#just the weight of his nightmares that haunt him

[charliemwrites]

Hiiiii! So I’m not super thrilled with this but I’ve been having a time of it at work so I worked on this when I could ����

Not sure if there will be a second part yet tbh we’ll see!

Edit: almost forgot to add that the gorgeous divider below is by @gildui they have some absolutely beautiful cod themed dividers.

Carrion

Reader comes back Wrong

Content: implied/referenced torture, injury, suicide reference/implicated “pact” (by background character), lack of wound care

The breakup was bad.

Not in the top 3 of Simon’s worst nightmare-inducing memories - but likely top 5. He certainly wakes up chest aching and eyes burning often enough for it to be a solid contender. He’s haunted by tears that dripped like acid and the cracks in your voice deafening him.

On bad days, he thinks he can still see you shuffling down the halls, eyes sunken and red-rimmed, dark circles and chapped lips. Anger giving way to resignation giving way to pain and sadness. The rest of the team tight-lipped and wincing, no sides taken, shoulders and ears offered equally in commiseration.

Your misery wanted no company, though.

You didn’t tell Simon that you were leaving. Gaz let slip over a subdued but obligatory game of cards, you’d be gone for a long time - loaned out to Laswell.

Simon didn’t go to see you off. Didn’t ask why you were leaving or accuse you of being too immature to be on a team with him. He didn’t wish you good luck, stay safe with the rest of the team on the tarmac at 0-dark when you took off.

He should have.

Price says you’ll be gone for six months. Just six. It’s better this way, he reminds them when Johnny balks. His eyes are on Simon, though, when he adds that you need to get your head on straight, and you weren’t able to do it with them.

So. Six months.

Simon stops expecting you on his left. Stops smelling your shampoo lingering on bits of clothes he pretended not to notice you steal. He still dreams about you begging him not to push you away.

183 days come and go.

On day 184, Laswell sends word - your temporary team likes you quite a bit. They want you to stay on for one more month… one more mission… one more…

Six months turns to ten.

312 days since you left; since you were home.

The team hasn’t stopped leaving a space for you at their tables, right between Gaz and Price. You miss your own birthday. Laswell says she’ll pass along well wishes.

The situation changes. A target resurfaces. All hands on deck, including yours.

374 days. Twelve months and some change.

They don’t spend the holidays with you, but there’s a stack of presents waiting in Price’s office. Your mugs have collected dust in the back of the rec room cabinet.

Laswell says you’re still deployed on one last mission, return TBD. Soon, though.

487 days. Still TBD. Soon. Really. Just some loose ends to tie up.

561 days. There was some trouble during exfil but you’re alright. Just a bit of recovery.

You’re coming home.

590 days. You’ll land at 0700 tomorrow.

It’s been 591 days since Simon last saw you. Since any of them last saw you.

Laswell has come to deliver you personally, a kind of apology for keeping you away so long. She’s the first off the transport and you’re right behind her.

Your hair is shorter. Much, much shorter. There’s a new patch on your jacket - memento from your temporary team, Simon figures.

Apart from that, you look… almost exactly how you did when you left. Dark circles under your eyes, mouth drawn and tight. There’s invisible weight compressing your shoulders, urging them in and down. But you’re there again. Just the way he remembers.

(Why are you the way he remembers?)

“Long time, no see,” Gaz calls, reaching for you.

There’s half a beat, you blink. Hesitate.

Then you grin and reach back.

“Missed my pretty face, did you?” you reply.

Johnny laughs and brings you in for a hug. You twitch hug him back, patting his shoulder as you pull away.

“Good to have you back, Sergeant,” Price says, shaking your hand.

You turn to Simon, nod in greeting, expression pleasant. “Ghost.”

So that’s how it’ll be? Alright.

“Sergeant.”

That night, you go out for drinks with the team and Laswell. Simon goes along to show there are no hard feelings.

(Not that you seem to need reassurance. It’s not even that you’re not looking at him. You are. Whenever he speaks, the rare times he does, or if he shifts in his seat. Your gaze doesn’t linger or jerk away, you treat him like you do Johnny and Gaz and Price.)

When Johnny mixes up your usual for Price’s, you don’t even seem to notice. But Simon does.

“When did you start drinking whiskey?” he wonders.

You used to swear you’d never like it, claiming it tasted like boot polish and the “Boys Club” wasn’t worth the indigestion it gave you.

“Someone from my other team,” you say by way of explanation.

You don’t ask for another whiskey. Laswell gets the rest of your drinks for that night.

Simon turns into the rec room two days later and finds you already there. There’s only the light above the sink on, and you’re staring at the steady drip, drip, drip from the faucet. A cup of black coffee cools in your hand. You’re already wearing gloves.

“Sugar’s in the left now,” he calls.

Your head twitches, something pops in your neck.

“Oh, thanks,” you chirp, turning for the cabinet. “Sleep okay, LT?”

“‘Bout as well as I ever do,” he replies gruffly, sidling up next to you for the kettle.

You hum. There’s a yellow packet in your hand. (Didn’t you used to like the blue one?)

“I get that,” you sympathize.

He snorts. Since when?

“Do you?”

When he glances down, you’re not looking at him. Instead, you’re trying (and failing) to get the sink to stop dripping.

“You know that’s been broken for ages,” he says.

At least as long as the 141 has been around. You tried to fix it once when you first joined up, too, with no luck.

“Right,” you say. A little too quickly, a little too agreeably. “Well, anyway, enjoy your tea, Lieutenant.”

You leave the packet of sugar behind. Unopened.

You’re back and it’s like it used to be - not just before you left, but before the breakup. Before there was ever anything to break up.

Your time away seems to have given you whatever space from Simon you were hoping for, because you act like there was never anything at all.

He’s half expecting, dreading, that you’ll pull him aside at some point. Ask for a word after dinner, or swing by his room before bed. Talk about the break up now that cooler heads prevail and 19 months have sanded down the rough feelings. Seek closure, maybe.

But you don’t. The weeks pass until a month has gone and you never exchange more than easy pleasantries with Simon. You give him space, give him privacy. Things you never used to give him much of before, for better or worse.

You fool around with Gaz and Johnny, trade quips with Price, and follow Simon’s orders. Train recruits. Write reports.

You’re back, better than ever.

So why does it feel like Simon’s still waiting for you to return?

You’re always dressed now, head to toe. Day or night, rain or shine. From the neck down you’re in full sleeves, long pants, boots and gloves.

It doesn’t occur to anyone until you’re sweating through your compression shirt in the gym. Wipe your shiny forehead for the dozenth time before Johnny says, “why not just take it off?”

“It’s not that bad,” you laugh, waving him off.

When you lie down to bench press, Simon notes the bottom of your shirt tucked tight into your waistband. He exchanges a glance with Johnny - he’s seen it too.

You used to dress in shorts and sports bras during exercise, a towel over your shoulder. In the common room, you’d mill in tank-tops and boxers. Even used to trot down the hall swaddled in a towel or robe, mumbling that you forgot a razor or some other toiletry before showering.

“What, did ye get an embarrassing tattoo or somethin’?” Johnny asks finally.

You blink at him, expression bemused. “A tattoo? Why do you think I have a tattoo?”

“Yer covered up like a nun on Sunday. It cannae be comfortable.”

You snort. “Just because you’re allergic to clothes, MacTavish…”

“Allergic?! Wha’s tha’ s’posed t’mean?!”

Gaz barks a laugh. You grin and continue your workout.

Simon tries not to be disturbed by the name “MacTavish” coming off your tongue for the first time since you met.

It’s your first mission since you’ve been back. You have new gear, a new handgun. Something’s been carved into the side of the barrel in Cyrillic, Simon can’t read it. A new callsign.

(“What kind of a name is Carry-on?” Johnny teases, but he doesn’t quite hide the unease in his eyes.

You snort and lace your boots tighter. The edge of you sleeve inches up, revealing the curve of a glossy scar that wasn’t there before.

“You’re one to talk Mister Maybelline.”)

Someone painted an upside down cross on the temple of your helmet with their finger. You thumb it before stuffing it over your head.

“You ready for this?” Gaz asks, knocking his knee into yours. The two of you have been paired together for this mission. (Was it Simon’s imagination, or did you look annoyed that you would have a partner?)

“Always,” you reply.

Simon doesn’t hear what happens, but Gaz looks shellshocked when you haul him into the helicopter during exfil. You shake him a bit once everything is secure and the bird’s in the air.

“Garrick,” you shout, “c’mon, where did he get you?”

It takes him a second but he blinks, offers his arm for your inspection. You move with a speed even Simon is impressed by, tearing into the nearby med kit almost viciously. Gaz is patched up in record time and you sit back with blood on your hands, barely even seem to notice as you wipe them carelessly on your pants.

(You used to be more squeamish, weren’t you? You used to be the last one they asked for medical care because seeing your teammates in pain made you nauseous.)

“What about you?” Gaz asks after a small eternity.

You yawn. “What about me?”

“You got nicked too, didn’t you?”

Simon takes a second look at you and now that Gaz mentions it, you’re soaked in blood. Wet patches on your vest, your pants, dripping down your boots. It takes him a moment to notice the tear in your thigh, shredded flesh visible when you rock with the wind turbulence.

“Did I?” you wonder, glancing down like you only just noticed it.

Johnny curses, reaches for you - but you wave him off.

“It’s just a scratch,” you reply. “Barely even feel it, no worries.”

Then why is it still bleeding?

When the team lands, you hop off the heli without so much as a wince. Droplets of blood lead all the way back to your room.

(When Simon asks Nikolai about the hand-etching on your gun, he says the word means “promise.”)

In the after-action report, your callsign isn’t “Carry-On.” It’s Carrion.

Laswell takes you off the mission two months later, a joint assignment with KorTac. They send three operators to work with TF141 - Stiletto, Konig, and Nikto.

On the transport to infil, Simon notices the Russian inspecting his handgun in a seat separated from the rest of the squad. He recognizes the Cyrillic carved into the barrel this time: Promise.

It’s an eerie, creeping suspicion. An anxious fog rolling in.

It’s not one single thing that trips an alarm in Simon’s head, but a steady collation of oddities over months. A single arhythmic beat, a note off key. Just once or twice, but over and over until he can’t notice anything else.

You act just like yourself except for all the minute ways you don’t.

You smile big and wide, sunshine bright, when they make a good joke. Your laugh is still the same, bubbling up in your throat, head thrown back. You smell the same when you pass Simon in the hall, shampoo and soap that’s haunted him for a year and a half.

It’s insidiously subtle; he can’t pinpoint what it is for the longest time. Your mannerisms are almost too practiced, the cadence of your voice too measured. A missing turn of phrase you often used, replaced by something unfamiliar.

Simon dismisses it as guilt-laden paranoia. The two of you ended on bad terms with a year and half worth of space between. He’s hardly one to gauge what’s normal for you anymore.

And besides, the few times someone else has noticed at those tiny yet all-too-obvious inconsistencies, you shrug it off as something you picked up while away.

But he catches Johnny’s brows furrow one afternoon as you light up a cig (after swearing for years that you’d never pick up the habit) and Simon knows he’s beginning to see it too.

“You ever notice,” Gaz begins slowly. You’re the only one missing from the rec room this evening, retired with a drawn-out yawn. “That Carrion always mentions being away, but never talks about it?”

Simon stills. Johnny’s eyes fly to Price, who’s grimly tapping at his crossword puzzle.

“The file’s redacted,” he says. He’s seen it too then, tried to investigate for himself.

“That’s normal for a mission like that,” Simon reasons carefully.

“I don’t mean the mission,” Price says. “I mean Carrion’s file.”

“This is a good movie,” you mumble from the armchair you’ve stolen from Price. “What’s it called?”

Simon exchanges glances with the rest of the team. No one points out that this is (used to be?) your favorite.

Price looks into the team you were loaned out to. All were KIA or remain MIA. All but one. His file has been scrubbed too, the only documents readable are discharge orders and a PMC contract, both associated with the callsign “Nikto.”

They’re running out of time.

Less than 36 hours on the clock with only one lead, and it’s a zealot with a suicide pact. Price and Laswell both took a crack at him with nothing to show for it. Even Ghost has gotten hardly anything and he’s running out of nails. With time, he might get something useful, but they don’t have much of that left.

In the anteroom looking into interrogation, you’ve been observing through the one-way glass with your hands in your pockets, head tilted, expression serene.

Price and Laswell are discussing strategy, contingencies. Gaz and Johnny are throwing in their two cents, but Simon… Simon is watching you.

Like medical, torture used to be your Achilles. You were trained like the rest of the team, but there was never any need for you to step into the room yourself. Hell, you were a last resort even for observation or emergency resuscitation. No one blamed you for having a weak stomach for information extraction.

But today, you glance over your shoulder and make eye contact with Laswell.

“I’ll handle it,” you say with an air of finality.

The room goes silent. Price opens his mouth, but it’s Laswell that speaks, voice hard with resignation.

“Do it.”

You don’t blink. “Yes, ma’am.”

You walk out the door without a backwards glance, shoulders loose but each step steady and purposeful.

“What the hell is going on, Kate?” Price demands.

Kate sighs, looks away as you enter the interrogation room.

“Let’s do this outside. It won’t take long to get that intel.”

The only thing she’s able to share is that you and your team were captured. For a long time. And then you’re already stepping out of the interrogation room, wiping your bloodied hands off on an old rag.

There’s an unusual glint in your eye, an unnatural stillness in your expression.

“Got what we need,” you announce cheerfully.

[beefrobeefcal]

I Keep My Visons to Myself feat. Frankie & f!reader, Ezra & f!reader

Summary: Ezra makes a hard choice and Frankie isn't the right choice. Part 6 of There are Other Fish in the Sea

Pairing: Frankie, Ezra & Mouse | Rating: Explicit 18+ (MDNI) | Word Count: 4,856

Content Warnings: SMUTTY SMUTTY SMUT SMUT, angry sex, emotional damage, feelings, disturbing nightmares, heart broken ezra, frankie is a big time dummy, sadness, p in the v sex, oral (f receiving), freak nasty floor sex, hair pulling, brief mention of weight gain, poor decision making

Author's Notes: you're welcome to send you fuckboi frankie hate mail to my inbox 💌🥩💜 this chapter hurt me more than it hurt you

Thank you to @bitchesuntitled, @strang3lov3 & @noxturnalnymph for brainstorming this with me and for their eyes and love. apologies to @covetyou in advance

No more tag lists - follow @beefnotes + turn on notifications for fic updates!

His fingers moved along your bare skin softly, gently trying to lure you out of sleep. The haze that you tried to move through to wake up lingered and made his touch all the more dreamlike. You heard his soft chuckle as his lips dragged on your shoulder with lazy kisses and his facial hair gently brushed your skin. His body was pressed warmly against your back, cocooning you. 

For a moment, it was peaceful.

But his hold on you tightened, the soft chuckle turned sour into a deep, cruel laugh, and his voice boomed: 

Don’t you EVER walk away from me when I am talking to you!

His heavy, weighted body moved, pressing you further into terror and you tried to scream for help, for Frankie to let you go, for anything, but you’d open your mouth and nothing would come out. You were helpless under him, silently screaming and unable to do anything as you stared up into Frankie’s black eyes. 

Just fucking listen to me!

You heard another voice, layering on top of Frankie’s, beckoning you out of this nightmare…

A nightmare.

“Just listen to me, Little Bird… Birdie, honey… listen to me– Just fucking listen to me!… you’re dreaming, baby… listen to my voice… wake up - Don’t you EVER walk away from me when I am talking to you!”

The scream you couldn’t release came hurling out of you as your eyes opened and Ezra soothed his hand over your hair, hushing you.

*****

The nightmares were more frequent. Sometimes it was Will dragging you out of your home and Benny refusing to look. Other nights, it was Frankie suffocating you in bed. Once, it was Ezra and his eyes turned black and he grotesquely morphed into Frankie and you couldn’t run fast enough. 

No matter what happened, each one ended the same - you could not scream and you could not escape.

If you were in bed with Ezra, he would sometimes wake you or you would wake up with a jolt in a cold sweat, tears running down your temples and cheeks and you would curl yourself into him as he slept,  not knowing the terror that haunted your dreams. 

You did manage to scare the shit out of Benny as the scream that heralded the end of your nightmare came heaving out of you pulled him from his own sleep and he came running into your room with a tennis racket. 

They were getting worse. 

*****

“...and I can’t get away. I keep hearing his voice, telling me to not walk away when he’s talking to me - like I could escape.”, you said quietly to your therapist, Maggie, without looking up at her.

Maggie nodded, making a note in her book. “And these nightmares started after that interaction you had with Will?”

You paused. Yes, you had blamed that as the catalyst, but there were no nightmares before that and given the nature of them… but what else changed?

“I don’t know…”, you pondered glumly. “The only other thing was - uh, Ez-Ezra and I were… we kinda…”

“You were intimate?”

Your nod in response turned into a shrug. “I guess? We didn’t have sex yet, but he- or we kinda fooled around.”

You kept your eyes low, picking at the errant threads on your pant leg. You swore you could feel Maggie’s eyes on you, waiting for more information. But when you looked up, Maggie was looking at her notepad as she scribbled down in it. 

There was a nagging something at the back of your mind, making your stomach tighten and your throat itch. Why did you assume Maggie was judging you? Why couldn’t you just say “Ezra fingered me on his couch.”? You’d gone into great detail about your food-fueled sex life with Frankie with no shame at all. Why were you shy now? Why did you feel guilty? 

Fuck. That’s what this was - it was guilt. Fucking guilt. But over what?

“I can hear the hamster running on the wheel… what are you thinking about?”

“Guilt.”, you muse. “I feel guilt.”

“And what brought that on?”

“I think it’s what’s…making me have nightmares. I feel guilty - like I didn’t - like I’m letting everyone down and-.”

Maggie nodded, silently encouraging you to keep going.

“I’m- I don’t know why but I have to say this: Ezra fing-”, you caught yourself and took a breath before continuing. “-fingered me on his couch after I read part of Watership Down out loud.”

Maggie’s eyes locked with yours, her face well trained at offering no hint at the potential judgment you assumed was behind it. 

“Watership Down?”

“Yeah. Th-the kids book about rab-”

“Rabbits. The one with the rabbits in the-”

“Yes. Yeah.”

You stared at one another - her face expressionless minus the slightly raised eyebrow while you looked like you had just admitted to being a massive pervert with a rabbit fetish.

“And that makes you feel guilty?”

“No, not about  the rabbits. I mean, I guess it’s weird but it was kinda romant-”

“I was talking about being intimate with Ezra. Do you feel guilty about being intimate with someone other than Frankie?”

You stopped and swallowed, then shrugged. You looked down at that thread you’d coaxed out of the seam of your pant leg, and picked at it again.

“Does Ezra know how you feel?”

*****

Mouse - he loves you and you’re killing him!!

Will had you by the wrists, dragging you into your old home, now twisted and dark, and too big to be real. The front door looked to be an opening to a bottomless pit that he was going to throw you down, and you tried to fight, but your limbs were like lead. No scream came from your mouth no matter how much you tried.

You can’t turn your back on your family!

You felt Will’s arms move around you and you tried pushing him back only to jerk awake to Ezra grunting from your elbow you jabbed him in the rib with. 

Horrified, you turned over and reached out to him, hands shaking. “Oh god, Ezra! I’m sorry!”

He nodded and moved closer to you in the bed, hushing you and trying to get you to lay back down. 

“I’m all right, Birdie… come on now, back to sleep, baby.”, he yawned out. 

*****

Ezra had been working late for private events that week. You’d barely seen him beyond a quick kiss and hello as you popped into the bistro, managing to catch him between drink orders around the side of the bar. It wasn’t a good time to talk.

When you finally had a moment to have him all to yourself, you didn’t want to waste it on discussing your feelings. You already felt like you dumped on him enough and you didn’t want to have him thinking he was your donkey, only good for helping you carry your burdensome feelings. So you swallowed them down, making note that you would eventually have to tell him why you weren’t ready to move forward. That night, he didn’t push for anything beyond kissing and seemed happy but exhausted. It wasn’t a good time to talk.

Waking in the night to another nightmare that he groggily soothed you through, you had it on the tip of your tongue to blurt it out. But one look at his moonlit form starting to doze off again had you think better of it. It wasn’t a good time to talk.

You’d find excuses to make any chance you had not a good time to talk, and it was wearing on you, along with the bite-size chunks of sleep you were getting. You were easily irritated and Benny found that it was almost easier to not talk to you unless he really needed to and you watched his body language change as he braced himself. It sucked.

Ezra, ever patient Ezra, was becoming less so. In your drive to hold back and not make him your emotional dumpster, you’d put up an invisible barrier that only allowed him to watch as you folded into yourself further. While you were so focused on holding back, you didn’t see how it was affecting him, and your nightmares, as intrusive as they were for you, woke him, too, and to make it worse, you wouldn’t tell him what they were about. He wanted to help, but your walls were getting thicker and harder for him to see anything but the snake you had become, eating its own tail. 

It all came to a head one evening. Benny was out with his friends and you and Ezra were idly watching something on the TV. His hand gently touched your knee, and he sighed.

“Anything you need to get off your chest, Little Bird?”

“Hmm?”, you turn and look at him.

His soft, brown eyes were narrowed slightly, directing an intense gaze right into you. It was the same look he gave the unruly and drunk patrons as he gave them a final chance to leave before he escorted them out. It was a serious and firm look that left no room for you to negotiate and spoke more than the question he posed to you.

You had to look away. You felt like a scolded child. “Ezra - ”

“Talk to me.” He reached out to cup your cheek, guiding you to look at him, but you pulled away from his touch.

“Just… no. Stop.” Your words were hushed and biting, hissing out of you while shaking your head.

That seemed to be a trigger for him and his breath came out harshly as he sat back, away from you. You finally brought your eyes up to him, and you saw anger born out of defeat. 

“What do you want from me? To sit and watch you wither up after you’ve culled all the gentility in you? I - “

“Just- Ezra!” You weren’t ready. You’d worked to keep everything hidden from him and everyone else and, god dammit, you were not ready. You blurted out, “That’s not fair!”

“Not fair?”, his eyes go wide in disbelief and he seems for a moment at a loss for words. But he sat up straighter and his tone raised. “No. No you don’t get to tell me this is not fair!”

You couldn’t handle this. You’d told yourself that you would dictate when the time was right and not when it wasn’t under your control. You felt cornered by Ezra, threatened by his demand for an answer and you were spiraling. 

He reached out again, face softening with concern. “Please, talk to me, baby.”

“I don’t owe you shit!”, you snapped, standing up. “There is nothing wrong and nothing to talk about!”

Ezra stood up, slowly, his hands out to try and calm you, but still using that firm, even-keeled voice. “Please, Birdie, don’t lie to me. I can see whatever it is wearing you down - let me in. Let me help!”

You felt like the walls were closing in on you and you didn’t know how to fix this. Tears welled up in your eyes and your chin quivered, but your anger won out and you shook your head with a devastated scowl and yelled, “There is NOTHING wearing me down!!”

His mouth skewed into a frown and he took a deep breath as he shook his head back at you, his hands on his hips as he watched you melt down in front of him. 

“I want so much to be -”, he sighed before raising his voice and stepping towards you, “God dammit, Birdie! I am right here! I do not want you to fall and I am ready to catch you but you have to talk to me! Don’t you dare say there is nothing wearing you down! I hear you crying in your sleep, calling out names and begging them to stop!! I want to stop them!! I want to silence them for you and -” He stopped, his mouth open and lips moving like he’s run out of words to say to try and convince you that he wants only what’s best for you. His eyes were wide and pleading, and his arms dropped to his side. 

When you said nothing in return, he blinked back the tears and nodded. Ezra’s eyes looked away from yours and he stepped back, his voice cracking slightly as he sniffled. “Little Bird, I would have waited. I would have held your hand and waited if you had just let me in…”

You had found the edge of Ezra’s gentle patience and you pushed him too far. The thought swallowed you whole as he receded, the few feet between you feeling like a lifetime now. 

“Ezra…”, you whispered in a broken, quiet sob.

He stepped up to you and held your face as he leaned in and kissed your forehead. 

“I want so badly to be yours.”, he whimpered quietly against your forehead. “Please, Little Bird… please come find me when you are ready.”

And with that, he left. 

*****

Your hubris didn’t allow you to reach out to Ezra and the following few weeks were hell. The nightmares were there and more intense and Benny kept his distance from you even more so. You canceled your following therapy session, not ready to actually face the mess you’d made in being unable to open up, and you felt like you were running out of options. 

It was a quiet evening and you felt restless. Benny was home but was watching a game on the tv, and given how godawful you’d been lately, interrupting him to talk seemed like a stupid idea, but you needed an outlet. You needed to feel something that wasn’t crushing. 

You did the one thing you never thought you would do.

Grabbing your keys, you didn’t bother telling Benny where you were going and you drove the well traveled route you knew like the back of your hand. The moment you parked at the curb you already knew you couldn’t stop yourself even if you tried. 

Your old home didn’t look like it did in your dreams. It was just a house, filled with the memories you’d made with - 

You felt like you weren’t in control when you moved up the walkway and up to the door. Your fist banged on it like you needed to get in at that moment and you heard Frankie calling out that he was coming.

The door opened and you stared right up into Frankie’s face, and for the first time in a long time, you felt like your mind stopped racing. You both just stood there for a moment, not moving. You finally broke the silence.

“Frankie,” you breathed out. “C-can I come in?”

He nodded and stepped aside, opening the door wider for you.

Kicking off your shoes, you looked around and saw that he’d moved and replaced some of the furniture and decor, but it smelled the same. 

“You w- you want anything to drink?” His voice came out unsure, almost like you weren’t really there and if he did too much, you’d disappear.

You shook your head “I just want to talk.”

***** You and Frankie had exchanged pleasantries as you commented on the house and the changes he’d made and he noted your hair and how he liked what you did with it. The small smile on his face as he said it stung your already frayed heart. 

“I came here because I need to… to talk to you.”

His brows furrowed as concern grew on his face. “I thought you were with some-”

“No.” you interrupted with a head shake, not looking up at him. “Not anymore.”

He nodded and moved closer to you on the couch and sat forward, forearms to his thighs, and tilted his head to try and see your face. When your eyes met his, he smiled. “Talk to me.”

“I need to say firstly, I’m really proud of you for getting sober, Frankie.” You sat up and looked directly at him. “Really. I mean it.”

His cheeks flushed slightly, tingeing the tips of his ears pink, and his smile grew as he nodded. “Thanks, baby.”

You knew he knew how to distract you from having a tough conversation and you shouldn’t have come here and you definitely shouldn’t be sitting this close to him and letting him call you baby, but maybe you needed a distraction; was it so wrong to just let yourself feel good? When his hand came up to your face, you didn’t pull away, taking comfort in something so familiar. 

“Mouse, baby…”, he whispered, leaning in. You didn’t do what you should have and got out of there. No, instead you let him kiss you and worse, when he pulled his head back, you grabbed him and kissed him harder. His mouth opened and his tongue sought entrance and when you granted it, his hands gripped your waist and pulled you onto his lap.

The warmth that had evaded you for so long came rushing back as Frankie took charge, just like before. Even if your rational mind was screaming at you to get away from him, your body responded like it was starved for his touch alone. 

His hand slipped between you, lifting your shirt and touching your skin, making you suck in a harsh breath. Gripping your waist, he rocked his hips up into yours and you felt his hard cock press against you. When you parted, his eyes were heavily lidded and his mouth slightly cocked in a grin.

“So fuckin’ pretty, baby…”, he whispered, then his tongue darted out, just barely wetting his lower lip. “You gonna let me show you how sorry I am, princess?”

Princess. That name, the name he reserved only for you in private but used publicly on that other woman on social media. 

“Frankie.” It came out quiet, but firm.

He nodded, licking his lips again, face softening into a gentle, warm smile. “I know, baby… too soon.”

He leaned forward and coaxed you into another soft kiss. “Too soon…” Frankie kissed you again. “Lemme show you how sorry I am, baby…”

Your body became pliant to him again, and again, he deepened the kiss and moved under you, sitting up then moving to the floor as he held you against him. He laid you back and he pulled your shirt off, then laved open mouth kisses on your neck.

“So fuckin’ sorry, baby…”, he cooed lowly, gripping your hips as he buried his face between your bra-clad tits, inhaling deeply. 

Your fingers ran through his hair as one of his thick arms lifted your bottom off the floor and the other big hand moved to your waistband and pulled down, yanking them off you completely. His eyes were dark and hungry as he pushed your thighs wide apart, and he groaned, staring down at your exposed pussy. 

“There she is… fuck, Mouse. Pretty as a fuckin’ picture.”

He wasted no time and leaned down to get his face in you, but your foot came up to his shoulder and stopped him. 

“Little Bird.”

Your eyes were filled with a warning and your tone was quiet yet firm.

Frankie froze, with a confused smile on his face, and he huffed out, “Wh-Mouse, what?”

“Don’t call me Mouse. Little Bird or Birdie.”

His smile fell and he stared at you, as if he were unsure how to proceed. It was like he was trying to figure out how to maneuver through this and you were not just giving in.

“But… okay… sure, Mou-Birdie”, he said, astonished, nodding. His face softened again and he purred, “Baby Birdie… come on, lemme say sorry…”

His hand came up to your foot fixed against his collar bone and he turned and placed a kiss on your ankle before gently bringing it down. He lowered himself again, this time a little more apprehensively, making sure you weren’t going to stop him again. 

