#oh but the ground is still fragile!

[piknim]

I kinda regret not doing the whole college experience and like living in a dorm n stuff. I think if i was able to get over my anxiety i would have really enjoyed it

[rafecameronssl4t]

I bet on losing dogs || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary: The complications of reader's first pregnancy

Warnings: this fic deals with a miscarriage please read at your own risk, mention of blood, angst

Word count: 1,55

A/n: This is what readers mother was referring to in foreign feelings if you are confused with the timeline of anything, feel free to ask but this occurs after first pregnancy and before reader finds out she is pregnant again with Leo (a fic I haven't written yet)

divider by @h-aewo

You hear Rafe let out a loud sigh as he settles under the covers, his usual tension evident even as he prepares for bed. You glance over at him, noting the way he turns his back to you. With a soft exhale, you make your way to the bathroom, the familiar fluorescent lights flickering on as you begin your nightly skincare routine.

It’s a soothing ritual, one of the few moments you feel entirely in control, a brief escape from the complexities of your life with him. You open the drawer, carefully pulling out your favourite cleanser, the cool feel of it against your skin offering comfort as you massage it in slow, circular motions. Through the mirror, your eyes flicker back to Rafe’s figure, now still under the blankets.

His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, the soft rise of his breath somehow grounding yet distant. You wonder, for a brief moment, what’s on his mind, but you shake the thought away, knowing that such questions are often met with cold indifference or irritation. As you close the lid of your moisturiser, you pause, your hand freezing mid-motion as a sharp pain suddenly radiates through your stomach.

A wince escapes your lips, the pain so sudden and intense it takes your breath away. You grip the counter, steadying yourself, eyes squeezed shut as you try to will it away. The silence of the room feels heavier now, and you glance again at Rafe, who remains motionless. Despite the growing ache in your body, you resist the urge to wake him, knowing that any sign of weakness would only widen the rift between you two.

Forcing yourself to breathe through the pain, you push past it, trying to maintain your calm. But the sensation of liquid rolling down your thigh causes a wave of panic to seize your chest. Slowly, with trembling hands, you reach beneath your nightgown. Your breath hitches in terror as your fingertips come away slick with blood. “Rafe…” your voice is barely above a whisper, fragile and trembling as your eyes lock onto the crimson stain spreading across your once pristine white nightgown.

“Oh my god…” you choke out, your heart racing as the blood pools beneath your feet, a deep, horrifying red against the cold bathroom tiles. "Rafe!" Your voice cracks, louder this time, filled with raw panic as the sobs come uncontrollably. Rafe jolts awake, startled by the sound of his name. Groggy and confused, he turns toward the bathroom, squinting against the light as he tries to focus.

The sight of you, slumped and trembling, blood staining your gown, pulls him from the haze of sleep in an instant. “Rafe, the baby. Is the baby okay? Why’s there so much blood!” Your words come out in a terrified rush, your sobs making it difficult to breathe as you clutch your stomach. Rafe’s eyes widen in horror, his expression rapidly shifting from confusion to alarm.

“Holy shit,” he mutters under his breath, his voice tense, almost as if he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. He stumbles out of the bed, rushing toward you, but before he can reach you, you collapse to your knees, cradling yourself, the blood continuing to seep into the floor beneath you. Rafe stands by the door, eyes wide. “Fuck… Anita!” Rafe yells, his voice desperate as he runs toward the door, his panic bubbling over.

He shouts for Anita again, his voice echoing through the house, but the seconds stretch on, feeling like an eternity as you sit there, your body trembling violently with sobs. You hold yourself tighter, rocking slightly as the tears fall, the world around you closing in. Rafe comes rushing back in, his face pale and frantic as he stares at you, at the blood. He stumbles, clearly unsure of what to do as panic claws at him too.

For once, the cold mask he usually wears in moments of crisis has shattered. He kneels beside you, reaching out but hesitating, his hands shaking as he hovers over you. “I—shit, we need to get you to a hospital.” His voice wavers, no longer the confident Rafe you’re used to seeing. “No-no. My parents will hear about it, I haven’t told them yet remember?” you murmur through shaky breaths, your voice fragile and barely audible.

Rafe stares at you, his usual coldness softened as he gently brushes the stray strands of hair from your tear-streaked face. “Okay, okay—uh—I’ll call James,” he replies, swallowing hard as if to steady himself. You give a weak nod, trying to focus on your breathing, though every second feels like agony. He stands up, glancing at you one last time before quickly leaving the room. Within minutes, another sharp pain grips your abdomen.

A choked sob escapes your lips, and you bite down on the back of your hand, tears spilling freely as the pain intensifies. "Hey, hey. Let's get you in the bathtub," Rafe’s voice, uncharacteristically gentle, reaches you through the haze of your suffering. He kneels beside you, carefully helping you to your feet. The warmth of his touch feels distant, like a lifeline you’re too afraid to grasp.

Rafe moves quickly, turning on the water before easing you into the tub. You draw your knees up to your chest, curling into yourself as the sobs wrack your body. The sound of the water fills the room, mingling with the raw, broken cries you try to muffle. Rafe watches you from the side, his heart constricting at the sight of you so vulnerable, so broken. His mind flashes back to when you first told him about the pregnancy, the disbelief and apprehension that had shadowed his reaction.

Now, all of it feels so distant, as if the fragile hope of that moment has been ripped away. “Good lord,” Anita’s voice breaks through the quiet tension, her shock evident as she takes in the blood-stained floor, her steps faltering at the doorway. James follows closely behind her, his face grim, prepared for the worst. Anita rushes to your side, and Rafe stands, backing away to give her space as she kneels by the tub.

Anita wraps you in her arms, her presence grounding you in a way that only she could. Her hand strokes your back in soothing circles, her words soft and gentle. “It’s okay, shh, just let it out. I’m here, my love.” “T-There was so much blood, Anita. So much,” you gasp between sobs, your voice trembling with terror. “I know, I know, just try and calm down,” Anita murmurs, her voice unwavering, though her eyes glisten with unshed tears.

Meanwhile, James exchanges a somber look with Rafe before stepping forward. “You’ll still bleed for a little while, Y/n. I’ll give you something to calm down, but right now, your body needs to process what’s happening.” His voice is calm, measured, though the sorrow in his eyes is unmistakable. “I am so terribly sorry for your loss.”

You lift your gaze, and through tear-blurred vision, you see Rafe standing by the bathroom counter, his hands tangled in his hair, his expression dark and haunted. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice cracking as the weight of everything presses down on you. The grief, the guilt—it’s suffocating. Rafe’s head snaps up, and the room falls silent as everyone’s attention shifts to you. “For what?” Rafe’s voice cuts through the quiet, and he pushes himself off the counter, stepping toward you.

“For losing the baby—” you begin, your voice small and broken, but Rafe interrupts, his tone sharp, almost impatient. “Don’t be sorry. You’ll have plenty more chances of being pregnant again,” he mutters, his voice tinged with frustration, as if your sorrow is misplaced. It’s the coldness in his tone that stings the most, as though the loss is nothing more than a setback, something that can be fixed or replaced.

You fall silent, staring down at your feet, the water lapping softly against the tub. The ache in your chest deepens, not just from the physical pain but from the emotional distance between you and Rafe. You feel the weight of his indifference like a stone pressing down on your already fragile heart. “But what if I’m not meant to carry a child?” The words spill out before you can stop them, the doubt and fear you’ve been holding inside for so long finally breaking free.

“Don’t say such a thing,” Anita’s voice is firm, her hand tightening on your shoulder. “You’re a perfectly healthy woman who was unfortunate to have a miscarriage. This isn’t your fault.” Her voice is soothing, but you can’t help the gnawing sense of inadequacy that grips you. Rafe stands quietly, his gaze hardening, as if he can’t quite understand your grief—or perhaps, refuses to.

He’s always been practical, focused on the future, but in this moment, all you want is for him to see you, to acknowledge the depth of what you’ve lost. Instead, you’re left feeling more alone than ever, despite the people surrounding you.

[monstersflashlight]

Marking you as mine

Werewolf x fem!reader || Watersports, exhibitionism, light humiliation || TW: piss (?)

You worked long hours at the hospital and sometimes you didn’t have enough energy to shower before going back home. Your werewolf husband was always understanding, always ready to rub your tired feet or run you a bath. He liked to get the smell of humans off your skin before going to bed, and you were okay with that.

He didn’t make a fuss as long as the smell was just human. But coming home smelling like other werewolf? Oh no, you didn’t.

First time it happened you didn’t know. You were out doing the groceries and accidentally crashed into a werewolf grabbing cereal. You were a bit clumsy and not always looking where you were going. It was totally an accident. But that didn’t stop your husband from bending you over the car and fucking you in the garage, the door still open. Luckily it was late and nobody walked by. (Nobody needed to know how hard you came knowing someone could have been watching.)

Second time it was an accident. You arrived home smelling like other werewolf because you had to treat one at the hospital. Your husband growled as soon as you crossed the threshold, his claws extended and his wolfish grin predatory. He fucked you against the front door, tearing your clothes off your body before saying “hello”. When you came, he made you kneel in front of him and finished all over your chest, spreading it around your boobs like a lotion, giving special attention to your hard nipples. You shouldn’t have found it as hot as you did. Wearing his scent made him a bit savage, but it also made your pussy tingly.

Third time was totally on purpose. You accepted a hug from a concerned werewolf dad after you treated his son. And well, if you arrived home smelling a bit too much of another man… Your husband didn't know it was on purpose. You loved when he fucked you, but when he got jealous things got a bit more intense, he fucked you more carelessly, rougher, faster, more wolf than human. He wasn’t as worried about your human fragility when he was jealous, and you wanted that. You loved when he threw you around and manhandled you as he pleased. So what if he came over you so many times you felt like a glassed donut at the end? What if he made you lay there with you smelling like him for hours after? You weren’t complaining, it wasn’t your fault that he was so easily to rile up.

Fourth time… Well, you can’t say you weren’t looking for it. You were out with your friends. The club was packed and the pack of werewolves dancing invited you to have some drinks. You just danced, they didn’t intend to turn it into anything else, they could smell him on you. But that didn’t stop them from rubbing all over you as you danced. Your husband picked you up, a bit tipsy from the couple drinks you had.

“Did you have fun?” He asked.

“Yes!” You nodded enthusiastically.

If you were in your right mind, you could have guessed he was tense, so tense his fur was spiking at the back of his neck. He was mad. He kept smelling the car and frowning, like he was smelling something foul. And because you weren’t in your right mind, you told him about your night, about the girls, about the werewolves who danced with you and were so nice. You should have noted how he ground his molars, how his claws made indents on the steering wheel as he listened to you talk.

As soon as you got home he helped you shower and lay you down to sleep. You forgot everything about what happened and fell asleep curled against his side, his fur so soft against your face. You slept like a baby that night, but you didn’t realize he didn’t. He lay awake, plotting your punishment.

You worked the next day, and the next after that one. Everything seemed normal and you didn’t think too much about what happened. You didn’t think about it at all. You had a great night with your friends and your husband picked you up. You weren’t disappointed at all about him not fucking you. Nope. Just a friendly get together. That was all. Everything was fine. Right?

That’s why you weren’t expecting it when he followed you to the shower. You smiled at him flirtatiously, but you didn’t get to say anything before he commanded: “Kneel.”

“Oh, bossy, I like that.”

“Kneel.” He repeated, pushing your shoulders softly.

Your mouth was on him as soon as your knees touched the floor. He fucked your mouth until you were gagging and tears were running down your face. He pulled out right before he came. Instinctively, you closed your eyes and smiled as he painted your face with his cum. With your eyes closed, you weren’t expecting what happened next.

He gave you no warnings before something hot hit your torso. The first hit of his urine over you felt hot, so hot. Like you were under a hot shower in a very cold day. “This way no other wolf would approach you.” He said as he kept marking you.

“Now clean me up.” In the haze of your own horniness, so turned on you couldn’t think straight you could just open your mouth as he pushed his dick inside. You cleaned every last drop of cum and pee that was left, making him grunt.

You felt like a filthy slut. He treated you like you were just that, a body for his pleasure, his possession. He had to mark you so others wouldn’t try to steal you away. And you got so turned on by all. It barely took a minute of rubbing your clit before you were coming, still on your knees, still sucking is flaccid dick inside your mouth.

Yeah, filthy slut was probably fitting.

After that, you developed some kind of a kink. Maybe not a kink per se, but a fixation. You wanted him to do it again. To mark you so thoroughly that other wolves could smell you miles away. That they could smell him on you.

You wanted him to pee on you again. To feel the spike of humiliation as he made you kneel and peed all over you. So what if you were filthy? What if that was a bit kinky? Nobody but your husband had to know about it. Well, maybe all those werewolves who smelled you the day after and made a surprised face. Maybe you got wetter every time some wolf smelled you and smirked knowingly. Maybe you wanted to be fucked roughly when you got home dripping wet after a whole day feeling the looks of every wolf who crossed your path. What about it?

Then you plotted. The fifth time was gonna be the best one, you could feel it. You could have told your husband directly, he would be glad you wanted to wear his mark, he would get so hot and bothered about it. But what was the fun in that?

So you went out again. Wearing your skimpiest skirt, the one that showed the undersides of your ass every time you moved too fast. He didn’t see what you were wearing, you ran out the door before he could, promising to call when you were done so he could pick you up. You danced, and danced, and rubbed against every single wolf you encountered. They all enjoyed it, rubbing against your barely covered ass, feeling your body a bit too much. Some of them groped your tits, your ass. You were being manhandled by two strangers, the filling in their werewolf sandwich, when your husband showed up. He growled, and the two wolves tensed. You kept dancing, still rubbing against them.

“Out.” He demanded, grabbing your wrist and pulling you along. The two wolves were chuckling behind you. You blew them a kiss as your husband kept walking. You could feel the anger pouring out of him in waves.

You thought he was going to rush you home, but he didn’t. He surprised you once again and pulled you to the alleyway next to the club. He bent you over, your hands going to the wall not to hit your head. He wasn’t thinking, your pussy was dripping, and the smell of the two wolves was so strong in your body that even your human nose could smell it. He tore down your panties, scratching your ass as he did so, mumbling an apology that made you laugh. He growled again.

“You think it’s funny? You act like a whore in heat with two other wolves and you laugh?” The spike of danger made your heart race as he pushed two fingers inside your pussy without warning. You moaned. “And you are dripping. Filthy, filthy whore.” He told you.

You head the button of his pants pop free and a heartbeat later his cock was deep inside of you. He didn’t give you a heads up, nor a warning, he fucked you against the wall of a dirty alleyway as you moaned.

“Look at that, you attracted an audience with your dirty moans.” You turned your head in time to see the two werewolves from the club a few feet away. “I think I’d let them watch. Show them who this whore belongs to.”

And he did just that. He didn’t stop. He kept fucking you, turning your body around so the two wolves could watch you as he fucked you. “Let’s make it a show.” He murmured against your ear as he pulled you up against his body, one hand collaring your neck as the other ripped open your shirt, exposing your boobs to their hungry eyes.

You couldn’t hold it any longer, the look on their eyes, the restless fucking your husband was giving you, and the humiliation of it all made you lose it. You came harder than ever, screaming out loud as your husband pinched your nipples and two strangers rubbed their cocks in front of you.

He fucked you faster, harder, pushing a scream out of you with each thrust. And then something inside your husband changed. You could feel it in the way he moved his body, the way he kept hitting your G spot and playing with your tits. He came as deep as he could, but he didn’t pull out. He stayed inside of you as he kept playing your body for the audience. The two wolves cocks were out, jerking off furiously.

“Take this. You are going to smell like me, like it or not.” Your husband said as you felt the warm heat spreading inside you. “I’m gonna mark you so everyone in a ten mile radius can smell me on you. So everybody knows who you belong to.”

“Are you-?” You tried to ask just to have your head thrown back by a filthy moan. He was peeing inside of you. He just came and was peeing inside of you.

“You didn’t have enough when I peed all over you, did you? You came here dressed like a slut and asking for it. You provoked me, you acted like a whore with strangers, now I’m gonna mark you as deep as I can.” He chanted as his urine filled you, making the filthiest sounds as it dripped around his cock, still deep inside of you.

The heat inside you felt dirty, it felt nasty. And you were loving it. You felt utterly humiliated, but you couldn’t hold back the moans as he kept going. You heard the stranger's strangled moans as they came. Your husband stopped supporting your body weight and you fell to the ground, your knees weak. The strangers didn’t say anything else, they looked at you once more as they tucked themselves and left. You still felt his cum and pee inside your thighs, making them rub uncomfortably.

The reality of what happened hit you all at once. You acted like a whore, your husband fucked you in front of strangers. You came with two unknown werewolves looking at you as your husband peed inside of you. And instead of struggling or trying cover yourself, you came stronger than ever.

“Let’s go home.” Your husband mumbled as he pulled his jacket over your almost naked body. You walked slowly, feeling his cum and pee sloshing out of your very well used pussy. Your knees were still weak, and he had to support your weight after the third time you tripped.

“Are we gonna do that again?” You asked, voice barely a whisper, already anticipating his answer.

He smirked at you. “Maybe. If you are a good little whore for me.”

Yeah, definitely doing that again.

[ha-rinrin]

Torn Between Fire and Ice Sequel

Continuation of this fic, if you haven't read it, please do before reading this otherwise you won't understand most of it.

Pairing: Jinx x fem!reader (Caitlyns little sister)

Word count: 20k

Warning: smut

Authors note: well.. this took longer than expected. I got carried away and made it way to long, sorry for that, if this isn't what you expected I'm sorry to disappoint. To be honest, I’m not completely satisfied with it, but oh well—too late now.

materlist

You’re curled up on Jinx’s makeshift couch, nestled against her in the dim, cluttered space she calls home. Her arms are wrapped around you, holding you close like she’s afraid to let go. The familiar scent of gunpowder and paint clings to her clothes, grounding you in the chaos that somehow feels safer than anywhere else.

Jinx’s fingers trace absent patterns on your arm, her breath soft against your temple. For a while, neither of you speaks. The silence is comfortable, almost fragile—like if either of you says anything, it’ll shatter the small bubble you’ve created here. But after a moment, she tilts her head, her voice breaking through the quiet.

“So…” she says, her voice low, almost hesitant, “you going back home after this?”

The question hangs in the air, and you feel the weight of it press down on your chest. Home. Back to Piltover, back to Caitlyn, back to the reality you’d been hiding from. You can still see the hurt in your sister’s eyes, the betrayal, the shock of seeing you with Jinx. It’s all too fresh, too raw, and just thinking about it makes your stomach twist.

But here, in Jinx’s arms, the choice doesn’t feel so simple. Here, you feel like you’re allowed to be who you are—no pretenses, no expectations. Just you, with her.

You sigh, resting your head against her shoulder. “I don’t know,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Going back feels… complicated.” The words feel like an understatement, but they’re all you have for now.

Jinx goes quiet for a moment, her hand slowing in its gentle path along your arm. She doesn’t ask you to explain, doesn’t press you for more. Instead, she shifts slightly, tightening her arms around you in a silent show of support.

“Guess I’m pretty complicated too,” she says with a smirk, though her tone is softer, more thoughtful than usual. “Ain’t easy, sticking around with me.”

You can’t help but smile, reaching up to brush a stray strand of blue hair from her face. “You’re complicated, sure. But… I’m not exactly in this for easy.”

Her eyes meet yours, and for once, there’s no glint of mischief, no teasing smirk—just a vulnerable, honest expression that she rarely lets anyone see. “I don’t wanna be the reason you lose everything,” she murmurs.

You shift a little closer, taking her hand in yours, your thumb tracing over her knuckles. The weight of her words settles in your chest, heavy and tender. It’s strange, seeing Jinx like this—unguarded, stripped of her bravado, and revealing the part of her that worries, that cares.

“You’re not,” you say softly, squeezing her hand. “It’s not that simple. Caitlyn… she just doesn’t understand.”

Jinx lets out a bitter laugh, her fingers lacing with yours. “Yeah, can’t really blame her,” she mutters, her gaze slipping away, focusing on some far-off point in the room. “All she’s ever seen is… well, you know. The explosions, the chaos. The mess I leave behind.” She falls silent, her jaw clenched, and for a second, you can see the cracks beneath her tough exterior.

You shift, lifting her chin gently so she’s looking at you. “I don’t care what she thinks. I know who you are, Jinx. Who you are with me.”

Her eyes search yours, a flicker of doubt giving way to something softer, something almost hopeful. She opens her mouth to say something, but then closes it, like she can’t find the right words. Instead, she leans into you, resting her forehead against yours, her breath mingling with yours in the quiet.

“I never thought I’d have this,” she whispers, her voice raw. “Someone who… who’s willing to look past all that. To stay.”

Her vulnerability pulls at something deep inside you, and you feel your own heart aching in response. You press a gentle kiss to her forehead, brushing away the doubts, the fears that linger there. “I’m here,” you murmur against her skin. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Jinx lets out a shaky breath, her arms tightening around you like she’s afraid you’ll slip away. “Good,” she murmurs, her voice steadying as she pulls you closer, her head resting against your shoulder. “Because you’re the only thing that makes any of this make sense.”

Jinx shifts beside you, playing with a loose thread on her sleeve as if she’s trying to find the right words. After a moment, she glances up, her expression softer, more serious than usual.

“You know…” she starts, her voice hesitant. “Maybe… maybe you should go home. Just to grab some of your things.” Her fingers trace patterns on your arm as she speaks, her gaze focused on the movement. “I mean, if you don’t wanna go back for good, that’s fine. You can… stay here. With me. If you want.”

You blink, caught off guard by her offer. It’s not like Jinx to suggest something so practical, and the thought of staying here, of making this place your own hideaway with her, sends a strange warmth through you.

“You… you’d want that?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

She meets your gaze, and for once, there’s no teasing, no smirk—just an earnestness that makes your heart skip. “Look, I know this isn’t much.” She gestures to the cluttered room around you, a mix of salvaged gadgets, paint-splattered walls, and the faint scent of oil and metal. “But it’s real. And I’m here. So… if it’d help, you’re welcome to stay as long as you want. Long as you’re okay with all this mess.”

You can feel the vulnerability in her words, the unspoken fear that you’ll say no, that you’ll choose something safer, cleaner. But as you look around, you can’t help but smile. It may be chaotic, but it’s hers—warm and full of life in a way that nowhere else is.

“Yeah,” you say softly, squeezing her hand. “I’d like that.”

Her eyes light up with a spark of relief, her lips curling into a genuine, lopsided grin. “Good. 'Cause I was worried you’d miss all your fancy Piltover stuff.”

You laugh, nudging her playfully. “I think I’ll survive. Besides, I can just grab a few things and bring them here.”

Jinx’s grin widens, her hand finding its way to your cheek as she leans in, her voice soft. “Then it’s settled. You’re staying with me.”

You slipped back into Piltover as discreetly as you could, taking a winding path through the quieter alleys to avoid any unwanted attention. With each step closer to your house, the memory of that last encounter with Caitlyn burned fresh in your mind—the cutting words, the anger in her eyes, the undeniable rift between you. You hesitated at your door, hand lingering on the handle, knowing that opening it meant facing everything you’d tried to leave behind in Zaun.

Steeling yourself, you stepped inside, the familiar space feeling strange now, as if you never belonged there in the first place. You moved quickly through the house, heading to your room, trying to gather the essentials. As you stuffed a few clothes into a bag, the silence grew louder, almost mocking you.

And then you heard footsteps behind you.

“You finally came back, huh?” Caitlyn’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and accusatory. You spun around to see her standing in the doorway, arms crossed, her expression a mix of concern and fury.

“I thought I told you to stay away from her!” she snapped, taking a step closer.

“And choosing Jinx is a mistake!” Caitlyn pressed, her voice rising. “You have no idea what you’re getting into. She’ll destroy you!”

“Maybe I don’t care,” you replied, a defiance sparking in your chest. “You don’t get to dictate my fucking life.” your fingers digging into your palm as if trying to anchor yourself against the wave of frustration threatening to drown you.

At that moment, your mom's voice broke in, steady and commanding, A knot twisted in your stomach. “What’s going on here?” Cassandra Kiramman stood at the threshold of your room, her presence imposing.

Caitlyn immediately turned to her, the anger shifting focus. “Mom, she’s been with that… that criminal. You have to do something!” Your shoulders tensed with each word that left her mouth.

Your mom’s brow furrowed, her eyes darting between you and Caitlyn. “What do you mean? What’s going on?”

“She's involved with Jinx,” Caitlyn spat, urgency lacing her tone. “Mom, you know what she’s done, what she is. This isn’t just a phase for her—this is dangerous!” You clenched your jaw tight, she didn't know Jinx like you did, if she did, she wouldn't be spitting shit.

Your mother’s expression shifted from surprise to alarm, the weight of her role on the council pressing down on her. “Jinx? You’re serious?” Her voice trembled slightly, a rare crack in her usual composure. “You know what she’s capable of. She thrives on chaos, and we all know it.”

“Cait, stop!” you interjected, your frustration flaring. “I’m not some helpless child. I can make my own choices.” your voice sharp with frustration as you squared your shoulders, hands curling into tense fists at your sides.

Your mom's eyes narrowed, her motherly instincts kicking in. “Choosing Jinx is a terrible decision! You can’t possibly understand the risks involved. She’s a criminal, a threat to everything we’ve worked for.”

“I’m not ignoring anything!” you retorted, the anger boiling over. “I know who she is, and I’m still choosing to be with her.” you retorted, your voice trembling.

Caitlyn shook her head, disbelief etched on her features. “You’re making a huge mistake. You’re putting yourself in danger—she’ll ruin you!”

“Enough!” your mom commanded, stepping into the room with an imposing presence. “This is not a game. Jinx is reckless and unpredictable. Do you really think you can handle her?”

Your heart raced, a mix of defiance and desperation swirling inside you. “I’m not a child anymore! get that through your head. I can decide for myself!”

“Is that what you really think this is all about?” Cassandra’s voice dropped, laced with a blend of fear and urgency. “I’ve seen what she can do. She’s not just a bad influence—she’ll drag you into a life of chaos and danger. You’re risking everything!”

Caitlyn stepped forward, anger blazing in her eyes. “You’re playing with fire! You’re risking your future for someone who doesn’t care about you. I’m trying to protect you!”

“Protect me?!” you exclaimed, feeling the walls close in. “You’re just scared because you don’t understand our relationship!”

“Scared?” Caitlyn retorted, disbelief written all over her face. “No, I’m furious! I won’t stand by while you make a huge mistake!”

Your mom took a breath, her authority tinged with desperation. “This isn’t just about you; it’s about the danger Jinx represents. She’s hurt people—she’ll hurt you too!”

The air in the room thickened, the intensity palpable as you felt trapped between their concerns.

“I don’t need your protection!” you shouted, your voice echoing in the charged atmosphere. “I can handle myself!”

“You’re acting like this is some kind of romance when it’s a disaster waiting to happen!” Caitlyn shot back, her frustration bubbling over.

Caitlyn stepped closer, her eyes blazing with intensity. “This is about saving you from yourself. You deserve better than someone like her!”

Your mom’s gaze softened, but the fear in her eyes was unmistakable. “I love you. Please, don’t make this harder than it has to be. You know the council takes Jinx seriously. She’s a liability. You’re not thinking clearly!”

She took a deep breath, her voice steady but filled with urgency. “If Jinx gets caught, I won’t be able to protect her. She’ll be sent to Stillwater without hesitation. And if you’re with her when it happens, you’ll be seen as an accomplice. Do you understand what that means for you?”

You could feel the weight of her words pressing down on you, the gravity of the situation sinking in. The thought of Jinx being locked away, isolated and forgotten in that prison, made your heart ache. But you couldn’t let that fear dictate your choices.

“I can’t let you do this,” you said, voice trembling. “I won’t let you ruin what I have with her.”

Caitlyn’s expression shifted, a mix of disbelief and anger. “You’re not seeing how serious this is! You’re risking everything—your safety, your future! Jinx doesn’t care about you.”

Your mom interjected, her tone urgent. “This isn’t just a phase; this is your life. If she keeps this up, I will have no choice but to act. I won’t lose you to someone like her!”

The tension in the room was palpable as you felt trapped, your whole body shaking from all the emotions coursing through you.

“Maybe I’m willing to take that risk. Maybe I’d rather be with her than live a life dictated by fear,” you said, desperation creeping into your voice.

Caitlyn shook her head, rage flashing in her eyes. “You’re making a huge mistake. You’ll end up in Stillwater too—just for being close to her!”

Your mom stepped forward, her expression serious. “Think about what you’re saying. You’re putting yourself in a position where the council will see you as a threat. You could lose everything you’ve worked for, everything we’ve built as a family.”

As their words echoed in your mind, the weight of the consequences loomed larger. But in your heart, you knew one thing: you would fight for Jinx, no matter what it took.

You could see the desperation etched on Caitlyn's face, the genuine worry underlying her fury. And then there was your mom, her steady gaze trying to pierce through your defiance, a plea masked as authority.

“Do you really think Jinx will choose you over her own freedom?” Caitlyn pressed, her voice low but fierce. “She’s not some fairy tale character who’ll ride off into the sunset with you. She’s a criminal,a murderer,  and here you’re setting yourself up for heartbreak.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of her words crashing down like a wave. “What do you want me to do? Just forget her? Pretend we never happened?”

“Yes!” Caitlyn exclaimed, her voice rising again. “It’s not about forgetting; it’s about surviving. Jinx will only bring you pain and danger. You have no idea what you're stepping into!”

“I’m not running away from my feelings,” you shot back, your voice growing more confident. “If Jinx is captured, then yes, I might suffer the consequences. But I’ll face those consequences knowing I stood by her.”

Your mom took a step forward, her eyes searching yours, pleading for understanding. “You think you’re prepared for what comes next? If she’s caught, they won’t just throw her in Stillwater; they’ll make an example of her. And if you’re involved, you’ll be branded a criminal too.”

Caitlyn interjected, her voice softer now but still urgent. “Please, think about your future. You’re on the brink of adulthood; you have your whole life ahead of you. Jinx won’t wait for you to figure things out. She’ll pull you into her world, and it’s not a world you want to be part of.”

You felt the weight of their concerns pressing in, but your heart was resolute. “Maybe I want to be part of that world. Jinx makes me feel alive in ways I never imagined.”

“Alive?” Caitlyn scoffed, disbelief etched across her features. “What kind of life is this? One filled with chaos, danger, and heartbreak? You need to see Jinx for who she really is.”

The tension in the room thickened, and for a moment, it felt like a standoff—two sides of a battlefield, each fighting for their version of the truth. Your mind raced with the potential consequences, yet all you could think about was Jinx, her wild laughter, her gentle caresses, and the moments you shared.

“Look,” you finally said, your voice steadying, “I can’t promise you that things will be easy. But I know what I feel for Jinx is real, and I refuse to let anyone take that away from me. I’ll find a way to make this work, no matter what happens.”

Your mom’s expression shifted, her eyes clouded with fear. “If you choose this path, you need to be prepared for the fallout. I won’t stand by while you throw your life away for someone who may not be worth it.”

“I have to make my own choices,” you insisted. “You can’t protect me from everything. If Jinx is sent to Stillwater, then I’ll find a way to help her. I’ll fight for her, no matter the cost.”

With that declaration hanging in the air, you felt a sense of clarity, a resolve that ignited your spirit. Caitlyn’s frustration radiated from her, and your mom’s fear was palpable, but you stood firm in your decision.

“Just remember,” your mom said, her voice low and serious, “you’re not just risking yourself; you’re risking everything we’ve built together. I hope you realize what that means before it’s too late.”

The weight of her words lingered in the silence, but in your heart, you knew you had to follow your path—whatever it might bring.

Your sister and mom finally left you alone, closing the door on their way out, you were alone, just you and your thoughts.

With your backpack slung over your shoulder, you reached for the door, ready to face whatever lay outside. But when you turned the handle, it wouldn’t budge. You twisted it again, more forcefully this time, but the door remained stubbornly locked.

“Seriously?” you muttered, trying again and again to open the door,  frustration bubbling within you. “Mom, you can’t be serious.”

Caitlyn talked through the door, “We’re doing this for your own good,” she insisted, her voice steady. “You don’t see the danger you’re putting yourself in.”

You turned back to the door, rattling the handle as if it would magically give in. “Let me out! I can handle this!”

“No,” your mom said, her voice firm. “You need to understand that this isn’t just about you and Jinx. It’s about the risks she brings into your life.”

“Risk?” you scoffed, heart pounding in frustration. “What risk? The only thing I’m risking is my happiness by not being with her!”

“You’re being reckless. You don’t even know what Jinx is capable of. You think it’s all fun and games, but it’s not. You’ll end up hurt, and I won’t let that happen.”

“How many times do I have to say this!, I’m not a kid anymore, Caitlyn!” you shot back, anger flaring. “I’m old enough to make my own choices, and I choose Jinx. You can’t just lock me away because you’re scared!”

Your mom’s voice softened. “It’s not fear. It’s love. I can’t stand by and watch you throw everything away for someone like her.”

“What if I don’t care about everything?” you shouted, the words spilling out before you could think. “What if I’d rather have Jinx and deal with the consequences than live a life without her?”

Caitlyn’s eyes flashed with frustration. “You’re being selfish! You don’t understand what’s at stake.”

“Selfish?!” you yelled, the tension in the room reaching a boiling point. “You’re the one who’s being selfish by trying to control my life!”

The air was thick with tension, each heartbeat echoing the conflict swirling around you. You turned back to the door, pulling at the handle again, desperation rising. “Let me out!”

“No!” Caitlyn’s voice rang out, firm and unyielding. “You need to think about this. You’re making a huge mistake, and I won’t let you ruin your life over some misguided infatuation!”

Your mom stepped forward, her tone serious. “This is not a decision you can take lightly. Jinx is a wanted criminal, and she’ll drag you into her world. Do you understand the risks? The council won’t hesitate to take action if they catch her again, and if you’re with her…”

“I know!” you shouted, feeling the weight of their words crashing down. “I know what I’m getting into. But I can’t just walk away from someone who makes me feel alive!”

Caitlyn’s expression softened slightly, her anger giving way to something closer to concern. “You don’t have to do this alone. We can help you, but you need to let us in.”

The weight of her plea hung in the air, and for a moment, doubt flickered in your heart. “Help me how? By forcing me to abandon everything I care about?”

“We want what’s best for you,” Caitlyn insisted, her voice steady. “But this isn’t the way. You’re playing with fire.”

As you stood there, caught between their worry and your determination, you felt the gravity of the situation sink in. But in your heart, you knew one thing: you couldn’t abandon Jinx. You wouldn’t.

With a heavy sigh, you turned away from the door, the reality of your choices pressing down on you. “I can’t just forget about her. I won’t let you lock me away to try and prevent me from seeing Jinx.”

“Then you’re choosing this path on your own,” your mom said, her voice laced with sadness. “But just remember, the council doesn’t play games. If they see you with Jinx, it won’t just be her that pays the price. You will too.”

And with that, the tension settled back into the room, leaving you feeling trapped, not just physically but emotionally, as the weight of your choices loomed larger than ever.

The house was silent now, the echoes of the confrontation still ringing in your ears. You stood by the window, staring out into the night, and it suddenly clicked: this was your only escape route. Your heart raced as you took a deep breath, looking back to your door, where your mom and sister where, just behind it.

You stepped out of the window, feeling the cool night air rush past you. Just as you steadied yourself on the edge of the roof, a hand reached out to help you up. You gasped in surprise, your heart skipping a beat. Jinx stood there, her wild blue hair illuminated by the moonlight, a grin stretching across her face.

“About time you made a move!” she said, a mix of relief and mischief dancing in her eyes.

“I didn’t know you were here!” you exclaimed, still catching your breath.

“Yeah, I’ve been waiting. Heard the shouting match—sounded intense,” she replied, her tone shifting to something more serious. “Are you okay?”

You looked back at the dark silhouette of your home, the memories of your family flooding your mind. “No… but I will be,” you murmured, the weight of leaving everything you knew pressing down on you.

Jinx stepped closer, her expression softening. “We’re getting out of here. I promise I’ll be with you every step of the way okay?,” she said, her voice steady.

You nodded, gratitude filling you. As she guided you along the roof towards the edge, a wave of melancholy washed over you. The city below, with its familiar sights and sounds, felt like a distant memory. Leaving your family, your sister, everything you had known stung deeply, but you pushed the feelings aside, knowing you had to focus on the path ahead.

With Jinx by your side, you prepared to step into the shadows of Zaun, where new beginnings awaited, even as the weight of your past lingered in your heart.

You’re lying on the worn couch in Jinx’s hideout, your body pressed against hers. Your face is nestled in the crook of her neck, feeling the warmth of her skin. One of your legs is draped comfortably across her waist, while the other is tucked beneath you. Jinx wraps her arms around you, holding you close. One of her hands rests gently on your thigh, grounding you with its warmth, while the other hand softly traces patterns along your back, providing a soothing rhythm. You can feel her heartbeat steady against you, which helps calm the storm of emotions inside.

As you lie together, you feel her warmth seep into you, wrapping around you like a protective blanket. “Hey,” she whispers softly, her voice barely above a murmur, “I’m right here.”

You shift slightly, seeking her gaze. Her eyes are bright with concern, but there’s also a spark of something playful, a glimmer that reminds you of why you fell for her. “You know,” she continues, her fingers still dancing along your back, “you’re the best thing I’ve got”

A soft smile creeps onto your face at her words, but it quickly fades as the weight of your feelings crashes back in. You’ve left so much behind—your family, your old life—because they could never understand your love for her. “I feel like I lost everything,” you admit, your voice shaking as  tears finally spill down your cheeks little by little.

Jinx’s expression shifts as she takes in your tears, her brow furrowing with concern. She leans closer, brushing her lips against your forehead. “It’s okay to feel like that,” she murmurs, her voice soft and steady. “You’ve been through so much.”

You can feel her warmth radiating through the fabric of your clothes, a comforting presence against the weight of your sorrow. “I want to be strong for you, but sometimes it feels too heavy,” you confess, your voice trembling. The truth spills out, raw and unfiltered. “I miss them, Jinx. I miss my sister, my mom, everything I left behind.”

Her hold tightens around you as if she can shield you from the hurt. “I wish I could take it all away,” she whispers, her breath warm against your skin. “But just remember, you’re not alone in this. You have me. I’m right here.”

Jinx’s sincerity washes over you, a balm to your aching heart. You lift your head slightly, locking your gaze with hers. The glimmer of determination in her eyes makes you feel seen, understood. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” you admit, your voice thick with emotion.

“Then don’t think about it,” she replies, a hint of mischief in her tone as she tries to lighten the moment. “Just focus on us, on this—here and now. We’ll figure everything out together.”

She nudges your cheek with her nose playfully, a gesture meant to coax a smile out of you. It works, just a little. The corner of your lips twitch, and you can’t help but let out a soft laugh through your tears. Jinx’s eyes light up at that, and she leans in to plant a soft kiss on your lips, sealing the moment with warmth and love.

With her arms still wrapped securely around you, you find solace in her presence. The world outside fades, leaving just the two of you.

You feel cocooned in the moment, the chaos of the world outside Jinx's hideout dimming to a distant hum. The scent of her hair—sweet and a little smoky—fills your senses, grounding you even more. Jinx pulls back slightly, her eyes searching yours, as if she’s memorizing every detail, every emotion swirling behind them.

