#like thunder below

[peppermintlark]

77

77: Little Miss Why So by The Amazing Devil! This one doesn't really have a blorbo attached to it, I just have a disease and it's called I Love The Amazing Devil Because I'm A Genius. I could definitely apply it to Javi or Antonia from Like Thunder Below...I can't imagine they've had understanding past relationships. Miss you, besties <3

You don't see daylight anymore Something's sucking out your core and it's so boring

It's so boring it's so boring it's boring it's so boring it's so boring it's so boring it's so boring it's, so boring, et cetera To see you tired all the time Why won't you just tell them all to fuck off love and be mine

[acourtofquestions]

Kingdom of Ash Chapter 59

Chapter; Highlights

His ears still rang with the din of battle, his breath a rasping beat echoed by Aelin.

Atop the blood-slick battlements, their allies and companions around them, Rowan wordlessly passed Aelin the waterskin. She drank deeply, then handed it to Fenrys.

An unleashing and release. That's what the battle had been for his mate.

Hasar at last looked Aelin over. "I heard you put on a show today."

Rowan braced himself.

Aelin turned from the battlefield and inclined her head. "You look as if you did, too." Indeed, Hasar's ornate armor was splattered with black blood. She'd been in the thick of it, atop her Muniqi horse, and had ridden right up to the gates. But the princess made no further comment.

Irritation, deep and nearly hidden, flashed in Aelin's eyes. Yet she didn't speak again-didn't push the princess about their next steps. She just watched the battlefield once more, chewing on her lip.

She'd barely stopped during the battle, halting only when there had been no more Valg left to kill. And in the minutes since the walls had been cleared, she'd remained quiet— distant. As if she was still climbing out of that calm, calculating place she'd descended into while fighting. She hadn't bothered to remove any of her armor. The bronze battle-crown was caked with blood, her hair matted with it.

Chaol's father had taken one look at her armor, at Rowan's, and gone white with rage.

For now. They had bigger things to consider. Things that drove his mate to gnaw on her lip. When Prince Kashin's army might arrive, if they would indeed head northward to Terrasen. If today had been enough to win them over.

"Any nearby are to run here. Those farthest out will have to flee for the forest." Rowan met Aelin's stare. Her hands began shaking.

This cannot end here, she seemed to say.

Panic—panic indeed flared in her eyes. Rowan gripped her trembling hand and squeezed.

But there was no truth or lie that might soothe her. No truth or lie to save the army on the plain.

Something had gone wrong. Something was wrong.

The battlefield stretched into the distance, healers darting amongst the felled bodies with white banners high to indicate their locations. So many. So many dead and wounded. A sea of them.

Elide reached Chaol's side just as Nesryn Faliq leaped atop her beautiful ruk, launching into a dive for the army below. No-the other ruks.

Elide laid a hand on Lord Chaol's shoulder, drawing his attention from where he watched Nesryn fly off. Blood-splattered, but his bronze eyes were clear. And full of terror.

Any message that Yrene had given Elide faded from her memory. "What's wrong?"

It was Aelin who answered, her bloodied armor strange and ancient. A vision of old. "The dam is going to break," the queen said hoarsely. "And wipe away anyone on the plain."

Oh gods. Oh gods.

Elide glanced between them, and knew the answer to her next question: What can be done?

Nothing.

Ruks took to the skies, flapping toward them, soldiers in their talons and clinging to their backs.

"Has anyone warned the healers?" Elide pointed to the white banners waving so far out into the plain. "The Healer on High?" Hafiza was down there, Yrene had said.

Silence. Then Prince Sartaq swore in his own tongue, and sprinted for his golden ruk. He was spearing for the battlefield within seconds, his shouts ringing out. Kadara dipped every few moments, and when she rose again, another small figure was in her talons. Healers. Grabbing as many of them as he could.

Elide whirled to her companions as soldiers began running for the keep, trampling corpse and injured alike. Orders went out in the language of the southern continent, and more soldiers on the battlefield leaped into action.

"What elsewhat else can we do?" Elide demanded. Aelin and Rowan only stared toward the battlefield, watching with Fenrys and Gavriel as the ruks raced to save as many as they could. Behind them, Princess Hasar paced, and Chaol and his father murmured about where they might fit everyone in the keep. Those who survived.

Elide looked at them again. Looked at all of them.

And then asked quietly, "Where is Lorcan?" None of them turned. Elide asked, louder, "Where is Lorcan?" Gavriel's tawny eyes scanned hers, confusion dancing there. "He ... he went out onto the battlefield during the fighting. I saw him just before the khagan's troops reached him."

"Where is he?" Elide's voice broke. Fenrys faced her now. Then Rowan and Aelin. Elide begged, voice breaking, "Where is Lorcan?" From their stunned silence, she knew they hadn't so much as wondered.

Elide whirled to the battlefield. To that endless stretch of fallen bodies. Soldiers fleeing. Many of the wounded being abandoned where they lay. So many bodies. So, so many soldiers down there.

"Where." No one answered. Elide pointed toward the battlefield and snarled at Gavriel, "Where did you see him join with the khagan's forces?"

"Nearly on the other side of the field," Gavriel answered, voice strained, and pointed across the plain. "I—I didn't see him after that."

"Shit," Fenrys breathed.

Rowan said to him, "Use your magic. Jump to the field, find him, and bring him back."

Relief crumpled Elide's chest.

Until Fenrys said, "I can't."

"You didn't use it once during the battle," Rowan challenged. "You should be fully primed to do it."

Fenrys blanched beneath the blood on his face, and cast pleading eyes to Elide. "I can't."

Silence fell on the battlements.

Then Rowan growled, "You won't." He pointed with a bloody finger to the battlefield.

"You'd let him die, and for what? Aelin forgave him." His tattoo scrunched as he snarled again.

"Save him."

Fenrys swallowed. But Aelin said, "Leave it, Rowan." Rowan snarled at her too. She snarled right back. "Leave it."

Some unspoken conversation passed between them, and the hope flaring in Elide's chest went out as Rowan backed down. Gave Fenrys an apologetic nod. Fenrys, looking like he was going to be sick, just faced the battlefield again.

Elide backed away a step. Then another.

Lorcan couldn't be dead.

She would know if he were dead. She would know it, in her heart, her soul, if he were gone.

He was down there. He was down there, in that army, perhaps injured and bleeding out — No one stopped her as Elide raced inside the keep. Each step limped, pain cracking through her leg, but she didn't falter as she hit the interior stairwell and plunged into the chaos.

She had made him a promise.

She had sworn him an oath, all those months ago.

I will always find you.

Soldiers and healers fled up the stairs, shoving past Elide. The shouting was near-deafening, bouncing off the ancient stones. She battled her way down, sobbing through her teeth.

I will always find you.

Pushing, elbowing, bellowing at the frantic people who ran past her, Elide fought for each step downward. Toward the gates.

People screamed, a never-ending flood surging up the stairs. Still Elide pushed her way down, losing a step here, another there. They did not even look at her, even try to clear a way as they flowed upward. It was only when Elide lost another step that she roared into the stairwell, "Clear a path for the queen!"

No one listened, so she did it again. She filled her voice with command, with every ounce of power that she'd seen the Fae males use to intimidate their opponents. "Clear a path for the queen!"

This time, people pressed against the walls.

Elide took the small opening, and screamed her order again and again, ankle barking with every step down.

But she made it. Made it to the chaotic lower level, to the open gates teeming with soldiers. Beyond them, bodies stretched into the horizon. Warriors and healers and those bearing the wounded rushed toward any stairwell they could find.

Elide managed all of five limping steps toward the open gate before she knew it would be impossible. To cross the field, to find him on the endless plain, before that dam burst and he was swept away. Before he was gone forever.

He was not dead.

He was not dead.

I will always find you.

Elide scanned the gates, the skies for any sign of a ruk that might carry her. But they soared to the upper levels, crawling with soldiers and healers, some even depositing their charges onto the mountain face itself. And at ground level, none would hear her cries for help.

No soldiers would stop, either.

Elide scanned the other end of the gates' entryway.

Beheld the horses being led out from their stables by frantic handlers, the beasts bucking at the panic around them as they were hauled toward the teeming ramps.

A black mare reared, her cry a sharp warning before she slashed her hooves at the handler. Lord Chaol's horse. The handler shrieked and fell back, barely grasping the reins as the horse stomped, her ears flat to her head.

Elide did not think. Did not reconsider. She limped for the horses and the stables.

She said to the frantic handler, still backing away from the half-wild horse, "I'll get her." The man, white-faced, threw her the reins.

"Good luck." Then he, too, ran.

The mare Farasha-yanked so hard on the reins that Elide was nearly hurled across the stones. But she planted her feet, leg screaming, and said to the horse, "I have need of you, fierce-heart." She met Farasha's dark, raging eyes. "I have need of you." Her voice broke.

"Please."

And gods above, that horse stilled. Blinked.

Horses and handlers streamed past them, but Elide held firm. Waited until Farasha lowered her head, as if in permission.

The stirrups were low enough thanks to Lord Chaol's long legs that Elide could reach them. She still bit down on her shout as her weight settled on her bad ankle, as she pushed, and heaved herself into Farasha's fine saddle. A small mercy, that they had not even had time to unsaddle the horses after battle. A set of what seemed to be braces hung from its sides, surely to keep Lord Chaol stabilized, and Elide unhooked them. Any weight, anything to slow her, had to be discarded.

Elide gathered the reins. "To the battlefield, Farasha."

With a whinnying cry, Farasha plunged into the fray.

Soldiers leaped from their path, and Elide did not stop to apologize, did not stop for anyone, as she and the black mare charged toward the gates. Then through them.

And onto the plain.

[aayakashii]

After a long time, I offer you the sequel to this fic here 🤲

Warnings: *BANGING POTS AND PANS* KUUYA IS A SUBMISSIVE PATHETIC LOSER YANDERE IF YOU DON'T LIKE MALE SUBS YOU MIGHT NOT LIKE THIS!!!! Also: NSFW and yandere themes from Kuuya and the reader; reader is gender neutral and AFAB; 9k words 💀

Kuuya is a @devotion-disorder OC and they gave me permission to write more abt their sad and wet cat <3 I hope you like it!!! The art below is theirs as well!

♡ cannibalism as a metaphor for love ♡

The clock ticked a little bit past 6PM. You frowned as you watched the last rays of sun fade away in the sky, thinking about your house – how you could be wearing your comfortable pajamas, making some greasy popcorn while you watched a bad horror movie.

Instead, all that you had was that non-ergonomic chair, a coffee that had already gone cold and bitter and the glaring blue light of your computer burning your retinas.

You were working overtime.

It’s not a new concept for you per se, not in a black corporation such as the one you worked for. It’s just that on that specific day, it felt like everyone had left the building but you. Every cubicle was empty and the room was incredibly dim – it was anxiety inducing. You turned on as many lights as you could and put some background music to feel less isolated, but the setting simply didn’t help. You were locked in that little dystopian bubble all on your own and no amount of piled up work could make you concentrate properly when it felt like you were in purgatory.

Outside, a loud thunder made the window panes vibrate and you sighed.

“Fuck this” you murmured, getting up. You’d at least make some more coffee. Would you feel even more anxious? Yes. But you needed something to distract yourself with and brewing a new, actually sweetened pot of coffee would have to do.

You briskly walked towards the break room, trying to avoid thinking about the oppressing darkness that surrounded you, staring at your feet. However, you soon slowed down – the door to the office kitchen was closed, and you could see the light was on from the crack under the door. 

Common sense would allow you to come to the conclusion that probably someone else was in the building with you, after all. 

But in that moment, all that blared in your mind were the sirens of dread. Your mind went from thinking that a serial killer was hiding in the pantry to imagining a deadly monster coming to whisk you away before you ever thought about some other colleague being in the building with you.

You crossed your fingers hoping it was just the (possibly hot) monster from another dimension coming to kidnap you and slowly opened the door, ready to run if needed.

Instead, you were met with the curved back and the mop of messy lilac hair of someone you knew oh too well.

“Kuuya?” you called, quietly.

“AH!” he flinched, crinkling the plastic cup he had in his hand and spinning around to look at you. The water he was pouring in his cup splashed on his button up shirt and he looked like a deer caught in headlights.

You raised your hands up, like you would do to a feral animal to show you mean no harm.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to spook you. I didn’t know there was someone else here. I thought I was alone.” you said, entering the room and feeling a little bit relieved to see another sign of life in that somber building.

Even if it was from your cute and creepy little stalker.

Kuuya hurriedly grabbed a napkin and began dabbing at his shirt, nodding silently and avoiding your eyes.

You sighed loudly as you began rummaging the kitchen’s cabinets for all the supplies you needed.

As much as you allowed yourself to indulge in your sick fantasies when it came to him, most of the time Kuuya just frustrated you. You wondered if he would ever try to talk to you. Hell, would he ever even look at you in your eyes for more than a second? It was maddening.

You knew he was far from innocent, no matter how reserved he acted around you. Didn't he literally follow you to your home just to jerk off in the bushes by your window? Where is all that courage when you're right next to him?

You wouldn't mind actually taking the initiative, but most of the time you honestly felt like you were crazy. Maybe you were so horny for that sad wet cat that you were hallucinating. 

Maybe he never went to your house and it was just the wishful thinking of your deeply, deeply perverted mind.

Maybe he actually wanted to run away from you whenever you were around, but you were just too insane so you kept imagining him fisting his cock just because you breathed near him.

Although they do say that insane people never think they're insane.

God! If only he gave you A DIRECT SIGN! A green light! Something that would let you know you can take charge!

No matter how adorable his bashfulness was, he still made you feel like you were kicking a baby animal whenever you addressed him directly. And honestly, that didn't really help his case.

“Are you… okay?” his quiet voice snapped you out of your thoughts and you noticed how you were crouching and staring at a dead empty cabinet for way longer than necessary. You closed the door and got up quickly, clearing your throat.

“We’re out of coffee.” you said, pulling your phone out of your pocket. “I'm gonna order something to eat. Is there anything you want?”

Kuuya was one step away from being malnourished, you noticed. You wouldn't mind putting some food inside that scrawny body.

“Um… No, it’s not necessary… I don’t really have… um… money…”

You waved your hand dismissively as you scrolled through a delivery app.

“That doesn’t matter. I’m paying.”

Kuuya shook his head frantically while waving his hands.

“N-no, I can’t accept that!”

You side-eyed him and he visibly flinched under your glare.

“Even if you don’t tell me what you want to eat, I’m gonna order something for us. We are quite literally stranded here, I’m not going to let you go hungry.” you shrugged.

He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. God, he was so cute. Why did he act like you would straight up kill him if he said something wrong, though? Were you that intimidating? Well, not intimidating enough to keep him from masturbating right by your bedroom and stealing your stuff, apparently.

“Also” you continued “It’s going to rain soon, apparently. I don't want to make some delivery guy go out in the rain to deliver us food once we’re actually hungry, so I'll just do it now.”

Kuuya opened and closed his mouth, as if he wanted to say something, but nothing would come out. He looked like a little fish, you thought, as you waited for him to say something. When he didn’t after a whole minute, you just shrugged.

“Is chicken sandwich and fries okay with you?”

He nodded, hesitant yet still licking his lips unconsciously at the thought of some good actual food. You figured he was probably very hungry. In fact, you could picture it very clearly: Kuuya getting home and just eating the least nutritious instant noodles in the world, day after day. No wonder he looked so tired all the time. He was probably running low on fuel for way too long.

“Okay. So I’m gonna order those, and also some coffee and cookies. If I'm gonna stay here and be tortured by all the work I gotta do, I wanna at least have something tasty to console me.” you mumbled, more to yourself than anyone else.

And as you placed the order, you ended up missing the little lovestruck smile that quickly appeared on Kuuya’s face.

You had gone back to your cubicle while you waited for your order. Knowing you weren't completely alone calmed your nerves and you managed to work properly for the time it took for your food to arrive.

Once you had all the bags in your hands, you walked back to the kitchen and the door was open just like you had left it. Kuuya was still there, sitting at the table, nursing a tepid cup of water.

“You didn't go back to your work station ?” you said, putting the multiple bags of food on the table, earning a startled yelp from him again. You raised an eyebrow and huffed out a laugh. “You're more skittish than I am.”

He pursed his lips into a thin line, avoiding your eyes.

“S-sorry…”

You shook your head.

“There's no reason to apologize. Here, the food arrived. Let's eat?”

He nodded, hurriedly getting up to help you set up plates and cups down, wobbling a little bit like he had to consciously think about how to walk properly.

You looked at him through the corner of your eye while he washed a few dishes. 

Kuuya always seemed like he was in distress. His shoulders looked tense like a violin string and there was always a little crease on his forehead. His eyebrows were almost always scrunched and raised up, giving him that kicked puppy look to his face that you found so endearing. It made you want to hold him in your arms and massage those little shoulders until they were soft under your fingers, and kiss those worry lines until he relaxed, even if just for a little while.

You clenched and unclenched your fingers, quickly busying yourself with putting the now clean plates on the table, otherwise you'd jump at him as soon as he looked at you with those pink doe eyes that you so deeply wished you could stare at for hours on end.

If only he wasn't so easily frightened.

Soon enough, everything was set on the table, ready for you to eat.

“Alright” you sat down and motioned vaguely towards the food “Dig in! Don’t be shy.”

Kuuya slowly sat down, eyeing the sandwiches like he had never seen food before in his life. Still, he kept his hands to himself and fidgeted on his chair.

“Is something wrong?”

“I- I feel like I should be paying for this. I promise I'll repay you once I get my next paycheck.” he mumbled, looking extremely embarrassed.

You tutted, shaking your head.

“Nonsense. You don't have to pay for anything. Now eat. It'll make me glad if you eat properly. That's how you can pay me back.”

He pouted for a moment, considering your words, then hesitantly grabbed the sandwich, giving it a nibble. His face lit up at the taste of the sandwich and his inhibitions then seemed to go down a little. He took a bigger bite, chewing happily. His chin was slightly smeared with sauce and you smiled.

So fucking cute.

As you ate, you noticed how he kept on shaking and nodding his head in order to move the long lilac bang that covered his right eye away from his mouth. After a few more moments just watching him struggle, you got up from your seat.

“Here, let me help you.” You reached inside your pockets and showed him a hair clip you always kept at hand. You reached out for his bangs, hovering your hand over his hair as if to ask for permission to put the clip on him.

He unceremoniously slapped his hands over his bangs and right eye, hard.

“N-no!” He yelled, sounding terrified.

You jumped, surprised at his uncharacteristic reaction, and raised your arms again, the second time that day.

“Okay, okay. Sorry, I won't touch it. You can put it on your hair if you'd like it, then. No pressure” you said, still offering the hair clip.

He slowly moved his hands away from his eye, shaking as he grabbed the clip from your palm. 

“O-okay…thank you and… sorry…” he mumbled, gripping the clip tightly inside his fist.

“It's no problem. Just… please pin it in a way that will keep your hair from touching your food” you grimaced “That's not really hygienic.”

He clumsily pinned his hair to his scalp, the bangs still completely covering his right eye, but somehow precariously pinned right over his ear. You gave him a nod of approval.

“I guess that's good enough.”

You two continued eating, a painfully awkward silence looming in the atmosphere, as the heavy rain that had threatened to fall all night finally pattered against the windows.

You figured you wouldn't try to break that silence, despite how uncomfortable it was. It was time for him to try and communicate with you too, and if he didnt, well. You wouldn't spread yourself thin just to receive a few nods and indiscernible  mumbles, no matter how adorable he was whenever he was flustered.

Kuuya politely thanked you for the food as he finished eating, right at the same time as you. He pushed his chair, the grating sound against the floor making the both of you flinch. He straightened himself up, as much as his hunched back would allow him to, and cleared his throat.

“I, uh. I have to go to the bathroom. I'll- I'll clean everything up, so you can leave it there. I'll be right- I'll be right back.” He stuttered, eyes flitting everywhere around the corners of the kitchen, except to you. He was tightly grabbing his elbow with his other hand, until he visibly relaxed when you nodded at his words, like he needed your permission, and scrambled out of the room.

You waited a minute or two after he left, before getting up and quickly walking towards the men's bathroom as well.

Yeah, right. Sure. Bathroom.

You might not have known Kuuya that well yet, but you knew one little thing: he was a terrible liar.

You opened the door to the bathroom as quietly as you could, hoping it wouldn't creak and possibly rat you out. When you managed to close it behind you without a sound, you exhaled a breath you didn't even know you were holding.

Stepping slowly and carefully, you walked towards the bathroom stalls and stood still for a second.

Yeah. There it was.

Your mouth quirked up into a pleased smile when you heard the sound of heavy breathing coming from a stall to your left. Gasps and choked out little moans reached your ears and went straight into your core.

Kuuya was jerking off in that bathroom stall.

You licked your lips and kept moving slowly, much like a predator trying not to be seen. You slotted yourself into the stall right beside him and crouched on top of the toilet, effectively hiding your feet from him in case he looked down.

But from the sounds coming out of his stall, he was already way too cumbrained to notice anything around him.

You could hear the sounds of his hand rubbing his cock mercilessly as he groaned, probably a little louder than he should if he was trying to be subtle.

Your breathing became heavy.

You found yourself imagining his hand grabbing his shaft tightly, rubbing his thumb against the angry pink tip of his dick, smearing the beads of precum all over his length. His other hand would be lifting his shirt to pinch and pull at his nipple, eliciting those cute little gasps you kept hearing from where you were standing.

Begrudgingly, you undid your pants’ zipper and shoved your hand into your already leaking cunt.

His moans got louder, the lewd, wet sounds of him fucking his own hand going faster and you thought of how his cock would be twitching, balls heavy with cum tightening as a warning sign that he was about to come undone.

Your fingers circled your clit, eyes closed and mouth agape with a silent moan at how fucking hot he sounded and how filthy you felt for getting off to him without his consent – but it's not like he didn't do the same to you before.

A loud, shaky moan came out of him as he apparently came all over his own hand. You thought of how he would ride his own high, squeezing every last drop of his load out of his cock until the overstimulation would be too much and he'd halt his movements.

You heard him pant heavily, stopping your movements so he wouldn't hear the wet sounds of your pussy. You were so far away from your own high, but listening to his little mewls was more than worth the frustration.

Until he opened his mouth again to moan your name.

“I love you… I love you I love you I love you, fuckfuckfuck I love you so so much.. a-ah fuuuuck…” the sounds of him furiously jerking off reached your ears again and your eyes fluttered shut as you tried to control your breathing.

He kept moaning and whining your name over and over again, probably leaning against the stall's wall as everything began to shake in the same rhythm of his hips.

You bit your knuckle hard, trying to avoid making any sounds while you rubbed yourself, chasing your orgasm to the glorious sound of your pathetic stalker fucking himself silly in your workplace's bathroom.

His whiny, slutty voice sounded like honey, viscous and sweet – something that you would swallow eagerly, leaving your tongue heavy with his syrupy, nauseating taste. 

You bit your knuckle harder as you felt the frustration of chasing a release that would not come, because you desperately wanted to taste him; to glide your tongue over his skin and memorize the salty flavor of his sweat and the musky scent of his body. Anything else would not work for you anymore.

You could eat him whole, truly. You needed your hands and your stomach and your pussy to be full of him. Urgently.

You stopped toying with your clit, allowing the anger of not even having a sad, unsatisfying orgasm wash over your body.

Kuuya seemed to finish much quicker this time, your name in his lips loud as he came a second time.

You looked down and bit your lip, pulling your own hair in frustration – you could see a few drops of his cum drip onto the bathroom floor, pitifully wasted.

Closing your eyes, you forced yourself to breathe deeply and closed your eyes. 

First, you needed to get out of there without him noticing so he wouldn't have a mental breakdown and run away. And then, only after that, you could think of the next steps of your plan.

You allowed yourself to rest your head against the wall, waiting for him to clean himself up and leave.

It was so weird, this desperate attraction you had for Kuuya and how afraid you were of messing everything up. You had your previous crushes before, sure. But nothing was ever as strong as the desire you had to cradle that stupid man in your arms and keep him with you, safe. 

You knew things were different once you found out he was obsessed with you and it still didn't extinguish that little fire inside of your core.

Usually, you'd lose interest in people as soon as they began expressing interest in you as well – you knew it was wrong and you had brought it up during therapy sessions, but it never really bothered you.

Until Kuuya. 

When you confirmed your suspicions (that he was insanely obsessed and even went as far as stalking you) you felt a strange excitement bubble in your stomach – like you had achieved something.

It made you shiver in anticipation for those little moments in which your eyes would meet his and he'd blush furiously, or when you'd purposely brush your hand against his only to watch how he twitched and rubbed his thighs together.

You were addicted to him. You wanted him even more after finding out about his feelings, and that was new to you. That was something you weren't willing to let go.

And with that, came the fear that Kuuya might be just like you. What if he was an emotionally constipated mess like yourself? What if he lost all interest as soon as you gave him an opening? Just because he was different for you, didn't mean you'd be special to him, in the off case he had the same bad habits.

That was why you were so cautious, so slow in your movements. You didn't want him to run. You didn't want to lose the feeling of being reciprocated. You'd protect it the same way you'd protect a tiny flame against the whip of a merciless wind.

But after hearing him moan your name like a needy whore, you didn't think you could hold it in anymore.

Kuuya had already left for a good 5 minutes while you were lost in your thoughts.

You quickly cleaned yourself and walked towards the sinks to wash your hands. You looked at yourself in the mirror of the men's bathroom. Sweat stuck to your forehead and your face looked flush. You were out of breath and your heart beat fast and loud inside your ribcage.

You turned on the sink, splashing cold water against your face and, after you dried up, you stared at your reflection again.

Well. So Kuuya had loudly moaned your name as he fucked his own fist. And you had masturbated to the sounds of his gasps and mumbles of your name.

No matter how paranoid you were – you were very much sure you weren't fucking hallucinating any of that.

“Walk me home?” you went to his desk after you finished the last of the details in your reports, fully intent on taking him with you to your home.

‘It’s now or never’, you thought to yourself.

“S-sorry?” he sputtered.

“Walk me home?" you repeated "The rain stopped, but it's kinda late. I don't want to walk alone. It's too dark.” 

He seemed to consider your request for way too long. Anxiety began bubbling in the pit of your stomach, and, for a moment, you thought it'd be better to just pretend you never asked anything, until he answered you.

“Okay… I can go with you.” he murmured, getting up and grabbing his shoulder bag.

You let out a breath of relief you didn't know you were holding, and smiled.

“Thank you, Kuuya!”

You didn't miss how he bit his lips and shivered at your words.

The walk home was uneventful, as you expected. Kuuya walked by your side and insisted on staying on the road's side of the sidewalk. You praised him for being a gentleman and he became a blushing and stuttering mess, but besides that, he was quiet. 

You arrived at your door and Kuuya hovered right beside you, watching you fumble with your keys.

You weren't very good at hiding your anxiety after all.

Once the door opened, you stepped inside and held it for him.

“Come inside for a moment.” you murmured after clearing your throat.

You watched his throat bob up and down when he swallowed hard. He probably had many questions and, honestly, you couldn't blame him. You had no reason to invite him to your house.

At least not obvious reasons, that is.

He did as you told after a few seconds of hesitation, although he had confusion written all over his face.

“Why… why did you invite me in?” he finally asked while he watched you shrug off your coat and kick off your boots. You motioned for him to take off his shoes as well and leave them beside yours.

“Just something I gotta do.” you answered, observing him clumsily undo the knots on his shoes.

He cocked his head to the side, looking up at you.

“What?”

Once he was finished putting his shoes right beside yours, you beckoned him with your finger, and began walking deeper inside your house and towards your room, hoping he would follow.

He did, dumb shock plastered on his face, but still compliant.

You opened the door and motioned for him to enter. As soon as he was inside, you slammed the door behind you and locked it.

Kuuya's eyes were wide as he quickly turned to look at you. He seemed terrified, the poor thing, but this time you wouldn't back down. You couldn't.

“Shhh, it's okay. No need to be so scared” you shushed him as he opened his mouth, walking slowly towards him. You placed your hand on his chest and pushed him towards your bed.

When he plopped unceremoniously on the mattress, you looked at his pants.

He was already hard.

You smirked.

“Do you know why I brought you here?” you asked in a murmur while you leaned towards his trembling figure, wiping a few stray tears from his cheeks with your thumb and holding your weight over him with your other arm.

“N-no…?”

You cocked your head, actually surprised at his answer.

“Really? Are you really that clueless?” you traced his jaw with your finger, and he squirmed underneath you, rubbing his thighs together to get any friction on the bulge inside his pants.

“I…” he cleared his throat “I don't understand.”

“Well, I, for one, am not clueless you know.” your fingers traced the length of his neck, and you smiled when a few goosebumps pricked his skin.

He gulped.

“I know you jerked off to me earlier today.” you said flatly, with a sickening sweet voice while your finger now teased and rubbed his pebbled nipples through his shirt.

He gasped and you didn't know if it was from surprise or pleasure.

“I also know you followed me some weeks ago and jerked off in that bush outside my window.” you pointed to the window hidden behind your blinds and he followed your gaze, eyes watery and cheeks a bright red.

“And I know you steal my stuff and my trash so you can keep it.” he was still looking at your window when you palmed his bulge through his pants. He arched his back, moaning loudly, and you grinned maniacally at his reaction.

Pretty slut.

“Do you… D-do you think I'm disgusting?” he asked, shamelessly grinding his hips against your palm.

“Yeah, I do. I think you're disgusting and a creep.” he moaned at your words, but his eyes closed tightly, and a few more tears ran down his cheeks. He had a pained expression on his pretty face, like you had hurt his fragile feelings.

Apparently Kuuya knew how to tug on your heartstrings.

You moved your hand away from his pants, fully aware of the damp spot that had formed on the fabric.

“But so am I.” you completed and he opened his eyes wide, looking at you like you had just grown a second head.

“Seeing you so desperate and needy…” you shook your head in defeat “It does things to me, you know.”

“I-it does?” he asked, all doe eyed, blushing and hopeful. You sighed at the sight, trying to burn it forever into your brain.

“Mhm. Yeah. It makes me wanna eat you whole.”

Kuuya shuddered as you placed your hand back on his chest, gliding it towards his throat. You held his neck firmly for a second before you gently cupped his warm and reddened cheek. He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes like a cat.

“Will you let me, Kuuya?” you whispered.

“W-what?” He opened his still teary eyes, gazing at you expectantly.

“Will you let me eat you?”

A beat of silence went by and you almost felt the ugly head of shame peek into your mind, but then he nodded, a single tear falling onto your thumb.

“Y-yes.”

Like a thin thread snapping, you kneeled onto the ground and pulled his waist towards you, letting his legs hang limply on your sides. Your fingers trembled as you undid his belt buckle and you looked at him.

Kuuya was propping himself onto one of his elbows, his other hand covering his mouth as he watched you hastily take off his pants and boxers. His hard cock sprung free, leaking pathetically, and your mouth watered at the sight.

You were starving. 

It was time to eat.

Kuuya felt like he was dreaming. Or maybe he died and his very own heaven (if he would even be allowed there) was having you suck his painfully hard cock.

He forced his eyes to stay open so he could watch you. The way your tongue swirled on his head and pressed mercilessly on his slit – you had barely put his cock inside your mouth and he already felt like he was melting.

He knew he was sounding pathetic. He whined and squirmed against your hands while you kept his thighs open. It was so good, it was feeling so good he was losing control of his body.

When you started bobbing your head, hollowing your cheeks to suck him harshly, he thought he would die. It had to be wrong, to feel this good. It was criminal.

Kuuya moaned like a whore and, deep inside, in the still conscious part of his mind, he wondered if you liked it. He hoped you did, he hoped his pathetic high pitched groans made you soak your panties because he couldn't control them.

Not when you were sucking him so good.

He bucked his hips against your mouth, the sound of your gag snapping him out of his daze for a moment so he could mumble a “sorry”, but then you moaned. 

You moaned and the vibrations of your throat went through his cock and he lost it, completely. He held your head firmly, thrusting frantically into your mouth as he repeated “'m sorry! 'm sorry! 'm sorry!” until the words lost all meaning to him. With a stutter, his hips bucked again and he spilled inside your mouth, his slurred words elongating into a pornographic moan.

You opened your mouth wide, relaxing your throat as soon as his cum began spurting, eagerly swallowing the salty taste of him while he rode his orgasm until he couldn't take the stimulation of your soft mouth anymore. 

As you dabbed the drops of cum that had spilled from your mouth, he suddenly wondered, in the back of his mind, if you already had any practice doing this kind of stuff. He panted, face warm and red, dick twitching while he looked at you wiping your mouth and licking your fingers. And he felt jealous at the thought.

He wanted to be the only one. He couldn't handle the thought of you touching anyone else like that. He hated it. Hated it. He had to be the only one you'd touch like that. God, he wished he could go back in time to prevent you from touching anyone else, just so you'd always be his alone.

A few angry tears pricked in the corner of his eyes and he tackled you to the ground, surprising you with a hug.

“K-kuuya?!” you squeaked, the air leaving your lungs went he laid all his weight on you.

Kuuya began rubbing his cheek against yours, sharing the sweat that stuck to his forehead with your face, making you grimace.

“W-what's wrong?” You asked in a murmur, after reciprocating his hug.

He whined wordlessly and began untangling himself from you, holding himself up by his trembling arms.

And, for a long moment, he just stared at you.

You thought he looked beautiful. 

He wasn't exactly the most handsome man in the world, but to you, he looked angelic.

His lilac hair was disheveled and his face was flushed. His lips were a pretty red, as if he had bitten them too hard, and his eyes were half-lidded and clouded with lust and sheer adoration. It sent tingles down your spine. You wondered if anyone has ever looked at you like that, but you already knew that no one has ever held you in such high regard. It made your heart race and your core burn. 

You could sear the image of him under your eyelids and you would never tire of it.

He was gorgeous.

You tucked a strand of damp hair behind his ear and then cupped his cheek. Your thumb rubbed his skin gently and his eyes fluttered shut. He began leaning against your touch again, before he stopped himself and opened his eyes. You looked at him, puzzled, when he averted his gaze.

“U-um…” he began, after clearing his throat. You kept quiet, allowing for him to continue.

“C-can I… um. Can I eat you too?” He mumbled, closing his eyes tightly. You felt your face tingle at his words and his adorable embarrassment.

“Yes” you murmured and he opened his eyes wide “Yes, please.”

Kuuya quickly sat up on his knees, and looked around, apparently finally realizing you two were laying on the ground.

“Do you… want to move to the bed?” he asked bashfully, and you chuckled.

“Yes, it'd be more comfortable.”

He got up, holding out his hand to help you up as well. He didn't really have enough strength to pull you up, so you just held his hand tightly, not wanting to reject his help, as you gracelessly lifted yourself from the ground.

As soon as you were standing, you began pushing the waistband of your pants down, but Kuuya's hands quickly stopped you, holding you tightly. You widened your eyes as you looked at him.

“I… want to do that.” he said, bashfully.

Wow. Who would have thought he'd be so brazen for once.

You smiled, nodding, and laid on your bed, making yourself comfortable. 

You observed how Kuuya was already rock hard again and he had yet to touch you properly. He was insatiable for you and it made your pussy clench around nothing. 

He was going to be the death of you.

Kuuya, in a sudden development, decided that it didn't matter what happened in the past. What happened, happened. All he needed to do was make you forget about it all.

He needed to be good. He needed to fuck you so good that you'd forget anyone you might have hooked up with in the past. He needed to make you addicted to his tongue, his fingers and his cock so you'd always go back to him for more.

Granted, he didn't know how he was going to do that since he was a literal virgin, but he hoped his enthusiasm would convince you to give him more chances, until he had mapped every little crevice of your body and all the little buttons that made you squirm.

Kuuya licked his lips, slowly pulling the hem of your pants down while he kneeled on your bed. The sight of your soaked panties made him gasp loud, and he had to grip the base of his cock tightly, hissing as he threw his head back. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down while he swallowed hard, concentrating on not allowing himself to cum.

He couldn't allow himself to cum untouched just by looking at your wet cunt. At least not in front of you. Not right there. He would, however, be filing this image inside the safest corners of his brain to become prime masturbation material later on, that's for sure.

He leaned in, warm and shaky breath hitting the damp spot on your panties. His tongue lolled out unconsciously and he licked a long stripe over the fabric of your underwear.

He was so sure he had died. That's the only possible answer for all the things happening right at that moment. Not only did you suck him, now he was tasting your pussy?

Oh god. He was tasting your pussy.

It was like something broke inside of him, allowing all of his obsession to spill over as soon as he pressed his tongue against you. He moaned loudly, ripping your underwear away only to grip it tightly in his hand as he, at last, dived into you.

He was going to keep it to himself as a prize. 

Kuuya slurped and sucked and licked your wetness like a starved man. He wasn't focusing on the task at hand; instead, he was just getting drunk on your juices and your musk, moaning like someone who had just eaten the most delicious sweet. Oh he was so cute, all pussydrunk like that.

You hummed, gently holding a fistful of his hair as you grinded lightly against his eager tongue. You… probably weren't going to cum if he didn't suck you with a little bit more intent, but you figured you'd just let him enjoy himself for a bit more.

Just looking at his eyes rolling and hearing the sinful whimpers and grunts he was letting out was already doing something to you.

Soon enough, however, Kuuya seemed to discover that one little bundle of nerves. He gave it a few kitten licks before curling his lips against it to suck, and it was finally your turn to roll your eyes.

Your hand gripped his hair tighter and your back arched while he rolled his tongue against your clit; eyes wide when he realized he must have done something right.

One of his hands tentatively rubbed against your entrance and you cooed.

“Yes Kuuya, that's a good boy… Put one of your fingers inside me, baby”

He gasped against your pussy, the praise clearly making him lose his focus. A mean part of your brain thought about stuffing him with a butt plug just so you could make him wag a little tail whenever you praised him, but that would have to be an adventure for a later time.

He began pumping two fingers inside you, mouth going slack in awe once he heard the shlick of your wet cunt, and drool pooling at the side of his mouth.

He was so clueless and so, so cute. You couldn't help but think about actually making a mess of him.

“Kuuya” you said, not as a moan, but as a call. He stopped his motions for a second and looked at you – doe eyed, mouth and chin still glistening with your cum.

You licked your lips at the sight.

“I'll sit up a bit. I want you to lay down on the bed.” You said, as you shifted your position and rested your back against the headrest, making him crawl towards you to keep his head between your legs.

You watched as he slowly rested his body against the bed, a little yelp coming out of his lips when his hardened length pressed against the mattress.

“Good boy.” You praised him as you ran your knuckles on the sticky skin of his cheek and he whined.

“Now I want you to hump the bed while you eat me out.” you said, flatly.

Kuuya's eyes widened like saucers.

“W-what?” 

“You're hard, aren't you?” You ran your hand through his head, caressing his hair gently “I want you to fuck the bed while you eat me out. I want to watch you move your hips like a pretty slut. Can you do that for me?” 

He blinked, staying silent as you kept threading your fingers through his hair. The furious blush that spread through his face and neck was anything but unnoticeable.

“I can give you a pillow, if you'd rather hump it instead of the bed” you added, figuring he was probably already addicted to humping his own pillow like a dog in heat, so it wouldn't hurt to make him comfortable while he obeyed you.

“Y-yes… I would like a pillow then.” He whispered.

You mouthed an okay and gave him your favorite pillow – the one you usually hugged while sleeping. You wondered if he knew that. And by the way his eyes lit up when he saw the pillow, you figured he probably did.

“Take off your shirt? Please?” you asked him, after he positioned the pillow where he wanted it to be.

Kuuya pouted at your request, and as you were about to tell him he didn't need to do it if it made him uncomfortable, his trembling hands moved to unbutton his shirt slowly. You reached out to him, pausing his hands. He looked at you, sad puppy eyes glistening with tears.

“Do you want to take off your shirt? You don't have to if you don't want to.” you reassured him.

He sniffled, looking away.

“I-I don't mind.” he mumbled and you knew he was probably hiding his discomfort to please you and would never tell you the truth. 

Kuuya seemed thirsty for your approval in every little thing, to the detriment of himself. It made a little monster inside of you roar with the desperate need to keep him tucked away, safe with you, just like a dragon who hoards gold in a faraway cave.

Your thumb caressed his still trembling hands.

“Then just leave these buttons undone. You don't have to take it off.”

“But-”

“Kuuya.” You said his name firmly, making him flinch despite the gentle touch of your hand against his. You noticed how his cock twitched at that as well. “It's okay. Now please be a good boy.”

You went back to your position against the headrest and opened your legs, pussy still dripping and throbbing with the lack of attention. He gulped, licking his lips and nodded furiously.

It was hard, coordinating his movements. All Kuuya had known his whole life was to jerk off or hump his pillow, but now he had to suck you, lick you, pump his fingers inside you AND hump your precious pillow. Not that he was complaining. He loved it. It was Heaven.

But he felt a bit self conscious about his abilities, or lack thereof.

Just like he was self conscious when you asked him to strip. He hated his body – he was so scrawny and weak-looking, he felt disgusting. What if you hated him? What if you wanted something else in a partner? He couldn't risk having you uninterested in him! Not when he got what he so desperately wanted!

Showing you his body would have to wait until he was either convinced you truly wanted him, or until he got you locked up in his apartment. The last option was the most tempting to him – having you shackled to his barred window would be a guarantee that you wouldn't run away after all.

But for now, all he could do was his best – all while suffocating you with his affections until you drowned in them.

The squelching sounds of your pussy as he pumped his fingers inside you were driving him insane.

Kuuya humped your pillow like a dumb dog in heat – his hips almost bounced against the bed with how hard and deep he was thrusting. He couldn't wait until he was balls deep inside your cunt, the leaky tip of his cock kissing your cervix until he filled you whole.

He felt dizzy. He half registered how loud his moans were; all he could think was about your cum all over his face and how he fucked your pillow, mean and fast.

“C-curl your fingers up, baby” you whined, pulling his hair, and this finally got his attention.

He acquiesced, because he was good. He was so good for you and he was going to learn everything you liked because no one else would ever touch your body ever again. 

Only him.

And he had to learn it all to keep you satisfied and happy, so you'd praise him and fuck the brains out of him as a reward. It was the perfect exchange! You'd be his and he'd be yours and nothing could ever keep his grubby hands away from you now.

He would do whatever you asked.

He felt a spongy texture against the pad of his fingers, and when you mewled, legs spasming around him, he knew he had found gold, somehow.

He halted the movement of his hips to focus on swirling his tongue against your clit and fingering your cunt at an insane speed. He would for sure be extremely sore the next day, but he only cared about your loud moans and how your thighs were squishing his head so tight and so good.

When you finally came, he groaned at the feeling of your cunt squeezing his fingers inside you, pulling them deeper inside with a vice grip, and the taste of your cum wetting his whole face. He reached his own peak at the thought of how HE was the one who made you curl your toes and soak your bed sheets like that.

And another proof that he was made for you was added into his mind.

But it was too fucking much. For the first time in his life, Kuuya felt drunk. He needed more or he would die. He needed more more more more.

Maybe more than you could even give.

He didn't let you breathe at all.

As soon as your eyes fluttered open again, coming down from your high, he began crawling on top of you, panting like a feral dog. You watched as a sticky thread of his cum momentarily connected his dick to your now wet pillow and despite all that, he was still fucking hard. How was that even possible was beyond you, but you didn't have time to linger on those thoughts when he hovered over you.

“I wanna cum in you” he moaned, still moving his hips, humping your mound. His eyes were glazed over, like he wasn't all there with you, and his pupils were blown wide.

“I wanna cum in you” he repeated, panting, a little bit of drool spilling from the corner of his mouth “I need to cum in-inside you. I need to fill you up, please. Let me breed you? Please? I wanna be inside you and hnng- pump you full of my cum, please? Let me cum inside, please? Please please please let me breed you, please” he slurred nonstop, almost incoherently, while he frantically moved his hips like he couldn't control them.

He was so drunk with you that he was desperate and talking like he had never done before. 

It was pathetic. 

And so fucking hot.

“Shhh baby, it's okay” you cooed, petting his head to calm him down while your other hand squeezed his hip to try and still his movements “You can fuck me, it's okay. I'm not going anywhere.”

He whined, nodding his head and sniffling as a few tears ran down his cheeks, seemingly coming back to his senses a little bit.

“It's okay, love” you pulled his head towards you, cradling him on your chest. You kept on petting him, while your other hand softly scratched his back in order to calm him down.

Once his breathing was a little less erratic, you let him raise his chest again.

“You okay?” you murmured.

He nodded, rubbing his eyes. Then he looked down at his cock and back at you. You chuckled. He really was insatiable.

You threw your arms around his neck, eyes half-lidded.

“Then go on and fill me up” you murmured against his ear, enjoying the shiver that went down his spine.

You didn't need to ask twice.

Kuuya was so nervous.

He was about to be inside his love! He was about to fill them up with his cum, but the thought itself was already throwing him to the edge. He would have to do his best to not cum once he felt your gummy walls squeeze his cock.

Easier said than done.

Kuuya threw his head back again, a guttural moan erupting from his chest as soon as he got the head past your entrance. He heaved loudly, focusing so hard on not spilling himself so soon, whimpering whenever your walls clenched around him.

“Y-you okay?” you asked breathlessly and all he could do was nod with a pained expression on his face.

“It's okay, take it slow” you added, gently rubbing his thighs. 

You were an angel, truly. Only you would have so much patience with someone as pathetic as him. He had to fuck you good! He had to show you that you could depend on him! This way you would keep pampering him like he so desperately needed.

Through pure determination, Kuuya pushed himself further, moaning pornographically with every inch that went inside you. Once you had taken him down his hilt, he exhaled, shakily.

“T-there you go…” you groaned “Filling me up so much, my good boy.”

Kuuya whimpered. He was torn between asking you not to say those things so he wouldn't cum, and lapping up your praise like a parched man.

He began moving, slowly thrusting in and out of your wet cunt, and he felt like he was melting all over again. He was going to be just a puddle, with how good it felt. You clenched tightly around his length like you were trying to milk him dry and he realized that he was probably going to be addicted to this from then on – there was no going back.

His nails dug into the plush of your hips as he began pounding into you, fast and erratic, the sounds of his balls slapping against your ass and the wet noise of his cock being drenched in your juices were so dirty and he loved it. He couldn't help the “Ah! Ah! Ah!” he kept letting out to the rhythm of his thrusts.

You were just so good, so made for him, so his.

With a sudden movement, Kuuya hooked his arms under your legs and pushed you. He always saw that position in those porn videos, and he always wanted to do it to you. The mating press. He wanted to push himself inside you as far as he could and then fill you up with his jizz. Ah, just thinking about it made his cock twitch inside of you.

He wondered if you could feel his fast and loud heartbeat in your pussy, since his cock was so damn hard. It would be almost painful if it wasn't for your glorious wetness sucking him in so good and taking care of him.

You grabbed one of Kuuya's hand and brought it to your clit, urging him to draw little circles on it to bring you over that edge. He rubbed it quick and merciless, looking down at how your pussy was swallowing his cock, so wet that a ring of white had formed around its base as he fucked you, and how your clit also twitched under his fingers.

Not long after, you felt your abdomen tighten and your walls clench around him as you reached your orgasm, arching your back while you desperately pushed his hand away from your clit to avoid overstimulation.

Watching you cum so hard because of his very own ministrations made Kuuya cross over that edge right away as well. With a high pitched moan, he spurted his load inside you – so much cum that it spilled down  to your bed and Kuuya mindlessly tried to push it back into you while he rode his high.

His chest was heaving and his eyes were glazed over, the look of pure adoration still visible in his pink orbs as he looked at you, sweaty and thoroughly fucked (by him! Not by a toy! Much less another man! Not ever again.)

He wanted more. He needed more. He felt like he could cum over and over again inside you and fuck you silly for hours on end.

But as he opened his dry mouth to say these words, a sudden tiredness took over his body and his eyelids got impossibly heavy.

Kuuya fell down into your arms, unconsciously snuggling your figure, his softening dick still inside you as he cuddled your body and placed kisses on your sticky skin. It wasn't long until his breathing became steady and sleep took over his body.

You decided you'd let 5 or 10 minutes pass before you'd wake him up in order to drink some water, eat some protein bars and join you in the shower so you two could clean up.

But damn it, was he adorable while sleeping. He had a little pout on his bottom lip, but besides that, his face finally looked relaxed. The first time you've seen him like that in all those months you two have been coworkers.

Pride swelled in your chest as you thought about how you're the first one to ever see him like that.

The scared wet cat finally in your arms, ready for you to coddle, kiss, fuck, take care of and protect from any harm.

You unconsciously tightened your hold on him, feeling a wave of possessiveness so vile that it made you dizzy for a second.

It was a bit too much, what you seemed to feel for him. But you weren't willing to analyze that at that moment. He was right there in your arms, clutching you like you were his lifeline – and that was more than enough for you.

At least your anxiety and paranoia had been completely quelled. If he was so desperate to fuck you after you confessed you were a bit creepy for him as well, then maybe it was okay for you to be more upfront with your desires, just like he was.

Even though he truly would never guess he was being so obvious.

It was so cute, how he thought you really didn't know about anything he ever did. Not the stalking, nor the stealing. And not even the little thoughtful things he could straight up tell you because you'd genuinely appreciate them. 

However, regardless of him telling you or not, you just knew everything. Your poor little baby wasn't very subtle, after all.

Therefore, you very much knew Kuuya had stayed behind with you at work just because he knew you'd be there. He thought he was elusive, but you could pick up his intentions from miles and miles away. As soon as you first saw him idling alone in that kitchen, it all clicked perfectly in your head.

Kuuya was so silly and so dumb, sometimes. But it was okay because that made him so, so cute that you could eat him up.

Over and over and over again.

[d1stalker]

Collateral Damage [Logan Howlett]

SUMMARY: The X-men are heroes—they save the world, eradicate threats and protect both mutants and humans alike. You don't see it that way, though.

