#he doesn’t know that he’ll ever see the doctor again but he believes he will and he trusts that he will

[a-dandy-and-a-clown]

‘i won’t forget you, you know’

something about the way jamie says this. he sounded so sure. almost as if he could sense what was about to happen. and he’s refusing it. i won’t forget you i couldn’t forget you ever. if he says it, he’ll believe it, and it will be true.

they may have taken his memories, but that’s not the only way to remember someone.

jamie looks at the stars and he can feel the distance, the vastness, the emptiness. he used to think wishing on shooting stars was foolish, but now he screws his eyes shut tight and longs for something he’s not sure of.

his hands always feel slightly empty. always too big around what they’re holding, his knife, his kilt, even his pipes don’t fit the same. grasping for something more solid, softer, alive, clutching back at him.

he plays a song that he’s not sure he ever learnt. it’s meant for two, to be played in harmony. he plays with only the wind whistling in accompaniment, and imagines the echoes can fill the spaces.

something hollow will always know it is empty when it was once full.

jamie doesn’t remember the doctor. but he will not forget him.

[flowersforbucky]

for always and ever is always for you

old man!logan x healer!reader

word count: 15.2k

summary: logan is getting sicker by the day, and charles' seizures are occurring more and more frequently. logan didn't think he'd ever see you again - but desperate times call for desperate measures.

warnings/tags: 18+ only mdni, smut, descriptions of blood and illness, angst, logan's pov, reader is afab, language, slow burn as far as one-shots go, no use of y/n, caliban being sassy, mutual pining, friends to lovers, unprotected p in v, oral (m&f receiving), face sitting, cream pie, some dirty talk and pet names

author's note: thank you @embbarnes for reading this and letting me rant about it and assuring me that it's worth posting 🫶🏻 this took me an embarrassing amount of time and i have to say i am pretty proud of it. flashbacks are in italics

divider by @saradika-graphics!

“This is the third time in the last week, you know.”

Logan stares down at the deep red splatters of blood that creep towards the drain. The skin of his knuckles begin to turn white from how harshly he grips the edges of the sink – he’s surprised the ceramic doesn’t shatter. He turns the faucet on, lowering his lips to the weak stream to collect enough water to rinse the taste of iron from his mouth.

“I know that,” Logan spits the now pink tinged water into the bowl and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You don’t think I fuckin’ know that? I’m the one hacking my lungs up here.” He shoves past Caliban, exiting the small bathroom.

Logan doesn’t want to snap at him – hates that it happens as often as it does. But right now he’s late for work and the last thing he needs is to hear Caliban harping on about this again while he scrambles to find his car keys.

“You know I hate to keep bringing this up,” Caliban continues as he follows Logan into the makeshift kitchen of the abandoned smelting plant.

“I find that hard to believe,” Logan mumbles under his breath. He finds his keys hidden under some junk mail and shoves them in his coat pocket before pouring himself some coffee to take with him to work. It’s day old and not as strong as he’d like for it to be, but he’ll be glad that he has it when midnight rolls around.

“Charles,” Caliban continues. “The medications are doing very little to help him anymore. We’re having to give him twice as much as we were a month ago, which means we are running out twice as fast. He’s getting worse. You both are. We need to find a… specialist that can help with both of our problems.”

Logan snorts in response, practically able to feel Caliban’s eyes burning holes in the back of his head.

“There ain’t a thing that any doctor can do for me and you know it.”

Maybe Logan hasn’t had the flu, or strep throat, or even the common cold in two hundred odd years, but he knows there’s no prescription that any physician can write that would stop his very bones from poisoning him.

“Let me rephrase that, then. Not a doctor. You need to see a healer.”

Logan freezes, his posture going rigid.

“If you’re about to say what I think you’re going to say, I suggest shutting the fuck up.”

“He’s had a record number of seizures so far this week,” Caliban implores. “You’re barely standing upright. There’s a chance that she could help you both.”

“She’s out of the question,” Logan spits before storming past him. He yanks the door open and slams it closed behind him as he steps into the late evening Mexico sun.

How does Caliban even know about you? Some of Charles’ rambling in his rare moments of lucidity, no doubt.

It doesn’t matter if you can help or not.

For a lot of reasons, it doesn’t matter.

The most obvious one being he hasn’t talked to you in over a year and doesn’t know where the fuck you’re at.

••••••

“You don’t have to stay back there, you know. You can come closer. You’re not in my way.”

There’s no hint of condescension in your voice. Only patience, and reassurance. Still, Logan doesn’t budge from his position in the corner of the mansion’s infirmary.

You don’t press him any further.

He had lost track of how long he’d been standing here, just watching in complete silence as you tend to the young mutant’s injuries.

Logan doesn’t even know the kid’s name. He doesn’t know any of their names. But he’d been the one to find all five of them in a locked cell on today’s mission, and he isn’t going to leave this room until he knows that they are all okay.

You’d already taken care of four out of the five. They now rest peacefully in individual beds, no doubt the warmest and safest they’ve been in God knows how long.

Your hands hover a few inches above a young boy’s chest, emitting a pale purple glow as you wave them over his torso, letting your powers radiate from your palms into his body.

Logan notices the color of your power isn’t as vibrant as it was when you’d healed the first child’s injuries, or the second, or third. Originally a bright violet, it’s now a lackluster lavender.

He also doesn't miss the way that you suddenly close your eyes with furrowed brows, but he remains in the corner, watching you carefully. You dig your teeth into the flesh of your bottom lip in concentration, causing Logan to take an involuntary step forward at the pained expression on your face.

Your hands drop down to the railing of the bed that the boy lays in, clutching the bars to keep you from falling over as the energy you’d been emitting fades away.

“Shit,” you huff, out of breath. A thin layer of perspiration glistens on your forehead.

“What’s wrong?” Logan asks as he moves closer to you. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you grunt, nodding as you look up at him. You give him a forced smile that does very little to reassure him. “I’m fine. It’s just been a while since I’ve had to use so much of my powers in such a short amount of time.”

“Maybe you should sit down for a minute, yeah?” Logan looks around the infirmary, walking a few feet away to grab a chair for you. He places it next to the bed that you’re still using for support.

“I’ll be as good as new soon,” you assure him as you take a seat. “This happens occasionally.”

Logan stands beside you, awkwardly leaning against the edge of an empty bed next to the boy’s. He watches as you lean forward, taking the kid’s small hand in your own. There’s no resurgence of purple – you’re simply holding it. The boy is sound asleep, so the act makes Logan wonder if it’s for his comfort or your own.

“If I exert too much energy at once, I feel the effects of it. Not enough to really hurt me, just.. leave me feeling like I need to sleep for a week,” you explain with a weak chuckle. Logan’s eyes are fixated on the way that your thumb soothes over the skin of the boy’s hand.

“A gift that comes with a price,” Logan murmurs. “I know how that feels. Though it sometimes feels more like a curse in my case.” He instinctively glances down at his knuckles, his claws sheathed away.

“I can see how it would feel that way,” you agree, glancing up at him with a soft expression. “But it’s not what your power is that determines whether it’s a curse or a gift. It’s what you do with it. And these kids are alive because of you. A lot of people are, because you choose to use it for good. I’d say that makes it a gift.”

“I guess I should try to look at it that way more often,” he hums.

“Plus, having the ability to heal yourself has gotta be pretty neat. I think you’re the only person here who would never have to ask me for my help.” You glance back up at him, a hint of a smirk ghosting your lips.

They’re pretty, he thinks – your lips. He mentally scolds himself, knowing now isn’t the time or place to be thinking about your lips.

“You can count on that, bub.”

When Logan wakes, he doesn’t have the chance to mourn the memory he’d found himself reliving in his sleep.

He does find himself on the floor by his bed with the breath knocked from his lungs. His hands come to shield his ears, attempting to block out the high-pitched shrieking that makes his ear canals feel as if they are filling with blood.

Judging by the sunlight streaming into his room through the thin, tattered curtains covering his windows, he guesses that it’s mid-afternoon. He couldn’t have been asleep for more than a few hours – meaning it also couldn’t have been more than a few hours since he had given Charles his most recent dose of medicine.

With the world shaking around him, a half empty bottle of liquor and an old coffee mug both shatter as they fall off of his bedside table and hit the ground.

Logan and Caliban had recently cleared off all shelves in the smelting plant, moving anything that could potentially fall and break during one of Charles’ episodes closer to the ground, but after a long night of driving around drunk assholes, it’s easy to forget that even a ceramic cup on a small table is a hazard.

He can tell by the way that the air around him feels as if it weighs ten tons that Charles has to be close by. He musters all of his strength to force himself to his feet. Each movement feels as if he’s in slow motion as he fights against the psionic energy that works to keep him frozen in place.

As slow as if he has hundred pound weights attached to each of his feet, he makes his way from his bedroom and to the common area. When he turns the corner, he first sees Caliban, still as a statue with his facial features contorted in agony and his typically alabaster skin turning redder by the second from the pain. He’s less than a foot away from where Charles sits in his wheelchair, where he appears to have been watching a movie.

Logan frantically looks around the room, searching for where he had placed the bag of injections and pills when he’d forced Charles into swallowing his last dose just a few hours ago.

He finds it on what is used as a dining room table. It’s sheer good luck that Logan had thought to prepare an emergency dose of the injection earlier that day, most likely thanks to Caliban’s lecture from yesterday evening still looming in the back of his mind.

After what feels like hours, Logan finally reaches Charles with the injection and plunges the needle into his chest. The second that the medication enters his system, the seizure ceases.

Caliban and Logan both collapse to the ground in relief. Logan clutches his chest, trying to steady his heartbeat and regulate his breathing.

“You dream of her just as she dreams of you,” Charles whimpers through labored breaths.

“What?” Logan snaps, glaring at Charles from his position on the dirty floor. His ears must still be ringing from the effects of the seizure, because he can’t have heard him right. “Quit reading my mind.”

“Your thoughts are always loud when you think of her,” Charles murmurs, turning his attention back to the movie on the screen in front of him as if nothing had happened.

It's the first time, Logan realizes, that Charles has mentioned you since the day of his first seizure. Even without specifically saying your name, Logan knows exactly who he’s referring to.

“Make that four incidents this week,” Caliban grumbles as he jerks the plastic bag filled with medication out of Logan’s hand. He digs through it, pulling out a pill bottle and dumping two into his palm. “He’s averaging an episode per day, and each one feels stronger than the last. It’s only a matter of time before he kills–”

“Do you know where she’s at? Can you track her?” Logan interrupts him. Caliban pauses to look at him, visibly annoyed.

“Oh, so it’s a good idea now that he–” he jabs a finger in Charles’ direction, “mentions her once, is it?” He stomps over to where Charles watches the television, seemingly oblivious to the conversation happening right beside him.

“Take these. Both of them.” He shoves them into Charles’ palm and then storms past Logan.

“Didn’t say anything about it being a good idea,” Logan grunts, following him into the kitchen. “But you seem to think it is and I don’t know what else to do. So can you find her or not?”

“Of course I can,” Caliban retorts defensively. “As long as you have something with her scent on it.”

Logan throws his hands up in frustration, and then rakes one hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

“I haven’t seen her in over a year. Why would I have anything that smells like her?”

“It doesn’t have to be dosed in her favorite perfume,” Caliban huffs. “But I can’t track anyone without some amount of their scent to go off of.”

“Goddammit,” Logan groans between gritted teeth. He turns in the opposite direction, heading back to his bedroom.

He thinks back to the last time that he saw you – the last time that his life had any sense of normalcy. The day of Charles’ first seizure, the day that he saw seven of his friends die, you weren’t there. By some miracle, you had been out of town.

But a few days before that – it had been snowing. It was the first snow of winter and you had taken a group of younger students to play outside in the middle of class.

Logan was called over by a few of the kids who begged him to help make a snowman. You kept to the sidelines, watching him with the students, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself to keep your cardigan pulled securely around your chest.

He remembers pausing what he was doing to run over to you and insist that you take his jacket until you were all back inside. He remembers how much he liked seeing you wear it, and how silly he felt when he didn’t like that you remembered to give it back.

He remembers being enveloped in the smell of honey and cream when he shrugged the jacket back onto his own shoulders. Less than a week later, he found himself in Mexico with no need to wear such a heavy leather jacket.

It's now been over a year since he’s so much as touched it.

Logan begins rifling through the drawers of the dresser that looks to be as old as he is, containing all of the clothing that he owns. It doesn’t take but a few seconds until he recognizes the feeling of the worn leather against his fingertips.

He brings the jacket up to his nose, inhaling where your skin and hair had rest against the collar. He breathes in deep, concentrating on the scent that transports him back to before his life was completely uprooted and turned upside down. With his eyes closed, it’s easy for him to let himself believe he’s standing in the kitchen of the mansion with your arms around his neck.

It's faint. If he didn’t have enhanced senses, he may not have been able to detect it at all. But it’s there – familiar and nostalgic and unmistakably you.

••••••

It takes Caliban all of sixty seconds to pinpoint your location.

Logan doesn’t quite know how to feel about learning that there’s only one state in-between the two of you. He wasn’t sure where he expected you to be, really – it doesn’t surprise him that you didn’t stay in the state of New York, and he didn’t think you would return to your hometown, but knowing that you’ve possibly been just a half day’s drive away from him this entire time makes a lot of emotions surface that he’s been trying to push down for the last year.

He begins the drive just after six in the morning. By the time the sun starts to set that evening, he enters the city limits of Silverton, Colorado.

Nestled in the snow-capped Rockies, the small town couldn’t be more polar opposite of where he has resided for the last thirteen months. The stark differences nearly cause him to turn his limousine around and head back to the smelting plant without even bothering you – if you’d chosen somewhere like this to live, there’s no way you’d be content with the brutal, dry heat of northern Mexico.

But this is the closest he’s been to you in nearly four hundred days, and despite the fact that he’s spent the last ten hours of this car ride thinking about what he’s going to say to you and still doesn’t fucking know, he can’t bring himself to go back to Mexico without trying.

Without at least seeing your face. Without at least seeing for himself that you’re doing okay.

He knows it’s selfish. He knows he made his choice when he took Charles to Mexico without even letting you know that they were alive. It doesn’t matter that he had his reasons for doing so, it doesn’t matter how much it killed him inside – he made his choice and he should have to live with it, without disturbing your peace and asking any of this of you.

He justifies it by telling himself that it’s for Charles, and Caliban. Maybe it’s his pride, but he refuses to make his ailing health your responsibility. Asking you to help with Charles is already asking too much.

He turns down a dirt road, following the approximate – not exact – instructions that Caliban had provided. Thankfully, it’s a small town in both size and population, so it doesn’t take him too long to find the neighborhood that Caliban had described.

He knows he has found the right house when he sees your car. He recognizes it instantly due to the cracked rear bumper that you still have yet to have replaced and its unique sage green color that peaks through the light dusting of snow.

He pulls into your driveway, parking his limousine next to your vehicle and turns off the engine. He takes in the appearance of your home – a small, cozy cabin with smoke erupting from the chimney. All of your curtains are pulled closed but there’s enough light peaking through them for him to know that you’re inside.

The thought occurs to him that he might not find you alone. It’s been over a year – you could have found someone to build a life with. They could pull into this very driveway at any moment. Hell, you could have a baby for all he knows. He might be seconds away from learning that you have a whole family of your own–

His thoughts only stop spiraling when he sees your front door swing open, your face peeking around the frame a second later. Confusion is etched across your features as you notice the limousine parked in front of your porch.

You don’t yet know that it’s him due to the limousine’s tinted windows, he realizes.

You exit the house, stepping onto your front porch with your arms crossed over your chest as you wait for the driver of the vehicle to make themselves known.

You haven’t aged a day. Your hair being longer than the last time he saw you is the only physical proof that any time has passed at all.

Logan attempts to clear his face of all of the emotions coursing through him and opens the driver’s side door, stepping out of the vehicle.

Thanks to the adamantium poisoning his body, his eyesight has started to decline over the last few months. But Logan doesn’t need to have his glasses on to know that you look like you’re seeing a ghost.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greets you in a cautious voice. He stays planted where he’s at, waiting for you to respond before coming any closer to the front porch steps.

He swears he watches you go through all five stages of grief in under a minute. Confusion fades to shock, shock turns to denial, and denial morphs into anger before you’re left with a blank expression.

“I know I’ve got a lotta explaining to do,” Logan starts. “If you’ll let me, I’ll answer every question you have. I’m just asking you to hear me out.”

It takes every ounce of self-restraint that he possesses to not walk up the steps of your porch and wrap you in his arms. He may be standing just a few feet away from you, but it doesn’t feel real. He’s convinced that at any moment, he’ll wake up back in his pathetic excuse of a bedroom in the smelting plant.

You take a few small, tentative steps forward. Your eyes never leave his, an unreadable expression on your face. Logan can’t tell if you’re trying to decide if he’s real, if you’re about to jump into his arms, or if you’re about to yell at him to get the fuck out of here.

You come to a stop on the bottom porch step.

“What’s the deal with the limousine?” You nod towards the vehicle behind him.

“I’m uh – I’m a limousine driver,” he answers lamely.

“A limousine driver,” you repeat with raised brows, though it doesn’t sound like a question. “You know, there have been a lot of nights that I’ve laid awake wondering where you’re at and what you’re doing. Of all the possibilities, I never considered limo driver.”

Logan opens his mouth to respond, but quickly shuts it again when you turn on your heel, walking back up the steps and to the front door. You pause before you cross the entryway, looking back at him over your shoulder.

“Take your shoes off at the door. Don’t be tracking snow into my house.”

Logan watches you retreat into the house, his body frozen in place. As far as initial reactions go, he supposes that could have been significantly worse – but he knows he isn’t out of the woods yet.

He follows you inside, kicking his boots off at the door and closing it behind him.

The inside of your house is warm, thanks to the gentle fire going in the fireplace in your den. It’s cozy – you’ve decorated for the approaching holidays. Garland and twinkling lights adorn your mantle, and in the corner of the living room is an elaborately decorated tree. The whole place smells like a mixture of the candle burning on your coffee table and whatever you have cooking in the kitchen.

It's not just cozy, he thinks. It’s homey. And he’s about to ask you to leave it all for a dirty, grimy, old smelting plant.

He follows you into the small kitchen, where you stir something in a giant pot on your stove.

“Do I even want to know how you found me?”

He can tell that you’re trying to maintain a level tone, but he doesn’t miss the way that your voice shakes and rises an octave on the last word.

He clears his throat, pulling out a chair for himself at your dining room table.

“His name is Caliban. He’s a mutant who can track other mutants. I asked him to find you.”

You hum in response, continuing to tend to the food in the pot with your back turned to him. Logan knows that telling you he asked Caliban to track you down is just the tip of the iceberg here, but he doesn’t want to throw too much at you at once. So he watches as you grab a variety of seasonings from the cabinet above you, and lets you take your time with questioning him further.

“And why did you ask him to find me?”

“For Charles,” Logan answers. “I didn’t want to disturb you after all this time. I know you’re probably angry and you have every right to be but.. his seizures. They’re getting worse. The medications that I give him aren’t helping like they used to.”

You cover the pot with a lid, and turn the dial on the stove down to low before turning to face him. You lean up against the counter, your arms once again crossed over your chest – a telltale sign that you’re on edge, Logan remembers well.

“You mean the seizures that killed a bunch of our friends and have caused the United States government to classify his brain as a weapon of mass destruction?”

Logan gives you a curt nod. “Yeah. Those seizures. We’ve been living in an abandoned smelting plant just south of the border in Mexico. He mostly stays inside an old water tower. The metal it's made from helps keep the seizures contained to the immediate area around us, but.. they’re getting stronger. Happening more frequently.”

You chew on your lower lip, a passive expression on your face as you take in Logan’s words. You don’t meet his gaze, your stare fixated on something on the other side of the room.

“And what about you?”

“What about me?” Logan counters.

You turn away from him again, reaching into a cabinet to grab two bowls. Logan watches as you ladle some kind of soup or stew into the bowls and pull two spoons from a drawer.

You place one bowl in front of him, and the other at a chair across from him before retrieving a bottle of dark colored wine and two glasses.

“It’s only been a year since I last saw you but you look about ten years older,” you finally answer as you uncork the bottle and fill the two glasses. You push one across the small table. “Sorry. I haven’t had much of a reason to keep any whiskey on hand.”

Logan’s not surprised by the observation – you’re not wrong. He knows the adamantium poisoning his body has taken a toll on his physical appearance. His hair and beard have started to gray, his skin appears more leathered, his under eyes more crinkled.

After barely aging a day in decades, the difference between a year ago and today must look drastic to you.

But that isn’t why he’s here. He can handle some aches and pains, some coughing fits, and all of the other ailments that come with typical aging. He can hide it all from you – he won’t make that your burden to bear in addition to asking you to help with Charles.

“Yeah, well,” Logan starts, staring down at the stew in front of him to avoid your gaze. “That’s what working night shifts and taking care of a ninety-seven year old disabled psychic with Alzheimer’s induced mega seizures does to a person.”

“No one asked you to do that, Logan. I would have helped you if you had given me the chance. I would have followed you any–”

“I know,” Logan cuts you off. “I know you would have. But I had just watched almost everyone that I love die. I couldn’t risk it, letting you get hurt too. Staying away from you for the last year, it’s.. it’s been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But I did it because I knew it would mean you’re safe.”

You’re silent. Your lips quiver, and Logan loses his appetite at the way your eyes begin to gloss over with unshed tears.

“Did you at least think about reaching out?”

If your watery eyes make Logan lose his appetite, the brokenness in your voice makes him feel sick with himself.

“Every single day.”

He doesn’t tell you that you frequent his dreams, or that he thinks of you every time a Pink Floyd song comes on the radio, or that he hears your voice in the back of his mind telling him to drink more water when all he’s had that day is coffee and bourbon.

He wants to. But he doesn’t.

You give a small nod to his answer, but otherwise say nothing. You pick up your spoon and take a small, unenthusiastic bite of the food in front of you. Logan forces his attention to his own stew, not really wanting to eat but knowing that he needs to – he had only stopped for gas and a bathroom break once during the drive here. He hasn’t eaten anything since he choked down a stale granola bar before leaving Mexico early this morning.

The two of you sit in a loaded silence. Despite how heavy it feels, he can’t help but feel more relaxed in your presence than he has in a long, long time.

Your spoon clinks against the empty bowl when you finish eating. Logan looks up to see you gulping down the last of your wine.

You sigh. A long, exaggerated sigh.

“Why couldn’t you have shown up yesterday, before I put up all of my Christmas decorations?”

••••••

Logan thinks that the interior of his limousine will smell like a Christmas tree threw up in it for the next few months.

Not that he’s complaining. The sickeningly sweet scent of balsam is a small price to pay for you agreeing to come to Mexico.

He knows he probably shouldn’t feel as relieved as he does – he doesn’t even know if your powers will be effective in helping with Charles’ seizures.

But he can't lie to himself. The entire time he spent the better part of the night helping you pack your things into totes to load into your car and his limousine, he was on edge – afraid that you'd change your mind at any moment.

Of course he felt relieved when he watched your car pull out of your driveway after typing the smelting plant’s address into your GPS early this morning.

Approximately eleven hours later, he doesn’t think he’s ever been so glad to be in Mexico. The drive to Colorado, packing for hours into the night and then getting a few hours of shut eye on your couch, and then the drive back to the smelting plant has taken a toll on him.

His hips ache from sitting for so long and he’s experiencing what has to be a pinched nerve in his lower back.

That’s a first for him.

When he arrives back home, he’s relieved to find that he got here before you. Maybe he’ll have enough time to take a long, hot shower and let some max strength ibuprofen go into effect before you can notice the way that he hobbles inside.

“Oh, thank God,” Caliban exhales when he sees the door open and Logan limps inside. “You haven’t answered any of my calls or texts. Did you even think to check if I was alive? He could have had a seiz—”

“Sorry,” Logan grunts, walking past him to retrieve the bottle of painkillers from a cupboard in the kitchen. “I’ve been a bit preoccupied, trying to get back here as soon as possible and what not.”

He tosses back four pills dry and then turns to face him again. “And I knew you weren’t dead. You blew up my phone enough to assure me of that.”

“Well, a reply or two keeping me updated would have been nice. Tracking you only tells me so much.”

Logan rolls his eyes. He doesn’t have the energy for this right now.

“She’s on her way here now. How’s that for an update?” He pushes past Caliban, just wanting to go stand under a painfully hot stream of water.

“You actually managed to get her to agree to come here?”

“I’m as surprised as you are.” Logan grabs a bottle of whiskey from the kitchen counter and starts walking towards his room. “And get the spare room cleaned up for her.”

••••••

“I know it isn’t much, but I’m gonna get you a better mattress tomorrow.”

A few hours later, long after Caliban and Charles have retired to the old water tower for the night, Logan stands in front of where you perch on the edge of the twin sized cot in your bedroom – if it can even be called that right now.

Aside from the sad excuse of a bed, the only other things in the room are a small bedside table with a lamp, and several storage totes containing your belongings that Caliban had brought in from Logan’s limousine.

If he’d had more time to prepare, he would’ve done more, but just forty-eight hours ago he never would have guessed that you would actually be sitting here in front of him.

“It’s okay,” you shrug. “It’ll be better once I have some of my things unpacked.”

“Right,” Logan nods. “Well, I'll leave you to that then. Just.. let me know if you need anything.”