“You know,” she begins, her tone softening, “I’m not exactly a ‘normal’ girl. I might be a bit… chaotic.” A small, playful grin tugs at her lips, a mischievous spark igniting in her gaze. “But I promise to always be your chaos. Just like I’m your explosion, you’re my spark.”

Her words hang in the air, warm and comforting. You can’t help but smile, feeling the familiar flutter of affection blooming in your chest. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” you reply, your voice a mix of sincerity and teasing.

With a playful nudge, Jinx leans back, stretching her legs out and tugging you closer, as if wanting to make sure you’re tucked in securely. “See? We’re a perfect mess together,” she giggles, her laughter lightening the mood even more.

“Yeah, a beautiful mess,” you add, your heart swelling with love.

Jinx’s expression softens, and she brushes a thumb along your cheek, wiping away the remnants of your tears. “Let’s make a deal,” she says suddenly, her eyes sparkling with mischief again. “For every sad moment we have, we’ll balance it out with something ridiculous and fun. Like… a bubble bath fight! Or, or we could go set off some fireworks in the middle of the night!”

You laugh at the thought, imagining the chaos that would ensue. “As long as I’m with you, I’m in. Just maybe not the fireworks. You know how your plans usually go…”

“Hey! My plans are perfectly fine!” she protests with a grin. “But okay, no fireworks—just you and me, causing a ruckus in our own special way.”

With her playful spirit lighting the room, you feel the weight of your sadness begin to lift, replaced by warmth and laughter. In that moment, surrounded by the love and chaos that is Jinx, you know that you can face whatever comes next—together.

“Thanks for being you, Jinx,” you say softly, snuggling closer to her, your heart full of gratitude.

“Always,” she replies, a soft smile gracing her lips. “Now, let’s just enjoy this for a bit. No worries, just us.”

You close your eyes, breathing in the moment, savoring the warmth and safety of her embrace, knowing that as long as you’re together, you can weather any storm.

Jinx's playful spirit sparks an idea. “You know what we can to do so you can feel much better?” she says, a twinkle in her eye. “A bubble bath! It’s the perfect way to unwind.”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “A bubble bath, huh? Sounds like a plan.”

Jinx jumps up, practically bouncing with excitement. “Come on! I’ll fill the tub and grab some bath bombs!” She disappears into the small bathroom, and you follow her, anticipation bubbling up inside you.

The sound of water fills the air as Jinx prepares the bath, the warm steam rising, mixing with the sweet scent of the bath products she loves. You can’t help but smile at how she always brings a touch of chaos to even the simplest moments.

As the tub fills with fluffy bubbles, you begin to shed your clothes, feeling a sense of relief wash over you. The water looks inviting, and the thought of sinking into it with Jinx makes your heart flutter.

Jinx turns around, her eyes gleaming as she holds up a colorful bath bomb. “Ready for some fun?” she asks, her grin infectious.

You nod, and she tosses it into the tub, causing a cascade of colors to swirl through the bubbles. “Look at that! So pretty!” she exclaims, her eyes lighting up.

You step into the warm water, a sigh of contentment escaping your lips as the bubbles envelop you. Jinx slips in next to you, her playful energy radiating as she wraps her arms around you from behind, pulling you close.

You lean back against her, feeling her warmth surround you like a cozy blanket. Jinx’s fingers gently comb through your hair, a soothing rhythm that melts away any lingering tension. “See? This is what I’m talking about,” she whispers, her breath warm against your ear. “Just us, no worries.”

You close your eyes, allowing the warmth of the water and her embrace to cocoon you in a comforting haven. “This is perfect,” you reply softly, relishing the moment.

As you bask in the warmth of the water, you feel Jinx’s presence enveloping you, both physically and emotionally. The gentle strokes of her fingers through your hair bring a sense of peace, and you can’t help but lean further into her, letting the stress of the outside world melt away.

Jinx chuckles softly, her laughter echoing lightly in the cozy space. “See? I told you bubble baths are the best. They have magic powers or something.”

You smile, turning slightly to meet her gaze. “Definitely. Your magic powers are working.”

Her eyes sparkle with mischief, and she leans closer, her breath a tantalizing whisper against your skin. “Just wait until I show you my secret bubble bath skills.”

Curiosity piqued, you lean in a little closer. “Oh? What are those?”

With a playful grin, Jinx shifts her position, wrapping her arms more securely around you. “Just us being together, soaking in the warmth and forgetting the world. That’s all the skill I need.”

You can’t help but smile at her simplicity. It’s moments like these, stripped of chaos and distractions, that make you realize how deeply connected you feel to her.

As the bubbles gently swirl around you, the warmth and intimacy of the moment send butterflies fluttering in your stomach. You meet her gaze, feeling a spark of vulnerability and excitement.

“I’m really glad you’re here with me,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Me too,” she replies, her tone sincere. “You make everything brighter.”

Slowly, she draws you closer until you can feel the steady rhythm of her heartbeat against your back. The ambiance shifts slightly, the playful atmosphere fading into a tender silence, filled with unspoken feelings.

Her gaze softens, and you sense the connection between you deepen. Jinx gave you a quick kiss at the top of your head, then both your cheek,  Jinx leans in closer to your lips this time, her breath mingling with the warm air, sending shivers down your spine. “Can I kiss you?” she asks, her voice a mix of vulnerability and excitement.

Your heart races at the question, and all you can do is nod. In an instant, her lips are on yours, soft and sweet, a perfect contrast to the tranquil chaos of earlier. The kiss deepens, a soft exploration of warmth and trust, as the world outside disappears completely.

You melt into her, every worry and doubt fading away as you sink into the moment. The warmth of the water and Jinx’s embrace envelop you, creating a bubble of intimacy that feels safe and electric all at once.

As you melt into the kiss, you feel Jinx's fingers begin to wander gently along your arms, tracing delicate patterns against your skin. The warmth of her touch sends tingles coursing through you, amplifying the connection between you.

“You’re so soft,” she whispers, breaking the kiss for just a moment, her breath warm against your cheek. Her fingers continue their exploration, gliding from your shoulders down to your waist, every caress igniting a spark of electricity.

You lean back against her, letting her guide you further into relaxation. The water ripples gently around you as she pulls you closer, her hands roaming with a mix of tenderness and curiosity. Each brush of her fingertips feels like a sweet promise, a declaration of her affection that makes your heart race.

“Is this okay?” she murmurs, her voice laced with a hint of mischief, as her fingers slide along your sides, teasingly exploring the curves of your body.

You nod, breathless and eager, completely lost in the moment. “More than okay,” you reply softly, your voice shaky with anticipation.

Jinx’s fingers continue their dance, moving slowly as if she’s memorizing every inch of you. The gentle pressure of her touch is both soothing and thrilling, igniting a warmth that spreads through you like wildfire. She leans in, her lips brushing against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “I love how you feel against me,” she whispers, her tone low and intimate.

Her hands explore further, gliding down your back and then around to your front, creating a cocoon of warmth and safety. You feel as though the outside world has faded away, leaving only the two of you wrapped in this perfect moment.

The water bubbles around you, and the scent of the bath products fills the air, creating an enchanting atmosphere. You close your eyes, losing yourself in the sensation of her fingers on your skin, each caress igniting a deep yearning within you.

As Jinx’s fingers continue their gentle exploration, they glide down from your waist, her touch light and teasing. You can feel the warmth of her body radiating against yours, heightening your senses with every brush of her skin.

Her fingers pause for a moment, hovering just above your chest. You meet her gaze, searching for reassurance, and the playful spark in her eyes gives you the courage to nod slightly. “You can touch me, Jinx,” you whisper, your heart racing with anticipation. You know exactly what she's going to do.

A mischievous smile spreads across her lips as Jinx's fingers begin to explore your breasts, and the world around you fades away, leaving only the electric sensations coursing through your body. She starts with a gentle caress, her touch soft and teasing, but it soon escalates to light squeezes, each one more intoxicating than the last. Finally, her fingers find your nipples, pinching with a newfound boldness, her restraint slipping with every movement. Each pinch sends thrilling shivers down your spine, igniting a warmth inside you that grows with every touch. Leaning back into her, you crave more of her warmth, surrendering to the intoxicating closeness that envelopes you both.

“Jinx…” you breathe, your voice thick with longing. Her fingers glide over your tits with sultry confidence, teasing and exploring, awakening a hunger within you that demands to be satisfied.

“Do you like that?” she murmurs, her voice low and playful. The warmth of her breath against your skin sends your heart racing, and you nod, completely lost in the sensations of her fingers slowly teasing your nipples with her fingers. “I want more,” you whisper, your desire clear.

With a mischievous smile, Jinx deepens her exploration. Her fingers slide lower, tracing the curves of your body with a feather-light touch. You can feel the heat radiating from her, igniting every nerve as her hands roam lower, finding their way to your waist.

“Just for you,” she promises, her sultry tone sending a thrill through you. Her lips capture yours in a heated kiss, filled with urgency and need. You melt into her, your body responding to her every movement, every kiss igniting a fire deep within you.

Jinx's kisses travel from your lips to your neck, her soft lips trailing kisses along your collarbone, sending delicious shivers racing down your spine. As she kisses her way up, her fingers brush against the sensitive skin of your neck, and suddenly, she finds a spot that makes you gasp��a place where her touch sends tingles of pleasure radiating through you.

“Right here?” she asks playfully, her lips hovering near that sensitive spot. You nod breathlessly, unable to form words as she leans in, her mouth capturing your skin. With a gentle bite and a little sucking, she leaves a hickey, marking you with her lips. The sensation of her mouth against your neck, combined with the delightful pressure of her hands roaming your body, sends waves of pleasure surging through you.

“Jinx!” you gasp, a mix of surprise and exhilaration flooding your senses. You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, but there’s a thrill in her possessive mark that makes your heart race even faster.

“Looks like I found your sweet spot,” she teases, her voice low and sultry as she continues to kiss and nibble at your neck, each touch igniting more heat within you. “I could spend all night right here.”

You lean back against her, surrendering fully to the sensations as her lips leave a soft trail of kisses along your neck, lingering on each spot with gentle care. Her hands explore your body with a tender curiosity, mapping out every curve as if savoring each one. She lets her fingers travel slowly, her touch becoming more intimate, until she finally reaches the sensitive area between your thighs, teasing in slow, delicate movements. Each kiss and every gentle caress along your skin builds the tension between you, and when her fingers begin to brush over your clit, your breath catches, a soft gasp escaping. The warmth radiating from her touch feels electric, and the heat simmering between you grows, filling the space with a heady sense of anticipation

“God, Jinx, it feels so good,” you manage to murmur through your moans, feeling lost in a haze of pleasure as she finally inserts her index and middle finger inside you. The world outside fades away, and all you can focus on is her—the warmth of her body against yours and the way her fingers come in and out of you ignites every nerve.

“Just relax and let me take care of you,” she murmurs, her lips brushing against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. The way she says it sends a thrill through you, urging you to surrender completely to the sensations that engulf you.

Jinx’s lips continue to explore, her kisses trailing down your neck and lingering on the mark she’s left behind, making you feel cherished and desired.

As she continues working her magic with her fingers, you can feel the pressure building within you, the delicious tension leaving you breathless. “Please, don’t stop,” you beg, your heart racing as her fingers curl inside you, igniting the fire within you that craves more.

“Never,” she murmurs, her voice sultry and thick with desire. Her lips press against your neck once more, lingering on the sensitive skin there, each kiss purposeful and unhurried. Her hand moves gently, and you feel her thumb begin to trace slow, deliberate circles, building a steady rhythm against your clit. The sensation stirs a powerful, almost overwhelming wave of pleasure, but she’s patient, coaxing each reaction from you as if savoring every moment. The world around you fades completely, leaving only the feel of her touch, her warmth against you. Every kiss, every careful movement, draws you closer to her, binding you in a shared intimacy that feels electric, as if you’re the only two people in the world.

The air around you seems to thrum with energy as Jinx's fingers keep working you up, each movement perfectly timed to your breaths, making you lose yourself in the sensations. Her thumb circles against your clit with just the right amount of pressure, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through you. The warmth of the water envelops you both, creating an intimate  that feels like a secret world just for the two of you.

“Jinx…” you breathe, your voice a mix of urgency and longing, every nerve in your body ignited by her touch. Your head tips back, resting against her shoulder, as you surrender completely to the bliss she’s giving you.

“Just let go,” she encourages softly, her voice a seductive whisper that sends shivers down your spine. “I’ve got you.”

With every stroke of her fingers, the heat within you builds, a tide rising and ready to crash. You can feel your body responding instinctively to her rhythm, the tension coiling tighter, urging you toward that edge. The way Jinx’s lips brush against your skin, paired with the gentle rocking of her fingers, pulls you deeper into a dizzying haze of pleasure.

“God, I can’t hold on much longer,” you confess, your breath hitching as the pressure within you swells to a near breaking point.

“Good,” she replies, her tone both teasing and passionate. “I want to feel you come apart for me.” Her fingers quicken their pace slightly, and the sensation sends shockwaves of pleasure rushing through you, igniting every inch of your skin.

You can feel your heart racing, the world around you blurring into a haze as the waves of pleasure build, cresting and crashing within you. You grip the edge of the tub, your nails digging in as you lose yourself in the rhythm of her touch, the warmth of her body against yours, and the sweet sounds of your shared intimacy.

“Jinx, please,” you gasp, feeling the tight coil of tension inside you reaching its peak, ready to snap.

“Just let go, toots,” she murmurs, her voice low and sultry, as if urging you on, a secret promise behind her words. “You’re so close. I can feel it.”

With a final swirl of her thumb and a deep curl of her fingers inside you, the world shatters. Pleasure explodes through you like fireworks, bright and consuming, washing away everything else. You arch against her, gasping as waves of ecstasy pulse through your body, pulling you under in the most beautiful way.

“Jinx!” you cry out, lost in the moment, completely enveloped in her warmth and the intoxicating aftershocks of your release.

Her arms tighten around you, holding you close as you tremble in the aftermath, every sensation magnified. She kisses your shoulder softly, her lips brushing your skin as you ride out the last waves of pleasure, whispering sweet nothings that send flutters through your heart.

“You did so good,” she praises, her voice soft and warm, filled with affection. “I love seeing you like this.”

As the waves of pleasure gradually subside, Jinx gently cradles you in her arms, her touch tender and reassuring. She plants soft kisses along your shoulder, each one a whisper of affection that lingers in the warm, steamy air. “You okay?” she asks, her voice filled with genuine concern, her eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort.

You nod, a soft smile breaking across your face as you lean into her warmth. “More than okay,” you breathe, your heart still racing but now filled with a warmth that spreads through your chest.

Jinx grins, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Good. I’d hate to think I overwhelmed you. Just wanted to make you feel amazing.” She shifts slightly, ensuring you’re both comfortable in the embrace, and the water ripples around you, creating a soothing melody.

“Mission accomplished,” you reply, your voice light and airy as you feel the remnants of bliss still tingling throughout your body.

With a playful glint in her eye, Jinx dips her fingers into the bubbly water, splashing a few bubbles toward you. “Let’s keep this magic going a little longer,” she says, her grin infectious.

You laugh, the sound bubbling up as you splash her back playfully. The moment feels effortless, a carefree exchange that wraps around both of you like the warmth of the water. The intimacy of the earlier moments lingers, but now it’s infused with a cozy lightness that makes your heart soar.

“Come here, you,” Jinx says, pulling you closer, her arms enveloping you as she gently sways you back and forth in the tub. “We should stay like this forever. Just us, no worries, no chaos.”

You lean your head against her collarbone, the softness of her skin grounding you. “I could get used to this,” you admit, relishing the tranquility that fills the air.

Jinx brushes her fingers through your hair, a soothing gesture that sends warmth flooding through you. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go anytime soon.”

As the minutes pass, you both enjoy the quiet intimacy, the steam rising and swirling around you like a protective cocoon. You catch her gaze, the playful spark in her eyes replaced with something softer, deeper. “You really mean that, huh?”

“Absolutely,” she replies, sincerity dripping from her words. “You deserve all the magic, all the moments like this. I’ll always be here to give them to you.”

A comfortable silence settles between you, filled with the rhythm of your breathing and the gentle splashes of water. The weight of the world outside fades, leaving only the two of you wrapped in a tender bubble of connection.

After the warmth of the bath, you find yourself back in Jinx's hideout where you'll be living from now on, the air still thick with the aftermath of shared intimacy. The chaotic charm of the place wraps around you like a comforting blanket, filled with colorful gadgets and strange contraptions that reflect Jinx’s vibrant personality.

As you take in the surroundings, your gaze lands on a glimmering object resting on her workbench. It sparkles under the dim light, hues of deep blue swirling within. Curiosity piqued, you move closer, drawn in by its beauty.

“What’s that?” you ask, pointing to the mesmerizing gemstone.

Jinx’s eyes light up with mischief, a grin spreading across her face. “Oh, that?” she replies, leaning closer to you, her excitement contagious. “That’s a special little thing I borrowed.” She gestures toward it dramatically. “Isn’t it amazing?”

You can’t help but be captivated. “What does it do?”

“Not entirely sure yet,” she admits, biting her lip in that way you find adorable. “But Silco wants me to make something cool with it—an invention or probably a weapon. You know how he is.” There’s a hint of pride in her voice, mixed with that familiar defiance you adore.

“Silco? You mean—”

“Yeah, my dad.” Jinx shrugs nonchalantly, but you can sense the excitement bubbling beneath the surface. “He thinks this gem could be the key to something big, but honestly? I just think it looks awesome.” She leans closer, her eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. “Who knows what kind of trouble we could get into?”

You chuckle, both thrilled and a bit concerned. “Are you sure it’s safe?”

“Safe?” she scoffs playfully. “Since when has that ever been part of the deal?” She winks, the chaotic energy around her pulling you in. “But that’s what makes it fun! Besides, if it’s dangerous, that just means we’re doing it right!”

As she picks up the gemstone, its light reflects off her features, illuminating her excitement. The feeling of adventure washes over you, mixing with the warmth of your shared moments. You find yourself entranced, eager to see where this wild ride with Jinx will lead next.

Jinx is hunched over her workbench, various parts and pieces strewn across the table as she begins to assemble a rough blueprint. Her focus is intense, brows knit together, eyes fixed on the pieces as she fits them together with methodical precision. It’s fascinating to watch her work, but after a while, the silence and her intense concentration start to make you feel like a bit of an afterthought as you lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

You stretch out on the worn couch, tossing a dramatic sigh into the room. “Jinx,” you drawl, glancing over at her with an exaggerated pout, “are you planning to ignore me forever, or just until this thing actually works?”

Jinx doesn’t even flinch, her hands deftly twisting a screw into place as she mumbles, “Just until it’s done, maybe. Unless you keep whining like that. Then I’ll take even longer.”

You roll your eyes, feigning offense. “Wow, am I really that easy to ignore? I might just melt into this couch from sheer neglect.”

She finally glances over her shoulder, smirking. “Not my fault you’re jealous of a couple of bolts and screws.” With a playful raise of her brow, she nods toward her blueprint. “Besides, this isn’t just ‘a thing.’ This is gonna be epic. A beast of a… a… Fishbones!”

You raise an eyebrow at her. “Fishbones?”

She shrugs, looking unbothered. “Yeah! You know, it’s got… bite! ‘Course, I’ll need to get it there first.” She turns back to her work, tapping her fingers thoughtfully on the table.

You huff again, shifting restlessly. “Maybe it’s me that needs your attention, ever thought of that?”

Jinx quirks an eyebrow, but her hands don’t leave her work as she replies with a low chuckle. “Oh, I’ve thought about it. Trust me. But some of us have to focus to make something cool happen.”

You cross your arms, sinking deeper into the couch with an exaggerated huff. “So I’m supposed to sit here and be second place to a metal skeleton?”

She sighs, pausing her work long enough to glance over with a faint grin tugging at her lips. “If it’s any consolation, you’re definitely my favorite person who’s ever interrupted my work.”

You let out a snort, rolling your eyes. “Not good enough.”

A flicker of amusement crosses her face as she gestures you over with a tilt of her head and pats her thighs. “Alright, fine. Come here, you little distraction.”

You don’t need more of an invitation, slipping off the couch and sliding onto her lap, making yourself comfortable as her arms instinctively wrap around you, a mix of exasperation and fondness in her gaze.

She rolls her eyes but can’t hold back a small smirk. “I swear, you’re more high-maintenance than Fishbones is gonna be.”

You lean into her, pressing your forehead against hers with a soft smile. “Maybe I just like being a little bit of trouble.”

Jinx huffs a laugh, her fingers lightly tracing patterns along your back. “Guess I wouldn’t want you any other way.”

Jinx’s focus starts to shift as you nestle against her, the warmth of her body grounding you. The metal parts on the table glimmer under the dim light, but you’re no longer interested in them. Instead, you can feel the steady rhythm of her heartbeat beneath your fingertips, and it’s surprisingly soothing.

“See?” she says, a teasing lilt in her voice. “You just needed to remind me how amazing I am at multitasking. I can build my epic invention and cuddle with you at the same time.”

You chuckle, enjoying the playful banter. “Oh, really? Because it looks more like I’m doing all the work here.”

Jinx rolls her eyes, but there’s a spark of mischief in her gaze. “Yeah, sure. You're the one doing all the hard work of lounging around and stealing my warmth. It’s exhausting.”

“Exactly! This is a very demanding job,” you reply dramatically, sinking further into her embrace. “Someone has to make sure you stay motivated.”

“By distracting me?” She scoffs, but the smirk on her lips tells you she’s not really annoyed. “How am I supposed to focus on my masterpiece when you’re this close?”

You shift slightly, nestling into her a bit more. “Maybe I’m your real masterpiece. You know, the ultimate work of art.”

Jinx snorts, shaking her head. “You’re gonna have to do better than that to get a compliment out of me. I mean, just look at you compared to this genius invention.” She gestures to her workspace, her eyes gleaming with excitement. 

You chuckle again, finally relenting as you settle into a more comfortable position on her lap. “Fine, I’ll let you have your moment. Just promise you won’t forget about me entirely, okay?”

She pretends to ponder your request for a moment, biting her lip to suppress a grin. “Mmm… I’ll think about it. But no promises!”

You let out a mock gasp, clutching your chest. “How could you do this to me?”

Jinx laughs, shaking her head in delight. “Oh, I can think of a million ways. But right now, I need to focus, remember?”

“Right, right. But only after you give me at least one kiss for luck.” You raise an eyebrow, your playful tone inviting her to indulge you.

She pauses her work, glancing at you with mock seriousness. “You know what? That’s a fair trade.” Then, with a grin that makes your heart race, she leans in, pressing her lips softly against yours.

The kiss is sweet and fleeting, leaving you both smiling as she pulls back. “See? Now you can’t complain about being neglected. You have your kiss of luck, and I’m back to being a genius.”

With a mock sigh of defeat, you settle back into her embrace, ready to enjoy your time together while she dives back into her work. 

Little did you know how that weapon was going to change your entire life.

The moon hung low in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the makeshift hideout. Jinx sprawled out on the floor, her legs kicked up on a crate, while you leaned against the wall, watching her as she fiddled with an array of gadgets. The atmosphere was light, punctuated by her occasional bursts of laughter as she told you wild stories of her adventures.

“...and then I rigged the whole thing to blow just as they walked in! You should have seen their faces!” Jinx giggled, her eyes sparkling with mischief. You couldn’t help but chuckle along, captivated by her enthusiasm.

But as the stories flowed, you caught a glimpse of something flickering behind her playful demeanor. It was subtle, like a shadow passing over her expression—a hint of darkness that seemed to creep in whenever she mentioned Piltover or the Enforcers. You tried to brush it off, but it lingered, a gnawing feeling in your gut.

“Jinx, do you ever think about how far we’ve come?” you asked, trying to steer the conversation toward a lighter path. “I mean, look at us! We’re like a chaotic dream team.”

She smirked, the glimmer in her eyes returning. “Yeah, but I’ve got plans, toots. Big plans! And they can’t even begin to imagine what I’m capable of.”

Her tone held a slight edge, something almost predatory that sent a shiver down your spine. You met her gaze, searching for the playful girl you knew. “What do you mean by that?”

“Just… you know. Letting off some steam. A little chaos never hurt anyone, right?” Her grin widened, but you noticed her fingers twitching slightly, as if itching for something more than just a harmless prank.

You felt a tension settle between you, the line between lightheartedness and something darker becoming increasingly blurred. “I guess not,” you replied cautiously, hoping to lighten the mood. “Just don’t forget about us, okay?”

“Forget about us?” She chuckled, but there was a fierceness behind her laughter. “Never. I’m all in, you know that.”

Yet, the undercurrent in her words echoed like a warning, one that left you with an uneasy feeling as you watched her dive back into her work, the fleeting shadow of something dangerous still lingering in the air.

In an attempt to break through the heaviness, you slid down onto the floor beside her, resting your head against her shoulder. “You know,” you began softly, “no matter what plans you have, I’m always here to be your partner in crime. Just… remember to squeeze in some fun, okay?”

Jinx paused, her fingers hovering above the scattered parts, and glanced at you, her eyes sparkling with warmth. She nudged you playfully with her shoulder, a grin spreading across her face. “You’re right. I could definitely use some fun—especially with my favorite troublemaker right here.”

With a sudden burst of energy, she threw her arms around you, pulling you into a tight embrace. You melted into her, feeling the softness of her shirt against your cheek and the comforting warmth of her body enveloping you. The world outside faded for a moment, replaced by the familiar scent of her hair and the sound of her laughter vibrating through you.

“See? This is what I’m talking about! Chaos and cuddles all in one,” she declared, her voice muffled as she buried her face into your hair, the softness of her laughter wrapping around you like a cozy blanket.

You chuckled, feeling the weight of her presence soothe your worries. “I’m definitely up for more cuddles and a little less chaos… at least for tonight.”

She pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, her eyes twinkling with mischief and affection. “Alright, but if I get inspired and feel that chaotic urge creeping in, you have to promise to join me. Deal?”

“Deal,” you replied, grinning back at her. You took a moment to soak in the sight of her—messy hair, smudged cheeks, and that radiant smile that seemed to brighten the dim room. “But first, can we just enjoy this for a bit? You know, the cuddles part?”

Her laughter danced in the air as she leaned closer, resting her forehead against yours. “Yeah, I could get used to this. Just you and me, causing havoc in our own little world.”

You smiled, feeling a lightness bloom in your chest. “Exactly. Just us. No missions, no plans—just moments like this.”

Jinx’s expression softened, her eyes glimmering with warmth. “You make it sound so simple, but it feels perfect.” She brushed her fingers lightly along your arm, and in that quiet moment, everything felt right.

“Perfect, huh?” you teased gently, nudging her playfully. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Of course it is!” she replied, her grin widening. “Now, let’s make some memories before I go back to plotting world domination, or whatever it is I do.”

“Sounds like a plan,” you agreed, feeling the joy and comfort radiating between you. The flickers of darkness that had lingered earlier were pushed aside, replaced by laughter, warmth, and the promise of more adventures together—one chaotic moment at a time.

The flickering light from the workbench casts dancing shadows on the walls as Jinx is lost in her world of gears and blueprints. You watch her from the couch, your mind swirling with thoughts about the recent conversations you've had. She’s been obsessed with Fishbones lately, her excitement palpable, but there’s something darker brewing beneath that enthusiasm.

“Jinx,” you begin softly, pulling your knees to your chest, trying to gauge her mood. “Have you thought about what you’re actually planning to do with Fishbones?”

Her fingers pause, and she glances up, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “What do you mean? It’s going to be the ultimate weapon!” She grins, clearly not understanding the weight behind your words.

You swallow, trying to choose your next words carefully. “I get that it’s going to be amazing, but… what if it’s used against people? It’s not just a toy, Jinx. We’re talking about real destruction.”

She shrugs, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “Hey, it’s not like I’m going to blow up the whole city! Just… the bad parts. You know, the ones that think they’re all mighty when, in reality, they’re just a bunch of spineless council puppets hiding behind their rules.

“Still,” you press, shifting slightly to show your concern. “There’s a line between defending ourselves and becoming the very thing we’re fighting against. It’s a slippery slope.”

Jinx rolls her eyes playfully, but there’s a flicker of seriousness in her gaze. “Come on, you worry too much. I promise it’s just for show. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” you echo, arching an eyebrow. “What does that even mean?”

“Just think about it!” she exclaims, waving her hands animatedly. “I can’t make something that cool and not use it! I just want to show Piltover they can’t keep stomping all over us and acting like I’m some rabid dog they can lock up.. Is that so wrong?”

You watch as Jinx rummages through her supplies, her energy infectious, but a knot of concern still tightens in your chest. “Jinx, this isn’t just about fun and games. What if something goes wrong? What if someone gets hurt?”

She freezes for a moment, her hand stilling on a gadget. “You really don’t get it, do you? This is how we make a statement! We can’t just sit around waiting for them to decide our fate.”

“Making a statement doesn’t have to mean risking lives!” you counter, frustration creeping into your voice. “There’s a difference between standing up for ourselves and throwing caution to the wind!”

Jinx narrows her eyes, the playful spark dimming again. “You think I want to hurt people? I want to show them we’re not afraid. They think they can just crush us under their boot, and I won’t let that happen!”

“And I’m not saying you should!” you reply, your voice rising slightly. “But you’re talking about using a weapon, Jinx. This is serious! What if it backfires?”

“Backfires?!” she exclaims, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “You think I’m some clueless kid who doesn’t know what she’s doing? I’ve been planning this for weeks!”

“It’s not about being clueless! It’s about thinking things through!” you shoot back, feeling your pulse quicken. “I’m not trying to undermine you; I just don’t want to see you go down a path that could end up destroying everything we’ve fought for.”

Her expression hardens, and for a moment, it feels like there’s an invisible wall between you. “You’re acting like I’m some kind of villain! I’m not out here to hurt just anyone—only the ones who damn well deserve it!”

“And how do you decide who deserves it?!” you demand, frustration boiling over. “What if you cross a line you can’t come back from? I can’t support that!”

She glares at you, the air thick with tension. “So what? You expect me to just sit here and let them grind us into the dirt? That’s not how this works!”

“I want you to think before you act!” you say, your heart racing. “You’re smarter than this, Jinx. You can fight back without becoming the very thing you despise.”

For a moment, silence hangs heavy between you, both of you breathing heavily. Jinx's eyes flash with a mixture of defiance and hurt. “I can’t believe you’re saying this. You of all people should understand what it’s like to be pushed to the edge!”

“I do understand!” you shoot back, feeling the weight of your words. “That’s exactly why I’m worried! I don’t want to see you lose yourself in all of this.”

Jinx’s shoulders slump slightly, the fight draining from her. “You really think I’m going to lose myself?”

“I’m afraid of it,” you admit, your voice softening. “I don’t want to watch you become someone who’s consumed by anger and revenge.”

Her gaze softens for a moment, and she takes a step closer, her voice quieter. “I thought you were in this with me, that you’d back me up no matter what.”

“I am in this with you,” you say, sincerity flooding your words. “But backing you up doesn’t mean I have to agree with everything you do. I care about you too much to just stand by and watch you make choices that could hurt you—or others.”

For a long moment, she studies your face, the tension shifting into something more complex. “You really are a buzzkill,” she mutters, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

“Maybe I just want to keep you grounded,” you reply, matching her grin with one of your own. “And maybe I want you to remember who you are, deep down.”

Jinx rolls her eyes, but you can see the flicker of affection in her expression. “Fine. I’ll try to keep the chaos in check… a little.”

“That’s all I’m asking for,” you say, relief washing over you. “Let’s find a balance between your plans and making sure we’re not losing sight of what really matters.”

“Okay, okay!” she exclaims, throwing her hands up in mock surrender. “You win this round. But just know, when I do unleash some glorious chaos, you’ll be right there beside me!”

“Deal,” you agree, feeling the heaviness of the argument lift as you share a warm smile. 

Yet beneath it all, you sensed this was only the start of something bigger.

The following evening, the atmosphere in the hideout feels charged, the air thick with a tension that’s hard to ignore. You find yourself perched on the edge of a rickety chair, watching Jinx as she sits cross-legged on the floor, her array of gadgets and blueprints sprawled around her. She’s been unusually quiet, and instead of her usual playful banter, she’s focused intently on her sketches.

As you peer over, you catch sight of her doodling the intricate designs of Piltover’s council buildings, her pencil moving rapidly across the paper. The lines are sharp, almost aggressive, and a chill runs down your spine as you realize that the detailed buildings aren’t just architectural sketches; they look like targets.

“Jinx?” you venture cautiously, shifting in your seat. “What are you working on?”

Her head snaps up, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes, but there’s something darker lurking beneath the surface. “Just some ideas,” she replies casually, though her tone doesn’t match the intensity of her gaze.

You lean forward, trying to decipher her mood. “Ideas for what? It looks… different from your usual stuff.”

“It’s nothing,” she brushes off, a teasing smile tugging at her lips as she flips the page. “Just thinking of ways Fishbones could take on those pesky enforcers, Silco’s request.”

Your stomach knots at her words, the playful edge to her voice sending alarm bells ringing in your mind. “Jinx, you’re not serious, right? You can’t actually be thinking about attacking them.”

She rolls her eyes, the sparkle in her expression dimming slightly. “It’s just brainstorming! Nothing wrong with a little strategy, toots.” But there’s a glint in her eyes—a thrill that unnerves you.

“Strategy?” you repeat, your heart racing. “This doesn’t sound like the fun chaos you usually talk about. This sounds… dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” she echoes, laughing lightly. “Come on, it’s not like I’m drawing up a full-on battle plan! I just like to imagine how I could make a statement, that’s all.”

“But what kind of statement?” you push, feeling a mix of concern and frustration. “You’re talking about real lives here, Jinx. This isn’t just a game!”

Her expression shifts, and you can see the flickers of intensity rising in her gaze. “Maybe it should be taken seriously! They’ve taken everything from us, and I’m just thinking about how to fight back.”

It almost felt as if Silco was talking through her, but there isn't time to think about that. You take a breath, trying to keep your voice steady. “I get that, but you can’t just focus on destruction. There has to be another way.”

“Another way?” she snaps, her voice rising slightly. “You mean the way they want us to? Just keep our heads down and hope for the best? That’s not going to change anything!”

You watch as her enthusiasm begins to morph into something darker, a dangerous thrill radiating off her. It’s unsettling, and despite your attempts to reach her, the intensity in her demeanor only grows stronger. “I’m not saying you should just give up, but there’s got to be a line we don’t cross.”

“Why not?” she challenges, her eyes narrowing. “If they won’t stop until they wipe us out, why should I hold back? Maybe it’s time they learned what happens when they mess with the wrong people!, show them what happened when they mess with me”

Her words hit you like a punch to the gut. The excitement in her voice sends shivers down your spine. “Jinx, please. You’re scaring me. This isn’t who you are.”

For a moment, her expression falters, and you catch a glimpse of the playful girl you fell in love with. “I… I’m just trying to protect us,” she says, her voice softer now, but there’s still an edge to it.

You reach out, placing your hand over hers, grounding her in that moment. “I know you are, but you don’t have to do it this way. You can be a hero without becoming a monster.”

Jinx stares at you, the conflict in her eyes palpable. “I don’t want to be a monster,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “But what if they make me one?”

You can feel the heaviness in the air, the weight of her thoughts pressing down on you both. “Then we fight together, but we fight smart, not reckless.”

After a beat, she lets out a frustrated sigh, pulling her hand away to scribble on her sketch again, though the energy has shifted. “You’re right,” she finally admits, her voice tight. “I just… get so carried away sometimes. I want to show them I'm not afraid.”

“You’re not alone in this, Jinx,” you reassure her gently. “You don’t have to carry that weight by yourself. Just promise me you’ll think about the consequences of your plans, okay?”

“Fine,” she replies, her voice laced with a reluctant acceptance. “But don’t expect me to stop dreaming up chaos. It’s who I am.”

“And I wouldn’t want you to change that,” you smile softly, grateful for the return of some lightness. “Just let’s keep the chaos fun, alright?”

Jinx smirks, a hint of her usual mischief returning. “You got it, partner. Chaos and cuddles only!”

As she leans into you, the earlier tension begins to fade, but you can’t shake the feeling that the flickers of darkness are still there, waiting just beneath the surface.

A few days later, the hideout buzzes with a different energy. Jinx is on a roll, her excitement palpable as she paces the small space, tossing ideas around like confetti. She’s practically glowing with enthusiasm, but you can’t shake the lingering unease that’s taken root in your heart.

“Okay, okay, hear me out!” she exclaims, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “What if we set off a few booms in Piltover, just to remind them I’m still here? Nothing too crazy, just a little fun to keep them on their toes!”

You frown, feeling the tension tightening in your chest. “Jinx, are you serious right now? You can’t just go blowing things up. That’s not fun; that’s reckless!”

She brushes off your concerns with a wave of her hand, spinning around to face you. “Oh come on! It’s not like I’m asking to destroy the whole place. Just a little chaos, just to show them we mean business!”

“Chaos isn’t just harmless fun, Jinx!” you challenge, your voice rising slightly. “You know what happens when you start throwing around explosives. People could get hurt—innocent people!”

Her expression shifts, the mischief fading as she crosses her arms defensively. “Innocent people? Like the council members who don’t give a shit about us? They’re the ones holding all the power!”

“Exactly! And you think blowing things up is going to change that?” You stand your ground, feeling the heat of the moment. “You’re not some vigilante. You can’t take justice into your own hands like this!”

Jinx’s eyes flash with frustration, her playful demeanor crumbling under the weight of your words. “What do you want me to do, huh? Just sit back and let them walk all over us? Pretend everything is fine while they scheme against us?”

“It’s not about pretending! It’s about finding a way to fight back without becoming a monster yourself!” The words spill out before you can stop them, the frustration boiling over. “You’re better than this, Jinx!”

Her gaze hardens, the air growing thick with tension. “Better than what? Better than standing up for myself? You don’t get it!” she snaps, her voice tinged with an edge you’ve never heard before. “You’re so wrapped up in your little ideas of right and wrong that you can’t see what’s at stake!”

“Maybe it’s you who’s not seeing clearly,” you retort, your heart racing. “This isn’t just a game. This is our lives! It’s our future!”

Jinx narrows her eyes, a flicker of hurt flashing across her face. “Our future? You’re the one who’s worried about consequences while I’m trying to make something happen! I don’t want to sit and wait for change. I want to make it!”

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of her words hang in the air. “I want change too, but not at the cost of losing who you are. You can’t let this ambition turn you into someone you don’t want to be.”

She scoffs, her anger simmering just below the surface. “So what am I supposed to do? Just sit back and watch them destroy everything down here? That’s your plan?”

“No!” you exclaim, frustration giving way to desperation. “But there has to be a balance! You can’t let your passion for chaos blind you to the consequences. You have to think about how this affects us, Jinx!”

For a moment, silence stretches between you, the weight of the argument settling heavily in the air. Jinx’s gaze drops, the fire in her eyes dimming as the reality of your words sinks in. “You don’t trust me,” she murmurs, a hint of vulnerability creeping into her voice.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” you reply softly, stepping closer, searching her gaze for understanding. “It’s that I’m scared of what this obsession with taking down Piltover is doing to you. You’re losing sight of what matters.”