“Missed you and her-”, he growled lowly, his eyes darting down to the crux of your thighs then back up at you, “-so fuckin’ much”

He lowered his face further and inhaled. “God dammit, baby… smell so g-”

“Better than Natalie?”

Before you could stop, your sick, twisted sense of need for validation took over, forcing out the words from your mouth. 

Frankie groaned. “Nothing… nothing and no one compares to you…” He pressed his face into your cunt and licked up from your taint to your clit. 

You gasped his name, arching your back and rolling your hips, and one hand fisted his hair. His nose nudged your sensitive nub and his tongue licked and prodded your hole, all the while he groaned and grunted between laps. 

His hand came down on your stomach, pressing your spine flush with the floor, in a bid to try and gain the upper hand again, and his other moved to intertwine his fingers with the one not in his hair. 

No. That’s not what this is.

Your hand pulled away and moved to your breast, kneading it as he watched you; your eyes were either closed or looking at the ceiling as you laid back -  he couldn’t tell. He wanted so much for this to be the cast that healed the fracture…

“Mo-Birdie… baby…”, he huskily murmured, wanting, no, needing you to look at him.

Sitting up on your elbows, his wide eyes looked up, still blown out and dark but pleading. 

“Baby girl… come on… I’m trying to show you how sorry I am.” His voice was deep and low, and his words purred out. Frankie adjusted his face and kept his eyes on you as he pushed two fingers into you without warning and sucked on your clit. Your breathing hitched followed by a sigh as your lips parted. Every time his fingers pushed in, they hit that spot that he had memorized and dreamed about and refused to forget the sounds you made when he hit it. He needed you to fall apart, he needed you to see how sorry he was and see that he was the only man who could make you feel this good.

The whining moans that careened from your throat were pure music to him, and he sucked a little harder and purposely slowed down and emphasized each pump of his fingers a little harder. 

“Fr-yes… yes, right th- don’t stop… please Frankie, don’t stop!”

He hummed and pressed his hips into the carpet, trying to get some relief in his jeans for his throbbing cock. Your walls were fluttering and your hand was yanking his hair, pulling his face harder into your core; against his hand weighing down your middle, your hips rocked, fighting against him. 

Your vision started to fill with stars and just as you felt your release getting closer, he pulled back, eyes glaring at you. In your ecstasy, you’d called out the first name on your lips - and it wasn’t Frankie’s.

“You serious??”, he snarled as his large hand gripped your hip and yanked you towards him. “Ezra?! Are you fuckin’ kidding me??”

Your eyes were slightly glazed over and you stared up at him, the realization of what you’d said came to you and you wanted to laugh right in Frankie’s face. It was a slip but one that you thought was fitting, given how you ended up here and the way he was looking at you. But then the thought of Ezra flooded your mind, making your face fall sadly. 

Frankie misread your facial expression as one of remorse to him and his eyes softened, and he leaned forward and kissed you, muttering, “Suppose I deserved that…”, against your mouth. 

You kissed him back, needing respite from the melancholy the thought of Ezra was bringing down upon you, and one hand pulled him closer around the back of his neck while the other moved to his belt. The feeling of his soft middle made your cunt throb, pushing - momentarily - Ezra out of your mind. Frankie was heavier than when you’d broken up, and one thing that never changed was how his weight set you on fire. As you deftly unbuttoned his jeans with one hand, you gave yourself permission to enjoy his body before you set yourself on the path for atonement.

One of his hands came to help you push down his jeans and boxers, and his hard, angry cock sprang out. Your fingers gripped him, feeling his hot girth in your hand again, and god, it felt so good jerking him a few times. He grunted into your mouth and his weight pushed you back onto the floor, your mouths still attached, and he held his body over yours on one forearm above your shoulder. His other hand lined up his cock to your entrance and he hitched your leg up onto his hip. 

The slow, arduous pace at which he pushed in was both euphoric and maddening, like he was trying to punish you. But the familiar stretch blanked your mind and his mouth parted from yours, brows tented and he huffed out,  “God dammit! Baby… you’re so fuckin’- so tight… Been too long…”

It had been too long. Prior to this, the last time you had a dick in you was at least a month or so before you broke up; it was coming up on a year since then. No matter how angry you were with Frankie, there wasn’t a single hunk of silicone that could compare to his manhood - that you found anyway.

He seated himself deeply in you and you felt like you couldn’t take a full breath in. Your parted lips let out small gasps, puffing out against his mouth. He barely pulled out before he pushed back in, eliciting a gasping whine from you. His eyes trailed over your face taking in every twitch, flick, minute shift… 

He could feel every flutter of your canal, and it felt like home. All the love he’d been holding and letting fester and rot him from the inside out seemed to lessen as he watched you. 

“I’m so sorry, baby…”, he murmured, nudging his nose against yours, his hips finding a soft, deep rhythm.

You needed more. You needed hard. In this moment, you knew this wasn’t a reconnecting, this was a severing. 

“Frankie please-”, you breathily whined out, opening your eyes and looking right up at him. “Fuck, just fuck me!”

He watched you, feeling you squirm and writhe underneath him, and when your eyes met his, all he could think about is how you called out another man’s name when you came to him. He scowled, sitting up and pulling out. He gripped you hard and flipped you over like you were nothing, then grabbed your hips as he lined himself up again. 

“Fuck you, Mouse!”, he snarled angrily as he impaled you. 

“Fuck you, Frankie!”, you panted as he brutally slammed his cock into you over and over. “Fuck you!”

He let out a growl and grabbed your hair, yanking your head back and pulling your body flush with him. The hold he had you in was bordering on painful, but it was scratching that itch you hadn’t been able to reach in who knows how long. 

You needed a hatefuck. 

His hot breath came out in growls and bled over the side of your face and neck, and you could feel another orgasm building in you. 

“Yes! Yes, I’m- fuck, Frankie -”

He cut you off, jerking you in his hold as his hips slammed into you, and he snarled, “SHUT UP!”

You came, crying out and Frankie bit down on the crux of your shoulder and neck, growling and grunting as he fucked you though your orgasm. 

“Fuck you, Mouse!”

You cried out, trying to form the words to tell him that was not your name, but he shoved you back down to the floor, hand gripping your hair, and he would not let his brutal pace up. With every slam of his hips, he swore, cursed you, apologized…

“Fuck you - I am sorry! I-fuck!... fuck, fuck, fuck!”

It didn’t take much more to push you over the edge again and this time, Frankie fell with you, letting out a hiss followed by a groan as he filled you. Your arms gave out and Frankie laid his weight on top of you, both panting.

You laid like this on the living room floor for who knows how long, the only sound being the occasional car outside and your breathing. It was Frankie who spoke first, his voice far softer and sadder than you anticipated.

“Mouse, baby-”

“Birdie.”

You felt him sigh and he moved off you, helping you up and off the floor. You put your panties and leggings back on, feeling him ooze out of you. Once you were dressed, you looked up at him. 

“I think I finally got you out of my system.”

He didn’t argue or try to make you stay as you left. He just watched with a resigned sadness. 

That night you had no nightmares.

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[wataksampingan]

Episode 13, My In-Laws Are Obsessed With Me

[littlelamy]

a/n: the beginning is loosely based of S4 with rafe and sofia! I’m kinda obsessed with rafe being needy behind close doors 🥵I hope you guys enjoy!

you couldn’t stop replaying his words over and over again in your head. each syllable hit harder, cutting deeper than the last. always running her mouth? what. just a hookup, id never date a pogue.

you stood there, behind the slightly ajar door, heart pounding so loudly you were sure it could be heard. but rafe didn’t notice—he was too busy tearing you down with topper, speaking like you were nothing more than a nuisance in his life. he’d never know how those words would haunt you, how the trust you had in him shattered like glass.

your eyes burned with unshed tears, the sharp sting of betrayal settling into the pit of your stomach. but there was something else bubbling just beneath the surface—rage. not the hot, fiery kind that comes and goes. no, this was colder, more calculated. the type that stews, planning its revenge.

your fingers itched to grab your things and leave, but not without making sure he understood who held the power in this relationship. you weren’t going to walk away defeated, not when you could leave him begging for mercy.

so, instead of running, you turned, heart hardening with each step as you walked back into the room, your hands trembling slightly as you pulled out a suitcase from under the bed.

if he thought he could treat you like this, he was about to learn how wrong he was. you weren’t some weak girl who would let this slide. no, rafe was about to see a side of you he never had before.

the door clicked shut behind him, and for a moment, you could hear his confused muttering. "yo, topper, i’ll catch you later."

rafe’s voice rang through the hallway, much closer now, but still carrying the same arrogant tone. you ignored him, hands moving swiftly as you tossed your clothes into the bag, each item thrown more aggressively than the last.

when rafe finally stepped into the room, his eyes immediately fell on you, and panic flickered in his expression. "what the hell are you doing?"

his voice wavered as he took in the scene—your half-packed bag, the angry flush on your cheeks, the tight set of your jaw.

"what does it look like?" you shot back, barely sparing him a glance as you continued packing.

he hesitated, taking a step closer to you, but the sight of your seething rage stopped him in his tracks. "hey, let’s just—let’s talk about this, okay?"

you laughed bitterly, slamming the suitcase shut before finally turning to face him. "oh, now you want to talk?" you snapped, the sharp edge in your voice slicing through the air between you. "funny, because earlier, it seemed like you had plenty to say."

his face paled as realization dawned on him. you watched as his lips parted, searching for words but finding none. for the first time in a long time, rafe cameron was speechless, guilt flooding his features.

"i didn’t—" he started, but you cut him off.

"save it," you hissed, stepping closer to him now, your eyes blazing. "i heard everything, rafe. every. single. word."

rafe’s breath hitched as the full weight of your words crashed down on him. his eyes widened in panic, and he took another shaky step toward you, reaching out as if to touch you, to ground himself in this spiraling nightmare. "i didn’t mean it, baby. i swear, i wasn’t thinking—i was just venting—"

"venting?" you scoffed, stepping back from his touch. "do i look like someone you just 'vent' about, rafe? am i just some girl you get to shit on when i’m not around?" your voice cracked slightly, the hurt bubbling beneath your fury slipping through the cracks.

rafe’s hands trembled as he dropped them to his sides, a strangled sound escaping his throat as he shook his head. "no, no—please, you know i didn’t mean any of that. i was just—" his voice broke, and you watched as his composure started to crumble, tears pooling in his eyes. "i was just talking, okay? i’m sorry, i didn’t mean it. you have to believe me."

but you weren’t about to let him off the hook that easily. your eyes darkened as you stepped even closer to him, your voice dropping to a dangerously low whisper. "if you’re really sorry, rafe, you’re going to have to prove it."

a flicker of hope sparked in his eyes, and he nodded eagerly, desperate to fix what he’d broken. "anything," he breathed, his voice shaky. "i’ll do anything."

you stared him down, watching as he swallowed hard, his adam’s apple bobbing with nervous anticipation. there was no trace of the cocky, confident rafe now. instead, he was a trembling mess, willing to do whatever it took to keep you from walking out that door.

you grabbed your phone from the dresser, starting the recording and letting the soft beep fill the silence. rafe’s eyes widened as he watched you, confusion and curiosity mixing with the fear in his gaze.

"get on your knees," you ordered, your voice firm, leaving no room for hesitation.

rafe blinked, momentarily stunned by the command, but the second your eyes met his, cold and unwavering, he obeyed. he dropped to his knees before you, looking up with wide, tear-filled eyes. the vulnerability radiating off him was palpable, his breath shaky as he knelt before you, completely at your mercy.

"you don’t get to speak," you warned, holding the phone steady as you circled him slowly, capturing his wide eyes, his trembling hands. "you only get to listen and do what i say."

he nodded quickly, his throat tight with emotion as he blinked away the tears threatening to spill down his cheeks.

you positioned yourself on the bed, spreading your legs slightly, and gestured for him to come closer. "you know what to do," you said, your tone soft but commanding.

without a moment’s hesitation, rafe shuffled forward on his knees, his eyes glued to your thighs as he leaned in, his lips pressing soft, tentative kisses along your skin. his breath was hot and shaky, the desperation in every touch making your pulse quicken.

"good boy," you murmured, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him closer, guiding his mouth exactly where you wanted it. "now, show me how sorry you are."

rafe wasted no time, his tongue flicking against you with a desperation that sent shivers down your spine. his hands gripped your thighs, holding on for dear life as he worked to prove himself, his movements frantic, eager to please.

your head tipped back slightly as a soft sigh escaped your lips, but you quickly regained control, focusing on the phone’s camera in your hand. you adjusted the angle, making sure you captured every second of rafe’s unraveling—his lips swollen and red from the effort, his face flushed, sweat beading on his forehead.

"look at you," you cooed softly, your free hand caressing his cheek. "you’re such a mess for me, aren’t you?"

rafe whimpered in response, the vibrations from his soft sobs sending waves of pleasure through you. his eyes fluttered shut as he pressed his face harder against you, the tears finally spilling over and streaming down his cheeks.

you could feel the shift in him—the way his body trembled beneath your touch, the way his breaths came in ragged, uneven gasps. he was breaking, right in front of you, and the sight sent a surge of power through your veins.

"don’t stop," you whispered, your fingers tugging on his hair as his pace quickened, his tongue working furiously. "not until i say so."

rafe let out a choked sob, his tears soaking into your skin as he continued, his movements growing sloppier, more desperate. you glanced down at him, the sight of his tear-streaked face and swollen lips sending a rush of heat through you.

"you’re mine," you whispered, your voice dripping with possession as you tilted his face up slightly, capturing the tear that rolled down his cheek with your thumb. "and you’ll never forget it."

rafe’s body shuddered at your words, a strangled moan escaping his lips as he clung to you, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. another tear slipped down his face, and you leaned down, your lips brushing against his cheek, kissing the tear away.

you recorded it all, making sure you caught the exact moment rafe broke for you, his body trembling beneath your touch as he whimpered your name.

"please," he gasped, his voice barely above a whisper. "i’m yours. i’ll never leave you. i love you. please…don’t leave me."

his words were slurred, thick with emotion, and you smiled softly, running your fingers through his hair in a soothing motion.

"good boy," you whispered, pressing one last kiss to his temple as his body finally collapsed against you, completely spent and vulnerable.

slowly, you stopped recording. rafe barely noticed, his head resting against your thigh, still trying to steady his breathing. his tear-streaked face was a picture of surrender.

you stood up, gently pushing him off you, and his body slumped against the mattress, too weak to even protest. you didn’t say a word as you picked up your phone, your fingers tapping with practiced precision.

rafe watched through bleary eyes, his chest still rising and falling with uneven breaths, the reality of the situation not quite sinking in yet.

the video—the raw, intimate recording of rafe at his most vulnerable—was right there, in your hand. the smirk playing at your lips deepened as you attached it to a group chat, the names of topper, kelce, and several other friends flashing across the screen. rafe’s inner circle, the same ones he was so eager to talk big around. they’d all see this.

and then, for the final touch. your fingers hovered over the keyboard for just a moment before typing: looks like the pogue got your boy.

the message was delivered, the little ‘sent’ confirmation making your heart race with satisfaction. the power was now entirely in your hands, and you relished the silence that followed, the calm before the inevitable storm.

rafe blinked, finally realizing what had happened as he noticed the shift in your demeanor. “w-what did you do?” his voice was small, trembling with fear as his eyes darted from your phone to your face, dread sinking in fast.

you leaned down, brushing a lock of hair out of his face with surprising gentleness, and a sweet peck on his lips. “just reminding you who really holds the power here, rafe,” you whispered softly, your voice laced with a wicked edge. “you thought you could talk shit about me behind my back? guess again.”

rafe’s eyes widened as he tried to sit up, his body weak and uncoordinated. “no, no, no—what did you send? please, baby, please!” he pleaded, his voice cracking with desperation.

you straightened up, staring down at him, your smile never faltering. “i sent a little reminder to all your friends. they’ll see it soon enough.”

he scrambled to reach for his phone, but it was too late. his friends were already watching the video, seeing him like they’d never seen him before—broken, crying, at your feet, worshiping you. and with that message—looks like the pogue got your boy—they’d know he wasn’t the powerful rafe cameron anymore. not with you around.

rafe’s breath hitched, panic surging through his veins as his phone buzzed incessantly on the bedside table. “no,” he whimpered, tears spilling over again, pure terror flashing in his eyes as he looked up at you, utterly helpless, still with a needy gaze.

you bent down one last time, tilting his chin up so he could meet your gaze, your thumb gently brushing against his swollen lips. “next time you even think about talking behind my back,” you whispered, “remember this moment. because there’s more where that came from.”

with that, you walked away, leaving rafe alone in the room, his phone lighting up with messages from his friends, the weight of his humiliation crushing him.

you didn’t even glance back as the door clicked shut behind you, a satisfied smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

you owned him now. completely.

taglist: @namelesslosers @princessslutt @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @sixrosberg @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 38: Shattered

Summary: Things aren't okay. They never will be again.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 7,743 words

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, angst, PTSD, nightmares, POV changes, depression and anxiety, medical stuff, injuries, brief description of a possible death, language, mention of weight loss due to medical stuff, emotionally heavy chapter (again), slightly graphic imagery, illness, so much crying

A/N: I just want to make something very clear here since there's a scene in this chapter that might be interpreted this way, but 'mega is NOT suicidal. That's not something that's going to be in this fic, and neither is self-harm. It would have been well warned in advance if that was going to be something coming up in this fic. She's struggling a lot, but she's not suicidal, she's not going to become suicidal, nor will she self-harm even off screen. So don't worry. That's not what's happening. It won't be happening.

Okay, just wanted to make that clear. Enjoy the suffering!

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

The scream slices through the silence seconds before chaos erupts. 

John is on his feet and out the door before Kyle is even fully awake. Simon is on his heels down the stairs, the two of them nearly colliding in their rush. His heart thuds in his chest as he sees your door open, the overhead light on. It’s bad. It must be bad if the overhead light is on. You hate the overhead light. 

He barrels in like a bull, ready to fight. The screaming has stopped, but it still rings in his ears. The fear, the panic. Something has happened. Someone got in. He should have made you take the room upstairs. He should have put a barrier between you and the door. That window. Someone could break that easily and grab you before they even noticed.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” 

The screaming has stopped, but gut-wrenching sobs have taken its place. He takes a moment to scan the room. Nothing is misplaced. The window isn’t broken, there’s no bodies, no one that shouldn’t be in there. 

“You’re okay.” Christine soothes you as you sob. “It was just a nightmare.” 

The bright fluorescent overhead light burns his eyes as he stands there, staring at the bed. Christine is right there, having beaten them across the living room, or perhaps she had already been in there, having heard you in your distress before they could. You're tucked in her arms, your face against her shoulder as she holds you. 

Nightmare. 

The safety and security the cottage promised has faded, leaving you at the mercy of the horrors your mind can conjure up in your sleep. Something twists deep in John’s stomach as he turns, motioning for the others to back up and give you some space. You won’t want them there, and things will only get worse if you notice them. 

His heart is still thudding in his chest as he stands there, the sharp sound of your scream still ringing in his ears despite his confirmation of your safety. The other three look just as startled as he feels, standing there tensely in the dark living room. He brings himself to move, turning his back on them for a moment to try and gather his thoughts as he flips on the lamp in the corner. It casts a warm light across the living room, far too warm for how he’s feeling. He’s trying not to panic, trying not to be sick on the floor from the worry. His heart is in his throat, trying to choke him. He’s trying so hard to be strong, not just for him, but for his pack, for you. 

He sinks down on one of the couches, rubbing a hand over his face. He had been so sure something had happened, that their safe little bubble had been breached and someone knew about their whereabouts. He had been so sure someone was trying to hurt you with a scream like that. 

Maybe someone was, but not in reality. 

What is it you dream about now? Your nightmares about your father and your traumatic presentation must seem like nothing now compared to what must haunt your mind. Do you dream of Graves and his torture? Do you dream of them leaving you behind? Do you dream of dying because of their failures? 

A hand settles on his shoulder, a body sinking onto the couch next to him. Arms are wrapping around him, easing him against a solid chest. 

He’s crying. 

He didn’t even realize the tears had started flowing. 

He can hear the reverberating voice in his head, yelling at him, telling him not to show such weakness in front of his pack, in front of his team. He’s supposed to be the strong one, he’s supposed to be the stable one keeping the pack afloat and steady. Yet here he is, breaking down in front of them. 

“It’s okay.” 

Kyle. 

His sweet Kyle. 

How he’s been neglecting his sweet beta, and yet, how willing Kyle still is to reach out and comfort him in such a time of visible distress. That’s what betas are supposed to do. Mediate and balance the emotions of the pack. How have they been coping with all of this? How have Kyle and Johnny been managing in such a time of disarray and upheaval? Have they been managing it? He doesn’t even know. He doesn’t even know the state of his pack, of the members of his team. 

What a failure he is. 

He lets himself lean against Kyle, something filling his chest as Kyle’s soft scent seeps into his senses. He’s projecting it, not just for John but also for the whole room. Johnny is crying too, soft sobs tearing from his chest as he sits on the other couch. Simon is on his knees in front of him, trying to get him calmed and breathing. 

They’ve been ignoring and denying each other for days, fraying the bonds further while trying so hard not to. The pain they’ve been causing in their emotional constipation and intentional neglect is almost worse than the pain caused by their infighting. At least fighting they were feeling something. At least fighting they weren’t cutting each other off so willingly. 

“We can’t do this anymore.” He says, his voice thick and shaky from his tears. “Cutting each other off. It’s not helping anything.” He doesn’t move from where he’s tucked against Kyle’s chest, letting the comfort wash over him for the first time in a week and a half. 

How he’s missed this. 

“It’s not doing any good for any of us.” Simon says, shifting onto the couch next to Johnny. 

“Especially not our omega.” Kyle says, voicing the thought flashing through all of their minds. 

“We may not be able to do much to help her right now, but we can focus on each other. That is something we can do.” John swallows thickly, his alpha starting to come back to life, his instincts aware again as he stares at Johnny and Simon. “Doing nothing isn’t good for any of us. We need to have something to focus on, something tangible we can do. Denying each other comfort isn’t going to help anyone.” 

“I full-heartedly agree.” 

John whips around, Christine standing in front of your closed door. He hadn’t even noticed her enter the room, hadn’t sensed her standing behind them. Johnny and Simon are the only two that don’t look startled, but they must have seen her come out from their position facing your door. 

“Sorry.” The corner of her lip twitches up in a smirk. “Thought you would have noticed.” 

John clears his throat. “How is she?” 

“Settled again.” Christine says, moving over to the chair. 

“How long has she been having nightmares?” Kyle asks. 

“Since that first day in the med center in Dallas.” She says, sinking into the chair. How heavy this must all be on her shoulders. “I’d almost call them more sleep hallucinations. Mostly of Graves. Seeing him in the room, being attacked by him.” 

“Is there anything that can be done to help?” John asks. 

“For these kinds of nightmares? Not really.” Christine folds her hands in her lap. “Her brain is trying to process what happened. Until she feels safe enough to truly begin working on processing the trauma, it’s likely the nightmares will continue.” 

“Is there anything we can do to help her feel safe?” Kyle says. 

Christine’s lips purse as she looks between the four of them. “I’m not sure any of you could do anything right now directly, at least. She’s not open to that yet. Working on your bonds with each other, though, could help her omega finally settle and allow her emotions to even out again. That can help her feel safer, remove that instability and the fear of losing control again.” 

All of them share looks, John and Simon staring at one another. They hadn’t even thought about that. Well, at least he hadn’t. Christine had told him months ago that omegas need their alpha when they distress, when their omega takes over. They can come back from it with the help of an alpha...their alpha. Without one, the chances of survival were slim. Yet here you are, trying to do it all on your own. Having to do it all on your own. 

That ache in his chest starts again as he stares at Simon. He sent Simon after you, he made Simon go through that process of seeing you in that state and scruffing you. He made Simon be the one to help you through that. He made Simon be there when you needed an alpha most because he couldn’t face the fact that he abandoned you, he left you behind like you were nothing but another faceless soldier. 

He wipes his face as the tears start falling again. He truly is a failure of an alpha. 

Despite Christine’s reassurances, John can’t help the automatic reaction to your screams. On his feet instantly, his heart pounding in his chest ready to fight bare handed whatever might be causing such a reaction. Whoever might be causing such a reaction. He can’t fight the demons in your head, though, and he’s always greeted by the sight of Christine by your side, comforting you as best she can. 

He wants to hate her, wants to be angry at her for taking his place, doing what he should be doing. His alpha scratches at his mind every time he sees her by your side, giving you comforts he should be giving, but it’s his fault. It’s his fault she’s the one there with you. It’s his fault you’re suffering so much. Those thoughts send his alpha crawling back into its cage with its tail between its legs. 

It doesn’t matter the time of day, whether it was a nap or the middle of the night, your screams have a pain throbbing deep in his chest. His heart is constantly racing, waiting for that rush of adrenaline at the sound of your terrified scream, at that rush of instinct to protect and fight. He’s not sure how much his heart can take. 

He might have a heart attack by the end of their stay at the cottage. 

That’s something he’s been trying not to think about. 

They can’t stay here forever, no matter how much he knows you’ll want to, how much the others will want to. Eventually they’ll begin to go stir-crazy, itching for something to do. They still have jobs, and Kate can only keep them off the radar for so long, and can only give so many excuses. Eventually they’ll have to go back. Eventually they’ll have to make that decision of what comes next. 

He’s going to delay that as much as he possibly can. 

They can’t go back while Shepherd is still out there. They can’t trust that anywhere is safe while he’s still skulking around, while he still has contacts that could put them all in danger. That could put you in danger. 

That’s not a risk he’s willing to take again. 

But what comes next? 

What will they decide to do? Can they go back, knowing what the inevitable will be? Can they take that risk of having to leave you again, put you through that constant fear and worry that they might not come back? What if they all leave again? Could you survive the fear that something might happen while they’re away again? Not to them, but to you? 

Could they leave you alone again? 

Those are thoughts for another day when they’re inevitably faced with the fact they have to return to society and their lives and jobs. 

They have time. 

He has to make sure you’re okay first. 

You’re not okay.

You’re so very far from okay. 

The bedside lamp is on, casting a golden glow around the room. 

There’s nothing there. There’s nothing there. 

It’s one of the rare times you’ve woken before you can react, before you can scream and alert everyone in the house that you’ve had a nightmare. They’ll all come running. All of them. 

You hate it. 

You hate the nightmares, you hate the fear, you hate the constant pain and worry and the constant knowledge that your pack is right there. They want to go back to how things were, they want things to go back to normal, but they can’t. They expect you to forgive them, to go back to loving them, but how can you after everything? 

They left you. 

They let this happen to you and they just want you to pretend like nothing happened. That’s what they would do. Go back to normal life after being tortured and forget it all happened because that’s what they do. 

You’re not them. 

You don’t want to be like them. 

Cold. Heartless. Uncaring. Unwilling to put anyone but themselves first. 

Fuck them. 

The only thing keeping you here is the fact you’re bonded to them. That, and you’re an omega. You’d get picked up off the street and brought right back here to your owner. Or, worse, you’d get picked up by someone looking for a cute little omega to add to their collection. 

Or worse. 

You’d get picked up by someone else. 

Graves. Shepherd. 

If you’re lucky, they’d kill you instantly. Leave your body on the front porch for the others to find. You won’t care anymore. You’ll be dead. 

You hastily wipe the tears from your cheeks, wiggling yourself back until you’re leaning against the headboard. Your shoulder doesn’t hurt quite as much anymore. It still throbs, still aches, still occasionally almost puts you on the floor when you try to reach over your head with it. Your throat is healing too. Soup isn’t quite as horrible as it was a few days ago. Solid food makes you ache, but at least you can get it down without feeling like you’re swallowing glass. 

You still haven’t spoken to them, though. 

You can hardly stand to look at them. 

Fuck them. 

Just the thought of them makes you want to scream. 

Dr. Keller says it's normal, being angry. ‘It’s all part of the process.’ The anger, the fear, the pain, the depression. It’s all normal. It’s all part of the process. It’s all necessary. You won’t get better holding it all in. You won’t get better numbing yourself. You won’t get better if you don’t allow yourself to feel everything. 

You hate it. 

Why should you have to go through all these feelings, all this pain? Why should you be the one suffering because of their decisions? It’s not fair. They should be suffering. They should be in pain. They should be the ones on the brink of insanity because of the fear and the pain and the suffering and their omega constantly screaming at them. 

It makes you want to scream. 

Screaming will only draw them in, force them closer. Screaming will alert them all, make them all come running. You don’t want any of them near. You don’t want to have to see them again. 

Fuck them. 

You let out a huff before wiggling back down the bed until your head hits the pillow. You won’t go back to sleep. You never do. At least you have the pain and exhaustion and tumultuous emotions and your very nature to excuse your constant naps, constant sleeping during the day. They don’t need to know you’re not sleeping at night. They won’t care. They don’t care. None of them do. 

Fuck. Them. 

You want your phone, you want something to keep you occupied. It’s probably lying somewhere on the side of the road shattered beyond repair. That, or it’s back in the barracks. The barracks. Fuck that place. You’ll rip your hair out strand by strand if you have to go back there. It’s not safe, it’s not happy. There’s nothing good about that place anymore. 

It’s just a place of pain. You might as well have been tortured by Phil there. 