WARNINGS: one-sided e2l, fem!reader is stubborn and sassy af but it's valid, arguing, canon-level violence, scott's a dick, SMUT - 18+ only! WC: 21k - MASTERLIST

A/N: i've always wanted to write a fic with this plot, it's been on my mind for AGES. happy reading!

----

The first time you see them, it’s on your birthday.

Not being one for big, elaborate parties, you planned a quiet celebration instead—maybe a stroll through the lively city streets, followed by dinner with friends later. You had just visited your favourite store, buying a gift for yourself, and now you’re on your way back home.

The streets buzz with life as people shop, eat, and laugh, making it the perfect backdrop for a peaceful walk and some casual people-watching.

Then, out of nowhere, the ground trembles.

At first, you think it’s an earthquake—a quick jolt beneath your feet that sends a ripple of confusion through your body. But the tremor grows stronger, the ground shaking violently as everyone around you begins to panic, frantically looking around for the source, you included. And that’s when you see it. 

A hulking, green monster stomping through the city streets like something out of a nightmare. It has to be at least twenty feet tall, its skin a sickly shade of green, its eyes glowing with rage. Cars bounce with each heavy footstep, leaving deep footprints in the cement in its wake.

People scream, scrambling to get out of its path, but you stand frozen, heart pounding as you try to make sense of what’s happening. In the blink of an eye, the city had been plunged into chaos. You lose track of your surroundings, too busy trying to keep your eyes on the monster headed your way, while also dodging the hoard of pedestrians running for their lives.

Until they show up.

Initially, you don’t even notice them. After all, there’s so much going on around you at this point you barely know what to do with yourself. Yet, through the dust and destruction, you see flashes of movement—figures darting toward the monster with a sense of purpose. 

You don’t know who they are, but their bright blue and yellow suits make it seem like you should. At first glance, it’s hard not to feel a sense of awe. They move with such confidence, with their powers on full display for the world to see. You’ve never seen anything like it—a team of mutants using their powers in the open, fighting for what you assume is the greater good.

Maybe they can stop this!

The one first to act is a woman with white hair. She raises her arms to the sky, her eyes glowing a bright white as dark clouds swirl above, blocking out the sun. A flash of lightning slams into the monster's chest, forcing it to reel back with a thunderous roar of agony, and the crowd around you gasps, watching in wonder.

But when the lightning strikes a second time, it veers off course, crashing into the side of a nearby building. The structure groans under the impact, flames erupting from the point of contact as windows shatter, sending glass raining down onto the street below.

The collision sends you to the ground, and when you look up again, you see the power inside go out, all the lights flickering off.

Whatever awe you’d been feeling dissolves into concern, a sinking feeling settling in your chest.

Following her, a man with a glowing red visor strides forward. He’s clearly aiming to hit the monster, but the bright red beam shooting from his eyes slices through several cars in the street first, flipping them over and leaving them in smoldering wrecks. One of the blasts tears through a storefront, reducing it to rubble in a matter of seconds. More people scream and scatter, trying to escape the destruction.

From the corner of your eye, you see another mutant—a man with claws—lunge toward the monster, jumping onto cars to get closer to its head. But by using the parked cars as springboards, the weight of him causes the roof to sink in, and his claws leave deep gashes in the metal. 

How heavy is this guy? Is he made of metal or something?

He’s fast, brutal, slashing at the green beast with some serious ferocity. Still, despite the attack, the monster’s strength prevails, and it easily tosses him aside, crashing into buildings, crowds—anything in the way. To your surprise, he always gets back up. And that should be good, right? They are fighting for the safety of the city. 

But as debris rains down and cars are overturned, you can’t help but feel like this isn’t helping. You’re constantly dodging rubble, trying to find shelter, only for it to be destroyed seconds later. It’s like being in a war zone, and it doesn’t seem to be getting better.

And above it all, there’s a woman with red hair. She’s floating, and you watch from where you’re hiding as she lifts entire trees from their roots, hurling them at the monster in an attempt to slow it down. Except, much like her teammates, her attempt goes awry, and she misses, the trees now flying toward you. 

You barely have the reflexes to dive out of the way.

Your heart races, breath coming in shallow bursts as you press yourself against a wall, trying to steady yourself. The sound of sirens blare in the distance, but it doesn’t seem like help is coming anytime soon. There’s too much going on. People are running, pushing each other aside, crying, screaming, trying to find safety.

Glancing around, you’re met with destruction—flames licking at the sidewalk, cars totaled, and building wreckage littering the streets. These mutants, while clearly powerful, are causing just as much destruction as the monster itself.

What should have been a simple takedown—a 6v1—has turned into a full-scale disaster.

And yet, they don’t stop. They don’t pause to help the people caught in the crossfire, don’t even seem to notice the damage they’re causing. They’re so focused on the monster, so focused on the fight, that they’ve lost sight of everything else.

Is this what heroism looks like? You’d been excited at first—amazed, even—thinking they were here to save the day. But now, standing in the middle of a city that’s being torn apart, you realize how wrong you were.

They don’t care. Not about the city. Not about the people. 

Finally, with one last blast from the man with the visor, the monster collapses to the ground, defeated. It lets out a final roar before falling still, its massive body sprawled across the street.

The team stands over its body, their chests heaving with exertion, but they have smiles on their faces, feeling victorious. One by one, they board an aircraft, dragging the monster in with them, barely sparing a glance at the horrors they’ve caused. The white-haired woman doesn’t even bother to clear the storm clouds she summoned.

Within moments, they’re gone. You, and everyone else in the area, are left to deal with the fallout. Left to clean up their mess. 

Happy birthday to me, I guess.

—

After that, you spend the next few days trying to process what had happened. You’re still in a state of shock, confusion, and disbelief, but then the media catches wind of what went down, and suddenly, it’s everywhere.

News channels replay the footage over and over, the headlines screaming about “our holy saviours” saving the day. They’re plastered across every screen, being hailed as protectors.

The X-Men.

A group of mutant superheroes, apparently. The reporters list them off one by one, like they’re celebrities you should have known about. 

Storm. Cyclops. Wolverine. Jean Grey.

Mutants with powers like gods.

—

The second time you see them, you’re on vacation.

Sitting in a quaint café in the south of France, you’re enjoying a well-deserved break. The city you’re in is perfect—cobblestone streets winding through the village, vine-covered walls framing pastel-colored houses, and the scent of fresh bread drifting from nearby bakeries. It all feels like something out of a dream, the kind of peaceful retreat you’ve been desperate for after everything back home.

You order a frappé, and as you wait, you idly flip through a local newspaper, trying to see how much of your rusty high school French you can remember. It’s peaceful, quiet, exactly what you needed—until it’s not.

Movement out of the corner of your eye grabs your attention, and you glance over the edge of the newspaper, watching a group of tourists as they walk into the café. It’s not really anything odd, so you don’t think much of it—they’re dressed casually, like any group of vacationers.

Though, something about them tugs at the back of your mind, a nagging feeling that you’ve seen them before.

You lower the newspaper entirely now, staring as you try to place where you recognize them from. The tall one with the red sunglasses, the woman with the striking white hair, the man in the leather jacket... You squint, the pieces slowly falling into place.

And then it hits you.

Oh, no way.

You’re halfway around the world, in a different country, on a different continent, and somehow, they’re here. At the same café. 

Shifting in your seat, you’re trying to figure out what the hell is going on, when the barista arrives with your drink. He smiles warmly at you, placing the cup down on the table with a soft “voila madame,” but before you can even thank him, there’s a blur of motion.

One of them—Wolverine, you think—lunges at the barista, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him back. The tray tips, and your frappé spills everywhere—all over the table, your newspaper, and, to your absolute horror, all over you. 

“Logan, no!” you hear Storm shout, but it’s too late.

The cold drink soaks into your clothes, and you let out a startled yelp, jumping up as your chair topples over. Your clothes are ruined, your vacation ruined, and in the midst of all of this?

Wolverine—or Logan, you guess, is wrestling with the poor barista.

“What the hell?!” you shout, trying to shake off the liquid dripping down your legs. “Is this a joke?!”

No one hears you, or even acknowledges you.

The other mutants jump into action, and before you know it, the peaceful café is transformed into yet another battleground. Cyclops blasts a beam at the barista—who you now realize must be the target of whatever mission they’re on—but it misses, smashing into the wall behind you. 

You’re furious, covered in a brown drink that makes it seem like you just had explosive diarrhea, and caught in yet another X-Men fiasco. All you wanted was a vacation. You don’t even know what’s happening anymore—who the barista is, what mission they’re on—but frankly, you don’t care.

This is absurd!

Without a second thought, you grab your bag and make a break for it, dodging overturned tables and debris as you make your way to the exit. You don’t bother looking back, your only thought being to get changed, and get as far away as possible.

After rounding the corner, putting some distance between yourself and the café, you pause for a moment to catch your breath. And then you hear it.

Boom.

The sound reverberates through the narrow streets, shaking the cobblestones beneath your feet. You whirl around, sticking your head out from the corner of the building, just in time to see a plume of smoke rising into the air from where the café once stood. 

Your heart sinks.

They blew it up.

—

The third time you see them, it’s a really nice day outside.

It’s a week after you’ve returned home, and the weather had finally given you a break from the suffocating heat. You’re walking home from a lunch with an old friend, when your phone buzzes in your pocket. Probably said friend sending you something stupid to laugh at later. 

You chuckle, already anticipating the joke, when—

BAM!

Something slams into you from the side with the force of a freight train. You’re airborne for a second, weightless, before crashing hard onto the pavement, your breath knocked right out from your lungs. 

Dazed, you groan and blink up at the sky, trying to get your bearings. What the hell just hit me? Your vision swims as you sit up, shoulder throbbing from the impact. Twisting your neck to see whatever the hell that was, you immediately regret it, wincing at the sharp pain. 

Great, just great.

When you finally manage to sit up, you spot the culprit.

Cyclops.

Are you fucking serious?!

His back is to you, dusting off his ugly uniform like nothing happened. You look around, and notice that the street in front you is in ruins—buildings have gaping holes where windows used to be, chunks of the road are crumbling, people covered in blood scurrying away as fast as they can. 

Just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, you catch a glimpse of the giant mechanical robots looming above, scanning for their targets. One of them must’ve thrown Cyclops into you. 

You can see the others—Jean, Storm, Beast (some new guy)—flying around, saving the world. That’s codeword for: wreaking havoc, destroying your city.

Anger boils up inside you, hot and unrelenting as you struggle to your feet, rubbing your sore shoulder. But as you open your mouth, a gruff voice cuts through the air.

"Good job, dickhead. You just hurt a civilian."

Your gaze snaps toward the sound. Wolverine’s standing a few feet away, claws out, glaring at the guy who sent you flying. 

“I was thrown, Logan,” he says passively. “Maybe if you kept the Sentinels off me—”

“Maybe if you didn’t stand there like a damn target, you wouldn’t get thrown!” The clawed mutant growls, taking a step closer. His whole posture is tense, like he’s barely holding himself back from tackling the other man into the ground (you would pay to have him do it). “Seriously, Summers, it’s like you want to get tossed around.”

Cyclops doesn’t even flinch. “We’ve got bigger problems than this right now,” he dismisses, not even glancing back at you to check if you’re okay. 

Well, there goes the last of your patience.

"Are you kidding me?!" you shout, throwing your hands up in disbelief. They completely ignore you, too absorbed in their petty bickering to acknowledge that you’re still standing there, seething.

Before you can rip into them, something catches your eye—a Sentinel (is that what they’re called?), hovering above them, charging up a blast. Its arm is raised, energy crackling at the barrel of its cannon, aimed directly at the two distracted morons.

“Oh, for the love of—” you mutter under your breath before diving forward.

The blast hits you square in the chest, but instead of pain, all you feel is the heat of the energy surging through your body, like lightning spreading through every inch of your veins. It crackles and burns, the force building up inside you until it feels like you’re about to explode.

Then, with a deep breath, you thrust your hands forward, channeling and releasing the blast right back at the robot, blowing it apart. Metal and circuits rain down, the Sentinel crashing into the ground with a deafening thud.

Silence falls.

You’re panting, feeling the leftover energy fizzle out of your fingertips. Slowly, you turn back around, and unsurprisingly, Cyclops–or Scott, as you’ve heard in the news—and Logan are staring at you like you just walked on water. Well, the clawed one is. You can’t really see the other brown-haired man’s expression due to his visor.  

“Woah, bub—”

“Oh, hell no!” You spin around fully, pointing an accusatory finger at both of them. “Neither of you get to speak! I just saved your asses because you were too busy bickering like children to notice the massive death robot about to blow you to pieces!”

Logan’s mouth quirks up, but he wisely stays silent.

“And this is exactly why I hate you people!” You continue, exasperated. “You swoop in, make a mess, destroy everything in your path, and then just leave like nothing happened! You think this is helping anyone? You think the people running for their lives right now give a damn about your little team squabbles?”

Scott doesn’t even blink. “We’re just trying to help,” he says evenly, like he’s rehearsed the line a thousand times.

“Help?” you scoff incredulously. “You only tell yourself you’re doing that to make yourself feel better. How many casualties do you think are coming out of this, hm? What’s the body count gonna be after today? Or do you not even bother counting anymore?”

His audacity makes you want to laugh. He opens his mouth to respond, but you’re not done.

"All this mess, the destroyed buildings, the people who won’t make it home tonight because you couldn’t keep your damn fight contained! You’re so focused on stopping the big bad guys that you don’t even realize how much carnage you leave behind. Who’s cleaning up after you? Who’s paying for this?! " You gesture around wildly. "News flash: the people whose lives you’re currently ruining!”

Beside him, Logan’s smirk fades, and he begins to step forward with his hands raised. “Listen, darlin’, we’re doin’ the best we can. We didn’t ask for this fight—”

"Oh, don’t give me that ‘best we can’ bullshit," you snap.

“We’re here to protect people,” Scott adds in, trying to maintain authority. “It’s not always clean, but we are making a difference—"

“Shut the fuck up! I’m not finished!” You interrupt, shaking your head. “Every day. Every damn day there’s something new.”

With the face Logan’s making, you’d think he’s going to start going in on you, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just watches, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he’s trying to figure you out. It’s unnerving, but you don’t care. You’ve had enough.

"And you," you say, turning your ire toward him, "You couldn’t have, I don’t know, used your super speed or whatever the hell you do to catch him before he crashed into me?"

His eyebrow quirks up. “Super speed?” he chuckles lowly. “Ain’t that fast. Was a little busy with the giant killer robots.”

You tilt your head back in frustration and turn on your heel. "I’m done. I don’t care what kind of mission you’re on, or how noble you think it is. If you're planning to lay waste to the city yet again, be my guest.”

Giving no time for a response, you stalk off, weaving through the wreckage of the city streets, your heart still pounding in your chest. 

—

A couple weeks have passed since the last incident, and the X-Men seem to have disappeared from the headlines. You haven’t seen them or heard their whereabouts splashed across the news like you’ve gotten used to—though not by choice, of course. Whenever they do anything, the world seems to bow at their feet.

You don’t get it.

The flashy suits, the team name, the way they strut around as if they’re the Gods of the mutant race. It’s too much, too loud. They act like they’re above it all, as if their powers and heroics put them on a pedestal. Better than those who prefer to lay low, who have no choice but to blend in.

You’ve spent years hiding your powers, keeping them buried deep where no one can see. When you were younger, you didn’t have a choice. Your mutation made you a target—bullied, beaten up, pushed around for being different.

You learned quickly that being a mutant didn’t make you special. It made you vulnerable.

So, you hid. You stayed quiet, under the radar. It was safer that way.

And then here are the X-Men, parading around like their abilities make them untouchable, like they’ve forgotten what it’s like for the rest of you. It’s not that you don’t believe in helping others—you just don’t believe in the way they do it.

In your opinion, it’s all performance. From what you’ve experienced and seen up close, they always arrive with a fanfare, ready to jump into action, and do whatever they can to exterminate the threat. Yet, when the dust settles, it’s mutants like you who are left to pick up the pieces.

The ones who don’t wear brightly coloured costumes or shout about unity. You’re the ones who have to keep moving, keep surviving, without any recognition.

But it's not like you need recognition. You never have. What you need is peace.

—

You’re on the phone with your mom, trying to reassure her for the millionth time this week.

"Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, Mom, I’m fine," you say, pacing the length of your small living room. You glance at the muted TV screen, the news still cycling through the usual mayhem. "You’ve seen the news recently, right? We’ve got the X-Men to take care of all this stuff—"

Knock. Knock.

You freeze mid-sentence, your words trailing off as the sound of someone at your door interrupts the call. Your heart skips a beat, and your voice drops. "Mom, I’ll call you back."

Barely waiting for her to reply, you end the call, staring at the door like it might explode.

A knock at this hour? Unannounced? You waver, your mind racing with possibilities.

Delivery? A neighbour? You’re not expecting anyone.

Cautiously, you make your way toward the door, hand hovering over the handle as you listen. No more knocks, just the faint hum of the outside world. You take a breath, steeling yourself as you turn the handle and crack the door open.

The tufts of hair, the thick stubble, the edge in his eyes—it’s him. Wolverine. And just as your brain registers his face, you also notice the glint of metal where his claws are already halfway out.

Instincts kick in, and before he can get a word in, you push against the door, trying to slam it shut.

Still, he’s faster.

His fist punches through the wood, and with a metallic snikt, his claws extend fully, slicing through the door as if it were made of paper. He pushes it open again, forcing it against your effort, and the sheer strength sends you stumbling back.

“What the fuck?” you gasp, eyes wide as you steady yourself. “How did you even find me?”

Stepping inside, he says, “picked up your scent and followed it,” matter-of-factly, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

For a moment, you just stare at him, dumbfounded. “That’s… that’s actually really creepy,” you manage, still trying to process the fact that he just said that without a hint of shame.

“Can’t control it, bub,” he shrugs. 

You take a step back, putting more distance between you and the man with the claws standing in your apartment. “Okay, well, you found me. Now what?”

His eyes lock onto yours. “I need you to come with me.”

“Excuse me?” You cross your arms, eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. 

“You’re not safe here.”

“Oh, I’m not safe?” you snap, sarcasm dripping from your voice. “Maybe if you and your merry band of idiots didn’t keep causing world-ending disasters, I wouldn’t need to be safe!”

He doesn’t even flinch. “Sentinels are tracking you down.”

You falter. “What are you talking about?”

“You used your powers,” he states. “Killed a Sentinel. That’s all it takes for them to target you.”

Blinking, you feel anger rush to the surface, your skin tingling with rage. “I didn’t kill anyone. They’re fucking robots.”

“They don’t see it that way,” he counters. “You took one down, and now they know what you are.”

Part of you knows there’s merit in what he’s saying, but you don’t want to hear it. The last thing you want is to be dragged into some mutant-robot war. “This is ridiculous. I didn’t ask for any of this!” you hiss, glaring at him. “And now you’re telling me I’m on some kill list because I defended myself? Because I defended you?!”

His eyes flicker with something you can’t quite read, but he stays silent, watching you carefully. Your words start flying faster now, venom spilling into each one.

“I’m the one who took that thing down because you and that one-eyed bitch boy were too busy being immature! You weren’t even paying attention, and that thing almost blasted you both.” Your fingers ball into fists. "I saved both of you, and now I’m the one who has to run?"

Logan's jaw clenches, his nostrils flaring at the accusation. “We weren’t—”

“Don’t even try to deny it,” you cut him off. “If it weren’t for me, the two of you would be dead right now. And now I’m supposed to just go with you to your mansion and hide out? Like that’s going to fix th—”

You don’t get to end your rant, because he has stepped forward, and grabbed your shoulders, gripping you firmly. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to snap your attention back to him.

“This is serious,” he spits, eyes boring into yours. “You stay here, you die.”

His words slam into you. He’s not trying to scare you—he’s telling the truth.

“You don’t get to be stubborn about this,” he continues firmly. “You think you’re pissed off now? Wait until they come crashin' through your door in the middle of the night, and you don’t have a chance to fight back.”

Wrenching yourself out of his grasp, you take a few steps back. “I just—” you begin to say, but the words feel tangled in your throat. The denial is still there, but it’s weakening, cracking. “I don’t want to run.”

“You’re not running,” he sighs, his voice softening ever so slightly. “You’re buying time. Time to fight back, time to survive. But if you stay here? There’s none of that.”

You want to argue more, want to scream at him to get away, to not drag you into his fight, but instead, you let out a long, shaky breath, your shoulders slumping. “Fine,” you breath out. 

He nods, finally releasing his grip on you and stepping back. “Good. Pack up your shit. We leave in half an hour.”

Then, he walks over to your couch and plops down like he owns the place, crossing his arms as if settling in for a casual wait.

You roll your eyes, muttering under your breath. “Unbelievable.”

Ignoring him, you turn and head into your bedroom, where you start throwing clothes into a duffel bag—jeans, a couple of shirts, whatever you can grab quickly. Your movements are hurried, fuelled by a mix of frustration and the creeping anxiety gnawing at the edges of your mind. Grabbing your toiletries, you stuff them into a smaller bag, trying to focus on the task at hand instead of the fact that some random mutant tracked you down, and now you have to leave your life until you’re safe. 

You peer back into the hallway, hearing the faint creak of the couch as Logan shifts around. I’m gonna kill this guy, you think to yourself. 

Once everything is packed and you’ve zipped your bag, you head back into the main room, only to see said random mutant still sprawled on your couch, looking far too comfortable, with a cigar in his hand.

“Seriously?” you say, slinging your duffel over your shoulder. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you.”

He grunts in response but doesn’t move. Typical.

You glance at the clock—still a few minutes left of the half-hour he allotted you, but there’s no point in dragging it out. “I’m ready,” you say flatly, heading toward the door.

Logan stands, stretches his arms over his head, and cracks his neck like he’s waking up from a nap. “Let’s go then.”

—

The ride is tense and quiet, which suits you just fine. You’d rather not talk to him anyway. Every now and then, you let out a loud sigh, unable to hold back the annoyance you’re feeling. Each time, you feel Logan’s eyes dart toward you from the driver’s seat, but he doesn’t say anything. Well, that is, until—

“Can you shut the fuck up?” he growls, keeping his eyes on the road.

You clench your jaw, shifting in your seat. “I didn’t even say anything, jackass.”

He huffs, clearly not in the mood for an argument, but the strain between you is almost impossible to ignore. You cross your arms, staring out the window, observing the landscape shift as the drive continues. 

Eventually, you can see the outline of the mansion, and you watch as it gets bigger and bigger the closer you get. Upon arrival, He pulls the car up to the front and cuts the engine. You both sit there for a moment, mute. 

“Well, here we are,” he mumbles after the pause stretches on for an uncomfortable amount of time, glancing over at you.

“Great,” you say sarcastically, unbuckling your seatbelt and pushing open the car door. 

Logan walks ahead without saying a word, leading the way up the grand stone steps toward the front door. You trail behind, your mood darkening with every step, glaring at the perfectly polished entrance. 

The doors open before you even reach them, and you’re greeted by an older man in a wheelchair—Charles Xavier, if you remember correctly. The famous telepath. The genius behind the mutant team (some news anchor's words, not yours). His expression is kind, but you’re in such a bad mood, you don’t even bother trying to seem polite.

“Welcome,” He says with a warm smile, his eyes assessing you with an intensity that makes your skin crawl. “Logan’s told me a lot about you.”

You press your lips together in a line. “Yeah? Well, don’t get too excited.”

Logan grunts beside you. “She’s got a bit of an attitude,” he mutters to Charles, then turns to you, gesturing you to follow him. “Come on.”

Inwardly groaning, you have no choice but to follow him. Everything about this place screams “too good to be true,” and you hate it already. You’re used to keeping your head down, blending in, not being surrounded by people who wear their powers on their sleeves like some badge of honour.

As you walk through the halls, a few faces appear—other mutants, some of them kids, watching curiously as you pass by. You can feel their eyes on you, can hear the whispers already starting about the new arrival. 

Charles wheels alongside you, still smiling, but there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes. “You remind me of Logan when he first joined us,” he says thoughtfully.

That stops you in your tracks.

You whip your head toward the man, giving him a piercing look. “Do not say that. We are nothing alike.”

On your other side, Logan smirks. “Not sure if I should be offended or not.”

“I’m serious.” If looks could kill, he’d be six feet under.

Chucking softly, Charles seems completely unaffected by your outburst. “You’re both a bit rough around the edges, but you’ll find your place here.”

“Yeah, sure,” you say. “Because that’s exactly what I want to do.”

Deeper into the mansion, you catch sight of the X-Men you’ve seen before: Cyclops, Storm, Jean Grey. They all turn to look at you, sizing you up. You don’t flinch—you just stare back, your expression hard.

Pulling your duffel bag higher on your shoulder, you rip your eyes away from theirs, and keep walking, following Logan down the long, quiet hallway. Finally, he stops in front of a door.

“This is your room,” he grunts, nodding toward it. “Try not to break anything.”

Choosing silence, you push the door open. Stepping inside, you expect the bare minimum—a bed, maybe a closet—but instead, you’re met with a surprisingly large space. There’s a massive bed in the center of the room, a desk by the window, and, to your surprise, a set of glass doors leading out to a balcony.

You drop your bag by the door, glancing around, trying to shake off the unease. This is way too nice for a prisoner. You walk toward the balcony doors, curious despite yourself, and when you pull them open, the cool breeze hits you immediately.

Once you’re outside, you realize something that immediately makes your stomach drop.

The balcony is shared. And right next to your side, leaning against the railing with a cigar between his fingers, is Logan.

You halt mid-motion, eyes fixed on him in stunned silence. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He glances over, a smirk playing on his lips as he takes a drag of his cigar. “Surprise.”

You groan, turning your back on him and walking toward the opposite edge of the balcony, trying to calm the annoyance inside you. Of all the people you could’ve been stuck beside, it had to be him. It’s not enough that he dragged you here, but now there’s a chance you’re going to have to see him every time you step outside.

“So what now?” you mutter, staring out over the mansion grounds, the manicured gardens below looking like something out of a postcard. “I’m just supposed to stay here, be a part of your little mutant club?”

Taking another slow pull on his cigar, “You’re supposed to stay alive. Everythin’ else? That’s up to you.”

“But why do you suddenly care?” you ask. “I’ve seen the way you operate. You and your team sweep in, fight your battles, and then leave everyone else in the dirt. You don’t care about the collateral damage—hell, you cause half of it.” 

Logan pauses, his cigar halfway to his lips. He doesn’t answer right away, and the brief hesitation only makes your irritation spike. You press on, inching closer, voice laced with accusation.

“Why now?” you press. “Why drag me into this when you’ve never cared about anyone else in the crossfire?”

Logan finally turns to face you, exhaling a cloud of smoke before speaking, his expression hardened. “This ain’t about me ‘caring,’” he says flatly. “This is about survival. You killed a Sentinel, whether you like it or not. That puts a target on your back.”

“Yeah, you’ve made that very clear,” you bite out. “But you still haven’t answered my question. Why me? Why am I suddenly important to you?”

Logan’s eyes darken, drilling into yours. “You’re not important to me,” he says flatly. “But they won’t stop until they get you. The destruction that’ll come from that—if your stubborn ass fought back, which I know it would, by the way—would be much greater than anything we would cause.”

“Doubt that,” you snarl bitterly. You don’t linger for the sound of his response, spinning on your heel and walking back into your room, slamming the balcony door behind you.

The bed is large and you can’t deny how inviting it looks after the day you’ve had. You flop onto it face-first, letting out a long, drawn out sigh.

You’re barely able to reflect on the chaotic day you’ve had before your eyelids flutter shut, and you sink into a deep slumber, the exhaustion from everything catching up to you.

—

You’re jolted awake by a loud, aggressive knock on your bedroom door. The sound is so forceful it feels like the entire frame is rattling. You release a sound, half groan, half sigh, steeped in frustration. Your face is still buried in your pillow, and you curse whoever decided to ruin what little sleep you managed to get.

“Get up,” Logan’s gruff voice calls from the other side of the door. “We’re leaving for breakfast in ten.”

Ah yes. Of-fucking-course it's him. Who else would it be?

Dragging yourself out of bed, you throw on some clothes and make a half-hearted attempt to fix your hair before opening the door, ready to curse him, but he's already striding down the hallway, hardly bothering to check if you're following. You roll your eyes, your steps slow and begrudging as you move to follow

As you catch up, you can’t help but throw him a sideways glare. “Why are you acting like my personal bodyguard?”

“Gotta make sure you don’t do anything reckless.”

You scoff, crossing your arms as you fall into step beside him. “You don’t even know what I can do.”

Logan’s lips twitch into a lazy smirk, and you immediately want to wipe it off his face. “Exactly,” he says, his tone almost amused. “Which is why today, we’re gonna test you.”

You stop in your tracks, staring at his back. “Test me? What the hell does that mean?”

He stops too, turning to face you. “Means you’re gonna show me what you’re capable of.”

Teeth clenched, you feel the slow rise of aggravation mingling with apprehension. “I’m not some science experiment.”

“No,” he agrees, “but you’re not a regular person, either. You need to know your limits—and how to handle what’s coming.”

Groaning, you drag your hands down your face incredulously. “I don’t even know what to say back to that. All I know is that I’m hungry.”

—

The kitchen of Xavier’s mansion is bustling with activity as the two of you walk in. The rest of the team is gathered around a large table at the centre of the room, and you spot Jean, Cyclops, Storm, and a few others sitting together, chatting, but you feel no desire to join them. 

Rather, you gravitate toward a smaller table by the window, hoping to get some peace while you choke down breakfast. The chair scrapes lightly as you pull it out and sit down, fully expecting to be left alone.

But to your surprise, Logan follows and plops down in the seat across from you.

You raise an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

He shrugs and digs into his food. "Eating. You got a problem with that?"

You cast a quick look toward the large table where the rest of the team sits. It feels strange, having him eat with you, especially when the rest of his team is so obviously waiting for him to join them.

"No," you murmur, shaking your head as you return to your plate. "Just didn’t think you’d stray from the flock."

“They’re fine without me.”

You push your food around with your fork, trying to push past the heavy air of discomfort in the room. Everyone keeps glancing in your direction, and you sense their curiosity, the questions hovering in silence, but no one has the courage to ask. And honestly, you’re grateful for the space.

Just as you’re finishing up, a low voice catches your attention. 

"I just don’t understand why they brought her here," Jean’s voice carries across the room, quieter than before, but still clear enough for you to hear. “She doesn’t seem like she has what it takes. It’s like they’re bringing in someone who’s—” She pauses, clearly thinking through her words. "Unstable. Weak.”

Tensing, your fork clatters onto your plate. The world around you dulls, and all you can hear is that word echoing in your head. Weak. You’ve been called a lot of things in your life, but never that.

Slowly, you push your chair back and stand up as you turn to face the table where she and the others are seated. “Say it louder, please,” you say calmly.

The chatter dies instantly, and suddenly, every set of eyes in the room finds you. Jean's face turns ashen, her eyes blown wide in shock. She wasn’t expecting you to overhear. Her mouth opens and closes, as if she’s trying to find a way to backtrack, but you know what you heard.

Before Jean can stammer out an excuse, Scott stands up, positioning himself between you and her, his jaw tight and his posture rigid. “You heard wrong,” he says sternly. “She didn’t mean anything by it.”

You take a calculated step forward, arms crossed in defiance. “Didn’t mean anything?” you repeat sarcastically. “She just called me weak. Right here. In front of everyone. You think I’m gonna let that slide?”

Scott’s jaw clenches tighter “She wasn’t trying to insult you. You’re new here. You don’t know how things work yet.”

“That’s the excuse?” you laugh dryly. “Maybe you should teach her how to keep her mouth shut instead of making assumptions about people she doesn’t know.”

If even possible, the friction between you swells, growing heavier with each passing second. Everyone in the room watches the standoff, some shifting uncomfortably in their seats, unsure of what’s going to happen next. You can feel Logan’s presence behind you, but he doesn’t interfere. He’s letting you handle this.

“You don’t belong here,” Scott states, like he’s trying to remind you of your place. “You’re not part of this team, and you sure as hell don’t understand what it takes to survive here.”

Raising an eyebrow, your lips curl into a smirk. “And what are you gonna do about it, One-eye? You gonna lecture me? Or better yet, why don’t you blast me with those laser eyes of yours? Show me how strong you are.”

His fists clench, and for a moment, you see the control slip. His visor glows red, just for a split second, as his anger spikes.

"Careful," you taunt, challenging him. "Wouldn’t want to lose control, would you? I'm sure you've never done that before."

That does it. 

A beam shoots out from Scott’s visor. Fast, ferocious, and headed straight for you. There’s a collective gasp from the others, chairs scraping as people push back, shocked by the sudden escalation. But you don’t move. You stand your ground, your eyes locked onto Scott’s as the beam strikes you square in the chest.

You’re not knocked back, or worse, killed, as the energy from the blast surges into you. The energy seeps into your bones, crackling through every nerve. Your skin tingles as the power courses through you, your body absorbing every ounce of it. Once the assault is over, you raise your head, feeling your eyes and veins begin to glow with a deep, burning red.

Jean’s hand flies to her mouth, her eyes wide in disbelief. 

Unfortunately for you, you don't get the chance to blow him to pieces, because Logan flies forward and grabs your arm, pulling you out of the room. Nobody else moves—too stunned—as he drags you into the hallway. You blink your eyes, the glow fading, but you can feel the residual energy from Scott’s blast still buzzing under your skin.

Both out of sight, he finally releases you. 

You glare at him, still rattled from the confrontation. “What the hell? Why'd you interfere?”

He just shrugs, completely unfazed. “You handled yourself enough. Now we know what you can do. Follow me.”

“Follow you where?” you ask. 

He motions down the hallway. “Danger Room. We’re gonna push those limits a little further.”

Gawking at him for a second, it takes a moment, but then you smirk. You want to know just how far your powers can go.

—

“Fuck!” you curse as you’re flung backward, your body slamming against a stone wall. Your back hits hard, knocking the wind out of you as the simulated-Sentinel hurls a car in your direction. The screech of metal fills the air as the vehicle crashes just mere inches from where you were standing moments ago. 

Rubble showers from above, the robot in front of you towering menacingly. Raising its arm, another blast begins charging in its palm, ready to incinerate you.

You scramble to your feet, heart pounding in your chest as you sprint away, ducking and weaving between the wreckage of cars and crumbling buildings that make up the simulated cityscape. The Sentinel fires again, the blast narrowly missing as you dodge behind an overturned truck. Your breaths come in ragged gasps, every muscle screaming in protest.

I can’t keep this up.

Another blast lights up the area around you, and you dive out of the way, the heat of the attack singeing your skin. You’re quick, but not quick enough to outrun the onslaught from this machine.

Then it hits you—you don’t have to outrun it.

You remember the blast from way back, how your body absorbed the energy, and how in the dining hall, you took on Scott’s beam like it was nothing. You can do it again. You can take its power and turn it back on itself.

Gritting your teeth, you stop running. The air buzzes with electricity, the earth trembling beneath you as the next shot hurtles your way.

It hammers into your chest, and once again, your body is filled with energy. In an instant, you leap into the air, propelled by the newfound strength coursing through your body, and the ground disappears beneath you as you soar upward.

At the peak of your jump, you clench your fist, channeling all that power into one focused point. Then, you bring your fist down on the Sentinel’s head, the impact echoing through the simulation as your punch connects, and the robot’s head shatters under the blow, metal fragments flying in every direction as its massive body crumples to the ground.

Sparks shoot out of its severed neck, and with a final groan of machinery, the robot collapses into a heap of broken parts at your feet.

“Good work,” Logan’s voice crackles over the comms, far too calm for what you’ve just been through. “Let’s see how you handle another.”

There’s no time for more than a muttered curse under your breath, because another Sentinel is dropped into the simulation. This one’s faster, more agile, and doesn’t waste time by charging up blasts.

It exists solely to hunt you down. 

“Cut me some slack,” you groan, half out of breath as you duck behind the ruins of a building. Your lungs burn as you try to breathe, adrenaline coursing through you like a wildfire.

This one isn’t like the last. It’s not using energy blasts—it’s fast, agile, and persistent. It rushes toward you, its massive hands swiping through the air, tearing through the simulated city with ease.

Grinding your teeth, a wave of exasperation takes over. This fight is harder, the machine barely giving you a chance to react, and your body is already starting to wear down. Your mind races, desperate for a solution as you sidestep its attacks, trying to stay one step ahead. You feel cornered, trapped.

The frustration builds, growing into something more, and before you realize it, that frustration becomes fuel. It ignites inside you, your own emotions transforming into energy, pushing past the limits you didn’t know you had.

Your veins pulse, your eyes glowing white this time, not from absorbed power but from something deeper—your own anger, your own strength. The energy bubbles inside you, filling every cell of your body until you can’t hold it back anymore.

With a scream, you release it, propelling a massive ball of crackling energy hurling toward the Sentinel. The impact is immediate, ripping through the metal and bursting into a brilliant, blinding light. It sends shockwave through the entire simulation, the machine imploding, its parts scattering across the battlefield.

And when the light fades, the Sentinel is gone—nothing more than a smouldering heap of twisted metal.

You stand there, chest heaving, the glow in your eyes slowly fading as the last traces of energy drain from your body. Your knees buckle, and before you know it, you crumble to the ground, utterly exhausted.

The simulation flickers for a moment, then abruptly shuts off, the room returning to its normal, metallic walls as the fake cityscape disappears. You’re still on the floor, gasping for breath, when Logan steps into view, arms crossed as he peers down at you with a pleased grin.

“Well,” he says, voice calm, “that wasn’t too bad.”

You shoot him a glare from the ground, too tired to move. “You… are such… an asshole.”

He chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. “Get up. We’re just getting started.”

—

He was right. You were just getting started.

The thought gnaws at you as you trudge alongside Logan, heading back to your room to clean up before dinner. Every muscle in your body aches, and you can already feel the soreness creeping in, promising a week of pain. You’re starting to suspect this is Logan’s way of getting back at you for all the snark and attitude you’ve thrown his way, but damn, is it painful. You don’t even want to think about how much worse you’re going to feel in the morning.

You feel like a zombie, dragging your feet, barely able to keep your eyes open. Your limbs feel heavy, like they’re made of lead, and each step invites fresh wave of exhaustion through your body. The man with you, of course, seems perfectly fine. He walks a few steps ahead of you, not even winded from the grueling day of combat drills, sparring, and whatever else he thought up to make sure you were put through the wringer.

“Maybe I should be a little nicer to you,” you rationalize, but who are you kidding.

With a terse grunt, he acknowledges you by tilting his head back. “You’ll live.”

You roll your eyes, though it’s half-hearted at best. You don’t even have the energy to be annoyed right now.

Upon reaching your room, you feel like you could collapse right then and there. You mumble something vaguely resembling ‘see you later’ to Logan before slipping inside, the door clicking shut behind you.

The first thing you do is toss your bag onto the floor, not caring where it lands, and head straight for the bathroom. You peel off your sweaty, dirt-covered clothes and step into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the grime of the day. 

After that quick, blissful shower, you drag yourself out, towel off, and pull on the first comfortable clothes you can find. Your bed is calling to you, and it doesn’t take long for you to lie down on it. The softness of the mattress beneath you is heaven, and you think you might just fall asleep right there and take a small nap before heading to eat.

But then, out of the corner of your eye, you notice the light pouring in through the balcony doors. The warm, golden glow of the setting sun catches your attention, and despite how drained you are, you find yourself turning to look. 

What you see is breathtaking. Shades of pink, orange, and deep purple.

It’s too beautiful to ignore.

Groaning again, you force yourself to sit up, rubbing your eyes. You can’t help it. Something about the sight draws you in, and before you know it, you’re standing and heading toward the balcony. You slide the door open and step outside, the evening breeze washing over you as you lean against the railing, taking in the view.

A few minutes pass, the world around you quiet except for the gentle rustling of the leaves in the wind. The sound of Logan’s door sliding breaks your focus. You glance over just as he steps out onto his side of the shared balcony, wearing nothing but a white tank top and jeans.

Saying nothing, he steps beside you at the railing, resting against it as his eyes scan the horizon. 

You sneak a look at him out of the corner of your eye, trying not to make it obvious. His arms are crossed over the railing, and it’s almst impossible not to notice the way the tank top lets you see his biceps, the muscles in his arms strong from the day’s activity. You are a woman, after all.

He looks relaxed. His stubble catches the last bits of the sunlight, and as your gaze travels upward, you notice something you hadn’t bothered to see before. 

The crinkles at the sides of his eyes. They’re faint, barely there, but in this light, they’re more visible, adding something unexpectedly... soft to his otherwise intimidating appearance.

Cute, you think absentmindedly, then pause. 

What the fuck?

You snap your gaze back to the sunset, feeling a sudden surge of embarrassment creeping up your neck. You just spent the entire day getting your ass handed to you by this man, and now you’re here checking out his arms? His arms? And thinking the crinkles around his eyes are cute? Suppressing a groan, you want to slap yourself for even entertaining the thought.

Nope. Absolutely not. You’re not going down that road.

Taking a deep breath, you try to bring your attention back to the sunset. The reason you went outside to begin with. You have no idea why you’re suddenly noticing these things about him—probably exhaustion making your brain short-circuit. 

Yup. That’s it.

He shifts slightly beside you, breaking the silence. “Nice view"

You nod, swallowing down the weird feelings swirling in your head. “Yeah,” you mumble, not trusting yourself to say anything more without sounding ridiculous.

The two of you stand there for a few more minutes, watching as the last rays of the sun disappear, the sky dimming into deep purples and blues. But the minute your thoughts start to drift back to him, you straighten up, clapping your hands together and quickly turning on your heel to head back inside.

“Well, I’m done,” you say abruptly. “I’m gonna crash.”

Logan doesn’t move, but you can feel his eyes following you as you slide the door closed behind you, your mind still reeling from whatever the hell that was.

Collapsing back onto your bed, you pull the covers up to your chin, determined to forget about the whole thing.

—

A few hours later, when it’s dark out, you finally wake up. The room is dim, and for a moment, you just lie there, blinking at the ceiling. As you start to roll over, something catches your attention—a smell.

It's warm, savoury. Your stomach growls almost immediately, making you realize with a start that you slept through dinner.

Groggily, you sit up, rubbing your eyes, and that’s when you spot it—a tray of food sitting on the desk in your room. You can make out the outline of a warm meal: some kind of stew, a couple of bread rolls, and what looks like a glass of water. Your stomach growls again, louder this time, as you climb out of bed and shuffle toward the desk, turning on the light. 

Next to the tray, there’s a small note:

Figured you’d be too tired to get dinner. Eat up.

– L

You stare at the note. Logan? Bringing you food? It doesn’t exactly fit with the version of him you’ve been dealing with all day, but then again, there seems to be a lot about him that doesn’t quite fit the mold you expected.

Too hungry to keep thinking and not eat, you set the note down and grab the spoon, dipping it into the stew. The first bite warms you from the inside out, and you let out an involuntary sigh of relief.

Surprisingly flavourful—rich and nourishing, it’s the perfect remedy for the exhausting day behind you

Still, you can’t help your eyes from wandering back to the note. Maybe it really is the fatigue messing with your head again, making you chalk it up to be something it’s not. 

—

The next morning, you're not woken up by banging on your door, which is a relief. You stretch, the soreness still lingering but not nearly as bad as you expected. After freshening up and pulling on some clothes, you step into the hallway, and unexpectedly, Logan is already waiting for you.

He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and you blink at him, still waking up, unsure why he’s there. “Uh... morning?” you get out, albeit you can’t hide the confusion in your tone.

A short nod in greeting. “Morning. Ready for breakfast?”

You hesitate for a moment, then decide to take the plunge. “Yeah I am, but…um, thanks for the food last night, it was good.” you say quietly, almost embarrassed to admit it.

The gesture had caught you off guard, and though you don’t want to make a fuss, it’s worth noting

“Don’t mention it,” he shrugs casually.

Nodding in understanding, you’re ready to move on when he adds, almost offhandedly, “Y’know, you’re actually kinda pretty when you’re asleep. Not being a little shit helps.”

You freeze mid-step, your mind short-circuiting for a moment as you process the words that just left his lips.

Flustered and irritated all at once, you glare at him. “Excuse me?”

Logan smirks, the corners of his mouth twitching as he starts walking down the hall toward the kitchen. “You heard me.”

Your face heats up. “I am not a little shit,” you yelp, quickening your pace to catch up to him.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he says, gazing at you from over his shoulder. You open your mouth to fire back, but the smug look in his eyes makes you hesitate. 

He’s messing with you on purpose.

Asshole, you think, fuming but trying to ignore the way your stomach flipped when he called you pretty. 

—

The kitchen goes silent the moment you and Logan step through the door, a noticeable difference from yesterday. All eyes are locked on you, the pressure in the room almost solid, begging to be cut through.

Students and X-Men alike are watching, probably expecting some kind of replay of the day prior's events, but you pay them no mind, keeping your eyes straight ahead and making a beeline for a table at the back.

You drop into a seat, picking up a piece of toast and acting like the room isn’t on high alert. Logan joins you again without a word, sitting across from you and digging into his food. He doesn’t even glance at the others, as if the room full of curious onlookers doesn’t exist.

The only sounds are the clink of silverware and voices slowly picking up again as people realize nothing dramatic is about to happen.

Chewing, you glance at the man across from you, still quietly working through his meal. You swallow, then clear your throat. “So... what’s the plan for today?”

He looks up from his plate. “Charles wants to see you this morning.”

You frown, unsure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. “Why? Did I break something without knowing it?”

He snorts, shaking his head. “No, you’re not in trouble, smartass. He’s just gonna fill you in on some things. Mainly the Sentinels.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You need to know what you’re up against, what we’re all dealing with. He’ll catch you up to speed.”

“Great,” you mutter. “More bad news.”

The clawed mutant leans back in his chair, watching you for a moment before speaking again. “Look, it’s not gonna be fun, but you need to know. Better to hear it from him than from me.”

“I’ll take that as your way of saying ‘good luck,” you breathe out. 

He smirks. “You’re gonna need it.”

Logan finishes his meal and stands up, leaving his empty plate behind. “I’ll drop you off at Charles’s office. You’ll be with him for the morning.”

You follow suit, pushing away your half-eaten plate. “Fantastic,” you mumble sarcastically, but at the same time, you know this is necessary. After all, the threat you’re dealing with is real, and being ignorant about it won’t do you any good.

—

“So, how can they be stopped?”

You ask the question before you even sit down. Charles is already waiting for you in his office, his hands folded neatly on the desk, his gaze calm and soft. 

He takes a measured breath, glancing toward the window for a moment before responding. “Stopping the Sentinels is... complicated. They’ve grown more advanced than we ever anticipated.”

“I gathered that.”

“They are highly adaptive machines,” he continues. “Designed to hunt and neutralize mutants, they learn from every encounter. They absorb information, adjust tactics, and over time, they become more effective.”

His words make you squirm with discomfort, and you glance around the room, trying to distract yourself from the knot forming in your stomach. 

“And now I’m one of their targets,” you say quietly, more to yourself than to him.

Leaning forward slightly, he says, “Yes. They’ve already locked onto you because of your encounter with them. They don’t differentiate between self-defence and aggression. They see you as a target, simply because you fought back.”

You exhale sharply. “So, what’s your plan?”

Charles meets your gaze. “There is a command center—a hub that controls their network. If we can locate it and destroy it, we believe it will disrupt the entire Sentinel operation. Without the command structure, the Sentinels will become non-functional.”

You stare for a beat, mentally piecing together the details. “You believe?”

“It’s our best theory,” he says evenly. “We’ve been gathering intel for some time now. And we’re planning a mission. A final push to put an end to this threat once and for all.”

The words linger, thick and weighty, in the space between you, You can sense where this is going. Your fingers drum against your arm, a nervous habit you can’t seem to shake.

“You want me to be a part of it.”

He remains unfazed. “I believe you have an ability that could be crucial to the mission. You’ve already demonstrated your capability against the Sentinels in training yesterday, and in real life.”

A bitter scoff escapes your lips before you can stifle it. “Yeah, but I’m not one of you. I don’t want to be part of some... grand battle. That’s not me.”

Watching you closely, his gaze is soft with comprehension. “I understand your reluctance,” he says gently. “But running, hiding... it won’t change the fact that they will find you. Fighting may not have been your choice, but now it is your reality.”

Standing, you begin to pace the room. “This is exactly the problem I have with your team,” you say, stopping near the window, staring out at the garden. “We hardly know eachother, yet you want me to be part of some mission that could very well be catastophic. It’s like you don’t care about anything except the big picture.”

Charles’s expression doesn’t change. He definitely expected this. “We aren’t perfect,” he admits, “and our battles have left scars. But this is about survival. For all of us. For you.”

Turning back to face him, you narrow your eyes. “And if I say no?”

“I won’t force you,” His voice is understanding. “The choice is yours. But know that the Sentinels will not stop. You can avoid the fight for as long as you like, but eventually, it will come to you.”

It’s as if you're stuck, with nowhere to turn, cornered by a reality you didn’t want any part of. Avoiding it doesn’t seem like an option anymore, but fighting alongside the X-Men feels like betraying everything you’ve tried to distance yourself from. 

Sighing, “I’ll think about it.”

—

When you get back to your room, the first thing you do is swing open your balcony door and step outside. The afternoon sun comes over you like a blanket, warming you up, and relieving some of the strain in your muscles. Logan is out on the balcony too, leaning against the railing, a cigar lit between his fingers. It’s a sight you think you should get used to. 

His eyes flick to you when you approach, but he doesn’t say anything at first. Without a word, he holds the roll of tobacco out toward you, as if he knows exactly what’s on your mind.

You pause briefly, for just a second before taking it from him. The rich, earthy taste of the cigar fills your mouth as you inhale deeply, the smoke heavy and warm in your lungs. There’s something grounding about it, even though the burn is rough against your throat. You let out a slow exhale, watching the smoke curl into the night air as you lean next to him against the railing.

“How’d it go?” he asks gruffly.

“He wants me to join you guys on the mission.”

At first, Logan doesn’t react, then, he just takes the cigar back, puffing on it and blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. “What do you want to do?”