She shakes her head, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. “You just don’t get it! I need to show them that we’re not afraid! I can’t just sit around and wait for someone else to make a change!”

“Jinx…” you start, but the words die in your throat. The intensity of her ambition is overwhelming, and for the first time, you feel the crack in your relationship growing wider.

Her expression hardens, a wall going up as she turns away. “I can’t believe you don’t see what I’m trying to do. You’re supposed to be my partner in this, not my conscience.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be a part of this if it means losing you to the darkness,” you admit, your voice trembling slightly.

The silence that follows is deafening, the weight of your words hanging in the air. Jinx’s back remains turned, and for the first time, you wonder if this rift between you might be deeper than you realized.

But what matters to you is that somehow you and Jinx managed to patch things up, like a small band-aid covering every crack in your relationship. The problem is that band-aids eventually wear off.

The hideout buzzed with energy as Jinx animatedly shared stories from the day’s escapades, laughter spilling from her lips like a melody. You leaned against the wall, heart swelling with affection, but a nagging worry settled in your gut.

Lately, Jinx had been spending more time with Silco, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was weaving himself into her thoughts. She’d come back with strange ideas and reckless plans, discussing ways to “take down Piltover” as if it were a casual evening chat.

“Jinx,” you called out, catching her attention as she fiddled with the blueprints scattered across the table. “Can we talk for a second?”

She paused, tilting her head with a playful smirk. “What’s up, toots? Are you finally going to help me with Fishbones?”

You took a breath, trying to keep your tone light, but the concern in your chest pushed through. “It’s not about Fishbones. It’s about Silco. I’m worried he’s getting in your head.”

“Come on! Silco just knows how to think big!” she laughed, brushing off your concern with a wave of her hand. “He gets it. He’s not like the others.”

“But that’s just it,” you pressed, stepping closer. “You trust him too much. He has his own agenda. I don’t want you to lose sight of what we stand for.”

Jinx rolled her eyes, her playful demeanor faltering for a moment. “I’m not losing anything! He’s just… giving me a broader perspective.”

“Jinx, this isn’t just about having a bigger picture. He’s been pushing you toward this dangerous edge,” you insisted, your heart racing. “And you keep talking about taking action. What does that even mean?”

She crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing as the fire within her flared back to life. “You really think I’m going to sit back and let Piltover trample us like we’re nothing? That’s not who I am—I refuse to be their victim!

“I know who you are, and that’s why this scares me!” you replied, voice rising with frustration. “I love your wild spirit, but don’t let Silco twist it into something it’s not!”

The air thickened with tension as she stared at you, a mixture of anger and uncertainty flashing across her face. “So you want me to just ignore everything he says? Pretend like it’s not happening?”

“Not ignore it, but think critically about it! We can find our own way without becoming pawns in someone else’s game!”

Jinx’s expression hardened, the playful glint gone from her eyes. “Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t see the bigger picture. Sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to protect what you care about.”

You felt a surge of hurt at her words, sensing the growing divide. “But at what cost, Jinx? I don’t want to lose you to this chaos.”

A flicker of doubt crossed her face, but she quickly masked it with defiance. “I’ll figure it out. I always do.”

“Jinx—” you began, but she cut you off, frustration evident. “Just drop it! I don’t need you to protect me!”

As she turned away, retreating out of the hideout, you were left standing there, the weight of your argument settling heavily in your chest. Silco’s influence felt like a shadow stretching between you, and the distance that grew felt more like a chasm.

The silence that followed was deafening, each heartbeat echoing the uncertainty that had taken root in your chest. You were losing her to the chaos that surrounded you both, and for the first time, doubt gnawed at the edges of your heart.

Hours slipped by in a haze of worry, the dim light of the hideout casting shadows that seemed to press in closer. You found yourself retreating to a quiet corner, desperately trying to grasp onto the love you felt, the memories that had once felt so untouchable. But each one now felt laced with the tension that Silco had brought between you.

Eventually, the door creaked open, and there she was, lingering in the threshold. Her blue eyes were intense, a hint of that same defiance still sparking, but her posture softened, uncertain as she scanned the room and found you. She looked like she had a thousand things to say yet no words for any of them.

“Jinx…” you whispered, the name feeling heavy on your lips.

She hesitated, chewing her lip before stepping closer, crossing the small space between you two with measured steps. “You… you didn’t have to wait around,” she muttered, her tone caught somewhere between vulnerability and pride.

“I wasn’t going to leave,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. “Not after that.”

A silence settled over you, and for a moment, you both just stood there, caught in the weight of the unsaid things, the worry and love that seemed to intertwine, complicated and unbreakable. She shifted her weight, her gaze finally dropping as if the confidence that had fueled her argument earlier was slowly peeling away.

“You really think I’m letting him control me?” she asked softly, the vulnerability in her voice threading through the tension.

You nodded slowly. “I think he’s changing the way you see things. And that scares me, Jinx.”

She glanced back at the doorway, the shadows of the hideout looming behind her, then back at you, her eyes wavering. “I… don’t want to be used. I just thought maybe, for once, I could… matter. Make a difference. Make him proud of me”

“You matter,” you said gently, stepping closer, feeling that familiar pull between you both. “You always have. But we can find a way without him. If he really loved you he would be proud of you no matter what. ”

Jinx’s shoulders slumped, and for the first time, she looked tired. “Maybe you’re right,” she murmured. Then, reaching for your hand, she gave it a small squeeze, grounding herself in the warmth of your touch. “Guess I’m not always the mastermind, huh?”

A faint smile tugged at your lips. “You’re still my Jinx.”

For the first time in hours, her expression softened, and she leaned into you, just enough to let the weight of her defenses fall away. And for now, it was enough.

As Jinx’s hand slipped into yours, grounding herself, you couldn’t hold it back any longer. The strain, the arguments, the growing fear of losing her—it all poured out at once. A tear slipped down your cheek, followed by another, and before you could turn away, Jinx was already pulling you into her arms.

You buried your face into her shoulder, clutching her tightly, the familiar scent of gunpowder and oil oddly comforting. She held you firmly, letting you release everything you’d held back. Her hands moved to your back, tracing small, soothing circles, each gesture wordlessly saying, I’m here.

After a moment, Jinx pulled back, her gaze softening as she took in the tear-streaked expression on your face. She reached up, her fingers delicate as she cupped your cheeks, brushing her thumbs against your damp skin. “Hey, don’t cry, toots,” she whispered, voice gentle, holding you like you were something precious.

Then, with a tenderness that took your breath away, she leaned in, her lips pressing soft kisses over each tear, one by one. Each touch was light, warm, melting the tension that had built up in your chest. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” she murmured between kisses. “I’m still here, still me.”

You let out a shaky breath, a flicker of relief breaking through the worry. “I just… I don’t want to lose you, Jinx. Not to anyone. Not to Silco.”

Jinx paused, her face inches from yours, her gaze serious. “You’re not gonna lose me,” she said softly, her hands never leaving your face. “Whatever happens, we’re in this together.”

She held your gaze, her eyes fierce but softened by something raw and real. And in that moment, words weren’t needed. You knew, as long as you had each other, nothing else mattered.

As the days pressed on and Fishbones neared completion, you could feel the shift in Jinx’s energy, like a storm gathering on the horizon. She’d retreat into her projects for hours, emerging only to scribble some hastily thought-up addition or tweak in her blueprints. It was clear she was consumed, her mind caught in an unwavering current that seemed to pull her further from you.

One evening, as you stepped into her makeshift workshop, you found her crouched over Fishbones, tightening bolts with fierce precision. Tools lay scattered around her, and the look in her eyes was one of singular, intense focus. She didn’t even glance up when you came in.

“Jinx,” you started gently, taking a step forward. “Do you have a minute? I thought maybe we could talk… about Fishbones.”

At the sound of your voice, she tensed, setting the wrench down with a metallic clang. “Why do we have to keep talking about this?” she muttered, her eyes narrowed, the walls around her clearly rising higher. “It’s fine. Fishbones is perfect the way it is.”

“I know you put so much work into it, and it’s incredible, Jinx,” you replied carefully, feeling the words stick in your throat. “But some of these additions—do they have to be so… aggressive? I’m just worried.”

She let out a frustrated sigh, finally standing up to face you. “Why are you so worried all the time? It’s like you’re trying to put a leash on me, on Fishbones, on everything.”

“It’s not that,” you said, trying to hold your ground. “I just don’t want you or anyone else getting hurt because of all this. We can use Fishbones in a way that keeps you safe.”

Her eyes hardened, a stubborn glint sparking. “I’m not some little kid you need to protect, alright? I don’t need anyone telling me how to be me. And Fishbones? It’s gonna be exactly what I want it to be, no matter what.”

She turned back to her work, closing you out as she resumed tightening the last pieces. Each crank of the wrench echoed in the silent room, like the final snaps of a door shutting between you.

You planned the day carefully, choosing a quiet corner of the city where the hum of Zaun’s chaos softened. A hidden rooftop with a view overlooking the rusted skyline, a place far removed from blueprints, weapons, or talk of revenge. You laid out a simple picnic, filled with a few of Jinx's favorite things—sour candies, fizzy drinks, and a few pastries you’d found in Piltover.

When you finally coaxed her out, she looked wary, as though expecting some kind of trap. But the sight of you grinning, sprawled out on a soft blanket in the sun-dappled light, seemed to chip away at her guard. She dropped onto the blanket beside you, a smirk tugging at her lips as she popped a candy into her mouth. standing herself with her elbows 

“What’s all this?” she asked, looking almost amused.

“Just us,” you replied with a shrug. “Thought we could take a break, maybe slow things down a little. You’ve been working so hard, Jinx.”

“Didn’t know I’d earned myself a picnic,” she teased, though the way her gaze lingered on you gave away her appreciation. “You’re getting soft, toots.”

You grinned, nudging her shoulder. “Maybe I’m just smart enough to know when you need a break.” You handed her a fizzy drink, watching her expression light up as she took a sip, savoring the tart bubbles. She leaned back further, letting her eyes drift closed, soaking up the rare, quiet moment.

Jinx let out a soft sigh as she straightened up, now sitting, settling against you, her head resting on your shoulder as she relaxed into the calm, almost surreal peace of the rooftop. She popped another candy into her mouth, savoring the sour burst as she looked up at you, her eyes glinting with a familiar mischief softened by something gentler.

“This is too nice,” she murmured, leaning closer, her voice dropping to a playful whisper. “Feels like I should be suspicious.”

You chuckled, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “Guess you’ll have to let me surprise you for once.”

Jinx’s grin widened, and she let herself melt against you, her fingers tracing light patterns over your hand. “Fine, but only because you bribed me with candy.” She nudged her shoulder into yours, glancing up at you, eyes shimmering with an affectionate warmth that was rare to catch.

As you sat there, the sky around you dimming into softer shades, you could feel her focus shift entirely to you. She moved closer, the playful spark in her gaze softening as her fingers intertwined with yours. You gently cupped her cheek, feeling her lean into your touch, her expression caught between a smile and something deeper.

“I mean it, Jinx,” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the quiet rooftop air. “You deserve these moments, too.”

She looked at you for a long moment, her defenses slipping in the silence as if she couldn’t quite believe you were real. Then, without a word, she leaned up, her lips brushing against yours in a kiss that felt like everything she couldn’t say out loud. Her hand slid up to cup your cheek, her thumb brushing softly against your skin as she deepened the kiss, her touch warm and grounding.

The world around you melted away as you lost yourself in the kiss, feeling her relax and trust you in a way she rarely allowed herself to. Her fingers played at the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine as her lips moved softly, passionately against yours, your own hands tangled in her beautiful blue hair. She pulled you closer, her energy warm, electric, and overflowing with a genuine care that was unmistakably hers.

When she finally pulled back, her cheeks were flushed, and her usual smirk softened into a smile that was only for you. She let out a small laugh, brushing her thumb over your cheek. “You’ve got a way of making everything else disappear, you know that?”

“Good,” you murmured, leaning your forehead against hers. “Because right now, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Jinx’s fingers laced through yours as you both sat there, tangled together under the dimming Zaun skyline, her laughter and the softness in her gaze anchoring you to the moment. It felt like, here on this rooftop, you’d found a sliver of peace—just the two of you, leaving the rest of the world far behind.

But then, somewhere below, the soft clink of metal against metal disrupted the quiet. You almost ignored it, brushing it off as the usual hum of the city, but then came a sharper clang and the distant rumble of machinery. Jinx’s grip on your hand tightened, her body tensing as her gaze drifted to the edge of the rooftop, where shadows stirred.

The playfulness in her expression wavered, giving way to something sharper, more focused. The laughter that had danced between you moments before seemed to fade, slipping away like a half-forgotten melody as reality crept back in, filling the space with a new, charged silence. You could see her eyes narrow, a flicker of determination setting in, as if the peace you’d found had only been borrowed and the world below was here to collect its due.

“Jinx?” you started, sensing her shift, the warmth retreating from her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

She sat up straight, her expression hardening as she focused on the chaos below. “It’s just… Piltover doesn’t stop, does it?” she said, her voice low, edged with frustration. “They think they can walk all over us, and I refuse to let them think they can get away with it!”

You followed her gaze, feeling a pang in your chest as you understood what was happening. The reminders of Piltover’s oppression—the flashing lights, the sounds of machinery, the chaos—were all too familiar and raw.

“Jinx, let’s not—” you began, but she cut you off, her words coming out sharper now, tinged with an intensity that sent a shiver through you.

“I can’t just sit here and pretend everything is fine!” she snapped, eyes blazing with a fierce resolve. “They’ve pushed us around for too long. I want them to see me—not as a joke, but as someone who can make a difference!”

The shift in her demeanor was like watching a switch flip. The softness you had nurtured moments ago was swallowed by the encroaching shadows of her ambition. You reached out, trying to anchor her back to the moment, to the laughter you had shared.

“Jinx, please, listen to me,” you urged, your heart racing as you grasped her hand, desperate to pull her back. “You don’t have to take this on alone. We can find a way to fight back together, without losing yourself”

But she shook her head, pulling her hand away as frustration bubbled up inside her. “You don’t understand! This isn’t just about revenge; it’s about proving I’m not weak. I want them to know I’m capable of more than they think. I can’t just be the girl who causes chaos—I have to be more!”

The passion in her voice, while powerful, filled you with dread. You could see the danger in her determination, the risk of losing the very essence of who she was to the chaos she was ready to embrace.

“Jinx, don’t you see? You’re more than just a weapon or a tool for revenge. You’re so much more!” You took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. “We need to find a way that doesn’t involve becoming what they expect us to be. You’re not just Jinx, the girl who causes chaos. You’re the one I love—the one who brings joy and laughter, even in the darkest times.”

She faltered for a moment, the fire in her eyes flickering as your words pierced through the haze of ambition. But it was only for a heartbeat before the shadows returned, darker and more insistent than before.

“I can’t just forget what they’ve done. I need to prove that I’m strong enough to stand up for myself and for Zaun!” she declared, her voice rising as her frustrations poured out.

The moment felt heavy, a chasm widening between you. You had tried to pull her back into the light, but the darkness she was drawn to was too strong, too seductive. It made you feel helpless, watching the person you loved wrestle with a turmoil you couldn't quite reach.

In that moment, you realized that while you could share laughter and joy, the echoes of Piltover’s cruelty were louder than any picnic or soft words. You both needed to find a way through this, but the path was obscured by her anger and the shadows of her ambition.

As silence enveloped the rooftop, you could feel the distance grow, the lingering warmth of the earlier connection now just a faint memory.

The silence hung between you like a storm cloud, heavy and charged. You could feel the tension crackling in the air, and it felt as if the very rooftop was bracing for impact. Jinx’s eyes sparkled with determination, but beneath that, a flicker of uncertainty danced—a contradiction you hoped to expose.

“Jinx, I get it,” you said, voice rising slightly as frustration seeped in. “But this isn’t the way! If you keep pushing for revenge, you’re just playing into their hands. You’ll become exactly what they expect—a chaotic force, a weapon they can use!”

Her laugh was cold and bitter, slicing through the tension like a knife. “What do you know about what they expect? You live in your cozy little world while I fight tooth and nail every single day! You think this is a game?”

“It’s not a game, and I’m not ignoring what you’re going through!” you shot back, heart racing as emotions surged. “But sacrificing yourself to become a pawn in Silco’s plans isn’t the answer! You’ll lose everything that makes you, you!”

Jinx’s eyes blazed, fury igniting as she rose to her feet, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. “You don’t understand! I’ve spent my whole life being underestimated, being called a joke, a jinx. I have to show them I’m not just some crazy girl with a few tricks up her sleeve. I’m more than that! I have to make them fear me!”

“Fear isn’t strength, Jinx! It’s weakness!” The words slipped out before you could catch them, the urgency driving you to raise your voice. “You want respect, not fear! You want to be seen for who you really are, not just a weapon in someone else’s game. Can’t you see that?”

Jinx spun around, her hands balled into fists at her sides. “And how do you propose I do that? Just sit back and wait for them to see me? You think that will change anything? They won’t respect me unless I show them what I’m capable of!”

The heat of the moment intensified, and you stepped closer, desperate to bridge the chasm forming between you. “You don’t have to prove yourself to anyone but yourself! The people who truly care about you will see your worth without the chaos! Why can’t you trust that?”

“You’re not just a weapon. You’re brilliant, you’re creative, and you have so much potential! But this obsession with proving yourself is clouding your judgment!”  you urged, pleading with her to see reason

“Why can’t you just support me?” she yelled, eyes blazing. “Why can’t you see that I’m doing this for us, for Zaun? If I don’t take action, then what’s the point? I refuse to be a victim!”

“You think I want you to be a victim?” you shouted back, exasperated. “I want you to be safe! I want you to be happy! But you’re running headfirst into danger, and it’s tearing us apart!”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you decided to pull me away from my goals!” she snapped, her frustration boiling over. “You don’t get to dictate what I can or can’t do! I’m not your little project to fix!”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You felt a mix of hurt and anger swell within you, but you fought to keep your composure. “I’m not trying to fix you, Jinx. I just want you to realize that you don’t have to do this alone! We’re a team, remember?”

“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want to be a part of your little team anymore!” she spat, her voice rising with each word. “I don’t need you holding me back!”

In that moment, the air between you crackled with tension, your emotions swirling into a whirlwind of hurt and desperation. Jinx stood before you, a whirlwind of defiance and ambition, and yet beneath it all, you could sense the fear of losing herself to the chaos she felt compelled to embrace.

“Jinx, please!” you shouted, your voice breaking with the weight of your plea. “I don’t want to lose you! You’re so much more than this rage and chaos.”

For a fleeting moment, the fire in her eyes wavered, and you could see the conflict churning within her. But it was quickly masked by anger once more. “You think I can just forget everything that’s happened? That I can pretend like Piltover isn’t crushing us every day?”

“I don’t want you to forget, but I want you to fight differently!” you exclaimed, stepping forward again. “You have the power to inspire people, to bring them together, to create change without losing yourself in the process! Please, just think about what you’re sacrificing!”

Jinx's eyes flicker with intensity as she steps back, her voice rising, “Do you think they’ll ever let me be anything else? The council, the enforcers—they see me as a criminal. Nothing I say or do is gonna change that.”

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. “But pushing them further won’t help, Jinx. You’re just giving them more reasons to hunt you down.”

Her jaw clenches, lips curling into a mocking smirk. “So, what, I just sit back? Let them make all the rules?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” you insist, struggling to keep your tone calm. “But every time you go after them, you’re risking more than just your life. There’s so much more here—so much more to us.”

Jinx scoffs, but there’s a flicker of hesitation in her eyes, like she’s torn between you and something much darker. “Maybe I don’t want them to have the last word.”

You step closer, lowering your voice. “And maybe I just want to keep you around a little longer.”

For a moment, the defiance softens, and she’s looking at you with something vulnerable, something almost gentle. But it fades quickly, her expression hardening again. “They’ve got you wrapped around their finger,” she mutters, pulling back.

Jinx’s words linger in the air, sharp and unyielding, but you refuse to let her pull away entirely. “I’m not on their side, Jinx. I’m just trying to keep you safe.”

She tilts her head, blue eyes narrowing in suspicion, her defiance still on full display. “Safe? And what do you get out of it, huh?” There’s a flash of something raw, almost accusing, as if daring you to admit you don’t understand her world.

Your hand finds hers, grounding her even as she looks ready to bolt. “Maybe I get to be around you. Just you, Jinx, not the fighter or the name they give you, but...you.”

Jinx’s smirk twists, her hand slipping out of yours like a shadow. “You think you can just talk me out of this?” Her tone turns mocking, eyes gleaming with something more volatile. “You think that’s all it’ll take to make me just… sit pretty, like some lapdog?”

“Jinx, that’s not what I meant,” you say, trying to keep calm. “I’m just saying that if you keep pushing this—”

“Then what?” she snaps, voice rising as she takes a step back, crossing her arms defiantly. “Then what happens? They take me down? They throw me in Stillwater?” Her voice is laced with venom, each word daring you to challenge her.

You hesitate, and that’s enough. She seizes it, her eyes narrowing. “See? Even you don’t believe I can make it out of this. You’re just like them.”

“That’s not fair,” you argue, feeling the sting of her words. “I’m here, aren’t I? I left everything to be with you!”

Jinx’s jaw tightens, but she doesn’t relent, her gaze icy. “Maybe you shouldn’t have. Maybe you’re just as blind as they are, thinking you can fix me.” Her words hit like a slap, each one colder than the last.

For a moment, you’re both silent, the air thick with hurt and frustration. Then, without another word, she turns, walking away before you can say anything else, leaving you alone in the hollow silence of her retreating footsteps. The storm you both had danced around finally erupted, and you felt the distance between you grow wider, the rooftop now a battlefield for hearts torn apart by ambition and fear.

You took a deep breath, your heart heavy with the weight of your earlier words. The air felt thick with unspoken words, the silence between you heavy as you struggled to find the right thing to say. You couldn’t let the anger fester between you; you needed to reach her before the distance became insufferable. So, you made your way back to the workshop, where the clatter of metal and the faint smell of burning circuits filled the air.

As you stepped inside, the scene was nothing less than chaotic, Jinx sitting in a stool surrounded by blueprints and makeshift weapons, her brow furrowed in concentration. But the moment you entered, she looked up, and her expression shifted—defensive, as if she expected an attack.

“Didn’t I tell you to leave me alone?” she snapped, her eyes narrowing. The defensiveness in her voice was like a shield, her anger a barrier against your concerns. It hurt to see her like this, closed off and unapproachable.

“Jinx, please, I want to talk,” you said, your voice soft but urgent. “I need you to listen to me.”

“What could you possibly say that I haven’t already heard?” she replied, turning back to her work, her shoulders tense with unspoken frustration.

You hesitated for a moment, the weight of your earlier argument heavy in your chest. “I want to apologize for what I said. I shouldn’t have pushed you away like that. I care about you more than anything, and the thought of losing you terrifies me."

Her laughter rang harshly in the cramped workshop, an indication of the walls she had built around herself. The tension hung in the air, a physical thing you could almost touch

“Jinx—” you started, but the words died in your throat when you caught a glimpse of a list she had spread across the table. As you leaned closer, your heart dropped. Among a scribbles of names, one stood out like a dreadful sight—your mother’s name, circled in red ink.

A memory flickers through your mind, warm and vivid. You recall a sunny afternoon when you were a early teenager, sitting on the porch with your mom, her laughter filling the air as she recounted stories from her own youth and listened to your struggles. You can almost feel her hand on your shoulder, her hugs, the comfort of her presence, her arms surrounding you. But now, that warmth feels cold and distant, faded under the weight of what you've learned.

The shock washes over you like a wave, pulling you under. You think back to the sweet moments you shared, and how quickly they turn bitter. Your breath hitches in your throat, and you struggle to process the contrast of that joyful day and the grim reality now laid bare before you.

“Why?” The word escapes your lips in a whisper, raw and laden with confusion and sorrow. Tears filling your eyes.

In that moment of clarity, you realize the stakes have changed. The girl you once knew and loved seems faded, and you’re not sure if she’ll ever come back. You lock eyes with Jinx, her expression shifting from mischief to concern. She can see the turmoil within you, but you’re not sure how to voice the storm brewing in your heart.

“Jinx, I—” you start, but the words don’t come. All that’s left is the weight of the moment, and the understanding that everything you care about is in jeopardy.

“What is this?” you whispered, your voice trembling along with your hands. 

“What does it look like? It’s my plan,” she snapped, her voice hardening as she faced you. The defiance in her eyes only masked the uncertainty that lay beneath, a wall you desperately wanted to tear down.

Your heart raced, shock settling deep in your gut. “This is a joke, right? You can’t be serious about this. My mother… she’s not your enemy. She’s done so much for people in Zaun trying to defend them against the rest of the council.”

“Your mother is part of the council,” she shot back, her tone cold. “She’s part of the problem.” Jinx’s words cut deep, fueled by resentment that had festered over the years.

“You don’t understand!” you cried, stepping closer, desperate to make her see. “She’s a good person! You don’t know what she’s done for this city. And you think killing her is the answer?”

Jinx crossed her arms defiantly. “It’s not personal; it’s necessary. If we want to change things, we have to take out the root of the problem!”

You processed her words for a couple of seconds.

“Necessary?” you echoed, disbelief lacing your voice. What about the cost, Jinx? Do you really believe this will fix anything? You’re playing with lives!”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “You keep saying I should just sit back and let Piltover crush us. You don’t know what it’s like down here!”

“I do know!” you shouted, the frustration boiling over. “I left my family for you! I chose this life because I believed in us! But you’re losing yourself in this havoc! You don’t have to lose yourself to fight back! You can be strong without becoming a fucking monster!”

Her eyes flashed with anger she stood up, and stepped closer, her voice dropping dangerously low. “And what if I want to be a monster? What if I want to prove I’m more than just the girl you fell in love with? I can’t be weak anymore!”

“Prove yourself? By hurting innocent people?” you pleaded, tears falling down your cheeks. “That’s not strength, Jinx! That’s surrendering to the dark!”

For a moment, her expression flickered, a crack in her fierce facade. “You don’t understand anything!” she shouted, hitting the table with her fist, but there was a tremor in her voice that betrayed her.

“Then help me understand!” you cried, feeling the tears spill over. “You’re pushing me away, and it’s breaking my heart! You don’t have to do this alone!”

The air between you crackled with tension, the fight spiraling into something deeper, more painful. You watched as Jinx wrestled with her emotions, caught between the hatred she felt compelled to embrace and the light that flickered within her. You could only hope she would choose to come back to you, back to the love that had once defined your world together.

You can see the storm brewing behind Jinx’s eyes—a mix of fury, confusion, and fear. “You don’t get it!” she shouts, throwing blueprints into the air, her voice breaking as she struggles to keep her composure. “Every day, I watch Piltover take everything from us. They don’t care about our lives, our pain! If I don’t fight back, then what’s the point?"

“Fighting back doesn’t mean becoming a killer!” you urged, stepping even closer, the desperation in your voice rising. “I understand your pain, I really do. But don’t let it consume you! You’re better than this!”

“Better than what?” she shot back, her fists shaking at her sides. “Better than taking control? Better than standing up for myself? I’ve spent my whole life feeling powerless, feeling weak. I won’t let that happen again!”

“Then prove that you’re strong enough to fight for change without sinking into the dark!” you pleaded, your own voice thick with emotion. “You can be a hero without losing yourself!”

Jinx scoffed, and you could see the mask of defiance slipping. “A hero? For who? For your precious council? They’ll just keep pushing us down while they live in their shiny towers! What do they care about us?”

“I care about you!” you shouted, the words pouring out in a rush. “I left everything behind for you, Jinx! Your voice trembled with the truth of your sacrifice, the raw emotion behind it echoing in the silence between you. You could feel your heart racing as you laid bare your feelings, desperate for her to understand the depths of your commitment. “You say you want to prove yourself, but this isn’t the way! You’re not a monster; you’re so much more than that!”

Her breath hitched, and for a fleeting moment, doubt crept into her fierce expression. But then she shook her head, frustration returning. “You think I can just turn my back on all of this? On everything I’ve worked for? You don’t see what it’s like for us! You’re blinded by your privilege!”

“Blinded? I chose this life! I chose to be with you!” you countered, anger and heartbreak blending into one. “But it feels like you’re choosing to push me away instead!”

Jinx’s gaze hardened once more, but the wavering in her voice betrayed her. “You don’t understand what it means to fight for your life every day, to feel like you have to become something you hate just to survive!”

“Then let me help you! Together, we can find a better way to fight—one that doesn’t destroy you in the process!” you urged, feeling the tears spill down your cheeks. “You’re not alone in this! You don’t have to be!”

“I’ve always been alone!” she shouted back, her voice rising with the pain of her past. “Do you think you can just swoop in and fix everything? You just think you know what it’s like!”

“You’re making it impossible to understand you! You’re shutting me out, and it’s tearing us apart!” you reply, stepping closer, heart racing as tears stream down your face like a waterfall.

The air between you crackled with tension, the weight of your argument hanging heavy. Jinx’s eyes searched yours, and for a moment, the fire of anger flickered, replaced by something deeper—a vulnerability she was struggling to confront.

“Every time I try to do something, it’s never enough,” she admitted, her voice trembling. The vulnerability in her admission caught you off guard, revealing the internal struggle she faced—the crushing weight of expectations and perceived failures. “I feel like I’m drowning in this chaos, and I don’t know how to swim anymore.”

“Then let me be your lifeline,” you urged, reaching out to cup her face in your hands, wiping away a tear that had escaped down her cheek. “You don’t have to bear this alone. We can face this together.” You stepped closer, your heart pounding as you tried to reach her, to show her that she didn’t have to fight this battle by herself. Your desperation to connect was palpable, a lifeline you hoped she would grasp.

But just as quickly as it appeared, her mask snapped back into place, and she pulled away from your touch. “I can’t risk losing you like I lost everyone else! I won’t let you down with me.”

“Jinx, you’re not going to lose me if you let me in!” you cried, your heart aching with every word. “But if you continue down this path, you won’t just lose your fight; you’ll lose yourself completely.” The gravity of your words hung in the air, a warning that resonated with both of you. You could see the flicker of fear in her eyes, the realization of what she stood to lose beyond the immediate struggle. “And I can’t bear to watch you destroy who you are.”

For a moment, silence hung heavy between you, both of you catching your breath from the weight of the confrontation. Jinx stood there, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, caught in the crossfire of her own inner demons.

“Just… just go,” she finally whispered, her voice barely above a breath. “I can’t face this right now,” she murmured, her voice cracking as she stepped away from you, the distance feeling insurmountable.

“No,” you said, shaking your head. “I won’t leave you like this.”

“I don’t want to hurt you!” she shouted, the anguish in her voice ripping through you. “But I can’t stop this. I need to do something! I have to prove that I’m not weak!”

“Prove yourself by being strong enough to choose love over hatred!” you pleaded, your heart racing. “By choosing to fight for a better future, not just revenge!”

Jinx faltered, the fire in her eyes dimming as the weight of your words settled over her. But just as quickly, her fierce expression returned, anger bubbling back to the surface. “You don’t get it! You have no idea what it’s like to fight for survival!”

“Then let me in, Jinx!” you yelled, frustration mixing with desperation. “Show me! Let me help you! But don’t push me away!”

The chaos of the workshop faded into the background as you stood there, raw and vulnerable, hoping for a spark of understanding to break through her defenses.

But as Jinx’s eyes searched yours, you saw the conflict raging inside her—a storm of emotions battling against the walls she had built around herself. You could only hope she would let you in, that she would choose love over the darkness that threatened to consume her.

You watched as Jinx’s expression hardened once more, the flicker of vulnerability snuffed out like a candle in the wind. Without another word, she turned and stormed out of the workshop, the door slamming behind her with a finality that echoed through the chaos.

She didn't return the next hours, days stretched into an agonizing blur, each moment dragging heavier than the last. You found yourself wandering through the cluttered workshop, tracing the familiar paths your fingers had taken alongside Jinx. Yet, the space felt emptier without her laughter and chaotic energy. Each tick of the clock was a reminder of her absence, and the worry gnawed at your insides like a relentless hunger.

Every time you thought of her, your heart ached at the image of her battling her demons alone, becoming someone you hardly recognized. It made you cry every. single. time.

One morning, after a particularly restless night, you woke to an odd feeling. The workshop was still, the hum of machinery absent, just as it had been since Jinx left. You padded over to the workbench where Fishbones usually lay, a symbol of Jinx's chaotic brilliance. But as you peered closer, your heart sank. The spot was bare; the blueprints were scattered, but the centerpiece of her latest creation was gone

“Jinx?” you called, your voice trembling in the stillness. But there was no response, just the echo of your own fear reverberating back at you. You ask yourself when did she came back, and why did she leave without a word.

Panic surged through your veins as you began to search the workshop frantically, rifling through the scattered tools and half-finished gadgets. You felt a sense of dread pooling in your stomach. “Where did you go now?” you whispered, the question hanging heavy in the air.

You forced yourself to remember the last time you’d seen her, the angry tears in her eyes and the fierce determination in her voice. She was on a mission—one you didn’t understand, one that scared you more than you could express. You ran a hand through your hair, pacing the room, your thoughts spiraling out of control.

Maybe she had gone to confront the council, to put her plan into action without you. The thought sent a shiver down your spine. You couldn’t let her do this alone, couldn’t let her plunge deeper into the dark. Not when you could still reach her.

With a renewed sense of urgency, you grabbed your coat and headed out, determination pushing you forward. You had to find Jinx before it was too late.

As you burst out of the hideout, the chaos of the streets collided with the weight of your heart. Gasps filled the air, and the acrid scent of smoke stung your nostrils. But nothing could prepare you for the sight that greeted you: a massive bomb soaring through the sky, headed straight for the council’s hall.

“No, no, no!” you shouted, horror washing over you as the realization sank in. You knew Jinx had been plotting something, but you hadn’t expected this—this was more than chaos; this was devastation. Your breath came in ragged gasps as you turned and sprinted towards the council building, fear pushing you forward.

Your heart raced as you burst into the council chamber, dread settling in your gut as the horror unfolded before you. The chaos of the scene blurred the edges of your vision, each moment stretching painfully as reality sank in. 

The remnants of the explosion painted a devastating picture—flames flickered hungrily, consuming the walls, and the air was thick with acrid smoke and the bitter scent of ash. The acrid scent of burning debris stung your eyes, mixing with the metallic tang of blood. And there, amidst the charred wreckage, lay your mother’s body—still and lifeless, a tragic stillness that felt like the world had shattered around you.

An unbearable weight pressed against your chest, Memories still flashing before your eyes: her laughter, the way she used to tuck you in at night, the warmth of her embrace on the darkest days. Each recollection a reminder of the love that had once seemed so invincible, suffocating you in your disbelief. 

As you fell to your knees beside your mother, the world around you faded into a blur of smoke and flames.”Mom.. mom please wake up, I'm so sorry, mom please, Im sorry” you begged, hoping that this was all just a dream. You reached out, fingers trembling, desperate to feel her warmth. But as your hand met her cold skin, a bone-deep realization shattered through the haze—this was real, and she was gone.

Then you heard hurried footsteps, and Caitlyn appeared, eyes wide with shock, horror painted across her features. She froze for a moment, her breath catching in her throat as she took in the devastation around her. But beneath the surface, there was something else—something darker. As her gaze landed on your mother’s body, disbelief washed over her, and she staggered back, nearly collapsing.

“Mom! No!” Caitlyn cried, her voice cracking as she knelt beside your mother. Tears streamed down her face as she gently shook her shoulder, desperation etched across her features. “Wake up! Please… you can’t leave us like this!, mom please!”

For a moment, it seemed she might break under the weight of her grief. But then her gaze snapped to you, fury igniting in her eyes. “Y-You did this!” she shouted, her voice slicing through the air like a knife as she stood up. “You chose that bitch over us! You couldn’t see it, could you? You were too busy chasing after a lost cause!”

“Caitlyn, I—” you started, but she cut you off, advancing toward you, anger radiating off her like heat from a fire.

“Do you even realize what you’ve done?” Her fists clenched, trembling with rage. “You had a family who loved you, who wanted to protect you. I loved you, more than anything, and you threw it all away for a girl who’s nothing but a psycho! You think this is love? Look where your choices got us!”

“I didn’t know!” you cried, the reality of your decisions crashing down on you. “I thought I could help her! I thought I could make her see!”

“See what?” Caitlyn’s voice rose higher, piercing your heart with every word. “That she’s a monster? You think she cares about you? Look at what she’s done!”

“I didn’t want this! I never wanted any of this!” you shouted back, tears streaming down your face. “If I had just listened—”

“Exactly! If you had listened!” Caitlyn’s voice cracked, emotion spilling over. “But you were too caught up in your fantasy! You think she loves you? All she’s ever done is use you! And now look at what it’s cost us!”

“Stop!” you yelled, feeling the walls close in around you. “You don’t understand! I was wrong! I thought we could be happy together!”

“Happiness?” Caitlyn scoffed, bitter laughter spilling from her lips but the tears never stoped. “You think you could find happiness with someone like her? You’re delusional! This is your fault! You’ve destroyed everything!”

“No, Caitlyn! I loved her! I thought I could save her! I thought I could prove them all wrong!” You were sobbing now, every word heavy with regret. “I didn’t think—”

“Of course, you didn’t think! You never do!” Caitlyn stepped closer, her eyes blazing with fury. “You only think about yourself and your stupid feelings! You’ve ruined our family because you couldn’t keep your head on straight!”

“Don’t say that!” You felt a fire ignite within you, fueled by your pain and loss. “You don’t know anything about love! You think pushing me away would have kept me safe? You just wanted to control me, to make me into someone I’m not!”

“Control?” Caitlyn laughed again, but it was a hollow sound. “You think I wanted to control you? I wanted to protect you! But you were too blinded by your infatuation to see it! And now—” Her voice broke, and for a moment, you saw the hurt beneath her anger. “Now, we’re all paying the price. You played your part in moms murder and you know it”

You choked on a sob, the weight of her words crushing you. “I never wanted to hurt anyone! I thought we could find a way to make it work! I thought you’d understand!”

“Understand what?” Caitlyn shouted, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “That you chose her over your own family? That you let her drag you down with her? You think she cares about you? You think she’s worth this?”

“Stop! Please stop!” you screamed, feeling the pain radiate through your chest. “You don’t know what it’s like! I thought she could be good! I thought I could be her light!”

“Light?” Caitlyn spat, the venom in her voice cutting deep. “You were just another toy for her to play with! You’ve wasted everything, and for what? For someone who will never change, for some piece of shit that killed our mother?”

“I was trying to save her!” you shouted, the realization crashing down on you. “I thought I could save her, but now... now I see what I’ve done! I swear Cait just please forgive me, i can't lose you two!, please Cait” your voice broked as you whispered the last sentence.

Caitlyn stepped back, her face pale, disappointment etched into her features. “It’s too late for that now. You’ve lost everything, and I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for this.”

The silence that followed was deafening, each of you standing amidst the wreckage of your family, the ruins of your love, and the body of the one person who had always believed in you. You felt hollow, the pain cutting deeper than any blade. Your sister’s words echoed in your mind, each one a reminder of the choices you had made and the lives that were now forever altered.

