breathing harsher, on the cusp of hyperventilating with every stride as he ran faster than he ever had in his life.

Finally getting to the interrogation wing of the department, he bangs his fist on the plexiglass of those silently monitoring the rooms, "Open the fucking door!" he's buzzed in before he can pull on the handle another time.

Rushing down the hall to the now green lit room, lights flickering to life with every step closer down the hall of empty rooms. He nearly rips the door off its hinges as he bursts inside, the lights of the your tiny prison don't come to life as they should. Light spilling into the cell, to hit your limp figure first.

He doesn't deserve to say your name. "(Y/n)," Simon rushes over, to his knees instantly. A puddle of vomit, water and spoiled broth soaks through his uniform.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry," he sobs out his mistakes, unhooking your chains and cutting through your buckles as fast as he could. "Oh my god, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!" he catches his fiancé as you collapse, turning over and off the stool, your legs having lost all sense of feeling. You fall into his arms, catching you carefully. "Price!" he cries out, desperately.

"They're on the way!" Your captain assures, he sees the medical team rushing down the hallway, a stretcher, a box of medical supplies. Christ.

You're freezing to the touch, your skin a hue of blue, not to mention the bruises, the cuts and the swollen areas throughout your face and spine. You suddenly inhale, sharply, coughing terribly. You're sick, breathing shakily, "Simon...?" you breathe, confused. You can't see. Your eyes swollen shut from your torture at their hands.

"It's me, it's me," Simon assured, although he knew it probably brought you no comfort. He snatches the blanket offered up by Price, your captain a mess of himself, holding himself together at the doorway, nails biting into the steel.

As Simon wraps you in the first glimpse of warmth you've had in days, you ease up a bit, fingers twitching upwards to pull the threads closer around yourself. "It wasn't..." you shiver, Simon listens intently as he rises with you in his arms, running off to meet the medical team halfway. "It wasn't me..." you gasp out. "It wasn't..."

Simon can't say a thing as he hears your tormented voice stutter in fear of him, lips pressed tight together, heart sinking and as the nurses take your body, he collapses to his knees.

Part 2

[d1stalker]

All of You, All of Me [Logan Howlett]

Summary: In a world of black and white, the only person who could bring colour to your life is the last one who'd want to.

Warnings: au where everything is black and white until you meet your soulmate, fem!reader, slow burn, angst, running away from feelings, pining, grovelinggg WC: 14.2k - MASTERLIST - A/N: help i'm sorry i didn't mean for it to get this long, but this fic is my baby

----

You've always cherished the idea of having a soulmate—someone who would love you unconditionally, waiting just for you as you them. The thought of finding that perfect match, the one who complements you in every way, is something you’ve always dreamed of. 

But as you get older, the hope you carry seems to dwindle more and more each year. Everyone around you has found their other half, reveling in the newfound ability to see colours in all their glory, and soaking up every moment of shared affection.

Everyone, except for you.

Your world remains a stark, colourless void, as if the universe is deliberately withholding the one thing you desire most.

And to make matters worse, despite not finding your soulmate, you are unequivocally, irrevocably in love with someone who has.

Logan Howlett.

You can’t remember a time where you didn’t feel anything toward him. His rugged, lone-wolf demeanor snuck its way deep into the crevices of your heart, and made itself a home there.

You and him formed an unlikely friendship, formed through the desire to fight back against all the people who’ve wronged mutants. Over the years, you had accepted the fact that while he wasn’t yours, at least you were alone together. Well, until she came.

Jean Grey.

She was strong, charming, and everything you felt you weren’t. It was no wonder her and Logan were meant to be together—the stoic, brooding mutant and his graceful, strong-willed counterpart. 

You remember the day it happened so vividly, it’s almost like you were the one who found their life partner. You and him had been walking around the mansion, when Charles had called you into his office to meet someone new. One look at their faces when they made eye contact and you knew you’d lost him.

It pained you to see them all over each other, all the time. Your once-regular walks in the garden became rare, then vanished entirely. On missions, he no longer looked out for you; his attention was consumed by protecting her. And as much as it hurt, you couldn’t deny they seemed perfect for each other—just as soulmates should be. You had no right to feel jealous.

Then, just as quickly as she had entered his life, she left it. 

The Pheonix was too strong, ripping her apart from the inside out. The pained scream he let out as not only his heart died, but as the world around him faded back into black and white, was forever ingrained into your memory. 

Logan was never the same after that.

 —

You trudge down the familiar halls of the mansion, your feet heavy with the weight of the day. It’s been long, filled with training sessions, team meetings, and a lot of paperwork. All you want to do is retreat to your room, lose yourself in a book, or maybe just sleep until the ache in your chest dulls.

As you walk, you hear faint commotion down the hallway—a low murmur of voices and the occasional clatter of something being moved. But you pay it no mind, too lost in your thoughts to care. Another mission, another discussion, another moment where you aren’t needed. It’s all so routine now.

Lost in your reverie, you don’t notice the figure walking toward you until it’s too late. You collide with a solid chest, the impact jolting you back to reality.

“Oh, sorry—” you begin, stepping back, but the words die on your lips as you look up.

It’s Logan.

Your breath catches in your throat as you stare at him, shock rippling through your body as you process his presence. And for a moment, neither of you speak. You just stand there, taking him in—the man who was once your closest friend, the man who was torn apart by grief and loss. His clothes are rumpled, his skin rougher than you remember, like he’s been through hell and back. 

You hadn’t seem him in a long time. After the devastation, he stopped talking to everyone. He holed himself up in his room for days at a time, only coming out in the dead of night to eat. Either that, or he was away on a mission–anything to stay distracted. 

But now, looking at him, there’s something different off. Something you can’t quite place your finger on. Did he always look like that? Maybe it’s the way the light above is reflecting off of him. Or maybe it’s—oh.

Looking around in surprise, you watch as the usually dark, stoic walls explode into a deep, rich shade. The carpet below you—no longer a mural of grey—radiates colors you can’t name. Your hands, his eyes, his hair-

You want to open your mouth and say something, anything, to the man who has caused your world to shift on its axis, but he’s already turned, walking away from you.

“Give me a fuckin’ break.”

----

Brown. Logan’s hair is brown.

After Logan leaves you paralyzed in the hallway, you run to your room, find the book on colors you had stashed in your bedside table, and throw open the cover. In it is a diagram that displays every known colour and their names. You learn that your favorite pair of pants are maroon, your bedsheets are navy green, and the X-Men suits are bright yellow and blue.

You stare at the page, each word blurring as your mind tries to process the impossible. Logan’s hair is brown. The thought keeps repeating in your head like a mantra, over and over again, until it becomes a steady thrum, drowning out everything else.

Brown.

You sit back on your bed, letting the book slip from your hands, the pages crumpling as it hits the floor.

Why him? Why me? Why now?

You begin to fidget, the adrenaline of the prior moment causing your heart to flail in your chest like crazy. You can’t stay here, you think to yourself. The idea of locked in your room with only your thoughts for company does not sound appealing. You need air, something to ground you, something to clear the haze clouding your head. Without thinking, you jump out of bed and find yourself heading up to the roof, the one place where you can breathe without feeling like the walls of the mansion closing in on you.

The trip up the stairs feels longer than ever before, each step heavy under the weight of your mind. It’s like every thought adds ten pounds. When you open the door, the cool night air hits you like a welcomed slap to the face, and you exhale deeply.

Walking to the edge, you lean against the railing. You’re in a daze - wondering if you made up the entire thing in your head. The only proof that you haven't, and that Logan being your soulmate is real, is the colours that coat the mansion’s grounds. The moonlight bathes everything in what you now know as a soft, silver glow, and for a moment, you just stand there, looking out into the distance.

It doesn’t make sense, and the more you try to wrap your head around it, the more tangled your thoughts become. You don’t want to face the possibility of what it could mean, but you can’t just brush it aside either. It has quite literally changed your entire life. 

You close your eyes, taking a deep breath in an attempt to quiet your racing mind. But when you open them again, you freeze.

Logan is standing at the other end of the roof, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the sky. He hasn’t noticed you yet, and for a split second, you consider turning back, retreating before he sees you. It would be a wise idea - he didn’t want to talk to you then, and he probably doesn’t want to talk to you now. But, it an act that can only be seen as your own body betraying you, you take a step forward. 

The sudden movement catches his attention, and his head snaps in your direction, his eyes locking onto yours. 

“Why are you here?” he asks accusingly.

You hesitate, unsure of how to answer. Seeing him out here was the last thing you had expected, and now that he’s in front of you, you are at a loss of words.

Logan’s eyes narrow, and he pushes off the wall, walking toward you. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I needed air,” you manage to say, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I just needed to clear my head.”

“Well, find somewhere else to do it,” he snaps, “I don’t want company.”

“Logan, I—”

“Don’t,” he interrupts, not even bothering to hear you out. “Don’t start. I know what you’re gonna say, and I don’t want to hear it.”

You blink, taken aback, and hurt at his coldness. “What are you talking about?”

He lets out a low, humourless laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You think I don’t know what’s going on? God, I… this is all so fucking stupid.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you feel a flush of embarrassment rise to your cheeks. “I wasn’t—”

“Enough!” he barks, his voice echoing in the night. “I’m not interested, alright? Whatever it is you think is happening between us, it’s not real. It’s just some stupid trick of the universe, and I’m not playing along.”

His words hit you like a physical blow - like you’ve just been shot at right in the heart - and you have to bite your lip to keep from crying out. “I don’t understand. I didn’t mean for any of this—”

“Yeah, well, neither did I,” he snaps at you, “And I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like there’s something here,” he gestures between you two, “when there isn’t. You’re not mine, and I’m sure as hell not yours.”

The finality in his tone leaves you breathless, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him. You have nothing to say back, he’s not giving you any slack. The reality of his rejection sinks in with a brutal, crushing weight, you have to put in effort to not stumble over. 

After a long moment, you finally collect yourself. Then, “Okay,” you whisper. “I understand.”

Logan’s expression doesn’t soften; if anything, it grows colder, more distant.

“Good. Then stay away from me.”

You nod, eyes filling with tears. You quickly turn your face away, not wanting him to see just how much he’s hurt you.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, barely audible. “I didn’t mean to make things worse for you.”

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even acknowledge your apology. He just turns away, his back to you, effectively shutting you out.

You stand there for a long moment, watching him walk away for the second time that night. The colours that seemed so vibrant, so full of life just a moment ago, now feel like a cruel reminder of everything you could never have.

—

When you eventually return to your room, all you can do is lay in bed and stare up at the ceiling as your encounter with Logan on the roof replays in your mind on an endless loop, each harsh word he’d thrown at you cutting deeper than the last. It’s causes pain unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, pain that seems to have no end, no respite.

If he doesn’t want you in his life, you’ll accept that. You have to - it’s not like you have a choice. Soulmates are a two-way street.  

You can’t force him to feel something he doesn’t, can’t make him see you in a way he clearly never will. And you understand, don’t you? You can’t even imagine how difficult this would be for him. Losing your soulmate, and then the universe saying Fuck You and giving you another? 

You’ll never ever forget how wrecked he was when Jean died. How her death shattered him into pieces so small you weren’t–no–you’re still not sure he’ll ever be whole again. 

And you—where do you stand in the grand scheme of things? Just as the unfortunate recipient of a bond that neither of you asked for? Are you even allowed to be upset about this?

—

Waking up the next morning, you honestly wish you hadn’t. You knew you weren’t on good terms with Logan after his little rooftop showcase of emotions, but nothing could have prepared you for the way he starts to treat you.

His face is stuck in a perpetual scowl when you’re in his vicinity. He’s leaving every room the moment you enter, refusing to look at you, speak to you, or acknowledge your presence in any way. It’s as if you’ve become invisible, a ghost haunting the same halls you once shared with him. There’s only one thing you two seem to wordlessly agree on: don’t tell anyone. 

Each day following becomes a struggle, an unbearable test of your strength as you try to make it through without breaking. You begin to avoid Logan as much as he avoids you, but the mansion is only so big, and there are always moments when you catch sight of him in the distance, his broad shoulders hunched, his brooding face glaring daggers in your direction. 

It hurts you every time, an unending torture that leaves you stumbling. Still, you bite your tongue and keep moving, pretending you don’t care.

But you do care. You care more than you want to admit, more than you think is possible. Because despite everything—despite the rejection, the coldness, the anger—you still love him. 

And that’s the cruelest twist of all.

So you endure it, day after day, week after week, month after month. Letting it tear you apart piece by piece, because what else can you do? You carry this burden alone, just as you’ve carried your feelings for him all these years. And maybe one day, the pain will fade, the bond will weaken, and you’ll be able to move on.

—

The only person you tell is Charles.

“What’s on your mind, my child?” he asks one day, while you’re sweeping the dust in his office. 

You hesitate, your gaze dropping to your hands as you focus on cleaning. You know he’s just asking out of courtesy, and that he could easily crawl into your mind and figure it out himself. He probably wouldn’t even need to put in that much effort, given how loud your thoughts are. But still, you don’t yield to his probing.

“Nothing, really,” you mutter, forcing a small smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Just… tired, I guess.”

Charles watches you carefully, his eyes full of the warmth and compassion he always has, but this time, it makes you feel uncomfortable. Like he can see right through the facade you’re trying so hard to maintain, which you have no doubt, he does. 

“I’m here to help, whatever the burden.”

You want to groan. It’s not like he’s doing it on purpose but damn does it feel like he’s trying to guilt you into confessing that you just recently had your heart shattered. 

“I know, Professor. But… it’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“You forget, I worry about all of you,” he replies gently. “It’s in my nature.”

The chuckle that crawls out your throat is nothing short of bitter. “It’s just… complicated.”

“Complicated doesn’t mean you have to face it alone.”

You bite your lip, trying to keep the emotions at bay. Do you really want to explain to him the insurmountable suffering you’re in, the rejection you faced from the one person who is supposed to be your soulmate? How can you tell him that the bond the universe forged is the very thing tearing you apart?

“It’s just… I don’t know how to make sense of it, Professor,” you finally admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Everything’s so… wrong.”

He leans forward slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. “Wrong how?”

Knowing that you’re teetering into confession territory, you hesitate, needing time to collect your thoughts. 

“Logan… he… we… It’s not supposed to be like this, is it?” you eventually get out. Not your best work, but you know he’d get the gist. 

Understanding dawns in Charles’s eyes, and you can see the sympathy there, the quiet acceptance of the truth you’re struggling to voice. “The bond you share… it’s more than you expected, isn’t it?”

You nod, feeling the tears well up again. “But he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want me.”

The professor sighs softly, and he looks at you like you’re a lost puppy. “Logan has been through so much, more than most could bear. His heart has been wounded in ways that are difficult to heal, and it’s not surprising that he would resist this new connection.”

“So why me?” you ask. “Why bind me to someone who will never love me?”

Leaning back in his chair, his fingers steepled thoughtfully, he says, “I wish I had an answer for you, my dear. The universe works in mysterious ways, ways that often defy our understanding. But I do know this: the bond you share is there for a reason. Whether it’s meant to bring you closer or to teach you something important… that remains to be seen.”

“It feels like a punishment,” you whisper, the tears finally spilling over. As much as you hate being put on the hot seat, you can admit that it feels good talking to someone about it.  “Every day, it hurts more. And he won’t even look at me. I don’t know how to make it stop.”

“The heartache you’re feeling is profound, but you must understand that it’s not your fault. Logan’s reaction isn’t a reflection of your worth, but of his own pain and fear.”

He reaches out, placing a comforting hand on your own before continuing.

“To love, even when it’s not returned, takes incredible courage. But you must also take care of yourself. Give Logan the space he needs, and in the meantime, allow yourself the grace to heal.”

So you do. In the days that follow your conversation with Charles, you make a promise to yourself—to try, really try, to focus on your own life, to reclaim the parts of yourself that have been overshadowed by the pain of this unrequited love.

The colours are still there, vivid and vibrant, and though they sometimes feel like a bittersweet reminder of what could never be, you find moments where they bring you joy. You marvel at the deep blue of the sky, the rich greens of the trees, the way the sunlight filters through the leaves and paints the world in golden hues. It’s like seeing the world anew, and in those moments, you allow yourself to feel happiness.

Moreover, you busy yourself, volunteering for every assignment that comes your way. The adrenaline, the focus, the purpose—they all help to drown out the pain, even if only temporarily. And when you return from each mission, tired but satisfied, you feel a little more like yourself again.

The mansion, too, becomes less of a prison and more of a home once more. You start spending more time with the others, rejoining them for meals, for training sessions, for movie nights. 

You laugh with Rogue, spar with Scott, and even find yourself engaging in playful banter with Remy. It’s not perfect, and there are still moments where you catch yourself faltering, when the weight of everything threatens to pull you under, but those moments are becoming fewer and farther between.

You’re healing, slowly but surely, and with each passing day, you feel a little stronger, a little more in control of your life���of your emotions. 

But then there are the times when you cross paths with Logan, and those moments are the hardest.

One evening, after returning from a particularly grueling mission, you find yourself heading toward the kitchen, your mind on the sandwich you plan to make. The place is quiet, most of the team out on various assignments, or finishing up on some work, and you relish the peace as you walk down the corridor.

However, just as you reach the kitchen door and push it open, you find Logan standing there, preparing to exit the room at the exact same moment. Your heart lurches, and you stop dead in your tracks, almost like a deer caught in headlights. 

His gaze meets yours, and all you can see is his impassive, stoic expression. He steps back, giving you space to enter, but the tension between you is palpable.

“Sorry,” you mumble, stepping to the side, trying to make yourself as small as possible.

Logan doesn’t say anything, barely nodding—if you could even it that— before brushing past you, his shoulder grazing yours. The brief contact sends a jolt through your system, and you have to force yourself to stay still and not physically react. 

Once he leaves, you let out a shaky breath, your heart still racing from the encounter. It’s been so long since you’ve been this close to him—so long since you’ve seen the deep brown of his hair that you love so much. You hate this. 

Why does he have no reaction to at all? Why is it only you who seems to care? 

Because you are the only one who does care.

You move into the kitchen, still intent on eating, but it’s a challenge. Your hands are trembling.

—

It all comes to a head one night during dinner. In this rare occasion, both you and Logan are in the same room. You’re supposed to be celebrating Rogue and Gambit’s anniversary, and even though you insisted that they share this special moment together alone, they didn’t take no for an answer. 

That’s how you find yourself, sitting at the grand dining table with all your friends, and Logan. 

He’s across from you. Just your luck.

He refuses to spare you a single glance, his eyes staying busy the whole night. And while it’s been months and months of this, you have never gotten used to it. Still, you can’t help but sneak a few looks at that chocolate-coloured hair. Brown. 

Everything seems to be going smoothly, the food is delicious and the dessert even better, but when Gambit presents Rogue with a giant painting, that’s when you slip up. 

“I love how you blended the red with the blue!” You compliment, loving the way he managed to create the perfect contrast between shades. You’re too caught up in staring at the artwork to realize the table as gone deathly quiet, all eyes on you.

Rogue's expression is one of gentle confusion, her head tilted slightly as she tries to make sense of your words. “Darling, I thought you couldn’t see colour?”

In any other situation, you’re sure the team would have laughed at how comically large your eyes got, and how all the blood draining from your face makes you look like a gaping fish, but in this moment, nothing is funny. You can feel Logan’s eyes on you, and when you finally muster the courage to glance at him, you see that his all-too familiar glare you’ve been subject to for the last half-year. It makes your heart thud painfully in your chest

“I…” you begin, but you falter. Your mind is going through a thousand thoughts per minute, searching for an excuse you can use to deflect, to pretend it was just a mistake, but the silence is too heavy, too demanding.

Rogue’s confusion deepens, her gaze flickering between you and Logan, who is now staring at you with an expression that’s impossible to read. She starts to say something, but Remy gently places a hand on her arm, shaking his head slightly as if to tell her to let you speak. 

Logan’s gaze stays locked on you for a moment longer. Then, without a word, he pushes his chair back, the legs scraping harshly against the floor. The sound echoes in the silence, and before you can react, he stands up and walks out of the room, his movements stiff, almost mechanical.

The door closes behind him with a quiet click, and the tension in the room thickens. You feel a rush of embarrassment flood through you, your heart sinking as the reality of what just happened crashes over you. 

You lower your head, your eyes stinging with tears that you fight desperately to hold back. But it’s no use. The emotions you’ve been trying to keep buried for so long bubble to the surface, and before you can stop yourself, the tears start to fall. 

“I think I need a moment,” you manage to whisper, your voice trembling as you stand up from the table. Without waiting for a response, you hastily excuse yourself and head for the door, not before mumbling a quick apology to the couple in which you were there for.

Soon you find yourself outside in the gardens, the nightly breeze hitting your face as you make your way to a secluded bench. You can’t even appreciate the beauty in what you see, because all you feel is the overwhelming sense of failure and sadness that threatens to swallow you whole.

Sitting down heavily on the bench, you bury your face in your hands and let go. The sobs come hard and fast, each one ripping through you with a force that leaves you breathless. You’re heartbroken and angry and absolutely over it, but at the same time you feel like a massive asshole because who are you to be upset with a man who’s mourning the loss of a soulmate? 

It’s not fair.

You don’t know how long you sit there, lost in your grief, but eventually, you hear the sound of footsteps approaching. You look up, wiping at your eyes, and see Scott walking toward you.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks gently.

You shake your head, unable to find your voice, and Scott sits down beside you on the bench. 

“I’m sorry,” you croak, “I didn’t mean to ruin the night.”

Scott clicks his tongue in disagreement, his gaze focused on the gardens ahead. “You didn’t ruin anything. It’s clear you’ve been carrying this burden for a long time. It’s no wonder it slipped out tonight.”

“So everyone knows now?” you ask. He nods.

“It wasn’t hard to put two and two together,” he concludes, and you groan, bringing your hands to your face.

“I just… I didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t want to be pitied.”

“Pity isn’t what anyone feels right now,” Scott says softly. “We’re worried about you. You’ve been hurting, and we didn’t see it. That’s on us.”

“It’s not your fault,” you bring your hands down from your face. “I’ve been trying to deal with it on my own. I thought I could handle it, but… clearly I was wrong”

With a serious expression, Scott turns to look at you. “I know what you’re going through, more than you might realize.”

You glance at him, surprised by his words. “You do?”

He nods, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I was in love with Jean, remember? When her and Logan found out they were soulmates… it tore me apart. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to move on, and for a long time, I couldn’t.”

The mention of Jean’s name brings a fresh wave of emotion crashing over you, but there’s also a strange comfort in knowing that Scott understands your pain. “How did you… how did you get through it?”

He sighs, “It wasn’t easy. It took a long time, and I had to accept it.”

You wipe at your eyes again, sniffling as you try to compose yourself. “I’ve been thinking about leaving for a while. Taking a longer mission, just to get away for a bit. Maybe then I can figure out how to move on.”

He is quiet for a moment, considering your words. “If that’s what you need to do, I understand,” he says, “sometimes, a change of scenery can help. Though I think you should try to talk to Logan again.”

Letting out a bitter laugh, you shake your head. “I don’t know if he’ll even listen to me. He’s made it pretty clear how he feels.”

“He’s hurting too,” He decides, “He’s not handling it well, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. You both need closure, and running away won’t give you that.”

“What if it just makes things worse?”

“It might.” Scott places a comforting hand on your shoulder. “But it might also give you both the chance to start healing. You deserve that chance.”

You nod slowly, letting the weight of his words sink in. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.”

“Take the time you need,” he says. “We’re all here for you.”

“Thanks, Scott. That means a lot.” You offer him a small, grateful smile.

With a final nod, he turns and walks back toward the mansion, leaving you once again alone in the quiet of the gardens. You take a deep breath, the idea of leaving still tugs at you, but now, there’s also the thought of confronting Logan—of finding some kind of closure, whatever that might mean.

You really don’t want to do it, and you’re pretty sure it’s just going to end the same way it did last time - with him shutting you out. But Scott’s words echo in your mind, reminding you that healing often requires confrontation, not avoidance.

Goddamn it.

You huff as you stand up from where you’re seated. You can’t keep running from this, can’t keep letting him run from this. You need to talk to Logan, to lay everything out on the table, even if it tears you apart in the process.

Your anxiety builds with each step as you approach his room, and you pause outside his door, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he could hear it if he was listening. This is it. There’s no turning back now. With a shaky breath, you finally raise your hand and knock. 

There’s a long, agonizing pause, making you strain to hear any movement on the other side. For a second, the silence causes you think he might not answer, that he might just ignore you like he’s done so many times before. But then, you hear the faint sound of footsteps approaching the door. Your heart catches in your throat as it slowly opens, revealing Logan standing there, his expression hard and unreadable.

The moment he realizes it’s you, his eyes darken, and he immediately moves to close the door, shutting you out yet again. However, you’re not letting him get away that easily. Before the door can fully close, you stick your foot out, blocking it with more force than you intended.

“C’mon, Logan,” you press. “You know we need to talk.”

He freezes, his grip on the door tightening until his knuckles turn white. His jaw clenches and unclenches, nostrils flaring. He still doesn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on some distant point as if he can will you away if he tries hard enough. But he doesn’t push the door shut either. The room is thick with suspense, both of you standing there in a silent standoff.

Finally, with a low growl of frustration, Logan steps back, opening the door just a smidge wider, barely enough for you to squeeze through. It’s a reluctant invitation, but it’s all you need.

“Fine,” he mutters, his voice rough, edged with irritation. “Talk.”

You step into the room, and he closes the door behind you, lingering close to it, as if he’s ready to bolt at any second. You feel vulnerable and exposed. It’s suddenly hard to gather your thoughts when he’s standing so close, when the heat of his presence and the distance he’s placed between is right in your face.

“Why did you come?” Logan questions. He still refuses to look directly at you, his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder.

“Because we can’t keep pretending this isn’t happening,” you reply, “We need to talk about what’s going on between us.”

His jaw tightens further, and his teeth grind with barely contained frustration. He finally looks at you, his eyes hard and defensive. “There’s nothing to say,” he says bitterly. “I told you how I feel. I thought that was enough.”

“It’s not enough!” you shoot back, your own frustration bubbling to the surface. “You think you can just push me away, pretend like this bond doesn’t exist, and that’s supposed to solve everything? It doesn’t work like that, Logan.”

He flinches slightly at your words, but his keeps his expression hard. “Well what do you want me to say?” he demands, his voice rising. “That I’m sorry? That I didn’t mean to hurt you? Because I am, and I didn’t. But that doesn’t change the fact that I can’t be what you want me to be.”