He turns to exit the room, but freezes when he grabs the doorknob. He turns back around, and finds you looking at him expectantly – almost hopeful.

“I appreciate it. You coming here. You don’t owe me anything after the way I just ran off without any explanation. But I'm really glad that you’re here.”

His heart swells when he sees the way that your expression softens. You’re too good, too forgiving and understanding. The fact that you let him into your home, served him dinner, and packed up your entire life into a few boxes and came here after a year of no contact proves it.

He takes a step closer to you, trying his hardest to ignore the sharp burn that radiates from his lower back as he forces his body forward. Despite how hard he tries to hide the discomfort, you seem to notice that something is bothering him – he can tell by the way your brows furrow together and your mouth sets in a harsh line. You scoot back a few inches on the cot mattress, making room for him to take a seat next to you.

“And I just want you to know that I’m sorry,” he continues, cutting you off before you can even ask if he’s okay.

“You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to hear me say it. I’m sorry for the way I handled things. It wasn’t fair to you. I was just scared shitless and wanted to do what I could to keep you safe. Getting as far away from you as possible seemed like the best way to do that at the time.”

Logan internally curses his rambling. Typically a man of few words, he can’t help but feel silly at the sentiment. You’d always had a way of drawing a level of vulnerability from him that no one else ever had. He still feels that effect today.

“I understand why you did what you did, Logan,” you start. You look at him with such understanding that he feels himself physically relax at your words.

“It just… hurt.” You give a small shrug, bringing your hands together to dig your nails into your palms. “I lost my friends too, you know? You and Charles included. I know that you and I, we were never…” you trail off, but he knows what you mean without saying it.

Together. Never truly together.

A million almosts that never amounted to what he truly wanted run through his mind. He’d long ago accepted that you and him would never be more than an unspoken thing but the reminder of it still stings, coming from your lips.

“Anyway,” you shake your head. He wonders if you’re thinking of the same memories that he is – the seemingly small ones.

The ones that he wouldn’t have expected to stick with him, but ended up haunting him. Having a drink in the mansion’s courtyard together after particularly exhausting missions – or even just particularly exhausting days of teaching children. Walking into the kitchen to find you making lunch – and you just so happened to have made enough for him, too. You, on the back of his motorcycle with your arms secured around his stomach, your bodies pressed as close together as they ever had been.

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t still hurt over it. But the truth is, I was too relieved to find you standing in my driveway to tell you to leave. And I missed you too much to not come back here with you.”

Your voice is barely a whisper by the time you finish speaking. A singular tear leaks from the corner of your eye, which you hastily wipe away.

“Just don't fucking do that again, okay? I definitely wouldn’t be as forgiving if it happened a second time.”

“I wouldn't forgive myself if it happened a second time,” Logan tells you – and he means it. He still doesn’t know if he can forgive himself as is. But you seem to forgive him, and that's enough for him for the time being. “I promise. M’not going anywhere.”

“Good,” you murmur with a small smile, seemingly content with his reassurance. “So, about Charles… I was thinking, if the seizures are as bad as you've told me, I probably won't be much use if he's actively having one. I was thinking that starting tomorrow, I could try to work with him using my powers little bits throughout the day. Not too much at once so he doesn't get frustrated.”

You're right. There’s nothing that anyone can do once one of Charles’ seizures begins, except for Logan. It’s solely due to his healing factor that Logan is able to muster enough strength to administer one of Charles’ injections during a seizure. Humans – as well as mutants like you and Caliban – are rendered incapacitated.

“I’ll let him know that you’re here in the morning,” Logan nods in agreement. “I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you.”

“I hope so,” you sigh. “I’ve missed him.”

As content as he’d be to sit here and talk to you all night, you’ve both had long days of driving and tomorrow brings a lot of uncertainty, so he knows that he should let you get some rest.

“We should probably try to get some sleep,” he says reluctantly. He starts to push himself off of the cot when the nerve in his lower back catches and causes him to hiss in pain. He tries to play it off, hoping you didn’t notice the way he visibly grimaced at the sudden sharp pain.

“Logan? What's wrong?” You ask, concern etched in your voice. He refuses to meet your gaze, knowing it'll be harder to lie to you if he looks you in the eyes. Instead he forces one foot in front of the other, and takes a slow step forward.

“It’s nothin’. Just stiff from driving so much is all.”

He feels your hand wrap around his wrist as he starts to take another step, stopping him in place. He hangs his head, still refusing to look at you. He doesn't think he can handle the concern and worry that is undoubtedly written on your face.

“If you were anyone else on the planet, I might believe that.” You stand up next to him, and your grip on his wrist only tightens. His face heats up; a side effect of your questioning stare and close proximity.

“But I’ve seen you get impaled with a crow bar before. It healed before I even had time to fret over you. So what’s really going on?”

It hits him how naïve he was to ever believe that he’d be able to easily conceal what’s been happening inside his body from you. The effects of the adamantium poisoning have been becoming more physically apparent for a while now, and you of all people – someone so familiar with not only illness and injury, but also him – were bound to pick up on the fact that something is very different than the last time you saw him.

He finally looks at you, your face every bit as concerned as expected.

“My healing factor has started to slow down,” he says delicately, trying to keep his tone even. The last thing he wants to do is freak you out even more.

“Slow down? How?”

“The shit my bones are made of seems to finally be aging me.” He chooses to forgo using the word poison, but still answers as honestly as he can bring himself to.

“But you don’t need to worry yourself with that, ‘kay? That’s not why you’re here. Some back pain isn’t anything that I can’t handle,” he quickly adds when distress distorts your features.

You purse your lips, leaving him wondering how you’re going to respond.

There’s a sudden sensation radiate from where the skin of your palm and fingers are wrapped around his wrist – it’s a soft vibration, soothing and serene. It starts at his hand and travels up his arm before expanding through his chest, back, and eventually down to the soles of his feet.

For a few moments, he feels like he’s floating. The weight of the adamantium bones disappear for the first time in decades, leaving him feeling feather light. The feeling fades away as gradually as it appeared, and with it subsides the pinching in his lower back.

He realizes that he’s looking at you as if you grew a second head. He doesn’t know why he’s so taken off guard – he’s seen your powers first hand before. He just never imagined there would be a time that he’d actually learn how it feels to be on the receiving end of them.

He glances down at where you finally release your hold on his hand. When you pull away, he sees the remnants of a purple glow emanating from your palm.

“I figured you would have said no if I had asked beforehand. Am I wrong?”

“No,” he admits in a gruff tone. “Guess not.”

“Well? How does your back feel now?” You look at him with raised brows, as if you don’t already know the answer.

“Better. But don’t make a habit out of that. I want you saving your energy for Charles.”

Truthfully, he physically feels the best that he has in months. In addition to his back being free of the sharp pinching sensation, the chronic stiffness that has plagued his body is gone. Even his eyesight seems clearer.

But he thinks back to one of his earliest memories of you – the one that had presented itself in his most recent dream. He remembers the vibrancy of your power gradually dimming as you grew more tired and the way that your forehead glistened with sweat when you were worn out from excessive use of your powers.

You roll your eyes and plop back down on the edge of your cot.

“I’m more than capable of helping you and Charles both. Do you think I’d really let you suffer, knowing you’re in discomfort?”

He knows that trying to fight you on this is as about as useful as arguing with a brick wall.

“I don't doubt your capability,” he tells you gently as he eases towards the door to your room. “But I'm not the priority here. Now get some rest, alright?”

Your response is a brief nod that tells him he hasn’t heard the last of this conversation.

“Goodnight, Logan.”

Just down the hallway, he traces the tips of his fingers over where your hand had been wrapped around his until he falls into the most peaceful and comfortable sleep he’s had in over a year.

••••••

“She’s a healer. She worked at the school as a nurse and teacher. You remember her, yeah? She’s here to see if she can help us out some.”

Logan hands Charles a double dose of pills and watches until he’s swallowed them. They are already running low on the seizure suppressants as is, but he makes him double up anyway. He’d rather be on the safe side, since you are going to be working with Charles this morning.

“Of course I remember her,” Charles retorts after he’s taken the pills. “As if I could ever forget with how often I see her face appear in your mind.”

“Could you do me a favor and not mention that, maybe?” Logan grumbles. He doesn’t doubt that it’s true, but he’d prefer Charles to not mention it within the first five minutes of seeing you.

The door to the old water tower creaks open, allowing midday sun to infiltrate the dim space as you come inside. Caliban enters behind you.

“Hi, Charles,” you greet him cheerfully “It's so nice to see you.”

Your voice doesn’t give it away, but Logan notices the nervousness in your gait – in the way that your posture is rigid and your footsteps are shorter and quicker than normal as you walk over to them.

Charles gives you a smile – the first genuine smile that Logan has seen from him in as long as he can remember.

“Hello, my dear,” he beams at you. “We’ve missed you.”

You return his smile with a bashful one of your own, and wring your hands together in front of you.

“I’ve missed you guys, too,” you say, your eyes flickering between him and Logan. “I’m glad to be here. I’m going to be using my powers to try to get your seizures under control. Is that okay with you?”

“Anything sounds better than these two cramming pills down my throat like clockwork,” he grunts with a glare at Logan and Caliban.

“It’s not exactly fun for us either, you know,” Caliban scoffs.

“Enough, you two,” Logan interjects when Charles opens his mouth to respond. “We—” he motions to himself and Caliban, “are going to give them some privacy.”

He'd be lying if he said the thought of leaving you alone with Charles during what will undoubtedly be a vulnerable time didn’t make him nervous. But he doesn’t want to overcrowd and overwhelm him, either.

Though a large majority of Charles’ seizures are random, many have been brought on by a state of a emotional distress, too.

He knows that he doesn’t exactly possess a natural aura of peace like you do.

A hint of anxiety flashes across your features before you quickly compose yourself. Logan starts to follow Caliban’s lead to the door, but stops when he's directly in front of you.

He reaches out and almost puts a hand on your waist before he thinks twice of it. His fingers linger awkwardly at your hip for a moment before he drops the hand back down to his side.

“I'll be close by, okay? If you need anything,” he says to you lowly. He glances over his shoulder to see Charles now tending to his bonsai tree, not paying attention to anyone around him.

“I know,” you assure him with a smile and nod of your head. “Don’t worry. I won’t push him. If he starts to get agitated, frustrated, bored… I’ll stop immediately.”

Logan gives you one final, short nod before reluctantly following Caliban outside and back into the smelting plant.

“You sure do seem to be getting around well for someone who could barely walk yesterday,” Caliban says in a faux casual voice as he tugs the balaclava style mask off of his head as soon as he is out of the sunlight.

Logan sighs and curses under his breath, already knowing the direction that this conversation is headed.

“Now that I'm thinking about it, I also didn't hear you having any nightmares all the way from the water tower last night. Must have had a good night’s sleep.”

“What's your point?” Logan snaps. He yanks the fridge open, scanning the scarce shelves for something to eat.

He really needs to go to the grocery store once you've finished up with Charles. And buy you an actual bed. And stock back up on Charles’ medications –

“No point,” Caliban continues, “Just glad to see that you changed your mind about telling her about your condition is all. Even if you did threaten me within an inch of my life to not tell her right before you left for Colorado.”

“What can I say,” Logan grunts. “She isn't blind. She clocked it within an hour of being here.”

Logan spends the next hour alternating between pacing the floor of the smelting plant and smoking cigars outside of the water tower. He reminds himself repeatedly that everything must be going okay, because if it wasn't, he would know by now.

He also reminds himself of the intense feeling of tranquility that came over him when he felt the effects of your powers. He can’t imagine anyone not finding it euphoric – even Charles, in all of his stubbornness.

He's finishing up a cigar when you exit the water tower after what feels like an eternity. He immediately stubs it out, remembering how you used to tease him about getting cancer if he didn’t stop smoking.

It wouldn’t surprise him if that was an actual possibility for him these days.

“How’d it go?” he greets you. He tries to keep his voice neutral – doesn’t want to make it obvious how anxious he’s been for the last hour. “Did he do okay?”

“I guess we won’t really know until he either has a seizure or… doesn’t,” you sigh. “He did surprisingly well. But the damage that the Alzheimer’s has done to his brain is widespread. I doubt there’s much reversing it. My goals are to reduce the severity and frequency of the seizures and to stop the damage from progressing any further.”

The two of you walk side by side back to the smelting plant, where Logan opens the door for you.

“So that means that I might be staying here for quite some time.”

You ease past him through the small doorframe, your chest grazing against him ever so slightly. The familiar light scent of vanilla and honey lingers after you’re walking away.

Were you just smirking at him or is he hallucinating?

Scratch that, were you just flirting with him?

“I think I can find a way to be okay with that.”

He didn’t expect you to go back to Colorado anytime too soon, given how much you packed – and the fact that your fucking Christmas tree sits in the common area – but he can't ignore that hearing you imply that you have no intention of leaving in the immediate future brings him more comfort than it probably should.

With your back turned to him as you open the refrigerator, he’s unable to see your expression, but he hears you hum in response – a sound somewhere between amusement and contentment.

“But if I'm going to be staying here for any amount of time, the food situation is going to have to improve. How do you live like this?”

He sighs, remembering the current state of the fridge and cabinets. He ended up settling on an overripe banana for breakfast. He normally reserves grocery shopping for his off days – Mondays or Tuesdays – but those days had been occupied with traveling to and from Colorado this week.

“I’ve got some errands to run today,” he starts, feeling an inkling of nervousness settle in the pit of his stomach. “Get some groceries and refills on Charles’ medications… if you wanted to come with me.”

He tells himself that he invites you because it just makes sense – of course you need to familiarize yourself with the area that you're going to be living in, even if it's just temporary. It's important to know where the closest grocery store, and gas station, and pharmacy is.

And it also just makes sense that he would be the one who to show you around. Charles can't even go to the bathroom by himself and Caliban is allergic to the sun.

That's what he tells himself, anyway.

“I could be persuaded to go with you,” you drawl. “If…” You trail off, leaving Logan to look at you with a cocked brow.

“If you let me ride in the backseat of your limousine?”

••••••

“Well? Was it everything you thought it would be?”

Logan sits directly across from you in a small booth at a mom-and-pop diner. It’s nearly noon and you had yet to eat today, so Logan made the last minute decision to pull into the restaurant’s parking lot after acquiring Charles’ medications.

“What?” you question as you swallow a mouthful of chocolate chip pancakes. It may not be breakfast time anymore, but he knew you would appreciate the fact that this place serves all day breakfast.

“Being chauffeured around in a limousine.”

“For some reason the limo smelled like a Christmas tree farm exploded in it,” you say nonchalantly. “But the driver insisted on taking me out for all you can eat pancakes so I’m still going to leave him a good review.”

“I’m sure he had a perfectly good reason for his limo smelling like that,” he retorts in mock defense. “But he probably should try to take care of that before he goes back to work tonight,” he adds, making a mental note to pick up some air freshener at the store.

A cheeky grin spreads across your face. You look like you’re about give him some kind of smart remark when the waitress walks over to the booth with a steaming pot of coffee.

“Good to see you in here with someone for a change,” the older woman, who Logan knows is named Lucille without having to look at her name tag, remarks as she tops off both of your mugs. “Did you finally take my advice?” She asks Logan.

“Every time he comes in here I tell him that he needs to get on one of those dating apps,” she says to you before he can answer.

You immediately cover your mouth to keep from spewing your coffee across the table.

Logan’s face heats up by ten degrees. He should have known better than to trust Lucille to be able to read the room.

“No,” he snaps. “I have not downloaded Tinder. Or Bumble, or Hinge. Maybe you should give them a try and stop worrying about my love life.”

He shoos her away, but she just cackles and slaps him on the shoulder.

“Honey, I’ve been married for forty-five years.”

“Oh yeah? Where’s your ring?” He asks, nodding towards her naked ring finger.

“We’re not allowed to wear jewelry on the clock, Nosey Nelly,” she jabs back. You sit silently, watching the interaction with pursed lips to keep from laughing.

“Nosey Nelly,” Logan grumbles under his breath as he fishes his wallet out of his pants pocket. He pulls out his debit card and slaps it into her palm.

You finally release a snort of laughter when Lucille waddles away.

“I take it that’s your best friend?”

“Believe it or not, she’s an improvement from Caliban.”

The two of you finish your meal with easy flowing conversation. You tell him what led you to Colorado, and about how you worked part time at a veterinarian’s office and part time at a bookstore. He tells you about some of the drunk, unhinged customers that he's had in his limousine lately.

It’s easy for him to forget that less than forty-eight hours ago, he hadn’t seen you in over a year.

Before your lives were irrevocably altered, you had been one of the closest friends he had ever had. One of the most important people in his life. Sitting across from you now, it’s too easy for him to remember why that was.

••••••

Logan’s reluctant to go to work tonight.

And it’s not just because he fucking hates his job and isn’t in the mood to tolerate the bachelor party currently occupying his backseat.

To an extent, he’s always nervous to go to work. He works night shifts because Charles sleeps at night, and is therefore less likely to be triggered into a seizure during the nighttime hours. It’s the safest time for Logan to be away.

It hasn’t happened before, but that doesn’t mean it couldn’t. And with you now at the smelting plant, he worries about it happening while he’s away even more than he typically would.

He arrives at the strip club that the groom had requested he drive to and parks. They all drunkenly stagger out of the back of the vehicle, leaving Logan to relish in the silence after the door slams shut.

He pulls his phone from his coat pocket and sees that he has no messages.

He’d told you to text him if you needed anything, so it’s a good thing that you haven’t, right?

It’s just before midnight, so you're most likely asleep. The lack of a text is probably not anything as drastic as the conclusions that his brain is jumping to.

Still, he can't stop his fingers as he types out a message and hits send.

How’s the new bed?

After your brunch date – Lucille's words, not his – the two of you bought enough groceries to feed four people for a week and then went to the only furniture store in town to find you an upgrade from the fold out cot that they'd happened to have on hand when you arrived.

His phone dings just a minute later. He releases the breath he’d been holding before even reading your response.

It’s a major improvement. You were right - not too soft, not too firm. Though it feels a whole lot bigger than it did in the store.

He reads over the text at least five times and thinks back to your time in the mattress store earlier that day.

The first couple mattresses you tested out were too soft, the next few too firm. Logan didn’t mind that you were being indecisive – really. He was secretly relieved to have an excuse to spend more time with you, away from Caliban and Charles.

He laid down on a mattress that you hadn’t checked out yet and instantly thought that it was significantly better than his personal mattress at the smelting plant.

“What about this one?” He asks, patting the empty space next to him on the queen sized bed. You walk over to the opposite side of the bed and crawl in beside him. With your arms down at your sides, one rests against his. The mattress is more than big enough for you, but with him next to you, it’s a cozy fit.

He types: Is that a good thing or a bad thing? and presses send before he can overthink it. His screen shows that you read the message right away, and he can’t help but imagine the smirk on your face as you lay tucked beneath the covers.

The words ‘What do you think?’ appear on his screen.

He thinks he feels like a fucking teenager with the way that a few harmless, borderline flirtatious text messages from you has him imagining what it would be like to really share the bed with you.

His jeans begin to feel uncomfortably tight. He clicks the phone off and tosses it in the empty passenger seat beside him, before he says something that crosses a line that he can’t uncross.

••••••

The relief that your powers had provided Logan had been blissful but short-lived.

By the time he gets home from work at around four in the morning, his back pain has returned with a vengeance.

Everyone is asleep when he gets in, of course. He hobbles to his room as quietly as he can. Caliban and Charles are in the water tower, but he doesn’t want to wake you up. He hopes that by the time that you’re both awake later today, the pain will have subsided in his sleep.

Two hours after he lies down, he realizes that sleeping it off is an impossibility with the amount of discomfort he’s in. He’s done nothing but toss and turn in a futile attempt to find a comfortable sleeping position, the extra strength ibuprofen and his heating pad only doing so much to ease the stabbing sensation at the base of his spine.

He knows the answer to his problem is just down the hallway.

But it's early – the sun is just now starting to rise and he has yet to hear you stir from your room. He can't bring himself to wake you up over some back pain, knowing that you'll need to use your powers to help Charles soon.

He sits up with a deep groan, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. If he already can't sleep, he may as well make something to eat and settle the rumbling in his stomach.

Taking slow, short strides, he walks back down the hallway to the kitchen as quietly as he can manage.

He comes to a halt when he sees your door open, your head popping out from around the frame.

“Can’t sleep?” You ask, your voice huskier than normal with sleep.

“How’d you guess?”

You step into the hallway, still in a pair of plaid sleep pants and an oversized crewneck.

“Your bed creaks every time you move.” You cross your arms over your chest, standing less than half a foot away from him. There’s evident concern on your face when you take in his stiff posture. “This place has thin walls.”

“Sorry to keep you awake.” He looks down at the ground, embarrassed. “I’ll stay in the living roo—”

“Don’t be silly,” you stop him. You grab his hand in yours and begin to pull him back in the direction of his bedroom.

He thinks about protesting – part of him wants to tell you that you shouldn’t bother. He thinks he should tell you that he appreciates it, but he’s a lost cause, and the relief will only be temporary.

But your hand is too warm and your skin is too soft and in the end, he isn’t strong enough to deny himself the feeling of your touch, so he let’s you lead the way to his bed.

You drop his hand to position yourself on one side of the bed. You don’t get underneath the comforter, but you do pull it back on his side so that he can crawl beneath it.

His isn’t quite as big as your new bed – it’s only a full size mattress, so it’s even more cramped than when the two of you laid on the mattress in the store yesterday, but he isn’t complaining.

It's unchartered territory for you two, this type of intimacy. He doesn’t remember the last time he shared a bed with anyone, but if there’s one person on the planet that he trusts enough to allow next to him in such a vulnerable state, it’s you.

“Lay however is most comfortable for you,” you instruct him gently.

He maneuvers onto his side, facing you. You copy his position, your faces inches away from each other’s on a shared pillow.

“Now close your eyes,” you whisper.

He does as you ask, and then feels your palm rest against the thick stubble of his jaw. Your thumb grazes across the skin of his cheekbone. He melts into your touch before you’ve even started using your powers.

“Is this okay?” you murmur.

“Mm-hmm,” he sighs against your hand. “Could just lay like this for a while and I’d probably fall asleep. Don’t even need to use your powers.”

You snort and run the tips of your fingers through his beard.

“How about I do both? That okay?”

He nods, too tired to think about stopping you.

He falls asleep to the soft hum of your powers within minutes, and dreams of the color purple.

••••••

Over the next few weeks, everyone falls into a comfortable routine.

You continue to work with Charles for an hour in the mornings and then again in the evenings. Your powers help him more than Logan ever could have hoped for. Not only is this the longest he’s gone without having a seizure in months, but he’s also increasingly lucid and alert, and more like his old, spunky self than ever.

Most weeknights you cook dinner for everyone, and Tuesdays become the day that you join Logan in going to town for a weekly grocery restock and brunch at the same diner that he first took you to a few weeks ago.

He tries not to make it too obvious, but it quickly becomes one of the best parts of his week – even with Lucille’s relentless teasing about how there’s “no way you’re just friends” and Logan would be “the biggest idiot on the planet to not lock you down”.

Neither of you ever put much energy into disagreeing with her.

The other best parts of his week occur early in the mornings, before daylight breaks and Charles and Caliban are still sound asleep. He gets home from work and you move from your bed and into his, relieving him of any physical discomfort he could be experiencing from hours of driving around and lulling him to sleep.

The first few nights, he’d wake hours later to find that you had escaped back to your own room after he’d fallen asleep. Then, one morning, when he woke up, he opened his eyes to find your face resting against his shoulder.

You stopped bothering to go back to your own room after that.

This evening – Christmas eve – Logan sits on his bed and stares at the gift that he’d gotten you while you finish preparing the dinner that you’d been working on for the last few hours.

He feels silly. There hadn’t been any discussion on getting each other gifts and he worries that it’ll make you feel weird.

It’s an espresso machine – nothing too fancy, but it’ll get the job done. You had recently mentioned how much you miss the espresso machine that you had in Colorado. The house you had been renting came furnished, which included an espresso machine that you were unable to bring with you to Mexico.

He stopped by a Target before work a couple nights ago and picked it out. To top off how silly he feels, he’d completely forgotten to buy wrapping paper or even a gift bag, so he’ll just be handing it to you as is.

“Dinner is almost ready!” He hears your voice call from the kitchen.

The smell of honey glazed ham and fresh rolls wafts down the hallway. He places the box containing the espresso machine on the floor beside his bed, planning to give it to you after Charles and Caliban go to bed in a few hours.

When he rejoins everyone in the common area, Charles is watching Home Alone and Caliban is gathering plates and silverware for everyone while you remove a large dish of baked mac and cheese from the oven.

“Smells great,” Logan compliments as he grabs a beer out of the fridge. “Anything I can help with?” he asks, as if you hadn’t all but shooed him out of the kitchen just an hour ago.

You place the casserole dish on a trivet before grabbing one of the plates that Caliban had set out.

“Yes, actually,” you say, surprising him. You hand him the plate with a small smirk. “You can make Charles a plate.”

“Oh, can I?” He takes a step closer to you, taking the plate and grinning down at you. “Are you sure you trust me to do that?”

“Hey, it’s not my fault that you’ve been alive two hundred years and haven’t taken the time to learn to cook.”