And as you both just looked at each other, the weight of your shared grief hung heavy in the air, a chasm between you that felt impossible to bridge. You had sacrificed so much for love, and yet, all you had left was the realization that in chasing after Jinx, you had lost everything that truly mattered.

The memories of laughter, warmth, and the comforting presence of your mother felt like a distant echo, now shadowed by the haunting truth of her absence. You closed your eyes, tilting your head down, trying to hold onto the fragments of those fleeting moments—her voice guiding you through life, the way her smile lit up your mood when everything felt like it was falling apart.

But now, every recollection was tinged with regret. You had followed a path paved with devotion to Jinx, believing it would lead to happiness. Instead, it had brought you to this desolate place, a barren landscape where love had turned to ashes. The bright flame of your passion had flickered out, leaving behind only the heavy smoke of loss.

You had given up everything, and for what? A chaotic whirlwind of emotions that left you empty.

In that moment of despair, you understood that love, while beautiful, could also be a cruel trick. You had thought you were strong enough to carry it all, but now you felt like a shell of the person you once were, lost in grief and heartache.

The silence around you was deafening, filled only with the echoes of your sorrow. And as the tears fell freely, you were left to confront the truth—some sacrifices were too great, and in the end, love could sometimes lead to a loss that felt insurmountable.

The silence around you was deafening, filled only with the echoes of your sorrow. As the tears fell freely, you felt the burden of the truth pressing down on you like a heavy weight—some sacrifices were too great, and in the end, love could sometimes lead to a loss that felt insurmountable.

Through the haze of your grief, a thought pierced the fog. You looked at Caitlyn, your heart aching with a mix of desperation and fear. “Caitlyn… am I going to Stillwater?” The question hung in the air, fragile and raw, reflecting the uncertainty that had taken root in your chest.

Caitlyn’s expression shifted, caught between sorrow and something darker. “I don’t know,” she replied, her voice low. “After everything... I don’t know what they’ll decide.”

The words felt like a cold slap against your skin. “But I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I thought I could fix things.” You swallowed hard, your voice trembling. “I thought I could save her.”

“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before,” Caitlyn said, the sharpness of her words cutting deep. “You had a choice, and you chose her. Now we all have to deal with the consequences.”

Your heart sank further at her words, but you couldn’t shake the fear clawing at your insides. “Caitlyn, please. I can’t go to Stillwater. I can't lose you too!” The plea spilled from your lips, desperate and raw.

She turned away, her shoulders trembling. “You already lost me. You made your choice.”

As you watched her walk away, a hollow feeling settled in your chest, the chasm between you two feeling unfixable. You had sacrificed everything for love, yet in the end, it was you who stood alone, lost amidst the ruins of your choices.

In that moment of despair, you understood the cruel irony: love, while beautiful, could also be a devastating force, leaving only ashes in its wake. And as you hold beside your mother’s lifeless body, the reality of your situation bore down on you like a shroud, suffocating and inescapable.

You had chased after a dream, only to awaken to the nightmare of your actions—a nightmare that now threatened to swallow you whole.

[phantomwithbreakfast]

~ Scarred For Half A Life ~

DP Phan Fic.

[“You want to see a danger? You should see me in a crown.”]

So uh—this is a scene I have in mind for my story. Because of the song, yes!

I mean, I already wrote it down, to add later on into the story! And I was really enthusiastic about it, so I drew Danny with a crown. An ugly crown (because it’s made out of paper). [sketch lurking at the bottom]

If you want you can read and follow it! But—BEWARE!

———————

Genre: Angst / Hurt And Comfort (and a little Horror)

AU — OOC

Trigger Warning: Emotional Distress — Violence — Graphic Content

Rating: M

———————

Summary:

Danny had been captured by the GiW once again, or so he thinks. Leaving him feeling utterly helpless—vulnerable. There was nothing he could do. What will happen to him? And why again? (Summary might change as the story goes on)

———————

So, this is a piece of that potential chapter:

“Wait! Don’t move. I want to take a picture!” Jazz exclaimed, her voice brimming with excitement as she reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone.

Danny groaned, rolling his eyes. “Seriously? A picture? What are you, my dad?”

Jazz ignored his protest, already angling the camera toward him. “Come on, Danny, it’s your birthday. Let me have this.”

He sighed, slouching slightly. “Fine, but make it quick. And don’t expect me to smile like an idiot.”

Jazz smirked. “Oh, don’t worry. You’re already an idiot. The crown just completes the look.”

Danny couldn’t help the small grin tugging at his lips as she snapped the photo, capturing him sitting there with the gold paper crown tilted slightly on his head, a mixture of amusement and irritation in his glowing green eyes.

“There,” Jazz said triumphantly, glancing at the picture on her phone. “Perfect. I’m definitely keeping this one.”

———————

And a piece of the scene with the song in my head that plays in the background:

“Phantom,” she said icily, her voice like a blade. “You’re not my son. You’re a danger. I was merciful letting you stay this long.”

That was it. That was the final crack that shattered the fragile restraint Danny had been holding onto. His aura flared violently, glowing with an intense, cold light that filled the room, making the shadows dance erratically on the walls.

“You wanna see a danger?” Danny growled, his voice dropping into something almost inhuman, vibrating with power as his feet lifted off the ground. His white hair swirled beneath the gold paper crown, caught in an invisible wind as the room seemed to grow colder by the second.

Danny’s arms hung by his sides, his fists clenching tightly. A brilliant green energy began to materialize, steam curling off his fingers like fire, licking up his forearms in tendrils of raw power.

“You should see me in a crown.”

A burst of cold ectoplasmic energy erupted from Danny’s palms, shooting straight toward Maddie with icy precision. She dove to the side, flipping the table over in one swift motion to shield herself. Plates shattered, the pancakes splattered across the walls, and the dining room filled with a deafening roar of energy.

———————

As for my own commentary about my DP drawing…

I hate drawing hands, and I don’t like to draw shoes. Maybe because I just can’t!! I’m not good at drawing mouths either, or I was just having a bad day at drawing. And we are definitely not going to talk about the nose. I have zero idea what went wrong with coloring/painting, and I couldn’t fix it at that moment. Maybe I was hurrying it, don’t care. I wanted it out of my head! And I really wanted to share this, because I like it for once, something of my own. As for the style, still searching my own, trying things out, so at the moment, I have no idea what I’m doing. Might redo it later.

[dumbandfunn]

how cowboy!rafe and spoiled!reader met

it was a usual friday night in the local bar, the few regular rowdy ranchers and the occasional couple passing through just to grab a drink for their journey. it was nothing new. not until the door swung open more aggressively than usual and low and behold you stood in your pretty white sundress, mascara stained under eyes and demanding somebody to tell you “where the hell you were.” rafe had been on high alert the minute he lay his eyes on you, telling his usual drinking crowd to shut up while he took a sip of the whiskey he had been clinging to the entire night. you looked so helpless, fragile, rambling to the bar tender who seemed to not care about anything but how low the cut on your dress was. his eyes were trailing from where you had perched yourself back to the pervy wandering heads from the countless men who had all fallen silent at the chaos you had created from nothing. “are you even listening to me,” you pout, lip still wobbling whilst you slammed a hand down against the wooden counter. “i need somebody to help me, im lost and—” you sniffle.

an older man sitting across from you had piped up with an “ain’t nobody gon’ help you in these parts little lady, not with that attitude,” and that only made you cry harder. “but i’m lost,” you huff out, your tears quick to turn to the sweetest angry pout rafe had probably ever seen as you turn to the few people who were only watching in amusement, oh how they hated pretentious city girls. rafe’s eyebrows were raised, maybe it was then, as you started to bicker with a rancher twice your size that he needed to know more about you. and why the hell a girl like you was in a place like this in the first place. you left with a pretty loud bratty scream after nobody showed any interest in helping you, the distant laughs of the scene you’d caused echoing behind you as you sniffled back your tears and kicked at the car that had put you in the unfortunate situation in the first place. it wasn’t like rafe to follow, especially after someone like you, not that he came across anyone like that much in the first place. a clearly spoiled, city princess. maybe it was just the little white dress you were wearing, maybe he was just as pervy as the rest. he just couldn’t leave a little helpless thing like you to your own devices in a place he knew too well. or maybe he just needed you the second his pants got a little tighter when you were leaning across the bar a few minutes prior.

but less than two seconds after your tantrum he was hot on your heels, waving off the whistles that followed when the doors swung behind him. “so y’need help?”

a knight in shining armour, just a minute too late, it was tantrum city now after not getting your way.

“not from any of you anymore,” you spat out, folding your arms over your chest, narrowing your eyes at the young man who took a small step closer, taking his hat off and raising both hands up in defense, “well, you didn’t choose the best place to come cryin’ for help, alright, s’all i’ll say doll.” “—so y’gonna tell me what happened or you just gon’ sit here cryin’ all night,” he mutters out. you frown up at him, clearly in a conflict about standing your ground or getting out of the hell your car had broken down in. maybe your stubbornness had gotten the better of you, how you turned your nose up at him and quickly looked away, only for a hand to land firmly on your jaw a minute later, squishing your cheeks and staring you down with those stern blue eyes. “i told you this not the place to come cryin’ for help, s’tell me whats wrong before i go back inside and leave you here all on your own, hm? you want that?”

you shook your head almost immediately, eyes widened and lips parted. nobody had spoken to you like that in your entire life. and the way your eyebrows creased and your lip started to vibrate again, rafe knew he had you right where he wanted you. “my car broke down, can you fix it” you whisper.

“they don’t teach you manners in the city?”

you managed to squeak out a please, just as his free hand reached to brush a few stray hairs out of your face, licking his thumb and swiping the clumps of mascara from under your eyes. “now that wasn’t so hard was it doll?” and you shook your head again, nervous and chewing down on your bottom lip. he really did have you right then and there, someone who could handle your tantrums and someone who could knock the attitude from your lungs with something as simple as an eyebrow raise.

everyone was shocked to see you curled under rafe’s arm the following friday in his usual corner of the same bar, feet swinging and dazed. nobody would dare say a bad word about you again.

[itsswritten]

Earth's Song

Pairing: Azriel x fem reader

Word Count: 795 (she's a drabble)

Warnings: Difficult birth is briefly mentioned no major details though.

Summary: Fairies are made for the wind & sun <3

Wings Masterlist

You could see it, just beyond the archway. Only a step away, the golden streams of rays filtering over the flowers. The breeze, a scent of fresh grass, pollen and peonies filling your senses– so close you could almost taste it. The melody of the earth was calling to you, its creatures and plants singing in a verse only you could hear upon your arrival. Your lips tugged into a gentle smile across your tired expression. 

Oh you had missed this.

A soft gurgle pulled you from your musings, your gaze settling down on the little bundles that were swaddled to your front. Your babes, twin sons. Only weeks old. Could they hear it too? The earth's music? it’s song, it’s heartbeat– you were sure they could. Certain they felt it in their bones just like you.

“Isn’t it wonderful..”, you whispered to them, leaning down to press a gentle kiss on the tops of their heads. Wefts of hair as dark as their fathers atop, and their scent so inexplicably yours and his.

“My love…” Azriel spoke, an ache in his tone that seemed consistent with any action you did nowadays. You had tried to step forward, feet moving past the tiles of the River House subconsciously into the outside that was calling you–calling your sons too. Any action you seemed to make these past few weeks only made your mates heart lurch.

“Azriel…” your tone was gentle but firm, your free hand subconsciously rubbing the backs of your babes who were nuzzled against your chest. Their eyes slowly opened and closed under the gentle glow of the sun that reached within the doorway of the house. “I want to– need to feel the earth,” you replied. 

It had been several weeks since you had been outside, several weeks since you brought your baby boys into this world. The birth had been difficult. A thought you didn’t want to dwell on, but something you knew was still very prevalent as you felt your mate's supportive hand press against the small of your back. His free hand still looped with your arm for stability.

It had taken a great deal of convincing for him to bring you here, to let your boys experience the world beyond the safety of the house walls. Azriel, ever the protective Shadowsinger, had been beside himself when he’d almost lost you. The birth of your twins—Illyrian-winged miracles born of a meadow faerie—had been far from easy. The ordeal had left you in a deep, unnatural slumber, robbing you of those precious first days with your sons. It was a cruel twist of fate, one that left you fragile in body and spirit. Even the sacred traditions of your kind had been set aside in the wake of it all.

And well, Azriel’s protectiveness had grown to a level you didn’t know was possible. You understood though. Didn’t blame him; if the roles were reversed, if you’d almost lost him, you weren’t sure what kind of person you’d become in the aftermath. But you were still here. Healing, growing stronger with every passing day.

So you convinced him, explained to him how fairies were made for the wind and sun, your boys, despite only being half of you– needed this too.

You watched as your mate hesitated, bringing you this far had gone against every instinct he had, but as he gazed into your reassuring smile he nodded. Gently moving with you, each step at a time. Your bare feet feeling the soft grass under your pads. The sensation sent a shiver through your body and as you began to ground yourself tears filled your eyes.

The evening sun basked it’s golden hour upon your skin, it’s rays warming your flesh in a way you hadn’t felt in weeks. You had missed this. 

Your babes stirred softly, their tiny forms swaddled snugly against your chest. Their warmth grounded you further. You inhaled deeply, the scent of the flowers and the earth beneath your feet blending with the faint sweetness of your sons.

Azriel’s wings rustled softly behind you as he stepped closer, his shadowed presence a constant comfort as you let yourself lean back against him. You glanced up at him, your tear-filled eyes meeting his gaze, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. 

Wordlessly, he leaned down, his lips brushing against your forehead, his gaze moving to his sons pressed against you with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “I love you– I love you all so much,” he whispered, voice rough with emotion.

Your smile was the only reply he needed. Your expression looking fuller than it had done in weeks. And then you hummed, eyes closed as you harmonised along to the earth’s song.

a/n: a little wings drabble, our first snippet at seeing the baby boys...which yes I've finally landed on names. Introducing...Rune & Rain <3

wings universe: @minaethrym @megscabinetofcurios @scorpioriesling @dottedhalfnotes

Permanent taglist: @sleepylunarwolf @daily-dose-of-sass @alittlelostalittlefound-blog @milswrites @amberlynn98 @marscardigan @illyrianbitch @lilah-asteria @writingcroissant @searchingforbucky

[sweeterelease]

regulus needs someone to kiss. pandora got him into this stupid muggle romance novel and while he can admit it's good writing, all the kissing going on inevitable makes him remember his past experiences, experience. he can't get his brain to stop comparing every affectionate scene with the three-way incident he had with barty and evan in third year. it wasn't even a kiss for merlin's sake, just awkward lips and cheeks pressing against each other, honestly, what were they thinking?

anyway, now he can't help the memory coming back whenever the male lead grabs his partner's face in his hands, it's actually a problem. so he'll listen to dorcas' just kiss someone else, that way those bastards won't be your only reference. dorcas is always right, maybe it could work. the issue now is where in earth does he get someone to kiss him?

he'll figure it out tomorrow. now, dinner is ready and he'll do pretty much anything to get his mind off the book’s happenings for a bit. regulus came in later than usual, the great hall is filled and it's kind of hard to walk through the sea of people, so he bumps into someone's back. shit, a gryffindo— oh hi reg, are you looking for sirius?

regulus stares into james potters' eyes, the boyish grin, he ponders. do the cons outdo the pros in this situation? would the consequences be worth it? hmm. james calls his name a second time and waits patiently, after a couple of seconds without response his eyes wander around nervously.

would you like to kiss me? he finds himself asking, in the middle of a crowded room, with his friends waiting for him at his house's table and his older brother looking at him curiously from across the hall.

james blinks once, twice, three and four times. he clears his throat and sorry, don't think i caught that right? it sounds out of breath, regulus can't tell if it's a good or bad sign.

regulus repeats himself, not sure what's so difficult about a yes or no answer. he continues with i need, um— experience, regulus feels a growing blush at that, definitely not a good sign.

experience. james calls, it's then when regulus catches the deep crimson around the older's cheeks, nose, neck? merlin, it's everywhere. is it really that embarrassing to be asked for a kiss by regulus? well then.

right. i apologize for asking that was— hands wrap around regulus' neck to pull him up. he can't do much but melt into james' embrace and take his kiss.

regulus blinks, he expected james to kiss like he does pretty much anything else, big, loud, unapologetic, and without holding back. but this kiss is tender, a tentative brush of the lips, almost fragile, and he holds regulus like he's made out of glass, like he's sad it has to end. frankly, it's sweet.

james pulls back and stares into regulus eyes, searching. he's shaking, regulus notices, and it takes until his feet meet the ground again to recover from whatever spell this man has put him through, actually— he's not sure it's over quite yet.

was that 'experience' enough? james rasps, brown eyes now glued to regulus' lips. he snakes both hands up the taller's back to mirror the ones still holding his jaw, relishing in the shivers he feels erupting. regulus stares into james potters' eyes again, the slightly bruised lips, he ponders.

no.

[yeahihyperfixtate]

♡ —infatuated!sylus x reader

content : fluff, light angst (reader is badly injured), mc!reader, sweetpie sylus confessing.

authors note : first sylus fic, might be a pt 2 about dating if demanded <3, req are open!

♡ — infatuated!sylus whose heart almost stopped when he watched you brush with death himself, your instinct to save others never failing to make his blood run cold. used to flirting with fate, laughing in the face of danger with his nine lives to spare, but you—oh, you didn’t have such a thing, especially in that terrifying moment, he realised just how much he couldn’t afford to lose you.

♡ — infatuated!sylus who is just as bloodied as you are, the difference being that the blood he wears is yours. hands trembling as he pulls you into his arms, frantically searching for any sign that you’re still with him, that you haven’t slipped away. his heart is racing, his breath hitching in his throat, until—thankfully, mercifully—he feels the faint rise and fall of your chest beneath his touch.

♡ — infatuated!sylus who swears he’s a religious man when he hears the faint whisper of his name, soft and weak, coming from your lips as he carries you away from the source of danger. his arms tighten around you, a desperate grip as if he could protect you from everything just by holding you close.

♡ — infatuated!sylus who’s voice, breathless from the scare and the overwhelming emotions that flood his chest, finds his words blurted out—his feelings, raw and unfiltered, like a confession that had been clawing its way up from his heart. “scaring me like that… that’s the worst prank you’ve ever played on me, kitten,” he chokes out, his voice both trembling and teasing, trying to cover the rawness of his emotion with humour. “i don’t know what i’d do without you, and i don’t ever want to find out. you hear me?”

♡ — infatuated!sylus who hears nothing but silence from you, no response to his desperate confession, until he feels it—a weak, trembling palm pressed against his cheek, gentle yet grounding. it threatens to catch the tear that slips, unbidden, from the corner of his eye. he looks down, and there it is: your soft, fragile smile, a tiny curve of your lips that speaks louder than words ever could.

♡ — infatuated!sylus whos eyes meet yours, hazy but filled with something that quiets the storm inside him. no words are muttered, but none are needed. in that one look, he sees everything—trust, understanding, love. his heart aches with a fierce, protective devotion as he leans into your touch, his hand covering yours as if afraid you might slip away again.

“i’ve got you,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion. “i’m right here, and i’m not going anywhere. ever.” the promise lingers in the air, carried on the breath of his fear and his relief, binding him to you more deeply than he ever thought possible. and he swears, in that moment, that he will never take a single second with you for granted again.

[0omillo0]

Comfort after a fight

a/n: This was such a heartfelt request! I can really imagine Bang Chan being incredibly tender and empathetic in this kind of situation. The idea of him comforting you after a moment of accidental hurt just shows how deeply he cares. He'd do anything to make it right again, and he'd definitely be the kind of person to sit with you through your toughest moments, never letting go.

this is for @hyunjins-orange-slice-too <3 thank you cutie!!

꒰ 🗯️ ꒱

It was a rough day for Bang Chan, and it showed. His shoulders sagged, face etched with exhaustion, and he barely managed a small smile as he stepped into the apartment. You had noticed his demeanor immediately, sensing that something was off, but you gave him space, as he often needed time to unwind before he opened up.

However, tonight was different. Tension hung heavy in the air, thick and palpable. You busied yourself in the kitchen, hoping to make him something to eat, a small gesture of comfort. But as you tried to talk to him, to check in, his responses were short, clipped. His patience was wearing thin, and you could feel the fragile balance between you beginning to fray.

“Hey, Chan… I made some dinner for us,” you said softly, walking over to where he sat slumped on the couch, scrolling aimlessly through his phone.

“Not hungry,” he muttered without looking up.

You bit your lip, trying not to take it personally. You knew he had bad days, that sometimes his own mind was his worst enemy, but the distance between you tonight felt unsettling. You sat down beside him, offering a small, tentative smile.

“Are you okay? You seem… off.”

At that, something snapped.

“Can you not?” His voice was sharp, cutting through the room like a knife. “I just need space, alright? Why do you always have to push? You don’t get it. I don’t want to talk!”

The words stung more than they should have, especially because you knew he didn’t mean them. But the suddenness of his outburst, the harshness in his voice, felt like a punch to the chest.

You recoiled slightly, blinking back the tears that were threatening to spill over. “I—I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to upset you…”

But it was too late. The floodgates inside you had opened. Your chest tightened, and the familiar, suffocating feeling of panic began to creep in. Your breath quickened, becoming shallow and erratic, and the room suddenly felt too small, the air too thick.

Chan, who had turned away in frustration, didn’t notice at first. But as the seconds passed, he heard it—your ragged breaths, the soft, choked sobs that you were desperately trying to hold back. He glanced over, his anger fading as quickly as it had come when he saw the state you were in.

Your hands were trembling, your eyes wide with fear, unfocused, and your breath was coming in short, panicked gasps. He had never seen you like this before, and the realization hit him like a ton of bricks: he had caused this. He had hurt you.

“Y/N,” he whispered, immediately softening, his own heart clenching with guilt. “Oh God, no…”

He moved closer, gently taking your hands in his. You flinched slightly at the touch, still lost in the grip of the panic attack, but he didn’t let go.

“Hey, hey,” his voice was low, soothing, filled with regret. “I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean it. I swear, I didn’t mean it.”

You couldn’t respond. Your mind was racing too fast, your body betraying you as you struggled to catch your breath. But Chan didn’t leave. He stayed there, his hands enveloping yours, grounding you.

“Breathe with me, okay? Just breathe,” he coaxed gently, his own breathing slowing as he demonstrated for you. “In… and out. You’re safe. I’m right here.”

His voice was soft, a constant anchor in the storm swirling inside you. He repeated the words over and over, never rushing you, never leaving your side.

“In and out. You’re doing so good,” he whispered, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand. “I’m so sorry. Please… I’m so sorry.”

Eventually, the tightness in your chest began to ease, and your breathing, though shaky, started to even out. Your grip on his hand tightened, as if you were afraid to let go, and he responded by pulling you closer, enveloping you in a protective embrace.

“I’m sorry,” you managed to choke out, your voice small and broken. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” he interrupted quickly, holding you tighter. “Don’t apologize. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have yelled. I—I just had a bad day, and I took it out on you. That wasn’t fair.”

You buried your face in his chest, letting the last of the tremors fade as you breathed in his familiar scent, the one that always brought you comfort.

“I didn’t mean to push,” you whispered. “I just wanted to help.”

“I know,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “And you didn’t deserve that. I’m so sorry, Y/N. I hate that I made you feel like this.”

You could hear the guilt in his voice, the way it cracked with emotion, and it broke your heart. You knew he never meant to hurt you, and seeing how much it affected him now made it all the more clear.

“It’s okay,” you said softly, though your voice wavered. “I just… I was scared.”

“I know,” he whispered, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes filled with regret. “I promise, I’ll never let that happen again. I’ll be better.”

There was silence for a moment as you both took in the gravity of what had just happened. But the weight of it slowly lifted as he continued to hold you, grounding you with his presence, his warmth.

“I love you,” he whispered into your hair. “I’ll do better. I swear.”

You nodded against him, feeling the sincerity in his words. And though the panic had left you drained, there was a sense of relief in knowing that he was there, that he understood.

“I love you too,” you whispered back.

And as you sat there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the storm inside you calmed, replaced by the steady, reassuring beat of his heart.

[lady-ashfade]

Other skin: Yandere!Characters reaction to a female demon slayer landing on you.

Plot: They watch a woman fall on you and her…chest is in full view in front of your eyes, and she flirts with you.

Reader: imagined female but no pronouns.

Notes: I just thought of Tegan and his wives reactions and I got excited, I love jealous yanderes.

Characters: Tengen & Makio, Suma and Hinatsuru, Mitsuri Kanroji, Sanemi Shinazugawa.

Disclaimer: I have not read the manga so most of the reactions are based on the show and fics I have read. So please forgive the inaccuracy.

The place was filled with other demon slayers from all types, sizes and skills that varied from race or religion. It was unlike anything you had seen before and the couple related in that way, this was something special. The lovers watched you closely as soon as you came into view to keep you safe and sound, but let you explore for just a few before wanting to smother you.

So their eyes followed you as you greeted people or looked at the decorations around, even the food tables with happiness in your eyes. They were taking amongst themselves at how cute you looked with such a innocent sparkle in your eyes. But soon they watched you get tackled to the ground unexpectedly, not watching anything else but you so it slipped their sight. The couple rushed over quickly, Tengen was the first to get there.

You groaned at the impact you took and your head ached. Weight pressed on your chest and it made you open you eyes slowly with the pain still in your head. But unlike meeting a face you were meet with a woman’s cleavage in front of you at eye level. Your face heated up quickly and eyes getting wide, you snapped your head up to the woman’s eyes. “Oh? What a lovely expression.” Her lips curled in a smirk as she ran her tongue across the outline, her tone smug and confident.

“Don’t get embarrassed, makes me wanna eat you up.” Her hands pressed harder onto you and you only got more flustered. Her hips sat on yours and everything about what was happening was too much to process.

Suma was terrified at first of how you could have hurt yourself, then as she got closer she saw the woman onto of you. She teared up quickly at how she got to be on top of you, how she pressed into your skin. She cried for her to get off of you. Makio of course was scared of you getting hurt but she was more angry to yell at the person, knowing the others would check you first so she could handle the bitch. But, when she saw your eyes meet her chest…She was pulling out her weapons quickly, how dare the woman take advantage of you? Hinatsuru was of course just like suma, but over all just very scared for you. Had your head took a big hit or how was your back and body? She was in motherly mood. Just like the other girls she got jealous of the woman, her perfect baby must be so scared right now.

Tengen was pissed from the get go, how dare someone crash into somone as fragile as you? Being a harisha he had speed, so he got there first to witness what the woman said. His eyes twitched and he had to refrain himself from slicing the woman’s head off. His aura was filled with rage he looked like a monster. He noticed how she pressed her body closer to you, her hands on your chest, flirted with you and got you shy.

“Come one, tell me your name?” She took her hand off your chest and went to touch your face but her wrist was grabbed in a death grip. Both of you looked up to see tengen looking at her with a smile that sent shivers down your spine. “They are off limits to the likes of you.” He flashed a toothy grin and threw her hand to the side, next thing you knew was being picked up into the air and his arms around you. The woman landed on the ground with a annoyed, “And who are you?”

A gasped left your lips when you saw a fist hit her cheek and quickly took notice it was Makio who punched her. The two other woman pulled her back and screamed it was enough as she tried to go after her. The woman got up quickly and dusted herself off and walked off quickly, leaving all of you behind with a stomp in her step. “Leave it.” Tengen ordered and they stopped and obeyed his orders.

Suma came over and cried about how she was sorry the woman got to close. “She wasn’t even that pretty, how could she touch you like that?” She was so jealous. Makio crosses her arms and slightly yelled at you for looking at her, or how you didn’t try and get away from her. “She was a hag, how could you blush like that? Its pathetic.” She was still fuming at the thought of you looking at another woman. Hinatsuru checked you for bruises or cuts, any signs of harm she could have done to you. “Did she hurt you? What a horrible person, look at you. So shook up, don’t worry she’s gone.”

You couldn’t leave their side the rest of the night, no matter how you tried. It took so long to convince tengen to put you down. They hated not being there for you, it only pushed them closer to taking you away…

Mitsuri hated leaving you alone even for a second, the thought of someone else hurting you or something happening to you. She couldn’t handle the thought. But now she lost you in a crowded market place and she panicked at the lose of your hand in hers, that she forced you to hold, and had no sight of you. Her voice got lost in the sound of so many others, she pushed through the people and looked for you but kept getting pushed back.

This was supposed be a fun day were she could spend every second with you and she wouldn’t look suspicious. She could hold your hand, be close to you, keep you in her sight and blame it on the worry of losing you. But now she saw her mistake on taking you here, she shouldn’t take you on busy days or anywhere this big.

Making it passed the crowd she took a deep breath and searched around for you. When she saw your outfit and a woman on top of you she froze in place. Another woman touching you, sitting on your lap, getting to be so close. It made her see red. She saw you blush at the sight of her chest and wondered if you’d blush like that if it was her.

“Tell me your name cutie.” Her voice sounded so sensual and it only made it worse. Mitsuri was inches away now and glaring at the woman, wanting to tackle her to the ground and away from you. But she smiled like she aways does and appeared next to the woman’s face with a huge smile. “Mind getting off them? I’m sure they don’t appreciate it.” Her cheery tone and smile didn’t match her energy at all, and you knew her well to notice.

“And who are you? This one’s mine?” Mitsuri took a moment of staring at the woman to giggling, making you both confused. “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear, I wasn’t asking.” The weight disappeared off your body as Mitsuri kicked the woman off of you and sent her rolling away. You stared in shook as her expression didn’t change from a sweet one. “This one will never belong to the likes of you.” She pulled you up and gripped ahold of your waist and pulled you close to her.

“I’ll make sure of that..”

He’s always dragging you away from others and doesn’t care what gender they are, if they aren’t him? Then they don’t deserve your time. So it’s hard to get a chance away from him since he doesn’t let you out of sight while he’s around. He sees you as something everyone should want, but you can’t fight them because you’re weak. (Even if you’re a demon slayer or a harisha, he doesn’t care)

He was coming back from a mission and waited for your presence and he looked around the butterfly mansion for you. He missed you in every way, to your smell to your smile and how you made him feel calm but so many other strong emotions. When he opened the door he found something that he couldn’t comprehend. He felt so many things that he stopped working for a minute.

A unknown woman straddling you and her chest in full view in front of your face, her body presses up against you. The look on your face was enough to show that you were embarrassed and flustered, how you tensed up. He is the one to get straight to the point and wouldn’t care who she was. She was coming off of you.

He walked over with the most calm expression and didn’t make a sound, only his footsteps could be heard. You noticed him first and got scarred at his expression. He didn’t say anything as he took a fist full of her hair and dragged her off of you, throwing her to the ground and standing in front of you.

“It’s considered disrespectful to touch something that doesn’t belong to you. They, are mine and I should kill you.” He laughed and got his grin, his fire coming back. “I’ll give you five seconds before you see why harishas are the highest rank.” She run out the door quickly and left without a peep. Then his attention was on you and you got a sick feeling in your stomach.

“Want to tell me what that was about?” He kneeled and got close to your face, “Did she touch you worse then what I saw?” Stuttering you explain what had happened and how it was a accident but he didn’t truly by it. Or he believed your intentions but not hers.

“If I see something like that again you’re getting punished as well,” he took ahold of your chin and yanked you forward. “Understand? No one touches you but me.” You had no choice but to agree.

She was reported dead in a week.

[rqnarok]

LINGER | 4,3k

old man!logan x fem!reader

SUMMARY: Being another mutant who survived Charles’ seizures, you are forced to live alongside Logan. The things between you and Logan goes on and off, fragile and indefinite—yet it always lingers.

TAGS AND WARNINGS: smut, mdni! mentions of blood, death, and grief (not logan), lots of angst but lots of fluff too, old man!logan x mutant!reader but unspecified mutation so it’s up to you! minor injuries, nightmares, miscommunication, kind of slow burning (?), pining, logan calls himself ‘old man’ several times, petnames, reader being called ‘kid’ by logan, unrequited love but actually requited (just angst all over…), logan howlett is bad at feelings, love confessions, virgin!reader, dirty talk, praise kink, p with little plot, fingering (f receiving), insecure!reader and insecure!logan, logan loves reader, unprotected p in v.

NOTES: not proofread! bello! ‘m not new to writing but new to writing fan fictions hehe! old man!logan is kinda my everything and this fic is kindaaaa self indulgent. listened to “linger” by the cranberries while writing this :0 feel free to send reqs and feedback to my inbox. this was mere my writing practice and my attempt to gain motivation in life. oh, sorry for the spelling and grammar mistakes, eng is not my first language! hope this isn’t my first and last fic.. see u all <3 or not....:p

'Shamed what happened back in the East. 

A saying you heard but don’t know where. Even who said it. Still, you remember all of it—their cries of death, their pain, their suffering. 

A haunting vivid memory in X-Mansion, where all of your friends are lying on the ground, in pain—and you could not do anything. You just watched. In pain, too. There was a thought which you think that it was the end. You were already accepting it with open arms, welcoming your exit.

Then your mutation saved you from your fate. Your survival, at the price of grief. 

“You’re doing it again.” 

Jolted by his comment, you dart your eyes away from the road and into your lap. “Do what?” You mutter quietly, not sure if he even hears it. 

But he always does. “Never mind.” Logan sighs in the damp air. You both know it is better not to talk about what exactly happened back then. Talking is not what you two are best at either. “I asked you a question earlier, you hungry?” 

“A little, yeah. Yeah.” Your gaze sways to his driving figure: how his right hand grips the steering wheel way too tightly, how his soft blue shirt is all wrinkled, how his tired eyes look with those heavy eye bags, and the grey hairs all over his untrimmed beard. He looks worn out. But so are you.

The two of you have been doing this for God knows how long. Wandering from one place to the other with Charles in the backseat. Looking for a place to settle but not really looking for it either. It’s simply a suicide travel. 

He makes a turn towards a cheap-looking diner on your left. 

Northern Mexico. 

A place where you both decided to settle indefinitely. Alongside Charles, who lives in the abandoned smelting plant not so far away. Logan takes up a job as a limo driver in El Paso and every time you tell him you don’t want him to be so far away during the daytime, he always says: One of us has to earn the money, kid.

Kid. 

To this day, after time living together, you aren’t sure of the nature of the relationship between you and Logan. Companions? Friends? Strangers?

Well, one thing you are sure of is you are not his adopted child and he does not see you in that way, either. He sees you in the same way he sees Charles, as his responsibility. 

Before all this, you were aware of him: what he looked like, his mutation, his reputation. But you do not know him personally. You passed him once or twice in the hallways after your studies. That was it. 

All of a sudden, he’s all you have. The only other sane mutant you are fully sure, survived Charles’ seizure. Still, you two weren’t friends before and sure aren’t friends now. In this shared house, you and Logan are strangers—forced to live together on the sole base of sentimentality.

Deep down, you know there is something more. Something vulnerable, down there. Something fragile. There are moments like where-

Your thoughts are frozen by the sudden creaking sound of the front door. The sight of Logan all bloody and bruised entered your wandering vision. The book you were reading is now abandoned as you get up from the comfortable sofa. 

“W-what happened?” Rushing into him with quick movements, this is not the first time he returns all beaten up but it is still a blow to you every single time. You can’t stand the thought of losing another person in your life, even if you convince yourself that he is a mere stranger. 

His white shirt has reds in many parts, and he’s bleeding all over the house, “Some fuckin’ kids tried to mess up with the limo. F-fuck.” With the blood smeared all over his hand, he managed to get into the shared bathroom, his breath coming out short. 

“Wait!” You rushed to his figure with an aid kit in your trembling hands. He slouched forward, cursing himself. Gently, you wrap your arms around him before he falls and help him lean his back on the white tiles behind. 

He shakily opened the buttons of his shirt and you could see everything. While you grab all you need and start cleaning his wounds, he looks at you with his half-lidded eyes. The intense gaze that always makes you want to shy away from him—you are not so sure why. 

After a while, you kneel beside him and break eye contact, “Did you kill them?” you question him carefully as you tread his wounds. Not sure how he would answer tonight. 

Logan grunts when you touch one of his nasty wounds, still looking at you,  “No. But you should see them.” 

You feel uncomfortable at his reply, retreating your hands and facing the mirror, looking down at the sink, “I don’t want to see them, Logan.” At some point, as you search around for more supplies to treat his injuries that still haven’t healed by his mutation, you break down crying. Out of your realisation, you have been holding back your worries and sobs since you saw him. 

Logan, who notices this, pulls you abruptly into him and seats you on one of his thighs. “Hey, hey, why y’crying huh? Hm?” 

You hate this. You hate how you suddenly cry at the sight of him, at the reminder that this is all finite. His big calloused hand starts rubbing up and down your back, gently shushing you. You hate how he knows you all too well by now. 

“I told you to stop doing the job. I-I told you that this… this would happen. I’m always scared. I thought— ” You let out one big sob or whimper, you’re not so sure. Not when he’s cradling you in his arms like this. “You can’t heal like you used to, you can’t barely–”

“Hey, shh, pretty girl,” Pretty girl. You blush at that. “I’m here with you now, aren’t I? That’s all that matters.” He shushed you oh, so tenderly. Such a paradox could live inside a man like him. Logan forces himself to smile, “Aren’t I? Come on, feel me up.” Logan sits you up straight on his lap. 

He always does this. Giving out, you delicately place both of your hands on the sides of his face, feeling him up. He watches you brush around his greying beard while holding your waist in place, drawing circles on your skin. “There ‘ya go. I’m here.”

When you feel calm down and tired, you rest your heavy head on his shoulders, “Maybe I should take a turn going to town–” 

He cuts you off while lifting your chin, forcing you to look at him right in the eyes that you were trying so hard to dodge. Without him saying any words, you know he is saying no. Your assumption is confirmed when he shakes his head slightly, looking down at you sternly. 

“It’s just me and you, Logan.” You say meekly and defeatedly. 

“Exactly. That's why it’s gotta be me, baby.” 

Moments later, you continue mending his cuts. And moments after that, you’re both lying together on the bed. Holding each other in slumber. Your head on his chest, his hands on your back. 

Through these delicate moments, you know him. That he is not simply a stranger to you. That this means something more. 

But he does not talk about those moments. Which makes you feel like your perspective is an illusion that you made by yourself, untrue. A false memory that you created in your head because you do feel something for him. 

In the morning, you wake up alone. Logan is nowhere to be seen around the room. Only traces of his scent are left on the white sheets wrapping around your figure. 

When you open the bedroom door, there he is. Sitting on the kitchen chair, his slouched back facing you while he sips on his black coffee which he secretly hates. He likes the coffees that you frequently make for him more. You don’t know that. He never told you. 

“Logan?” you call out to him. But he didn’t budge away from reading the newspaper. As if you weren’t there at all. As if moments like last night never happened. As if it’s true that you are merely a responsibility to him. A burden, even. You hang your head low at his ignorance and retreat to your room.

Such a paradox could live inside a man like him. 

Other moments happened too. One afternoon, his phone suddenly rings while he is out visiting Charles. With all the self-control you have, you try to ignore it, ignore everything that connects to him because it upsets you. But your curiosity gets ahead of your mind and you pick his phone up. 