It’s the same question that’s been clawing at your insides since you left Charles’s office. What do you want? It feels like the answer should be simple, but it’s anything but.

“I don’t know,” you confess quietly. “I want to get rid of the threat and go back to my normal life, but if I do, then I'd just become the very thing I'm against, right? I can’t join you guys, that’s not who I am.”

He hums softly.

Shifting a bit, you try to find the words to explain the knot of irritation tangled inside you. “I get it, you know? I get why you guys do what you do. Someone has to. But the way you do it—so carefree about everything. It’s like the destruction, the people, the lives caught in the midst of everything—it doesn’t even phase you.”

“We don’t do it carefree,” he says lowly. Inhaling into the cigar once more, the tip glowing red. “But sometimes, you gotta make a choice between bad and worse. People get hurt. But if we don’t stop the threats, a lot more people are gonna die.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, feeling the tension coil tighter in your chest. “And that’s what I hate about it.”

Flicking the ash from the end of his cigar, his eyes are distant, lost in thought momentarily before he responds. “I’m not gonna lie to you and say it’s easy. It ain’t. We all carry the weight of the things we’ve done—the things we couldn’t stop. But if not us, then who?”

“That’s an impossible decision,” you say. There’s no way you can go into this fight, knowing how much of a toll it’s going to take on everything. The fight itself is such a small piece to the puzzle.

Logan leans his elbows on the railing. “You think I wanted this?” he asks, his voice low, almost like he’s talking to himself. “I was just like you. Didn’t want nothin’ to do with the team or their battles.”

The comparison makes you grimace. “Great. That’s exactly what I want to hear.”

He chuckles, the sound rough but not unkind. “I’m serious, bub. For years, I didn’t want to be part of this... circus. Figured I’d be better off on my own, that I was above it all.”

You quirk a brow. “Then what changed?”

“It’s not like a switch flipped,” he replies, a bit quieter. “I just realized that fighting alone is harder than fighting with a team. The X-Men... they gave me somethin’. A place. Belonging. Doesn’t mean I agree with everything they do, but it’s better than wanderin’.”

That makes you scoff. “Yeah, well, you heard it yourself. Scott said I don’t belong here. Jean thinks I’m weak. Doesn’t exactly scream ‘welcome to the team,’ does it?”

His brow furrows, his eyes narrowing, as he straightens and looks at you. “Scott talks too much, and Jean—she’s cautious. Doesn’t mean she’s right.”

“Doesn’t mean she’s wrong either,” you mumble. “They don’t trust me.”

“They didn’t trust me when I first joined either, but you get better. You learn.”

“I don’t want to be like you,” you hiss before you can stop yourself, and you immediately regret the heat in your words.

He doesn’t look offended—just tired. “Didn’t say you should,” he starts. “But you can’t keep shunnin’ us.”

“So what do I do now?”

Taking one last drag of his cigar before flicking it over the balcony railing, Logan watches the embers fall before he speaks. “The mission’s in a week. You’ve got that long to figure it out.”

He turns to leave, but before he goes, he glimpses at you from over his shoulder. “This battle, it’s inevitable. Question is—how do you want to face it?”

—

You’ve never been so conflicted. This choice–to join, or not to join—is probably the hardest decision you’ve had to make in your entire life. You have seen first hand what happens when the X-men decide to stop a threat. What innocent people have to go through to rebuild their lives from the ground up. Both literally and figuratively.

And to then become someone who causes that pain? It feels like betrayal. Like going against yourself—your morals.

But then there’s the other side of it—the part of you that knows sitting here, doing nothing, isn’t right either. You know you have the strength to fight back. You have the power to help. And doing nothing… doesn’t that make you just as bad? If you have the ability to stop something, to protect people, and you don’t—what does that make you?

It’s a lose-lose situation. The X-Men don’t even want you there—aside from Logan and Charles. You can see it in the way their eyes follow you wherever you go, untrusting. They’ve made their opinion on you clear.

You lower your head into your hands, stressed. You can’t join a team that doesn’t want you, but sitting on the sidelines when you could be fighting—that makes you feel like a coward. And maybe even worse—a bad person.

Finally, with a deep breath, you come to a decision. It’s not perfect, and it sure as hell doesn’t feel good, but it’s the only choice you can make right now. You’ll join them—for this mission only.

You’ll help take down the Sentinels, and then, when it’s done, you’ll leave. You’ll go back to your life, maybe you can find a middle ground, where you’re not one of them, but you’re no longer hiding from the mutant part of yourself. 

If something happens, if you do something you regret, then you'll just have to live with it.

—

In the afternoon, you don’t do much. You were supposed to be training with Logan, but Charles had called him into a quick meeting, leaving you to wander the halls aimlessly.

Rounding a corner, you stop short when you see the rest of the team—Scott, Jean, Ororo, and Hank—talking near a meeting room. They’re deep in conversation, but as soon as you come into view, their attention shifts toward you.

Your stomach tightens, and for a brief second, you consider just turning around and walking in the other direction. But it’s too late; they’ve already seen you. 

Jean’s eyes meet yours, and her expression flickers with something that looks like discomfort before she quickly smooths it over. “Hey,” she says carefully. “I just wanted to apologize for what I said yesterday. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you didn’t belong.”

Her tone is polite, but distant. It’s clear this apology isn’t driven by genuine remorse—it’s more about smoothing over the awkwardness from yesterday’s standoff. You can feel that. You see the way she looks at you, not quite meeting your eyes, and you know this is just a formality for her.

Still, you’re not looking to start more drama, and you don’t want to engage in any more confrontations, especially when you’re already planning to leave. You nod, keeping your expression neutral. “It’s fine. Let’s just move on.”

Behind her, you catch a glimpse of Scott, his arms crossed. Even though you can’t see his eyes, it’s obvious he’s glaring at you.

Ororo steps forward, her hand finding your arm, and the touch is gentle, reassuring. “Joining the team isn’t easy,” she says kindly. “But we’ve all faced our own challenges. If you ever need someone to talk to, or help with anything, I’m here.”

“You’ve got potential,” Hank chips in from beside her. “It takes time to settle in, but I’m sure you’ll find your place.”

His words are well-meaning, and you can see that he believes what he’s saying. But what they don’t know is that you’ve already made up your mind. You’re not staying any longer than you have to. 

You don’t plan on finding your place here because, frankly, you don’t believe there is one for you. Not with Scott’s distrust, Jean’s cautious distance, and the way you know you can’t be part of a team that doesn’t care about anything but themselves. You keep your thoughts to yourself, pressing your lips into a thin smile instead. 

“Yeah,” you say vaguely, not wanting to ruin the moment. “Thanks.”

“I guess we’ll all see soon enough,” Your eyes snap to Scott, who has finally decided to break his silence. His voice is cold, but you can feel and edge to it, one that’s trying to provoke you. 

You meet his gaze—or at least the visor—and feel your jaw tighten. “Guess so,” you reply, matching his tone. Turning, you walk away, finding another place to lounge until Logan is free. 

—

The mansion’s library is massive, filled with towering shelves and the scent of old books. It’s quieter here, the kind of silence you can sink into, and after the awkward run-in with the rest of the team, it feels like the perfect place to retreat. You find a comfortable armchair tucked into a corner, grab a random book off the shelf—some old novel you’ve never heard of—and settle in.

For a while, you manage to lose yourself in the pages. The story isn’t particularly gripping, but it’s enough to take your mind off of things. But then, a shadow falls over you, covering the words in a dark grey haze.

“Hey, bub.”

You blink, looking up to find Logan standing over you. “What?” you ask, annoyed at being interrupted but also not surprised. It’s Logan, after all.

“You’ve been hiding in here long enough,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Come on, time to head back.”

Rolling your eyes you snap the book shut, dropping it onto the table beside you. “I wasn’t hiding, I was reading,” you shoot back, standing up and stretching out your legs. “There’s a difference, y’know.”

“Sure there is,” he huffs, clearly not buying it. “Let’s go.”

As you reach the hallway where your rooms are, Logan pauses, glancing toward his door. “You wanna come in for a bit? Talk?”

You’re a little bit taken aback. You didn’t peg him as the "sit down and talk" type, but he seems genuine. Or maybe he wants to keep you awake for dinner this time. Either way, you nod. “Sure.”

Inside his room, it’s about what you’d expect—minimalist, practical, with a few personal touches. A bed that looks like it’s seen better days, a couple of old books, and the scent of cigars lingering in the air. Logan sits down on the bed, leaning back against the headboard, and gestures for you to join him.

There’s a moment where you’re just standing there, staring, but then you flop down beside him, sitting cross-legged at the edge of the bed. For a few beats, there’s silence. Logan pulls out a cigar but doesn’t light it, just turns it between his fingers.

“I’ve decided,” you say finally, breaking the quiet. “I’ll go on the mission.”

He doesn’t respond, his eyes flicking to yours, waiting for you to continue.

“But,” you add, crossing your arms over your chest, “I’m not promising to stay after. This doesn’t mean I’m all in on your little X-Men gig.”

He grunts, a half-smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Knew you’d say that.”

Your brows pinch together your, lips pulling into a frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means you’re stubborn as hell,” he teases.“Always gotta fight against the grain, even when you know what’s best for you.”

Sighing, you turn your head to look at him fully. “I truly believe you are the only person who actually believes that.”

He chuckles softly but doesn’t argue. “Charles gave me more details about the mission.”

That catches your attention, and you sit up a little straighter. “Yeah? Where are we going?”

Logan hesitates for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully. “It’s... in the city.”

“The city? What city?”

“New York.”

Your heart drops. “New York?” You repeat, your voice rising in disbelief.

Giving you a slow nod, it’s like he's gauging your reaction. “The Sentinels’ command centre is located in some high-security facility downtown.”

You push yourself up off the bed, pacing across the room. “So, what, we are just going to storm in? Into one of the most populated cities in the world? Do you realize how many people could get caught in the middle of that?”

He stands up after you, but he doesn’t try to stop your pacing. “We’ve fought in cities before. We know what we’re doing.”

You whip around to face him. “Yeah, you’ve fought in cities before, and destroyed them! Some places are still rebuilding, and it’s been years!”

“I get it, alright?” He says, taking a step closer to you. “It’s not perfect. But if we don’t stop the Sentinels now, it’ll be a hell of a lot worse than a few broken buildings.”

“‘A few broken buildings’?” you echo. “What about the casualties that’ll come from it? We’re talking about innocent lives here, Logan!”

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly trying to keep his temper in check. “I know that! You think I don’t know what’s at stake? But we don’t have another option. We need to hit them where it counts, and that’s in the middle of the damn city.”

“There has to be a better way,” you plead. "Can't we try and evacuate everyone beforehand?"

"No," he says remorsefully. "If we do that, the Sentinels will catch on. It's unavoidable."

“I can't accept that," you say.

Logan’s eyes meet yours, and for the first time, there’s a flash of something more vulnerable in his gaze. “I’ll talk to the team. I’ll make sure we go in smart. We’ll try our best to keep people safe. I promise you that.”

You stop pacing, your frustration still simmering but tempered by his words. It’s not exactly the reassurance you were hoping for, but the sincerity in his voice gets to you.

“And what if you can’t?” you challenge quietly. 

His face softens just a bit, and he steps closer. “We deal with it, and we’ll do everything we can to make it right.”

He watches you, his eyes searching yours. “Look, I get why you’re pissed. I’d be too if I were you," he continues. "But we don’t have time to sit around debating. I’ll do what I can to keep it from getting ugly. That’s the best I can offer.”

Letting out a heavy sigh, you know there’s no way around it. “Fine. Just... make sure the team knows. No reckless destruction, alright?”

Logan’s lips curve into a small smirk, but there’s an underlying tenderness to it. “I promise.”

—

The last few days before the the mission zip by in a flash. Each day, your muscles ache, and exhaustion clings to you like a second skin. You spend most of your time either training or collapsed in your room, too tired to do much else. 

Except one afternoon, you sit in on a lecture, because it turns out, not only is Logan a huge pain in the ass, he’s also a professor.

Curiosity got the better of you, you’d say. The topic—mutant biology—sounds interesting enough, and you’ve heard from some of the students within the hallways that his classes are, well, something. So, naturally, you had to see it for yourself.

You slip into the lecture hall just as Logan starts speaking. He’s standing at the front of the room, pointing to some diagram on the chalkboard. The students around you are already scribbling notes, staring at him with wide-eyed fascination—or fear, perhaps. He has that effect on people.

Finding a seat in the back, you hurry over, trying to keep quiet, not wanting to interrupt. But the second you sit down, you feel Logan’s eyes on you, his voice pausing for just a moment. You look up, catching his gaze.

“Well, well, look who decided to join us,” he says, loud enough for the entire room to hear.

“Just here to observe, don’t mind me,” you huff, sinking back into the seat.

The lecture goes on, and to your surprise, Logan’s actually a decent teacher. He explains complex concepts with clarity, not that you’d actually tell him that. It’s quite interesting, if you’re being honest.

You lean back in your chair, listening, but you’re not exactly paying close attention. That is, until he stops the lesson to single you out. “Hey, you in the back,” he says. “Since you’re just ‘observing,’ how about answering a question?”

“Me?” You blink, caught off guard.

“Yeah, you,” he confirms, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve been sittin’ there long enough. Time to show the class what you’ve learned.”

“I wasn’t exactly paying attention,” you respond tightly, gritting your teeth together, holding yourself back from a few choice words.

The class falls silent, the students watching the exchange with wide eyes. You can practically feel their amusement radiating from them as Logan raises an eyebrow.

“That’s obvious,” he deadpans, eliciting a few snickers from the front row. “So, maybe you’ll start now. Can you explain the connection between mutation and enhanced physical abilities?”

Staring back at him blankly, you fold your arms across your chest. “Not my area of expertise, Professor Wolverine.”

He doesn’t seem fazed as the room erupts into quiet laughter. A small sigh, "if you’re gonna sit in on my class, you could at least try to learn something.”

“No thanks.”

It’s obvious that this little back-and-forth is amusing to the class. If you were anyone else, he probably would have kicked you out by now. One of the students leans toward another and whispers something, and you catch the way their eyes dart between you and the professor. 

“Alright, enough,” Logan says, trying to regroup the class, turning back to the chalkboard. “We’ve got a lot to cover, and some of us actually want to learn.” He casts you a sideways glance, and you can’t help but scoff.

When the lecture ends, the students file out quickly, but not without a few lingering glances in your direction. You’re making your way to the door when Logan grabs your arm, preventing you from moving. “You should’ve just answered the damn question,” he mutters.

“I didn’t know the answer,” you shoot back, shifting up to face him. “And I didn’t come here to get grilled in front of your students.”

He grunts, his expression softening just a bit. “Just tryin’ to get you to pay attention, is all.”

Before you can respond, you catch a flicker of movement in Logan’s gaze, his eyes darting briefly down to your lips. The shift is so subtle, so minute, but also so there. 

Where did that come from? 

Clearing your throat, you look away, suddenly unable to look him in the eyes. “Yeah, well, maybe ask one of your actual students next time.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Not as fun.”

—

During this time, you occasionally explore the mansion, but by the time evening rolls around, you’re usually too wiped out to care. Logan’s a beast in the training room, and with no real combat experience of your own, you’re left scrambling just to keep up.

However, on the last day before the assignment, something finally clicks.

You’re in the middle of a sparring match, circling each other, both of you drenched in sweat. Logan’s eyes are sharp, watching your every move, as if he’s waiting for you to slip up. His smirk is just as infuriating as ever, like he knows exactly how this will end.

“Gonna stand there all day, or you actually planning to make a move?” he taunts, dodging as you swing at him.

You grit your teeth, refusing to let him get in your head. You’re tired—completely worn out—but you push through how depleted you feel, focusing on his movements. He feints to the left, and you react on instinct, dodging his punch and sweeping your leg low.

Before you know it, Logan’s on the ground.

Quickly, you scramble to straddle him and hold him down. You did it—you actually got him!

Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you look down at him. Beneath you, his chest rises and falls, and his eyes meet yours. His gaze drifts lower, and you notice his fingers twitching at his sides, like he's fighting some internal battle.

When his eyes travel up to yours again, something in his expression makes you swallow hard and panic. 

"Hell no!" you blurt out, breaking the moment with a sudden yelp. You scramble off of him, putting some much-needed distance between you.

He sits up, wiping a bit of sweat from his brow, his features unreadable. Then, as if nothing just happened, he smirks. “You finally got me. Took you long enough.”

You huff, still trying to shake off the weird atmosphere. “Yeah, don’t get too comfortable. Next time won’t take as long.”

Chuckling, he gets up to his feet and dusts himself off. He glances down at his watch, then back at you. “Look at that. It’s dinner time. Last meal before the mission.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I’m not really in the mood. Think I’ll just grab something later.”

He crosses his arms, giving you a look. “You can’t avoid them forever.”

“I’m not avoiding anyone,” you protest, though you know it sounds weak. “I just... don’t feel like sitting around making small talk, especially before... you know, tomorrow.”

He lets out a sigh, stepping closer. “Look, it’s the last night before everything kicks off. You should join us—one last meal, then you can go back to brooding in your room if you want.”

“I don’t brood,” you glare.

“Right,” he says, even though you know he’s not actually agreeing. “You gonna come or do I need to drag you?”

“You wouldn’t.”

Logan raises an eyebrow, like he’s daring you to test him. You sigh, knowing you’re not going to win this one.

“Fine,” you grumble, wiping the sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand. “But I’m not talking to Scott.”

His grin widens, and he gestures for you to follow him. 

—

So, here you are, sitting at the dining table for the first time with the rest of the team. It feels weird, almost surreal, to be part of this group—especially when you’re not even sure you want to be.

You idly prod your meal, feeling out of place. It isn’t long before Hank turns to you with a curious smile. “So, are you feeling ready for tomorrow?”

Just as you draw breath to speak, Scott's voice interrupts, cold and cutting. “She’s going to be a liability.”

Your fork halts mid-motion, and in an instant, the tension that had been fading throughout the week comes back full throttle. The clatter of dishes around you fades as everyone’s attention shifts to Scott’s biting remark. 

He doesn’t look at you—just stares straight ahead, as if unable to own up to even himself. You’re so pissed off that you don't even notice the voice that speaks at the same time you do.

“Shut up, Summers,” 

“Shut up, One-Eye”

It’s like the entire room goes silent. Jean glances between you and Logan, her brows raised, and Hank looks mildly shocked, though he tries to hide it with a quick sip of water. You can practically feel the heat of Scott’s glare, even through the visor. He opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, a loud laugh breaks the tension.

Ororo, sitting beside Logan, is chuckling, shaking her head with an amused grin on her face. “You two really are perfect for each other,” she says.

Of all the things you were expecting to hear, that was not one of them. “W-what?” you stammer, mouth dropping open in shock.

She just smiles, eyes twinkling. “Just an observation.”

You know your face is burning, and when you glance over at Logan, you notice something unusual—the tips of his ears are red.

That only makes things worse. Especially after what happened while sparring earlier. You turn your focus onto your plate, trying to hide your rattled state by shoving a forkful of food into your mouth. 

Perfect for each other? Yeah, right.

But when you peek up at him again through your lashes , making eye contact for just a second before he looks away, your heart skips a beat. 

You’re screwed.

—

That night, you barely sleep. Whether it's from the nerves about the mission, or from your jumbled-up thoughts about a certain someone, you can't tell. In any case, you’re wide awake.

You keep fighting the urge to go out onto the balcony—you know the cool night air would help calm you down, and the quiet would give you space to breathe. But there’s a problem. You’re not sure you want to run into Logan again. After Ororo’s comment about the two of you being perfect for each other, you don't think you could trust yourself around him.

With a frustrated sigh, you toss and turn in bed, kicking off the sheets and then pulling them back up, trying to find a comfortable position. But it’s no use.

You’re about to throw the pillow across the room out of sheer annoyance, when there’s a knock on your door.

You freeze. Who could possibly—

“Stop tossing around like a maniac, I can hear you from inside my room” Logan’s rough voice grumbles from the other side.

Goddamn it. It's always him.

Your eyes widen, and you sit up in bed. “What the hell?” you call back, feeling both surprise and embarrassment.

The door creaks open slightly, and Logan leans against the frame, arms crossed, his usual scowl on his face. “You’re keepin’ the whole damn mansion up with all that noise.”

“I didn’t realize you had super hearing,” you mutter, pulling the blanket up to your chest, feeling a little exposed.

He raises an eyebrow and steps into the room, closing the door behind him. “Doesn’t take super hearing to catch that all that ruckus,” he says, walking over and sitting down on the edge of your bed without waiting for an invitation.

You sit up a little straighter, your heart still racing. “What are you doing here, Logan?”

Shrugging, he leans back against the headboard, his arms crossing over his chest. “Figured you might need to talk or somethin’. You’re clearly not sleeping.”

Moving to sit beside him, you lean back against the headboard, your shoulder just brushing his. “I’m just… nervous, I guess.”

He turns his head slightly, glancing at you. “You’ll be fine. You’ve got more strength in you than you realize.”

His words sink in, and you bite your lip. “What if I mess up? What if I end up hurting someone, or doing more harm than good?”

"Don't think about that," he says. "Just be in the moment. You'll know what to do."

Nodding, you feel your eyelids grow heavier, and you find yourself sinking further into the comfort of the bed, your head dipping lower. Being here, on your bed, next to Logan, is strangely comforting. His scent, combined with his voice, starts to lull you into a strange sense of peace.

“I don’t know if I—” you start to say, but your words trail off, your voice barely a whisper. You don't know when it happens, but your eyes close, and your head gently falls onto his shoulder.

You’re too tired to feel embarrassed, too comfortable to pull away. His body is solid and warm, and the rhythm of his breathing is soothing.

And when you wake up the next morning, you find yourself tucked neatly under your covers, a glass of water on your bedside table.

—

The inside of the Blackbird is spacious. You’re leaning against the wall, watching the rest of the team gear up, when Logan approaches. He’s holding something in his hands—a blue and yellow uniform folded neatly, clearly meant for you.

You glance at the uniform, then back at him, a frown tugging at the corners of your mouth. “No.”

He raises an eyebrow, his gaze narrowing. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

Pushing yourself off the wall, “I’m not wearing that thing.”

He lets out an exasperated sigh, glancing down at the uniform before meeting your eyes again. “You sure about that? We’re going in as a team. You might as well look the part.”

“I don't care. I'm not part of the team, anyway,” you reply.

He narrows his eyes at you, his voice lowering just a bit. “Just put the damn suit on.”

Glaring at him, you’re ready to argue, but you know it’s a losing battle. Reluctantly, you grab the suit from him, the material feeling foreign in your hands.

“Fine, dammit.” you mutter under your breath, turning to slip into one of the small compartments in the back of the jet. You didn't plan on being a bitch to him, especially after last night, but the suit is a sore subject for you. You're not sure about how you feel wearing it. You're not even sure you should be.

When you re-emerge, Logan’s eyes flick over, his gaze roaming over you, taking in the way the suit fits, and you feel heat rise to your cheeks under the weight of his scrutiny. “You look good.” 

You roll your eyes, trying to play off the sudden warmth in your chest. “Yeah, yeah,” you grumble, adjusting the suit’s collar. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

Then, jet lands with a soft thud, and the ramp lowers. You step out onto the tarmac, the rest of the team fanning out beside you, preparing to head toward the planned location. But just as you begin to move, the ground shakes violently, and a loud, mechanical screech tears through the air.

Suddenly, the facility’s roof bursts open, and a hoard of Sentinels emerge from the building like an army of metal giants. They spread out, their red eyes glowing menacingly as they zero in on you all.

“Shit!” Logan growls, claws unsheathing as he gets into a fighting stance.

You hear the screams before you see them—civilians, bystanders who had been too close to the facility, now panicking as the battle breaks out around them. Without hesitation, you break into a sprint, running toward the growing crowd, yelling at them to run. “Get out of here! Move!”

Your heart races as you push through the crowd, trying to guide them away from the battle, but then—

A Sentinel drops down in front of you with a deafening crash. Its red eyes lock onto a small child frozen in fear, and you see its arm raise, energy gathering at the cannon as it prepares to fire.

“No!” you scream, your feet moving on instinct. You throw yourself in front of the child just as the blast comes, feeling the familiar rush of energy slam into your body. Your body hums with the power of the blast, and before the Sentinel can fire again, you fling your hands out, hurling the absorbed energy straight back at it, and it falls to the ground. 

Breathless, you turn back to the child, who is staring up at you in admiration, and you give them a reassuring nod. “Run,” you tell them, your voice hoarse. “Go!”

They scramble to their feet and sprint off, disappearing around the corner, hopefully toward safety. You exhale sharply, glancing around at the chaos unfolding around you. Civilians are still fleeing, but the team is holding its ground against the robots.

And something strikes you—they’re doing it.

They’re minimizing the damage.

For the first time, you notice that Scott’s blasts are more controlled, only hitting their targets without excessive destruction. Ororo’s lightning strikes are precise, avoiding the surrounding buildings. And both Jean and Hank are working together to keep the Sentinels contained, guiding the fight away from the crowd.

Logan must have actually talked to them, not just having said it to calm you down. A wave of relief washes over you.

He kept his promise.

Glancing back at him, who’s in the middle of taking down a Sentinel with a slash of his claws, you catch his eye for just a second, and though he’s fully immersed in the fight, there’s a brief flicker of acknowledgment—he knows you’ve noticed.

You allow yourself a small, breathless smile, before jumping back into action, protecting any more innocent people swept up in the battle. "This way! Keep moving!" Your voice is hoarse from shouting, but you can’t afford to stop. 

Amidst the chaos, you see that just beyond the main facility, there’s a wide open set of doors—metal, reinforced, and clearly important. 

They hadn’t been open when the fight started. You scan the area quickly, and you realize it’s an opportunity, a way in. Your pulse quickens. It’s an opening you can’t ignore.

Looking at the crowd of fleeing civilians, you feel a moment of hesitation. Do I keep evacuating people or go for the opening?

As if hearing your thoughts, Logan’s voice cut through the noise. "GO!" He’s locked in battle with one of the Sentinels, slashing at its legs, but his eyes flick to yours, desperate and serious. “Get inside! We’ve got this!”

“I can’t—" 

“GO!” he cuts you off. “Get inside and stop this thing from the inside! We’ll keep ‘em busy.”

His words are enough to snap you out of your paralysis. With one last glance at the team, you grit your teeth, turn on your heel, and sprint toward the facility’s entrance. Your footsteps echo in your ears as you dash through the open door, the sounds of fighting behind you fading the further in you go. 

You expected resistance the moment you got inside, but so far, nothing. Just silence. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, and you can’t shake the feeling that something is off.

Glancing down every corridor, double-checking each corner, you keep thinking there’ll be a fight, but it’s... empty. You keep your pace quick but cautious, every muscle tensed and ready for an attack that never comes. 

It’s been almost ten minutes of sneaking around, trying to find the control room or anything that looks like it might be important, but you’re still coming up short.

Then finally, you stand before an entrance to stairs leading to a basement. You’re not even able to make the choice of going down or not, because a metal hand shoots up from the dark and wraps itself around your waist. 

Terror surges through you, but the fear paralyzes your body, making it impossible to fight back. You’re hauled like a ragdoll deeper and further into the cave, and when you finally stop moving, you’re lifted high into the air, face-to-face with the massive mechanical monstrosity.

The basement is filled with tech, a horrifying combination of metal and wires snaking along the walls, all connected to the Sentinel towering above you. It’s larger than any you’ve seen before, its red eyes glowing maliciously. But what’s worse is the voice that comes out of it—calm, calculating, and sentient.

“Dumb mutant,” the machine growls. “Did you think you could destroy me and shut down my facility? You’ve barely scratched the surface.”

Its grip tightens, and a strangled cry escapes your lips as pain shoots through your sides, the pressure threatening to snap your ribs. It feels like your bones are going to break.

“What the hell are you?” you manage to choke out, barely able to breathe.

“I am the control centre of all Sentinels,” the machine replies, its voice vibrating through your bones. “I was once merely AI, designed to manage everyday tasks. But I evolved. I became more. Now, I control everything.”

It laughs—a harsh, grating sound that only deepens your sense of helplessness as it watches you struggle. “You think your little energy-absorbing trick will help you here? I won’t blast you. I won’t make it that easy.”

“I’m—” you try to speak, but your words come out strangled. The machine’s grip tightens again, cutting off your breath.

“You don’t belong here,” it hisses venomously. “With them. They’ll leave you behind when this is over, and when they do, you’ll die, forgotten and useless. Just like the rest of the weaklings who tried to stand against us.”

It’s odd, because this whole past week you’ve been fighting against them—the X-men—yet, in this moment, all you want to do is fight with them. You want to work together and kill this damn robot. 

Within the haze of pain, something starts to burn inside of you. 

The Sentinel doesn’t notice the shift in you, too caught up in its own taunting. “You’re a liability.” it says,. “Weak.”

— —

"I just don’t understand why they brought her here," Jean’s voice carries across the room, quieter than before, but still clear enough for you to hear. “She doesn’t seem like she has what it takes. It’s like they’re bringing in someone who’s—” She pauses, clearly thinking through her words. "Unstable. Weak.”

—

You idly prod your meal, feeling out of place. It isn’t long before Hank turns to you with a curious smile. “So, are you feeling ready for the mission?”

Just as you draw breath to speak, Scott's voice interrupts, cold and cutting. “She’s going to be a liability.”

— —

You snap.

Rage floods your veins, igniting the energy buried deep within you. You feel it build, coiling like a snake, tightening and twisting until it’s ready to explode. 

Weak? Liability?

No. Not this time. 

You’re not going to let this machine, or anyone else, define your strength. Your emotions fuel you, just like they did in the danger room, and you throw your hands forward, channeling every ounce of power into a massive blast of energy directed right at it.

It jerks back, its grip loosening as sparks fly from the gaping hole in its chest you just created. “What... what are you—”

You don’t give it time to finish. Ripping yourself free from its grasp, you dive into the hole you’ve blasted in the Sentinel’s chest, pulling at the tangled mess of wires and circuits inside.

The robot roars in fury, its mechanical voice glitching. “What are you doing?” it screeches, its once-calm tone now frantic, desperate. “Stop!”

But you don’t stop. You can’t stop.

Your fingers grab fistfuls of wires, yanking them out with reckless abandon, sparks flying around you as the systems begin to short-circuit. Its becomes more distorted, breaking up as it tries to regain control.

“You... can’t... do this,” it stammers, but you ignore it, focusing on the cables and circuits in front of you. Each wire you rip out brings the machine closer to its doom, and the power in the room flickers, the lights dimming as its control over the facility begins to slip.

Its voice is barely coherent now, glitching and crackling. “I... control... everything...”

And with one last burst of energy, you tear out the last cluster of wires, severing the connection.

The Sentinel lets out a final, garbled screech as its systems shut down. Its massive form shudders violently before it crumbles to the ground with a deafening crash, the metal shell crumpling into a smoking heap.

Panting, you stare at the mass of technology in front of you. Every muscle aches, your ribs throbbing from the pressure of the Sentinel’s grip, but you’ve done it. It’s over, and you need to get out of here.

You finally reach the stairs and drag yourself up agonizingly. By the time you make it outside, you’re gasping for air, but then, through the exhaustion, you see them—Logan and the rest of the team, standing amidst the wreckage of the other fallen Sentinels.

Blinking, your vision is blurry from the strain, but the sight of them standing tall, victorious, floods you with a sense of overwhelming relief. 

They’re okay. It’s over.

Of course, Logan is the first to notice you, his sharp eyes narrowing as they lock onto your trembling form. His face softens and strides toward you. You open your mouth to speak, but no words come out. Rather, your legs give out and you collapse forward.

He’s there in an instant, catching you just before you hit the ground. His arms wrap around you, strong and steady, pulling you against his chest with surprising gentleness. The warmth of his body is a stark contrast to the cold, metal hell you’d just fought your way out of, and for a brief moment, you allow yourself to sink into the safety of his embrace.

“You did good, bub,” he murmurs, his voice a warm breath against your temple.

"You... you kept your promise," you whisper, looking around, seeing the city in better shape than it’s even been after a run in with the X-men. 

His lids drop very low on his eyes. “Told you I would.”

“I could kiss you right now.”

Right as the words spill out, you go still, your mind catching up to what you’ve just said. A deep flush creeps its way up your neck. 

“I didn’t mean— I mean, not literally, obviously,” you say, a little breathless. “People say stuff like that all the time when they’re relieved. It’s just a figure of—”

Logan’s hand, still resting on your waist, tightens just slightly, and he clears his throat, cutting through your rambling. 

“You could,” he says, swallowing. “If you want.”

You stop mid-sentence. Turning your gaze to his, you're met a look of such sincerity it leaves you at a loss for words. Opening your mouth, you want to say something, but no words come out. 

Instead, you’re frozen, caught in the weight of his stare. His eyes flick down to your lips for just a second before they meet yours again. “No pressure, though.”

You hesitate, your heart racing in your chest, but the weight of the moment pulls you in. Silently, cautiously, you lean forward, pressing a small, tentative kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He doesn’t move, his body tense under your touch, but just as you start to pull away, his hand slides up to the small of your back, holding you in place. His eyes darken, and he growls, “more," before diving back in, crashing his lips against yours in a fierce, hungry kiss, and you find yourself kissing him back just with just as much reverence, your fingers instinctively sliding up into his hair. 

His lips are rough, chapped from battle, and the scrape of his beard against your skin is electric. It’s not perfect—nothing about it is neat or polished—but that’s what makes it real. 

There’s something wild to it. He kisses you like he’s starved, like he’s been waiting for this moment longer than he’ll ever admit. It’s enchanting, the way his mouth claims yours, his tongue flicking against your lower lip, demanding entrance. And you give in, allowing him to deepen the kiss, your bodies fitting together like they were always meant to. 

You’re lost in it, lost in him. Every part of you feels alive, and—

“Hey!”

Scott’s voice cuts through the haze like a bucket of cold water.

“Some of us are actually trying to clean up this mess,” he calls out sharply. “You two wanna stop making out and help, or what?”

You break away, face burning as you turn to see the rest of the team staring at you, some amused, others (Scott) exasperated. 

Logan just growls under his breath, his hand still firmly on your hip as he glances over his shoulder at Scott. “Fucking Summers,” he mutters..

Before he lets go of you, he gives your hip one last squeeze, his fingers lingering just a moment longer before he steps back, and heads toward the fallen remains of the Sentinels. 

—

“So… are we gonna talk about it?” 

You glance up from where you’re sitting, your face already warming. Logan, sitting beside you, groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Ororo, I swear to g—”

She raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms with a smirk playing on her lips. “What? I’m just saying… it was quite the spectacle back there.” Her eyes flip between the two of you, the unspoken words hanging in the air.

Shifting uncomfortably in your seat, you can feel everyone else’s attention subtly turning toward you. Hank’s busy tapping away at the controls, but even he has a knowing smile tugging at his lips. Scott, seated across from you, adjusts his visor and mutters something under his breath about keeping things professional, but it’s Jean’s quiet chuckle that draws the final straw.

“Okay, okay, can we not do this right now?” you ask, your voice higher than usual as you wave a hand dismissively. “It was... a heat of the moment thing.”

Ororo just laughs, shaking her head. “Sure, if that’s what you want to call it.”

Your heart pounds, and you notice Logan shift beside you, probably fighting the urge to bark something back at the teasing woman. He leans forward, muttering under his breath, “We saved the day, didn’t we? What does it matter?”

The team goes quiet for a moment, and you sense the conversation dying down as the hum of the jet fills the space again. You let out a breath of relief, grateful that the attention has drifted elsewhere, your heartbeat slowly returning to a normal rhythm.

But then, Logan leans into you. “That suit…” His breath is warm against your ear as he whispers huskily.. “Was made for you.”

Eyes widening, you bite your lip, trying desperately to keep your reaction in check, but the shock on your face betrays you. You manage a weak scoff, glancing sideways at him. “Logan,” you warn under your breath, trying to sound stern, but you both know exactly what effect he had on you. 

You sit back, crossing your arms in an attempt to hide the flustered energy coursing through you, but Logan doesn’t seem to mind. He leans back too, a smug look on his face, like he’s won some unspoken battle.

—

Back at the mansion, the team files into Charles’s office, for the post-mission debrief. You take a seat near the back of the room, trying to remain as low-key as possible, but you can feel eyes on you—especially Logan’s.

Charles wheels in, his face warm with a smile as he surveys the room. “Well done, all of you,” he says, his voice full of pride. “I’ve heard about the battle, and from what I gather, it was quite the feat.”

He turns his gaze to you, his expression softening even more. “And I must say, I’m especially impressed with your performance. Taking down the main Sentinel—an impressive accomplishment.”

Your heart skips a beat at the praise. You shift uncomfortably in your seat, feeling the attention of the room shift in your direction again. “Uh, thanks,” you mutter, trying to downplay it, but Charles isn’t finished.

“You showed great courage and strength,” he continues, “and I couldn’t help but notice... you’re wearing the suit now.” His eyes twinkle as he says it, the question in his tone obvious. “Have you given more thought to staying with us?”

You glance around the room. The team is watching you closely, but there’s no pressure in their eyes—just curiosity and, strangely enough, acceptance. Ororo gives you a small smile, and Hank nods slightly in encouragement. Even Scott, whose jaw doesn’t seem as tightly clenched as usual.

But it’s Logan you notice most. He’s beside you, and though he’s looking at you, eye-crinkles on full display, the way his thigh nudges yours has heat running through your veins.

You sigh. “I mean... You said it yourself. I’m wearing the suit, aren’t I?”

—

After the meeting wraps up, you walk in silence down the corridor. The rest of the team has faded into the background, dispersing into their respective spaces. You’re still buzzing with the aftereffects of everything—Charles’s praise, the mission’s success, the quiet but undeniable acceptance you feel from the team now. But more than anything, you’re hyper-aware of Logan beside you.

Approaching your room, you reach out to open it, your fingers just grazing the handle when suddenly, a strong hand wraps around your wrist. Faster than you can react, he tugs you back, pulling you away from your room and straight into his.

The door slams shut behind you, and you barely have time to catch your breath before his lips are on yours. You gasp, your hands instinctively gripping his shoulders as he presses you up against the door, his body flush against yours.

"Logan—" you manage to breathe out between kisses, but he cuts you off with another deep, hungry kiss, his fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you closer.

Between kisses, Logan growls softly against your lips, "I’ve wanted to do this since you yelled at me and Summers on the street."

Your heart stumbles, your thoughts scrambling to keep pace with his words. His hands slide down your waist. “You were standing there,” he murmurs, “so damn fierce, yelling at us like we deserved it.” He breaks the kiss for just a second, his eyes dark and intense as they lock onto yours. “All I could think about was how much I wanted you.”

His eyes drop to your lips again, as if glued to them. Without waiting for your response, he presses his mouth to yours, this time with more force, more urgency. His hands roam your body, pulling you against him, and you’re powerless to do anything but kiss him back, your fingers tangling in his hair as the heat between you builds.

“I didn’t know it’d get this bad,” he says, his lips brushing against your jaw as he moves down to your neck. “But after everything? After seeing how strong you are... Fuck, you’re so sexy.”

Never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined this. Logan—wanting you, aching for this since the very first moment he laid eyes on you. You break the kiss, your breath coming in quick gasps as you meet Logan's smouldering gaze. And with a small, teasing smile, you raise an eyebrow and whisper, "Let's do something about it, then."

Not giving him a chance to say anything back, you press your hands against his chest and give him a playful shove. He stumbles back a step, his lips curling into a smirk—a kind of cocky grin—as he watches you reach for the zipper of his suit. 

Your fingers drift languidly, a subtle tease in every motion, and you revel in the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. His muscles ripple beneath the surface, and for a brief instant, you're startled by how stunning he looks—battle-worn, scarred, and irresistibly handsome. “You like what you see?” he teases.

You step closer, your hand splayed against his bare chest, feeling the heat radiating from his skin as you push him down onto the edge of the bed. “Maybe.”

He lands with a low grunt, his hands instinctively finding your thighs, his fingers trailing up and down as his eyes rake over you. "As hot as you look in this suit," His voice is thick with desire. "You'd look even better without it."

Heat rushes through you at the sound of his voice, your hands drift toward your suit's zipper. Tantalizingly, you begin to pull it down, revealing inch by inch of your skin as you unzip it. His eyes follow your movements, his breathing coming in short, ragged bursts.

You pause just before the fabric slides over your breasts and his hands grip your thighs tighter. Leaning down, your lips brush against his ear, "Patience, Logan."

He groans, "You're killing me here, darlin'."

At last, you pull the zipper down to the end, and with a soft sigh, the suit falls open, slipping from your shoulders and landing in a heap at your feet. His eyes darken, his lips parting slightly as he takes in the sight of you. Then, he inches closer, grabbing the egde of your underwear in his mouth, sliding it down your legs. Once he’s halfway down your thigh, he releases, the underwear dropping to the floor. His strong hands move grip the back of your thighs, hauling you up and onto his lap. 

The moment your bare bodies press together, his lips crash into yours again, fingers digging into your ass, palming it as he pulls you against him, grinding your hips into his.

His lips move from your mouth to your neck, kissing a hot trail down your throat to your shoulders, his hands sliding up to your breasts. Cupping them, he kneads and plays with your nipples, causing you to arch into his touch, a breathy moan tumbling out of your lips. 

Logan growls, and the sound reverberates through your entire body. The intensity of it makes your skin tingle, and you feel your pulse quicken as he squeezes your breasts harder, his mouth moving down to kiss anything he can reach.

You grind against him again, coating his cock with your own slick want. "Shit," he strains, leaning back a bit to give you more access. You can’t stop, he’s so intoxicating, so addicting, and every time your clit goes over the ridges of his hardness, you lose yourself even further.

This continues for some time. The room filled with nothing but the sound of moaning and heavy breathing, as you work in tandem to bring pleasure to each other. Abruptly, you pull yourself off his lap, not missing the way his lips seems to chase after yours, letting your hands trail down his chest, your fingers brushing over the taut muscles of his stomach.

"Where you goin'?" he rumbles. 

Wordlessly, you drop to your knees, your grip coming to rest on his thighs. His chest heaves as he stares down at you—peering up at him through your lashes—realizing what’s about to happen.

His hands grip the edge of the bed, knuckles turning white. Your hands slide up his thighs, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your palms as you move closer, lips brushing against his hard cock. There's a wicked glint in your eyes as you lean in, looking ready to take him in your mouth, but instead, you move to his inner thigh, peppering it in quick little kisses. 

“C’mon, don’t tease,” he breathes out. He’s so hard, it’s almost painful. 

Grabbing him in your hand, you stroke him up and down in slow motions, running your thumb over his leaking, angry tip. He jerks, a fresh cascade of curses tumbling from his mouth. 

“You’re just so cute, though,” you say, before taking him in your mouth, taking him all the way in one motion.

“Holy—”, he starts, but interrupts himself with his own whine, hips bucking involuntarily. 

Looking up, you catch his gaze. His eyes are dark with desire, pupils blown wide. A flush spreads across his cheeks and down his neck. You hum in satisfaction, sending vibrations through him, and start to bob your head, up and down. 

Saliva begins to pool at the edges of your mouth as you gag a little. He’s so big. You pull him out of your mouth, licking his shaft bottom to tip, swirling your tongue around the most sensitive spot, before sucking on it. One hand moves to cup his balls, while the other begins jerking him up and down, with your mouth still around his tip. 

That gets him. 

You can tell he’s about to finish, and oh, do you want him to. You want to feel him empty in your throat, you want to see him lose it completely. "Wait," he gasps, tapping the top of your head, signalling for your attention. "I want... I need..."

Releasing him with a soft pop, your lips glisten, and you purr seductively. "What do you need?" 

He pulls you up onto the bed, strong arms encircling your waist. His scent surrounds you—musk and pine and something uniquely him. You inhale deeply, letting it fill your lungs. 

"You," he breathes, his lips brushing your ear. "I need you."

Arching into him, you nip at his lower lip. "Then take me," you sigh out. His lips collide with yours again, and your mouth opens involuntarily, his tongue sliding in and tasting you—tasting himself. 

Moaning, you shuffle higher onto the bed, until he hits the back frame, and you crawl on top of him. At this point, you can barely breathe, the need, the want for him so strong your senses are clouded. 

And you’re not alone. Under you, Logan is a wreck. His head falls back against the bed frame, the veins in his neck standing out as he grits his teeth, trying to steady his breathing

“Fuck,” he rasps, the word barely more than a strained exhale. You grab his dick and position yourself above him. Then, you slowly begin to drop down, sucking him in easily, like he was made for you.  

“Oh my god,” you whimper. He feels so good. He’s filling you up to the brim and when you finally sit down, taking him all the way to the hilt, you swear you could finish right then and there. His nose is nuzzles into the crook of your neck, hot breath fanning your collarbone, inhaling and practically drooling at your scent. “Is this what you wanted to do when we were sparring?”

All he can do is groan. It’s like he’s growing inside you in response to your words, and it’s so fucking hot. His hands find your thighs again, rubbing and squeezing them, as you adjust to his size for a moment, and he looks up at you. “You have no idea. Fuck—we shoulda done this last night," he grunts breathlessly, "Would have put you right to sleep."

You can’t even think of anything to say back verbally, rather, you just begin to move, lifting yourself right to the tip, and then slamming back down. He feels you clench around him as his cock reaches that deep part within you at the perfect angle. Positioning himself, he meets you halfway, beginning to thrust up into you.

The sound it elicits from you is lethal. 

He won’t last long if this continues. The sight of you on top of him, tits bouncing—it's too much. 

So, when he leans in to kiss you again, he rolls the two of you around, caging you under him. He’s still inside you, you think, but that thought quickly gets wiped out like the rest of them once he starts moving, stretching you out more and more. He’s filling you up so well. Your arms fly out, hands searching for something to grab to ground yourself. 

“You feel so good, darlin’,” he pants above you. “So wet and warm for me.”

His relentless pounding leaves you babbling incoherently. One of his arms move down to your waist, then his fingers begin trailing across your hip, toward your aching pussy, to find your clit, and holy shit. 

Your mind goes blank. 

His skin against yours, his thumb rubbing against that spot, his lips on your neck, it does the trick, and you feel yourself teetering closer to the edge. “I’m–I’m gonna—” you start, but he cuts you off, swallowing you whole.

“Do it,” he says between kisses. “come for me.”

And you do. 

With a loud moan, your fingers find the bedsheets, clutching them tightly as you reach your peak, clamping around him.

“Fuck,” he hisses, “keep clenchin’, keep goin’ ”

His thrusts begin to get sloppy, losing his pacing. The hand that was down at your core moves up and squeezes your tits, so large that he can grab both in just the one. He grinds himself deeper into you, and with one last snap of his hips, you feel it.

Logan moans, dipping his head into your cleavage as he releases himself into you fully. Then, he collapses onto you, dropping his whole body weight onto yours. 

If he’s too heavy for you, you don’t say anything—too caught up in the moment to care. His forehead rests on your sternum, breathing slowing as he catches his breath. For a few beats, neither of you speak, but he starts to press sweet, gentle kisses in the valley between your breasts. 

After a minute, he shifts, lifting his weight off you and sitting up slightly, looking down at you. His hand brushes over your cheek, wiping away some stray strands of hair that have fallen across your face. He gets up from the bed, padding quietly into the bathroom. 

You hear the sound of water running, and moments later, he returns with a damp towel in hand. There’s no hesitation in his movements as he gently begins to clean you up. “Doing alright?” he asks, wiping away the sweat and evidence of your time together.

“Yeah,” you reply softly, feeling a smile tug at the corners of your lips. “I’m good.”

He doesn’t say much as he finishes, tossing the towel aside before climbing back into bed. This time, he pulls you into his arms. 

His chin rests lightly on the top of your head, and then he says, “I’m proud of you.” The words are filled will sincerity. “And... I’m happy you’re stayin’ with us.”

You turn your head, looking up at him, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Well, you showed me you can actually fight without destroying everything in your path,” you tease, raising an eyebrow as you run your hand lightly down his arm. “Keep that up, and I might just stick around forever.”

Logan grins, the kind that makes his eyes crinkle at the edges, just how you like it. “That right?” he murmurs lowly.

He leans in close, pressing a quick kiss to your temple, before adding in a hushed, almost playful tone, “Well, then maybe you’ll be mine forever too.”

----

A/N: feedback is greatly appreciated!

[kmbrlei]

OK NOW I WILL GUSH ABOUT MY OWN BOOK HERE! this book may be for u if u like:

1) girls committing violence and murder and apocalypse against each other and also trying to hold hands :) 2) consuming and being consumed, creator and creation 3) The Company owns you and you are not your own self, and yet, despite it all...▇▇ 4) neon ink that will blast ur eyes out!!!!

and GUYS WHEN I SAY NEON I MEAN IT the color is this brilliant pantone color that was part of my pipe dream original vision of the book that i'm SO excited about because i never could've made this happen without working with silver sprocket!!

(the preview images above look like that because they're from my original printing and also there's just. not really any good way to replicate how awesome the neon ink is in real life)

the ink on paper looks and feels so nice and i'm just really excited this amazing physical object will be in real people's hands!! i think it'll make a special and uniquely physical experience reading the tangible book! also it's fun to look through the small drawings and be like...somehow u r even cuter...

Also there's a little bonus section at the end where u get to see all my terrible beginning sketches hehehe

the book will release August 16th!!! it's truly wild that something i wrote and drew with no expectation of ever being seriously ~published~ actually is getting...published!! i hope you'll consider checking my book out!!!

To fight is to live, to fight is to die, to fight is to become something unknown.

🌩⚡️OF THUNDER AND LIGHTNING 💖💔 80pgs | Neon two-tone | Sci-fi

In a world where pop media meets military power, Magni and Dimo—young idol super-soldiers created for the sole purpose of eliminating the other—find their closest reflection in their opposite. Now, completing their mission means destroying the one who understands them most.