You were tortured there. 

It wasn’t a physical torture, but a mental one. The entire experiment was just torture for you. No one thought of you, no one cared about you. 

Dr. Keller cares. 

It’s her job to care. 

Still, you can’t hate her entirely. She’s the only one that understands. She’s the only one that can help. She’s the only one that’s been helping. Not just now, but back then. She cared, she fought for you, she did her best with what she had. Sure, she made mistakes, but so did you. She’s the only one you can forgive. 

She’s the only one you want to forgive. 

Fuck the others. Fuck your pack. Fuck those fucking soldiers who were never going to care about anyone but themselves, who were never going to care about anything but their jobs and their duties and the good of the world. 

You should have been their world. 

They couldn’t put you first. They wouldn’t put you first. They didn’t want to put you first. 

They won’t change. They can’t change. There’s no hope for change. 

You’ll just go back to the way things were before and be forced to pretend everything's okay and that you’re happy and fine and content. Were you ever really content or were you just trying to make the best of the situation? Were you deluding yourself into believing you loved them and cared about them and that they loved you and cared about you to numb the fact you knew deep down that they never would, that they never could. Were you deluding yourself into thinking everything was fine and dandy to hide the constant pain from the knowledge that you would never come first? 

The pain begins to burn in your chest again. It’s hot like acid, rising in your chest to your throat, threatening to choke you. It’s a deep pain, one nestled right in against your soul. Tears leak out of your eyes again as you squeeze them shut, pushing your right hand against your chest in an attempt to get it to pass. 

You thought you were dying the first time. 

You could only be so lucky. 

The bond. 

It’s trying to break, trying to sever itself, trying to free you from the constant pain, but it can’t. 

Maybe because deep down you don’t want it to. Maybe deep down you want to forgive them and move past all of this. Maybe you want things to go back to normal, even if normal means pain and distress and fear. Maybe you want to believe them that they’re finally going to put you first. 

‘Maybe’ is only a doorway to disappointment and pain. 

Fuck yourself. 

Fuck your omega. 

Fuck your pack. 

Hell, fuck Dr. Keller for not fighting harder, for not doing more. 

Fuck Graves and his haunting of your nightmares.

Fuck Kate for choosing you.

Fuck Shepherd for creating the initiative in the first place to try and cover his own ass. 

Fuck them all. 

You tug the blanket higher around yourself, rolling onto your right side. 

Fuck. Them. All. 

You don’t want him here. 

He does it now, usually in the mornings. 

You hate it. 

You like it. It’s nice. He’s the only one making an effort. 

He never says anything, surprisingly enough. It’s silent as he sits there, steaming cup of coffee in hand. Always coffee, never tea. He won’t sink that low. He brings you a cup, but you can never bring yourself to touch it. You feel like a mental patient stuck in a straight jacket. You could free yourself, but that would bring too much awareness, too many questions, too much pain. 

You don’t want to. 

So instead you sit there in silence, staring out at the sea. It’s so far away still, yet it’s right there. You can hear it and smell it and see it. 

The sea. 

They brought you to the sea. 

John remembered. He did it for you. 

The thought has something stirring in your chest, and it’s not pain or anger. 

You hate it. 

Johnny leans back in the chair, his eyes on the horizon like yours. He sits there in that chair every chance he gets, usually in the mornings when Dr. Keller takes time for herself and leaves one of them watching you through the sliding glass door. You do feel guilty for forcing so much on Dr. Keller’s shoulders, yet you need her. 

You’re not ready for the others yet, no matter how loudly your omega screams at you. 

You don’t want them. 

Fuck, you desperately need them. 

Your eyelids flutter frantically as you try to keep the tears at bay. You can’t cry. You can’t let him know how close you are to breaking down. You can’t. 

You can’t reach out. 

You can’t take his hand. 

How desperately you want to. 

You nearly breathe a sigh of relief when the sliding door opens, Dr. Keller’s soft footsteps crossing the wood planks of the porch. 

“Ready to go inside now?” She asks, pressing the back of her hand against your cheek. You don’t say anything, don’t react, frozen in fear of everything coming tumbling out in front of Johnny. “You’re getting cold.” 

Johnny glances your way and you immediately turn to look at Dr. Keller, scared to look him in the face. That desperate hold you have on the gaping wound in your abdomen will open and your guts will come spilling out like some gory scene in a horror movie. 

Disembowelment thanks to your own weakness. 

Dr. Keller holds the crutch out for you as you push yourself to stand. Your legs are strong enough you could probably walk without it, but it’s still nice to have it in case you get tired. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

It’s the weakness from your liquid diet over the past week and a half. The weakness of being unable to eat solid foods, to properly nourish. You’ve lost weight, your clothes hanging from your body in a way they never did before. You’ve lost the softness that marks you as an omega, but it feels fitting. You don’t feel like an omega anymore. 

You don’t feel like anything anymore. 

You’re fighting your instincts out of pain and suffering and stubbornness. You keep taping your omega’s mouth shut despite how loudly she screams at you. You don’t want your instincts. You don’t want that need. Eventually it has to go away. Eventually it has to recede and your omega has to go back into her cage and sleep. Eventually you can numb yourself to it and force it away forever. 

That will certainly make things easier. 

But will it make things better? 

No. Probably not. 

It’ll make things worse. 

But if it allows you to keep your distance, allows you to avoid them, you’ll risk it. You’d take numbness over anything right now. 

How you miss those long days of depression while they were away. How you took those days for granted. 

Who knew those hours spent worrying about them and their distance and what might happen to them would be for nothing? 

What you wouldn’t give for all of them to disappear right now. 

How badly it would destroy you. 

“She’s at war with herself. That instinctual need is screaming at her, but that emotional pain is keeping her shut away. If anyone is going to get through to her, it will probably be you.” 

“I can’t do that.” 

“Can’t or won’t?” 

Simon clenches his jaw as he stares at Christine. As much as he wants to hate the doctor and her ability to see straight through him, he can’t deny how necessary her presence has been. She’s the only one you tolerate, the only one you’ll let close. Without her you’d probably be rotting in bed, stuck and unable to do anything out of stubbornness. You won’t let them close, yet you need them close. 

You’re going to rip yourself in half, metaphorically and possibly even literally. 

He shakes that mental image from his mind. The horrifying images his mind has conjured up over the last few days have his stomach churning. Even his tea no longer looks appetizing. 

He put milk in it this time. Almost how he likes it. Almost how he wants it. 

“Johnny’s the one actually trying.” Simon says, staring across at her. She doesn’t shy from his gaze, doesn't even flinch. “You should talk to him.” 

“While I agree, reintroducing a beta from the pack is the first step, eventually she’s going to need an alpha.” Christine says. 

“She needs her alpha.” He argues. 

“She doesn’t want her alpha.” Christine counters. “He’s going to be the last she lets close, but she’s going to need some kind of stability.” 

“I can’t give her that.” 

“Can’t or won’t?” 

Simon clenches his hand around his mug, his knuckles going white. She’s infuriating, yet he can’t be mad at her. Not completely. The good she’s doing for you, for the pack, far outweighs his annoyance with the doctor. She’s right. He knows it deep down, but he can’t. He can’t do that, he can’t put you through that. He’s already done enough. He did his part, he faced his fears, he saved your life. That’s enough for him. It’s up to John now. 

John has to do the work to fix it. He broke it, it’s no one else’s job to fix it. 

“Maybe both.” Simon finally says, pushing himself up to stand. “It’s not my job to fix this.” 

He leaves his mug behind as he stalks out of the kitchen, heading for the front door. He can’t stand being in the house any longer, cooped up with the same five people. Four people and a ghost. 

He shakes his head, jogging down the steps into the gravel. He should go for a jog. A long jog. He could jog to town and back. That will clear his head. 

That’s a long jog.

If something happens while he’s away, he won’t get back in time. It’ll be his fault because he took the time to do something selfish. He can picture it, coming back to find five bodies laying in pools of blood, dead because he wasn’t there to help, because he wasn’t there to fight. 

It’s a ridiculous thought. There’s three other highly trained soldiers in the house. If anyone tried anything, they wouldn’t make it past the door. He can see it now, Price’s alpha coming out in a rage because someone dared try to enter and hurt his vulnerable omega. He’d probably win in a fight ten to one if that happened, and he has Kyle and Johnny to back him up. Christine would take you and run the first chance she could. She wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Not again. 

Still, he can’t shake that fear. If he can’t sprint back, then it's too far. If it will leave the pack too vulnerable, he can’t. 

To the beach and back, then. 

She’s like an angel. 

The soft sunlight streaming through the clouds makes her glow. You wouldn’t be surprised if the sun was shining just for her, sending down a beam just to illuminate just how ethereal she is. 

The Garrick beauty is genetic. 

Kyle is beautiful in terms of a man. He shares the same ethereal glow as his sister, but Ashley? You don’t feel worthy of looking upon her. 

“Kyle never mentioned an omega, but then again, he never says much about his job.” She gives another dazzling smile, your heart rate picking up just slightly. “Can’t, I should say. You haven’t been with them long, huh.” 

“About nine months.” You say, your voice still a bit hoarse. It’s not quite healed yet. It might be that way forever. 

“Such a short amount of time to go through so much.” She says, giving you a soft, sympathetic look. You don’t know how much she knows, though it’s still fairly obvious you’ve been through hell. That you’re still going through hell. “Christine told me a bit about what happened. I don’t blame you one bit for being upset at them. I would have left them, but I know. In a perfect world, right?” 

You make a quiet sound. Indeed in a perfect world where omegas have rights and can make their own decisions and could leave and have support in doing so. You’d leave with Dr. Keller or even Ashley, even though you’ve only known her for ten minutes. She has the same magnetic energy as Kyle, so much so you don’t mind the way the scent blockers burn your nose. She probably smells like something warm and soft, something comforting. 

“So, tell me about yourself. What do you like to do?” She says, settling in the chair. It’s cool outside, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it one bit. 

You scramble for something, anything. What is it you like to do? What are your hobbies? You’re drawing a blank, your mind searching through its filing cabinets to find where you shoved all the things you like to do. 

“I like to read.” You finally say, remembering the stack of untouched books on the dresser across from the bed. 

“Oh? What do you like to read?” She asks. 

What do you like to read? What is a genre? What are books? 

“Oh, I read anything, as long as it’s interesting.” Is that the truth? You’re not quite sure. 

“I see, I see. Well, there’s quite the collection on those shelves inside. I’m a reader too. Read through those entire shelves over the years.” She grins at you. “We could do a little book club, if you’d like. Read some books and talk about them over some tea. We could get Christine in on it too. Have a little thing just for us girls.” 

You nod, staring at her in awe. This is the first time someone outside of your little circle has offered to do anything with you, for you. 

You want to do it. 

You want to spend time with someone who isn’t your pack, who isn’t Dr. Keller. 

“Okay.” You say, still staring at her in awe. 

“I could come over on the weekends, or we could do a call if you’re not up to seeing anyone.” She continues, and you’re not sure if she made this plan before she came, or if she’s coming up with it on the spot. Regardless, you're still impressed by her and her dedication to a complete stranger. 

“Would...would that be too much?” You ask, your brain starting to wake up again, the wires connecting once more. 

“Not at all.” She shakes her head. “I live and work in Exeter, so I’m not too terribly far away.” 

You’re not sure where Exeter is off the top of your head. Your mental map isn’t even sure how far away London is...or even where you are on a map of England. Are you even in England right now? 

“What do you do for work?” You ask, realizing you’ve been silent for an awkward amount of time. 

“I’m a finance lawyer.” She says. “Mum used to say ‘you love to argue so much, you should become a lawyer.’” She laughs. “So I did.” 

“You must make a lot of money.” You say. You don’t know how much lawyers make in England relative to the US. 

“I make enough to be comfortable.” She says. Enough to travel back and forth every weekend. “Seriously, though, if you need or want anything, let me know. I’m more than happy to come sit with you and give you a break from those stinky men.” 

You’re not quite sure what happens to your face. It contorts, muscles shaking off the dust and starting to move before you even realize it. Your lips are tilting upwards instead of downwards. Something is happening. Something that feels good, something that you’ve been missing. 

You’re smiling. 

You’re smiling. You haven’t smiled in a long time. Weeks. Not since the cameras. Not since your pack left. You haven’t felt like smiling in so long you’re certain you forgot how to. But yet, here you are, smiling at Ashley. It’s not a genuine smile, one that crinkles your eyes and shows joy, but it’s a smile. It almost hurts your face after so long. 

She’s funny too. 

Stinky men. 

They are that. 

Your smile falls as soon as the sliding glass door opens, your head whipping around to look. Ashley turns to look too, perhaps out of instinct at your sudden movement. 

You’re half expecting it to be one of the guys, maybe Kyle out to ruin the moment, but it’s only Dr. Keller. 

“How are things going?” She asks, stepping up beside you. 

“Good.” Ashley says. “We’re planning a book club.” 

“Oh?” Dr. Keller raises a brow, looking between you. “I think that would be fantastic.” 

“You’re welcome to join in if you’d like,” Ashley says, giving Dr. Keller a smile. 

You stare up at Dr. Keller, watching the way her lips turn up a smile, her eyes shining with...something. Her hands open and close, tugging at her pants almost nervously. Your brows raise as you look back up at her face. She almost looks...flustered. 

Oh. 

Another grin forms on your face as you stare between them, Ashley still smiling and Dr. Keller still looking a bit flustered. 

Oh. 

“You could join us if you want.” You say slowly, still looking up at Dr. Keller. 

She seems to snap out of her daze, her gaze darting down to you. She gives you a soft smile, back to her composed, professional self. “If that’s what you’d like.” 

You nod. Even though you see her constantly every day, you’re not tired of her existence yet. She’s the only one whose existence in the house doesn’t make you want to gouge your eyes out, the only one you want to talk to, to see, to have around. If you had the choice, you’d be here alone with her. 

That’s not possible. You know it’s not. 

“A thing for just us girls.” Ashley says. “On the weekends. No pressure whatsoever.” 

“I think that would be fantastic.” Dr. Keller says. “A nice little distraction.” 

“A nice break from those stinky men.” You say. 

Both Dr. Keller and Ashley erupt in laughter. 

Another smile tugs at your lips. 

You don’t want to be here. You can feel him staring at you from behind. He hasn’t moved since Dr. Keller left, still just standing there like he’s not sure he can approach you or not. You hope he doesn’t. You want him to. 

You don’t say anything, still staring out at the ocean, but you can see him reflected in the glass, obscuring your view of the horizon. Hatred burns inside of you as you have no choice but to stare at him, even when you’re trying not to. He’s like a ghost, always haunting you. He always will be. 

“I didn’t want to try to rush into this.” He finally says, knowing you’re not going to say anything. You won’t greet him, welcome him into your space. It already feels like an intrusion into your safety, him being here. 

Is this becoming a safe space? A nest? No, not that far. It’s becoming sacred to you, though, and having him in it without invitation feels wrong. It makes you uncomfortable. 

You hate it. 

“But I just wanted you to know that we’re all feeling the weight of what we did, I’m feeling the weight of what I decided to do. We all feel guilty for putting you through that, for forcing you to endure things you never should have.” 

He swallows thickly, falling silent for a moment. You almost feel like laughing at his attempt at an apology, another attempt at an apology. Why is he even bothering? He knows you won’t forgive him. He’s probably doing it for himself again, to make himself feel better. 

“I know it’s not an ideal situation, being forced in such a small space together, but we all wanted you to know that you’re the one setting the boundaries. If you don’t want us to be somewhere or do something, then you can tell us, or have Christine tell us. If you don’t want to see us at all, we can make our best attempts at that.” 

“That would be ideal.” You say, breaking the silence you’ve held for days. It’s the first time you’ve spoken to him since the hospital, since his first sad attempt at an apology. 

It shocks him to stillness and silence. 

The words hurt, burning your throat like acid as you stare at his reflection in the glass. You hate it, how pathetic he looks standing there. Where’s the big, tough alpha? Where’s the strong protector? Where’s the person that’s supposed to take care of you and care about you? 

He never existed. 

He left you behind. 

He never cared. 

Anger begins to bubble within you. 

“I’m sorry.” He says, his voice shaking. “I never meant for this to happen-”

“You think your sad attempts at apologies are going to work?” You hiss at him through your teeth. You push yourself to stand, turning to face him. “You left me. You fucking left me there knowing full well what was going to happen!” You’re shouting now. All the quiet movements on the other side of the wall in the main area stop. 

They’re all listening. 

It’s not like you’re giving them much of a choice not to. 

Fuck them.

“I know,” He says, his eyes wide as he stares at you. 

“Do you? Do you know?” Your voice is wavering, your throat starting to ache but you can’t stop. Not now. It’s all coming out and there’s no stopping it. “You. Left. Me. You willingly turned your back on me time and time again even when I was being tortured! You leaving was torture enough and you still chose me second. I’ve always been second. I’ve never mattered enough for you to even question anything!” 

You let out a sob, the sound cracking in your throat. It hurts, but it will always hurt. You’ll always carry this hurt with you, so you want him to hurt too. 

“I asked you once if you would ever leave for me. You said if things got dangerous, if my life were ever at risk because of you, you’d leave in a heartbeat.” The tears are falling, streaming down your face. “Was that a lie?” 

He doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, staring at you. Does he even remember that conversation? 

“Was that a lie?” You shout, making him jump. 

His eyes drop to the floor, his scent souring. Good, you think. Let it hurt. 

“Answer me.” You say, pushing him to give some response to your question. You need to know. You need him to say it. 

“I didn’t intend for it to be.” He says quietly. 

“You didn’t intend for it to be.” You say, bitterness coating your tone. “What the fuck does that mean? You said you wouldn’t let me go even if the initiative failed. Was that a lie too? Was it all a lie to keep me happy and complacent? ‘The job always comes first,’ even when my life is in danger, right? The job always comes first over everything, even me. You lied to me.” You swallow the sob threatening to come up. “I want to hear you say it.” 

He stands there, tears brimming in his eyes. He hasn’t moved hardly a muscle, still frozen like a statue. 

“Say it!” You scream at him, your throat tearing around the words. You’re surprised you’re not tasting blood yet from how raw it feels. 

“I lied.” He says, swallowing thickly. “I lied to you and I couldn’t keep my promise. And I’m sorry-” 

“Don’t apologize.” You cut him off starting to pace as the anger burns hot in you. “Don’t you fucking apologize to me, you don’t deserve to apologize. You don’t deserve the chance at forgiveness. You’re a shitty alpha and you always have been!” 

You let out a sob, wiping at the tears streaming down your face. There’s a tear sliding down his cheek, and it brings you some sort of relief deep down. So he can feel things after all. 

“I don’t know what I expected, though.” You let out a sardonic laugh. “You military men are all the same. It’s always about the job and the image and the ‘greater good’ and making sacrifices, even if that means sacrificing your pack. You’re just like my dad. You never wanted an omega, you never wanted me. You cast me out and let me suffer when I needed you most.” 

The anger burns hot in you again, shooting through your veins until it’s choking you as you stare at him standing there pathetically. He thought he could apologize, he thought his groveling would mean anything to you. Fuck him. Fuck them all. 

“You left me.” You grit out, your hands starting to shake. “You left me! You abandoned me, you let me get hurt! You didn’t care, you never cared about me!” You storm over to him. “Fuck you!” You scream, hitting his chest. “I fucking hate you!” You shove him back, sending him stumbling. “Get out!” You shove him again, pushing him back towards the door. “Get out! I never want to see you again!” 

He stumbles back out of the door and you slam it in his face so hard it shakes on its hinges. You click the lock as you sob in pain, pain both physical and emotional. Your chest aches, a tearing feeling burning through it. 

The bond. 

You don’t care. You don’t give a fuck anymore. You hate him, you hate them all. 

The tears and sobs threaten to choke you but you don’t care. You don’t care anymore. You don’t care about anything anymore except the anger burning hot through you, making your hands shake. Your legs give out and you slide to the floor against the door, sliding until you’re laying down on your back on the hardwood. It’s cold against your skin but you don’t care. You can’t care anymore. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

Her hand presses against your forehead, wiping some of the sweat beading on your skin. Despite your shivers, you’re burning hot. A fever. You worked yourself up too much earlier in your outburst. She had been proud of you for finally releasing some of it and showing some emotion, but she knew the consequences of getting so worked up would be high. Your omega is still unstable, on top of still trying to physically recover. You hurt yourself doing that, even if it was necessary. 

She shushes you as you whine, fingers grasping at the blanket clumsily. She pulls it higher over you, your body shuddering underneath the pile already stacked on top of you. She’d put every blanket she could find over you, and yet you still shiver. Worry floods her again as she stares down at you, your eyes pinched closed. You must be aching, your show of anger taking its toll. 

It was necessary, but at what cost? 

If your temperature continues to spike, the risk of distress heightens. You can’t handle distress in your current state, which would mean your omega would come out, finally be freed again from the unprotected cage it's been pushed back into. If your omega comes out, that will require John to help, which may only drive you further into distress. 

She needs to try and stop this before the situation continues to deteriorate. 

But how? 

How can she move you past this without the help of your pack? She can’t give you the comfort you need. Medicine or any therapeutic methods can help solve the issue at its core. Sure she can try and lower your fever with medicine, but you need your pack. You need that comfort and stability that only they can offer. 

You need someone, and it can’t be her. 

If your omega comes back out, they might never be able to get it back in. It’ll be the end of you. All of your recovery, the fight you’ve put up against your body and your instincts and your mind will have been for nothing. 

You need someone. 

An idea begins to form in her head, her hand resting against your forehead. It’s hot under her hand, your skin burning. You might hate her later for this. It’s risky, but sometimes risks have to be taken in dire situations. Sometimes those risks pan out in the end. What will happen if it fails? The inevitable that’s going to happen if she doesn’t try. It’s a lose-lose situation, but if it works, it could be a win-win. 

She can’t help you, but maybe she has someone who can. 

She tucks the blankets around you, cocooning you in an attempt to keep you warm and still while she steps away. She won’t be gone long.  

She leaves your door cracked open just in case, even though she doubts you’ll be moving much while she’s away. 

Just in case. 

One can never be too careful. 

She heads up the stairs quietly, going slow to avoid startling any of them. She’s intruding on the safe space they’ve made in their solitude. It feels like invading sacred grounds, but it's a necessary invasion. Their omega is in danger. They’ll forgive her. 

The bathroom door is closed at the end of the short hallway, a light on inside. The lights are on in both rooms too, glowing beneath both doors, and she takes a gamble. Based on the heaviness of the footsteps above the kitchen she can guess the room on the right is the one Simon and Johnny are staying in. If she’s wrong, she’ll have some explaining to do before she’s ready, and she knows John will have his thoughts about this. Though, with what happened earlier, perhaps he’ll agree. You won’t see him, but maybe...just maybe... 

She lets out a deep breath before knocking firmly, waiting a breath before she calls out.  

“Johnny, I need your help.”

She just hopes you don’t hate her too much later. 

NEXT ->

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[reidmania]

in the absence of you | s.reid

summary; to find out you're pregnant and then experience a miscarriage while spencer is in prison, is a lot, trying to figure out if you should tell him when he gets home is just as much.

warnings; fem reader, hurt x comfort, mainly hurt, a lot of angst, miscarriages, pregnancy, guilt, withholding information, post prison spencer, mentions cat, probably inaccurate medical information, messy timeline, relationship struggles, imma say 18+ because there is very strong mentions of sex, and bad sex experience, emotional deattachment, grief, guilt, reader strongly believes she did something wrong, spencer blames himself for her dettachment, insecurities, trust issues, established relationships, hopeful ending, (happy ending would be inaccurate bc theres nothing happy about this fic!) feeling alone, yeah man idk this is just sad.

an; um.. so this was suppose to be fic 5 but i wanted to post it sooner, and its BEARtober so i can actaully do whatever i want.. thank you, i know i posted fic one two hours ago.. but its technically day 2 bc its 12:30am.. im so sorry in advance. 4.7k... YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT YOU CONSUME!! if this will trigger you, please don’t read.

beartober masterlist

You remember the moment clearly: the world was grey, the air heavy with the scent of rain, when you stumbled upon the truth in a small, sterile bathroom. It had been two weeks since Spencer had been taken away, wrongfully convicted and trapped in a nightmare you couldn’t fathom. You had just returned from a visit, the echoes of his voice still dancing in your mind like a haunting melody. You stood there, staring at the little stick in your hand, the two pink lines appearing like a beacon of hope in the darkness that surrounded you. Your heart raced, a mixture of joy and fear spiralling within you. You were pregnant. Spencer’s child was growing inside you, a tiny miracle nestled in the shadows of despair.

In that moment, you could almost picture his face—the way his eyes would light up, a smile breaking across his face as he wrapped his arms around you. You imagined the joy of sharing this news, of planning a future together even in the midst of chaos. But as the excitement bubbled within you, a chill settled in your chest. Spencer was in prison, suffering through an ordeal that felt cruel and unjust. You couldn’t bring this news of a new life into the turmoil that enveloped you both. What would it mean for him to hear such news in a place where hope felt like a distant memory? No, you decided. You would wait. You would hold this secret close until he was home, until you could see the joy reflected in his eyes, not the shadows of despair.

Days turned into weeks, and each passing moment felt like a tightrope walk, balancing on the edge of your own joy and the weight of his suffering. You became adept at hiding your secret, slipping into a routine that felt increasingly fragile. You took prenatal vitamins in the morning, their presence a constant reminder of the life blossoming within you. You attended appointments alone, tracing your fingers over the growing bump that would soon signify so much.

But with every visit to Spencer, every moment shared behind that glass, you felt the joy dimming under the weight of your choice. You didn’t want to add to his pain; his world was already dark. You watched him struggle to hold onto hope, and you couldn’t bear the thought of placing another burden on his shoulders. You knew if you told him he would be happy, and then feel horrible because you were pregnant, and he wasn’t there, he deserved to hear it when he could process it. That was something else you worried about, the timing was horrible, not unwelcomed on your behalf but unfortunate. When Spencer got out he would need time to adjust, you would need time to adjust.

When you touched your belly, you whispered promises, vowing to keep this little one safe until he was free. But it wasn’t long before the joy turned to an ache, a sense of loneliness creeping in. You would lie in bed at night, tracing your fingers over your bump, feeling the small kicks and flutters, and wishing desperately that he could be there to experience it with you. The silence felt oppressive, filled with unspoken words and unshared dreams.

Then, just two weeks before Spencer came home, everything shattered. You found yourself crumpled on the bathroom floor, the world spinning around you as the pain hit like a tidal wave. You didn’t want to believe what was happening, didn’t want to accept that the life you had held onto so tightly was slipping away. The miscarriage was both a physical and emotional unravelling, a gut-wrenching reminder of how fragile hope can be.

You spent the following days in a fog, the echo of your loss drowning out everything else. Each moment felt surreal, like you were watching life unfold from behind a glass wall. You wanted to scream, to let the world know that you had lost something precious, but the fear of burdening Spencer kept you silent. You couldn’t tell anyone, nobody knew you were pregnant beforehand. You kept the joy away from the world until it could reach Spencer, and now it was gone. In the quiet of your apartment, you felt the walls closing in. The space that had once been filled with laughter and love now felt hollow, echoing only with your grief. You avoided places that reminded you of the joy you had once felt, the memories of what could have been cutting deep into your heart. You wandered through your days in a daze, wearing a mask of normalcy for the world to see. Friends reached out, concern etched on their faces as they noticed your distance. You offered polite smiles and reassurances, your heart aching at the thought of revealing your pain. They didn’t know what you had lost, and you didn’t want to pull them into your darkness.

At night, when the silence was deafening, you would curl up on the couch, clutching a pillow to your chest, tears streaming down your face. You replayed the moments you had spent with Spencer, the way his laughter would fill a room, how he would hold you close and make you feel safe. You missed him fiercely, but you also felt an overwhelming loneliness, the grief a reminder of everything you had kept hidden from him. You thought about telling him, about sharing the weight of your sorrow, but the thought made your chest tighten. 

Every time you looked at him when you visited, your heart twisted with guilt. He deserved to know, but you feared his reaction, the possibility of seeing that flicker of pain in his eyes. You wanted to protect him, but in doing so, you found yourself carrying this burden alone. You acted the best you could when you visited, but you knew he could tell you weren’t okay.

Two weeks have passed since Spencer’s release, but the warmth of his return hasn’t settled into your bones. Instead, it feels like a lingering chill, a shadow that stretches over your heart. How could you add to his pain when he had just returned to a world that felt foreign? He had faced horrors you could only imagine, and you didn’t want to push him deeper into the darkness. You stand in the kitchen, staring blankly at the dishes piled high in the sink, each one a reminder of how normalcy feels out of reach. The sunlight filters through the window, casting a golden hue across the room, but it does little to brighten the dark corners of your mind.

Spencer is home, yet he feels distant, a haunting echo of the man you once knew. You watch him move around the apartment, and while he wears a smile that is both familiar and foreign, his eyes reveal the weight of the trauma he carries. You want to comfort him, to wrap him in the warmth of your love, but the grief of your loss sits like a stone in your chest, making it hard to breathe. It’s been so easy to slip into the role of caretaker, to push your own feelings aside for the sake of his recovery and adjustment. The truth is suffocating.a secret you’ve kept locked away, tucked into the recesses of your heart. You want to scream it, to let the world know, but the fear of burdening him with your sorrow keeps your lips sealed.

