#they all have loss and trauma that they need to move on from and needs they need to acknowledge and AH.

[stylesispunk]

The days of you and I | part 1

Jackson!Joel Miller x fem!reader

Summary: After Joel’s near-death, you stay by his side, refusing to leave him behind. You both confront the weight of what’s been done and what it means to still have each other for now.

w.c: 4,5k

warnings: angst, mentions of murder and revenge, emotional trauma, grief trauma, survivor's guilt, discussion of death and loss. It contains spoilers from season 2 of the last of us. No proofreading because, you know.

A/N: Okay, hello. This is a new Joel series because we love Joel here, and he is alive and recovering. This series will have angst, and the topics followed throughout the story will hold onto the path of healing after a traumatic event for the characters. I already have the end for this series, so everything will lead to it. I hope you like it and stay here to read it. Reblogs are really important, and I appreciate them. I'm gonna be out for a days because I have to put an end to the semester before winter break and do my teacher duties.

Also, I created an AO3 account, and I'll be posting fics there too from now on.

The hospital room was very quiet. With that eerie absence of sound that you could feel penetrating your bones, damaging the inside of your body with a pain that pierced your body, seeped into your soul, and oppressed your heart.

Joel still woke up to that silence, as if was chocking him to death and he had decided he have had enough of it.  to the distant hush of an early morning, and a world that carried on without him. The sharp sting in his ribs reminded him he was still alive, though some days, he wondered what for.

His eyes opened slow, the weight behind them too heavy to lift at once. The ceiling looked the same as it had for the past week, wooden beams, a single hanging light. He’d spent more hours staring at it than sleeping. The painkillers dulled the sharp edges, but nothing softened the hollow inside his chest.

And you were still there.

Your silhouette sat by the window, curled into the old chair like you belonged there. As if you were stuck. A book half-read on your lap, a cup of cold tea nearby, and that same tired crease between your brows you probably didn’t know you had. You looked so small in the pale dawn light, so goddamn stubborn.

He should’ve been glad. Grateful you hadn’t left.

But this morning, something cracked inside him.

It wasn’t relief that filled him. It was grief.

His bones were still aching, his legs dumbed under the cover. He didn’t feel like a man no more, but as a lifeless lump lying in bed.

And you deserved better than this version of him, this half-broken thing stitched together by other people’s hands, carrying the weight of mistakes that couldn’t be undone. Joel wasn’t the man you met. Wasn’t the one who held you like you were the only good thing left in the world.

And seeing you here, still choosing him, hurt worse than any wound that other girl that beat him almost to death had left behind.

He swallowed hard, voice rough and unused.

“You don’t need to stay here all the time, you know?”

The words came out more bitter than he meant them to, tasting like rust and regret.

Your head turned, soft eyes finding his. That damn look, the one that exactly saw right through him, the one that made him feel like a man again for a moment.

And for a second, Joel wished you’d leave.

Because it would be easier than losing you piece by piece like this.

You smiled, small but steady, like you always did when you noticed he was awake. That damn smile, it cut through him every time.

“Took you long enough to wake up again,” you murmured, the softness in your voice brushing against the raw places in him he tried to keep buried. You crossed the room, moving to his side like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it hadn’t been three weeks and one more of watching him drift in and out of fevered sleep and silence.

“You must be feeling tired,” you said, fingertips brushing through the strands of his hair, pushing them gently from his forehead.

Joel didn’t move, but his throat worked around a swallow. It wasn’t fair, you being so gentle. Wasn’t fair that after everything, you were still here, speaking to him like he was the man you remembered, not the one lying broken in that bed.

He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning, barely, into your touch before forcing himself to pull away. His jaw clenched.

Reality blurred at the edges; every breath thick with a kind of grief he didn’t know how to name. Time didn’t move right in this room. It stretched too long, like a cruel joke, dragging him through the sharp fragments of what he used to be.

He wasn’t mad.

He was devasted.

He felt ashamed of the man he was now.

He never experienced a physical pain like this. One that burned inside and out his body.

He hadn’t even noticed his hand was clenching around nothing.

How he could even be useful for this town now that he was gone. Everything left was limb laying on a bed with nothing left but a void consuming him as a whole.

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, the coppery tang of blood grounding him for a second. His voice, when it came, was cracked and quiet.

“You shouldn’t… shouldn’t waste your time on me, darling.”

A bitter, broken kind of truth. But in his heart, he knew it would be worse than dying to watch you stay, wasting your life on him.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull your hand away, even when his words hung heavy in the air between you like a noose. If anything, your fingers curled more firmly into his hair, a tender anchor to a man too lost to realize he was still here, still tethered.

“I’m not wasting anything,” you said softly, the words steady even as your throat threatened to close around them. “You’re here, Joel. That’s enough.”

He gave a ragged breath, like he wanted to laugh, wanted to scream, but all that came was a low, broken sound somewhere deep in his chest. His gaze dropped to the space between you — his hand, bruised and shaking, lying useless on the blanket.

“Don’t deserve you sitting here, watching this,” he muttered, voice hoarse, eyes hot though no tears came. Couldn’t remember the last time they had.

A long, aching silence stretched between you.

You could feel it, the war inside him. The part that needed you close, needed your touch, your voice, like it was the last thing tethering him to this side of the dark. And the other part, the one too proud, too broken, too wrecked by shame to let himself have it.

But you’d made your choice the moment he opened his eyes a week ago.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said. Not a promise you made lightly in a world like this.

Joel closed his eyes again. He didn’t answer. But for the first time in days, his hand moved, slow, halting, to brush against yours.

“Did you… really take them all?” he rasped.

Your heart clenched, but you didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

You gave a small, steady nod.

He swallowed hard, the muscles in his jaw twitching. His gaze dropped for a second, his hand flexing weakly against the sheets.

“I don’t regret it,” you said at last, the words steady despite the ache in your chest. “No one deserves what they did to you.”

There was a storm behind Joel’s eyes, a thousand things he wanted to say, but his throat burned too much to let them out. Anger, grief, guilt, some twisted kind of gratitude. It tangled up inside him like barbed wire, tearing at every soft part he had left.

“You didn’t have to…” his voice broke, low and pained.

“I know,” you whispered. “But I would do it again.”

Your fingers brushed against his, and this time, his hand turned, weakly curling around yours. A tremble ran through him, and you felt it in your bones, the weight of his shame, the depth of his sorrow, and somewhere, buried beneath it, the fragile pulse of the man you knew still fighting to breathe.

But the love you felt for him, that was enough to send you into a spiral, where nothing else felt real but the desperate need to save him, the desperation of not losing him because that would have meant losing yourself that day.

Neither of you spoke for a while after that. The room was heavy with the things you didn’t need to say.

You didn’t look away from Joel, but you felt the shift in the room, the familiar presence of Tommy as he stepped in.

“Hey,” Tommy’s voice was rough, softer than usual, like he was afraid to break whatever fragile peace hung in the air. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

You lifted your head, your fingers gently slipping from Joel’s, though his hand lingered in the empty space you left behind.

Tommy gave a small nod toward you. “Gail’s waiting to see you. Said whenever you were ready.”

Your stomach twisted, a cold unease settling in your chest. You gave Joel one last look, brushing a thumb over his hand before pulling away completely.

“I’ll be back,” you whispered.

Joel didn’t answer. Just stared at the ceiling, eyes distant.

As you stepped out, Tommy caught your arm, just briefly, his hand firm but kind.

“I’ll stay,” he murmured. “Not gonna leave him alone.”

You gave him a grateful, weary nod and left, the door shutting quietly behind you.

The room felt emptier after you were gone. Joel let out a slow breath, eyes closing for a moment before shifting to glance at his brother.

“Gail?” Joel’s voice was rough, but clearer now. “She… she going to therapy with her?”

Tommy rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, sighing as he sank into the chair by the bed.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Doctor says it might help. Been… hard for her since it happened. It isn’t just you carrying scars, brother.”

Joel looked away, his throat working around another swallow. The word therapy felt foreign in his mouth, like it belonged to a world he’d never stepped into, one too far gone for men like him.

Joel stayed quiet for a long time after Tommy spoke, the words circling in his head, refusing to settle. His gaze lingered on the window, on the way the morning light edged in like it didn’t belong here.

Then, rough and low, he broke the silence.

“Was she…” His voice caught, and he cleared his throat, hating the weakness there. “Was she hurt? When… when they brought me back?”

Tommy’s face shifted, the answer already written in his eyes before he spoke.

“Yeah,” he admitted softly. “She… she had some bruises. Took a hit to the side’a her face, couple more on her ribs. And there was a wound on her abdomen.”

Joel’s stomach turned, a cold, sinking dread washing over him.

“Abdomen?” he rasped, his hands curling weakly into fists against the blanket. “Christ.”

Tommy sighed, leaning his elbows on his knees, rubbing a hand over his face. “She didn’t give a damn about it. Wouldn’t let anybody touch her. Wouldn’t even let them clean her up ‘til you were stable. Sat right there in that chair covered in her own blood and yours, talking to you like you could hear her.”

He shook his head, a ghost of a sad, fond smile on his face.

“Would’ve fought off half the town if anyone tried to pull her out of here.”

Joel closed his eyes, the guilt pressing so heavy against his chest he thought it might crush him. A sharp breath rattled through him, his throat burning.

“Goddamn fool,” he muttered to himself, a tear he’d never admit to stinging behind his eye.

“She loves you, you know,” Tommy said quietly, watching his brother’s face. “Way you do her. There is no shame in letting people love you, Joel. Even if it hurts.”

Joel didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not with the knot in his throat, not with the war inside his chest.

But his hand flexed again against the sheets reaching for something, for someone, perhaps you.

The silence thickened again, the kind of quiet that settled deep in your bones. Tommy stayed still, letting Joel sort through whatever storm was building behind those weary eyes.

Then Joel spoke, voice low and cracked, like gravel scraping out of his throat.

“She killed… all of ‘em.”

Tommy’s jaw tensed. He stared down at his hands, lacing his fingers together like it might steady him.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Every last one of ‘em.”

Joel’s throat worked around a swallow, his gaze distant, unfocused, like he was seeing it happen even if he hadn’t been awake for it. Like he could feel the blood she spilled on his behalf soaking into his hands too.

“I should have been the one…” Joel’s voice broke at the edge, bitter and aching. “Should’ve finished it. Not her. Not—”

“She didn’t leave you a choice, Joel,” Tommy cut in quietly, but firm. “You were barely breathing. We didn’t know if you’d make it. You almost died on her arms that night.”

Joel gave a humorless, broken kind of laugh, but there was no light in it. Just sharp edges.

“And now what?” he muttered, a tear sliding down his temple he didn’t bother to wipe away. “She got their blood on her hands. Because of me.”

Tommy leaned forward; his voice steady in that way Joel remembered from years long gone, before the world turned to shit.

“She doesn’t regret it,” he said. “You know that. And neither would I.”

Joel’s eyes finally met his brother’s. A flicker of something there. Grief. Fury. Love. Loss.

“But I do,” Joel whispered. “I regret that she had to.”

Tommy swallowed hard, his throat bobbing.

“You’re not the only one with scars, brother,” he said softly.

“I don’t regret it,” you said, voice steady, though your chest ached with the weight of it. “No one deserves what they did to Joel.”

Gail’s brow lifted, arms folding across her chest. “Murder?” she challenged; one word sharp enough to cut.

You didn’t blink. “Murder’s a simple act these days. Torture?” Your voice turned cold, almost unfamiliar even to yourself. “That’s another thing.”

A beat of heavy silence stretched between you.

“Murder is what Joel committed when he blew my husband’s head off,” Gail snapped, her voice brittle, laced with venom, old grief that still clung to her like a second skin.

“It’s not the same,” you bit out, shaking your head.

“It is,” Gail said, stepping closer. “The only difference is you had the chance to save him. If you hadn’t, Joel would be dead right now. And you’d be mourning him like I mourned mine.”

A fury you hadn’t felt since that day surged hot through your veins. You took a shaky breath, eyes narrowing.

“Fuck you,” you hissed. “You don’t know him. You don’t get to talk about him like that.”

Gail’s face didn’t move, but something in her gaze flickered, something dark, bitter, and quietly resigned.

“I know enough,” she murmured. “Enough to understand what kind of man survives in a world like this. And what kind of woman kills for him.”

You held her gaze, unflinching, the burn of unshed tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, though your face gave nothing away.

“I’m not sorry,” you whispered. “And I never will be.”

“You don’t get it,” you murmured, voice breaking just enough to betray the rawness beneath your fury. “My life would’ve ended.”

The words hung there, fragile and furious all at once.

You swallowed hard, fighting the tremor in your throat. “When they took him… when I saw what they did… there wasn’t a world left for me after that. So don’t stand there and talk about men surviving and women killing like you understand a goddamn thing about what it feels like to have your heart ripped out of your chest and left bleeding in the dirt. Because you’ve been behind these walls, safe, without knowing what it’s like out there.”

Gail’s brow twitched; her gaze steady but dull. “Do you think I haven’t lost people? Do you think grief makes you special?”

“I didn’t say that,” you shot back, your voice tight, shaking now. “I’m saying you didn’t see him. You didn’t watch them tear him apart. You didn’t hear the sounds he made. And you sure as hell didn’t have to put him back together.”

Her jaw clenched. “And now what? Do you think murder fix it?”

“I don’t care if it does or doesn’t,” you spat. “I care that they’ll never touch him again. That they won’t look at Ellie. That no one here will whisper about how Joel Miller should’ve died that day.”

Gail scoffed, a bitter sound. “And what about you? How can you carry this and walk around like it won’t eat you alive?”

“I don’t care,” you said, low, certain. “I care about him.

A beat of silence.

“You think that makes you strong?” Gail asked quietly.

“No,” you whispered. “It makes me his, as I’ve always been.”

Gail’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “You talk like that’s a badge of honor.”

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. “It’s not. It’s a fact.”

She tilted her head, watching you like someone examining a wound too deep to close. “What if you drown into this?”

“I’ll try to save myself” you shrugged.

Another pause. The room felt too small, thick with old grief and new wounds, neither of you willing to be the one to walk away first.

“I loved Eugene so much” Gail said, her voice rough. “And when he died, it didn’t turn me into this.”

You met her eyes, unflinching. “But it made you bitter towards Joel.”

Gail’s jaw tightened, something sharp flickering in her gaze. “He made choices. Ones that cost people their lives. Good people. You act like he’s some goddamn martyr, but he isn’t.”

“And neither was Eugene,” you shot back, your voice low and steady. “Do you wanna talk about choices? Fine. Joel made his. I made mine. And you? You’ve been standing behind walls judging the rest of us ever since we arrived.

Her nostrils flared, a bitter breath leaving her. “I don’t have to like what this world turns people into.”

“Neither do I,” you murmured. “But I’ll fight for the one thing in it that still means something to me. That’s the difference between you and me, Gail. You buried your heart with Eugene. I’m not ready to bury mine.”

A long, heavy silence stretched between you, the old ache of loss clawing at both your throats. And for the first time, Gail didn’t have a sharp reply. She just looked away, jaw clenched, and you took your opening.

You didn’t say goodbye. You just left.

You made your way back through the hallway, your steps slow, heavy, like every word from that conversation with Gail was still clinging to your skin. The air in Jackson felt colder somehow, like the whole town was holding its breath, waiting for something none of you could name.

As a town, you were still recovering from that day.

When you reached Joel’s door, you didn’t push it open right away.

You stood there, hand hovering by the frame, heart hammering against your ribs because, god, he was still here. Still breathing. Still alive.

And it didn’t matter how broken or battered he was, how much rage or guilt sat behind those tired eyes. It was him. And that was enough for you.

Inside, you heard the low murmur of his voice, raspy, weighted with a pain he never used to let anyone hear.

“But how is she really doing?”

“She’s… holding up,” Tommy answered, voice cautious. ”

Joel let out a rough, broken sound. Not quite a sigh, not quite a sob.

“If you ask me, you’re lucky she’s still here after what this world’s done to both of you.” Tommy said.

There was a pause, then Joel spoke again, softer this time, like he wasn’t sure he meant to say it out loud.

“I just… I don’t want her staying because she feels like she has to,” Joel muttered, his voice rough, almost cracking. “She should go, Tommy. Find something better. Hell, anyone better than… whatever I am now.”

Your stomach twisted. A sharp, cold ache settling beneath your ribs. You stayed frozen at the doorway, your hand tightening around the frame, every part of you aching. You didn’t mean to listen, but it was too late. The words were already carving themselves into your chest.

“She’s not here out of obligation.” Tommy said, his tone harder than before. “What would you do if you were her?”

Another pause.

Joel let out a humorless, ragged chuckle, and it hurt to hear it. “It’s not fair.”

“But she gets to decide what’s fair,” Tommy shot back. “And so far, she has decided it’s you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, blinking fast against the burn in your eyes. Your heart hammered in your chest so loud you were sure they’d hear it.

You needed one more second to pull yourself together. To bury the hurt his words left behind, not because you doubted him, but because you knew where they came from. The same place you’d been sitting in since the day you saw him bleeding out in the dirt.

You swallowed down the knot in your throat, forcing your face into something steady, or close enough to pass for it. Then, with a breath you weren’t sure reached your lungs, you pushed the door open.

“Hey,” you said softly.

Both their heads turned. Joel’s eyes landed on you first, and for a split second, something in them broke open. A flicker of guilt, sorrow, and something heavier, like he knew you’d heard more than you were meant to.

But you gave him a small, careful smile, pretending the sting behind your eyes wasn’t there. Pretending your heart wasn’t in pieces on the floor between you both.

Tommy cleared his throat, glancing between the two of you. “I, uh — I’ll give you a minute.” He patted Joel’s shoulder, murmured something you couldn’t catch, and brushed past you on his way out.

The door clicked shut.

Silence stretched thin in the room, heavy like storm air. Joel shifted uncomfortably on the bed, his hand twitching against the blanket. He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

You crossed the room, sitting down on the edge of the mattress by his side. Close, but not quite touching.

“I was thinking…” you began, “I could ask the doctor if you can leave the hospital and go back home. We surely need to make some changes there with the bed and—”

 “Stop it.” He cut you off, his voice rough but firm. “I’m not going anywhere right now.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden sharpness. “Joel—”

“No.” He shook his head, eyes dark with something you couldn’t quite name. “Not until I’m ready. And right now, I’m not ready to face that.”

The weight in his tone pinned you still. You wanted to argue, to tell him that staying there wasn’t helping him heal, but the raw edge in his voice stopped you.

Instead, you just nodded slowly. “Okay,” you said softly.

He didn’t answer, just closed his eyes, the tension in his jaw slowly easing into something like resignation.

You settled into the chair beside his bed, not bearing the closeness anymore, the quiet between you thick but familiar. Your fingers absentmindedly traced the worn edge of his sleeve, as if hoping to stitch together the frayed pieces of him with nothing but touch.

Joel’s breath was shallow, uneven, and you could feel the weight of everything he wasn’t saying pressing down on the room. The man you knew, the one who’d fought through hell and back was here, but buried beneath layers of pain and doubt.

“I’m scared,” he finally muttered, voice rough and low. “Not of dying... of what’s left after.”

Your heart clenched. “You’re not alone in that,” you whispered. “You know that.”

“What you did—” he began “I didn’t deserve to be saved, baby.”

“I made my choice.” You replied, eyes watering.

Joel’s gaze dropped to your trembling hands, then back up to your face, searching.

“I’m broken,” he said quietly, voice cracking. “Not the same man I was before.”

You shook your head gently, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You’re still him,” you insisted, voice firm but tender. “Wounded, maybe. Scared, sure. But still you. And I’m still here.”

A long pause stretched between you, filled only by the faint rhythm of his labored breathing.

Joel’s eyes glistened, a shadow moving through them as he let out a shaky breath.

“What you did… it’ll haunt you,” he murmured, voice low and rough like gravel. “Same way Salt Lake haunts me. What I did to those Fireflies… what I took from Ellie. Thought I was saving her. Thought it was worth whatever price.” He swallowed hard, jaw trembling. “But it never leaves you. Never lets you forget. Look what they did to me.”

You didn’t flinch. You leaned in, your hand finding his cheek, thumb brushing against the rough line of his beard.

“No,” you said softly, steady. “It won’t haunt me, Joel.”

He blinked, as if the words knocked something loose inside him.

“Because I know what we do,” you continued, voice trembling but certain, “when we love someone enough to tear the world apart for them. I know what it means to save the person who’s your whole heart. And I’ll carry it. All of it. And I won’t regret a single thing.”

His eyes closed, a tear slipping down his temple, and for the first time in too long, he didn’t look like a ghost of himself. He looked like Joel.

“Goddamn you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I don’t deserve you.”

“I’m not letting you go,” you said, leaning your forehead to his.

His breath hitched at the sound of your voice so close, your warmth grounding him in a way nothing else could.

“Baby…” he rasped, like it hurt to say it, like it was both a confession and a plea.

You hushed him gently, your hand brushing through his hair, your forehead still pressed to his.

“It’s gonna take time to heal,” you whispered. “I know that. I’m not asking you to be okay tomorrow, Joel. Or next week. Or even next year. I just need you here. With me. However, you can manage.”

His fingers, still weak, clung to yours like a lifeline. His voice cracked as he spoke again, rough and small.

“I won’t be able to protect you.” You felt it in the way his words splintered under the weight of his shame, the jagged edges of the man he used to be catching against what was left. His eyes searched yours, desperate and hollow all at once.

“I won’t be able to protect you,” he repeated, voice breaking like a man confessing to a sin he could never undo as he closed his eyes. “Not like before. Not the way I should do.”

You swallowed hard, a tear finally slipping free, tracing down your cheek as you gripped his hand tighter, like you could anchor him to this moment, to you.

“You don’t have to,” you whispered, voice trembling but certain. “You protected me for so long, Joel. Longer than anyone else ever did. It’s my turn now. I don’t need a gun in your hand to feel safe. I just need you. That’s it. I just need to feel the beating of your heart under my hand to know you’re still breathing with me.”

His throat worked around a choked sound, his other hand weakly lifting as if it wanted to touch you but couldn’t quite make it, so you guided it to your cheek, holding it there like it was the most precious thing in the world because that’s how it felt.

“I’m still yours,” you whispered against his palm. “Always. However, you come back to me.”

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@vanishintoyoubby

[totallyprentiss]

There’s something quietly, heartbreakingly tragic about Emily Prentiss—about the way she’s been yearning to be loved for her entire life, and doing it so quietly, so subtly, that some people might not even notice.

It started young, with the coldness of Elizabeth Prentiss, all polished diplomacy and razor-sharp expectations, offering nothing soft for Emily to fall back on. No warmth. No trust. Just pressure and passports and places that never quite felt like home. She was always the new girl. Always trying to prove herself. Always chasing something that looked like belonging.

And then she was fifteen and pregnant - not because she was reckless, but because she was desperate. Desperate to be wanted. To be liked. To feel anything real in a world that felt so far away from her. She couldn’t even tell her mother. Not about the boy, not about the pain, not about the choice she had to make. That’s where the loss began. Quiet, unspoken, already buried under years of pretending everything was fine.

And then it just.. keeps going, doesn’t it? This pattern of aching. Of reaching. Of being the one who loves harder. Wanting to adopt Carrie not just out of duty, but because she needed to prove to herself that she could love. That she had love to give. That she was more than her job and her trauma and her silence. She wanted to believe she was capable of being someone’s person. But how do you believe that when no one ever chooses you?

Sure, she’s liked. Respected. Admired, even. But she’s never been the one anyone picks when the room is full. She’s the one people lean on, but never the one they stay for. And she carries it all with so much quiet grace you almost forget how much it must hurt. The guilt over Declan, even when she did everything right. The way she watches families from a distance, eyes soft and sad like she’s looking at a life that was never meant for her. The way she looks at JJ sometimes, wishing she had what she has. Maybe it’s just Paget’s quiet acting but it’s there.

Don’t even get me started on that damn moment in Season 15 - Emily staring at the baby stroller by that coffee cart like she’s mourning something she never even got the chance again to have. That one second of vulnerability, of wondering what if—and we move on like nothing happend.

I get it. I really do. The writers want her to be this… symbol of strength, the woman who married her job, who doesn’t need a partner or a family to be whole. And I guess that’s fine! some people really do find joy in that life. But if that’s the road you want to take her down, then at least make it look like she’s okay. Like she’s content. Like she’s not carrying all this silent grief behind her eyes. Because right now? She just looks tired. Dude they even took her freaking cat!

She deserved so much more. She still does.

[imsogonesposts]

Our Scars Remind Us, the Past is Real

|| ao3 || Steve Harrington Masterlist || requests are open!! || an: loosely based on scars by papa roach!! ||

summary: When patching up Steve after the events of the Upside-Down, he tells you about how all the trauma has been weighing him down. (wc: 1730)

warnings:  implied mentions of depression, self hatred, loss of self worth, and guilt, steve doesn’t like his scars. this is like very angsty and sad guys, im sorry 😭 lmk if i missed any warnings plss

Steve was used to playing hero. It was a job he had picked for himself, the job he thought he deserved. Not because he thought he was heroic in any shape or form, but because he believed he needed to be useful somehow. To protect everyone around him, because to him, it never mattered if he got hurt, so long as everyone around him was okay. He was okay with being the world’s punching bag, being the disposable one, just as long as everyone he cared about, everyone he loved, was okay. 

As much as Steve liked to pretend he hated having to “be the babysitter” and stay with the kids, he was secretly glad he was the one always looking after them. The one always making sure they were okay, he didn’t think he could live with himself if something were to ever happen to them, whether he was there or not. When the demo dogs almost attacked the kids, when Billy had almost attacked Lucas, when Dustin and Erica had been this close to being trapped with the Russians like him and Robin, when Max nearly lost her life due to Vecna. 