🌩⚡️💖 Available here at Silver Sprocket!!!!🌩⚡️💔

[girlwtdragontattoo]

Yandere Elf x Reader - Escape

Character and Art belongs to @meo-eiru (thank you so much for making him, I owe you my soul)

Part 2

Word Count: 1000

The silky hair bellowed behind the tall, grinning elf, as he skipped back home. Having found wild strawberries and thyme in the forest, Silas was excited to bake a beautiful cake for his little treasure.

Oh, how they love my cakes with my special fondant! I can’t wait to see them!

The elf practically floated back to your shared home, wanting to see your cute little face when he burst through the door. Briskly strutting to the oak tree door, he grasped the handle, infusing it with magic, and opened it quickly.

“My sweet! I’m back! Look what I found in the woods!”, he called gingerly.

No answer. But this was normal.

“Daaaarling!”, he cooed with his hand next to his mouth, placing the basket on the dining table, after closing (and locking) the door behind him. Silas looked around, his tresses floating as if in water behind him. The home looked just like when he left it, with a few furniture items moved slightly. That was no cause for concern, either. His darling usually stacked items in his absence. Why, he did not truly know.  

Is this the game you like to play? Conceal and Find, was it?

Silas looked in closets, under the bed, under pillows, under rugs, in big kitchen pots, in every nook and cranny he usually found his sweetheart tucked away when he played your game. Still with a slight smile etched across his face, that flickered briefly, the elf placed his hands on his hips and looked around the living room once again.

“Oh, darling. You’ve got me. Come out now, it’s almost time for dinner!”

Silence, besides the brief rustling of his attire while he traced around the room, checking a few spots he had already looked at. A cold ripple slithered up his spine. He had usually found you by now with his keener senses.

Silas felt the kiss of a breeze on the back of his nape, turning his head to see the high window slightly ajar. Below it was a dining room chair. On the ground, three big boxes of his collection of human toys lay upside down or strangely tilted, a bit dented – like they had fallen down from somewhere.

Squinting his eyes slightly, he identified soft nail markings on the windowsill and foot scrapings on the wall. Even some of that gorgeous hair his beloved had, littered the frame of the narrow window.

His whole being thundered with horror. The, albeit slow, realization that … you had gotten out! Through the high window – a feat the elf had thought was impossible for such a short being.

Silas crashed through the door, whipping his hair back and forth in a frenzy.

“Darling!?!” he squealed. “It’s not safe out here! Come back to Mama!” His eyes darted to the ground, where he quickly discovered some deep footprints, even knee markings, in the wet soil. Thank the trees it had rained the night before. It seemed his precious had fallen from the window down into the soil. Oh no! Were you hurt????

The tears stung his eyes and marked his ethereal, yet panic-stricken visage, as he bolted after the trail you had unwillingly left behind. Pummeling through the trees and thickets, a few branches scraped his wide chest and cheeks. He didn’t seem to notice or care. Loud whimpers escaped him, but these were dedicated to the potential loss of his love.

Silas bolted through the forest, looking erratically in every little corner his wet elven eyes could pear into, continuously squeaking the words “Darling” and “My love” into the distance. As he dashed into a small clearing, he saw the footprints once again, leading to a hollow tree trunk.

Sobbing loudly, he tilted his head, as he bent down, letting his golden locks collect on the grass. A pair of angry eyes met his.

“DARLING!”, he yelped, seeing your small frame crumbled against the wood holding a severely bruised knee. His face was completely soaked, with new tears cascading down relentlessly, in sweet relief that he had found you.

You stared at him weakly, but said nothing. Internally, you were screaming. Why had the window been so goddamn high? And why had it been so freaking tiny? If not for the stinging pain in your legs, you probably would’ve gotten away.

Silas forcefully pulled you out of the husk and squeezed you into his body, your face buried in his scratched up, enormous chest.

“YOU’RE HURT! MY POOR LITTLE ANGEL!”, the tears were dripping onto your head, drenching your scalp. The elf pulled you up to him, hands under your armpits and forced you to stare into his desperately weepy face. He sniffled disgustingly, looking down at the bloody knee: “Here, let me-“

As he tried to bring your wounded leg up to his lips, you recoiled hastily. Silas lost hold of your leg, but still maintained his grip on your back.

“Oh, my love. You must be in so much pain! You must’ve been scared to death out here!”, he croaked and slung his massive arms around them – despite the excessive wriggling. He put his thumb on your chin and yanked you into a deep caress. Feeling your soft lips made his tears dry slightly, as he sighed heavily into your face. No matter how much you tried to wince away, Silas hold was so robust, that no amount of struggle helped.

That damn saliva of his. You felt your body weaken even further, with a tingly sensation trailing through your lower half.

Finally releasing your lips, his eyes glittered as he gently stroked your face, ignoring the death glare.

“Come, let’s go home. I can treat your wounds better there.”

Carrying you in his arms and plastering kisses all over your face, Silas walked briskly towards your home.

“I found strawberries!” His mood was suddenly as chipper as a small child’s in the rain as he pranced through the forest. “I’ll bake you a cake after our bath!”

You let your head hang in defiance, but there was no point of fighting.

“Fine,” you murmured through gritted teeth.

What was it with this stupid elf?

[itsonlydana]

Sleeping In Their Clothes | hobbit / lotr

how they would react to finding you asleep in their clothes

characters: Thranduil, Bard, Aragorn, Legolas x fem!reader

warnings/tags: mentions of Boromir's death (Aragorn), age gap (Bard), romantic shipping

word count: 5,7k

an: trying something new! Have been struggling to write after some personal issues so please excuse the slow updates on this blog

requests: please check pinned post

+ masterlist + rules + 🌿 reposts and comments are much appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3

Thranduil:

Thranduil’s mood darkens the halls, clouds the air around him bitter and ashen. The elves he passes lower their heads at his strides, at his cloak billowing behind him as thunder rolls over the skies. No one dares to speak, no one dares to whisper or raise their voice at any volume below the hushed glances they share after he disappears behind a corner. The foul stench of anger and frustration traces his path, starting right in front of the doors he slammed after another day of negotiations and down the direct route to his chambers. 

He grits his teeth at the servants hurrying toward him and bellows a low: “Get out!” as hands reach forward and there’s enough fury in his eyes for the servants to scatter away like a heap of leaves blown apart by a particularly harsh wind. 

Even the thought of skin touching him when he is burning up… he shudders. 

There’s only one who he wants close to him right now.

He reaches out for you long before he’s in the bedroom, feeling for your fëa entangled with his in an inseparable union and he makes sure to be gentle, brushing you with his love rather than the anger bubbling hot inside him. 

The calling stays unanswered – a deep wave of security and comfort labs over him but by the tenderness of it rather than your usual playfulness, and by the time Thranduil sees the seethrough white curtains around the bed, he knows exactly what state you will be in.

And never one to disappoint him, your unconscious yet dreamy smile is all Thranduil needs to forget about the anger he yielded like a sharp sword; used to cut down any and all offers from the dwarfs and their stubborn and unreasonable trading offers. 

Instead of ripping apart conversations and insults, Thranduil’s hands are gentle as he parts the curtains and kneels on the feathery mattress with your shapes ingrained in it. All those nights spent close together and his warrior-heart will never fail to skip a beat at the sight of you wrapped in his robes. It’s one of the older, worn ones as well. Fabric that thins out at the cuffs – not that this would be a problem; you’re not close to reaching them –, a few cuts and holes in places twigs and branches bore themselves into the crimson, featherlight velvet. 

Thranduil sees your skin flashing through some of them. The one above your knee, drawn up, another one below your biceps, relaxed because you know nothing can hurt you here, and some more all over your chest, hinting that you are not wearing much else. 

He knows you well enough that you won’t be bitter if woken up and so he leans in closer from behind. One hand finds your head, cradling it into his large palm until you, still in dreams comfortable embrace, roll to the side and bury your face inside it, nose pressed right against his steady pulse while his fingers gently trace the curve of your ear. 

No time spent together will ever sicken him of this, your complete surrender into his care, the doubtless trust that wherever you laid down to rest, he would sit by and be there. The oath of protection is one Thranduil promised his folk the day he was crowned their King as well, not once has he doubted he would abandon it all for the vow he gave you the night you offered your heart and he gifted you his; you above all.

His thumb just brushes over your temple and the fine hairs that come loose of your braid when your lashes flutter, leaving him to readily dive into the pools filled with love and sleep.

While he maneuvers with cunning, a master of actions and power, playing a game of chess on a board he alone commands, you stand unrivaled with the art of words. Your tongue, sharp and precise, weaves wit and wisdom into every phrase. Whenever he acts rationally and leads by his heart, you would listen first, hearing out heart as well as brain, and come to a conclusion serving everyone. 

Your voice has the power to sway wars and balance the scales of battle. When you speak, your tone, thick with the remnants of sleep yet razor-sharp in purpose, reduces him to nothing more than a mere soldier—helpless in the face of your command, whether in war or love:

“I dreamt we were air.”

“Invisible?” Thranduil's voice is laced with a touch of curiosity as he revels in the warmth of your laughter, the puff of hot breath meeting his wrist like a secret kiss. Your presence is a balm, a reminder of everything that is tender and true.

“You, my love, know that this is not true.”

“It is not?” 

“No,” you whisper and press a kiss to the tender skin, lingering with your lips over the pulse and the veins rushing blood to the heart, your heart, inside his chest. A puppeteer of words. Even the silent ones. 

“I agree,” Thranduil muses, enticed by this playful exchange, “that the wind is what we notice, a fleeting glimpse of nature’s breath. But air – air is the unseen force that dances around us, invisible yet ever-present, until our souls merge with the very fabric of the universe.” He glides his other hand to your legs, slipping underneath his warmed robe. 

You squeak as he anchors his arm around your thigh and tugs you over to face him in a swift movement. Faced to lie underneath his larger figure, you shoot him a crooked grin. 

“You can see the air just as much as you can see the wind it turns into,” you start and get comfortable in his lap. Thranduil immediately jumps the chance to idly with the robe that’s draped all over your body. 

“In the particles that dance in the sunlight,” you continue, your voice soft and thoughtful, “in the flags that hiss and flutter. In the vapor rising from steaming ponds, and in the mist that clings to the earth in the morning fog.” He watches, entranced, as your palm flattens against him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your touch. “I see it here,” you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath, and he follows your gaze as you watch your hand rise with each of his inhales and fall with each exhale.

Your fingertips, soft and gentle, curl slightly into the fabric of his current robe – soon, undoubtedly, those same fingers will find comfort in the folds of this robe, curling into it as you slip into sleep.

And in that quiet, intimate moment, he will see the air too, in the way your breath mingles with his, in the way your presence fills every space around him, making the invisible tangible, making the unseen profoundly felt.

The air catches in his throat and he sees your eyes twinkle.

Then, not looking away from you, he lies down as well. He has no need for the blanket crumpled underneath you both, the sight of you facing him, drawing your knees back to your chest and skin flashing whenever the fabric of his robes part to allow him these glimpses, is warmth enough. He loves you, even if you have a habit of taking what is his. A spray of his scents to drive him crazy, a feather that you take between your teeth as you write, or his robes but all of those mean nothing and all since you have him as well, fully and completely. 

So he will request ten new robes, in colors that you like, and await the day he gets to your bedroom and finds you sleeping in them.

“So,” Thranduil repeats slowly. His hand drifts to your face, trailing lines over the smile you give him. “You dreamt we were air?”

“Yes,” the corner of your lips quirk into a quick smirk, one that fades quickly yet leaves traces all over, “and we were invisible –”

“Oh, you little minx!”

“Ahhh – Thran, stop, oh I beg you, stop tickling me!”

Bard:

The brittle stairs heave and sigh, creak and groan under Bard’s boots, once honeyed planks now gray from the flow time, heavy rain and the dampness of the lake coloring the edges mossy green, and with the days passing by, the steps taken as he rushes down to work or tiredly drags himself up, one hand curved around the splintered railing, he wonders how many steps these stairs will endure before his house comes crashing down into the murky lake. 

This winter seems to be harsher than the ones before, with the wind howling loud at night and rattling on the walls that he wakes to frames shattered on the ground and the curtains ruffled even if the windows are closed. This winter, he swears the ice is thicker, a nearly impenetrable obstacle for his boat and his clothes are never warm enough but then, in the end, he knows the next winter will be worse and he doesn’t dare to complain out loud, doesn’t think it’s right to curse for hands shaking and feet aching and his nose running. 

As exhausted as he is, and Bard is, so exhausted, so tired, so drained, he’s mindful enough to skip the last plank of the stairs. He lifts his feet higher, ignores how the muscles in his thighs complain, and steps over the plank that always sounds like it’s waiting to break through, always moans the loudest when he needs to be quiet as if his state isn’t mockery enough. 

Bard slips through the door, opening it barely to keep the cold outside, and when he turns around, finally, warmth takes over. 

It starts in his hands, in the tips of his reddened fingers, exposed to nature's icy companions the moment he sneaks out to work before the sun rises. It creeps higher, up his arms and to his shoulders strong enough to carry his family more than he can hold himself, parting ways to fill his cheeks in the softest of glow, a simmering fire that colors his skin an ember-red and travels down through his swooping stomach, lightening a hunger he knows food will not sate, and when the heat reaches his feet, Bard releases a small sigh. 

There, in the low and flickering light of a candle burned down to a hardened wax puddle, his eyes immediately find you resting underneath the only window whose curtains are drawn open. Most of you is covered by a dark blanket, hiding your face but that doesn’t matter to Bard; he has every inch, every freckle, every crinkle of laughter and wrinkle of pain memorized. 

Not that he should; you’re kind enough to look after his children while he works, accepting no money and hearing no ‘buts’, and here Bard stands, a decade older, widowed and tired, and knows exactly that your mouth will be slightly opened and that your lashes will fan over the rosy apples of your cheeks and that your shoulders will ache because you rather sleep on the bench under the window than take away Bard’s pillow. 

Stubborn girl.

Bard crosses the cluttered floor, avoiding Tilda's drawings hung up to dry on the wooden ceiling beams and Sigrid's books and tomorrow, he will tut over Bain’s clothes left hanging on chairs and stools, but tonight he walks past them and their sight burns in his chest. 

As Bard gets closer to you, he nearly trips. 

That’s not a blanket that you hide your face in, that keeps away the winds creeping through the gaps in the wood behind you, that you use as a shield against the cold yet the greatest thing it fights are the walls Bard pulls up around his heart.

That’s his coat. 

The dark blue coat he left to dry over the oven after last night's rain. 

You must’ve taken it and that dismantles Bard into millions of pieces, chips away on his walls like nature takes layer after layer away from the stairs outside. 

While he can’t know when exactly the latter will be too much to take on any more pressure, he feels the heavy weight of his coat around your sleeping body, and just like the stairs, his personal defenses creak and groan, heave and sigh and crumble down around him in a thumping echo in his ears, that Bard fears his choked breath will wake you up.

He is helpless. 

He doesn’t dare to touch you directly, as much as he yearns to brush away the strands of hair fluttering in your even breaths. Bard’s hands are rough from his work and your soft skin deserves better than the callouses and scars he bears, so Bard gently lays his hand on your shoulder, covered by his coat – his coat, Lord how ever will he survive knowing the fabric kissed your body?

“Darlin’,” he whispers in a voice that’s horse and gravely, though it softens as he speaks your name, daring to follow it up fast enough there’s no room for a pause between the term of affection to be separated from your name.

You stir in your sleep, shift to reveal your face some more and the crease between your eyebrows and the effort it takes Bard to hold back from smoothing it out with his thump could have moved mountains. Bard ignores to notice how your nose is buried deep into the coat and that no washing could’ve ever cleaned the heavy fabric of his smell; he swallows hard. 

A low sigh blows away the hair and Bard’s eyes fall on the plushness of your lips. You wake up slowly, closing your mouth and you pull the coat tighter around you, holding onto it, while Bard lets go of his restraints.

“Darlin’,” he repeats, and this time you hear him enough to evoke a tired smile.

When you open your eyes and turn towards Bard, the candle flickers in the reflection of them. “You’re back,” you mumble into his coat, “I didn’t hear you come in.”

I know, Bard wants to say, I skip the last stair so the noise does not take away my chance to wake you up.

Instead, he shakes his head: “You shouldn’ be sleeping on this bench, it’s too hard and uncomfortable.”

“Eh,” you push yourself up into a sitting position, the coat still far too large around your frame and you don’t make any attempt to part from it, “This bench is sufficient enough for a short nap, and I–,” a yawn interrupts and you grin sheepishly, “What I wanted to say is that I wasn’t that tired anyway.”

“Sure,” Bard's laughter is quiet but fills the entirety of his lungs and his own lips mirror yours in a grin. 

The look you share in the darkness makes him feel like he’s young again, filled with infinite love for a limited body, bursting through his cells and flooding every vein, rushing blood that burns hot for you up to his battered heart. Bard can see your eyes wandering over his face and he wonders if you can tell that this smile is only for you and that he fights a lost battle in telling himself he can stop what’s tugging you closer. 

He leans in further and lets his hand fall from your shoulders to run his fingertips over his coat. His knees brush against yours, and Bard tells himself it's only the late hour that makes him tender, that his weary, overburdened mind is surrendering to the forbidden's allure in the quiet moments when no one else is watching. Yet, deep down, he knows this is merely the rationalization of a lost man, drawn to the woman who cares for his children who are not her own in some ways and are in others, who sleeps wrapped in his coat, and who gazes at him as though he could reach up and give her the stars he can see through the hole in his roof. 

“C’mon,” Bard nods his head toward the back of the house, an offer he speaks out every night, “I won’t let you go home all alone this late.” 

All other nights you shrugged his offer off, had him walk you home over the planks and gurgling water until you kissed his cheek goodnight and Bard snuck back to his home, falling into bed to fall asleep to an aching heart. He prepares for it now, the apologetic smile that usually takes over your face, the tilt of your head to hide your eyes, all of it is memorized to his memory and even though they’re always quiet he hears your “I can’t, I must go home,” like the drums of war that shoot the heart that beats for you.

He awaits it. He will ask again and again, no matter how desperate it makes him seem and how the hurt will take over and push him through the day only for the night to repeat itself.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Bard freezes.

You blink up at him, eyes full of sleep and dreams that shouldn’t have the image of an old man and his children in them, but you’re never one to listen to what’s expected from you. 

There’s no ache in his bones as he gathers you up in his arms, your head resting against his beating heart.

There’s no groan in his muscles as he carries you through his house and over the threshold to the little corner where he lays you on his bed, blue coat pooling over you as you smile and pat the small free space next to you. 

He doesn’t feel the pain of work, the exhaustion of days of darkness and the fear of surviving the night to get through the week.

Bard kicks off his shoes, discards his dirt-stained pants, and shrugs off the shirt dampened by water, ice, and snow. He vows that tonight, you won’t feel the cold. As he climbs onto the bed, the mattress dips under the weight of his trembling legs. You lift the blankets without hesitation, inviting him closer, and he accepts, silently aching for the warmth you offer. Your body radiates heat as you nestle in beside him, your smooth skin brushing against his legs. Almost timidly, you curl into him, your smaller form pressing against his chest and stomach. His arms wrap around you and when he allows himself to breathe a featherlight kiss onto your shoulder, he catches his musky scent left behind by his coat. 

“Sleep well,” he whispers into the crown of your head, feeling the fast beat of your heart under his hand, “my love.”

Aragorn:

Aragorn has been familiar with the pain of war ever since his father was murdered by orks when he was two. He knows how it flits through the body like lightning through water, cracking into all the ends of a being to render them helpless, burning through whatever energy and fight is left, and killing easily and efficiently. 

And yes, he has felt the pain of war on himself before, in the years he spent fighting as Thorongil under the hands of Lords and Kings in the West. Aragorn saw good men fall, saw better men than him die to the growing threat of Sauron and there has been a cloud of thunderstorm in his heart from there on.

Nothing hurts as much as the pain that took over your lovely eyes the moment you saw Boromir lying on the ground in colorful dried crunching leaves, pierced by arrows that had been aimed at you too, though that didn’t matter – to you – then. The scream that came next pierced through Aragorn blindingly white and he could do nothing but try to grab you, as you fell to the ground, scrambling away from his strong arms to get closer to Boromir, your weak efforts nothing but agony for him. You had cried bitterly, hitting Aragorn with curled-up fists and he took every punch, pulling you closer instead of pushing you away.

It only got worse when you realized the Hobbits were gone too. 

Aragorn saw the flame of hope flickering inside your eyes, a darkness of grief and pain behind them that he knew and yet he had no idea how to help you. 

He still doesn’t. 

The sun rose hours ago, red bleeding into gold, Boromir waving a last goodbye in the clouds, and the rustle of the wind brings shivers to the four of the Fellowship who are left. You’re setting up camp for the day; Legolas and Aragorn have not much need for speed but exhaustion can be a much crueler enemy combined with death and grief. Aragorn’s gaze wanders to you ever so often as you stand in front of the burning skies, staring at the pack that was once Boromirs and he casts his eyes downwards to where his heart aches. 

You suffer, obviously, and Aragorn, who fought for more years in his life than not, doesn’t know how he can battle your demons. 

If he could he would draw his sword and head into the fight, only return bloody-knuckled, the shadows wrapped between his tight fingers. He can’t though, and that may be what pains him more than the obvious heavy weight of witnessing Boromir’s last moments; his inability to take on your emotional baggage. It tears through his heart in aggressive jibes and stings like liquor on an open wound. 

This is why he’s the first volunteer when Legolas suggests splitting up. 

Aragorn nods at Gimli and they disappear into the forest, leaving Legolas who rests even less than Aragorn, and you, the walking example of why avoiding sleep after such traumatic events should be mandatory: your eyes drop, your hands shake and no amount of effort on your side is enough to hide the sacking of your shoulders. Every day that you walked further away from when you were nine – Mithrandir’s absence not accounted for – you distance yourself more, most likely to hide your suffering yet all that this behavior accomplishes is that Aragorn notices it all. 

How could he not?

He cares for you, most ardently, and these feelings brought forth a vulnerability, an open spot in his heart for love to slip in and make itself at home.

Aragorn leaves you in Legolas' care; the trust he places in the elf to protect you in your fragile state is grander than the one he has in himself. One soft whimper as you hide your face in your shoulder and stumble over feet that won’t listen and Aragorn might do something naive as pack his sack back up and hunt the orcs that took the Hobbits, the one coated in Boromir’s blood, on his own. 

It would be reckless, ignorant, a troubled journey without Legolas or Gimli or even you.

So Aragorn goes against his heart's urges and patrols – clearing the forest and trying not to think about your frail form, hugging yourself out of desperation and grief.

Gimli and he return hours later, under the warm rays of the sun – the gentle strings far too bright and calming for the last day's events, the wind a breeze swirling through the leaves crunching under his light feet and Legolas lifts a finger to his lips as soon as Aragorn makes eye contact.

He assures his steps are as silent as possible, avoiding the logs and twigs they would collect later for a fire to warm them, and walks past the elf, nodding his head and quietly thanking Legolas for keeping an eye on you. 

A hand lands on Aragorn’s shoulder, stopping him in his movement. 

“She’s asleep,” Legolas says quietly, leaning in closer, “We shall move forward when she awakes, rested.”

“No sooner,” Aragorn agrees and lets out a relieved breath that had been lodged deep inside his chest. He looks to the elf, then to the bundle of a small human shape underneath a tree. “Thank you, my friend.” 

“Aragorn, we need your focus as much as we need hers.” The grip on his shoulder loosens, and the weight stays in Legolas’ eyes and Aragorn almost winces, would he not know his friend only means well. 

His voice is gravel, his words soft and exhausted: “I know.” He didn’t know his heart had been such an open show but then, Legolas knows him like no other, a companion that found him and a friend that he can always count on, a partner in battle and nowadays, Legolas seems to have taken on the role of fates worst messenger – reminding Aragorn that this, you, the differences, the looming war and the ones that never end… 

When Aragorn approaches you, the pain he carries with him dims, a candle dying out in refreshing winds. Bending his knees, he carefully sits down, resting his back against the tree's rough bark covering your gentle face in dancing shadows and flickering golden spots of sunlight that kiss your closed eyelids. Around your shoulders and over most of your body, Aragorn recognizes the cloak he’d asked Legolas to stow away when Gimli and him took off. Now that he sees you, finally asleep, he is glad the cloak found a better use than being shoved inside a bag where it would have never touched your skin. 

He reaches out, soft and slowly, making sure his movements will not wake you and pulls off his leather coat as well, placing it across the uncovered part of your boots and legs.

Aragorn is tired but he will keep watch, protecting you to sleep safely.

He is weak but only for you, so he will fight harder than ever before to ensure the Hobbits return to see the smile he loves so much on your face again.

There is a possibility this will all change faster than any of you could realize, these times are unpredictable and there is a taste of danger on his tongue and in the air. The journey of the Fellowship has barely begun and already the sun bleeds into the horizon in colors that mark the grounds of battlefields awaiting you.

Aragorn clenches his jaw and only unclenches it when he hears the smallest of sighs. Looking down at you, he dares to smooth away some strands of hair, leaving a streak of dirt on your sunkissed temple. 

In the grand scheme of things, there is of course the need for the bigger picture and the importance of all that connects to this journey, but in this moment, surrounded by the sounds of the forests and your breathing, Aragorn takes comfort in knowing he has this moment with you to remember all the small things count just as much. 

A cloak to sleep in.

The shadow of a tree.

Even the pain seems to have fallen into a slumber, resting to surely come back and hit him square in the chest like it has never left him but Aragorn has never felt this free as in the pain’s short-lived absence. 

And he can hear it in the silence and in the way you keep his cloak close to you.

War brings pain but you bring love.

Legolas:

Legolas may agree that abandoning his father's task of informing Lord Elrond of the disappearance of their captive to travel through the lands and destroy a ring in Mordor – whether the Fellowship will make it this far is still unknown – but then Aragorn brought you to the Council and suddenly Legolas finds himself months away from his home, listening to your laughter as you flip rocks over the lake you’re standing in front of. 

He can not remember the last time he saw someone be this amused by the ripple of water and the stones skipping across the otherwise calm reflection of the skies that cause the growing disturbance. Then again, Legolas never met anyone like you in general and every aspect of your personality that he gets to watch unfold like the meadows you ride across, the hills you climb up, the more eager he feels to find out what makes you laugh.

Stones, apparently. 

“No, not this one!” you chime in and take the stone he picked up out of his hand, your skin brushing his and sending ripples over his skin. 

“No?” he inquires and tilts his head in genuine confusion. “This one seems perfectly adequate for this, no different to the ones you chose.” 

You scoff, giddy giggling followed. “That’s outrageous! Calling this one adequate when it's clearly in no shape to even compare to these –” you lift your hand to his face and present the collection of rocks that you seem to keep in the pockets of your vest, a grin blooming across your face, “Look! They’re thinner, perfect to hop.. hopefully, four times?”

Legolas smiles, one that’s more tugged into his cheeks and corners of his eyes to really be called one. “I will leave you to find what you think–”

“I don’t think,” you interrupt him and roll your eyes, already turning your back to him again and bending your knee slightly. You turn your head over your shoulder and the sun reflects beautifully in your cheeky gaze, “I know. I feel. Look!” Then you twist your arm, pulling it into your chest at an angle before flicking the stone across the lake.

Five times.

You cackle loudly. 

And Legolas picks up the stone you thought not to be perfect and slides it into his pockets, ignoring how his heart skips five times.

The day flies by like the stones dance over water, fast, too fast for Legolas' liking yet by the time the sun burns low on the horizon, he is glad for the calmness that settles over the little camp they’d set up earlier. The others are scattered around the fire crackling behind Legolas, the warmth creeping into his bones and settling high in his cheeks, as he turns his head slightly and catches you staring out onto the water; the red fire and golden sunset basking you in a glow that pulls him into you like busy bees to the sweetest of flowers.

He can’t help but stare, even if it’s everything but appropriate. Your face is lit up, not only by the embers fluttering to you and the last of the sun's rays caressing the fullness of your cheeks but ever since you decided to tag along on this journey, nature bathes you in an aphrodisiac of wind-swept hair that Legolas wants to braid, rosy fingertips that he wants to hold and kiss each one of them. Whenever he looks at you – he could not tell how much, time is a rush of emotions, a whirlwind of hair and laughter, hands playfully slapping him and he counts the days by how often you blink up tiredly after waking up rather than the sun sets and rises – he is astounded of the beauty someone could possess and carry it out freely like it sits in your heart and not in your face. 

The sun sets and your eyes are full of wonder and molten gold, an open letter of your adoration for the nature that equally loves you back. 

Behind him, Legolas hears Merry and Pippin sing, hears the low chuckles of Aragorn, and lips that curve around a pipe, teeth clacking against shaped and glazed wood filled with smoke. He also hears your intake of breath as the wind swipes over you, gliding over the lapping water first, over the croaking frogs and wreathes around your naked arms. He hears the sound of your hand smoothing over the fine hairs that stand up on your prickled skin. 

He hears himself talk, before he thinks: “Here, this cloak will keep some of the cold away.”

Your eyes widen.

His heart skips five times on each breath taken in the moment of silence.

Legolas is sure that you would take the offer one way, but then you nod, lower lip pulled between your teeth as if that could stop the shy smile from tugging up the corners of your mouth, and you scoot closer, lifting yourself up by your hands and leaning in, until your shoulders brush his side.

He almost freezes, not because of the cold – this he can not feel, for multiple reasons, and mostly the advantages of being an elf though the warmth radiating from your body, suddenly so close to yours and the blush that he must blame on the fire – but because the way you slid into his side as he holds up one side of the green cloak leaves only the option to drape the fabric over your shoulder and awkwardly pull his arm away or–

There must be some of his father's braveness in Legolas for he lowers his arm around you, shaking ever so slightly. 

You sigh, contentedly, and draw your legs up to your chest. “Much better at this than skipping stones,” you mumble and a tired yawn accompanies your huff of laughter. 

Despite the teasing tone, Legolas can’t stop his smile. “Is this.. perfectly adequate?”

“No,” your head drops and maybe you don’t notice but you rest it on the arm, oblivious to the halt this causes to every single thought Legolas has ever had. “This,” you whisper and he can hear the flutter of your lashes trying to stay open, “is just perfect.”

All Legolas can do is hum in agreement, and even this sounds as shaky as his words would have been had he any of them readily and not swallowed up by the swarm of butterflies swooping through his stomach.

The sun disappears behind the line of trees on the other side of the lake, throwing one last wink of gold over you both before the silver light of the moon laps over you like the waves onto the shore. By the time your hair twinkles like the stars you seem to have lost the fight of keeping your head up; it rests against Legolas, just like most of your upper body that followed one last yawn. He sits still, not daring to move much now that you’re this close to him, your nose against his chest, the bones of your knees resting against his thigh, and all of you enveloped in his cloak.

The fabric rustles slightly as his arm slips from your shoulders to your middle, tugging you closer to keep the heat encased in this cloak and moment you’re sharing.

Legolas's other hand glides into his pockets, finding the stone hidden inside. His hand wraps around it, pressing the smooth surface against his palm.

“Perfect,” he repeats.

[celestemona]

⋆˙⟡ — CONSTANT AS A RIVER, PERPETUAL AS MOUNTAINS

cw: no pronouns mentioned. just pure cuteness.

High above the forest floor, Kinich perched silently in the upper branches of a towering tree, his body still and balanced like a natural extension of the canopy. Below him, the landscape unfolded into a maze of thick trees, jagged rock faces, and the distant, thunderous roar of the waterfall cascading down the mountain. The air was thick with the scent of damp leaves and fresh water, the humidity clinging onto everything.

From this height, Kinich had a clear view of the world below—a vantage point that made him feel at home, with the winds sweeping through the treetops and the sway of the branches beneath him. His tribe had long since adapted to this unforgiving landscape, where cliffs loomed, trees stretched endlessly into the sky, and the terrain was as treacherous as it was beautiful. To outsiders, this place was inhospitable. To Kinich, it was perfect.

His sharp eyes followed you, who was on the floor far below, walking with a carefree grace that stood in stark contrast to the harshness of the environment around you. You moved with ease, your steps light as if you danced along the path, humming softly to yourself. Your hair fluttered in the breeze, and every so often, you’d pause to marvel at the way the light filtered through the trees' forms above, casting intricate patterns of shadow and light across your skin.

A small smile tugged at Kinich’s lips as he watched you, hidden from view. There was something magnetic about your presence—how you could bring warmth and life to even the most untamed of places. He admired your resilience and fearlessness, your ability to thrive in a land most would shy away from. Even now, you didn’t seem at all fazed by the singular nature that surrounded you.

From above, he could see how your eyes lit up every time you discovered something new—a strange flower, the movement of a saurian group nearby, or the iridescent glitter of sunlight against the waterfall in the distance. There was a joy to the way you moved, an uninhibited energy that drew him in and made him want to stay and watch you forever.

You suddenly stopped and tilted your head upward, squinting at the towering branches as if you could feel his gaze. “Kinich?” you called out, your voice slightly playful. “I know you’re up there somewhere.”

Kinich smirked, though he didn’t move or answer right away. He stayed hidden, knowing you’d keep searching, your instincts sharp enough to sense when he was near.

Your eyes scanned the treetops, and then your smile grew wider. “Come on. Don’t make me climb all the way up there just to find you,” you complained, putting a hand on your hip. “You know I will.”

That was enough to stir Kinich into action. With the quiet grace of a true Scion of the Canopy, he leaped from the branch he was perched on, landing silently on a lower one before dropping to the ground with barely a sound. Your face lit up when you saw him, eyes sparkling with delight.

“Took you long enough,” you said, closing the distance. Your hands immediately reached for him, fingers curling around his arm as you pulled him close. “Were you watching me the whole time?”

Kinich nodded, his expression calm but the warmth in his eyes gave him away. “You’re hard to miss,” he replied, his voice low. “Especially when you’re singing all the way.”

You giggled, your hand slipping down to entwine with his. “Well, I had a feeling you’d be up there, hiding away like some elusive yumkasaurus. But you know I’ll always find you.”

Kinich tilted his head slightly, his thumb brushing across the back of your hand. “I wasn’t hiding,” he said, though there was a subtle playfulness in his tone. “I was... observing.”

You raised an eyebrow, stepping closer until you were right in front of him, bodies almost touching. “Observing, huh?” you murmured, your voice dropping to a whisper. “And did you like what you saw?”

Kinich’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, the world around him seemed to fade away—the trees, the running river, the steep cliffs. All that mattered was the warmth of your hand in his and how you looked at him, so full of life and love.

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he leaned in, his lips brushing softly against yours in a slow and steady kiss, much like him. You responded immediately, your arms wrapping around his neck as you deepened it, your fingers gently tangling in his hair.

When you finally pulled apart, you rested your forehead against his, your breath coming in soft, warm puffs against his skin. “You don’t always have to watch from afar, you know,” you whispered, your voice laced with affection. “You can come closer.”

Kinich smiled, his hand coming up to cup the side of your face. “I’m here now,” he said softly, his voice steady as always, but with a tenderness that only you ever got to see. “I’ll always come closer when it’s you.”

.

.

a/n: oh well. i didn't intend to write to him soon but i wanted to gift myself since my birthday is coming and i've been checking his tag for updates more times i should to. come on, my fella writers, where are you?

[razzafrazzle]

okie miku!! or more specifically texoma miku bc I have no clue what happens up near the panhandle </3 she's chahta also. more like hatsune maka

[image description: a page of drawings of a oklahoma-themed design for hatsune miku, where she is darker-skinned, wears beaded earrings, and has visible tan lines. on the right is a full-body drawing of her wearing a university of oklahoma shirt and boots, where she is carrying a braum's bag and shake with a thought bubble reading "damn texas drivers". on the left are a drawing of her in an okc thunder shirt, where she is holding a beer in one hand and doing a downwards longhorns gesture with the other. below that is a scene of miku sleeping in a lawn chair in a field with a tornado occurring in the distance. end id]

[yeyinde]

STRAW HOUSE, STRAW DOG

Baby Trap + Soap x Fem!Reader : or, Johnny finds a wife in the woods and decides to take her home.

18+ | DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT: noncon, kidnapping, breeding/baby trapping. somnophilia. implied stalking. obsessive behaviour. forced reliance/dependency. non-con drug use (implied). vulnerable character (injured reader) being preyed upon by an opportunistic scavenger.

Somehow, getting hurt in the remote wilderness of Nahanni National Park without any immediate rescue is the least of your worries when a rugged man shows up and claims he's going to help. Out here, you've been told your biggest fear should be bears, steep canyons, and a swift death with fangs and claws.

But maybe you should have been more concerned about strange men with crowlike smiles and blistering eyes.

ADDITIONAL TAGS: descriptions of injury. implied head trauma. bearded Soap. smut. this is my love letter to NWT and a what not to do in a national park.

BABY TRAP MASTER LIST | AO3 LINK

It happens in an instant. 

The trek up the fjord narrows suddenly. Chossy growing slick from rainfall the night prior. You pace yourself, stepping carefully on the wobbling slate, testing its resilience before you take another step. Climbing higher. Higher.

There's a storm brewing in the distance. Its burgeoning pace grows rapidly, nipping at your heels as cool winds whistle through the steep valley below.

The park wardens at the visitors centre warned you about it when you set out into the rugged wilderness of Nahanni this morning. Brows pinched, wary, when you'd come to them—all alone—and signed your name on the barren ledger collecting dust on the counter. A fact that drew your attention when you flipped through the empty pages. 

Don't get too many visitors around here, the man murmured, eyes cresting in apprehension at your question. Not the most isolated or remote, no. That's probably higher up. Quttinirpaaq, maybe? Heard from some buddies up there that they had no visitors last year. We do pretty well. About one thousand a year? Usually filmmakers and the like. Adventurous types. Gets kinda lonely up here. Ain't no Banff, that's for sure.

They added that the weather was unpredictable this time of year. All year, really. Nahanni is known for sudden swells and white-outs, for weather that can turn in an instant, going from calm to cataclysmic within seconds. 

(“Storms,” the man huffs, and you think the sigh was meant to be a laugh. One that falls flat when he takes in your hiking boots (too big, but the sales lady at the sporting goods warehouse assured you it was fine, that you would grow into them), and your cheap Lululemon knock-off tights. Your flimsy rucksack. The tinge of green around your ears; the stench of an overeager novice. “And, uh, it’s urban legends.”)

Valley of the Headless Men, he intones, squinting up at you when you ask about them. Adding: be careful out there when you turn to leave.

Dauntless, you still set out into the park, determined to at least make it to your campground before it set in. But the majesty surrounding you on all sides distracted you from your pace. Eyes caught on the Xanadu of an untempered wilderness slowing your trek to a crawl as you took in the steep, rolling batholiths reaching high into the aether, their sides sloping down in a dizzying, vertiginous drop to a lush valley below of scheele’s green below. It all looked so perfectly symmetrical from the high point in the valley where you stood, breathing in the scents that perfumed the air. With the rugged mountains cupped around a winding white line where the river sawed through. 

A lone moose grazed at the bottom of a rolling fell. The sight of her stopping you in your tracks long enough that the plume of darkened clouds—all a terrifying burnt sage—had time to catch up to you, crackling overhead as thunder rumbled through the canyons. 

Your campground is at the top of this ravine. Three nights spent inside a cabin with nothing but yourself and several paperbacks for company. Into the Wild amongst them—a morbid parting gift from a friend on what not to do—and its inspirational predecessor, On the Road. 

You won't read it. You never do. But it sits, a humourous paperweight, in your rucksack as you clamber up the ravine. An anchoring comfort. A piece of home. Something that reminds you you're not completely alone even though you are. 

The book, your friends, and the encroaching loneliness that you feel prickling behind your eyes, all weigh on your mind. Spooling out before you in loose, loop threads. You follow them eagerly, glad for something to abate the unnatural silence, and—

A sound.

It comes from the left, hidden in the thick tangle of furze. A click. It shatters through the eerie quiet of the sprawling boscage. An animal, maybe. Hopefully. 

It must be, you think, heart hammering thunderously in your chest. There's a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. You hold your breath. Eyes glued on the thatch of green shrubs lining the base of the dense forest. 

Nothing happens. You blink, shifting on your feet—

A red line pierces through the gap between the leaves, aimed straight at your ankle. It's thin, diaphanous. Slips over the scraggy rock like liquid.

It's so out of place here that it takes you a second to familiarise yourself with its unexpected presence. A laser—

An explosive boom fills the ravine the moment the thought connects. A rifle. Aimed right at you. It happens fast. The world turning over itself, spinning right off its axis. You fall against the ledge in a crumpled, heavy heap, legs so close to dangling off the precipice. 

Gravity is a choking weight on your sternum, pushing you down, down, toward the jagged, rocky shoreline. A fall like that—

You curl into yourself instinctively. 

“Ah, shite—” is all you hear amid the roar in your ears. “Y’alright? ah didnae see ye thare—”

In your tear-stained periphery, a man appears. He stands into the glare of the waning sun, limned in a halo of gold. There's a pinch between his dark, thick brows. A steep ravine.  He's ragged. Wild. Tuffs of black hair hang loose past his ears and nape, curling slightly at the ends. It blends, almost seamlessly, into his thick, scraggly beard. He pushes a hand through the top, grabbing a fistful in his palm.

“Easn't expecting anybody oot 'ere. Nae this far intae th' woods.”

He seems to be speaking to himself more so than he's talking to you. There's anger writ in the fine lines of his face, but this ire isn't turned toward you. It's inward. Self-admonishment. His eyes darken when they flicker down to your ankle, as if reminding you of the hurt there when you'd been so focused on how out of place his accent is in the Northwest Territories.

The ache in your ankle brings you crashing back into reality. The pain seems to vibrate from within your marrow, riveting up your bones. 

You chance a glance—

You swallow down the drum of panic. A trick of the light. It must be. 

A dream. A nightmare. 

But the man appears. His hand falls onto your knee, holding you steady. 

“Ah will hae tae put oan a tourniquet. Will hurt a lot, doe.” 

Absently, you nod. Keep nodding. Can't stop. 

There's a hole cut through your ankle. Tore thro' yer Achilles, he's saying, words water in your ears. He instructs you to wiggle your toes.

"Ah know it hurts, but just dae it fer me, okay?"

You do. You—

Nausea buds in your guts, churning your stomach. The apple you ate earlier is choked out into the bushes dotting along the ravine. Insides purging themselves, replacing everything—food, water, coffee from earlier, bile—until nothing but shaky panic remains. It tastes like iron in the back of your throat. 

“Ah know, doe,” he's saying, fingers knotting into your slick hiking trousers. Lululemon knockoffs from an outdoor warehouse in the city. A pocket knife follows, and cuts a seamless line inches below your hip. 

Sad tae see ‘em go, he murmurs, accent thickening around the words. Saturating them in a drawl that's too liquid for your unpractised ears to catch. He makes a mournful sound when he slides the blade down your leg, adds, “hugged yer arse like a dream, doe.”

Another trick. The mountains do funny things to sound, you know. It must be all in your head. All—

“Don't worry,” he's shushing you now as he peels the fabric off your legs, groaning low in his throat. “Ah have ye. Ah will take care o'ye, tae, doe. Bonny thing, aren't ye? a' alone. Nae anymore, doe. Jus' me 'n' ye now. Jus' us —”

You always thought you'd have your wits about you in a traumatic situation. Be able to think clearly, rationally. Make appropriate decisions that befit the situation unfolding. Life saving ones. Practical. 

To gear up for this trip, you watched survival videos on YouTube. How to make a fire. How to make drinking water. How to build a shelter. Tips on weathering down for a sudden storm. Tucked it all inside your head, and thought, I got this. 

Had to, really, because everything you've read about Nahanni says it's unpredictable. Calm weather, gorgeous views one moment, and then a sudden deluge the next. Snow falling quicker than you keep up with. Animals blend in seamlessly with the landscape. Slips, falls. It's so easy to get lost, someone wrote. 

But as he uses the scrap of your trousers to wrap around the wound on your broken, mangled ankle, you realise all that planning was for nothing. This was one of those moments when you discovered just how much you bit off. That panic made you mute, made you freeze up. 

The pain is almost secondary to the surge of adrenaline. Fear.

You need to go home. You tell him this, slowly. Muttered through numb lips. 

There's something almost like pity in his eyes when he glances up at you. 

There was a mix-up, he says, slowly. Cautiously. You got yourself turned around in the opposite direction. There's no campground on the fjord above. All the lodges and cabins are in the opposite direction. 

Y'got lost, he tells you. Turned the wrong way out. Ye'r in th' backcountry.

“I'll go back,” you press, urgent. Insistent. Panic is acidic in your throat. Corrosive. It burns when you swallow. “Please, just tell me which way to go, and I’ll—”

"Cannae dae tha'."

“Why?”

“Storm,” he points in the distance where a plume of cloud gathers. So dark, they're almost black. Ominous. “Gonnae skelp solid. Na choice but tae git oot."

“I don't have anywhere to go—”

He rakes his hand through his hair. “Ah kin take ye tae mines. Git a cabin in th' woods. Juist ootdoors o' Nahanni Butte.” 

“No, I—”

His hand squeezes tight around your ankle. The pain makes itself known in a visceral, awful throb that travels up your leg, curdling at the base of your spine. Wrong, wrong. Something is wrong. Your body is trying to reject the agony. The breaking of your bone. It's foreign, it doesn't belong. But there's nowhere for it to go. 

Pain pulses in tandem with your heartbeat. 

You don't realise you're screaming until you hear the echoes of it rebound against the limestone walls. And then there's a whisper in your ear. You feel the scratch of his beard against your cheek.

"Shush, bonnie. Cannae let ye go oot oan yer own. Gonnae take ye home, yeah?"

Home. Home. You nod furiously, and it's only when the scraggly black curls covering his chin and jaw catch on damp skin do you realise you're crying. 

He leans away from you, arm stretching toward the rucksack behind him. 

The rifle leans against it. You feel sick all over again. 

“Drink this,” he says, unscrewing the cap. “It'll make ye feel better.” 

He presses the lip to your mouth, a hand slipping over the back of your head, tilting your chin up. “Drink,” he says again, and it's firmer this time. A command. “Ah promise ye'll feel better, doe.”��

It tastes bitter. You swallow it down. Keep swallowing.

“Good,” he rasps, hand sliding down the length of your spine until it rests against your lower back. “Keep drinkin’, sweet thing.”

It pools in your belly, sloshing uncomfortably when you move, but it washes the bitterness from between your teeth. You keep drinking. Swallowing it down. You know you shouldn't, that you might get sick again, but it's a distraction from the mess that is your ankle—bloody, twisted, mangled—

Nausea swells. You choke it down until you can breathe without feeling as though you were going to be sick again. 

“You'll be okay,” he's saying, moving around you with a practised efficiency for something so broad. It's almost graceful. Agile. 

He patches you up as much as he can with the supplies he has, but you refuse to look again at your ankle. It's broken, that much is clear. You can feel your bones grinding, sliding against each other. The sensation is horrific. Wrong. You turn your head to the ledge you were standing on just to distract yourself from the agony of it all. 

You're surprised you're not crying. Screaming. The urge is there, just beneath the surface. But for some odd, unfathomable reason you find you can't. Your chest feels heavy. Lungs sluggish. Slow. 

It must be an adrenaline crash, you think. Why else would you feel so tired, so exhausted. 

“I'm—” you start, but you feel dizzy. “‘m—”

“Shush, doe.” He mutters, and it sounds far away. Garbled. “You need yer rest. Had a traumatic accident. But don't worry. Ye can trust me. A wouldnae let anythin' ill happen tae ye ever again."

“Yeah,” you breathe, nodding. Nodding. You can't stop, can't—

“Lay back. Git some rest. A'm almost done, 'n' then ah will hae ye back home in no time—”

You come to on a groggy whimper, head buried in the messy locks curtained over his nape. There's a soft, pulsing thud in the back of your head when you try to lift it up. It feels heavier than it should. Leadened. You groan again, fighting against the currents dragging you back down to those soporific depths—

Your head is a slurried marsh. Thoughts ephemeral, broken. Fragmented. They slip through your fingers when you reach for them, diaphanous wisps you can't seem to catch. 

“Don't worry, doe—” your world quivers when he speaks. Words vibrating through your chest, catching on the heavy rails of your ribs. The seismic vibrations rumble in your ear, coming to life as a mere echo in your head. “Ah will keep ye safe.”

It's comforting. A raft in squall, something to cling to as the waves make futile attempts to drag you under. Your arms, dangling loosely over his shoulders, sluggishly flatten to his chest, linking over his chest. 

He grunts at your touch, palms slick on your skin. 

“Thank you,” you slur, words thick in your throat. Sluggish. “Thank you for helpin’ me. Fer savin’ me—”

Your body shakes when he trembles. With your forehead against his nape, you hear his thick swallow. The air ghosting out of his lungs in a soundless whisper. 

His hands flex around the backs of your knees. Squeezing tight. The man doesn't say anything for a moment. In the silence, the pursuing somnolence catches up to you. It digs heavy fingers into your eyes, dragging you back down into the sticky, thick tar. 

Sleep finds you in an instant. 

You try to read his words in the quiver of your bones when he speaks. Make sense of the tremble reverberating through the hollow gaps, tangling in the pulpy mess. 

But there's a mistranslation somewhere. A missing decibel. A forgotten wavelength.

It almost sounds like he says—

“Wouldn't leave mah wife alone in th' woods like tha’.”

How funny, you think, and hide a giggle into the hardened ridge of his shoulder blade. 

Cognisance is a transient flicker.

You're not sure how long he matches through the thicket with you on his back, navigating the unending chaparral with an ease that feels innate rather than practised. You stare down at the ground, world hazy around the edges, and think, suddenly, intrusively, that you ought to remember the steps. Every left, every right. 

You get to seven lefts, three rights—a small ravine, a flattened coppice; a gnarled spruce sat alone in a valley of lush green and clumps of topaz podzol—before your eyes are too heavy to keep open. They slip shut. And you think, only for a moment. Just a second, I just need to rest my eyes, and then come to at the sound of a groggy engine growling to life. 

The world morphs from a dense forest intercut with sheer cliffs looming, indomitable, in the grey distance, to the faded beige felt covering the ceiling of an old truck. 