“Well, I guess I'll just have to have you teach me-"

“Would you two stop flirting and get me some ham?” Charles voice booms over the television and silences you both.

Logan notices you purse your lips to keep from smiling as you turn your attention back to the spread of food across the dining room table.

Soon, you’re all four sat around the dining room table with plates piled high with traditional holiday dishes. Logan is halfway through clearing his plate when Charles clears his throat to speak.

“This is wonderful,” he directs at you. “Thank you very much. You know, this all feels very familiar to me…” he trails off, glancing between you and Logan from across the table. The smile on his face fades, and in it’s place appears an expression of confusion.

From the corner of his eye, Logan sees your grip on your fork tighten.

“Thank you, Charles,” you tell him. You try to sound cheerful, but Logan doesn’t miss the nervous edge to your voice. He knows that you’re noticing the same thing as him. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

“Yes, these candied sweet potatoes are delicious,” Caliban interjects in an obvious attempt to maintain easy conversation. “You'll have to give me your rec—”

“This feels so familiar,” Charles repeats and all three of you go silent.

In his gut, Logan fears that he knows what is coming. It always starts this way. One minute, everything will be perfect. The next, something triggers a memory, or a feeling, and Charles is hit with the weight of the past – with the weight of the trauma that his brain normally blocks out.

“This feels like… how Christmas used to feel. When we’d have dinner at the.. at the mansion. With all of our friends before I.. before I killed them—”

“Charles,” Logan says firmly, but Charles continues to stare into space. “It wasn't your fault. Okay? Let's enjoy this nice dinner. Do you want some more green beans—”

But he’s unable to finish his sentence before it begins. The exact thing he’s been the most terrified of since you arrived here weeks ago.

Across from him, Caliban's face is frozen in agony. Beside him, your mouth is open as if to scream, but no sound comes out. Every one around him is still, and his body suddenly feels a few hundred pounds heavier.

It's been weeks since Charles’ last seizure, but Logan knew it was too good to be true – knew that it was bound to happen again eventually. He'd planned for this, knowing the effects of the psionic energy would hurt you as they do Caliban.

Logan forces himself into a standing position by pushing off of the dining room table, and then takes as big of steps as he possibly can to get to the opposite side, where Caliban and Charles sit.

He ignores the blinding nerve pain all over his body, he ignores the intense ringing in his ears, he ignores the way it feels as if all of the air has been ripped from his lungs and reaches down to grab the bag of medication from the compartment beneath Charles’ wheelchair – where he's made sure to keep it, in case of this exact scenario.

Despite his shaking hands, he manages to retrieve an injection and uncap it. He jabs the tip of the needle into the flesh of Charles’ shoulder with as much force as he can muster, then collapses to the floor beside him.

Charles releases a grief stricken groan, realizing what had happened. Logan hears both you and Caliban gasping for air.

“I'm sorry,” Charles cries. “I'm so sorry..”

Logan pulls himself off of the ground using the edge of the table and instantly turns his attention to you. Your eyes are wide and your hands are visibly shaking in your lap, but you exhale the breath you'd been holding when your eyes meet Logan's.

You push your chair back, standing and closing the distance between the two of you. Your hands grip the tops of Logan's biceps. He instinctively rests his on the sides of your stomach.

“Are you okay?” You ask, your voice wobbly and several octaves higher than normal.

“I'm fine,” he assures you delicately. “Are you okay?”

You nod, hesitantly at first and then more confidently as you take him in and seem to realize that he really is alright.

“I'm fine too,” Caliban grunts from across the table. “Don’t worry yourselves with me.”

Logan and you both quickly retract your hands, breaking the embrace. You turn your attention to Charles, who seems to be in another world.

“Charles? Are you alright?” You ask him softly.

“Hm?” He hums as he glances up at you. “Oh, yes. I’m alright. I think.. I think I’d like to go to bed now,” he murmurs. Logan, you, and Caliban all exchange glances before Logan tosses the bag of medication to Caliban.

“Give him a double dose of the suppressants and some sleep medicine,” Logan instructs him. Caliban nods wordlessly and wheels Charles away from the dining room table, towards the smelting plant’s door.

Once they’ve left the building, Logan turns to you. You look visibly shaken, and he can’t blame you. He remembers all too well how frightening the effects of the seizure was the first time he experienced it. Even with this one being relatively short lived, he knows it had to have been more painful and scary for you than it was for him.

“I’ll clean all of this up, okay?” He says, gesturing towards the half eaten dinners and the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. “You go relax. Take a shower, lay down for a while—”

“Really, Logan. I'm okay, I prom—”

“Will you do that for me?”

To his surprise, you don't object any further. You give him a small nod, and a comforting squeeze to his hand as you walk past him.

He doesn't release the sigh of both relief and frustration that he’d been holding in until he hears the shower turn on a few moments later.

••••••

As soon as Logan finishes tidying up from dinner, he cuts two small slices of an apple pie you had baked and puts them on a plate for the two of you to share.

Your door is slightly cracked, the soft orange light from your table lamp spilling into the hallway. He knocks quietly and waits for you to tell him to come in.

You’re in your pajamas, tucked under a blanket with a book partially obscuring your face. You do little to acknowledge his presence, so he takes a seat on the edge of your bed and places the plate of pie beside him.

The room looks significantly different than it did just a few weeks ago. In addition to the new bed, you'd also acquired a vintage dresser and an area rug that you’d found for cheap at a thrift store. You have books in piles throughout the room, one of the things that you were most adamant about bringing with you from Colorado.

“Charles is alright,” he tells you gently. “He must have just been really tired. He didn’t nap much today. Caliban said he fell asleep really quickly after taking his medicine.”

“Except that wasn’t why he had a seizure,” you sigh, closing your book. Logan now has a better view of your face, and the first thing he notices is that your eyes look red-rimmed and watery. You sit up straight, and he inches closer to you on the bed.

“Hey, what’s going—”

“It was definitely my fault that he had a seizure,” you sniffle, looking at him with defeat.

“What? No,” Logan shakes his head. You have a blanket draped across your lap, but Logan places his hand on your knee over top of it. “What makes you say that?”

“I always work with Charles for an hour in the mornings and an hour in the afternoons,” you start, frustration evident in your voice. “But this afternoon, I cut our session short because he wasn’t really in the best mood and I wanted to get started on prep for dinner.”

You wipe underneath your eye with the sleeve of your shirt and look away from Logan’s gaze.

“Sweetheart, you can’t blame yourself for this,” he assures you as he rubs slow circles on your knee with his thumb. “He was having seizures almost every single day before you got here. You’re not the reason he had a seizure today. But you are the reason he’s been able to go weeks without having one.”

“Okay?” He prompts when you don’t respond. You finally look him in the eye again, and offer a small nod of agreement.

He hands you the plate of apple pie, earning a small smile from you.

“Wait here. I’ve got something for you,” he tells you as he stands up and begins walking towards your door.

“Something for me?” you question, but he’s already halfway down the hallway.

He grabs the espresso machine from beside his bed and heads back to your room. He still feels nervous to give it to you, but right now he’s just hoping that it will help cheer you up.

When he re-enters your room, you’re forking a bite of pie into your mouth and freeze when you see what he’s carrying. He sits back down on the edge of the bed, still holding the box. You sit the plate of pie on your bedside table and scoot closer to him.

“Logan, you didn’t have to,” you murmur. He hands you the box and you hug it to your chest, but only look at him. He thinks your eyes are starting to look watery again. “I feel so bad. I didn’t get you anything—”

He waves his hand in dismissal, not surprised at all by your reaction.

“I know I didn’t have to. Just wanted to. Is that okay?”

You inspect the espresso machine with a bashful grin. “Thank you. I love it,” you assure him with a gentle squeeze to his hand. “I just wish I had gotten you something, too.”

“That’s not necessary,” he says, staring down at where your hand holds his. “You give me everything I need just by being here.”

You go still at his words with a look he can’t quite read on your face. You pull your hand away from his before placing the espresso box on the floor next to your bed. The hand that previously held his comes to cradle his face, your thumb grazing along his cheekbone. He turns his head ever so slightly to the side so that his lips graze against your palm. He kisses the skin once, then twice, and your eyes flutter closed.

His heightened senses don’t miss the way your heart rate picks up, or the way that you hold your breath as his lips linger on your skin.

“What are you thinking about?” He murmurs into the side of your hand. You open your eyes, your pupils dilated.

“Same thing I’ve been thinking about for years now,” you whisper as you lean forward, pulling his face to you.

You capture his lips in yours, opening up for him without hesitation. He slips his tongue into your mouth, the sensation simultaneously feeling brand new and like you’ve done this dance a hundred times before.

He scoots further back onto the mattress, away from the edge. He pulls you with him, guiding you onto his lap. You straddle him, his hands resting on your lower back. You fist your hands around the fabric of his flannel, pulling him flush against you.

It's years of pent up desire and longing that you pour into each other. You drag your teeth along the swell of his bottom lip and he groans into your mouth, resisting the urge to buck his hips up against your center.

He knew you looked sweet, smelled sweet – but never would he have guessed that you’d taste even sweeter. Even if it weren’t for the faint hint of cinnamon and apples from the pie you’d nibbled on, he’d think you were the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.

You grind down against the uncomfortable bulge contained by his jeans and whimper – the prettiest sound he’s ever fucking heard and he hasn’t even touched you yet. You pull back, your chest heaving from lack of air.

“Why didn’t we do that years ago?” you ask breathlessly. He reaches up to your face, tucking some stray hairs behind your ear.

“Because I’m a fucking idiot,” he answers quickly. His eyes lock on your kiss swollen lips and he thinks you’ve never looked prettier than you do right now – staring down at him with puffy lips wet with his kiss. “But now that I’ve kissed you, I’m not gonna stop. Gonna kiss you for as long as you’ll let me.”

And to prove his point, he starts trailing wet, open mouth kisses along your jaw and down your throat. You throw your head back, giving him unhindered access to the skin of your neck. He alternates between kissing and nipping the tender flesh, leaving a damp trail across your skin.

You grab at the hem of your shirt and Logan pulls away to allow you to tug it over your head. You’re left naked from the waist up and Logan is left feeling like his cock is going to break through the zipper of his jeans.

With your tits directly in front of his face, he latches his mouth to one nipple and palms the other in his hand. You rock yourself against his erection, chasing the relief that the friction provides you.

“Logan,” you pant from above him. “Please—”

He pulls his mouth away from you with a wet pop, leaving your nipple glistening and taut.

“Tell me what you want, honey.”

You let out a low whimper at the pet name and drag your fingers through his hair. He toys with the waistband of your pajamas pants, popping the elastic band lightly against your skin.

“Your mouth,” you say, the words somewhere between a whine and a plea. “I wanna feel your mouth on me.”

He groans at the bluntness of your words. Hearing you say that you want his mouth on you has his cock throbbing in his pants.

“Yeah?” He taunts as he maneuvers you off of his lap. He quickly tugs his own shirt over his head and tosses it somewhere behind him. Your eyes trail down the expanse of his chest, your mouth slightly agape.

He tilts your head so that you’re looking at his face again and tugs at your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb.

In that moment, he hopes you never stop looking at him like that.

“You gonna sit on my face?”

You nod, eagerly. You push your pajama pants down past your ass and thighs, and Logan helps pull them the rest of the way over your calves and ankles. You lean forward, reaching for the waistline of his jeans and fumbling with the button until it pops open.

He sees you completely naked before him and his brain goes momentarily blank. He can’t believe he actually gets to see you like this – bare for him and more perfect than he ever could have envisioned.

And believe him, he had tried. Nothing could have prepared him for how it actually feels to see you, touch you, taste you after years of yearning for you.

“Lay down for me?” You ask with a small laugh, snapping him out of his trance. He does as you ask, placing his head on one of your pillows.

You straddle his chest, your back to his face. He helps you inch backwards until your pussy hovers directly over his mouth. He pauses for a moment, spreading your thighs apart with his hands to give him a clear view of your already dripping cunt before yanking you the rest of the way down to his mouth.

You moan as soon as his tongue slides through your wet folds, bracing your hands on the defined planes of his chest. The sweet and salty tang of you fills his mouth and he has to resist moaning goddamn, I love you into your cunt.

He could get drunk off of the flavor of you.

You grind yourself against his face, your juices coating his beard and your inner thighs. He’s so focused on working you with his lips and tongue that he doesn’t even notice you pushing his jeans and boxers down until he feels his cock spring back and slap his lower belly.

“Fuck,” you moan at the sight of him. You pump him in your hand, smearing the pre-cum from his slit down his shaft. “You're so big. I don’t know how you’ll fit inside me.”

He hears you spit, then feels it drip across his tip. You smear the warm wetness down his length and press a kiss to the side of his cock before taking him in your mouth. The head nudges against the back of his throat before you pull back, then ease back in, slow and deep.

He’s always loved your lips, but right now he’s doesn’t think he could ever love them more. He wants to watch as you hollow your cheeks and bob your head along his length, but that’s going to have to wait for another time.

Right now, he’s right where he wants to be. He has your swollen clit locked between his lips, sucking on it to the point that your legs quiver around his head. You lean forward, pressing your chest against his stomach as you run your tongue down the entirety of his cock and stroke him in your hand.

“I’ve waited so long to taste you,” he grunts from beneath you. The vibrations of his voice making your pussy clench around the finger that he teases your hole. “This cunt’s so fuckin’ sweet.”

He eases his index finger past your entrance, your walls constricting around the digit. “And so fuckin’ tight,” he adds, pumping in and out of you as you begin to move forwards, then backwards, up, and then down – grinding against his finger.

“Logan, I'm gonna cum,” you cry and it makes his balls tighten. He feels it – the way you gush around his finger and the way your legs clench around his head.

You ride out your orgasm above him, and then collapses against his chest. Your skin is sticky with sweat against his, despite the fact that the current cold front has the smelting plant colder than normal tonight.

You roll off of him, falling onto the mattress next to him. Your slick glistens on your thighs in the soft glow of your lamplight. It's one of the most beautiful things he's ever seen, he thinks. You fucked out and delirious from your climax.

But he thinks he might fucking die if he has to spend one more second of his abnormally long life not knowing how it feels to be buried inside you.

He helps pull you into a sitting position, and then lays you down in his place. Your tits heave as you try to regain control of your breathing. He's on his knees, fisting himself in his hand as he nudges your knees open. Your eyes are locked on his cock, a look of half excitement and half terror.

“You can take it, honey. I know you can,” he coos.

He slaps the tip against your clit, then glides it up and down your wet length. Not entering you quite yet, but coating himself in your slick. He looks down at himself next to your pretty, wet cunt and imagines how it’ll be to see it sliding in and out of you.

“Just been a while, that’s all,” you say, pulling him down to the by the back of the neck. He lines himself up at your entrance, nudging just the tip in. Even that’s a stretch for you, he can tell by the way your mouth forms an O shape.

He goes still for a moment – for your sake, but for his own, as well. He has to adjust to the warm tightness of your pussy before he trusts himself to go any deeper.

“I know, baby. Been a while for me too. Been waiting for you for a long time.”

He slates his lips over yours, kissing you messy and deep as he slowly sheaths himself inside you. He stills again once he’s buried to the hilt, and breaks the kiss to look down at you.

“You okay?” He murmurs. He props himself up on one forearm by your head, and brings his free hand to roll one of your nipples between his thumb and forefinger.

You give him another eager nod, and wrap your legs securely around his hips, hooking your ankles together just below his ass.

“Mm-hmm,” you sigh. “Need you to move now, Logan.”

With his cock throbbing inside you, he doesn’t make you tell him twice. His length drags along the soft, spongy interior of your walls as he pulls out and eases back in. He gives you a few languid, slow strokes to accommodate the newfound stretch before it's hard for him to hold back.

He gets lost in it all – in the wet, tight heat of your cunt, in the sounds that your bodies make as he repeatedly snaps into you, in every expression on your face and every noise that slips past your lips.

You snake your arms around his abdomen, your hands coming to rest on his lower back.

“H-how’s your back?” You stammer out as he continues to piston his hips forward.

“I've never been better,” Logan grunts, resting his sweat slicked forehead against yours.

It's the truth. He’s never felt better than he does right now, between your legs – even if he is feeling this in his back. He'll deal with any and all repercussions later, once he's felt you cum around his cock while you cry his name.

You smile up at him as if to say wanna bet?

You flatten your hands across his skin at the base of his spine, and he doesn’t have to be able to see it to know what you're doing. He's experienced the effects of your powers enough by now to recognize them instantly – the low vibration they emit and the immediate warmth that spreads throughout his body.

“Gonna make me cum, honey,” he warns you. “Feels too good.” He feels your walls constrict around him when he calls you honey.

“Kiss me and I’ll cum with you,” you tell him in a breathy voice that he could listen to talk in all fucking night.

He kisses you again, this time more hurried than anytime before as he chases both of your releases. He spills into you with a deep groan as your cunt spasms around him. You moan his name into his mouth until he stills inside you, the last ropes of his cum filling you up.

He isn’t sure how long the two of you stay like that – with him still tucked inside you, laying pressed against you with his face nuzzling the crook of your neck. You trail your fingers up and down his spine, the sensation the only thing grounding him to reality in his post orgasm haze.

Finally, he pulls back enough to look down at you.

“Stay here,” he says earnestly. “Stay with me. Don't go back to Colorado. One day, we’ll go anywhere you want to. Just the two of us. But right now, please stay—”

“Logan,” you shush him gently. “I wasn’t planning on going back to Colorado. Or anywhere without you.”

He exhales, and kisses you on the forehead before finally pulling out of you and plopping down beside you. He tucks you between his chest and his arm, your head resting just above his heart.

“You know, this new bed of yours is a whole lot comfier than mine,” he comments casually.

“Hmm,” you hum and tilt your head to look up at him. “You should probably sleep here tonight. For your back, of course.”

He laughs, sleep threatening to overtake him at any second. He presses a lazy kiss to your forehead.

“I'm not going anywhere without you, honey.”

••••••

some of my other logan works

diet pepsi - old man logan x reader limousine sex

by the end of the night - worst variant logan has nightmares and mutant reader with emotional regulation abilities helps him sleep better

claw kink drabble

thank you so much for reading 🫶🏻

[quarterlifekitty]

I just read the baby trapping HC’s… what if it was the reverse? reader baby trapping THEM

I think that depends entirely upon how cleverly you went about it! I’m gonna answer this with the assumption that they match your freak on the matter lmao

cw: dubcon, baby trapping

And as a preamble: it’s literally so easy for you. For any of them. Because quite honestly if they’re hard, and you say you’re on birth control, they’re gonna believe you. And really, most of them probably would’ve just assumed you were if you let them hit it raw. But we’re gonna say you lied about being on the pill for this ask.

Gaz is such a sweet guy. He’s literally just like “I’m happy if you’re happy, love” when you tell him the news. These things happen, and he has no reason not to believe you, right? What does it matter as long as you’re both happy?

Soap has his suspicions about it. But again, it’s not like he was really pressing you for reassurance that it was safe when he came inside you— when he gets like that, the dog in him takes over and there’s no stopping him. And maybe he’s not sure initially, to be honest, but then he thinks about a little bundle that has the same eyes as you, and he just can’t bring himself to be upset. Even if you are a liar.

Ghost, regardless of how he feels on the news, is going to investigate. He can’t help himself. Fucker is nosy. And you would’ve known this! So you’ve got it all set up for him to find. Water glass on your nightstand, the drawer just slightly ajar— not even enough to see inside, but enough to make him curious. He opens, sees the round of pills, and the timing all checks out. All taken right up until recently— when you tested positive. And you’re not careless to leave them in the trash. They were flushed. And from before that— you have drawer in the kitchen where you often shove the stray contents of your handbag. And there are receipts. A few months worth, from the pharmacy, with exactly what you bought. If you have a menstrual/symptom calendar app on your phone, it’s all logged. There are notifications in your reminder app telling you to refill your prescription. A number in your contacts that matches up with the doctor listed on the prescription. It’s the fact that it’s too neat that tips him off. Every piece of evidence he could’ve ever asked for is there, and that’s how he knows it isn’t natural. And it makes him smile. It’s touching— how much care you put into securing him in your life forever. Kid’ll be a terror, with the two of you as the parents. Too capable.

Price had a feeling in his gut when you told him you were on the pill. He thought about pulling out just to see how far you’d take things. In the end, finishing inside of you was like calling your bluff to him. He’d be fine with waiting a month or two to see if he was right. In the meantime, he’ll be looking at paint swatches for the nursery.

König is not looking a gift horse in the mouth. But if he does find out, he’s actually grateful. Saved him the trouble of asking you to have his baby, which was just one of a few questions wracking his nerves when it came to you. And this provides him the perfect opportunity to ask you to marry him! Doesn’t have to torture himself with sussing out your ring size, the kind you’d want, waiting for just the right moment. He asks you when you tell him you’re pregnant— it’s like everything is coming together. It’s a fairy tale ending for him!

Nikolai confronts you when you tell him that you’re pregnant. There’s a sly smile on his face. He teases a bit. Isn’t that just so strange? That you’d be unlucky enough for that tiny little chance of it failing was enough. And he has a way of making you squirm, of prodding you until you tell him what he wants. You can’t help but smile when he smiles, feeling a little giddy. He makes it seem all light and cute— so you do spill the truth. And he’ll pick you up and spin you as he laughs. His malyshka is so naughty, isn’t she? Lying to him like that, like he wouldn’t find out. Like wouldn’t give her a baby just as soon as she asked. Like he wasn’t planning on pulling a similar move in the near future.

[seospicybin]

TILL DEATH DO US PART.

Lee Know x reader. (s)

Synopsis: You and Minho head to a cabin for a weekend getaway but beneath the seemingly normal relationship, both harbor dark secrets and hidden desires to end the marriage by any means necessary. (13,1k words)

Author's note: Happy birthday to the poster boy to my spooky Halloween fics, Lee Know 🦇

Content warning: Violence, graphic imagery, blood, toxic romance. Readers discretion is advised!

Minho wants to kill you.

He’s reached the point where he can no longer tolerate you. You've crossed the line of things you shouldn’t do and checked off every item that finally leads him to this decision: he wants to kill you. He carefully crafts a plan, asking himself all the basic questions.

What? A plan to kill you.

Minho has been holding back his rage, but it keeps mounting and mounting. He believes that ending your life will release it all, finally bringing him peace. He thinks of it as a purge, sending you to your demise to purify his soul.

Who? It’s you.

You'll be the victim of his plan. His wife, the one he no longer wants to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish. But the ‘till death do us part’—he’ll gladly do that himself, with his own bare hands.

And it’s him who's going to kill you.

Minho considered hiring a contract killer—it would’ve been easy, and he could have kept his hands clean. But the little compassion he has left for you tells him this needs to be done personally, and in private. No one has to know the terrible things you've done to make him want to kill you.

As a husband, the least he can do is protect your dignity as his wife.

And as a killer, he’ll try to make it quick and painless.

When? This weekend.

Last night, before bed, he told you he wanted to spend the weekend together. You didn’t ask why, just agreed right away. You needed time away to memorize and practice your lines for the short film you’ll be starring in at the end of the month.

Minho has barely begun but his plan is already in motion.

-

Minho sees you lugging a duffel bag in one hand and your purse in the other. Without hesitation, he strides over to help.

“Let me take that,” he offers, snatching the duffel from your hand.

You flash him a smile and plant a quick kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, honey.”

While you settle into the car, Minho places your duffel in the trunk next to his own bag. He unzips his bag briefly to double-check the contents: all the tools he needs for the weekend—sharp, heavy, and metallic—gleam in the sunlight as it hits them. He zips it up and slams the trunk shut, ready for the three-hour drive ahead.

You, already comfortable in the passenger seat, put on your sunglasses and prop your feet against the dashboard. Flipping through the script in your lap, you chew gum obnoxiously, popping bubbles every few minutes, each burst louder than the last.

“There are snacks in the backseat,” Minho says, hoping to distract you from the gum.

You turn just enough to see the stash of chips, drinks, and bottles of wine. Supplies he bought for the weekend in the cabin. Without much interest, you go back to reading.

“I bought your favorite,” he tries again.

“I concentrate better when I’m chewing gum,” you respond flatly, flipping the page.

Minho grits his teeth but stays silent. You hear the scoff he doesn’t manage to suppress.

Dropping your feet to the floor, you snap the script closed, marking your place with a finger. Turning toward him slightly, you say, “It’s scientifically proven that chewing gum improves concentration in visual memory tasks. Surprised you didn’t know that, being a doctor and all.”

Though you aren’t looking, he knows you're wearing that condescending smile, the one that implies you’re smarter than him. It’s a look he’s grown used to over the years, but today it grates more than ever.

Minho’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel. He fights the urge to jerk the wheel into a tree—just one hard turn would wipe that smug grin off your face. But no, that’s too messy and he’s not ready to blow his plan just yet.

He inhales deeply to steady his nerves. “What kind of movie are you working on this time?” he asks, pretending to show interest.

You raise a brow at his sudden curiosity but answer anyway. “It’s a thriller.”

“What’s it about?” Minho presses, not because he cares, but because he needs to keep you talking. Anything to shut you up about the gum.

“A girl gets kidnapped and held in a basement,” you explain briefly, scribbling notes in your script.

Minho forces himself to feign interest. "And what’s the catch?"

You plainly chuckle. "Like I’m going to spoil it for you."