Even the deaths he had little to do with plagued him: Barb, Billy, Heather, Eddie. 

And then there was you. Steve couldn’t help but want to keep you safe, want to protect you, want to play hero so you would be okay. He had always been like that, even before you had known about anything having to do with the Upside-Down, even when you two were dating and you had thought he had lived a perfectly normal life. 

That’s how he had ended up in this situation in the first place. Sitting on the toilet’s closed lid in his bathroom as you tried to clean the wounds littered across his body from the demobats he faced when he was pulled from the water and into the Upside-Down. Despite being injured himself, despite having the creatures gnawing and biting at his skin, Steve still lept into action the moment he saw one of the bats attacking you. He couldn’t help but play hero, even when he himself was injured– especially when it came to you. 

“You know,” Steve said quietly, wincing slightly as you disinfected a particularly gnarly bite on his side, “I remember us in this very same predicament almost a year ago when you were cleaning me up after Star Court.” His hand mindlessly makes its way to your hip as you continue cleaning him. 

You let out a small hum as a response, before replying, “and I remember a time when we lived normal lives.”

Steve can’t help the laugh that escapes him. “You mean when you had a normal life.”

You shrug before moving to disinfect another of his wounds, softly apologizing at his wince. He only shook his head again as silence filled the room once more.

He could see the worry in your face. The crease in your eyebrows, the small frown playing on your lips, the tenseness in your shoulders. Everything about you screamed that you were worried, worried for him.

“I’m okay, you know,” Steve softly told you, momentarily breaking the silence that had filled the bathroom. “Still alive, still breathing.”

You shook your head, whispering a small “don’t” as you continued cleaning his wounds. Unfortunately, Steve was never the best at following instructions, as he only continued on with his words.

“I’m serious,” he continues, “this is all just a bump in the road. I’m a little bruised up now, but I’ll be better than ever soon enough, babe.” He said it all like nothing, like it didn’t hurt you to see him like this, bleeding, beaten, and bruised. 

“Steve,” you quietly whisper out. 

“No, really,” he insists, eyes not even looking at you even more, instead trained on the ground. “I’ll get a few more scars maybe, but it’s fine, water under the bridge-“

“Steve,” you say, slightly louder now, interrupting your boyfriend’s rambling as you stop your cleaning of his injuries. 

He only stares at you, waiting for you to continue. 

“Steve,” you repeat, softer now, “you know none of this is okay, right? You don’t have to pretend like none of this affects you. You don’t have to always be the tough guy, especially around me.”

He says your name quietly, almost in a whisper, as he tells you, “I can’t not be the tough guy. Who’s going to protect everyone if not me?”

“You don’t always need to risk your life though,” you reason, “I mean, look at yourself,” you say, raising your hand to vaguely gesture to his body. His chest and torso were still covered in cuts, bites, and eventual scars that needed to be cleaned.

“If not me, then who?” He repeats. “If someone needs to risk it all, sacrifice themself, I’d rather it be me, because you all have people to go home to!”

The silence that followed was deafening, you felt as if you would be suffocated by it. 

“Steve,” you whisper, daring to break it. 

He only shook his head no, eyes trained to the shower so he wouldn’t have to look at you. So you wouldn’t have to see the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. 

“I have no one to go home to, honey,” he says, voice so quiet you have to strain to hear him. “It’d take forever for my parents to even notice something happened.” 

What Steve doesn’t voice out loud, is that before you, before Robin or Dustin or the kids, Steve didn’t think love was left in the cards for him. Not after Nancy. Not after half the school only worshipped him because he was popular, had good hair, and was a ”ladies man.” Not when his parents could barely force it within themselves to call once a week and ask how Steve was doing when they were away on a trip. 

“I’d notice,” is all you can say, your own eyes turning watery as well. “You could come home to me.”

He says your name so quietly, so brokenly, you’re surprised neither of you are crying into each other’s arms by now, that the dam inside either of you hasn’t broken yet. “I’m broken,” he tells you. “I don’t know how you’re ever going to love me– look at me the same way after tonight. My body is going to be covered in scars, almost every night I wake up screaming from nightmares, it will all only get worse from here. I don’t know how you can continue loving me when I’m so broken.” 

The dam inside him has broken now as his shoulders shake and his voice cracks through the statement. You move to hug him as best as you can without pressing on any of the bites across his body, though Steve doesn’t seem to mind much, clinging to your body the same way a drowning man clings to a life preserver. 

“I’ll always love you,” you whisper, moving his sweat, blood, and dirt-covered hair off his forehead so you could press a kiss to it. “I’ll always love you,” you repeat. “Scars, nightmares, nothing’s gonna change that, honey.”

“You don’t know that,” he insists as you shake your head no, hand moving to untangle the knots threaded through his hair. 

“I do,” you tell him, “I’ve loved you this whole time when you still had nightmares, when you still had scars.”

His breathing had seemed to slow, to calm down slightly, though his grip on you never wavered. 

“The scars will be worse now,” he says, “they’ll be bigger, uglier.”

“They’ll remind me that you’re still here,” you whisper, “that you’re alive, that I can still wake up every day and see you, that the past is real, that you’re brave– one of the bravest, strongest people I’ve ever met. They’re not a bad thing, they’ll remind me how lucky I am that I still get to call you mine.”

You want to thank every star that hung in the night sky when you could feel the smallest semblance of a smile from him pressed into your body as you held him to you. 

“I can’t not save everyone, baby,” his voice cracking the slightest bit as he gets the sentence out. “I can’t stand by and let everyone else get hurt.”

“I know,” you reply softly. It’s true, for as long as you’ve known Steve, he was always the one to show up, to be there for everyone no matter what– even in the smallest ways. When your car was in the shop and you needed a ride to work, Steve was there, when Robin needed a ride to school, Steve woke up early just to drop her off, when Dustin felt left out from the Party, Steve was there, watching Star Wars movies with him despite not understanding anything nor enjoying himself. Steve was always the one to show up, to sacrifice himself for his friends, to save everyone. “But isn’t it time that you let someone else save you?” You softly questioned. 

You could feel Steve’s shoulder soften and deflate at your question. 

Wasn’t it time he let someone save him?

He pulled away slightly from your hold to look up at you. The sight could break you, red eyes, tear-stained cheeks, a sad, hopeful smile, and the fact that he probably didn’t think he deserved to be saved. 

You leaned down to kiss his forehead, moving to continue to clean the blood, dirt, and grime around his wounds. “I’ll always be here, Stevie,” you quietly reassured. He squeezed your waist in response, holding you close to him as if he was scared to let you go, as if you were the only thing to keep him afloat, as if you were the only thing that made him feel even the smallest bit safer. 

And later that night, when the nightmares became too much, when the ugly, mean thoughts swirled through his head, you were there. A shoulder for him to lean on, to cry on. A pair of arms to hold him until everything didn’t feel so dark and cruel again. Until the pain and guilt temporarily subsided into something softer. Until he was reminded of just how much you loved him, cared for him, needed him, and that you always would. 

[wileycap]

Vi's journey broke my fucking heart and I do not see anyone talking about it, so I will.

The Writing In Arcane Was Very Good, Actually (SPOILERS)

The core of her character is that Vi lets herself be hurt. Again and again, and she asks nothing for herself. In S1E2 when she's talking to Vander, she says "I grew up knowing I'm less than them, that my place is down here. I want Powder to have more than that, and I'm willing to fight for it."

Not "I want more than that." She says "I grew up knowing I'm less" and even then, she's already accepted it. It's fine if it happens to her.

When Jinx blows up the council, again it's "I can do this alone, nobody else has to get hurt." She doesn't want the badge, but she takes it anyways because if she doesn't, Caitlyn will be hurt. So it's fine if it's her principles that get tossed out. It's fine if it happens to her.

When Caitlyn hurts her, again - she directs all the harm at herself. She doesn't grab Cait and beat the shit out of her for hurting her. She goes and becomes a pit fighting alcoholic so that she can keep the pain where it belongs, with her. It's fine if it happens to her.

And then... Jinx comes to get her, and they get Vander. She gets to see Jinx be a big sister, try to carry more so that Isha could carry less. And she sees Jinx lose what she lost. (I want you to hurt like you hurt me today and I want you to lose like I lose when I play.)

She tries to help Jinx again and she gets hit with another betrayal. Except this time... Jinx wants to make the same choice Vi always makes. "You don't need to feel guilty about being happy. You deserve to be with her." She's no longer judging Vi or resenting her, because after Isha, how could she? She understands Vi. She understands her too well.

When she's completely broken down, Caitlyn comes in. And Caitlyn isn't upset or angry, no, Caitlyn knew she'd go to her sister and planned for it. Caitlyn accepted her and her need and put aside her own need for revenge.

This is followed by the best sex scene I've ever seen. Now, you have to understand that sex scenes make me uncomfortable, so this is like, high praise from me.

Vi expects to be punished. "Say it. 'I told you so.'" She is literally imprisoned by her mind (wow, filmmaking 101!). And she expects to be taken out of there, to be put back into the fight (like the first time Cait set her free) so she can be hurt and be useful.

And instead, Caitlyn opens the door and steps inside. Into Vi's prison ("Walls of self-doubt and accepted limitation.") To give her understanding and love and most importantly, time. They have more important things to do. There's an invasion coming. And still, Caitlyn puts Vi first.

And Vi lets her. She initiates it, she leans into the comfort and intimacy being offered. It's actually beautiful.

(And then Jinx comes back to help, too, - healing that wound - and even though she loses her again... she can allow herself to move on and be happy. Like she never could before.)

(And we know Jinx survives, but she leaves because yes, sometimes you have to walk away. Sometimes meaningful healing can't happen if you're stuck in the same situation.)

(And Caitlyn figures it out, but doesn't tell anyone. She learned how to forgive and move on, and she's letting Vi do the same.)

"You've got a good heart. Don't ever lose it, no matter how the world tries to break you."

She didn't.

[visenyaism]

do you have any ideas about why so many students are struggling with literacy now? I know that illiteracy and reading comprehension have been issues for years and most americans read at like a 5th grade reading level but I’m curious why it seems to be worse now (pandemic? no child left behind?)

It is everything. There’s not one answer. I could talk about this forever so instead I set a five minute timer on my phone and wrote a list of as many of the many things that are causing this on a systemic level that I could think of:

It’s parents not reading with their kids (a privilege, but some parents have that privilege to be able to do this and don’t.)

It’s youtube from birth and never being bored.

It’s phasing out phonics for sight words (memorizing without understanding sounds or meaning) in elementary schools in the early aughts.

It’s defunding public libraries that do all the community and youth outreach.

It’s NCLB and mandating standardized tests which center reading short passages as opposed to longform texts so students don’t build up the endurance or comprehension skills.

It’s NCLB preventing schools from holding students back if they lack the literacy skills to move onto the next grade because they can’t be left behind so they’re passed on.

It’s the chronic underfunding of ESL and Special Ed programs for students who need extra literacy support.

It’s the cultural devaluing of the humanities in favor of stem and business because those make more money which leads to a lot of students to completely disregard reading and writing.

It’s the learning loss from covid.

It’s covid trauma manifesting in a lot of students as learned helplessness, or an inability to “figure things out” or push through adversity to complete challenging tasks independently, especially reading difficult texts.

It’s covid normalizing cheating and copying.

It’s increasing phone use.

It’s damage to attention span exacerbated by increased phone use that leaves you without an ability to sit and be bored ever without 2-3 forms of constant stimulation.

It’s shortform video becoming the predominant form of social media content as opposed to anything text-based.

It’s starting to also be generative AI.

It’s the book bans.

what did I miss.

[gaza-giving-tree]

Hossam Al-Qazzaz and his family were finally able to move into their newly rebuilt tent... And now, it looks likely they will be displaced yet again.

Images: Hossam Al-Quzzaz rebuilt his family's tent after it was destroyed in an airstrike on the night of March 17/18, 2025.

@hos-pal

@bashar-qazaz

@hane-qazaz

Written by @rumiandroses

In the early hours of March 17/18, 2025, the ceasefire in Gaza collapsed. Airstrikes lit up the dark night, killing over 400 people.

Sleeping in their tent in the Khan Kunis displacement camp, the Al-Quzzaz family had a nightmarish awakening: their tent collapsing on top of them, their belongings catching fire from the blast.

Hossam, his wife Hanan, and their four children—Bashar (9), Hani (8), Diana (4), and 4-month-old Habiba—managed to scramble out of the wreckage.

Video: Clip from a ten minute Al-Jazeera video, featuring Hossam, as he recounts the night his family's tent was destroyed in an airstrike.

Original Video: [LINK]

"Miraculously, we survived," Hossam wrote to us the next morning, assuring us he and his family were unharmed. The tent, however, was completely destroyed.

“By the grace of the Creator, we were not physically harmed, but we are psychologically and morally broken,” Hossam wrote in the March 19th update on the family's GoFundMe page. “... our hearts are still trembling until now, because we have lost everything. Our tent was completely destroyed, just as our house was destroyed before, and we are now homeless, without food, without clothes, without money…”

The devastating blow was softened a little by the kindness of others; thanks to everyone who donated to the Chuffed campaign our founder, Bethany Grace, created to help the family rebuild, we were able to send the Al-Qazzaz family $788 (€697.48 after conversion)—enough to start constructing another shelter out of sturdy materials.

Hossam, skilled in construction, has been hard at work for the past few weeks, clearing out the debris and reconstructing the family's shelter with materials he was able to obtain.

Every day, Hossam toiled to rebuild his family's shelter. And every long night, the family could barely sleep as brutal airstrikes continued to light up the night.

“The sounds of bombings are everywhere,” Hossam wrote to us one evening. “And the planes fly at a close distance. And fires everywhere.”

A few days ago, the family was able to move back into their shelter together.

But today, Hossam sent us a message that made our blood run cold:

“The tanks are approaching and are almost a kilometer* or a little more away. If [they] come any closer, we'll get out of there because we'll be within range of [their] fire.”

*Kilometer = 0.62 miles

This precious family, already displaced multiple times for over a year, now might be displaced again, under threat of fire. With no stable income and essential supplies priced beyond reach, the Al-Qazzaz family is fighting a daily battle just to keep their children warm, fed, and safe.

The Al-Qazzaz family is one of countless in Gaza enduring wave after wave of trauma, displacement, and loss. And yet, through it all, they have held onto their dignity, their love for each other, and their will to survive. The support of the online mutual aid community has been a lifeline for them—allowing them to feed their children, find temporary shelter, and begin again each time everything is taken from them.

If you are moved by their story and wish to help, the family has a GoFundMe campaign that directly supports their daily essentials—food, medicine, and immediate needs. Every donation, no matter the size, helps them meet the most basic requirements to keep going in impossible circumstances.

Additionally, a Chuffed campaign, organized by the founder of Gaza Giving Tree, is helping to raise funds specifically to aid the family in either rebuilding yet again or evacuating to safety if that becomes possible. This effort is aimed at long-term stability and survival—a future where the children can sleep without fear.

Please consider contributing to one or both campaigns. Your generosity can be the reason this family has a chance at life beyond war and rubble.

The Al-Qazzaz family's campaign has been vetted by @gazavetters and is (#287) on their list of verified campaigns.

[colouredbyd]

—So You'll Bury Your Own

brother!sirius black x fem!sister!reader x brother!regulus black, james potter x reader

synopsis: being a Black means learning to ache in silence, to carry what burns without letting it show. but healing, you find, is quieter still — braided through soft hands, old names, and voices that stay. and some burdens, it turns out, are lighter when carried together.

cw: Chronic illness, suicidal ideation, suicide attempt, emotional breakdowns, grief, physical pain, mental deterioration, identity loss, emotional neglect,hospital scenes, overdose, allusions to death, trauma responses, self-hatred, references to childhood neglect, emotional repression, siblings reconnecting. happy ending!!!

w/c: 9k

based on: this request!!

a/n: i absolutely love this <3 it healed a lot in me </3 also who knew that wiseman would inspire this fic

part one part three dalia analyses of this!! masterlist

You just stare at him.

Like the world has turned inside out and dropped you in the heart of something you can’t name.

Sirius.

Your brother.

Not in memory or in ghost-form or in a stitched-up version from your loneliest dreams — but real, here, breathing raggedly in the doorway like he’s just clawed his way through hell and found you at the center of it.

His eyes are so red they look bruised, lashes wet and clumped like he’s been crying for hours and still hasn’t stopped. His chest rises and falls with frantic rhythm, the kind that doesn't belong to a boy but to someone broken wide open.

His face—he’s all wrong and all familiar. Pale where pride once sat. Crushed in the mouth. Swollen beneath the eyes. And still your brother. Still him.

You can’t move.

There is blood in your limbs but it no longer listens to you. Because you had made peace with leaving — with slipping out of this world like ink in water, quiet and unnoticed. You weren’t supposed to have to see the aftermath.

You weren’t supposed to look into the eyes of someone who would’ve stormed the afterlife itself to find you. You weren’t supposed to see what your absence would’ve done.

And then he moves.

It’s not a walk. It’s not even a stumble. It’s a collapse forward, all motion and desperation, arms reaching before words can form. He crashes into you like the air gave out between you both — a falling star, a scream unspoken, a thousand things too late.

His body slams into yours and you don’t even brace. There’s no time. The weight of him sends you both backward, tangled, breathless, hitting the floor in a clumsy, too-human heap.

“S—Sirius—” you try, but his arms are already around you, fists clenched in the fabric of your sleeves like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

He breaks.

Right there, right on your shoulder — his face buries into the curve of your neck like he’s never needed anything more, and the sound that tears from him is not a sob but a shattering. A noise pulled from the bottom of something that’s been hollowed out for far too long.

He cries with no elegance. No walls. No words. Just shaking and gasping and trembling and shaking again, the way grief does when it finally finds room to land.

“Don’t,” he whispers, cracked and hoarse and still so loud in your ear. “Don’t do that to me. Don’t leave. Don’t ever—”

You don’t answer. You don’t know how to.

You lie there beneath him, cold and burning all at once, and let him shake against your chest like a boy who never learned how to lose. His hands are curled into your shirt, and he’s trembling so badly it rattles your ribs, and you’re still stiff, still hollow, still bleeding nothing where everything should be.

And yet something—just a thread, just a ghost—shifts inside you. Not forgiveness. Not hope. Just the smallest, aching realization that someone came back for you. Not the version you wore in front of others. Not the one who smiled through it. But you. This broken, fading, raw thing. You.

“I didn’t know,” Sirius chokes, pulling back just enough to look at you. His hands cup your face, shaking. “I didn’t see it—I didn’t see you. And I’m your brother, and I—I should’ve known.”

You blink, slowly. He’s crying again. He hasn’t stopped. His face is wet and shining and messy and full of something awful and pure, and you hate him for making you feel something like warmth in a moment meant for ruin.

“I wanted to go quietly,” you whisper. “Without… hurting anyone.”

“Well,” he breathes, voice a rasp, forehead pressing against yours, “you failed miserably.”

And you laugh. Not because it’s funny. Because it hurts so much that your body can’t tell the difference anymore.

His hands are on your face before you even register the movement — warm, trembling, cradling you like you’re something breakable he’s just now learning how to hold. His thumbs brush over your cheekbones, as if trying to memorize the bones beneath your skin, as if looking at you isn’t enough — he has to feel you, anchor you, prove to himself that you’re still here.

He tilts your face gently to the side, and his eyes are scanning you in that frantic, desperate way people do when they’re checking for injuries.

You can see it behind the wet lashes, behind the tears still falling without his permission — fear. Bone-deep, soul-hollowing fear. Like he’s still waiting to wake up and find you gone.

“I’m okay,” you whisper, though your voice cracks at the edges, and your hands find his wrists, fingers curling tight. “I’m here.”

But then your gaze drops.

Blood.

It’s on your sleeve. On the floor. And smeared, thin and sharp, across the creases of his palm where glass must have shattered during the fall. His hands — the same ones that shook when he held your face, the same ones that once reached for yours across a thousand childhood halls — are streaked crimson.

From hugging you. From clutching too tightly. From crashing to the floor through spilled potion and broken glass and years of silence.

Your breath hitches. “Sirius—your hands—”

He looks down as if only now remembering. As if he felt nothing, so loud was the panic. Then he just shakes his head, jaw tightening.

“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters, voice thick. “Doesn’t—nothing matters, not like that. You—” His voice breaks. “Why would you do that?”

He says it like he already knows. Like he doesn’t want to understand but can’t stop asking. His hands are bleeding and he still brings them back to your face, gently now, softly, like he’s afraid to hurt you more.

“Why would you do that, huh? Why wouldn’t you tell me? Why wouldn’t you let me in—?”

You try to speak, but he’s still unraveling.

“I should’ve been there. I should’ve—I should’ve written, or called, or showed up. I should’ve—fuck, I should’ve never left you like that. I thought—” He lets out a laugh that isn’t a laugh at all.

“I thought you hated me. You stopped talking and I—Merlin, I thought you were siding with them. With Mum. With everything. I thought you’d already made your choice.”

You blink slowly. Your throat feels like it’s wrapped in wool and fire.

“I was always punished for speaking,” you say, quiet. “Every time I raised my voice, she crushed it. So I stopped. I thought you knew that.”

Sirius flinches like you’ve hit him.

You don’t stop. The words are small and soft but each one scrapes from the hollow of your chest like glass. “I never stood against you. I never could. You’re my brother, Sirius.”

His eyes close. Something in his face folds. You watch the weight drop onto him like a cathedral crumbling — years of guilt, years of leaving, years of assuming you were just another echo of their mother’s hate.

And it’s not anger in his face. Not shame, even. It’s heartbreak. The kind that comes from realizing all the stories you told yourself to survive were lies — and someone else paid the price.

“I thought you hated me,” Sirius says again, but quieter now. “I thought you meant it when you stopped looking at me.”

“I never meant it,” you whisper, voice breaking like tide on rock. “I didn’t know how to mean anything anymore. She—she made me small. I was just trying to survive without disappearing.”

He laughs again, and it cracks down the middle. “Funny. I thought I had to disappear to survive.”

Your fingers twitch against his wrists. He still hasn’t let go of your face.

“I left because I thought staying would kill me,” he says. “I ran and ran and kept running and you—I told myself you didn’t need me. That if you did, you would’ve said something. Looked at me. Anything.”

“I was always being watched,” you murmur. “Every word cost something. And I—I thought you chose to stop seeing me.”

“I never stopped seeing you,” Sirius snaps, but not out of anger. Out of grief.

“I saw everything. I saw you shrinking. I saw Mum turn your light off room by room and I—fuck, I didn’t know how to stop it. I didn’t know how to stay and fight and still be whole.”

Your voice is a rasp now. “So you left us behind?”

“I left them. I thought you—” He swallows. “I thought you hated me for leaving Regulus behind. For not taking you with me.”

“I didn’t hate you,” you say. “I missed you.”

He blinks hard. The tears are falling again. “I missed you too.”

You look at his face, streaked in red and salt. His hands still tremble against your jaw. And something like grief twists inside you.

“I used to sit in that hospital bed and wait for you to look at me,” you say slowly. “You’d be right there for him, for Remus. Right there. And you’d never turn your head. Never once.”

Sirius opens his mouth, then closes it. Guilt flashes, molten and ugly, through every line of him.

“I thought if I looked at you,” he says at last, “I’d have to admit what I did. What I didn’t do. And I couldn’t. I was a coward.”

“I was your sister,” you say, and your voice is trembling now too. “And you didn’t see me.”

“I see you now,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll never stop being sorry.”

You nod, slowly, something cold sinking back into your spine. Something you can’t name. You press your lips together, watch his face — his bloodied palms, his storm of regret, his cracked voice.

“You’re my brother,” you say, like a truth, like a wound. Then, softer: “But your eyes were cold.”

He flinches like you’d whispered a curse, like your words shattered something brittle he’d been pretending was still whole.

His hands fall from your face not in anger, not in defense, but with the trembling reverence of someone letting go of a relic they finally understand they never deserved to hold.

For a moment — no, for longer than that — the silence between you crackles with everything that was never said. It hangs there, aching, bruised, begging not to be buried again.

And then, so soft it sounds like it’s breaking as it leaves him, he murmurs, “I know.”

His eyes drop. Because he can’t bear to meet yours — can’t bear for you to see that some part of him is still winter, still cold, still tangled in the darkness he chose over you. Because if he looks long enough, he knows you’ll find it.

The frost in him that never thawed.

You let him lead you through the quiet halls, your body still trembling with the aftershocks of everything you almost gave away. The weight of his arms was both a cradle and a cage — holding you upright, steadying your faltering steps, but also reminding you of every absence, every silence stretched too long between you.

You didn’t want to be seen here like this, didn’t want anyone to know the shape your desperation had taken. The last thing you wanted was whispers or pity trailing after you like ghosts.

So when he murmured low, voice rough with everything unsaid, “I won’t tell Madam Pomfrey, not a word,” you felt a fragile shard of relief crack open inside you. You nodded, almost too tired to speak, trusting him with the only secret you’d dared carry alone.

The infirmary smelled of antiseptic and old magic, the steady ticking of the clocks a quiet reminder that time was passing — though you wished it would stop.

Madam Pomfrey was busy with another patient, a boy from the Quidditch team, his arm wrapped tightly, grimacing in pain. She glanced at you with a practiced eye, reading the silent plea in your posture, but didn’t press.

Instead, she reached for her supplies and glanced at Sirius with a knowing look — one that said she’d seen this before, and she was ready.

Sirius sat beside you, his fingers curling protectively around yours as the bandages wrapped tightly around his palms. You noticed then the thin lines of blood tracing down his wrists from the broken glass he hadn’t bothered to mention.