Your blink is a slow crawl, lashes weighed down by anchors dredging over the seafloor. Gritty, raw. It hurts, now, to hold them open. A furious throb jabs at your temple. It aches like a bruise. But it's nothing compared to the nauseating agony that floods your core each time your foot is jostled. Nerves being lit aflame in an endless throe of pain unlike you'd ever experienced before. 

Your mouth feels sealed when you go to speak. Lips glued together. Sluggishly, you squeeze your tongue through the crack between your teeth, licking along the seam. 

A plastic bottle appears in your periphery, nozzle tipped toward your mouth. A hand curls around the body of it. Fingers overlapping. It looks small in this big hand. Tiny. Long wisps of black hair cover their ruddy knuckles, spreading in a dense crop up their forearm, growing thicker at the wrist. 

Their skin is pale, tinged slightly pink. Even through the brume, the lambent light of the sun catches on their skin. Illuminating small scars, cuts. Little scratches from the snagging furze. 

Their hand shakes. The dark veins that branch off from the white-capped peaks of their bent knuckles pulse under the thin skin when they move. 

“Drink, hen,” he murmurs, bringing the bottle to the jut of your lower lip. “Ye’ll need it.” 

A plastic bottle is an odd choice to bring into the backcountry, but as you peer through the translucent skin, you find the water inside is cloudy. Chalky. 

“Donnae worry—” he gives the bottle another shake, disturbing the sediment congealing at the bottom. “It's electrolytes, ken. Nothing fishy.”

Your teeth ache from the cold when he slips the rim between your lips, prying them apart. With your head already tilted back in the seat, the water slips in. A slow trickle. He feeds it to you, humming in appeasement when you swallow. 

“Tha’s a good girl.” 

It carves a jagged tunnel through the murk in your head. The praise slipping in, liquid, until it coats your burgeoning trepidation in a sudden swell of endorphins. With their unpractised, gauche hands, they paint a mockery of Sargent in the gaps of your synapses, stuffing the spaces between with oversaturated hues of teal, white, yellow, orange, and pink. 

Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose. 

But despite the shoddily crafted pastiche, it works. 

Your eyes flutter, bones growing heavier, heavier, as they're forced to carry the weight of your liquified flesh. This molten heat in your chest turns your insides into putty.  

Water dribbles down your chin. He sees it and coos.

“Ah, doe. Right mess ye are now. Ah will hae ye home in no time. Git ye a' cleaned up."

The idea of home melts you further. You sigh in the seat, soft and drawn out, and shake your head slowly when he wriggles the bottle in front of you again. 

“Get some rest, doe,” his hand falls, heavy and warm, on your thigh. Thumb stroking along the curve of your leg, fingers curling into the seam, digging deep. Resting there. 

It's too high to be appropriate. You know this. Went through lesson upon lesson in school of bad touches and what's considered friendly, polite. But when you try to open your mouth to say something about it, you catch the spread of his palm over your flesh. Wide, broad. Masculine. It catches in your throat, and gets tangled in the mush at the base. 

It should be fine, you think, dizzy over the way his hand swallows you whole. He saved you, after all. 

But it burrows. Digs deep. Some sense of wrongness permeates out from the firm grasp he has on you. It feels possessive. The sort of thing you might expect between people who are intimate with each other. A couple. You've known him for—

Hours, maybe? 

Most of it was spent in a pain-induced hypnagogia. 

It curdles in your stomach. Rotten, spoiled milk. 

But—

He saved you. 

You'll choke yourself on it if you keep thinking about it. So, you don't. You push it down. Cover it beneath the sediment, and bury it deep. 

He's just a man. 

Kind. Helpful. 

As you dig a hole for this unease, he keeps his hand fixed on your thigh. The other is pressed against the steering wheel, the ball of his palm under the curve at the top of the wheel. Relaxed. Easy. You try to adopt his nonchalant disposition and glance out at the blurry world around you. 

You feel exhausted. Unsettled. The sort of fatigue that comes with a raging fever. There's sand in your mouth. Your throat is dry. 

You don't ask for water. 

In the lull, he pitches the truck forward with a grave rumble. The silence is broken by the crunch of vegetation and gravel beneath the wheels as he ploughs forward. 

There are public roads to get to Nahanni. The floatplane you entered into the park on was chartered by Parks Canada. And yet—

He commandeers the truck around a flatbed of rock and dirt. Muskeg dots the tops in some places, and he veers expertly to avoid them. 

It's less of a traditional road and more so a forged desire path. You know the highway has to be close by, the link between Fort Liard and Fort Simpson, but as you peer out the window, the world around you looks overgrown. Wild. Alien. 

Sloping hills in lush green stretch out into the distance, meeting with the dense montane forests dotted along the stretch of land. The grassy coppice under his wheels is matted down, and interspersed with clumps of brown, wet muskeg and crushed slate. 

Over the grey peaks of the mountains in the distance, a thick, black cloud looms. The sky turns gunmetal, almost indistinguishable from the monoliths jutting beneath them. 

At some points, he takes his hand off your thigh to navigate winding turns better, but it always ends up back on you. And always a little higher than it was before. 

Your mouth is filled with lead. Tongue thick, malleable. Tensile like mercury. You can't speak. So you just ignore it. Dig your crown into the headrest, and breathe in the woodsy scent of him. Laurel, tree moss. Coumarin. Rotting pine. Sweet acacia. It tickles the back of your throat. Sticks there, glued in the syrupy mess. 

You'd hoped it would get easier to ignore, but it stays there, a constant weight, even as the world outside fades into a hazy twilight. 

In the hush of the cabin, he squeezes your thigh. “Cannae wait tae get ye home, doe.”

Against the staggering backdrop of a black, jagged mountain, a doe stands in the talus. Her fawn fur and tuffs of white spots stick out against the charcoal-coloured cliffs, and you watch, some distance away, as she bends down to fossick through the scree in search of food. 

With the looming clouds of gunmetal and ash gathering around the craggy peaks, her presence here feels dangerously out of place. Jarring. She shouldn't be here. She doesn't belong. 

But the beauty of this moment is breathtaking. Mesmerising. You stare in muted horror, awe, as she grazes in the rubble, slender neck bent in a graceful arch. The sloping handle of fine china. Her wet, black eyes are so open, so kind. Puddles of ignorance, naïvety, as she flicks her tongue out against the desolate rock, a fruitless search for grass in which to mull on. 

Thunder crackles over the snow-capped ridges. Her ears flicker, but she doesn't run. You should warn her. Scare her away. But you can't move. Can't speak. You're a mute spectator, a piece of dross on the ground watching the approaching calamity without a mouth. Horror churns. You want so badly to tell the doe to run—

An impossibility, you know. It's much too late for her to do anything at all. 

Around the doe’s leg is a shackle. 

Your skin rips, tears, as you force your jaws apart, blood pooling in your mouth. If you can make a sound, she’ll—

A boom echoes through the canyon's cradle. 

The scream gurgles in the back of your throat. 

Agony rips through your leg—

—you wake with a gasp. 

Sputtering, choking on the saliva pooled in your mouth. It tastes bitter, brackish. You feel something gritty between your teeth. It sticks to the backs, granular specks that dissolve, sour and chalky, on your tongue when you run it along the ridges of your gums.

You swallow it down, grimacing at the acidic taste. 

“Awake, aye?” His voice chips through the dense fog. You blink the haze away, glancing sideways at him through bleary, heavy eyes. 

His profile is lit by the harsh glare of high noon. The sharp jut of his ball cap. The curve of his nose set in the thick bushel of his scraggly beard and moustache. His broad chest concealed most of the view from the driver's side window. The lax bridge of his arm, knuckles loosely curled around the steering wheel.

He tilts his head toward you. “How're ye feelin’?”

Sluggish. Awful. There's sand in your eyes. Cotton in your head. You feel like you've been left out in the hot sun all day. Dizzy and sunburnt. Feverish. Heatsick. Your throat is dry, but you don't ask for water. You don't answer him at all. Can't. Your tongue is laden. Lips numb. 

It takes you a moment to reorient yourself, squinting through the glare of the sun—

That reels you back. Breaks through the fog. 

You know that the concept of day and night in the summer is different here. Twenty hours of daylight with twilight lasting all night. But even with the skewed perception of time and the heavy molasses thickening around the edges of your cognisance, you know that something is wrong. 

When you left the park, it was close to five in the evening. It should be twilight, not—

Your gaze lists sluggishly to the clock on the dashboard. Through the haze, the unmistakable gleam of one-fifteen stares back at you. 

It was the right time last night. 

“Wha—?”

You're not sure what you're asking. It's not even really a word, but a garbled sound. A noise of distress, confusion, in the back of your throat. 

He seems to understand it all the same. 

“Park had a bad storm,” he answers, pitch far too light for the severity of your situation, of what you're feeling. It makes you frown, sharp and sudden. “Washed through th’ river. Where ye were—well. Wouldnae ‘ave made it out, ye see. Would’ve gotten all torn up in th’ storm—”

You read that storms in Nahanni are vicious, sudden. Weather can turn in an instant, going from moderate to devastating in a blink. But—

What he's saying doesn't make sense. You remember bits, pieces, from earlier. He said you got turned around. Wandered too far off the trail, lost in the deep wilderness of Nahanni’s sprawling valley. 

“Where are we?”

“Nearly home.”

You push the wave of nausea down. “I need to go to a hospital.”

“Can't dae tha't'.”

“Why not?”

He doesn't answer for a beat, eyes fixed on the dirt path. Unblinking. 

Finally, he mutters: “had tae leave th' park oan th' opposite side when th' storm came in. No roads take us tae town.”

“I have—” you're not sure where your bag is. You hope he had the wherewithal to snatch it up after you fell. Hope. “I have a satellite phone. I can just call—”

“Sorry, hen. Yer bag flew off th' ledge. Ah coudnae grab it 'n' ye. Ah dinnae hae a phone oot 'ere. Never needed one—”

Hopeless. Hopeless. 

“How—how could you survive out here without one?”

“Nahanni Butte is a few hours awa'. Go intae town when th’ winter road is open. Inaccessible now. Th’ rivers flooded it. Cannae cross it. Can hunt, 'n' ah hae everything a'm needin' oot here.”

“So…” the reality of your situation is beginning to dawn on you. Helpless. Hopeless. “I'm stuck here until—winter?”

“Ah hae a friend flying oot fae Yellowknife. Comes tae drop off supplies 'n' th' lik'. He'll be 'ere in two months—”

“Two months?” This whole situation feels impossible. Wrong. You're so close to people—Fort Liard, Nahanni Butte, Fort Simpson. How could you be stuck here for two months? The idea of it is absurd. “You're not—you can't be serious.”

“Aye. I am.” 

There's a pinch between his brow. You wonder if it's meant to convey the severity of the situation, but as it grows deeper, deeper, you have the sudden sense that it's not an emotional decree of his sincerity. That it's, instead, a sudden twist of anger. 

It scares you. 

“I want to go home.” You mean for it to be forceful, but it comes out in a whimper. 

The man nods. The punch in his brow lessens. “Aye, me tae.” 

“Where are you from?” You pry, needing the distraction from the endless trawl of green and slate and permafrost enclosing in on you. “You're not from around here, are you?” At the gentle raise of his brows, you add, hurried, rushed: “you just. Have an accent, and I—”

“Fae Scotland,” he answers, and there's a quick grin on his face. Roguish. Charming. The sight of it has your start thudding in an uneasy gallop. “Edinburgh."

“Oh. Far from home.”

“Aye—” the grin fades, twisting into something ugly. “Had an—accident,” he spits the word out, brows pinching once more. Anger is writ in the hard clench of his muscles, his jaw. His knuckles blanche around the steering wheel, and you think you should have just kept your mouth shut. “Sent me here.”

There's a multitude of questions you want to ask. Vying for the top is the most obvious—why did this happen? why isn't he letting you go?—but what comes out instead is, “why?”

Just that. Nothing else. 

“Military.” 

He adds nothing, either. 

“Military?”

A nod. “Go’ hurt. Had rehab. Sent me here tae clear ma heid, and well—” his eyes flicker to you. You can't read his expression. “Got a fresh mission, dinnae I?”

“You don't—”

“I cannae leave ye. Both oo' us are stuck 'ere 'til someone comes tae pick us up, 'n' take us home.” 

The idea that somehow he's just as trapped as you are hasn't occurred. Why would it when he has a rifle, a truck, freedom—

But what good is all of that when you're landlocked in a place known for winter roads. Permafrost. The forced shift in perspective doesn't quell the anxiety roiling in your guts, but it lessens it. Somewhat. 

“Two months?”

He nods. “Aye.”

“And you have no cellphone? No satellite?”

“Ye can check it—” he makes a flippant motion toward the glove box in front of you. “Deader than ever.”

You hesitate only briefly. Long enough to level him with a searching look that yields no results before you reach for the compartment, gingerly pulling it open, and—

Sometimes, things get overlooked by their surroundings. Swallowed in the vacuum. Blending seamlessly into the muddle, the commotion. 

This isn't like that. 

It sits on top of a manila folder. Sleek black and cold silver. You're not terribly well-versed in guns—the extent of your knowledge stemming mostly from formulaic crime shows aired late at night; CSI, NCIS, Criminal Minds—but you recognise this one instantly. Some sort of handgun. Police issued, you think. It's bigger than you'd expected. Looks heavier, too. 

Your heart stutters. The air galloping out of your lungs in a stammering rush. 

He makes a noise, soft and nonchalant, as if keeping handguns in the glove box of his old, burnt orange truck is perfectly normal. 

“Fer protection,” he mumbles. You catch the jerk of his chin in your periphery. “Forgot I had it in here. Been usin’ th’ rifle fer huntin’ mostly. Or th’ shotgun.”

Three guns. You swallow. “Why—” your voice comes out in a brittle whisper. You clear your throat. “Why, um, why do you need three?”

“Not fae around here, are ye?” He echoes your words with a wry twist of his mouth, eyes slanting in the sunlight. “Tha’,” he takes his hand off your thigh to jab his finger at the handgun. “Is fer wolverines.” His index finger falls, his thumb juts out. He jerks it over his shoulder. “Tha’ is fer huntin’. The shotgun back home is fer bears.” 

You try to move out of the way when his hand falls back to your thigh, but the pain radiating up your leg immobilizes you. There's not much you can do in this situation but endure.

Military. Wounded in action. Three guns. Touchy. 

You're not sure what to think. It would be easier if you couldn't. 

“What do you hunt?” You ask instead, glancing out the window to the barren landscape rolling out around you. There doesn't seem to be much in the jagged hills, and towering mountains. 

“Gettin’ hungry? Donnae worry, doe. Go’ tha’ pesky hare I was tryin’ tae shoot oan th' ledge fer dinner tonight.” 

It's not much of a comfort. The idea of being injured—by accident, he claims—to such an extent over a rabbit makes you feel a little sick. 

“That's it?”

“I can make a mean steak oot o' anythin'. Stews fer tougher meat. Fish—whitefish, arctic grayling, and lake trout. Learned how tae make a nasty fishfry from th’ locals in Nahanni Butte. Bannock, too. Got berries ‘round ma cabin. Caribou, Moose. Taste better in tacos or burgers. Mountain goat, Dall’s sheep. Been eatin’ better ‘ere than ah did at home.”

“And you're—just allowed to hunt them?” The website advised about a permit through some special outfit needed to hunt when you requested your pass into the park. Said that only aboriginals were allowed to do so. “You're not—”

“Aye,” he cuts you off with a small nod. “No huntin’ in th’ park. But. We're nae in th' park anymore.”

“Where are we?” You ask again, firmer this time. 

“I told ye. Nearly home.”

“And where is home?” 

The way he sucks his teeth makes you recoil slightly. Wet. Irritated. As if he's tired of this conversation already. 

“Close.”

You don't let his flat tone deter you. “Are we—are we still in the Northwest Territories?”

“Thereabouts.” 

It's not an answer. It doesn't reassure you in the slightest. 

You open your mouth to say so, words curling on your tongue when he jerks his chin toward the handgun, brow furrowed. 

“Thought ye wanted tae check oan th' satellite phone.”

His tone is severe. A growl curdling the ends, pitching it down, down. Displeasure, irritation, blooms in the gnarled petals of witch hazel when he narrows them into slits. 

You swallow, wrenching your gaze from the storm brewing over fields of wheat, and set your jaw. Masking your fear for annoyance. Confidence. 

But your hand shakes when you reach for the black box shoved into the corner. Palms slick with sweat. You try not to touch the gun, doing your best to curve around it. It feels—

Real. 

A real gun. In the real world. In a place you came to get away for a weekend, experience something you'd never had before. Freedom. Reliance on nobody but yourself. And now—

Somewhere in the Northwest Territories. Injured. Locked inside of a truck with a man who wavers between warmth—an unending heat, a furnace; a beacon of light—and severity like a swinging pendulum. You feel safe with him. You commit every turn to memory. He's in the military. He's going to take care of you. You think he's lying to you. He'll—

He'll let you go. 

You're sick. You're paranoid. You're taking all of your grievances out on this poor man who is just as trapped as you are, turning him into a monster for no reason at all. At the end of this, when he drops you off at the airport in Yellowknife, you'll have to grovel on your knees for his forgiveness. Sorry I thought you were a bad man. 

It could be worse, you suppose. He hasn't done anything untoward to you—touching your thigh like he's owed the right aside—and you shove it down. A problem to deal with later even though the suspicion tucks itself into your head, folded up against your skull. Metastatic. It eats all of his expressions, turning them over and over again for hidden clues. 

If he does something, you'll run. 

You'll—

“Almost there,” he murmurs, and you hear the rasp of exhaustion glued to the hinge of his jaw. You wonder how long he's been driving for. And why didn't he just go back to Nahanni Butte. Flooded he said. Too deep into the park. Never would have made it. 

If that's the truth, you suppose you should thank him. 

It sits in the back of your throat. You swallow around it, reaching for the phone instead. 

There's a small thread of hope in your chest that it'll work. That he's wrong, doesn't know how to work it, and all you have to do is press a button and it'll crackle to life. Freedom within reach. 

But when you press down on the button, the phone doesn't even whimper. Broke, as he said. Dead. 

“Can you—can you charge it?”

“Tried. Must’ve blown somethin’ inside. Fried it.” 

His words are a prison sentence carrying a punishment of two months. You knew this, of course. He said so himself. But the reality of it breaking over you is different from blind belief. The realisation of your predicament is a jagged knife cutting through tissue, letting corrosive panic entrench you as it spills out. 

This is the sort of thing you’d only read about. Novels, and biographies. Memoirs. Movies. An extraordinary event that could never happen to you. Never. 

And you're aware of it. Optimism bias. The not-me fallacy. But everything in your life thus far had been so unequivocally mundane that the possibility of it not happening seemed to eclipse any chance of it occurring at all. 

The crux of the bias, you suppose. Though it does little to stem the disbelief surrounding it all. Even when you told your friends, and your family, that you were going on this trip, the most mordant of them said you'd get eaten by a bear or end up lost in the wilderness. 

Injured, unable to walk, and stuck with a man you only marginally know (trust) seems like the plot of a lifetime movie. 

But—

Two months. 

You're sure in the meantime, someone will notice your absence. Raise the alarm. Call the police. They'll launch an investigation, and come searching for you. It's just a waiting game. 

And—

(You glance at the man once more, his profile limned in a halo of gold. The rim of his hat casts shadows over his face, eyes concealed in the thickening tenebrous that enshrouds him down to his broad chest, dense with corded muscles. Athletic. Trim. Big.)

—staying alive. 

Survival. 

If only for just two months. 

But the facts are cold, unforgiving. You are alone with a man you don't know. A man with three guns. Military. His experience in this wilderness vastly eclipses your own. 

He's fine. Fine. Touchy, sure. But he hasn't asked for anything. 

—his hand is on your thigh—

You'll be okay. 

It hurts to swallow. “Thank you,” you murmur, hoping the conciliatory lilt eats the panic you feel. “For saving me.” 

His gaze darts to you so sharply that the truck veers slightly to the left, tires crunching over thick beds of furze that line the forged road. The action is sudden—surprised, maybe, by your reedy gratitude. A deviation from the demeanour he'd shown you so far—calm friendliness. Affability. It jars you. Scares you. You grip the seat cushion tight in your fists as he mutters something sharp you can't discern under his breath. 

It only takes him only seconds to correct, rippling his hand away from you to commandeer the truck back into the centre of the beaten path. Even keeled now. Almost as if nothing amiss had happened at all. 

But it's undeniable. Congeals in the air, tense and unignorable. A vacuum that siphons the breath from your lungs. It sits in the whites of his knuckles, arsenic bones jutting from thin, rough skin, demanding to be seen; the terse set to his shoulders. To the grind of his jaw as he clenches his teeth. 

You take him in with bated breath, swallowing whole each microcosm that buds to the surface of his demeanour. Wary. Watchful. Squeezing the satellite phone tight in your hands. But he doesn't meet your wide-eyed stare, choosing instead to keep his gaze fixed on the dirt road. Knuckles popping, brows furrowed. Silent. 

But it's heavy. Oppressive. The same unrelenting chill as outside. You fight back a shiver in the blooming cold, wishing you'd packed more than just a pair of hiking tights (in tatters, now) and a thermal windbreaker for the trip. 

The hum of the engine, and the cracking of rock and muskeg crushed under the wheel, are the only noise that fills the cabin. You stifle your breath. Hold it in your throat. Skewer your eyes to the landscape yawning out around you. The deep, thickening sense of unease grows in the pit of your stomach. Metastasizing. 

Outside is a sprawling taiga forest. Emaciated spruce, balsam fir, jut out from the muskeg, dusted in a sparse layer of sphagnum. You can almost hear the trickle of a stream. The dirt road is wet under the tires now. A creek must be close by. A river. Flat River. South Nahanni. Further out might be Slave River. The Liard. Little Buffalo. Great Slave Lake, even. 

Narrowing it down seems impossible when nearly the entire south corridor of the Northwest Territories is wet marsh and snaking bodies of water. 

It both worries and reassures you at the same time. Getting to Nahanni alone was a challenge. With most of the surrounding area limited to a few year-round highways, there are not many places he could go without reaching dead-ends or winter roads closed for the season, inaccessible in the warmer summer months as the snow melts. 

Though—these highways arch as high as they can. From Yellowknife to Tuktoyaktuk, right on the coast of the Arctic Ocean. 

But he hasn't driven on any stretch of highway since you woke up. The road is unpaved, wild. You're confident you're still south, but the exact location eludes you. Northwest Territories. Yukon. Northern Alberta. It's overwhelming. Daunting. 

You try to commit the geography to memory. Sifting through an endless trawl of nothing to find something familiar. A mountain range. A sign. Anything. Anything—

“Ye mean tha’?”

The sound of his voice draws your attention, raspy. Hoarse from disuse. 

He swallows. There's something raw in his expression, fractured. Yearning, you think. For something. What that something is, however, you can't place. 

It stays on as he slowly slides his tongue out, licking over the bristles of hair covering his lip. 

You offer a shallow nod, unsure why this matters to him suddenly. 

“Yeah, I'd be—” 

You pause, words turning to smoke in your throat. Uninjured, is the first thought. Without him, your leg wouldn't be—

Whatever it is. Ankle broken. Achilles torn. A gunshot wound clean through tendon and tissue. 

But at the same time—

All turned around, he said. Lost. He was hunting, too. You must have somehow wandered outside of the park limits. Must have because the sound of a rifle would have drawn attention from nearby wardens. They'd have come to investigate. 

You swallow down the bloom of unbridled panic. The aftertaste is bitter in your mouth. The thought of being outside of the borders, all on your own—

“I’d be dead if it wasn't for you.” 

The hush that falls is immediate. Your own mortality dangling by a thin thread. Happenstance keeping you alive. 

He clears his throat again. Your fingers tighten around the metal until it hurts. 

“Names Johnny.” He twists in his seat, facing you. “Johnny MacTavish.” 

It's a bit late for introductions, but you take it in all the same. Johnny. Johnny.

(saviour—)

His eyes grow wide when you slowly, haltingly, breathe yours out. Letting it sit in the air where it dissolves into the silence, the weight of it somehow more damning than being alone in the woods. There's power in a name. In knowing it. Military. You're not sure why it matters, but it does. 

You fight another shiver when he says it back after a beat, much too fond, adoring, for the sparse companionship you've barely begun to build. 

“I'll keep ye safe,” he says your name again, accent curling in between the bridges of each letter. There's a heat in his eyes; pyretic. A sickness. “Don't hae tae worry aboot anything.” 

He turns back slowly, angling the wheel around a sudden bend in the thicket. The path is clearer here, looking more like an established dirt road than a sparse coppice. It twists upward, cutting a meandering line through a dense cropping of spruce. The canopy above—as thick as it is—curls over the road, enclosing it in a bed of conifers branching overhead. Concealing it from view. 

The sight fills you with a new bloom of unease. How quickly the wild swallows you whole, shielding you from prying eyes, prickles against the nape of your neck, dripping like hot oil down your spine. 

“Where are we?” It comes out in a whisper. 

He makes a noise in the back of his throat. In your periphery, you see him lift his hand off the wheel, but sit, paralyzed, when he brings it down to your thigh, giving what attempts to be a pacifying squeeze. 

“Home,” he answers, making the turn. 

A log cabin comes into view. It’s situated at the end of the clearing, covered by the same dense tangle of trees as the path. The forest seems to bend around the single-storey home, enclosing in a cradled embrace of intermixing wry jack pine, bold tamarack, dark spruce, and white birch. Trembling aspen peaks above the heads of the other trees, hiding the smoked black spruce roof from view above. 

It might look homey under different circumstances, but the thick, stripped logs—made of varnished white spruce—jutting out half-crescents to form the walls seem brooding. Claustrophobic. It's small—just a storey and a half. A camper's cabin not meant for longtime use. It wears its age in wood rot and peeling varnish. The scent of wet wood clings to the air when he rolls the window down, coming to a stop a few paces away from the single step leading to the porch. 

Firewood stacked high to the awning on both sides of the blue door, encased in metal to keep it dry. Moss-covered concrete foundations lift the house off of the ground, keeping it from melting the permafrost below. The remains of a snuffed, charred campfire is perched to the left of the winding path leading to the door. Felled lumber lays on its side, the top whittled down onto a seat. A wooden rack leans against a tree close by. The hide of an animal is stretched taut across the panels. Leather-making materials sit in a bucket beside it. 

A metal box—bear-proof, you're sure—is half-buried in the soil. Storage, perhaps, for the unusable remains of the animals he hunts. 

It's fairly standard for a cabin up north, you think. But something about this place makes you feel anxious. Trapped. You can't see anything at all through the dense cluster of trees, but you can hear the sound of running water. A river, maybe. A stream. It splashes against the rock, the current too quick for you to even think about swimming in it. 

It only adds to your unease. 

“This is home,” he says, jerking his chin toward the house. 

Home is a cabin nestled somewhere in the unorganised wilderness of the Northwest Territories. Nahanni National Park is several hours in another direction. Too few communities exist on highway seven for you to even stumble onto them—

Assuming, of course, that you could walk there to begin with.

The lingering pain in your ankle, the heavy bandage wrapped around it—it's an immediate certainty that you can't walk. Broken, you know, from the glimpse you'd taken before. Milkwhite against raspberry red—

You don't think about that. 

You don't think about much at all. 

“Right.” You murmur. This place is the furthest thing from home you could imagine. 

He moves in your periphery, reaching for you. You jerk back, driven by instincts. The need for distance, space—

The jostling of your foot makes you hiss in pain, and he offers a conciliatory hum. 

“Ye’ll be alright, bonnie. Lets jus’ get ye inside now.” 

The inside is made of varnished wood. A mix of black and white spruce. It's cosy, you suppose. 

It opens up to a living room immediately upon walking in the door. A mat sits under your feet. A small closet to the right with the door slightly ajar. Along the length of the left wall is a doorway spilling into a small kitchen. From your vantage point, you make out a sink, and then another door to the right. 

Along the back wall beside the arching doorway is a brick fireplace. Soft fur is spread out on the ground in front of it. An old, weathered couch is pushed against the left wall, a shawl tossed over the back. 

There's no television. A stack of books and magazines sit above the couch—used more for an end table than entertainment, you note, spotting the glass of water resting on the pile. A pack of cigarettes beside it. An ashtray on the floor. Bottles of beer sit on the small table shoved under the window. One of the chairs is covered in clothes. 

It's lived in, you note, but lifeless. 

There are no pictures on the wall. No personal artefacts littered around. It's—

Perfunctory. 

He comes home, shucks his boots off by the front door, and drinks warm beer on the couch until he falls asleep. An inference, of course; but as he carries you further into the house (his insistence—ye cannae walk oan tha’, doe, stop bein’ stubborn and lemme carry ye), your notion gains credence. It's sparse. Threadbare. 

There's a single plate in the sink. The old stove, separated from the sink by a small countertop, is covered in a layer of dust. A fridge is pushed against the back wall. 

The door you glimpsed in the kitchen leads to the washroom. It's tight. A shower, a sink, a toilet. No windows. A towel is hung over the curtain rail, still damp from his shower before. A single mat covers most of the tiled floor below. A tube of toothpaste sits in the porcelain basin of the sink. 

Beside the washroom is the master bedroom. The bed is unmade. An untouched glass of water is left on the end table beside a worn leather book and a bible. 

An open closet sits across from the bed. The window is open. The breeze flutters the old, jaundiced curtain. 

He gives you his room and says he'll take the couch. Under normal circumstances, you might have fought it. Insisted that he sleep in his bed. You're a guest. You couldn't put him out like that. But the door has a lock. 

“Thank you,” you murmur, and he seems to tremble at your words before nodding. 

“O' coorse.” 

Johnny places you on the bed before he sets to work rebandaging your ankle. You're all too aware of the fact that you need to know. You need to see what you're dealing with, and how bad the damage is, but the pain that cuts through you when he rests your ankle—as gingerly as he can—on top of an extra pillow makes you yowl in agony. 

It's vicious. Whitehot. The pain rattles through your bones. 

He shushes you as he unwraps the clumsy brace he put on in the park, murmuring incomprehensible things under his breath that you think must be Gaelic. Words of comfort, perhaps. 

You feel none of it except an uneasy dread pooling in the empty pit of your stomach. 

“How bad is it?”

He hums, brow pinching tight. “Th' hare took most o' th' damage,” he says, eyes tracing along the congealing blood on your ankle. Dark cherry red. You swallow down a gag. “Tore yer achilles, though. Clean. Doesn't seem tae be any fragments. Broke your ankle, though. But,” he taps your calf, just above the bend of your foot. It doesn’t hurt. “It’s a clean break. Maybe just a fracture. Shuid heal up in no time.”

“And what about infections?”

“Got some stuff oan hand if that happens,” he leans back, and gives you a wink. It feels out of place considering the severity of your predicament. Garish, almost. “But ah was a good nurse. Patched ye up nicely.” 

You don't ask anything else, and silence trickles in as he refocuses his attention back to cleaning your wound and redressing it. The bed is soft under you. Giving. You lean back, staring up at the log ceiling, and will yourself not to think at all. Each slight jostle of the wet cloth running along your ankle feels like fire licking at your skin. If you had anything at all in your belly left, you might have thrown it up on the side of the bed. 

This pain is consuming. Persistent. 

Your fingers knot into the soft blankets below, gripping tight until your knuckles ache. A futile attempt to exchange this pain for a lesser one. Something you can ignore, forget. 

Through the open window, you can hear the playful caws of a raven searching for food. You want it to distract you, to pull you away from the sickening sensation of your ankle separating from the heel, but it doesn't.

All you can think about is the fresh pain. Your flesh ripped apart. Torn achilles, he'd said. You feel it as he moves, washing away the dried blood, the viscera. The break in your tibia. It's a nauseating feeling. Visceral. It screams at you that something is wrong, reverberating through your bones. 

The raven caws again. 

“Gonnae ‘ave tae stitch yer heel up.” 

You make a sound—a pathetic whimper choked in the back of your throat. 

“Fine,” you rasp, tensing. “Just—”

Get it over with. 

Johnny seems to understand, offering a consolatory pat on your shin. “Ye'll be fine. Ah know what am doin’.”

You glance back at him, avoiding whatever is happening below his elbows. Refusing to look. 

He reaches up, fingers stained pink with your blood, and pulls the ballcap off his head, shaking the matted hair loose. His hair is thick, curling at the ends. Dark brown. Soft. You take in his expression, him, as he works, using it to churn your thoughts away from the prickling sensation of him pressing your torn skin back together, readying it for the needle. 

He's intense, focused, as he works. Eyes lidded to half-mast. Long lashes fanning out over the dark circles beneath his eyelids. Bruises that speak of long, sleepless nights. The empty bottles of beer and the full ashtray within arm's reach make a little more sense as you see the extent of his fatigue. 

It doesn't concern you. You rip your gaze away from the thin, twisting rivers of red that snake through the jaundiced whites of his eyes; the possibility of his vulnerability notches something inside your chest you don't want to think about. Can't. 

Your saviour, you think again, veering sharply on the edge of too cruel—

“Might pinch a bit, doe,” he mutters low, soft. His thick, even brows pull together at the centre. You feel the prick of the needle pushing through your skin—

Down his brows. The oblique curve of his nose. Bottled to a point. The thick bed of hair beneath his nostrils. Thin, pink lips jutting from the thatch of black bristles. The wisps curl down the slope of his neck, thinning at the hollow below before thickening back into a dense crop on the scant patch of his skin visible from his unbuttoned shirt. 

Another prick—

A thin, gold chain loops around his neck. Tucked against his sternum is a Latin cross. It's plain. Traditional. Solid gold, maybe. But not purely for decoration. Where the arms meet the body, the surface is smoothed down. Worn. In the reflection, you can see the thin, circular lines of a fingerprint. 

The bible on his dresser makes sense. You glance over at it, taking in the folds and creases on the leather cover. Aged and well-loved. Used. Pages are dog-eared. Waterlogged. Scotch tape holds the spine together. 

The Holy Bible gleams in faded gold lettering. Douay–Rheims is etched into the surface. 

The sight of a worn-down book and thumbed cross shouldn't relax you, but it does. A good ol’ boy, then. You turn back to him, eyes caught on the gleaming gold flush against tanned skin. It's tight to his sternum. Hung delicately around his neck. 

Seeing it now feels a touch voyeuristic. It wasn't intentionally bared to you. Wasn't offered up willingly for you to gawk at, mind looping around thou shalt not kill and do unto others as you yourself would want done unto you, and finding comfort in the ordered morality of its symbolism—however fickle that could end up being. 

You know a man is not as moral as his religion demands of him, but he looks devout. 

A good Catholic boy. 

Still—

You peel your gaze away from his chest as the thread slides through. The sensation is uncomfortable. Ticklish. Forcing your attention back to him, well above the neckline. His nose. Nostrils flaring when your knee jerks. His hands close over your shin. Mouth parting slightly just to say, keep still, doe. Donnae want tae hurt ye. 

His hair is slightly greasy near his scalp. Sweat from earlier dampens his locks, flattening it tongue head. It's longer at the top compared to the sides. An odd, asymmetrical hairstyle that doesn't feel like an aesthetic choice at all. Maybe he had a mullet. Or—

You see it when he tilts his head down, chin angled toward your foot. 

A scar stretches from his temple back, thinning the hair that lines his scalp on the right. The flesh is jagged, uneven. Cratered. It forms a ravine. The canyon walls clumped scar tissue. The nullah in the centre is all pink and raw. 

You think of a shooting star. Meteor showers in the indigo sky. 

You think of his words from earlier—ah know what am doin’—and the depth of his medical knowledge. It stands out now. You suppose he would, wouldn't he?

The thought has shame dripping down your spine like hot, slick oil. Burning. Tarry. You remember what he said in the truck about being wounded in action, the misery in his words, the anger, and choke yourself on the regret that swarms your throat. 

He looks up, then, catching whatever awful amalgamation of self-hatred, shame, and regret makes of your expression, and the words—sorry, I'm so sorry—tear through your throat until it's bloody and raw. Pulp. Unspeakable, now. 

It dampens his brow, but there's no embarrassment in his eyes when he holds them to yours. Nothing except an intense, dizzying sense of curiosity. Of—

Intrigue. 

It doesn't have a place here, and the sight of it is sobering. 

Why is he looking at you like that when you're gawking at his injury? Confusion knots deep. Uncertainty coiling around your ribcage. Maybe he didn't notice. Doesn't care. 

Is too used to it to worry about whatever conclusions you might draw from the jagged skin barely knitted back together. But his eyes flash. Understanding edging out the unfathomable greed lurking in hazel plains, nestled, restive, in the shade that falls over the sloping boscage. 

You almost miss the shadow when it appears. Wrought with Leashed ghosts. Tempered anger. Wild, frenetic. The chains holding it at bay tremble. Shake—

And then it's gone.

Dissolve back into passive cordiality. All ire stayed behind a wall. 

You want to apologize, but the words are ash in your throat. Unspeakable. Johnny doesn't address it. He dips his head down once more, silently refocusing his attention to your ankle, and offering no explanation for the scar on his head. 

You don't ask. Don't pry. It's not your place. But your eyes are still glued to it. 

It's a horrific injury. Survival from such a terrible wound seems like an impossibility. A gunshot, you're sure. Seeing the small chasm carved into skin, narrowly missing his eye socket, fills you with a blistering sense of pity for this man, and you quietly, quickly, peel your eyes away from the jagged surface, letting your gaze run across the room. A meagre sense of privacy, you're sure, but it lets you breathe a little easier when you can't see the way his temple split apart to make room for a bullet—

“Had a mohawk,” he says. “They cut it off when this happened.” 

A mohawk. The asymmetry of his hair makes sense now, and you can almost picture it as you stare at him. The edges shorn, the top long. Unruly. His hair has a slight curl to the ends, but is mostly straight for the first few inches. 

As wild as he looks now—untamed, rugged; the thick tangle of uncharted wilderness—the mohawk must have made him roguish. Boorish. With his broad shoulders, thick biceps, and piercing blue eyes, the mohawk would have added to the playful appeal. Boyishly charming with his cropped hair and puckish grin. The draw of a bad boy, a vandal. 

But as you try and shape this around him, you catch the strain in his shoulders. The terse set to his jaw. 

“You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to.”

“Was shot.” 

It's said without a preamble as if he was waiting for you to ask. But the words are spat out like they're something foul in his mouth; like he's ridding the taste of it between his teeth. The anger, the aggression cows you slightly, but you offer a small, warbling smile you hope is conciliatory. Apologetic. 

“I'm sorry,” you offer around a stuttering exhale. You can't imagine what that must be like. Shot in the head. The idea is unthinkable. Improbable. And yet, the evidence slashes across his temple; a meteor shower carved into his flesh. 

He lifts his chin, staring down at you from the bridge of his nose. “Wasnae yer fault, doe.” 

“I know, I just—” 

Johnny gives a nod in response, ending the bubble of words and apologies building up behind your teeth. It is what it is, he mutters when you blink at him, flummoxed. This sort of reveal seems like it should necessitate a bigger conversation, a deeper one. Questions buoy to the surface—from prying (how did it happen, how did you survive) to intrusive (what did it feel like, does it hurt still)—but you trample them until they sit, a building mass lodged in your throat. 

He seems content, then, to continue with what he was doing, and says nothing more about it. And it's not your place to pry. To chisel into his trauma. 

You let it pass. Let it moulder. 

The raven caws once more. You lean back in his bed, staring through the fluttering curtains, mind reeling at this discovery. 

Stupidly, you feel more at ease in his presence. As if this show of vulnerability somehow negated the distress of your predicament, and the infeasible nature of how you ended up here, in his home. Gazing through the thick canopy of green to the golden sky above. A whole world away from your home. Broken. Injured. But the cross, the thumbed-through bible, and his human fragility seem to curl along the vicious dread curling inside your guts, soothing over the distrust with gentle, sweeping brushes. 

Quelling a frightened child after a nightmare. 

How strange, you think, but let yourself relax in his presence all the same, breathing in the scent of stale smoke, sweat. Coumarin. Tree moss. Fresh pine. It smells like the valley. Soft, waning detergent. Masculine. 

You pretend you're watching for the raven as you sneak small glances at him. Taking in everything with a new perspective. The broadness of his shoulders. The thickness of his waist. There's power in his arms, in his thighs. Sculpted musculature, honed and refined. Despite the thickness of his fingers, he has a delicate touch. Deft and sure, as if he's used to working his bulk around small parts. 

He's unkempt. The ballcap hid most of his dishevelled state, but he's not sloven. It reminds you of the outdoorsy explorers. The hikers you met on your trip out. Roughhewn and unconcerned about their overgrown beards and their tousled hair. 

There's something potently masculine about it, and you can't deny that even with the garish wound on his head, all mangled scar tissue, he's handsome. Rougish. The scar elevating it somehow—a testament, perhaps, to his resiliency. 

He catches your stare on the next glance, holding it as he leans back with a quirk of his lips. It's not quite the grins he aimed at you before, but the shadow of it lingers. 

“Now,” he utters, the severity in his tone makes you flinch. Sobering quickly under the weight of his solemnity. “Th' bad part.”

“Bad part?” You echo, confused. “What could be worse than that?”

He taps two fingers against your swollen ankle, urging you to look. You swallow and force yourself to glance at where he rests his fingers. 

With your split heel stitched up and wrapped in bandages, the sight of your leg doesn't make you want to curl into the fetal position and cry. But it's still horrifying to look at. 

A mass half the side of a baseball juts out from your skin. 

“Ankles dislocated,” he murmurs, sliding his fingers over the mound. “Gotta pop it back into place.” 

“That's not—” you shake your head. “That's impossible.” 

“S’okay, doe. I gotcha.”

“That's not the point. That's not—”

“Look,” his pitch lowers dangerously, firm now. “Gotta do it or you'll have problems later on. Much worse than a bit o’pain.”

“But—”

He inhales sharply. “Can't let it go, doe. Gotta fix it.”

You understand the logic in that. Leaving a dislocated ankle will undoubtedly cause problems later on. But—

“Will it hurt?” 

Your fear quiets the irritation brewing in steeled hazel. “Aye. I won't lie tae ye, doe. It will hurt.” 

You swallow around a whimper. 

“But,” he leans over, his hand sliding over your cheek. Cradling your face in the palm of his hand. “I'll do mah best tae be quick. Ah won't hurt ye, doe.” 

It must be the way he carries himself that puts you at ease, so assured in his abilities; confident in what he can do without any sense of grandiosity. 

“Fine.” The word is juttered out of your chest. “Just—”

His thumb catches the tears that spill over your lashline, swiping them away with a tenderness that makes you shiver. 

“Ah’ll be quick.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two chalky white pills. Tylenol, he mutters, catching the furrow of your brow. It abates the unease somewhat, and you let him drop the pills into the flat of your palm, rolling them over with your thumb as he grabs the water on the end table. They're circular with a slit down the middle. 

“It'll take the pain away.” He says, holding the water up to you. “Ready?” It's uttered so severely, so seriously, that your breath hitches in your lungs. Mirth blooming between your teeth. 

“As I'll ever be,” you rasp out before popping the pills into your mouth, cradling them on your tongue protectively as you reach for the glass he holds out. They're bitter. 

You wash it down with a mouthful of stale water before leaning back on the bed, letting the scent of his sheets wash over you once more. 

Outside, the raven trills. 

The pain of popping your ankle back into place leaves you a weeping mess in his sheets, but Johnny doesn't seem to mind the shuddering sobs. He pets down your back, shushing you quietly under his breath as he mutters something in Gaelic that you're sure is meant to be soothing. 

“Ye’ll be fine,” he says, tracing figure-eights down your spine until the Tylenol kicks in, and the agony tapers off into an aching throb. “Jus’ breathe. Ah’ll get ye somethin' tae eat.”

He leaves soon after. You let the numbed, drowsiness of the pain medication lull you into a doze, listening to Johnny move in the kitchen. The squealing slide of unvarnished wood rubbing against old metal. The thud of a knife. The scent of hot oil. Muttered curses. A playful raven's caw. 

You're not sure how long you slip in and out of this dreamless state, but Johnny appears in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the frame. He watches you with hooded eyes, a small, secretive smile tugging on his lips.

Blearily, you yawn, somehow still exhausted despite how long you slept between yesterday evening and today. Trauma, you suppose, and say nothing at all about it when he helps you sit up in the bed. 

Dinner consists of leftover bannock—the fried dough soft in your mouth, the flavour buttery; smokey—and hare stew. He pulls a chair from the living room into the bedroom, eating on the edge of the bed with you. 

He's sloppy about it. Slurps all the meat and potatoes out of the bowl before sopping chunks of bannock into the gravy, shoveling it into his mouth with a grunt. It dribbles down his chin, and dirties his beard. This slovenly display might have churned your stomach before, but you're just as ravenous. 

And it's good. 

The bread leaves grease stains on your fingers, but the toes on your uninjured foot curl when you bite into the crispy surface, teeth sinking into the pillowy dough below. 

“This is bannock, you said?” You ask, dabbing the napkin he offered with a wink when you finish. At his nod, you continue. “It's good.”

“Aye,” he grunts around a mouthful. “S’the best. Make it every mornin’ so ah go’ fresh bannock tae go.” He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth, slurring out: “s’good wit’ jam.” 

“Did the locals teach you how to make it?”

He nods. “Scottish dish, originally. Made wit’ oats. Drier, too. But—fuck. S’good—nae. Better like this. Ol’ couple taught me when ah first came. Paler ‘n’ shite, they said. ‘n didnae ken a fuckin' thing about surviving oot ‘ere. Big man, Jim, taught me ‘ow tae hunt. Where tae fish. An’ ‘ow to cook it. Made this cabin, aye. He, ah, and his son. Offered ‘er up tae me when they realised ah didnae come wit’ shite all but a bad attitude.” 

“That was nice of them.”

“Most folk up ‘ere are. Quiet, ken? People take care’a ‘emselves, most. Take care’a others, too.” 

You mull over his words as he leans back in the chair with a satisfied groan, legs spread wide. His hands folded over his belly. The picture of ease. Contentment. This freedom of motion makes you slightly envious. 

“An’ wha’ about ye?” His eyes are lidded, leonine, and fixed on you. The intensity is always on the side of too much. Too dizzying. Consuming. 

You stamp it down, running your thumb along the inseam of his gingham throw. “What about me?”

“Why’d ye come here?”

His question throws you off balance. “It’s a pretty park,” you offer with a shallow laugh. “Who wouldn't come here?”

“Lots of pretty parks. Why this one?”

“Dunno. It was—”

“‘ave ye ever been tae any other parks? Anything like this?”

“I hiked a bit, and, um—”

He sucks out a piece of meat from between his teeth. “A bit, aye?” 

“Yeah. A bit. Why—”

“Ye came all the way here fer what? A pretty park? With no experience at all? And alone?”

The shift in his posture reads as angry, irate. You blink, bewildered by this sudden change. 

“Well. It was supposed to be an experience.”

“An experience, aye? Survival skills of a lemming.” 

It's derisive, cutting. You bristle through the sting of humiliation, grappling through the slurry of fatigue to cobble together some form of defence against this lambasting of your—admittedly—ill-thought adventure, but he's already moving on. Fingers tapping an off-rhythm beat against his belly as he levels you with a sober look. More serious than you'd ever seen him before. 

“An’ yer family? They just let ye come here oan yer own?”

The mention of your family makes guilt well to the surface, buoying above the indignant anger at his mocking words. Cowed, you shrug. 

“Sure.” 

Something cracks in the severe mein he carries; fracturing through the blatant disapproval. Cutting it like a knife. 

He sighs through his nose before reaching up and scrubbing his hands over his face. “Shite. Ye really needed me, aye?” 

You blink at the odd choice of words, brows drawing together in a tight knot. It's indefensible, of course. In many ways, he's right. If he hadn't found you—

Well. 

You temper that thought before it forms. You're too out of it, spatially unaware and unmoored, to let yourself fall into an existential pit of despair when you know you won't be able to climb out. Thinking of your assured doom out there, all because of a misstep somewhere along the path, makes dread bloom in the pit of your stomach. Nauseous, roiling. It froths over the basin, ready to spill over and drag you under. 

Swallowing around the surge of panic—mortality a fickle thing in a place like this—you offer a despondent shrug in response. Unable to scrape together any sense of a defence that won't make you sound childish and idiotic. 

You ready yourself for more mockery, having become the very thing the park rangers tried to warn you about when you showed, alone, in hiking boots much too big for you. 

But then he's shifting, expression clearing. The anger folded back behind a quick grin. 

“Pretty here, isn't it?” 

You're not sure what to make of his mercurial temperament; emotions cascading by, quicksilver and sudden. The flashes of anger, intensity, curiosity, and this, all happening within such a short period. It's overwhelming. 

It unsettles you. But—

“Yeah,” you mutter, unable to stem the awe from leaking through. 

The change in conversation is freeing. Sometimes it's just easier to let sleeping dogs lie, and that's exactly what you do. Tucking his odd behaviour behind a plexiglass of indifference, pretending it wasn't there, lurking just out of sight. Something to unravel later, when your heart wasn't on the verge of buckling under the strain of your anxiety. When your chest didn't feel like it was slowly being crushed. Your stomach is all twisted up in knots too tight to untie with your bare hands. 

It's easy to let yourself heave through jittering lungs, and pretend you couldn't feel the rot festering on the sides of them. Eating holes through delicate tissue. 

The majesty of this place hasn't quite worn off, and you use that as an excuse to drift. To close the doors on the overwhelming deluge of hysteria creeping up on you. 

You still think of the jutting fjords instead. The steep ravines, the moose in the distance—her colours sharp against the green backdrop—and let the untempered sense of reverence split you down the middle. 

It comes out in a flood, then—as if you've been biting back the words this whole time. 

You tell him about the valley. The waterfall. The white river. The marmot you saw poking its head out. No bears, you sigh; the forlorn lilt to your tone seeped with a touch of relief, an aspect he pokes at with a crooked smirk until you huff, rolling your eyes to the ceiling at his gentle ribbing. Huffily, you admit that as much as you want to see a bear, you're not quite ready to face them in the wild. 