"Because I probably won’t get to see it anyway," he retorts with a laugh, the irony not lost on him—after all, you won’t be around to finish it.

You sigh but eventually give in. "The girl tries to make her captor fall in love with her."

Minho holds back a laugh. He already knows it's going to be another bad movie. Lucky for you, he’ll be saving you from further embarrassment.

"Let me guess. You’re going to get naked again?" he asks, sneering.

Your deep, frustrated sigh is all the confirmation he needs. “So what if I am? It’s my body.”

He shrugs, eyes fixed on the road. “Sure, but haven’t you done it enough already? That’s like what… your fifth movie in a row?”

Your pencil scratches violently across the page. “Are you bored of my tits now?”

Minho stays silent, gripping the wheel tighter. Your next comment stings more than you know.

“Remember when you used to be obsessed with them? Oh, wait—when was the last time you even touched me?” You sneer, adding a little “tch” at the end of your sentence that makes his blood boil.

He once again pictures slamming on the brakes, imagining your pencil impaled your eye. But no. He breathes deeply and reminds himself that you’ll be gone soon enough.

“I need to pee,” you grumble, shifting in your seat.

“We’re almost there. Hold it,” he snaps, not caring about your discomfort.

“I'll pee in the car then,” you retort, already unbuttoning your jeans.

With an exasperated sigh, Minho jerks the car into a sudden U-turn, sending your head against the window. He pulls into a gas station, parking roughly by the entrance.

“Go ahead. Do your business.”

You storm out of the car, slamming the door behind you as you head inside. After a few minutes, Minho watches as you return from the restroom, only to stop and flirt with the cashier.

He taps the steering wheel impatiently, his eyes narrowing as he sees you and the cashier sharing a laugh. His patience runs thin, and before long, he exits the car, marching over to you.

"Let’s go," he growls, grabbing your hand.

You pull away, smirking. "Let him guess first."

"Guess what?"

The cashier laughs, clearly amused. "Trying to guess which movie I’ve seen her in," he explains.

You lean against the counter, offering the man a flirty smile. "I’ll give you a hint. It has something to do with the color blue."

Minho’s eyes darken, his anger bubbling beneath the surface, he knows exactly that you’re doing this just to annoy him.

The man’s face lights up as he gets the answer, "Blue Daisy!"

You clap softly and smile brightly, "That’s right! What did you think of my tits in that movie?"

The cashier falters, his smile faltering as he glances nervously at Minho. "Pardon?"

"Oh, come on. There's a scene where I take off my bathrobe," you tease, toying with the lighters on the counter.

"They’re... nice," the man replies and then looks away, clearly uncomfortable.

You sigh dramatically, glancing at Minho as you say, "Apparently, my husband doesn’t think so."

The cashier looks at Minho in disbelief. "You’re married?"

"Unfortunately, yes," you answer with a fake, sad smile.

Minho takes a deep breath, trying to keep his composure, he grabs you hand tighter and asks, "Are you done?"

You yank your hand away and brush past him, your shoulder grazing his as you head back to the car.

Just a few more hours, he reminds himself. Soon, it’ll all be over.

-

Now that you've known the who, the what and the when. The next question is where?

The cabin looms in the distance, nestled deep within the woods by the lake. As he gets out the car, Minho takes in the familiar sight—the water reflecting the afternoon sun, the towering trees surrounding the cabin, the peace and quiet. It’s secluded, far from the rest of the world.

You get out of the car and head straight for the trunk to collect your things.

"I’ll take the bags inside," Minho says, rushing over before you can lift the trunk lid, "Just grab the groceries from the backseat "

Shrugging, you open the back door and gather the bags of groceries, holding them against your chest. You don’t ask questions, not when you’ve been here so many times before. You punch in the code to retrieve the key from the safety box, opening the cabin door with ease.

Minho stands by the car for a moment, breathing in the last of the summer air before the season shifts. He pauses, scanning the quiet surroundings, appreciating how isolated it all feels.

No neighbors. No signal. Just the lake, the trees, and the silence.

It’s perfect.

-

Minho drags all of your things and his inside, then drops them in the living room. He’s greeted by the musty air of a cabin that hasn’t been lived in for over a month, and the dusty framed photos on top of the fireplace—his family, his parents, a childhood snapshot, and one of the two of you spending a week here for an extra honeymoon.

He remembers taking the picture with his phone, the two of you looking so happy lying in the hammock together, your heads resting against each other. Your hair was still its natural color back then, before you bleached it for the movie role.

What he doesn’t remember is how in love he was—why he decided to marry you. His eyes, once filled with affection, now only see hatred and resentment, two black orbs filled with void.

The sound of rustling plastic snaps him out of his thoughts, and his gaze shifts to your figure in the kitchen, tossing expired food into a trash bag.

Before you can notice, Minho silently takes the small duffel bag into the basement, placing it next to the cupboard where the hunting rifles are stored.

When he returns, you’re still in the kitchen, unpacking groceries. He gathers the remaining bags to take upstairs, but as his foot lands on the first step, you call for him.

“Are you going to cook dinner?” you ask, filling a pitcher with tap water.

“Yes. I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he replies without looking.

Minho drops everything in the corner of the bedroom, noticing your makeup bag already by the sink in the bathroom. He changes his clothes quickly before heading back downstairs to cook, just like he promised. He starts preparing dinner, laying out the ingredients on the counter. While seasoning the tenderloins with salt and pepper, he watches you chop vegetables at the other end.

“You have to cut them thinner,” he says.

“What difference does it make?” you mutter, ignoring him.

Minho carefully lays the tenderloins on the hot pan, the meat sizzling as it hits the metal. “Watch the meat,” he says, swapping tasks with you and taking over the vegetable chopping.

He notices you eye roll as you reluctantly take his place by the stove. After a while, you attempt to flip the steaks and he quickly stops you.

“It’s not ready yet!” he snaps.

You immediately throw your hands up in defeat while still holding the wooden spatula in one, “You know what? I’ll just wait at the table, drinking wine,” you say, this time making no effort to hide your eye roll.

Since the sun hasn’t fully set yet, you suggest dining on the back patio, where the sunset offers its best view, even though the air is getting cooler.

It’s always been like this—sitting far apart, the space between you thick with dead air. You both eat in silence, sipping your wine.

Minho remembers that tonight possibly will be your last so he decides to start a conversation.

“How’s the script going?” he asks, wiping the sauce off his plate with the last piece of meat.

“Going well,” you reply curtly, licking your lips.

Minho leans back in his chair. “Who’s that guy… the one helping with your acting?”

You pull your jacket tighter against the cool wind. “Ryan?”

“Yeah, him,” Minho says, taking a sip of his wine. “You’re not working with him for your next role?”

“He’s busy with other things,” you answer, tucking your hair behind your ear.

Minho stabs a piece of carrot with his fork. “So, you’re not the only one he’s… working with?”

You stop eating abruptly and look at him, “Pardon?”

“He’s working with other actors too, right?”

“Well, yeah, it’s his job,” you reply, more casually this time.

As the last rays of sunlight hit you, casting a golden glow like a halo, Minho feels a pang of something. Sadness, maybe. He’s certain it’ll be the last time he sees you on this light so he takes it all in.

Soon, you catch him staring. “What are you looking at?”

“You,” he simply answers with a cryptic smile.

Your eyes meet for a moment and Minho searches for something in your gaze, some lingering emotion, but the gaze doesn't last long enough for him to know for sure as you look away.

After dinner, you both sit in the living room, playing a quiet game of chess. The ticking of the old clock fills the silence as Minho watches you fall into the trap he’s set. It’s ironically fitting, like you’re handing him your life, allowing him to end it with a simple move of the black knight.

“I won,” he says, a faint smile of triumph on his lips.

You don’t respond but instead, draining your wine in one gulp. “I’m tired,” you sigh.

As Minho packs away the chess pieces, he throws a smug comment your way. “You always get tired when you lose.”

You ignore him, heading to the kitchen to leave your glass in the sink and head upstairs.

Once you're out of sight, Minho makes another trip to the basement, unlocking the cupboard with the hidden key. Inside, he finds the hunting rifle. It’s been a while, but he still remembers how to use it.

Loading two shells into the chamber, he clicks it shut and for a second, he feels tempted to fire a shot just for the thrill, but that would ruin the surprise so he tucks the rifle back into the cupboard and turns off the lights as he heads upstairs.

When he gets to the bedroom, the bed is empty. He hears the water running—you're probably halfway through your skincare routine. He changes into sleepwear and lies down, charging his phone even though the reception is useless here.

The rustling of leaves outside is the only sound he's hearing until Minho begins to drift off. Just then, he feels a kiss on his cheek.

His eyes flutter open, and he finds you leaning over him, your lips brushing against his. The kiss is long and lingering, your hand gently cradling his face.

When you pull back, you smile softly. “Goodnight, honey.”

For a moment, Minho says nothing, watching as you turn and lie down, your back to him. A strange feeling twists in his chest—a hesitation he hasn’t felt in a long time. The kiss... something about it felt different.

He shifts slightly, his brow furrowing as suspicion creeps in. Was it genuine, or was it part of your own plan? For a second, he wavers, doubt gnawing at the edges of his resolve. Could you really be so oblivious to what’s coming? Or are you hiding something, just like him? He clenches his jaw, forcing the thought away.

It’s too late for second-guessing now. Still, as he stares at your back, he can’t shake the lingering sense that maybe, just maybe, you're not as unsuspecting as you seem.

-

The next day, the cabin is flooded with golden rays as the sun rises high in the sky. Minho stands by the kitchen window, washing the breakfast dishes, his eyes following you as you sway gently in the hammock, engrossed in your script.

He finishes quickly and heads to the back door, pausing in the doorway as he calls your name.

You turn your head slightly. “What?”

“I’m going for a walk around the lake. You coming?” he asks, though he already knows the answer. It’s just for show, a part of the performance, to keep suspicion at bay.

“No, thank you,” you reply, turning your attention back to the script.

Perfect. It’s exactly the answer he wanted. Everything is going according to plan.

As he steps outside, Minho's eyes dart back toward the hammock, checking to see if you’re watching. From a distance, he can still see the top of your head peeking over the edge, unmoving. Satisfied, he walks toward the shed, retrieving a small bag before starting his trek around the lake.

As he jogs along the edge of the water, he scans the ground for the right kind of rock—one heavy enough for what he needs. He finds it near the water’s edge, half-covered in moss. It’s heavier than he expected, and he has to flip it over with his foot before using both hands to hoist it into the bag.

His eyes drift back to the cabin, paranoid that you might somehow be following him. But no, you’re still in the hammock, or at least it seems that way.

He drags the bag back to the shed and hides it behind a stack of old tires. Everything is in place. Just one more thing to prepare—but he realizes he forgot his car keys.

The whole morning slips by as he meticulously works on his plan and by the time he returns to the house, the hammock is empty, swaying lightly in the breeze. Your script book is left behind, pages fluttering in the wind.

Minho’s chest tightens with unease. He steps cautiously toward the front door, his senses heightened. “Honey?” he calls out, but there’s no reply.

He steps inside, the air thick with tension. “Honey?” he repeats, louder this time, his voice echoing in the silence.

In the kitchen, he spots you standing behind the island, your back to him.

“Honey?” he says again, his tone more uncertain now.

You turn slowly, and that’s when he sees it—the gleam of a knife in your hand. The blade catches the light, sending a sharp reflection into his eyes.

A jolt of panic surges through him. His plan was flawless. But somehow, he hadn’t accounted for this—the possibility that you knew. And if you knew, he was already doomed.

He swallows hard, trying to think of something to say. “What are you doing?”

Without a word, you turn back to the counter, your hands moving in a way he can’t fully see. He takes a cautious step back, bracing himself for a sudden attack.

But instead, you turn around holding a head of lettuce. “I’m making sandwiches for lunch,” you say innocently, setting the vegetable down on the chopping board with a loud thud.

Relief floods through him, and he lets out a low breath, clearing his throat to mask his moment of weakness. “Sounds good,” he comments, though his voice lacks conviction.

You calmly slice the lettuce, your knife moving with unsettling precision. “Were you looking for me?”

The question jolts him, reminding him of his real purpose. “Uh… yeah, I was looking for my car keys,” he says quickly, scrambling for an excuse. “I left my charger in the glove box.”

You glance up from the chopping board, still holding the knife in one hand. “You can use mine. It’s upstairs by the bedside table.”

There’s something in your smile—a strange, almost sinister edge that makes his skin crawl. Like you know something he doesn’t.

“No, I’ll use mine. It’s more convenient,” he says, forcing a polite smile, though inside, every instinct tells him to leave. Now.

You hold his gaze for a moment too long before turning to the fridge. “It’s on the hook next to the boat keys,” you reply, slicing open a pack of bacon with a swift flick of the knife.

“Thanks,” he mutters, backing away.

He doesn’t waste another second. Grabbing the car keys, he heads for the door, but then you call his name, stopping him in his tracks. He turns, his heart thudding in his chest. You stand in the middle of the room, a strange smile playing on your lips.

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice tight.

“Lunch will be ready soon,” you say, still smiling that unsettling smile.

Minho nods, trying to shake off the eerie feeling that lingers. He hasn’t seen you smile this much in a long time, and it’s not even noon yet. It’s unnerving, like you’re doing it to make him feel guilty. Like you’re daring him to go through with his plan.

-

Minho decides to proceed with caution.

The little smile you gave him earlier is enough to put him on edge, so he takes a seat on the stool, eyes fixed on you as you meticulously prepare his sandwich. You slice it in half and place it in front of him. He doesn’t hesitate to eat it, knowing that he hasn’t taken his eyes off the process. This way, he’s sure you haven’t tampered with his lunch.

"Good?" you ask, watching him closely.

He chews, waiting for any signs of something off in his body, but nothing happens.

"It’s good," he replies, nodding.

You smile, then sip your orange juice, making a little gasp of satisfaction. "Orange juice?" you offer, holding up the pitcher.

"Sure," he says.

You get a clean glass from the cabinet, which checks off another one of his worries. He saw you drink from the same juice, and the glass is fresh. No reason to suspect anything, right? Maybe you’re still unaware, and things are still going according to his plan.

"You’re not eating?" he asks, testing the waters.

You finish your glass and shake your head. "I’m still full from the smoothie I had earlier."

You walk over, placing a hand on his shoulder, then gliding it to the back of his neck, massaging gently. "I’m going to take a long bath," you say, smiling down at him.

"Okay," he mutters, looking up.

You lean down, brushing your lips against his in a brief kiss. "Enjoy your lunch."

This is the perfect opportunity.

Minho only manages to finish half of the sandwich before draining his glass of orange juice, feeling a bit parched from all the work he’s been doing since the morning. He heads down to the basement, ripping open a bag full of tools. He picks the hammer, gripping it tightly in his right hand.

As he makes his way upstairs, he marvels at how smoothly everything is going. If he manages to bash your head in the bathroom, he doesn't need to worry about the mess. The only challenge is getting your body downstairs, but that’s a problem for after.

Right now, all he has to do is get in there and deliver the fatal blow.

But as he climbs the final stairs, his vision blurs, and his limbs grow heavy. He tries to shake it off, widening his eyes and slapping his cheek to wake himself up. It must be the adrenaline, right? That’s why he feels so lightheaded.

He reaches the bathroom, hearing the water running and your soft humming. The door is left ajar, steam wafting out. Minho peeks in and sees you sitting on the edge of the tub, still in your bathrobe, one side slipping off your shoulder.

Slowly, he pushes the door open just enough to slip inside. The sink is cluttered with your things—makeup, a toothbrush, and what he assumes is some spilled powder from your makeup routine.

Confident you can’t see him through the fogged mirror, he raises the hammer above his head, ready to strike. Suddenly, his legs give out, and he stumbles backward, the hammer slipping from his grasp, then clatters to the floor.

You whip your head around, startled, and see him crumpling against the bathroom wall. Squatting down in front of him, you say softly, "Honey?"

Minho fights to open his eyes, but his body is shutting down against his will. "I’m—I…" he stammers.

You lean in, your forehead resting gently against his as you sigh. "Shh… it’s okay," you murmur, stroking his hair.

With one hand cupping his face, you look into his eyes, a sinister glint now replacing the warmth. "Just go to sleep," you say softly, your voice almost soothing.

Minho’s vision starts to fade, but he sees it in your eyes. You did this. "You—"

Before he can finish, everything goes black.

-

The sound of a knife scraping against the surface of a plate jolts Minho awake in the worst possible way.

Disoriented, he squints his eyes and realizes he's downstairs, seated at the dining table. You're sitting across from him, chewing on a piece of meat with a soft groan.

"I think I flipped it too early again," you mumble, dabbing your mouth with a napkin.

You look up from your food and gasp when you notice he's awake, "Honey!"

Grabbing the bottle of wine, you pour it into his glass, the intoxicating scent of it filling the room. "I'm sorry I started dinner without you."

Minho tries to move his hands but can't. He glances down to find them tied to the chair.

"Ah! Let me help you with that," you say, standing beside him as you unfold a napkin and spread it over his lap. You kiss him on the cheek, wiping away the lipstick mark with your thumb after.

"How was your nap?" You ask once you're settled back to your seat.

Minho glares, his nostrils flaring with the rage boiling inside him. He curses himself for letting his guard down, for believing things were going his way when they never did. Shaking the fog from his head, he focuses on you.

"Sleeping pills, huh?" His voice drips with disdain, realizing too late that the white powder he'd seen earlier wasn’t makeup—it was the remnants of crushed sleeping pills.

You don't answer, just sip your wine with a satisfied smile.

Minho scoffs, tossing his head back. "How clever!"

Refilling your glass, you raise an eyebrow. "What?"

"It wasn't the sandwich, not the juice..." He lets out a bitter laugh. "It was the glass."

You clink your wine glass against his with a smirk. "Almost got caught there, didn’t I?"

"So, you know," he mutters.

You set your glass down and rest your hands on the table, an innocent grin spreading across your face. "Know what?"

Minho’s dark eyes remain fixed on you, simmering with fury.

"I'll let you have your dinner later," you say, pushing his untouched plate to the side, clearing the center of the table.

You retrieve something from the chair beside you—a hammer. The same hammer he’d planned to use on you. You place it on the table between you both.

"Are you asking if I knew you were going to use this to smash my head in?"

Minho’s gaze flickers between the hammer and you.

You chuckle mockingly, hand pressed against your chest. "Thank God the pills kicked in just in time!"

Though not surprised, Minho wonders if you’ve uncovered his entire plan. As if reading his mind, you bend down and drag a duffel bag onto the table with a loud thud.

"Or are you asking if I knew about this?" you ask, emptying the contents—rope, duct tape, a blade, a wrench, a saw, and an axe—spreading them across the table like hardware on display.

Sitting back down, you examine the tools with a smile. "You’re thorough, I’ll give you that."

"You know I never do things half-heartedly," he replies, voice laced with sarcasm.

Your laughter echoes around the room. "And look what I found," you say, lifting his hunting rifle, pointing it directly at him with your finger hovers dangerously close to the trigger. "It’s loaded."

Minho’s calm exterior falters. He knows all too well that he loaded that rifle himself. How fitting it would be for him to die by his own hand.

"BANG!" You shout, trying to startle him, but he doesn't flinch.

Your laughter fades as you lower the rifle, setting it aside. You cross your arms, eyes studying him intently and he can sense the curiosity swirling in your mind.

"Go ahead," he taunts, leaning forward as much as he can. "Ask your question."

You trace the rim of your wine glass with your finger. "So, that's the plan? To kill me?"

He tilts his head, eyes burning with intensity. "Yes."

"Let's say you manage to knock me out with the hammer..." You cut a piece of meat and continue eating. "What happens next?"

Minho stays silent, watching as you play this little guessing game.

You raise a hand before he can speak. "Wait, wait, wait, let me guess."

You chew faster, sipping your wine between thoughts and begin guessing his whole plan. "You wouldn’t kill me with the hammer—too messy. Too much work. And definitely not upstairs. It would be a hassle dragging my body down."

You glance at the ropes on the table and continue, "You’d tie me up once I was unconscious. Then, once secured, you’d get to work."

Your hand hovers over the tools spread on the table. "As for the weapon of choice..." You pick up the blade, testing its sharp edge with a playful gasp. "Ouch. This would’ve made it fun for you."

Minho’s lips twitch into a small, sinister smile.

"But no," you continue, setting the blade down and then you point at the rifle. "You’d use this. Quick. Easy."

"Exactly," he admits, slightly impressed by how well you know him.

Your eyes drift toward the saw next as you continue talking. "And the saws... well, those would be for afterward. To dismember me, right? You’d chop me into little pieces and dump me in the lake."

Minho raises an eyebrow, impressed. You got most of it right. The how.

"Did I guess correctly?" you ask, tilting your head.

He nods slowly in approval. "I’d applaud, but..." he glances at his tied hands.

You clink your glass with his. "See? I’ve learned a lot in our marriage."

As you sip your wine, he asks the one question still lingering in the space between. "Aren’t you going to ask why?"

You pause mid-sip, placing your glass down before pulling a handgun from your bag.

Minho’s breath catches in his throat. You want him dead just as much as he wants you gone.

"Because we hate each other enough to kill," you say, placing the gun next to your plate. But you rummage in your bag again and pull out a letter—divorce papers. Sliding them toward him, you add, "Or, we could avoid the drama. Sign this, and I’m gone. Forever."

Without hesitation, Minho shakes his head. Strongly refuses to do it any other way.

"Why not?" you ask, brows furrowed.

"I need to kill you," he says, voice unwavering.

You burst out laughing. "You hold that many grudges, huh?"

He doesn’t answer. His silence speaks volumes.

Sighing, you try to reason again. "I’ll disappear. You won’t even know I exist."

Minho leans forward, his voice a low growl. "I have to be the one to do it."

You shiver despite yourself. His intensity is chilling, but you remind yourself that he’s tied up, unable to do anything.

"You're a doctor, Minho. You know you're supposed to save life not—"

"I have to kill you," he cuts you off, nostrils flaring, eyes burning with determination.

Realizing there's no convincing him, you slide the gun back into your bag and put it on your lap. "I don't care if you sign the papers or not."

You take your wedding ring off and put it on top of the papers, making a bold statement. You stand, walking to his chair and then leaning close to plant a soft kiss on his cheek.

"Good luck with everything," you whisper, knowing those words will provoke him further.

As you head for the door, bag slung over your shoulder, he calls after you. His voice echoing against the eerie silence.

"I’ll find you... and I’ll kill you," he screams as he fights his way out of the bind. "Do you fucking hear me?"

As you set one foot out of the door, Minho screams one last time, "IF I CAN’T HAVE YOU, NO ONE CAN!"

You break into a run toward the car and with your heart pounding, you shove the key into the ignition and twist it, the car sputtering to life. Relief floods your body for a moment as the engine hums beneath you, and you slam your foot on the gas.

The car lurches forward, gravel crunching under the tires as you speed away from the cabin. But the relief is short-lived.

After just a few yards, the engine sputters and dies. Panic grips you as the car slows to a stop, and your hands tremble as you frantically try to restart it. You twist the key over and over, forcing the ignition, but the engine won’t turn over.

“Come on… come on!” you mutter desperately, glancing into the rearview mirror, afraid that Minho somehow break away and chase after you.

You continue to restart the car engine but it still won't turn on, you slam your hands on the steering wheel out of frustration and reorganize your breath to let your brain able to work.

With your brain is well oxygenated, you start checking the car and that's when you see the gas gauge and the needle points to the E. Fuck! Minho must have drained the tank empty.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" You continuously scream in dread now but the real dread is glancing through rearview mirror and see the cabin door is open.

That’s when you see him.

Minho is storming out of the cabin, rifle in hand, his face a mask of cold determination. Your blood turns to ice. He’s coming for you, and you have no time.

"Shit!" you curse under your breath, your breath quickening. Abandoning the car, you fling the door open and bolt into the woods, legs trembling as you stumble over roots and uneven ground.

The sound of the rifle cracks through the air. You gasp, ducking as the bullet strikes a tree near you, splintering bark and sending shrapnel flying. Your heart nearly stops.

You pick up the pace, adrenaline coursing through your veins, but the forest floor is unforgiving. Your foot catches on something—a root, a rock, you don't know—and you crash to the ground with a hard thud, pain shooting through your body.

Before you can scramble back to your feet, Minho is already there. His heavy footsteps pound against the earth as he catches up, his presence looming over you. You try to crawl away, your muscles screaming, but his hands grab you from behind, yanking you around with brutal force.

“Got you,” he growls, his voice cold and menacing.

You barely have time to scream before his hands are wrapped around your neck, squeezing with a vicious intent. Your hands fly to his wrists, clawing and yanking at them, but he's too strong.

"Don’t worry, honey. I'm not going to kill you just yet."

He tightens his grip, cutting off your air supply. Panic floods your body as your vision begins to blur, your strength draining away with each passing second.

"I'm just going to stop the blood flow to the brain through constriction of the carotid arteries and..."

You kick, aimlessly hitting him, your movements growing weaker as the world around you starts to fade.

Minho’s face is the last thing you see before the darkness consumes you entirely.

-

A gasp escapes your lips as you regain consciousness, immediately followed by a coughing fit.

Disoriented and lightheaded, you try to sit up, only to realize your hands and feet are bound to the bed. The ropes burn against your skin as you thrash in place, but you’re held fast. Helplessly stuck, you let out a loud scream, frustration boiling over as your cries for help go unanswered.