Every time you meet his gaze, you feel the weight of your silence pressing down on you. Spencer is still adjusting, still fighting to find his place in a world that has changed around him. You can see the flickers of his old self—the gentle humour, the way his laughter dances in the air—but the shadows linger. You can’t shake the feeling that by holding back your truth, you’re pulling him deeper into the void. Spencer’s presence was a comfort, but the weight of your secret loomed like a dark cloud. You started to withdraw, spending long hours lost in thought, feeling like a ghost haunting your own life. In the two weeks Spencer had been home, you had sex once, a few nights after he got home– and honestly it was probably the worst sex you’ve ever had, not because of him, he did everything perfectly, you felt good, physically, he was gentle, and focused. Three months is a long time without sex, and physically it felt good, really good.

But the physical pleasure didn’t compare to the mental disturbance. You felt like the world was crushing you, there was so much guilt and disgust flowing through your veins because it felt so wrong. You kept it together and you didn’t blame him for not noticing, you kept your eyes closed throughout the entirety of it, too scared that if you let them open the tears would fall. He was focused on being gentle. It was messy, and fast, and you were almost thankful. You waited till Spencer fell asleep before you hid yourself away in the bathroom and spent hours crying. You didn’t wake him, you refused to. He deserved rest, good rest in the comfort of your shared bed. Anytime he tried to initiate more you tried, you allowed yourself to get lost in the feeling of his lips for a while but you couldn’t do it when the feeling bubbles in your chest again and you felt the struggle to breathe, not from the kiss but from the pure weight of your guilt.

You hardly slept, the one way to escape your burden taken away when your dreams of what your life could’ve been turned into nightmares of what you had lost. Most nights you’d lie still in Spencer’s arms, his body warm against yours, yet it provided no comfort, only reminding you of what you were keeping from him. You felt guilty, guilty that the ultrasound photos sat in the bottom of your handbag untouched since the day you lost the baby, you couldn’t look at them, it felt like torture. You felt like it was your fault, no matter how many times the doctor told you, it wasn’t, it was a thought you couldn’t shake. You felt like you were constantly battling the idea of telling Spencer, which would only put more on his shoulders, more that he didn’t need, but he deserved to know, you knew he would want to know.

You were pulling away, He noticed, of course, but he attributed it to his own struggles.

“Hey, you okay?” Spencer asks one evening, breaking the silence that has settled like a heavy fog between you. You look up from your coffee, the steam curling into the air like the thoughts you can’t articulate.

“Yeah, just tired,” you reply, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You wonder if he can see through it, if he senses the turmoil beneath the surface.

He nods, though uncertainty flashes across his face. “You’ve been saying that a lot lately. I know things have been rough, I- I know things are different- I’m different. I'm sorry, but I’m here..” The sincerity in his voice hits you hard. You want to believe that you can lean on him, that you can share the weight of your grief, but the thought of adding to his burden paralyses you. He’s already been through hell; how can you throw your pain into the mix? 

“It’s just… adjusting to everything,” you say, your voice wavering. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around all that’s happened.”

Spencer steps closer, the warmth of his body radiating into the space between you. “I know. We will be okay.. Are we okay?.”

Your heart aches at the earnestness in his gaze. You want to reach out, to let him pull you into the light, but the chasm of your grief feels insurmountable. It feels silly trying to act like everythings fine, it would be useless to lie, the colour drained from your face and the emptiness in your eyes spoke words louder than a lied ‘im fine’ ever could, so you gave in to his knowledge. You nodded, “ We’re okay– I- I just need time,” you whisper, looking down at your hands. “I’ll be okay.” You move away towards the couch, he follows, sitting next to you as you bury yourself in the sofa.

The silence that follows is heavy, filled with unspoken words and unacknowledged pain. Spencer nods slowly, his expression one of resignation mixed with concern. You can see the wheels turning in his mind, the thoughts he’s too afraid to voice. As the days pass, the emotional distance between you only grows. You drift through your routines, performing the motions of daily life—cooking meals, doing laundry, going to work, avoiding the deeper conversations that tug at your heart. You want to talk about it, want to tell him how devastated you are, but every time you think of opening your mouth, the words stick in your throat. Each time he reaches out, trying to connect, you feel a pang of guilt. He deserves to be wrapped in the comfort of your love, not burdened by your sorrow. You keep telling yourself it’s better this way, that it’s noble to protect him, but deep down, you know it’s a lie. 

“Let’s watch something together,” he suggests, his tone light but laced with worry. You nod absentmindedly, your mind elsewhere. The sound of laughter from the show fills the room, but it feels hollow. You can’t shake the heaviness that clings to your heart.

“Do you remember the last movie we watched together?” Spencer asks, attempting to lighten the mood. “The one with the ridiculous plot twist?” He offers, shuffling his body to face you a little more, you continue picking at your nails, keeping your gaze on the tv, honestly hardly hearing his words

You force a chuckle, but it doesn’t reach your heart. You don’t remember, not in the slightest, maybe if you thought about anything besides the weight in your chest you would be able to, but everything was distant, you were distant. “Yeah, that was… something.”

He turns to face you, and you can see the concern in his eyes. “You’re not really here, are you?”

His words cut deep, and the truth behind them wraps around your throat like a vice. “I’m trying,” you manage, feeling the tears threaten to spill over.

“Just… talk to me,” he pleads, and there’s a desperation in his voice that makes your heart ache. “Is it too much? Baby, tell me what you’re thinking.” He shuffles closer. You tense.

And yet, the silence persists. The weight of your loss feels too heavy to share, like a storm cloud hanging over both of you. You can’t bear the thought of seeing the flicker of pain in his eyes, the guilt that would inevitably follow. You feared saying it aloud would make it too real, telling him would make it too real. He didn’t deserve that, not after the months he spent being put through unimaginable things. He was trying here, to make this as easy for you as possible, showing empathy in the time he needed it most. That plagued you with guilt you couldn’t shake because no matter how hard you tried to be present, your heart remained in pieces on the bathroom floor. 

“It's not you.” It came out quiet and if your sense of self awareness didn’t feel thousands of miles away you would’ve cringed. It wasn’t him, he was trying his best and dealing with stuff and turmoil you couldn’t even begin to imagine, you expected a change in him, that wasn’t the issue. Your head dropped as your fingers moved a little rougher, now picking at the skin around your nails, a horrible habit Spencer had helped you stop when you first started dating, you subconsciously picked it up again when he went to prison. 

He moved closer, if you looked up you would’ve seen his brows knitted in concern and a frown on his face as he reached out to depart your hands from one another, taking one on his own to stop your assault. “Then what is it?” He was pleading for an insight into the mess in your head, that was terrifying because you knew there was a similar mess in his own, for a completely different reason. You were both silently fighting emotions impossible to articulate. Spencer was slowly adjusting, slowly. It took time for him to even begin to talk about what had happened in his time locked up, you never pushed. He was trying to let you in, and you were trying to push him out, but you could see it in his eyes, he knew there was something, and you could push him away and try to handle this alone, but you didn’t want to be alone. 

You looked up at him, tears lining your eyes. You chewed at your lip before you let out a harsh breath, “I got my period.” Your voice broke, then the tears followed as a sob left your lips. Then your hands were reaching to cover your face as the tears continued, falling as if you hadn’t been crying everyday for the last month. Waking up to your period was maybe the worst feeling you had ever experienced, the reality washing over you again, and the sight of blood filling you with a memory you didn’t think you could ever forget. It was painful, so painful.

His eyes widened when you started sobbing, each sound leaving your lips causing his heart to weigh heavier as he moved closer to wrap his arms around you. He knew you, he knew you on your period. Sure you were more emotional than normal but not this emotional. His hands threaded through your hair as you buried your face in his chest, still covered by your hands. He didn’t want to admit that this was the closest he had felt to you since his release. “Is that what's wrong, sweet girl? Are you in pain?” He asked, and you shook your head as sobs ripped from your throat followed by wet hiccups. You were sure there were probably wet stains on his shirt despite the fact your hands were in the way, your tears would not stop, you couldn’t stop them, you couldn’t carry this alone. Not anymore.

It was muffled by your hands and his t-shirt, hardly coherent through your sobs, “I was pregnant,” You felt him stiffen slightly and you knew he heard it, but once the truth was in the air, once the words left your lips, the others followed almost instantly. “I was pregnant and I lost it – I killed our baby.” It was all broken words, the ugliest side of your guilt travelling through in your words.

He was quiet. That was the worst part. You knew he wasn’t mad, actually you didn’t know that, deep down maybe, but right now you truly believed he could have any sort of reaction, even the most unlike him. Right now your brain was absent of any ability to process what you were doing. Your chest was so tight it hurt and you were genuinely struggling to breathe.

When he heard your slight hyperventilating against his chest he seemed to snap out of whatever state he was in, he pulled back to look at your face, his hands moving to cup your cheeks to pull you to look at him, the sight was heartbreaking. “Breathe, Please. Deep breaths” He guided, his voice gentle but you could see emotion in his eyes, something less gentle, not so much anger, maybe hurt, maybe confusion, maybe guilt. You couldn’t see well enough through your tears to figure it out.

You listened, the air you breathed in deeply was so cold it made your throat burn, it was just as cold when you breathed it back out, then again. “I’m sorry,” You whispered, the tears were still falling, you didn’t bother trying to stop them anymore. It was useless. 

“That’s a lot–” He shook his head, “--You were pregnant?” It was the same whisper as yours, as if he was trying to make sure he properly understood what had left your lips, as if this was a reality he didn’t want to be. He was confused, of course he was. 

You frowned as you looked up at him, you knew he would want to know everything, and as much as you knew he deserved that, explaining and reliving it felt like a punishment, as if you needed more of that. “Spencer” it was pleading. You were pleading with him not to dig, not to ask, selfishly so, because you knew he deserved everything, that he needed to hear it just as much as you needed to not talk about it.

He frowned, his thumb reaching to brush tears away from your cheeks, the movement useless because the tears kept falling, “I know it hurts. Can you tell me when?” he asked, he was being so gentle, it only made the guilt in your chest burn more, his kindness was cruel because you didn’t deserve it, not in your eyes.

You hiccuped as you looked down, he lifted your face a little more, encouraging you to look back at him, you did. You “Um– A month after- you uh” You trailed off, a month after his life was ruined and he was wrongfully convicted, he knew what you meant, you could see it in the way his eyebrows furrowed further. He was quiet, the silence thick with so many questions and needed explanations, he needed to know what happened, he needed to be walked through it because he wasn’t there. You knew the guilt was probably eating at him for that, you partly wished you hadn’t mentioned it, that you had been more sensible before blurting it out. 

“How far along were you?” He asked, another question tumbling out so gently. He was trying to be careful, despite his hundreds of questions. There was no backing out now, he deserved to know everything just as much as you deserved to be able to tell him everything. 

You hiccuped as you answered, “Eight and a half weeks.” 

His eyes closed as a harsh breath left his lips, his hands dropped from your face to drag along his own. You weren’t sure what he was feeling, you weren’t sure what you were feeling. He did the maths in his head to figure out when you miscarried, he didn’t want to make you answer it. His hands dropped from his face to his lap as he looked back at you, then you saw tears in his eyes, ones that mirrored your own. “Did you find out what happened?” He asked, voice strained.

You dropped your head and looked down at your hands, “Genetic abnormalities” you whispered. Saying more seemed impossible as your throat felt like it was closing.

You remembered the appointment after like a scene on repeat. There were so many tears, so many ‘it's not your fault, there's nothing you could’ve done' and even more ‘Do you want me to call somebody?’ from the doctor, the question would only make your tears harsher, because there was nobody to call. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice cracked with emotion as he searched your eyes. He wasn’t angry, he was hurt, processing, overwhelmed, anything but angry with you. He wanted to know, he wanted to know everything, especially something like this. 

Your head dropped further as you whispered and ‘im sorry’ which made him shake his head, and remind you that he asked you why you didn’t tell him, he wanted to know what was going on in your head, he wanted to know, he wanted you to let him in, to let him grieve this loss with you. He wanted to know what it was that made you feel like this was something you had to carry alone. 

“You’ve been through – You’re going through so much” You mumbled out, every word seemed harder to get out, but there was no out of this conversation, no running or hiding from the truth, from him. “I didn’t– I didn’t want you to have to deal with this as well.”

His frown deepened, and you swore your heart broke in half when a sound so sad left his lips, as if what you said physically wounded him. “You-” He let out a harsh breath, “That's not fair.” He whispered, and you knew he was right. You withheld information he deserved to know, that could affect him just as much as it did you, and he understood your intentions, and your fears but that didn’t make it any easier to process. He wasn’t mad, he was hurt, maybe a little bit mad, but not so much with you, with everything else. “You don’t– Angel, you can’t choose that for me. This– this is just as much on me to deal with as it is for you. I want to deal with this with you.” 

“I know.” You were silent after that, because the only words you could think of was ‘I’m sorry’ and you knew he didn’t want that. You knew he didn’t want you to be sorry, he wanted you to trust him to let him in, to not treat him like he was fragile. He wanted you to have faith in him, to be able to rely on him, he wanted to be there. He hated that he hadn’t been there. He was right, it wasn’t your job to dictate what he could and couldn’t handle, and while maybe with the right intentions, you were taking away such an important part of your relationship from him, you were hiding something so important to you, and you knew it was just as important to him.

Maybe I’m sorry was all you could think of, because that's all you were. So sorry. Sorry that you hid it from him, sorry that you let him down, sorry that you lost the baby. You were so filled with guilt and grief it was consuming you. No matter how many times you were told it wasn’t your fault, the wonder of what if took up too much space in your mind, what if you just did one thing differently, it was useless, because it was out of your control, that felt worse. That there was nothing you could have done to change it. Spencer was just as silent as you were. The weight of what happened caused a crack neither of you wanted there, you didn’t know how to fix it, you didn’t know how to let him into the mind you didn’t even want to be in. 

“I love you” He muttered. 

The sob followed. You didn’t realise how much he was holding back emotion till this moment. Till he leant forward to wrap his arms around you and his head buried into the crook of your neck, seeking your comfort just as much as you seeked his. You shuffled closer and wrapped your arms around his, easing into his touch. “It's not your fault.” He spoke through his sobs, His hand trailed up to cup the back of your head, tangling his fingers in your hair, pulling you closer, at his words your mind swirled, hearing it from him made you think about it, it didn’t shake the guilt, but it softened it, your sob followed his.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, crying in the comfort of one another, at some point you had moved so you were on his lap, his arms around you like he needed it to breathe. Telling him didn’t ease the grief you were carrying, you didn’t think anything would, but you were feeling it with him, and you weren’t alone in it. There were many more conversations to be had about it, probably hundreds of more apologies between the two of you, probably a lot more crying and days just like this, tangled in shared sadness and maybe that wouldn’t fix what you were feeling, ore take away the grief and maybe it would be just like this for a while.

But you trusted him, and you trusted that you would be okay, that your relationship would be okay. 

[azullumi]

”know it’s for the better” ; aventurine

summary — memories come in waves and tonight, he’s drowning; the grief of his past haunts him and visits him in his dreams; alternatively, you comfort and assure him after his nightmare.

pairing — aventurine (w/gender-neutral reader)

warning — 2.1 QUEST SPOILERS (about his past)

tags — established relationship, angst with comfort, soft and kind of insecure aventurine, mentions of alcohol (he just drinks a glass that’s all), there’s some fluff if you squint, lots of metaphors, mentions of death, mentions of depressing and negative thoughts, all told and narrated in aventurine’s POV, i never proofread, 2.1k words ; one-shot

tagging — @toorurs !! dedicating this to you

note — this is what reading his character analysis, character essays, scene and dialogue interpretations, and his whole ass lore and dissecting each one of it does to you. day 3 of writing for him.

“kakavasha.”

he opens his eyes to the sight of his planet: seemingly empty, barren, as nothingness continues to stretch towards the horizon. there was nothing on this land but  the stench of death and cruelty that lingers in the air—it was heavy, thick, as if the clouds were binding him down to the ground and forcing him to look at what once was. he could feel the ache in his chest, the feeling of familiarity starting to seep into gaps between his fingers, and the the lump starting to form in his throat.

he knew this place, the stones that surrounded him and the mountain that leered over him. he knew of this, was all too familiar with it—the sunken ground and disturbed dirt from when his sister knelt before him with tears in her eyes as she uttered her promise of reunion before she bid him her farewell (he’ll always carry her last words as if it was part of his existence). the memory plays in his mind all over again, the voice of his sister echoing:

“this is where we go our own way, kakavasha…”

“...this is a gift from gaiathra, and you are kakavasha, whose good fortune will bless your sister with success.”

“as long as you are alive, the blood of the avgin will never run dry. so run, kakavasha, do not be afraid, and do not look back…”

he could feel the rain starting to pour down on his form but he doesn’t run, he doesn’t move, he doesn’t seek for something that will shelter him from the cold. instead, he stands under the pouring rain with heavy shoulders and thoughts that seem to claw and scratch at him. no matter how much he tries to cover up and escape from his past, to run and run until his feet hurt, until he falls and crumbles to nothing, it will still haunt him. it chases after him; it hides in the corners of his room, behind the wallpapers, and amidst the settling dust and cobwebs, and it creeps up on tuesday mornings as he tries to revere the sun that once never shined on him. he’s always painfully reminded of the things that he has to carry—the weight of his sister who carries her parents, and who carries their parents.

“...the rain will accompany you, and the rain will bless you.”

the distant cries, screams, and roars all ring inside his ears but the sound of the rain breaking into smaller pieces as it falls to the ground that he walks on masks it all.

he feels so pathetic. the hatred that he has for himself continues to gather and manifest into his likeness to sing choruses of condemnation in the guise of shattered and broken praises that are shaped like knives, stabbing his guts and making blood spill from his lips (he doesn’t know what his mother looked like anymore yet he could remember the distinct smell and taste of iron as blood stains his skin).

“why are you all doing this…” he remembers what he answers to her sister before she walks off to her death. he remembers asking her as he covers his ears with his small hands—too weak and frail to even carry stones, much less move boulders. he remembers the pain, the confusion, the guilt of it all. he was just a small child who had too much to hold.

what even is the worth of his life? it was just merely 60 tanbas. even if he dresses himself in luxurious and expensive clothing his past self could never dream of having, it doesn’t rid of the grasp the ipc has over him; his shackles. the cold and harsh metal is not there anymore but he could still feel it tugging on his neck, he could still feel the letters burn as it engraves itself—death would have been a more merciful fate for him than being held by such cruel and dirty hands.

“kakavasha.”

aventurine opens his eyes to the sight of his ceiling. there was no empty land that is of semblance of his planet before him but instead there were the patterns, the walls, and the chandelier that hangs in the middle of it. he was in his room; the silence accompanied with the ticking sound of the clock strikes a balance between quietude and noise.

1:56, he looks at the time. it was still deep into the night—the stars cast its light into his room as it poured itself on the cold floor. there was a rustle by his side and he turned his head to look at you, peacefully sleeping in the comfort of his blankets and you mumbled something underneath your breath though he couldn’t hear it. your face scrunches for a moment before it relaxes into a soft one and he watches all of it happen; he wonders what you’re dreaming of.

unable to sleep—a heavy feeling resides in his chest ever since he woke up—, he slides himself out of the bed. slowly and silently, dare he might disturb your sleep. he slips into his slippers before walking off to the direction of his kitchen. he doesn’t even know what he’s going to do there; he’s not even thirsty nor hungry, he just follows where his feet brings him (that’s how it usually was for him, often aimless and wandering with no direction in mind, he just doesn’t where to go, where he belongs).

he’s not an alcoholic but sometimes he just seeks for the bitterness of the liquid—to replace the taste of blood on his tongue and momentarily feel what it’s like to have nothing on your shoulders; his hands are empty yet it holds so much. he pours himself a small glass, honey-coloured liquid spills into it and a few drops gets into the surface counter. he picks the glass up, swirls the liquid for a few moments and watches its motion, before he brings it to his lips and drinks it all.

the scent is harsh against his nose and the liquid burns at his throat. the taste was too bitter and he felt like spitting it all out but he didn't, he continued to swallow it until there was nothing left in his fill. he tried to think of something else, to avoid those thoughts from entering his mind: the plant there needs to be watered, that reminds me of the light bulb has to be changed, do i even have a future ahead of me?, the painting there is slightly out of place, am i even supposed to survive?, are you still in his room?

he wonders if you’re still tucked in his sheets, if you’re still sleeping in his bed, he wonders what you were dreaming of that got you mumbling and knitting your eyebrows, he wonders when you’ll walk away from him after you realize how ugly and utterly worthless he actually is.

“‘rine?” a voice calls out to him along with the light sound of approaching footsteps. as soon as you enter the kitchen, you are greeted by the sight of him: an empty glass in his hand with a newly-opened bottle of alcohol in front of him. it was currently 2 in the morning, your lover was missing from your side when you woke up but you found him drinking alone in the kitchen.

“what’s wrong, my love? are you okay?” you ask, worry following your tone as you spoke. but aventurine remains silent. he can’t tell you his thoughts, of the overwhelming despair that drags him back down to his misery, and it’s not because he doesn't want to but he can’t—it would break your heart.

(and you know his silence too well. you didn’t carve yourself inside his heart just for nothing, you didn’t consume his flesh to not know the humming of his thoughts inside his chest.)

“you know you can tell me anything, right?” you didn’t care that he’ll break your heart. you wanted all of him and that includes his hatred and anger. if it makes him feel better, break it, shatter it into pieces and you’ll keep on picking yourself up for him. even if you don’t have the ability to stop the downpour, you’ll walk with him through the rain.

after what seems to be moments of hesitation coming from him, he shuffles from his seat and approaches where you stood. and he lets himself fall and crumble for you to catch him in your embrace—he feels safe, he feels okay but the grief, misery, and guilt still tugs at his heart ever so often as it beats.

(“where do i put all of this grief?” he asked you once while you admired the stars with him. “you hold them until it turns to love.”)

you caress his back softly, a small act of comfort as you cradled him in your arms. he doesn’t put all of his weight on you but he pulls you close and buries his face on the crook of your neck, heaving out a sigh as he did; you let him, let him whisper his worries and write his thoughts on your skin.

“did you have a nightmare again?”

“…not really.” the faint smell of alcohol wafts to your nose as he speaks. “i just…”

“it’s fine if you don’t want to talk about it.”

“i’m sorry.” he says and you didn’t fail to notice the crack in his voice and the feeling of something warm and wet on your skin. you hold him closer, tighter, and you brush your hand against his hair, tangling your fingers in his soft locks.

“you have nothing to apologize for. it’s not your fault, kakavasha. nothing is ever going to be your fault.”

“it feels like it does.”

“no, no, my love… you were just a child. you did all that you can to survive and fulfill your promise.”

you start to gently sway him into the melody of your hum and he follows your form like the wind would on your hair. this continues for long until he’ll let go—you’ll hold him for as long as he wants to if it would lessen his burdens.

“i wouldn’t love you any less nor will i think of you as worthless.”

he has days likes this, days where he contemplates and thinks of everything, days where he doesn’t know what to do or what to say, days where he feels like he never changed and he’s still the same weak child who walked away from his sister instead of begging and asking her to go with him (the survivor’s guilt goes hard), days where it feels like everything is falling apart and he’s left on his own again, days where all he wants to do is to just cry in your shoulder—

“are you feeling better?” you ask him as he lifts his head from your shoulder; dry tears are left like trails of stars on his features. you cup both of his cheeks and wipe away the remnants of his misery and ache.

“mhm, a little bit.” he nods and you beckon him closer to your lips just so you could kiss his forehead before peppering his whole face.

—but there are days of warmth and sunlight. days where it all feels a little bit bearable and he can breath, days where every step he takes isn’t heavy, days where he could taste the kindness of the sun on his lips, days where he wakes up with you by his side and thinks he could have this forever, days where he could hear his mother’s lullaby that would comfort him, days where he could hear his sister’s voice telling him that she’s proud of how far he have come, days where everything feels okay and worth it.

years of these little bits of happiness—in silence, in chaos, in tranquility, in destruction—he wants a lifetime of it with you. and though kakavasha was never a greedy man, the ache, the yearning, and craving for those moments with you fills the empty spaces of his thoughts; you looked like what peaceful dreams are made of.

“i love you.” he knows that you know that already, he just thought he’d say it again.

© azullumi — do not plagiarize, copy, repost, nor translate any of my works.

[tojikai]

Sundered⁺ : CATHARSIS

Big thanks to @mikeyslvrr for commissioning this piece! ♡

Pairing: Gojo x reader

• SUNDERED MASTERLIST

Genre: Angst

tags/cw: angst, babydaddy!gojo, babymomma!reader

word count: 5.6k

a/n: Only the kitchen conversation can be considered a part of the main series.

Have your pieces been carried by the waves, swept away from this city that whispers his name everywhere you go?

Satoru woke up from a hard smack on his shoulder. “What is wrong with you? You kept grunting in your sleep.” You walked away, fixing your belt. “You’re leaving?” He muttered, heart still racing as he ran a hand down his face, thinking of his dream where you got mad at him and left with Yui.

Satoru's pretty sure that if he died today, he would get seven minutes of all the moments he had hurt you, not seven minutes of happy moments. Sometimes all the wrong things he did would catch up to him and haunt him in his sleep; where he can almost physically feel the pain he caused emitting from your skin because he chose to be a better man for someone else. 

“Uh, yes. Isn’t that why you volunteered to babysit? He watched you reapply your lipstick. Satoru found himself licking his lips, spacing out. “Oh yeah,” He sighed, realizing that he just fell asleep after snack time with Yui. He overheard you asking your Mom to babysit Yui while you go out and he volunteered.

You’re going out. On a date. At night. With a guy.

He blinked fast like it could wipe away his heart-wrenching thoughts. It’s just a date, he told himself, reminding himself of his place in your life and how he doesn’t have the right to be…territorial and possessive over you. 

“I, uh, haha, ‘had a really deep nap’” He scratched his head. There were a lot of things going on inside his head but hugging you was the hardest to control. If he begged you not to go, would you listen? But he promised to support your happiness. 

Satoru and you have been having a very healthy co-parenting relationship, and you're more comfortable around each other now. Although you never mentioned anything about taking him back, he just can't let go of his hope. If he gave up, he feared to end up like his father. 

Lose the woman he loves, his family, forever. That's his biggest fear. He’d probably just drop dead without warning if it happens.

“I won’t be out so late.” You rushed to check on your sleeping doll in her room. “Her screen time, Satoru.” You reminded him as you looked at yourself in the mirror. Satoru could only hum in response, mesmerized. He wished he could go out on date nights with you too.

Tapping his shoulder, you left him daydreaming in the middle of aftershocks from a nightmare.

———————————————

“Yui, do you think Mama still loves Dada?” He asked absentmindedly, juggling a toy in his hand while his daughter was lost in the movie. He didn't think she was listening to him, but she replied with a simple, “No.” He stared at the side of her face for a minute before sighing, afraid that she might be right.

“Mama wuv Yui.” She pointed at her chest, leaving Satoru in awe. “Of course. Dada loves you as well.” He was trying to let go of the weight on his chest but tragically failed when he remembered the words he said to you that fateful day. It was one of the days he regretted the most. 

That, and the day he chose to give up on your relationship.He can see himself spending his whole life proving his love to you as long as you let him. 

The wait was agonizing. He feels like his oxygen levels get significantly lower with each passing hour. He paced around the kitchen after lulling his child to sleep. It’s 9:27 PM and just as he was about to check his phone, the door opened. “Oh, it’s been a while since I ate out with a friend alone.” You sighed, a small smile playing on your lips. Satoru just stood there nervously.

“W-welcome home. How did your…date go?” He kind of regrets asking that because it felt like he was intruding, but you smiled, taking your shoes off. “It was fun, a little breather. Where’s Yui?” You walked to Yui’s room and Satoru couldn’t help but breathe in as you passed by him.

You smelled of…your cologne. He let out a sigh of relief. But did he feel relieved? No. It’s just the first date. There could be a second, third, and fourth date. Then, you’ll be together, and God…what will become of him?

“Did you go home by yourself?” He followed you. “Of course not. He dropped me off.” Damn it. He should’ve waited by the window so he could see him. “He got Yui a little something.” You pulled a little bear keychain from your bag, and Satoru couldn’t help the painful contractions in his heart.

That motherfucker prepared. He cursed internally, smiling a little too hard as you showed it to him. “Guess I’ll just give it to her tomorrow.” You both kissed your daughter good night before leaving the room. He felt a splitting headache coming on. He hasn’t stopped thinking since this afternoon.

As Satoru left, he took in the small smile on your face as you closed the door. You’re really happy. Now, he’s curious about this guy. Closing his eyes, he squeezed the steering wheel. It was that feeling with Toji again, and this time it’s worse because he has to witness you slowly fall in love with someone new.

He felt like running back inside and begging you to just let him begin again like that too. But that would be too much of an imposition, especially for someone who almost ruined your perception of love.

What he can only do is go home, suck it up, and sleep.

———————————————

The following weeks have been nothing but torture for Satoru. The second time, you went out with a couple of friends but that didn’t change anything for him. And now,  you’re meeting up again, and despite being told that your mom can do it when it’s not his schedule, he still insisted on babysitting.

Now he’s once again sitting on your couch, elbows on his knees. What would he do if you called him and told him you won’t be home tonight? No, no, he doubts that. You’re too hands-on with Yui, no way you’ll just decide like that. But…What if? He shot up from the seat to peek at the window when he saw headlights from outside.