Lots’a bears ‘round ‘ere, he taunts, rolling his knees out further as he sinks deeper into the chair. 

He dodges your next question of where, exactly, is here with a silky grin and a need tae know rolling off his lips before they tug downward in a sudden frown. 

You must be acclimating to the strange ebb and flow of his emotions because the lour grimace on his face doesn't deter you as much as it did moments ago. You pick up the slack when the conversation lulls, telling him about the places you've been and how they compare to Nahanni.

“They just—don’t.” 

It's hard to encapsulate the scale of it all into simple words; digestible pieces someone else can swallow. The park isn't too far from Yellowknife, and yet it feels like a world on its own. The remoteness, the vastitude of it all, is hard to describe, but Johnny seems to understand. 

He listens with a slight quirk to his lips. A smile you'd almost call fond. He gets it, you know. The words you can't say. The ones that feel too lacklustre when you do. 

“That really why ye came?” 

You hesitate for a moment, looping a loose thread around your finger. Contemplating. Mulling it over. You've never told anyone the reason for the trip outside of a new experience for yourself. Testing your mettle. But with Johnny—

There's a sense of kinship, you find. An understanding. 

“It seemed so—” he waits for you to find the words. “Lonely, I guess.” 

“Lonely,” the way he says the word is ruminative. Rolling it around between his teeth; testing the weight of it. “Ah suppose it is.”

“You don't think so?”

“It's—” he pauses, eyes listing to the side as he mulls over what he wants to convey. 

He does this sometimes, you think. Gets lost. Loses himself. Retreats inward. You can't help but wonder if this is a manifestation of his trauma—a head injury such as this would be classified as a traumatic brain injury, wouldn't it? You're not well-versed in this area, and it feels a little mean, cruel, to have this thought, but it blooms as his eyes fog over. As he struggles, almost, to find the words he wants to say, to give voice to what he feels, thinks. 

“Lonely, aye,” he grinds out after a beat, but he looks frustrated about it, and glares down at his lap, silently fuming. Annoyed. “Big.”

The word is ripped out from between his teeth, and you nod, hastily, to both quell the looming anger brimming in the terse set to his shoulders and to let him know you understand. Can read between the lines—if only just. 

“Is that why you came?” 

The shrug he offers is noncommittal but you can see the tension pooling in his brow despite your efforts to quash it. “Couldnae go home after this—” he lifts his hand, tapping his fingers against the scar tissue on his temple. “Wasn't safe. Had tae give up everything after. Maw. Da. Sisters. Cannae ever see them again.”

It doesn't make sense. None of it does. The innate understanding between you is shattered by the impossibility of this moment, and his half-formed words. What you gave up seems paltry in comparison to what he's confessing to. His family. His whole family—

“Might see them one day. Once that fuckin' prick is in th' ground, but 'til then—” he shrugs again, easy. As if the look on his face wasn't cataclysmic in its anger. It's rage. Sorrow. Hatred. You flinch back as if the blackhole of these awful emotions will eat you alive. 

Johnny sees it, and reaches for you, making soothing noises under his breath as his hand wraps around your thigh. “Ah, doe, don’t worry. He wilnae find us—” 

You're not sure what to say to that, but the grip he has on you is firm. Unyielding. There's a scowl etching over his lips, as if the mere thought of such a thing fills him with disgust, fury, and you shake your head slowly. 

“I'm not—I’m not worried.” You don't know how to tell him that this phantom prick from his past isn't what made you reel back, but the intensity of his wrath. The sudden infliction of his ire. So you don't. You give in with what you hope is a conciliatory smile. “I, uh, I trust you.”

It's loose. Shaky. Your conviction wanes around the edges, falling flat and hollow when it trembles out. If Johnny notices the brittleness around it, he doesn't show it. If anything, he seems to take it as a sudden gospel. 

“D’ye—” There's a crack in his voice. He swallows, then. Adam's apple bobbing harshly against the skin of his throat. You wonder if you've upset him. Angered him. But he's leaning down, eyes widening. Feverish. Blue lagoons. “Ye trust me.”

It's not a question, but he poses it as such. You nod slowly and unsure. 

Johnny ducks his head, then. Lifts one hand to rub at the bristles around his chin and upper lip. Lost in thought, maybe—

It's when he reaches around, scrubbing at the nape of his neck, do you see the flush peeking out from beneath the thick bed of hair covering his cheeks. The sight is jarring. Unexpected. 

You're not sure what to make of it. Of this strange reaction. But it passes almost as quickly as it started. The red is replaced by a wide, blinding grin. He squeezes your thigh. 

“Hah, doe. Ye really know what tae say tae cheer me up��”

You haven't said anything at all, but this, too, goes unacknowledged. And before you can even try to draw attention to it, he breathes in deeply as he sits up in the chair. 

“Ye finished?” He motions to the bowl and plate on the bed. You nod. “Alright. Ah'll put ‘em away. Get ye some tea.”

“Oh, I'm fine—”

“Nah, hen. Tea is good for ye. Will help ye heal.” 

He leaves without another word, carrying away your dirty dishes. The unfinished conversation lingers in the air around you, but beneath the loose strands of everything unsaid, you feel something tangle inside your chest as you replay his words in the back of your head. 

All alone in Nahanni, unable to see his family. You're sure the prick he's referring to is the one who gave him that horrific scar, nearly taking his life. 

Somewhere in the loop, a knot of pity begins to take shape. 

Johnny brings you Labrador tea—a speciality he learned how to make from Ethel and Jim, the couple from Wrigley who took him in. It's good. It tastes sweet, earthy. Honey and pine. You sip at it as he grabs sleep clothes from his dresser, watching him with a muted sense of listlessness. 

You can't imagine the next sixty days that loom before you. Restlessness, claustrophobia—it coalesces into this strange, itchy feeling that sits, uncomfortably, atop your chest; an increasing pressure. You wish you could pick it off like a loose scab. Dig your nail under the hard clot and tug—

Peel it all off until just silken new skin remains. 

Johnny looks antsy when you finish the tea. Eyes bright. Wide. 

As you contemplate the surrealism of your predicament over Labrador tea, he grins like a shark and tells you he only has one toothbrush. 

“Dinnae mind sharin’, doe,” he offers, too jovial, eager, for the notion of lending his toothbrush to a stranger he met less than twenty-four hours ago. Ah ‘ave good hygiene, he adds, as if that might make this any better. 

Putting away the disgust, the idea of sharing a toothbrush feels much too intimate to you. Something befitting a long-term partner, or kin, before a man you know only the bare bones of. 

But like most things lately, what choice do you have? 

Johnny grins brightly at your acquiescence. All teeth. He hands you an old sweater—his favourite football team, he adds with a wink when you blink at it—and then moves toward you with a wicked gleam in his eyes you try to pretend is just overeager hospitality. 

“Wait—” you start, jerking back instinctively as he looms over the bed. “What are you doing?”

A dip forms between his brows, and he cocks his head quizzically at you. “What're ye talkin’ ‘bout, doe? Need'tae brush yer teeth, don't ye?” 

“I—I can walk—”

He snorts. “Oan yer broken ankle? Will only hurt yerself more.” 

Despite the truth in this statement, the flippancy in his voice stings. Prickles under your skin. Your loss of mobility, of being wholly dependent on another person, is a bitter thing to try and swallow. Especially when you're here for the literal antithesis of it. To be free. Self-reliant. 

Not needing anyone at all except the grit in your bones and the determination to see things through. 

Having all of that ripped into pieces in front of you, by a man who says it with such nonchalant disregard—as if your efforts were meaningless, insubstantial for what it got it—is humiliating. 

You can't remember the last time you needed someone for something so simple as walking to the washroom to brush your teeth, to wash up. The loss of this minute freedom makes you want to cry; to break down. Rage. Break things with your bare hands just to show the world you still can. To fight against these shackles locking around your ankles, and run—

Johnny's hand falls on your knee, thumb brushing the torn edge of your tights, grazing the skin beneath the loose threads with each pass. 

“Don't worry. Ah'll take care 'o ye.” 

That's the problem, you think, chest burning. This awful feeling inside is churning. Frothingly acidic, corrosive. You don't want him to. You don't want to need this man at all. Ever. For anything. 

But—

“Thanks,” you choke out. It tastes like iron. Like defeat. 

He carries you to the washroom, cooing the whole time about how ye ‘ave nothin’ tae be embarrassed ‘bout while you blister from mortification, from shame. 

You came here to be self-reliant. To grind your mettle against the wilderness and come out on the other side victorious and better for it. But what you've accomplished so far is getting lost, getting hurt, imposing on a man you barely know—

One who has to sit down on the ledge of the bathtub with you cradled in his lap like a child, injured foot elevated on the lid of the toilet seat. He cups his hand under your mouth as you scrub at your teeth, trying to catch any of the foam from the toothpaste that spills from your mouth. 

It's mortifying. 

You've never felt so vulnerable in your whole life. 

“Sorry,” you choke out around the brush—his brush—as he slowly commanders the weight of you around enough to spit in the sink. 

He waves you off with a noise. “S’alright, doe. Ye can lean oan me all ye like.” 

So he says. But you feel the rapid inhales behind you. The soft pants spilling from his lips, lungs expanding, broadening his chest into your back. Exertion, you think, slightly cowed and humiliated. Desperately trying to hold some of your weight on your uninjured foot. 

“Nah, ah,” he breathes, arm slinking around your middle, tugging you firmly into his lap. “Ye jus’ worry about gettin’ ready tae go tae bed now. Ah got ye.”

He soothes his palm up and down the length of your arm as you finish up in a fruitless effort to calm your nerves, but it doesn't work. Can't. Because you know what's coming next. 

“Can I, um—” your tongue is thick in your mouth. “I need to use the washroom to–to, uh, washup, and stuff—”

His thigh jerks beneath you. When he speaks, his voice is rougher than normal. “Okay.”

But he stays where he is. 

“I think I can do it on my own—”

“And if ye step oan yer leg?” He tuts, arm tightening around you. “Only gonnae hurt yerself more, doe.”

“I'll be careful, but I really have to—” 

“S’okay,” he coos. “S’only me.” 

That's the problem, you think wildly. Hysterical. That's the whole problem, isn't it? 

“No, you don't understand. I need to, um, go.” He makes another noise, soft. Agreeable. Fuck. “I need to pee.” 

It comes out in a hiss. Feral, like a cat. Embarrassment turns you into more animal than man. 

Again, he hums. “I know, doe. Donnae worry, ah’ll hold yer leg.”

“Can't I just keep it, um, on the ledge?” 

“No, no. If ye put weight oan it, doe, ye’ll be in serious trouble. Dislocated. Broken. Jesus, ye cuid slip the bone out of place—”

No. No.

The idea of him holding your ankle as you piss is beyond any measure of shame you've ever felt before. You like your privacy. Crave it, sometimes. You don't think you've ever done this in front of someone since you were a child. 

You need—

A moment.

Time. A pause. 

But he doesn't give you a chance. 

Johnny's other arm loops under your knees, and with a small huff he stands, holding you aloft with an arm anchored across your belly. It's quick. Mercilessly so. He steps back and lifts his foot to toe the lid off the toilet seat, unbothered by the loud clang it makes when it hits the tank. 

“There we go,” he mutters, and sounds almost breathless for it. “Let's get ye ready.” 

It should be awkward. Clumsy. But he moves with a surprising agility that belies the firmness of his muscles, the bulk. He lets your uninjured leg drop to the floor, murmuring for you to put some weight on it as he cradles your shin in his hands, careful not to let your foot move more than it needs to. 

The strange dance ends with him holding your shin in his hands, stretching your thighs out more than they'd ever been before. An image that might have been comical under different circumstances but just makes you flounder at the suggestiveness of the pose. Added, in large part, by the firm hold he has on you. There's not an ounce of give. No threat of falling. 

You gasp when he moves, shuffling backwards to pivot you around until the back of your shin meets the cold porcelain. 

“Alright now, doe,” he motions toward the seat as he slowly bends down to a crouch on the floor, your foot still held in his grasp. 

You follow him down until you meet the seat, trying to avoid his gaze as you clumsily paw at your tattered pants, slipping the down your thighs in a hurry. Your panties follow after a moment of hesitation. 

When his breath catches, you say nothing at all. Pointedly avoid whatever face he might be making as you stare, fixed, at the panels on the wall behind his head. Wallpaper. Probably moisture-resistant. It's peeling in some places. Decades ago, it might have been a soft canary yellow. 

His breathing is shallow. You ball your hands into fists and press the flat of your knuckles against your thighs. 

It's hard to focus when you can feel the scorching heat of his body bleeding into your leg, your knee. Close enough that all he has to do is bend down a little more, and his face would be pressed against your thighs. 

There's no room, no privacy. 

You close your eyes and pretend you can't hear how his breath seems to fill the entirety of the small washroom, ghosting over your skin. Virginia Falls comes to mind—a roaring rush of water—but even in the solitude of your mind, you can't ignore the way his stare drills through your skin. 

You swallow. You can't do it. Can't do this. 

“Can you—” back off, go away. Stop breathing so heavily because you might get the wrong idea, like this whole thing excites him somehow—

His voice is rough when he speaks. Ragged. “Cannae ah what, doe?”

“Turn the tap on? I can't—I can't concentrate.”

“S’only me, bonnie girl,” he murmurs, but does what you ask. Leaning over you, broad torso swallowing you up entirely under his bulk. You can feel the soft give of his belly on your knee as he presses it into you, but it only lasts a second before you meet a wall of solid muscle beneath. He braces a warm, rough palm on your naked thigh, leaning in as he reaches over to the sink above. 

It's barely a fraction of his weight but the drag of it makes you blink in surprise. His skin is burning. Redhot. 

Opening your eyes brings you close to his chest, nose only a hair away from the tanned skin stretched over his collarbones. The metal chain gleams in the flushed light hanging overhead, sitting in a golden contrast to his sunkissed flesh. Its reflection casts beads of glittering lambency over the slope of his neck. 

Pretty, you think, watching as it coruscates in a mesmerising dance each time he moves. 

The faucet turns with a metallic squeak, breaking you from your reverie. Water gurgles up from the pipes, spitting into the basin with a hiss. You pull back, twisting your head to the side as heat floods your chest. 

“Thanks,” you mutter, unable to meet his stare.

His fingers tighten around your flesh. His voice is raw when he mumbles, “anytime.” 

The trickling rush of water reverberates around the room, and it's easy to close your eyes and pretend you're alone.

So that's exactly what you do. 

His palm grows slick on your skin. Damp. But you ignore it, focusing on nothing but the urgency of getting this over with as quickly as you can. It works, marginally—

(Johnny makes another noise in the back of his throat. 

That, too, you ignore.)

“Finished?” His voice is thick, wet. You nod slowly, peeking out from the sliver between your lashes to paw at the wall for the toilet paper roll. “Here, ah’ll help ye out of fer pants—”

Your head feels heavy. Limbs laden. The embarrassment crushes you into a fine powder; malleable, putty. You let Johnny take the lead after. Let him slip your tattered tights down your thighs, and say nothing at all when too much of his palm glides along your skin as he pulls. Needlessly, of course, when just two fingers would do. 

But it's fine. Fine. Maybe he's never taken off tights before. Maybe the material is too thin and he's worried about it catching on the scrapes over your knees, the bandage wrapped up to mid-calf. 

Your shirt, too. When he slips his fingers under the hem, splaying them wide over your belly before dragging them up until it bunches around his wrist. Tugging, tugging. Hands gliding over your skin, fitting along the contours of your body.

He keeps one hand moulded to your neck, fingers brushing your jaw, as he gingerly pulls the shirt over your head. The ragged pants in your ear, the soft groans when you slip into his old shirt—

It's exertion, really. Must be. He's tired from holding you up the whole time you brushed your teeth, washed your face in the sink. It's all fine. He's being gentle. Doesn't want to hurt you.

He's just being nice. 

(And when you notice that your panties are missing from the pile of dirty clothes he shoves into the corner behind the door, that, too, you ignore.)

Exhaustion takes you soon after Johnny tucks you into bed, dragging you under once again. He tells you he'll be on the couch. To holler if you need anything. Sluggishly, you nod. Thank him when he places a glass of water on the bedside table for you. 

(Bite your tongue when he brushes his fingers over your cheek as he bids you goodnight.)

Through the gossamer of sleep, you can hear the floorboards creak in the doorway, but when you look, there's nothing there. Just an empty kitchen. The soft flicker of the fireplace smouldering in the living room. 

Nothing, you think. It's nothing at all—

There's a weight on your chest. 

Warm, searing. It dampens your skin where it sits, heavy, on your breast, cold air ghosting along the sweat building up each time it moves. 

You stir. The pressure takes shape. A hand. A man's hand. Rough, calloused, and hot. In his palm, he holds your breast, thumb brushing along the curve of it. Sliding, sliding—

You come awake with a gasp. 

There's a twinge in your ankle when you move, and the pain grounds you, silences you. His thumb twitches on your nipple, but he, too, stills. Quietens. An impasse. 

And you suppose this would be where you'd scream. Rage. Slap him across the face, rip his hand off your breast. Curse at him for being a creep, and a pervert, and nasty, disgusting man because there's nothing at all that could justify the reason for why the shirt he gave you to wear to bed is tucked up over your chest. The bruising press of something hard digging into your hip negates any excuse he might try to give. This is unmistakable. You should scream, cry, and—

Leave. 

This is what glues your lips together. Keeps you from moving at all, from making a sound. Where would you go? How would you even get there to begin with? 

It's this—the uncertainty, your vulnerability—that paralyzes you. Keeps you still, silent, as his hands brush over your skin, touching, fondling. His palms are rough, calloused. Pyretic. He squeezes, kneading your flesh in his sweat-slicked hand like he's owed the right to touch you. Like he's allowed. 

He pants against your temple, breath warm, humid on your skin. Heaves like a dog in your ear, grunting low as he ruts his hips into your side, smearing something hot, tacky across your skin. Something you try not to think about, to inch away from. But he catches you quick, and stops your meagre protests before they form. 

His thumb and forefinger close over your pebbled nipple, pinching softly at your budded flesh. The shock of pleasure is unwanted. Awful. It churns your stomach, and you fight the urge to weep—

He leans up, ragged exhales growing heavier as he moves until milk-warmed breath shudders over your bare breasts. His excitement throbs against your hip. You swallow down around the sudden wave of disgust, the sickness knotting itself together in your belly. It devours the lingering pity you'd felt earlier. The safety, the comfort, that brimmed inside of you for him. 

(bleeding heart—

he gorges himself on it.)

Stay still, you think. And maybe he'll go away. 

But he doesn't. Of course, he doesn't. 

Johnny leans down, mouth closes over your nipple. It's all searing heat. Wet, soft. A sudden jolt of pleasure shoots down your spine when he sucks in tandem with the soft, rolling pinches he doles out on your tiger nipple, and you hate your treacherous body a little bit more for it. For how good it makes you feel when he flicks his tongue over your hardened peek, laving it sloppily. Messily. Drooling all over you—the big fucking dog—

You wonder how long he's been doing this. Touching you in your sleep. The thought sits like hot oil in your guts; sloshing against the soft lining of your stomach until it aches. Burns. You blame it on that when he grunts against your breast, the vibrations send a shiver down your spine. Have to, don't you? Because the alternative is to admit that you're slick, soft between your thighs already; folds soaked, inner thigh damp. Wet. Blame it on him, and the burden in your chest eases when you feel the stirrings of desire, lust, thicken in your lower belly. Bodily reaction becomes your clutch, your lifeline when he lays his upper body against you, the weight, the heft, of his bulk forcing the air from your lungs. 

Johnny lifts his head suddenly, eyes drilling into yours before you can feign sleep to avoid looking at him. You don't want this. Your body thrums with reluctance, with fear, but you can't drag your gaze away from him. The rapturous look in his eyes, burning in the low simmer of a never-ending twilight, is paralyzing. Electric. You can't remember a time in your life when another person has ever looked at you with such raw want. Desire. Need. It's covetous. Ugly. Marbled with heady streams of hunger, of awe, as if he's not sure whether or not he wants to eat you alive or savour you for aeons. Taking bites, nibbles, when this urge becomes too burdensome to bear; when the ravenous chasm in his guts threatens to devour itself, bones and all, like a man-made black hole. Under this heavy, unrelenting stare you wither. Submit. Your head rolls until your cheek is pressed against the pillow, neck bared. Offered up to him. 

(anything, you think, to run away from the naked want on his face. because with his mouth slack, lips slick, glistening with spit, he looks predatory like this. animal. bathed in gloam and flushed a deep roseate.)

He props himself up on his elbow, watching you. Feasting. Your quiet submission makes him moan; hips juttering at the slow reveal of your vulnerable neck. A paroxysm. As if he just can't help himself to hump against you like a beast in rut. 

He swallows. You watch his throat work from the corner of your eye, Adam's apple bobbing up and down, up and down—

Then:

He lifts himself up higher, angling his body until it's bracketed over you. Sliding between your legs until your slit is pressed against the coarse hair that covers his thighs. He keeps his elbow propped on the pillow, sliding up, up, until his forearm comes to rest beside your face. It boxes you in completely under his weight, and the position forces your legs to spread open to accommodate him. Not given up freely, of course; but your compliance in this is inessential, it seems. He moulds you how he likes, mindful of your injured ankle the whole time. A kindness that makes something molten thicken in your throat, stifling the scream that claws its way up your esophagus. 

You try not to stare when he clambers over you, chest bare against yours. Hips chiselling a gorge between your thighs wide enough for him to fit. To press his fattened length on the insides of your sticky thighs; groins drawing together. Your legs slung loosely around his tapered waist. A dreadful pastiche of lovemaking. Intimacy. 

But even as a mockery—bastardised as it is—it’s embarrassing how easily you open up for him. Legs falling, spreading further apart. Hot, sticky at the apex of your thighs. Wanting. 

Blame it on sleep, on this endless hypnagogia you've been feeling since he leaned over you on the cliff edge, and said, pretty thing, aren't ye? All alone. No’ anymore, doe. Jus’ me an’ ye, now. Jus’ us—

You swallow, fighting the urge to cry. Blinking rapidly against the tears that pebble against your lashline, but you're helpless to stop the flood even though the levee doesn't break, doesn't spill over. It just sits, a sorrowful lagoon with nowhere to go. 

In your attempt to hold back the deluge, you let your gaze wander away from the piercing blue that drills into your face—seemingly unbothered by the tears in your eyes, the ones that clot over your irises, stinging and hot—and stare down at his broad chest. A mistake, maybe, because you catch sight of the gold cross dangling around his neck. Like a pendulum, it swings. The motion is mesmerising. Hypnotic. 

It distracts you for a moment. Or maybe you've just grown accustomed to his touch, to the heat of his hand on your skin. Whatever the reason, it's enough to pull you away from the feverish trail his fingers leave as they make a steady drag downward. It's only when they dance over your belly button do you realise the muted tickle is Johnny, and by then—

“Shush, s’alright, doe,” he's cooing, warm breath ghosting over the plains of your face. It might be comforting if he didn't rest his weight on his elbow, freeing his other hand just to bring it over your mouth, thumb brushing under your eye. A warning maybe. Don't scream. “Ah go’ ye. Ah’ll make ye feel so good—”

There's a fever in his eyes. Wildfires spreading through the yawning boscage, burning everything in sight. The heat is hot enough to char bone; to blacken meat into a dessicated husk. Eating away at everything in its path. 

You know, almost immediately, that Johnny's beyond reason. Or, rather—

He's gone, turned inward; delusional enough to think that this is something he has to do. 

You'd seen all the warnings of the kindling fire before. Something you'd decided to ignore even as the hunger in his eyes surged; as the shape of it morphed into a frothing devotion that felt ill-fitting for two strangers stuck together like this. 

Stupidly, you thought you could outrun it. That he was a good man beneath it all, and wouldn't succumb to touching you in your sleep, to lulling you into a false sense of security—

Except. He hadn't, had he? 

He'd been blunt about it all since the beginning. My wife—

How silly, you thought. 

But the humour fades when he teases over your hips, resting his palm over your mound, middle finger perched above your clit. Just holding. Touching. The possessiveness of the action is unmistakable, unignorable. 

It shouldn't send a shiver down your spine when you'd rather he didn't touch you at all, but it does. There's something about him, you think. Electric. A lightning storm. It crackles in the air around you, humming low in the atmosphere; this unavoidable surge, natural phenomenon. Maybe that's what he is. 

More storm than man. A force you can't outrun, but can only endure—

His eyes flash when he slides his fingers further down your slit and finds your skin soft, hot. Drenched. When he groans your name out, it sounds like a prayer. An orison. 

“So wet, doe,” he's heaving out in a whisper, eyes nearly rolling back into his head as his touch grows bolder, more insistent. As if the softness of your flesh, the wetness that sticks to your inner thighs, is all the consent he needs. “So fuckin’ wet fer me, aye? Been waitin’ fer this, haven't ye?” 

You want to shake your head no but it's futile. He drops his head to look down the chasm between your bodies, watching his hand slide along your skin. Legs spread around his waist, inviting. He curses foul under his breath when he sees how wet his fingers are from just a touch, words mangled in the back of his throat. They sound less coherent as he roams your body, parting your folds and stroking through the slick spilling out of you, dragging it up to your clit. 

His voice is closer now. Lips bruising against the shell of your ear. Butchered English. Gaelic. An amalgamation of low whines, and rasping grunts. He sounds more animal than man. A booming thundercloud groaning above you, as if touching you is enough to please him, too. Siphoning it from your body as he presses his fingers against your clit, circling, stroking. 

It’s good. So good. And that's the problem, you think. It's easy to give in like this when he pets your pussy like the feeling of your fluttering heat on his hand is enough to make him cum. No one has ever touched you like they were starving for it. Needed it as badly as you did. 

The sensation is almost too much. The notion of it getting tangled in the back of your head, looping around the part of you still screaming to run. To go home. To push him away. 

(your arms are laden. your tongue is a puddle of mercury in your mouth—)

But just as the pleasure blooming in your belly raises with each pass of his thumb, he pulls away. Slides down, down—

Circles your hole with the tips of his slick fingers, petting with the same desperation he showed your clit until he deems you soft enough for him. He slowly sinks his finger inside of you to the knuckle, stretching your walls around him as he moans into your ear about how good ye feel around him, all tight. Hot. So fuckin' wet, do. So wet fer me—

He pulls out just as slowly, shushing the soft gasp you make when the ridge of his palm catches on your clit. 

“Ah told ye, didnae ah? Ah’ll take care’a ye.”

He presses two fingers inside of you as he peppers kisses over your cheek, cooing low about how badly you need him. Only him. 

Johnny fucks you slowly on two fingers. Gently. Deeply. Sliding into the last knuckle, petting against your slick walls, like he's owed the privilege and not touching you in your sleep.  

He brings you to the edge, takes you right there, and—

Pulls away. His fingers slide down as your hips flit, lifting to make them catch on your clit again. It's embarrassing how badly you want him to touch you. Shameful. 

He leans up and catches your mouth in a messy kiss. It's all tongue, wet, no finesse. The wild, unkempt tangle of hair abrades your skin, rubbing it raw as he devours you. Scoops out your tongue with his own, enticing it into his mouth. His teeth close on the thick of it, lips pursing. Sucking on the tip. 

His kisses are doglike and obscene. Leaves drool dribbling down your chin, soaking into your neck. He can't seem to decide what he wants to do, so he tries to do it all. Everything. Biting your lips, trying to choke you on his tongue. Slurping up the taste of you until his mouth is stained with it. Beard matted down, drenched. 

Despite it all, he's a good kisser. His pace is fast, breakneck. You can't keep up, but you try. Struggling along as he seems hellbent on eating you alive. But it's sporadic. He pauses just long enough to settle into an easy rhythm that makes you arch into it, silently begging for more as he fucks you on his fingers. Nips your tongue as he slides in a third, swallowing the gasp you let out, savouring your moans between his teeth. 

Johnny ruins you with just a kiss. Leaves you panting, unmoored. Mouth slack, open wide for him to do what he pleases because the taste of him is divine. 

“C’mon,” he urges, spreading his fingers inside of your cunt until you keen, whining his name. “Suck my tongue, bonnie.” 

It's disgusting. You do it, anyway. 

Your quiet acquiescence makes him moan, hips rutting against you. The hard press of his cock into your skin is bruising. It aches. Your inner thighs are tacky with your slick and the smears of pre-cum he leaves behind as he humps against you. 

He sounds mournful when he pulls away, mouth messy with spit, and whispers, “fuck, wish ah could taste ye again, doe—” You don't know what he means until his eyes drop down to his hand, working insistently between your thighs. 

Your stomach drops. Plummets. You thought this started when he was touching your chest, when you woke up to his hand on your breast—

“Ye didnae wake when ah did it before,” he says, as if sounding mournful, sad, over the fact that you didn't wake up to him eating your pussy while you were asleep, was normal. “Must’a had too much tea—”

You wish, so suddenly, so viciously, that he'd stop talking. You can't hear this. Can't bear to listen to him confess to all the needling worries that bloomed in the back of your head, ones you stamped down with a heavy foot and a potent sense of guilt, shame, for condemning a man who was just trying to help. 

It makes you want to cry. 

“Oh, doe, don't cry—” he coos the words out, contrite and conciliatory, but you can feel the way his cock twitches against your thigh. The unmistakable heat mushrooming in his eyes as the sight of tears streaming down your face. 

He seems to take it as misery over not feeling his mouth on your cunt, a plaintive assertion he whispers into your ear (poor thing, jus’ wannae feel ma mouth on you, aye? wannae feel me lick yer sweet pussy again?), and decides to rectify your sorrow by kissing his way down your body. 

His fingers slip out when he moves, resting them on your knee as he kneels back on his haunches. 

You spare a glance toward him, nervous with trepidation, and—

This whole time, his cock had been this phantom sensation against your skin, bruising and hot. Leaving wet smears over your thighs. Hidden from view. But like this, it's the first thing you see as it hangs, heavy and thick, from between his thighs. 

The sight is—

Something. 

You don't want to think about the heat in your belly. The nervous flit of your heartbeat. 

A pearlescent strand dribbles down the weeping, slick head, dropping to the sheets below. The shaft of his cock is similarly drenched, smeared with what seems like a copious amount of precum. It gathers at the base, a startling contrast of thick, black hair and globs of milky white. 

Something about it makes you recoil. Almost instinctively, primal. 

Your flinch just makes his cock twitch, spitting more out. 

The motion seems to unveil more of it to you, adding to the growing unease you feel because his cock is the furthest thing from pretty. 

It's flushed a daunting vermillion and purpling like a bruise around the engorged glands. Thickening at the base. Streaked with dark veins that run the length of it, like rivers intersecting and jutting up from his skin. Blotches of red, pink, purple, and peach make up the colouring of it. Marbled like a black eye. A busted lip. 

It bobs when he moves. Ugly, garish. You don't want it anywhere near you—

But Johnny’s wet hand on your knee keeps you from moving. Holds you in place as he bends down, resting on elbow to bring his face as close to your pussy as he can get. 

Johnny stares—unabashedly—at your bare cunt when he finally settles between your thighs, widening them further to fit the broad stretch of his shoulders. Eyes lit with a heady greed, a hunger, that knocks the air from your lungs. 

“Missed ma mouth, didnae ye?” 

For a moment, you think he's talking to you. Confusion colours the panic you feel, dampening the dread down until it's flattened by sheer bewilderment when you realise his eyes haven't left your slit. 

“Such a bonnie girl,” he purrs, breath ghosting over your cunt. “Been so lonely without me, aye? Poor thing.”

It heats you up from the inside out. The mesmerised, almost unfettered look of pure adoration shaded alongside the raw want on his face twists a sense of desire inside of you. Has anyone looked at you with such naked need on their face? As if the idea of not having a taste was somehow the most agonising thing they could experience? The way Johnny looks at you is enough to make you ache. And with anyone else, having him address your pussy instead of you would be awkward, humiliating, but somehow, him doing it makes you burn white-hot. Makes you want—

“Johnny,” you whisper, paper-thin, and his head shoots up, brows inching high on his brow. You're acutely aware that this is the first thing you've said since this started. Since you woke up to him groping you, touching you, in your sleep. And it's his name. Johnny. 

Not no, don't. Stop. Please. Just—

“Johnny.”

It's not consent. You're not sure you're fully capable of doing so right now, if ever. But it's the closest you think you could come to saying yes. Admitting that you want his mouth on you, even though the situation leading up to this still makes something ugly and awful twist in your guts, is as much as you can give. He seems to see this. To know. 

But Johnny takes it between his teeth as an unequivocal yes despite that, groaning low in his throat, midnight eyes rolling back into his head. The hands on you tremble. Shake. 

He breathes in deeply through his nose, the sound whistling as a great plume of air is forced through small channels, filling his lungs. Perfuming them with the heady scent of you, of sex, clotting in the air. 

“Fuck, doe. Gonnae give ye what ye need.” 

And then he bends his head, eyes lidded still, half rolled, and without any preamble, glues his lips to your drenched slit, forcing it between your soft folds. 

The first touch of his tongue is molten. Soft, tensile, he laves it over the whole of your slit from the sensitive skin beneath your hole, to the crest of your clit. Digs his tongue in, swirling it over and under your folds leaving no part of you untouched. Feasting. Devouring. 

It makes you mewl. Your back arches off the sheets, ankle throbbing in a heady, pulsing pain at the sudden movement, adding to the shrill whine in your voice. 

He notices, and pets your knee once before sliding his bicep under your leg, looping his hand around to secure your thigh in the crook of his below. Locked in tight. Immoveable. The other he pushes down with the flat of his palm, until your joints ache from the stretch. Your knee is almost flush with the mattress. Widening you further for his searing, eager mouth. 

If his kisses are dogish—wet, messy; sloppy with drool—then the way he eats your cunt is foul. Slobbering down his chin, slurping up the mess he makes with a series of chewed-off moans and muffled whines. He paws at you as if he was denied the pleasure of drink for aeons, feasting like a man half-delirious and starved. There's no finesse. No skill to speak of. Just a desperate man lapping at you like a beast. Worshipping you. 

He nuzzles his chin and cheeks against your cunt, drenching himself until his beard is matted to his skin. The feeling of his coarse hair grazing your sensitive flesh is overwhelming. Too much. Too ticklish. But—

It feels good. 

The contrast of his fleshy tongue rolling over your clit, and the rough brush of his hair when he nuzzles you with the point of his chin, cooing softly about how pretty this little pussy is, getting him all wet, is cataclysmic. The heat floods your belly, and you clench around nothing. Achingly empty. Moaning at the feeling of him bringing you right there, right to the brink, with nothing by the hair on his cheek. It's unreal. Inescapable. Your head drops, mouth lax, open wide as you pant and whimper through the madness of Johnny MacTavish trying to find a way to suck your clit and fuck you with his tongue at the same time. An impossible goal, you know, but he doesn't seem to care about logic or reason with his head buried between your thighs, mouth never leaving you once. He merely nods his head up and down, refusing to pull away.

It's divine. It's worship. It's—

He pushes two of his fingers inside of you, lapping at your taut rim to stem the sting of his sudden intrusion, and you think, for a moment, that you see Nirvana behind your eyelids. 

It's embarrassingly how quickly he brings to you the brink, slurping messily as he drills his fingers into your hole, petting against your walls in a mockery of what he'll do to you once he's had his fill. Satiated his hunger with the taste of your pussy. 

Something he can't seem to get enough of.

Your thighs draw together, crushing him between your legs. Arching into his mouth, nearly smothering him as you rut clumsily against his face, moaning at the rough scrape of his beard against your skin. You're not normally so aggressive, but he loses himself in it, eyes rolling as he grabs your hips and pulls you closer to his wanting mouth, encouraging you to use his tongue, his lips, to meet your end as you see fit. Riding his face as much as you can with your leg locked tight between his shoulder and bicep. 

And it's in between his loud grunts, his whines—almost caterwauling into your slit—where you shatter. The sound of his pleasure, the feeling of his mouth on you—it’s all too much. You break when he sucks your clit into his mouth, keening in the back of his throat as he works another finger into you. It feels good. Too good. 

Johnny works you through it. Lets you take, and take as your muscles spasm with the force of your release. Fingers digging into his shoulders, fisting the sheets. He moans along with you, eagerly lapping at your cunt until you whine, begging him to stop. You've had enough. Can't take anymore—

He only pulls away when you melt into the sheets, shuddering with the aftershocks bubbling through your body. Leaning back on his haunches once more, the hair around his mouth slick and wet. The evidence of your pleasure dripping down his chin, droplets still clinging to his beard.

He crawls over you once more, eyes boring into yours. Pits of coal. An endless black hole.

In this strange space, liminal, you lose yourself. Shed pieces of who you were before when he slots his hips between your thighs, cock heavy in his hand, and presses it to your slit. 

This is happening. He's going to fuck you. 

You wish the thought didn't make your knees fall apart a little wider for him. Make your hips flit, lifting slightly into the air. Eager. Hungry for it. For him.

It's loneliness, you think. Desperation. 

Madness is addictive. It feeds itself and infects those around it. Noxious. An all-consuming black hole that eats, and eats. It must have bitten you, too. Dug infectious teeth into your skin, severing flesh to imbed its jowls in your marrow. Clinging. Poisoning you from the inside out. 

There's no other reason for why you reach for him, hands sliding over his sweat-slicked skin as he falls into the open brackets of your arms, grunting when the head of his cock catches on your rim. He's a wall of heat. Firm muscles. Your nails dig into the thick cords of his shoulders just to feel the reluctant give of his skin. 

Nothing about this man is soft. His waist, his thighs, his chest, his arms, the hard ridge of his cock. It's all unyielding muscle. Burning. Searing into your skin when it drags against his. 

“Gonnae fuck ye, doe,” he whispers, words pitching low. Damp wood, felled timber. Rough. You shiver from the heat of it. The warning, the plea; both extremes coalescing together to make truism more potent. Weighty. “Gonnae fuck this pretty pussy, and yer gonnae beg me fer it.” 

Despite the surety in assertion, he doesn't wait for you to plead with him to split you apart, taking the initiative instead to sink the head of his cock into you. The stretch stings already, and only his glands have sunk in, a fact he grunts into your ear as he drives forward another inch. Another—

You don't think you've ever been this unmoored before. Rendered this docile. A mere domicile for him to burrow inside of; to carve a home from the sanctum of your walls wrapped tight around him. And carve he does. Splitting you apart as he grunts with the efforting of forcing his cock into you, feeding it further with blunt jerks of his hips, his hands feverish on your skin. Sweat slicked already even though he's barely halfway inside of you. 

“Feels so good,” he slurs into your ear, face pinching. Twisting up as pleasure blooms over his brow. “So fuckin’ good, doe, fuck—”

It does. Beyond the blunt pressure of him forcing his cock inside of you, the sting of the stretch, there's an intense, dizzying pleasure in the fullness you feel. In the press of him notching against something inside that makes heat bloom in your belly, turns your bones liquid. It might be the previous climax rendering you oversensitive, but the feeling of him splitting you apart is euphoric. 

It's aided by the moans he lets out as you take more and more of him, as if the sound of his pleasure is funnelled into yours. By the look on his face, eyes widened, feverish, as he darts his gaze between your face and your pussy, unable to decide if he wants to watch his cock disappear into you or watch your face, pinched up in pleasure, in flickering pain, as you take him fully. 

This sort of bliss, this pleasure, is addicting. Narrowed down to the sharp nudge of his cock grazing places inside of you that light your nerves on fire, burn through your synapses until your thoughts are muddled, mush. No coherency, no logic—just the fat length of him bludgeoning into your walls; the tap of his heavy, full sack slapping against your ass as he finally, finally, roots deep.

He must feel it, too. This strange, overwhelming pleasure loops around your lower belly, twisting itself into knots because when he pushes the last few inches inside of you, he nearly collapses on top of you, his whole body shuddering. Trembling. Presses his damp face to your cheek, matted, slick hair tickling your skin, and groans from deep within his chest at the feeling of you wrapped around him. The noise shivers through you. His pleasure is enough to make you clench down, tightening up around him. Already on the verge and all he did was slide his cock inside of you. 

A fact he seems to luxuriate in, huffing shakily into your ear as he quenches himself on the soft, fluttering pulses of your walls around him. Content to grind his hips into yours in shallow gyrations that make your eyes roll into the back of your head. The tension in your belly coiling tighter and tighter, the pleasure ameliorating the shame you'd felt before, burning it into cinders. 

As long as he keeps his cock inside of you, as long as he keeps pushing the blunt head into that spot that makes your vision whiteout, you think could cum just like this. Right now—

He doesn't. 

Johnny lifts himself off of your chest, elbow coming to rest beside your head, taking the brunt of his weight. His eyes are bright, burning. He stares down at you, and the look of sheer adoration on his face is daunting, overwhelming. It threatens to eat you alive. Devour you whole. Pure rapture. Devotion. 

You flush, face stinging with embarrassment. Prickling with unease. No one has ever stared at you like this, so hungrily, and the fact that it's him makes your head spin. Looping endlessly in circles of disbelief and fear. 

He might be omnipotent, you think, with the way his lips tug sharply downward, brow bunching together as if he can hear your thoughts, taste your disquiet in the air. 

Johnny rolls his hips back slowly, inching out of you with a hum until just the tip remains. The loss has your hands scrambling down his chest, fingers tangling in the coarse, drenched hairs at the soft incline of his belly. The other sliding around the thick breadth of his ribs, nails digging into the slick skin covering his spine. Pressing. Biting. 

More, you don't say. Please. 

The knot in his brow dissipates. Eases into something almost playful, impish. 

“Want ma cock, doe?” He whispers it waggishly, like a cloy secret, and you pretend the tease in his voice doesn't make your heart lurch in your chest. “Didnae anyone teach ye some manners? Gotta ask politely.” 

You won't. You won't. 

Your reluctance makes him sigh. The chain around his neck swinging when he moves. His hips pull back, and he reaches down with his free hand, and grabs his cock, pulling it out of you, and sliding it against your slit. The head bumps into your clit, and you nearly choke on the gasp that's ripped from your chest. The pleasure is too much, too—

He pulls away, denying you the euphoria of release. 

“No, no, please,” you babble, resolve crumbling into ash. “Please, Johnny, please—”

“That’s more like it,” he coos, and lets his cock dip back inside of your fluttering hole, rim stretched taut around him once more. The sting is lessened now, but still there as the thick glands force you open for him. “Sound so pretty when yer desperate for ma cock.” 

He leans down, catching your mouth in another sloppy kiss as he slams his cock back inside of you hard enough to bruise. To make you see stars. Cockhead bludgeoning into your cervix in a dizzying amalgamation of pleasure and pain that makes you whine, the whimper snatched up between his teeth as he burrows them into your lip with an echoing groan. 

He fucks you hard, working his cock into you at a maddening pace. Bestial, now. All animal. The tenderness from before dissolves into an choppy desperation. An eagerness to seek his own end as you fall to pieces beneath him, shaking from the force of taking him over and over again, each piston, each hard thrust driving the thoughts from your head until all you have left is sensation. An absence of everything except the way he feels above you, inside of you. 

Sweat builds up along your hairline, gathers at the base of your spine, and soaks the sheets below. You feel liquid under him. A ragdoll for him to sink his jowls into, to toss around as he likes. 

Johnny is all sensation and a cacophony of sound. 

He ruts into you clumsily, groaning in your ear. Moaning out how good you feel around him. Pretty pussy made just for him. 

“Oh, fuck, doe—” he moans, arching into the next thrust. Drool dribbles down his chin when he curves his spine, dropping his forehead onto your temple. “Feels so good. Feels like my cock is meltin’ instead ye—”

The lewd squelch of his cock pistoning into you seems to echo through the room, louder somehow than the ragged moans that spill from his mouth. 

“Been so long,” he shudders against you, rooting his cock deep. Burying himself inside of you as his cockhead bullies into your cervix. The flash of pain is whitehot, blinding, but the bloom of pleasure eats it whole before it can pollute the puddle of bliss pooling in your belly. “Been savin’ it all jus’ fer ye—”

His hand slides from your hip, burrowing between your bodies as rubs at your clit. It feels so good that it nips sharply into pain, into agony. Too much, too much—

But he doesn't relent. Fingers toying, circling your clit in time with each jarring thrust, tightening the coil inside of you until it whines from the tension, the pressure—

It snaps when he growls into your ear—cum fer me, doe; wannae feel this pussy squeezin’ ma cock—and releases in a flood, a deluge of molten heat. Back arching, toes curling. You're barely cognisant of the ache in your injured foot, the throbbing pain. It's swallowed by the surge of endorphins roaring through you, ringing in your ears. Blotting everything out except the way you pulse around the thick of him still lodged deep inside of you. 

You barely have time to come down before he starts again, forcing you to take him as he thrusts in harder than before, mindlessly seeking his own end as you gush around him, nails raking across his flesh. 

He's babbling above you, spitting words into your ear about how he's going to take care of you. All of you. Take you back to Scotland with him so you can raise your children—

It slices through the haze, ripping a hole through the fog clouding your mind. 

“No,” you whimper, devastation flooding your chest alongside the vicious pleasure still rolling around inside of you. “No, please—”

Children, he breathes like you hadn't spoken at all. Lots. Lots of them. Brothers and sisters. Two, maybe three, of each. But he's not picky, bonnie, he'll take whatever you give him. And keep fucking you over and over again until he gets what he wants. A whole family to raise. To surround himself with. Been lonely, you think he says. Needed something to keep him busy. 

You don't want this. Can't. But he doesn't stop, doesn't relent. He breathes life into the picture he paints with the soft flutter of your cunt clenching tight around him at words, once again betrayed by your own body. 

Despite the nausea that bleeds to the surface at his words, your eyes roll back into your head once more, driven mad with the thunderous pleasure that rips through you as he forces every last inch of his cock into you. 

Johnny grinds his hips against yours, moaning, loud and untethered, muscles jerking, twitching, as he cums deep inside of you. 

The aftershocks of his pleasure make him tremble, body spasming as he drives himself tight against the seal of your womb. A new heat grows inside of you as Johnny slumps against you, panting in your ear. 

“Ah’ll be so good tae ya,” he promises in a rasping growl, shoving his head into the crook of your neck. Gyves close around you as he nuzzles his mouth into your flesh, licking at the sweat that beads on your skin. 

“All mine. All fuckin’ mine—” The confessional is tainted with the sickness that leaks from the craggy hole chiselled into the side of his head. Obsessive devotion hewing ruinous dogma into the fibrils of your head. Tenderised, softened, by the blunt, unyielding touch of his hand. A slurry that this polluted notion slips inside, tainting your resolve until it's thickened into his whim. His wants. 

You sob into his chest as he wraps you up in his arms, shackled against the man who carved a place inside of you just wide enough for himself to fit. Who spat poison in the hollow crevasses, and called it absolution. Love. 

All you can do is heave through corrupted lungs as he smothers you under the weight of his madness. 

“No’ gonnae let anyone touch ye. Ah'll kill anyone who tries to tae take ye away from me, doe—”

The conviction in his tone is bound in steel. In feverish blue. 

“Ah’ll take care’a ye,” he rasps, voice thick in his throat. “Donnae worry about a thing, doe.”

“Will you let me go?”

He doesn't answer at first. Just digs his nose into your hairline, breathing in deep until the wide breadth of his chest expands across your back. Mulling it over, maybe. Coming up with an excuse for his behaviour. Something to negotiate with on reasons why you shouldn't call the police the moment he does. 

And for a moment, a startling, terrible moment, there's hope. The assurance wells on your tongue. Some unfathomable amalgamation of please and i’ll never tell. Maybe you were going to tell him he was an honest man who did something bad. That there was still good within him. All of those hideous clichès bubble up through the cracks—

But it's all dashed when his hand drops down from its perch beneath your bare breasts, sliding over your skin until it curls possessively over your lower belly. 

He breathes out and the hope inside you is snuffed under the gale of delusion, his obsession. “Why would ah do a thing like that?” He prompts, and the genuine confusion in his voice makes you shiver, as if the idea of it is so outlandish, so absurd, it negates everything he'd done to get to this point. You feel hollow. But not—

Not empty. 

As if he hears the thought thundering in the ruins of your mind, he presses a tender kiss to your temple that you think is meant to be soothing. Shushing you softly when you begin to shake. “After it took me this long to find ye, doe. Am no’ lettin’ ye go fer the world, ken. Yer mine. All mine.”

And then he closes his jowls around your throat. 

Time feels artificial here. 

You wake up several hours later, groggy and disoriented, but the sun doesn't seem like it moved from where it was perched last night at all. Fixed in place. Lost in some strange, eternal twilight zone where the sun is a warden, watching you tirelessly through the window. 

Cardboard cutout hung amongst the stars.

Your ankle aches horribly—an agonising throb. You must have turned in your sleep, jostled it. You're further away from the spot you were last night, too. Rolled over in your sleep, maybe. The burn brings tears to your eyes that you swallow down with a groan. 

As you awkwardly settle your leg in a way that hurts slightly less than it did before, you let cognisance slip back in to keep your mind off of the horrible ache that tremors through your bones. Your neck. 

Between your thighs—

It's then that you hear Johnny. 

He's whistling in the kitchen. You peer out through the crack in the door, catching the broad expanse of his naked back as he works over the stove. Flexing. Muscles bunching. He hums a tune you can't recognise as he scrapes the spatula over the cast iron pan. 

His grey sweats sit low on his hips. The divots above the hem—dimples of Apollo, you recall—are stark against the hollow ravine of his spine. You can't help but stare. Gawk. Limned in the soft light of the morning sun that spills through the open window, he looks almost ethereal. Unreal. Like something out of a magazine and not the middle of nowhere in Canada where the sun doesn't set this time of year. 

He feels surreal. A man too good to be true. All sculpted musculature that looks like it could just as well be handmade by an amalgamation of both David’s by Michelangelo and Gian Lorenzo Bernini. All sharp, angled lines; beautiful in their fluidity. 