"Is that the best you can do?"

Your head snaps to the side, eyes wide, to see Minho leering at you from across the room.

He’s rummaging through a duffel bag, calm as ever, his dark eyes glinting with malice. You try to speak, but your throat is dry, and only a rough cough escapes your lips.

Minho pulls something from his bag—a small, rectangular box. It looks like a jewelry box, but the careful way he places it beside your body tells you it contains something far from precious.

He stands at the foot of the bed, staring down at you with a mocking grin. "Comfortable?"

Your fury flares. You swallow hard, forcing your voice to work. "You should have told me you were into bondage," you sneer, eyes narrowing.

His laugh is deep, amused by your defiance. Without warning, he climbs onto the bed and sits between your open legs, his gaze locked with yours, making it impossible to escape his predatory stare. "Let’s make you even more comfortable," he says, a sinister smile creeping across his face.

With deliberate slowness, he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out a pair of scissors. He places them on the bed next to the mysterious box, letting you get a good look, as if daring you to figure out his next move.

A slow sigh escapes his lips as his hand reaches for your face, fingers slipping into your hair. For a moment, you think he’s going to cut it, but instead, he brushes your damp hair to the side and he also wipes the sweat from your neck with the back of his hand.

"It’s hot, yeah?" he murmurs.

"Isn’t that why you married me? Because I’m hot," you bite back, glaring at him with all the hatred you can muster.

Minho laughs again, this time brushing more strands of hair away from your sweaty forehead. "A part of it, yeah," he shamelessly admits.

"What about the rest of it?" you ask, surprising yourself with your curiosity. You’ve never asked him that before; romance was never a part of your relationship.

Nothing about your marriage was romantic, not even from the start. One day, he asked you to marry him, and you said yes. No questions, no love stories. Just a quiet agreement. But over time, things soured, leading to this moment of bitter hostility.

"Do you really want to know?" Minho asks, his face hovering dangerously close to yours, his hand resting beside your head on the mattress.

"You’re going to kill me anyway, so why not?" you reply, a daring smile playing on your lips.

For a long moment, he simply stares at you, his knuckle lightly tracing the curve of your face. His eyes darken, as if he’s about to reveal something, but then he pulls away abruptly.

"You always make me forget what I’m about to do," he says, picking up the scissors again.

Your heart rate slows as he holds the scissors, doing nothing but staring at them, lost in thought. His eyes flicker to you, then to your chest, where he presses the flat edge of the scissors. You can feel the cold metal through your clothes, making the weight of the moment unbearable.

You believe his final weapon of choice is inside the box so the sight of the scissors doesn’t scare you. You suspect he’s just toying with you, testing your fear.

Suddenly, Minho drags the scissors up your chest until they reach the base of your throat. The metal’s coldness makes you instinctively gulp, your breath hitching in your throat. But you refuse to break. Your gaze meets his, unwavering, even though you know exactly what he intends to do.

Unexpectedly, Minho laughs again, pulling the scissors away from your throat. "This is why I married you," he says, placing a hand on your chest, feeling the steady beat of your heart.

"You’re so calm," he muses, dragging the scissors lower, stopping at your thigh. He slides the hem of your dress between the blades. "Way too calm."

In one swift motion, he cuts through the fabric of your dress, the blades slicing up to your chest in one clean stroke. You stop breathing for a second, the fear catching up to you, but you don’t let it show.

"And for a while, I was grateful to have you as a wife," he says coldly.

He moves the scissors to the side, cutting through the sleeves of your dress, leaving you in nothing but your damp underwear. You can’t tell if the sweat is from the stifling heat or the tension building inside you.

"But nothing good lasts, right?" he says, tossing the scissors and the torn dress to the floor.

Your heart skips a beat as his fingers ghost over your bare stomach, barely touching, but sending a shiver through your body.

"I’ll give you a chance to admit it yourself," he whispers, squeezing your hip.

You know exactly what he’s talking about, but you refuse to give in. You won’t hand him that satisfaction. "I have nothing to say to you."

Minho expected that response. He’s always loved your rebellious streak. With a shrug, he turns to the mysterious box beside you. He picks it up, opens it, and without showing you the contents, he says, "Maybe this will help carve the truth out of you."

Your heart races with anticipation, both curious and terrified. His eyes sparkle as he pulls the object from the box like a prized possession.

It’s a scalpel.

Not just any scalpel—a tool Minho is all too familiar with. He’s been using it for years in his line of work as a doctor, his hand accustomed to it, it's technically a part of his hand.

You let out a dark, low laugh, impressed by his choice of weapon. Not letting the fear take over you and give him the satisfaction.

"You think this is funny?" He asks, his voice low and dangerous, the scalpel gleaming in the dim light. His eyes narrow as he watches you closely, waiting for a reaction.

You suppress another laugh, trying to keep your voice steady despite the fear coursing through you. "I guess I always knew you'd find a way to cut me out of your life, but this is a little dramatic, don't you think?" You flash a bitter smile, masking the terror rising in your throat.

Minho’s lips curl into a slow, sinister smile. "Oh, this isn’t about cutting you out. Not yet, at least." He leans in closer, his breath hot against your skin as the scalpel hovers near your collarbone. The cold metal grazes your skin, a teasing pressure that sends a shiver down your spine.

You pull at the ropes again, frustration and helplessness bubbling to the surface. Your skin stings from the friction, but you know it’s useless. He tied the knots too well. Still, you refuse to show fear.

"You really think this will make me tell you what you want to hear?" Your voice is hoarse, but there’s defiance in your tone.

Minho chuckles darkly, sliding the scalpel down the center of your chest, just grazing your skin enough to leave a faint trail without cutting. His eyes follow the path of the blade with eerie calmness.

"You’re tougher than I expected. I like that." His gaze locks onto yours again, and there’s a chilling coldness in his eyes that makes your blood run cold. "But everyone has their breaking point."

He drags the scalpel lower, letting it dance across your stomach, teasing the edge of your hip. You can’t help the sharp intake of breath as the blade comes dangerously close to cutting through your skin. Every muscle in your body tenses, waiting for the inevitable pain.

"You’re hiding something," he says, his voice a near-whisper now, filled with a quiet intensity. "You’ve always been so calm, so composed. It made me wonder, what are you hiding beneath that exterior? What is it you think I don’t know?"

He pauses, his fingers tracing the path of the scalpel with a feather-light touch, as if he’s savoring this moment. His eyes glitter with amusement as he watches your face, waiting for the fear to slip through your mask.

"You don’t scare me," you say, though the waver in your voice betrays you.

Minho’s grin widens, and he brings the scalpel up to your throat, just pressing the flat of the blade against your skin, reminding you of how sharp it is. "Maybe not yet," he replies. "But that will change."

His hand moves slowly, deliberately, the scalpel brushing your skin as he leans closer, his breath hot against your ear. "I’m going to carve out every lie you’ve ever told me, every secret you’ve hidden."

The scalpel flicks across your skin, leaving a shallow scratch, just enough to sting. "Let’s start with why you tried to run," he says, his voice a dangerous whisper.

The blade trails down your chest again, teasing but not yet cutting deep enough to cause real pain. "You’ve been planning this, haven’t you? Just waiting for the right moment to escape."

Your mind races, trying to stay ahead of him, but his control over the situation is suffocating. "What makes you think I’ve been planning anything?" you manage to ask, though the tremble in your voice betrays the fear creeping into your chest.

Minho smirks, enjoying the game. "Because I know you," he murmurs. "I’ve watched you. You think I didn’t notice the way you’ve been distancing yourself? The way you look at me like you’re just waiting for me to make a mistake."

He presses the scalpel a little harder against your skin, and you wince. "I’m not going to let you slip away so easily," he says, his voice dripping with menace. "So why don’t you save us both some time and tell me what you’ve been hiding?"

You grit your teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a confession. "I have nothing to hide from you," you say, though every instinct in your body is screaming that he’s already too close to the truth.

Minho’s expression darkens. He moves the scalpel down again, this time slicing through the thin fabric of your underwear. You flinch as the cold air hits your bare skin, but you refuse to give him the reaction he’s looking for.

"Last chance," he warns, the scalpel glinting in the dim light. "Why Ryan?"

So this is the why.

Your heart stutters, your body stiffening at the mention of the name. Of course, he knows. He’s always known. But now, it’s out in the open, and there's nowhere to hide. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stay composed even as the truth hangs dangerously between you.

Minho shifts, bringing the scalpel up to your throat again, applying just enough pressure for you to feel it, the sharp edge threatening to break skin.

"You really thought I wouldn’t find out, didn’t you?" His tone is calm, but the anger simmering beneath the surface is palpable. "You thought you could sneak around, play your little games with him, and I’d be none the wiser."

Your throat tightens, and you struggle to breathe through the panic rising in your chest.

He presses the blade down, just enough to make your pulse quicken. "Why him?" Minho asks again, his voice quieter, almost a whisper now. "Why Ryan?"

"I—" you start, but your voice cracks, your throat dry. You don’t even know what to say, how to explain something that’s so tangled in layers of resentment, anger, and escape. Instead, you try to hold on to the composure you’ve managed to keep for this long. "It wasn’t—"

Minho cuts you off with a bitter laugh, pulling the scalpel back but keeping it poised, ready. "Don’t bother lying," he says, his eyes dark with fury. "I already know everything. I just want to hear it from you."

He sits back slightly, still straddling you, his eyes locked on yours with a kind of chilling intensity. The blade dances over your skin, teasing but not yet cutting.

"Why?" he asks again, softer this time. "What did you think Ryan could give you that I couldn’t?"

Your mind races, heart pounding. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of your truth, but there’s no way out. His patience is wearing thin, and you can see it in the way his grip tightens on the scalpel, his jaw clenching as he waits for your answer.

"It wasn’t about him," you finally admit, your voice barely above a whisper. You don’t know if this will calm him or enrage him further, but it’s all you can offer. "It was never about him."

He tilts his head, watching you closely. "Then what was it about, huh?" His voice sharpens, cutting through the air like the blade in his hand.

You flinch at the venom in his words, but you force yourself to hold his gaze. "You don’t understand," you say quietly, tears prickling at the edges of your eyes despite your best efforts to stay strong.

Minho’s face hardens, and he slides the scalpel down your body, stopping just above your abdomen, his fingers tracing the line of your skin with a maddening slowness. "Then make me understand." His voice is dangerous, low and threatening.

His grip on your throat tightens, and the blade slides down to your chest again, this time pressing harder, enough to draw a thin line of blood. You gasp, the sting sharp and sudden.

Minho watches the blood bead up, a twisted smile playing on his lips. "I said make me understand why you betrayed me."

Before you can utter a word, the door to the cabin bursts open. Ryan stands in the doorway, his face a mix of shock and fury as he takes in the scene—the scalpel pressed dangerously close to your throat, Minho’s body straddling yours, and the faint line of blood on your chest.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Ryan’s voice echoes through the cabin, and in a blur, he charges at Minho.

Minho barely has time to react before Ryan slams into him, knocking him off of you. The scalpel clatters to the floor as Minho is thrown back, struggling to regain his balance. Ryan swings a hard punch, landing square on Minho’s jaw, sending him stumbling backward. You scramble up from the floor, gasping for air, as the two men break into a full-on fight.

Ryan manages another punch, harder this time, knocking Minho to the ground. Minho’s body slumps for a moment, and Ryan quickly grabs the scissors lying on the bed, cutting the ropes free from your hands and feet. He helps you get up and grabs your arm, pulling you toward the stairs.

“Come on,” he urges, his voice low and frantic. “We have to go—now.”

You follow him downstairs, still in shock, the adrenaline pumping through your veins as he grabs his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders.

“I came as fast as I could when I got your message,” he says, his eyes scanning your face, full of concern. “Are you okay? Did he—”

But before he can finish, there’s a sound behind you—a violent thud. You both turn just in time to see Minho launching himself at Ryan from the top of the stairs.

Minho slams into him with terrifying force, sending the two men crashing to the floor in a violent heap. They grapple, fists flying, legs kicking, as they roll across the floor, locked in a brutal fight for dominance.

Ryan struggles beneath Minho’s weight, his eyes locking on the rifle resting against the wall near the sofa. He looks at you, desperation in his gaze, and subtly gestures toward it.

"The gun," he pants between blows. "Shoot him. Now!"

Your heart pounds in your chest as you rush to grab the rifle. Your hands shake as you lift it, your finger sliding onto the trigger. The weight of the weapon feels surreal in your hands, the cold steel pressing against your skin as you aim it at Minho, who is now pinning Ryan to the ground. The two men are still wrestling, but you have a clear shot.

“Do it!” Ryan yells, gasping for breath as Minho’s hands tighten around his throat.

Tears blur your vision, your breath coming in ragged sobs as you hold the rifle steady. Minho’s eyes catch yours, wild and unrelenting, and in that split second, everything seems to freeze. Your finger starts to push down on the trigger, your mind spinning with the weight of the decision.

“Why?” you scream at Minho, your voice breaking with emotion. "Why did you ever doubt me? Why couldn’t you trust that I loved you?"

Minho’s gaze softens for a fraction of a second, his grip loosening ever so slightly on Ryan’s throat. “You call this love?” he spits back, his voice hoarse but filled with pain.

Your finger trembles, hovering on the trigger, and you’re on the verge of pulling it—when something inside you snaps. In one swift motion, you shift your aim, your heart thudding painfully in your chest.

The gun goes off.

The shot rings out, echoing through the cabin as the bullet rips through the air—and buries itself in Ryan’s skull, right between his eyes. His body goes limp instantly, his hands falling away from Minho as he collapses to the floor, lifeless.

You drop the rifle, your whole body trembling, tears streaming down your face. You can’t stop sobbing, can’t even catch your breath as you take a shaky step toward him and ask, “Is that enough to show how much I love you?”

-

The silence that follows is deafening.

Minho looks at you, his chest heaving, covered in Ryan’s blood, shock registering in his eyes. After a moment, he gets up from the floor, calm and composed, as if the violent act that just transpired hadn't fazed him at all. He walks over to you without a word, his footsteps barely audible in the heavy silence.

From the dining table, he picks up a napkin, its soft fabric starkly contrasting with the blood staining your trembling hands. Gently, he wipes the blood droplets away, his touch careful, almost delicate.

“I cheated on you because—” your voice breaks as the words leave your lips, trembling under the weight of your sobs. “Because I wanted to know if you still care.”

Minho doesn’t respond, but his silence speaks volumes. You watch as he moves across the room, grabbing a jacket from the coat rack. He replaces Ryan’s jacket—the one draped loosely over your shoulders—with his own. His movements are methodical, yet somehow tender, like he’s dressing you for something far more intimate than this horrific moment. You stand frozen, the tears streaming down your face, helpless in your grief and confusion.

“I thought you didn’t love me anymore,” you choke out, your voice barely above a whisper, the sobs making your chest heave.

Minho zips up the jacket, making sure it fits snugly around you, before pulling you close. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, his lips meet yours in a tender kiss, one that reminds you of the warmth you used to find in him. Even with his blood-streaked face, you can see that familiar, intense gaze—the warmth you had longed for finally returning to his eyes.

“I love you,” he murmurs, his hand cradling your face with a kind of reverence, “and if I can’t have you, no one can.”

His lips crash against yours again, this time harder, deeper, and with a hunger that ignites something dangerous inside you. His voice, dripping with possessiveness, makes your heart pound in a way that both terrifies and excites you.

“You’re mine,” he says, the words claiming you with an unyielding finality.

And it’s that very possessiveness that pulls you deeper into him. It’s why you married him in the first place—because Minho doesn’t just love; he consumes. His love is fierce, intense, teetering on the edge of madness, and you wouldn’t want it any other way. You crave it, need it, and right now, it feels like it’s the only thing grounding you in this twisted reality.

“I’m yours,” you whisper, nodding as if you’re sealing your fate with those words.

The two of you kiss again, and this time, it feels like everything is falling back into place, like the chaotic balance of your marriage has been restored. The blood, the violence, the madness—it all shifts back to where it belongs, the perfect equilibrium of your dark, twisted love.

For a moment, the chaos of what you’ve done slips away, and you both stand in eerie stillness, as if nothing happened.

However, the sight of the body lying lifeless on the floor snaps you back to reality.

Minho silently moves to pick up Ryan’s jacket, using it to cover the gaping wound on his head, though the blood has already soaked into the rug. Without a word, he starts dragging the body onto the rug, and you, numb and dazed, help him. Together, you roll the body into it, cocooning Ryan in the bloodstained fabric.

"Go get the body bag from the basement," Minho tells you, his voice cold and devoid of any emotion.

Your legs feel heavy as you make your way down to the basement, retrieving the thick, black bag. The two of you struggle to maneuver Ryan’s body into it, your hands slipping on the slick fabric as you zip it up.

The weight of what you’ve done sinks in deeper with each passing second, but you push it aside, focusing on the task at hand. Together, you drag the body outside into the dark night. The only sounds are the rhythmic scrape of the bag against the ground and the low rustle of wind in the trees.

Minho busies himself with the boat, the mechanical hum of the engine cutting through the stillness. You clamber onto the boat, watching him as he grabs the large rock he collected earlier—the weight that will ensure the body stays submerged beneath the water, lost to the lake’s depths.

Once everything is set, he starts the boat, and it moves silently over the water, cutting through the eerie calm of the night. You sit in the cold air, the distant shore shrinking as he drives far enough from land.

Finally, he stops, and you both work in grim silence to lift the heavy body bag over the edge. The splash echoes in the darkness as it hits the water, and for a brief moment, the sound lingers, unsettling and hollow.

You and Minho stay there, eyes locked on the spot where the bag submerged, waiting, watching. The bubbles rise to the surface, swirling for a few moments before fading away into the night. The water smooths out, becoming calm once more, its surface reflecting the endless stretch of the night sky above.

Nothing comes back up. Only silence, only stillness.

-

With the body gone, there’s no time to waste.

Minho doesn’t say a word as he moves toward Ryan’s car, his movements swift and calculated. You watch as he wipes the door handles, steering wheel, and gear shift clean of fingerprints before driving it to the edge of the river.

The car slowly inches forward, and as it begins to roll into the water, you stand at a distance, watching the lake swallow it whole, the final glint of metal disappearing beneath the surface. The water ripples for a moment before settling back into silence, leaving no trace of the vehicle behind.

You head back to the cabin to tackle your part. The living room feels eerily quiet, haunted by the chaos that took place just hours ago. You move quickly, gathering the objects that were stained with Ryan’s blood: the napkin, the rug, anything he touched.

With methodical precision, you scrub the floor clean, the sound of the rag scraping against the wood filling the room. You make sure to use bleach, wiping down every surface, making sure no bloodstains or lingering scent remains. The stinging smell of bleach replaces the coppery odor of blood, and you inhale deeply, feeling the chemical burn in your lungs.

When the room looks spotless, you gather the last of the evidence: your clothes, Minho’s bloodstained clothes, and the tools he brought. All of it goes into a large bag—anything that could tie either of you to what happened. Together, you make your way into the woods, where the night feels darker, heavier, as if nature itself is holding its breath.

Minho starts the fire, the flames flickering to life and casting a soft, orange glow over the trees. The bag is heavy as you both throw it onto the growing blaze, the crackling of burning fabric and wood filling the air. You watch as the fire consumes everything, turning it into ash and smoke. The smell of burning evidence—your clothes, Ryan’s blood, every trace of him—rises with the heat, drifting into the night sky.

Minho grabs your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. There’s a quiet intimacy in the way you stand there, side by side, watching as the fire devours the last remnants of the crime. The warmth of his hand grounds you as the flames burn higher, until all that’s left are glowing embers and ash, scattering into the wind.

There’s nothing left now. No evidence. No trace. Just the two of you and the darkened woods.

-

The sun is slowly rising on the horizon when you walk back to the cabin

The final task is washing away the evidence from your bodies. You and Minho share the shower, alternating turns under the warm water as it washes off the blood and dirt clinging to your skin. At times, you help each other scrub, his hands trailing over the places where bruises and cuts mar your flesh.

There’s a quiet intimacy in the way you tend to each other, rinsing away the aftermath of the night before.

Once you're out of the shower and standing in front of the mirror, you notice the injuries. There’s a bruise blooming around your neck from where Minho had choked you, a thin cut across your chest from his scalpel, rope bruns on both wrists and ankles, and scrapes on your knees from tripping in the woods. The marks are raw, reminders of the violence that had passed between you.

“Come, sit.” Minho’s voice cuts through your thoughts. You turn to see him sitting on the bed, first aid kit in hand, his eyes already fixed on your wounds.

You obey, sitting beside him as he opens the kit. His fingers graze your skin as he pulls the robe open, exposing the cut on your chest. The light touch sends a shiver down your spine.

Minho leans in, studying the wound with careful attention before smoothing ointment onto it. You wince as it stings, and he immediately blows cool air on it to soothe the burn.

He moves to your knees next, his hands gentle as he applies more ointment and covers the scrapes with band-aids. His gaze lingers longer on the bruise around your neck, his fingers softly pressing against the swollen skin.

“Does it hurt?” His voice is softer now, a hint of worry in his tone.

“Not really,” you lie, and then it's your turn to ask about the bruise blooming on his jaw from Ryan’s punch, "How about it?"

He catches your hand and kisses it. "I'm okay."

Satisfied with your answer, he puts the first aid kit aside. His hair is damp, tousled as he pushes it back, and when his eyes meet yours again, there’s something dangerous and tender in his gaze.

“Aren’t you going to kiss it better?” you ask with a sly smile, teasing him.

His lips curl into a smile, and before you know it, his hands are on your waist, pulling you onto his lap. You straddle him, feeling the warmth of his body through the thin fabric of your robe.

“Want me to kiss it better?” he murmurs, his voice low, his brown eyes fiery as they lock on yours.

“Yes,” you whisper, your hands resting on his shoulders, needing his touch.

Minho leans in, placing a slow, deliberate kiss on the bandaged cut on your chest. His lips linger, and you feel the heat of the kiss searing into your skin. He doesn’t stop there, parting the robe further to press fluttering kisses along your collarbone, down to your breasts.

His hands tighten around your waist, pulling you closer as he buries his face between your breasts. He’s kissing, licking, and sucking your skin, his tongue leaving a wet trail in its wake. He takes his time with you, his fingers joining in, rolling and rubbing your nipples between them until they harden under his touch.

You tug at his hair, watching him, entranced by the way his mouth worships your flesh. His lips part with a soft pop as he releases your nipple, leaving it wet with his saliva.

“I’m obsessed,” he mutters, his lips brushing against your sternum. “I’ll always be obsessed with your body.”

He doesn’t need to say it—you can feel it in every touch, every kiss. His admiration for your body is palpable, his gaze lingering on your skin as though he can’t get enough. Your heart races, your desire growing hotter with each second that passes.

“Want you, Minho,” you moan breathlessly, your hands tightening on his shoulders. “I want you so much.”

Minho needs no further encouragement. He lays you back on the same bed where he tortured you earlier, his body moving over yours with a desperate hunger.

When he enters you, the intensity of his thrusts takes your breath away. His eyes flicker between watching his cock slide in and out of you and studying your face, seeking your reactions with every movement.

He slows down suddenly, leaning down to kiss you deeply, pulling away only when you’re gasping for air. He presses his forehead against yours, the heat of his breath mingling with yours.

“Are you mine?” His voice is rough, commanding.

You nod quickly, barely able to speak.

His fingers graze your lips. “Words.”

“I am yours,” you say, your voice trembling with need.

A dark grin spreads across his face, and he kisses you again, more urgently this time. “That’s right. You’re mine.”

Minho resumes his thrusts, picking up the pace. One hand moves to wrap around your neck, squeezing slowly, cutting off just enough air to blur the line between pleasure and pain. His thrusts don’t falter as his grip tightens, his voice a dark whisper in your ear.

“You’re mine. All mine. Only mine.”

Your vision swims, the pressure on your windpipe mixing with the waves of pleasure crashing through your body. You look into his eyes, and what you see there—lust, love, madness—sends you over the edge.

Both of you reach your peak together, bodies trembling as the release washes over you in shuddering waves.

When it’s over, Minho collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms. He places a soft, lingering kiss on your lips that makes your heart stutter.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your skin. His hand rests over your chest, right where your heart beats wildly.

Then, his voice drops, a dark promise in his words. “I want to cut you open and climb inside, so we can become one—forever.”

Anyone else would think it was madness, but to you, it’s just Minho. It’s the way he loves you—raw, obsessive, and unrelenting. And you love him for it, for every twisted piece of him that’s unlike any man you’ve ever known.

“And I would die for you,” you whisper back, your heart swelling with the weight of it. “Kill for you. I love you.”

It has always been your wish to be loved to the point of madness and Minho made that come true for you.

-

You wake to sunlight spilling through the cracks in the curtains, the warmth coaxing you from the comfort of sleep. The bed feels impossibly soft, but the familiar ache in your muscles reminds you of everything that happened the night before. Slowly, you stretch, your body protesting as you roll onto your side, blinking into the brightness.

The cabin is silent, save for the soft rustling of leaves outside and the occasional chirp of birds. You glance at the clock on the bedside table—it’s already late morning. You sit up, pulling the robe tightly around your body as you swing your legs over the side of the bed.