You’re still inside the car. Images started flashing before his eyes and he could tell he was just a pinch away from bursting out the door to get your attention. Satoru’s hand moved up to his chest in relief when you stepped out. He probably kissed her. His brain whispered and Satoru was forced to gulp the pain.

He’s gonna have to see it one day and he will have no choice but to look away.

Sitting down when he saw you walk to the door, he rubbed his eyes quickly before pretending to be on his phone. “Hi,” You smiled at him, “I got home late.” You sighed, glancing at your wristwatch. “It’s alright, Yui was being so good, she slept early.” He ran a hand through his hair and walked behind you.

Kissing your daughter’s cheeks, you looked up at him. “You know, I was wondering if it’s fine to take Yui with us to the theme park next time?” You stood up, heading to the kitchen. “I mean, I’ll be there, I just want to tell you since you’re her parent too.” You continued, unaware of the thoughts in his head.

This kitchen. 

He felt nauseous watching you stand there, leaning on the counter like you did when you had your big fight. He thinks this sensitivity stems from all that has happened to him and your family.

“What do you think? You can meet him before we go—” You explained but he just stood there, shaking his head as he licked his lips. “I don’t know. I mean, I know you won’t let anything happen to her but…” He inhaled sharply, should he admit that he was jealous? You wait for him to finish talking but he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Is he…Are you guys getting serious?” He tried to smile genuinely. “Ah…” Sighing, he continued, “I guess I was just being…overprotective. Sure, y-you can take her. I mean, I’m sure he’s a good guy if he—” Straightening up, you crossed your arms, perplexed. “Satoru, what’s going on? What are you thinking?” He can’t give a reason. He just bit his lip.

“N-nothing.” His eyes feel heavy, he just wants to sleep. He starting to feel…defeated. “I just got a bit…I guess protective because a…a new person is gonna be around my child but,” He nodded awkwardly, desperate to convince you and hide his feelings, “It’s alright. You’re with her. Yeah, it’s okay.” He was about to bid goodbye, but your curious eyes froze him in place. 

“Alright,” A sigh of relief escaped his mouth despite not really feeling relieved. “Why don’t you eat with me? I bought something on our way home. Take it as a thanks for babysitting even when it’s not your schedule.” You joked, getting the plates. As much as Satoru wants to sleep his heartache off, how could he reject the smile on your face?

He can’t even remember the last time you ate together. Just the two of you. Looking at you now, he can’t help but wonder if this will be the last time too. If you fall for that guy, this could be the last time he’ll see this; the glow on your face as you share your thoughts with him. In the midst of it, Satoru can’t help but feel sentimental.

“None of this would’ve happened if I hadn’t done all that shit. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to atone, but I’ll sell my soul just to take a quarter of the pain off your mind.” You paused, processing his words. You remember all the times you felt irked while experiencing something fun, knowing it could’ve been the three of you if it wasn’t for what happened.

But you’re teaching yourself to create space for something good by letting go of the bad.

“Why did you do those things? Did you…did you want to get rid of me so bad back then?” You chuckled bitterly, suddenly feeling vulnerable, but he quickly answered. “No, Y/N. I never wanted to get rid of you. I was just…” Inhaling deeply, he looked you in the eyes. “I was desperate to run away from the problems I created in our relationship.”

“I thought distancing myself from you might help me move forward, but…” He licked his lower lip, shaking his head. 

But you can’t really create distance when it comes to someone you love, no matter how far apart you physically are. 

“Seeing Toji was the last straw. I knew I had to do something then, and I felt even dumber for letting it get to that point before listening to myself.” You looked down at the mention of your dear friend.

“I know how much you hate it, but…Y/N, I’m sorry. So many things went downhill in your life, and I took part in all of it. I can never do enough to fix it.” His voice weakened with every word. “You gave me the best thing, too.” You spoke, and his eyes lit up a bit, but not enough to mask his sorrow. 

You nodded toward your child’s room. “Satoru, it’s hard to just forget. I’ve said this countless times. But for that tiny human,” A small smile played on your lips, “For that little girl, we have to put things behind us. I don’t want her to grow up surrounded by the negative things of the past.” You leaned back in your chair, understanding that at times like this, you have to be positive. 

Satoru had been through things, too, and you wouldn’t invalidate that.

“Did you learn from your mistakes?” You asked him, standing up to grab a bottle of water. “I did, Y/N. I promise. I know it’s not much, but I try, and I will continue trying for you, for Yui.” You only realize now that you hadn’t really talked about it so thoroughly. Why? Probably because it scared you. But you can't live in fear forever.

However, the conversation brought you back to when you first saw him and Naomi. You tried hard to stop your emotions from taking over. Your face slowly drops at the memory. You remembered how you trusted his words, and how he went back on them.

“Why did you decide you didn’t want to try with me anymore that time?” Your throat started to constrict. Your chest suddenly felt too cramped up for your beating heart. Perhaps if you chose to spill out your unanswered questions earlier, it wouldn’t feel so hard right now. 

“I was a coward. I was too afraid to face our problems with you, so I thought it was better to cling to the freedom I felt with Naomi.” Stretching his legs out, he glanced at you. You can’t help but think that if only you had been open and talked it out before, instead of pushing each other away, things would’ve been better.

But of course, there’s always the threat of his beloved mother.

“Then, my mom introduced Naomi to me. She was there, she took care of Yui with me. She didn’t pull away from me, even when all I talked about were my problems. She didn’t make me feel alone.” He paused. The silence was deafening. You hated that all that you could hear was your heartbeat.

“That time…it was what I needed. But that’s definitely not what I wanted.” He looked up at the kitchen light, recollecting the feelings and thoughts he used to have. “I wanted myself to believe that. I made myself believe that I’m better off without you. For a little while, I did. She gave me a sense of tranquility, something we never had in a while then.” The peace. 

You didn’t think it would still hurt to hear him talk about her like she’s his savior but you found yourself looking down, sighing. “The quiet was nice, right?” You felt bitter suddenly. “Is that why it took a whole new guy coming into our lives for you to stand up and get your family?” You looked at him, feeling bad that you were having these thoughts for something gone. 

You don’t like to dwell on things so much but, maybe after all this time you still hate to think that some other girl was at your place. 

“It’s not quiet when I got you on my mind.” He murmured, your breath hitched. “Weeks after we fought in this kitchen, I couldn’t dream of anything else but your face, your voice.” He closed his eyes, eyebrows furrowed like he was in pain. “I could’ve sworn that if I heard your voice calling out my name, I would’ve given it all up.” You gulped your water, recalling how crushed you felt that time.

“Y/N…why did you pull away from me? I was scared shitless every time you’d say you’d find someone better because I know damn well there’s a lot.” He laughed unenthusiastically. The breath you took was harsh on your throat. It felt like it was slicing your neck from the inside. 

“I didn’t know how else to protect myself, Satoru.” You sniffed, reminding yourself that this one conversation could change so much between you and Satoru. “I didn’t know how else to protect myself from the pain, from your mom.” Something flashed in Satoru’s eyes at the mention of his mother. He’s hurt but you know that he longs to talk to her. It was still his mother, after all.

“I failed to stand up for you because I was too focused on pleasing my mom. I’m sorry that I couldn’t protect us from her.” Satoru knew that if he only believed in you a little more, the damage in your relationship wouldn’t have gotten so big. “I didn’t realize that she was already dictating my life to the point where she got me to leave my family without even knowing it.” 

Slowly taking your hand in his, he rubbed your skin with his thumb. By how shallow his breathing was, you can tell that this conversation was slowly breaking Satoru into tinier pieces. Holding your hand was probably the only thing that could keep him from falling apart right now, so you let him. 

Feeling his touch, you wondered if this was how gentle he was to Naomi.  You can’t help but think…what if he’s way gentler with her? Before you knew it, you were already speaking out your most kept thoughts; the softest, most tortured part of your heart was exposed.

“For many nights, I stayed up crying, wondering how you could so easily protect Naomi at the expense of my feelings.” You watched as his finger stopped moving on the back of your hand. “I remember wanting to know what she had that made you the man I always wanted you to be.” Tears started to pool in your eyes again, but you refused to look at him. 

Knowing about what happened to them, you were convinced that Naomi was also a victim of Satoru’s mother. She was a victim of her love towards Satoru, and that love was taken advantage of by Satoru’s mother. But other than that, you can’t help but think about how she used to be such a wonder to Satoru that he fell for her so easily. 

You watched Satoru wordlessly move out of his chair to kneel before you, kissing your hands. His whispered apologies spoke volumes. “You’re never any less, Y/N. Please, don’t think like that.” But you made her feel like that. He wished he could find the right words to say. But he thinks that no amount of apology could erase the scars he painted on your heart.

“I wanted to be better. But I'll forever regret everything I did just to satisfy her even when I knew it was hurting you.” His breaths were shaky, rough. “I wanted to be the man you wanted me to be. And just because I did it for her doesn’t mean I didn’t want to do it for you. Y/N, more than anyone, I wanted to be better for you first.” He knows that there will never be enough words to comfort your ache. But Satoru’s willing to prove it to you.

“I thought improving myself for her would make me feel better about our broken relationship. I was selfish, Y/N. I’m sorry.” You quickly wiped your tears away, sighing at how the heavy feeling in your chest seemed to slowly vanish after being uncaged. “Did it? You were going to marry her.” You weren’t mocking him at all. But it kills you to think that he loved her enough to want to marry her.

“At one point, I did. I used to think taking things further with her would pull me farther away from you. But it didn’t because if it did, I wouldn’t break so easily at the sight of you being with someone else.” Silence follows, and you can only smile and nod. Words alone still feel hard to believe. That’s why you've opted for a co-parenting setup with him—for now, you're letting his actions speak for themselves.

The night stretched on as your questions found answers, regrets were voiced, and what-ifs were shared. The conversation was bittersweet, a plea to undo mistakes and lessen the depth of wounds. The answers served as stitches and bandages to the injuries made.

That night, both of you hoped for a brighter tomorrow and lighter hearts in the days ahead.

_________________________________

Three years ago, you wouldn’t have seen yourself in an unfamiliar town, living in a small apartment with your mother and working as a waitress in a small restaurant. It was a tough adjustment for the kid but you’re getting there. She still asks for her father now and then, but you can’t give anything but a simple “Not now. He’s working” 

Will they ever meet again? Will you ever see him again? It doesn’t matter if he won’t come for you. You will live. For yourself. For Yui. You walked home with your head down, clutching your bag as you entered a small convenience store to grab some bread. You stared at a pack of candy on one of the shelves, allowing the buried memories to play in your mind.

—FLASHBACK—

“So, you’re good with her father now?” Your friend asked you as you pushed Yui’s bike. The theme park was packed with people and Yui couldn’t be more distracted and excited. “Yeah, I guess. We talked about a lot of things. We needed that.” You sighed, pursing your lips. 

“I'm still hesitant about trying again with him. With what happened between us, it’s still hard for me to just decide that.” Albeit unaware of your entire past with Satoru, your friend tried to be understanding, and you truly appreciated that. 

Seeing a row of empty chairs, you decided to sit down, and just as you were about to speak to your friend again, Yui got up and cheered for the coming cart, “Mama! Clouds, pwease!” You stood up as she pointed to it, dropping the toy Satoru got her. The toy quickly rolled down the pathway to the direction of the cart which had to stop by a group of kids and parents.

“Oh, shoot!” Your friend didn’t even have time to get it for you. You beat him to it, running after the toy which luckily bumped into a potted plant near the cart. You picked it up, panting as you looked back at them. Your friend was standing up, ready to go to you but you waved the toy at him, pointing at the cart to imply that you could get it yourself.

It was getting a bit crowded from the buyers so you signaled him to stay there with Yui, not wanting to involve her in any possible accidents. Thankfully, the vendor was skilled, and soon enough, you were returning to your daughter with a pink ball of cotton candy. “You moved so fast. I could’ve gotten it for you.” Your friend laughed, shaking his head in amusement.

“I guess it’s because I got used to it. When Satoru can’t be around to help, it’s all on me so…” You shrugged, only realizing that when it comes to Yui, you’d rather let yourself do all the work instead of relying on others. But that changes little by little now that Satoru’s around more. The day flew by, turning out to be more about Yui's outing than a friendly date.

You quickly checked your phone after your friend dropped you off. ‘Can I come over when you’re home?’ It was Satoru. Your brows furrowed at how serious he seemed. His texts usually carry a hint of sweetness, but this time, it was just a plain old text. ‘We’re home.’ You quickly replied and not even 15 minutes later, he was already at your house.

“Where’s Yui?” You looked at him standing at the door, waiting until you signed for him to come in. He was always like that, and while you appreciated it, you found the awkwardness somewhat amusing. "She fell asleep. Have you had snacks—" You were about to ask him, but he cut in abruptly, his tone serious.

“Y/N, can I ask you about something?” You felt nervous all of a sudden. He looked at you before reluctantly sitting down on the couch. You joined him when he pulled out his phone, scrolling for something. “Please, don’t take this the wrong way. I just want to know what happened here,” 

Your eyes widened, staring at the photo of Yui with your friend at the park earlier. It only captured half of the cart, blurred in the background. “Where were you? Look, my daughter’s alone with a… basically, a stranger to her—” You interrupted, heart racing in your chest, “Why do you have that? Did you get someone to follow us?” He sighed, remaining composed.

“No. Now, please just answer me first.” You learned the hard way about fights and now you just want to stay calm because this is certainly a misunderstanding. “I went after her toy that rolled down, and I bought cotton candy for her.” You reached out to zoom in on the pic, cursing out the way it was taken. What matters is that the cotton candy cart can be recognized.

“I know it’s blurry but I’m here, I even have a photo of Yui with a cotton candy if you want to—” Satoru shook his head, sighing exasperatedly. “Y/N, you left our daughter with a man. You barely know this guy, he’s a newbie in your work and now you…” Rubbing a hand over his face, Satoru looked at you with disappointment but still soft nonetheless. 

“You could’ve let him get that toy for Yui if he was such a man, made him buy in that crowded place for you.” You stayed silent, understanding where he’s coming from but the fact that he has this photo is setting you off. 

“He was about to. But I beat him to it because it’s always been like that for me.” You tried to explain before continuing, “Who sent you that, Satoru?” Satoru stared at you, contemplating. 

“My mom came to my house.” Now you know why he was in such a state. You bit your lip, wanting to cry out of frustration. Her restraining order lasted six months. You know there’s no way you could tear Satoru’s mother away from his life but you just want him to stop being tied to her apron strings.

He told you about how his mother came to him a few hours ago. He initially told her he was not yet ready to talk to her again, but was intrigued when she said she ran into Yui and a man at the park. 

“Were you following them?” He didn’t try hiding his accusatory gaze. “No, son! Believe me, I was just afraid that Y/N would panic if she saw me. But I saw her leave Yui with this man.” She looked so different from before. Satoru almost wanted to cry to her despite the pain she caused him, ask her why she did that. But he has to be tough. 

“You may go, Mom. I will talk to Y/N about it.” He attempted to close the gate but she kept getting closer to him, “When will I see my granddaughter? I miss her so much. And you, my Son…” Her teary eyes were still too much for Satoru, he looked away shaking his head. “I don’t know. Not now.” With that, he closed the door. 

“I don’t want you to think that I’m just simply buying her words, that’s why I came here to talk to you,” Satoru reassured you, “I know you didn’t mean to leave Yui like that but please, just…” Before he could even finish, you already answered, kind of relieved that this didn’t end with the slamming of doors again. “I know, I just got used to doing stuff for her myself. I’m sorry.” With that, the misunderstanding was cleared.

You didn’t think this would be followed by a string of events that would once again mess up your slowly glowing life. “Why are you here?” Your phone was in your hand as you blocked the door, your fingers found the emergency dial and immediately called Satoru. “I just want to see my Yui. I know I messed up Y/N, I just want to see my only grandkid.” You just can’t bring yourself to let her in.

“Satoru…can you come over? Right now. Your mother’s here.” You can hear his heavy sigh from the other end, “Don’t let her in. Wait for me.” And just as Satoru arrived his mother cried on his chest. “Son, I know I did wrong things but how can you treat me like I would harm your child?” Satoru’s hold on her arm was gentle but firm. 

Holding her to his chest as she breaks down, she looks at you with eyes that bear his agony. You can’t blame him for that’s his mother. But you’re desire to protect your child was greater. “I will only allow it for a few minutes, Satoru.” You wiped Yui’s face, peeking at the door to see his mother sitting on a monoblock chair with her head down.

“I know. I understand and I’m sorry. Sit with us if that would make you feel more at ease about this. I’m here, Y/N.” Hearing this from Satoru calmed you a bit, but it didn’t take away your worries. You just prayed that this would end soon. 

The last straw was the humiliation she caused you in front of your friends and strangers at a cafe. You were caught off guard and were almost torn down again but you stood your ground. 

“You dare leave your daughter at home just to mingle around? Y/N, what kind of a mother are you?” Your friends attempted to break it off, trying everything they could just to get his mother off your back. You should’ve just called the police that day. 

“What do you know about being a mother when you set up your own son for assault?!” You answered back, garnering whispers from strangers. “This is not about me! This is about you leaving your daughter just to fuck around!” It was only a matter of time before the guards dragged the two of you out of the cafe. 

“Out of all the days, she really chose the time when Satoru’s overseas for work!” You cried, fixing your hair on the way home. “You gotta protect yourself and Yui from that woman, Y/N.” Your friends looked at you with concern. That woman brings nothing but misfortune to you and your life. 

The moment you got home,  you called Satoru immediately. “I’m filing a case whether you like it or not, Satoru. I’m tired of this.” You cried, “I know, Y/N. I’m so sorry but please just wait for me to get back. I’ll help you when I’m back, I promise.” You couldn’t go out for a few days after that, it also took everything to stop your mother from committing a crime. 

And now, just a week after that, you almost lost your reason for living. 

You had to get another set of utensils after Yui dropped hers. When you returned, you saw her walking out of the cafe’s door. Satoru’s mother held the door open, using a pack of candy to lure the child out.

You’ve never run so fast in your life. You fought with all your might but she beat you to it, carrying Yui and attempting to take her away. “If you weren’t in our lives, Satoru would’ve been fine!” She screamed at you, pulling at the crying kid. You were so terrified and angry that you started to shake. You chose to scream for help rather than answer back, afraid that you’d lose your baby.

When people started rushing towards you, she immediately took off. You didn’t bother to see if she was captured, you just ran, desperate to save your child. After calling your mom, you’ve made your decision. You attempted to call Satoru but he was unreachable. You tried to understand that he was working and he didn’t even know this was happening. 

And when he finds out, he’d probably only try to hold you back and you don’t think you can do that. You can’t be in a place where your daughter’s unsafe. You knew you had to leave. Your daughter’s cries tell you that you have to leave. The scratches in her arms tell you that you have to leave. And that’s what you did, albeit without a clear place in mind. 

You left with your mother and that’s all Satoru knows too. 

Going home from his trip, Satoru didn’t even go back to his house. He went straight to yours and as if his fears came to life, you weren’t there. He tried calling you but it doesn’t even ring. He looked everywhere, asked around, and even went to Toji’s to beg him but he didn’t know too. His nightmare came true and the beat of his heart felt like it was slowing down with each day that passed without news about you.

All he knows is that the last time you were here, Yui almost got kidnapped by her own grandmother. 

He knows how protective you are of Yui. No wonder you disappeared. Satoru partially blames himself for not coming home when you called him crying. You probably thought he would put you off again. You probably thought he’d choose his mother again and honestly, he can’t blame you after all that he’s done in the past.

Satoru was broken, and the love he used to have for his mother turned into disgust and hate. His father helped him with his mother’s case. She was sent to jail after witnesses including your friends testified. His sleepless nights were endless. His search for his family was ceaseless too.

-END OF FLASHBACK-

Three years have passed since that, and you promised yourself that you would only believe that you and Satoru are meant to be together if he found you. If he didn’t, then maybe it’s better to let it go. After everything, you just can’t help but feel like the heavens are intentionally trying to separate the two of you.

But here you are, proven wrong when you bumped into a white-haired guy with tired blue eyes as you exited the store.

“Y/N?”

Sundered Masterlist

[wolvietxt]

𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗆𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌!

pairing : logan howlett x reader warnings : reader has the nightmare, logan doesn’t know much about reader’s past, trauma flashbacks, hurt / comfort wc : 1.2k

the air in the room was thick, almost suffocating. sleep should’ve been a sanctuary, a place where you could shut down the world and find some peace, but tonight... it was anything but peaceful. the soft hum of the night outside didn’t penetrate the tension. the bed felt like a trap, the sheets twisted around your legs, tightening like they wanted to hold you down.

you jolted awake, gasping. the world felt too real, too solid, and you couldn’t quite shake the vividness of the nightmare clinging to your mind. your chest heaved as you tried to ground yourself, pressing your hands into the mattress, but the fear and memories were still clawing at you.

you were back there - in the past. hands bound, eyes wide open, watching everything but being unable to do a thing. the missions, the screams, the people you’d hurt... it all replayed in slow motion, burning through your mind like it had never really left.

logan stirred beside you, his body instinctively shifting when he felt your movements. he was a heavy sleeper in some ways, but when it came to you, the smallest sign of distress was enough to get his attention. his arm draped over your waist, pulling you closer, his chest pressed against your back. normally, the warmth would be enough to calm you, but tonight you felt like you were drowning in the heat, unable to escape the memories.

“what’s wrong?” logan’s voice was a gravelly whisper, heavy with sleep but alert. his lips brushed against the back of your neck as he spoke, his breath warm on your skin. “bad dream?”

you didn’t answer right away. you couldn’t. the words felt too heavy, too tangled up in the nightmare. your hands were trembling, and it was only when you realised how tight your grip was on the sheets that you forced yourself to let go.

“yeah,” you finally whispered, voice barely audible. “just a nightmare.”

he didn’t ask for more, didn’t press you. logan wasn’t the type to demand explanations. instead, he shifted so he could pull you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you like a shield. the weight of him against your back, the solid feel of him, was grounding in a way that nothing else could be.

“you’re safe,” he murmured, his voice rough but soothing. “nothin’s gonna hurt you. i won’t let it.”

the words should’ve been enough. they always had been before, but tonight they weren’t. not because you didn’t believe him - logan would go through hell to protect you - but because the danger wasn’t outside. it was inside you, trapped in your head, a part of the past that wouldn’t let go.

you swallowed hard, your throat tight, and turned to face him. his eyes were heavy-lidded with sleep, but there was a sharpness there, a readiness to do whatever needed to be done if it meant you’d be okay.

“it’s... it’s not about right now,” you started, your voice shaky. “it’s the past. stuff i... i can’t forget.”

logan’s brow furrowed, his thumb brushing absently over your shoulder. he didn’t say anything, just waited. the silence between you was thick but not uncomfortable, the kind of silence that meant he was listening. that he’d listen for as long as you needed, without judgment.

you drew in a breath, trying to steady yourself, but the memories were still fresh in your mind, too close to ignore.

“i keep dreaming about them,” you admitted, your voice quieter than before. “the missions. the people. what i did before... before you.”

logan didn’t react right away, but his hold on you tightened slightly. his jaw clenched, and you could tell he hated that you were still haunted by that part of your life. but he didn’t interrupt, didn’t tell you to stop talking. he just let you get it out.

“i try to let it go. i try to move past it, but it’s like every time i close my eyes, i’m back there. doing things i can’t take back.”

you hated how raw your voice sounded, hated that those memories still held power over you. but more than anything, you hated that even now, after all this time, they could still make you feel like you were drowning.

logan’s hand moved up to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek in slow, gentle strokes. his eyes were dark, filled with an understanding that came from his own history, his own pain. you weren’t alone in that, not with him. logan had his own ghosts, his own past that bled into the present in ways he couldn’t always control.

“you did what you had to do,” he said, his voice low but steady. “you survived. and that’s what matters.”

you shook your head, pulling back slightly. “but it doesn’t change what i did.”

“no, it doesn’t,” he agreed, his voice quiet but firm. “but you ain’t the same person anymore. you got out. you’re here. with me.”

he said it like it was simple, like the fact that you were with him was enough to erase everything else. and in a way, maybe it was. logan had a way of grounding you, of pulling you back from the edge of your own mind. he wasn’t one for long speeches or trying to fix things with words. he just... existed with you in the moment. and that was what you needed.

you felt a tear slip down your cheek, and you wiped it away quickly, not wanting to make a big deal of it. but logan saw. he always saw.

his hand caught yours, stopping you from brushing away the rest of the tears. he pressed his forehead to yours, his breath steady and calming, like an anchor. “you don’t gotta be strong all the time. not with me.”

that did it. the dam broke. you closed your eyes, letting the tears fall freely now, no longer fighting to hold them back. logan didn’t say anything, didn’t try to stop you. he just held you, his arms solid and strong, letting you release the weight of everything you’d been carrying.

the room was quiet except for your breathing, the soft sounds of your sobs fading as the minutes passed. it wasn’t a loud cry, nothing dramatic. just a release, like the pressure had finally built too high, and you couldn’t hold it anymore.

logan held you until your breathing evened out, until the tears dried up and you were left feeling hollow but lighter. his hand kept a steady rhythm on your back, rubbing slow, calming circles.

“you okay?” he asked, his voice softer than before, almost a whisper.

you nodded, your head still pressed against his chest. you felt the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the slow, calming beat of his heart. it was enough to pull you fully back into the present, away from the nightmare.

“i’m okay,” you whispered, even though you didn’t quite believe it. but you would be. with logan, you always ended up okay.

he kissed the top of your head, his lips lingering there, warm and steady. “good. ‘cause you don’t deserve to be stuck in the past. not when you’ve come this far.”

you closed your eyes again, but this time, there was no nightmare waiting for you. just the warmth of logan’s arms, the steady sound of his breathing, and the quiet promise that whatever came next, you wouldn’t face it alone.

[d1stalker]

The Feeling's Mutual | Final Part

Summary: With Logan heading toward the enemy's clutches, you're left alone, questioning if you'll be able to stop her and finally put an end to it all.

ONE | TWO | THREE

Warnings: canon-level violence, death, some logan POV, arguing, angst, fluff WC: 9.5k - MASTERLIST

----

Logan regrets his decision to leave you the moment the warehouse door slams shut behind him, cutting off the desperate cry that echoes from within. The sound of your voice, the look of fear and pleading in your eyes as you begged him not to do this, haunts him even as he forces himself to move forward.

Every instinct in him screams to turn back, to protect you, to face whatever comes together. But he knows he can’t. Not now. Not with what’s waiting for him outside.

The sight that greets him as he steps out into the open is nothing short of a nightmare. A horde of mutants, all gathered outside, bodies tense and mouths practically frothing at the mouth, ready to take a bite. The moment he appears, they spring into action, launching themselves at him with everything they’ve got.

He grunts as the first mutant crashes into him, small bursts of electric energy crackling all around. Still, he doesn’t hesitate. His claws flash out, cutting through the mutant’s flesh with ease. Blood splatters across his face, warm and sticky, but he barely registers it. Another mutant charges at him from the side, and he ducks under the swipe of its tail, driving his fist deep into its chest with a snarl.

They fall one by one, but there’s no satisfaction in it. These aren’t enemies; they’re victims, Shadowmind’s marionettes.

Another one slams into his side, driving him back a few steps, and Logan snarls as he jams his claws through its chest. Still, they keep coming. He’s fought worse than this—he’s fought against himself—but the sheer number of mutants bearing down on him begins to be overwhelming.

He can feel the weight of them pressing in on him, the force of their combined strength pushing him, inch by inch. He fights them off with everything he has, each slash of his claws sending one after another to the ground, but it’s just not enough.

A particularly large mutant grabs him from behind, its arms locking around his chest, effectively crushing him. Logan grits his teeth, muscles straining as he tries to break free, but he then something—or someone—slam into his legs, knocking him off balance. He stumbles, and before he can recover, more mutants pile on top of him, their weight dragging him down.

“Get off me!” he yells hoarsely with exertion as he thrashes around, but still, it’s no use. They are like a tide, and they’re dragging him toward the location of the underground tunnels, where he knows she is waiting.

It’s like he can feel the ground shifting beneath him as they drag him closer to the entrance of the tunnels, the air grows colder, darker, more unsettling. With each passing second, he’s pulled further from the warehouse, further from you.

When they reach that damn metal grate it’s quickly pushed to the side, and he's roughly shoved down into the hole, grubby hands forcing him into the depths. He lands hard on the damp, uneven ground of the tunnel system, the impact jarring his bones, but he doesn’t let the brief pain slow him down. He clambers to his feet, his eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of movement.

The remaining mutants surround him, forming a barrier between him and the way out, and Logan knows he’s trapped. He knows that there’s no way out except forward.

“Wolvie!” He hears, the voice a sing-song echo through the tunnel in false excitement. “Back so soon? You just couldn’t stay away, could you?

“What do you want, Lorna?” he growls, using her real name deliberately, trying to strip away the power she’s claimed for herself.

She steps out of the shadows, but she doesn’t answer his question right away. Instead, she lets the silence stretch, her predatory gaze fixed on him as if she’s savouring the moment.

“I want what’s mine,” she says finally, dangerously. “And you… you’re part of that.”

Logan’s claws twitch, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t take the bait. “You’re delusional,” he spits.