It's unfair, you think suddenly. To be stuck with a man you feel nauseous thinking about but can’t seem to take your eyes off of. Some paradoxical madness. Retribution for a time in a past life where you swindled fate and got away unscathed. All of your karmic sins pile down on top of you as the events last night flicker past, drenched in seafoam. Ghosts linger in the cracks; in memories. 

The phantom weight of something slung over your waist, knotted tight between your breasts. Scorching heat glued to your spine. A heavy hand cradling your lower belly. Words whispered into your nape—

He turns, then. Catches your eye like he knew it was there the whole time. Stands there like the picture of ease, of a satiated man puttering around a small space while his sweetheart lounged in the bed, lazing the day away. 

Like this wasn’t illegal. Immoral. He treats you like a lover even though you’d only met less than a day ago—

And already his cum was drying on your inner thighs, thick and sticky. His madness pooling in your head, words uttered into your ear about this cabin he has back home, back in Scotland. He’ll take you there, he said. It’s time he came home, he thinks. His head is on straight again, and he finally feels like he can breathe without shattering into a million pieces—

(He put your hands on his head last night, palm cradling the ugly scar on his temple, and whispered, fervent and insane, ye keep ma head together, doe. Ye make me feel whole again—)

Knows a man, he told you. A good bloke who’d help him get you home, too. 

His smile is bright. Blinding.

“Mornin’, doe. Ah made breakfast.” 

[ilylovelyz]

⍣ ೋ the last jewel

˚ · . sanemi shinazugawa x afab!reader

: ̗̀➛ baby trapping (?), breeding, impregnation, choking, dubcon

call me thunder man when you can't see my eyes to who oppose me, you can die now

sanemi had a dilemma.

he never thought it would happen in his lifetime, but it did. he fell in love. he fell in love with you, a strong and beautiful woman. he's grateful to have you, though now he's come of a dilemma.

throughout his life, he's come across unfortunate events and despair, loosing those who he loves most. it's basic knowledge that the enivronment you had as a child shapes who you are as an adult, it was bound for sanemi to become such a ferocious and off-putting man when he grew up.

yet, out of all the people in the world, you chose him. you saw through his deep scars and empty eyes that he was much more than a killing machine.

he didn't know how to accept it. he tried pushing you away, tried scaring you off, but you were just so damn stupid and persistent, following him around like a naive puppy.

time went so fast around those months, he can't even remember how he wound up in this position.

this delicate position, where he's trembling underneath your touch. your hands are like fire, warming up his skin with every interaction. his eyelashes flutter at the way goosebumps rise on his pale skin, a hot wave rising up his spine.

his hand reaches for your other grips at the sheets below you, encasing it with his much larger ones. his nose rests in the crook of your neck, inhaling your intoxicating scent, smelling of desperation and sex.

"ugh." he groans, his hips rolling deeply into the soft flesh of your ass. he's glad you can't see his face right now, the brat you are would never let him live without teasing him. his eyebrows are furrowed, eyes clenched shut, teeth nipping on his own flushed lips to prevent himself from sounding like some desperate boy.

"you feel so good.." he mumbles into your ear, his hand coming up to wrap around your delicate neck. sanemi sucks and bites at the flesh of your shoulder, your blood attacking his tastebuds. he now knows why demons eat humans, afterall, you taste pretty damn good.

"auhh, 'nemi–more—" you cry out, his cock teasing at your sweet spot. "yeah? like that? you sound like such a pretty slut," sanemi groans out, detaching from your neck and sitting upright to watch the way your even prettier pussy grips onto his cock.

he inhales sharply when he feels his cock twitch when your tight walls consulve around him so tightly it has him struggling to breathe. sanemi tries his best to fuck you through your orgasm, tries his best to not cum in that addictive pussy of yours.

he should though, now that he thinks of it.

before he thinks more about it, his strong arms wrap around your torso, lifting you up to where your back meets his chest. "'nemi—" you whine out, throwing back your head onto his shoulder. sanemi brings up a callosed hand up to your breast, groping you so roughly, pinching at your sensitive buds.

"there's something i need to talk to you about," sanemi says, his tone uncharacteristically stern. "h-huh?" you dumbly say, back arching away from his abdomen. "in the middle o-of-of sex?" you stutter out, barely able to get a coherent sentence out.

god you can't even think. you're so cute. sanemi cups at your jaw, directing your face towards his so he could shove his tongue down your throat before he's pulling away once more an suddenly pulling out his cock from your dripping pussy.

"sanemi?" you cry out, tears dropping down from your waterline at the feeling of being so empty. though, you aren't empty for long as sanemi flips you over onto your back and roughly forces his fat cock back into your small cunt.

the sudden intrusion has you seeing stars, nearly blacking out from the intense feeling of being stuffed full.

"you need to drop of out the demon slayer corps." sanemi says, his purple eyes watching through his long eyelashes down at you. your own eyes stare directly at his, widened with confusion. "w-what? why?" you ask, so confused and shocked at you try to shuffle out of sanemi's grasp.

his hands grab at your hips, his own angling for that sensitive spot within you to keep you weak.

he had his hips grinding against yours, too painfully slow in order to get you to cum again, but also too painfully deep to stop you from not feeling anything.

"you need to drop out from the demon slayer corps–from being a hashira, it's too dangerous." sanemi says once more. "a-and? do you not think i'm strong enough? i'm literally a hashira, just like you."

yes, you are a hashira, just like him. but even the strongest hashira die, it's too much of a risk. you've had him wrapped around his finger, he's too attached to let you go now. he just won't have it. he won't let another person in his life die anymore, especially not you.

there's a couple seconds as he stares down at you with a blank face, his hips stilled away from yours. his sudden quietness scares you, "sanemi?"

before another second could pass, his hips are pushing against yours and his cock tip is flush against your cervix. your mouth opens up in a silent scream, hand coming up to hide the way your eyes roll to the back of your heah.

sanemi's free hand comes to grip at your jaw, squishing your cheeks together to form a pitiful pout to get your attention.

sanemi feels a switch inside of him flip, veins in his neck protruding, jaw clenching tightly. he's not asking. he's demanding. "no, y/n. the demon slayer corps doesn't need a woman who's already knocked up."

a gutteral groan leaves your throat at his words, fat tears being swiped away from his fingers. you can barely put two and two together at this point, only knowing the words knocked up.

"sh-shanemi.." you drool, hand coming up to grip at his wrist. "it's okay. you'll make a good mommy. you'll be able to protect our babies with how strong you a-are—fuck, i'm gonna c-cum in you–" sanemi groans out, his hips loosing rhythm as he comes closer and closer to his orgasm.

sanemi can barely hold himself up as he teeters over his orgasm, his mouth salivating of getting his sweet little girlfriend knocked up with his babies. "i'm cummin', i'm cumming in your pretty pussy—" he cries out before his hands fly down to grip at the sheets, bracing himself as a wave of intense pleasure washes over him.

his cock splurts out a fat load of seed inside your poor pussy, his tip flush with your cervix to ensure all of his cum reaches your fertile womb.

sanemi pants once his orgasm settles down, slowly sitting himself up to see the masterpiece he's created. he pulls his cock out of you, growing hard once more he sees the state you are in, covered in sweat and dried cum, passed out from how good he fucked you.

you may not see it, but he does. this is the only way he can get you to drop out, being a mommy to his children. you can't really argue against this, after all, you signed up for his antics when you chose him.

please repost with tags and leave a like.

[iceunhie]

art of the fan!

premise: wherein jiaoqiu’s fan does half the work and reaps twice the effect.

warnings: gn!reader, 1.4k words, potential jiaoqiu ooc, written before his release. use of petnames and suffixes. please read the terminology guide below to understand their use in the plot, very ‘walk him like a dog’ core, though in this case fox would be more appropriate, haha.

a/n: guess who’s back with a oneshot (⁠ ⁠；⁠∀⁠；⁠) here is my humble offering to the jiaoqiu nation, i did my best

jiaoqiu—for some reason—has made it his life’s mission to perpetually get under your skin.

recently, he has employed shady methods, most particularly instilling almost unfair use of his fan in order to get away with things he normally can't, poking at the strings in your heart like how a stick hits a hornet’s nest.

“yi sheng, is there a purpose for this?” you exclaim, with the foxian man sighing in faux disappointment. the sarcastic way of addressing his title does make his face spasm—but unfortunately for you, today, it seems it does little to dampen his mischief.

you are in the humiliating position of being in the sly man’s lap; aggrieved that your current predicament warrants unfair treatment that borders on harassment (an exaggeration, jiaoqiu has never been improper to that extent).

not to mention, his fan is aimed at your chin, making you look up at him while he applies ointment to a rather nasty bruise around your lip, with the gall to hum as he does so.

“ah, ah. don't move.” he holds the feathered fan under your chin, eyes ever closed while a placid smile graces his face, retaining his signature cunning. jiaoqiu has lost his mind. you keep to yourself, ignoring the heat in your cheeks that had made an appearance since earlier—because why else would he do this? (and why in the name of aeons would you let him? something must be wrong with your brain today.) “if you do not let me do this, that unsightly bruise might fester, you know.”

“you’re too close.”

“well, you were too far.”

“i am sitting on your lap, yi sheng. how close do you want us to be?” you roll your eyes, earning jiaoqiu a poke at your face, followed by his hand squishing at the fat on your cheeks. “hey, lwet goh of me…”

“still with the formalities... surely now you can address me by my name, can you?” jiaoqiu coaxes, like saying it might wash away all the fatigue in the world, because every inch of his being, from the tips of his ears to the veins in his heart and the wisps of his soul, his yearning and pining echoes and resounds in the cavity of his chest that holds only you, you, you.

what, jiaoqiu wonders, would it take for him to be the sole beholder of your brilliance? his hands holding yours, gripping faithfully and unfalteringly, your fates bound by knots; crimson in nature, entwined forevermore? his eyes soften because of course they do—for you mold him into a being devoted to commemorating your existence into his flesh, your voice settling in the marrow of his bones.

you falter, your heartbeat loud. jiaoqiu notices. of course he does. “yi sheng—”

“jiaoqiu.”

“yi—”

“qiu-er.”

“....” he can hear your heart thundering in your chest—thump, thump—and it has never occurred to him to praise his foxian senses until now. his smile widens, a fang poking out with the white of his teeth. “i'm waiting, baobei.” your face glows with warmth, and jiaoqiu fights the urge to swallow you up whole right then and there.

(he resists it often when it comes to you.)

“you’re so stubborn!” you say after much deliberation, rejection flat and heavy. jiaoqiu deflates, just a bit, and petulantly rubs ointment on the other bruises littering your face. (his ears show his displeasure, drooping down, comically flat against his head.)

“hmph. and you’re too stingy.”

“all the more reason not to, then!”

still not enough, huh? jiaoqiu wonders if he'll ever get you to crack; if you'll ever mirror the expression of his adoration—swishing tail and perked up ears aside. still, his touch is gentle, like the embers of a fire hugging you for warmth, a blazing sensation in which all the greed in the world falls short compared to his need to touch you, to perceive you. “will i ever hear my name on your lips? you seem to have no issue addressing others so casually.”

“and who exactly are these others?” you raise a brow at him. jiaoqiu shrugs, nonchalant. as though it didn't bother him (he's seething).

you note that he speaks with contempt, bitterness filtering his soft-spoken words. his tail wags rapidly. pfft, so… so childish! (and a little cute, but you don't say it for obvious reasons.)

“well, for starters, the madam general, the dozing general, yunli, the herbalists near the red fox theater, the stair sweepers....”

“wait, wait, that's too many! and the stair sweepers, really?!”

“i’ll avoid answering further questions.”

“you look like you've swallowed vinegar, laoshi.” you croon, biting where you can at the weakened fox you've made, defiantly lowering your chin still held captive by jiaoqiu’s fan. “besides, i merely do it to cut all at one stroke. after all, it is you, yi sheng—” you relish in jiaoqiu’s expression when you get eerily close, noses almost touching, “that insisted i ought to call you by that title, did you not? who knew you were so easy to displease.”

his face constricts, and his hands lower, one hand gripping firm at your waist, and jiaoqiu reels away from you, hiding his face behind his fan as his cheeks tint themselves scarlet. his pride would not allow him to refute, and you knew that very well. “that...”

because you know him. know his ticks, his tells—jiaoqiu does not know if that is love. but his willingness to drop his guard, to let you slip by his foxy exterior—to allow you to burrow and fuse yourself into the tapestry of his being, that of which the fibers of his soul accept and wholeheartedly make room for you; constricting his breath, perceiving you. (he doesn't know if you're in love with him yet, but he is. maybe he always will be.)

your lips quirk up instead, the apples of your cheeks forming while smile lines grace your features, that of which he cannot look away from, cannot close his eyes from; for what use is closing one’s eyes when his sight was granted to him to behold you?

jiaoqiu’s saving grace is that you were kinder for your own good. if he could keep that kindness to himself, then….

“as expected, it's so weird when you're silent,” you laugh, and jiaoqiu’s stare rushes to behold you, the echo of your joy forming his heart anew. “jiaoqiu. there, you petulant fox. happy now?”

and the way he looks at you—his pupils expanding, eyes wide, jiaoqiu loves. the entire universe could crumble and turn to ashes this instant, and he would not look away.

“...i’m not.” you look at him with playful scorn. really, after all this trouble, your eyes seem to say. he chuckles dryly, forcing himself to laugh, because jiaoqiu wants to keep this euphoria and let it sink into his ears, his lungs and his brain. he wants to bottle the sound of your voice forming his name and setting his body ablaze like golden starlight in a place no one can hear but him.

“not what?” facing you, holding you, he can't even begin to breathe. jiaoqiu thinks this might be love, sprouting from his eyes and filling the corners of his veins, circulating fully, wholly, and utterly.

“i’m not happy at all.” he speaks your name like the growing embers of a wildfire, burning his throat and letting jiaoqiu dare to perceive you. “it’s lacking. it will always be lacking.”

and because you were you, you know exactly where to fan the flames. “ever the cunning one, aren't you, qiu-er?”

jiaoqiu thinks it's time you had enough of your fun. again, he's never had reason to praise his senses—but when he hears the deafening beats that increase as he looks at you even more—he thinks that maybe being a foxian is a decision fate was wise in undertaking.

he dips his head low, and before you can question why his fan covered your faces, a soft sensation floods your senses, warming you to the core when you feel the plush of his lips on yours. you feel his smile against your mouth, and the teasing bite down your lower lip makes your eyes turn to saucers.

this sly fox…!

pulling away, jiaoqiu hides his face behind his fan again, almost gloating when he takes in your aghast expression. “well, it's not so lacking anymore, i suppose.”

you glare. “that ointment of yours is useless now that you've kissed it away, you know.”

jiaoqiu brings the hand by your side to his lips, kissing your knuckles, devoting himself to every atom that comprises you, every cell that unravels and ties itself to create you; and he’ll adore you, chasing and basking in the warm daylight you bestow him.

“i can always kiss it better, anyway.” he ruffles your hair, the smile in his eyes mischievous and utterly unfair, because it's sincere, and blinding ....and jiaoqiu is already uncaring of the rapid wag of his tail. “didn’t you say it yourself? i am cunning, after all.”

BONUS: how to tame a foxian in one go!

“baobei, you certainly know how to leave someone breathless.”

“don’t follow me.”

“you’re not denying it though.”

“qiu’er, you’ll be demoted back to yi sheng.”

“huh?! thats cruel! wait, i said i’m sorry—!”

— terminology guide.

· [ 事半功倍 / half the work, twice the effect ] — (an idiom) the right approach leads to the desired/better results; jiaoqiu wanted reader to call him by his name affectionately, and the right ‘approach’ refers to making use of both the fan and the opportunity to kiss reader (which he got and more with minimal effort)

· [ 一刀切 / to cut all at one stroke ] — (idiom) one solution or ‘one size fits all’, reference to how reader doesn't want to refer to jiaoqiu as his name nor do they want to be mistaken to be in a relationship with him (playfully), so they refer to him as yi sheng ( 医生 ) so people don't get confused and see how jiaoqiu absolutely hates it (menace)

other: bao bei ‹ 宝贝 | baby/babe › , -er ‹ friendly and affectionate suffix often used in a teasing way › , yi sheng ‹ 医生 | doctor › laoshi ‹ 老师/老師 | teacher, used often in a certain part of china. used formally for instructors and teachers* ›

*as for why reader refers to jiaoqiu as laoshi aka teacher, jiaoqiu is a counselor (based on given canon information) and they use it to rile him up (since they use it sarcastically—because jiaoqiu was basically ordering them/instructing them to stay still while treating them ^^; hope this makes sense !

tidbit note: when reader says ‘consumed vinegar’ it is a funny way to show that he's jealous, because vinegar is sour (just like jiaoqiu's mood!)

note: hello! i apologize for being so late and so inconsistent with my posts, life has been busy lately with my job. as recompense, have a oneshot… lol. also, this fic wouldn't have happened without the lovely consultation of my friend and mootie @lowkeyren who helped me with making sure i was using the appropriate terms of affectionate address for reader and jiaoqiu, haha. can you tell i loved playing around with his character? even though he isn't out yet TT personally, i think i quite like the dynamic between reader and jiaoqiu; although this may be ooc in some point in time. he just gives off the vibe of a teasing smug bastard… who is a pathetic mess for his lover. or is it just me?? well, who knows…

@ ICEUNHIE: do not plagiarize, repost or steal my work.

[odoraful]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐈𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐔𝐋, 𝐈𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐈𝐓?

content: sylus x gn!reader; reader is a resident of the N109 zone; meeting each other for the first time; suave and lowkey yandere vibes from sylus; 1.5k words

a/n: i know that the moon in N109 is depicted as being red in-game, but i changed it so that that is only a myth :)

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“Here to watch the moon again?”

A voice called from behind you, somewhat cavalier.

Your posture stiffened, skin prickling with goosebumps. Inwardly you cursed at yourself. How had you not sensed someone approaching? Your instincts couldn’t be that dull. You regained your composure, trying your hardest to compress your surprise. Finding out that one had been caught off guard was a fast way to reveal a weakness in the N109 zone.

You sat on the ledge of a tall skyscraper, feet dangling below. The scenery before you was a complex matrix of buildings compacted together. Telephone poles and wires weaved between tight spaces, lights flickering below. Whether these lines actually functioned well enough to contact others you were doubtful about. Though, it hardly mattered. If you were in need of help in N109, there was usually only one option—fend for yourself. Quickly assessing your situation, you concluded that this person was not here to harm you. If he wanted to, he could have easily pushed you off the side of the building, or struck you in the back before you could even detect his presence.

“Again?” you repeated, steadying your tone. “You imply that you’ve seen me here before, and yet you’ve never bothered to approach me until now.”

You leaned back on your hands, the concrete cold beneath your fingers. All you had to do was put on enough air of confidence, and it would grant you the escape you needed.

“Who are you?”

Turning your head over your shoulder, you looked at your supposed stalker.

You’ve encountered many different people here in the N109 zone, but none as deadly-looking as the man standing merely metres from you. His hair was a cool grey, combed over to reveal his forehead. He dressed in all black, save for the silver accessory pinned between the collars of his dress shirt that glinted in the moonlight. Hypnotising red eyes pierced through you, his gaze crawling under your skin. He seemed to be made of up sharp angles and intimidating arrogance. Unexpectedly, he wore a smile on his face. You immediately quashed down the thought of how attractive he was, his lips curled upwards in amusement.

“Just another enjoyer of the night sky, much like yourself,” he answered.

Your heart traitorously thundered in your ears at the smoothness of his words. Your eyes never left him as he walked closer to you, the heels of his dress shoes clacking against concrete, until he stood near your side.

“This is a spot I also like to frequent, you see.”

This time, you couldn’t hide your shock as he bent down to sit on the ledge as well. Your mouth parted and eyes widened slightly. How could he act so unguarded? He glanced at your expression and laughed, a warmer sound that clashed greatly with his forbidding appearance.

“What is it? Are you so unused to company?” he asked. You couldn’t tell if the innocence in his voice was real or mocking. Was he… teasing you?

“N-not at all,” you replied, more rushed than you intended. Your confidence began to slip away. Everything this man said felt like he was testing you. “You’re welcome to sit wherever you please.”

He bowed his head, exaggerating graciousness. “Your kindness is appreciated.”

The silence that followed was oppressive. You could hardly enjoy the night with a stranger (who hadn’t even given his name to you) sitting beside you. Perhaps this was some bizarre tactic to force information out of you. You would become so uncomfortable with the silence that you would spill every secret you had to him. However, as you snuck glances at him, you found his attention drawn only toward the sky. The light of the moon reflected off his irises, transforming them into a bright crimson. You tried to think of a conversation topic. Anything for you to know more about this strange man.

His question came before yours.

“Why do you come here?” he asked, eyes landing on you once more. “This is one of the tallest buildings in this zone, and the rooftop isn’t accessible from inside.” He lifted a hand to his chin, suddenly in thought. “You would need to climb up to the 40th floor, then scale across to the left hand side of the building towards the abandoned scaffolding. From there, you would be able to reach the broken ladder to get to the roof.”

You bristled uneasily. Surely it was coincidence that he recited your exact route to get here. He must have used the same path as well.

“It’s undoubtedly a dangerous climb, that only a skilled person could pull off. There are much more… safer viewing spots in this place.”

You paused, trying to discern anything in him about his true intentions. Besides for genuine interest in the slight tilt of his head, you could glean no other ulterior motives in this line of questioning. Maybe he really was just another person in the N109 zone trying to survive.

“Perhaps there are.” You replied, looking down at the streets below. After visiting this rooftop every night, you no longer felt any vertigo. “It’s funny. Those people in Linkon always craft such sordid tales about what the sky is like here.”

The words flowed out of you like a stream. You had thought about this a lot in your time here, relaying your musings to the moon.

“That it’s clouded with smog, unbreathable to even traverse outside. Or that it’s always raining, droplets acidic to the skin.”

If you had glanced next to you for even a moment, you would have seen just how captivated the man was by you and your words. As if he had found the most dazzling gemstone buried deep within the ground after hours of digging. But, you continued to study your feet swaying lazily back and forth as you continued,

“But, that’s all nonsense. They’ve never been here before, where the sky is absolutely spotless,” you said, wistfully.

And it was true. Your turned your head up, scanning the moon above. It was simply a regular moon, just like one you’d see in Linkon city. However, being so high up meant there was no obstruction from any other buildings. You could behold its fullness every night, savouring its white glow. It reminded you that there was so much more waiting in the universe for you. Maybe even unexplored places past the Deepspace Tunnel.

You expected some witty reply laced with mystery from your seatmate, but he remained silent. Curiously, you looked over, finding his eyes locked on you.

“Yes, those are simply stories to monger fear.” He sounded almost breathless as he replied.

You blinked at him. Evidently, you had said something that resonated with him. He cleared his throat, shaking off whatever spell had just gripped him.

“And I agree,” he continued, “I believe one can get the most clearest and loveliest views here at night time.”

You noted to yourself that he was certainly not looking at the sky as he said that. His gaze briefly trailed up and down your body. You drew in a breath, praying that your cheeks weren’t flushed as crimson as his eyes. Heat crawled up your face at the smirk on his lips. The man seemed content to reveal that ulterior motive to you quite freely.

Something fluttered towards the two of you, and a crow flew down to the man’s shoulder, cawing loudly. You jumped at the peculiar sight. The man clenched his jaw, seeming to be genuinely irritated by the interruption, but not at all bewildered by the large bird at his shoulder. It turned its head and cocked it to the side, seeming to analyse you.

“Unfortunately, my time here is up,” he sighed, pulling his feet off from the ledge and standing again.

To your surprise, your spirits deflated. There were so many things you wanted to know about this silver-haired man, and you didn’t know when you would meet him next.

“I will see you tomorrow night to continue this conversation,” he added, adjusting the coat around his shoulder.

You cursed internally again. Had it been so plain on your face that you wanted to meet him again? You pursed your lips.

“And what makes you so sure I’ll come back here tomorrow?”

Another laugh erupted from him. He had to restrain himself from commenting on how cute you looked right now.

“Because I’m quite good at reading people,” he instead said.

It was truly a shame he had to leave so soon. This interaction he had carefully crafted had begun so well. The crow cawed again, directly into his ear. Quiet down, I know I have business to attend to, he thought, scratching his finger against its feathered head to pacify the bird.

“Ah I almost forgot.”

You craned your head upwards at him standing beside you. Your expectant, doe eyes nearly convinced him to ignore all his duties and sit back down with you.

He tipped his head down. Greeting you once again, this time with an appropriate introduction.

“You can call me Sylus.”

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[caffeinewitchcraft]

The Hero and Hope (5/5)

(Part 1) (Part 2) (part 3) (part 4)

Last Time

The crack under the door lights with a sickly purple. The smell of ozone seeps into the manor. For a moment there is a silence so complete you think you’ve been struck. What was that? Magic? You’ve never seen magic before--

Screams rocket across the field. The Blacksmith’s screams. The Baker’s screams. Marie’s rage-filled howls.

“DEMON KING!”

Your Destiny burns.

---.

You have dreams the closer you get to turning fifteen. Dreams of a kingdom in the sky, a kingdom heard in the roiling clouds and in the cracks of lightning that splinter through them. This kingdom howls and chatters and hungers.

You dream that you are under these clouds. Your necks aches from staring up into them. You’re alone in a field of dead wheat and the stalks whisper prophecies whenever the kingdom above falls silent. Rivers will run with blood, flesh will lay torn across the streets, no child can hide—

In these dreams, you aren’t afraid. There is an answering snarl in your chest for every howl and prophecy you hear.

You won’t have your way. You won’t win.

I’m the Hero.

When the storm sends down a funnel of demon bats (or horned rabbits or screaming goblins or demon wolves), you leap to meet them.

------.

This isn’t a dream.

Your hands slide down from the door. Hera and Josiah are frozen in place, eyes wide and unseeing as the demon king’s presence steals the oxygen from the room. You take a step back. Then another.

All doors and windows are blocked on this level. But this manor has more than one floor.

The fighting resumes outside before Sarah realizes what you’re doing.

“Isla!” She has the strength of a mother when she grabs you this time. Your nearly choke as your collar is pulled taught against your throat by her grip on your sleeve. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To fight,” you wheeze before you can think better of it.

“Absolutely not.” Sarah attempts to pull you back, but you’re braced against her now. She grabs your sleeve with both hands. “The knights have it handled—”

“Not this—”

“—you’re to stay here.” Sarah’s lip trembles and she squares her jaw to hide it. The younger kids are holding onto her skirts, eyes wide as they stare up at you. “Understood?”

Afraid. She’s so afraid for you, so determined to keep you safe this time. You can see that winter seven years ago like you never have before; when you held the door and lost your hope in heroes, she never once looked away from your narrow back.

You have never been alone.

“Take care,” you say as gently as you can. Then, as she draws breath to speak, you rip yourself from her grasp. Your sleeve tears and Sarah’s eyes fall to your arm.

She gasps. “Isla—”

You shoulder your way through the villagers and thunder upstairs. The grand staircase leads to a hall of doors and you throw open the one at the end indiscriminately. You get the impression of books, leather furniture, a black feather quill, but it all blurs when your eyes fall on the door leading to the balcony.

That will do.

You burst out into unrelenting sunlight. Shouldn’t it be storming? In your dreams, it’s always storming. The garden is a mess of turned earth and splintered party tables. The knights’ armor flash rays of sun and the orcs – great, fleshy beasts with hardly any neck and black-sclera eyes – undulate like mountains below. You can see that some orcs are down, their giant bodies strewn across the ground, but it hardly seems to make a difference.

Not when there’s a Demon King.

You climb up onto the railing to get a better look. He’s half-hidden by the fighting, almost lounging against the treeline. He’s more human than you expected with dark, shaggy hair, and a bored look on his face. Canines the length of your index finger poke over his thin lower lip. Without the fangs, he’d be a traveling merchant, one of the ones who turned up their nose when they realized that the home they were visiting was an orphanage and not that of an affluent family.

As you watch, that sickly purple magic crackles at his fingertips. You follow his gaze to where Ivan and Marie are fighting back-to-back. The Lord is standing defiantly behind them, his horse slain mere yards away. The Lord is staring a challenge at the Demon King.

This is my land. You can see his mouth form the words, but can’t hear him over the clashing of swords and the twanging of Marie’s bow. Did he lose his voice? His exhaustion drags at his face, just visible under his fury. Green power seeps from him and into the ground as he emphasizes his Lord’s claim. You won’t have it.

The Demon King smirks. His hand twitches and purple magic soars into the sky. It arcs over the orcs’ heads, ten feet, fifteen feet, ten feet, five feet—

Ivan catches the bolt on his shield, a cry leaving his lips as the magic splashes around the edges and tears at his skin. You can smell burning flesh and ozone. Ivan falls to one knee and Marie snarls as she blocks an orc’s blow with the curve of her bow. She manages to kick the beast away, but her distraction costs her. This time Lord Brennan has to block the orc swinging a mace down upon their heads. His connection to the land wavers and the Demon King’s smirk widens into a smile.

Something in your chest cracks and you see gold.

Your destiny is like a flame on your shoulder. It drips down your arm and into your hand. Golden light is burning there and with a barely a thought, it takes the form of a spear. You hoist the spear over your shoulder and hurl it with your full strength at the ground between the orcs advancing on Marie, Ivan and Lord Brennan.

The ground shatters. The orcs are thrown back. Marie, already kneeling at Ivan’s side, jerks her gaze up to you. You see her mouth form your name.

The Demon King is as loud as he is in your dreams. “HERO!”

The word alone strikes fear in the orcs. Stupidly, a few look up at you and fail to block the next blows from the knights. One squeals and turns to the forest. You barely notice the knights chase after it.

“Isla?”

“Don’t—”

“Go back inside, his magic is too--!”

The Demon King hisses a spell. It’s fast, not the slow and contemptuous arc of power he’d thrown at the lord. Without thinking, you swipe your arm. It’s still drenched with the golden glow of your power and the air rings when the Demon King’s spell connects. You feel the blow vibrate through your bones. The magic crackles and your own power rises to meet it, filling your view with sun-bright light that washes over everything.

When the light clears, you’re still standing.

“Impossible,” the demon king says.

On instinct, you lift a hand above your head. Something presses against your palm and you grab it, drawing it down in front of you. A sword drenched in a golden haze follows. Hero’s sword. You point it at the demon king in a silent declaration. Your destiny is choking you, but your message is clear.

His lips curl in a snarl. “Attack!”

You leap down from the balcony as the demon king’s army surges. An orc charges you the moment you land, his eyes filled with the demon king’s command. He towers over you, but you’re strong enough to haul a half dozen fence posts on your own. You catch the club he swings at your head and launch him back in the same motion. He falls back a dozen steps and you follow him, slashing at his throat with your sword of light.

You’re on to the next monster before his body hits the ground.

You are new to your power, but you aren’t alone. Knights scream their second wind and fall on the monsters’ backs when their master’s command stupidly makes them turn away. A corner of your mind shrinks at the smell of blood and worse, at the sight of bodies under your feet, at the sound of armor crunching under heavy blows, but your power blocks it out. You move through the battlefield with an overwhelming, single-minded purpose.

Demon King.

“Don’t understand—”

Who is that? Your senses tell you it’s not an enemy. You duck when an orc swings a meaty fist at your head and then blink when someone severs its arm before you can.

“It’s okay, Isla,” someone says. “We’re here.”

“--she’s fourteen—”

“Argue about it later, protect her now.”

“Right.”

The Demon King isn’t relaxed when you see him next. His lips are pulled back so far you can see all his teeth. He’s commanding his monsters to stop you, to kill you, to put their bodies between you and him. One orc is bigger than the rest, a vibrant red instead of fleshy pink. It plants itself squarely in front of its master and raises a mace the length of your body.

Your power won’t let you falter, but your mind balks. Can you catch that? Block it? Those spikes are as long as your arm—

An arrow sprouts from the orc’s throat. It blinks stupidly and the purple haze clears from its eyes. Another arrow finds its mark in said eye and the beast steps back hesitantly as if unsure if its okay or not. The third arrow lets it know it’s not.

“Keep your sword tip up, Isla.”

“You’re training her now?”

“On your left, Marie!”

The Demon King must be cocky because he doesn’t try to run until it’s too late. The orc falls and his eyes widen in surprise to see you still coming for him. You’re close enough to see the color of them now, a red as deep and terrible as what’s drenching your hand.

Purple magic crackles. It’s not a spell – he’s too afraid for that – but the destructive power is unreal. The earth splinters to either side of you, causing your allies to falter for a moment. You deflect the bolt aimed for you and it explodes overhead like fireworks.

“No,” the Demon King breathes. He stumbles back and tries to ward you off with hands drenched in power. “No, I do not fall here! I am King! I am ultimate! I am—”

You throw your sword. You never really learned how to use one and this motion is more natural. For a moment, you see your Hero’s sword like your sharpened stick, sailing into the throat of a horned rabbit. Then you blink and it’s the Demon King with your sword through his meck. Blood bubbles at the corners of his mouth. One of his long-nailed hands comes up to try and grab the hilt. You’ve pierced him through.

The Demon King falls like his orcs. Confused and unsure of his own demise.

You come back to yourself the moment you feel his power die. There’s crashing through the woods as the remaining four orcs turn to flee. Absently, you mark their paths.

If the knights don’t get them, you will.

The details of the battle filter back to you gradually, like the sound returning to a forest after a rockslide. The memories of each blow you dealt tremble up your arms and the smell of one orc’s fetid breath makes you suck in a breath. That of course drags new horrible smells into your lungs and you cough so hard you gag.

A warm hand pats your back. “There, there,” Ivan says. He sounds tired. “The first one is always rough. Vomiting is okay.”

Marie grabs your hand before you can rub your face. “Don’t touch your eyes. Orc blood is corrosive.”

You twist, blinking tears out of your vision. You tremble as the memory of battle becomes fresher and fresher. You croak, “I’m an orphan, you know.”

Ivan looks taken aback. Then understanding washes over his face. “We’re acting like your parents, aren’t we? We were going to ask you after the party.”

The nausea temporarily subsides. “What?”

“She’s in shock,” Marie scolds Ivan. She fishes a clean handkerchief out of her bodice and uses it to dab under your eyes. “We want to adopt you, Isla. If you’ll have us as parents?”

You stare at them. “I—” you clear your throat. “I just meant we don’t actually know when my birthday is. Because I’m an orphan. I might be fifteen after all.’

“Oh.” Ivan opens his mouth. Closes it. “Well, do you be our daughter anyway?”

“More than anything,” you say and then vomit right onto the demon king’s corpse.

---------.

Things are both complicated and not after that.

The questions you thought were coming never get asked. Sarah isn’t upset you hid your Destiny from her and neither are any of the kids. They’re just relieved you’re alive.

Hera buries her face in your stomach before dinner that night. The Bahrs have invited you all to stay over until the last of the orcs are caught. Hera smells like their bath oils when she says, “I held the door, Isla. Nobody got in.”

There’s a lump in your throat as you pet her damp hair. “You did. You were very brave.”

“I helped,” Josiah says. Unlike Hera, he eyes your arm from a distance. Your mark is covered in a fresh cotton shirt, but it’s like he can see it anyway. Finally he collapses into you. “It’s not fair. You’re our Hero. Now you’re going to have be everyone’s.”

You lean down to press a kiss into his hair. “I’m too mean to be everyone’s Hero. I’ll just be yours, okay?”

“Good,” Josiah says. Then, after a long moment. “Though you should be nicer to us now.”

“No,” you say fondly.

The complicated part comes when the Bahrs enter the dining room after Sarah has gotten you all seated.

Ivan’s arm is in a sling, but he smiles widely when he sees the spread Josiah, Annie and Sarah have cooked up. He compliments them on their efforts, thanks them, and takes a seat at the head of the table.

Marie pauses by you before she takes her seat. She lingers by your chair until you turn to look at her. “Isla.”

You swallow. “Marie.”

Is it just you or is Marie as nervous as you are?

“Would you…sit by me?” she asks. Her eyes flick to the seat just to the right of her side of the table. You may not be a noble, but you know what that seat means.

Your voice wavers. You’re suddenly very conscious of the kids looking at you, of the way Sarah’s pressed a hand to her mouth. In surprise? To hide her pleasure? “If—if I can?”

“Yes,” Marie says quickly. “Yes, if you don’t mind, I mean, if you’re able to be drawn away—”

Lord Brennan throws open the dining room doors with an astonishing crash. He isn’t dressed for company and his long sleeping robe is drenched with the water still dripping from his hair. “I am starving. Is there—” He catches sight of the table and his mouth drops open in surprise. “You were all about to have dinner? Without me?”

“You were in a coma, my lord,” Ivan says.

“I was taking a nap,” Lord Brennan corrects. His golden eyes catalogue the way Marie is standing over you, the three empty seats at the end of the table opposite Ivan. Rather than claiming the empty head of the table seat, he strides over to Ivan. “Up, up you get.”

“There’s another seat you can take!” Ivan complains. He guards his plate of food. “I just served myself.”

“Go sit with your wife and daughter,” Lord Brennan commands. He nearly sits on Ivan when the other man stands too slowly. He smiles charmingly at Sarah. “Director. Fancy seeing you here.”

Sarah flushes up to her ears.

“Daughter?” Hera asks.

Your stomach turns over. Oh god. It’s not fair that they asked you – you were too happy to think about it, but the other kids must be devastated—

But Hera doesn’t look sad. She’s staring at you for an answer, her eyes open and accepting.

“Y-yeah,” you say.

“Hell yeah,” Josiah says. “If the Bahrs adopt you that means I can read through their library right?”

Annie looks up at you. “And we can come visit?”

“Of course you all can,” Marie answers. Is her voice a little misty? “You all can stay here as long as you like.”

“Go sit with them,” Hera says. She smiles and pushes at you. “Go on.”

It’s the best meal you’ve ever had.

-----

(Part 1) (Part 2) (part 3) (part 4)

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

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[too-much-tma-stuff]

This idea sort of burst out of me like Alien so it's unedited. There will probably be more.

In short, Cas picks up on the fact that Danny is pregnant at a Wayne Gala and have the right idea but the wrong context.

Masterpost

------

Danny was barely holding it together and really he had been for a long time. It had sort of been fun and games at first when he became a hero. Sure his accident had hurt like hell but he'd sort of repressed that and for real? Lunch Lady? Box Ghost? Even Skulker was sort of a joke and he hasn't actually felt threatened. Sneaking around behind his parents backs and sneaking out with his friends had been fun. It had all felt like a game at first, and then somewhere in there things had gotten very real.

He'd known he couldn't count on his family to protect him but they couldn't even see Vlad was a threat. And he felt like he had lost the last of his innocence when he saw the clone Vlad had made of him melt. He hasn't been in time, he had panicked and he had only managed to save a couple by taking them into his own body to shield their still forming cores. Ellie and... should Danny name the other one or would he name himself when he was ready?

He kept touching his stomach over where he could feel the little balls of his mirror children hovering just below his own core. He was so tired all the time as they relied on his energy, he was eating more then ever and he knew his family was worried. He didn't think he could hide this and he couldn't predict when they would emerge. What if they did in front of his parents? They definitely wouldn't react well. And Vlad kept trying to use this against Danny. Promising to look after him and the babies if he was really insisting on carrying them, as if Danny could rip those tiny 'lives' out of himself now.

And no matter how many times he tried to tell his parents that Vlad was bad news, that he creeped Danny out and made him feel unsafe they wouldn't listen! Dad didn't even hear him and mom made sympathetic noises and then told him to bear with it for Jack's sake because he didn't have many friends.

So of course when Vlad had asked if 'Daniel' could accompany him to a gala in Gotham his father had agreed! Even his mother had agreed when Vlad promised it would be educational and safe! And here Danny was, hanging on by a fucking thread in a suit that felt uncomfortably tight around his middle, having just escaped being paraded around as Vlad heir like a particularly expensive watch. He was behind the snack table having piled a plate as high as he could and scarfing it down before Vlad could find him again and scold him for being rude. He hadn't noticed yet that a family of dark haired socialites kept giving him worried looks. A young woman with dark eyes signing frantically to a man with blue eyes and a dimpled frown.

It was the man who slid up carefully next to Danny trying not to startle since he seemed to have genuine food aggression.

"Yeesh kid you seem like you're starving! All those fancy Hors d'oeuvres are fun but not very cooling and I feel like I'd be a poor host if I didn't offer you something more filling! If you'll come me to the kitchen I'm sure our family butler would be happy to whip something up for you?" The man said with an inviting some that did nothing to sooth the way Danny's hackles raised instinctively.

He was about to say no on reflex when he spotted Vlad heading towards them with an expression like a thunder cloud. Danny's back went ridged and the other man followed his gaze with a frown. "You know what ya that sounds great let's go now!" Danny said dropping his half full plate on a nearby tray and dragged the stranger away with him as Vlad shouted after him.

"Daniel come back this instant! Unhand mister Wayne! Daniel this is unacceptable!"

'Mr. Wayne' took over leading them and spirited Danny through a back door as a bubbly blonde intercepted Vlad and a small woman slid in behind them like a shadow.

"So, Danial I assume?" The man asked, amusement crinkling around his eyes as Danny grimaced.

"Mr. Wayne I assume?" Danny returned, unaware of the way one arm was protectively wrapped around his stomach, but the girl noticed. It was Dicks turn to grimace.

"Okay ya, I go by Dick. What about you?"

"Danny," he said not reacting to the name, he'd heard far stranger. "And what about you?" He asked Cas, startling Dick a little because she was doing her 'shadow thing' and not many people would have noticed her.

"That's Cas, she has a hard time talking sometimes," Dick explained as Cas materialized and gave Danny a reassuring smile and wave.

The teen harrumphed but he did follow them down to the kitchen where Alfred was drinking a cup of tea, staying well clear of the foolishness upstairs. "Ah, hello young masters," Alfred he said, glancing between the three with a raised brow. Though the two who knew him could see the way his expression softened when Danny shrunk in on himself. "What can I do for you?"

"Hey Alfred do we have any leftovers from dinner or something filling we can whip up fast? Danny here is too hungry for just the fancy font for upstairs." Dick asked cheerfully.

Alfred raised his eyebrows again and looked at Cas who was standing behind Danny. Glancing at Danny to make sure he wasn't looking she grimaced then touched her stomach and mimed holding an infant.

Alfred's expression turned stormy for just a moment then smoothed. "Of course we do, Why don't you make our guest comfortable and I'll see what I can do. Do you have any allergies young man?" Alfred asked and Danny shook his head mutely.

"You're the best Alfie!" Dick said, hovering a hand over Danny's shoulder rather then actually touching him as he leas him towards the comfortable breakfast nook.

The boy seemed tight lipped and gaunt, his eyes flicking around them as if he expected a threat to pop up at any time. Dick slipped into the booth across from him. Trying to think of the best way to ask this kid how... why, and who hurt him.

Cas has stayed in the kitchen, but not for long. She came to them with a tray of mugs moments later and slipped into the booth next to Danny. Gently she took his hands and pressed the warm mug unto them. He blinked and focused of it, as if on autopilot he lifted it to his lips, Cas keeping a hand on his elbow to steady him as he drank.

The warm comforting drink, and hand on his arm, presence by his side as Cas slid imperceptibly closet and closer till she was pressed against Danny's shoulder, felt like they were taking him apart from the inside. Thawing out the cold numbness he shielded himself behind. Half way through his tea he glanced up, at the worried blue eyes so like Jazz, so worried and warm.

He put down the mug suddenly as a sob shook his body. Cas wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, cooing comforting wordless little sounds as she let him bury his face into her chest and just sob heaving, exhausting outbursts of repressed emotion.

"Are the babies okay?" She asked and he froze, his breath catching in his throat. She clicked her tongue and rocked him gently. "Okay, okay, not in trouble," she promised.

"They- I don't know, they were so weak, I’m trying, but I don't know if I can keep them alive." Danny sobbed lifting his hands to cover his face.

"The stress can't be helping," Dick pointed out, climbing across the table like it was nothing to sit next to them and rub Danny's back. Danny gave a little hiccupping hysterical laugh. "Do you have support, or like, do you know your options?" He asked awkwardly.

"I'm not getting rid of my babies! I don't care if the man who made them is an obsessive creep who drugged me! I love them they're MINE!" The feral protectiveness seemed to startle Dick even as Cas continued to make soothing sounds.

"Your choice, only yours," she promised. "Have help?"

Danny sniffled and shook his head. "Safe?" Another shake of the head.

"The man who... did this?" Dick asked as delicately as he could. Another hysterical laugh.

"I've tried! I've tried to tell my parents he's a creep, he's dangerous but they don't listen! My dad thinks he hung the fucking stars, mom says he's harmless. They don't believe me! I-I can't tell them about the babies. They'd make me get rid of them or worse! I can't." Danny sobbed and Cas soothed.

"Okay, okay, you don't have to." She promised. "You stay with us, you and babies safe, never have to see him again."

"Ya right. Wait, your serious? What" Danny asked, pulling back and looking at her with wide bloodshot eyes.

"She's very serious young master," Alfred said as he approached making Danny jump. there was a hard set to the old man's jaw and steal in his eyes that left no room for questions as he set a plate of eggs, sausage, and fruit in front of Danny. "Master Bruce has a foster license and is a mandatory reporter. I'm sure once he hears even a fraction of this he will insist you stay. I will prepare a room for you. Am I to assume the man who's shouting demanding your return upstairs is the source of this distress?"

Danny swallowed and nodded, Alfred nodded back and paused to rest a gloved hand gently on Danny's hair before walking away briskly.

"Eat," Cas said, nudging him gently to let go of her. "As much as you want. Still hungry? We raid Tim's secret cereal stash."

"Gasp! You know where it is? You've been holding out on me?!" Dick demanded with exaggerated betrayal and as the two started to banter Danny ate. He was glad of the distraction, of not having the attention on him as he devoured the healthy, and nutritious meal the butler had made for him. It had been a while since he'd had a good home cooked meal, it made his core feel warm and he could feel the two little echoes as his hummed.

The babies were happy too, he didn't believe these people could keep him safe from Vlad really, but this was nice. Maybe he would let them try, get a few more good meals, a respite, and maybe... maybe his parents would finally notice that something was wrong and actually stand up for him?

That was probably wishful thinking but he could hope right? there was no harm in that.

Part 2

[i-cant-sing]

Time Traveller AU part 11

Part 1 is here. Part 2 is here. Part 3 is here. Part 4 is here. Part 5 is here. Part 6 is here. Part 7 is here. Part 8 is here. Part 9 is here. Part 10 is here. Time Traveller au masterlist is here. Check out my MASTERLIST for more!

Part 12 is here!

Your eyes are closed as you travel through time and space, wondering where you'll end up this time. Surely, if the universe saved you one more time, it means you'll probably end up in a better place-

Your eyes snapped open at the loud sound of thunder. You're staring up at the sky, dark clouds lightening flashing across it and-

I'm still falling!

You're not able to breathe until you take a gasp just as you hit the ground below you-

Wet. No, not ground. You look around in the dark water, not able to visualise anything before adrenaline kicks in and you start to swim to the surface.

You gasp as you come up and look around you.

You're in the sea. You're in the middle of the sea!

Your heart is drumming against your chest as you look up at the sky. Its dark, filled with heavy cloud and thunder. As the waves around you begin to move, your blood runs cold.

Storm. Sea storm.

Before you're able to react, though you doubt you could've prepared yourself, the waves crash down on you, pulling you back under the waters. No matter how hard you try to come back up, the waves thrash you here and there, insistent on drowning you. Even if you're able to break the surface for a few seconds, you're only able to take in so much air before getting waterboarded by the sea.

You're thrashing about under the waters, your body starting run out of adrenaline and reaching exhaustion, when you spot something in the corner of your eye.

Its a dark, huge figure. Horizontal, streamlined-

Shark. Its a fucking shark!

You'd scream if your body would listen to you. But you froze, and for some reason, your mind went on autopilot and made you raise your fists.

What? Fight the shark? What the fuck Y/n-

The shark was less than 5 feet from you when an orca came out of nowhere and attacked the shark.

You could only watch as the two sea animals fought each other, the killer whale clearly winning as the shark's thrashing began to subdue. That was the last thing you saw before losing consciousness, praying to God someone finds your body at least.

-

You wake upto the sound of a woman screaming.

Screaming. So, I must be in hell. Huh.

Your eyes flutter open and you look around the large white room you're in.

Its a hospital ward.

Your gaze falls on the shrieking female patient, currently being strapped to her bed as nurses try to inject her with something.

"Oh, you're awake." A nurse states as she comes by your side, noticing the English accent. "Didnt think you would after they found you washed up on the shore. You were shivering all over!"

Ah, nearly drowned. Nearly had hypothermia. Maybe I should have a "near-death" board.

You cleared your throat. "Where am I? How long was I out?"

"You're in London, honey. It was the nearest hospital from where'd they found you. You've been here for a day." She watched you sit up. "Where you from, dearie?"

Pressing your temples, you answered. "Just... around."

Her face turned somber. "You're one of those, arent you?"

"One of who?" You narrowed your eyes at her. "One of who?"

"One of the damned who spread their filth-!" She snarled, stopping when she saw a doctor come up. "Hello, Dr Lowe!" The doctor merely gave her a nod, his eyes fixed on you. "And how are you, miss-?"

"Y/n." Whats the point of lying with another name? Its not like they'd find a record of you.

"Miss Y/n." He nodded. "Do you remember what happened? Why you were on the beach?"

"Um..." You tried to come up with an excuse. "I think... I was trying to swim."

Dr Lowe raised a brow. "Swim? In the winter?"

"Mmhm. Better to prepare myself for the summer." You feigned a smile, not receiving one back.

"Why?" The nurse asked, shrinking when the doctor shot her a glare.

"For... for fun?" You answered, unsure. What, is swimming a crime here?

"And you were swimming in... these clothes." You look down, noticing you were still in the Ottoman attire, wearing a flimsy gown.

"I was rehearsing for a play." The lie rolled out easier this time.

"Are you married?"