Your eyes fall on the small bandages Minho placed on your wounds last night. They’re a stark contrast to the serene morning around you, a reminder of the intensity that’s always lurking beneath the surface. But that’s how it is with Minho—love and danger, pleasure and pain, always intertwined.

The smell of food drifts up from downstairs, making your stomach growl. Minho must be downstairs.

You pad softly down the stairs, your bare feet making no sound on the wooden floor. As you step into the kitchen, you find Minho at the stove, the light from the window framing him in a soft glow. He’s already dressed in a white shirt that accentuate his broad shoulders and there’s a calmness in the way he moves as he plates food.

He turns, a warm smile spreading across his face when he sees you.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he says, his voice smooth and gentle, as if the events of last night were a distant memory.

“Morning,” you reply, still groggy as you walk toward him.

You wrap your arms around his waist, leaning your head against his chest, breathing him in. His arms immediately encircle you, pulling you close as his lips press a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“You slept in,” he teases, one hand coming up to brush your hair away from your face.

“I needed it,” you murmur, tilting your head up to look at him.

His gaze is tender, and there’s something disarming about the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters in the world. He leans down, his lips brushing against yours in a soft kiss, slow and sweet.

The world outside feels far away, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you—wrapped in each other, the chaos of your love quiet for once.

Minho pulls back, his thumb lightly tracing your lower lip. “I made lunch. Thought you’d be hungry.”

You smile, your heart swelling with affection. “I'm famished.”

He cups your face, kissing you again, this time deeper, more lingering. You melt into him, your hands finding their way into his hair, tugging gently as his lips claim yours. It’s moments like this that make you feel utterly consumed by him.

When you finally break apart, both of you slightly breathless, Minho rests his forehead against yours. His hands slide down to your waist, holding you close.

“How about we go for a ride on the boat today?” he suggests, his voice low. “It’s a beautiful day.”

You look up at him, your mind still foggy from the kiss. “A boat ride?”

He nods, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth. “Yeah. The lake’s calm, the sun’s out. We could use some fresh air.”

The thought of spending the day out on the water with Minho, with nothing but the peacefulness of the lake around you, sounds perfect. You can already imagine the cool breeze against your skin, the way the sunlight will dance across the surface of the water.

“I’d love that,” you say softly, leaning into his touch.

Minho’s eyes glint with satisfaction, and he presses one last kiss to your lips before stepping back to finish preparing lunch. “But first, finish your food.”

As you sit down to the table, Minho places a plate in front of you, the meal simple but delicious. You eat in comfortable silence, occasionally exchanging soft smiles and touches, your hands brushing across the table as if neither of you can stand to be apart for long.

For the first time, the two of you are connected in a whole new level that it feels like nothing can tear you and Minho apart anymore.

-

The boat glides across the tranquil waters, the rhythmic sound of the oars slicing through the lake the only disturbance in the otherwise still air. The sun hangs high above, casting a shimmering path of light across the surface, making it look like a trail of gold leading them deeper into the heart of the lake.

You sit facing Minho, watching the muscles in his arms flex and contract as he rows, his gaze fixed on the water, intense and focused. There’s something serene about this moment, a rare softness between the two of you. It feels almost surreal, considering what happened just last night.

Last night, when this very lake was a silent witness to the horror you both created. Now, it feels like a different place—calm, almost idyllic. But the memory is still there, just beneath the surface, lingering like a dark shadow that no amount of sunlight can chase away.

Minho slows the boat as you reach the middle of the lake, his eyes shifting to meet yours. There’s a glint of something unreadable in them, a darkness that always simmers just beneath his surface. It’s the very same darkness that pulled you in, binding you to him in ways that go beyond love. It’s obsession, need, and something far more dangerous.

He lets go of the oars and shifts closer, his knees brushing against yours as he reaches out, his hand sliding into his pocket. You tilt your head, watching curiously as he pulls out something small and shiny.

Your breath catches when you realize what it is. Your wedding ring.

Minho holds it up between his fingers, the gold band catching the sunlight. You stare at it, your heart pounding as memories of your vows come flooding back. The promises you made to each other, promises that were shattered and reforged into something far more twisted and unbreakable.

“I believe this belongs to you,” Minho murmurs, his voice low and soft.

There’s a tenderness in his gaze that disarms you, makes you feel as if he’s peeling back every layer of yourself and looking straight into your soul.

He takes your left hand, his touch featherlight as he slides the ring back onto your finger. You shiver at the sensation, your eyes locked onto his as he recites the very vow you spoke on your wedding day.

“In sickness and in health…” he begins, his voice barely a whisper but strong, his gaze unwavering. “For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer…”

You swallow hard, your heart hammering against your ribcage. There’s an odd sense of finality in his tone, as if he’s sealing not just a promise but something darker—a pact, a blood oath that binds you together not just in love, but in sin.

“...Till death do us part,” he finishes, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, where the ring now rests again, a symbol of everything you are to each other.

You draw in a shaky breath, the words catching in your throat. “Till death do us part,” you repeat, your voice just as soft, but the weight of the vow feels heavier now, burdened by all the blood and secrets you share.

Minho’s eyes light up at your response, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the still air.

“We’re bound again,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours as he speaks. “In life, in death, in everything. You’re mine.”

“And you’re mine,” you whisper back, your fingers curling around the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. There’s a fierceness in your words, a possessiveness that matches his own. Because you are each other’s, wholly and completely, in ways that no one else could ever understand.

Minho cups your face, his thumb stroking your cheek as he kisses you—soft at first, almost reverent. But then it deepens, turning into something desperate and consuming. You can feel the intensity in every press of his lips, every brush of his tongue against yours.

It’s not just love; it’s hunger, an insatiable need to claim and be claimed.

When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathless. Minho rests his forehead against yours again, his fingers threading through your hair.

“With you, I’m never alone,” he whispers, his voice raw and honest in a way that sends shivers down your spine. “You’re the only one who understands me, the only one who’ll stay.”

“And I will,” you reply, your fingers tightening around his, “Always.”

Minho’s smile is small but genuine, and for a moment, he looks almost boyish, the hard edges of his face softened by the sunlight filtering through the trees around the lake. He brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his eyes dark and intense as they lock onto yours.

“We’re more than just lovers now,” he murmurs, his voice low.

Your gaze shifts to the water surrounding the boat, to the spot where Ryan’s body lies hidden beneath the surface. A chill runs down your spine, but it’s not fear—it’s the thrill of what you’ve become together. Bound by love, by blood, by the darkness that twists through both of your souls.

You softly nod in agreement as you turn back to him and with that, the two of you are bound once more—not just by the ring now resting on your finger, but by the weight of the secret that lies at the bottom of the lake. It’s your bond, your burden, and in a twisted way, it’s also your triumph.

Because what you have with Minho isn’t normal, and it isn’t sane. It’s dark and consuming and entirely your own. It’s a love that defies all reason, a connection that can’t be broken, no matter how much blood is spilled.

After all, when love is not madness it is not love.

-

Support my works by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

@svintsandghosts @abiaswreck @ppiri-bahng @drhsthl @idkluvutellme @biribarabiribbaem @skz-streamer @biancaness @hanjisunginc @elizalabs3 @laylasbunbunny @kpopformylife @caitlyn98s @hann1bee @mamieishere @is2cb97 @marvelous-llama @bluenights1899 @sherryblossom @toplinehyunjin @hanjisbeloved @sunnyseungup @skz4lifer @stellasays45 @severeanxietyissues @avyskai @imseungminsgf @silentreadersthings @army-stay-noel @rylea08 @simeonswhore @jebetwo @yubinism @devilsmatches @septicrebel @rairacha @ven-fic-recs @hyunjiinnnn @lostgirlinthewoodss @schniti-is-in-the-house @jisunglyricist @minh0scat @simplymoo

[luvingspence]

jealousy | s.r

hey guys and gals! someone dm’d me and asked for my ops on spencer handling jealousy :) i haven’t wrote fan fics in a while but i have no problem writing stuff like this atm! i honestly just need good ideas for fan fics to get back into my groove so please if you have any ideas for stuff you’d like to see me write (no smut) go ahead and send me an ask <3

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

♡ baby spence

♡ poor baby spence would hide his jealousy :(

♡ i feel that he would be too scared of the conflict that could arise from confronting you about what you or someone else did to cause his jealousy.

♡ ESPECIALLY if you weren’t in an exclusive relationship, in his mind it wouldn’t be his place to say anything :(

♡ he would become avoidant and visibly insecure

♡ “oh, no i’m okay :)(“

♡ derek would eventually get it out of him though, as he always does!

♡ when you finally find out he would be SO apologetic even though it literally isn’t his fault😭

♡ but everything would be okay the end and you guys would kiss and make up <3 and with hard-work and communication you guys both do everything to make sure this doesn’t happen again!

♡ post-revelations spence (dilaudid addicted spencer)

♡ technically still baby spence but not. he feels so much anger, confusion and guilt during this stage of his life with everything that happened with elle and gideon and now, his addiction.

♡ for the first time in his life, he reacts with anger, as we saw with emily.

♡ he’ll become snarky, and passive aggressive without ever telling you what’s made him like that in the first place.

♡ “obviously i’m fine, can’t you tell?”

♡ it will take you a lot of pushing, and a lot of little spats to actually get the cause of his upset and anger out of him

♡ but, when you get it out of him, some yelling and crying ensues. even if your interaction with whoever it was that caused him to be jealous was entirely innocent, he’ll be in denial at first but ultimately, you apologise for making him upset unknowingly and he apologises for his reaction to the situation.

♡ i imagine you’d spend the rest of the night on his comfy little sofa in his green apartment and watch a little movie with some chinese takeout, cuddling and laughing and gossiping snd whispering sweet nothings to each other.

♡ s5-9 spence

♡ he’s older, more mature, but also less scared of confrontation. i imagine he would walk up to you and whoever it is making him jealous and insert himself in the conversation literally just to be petty😭

♡ if you’re exclusive at this point an arm is 100% getting wrapped around your waist and he’s going to bring up some date night plans.

♡ “hey, we’re still going to dinner after this right? or do you just wanna stay in tonight, sweetheart? :))))))”

♡ you’re SO confused because he doesn’t really do that like, ever? and ESPECIALLY at work so you’re even more like?????

♡ when you ask he’s just like “just thought i’d see what you guys were talking about!!!😁”

♡ although, he will eventually admit himself that he was a tad jealous BUT! that he had reason to be! that guy was all over you! (even if he actually wasn’t)

♡ you guys talk it out a bit, but it’s mostly just jokes and you teasing him for getting jealous and you definitely still go out for dinner that night :)

♡ older spence (Pre-Prison)

♡ honestly, he is significantly more secure. i think a lot of people feel that spence is perpetually insecure simply because he’s awkward, but at this point in time, he KNOWS people find him attractive.

♡ awkwardness≠insecure

♡ he absolutely wouldn’t be happy that someone was flirting with you, but he isn’t going to make a scene or grow angry.

♡ he trusts you to put a stop to it with yourself

♡ and when you do (because obviously you would, why would you want some rando when you currently have the good doctor?), a proud, cheeky little smile makes its way onto his face.

♡ in all honesty, i believe he’d even make a joke or two.

♡ “oh, what about your other boyfriend?” he’d say with a little snort

♡ you’re both very secure and trusting in this relationship so there’s no need to kiss and make up afterwards, because there was never a problem in the first place!

♡ this spence would only ever grow upset if whoever it was was very obviously making you feel uncomfortable!

♡ THEN he would go crazy. as in just a tad annoyed and worried for you. he’d approach, again not causing a scene, and make an excuse to allow you both to exit the situation!

♡ post prison spence

♡ after everything, he’s insecure again.

♡ not about you, he still trusts you of course, but he feels insecure in the sense that he feels unsafe

♡ that he could lose everything in the blink of an eye, and no one would be there to bail him out this time.

♡ therapy is helping him but only so much.

♡ i feel that he would feel a mixture of anger and sadness.

♡ sadness because someone is trying to take you from him, and anger because he can’t believe someone would even TRY to take you away from him.

♡ thankfully, with age and his therapist, he knows to communicate this. so he doesn’t hide it, but that doesn’t make it any easier for him.

♡ he requires comfort, a distraction.

♡ just be with him :)

[promptedwordsmith]

I have a request my birthday is on March 3 so can you write something with the LDS boys?!?

Hi, thanks for the ask! I wasn't sure what you wanted me to write since I've already done a birthday post so I hope you don't mind what I chose instead! Happy birthday!!

(ps I also gave Caleb a shot as an extra treat I hope that's OK!)

LADS guys when you get injured

Rafayel:

Is furious but he’s not sure at who, you? The wanderer? Himself? He can’t believe it happened, it could have been so much worse, you could have died and what was he doing? Painting peacefully in his studio.

Is very clingy for the next few weeks, appearing at your door to make sure you’re taking care of yourself, and that’s after you had convinced him to not just sleep at your apartment.

When the doctor declares you fit to go back to work Rafayel refuses and makes you go for a second opinion, claiming the first is delusional, claiming you still had a slight limp and if you limped on the battlefield it could get you killed.

Claims he needs to nurse you back to health and he doesn’t tease you as much, he’s quite serious actually.

Tries to make you foods that are good for healing, three meals a day and thinks you don’t notice when he slips out to call the nutritionist he hired and collect the food from the chef.

Xavier:

Everything considered, he would give you the silent treatment while tenderly taking care of you, he’s supposed to be your partner at work and outside of work so why were you out there without him? If he had been there the wanderer wouldn’t have had even the slightest chance of hurting you like it did.

He’s constantly thinking about what could have happened and is more driven than ever to be there when you needed him.

When he did start talking to you again, he made sure to drill into your head how it made him feel for you to not even think of getting his help, that he understood you were strong and capable but that he was always available, he knows he could have made a difference and it’s never too safe to bring back up.

Makes sure you go to doctors’ appointments; he may not take proper care of himself, but everything be damned before he let you work yourself to death with this injury.

 Tries to make you food but quickly learns if he wants you to be stationary and comfortable, he should not even approach the kitchen, opting to order the healthiest takeaways he can, sulking a bit you don’t trust him with the oven.

Zayne:

As your doctor he’s startled when you appear with a large injury, but he’s instantly more comfortable when he finds its mainly just superficial, doesn’t stop him from lecturing you about how you could let that happen.

Makes you go through every test he can justify you getting to check there’s no poison or corruption or anything that could risk your life in anyway and pays special attention to your heart.

He’s now more concerned for your safety, especially about if this is going to be more common and starts researching wanderers and whether they were getting stronger or smarter to cause this, start keeping up with any news on wanderer evolution.

Schedules a few more appointments for you than is really necessary but since its large he justifies it as a higher chance of infection because of its location, even though he’s busy he just extends his working hours to see you in a professional capacity or if he can’t do that because of working laws he’ll come see you as soon as his shifts are over to check on it.

When he’s sure you’re healed he reluctantly signs you fit for duty and gives you a stern lecture about avoiding those types of injuries in the future.

Caleb:

Doesn't hear about it for a while because he's occupied by his job, but the second he does he's desperately calling you and texting you, all while booking time off, a flight back and buying you get well soon gifts.

As soon as he's home, he's giving you a big hug asking how you are, what happened, "what does the other guy look like?" in a teasing tone.

Promises he's sticking around for at least a week, preferably until you're feeling better though, and makes you all your favourite food while he's there, insisting you stay at your grandma's while you recover so they can both dote on you.

Let's you talk his ear off, spends the whole time reminiscing with you and doing things you did together when you were younger, just being more careful with you of course.

When you eel better and before he leaves he makes you promise not to get hurt again any time soon, and makes sure you know he'll tease you like crazy if you do, ruffling your hair before he goes.

[rypnami]

pirate!sebastian carrying leander, half-conscious and bleeding all over, to the nearest doctor whilst telling him over and over to just hold on. just a little longer.

or

leander begs to be taken home, to his mother, because he’s so certain his injuries are too severe, that he’s not going to live, and he only wants to see her one more time. his mother holding him as sebastian goes for help.

he’s bleeding out, sobbing, saying he doesn’t want to die, he’s not ready yet, he’s so scared, and there’s hardly anything marie can do to help him. she just pets his hair and tells him he’ll be okay, even if she doesn’t believe it. he does look too far gone. she can’t even cry, because she never cries in front of him, and if she does she knows it will scare him more.

he slips away. she doesn’t know if he’ll ever wake up again. she finally lets herself cry.

[thewinter-eden]

psycho | han jisung (16/20)

16 : here's looking at you

Pairings: HAN JISUNG x OC | LEE MINHO x 2nd OC

Rating: mature

cross posted on AO3 under the_winter_eden and wattpad under alone-at-last.

Warnings: discussions of murder, torture, rape, pregnancy

psycho masterlist Comment a request to be tagged!

< last chapter | next chapter >

“Would you stop looking at me?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because look at me.”

“You literally just told me not to.”

“Oh my god, Minho, stop looking at me.”

“I’m so confused.” The once former police officer—recently reinstated thanks to Commissioner Min—had the nerve to give the hospitalized girl a cheeky smile. “But either way, here’s looking at you.”

Cass rolls her eyes, but feels her cheeks heat up.

The doctors tell her it’s been four days since the unsanctioned rescue operation, and that she slept through all of them.

They also told her that Minho has only left her side when physically bodied out of the room by Seungmin.

She’s been given a thorough sponge bath and a hair cut, which has left her with a garishly short pixie after she had them chop off all the unkempt dreads—but even so, she doesn’t feel quite as devastated as she did before.

She’s still painfully thin, bones jutting out in every direction, her skin still dry and marked with rashes and sores, the scars still glaringly obvious on her flesh, but she’s clean and she isn’t hungry and there’s a heater blowing warm air somewhere on her right.

She’d never thought heaven would look like a hospital room.

“I can’t believe you’ve been staring at me for four days.”

It’s his turn to blush, the tips of his ears reddening. “I have not been staring at you for four days.”

She pulls the hospital blanket up to her chin and sucks in a deep breath of fresh laundry detergent, clean fabric, and a hint of whatever scent Minho is wearing. “Thank you for coming for me, Minho.” She whispers, and lets her eyes close. She has so many questions, so many requests now that she’s back in a world she never thought she’d see again, but she has to thank him first.

He came for her.

When nobody else would, when nobody else cared, he came for her.

She’s alive, reaping the benefits of about thirty IV bags because he came for her.

When no response comes, Cass turns her head and is met with his downturned gaze, tears brimming in his reddened eyes.

“Minho?”

He sniffles brusquely and scrubs at his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Cass.” He rasps brokenly. “This is all my fault. I should have come for you a year ago. I am so sorry.”

She blinks at him, mouth pinching. “You did come for me a year ago.”

He did. She remembers him searching the sewage system for a way down to her until he made himself sick. She remembers him skipping class and sleep and meals just to look for her.

He shakes his head. “I should have tried harder. I should have studied those files, I would have found out about Anna’s parents and the nightclub, I should have done more.”

“You did everything you could—”

“Stop comforting me, Cass.” He interrupts her, and the look in his eyes is heavy with guilt. “I don’t need you to comfort me, I need you to know that I am so, so sorry.”

She feels her own eyes water. “I know.”

He runs a hand through his hair—his genetically perfect hair—and sniffles again. “I’d do anything to go back and change it, Cass.”

“I know.” And she does. This is the first time she’s seen him since he carried her out of her prison, but he’s crumbling in front of her and she knows it. “You’re the one who saved me, Minho.”

Still kicking himself, he pulls a frown. “I don’t need you to comfort me, Cass. All I ever needed was for you to be safe.”

“Comfort me, then?” Her voice sounds teasing but her hand falls out from under her blanket in the hopes he’ll catch it.

He does.

He scoots his chair forward and cradles her hand in both of his. “I’ve got you.” He doesn’t mean to say it, because it doesn’t really make any sense, but once the words are out of his mouth he’s glad he did.

Cass sags into her pillows and tears leak from her eyes, but she’s smiling.

“I’ve got you, Cass.”

P S Y C H O | H A N J I S U N G

“Hey,” A soft voice comes out of the clouds. “Hey, you’re okay. You’re safe.”

She doesn’t feel safe.

She feels sick.

Her stomach aches like she’s been vomiting for hours and her throat aches with searing rawness.

“It’s okay, take your time. They had to pump your stomach, that’s why you probably feel like you’ve been turned inside out.”

She doesn’t know who’s speaking. She’s lying on something soft, surrounded by warmth, the scent of soap in her nose. “Hannie?”

At the sound of his name in her own confused, cracking voice, the memories start to come back.

…my favorite part…

…that look on your face…

…that’s how the game works…

…God I fell in love with you…

Her eyes snap open and her sudden rush of breath is choked by sputtering coughs. For a moment she gags on air, eyes darting around what appears to be a hospital room, finally landing on a tall young police officer by her bed.

“Hey, hey, slow down,” He croons softly, lowering himself into a chair. “You’re okay. You’re safe now.”

For a minute she just lays there, gasping, gaping at him.

A warm smile curls his lips. “I’m not a dream, by the way, if that’s what you’re wondering. My name’s Seungmin.”

Seungmin.

She’s heard that name from Cass.

He’s Minho’s friend. He brought the chocolates.

She lets herself fall back onto her pillows.

Seungmin leans forward, a hand on the edge of her bed but not touching her. “You were unresponsive when we found you.”

Dead. She was dead.

“We’re so lucky you’re the first one we found. We almost couldn’t get you back.”

Her eyes shoot open at that and he chuckles, knowing exactly what she wants to ask. “The others are fine.” He promises. “Ruby’s doing well, and her baby is on the small side but should be okay. Jo is alright. She’s got some infections but she’s just come out of surgery and she’s stable. Kara is the best of all of you, she’s mostly sleeping it off. Cass is on heavy painkillers but she’s gonna be okay. Minho’s with her now. The wedding’s on Saturday.”

He meets her horrified look with a coy grin. “I’m kidding.”

Anna swallows roughly. “And?” Her voice feels like sandpaper.

“Ah, no signs of Han. I’m sorry, but it looks like Roberts tried to take off with him. And Jeongin, well—”

Anna tries not to flinch at the names, brow scrunching in rejection. “No,” She coughs and tries again. “Kim?”

Seungmin pales, a wince replacing his kind smile. “She wasn’t there, Anna, I’m sorry.”

P S Y C H O | H A N J I S U N G

The next time Anna wakes up, there’s a different police officer with Seungmin, this one of a much higher rank.

“Anna, this is Commissioner Min Yoongi. He’s taken over this case. He’d like to ask you some questions, if that’s alright.” Seungmin says. “And your parents are here. You’ll be able to see them when he’s done.”

Anna nods weakly, but says nothing. A beautiful bouquet of flowers on her bedside table catches her eye and distracts her, giving her a chance to breathe.

After a year of wishing for nothing but rescue, when she finally has it, it sits in her heart with discomforting dullness.

She’d thought she was going to be rescued with Han, that they’d escape their hell together, that they’d be free together.

But that’s not what happened.

He’d manipulated her for sport.

She feels her eyes welling with tears.

He’d made himself appear to be vulnerable and unassuming, a safe place, a refuge from Cain. He’d enticed and invited her and coaxed her to fall in love with him.

And then he’d killed her.

Her Han, her Hannie, her wretched savior, had murdered her.

He’d played some sick game with her heart, just for the thrill of revealing his hand and destroying her.

All consuming rage taints Anna’s blood, flowing beneath every inch of her skin.

She’d loved him so much that she’d hung her entire existence on him. She’d fixed him at the center of her narrow universe and placed every last shattered piece of her heart in his hands.

He’d taken those pieces, snatching them up as soon as she’d extended them, and the game was up. He won.

He fed off of those pieces and made her watch.

She’s never felt so much anger.

“Anna?” Commissioner Min questions as her tears fall. “I can come back later.”

She shakes herself out of it. “No. I’m okay.”

Min takes a seat and spreads a file across her lap. “I have some photos here for you to look at. Would you be able to identify your captor for me?”

Anna flips through the pictures.

Page after page of unfamiliar faces pass before her eyes, until she’s near the end of the stack and she finds herself looking at a handsome, dimpled smile and eerie blue eyes.

Her stomach lurches and her heartrate monitor beeps wildly. “Him.” She swallows stiffly, tapping a shaking finger against the broad crest of the man in the picture’s nose. “Definitely him.”

Min’s mouth tightens and Seungmin’s head bows.

“Shit,” The younger officer mutters.

Commissioner Min pulls the file back onto his own lap. “Thank you, Anna. How are you feeling today?”

She doesn’t answer, but he can see how sick she feels in the deathly pallor of her face. After a moment of tense silence, he folds his hands over his lap and rolls the appropriate details over in his mind. “We found you unresponsive, strapped into the chair. The others have indicated that its where Cain Roberts conducted his torture sessions.” He begins carefully.

Anna’s expression darkens, a frown growing at the words.

She wasn’t in the chair.

She was in the pantry with Han.

With Jeongin.

“You had ingested enough cyanide to stop your heart. We believe Roberts intended to get rid of as many of you as he could once he realized he’d been discovered. After he poisoned you, we believe he took Kim with him as protection in case we caught him. We haven’t yet, but we will, don’t worry.” Min leans forward, sincerity bleeding through his stern expression.

Anna’s mind is racing.

They think Cain is the one who poisoned her.

Han dragged her into that damn chair, framed his own fucking uncle, and made a run for it.

She’s so angry she can’t even speak to correct him.