You wanted to reach out, to ease it somehow, but your fingers felt too heavy, too fragile. You only watched as the tension in his jaw softened, the brief flicker of pain he tried to swallow.

When Madam Pomfrey turned her attention to you, checking your pulse and watching your breathing with that sharp, clinical care, you closed your eyes and let her work, feeling the cold press of her hands and the warmth of the potion she dabbed gently on your skin.

It soothed and stung all at once — like the pain inside you, raw and real and aching in every breath.

Sirius didn’t say much; his quiet presence was steady, but you could feel the storm behind his eyes, the fight he was waging not to unravel in front of you.

And then, just as quietly as he’d come, Sirius slipped away. His steps were soft, careful, as if leaving you was its own kind of punishment. You heard the faint creak of the infirmary door closing behind him and the hollow echo of footsteps fading down the corridor.

You were left with the sterile quiet, the ache in your chest, and the fragile promise that some secrets could stay locked between two broken souls — even if only for a little while.

You don’t ask where he went. You don’t let yourself wonder, because wondering leads to hope and hope is still too sharp. Instead, you sit in the hush he left behind, your hands folded in your lap like you’re still praying to be seen.

Madam Pomfrey moves quietly around you, fingers gentle on your wrist, eyes soft but heavy with knowledge she never speaks aloud.

“Not all wounds bleed, dear,” she says at last, voice low as if confiding something sacred. “Some sit in the marrow. Some take root in the bone.”

You nod, barely. It aches to move. It aches not to.

She touches your shoulder, not to fix but to reassure. “Warmth helps. Rest. Tea with thyme and a bit of honey. And something that sings. Even quiet pain needs a lullaby.”

You don’t have the heart to tell her your voice went quiet the day your brother stopped looking at you like you were still made of light and not just what remained of it.

The silence hangs fragile between you, stitched with the clink of glass and the soft rustle of linen — until it’s broken.

Screaming. Outside. Sharp and sudden like lightning cracking bone.

“Stop!” It’s Sirius. Loud, desperate. His voice shatters the calm like a stone through stained glass.

Madam Pomfrey snaps her head toward the door, already moving. “Stay here,” she instructs, tight and brisk, years of practiced authority kicking in.

“I swear, these boys will be the death of me.”

You don’t stay. Of course you don’t.

Because you already know.

You swing your legs over the cot slowly, every limb trembling with fatigue, but your heart beats fast and wild. The shouting grows louder. The door flies open before you can reach it.

And then —

He’s there. Regulus.

Not the polished version the world sees, not the cool shadow of a perfect Black heir. But a boy unraveling, wild-eyed and furious, his robes twisted, hair falling into his face, hands shaking with rage. “Where is she?” he’s demanding, voice fraying at the edges.

“Regulus—” Sirius tries, but Regulus ignores him.

He storms through the infirmary like a storm, tearing open curtain after curtain, ignoring the protests of beds still occupied. “Where is she? Where is she—”

You don’t move. You can’t.

The curtain pulls back with the soft, traitorous hiss of fabric betraying silence — and the world goes still.

You don’t lift your head. You don’t need to. The air has shifted — the way it does before a storm, or after a prayer that’s gone unanswered. You feel him before you see him. Regulus.

He doesn’t say your name.

He doesn’t have to.

His presence hangs in the room like breath held too long — like grief trapped behind ribcages and white-knuckled resolve.

You can feel the way he’s looking at you — not straight at your face, not at your hands or the thin sheet drawn over your knees, but lower. There, at your back.

At the braid.

The one you wore like a memory. Like a keepsake. The one only two people in the world ever loved. Sirius had tugged it. Regulus had braided it.

And now his eyes are stuck to it like it’s something sacred. Something ruined.

You look up — and your lungs forget what to do.

He stands at the foot of your bed like a ghost unsure of its haunting. Pale, gaunt in the way that says he hasn’t slept properly in months. His eyes — they look like frost bitten into storm clouds. Wet, wide, unblinking.

His hands hang by his sides. Trembling. Shaking like he’s holding back an entire tide of something unspeakable.

Behind him, Sirius stumbles in, breathless, voice sharp and breaking in one syllable: “What the fuck, Regulus?”

Madam Pomfrey snaps to attention. “I will not have a shouting match in my infirmary—”

But Regulus doesn’t even flinch.

And Madam knows. You see it on her face — in the way her mouth thins, the way her eyes flicker to you, then to him, then soften. She nods once, tight-lipped, and vanishes behind the heavy oak door, leaving only the three of you in the thick, trembling stillness of what’s left unsaid.

Regulus hasn’t moved.

You’re sitting upright now, your hands shaking in your lap, your shoulders curved inward like you could make yourself smaller, less breakable, less seen.

Still, his gaze doesn’t leave the braid.

The silence is unbearable.

“Reg—” your voice barely carries. It’s scraped raw, soft as snowfall. “Reg, please…”

He blinks — once — and you see the glisten in his lashes.

“Say something,” you beg, your voice catching, shoulders trembling now too. “Don’t—don’t look at me like that.”

But he does.

Like the braid is a funeral ribbon. Like you’ve carved something cruel into his chest just by standing there. Like he’s looking at the girl he grew up with — the one who used to hide poetry under her pillow and sneak cold apples from the kitchens — and seeing a stranger in her place.

You curl in on yourself. Press the heel of your palm into your eye to keep it from spilling again. But it’s no use. A sob leaves you — not loud, but enough to shatter something between you both.

Still, Regulus says nothing. He just stares. Hands trembling. Heart, you think, doing the same.

And it hurts.

Like watching a star collapse in real time.

Like remembering, all at once, every word you never said to him. Every letter you never sent. Every ache that grew between you in the years of silence and split loyalties and all the things you weren’t allowed to feel.

You want him to yell. To say you betrayed him. To say you ruined everything. Anything.

But he’s silent.

And it is the loudest thing you have ever heard.

Regulus steps forward, his movement hesitant yet inevitable, like the slow breaking of ice under a restless sky. His hands tremble ever so slightly, fingers curling and uncurling as if trying to grasp the edges of a fragile truth too sharp to hold.

His eyes, those dark pools of silent storms, lock onto yours with an intensity that both roots you to the spot and threatens to tear you apart.

Then, with a voice low and steady, carrying the weight of all the things left unsaid, he asks: “Is it true? Did you really try to kill yourself?”

The words hang heavy in the air, unsparing and raw, stripped of any softness or mercy. There is no sugar-coating here, no gentle circumspection — only the brutal, shattering truth laid bare like bones picked clean.

And as the question falls from his lips, you feel the coldness of it seep into your skin, like frost creeping into bare flesh. You realize in that moment that this is real — it’s not just a secret you’ve carried alone in silence, not just a shadow lingering at the edges of your days. It’s a living thing now, given breath and shape by his voice.

Even Sirius flinches at the sound, his shoulders stiffening as if struck by a sudden gust of pain he had tried to ignore. You stay still, breath caught in a fragile pause between surrender and denial, because hearing it named aloud—so plainly, so fearlessly—removes the last veil of distance and forces you to confront the ache in its full, terrible clarity.

Sirius steps in front of you before you can say anything — before you can find the voice buried beneath the wreckage of what Regulus’s question unearthed.

There’s a rage about him, but not the cruel kind — it’s blistering and desperate, the fury of someone watching something they love be handled too roughly.

He shoves Regulus back with a hand to his chest, not hard, but enough to draw a line between grief and guilt.

“That’s not how you ask,” Sirius hisses, voice shaking. “She’s still bleeding inside. You don’t get to storm in here and demand—”

“Don’t tell me what I get to do!” Regulus snaps back, eyes flaring, voice rising like a tide he can’t hold back.

“You don’t get to disappear for months and suddenly pretend like you’re the only one who cares!”

“I never pretended,” Sirius growls, taking a step closer. “You think I didn’t care? I found her. I was the one who—” His voice breaks, sharp and ugly.

“You weren’t there, Reg.”

“You left us!” Regulus’s voice is full now, a hurricane of sorrow and betrayal. “You left me. You left her. Don’t stand there and talk about who was there when you made it so we had to survive without you.”

Sirius recoils as if struck, and something bitter twists his mouth. “You think I wanted to leave?” His voice drops, not quieter, but heavier.

“You think I could stay when everything was falling apart and I couldn’t tell who was lying and who wasn’t and she stopped writing back and you—”

“I never stopped writing!” you finally choke, but neither of them hears you.

“You shut down!” Sirius shouts at Regulus. “You looked at me like I was the enemy!”

“You were the enemy!” Regulus yells, chest heaving. “You ran off to play rebel with your new family and left us behind to clean up the mess. You didn’t even say goodbye.”

Sirius takes another step forward, his face crumpling, years of anger and guilt and heartache tightening into something sharp.

“Because I didn’t know if I’d survive it. I didn’t know if I could say goodbye to you both and live with it.” His voice is raw now, splintering around the edges.

“I didn’t know who you were anymore. She stopped answering. You stopped talking. And I—I thought I’d lost you both.”

“And now she’s—” Regulus can’t finish it. He gestures helplessly toward you, voice cracking. “You almost lost her forever, Sirius.”

“I know!” Sirius roars, turning on him so suddenly you flinch. “You think I don’t know? I found the bottle. I found her barely breathing. I thought—” His hands shake as he rakes them through his hair.

“I thought I was too late. I thought she was gone. And I would’ve deserved it. Because I—I wasn’t there when she needed me.”

Silence swells between them for a breath, just long enough for the weight of it all to settle in the bones of the room.

And then Sirius turns to you, voice breaking as he points — not at your pain, not at your wounds, but at your heart. “She’s my sister,” he says, low but blazing. “She’s not blood. She’s more than that. She’s mine. And I let her down.”

Regulus stares at him, stunned.

And then his voice comes quiet. Shaken. Hurt in the most childlike way.

“And I’m your brother too.”

The words land like a blow, not loud, not sharp — just unbearably true.

A single tear carves a path down Regulus’s cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away. Doesn’t move at all. Just stands there, blinking, like Sirius has punched the breath from his lungs.

His chest rises unevenly, and he stares at the floor like it might hold some answer to everything they've both broken.

The silence has weight — not the soft kind, but the kind that drips like melted wax onto already raw skin. No one speaks. You can feel it tremble in the air between them, like a wire pulled too tight.

Regulus moves.

He yanks his tie loose with shaking hands — not neatly, but frantically, like it’s choking him. The fabric hits the floor with a soft, pitiful flutter, and he’s already reaching up to press trembling fingers into his eyes, but it’s too late. The tears come anyway, and this time, he doesn’t stop them.

“I’m your brother too, Sirius!” he finally bursts out, voice raw, like it’s been clawing its way up his throat for years.

“I was your brother before any of this — before you ran off and left us! Left me!”

His chest is heaving now, sobs breaking free without rhythm, and you’ve never seen him like this. Never seen his composure shatter so utterly.

“I was twelve!” he chokes, stepping back from Sirius like being near him burns. “I was twelve and you were everything. You were brave and stupid and loud and you laughed in the face of everything I was too scared to even whisper about. I wanted to be like you. I worshipped you.”

He laughs then — hollow, broken — and runs a hand through his hair, tugging too hard. “And then you left. You left. Didn’t even look back. Do you know what it did to her? To me?”

Sirius tries to speak, but Regulus cuts him off, eyes wild now, shining with the kind of grief that never found a place to settle.

“She stopped coming to me after you left,” Regulus says, softer now but still shaking.

“At first, I thought she was angry. But then I realized — she thought I’d leave too. She looked at me like she was waiting for it. Like I’d vanish just like you.”

Your breath catches, and Sirius goes still.

“And it killed me,” Regulus whispers. “Because I would’ve never left her. I never planned to. But she didn’t believe me — not really — not after you. And I hated you for that. I hated you because the moment you left, I started losing her too.”

His voice wavers again, breaks apart into something smaller.

“You weren’t just her big brother, Sirius. You were mine too.”

His hands are shaking at his sides, open like he doesn’t know what to hold onto. You think if he grips one more thing too tight, he’ll bleed. Maybe he already is — not from the cuts on his palms, but the ones he's carried since that day Sirius walked out the door and didn’t look back.

There’s a long, aching pause. Neither of them knows what to do with the grief in the room, so large it might swallow all three of you.

Your sobs are choking out of you in stuttering, fractured waves. “I—I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t trying to… I just didn’t know how to—how to stay,” you gasp, every word struggling past the agony clawing up your throat.

“I thought I was doing you a favour—both of you—I thought you’d be better off without—”

“Don’t,” Sirius breathes, pulling you tighter against his chest, his voice trembling. “Don’t say that. Don’t you ever say that again.”

“I didn’t know how to ask for help,” you cry, fingers curling into Sirius’s robes, your whole body shaking from the force of grief finally spoken aloud. “I thought if I stayed quiet… if I just stayed small… maybe I wouldn’t ruin anything else.”

“You were never ruining anything,” Sirius whispers fiercely, like it physically hurts him to hear your words. “You’re not a burden, you’re not a mistake, you never were—”

“I’m sorry,” you sob again, looking past his shoulder at Regulus. “Reg… I’m sorry I stopped coming to you. I didn’t know how to face you after Sirius left—”

And that name, that ache, it cracks something in Regulus.

“You stopped coming to me because of him,” Regulus says quietly, like a wound being reopened. “Because you thought I’d leave you too.”

You nod, shame making your spine curl. “Everyone always leaves. I didn’t want to find out if you would.”

Regulus’s mouth trembles. “And you thought dying would hurt less than asking me to stay?”

You can’t answer, not really. So instead, you reach for him again. And this time, when his fingers catch yours, it’s with no hesitation.

He sinks to his knees beside Sirius, and for a second, the three of you are just breathing. No yelling. No silence. Just breathing.

“I hated you for it, Sirius,” Regulus says, the words escaping like they've been burning holes in his throat for years. His tie dangles from his fingers, forgotten, his shirt rumpled from the fall, his eyes rimmed red and shining with unshed fury.

“I hated you so much I could barely breathe some days. You were my brother. You were mine before anything—before Gryffindor, before your damn rebellion, before you decided we weren’t enough.”

He’s trembling now, voice cracking around the edges, the sheen in his eyes spilling over in quiet, furious tears.

“You were my brother, and you left. You left me in that house—left me with Mother and her silence and Father and his rules, and her. You left me to rot in a mausoleum while you carved out your freedom and never once looked back.”

Sirius says nothing. Not yet. His jaw tightens, but he’s still holding you, knuckles bone-white, like if he lets go now, you’ll disappear for real.

Regulus steps closer, shoulders heaving. “She stopped coming to me after you left. Did you know that? She used to come to my room at night and braid my hair with shaking hands. She used to hum under her breath when the walls got too loud. She used to talk about you like you hung the stars. And then one day she just stopped.”

Your breath stutters. You remember those nights. You remember stopping, too.

“I’d wait for her,” Regulus continues, voice barely holding. “I’d wait with the door cracked open just enough. I’d leave out her favourite books. I even carved her a charm to put on her braid—she never came for it. I thought maybe she was angry at me, too. But no, it was worse. She was afraid I’d vanish the same way you did. So she pulled away before I had the chance to prove her right.”

Sirius’s voice finally scrapes out. “I thought she hated me. I thought she stopped writing because she picked your side—because she believed everything they said about me.”

“She stopped writing,” Regulus hisses, “because every time she opened her mouth, someone hurt her for it. Because silence was safer. Because she learned that words were dangerous the night you left and didn’t say goodbye.”

You flinch.

“I kept hating you,” Regulus breathes.

“Because hating you was the only way I knew how to stay angry enough to survive. But you were the first thing I ever loved. And when you disappeared, something broke in me so violently I don’t think it ever healed. You were supposed to be the one thing I could count on.”

He swallows hard. Drops his tie to the floor like it weighs too much to carry.

“You broke her. And when she stopped needing me, it broke me, too.”

The words hang there like smoke. Sirius stares at the ground, breathing hard through his nose, mouth pinched like he’s keeping something back. Your body aches from sobbing, but something still lingers on your tongue.

The silence that follows is not empty—it is thick with the ache of unspoken years, of letters unsent and hands unheld, of nights curled around longing with no one to listen.

It’s the kind of silence that trembles, like the earth before the rain. You can barely hear the ticking of the infirmary clock beneath the weight of it.

Regulus stands frozen, tear-streaked and shivering in the dim light, and Sirius is still kneeling at your side, his arm locked protectively around you as if anchoring you to this moment. His chest rises and falls with breaths he doesn’t know how to take.

And then, without warning, Sirius rises.

Not with fury or resistance—but with something quieter, something breaking.

He crosses the small space between them in three slow steps and stops just short of touching. Regulus doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t breathe. His eyes are glassy and far away, like he’s still half-waiting for Sirius to turn around again and leave.

But Sirius doesn’t leave.

He steps in and wraps his arms around his little brother, the motion a little clumsy from all the years they went without it. His chin presses to the curve of Regulus’s shoulder. His fingers tremble where they cling to the back of his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” Sirius whispers. “I’m so—Reg, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t know how much I left behind.”

At first Regulus stands stiff, every muscle locked tight like he might shatter from the touch. And then—

He sinks into it.

It’s not graceful. It’s not easy. It’s like grief wrestles with his spine before it lets him bend. But he does.

He leans into his brother’s chest and fists both hands into Sirius’s robes and lets out a sob that sounds like it’s been trapped in his ribs since he was twelve years old.

You watch them with eyes swollen and raw, your own heart a wounded bird beating against its cage. And before you know what you’re doing, you’re moving too—rising to your knees, crawling toward them like the gravity between the three of you has finally won.

Your arms wind around both their waists. One arm around Sirius, one around Regulus. A knot in the center. A lifeline in the dark.

None of you speak.

There are no names, no rebukes, no conditions.

Regulus's breath hitches against your shoulder, his fingers curling gently into your braid, like he's afraid it might vanish if he lets go. Sirius presses his forehead to yours, eyes clenched shut like he's praying through skin.

And you—weary, weeping, but breathing—you press your face into the space between them and let yourself be held.

No one wins this grief. No one walks away clean.

Because the Black name had always been a curse stitched into your skin—an inheritance of fire and frost. It did not cradle its children; it claimed them. Moulded them into altars of silence and expectation. And each of you—Sirius, Regulus, and you—had carried that name like a wound in a different place.

For Sirius, it had burned in his throat. It turned into rebellion, into shouting matches that ended in slammed doors and broken photo frames, in the kind of departure that tasted like ash and gasoline. He had to run because if he didn’t, it would consume him.

And so he ran, not knowing that the fire followed. That the emptiness he left behind in that cold manor turned into something sharp and echoing in the hearts of those who stayed.

For Regulus, it had lived in his bones. It didn’t scream. It whispered. Dutiful son. Perfect heir. He learned early how to fold pain into silence, how to smile with his teeth clenched. He bore it all—every twisted tradition, every expectation, every tightening collar—as if it were his penance.

Because someone had to stay. Because someone had to be the mirror their mother could still admire. But in the quiet, in the dark, it splintered him. You saw it. You saw how it hollowed him out, day after day. But he never asked for help. Because what right did the golden son have to ache?

And you. You were the secret between them. The one who did not shout, and did not stay, but simply endured. You curled your pain into the softest parts of yourself and made it quiet. Made it poetic.

The ache lived in your music, in your gaze, in the way you held them both from a distance even when they stood beside you. You became a ghost before you even had the chance to disappear.

The Black name haunted all three of you—but in different languages. In different ghosts. And maybe that was the cruelest part: the way it kept you from seeing each other’s pain. Because you were so busy hiding yours.

Because if you looked too closely, if you let them look too closely, they would see it. The ruin. The breaking. The unbearable weight of being born into a war you never asked for, under a name you didn’t choose, with a future you were too kind to believe in.

But now, here you are. All three of you.

No longer hiding. No longer running.

You’re a knot of limbs and sobs, of shivering hands and raw apologies.

Regulus clutches Sirius like he used to when they were children, when the thunder was loud and the manor darker than death. Sirius strokes the back of Regulus’s head like he’s trying to remember how to be someone’s brother again.

And you—you are cradled between them, your hand buried in Sirius’s collar, the other tangled in Regulus’s robes, anchoring both of them as much as they are anchoring you.

No one speaks for a long time.

Because words, for once, are not big enough.

Because grief has hollowed each of you into temples, and maybe—just maybe—this is where the gods of your childhood finally fall.

You pulled back slowly, like peeling yourself out of a dream that you weren’t ready to leave, your arms slipping away from their warmth, your body still trembling with the echoes of everything that had been said—everything that hadn’t.

The air between you had changed. It was quieter, softer, like the hush that falls after a storm, when the sky is still bruised and wet but the thunder has finally tired itself out.

You sat back on the narrow infirmary bed, your breath uneven, lashes damp, and stared down at your fingers twisting in your lap. The silence returned—not sharp this time, not cold, just cautious. And then, you said it. Quietly. Like it was just another thing to survive.

“Mother wrote me.”

They both froze. Regulus’s jaw tensed, Sirius’s shoulders stiffened behind you. You didn’t look up.

“She wants us to meet for Christmas.”

A long pause. Then, a tired exhale. Regulus ran a hand over his face like he could wipe the family out of him. Sirius just sighed—one of those long, too-heavy exhales that sounded like defeat wrapped in dry laughter.

“Course she does,” he muttered. “’Tis the season.”

And then, Sirius said, “C’mere.”

You blinked, confused, still folded in on yourself.

“What?”

“C’mere,” he said again, voice softer now, coaxing.

You turned, hesitant. Sirius was already shifting back on the bed, scooting until his back hit the wall and his knees spread apart just enough to make space for you between them.

It was a tight squeeze—three nearly grown bodies on a cot meant for a single patient—but somehow, you all managed.

“Closer,” Sirius said.

You let out a faint, bewildered breath but inched toward him anyway, letting him guide you. You ended up with your back resting against his chest, his arms gently encircling your waist, the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your shoulder blades.

It was strange—comforting, anchoring—like being wrapped in the kind of warmth you had long given up believing you’d ever feel again. His chin settled lightly atop your head.

Regulus sat in front of you on the edge of the bed, your knees brushing his. He reached out without hesitation, took both your hands in his.

His fingers were cold at first—always a bit colder than yours—but the longer he held them, the more the warmth seeped through. His thumbs traced slow circles into your palms, grounding you like a spell.

He looked at you. Really looked.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said. His voice didn’t tremble this time. It cracked, low and quiet and sincere.

“You’re my twin. I shared a womb with you. I share a name with you. Yeah?”

You blinked, and the tears started again, slowly.

“I’d share this pain too. All of it. If I could carry it, I would. If I could cut it out of you, stitch it into myself, I wouldn’t even hesitate.”

You didn’t know how to speak. It was like something was pressing into your ribs from the inside.

“And even if I can’t take it away—the heaviness in your bones, the ache that never seems to leave—I’ll be here. I promise. So please…” his voice faltered now, eyes wide and raw and flickering with something close to desperation,

“Don’t leave me. Not you.”

And behind you, Sirius was moving. Slowly, carefully. His hands, rough from years of fighting, from running, from surviving, were suddenly so gentle it nearly broke you.

You felt them reach for your braid—loosened and half-undone from the night before, frayed at the edges but still clinging together in the way you had always worn it. The way you had been taught to wear it. One braid. One girl. One legacy.

Sirius touched it like it was something sacred. Not a symbol of tradition, but of the little girl he left behind.

He began to undo it—strand by strand, knot by knot. His fingers trembled sometimes, and you weren’t sure if it was from guilt or grief or some ancient combination of the two.

The braid began to fall apart, softly, like snow thawing under sun. And with every loosened piece, you felt something in you unclench. Something that had been tight for years.

You cried.

But not with sobs. Not this time.

You cried in silence, the kind that shudders through your body like a song without lyrics. And you didn’t even know if it was because of Regulus’s words or Sirius’s hands.

Or maybe it was both. Maybe it was that they were both still here. Still trying. Still holding what pieces of you hadn’t crumbled away.

Your braid came undone completely, hair falling over your shoulders like the end of a chapter you’d been too afraid to close.

Sirius pressed his forehead to the back of your head, and whispered, “There you are.”

Regulus was still holding your hands, his eyes on your face like he was reading scripture.

The silence between them grew tender, no longer sharp or fragile, but thick with the kind of quiet that comes after all the shouting is done — when the hurt still lingers but the love is louder.

Sirius’s hand brushed a loose strand of hair from your cheek, tucking it back gently, reverently, like he was afraid to let it drift too far from him.

Then, his voice—low, half a murmur, half a tease—broke the hush.

“As much as I think you’re the prettiest girl to ever walk the bloody halls of this castle,” he said, fingers still combing lightly through the freed strands, “you’re much prettier with your hair out.”

You blinked up at him, tears still dewing the corners of your lashes, breath catching softly.

“I mean it,” Sirius continued, resting his chin atop your head again. “Don’t like seeing your hair all braided up. Not after what it came to mean. I’ll always undo it for you if you want. Every time. You can let it be free. You can let yourself be free.”

His voice was steady, but there was something quietly broken in it—like he knew how deeply the braid had rooted itself in you, like a chain dressed in silk.

You leaned into him just slightly, comforted by the closeness, and from across you, Regulus tilted his head, watching the two of you with something unreadable in his eyes.

Then he said, “Didn’t know you were capable of being soft, Sirius.”

There was a beat of stillness—then Sirius scoffed, a quiet huff of laughter breaking through the grief. “Hey, she’s my little sister. Of course I’ll be soft with her. I’m not a complete arse.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You laughed. Not a big one, not a loud one. But it slipped out of you all the same—shy, fragile, like something trying to live again.