His words hurt. 

“I know you told me how you feel,” you start, “but you’ve never let me tell you how I feel. You’ve never given me the chance to say that it’s been tearing me apart.”

A flash of guilt. “I didn’t think… I didn’t think you needed to say it. I already knew.”

“That isn’t fair,” you argue.

“You don’t understand,” he counters, “I lost Jean. I loved her, and when she died, it broke something in me. And now… now I’m supposed to just… move on? With you? It’s not that simple.”

“I never asked you to love me, Logan,” you say, your voice trembling with the intensity of your emotions. “I never pushed for anything more than friendship—it’s not like you gave me the chance! You’ve been shutting me out, ignoring me, making me feel like I’m nothing more than a burden, like I don’t even matter!”

You can see that the pain in your voice hitting him hard, but he doesn’t apologize. Instead, he looks away, his expression conflicted. “I’m trying to protect you,” he mutters, the words sounding hollow even to him

“Protect me?” you echo incredulously. “All you’re doing is make me feel like shit. Like I’m worthless. I can’t even be your friend, to help you through this.”

You pause. “You expect us all to know how you’re feeling, but you can’t even communicate it.”

Logan winces, his eyes flicking up to meet yours, filled with a torment you’ve never seen before. He opens his mouth to say something, but the words seem to get caught in his throat. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he breaks the silence, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I can’t be what you want me to be,” he admits, his tone filled with a deep, aching sadness. “I don’t know how to let you in. Without her, I feel like… I can’t let anyone in.”

Your eyes soften a fraction his confession, but there’s also a deep frustration that burns inside you, a frustration born of months of pain and rejection. 

“You haven’t even tried,” you say softly with a quiet resignation, “You haven’t even tried to let me in, to see what we could have been, even if it was just as friends.”

What follows is a long, nagging silence. You let it linger, giving Logan the chance he needs to think of something to say. But there’s no answer, no promise that things will change, and then you realize, with a sinking feeling, that he’s not going to take that step, too broken to try.

That’s when it really hits you. 

Whatever you were fighting for, was a losing battle from the start. 

You give up.

This time, it is you who turns your back on him. 

“Goodbye, Logan. Take care of yourself.”

You don’t wait for a response. You don’t glance back. You walk out of the room, the door closing softly behind you, and with it, the last remnants of hope you had for something more.

— 

You decide to go on the mission.

It’s nothing complicated. Your task is to survey different regions of Europe, ensuring that there are no burgeoning anti-mutant operations threatening the safety of anyone. The primary goal is gathering information, and quiet observation. No violence, Charles told you in the debrief. 

The lack of immediate danger doesn’t make leaving any easier, though. This is as much about finding yourself as it is about fulfilling your duty.

Rogue and Kitty are with you during your final preparations, helping you pack the essentials and offering support in their own ways. They don’t ask many questions, probably sensing that this decision was not just made on a whim. And for that, you’re grateful.

“I still think you’re crazy for going solo,” Rogue says with a half-smile as she zips up your bag. “But if anyone can handle it, it’s you.”

You manage a small smile in return. “Thanks, Rogue. I just need some time…”

Kitty, who’s been quietly folding clothes and tucking them into your bag, looks up, seriousness clouding her gaze.  “We get it. Just promise you’ll keep in touch, okay? And don’t hesitate to call if you need backup.”

“I promise,” you assure.

She hesitates for a moment before reaching into her pocket and pulling out a small device—the X-Men communicator gadget. She holds it out to you, and you reach your hand out. 

“Here,” she says softly, pressing the device into your hand. “This is so you can update us on your whereabouts, your status, or any important mission details. Even if you don’t need anything, just… let us know you’re okay, alright?”

You look down at the communicator in your hand, and close your fingers around it, nodding as you meet Kitty’s gaze. 

“Alright, I’ll check in regularly. I won’t leave you guys in the dark.”

Rogue finishes the last bit of organization. “You’ve got this,” she says, “And we’ve got your back, even from a distance.” You nod, appreciating their support more than you can express. 

It almost feels like a walk of shame—leaving the mansion. Everyone knows why too, and that makes it a thousand times worse. But you won’t let it get to you. With one last look, you get in your car and begin on the windy path to the airport. 

—

When you arrive in Europe, the first thing that strikes you is the sheer beauty of the landscape. Each city, each town, has its own unique charm, its own story to tell. The bustling uphill streets of Porto, the serene canals of Venice, the ancient ruins of Athens—they all offer a distraction from the turmoil inside you.

The only good part about this whole mess is that you can see colour, and truly appreciate the sights before you.

You move from one place to the next, blending in with the crowds, quietly observing, gathering information, and sending brief updates to the team through the communicator Kitty gave you. Every message is short, to the point, just enough to let them know you’re safe and on track. You don’t share much beyond the essentials, not wanting to burden them with your personal struggles.

Then, in a small café in Rome, you meet a man named Marco. He’s a traveler like you, exploring Europe with a curiosity that matches your own. He’s warm, easygoing, and before long, the two of you strike up a conversation over coffee.

He is charming in a way that makes you feel at ease, his laughter infectious as he shares stories of his travels. You don’t tell him much about yourself, keeping the details of your mission and your mutant abilities hidden. To him, you’re just another traveler, searching for something—though he doesn’t pry into what that something is.

As the days pass, you and Marco continue to cross paths, and it’s nice to have someone to talk to, someone who doesn’t know about your past, about the things you’re running from. With him, you can be anyone, and for the first time in a long while, you start to feel a little lighter. You find yourself laughing more, the weight on your chest lifting a little each day. You don’t talk about the mission, and you certainly don’t talk about Logan.

One evening, as you’re both sitting on the steps of the Spanish Steps in Rome, watching the sunset, he turns to you with a grin. “So, where are you off to next?”

You hesitate, not wanting to reveal too much, but then you smile. “I’m heading to Florence. There are some places I need to check out.”

His eyes light up. “Florence? I’ve been meaning to re-visit. Mind if I tag along?”

A part of you wants to say no, to keep the distance you’ve carefully maintained, but another part—the part that’s been lonely for so long—nods in agreement. “Sure, why not?”

—

Back at the mansion, things haven’t been as positive. The once lively atmosphere has dimmed, replaced by an uneasy tension that lingers in the halls. The X-Men carry on with their duties, but there’s a noticeable shift—a missing piece that everyone feels but no one talks about. Logan, in particular, has become even more withdrawn, if that’s possible. The man who was once brooding and distant now seems even more so, his mood volatile and unpredictable.

His behavior has become a source of concern for the team. He’s always been rough around the edges, but now, it’s like the slightest thing can set him off. He snaps at everyone, his temper flaring at the smallest provocation. On missions, he’s reckless, throwing himself into danger without a second thought, as if he’s trying to outrun something—or someone. 

In many evenings, Logan finds himself in the mansion’s gym, trying to work off the restless energy that’s been plaguing him for months. The room is always empty, save for him, the steady rhythm of his fists pounding against the punching bag being the only sound. Sweat drips down his face, his muscles straining as he channels all his frustration and anger into each punch. Yet, no matter how hard he hits, he can’t seem to shake the thoughts of you that have been haunting him.

This night, door to the gym creaks open, and Logan doesn’t need to look up to know who it is. He can sense the other man’s presence, feel the weight of his gaze as he steps inside. He doesn’t slow his punches, doesn’t acknowledge Scott’s presence, but he knows why he’s here. They’ve had this conversation before—or something like it—but nothing’s changed. Nothing’s gotten better.

Scott watches him for a moment, his expression unreadable. He’s been watching Logan spiral for weeks now, but he’s kept his distance, knowing that he’d only be pushed away. But this can’t go on—Logan can’t keep doing this, can’t keep tearing himself apart over something he refuses to confront.

“She wouldn’t want this,” he finally says, voice cutting through the steady thud of Logan’s fists against the bag.

Logan’s movements falter for just a second before he resumes, his jaw tightening. “Who?” he growls, not bothering to turn around. “Her or Jean?”

Scott doesn’t flinch at the harshness in the other man’s tone. He steps closer, his eyes steady on their target as he answers, “Both.”

Finally, Logan stops. His fists still as he leans against the bag, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His shoulders are tense, the weight of Scott’s words pressing down on him like a physical burden. He doesn’t want to hear this, doesn’t want to be reminded of what he’s lost—of who he’s lost. 

Taking a step closer, Scott’s voice is firm. “Look, I’m not a spiritual person. But I also don’t think the universe messed up with this.”

Clenching, his fists, Logan knows what the other man is getting at, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it. Doesn’t want to think about what could have been, what he’s been too scared to even consider.

“I know you know how I felt about Jean,” Scott says quietly, knowing he’s breaching a sensitive subject. “Losing her… it killed me too. And if I had been given a chance—a real chance to be with her, to make things right—I would have taken it. No hesitation.”

Logan’s breath hitches at that. The truth is, he’s been running—running from you, from the bond you share, from the possibility of something real. 

“I’m not saying you should chase after her,” he continues. “But I am saying that you need to stop running from her. The universe doesn’t just throw things like this at us for no reason. And you know that.”

The weight of Scott’s words settle over Logan like a shroud. He knows the other man is right—deep down, he’s always known. But that doesn’t make it any easier. The fear, the guilt, the pain of losing Jean—it’s all still there, gnawing at him, holding him back. 

There’s something else too, something he’s been trying to ignore but can’t any longer: the way he feels about you, the way he’s always felt, even if he couldn’t admit it to himself. One of the first thought’s that ran through his head when his world re-erupted into colour was that, had this happened before Jean, maybe it could have worked. Maybe he could have been what you wanted, felt something real.

Scott takes a step back, giving Logan the space he needs. “Just think about it,” he says softly. “Think about what you really want. And don’t wait until it’s too late to figure it out.”

Logan doesn’t respond, but Scott doesn’t need him to. He’s said what he needed to say, and now it’s up to him to decide what comes next. With a final look, Scott turns and leaves the gym, the door closing softly behind him.

The clawed mutant stands there for a long time, his fists still clenched, his mind racing. He knows he can’t keep doing this—can’t keep tearing himself apart over something he can’t change, something he’s too afraid to confront.

But change is terrifying, especially when it means facing the truth. The truth that maybe, just maybe, the bond he shares with you is something worth fighting for. Something that Jean wouldn’t want him to throw away.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Logan finally lets his fists unclench, the tension in his body slowly ebbing away. He doesn’t have all the answers—hell, he barely knows where to start—but he knows one thing for sure: he's can’t run away anymore. Not from this, not from you.

—

You’ve now spent days in Florence, wandering through the Uffizi Gallery, marveling at the works of the Renaissance masters, and evenings enjoying the quiet serenity of the Arno River. With you, Marco. You’ve grown to trust him. He’s never made you uncomfortable, never had any intentions to take advantage of you, and knows all the best restaurants. 

But there’s always been a small, nagging doubt that you’ve pushed aside—a feeling that something isn’t quite right. You’ve ignored it, convincing yourself that you’re just being paranoid after everything you’ve been through. After all, he has been nothing but kind, always knowing the right thing to say, always showing up just when you need someone.

It isn’t until the two of you are exploring a quieter part of Florence, that the doubt flares into something more. You’re walking through an old, narrow alleyway, the kind that tourists rarely venture into, when Marco suggests you take a shortcut through a small, unmarked door in the side of a building.

“I found this place the last time I was here,” Marco says, his smile as easy as ever. “It’s a hidden gem, leads right to a beautiful courtyard. You’ll love it.”

You hesitate, something in his tone—or maybe it’s the way his eyes gleam just a little too brightly—sets off alarm bells in your mind. You’ve come to trust him though, haven’t you? You’ve traveled together for weeks, shared countless stories and laughs. Surely, he wouldn’t lead you into danger.

Still, as you step through the door, the darkened space beyond immediately feels wrong. The air is colder, damp, and the walls are lined with strange, unidentifiable equipment. You glance back at Marco, and that’s when you see it—the change in his expression. The warmth is gone, replaced by something cold and calculating.

Before you can react, you feel a sharp prick in your arm. Your vision blurs, and your body goes numb almost instantly. You stumble back, trying to push away, but your legs give out, and you collapse to the floor.

Marco looms over you, the smile gone from his face, replaced by a look of triumph. “Did you really think I didn’t know?” he sneers, his voice dripping with disdain. “You’re a mutant, and you thought you could hide it from me?”

The world around you spins as the drug takes full effect, but you force your mind to stay focused. “What… why?” you manage to whisper, the betrayal cutting deep.

“Why?” He laughs, the sound harsh and devoid of any warmth. “Because mutants like you are worth a fortune. My clients pay top dollar for… research subjects. And you, my dear, are about to make me very, very rich.”

You try to move, to fight back, but your body refuses to respond. Panic rises in your chest as he kneels beside you, pulling out a small device that looks like a portable scanner. He runs it over you, and it emits a low hum as it registers your vital signs, confirming what he already knows. You’re weak. 

“You won’t get away with this,” you say.

“Oh, but I already have,” he replies with cruel satisfaction. “No one knows where you are. And even if they did, it’ll be too late by the time they find you.”

With the last bit of strength you can muster, you reach into your pocket, fingers trembling as you fumble with the X-Men communicator that Kitty gave you. His attention is momentarily distracted as he prepares a syringe filled with a clear liquid, and you seize the opportunity. You manage to pull out the communicator, your fingers barely able to grip it. Then, with a deep breath, you press the SOS button, the screen flashing to life.

You type in the message as quickly as you can, your vision blurring even more as the drug takes hold. 

Location: Florence. 

Message: Help.

Just as you hit send, Marco notices what you’re doing. His eyes widen in anger, and he grabs your wrist, yanking the communicator out of your hand. “You little—!” he snarls, but it’s too late. The message has already been sent.

His face contorts in rage as he slams the gadget against the ground, smashing it to pieces. He glares down at you, his hand tightening painfully around your wrist. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? But it doesn’t matter. They’ll never get here in time.”

Your strength is nearly gone, the drug pulling you into unconsciousness, but you manage one last defiant look. “You won’t win,” you whisper with the last of your energy.

Marco releases your wrist with a sneer, standing up and looking down at you with contempt again. “We’ll see about that,” he mutters before turning away, leaving you on the cold, hard floor as darkness overtakes you. 

You can only hope they—that Logan—will reach you in time.

—

The signal comes through during a meeting. A sudden, loud beep cuts through the room,  and everyone freezes, their attention immediately drawn to the source of the sound. To Kitty’s pocket. It’s the X-Men communicator, the one linked to your device. 

Logan’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing as he recognizes the tone. He’s on his feet before anyone else can react, his heart pounding in his chest. “What the hell was that?” he demands, his voice tense with urgency.

Kitty quickly pulls it out of her pocket, her eyes widening as she reads the message that’s flashed across the screen. Her face pales, and she looks up at the others, her voice trembling as she speaks. “It’s from her… Florence… Help.”

There’s a brief pause, maybe a second long in length, and then the room erupts into a flurry of movement. 

Chairs scrape against the floor as the team rises to their feet, already preparing for action. But Logan is the first to react, his face a mask of fury and determination. “I’m going,” he growls, already heading for the door.

“Logan, wait!” Scott steps forward, blocking Logan’s path with a firm hand on his chest. 

“Get out of my way, Summers,” He snarls, his voice filled with barely controlled rage. “I’m not waiting around while she’s in danger.”

“We can’t just rush in without a plan,” Scott insists, trying to keep his own emotions in check. “We need to know what we’re dealing with.”

Logan shoves the other mutant’s hand away, his eyes blazing with anger. “She sent an SOS, Scott! She needs help, and we’re wasting time standing here talking about it!”

The rest of the team watches the confrontation with anxious eyes, knowing that things could easily escalate. Logan’s been on edge for weeks, and the urgency of the situation—of you— has pushed him to the brink. 

“Logan,” Ororo interjects, “We understand how you feel, but we need to think this through. If this is a trap—”

“I don’t give a damn if it’s a trap!” He snaps, his voice rising. “She’s part of our team! We can’t just leave her there!”

“That’s not what we’re saying,” Scott tries to reason, but Logan isn’t having it.

“Then what the hell are you sayin’?” He demands, his frustration boiling over. “Why are we wasting time when we should be getting her out of there?”

There’s a brief, uncomfortable silence, and then it’s Rogue who steps forward, conflicted. “Logan… what if… what if she doesn’t want to see you?”

He freezes, the words hitting him harder than any physical blow could. He stares at Rogue, disbelief and anger warring in his eyes. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he growls.

Rogue swallows, her eyes filled with worry. “She left because she needed time, Logan. Because things between you two… they weren’t good. Maybe she—maybe she doesn’t want you to be the one to save her.”

Clenching his hands into fists, his body is taut with tension. “Fuck that!” he roars with a fierce, protective rage. “She’s part of our team! She sent that message to us, to the X-Men, because she needs our help. I don’t care what’s happened between us, I’m not leavin’ her there!”

The room falls silent, the weight of Logan’s words settling over everyone. They know Logan is right—she’s part of the team, and they can’t leave her behind. But they also know that the situation is more complicated than that.

Scott takes a deep breath, his gaze steady as he looks at Logan. “We’re not saying we shouldn’t go after her, Logan. We’re saying that you need to be prepared for whatever we might find when we get there. She might be in a bad place, and she might not be ready to face you.”

“I don’t care,” he says after a brief pause, his voice quieter now, but no less determined. “I’m going to get her out of there. Whether she wants to see me or not, I’m not lettin’ her go through this alone.”

Scott studies Logan for a long moment, then finally nods. “Alright. But we do this together, as a team.”

Logan nods, his jaw set in a grim line. “Fine. Let’s go.”

—

Your eyes snap open, the dim light of the room piercing your vision. You’re in a large, abandoned warehouse. Your head feels heavy, like it’s filled with cotton, and there’s a dull, throbbing pain at the base of your skull. As you try to move, you realize with a jolt of fear that you’re restrained, your arms and legs strapped tightly to a chair. Panic flares in your chest, and you struggle against the bonds, but they don’t budge.

And then you see him—Marco, standing a few feet away, watching you with a smirk that sends a chill down your spine. His eyes gleam with satisfaction, and you realize with horror that you’ve been caught, trapped in whatever twisted game he’s been playing.

“Ah, you’re awake,” he says, voice dripping with mock concern. “I was starting to wonder if I’d given you too much of the sedative. But it seems you’re tougher than I thought.”

You try to respond, but a gag in your mouth muffles your words, turning them into incoherent sounds. You glare at him your eyes burning with fury.

He only chuckles, clearly amused by your resistance. “Oh, don’t bother trying to speak. We wouldn’t want you calling for help, now would we? Though, I must say, I’m impressed you managed to send that little SOS before I caught on. Clever, but ultimately futile.”

He steps closer, his eyes narrowing as he looks you over, his expression turning cold. “You know, I’ve dealt with a lot of mutants in my time, but there’s something special about you. Something… unique.” He reaches out and grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Too bad your powers won’t do you any good here. The drug I gave you should keep you nice and powerless for the foreseeable future.”

Straining against the bonds, you continue to try to break free, but he drug in your system dulls your abilities, leaving you feeling weak and vulnerable. All you can do is stare at him with hatred as he continues to taunt you.

“Such fire in your eyes,” Marco murmurs, almost to himself. “It’s a shame you’ll never see the light of day again. But don’t worry—I’ll make sure your abilities are put to good use.”

He lets go of your chin, his hand trailing down to your shoulder in a way that makes your skin crawl. “Now, let’s see what we can do to make you a little more… compliant.”

Just as he reaches into his coat pocket, presumably for another syringe, a sudden, loud crash echoes through the warehouse. The sound of splintering wood and shattering glass fills the air, followed by the unmistakable hum of energy blasts and the heavy thud of boots on the concrete floor.

The X-Men have arrived.

Marco’s eyes widen in surprise and then narrow in anger. He spins around, barking orders at the security guards scattered throughout the warehouse. “Stop them! Don’t let them get near her!”

The guards rush forward, weapons drawn, but they’re no match for your friends. The familiar sounds of battle flood your ears—Rogue’s powerful punches, Scott’s optic blasts, and Storm’s lightning crackling through the air. You struggle against your restraints again, desperate to free yourself, but it’s no use. 

Then, you catch a glimpse of Logan. He’s fighting his way toward you, his claws out, slicing through anyone who gets in his way. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, your eyes meet his, and you can see the raw determination in his gaze. He’s coming for you.

But just as he takes a step forward, something changes. He hesitates. You can’t hear what he’s thinking, but you can see the conflict on his face—the way he seems to second-guess himself, the way his steps falter. Your heart sinks as you realize he’s unsure, almost as if he's torn between wanting to save you and fearing that you don’t want him to.

In that split second of hesitation, Rogue swoops in, landing beside you with a determined look on her face. She doesn’t waste any time, using her strength to tear through the restraints that bind you. “We’ve got you, sugah,” she says, her voice steady and reassuring as she pulls the gag from your mouth. “You’re safe now.”

You nod, your throat too dry and your body too weak to speak. Your muscles scream in protest as you try to stand, but she quickly wraps an arm around you, helping you to your feet. You’re shaky, your body still reeling from the effects of the drug, but you’re free. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Logan still standing there, his eyes locked on you, his expression unreadable. He wanted to save you. He wanted to be the one to pull you out of that nightmare, but something held him back.

Rogue helps you toward the exit as the rest of the team continues to subdue the guards and Marco. You lean heavily on her, your legs barely able to support your weight, but you force yourself to keep moving. 

And when everyone else has back in the jet, hugging you and comforting you, you look over to Logan, who sits far away, on the opposite side, refusing to meet your gaze. 

—

Returning to the mansion feels like stepping back into a familiar, comforting embrace. You missed the soft, warm bed in your room, the quiet serenity of the gardens, and the comforting presence of your friends. It's been a few days since the whole ordeal in Florence, and the drug has finally worked its way out of your system. Your strength has returned, and physically, you feel like yourself again. The mansion, too, seems unchanged—still the safe haven you’ve always known.

But as the days pass, you begin to notice that while many things have returned to normal, some things have not. You’ve seen most of your friends, their faces lighting up when they see you, their hugs tight and full of relief. There have been quiet conversations and laughter, shared meals in the kitchen, and moments that remind you why this place is home.

Except, there’s one person you haven’t seen. Logan.

His absence is like a shadow that follows you wherever you go. You’ve felt his presence in the mansion—heard his voice in the halls, the sound of his footsteps on the floorboards—but he’s kept his distance. He hasn’t sought you out, hasn’t tried to talk to you, and that stings more than you want to admit.

You’ve tried to stay strong, to remind yourself of the resilience you found during your time away. You’ve reminded yourself over and over that you don’t need anyone else to validate your worth, that you can stand on your own. Yet the longer Logan avoids you, the harder it is to hold on to that strength. The old wounds, the ones you thought had begun to heal, start to ache again, and you can’t help but wonder if anything has really changed at all.

More often than not, you find yourself retreating to the front lawn. The sun is warm on your skin as you lie down in the grass, a book in hand. The soft rustling of leaves in the breeze and the distant hum of life inside the mansion create a peaceful background, and for a moment, you manage to lose yourself in the pages of your book.

Still, even here, in the sanctuary of the garden, the thoughts you’ve been trying to push aside keep creeping back in. The memory of Florence, of Logan’s hesitation, lingers like a bitter aftertaste. You replay the moment over and over in your mind, trying to make sense of it, trying to understand why he stopped, why he didn’t come for you.

You’re so lost in your thoughts that you don’t notice the shadow that falls across your page until a deep, familiar voice breaks the silence.

“I’m glad you’re alright.”

The voice startles you, and you jerk slightly, looking up to see Logan standing above you. His expression is guarded, as if he’s not sure how you’ll react to his presence. There’s a tautness to his posture, a stiffness that you recognize all too well. 

For a moment, you just stare at him, caught off guard by the suddenness of his appearance. He’s as rugged and intimidating as ever, but there’s something different in his eyes—something a tad bit softer. You close your book, sitting up slowly as you meet his gaze. The question that’s been gnawing at you since Florence rises to the surface, and you know you can’t keep it inside any longer.

“What happened?” you ask, your voice steady but filled with quiet intensity. “In Florence?”

His jaw tightens, and he looks away for a moment, his gaze shifting to the trees in the distance. He doesn’t answer immediately, and the silence stretches out between you, thick with unspoken words. 

You just watch him, waiting for an explanation, but there’s a part of you that’s already bracing for disappointment. You’ve been here before, waiting for Logan to decide what happens next, to take the lead. And you’re tired of it. You’re tired of being the one left in the dark, of being the one who has to wait for him to be ready.

Finally, he lets out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly as if the weight of the world is pressing down on him. “I… I hesitated,” he admits huskily, almost in a growl. “I wanted to save you. Hell, I was going to. But then… I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

His confession hangs in the air, and you feel a mix of emotions—surprise, confusion, and sadness. You hadn’t expected this, hadn’t realized that his hesitation was rooted in something so painfully human.

“Why wouldn’t I want you to?” you ask softly, searching his face for answers.

Logan finally looks at you, really looks at you, and the raw emotion in his eyes takes your breath away. “Because of everything that’s happened between us. Because I pushed you away. I hurt you, and I thought… maybe you’d be better off if it wasn’t me.”

You shake your head, trying to make sense of his reasoning. “Logan, this can’t keep being about what you think is best,” you begin. “And it’s not about who saves who. It’s about being there when it counts. You were there. You came for me.”

He doesn’t have a response to that, at least not right away. He looks down at the ground, his fists unclenching, his shoulders slumping even further. It’s like he’s carrying the weight of everything he’s done, everything he’s failed to do, and it’s crushing him. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally manages to get out. “For everything.”

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest.

“I know I’ve messed up,” he continues. “I know I haven’t been there for you like I should’ve. But I’m here now. And if you’ll let me… I want to try to make things right.”

You know you should be happy—this is everything you’ve wanted to hear from him for so long. But it’s also too much, too late. The doubt, the pain, it can’t just disappear with a snap of your fingers.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” you admit. 

There’s pain on his face. “I get it,” he says, his voice rough but steady. “I know I’ve got a lot to make up for. And I know it’s not going to happen overnight. But I’m willing to do whatever it takes, if it means I can earn your trust back.”

“I need time. I need time to figure out where I stand, and where you stand with me.”

He nods slowly, his gaze dropping to the ground again. “Take all the time you need,” he says quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I appreciate that,” With a small nod, you stand up, brushing the grass off your clothes. “I need time,” you repeat, more for your own benefit than his.