Commissioner Min spends a few more minutes asking her questions about her condition, about what she’s willing to do in terms of cooperating with the investigation, and then he takes his leave.

With one last sweet smile, Seungmin shows her parents into the room and leaves her to a tear-soaked reunion.

pov : Cass

Soon after she wakes up, the doctor asks Minho to leave the room. They’ve given her a female doctor to make her more comfortable, and Cass already knows what the woman wants to talk about when she somberly pulls up a chair.

Cass feels the chills set in immediately, anxiety crawling up her spine as though she’s done something wrong. She hasn’t, she knows she hasn’t. Even so, when the doctor glances over her charts one more time and then looks back up with a soft expression, Cass feels trapped.

She doesn’t want to talk about it.

She wants to pretend it never happened.

It’s all over now, all signs long erased—why does she have to talk about it as though it’s still there?

But the doctor isn’t involved in the frantic storm of thoughts in her head, and she asks anyway. “How long ago was your miscarriage?”

How long ago?

That was a difficult question.

Days, at least.

Weeks? She doesn’t think so.

She remembers the day, the blood, the stabbing cramps, but not the time elapsed since then. What does it matter, how long ago it was?

Cass winds a loose thread from her robe around her fingers and shrugs.

They let her have a soft, fluffy robe so she doesn’t have to worry about all the nurses and police officers staring at the scars on her arms.

“While you were out, I did an examination when I noticed the signs.” The doctor continues gently. “I wanted to make sure there would be no concern of sepsis. If I can give you any good news, it’s that your blood transfusion and continued good nutrition should get you all of your health and strength back. All of your tests came back clear in terms of sexually transmitted diseases or infections, so I hope that can ease your mind at least a little bit.”

It does, but Cass still doesn’t know how to handle this conversation. She knows one thing with perfect clarity, and she can’t stop herself from interrupting the doctor’s next words to say it. “Please don’t tell my parents.”

The woman doesn’t seem surprised. “That is, of course, your choice. I do want to tell you, though, that this will be easier to go through with a support system. We have a number of therapists to recommend, and this will be the easiest time to let your parents know. I can tell them myself, and prepare them for some of the considerations that may be helpful to you going forward…”

Cass tunes the doctor out after that. She can’t listen any more, she can’t think about it any longer.

The day it happened, when she realized what was happening, she was alone. Huddled in the corner of her room, weeping into her pillow as her body viciously rejected its own malnourished pregnancy, completely alone. When Hannie came in with breakfast and found her in a lake of blood, she begged him not to tell, and he didn’t.

He’d cleaned the floor and held her as she cried, and then he brought her a second helping of breakfast.

She hadn’t even known she was pregnant.

She couldn’t even bring herself to tell Minho.

“—especially when we’re still within a week of the miscarriage, I want to keep an eye on you.” The doctor got to her feet and gave a smile. “Your parents have been waiting in the lobby for four days. The police have finally given the okay for visitors—are you up for it?”

But all Cass can hear is the first part.

Still within a week?

Less than a week ago?

She feels worse than ever.

“You can tell them,” She whispers, lost. It’s all slipping through her fingers. Her sense of time and sequence of events crashes around like a cyclone in her mind and all she wants is to stop thinking.

Does she let go?

Does she hold on tighter?

“Please tell them before you let them in.” Cass feels the emotions bundle in her chest and constrict with crushing force. She doesn’t know whether to scream or cry, never speak again and hope it all goes away, or act like everything’s fine and hope it all goes away.

The doctor lays a comforting hand on Cass’s mangled fingers and then leaves her alone.

P S Y C H O | H A N J I S U N G

The next time Cass sees Anna is a week later. They’re both entirely different people—fresh haircuts, freshly showered, properly bandaged and stitched up, color back in cheeks, and life back in eyes.

Minho is pushing Cass into the hospital cafeteria via wheelchair when she sees the familiar face.

Anna, also in a wheelchair pushed by Seungmin, being situated at a table with two other unfairly gorgeous young men.

Minho pushes Cass right to the same table and helps her lock her wheels, greeting the men who are clearly his friends.

Seungmin handles introductions. “Anna, Cass, this is Hyunjin and Felix. Hyunjin goes to university with Minho, and Felix owns Brewsed Books on 5th.” He pulls up his own chair and sits next to Anna.

Cass returns polite greetings and notices Felix peering curiously at Anna.

“You’re staring, dude.” Seungmin kicks him as Anna frowns down at her lap.

Felix’s eyes go wide. “No! No, sorry, it’s just—you’ve been to Brewsed Books before, haven’t you?”

Anna practically deflates with a relieved sigh. “Yeah, I used to go like every other week.”

“You were looking for the old copies of the Nancy Drew books.” Felix is beaming. “I remember asking about your collection.”

She blushes. “The 1930s bindings, yeah. I grew up reading them.”

The others watch the conversation, finally stepping in to change the subject when Felix begins to get emotional over what could have happened to one of his most loyal customers.

“So, anyway,” Hyunjin butts in before Felix’s eyes can overflow. “They’ve got macaroni and cheese today that’s pretty good, and their roasted vegetables are surprisingly edible. What does everyone want?”

Seungmin stands. “I’ll help.”

But Hyunjin just pulls Felix up by the collar instead. “Felix will help me. Give us your orders and we’ll be right back with lunch.”

When they’re gone, silence settles comfortably over the remaining four. Cass’s eyes find Anna. The younger girl is sunk back in her wheelchair, the features of her face more drawn and morose than Cass has ever seen them.

She reaches over to touch Anna’s hand, giving it a squeeze.

Anna finally smiles, her mouth shaking at the corners.

“We haven’t found Kim yet,” Minho states softly. “We’re hoping, since we haven’t found a body either, that she’s still alive. If she remains useful to Roberts, hopefully she’s safe.”

Cass finds herself subconsciously leaning into Minho’s soothing voice, pulling away from Anna. “I thought his name wasn’t really Cain Roberts though.”

“We don’t know his name.” Seungmin says. “The organization that he’s part of would have provided him with aliases to keep him undetected. They created a decoy for him when he started abducting the girls—named him Cain Roberts and put someone else’s face in the spotlight to allay suspicion. Then they kept the decoy in reserve in case they needed someone to frame in a pinch.”

“Not that it would have worked,” Minho cuts in. “The guy they chose looks as weak as the rest of you.” He hasn’t really spoken to Anna yet, but he looks at her now. “Your parents didn’t know what was going on downstairs. I know they’re punishing themselves for not finding you sooner, but Cain’s people are good at covering for him.”

Anna accepts his words silently, gratefully.

“So he was your boss?” Cass murmurs. “This whole time?”

The young officers look absolutely wrecked over the facts of the case, ashamed, embarrassed, and enraged by the truth. “Bang and Roberts are the same.” Seungmin confirms tightly. “He kept us off your case by claiming the FBI had taken over, that they wanted to sit on Cain and sus out his organization. He lied to us and we fell for it.”

Nobody says anything.

What is there left to say?

Hyunjin and Felix return, loaded down with food trays and a little bit of life falls over the table again. The chatter with Minho’s classmate and the bookshop owner is lighthearted and playful, and the girls quickly realize why they’ve been invited to this lunch date.

It’s very hard to have a bad day with Hyunjin and Felix at your table.

let me know what you think!

tag list : @mysterysold

[katnissdoesnotfollowback]

Never have I Ever: Vampire AU?

I actually have never written vampires. Welp. Here goes a first try??? Am I crossing my vampire lore with zombies and werewolves??? It’s not usually my flavor and Idk what I’m doing, but here you go, Anon!

❤️ kdnfb

Never Have I Ever

RATED E: vampires and biting (duh), questionable medical stuff, sexual content, dark themes.

She should be relieved. Peeta is back. He’s been missing for nearly six months, vanished the night his brothers took him out for a surprise bachelor party. He’d last been seen on the bar’s security footage, stumbling, apparently drunk, in the arms of a woman Katniss hadn’t recognized. At first, the police suggested she was a prostitute who had taken Peeta out back of the bar to conduct her services.

Katniss refused to believe that. Not her Peeta.

Further examination made them postulate that she had somehow drugged Peeta and taken him against his will.

While that thought made Katniss violently ill, she was more willing to believe it than the prostitute theory. But why would someone want to abduct Peeta?

And as she stares through the widow of a surgery room at the hospital, Katniss doesn’t even try to hide her tears. Emaciated and pale, sweating with a dangerously high fever, the man they’ve identified as Peeta Mellark thrashes and fights the doctors, until they sedate him and strap him to the gurney.

In a daze, Katniss listens to the litany of his symptoms. He seems to be fighting some kind of blood borne disease. His heart rate is so low that the monitors keep declaring him flatlined. He’s not responding to normal fever reducers and antibiotics seem to have no effect. The only thing that seems to help are blood transfusions. They’re not certain yet if it’s contagious. Measures have been taken to isolate him.

His body shows signs of malnutrition, dehydration, and abuse. They haven’t ruled out the possibility of rape but won’t know for sure until he regains consciousness.

Her mother brings her coffee she barely drinks and food she barely touches.

“You need to eat,” her sister urges when she stops by during one of her breaks.

“Today should’ve been our six month anniversary,” she murmurs and pushes the flaky croissant away from her.

Eventually, he wakes. And Katniss is allowed to see him and speak to him through the glass.

He remembers her and presses his palm to the window, as though desperate to reach her. She places her hand so they’d be palm to palm if the glass weren’t between them.

“I love you. You have to let me go,” he says in a throaty voice and Katniss shakes her head.

“I can’t.”

Several days later, the fever finally stabilizes and now the doctors worry that his body temperature occasionally dips dangerously low. But he’s started eating, mostly meat that’s nearly raw, and his need for the blood transfusions has dropped to once every couple of days.

He still doesn’t remember what happened to him. That or he refuses to say.

On the day Katniss brings him home, Peeta stares around their apartment as though he doesn’t recognize the place at all. He can’t remember simple things like where he stores his favorite whisk or how the living room window often sticks and has to be juggled a certain way before you can open it.

At night, he refuses to touch Katniss.

She tries not to take it personally. The police now firmly believe he was taken by and escaped from some kind of human trafficking group.

She tries to tell herself that he’s just traumatized and will come back to her eventually. If she’s patient and loving enough.

His appetite has changed drastically, and Katniss rarely, if ever, sees him eating. He never baked or cooks for her anymore. He refuses to leave the house. He seems almost scared to do so. He can’t sleep at night. He does paint again, though. Sometimes he’ll lay in bed with her until she falls asleep, but when she wakes up, he’s locked himself in his studio. When he emerges, his skin will be pale and flecked or smeared with paint. Dark circles will ring his eyes. At least he’s painting, but he seems to take no joy in it and he refuses to let Katniss see any of his work.

When she suggests maybe he should seek out a therapist, someone he can talk to about what happened, he loses his temper.

They fight. They fight like they’ve never fought before. Katniss can only describe the expression glittering in Peeta’s eyes as malice as he yells at her that she’s asking too much of him.

“What the fuck do you want from me?”

“I just want the man I was going to marry back! Just for one night, I need you to be my Peeta!”

“And what if I can’t? What if the cost of me being like that again is impossible to pay?”

“That doesn’t make any sense!”

She breaks down in tears after he storms from the apartment. Hours later, when he still hasn’t returned, Katniss drags herself to bed and stares at the empty pillow where Peeta’s head should be.

She sleeps. Fitful and marred with terrible, blood soaked dreams. She must sleep because she wakes to Peeta nuzzling her and whispering her name, inhaling at her throat and moaning.

She’s missed that sound. So desperately that she doesn’t question the sudden change or demand an apology. He licks something dark from the corner of his mouth and she shivers at the heat glittering in his cool blue eyes.

“I want to taste you. Katniss, I need to taste you now,” he practically growls. They push her shorts down just enough for him to slide between her legs. She sighs and then moans, her fingers clinging to the silken strands of his hair as his tongue relearns her taste.

He hasn’t forgotten much, she barely has time to think as he drives her so quickly towards orgasm that she doesn’t bother to quiet her moans. Damn the neighbors and courtesy.

She’s still dazed with an earth shattering release as Peeta settles between her spread thighs, licking her from his lips and grinning down at her as he teases her entrance with his tip.

“I miss this so much more than real food,” he whispers, his teeth gleaming white in the moonlight. Before Katniss can process his strange words, Peeta thrusts his cock inside her. He feels different, somehow, but he moves too deep and too quickly for her to name the difference.

And it feels good. So impossibly good, especially when Peeta kisses and nips at her neck. When she comes again, his moans and frantic thrusts tell her he’s right there with her. His teeth sink into her neck and his entire body shudders, and his euphoric moans border on obscene. Dazed and drugged on pleasure, Katniss sinks into a deep, dreamless sleep before he even pulls out of her.

He’s different after that. More like himself. He still refuses to go out much at all, and never alone or during the day. He still won’t talk about what happened during the six months he was gone. He still doesn’t cook and barely eats. He still won’t let Katniss see his paintings.

But he holds her at night and once a week, he’ll wake her and ravenously make love to her.

He’s been home almost a year when Katniss turns on the news one morning, singing to herself and scratching at the spot where Peeta bit her last night when he came.

“And it seems this couple suffered the same ritualistic style killing as the last three pairs. Their bodies were entirely drained of blood—“ Katniss pauses with the bread hovering over the toaster, honing in on the words. “—and left in a dumpster behind a bar. The killings seem to be happening at regular intervals, about once a week.”

“Hey,” Peeta says as he wraps his arms around her from behind and nuzzles her neck. “Anything interesting happening in the world?”

She drops the bread into the toaster and flicks off the tv. Turning in his arms, she smiles and kisses his lips.

“No. Nothing is wrong. Life is wonderful.”

[mimez-meme]

My angst present mic headcanons🤭

In reality he Overthinks and is a rlly anxious person

Tried therapy, didn’t help. Hates therapy now.

Has a deadbeat dad and mummy issues and he has barely any contact with them but occasionally visits his mum and gets messages from an “unknown number” (his dad) which he ignores because he knows it’s him, and he refuses to talk to him

He hates his quirk mostly but sometimes loves it cuz it can be used for fun things and he likes being his loud self but ever since Oboros death he’s had a dislike for it and believed he’s only made for villain work because of his quirk

Beacuse he’s use to hiding in all his emotions when he cries he gets confused and doesnt know what he’s feeling, he tells himself to stop being so weak and to ‘man up’

Has eye bags but his glasses hide them and he kinda hates his eye bags cuz every time he looks in the mirror he just gets reminded of the nightmares he gets and that’s why he has those eye bags (and from overworking)

(Before he found out about kurogiri)He went to Oboros grave every Sunday if he can with aizawa occasionally , if it’s just him he would sing this song oboro and him made up as a joke and always apologise for “killing him” but even after he found out about yk he still does that to remind himself what it was like before he knew about it cuz it’s all still overwhelming (now that he’s officially dead again, he goes to his grave to beg for forgiveness and to apologise because he believes oboro hates him now since his last words to him were dead threats)

He’s wrote songs about how he feels, no one has heard these songs, it’s just for his ears, writing songs about how he feels kinda became a comfort thing.

Struggles to answer the question “who are you?” Cuz tbh he doesn’t even know himself

Sometimes has hallucinations of something bad happening to aizawa or of oboro

He knows he’s annoying and shota finds it hard to put up with his personality sometimes, so he distances himself when he feels like he’s being too much and apologises

Finds it hard to believe when someone says “I love you” ether romantic or platonic or when anyone compliments him

Was bullied in school for a short while

After finding out who turned oboro into kurogiri (the doctor) he’s had a hatred for doctors cuz everytime he sees one he just gets flashbacks to Oboro and he hates it. (Kinda same with aizawa)

His drinking problems got bad again after s6-s7

He’s trained himself to not cry due to being told to not cry beacuse if he cries he’ll hurt those around him growing up, and so he fears he’ll hurt people if he were to cry and he just doesn’t want to seem weak or for anyone to worry.

Tends to not eat if he’s stressed, not in a good mood or sad. He tries to break the habit but it’s hard, people who know about the habit (who are very few like nemuri, aizawa and toshi.) try and get him to eat when they know he’s stressed ect but it’s hard to do so, sometimes he throws up when given food

Headphones are the things that seems to give him comfort, he’s grew up with headphones, grew up with music being his comfort, he cannot go anywhere without headphones or AirPods if he doesn’t bring them everything will just become overwhelming.

He hears Oboros voice sometimes telling him stuff mostly negative. Like “you killed me.” “I hate you” ect ect.

[bnhaemporium]

Hello! I loved your pro-heros imagine where the reader was hurt. I was wondering if you'd do the pros again reacting to the reader having amnesia? The doctors aren't sure if it's permanent or not. Maybe the pros try to court them all over again just in case they don't remember them? Thank you! ♡

Hello! Thank you for requesting, I hope you enjoy!

Characters: All Might, Endeavour, Edgeshot, Aizawa, Hawks

✧. ┊    ✧. ┊    ✧. ┊    ✧. ┊    ✧. ┊    ✧. ┊    ✧. ┊    ✧. ┊    ✧. ┊    ✧. ┊    

All Might

Toshinori stares. He knows it’s probably unnerving but he can’t help it, remembering how you looked at him when you first met and unable to maintain his composure fully.

When he snaps out of it, he introduces himself as though he’s never met you before. He puts on the same voice he uses when speaking to the press – the false tone that’s meant to make him sound less human than ever.

He takes a very, very long time before he lets anybody explain he once was in your life. There’s a strange shame he carries with him surrounding your relationship. Despite everything he once promised to you, despite swearing to keep you safe, he feels like he failed.

Even though he’s tempted to try over again and win your heart, he’s not going to. It’s too unbalanced for him to remember everything while you knew nothing. Too hurtful to not be able to feel your care and love.



Eraserhead

Is it a fate worse than death? When Aizawa looks into your unrecognizing expression, he contemplates for a brief second if hearing about your death would have hurt him less.

None of these thoughts show on his face as he reintroduces himself to you and leaves out any reference to your relationship. He speaks as though you are merely somebody rescued in his line of work but try as he might, he can’t bring himself to abandon you alone when you’re like this.

He speaks quietly to you, like you’re an animal poised to bolt. It’s so intensely obvious what your relationship once was, though he may not say it. Even with no memories, his care can be seen.

He won’t try to win your heart for a second time. He says it’s because he doesn’t have the energy to but honestly, he doesn’t want to intrude on your life when you already have so much to try and remember.



Hawks

Keigo doesn’t believe it for a few short, devastating moments when he smiles at you cockily. He waits for your façade to break and listens for a laugh of some unexplained joke. But it never comes and when he slowly realises the truth, he feels entirely lost.

You can’t see his emotions clearly but there’s a shake in his words as he adjusts himself for a reintroduction. His arrogance in telling you about your relationship doesn’t hide how weak his tone sounds.

He’s going to tell you bits and pieces in hopes of bringing back your memories but when it doesn’t work, he’ll shrug as though it’s no big deal. You won’t be allowed to know the truth because he’s barely admitted that to himself.

At first, he promises himself that he’ll leave you to recover in your own time but he won’t hold to that. He’s determined to show you why you fell for him and he’s going to remind you about every part of your relationship he adores.



Endeavour

There are many things in this world that make Enji angry or frustrated but in a situation like this, all of those feel trivial. He doesn’t even recognise the sinking emotion he experiences when you don’t greet him as you always do.

At first, he gets loud and sharp as he almost demands that you remember who he is. His words are harsh and coloured with a grief you can no longer recognise immediately. He eventually has to leave to calm himself down as the anger rolls through him.

It takes him days before he returns and gives you a proper account for what happened, still behaving far too formal. He provides you with whatever he can to prove his point. He knows his stance makes it seem unbelievable.

He’s certain he can win you over a second time and he goes about romancing you as he did the first time. It worked initially. He really takes advantage of what he knows to make you understand his affection.



Edgeshot

Shinya maintains a very calm façade when everything is explained to him and he sits at the foot of your hospital bed, watching your expression with a well-hidden uncertainty.

He goes through your relationship and your life with you to see what parts you remember and what has changed. He doesn’t allow his emotions to get to him until he’s alone later that day. That’s when he gives into grief.

It’s hard not to mourn you as though you had died. Everything he’s built with you has been ripped away but he’s not going to let it be the end. Not when he still has you with him.

He works with you to help get your memories back and to make new ones along the way. He’s learned what you like throughout your relationship and he’s going to make your recovery period as peaceful and enjoyable as he can, secretly ensuring he can keep your heart whenever he can.



[write-orflight]

Golden: Chapter 3

**Gif Not Mine**

Prev -  Next

Pairings: SpencerXReader (Friends to lovers)

Rating: M

Words: 2. 1K

Warnings: No warnings. Over-bearing mother maybe??

Request: OPEN/CLOSED

Summary: One misheard conversation turns Y/N and Spencer’s perfect friendship upside down. Now, she needs him to play pretend for her parents wedding. Will their friendship last this one little hiccup? Or will it change how they see each other forever?

A.N Guess who's back in the house?? Sorry for my long hiatus I didn't have a way to write for a while but now with my new laptop. I plan on writing a lot more! reply to this if you want to be back on my taglist. Love, Cia

Chapter 3: I know you were way too bright for me 

You sprinted across the quad at record speed. In fact, you’d be surprised if a track coach didn’t try to recruit you because you knew you had to be breaking some type of record. You saw Spencer walking from his Advanced Physics class when you tackled him from behind, sending him toppling over. 

Spencer sputtered for a second before turning over realizing it was you. “Y-Y/N, What the heck?!” 

“Shut up.” You say, from your perch on top of him. You pull the folded piece of paper out of your back pocket, shoving it in the taller man’s face. “Read it and weep.” 

Spencer squinted slightly at the paper. “This is a C…” 

“Hell yea, it’s a C!” You say, excitedly. “In calculus! Effectively bringing my D up to a low C.” 

“And we’re happy?” 

“Yes!” You say, shaking the man by his shoulders. “Because I never have to take that shit again, which means we’re going out tonight.” 

Spencer groans which you mock. “Don’t you think you should be studying instead? To bump that grade up.” 

“Nope, C’s get degrees, so I’m getting shots. Which means you are too.”

“Fine… but you’ll have to let me up first.” Spencer says. You mumble a quick ‘oh yea’ as you get up off the man’s lap. He brushes the dirt off his pants as he stands with a small frown on his face. 

The two of you walk in silence in the direction of the bar just off campus before Spencer looks over at you.

“I’m proud of you for getting a C, Y/N.” Spencer smiles down at you. “I know you were struggling with Calculus. You should be proud.” 

You smile up at the man. Spencer doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the supernova you seemed to hide behind your teeth. “Thank you, Spence.” 

—-----------------------------------------

“Let’s just tell her we both died.” You say, as you drive down the road that leads closer and closer to your childhood home. “We’re in the FBI, she’ll believe it.”

Spencer laughs. “Faking your death won’t solve our problems, Y/N.” 

“Fine… witness protection then.” 

“We’re gonna be fine, our story is air-tight, we prepped for this, and it’s only for a week.” 

You sank more and more into your seat as Spencer turned down Cherrytree Drive, your childhood street. You couldn’t help the dread that entered your heart as you passed the big tree you used to climb as a kid which was also how you broke your arm in the 7th grade. 

Spencer parks in your parents' very expensive, long driveway. Your parents were both doctors and did fairly well for themselves even after retirement due to some good investments. Spencer looked over at the petrified look on your face and gave you a pity smile. 

“Look, if you want we can say there was a last minute case and we can turn back. But it’s your parent’s anniversary and even though you don’t like the circumstances, I know you’d be more upset if you missed it.” You blew a breath, you knew Spencer was right, as he often was. “I’ll be right here… Whatever you want to do.” 

You sigh again. “Fine, let’s just get this over with.” You say, before swinging the car door open. 

The first person you see is your sister running down the front steps, her mellow-demeanored husband following shyly behind her. You run halfway to meet her as Spencer grabs your bags. 

“Y/N!” The wind is knocked out of you slightly as the 2 of you collided. “God, it’s been too long, how come you never visit?” 

“You know, my work schedule. We’re just lucky the serial killers took a break this week.” You laugh at your sister’s scared expression. She never liked the details of your job, being one of those people who thought Serial killers only existed in the 70s. 

She changes the subject almost as soon as possible. “I see you roped Spencer into saving you from the Momster. Do you really think you guys are gonna pull it off?” 

“Well, Spencer seems to think so and he’s smarter than me, so.” 

Your sister hums for a second. “You know, I think you two are gonna pull it off.” She says, in a way that almost sounds sneaky, you raise an eyebrow at her. “You wanna know why I think you’re going to pull it off?” 

You decide to indulge her. “I don’t know, why Rachel?” 

“Because I don’t think you guys are going to make it through the week before realizing you’re madly in love with each other.” She says, making mock kissy faces at you which you push her for.      

“Don’t be ridiculous, Rach, You know me and Spencer are just friends.” 

She holds her hands up in mock defense. “Hey, I’m just saying. I don’t look at any of my friends the way the two of you look at each other. I’m just saying maybe this weekend, the party, all the Romantic energy.” Rachel says, wiggling her eyebrows at you. You roll your eyes at that. “Maybe you’ll see what I see.” Rachel shrugs.

“And what do you see?” You say, deciding to indulge her. 