Sirius smiled against your hair. “You’re not exactly the poster boy for softness either, Reggie.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but there was no venom in it. He looked at you again, watching as your hair fell like a shadowy veil around your shoulders, framing your face the way moonlight sometimes wraps around ruins.

Regulus was just opening his mouth to make what you knew would be a smug, likely sarcastic jab—something about Sirius finally learning tenderness in his old age—when the door to the infirmary creaked open with the subtle force of a hurricane.

Madam Pomfrey entered, arms crossed and expression half stern, half deeply fond. “As much as I find all three of you Blacks absolutely adorable,” she said, voice sharp but eyes twinkling,

“I’ve got a bleeding student here who needs tending to, and not a circus on my floor.”

Sirius snorted and slowly slid off the bed, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Yes, Madam.”

Regulus followed, brushing the wrinkles from his robes as he stood, offering you a glance to make sure you were still steady. You nodded at him—quietly, gratefully—and the two of them stepped aside, giving Madam Pomfrey space to begin bustling about her potions and gauze.

You watched them for a moment, Sirius leaning against a cabinet with the ease of someone who had made chaos his home, and Regulus, stiff at first but slowly softening, arms loosely crossed, shadows beneath his eyes fading just a little as he watched his brother from across the room.

Then—something bloomed in your chest.

Without a word, you reached out, grabbed Regulus’s hand, and pulled him toward the door.

“What—?” he started, confused but not resisting, his fingers lacing with yours on instinct. “Where are we—?”

“Shh,” you said through a smile, tugging him through the corridor. “Just come with me.”

He followed. He always did.

You found an empty classroom bathed in slanting golden light, one of those quiet, forgotten rooms that still smelled like ink and chalk and childhood.

You rummaged for parchment—crumpled, half-used—and sat down cross-legged on the floor, folding and creasing with all the reverence of a sacred rite.

Regulus crouched beside you, watching you fold the paper with wide eyes, something flickering in them—recognition, maybe. Hope.

“Is that…?” he began.

You didn’t answer—just smiled, and when you were done, you stood, clutching the fragile little crown in both hands like it was made of gold. Then you stepped out of the room and started back toward the infirmary.

Regulus didn’t say a word, but he followed close behind. And just before you entered the room, you heard him whisper under his breath, voice barely audible, like something stitched from memory:

“Long may he sulk, long may he scream, but today he’s our king, crowned with dream.”

You almost burst out laughing.

Sirius looked up from where he’d been talking softly to Madam Pomfrey, clearly startled by your sudden return—and even more so by the smile on your face.

“Oi—what’s going on?”

You grinned as you approached, heart blooming with something fragile and bright. And with a kind of ceremonial grace that belonged in a castle rather than a school infirmary, you lifted the crinkled paper crown and gently placed it on his head.

He blinked at you.

And then you said, “Happy birthday, Siri.”

For a moment, the world didn’t breathe.

Sirius looked between you and Regulus, the memory dawning slow but sure, the kind that blooms in the bones before the mind catches up.

You’d done this every year as children—the crown, the phrase, the quiet sweetness buried in a house that knew so little of it. It was tradition, rebellion, and love all wrapped in paper creases.

He laughed. Softly, shakily. “You remembered?”

“Of course we did,” Regulus muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “You never shut up about your birthday.”

Sirius turned toward him, eyes damp and mouth tugging into a crooked smile. “You used to say it was a national holiday.”

“It was a national tragedy,” Regulus corrected dryly.

But there was no edge to his voice.

You watched the two of them smile—awkwardly, almost shyly—and you couldn’t help the way your own heart ached with it. Like something was being stitched back together with trembling hands. Not perfect. But mending.

And in the soft golden light of the infirmary, Sirius Black wore his paper crown like a boy who had lost too much but finally found his way home.

Regulus cleared his throat, the faintest quiver still lingering in his voice as he straightened, a tentative smile breaking through the storm of emotions clouding his face. 

“You’ve still got another year to annoy me—don’t waste it.” he said, voice steady but warm, the words carrying more weight than a simple greeting—an unspoken promise folded into each syllable. 

 “Happy birthday, Siri,”

-

The days had slipped by like snowflakes melting on warm skin, soft and silent, until Christmas had quietly wrapped the world in its chilly embrace.

Over a month had passed since that fragile moment in the infirmary, since crowns and whispered apologies had begun to stitch together the frayed edges of what remained of them.

Now, you sat on the edge of your bed, the weight of leather and cloth gathered around you as you packed your bags, each fold and tuck a quiet act of farewell — not just to this house, but to the lingering ghosts that had lived here with you.

Regulus’s calm presence was steady nearby, Sirius’s laughter still echoing faintly in the halls, both shadows woven into your thoughts as you prepared to leave, to find a different kind of family with the Potters.

The room was quiet in that in-between way — not sad, not soft, just filled with waiting. You stood by the mirror, fingers combing uncertainly through your hair, still not quite used to the way it fell freely now, unbound and loose around your shoulders like a secret you hadn’t told anyone yet.

Then came the knock, sharp and unapologetic, followed by the door creaking open before you could answer.

“There she is,” came the familiar voice, warm and arrogant and so full of light it almost hurt to look directly at it. “My absolutely favorite Black.”

You didn’t turn, just rolled your eyes at your reflection — though you didn’t hide the faint tug of your lips.

James Potter leaned against the doorframe, a walking sunbeam in boots far too muddy for the castle floors, his hair as unkempt as his sense of timing.

“You know, I’ve been emotionally devastated all week. Not one rude comment. Not even a single ‘Potter, get out.’ It’s been tragic, truly.”

You hummed softly. Your fingers trailed through your hair again, then dropped to the edge of the mirror. You looked... softer now. Or maybe just quieter.

James tilted his head, and for the first time in a while, that ever-glowing grin faltered. “Hey... you alright?” he asked, pushing off the door.

“You’ve gone suspiciously quiet on me, and I’m not used to being ignored this elegantly.”

You finally turned to him, something shy in the movement, something almost scared. Your eyes met his, steady but hesitant, like you were holding a secret between your teeth.

“Hey, James?” you said, voice smaller than usual, not sharp-edged or full of fire, just a bare whisper of a question.

He blinked, shoulders straightening instantly. “Yeah?”

You shifted, hands wringing in front of you, then took a breath like you were diving underwater. “Do you still... want to go on that date?”

It took him a second. A full second of stunned silence. Then:

“Wait. Wait—are you—are you saying yes?”

You nodded once, unsure, your cheeks burning.

James's entire face lit up like a starburst, bright enough to outshine the gloom in the corners of the room. “You’re saying yes?” he repeated, his voice climbing in disbelief, in utter delight.

“Are you messing with me? Because if this is some elaborate Black twin prank, I swear I’m not above falling for it, but I’ll go down dramatically.”

“I’m not messing with you,” you said, softer.

He stared at you, eyes wide, heart probably thudding too loud in his chest. “You’re actually agreeing to a date with me.”

You gave him a tiny, tired smile, the kind that meant I’m trying, I’m healing, I’m still here.

And James Potter — hopelessly besotted James Potter — just raised both hands in triumph, beaming like a boy who just got the girl of his dreams. “Merlin, it’s a Christmas miracle.”

You laugh — really laugh — and it startles you. The sound rises out of your chest too fast and too free, like it’s been hiding somewhere behind your ribs all this time, waiting for permission.

It echoes in the room like light catching on water, and for a moment, you forget you were ever someone who cried quietly in an infirmary bed with your braid too tight and your voice locked behind your teeth.

James is just standing there, watching you like you’re something he almost lost and just remembered in time.

That grin he always wears — cocky and bright — softens. His eyes crease, not with mischief but with awe. He reaches forward without speaking, without rushing, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

His fingers are warm, callused from Quidditch and writing too fast. His touch is so gentle it makes your throat ache.

Then, without asking for more, he leans in and kisses your cheek.

It’s soft. Not flirty, not teasing, just… soft. Real. Like he’s placing something in your hands that he wants you to keep.

“I like seeing you like this,” he says, and his voice is quiet, like he’s afraid to shatter the fragile thing blooming between you. “Not just laughing. Letting yourself laugh.”

You don’t answer. Not because you don’t want to, but because something in your chest is blooming too fast, too wide. Instead, you just hand him your bag.

He grins again, like he’s won something, and slings it over his shoulder as if it weighs nothing. “Come on, Black. Holiday awaits. And I plan to win Best Company, Hands Down.”

He holds the door open for you with an exaggerated bow. “After you, m’lady.”

You roll your eyes, but smile. You step into the corridor with him, your shoulder brushing his — and then you see them.

Sirius and Regulus. At the end of the hall. Arguing.

It’s not the argument that stops you. It’s how they look.

Sirius, of course, is chaos incarnate — shirt untucked, sleeves rolled, hair like a stormcloud. Hands moving wildly, voice sharp and amused all at once.

But Regulus.

Regulus looks like something cracked open.

His hair is a mess. Not windswept, not styled, just… undone. Soft curls tumble over his forehead like they’ve finally forgotten who they were supposed to impress. His shoes are scuffed. His collar is open. There’s no tie strangling his throat. His robes are wrinkled, like he didn’t bother smoothing them, like he didn’t think he needed to.

He doesn’t look like the perfect Black heir anymore. He doesn’t look like he’s trying to.

He looks like a boy who finally gave himself permission to breathe.

They’re arguing over something stupid — wrapping paper, probably, or the wrong gift for Euphemia — but it’s the kind of argument you only have with people you’re allowed to love. You watch them, your hand still in James’s, and something in you loosens further.

You hadn’t realized how tightly you were still holding it.

James gives your fingers a squeeze. Doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

You glance up at him. He’s still looking at you like you’re some new season he’s waited years to feel again.

They’re laughing.

It startles you, how soft it is. How human. It doesn’t echo like a curse. It doesn’t shiver like a cracked bone. It simply exists — this light, fragile thing — between the two boys you once thought you’d never see whole again.

Sirius is half-doubled over, clutching his side like he might fall from how hard he’s laughing. Regulus is shaking his head, cheeks flushed, that rare, real smile tugging his mouth wide open like a secret he forgot he still had. The moment stretches golden and unreal. For once, they look like boys.

Just boys — whole, breathing, and free.

You stand a few paces back, James at your side, his hand warm in yours. His thumb traces soft circles over your skin like he's writing a lullaby without words. You don’t speak. You just watch.

And as you watch, you feel it stir in your chest — not pain, not fear, but grace.

The quiet, trembling kind. The kind you thought had died the day you pressed a chair beneath the doorknob and tied your braid so tight it ached. The kind that says: You made it. Somehow, gods, you made it.

The three of you — Sirius, Regulus, and you — you carry the name Black like a birthright and a burial shroud. Like a blade tucked under the tongue.

You’ve all learned how to wear it in different ways: Sirius ripped it off like shackles, Regulus wore it like a crown turned collar, and you — you simply bore it in silence, braid by braid, day by day, trying not to crack.

Some days, you still feel it in your bones — that ache, deep and dull, flaring like a ghost during the cold. You know it will come back. Soon, probably. In quiet moments. When the room goes still and the world presses in. It will whisper that old hymn of despair.

But now, you know something else too: that it will pass. That not all pain means ending.

You’re glad you wore the braid that day. Glad for the heaviness of it. Glad it was that braid, tight and tired, that gave you away. Because Sirius noticed.

Because Sirius knew. Because your brother — dramatic, angry, wild Sirius — looked at a single twist of hair and saw the truth. That you were vanishing.

And he came. He ran to you.

You glance at James, who is still watching you with that half-smile, like he knows exactly where your mind has wandered.

His fingers tighten around yours as if to say: I’ve got you. I’ll keep holding on.

In front of you, the two boys who share your blood — your name, your ruin, your love — are laughing. And suddenly, you want to laugh too. You want to live.

You lean gently into James’s shoulder, and the three of them blur before you: your brother who left and returned softer, your brother who stayed and came undone, and the boy who never stopped waiting at your door.

It’s strange. How grief makes architects of all of us. How you learned to build your life on ash and memory. How you learned to survive the kind of love that comes with a coffin.

You don’t know what comes next. Only that your breath still fogs the glass. That your feet, somehow, still move.

So you do.

You walk — not away, not forward, but through. Through ash and memory, through the long echo of a house that taught you silence before speech, duty before desire.

A house where your name was an heirloom of ruin. Where hands pulled your hair into braids too tight, too perfect — a crown of obedience woven strand by strand.

But not now.

Now your hair spills loose down your back — untamed, unburdened, soft as defiance.

You carry the name Black not as a chain, but as a hymn — a quiet song for all the broken things that chose to live.

You carry Sirius’s laughter like a lantern in your ribs. Regulus’s sorrow like a psalm in your throat. You carry what’s left of your childhood in the curve of your spine. You carry yourself.

You carry the body that was taught silence. The body that ached in invisible ways. The body that stayed — even when the wind begged it to leave, even when the mirror didn’t look back.

You carry the illness no one could see, the exhaustion that braided itself into your bones.

You carry the love you couldn’t let in — James’s hands, James’s gaze, James’s waiting — all the gentleness you almost believed you deserved.

And still, you walk.

You do not braid your hair.

You do not say goodbye.

But when the frost climbs the glass again — when the old house calls to you in the voice of your mother, your fear, your past — you will not answer.

You will not kneel.

You will not weep.

You will gather your ghosts by name — every echo, every ache, every version of yourself that once begged to be small. And you will lay them down, one by one, with the care no one gave you.

And so —

you’ll bury your own.

I don’t usually write these; But this is for anyone still wearing their braids — the ones woven by expectation, by blood, by a family that taught you to stay small, quiet, grateful. If you know what it is to carry a name like a burden, to sit before a mirror with aching hands, trying to undo what the world once made of you — this is for you. For the ones who learned survival through stillness. Through obedience. Through being what was asked. I still wear mine too, Some days more tightly than others. But there is freedom in the unbraiding. In letting your hair fall wild. In choosing your own shape. Your own silence. Your own story. May your hands one day learn to unweave without trembling. May your softness survive. You are not alone. And you are allowed to be free. —with love, dalia

[lunarcowgirl]

don't leave me here without you | one

yeah yeah fuck me, jack abbot x f!doctor!reader

you can read part two here and part three here

dr abbot finds your resume and thinks you are leaving the pitt - absolute disgusting and pathetic behaviour ensues, its all very endearing.

~~~

from the office of the author: DOn't even LOOK at me, I'm embarrassed. the pitt consumes my every waking thought so I'm going to make that everyone else's problem :)

this is my very first fic!!! it is a work of fiction!!!!! i do not know anything about being a doctor!!!!!! inaccuracies are none of my damn business!!!!!!!!!!

i can’t help but love the emotional constipation of jack and robby in this show, and i was feeling inspired by jack, so this is my attempt at unpacking a bit of it. reader is indeed reader, but i have formed a bit of a character in my head, so pls forgive me she does get a last name late in the piece. hope you enjoy!!!!! maybe more soon!!!!! <3

warnings: cussing, jack being pathetic, snooping based behaviours, mentions of loss of bodily function/traumatic injuries, mentions of war, mentions of covid, a spider may or not be guilty of a crime, miscommunication i fear, bad grammar from yours truely, bit o' angst

word count: 2.1k

Dr. Jack Abbot thought he was doing a very fine job not staring at you all shift long, thank you very much. It had gotten harder since you’d changed the way you’d done your hair, letting the blonde grow out. When the lights hit the top of your two fastidiously tied french braids it set the crown of your head on fire, like the sun itself sat behind you in some kind of imitation of a halo. angel indeed. You’d pierced your left ear again, yet another little golden hoop in the soft shell of cartilage at the very top. Every now and then, he would see you reach for it, as if to scratch an itch, but catch yourself before you could touch the still healing wound. The smallest, prettiest crease would form between your eyebrows, and your hand would curl into a tight fist of frustration. You were going to be the absolute death of him.

The last trauma had been difficult; damage to the neck not only making finding an airway close to impossible, but suggested a grim future for the patients ability to move as he once did. Walking was now in question. Fucking e-scooters, they were starting to offer up more victims than motorbikes. It had been an excruciating emotional dance to explain to the teenager’s recently widowed mother, that her 15 year old’s life would now be dramatically different, that she was going to have to take on a new burden. The quiet, contained grief in her eyes, not breaking contact with his, was just about all he could take for this shift.

It was easy then, to justify a little bit of gratuitous selfishness in front of the board; the easiest place to catch a glimpse of you. This shift you’d remained calm and switched on, as you always were, but something was clearly scratching at your mind. Standing dutifully behind Jack as he spoke to the mother, gently answering her questions, offering sincere condolences, introducing her to Kiara had all been done with perfect form. but when it was done, you had all but fled back to the nurses’ station, logging onto one of the computers at break neck speed.

This is where you now sat, chin resting on your linked fingers, eyes in a predatory narrow. Without meaning to, without really realising it was happening, Jack let himself drift slowly around the desk. On his journey closer to you he let his hands fall into nonchalant, non-suspicious motion. Adjusting the cord of the landline, running his finger over some forms to see if they needed his signature, flicking on a tablet to consider the chart on it. He didn’t really have the time to think too hard about it, but some small voice in the back of his head told him he looked like a fucking idiot. Jesus Christ, he’d committed now.

To get a decent angle of your screen he would have to step back a little from the desk, making it pretty damn obvious he was snooping. If it was only a glance, just a few seconds, he should be in the clear. Mindful not to get to close (you seemed to have eyes in the back of your head when it came to him, probably since he was your attending), he took one last scan of the room to check no one was clocking every last shuffle he was taking.

Pursing his lips with arms crossed tightly across his chest, he stepped back swiftly, eyes flicking down your screen. The majority of it was taken up by a word document, your name is bold letters across the top. Underneath was a jumble of dot points, places and years and accolades and societies—a resume?

A resume…your resume. You were leaving?

His heart went somersaulting into his stomach, bouncing off his ribs on the way down.

When had you decided this? Where were you going? When were you going to tell him?

Jack felt anger and grief and confusion and jealousy all at once in his veins like some kind of poisonous cocktail. What was he, some kind of teenager? What had he ever done to deserve an explanation from you? You, who was so wonderful and so clever and so funny and so so beautiful. You who had only ever weathered his grumpiness and sour expressions and poorly timed criticism with grace and patience. You who’d never figured out how to be a pessimist, who never let the bad days win. The thought of your absence was more painful than he could have ever expected — it scared him goddamn shitless.

“Dr Abbot?”

Dr Ellis had materialised out of nothing on the other side of the desk, one eyebrow cocked. Jack nearly tripped over his own feet to get away from you and the scalding sensation of shame burning across his face, “Ya?”

“Uh, can I get your eyes on a case in South 15? We’ve got a 10 year old, lethargic, sweaty, confused. Her parents are insistent she hasn’t ingested anything.”

Your head snapped up, finally divorced from whatever hypnotic pull the resume had on you.

“Does she have control over her extremities, fingers?”

Ellis frowned, “She was moving them a lot, almost obsessively. I figured if might just be a reaction to the confusion and being in a strange place.”

You stood in one fluid motion, hands quick to grab a pair of gloves, feet quick to dance around the station to get to Ellis’ side.

“Mind if I join? I think we need to look for a spider bite. Funnel-weavers are usually—”

And with that the pair of you were gone, walking shoulder to shoulder into the fray like soldiers in arms, conversing in low, practised tones. Ready to tackle whatever the inside of that room held; the scariness of having to diagnose quickly, the stress of terrified parents breathing down your neck. It didn’t matter how bitter-of-heart Jack had become after all the years of carnage, there was still a part of him that sang at the sight of a well-oiled team. It was selfish, he considered, to believe your leaving would effect just him. Every last doctor, nurse, support worker, radiologist, technician, transport aide, frequent flyer and desk clerk would mourn your loss. Perhaps the endearing Mel King most of all. She had taken to your cheerful demeanour and calm teaching style like someone drowning does to oxygen. In the time Langdon had been a voluntary inpatient, you had been a much needed rock in the stormy wake of that revelation. Another loss could send her off kilter again, and the ER needed her…badly.

So where exactly were you planning to run off to? Surely you wouldn’t go overseas again, not after what had brought you home the last time...

Morality was telling him to just walk away, to busy himself in some problem that likely was currently yearning for his help.

They hadn’t reached out had they? Could they convince you to go back?

He wished Bridget would just call for him, that Shen would bustle in with all his careful questions. But wishing would not make it so. And he had fought so long, all his life. The older he became, the easier it was to just surrender. To drift. The computer was about to fall asleep, locking it to the world. One swift movement of the mouse sealed his fate. He was a shameless snoop, a betrayer of privacy - your privacy.

It couldn’t be denied, the resume was impressive. Very, very impressive. How many graduating honours could one 30 something year old have? And the places you’d been, you’d practised - how many names could you possibly stack next to each other? Some of them he hadn’t even seen with his eyes, even after all the time in the camouflage pants that chaffed like you wouldn’t believe. You’d seen the very worst Covid had served up in Mexico City and Rio, you had been at the very front in Ukraine, in Afghanistan, traipsed all the way across North Africa and South America and just about every island in Indonesia. Pittsburgh, even with its fair share of tragedy, felt so foreign on the page next to all the adventure and danger. It would be easy to think that you had simply become bored, and wished once again to go somewhere that you could stem the flow of blood. Jack thought the blue beret would match the new blonde hair quite nicely.

“Dr Abbot?”

He froze. That voice. How long had he been staring at the carefully typed words, wishing they would reveal an answer?

There was no way, no way at all that he could gracefully and silently retreat from this one. He was elbow deep in the cookie jar, no better than a child, spited at not being told the grown up’s secret. He looked behind himself with humiliating slowness, feeling infinitely small and ashamed. The small crease between your brows had deepened into a valley he could not dig himself out of.

“Dr James.” He said, his voice sounding all together too loud and too far away, “If you are walking away from a computer in any circumstance other than a complete emergency, you must log off, there is confidential information of patients that must be protected from wandering eyes.”

“Wandering eyes?” You let a laugh escape, entirely hollow.

And then, with more steel then he had ever heard, “Can I speak with you privately for a minute?”

“Fine.” He said, straightening with an angry click from his back. Too old for all this high school shit. You made a point to lean past him, and log off with a few aggressively passive aggressive snaps of the keys.

He trailed behind your long, mechanical strides, deeply unsettled by the stiff set of your shoulders. Maybe you’d developed the ability to be negative in the time to took to stomp from the nurses’ station to the family room door, which you promptly shoulder charged open. Once it was safely closed behind both doctors, you whirled on him.

“What the hell were you doing looking at that?”

“Like I said, you need to log off—”

“Bullshit, Jack!” You looked wild, eyes impossibly wide, “There was no reason for your face to be 2 inches from the screen to log me out. Or have your eyes completely given out since the start of shift?”

If there was no way to dodge the bullet, he may as well try swallowing it, “What exactly do you plan on doing with that document? You gonna flee the country again? Run from all us sorry fucks here in the Pitt?”

You recoiled, like the venom in his words had actually struck your skin. Jack watched them sink in, the sizzle of their marks.

You shook your head once, looking down at your sneakers, the 10-year-too-old linoleum floors.

“I can’t believe you. I cannot believe you.” The words were pulled straight from your chest at the end of meat hooks.

Jack opened his mouth to strike again, but your gaze shot upwards and locked onto his. The attacks died on his tongue.

“All I have done since I set foot in here was try and get close to you Jack Abbot. I have offered you my full attention, my utter respect and confidence and trust, all my effort, all my energy, everything I have.” You took an incredulous step backwards, unsteadied by your own words and the weight of them now sitting between you, “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you, I would ride right on back into all the shit and misery all over again if that is what you asked of me.”

Something that looked frighteningly like a tear slipped down your cheek and off your chin.

“And what do you offer in return? You push and push and push me away.” The words wobbled now, exhausted from the revelation.

“What right do you have,” You gasped, “to now act betrayed about this? To declare you’ve always cared? Like its me that’s hurting you?!”

Killshot.

Jack’s mouth pressed into a hard line, a terrible burning spreading through the back of his eyes, a horrible pressure on his chest. All that time he had been pretending not to look at you, you had been staring straight through him into his very soul. Seeing every ugly inch of his insides. He wanted to run, he wanted to throw up, he wanted to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness at your feet.

Bridget rapped sharply on the door of the window, her face grave, “Car pileup on the highway, multiple traumas, 4 minutes out.”

By the time he turned back to you, your face had been schooled back into cool neutrality, a deep breath filling your lungs. Before Jack could reach out and touch you, you were gone, like you were never even there.

~~~~~

um, so yeah I guess? more soon! x

| next

[loveemagicpeace]

🌊Healing / powerful placements🌊

Pluto in 12th house-This is a very strong placement. You have a lot of ability to help and your transformations are very powerful. You have a lot of contact with your subconscious and can see and feel things that they do not feel. You can see deep into others and see what is hidden behind them and their energy. You know other people's secrets very well and can predict what they are. A person may not even need to tell you what they are feeling or what they have been through and you can see right through them. In life, you can witness many events that are transformative and life-changing. You can help people change their lives. Throughout your life, you may have experienced many emotional transformations and events that changed everything for you, but you always rise like a phoenix from the ashes. You can see the souls and feel the souls of other people. You may have a great ability to help discover how their soul feels and what they really need. You can endure a lot of hard things in life, you are a very strong person and many people don't see that. You are very good at hiding your power and not letting anyone take your power away from you. Many people will want to take your strength away from you. Pluto here acts like a shadow alchemist—working behind the scenes of your consciousness. It digs up what has been buried, repressed, or denied, and forces eventual confrontation, release, and rebirth. You may not appear powerful on the surface, but you hold deep inner strength that emerges in times of crisis. Your presence can be quietly intense, magnetic, and healing without you even trying. Much of your power is spiritual or energetic—you affect others on an unconscious level. Natural psychic ability, dream messages, and intuitive downloads may be part of your daily experience. You might be a spiritual alchemist, transmuting your own suffering into wisdom and helping others do the same.