“And you’ve got it,” Logan replies. “As much as you need.”

—

Days turn into weeks, and weeks into months. You focus on yourself, on healing the wounds that were reopened during your conversation with Logan. It feels strange, being the one who needs space, but you know it’s necessary. You find things to take your mind off him: you train more, read more, spend more time with Rogue, Kitty, or Remy. It’s nice.

But Logan… Logan doesn’t give up. He knows you need time, and he respects that. He doesn’t push, doesn’t pressure you to make a decision, but he makes it clear through his actions that he hasn’t forgotten about you, and more importantly, that he isn’t going anywhere.

It starts with the small things—things so subtle that you almost don’t notice at first. You probably wouldn’t have suspected anything if you hadn’t known the kind of person he is. He’s nothing if not persistent. He knows you better than you realize—the rift he created after Jean’s death muddling with your memory—and he uses that knowledge to quietly, almost imperceptibly, work his way back into your life.

In the mornings, you wake up to find your favorite snacks waiting for you in the kitchen, carefully placed where you’d be sure to see them. He never mentions it, never takes credit, but you know it’s him. It’s in the way he glances at you from the corner of his eye as you take a bite, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He never makes a big deal out of it—just a quiet, unspoken gesture that says, I’m thinking of you.

Then there are the late-night training sessions. You go down to the Danger Room or the gym, hoping to clear your mind with a bit of solitary exercise, only to find Logan already there. At first, you’re tempted to leave, to find somewhere else to work out, but something in his demeanor stops you. He doesn’t approach you, doesn’t speak unless you initiate it. Instead, he just… exists beside you, his presence steady and reassuring, like a rock in the storm.

It’s in these moments that you begin to see a different side of Logan—one that’s patient, understanding, and perhaps a little unsure of himself. He follows your lead, mirroring your exercises or silently spotting you during weightlifting, always attentive to your needs without ever making you feel pressured or overwhelmed. He’s just there, offering his support in the quietest, most understated way possible.

And then there are the little surprises in your room—small, thoughtful gestures that you can’t help but notice. A favorite book you’d mentioned in passing suddenly appears on your nightstand, its pages pristine and waiting for you to dive into. The time-worn leather straps on your gear are suddenly replaced with new ones that fit perfectly, the stitching unmistakably done by Logan’s hand. Even your plants, the ones you’d worried would wither away while you were on a mission, seem to thrive in your absence, the soil freshly watered and the leaves turned toward the sun.

He never asks for thanks, never draws attention to what he’s doing. It’s all done quietly, behind the scenes, as if he’s afraid that if you notice too much, you might push him away. But you do notice. How could you not?

At first, you try to ignore it, telling yourself that these gestures don’t change anything, that they’re just a way for Logan to assuage his guilt. You tell yourself that he’s just doing this because he feels bad, because he wants to make up for the past, not because he actually cares. You’ve built walls around your heart for a reason, and you’re not ready to let them down just because he’s being nice.

But over time, those small gestures begin to chip away at those walls, brick by brick. You start to realize that Logan isn’t just going through the motions—he’s really paying attention, noticing the little things that make you who you are. It isn’t just about the snacks or the books or the plants—it’s about the way he remembers the details of your life, the things that matter to you, the things that make you feel seen and understood.

After a particularly long and stressful day, you return to your room exhausted, and all you want is to collapse into bed and forget the world for a while. But when you walk in, you find a small bouquet of wildflowers sitting on your nightstand, the beautiful colors a stark contrast to the dark thoughts that have been swirling in your mind all day. There’s no note, no explanation—there never is—but you know who left them.

You just stand there, staring at the flowers, your heart squeezing in your chest. It’s such a simple gesture, and yet it means so much. You’d forgotten that Logan knew how much you love wildflowers—you’d mentioned it once, years ago. The way they’re resilient, thriving even in the harshest conditions, blooming where others wouldn’t. It’s as if he’s telling you that he sees that strength in you, that he admires it.

And it’s then, in the quiet of your room, surrounded by the small, thoughtful gestures that Logan has left behind, that you realize something. This isn’t just about making up for the past. Logan is showing you, in the only way he knows how, that he wants this. Wants you.

He's finally picked up the pieces of him that fell apart after Jean’s death, and he is willing to pick up the pieces of you that fell apart after his rejection.

So, one evening, months after that fateful conversation on the lawn, you find yourself standing in the common room, staring at the fireplace, lost in thought. The mansion is quiet, the rest of the team either out on a mission or asleep. It’s just you and the flickering flames, the soft crackling of the fire the only sound in the room.

But when you hear footsteps behind you, heavy and deliberate, you know instantly who it is. Without turning, you can sense his presence, the way he moves with that quiet confidence, the way the air seems to shift when he is near. Logan has always had a way of grounding you, even when you don’t want him to.

He walks up beside you, stopping just short of touching you, his warmth radiating in the small space between your bodies. He doesn’t say anything at first, doesn’t ask why you’re here or try to force a conversation. He just stands there, his hands shoved into his pockets, waiting patiently, giving you the time you need. It’s something you’ve come to appreciate about him in recent months—his newfound ability to just be, without pushing or demanding more than you’re ready to give.

"I’ve been thinking," you say finally, your voice soft, as you continue to gaze into the flames.

"Yeah?" Logan asks, his tone careful, as if he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing.

You turn to face him, your heart pounding in your chest. "You’ve been… different. Doing all these little things… I see them, you know."

Logan’s eyes meet yours, and for the first time in a long time, you see hope there. "I just wanted you to know that I care. That I’m sorry," he says, with so much emotion. “You were never a burden to me.”

You swallow hard. "It’s hard for me, Logan," you admit, "I’ve been hurt before, and I’m scared. Scared that if I let myself love you again, you’ll just… break me."

He steps closer, his hand reaching out to gently cup your cheek. "I’d never hurt you again," he says, "I’d rather cut off my own damn hand than hurt you. The past is the past, and you are my future."

That’s enough to make your walls crumble completely. You know, deep down, that Logan is telling the truth. That he’s willing to do whatever it takes to earn your trust again.

And in that moment, you realize that maybe, just maybe, you’re ready to let him.

You don’t say anything. Instead, you let your actions speak for you. You close the distance between you, standing on your toes as you press your lips to his in a gentle, tentative kiss. Logan freezes for a split second, as if he can’t believe this is really happening, but then he kisses you back, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you close, holding you as if he never wants to let go.

The kiss is slow, tender, full of everything that has been building between you for so long. It isn’t just a kiss—it’s a promise, a commitment to try again, to rebuild what has been broken. When you finally pull back, your breath mingling with his, you rest your head on his shoulder. "I’m still scared," you whisper.

"I know," Logan replies, his arms tightening around you. "But I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. We’ll take this slow, darlin’. Whatever you need."

You nod. "Okay."

Logan smiles then, a real, genuine smile that makes your heart flutter in a way it hasn’t in years. It’s a smile full of relief, of gratitude, of love—a smile that tells you that he understands just how much this moment means, just how much you’re giving him by letting him back into your heart.

—

The time that follows is a slow, steady journey of rebuilding trust. Logan is true to his word—he is patient, understanding, and surprisingly tender in ways you hadn’t expected. The small gestures continue—coffee waiting for you in the morning, a gentle hand on your back during missions, quiet moments of companionship where no words are needed.

You can feel the doubts you’ve been holding onto slowly begin to fade. Each time Logan shows up for you, each time he puts your needs above his own, it chips away at the fear that has kept you guarded for so long. It’s in the way he listens when you talk, truly listens, as if every word you say matters. It’s in the way he looks at you—not with the same fury he once had, but with a steady, enduring affection that speaks of something deeper.

With Jean, he loved her because she was his soulmate, she was who the universe destined him to be with. He loved her because that’s what he thought he had to do.

With you, he has a choice. He doesn’t need to acknowledge the bond, but he chooses to. He chooses to everyday and he’ll never stop. He loves you because he wants to, not because he has to.

One evening, you find yourself sitting on the mansion’s porch watching the sunset. Logan joins you without a word, sitting close enough that your shoulders brush. 

“You’ve been quiet today,” he says softly, breaking the comfortable silence.

“I’ve just been thinking,” you reply, leaning your head on his shoulder. It’s a simple gesture, but one that speaks volumes about how far you’ve come in trusting him again.

“’Bout what?” he asks, his voice gentle.

“About us,” you say, your voice steady. “About how things have changed. How… how good they’ve been.”

Logan’s hand finds yours, his fingers lacing through yours in a way that feels so natural, so right. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you echo, squeezing his hand. “I’m not scared anymore, Logan. Not like I was.”

He turns to face you, his eyes searching yours. “You sure?”

You nod, smiling softly. “I’m sure. You’ve shown me that this bond means something to you, that you’re not going to hurt me. And… I want this. I want us.”

Logan’s face lights up with so much love, that it takes your breath away. He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “I’m glad, darlin’. Because I want us too. More than anything.”

—

It isn’t long before the rest of the X-Men begin to notice the change in Logan as well. At first, it’s subtle—small things like the way he looks at you during briefings, or the way he seems to be more patient, more relaxed when you’re around. But over time, it becomes impossible to ignore.

During a training session in the Danger Room, you’re paired with Logan for a simulated mission. The others watch as Logan moves with you in perfect sync, his focus not just on the mission but on you—making sure you’re safe, supporting you when needed, and trusting you completely. It’s a far cry from the Logan they had seen when he was in mourning, where his moves were rash and careless.

After the session, as you and Logan leave the Danger Room, you catch sight of Ororo and Scott exchanging a look, the kind of look that speaks volumes, full of surprise and a touch of amusement.

“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow as you approach them.

Ororo smiles warmly, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Nothing, just… noticing how good you two are together.”

Scott nods in agreement, his expression softening as he glances at Logan. “Yeah, it’s… different, finally seeing him like this. In a good way.”

Logan shrugs, but there’s no hiding the small smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. “What’re you guys talking about?”

“Just that it’s nice to see you happy, Logan,” Ororo says gently. “Really happy.”

Logan looks at you then, his smile growing as he meets your gaze. “Yeah. It is.”

More members of the team begin to notice the change in Logan as time goes on. Rogue, who has always had a soft spot for him, comments on how he seems more at ease, less burdened by the weight of his past. Hank, ever the observer, points out how Logan’s demeanor has shifted—less brooding, more open. Even Charles, who has seen Logan through his darkest times, pulls you aside one day to express his approval.

“I must say,” Charles says, his tone warm and approving, “I haven’t seen Logan like this in a very long time. Whatever you two have managed to sort out, it’s working.”

And it is. Slowly but surely, the wounds that had once held you back have healed. The doubts that had kept you from fully embracing your relationship with Logan have faded, replaced by a deep, abiding love. It isn’t just the little gestures anymore—it’s the way Logan makes you feel seen, heard, and cherished in a way that no one else ever has.

—

“I never thought we’d get here,” you admit one night whilst looking up at the stars.

Logan looks at you, his expression tender. “Neither did I,” he says, his voice full of sincerity. “But I’m damn glad we did.”

You smile, leaning into him as he wraps his arm around your shoulders. “I love you, Logan. And I trust you. Completely.”

His grip tightens slightly, as if to hold onto the moment, to hold onto you. “I love you too, darlin’. I never thought I’d feel this way about someone.”

You know what he’s trying to say. So without thinking, you reach up and cup his face, drawing him closer until your lips are just a breath away from his. “Show me,” you whisper, your voice low and filled with desire.

He doesn’t need any more encouragement. He closes the small gap between you, capturing your lips in a kiss that is soft at first, almost tentative, as if he’s savoring the feel of you. 

You can feel the heat between you building, the kiss growing more fervent as your hands roam over his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath his shirt, then into his hair. Brown. 

His hands slide up your back, one hand tangling in your hair as he angles your head, deepening the kiss further until you’re both breathless.

When you finally pull back, your foreheads resting against each other’s, you’re both panting, your hearts racing in sync. His eyes are dark with desire, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he holds you close.

“You’re everything to me,” he murmurs. “I never thought I’d get my happy ending, but here you are… and I’m never lettin’ you go.”

You smile, feeling the last remnants of pain melt away, replaced by a certainty that this is where you’re meant to be. “And I’m never leaving,” you whisper back, sealing your words with another kiss that quickly reignites the fire between you.

This kiss is hungrier, more urgent, as if you both need to make up for lost time. Logan’s hands roam your body with a possessiveness that sends shivers down your spine, his touch igniting a fire in your core.

That night, you lose yourself in him, in the way he tastes, in the way he makes love to you as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. Because this time, you’re not just in love—you’re in love with a man who loves you back, fully and completely. 

And that makes all the difference.

----

a/n: i love you if you made it this far. please check out my new series The Feeling's Mutual

[saltymarshmall0w]

beatdown buddies

(You always read fics where the pit is instantly calmed by Danny’s presence, but what if it didn’t?)

Now, you have to understand, that Jason was long past attacking strangers in a blind fury. The Bats? Sure, all the time--- but he was working on that.

This particular scrawny, possibly-homeless stranger hadn’t done anything more than simply exist in Jason’s proximity. If it was any other Crime Alley resident, Jason would be much more likely feel a surge of protectiveness.

This guy though– he was different.

Locking toxic-green eyes to toxic-green eyes made the pit in his skin violently react. Before he knew it, he was hitting the guy with everything he had, and the guy was hitting back.

The groceries Jason had left his apartment to get spilled all over the ground as the two rolled.

Pulled hair, split knuckles, and bruised bodies, the guy’s fist hit Jason’s jaw for the umpteenth time, cracking his head back and making him look at the gloomy sky.

They only used their fists. Jason could feel the familiar ghost of weapons hidden under the other guy’s hoodie, but neither pulled their hidden weapons.

Despite it all, Jason and the guy shared blood-tinged smiles. Blood boiled under his skin in an exciting trill. He was angry, and it was fantastic.

He’s pretty sure he just made a new best friend.

Someone hit Jason’s back with what could distinctly be identified as a broom. He vaguely heard the sound of yelling around him, but Jason’s only focus was getting his next hit in.

Eventually, they were stopped by a familiar shade of blue and black. Strong arms pulled him off the stranger and pinned his arms down, locking their arms over his chest to prevent Jason from getting free.

“You need to calm down!” Dickwing’s voice lectured in his ear. “You’re going to kill him!”

Surprisingly, Jason settled in Dick’s hold, fight and anger drained out of him in the space of a breath. The fire under his skin didn’t keep flaming and flaming and building it just– stopped.

“Oh, Please.” The stranger was grinning widely, despite the model of developing bruises and cuts across his face. A burly man who Jason vaguely recognized worked at the store they were standing right in front of was both holding up and holding back the guy. “We were just saying ‘Hi’.”

The guy made eye contact with Jason. Blue, no hints of green anywhere. The guy winked. “Danny.”

Frankly, Jason couldn’t quite explain his actions. He felt stupidly chastized by Nightwing’s patented older brother stare of disappointment. Apparently, the guy couldn’t explain his actions either, as he disappeared the instant no one’s eyes were on him.

-

Jason arrived an hour early to Wayne Sunday family dinner. He missed cooking alongside Alfred, and offered his help.

He let Dick wrap an arm around his shoulder for a few seconds as a welcome. He didn’t seethe at Bruce simply being there. He chose to sit between Tim and the Demon brat when it looked like new fratricide plans were being drawn up by the younger.

The pit didn’t scream under his skin to hurt. Little things didn’t set him off, making him have to leave early. He wasn’t tempted to throttle anyone for existing around him.

The pit was just… quiet. Peaceful even. Well, as peaceful as it could get in the Wayne household.

It was a massive improvement compared to six months ago— hell, compared to last month.

He shrugged off inquiries about his black eye, citing it would heal quickly anyway.

-

Jason should have known he wasn’t safe.

Sure, he was on a roof one could only grapple to, across the city from crime alley, and dressed up as Red Hood.

However, Danny always reappeared periodically like a well-timed extremely therapeutic punching bag.

One moment, Jason was looking down over the streets of Gotham the next, he was being flying-kicked by a lithe frame. Something instantly recognized Danny so, rather the putting a bullet in him, Jason picked himself back up into a crouch and lunged at Danny.

“Hood? Hood what’s going on?” Someone called in his ear— Oh, right he had connected comms with his family that night.

Danny stopped suddenly, straddling Jason’s stomach, one hand fisting his collar, the other posed to strike. He blinked. glowing green eyes turned blue. “You’re not like, busy doing vigilante stuff, are you?” He asked.

Every bruise and cut from their last fight was gone, his baby face appeared as though it had never been punched in his life, making him look all the more punchable.

“Nope.” Jason answered, driving an elbow into the kid’s stomach and in the same motion ripped the comm out of his ear to toss it to the side.

Minutes later Danny was pulled off him, and the fire under his skin died down.

He blinked back into his surroundings to find himself on a rooftop with half of Gotham’s vigilantes standing in a circle around him, an unease that he could only read because he was so familiar with them written in all of their body languages. Batman held Danny slightly behind himself, keeping a firm grasp on the guy so he couldn’t escape.

“You claimed the rage was getting better.” Bruce stated in the way that meant he was supposed to answer his unasked questions..

Jason waited for rage and indignance to rise up in him, but rather he just considered that Bruce saw glowing green eyes and a brutal beat down and made a logical leap.

“It has!” Jason argued anyway. He sniffed and ran a hand under his slightly bleeding nose. It didn’t sting enough to be broken. “I haven’t lost my cool in months.”

“That’s what he has me for!” Danny chimed happily. His nose was broken, but Danny didn’t seem to mind the twin streaks of blood running down his face. “We’re friends with Benefits. It’s always healthy to have a little dead-guy on dead-guy action. You guys should really fight with him more often, his ectoplasm is rank.”

[motorsportbarbie13]

The Yapping Hour Is Upon Us - Part 2

In which you spend the weekend in Miami as Max's personal guest.

Warnings: smut at the end ;) Pairing: Max Verstappen x Podcaster!Reader Word Count: 5k words (whoops) plus social media posts

Part 1 Master List

(a/n: holy shit you guys absoltely blew up part one (its sitting at 1.7k notes last time i checked in under 3 days??? like WHAT???) so here's the much requested part 2. LMK if you want a part 3! Also going to try something different with the tag list tonight, so bare with me as I figure this out!! xoxo)

You play with the hem of the cornflower blue sundress, nerves ratcheting up another notch when the car pulls into the race track. After you had wrapped up filming the podcast two weeks ago, Max had taken you out to one of his favorite London restaurants where you had spent the next nearly five hours talking about everything and nothing all at once. The only reason you had left was that the staff of the restaurant had started cleaning up around you, literally sweeping up under your feet and turning off the music as you had lingered over the last bits of your dessert together. 

The next day, Max had needed to go back to Milton Keynes to spend some time in the sim ahead of Miami weekend, unable to stay in London with you despite every bone in his body screaming that he didn’t want to leave you. It was weird, almost scary, to him how much space you took up in his thoughts so quickly. He didn’t usually get attached to anyone, much preferring to remain aloof and independent but in the two weeks that passed since he had seen you, he was unable (or unwilling, depending on who you asked, honestly) to think of anything else. The way you laughed, the way you smiled, the way you seemed to hang on every word that came out of his mouth simply mesmerized him. 

So now, here you were, two weeks later, moments away from seeing him again. Because while Max was down bad and trying not to blow this, you were also completely smitten with the Dutch driver. You had spent hours editing the first and second part of his episode yourself, something you hadn’t done in years, because you insisted you wanted to keep the integrity of the interview under your total control. Your video editor had seen the way you spoke about Max and just nodded, knowing that there had been something that sparked between you and him and that there would be no arguing about it with you. 

Max is in the garage when he gets the text from you that you’re in the parking lot waiting for him. As luck would have it, he’s just finishing up with some engineering meetings so he’s got some free time. He replies instantly, telling you to wait in the car for him and he’ll be right there. 

“I’m running out for a bit, GP. I’ll be back before FP1.” 

“I mean, you’d better be. Who else is going to get in that car? Horner?” 

Max chuckles, clapping his racing engineer on the back before slipping out the back of the garage. 

Max’s heart stalls when he sees the car you're in, nerves suddenly twisting in his gut. You two had been texting back and forth constantly since he left London the morning after you met. Evenings had been spent on FaceTime together when you could manage, but with your busy schedules it hadn’t been enough for Max. The relief he felt knowing you were less than 100 feet away had him swaying on his feet a bit. 

You knew Max was coming to meet you at the car but it had been a long drive from the airport, so while you waited you decided to stretch your legs. Max watches helplessly from a distance as the rear door on the SUV swings open, your bare legs making his mouth go dry when you hop out out of the car. 

It’s almost as if you sense his eyes on you, the weight of his gaze caressing your bare skin like the touch of a well known lover. It takes you a moment to recover when your eyes lock with his, the look on his face practically a billboard for how excited he is to see you. A wide grin spreads across your face when he starts towards you, heart tumbling down through your toes as he jogs your way. 

“Hi.” He breathes, stopping just short of gathering you up in his arms like he truly wants to. Despite how close you’ve grown over the last two weeks, Max reminds himself that it truly only has been two weeks and he doesn’t want to come on too strong. 

You look up at him, eyes sparkling with delight at finally being in his presence again. “Hey you.” You croon, nearly unable to stop yourself from throwing yourself into his arms. 

This kind of behavior was as out of character for you as it was for Max. You’d been burned by men in your life that were supposed to be there for you, love you, and protect you and so those walls had been put in place high and strong for years now . Something about Max made you question those defenses, wondering if he was going to be the one to stick around long enough to tear them down. While you tried to remain calm, objective, and aloof it was utterly impossible to act that way when you were around him. 

“How was your flight?” Max stuffs his hands in the pockets of his shorts, nerves turning the tips of his ears pink. He wants you in his arms so badly but didn’t want to push you away, didn’t want you thinking he had only brought you out to Miami this weekend for one thing. Because he hadn’t. He had simply wanted you by his side. 

“Well I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to fly commercial ever again, so I’ll be sending you the bill for all my private flights from now on.” You wink.

“You can use my jet whenever you want, schatje.” 

Your stomach does the same involuntary flip it does whenever he calls you that. At first it had been timid, slipped in at the end of a sentence almost like it was an afterthought or unconscious desire to claim you but as time goes on, Max settles into calling you either that or liefje more often than not. 

“Don’t tempt me.” You grin up at him, knowing that he fully means what he says. He’d absolutely let you use his jet whenever you wanted, all you had to do was ask. 

“So, your timing is really good.” Max nearly reaches for your hand but chickens out at the last minute, settling for just walking you back towards the car that sits idling behind you. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, I actually have an hour and a half break before I have to be back for the first practice session so I thought I could take you over to the hotel, get you settled in. I booked you your own room, of course and thought you’d maybe like to take a shower or a nap during the first session and then I could have an intern get you so you can watch the sprint quali later this afternoon.” 

Your heart warms at the earnest look on Max’s face. The fact that he’s gone ahead and thought all of this through for you, clearly wanting to make sure you’re comfortable and taken care of all while you’re sure he’s overwhelmed with work, softens those well built walls arond your heart a bit more. 

“A shower and a nap does sound good.” 

Max smiles down at you, those blue eyes of his taking in every inch of your face like he’s trying to commit it to memory. “Good. Lets get you to the hotel then.” 

“Lead the way, Maxie.”  

yourpersonalinsta posted a story

story replies: user9029 girl drop the diet and workout routine plsss yourdad baby girl, i love you but put some clothes on >>>yourpersonalinsta love you too dad! maxverstappen1 are those my socks??? >>>yourpersonalinsta my feet got cold while you were gone playing with race cars. >>>maxverstappen1 i was literally working! and how'd you get into my room??? >>>yourpersonalinsta a lady never reveals her secrets, maxie ❤️ >>>maxverstappen1 i was right, you are trouble >>>yourpersonalinsta i prefer the phrase 'joy to be around'. pls hurry though back. i'm hungry and i may die of starvation in the next twenty minutes if you don't feed me. >>>maxverstappen1 do your fans know you're this dramatic??? >>>yourpersonalinsta why do you think they're my fans?

The rest of Friday blurs together in a watercolor wash of heat, and people, and sounds that you’re utterly exhausted by the time you tumble into your bed late at night.

Alone, thank you very much.

The wine that you had drank at dinner with Max and a few other drivers has heat pooling low in your belly as you watched Max watch you all night. You had wanted to invite him back to your room, but something kept those words from slipping out all night and Max had been the picture of respectable, simply dropping a kiss on your forehead before wishing you goodnight at your hotel room. 

Saturday’s sprint race is just as busy and loud as qualifying had been and by the time it’s over, you’re exhausted, hot, and sweaty. You’re over the moon when Max pulls off the win in the sprint, throwing your arms around his damp neck the moment you see him after his media duties are completed and he finds you waiting for him in front of Red Bull's hopsitality. 

“That was amazing Max. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had this much fun. You make it all look so easy.” You gush.  

“It looks like you’re my lucky charm now, schatje. Won’t be able to win without you.” 

You smile, cheeks aching a bit at how much you’ve been doing that this weekend. You’ve fit in so well with everyone it’s almost spooky, like your presence was expected and welcomed in the garage, slotting into Max’s world with uncanny ease. 

As you follow Max back to his driver’s room that’s tucked away in the back of hospitality, his hand reaches for yours almost unconsciously. When his fingers twine with yours, the butterflies that have taken up permanent residence in your stomach this week take flight yet again. If this is how you react when he reaches for you, you can’t imagine how you’re going to handle when he finally kisses you properly. 

The hallway is quiet and long, with Max’s room at the end of the corridor. You’re only about half way there when a sudden wave of nausea washes over you, stopping you in your tracks. “Woah.” You whisper, free arm bracing against the wall for support. 

Max turns to you in an instant, his handsome features a mask of concern. “You okay?” 

You blink a few times, trying hard to fight the impending fainting spell you can feel yourself hurtling towards. “I..ummm…I think so?” 

Max all but picks you up in his arms, ushering you the short distance that separates you from his drivers room. “Lets get you sitting down. Have you eaten today?” 

A blush creeps up your cheeks. “Not since breakfast.” 

Max frowns, “That was hours ago, liefje.” 

The room is small with just enough room for a couch, massage table, and closet but it does the job, serving as a quiet respite from the mayhem of the paddock. Max gently leads you over to the navy blue couch. “Sit. I’m going to get you some water and food. The heat in Florida is no joke.” 