“Am I?” she replies, her tone laced with false innocence. She takes a step closer, her eyes never leaving his. “You and I… we were made by the same people. We’re two sides of the same coin, Wolvie. But there’s a difference between us.”

Nostrils flaring, he tries to keep his breath coming in controlled, measured beats as he fights to keep his mind clear, focused. “The difference is, you let them turn you into this, even after their downfall.”

Shadowmind’s laughter is sharp, biting, like the crack of a whip. “You think you’re better than me?” she hisses. “I fought back. I never let myself get corrupted by them. But you?” A laugh rips from her throat. “You were just waiting there, ready to be useful, weren’t you? Just a good little weapon, eager to please.”

Logan clenches his jaw. The words hit their target, but he forces himself not to react, not to let her see the impact. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“Oh, I think I do,” she purrs, her voice softening with false sympathy. “You didn’t fight back. You let them break you, turn you into their perfect killing machine. You were more than willing to do their dirty work, weren’t you? All those years, all those lives… They didn’t mean anything to you.”

His breath hitches, just for a moment, but it’s enough. Shadowmind’s eyes glint with satisfaction, sensing the crack she’s been looking for. “You couldn’t wait to sink your claws into anyone they pointed you at. But the worst part? You’re still that same weapon. All your talk about being better, about being in control… It’s all a lie, isn’t it?”

“Shut up,” he growls.

“And what about that little sidekick of yours?” she continues, her tone shifting to one of mock pity. “Knifey, you called her? She’ll never see you the way you want her to. How could she? You’re nothing but a relic, Wolvie. Too much baggage, too old, too damaged. She’ll realize it soon enough—she’ll leave you behind, just like everyone else.”

Logan’s hands clench into fists, his nails digging into his palms as he fights to stay grounded. He knows what she’s doing—knows she’s trying to weaken him, to break him down until he’s vulnerable enough for her to control. But it’s working. He can feel the doubts creeping in, the old fears and insecurities clawing their way to the surface.

“You’re a failure, Logan,” She whispers, her voice slipping inside his head, bypassing the physical world entirely. “You’ve always been one, too. You can’t save anyone, and you won’t save her. All you do is destroy. That’s all you’re good for.”

“Stop it,” he snarls.

“You can’t escape your past. No matter how many times you try to change, no matter how hard you fight, you’re still the same broken weapon they made you. You’re nothing.”

His vision shakes, the darkness of the tunnel closing in around him as her words seep into his mind, pulling at the edges of his sanity. He can feel the walls he’s built around his mind starting to crack, the strain of keeping her out taking its toll. She’s pushing harder now, digging deeper, little by little, weakening his defences, until she can take control.

“You’re alone, Logan,” she pushes. “And you’ll always be alone. Because of who you are, what you are. You destroy everything you touch. You bring pain and suffering to everyone you care about. That’s why she’ll leave you.”

His heart pounds in his ears, the sound almost drowning out her voice, but not quite. He can feel the line between reality and nightmare beginning to blur, her words fading the edges of his perception, making it harder to distinguish between the two.

“You can’t break me,” Logan says, veins in his neck bulging at the amount of effort he's exerting, the fight inside him burning bright despite the wickedness closing in. “You’ll never break me.”

Lorna’s laughter echoes through the tunnel, haunting. “We’ll see about that, Wolverine,” she whispers, her voice dripping with malevolent glee.

----

The days after Logan sacrifices himself to the horde of mutants blur into one long stretch of despair and frantic thinking. You know he did it to protect you, to keep you safe, but the only thing it does is leave you feeling utterly alone and powerless. All you want to do is follow him, tear through those mutants and drag him back, but the door that closed so resolutely behind him now feels like an impenetrable barrier.

Self-sacrificing asshole.

You spend the first few hours pacing back and forth across the warehouse, your mind spinning with distressed ideas and plans that you know, deep down, are impossible. You think about sneaking back into the tunnels, maybe finding a back way in, using the element of surprise to take down Shadowmind before she can do any more damage. But the more you try to piece together a plan, the more you realize how futile it is. She could be hiding anywhere in the shadows of those damn tunnels, and if she has another group of mutants waiting for you... Every time you think you have a workable strategy, it falls apart under the weight of too many unknowns.

At one point, you even consider trying to bargain with her, offering yourself up in exchange for Logan’s freedom. But the idea of putting yourself at Shadowmind’s mercy again, knowing first-hand how she twists minds and breaks people, makes you regret contemplating it. And you know Logan would never forgive you if you did something so reckless, and let’s say if she agreed to the exchange, there’s no guarantee she wouldn’t just find a way to end you both.

So, you spend your days trapped in a cycle of despair and frustration, your mind constantly racing to find a way to get him back. Hardly sleeping, your nights are filled with restless tossing and turning, your thoughts consumed by images of what that wicked woman might be doing to him.

Is she torturing him, trying to break his spirit? Or is she forcing him to relive the horrors of his past, using his memories against him? Thinking of him suffering, of him being twisted and corrupted by her influence, leaves you feeling hollow and sick with worry.

You try to distract yourself, to keep busy in the warehouse, but everything reminds you of him. After all, it’s his place. The silence is deafening without the sound of his heavy footsteps, the gruffness of his voice cutting through the stillness. Even the small, mundane tasks feel impossible without him there. You find yourself flailing around in the kitchen, your attempts to cook a meal turning into a disaster. You can’t remember how he managed to make everything look so easy, his hands moving with ease as he salvaged your attempts at dinner. 

You stand there, staring at the mess you’ve made, feeling utterly useless. In the few short weeks you’ve known him, you always relied on him to help you with something, to have your back in a mutant-encounter, to steady you when you stumbled. Now, without him, you feel like you’re falling apart. 

At night, when you’re laying in bed—his bed—the thoughts never stop. Your thoughts wander, wondering how he’s holding up, whether he’s still fighting, still resisting. Or if he’s already succumbed to Shadowmind’s control. You absolutely despise the idea of him being forced to kill, to hurt others, knowing how much he loathes the things he’s been made to do in the past.

A small, treacherous part of you can’t help but hope that, if nothing else, Logan will find a way to end it. That he’ll kill her before she can break him, before she can twist him into something unrecognizable. You know it’s a dangerous thought, but you cling to it all the same.

She deserves to be punished.

If anyone can survive her, it’s Logan. If anyone can find a way to stop her, it’s him.

Yet, as the days drag on, that hope begins to fade. The longer he’s gone, the more your fears grow, until they consume you entirely. You imagine him locked in a battle of wills with her, his mind being torn apart, and it almost drives you to the brink of madness. You feel like you're unraveling, piece by piece, the threads of your sanity slipping through your fingers as you pace the warehouse, waiting for a sign, any sign, that he’s still out there.

The silence stretches on, building up to a crushing weight. Every time you hear a noise outside, every creak of the building, every gust of wind, you freeze, your heart leaping into your throat, hoping against hope that it’s him, that he’s somehow found his way back to you. But each time, you’re met with nothing but disappointment and the hollow emptiness that fills the space where he used to be.

You sit by the door for hours, just staring at it, willing it to open, willing Logan to walk through it and tell you that everything is going to be alright. That he’s beaten her, that he’s stronger than her. But the door remains closed, the warehouse eerily still, and your hope continues to wither away.

Just go. Help him. Do it yourself

These thoughts begin to swarm in your head. You realize that it’s been too long. If Logan were to do something, anything, he would have done it by now. For all you know, he could be chained up to those cold, damp walls, waiting for you to save him. 

Steeling yourself, you take a deep breath, gathering every ounce of courage you have left. You turn toward the door, ready to throw it open and march back into the madness, when suddenly, it swings open on its own.

And there he is. Logan stands in the doorway, his frame filling the entrance, the light from outside casting shadows across his face. For a moment, you’re frozen, disbelief warring with overwhelming relief.

He’s back. He’s here.

“Logan!” you gasp, rushing toward him, your feet barely touching the ground. “Oh my gosh, you’re back. Are you alr—”

But your words are cut off as his hand latches around your throat with a vice-like grip. Kicking the door shut behind him, the breath is driven from your lungs as he swiftly turns you around, slamming you roughly against it. Pain radiates through your back from the impact, your mind reeling, struggling to understand what’s happening.

“What—” you manage to choke out, but the words die in your throat as you feel the sharp edge of his claws pressing against your stomach.

Your eyes go wide, your mind a blur of shock and disbelief. This isn’t your Logan. It can’t be. Yet before you can process it, before you can even react, the claws extend with a sickening shink, and you feel them pierce through your flesh, cold steel sinking deep into your abdomen.

A strangled cry escapes your lips as the pain explodes through you, white-hot and searing, radiating out from where his claws are buried in your stomach. Your hands fly to grab his wrist, trying to push him away, but there’s no strength in your limbs, no fight in you. Your legs give out, and you slump against the door, held up only by the grip he has on your throat.

You try to speak, try to ask him why, but the words won’t come. All you can do is stare up at him as the reality of what’s happening sinks in.

There’s no recognition in his eyes, no hint of the man you’ve grown to care about. He looks at you as if you’re nothing, just another target, just another obstacle in his path.

“She… she got you?” you whisper, the question barely a breath, your voice breaking under the weight of your pain and confusion.

There’s no response. Hatred burns in his eyes as he pulls his claws free from your body with a slow, deliberate movement, the pain doubling as they slide out of your flesh. Blood pours from the wound, soaking through your clothes and pooling at your feet

You can feel your body beginning to mend itself together, until only a lingering ache remains, but the pain—oh, the pain—is still there, deep and throbbing, both physical and emotional.

Logan steps back, his claws dripping with your blood, his expression unchanged. The realization that you’re going to have to fight him slams into you like a fucking bus, and the thought of hurting him again makes you hesitate.

This is Logan. The man who’s fought beside you, who's trained you… But now, he’s under her control, and this version of him is not going to stop until one of you is down.

Trying to shake of the pain, you raise your hands in a defensive stance. “Logan, I don’t want to hurt you,” you plead, your voice trembling. But he doesn’t respond. He just charges at you.

You barely dodge the first strike, rolling to the side as his clawed fist collides with the metal door. Your mind is screaming at you to fight back, but your heart is in turmoil. Every move you make is half-assed, conflicted, as you struggle to reconcile the need to defend yourself with the deep, aching reluctance to harm him.

“Please!” you cry out, dodging another swipe that comes dangerously close to your throat. “You have to push against this!” 

This isn’t just a fight—it’s a mirror image of the horror you lived through not long ago. You know exactly what he’s feeling, the suffocating darkness that grips his mind, the tight grip of control that leaves him impotent to resist. Shadowmind’s influence is a force of sheer will, a crime against everything you are, twisting your thoughts, your actions, until there’s nothing left of you but a weapon in her hand.

You remember the way it felt, how every fibre of your being screamed to stop, to fight back, but your body moved on its own, driven by her malicious intent. The guilt, the helplessness—it had nearly broken you. And now, here you are, facing Logan, who’s trapped in the very same prison. 

The roles have been reversed, and the bitter irony of it a sick joke.

Hopelessness eats at your insides as you’re backed into a corner, your mind racing to find a way out of this without hurting him. He gives you no choice. He’s faster, stronger, and without the hesitation that’s holding you back, he’s going to overpower you if you don’t act.

He comes at you again, claws aimed straight for your heart, and you finally react on pure instinct. You grab his wrist just in time, using your strength to twist his arm away, the momentum sending him stumbling back for a brief moment. But it’s not enough to stop him.

“Come on, snap out of it!” you shout. You hate this—you hate every second of it. But you can’t let him kill you, and you can’t let Shadowmind win.

He doesn’t respond. All he does is attack, faster this time, his movements a blur. In a desperate move, you finally manage to knock him back, sending him crashing into a table. For a moment, he stays down, breathing hard, and you take the opportunity to plead with him one last time.

“Logan, I know you’re in there,” you say, eyes filled with tears. “You have to fight her. I don’t want to hurt you… I can’t.”

But when he rises again, there’s no sign that he heard you at all. He jumps in your direction once more, and your heart shatters as you realize that there’s no choice left. 

----

Lorna’s mental assault is relentless. 

“Just let go, Logan,” she hisses, a poisonous whisper that slithers into the cracks of his defences. “You can’t fight me forever. You’re not strong enough.”

Logan grits his teeth, nails digging into his palms as he struggles to keep her out, to hold on to the last shreds of his sanity. But it’s been days, and the gaps are widening, spreading like spiderwebs through his mind, and he can feel her starting to slip through, her presence growing stronger, more oppressive.

“You’re weak,” she continues. “You were always weak. That’s why they made you into what you are—a weapon. Because you were never good enough to be anything else.”

His vision blurs, the world around him fading as her voice fills every corner of his mind, pushing out his own thoughts, his own will. 

“Why keep fighting, Wolvie?” She ponders. “You’ve fought your whole life, and what has it gotten you? Pain. Loss. Loneliness. Just let go. Stop fighting. It’ll be easier that way. You’ll finally have peace.”

Her voice is all he can hear now, all he can feel.

“That’s it,” she whispers triumphantly. “Give in. You know you want to. You’ve always wanted to. Just let go. Let me take control.”

With one last, brutal push, she forces her way in, her power crashing through his mind. Logan gasps, his body going rigid as she seizes control, her will overriding his own, drowning out his thoughts, his memories, everything that makes him who he is.

He feels her in his mind, filling every nook and cranny. There’s no room left for him, no space to fight back.

“Good,” she purrs, “Now, do what you were made to do. Kill her.”

His body moves on its own, driven by her desires. He turns, face stoic, as he begins to move toward the warehouse, where you’re waiting, unaware of the danger that’s about to strike.  The chains around his mind tighten, pulling him along, guiding his every step.

Kill her, he hears again, and he obeys without hesitation. He’s powerless. And as he reaches the door, his hand reaches for the handle, the final barrier between him and his target, the woman he’s been ordered to kill. The woman he…

But the thought never completes itself. Lorna’s voice, dark and seductive, wraps around his mind once more, tightening the chains, binding him to her.

“Do it, Logan,” she whispers in anticipation. “Show her what you really are.”

The door swings open, and Logan steps inside, his eyes locking onto you. And as he closes the distance, there’s only one thought left in his mind, one command that drives him forward.

Kill.

----

The clash of skin against skin fills the warehouse as you and Logan engage into heated combat. Every movement, every strike delivered, but there’s an anguised edge to your attacks—one that comes from knowing you’re fighting someone you care about, someone who, under different circumstances, would never lift a hand against you.

But these aren’t different circumstances. This isn’t the Logan you know. This is Shadowmind.

Your body moves with the skill Logan taught you, every nerve on high alert as you parry his strikes and counter with your own. It’s a brutal dance, each of you trying to find an opening, but despite everything, the fight is even. You’re giving as good as you get, but you know deep down that his experience, his brutal history, gives him the advantage.

He fights as if he’s been doing this his entire life—which, of course, he has. You can see it in the way he maneuvers, the way he anticipates your strikes, even under her influence, the muscle memory doesn’t lie. Still, you keep going, keep pushing yourself to maintain your ground. Each hit he lands, your body heals, the pain sharp but temporary. You use your strength to block some of his strikes, to push him back, but he’s insane, his jabs coming faster, harder, until you’re struggling just to keep up.

Somehow you manage to sweep his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground. But before you can capitalize on the moment, he rolls forward, moving on all fours as he reaches out and grabs your ankle. Then, he yanks you to the ground with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs. The impact reverberates through your body, and for a moment, your vision blacks out.

You try to scramble to your feet, but he’s quicker. He’s on top of you immediately, his weight pinning you down, his hands wrapping around your throat. You gasp, your hands flying up to his wrists as you struggle to breathe, to fight against the crushing pressure.

“Logan, stop!” you choke out, clawing at his hands, your nails digging into his skin. You know he won't stop. Not when he's under her control.

The world around you begins to fade around the edges, your vision shrinking as the lack of oxygen sends you spiraling into darkness. You can feel your strength diminishing, your body growing weaker as your lungs burn, desperate for air. Your hands slip from his wrists, falling limply to your sides as your muscles give out, your last reserves of energy draining away.

You don't think your healing factor will allow you to survive this.

Just as your eyes begin to roll back into your head, just as you’re on the verge of passing out, something in him shifts. His grip loosens, the pressure on your throat easing slightly, and you see a flicker of something in his eyes—something human, something familiar.

In an instant, Logan’s hands release you entirely, his body going rigid as if struck by an unseen force. His wide eyes stare down at you, processing what just happened—what he just did. His breath comes in harsh, ragged gasps as he looks at his hands, the hands that were strangling the life out of you not even a minute ago, and then back at your face, colourless and gasping for breath. The horror spreads across his features like a slow, creeping shadow, and with a choked gasp, he falls to his knees beside you.

“Fuck,” he mutters frantically, running a shaky hand through his hair, his fingers trembling as if they’ve just been burned. He looks lost, terrified, as if the reality of what he’s capable of is crashing down on him all at once.

“You have to go,” he says in barely more than a hoarse whisper. “You need to get the hell away from me.”

You force yourself to sit up, ignoring the searing pain in your throat, the way each breath feels like it’s dragging over raw, jagged edges. Your vision is still hazy, the space around you spinning slightly, but you manage to shake your head, reaching out to place a gentle hand on his shoulder. “No. I’m not leaving you.”

The moment your hand touches him, his body jumps. It's as if your touch is the last thing he expected, the last thing he deserves. He flinches away from you, his eyes wide, but then it changes.

His expression hardens, the panic in his eyes melting into anger. “I’m not givin’ you a choice,” he spits out. “Leave before I hurt you even more.”

Deep down, you know he’s saying this to protect you, to push you away before he loses control again. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less. The fact that he isn’t even considering your help, that he’s so determined to shut you out, feels like a betrayal.

“Hey, stop,” you begin. “Let me help you.”

He shakes his head violently, standing up abruptly, towering over you with a clenched jaw. “You don’t get it,” he snarls, the desperation in his voice now masked by a biting anger. “I almost killed you! I could have—”

“But you didn’t,” you interrupt, pushing yourself to your own feet, making him look you in the eye. “You stopped. You fought her off.”

“For how long?” he snaps back, frustrated. Not with you, but with himself. “How long before she gets back in? How long before I lose it completely and—”

“And what?” you challenge, “And kill me? Logan, if she’s in your head, you need me here. I’m not running away just because you’re scared.”

“Scared?” He practically growls the word, his fists clenching at his sides. “You think this is about being scared? This is about keepin’ you alive! You have no idea what it’s like, what she’s doing to me—”

“I know exactly what it’s like!” you shout, your frustration finally boiling over. “I was under her control too, remember?”

“It’s different with me!” Logan barks, his voice echoing in the small space. “I’m not like you! I’ve got too much shit in my head, too much darkness, and she’s feeding off it,” he takes in a heavy breath. 

You run your hands down your face, exasperated. “Why are you insisting on doing this alone? First you leave me to sacrifice yourself or whatever that was, and now you’re just gonna do the exact same thing again? It didn’t work the first time and it won’t work the second. We need to do this together!” 

“Remember when I told you this wasn’t a partnership?” he snaps as he struggles to keep his composure, the battle raging within him evident in every tense line of his body. “When I said I needed to figure out what was happening? Well, I did, and guess what? You’re not involved. This is my burden, and I’m telling you to go.”

“You’re being so fucking stubborn!” You yell, trying to break through the walls he’s building around himself. “You don’t need to push me away in order to protect me. That’s not how this works!”

His face twists in irritation. “I’m dangerous! I’m a goddamn ticking time bomb, and she knows how to set me off!”

“Then let me help you defuse it!”

You’re beginning to take a step toward when when you see it—the twitch of muscle below his right eye, then his left, and the scrunching of his brows. His face begins to contort in pain, and a cold dread settles in your chest as you begin to realize what is happening to him.

She’s not listening to you, Logan hears her voice return in the back of his head, a small whisper. 

She never will.

His hands fly up to his head, gripping it tightly as if he could physically tear her of his skull.

You’re useless, the words seep into his thoughts. 

You were always just a weapon. Nothing more. Nothing less. And now you’re nothing.

Each phrase pounds through his skull, each whisper amplifying in volume until they’re not whispers anymore but screams. His body begins to tense, muscles locking up.

She won’t want you. It’s a ceaseless litany designed to break him, to shatter the last of his resistance once more. His vision wanes, black edges creeping in as Shadowmind’s influence digs deeper, rooting itself back into the darkest corners of his mind.

“Run,” he chokes out, voice strained, barely recognizable as his own. The command is laced with urgency, with the knowledge that if you don’t, he won’t be able to stop what’s coming.

But you hesitate, unwilling to leave him like this. “Logan, I can’t—”

“RUN!” he roars, the sheer might of the word almost knocking you back.  Then, every emotion drains from his face, wiped out in an instant, leaving behind that same expressionless mask you saw when he first attacked you. The last shred of control he had is gone.

You don’t need to be told again. You turn and bolt for the door, and as you sprint out of the room, Logan’s world narrows to a single point of focus—the voice in his head, now no longer just whispers but a deafening roar. 

He’s coming for you, and there’s nothing left of him to stop it.

----

Your heart pounds in your chest as you run, the fear and adrenaline fueling your every step. You’re going as fast as you can, the world around you blurring into streaks of colour as you race down the street, but no matter how fast you go, you can hear him—hear Logan—right behind you. 

His footsteps are heavy, persistent. The sound of his grunting ricochets off the buildings and into your ears, and you don’t need to turn around to know he’s moving faster than you’ve ever seen before, Shadowmind unleashing some berserk mode within him, and you know this won't end until he's caught you

You dart around corners, leap over obstacles, trying to put as much distance between you and Logan as possible, but it’s no use. And when you do finally glance over your shoulder, he’s there, closing the gap with terrifying precision, his eyes fixed on you.

Your thoughts race as quickly as your feet, desperately searching for a solution, a way to escape. Where can I go? What can I do?

And then, like a bolt of lightning, an idea hits you.

With a sudden burst of determination, you swerve sharply, changing direction on a dime. The abrupt move nearly throws you off balance, but you recover quickly, setting your sights on the entrance to the underground tunnels—Shadowmind’s lair. You can feel Logan’s presence behind you, so close now that his breath is practically on the back of your neck, but you force yourself to ignore it.

Approaching the metal grate, you lift it up and throw it to the side as fast as possible, and leap down into the darkness. There’s no time to catch your breath. You sprint through the dark, winding passages of the tunnel, your feet pounding against the cold, uneven ground. 

Behind you, Logan’s pursuit is unending. The sound of his claws whipping through the air is horrifying, but you can’t afford to slow down, can’t afford to let fear overtake you. You have to keep moving, have to find Shadowmind before he gets you.

Her voice slithers through the tunnel with cruel amusement, a taunt that weaves itself out from the shadows. “Did you do it, Wolvie? Did you kill her?”

It sends a surge of anger through you, a hot, burning rage that fuels your steps. Your voice reverberates off the walls as your scream, “Shut the fuck up!”

You can feel her presence ahead, the oppressive weight of her mind starting to press down on you too, and the need to end this—to end her—drives you forward.

Finally, you see her. She’s standing at the end of the tunnel, her silhouette illuminated by a light that seems to radiate from the very walls. Her eyes gleam with malice, a psycho grin playing on her lips as she watches you approach. It’s as if she’s been expecting you, waiting for you to come to her.

Without hesitation, you lunge for her, but just as you’re about to reach her, Logan intercepts you, his body slamming into yours from the side with brutal force.

The impact sends you crashing into the opposite wall. Pain blooms along your shoulder, the breath knocked out of your lungs. The rough edges of the room scrape against your skin, and the dampness oozes into your bones as you struggle to regain your footing.

“Logan, I’m not fighting you!” you shout, exhaustion and frustration blending in your voice as you try to reason with the man you know is still in there, somewhere. “I’m going to kill that fucking bitch!” you finish, pointing at the woman standing behind him.

But her laughter fills the air. “Oh no, darling,” she sneers, “That won’t be happening. After all, I have a good guard dog, dont I?”

If looks could kill, she’d be dead tens times over. Your blood boils as you stare at her, the rage bubbling up inside you at the sight of her face. Somebody needs to put her in her place.

“Bet you feel real powerful, huh?” you jeer, voice laced with venom as you take a step closer, your eyes locked on hers. “Getting everyone to do your dirty work for you since you’re too fucking weak to do it yourself?”

Her smirk falters for just a moment, irritation crossing her features briefly, but she quickly regains her composure, her eyes narrowing in dangerously on you. 

“Because you wouldn’t survive if I punched you, right?” you continue. “All this power, all this control, and you’re still nothing without someone else’s strength. You’re a coward, Lorna. You haven’t done a single thing without hiding behind someone else!”

The words hang in the air, and you can see the fury building in her eyes, her cool demeanour cracking under your insults. Her fists clench at her sides, her lips pulling back in a snarl as the mask of control she’s been wearing begins to slip.

“Shut up,” she snaps.

“What’s the matter?” you mock. “Is the truth too much for you? Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it, you cunt.”

“You know I’m right, don't you?” You press on. “Without someone to control, you’re nothing. You’re just a scared little girl playing with other people’s lives because you’re too weak to live your own.”

She’s seething. “Stop it!”

You grit your teeth, refusing to back down. “You want to get back Logan for hurting you all those years ago?” you shout at her. “When he was just a victim to the same mind control you’ve been inflicting on all those other mutants!”

“That’s not true!” she hisses, but the denial in her voice is thin, wavering. If Logan was himself, he’d think about how you’re getting to her the exact same way she got to him—and he’d be so proud.

“You’re no better than they were,” you carry on. “Making him hurt me won’t change anything. It won’t make you any better than they were!”

“Silence!” Lorna cries. “It’s not the same! He doesn't get to be happy! He deserves to suffer for what he did!

“What he did?” you retort incredulously. “What he did was survive. He was manipulated and controlled! Sound familiar? You’re no different from the people you claim to hate!”

“ENOUGH!” she screams in fury, the word bouncing off the walls. “I’m nothing like them!"

“Are you sure about that?” you ask, tilting your head to the side in faux confusion. "What are you doing right now then?"

The rage in her eyes flare, and her fists are clenched so tightly her knuckles turn white. You wouldn’t be surprised if she tried to attack you herself. But then her gaze shifts back to Logan, and a creepy smirk dances on her lips as she refocuses her control on him.

“Go get her, Wolvie,” she commands, like a queen ordering her knight to battle. His body tenses, and next thing you know, you've become his target once again.

You jump to the side, quickly evading the oncoming threat, your focus never leaving the woman. “This is between you and me, bitch!” you shout.

“Oh, it will be,” she replies, her voice dripping with malice. “If you can get to me.” 

You know she must have used her mind-control to speak to him again, because he moves mindlessly, his body blocking your path to her, working as a shield. All you can do is hold back the scream of frustration that’s building inside you as you take in the scene.

The Logan you know is trapped inside, buried under layers of Shadowmind’s control, and the sight of him standing there, ready to protect her, infuriated you.

A humourless laugh escapes your lips. “You think that’s going to stop me?” you mutter dangerously.

The rage, the pain, the fear—it all coalesces into a single point of concentration, you lunge forward, your fist glowing with that molten heat as you pour everything into this final act. As fast and hard as you can, you slam your first into his midsection, just like you had done once before. The sound of tearing flesh and the sickening squelch of your arm piercing through him reverberates through the room.

Grabbing his shoulder with your other hand, you shove him back harshly, using every ounce of strength to close the distance between him and his puppetmaster. The force of your push is enough to drive him backward, your arm still embedded in his torso as you reach toward her. Your eyes lock onto hers, and you see the shock at the realization that her plan is crumbling before her eyes.

Your fist makes contact with her chest, and you drive it in even further. Her mouth opens in a silent scream, eyes wide with terror. Logan’s body jerks violently, his muscles seizing as the control she had over him falters.

She gasps in agony, her power waning, her grip on his mind slipping away like sand through her fingers. It’s like you can feel it—the hold she had on him snapping, her influence retreating like a dying flame, flickering out.

But you can't celebrate yet. The job isn't finished. You yank your arm free from Logan’s body with a savage pull, and the force of your withdrawal sends him staggering to the side, body crumpling to the ground, finally free of her control but too weak to stand.

Lorna’s once smug expression disintegrates entirely, her eyes wide with unbridled fear once she senses her impending doom. 

“NO!” she screams in fright, but the sound is pitiful, and powerless. It’s too late. Far too late.

You grab her by the throat, her skin sizzling under your touch, the scent of burning flesh filling the room as she writhes in your grasp, her hands clawing desperately at yours, but you don’t let go. With a single, brutal twist, you snap her neck, ending her once and for all.

Her body falls to the ground, lifeless, and you stand there, breathing heavily, your chest heaving as the reality of what you’ve done slowly sinks in.

It’s done. She’s dead. 

As you turn your head to the side, your gaze falls on Logan. Your Logan. He's on his knees, blood pooling around him, his hands pressed tightly against the gaping wound in his midsection that’s slowly closing. His face is pale, drawn, and there’s a haunted look in his eyes, like he’s not entirely sure that he’s free, not entirely sure that he deserves to be.

He tries to speak, but the words seem to catch in his throat, his eyes glistening as he looks at you like he’s seeing a miracle. “Knifey,” he finally manages to say, his voice hoarse. 

You take a step toward him. “It’s over, Logan. We did it.”