“Hello?” you place the thing on the side of your left ear. No sound, nothing, nada. Before you know it, you feel a presence behind you and Logan is looking down at you with that look again. 

Snatching his phone away from you, not so gently, he mutters, “How many times do I have to tell you not to touch my stuff, huh?” The way he remarks and the way he looks at you makes you feel small and embarrassed. These are the moments where he is not going to cradle you in his arms–you know that. 

Your eyes darted to the floor. The lines on the wood oak floor suddenly seemed very interesting, “I’m- Your phone wouldn’t stop ringing. So I thought–” 

“You thought? What? You have the right to?” Logan cuts you off before you finish your poor excuse of explanation. “You have your own pile of shit and I have mine. Stay out of my shit. You understand?” 

Sometimes there are sparks of rage inside of you that make you gain bits of confidence, “Well, we technically live in the same place, so–” 

Though, Logan quickly dims off that spirit by not letting you finish, “Understand?”

You limit yourself to a nod in agreement because you don’t trust your voice. Confusion often fills up your body to the brim. These are the moments you hate. How he treats you differently at one time and another. You hate how he makes you so weak. You hate how he has you wrapped around his fingers. You hate that you don’t have the same effect on him. 

“It’s not your fault, darling.” Charles reasons you one time when you visit him for weekly check-ups. “That man has issues! Even after all these years, I still could not fully understand him and his... complexities.” You force your lips to quirk up a little and pretend as if you justify that, too. But you're in so deep.

Weeks after weeks, it went on like that. You, confused. Logan, indifferent all the time. You miss his touches. Was it just a game to him?

Paralyzed, the color red clouded your vision. You see bodies lying everywhere, dead bodies. The room smells like dread. With what is left, your power manages to slow down the pain that rushes in you. Protect you from the incursion. 

Here, there is no way to hide. Their cries echo through the halls. Their screams still haunt you. 

If you could have saved yourself, you could have saved them too. But you watched them die.

You watched them die. 

You watched them die. 

Inside the dark of your room, you did not realize that you had been thrashing and screaming in your sleep. The nightmare came to you again. Grief shows through in the form of tears, flowing into your cheeks as you open your eyes in fear, “I let them die, I let them die, I let them die–” 

“Sweetheart?” a voice comes from outside your room. Near but so far away.

You kept repeating those words until a figure finally came up in front of you, Logan. He calls out your name, “Hey, no, no–” Now he is touching you all over, trying to stop you from moving rapidly and hurting yourself in the process. Sitting you in front of him and making you face him. Closing your eyes for a brief second, your chest heaving up and down, you remember again and you panic, “I-I watched them die–” your voice wavers. 

“No, shh, keep those eyes open. You’re okay. I’m here.” His hands hold your face and his thumb brush off some of the hair in your wet cheeks. 

“I could’ve saved them. They were dying, they were in pain–” You cry out as the scene on that day played out again. Daunting and haunting you without your consent. Always lingering around on the back of your neck. Only one person knows what it feels like.

Logan’s eyes soften while he remembers that bitter memory too, “So were you,” His voice coaks out, soothing you, “So were you. ‘s not your responsibility.”

At this, you put your arms around his neck and grip him tightly, finally comprehending what is happening. “Calm down, baby. Logan’s here. ‘M not leaving.” He hushed you back to your senses. 

After minutes of him comforting you in silence, his eyes dart to your bleeding lips which you bite to stifle your sobs. With much surprise, Logan parts them and caresses them. Looking at them then back at your eyes, then at your lips again. Your foreheads are now touching and you find yourself nose-to-nose to him.

In your chest, your heart beats so loudly that you fear he may actually hear it. Then with that look that he gives you again, every logical thought and pride you were trying to build, collapses inside you, making you putty in his arms. As you always do. 

But tonight, something more is happening, “Logan.” You managed to call out his name in a whisper, begging for something. He feels the same way too, “I know, baby. I know.”

Logan scans your face, searching for any signs of discomfort as he starts to kiss each one of your cheeks. He tells himself repeatedly in his mind, “No, not her. Anyone but her, you dipshit. You’ll lose her if you do this.” A belief that he has been telling himself every day.

What you don’t know about Logan, after all this time, is how he is afraid that if he touches you, if he shows you his feelings, you will be gone from this world. If he cares about you, he will lose you. He is in fear that the cruel world will take you away. As it always does to people he cared.

Bad shit happens to people I care about. And he managed to hold onto this thinking and compose himself every time.

Until now. 

Your whimpers and pleads get to him–he cannot hold back anymore, he doesn’t want to hold back anymore. He peppers your face with kisses, everywhere but where you need him the most, your lips. “L-Logan…” you feel your face getting hotter every moment. “Ah, p-please–”, you greedily grind your lower body onto his thighs. 

“Fuck, sweetheart.” He groans while breathing all over your face, “You have no idea what I would do to you, the shit I’d do for you.” One of his hands gets under your nightgown and he succeeds in squeezing your tit. “Ah!” you squeak in surprise and quickly get embarrassed when he chuckles at the noises you make. 

When your gaze meets him, the force can no longer be stopped. What you both try to bury deep down, what you two were locking away in a box, is bolting itself abruptly. The thumps of his heart match yours. There is no going back now.

While breaking a promise, he makes a new promise to himself: that he’d protect you before all the bad shit happens. He will not let any of it get to you. 

After a brief staring contest and lingering doubts, he loses himself, mutters ‘Fuck this shit’ under his breath, and locks his lips on yours, melting you completely into his embrace. You gasp into his mouth and tighten your hug around him. His tongue finds yours sensually as he cradles your head to deepen the kiss. It was the first time he kissed you. 

“It’s just you and me, kid.” He blurted out against your mouth and you could not conceal your smile. Whatever you both were trying to suppress, it’s now roaming free in liberation. 

His mouth grins at your reaction and before he can stop himself, he confesses, “‘M sorry for how I acted these days. This old man was so fuckin’ afraid of how things would turn out.” 

You were about to say it’s okay but he continues, “But he will try his best from now on. What d’ya think? Hm?” Logan looks over at you hesitantly, afraid of what you’d reply. His ‘confession’ does sound way better in his head, when he practiced beforehand. You didn’t know that, of course. 

A giggle went out of your lips, “I think I’d like that.” you say breathlessly before kissing him again. 

Our brain is meant to be effective. It is not designed to be right at all times. Well, sometimes we are right, but we experience the wrongs more. What we thought we knew, we don’t. What we thought we didn't know–maybe we do. Especially about another person and their feelings. Similar to what you thought Logan Howlett feels. 

Following that night, things had changed between the both of you. The ‘boundaries’ separating you two are torn into pieces, in a good way. Now you are reminded by the nature of your relationship through everything. When he comes back home to you every day, when he puts his arms around you while you are cooking dinner, when he kisses the crown of your head before sleeping, when he fixes your favorite kitchen chair, and many other whens. 

Including now, when he kisses you so roughly and gently at the same time, fueled by the desire he kept while he was still stubborn back. Logan hiked up your dress until he could feel your breasts, pinching one nipple.  “Missed you– missed you so much today.” He says while kissing down between your chest and your stomach, “Missed this,” somewhere in between. You are not so sure. 

“Tell me, did you miss me too, Little Missy?” Logan, who is kneeling before, tilts his head upwards so he can see your face. You cover your blushing face, shying away from him and his question like you are used to, “You know the answer.”

He picks you up from the kitchen with one hand and puts you down on your shared bed, “Oh, you don’t wanna say it?” You shake your head in an attempt to tease him. Lying down on your back and with parted legs, you can feel his rough beard while he kisses your inner thigh. “Aight' then, we may just see it.” 

By seeing it, he means ripping your white underwear, the one you adored the most and has a pink ribbon, “Shh. I’ll buy you another one.” Logan quickly says before he can hear your protesting remarks.  

“Really liked that one... ah!” The tip of his tongue probes your entrance without much warning, lapping up and down your cunt. “See, baby? You missed me so much. She’s dripping here.” 

You feel embarrassed with how he is looking at you down there as if he is inspecting you. Unconsciously, you try to close your legs slightly. Logan does not like this as delivers a soft spank to one of your butt cheeks. “So shy all the time when it’s just your old man.”  

Now, his rough hands are gripping each one of your thighs and keeping you in place. His tongue lapped at your pussy—from your hole to your clit, circling and sucking until you can feel his beard slicked up by your juices. Whimpering, your hands desperately pull at his hair, pulling him closer and closer as if he isn’t already eating you up. 

He chuckles darkly when you whine pathetically at the movement of his one thick finger entering your wet hole. “Such a pretty pussy, baby.” He huffed and looked up at you with pure animalistic need as his fingers worked your walls, hitting that gummy spot that had you crying.

“Please! P-please—Logan. Want you inside,” This plead makes Logan stop his actions and glance up at you, questioningly. You weren’t sure about a lot of things, but you are sure about this. “‘M ready, pleaseplease…”  

Logan has been denying you his cock for who knows how long. All this time, he gets you off by his mouth, thighs, fingers, anything except his cock. He always has an excuse, “You’re not ready for me, baby.” Or “This ain’t about me, kid.” Or “My old bones are too tired today. Next time, yeah?” Each one of them frustrates you. 

Your virginity is making him hold himself back. You know this, he knows this. Deep down, he still thinks he is a filthy man who does not fully deserve you and that he is ruining you. He thinks by not penetrating you by his cock, he gains some sense of decency but he really is just unsure. Not about you, no, never. About himself. 

But when you look at him with those big eyes while sprawling yourself bare to him, how could he deny you? “Are you sure? Fuck. Can’t hold myself back anymore.” Logan takes off his crumpled white shirt, undoes his belt, and tosses them away, making a clinking sound that echoes through the room. His eyes grew dark with raw desire as he brought down his pants and fists his large cock in his hand. All while looking at you. 

“Yes! Please, please, give it to me. ‘Can take it!” You snapped with excitement and lean up, pressed a kiss to a part of his greying beard—the older man grins at your eagerness. “You’re going to be the death of me, pretty girl.” Logan lifts both of your legs and puts his mouth on your mound once more, making sure that you’re ready and you haven’t changed your mind.

Between his hunger licks on your pussy and the probes of his thick fingers, he mutters, “I fuckin’ love you.” And that statement itself makes you cry out his name and come all over his fingers and tongue, “L-Logan!”

“Atta girl.” You arch your back in a euphoric state of your orgasm. He could smell you. Every part of you. “So beautiful. Can’t believe you’re all mine.” 

He helps you remove every fabric you had on, your pretty white sundress, your bra, your socks—everything that is separating you and him. Now you and he are completely bare, “All this for your old man, huh?” He mumbles the rhetorical question into the chilly air, his hands ghosting over your perked nipples and pinching them softly, then kisses each one of them. He goes down on you again and kisses your clit one more time. 

The sight of him makes your breath caught in your throat. You swallow your spit at the look of greying bread glistening with your cum, at the sight of his thick cock springing against his stomach. “Is my baby ready for me?” You nod your head eagerly at him, assuring him that this is what you want. 

With one hand on his cock, he lowers himself between your bodies, “Use your big girl words, darlin’” He nudges at your already wet entrance, waiting for your response, taking his time with you. 

“‘M ready..! I want this, want you.” You pamper kisses all over his face the same way when he comforts you during your nightmare. His forehead meets yours and he kisses your lips gently as a form of understanding your needs. “Hold on t’me, my sweet girl.” 

Then his tip slips inside and you gasp into his mouth, “Good girl. My good girl. You can take it.” You tighten your grip around him as he pushes himself deep inside you, “D-Doing so good, baby. Just a little more,” down to the hilt—his cock bottoms out, “There ya’ go, princess.” Logan coos at your trembling state. 

He swallows your moans with a hungry kiss, his tongue exploring the insides of your mouth. “Feel so fuckin’ good. I fuckin’ love you.” There he says it again while he pulls himself all the way out to just the tip, then all the way back in—making you throw your head upwards.

Logan growls and kisses your bare neck, leaving some marks on it but you don’t care, in fact, you want him to. “I love you too, Logan.” You utter those words to him as he rams into you, his thrusts going faster and faster as he loses himself watching you. The friction of his cock against the velvet walls of your cunt is addictive, the pleasure makes the older man grunts. 

He thrusts harder, his hips slamming into home, the sound of flesh hitting flesh fills the room, alongside your little ah ah ah's . 

"Cum for me, baby. Come for your old man." With one final, powerful thrust, he releases inside your tight heat, his warm seed filling you as he curses and lets his head fall onto your embrace.

"Ah!" You shudder as you clench tight around him and milk his cock. Your eyes rolled back in your head, your body giving out of control as you experience another release of the night. 

Logan lifts his head to scan over the scene before him. He had never seen anything like it and he had seen a lot of shit. Your figure is all fucked out and filled. He didn’t think anything could be more beautiful than what he has right now. And he says it again before bringing his lips into yours, “It’s just you and me.” 

You tiredly return his kiss and look at him with a soft smile, “It’s just you and me.” 

His meaningless and plain life becomes something again because of you. You are the anchor of his life and his reason not only to stay but to fight and protect. 

Logan knows there are things that can be stopped, but then there is love.

He is in so deep too. This time, the both of you willingly let it linger. It’s just you and him.

[yeyinde]

third hour of the night

Baby Trap + Gaz x Fem!Reader | 24k

The latest brush with death opens a wound, a chasm on the underside of his ribs that hungers for something he can't discern. He eats and it’s still empty. Gorges himself tirelessly but the maw still growls for more.

(He thinks it might be a sense of homesickness. And his home has always been you.)

OR: Icarus tries a different approach to capture Apollo once and for all.

18+ | SMUT: dubcon. baby trapping, contraceptive tampering. emotional manipulation. brief violence, near death experiences. obsessive/possessive Gaz. jealousy. unsafe sex. breeding. implied stalking. trauma and the consequences of almost dying several times. reckless behaviour.

MASTERLIST | A03

The thing about dying is that it tends to put everything into perspective. 

Things like the fleeting, ephemeral blink of life itself. The fragility of human existence. How vulnerable this glasslike body of his really could be. 

In a matter of seconds, he would have been erased. A soot stain on the pavement where the metal frame of a small charter plane impacted the ground, bursting into flames almost instantly. Incinerating him. Melted skin, charred bone. Suffused with plastic and steel. Entombed in a crumpled husk of iron and pipedreams. 

The real cruelty, he finds, is how empty this brush with death leaves him. Gaping. A chasm. He sticks his fingers into the hole and feels nothing—

Nothing but hunger.

It happens in a blink. 

Eyes open, and he feels like Icarus. Wings of metal, feathers, and beeswax. He soars above the treeline in a seamless incline, gaining altitude over the ochreous dunes in the distance. The great pyramids that once took dominion in his field of vision were soon to be specks in his periphery. 

There's something about flying that makes him feel both endlessly invincible and damnably fragile at the same time. 

Man's hubris—

Eyes half-mast, squinting against the smoulders of the sun, he feels the heat on his skin as they grow nearer to its coruscating flames. The window is hot. He places his palm against it. Feels the tremble of the machine as it works against gravity to free itself from those stifling confines. 

Kyle’s eyes slip closed—

—and he's suddenly reminded of why hubris is defined as a defiance of the gods. 

(Nemesis rakes her nails down the metal flesh of the bird, unyielding its wiry skeleton underneath; where are your wings?—

—man, willful creatures with their desire to be within the stars; cosmogyral. and oh, she laughs—)

Like Icarus, the plane meets the sun in a hard, hateful kiss, sputtering out in a series of agonising whimpers. The cockpit screams. Howls, shrieks, warning them all of an impending doom—

(—apollo, apollo, apollo—)

And then he's falling. Weightless. Wingless. 

(too low, terrain, terrain; pull up, pull up—)

“Fuck!” The curse is garbled in his headset, nearly swallowed by the agonal hiccups of the plane nose-diving to the ground. “I don't know—I don't—” (—pull up, terrain, terrain; pull up, pull—); “we're stalling, we lost the engines, we're—”

In his periphery, he can still see the blurry blots of the pyramids smeared under the plunging freefall to the ground that Pharaohs have kissed with the soles of their feet. They flicker in and out of his line of sight, a taunting reminder that his kin don't belong in the skies. That they build from the ground up. 

Amid the chaos, Price shouts something—a warbled hiss, words stuck in the back of his throat, limping out of his pale lips in a wheeze; gravity wraps a mocking hand around his neck, giving a tight squeeze. Kyle can see the whites of his knuckles against the armrest, skin prickling with goosebumps as they're dragged back to the dirt. 

by the sweat of your face you shall eat bread, till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for you are dust, and to dust you shall return

He folds suddenly, torso flopping down over his thighs, hands screwing themselves angrily against the nape of his neck. Protective embrace. Through the angular cut of Price’s bent arm, a blue eye gleams in the flickering dark—electricity cut; the only light source inside the cabin a devastating flash of sun each time the plane rolls—and the anger there, he knows, is pasted evenly across his face. 

Fuckin’ helicopters. We'll take a bird instead. 

Hubris, he thinks, just as Price barks out, get down, Sergeant!

Survival training ensures his movements are fluid. Unconscious. He tightens his body into a ball, hiding all his fleshly organs from spilling out across the aisleway. Scarred palms cupped over his head, his stem. 

Couched into the claustrophobic space between his knees and the hard plastic of the seat in front of him, he finds he can't breathe like this. That training hadn't prepared him for the way gravity feels when it's trying to crush something into dust—but he heaves through the hypoxia, blinking furiously against the phosphenes spooling like ink blots over his eyes. 

There's a whistle in his ear, a swooping nausea in the pit of his stomach. He tastes blood in his throat. Feels the fluttering winds of his trapped heart beating against his larynx with every swallow. 

His thoughts are tangled. Knotted. The edges fray, unravel. It slips through his fingers, translucid. Weaving through the gossamer fogging through his mind. A thick, impenetrable cloud of mutinous emotions. All frothing over the other, intangible. They're drowning each other in a desperate bid to stay afloat, and Kyle can't bring himself to reach for one over the other, opting instead to save none at all. 

There's a roar. Brontide. It echoes in his head as the pyramids once again fill the entirety of his vision. Close to the earth. Close to death—

Kyle doesn't pray. Doesn't beg for forgiveness, for salvation. 

His mum might. He thinks he ought to, but where he should find repentance, sorrow, fear, he instead feels anger. Uncovers it like a forgotten relic. A childhood toy. Holds it like a knife to his throat. 

It's vicious, this fury. This rage. Consumes him from the inside out, blisters through his veins. Chokes him—

In between the apoplectic bitterness, memories flicker by. Broken, fractured remnants of a youth wasted in his grim, spiteful anger. Ironic, now, since he tastes fury, bellicostic and wrathful, in the back of his throat, bubbling up, florentis. 

Bathed in the endless red fury of his mindseye, he thinks of his mum. Standing up in church, her fingers knotted tight against a rosary as she murmured along with the passages, his father sat beside her. His brothers, and sisters. The life he led up to this point, and then—

—you. 

Life in stages. Snippets. Him, you. It rushes by in a maelstrom of want, need, and anger. 

It's short. The distance between knowing you and now charted in a paltry decade; an infinitesimal amount of time that leaves him feeling bitter, and regretful. He barely had you, and now—

Reincarnated as Icarus. Cobbled together from clay and feathers, subsumed with the ghost of a wilful man. Haunted by fate. Tortured with the endless agony of a looping, meandering death to kiss the sun and fall from grace, wingless. Scorched. 

His life is a mere echo. Smoke from a snuffed flame. 

And you— You. You, you, you:

Kyle finds you when he's running after a man through the tangled, indifferent streets of London. 

Weaving, bobbing around the crowd gathered around—clusters of tourists standing still on the sidewalk, forcing the herd to mould around them; idle passersby meandering through the throng of a Saturday afternoon rush—the man he's chasing uses them all as an obstacle. A place to hide. 

It nearly works, too. And if anyone else had been pursuing him, Kyle knows he'd have been long gone already. Seamlessly swallowed up by the rabble. 

But Kyle's different. 

For the entirety of his career, Kyle has been told he's more instinct than man. Reactive. The sort of person that was undoubtedly reincarnated from a wolf, one who used to prowl the boreal forests for musk ox and caribou. 

When people run, he just—

Chases. 

It's innate. in his blood. Instinctual. 

And everyone knows better than to run from a predator. To trigger their prey (hunt, kill, consume) response. 

So, when the man slips from his partner’s grasp and flees down the crowded streets of London, Kyle doesn't think. Not for a second. He locks his eyes on the man's back and follows. 

He cuts a jagged path down the crowded streets, using the meandering passersby to his advantage. Thrown down to the pavement as obstacles in his pursuers' way, ones meant to trip Kyle up. To gain ground, put distance between them. 

It's a futile effort in the end. He loses momentum and speed with each person he shoves, and Kyle soon closes in on him, less than an arm's length away. So close Kyle can taste the pungent burn of his cologne in the back of his throat, fingers reaching, nails grazing over the polyester fabric of his jacket, and—

You're there. Suddenly. All at once. 

Thrown, roughly, into his chest. The only thing keeping you from breaking your nose on his kevlar being your fists touching his sternum before the rest of you followed. 

Eyes wide, wild with fear, shock, you gaped up at him, blinking fast. Your pretty mouth opening, closing. The broken words swallowed down, crushed under the weight of your confusion, your fear. 

With your chin tilted up, he could see the curve of your vulnerable neck, eyes drawn to the shadows under your jaw where your heart pulsed against your skin. Vein throbbing in tandem with your heartbeat. 

Reflectively, his hands jerked up. Arms locking around you, palms bracing you—one falling to the small of your back, the other cupped protectively against the nape of your neck. It brings you closer to him, pushes the endless softness of your body into his hard, unyielding armour. 

And—

Well. 

It's not often—if at all—that he loses sight of a mission. Let's himself become distracted, pulled away. And even now, he's not. Not really. He can still see man in his periphery, nothing more than a bobbing head of blond hair, and he knows that his partners are waiting for him by the entrance of an alley. Crested above the crown of your head, he sees one of them—Marcus, he thinks—jump out, tackling the man to the ground. Domhnall follows suit, gun cocked, and aimed at the struggling man's head, finger never having left the trigger once since he set off in pursuit. 

Kyle never had to give chase, anyway. But the man ran first, and—

A bad idea, really. 

The men he works with now often joke that he's more instinct than man. Chasing after moving targets like a wolf trying to run aground an elk. Under the perceived stupidity of the action lingers a honed strategy. One passed down for aeons. 

Chase, keep pace, until something gives. Something breaks. 

And it's never him. 

Until now. 

You just fit. Like you were made to be in his arms. 

Kyle knows, muted and distant; the thought all tangled up in the back of his head, that he should let go of you now. Gently nudge you on your way. Out of sight, out of mind. Go back to where the man is being wrangled into cuffs amid an agitated crowd murmuring to themselves, all trying to peek over the shoulders of the other officers, ones now congealing into an imperfect circle after spilling out of the blacked-out Tahoe parked near the curb. They'll need help to keep the crowd from fringing on their arrest. Kyle knows this. Knows, too, that he ought to join. 

But he doesn't. 

Can't. 

In the gloom of a midday drizzle, you burn. 

Bright. Ferocious. The coruscating gleam of your gaze is enough to render him to cinders at your feet. Burnt sage, sweetgrass. Bushels of charred barley. Ceremonial in this poignant unmaking; this chiseling down of his being into ash at your altar. He's swept up in it. The thick smog that congeals around you in a dense plumage of smouldering earth. Hallowed lands. 

It razes him. 

You: apollo—this devastating creature of pure light. 

He wants to bask in it. Burn his flesh on your ethereal glow. Leans in to feel the white-hot lick of flames dancing, cosmogyral, across his flesh. 

(Godlike, but you fit in his arms with an ease that belies your otherworldly splendour, that defies the partitioning between man and god—)

“Hi,” he says instead, the word chipped down to the marrow. Bare. Fractured. “You okay—?”

It's here, in this pardoning breath, where he finds the extent of your facile mortality. Beneath his hands, you're supple. Soft. Through the knitted cashmere of your sweater, he can feel the heat of your skin bleeding into his palms. His fingers clench, and he meets pillowed bone. 

You're fragile. Vulnerable. 

(a man threw you into him with an ease that prickles along his nape; chase hunt consume:

protect. shield. provide—)

Instinct, he thinks. More urge than man. Primal. Animalistic. 

Kyle can't remember the last time he felt like this way about anyone. This heavy, poignant drive to burrow his face into your neck, to breathe in the loamy scent of you, and bite down, claim. 

His teeth ache. He flexes his jaw to stem to throb under his canines. Wet, pulsing—like an infection (a heartbeat). 

As saliva floods his mouth, yours opens shallowly in a huff. 

“I'm fine,” you're saying. Dazed, windswept. “I'm—”

He clings to you harder. Knows that his grip is undoubtedly popping blood vessels under your skin like bubbles, but he needs this. Needs time. Needs you. 

A minute longer. Just a minute more—

If it hurts, you don't make any show of it. Impassive in your shock, you gaze at him. Flay him alive under the burning charcoal of your heavy stare. 

He thinks—

this is it. my apollo. 

—but someone is calling his name. Fingers pry apart his hold on you, shoving him back into the iron embrace of his peers. 

“I’ll take over, sir,” he hears through the clamour of noise. “I’ll take them to the paramedics to get checked over. You can let go now—”

“C’mon, Garrick, let go—”

The commotion heightens. Through the hands, the shoulders, the push and tug, your eyes never waver from its perch along his thundering jaw. The anxious, angry pulse of his ire blooming viciously in his veins. 

(how dare they—? how dare they touch you—)

Your mouth opens again. Soundless, but he hears it like a gunshot. 

“Go.” And then: “I'll be fine.” 

It breaks. His partner wrenches him back, stumbling under the sudden momentum as Kyle lets his fingers ease up, releasing you. You're dragged away, swallowed soon by the crowd, but like a hunting dog, he doesn't look away. Can scent you even when you're gone; a thick, earthy scent collars around your neck, and leads him back to you. 

He moves to follow it—

A hand lashes out, slams against his sternum. “Kyle! Come on, man, we got a fuckin’ criminal to detain—”

He blinks, wrenched from this reverie, this stupor. “Fuck,” he spits, tasting ash between his teeth. “Fuck—!”

“You never think,” is what his higher-ups often tell him after he sprints, full throttle, at a target within seconds of them making off. “Your performance is incredible, Garrick, but you just never think before you act—”

This isn't true. Kyle thinks a lot. All the time, really. Kyle's mind has the propensity to spin itself into exhaustion; to never cease. A constant loop. Endless spirals. 

He thinks about everything. Nothing. All of it shaded in both abstract ideas and concrete plans. 

Because the thing is: 

Kyle sees the world—or rather, situations—as a chessboard. Pieces, pawns, meant to be moved in a preordained sequence. 

But telling people who believe that the definition of subordination is waiting for the green light to trickle down from several floors above despite those men only having fragments of a puzzle is a lost cause. A battle he's never, ever won before. 

So, he relents. “Yes, sir.” 

Relents so much that his palms carry jagged crescent moons across his life and heart lines. Swallows down the fury, the rage, even though it blisters through his veins. A permanent, simmering agony burning him up from the inside out. 

Flashes a grim salute to hide the hissing vitriol as it claws up his throat, tearing tissue as it climbs, until all he tastes is blood flooding his mouth. 

“Good,” they simper. “Keep that up, and maybe one day, you'll be where I'm sitting.” 

His ambitions are worn on his skin. He feels something hot, sticky, congeal between his fingers, and knows that he'll soon be wearing a pastiche of ananke’s brode on his flesh. 

Ambition, he finds, feels like choking himself until his vision goes blurry around the edges. Until hypoxia bleeds in, dripping down his periphery in tarry black splatters. 

It feels like swallowing his tongue. Burying himself alive on his—

draw the line wherever you need to, Sergeant. 

—righteous fury. 

His palms itch,

like an infection. untreated. left to rot. gangrenous. septic. his blood is polluted. he feels the fever run, red-hot, through his veins, charring bone. 

marrow burns to ash. he finds a peculiar comfort in the fire. 

moth to a flame. maybe it's only natural, then, that he goes to find you.

The scent trail fades, erased under the stale tang of a restless crowd; admixing into the nauseating smells of London after dark. 

But where it began, he finds a flickering ember. Discovers your chevelure, and winds it around his aching palm until it hides his brode under starlight. 

Everything is murky grey, but he finds you in pure white. The cashmere sweater is a beacon, luring him in, and he hides his intentions under the guise of militaristic concern. Altruism. Crossing t’s and dotting i’s. Tells the paramedics hanging loosely around you that he has a few questions for you. Purely professional. 

They don't question him. Eagerly offer up your name, your date of birth, your address, your status. He doesn't even have to pull rank to get it. When he bites into the thought, it tastes of bittermelon. 

How easy could it have been for anyone to discover, then. To pick pieces of you between their fingers, plucking ripe cherry tomatoes off the stem. 

Kyle bites back a snarl, and offers then a wide, gleaming smile instead. Baring teeth. Says, “thanks, mate,” and weaves around them before they can see his fists shaking by his side. 

He finds you standing by the curb, curled fingers tucked tight against your temple as you survey the throng of lingering onlookers with an impassive, flat stare. Limned in hazy red and blue, you look almost like a picture. A painting. Something archaic. Special. He wants to hide you away from the prying eyes of the reporters congregating down the street, all rallying for the biggest headline on a new story. 

At the same time, though, he wants to stay aside. To watch. To let the rest of the world see you behind a thick sheet of plexiglass. Visible to their voyeuristic gazes but untouchable to all,

(bar him)

His heart thunders when you turn. Chin tipping, tucking against your pearled collar to peek over your shoulder. Even in the matte grey gloom of London, you burn. He blinks. Blinks again. 

You're turning now, brows drawing together as you struggle to piece together why he's lurking behind you like a shadow, but—

You brighten at the sight of him. Recognition chewing through megrim. Still curled into a loose fist, you lift your hand and give him a small, perfunctory wave. You must expect him to stop here, a modest, safe distance away. 

Your brows knot once more when he doesn't. When he steps, boldly, outside of the lines of societal propriety, and into your orbit. You wear this flummoxed uncertainty like a mask. Kyle finds it more endearing than he ought to. Finds, too, that he wants nothing more than to see you bare. 

“Hi,” he greets again, just shy of an arm's length away. Even with proximity, it feels too far. “You alright?” 

Breathless, you murmur: “yes,” and then, hurriedly, like you've just remembered yourself. “Thank you. For, um, catching me, I guess?” 

Catching you. The wording needles under his skin, an ugly, vicious itch he can't scratch. But he supposes that's what it looked like from the outside in. Stopping a fall. Protecting a civilian. 

You were pushed, shoved into him, and he caught you. Held you aloft as his partner took Kyle's place in the pursuit. 

So, he takes it. Smiles again, softer this time. All that rugged, boyish charm that his friends used to tease him over. 

Deadly that is, mate. Dunno how any bird can resist a smarmy fuckin’ grin like that. 

Model, ain't he? Pretty boy. Maybe you should change careers, eh? Bet Givenchy is frothing at the mouth for a looker like you. 

And it works. Of course, it does.

Hook, line—

“Had me worried there that he might have hurt your pretty face. Was proper ticked off, so I thought I'd come and check on you—”

At pretty, you duck your head shyly in response, lips warbling around a nervous smile. Eyes bright, gleaming, under the hazy smear of red and blue light. 

He makes a show of checking his phone, brows tightening at the time played in neon white. 

“Gettin’ late. You live close by? I, uh, I'd feel terrible sending you home by yourself at this hour,” there's an immediate protest on your lips. He nips it with his teeth. Gives a bashful grin. “And, ah, I like talking to you. Wouldn't mind continuing the conversation if you're interested?” 

You're burning. Grinning under a plume of demurred appeasement. Sweetened by his bold words, and the wide, boyish smile he wears. 

And—

—sinker. 

Dazedly, you offer him your hand, stammering as his thumb brushes delicately over your knuckles. Lips wet, glossy. He wants to lean down, lick across them, and taste you on his tongue. But Kyle refrains. Rocks back on his heel, reluctantly dragging himself away.

It's endearing, endlessly sweet when you unconsciously follow. Leaning forward, eyes wide and full of wonder. 

In the next beat, you give him your number. 

He takes that, too, and holds it. 

At the foot of your door, you thank him once again for catching you. The joke rolls off your loose tongue in a playful quip that he snatches up from the air, holds in the palm of his hand. 

“Anytime,” he says, softened under the pale moonlight. 

caught. catching you. 

he sees it much differently. 

to Kyle, you were a gift thrust into his unexpected hands. a pretty little box for him to unwrap, unravel. 

(his, and his alone—)

As he hits the ground, he thinks of you. 

As flames fold over his body, ripping through broken metal, he hears something crack. Hears it shatter. 

And he still thinks of you.

Kyle crawls from the burning wreckage with the bloodied, broken tips of his jagged nails digging into the scorched pavement. Emerges a phoenix. Rising from the smouldering husk of a plane mangled on the pavement with fawnlike legs and an ache in his jaw. 

Intact, he finds, but there's an echo in his head. The sound of breaking glass. Bones snapping like twigs. Something shatters. Something breaks. 

He holds his hand to his chest and knows, then, that it's not so much a fracturing of bone or tissue, but a cage. A prison. Something housing the things he'd rather not think about.

It's fine. It'll be fine. 

He crawls through the smoke to get to Price and doesn't think about the oil spill he left behind on the pavement.

Price says, “that was close,” in a tone so unbothered, so unconcerned, that Kyle has to take a moment to reacclimate himself to his trauma after being knocked so far off-kilter. Jerking back into flight or fight after that blase dismissal when the smouldering ash begins to clog the air, spewing noxious poison from the chemicals, the metals, now completely aflame.

He might think Price is numb to this, to falling from the sky like every parable of Icarus he's ever heard (if the ambitious god had metal blades instead of feathers for wings), but adrenaline makes his senses keener. Sharper. 

As the idea of his captain being an unrepentant sociopath (the jury, though, is still very much out on that one) starts to congeal from its incorporeal shadows, he catches the shake of his hands as he pats his beast pocket down for the stash of cigars he keeps on his person. 

Trembling, white-knuckled. Each pat feels much too heavy than it ought to be. Too forceful. 

He gets it, suddenly. Thinks he might understand Price in a way he didn't before. 

So, he says, “yeah.” And when it comes out far shakier than he intended, he clears the soot, the iron tang of adrenaline from the back of his throat, and adds: “a bit too close, mate.” 

In the end, they take him away on a gurney to a medical ward in a nearby city. 

Kyle isn't hurt—barring the contusions, the bone-deep bruises, the cuts, the lacerations—but they pay little attention to his protests when they poke him, prodding at his insides to find a phantom crack in the tender network of his body. 

Physically, he's fine. Nothing amiss at all. Everything is in good, working order—if a little scraped around the edges. 

They decide to keep him overnight for observation, though. The doctor's worrying about head trauma, concussions. Price, too, is forced to stay—not so much kicking and screaming, but certainly with a lot of complaining that echoes down the hall (bloody fuckin’ muppets—can’t you see I'm fine?)—and he takes a marginal amount of comfort in knowing that he's not the only one on mandatory best-rest. 

It all could be worse. 

He thinks, then, of Soap. Of the gaping wound in his head—blood spilling everywhere. Ghost leaning over him, sounding less like a human with each harrowing Johnny! that was ripped from his throat. 

The endless trawl of uncertainty as they carried him away, his hand falling from the gurney. Hanging there, pale and limp. Jostled with the movements of the medical team as they tried, desperately, to stabilise him. 

And then—

The aftermath, he supposes. 

Soap sitting up in a hospital bed, head wrapped up in stark white bandages. He smiled, laughed. Said he had too much to do to leave them now, but there was something wrong. Something—

Missing, almost. 

Gone. 

They don't speak about it, but he knows Price and Ghost feel it all the same. Must, of course, because Price is firm, unyielding, when he tells Soap to piss off somewhere for a while. Takes each excuse to the chin, stalwart in the face of Soap's pleading negotiations. 

It could be like that. Medical leave. Mandatory. Something was absent in Johnny's eyes. A hollow vacancy where hazel once burned bright in the gloom. 

Kyle places his bandaged hand on his chest, feels every brag of his heart through aching skin, and knows, somehow, that it's not the same. Not quite, but—

He thinks he might be missing something, too. He's just not sure what it is, and that—

That scares him. 

Because if he didn't feel the jagged glass digging into his flesh, he might not have known something broke free. Escaped. Fell, perhaps, to its death when the helicopter started to whine like an injured animal, barely able to limp through the sky. 

Standard procedure would dictate that he calls someone. Schedule a session with a licensed therapist the moment he gets back home, and let them determine if he's field-ready. 

But he doesn't. He thinks about Soap, and the anger in his eyes when Price told him that he was on leave, dismissing him with a simple flick of his wrist. 

“How long, cap’n?” He ground out between clenched teeth. “How long are ye sendin’ me away fer?”

And Price just levelled him with a flat look. “As long as it takes, Sergeant.” 

That was that. That was—

He's not what compels him to call you, but he does. Drags out his phone from his pocket, unlocks the (cracked, of course) screen with a shaking finger, and pulls you from his contact list. His nickname for you isn't anything special—can’t be, really, in this line of work—and it's boiled down to something so inconsequential, so mundane, that he feels a little bit untethered seeing it now. If he really did die, if he was seriously injured—

How would they know to call you when your name in his phone is simply: doves. A lingering remnant of your second meeting. 

Doves. A pretty pair perched on the curb when you met again after texting for a week, pecking idly at the scraps left behind. You surprised him, then, when you materialised out of the air, murmuring to yourself about the sorry state of them. 

Too pretty for crumbs, you lamented and reached into your pocket for a rolled-up bag of sunflower seeds. You barely paid him much mind at all, too busy scattering seeds for the birds, and watching as they scurried toward it.

It was the ease with which you moved through the world—seamless, untethered—that drew him in. The peaceful serenity that leaked from your pores, clouding around you, seemed to scour the anger that hung tight to his shoulders, hitching itself across his nape. Weighing him down. You picked the anchor up, letting him breathe for a moment through lungs that didn't feel as if they were being crushed under unfathomable pressure. All his rage accumulating right by his heart now cupped in the palms of your hands. 

You turned back to him, then, a defiant tilt to your chin as if begging him to say something about feeding pigeons on the street. Readying yourself for a fight despite the loose set to your shoulders, the flat, open palms dusted with powder from the seeds. 

Gone was the sheepish woman who tripped into his arms. In her demurring place stood a thunderclap. A lioness. 

He knew, without any sense of uncertainty, that he wanted to know more about you. Everything, if you'd let him. 

(And you had. Without any sense of hesitation or uncertainty, you—)

He stares down at your name for a moment, thoughts in tatters much too thin for him to pick out. But he feels. Too much, not enough. Arguably the worst in its abundance, in its raw, fractured ache somewhere deep in his chest. 

It's a want. A need. Desperation drapes itself over his shoulders in a way he's never felt before; all soot-stained, and foul. Rank. It smells like an infection: gangrenous and putrid, rotting tissue leaking puss. Skin sloughing off in blackened, festering clumps. The stench of it sits in his nose, clogged in the back of his throat. He can almost taste it. 

Despite its nauseating miasma, the horrid tang pooling between his teeth, there's an odd sort of comfort in it. A familiarity he can't place. 