You nod, already feeling a little better now that you’re sitting down. Max is gone for several minutes but comes back absolutely laden down with so much food, you can’t help but laugh. “Max, I don’t know who you think I am but I am not a 300 pound body builder.” You say though your giggles. 

Max looks a little embarrassed but just tuts at you, placing the plates (of which there are three) down on the table in front of you. “I didn’t know what you liked. You had fish at dinner last night, much to Lando’s dismay, but they’re cooking salmon tomorrow, even though I asked for some today for you.” 

The way your chest squeezes at his ramblings has nothing to do with the headache that’s forming between your eyes and everything to do with the man sitting next to you practically spoon-feeding you a roasted beet and goat cheese salad. You obediently open your mouth when he lifts the fork to your lips, only rolling your eyes a bit at his fussing. “I am an adult, Verstappen. I can feed myself.” You grumble between bites. 

“I know but just humor me.” 

You roll your eyes again but open your mouth, the beet and goat cheese salad actually tasting really good. 

“Good girl.” He coos, setting your thighs squeezing together on their own accord. 

Your eyes flicker up to his at the praise and something passes between you two, a little spark of heat igniting there in the small room. 

“I’m sorry.” You whisper after a few more bites, tension hanging thick between you as you're tucked up together on the small couch. 

“Don’t be.” He insists, pushing a bottle of icy cold water into your hands. “I’m just glad I was here to take care of you.” 

“Me too.” You breathe, acutely aware to how close his body is to yours.

The urge to kiss you overwhelms Max, and it's not the first time this weekend this has happened. He’s been fighting the ever strengthening desire to just sweep you up and haul you back to his hotel room since you first stepped out of the Range Rover yesterday afternoon. Truthfully, he’d been wondering what you taste like ever since he’d walked into that recording studio in London.

He couldn’t explain how or why but your sudden appearance in his life seemed like some cosmic shift under his feet, his entire existence adjusting to this new normal of being in your orbit. He’d spent the last two weeks listening to all five years of your podcasts, even finding some old work you’d done in college and with each episode he found himself falling further and further into a rabbit hole that he wasn’t sure he’d ever want to climb out of.

Max falls silent then and so do you, a comfortable quiet settling over the room. The spark that had ignited so innocently just minutes before begins to smolder into something that has the energy between you two shifting. Like the entire reason for you being here this weekend had led up to this very moment. 

You break the spell first, leaning in just a fraction closer to Max like he's is the magnet you’re elementally obligated to be attracted to. But Max is equally compelled in his desire to finally find out what you taste like so he closes the gap between your lips and his, mouth grazing yours with the slightest pressure. It starts out as a timid thing, unsure of if it should exist in such a charged atmosphere. Once it gains its footing though, the kiss lengthens and takes on a life of its own. 

You sigh into Max’s mouth like it’s a relief to finally have him kissing you. Max lifts the tips of his fingers to your chin so he can tilt your head upwards, allowing him to deepen the kiss to a more heated pace. Your fingers grip at his Red Bull polo, desperate for something to hold on to while the taste of Max races through your veins. 

Something akin to a purr rumbles in the back of your throat when Max’s hands sift through your hair and it grows a little hotter when he tugs on the ends, forcing your head back so the slender column of your neck is fully exposed to him. You try not to cry when his lips leave yours, unhappy with how you can’t taste him fully anymore, but that disappointment quickly evaporates when he trails open mouthed kisses towards the enticing hollow of your throat. 

“I’ve been wondering what you taste like since the moment I laid eyes on you.” Max murmurs against your heated skin. 

Your head spins at his words. So it hadn’t just been you that had felt the spark that first day. “Max.” His name is a reverent prayer on your lips, urging him to never stop touching you. 

Max thinks he could go the rest of his life without winning another race and he’d still die happy because he’d finally kissed you. “You drive me mad, liefje. I am utterly consumed by you and I have no idea how you slipped this far under my skin so quickly.” 

The words send shivers skittering down your spine and you find yourself leaning into his touch even more, heart hammering wildly against your ribcage. 

A sharp and sudden knock sends you leaping out of Max’s arms so quickly, you nearly fall to the floor. “Holy fuck.” You whisper, hand flying to your lips like they’ve been burned. 

“Christ.” Max breathes, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah?” He calls, voice a strangled mess. 

“Uh…” The hesitation in the person’s voice told you that they knew they had interrupted something. “Max, Christian and GP wanted to go over a few more things before quali.” 

Max touches his forehead to yours, letting loose a breath to steady himself before he can answer. “I’ll be there in five.” He grumbles and you can hear the shuffle of feet retreating moments later. 

“You are going to ruin me, schatje.” Max murmurs, even though he has a feeling he was already ruined. 

You chuckle, rubbing your fingers over your swollen lips. You had never had a first kiss like that, ever. The way your body simply melted around Max like warm butter had your center turning molten. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” You joke.

Max just shakes his head and chuckles before his face pulls serious again. 

“How are you feeling? Do you want to stay here and rest or come with me to the garage? I could have an intern take you back to the hotel?” Max lifts his hand so it frames your face, concern flickering across his features. Your chest constricts in the most delicious way when he pulls your hands into his lap. 

“I’m good. I think your kisses may have healing properties actually.” You flirt, gazing at Max from under long lashes. “If I’m not too in the way, I’d like to stay with you.” 

It crosses your mind then, a quick rabbit of a thought, darting across your consciousness that you’ve been so independent for so long, so bent on not relying on anyone for security or safety, only to have the entire rug of your resistantance ripped out from under you. It’s a gooey and warm feeling that you hope isn’t just a flash in the pan, although your gut tells you Max is the real deal. 

You hadn’t given yourself this freely to anyone in so long, panic grips at your throat for a moment, the desperate need to flee suddenly choking you. Just when the panic of what’s transpiring here threatens to pull you under, Max’s cool blue eyes yank you back to him where you belong. 

“I think I’m going to like having you by my side.” His breath fans out over your cheeks, pulling you further out of your tumble.

Max stands, sensing something shifting deep within you then. He saw something pass behind your eyes just then, the delicate shiver of hesitation. He’d been expecting it. No one who was as strong as you were got that way without having a story to tell. He knew that and had known this moment would come. What he hadn’t expected was to watch you pull yourself back from that precipice of panic. It had been a stunning thing to watch, even if the act was nothing more than a fleeting moment. But the way he watched you catch yourself spinning and knit yourself back together without so much as a whisper of a breath made him want to shield you from whatever had caused you the heartache to begin with. 

He holds his hand out to you, which you gladly take, and leads you towards the door while knotting his fingers up with yours. The nerves in your stomach settle with his touch and it sort of scares you, how well this man can read you so soon. This had been the last thing you had ever thought would happen when the man you were falling for walked into your life just 2 weeks ago. 

yourpersonalinsta posted

198,392 likes liked by maxverstappen1, redbull racing, and others yourpersonalinsta omg miami if this is how you introduce yourself to a girl, i can't wait to see how the first date goes! super proud of @/maxverstappen1 for winning the spring race today. next up: quali. user992 girl is auditioning to be the next WAG in the paddock >>>user020 seriously thirsting for nothing but clout this weekend maxverstappen1 told you you'd bring me extra luck this weekend >>>yourpersonalinsta ❤️ >>>user0093 oh this is interesting user9392 the fact that she was such a genuine fan of the sport before and now she's AT her first race as Max's guest all because of her podcast. i just... >>>user223 now i'm crying, thanks. redbullracing so fun having you in the garage today! excited for sunday! >>>yourpersonalinsta thank you for having me!

There was just something so enticingly attractive about watching Max race on Sunday that had you feeling embarrassingly needy for him by the time he got you back to his hotel room that night. As you had watched him on the podium that afternoon, you just knew how messy you’d be below him later that night.

“I think your performance this weekend has earned you a reward.” Your rasp, voice a husky whisper in his ear as you glue yourself to him in the elevator that evening.

Max cocks an eyebrow at you while his fingers grip at your hips. “Oh yeah? And what would that be, lifeje?”

“Why don’t you take me back to your room and let me show you.” You lick at his neck, savoring the taste of sweat and champagne that clings to him despite his shower at the track earlier.

Max’s groan is enough of an answer and when the elevator slows, signaling your arrival at his floor, you follow him out into the quiet hallway, giggling when he playfully grabs a handful of your ass.

You had tried to convince yourself the entire drive back to the hotel that this wasn’t how the night was going to end. It was too soon, you thought. This was the first weekend you had spent any time with him and you didn’t want Max to get the wrong idea about you. And then he had spent the entire drive back to the hotel with one hand inching higher and higher up on your bare thigh. His thick fingers traced random patterns on your tanned skin, until the very tips had slipped just under the hem of your dress and all thoughts had eddied right out of your head.

Max, meanwhile, had been thinking of this moment since the second he had climbed out of the car. He didn't want to push you but the need to learn how you sounded when he was buried deep inside you was was out of control.

The moment the door snicks closed behind you, you're shoving Max against the wall, utterly desperate to get your mouth on him. Sinking to your knees in front of him, hands trailing down his torso. Your fingers drag over the skin just above the waistband of his jeans, long nails sending a shudder down Max's spine.

"Let me taste you, Max." You moan, reaching for the buckle of his belt.

"Please." He begs as he sinks his hands deep into your hair.

You have to stifle a gasp when you free his thick cock from his boxers, pushing the soft cotton down to his ankles along with his jeans. He's already desperatly hard, dick all red and angry with arousal, practically begging you to take it in your mouth.

Max can hardly believe the sight before him. You down on your knees for him, lips mere millimeters from his raging hard-on, was probably the prettiest sight he'd seen in a long time. When you first wrap your lips around the tip, tongue darting out to taste the salty precum that he's already leaking, it takes every ounce of control Max has to not sink deep down your throat.

"Holy fuck, baby." He shudders, fingers gripping your hair even tighter. Max would be lying if he said he hadn't played out this exact scenario several times over the past two weeks, only it had been his own hand fisting his cock instead of your lips.

All you do is hum in response, the vibration of your voice sending sharp new shivers bolting down Max's spine. One hand snakes up his toned thighs, enjoying the thick muscles bunching and flexing as you take him deeper down your throat. Your other hand, however, trails down your own thighs, dipping below the hem of your dress to find your own already ruined panties wet with the arousal Max has already drawn from you.

"You like touching yourslef while you suck me off, pretty girl?" Max's voice is all gravel as his hips snap towards you, forcing you to take him even deeper into your mouth.

You look up at him, eyes watering, thick lashes matted with tears and smile the best you can with your lips wrapped around him. You continue your work, head bobbing up and down on his length, enjoying the way his dick is slick with your saliva, a bit of it dripping down your chin as you take him even deeper. You swear you could spend the rest of the night down on your knees with how good Max feels and tastes in your mouth, your own fingers buried deep inside you. The release you've been wanting all week starts to build and Max begins to feel it too.

Max knows he's not going to last much longer and he doesn't want to come quite yet. Gently he pulls you off, chuckling at the mewl of protest that slips past your lips when he pushes you off of him.

"Max." You whine, wanting nothing more than to swallow his release down your throat.

"Get on the bed, lifeje." He orders.

You scramble to your feet, disappointment at not making him come with your mouth quickly replaced with the anticipation of what you know is coming next. You've tried so hard to resist the fact that you've wanted this since the moment you saw him Friday afternoon but as you lay down on the bed and watch Max stalk towards you like a lion after his prey, all reservations evaporate into thin air. You know deep within your chest that this is what's supposed to happen right now.

"Dress off." He commands and the thrill of being ordered around flashes through you.

You follow his directions before laying back on the pillow, watching as Max reaches behind him back to strip off the sweaty team kit you hadn't bothered taking off before sucking his dick. A sudden wave of vulnerability sweeps over you as Max stands at the foot of the bed, eyes raking over your bare frame.

"You are the most beautiful creature I've ever laid eyes on." Max murmurs, sensing your hesitation at being so vulnerable in front of him. He doesn't want you to be nervous, needing you to know how utterly obsessed he is with you. It staggers him when he thinks about how deeply you've dug yourself under his skin in such a short time. You've barely spent longer than a few days together and he's already so deeply lost in you.

"Do something, Maxie." You beg, squirming under his heated stare.

His weight is heavy and delicious when he finally covers your body with his, notching his cock just outside your dripping core. Max reaches down, letting out a heated moan when he feels how wet you are for him. "You are soaked for me, gorgeous girl. God, how did I get so lucky? Have you been like this all fucking day, schatje?"

"Been desperate for you all fucking day, Max." You breath, your hips lifting up off the bed in a needy search for the friction you crave.

"Lets see if we can get you some relief, yeah baby?"

When Max sinks into you for the first time, you can't help the desperately needy whine that escapes from your mouth. His name is a prayer on your lips, every nerve ending in your body sparking to life. The stretch of his cock burns in the most delicious way. "So full." You cry as Max's hips meet yours when he slides into you completely.

Max doesn't quite understand how you're so blissfully tight and wet and warm all at the same time but he thinks it's the best feeling he's ever experienced. His head drops to the crook of your neck as he buries himself in you to the hilt, the base of his dick grinding against your clit. "Fuck, you're to tight around me baby. How do you feel this fucking good?"

You and Max fall into a rhythm, the only sound in the room are the quieted sighs slipping their way from your lips before Max can steal them from your throat. The friction is amazing and before he can quell it, Max feel the lick of fire coiling at the base of his spine, telltale sign that he's about to spill. “Won’t last much longer.” He pants, lips falling to suck at the skin at your neck. 

Max struggles to keep the pace up, diving into you with long, slow strokes that fill you up and empty you out over and over and over. Sweat forms on his brow that was tipped down in concentration and you have to resist the urge to lick it off. Every stroke deep into your pussy fills you up so fully it's almost too much. Too much sensation, too much heat, too much fullness. You can’t help the whines that slip from your lips but Max only encourages them by chanting your name over and over. 

“I know, baby. I know.” He coos in your ear as your muscles tense beneath him. “You’re doing so good for me, taking it all so good.” 

The praise is almost too much. “Don’t stop.” You beg when his fingers dip down between you to find your clit as he continues to stroke into you. Stars erupt on the back of your eyelids. “Holy fuck. Max.” You manage to bite out.

“Come for me. I want to feel you come all over my dick, please baby.” Blinding need consumes Max's entire existence, his full attention focused on the way you clench around him over and over.  

That’s all it takes. The command sends you hurtling over the edge, right into a spine tingling orgasm. Your body goes rigid for a moment under Max's weight but as quick as it starts, a boneless languid feeling sweeps through you as the endorphins flood your system. Your own climax has pushed Max over he edge and he comes hard, groaning in your ear as he rasps your name. 

Max collapses on top of you and you relish the heavy weight of his body on yours. Much too soon, he rolls off and you whimper, instantly feeling empty without him inside you. Max gathers you up in his arms though, the heat of his body quickly warming your chilled skin. Your hand settles on his chest, right over his heart, which is still racing.

“Jesus Christ, shactje.” Max finally breaks the silence, giving my hip a squeeze as he nuzzles into my hair. “You really are going to ruin me.”

maxverstappen1 posted:

838,291 likes liked by yourpersonalinsta, redbullracing, yourdad and others maxverstappen1: another great weekend with a good haul of points! Thank you Miami, you were good to us. On to the next! user2992 uh, max? care to explain that second photo >>>user92928 is that who I think it is??? yourpersonalinsta had so much fun with you this weekend! can't wait for the next one >>>maxverstappen1 ❤️ >>>user0221 EXCUSE ME. user0022 i ran into them late Sunday night at the hotel and let me tell you...there's nothing PR about their chemistry together. >>>user9288 i fucking KNEW it user05543 anyone else see @/yourpersonalinsta's dad in the likes!?

yourpersonalinsta posted

231,209 likes liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing, charlesleclerc and others yourpersonalinsta after this weekend, i think i can consider myself officially a red bull girlie. blissfully excited i got to see a MV1 podium AND sprint win! thank you for letting me into your world @/maxverstappen1. can't wait til next time ❤️ maxverstappen1 gonna need you at every race now that you're my lucky charm. user9282 'thank you for letting me into your world' YOU EXPECT ME TO ACT NORMAL AFTER THAT CAPTION MA'AM??? >>>user7623 kicking my feet and giggling and i'm not even @/yourpersonalinsta omg redbullracing you're welcome in the garage any time!! >>>user9935 even admin has a crush! >>>maxverstappen1 @/user9935 i mean, how can you not??? >>>user9935 omg hi king. glad you know how amazing she is! don't hurt our girl, k??? >>>maxverstappen1 i would never ☺️ (liked by yourpersonalinsta)

maxverstappen1 private stories

story replies: yourpersonalinsta god i look good in navy >>>maxverstappen1 no more ferrari red for you, sweet girl >>>yourpersonalinsta miss you already 😢 >>>maxverstappen1 i know. i'll see you soon, promise >>>yourpersonalinsta ❤️ danielricciardo excuse me but WHAT THE FUCK >>>maxverstappen1 : 🤭 charlesleclerc oh she's got you using the lip biting emoji. it's over, pack it up boys. MV1 is officially off the market. >>>maxverstappen1 accurate though

@shelbyteller @martygraciesversion381 @anilovessadbooks @formulaal @longhairkoo @samantha-chicago @stelena-klayley @dark-night-sky-99

[cxrrodedcoffin]

☆ 𝐎𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐮𝐧 ☆

Vigilante Older!Rafe Cameron x Fem!Reader (Part 1/3)

𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠!

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐬 @bloodibambiidoll @babygorewhore 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬, 𝐢 𝐥𝐨����𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡!! ໒꒰ྀི˶˃ᆺ˂˶ ꒱ྀིა ᯓᡣ𐭩

𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝♡

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: dom!rafe, older!rafe, age gap (rafe’s mid 40’s, reader is mid 20’s), established relationship, murder, mentions of past abuse, mentions of missing persons & kidnapping, handcuffs, condescension, praise, reader isn’t a virgin but experiences a couple firsts, daddy kink, breast play, oral sex fem receiving, fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, pull out method, doggy style, overstimulation, squirting, pet names (doll, baby, babydoll, princess, sugar), rafe’s a smartass with a heart of gold, he talks you through it

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.8k

Rafe Cameron was your neighbor. That’s all he was ever supposed to be, but three weeks ago when he broke down your front door after hearing your pained screams echoing down the secluded street, everything changed. He held no hesitation in beating your abusive boyfriend to a bloody pulp, and by the time you had regained awareness of your surroundings, Rafe was dragging you out of the house, leaving your boyfriend’s lifeless body to rot in the house you once called home.

You’d had your flirtations in the past, in fact, that’s what you and your boyfriend had been arguing about before he tried to kill you that night. He saw the way you looked at Rafe, knew you had a crush on him, and his brain made the jump that you must have been sleeping with him. It’s not like you hadn’t thought about it back when you were single, he was classically handsome, but he was also twenty years your senior, and you surely would’ve been the talk of figure eight if the two of you had actually started seeing each other, so you’d resigned yourself of that idea a long time ago.

When Rafe took your hand and dragged you behind him out of that house you didn’t have any urge to try and run from him, it was like you knew he was doing what was best for the both of you. You followed behind him the entire time he spent scrambling to gather things around his house, packing up the most important parts of his private life inside an old duffel bag and pulling several large stacks of cash out of his safe before running with you in tow to the body shop down the road to hotwire the most inconspicuous car there. You were ready to go, to leave your mundane life behind if it meant being with him like you’d spent many sleepless nights fantasizing about.

There were many pressing issues at hand, tasks that needed to be completed to ensure you wouldn’t be caught. You needed aliases, a story to cover your tracks as you drove cross country to evade arrest, and what Rafe suggested after hours of contemplation made your heart skip a beat.

“If anyone asks what we’re doing on the road, I’m your dad, and we’re going to visit family, got that?” His left hand held strong atop the steering wheel, the strength of his grip making the veins in his forearm particularly prominent in that moment. You swallowed, eyes wide as he took his eyes off of the road for a split second to see you slowly nodding your head in understanding.

“Like anyone’s going to believe I’m your kid.” You joked, your voice cracking despite your efforts to disguise how flustered the thought of calling him dad made you.

“Believe it or not babydoll, I am actually old enough to be your dad. I doubt anyone will think it's that far-fetched of an idea.”

“We don’t even look alike.” You scoffed, turning to watch the expanse of technicolor trees climbing the mountain side directly out your window.

“No one’s gonna be paying attention to our family resemblance if we stay under the radar, just keep your pretty mouth shut and you won’t have to worry about it.”

That thought was the only one you could conjure for the next two hours on the road until Rafe pulled into the parking lot of a seedy old motel so the two of you could get some much needed rest. He had to go out for gas and to buy a change of clothes for you and him at the truck stop down the road the next morning, shaking you out of your slumber to drag you to the closet and handcuff you to the hanger rod in the small closet.

“Now don’t think I don’t trust you babydoll, I do, but these are an insurance policy in case that silly little mind of yours decides to go all rational on me, understand?” He locked the first cuff around your wrist before looping the chain over the bar and securing your other one, leaving you to struggle against the metal.

“C’mon Dad, just take me with you.” You teasingly pleaded, pushing your chest out as you tried to take a step toward him.

“Can’t, it’ll look suspicious if we’re with each other all the time. You have to stay here and I gotta get this done so we can get back on the road. I’ll be back in twenty minutes tops.” He left you there, slamming the motel room door behind him as a silent threat to be good. You did, staying in place and stirring over how you could manage to take this whole dad thing further to push Rafe’s buttons as much as you could. You were getting bored. As much fun as running from the law was, the miles of highway and generic gas stations and fast food places were starting to meld together into one monotonous blob in your head, and you wanted some good old fashioned entertainment. You made a plan, figuring you’d slowly execute it over the next few days.

The next thing on your fugitive checklist was a change in appearance. You dyed and cut your hair in a truck stop bathroom after a couple days of driving, knowing your face and signature long locks were likely all over broadcast television at that point. Rafe, on the other hand, wasn’t too keen on the idea of chopping off his beloved mullet. He’d grown accustomed to it, spent twenty years perfecting the length and cut to his liking, but he knew he had to part ways with it if it meant keeping you. He hadn’t had a buzz cut in decades, not since his early twenties, and he wasn’t sure how it would suit his more mature features, but your words of encouragement gave him the push he needed to grab the electric clippers and head for a mirror.

When he finally walked out of that old motel bathroom, you had to bite back a moan. He was hot before, no doubt about it, but with the buzzcut? You wondered what it would be like to feel that peach fuzz against your palms as you pushed his face further into your pussy.

“Thoughts?” He studied the look on your face, that glint of something desperate in your eyes as the corners of your mouth pulled into a soft smile.

“I love it! Very dilf of you.” You beamed, giggling to yourself while shifting to your knees on the creaky old motel bed as he closed the space between you.

“You realize you just implied you want to fuck me, right?” He folded his arms over his chest, toned biceps framing firm pecs and you had to swallow back a groan at the sight.

“I know exactly what I was implying, Dad.” You pulled him closer by the bottom of his shirt, the look of amusement on his stubbled face only emboldening you further.

He stood at the side of the bed, looking down at you as your hands found the back of his neck, rubbing over the soft patch of hair at the nape just to feel the velvety smooth texture for a moment. The sound of the nightly news droning on the television across the room quickly became drowned out by the white noise of both of your bated breaths. You couldn’t take it anymore, all the stolen glances and unspoken tension. You needed him, now.

“Rafe, please.” The words came out like a whine, more needy than you’d intended.

“Please, what?” He cocked his head to the side, the corners of his lips pulling into an inquisitive smirk.

“You know what.” Your hands moved over his shoulders and down to his chest, fingertips ghosting over his shirt.

“I need to hear you ask for it. I’ve made a lot of fucked up choices in my life and my morals may not be that sound but I do have some that I won’t compromise on. I need to know I’m not taking advantage of you.” He took your wrists in his hands, stalling your movements until you made eye contact with him.

“I may be young but I know what I want, Rafe. I’ve wanted to fuck you since the day I moved in next to you.” He wasn’t exactly surprised by your bluntness, but hearing those words in your angelic voice still threatened to knock the wind out of him.

“Fuck, baby, you’re breaking my heart here. You know how many times I fought the urge to knock on your door and just flat out ask to taste your sweet pussy?” He dropped your wrists, instinctively going to run his right hand through his hair only to be reminded he’d just buzzed it all for you.

“God, Rafe, I wish you would’ve, we could’ve avoided this whole thing.” You sighed, hands returning to his chest as you looked almost painfully into his tired eyes. There was so much built up energy between the two of you, emotional and sexual, and as a tear slipped down your cheek, all Rafe could think about was how pretty you’d look crying with his cock in your mouth.

“If we were still back in Kildare I’d be showing you off all over town, making every one of those little frat boy assholes jealous with you on my arm.” His tone dipped an octave as his rough hand met your cheek, brushing the tear away. His eyes bore into yours until you looked down to his chest to hide your flattered blush.

“I’ve wanted to pull the goddamn car over and pound you into the backseat on the side of the highway for three weeks.” He exhaled as he spoke and something broke inside of you, a chain snapping to let you finally crash your lips against his. It was crushing, all plush lips and slipping tongues, small gasps for air as your hands groped at one another, pulling at fabric until you’d both managed to discard your shirts.

“You’ve really been hiding these from me this whole time, sugar?” He sighed, large hands groping your breasts over your thin lace bralette.

“I wasn’t hiding anything, it’s not my fault I’ve been living in baggy truck stop shirts for weeks.” You shot back, arching into his touch despite your attitude.

“Didn’t know you had slutty little things like this on underneath ‘em.” He snapped the thin strap against your shoulder, taking note of the way you mewled in response to the short sting the action caused.

“I don’t want to talk anymore Rafe, just fuck me, please.” You whined, your hands haphazardly undoing his belt to allow his worn jeans to fall to the ground.

“That’s not how I do things, babydoll. We’re gonna talk until I say otherwise.“ He paused his movements for a moment, looking into your eyes and it took everything in you not to avert your gaze. You didn’t know why you suddenly felt so intimidated by him, you’d been firing back snarky remarks at him for weeks, what was turning you into this shy thing all of a sudden?

You just nodded, eager for him to keep going. He hesitated, narrowing his eyes for a moment before resigning to continuing his efforts to pull your bralette over your head, finally fully exposing your breasts. He flashed you a smile before pressing a kiss to your lips, gentle at first before devolving into something more hungry, his teeth grazing over your bottom lip as he made his way down to your neck. Your hands found their way to his hips, palming his half-hard cock through his briefs and the low groan that grumbled up from his chest made you reach for the waistband. His hands wrapped around your wrists, halting your movements as he pulled away from your neck, his face only a few inches from yours.