Pluto in 8th house- You have a deep connection to the dark world and there is a lot of power within you. Many transformations related to intimacy, death and endings. This placement marks a soul that is not here for a superficial life. You’re here to experience profound transformation, emotional intensity, spiritual awakening, and the mysteries of life, death, and rebirth. You don’t do casual. Your connections are all or nothing, and you want to merge completely with someone’s soul. Sexual energy can be healing, intuitive, or even psychic. You often feel that intimacy is a spiritual experience. You’re meant to go deep into the psyche—yours and others’. This makes you naturally skilled at psychology, therapy, healing, or shadow work. Healing for you doesn’t come from “moving on”—it comes from going through the darkness, owning it, and rising again like the phoenix.There's a need to learn how to let go—of control, fear, attachments, and wounds from past lives or trauma. You may have experienced power struggles, betrayal, or loss early in life—this teaches you how to stand in your true inner power. You may have psychic gifts, especially around sensing hidden energies in people or places.

Mars in 12th house-is one of the most mysterious and spiritually charged placements. This placement holds immense hidden power, but it often takes time, solitude, and self-awareness to fully unlock its gifts. You’re meant to heal the aggressive or repressed aspects of masculinity within yourself and others. You may be drawn to energy healing, tantra, subconscious work, past life regression, or helping others release suppressed pain. You’re especially gifted in working with people who are lost, imprisoned (mentally or spiritually), or misunderstood. You might get flashes of action or energy in dreams, and your energy can manifest in mystical or symbolic ways. You might heal from karmic violence or persecution, learning to make peace with your own inner fire.

Neptune in 12th house-There is a depth and a high subconscious that you carry with you, you can have a lot of contact with spirituality, dreams and dreams can be important or give you messages. You are like a bridge between this world and another, and you often feel more at home in the spiritual or dream realm than in the physical world. Maybe sometimes you don't fully understand this energy, but you can be very creative with it and you can create things you wouldn't have thought of. Sometimes you can surprise yourself with how creative and intuitive you are. Art, poetry, music, and other symbolic forms speak to your soul—your spirit communicates through these channels. This makes you a powerful healer, but also vulnerable to energetic burnout, illusion, and confusion. You may have past-life memories or a subconscious pull toward spiritual traditions, mysticism, or healing arts. Neptune in the 12th is a soul placement—you’re not just here to live a life, you’re here to dream, feel, and heal in ways most people can’t begin to understand.

Chiron in water signs( Scorpio, Pisces, Cancer)-You have a natural ability to heal people and their wounds. You can help people look deeper into themselves and help them with their wounds. People can feel comfortable and more relaxed around you, and they may also feel like they can trust you more. Chiron carries deeply emotional and intuitive healing power. Water signs are connected to feelings, the soul, and the unconscious, and Chiron here indicates that your wounds—and your healing gifts—come from and move through the emotional, intuitive, and spiritual realms. Chiron in Cancer-You have a unique gift for creating emotional safety for others. You heal through emotional presence, softness, and offering people the care you once longed for. Chiron in Scorpio- You are a deep emotional alchemist—able to guide others through their darkest, most painful transitions. Gifted at transforming pain into power, shame into sacredness, and trauma into wisdom. You’re a natural healer for those dealing with death, grief, sexual trauma, or spiritual crisis. Chiron in Pisces-You are a mystic, dreamer, and empathic healer. You help others remember their divinity, reconnect with unconditional love, and surrender to spiritual flow.

Neptune in 1st house- You have a very strong energy, and you can help people with your energy and magic. You may carry with you a special gift that not everyone has. You have a great awareness of your subconscious. You can feel a lot of energy from others. You naturally tune into energies, moods, and frequencies—often without trying. Can be psychic, empathic, or artistic in a way that channels the unseen. You may not realize this, but just your presence has a healing, softening, or otherworldly effect on people. You can be a natural muse, energy healer, artist, or dream-weaver.

Virgo North Node-your deepest soul evolution in this life is about learning to ground your gifts, trust logic and routine, and heal others through practical wisdom—especially after lifetimes of being dreamy, overwhelmed, or overly self-sacrificing (Pisces South Node). Heal through precision: medicine, coaching, editing, organizing, analyzing.Practice rituals that support the body, mind, and spirit (yoga, herbalism, healthy routines). You can be a healer, therapist, mentor, or guide who offers grounded support. You’re a healer of chaos. A bringer of order, clarity, and gentle discipline. Your soul grows when you commit to service, build sacred routines.

North node in 8th / 12th house-with 8th house you’re here to face your fears, surrender control, and merge deeply with others—emotionally, spiritually, and even financially. You evolve through transformation, trauma healing, and shared power. Emotional alchemist: You can help others transform their wounds into wisdom. Death & rebirth guide: You have the power to navigate endings and be a midwife for new life (metaphorically or literally).Sexual healing & intimacy work: Deep connection is your medicine. You're here to dive into the dark, not avoid it—this gives you healing gifts in psychology, energy work, trauma release. With 12th house north node you’re here to release ego, control, and linear logic—and embrace intuition, soul, and spiritual service. Spiritual channeler: Natural psychic, dreamer, or intuitive healer. You can deeply feel and transmute collective pain. Music, art, poetry, dreams—your gifts can come through altered states. You teach people how to let go, grieve, forgive, and dissolve ego.

Saturn in 10th house -You have natural leadership potential, but often feel the weight of expectations—whether from society, family, or yourself. People may see you as serious or mature, even when you're young. This placement often marks someone who will be seen by the public—a person of status, authority, or recognition. You become someone who can lead with wisdom and inspire others through example. Step into the role of mentor, authority figure, or teacher in your field. Create a career that brings real impact, not just success. People may see you as someone who has a lot of experience, knowledge, and maturity. They may see you as someone who is wise.

Saturn in 1st house-You may carry yourself with strong composure and restraint. People sense your inner authority, even if you don’t speak much. You feel a deep, internal pressure to be strong, do better, and stay in control. Many with this placement struggled with self-confidence as children, but grow into powerful presence as they mature. You project strength and maturity naturally. People may take you seriously—even when you're being playful. You’re meant to own your space, not shrink in it. Saturn makes you grow into your identity over time — becoming someone with great gravitas and inner strength. You inspire trust and responsibility. People may look to you for leadership or protection, even if you don’t try to lead. You play the long game. You can rebuild yourself again and again, and come out stronger. This placement can suggest that your soul chose to master the self in this life. You're learning how to carry your own weight and transform self-imposed limitations into a deep, unshakable identity.

-Rebekah🧜🏻‍♀️

[ughbrie]

tethered | caleb

⤜ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ- “Do you even realize,” he whispered, his voice low and uneven, “what you’re doing to me?”

You barely had a chance to respond before he closed the distance between you, his lips crashing against yours with a fervor that left no room for hesitation. The kiss was deeper, more desperate than before, as if he needed it, needed you, to steady the chaos inside him. His fingers tangled in your hair, holding you in place, making escape an impossibility—not that you wanted to.

“You don’t get it,” he rasped, his voice breaking as his grip on you tightened. “I'll never let you go. Not again. Not ever. Not after this.” His hand moved to your jaw, tilting your face up so you couldn’t look away. “I’ll do whatever it takes. Whatever it costs.”

(Or... a continuation of Caleb's limited 5 star memory: 'Painful Signal'.)

⤜ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ- caleb x female reader

⤜ ɢᴇɴʀᴇ- angst, smut, & fluff

⤜ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ- 6.9k

⤜ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ- nsfw, mdni, dom!caleb, spoilers and references to caleb’s myth/lore (lucid dreams) and bond story (rain's embrace), continuation of caleb’s limited five star memory (painful signal), themes of depression and trauma, mentions of the explosion, mentions of death, angst (slight-ish), possessive and obsessive behavior, implied virginity loss (mc and caleb), breast play, oral sex, fingering, sex toys (is caleb’s bionic arm considered a sex toy?), marking (biting), dirty talk, penetration (p in v), rough sex, unprotected sex, size kink, creampie, overstimulation, and mentions of ownership.

⤜ ɴᴏᴛᴇ- hiii, caleb finally urged me to post my first fanfic here, lol. when i played through his myth and five star memory, i couldn't help but feel that their interaction needed to be explored more. at first, i wanted to end this with just angst but i couldn't help it, i had to give caleb what he deserved after all. also english isn't my first language but i hope you enjoy!

"If that's what it takes to feel you, I'll accept it." he said, his voice steady but lined with an ache that made your heart clench.

The cold, unyielding touch of Caleb’s metal fingers sent a chill through your skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth of your hand. His grip was deliberate, almost tender, as though he feared you might vanish if he let go.

You studied his face, the shadows beneath his eyes, the faint tension in his jaw. “But most of the time, I wish your pain could be lessened,” you murmured, your gaze drifting to the metal arm. A pang of guilt and sorrow surged within you, each thought of what he must have endured hitting like a blow. Images of him being in pain clawed at your mind.

You pulled your hand away, an instinctive retreat from the weight of it all. Caleb’s expression faltered, the fleeting moment of connection slipping from his grasp. His longing was palpable, but you couldn’t bear to stay still. Anger bubbled in your chest, white-hot and unforgiving.

“Is this the Fleet’s doing...?” you snapped, your voice trembling as fury replaced grief. “They won’t get away with this.”

The thought of what they had done to him—what they had stolen from him—burned in your veins. You turned sharply, ready to storm out, the resolve to confront his tormentors burning within you. But before you could reach the door, Caleb’s left arm shot out, his grip firm but careful, pulling you back into the solid wall of his chest.

"You think you can just... come and go as you please?" His voice rasped, low and raw. His hold tightened, and you felt the tremor in his body—the weight he carried, the pain he bore alone.

Caleb’s left arm anchored you against his chest with unrelenting force, his breath ghosting over your neck. “It’s even more painful,” he rasped, “when you take risks for my sake.”

His words carved through your anger, leaving only the hollow ache of understanding. "Is that so?" you whispered, your voice softer now, like a balm against the storm raging within him as you met his intense, stormy eyes.

Turning to face him, you let yourself fall into his fractured orbit, your arms slipping around his waist. You lunged forward, the force of your embrace tipping both of you against the edge of the hospital bed. The cool sheets crumpled beneath you, but the world outside ceased to exist. His chest rose and fell rapidly beneath your touch, but he didn’t resist.

"Then hold me, Caleb. Do it tightly. Use your right hand," you murmured, pressing your face into his chest. The plea hung in the air like a fragile doll wanting to be held.

His hesitation lasted only a moment before he obeyed, his arms closed around you—one warm, one cold, both unyielding. His bionic arm caged you as though it were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

"You're the only one," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, "who can ease my pain."

His grip told you everything his words could not: the fear of losing you again, the torment etched into his very being, and the solace he sought in your presence. As the machines hummed on, the pain and anger dulled, replaced by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against yours.

You looked up at him, tears pooling in your eyes, threatening to spill over. The weight of your emotions clawed at your chest, raw and unrelenting. The memories of the explosion tore through you—flames consuming your home, the screams, the suffocating realization that Caleb and your grandmother were gone. And now here he was, alive but scarred, his very existence rewritten into something both familiar and foreign.

"I thought I lost you," your voice cracked, trembling under the strain of your confession. "For so long, I thought you were gone…" A tear slipped down your cheek, and you saw the flicker of guilt in his eyes—a storm of regret and longing that mirrored your own.

Caleb’s jaw tightened, and his hand—the bionic one—cupped your cheek with surprising gentleness. The cold metal was jarring against your skin, but there was a tenderness in the gesture that spoke of his desperation to keep you within reach.

"I never wanted to leave you, pip-squeak." he murmured, his voice strained. His thumb brushed away the tear trailing down your cheek. "It tore me apart."

His voice dropped, gravelly and harsh. "But knowing that there are people out there who’d use you, hurt you, for what you are—"

Your breath hitched, and the words struck like a hammer, cracking open wounds you thought had scarred over. "You don’t understand," you whispered, your fingers holding him tighter. "Losing you wasn’t just pain—it was like losing a piece of myself. And then to find you like this…"

Your gaze dropped to his bionic arm, the sharp edges glinting in the artificial light. "I can protect myself, you know, I would've preferred that you didn't have to go through all of this pain if it meant I had you by my side—"

His grip on you tightened, his other hand moving to cover yours, grounding you. "I understand you more than you think," he said darkly, his eyes narrowing. "Do you think I don’t remember the look on your face every time you put yourself in danger? Every time you thought someone else’s life was worth more than yours?" 

You flinched at the ferocity in his tone, but his words wrapped around you like chains. "Caleb…" you began, but he cut you off.

"No," he said sharply, his bionic fingers brushing against the back of your neck. "You don’t get it. If someone hurt you—no, if they tried to take you from me—I’d bury the world if it meant keeping you safe."

A shiver coursed through you at the steel in his voice, the unspoken promise in his words. His lips pressed into a thin line as he searched your face, looking for a flicker of understanding—or perhaps forgiveness.

Tears finally spilled down your cheeks, and your voice broke as you asked, "But what about you, Caleb? What about the pain you carry? The things they did to you?" Your hand hesitated before resting on his bionic arm. "You can’t shoulder everything alone. You shouldn’t have to."

His gaze softened for a moment, the harsh edges of his demeanor cracking under the weight of your plea. "I don’t care about the pain, it doesn't even hurt anymore," he admitted, his voice low. "I’d endure it a thousand times over if it meant you’d never feel an ounce of it."

"But I feel it anyway," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "Seeing you like this, it's like they tore everything from me too."

Caleb’s breath hitched, his grip faltering for the first time. His forehead pressed against yours.

"I know pip-squeak, but I’m not going anywhere," he said finally, his voice a raw promise. "Never again. Even if I have to take you far away from this world, you’ll never lose me. Do you understand?"

The tears in your eyes blurred Caleb’s face as he held you tightly, the cold press of his bionic arm against your back a constant reminder of the lengths he had gone to. But as the emotions churned within you, they pulled loose a memory, vivid and sharp from one of your nights in Skyhaven after your reunion.

The rain had fallen in heavy sheets that night, soaking the park. You sat there, drenched despite your jacket, while Caleb loomed over you, holding an umbrella that shielded you both from the downpour. His presence was as overbearing as it was comforting, and the tension between you had been as thick as the storm clouds above.

"How long do you plan to lock me up this time?" you had asked, your voice sharp with frustration and resignation. "A month? A year? Or forever?"

Caleb didn’t flinch at the accusation, his expression calm, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of something deeper—possessiveness, maybe even desperation. He leaned in closer, his face mere inches from yours, the rain hammering on the umbrella above.

"If every problem pulls me further away from you," he said quietly, his voice as steady as the storm around you, "then I’ll spend a lifetime searching for the answers."

You had stared at him, a mixture of anger and confusion twisting in your chest. "But until that final moment," he continued, his voice softening, "we’ll always be together."

His words had left you bristling, torn between disbelief and the undeniable sincerity in his tone. You’d wanted to push back, to defy the invisible chains he always seemed to wrap around you. "What if my friends and colleagues from the Association come looking for me?" you demanded, testing the limits of his resolve.

He laughed, the sound low and quiet, yet it sent a chill down your spine. His eyes had glinted with something unsettling, a mix of amusement and absolute certainty. "In that case," he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, "I’ll hold a funeral they can attend. So they’ll think you’re gone forever."

Before you could respond, he had gently extended his hand to you, palm up, waiting for you to take it. The rain fell harder around you, but beneath the umbrella, there was an unsettling kind of stillness. Hesitantly, you had reached out, your fingers brushing against his, and the tension in his shoulders had eased the moment you accepted his touch.

Now, standing here in this room with his arms wrapped tightly around you, the memory struck you like a bolt of lightning. You realized that Caleb had always been this way—possessive, protective, willing to go to unimaginable lengths to keep you safe. Even when you were children, when the world felt so much smaller, he had been the same. You remembered the time he locked you in the attic of your grandmother’s house to protect you from the neighborhood bullies.

It was in his nature—this fierce, unwavering obsession with keeping you close, even when it hurt you both. The realization was a heavy one, bittersweet in its clarity. Despite it all, Caleb hadn’t truly changed at all. He was still the boy you grew up with, who would do anything to shield you from harm, even if it meant breaking you to keep you safe.

Caleb’s arms tightened around you, bringing you back from your reverie, his embrace almost desperate as if holding you harder might stop the storm of emotions swirling inside you. But you didn’t speak. The silence stretched, heavy and palpable, and for the first time, Caleb’s confidence seemed to waver.

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly, his voice laced with unease. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his intense gaze searching your face. “You’re… too quiet. Did I say something that—”

You didn’t let him finish. Acting on impulse, you reached up, your hands trembling slightly as you cupped his face. His words died in his throat as your lips pressed against his, soft but firm, silencing his uncertainty.

For a moment, Caleb froze, his breath catching as if he couldn’t quite process what was happening. Then, his right arm shifted slightly, careful not to press too hard against you, while his other hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. The kiss deepened, his initial shock giving way to something raw and unspoken.

“Why did you...” he began as he pulled away slightly, his voice a whisper, but he didn’t finish the question. He didn’t need to. The answer was in the way you looked at him, your eyes still shimmering with tears.

“You’re here, alive.” you murmured, your voice unsteady. “I can't lose you again and regret not doing that sooner."

The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, but the unease didn’t fully leave his eyes. “You’ll never lose me,” he said once again, his grip tightening as if to emphasize the point. “Not now, not ever. I won’t let it happen.”

You nodded and leaned in to kiss him again, but he frowned, his jaw hard. You paused, "What is it?"

Caleb’s gaze burned into yours, his resolve visibly trembling as if your kiss moments ago had shattered something fragile inside him. His grip tightened, anchoring you against him, while he cradled your face with a tenderness that stood at odds with the intensity in his eyes.

“Do you even realize,” he whispered, his voice low and uneven, “what you’re doing to me?”

You barely had a chance to respond before he closed the distance between you, his lips crashing against yours with a fervor that left no room for hesitation. The kiss was deeper, more desperate than before, as if he needed it, needed you, to steady the chaos inside him. His fingers tangled in your hair, holding you in place, making escape an impossibility—not that you wanted to.

“You don’t get it,” he rasped, his voice breaking as his grip on you tightened. “I'll never let you go. Not again. Not ever. Not after this.” His hand moved to your jaw, tilting your face up so you couldn’t look away. “I’ll do whatever it takes. Whatever it costs.”

His words were suffocating, wrapping around you like a second skin. You could see it—how deeply the thought of losing you terrified him, how far he was willing to go to keep you with him, even if it meant crossing every line.

“Caleb...” you murmured, your voice barely audible. But he silenced you with another kiss, softer this time but no less intense, as if trying to convince himself that you were still there, finally his, and no force in the world could take you away.

When he pulled back, his gaze bore into yours, unwavering. “I can't hold myself back,” he rasped, his voice trembling with conviction. "Not anymore."

“I’ve tried,” he continued, his voice raw and unsteady. “When we were younger... I’ve tried to give you space, to let you breathe, but with every second you were away from me, I felt like the world took it as a chance and ripped you away from me.”

His forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm and shallow. “You’re all I have left. Do you understand that? If I lose you... there won’t be anything left of me.”

The intensity in his words sent a shiver through you, a mixture of fear and something far more complicated swirling in your chest. You opened your mouth to speak, but he cut you off.

“You’re mine,” he said, the possessiveness in his tone leaving no room for doubt. “No one else’s. And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it that way.”

Caleb’s gaze darkened, his restraint visibly unraveling as the tension between you swelled to its breaking point. Without warning, he surged forward, capturing your lips in a fiery kiss that left you breathless. His grip on you was firm, almost possessive, his bionic arm pulling you impossibly closer while his other hand slid up to cradle the back of your head.

His lips trailed away from yours, brushing down to the curve of your jaw and then to your neck, the sensation sending shivers to coarse through your entire body. His breath was warm against your skin, each touch of his lips a mix of desperation and barely-contained need. For a moment, it felt like he might lose himself entirely, his control slipping with every passing second.

But just as his teeth grazed the sensitive skin of your neck, he froze. His arms are still around you, not quite sure if he wanted to pull you closer or to push you away. He leaned his forehead against your shoulder, his breath heavy and uneven.

“I…” His voice was hoarse, trembling with the effort to hold himself back. “I need you to tell me if this is okay.” He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes burning with a dangerous mix of longing and uncertainty. “If you want me to stop, say it now. Please. I don’t… I don’t want to hurt you.”

His control was slipping, but he was still giving you the choice. You smiled softly. Oh, Caleb.

You reached up, your fingers trembling as you cupped his face, your thumb brushing across his cheek. "It's okay," you whispered, your voice soft but firm. "I want this... I want you."

A quiet, broken sound escaped him, like a weight had been lifted from his chest, and before you could say another word, he leaned in again, this time more urgently, his lips claiming yours with a desperate intensity. 

His lips moved down to your neck again, this time without hesitation, his kiss filled with a mixture of tenderness and something darker, more possessive. His breath was hot against your skin, and his control, once so fragile, seemed to finally break as he gave in to the overwhelming need to have you.

Caleb lifted you up by the waist, placing you gently on the narrow bed, his bionic arm carefully maneuvering you onto your back while his warm hand slid up the curve of your side.

You felt his gaze on you, dark with hunger and unbridled with lust. It wasn’t just the way his eyes lingered—it was the sheer intensity of it, as though you were his axis, the very thing that tethered his sanity that's currently on the brink of snapping. It sent a shiver down your spine, your body betraying you with a tremor you couldn’t suppress.

"I've always wanted to mark you, you know." he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "To leave something on you that everyone would see."

Leaning in, he began trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the slender column of your neck. His lips brushed over your racing pulse before he latched onto your throat, sucking and nipping until he left a vivid hickey blooming across your flesh.

As if satisfied by his work, he hummed, the sound reverberating through your skin. "Now, I can leave as many as I want."

Pulling back, he pressed a quick kiss on your jaw as his hands reached beneath your shirt, slipping past the material to meet the soft swell of your breasts covered by your bra.

You trembled, the cold metal of his right arm harsh against the warmth of your skin. Suddenly, his touch retreated as if seared, hyper aware of every reaction you've been making.

He asked, his voice low. "Are you alright?" Hesitant, he reached out with his right arm only to pull back and reach out with his left hand instead. He cradled your jaw, and you could feel the tremor of his fingers against your skin.

You covered his hand with your own, giving it a gentle squeeze as you gazed up at him with a reassuring smile. "Yes, Caleb," you murmured softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I just... I haven't done this before..."

Your words seemed to reassure the storm brewing within him, a desperate hunger that couldn't be sated. He crashed his lips against yours in a bruising kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth with a fervor that stole your breath away. His hands kneaded your breasts roughly through your shirt, his bionic fingers leaving faint indents on your skin as he groped and squeezed.

"It's alright, baby. I'll take care of you." he muttered in between.

He tore his mouth from yours, his breathing ragged as he stared down at you with wild, almost feral eyes. "You drive me crazy," he growled, his voice rough with desire. "I can't... I need..."

He couldn't seem to find the words, his mind too consumed with lust to form a coherent thought. Instead, he acted on instinct, his body moving on its own accord as he ripped your shirt off, you couldn't be bothered to react, your mind hazy. Your bra followed soon after, the flimsy material no match for his desperation.

You gasped as the cool air hit your bare skin, your nipples pebbling under his heated gaze. He groaned, before whispering to himself, "I can't believe you're real."

You wanted to ask him what he meant by that, but as he drank in the sight of you, you could see the way his eyes glinted with a primal hunger that sent a bolt of electricity straight to your skin.

"Caleb," you breathed, your voice heavy with want. "Please..."

Please what? You weren't sure, but you knew that you needed him. Needed to feel him, skin to skin, heart to heart. You needed him as much as he needed you.

He didn't need to be told twice, Caleb lowered his head, his mouth latching onto one of your hardened nipples. He suckled greedily, his teeth grazing the sensitive bud as his metal hand pinched and rolled the other between his thumb and forefinger.

Your back arched as you cried out, your fingers tangled in his hair. "Caleb—"

He lavished your breasts with attention, alternating between licks, nips and bites until your skin was flushed and aching with need. He looked up, his hot mouth still wrapped around one of your nipples, "Hmmm?" he hummed, his eyes dazed.

"P-Please... I need—"

His hips rocked against yours, stopping your train of thought, the rough fabric of his pants rubbing deliciously against your core. The layers of clothing separated you still, but you could feel the heat of him.

A low, deep chuckle rumbled through his chest, vibrating against your sensitive skin. "Please, what?" he murmured, his voice a sinful purr as he nuzzled into valley between your breasts. "Come on, baby. Tell me what you need..."

You shook your head, heat creeping up your cheeks. "You're so—annoying. Y-You know what I want..."

Gently, he lifted your waist to swiftly pull your pants off, you barely got the chance to register the action, only to feel the cold air as it enveloped your bare legs.

As if sensing your surprise, you felt him smile against your skin before inching down. He placed a single, open-mouthed kiss on your navel before trailing his lips lower, his breath hot and heavy against your aching core. Your hips jerked, a needy mewl escaping your lips as you felt the first brush of his tongue against your clothed sex. He licked a slow, deliberate stripe over your folds, the damp fabric of your panties the only barrier between his mouth and your dripping flesh.

A low groan resonated from deep within his chest as he tasted you, the flavor of your arousal seeping through the thin material. “Fuck, baby…” he growled, his voice muffled against your sex. “I dreamed of this so many times, I can’t believe I’m finally tasting you for real..”