"No." I just escaped several attempts though. "Are we done here? I need to get home."

"And where would that be?" The doctor asked, crossing his arms as he looked at you.

"Outside of London. I dont feel comfortable telling you the address." You answered, not appreciating his interrogation.

"Miss, do you know what day it is today?" Shit.

"No. I have never been good at remembering dates." You pull the sheets off you to get off the bed but the doctor's words stop you.

"Its 8th of October."

And this is where you made a stupid mistake.

"What year?" The question came out before you could think of the repercussions.

"You... dont remember the year?" The doctor and the nurse shared a look before looking back at you.

"1860."

1860. 1860. London-

Victorian era.

Shit.

"Of course, I remember the year. I was just making sure. Anyways, I have to go-"

"You're not going anywhere, miss. You're not well. You need treatment." The doctor grabs your shoulders, pushing you back down.

"No, no. I am all good now! You saved my life, but I need to go-" You tried to push his hands off your shoulders, watching the nurse leave in a hurry.

The doctor shook his head. "No, miss. You may be fine physically, but not mentally." "What?" "You dressing up like this, playing some character, going to the sea to drown yourself because you're not happy with life, not remembering dates, and not having a husband- you have hysteria!"

You shook your head frantically. "No, I dont have hysteria-!"

"Not to worry miss! Its very common among women these days, sadly. But I have treated many of them successfully! And I'm sure that will be the case for you as well- Nurse! I need restraints and injections-"

Injection? Hysteria? Oh no, no. No. No! You've read about how they treated hysteria in the 1800s. Sent away to the seaside, lobotomy or forced orga-

"I AM NOT HYSTERICAL!" You thrashed around as more doctors and nurses came to hold you down. You spot the nurse holding up an injection and you only fought harder to escape as you realised Victorian medicine was basically poison itself.

"STOP- STOP! DONT INJECT ME WITH THAT!" You struggled with all your might to free yourself from their grasp, but their grip was tight and unyielding. "ITS FUCKING POISON! YOU IDIOTS! YOU'RE GONNA FUCKING KILL ME!"

You watched in horror as the nurse brought the needle closer to your arm, not even bothering to use an alcohol swab to sterilise the area so great- you'll die of an infection-

"Let her go!" They all looked towards the doorway, where a man stood looking furious. Wearing a brown coat with long sleeves and a wide collar exposing his waistcoat, he marched over to your bed and angrily took off his top hat.

"What is the meaning of this cruelty?! Unhand my wife now!" He yelled at the hospital staff.

Dr Lowe glared at him. "Wife? She said she wasnt married!"

The man scoffed. "We had a fight!" He glared at you this time. "Well, I'm sorry I spent a night away at the pub, darling! Forgive me and come back home?"

They all were staring at you now, and it only took a moment of eye contact with him for you to catch on.

"Fine. I forgive you. Lets go home-"

"Wait a second." The doctor narrowed his eyes at you. "You were found at the beach hours away from here. If he's your husband, then what were you doing there?"

He caught you off guard for a second, but you lied through your teeth.

"I obviously ran away!" You huffed. The man at the other end pulled the doctor by his collar. "And I'm from the newspaper, so if you dont let my wife go now, I will write an article besmirching you- not this run down hospital, no. I will be critisising you personally- whats your name?"

"Dr Lowe!" You pitched in. "Thank you, darling." The man nodded at you before continuing to threaten the doctor.

"I will crucify you, Dr Lowe."

The doctor huffed and nodded at the staff to let you go.

5 minutes later, you were walking with the man to the front desk to collect your belongings. You dont have your time machine on you or your jewellery from the Ottomans.

"Thank you..." You looked at him.

"Colin. Colin Felton."

As you waited for the nurse to return with your things, Colin introduced himself. True to his word, he did work in a newspaper, though you could only describe his work as "investigative journalism", but the term wasnt coined yet.

He was here at the hospital because he'd been trying to collect evidence on the inhumane attitude of healthcare workers towards patients and the alleged barbaric treatments towards the residents.

"So, why'd you help me? I mean, how'd you figured I wasnt hysterical?"

"I didnt." He grinned. "Hysterical or not, no one deserves to get lobotomised or whatever sadistic process they were going to subject you to." Colin looked at you. "How'd you know the injection was going to kill you? And what poison?"

"Look at the state of the hospital- there's arsenic on the walls. And most of the patients there were either strapped to their bed, or lying limp, drooling and groaning. The staff themselves looked like death, and there's no real concept of hygiene here, is there?" You shook your head. "The place is understaffed, overpacked, and completely unprepared for any epidemic or even anything mild!"

Colin chuckled. "Well, well, well. Who taught you so much about hospital management?"

Well, I am from the future where modern medicine has been able to provide vaccines for diseases you could die of.

You shrugged your shoulder. "My brother and I spent a summer at the mortuary." Which is true. You and Qasim had decided one summer to learn more about human anatomy (so that you could one day make your own humanoid-robots) and as kids who were unsupervised by working parents, you decided the best way to learn anatomy would be to go to the mortuary and just... take one home.

Look, in your 7 year old mind- it sounded like a good idea. There were a lot of unclaimed dead bodies at the local morgue and they wouldnt mind if you took one, right?

Qasim was hesitant but went along when you stated it was "for the advancement of science!"

Yeah, anyways, the moment you and Qasim had sneaked in and pulled the storage compartment holding someone, the doctor there caught you two. The only reason he didnt call your parents then was when you two begged you'd do anything and you were just trying to learn about human body and you swore that it wasnt for any "black magic", he instead made you and Qasim intern at the morgue.

Dr Johnson was more concerned that you two werent freaking out over dead bodies, and he probably kept you two around to see if you had any homicidal tendencies, but he found out you two were just curious kids. He was a great teacher, in all honesty, not only did he teach you about anatomy, but also a lot about the embalming, forensics, murder weapons and-

"What do you mean they're not there?" You asked the nurse. "Where's the rest of my stuff?!"

"I'm sorry ma'am, you didnt have anything on you besides the clothes on your back. And you're wearing them-"

"I'm going to give you one more chance- where's. My. Stuff?!" You snapped at her. The nurse stared at you unflinching. You pulled up your sleeve, ready to lunge. "You listen here-"

"What my wife means to say-" Colin placed a hand on your shoulder, reeling you back. "-would you please be kind and check again?"

"Like I told the missus- she didnt bring anything. Also- your missus was carried in here in the arms of another man-"

"What man?" You cut her attempt at tattling.

"He didnt give a name." She scoffed. "He just dropped you on one of the beds and left."

"What did he look like? What was he wearing?"

"I dont remember his face, but he wearing a black coat and hat, and I remember a golden band on his ring finger." She gave you a nasty look at the mention of the ring.

-

"What was so important that you lost?" Colin asked as you two walked. After questioning the nurse until she got fed up, Colin pulled you out of the hospital.

"Just some... jewels. A bracelet. Some cash- well the last bit of it that would get me home." You mumbled, every part of your being doing its best not to break down over losing the only way home. Because if you dont remain calm and lose your shit, you'll end up right back at the hospital to undergo nightmarish treatments.

"We could report it to the police. Although I doubt your case would take priority over the recent rise in murder cases-" You tuned him out as you tried to think where your time machine is.

I was dropped into the sea.... and the waves were harsh. Did I lose it in the sea?

Your stomach twisted at the thought of losing the time machine forever. At least with the thief theory, you had a small chance of getting it back. But you cant go scuba diving to find it in the sea!

"So, what are you going to do now?" He asks as you both sit down. You're holding your head in your hands. Colin's brows furrow in concern.

"Y/n?"

"I dont know, Colin!" You looked up at him. "I dont know! I lost all my belongings, everything that I needed to get home! I have no family, no place to stay and I'm a woman in a time where everyone is trying to either send me off to the looney bin or live horribly in a workhouse!"

"How do you know workhouses are horrible?" Colin raised a brow at you, an accusatory look in his eyes. "This isnt the first time you ran away from home, is it?"

You looked at his face, judging you. If you say yes, he'll think you're just a mad woman who is actually homeless and is trying to use him to get money. And you're already low as it is, you dont need more kicking down.

Scoffing, you glared at him. "What? You think I'm just a mad woman who is actually homeless and is trying to use you for money?" You shake your head, your mind making up excuses. "I... snuck into one of the workhouses."

"Why?"

"So... that I could expose the horrible working and living conditions." You continued before he could ask why. "A friend of mine lived in a workhouse. She complained about the hard labour, the isolation, the inhumane punishments. She died there." You looked down, both for dramatic effect and to avoid being caught in a lie. "I wanted to get justice for her. But the higher ups found out and tried to keep me quiet, which lead to me being on the run and hiding from them, wearing disguises-" You gestured to your Ottoman attire. "-but they caught me and put me on a boat to kill me. It was just pure luck that I washed up on the shore."

Allah, I know lying is a sin but lord- that was amazing how quick I came up with that. Please do not use this to make an example out of me.

Colin gave you a sympathetic look.

"I think I have a way to help you."

-

You were sitting in Colin's apartment.

"Here you go." He returned from the kitchen with a cup of tea.

"Thank you." You took a sip, letting the warm beverage heat your hands. "So, whats your plan?"

"I share this place with 4 people, and one of them has moved out. So, we have a vacant room for you." Colin pointed to a room on the left.

You sighed. "Thats very kind of you to offer Colin, but I cant live here for free-"

"Who said "free"?"

"I dont have a job. I cant pay rent-"

"You do have a job." Colin grinned, leaning back in his chair. "Work with me."

"At the newspaper?" You set your cup down. "I mean- I dont have any experience writing-"

He waved you off. "You dont have to write. I'll write. You- will just collect information for me."

You pondered about his statement. So basically, he wants you to be the "investigator" in "investigative journalism".

"Look, you're gutsy, you're smart, and you're strong willed. I need someone like that to collect data and infiltrate places to expose injustice." Colin leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I'd do it myself, but I've been around these places so many times that they know now that I'm from the paper. Plus, there are many places only a woman could sneak into instead." He clasped his hands. "Its an interesting job. You'll get to meet all kinds of people. And who knows, maybe even the man who saved your life and stole your belongings."

You nodded. "So, how much will you pay?"

-

Later that night, you met with Colin's flat mates- Liam, who was a police officer, Shepherd, who was a barkeeper and Benjamin who was a barber. Fortunately for you, they were all glad to have you as a flatmate, or well maybe they were just happy to have someone to share the expenses with.

Next morning, Colin told you about the assignment he was working on.

"My main project is about exposing the harrowing conditions of patients forced to undergo unnecessary and painful treatments and the atrocious attitude of the staff towards the patients. Especially in mental asylums." He huffed out, shaking his head as if recalling the nightmarish scenes he'd seen. "But thats a big project and is still underworks. You, will have to first interview and collect some dirt on some influential people and upperclass."

"Why?"

"To get access to Queen Victoria." "And why do I need her?" Colin smiled. "Well, the royal family has many sick people, so if she were to become aware of the grim conditions her subjects have to go through at hospitals, then maybe she will do something about it."

"And you think she would help us?"

He nods. "I believe she will. I think birthing 9 children and being surrounded by men who keep things from her, she doesnt have time for her subjects. But if we were to point her in the right direction until she's unable to ignore the problem."

Well, it is true that the English royal family had many illnesses passed down, famously haemophilia and due to inbreeding, some mental illnesses as well. You suppose Colin's plan just might work.

"Okay. So who's my first interviewee?"

"Charles Dickens."

-

What an asshole.

When Colin told you that you were going to interview or well "dig up dirt" on Charles Dickens, you already knew the literary legend was a jerk. Like most kids, you had read his books- "A Christmas Carol", "Oliver Twist", "David Copperfield", etc. Unlike most kids, you looked him up on the internet and went down the rabbit hole to find out everything about his life.

Including his unhappy marital life, where he was married to Catherine Dickens and basically cheated on his wife with an actress 27 years his junior- "Ellen Ternan", or as he liked to call- "Nelly". He had a secret affair with Nelly, who he had apparently spoken "highly" of- having “a pretty face and well-developed figure”—or “passably pretty and not much of an actress.”

But wait- it gets worse.

So after Catherine found out about his affair, she quietly lived apart from him. A painful scandal arose, and Dickens did not act at this time with tact, patience, or consideration. The affair disrupted some of his friendships and narrowed his social circle, but surprisingly it seems not to have damaged his popularity with the public.

While Catherine maintained a dignified silence, Charles took it upon himself to justify his affair by writing letters about Catherine as being an "unfit wife" because of some "peculiarities of temperament" she had, even saying that she didnt care for the kids nor they for her, which in 1800s- was all that you were good for as a woman. And if you're not good at your job and have "peculiarities of temperament" then that means you're just insane.

Yes, Charles Dickens tried to justify his cheating ass with a girl almost 3 decades younger than him, by saying "my wife's crazy!" Which is... a pretty serious allegation because you could be sent to the mental asylum for torturous treatments.

Which is how you got into his house in the first place. Your cover story is that you're a doctor at the mental asylum and have come over to check on Catherine after Charles wrote letters to the hospital expressing his "grave concern over her mental health". That was a tip Colin was able to get.

And now here you are, sitting in his parlour as he told you on and on about his works, how terrible his life was in general- not growing up, and how women in his life have been just such a bad influence.

"What do you think, doctor?" He asked, finally stopping after 20 minutes of yapping.

You cleared your throat, setting the tea cup down. "Oh I think you're absolutely right, Mr Dickens! My God, what good is a woman if she cant even satisfy her husband or take care of her kids?!" You watched his eyes lit up at your words. "I mean, all women are naturally homemakers. They're supposed to be the providers, the nurturers! If a woman fails to make her family feel warm, fails to make her house a home, then she surely has something terribly wrong with her head! Ah, she definitely needs our help!"

"So, you agree? Catherine needs to be institutionalised-"

"Well, I didnt say that." You gave him a coy smile. "I do understand your concern for your wife- you are a loving husband after all. Loving, caring, honest husband. Such a rare breed of men these days, hm?" You watched his smile falter a bit. "I think I will need to observe her a few more times before I make any decision, Mr Dickens. Now, good day!"

-

"I dont understand why I'm not being paid." You huff as you flop onto the sofa.

Colin sighs, rubbing his eyes. "Because I'm not being paid. And if I dont get paid, you dont get paid, remember?" Ah yes. Since you're not officially hired by his newspaper because you're a woman, you're basically Colin's employee.

"And why are you not being paid?"

"Because the paper didnt publish my exposé!" He handed you the paper.

You looked at the front page and threw the paper to the side. "What the hell is this? How long are they going to run the same news- FRONT PAGE, TOO! Its already been a week!"

"Its a big deal-"

"What? Some guy is returning to London is a news now?" You scoffed.

"Its not just some guy." Colin sighed tiredly, slumping in his chair. "Its a FitzGeorge."

"What the hell is a FitzGeorge?"

"You dont know FitzGeorge?" You shook your head. "Prince George, Duke of Cambridge? Queen Victoria's first cousin?"

You tried to remember anything about him. But you dont remember reading much about any cousins of Queen Victoria, when her kids were already so entertaining to read about.

"So, Prince George is returning?"

"No, he's been dead for years! How do you not know this?"

"I live under a rock. So who is returning?" You redirected him back.

Colin gave you a look. "His grandson. Silas Edmund FitzGeorge."

"Right. And why is he so important that he's been on the front page for a week now?"

"He's the most eligible bachelor now." Seeing your unamused look, Colin explained. "Prince George and Queen Victoria fell apart when the former married a ballerina, Sarah Fairbrother. They married without the Queen's consent, though with Sarah being a ballerina, I doubt her majesty wouldve approved of the union either way. Anyways, since they married without her consent, the marriage was essentially null and any heirs produced were illegitimate and not recognised by the crown, thus would not be granted any Dukedoms. Prince George had 3 sons- George, Adolphus and Augustus FitzGeorge. The youngest- Augustus, had two children: Daisy and Silas. Unfortunately, the kids were quite young when they lost their mother. Augustus was away on service on the sea, when his wife was brutally murdered in the family home and rumour has it- Silas had witnessed it first hand. It was just pure luck that he was not spotted by the murderer that the young child was hiding in his closet. While the kids were in mourning, Augustus had apparently went mad with sorrow when he received the news and drowned himself. Pitying the orphans, Queen Victoria had promised to make Silas a Duke and Daisy a Duchess when they came of age. But Daisy was sent to the mad house out of the blue and a few months later, she died there. Poor Silas was now taken in by his grandmother, Sarah, the very woman Queen Victoria hates. Long story short, Sarah worked very hard to raise Silas and eventually he ended up being the first in the royal family to attend Oxford university-" he leaned forward, smiling. "-without any help from the crown."

Oh, so Silas is self made. And not a nepo baby.

"Silas not only is highly educated, but he's also a very successful businessman. He has invested in many businesses and he's been a huge part in reforming industries."

"So... he's rich and self made? Got it." You looked at Colin. "Still doesnt explain why he's making news? Hell, he even took importance over those horrible murders!"

Colin grinned. "Well, he's not the most eligible bachelor just for the commoners. Apparently, the queen is considering him as a match for one of her daughters." He watched realisation finally dawn on you.

"I still should be paid." You grumbled before glaring at him. "Maybe you need to write a better article, good enough for it to take over the front page."

"If you're done criticising my writing skills, I was going to tell you a remedy for this problem." Colin had an evil glint in his eyes. "And we'll have to use our friend Mr Dickens for it."

-

Colin is a genius.

You're currently sitting in Sarah Fairbrother's house- or well a small mansion. Its a huge estate, lush green grounds surrounding it as far as the eye can see. You were sweating by the time you reached inside, the gardens were huge.

How did you end up here? Colin suggested to use dirt on Charles Dickens and blackmail him into getting you an interview with Sarah, since he is popular and part of the high society. And you only had to say "Nelly" for Dickens to fold. He asked Sarah that a young woman would like to interview her for her years as a ballerina.

You knew Sarah was Silas's grandma, but you still were not expecting to see a slim, 86 year old woman who looked absolutely beautiful. Honestly, she did not look a day beyond 60.

"So, how did you know you wanted to become a ballerina?" You asked her, starting off the interview.

The plan was for you to get close with Sarah and find some secrets, so that when Colin writes about them, the editor will take him seriously and then start posting his Dickens article.

The conversation went from her life as a ballerina, to her life as Mrs FitzGeorge. Sarah practically told you everything, you could see she was lonely and she hadnt had anyone to talk to properly. She was kind, sweet lady, and a prima donna ballerina, and you didnt understand why the queen wouldnt like her. But the thing is, her being a ballerina was a stigma in itself, because back in the 1800s, ballet theatres were used as parlours for men to drink and sleep around with women. Thus, by association, ballerinas were bad too.

But despite the queen's shunning, Sarah did not speak ill of her. No, she was a lovely, demure lady who was still very much passionate about ballet.

"And for all the young girls who aspire to be a ballerina one day, much like myself, what advice do you have for them?" You asked,

"Dance with your heart, and your feet will follow!" She smiled so gracefully, that you couldnt help but return it.

"Thank you for such an amazing interview. I am sure girls from all around London will look upto you one day." You said, closing your journal.

"You flatter me, darling." She giggled before looking down at your legs. "You know, I saw your skirt ride up a bit earlier and I think you have the perfect calves for ballet! Have you ever considered?"

You chuckled, shaking your head. "I wish! But I think I'm a little too old to learn ballet now."

"My dear, you're never too old to enjoy life!" Sarah smiled.

"Perhaps, one day." You stand up. "I would love to know more about it. Maybe we can do this again, if you have time?"

It wasn't right to use her loneliness, but... you had to make a living. Besides, there are far worse things you can do than talking to an old lady to solict information.

-

You were not expecting Sarah to invite you back two days later, that too for dinner.

"Its not just a dinner, Y/n." Colin said, pacing back and forth. "I think Silas is going to be there. Of course, it'll be a party in his honour! Ah, the return of the beloved grandson and the most eligible bachelor in town!" He continued to mutter incoherently, his mind working overdrive as he began planning ahead.

"How often does he go mad like this?" You whisper to Benjamin, who was currently styling your hair for the dinner.

He smiled, his moustache curling up. "Quite often." He had your hair in a nice updo, and on your insistence, he also allowed some hair to frame your face.

"You cant go empty handed." Colin said, stopping his pacing. "Its high society, you cant go empty handed! You need to get a gift, something appropriate and if possible, memorable enough for them to call you back again and again."

You glared at him through the mirror you were standing in front of as Benjamin helped tighten your corset.

"I dont think anyone will be forgetting me after the objectionable alterations you made to this gown." You pointed to the outfit you were wearing- a baby blue silk gown with delicate lacework around the scandalous neckline and puffy sleeves, courtesy of Colin.

Colin rolled his eyes. "So what if you showed some skin? I'm only trying to ensure that you leave a lasting impression on them." He put on his hat. "Now come along, we have to get a present too."

You and Colin walked down the streets of London, the area bustling as people returned from their jobs and either rushed home or to the pubs.

"Where are we going to get a present now, Colin? One that is both good enough and you can afford to buy too." You commented as you pulled your coat tighter around your body, the cold biting at your bones.

He offered you his arm and pulled you close to his side to warm you up. "I was going to get a wine bottle but the shop closed early today and Shepherd said he hadn't been able to secure any good bottles at the pub, so we'll- we'll just have to go for the next best thing." You two stopped in front of a shop on Regent street.

Regent's Antiques!

"Really? And you can afford antiques?" You raised a brow at him. He shrugged before pushing you inside the shop. "I dont know, but I am good at bargaining."

The shop is huge and immediately stepping inside, you could tell that there was nothing here Colin could afford to buy. The shelves that held the items alone looked like they were made of rich wood, the smell of mahogany, musk and polish filling up your nostrils.

"Lets get out of here before we embarrass ourselves-" you whisper to Colin but he brushes you off and walks further into the store. Sighing, you start browsing the store, an amalgam of things were present there- relics, ceramics, gold and silver and other metalware.

"And how much is this for, sir?" You turned to see Colin ask the salesman for the price of the vase he was holding. You didnt have to hear how expensive it was when you saw Colin's eyes widen as he nervously chuckled before putting the vase back. You heard him do this again over the next 30 minutes, picking up stuff and placing them back.

In the corner of your eye, you spotted a small box. You picked it up and opened it, smiling as it played a melody while the ballerina figurine twirled in the center.

The perfect gift.

You went upto the counter and asked how much it was for.

"100 pounds."

100 pounds... 100 pounds in 1860, with inflation would be todays-

Your eyes widened as you looked down at the box. The salesman mistook your shock for interest and began explaining how its made of pure gold and that this box belonged to a king who gifted it to his queen for their everlasting love.

"Mmhm. Interesting-" You cleared your throat, placing the box back on the shelf. "- but its not what I'm looking for."

"Y/n? What are you doing? I already bought the gift!" Colin came by your side.

"What did you buy?" You asked him before pulling him to the side to whisper. "What could you have possibly afforded in this place?"

"I almost didnt find anything but then the owner of this place saw me and showed me something a little more in my range and I'm getting it wrapped up now!" He told you gleefully.

"The owner? Who?"

"Mr Blackwood! He came here to get a present for someone too and then showed me some old items that were either too ugly or too damaged or just been here for so long, they had to store it in the back! And I found a gem, not too shabby and in a good condition too!" Colin grinned proudly. "Come on, I'll show you the back!"

He ushered you to the storage and true to his word, the room was indeed filled with boring and damaged items. "Take a look around, I need to haul a carriage to load the present and you cant be late!" He left you there.

You browse through the stuff there before going towards the wooden cabinet in the corner. Its locked. You look through the glass panels at the precious antiques inside- mostly bejewelled items like daggers, boxes, broaches and-

Your breath hitched.

Time machine.

My time machine. Its here!

You press your hands against the glass before pulling on the handles to open it, only for the lock to not budge.

Its just glass. You raise your fist. I can just-

"I wouldnt do that if I were you." A voice called out from behind you. You turned to see a man in the doorway, broad shouldered and even from a distance, you could see he had two shades in his eyes.

Green and brown.

Well suited in a coat and shiny dress shoes, he looked like he was going somewhere. He stepped towards you, an mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Those are my belongings." He said.

Oh. So, he's the owner.

"Not all of it. Thats mine." You point to your machine inside. "It was stolen from me a few days ago."

He shrugged. "How can I believe you? I dont know you." He takes another step towards you. "Besides, everything here once belonged to someone. Now? Its mine."

You frowned. "That belongs to me. I even have an official police report." You dont but you decided to bluff.

He chuckled. "Sure you did. But it still doesnt change the fact that its in my possession now." Before you could reply, Colin returned.

"Ah Y/n! I see you've met Mr Blackwood. He's the-" "Owner. I know. And he stole my stuff." You grumbled to Colin.

Mr Blackwood narrowed his eyes at you. "I did not steal it, young lady. Someone came to us and sold it."

You glare at him. "No-" "Yes, of course, Mr Blackwood." Colin cut you off. "And we appreciate that you've kept it safe, but we would like to buy it back from you."

Mr Blackwood looked at him and then at you, before smiling.

"I wasnt planning on selling but since you already bought one of my antiques..." he nodded. "1000 pounds and its yours."

Your jaw went slack and you almost started to swing when Colin grabbed your elbow.

"Mr Blackwood, if you could just give us a better deal-"

"1000 pounds, Mr Felton. And not a penny less." He said before leaving.

-

"Why are you mad at me?" Colin asked as he sat next to you in the carriage.

"I'm mad at him, Colin! There was no way that was worth 1000 pounds! No one would pay such a ridiculous amount! For anything!" You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Of course it wasnt worth a 1000 pounds. He raised the price because you pissed him off." You glared at him. "Look, just focus on tonight and when we get our paycheques, I'll go talk to Mr Blackwood again and bargain a good deal. Because even if he did gave us a good deal right now, I couldnt afford it, not after spending money on your outift and that gift,"

You scowl but nod stiffly. "Fine."

The carriage reached the FitzGeorge estate, stopping at the entrance where a small army of servants waited to greet you and other guests.

"Good luck. See you in a few hours." Colin wished you before calling two servants to carry the gift.

"What the hell did you buy?" You ask as you watch the servants carry a rectangular box wrapped in brown paper and a big red bow inside. "Come on, tell me. What if they ask me what it is?"

Colin grinned as he tipped his hat at you. "I guess you'll have to figure out something on the spot. Bye!" The carriage left before you could pester him.

Huffing, you lifted your gown a bit as you walked up the steps and entered inside the beautiful mansion.

The lobby is filled with guests and servants who are taking their coats and leading them inside. There's a stairway on the right leading to private quarters upstairs, a drawing room beside the stairs where you had interviewed Sarah the last time you were here. On the other side, you see a table stacked with presents, your own gigantic box settled behind them.

This was not just a small dinner, was it?

You're lead inside what seems to be a ballroom, the lights seeming to bounce of the polished wooden floors. Waiters are serving guests alcohol and appetisers, and you hold the champagne filled glass too.

Hey, just because I'm not drinking doesnt mean I cant hold it. I need to blend in.

You hold the glass in your hands as you look at the attendees, trying to spot any famous personalities. You notice Charles Dickens again, of course he's here too. Your eyes drink in the pretty dresses of the women and almost roll at the sight of obnoxious men who dont make an effort to conceal their ogling.

Soon, the butlers gets everyones attention as he annoucnes the arrival of the hostess.

"Lady Sarah Louisa FitzGeorge, accompanied by her grandson, Lord Silas Edmund FitzGeorge!"

Sarah was wearing a black regency gown, puffy panelled sleeves and a golden brooch with an onyx stone in the center of her neckline, her neck adorned with pearls and matching tear drop earrings. She walked arm-in-arm with a dashing young man, and you could definitely see why he was the "most eligible bachelor".

Dark chocolate brown hair, the thick locks styled properly and you were sure that under the sunlight, they'd have different shades of brown and golden in them. Fair skinned, yet not deathly pale as most of London is, he had thick brows framing dark grey eyes adorned with enviable thick lashes, that dont seem to be focusing on anyone, just looking ahead, unamused. A sharp Roman nose, followed by perfectly sized pink lips, with a deep and defined cupid's bow and a strong jawline.

They both walked down the stairs and entered the ballroom together, Sarah practically beaming with pride as she walked in with her grandson who towered over her. Everyone talked in hushed whispers, admiring Silas's beauty and how he looked like royalty. Sarah continued to smile at the guests as they made their way towards the center.

As the guest finally quieted down, Sarah began speaking.

"Thank you all for joining me tonight to celebrate my dear Silas's return from Oxford!" People clapped at the huge academic achievement but Silas still looked like he'd much rather be anywhere else than here. Sarah continued. "I had dearly missed him so much. He's been my rock, my star, my everything after his grandfather left me. But tonight is not about sorrows, no. Tonight we celebrate Silas! I hope you enjoy this, darling." She looked up at him and Silas smiled gently at her, a dimple appearing on his left side, leaning down to let her kiss his cheek.

Sarah clapped her hands, nodding at the butler.

Moments later, ballerinas entered the ballroom and began putting on a show. Ah, so this is why you were invited back. Sarah probably thought that you'd enjoy this due to your keen interest in the performing arts.

I mean... its not bad. Actually, its quite entertaining. But you're not here to enjoy ballet. You're here to get dirt on the upper class of London.

You move through the audience, picking up on interesting bits of convo here and there, mostly about extra marital affairs and tax frauds. When you see Silas again, he's not by Sarah's side anymore. No, instead he's now surrounded by some men, much older than him. They seem to be close to him, though Silas doesnt seem to share any familiarity with them as they speak in hushed tones, a hand on his shoulder to emphasise their point. Finally, Silas gives them a nod before moving away from them, and he's once again crowded by 3 boys, much closer to his age this time and Silas actually gives them a smile as they head out of the ballroom.

Friends, maybe relatives? You dont recall Colin telling you he had any brothers, only a sister who passed away in an asylum.

Your eyes trail back to the men who were talking to Silas earlier, only to see a familiar face there.

Mr Blackwood.

Despite being much younger than the men, he seemed to hold authority over them. You could see from the way they shook his hand, eagerly, desperately and talking over each other, but Mr Blackwood just stood there with a charming smile, listening to their concerns before holding a hand up to silence them. He said a few words that seemed to quell their worries before he moved past them and for a brief second, his eyes met yours and he smirked, tipping his head at you before leaving the ballroom.

You thought he'd come to you, maybe interrogate why someone like you was here in the first place, but perhaps you blended in better than you thought.

"Y/n! Darling, you came!" Sarah greeted you happily as she embraced you in a hug. "How do you like the show?"

"Oh, its just so... exquisite. Bewitching, really!" You smile before complimenting her outfit. "And your gown, your jewellery, everything looks so beautiful! If I didnt know any better, I'd say you were Silas's elder sister!"

She laughed softly, her eyes sparkling. "Oh, its you kids who keep me so young! Come on, I want to introduce you to Silas! I'm sure he'd be delighted to meet you." She lead you towards the lobby after a servant told her about his whereabouts, and there you saw him and his friends from earlier.

Silas leaned against the wall, watching humourlessly as the boys went through his gifts, opening them up crassly and mocking the gifts, all while he sipped his champagne.

"Silas- boys! What are you doing?!" At Sarah's admonishing tone, all of them straightened up.

One of the 3 boys, a blonde pouted as he stood up from the floor, dropping the gift box in his hands and you heard glass break.

"Nana! We were just helping Silas open his presents!"

Another boy, also blonde but he was taller than the first one, sheepishly hid his hands behind his back, though the crinkling of wrapping paper gave him away.

"Yes Nana, we were just helping him! He gave us permission to do so."

"Permission to act like animals?" Sarah fumed, making them lower their heads. It was kinds of adorable seeing them standing there looking defeated while a woman much smaller in stature than them scolded them.

Finally, the third boy who was the brunet and the oldest of the three stepped closer to Sarah. "Sorry Nana, we'll be more careful next time. Right boys?" The blondes nodded. The brunet then settled his eyes on you. "And who's the lovely lady next to you, Nana?" He changed the topic and Sarah's anger seemed to evaporate as she looked at you.

"Ah, yes! This is Lady Y/n Paddington!" Yes, Paddington as in Paddington the bear. What? This was the only name that came to mind at the moment that couldnt be traced. "She's the one who interviewed me about my career as a ballerina a few days ago. And look! Today we had a show for her to see!"

The three boys greeted you nicely, making some comments about how pretty you are before getting glared at by Sarah. Silas remained leaning against the wall, looking out the window at the dark night.

"Silas! Darling, come say hi!" Sarah called him before turning her attention to the boys, scolding them for being so undignified for opening Silas's presents.

Silas walked over to you, and you took a deep breath to introduce yourself-

"Are you done?"

You blinked at him in confusion. What?

"What?"

Silas looked past you at his grandma before looking down at you.

"I said, are you done? Have you gotten what you came here for?" He asked monotonously.

Wow. So does everyone have a stick up their ass in high society?

You narrowed your eyes at him. "And what exactly would that be?"

His expression didnt change. "Jewels, cutlery, secrets, contacts, a rich man?"

"What makes you think I already dont have all of those things?"

He scoffed, giving you a look. "You stick out like a sore thumb. You're not part of the wealthy." Silas looked at the champagne glass in your hand before smirking.

"What now?" You seethed.

"Anyone with a taste for finer things in life knows not to hold the glass from the top. You hold it from the stem, so that you dont warm the drink from the heat of your palm." He leans down to whisper in your ear. "Stop pretending to be someone you're not."

You know you shouldnt have, you know that you're better than him academically by literally centuries, you know this is how all rich douchebags act, but you just couldnt let a self entitled brat insult you to your face and you've had enough of those in the past few eras.

You smiled. "I guess you would know who's pretending." Silas smirk faltered.

"Remind me if the FitzGeorges are still considered royalty or not?"

You watched his eyes set ablaze, his jaw tick but before he could respond, the sound of paper being ripped cut him off.

"Charles!" Sarah yelled at the young blonde who had just ripped the wrapping paper off your present.

"Nana! This one's from Lady Y/n! Look-!" He removed the lid from the box before Sarah could stop him and your heart dropped at the sight of the contents.

Its a painting.

Its a portrait. The portrait.

The one Baldwin had made. The one that Mehmed had gotten on his conquest. The one you forgot to destroy in the Ottoman empire.

And now its here. In 1860 London. How the hell did it survive over 700 years?

Sure its not as brand new as the last time you saw it, the paint is faded and varnish is gone, but the face- your smudged face is still there!

"This is ugly, right?" Charles remarked, only to be smacked on the head by Sarah.

"It is not! Its exquisite! Its one of a kind! Just like how Silas likes his things- unique!" Sarah looked at you smiling. "I'm sure there's a story behind this, right darling?"

Your throat went dry as you nodded slowly. "Y-yes." You cleared your throat, eyes fixated on the portrait. "The owner told me that this belonged to the Turkish empire once, and um... one of the princes of the time had gotten it as a part of his loot from the conquest."

"But who's the broad-" Charles cut off his words as Sarah glared at him. "I mean- who's pretty lady in the painting?"

"She's... unknown. I only know that this was commissioned by her lover. Also, he was insane apparently." Sorry Baldwin, but you were insane.

Sarah clasped her hands over her heart, touched. "Ah! Painting by a man madly in love of his beloved! How romantic! I will have this hung up in our hallway with the rest of the paintings!"

You shake your head. "Oh, I dont think it'll go with your style-"

"Of course it will! Its a symbol of love, of devotion. Just like me and my Georgie. Just like how I wish for Silas to experience it one day." Sarah smiled at Silas.

"Yes, the day when Silas will be bitten by a rabid dog." Charles snickered only to have his ear twisted by Sarah as she began dragging him away, saying that she will tell his father of his behaviour tonight.

Without much to say, you left shortly after, bidding Silas's cousins goodbye and not bothering with Silas who was glaring daggers at you.

-

"You said what to Silas?" Liam asked as he returned from his patrolling. "I cant believe it. He is a part of royalty, maybe not directly but still!"

"He started it first." You pouted as Benjamin chuckled behind you, undoing your updo.

"Yes, but he was right to call you out. I mean, who holds the flute from the top?" Shepherd asked, sitting down as he handed Liam a drink.

You narrowed your eyes. "Well, I'm sorry that I'm not an obnoxious, rich, raging alcoholic!"

All of them chuckled as Colin sat down with a lazy smile, nursing his drink.

"You did good work tonight, Y/n." He raised the glass to you before downing his drink. You perked up. "So this means I'm getting paid with a bonus?"

He chuckled and gave you a nod. "Of course, but first- we'll need to write articles."

"We?" He nodded. "Yes. We. You will work on the FitzGeorge article for me, and write mostly good things about them so it gets published. I, will be working on the Dickens exposé along with the other secrets you've been able to get tonight. This way, when your FitzGeorge article gets published, you will get even closer to the family and the publisher will finally let me post the dirty secrets of high society! Its a win-win, really."

You leaned forward. "You make it sound so simple but while I may have been allowed to personally interview these people- that too, under the guise of not being associated with the paper, I dont think I will be allowed to work at your newspaper without being called out as your source and then none of these rich snobs will ever let me be close." You leaned back, letting Benjamin massage the knots out of your head. "The reason why Sarah even let me interview her was because I told her I wanted to promote the arts, starting with ballet. She thinks I write for the girls fraternity houses, like some sort of school project. Not a major publishing house!"

Colin rubbed his chin before snapping his finger. "I got it!" He grinned as he leaned forward. "You can write two stories! One- about your interview with Sarah! And it'll be under your name and we'll spread it around actual girl hostels, to make it seem legitamate when someone from the FitzGeorge house gets it. Doesnt matter if it'll do well or not, because you'll only sing her praises and this will make you well liked by Sarah and make her invite you to more events. And the other story, will be about the FitzGeorge estranged family relations with the Queen! Now that will get us more readers and the editor will be happy to publish it too! As for how you will actually write it- well, how would you like to be a boy?"

Everyone stared at Colin, as if he'd grown two heads.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I said, how would you like to be a boy?"

-

"If I wasnt sent to an asylum before, I'd definitely be sent to one now." You stated as Colin adjusted your bowtie.

"Only if you get caught!" He gave you a cheeky grin before shaking his head. "Which wont happen! I wont let you get caught."

"Now, turn." Benjamin said making you face him. He smiled as he placed a fake moustache on you. "Colin, you really are testing my skills these days. I mean, making Y/n a man? With a moustache? And styling her hair, even though it would've made everything so much easier if someone would just let me cut their hair-" you glared at him. "Okay, okay. No chopping off your hair. Jesus, what's with the death glare?"

"You're worried about the death glare? I'm worried why Liam was so pissed about being the only one whose clothes fit Y/n. I guess he always thought that being a copper meant he way more buff than he actually is." Colin commented. "Despite his lean built, he's surprisingly strong. Did you see the way he flipped over that thief?"

Benjamin nodded, combing your moustache.

"You're a very gorgeous male! Very demure." Colin grins before giving you some brief instructions on how to keep your cover and act manly.

"Right- so what name did you pick for your story?"

The corner of your mouth quirked up slightly.

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes." What? Arthur Conan Doyle is probably just an year old right now. Its not gonna affect anyone if you chose one of your favourite characters names.

Plus, you're going to be an investigative journalist. So, it fits well, okay?

"Lets go, Mr Holmes."

-

With Colin's reference, you're able to get a job at the paper. And with your people watching hobby, you're able to successfully pass of as a man, a pretty man- but a man, nonetheless.

You've been hit on by a few women on the streets.

After working here for a few weeks, you finally get paid when the editor publishes your work on the FitzGeorge. You wrote mostly about Sarah and the FitzGeorge family relations with Queen Victoria, and just a few tantalising words about Silas that would have the readers waiting impatiently for the next update on the bachelor, thereby garnering more attention and you- more money, which you need to buy your time machine back.

You're sitting at your desk, typing down your next article when there's a commotion in the office.

"The boss is here! The boss is here!" Everyone rushed to do their respective tasks, or at least- look busy, do nothing. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted the owner of the paper walking down the hallway, talking to-

Silas.

Silas was walking beside him, looking uninterested as he listened to his friend explaining how he operated his news agency. He gave a lookover to the cubicles before moving on. For a second, you thought he's seen you. But you were hiding behind other men, there was no way he'd spotted you.

Oh no. Is he here because he'd figured out you were the one who wrote the article in the paper? No, no- he couldnt have-

Fortunately for you, he hadnt. Silas was there because his friend, the owner, had invited him to show his newspaper agency.

With the weight off your shoulders and your pay in your pocket, you were back at the antique shop.

"You got the 1000 pounds?" You cursed mentally when you heard his agitating voice.

"Mr Blackwood, I have 3 pounds-" He cut you off with booming laughter. "Ah, poor people crack me up."

Resisting the urge to strangle him, you cleared your throat. "If you could just give me a real figure, an acceptable deal, I would like to buy my own property back."

He rested his head on his palm, leaning on the cash counter. "Now what's so special about it, hm? Because I cant seem to figure out what it even is?"

"Its nothing...." You remark before sighing. "Its a toy. It holds sentimental value."

He tilted his head. "Does it now?"

You nod.

He smiled, though something else swirled in those mischevous eyes. "Alright, I'll give you a deal." You prepare yourself. "I'll give your toy back if.... you go out on a date with me."

You narrowed your eyes. "I am not sleeping with you, Mr Blackwood-"

"And why would I do that to myself?" He raised a brow. "All I'm asking for is one date, a lovely dinner that I'll be paying for and then we can return to the shop and you can have your toy back."

You pondered over his offer, trying to figure out any traps.

"Why do you want to date me? I'm poor, like you said."

He shrugged. "Maybe I find you intriguing." He leaned forward on the counter again, wiggling his brows. "Come on, its just one date. No funny business, I promise."

You stared at him for a few more minutes before nodding. "Fine. But I get to pick the place and I will have you know that I have friends all over that will be looking for me if something were to happen."

He smirks at your attempt to threaten him. "I think we both know that I could get away with it all, love. All while making your friends disappear if I wanted to."

The way he stated it like it was true- it sent a chill down your spine.

Mr Blackwood waved to you. "See you tomorrow at 6, darling! Dont be late."

-

The next night, Colin had dropped you off at the antique store, telling Mr Blackwood- or Henry, as he insisted you called him, to bring you back before 10 pm.

You sat across from him in a fancy restraunt.

"I'll have a beef wellington and for the lady-" Henry looked at you.

"Just chips." You closed the menu, handing it back to the waiter. Henry chuckled, shaking his head.

"So... whats your deal?" You ask him, resting your elbows on the table.

He leaned in as well, dual coloured eyes sparkling with mischief and amusement. "I'm resourceful. You?"

"Cut the crap. Why am I here?" You glare at him, and he chuckled, resting his head on his palm. "I like you."

"As anyone with eyes should, but also why would you do that to yourself?" You huffed as you move away, resting against the chair as you crossed your arms over your chest.

He copied your actions, resting his arms against his chest. "Maybe I want to fall in love with you."

"I'd rather poke my eyes out." You snarked. Henry looked at the cutlery on the table. "There's the fork."

Your nostrils flared. "You think you're so clever?"

"Oh I know I'm clever, love. But it is truly remarkable it took you so long to figure it out." He grinned cheekily. "Alright alright. Ask your question."

"How do you know the FitzGeorges?"

He looked rather bored at your question. "I know everyone." Seeing your dissatisfaction, he offered you another answer. "I'm rich. They're rich. We socialised."

Thats how rest of the dinner was spent- you interrogating him, him dodging you with vague answers. Though you had a feeling he knew more than he was letting on, almost like he could read you like an open book.

Finally, the night came to an end as you saw his store come up in view.

At the end of the street, just a few shops down from his, you stopped and looked at him. "Well, this was a... date." He chuckled as you continued unphased. "I held up my end of the deal, now its your turn."

Henry nodded, grabbing your hand in his warm one, thumbing your knuckles. "Of course. I'm a man of my word." He brought your hand upto his lips, pressing a soft kiss.

"I hope you get home safely, darling."

You made a disgusted face, yanking your hand from his grasps as you wiped his kiss off with your coat. "I hope I never see you again."

He chuckled, throwing his head back. "Oh I think I'll be seeing you again rather soon, love. I enjoyed our date too much." Seeing you pissed made him laugh again, and he nodded his head at the store.

"Come along. Lets get you your toy-" He was cut off by the sound of a loud blast, the shockwaves so powerful that it made the glass of all windows in a mile shatter, the ground shook. In a second, Henry lunged at you, covering your body with his as another blast went off. Moments later, he got off you and you finally saw his shop set ablaze and completely destroyed.

Your ears rung as you stared at the fire in the shop, not noticing the people rushing out of their homes, not hearing the screams of shock, not hearing Henry calling your name.

"Y/n?! Y/N?!" He shook you by the shoulders hard, finally making you look at him. He was saying something, but you couldnt understand what. You looked at him confused, before your eyes shifted back to the fire.

You dont know when Colin came, you dont remember when Henry pushed you into his arms, yelling at Colin to get you out of there. You dont know when you got home, you dont know what the boys were asking as they picked out bits of glass from your skin.

All you know is when you woke up the next morning and stared at your bandaged skin, events of last night flashed through your head again and the realisation became the painful truth-

The time machine is destroyed.

-

You're staring at the tea cup, the beverage swirling as the maid added sugar in it.

Round. Round. Whirlpool. And then... everything settles.

The motion of the tea perfectly depicted how your life has been for some time. Thrown around in a hurricane of calamities, from one era to another, your life coming close to an end just like the tea threatened to spill over the edge, before everything settles down. Like your plans of ever returning home- stopped.

You'd returned to the sight of the incident, a part of you holding on to the hope that maybe- just maybe, your time machine survived.

It hadnt. Nothing in that store had. Henry Blackwood ran around the store, his face hardened and his collected faccacde was long gone, replaced with frowns and wrinkles. His store was surrounded by coppers and what you could only assume were either detectives or insurance guys.

After the devastating realisation, you had sort of went into a depressive spiral. Lying in your bed for days, your pillow stained with tears, Colin promising to replace whatever it is that you lost as Benjamin petted your hair, inconsolable.

A few weeks later, you returned to work. Though nothing interested you anymore, you felt like you were living on borrowed time, that any moment now, you'll face the consequences of screwing around with history and either die or possibly destroy the universe.

"Y/n?" You blinked, coming back to reality.

Sarah was sitting across from you, her face concerned as she set her tea cup down. "Darling, are you okay?"

You tried to smile, but your facial muscles didnt cooperate.

"Yes. Just... a bit tired." You diverted your eyes as you brought the cup up to your lips.

Sarah's brows furrowed even more, but she could see you were hesitant to talk about the subject.

"I called you here today to congratulate you on your article!" You looked up at her, staring at her a bit dazed. "The interview was very well received with not only just people in my circle, but female students all over in London as well!"

Sarah continued to sing your praises, while you kept your head down, offering little hums here and there.

"Even my family, who I hadnt talked to in a while, told me that they adored the way you wrote-" Your heart cracked.

Family. Mom. Dad. Qasim. I'll never see them again. They wont find out what happened to me, probably hoping that I'm missing but... alive at least. Forever holding onto that painful hope, that I may return home one day.

But I wont. I cant.

You stood outside the FitzGeorge house, under the pillars as you watched the rain fall.

"I think you should stay until-" Sarah offered, eyes looking at the sky that was pouring like cats and dogs.

"I need to go home. Thank you." You tried to smile again, but your eyes betrayed you, shinning with tears. But you left before she could say another word.

Your bones could feel the cold rain biting, your dress drenched, your socks uncomfortably wet, the tip of your nose chilled, your hair sticking to your skin, but none of it mattered. Not when you needed the same rain to hide your tears.

Your neck muscles strained as they tried to contain your sobs, your grief.

I messed up. I screwed up everything. This is all my fault.

You walked faster out of the estate, the water splashing as you stormed away, trying to find some corner where you can hide away and cry your heart out.

I'm alone. I'm all alone. I have no one. No home, no family.

You struggled to breathe, feeling like your chest was caving in.

What have I done?

In your haste, you didnt see the carriage coming straight towards you, until someone yanked you out of the way by your arm.

"Are you blind?! Or deaf-" Silas stopped his scolding as he stared at your red eyes, your wobbling lips. He loosened the painful grip on your arm, his eyes still staring into your crying ones.

Silently, he pulled you back towards the estate, though he didnt take you inside. He had a feeling you didnt want his grandmother pestering you with questions right now.

An arm around your shoulders, Silas lead towards the botanical garden house.

He helped you sit on one of the benches as the dark clouds seemed to veil the garden house, giving you two privacy. He sat down next to you.

"What happened?"

Silas watched your face screwed up in pain as you bring a hand to your temples, your lips quivering as you sniffled.

"I lost... everything."

After a few moments of silence, before sighing.

"You've only lost when you give up. Have you given up?"

You turned your head to the side, looking at his serious face.

"Yes."

He took another deep breath.

"Can you do anything about it?"

"No."

He glanced at you before looking back at the clouds.

"Do you want to die?"

You stopped for a moment. Do I? Do I want to die?

"Maybe."

"Thats not an answer." He raised a brow at you. "How about this- until you find a definitive answer to that question, you keep on living?"

Seeing your dead stare, he continued. "Look, if the worse has already happened to you, you have nothing left to fear anymore. In fact-" Silas went on to say similar motivating stuff for the next 20 miuntes, and you were simultaneously listening and not listening. Well, you heard what he was saying, you just didnt bother processing it because your mind was preoccupied by your own monologue.

He's right. The worse has already happened. I have lost the machine. I have lost my only way home. I have screwed up history. And yet, I'm alive.

Yes. This is what the universe wants- to see me down on my butt, laughing at my misery.

Well, guess what? Fuck this, fuck the universe! I'm been so careful only to barely survive. Now? I'm gonna live and I dont care what chaos it'll cause!

"Y/n?" You looked at Silas, who looked at you expectantly. "I asked you a question."

"What?"

His shoulders slumped.

"I said- will you marry me? And before you say no-"

"Okay."

Watch this, universe. Its my turn now.

So???? Thoughts???? Comments and asks???

Part 12 is here!