“Slow down, doll. I’m not losing out on the opportunity to see what makes you tick just because you’re impatient.” He chided, holding your wrists together with one hand while he opened the bedside table drawer to search for something.

“I thought guys didn’t like this foreplay stuff.” You sighed, trying to see what he was reaching for.

“That what your little boyfriend told you?” He pulled the handcuffs from the other day out of the drawer, clicking one cuff around your left wrist before moving your arms behind you, securing your right wrist in the remaining cuff.

”You’re gonna learn real fast how good this ‘foreplay shit’ can be for the both of us. I’m going to talk you through every last thing I do and you’re going to tell me exactly how it makes you feel.” The look on his face was serious, not a hint of insincerity in sight, and yet, you couldn’t quite believe what was being demanded of you.

“You want to hear me?” You clarified, the innocence and underlying hurt in your voice almost sending Rafe into another blind rage over how your boyfriend had been treating you before he took care of him.

“I need to, that pretty voice is what keeps me going every day.” Rafe wasn’t usually so sappy, that snarky attitude of his running rampant for as long as you had known him, but there was something about the softness you held underneath that opinionated exterior that made him want to be soft with you. You could go toe to toe with him in sarcasm any day, but he wanted to meet you in that softness you didn’t show very often. He continued his position at the curve of your jaw, leaving open mouthed kisses across your skin that made it feel like he would devour you whole if given the opportunity.

“You’re purring like a kitten and I’ve barely touched you.” You could feel his smirk against your skin along with the cockiness in his tone and as much as you wanted to retaliate, put him in his place, you couldn’t find the words. He was impossibly good, each nip and suck of his lips and teeth down the column of your neck drawing quickened breath and needy whimpers from your kiss-bitten lips.

He continued the trail down to your collarbone, ghosting his lips over your skin as his hand splayed out over your stomach, gently pushing until you took the hint and laid back on the bed. You could feel your cuffed hands digging into you, repositioning them to sit in the curve of your lower back, the slight discomfort quickly falling to the wayside as Rafe’s mouth returned to your chest, plush lips wrapping around your right nipple. His fingers found the left, brushing rough fingertips over your sensitive bud as he sucked softly, movements working in tandem to draw as much sound from you as possible.

You stretched your legs, thighs absentmindedly spreading to allow him space to slot his toned thigh between them as he continued to shower your breasts with attention, marking your skin with bruising kisses and tweaking your nipples until you couldn’t help but moan his name.

“So sensitive babydoll, you like when daddy plays with your tits?” He pulled away from your chest, shifting so his face was above yours, his pupils blown with desire as he took in the sight of you all worked up for the first time.

“Mhm.” Your face flushed at the bluntness, his confidence and curiosity such an interesting change of pace from the men you’d been with before.

“Speak up.” His playful tone turned serious again, his hands moving to your hips as he pulled your hips to the end of the bed, your clothed cunt pressed against the thick of his bare thigh. You gasped as he flexed the muscles in his thigh, rocking against your aching clit through your increasingly wet panties.

“I’m not him, princess. Let me hear you.” He gently gripped your chin, forcing you to look at him as he brought his movements to a halt, watching your face drop in disappointment from the lack of friction.

“I didn’t know it could feel like this, I love it, Rafe.” Your voice held a slight tremble as you forced yourself to share your thoughts, still so unfamiliar with the notion that a man could want to know how you’re feeling.

“God am I glad I killed that piece of shit. He didn’t fuckin’ deserve you.” He sighed, a hint of pride lacing his low tone as he ran his hands over your sides, feeling every curve of your body as he slowly dropped to his knees beside the bed. He slid his hands over your hips beneath the fabric of your underwear, pulling the thin cotton slowly down your legs.

“Look at me.” He waited for you to carefully prop yourself up on your elbows, the cuffs digging into your wrists from the angle. His eyes held your gaze in an almost intimidating stare, his hands moving to rest on your thighs.

“You ever had your pussy eaten baby?” His question caught you off guard despite how obvious it seemed given his current position, and you were sure he already knew the answer from the look on your face.

“N-no, every guy I’ve been with said it was gross.” As soon as the statement hit Rafe’s ears he could feel that anger rise to another level, the need to make you forget about every shitty guy you’d been with stronger than ever.

“Where are you finding these assholes? I’ll kill the rest of them too, just say the word.” His tone was lighthearted but you knew from the look on his face that he was the furthest thing from joking. You laughed him off, your attention pulling to his hands finally pushing your thighs apart, making space for him to slot his broad shoulders between your legs.

“Rafe, you don’t have to.” You tried to pull your legs together but to no avail, the action only spurring him on. He hooked his hands underneath your thighs, pushing your knees up to your chest to give him full access to your cunt.

“No shit, I want to. Need you to keep your eyes on me so you can see how much I’m enjoying tasting your sweet pussy.” He locked eyes with you as he dipped his head lower, watching the way your brow furrowed and a soft gasp left your lips when he gave the first drag of his tongue through your folds. He smiled briefly before diving back in, lapping hungrily at your dripping entrance before sucking softly at your clit, the way your thighs tensed under his grip a physical indication of how much you were enjoying it.

He glanced up at you, watching the way your bottom lip quivered with every whimper and moan of his name in response to his tongue expertly flicking over your clit. His right hand slowly slid down from your thigh, his pointer and middle finger prodding teasingly at your entrance before sinking into your wet heat, the new sensation making you buck your hips against him. He pumped steadily in and out of you, massaging your walls with each flex of his fingers as he pulled his mouth off of you.

“How does it feel babydoll? Everything you hoped it would be?” He smirked at you and you had to fight the urge to laugh at the almost ridiculous question. You knew he knew how good he was making you feel, and yet he still wanted you to stroke his ego. He sure was living up to the reputation he held back on Kildare, that’s for sure.

“Yes, fuck, it’s so good, just keep going, please.” You sighed in frustration, desperate to have his mouth on you again. He had the nerve to laugh, but you couldn’t find it in you to call him out on it, just relieved to see him lowering his head back down to your cunt.

He wasted no time, flicking over your clit at an impossibly quick pace, his fingers curling up to hit that soft spot inside of you until you were throwing your head back, barely able to support yourself anymore as your elbows gave out behind you, falling back against the mattress as your thighs began to tremble. He wrapped his lips around your clit, humming in satisfaction as he felt your walls clamp down around his fingers, the sound of his name falling from your lips in a desperate cry like music to his ears.

He continued lapping gently at your cunt, working you through your orgasm until he could slowly slip his fingers from you, his digits coated in your cum. He waited for you to catch your breath, taking a moment to recover before propping yourself back up on your elbows, looking down at him through half lidded eyes. As soon as your eyes met his he brought his fingers to his mouth, sucking your slick off of them slowly, savoring the taste. Your lips parted in a small gasp, barely even audible, seeing him enjoy going down on you just as much as you had enjoyed it.

He rose to his feet, putting his erection right at your eye level and your small gasp turned into something much more substantial, the sound drawing Rafe’s attention.

“Did that really turn you on that much?” You squeaked out, your voice much more unsteady than you intended it to be.

“I told you it would be good for both of us, I don’t lie about shit like that.” He took a step toward the edge of the bed, His thumbs slipping into the waistband of his underwear before pulling it down, his weighty cock slapping against his thigh as he did so. You bit your lip, watching him wrap his hand around the base of his shaft before tapping the tip against your sensitive clit, the action sending a jolt of pleasure straight to the coil in the pit of your stomach. He rubbed his shaft through your folds, coating himself in your wetness as he watched your expression change from confusion to curiosity to desperation.

“Feel that? It’s all for you, babydoll.” He leaned forward, his face only a few inches above yours as he continued rubbing himself against your cunt, teasingly brushing over your clit in a way that had you squirming and silently begging for more.

“What, baby? What do you need?” He asked, feigning ignorance to what he knew he was doing to you. This was the longest any of your sexual encounters had lasted and he wasn’t even inside of you yet.

“Need you inside of me, please.” You whined, trying to shift your hips to position him lower. He took hold of your hips, stopping your efforts before abruptly flipping you onto your stomach in the middle of the bed, your head almost hanging off the end. You felt the mattress shift under his weight as he positioned himself behind you, pulling your hips up to meet his so you were kneeling before him. Your cuffed wrists made it impossible for you to lift your upper half without assistance, your face and breasts resting against the mattress with your cunt on full display.

“Bet your shitty little boyfriends never showed you how to do anything other than missionary, that right?” You whimpered out a soft “yeah” as you pushed your hips back, feeling his head bump your entrance for a moment before he pushed fully into you, slow enough to allow you to get used to the angle but not torturously slow. He was over playing games now, all he wanted was to show you what you’d been missing with every man who wasn’t him. Your eyes rolled back, the unfamiliar angle stimulating your sensitive walls in ways you’d never experienced before. He steadily increased his pace, his balls slapping against your clit with every slam of his hips, that familiar pressure building impossibly quickly.

“Who’s that pretty girl on the tv? She looks awfully familiar.” His voice pulled your attention away from your impending orgasm for just a moment just as he took hold of the handcuffs and pulled your arms back, putting the tv right in your line of sight. The image that flashed before you made your stomach flip, a group of three photos of you with your physical traits and last known whereabouts listed beside them as the news anchor read off a teleprompter, “Nationwide search for missing Kildare, North Carolina woman continues as police expand their search into three new states.”

Your eyes glossed over, the sight all too surreal and the feeling of his cock hitting places so deep inside of you that you weren’t even sure they existed before this very moment too much as every nerve ending in your body erupted in euphoria, the strained cry of pleasure that ripped from your throat almost drowning out the news broadcast.

“You like seeing your missing poster plastered everywhere? Want everyone to know I own you now?” He teased, continuing to fuck into you as you mumbled incoherently in response, too fucked out to form a proper response.

“Listen to that, they’re saying I kidnapped you, callin’ me a monster. If only they could see how good I’m making you feel right now babydoll, how good your daddy’s making you feel.” His words pierced through your post orgasm haze, pressure starting to build in your tummy again.

“Oh my god, daddy, it’s too much, I can’t, please!” You begged, overwhelmed by the pleasure still coursing through your body as he brought you closer and closer to another orgasm with every thrust, his remarks only spurring you on.

“I know you can baby, your pussy’s gripping me like a vice.” He laughed again, but you could feel his hips starting to falter, his thrusts becoming sloppy, he had to be just as close as you were.

“Fuck, who’s your daddy, baby?” He groaned, watching the way your ass reverberated back against him with every thrust.

“You are!” You moaned, so close to the edge.

“Say it.” He commanded, a darkness present in his tone that hadn't been there before.

“You are, Rafe, you’re my daddy!” You cried out, a white heat unlike anything you’d ever felt before rushing through you as you felt a warmth gush from your cunt, your body going limp against him, his grip on your hip and the cuffs being the only things to keep you from completely collapsing into the mattress.

You barely registered him pulling out of you and cumming on your ass, the warmth of the white stickiness dripping down into your folds being one of the only things able to draw you back to reality.

“You ever done that before?” His voice sounded miles away, your ears still ringing from your release.

“Done what?” You asked sleepily, turning your head to look at him. When you saw the liquid dripping down his lower stomach and thighs onto the wet spot on the bed, your eyes went wide, trying to scramble to your knees the best you could with your wrists still cuffed.

“Oh my god, no, I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry!” The panic in your voice startled him, but that quickly turned to anger as he thought about what your shitty exes had done to you to make you feel like you needed to apologize for something so natural.

“Hey, hey, calm down.” He soothed you the best he could, grabbing the key to the cuffs and undoing them as he rubbed the red marks on your wrists to ground you.

“You’re not mad?” You asked, blinking back the tears that had gathered in your waterline.

“God, no. I’m gonna be making you squirt all the time now that I know you can.” He laughed, trying to lighten the mood again. You smiled, and his anger quelled. He had to remind himself that those assholes were in your rear view, he was your future. That’s all that mattered.

“What about the sheets?” You asked, standing from the bed to pull the wet linens off of the mattress, bunching them up in a pile in the corner of the room.

“I’ll just go ask for new ones at the front office, you go hop in the shower and I’ll join you when I get back.” He reassured, kissing you on the forehead and using the loose sheets to dry off his stomach before reaching for his scattered articles of clothing to get dressed to run to the office.

—

tagging: @starkeysprincess @rafesfawn @eddiesxangel @theeternaloptimistt @drewscoquette @rafesangelita @rafelust @bunbun-3 @poopiefartz @coquettebiatch @lilbunnyorwhatever @alejstarkey

please message me if you’d like to be untagged <3

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 35: Threads

Summary: Pack bonds are made up of delicate threads, small fibers webbing together the dynamics and relationships that make up each individual pack. The omega stands in the middle, holding the pieces together, keeping the pack from crumbling by clinging to those threads like a strongman holds pillars up with chains.

Pairings: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 11,752 words

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, angst, descriptions of physical pain, brief description of drowning, medical stuff, panic, crying, panic attacks, nightmares, PTSD, very heavy emotions, alcohol and brief mention of alcoholism, language, fighting (not physically), Kyle being the best boy, aftermath of trauma, brief mentions of the events of the previous chapter, guilt and shame, angst, and finally some comfort after the hurt (but not quite what you'd expect)

A/N: So I may have been slightly wrong, the angst isn't over, but it's not quite as intense as it has been. There are little tidbits of comfort in this one, though it's not like "okay it's over, let me wrap you in this blanket and everything is fine and happy now". It's...you'll see. If you're waiting for the fine and happy comfort then...you might want to wait a few chapters still. The comfort will come on slowly, but it has officially started.

11/30/24: **This chapter has been edited and rewritten from its original version**

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Screaming. 

Someone is screaming. 

It hurts your ears, high-pitched and ringing. Your hands cover them, but even that can’t block out the sound. 

It’s ringing in your own head. 

Your body hurts, every joint and muscle aching and throbbing. They’ve been locked in place too long, frozen in one position, a safe position. Safety. That’s what you’re seeking, that’s what you’re trying to find. That’s why you’re here. 

This isn’t a safe space anymore. 

The walls are crumbling, the darkness is fading. There’s light seeping in, threatening to pull you out, make you face whatever is waiting on the other side. It’s not a comforting light, it’s bright and piercing and threatening. You don’t want to leave the darkness. You don’t want to face the light. You want to stay there, stay frozen, stay safe. 

Your throat burns, raw and painful with every breath. 

It’s you. 

You’re screaming. 

Hands are flying, mouth open in a scream. It’s a horrible sound, grating and feral sounding. Your body twists and turns as they try to hold you down. No restraints. You’ll just hurt yourself more. 

Blood is flying, splattering on the gurney, the floor, the walls. Yours or someone else’s? It’s hard to tell. 

Simon. 

“Simon!” 

He snaps out of his daze, his eyes darting up to look at Dr. Keller across the gurney. Her hand is around his wrist, your elbow knocking against his forearm as you try to fight whatever it is you think you’re seeing. Maybe you’re seeing nothing at all. 

“I know.” Dr. Keller’s voice is soft despite the chaos of the moment. Her gaze is firm but comforting. She knows. “I need you to hold her still. She’s going to hurt herself further if she can’t calm down.” 

She’s going to hurt someone else too. 

The monitors are beeping and screaming. They managed to get a blood pressure cuff around your arm before you snapped out of the daze he’d put you in and started fighting. You’re like a wild animal, cornered and fighting for your life again with a renewed vigor. Renewed for now. If you don’t calm down again, something will give out. 

There won’t be any coming back from that. 

“Don’t be afraid if you hurt her.” Dr. Keller says, squeezing his wrist. “Bones can be fixed.” 

He catches your wrists in his hand, pinning them down against your chest. He uses his weight to his advantage, pushing his arm into you as he leans down so you’re face to face. You let out another scream, fighting against him but he has you beat. He’s bigger, stronger, calmer. 

“Look at me.” He says, his alpha rumbling low in his chest. It has even the beta nurses stopping in their tracks to look at him. The only one unaffected is Dr. Keller as she uses this moment to her advantage. 

You stop fighting him, breathing in heavy gasps as you stare right up into his eyes. Wild and untamed, pupils dilated in your aggressive state. Dilated out of aggression or dilated out of fear? Perhaps both. Beads of sweat slide down your face, your body hot under his. It mixes with the blood on your skin, blood from your own injuries and from the Shadows you killed. Your cheek is bruised, discolored from broken blood vessels. Your left eye will swell shut soon. He needs to get you calm before then. 

It’s almost cute, the way you bare your teeth up at him. He might have thought it cute in a different setting, if your life wasn’t dangling over a ledge right now. A low growl rumbles in your chest, a warning that has his own hackles raising. He bares his teeth back, an answering growl, deeper and angrier, rumbles in his own chest. The nurses take a step back. Even Dr. Keller pauses at the sound. 

Yet, despite the threat in his growl, it doesn’t deter you one bit. Your knee drives into his side, making him grunt from the impact, but he doesn’t let up. You’re fighting him again, trying to wiggle your way out of his hold. If he pushes any harder, he might break a rib. You’re going to break something if you don’t stop. 

You’re too far gone to recognize anything but fear and danger. You’re only going to fight, only going to attack anything you perceive as a threat. You won’t even recognise him. He has to get you to calm down before you have a heart attack. He considers getting one of the nurses to bring Johnny in, but there’s no guarantee that will work. You’ll just perceive him as another threat, another danger. More people in the room will only make you more aggressive...make your omega more aggressive. 

He’s not dealing with you. He’s dealing with your omega in her raw form, the animal deep underneath forced out of her hiding place. Whoever said omegas are weak never had to face one in this state. 

He stares down at you as you fight and scream, battering his side with your knees but he can hardly feel the pain. His arm is still throbbing where you bit him, but he can hardly see the blood streaked on his skin. 

He has to save you. 

He can’t let all of this go to waste. 

They’ll never recover if they lose you now. 

He moves almost seamlessly, time seeming to slow as he lets you go. He unclips his vest and rips it over his head in one movement, uncaring as it hits the floor with a heavy thud. You lunge up at him but he’s ready, catching you before your lower body can leave the gurney. It’s a risk. A huge risk, but it’s all he can think of doing. It’s hardly the worst place to be if things go wrong, if this fails. If he does fail, at least he’ll know he tried. 

He pushes his mask up to his chin, pressing your face right into his neck. 

Your nose pushes against his scent gland as he cups the back of your head, holding you there. He projects his scent as strong as he can, hoping it can reach some deep part of your mind, some glimmer of you that’s left in there. 

If this goes wrong, you’ll rip out skin and veins with your teeth. He’ll bleed out on the floor before they can even get him on a gurney. 

He wraps his other arm around you, holding you as still as he can. Tears prick his eyes as he holds you, shoving away the beeping machines, the panic still thrumming inside of him. Scruffing you was only round one of this fight. He should have held it longer, should have been brave enough to do it a second time. 

He can still feel it, your neck in his hand, the way you gave in so easily. You had no choice, he gave you none. It was necessary, it was vital that he did it. You wouldn’t have made it this far if he hadn’t. 

He should do it again. It would be easy, just slip his hand down and squeeze and you’ll be gone, lost in your head again and under his control. Maybe then he’d get you to calm down, get you out of this state and free from the danger looming closer and closer. 

Heart attack, stroke, organ failure. 

Why couldn’t Price be the one to go after you? Why couldn’t it be Price standing here making this decision. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispers before slipping his hand down, wrapping it around the back of your neck again. 

Pain. 

You’re in pain. 

You try to fade away again, try to push yourself back into the darkness to avoid the pain, but you can’t. 

There’s no escaping it. 

Your body hurts, every joint and muscle throbbing. Fire licks at your very cells, burning hot through your veins, scorching your skin. Safety. You want safety again. You want to retreat back into yourself, back into the comfort only the darkness can offer you. 

Nowhere is safe anymore. 

Tears are rolling down your cheeks, the light pressing closer and closer. It’s somewhere above you, shining down in offending shades of white. You can see it behind your eyelids no matter how hard you try to squeeze them together. There’s no escaping this light. There’s no retreating back into safety. There’s no safety anymore. 

You’re underwater, slowly rising to the surface. There’s sounds around you, muffled and dampened by the water. You need to breathe, you need to inhale precious oxygen but you can’t get to the surface fast enough. Lungs burning, your fingers claw at the water but you can’t reach it, you can’t swim fast enough. 

Your hands curl into soft fabric as you cough, choking on imaginary water. There’s warmth surrounding you, pressed in on all sides. You’re leaning against something, something hard and solid and warm. The sounds are louder now, mixing into a convoluted cocktail of constant noise. You hate it. 

Pain ripples through your throat as you let out a groan, the sound catching and cracking on the rough edges of your vocal chords. Another choked sound leaves your lips, pain rippling through your very nerves. The skin on your face is burning, simmering ashes being fanned by every tear sliding down your cheeks. 

You’re crying. 

There’s a deep sound coming from under you. It’s vibrating against your body, your pulsing ears focusing on that sound. It’s familiar. You’ve heard it before, somewhere back in the recesses of your mind. 

Your mind. 

It’s there. You can feel it beginning to take shape, thoughts beginning to form out of the fractured darkness. You’re not in your mind anymore, your mind is in you. You’re a being inside of a body, a body wracked with pain. The urge to retreat back is strong, but you can’t. That part of you has been closed off, sealed away by the light. 

Fingers and toes twitch, tingling and throbbing with the cold despite the fire blazing its way through your veins. It is cold, your hand pulling at the softness you’re clinging to. The low vibration begins again, rumbling through you, igniting something in the back of your mind. 

You know it. It’s familiar. 

Something tingles in the back of your mind, starting to come to life. Despite the agony there’s something in there, something warm and comforting. There’s no name for it, no thought flashing through the swirling mass of neurons slowly taking shape. It’s soft and warm and whispering to you. 

Wake up. 

Wake up. 

Wake up! 

Your eyes open before you can stop them. You’re immediately blinded, eyes throbbing from the bright white light above you, a high pitched whine leaving your lips. It rattles through your throat, broken and squeaking through your shredded trachea. You clench your eyes shut again, wincing away from the intrusive light, the movement sending a bolt of pain through your body like an electric shock. You let out another garbled sound, your fist tugging on the fabric it’s clenching. 

“I know, I’m sorry sweetie.” A voice says, the light disappearing before another takes its place, softer and lighter and less painful. 

Your eyes crack open again, still throbbing despite the light being removed. Your entire body is throbbing, pulsing like an exposed nerve. You feel like an exposed nerve, weak and vulnerable. It triggers something deep in your brain, the light starting to dim. Something is rising, something is coming. You want to lay back, let it take over, let it take control. You want to sink into the darkness again. The darkness is safe, the darkness is secure. 

The beeping is getting louder. Beeping, that’s what that sound is. There’s something beeping. It’s getting faster and faster. You’re starting to go numb, the tingling in your fingers and toes fading away. It’s not so cold anymore, the ache in your limbs fading into oblivion. You’re fading into oblivion. 

“Oi! None of that.” 

You’re awake. You let out a disgruntled sound as the warmth and comfort leaves you, deserting you in favor of retreating into the recesses of your mind again. A shiver runs down your spine, your very skin tingling with pinpricks of pain as it goes. 

“Open your eyes again for me, love.” 

Your body moves before you can tell it not to, your eyes fluttering open again. You’re squinting despite the bright light being gone. Any light is too much, your mind seeking out the comforting darkness once more. 

Darkness makes you vulnerable. 

In the dark, you’re blind to things that may be hiding there. 

No. 

No more darkness. 

You want the light. 

Scents flood your brain as your eyes fully open, slamming into you like a wave. It’s too much, nearly choking you again as you try to register everything. The burning scent of sterilizer, the soft scent of clean linens, the harsh scent of chemicals. There’s a soft scent mixing in with the others, something easing the turmoil in your mind just slightly. Above all else, though, is the intense smell of leather and something soft and fresh. It overpowers almost all of them, standing out distinctly. It makes your nose throb, something tickling in the back of your mind. You’re afraid of the scent, yet...there’s something else. Something...familiar. 

“Back with us yet?” The sound rumbles under you again. 

“Nearly there.” Another voice says. “Heart rate is coming down again. Still feverish, though.” 

You’re suddenly aware of your body again, the pains, the aches, the burning, the cold. You’re trembling, your skin prickling from how cold it is. You try to press forward against the warmth in front of you, but the movement has pain slashing through your very cells. Another pathetic whine tears through your throat, every movement sending stabbing pain through your very being. 

“C...C-Cold.” You manage to croak out, the word forming clumsily on your tongue. It feels heavy, like you’re relearning how to speak. 

“I know.” The softer voice says, something dragging across your skin. “We’re trying our best.” 

Something moves against your back, dragging against your skin. Whatever it is, it’s warm, but it’s rough. You push into it, something telling you to get closer, to wrap yourself in it and let it suffocate you. Somehow it’s comforting to you, somehow it’s familiar. 

Slowly thoughts and sensations begin to return to you, your mind dragging itself from the depths it had sunk into. 

It was purposeful. 

You did it to save yourself. 

You’re shaking for a different reason now, suddenly aware of the parts of your body that ache the most. Your shoulder, your cheek, your throat, your wrists. There’s a deep chill that has settled in your bones, sinking past the fever and the pain, past the memories beginning to resurface, past the hopelessness and the anger and the fear. 

“Simon?” You croak out, the name burning its way through your dry throat. You desperately want something to drink, anything to ease the burning desert in your mouth. 

“It’s me, love.” The sound rumbles under you again. 

Leather. Eucalyptus. Warmth. Alpha. 

You groan, trying to shift closer but the tensing of your muscles has pain screaming through your body. A shuddering breath leaves your lips, your body tensing until it passes. 

“Try not to move too much.” The other voice says, a hand coming to rest on your arm. You’re still clutching Simon’s sweatshirt in your hand like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this earthly plane. 

It might be. 

“Dr. Keller?” You croak out, recognizing that voice. 

“I’m here too sweetie.” She says somewhere behind you. “Take it easy, you’ve had a rough go of it.” 

She’s not wrong. 

The memories are coming back slowly, each one playing through your head like an episode of some fucked up television show. Except, it isn’t a television show. It’s your life. 

You hate it. 

“John?” You ask, trying to get your tongue to work, but you desperately need water. 