Logan’s gaze drops to the ground, his shoulders slumping as he shakes his head, the weight of everything that’s happened pressing down on him. “You did it. I almost…” He trails off, his hands shaking as they drop to his sides, stained with his own blood. “I almost killed you.”

“But you didn’t.” You affirm, crouching in front of him. 

He doesn’t respond, his mind spiraling further into the abyss of self-loathing. “It’s my fault,” he mutters. “I let her do this to me.”

Shifting to your knees, you reach a hand out to rest on his arm. “It wasn’t you. Just like it wasn’t me when I was under her control. This was Shadowmind’s doing, not yours.”

He shakes his head, his hands coming up to tangle in his hair as if trying to tear away the thoughts that are consuming him. “It’s not the same,” he strains. “I was so close, if I just pushed against her harder…”

“No,” you say firmly, this time pulling him into a hug, your arms wrapping around him tightly. “You’re not to blame.”

“I hurt you,” he whispers, leaning into your touch. “I became the monster I’ve always been”

“You’re not a monster,” you murmur into his ear, “It’s over, she’s gone.” All you can do is try and erase whatever lies were put into his head. “I’m here, you’re not alone.”

Logan clings to you, the his actions pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket, but your words slowly start to filter through the haze that Shadowmind left behind. They’re so different—so completely opposite—from the venomous lies she used to break him down.

Where her voice was cruel and cutting, twisting the knife deeper into old wounds, your voice is gentle, comforting, like a balm to his battered soul.

You’re telling him that he’s not a monster, that he’s more than just a weapon. You’re telling him that you’re here with him, that he’s not alone. Your words wrap around him like a lifeline, pulling him back from the edge, anchoring him in a way that nothing else could.

A deep, overwhelming adoration blooms in Logan’s chest, spreading through him with a warmth that he hasn’t felt in what seems like forever. It’s counters the cold, empty feeling that he’s been always been carrying around with him, and that takes his breath away. He doesn’t deserve this—doesn’t deserve you—but here you are, holding him, comforting him, tugging him out of the void with nothing more than your presence.

He feels something shift inside him, breaking through the layers of self-loathing and hatred. It’s you—your words, your understanding—that does it, and it makes him realize just how much you mean to him, how much he needs you. For the first time in days, the fog in his mind starts to lift, and he begins to see things clearly again.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Logan brings his arms up around you, returning your embrace. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, breathing in the scent of you, the heat radiating from your skin grounding him in the present, in the reality that he’s still here with you. He's not under control.

His heart is pounding in his chest, but it’s not from fear or anger—it’s from the overwhelming gratitude and feelings that are flooding his system.

Without thinking, he presses a soft, almost reverent kiss to your collarbone, the gesture filled with a quiet, aching affection. It’s a wordless way of telling you how much he cares, how much he’s grateful for you, for your strength, for the way you’ve saved him from himself. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. 

You hold him even tighter, your fingers gently tracing soothing patterns on his back. The connection between you feels stronger than ever, as if this moment has solidified those unspoken, brewing, emotions between you. You tilt your head slightly, brushing a soft kiss against his temple in return. It’s simple, but it sends a rush through Logan, making his heart lurch in his chest. The tenderness of it all is almost too much, but in the best way possible. 

For so long, he’s been scared to open up, to let anyone see the vulnerable parts of him that he’s kept hidden. He’s always been the one to bear the burden alone, to push people away before they could get too close. But here, in your arms, all those fears seem to fade into the background. 

You’ve seen him at his worst—manipulated into a weapon, mindless and violent—and still, you hold him like he’s worth something, like he’s more than just a mutant to exploit. And in this moment, he realizes he wants to open up to you. He wants to let you in.

He feels a sudden, fierce need to protect this—protect you. He wants to try this out with you, see it where it goes. The fear of opening up to someone, of being hurt or abandoned, still lingers in the back of his mind, but now, it’s different. Now, he feels like maybe, just maybe, he’s found something worth fighting for on his own accord. No external influence. Just you. 

“Let’s get out of here” you say gently. “We can go back to yours, or mine. I have a bed we can share.”

Logan pulls back slightly, eyes softening at your suggestion. He cups your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek as he looks into your eyes. “Yeah,” he says quietly, his voice filled with a depth of emotion that surprises even him. “Let’s get goin'.”

----

And that's exactly what you do. After the tender moment, you and Logan head back to his place, gathering what little you need and packing up the essentials. He doesn’t say much as he packs a small duffel bag with clothes, some weapons, and a few belongings. You can tell his mind is still elsewhere, likely replaying everything that’s happened, everything he was put through.

Once you’re both ready to go, you finally decide to ask the question that’s been nagging at you since he first came and attacked you. As you zip up your own bag, you glance over at him, who’s pulling on his jacket, and speak up, trying to keep your voice as gentle as possible. 

“How… how did she get into your head? How did she… take control?”

Logan pauses, his hand stilling on the zipper of his jacket as he looks at you. You can see shame cloud his vision, but he doesn’t shy away from the question. He lets out a slow breath, leaning back against the wall as he considers how to answer.

“She used my weaknesses,” he finally says. “Lorna knew what buttons to push, what wounds to press on… She knew how to get inside, to tear me down.”

You nod, trying to understand, but it’s hard to imagine Logan having any real weaknesses, at least in the way he’s describing. “What are they?” you ask quietly, stepping closer to him, wanting to offer whatever comfort you can. “What did she use against you?”

His eyes meet yours, and in it, there’s a vulnerability that you don’t think you’ve if ever seen. He hesitates, like he’s weighing whether or not to tell you, whether or not to let you in on the truth of what she did, or what you mean to him.

But then, his expression softens, and he simply says, “You.”

The word is spoken so tenderly, so earnestly, that it takes a second to fully sink in. When it does, your breath lodges itself in your throat, your heart giving a painful thud as you realize the full extent of what he’s saying. 

You are his weakness. You are the one thing Shadowmind can use to break him down, to get inside his head.

“Me?” you repeat, almost in disbelief.

“Yeah, you. You’re the only person who has made me feel like more than a damn killin’ machine, and I’m grateful for that. Grateful for you.”

His admission is raw and honest, a reflection of just how deeply you’ve impacted his life, even if it’s only been a few short weeks. You’ve seen the man behind the claws, the heart behind the hardened exterior, and even though you may not have started off on the right foot, being in each other’s presence constantly has allowed you to share sides of yourselves you otherwise wouldn’t have.

You step closer, your hand reaching out to gingerly cup his cheek, feeling the rough scratch of his facial hair beneath your fingers. “The feeling’s mutual,” you say teasingly, referring back to your first conversation together, but he knows you mean it, because it's true. You are just as grateful for Logan as he is for you. He came into your life amidst chaos, and helped you navigate through it. 

His support, albeit not always the most straightforward, has been the only thing keeping you sane.

He leans into your hand, a shy smile gracing his lips at the intimacy of it all, while reaching out and wrapping his arms around your waist, bringing you closer into his space. His warm breath fans across your skin, and for the first time in a long while, he feels something other than fear, self-hatred, or guilt.

He feels hope. Hope that he could move past this, live a normal life, one that's not shrouded in violence, manipulation.

“You’re too good for me,” he murmurs. 

You shake your head, a small, tender smile playing on your lips as you pull back just enough to look into his eyes. “Nothing is too good for you,” you say with conviction. “You deserve to be happy. No one, including you, can tell me otherwise.”

Logan huffs out a small, almost disbelieving laugh, his gaze dropping for a moment before returning to yours. “You’re stubborn as hell, you know that?”

“Yup,” you say, popping the “p” with a cheeky smile. “But you like it”

There’s a fleeting moment, where neither of you speak, where all you can do is stare at each other. Your surroundings seem to fade away, the previous events already pushed back into the farthest place in your mind. All you can—want—to focus on in the man in front of you.

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly, you’re both surging forward, crashing into each other with a passion that takes your breath away. The kiss is fierce, all-consuming, a collision of the feelings between you that have been building since the moment he found you on the street, since he told you he liked your smile, since he helped you in the kitchen. His hands are moving instantly, one slipping around your waist, pulling you in even tighter, connecting your body with his, and the other cupping the back of your neck. Your own hands grip the front of his jacket, your fingers curling into the fabric as you kiss him back, pouring everything into it.

It’s not gentle—there’s nothing tentative or hesitant about it. It’s hungry, desperate. You can taste the longing in the way his lips move against yours. Time seems to stand still, and all that exists is this moment, the heat of his body, the pounding of your heart, the way his breath mingles with yours in the small space between you. Each second blends into the next as you lose yourself in him. 

Eventually, the kiss slows, becoming softer, more tender. Logan’s lips brush against yours in a series of light, almost teasing pecks, each one lingering just a moment longer than the last. “You’re right,” he murmurs against your lips. “I do like it.”

Your chest swells, and you move your arms so they rest around his shoulders. “I knew it.” 

He grins, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re trouble, Knifey."

“Damn right I am,” you beam, stealing another quick kiss, savouring the way his lips curve into a smile against yours. “Too bad you’re gonna be stuck with me for a while, huh?”

Logan lets out a chuckle, the sound vibrating through you as he leans in, fondly nudging his nose with yours. “Yeah, too bad.”

----

A/N: thank you all for reading this series!!

----

TFM Taglist

@wildefire @aliisa-jones @maximumchilddreamland @peony-always

@newromantics98

@ayamenimthiriel @fandomsunited @britttzy267  @mainly-me @icantevendood

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@paradisedixon @writingthroughmyass @that-one-little-soybean @whxtewolf

@looking1016 @maddiedrmr @bunniboo0015

[doumadono]

Silent Waves, Silent Wounds - Touya Todoroki x Reader

A/N: today's episode broke my heart and made me cry uncontrollably. With a nice prompt set for this week's challenge in a community I'm part of, I decided to combine the two. I just hope my Touya will survive. Gif was made by @gamergirl-niffler

MY HERO ACADEMIA

Touya's first breaths of freedom were laced with the sterile scent of antiseptics and the distant echoes of calamity.

Beneath the flickering streetlights of Musutafu, shadows twirled across the damp pavement, casting the world in veils of half-truths and murmured secrets.

It was upon a night cloaked in despair that Touya Todoroki, shrouded in the remnants of his shattered past, escaped the suffocating confines of what should have been a sanctuary. The hospital, ostensibly a bastion of healing and hope, had morphed into nothing but a prison, all under the malevolent gaze of All For One.

In a moment fueled by raw desperation and a primal urge for freedom, Touya, with hands trembling and heart pounding against the cage of his ribcage, ignited the very foundations that had ensnared him. Flames, hungry and unrestrained, licked upwards, clawing at the structure with a ferocity. Fire roared through the hallways, a fierce, unforgiving inferno that consumed everything in its path — medical charts, synthetic bed linens, the false promises of recovery.

As the inferno raged behind him, Touya stumbled into the cold embrace of the night.

The city loomed large and indifferent, its countless lights flickering like distant stars, unreachable and cold. Each step was a battle, his body a map of wounds both fresh and long endured, scars that told tales he could barely remember, tales of a mere boy who once dreamed of heroism but found himself ensnared in a nightmare of his father's making.

He moved through the shadows, a spectral figure haunted by the echoes of his past and the uncertain horrors of his future. Tonight, the world was both his enemy and his ally, hiding him from those who would seek to drag him back to that hellish place, yet offering no comfort from the relentless grip of his solitude and sorrow. His face, marred with scars that told stories of a tragic past and unresolved pain, was not one that people usually turned to for comfort.

As he navigated through the dimly lit streets, his eyes were cautious and wary of the stares that followed him like specters.

It was then he saw you - a girl sitting alone on the curb, your sobs cutting through the muffled sounds of the city like a siren’s call. You were young, perhaps no older than he, with tears streaking your cheeks and your shoulders trembling under the weight of your unseen burdens.

Despite his fears and the fresh pain of his own memories, something within him stirred - a remnant of the hero he once aspired to be. Hesitant, he approached you, his voice barely above a whisper after he cleared his throat, trying to sound normal, even though he knew it was no longer possible. “Hey, are you okay?”

You jerked your head up, your eyes wide with a mixture of fear and surprise as they landed on his disfigured features.

For a heartbeat, Touya thought you would scream, run away, or recoil in horror.

But then, something remarkable happened - your expression softened, and your initial fright melted into a sad, understanding smile. “Not really,” you confessed, wiping your tears away with the back of your shaking hand. “My dad… he drinks too much. And my mom, she doesn’t really care. She threw me out tonight. Said she’d had enough of me being useless.”

The words struck a chord in Touya. Abandonment, pain, a longing for something better - themes that resonated deeply within his own life. Sitting heavily beside you on the cold curb, he offered you a timid smile, one that seemed almost out of place on his scarred visage. "I’m sorry,” he said, his voice a mixture of warmth and a chilling detachment born from years of conditioning under his father’s harsh regime. “I… I know what it’s like to feel like you have no one.”

You studied him, your reddened eyes lingering on his scars with a curiosity born from your own pain rather than judgement. “What happened to you?” you asked gently, perhaps too gently for the horror that his story contained.

Touya looked away, his eyes tracing the patterns of light and shadow on the ground. “I don’t remember everything,” he confessed. “But I know I was trying to prove something to my dad. It didn’t end well, as you can see.”

You sat in silence, the world around you bustling with life, yet oblivious to the shared moment of grief between two strangers.

People passed by, their glances sharp and sometimes filled with a disdain that neither of you were unfamiliar with.

Sensing Touya’s discomfort, you made a decision. “Let’s go somewhere else,” you suggested, a spark of resolve lighting up your tear-stained face. “Somewhere away from prying eyes. I know a nice place, if you'd like to join me.”

Touya nodded casually, “I think I’d like that. I have nowhere to be anyway.”

Without another word, you stood, holding out you hand to help him up. Your touch was warm, a stark contrast to the coldness he had come to expect from the world.

Together, you walked through the deserted streets, your steps in sync, until the city sounds faded into the background, replaced by the soothing rhythm of waves crashing against the shore.

Beneath the expansive canopy of the night sky, the beach lay deserted, bathed in the ethereal, silvery glow of the moon. The ocean before them transformed into a shimmering tapestry, each wave weaving threads of light across the dark canvas of water. It was here, with the cool sand cradling your steps and the vast, relentless sea stretching into infinity, that you discovered a fleeting sanctuary — a momentary escape from the ravages of your tormented existences.

As you settled onto the sand, the ocean's eternal murmurs surrounding you, Touya found himself unexpectedly comforted by the raw, natural beauty of the scene. Yet, he was taken aback when you revealed that it was not just chance that brought you to this tranquil haven in the dead of night.

“I come here often, especially after fights at home,” you confessed softly, your eyes reflecting the moonlight like fragments of a broken mirror. “The sound of the waves… it calms the storm inside me. Maybe it can do the same for you.”

Touya hesitated before his voice broke the silence. "I'm like these waves," he murmured, his voice tinged with a haunting sadness. "Crashing again and again, with no control, no end. I don't even remember why I started… what I was trying to prove." His gaze was lost to the horizon, where the dark sea met the darker sky, his face a mask of sorrow sculpted by the silvery light.

"It's hard, isn't it?" you said softly, pulling your knees closer to your chest, feeling the chill of the night seeping through your clothes. "Feeling like you're caught in a storm with no shelter in sight. I sit here, night after night, wondering if the screaming will ever stop, if there will ever be a night without tears, without all this emptiness."

"Does it help? Coming here, hearing the waves?" Touya asked.

"It doesn't stop the pain," you admitted, "but sometimes, it makes it bearable. The sea doesn't judge, doesn't demand. It just is. And for a little while, I can just be too, without worrying about the next wave that might knock me down."

"I wish I could remember what peace feels like," he confessed, his words blending with the whisper of the wind.

You reached out, your hand brushing against his, a small gesture of comfort in the overwhelming vastness of your shared solitude.

"Maybe we can't go back to who we were," you suggested, your voice a tentative whisper against the symphony of the sea. "But perhaps we can find new reasons to look forward to the sunrise."

Touya's hand trembled slightly under yours, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he gripped your hand, his hold tentative but needing the connection. "I'd like that," he said, a flicker of a smile ghosting across his lips, as fragile and fleeting as a wave’s crest as a single tear rolled down his cheek. "To look forward to something, to hope for something better."

[runariya]

hhiii!! im thinking a lot about a jungkook ex & loml he would be so cute arrrghl

🎤 n maybee 🥰+🤫 ?

(idolverse+fluff+smut) part of the prompt game pairing: idol!Jungkook x ex-gf! female reader genre: idolverse, Exes2L, fluff, smut warnings: references to a few good and bad milestones of BTS, allusion to oral (m. receiving), breakup, mentions of one (1) dating attempt of OC, mentions of 190811 JK because duh, Jungkook is a petty ex, various hair colours, Times Square JK, fluff, smut, they’re both needy and desperate, big dick JK, possessiveness, dirty talk, bad language, face grabbing, mouth spitting, kind of dry humping but without clothes (?), slight dom!JK, babygirl, unprotected sex (you should all be old enough to know the consequences), slight breeding kink, hair pulling, love confessions, rough and desperate sex, a little bit of angst, Jungkook is a romantic, naked proposal, lmk if I forgot smth word count: 2.512

a/n: guess who got a bit carried away with this ask? THAT'D BE ME! 🥸

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You lived through it all. Through every storm and golden dawn alike, you’ve walked beside him—Jungkook, through the raw and uncertain trainee years, standing shoulder to shoulder when he made that long-awaited debut with your other friends, with the cheers of a scattered handful of ARMYs filling the gaps of an empty room. And you—always there, even when unjustified criticism hit them like fists in the dark, when the suffocating shadows of hate and pushbacks tried to choke out their light. You were there when sleepless nights were a currency, and saesangs turned life into a nightmare not fit for the faint-hearted. You were there during all those late-night talks, when exhaustion and doubt dragged them to the brink of disbandment, and you—you, held onto them with all the strength you had left.

You lived through it all. You walked this path with him, through the milestones of glory—their first triumphant entrance on the Billboard 200, the moment they lent their voices to a UNICEF campaign, the awe that filled you as you stood in the last rows of that historic U.N. speech, watching them rise and rise as if they could never stop. You were there when the sold-out stadiums roared, when Jungkook’s nerves shook just before he walked onto that colossal stages, and in the quiet moments behind the curtains, you became his grounding, his release—your lips open, throat pulsing around his dick as the world waited for him to sing.

Once, you believed, truly, that what you had was unbreakable, a love of once-in-a-lifetime, and you knew—*knew*—that Jungkook felt it too. It was there, lingering in every glance, every touch, every whispered word. And because, when the breaking point finally came, when one triumph followed another, when at long last, *finally*, the whole world, not just ARMY, recognised their worth, when the frantic pace of success nearly swallowed them whole, you made your decision. You walked away—not out of lost love, no, never that. Love was still there, burning too fiercely for words. But you thought you were sparing him, thought you were freeing him from another tether, another weight pulling him down, when his focus should be solely on his dream, his passion. You thought, perhaps, you were doing the right thing, even despite the way his pleas and tears seared themselves into your memory, begged you to stay, haunting you even now, even when your eyes aren’t closed. 

Those days after the breakup—they were bitter and cold—not easy, not for either of you. You saw him on screen, thriving, yes, but hurting in a way you knew all too well. The incident in November 2019—your first and only date after the split, after Jungkook, when a stitch couldn’t leave his mouth shut, reaching Jungkook’s ears, and suddenly his performance at the Lotte Family Concert became something else altogether—savage, fierce, almost a message to you, reverberating through the very core of your being. Something shifted the air back then, in him, in you, in the whole world.

You realised then, that Jungkook wasn’t just an ex, but a petty one at that. You should have known better. One offhand comment in passing to his mother about his hair—how you missed the look of it untouched by dye, lamenting that his soft, natural locks were lost beneath the constant colouring—and suddenly, every week he was colouring it anew, as though each hue was a small act of rebellion against you. The games continued—the thirst traps, the little taunts, even in every piece of merch he touched, designs you once dreamt up together in those hazy trainee years. You, lying beside him in the cramped dorm, building fragile sandcastles of what could be, of dreams yet unspoken. And now, those same castles crumbled as he used them to fuel his quiet, calculated rebellion.

And yet, somehow, it was still a surprise when the text arrived. Jungkook himself, inviting you to his surprise gig at Times Square. You hesitated, wrestling with your pride, your pain. But in the end, for old times’ sake, you relented—just one last favour, you told yourself.

And now, here you stand. He had slipped out of the room just after you arrived, and you watch from the window as the world goes wild, Jungkook commanding the stage as effortlessly as he breathes. The ache within you deepens, the love, the longing—they haven’t dimmed in all those years, not even for a moment.

When he finally returns, still glistening with sweat, fresh from the exhilaration of the performance, his presence floods the room, the light he is piercing every fibre of your being. 

"Hey," he breathes through his panting, that soft voice slipping through the air like a secret only you are meant to hear. He smiles, and the familiarity of it twists your gut in the worst way possible. He grabs and drowns a bottle of water in one go, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a way that sends your heart skipping, unbidden.

And you, standing there, trying to hold your composure as the man who once was yours invades your very senses. Every drop of sweat that trickles down his neck, every movement of his tattooed arms, every unspoken memory lingering in the air. You can’t stop the surge of arousal, the way your body betrays you as your thighs press together, seeking some small relief from the tension he brings.

And when Jungkook motions for you to sit beside him on that small loveseat, your legs, weak and trembling, carry you there almost on instinct. His thigh brushes against yours as he sits down, the touch so achingly familiar it almost hurts too much to bear. You feel that old connection, sparking back to life with everything said, with everything kept in silence between you.

“I invited you here for a reason,” he murmurs, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, the sincerity in his gaze captivating your every thought. "I can’t keep on going like this," he continues after a short pause, voice weighted with something deeper than exhaustion, something that seems to eat him alive.

You respond with a gentle push, instinctively deflecting, faking an easygoing happiness. "But you're doing so well, Jungkook. Your dream’s finally yours. You can’t walk away now."

“It’s not about that,” he replies, quieter now, as though his resolve softens in the space between your words.

Jungkook straightens, taking your hand, his inked fingers finding yours with that familiar tenderness, like all the lost days between you never happened. He strokes your soft skin, the gesture so achingly reminiscent of the way he used to hold you, back when the world somehow seemed simpler, back when the two of you were all you needed.

His voice deepens, the softness in his tone soothing like your very personal lullaby. "I can’t live another day without you by my side." 

His words shake your heart, each syllable removing the distance that time and hurt had created. Your eyes tremble, silver lining your lash line, as silence is everything that escapes your mouth. 

Jungkook leans in, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “I love you,” the confession rolling from his lips like something inevitable, as though it was always meant to be spoken, in the past, in this moment, and in every possible future. “I still love you, with everything I am. And I know you feel it too. Let’s not try again—we’re beyond that. I know we’re meant to be. Let’s just be together.”

Your lips quiver as the dam finally breaks, silent tears slipping down your cheeks. There’s no noise, no grand release, just a quiet cascade of everything you’ve held in and pushed back for so long. And in that stillness, you finally find your voice, speaking every word out of the depth of your soul. “Yes, Kook, please.”

Your lips crash into his with a force that makes your whole body tremble. You push him back with such ferocity that he’s not able to keep sitting upright, and before you know it, you’re climbing on top of him, his hands digging into your sides, pulling you closer, as though he could never have you close enough. His tongue teases along your lips, the cool metal of his lip piercings brushing your skin, sending another wave of hot arousal out of you. You open your mouth, letting him in. His taste is the same—mint drops, just like all those years ago—and it awakens a hunger in you, a longing that has only grown more ravenous with time.

Your fingers tangle in his soft hair, pulling at it, at the black fabric of his dress shirt, ripping the buttons open as though the world outside doesn’t exist. Jungkook is just as frenzied, stripping you of your clothes, his own following without a beat, the desperation between you highlighting, almost painful, as if trying to make up for all the lost time. You’ve seen him on screen, admired the way his body has changed, matured, but nothing could have prepared you for the reality of him. Jungkook looks like a greek god carved from marble, every muscle sculpted to perfection, and his cock stands proud, thick and throbbing like a prize waiting to be claimed.

“I’m never letting you go again,” he rasps, pulling you up with him, your legs wrapping around his tiny waist, your slick cunt brushing against him with each step he takes.

Jungkook carries you to the table nearby, lips never leaving yours, kissing you as though he might devour you, and as his mouth travels down your neck, over your collarbone, and to your breasts, as he sweeps everything off the table with a careless shove, lowering you onto it, you think you found euphoria just then.

“Jungkook,” you moan, arching into him as his tongue flicks over your nipple, his hand pinching and twisting your other, his hips grinding against your dripping core with a raw need that nearly sends you spiralling right then and there.

“I’m going to chain you to me,” he growls against your skin. “Going to fuck you until you’re too dumb to walk away again.”

“Yes,” you whimper, as your body clenches and trembles, your release washing over you like a wave, too intense to hold back, the stimulation from his hands, his mouth, his cock rubbing against your slick folds just too overwhelming.

“Fucking scream my name,” he demands, grabbing your face roughly, forcing your mouth open with his thumb and forefinger.

“Jungkook,” you gasp, his cock sliding through your wetness as you come down from your high. You try to close your mouth, but he spits into it, his eyes dark with lust, watching you swallow with a mix of satisfaction and need.

“That’s right, babygirl,” he smirks lazily. “I’m going to fuck you stupid now. You’re still on birth control?”

“Yes,” you manage to breathe, trembling as he grabs his cock, pumping it a few times before lining up with your entrance, clenching in anticipation.

“Shame,” he growls, his words dripping with dark desire. “Would love to fuck a baby into you, show everyone who you belong to.”

His words make you moan, your body responding to the filthy promise in his voice. “Oh, you like that, don’t you, baby girl?” he grins.

He grabs a fistful of your hair, dragging your mouth to his as he thrusts into you, his cock filling you completely, stretching you in a way that brings a sharp, sweet pain, the kind of pain you’ve been craving for years. You cry his name into his mouth, every inch of you vibrating with the sensation of him.

“Fuck, I love you so much,” he groans. “You’re the fucking love of my life.” His pace picks up, becoming relentless, his hips slamming into you, desperate to make up for all the years you were apart.

You drink him in, the sight of him so raw and beautiful—his eyebrows drawn together, eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back in ecstasy. His hands grip the back of your knees, pulling you towards him, keeping you close as he drives into you over and over, the rough surface of the table scraping your lower back. His balls and thighs slap against your ass with such force that you know you’ll be bruised, but you welcome it. You embrace every desperate thrust, every rough touch, pouring all of yourself into this moment.

“Fuck, Jungkook, I’m coming,” you cry out, gripping his arms for support, feeling yourself unravel under the intensity of it all.

“Fucking come for me! Cream my cock like you’re made for it.”

His words send you over the edge, your body shattering into a million stars, as brilliant and infinite as the ones that glimmer in Jungkook’s eyes when he looks down at you. And you know, in that moment, that you’re home. Truly home, where everything makes sense.

Your cunt clenches around him, and that’s all it takes to push him into his own release. He lets out a deep, guttural groan, his body buckling over you as he empties himself inside you, his breath mingling with yours, his heart pounding against your chest, both of you lost in the blissful haze of it all.

You stroke the back of his head tenderly, feeling his racing heartbeat gradually slow, matching the rhythm of your own.

When you both finally come down from the high, you lock eyes. His boyish smile spreads across his face, just like it did all those years ago, and you can’t help but mirror it.

“Chain me to you, hm?” you tease, your eyes gleaming with playful mischief. “That’s not the romantic Jungkook I know.”

A blush creeps up his cheeks and ears as he pulls out of you, grabbing the discarded tissue box from the floor to clean you both up without saying a word. But you notice the growing tension in his body, the slight shift in his demeanour, and a flicker of unease stirs in you.

“Kook?” you ask carefully, but he only glances at you briefly before turning to his duffel bag in the corner of the room, rummaging through it.

When he turns back around, your heart plummets to the floor. It’s not fear or worry that seizes you, but the overwhelming brightness of joy, happiness so intense it almost paralyses you.

“I’ve carried this with me since our first stadium tour,” he says softly, stepping closer. “But I was always too scared I wasn’t enough.”

He kneels before you, still naked, and you don’t allow yourself to breathe, to blink. “___, will you do me the honour of marrying me?”

Tears stream from your eyes once more, and you nod, unable to speak for a moment, your heart bursting like a confetti gun with every emotion under the sun. Finally, you whisper, “Yes,” and kiss him, knowing without a doubt that he’s the one. Always was, always will.

[itsswritten]

Threads of Hazel

Pairing: Azriel x fem reader

Word Count: 3.6K

Warnings: Angst, blood, gore, injuries, hints of death.

Summary: A mating bond can connect those who have not even met, but can it save them too?

All that welcomed you was the cold, splodges of darkness filtering in your distorted vision.

Time seemed to stretch and contract in the void, a dizzying whirl of uncertainty. How long had it been? Weeks? Months? Perhaps even longer.

No one was coming.

Why had you dared to hope? 

It was that gentle hazel glow that danced behind closed eyelids that had stirred within you. A glimmer of something that felt worthy of holding onto. Something to believe in.

But it must have been a trick of the mind, a cruel illusion born from the depths of insanity. 

No one was coming. No one ever would.

Maybe it was time to give up.

Time to surrender to the abyss, to let go of the tenuous thread that bound you to consciousness. As you teetered on the edge of oblivion, a fleeting sensation brushed against your senses, a whisper of familiarity.