You closed your eyes, shuddering because of his words. Caleb had always been teasing and confident, but hearing him say those words when everything had been innocent and playful between the two of you ever since made your stomach clench.

Slowly, he peeled your panties off, tossing them carelessly to the side. Exposed and bare, he could see your glistening folds, swollen and practically weeping with need. 

“You’re so wet,” he murmured, his tone devoid of teasing or malice—just an honest observation, quiet and unfiltered. 

You shivered. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, flicked back to meet yours, and the intensity in them made your heart skip. There was no judgment, no amusement—just an unwavering focus that left you feeling raw and exposed.

He reached forward with his left hand, his thumb pressing against the seam of your folds, and you felt the slick coating his digit as he swiped up, and there he started to circle your clit with heavy pressure.

"Fuck—" you whined, the foreign pleasure making you throw your head back.

Caleb chuckled, purring, "There, there...."

You could practically feel him smirking without even having to look at him and you wanted nothing more than to wipe the smug off his face. But you'd do it another time, now you'd let him take his time with you.

Leaning down, Caleb left open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs, his tongue a warm, wet brand against your sensitive skin.

"Spread out like a feast, just for me," he murmured, his voice a low, reverent rumble. He breathed hotly against your dripping slit, feeling your body jerk in anticipation. Slowly, teasingly, he dragged the flat of his tongue along your folds, a long, languid lick that had your hips bucking.

"Caleb..." you breathed, your body starting to squirm.

"Stay still." he ordered, his voice muffled.

You peered down and saw how tightly his hands gripped your thighs, you're sure he'd leave a bruise. He was holding you open, keeping you exposed to his ravenous mouth.

You felt his lips seal around your entrance as he sucked, his tongue pushed inside, delving deep, the slick muscle stroking your velvety walls with unhurried, sensual glides. Then, his lips found your clit once more, wrapping around the throbbing bud as he suckled gently, his tongue flicking against it with maddening slowness. You could practically feel it pulsing against his mouth, the evidence of your growing arousal impossible to ignore. He lapped at it, circled it, teased it mercilessly until it was swollen and straining.

You wanted more. Needed more.

You reached out, your fingers tangling in his hair, tugging almost painfully as you ground your hips against his face, desperate for some much-needed friction. But he held you still, his strong hands gripping your thighs, keeping you immobile.

Each pass of his tongue sent jolts of electricity zipping up your spine, your body arching and writhing in a futile attempt to escape the overwhelming pleasure.

As you teetered on the brink, he pulled back, his chin glistening with your juices. Before you could voice your protest, he circled your entrance teasingly, the pad of his metal thumb tracing the swollen rim, dipping inside just barely before retreating again. Each brush against your sensitive flesh drew a breathy moan from your lips, your hips undulating helplessly, chasing his touch.

"I want to see you wrapped around my metal fingers..." he groaned, his voice a low, approving rumble. He eased a single finger inside your fluttering channel, the cool metal a delicious contrast to your scorching heat. Slowly, almost torturously, he pushed it deeper, inch by excruciating inch, until he was buried to the knuckle. He paused there, letting you adjust to the intrusion, feeling your silky walls clench around the digit.

With agonizing slowness, he began to move, pumping his finger in and out of your dripping sex. Each drag against your walls, each curl of his knuckle against that special spot deep inside, dragged a broken moan from your throat. He was relentless, his pace unhurried, determined to take you apart piece by piece until you were nothing but a writhing, wanton mess beneath him.

"Y-you're so tight," Caleb grunted, his finger pumping faster, harder, plunging into your soaked heat. "I love how you grip me like this." His words were punctuated by the lewd squelches of your arousal, your walls clenching desperately around the invading digit.

A second finger joined the first, stretching you wider, filling you fuller. He pumped them in tandem, in deep, rolling thrusts that had your back arching and your toes curling against the sheets. All the while, his thumb circled your clit, the rough pad rubbing against the sensitive bundle of nerves until it throbbed and pulsed with need.

"Ohh...!" you cried out as he curled his fingers just right, brushing against that special spot deep inside.

He groaned in approval, the sound rumbling through his chest and vibrating deliciously against your sensitive flesh. "That's it, baby... let me hear you," he encouraged, his voice a low, sinful purr.

"Caleb... hah... I can't... I'm close..." you gasped, your chest heaving with each ragged breath.

Caleb pulled back, he gazed up at you with hooded eyes. "Not yet, baby," he murmured, his voice a low, authoritative rumble. "I want you to come on my cock, nowhere else."

He sat back on his knees, his hands gripping your hips as he tugged your body towards him, positioning you at the edge of the bed. With one swift, powerful movement, he tore off his pants. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of his boxers, and with a swift, impatient tug, he shucked them off, freeing his straining cock.

It bobbed before you, long and thick and so hard it curved slightly towards his stomach. The broad head was an angry red, the skin pulled taut and flushed, the slit in the tip dripping with the evidence of his arousal. Your mouth watered at the sight, your tongue darting out to wet your lips as you imagined how he would finally feel inside you.

Caleb gripped himself, his left hand wrapping around the thick shaft, stroking it slowly, deliberately. "You want this, don't you, pip-squeak?" he growled, the head of his cock nudging against your entrance, the tip catching on your swollen, slick folds. "You want me to fill this greedy little pussy until you're stretched wide and all mine?"

He rolled his hips, rubbing the underside of his shaft against your clit, the textured skin catching on the sensitive bundle of nerves until your vision nearly whited out from the intensity of it. Your hands flew to his shoulders, your nails digging into the hard muscle as you arched into him, your body crying out for more.

"Please, Caleb," you whimpered, your voice thin and reedy with need. "I want... I need..."

"Tell me," he demanded, his voice a low, commanding bark. "Tell me what you need, baby. Beg me for it."

Almost desperately, he added, "Please... please..."

Your stomach ached as he pressed harder, the head of his cock pushing insistently against your entrance, the crown popping inside your slick heat, stretching you around his girth. The sensation was exquisite, the promise of what was to come making your toes curl and your thighs tremble.

"I need your cock," you gasped out, your voice raw and desperate. "Please, Caleb... I need you inside me."

A dark, wicked grin split his face, his eyes glinting with a feral, hungry light. "That's my girl," he praised, his voice a low, sinful purr.

He leaned in, his lips pressing a soft kiss against your jaw, he whispered, "I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk straight, until all you can feel is me, deep inside of you."

With that, he surged forward, the thick head of his cock splitting you open, sinking into your welcoming heat with a low groan that rumbled through his chest. Your back arched, your nails digging into his shoulders as you took him inside, your velvety walls stretching deliciously around his invading length. He didn't stop until he was buried to the hilt, his heavy balls nestled against your ass, his cock pulsing deep inside your core.

You gasped, "Oh..." The unfamiliar stretch made your thighs tremble.

Caleb paused, giving you a moment to adjust to the feeling of being so utterly filled, so completely stretched around his thick cock. He peppered your face with soft kisses, murmuring words of praise and encouragement against your skin.

"You feel incredible," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion and restraint. "So tight and hot and perfect around me."

The uncomfortable stretch didn’t last long, your body slowly adjusting as the tension turned into something else entirely. The yearning grew, your thoughts clouded by need. Every second of stillness felt unbearable, the ache for him to move consuming you.

Hurriedly, you whispered, your voice trembling with anticipation, “You can move now…”

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he began to move. His hips pulled back, the drag of his length against your walls sent sparks of sensation crackling through your nerve endings. And then he pushed forward again, harder this time, his length plundering your depths with a newfound urgency.

A broken moan tumbled from your lips as he set a steady rhythm, each powerful thrust driving the breath from your lungs and stoking the heat building in your core. The pain began to recede, replaced by a pleasure so intense it bordered on overwhelming.

"Hah... C-Caleb-!"

"That's it, baby. You're taking me so well..."

Caleb could feel your body starting to relax, could feel your hips beginning to move in tandem with his. Emboldened, he increased his pace, his thrusts growing harder, more insistent as he chased his own release. The obscene slap of flesh against flesh filled the room, punctuated by your needy moans and his grunts of exertion.

"Do you feel how big I am, pip-squeak?" he purred, flexing his hips to emphasize his point. "I'm so deep inside this sweet little pussy. Filling you up in a way no one else will ever be able to."

His hand slid down your body, your skin flushed and heated beneath his touch. He cupped your mound, his fingers brushing against where you were joined, feeling the way your lips stretched obscenely around his girth.

"I love seeing your tight little cunt so full," Caleb growled, his eyes glittering with a predatory light. "It's like this hungry little hole was made just for my cock."

"C-Caleb....!" you whined, lips parted open. His words made your skin hot and your brain go hay wire.

You could feel every rigid inch of him as he hilted inside you, his heavy balls nestling against your bottom. Your body had never felt so full, so deliciously stuffed. It was almost too much, the stretch pushing you to your limits, until you swore you could feel him in your throat.

He let out a choked groan, his breath hitching as he clung to the moment. "W-Wait," he stammered, his voice thick with need, "I need to feel more of you..."

Your body trembled under the weight of his words, a soft, helpless mewl escaping your lips. "M-More..?" you echoed, your voice barely audible, laced with vulnerability and the same yearning that reflected in his gaze.

Caleb pressed a wet kiss on your cheek and gripped your thighs, his large hands easily encircling your slender legs as he pushed them up and back, folding you nearly in half. He raised them high, draping them over his broad, muscular shoulders until your knees were pressed against your chest and your ankles crossed behind his neck.

Caleb leaned down, bracing his elbows on either side of your head as he pistoned in and out of your dripping sex. His hips slammed against yours, the new angle allowed him to plunge even deeper, the head of his cock kissing your cervix with each driving thrust.

He captured your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth to tangle with yours. You could taste yourself on him, the flavor of your arousal lingering on his lips and tongue as he explored your mouth. Your hands flew to his hair, gripping the strands tightly as you kissed him back with a fervor that matched his own.

"That's it, baby," he panted against your lips, his voice rough and urgent. "Take my cock. Fuck, you're so deep like this. I can feel every inch of this tight little cunt squeezing me."

Caleb's mouth trailed hungry kisses along the column of your throat, his teeth grazing your sensitive skin. He latched onto your shoulder, biting down until you cried out, your fingers scrabbling at his back. The sharp sting of his teeth piercing your flesh pushed you closer to the edge, your pleasure spiked with a hint of pain. Your sex rippled around him, the velvet walls squeezing his pistoning length as he fucked you with wild abandon.

"Caleb!" you keened, your head thrown back, your body bowing off the bed. "I'm going to... I'm going to come!"

"That's it, baby. Come for me," he urged, his hips slapping against yours with renewed fervor. 

Your world exploded into a million pieces as your orgasm crashed over you, your sex clamping down around him like a vice. You cried out, seeing white. Your nails raked down his back, leaving red welts in their wake as you clung to him, anchored against the overwhelming feeling of your orgasm.

But even as you trembled and shuddered through the aftershocks, Caleb didn't stop. He continued to pound into you, his length plundering your walls as he chased his own release, the wet squelching sounds of your spasming cunt being fucked senseless echoing the walls. Your body knew the sensation was almost too much to bear, your sensitive flesh crying out for respite as he drove into you again and again.

"I can't... it's too much..." you whimpered, your voice thin and reedy as your trembling hands pushed weakly against his chest, though you lacked the strength to follow through.

"Shh, I've got you," Caleb murmured, his voice a mix of strained need and steadfast reassurance. He leaned in, pressing his forehead gently to yours as his movements slowed slightly, yet his intensity didn’t waver. "I need to fill you up, baby," he whispered, his tone low and fervent. "I just need to... let me take care of you."

You whined softly, tears brimming in your eyes as the intensity of it all overwhelmed you, your toes curling. Caleb’s gaze softened, though the desperation lingering in his expression didn’t waver. He leaned in, brushing his lips tenderly against your damp cheeks, kissing your tears away as if to soothe the overwhelming sensations within you.

"I know it’s too much, b-baby," he murmured, his voice a mix of huskiness and gentle coaxing. "Just take it for me, yeah? You're doing so good for me..."

His hips slammed against yours, the rhythm growing almost sloppy now, driven by sheer desperation, yet each movement was still hard and fast, claiming you in every way. His breath was hot against your skin, his lips trailing wet, possessive kisses along your jawline.

"You’re mine," he murmured, the words rough and trembling with unrestrained emotion. His voice dipped lower, almost a growl, as he repeated with fervent intensity, "Just mine. Finally mine."

You closed your eyes, your heart pounding as you wrapped your arms around his nape, pulling him closer, as if anchoring yourself to him. Your voice trembled, raw with emotion, as you whispered hoarsely, "I'm yours..."

The words seemed to shatter something within Caleb, unraveling the last threads of his restraint. Just hearing you say you were his was enough to push him to the brink, his entire being consumed by the overwhelming need to claim you.

"Fuck, I'm coming," he grunted, his hips slamming against yours one last time. "Here it comes, baby. Take it all."

You felt a sudden warmth spread through you as Caleb reached his peak, his release surging inside you in long, pulsing waves that left you breathless. The intimacy of the moment consumed you, your body trembling against his as you held onto him, feeling every shudder that rippled through his frame.

Caleb kissed you again, more gently this time, before he carefully lowered your legs from his shoulders, easing them down to rest on the mattress. His movements were slow, deliberate, as though he feared breaking the fragile moment you shared. He collapsed beside you, catching himself on his elbows to keep from resting his weight on you accidentally.

The room was quiet except for the soft rhythm of your breathing, mingling with Caleb’s. The air was warm, the atmosphere tender, as the fiery passion that had consumed you both finally ebbed into a calm serenity. His bionic arm rested protectively against your waist, his other hand brushing gentle circles along your shoulder as he held you close, your bodies tangled together.

“You okay?” Caleb’s voice was a low murmur, his lips brushing against your temple as he spoke. There was a vulnerability in his tone that made your heart ache.

You nodded against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek. “I’m okay,” you whispered, your voice tired but content. “What about you?”

He let out a soft laugh, the sound rumbling through you. “I should be asking you that, pip-squeak.” he replied, pressing a lingering kiss to your hair. “But... yeah. I’m good. Better than good.”

There was a pause, and then his bionic fingers moved, carefully tracing patterns against your skin. The coolness of the metal felt strangely soothing, a contrast to the warmth of his body. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, the edge of worry creeping into his voice.

You tilted your head to look at him, your hand coming up to cup his jaw. “You didn’t hurt me,” you reassured him softly, meeting his eyes. “Not even for a second.”

He visibly relaxed, his shoulders easing as he pulled you even closer, tucking your head beneath his chin. “Good,” he said, the word more to himself than to you. “Because I’d never forgive myself if I did.”

For a while, the two of you simply stayed like that, wrapped in each other’s warmth. Caleb’s fingers absently played with your hair, his touch grounding and soothing. He whispered small things now and then—how much he loved you, how he’d never let anything hurt you, how you were his whole world. You answered with quiet hums, your heart swelling with every word.

As exhaustion finally began to tug at you, you felt him shift, “Sleep,” he murmured, his voice a soft command. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated <3 if you want to check out more of my writings, head on to here — masterlist.

[littlepeach-world]

Baby on Board

Paring: Frontman/Hwang In-Ho x Pregnant!Wife!Reader

Summary: You and In-ho welcome your beautiful baby into the world.

Warnings: Emotional Intensity, Pregnancy and Childbirth, Past Trauma, Labor and Delivery, little angst idk, fluff, soft!inho, protective!inho, dad!inho, husband!inho

Word count: 1.4k

Notes: Just a short fic while I’m working on everyone’s request. Enjoy! 

Your life has been a tapestry of warmth, compassion, and an unwavering belief in the goodness of people. As you stand at the threshold of a new chapter, about to bring a new life into the world, you reflect on the journey that has brought you and your husband to this moment. His rigid exterior and commanding presence often mask a heart full of pain and love—a heart that you know intimately.

Before In-ho became the Front Man of the Squid Game, his life was scarred by a profound personal tragedy. You never knew his late wife, but you've seen the imprints of his loss in the silent sorrow that occasionally flickers in his eyes. His unborn child, too, was a loss that cut deeply into his soul. These memories, though rarely spoken about, have shaped the man he is today—authoritative, relentless, and emotionally guarded.

Despite this, you've come to understand that his ruthless pragmatism is a shield, a way to cope with the responsibilities that weigh heavily upon him. In-ho’s meticulous nature, his need for control and precision, all stem from his desire to prevent any further chaos or pain. Yet, beneath this exterior lies a man conflicted and complex, grappling with the shadows of his past and the duties of his present.

In-ho may rule the games with an iron fist, but your presence in his life brings a warmth that melts the ice around his heart. From the moment he fell in love with you, it was as if a light had pierced through the shrouded corners of his soul—a feeling he had never experienced before. Your own personality—a blend of empathy, nurturing, and optimism—complements his in ways that only destiny could orchestrate. Where he is methodical, you are spontaneous; where he is guarded, you are emotionally open.

Your relationship with him is a delicate balance of yin and yang. Your love is the sanctuary where In-ho can shed his armor, finding solace in the tenderness you offer. Through your creative pursuits and gentle spirit, you bring joy and beauty into his otherwise dark world, creating a space where both of you can breathe freely.

When you revealed to In-ho that you were pregnant, he was initially shocked, the news surfacing deep-seated fears and emotions. But that shock quickly turned into an all-encompassing happiness, deepening the love he felt for you. The idea of bringing a new life into the world—and into his life—was a prospect that filled his heart with newfound hope.

From that moment forward, In-ho became even more overprotective. His attention to your needs and desire to be near you at all times intensified. Never wanting to be away from you, he shadowed your every move, ensuring safety and comfort surrounded you, almost as if it were his new mission. This vigilant presence revealed the depths of his transformation—a man once cloaked in detachment, now a devoted protector with love as his guiding force.

Inho did everything for you. Whether it was cooking your meals, washing your hair, or changing your clothes, he took on each task with unwavering dedication, determined that you should never have to lift a finger. He found immense pleasure in caring for you, meticulously attending to even the smallest details of your life to ensure your absolute comfort and well-being. Through his actions, Inho demonstrated the profound love and commitment that drove his every movement and decision, showcasing a depth of affection that transformed not only his life but yours as well.

The day you go into labor is a whirlwind of emotions. In-ho, usually so composed and in control, becomes your pillar of support despite his visible nerves. As the contractions grow stronger, you see the cracks in his confident façade. He hates seeing you in pain, and each twinge of discomfort you experience reflects in the worry etched on his face.

He holds your hand tightly as you make your way to the hospital, his words of comfort doing as much to soothe his own fears as they do to ease your anxiety. “You’ve got this,” he whispers, his voice a steady anchor in the chaos. “I’m here with you every step of the way.”

In the delivery room, the world narrows to just you, In-ho, and the impending arrival of your baby. The pain is intense, and as you push with all your strength, In-ho’s supportive voice fills the room.

“You can do it, my love. You're so strong,” he says, kissing your forehead.

Through gritted teeth, you sometimes snap at him, the pain overwhelming your usual patience. “You did this to me, In-ho! I hate you right now!” you yell, tears streaming down your face.

In-ho only holds you tighter, a gentle smile on his lips. “I know, sweetheart. I know. You're doing amazing, and I love you so much,” he assures, his voice unwavering as he brushes a strand of hair from your face.

Finally, with one last push, the room fills with the sound of your baby’s first cry. Relief washes over both of you. In-ho kisses you deeply, tears of pride in his eyes.

“I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs against your lips. He then looks toward the doctor, who is offering him scissors to cut the umbilical cord.

His hands tremble slightly as he takes the scissors, but his resolve is clear. With a determined and loving expression, he cuts the cord, solidifying his role as a father. The doctor then takes the baby to perform the standard tests and clean them up.

In-ho refuses to leave the baby’s side, his eyes never straying from the tiny, precious form. He watches intently, his heart racing with every movement and sound, ensuring that everything is perfect. He holds his breath as the doctors perform their tests, only releasing it when told that everything is fine.

When the doctor hands you the baby first, In-ho’s heart swells with pride and love as he watches you hold your newborn for the first time. He’s overcome with emotion, tears stinging his eyes as he sees you cradling the tiny life you both created.

You gaze at him, a silent understanding passing between you, knowing that this moment is as monumental for him as it is for you. After a few precious moments, you gently pass the baby to him.

His breath catches in his throat as he gazes into the eyes of his newborn for the first time. A soft gasp escapes his lips as his eyes fill with tears.

"Hello, little one," he whispers, his voice filled with awe and tenderness. He brushes a gentle finger across the baby's cheek, marveling at the soft, delicate skin. "I love you more than words can say." The look on his face is one of pure adoration and vulnerability, a side of In-ho rarely seen by the outside world.

As you both sit on the hospital bed, you, still exhausted, lay your head on In-ho’s shoulder while he cradles your newborn for the first time. Tears stream down his face, unable to contain the flood of emotions.

“Thank you for letting me be a dad,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “I vow to always love and protect you both, no matter what.”

Together, you gaze at the tiny, fragile life you've brought into the world, with a sense of completion and wholeness. The strong and determined man you fell in love with remains, but now he has also become a loving husband and devoted father. Inho reflects deeply on how empty and mundane his life was before you came into it, realizing with gratitude how you, have illuminated every shadowed corner of his existence.

Even with his steely resolve, he often feels unworthy of someone as extraordinary as you. He questions what you see in him and marvels at his fortune of ending up with someone so perfect. Inho silently vows to cherish and adore you like a queen for all the days of his life, promising to honor and protect you and your newborn with every fiber of his being.

Your journey together, sculpted by balance, unwavering support, and profound understanding, stands as a testament to the enduring power of love. Inho has never experienced a love as deep and transformative as the one he shares with you and your child. The connection and devotion he feels are unparalleled, a symphony he wishes to nurture forever.

In a world often enveloped in darkness, your love is the light that guides him—a beacon of hope and warmth he desperately clings to. As you both embark on this new chapter, you face the future hand-in-hand, with a bond so strong that no tragedy can sever it.

[gukcnt]

04 | SHADOWS OF OBSESSION ⭒ JJK

a criminal's obsession with a shy medical student starts a passionate mix of desire and darkness. As their worlds collide, secrets get exposed and possession turns into love. In a world filled with betrayal and the weight of their own pasts, can they find a way to survive together? or will their twisted bond ultimately destroy them both?

pairing — criminal dom!jungkook x student sub!femreader

genre — criminal au, dark romance, forbidden attraction, enemies to lovers, murderer!jungkook, stalker!jungkook, innocent shy!reader, virgin!reader, medical student!reader, violence, stalking and obsession, contrast of worlds, crime, thriller, smut, lots of angst, fluff

warnings/tags — 18+, explicit smut, angry!jungkook, possessive!jungkook, toxic!jungkook, consensual non consent, emotional vulnerability, trauma bonding, emotional connection, isolation and loneliness, intrusion, romantic gestures, domestic intimacy, fear, power dynamics, d/s dynamics, argument, confrontation, crying, cursing, rough sex, aggressive sexual acts, several non-detailed sexual scenes, spanking, hair pulling, bondage (use of ropes), making out, hickies/marking, bruising, multiple orgasms, fear, pain play, pain and pleasure play, solo female masturbation, masturbation using a teddy bear, degradation, oral sex (f. receiving), eating out, face riding, face sitting, fingering, clit stimulation, cum swallowing, tongue fucking, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, loss of virginity, dirty talk, praise kink, use of words like "slut" and "whore", body worship, breast play, nipple play and sucking, voyeurism, she gets chased by jungkook, elements of shame but she gets turned on by it, jungkook watches reader masturbate, slight cum and breath play, aftercare, kidnapping, mentions of physical harm

wc — 9.2k

a/n — lmafaosdh y'all are gonna hate me for this chapter ;((

series m. list | main m. list

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The air in your apartment was thick with your desperation; a wet sheen clung to your skin as you stepped out of the shower. The steam surrounding you after the hot shower, along with the smell of your floral shampoo.

Your body alive, every part of you pulsating just like your tingling pussy that had been wet constantly, an ache reminding you of the criminal that you swore off your life.

Every bodily reaction of yours occurred with the memory of Jungkook's touch, his rough hands and tongue, made you hate yourself more.

You tried a lot these past few weeks to forget about him, to move on, but every memory of him clung to you stubbornly, you couldn’t get rid of it. You couldn’t focus on studies, couldn’t do anything.

And with each day that need was burning further.

You wouldn’t ever beg for him, or so you told yourself. Yet today you needed release, needed to feel a fraction of how he made you feel.

The innocent girl in you is gone, in place, the temptation took over.

The towel wrapped around you felt suffocating; cheeks flushed from the barrier between you and the need in your core.

You stood in your bedroom, the room dark in the night. The only source of light was the single lamp on the table, giving a faint glow to the room.

The knowledge of what's gonna happen raised goosebumps all over your skin.

You let the towel drop slowly as it pooled at your feet. Your naked body was exposed in the empty room, nipples puckered instantly in the cool air, even the slightest air felt too much on your sensitive skin, and you squeezed your thighs together.

Your pussy dripping with arousal, slickness coating your inner thighs, body constantly craving the euphoric feeling only a certain man could give you

Tonight the silence was there, but you felt him, your body having a mind of its own to know his presence whenever he is near.

Jungkook. Your stalker.

He was watching you from the shadows—his presence undeniable, a dangerous heaviness that made your heart race, your clit throbbing.

Your eyes fell on the large teddy bear he’d given you a few weeks ago. It sat on your bed, being the only witness of your unraveling.

A gift from a monster.

You approached it, your breath hitching as you climbed onto the bed, the sheets dipping under your weight.

Your hand trembled as you reached for the teddy, pulling it to you, fur brushing against your naked skin, which felt like a tease that made you gasp.

You hugged it tightly, your breasts pressing against its softness, nipples grazed its fur, and instantly jolts of pleasure went through you, making you pant.