“Probably yelling at every person who crosses his path.” Simon says. “He was blazing a path to hell and back earlier trying to get ahold of anyone he could yell at involved in this.” He rubs your back. “He’ll be here as soon as he’s calmed down. Kyle and Johnny are working overtime trying to help restrain him.” 

You'll always be a second thought. 

“You?” You ask, unable to form the whole question you want to ask. Why are you here and not with your pack? 

He's quiet for a moment. “We got here before John and Kyle did.” His hand stills against your back, palm pressing below your shoulder blades. “You wouldn't let anyone close to you. The doc said it's normal, coming out of that state. I had to help keep you calm so you could get patched up. Then you wouldn't let me leave.” 

Your fingers ache from how hard they're gripping his sweatshirt. He stayed. He's the one here with you, not your alpha. 

You let out a groan, the pain starting to intensify. There’s a throbbing in your calf, and a deep ache starting to pulse in your joints. You’re almost glad for it, the turmoil in your mind starting to twist and fog your thoughts pushed aside in favor of the pain screaming at the forefront of your brain. 

“Time for more pain medicine.” Dr. Keller says somewhere behind you. “You’ll probably get sleepy, but rest is what you need right now.” 

You let out another groan, pressing your face back against Simon’s chest. Despite the pain in your body, there’s an even deeper ache in your chest. It’s not a physical one. Your alpha isn’t here. He’s left you again, abandoned you in favor of something else, something he deems more important. 

Tears are brimming in your eyes as they slip closed, the exhaustion and the drowsiness from the pain medicine taking over. 

It’s not quite so cold when you wake up next. It’s brighter in the room, the light not quite so artificial as it had been the first time. There’s no body against yours, no warmth seeping into your skin or scent in your nose. Your fingers twitch, almost like they want to seek it out again. 

You’re alone. 

You let out a quiet breath, your brows furrowing. Your shoulder aches, throbbing in time with the beep of the heart monitor. It hurts less to move as you shift your arm to itch the other. It’s horribly itchy, but your fingers meet gauze instead. 

Right. Phil had cut you there. Not very deep, but still deep enough to hurt. Just another injury to add to the list. 

You try to lift your arm but burning pain shoots through your shoulder. You wince, letting out a quiet moan of pain as you drop it back into the bed. You breathe as the pain shoots through you, swirling through your veins before it begins to settle. 

“You shouldn’t try to move too much.” A voice cuts through the silence. 

Your head whips to the side, your arm shooting out to grip the side rail as pain burns through your body like lava. It seeps slowly from your left shoulder down to your toes and into your very hair follicles. You let out another groan of pain, your eyes squeezing closed as you wait for it to pass. 

“Sorry.” The voice says softly. “I suppose that didn’t help any.” 

You open your eyes, still breathing heavily as the pain begins to fade. Your hand is still wrapped around the side rail as you stare at John. He’s seated next to the bed, his elbows on his knees as he stares at you. He looks tired, eyes puffy with dark circles around them. He’s in a simple green shirt and cargo pants, yet he’s not quite as put together as he normally is. His hair is sticking up in different directions, his beard scruffier than normal. There’s a faint pink line of what was probably once a cut on his cheek. 

It’s the first time you’ve seen him in weeks. 

You should be happy. 

You should be ecstatic. 

You should be relieved. 

Yet, all you can feel is pain and anger and betrayal. 

“There’s nothing I can say that will make this better.” He says, his voice rougher than usual, even after returning from a deployment. His eyes shine with emotion. You hate it. “There’s nothing I can say that will undo what happened.” He runs a hand over his mouth, letting out a breath through his nose. “This shouldn’t have happened in the first place. We should have known better, we should have questioned it.” He shakes his head. “We put too much trust in those above us, and we were all fooled.” 

Tears blur your eyes as you stare at him. He’s not just talking about Shepherd and the initiative. He’s talking about you too. 

“I regret it more than any decision I’ve ever made. I’ll regret it for the rest of my life,” He continues. “You put your trust in me, and I failed you. I let this happen to you because I chose to follow blindly instead of thinking about the good of my pack. You’re here because of me, because of the decisions I made. I had one job, and now you’re paying for my failure.” 

He pauses for a moment, tears shining in his own eyes. You should feel surprise, sympathy, something. All you can feel is hatred. He doesn’t deserve to cry over you. He doesn’t deserve this chance to try and explain himself to you, to try and give excuses for his actions. He made his choice. He made it very clear where his loyalties lie, where they’ve always been, where that line was laid before he even claimed you. It was never about you. Nothing was ever about you. It was always the initiative, and then when the initiative turned out to be false, it was about the ‘greater good’. You should have been the greater good. You should have been their focus. Instead they all betrayed you. 

They betrayed you in the end. 

“I made a bad call.” He continues on. “I shouldn’t have left so quickly. I shouldn’t have allowed you to be left alone. Now you’re here, like this, because I made a stupid mistake.” 

He stares at you for a long moment, as if he’s waiting for you to say something, as if you  should have something to say in response. He’s waiting for an acceptance to his half-assed apology, as if his words can somehow undo the pain, the burning in your wrists, the throbbing in your shoulder, the agony every time you simply move a limb. As if his half-assed apology can somehow undo the weeks of depression and anguish and the worry and the fear. As if his half-assed apology can make up for the way they all cut you off, treating you like a traitor before abandoning you. As if his half-assed apology can undo the hours and hours of torment and pain the man you once thought of as a family friend unleashed on you all because of them. 

The hatred burns almost as hot as the lava in your veins, so hot you’re surprised the tear that slides down your cheek doesn’t start sizzling. Your heart rate is picking up again, the monitor beeping with the sound of the anger simmering inside of you. The blood pressure cuff squeezes around your arm, a grunt of pain cracking in your throat. 

“Yeah,” You say, your voice hardly more than a whisper. You turn your head away from him, wincing as an electric shock of pain jolts through you from the motion. You drop your hand from the side rail before he can touch you, tucking your arm back under the rough blanket. “You did.” 

You have nothing more to say to him. 

John enters the room solemnly, the silence nearly palpable as they all wait in anticipation. They’re all looking at him, waiting patiently for their captain, their alpha, to speak. They always look to him, they always rely on him, they always trust him and now look where he’s led them. So rarely does he make the wrong decision, so rarely does he lead them astray. 

What happened this time? 

Why did he fall into the trap so easily? Why did he so easily turn his back on you? 

What words are there to say? He knew his words would do little to calm the raging storm inside of you, the hurt and the pain and the betrayal they put you through all because of him. 

The rejection still hurts, but it should. They all rejected you as soon as they left you behind. 

It’s only a fraction of the pain you must be feeling. 

“How is she?” Kyle asks, breaking the tense silence. 

“Upset.” He sighs, sinking down in a chair. 

“Fuckin’ sure she is.” Johnny snaps, anger radiating off of him in steaming waves. He’s been on edge, they all have, since the four of them were reunited. He had been there, stuck in the hall as you screamed and fought. He thought the worst when your screams cut off until he was finally updated by one of the nurses leaving the room. “Of course she doesnae want to see any of us! We just fucking left her, just like that, and it was your fuckin’ fault!” 

Simon grabs his beta before he can throw a fist at John, holding him back. Johnny lets out a string of curses none of them understand, fighting against his alpha. Simon holds him tightly, the image of your bloody form fighting against him still at the forefront of his mind. He grips Johnny tightly, muscles straining. Johnny is bigger. Johnny is stronger. 

He has half a mind to let him go. 

John doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch as Johnny yells and rages. He’d welcome a good beating right now. He could use some physical pain to distract from the ache in his chest. 

“Calm down,” Kyle says, getting in Johnny’s face. “I said calm down!” Kyle yells, Johnny stilling for a moment. It’s not often Kyle raises his voice at one of them. “We’re not doing any good being upset with each other. We all made mistakes over these last few weeks, especially these past few days. None of us are guilt free in this. We all have our omega’s blood on our hands. Fighting amongst ourselves will only fray the bonds more than they already have been.” 

Johnny deflates with a sigh, standing there in Simon’s arms for a moment. Kyle is right. They all can feel it, the way their bonds are fraying. Their pack is resting on a dangerous ledge, tipping back and forth with every strong emotion, every argument, every sour feeling. They’re all holding onto that bond, trying to pull it back to keep it from falling into the abyss. As angry as they are with each other, just one of them letting go will be the end of the pack. 

“There’s nothing we can do to change what happened.” John says, looking up at the other three. “Kyle’s right. I made the decision to trust those we were suspicious of. We can’t undo what happened to us, we can’t undo what we did, we can’t undo what we...” He lets out a breath. “What I let happen to our omega.” 

“She won’t trust us again.” Simon says, his hands still shaking as he releases Johnny. They haven’t stopped shaking since he scruffed you a second time. “I don’t doubt Graves played with her head, convinced her we chose to leave her there with him.” 

“She won’t trust us.” John affirms, no matter how badly it hurts him. “She won’t forgive us either. The best we can do is to give her what she needs, what she wants. Right now that’s space. Dr. Keller will keep us updated as things develop.” He pushes himself up to stand, looking at each member of his team, of his pack. They all share the same guilty look on their faces, they all hold the same anger at themselves deep inside. “This may be the hardest mission we’ve ever had. No matter what we feel...none of that matters anymore. What matters is keeping our pack together. What matters is that we keep those bonds from fraying. We lose ourselves, we lose everything.” 

“Still sore?”

You nod, wincing as it sends a bolt of pain through your body. 

“I know.” Dr. Keller says, adjusting the ice pack on your shoulder. “Hurts like a bitch, but luckily it won’t cause any lasting damage.” 

You blink at Dr. Keller, staring at her for a beat. You don’t think you’ve ever heard her curse before. You’re not sure she was ever capable of it. 

“What? I use swear words. Sometimes.” She says, almost like she can read your thoughts. “Sometimes expletives fit the moment better than any flouncy, sophisticated words do. This feels like the proper situation to use some.” She lets out a sigh. “Your shoulder will be the worst of the pain, at least physically. The mental pain...well, that’s not something I can treat with pain medicine. Shouldn’t, would be the proper wording there.” 

Some people do use it to numb the pain. 

“We all made a lot of bad decisions these last few days. Your support system, those you were supposed to be able to trust, failed you.” She stares down at you, emotion shining in her eyes. It’s a mirror of John’s own stare when he’d looked at you, but this time there’s no anger burning inside of you. Dr. Keller didn’t betray you. Dr. Keller will mean her apology, because you know that’s what’s coming. “I know you’ve probably heard this a lot over the last few hours, but I am sorry too. I shouldn’t have left you alone like that. I shouldn’t have fallen for that phone call...I should have been there.” 

You stare up at her, tears pooling in your eyes. If she had stayed, things would have been worse. It was almost better she left you. You can’t lose her. You need her now more than you ever did. 

Tears streak a flaming path down your face, a choked sob tearing its way through your trachea up through your lips. It burns your throat, no amount of water you’ve had in the last few hours has been able to ease the ache that’s taken up permanent residence there. 

Graves choked you. It’s the bruising from his hand squeezing your windpipe making you ache. Your voice may never recover, may never go back to normal. Crying hurts, hurts more than just your mind, your chest. It hurts your whole body, yet you can’t stop. 

“I know, I know.” She says, petting your hair as you sob. “I’m not going anywhere this time. We’ll get through this, okay? It’ll be a long road, but you won’t be walking it alone. You’ve got me, and you’ve got your pack.” 

Your gaze hardens at the mention of your pack, the sob in your throat coming out almost as an angry grunt. The thought of them makes your chest ache, the pain of their betrayal burning hot in you. “I don’t want them.” You whisper. 

“I don’t blame you.” Dr. Keller says, leaning against the side rail of your bed. “They let you down. The betrayed your trust in a lot of ways. They made you feel abandoned, and then abandoned you when you needed them most, even if they thought they were doing the right thing at the time. You have every right to be angry at them, upset with them. They hurt you in the worst way they could.” She pulls the blanket higher over you, tucking you in. “You’ve gone through a lot these last few days. Some very traumatic events, on top of being injured and your body going through extreme stress. You’re exhausted in every way you can be. Rest first. Worry about everything else later. Doctor’s orders.” 

“I did it to myself.” You say before she can walk away. 

She turns back to look at you. “What?” 

“I made myself distress.” You say. “I made my omega come out.” 

“That was very brave of you.” She says, giving you a soft smile. “Sometimes we have to take drastic measures even knowing the risks. You did what you had to in the moment and I think it was the right choice. You didn’t know what was going to happen, what was happening. Things worked out and you’re still here. That’s all that matters.” 

You think about her words for a moment. You did make it out. The fact you’re here means someone found you, someone saved you. Someone scruffed you. 

“It was Simon, wasn’t it?” You ask, even though you already know the answer to that. 

You wouldn’t let him leave. 

“You’ll have to ask him for the whole story, but yes. He’s the one that rescued you.” She adjusts the blanket around you again. “Get some rest.” She moves the call button closer. “I’m on the other end of that button if you need me.” 

You stare up at the ceiling after she leaves, counting the tiles above you. It looks like every other ceiling you’ve ever seen in a doctor's office or clinic or hospital. It’s not all that different from the ceiling in the med center on base. 

Base. 

You don’t ever want to see that place again. You don’t want to step foot in the barracks, you don’t even want to think about the clinical sterility of the buildings and the cold comfortless spaces meant for nothing more than to serve their purpose. Just like you. You served your purpose. You proved their point, even if it was never the true point of the initiative. Packs will get stronger with an omega, but it will come at the detriment of that omega. 

The job always comes first. 

There was a time you thought perhaps it wouldn’t. Maybe they could put it all behind them  and put themselves first, put you first. Then they proved they can’t. They won’t even put you first when you’re at the threat of being tortured. You were hurt because they wouldn’t put you first. You are hurt because they wouldn’t put you first. 

You don’t care about them. You don’t care about their excuses. You don’t care about the bonds or the claims or the emotions. 

You’d be happy if they left you here. Just a few days ago you were panicking about them leaving you, about them deciding you weren’t enough and abandoning you. 

Now you wish they would. 

“Has she said anything?” 

“Not much.” He sighs. “She won’t see any of us. I can hardly blame her.” 

“You made a choice, John.” Kate says, hands wrapped around her cup of coffee. “Choices have consequences.” 

“You were right. Then again, you usually are. We should have thought twice about that mission. She should have never been left alone like that.” He sips at his tea. Bitter without milk, but then again, he’d prefer a glass of whiskey right now over tea. “I don’t know how to fix this.” 

“I don’t think you can.” Kate takes a sip of her coffee. “She’s going to decide when she wants you to fix this, if she wants you to fix it.” 

John lets out a sigh. “We’re her pack, it’s our job-” 

“You’ve failed at your job.” Kate says, her gaze hardening as she stares at him. “You’re good at being a soldier, you’re good at being a leader, you’re good at saving the world, but that’s not your only job. You have a responsibility to take care of your omega, and you failed. You made your choice, and you turned your back on her. She’s not a soldier, John. She’s never been tortured, she’s never been left for dead, she’s never taken a life before and here she’s been through all of that in the span of two days. You made a choice, John. You made a choice knowing damn well what the consequences would be.” 

He sits in silence, staring at Kate. It’s not often she gets mad at him, the frustration evident on her face. It’s a mirror of the anger and disappointment on the faces of his packmates. They’re all feeling the weight of his decision, of his mistakes. They’re all feeling the weight of their rapidly fraying bonds. 

“You have a choice to make now, John.” She stares at him pointedly. “You pick up the pieces from this, you all take the time to recover and heal. Then what? Things aren’t as simple as we thought they were, John. None of us knew what was going to happen. We were all so focused on the potential benefits that we all overlooked just how much of a detriment this would be. Your omega hasn’t had a choice in anything in her entire life. Every decision has been made for her, whether or not she wanted it. She has had no say in any of this. She’s been nothing more than a variable in an experiment, a statistic, a number, a list of pros and cons. She’s been reduced down to nothing more than an object.” 

John winces at her words, the weight on his shoulders growing heavier and heavier. He’s treated you as nothing more than an object, even if not directly. Leaving you so easily, yelling at you when you made an innocent mistake, letting you be taken just like that because he couldn’t get his head out of his own arse far enough to see the truth of what was going on. 

“We all know she’s more than that. Far more than that. But she will never have any say in anything, unless you let her. Outside of your pack, she has nothing. In your pack? She should have the loudest voice.” Kate leans her arms on the table, shifting closer to him. “Right now she has no voice because you’ve proven where your loyalties lie, and they’re not with her. You have one more decision to make, John. Do you keep standing where you are, put the job first and wear your omega down until she’s nothing but an empty shell? Or, do you take this chance while you have it and finally put her first?” 

Kate pushes herself up to stand, grabbing her cup of coffee. John’s not used to feeling small. He’s used to being in charge, being the captain, being in control. People look to him, they listen to him, he’s the one everyone turns to when things go to shit to lead them out. 

He’s not even capable of doing that anymore. 

“Your life as you knew it ended as soon as she was placed in your pack. It’s up to you to decide how it continues.” Kate leaves with those heavy parting words, the door clicking shut behind her. 

John stares down at his cup of tea, the cup half full, or perhaps half empty depending on how one looks at it. It feels more than half empty now, spilling slowly through some microscopic hole in the side. It’ll only be so long before that hole will widen, worn down by the weak paper the cup is made of, the liquid eating away at the cup until there’s nothing but a puddle of tea on the table, slowly rolling towards the edge to dip onto the floor. 

That microscopic hole started as soon as they left you alone for the first time, and none of them were aware enough to even notice it. 

That hole is a gaping wound now. The contents inside turned acidic as soon as he cut you off in his disappointment, as soon as he started digging into the belly of the initiative. That acid has been eating away slowly at the fragile bonds that were in place. Fragile. They really were. No matter how strong they all thought those bonds were growing to be, they were built with fear and anxiety and uncertainty. Uncertainty of the future and what it may hold, anxiety towards a new pack and an entirely new shift in lifestyle, and fear of one day losing a pack member. 

Bonds built upon such frailty can hold no weight should one piece fall. 

How strong can bonds really be when you live with that knowledge, that constant fear that someone could die at any time? Someone in the pack, someone you’ve bonded with, someone you’ve grown a relationship with, might leave and never return because of the risks of their job. How strong can those bonds be? Was that the point of the experiments all along, the 141 and the initiative? Testing the limits a pack could be pushed to, testing if bonds could be formed in such a high stress environment and if so, how strong they’d be? What limits would they have gone to, to test that theory? Would they have gone to the point of sacrificing one of them to test those theories, had the truth not come out when it did? One wrong decision, one wrong step in the field and everything can crumble. Would they have gone to that length to test just how a bonded pack would react, if they could still function after everything? 

The sacrifice was you. 

Kate is right. You’re not part of their world. You’re not a soldier, you haven’t been conditioned to live with that fear, you can’t be conditioned to live with that fear. You shouldn’t have to be conditioned to live with that fear. You had no choice in this. None of it. From the moment you presented, nothing in your life would be yours. From the moment you presented, you would never make a choice for yourself again. 

The sacrifice was you. 

And he played right into their hands. 

The cup is blurring as he stares at it, his eyes blinking rapidly. 

They say an omega is the balance that holds a pack together. It’s a delicate bond, a single thread coiled around the structure of the pack. Wear that thread down until it snaps and everything crumbles. How long have you been fraying? How long have you been silently screaming for help, desperately trying to hold the pieces of the pack together like a strongman holds two pillars up by chains? You never had chains, you’ve been holding everything together with sewing thread, fighting desperately to keep the pieces from crumbling at the risk of being torn in half. 

How long have you been silently screaming? 

It’s all his fault. He’s been wearing you down, he’s been fraying that bond fiber by fiber. He’s been standing there watching you fight to hold the pack together while screaming at him to help, screaming at him to take one of those threads and hold at least half of the weight for you. 

That’s what he’s supposed to do. 

The threads have snapped. You were torn in half by the weight and those threads are gone. They’re crumbling, the bonds coming undone, unraveling minute by minute, second by second. They’re losing each other because they lost you. 

He covers his face with his hands, not even bothering to try and silence his sobs. 

Something has pulled you from the sweet arms of sleep. 

It’s dark in the room, the only light coming from the one behind the bed. The curtains are drawn over the window, keeping you hidden from the darkness outside the window. It’s late, or at least you think it is. You can’t quite see the clock in the darkness with your one good eye. It’s fuzzy in the darkness, too far away for you to truly find where the hands lie. 

Shadows fill the corners of the room, oppressive and claustrophobic. The longer you stare, the bigger they seem to grow as if they might suck the light right out of the room and swallow you in darkness. The longer you stare, the more it seems like there’s something there, something hidden in the darkness. 

Something is staring at you from the shadows. There’s eyes on you, your skin prickling from the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. The more you stare into the darkness, the more the shadows begin to take shape, forming monstrous beasts just being held at bay by the light. 

“Hi, darlin’.” 

No. No, no, no, no. 

“Miss me? It’s been a long time.” 

You shake your head, your heart monitor starting to beep rapidly as your heart pounds in your chest. “N-No.” 

Phil sits forward in the chair in the corner, his face coming into the light. It is him, blonde hair, blue eyes, that disarming grin on his face. He can’t be here...unless he escaped before your pack could catch him. Did they manage to catch him? You don’t know. You hadn’t even thought to ask about Phil or his whereabouts. No one informed you either. 

“No? You didn’t miss me?” He tilts his head, his eyes shining with faux hurt and disappointment. “That’s not very nice of you to say. I thought your father taught you your manners. Have you forgotten them in the time you’ve been away.” He tsks, shaking his head. “Those boys have been letting you get lazy.” 

Your breathing is picking up, panic starting to fill you as you stare at him. It’s impossible. He shouldn’t be here. He can’t be here. He couldn’t have just walked onto base and walked into the medical center, could he? Corporal McKinney fooled everyone for months and drove right off base with you in his car and no one said anything. How much would the guards at the front entrance of the base take as a bribe to let him in? 

Why isn’t your pack outside your door? Why would they let him in? 

They had to have put out a warning. Someone should have put Phil’s face everywhere, sent out a message, something. 

He lets out a sigh, pushing himself to stand. “I guess I’ll have to teach you some manners myself.” 

The glint of metal catches your eye, the icepick catching the light as he steps closer. 

“No, no,” You shake your head, your fingers scrambling for the call button.

Not again. Please, not again. 

Your fingers close around the call button, your thumb pushing it over and over and over again. Someone has to hear it. 

He lifts the ice pick, reaching out for you...

You’re being shaken. A scream tears from your lips as you struggle, trying to get away from whoever is holding you. Your body is alight with pain but you wait for more, for the ice pick to drive into your scent gland again, open the wound and light your body on fire once more. You expect it to come down again and again, filling your body with holes so you bleed out on the floor. 

Where is your pack?

“Easy, easy. You’re alright.” 

You know that voice. 

You’re sobbing, your brain slowly beginning to come back into consciousness. You had been asleep. You were dreaming. The light is on in the room, the harsh fluorescent a welcome presence for once. The shadows are gone, dissipated by the bright light overhead. Phil is gone, wiped away with the rest of the shadows. 

He’s nowhere to be seen because he wasn’t there in the first place. 

It was just a dream. It was just a nightmare. 

There’s a hand on yours, gently easing your fingers from the call button. You’re still trying to press it, your thumb moving almost automatically. You started pressing it in your sleep. 

“You’re okay. Breathe for me.” 

It’s Dr. Keller’s voice. It’s her arms wrapped around you, trying to stop you from moving as much. Your body is screaming in pain, but the panic flooding your body makes you almost numb to it. The pain in your chest is screaming with every rapid inhale, tightening and tightening the more until your fingers and toes start to go numb. 

“Deep breaths.” Dr. Keller says, her own breaths slow as she holds you. “In and out.” 

The inhale catches, the air shuddering into your lungs before you hold it, trying to force your body to calm down, just like the two of you practiced so many times. The heart monitor is beeping rapidly, another thing that must have translated in your state between wakefulness and sleep when Phil had shown up. Your heart is beating rapidly, thudding in your chest almost violently. It’s been through a lot these last few days. You wouldn’t be surprised if it just gave out suddenly. 

“Phil.” You gasp out, still trying to slow your breathing. “Phil was here.” 

“It was just a nightmare.” Dr. Keller says calmly, keeping her arms wrapped around you. “No one has come in or out of this room besides me. The guard outside won’t let anyone else in.” 

Guard. There’s someone outside the door. Your pack? No. She would have said so.

Where is your pack?

Phil was never here. It was just a nightmare. 

The last two thoughts repeat over and over in your head like a mantra as you start to cry, sobs wracking your body. You hate it, the fear, the terror, the anguish you felt as he lifted that ice pick, ready to stab you with it. 

“I hate it.” You croak out, voicing your thoughts for the first time in a few hours. 

“I know.” Dr. Keller says. “It’s normal to have nightmares after a traumatic event.” She adjusts her hold on you, tucking you against her chest. “It’s your brain trying to process what happened, trying to work its way through the trauma of the last few days. It’s cruel, but it’s a necessary part of healing.” 

Healing. 

Are you healing? Can you heal after everything? The pain is intense, not just outside but inside as well. The hurt, the anger, the fear, the anxiety, the panic, the depression, the rage, the betrayal. It’s too much. It’s so much all at once. You hate it. You hate that this happened in the first place. You hate that you have to go through this, have to heal, have to live through more nightmares. 

You hate your pack. That’s why they’re not here. 

For all you know they’ve left you. For all you know they’re on a plane back to the UK. 

Why would they want a broken, angry omega?

“I just want to be okay.” You sob, face pressed against her shoulder. 

“I know.” She says, cradling the back of your head, keeping you tight in her arms. “I'm so sorry this happened to you. I know words can't change that it happened, words can't make it all better, but we'll get you to where you're as okay as you can be again. I promise you I’ll do everything I can to get you there.” She leans her chin on the top of your head, squeezing you against her chest. “We'll get there, no matter how long it takes.” 

How long will it take? How long will your pain and suffering drag on for? Your body will heal eventually, but will your mind? Are you going to be this way for the rest of your life? Will you ever know peace again? But...have you ever really known peace? Your home growing up certainly wasn’t peaceful. Your presentation wasn’t peaceful, and neither was life at the institute. Being chosen by the FBI for this initiative that never existed in the first place certainly wasn’t peaceful. Despite how happy you became with your pack, even that life wasn’t peaceful. What little peace you thought you had was upended in the blink of an eye. 

How easily everything crumbled. 

Will it be possible to put it all back together again? 

Do you want to put it back together again? 