You could smell it, faint and distant yet unmistakable. 

Night-chilled mist and cedar. 

It was that scent again. But like a wisp of smoke on the wind, it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving your senses grasping at shadows in the void.

Another wicked false sense of hope. Your mind must be creating delusions as it comes close to its end.

No one was coming.

It was time to let go.

***

This was the last location. And then they’d go home. 

Finally.

Azriel straightened his posture, rolling back his shoulders with a weary sigh. His wings unfurled and then tucked in against his back. He felt anchored, weighed down, by the silent burdens he was carrying. Even his shadows were slumped against him, as if they were also affected by his fatigue.

Azriel was utterly exhausted.

Despite Cassian's concerned pleas for him to stay behind and rest, Azriel couldn't bring himself to heed them. The ache in his bones and the weight of exhaustion pulling at his limbs were nothing compared to the thought of letting Feyre and his brother face this mission alone. 

He was Spymaster of the Night Court, he would fulfil his duties regardless of his own welfare. Regardless of the demons that weighed on him.

But these demons of his, had been plaguing him for months. Clear in the dark offset look of his gaze, and the purple shadows that sat beneath his eyes– he was a tormented soul. 

The aftermath of the war had etched its scars deep into Azriel. It was a sensation he was all too familiar with, the fallout of anguish and slaughter, had always defined his life. But in recent months, his demons seemed to be haunting him more fiercely than usual, their whispers echoing in the silence of the night.

For months, Azriel had been plagued by a recurring dream, a nightmare he assumed. Because as much as he tried he couldn’t recall the details. Each time he would wake from the depths of his sleep, finding himself drenched in a clammy sheen of sweat, his chest heaving attempting to draw in air as though a claw was clenched around his lungs. 

But that is all that would linger.

A feeling, no memory of what had caused this reaction within him. No clue as to why his body shivered in fear when he woke. 

It was a maddening cycle, the dream hovering just beyond the edges of his consciousness. Clearly haunting in nature and yet elusive. Each day felt like a puzzle with a missing piece, the memory of something crucial lurking just beyond reach.

So close, and yet not close enough. And it was driving him mad.

In a desperate attempt to break free from that grip, he tried avoiding sleep altogether. Yet, that feeling persisted. A restless energy coursing beneath his skin. It was relentless, a constant reminder– that he was forgetting something of importance.

And that feeling terrified him. Azriel had always known most, metalicus with his gathering of intel and information. Skilled in deciphering most people and their thoughts. But his own mind had him at a loss. He was no Spymaster of his own consciousness, simply a male who couldn’t sleep because of a nightmare.

Feyre, Cassian and Azriel had embarked on the final leg of their scouting mission. Despite the passing of time since the war's end, new pockets of Hybern loyalists still cropped up. The three of them were tasked with weeding out any lingering enemies. They had arrived at the last location Azriel’s intel had unearthed. A manor house on the skirts of the borders, had whispered rumours to be a base for some Hybern stragglers.

Derelict and crumbling, the building seemed to sag under the weight of its own deterioration, its once-majestic features now reduced to a skeletal framework of crumbling stone and splintered wood. The scars of fire marred its surface, meaning any valuable pieces of information that might have once resided within its walls had long since been burnt. Nothing but charred remnants and ash laid in their wake.

They had been too late, but they still had to check nonetheless. 

"All clear from up above," Cassian announced, his voice cutting through the silence as he landed beside Feyre, who had just reentered what remained of the foyer. She had meticulously scouted the left wing of the building, while Azriel had taken the right.

"Clear here too," Feyre confirmed with a nod, her eyes scanning the dimly lit space for any signs of danger.

Azriel soon joined them. His part of the search had also yielded no immediate threats. Cassian stood beside his brother, kicking some burnt debris with his foot while mumbling that it was a shame Hybern’s men had burnt this place. That it was such a waste. But Azriel wasn’t listening. 

Running his rough hand down his face, he let out a heavy sigh. A very clear tell that he was not okay. Something Azriel never showed. But he could feel it again, under his skin. Pinching at him. Something faint in this chest, weighed and sliced, only to subside to a dull ache.

He felt uneasy, as he had for months but there was something about this place that had shaken a deepness within his gut. Even his shadows fluttered nervously around him.

Maybe he would need to see Madja when he got home. Or maybe even relinquish his pride, and ask Rhys for help.

“Let’s get this checked over quickly, and then head home. It’s been a long mission,” Feyre spoke softly, offering both males encouraging smiles as she gestured towards the back of the building. 

Feyre’s eyes settled on Azriel, giving him a reassuring look. For a moment Azriel almost let her in, he had noticed the concerned looks and touches his family had given him. Growing more and more these recent weeks. Instead though, he nodded softly following the pair into the back room. 

They descended down grand stairs, into the lower levels of the house. Each step he took echoed through the empty remnants of the building, every move feeling heavier and weightier. They were hit with a chill when they reached the bottom. In the absence of natural light, Feyre conjured small orbs of illumination, casting soft, flickering light that bobbed across the dark space. The feeble glow revealed crumbling walls and decaying remnants of furniture, similar to what they had seen upstairs. 

The air was heavy with the scent of decay and mildew, but there was something metallic that lingered.

Blood.

They could smell blood. And there was something else too. Perfumy and chemical.

Faebane. 

Tensions rose as they all hesitated on their weapons, Azriel’s fingers gingerly hovering over Truth Teller as they stepped deeper within the space. Azriel's shadows flickered and swirled around him, their movements erratic and unsettling. They sensed something lurking in the darkness, something that sent a shiver down his spine.

There was this haunting apprehension washing over Azriel as if he had been here before. He couldn’t quite place it, couldn’t quite pinpoint why he didn’t feel like a stranger in this room.

As though he had been here many times before and yet this was still his first time here. That gnawing began deep in his gut again as his fingers gripped at his dagger.

He heard Feyre gasp loudly, before his eyes quickly scanned to see what her light had revealed. 

A figure, barely recognisable in the dim light, hung limply from chains fastened to the wall, body gaunt and ravaged by torture. Steel rods protruded from flesh, each one coated in the deadly poison of faebane, its sickly scent permeating the air.

Feyre's hands flew to her mouth in horror, her eyes wide with disbelief and revulsion. "Is she..." her voice trailed off, unable to voice the question that hung in her mind. She had to stop herself from gagging, as the contents of her stomach threatened to spill up her throat.

Even Cassian, veteran of countless battles and witness to nearly every injury imaginable, could not conceal the grimace that tugged at his lips. They all took a moment to absorb the sight before them, Azriel remaining motionless as he processed the scene. The sensation from earlier still persisted, but now intensifying as Azriel's gaze fell upon the steel rod protruding from the body's chest, a sharp pang jolting through his own.

Azriel staggered, overcome by a sudden wave of agony that seized him, breaths ragged and uneven. Feyre moved swiftly to his side, her hand offering comfort as she implored about his well-being, but his attention was elsewhere.

He wasn’t listening to Feyre, he was listening to his shadows.

Alive.

They were pulsating beside him, waiting for his orders, waiting to be released, begging to be released.

Azriel clutched his chest, mustering his strength to stand straighter, the pain subsiding for now as he took a hesitant step closer, 

Alive, alive, alive.

They whispered frantically this time, their urgency desperate.

Then Azriel saw it. The faint rise and fall of your chest, the subtle rhythm of your heartbeat still persisting against all odds.

Azriel's breath caught in his throat, his mind struggling to process the sight before him.

How? How were you still alive?

He wasn't the only one to notice. Cassian, wasted no time in springing into action, his voice commanding as he instructed them to release you from your chains, to get you the urgent help you needed. Both Feyre and Cassian, mentally calling to Rhys to be ready with Madja.

But Azriel was frozen in place, his senses honed in on the fragile thread of life that still clung to you. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he watched, his chest constricting with an overwhelming emotion.

He remembered. 

The sight before him wasn’t new. No, he had seen this. Seen you before. Felt this way every night for months. 

It was you whom he had been forgetting when he woke, the haunting echo of your desperate pleas vibrating in his mind. As he watched your body slump to the floor, freed from the chains that had bound you, Azriel struggled to push back the flood of visions that threatened to overwhelm him.

Visions of you, screaming, pleading for someone to help you.

Begging him to come save you.

How could he have forgotten? Your cries had pierced through the darkness, reaching out to him night after night.

A plea for salvation had rippled down the thread that seemed to connect you.

That thread.

That power that had subconsciously been connecting you both for months began to hum. Louder and brighter than anything Azriel had ever felt before.

It was a realisation, a confirmation to what he had been feeling for all that time. The golden warmth finally settled under his bones, consuming all his senses.

The mating bond.

You were his mate.

Something that was supposed to be so cherished, felt incredibly bittersweet as he watched your near dead form be pulled into Cassian’s arms.

He could feel your pain seeping through the bond, in fact that is what he had been feeling all those weeks. Your suffering leaking its way down to Azriel. Your pleas reaching him in the depths of his sleep.

He had a mate, finally.

And yet when he pulled gently on that faint thread that linked you to him, he could feel it fading.

Maybe he was too late.

***

A bright white light filled your vision, its touch lining your body slowly.

It was time. You were ready.

But just as you were on the brink of surrender, a golden warmth surged forth, wrapping around you like a protective shield. It tugged at you, pulling you back, refusing to let you go.

Not now, not yet. It spoke.

You resisted, clinging stubbornly to the edge of oblivion, but the pull of that hazel glow was undeniable.

Let me go. It hurts. I want to leave. Your soul cried towards the glow.

The hazel glow called out to you with a familiarity that stirred something deep within your soul.

I won’t let you go. Not now, not now that I have you. 

You couldn’t understand. You heard no voice, yet you felt every word.

I need you to fight, for yourself, for me, fight harder than you ever have done and I promise, after this, you will never have to fight again.

Why those words had some sway over you, you weren’t sure. But when your senses filled with that comforting scent you had smelt every night for the past months. It tethered you, anchoring you in the physical realm once more.

You could smell it again, night-chilled air and cedar.

You would hold onto it one last time.

***

Agonising screams filled the air as you writhed in pain on the makeshift table. Your body contorting, fingers clawing desperately at the gaping wound in your chest. Even in the dim light, Azriel could see the blood, thick and crimson oozing through your fingers as you had lurched up when Cassian had pulled the poison coated rod from your chest.

They had managed to remove some while you were unconscious, but the pain of this one, deep in your chest, had yanked you awake. How you were still alive none of them understood. Your injuries and body filled with enough faebane to kill a dozen fae. 

Your vision was still distorted. Just one of the injuries that ravaged your body. Only blurry shapes and figures filled your sight, and the lack of that sense only added to your fear. You couldn’t see who you were with, and although they didn’t sound like your captors, you didn’t know them. Didn’t trust them, and they were hurting you.

Even if they repeatedly told you they were helping you, their touch just brought more pain.

Madja flitted around Cassian, her hands hovering over the faebane-drenched wounds in a futile attempt to heal. Azriel stood at the head of the table, crouched down close as he firmly held one of your arms down. His shadows fidgeted uneasily around him, reflecting his inner turmoil. He had witnessed countless horrors in his life, some inflicted upon himself, but seeing his mate in such agony was a new level of torment. 

Feeling the pain trickling down the bond was tearing him apart.

“Stop, stop. Please…” Your plea was raw, your voice strained and hoarse from the agony that wracked your body. Azriel shuddered at your tone, your voice an echo of the nightmares that had haunted him for endless nights. 

He remembered it all now.

Each night, stumbling through darkness, trying to follow that golden bond to you. To your calls for him. And each time, he tried to figure out where you were, how to get to you, how to save you only to forget everything when he woke. His memory of you slipping through his fingers like sand. 

“Rhys, there must be something you can do,” he pleaded, his voice tinged with desperation as he looked over your pained expression.

Feyre had diligently wiped the blood from your face, revealing slashes across your eyes. Remarkably, Madja seemed optimistic about their healing potential, though it was contingent upon your survival. He could feel your fear rippling down the bond, how frightened and in pain you were.

“Azriel…my power, I can’t penetrate her mind. The faebane has saturated her body, creating an impenetrable barrier,” Rhys responded. “I’m sorry brother…I’m truly sorry.”

Azriel couldn’t contain the small whispered sob that escaped him, his hand flying to his mouth to stifle the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

When Cassian had carried you from that dark basement, Azriel had acted on instinct, snatching you carefully from his brother's arms and holding you close. He whispered into your ear, a litany of apologies for not finding you sooner, for the pain you endured. He begged you to fight, to hold on for him. And had clung to that faint glimmer of hope as he returned to the safety of the River House.

Rhys had prepared a table for Madja to work on, but neither of them had anticipated the extent of your injuries.

Azriel had laid you on the table, still unconscious as he nervously watched Rhys and Madja try their best. Cassian and Feyre joining them moments later to help. 

It was then they had all realised.

He was fussing over you, whispering frantically and his shadows had been skittishly tracing over your body and injuries. So unlike the usual calm and collected Spymaster.

Rhys had pieced it together first. Simply stating She’s your mate into Azriel’s mind. Although it was clear by the heartbreaking expressions on his family's faces, they were all aware of the significance you held.

Azriel felt helpless, he couldn’t lessen your anguish, couldn’t heal you, couldn’t do anything.

Your sobbing started again, while you writhed under their strong hands. Pleading for release. Instead, they responded with reassurances and hushed whispers, and there was one voice in particular that washed over you in a familiarity you didn’t understand.

You fought against them, resisting their attempts to restrain you, but they were stronger. Another wave of agony rippled through you as they worked to remove one of the steel bars embedded within your flesh.

“Focus, Shadowsinger,” Madja's voice cut through the turmoil, her gaze landing on him firmly.

“The best course of action is to remove these rods and then attempt to drain the faebane from her system. Her resilience is remarkable, but she won’t survive much longer without intervention.” Madja was speaking directly to Azriel now, he took a second to look down at you crying on the table. Cassian and Rhys holding you down, while they calculated removing the next impalement. 

Madja continued, “If you want to help her, comfort her, support her.” The instructions were clear.

Feyre spoke then, glancing between your pained form and then to Azriel. “Use the bond Az, she needs you.”

With hesitation, Azriel’s rough hand found yours. Holding it tightly. Grooves and lines were etched into his weathered skin, speaking of his own past battles. Instinctively you wanted to recoil from the stranger's touch, but as you felt another pull on your torso you clutched down on his hand tightly. Another sob racking through you.

You felt him close to you now, his presence enveloping you as his warm breath brushed across your face. He was close to you. But you couldn’t make out who he was. Only a blurred version of a male with tan skin and dark hair. His other hand grazed your cheek, offering you a comfort you hadn’t felt in months. 

“I need you to fight just a little longer,” the voice was deep and warm, there was something about it or maybe it was the words he had chosen that felt familiar. 

“It hurts..” you whispered, another sob leaving your lips.

"I know, I know it does...but not much longer, okay? And then you can rest, I promise," he reassured you, igniting a flicker of hope within you despite the overwhelming pain.

Then Azriel pulled gently on the bond sending ripples of reassurance and comfort down the link. So much that he hoped to drown any pain out you were feeling.

You felt that golden warmth fill your chest, that same feeling that had pulled you from the white abyss many times before.

"It's you..." Your voice choked with emotion, the realisation dawning upon you.

Azriel stood there, uncertain of how to respond, but he watched as you turned toward him, your brows furrowed in concentration. Though your vision remained distorted, blurred colours danced before you, and amidst the haze of black and deep tan, you saw it—the faint glimmer of hazel.

"You came for me..."

"Always..." Azriel's voice cracked with emotion, his unwavering commitment laid bare.

With the last of the rods removed, your body bled profusely. Madja urged caution, while Feyre urgently advocated to cauterise the wounds. But with this amount of faebane, they grappled with the best course of action. Their voices melding in a flurry of noise.

A soft, sad smile graced your lips, your hand reaching out to touch the figure before you, feeling the contours of his cheek beneath your fingertips.

Blood began to fill your mouth, the red liquid seeping through your smile. The bitter taste staining your words. Azriel began to shake his head, clinging to that fading bond with all his strength. With a pained slowness, he felt your hand slip from his cheek, leaving a blood-stained print upon his skin.

"You were real..." Your voice was barely a whisper now, breaths shallow. "My thread of hazel."

a/n: ngl I don't love this lol, doesn't feel like my best work but sometimes it's better posted than perfect! I had originally planned for this to be longer, but writers slump has me in a chokehold so this is all I managed! Anywho, hope you enjoyed the angst! <3 - Lottie Forever tags: @sleepylunarwolf @daily-dose-of-sass @milswrites @amberlynn98 @marscardigan @illyrianbitch @lilah-asteria

[st4rg8te]

A Captured Dragon (BL)

Yandere! Half-brother X Crown Prince! Reader

[tw: graphic depiction(s) of violence, obsessive behaviour, betrayal, imprisonment, gaslighting, non-con kissing, incest!!!, teeny tiny bit of feminization]

✦✧✦✧

“You have done nothing to deserve that title. You were only lucky enough to be born the King’s son.”

A lot of things in life were beyond your control. 

But fate had been kind to you, gifting you a life that most could only dream of. Born into the royal family as their beloved Crown Prince, the world bent to your will from the very moment you drew your first breath. 

Spoiled, indulged, and never once tested by struggle—perhaps you were destined to fall from the start.

✦✧✦✧

✦✧✦✧

It’s getting harder to tell the days apart.

The world around you blurs into a cycle of sleepless nights. Your mind is a fog, heavy with the weight of guilt and fear. Each hour blends into the next, until time itself feels like a punishment.

The nightmares don’t help either.

Every time you close your eyes, they come—haunting, vivid dreams where blood stains the corridors and screams pierce the air. The sounds of blades slicing through flesh, of bodies collapsing onto blood-soaked floors, echo endlessly in your ears. It is relentless. 

You see the palace engulfed in flames, your servants and people—those you’ve known your entire life—crying out in terror as they are cut down by the cold steel of soldiers.

In every dream, you stand helpless, watching as they beg for mercy. Your people reach for you in desperation, their faces twisted in agony, but you can’t move. 

In every dream, at the center of it all, is him.

Daewon.

Your half-brother.

While you grew up in the limelight, basking in the affections and adoration of others, your half-brother was cast into the shadows. Born from a lowly maid, his very existence was a blemish on the royal family's image. He was the son who would never be acknowledged by his father—neither loved nor remembered.

Despite that, you had treated him kindly.

When did everything go so wrong?

After the slaughter, you were taken away and imprisoned. The room you were kept in was dark and empty—there was no light, or any warmth. It was a far cry from the luxury you were used to.

Occasionally, food and water would be brought to you—a guard would come every few days, sliding bowls of stale rice and cloudy water across the floor without a word, without so much as a glance in your direction. You felt like an animal.

But worse than the silence of your captors were the visits from Daewon.

You hated those days the most.

“Brother.” His deep voice sends a shiver down your spine. You can’t make out his face within the shadows.

So you bury your head further into the damp pillows, hiding from the monster in the room.

It isn’t long before you feel the bed dip under his weight, the chain on your ankle rustles against the sheets. He kneels beside you, leaning close enough for you to smell the faint traces of blood still lingering on his robe.

“You haven’t been eating,” Daewon’s voice was soft, almost tender, but you could hear the dark amusement laced beneath it. “Is the food not to your liking?”

You keep your eyes shut tight, fists clenched under the thin blankets.

It'll all be okay. Soon enough, he would leave you alone.

Cold fingers brush against your cheek, and you flinch. He chuckles at that, a low, mocking sound that makes your skin crawl.

“Did you know that these meals are what I had to eat as a child?” He whispers, his breath hot against your ears.

You briefly open your eyes, glancing at the food scattered across the floor, remnants of your earlier fit of rage—destroyed, just like everything else in your life. 

“There were many days when the servants never even came. My mother often gave me her share, just so I wouldn't starve." 

You grit your teeth—

"Why don't you just kill me already?"

The words hang in the air, and a suffocating silence stretches between you.

But then, Daewon's firm hand suddenly grips your chin, forcing you to meet his dark gaze.

“Kill you?” A cruel, guttural laugh escapes him, sending a shiver down your spine. “But death would be far too easy.” 

“No... you have to live. You’ll live and endure. Just like I did.”

He had lived a life of invisibility, where no one cared to look beyond the stain of his tainted blood—no one, except you.

And the thought of it drives him mad.

His hand falls from your chin, trailing down until it rests against your chest. With that simple touch, your spirit breaks just a little more.

You hate him—hate him more than you’ve ever hated anyone. 

Without any warning, you feel the press of his soft lips against your own. His body heat seeps into yours as he forcefully pulls you closer and presses you flush against him.

You are too tired, too hungry to resist.

"No, stop—" You protest breathlessly, the words barely escaping your lips as your mind reels, still foggy from the kiss. A dizzying mix of shock, confusion, and disgust floods your senses.

"This is wrong, we can't—"

"They will never fully accept a half-blooded bastard like me as their king."

“What?” You swallow hard, blinking up at the man.

"But surely, they'll accept a 'bride' from the royal family.”

The realization hits you like a punch to the gut. 

Before you can react, his lips crash against yours again, harder this time, more possessive. The taste of him—bitterness and control—invades your senses completely.

A twisted smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and you finally understand.

This is a debt of suffering, a price he intends to collect over and over—until you were broken.

"Don’t worry. For everything you’ve done for me, I'll repay your kindness tenfold."

✦✧✦✧

[A/N]

This was not proofread, sorry for any mistakes!

[lowkeyren]

YOUR DOCTOR AT BAY, KEEPS THE NIGHTMARES AWAY!

in which — your boyfriend comforts you from a nightmare

pairing —dr ratio x gn!reader

"an apple a day, keeps the doctor away" lol get it, short comfort fic ft our favourite doctor, from req: here!, reblogs w comments are vv much appreciated, anyway please enjoy!!! <3

the air constricts around you like a tightening vice, each breath coming harder than the last; your quiet sobs fill the room as the darkness envelops you like a shroud. the recurring nightmares haunt you each time you close your eyes, never failing to ensnare you in their chilling embrace.

the suffocating darkness presses in, its weight bearing down on your chest as you struggle to breathe; you curl into yourself, sweat lining against your back, clutching the bedsheets as if it’s your only tether to reality. the sheets twist and damp from your restless movements, you let out a yelp involuntarily, a desperate cry that echoes in the oppressive silence of the night. 

your heart races, pounding in your chest with each beat reverberating through your entire body, amplifying the fear coursing through your veins. your breathing now erratic, your eyebrows furrowing as you feel the walls around you slowly closing in.

in the midst of your turmoil, a gentle touch breaks through the chaos. dr ratio’s hand finds yours, his touch cool and reassuring against the feverish warmth of your skin. 

“you’re safe with me.” he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm against the lingering fear.

with his other arm, dr ratio draws you close, enveloping you in his comforting embrace. his heartbeat, steady and strong, reverberates against your chest, reassuring that you’re indeed, safe with him.

“i’m sorry i woke you up. i’m fine i—” you say meekly, unable to steady the shaky tone in your voice. “shh,” he squeezes your hand lightly, “you don’t need to apologize, i will be here for you, no matter what.”

you subconsciously lean into him, the scent of his skin a familiar anchor in the swirling maelstrom of your mind. he strokes your back gently, the tension in your brows loosen as you nestle into him. the fear and dread gnawing at your mind slowly dissipates, replaced by the soft touch of dr ratio tracing gentle circles on your back.

he notices stains of tears glistening on your cheeks, and your figure trembling slightly. “look at me,” you look up to meet his gaze as he wipes away the lingering tears with his thumb, “take a deep breath, it was just a dream.” his voice is tender and soothing, breaking through the remnants of fear. 

“i'm here,” he leans down, his breath warm against your hair. “and i’m not going anywhere.”

his arms are wrapped securely around you, the warmth of his body seeps into yours, chasing away any lingering chill of fear. he continues to stroke your back, the tender motion helps to unravel the tight knots of tension that have taken hold of your muscles.

“everything will be okay.” gradually, the room around you starts to feel less oppressive as you feel the walls that once seemed to trap you now loosening and expanding. “you’re safe with me,” he repeats, his gaze locking with yours.

you nod at his reassurance, opting to bury your face in his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your ear slowly lulling you back to sleep. he continues to hold you tightly, his fingers gently threading through your hair in soothing motions. 

he presses a tender kiss to the crown of your head, "sleep well, my dear." 

with those final words, you finally allow yourself to fully relax, the safety of his embrace guiding you into a deep, restful sleep. 

no matter what nightmares may come, dr ratio will always be there to hold you through them; even in the darkest hours, you are not alone. no matter how irrational “love” may seem, he knows that he will never fail to pull you back from the abyss that threatens to consume you, not when you’re safely cradled in his arms.

masterlist

[loganhowlettsmybf]

I feel like when don't use the nightmare trope enough even though he is plagued by them 😭

Maybe comforting him during after a nightmare maybe he gets handsey(in a bad way) and like pins the reader down(again in a bad way) claws out ready to fight until you softly kiss his hand and then he calms down.

Soft Smut or soft cuddles after depends on how you feel

Sorry this is all over the place I hope this inspires

a/n: so true we don’t have enough of them😭

warnings: nothing just fluff

the night was unusually still. you lay beside logan, his deep, even breaths a constant rhythm in the silence. he had been unusually peaceful tonight, and you allowed yourself to relax, to drift into the comfort of sleep.

but then, somewhere in the early hours, that peace shattered.

logan stirred beside you, a low growl rumbling in his chest. you recognized the signs immediately. it wasn’t the first time you had been woken by his nightmares. they were frequent, relentless, haunted by memories of his past.

you reached out instinctively, your hand hovering just above his shoulder, unsure if you should wake him. but before you could make a decision, logan jerked awake, his eyes wide with terror, his breathing erratic.

“logan…” you whispered, trying to soothe him. but he didn’t hear you. he wasn’t really awake, not yet. he was caught somewhere between the past and the present, in a place where everything was a threat.

suddenly, his hand shot out, grabbing your wrist with a grip that was almost painful. you gasped, trying to pull back, but his strength was overwhelming. in the next moment, you were pinned beneath him, your back pressed against the mattress, his weight holding you down.

“logan!” you called out, louder this time, hoping to break through whatever was holding him in this nightmare. but his eyes were wild, unfocused, and his claws extended with a metallic snikt, the sharp adamantium gleaming in the dim light.

you froze, your heart pounding in your chest. his claws were so close, inches from your face. but you had been here before, you knew this wasn’t him—not really. this was the fear, the anger, the pain that he carried every day, bursting forth in a moment of vulnerability.

very slowly, you moved your free hand, bringing it up to his, careful not to startle him. his claws trembled, and his eyes were wild, searching, lost.

“it’s okay,” you whispered, your voice soft, soothing. “logan, it’s me. you’re safe.”

he didn’t seem to hear you. his grip tightened, and you could feel the sharp tips of his claws grazing your skin, just on the verge of breaking through. but you didn’t flinch. instead, you leaned up as best as you could, your lips brushing against the back of his hand.

“logan,” you repeated, your voice barely more than a breath, “i’m here. i’m not going anywhere.”

the kiss was gentle, almost imperceptible, but it had the desired effect. for a moment, logan went completely still, his breath catching in his throat. his eyes met yours, and you saw the recognition slowly filter back in, pushing away the shadows that had gripped him so tightly.

his claws retracted with a soft click, and his grip on your wrist loosened until he let go entirely. logan’s shoulders slumped as he sank back onto his knees, the realization of what he had done—or almost done—hitting him like a physical blow.

“god…” he murmured, his voice rough with guilt. “i’m sorry… i didn’t—”

“shh,” you interrupted him, sitting up and reaching out to cup his face in your hands. his skin was cool, damp with sweat, and you could feel the rapid beat of his pulse beneath your fingers. “it’s okay, logan. it’s not your fault.”

he shook his head, his eyes dark and filled with self-loathing. “i could’ve hurt you… i could’ve—”

“but you didn’t,” you reminded him, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “you stopped. you came back.”

logan stared at you for a long moment, as if he was trying to convince himself that you were real, that you were safe. slowly, he brought his hands up to cover yours, holding them against his face as if he was afraid you would slip away.

“i don’t deserve you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “not after everything…”

you felt your heart ache at the pain in his voice, at the way he always seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. you knew his past, the things he had done, the things that had been done to him. but to you, none of that mattered. all you saw was the man in front of you, the one who had been hurt so many times, and who still managed to protect those he loved.

“logan,” you said softly, leaning in until your forehead rested against his, “you deserve to be loved. you deserve to be happy. and I’m not going anywhere.”

his breath hitched, and he closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. for a long moment, the two of you sat there in the darkness, the only sound was the quiet rhythm of your breathing.

finally, logan opened his eyes again, his gaze softer, more grounded. he looked at you as if he was seeing you for the first time, and a small, grateful smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“thank you,” he murmured, his voice low but steady. “for staying. for… everything.”

you smiled back at him, your heart swelling with affection. “always.”

carefully, you guided him back down onto the bed, your hands gentle as you pulled the covers over the both of you. logan curled into your side, his head resting on your chest, his arm draped over your waist. you ran your fingers through his hair, soothing him with soft touches until his breathing evened out, and he relaxed fully against you.

“sleep,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “i’ve got you.”

logan sighed, a sound of contentment, and within minutes, he had drifted back into sleep. this time, though, it was peaceful, his nightmares chased away by your presence.