You dug your nose into the fur, and it felt like it carried a slight scent of him, or you didn’t know if you were going crazy imagining things—cigarettes as always and musk, your pussy clenched.

Your chest heaved as you laid the teddy down and straddled it with a huff, body going on its own, controlled by desire.

Your thighs spread wide, your heat settling against its plush belly, the fur brushing against your sensitive folds. The sensation was immediate and instant—a soft friction that made you moan.

You knew he was there, watching, and the thought felt like a challenge, you were trying to lure in the predator who'd haunted you.

You were the prey, calling him, tempting him enough to break his restraint.

Your hips started rocking slowly, experimentally, fur rubbing against your clit as your slickness soaked into the teddy, shame and embarrassment in the back of your mind, forgotten.

“Jungkook,” you whined, voice trembling as your eyes fluttered shut, giving in to your need.

Your movements grew bolder, hips grinding harder, and the fur was now fully slick with your arousal, providing the perfect friction for your throbbing clit.

Your moans grew louder along with your occasional gasps and whimpers, body trembling as you chased the pleasure.

Your breasts bounced with each thrust, nipples aching, needing stimulation and your hands clutched the teddy's fur as if it was his skin, the thought intensifying your pleasure, the teddy helping since you needed to hold onto something.

“Oh God… mmmhah,” you moaned shakily, voice high and desperate with agony as the ache increased, reminding you of his absence.

You imagined him taking you for the first time—eyes dark as he would plunge his thick, hard cock inside you, finally filling you and taking every bit of your sanity.

The thought pushed you closer, your hips started rocking faster and harder, moans now unrestrained and breathy.

“More, more, please, yes.” You sobbed, voice cracking, your nails dug further into the teddy, thighs trembling. The fact that the teddy didn’t tear under the force of your hold shocked you.

Your climax was close, tightening in your belly, head falling back, mouth parted in ecstasy, pussy pulsing harder as your brows were drawn together in pained pleasure.

You were very aware that you were taunting him, calling for him.

In the shadows Jungkook stood, body rigid, cigarette forgotten. His eyes were locked on you, cock hard and straining against his jeans.

The sight of you—naked, needy, fucking his gift—drove him close to a feral animal.

Your body a feast for his eyes, tits bouncing with hard nipples, pussy dripping and soaking the teddy given by him.

He was angry, so very angry; his blood was boiling.

And he was going to make you regret it.

His hand itched to grab you and spank you so hard that you’ll feel it for days, not being able to sit, and he was going to punish you in every unimaginable way possible.

He’d promised to stay away, to let you live, but you were breaking him, piece by piece, with every moan and rock of your hips.

That’s it.

“You little slut,” he snarled, his voice a dangerous rumble as he stormed inside the room, no longer holding back. His sudden presence shocked you enough to stop your movements.

He grabbed your hair, fisting it tightly, pulling your head back, the pain making tears well in your eyes as a scream tore from your throat.

Your eyes flew open, locking into him, few tears escaping, and even in that situation your pussy clenches at the sight of him after his absence for so long—tall, muscular, tattooed hand gripping your hair, his eyes wild with lust.

“My innocent petal,” he growled, face only a few inches away from you, his breath reeking of cigarettes and whiskey.

His hold on your hair not loosening, despite your winches and whimpers as he holds you in the lewd position, you straddling the teddy, arousal very much evident for him to observe.

“Acting like a needy whore, begging to be fucked. You think you can tease me like this? You think you can break me?”

Your breath hitched as hurt flashed through your eyes from his words, with desire, body trembling under his grip. You were exposed, vulnerable, arousal dripping down your thighs, tits heaving.

You hated him, hated yourself.

But the fire in his eyes and the way he gripped your hair so punishingly made you wetter; his words, even though degrading, made you angry, but also made you needy.

You had enough of this, his torment too much in your life.

You summoned every ounce of courage, your hand lashing out and slapping his face, the loud sound echoing in the room.

“Get out!” you screamed, voice raw as tears streamed down your face, body shaking with anger and something else you couldn’t name.

“Leave me alone!”

His head snapped to the side, jaw clenching, eyes darkening to a dangerous black. For a moment he was still, looking at you like a predator sizing up his prey, his anger palpable from where he stood.

Then he released you suddenly, shocking you as his gaze never left you.

You took the chance to quickly scramble off the bed, your naked body glistening with sweat and arousal and your heart pounded with fear.

You ran, bare feet hitting a floor. You ran far away from him, breaths coming out in sharp pants, your mind feeling hazy in fear and need.

The apartment was dark, all lights off, and you couldn’t even see where his presence was, and it increased your terror along with the arousal gathering in between your legs.

You felt exposed running like this in such a bare state, arousal dripping on the floor leaving a trail behind you making it easier for him to find you, and everything was too quiet; you couldn’t hear any noises or his movement that signaled that he was following you.

Your heart beats faster, yet the fear made your clit throb in the same rhythm as your heart.

You stumbled into the living room, body trembling. You glanced back, expecting him to be on you, but he wasn’t.

You knew you messed up this time, big time; you slapped him.

And he was so very angry; you messed with the monster, and he wouldn’t let you escape this time.

Soon you started to hear his heavy footsteps. He moved slowly, his presence a dark promise of what is about to occur, what he is going to do to you, and it made your heart race.

His eyes were intense, his lips curling into a sneer.

“Run all you want, baby,” he purred, voice mocking along with dripping anger, “you know you can’t escape me. You’re mine, and you know it.”

You tripped suddenly, foot catching on the rug, and you fell on your knees on the floor, your breasts bouncing at the process, a gasp falling from between your lips.

A lewd feast for his eyes with you being exposed and scared.

You whimpered as you looked up at the man who was unrecognizable now in anger, towering over you. He growled lowly, the sound primal and he slowly stepped towards you, approaching.

His cock was hard and aching, very much visible with the large bulge straining his jeans. His hands were clenched as he looked down at you, eyes never leaving you—your trembling form, glistening pussy, tits heaving for him only.

And he wanted to keep that sight memorized forever, your fear fueling his desire further.

“You think you can play me?” He said, his shadow now completely covering your form, almost heavily.

“You think you can spread your legs, moan my name, and I'll just break? You’re a fucking tease, and I’m done playing nice.”

You scrambled back, hands slipping on the floor, your heart pounding in fear, tears falling freely.

“It’s time to give you a good lesson for being such a naughty girl.” He coos at you, lips lifting into a slight smirk.

“Look at you, trembling naked and exposed for me, those nipples hard and your pussy dripping sultrily, leaving a trail all over the floor.”

His fingers gestured at your body, making you whimper and look away as you bit your own fist in shame and arousal, his words fueling you more.

“I bet if I spread those thighs of yours, I will find that tight cunt clenching for me, yeah?” He rasped.

You were scared, so scared, but your body betrayed you further and further with his words.

Craving the very monster, you feared

His presence was overwhelming—the smell of his cigarettes, sweat, and rage—surrounding you, making you dizzy.

You wanted to scream, to beg, but your voice was gone, your body under his claim on its own, and your slap had just ignited his growing anger further.

Your back hit the counter, no longer able to back away from him.

You were trapped.

And the knowledge made your heart beat out of your chest, you could see the satisfaction it gave him knowing you had nowhere to go, not being able to escape his wrath.

He crouched, hand reaching for you, his fingers grazing your ankle possessive and slow, like a slow anticipation before attacking fully.

You whimpered, body trembling as you squeezed your thighs together trying to stop the ache.

Your heart screamed for him to take you, to ruin you, even as your mind begged you to run. The tension was cracking between you heavily, his anger and your need mixing together.

And you knew the night was far from over.

You let out a cry, Jungkook didn’t waste any further time, and he picked you up in an instant in the air and threw you over his shoulder, knocking the breath off your chest from how fast it happened.

Your cries filled the quiet room, but he didn’t listen. His hold was tight but not bruising, enough to not give you any place to bulge or breathe.

Your naked body trembled, bare body resting on his shoulder, his hands gripping your ass just a little away from your pussy, and it was too much. Your heart pounded, wondering what he would do to you.

You were slapping and scratching his back, squirming, your body aching from the struggle as you gave up, finally tired.

“I hate you; just let me go!” You sobbed.

The words were like a knife, and they only fueled his rage even more, his grip tightening even more, anger palpable, and your pussy clenched.

Dripping slick right on his shirt, you writhed ashamed, but his animal growl told you otherwise and he started he walked in fast strides, reaching your bedroom.

He tossed you onto the bed; and you fell on the bed with a gasp, the impact caused your breasts to jiggle, his eyes fixed on them. He didn’t wait any longer before moving.

His hands were quick and rough as he pulled out a coarse rope from his pocket and pinned you down in bed with one hand, his strength knocking the breath out of your chest.

He pinned your wrists above your head, used the ropes to tie them to the headboard. The rope was tight, bruising your delicate skin, leaving red marks that stung with every movement.

Your chest heaved as your breath shook, hard nipples begging for attention that you both craved and feared.

Your legs were laid spread due to the force of his hold, pussy swollen under his gaze from the days of unfulfilled need, and it was slowly growing too much to bear.

You were utterly exposed, trapped, and vulnerable to go nowhere, and you felt like a toy that he could use and treat however he wanted, and the realization made your breath hitch in a mix of panic and anticipation.

Jungkook’s eyes roamed all over you with his dark eyes, you didn’t meet his eyes, whimpering as tears spilled on the sheets, and his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles twitched.

“You hate me?” He snarled, the gravel sound vibrated through the room, sending goosebumps all over your skin.

“You think you can say that and get away with it? You’re mine, petal, and you’ll fucking learn it sooner or later.”

His words were full of anger that wrapped around you in a thrilling way.

You whimpered pathetically, body squirming under his intense gaze. It felt like he was touching you and undoing you with his stare alone.

Your slick coated on your thighs was the shameful proof of how his dominance undid you.

He leaned down, breath hot against your neck, lips brushing against your skin, his ragged breaths showing just how affected he was by this as well.

His teeth sank in soon, hard, and the ache was sharp—a sudden burst of pain and pleasure that made you gasp out, “Ahh!”

Your body arches off the bed, wrists pulling against the rope.

He sucked the bitten spot, tongue lapping over the bruised flesh, leaving a deep purple hickey that throbbed along with your racing heart. His weight over you not giving you any space to move at all

He moved like he had all the time in the world, savoring his meal before he went all in on you. He moved to your collarbone, teeth grazing the flesh before he bites again, another mark forming under his mouth, and the sting, along with a dark pleasure, had you moaning.

“Jungkook, please,” you gasped, not knowing if you were begging for mercy or for him to keep going.

He didn’t stop, not paying attention to your words, lips trailing to your breasts, hands rough as he gripped a handful of your tit, cupping it before he squeezed hard enough to make you wince, your nipples hardening further on his palm.

“Nghhh… god,” you whimpered as he leaned down and bit the sensitive skin just above your areola, teeth sinking in, and you cried out a loud, broken sound. Your mind dizzy, not being able to catch up to the pain and the pleasure that he was igniting inside you.

Your body slowly being marked by his hickeys, a brand of his possession, as he soothed each bite and burn with his warm tongue, and the contrast of his roughness and tenderness had you gasping for air, not being able to breathe.

He moved to your other breast, making sure to lavish his attention everywhere. He left a trail of his marks everywhere along with your cleavage, each one a reminder of you being his.

Your chest now covered with red and purple bruises from him as he took his time marking you, while you breathed your whimpers of pain and need

His hand suddenly came down on your ass, delivering a sharp spank that caught you off guard with the pain, and the burn jolted you; your pussy clenched around nothing.

“Oh, fuck Jungkook!” you cried.

The curse slipping out of your mouth made Jungkook growl, hating such words in your sweet mouth. He gripped a handful of your ass and squeezed tightly, voicing his disapproval through actions.

“You like that, hmm?” He gruffed, “My innocent little girl, so fucking needy for a monster.”

Another spank, harder, and it was too much for you to bear; tears spilled as your sobs filled the room, hips bucking instinctively.

The pain was intense, but it melted into a throbbing pleasure that had your arousal drip onto the sheets, arousal pooling onto the sheets, your body trembling.

You sobbed, wrists tugging at the ropes, plush lips open at all times due to the sensation of pain and pleasure, and the sting on your wrists from the rope was adding to the sensory overload.

It felt like your body was alive on sensation only.

Jungkook’s eyes were feral as he got off you, his chest heaving as he saw how your pussy weeping for him, and it drove him a little over the edge of madness. His eyes locked on your face as you lay there panting, even though he hasn’t done anything yet.

He stripped, movements quick and desperate. His underwear went away next, and you gasp seeing him naked for the first time.

Your breath stopped.

His cock sprang free, massive and intimidating, you gripped the headboard, heart thudding that you had nowhere to escape but to take this monster of a man. The veins were pulsing, and the tip was leaking, glistening with precum.

You gasped, eyes widening, fear filling your chest at the sheer size of him and the huge power he held even by doing nothing.

You were seeing his tattoos in their bare beauty for the first time. His body a work of art from the tattoos and full of scars from his past—tattoos all over his chest and abs, hard muscles all over.

Oh God—he was a demon.

And you were his sacrifice.

Your pussy clenched at the thought of him inside you, and you gripped the headboard tighter, something to ground yourself.

He knelt between your legs, hands gripping your thighs and spread them as wide as they would go, you huffed at how exposed you felt, body stretched to its limits, his fingers digging into your soft flesh, leaving bruises that matched the hickeys he gave you.

“Untie me, please, ahh—”

His mouth lowered on your pussy, interrupting your words, and you screamed at the overwhelming feeling, tongue lapping at your clit with a hunger that almost felt violent.

His lips were restless and rough, sucking hard, teeth occasionally grazing your sensitive bud, and you saw stars behind your vision, having no control of your body as he made you feel sensations you didn’t know were possible.

Your hips bucked on his mouth, moans loud and desperate, body writhing under his assault.

“Fuck, my baby... you taste like heaven,” he grunted against your pussy.

Voice muffled, his tongue plunging inside you, fucking you with a rhythm that had you on the edge. His fingers soon joined his tongue, two at first stretching your virgin walls for what's about to come, and you were tight and resistant despite getting finger-fucked by him several times before.

The burn was intense but so fucking good.

He curled them, hitting a spot. “Oh! Mmh—please, Jungkook, it’s too much—” Your cries filled the room, your wrists pulling harder against the ropes, skin cutting in the process.

“I can’t—please!” You sobbed, body shaking as your climax started building.

He didn’t stop.

His tongue kept going, lips sucking your clit until you shattered all over his mouth, pussy gushing, your cries raw and broken.

He hummed satisfied against you but didn’t let up, drawing out every shudder and whimper, eyes locked on yours, dark and possessive, as he drinks in your release like it was his lifeline.

He needed it to survive.

You were now basically drooling all over the pillow, mind hazy and he pulls back, lips glistening, his chest heaving, and you could feel his cock twitch against your thigh.

“You’re mine,” he rasped, eyes burning with something beyond anger—obsession, need, something twisted.

“Say it, petal. Say you’re mine.”

You were panting, body trembling, mind confused with pleasure and fear as your lips moved automatically, submitting to him.

“I’m yours,” you whispered.

Your voice shook, heart pounding with your words, knowing it was true and also knowing it was your final undoing.

He growled, satisfied by your answer, his hands gentle now, a huge difference from his earlier roughness.

He untied your ropes, fingers brushing over your raw wrists, his touch soft and almost gentle as tears prick your eyes from his rare softness that is only directed towards you.

A whimper lodged in your throat when he placed a kiss against each of your wrists before he positioned himself between your legs.

His cock at your entrance, his tip teasing your soaked folds.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice a low rumble, his eyes locking on yours, searching for any sign of pain.

You nodded, breath hitching. Your body was tense but ready, pussy aching for him despite all the fear you experienced. You needed him so much.

He pushed in slowly at first, and the tip stretched you; the burn was so intense along with the sharp pain, enough to make you wince, nails digging into his shoulders.

He froze, jaw tight as his eyes looked at yours, soft with concern, a gentleness you’d never seen in him.

“You okay, sweetheart?” He asked, his voice strained as well from the feel of your tight pussy wrapped around him, even though he isn’t fully in yet.

His hands cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing your skin.

“Yes,” you gasped, voice breaking as your body struggled to adjust.

“You are so tight for me, petal, wrapped around me like you were made for me.”

His rough words tightened you around him further, making him groan and he gripped your thigh, shushing you.

He lets you get used to it for a bit, being patient and surprising himself in the process because he doesn’t remember the last time he was even a little bit patient.

The pain soon eased into a strange, pleasurable feeling, and you whined, digging your face into his chest.

“Please, Jungkook….”

He groaned at your request, control fading and he plunged deep in one swift motion, cock filling you, and the stretch was overwhelming, your pussy clenching around him, getting full for the first time, blowing your mind until you felt dizzy.

“Ah hah… Oh God!” You screamed, biting down on his shoulder to keep yourself tethered from the pain.

He didn’t waste any more time as the bed shook, the headboard slammed against the wall from his powerful, relentless thrusts, each one driving him deeper inside you.

He hits spots inside you that you didn’t know existed, and you almost felt him inside your stomach.

His growls were feral, his eyes locked on where you were joined as he watched his cock disappear into your pussy, slick and glistening with your arousal.

“ohs” and “ahs” left your mouth, each noise weeping with each of his thrusts, noises uncontrollable, pleasure and pain mixing together, nails digging into his back leaving marks that only encouraged him to go faster, drilling inside you

The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room along with your cries, creating an obscene music that you were sure the neighbors could hear, but you were too high on pleasure to quiet yourself.

“my perfect little girl taking my cock so well” He lashed out his words, hips puncturing each of his words inside you, making you cry further on his shoulder, his anger simmering and obsession consuming him further from the feel of your pussy, finally owning every part of you.

His eyes locked on your face, taking in all your pained and pleasured expressions, never getting enough, his control snapping whenever your eyes would roll at the back of your head whenever he hit that spot inside you.

“You drive me fucking insane, you know that? I want to ruin you, keep you, lock you away, and own this slutty cunt so that no one else can have you.”

You wailed, body arching as your orgasm started building again, body weak from all the highs it experienced.

“Jungkook, I'm—I'm going to come!” You let out an agony-filled scream, body shaking as the intensity overwhelmed you.

“Mm, you are close? Come for me then, petal.” He growls, thrusts growing quicker as his hands grip your ass, lifting you to meet his thrusts, balls slapping against your swollen pussy.

“Let me feel you, let me have you.”

His words burned you even more, and you shattered, orgasm ripping through you, pussy gushing around his cock, cries filling the room as your body convulsed.

He kept going, not giving you a break, thrusts relentless as he chased his own release, your pussy milking him.

You were overstimulated, body shaking with aftershocks, and the force of his thrusts started building your second orgasm before you even realized, throat aching from all the noises you let out.

“Fuck, I’m going to come,” he groans, own voice breaking as his hips slam into you, cock pulsing and he comes, hot and thick release, filling you, his hands holding your hips, not letting you escape.

Your pussy clenched around him, drawing out every drop.

His release triggered yours, and you came again, for the third time tonight, cries broken body trembling and the overstimulation made you sob, tears falling when he slowed, his head dipped, tongue entering your mouth, kissing you, tasting you.

He swallowed your cries as his thrusts gentled, cock barely softened when he pulled out, giving you a break that he knew you needed more than anything. You winched at the emptiness, a surge of your release mixed with his dripped out of you.

The sight made his nostrils flare, wanting to fuck them back inside your gaping cunt, but he knew you already had too much.

Your pussy stretched enough for him, and it was visible before his eyes.

He could fuck you all night long if he wanted, but it was your first time, and he didn’t want to push you beyond your limits.

He collapsed beside you, breath ragged and he pulled you to his chest, his fingers rubbing your red wrists again almost like he felt guilty for hurting them, but there was also a sense of satisfaction in his chest that he was the one that marked you, made you feel pain and pleasure.

Something that only he was allowed to make you feel and no other man

The thought made his hands twitch with the need to kill someone that didn’t even exist.

He focused on you, still panting and drooling on his chest. He carried you to the shower, the water warm and soothing against your achy body.

His eyes were soft while he washed you, cleaning all the release, paying attention to your sore spots, a stark contrast to the monster who’d claimed you moments ago.

You were quiet, body exhausted, your heart heavy too tired to speak as you depended on him completely, letting him do whatever he wanted, being his personal doll.

He wrapped you in a towel once the bathing was over, picking you up in bridal style, not letting you walk or use any of your energy.

Your hand clutched his chest as he laid you back in bed, the soaked sheets changed by him, and the warmness of it made you purr unknowingly.

He stood there looking down at you, eyes unreadable, his expression intense as he looked at you like his possession, you looked up at him clutching the sheets to your breasts, your shyness consuming you once again even though he thoroughly saw and used every part of you.

Even parts that you didn’t know existed yourself

Your body feeling more his than your own

“What do you want from me?” you croaked, eyes searching his, needing answers, needing something to hold onto.

“Why are you doing this?”

His eyes turned dark and haunted at your question, jaw clenching. “I don’t know,” he said, voice raw with an emotion he didn’t understand.

“I don’t know what this is, but I just know that you—you’re mine. I need to have you, whether you want it or not.”

You swallowed, throat tight from his words, body still tingled from his touch, heart torn between fear and a need you hated yourself for not pushing away.

You curled into him when he laid beside you, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart meet the same rhythm as yours, his hand awkwardly resting on your waist, not used to such domestic acts.

But you knew.

His heart, the criminal's heart that was made of stone but one that, in its own broken way, beat for you only.

۶ৎ

The days following Jungkook’s claiming of you were delicate, something that stretched between obsession and something softer.

Something neither of you could name

Your apartment, once hollow and lonely with your presence, was now filled with a new rhythm—his footsteps, his voice, and the faint scent of cigarettes along with musk that lingered in your place permanently.

He was no longer just a shadow in your life; his darkness has folded into your light, something that didn’t belong together.

Yet they mended like they were meant to be.

The weight of his gaze was there constantly, and his frequent touches because he couldn’t stay without touching you even for a minute.

Along with all that, there were several unspoken questions that hung between you, but you didn’t dare bring them up, not wanting to ruin the normality you had with him.

Not wanting him to close the shell he let down for you, even if it hurts.

Your small apartment seemed to shift in order to accommodate him. Your couch, the same one that you treated him on several nights before, had gotten used to him.

It bore the imprint of his broad frame along with his leather jacket that was draped over its arm lazily, laying his claim all over your house in a way that even your place got used to.

The kitchen, where once you’d cooked alone in between study sessions, now carried the memory of him standing at the counter, tattooed hand clumsily chopping vegetables for a meal he insisted on making for you after you forgot to eat.

The sight of his broad frame and muscles flexing as he did something so domestic as cooking, you knew he never did for anyone, made your heart flutter.

Your bedroom with its pink sheets and light-colored walls was no longer just yours—his presence had claimed it, his scent almost permanent on your bed.

His shadow always lingering but now visible for you.

Jungkook was different now; edges still sharp, but there were still moments of vulnerability from him that caught you off guard.

He spoke more, his voice deep and gravelly, always filling the quietness of your life.

You knew that each of this was slowly cracking the stone wall of his heart.

And you were grateful.

By even getting pieces of him

۶ৎ

One evening as the sun dipped, you sat on the couch, knees tucked under you, a medical textbook forgotten on your lap.

Jungkook stood by the window, a cigarette burning between his fingers, smoke curling in the air when he exhaled. His body clad in a black tank top that showed off his hard, muscled body along with his tattoos, the sight making your thighs squeeze together unknowingly.

“Do you ever think about your parents?” He broke the silence, voice almost hesitant, as if the question came out against his will.

You saw the tension in his shoulders and the way his jaw clenched as he waited for your answer.

You swallowed, throat tight, his question brings back memories of your loss that never really left you.

“Every day,” you admitted breathily, voice barely there.

“They died when I was sixteen. Car accident. I… I used to think if I’d been with them, maybe I could’ve done something to save them—I don’t know, but I was at school studying for a stupid biology test.”

A whimper left your lips, fingers twisting the fabric of your sweater, helping you to ground yourself against the ache in your chest.

“It’s silly, but I still dream about them sometimes, like they never really left me… like they’re just in the next room, waiting for me.”

“It’s not silly,” he rasped before turning, dark eyes locked onto yours, intense, and for a moment it felt like it was just the two of you and the world disappeared.

Your pulse quickened at his authoritative tone and his need to comfort you, his own eyes holding the trauma of his past.

“Mine didn’t die,” he said bitterly, “they just didn’t want me. Left me on the streets when I was eight, said I was too much trouble. I learned fast that no one’s coming to save you. No one loves you unless you make them.”

He took another drag of his cigarette and looked back outside the window; his words were like a knife in your heart, cutting you further and further.

Oh, Jungkook…

Everyone in his life abandoned him, and that’s why he was here so hardened, so guarded that he stopped believing in life itself, and you realized just how alike both your stories are, yet different.

How he struggled all on his own with no one to lean into—you always thought that you suffered the most, but now hearing his story made you realize exactly how the universe always treated the ones who didn’t deserve it badly.

“I don’t know how to be soft, petal. I don’t know how to be what you need.” His words brought you out of your thoughts.

The nickname—petal—sent a shiver down your spine.

A reminder of how he saw you: fragile, delicate, yet something he couldn’t stop touching.

You stood, bare feet carrying you towards him, your heart pounding. You felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch as he looked directly in your eyes with intensity.

“I don’t need soft,” you crooned, hands shaking slightly. “I just need you to be you, Jungkook. The real you, not the monster you think you are.”

His jaw clenched as he stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.” He growled, stepping closer. His presence was overwhelming for you despite seeing him almost every day now.