Alcohol is easy to find in a place like this. Soldiers gravitate towards whatever crutch they can find to erase the nightmares they live in. It numbs the pain and the brain and keeps one sane, or at least that’s what his father used to say. 

Of course his father would drink himself into a stupor every Friday night, and he’d wake Saturday morning still in his chair with a full breakfast waiting for him. 

Much like his father, John has lost track of how many times he’s filled his glass. 

It’s been a long time since he’s gotten this drunk. He shook that habit after a shameful morning over ten years ago. He’d just gotten back from a bad deployment, one that gets labeled as a “mission gone wrong.” It failed under his command. He lost a lot of lives, not just his fellow soldiers. He’d drunk himself past a stupor and woke up passed out in a bush covered in vomit outside the gate with a rather angry CO over him. 

He shook the habit after that, easing himself to just a glass every so often on those days he needs to take the edge off, on those days he needs to numb the aches. 

Then Kyle came along. Kyle, his sweet beta with his ethical moral compass. His sweet beta who deserved a better life than what he was pulled into. Dutiful, loyal, principled. A good soldier, but a better man than John could ever be. He could fall into Kyle, bury himself under those soft touches, the soothing whispers, the comfort Kyle could offer him. The screaming in his head became less and less as he allowed Kyle to do what he was meant to do at his core. 

Comfort. 

Then you came along. 

He found himself turning to the liquid medicine less and less because he could bury himself in you. He had an omega, he had someone he could lean on, someone who understood without having to be told. The bond between alpha and omega is something so sacred and special, something to be cherished. 

And he threw it all away. 

He downs another glass, staring at the almost empty bottle. It had been sealed when he got it, brand new and fresh. He can feel it, the fogginess of alcohol clouding his brain. The world is swirling, melting together. He can’t feel much of anything anymore, yet that pain lingers deep in his chest. 

The bond. 

It’s like an open wound, gaping and pulsing. Eventually it’ll slow, eventually it’ll give out. That bond will be cut and everything will crumble. 

It’s all his fault. 

He ended things, he ended the pack, he ended the bond, he ended you. 

Would Graves have killed you? Would Shepherd have given those orders if they pushed onward, if they caught up to him? Graves would have done it slowly, taken his time, reveled in it. They would have gotten a video of it, hours long as you were tortured to death, zoomed in on your face as the life left your eyes. 

The thought makes his stomach churn. He wants to vomit at the mental picture of you laying there, covered in blood, those lifeless eyes staring at him. Eyes that once shone with life and happiness. Despite everything you had been happy. Despite everything that spark inside you was never extinguished. A fiery little thing that would give what they gave right back to them. 

Now you’re not even smoldering. 

You’ve been reduced to ashes, and it’s all his fault. It’s all his doing. 

He skips the glass this time, drinking straight from the bottle.

“Have you seen John recently?” Kyle asks, standing in the doorway to their temporary living quarters. It’s a single room with two bunk beds. Far too tight of a space for their quickly souring dynamics. 

“No, not recently.” Johnny says, lifting his head up from his pillow. He’s been crying again. “You, LT?”

LT. They argued earlier...more like yelled in each others’ faces until they had to be separated at the risk of things getting physical. Kyle’s not even sure what they had been arguing about in the first place. Probably something miniscule and unimportant. Everything seems to be setting them off like grenades. Pull the pin and watch them explode. They’re all on edge, all of them feeling the distance growing wider and wider despite their best efforts to stop it. 

“No.” Simon says simply, staring up at the bottom of the bunk over him. He’s flat on his back, hands folded on his stomach. He looks like a corpse, might have been mistaken for one if it hadn’t been for the slow rise and fall of his chest. He’s still in his mask. He hasn’t taken it off since he arrived in the field. 

It’s late, but none of them can sleep. None of them have been able to get much sleep since they arrived nearly two days ago. Weeks without good, decent sleep wears on the brain too. 

“If he comes back here, text me.” Kyle says before closing the door, resuming his search for their missing captain. 

John has been beating himself up for nearly two days now. Kyle’s never seen his captain quite so distraught and lost. He’s blaming himself, which in all fairness, he should be doing. It is his fault. Kyle will be the first to point blame in this situation, but none of them are truly blameless. None of them questioned it, none of them even argued with him on that decision. They followed blindly as they were supposed to for the first time in a long time. They didn’t question their captain, their alpha, their leader. 

He hates himself for it. 

Why didn’t he question it? Why didn’t he argue? Why didn’t he voice his opinion, fight back against that decision? He trusted his alpha when he shouldn’t have, and you paid for it. 

He’s glad he didn’t have to see you. He’s glad he didn’t have to face down the state Johnny and Simon found you in. He’s glad he didn’t have to see what you looked like even after the blood had been cleaned off and the true horror was revealed. 

He hasn’t gone to see you at all. 

He’s not sure he could handle it. You won’t care either way from the sound of it. You’ve been reduced to a shell, silent and empty. You’ve barely said a word since this morning, instead just lying there and staring at the ceiling according to the doctor when she’d updated them this afternoon.

Your body will heal slowly, but your mind will remain a battleground. 

He leaves the barracks, looking up at the dark sky. It’s clear tonight. He’d probably see the stars if there wasn’t constant light pollution around the base. What do the stars look like here? He’s stared up at the stars constantly in the last few weeks in places there was little light pollution. His only comfort about being away from you so long was the knowledge that you were under the same sky. Be it day or night, the stars were overhead. You wouldn’t be able to see them either way, but they were shining for you too. 

Now you’re both under the same stars, but you’re both still so far away.

He lets out a sigh, lowering his gaze. He has a job to do, a captain to find. 

“Where are you John?” He breathes, looking in all directions, trying to decide which way to go next. He had stopped in at the med center already, but he wasn’t there. No one had seen him, even the doctor. He’s searched everywhere he could think to search, but his captain is nowhere to be found. 

He walks around the side of the barracks, hoping maybe he’ll run into John coming back this way. Usually he wouldn’t bother searching for him, but with his mind how it has been, Kyle can’t help but be worried. Even with the bonds fraying between them, he still has that instinctual need to make sure his alpha is okay. Instincts can’t be ignored. No matter how much bonds between packs fray, instincts will always remain the same. 

That’s why he still feels that urge to go and see you. 

John will kill him if he requests a base-wide search. 

He knows how self-destructive John can be despite how composed he makes himself appear. He’s only seen his alpha in that state once, and he has a feeling he’s about to a second time. 

He leans against the wall with a sigh when he reaches the other side of the barracks. Nothing. No sign of him. No texts from Johnny or Simon either. He’d asked Dr. Keller to let him know if he shows up in the med center too, but there’s been nothing. No word. No signs. 

Maybe he should just give up looking. John will find his way back to the barracks eventually. Or he won’t. 

That could be tomorrow’s problem. A distraction, a mission, something to give them purpose and force them to unite again. 

Find their missing captain. Find their missing alpha.

He turns back around to follow the sidewalk back to the front of the barracks when he hears shuffling footsteps dragging on the concrete. He turns, squinting into the darkness between lamps as a figure stumbles through the shadows, muttering under its breath. He knows that voice, he knows that figure. 

John. 

John stumbles forward, nearly falling but Kyle reaches out, catching him. His mind is racing, silently checking for any blood, any sign of injury, but there’s nothing. 

Maybe everything is finally getting to him. Maybe his body has finally been pushed to the limit and it’s giving out. He’s having a medical emergency. 

“Easy, sir.” He says, trying to calm his panic as he fights to keep John upright despite John’s body wanting to fall the rest of the way onto the ground. Kyle takes a breath in, catching the sour scent of alcohol wafting off his captain. 

Not a medical emergency, then. 

He sought out some liquid comfort instead. 

The thought makes Kyle’s chest twinge still. 

“’S all over.” John slurs, his weight getting heavier and heavier. “Everything is over.” He turns his head, blinking slowly. “Kyle?” 

“It’s me, sir. I’ve got you.” He slings John’s arm over his shoulders, making his weight easier to hold. 

“Kyle.” He slurs again, the two syllables blurring together. “Too good to me, Kyle.” John pulls his arm free, stumbling forward. 

Kyle just manages to lessen his fall onto the concrete, making sure John doesn’t smack the back of his head at least. He’ll have some scrapes and bruises tomorrow, though. Right now he probably can’t even feel it. If he was responsible, he’d take John to the med center, let him sleep off the alcohol on the safety of a gurney, but that would probably just cause more problems for everyone. 

John would be pissed when he woke up. 

He lets out a sigh as he stands there, staring down at his captain. John’s on his back, eyes up and focused on the sky, hiccuping every so often. He’s never seen his captain quite this drunk before, though he has heard stories of when John was younger. 

“I’ve killed her.” John mumbles. “I’ve killed all of us.” 

Kyle drops to a knee beside John. “You haven’t killed anyone.” 

“She’s fading away. Soon she’ll be gone.” He murmurs. “We’ll go too.” John pushes himself up to sit. “It’s all over. Everything is over.” 

Kyle grips John’s arms before he can fall back again, holding him in place. “Nothing is over yet, sir. We can still do something. It’ll just take time.” 

John turns to look at him, his eyes hazy and far away. “Kyle.” John says his name softly, reaching out to brush his fingers across Kyle’s cheek. “Pretty boy.” He slumps against Kyle’s chest, his weight nearly making both of them topple over. “Too good to me, Kyle.” 

“I care about you a lot, sir.” Kyle says, rubbing his back. “More than I think you realize.” He murmurs the last bit more to himself than anything. Not that John will likely remember any of this in the morning. “We should get you in bed. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.” 

They do. They have to decide what to do next. 

“Come on.” He says, hauling John to his feet carefully. John lets him, letting Kyle wrap his arm around his shoulders. 

It’s slow going, Kyle half dragging John back to the barracks. He’s quiet at least, only the occasional scuffle of his footsteps as he stumbles breaking the quiet night. He gets John back to their room fairly easily, easing him into the other bottom bunk across from Simon. The room is still and silent aside from the occasional sniffle from one of the top bunks. 

He grabs the blanket from his own bunk, draping it across John instead. Maybe in his drunk state, the scent will bring him some comfort, help ease that ache inside of him.

He’s hoping John’s scent will do the same for him. 

“It’ll be alright, sir.” He says, making sure his captain is comfortable. He stands up, staring down at his Captain. “Everything will be fine.” 

He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince. 

John stares down into his tea as they sit around a table. His head is throbbing, pulsing heavily behind his eyes. It’s his own damn fault, going out and getting drunk like that. He hasn’t done it in years, yet he couldn’t stand the pain gnawing away at his chest. Alcohol hadn’t fixed it. It’s still there, still pulsing away. The alcohol had only numbed it at least for a few hours, and if anything, it made it worse. 

“Kate left this morning back to DC.” He says, glancing up at the other three members of his team. “They're still working on cleanup and helping Alex and Farah track Shepherd. I spoke with Dr. Keller this morning. We’ll be able to fly out soon.” 

The words hang heavy in the air. He hadn’t mentioned you at all, but he’s not sure he could without breaking down. You are improving slowly, Christine had said, giving him a sympathetic look as he squinted in the harsh fluorescents. She knew. She could tell just by looking at him. She’s that good at her job. 

He’s glad they have her. He’s glad you have her.  

“Where are we going tae go?” Johnny asks. 

“We can’t go back to base.” Simon says. 

“You’re right. Going back to base is too risky.” John says. “Shepherd could have eyes there already. And with her mind where it is...” Taking you back would be too much too soon, even without the risk. One of their own had already betrayed them once. They can’t trust anyone anymore. “We need somewhere secluded and quiet. Somewhere no one will know we’re going where we can lay low for a while.” Both out of necessity for their safety, but also for your sake. 

It falls silent between them. Shepherd knows all of their possible safehouses, all of the places they mind go to stay hidden. Those only they know off the record are hard to get to, requiring miles of hiking. You wouldn't be up for that even without the physical injuries, and they doubt you'd let one of them carry you. If they had to get out quickly...

“My parents have a place,” Kyle says, glancing up at them from his own cup of tea. “Out in Cornwall. A cottage near the cliffs. It’s quiet, secluded. No one knows about it but us. Tourist season is over too. There won't be many out there poking around this time of year.” Anyone wandering around out there that close would be suspicious.

“It’s a good option.” Johnny shrugs. 

“It’s our only option.” Simon says. 

“It’s exactly what we need.” Kyle says. “Trying to rent this time of year will only draw attention, and we can't trust we won't be ratted out. Shepherd likely still has allies. We were betrayed by one of our own before.” Kyle says. 

“You're sure no one else knows about it?” John asks, looking at his beta. 

“Just my parents and my siblings. They wouldn’t ask any questions if I told them it was being used.” Kyle shrugs. “It might be our best option.”

John looks around at them. It is their best option for now. He knows Kyle's family is just like the rest of theirs. They know they can't know and they won't ask questions. 

“We had a conversation once, months ago.” John says. “She told me she wanted to live next to the sea someday. She wants to be close enough that she can smell it and see it.” 

He pauses thinking back months ago after Simon left, after you were so affected by his absence. That conversation when you asked if he’d ever leave for you, when he told you if your life was ever in danger because of them he’d leave in a heartbeat. He’s made a liar out of himself. He broke his promise, so many promises, made not just to you. Not just to the pack. 

He glances at the other three, fighting back the lump in his throat, the endless threat of tears that has been rising like the tide and threatening to drown him at any moment. He’s made his decision, he’s made up his mind. 

You have to come first. 

His priorities have changed. There’s no initiative to follow, no orders to be given out. Kate was right. This is their moment to change things, this is his moment to change things. His pack will follow. Despite everything, they’ll trust him to make the right decision. They won’t hesitate to challenge him anymore, but there’s still that deeply ingrained trust in their alpha and captain. 

The alpha comes first. 

No, the omega comes first. 

He takes a sip of his tea, bitter without any milk, but it’ll do. “She wanted to be close to the sea.” He looks back up at the other three having made his decision. “Taking her there might just be what she needs.” 

NEXT ->

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[intromortal]

JEALOUS HEESEUNG BORDERLINE HATE FUCKS YOU !

pairing situationship!heeseung x f!reader

warnings smut. mdni. p in v, manhandling, name calling, hair pulling, mean hee won't kiss you

Heeseung, all things considered, is a pretty chill and laid back guy. Not prone to big displays of jealousy, especially if anywhere public. Most of the time he's quietly laying back on a couch at a party across the room, watching you with a glint in his eyes as time and time again you reject yet another guy trying to sneak his way into your pants. There’s something about the way you so obediently glance his way every time someone tries to flirt you, how your expression slightly shifts when he slouches further into the soft brown cushions, legs spread almost as if to invite you over on his lap.

It’s been months since you started fucking, and as embarrassing as it feels to admit, you two haven't really put a label on what your... status actually is. You’re definitely more than friends–though you don't know if you would even consider Heeseung your friend in the first place–but you also don't believe you're anywhere close to being a thing yet. That litter sliver of something keeps you fucking hooked on Heeseung though, as bad for you as it is.

And he enjoys every second of it. How you're so loyal to him even when he doesn't give you any reason to be.

He’s confident you'll follow him around everywhere like a little lost puppy as long as he keeps feeding you whatever crumb you need; a gentle brush of his hand whenever he greets you, a soft compliment whispered in your ear before leaving you to find something to drink, a sweet forehead kiss when at the end of the night you've both found your way between the bedsheets. I’ve got it under control, he thinks.

Yet he can't find any explanation–one that he’d make peace with, that is–for the scorching rage that overcomes him whenever he sees you and your bestie walking hand in hand around campus. The slightest twitch to his eye when he notices how bright you seem to be around Jay, how hard you laugh at his jokes and how touchy you seem to be, shoving his shoulder away when he makes a stupid comment, yet letting your hand linger on the cotton of his shirt. There’s a different light coming from within you when he's around, and Heeseung fucking hates it with his entire being.

So really, he can't help it when he completely loses the cool he so desperately tries to maintain around you the one he catches jay staring way too long at your ass for it to be a mistake. There’s nothing Heeseung would have loved more than to beat him to a pulp, for looking at his girl like that.

Except you're not his girl–he hadn't even realized he really wanted you to be until then–so he can't do that. What he can do instead is take it out on your poor unsuspecting pussy though.

"You are such a nasty slut," he whispers against your lips as he pistons into your weeping cunt, ignoring every attempt you make to kiss him, biting down on your bottom lip when you don't catch the hint. "Walking around in that tight black skirt, for what?" It feels like he's spitting venom at you, a primal edge to his tone unlike anything you've ever heard from him. Despite everything, you'd be lying if you said it didn't make your pussy clamp even harder around him, trying to milk his girth for all it’s worth.

You take too long to reply for his liking, his hand digging almost hurtfully in your face to force you to look at him. "For. What?"

"I– fuck, i don't know."

He looks at you incredulously, like you must've gone dumb on his cock already, while his movements come to halt, despite your little cries and begs for him not to.

"Yes you fucking do," he spits, grabbing your thighs and flipping you over onto your knees. A little scream ripped out of you at the sudden motion as he manhandles you in whatever way he wants, paying no mind to any possible aching body part of yours or any discomfort you may feel. "Wore it to flaunt this ass around, didn't you? I know you did."

He lands a harsh smack on the skin of your bottom, kissing his teeth in annoyance when your entire body jerks forward, front collapsing on the bed. He eases his cock back into you in one thrust, setting a pace that is somehow faster than earlier. "Wanted Jay to bend you over like this, huh?"

"N-no! I– ngh." Your rebuttal is cut short by his hips slamming into yours in a harsher thrust than the previous, his thick hand pushing your head against the sheets, uncaring of all the drool that's dripping from your mouth, your eyes rolling into your skull. He plants one of his feet into the soft mattress, the new angle helping him reach so much deeper inside you as the hold on your hips becomes nearly unbearable, sure to leave a flashy bruise.

Good, he thinks. Let everyone know I own you.

"Oh, shut the fuck up." He grabs some of your hair, using it as leverage to fuck into you even harder, the mix of pain and pleasure so unbelievably delicious you don’t even know what to do with yourself if not just lay there and take it all. "That’s all a slut like you is good for anyway, shut her mouth and let me use her pretty pussy as I please."

[greengoblinswifey]

Redemption— Rafe Cameron x Pogue!Reader

summary— you’re taken by Groff’s accomplices and you’re ex Rafe Cameron appears to save you unexpectedly. your past is full of pain but he’s determined to make things right.

warnings— ex to lovers, kidnapping, arguing, slight manipulation and coercion, oral(m&f receiving), fingering, choking, ass slapping, degradation, praise kink, daddy kink, unprotected sex, creampie.

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿

Rafe hadn’t planned on being part of the treasure hunt again, but when he heard about the Groff connection and Sarah dragging you into it, he couldn’t stay away. It wasn’t about the money this time—though he wouldn’t say no to a cut or possibly stealing it for himself—it was about you. Despite everything, he still cared deeply, even if he didn’t show it the way you deserved.

Your relationship had ended months ago, crumbling under the weight of his issues and the way he treated your friends. You’d made it clear you didn’t want to see him again even during the trip. But when he found out you’d been kidnapped by Groff’s men, something inside him snapped. He couldn’t think straight until he had you back.

When he first showed up to give his help, your cold glare hit harder than any insult. “You shouldn’t be here, Rafe,” you’d said flatly, refusing to meet his eyes.

He tried to explain himself, but you cut him off. “I don’t trust you, not after everything. You treated my friends like garbage, and you don’t get to come in now and play the hero.”

“I’m not here to play the hero,” he’d said, voice low, almost pleading. “I’m here for you.”

But there was no time to dwell on old wounds. Chaos erupted, and by the time the dust settled, he’d saved you from Groff’s accomplices and now you were both hiding out in a grimy motel room.

“You didn’t have to come after me, Rafe,” you snapped, pacing the cramped space. “I don’t need a knight in shining armor. Especially not from someone who ditched us when we needed him.”

His jaw clenched as he leaned against the door. “You’re seriously saying that to me? You all left me to almost get arrested! Like I was nothing.”

“You were nothing when you couldn’t pick a side!” you fired back, glaring at him.

“I did pick a side,” he shot back, stepping closer, his voice dropping. “I picked you. That’s why I’m here.”

His words hung in the air, the weight of them undeniable. You scoffed, looking away, but your resolve wavered as he moved closer.

“You think I don’t care?” His tone softened, a crack in his armor. “You think I didn’t lose my mind when I heard they took you? I couldn’t—I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

Your breath hitched, but you shook your head. “You have a funny way of showing it.”

Rafe’s hand caught your wrist gently, turning you to face him. His gaze burned, the anger and pain in his eyes mirrored in your own. “I’m here now,” he murmured. “Let me prove it.”

You didn’t have time to argue before his lips crashed into yours. The kiss was desperate, heated, and filled with all the unspoken emotions you’d both buried. Your fingers curled into his shirt as his hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer. The frustration and anger melted into something you couldn’t name, something that felt like it could destroy you both if you let it.

Rafe’s hands were everywhere, his lips trailing from your mouth to your neck with a desperation you hadn’t felt in months. You wanted to lose yourself in him, but the anger resurfaced, and you pushed him away, chest heaving.

“I can’t do this, Rafe. Not after how you’ve treated us—how you’ve treated me.”

His jaw clenched, but his voice was soft. “I got a ship for all of you. I stayed civil even after you tied me up. I’m here, trying to prove myself to you. I still want you. I can’t do this without you—I can’t be better without you.”

Your emotions threatened to spill over, but instead of crying or screaming, you grabbed his shirt and pulled him back. The kiss was fiery, tangled in resentment and longing, as his hands roamed your body again. His lips found your neck, and a moan escaped before you could stop it.

“You’re such a piece of shit,” you muttered, your voice shaky.

“Yeah?” His hand slid lower, brushing under the fabric of your outfit and finding your pussy. “Well, you’re wet for this piece of shit.” His voice was low, teasing, as his fingers found their way inside.

You gasped, torn between shame and pleasure. “You’re disgusting, Rafe. I can’t stand you.”

“And yet here you are, you’re a slut for liking this,” he whispered against your neck. “Hear how wet you are.”

The heat built unbearably, and you couldn’t stop yourself. As your body betrayed you, the orgasm was laced with mortification. You turned away, unable to meet his gaze, but he just smirked softly. “You can hate me all you want,” he said, his voice a murmur. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

He slipped his fingers coated in your arousal in your mouth and your tongue swirled over them.

“Good girl,” he chuckled.

“You never know when to shut up, do you?” you snapped, rolling your eyes as Rafe smirked. His hands rested confidently on your waist, pulling you closer.

“I could say the same about you,” he quipped, his voice low and teasing. Before you could retort, he dropped to his knees, silencing you with his actions.

“Don’t,” you started, but the heat of his touch made your words falter.

“Stop pretending you don’t like it,” he murmured, his eyes locked on yours, as he licked your pussy. Despite yourself, a soft moan escaped you.

“That’s what I thought,” he said smugly, and you could only glare as he gave a satisfied grin.

Rafe’s grip on your hips was firm, his strength keeping you in place despite your squirming. Your fingers tangled in his buzzed hair, tugging as whimpers slipped from your lips. His focus didn’t waver, and you felt yourself trembling under his relentless attention.

“Rafe,” you whispered, your voice breaking with a mix of defiance and surrender. But he didn’t stop until your entire body tensed, a soft moan escaping as you reached your peak. He looked up at you afterward, his expression smug and victorious.

Rafe leaned back, a smug grin on his face as he palmed his cock through his pants, clearly enjoying the effect he had on you. “Look how hard you got me, baby,” he said, his voice low and confident. His hand moved slowly, emphasizing his words. “You used to always help me out with this, come on, suck daddy’s cock.”

The nickname made you wince, memories stirring. He saw the hesitation but leaned in closer, voice softer but insistent. “You know you want to,” he murmured, his gaze challenging, daring you to resist.

Rafe pulled his hard cock out, his size drawing a breathless reaction from you, it looked like he’d gotten bigger, if that was even possible. He chuckled, the sound dripping with arrogance. “Come on, baby. Help daddy out,” he coaxed, his tone a mix of command and temptation. Despite your resolve, you felt yourself falter, unable to resist the magnetic pull he always had on you.

Arching your back, your ass high in the air, you leaned down, taking him into your mouth. His groan was instant, his hand finding your waist before he smacked your ass. “That’s my good girl,” he muttered. You rolled your eyes and took him into your warm mouth, bobbing your head at the right pace to have him moaning. You used your hand to stroke what couldn’t fit in your mouth as his balls tightened and his breathing grew ragged. Just as he was about to release, you pulled away.

His laugh was one of disbelief. “You’re such a brat,” he muttered, shaking his head, though the amusement never left his eyes.

Rafe’s warm hands moved to your bare thighs, rubbing it slowly as he looked up at you with those blue eyes. He knew it was your weakness. You were already soaked but having him caress you like that practically turned you into a fountain. He had you right where he wanted you.

“My cock really misses that tight, wet pussy,” he whispered, his voice low and husky.

“Yeah? Well if you want to fuck me, you’re gonna have to beg,” you retorted.

Rafe let out a mocking chuckle, as if he couldn’t believe those words left your lips. His little baby wasn’t such a baby anymore.

“Seems like we’ve been apart for so long that you’ve forgotten, Rafe Cameron doesn’t fucking beg.”

He snaked his hand around your neck, pulling you into a heated, rough kiss. Your tongues slipped into each other’s mouth, the feeling one that made you melt. He pushed you onto the bed by your neck and took his position above you.

“You’ve also forgotten that this is my pussy and I saved you, I’ve fucking earned it,” he said, with that cocky smirk plastered on his face.

Everyone had their weakness, for Sarah it was John B, for Pope it was Cleo and for you— well, it was Rafe Cameron.

You spread your legs and he smirked, resisting to make a snarky comment as he dragged the head of his cock up and down your wet folds. He placed it on your clit, teasing you as you squirmed underneath him.

“Please,” you whimpered, wanting nothing more than to have him plunge his cock inside you,

“Look who’s begging now,” he said, darkly.

He lifted your legs around his waist and you locked them as he sank into your pussy. His hips bucked and his pace faltered as he had to slowly push in and wait for you to adjust to his size.

“So tight f’me, glad no one’s been inside this pussy since we broke up.”

You gave him a slight push on the chest but your attack was halted as he thrusted into you all the way. Your jaw fell slack as you gasped for air feeling him fill you to the brim.

“S’okay baby, just breathe, daddy’s here,” he cooed, leaning down to kiss your lips.