He wonders if Soap felt this way after he woke up in the hospital with a hole gouged in his head from a bullet. Left wondering what piece of himself was torn out along with a bloodied, mangled mess of tissue, bone, brain, and grey matter that once filled the space. A vacuum the width of a thumb. A permanent pockmark on his forehead.

The thought shakes him, and drags his tender leg up to his chest, rests his forearms on his knee, ignoring the tremble in his hands, and he calls you. 

His face appears on the screen, stuffed into a box. He stares at it as the call connects, taking stock of the way he looks. 

In the gloam of an Egyptian sunset—swaths of ochre coruscating across dunes of gold; glinting off the desert sand as if the sun was trying to inch closer to this haven, the place it called home—the cuts on his face are limned, turning the colour of ripened pomegranates; crushed cherries. Highlighted under the mournful torpor of the sun, he looks worse for wear. Bruises under his eyes, framing them heavy kohl. Splotches of yellow—the same shade as a fresh bushel of wheat—halo around the worst of them, painting a striking picture of injury on the high arches of his cheekbones. 

He should angle the phone away. Sit back into the deep blue shadows and let the absence of light hide the worst of it all from your eyes. It's what he normally does. What he should do. 

But there's a hollowness on the underside of his ribs. A gaping maw that hungers for something he can't discern; rapacious. Unknowable. It wants. Yearns. 

(He thinks it might be a sense of homesickness. 

And his home has always been you.)

So, he calls. Waits for it to connect. And somewhere in the back of his head, he knows something isn't quite right.

But he doesn't fight it. 

Can't, really, even if he wanted to because your face appears on his screen, filled out in a perfect box. The smile is already there, blooming daffodils against dark indigo. The greeting on the tip of your tongue has a flash of pink and gleaming white splitting the tomato red of your lips apart, happiness draping itself heavily over you. 

But it falls, instantly, when he moves. Winces. You catch it, then, the unmistakable ugliness splattered across his face. Bruises framed in hazy, blood orange. Cuts illustrated by the last vestiges of a stubborn sun refusing to yield. 

Kyle dips his chin. The stitches on his forehead pull against the inflamed skin. It's the worst of it, he knows. It catches in the fading embers of an ethereal twilight, and the hitch in your breath echoes in the room. 

“What—?” The words are ashy whisper in your throat, falling over him. A rainfall of soot. 

The frown on your face is a dagger. It twists, turns. Scraps muscle from bone. Leaves a gaping hole between the milky bracket of his ribs. 

“Oh, Kyle—”

There are a multitude of things he ought to say. I'm fine, first and foremost. And it's the truth. He is. The cuts, the scraps, the bruises, all hurt less than the ache in his head, the throb in his muscles. The fallout from the adrenaline rush following the crash hurts more than anything else. 

He should calm your worry. Laugh about it in that paper-thin way he's wont to—like it doesn't bother him, doesn't hurt despite both of you knowing he'll be up all night long for the next several weeks, running along his own desire path carved between the living room and kitchen. Not thinking at all, and—

And thinking too much. 

The juxtaposition, a blatant oxymoron, will curdle in his chest, growing moss, leaking spores. He's good at pulling them out before they mushroom inside of him, burrowing deep and leaving gaping pockets behind. Scrapes them from flesh. Douses them with gasoline. Purification with fire. 

With your touch. You'll wake the next morning and find him dozing on the couch. Will rain kisses across his face, gentle and soft, before wandering away to make something for him to eat. Later, you'll drag him to the tub. Wash his body as he leans against your chest, the hollow spaces inside of him slowly filling with warm, lavender-scented water. 

He'll come back in pieces. Inchmeal. And then hold you as close as he can in bed as though he's trying to fuse your skin together. Crawl inside of you and stay in the brackets of your ribs. 

It's all—

Routine, maybe. Carved out from years of this. This slow crawl to the inevitable end, hand-in-hand. 

And yet. 

(and yet: he can't.)

Can't bring himself to reassure you when his heart is racing in his chest. A naughty child sneaking cookies off the counter when his mum isn't looking. 

“Almost died,” he offers, fractured and raw. “I—uh, shit. Sorry. I don't know. Just—needed to see you, is all.”

And it's the truth.

You feel it. You must. The urgency, the desperation. This time is not like the others. 

“No, no, Kyle. Don't—don’t apologise. Don't ever apologise, I—fuck. I'm glad you're okay, I'm—”

Pearlescent tears puddle in your lashes. You've never cried before. Not in front of him. Never. Preferring instead to bite your knuckles, to press your face into the pillow. Unwilling to let yourself ask for more than what you think you deserve.

(And it's never enough. Not to him. 

your plate is empty, you're starving. but you refuse to eat.)

And when they spill down your cheeks, he leans back with a huff. Satisfaction is whitehot in his veins and he doesn't know why. Doesn't understand how the sight of you crying over him like this almost makes him want to preen. To purr. 

Blames it on the fall. On the taste of burning metal still clogging the back of his throat. 

“I'll be fine,” is offered, scratched out of his throat with jagged nails. Birthed into the world on a whisper-soft scream. “You don't have to worry about me.” 

Your face falls. “Of course I’m going to worry about you.” 

“I promise I'm—” he chokes a bit. Tries to cover it up with a cough. The frown on your face grows, eclipsing all the prior happiness that once glowed when you first answered the phone. “I'm good. Just need some rest.”

“Yeah, that might be a good idea.”

The tension is thick. He feels it thrum against his jugular; this living, breathing thing. This heady, undeniable agitation. 

Your worry manifests itself in the deep canyon between your brows, heavy and all-encompassing despite your attempts to hide it from him. The weight makes your lip tremble, and Kyle wants to devour your sorrow, your grief, from the source. Taste your sadness. Feel it on his tongue. 

He leans against the knotted fingers pressed tight to his windpipe until phosphenes prickle across his vision. Midnight black against burning blood orange. 

Breathlessly, he quips: “and maybe to stay away from helicopters, too.” 

The laugh you let out sounds like it's underwater. Garbled, choking for air. It's drenched in hysteria, in misery. 

He wants to crush it between his teeth, but settles, instead, hanging his head low, shoulders shaking. From the angle, he knows you'd never be able to tell if he was laughing or crying. 

(It helps, he supposes, that he doesn't know, either—

Is just slowly being consumed by this vacuum of want, one that keeps tugging at his insides, flaying pieces of himself off and dropping it into the maw. 

He wonders, then, what'll happen after he eats himself whole. Will he disappear or will the masticated scraps of himself reassemble into a Frankensteinian lump of who he once was—)

You stay like that for a moment. Both of you pretend you're not falling into pieces for all the wrong reasons.

As he's saying goodbye, you add, nonchalant, unconcerned: 

“Oh, David's calling me. I was supposed to help him pick out an outfit for a wedding.”

“David?” His tone is flat. His fingers tighten around the phone. “Who's that?”

“My friend from work. You met him, I think. He was at that party we went to. In Kent.” 

“Huh. No, I, uh, don't remember.” 

“Oh. Well, I won't be long. And I'll have my phone on me, so if you need to talk, just call, okay?” 

You're unbothered. He can understand why. Neither of you have ever really had much reason for jealousy—Kyle trusts you. Implicitly. Both of you have friends of the opposite sex, and there's never been any sense of distrust in that friendship. 

But—

David. Something about it burns through his chest, twisting and ugly. And the awful thing is, he trusts you, he does. 

You have everything except a ring, and—

Well. 

Synergy is a knife sliding across bone. Understanding skirting on the edges of his periphery, within his grasp. Obtainable. He reaches for it, clawing with eager fingers—

It breaks against his knuckles in blooming anguish, dissolving into the same gaping unknown, unknowables, that sets his teeth on edge. 

In retaliation, he sinks his fist into the wall, and tries to remember the last time he felt so out of control—

Your conversations take on a strange tone. Jovial, blase, but the topics are endlessly lour. 

Things like perhaps the lease ought to just be in your name. And maybe he should update his emergency contact—just in case. 

Just in case. 

It hangs over you like a stormcloud. Just in case. He can see it in the tremble of your lip, your fingers, ones you desperately try to hide behind sips from your chamomile tea. Faux indifference to the garishness of it all. To the fact that this is a real, pragmatic conversation that's happening, that ought to happen. Because you never know. 

But you avoid these conversations by telling him about your day. And soon, your time is divided between pretending as if seeing him hurt like this doesn't make you cry yourself to sleep at night, feigning strength despite the darkening lines under your fatigued eyes in an effort to not become a simpering burden to him when this is just another hazard of his occupation, his chosen career; and helping David search for a suit. 

And then a tie. And then shoes. The perfect wedding gift—

Kyle, too, pretends. Acts indifferent. Unbothered. As if it it doesn't irritate him. It shouldn't. He knows it shouldn't. He trusts you. Gives you free reign to every part of himself you'd ever asked to see.

Your palms are the perfect plinth to his aching head. His shoulders broad enough to carry your burdens sat right along with his own. He knows you. Jokes, sometimes, that he could pick out your soul with his eyes closed. And you volley back that no matter where life leads you, you'd always find your way to him. 

“Every lifetime,” is whispered between kisses, folded in the brackets of his ribs. “All of them. It's always you—”

So why—

Why does he feel sick to his stomach when you talk about David, as if he'd gorged himself on too much of his rage? 

(why, why, why—)

This chasm inside of him grows. Gets bigger. Hungrier. 

Where he could normally shove inside a box, ignore it and pretend it doesn't exist, he instead finds fractured glass, fragmented and broken to a jagged point. He cuts his finger on a shard, and watches, hollow, as the blood puddles up, dripping down to his split knuckles. 

He gets it, then. 

The want, the greed, the hunger will consume him from the inside out. 

But what, exactly, it wants is still a mystery. 

(But he knows himself. Knows what he shoved into that awful, putrid chasm, and is sure that whatever it is, it can't be good—)

Egypt is a distant memory soon after. An aged polaroid of sunlight spilling over sand, watery and thick; an ocean of ochre, of burnt umber. He thinks, fondly, of the locals and their chatter as it fills the sun-dried streets, with the heat, an oppressive blanket of warmth, tucking against him. 

Winter nights are static with the buzz of life. Of distant echoes of temple prayers in harmonic songs; haggling patrons and hissing vendors just outside his window. 

Kyle thinks he'll miss this place for it could have been, not what it is. 

Because what it is ends up being a cockpit in distress. Wind shrieking in his ear. The crunch of metal slamming with all its might against the cobbled pavement. The hiss of gas. 

He didn't know fire could roar like a lion until then. Until it blooms, white-hot and wild, mere inches from his face. The snarling, drooling maws of a starving pride. 

Clawing from ash, soot. Metal raining down around him, liquified under the intense blaze of the fuselage on fire. His leg twisted up in the seatbelt. Unable to get free. To get out. 

Smoke in the air. In his eyes, his nose, filling his lungs. 

He'll die, he thought. Is dying. His fingers scrape over concrete, flesh gnashing against grainy sand. Unable to get a grip on the slick blood that puddles out, staining the pavement and his hands. 

He doesn't think of you, but he feels you there on the edge of his periphery. Lingering like a phantom, reaching for him. Get out, get out, get out—

In the bloom of gunmetal smoke that plumes around him like a sweltering cloud of heat and ash, a hand appears. Covered in grit, in grime. Blood. 

“—out! We've gotta get out, Kyle. Grab my—”

Pawing in the dark, nebulous cloud, he finds Price's rough hand and latches on, hauling himself to safety. But what emerges from the soot, the smoke, is a version of himself that feels raw, fractured. 

He's agitated. Leg bouncing, restless. 

Price notices it on the plane ride home, eyes slanting over to stare, pointedly, at the continuous bob of his knee. Up, down, up, down. Kyle should hide it. Bite the inside of his cheek until it bleeds instead, but he doesn't. 

It won't be enough to stem this urge to run, to flee. 

“Almost home,” Price huffs, shifting in his seat. He, too, seems to feel that same prickling sense of unease. Kyle lets it wash over him. Not quite a comfort, but something. “Get some rest, Sergeant.”

At that, he scoffs. “Feels like I've been doing nothing but resting, cap.”

“Mm, you're young. Take advantage of it while you can.” 

As Kyle rolls his eyes at that, Price makes an aborted move, hand jerking to his breast pocket as the plane rocks over a patch of clouds, turbulence shaking the frame. Searching for his cigars. Then angrily throws his hand down, fingers tight around the armrest, white-knuckled, when he remembers he can't smoke here. 

“Might be a good time to quit,” he quips, chin jutting toward his hand, fingertips turning pink with the grip he has on the plastic. 

Price follows his gaze, staring at his hand for a beat. And then he snorts, and pries his fingers loose. 

“Nah, ‘m too old for that nonsense—” Kyle’s brows buoy, but he swallows down the harsh retort on his tongue (aren't you only thirty-eight, mate?), letting Price continue, uninterrupted. “‘sides, will probably need it once we land.”

“Yeah? Why's that?”

He grunts, and settles into the seat. The look he fixes Kyle with feels like having a cold, metal blade pressed to his jugular. 

“Gonna have to make a report, Sergeant. Falling from a bird twice now? And what's this? Third time for you? They'll want a review. Full. Will probably make us talk to a doctor or somethin’.” He cocks his head to the side, presses his pink knuckles to his temple. “Make sure we're all right up here.” 

Kyle flinches. Tries to hide it with a cough when Price’s eyes tighten. 

He's not sure he wants to do any of that. Have someone crack his head open and rummage around looking for defects to toss in his face later on as an excuse to kick him out. Medical discharge. Honourable, they'll say. An early retirement. 

“And—” he swallows down the bitterness on his tongue. “And if we just didn't—”

“Can't do that, Sergeant.”

He struck for a moment. Anger quivers in his veins, rearing up like a viper ready to strike. He has to wonder if it was Ghost or Soap, would Price—

“Believe me,” he continues, eyes fixed on the open cockpit. Intense. “If it was just us, if it was one of our own, I'd have said piss on it. As long as none of you were seriously injured, why bother wasting time? But we have to be held accountable now.” 

If it was one of our own—

“Right,” he rasps, hollow. Anger scorches his insides. “Okay.” 

“Believe me, Sergeant. I want nothing more than to go home, and drink this whole bloody mess away, but—”

“I get it, cap.” 

And he does. He's just not sure he can really talk about it in a way that won't show the world the gaping hole in his chest, the hairline fractures that crisscross along him, all screaming the same thing—

Terrain, terrain, pull up. Pull up. Terrain, terrain—

“Gotta let it go, Kyle.” 

All he sees is fog. Fire crackling from within. 

“And if I can't, captain?”

“Then it's been a pleasure working with you.” Kyle swallows again, blinking furiously against the dense cloud of smoke in front of him. “I know the commander at Scotland Yard. Could put in a good word for you. Might be for the best.” 

Anger is a poison, he finds, but fear—

Fear is quicker. A knife to his heart. Left bleeding on the pavement before he knew what hit him. 

“Or…” Price drawls. “Hide it away. Nothing bad happened, did it? You're still alive.” 

Another hand appears from the midst of the fog. 

He reaches for it. 

“How?” 

“Lots of ways. Best one I find is to just give in to whatever it is you're feeling. Let it consume you. Then just bury it.”

“Right,” he whispers, paper-thin. But he gets it now. “Thanks, cap.”

“Anytime, Kyle.” 

He does as Price asks. Buries it deep inside of himself, and greets you when you come to pick him up at the airport with a wide grin, and a tight hug. Pulling you flush into his body, breathing in the scent of you until it stains his lungs. Sickeningly sweet. 

“I missed you,” you whisper into his neck, words humid against his skin. “So, so fucking much Kyle—”

“Yeah,” he rumbles, caught on the feeling your chest makes when it heaves against his. Little, breathless hiccups of relief, worry. Elation. Fear. It tastes good in the back of his throat when he steals another lungful of your scent. “I missed you, too. Fuck, dovie. Don't know how much I fuckin’ missed you.”

He clings just a little bit tighter to you, holds on a few moments longer than he normally would. Leeches the comfort your presence brings like he's starved for it. Kyle breathes in the scent of you—lemongrass and fennel; sweet and earthy—and feels that gaping wound inside of him close, just a little bit, when you fold him into a tight embrace, letting the vice of your grip speak the words he knows you'll never utter. 

Things like, please, don't ever do this to me again; and, don't go, Kyle. Please don't—

There's a multitude of things he wants to say to you. An endless bastion of sorrow and happiness and grief and elation all coalescing into this heavy anchor that hangs off his rib, pulling him down, down, down—

But he can't speak through the pulsing want in his throat. The urge to bite, to sink his teeth into you and never let go. 

So, he doesn't.

He holds you back instead, presses your soft cheek to where it aches the most, and buries his nose into your crown. 

Tries to satiate himself on the potency of your scent, the way it fills his lungs to bursting, and pretends the gnawing feeling in the pit of his chest is a purr and not a growl. 

The ravenous roar of a starving beast, hungering for something Kyle can't name. 

(He wonders if Soap felt this vacuum inside of himself, too.)

The comedown of the mission is spent with you tendering his wounds, and pressing trembling fingers to his pulse just to remind yourself that he's alive, that he's here with you. Present as warm flesh instead of a cold box full of ashes. 

In these soft, aching moments, he's forced to contend with the fact that he almost died. Again—

—(the word echoing in the recess of his mind, over and over; an accumulation of all those incredible near-misses)—

Almost left you alone in this world with nothing but broken, fragmented memories that would eventually fade. Fingerprints on a rusted handrail. Tangled in a gossamer of time, nearly forgotten as you grew older. Changed. He'd be the ex-boyfriend lost tragically. The one who died too soon. 

Someone else, he knows, would take his place when the grief took shape, becoming a corporeal feeling you could tuck away inside your pocket instead of a molten shadow burning you up from the inside out. Ever present. 

And that's the thought he gets stuck on. The one that cuts through him the most. 

You—his girl—belonging to someone else. Going on dates, kissing each other, laughing together. Falling in love. 

It's selfish to want you to stay single for the rest of your life should anything happen to him. Impractical, too. But it needles under his skin. An itch he can't scratch. A want he can't satiate. 

It won't even matter much when he's gone. He knows this. But it bothers him relentlessly. Souring his mood for days. Making him retreat, inward, to dismantle this unfathomable feeling taking root inside his chest. This bitterness, this anger. 

The thing about dying is that it tends to put things into perspective. 

Most common of all, he's told, is the fragility of the human existence, of life itself. Such a shallow thing, in retrospect. Barely a droplet in the unfathomable vastitude of time, and yet—

Something he never really thought about until it was unceremoniously thrown in his face. 

It's this, the sudden realisation that he's not as invincible as he's often tricked into thinking, that seems to shake the foundations of his life in ways that would be unthinkable to the him that lived weeks before his brush with death. But that man, that version of him, is swallowed whole by the unrelenting fear that pulses through him each time it passes through his mind. 

A fear of one thing:

Permanence. 

Or, rather, the lack thereof.

Memories will be all you have left of him, and, well—

That simply won't do. 

But the problem is this:

He doesn't know how to fix it. Doesn't know, really, how to stem this nauseating desire, this urge to own, possess, consume that roils through his chest each time he catches a glimpse of you unawares, tending to some mundane task. 

The idea of you floating through life without him is not a poison, but a fear. A whitehot agony that trickles down his spine. They're all thoughts that gut him, that make him agitated. Restless. He paces again, roaming from the foyer to the living room, feeling too much like a trapped animal. A snarling tiger in a zoo. He needs an out. An escape—

So he runs. 

And sometimes, you join him in the mornings before you have to go to work, setting out for a jog around the block in tandem. There's a quiet ambience to these outings, a comfort that makes him sigh—relieved, in parts, that the ache in his jaw, an unfamiliar urge to bite, abates in your presence. Your proximity is the balm to a hurt he didn't know he had. 

Most times, though, he's alone. Left with his thoughts and the taste of iron in his throat as he paces the streets of Birmingham with a lour twist to his lips and a tightness in his shoulders he tries to shake out by running his body to the ground. Replacing the ache in his stomach with one in his thighs, his hamstrings. His lungs. Breathes in the humid air of a midsummer morning until they feel like they might burst. 

It works. Marginally. Helps in the same way he's sure chamomile tea before bed does for an insomniac. But it's something. Something to suckle on until the quiver in his guts, the gnawing chasm in his belly, abates. Surrendering—albeit, mutinously—as the heavy taste of iron floods the back of his throat, and lactic acid leaves him groaning in the morning when he swings his sore, overworked muscles over the ledge of the bed. 

Kyle's in perfect health. Peak physical condition. The burn in his thighs, the tremble in his knees, is a sign of pushing himself too hard. Of edging to the very brink. 

But he can't stop. 

Not when his body hums like a livewire. Vitriol coursing through his veins, seeping into his tissue. Infecting him from within until he's irascible. Always on the edge. Always tense. Agitated. 

Everything feels like it's plunged underwater. As if he's staring down into the pool of an emerald lake, watching from above on dry land as the world goes on. 

(A place, now, where he doesn't belong.)

He knows all too well that this is just a duct tape solution to a bigger, more devastating problem, but opening the floodgates without a sluice will drown him under the crushing weight of what rushes out. 

It just makes sense, then, to bury it. 

The problem is: 

The tinderbox where these awful thoughts, this anger, went to moulder has been crushed, broken to pieces when he fell back to earth. 

He has nowhere to put them anymore. 

So he keeps them between his teeth, but being so close to you makes him want to bite—

(Bad dog. 

Let it go, drop it. Let it—)

Something has to give.

He calls Price. 

Hovers in the doorway between the kitchen and the hallway leading to the living room, and tries to pretend that this isn't a cry for help. 

Price picks up after the third ring, gruff and irritable. His surly tone balmed by the heavy inhale of his cigar. 

He calls Price. 

Hovers in the doorway between the kitchen and the hallway leading to the living room, and tries to pretend that this isn't a cry for help. 

Price picks up after the third ring, gruff and irritable. His surly tone was balmed by the heavy inhale of his cigar. 

“Better be important, Garrick. It's the weekend.”

“Crime doesn't work nine to five, captain. Thought you knew that better than anyone. Must be getting soft.”

“Soft,” he repeats with a derisive snort. In the background, he hears peals of laughter, the distant echo of, only thing soft about you is your midsection, honey. A grunt. A thwap. A squeal. 

This must be his wife, Kyle realises. The one he never speaks about directly, but can't stop bringing up in his own way. Home, he calls her. I’m going home. I'll be home for the weekend, don't bother me. Home is missing me, I reckon. Better pack it in, then, boys. 

They learned this only a few short weeks into knowing Price. Home, to him, is a person. Her. His wife. The echo, the silhouette; the one who lives in the brim of his hat, the end of his cigar. The scabs on his knuckles. 

The one he left at the door when had to beat a man, a father, for information. Picked up with bruised, shaking hands as soon as he was finished. Kept tight in his breast pocket. 

This little glimpse into his captain's life, heard through the tinny phone, makes Kyle swallow down his jealousy. The nausea. It's all so—

Sweet. Domestic. 

“Get outta here, this is a business call—” comes the brusque rasp, pulled away from the phone, and Kyle heaves out a breath. The voice comes back, gruffer than before. All tenderness shelved back in that box labelled only for her. “This better not be a business call, Garrick.”

“Been thinking about what you said,” he murmurs, and lets his head fall against the wood frame with a thud that rattles through his teeth. “About—lines, you know. And where to draw them.”

“Ah,” Price grouses, huffing. “So this is a work call, then.”

“Dunno, honestly, cap. Just—I don't know. I don't—”

“You bothered me on a Sunday, Garrick. Better know quickly—”

“How do you do it? Going out each time when you—with your—”

“Mm,” he steamrolls over Kyle's floundering question, humming deep in his chest. “I was wondering when this might come up.”

“Were you? Was that before or after the second helicopter crash?”

“Before, smartass—”

“Right. And? Any sage wisdom to impart on me, sir?”

He sucks in a breath. “What's botherin’ you, Gaz?”

Kyle blinks, caught off guard by the suddenness of the question. In retrospect, he supposes he should have expected it. Price is nothing if not brusque. 

“My girl,” he murmurs, quiet. Soft. As if it was meant to be a secret. “I just. I don't want to leave—leave her alone,” he thinks of David and has to fight back the dizzying anger that burns through his veins. “I know what this job entails, and I can do it, but—”

“So don't.” 

“Don't what? Don't die? That's a little unhelpful considering what we do, cap—”

“No. Don't leave her alone, Gaz. That's really all you can do.”

The thing is, he's sure Price means something sentimental, something metaphorical, like memories. Pictures, videos. Time spent together. 

But Kyle has never been much for abstracts in the past. Prefers, instead, the concretes. The tangible. The corporeal. Things he can touch. Feel. 

“My wife is expectin’. Has me running around the goddamn city for banh mi so unless there's anything else to add, sergeant—”

Expecting. He knew, of course. Despite Price saying very little at all about his wife, the silence has always been loud. Black and white ultrasound photos, phone calls. Dates scribbled down on the Staples calendar he has spread out on his desk in the office. He misses almost all of them—too busy running drills with new recruits, or on the field (or yelling—you did what, you fuckin’ Muppet?!—at Soap through the phone following his recovery leave somewhere that's need to know, according to Ghost)—but every time, Kyle catches him sneaking away, phone trapped in the crook of his shoulder and ear, muttering low, gravelly, into the receiver. 

Yeah, how'd it go? Everything good? Good. That's—

The silence, Kyle finds, is telling. 

His own, too, because this revelation seems to have knocked the air from his lungs. He can't—

Can't speak. Not yet. Not now. 

Expecting. It's—

A thought. Not particularly something he'd ever really considered much himself. He comes from a large, overbearing family. Functions, dinners. Holidays. All spent crammed into his grandma’s house in Pelham. The unequivocal centrefold. The matriarch of the family. 

Caught in the indivisible lines of oldest (between just his parents) and middle child (when including his two half-brothers on his father's side, and a half-sister on his mother's), he's no stranger to a big family. Something he's always wanted for himself, too. A little inkling in the back of his head that rears, purring in contentment whenever they all get together for Sunday dinners at Grandma's house and he's full of good food, lazing on the couch as his family bickers amongst each other over a game of monopoly (his older brother is always the banker, and always, always, cheats with his two younger sisters—twins, go figure). 

And his older sister, too, is expecting. Had poked your stomach three weeks ago, teasing, and when can we expect one from Gazzy?

He didn't think about it much—snapped at her for using his military callsign, kissed your temple as you sputtered at her cackling laughter, and then ducked into the kitchen to help his dad cut into the pie the twins, Lolly and Lucy, had made. 

(Made, though, as in popping into Tesco and making the decision to buy it.)

And now—

“No, uh…” He swallows. Swallows again. He tastes blood in the back of his throat. Realises, when his hands start to shake and his heart slams into the brackets of his ribs, that it's adrenaline. Excitement. 

“Sure,” he rasps out, words slick, tacky with his blood. “I'll, uh, give her just that, cap. And—enjoy your sandwiches.” 

“Oh,” he breathes out suddenly, sharp. Deep. “I will. Goodnight, Kyle.”

“Yeah, yeah. ‘Night, sir.”

He says, with all the casualness he can muster, “remember Price? John Price? Yeah, his, uh, his wife is expecting.” 

“Oh,” it rings like a gunshot. Your chopstick clangs against the tin of spicy mapo tofu. “That's—wow. A baby, huh? A whole—”

You swallow. Kids are not something either of you gave much thought to. Couldn't with his odd hours, gaping absences, and your school schedule. Nothing ever fit together back then; jagged edges of a puzzle. Lock and key forced to fit. 

But now. 

Now—

He folds a smile into the crease of his napkin. “Yeah. Price as a dad, huh? Reckon he'd be good at it.”

It makes you snort. “You think so?” 

“He's, uh, complicated. But—a good man.” Somewhat. Maybe. “Kids, though.” He lets the wistfulness in his tone carry the burden for him, content to simply exist in this moment with you. Let it saturate the air, perfumed in his longing. 

You breathe it in. This heavy, noxious miasma. 

“Must be great,” he adds, reaching for another piece of siumai. “Bein’ a dad an’ all. Lucky man.” 

Over a steaming plate of mapo tofu, he watches as your expression falls inward. Contemplative. 

You know him enough to understand that he's talking about it because it means something to him. That there's a hidden want tucked neatly inside the words he says, whispered echoes of the ones he doesn't. Won't. 

And he knows you well enough to know that you'll be ruminating on this tenfold. Replaying the conversation in your head like an old rerun. Over and over again. Needling away at the cadence, the words, until you find something worth digging into further.

(The conclusion, of course, has been laid out from the beginning. 

He just wishes he had the wherewithal to see it much earlier through the smoke.)

He licks his finger, and hums around the meaty oil smeared over his tongue. 

All pawns on a chessboard. In the gap, he inches his bishop forward. 

Slow. Steady. 

But you cut him off with your knight. 

“Kids are a big commitment,” you're mumbling in between bites of bittermelon drizzled with honey. “And considering the nature of your job—” the slipup forfeits your pawn. You pretend not to notice. “h–his. Uh, his job. I just—”

There's a piece of pale green rind between your teeth. It slips down your tooth when you speak, dropping down to your lip like a flake of fallen snow. 

You swallow. Lick your lips. The slide of your tongue drags away the fruit. Like it wasn't even there to begin with. 

When you speak, it's softer. Barely a whisper. He wishes you'd yell instead. Scream. It doesn't tremble past a few, gentle decibels. 

“—is that really for the best?”

(is it feasible for us?)

Kyle sucks in a breath between his teeth. He knows he has to tread carefully here. The ground beneath his feet was as fragile as eggshells. One misstep—

“Does it matter?” He volleys, paper-thin. “If it's something we—” he comes to a stop, a sudden halt. 

Manufacturing a Freudian slip is easier said than done but somehow he does it with ease. Bashful, then. Sheepish. Like he accidentally flashed you his hand. Revealed his secrets. He ducks his head—the vision of embarrassment, now—but it's multifaceted. The move serves to leave the impression of fractured vulnerability. Bares his soul, and all his broken, naked wants with it. But it also gives you a horrific glimpse at the ugly, marbled bruise still popcorned along his cheekbones, his jaw. The tear in his ear, scarred over into a black valley bracketed by red canyons. 

Raw, splintered, he adds: “if it's something they want, why does the rest matter?”

The silence that follows is long. Oppressive. It comes about with a swiftness he doesn't anticipate, and spends a considerable amount of time debating whether or not leaving it is the right choice. It's unlike him to be so uncertain. So hesitant. 

But this, he reasons, is different than getting a pretty girls number under dubious circumstances, or finessing your landlord into not renewing your lease. This is bigger than the games he played in the past. More is at stake here. 

So, he holds. 

Watches, quietly, as you fold under the pressure. “It's just—it's a big commitment, right?” 

He latches onto your uncertainty with his teeth. 

“If you're serious about it—like they are about each other—then what's the problem? I think they'll be fine,” he shrugs, blase. Indifferent. Winces when it pricks against the scab on his collarbone. “‘sides, it ain't like Price is gettin’ any younger. Man's been itchin’ for a family of his own for a long time. Might be the best time, too, considering the man's luck with—uh—”

He coughs into the top of his curled fist when you flinch at his callous implication. 

“—just… he's reckless, is all. Might mellow him out. Keep his head on straight if he knows what he has to come home to, and what he'd be leaving behind if he didn't.” Another shrug. “Could be a good thing for him in the long run.”

You take flight as soon as it steals away his piece. Fleeting. Retreating. 

You should know better than that. 

Kyle always chases the things that run—

It leads him to a pub downtown. 

David—fucking David—sits on the stool beside you, sipping on a flat draft, and laughing at something you're saying. 

It's innocuous, really. Nothing untoward. No immediate reason for his hackles to raise, hair standing on end like he's under threat. 

But he feels it in his bones. Gnarled fingers grazed over his flesh. A warning. Sirens wail in the back of his head, and his stomach drops like he's back in the airplane, the helicopter, all over again. Plummeting to earth. G-force flattening him against whining metal—

He's too close, is the problem. 

Curled over you like he's trying to keep you a secret from the rest of the world. Something Kyle knows well—intimately—because he does it, too. Tucks you into his side, barely letting anyone get a glimpse of you. To see you. They can imagine, sure. And sometimes he likes to pull back a little just to let a peak of you be seen only to swallow you back up under his bulk. A taunt, a tease. Waggishly waving his finger at the naughty person who dared look at his sun, his Apollo, without permission. 

To see it like this, from the outside looking in—a mere spectator when he's been teaching his hand up toward you for what feels like his entire life—is infuriating. It's voyeuristic, he finds, catching a glimpse of you from the triangular window of the man's arm—elbow on the table, cheek perched on his knuckles. All Kyle can do is squint into this little opening, catching the aftertaste of your smile. 

And the problem is, he's entirely too aware of every overprotective boyfriend clichè that exists. Knows, very well, when it stops being cute and becomes an issue. Borderline abusive. Gross. Restraining order worthy. 

You're allowed to smile at men who aren't him. To drink with them in fancy restaurants wearing a dress that he picked out. It's fine. He doesn't care. You do it often, honestly. There's something about you that draws people in. Like looking up at the warm sun after a long, dark winter. It's unavoidable. Expected, even. 

But—

Fucking David seems to be the exception to his patience. To his goodwill. 

Maybe it's the way he pushes your glass toward you, muttering drink up under his breath. Or the way he leans in when you move back. Following you despite the obvious signs not to. Pursuing you—

Even though he knows, very well, that you have a boyfriend. 

It's the arrogance, he thinks. 

(Or one predator sniffing out the stench of another; lions prowling around the same lioness—)

He doesn't realise he's sneering until you catch his gaze from between David's arm. Feels it then, when he has to let his muscles lax into a smile. Easy, effortless. Just like the one you give him in turn. 

Soft, tender around the edges. Melting into happiness within seconds. A rare treat you give no one but him—

A fact that makes David jerk in his seat slightly. Maybe elated by this new look, the simmering heat in your eyes is warm enough to make someone sweat.

Whatever happiness he feels is dashed, though, when he realises your eyes are focused over his shoulder, away from him. Quietly, David turns in his seat, craning his neck over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of what caught your attention so much, and—

It's real sweet, he finds, the way the haughty look on David's face falls, breaking on impact, the moment he locks eyes with Kyle. Shifting into shock, into unease. Flinching almost instinctively, driven to run out of fear. 

Like he knows. 

And Kyle grins. Gives that boyish smile you tell him, repeatedly, that you fell in love with—soft edges, dimples; lips stretched wide over his fangled canines—and watches the satisfaction drip down David's brow as you extricate yourself from his shadow, and are pulled, magnetic, to Kyle’s side. 

Where you belong. 

But more than that, where you choose to be. 

The weather outside is notably warmer this time of year than it should be, and it sticks, syrupy and warm, to his skin as he sips from his third bottle of San Miguel and picks at the leftovers of your shrimp scampi. 

Across from him, David nurses on a ginger and rye, and murmurs to you about something—a show, he thinks—that he isn't privy to. 

It's been like this for the last two hours they've sat out on the patio. Not quite an exclusion, not really. You do your best to keep him within this little cosm David is trying so hard to build, interrupting him quietly when he goes on long-winded tangents about something that Kyle isn't aware of, and filling in the blanks. 

(it's a reality TV show. we watched something similar, you remember? just like First Dates—)

But he's an outlier here. Gone too much to invest in a show with you like David is, a new addition to your usual friend group. It's never been something he's cared about before. Why stop you from enjoying a show when he's carted away to Mexico or Chicago on another mission, the end date undetermined. Until it's fuckin’ finished, Price used to gripe when he asked. Until we end it. 

It can't be helped. But his hands tighten around the bottle, warmed under his palm. Condescension bleeding in rivulets down the neck, drenching his skin. He's angry. Suddenly, viciously. Filled with a sense of irritation that drums up from deep within his chest as David plucks little inside jokes out of nothing, making you laugh, and laugh, and then turn to whisper in his ear about what they mean. 

It isn't your fault. It's a catalyst to dating a man halfway out the door on most days, but it itches. Prickles under his skin. Selfishly wanting you all to himself, to fawn over him, and laugh at these little jokes he makes, leaving David on the fringes instead. 

Childish. Or—

He'd think so if David didn't shift his gaze toward him each time it happened, lips quirking in a small, satisfied grin. Cats, he thinks. Little yellow canaries. Tries to pull some sense of normalcy from the frothing geysers that roil in his belly, anger sloshing over the basin, drenching everything in a molten ire. Anger. Blisteringly hot. 

It scalds him. Scorches his insides as David laughs, again, at a movie Kyle was too busy in Macedonia to see. 

When you explain that to David, he cuts a sudden grin at him. “Gone a lot, aren't you?” 

And a tension thickens in the air. Drapes around his shoulders, his brow. 

“Work, yeah,” it comes out as two, rough grunts. A warning. Stay back. 

But David curls his fingers over the rusting wrought iron, peering inside. “Work, hmm? Heard you were military—” his eyes flicker to you briefly, like this is something that might get you in trouble for divulging to a stranger, but they're back on Kyle before he can say anything about it. Something like, don't fucking look at her—

“David,” is what you say, low and soft, and tinged with exasperation like this is an old conversation that keeps popping up, an uninvited guest you can't seem to shake. 

The warning is ignored again. Coming from him, he almost understands. Could respect his contumaciousness, even, but you? It makes his hackles raise. A flare of anger pooling in the grizzle, the filament, that holds his knuckles together. 

He keeps himself composed. Somehow. Tempers down that urge to bite, to break things, even as David leans back, shrugging. 

“Military,” he says again, but this time his lip curls. “Can't imagine you're very well-liked anymore. Considering the state of the world and all.”

His fingers tighten against the bottle. “Yeah,” he bites, grins. Knows it's feral. Ugly. Lip curling over a single canine. “Can't really say I'm in it too much for how well-liked I am.” 

“Oh no? Not in it for the glory. The prestige. What do Americans like to say? Thank you for your service—”

“—David!” Your voice comes out sharp. A reprimand. Brows knotting tight together. “That's not—”

“What I do won't end up on the news,” he interjects, and brings his other hand down over your thigh. The sight makes David sniff, glancing away. Anger writ on his brow. Jealousy mouldering in his eyes. Kyle tries not to laugh. “And if it does, it's usually after the bad guy is in the ground, and you find out about it sitting at a desk, twiddling your thumbs all day.” 

The table falls silent. 

He brings the beer to his lips, taking a generous gulp. Something dark curls in his guts even as David's satisfied smile dwindles. 

He sends you home first, watching David move towards the washroom from the corner of his eye. 

“You'll be back tonight?” 

“Mmhm. Just gonna go for a quick run. Gotta stop and pick up some razors, too.” His hand comes up, fingers scratching at the stubble growing along his jaw. “Gettin’ a shadow.” 

“A run, huh?” You don't believe him, but he knows you. Knows you won't fight him too much on it—especially when you think David already left. “And I dunno. A beard might look good on you.”

“Might,” he scoffs before leaning down, pressing a quick kiss to your cupid's bow. “Might not, too.” 

“Think you'd look good in anything. Moustache. Beard. Bald. I'm not picky.”

“No, ‘course no,” he teases and holds the door open as you climb inside. “My unpicky girl.” 