“A man who's completely in love with you.” She says, turning to the two men who were getting your bags from the car. Well, Jacob was getting the bags from the car while Spencer excitedly explained ancient marriage traditions. You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face. You look over at your sister who is smirking at you, you roll your eyes at her again. 

“Come on, let’s go find mom.” 

You find your mom standing at the kitchen counter baking while your little sister, Isabelle, was sitting on the other side of the kitchen island studying. You walk up and tussle her hair. 

“Hey Squirt!” You say, excitedly. 

“You know, I’m an adult now, right?” She says, hands moving up frantically to fix her hair. “I don’t like being called Squirt.”  

“Oh, I’m sorry, Izzy.” You say, watching her grumble a soft ‘my name is Isabelle’ under her  breath before turning your attention to your mother. “Hey Mama.” You say, softly as you go into her waiting open arms. 

“Oh, my baby! I’m so happy you were able to make it!” She says into your shoulder. She pulls away holding you at arms length. “So… where is he?” She questions in a kind of sing-song tone. 

“Where’s who?” You say, deciding to play dumb to mess with your mother. She just levels you with a look. “He’s getting our bags with Jake.” 

Your mother lets you go to swat at you. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were dating Spencer! Of all people!” 

“Yea, I know, Mama.” You say, already starting to feel bad for lying to your mother. “It’s just new and we work together… we just wanted to keep it under wraps and all.” 

“And it’s not a problem? Working together?” 

You shake your head. “Spencer and I work well together.” 

“No, I mean dating and working together. Your coworkers don’t mind?” 

“Oh.” You say, understanding her question now. “No, none so far. But we do different things for the team.”  

“Oh, I know they were probably rooting for you crazy kids as much as we were. When I told your dad, he even smiled.” She says, happily. It doesn’t sound like much but for the stoic man it was practically jumping for joy. 

As if on cue, Spencer walks in and your mother immediately forgets you exist. “Oh, Spencer!” She says, smiling brightly at the young man. 

“Hi, Ms. Y/L/N.” He says, softly. 

“Oh, honey, you can call me Abigail.” The older woman says. “Or even Mom if you’d like.” 

“Ma!” You say, slightly embarrassed. “Do you think we could go upstairs and unpack? We had a long trip.”

“Of course, honey. I set up the guest room for you guys, unless you want to sleep in your old room?” Your mother asks. You frown at the thought of sleeping in your eye-draining bright pink room with Tween Beat posters probably still on the walls and shook your head. 

“We’ll take the guest room.” You say, practically pulling Spencer away. 

Once the two of you are secluded in the room, you take the first sigh of relief you had been holding. 

“We can still back out if you want.” You say, as Spencer sets your bags down. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know my mom would be so… pushy immediately.” 

“I did.” You give Spencer a confused expression. “I’ve been preparing for this since you asked me. I know what your family’s like, it can't be any worse than what we do everyday.”             

“It could be. It’s my mother.” 

As if you were speaking of the devil, you hear the familiar rapping of your formative years on the door before your mother just fully walks in half-covering her eyes with her hands. 

“Hope everyone’s decent?” 

“We’ve been up here for 4 minutes, Ma.” You say, rolling your eyes while Spencer smirked at the antics of your mother. 

“I just wanted to see what you were wearing tonight.” Your mom smiled. You and Spencer looked up shocked. 

“Umm, what’s tonight, mother?” You say, eyebrows raised. Your mom holds her hands up in mock surrender. 

“I know we said we were only having the two parties for the vow renewal but I was so excited that you were coming home and bringing Spencer. I may have invited a couple of people over for dinner tonight.” 

You clench your jaw, knowing your moms game. “Uh-huh, a couple of people… And how many is a couple people?” 

“Like… maybe 50… or 70?” 

“Mom! We’ve been traveling all day, I hardly think we’ll be the best entertainment.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be fine. It’s only dinner anyway.” Your mom says, tapping your cheek in that enduring this is not open for discussion way she tends to do. “Now, try to look presentable, people will start arriving by 6.” She says, leaving without another word. 

“Shit!” You exclaim, frustratedly, face planting into the bed “Spencer, honestly if you want to leave right now, I wouldn’t blame you. I should’ve known she’d pull some shit like this.” You say, muffled into the clean sheets. 

You feel a hand at the small of your back. You ignore the warm feeling that travels up your spine at Spencer’s touch. You knew this weekend was gonna be a test of your self-control but if a hand on your back was going to make you dizzy then maybe you needed to be the one to back out this weekend.            

“I know who your mom is too, so I already anticipated it. However, if you just want to leave, we can go.” 

“But then I’d feel bad, I dragged you out here, made you help me with a ruse…” 

“You need to remember, I came here for you. I decided to go along with this for you, because you asked me to. I care about you. I’ll do whatever you want.” 

You turn over and look up at Spencer and you can’t help but feel your heart sink. Here was a man, who had done nothing but make sure you were okay the entire duration of your friendship and all you could think of was the softness of his eyes. How the light in the room danced in his eyes, how his jaw looked in his position above you. Spencer was a good friend, your best friend, and he was here because he wanted to help his friend. And here you were unable to stop the fluttery feeling in your stomach when he looked at you. You knew you liked Spencer but you also knew you didn’t deserve Spencer. As a friend or… anything else. The absolute least you could do was try to be a good friend, so you swallow that feeling before smiling up at Spencer. 

“It’s just the weekend, right?” You say. “Nothing changes.” 

Spencer looks slightly remorseful, only for a brief second before smiling back at you. “Yea.. nothing changes.”  

Perm Taglist: @moonshinerbynight @crimeshowtrash @richardrosejpeg @itsametaphorbriansblog @urguardiandevil @no-honey-no @this-is-why-imma-die-alone @scarletred79@idroppedmygourd @luwheezys @avis-exe @newvialuna @onlyhereforcriminalmindsthings @ceeellewrites​ @eevee0722 @crying-on-the-floor​ @thereaderlexa​ @makeadealwithdean @ifyousawthisnoyoudidnot @spencers-dria @measure-in-pain @jori21 @002345k @fictional-hooman

[sun-stricken]

Gray & Erza Hcs

someone sent in an ask about their friendship and i accidentally deleted it but you know who u are, this is for you

these two have so much angst potential

* Gray purposefully take the route to and from his house that passes the river even though it takes longer, just on the off chance Erza might be there

* She holds so much guilt for sending him into avatar, but everytime she tries to apologize for it the words get stuck and she cant

* Grays probably the only person Erza has ever offered a slice of her cake to, if only bc she knows he doesnt like cake and made it her personally mission to find one he does

* They are so stubborn

* Gray: You’re one of my best friends, I would do anything for you. 
Erza: I want you to eat 3 meals a day and have a decent sleep schedule. 
Gray: Absolutely not.

* Their friendship is the type where they can sit in silence for hours and be completely comfortable just knowing the other is there

* Erza loves her guild, but if Gray died, if he left fairy tail, she would genuinely consider leaving as well

* her big sister instincts will always kick in the fastest with him

* She has an internal alarm that sounds every time Grays in trouble even if shes no where near him.

* Sometimes she’ll wake up in a cold sweat and text him in a panic asking him whats wrong

* it freaked him out so many times but hes grown so used to it that he’ll message her as soon as smth happens to forstall the panic

* He was her first real friend in fairy tail, so she has a soft spot and a bias of sorts for him, shes more likely to take his sides on things than not

* thats not to say she turns a blind eye to his chronic dumbassery, no she still will fully call him out on his bullshit, but shes more likely to call others out before him

* In turn, Gray is the one who calls her out on her behavior, people will go out of their way to find him just so he can talk to her bc shes less likely to kill him if he calls her out than anyone else

* He called her a hypocrite once and everybody started to mentally plan his funeral, then was in awe since she actually stopped what she was doing and apologized

* He will fight for what she wants even if he doesn’t necessarily agree with it. He is the first to defend her

* Hes also the first to put her in her place, he has never seen her as the great godly ‘Titiana’, he sees her a ‘Erza’, a teenage girl

* And honestly? she probably appreciates thats more than being seen as a sort of invincible god the public sees her as

* Allegedly, their are the two most ‘mature’ and put together people of the team. its a lie. an act. theyre not. not at all. They are so chaotic, especially together. when nobodies around they can be so dumb together and they cause so many problems. but nobody would believe you if you told someone

* They have an insane amount of respect for one another, more than the kind for friends and guild mates

* Gray isn’t actually scared of her, he plays it up for shits n giggles but at the end of the day less scared than he is cautious, he knows she’ll put him in his place but he is by no means scared of her.

* She knows this and its like their own little secret

* They refuse to go to the doctor, therapy, or anything such as that unless the other gets checked out too

* They get each other weapons for their birthdays, each one is better than the last

* They see a lot of themselves in each other, perhaps thats why they are so protective of one another

* Neither of them are the type to fully let down their walls, theyve never really felt truly and completely at ease with any one person. But the closest its ever been has been with each other

* trying to get them to do smth actually good for their health is like getting happy to never eat fish again.

[jackdaniel69nice]

I'm really interested in your head cannons for Tokoyami and Dark Shadow's relationship/thoughts on President Mic

Presidential Michal, our beloved sassy mc~

Of course tokoyami has a great singing voice and info of the best bands. While Mic knew of his musical talents on the bass from the sports festival he has no knowledge on these other two facts. Tokoyami doesn’t tend to stand out, he doesn’t nessicarily draw Mics eye nor does aizawa ever complain about him so he has very little knowledge of him. He has made general commentary about him during the sports festival (and even said dark shadow might be the best quirk ever :)) but he doesn’t actually know much about him personally. In fact he doesn’t even realize tokoyami is goth because he always wears plain clothes or the school uniform. Tokoyami always seems to do well enough in his English class though. His first real information about tokoyami is from jiro when she mentions he likes music.

Jiro is doing special lesson or perhaps you can call it an internship with mic where she helps out at his station, he also lets her use the sound studio and teachers her vocal tips for fun. I am not very well versed on music genres but I believe tokoyami is. So I think he likes indie, rock, goth, and visual kei (maybe folk too but that’s from his upbringing). Kiyoko obviously is more punk than goth but their interests still overlap a lot. Dark Shadow on the other hand listens to just about anything whether it’s pop or occapella, what they like can differ greatly. They really like mitzki though. Also! Since dark shadow is up all hours of the night I bet they listened to Mics radio station, they have never brought it up with him though. Either way considering tokoyami is in fact a bird and probably can sing mic demands jiro recruit him or at least find out what his vocal cords are capable of.

I’ve mentioned before tokoyami has problems with his throat from using his voice incorrectly and often gets laryngitis. He also has trauma about singing and especially dancing so he tries to refuse but Midoriya talks him into trying it to see if he can help reverse the damage and make his avian vocal cords useful again. Once again dark shadow doesn’t have any damage to their voice so they are very good at imitation and can make very natural bird sounds and it makes their voice more squawky. Now Mic had to see a voice specialist as a child to help him control his quirk so while he’s not an expert tokoyami isn’t very fond of doctors and won’t see anyone else so he’ll help as much as he can. Once Mic finds out tokoyami went through “speech therapy” (it wasn’t normal speech therapy, they taught him not to chirp when speaking and it’s exactly what damaged his voice) he gets very upset and decides right there he will do anything to protect this child. He does all kinds of research to help him and even calls a few of his doctors for their advice. When tokoyami starts making bird calls his voice cracks and breaks and he losses his voice but through exercising those muscles regularly again it stops hurting so much. Eventually through hard work tokoyami can start making proper chirps and tweets (yay! I’m so proud of him!! <3 <3) in the mean time dark shadow is learning all kinds of new tricks! They learn how to throw their voice and Mic even helps them come up with their new super move Ragnarok: Infernal Shriek which is very similar to Present Mics quirk. Tokoyami is a bit…jealous.

He has to start from the bottom, it makes him feel like shadow is so much farther ahead of him. Mic notices he is a bit down and gives him a pep talk telling him how strong he is. After that he lets toko into the sound studio. Tokoyami says he can sing but hurts if he does it too much just like talking but discovers it doesn’t hurt as much as it used to. Mic has to watch to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself and is flabbergasted by his baritone. He has a natural skill but obviously no training. So Mic teaches him to sing too! He can hit ALL those high notes and has a great vibrato.

Overall they see Mic as a great teacher and have a lot of trust in him. Mic lifts them up and worked so hard with them so they look up to him. Shadow especially gets along with him because they are both so energetic and make jokes together. Tokoyami thinks they are both noisy. Sometimes shadow will bring bugs to prank Mic, they think it’s hilarious. Toko doesn’t approve. Mic is glad he could help these kiddos out and want to see them succeed.

[scaryscarecrows]

"I Can't Take This Anymore."

It hadn’t been planned. It hadn’t even crossed his mind; he’s too sick to plan anything, and Harley had tried to fix him by plying him full of…something. Pills, he’s not sure not what kind. It hadn’t worked, and Joker, after Jason had gone from shrieking to coughing hard enough to throw up, had begun to fear his pet bird might actually die. Jason considered that fine. Joker disagreed, and he’d brought Jason out of the room, to some other part of the asylum, to see a doctor. And Jason.

It hadn’t been planned. It had been the desperation of a trapped animal. He’d headbutted the doctor, sent her staggering, and before Joker could grab him, he’d summoned what strength he had and run.

Arkham’s grounds are a jungle. Crane had kept them manicured, practically barren, but Sharp doesn’t bother. He says it’s because ‘the patients need greenery’, but Barb says it’s because he’s a cheapass. Jason believes Barb.

He’s grateful now, though. Joker’s hard on his heels, screaming at him, but Jason manages to take a hard left and stumble into some bushes. That’s about the time that his ankle gives out and he only barely bites back a yelp. Joker’s purple legs appear and he freezes, tries not to breathe (hurts it hurts his lungs–).

“Where are you…” Joker’s muttering. “Typical of the medical profession, bill you and don’t even fix what ails you…”

The purple legs walk away. Jason waits one, two, three beats before struggling to his feet. Gotta be quiet. Can’t be caught, he won’t be allowed to die, oh, no, he’ll pay for this if Joker catches him.

He spots distant headlights. 

It’s a risk. 

He’s going to take it.

Head swimming, world pitching dangerously under his feet, he struggles towards the road. Behind him, there’s a burst of mad laughter and running feet, but just as quickly there’s a squawk of outrage and the sound of a body diving aside as the car slams on the brakes. Jason tries to backpedal and goes down hard and this is it, then. It’s over.

He can’t see well. He’s in agony from the fall and now he really can’t stop coughing and his ribs are on fire.

Slosh-slosh-slosh-slosh.

“Gotcha!”

“Jesus Christ–”

There’s suddenly hands on him, patting him down, and no-no-no, please, please, he’ll be good, he won’t run again–

“Come on–”

“Please–”

“I gotcha, c’mon…”

He’s being dragged, then, through the mud, and hauled up. He tries to push the hands off him and they do draw back, and then there’s the slamming of a door.

Then there’s nothing at all.

* * *

He wakes, a little, when a warm (warm? Must be the fever…) washcloth scrubs across his face. Fever or not, he hasn’t been clean in…a while, not really. Sure, Harley’s hosed him down a few times, given him a rough scrubbing, but not…not like this. Not careful and thorough. 

“There you are.” The voice sounds a little familiar, but he can’t…his head hurts and his vision won’t settle; the room just keeps spinning like a slot machine. “Okay, sweet boy, I’m gonna get this off…”

What?

He’s too weak to stop the hands from taking his cape off and no, no-no-no, he doesn’t want this, please–

“It’s okay, honey, it’s just gotta come off so we can get ya cleaned up.” Fingers brush hesitantly against his cheek. “Trust me, it’ll help.”

But…

There’s a glopping noise and he flinches, but it’s followed up by the fingers digging into his hair. Something slimy drips down the side of his face and he shudders, lets his head drop against his knees. There’s nothing he can do about any of this, and he knows it, and he just wants everything to be over.

(He wants Bruce, but Bruce hasn’t come yet and…and Jason’s starting to wonder if he’s ever going to.)

“There we go, that’s a little better already…you’re doin’ real good, baby, it’s gonna be okay.”

No it isn’t.

He blanks out again. Not on purpose, just…he’s just so sick. It doesn’t last, but his next realization is that he’s in a bed, a soft, warm bed that cradles his bones just right, and that he’s wearing clothes that aren’t his. Sweatpants and a big t-shirt, feels like. His right wrist, which cracked against the restraints when he was seizing from electricity, has been bound up and it feels like his ankle’s been braced with an ACE bandage or something. His hair’s still a little damp and the room’s still spinning, but he’s cleaner and more comfortable than he’s been in months.

First he panics. Then he forces himself to look around. Blue walls. White bed. A dresser with a jewelry box and a plush penguin on top–plush penguin? In Gotham?

“You with me this time, kiddo?”

The panic bleeds out of him. It’s just Dove, she won’t…he’s not…he’s not safe, not yet, but she won’t give him back, she won’t hurt him anymore.

“What happened?”

“You tell me.” She sets a water bottle down on the nightstand. “I about hit you, honestly, you came outta nowhere.”

Shit.

Shit.

He knows, he’ll be here any minute–

“I can’t–” He forces himself upright, white-hot pain shooting through his wrist, and tries to will his blurry vision to clear. “I can’t be here, I can’t take anymore, he won’t even let me die–”

“Baby, baby, be still.” His wrist gives way and he crumples back, coughing thickly. “You’re okay, honey, just…don’t move too much, okay?”

“But–”

“Shh. You’ve got a couple broken ribs and Mr. Cobblepot won’t be happy if I tell him I’ve got a dead kid in my house.” She gives him a rough smile. “Just stay down, okay? He’s not…he won’t hurt you anymore, sweetheart, I promise.”

Of course he will.

He forces himself to shake his head despite the terrible blur it causes and tries to explain, “I can’t be here. He. He’ll be looking for me, I-I-I–”

“Shh. It’ll be okay, honey. He can’t get up here.” Yes he can, and he’ll be furious, and– “How about you try to get some sleep, huh? Until I can get hold of Jim?”

Maybe this isn’t real at all. He’s never had this particular hallucination before, but there’s a first time for everything.

“But–”

“Robin,” Dove says softly, “he won’t lay another finger on you. Even if he knew where you are, he can’t get up here, and even if he managed that, he can’t get in.”

He wishes he could believe her. But he knows better, knows this will end horribly for both of them and just…

Maybe it’s better if it’s not real, if he wakes up back in that dark, cold little room. Or hell, maybe he’s dying from the flu and this is some weird, last-ditch thing his brain’s spat out to ease things along. Honestly, that’s the least painful option.

“Try to go back to sleep, huh? You’ve got a helluva fever and I don’t…I don’t think giving you anything’s a hot idea, y’know?”

No. No, he…he guesses not.

He lets her tuck the blankets back around him despite his deep misgivings, declines the offered water on the grounds that he thinks he’ll puke it up immediately, and tries to find a comfortable position.

He shouldn’t. He’s done enough, put her in enough danger already, but he just…

He can’t be alone in the dark again.

“Don’t go?” he whispers. “Please?”

“Sure, hon. Let me just try to call Jim first, okay?”

He loses himself looking at the little plush penguin on the dresser. It’s pink and gray, not very big. Somethin’ from Cobblepot, maybe?

God, he feels like shit. Achy and tired and just done. It’s a fight to keep his eyes open, a fight he finally gives up after the penguin multiplies.

He should stay awake. He knows that. And he tries, it’s just…

He can’t.

* * *

Jason’s tugged out of a deep, dreamless sleep by a hushed voice above him.

“--even walk. We’re up high, the door’s closed.”

“Hrm?”

“S’just Jim,” Dove says softly. “He wants us to meet him at GCPD, you’re too sick for that.”

“Hrm.” He thinks he could do it, maybe, but he doesn’t want to. Now that Joker’s cocktail of whatever and the adrenaline have largely worn off, he’s not sure how well he’ll be able to move. He’s in pain, and he’s tired, and…and he’s comfortable, here. Warm for the first time in months. And if he stays still, keeps his eyes closed, he can pretend that the hand carding through his hair is Mom’s. “‘Kay.”

“Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

Sounds good.

He settles further under the blankets and is just mostly back asleep when there’s a sharp rap on the door.

“Huh?”

“Probably Jim.” Dove tucks the blankets in. “I’ll be back in a minute, okay?”

He doesn’t feel right. Jim shouldn’t be here that fast, right? Has it really been that long?

He struggles up, chest throbbing, and tries to clear his head. He’s just rubbing his eyes when he hears a high-pitched, overly friendly voice sing-songing, “Hellooooo!”

The world falls out from under him and his first instinct is to hide, but there’s nowhere to go.

“Have you seen him?” Joker’s asking now, and Jason knows he’s furious, he knows he’s here, he–

“I’ve been asleep,” Dove says, a little short. “No.”

There’s a sudden ruckus, the sound of a chain lock straining to hold, followed by a screech, swearing, and the door slamming. Dove comes back in and heads to her dresser, rifles through it until she comes up with a gun and no-no-no, this is his fault, he can’t–

“I’ll go,” he says frantically. “I will, just. Just please, I–c’n I have some pills o-or something, I can’t–”

“Batman’ll be here any minute,” she tells him. “Just be quiet, okay? We’re gonna be okay.”

The apartment is silent. No sounds of attempted entry, no laughter in the main hallway. And Jason’s just thinking maybe Bruce got him already when shave-and-a-haircut! sounds against the balcony door.

He can barely see the monster through the rain. Just that stark white face and those staring eyes, a floating head more than anything. And the doorknob’s just turning when there’s an odd pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop sound. 

The glass shatters first. Then the face is twisting into an expression of shock and rage but it’s going back, it’s–

It’s gone. The porch is empty now, save for a pair of chattering teeth.

Dove reloads the gun and helps him out of bed, wrapping him in the comforter and half-carries him out of the room and to the couch. And. And he knows she hit him, and he kinda remembers that they’re on the top floor of a very tall building, and…

“He’s dead?”

“I think so, kiddo.” She settles down next to him and doesn’t remove him when he curls into her arms, shaking. “I think it’s over.”

THE END

[oreo102]

Please I'm so so curious to hear your thoughts on 10/14

Ok so my thoughts on 10 are less than 14 so let’s start with him lol. I have not watched 10, so my hatred of him is more hatred by proxy of how the fandom treats him and proxy of 14, but I still do have a few specific thoughts and this will be long and definitely rambly

A) when talking about him I usually refer to him as Fandom’s Favorite White Boy or Pathetic Wet Cat/Twink mostly because it’s funny but for now I’ll use 10. The most I know about 10 is that he is angsty and in love with rose and besties with Donna… also that he’s pathetic but that’s more vibes

So- my hate of 10 is less tangible than 14 but i still have a few points, the main one being the way i see ppl talk about how he treated Martha and how obsessed with rose he was. I don’t think it’s ever compelling to have someone’s main personality trait be loving someone a whole lot which also honestly is my problem with rose (don’t hate her but don’t care about her)

From what I have seen and heard of 10 it’s rather… boring, honestly? Like it’s mostly clips out of context but for 13 and 15 I saw clips out of context and was like “ok wth is happening? /pos” with 10 it’s more like “wtf?” Also pretty sure his episodes were some of the ones I saw when my parents had the show on that played a part in me swearing the show off so

Ok onto the more tangible hatred of 14. A lot of this, admittedly, is more about the writing and showrunner decisions than 14 but those things by proxy makes me hate him

So- I have a lot of feelings on him quite literally starting from his first appearance in power of the doctor. I am SO PETTY that he doesn’t wear 13’s silly little outfit. Like I have gone on full rants about that fact to my friends and family

I’ve seen something claim that rtd didn’t want 14 to wear her outfit because people might be transphobic and derogatory towards him (even tho Dhawan!master wore it, and it’s pretty gender neutral) but then did nothing about the shit ppl said about ruby’s actor or about ppl who would be a bitch about rose the second being nonbinary(also i remember seeing a post about their deadname being mentioned in an episode? Not totally sure that’s true tho)

The 60th anniversary specials themselves don’t really celebrate Dr who as a whole as much as 10’s run with a few old villains but that’s not really my main issue with that. My main issue with the specials is that the Doctor gets their happy ending. With Donna. And her family. When fucking 3-4 episodes prior, their happy ending would’ve been yaz. It would’ve been staying with yaz. But nope! Donna! Because that’s what 10 would’ve wanted.

And I don’t want 14 to be with yaz, btw, I mean I want them to meet and for yaz to hit him, but I don’t want them to be a thing or like be together because I believe yaz is a lesbian but that’s not the point of this so moving on

I also have very much big issues with the scene where 15 and 14 are (presumably, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the full scene) talking about women they love and mention who I assume to be River and rose but not yaz, who again, they wanted to spend forever with 3-4 episodes prior. It makes the doctor seem like a douchebag even if it’s a writing issue and not a character issue

Also 14 being David tenant overshadows 13’s departure and 15’s arrival and since he is most likely going to show up at least a little bit in s14 he’ll overshadow 15 in his own series. It’s icky at the very least.

There’s something inherently bad about having the fandoms Favorite White Boy be with a contentious casting decision (because I have no faith in the Dr who fandom not to be bigoted) and even if no one has an issue with 15 being black and maybe gay (is he gay? He gives gay vibes) it’s still setting him up for failure by pairing him with 14

Also bigeneration is so fucking dumb and I hate it

Also also stop giving the Dr 19 year old companions it’s getting kinda weird now