He began rutting steadily inside you, whispering little praises that made your stomach flip. You wouldn’t admit it but a part of you missed having him above you like this. By now he had taken off his shirt, revealing the muscle underneath and the sweat glistening on his body. You ground against him, your clit getting the stimulation you desperately craved and sending pleasure through you.

“Oh God, daddy,” you moaned, meeting his thrusts faster.

“You gonna cum baby? That’s it, cum for me,” he murmured.

Rafe’s pace sped up, hitting the sweet spot inside you as your release hit you like a truck. He continued fucking you through your orgasm, your legs shaking as he did, the pleasure almost too much.

“Good girl, there she is,” he cooed, “I knew you wanted this too.”

“M-more,” you managed to croak out.

“Oh my baby wants more? You want daddy to fuck you even more? What a dirty little slut.”

He complied with your request, flipping you swiftly onto your stomach and pulling your hips up to him. You arched your back the way you knew he liked it and he kissed your ass before rubbing his cock along your folds.

“God baby, did I mention how much I missed this wet pussy?”

He slammed into you from behind, gripping your waist as he brought you back onto his cock, hard. Your ass clapped against him and he watched mesmerized as his cock disappeared inside you and came out covered in your cream and juices.

“Daddy,” you moaned, shamelessly as he rolled his hips into you. You couldn’t hold back anymore. You couldn’t see his face but you knew he had on that smug look and you gasped as he pressed your face into the pillow, pounding into you at a deeper angle.

“You really like that huh, fuck, your pussy is just gripping my cock so well baby, cum for daddy, cream all over my cock.”

He slapped your ass, basically giving you the go ahead as you shuddered under his touch, his name leaving your lips continuously as you creamed all over his cock. Unable to stop himself, he stilled inside you, his load spurting as he moaned your name and you felt his dick throb against your walls.

He rolled over, pulling out of you but not before spreading your ass to watch his cum drip out.

You stared up at the ceiling, wondering what you were doing with your life. You were in a random motel in Morocco and you hooked up with your ex after he saved you from kidnappers, meanwhile your friends were probably out looking for you, worried sick.

“Uh, we should go, they’re probably looking for me,” you sighed, getting up. He took a piece of cloth and wiped between your legs. Silence fell between you but oddly, it was a comfortable silence. You looked into his eyes and saw nothing but care and sincerity. He really did come for you and was actually trying to change and do right by you all.

[amazinglyashy]

Hi! I was wondering if I could request a prompt where the reader is out at night with the LIs, wearing a pretty outfit, a man just approaches her and rudely asks “how much for a bj?” How would they react/protect her from such a creep?

(Sorry, for my English, I hope it made sense haha🤞🏼)

Very Minor N/SFW Warning!! This one really made me laugh because this has happened to me before, and the situation mostly pans out with my own partner having to yank me away to avoid having to post bail on me later in the evening. Remember to leash your dogs kids! Thank you for the request!! <3

LaDS men when you get catcalled/propositioned on the street

Xavier -

He's apologizing profusely to you because the ensuing bloodspray from how hard he punched the guy in the nose got on your dress and he genuinely feels awful about it.

There is not much to it, besides he acted embarrassingly quickly, to the point you wonder to yourself if he's just been silently waiting for this moment to come.

He's used to going out with you for drinks or evening dates- it's one of the more common ways for the two of you to hang out aside from spending the evening in one of your apartments with the other. Juggling work and clocking out with social activities would also mean walking late at night, to go to a movie or even on a snack run.

So needless to say, he has in fact, been mentally preparing himself for something like this to happen.

He can't help it.

He doesn't ever want to see you disrespected- he doesn't care the context. Work, family, friends-

And now, what, a stranger asking you for sexual favors?

You wait calmly with him while he speaks to the officers about what happened, trying to contain your giggles at how sheepishly he looks at the ground, his face still painted with the most adorable anger.

Zayne -

Quickly, he's pushed you behind himself and holding eye contact with the guy. It doesn't matter if he's drunk, or perfectly sober, Zayne won't excuse someone saying such a ridiculous thing to you.

He has his usual air of politeness and manners, but the bite in his voice is more than apparent, even to someone who doesn't know him. Dressed as nicely as he is with the air he carries around him, it's a weird experience for those who don't know how protective Zayne can get.

He will tell the man to give you an apology and back off, or there will be consequences.

You know what those consequences are, and despite feeling smug about how protective Zayne is, you're trying to grab his arm and stop him, to no avail.

If the creep tries to reach for you, Zayne will back up into you to force you back gently, and the man will quickly realize that he can't reach forward anymore-

Even as Zayne walks away with you, the ice is still creeping up the man's body. Slow enough, but still moving.

Hopefully an OTTO calls for help in time. Hypothermia at night would suck.

Rafayel -

He's immediately between you and the guy, hand long since dropped your own as he crosses his arms and stares the guy down.

If you hadn't known him so long, you would expect him to fire off a tirade of insults and comments at the guy- but you know Rafayel. You know him well.

He tells the guy to back off, in the most simple of terms as he glare is enough to set the man alight- and Rafayel's evol does just that when the guy doesn't seem to back down- lighting up the shoulders of his clothing and causing him to flay around screaming, as Rafayel pulls you to keep walking.

The amount of tasteful compliments on your attire rise, and you know he's doing it to keep you from internalizing the earlier interaction and stop dressing how you want.

He doesn't need some random freak to keep you from expressing yourself how you want to. Of course, he'll always find you attractive, and the little outfit you're wearing is doing numbers to him, but that's not his focus here at all.

He wants you to feel comfortable, confident-

And he'll do everything in his power to make sure you always do.

Sylus -

I am not entirely sure the man who's asking you has finished his sentence before he's slammed once against a nearby building and then released.

Sylus makes no motion to indicate that it was his doing, continuing to walk along with you to wherever the two of you had been going in the first place-

But you knew.

You had seen his stupid red mist envelope him.

For a second, you'd been scared that he was going to kill the guy- and while you knew someone who was comfortable saying such a thing to someone needed to be put in their place, 'murder' was not at all the same as 'putting someone in their place'.

No, he was just slightly- sort of- broken.

Just a bit.

Sylus won't react much, he may give a passing comment about the man, but otherwise, he's back to complimenting you or conversing with you about whatever subject you two had been discussing prior to the creep showing up.

"Sorry, sweetie. I know you don't like bugs. I tried to handle it as... efficiently, as possible."

[entitled-fangirl]

A sigil of mine.

Summary: the reader is taken from Winterfell while Cregan is at the Wall. He's a vengeful man.

Warning: kidnapping, dread, guilt, blood, scars, branding, talks of torture, our boy Cregan embodying Joel Miller when Ellie gets taken in the Last of Us

This one is dark

A/n: based on an ask! Also, fuck the Lannisters

I'll proofread later🫡

Masterlist

..............................................

"Lord Stark! An urgent letter has arrived from Winterfell!" A brother of the Wall yelled over the sound of the harsh wind that roared through the icy halls.

Cregan turned his entire body to him, a sudden pain in his stomach. What could be so urgent?

Cregan nearly rips the letter from the man's hand as he nears. The letter is stained with a dark red in places and he feels himself choke a little.

Lord Stark, Winterfell is under attack. By the time you read this, I will be long gone. I tried to protect the Lady as best as I could.  It was an honor to serve under House Stark and see you become a man. Please forgive me. Maester Tinedel

Cregan's hands shook violently as his eyes roamed over the paper another time. Then once more. His jaw set harshly as he looked up to the man that had brought such devastating news. "When did this arrive?" He growled lowly.

"Just this morning. Is it dated by any chance, my Lord?"

Cregan flipped the page and surely enough, the old maester had been wise enough to do so.

The air in his lungs escaped, creating a cloud in the cold air.

"Three weeks now."

The man stared in confusion at Cregan's sudden distress. "Is everything alright?"

Cregan crumpled the paper in his fist. "Ready my horse."

The brother of the Wall shook his head, "My lord, it is the bulk of winter. You can't possibly leave in such conditions. And you are not properly pack-"

"Ready. My. Horse. I leave within the hour."

The Warden of the North stormed away, a heaviness in his step from the sudden weight on his shoulders.

…

Cregan had always thought the travel to the Wall and back took too long on a good day.

Now, he was a mere bundle of nerves trying to tie what he could to his horse.

It would take too long. Whatever happened had happened and he wasn't there to save them.

To save her. 

He knew the guilt would eat his alive no matter how long it took him to get back. 

Surely another letter would arrive soon if things had turned for the better, but he wouldn't wait for that letter to show. 

The odds of one never arriving were too high.

"Are you certain of this, Lord Stark?"

He turned to the stable master with the hint of unshed tears in his eyes. "I'm not sure of anything. But I must return home."

The stable master nodded in acceptance, "And you're really not going to take men with you?"

Cregan huffed in frustration. "I cannot take men from the Wall. Their war is here. I cannot ask them to fight my own war as well."

"My lord, you're fighting both wars. Surely you can allow for some assistance."

Cregan hoisted himself up onto his horse. "I cannot promise when I'll return. But, should everything be righted, I will write back."

"If I may?"

"Yes?"

The man heaved a long sigh as placed his hands on his hips. "I wouldn't wish this feeling on my worst enemy, my lord. May the gods be with you on your journey and at your arrival."

Cregan bits the inside of his cheek. "Thank you."

With that, Cregan clicks at his horse, and the long journey began.

…

As expected, the journey was grueling. The cold was killing him from the outside in, but the constant need to stop and warm up was killing him from the inside out.

He couldn't even eat without thinking of the blood that stained the letter.

He couldn't sleep without thinking of the screams of his wife as another man's hands laid on her.

Even in the best case, the horror was too much to bare.

Despite his initial crumpling of the letter, Cregan kept it stashed away in his few belongings, smoothing it out and reading it every night before sleep consumed him. 

Just to crumple it again.

…

Despite the journey taking a usual two to three weeks when the weather was obedient, Cregan made it back to Winterfell in a week and half.

The consistent shiver to his bones only spurred him faster. 

He had plenty of time to consider his plan, should he truly be in need of one.

And now was the time to use it. 

…

Winterfell laid still. 

Cregan had expected fire and battle. A sound of swords clashing and men roaring.

Quietness was worse.

He had managed to get through the bulk of people with his hood up and his usual dire wolf cloak long abandoned. 

For in this moment, he was no Stark. 

He was a vengeful man.

He managed to sneak into the walls of the very place he should have been highly welcomed in.

For such a burly man, he was deathly silent. His boots made no sound on the stone floors, and his breath was so low that it may be thought that he didn't breathe at all.

He stood outside of his own chamber that he shared with his wife. He reached up and his hand faltered against the wood of the door. He couldn't dare open it.

"Oh, Lord Stark! Oh, thank the gods!" A female voice shrieked in relief.

Cregan flinched at the sound, turning on his heel to see the woman. His wife's handmaiden. He relaxed a bit.

"Oh. Sorry, milord. I didn't mean to frighten you. It's just I didn't know when you would return. Or if you'd return at all. And I-"

"Where is she?" He quietly interrupted.

The handmaiden stiffened and her face fell. "I… I dunno."

"She's not here?" He dared to ask.

She wrung her hands nervously. "You don't… you don't know?"

He tried to hold back his frustration. "Are they still here?"

She shook her head. "Left not long after the attack. Left just a few of us to pick up the pieces."

"And my wife? What happened to her?"

She let the silence set. 

He sighed in frustration and his hand moved to the chamber door.

"I wouldn't, milord," she warned.

He threw her a glare and dare to step in.

He should have listened.

The room laid in disarray. The furs from the bed were thrown on the floor. The furniture was moved, an obvious conflict had occurred. But that's not what Cregan's eyes moved to.

It was the scraps of clothing that were strewn across the room in various places. Some bloody.

His jaw went slack and he knelt down and picked up a strip of the cloth. Stark blue. 

His thumb rubbed at the fabric. He knew it well. His favorite dress on her. 

"They came in the early morning." The handmaiden spoke from the doorway. "Lady Stark had just gotten dressed for the day. I was… I was braiding her hair at the vanity when…"

"When..?" Cregan questioned. 

"It happened so suddenly. The screams."

He stood. "Who did it?"

"House Lannister."

Cregan took a deep breath. "Is she dead?"

"Milord-"

"-Was she slain by a Lannister?"

"No. Not exactly."

"What does that mean?"

"They took her. She could be dead now, I dunno. But they took her alive."

He felt a bit of relief move down his spine. "When you last saw her, she indeed was drawing breath?"

"Yes."

"Then that's enough for me. And Maester Tinedel?"

She tilted her head back and forth. "He lives. But barely."

He kept the fabric in his hand. "Take me to him."

…

"My Lord!"

"Please, don't get up on my account." Cregan stood at the elder man's bedside. "You're still healing."

The maester relaxed and leaned back against the headboard. "It takes more than a blade to change my loyalty, dear Cregan."

"You've been with me since the day I was born, old man," he teased. "And still you defend me when I am not there."

"There has been no greater honor."

Cregan pulled a chair to his bedside, sitting down. "Tell me what you remember."

"It's not a pleasant story for you, my lord. But very well." He leaned back in thought. "I was in my chamber. It was morning. I heard sounds from the corridor and I dared to go venture out. I defended as much as I could, but an old man is no match to young men with longswords. They took the lady from her room. As far as I know, they still have her-"

"-Do you know where they are now?"

"I'd assume they moved back to Casterly Rock. I have reason to believe that you have been betrayed by one of your bannermen, my lord. How else would they have gotten through the North so quietly?"

Cregan considered the man's words, running a shaky hand over his growing beard. "Who?"

The maester grunted as he sat up further. "I could hardly guess, my lord.

"Whoever it is, I'll murder him where he stands."

…

Gathering men together quickly was not a difficult task for Cregan.

Many men had skin in the game of thrones, and equally so, most were loyal unto death for their lord.

While most banner men would have answered a call to war, there wasn't enough time to gather an army while he was there, leaving the job to one of his closest bannerman, the Lord of House Bolton.

His mind laid in constant worry. 

…

In time, the men made it to Lord Reed, the last of the Northern Lords before being out of the North entirely. 

"'Tis truly a shame of what happened to the castle," Lord Reed said as he ushered Cregan further into Greywater Watch. "Any ideas of who might have done such an act?"

He shook his head, eyeing Lord Glover next to him. "No. No, we haven't. Hence why I don't have an army behind me."

"Well, that's understandable. Whoever did such a crime should be punished by all the gods alike, sneaking such an ambush like that."

Cregan nodded, "Yes, yes, they should. I thank you for housing us on such short notice."

Reed forced a smile. "Of course, Lord Stark." He continued moving down the hall. "The North would never sit by while a Lord's wife was taken from him."

Cregan's foot faltered. He paused completely. His voice was low. "I never said my wife was taken."

Lord Reed froze in pure fear at his mistake.

And he was shoved against the wall with Cregan's wolfish growl in his face. "Where is she?"

Reed gasped and fought against the man, but was no match. "I… I don't know what you mean, my lord… p… please.."

Cregan pulled him away by the throat to hit his head against the stone wall again, repeating himself. "WHERE IS SHE?"

Reed sputtered and groaned at the pain. "I… They didn't tell me… I swear…. I swear that to you."

"Your word means nothing to me." Cregan looked over his shoulder to Glover. "Write back to Winterfell. Tell them Lord Reed is dead."

"…My Lord?" Glover faltered.

"Tell them."

"Aye, my lord."

Reed shook violently in Cregan's grip. "I swear. I swear! I don't know! Please!"

Cregan leaned into the man's face. "You're gonna tell me what you do know. Aren't you?"

…

"Fucking Lannisters!" Cregan's voice roared through the Watch. "Get Glover. We're leaving now."

"My lord?" One of the men asked.

"Do what I said."

"Aye."

"May house Reed learn from its mistake."

…

Little did Cregan know yet, Loreon Lannister's brigade had been stopped by the Blackwoods, just shy of Lannister territory. 

The young Lord Benjicot Blackwood had rode out to meet them when word was sent of a brigade sneaking through his land. 

He raged at the sight of a terrified woman clad in a Stark blue dress. He vowed that the Lannisters would not see to their land should they refuse to surrender the woman to him.

Hence the small battle that had commenced.

But that was two weeks ago. 

Cregan looked over the land, the blood still staining the grass. "Think they made it?"

Glover hummed. "Lord Benjicot is a formidable enemy, I've heard. Wouldn't want to anger that boy in the slightest."

"Thank fuck!" A voice yelled over the field.

Lord Benjicot rode his horse out to the group in a fast trot. He spoke when he got closer "Knew you'd be quick but I figured it would be another few weeks."

"Don't underestimate angry northern men," Glover grimaced.

"Or Blackwoods, it seems," Cregan chimed in, looking over the field. "I believe I'm indebted to you in some capacity."

"Don't speak too soon, Lord Stark," Benjicot smiled. "You haven't asked how we faired."

Cregan's brows furrowed. "And how did you fair?"

Benjicot's smile grew. 

"We have her."

Cregan reached a hand out to steady himself on his horse from the sheer relief that swept through his body. "Gods…"

"Fucking bastards should have journeyed by sea if they were smart. Should've known that any ally of the Queen is an ally of mine."

"You have her then? In Raventree Hall?" Glover asked what they were all thinking.

"I do."

Cregan voice recovered. "Take me to her. Please."

…

"My lady?" One of the Blackwood handmaidens spoke up.

Y/n looked up at the woman. 

The faint hints of scratches and bruises were still on the lady's skin, but she had been given time to heal due to the Blackwoods' bravery. But regardless, the tremor in her hands remained. 

"I've been sent to inform you of a visitor that will soon be arriving."

Her heart leaped from her chest. She found herself moving more to the window and peering out. 

Cregan.

The man and his horse moved as one. It had always impressed her. 

Her sluggish behavior left the second he came into view. 

Not caring for her shoes, her cloak, anything, she ran past the handmaiden quicker than her feet could move. 

Tripping and stumbling along the way, ignoring the pain, she finally made it to the large doors of Raventree and bolted out of them.

Cregan had just pulled his horse to a stop when he caught sight of her.

He couldn't remember actually getting down from his horse he had gotten to her so quickly.

His strong arms held her to him in a vice grip, his hands indecisive of where to stay- her waist, her back, her hair, the constant need to feel her wholly gripped him.

Equally so, her arms wrapped around his neck firmly, as if to make sure he was real. 

"Fuck. Don't ever do this again," he sighed as he placed his chin on the top of her head. 

She sobbed lightly against his chest and her hands gripped his cloak so tightly her knuckles turned white. 

"Are you hurt?" He asked in worry. 

She hiccuped through tears. 

Cregan pulled her away, cupping her cheeks so he could study her. "Speak to me, pretty girl. Where are you hurt?"

She hiccuped again. "I… I'm fine."

"Where did they touch you?"

"Cregan…"

"Where?"

Benjicot had caught up at that point. "I wouldn't say they were delicate with her, Lord Stark. Most of it is faded, but the ones on her arms are rather nasty."

Cregan never looked away from her, keeping her eye contact. He tilted his head down, silently asking to gaze at her arms.

He hesitantly pulled her sleeves up and gawked slightly. 

Green bruises still remained at her wrists, no doubt from dragging her along. He tried to ignore the faint scabs from the scrapes that laid in various spots. 

"They did a number on you, didn't they?"

She looked at him fearfully, beyond nervous for his reaction to all of this. 

Benjicot spoke up again. "You've no idea." He placed a steady hand on the woman's back, ignoring Cregan's protective glare as he did so. "You're safe here. Why don't you show him?"

"Show me what?"

She turned to look over her shoulder at Benjicot, "Must I?"

Cregan was growing frustrated. If there was one thing he hated, it was no knowing things. "Show me."

She hesitantly nodded, and Benjicot stepped up to her, untying her bodice from the back. Once he did so, he spun her around to have her back face Cregan. Then he gently pulled down her sleeve until her right shoulder blade was exposed. 

A Lannister sigil was burned into the skin. Ugly scarring around the marred flesh. 

Her head was hung in shame as she stood there, avoiding eye contact with everyone. 

Cregan's hand came up to brush the skin achingly slow. He couldn't find words. 

Benjicot broke the silence. "Amidst this, there is good news."

"I guarantee there isn't," Cregan growled back quickly.

"I have Loreon Lannister under my care as well."

Cregan's head snapped to him. "What?"

"The man is in my dungeons, Lord Stark."

Cregan's hand moved up to Y/n's hair, brushing it aside to fully view what was exposed of her back. 

But his eyes couldn't move from the brand.

"Inside, you say? Still breathing?"

Benjicot let out an amused chuckle. "I refused to take that privilege from you."

Lord Stark's hand brushed her shoulder again. "I fear I owe the Blackwoods more than I own."

…

Not long later, Cregan stepped into her room. 

She turned her head towards him.

Cregan was covered in blood.

She stood suddenly. "Are you harmed?"

His brows furrowed, looking down at himself, as if forgetting all he had done. "Oh. None of it is mine."

"You killed him?"

Cregan sighed and shut the door. "We'll not discuss this now."

"Cregan-"

"-No. Don't ask again."

Her face fell a bit. She moved to the window and sat again. 

He watched her. "Forgive me. There's still rage in my heart."

"Still? Is it because of me?"

He faltered. "No. No, of course not." He rubbed his chin. "You did nothing wrong."

"If I had journeyed to the Wall with you that day, would you have been as angry if Winterfell was attacked?"

He paused as considered her question. "You know the answer."

She hummed and looked out of the window.

He followed her gaze. "Forgive me for taking so long."

"I watched out this window."

"I know you did."

"What if Benjicot hadn't have found me?"

He sat down next to her. "He did though."

"But what if he hadn't?"

Cregan dared to reach out and pull her hair aside, tugging her sleeve down to see the brand again. 

She finally turned to look at him with teary eyes. 

"I'd rather not think about those things," Cregan answered softly.

"Will you wash yourself, please?"

He paused, remembering the blood all over him. "Sorry, sweet girl. I didn't realize that would bother you so much. I will, I promise."

She looked back to the window. "Will we go home soon?"

Cregan stood to go to the washbowl across the room. "We will in time."

"What's stopping us, Cregan?"

He didn't have the heart to actually say that it was her. "Be patient, my girl, alright?"

…

Benjicot walked with Cregan down the corridor. "I apologize that I did not manage to capture Lord Jason. That will haunt me."

Cregan shook his head, "You've done much for the North. We'll not forget this act of kindness."

Benji grinned, "The North remembers."

"Indeed."

"Tell me something, my lord?"

Cregan nodded.

"What did you do in those dungeons?"

Cregan sighed, crossing his arms over his  chest. "I wouldn't want you to think differently of me, old friend."

Benjicot shook his head, "Nothing could do so, Cregan. You've seen me rather bloody. It's only fair."

He paused and considered his words, carefully phrasing himself. "A part of me hopes that his son doesn't find out what I've done to his father. It was almost too much to bare."

"What do you mean?"

Cregan pulled his dagger from his belt, running a hand over the blade. "I'll have to sharpen this later, if you understand what I'm saying."

Benjicot nodded. "I believe I do. But more context might be beneficial."

Cregan leaned forward and spoke lowly. "The dead man wears a sigil of mine in return."

The Blackwood's eyes looked down to the dagger and back to Cregan. "I see."

"If there truly is life after death, my friend, I hope he lives the next with my reminder."

"Surely, he would. I'd say you were merciful in ending him regardless."

…

Cregan rubbed her thigh absentmindedly as the maester inspected the brand. 

"It's healing well, but as you can imagine, it will leave behind a nasty scar."

Cregan clenched his jaw at the thought of his own wife living with a lion burned onto her. "No risk of a fever?"

He shook his head. "A clean burn like this rarely risks such a thing."

"Well, the north thanks you for your work."

The maester excused himself.

Since finding her again, Cregan had a difficulty understanding what she was going through. She was bottling everything up, he could tell. 

"Sweet girl?" He asked gently, continuing to rub at her leg.

"Is it ugly?" She responded quietly, her eyes fixed on the floor.

Cregan wasn't sure what to say to that. "It looks painful. Is it?"

She hummed, eyes still anchored. "It didn't hurt as much as the laughs."

"They laughed? While they did this to you?"

She nodded. 

Her hand moved up to pull her sleeve back up, but Cregan was quick to stop her, placing his hand over hers. 

She looked up questioningly.

"You're as gorgeous as the day I met you." His other hand moved hair behind her ear. "And as beautiful as the day I married you. As well as when I left for the Wall this winter." He leaned forward and kissed her cheek gently. "You're just changed is all."

"But the-"

"-Yes. Yes, it pains me to see it. But not because of what it is, but because you were hurt and I did not defend you as I should have."

Silence fell over them until she spoke up.

"Tell me I'm yours."

Cregan froze. "What?"

"I need to hear it. To really know."

"Well, you are. You know that."

"Please, Cregan."

Cregan stood from the bed, rounding it until he was behind her. He reached out and brushed the brand again, trying to ignore the shiver that went down her spine. "You're mine."

The words relaxed her, her shoulders moving down.

Cregan placed his hands on her shoulders, gently massaging them. "You belong to the Warden of the North." He grinned. "A vile and vicious beast intent on killing anything that nears it. Almost anything."

She smiled lightly, the first one in weeks. "And what is that one thing that the wolf likes?"

"A pretty she-wolf that brings down his defense."

One of his hands moved to the back of her neck and she all but melted, her head leaning back now. 

He continued this for a while, letting the silence sit, but he soon leaned down and placed a gentle kiss to the marred skin of her shoulder. 

"You're mine." He kissed her shoulder. "And I don't need a brand to prove so." He kissed behind her ear. "You know who you belong to, don't you?"

"…you, Cregan."

"Hmm?" He feigned. 

"You."

He smirked and nipped at her ear. "And who is that? Tell me."

She turned as much as her injuries could allow. Her voice softened as his eyes gazed into hers. "Cregan Stark. I belong to Cregan Stark."

"And I do to you, pretty girl."

He closed the distance, placing the softest kiss he'd ever managed onto her lips.

When they pulled away from one another, she spoke. "Do we get to return soon?"

He nodded, twirling her hair between his fingers. "Soon. I'm only waiting for Lord Bolton to arrive with the men."

"Th… what?"

He puffed out his chest in pride. "I don't do well with spoiled southerners. Bolton is riding an army to the border of Lannister territory, with Benjicot's permission, of course."

"An army? You can't start a war over me."

"I didn't start anything, my love." He kissed her again. "I only finish it."

.........................................................

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