“That's not a word.” 

“Sure it is. Word of the week for Oxford, wasn't it?” 

Your words are swallowed up when the taxi driver asks if you're ready to go. You give him a nod, and Kyle a smile. He watches, lingering by the curb until you're out of sight. 

And then his smile drops. His hands curl into fists. He cranes his head over his shoulder, eyes riveted to the washroom door. 

There's a choice here, he thinks. Get the shaving cream, the razor. Be the man you think he is. The one who runs after a heaping serving of tiramisu and the leftovers of your shrimp you couldn't finish. Maybe watch that show on Netflix that David was so keen on one-upping him on. Your head in his lap. Soft smiles, taunts. Continue this playful banter you started through until his face is buried in your cunt—victor’s choice, naturally; and you always win—and you end the night whimpering his name, not David's. 

That, in itself, is a victory. A win. 

But—

He grabs the ball cap from the rack near the door. It's cream-coloured. Team merchandise for ManU. A little red devil stands in the middle holding a pitchfork. Black, western lettering says WE'RE NEVER GONNA STOP. He snorts at it. Macabre. Fitting. And slips it over his head, letting it hang low on his brow. 

And then he follows after David. 

David stands with his back to the door, hands curled around the porcelain sink as he stares in the mirror, chin titled under the harsh flood of the dull, fluorescent light. 

His eyes flicker up when the door opens, widening slightly when Kyle emerges, liquid, in the reflection. But through the surprise, there's a touch of smug recognition that sets Kyle's teeth on edge when it drills into him. A sense of arrogance that makes his fingers itch. Trigger ready. 

“Oh, don't worry, mate,” he's saying, a smile curling up the corner of his mouth like smoke. “We've just gotten—” he pretends to think, gaze darting up to the bulbs hanging over his head, smarmy and oil-slick. He must think himself leonine. Victorious.

Kyle wants to wear his bloodied teeth around his neck. 

“Close,” he offers, and anger coils inside his guts like tar. “You know, since you've been away, and all. Nothin’ to worry about, though. We're just friends, mate. Promise.”

At that word, his smile turns sharp. Mocking. 

“Oh, yeah,” he hears himself saying, words fine powder on his tongue. “Close, huh?” 

“Well, she's been a bit lonely, you know. Big change, moving to a new city, an’ all alone. Needed, ah, some company.”

It burns. Blisters. The way this man speaks about you rips through him, bubbling away at his self-control like acid. Alone. As if he doesn't know. Lonely. Like he wasn't minutely aware of how much your dynamic has shifted since college, since he was some beat cop patrolling the streets with too much rage in his veins and no outlet for it, to now—when he's calling you from a medical ward (confidential, no you can't come see him) to let you know he was in (yet another) helicopter crash. Had another brush with death that pitches his mortality in the forefront of his mind like an omen. An obstacle. One that cracked open this sense of want, of urgency, hunger from the abyssal depths of his soul. 

But this—

It reminds him of when he'd get into fights in high school. Needling the kids he knew would take him up on his offer, who would meet him in sketchy alleys near council housing where the police were less likely to patrol and the neighbours more willing to ignore it. When he'd mock them, twisting his words, his anger, into a brutal knife until they took a swing at him. 

His hand curls into a fist. Muscle memory. It quivers through his joints—this insatiable urge to tear into something he knows will bleed. Will make him bleed. He needs it like a confessional. Therapeutic. 

Because the thing is:

Kyle likes the fights. Like the way his knuckles burn, and his muscles ache. The bruises. The scraps. The contusions. The pain feels good. Cathartic. Rapturous.

And really—

He needs to get this awful, terrible demon out of him before the saliva that floods its maw at the sight of you, held back only by sheer willpower and reruns of golden girls on the couch you found by the side of the road, spills over between jagged teeth. Before the leash snaps. 

David looks terrified. Scared. He turns around quickly, unwilling to let Kyle have at his vulnerable spine a moment longer. His skin catches on the porcelain rim of the sink as he swings around, the rubbery squeal loud in the sudden hush that falls between them. David winces. Pulls his hand off. 

“Look, man—”

Kyle takes a step forward. Another. It's not fun when they shrink, when they shake, trembling as he nears. He likes the idiots who linger outside of crowded pubs on Friday night harassing patrons. They are drunken slobs calling out to the women they see. They fight back when Kyle corners them. Fists swinging, legs jerking out in a poorly timed kick. Slurred words full of vitriol. 

At first, anyway. 

And then the whine of their polyester tracksuits rubbing across ashlar cut through the alley, and the haze of alcohol saturated their senses. It's around then when they realise just how badly they fucked up. 

But David is different.

Posh—even though the notion of the word itself rankles down his back, trickling like slick, hot oil. Pooling in the brackets of his spine. 

“You did this,” he says, watching the paper shell of the man crumble. “Shouldn't have fucked with my girl.” 

“I didn't mean anything—”

“You did.” He pushes his knuckles into his palm, listening to the satisfying crack of his joints. “But that's what you do, isn't it? Messin’ with things that don't belong to you.” 

“She—”

“C’mon,” he grunts, keyed up. Aching for something to hit. “Gonna throw a proper punch at me or am I just gonna have to kick your head in?” 

“Maybe she wanted it.” It prickles over his name. “Wants me. Begged me for it. Gonna hit me even though your girl is the one messing with me?”

The sour vindication on his face sets Kyle's teeth on edge. No way in hell. He knows this is what David's type does—losing in brawn, but trying to skew the game by getting in his head, making him lose his composure. Getting under his skin. Because that, in itself, is a victory, isn't it?

Bruises will heal, but this, these accusations, the idea that you want David in some way, went after him to slake something Kyle couldn't is gutting. 

And he gets it. Understands why David is saying this, but it doesn't make it any easier to stomach. To listen to. 

David sees his fist shake. Pales slightly. “What?” He asks, all false bravado. Broken confidence. Kyle can sniff the blood in the water. The fear in the air. “You gonna hit me, or somethin’, mate?”

And Kyle—

Kyle jerks his head to the side, letting the knot in his neck pop. The sound, ominous and poignant, fills the bathroom, eclipsing the static buzz of the dying bulbs over their heads. 

“Nah, mate,” his tone flatlines. “I’m gonna let you swing first. And then I’m gonna bash your face in. S’only proper, yeah?”

He staggers backwards from the crumpled heap of the man—still breathing, he notes with a huff, files it away for later; one less mess Price will have to clean up—and works his jaw. It aches. He tastes blood. Spits a glob of foamy pink onto the floor by his feet. No missing teeth, but his lip is split. 

Ah, well. 

Kyle feels fine. Drunk, though. Sluggish. Keyed up. Dazed off that post-adrenaline high of sinking his mangled fists into someone; into flesh, sinew, and bones. But—

Intact. Whole. 

He likes the sting in his knuckles. The tackiness of blood congealing around his fingers, staining his skin. 

Outside of the tangible, physical sensation—

Kyle isn't sure what he feels. 

A part of him was hopeful that this would abate the anger in his veins, and stave off some of the agony of an unrelenting, insatiable hunger. But all he feels is numb. Indifferent. 

Hitting David doesn't bring him the catharsis he desperately seeks even though it should. If anything, it's made him more anxious. Restless. 

He leaves. Needs to—to walk, to run, to escape the crime scene before they find an unconscious civilian in the washroom stall. Flexes his fists, his jaw, as he goes, pacing through the bar, the crowd of people he cares so little for. The cloying scent of alcohol, perfume, stale sweat, cigarettes is a thick, putrid miasma in his nose. He heaves through it, and cuts one of Ananke’s young to ground himself until he hits the door with the brunt of his weight, nearly tripping over himself to get out. 

The air outside is humid this time of year. Damp with the rain that's been drizzling down since mid-morning. He breathes in the balminess of it. Wishes, for a moment, that he was somewhere else. Anywhere else. Just not here. Not with that man's blood on his hands. Not with his words hissing ugliness and vitriol in Kyle's head—

He trusts you, is the thing. Knows, without any uncertainty or doubt, that you'd never cheat on him. But—

The thought is there. Not of your infidelity, your betrayal, but of you. You with another man. Someone who is not him. A stranger. 

Lonely. Kyle wants to scoff. Wants to scream. He wishes he killed him. Sunk his teeth into his jugular, gorged himself on his blood. Lonely. 

As if he didn't fucking know that already. 

There's smoke in his lungs. Ash in his throat. 

He digs into his pocket, wraps his aching, stiff fingers around his phone, and tugs it out. The blood on his hands leaves sticky smears across his screen. The touchpad barely registers the tremulous prompts he keys in. 

Still. Still. 

Kyle manages. Finds the contact he's looking for and hits CALL. 

He's not even sure if the number is in service, and doesn't put too much hope on it. It really doesn't matter if it connects or not. He's just—

He needs something. Someone. 

A clear path. A straight head. 

“—this is Johnny. Leave a message aft’r th’ tone, ‘nd ‘ah’ll—”

“Johnny. Fuck, man. I—shit—” Johnny's supposed to be dead. Laswell made them all swear on it. Wear a spiffy suit to his funeral, and dance the choreographed routine in front of everyone of a team in grief. “I don't know why I'm callin’. Just—my girl, my—” doves. apollo. “I don't know. Kinda feels like lately my heads all a mess. I'm hangin’ thread here, and I just—”

need to be told what he's doing is wrong. terrible. 

“—could use a friend, I suppose. Ah, shit. I don't know why I bothered—”

He hangs up. Drops his head. 

He feels fragile. Like something is going to break. 

Feet balancing on a spindle, the vertiginous drop below an instantaneous death, and Kyle—

He catches the moonrise on his way home. Thinks he can see Jupiter lingering in a flickering white light behind it. 

In his pocket, his phone buzzes once. Thrice. 

can' call right now. shite reception. in some park in canada. nahanni, ye ever heard of it? found a little doe injured in the wood. am takin’ good care’a it. plannin on bringin her home soon. once price sends a plane to pick me up. will introduce her to ya. pretty thing. 

anyway. got yer message. see, if it were me. if that were mah doe. id never leave em alone. ahd make em stay. 

think ye know what ta do, Gaz. 

see ye soon.

—Kyle steps off the spindle. 

You usher him in with a wounded noise in the back of your throat when you catch sight of the bruise under his chin, equal parts worried and questioning. He makes a show of shrugging, indifferent, when you take off his jacket, hanging it on the rack for him, and follows you inside when you move back. 

“It doesn't look like nothing,” you whisper, so sweet he feels the sugary grain of your words rubbing against his teeth. 

“It's just—” he's not sure where it comes from. In for a penny, he supposes, and lets the words flood between you, twisting and sour. “Your…friend, he, uh, caught me when I was about to leave, and—”

The worry splashed across your brow is wiped clean, replaced with disbelief, with shock, and then—

“Oh, that prick!” Anger. The tang of it is electric against his skin. 

“Who the hell does he think he is?” Your indignation is blistering. He basks in it. 

“It's fine,” he murmurs, soft and low. Quietly reassuring. “I'm fine. You don't have to worry about me.”

“Well, I do, anyway.” You volley back, words tight in your throat. 

You're so pretty like this. Illuminated softly in the cool, hazy glow of the television. It's a picture he wants to fold up, put it in his breast pocket for safekeeping, where it will stay warmed by the steady thud of his still-beating heart. 

Want pulses thickly in his sternum. The urge, the need, is there, simmering quietly in his periphery. Slowly taking up more and more space as it grows, too big for him to hold back. 

And so, he says, “I thought about this, you know. When I—” he stops, adds a small huff. A shallow shake of his head. “Nevermind.” 

If this were a movie, it would be a tender, heartbreaking beat. A moment filled with tension and a palpable, heady fear. 

You might say to him, please don't ever do that again, or even, please don't go; but he knows you just as much as he knows himself, and so it doesn't surprise him much at all when instead you swallow all of it down, letting it slowly metastasise inside of you, offering a small smile in response instead. 

A quiet, “yeah,” following along behind the brunt of your shielded misery. Buried for his benefit, because as much as these near misses might keep you up at night, you'll never tell him not to go. 

He adds, “been thinking a lot about what I'd miss out on, too, but—”

Kyle doesn't finish. Doesn't think he needs to. Not when he sees the gears turning in the back of your pretty, tear-filled eyes. 

Against the armrest of the couch you'd bought at an old antique store, his hand closes into a fist. 

Close, he thinks. But not close enough. 

It'd be easier to just flush your pills down the toilet. Poke holes in the condoms you keep in the drawer—just in case. Sabotage you through sugar pills; perfect replicas of the ones you clumsily take each morning, only ever half aware of what you were doing as you lean sleepily against the sink and listen to some podcast you've recently gotten into. 

So easy that he buys them without a second thought from some sketchy guy in the back alley of a Tesco Express. Pockets the package, and brings it home to you. Slips them inside the half-empty bottle where they fall to the bottom with a sharp clank. Clank, clank, clank—

The orange-tinted bottle sits on the countertop. Innocuous. Mocking. Everything he wants—you, you, you: forever, permanently—right there in front of him. Within reach. The smooth plastic surface is still warm to the touch from his aching hand—Ananke’s mangled brode on his palm has been itching furiously lately; he thinks he has an infection running jagged down his lifeline, the sink pickled and oozing pale yellow—and he holds it tight. Tighter still. Until the tumid scab on his hand cracks, pops open. Leaks blood and foul rot onto the container. Smears it soft pink with infection. 

Kyle knows right from wrong. 

His mum is a pillar of the community. A stalwart wall of firm, unyielding faith: the kind that brokers no arguments—do unto others as you would like done unto yourself, Kyle—and offers no retribution. Forgiveness stacks as high as karma. As goodness. As fairness. She wakes up every Sunday morning and goes to church. Spends all afternoon cooking meals for the homeless, the sick, and drags his father along with her as she drops them off at shelters, each with a handwritten passage about love and humility. 

He's not particularly religious, but she's never held it against him. Never forces belief when there is none. Content to let him grow into the man he wants to be. 

Though—while he shirked her belief, he stole away with her vicious sense of morality. Of justice. Right and wrong. 

Simply put: he knows better. Was raised better. 

And yet—

Somewhere down the line, his idea of good and bad evolved. Shifted. Cracked. He feels the remnants of it thrum in his veins; this foreign thing—this abrasive entity. It surges. Spumes; seeps in his bones. His marrow. Rewrites his foundation, his sense of self, until it's marbled with streaks of murk. Gangrenous. 

Good and bad. 

(the and an entire island of its own.)

He wonders if it started with Price—draw the line wherever you see fit—or if it was waiting, a hibernating beast, for someone like him to come along. A pantomime of a paradigm. Mockery of justice. Absolution in shades of self-interest. 

Either way, it doesn't matter much. Not anymore. Not when the cage, the iron shackles, housing that monstrous thing split open on the pavement outside of Giza, freeing this starving, angry animal. 

And really—

—he’d rather it quenched itself on you than anyone else.

Kyle places the bottle neatly back in the drawer. Slides it shut. It looks the same way it did when he arrived—pristine, innocuous, untouched. No one would know that he tampered with the seal, spilt the pills into the porcelain basin of the sink, ran hot water over them until they dissolved into sugary-white clumps, and washed them down the drain. Gone. Dissipated into a barely noticeable residue he scoops up with the tip of his index finger, bringing the specks closer to his face. It gleams in hazy sunlight dancing through the open curtain. 

Kyle brings it to his mouth. Licks it off. 

It tastes sweet. 

Ananke screams in agony when he grips a fistful of your hair, pushing your head down the length of his hardened cock, all the way down, down—

You sputter around the thick of him, eyes watering. Dripping rivers down to your hollowed cheeks. It pools there. A deep basin. A lagoon. He wants to drink it up—salt water cures everything, after all. 

The noises you make—quiet gags, wet chokes—have liquid pleasure trickling down his spine. An endless cacophony fills the bedroom. A soundscape he could get lost in forever—

“Yeah,” he rasps when your fingers dig moons into his thighs. “Such a good girl for me, aren't you?” 

The whimper that tumbles out vibrates through his cock, and he grunts with it, a deep groan that you answer by squeezing your thighs together, lashes fluttering. You like the noises he makes. The moans, the guttural grunts. The choked snarls. 

His good girl. 

“Takin’ me so well,” he's slurring his words, hips pushing with more insistence now. Desperate to spill down your throat. To watch you swallow him. “You always do, though. Don't you? Take whatever I give you, yeah? Gonna take it all now? All of it, yeah, pretty girl?”

He rambling. Words spilling out, breaking against his teeth. Ananke howls when he twists your hair, tugging you closer, closer, until the tip of your nose touches the thick bed of wry curls at the base, swallowed whole. You're crying now—choking. He grunts. It's liquid. Whitehot.

Your mouth is molten around him. He chases it, cock head nudging the back of your throat, bruising it. Ruining it. He wants to paint you in his cum; drench you in it. Mark, mar, your skin until all of the nobodies, the David’s, can smell him on you. Know, without any uncertainty, that you belong to Kyle—

His hips stutter—

“oh, fuck, oh fuck, fuck—”

—and he knows he's being too rough with you. Too demanding. Forceful. Taking his pleasure from your pliant flesh, cleaving pounds of you into his palm for him to keep. Scar tissue in the shape of his name—

His other hand drops, wraps around your throat, and—

Fuck. 

He can feel his cock through your skin. The bulge unmistakable through your neck, fattened with the thickness of him. 

This—and the hazy sight of you, angelic with your drenched face covered in spittle, pre-cum, and briny tears; eyes blown wide and preyish, full of desperate submission; and clumsy, needy way you hump against your fingers stuffed between your slick thighs, quivering under the unrepentant way he breaks you apart, takes you—pushes him over the edge. 

Equilibrium comes on a snarling grunt, wrenched out from the depths of his throat. So rasping, so gritty, guttural, that it hurts. Scrapes against his flesh until it's raw. Bruised. 

He feels the flex of your muscles as you swallow. The rasp of your tongue soothing the heavy pulse of the thick vein on the underside of his cock, greedy for every drop he has to give. 

It's perfect, he thinks. You're perfect. 

(and his. his, his his—)

He leaves later that evening. “Mission,” he offers, a wan grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Be back soon. Don't wait up.”

Worry chisels a ravine through your brow. “Is that—” you swallow. He hears the click in your throat. Tastes the anxiety rolling off of you; a sweet deluge. “I mean, you just got back. Are you—are you even cleared yet?”

“Ah, well. About that,” he scratches the back of his neck. Ananke shivers. “I have to do some recon. Nothing serious, but with—with, you know—”

Contrition tights his jaw. He sometimes forgets that officially Johnny MacTavish is dead. 

“Oh,” you try to murmur, but it comes out like a whimper. “Okay, well—”

You won't tell him not to go. It's not in you to weaponise your worry against his ambitions, his dreams. 

(It doesn't stop him from using this kindness against you.)

He times it well. 

Gone for thirty days in a wet, balmy jungle, snacking on nothing but bamboo shoots and moss. Ghost comes with him, shoulders set in a terse line—as usual—but there's a strange ease to his gait, a sudden liquidity to his hardened obsidian that catches Kyle's attention immediately. 

“Alright?” He asks, picking his teeth with a needle from a bush. “Seem in a good mood, Lieutenant. Not very typical for you, is it.” 

He lifts one massive shoulder in a lazy shrug. “S’nice weather.” 

It's humid. Hot. Steam billows up from the boiling first floor and congeals into a thick, dense cloud of heat. Kyle would hardly consider that to be nice weather. 

“Oh, yeah. The, uh, one hundred percent humidity is really good for the skin.”

Ghost, for his part, just shrugs again. Rumbles something about misbehaving pets, and obedience training, and seems content to let the conversation lapse into a comfortable silence. Kyle follows suit. 

It stays like that for most of the mission—save for the odd quips from Ghost, his humour a peculiar ester that sours, perchlorates, in the back of his throat. Team building, Price would probably say if he was here instead of back in Liverpool, looking at empty lots with his missus. 

(wants to build a fuckin' house so we have somethin’ to pass down to the kids—

He sounded angry about it, but Kyle found floor plans laid out across his desk, markings scratched into the margins as he argued with himself—and his wife—about sizing and layouts; the quips between thick, bolded letters (all uppercase) and boxy cursive filling him with a sense of envy so visceral, it made his stomach churn—)

It's almost boring compared to some of the things they'd done. Incident-free—something he knows Laswell and Price will enjoy; less paperwork. Or—

Almost, anyway. 

Kyle gets shot in the shoulder the last week of the mission—a surface wound, of course; but it leaves a mangled mess of scabs and torn, jagged tissue on his flesh. 

Ghost sees it. Eyes liquid black through the thick foliage, cutting a searing line to where Kyle sits, arm wrapped in gauze, casual despite the burning agony in his shoulder. 

“Coulda dodged,” he muses, head tilting to the side in what Kyle can describe as dogish. 

Kyle swallows. “Could’ve,” he agrees, and offers nothing else. 

“Looks like I’m not the only one training a new dog.” Ghost hums to himself, quietly amused by the puckered skin on Kyle's shoulder. “‘bout time you got a scar to match the big boys, Garrick.” 

“Big boys.” He snorts. “And where's Price’s?”

The man's eyes are liquid in the nightfall. Vantablack. He wonders what sort of dog a man like him has at home. What kind would stick around. 

Or if it's even a choice. 

“‘ave you seen his back? Old dog wrangled himself a little tiger.” 

An unknown number texts him later that evening. When he opens it, it's just a blurry picture of a figure bundled up in a tweed quilt, nothing but their shoulders and head visible, as they stare out the window. The room is lit in burnt umber. He catches the corner of what must be a wood stove—the only light source, perhaps. It baths them in a heavy swath of tenebrous on the opposite side of the stove. The other is highlighted in an ethereal, aged orange. 

When his eyes slowly adjust to the hazy sfumato, he makes out the distinct shape of a woman. Fingers tangled in the throw. Spilled oil, midnight gloam, against dark blue. What a picture they make. 

But why was it sent to him—?

His answer comes a moment later. 

think it's time ta come home. know anything about gettin’ a little doe thru customs? 

might know a thing or two about that, yeah. probs best to talk with Price. 

shite. he'll ‘ave mah ‘ead fer this one. 

In the quiet cabin of his airplane, Kyle places his phone on the empty seat, and grins. 

Your fingers thread through his, palm kissing Ananke with a gentleness that belies the fire in your eyes. The burning fever as you draw him in, drag him closer. 

There's an urgency in the way you reach for him. Touch him. Starved, almost. And he supposes it's only natural when the last time you've been intimate was a month ago—when he spread you out over the sheets and kept his face buried between your thighs for hours; uttering soft hymns, orisons, at the very apex of your altar—and so sparingly between. Too afraid to hurt him. Your worry is now a weapon used against you.

(“you crashed in an airplane, Kyle! there's no way nothing is wrong with you after that. something had to have broken, right?”

right. right. just the fragile walls holding himself together—)

His wince presses the blade taut to your neck. “Sorry, dovie. Hurts a bit—”

Digs it in. Draws blood. 

Your eyes drop to his shoulder, wide and wild. Feverish with your worry, your desperation. The wound is bandaged up in gauze—thick enough that it leaves a distinct shape under his shirt. Pokes out from beneath his collar. 

There's worry, of course. A bone-weary sort of sorrow that thickens around your eyes, pinches tight on the curve of your jaw. 

He wonders if you'll pull away again. Cushion the wound between you like a wall, and keep your distance until the unfounded belief that he's somehow too delicate to touch. 

“Sorry,” you murmur, and it's blistering. “I just—Kyle, I—”

You don't pull away. 

“I know, yeah? It's fine. I'm okay. Back in one piece this time.”

This time sours in the air. Putrid. Rotten. Your lip wobbles. Lashes puddle with pearling tears. 

He thinks you might cry. 

(hopes that you do.)

“I know,” is whispered, gritty and raw. “And how long until—until you have to leave again?”

Kyle huffs. “In the morning. ‘m’sorry, dovie,” he leans down, rests his forehead in the crook of your neck. “I tried to wiggle out of it, but we're short a man.”

“Is this even ethical? I mean—” your shoulders shake. He bites back a grin. Your worry so thick, so sweet, in his ear. “You just got shot, and they're sending you back out?”

“Technically, it's just recon—”

“This was just recon, too, and look what happened—”

“Love.” He silences your protests with a soft bark. The way you immediately quieten at his tone liquifies in the base of his spine. “I gotta. I have to go. This is what I signed up for, you know?”

“I know. I just—” your hand lifts to his head, gentle. Fingers stroking over the shaved hair on the nape of his neck. “I can't lose you. And lately, it's like everytime you leave, you get hurt. I can't help thinking, is this the last time I'll ever see him again? whenever you walk out the door. I hate it. I know that's your job, I know that. But, fuck, Kyle—”

“I know, love. I know.” He kisses the warm skin at the base of your neck. You shiver against him, nails biting slightly into his nape. “There's so much I still want to do. So much in life I want, especially with you, but—”

You don't let him finish. Your arms wrap around him, holding him gingerly to your quivering body. 

The way you cling to him feels like a victory in itself. 

Check—

There's an animalistic desperation in the way you drag him into the bedroom, eyes sparking in the dark. Smouldering embers. Clothes strewn somewhere in the hallway, forgotten. 

He worries his jaw to fight back a grin when you knock the condoms from his hand when he fishes them out of the drawer. 

“‘s’fine,” you slur, mouthing along his neck. Suckling intently at his skin. “‘m’on the pill. I'm—”

God. You're so sweet, aren't you? 

He buries his grin in your neck, biting down on soft skin until his canines catch. Split flesh. Blood wells, trapped under enamel. He tastes the iron as it pools up, thin and watery, and so distinctly you it makes him dizzy. Rust. Ore. A moan is dredged up from the back of his throat as he laves his tongue over the indents, the puncture wounds, he left behind. 

You shiver at the sounds he makes, small whimpers tumble past your lips—breathless; shallow and quick, matching tempo with your heartbeat. Tinged with the sting of his bite, the way he sucks around them, irritated flesh; sinks the tip of his tongue into each little split until he can't taste blood anymore. Just salt. Skin. You. 

This thing that lives inside of him is hungry. Starved. It growls low in his belly, a tightening heat that blooms with the blood he swallows down. Feeding it. Just a taste. A tease. Barely enough to sate the burn he feels flickering just behind his larynx, soldering through tissue, and tendon. Blackening bone. 

You say his name, low and sweet. Peppered out between soft lips. 

It's—

A lot. Not enough. 

Kyle pulls back, rocking on the balls of his feet just to reorient himself, and then leans down, catching your mouth in a frantic kiss that makes you shiver against him, gasping into it. His tongue delves in, and chases the sweetness of his name still lingering between your teeth. 

His hands glue to your skin, featherlight, as he slides his palm over your body. Feeling you. The heat. The goosebumps that break out at his touch. His other hand slips up your spine, curling over your nape. 

He doesn't say much else. With the taste of you tucked between his teeth, he finds he doesn't need much else. Just this. Just you. 

But you're tugging on him, pulling. Whining into the kiss. Peeling away with a gasp when he pushes you down onto the bed by your hips. 

You go down quietly in the dark, eyes wide in the pale blue moonlight; fixed on him as he follows after you—hunt, chase, consume—until he's balanced above you with his palms pressed into the mattress. Beneath him like this, you're a vision. A dream. His heart breaks free, soars. He feels the flutter of wings battering into the cradle of his ribs as he looks down at you.

He almost calls you Apollo. Sinks his teeth into his bottom lip instead. Can't trust himself like this. Not right now. 

So, he tries to grin, but it feels worn. Threadbare. “Fuck, you have no idea what you do to me.” 

“I have a pretty good idea,” you whisper, gaze dropping down to his hips where his cock juts out, hard. Weeping. Feebly tries to curve up to his stomach but the weight forces it down. 

Your legs spread, parting for him instantly. Hands reach, grabbing at his skin, pulling him closer. He goes with a groan, biting his lip when his cock brushes the soft skin of your slick, sticky inner thigh. Soaked, he finds. 

“All this for me?” He rumbles, fingers slipping on your skin when he drags his hand down, pushing your legs open further. Wide enough for him to fit. “Gonna give a guy a complex.”

“As if you need another one,” you volley, but it's breathless. Caught on the tail end of a whimper when his hips slot into yours, cock heavy and hard on your soft skin. 

“Sayin’ it's too big for you, then?” he teases on the jagged edge of a wide, sharp grin. 

The need that blooms in your eyes, the slight part of your kiss-bitten lips, pupils melting over the edges, a total eclipse, makes him want to sink inside of you. Carve a spot just for him over and over again. Make you take him, break apart on the thick split of his cock inside of you. And he only just manages to reign the urge to pry your folds apart, nudge his head into you. Barely holding himself together, fighting for every ounce of restraint he has because as he knows you'll let him—let him slide inside, fuck you into the mattress until you're sobbing—he can't. 

Too big, he thinks. Reaffirms. And it comes out as almost a pout. 

“Don't worry,” he huffs, bending down to nip along your jaw, fingers sliding over the slick, sticky skin of your inner thighs. “I’ll take care of you, yeah? Get you good and ready for my cock.” 

(and more, of course; a lifetime—

but the bite of Ananke’s young keeps him spilling these secrets onto the sheets.)

Kyle likes to think he has a keen sense of smell, and as he buries his face between your thighs, nose pressed tight against your clit, he imagines he can scent the chemical changes in your body. The natural musk of you, more potent now than ever, without the artificial blocks in the way. 

Taste, too—

He presses a kiss against your slit before letting his mouth part on a deep inhale, tongue rolling out, pressing between your folds. Parting them. The first touch makes your hips jerk, breath catching in your throat. 

You taste good. Earthy. 

It's been too long since he tasted your cunt. Feasted. He slips the flat arch of his tongue over you again in broad, heavy strokes from rim to the soft crease between your clit and mound. Drinking you in as the soft moans, the hiccupping gasps, cudgel his resolve. 

You babble his name as he presses your thighs flat to the mattress, head buried between them with a single-minded goal of making you fall to pieces with his tongue on you, lapping at your pussy. Tasting for himself the natural tang of you, his machinations seen through to the end. 

And you—obvious to it all—whine, eager for more of his touch, as he presses his nose into the soft skin of your navel, and breathes in again. 

He pulls you down on top of him after making you clench around him—tight, tied like a vice—three times with his mouth, tongue, his fingers kneading that soft spot just inside your cunt until your legs quivered around him. Until you gushed with your release, cumming on a choked scream. 

It made you all pliant and soft, putty in his hands that he can tug as much as he wants, however he wants. Shaping you over the tapered spread of his waist, cock nesting between your hot, sticky folds. Your hands on his chest, breath shallow. Please is whispered out of your bruised lips, sweet and lachrymal. He shivers and licks his lips. 

You have no idea what you're begging for. No idea what he plans on doing to you. And he thinks, maybe, he ought to feel some sense of shame for making you take what he gives you like this, making you ride him as he fucks you full. Traps you. 

There's a fire burning inside of him. Molten. He reaches down, grabbing his cock. You blink at him, tears clinging to your lashes, before you slowly, clumsily, lift yourself up for him with a soft, heated breath. Like you want it. These awful thoughts sutured between you like a fine, silk thread. He nearly unravels at the seams just thinking about it. 

Even playing pretend in his mind threatens to shatter his resolve,

—a golden fantasy filming over his gaze, dusted in starlight; the ethereal glow of ananke coruscating off of Jupiter's elves: you begging for him, pleading with him to sink as deep inside of you as he can get until no dog will be able to differentiate between your scent and his

break it into pieces. 

“Want it, don't you?” It comes out sun-scorched. Blistered. Raw. 

You whimper when the fat head of his cock catches on your sopping rim, stretching you open for him. He can't decide what he wants to look at more—the sight of himself disappearing into you, or the look on his face when he does—and his gaze swings wildly, a pendulum oscillating between both, greedy for all of it. Sears it into memory. Burns it behind his eyelids. 

Kyle reaches up, hands sliding across your body. Feeling the quiver in your flesh, your lungs pressing against your ribs, pushing it out. He wants to touch everything. All of you. Settles, instead, for sliding his palm up to your shaking breast, letting it fall into the cup of his hand. Pinching your hardened nipple between his middle and ring finger. Just. A tease. Barely any pressure. Rolling it between his second knuckles until you're arching into him, desperate for more. More friction, more pressure. 

He teases around your flesh until goosebumps prickle over the sensitive skin, bearing his teeth in a crooked grin when you whine, clumsily pawing at his chest and pushing your breasts into his hand. 

“Want somethin'?” 

Your response is a sharp huff. A half bitten whisper of his name. 

“No?” He taunts, shifting his hips under you. Feeling the way your cunt pulses, fluttering over his thick length. “Fine. Guess I'll—”

He goes to pull his hand away from your breast, lips curling into a taunting smirk, but a whine tumbles out. Your hips rock, pressing flat along his cock. The pressure, the pleasure, knocks the air from his lungs, and for a moment, he thinks they popped. Burst. He struggles to fill them when you shift above him, drenching his lower belly, groin, and inner thighs with the wetness that drips, molten, over him. It's good. Too good—

“Kyle,” you whisper, clit pressing taut to the weeping head of his cock. Trapped between your cunt and his stomach, the blunt pressure rockets through him, bringing him close to the edge. Dangerously close. “C’mon—”

He snorts derisively—the impromptu amalgamation of a choked laugh drenched in disbelief and sutured together with the delirium of pleasure rippling through his stomach scrapes over the soft tissue of his throat. Abrasive. Rough. 

The air that comes out of his nose, hacked up from the tatter of his lungs, hurts when he spits it out. 

“Fuck,” he rasps, rolling his hips into you. Desperate. Eager. It's airy. Loose. He clenches his jaw, grunts a rasping, ugly fuck from between the tight seam of his teeth. “Gonna make me cum, dove.”

It spurns you on. You babble above him—no, Kyle, no, don't cum, don't—but do nothing to stop the quick cants of your hips, fingers knotted into the matted hair on his chest. It's paper thin, barely a whisper when you breathe heavily through your nose and whimper, I want you to cum inside me—

And it's—

It's a thought. A dream. Nothing new to your voracious sex life, really; but the sweet-sour taste still lingers in the back of his teeth. The heady scent of you in his nose. 

A single pill placed in each slot—Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday—

His eyes roll. Hips stutter. 

There's a fever in his veins. An urgency. He groans his assent, hands falling to the expanse of your hips, holding tight as he stops the slow rolls you keep trying to make. He needs to be inside of you. Says as much when you pout at the loss of friction, watching understanding dawn over you. An eagerness that seems to keep pace with his own following quickly behind. 

“Yeah,” you say, and the word is obscene. Breathed out on a moan that makes his cock twitch. Then, yeah, yeah, Kyle, please—

He pulls you up, up, groaning when you slide your hand down his chest, pawing at his cock until it's gripped in your palm. The touch burning through him. Skin on skin. Fingers barely meeting around the thick of it. 

“Come on,” he rasps, swallowing down the words he can't say yet. Things like take me, all of me, every last drop—

He helps you lift higher. Keeps you steady as you line him up, the head pushing against your slick rim, catching when you sink down, thighs flexing. 

It's a slow drop as you adjust to the burn of taking him. Down, down—gasps, mewls, whines leaving your lips with each inch, devastating little ah, ah’s that spin around his head until he's dizzy. 

His name is a plea when you can't take anymore, when the thickness of him becomes too much. Eyes misting with unshed tears, bottom lip trapped between your teeth. The look you give him is so pitiful, he nearly whines—

“You can do it, baby.” 

It's a shuddered gasp, thin and reedy. He wants you to cry, to weep. To rain your fists down across his chest when the burn of him splitting you open becomes too much, nearly choking on how viciously you spit out his name. 

“C’mon,” he slurs, lifting his hips in shallow, lazy cants. Feeding you another half an inch. Another—

“Kyle, Kyle—” you gasp, and he knows. Should take pity on you for the sting, the burden of taking him so deeply, pretty pussy stretched tight around him. 

Should—

“Barely much left, dove—” he means to grunt, but it comes out on a growl. His knuckles ache. “You can do it for me, can't you? Take all of me. Been so long, dovie. Been so fuckin’ long—”

It's between missed this pretty pussy on my cock and need you, baby, need you so bad that you break. Trembling above him as another inch is forced into you. Keening when his hands tighten around your waist, fingers biting into your flesh, and he pulls, pulls, at the same time he thrusts up, cunt giving way, opening up for him so perfectly—

“That's it, dovie—”

The folds of your pussy swell around the fat base of his cock, pressed tight to the skin of his groin, and Kyle can't stop the rough moan that spills out, hips jerking at the raw sensation of having you wrapped around him. Silken walls. A slick, feverish heat. You pulse, flesh fluttering over the length of him, and it's somehow both euphoric and uttering damning—the pleasure so intense, it churns his stomach. Makes him nauseous with how badly he wants to stay inside of you like this forever until it's sacrosanct. 

You feel liquid around him. All heat and pulsing, flexing muscle. He ruts into it. Cants his hips up, up, little nudges that push the air from your lungs in short, choking gasps. 

He lets you take what you need from him first, hands steady on your hip. Palm moulding over your breast, pinching your nipple between his fingers. Leaning up to lave his tongue over the hardened peak you squirm on his lap, bouncing shallowly on his cock. Giving you everything, all of him, as you slowly bring yourself closer to the edge. Face pinched in bliss, eyes squeezing shut, rolling slightly as you work yourself over his cock, hips twitching. Flexing. Your pretty mouth drops open when you lean forward, hands bracing over the swell of his chest, finding the perfect angle for his cock to hit. 

His name is a whimper, a plea. A litany of sounds that blister through his chest. A white-hot knife buried in his groin because fucking you is always a sweet sort of agony, he finds; pleasure and pain effortlessly balancing on a razor blade. He breathes around the ache, feeling the threads of his control pull taut over the blade, snapping one by one—

It's a mindless drive for more of that electric pleasure, that blissful pain, when he plants the soles of his feet on the soft sheets, and bucks. His cock bludgeons through wet, hot heat, feeling the silken flutter of you clenching tight around him, and he can't stop the groan from jittering out between clenched teeth. 

He knows he won't last. Can feel it well up in his groin, hovering on the edge of a precipice. It's headier, more potent, than anything he'd ever felt. The elation, the urgency—it fills him up from the inside out, twisting in his veins, blotting along his hindbrain. Needing to cum, to fill you up—

Your nails dig into the smattering of hair on his chest, clinging to him as he squares his feet on the mattress, pistoning into you. Making you howl for him—deep, breathless moans rolling off your tongue, bitten out between his name, said like grace as it drips down your chin. 

There's nothing better than this, he thinks, arching his neck on the pillow, head thrown back as he thrusts up, meeting you in the middle. Working in tandem. Pleasure is hewn together, tethered until you can't hold yourself up anymore. Until the stretch him filling you up, sitting thick, fat, inside your abused, aching cunt is too much for you to take. 

The way you look above him—chin bowed, mouth open as a litany of moans spill out; brow furrowed, eyes listing shut in bliss—knocks the air from his lungs in a painful, agonising punch. You look ethereal, superlunary, as you babble above him, spine bowed in a pretty bow. Taking everything he has to give you—

His palms ache. Itch. Ananke grows restless as his thrusts become sloppy. Desperate. 

“Come for me,” he barks. Demands. Pleas. 

His hand squeezes tight before letting go, dropping down to your belly, over your mound. You’re slick, wet. His thumb softens over your clit, gentle strokes to bring you to the same summit he stands on, ready to jump. Hips jerking, thrusting into you from below. Fucking into you with steady, deep cants of his hips. Making you take him, all of him. 

Your cunt flutters around him, clenching tight. Pulsing little throbs that mirror the heavy brag of his heart slamming into his chest. Made for him, he thinks, eyes widening in feverish delirium as he tries to commit the way you look arched above him to memory. Burning it behind his eyelids. 

The pleasure on your face, the desperation, make him break. 

He lets go of your hips, slides his hand up your spine, feeling your warm, damp skin under his rough palm as he drags it to your nape. His fingers curl over the back of your neck, a gentle squeeze; a comforting weight—just enough to make melt in his arms, relax, before he pulls you down until you're chest to chest. He snakes his arm out from between your bellies, throwing it over your waist to anchor you down as he bucks up into you. Taking. Taking. 

The sounds made when he fucks into your like this, the squelch of your pussy, the slap of his balls on your ass, have his eyes rolling back into his head. Unbridled pleasure bloomed over his spine, spooling in his groin. 

He's right there. Right there—

“Oh, fuck, baby—” he gasps out, choking. “I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna—”

He feels his name purr from within your chest before you push back, squirming on his chest as you fuck yourself back onto his cock. Taking him deeper inside of you until he nudges your cervix and makes you whine—

He grasps to find that same thread of control he keeps wound tight around his wrist, an anchor line for him to cling to, but when he paws at the dark, he finds nothing there. Nothing but thick, syrupy pleasure. Bliss. He feels your slick run down the length of his cock, pooling in the tangled hair dusting over his sack. Drenching the sheets. 

His hand slides down your back, fingers stretching, reaching, grabbing a fistful of your asscheek in his hand. Squeezing it tight as he pulls you down over him again and again. It forces him deeper, until he's certain that there's no place inside of you that he hasn't touched. 

And it's this thought that unravels the knot. Becomes his undoing. His violent end. But it's you bending down, sweat-slick cheek pressing to his chest, murmuring:

Please. Please—

And then:

“Come on,” you moan, the words shuttered out of your chest with the force of his thrusts, head shaking. Rattling. “Cum inside me, Kyle—” 

It’s catching sunlight in the palm of his hands, feeling the skin burn, and blister. Apollo in his hands. 

“Fuck, gonna cum, love—” he grinds out on a moan, grinding his hips into you in choppy, desperate thrusts until the force it punches through his stomach, leaves him winded. 

You drop down on his lap, taking the full, thick length of his cock inside of you as he cums, vision blurring around the edges as he struggles to keep his eyes open, glued to the sight of you taking it all. Every drop—

Through the haze, he commits every blurred movement to memory: your quivering belly; your heaving breast, nipples pebbled and swollen from his mouth. The spread of your thighs over his hips, the way the coarse, thick hair on his groin flattens against your mound. Slick, wet from you. Milky, now, with the steady trickle of his cum leaking out even though he keeps you nice and plugged up. It makes him jerk beneath you, breath coming out in a heavy gust. 

his apollo—

His hands flatten along your collar bones, curling upward to shape around your neck. He feels each desperate breath, each swallow, against his searing palms. 

He wraps his hands around your neck, and it would be so easy to imagine a collar. 

And you lean into it. Your head drops back, eyes slipping closed as you bare more of your throat to him. He folds the tips of his fingers over each other, linking them on the nape of your neck, shivering when the sweet, peach-soft peal of his name slips past your lips—

Yeah, he thinks, fingers tightening on your skin once before he lets go. Drops them down to your belly. Curves over your waist. Holding tight. Tighter.

But not a collar wouldn't look nearly as pretty, wouldn't it? 

It's five in the morning when the text comes in. 

Sitting between an update from Price (this doctor's a fuckin' muppet—), one from Ghost (how's the shoulder), and something from his mother—a TikTok video he thumbs loosely at, sending a chain of laughing face emojis in response—is a foreign number. According to a quick Google search, the area code—867—is from Canada. The Northwest Territories, Yukon, and Nunavut, specifically. 

He opens it, glancing at the string of numbers on his phone, brows furrowing as he tries to make sense of it—

And then it clicks. 

Coordinates. Google says they're in Scotland. Remote. Knoydart. 

The grin splits across his lips, pulls tight at his cheeks. 

Welcome home, he writes. Any trouble with that doe of yours? Customs must've had a fit. 

A second later, a message appears. Adjustin nicely to the highlands. Nik did all the heavy liftin. Y’should come visit. See fer yerself. 

The bed shifts when you move, pulling yourself closer to him in the quiet dark of mid-dawn. Drawn to him even in the deep of sleep. He thinks of moths, flames, and curls his arm over your shoulders, pulling you closer. Presses a kiss to your crown, breathes you in. 

With the phone held in one hand, he swipes his thumb across the screen, typing out a quick reply. Taps SEND. Watches the notification flick from delivered to read before he drops it onto his lap, and lets his head fall back, the grin still tugging on his lips. 

Icarus couldn't get to Apollo with flimsy wings of borrowed feathers, and beeswax. The distance between Earth and the sun is too great to fly to. An uncrossable chasm. 

So, he brought Apollo to Earth instead. 

Just might. 

In the quiet bloom of a mid-morning dawn, you find him on the patio, gazing out at the streets below. Brows furrowed in a soft contemplation. It's not something you're used to seeing on his face—this sombre, solemn grey shading his features in a way that makes you feel almost as far away from him as Jupiter.

“What's wrong?” 

Kyle tilts his chin up toward you, mouth flattening as he shakes his head. Shrugs. 

“Nothin’.”

“Mmhm,” you tease, fingers threading over the hair behind his ears. His skin is warm. Sunkissed. You press your nails to his scalp, dragging them through the thick coils of his hair until you meet the soft dip at his temple. He leans into your touch, forehead resting on the soft bump of your belly. 

When he doesn't speak after a moment, you huff. Soft, coy. “Fine. Keep your secrets.” 

His nose rubs over the soft cashmere of your sweater. “Been thinkin’ is all.”

“About what?” 

He hums, breath warm on your skin. “Want to come to Scotland with me? Get away for the weekend?” 

“You think your mum and sisters are letting me go anywhere right now? Pretty sure I heard them plotting about wrapping me up in a mattress so I can't hurt myself or the baby—”

A snort bubbles up. “Mum likes you. Loves you. She's just overprotective. M’sure I can convince her.”

“You think so?” 

Kyle is quiet for a moment. A beat. Just long enough to mull over the probability of stealing you away from under his family's nose. Unlikely, of course. When the twins have your weekend booked up already—a movie marathon with nothing but pizza, snacks, and John Hughes. 

And NO Gazzy allowed!!!

“Nah, suppose not,” he huffs, placing his hands on your thighs. “If they're being too much, you can tell them to piss off—”

“They're fine,” you shrug. Overprotective, but—

It seems to run in the family. 

“I really don't mind.” 

He gives in with a shallow nod. “You gonna be okay if I go?”

“I think I'll manage on my own. It's—”

“Yeah.” 

Need to know, you remember the big, scary one saying when you met Kyle at the tarmac. His voice low over the whir of the engines in the distance, but robust. Brassy. The inflection is standoffish. Cold. But you saw how he turned back around when Kyle led you away, eerie gaze drilling into his injured shoulder for a moment before calling out to him that Bravo Seven-One was inbound. 

The difference between Kyle and the company he keeps always seems to jar you slightly. He's so normal in comparison. So human. Grounded in reality in a way that makes everyone else around him feel preternatural. 

“I’ll be fine,” you say at length, hand falling to the soft, barely noticeable bump he rests his head on. A happy accident. You wonder if it overwhelms him a little. Babies. Kids. None of it ever felt feasible before all of this. “Go have fun in the mountains.” 

It pulls another snort of him, and he turns his head, peppers a soft kiss to your navel, eyes flicking upward to stare at you. Dancing with mirth. A mordant sort of humour you can't begin to understand. 

Need to know, maybe. 

“Fun, huh?” It's muffled by your skin. “Think I'm bein’ led to my untimely death, actually.” 

“That so?” You hum, a smile curving over your lips. “At least make it look like an accident, yeah? We won't get the insurance payout otherwise.”

“No shit? Murder in the highlands isn't covered? What the hell am I paying nearly three hundred pounds for, then?” 

“Peace of mind.”

It makes him snort before he buries his face in your belly, scratching his nose on your cashmere in a small nuzzle. 

“Ain't much of a peace of mind, is it?”

“Better now,” you offer, fanning your fingers over the arch of his ear, soothing the tiny pout you can feel forming against your skin. 

“Yeah, well—”

His words taper off, lost to a kiss placed just above your belly button. It might be an apology. Sorry for almost dying—

Again. 

And as much as you hate that he has to, that he peppers kisses in place of it'll never happen again, or don't worry, I'm here now, you know what this is. You've known it from the beginning. Accepted it as is because with you or without you, Kyle was going to do what he does regardless. Begging him not to, to reconsider, is not a line of selfishness you're willing to cross—

Or, weren't, rather. 

Until this. Until now. 

This soft, barely noticeable curve seemed to overwrite the desire to let him fly as high as he wanted. To rearrange the stars until he fit amongst them; more dust than man. Selfish, maybe. Definitely. 

But the condition was less of an ultimatum and more of a plea. I don't want to be a single mum, Kyle. Perspective, you suppose, does that to people. Changes them. Shapes them into something different. 

You think maybe he felt the same way when he bowed his head over the table, staring down at the pregnancy test you laid down for him, and nodded. 

(“Yeah, yes. Uh, I'll—yeah. I'll—” he swallowed around the brine in his throat. Salt congealed over his airways until his voice was a rough scrape between his teeth, desiccated. “I'll talk to Price. No more helicopters—”)

There was more, of course. A hashing of everything. All of it spilt out over the table. He gave up as much as he could without sacrificing that insatiable desire to soar as high as he can, untethered to the earth. And you promised to anchor him down when need be. When he tries to fly too close to the sun.

A compromise. 

And—

“Bring some flowers for me,” you murmur at length, fingers grazing the shell of his ear. 

—an apology. 

He keeps his head bowed. “Supposed to be need to know.” 

“Call it a hunch, then.”

A snort. His shoulders shake. “Sure. Price’ll love that one. Intuition will sound good on the report.”

“Oh, no. Big, scary military men afraid of a little paperwork.”

“Oi—” His fingers dig into your sides. A playful pinch. You choke out a shallow laugh, raking your nails over his scalp in retaliation, but it just makes him shiver. Groan. 

Keep doin’ that and I'll give our neighbours a show—

“How long will you be gone for?”

His lips tug downward. “Just the weekend.”

“Don't have too much fun without me.” 

He slides his face over your belly until he's balanced on the tip of his chin. That sombre look is back again. Pensive. Quiet. He'll tell you the truth when he's ready, you're sure, and you brush your fingers over the divot in his brow, smoothing the wrinkle out. 

“We'll be fine.” You say, and he nods because he knows. You're safe here. But still—

He presses a kiss to your belly, staring up at you through the golden curve of his ashes. Sombre expression melting into something languid. Lax. Catlike, you think, huffing when his hands curl around the backs of your thighs, pads of fingers dipping into soft skin. 

Kyle catches it. Grins. Heat soaks into your flesh where his palms rest, nestled just below the curve of your ass. His intentions are clear, obvious, and you go willingly when he pulls you into his lap, thighs thrown over his. 

Your throne, he’d once joked in the early days of dating, when you were still discovering pieces of yourselves in each other’s naked flesh. A truism now because whenever he can manage it, Kyle seems to prefer you sitting on his lap, head tucked under his chin. Within reach. 

Always. 

His personal stress ball, perhaps. A weighted blanket. As you nuzzle close, his shoulders dip. The tension in his muscles bleeding out by the weight of you on him, the brush of your skin. You press in, leaching comfort from his sun-warmed flesh. Fingers trailing down the angled slope of his face until his jaw is held in the plinth of your palms. 

The ghost of a pout still lingers in the jut of his lower lip. You sweep your thumb over it, nail curving along the valley of his cupid’s bow to map the path you know better than your own sloping plains. A kiss to the ridge of his jaw chases away the saturnine shadows still falling across lush beds of gold; sun dusted colluvium. 

You taste salt on your tongue when you pepper a kiss just above the arched curve of his cheekbone, his lashes fluttering down, tickling your mouth when he blinks. 

It doesn’t get rid of all the Ttenebrae tucked tight inside the canyons of burnt umber, coruscating amber, but flecks of aurate gleam through the shade of eventide. A glimmering gem in a sea of moon white. 

The flickering embers of his unease melts with his huff. His thumb strokes along the curve of your ass, settling over your waist. Holding you close. You catch the way his eyes drop briefly down to your belly. The bloom of heat in his eyes. Liquid gold. Darkening as he stares, marbled with possessiveness. With the unfettered threads of satisfaction streaking through. 

The eyes of a big cat as he licks the blood from his jowls, his kill still cooling on his paws. 

“Better be.” 

“Overprotective already and they’re not even here yet,” you tease when he lifts his gaze. Honeyed with want; syrupy with desire. 

“Not just for them,” Kyle rasps, his hand sliding up your spine, cupping your nape in his palm. Dragging you closer to breathe his need over your lips. “You're both mine.”

“Kyle—”

“Say it.” 

“We’re yours,” you whisper, catching the stutter in his pulse when your hands slide down his jaw, cupping his neck. “Just yours—”

The rest of your words are devoured by his scorching mouth, eaten right from between your teeth. Kyle’s kisses have always edged into consumption, you think. Like he trying to eat you whole—nothing saved for later. No scrap spared. Wasted. 

It’s dizzying. Edges into too much, too intense. You can’t keep up with him no matter how hard you try. He’s always several paces ahead, drawing your tongue into his mouth. Letting the sharp edge of his canines graze your flesh, scraping the soft tissue. All you can do is cling to him. Hold on as he glues his mouth to yours and eats—

When he pulls away, giving you a moment to catch your breath, you think you hear him growl, never lettin’ either of you go—

But he drags you back into him a second later, mouth slipping over yours with an untempered hunger. The purr he lets out trembling over your tongue, shaking the thought right out of your head. 

Never, you’d say if he let you. If he gave you a moment to think. Peeled his tongue from between the seam of your teeth long enough to let you gasp the words out. 

He doesn’t. He won’t. 

He drags wet, sticky lips across your cheek, over your jaw, down your throat, before sinking his canines into the throb of your pulse beating under your skin instead. Steals the thoughts from your head as you gasp his name out, followed quickly by please and Kyle, more—

Kyle lifts his hand from your spine, fingers stretching out. Reaching. The sun glows between the spread of his fingers; scintillating like fine, golden mist over his fingers. Beautiful, he thinks when your breath hitches in a shallow gasp; held tight his arm, and—

(with it cradled in middle of his hand, he closes his fingers around the sun until it's swallowed up in his palm.)

—all his. 

[tasteleeknow]

LIVING IN THE RUINS

minho x fem!reader. 2k words. minors dni. best friends to lovers. soft!minho. angst. fluff. jealousy. emotional hurt/comfort. smut with feelings, in a tent.

“Excuse me?”

You blink at the stranger in front of you. She seems to materialise before your eyes. You’d zoned out again and missed the attention your best friend had clearly been receiving from strangers in the crowded room. “I was wondering if I could get your number?” she asks, eyes fixed on Minho’s. She blinks quickly a few times, her long dark lashes fluttering much like your heart in your chest. 

She hasn’t looked at you once despite your close proximity. You’re so close to the object of her attention in fact, your thigh brushes against Minho’s jeans under the table. 

He shifts beside you, sitting up straighter in the booth. “Oh,” he says, clearly taken off guard as well. “Thank you. I mean that’s — I don’t—” 

“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asks with a small tilt of her head. 

“No,” Minho answers quickly, incapable of lying. His discomfort radiates off him. You’d spent years learning his emotional tells. “I mean—” 

“He’s not into women,” you interrupt, finally drawing her attention to you. She blinks before her eyes drop down to your chest and back to your eyes, like she’s completely taken aback by your presence. It’s impossible, you know that logically. Still, she puts on a good performance. “Sorry,” you add. 

Her lips curve into an unconvincing smile. “No worries,” she says. “The hot ones never are.” 

The whole exchange is as short as it is ordinary. How many tipsy girls work up the courage to ask the pretty man across the bar for his number? You would bet money on it happening multiple times over somewhere across the planet at any given moment. It’s normal. Mundane. Still, you know it’ll chip a little more of your carefully built wall away. A chisel to stone, slow and steady. The only problem is that it’s been chipped at for years. You can feel the fragility of it these days, each chisel etch feels alot like when you’re down to the end of a game of jenga. 

Any move now will cause it to crash and fall. 

She hadn’t considered for a moment you might have been together — not when she’d spotted him across the room, clearly with you — and not when she’d gotten close and blatantly ignored your comfortable proximity to each other. Her question about his relationship status had been an afterthought, a possibility she hadn’t considered until faced with a response other than ‘yes’. She’d been expecting a yes.

The thought that he might be with you, might be attracted to you, was unconsidered. You wonder if she’d discussed it with her friends. ‘No,’ they might have said. ‘There’s no way he’s with her.’

Minho is quiet as the petite brunette turns on her heels and disappears back into the mass of people. His red ears give his embarrassment away. 

You nudge his shoulder, rocking him out of his trance. “Hey,” you prod. “Alright?” 

The smile he offers you is a little lopsided — very Minho. “Always,” he says. 

—

Your annual camping trip is just like the year before. Your small group of friends sets up camp in your usual spot. Everyone climbs into their usual tents. Everyone assumes you and Minho will be sharing, as always. 

You’re not sure why it hurts so much. They assume that nothing would ever happen between you. None of the other girls share a tent with a guy they aren’t dating. You’re the exception. Because Minho would never want you. 

He notices your low mood later that night. The group separates in the dark to play flashlight tag and as you find yourself wandering a secluded patch of the campsite, you know he knows. His attention is on you instead of where he’s walking. You almost scream when he falls into apparent nothingness. 

“I’m fine,” he quickly reassures you, pulling himself up from the ground. “Just dropped my glasses.” 

“God, you scared me.” 

It takes you both at least ten minutes to find them, relying purely on touch alone. It's too dark to see much at all without a light and using your phones would give your position away. 

You’re grateful for the darkness when you reach up and place his frames gently on his face. It hides the heat in your cheeks when you brush chocolate brown hair behind his ears, ensuring you’ve placed them properly. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, close enough that his breath warms your lips. 

You’re also grateful just to be near him, you realise. Just to know him. You love him. 

You love him. 

It’s an earth shattering realisation to have while playing flashlight tag in the middle of nowhere. You need to escape. You can’t. You’re sharing a tent with him. 

The situation isn’t helped when later in the night one of the girls with big bright eyes and a gentle smile makes a very clear move on him. You were used to it. People loved him. 

You loved him. 

It’s a stupid thing to cause the wall to finally crumble. It’s humiliating really. But when he laughs at something she whispers in his ear: it happens. 

It falls. 

You’re pathetic without it. 

All you can do is hide from him, escape to the tent and pretend to be so tired you’ve fallen asleep before he can investigate. It’s not something you do. Not with Minho. He knows you so well hiding from him is just as stupid as it is pathetic. He’ll know. 

Still, you can pretend. He won’t know as long as you’re unconscious. You can put it off until morning. 

It takes a long time for him to fall asleep. You lie there staring at the canvas of the tent for what feels like hours, the sounds of him tossing and turning continuing for so long you almost give up. 

But then he’s still. His breathing seems to even out. He’s asleep. 

That’s when you let yourself cry. Quietly at first; silent aching sobs. 

What a time for the wall to crumble. You wonder if you have the energy to rebuild. You’ll have to find it. The alternative is letting Minho go entirely, removing him from your life and letting the ruins erode away over a long, long time. 

Not an option. 

“Hey,” Minho’s soft voice calls. Shit. You wipe clumsily at your eyes and sodden cheeks. “Hey, what’s going on? What happened?” he questions as his palm rests gently against your shoulder. 

You should face him. You can’t hide. You know it. 

“No-thing,” you whimper, breath catching between each syllable. It’s that awful breathless kind of sobbing, the type that leaves you unable to inhale fully, let alone speak. 

He rolls you over onto your back. He isn’t rough — but it’s with enough strength you’re completely unable to resist him. 

“What is it?” he says again, tone much more forceful now. He isn’t letting it go. He looks down at you with wide eyes, like he’d never been asleep at all. 

You shake your head. 

His gentle thumbs move to your cheeks to attempt to wipe away the mess you’d left behind. He rests on one arm, leaning over you so he can give each cheek the same treatment. It’s a curious instinct, to wipe away someone's tears — like it has any effect on the person’s pain at all. It’s the best we can often do, you suppose. 

“Just focus on breathing,” he says. “Just breathe.” His hand stays against your cheek, fingers resting on your neck by your ear — featherlight. 

Breathing is easy, in theory. Breathing. Breathing. Breathing. His lips part to join you, guide you. His lips are still a little red from his bedtime routine, his tinted vaseline usually lasting him the entire night. 

“That’s it,” he soothes when you finally manage a few steady breaths in a row. “That’s good. You’re okay.” 

They’re simple words of comfort. The kind of thing anyone would say to a person in distress, but they settle something in your chest. You were okay. He was yours in a way that was more than nothing. He cared in a way that felt so genuine it was hard to be dissatisfied with the nature of it at all. 

“Did something happen today?” he asks, still leaning over you. It’s a vulnerable position to be in. It mirrors how you know this conversation will go. Your wall is a crumbled mess. You have no defences against him. 

“Not really.” 

His eyebrows pull together. 

“Nothing worth this,” you clarify. 

“Tell me.” 

“It’s not… It’s embarrassing.” 

His lips curve in a tiny lopsided smile, just a hint of amusement. “Friends are for sharing embarrassing things with. And I’m your friend,” he says. “Aren’t I?” 

You blink quickly a few times, desperate to keep your tears at bay. Then you nod weakly. 

“Why do you look so miserable about it?” he says, tone light and teasing. 

Your lips wobble a little as you struggle with the words attempting to burst forth. They pound and burn and demand to be set free. You lose the battle. “I love you.” 

He blinks, eyes flicking across your face. 

The gates are open now. You’re turned loose. “I love you so much,” you sob. “It hurts. It hurts everyday and it just keeps getting worse and I can’t—” 

His lips cut you off, a warm, heart-stopping, and very much welcome interruption. He’s kissing you. He’s—

“Stop,” he mumbles against your wet, salty lips. “Stop hurting. Please.” His next kiss is unbearably soft, a brush against your upper lip. “Please,” he whispers. 

You nod dumbly.

He rewards you with a collection of gentle kisses across your cheeks, replacing the remnants of your tears with the sticky wetness of his moisturised lips. You imagine the slight red marks he must leave behind. 

He settles over you properly at some point. You’re too distracted by the path of his lips to notice exactly when. But then his arms are by your head, caging you under him in a way that makes you hope for the universe to halt all progression forward. This was enough; everything. 

“I love you,” he whispers against your lips finally. “I’m… sorry for letting you think I don’t. I’m a coward.” 

“No,” you chastise quickly as you tangle your fingers in his hair. “Don’t say shit like that.” 

“I—” 

“It hurts me… and you told me to stop hurting.” 

His head drops to your neck… then, with a soft press of his lips to your skin, “Then I’ll never do it again.” 

Every move he makes is gentle when the slow, indulgent kisses turn into exploring hands and whispered pleas for more. Each of his whisper-soft words of affection sweeps away a crumbled section of your wall, clearing the space to build something entirely new. He’s warm, so warm as his bare torso rests on yours — as he finally presses inside you and sucks a mark into your neck to join the rest he’s left. “Doesn’t hurt?” he asks, stilling as he fills you completely. 

“No,” you gasp. “No, you’re… it’s—” His lips take the words from your mouth, a little messier than he’s been before. When his hips roll into yours you can’t help grasping at him like he might suddenly get up and leave — fingers tangling in his hair desperately.

“I got you,” he mumbles against your lips, heavy breaths mingling with your own. “I got you…” 

When he eventually spills inside you, flooding you with more of his warmth, you’re crying again. But this time it doesn’t hurt; this time it’s a release. The tears that he kisses from your face afterwards — they wash away the rest of the rubble.

[visionsofmagic]

◜ mk1 men when you meet with their evil versions [+bonus]◞

▸ characters: raiden, johnny cage,  kuai liang, tomas & [+bonus} bi han: meeting with his good version ◂ ▸wc: 2.7k

▸ tags&notes: drabble, fluff, hurt/comfort, spicy, flirting, touching, gentle, rough, lots of usage of version & timeline words (like in the game, lol), dilemma, betrayal, angst (a little bit), humor, use of y/n, pet names, no specification of gender (as I remember), well, ‘s all I guess? (lol, this is the mixed tags I have ever wrote, but, it’s a drabble, so… enjoy!◂ ▸ m.

RAIDEN can be one of the most precious men you have met, and falling for him is the rightest thing that has happened to you – however, contrary to how a loving boyfriend he is in your timeline, he’s the opposite one when it comes to his another version you have come across.

everything about his evil, the version seems all the same and different at the same time as he makes his way towards you, having the red color on unlike what your raiden wear normally. the only thing that reminds of him is the hat that covers his face from you until he slowly raises his head, eyes glowing red while looking at you from above. the danger is radiating from his presence, giving you a cold chill down your spine, making you crawl back step by step because of being on your ass, sitting on the ground after the fight has begun between you and the other timeline.

“oh,” he says, a smirk appears on his pretty face – not the one your raiden has, the one that is the representation of the most beautiful flower in the entire world, no, this one gives the feeling of an ivy full of poison. “y/n?” gulping, you remember the words that left liu kang’s mouth about how raiden once lost himself and sought the power to protect the earthrealm at any cost. 

you stop when your back touches a wall, leaving no place to run either when raiden kneels before you, red lightning traveling on his body that looks so powerful that you find yourself getting weak – not only because of the aura he has unlike the one the raiden you know has, but also because how it seems that he pulls you closer to him. somehow, he makes you lose all logical sides of your brain with the way he looks down at you; prevailing.

“raiden?” you ask, sounding soft which earns a smirk from him as he holds you by the chin.

“oh my love, you’re so soft – so fragile. it seems your raiden doesn’t give you enough – he is still weak. with that power, he can’t protect you, but I can,” his fingers move from your chin to your cheek, and lightning under his skin tickles yours. “come with me. I will protect you and the earthrealm from any danger out there.”

“I can’t –“ you utter, sounding not so sure of the decision but your heart knows the best – and that is to stay beside your raiden, the one who has you completely, not the one seeking power even though he needs to end his friends’ life or even another timeline to accomplish it. “I will never leave my raiden’s side.”

“how loyal,” he says, both irritated by the fact that your bond with the raiden in your timeline can’t be broken and proud of how loyal you’re for your love. “I wish we met in my timeline.”

with his confession, he leaves you behind, going to fight with others – how ironic, he comes here to end any life form yet he shows mercy when it comes to you. whatever it is that makes him do that, doesn’t matter, you say to yourself as you get up and go to help your raiden, hoping he will never turn evil.

JOHNNY CAGE in your own timeline is flirtatious and teasing enough – or as you thought until you see his evil version from another timeline after the great fight has begun. you can’t distinguish him from your johnny – but the moment his eyes find you, admiring how you easily defeat one his companions on the way to the top, he whistles playfully.

when you turn to see him, ready to make a moral lesson about how he shouldn’t be humoristic in a fight for death and life, you see his eyes scanning your body from head to toe shamelessly. realization hits you like a ball in the face; he’s not your johnny. he doesn’t care about anything in the world, well, your johnny didn’t either before meeting with you. 

acknowledging that you see the danger when he winks at you, eyes finally directed to your face. “well, hello cutie. aren’t you such a beauty who will make aphrodite jealous?” he leaves a chuckle when you roll your eyes. without positioning a fight stance, you begin to walk towards him so that you can pass by his side – you can’t stand a version of johnny who is cockier and open-mouthed.

“woah woah,” he stops in front of you, hands on his chest, smirking, “already going, baby? c’mon, there is no man who deserves your attention as I do – not even your johnny if there is one.”

crossing your arms, a weary expression lightens your face up – still, you can feel the heat rushing to your body because of his flirty manner and words. johnny cage will be able to make you giggle with his demeanor with every version of him, won’t he?

“what do you want? a fight? then do it with someone else.” a dismissive hand movement makes him close the gap between you, eyes shining at your words.

“why pretty? can’t hit my handsome face? I bet you love seeing it.”

“u-huh,” you say, smiling as you put a hand on his shoulder, winking at him when he gets excited at the action. “you’re right I can’t hit my boyfriend’s pretty face,” you show his back, “but he can.”

when he turns around after you take a few steps back to leave enough room for your boyfriend to hit his own-self’s face with a strong punch, you chuckle. it’s a sight that will never leave your mind. 

“hey pretty,” your johnny says, gripping you by the waist and pulling you closer. chest to chest, he puts a kiss on your lips, acting like there’s no battle happening around you, taking the taste of you that he missed so much even though he had you before this hell. “you missed me so much that you began to chat with cheaper versions of me?”

“of course not. no one can be like you baby.”

“oh hell yeah!” he chuckles, taking you by the hand, “then, let’s kick some ass, well,” he takes a quick look around before turning to you, “our ass.”

KUAI LIANG of your timeline can’t be looking as dangerous as his evil version even when he has a venomous fire radiating directed to the enemies. your boyfriend tends to have a tender side in him, especially for you. he’s the fire itself – using it to burn the ones who deserve it, and for warming you at any cost, in any place because he loves you so much that he can’t let himself go all wide beside you.

however, his evil version is nothing similar to him – maybe in a few situations but not on the battlefield in which no single soul can escape from the wrath scorpion has.

watching him from afar, for a moment, you can’t help but feel both power flowing through his armored body within the flames rising on the outline of his build, and hatred. 

he mesmerizes you in aspects it shouldn’t have – how can you feel a connection between an evil version of kuai liang when you’re destined to protect your own realm, fighting right beside your boyfriend? guilt rushing to you as scorpion becomes aware of your existence, looking at you after he takes down an ally – your wide eyes that do not leave him is the impulse of it. 

“hmm,” he says, slowly approaching you – you try to move, you really do but you simply can’t, not when every step he takes towards you sends a jolt of excitement and fear to your core, alerting you to either run so fast or stay still and you choose the second option without realizing it until he stops in front of you. “liked what you see, princess?” 

he flirts, teases, and even sounds as if your kuai liang except he has a bloodcurdling tone in his voice. 

when you don’t respond, eyes scanning his suit – looks like he came from straight hell, or he’s the hell, he scoffs, gloved hand replaces under your chin, pulling you closer to him as you rise on your toes to reach his height, hands finding his chest not to fall. “isn’t my version in this timeline enough for you that you eyeing me too? maybe he’s not good at satisfying you.”

heat rising within you, you can’t stop looking at his eyes – burning with flames, magically, yet seeming real as the blood covering his suit. you want to feel disgusted, but you’re far away from having such emotion. 

when he lowers his head, closer to you, you hear kuai liang’s voice behind you – taking you from daydreaming to reality, making you realize you let his evil version do whatever he wants with you. “y/n!”

with such speed, you get away from him, ready to stay in fighting style when your kuai liang covers your body like a shield, standing between you and his evil version.

“you should go,” he says, taking a look at your face as he prepares himself to battle with an armored scorpion whose eyes never leave yours, still attempting to capture you. attempt fails when you shake your head negatively when kuai liang adds, “I will deal with him.”

“no,” you sound certain, standing beside your boyfriend, an assuring smile on your face, “we will fight together.”

evil version only chuckles at that, darkly, and with that, “if it’s what you wish, my love.”

“not yours. mine. and I will make sure to show you that.”

TOMAS’ determination is visible through his movements, unlike the one yours has, his eyes bright with such madness that your heart begins to pound in fear, not knowing whether he sees you as a treat or not – yet, he should, in the end, you’re not his partner in his timeline and he’s here to fight, not spare you just because his soft version gives his heart to you.

“tomas –“ the words leave your mouth, no particular control on it since it just splits out of you easily, to get a reaction from tomas – a good one.

“not your tomas,” he utters, playing with his karambit knife to show the readiness he has, waiting for the exact moment to attack you or defend himself if you take a sudden move, yet, you two agree upon a thing even without knowing it; neither he or you’re brave enough to hurt another, not when you have the love of his version in your timeline – his reason is unknown though. “I am better.”

“maybe you’re, maybe you’re not. it doesn’t matter,” you say, trying to find a feature that has hints of goodness in it by watching him raise one of his eyebrows, clearly curious about the rest of your speech. “for me, my tomas is the best, and he will remain as one.”

he chuckles, “is that so?” he’s more excited than you expect him to be. arms unite on his chest, making him look more dominant than you used to see. “I wonder what he does for you to say that – believe that.”

“he’s not hurting me,” he shuts you down – the thing your tomas will never do, he’s such a gentleman.

“I am not hurting you either,” seeing your relaxed body, he shakes his head, and with a smoke pump, he disappears in sight only to appear behind you, hands hugging you from behind, caging you inside his arms – tight enough to not let you go yet tenderness can be felt as well. he whispers into your ear from his mask, chin touching your shoulder as you take deep breaths because of the proximity you begin to share. other than your boyfriend tomas, you don’t get close with people and since he’s tomas but a more evil version from somewhere else, it feels odd – and excitement mixing within. “but I can’t promise for the future. if you just let me –“

when his fingers find your neck, you push him back, turning around, you take a defense stance, furrowing both at yourself and him – how could he? your tomas would never do things that make you comfortable even in the moments it feels breathtaking. “I should make you regret even suggesting such a thing!”

“no need love,” the time stops for a second, and the heart and soul find the ultimate medicine in the voice of your lover, tomas, whose fingertips touch your upper arms gently, traveling from there until they reach your wrists – his chest touches your back and the remaining marks of his evil version, the ones give you danger, fading away. “at the end of the day, he will not be able to utter any other inappropriate words with you,” staying beside you, he smiles at you – angelic. when he turns to his version, he looks deadly – you have never seen him like this, and from the way he stands, you believe he is determined to make him regret for your sake. “when I am done with him, he will never have the courage to show his face in here.”

“such bigger words from my weaker version,” the other tomas says.

shielding you, tomas bite him back, “I will show you how powerful I can be for my goddess.”

BI HAN’s betrayal still eats you alive, the marks of it have its ghost on your skin and soul; broken pieces, and a wound on the cheek that you got from one of his ice blades he threw to kuai liang whom you intended to protect at any cost, not wanting him to get into a fight with his older brother.

you believed it wasn’t bi han who was speaking – it was his madness that needed to be calmed down – you tried though, you really did but the moment you got hurt, you saw the guilt and concern in his brown eyes before they turned to pure fury as he sought of obedience from all of you.

the brief moment created a bloom in your chest for a spell but it vanished as it came, taking hope into the deepest part of your heart as you watched bi han and kuai liang fight, wishing there wouldn’t be a miscommunication among you all, however, you knew bi han’s obsession with power for lin kuei got more dominant than he felt for you.

it was sad – to see bi han, your bi han, go away from you slowly, not understanding why you don’t agree to be on his side, he feels his own betrayal coming from you – before the fight, he said how he was wounded at your choice – didn’t you love him? he asked and his broken voice now fills your mind as you look at your hands – then, a movement catch your eyes as you wait for the big fight.

“who did this to you?” someone asks – not someone, a voice says, and when his fingertips touch your chin, lifting your head up from where you sit, you see eyes that resemble your bi han. he’s from another timeline, probably in which he doesn’t seek power like the way your bi han does.

tears appear in your eyes, and to hide them, you fend off his gentle touch, not letting him touch the wound directly, “it doesn’t matter anymore.” 

he stays silent, realizing it is bi han, in your realm and he sighs, touching you once again even if you keep as distant as possible you can, not wanting to cry in the middle of a battle area where people go and come as they wait for the upcoming fight. “I am sorry,” he says, and for a moment, you hear the voice of your bi han before coming to your senses.

“it wasn’t you – so, you’re not responsible for saying sorry.”

“but you need it,” he convinces, holding you by the cheek, covering the wound with his palm as if he gives healing through the touch, “and I am here to give it to you.”

you smile, not caring that tears flow into your cheeks, and to his hand – he knows you, not better than your bi han does, but enough to make you sense the comfort you seek within him. “stop talking or I will begin to believe I can beat the bi han’s possession.”

he smiles under his mask, and it reaches his eyes – he looks innocence incarnate. “you will. believe me when I say it, pretty,” he caresses your skin, the free hand positions on your shoulder, giving it a squeeze, “he will learn that there is no greater need except – you, his beloved one.”

💙

[awful-little-goose]

What's it like in each bishops harem?

This one’s been in the ask box for a WHILEEE (sorry Anon), but I really needed to get my headcanons to a place where I liked them (even wrote some short fics about it- no, I won’t share ✨✨✨)

Enjoy!

Leshy is completely endeared with all his lovers, but the way he shows his affection can be…unpredictable. Still, he’s easily swiped off his feet and even offering him a simple bouquet is enough to make him swoon. His biggest flaw is that he tends to forget that mortals are…mortal, fragile, and easily traumatized. He is very physical with his affection, and his feelings can sometimes take over him. Mortal bones are oh so fragile, and their minds so much more so…but come to the party, my sweet, enjoy the festivities, the taste of wine, and the burn of alcohol reserved to the gods. Ignore the maddening illusions and your heart in your throat, he looks so delighted.

Heket is by far the most terrifying goddess of the bunch. She intimidates her spouses and is quite dominant, but has shown to be easily charmed by spouses with a strong personality.

She’ll take her partners to watch terrifying things, such as public executions, sacrifices, cannibal banquets, or even torture sessions, either to show off her power, or intimidate her partners into obeying her. She is prone to violent fits of anger. Still, she does love to just lay around with her partners, and relax under the autumn sun. Deep inside, she cares for some of them, but her ways of showing affection are…disturbing. Now, dear, why haven’t you touched your dinner? She killed them for you herself…

Kallamar is the sweetest one. He spoils his lovers rotten, compliments them day and night, and expects just as much affection in return. He demands rich, elaborated gifts, and loves taking his darlings on swimming dates. He’s very, VERY easily flustered under all that sass. His biggest flaw is his insecurity, which can lead him to being…quite unstable. Surely, he is loved, and adored…isn’t he?

Shamura seems cold at times, but they do care for their spouses. Of the bishops (excluding Narinder), they have the least partners, but those they keep are highly loyal, and treated with respect. They can be a little overprotective at times.

They expect their partners to be incredible fighters, and highly cultured. And they won’t hesitate to put them in fights, intellectual or physical, against one another…and they only keep champions. Losers have only one place to be: wrapped in a bundle of silk, hung above the ground, in the nest of Shamura’s scorpions.

Bonus, Narinder: Narinder doenst have a harem, and is instead waiting for the one soul that will ignite fire to his cold, dead heart. He can be caught thinking about when he’ll meet his dear however, and plans on covering them with tokens of appreciation, honor, and peaceful dreams…

…as well as keeping them close at his sides. So close they will forget their own individuality.