He was basically a wall of heat and muscle.

“I’m a criminal, a killer. I've got blood on my hands, and I'll never wash it off. You’re… you’re light, and I’m the dark that’ll destroy you.”

You reach out with your trembling hand, resting it on his hard chest; you can feel his warmth seeping off the fabric of his tank top. His heart pounded beneath your palm, always wild.

“Maybe I want it,” you whispered, voice small as your eyes searched his, shyness gone for the first time, eyes glistening slightly.

“Maybe I’m tired of being alone, of being the good girl who’s always scared. You make me feel alive, Jungkook, even when I'm terrified of you.”

He froze, breath ragged, and for a moment you thought he’d pull away, retreating to his usual nature.

But then his hands were on you, rough and desperate, cupping your face, fingers tracing your features.

His callouses against your soft skin, and you closed your eyes, leaning onto him, body constantly craving him and the rare gentleness he let out sometimes.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he muttered, gruffly, lips a few inches away from yours.

“I don’t believe in love, petal. It’s a fucking lie, a trap for the fools. But this—this thing I feel for you—it's bigger, it's worse. It's like I need to breathe you in just to keep you going.”

Your heart squeezed as tears spilled down your face from his vulnerability. You gripped his wrists, nuzzling on his palm, anchoring yourself to him, your cheeks warm.

“Then breathe me,” you whispered. “I’m here, Jungkook. I'm not running. Not anymore.”

A groan left his lips, pained, and he pressed his lips against yours, kissing you, not the hungry, devouring kind that he gave you before, but something softer and deeper, and it almost melted as deep in as your soul.

You not being used to it.

His lips were warm, tasting of smoke and whiskey as you both got the chance to explore each other without rushing anything, his tongue gentle while he explored your mouth, coaxing soft whimpers from you.

The room spun, the distant hum of the city fading until it was just him—his heat, his taste, his heartbeat against yours.

He pulled back, forehead resting against yours, breath mingling with yours, your hand clutching his top.

“I don’t know how to do this.” He rasped, vulnerable in a way that made your chest ache. “I don’t know how to be close to someone without breaking them.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, dark strands soft and thick, his eyes falling closed with brows furrowed together, an act you found out that he loved with no words spoken, something that steadied him to reality.

“I’d rather be broken by you than whole with you.” Your voice shook as you finalized

He growls, a sound of frustration and need, pulls you into his arms tightly, almost suffocating you.

You buried your face in his chest, leaving tear stains onto the fabric, the steady thump of his heart comforting you.

His scent enveloped you like always, so uniquely him, grounding you in a way nothing else could.

۶ৎ

Over the next few days, he showed you pieces of himself, of a man shattered by the cruel world, and you knew how hard it was for him to even give those fragments.

He took you to his cabin in the forest, the same forest where he took you that day to give you the best day of your life. The air and environment here were very different than what you were used to. The air smelled of earth and wood, trees surrounding you everywhere.

His place was very different compared to yours, walls lined with shelves of some books and mostly several weapons. It lacked any furniture or accessories.

The place just seemed livable, but it was void of any life… something that suited Jungkook

A single bed sat in the corner; dark sheets rumpled from his restless nights. The fireplace was casting a warm glow over the room, and his smell was even heavy here, surrounding you with him in his own world.

He told you about his past, each word a wound laid bare for you to see, his voice low and halting.

“I was a kid when they left me,” his deep voice uttered, sitting on the cabin's porch, you beside him as you both looked at the night sky adorned with stars.

His leather jacket was slung over your shoulders because he knew how easily you get cold.

“didn’t even look back. I survived because I had to, because I learned to fight, to take what I needed. The streets don’t care about you—they’ll eat you alive if you let them.”

He lit a cigarette as you looked at him, admiring his rough beauty that was full of scars telling his story without any words.

“No one ever loved me, petal. Not my parents, not the gangs I ran with. I'm not built for it, and I cannot give it to anyone.”

Your knees draw up as you hug them, your body leaning against his shoulder, both of you hearing the chirp of crickets.

“I understand,” you said, softly, “my parents loved me, but they’re gone, and I’ve been alone ever since. We’re not so different, you and I. We both know what it is like to lose everything.”

His eyes met yours, dark and searching, and for a moment you saw the boy he’d been, the one who’d begged for love and found only betrayal.

Your heart hurt in a way you didn’t know was possible, heart bleeding for the young boy he had once been.

“You’re wrong,” he grunts, voice almost angry, “you’re still soft, still good. I'm… I'm a fucking mess, baby. I’m tainted with blood, and you—you’re the only thing keeping me from falling apart.”

You reached for his hand, fingers small against his, as his hand gripped yours tightly.

“Then let me hold you together.” Your voice trembled with emotion. “I don’t care if you’re a mess, Jungkook. I don’t care if you’re a criminal, a monster. I see you, and I'm not afraid.”

He pulled you into his lap, arms wrapping around you as your legs circled his waist, his breath hot against your neck, leaving small, open-mouthed pecks that had you shivering with parted lips, your head falling back slightly.

Your breasts pressed against him, both your hearts racing together, connected.

“You should be afraid,” he murmured, lips brushing your earlobe before biting it making you moan.

“I could ruin you, petal. I could break you, and I wouldn’t even mean to.”

You pulled his face away from your neck and cupped his face, his skin warm, and you felt the tension in him. He was in a war between his need to protect you and his need to possess you.

“I’m not asking for soft Jungkook. I'm asking for you.” You croaked.

He kissed you hungrily, his fingers sliding under your shirt, tracing your soft skin before he undressed you with an urgency.

The porch creaked underneath you both as he made love to you under the starry night. The sounds of the forest mingle with your breathy moans and whimpers along with his occasional groans.

You melted into him, body against his hardness, your heart finally open to his darkness.

۶ৎ

In the days that followed, he did things for you—small acts that spoke louder than words.

He’d make your coffee just the way you liked it and making sure to serve it to you in your favorite pink mug, especially during your late-night study sessions.

He never stopped the habit of leaving you pink roses even though now he was very much into your life. He’d leave pink roses on your pillow every morning, the sweet smell reminding you of the days when he’d stalk you, how it terrified you yet excited you.

One night you fell asleep on the couch, your head in his lap, and he stayed didn’t move you away or remove himself, his fingers stroking your hair, touch awkward but meaningful in a way only for you.

He didn’t know how to cuddle, didn’t know how to be gentle, but he always tried, fingers trembling as he held you, his heart full of fear and want for you.

۶ৎ

“You’re making me soft,” he muttered one morning, standing in the kitchen, hair messy from sleep, only wearing underwear after a night of intense passion.

His body still adorned with your scratch and bite marks, something that happens when he drives you closer to madness with the pleasure and pain.

You blush and avert your gaze, focusing on stirring the sugar into your tea. The regular routine you both fell into gave you a peace you’d never known.

“Maybe you were always soft.” You teased with a small giggle, but your voice turned serious: “You probably just needed someone to see it.”

He scoffed, but there was a flicker in his eyes, something close to hope.

“Don’t get your expectations up, petal,” he said gruffly, stepping closer and pulling you to his chest with a yank, making you gasp as you held onto his bare chest. “I’m a bastard. Always will be.”

“And I’m still here,” you huffed, heart laid bare for him easily.

“So, deal with it.”

He laughed, a rare genuine sound that warmed the room, and he suddenly picked you up, throwing you over his shoulder, making you let out a scream as both your hearty laughs filled the air while he carried you back to the room.

You knew he was a criminal; he had blood on his hands, had no mercy, but you saw something beneath that.

You saw a man, the one who cared, who made you feel alive, who knew what you liked and disliked, memorized the small details of your life, and who would burn anything and anyone just to see you smile.

And you cherished it, every moment, every rose, and every awkward touch because it was him—your Jungkook.

Your home.

۶ৎ

The night was alive as you returned from a bike ride with Jungkook. Your heart a bubble of joy from the experience, the freedom that only he brought into your life.

His kisses, fierce and consuming, still clung to your lips along with the memory of his hands on your body that left you breathless, claiming you with all of him.

He’d promised to take you to classes tomorrow and to watch you sleep, his presence a twisted comfort you’d come to crave.

But then he’d said he had to leave for “work.” The word twisted something inside you.

It wasn’t unusual for him to sometimes leave to deal with something that he’d never mention to you, no matter how much you insisted, saying it’s better if you don’t know and saying you are too soft for it.

It wasn’t the promise of his return that unsettled you—it was something else, you couldn’t explain, as if the word carried a weight of something that you couldn’t fathom.

It didn’t happen before; you never felt like this before he left.

A chill settled in your bones, a bad feeling you couldn’t shake as you watched him ride away, the roar of his bike soon fading.

You stood outside your apartment for a minute as you hugged Jungkook’s hoodie tighter around you, oversized fabric swallowing your frame, smelling of his very presence.

Your fingers clutched the fabric, heart still racing from the ride, his touch, and the way he’d made you feel alive in a world that often felt too heavy.

Now that he was gone, that dread returned as you moved slowly, climbing the stairs to your apartment, bringing out your keys.

The moment you pushed open the door, the air suddenly felt heavy and wrong, like someone had invaded it. Your apartment, that was usually warm, was replaced by a stillness.

The scent hit you first—not Jungkook's familiar cigarettes or musk but something else, something like rust or blood.

Your pulse quickened in fear as you breathed shakily, gripping your hoodie closer, the fabric shielding you against the growing terror.

Your breath hitched as your eyes scanned all over the space, the couch, and your room.

Nothing was out of place—no overturned furniture or broken things—but the wrongness was very palpable, and it was making your skin crawl.

You took a small step forward, hands trembling as your fingers fumbled for the light switch, wanting to turn it on, but before you could reach it—a creak.

Your blood ran cold, body freezing, eyes fixed in the darkness, and you swore you heard a low, guttural chuckle, and it was enough to make your knees buckle in fear.

“Jungkook?” You whispered, hoping with all your might it was him, that he came back and didn’t leave you and was just playing a silly prank on you.

But the silence that followed was worse, and you knew deep in your gut that it wasn’t him.

This wasn’t his darkness, his twisted devotion.

This was something else, something that wanted to hurt you.

You backed away, your heart pounding, breaths coming in short, panicked gasps. Your mind screaming at you to run, call for help, but your feet remained still, frozen in fear and knowing that if you decided to run, it would worsen the situation.

The creak came again, closer now. Your scream lodged in your throat as a man stepped into the light.

He was enormous, towering over you. There was a big scar on his face that looked like a slash from a knife, his teeth crooked as he looked at you.

His lips curled into a smirk, revealing yellow teeth that sent a wave of nausea through you, stomach twisting as you stumbled back, hip hitting the couch.

“So Jungkook’s been preying on you, little girl,” he said voice dripping with malice and he took another step forward. “Guess his priorities changed, huh? He got himself all soft for a pretty little thing like you. But it's time to take his silly little pet away.”

His words stole the air from your lungs, body shaking beyond your will.

Your mouth opened, Jungkook’s name a desperate plea on your lips, a scream for the man who’d claimed you, who’d promised to protect you… one that you feared in the past but now you desperately needed it.

“No, please,” you whimpered, tears welling in your eyes as you shook your head. “Who are you—"

He laughed, a harsh sound that made your skin prickle with disgust. “Oh, how cute, you’re begging already,” he taunted, eyes raking over your frame.

“He’s got you all wrapped up, doesn’t he? But Jungkook’s not here, sweetheart, and I’m not as patient as he is.”

Your knees gave out, sinking onto the floor, hands scrambling to find something, anything, to defend yourself, but there was nothing—only the rug beneath your fingers, the door at an impossible distance.

Your tears fell as your chest heaved, trying to breathe against the terror paralyzing you further.

“Why?” You choked out, “What do you want? I don’t know anything, I swear. I—”

He crouched down, face level with yours, his breath making you want to throw up.

“I want Jungkook to hurt,” he said, voice venomous.

“He’d been like a thorn in my side too long, thinking he’s untouchable, hiding behind his little obsession with you. But you—you’re his weakness, aren’t you? Break you, and I break him.”

He laughed loudly, and your heart shattered, the realization falling over you. You were a weapon held against Jungkook, and the thought of him—dark eyes, his broken heart—being hurt because of you was unbearable.

“No,” you sobbed.

He lunged faster than you could react, his hand clamping over your mouth as you screamed beneath his hand.

“Shut up,” he snarled, his other hand gripping your arm, yanking you to your feet. Your body thrashed, screams muffled, but he was too strong, his strength bruising you.

He laughed, his fingers tightening.

“Fiery little thing,” he mocked, “Jungkook trained you well, didn’t he?”

You bit his hand hard, teeth sinking into his flesh, and he roared, releasing you, and you stumbled back vision blurring with tears, your mind set on getting to Jungkook, wanting him to come protect you like he has always done.

You turned to run, feet slipping as your hands finally reached the door, for freedom, for him.

But the man was faster, his arms wrapping around your waist, a sob of fear and pain escaping you as he backhanded you hard enough that it split your lips, blood dripped as the metallic taste filled your mouth.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he growls, your mouth opened for another scream, voice raw, body shaking as you fight with all you can, nails clawing at his arm, drawing blood.

But the man only laughed at your weak attempt, his hand reared back carrying something heavy, and before you know it, a sharp, blinding pain exploded in your head, consuming you.

Your vision blurred, the world fading as you fell on the floor.

Your last thought was of Jungkook—his promise, his obsession—and the hope that he’d find you before it was too late.

Everything went black, Jungkook’s name a whisper on your lips.

────

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[alchemistc]

Found this in my drafts and decided to finish it up, written before the Abby reveal so we're just pretending that never happened, have some outsider pov of the alt timeline where Tommy and Buck met before Buck was at the 118.

Tommy is being weird. That's the only way Hen can describe it. He's been quiet on calls, none of the usual banter and posturing she's used to; he's been quiet in the station, prone to staring at the space between his lap and the dinner table even as Chim spouts off some ironic quote that would have had him cheesing it up a few weeks previous; he's been quiet as he packs his shit and heads out for his truck. Each afternoon since he'd quietly announced his transfer to the 217, he's been quiet, and it's weird.

Hen's not entirely surprised. Tommy's nothing if not protective of his own feelings - years and years of Gerrard all hanging over their heads even though he'd admitted a few drinks deep one night that he was pretty positive his professionally scathing complaint about Gerrard was very likely what tipped the scales ("Could have been Sal's, though," he'd said with a shrug as his eyes drifted to the head on his beer.). From what she's gleaned off Chim, there's a good chance he'd been an ass in part to protect himself from feeling too bad about losing someone, too (again) - not that that's any type of excuse for the shit he'd had a hand in putting her through. An excuse for the things he's said, in the heat of the moment, in the quiet caverns of life under a shitty captain.

(Stumbled apologies, serious expressions on a face softened only by the shots he'd been buying all night, words said and unsaid between them and the gaping maw between a Chim happy to accept and move on while Hen downed her tequila and waited for the other shoe to drop.)

It's been years since then. Years and years winding between them all, a dozen captains and more than a few transfers of good firefighters away from the 118, and something good and warm and special brewing in their house with the arrival of the captain who'd made family dinners a daily occurrence.

She'd sort of expected Tommy might finally open up, when those family dinners kept going and Nash kept staying and things started to settle into something closer to friendly instead of the soldiers of war camaraderie they'd grown so used to. And maybe he has, to someone who isn't Hen - who'd taken his little efforts to change at face value and refused to put in more work than that for a colleague who'd made mostly bare minimum efforts post-Gerrard, always accepting the new status quo, refusing to make waves. She respects Tommy. Trusts him on the job, and sometimes off of it when they've had a shitty shift and need to decompress before they go home to the people in their lives who can never really understand losing someone to the heat of a fire, to blood loss and blunt force trauma. Doesn't care for him the way Chim seems to, doesn't really desire a closer relationship than the one they've maintained through the turnover of captains and the 48's they pull on occasion.

But Tommy's being weird, and Hen's pretty sure she's the only one who sees it.

She waits until she's sure Chim has a date to hit up Tommy for an after shift drink, and his eyes crinkle around the corners in suspicion because he knows just as well as she that she's putting them in an awkward position without the buffer zone of an extra coworker to fill in the blank spots of the things they don't say to each other. He'll be gone in a week. There's not a single fucking reason for her to try to get to know him better now.

"Sure thing, Wilson," he says, and when he offers to drive them both Hen makes up some excuse about needing her car in case of some Denny related emergency.

---

She expects it to take a while. Ply him with a few drinks, figure out what it is about Howie that always puts Tommy at ease so quickly when they're out like this and try to replicate it - he keeps things close to the vest but Hen has ways of weaseling things out of people once she's got them where she wants them.

Tommy sighs and picks at the label on his bottle. Thins his lips, and stares at her sideways. "I'm seeing someone," he says, in an undertone, and Hen hasn't even taken her first sip from the bottle he'd ordered for her, too, while she scrounged up one of the smaller booths. His eyes dart, like he's checking to make sure no one else is listening, that no one here recognizes him, and Hen - Hen knows that look. She just can't square that look with Mr. Toxic Heterosexuality himself.

Hen takes a sip. Forces herself not to vibrate out of her own skin because - because - because she's gotta wait this shit out. Could be he's found himself attracted to some weird goth chick, or a woman with meat on her bones, in which case he's in for a big ole smack to the head or one of the looks she reserves for when the boys get a little too caught up in their locker room talk.

He darts his gaze up. Meets hers, steady on, for the first time in...weeks, actually, now that she's thinking about it, and the guilt there in his eyes sure is something to behold.

"He's younger," Tommy says, and Hen rolls her tongue over her teeth so she doesn't do something stupid like hone in on that pronoun with either glee or full-on righteous anger.

Hen narrows her eyes instead, and is surprised that he keeps her gaze. She's expecting - unnecessary contrition, or maybe a ducked head or excuses. He chews on the inside of his lip and chuffs out a self deprecating laugh.

"I don't have a fucking clue what I'm doing and he still lives in a frat house."

Hen's mind goes somewhere inappropriate, and she has to stop herself from making a truly horrible hand gesture because he can't possibly mean -

He rolls his eyes. "I know where to stick it, Wilson, that's not the issue."

She has about half a million questions queueing - things she's not sure they're close enough to ask, things she doesn't actually want the answer to but stick there in the back of her mind anyway, things she'd never ask someone who'd been kind to her from the outset. "How'd you do it?" he asks, and Hen remembers the way he'd stood, arms crossed and face blank and something sad and vulnerable in his face while she lectured from her red and chrome pulpit. Jesus. He's known. He's known a while.

"I've never exactly been passing," she tells him, and winces at the aggression in her voice, in that statement, in the very existence of the idea. He shoots her a bitchy look that's far more familiar, in line with their normal dynamic. It has her rolling her shoulders back, has her sitting up a little more in her seat. "Is that - are you asking me how to come out?"

Tommy shrugs. Tips his head. "You're the one who wanted to get drinks."

"And if I hadn't asked?"

She knows the answer. The dumbass would have transferred out of the 118 with no one the wiser. Probably fallen off all the group chats, squared with himself for however long it took, decided one way or another who to tell from there. But he's here now, talking to Hen. Telling Hen, the person he's probably the least close to.

Hen sighs. Takes a longer drag off her beer this time while Tommy folds up a piece of the label he's ripped off. She's not gonna be his fucking gay guru. They're not anywhere approaching that close.

He could have lied, though, is the thing. Seems like he's maybe been lying for a while, if the uncharacteristic fidgeting is anything to go by. She knows him under stress, knows him when he's walking through literal fire. Figurative fire is an entirely different matter. She doesn't know that Tommy.

The words that fall out of her mouth aren't the ones she's aiming for. "You and Sal." she says, and then bites down the rest of that sentence like it'll burn them both. His eyes dart up. He shifts in his seat.

"The only reason I'm saying a word is because the answer is no," he says, and - yeah that's fair. Everyone has the right to come out of the closet in their own fucking time.

"So this kid," Hen says, moving on, and - oh. There's that look. It's a little dreamy-eyed, the way he's been getting sometimes when he's looking down at his phone and trying his hardest to keep a straight face. "What's the deal there?"

"He's new," Tommy says, and Hen can feel her brow tic up of it's own accord, because he says it with the authority of someone who isn't new. Hen has to wonder exactly how many times the perpetually single Tommy joke had been made while Tommy was less than single. God, that had to have stung, hadn't it? "He's - apparently he didn't realize he was flirting until I kissed him about it."

That's remarkably brave for a man who isn't out to a single person he and Hen are mutually acquainted with. At least as far as she knows - Chim can't keep a secret to save his damn life so at least she knows he doesn't know.

"You know you didn't have to tell me any of this."

His expression is wry. He bites his lip, curls his tongue over his teeth, shakes his head like he's clearing cobwebs. "The transfer isn't the only thing I had on the docket for major life changes."

Karen's gonna be pissed if Hen doesn't get the dirt, she tells herself as she leans forward, so she throws a teasing edge to her voice as she quirks a brow. "This life change have anything to do with your baby gay or is that just a natural progression of the coming out process?"

Tommy's posture eases, just a little. He gives her a look that she's more familiar with seeing when Chim's in the booth next to him, or they're elbow deep in shit-talk at the station.

"Happy accident, actually," he says, and Hen leans in to listen to him dish when his eyes go all soft and gooey.

___

She's known Evan Buckley a total of six hours the first time he mentions his boyfriend. There's a nervous edge to it, like he's still testing the word out, like the syllables are unfamiliar, and he glances down at the phone in his lap right after he says it, like he's double checking something. Hen wouldn't have pegged him for it, for all that she tends not to make assumptions. It's just. He's so.

Hen shoves back against the stereotypical bullshit and throws him a bone, because he looks like he's fucking desperate to share information on the fact that someone cares enough about him to let him call them his boyfriend. She lobs a layup, something relatable about 'my wife, Karen'.

"Yeah, Tommy said you were married."

Hen pauses. Wonders if she can turn her head like an owl so that she doesn't have to shift her weight to look behind her at where Buck is happily washing dishes, elbow-deep in sudsy water. There's no one else up here with them - most of the shift is working off dinner downstairs.

"We never have meals like this at home, I'm lucky if the guys I live with don't steal my last packet of ramen before I can get to it," he'd said, and she remembers Tommy grinning at the memory of this Evan he'd been seeing being inordinately impressed by the fact that Tommy could grill a steak. ("Jesus, Kinard, are you sure you're not robbing the fucking cradle?")

Hen shifts. Eyes him a little more carefully as he turns his head to meet her gaze, and - holy shit, she's actually feeling a little protective of Tommy Kinard right now. "He know you're out here sharing his business?" It's not the tone she's going for - admonishing instead of exploratory, but Buck just grins at her over his shoulder, like he's pleased Tommy has someone watching out for him. Shit. She'd been a little concerned that Tommy was in over his head, stuck up on the idea of being out out and clinging to the first boy that batted his lashes, but it feels like maybe there's more to it than that. She can't square that with what has to be at least a decade of years between them, but -

Love is love, and all that.

"We, uh. We've been talking about it."

Hen raises an eyebrow, because that's not actually a green light to air Tommy's business.

"He - well last night we talked about it again. So. I mean it's not like Facebook official or anything. But he said it was cool to talk to you. A-all of you. He's - everyone at Harbor knows me."

It hurts a bit to know that Tommy's been there less than six months and felt more comfortable being himself with a bunch of strangers, but...

It's good. That he has that. That he's not walking the world just shoving bits and pieces of himself away.

Hen watches him rinse his arms and square his shoulders and shift to face her. "How'd you two meet, anyway?" she asks, because Tommy had been so stuck on the trying to figure out how to have an honest relationship piece that she'd never gotten around to asking.

Buck's expression could be easily mistaken for a solar flare, for the way it lights up the whole loft.

[amateurenjoyer]

I know the infertility stuff with Gemma has rubbed some folks the wrong way, and that's fair. These types of stories are not always handled with care and can feel as hollow as using a dead wife in order to give a man depth as a character. That said, I fear that criticism of the infertility story in Severance, or indeed criticism of the breadth of themes of fertility and parenthood in the series, has suffered as a result of gendering these ideas as being primarily explored through the women in the show. There was plenty of eye rolling when we met Gemma for real and her great trauma turned out to be the loss of her unborn child—"oh great, another woman defined by her inability to produce children!"—but this didn't come out of left field in a show that has put expectant parents, midwives, fraudulent lactation specialists, couples struggling to make ends meet for their kids, dads garage jamming with their daughters, and child laborers all on screen, not to mention the cult of Kier the Grandfather/Founder that props up the central mysteries of the show.

Parenthood, birth, and the power dynamics of progenitors and progeny all exist at the heart of Severance (right alongside love, agency, personhood, and capitalist critique), but I don't know that enough people look through this lens when thinking about the men in this show. Even when their stories explicitly touch on these themes, severed men like Petey and Irving and Mark—who, by the way, has every right to claim the same grief over the loss of their child as Gemma, though his experience is radically different as the parent who didn't carry the child—get kind of left out of the conversation.

They should not get left out of the conversation and the mpreg Kier statue in the birthing cabin was there to remind you of that.

Check under the cut for Mark Scout world's worst dad thoughts with lots more spoilers for the finale.

I don't know how many folks on Tumblr have Boomer parents, and I don't know how many of these ideas have filtered through to each generation of parents following, but I know that my Boomer mother and many (many) of my friend's parents had a whole litany of witticisms that they'd use to disempower and belittle the personhood of their kids, and they used these phrases with extreme regularity. "Because I said so," "My house, my rules," "If I were you (and thank God I'm not)," "I brought you into this world, and I can take you out of it," etc. Depending on tone and context, these could vary from pretty benign to legitimately threatening, but they all betrayed the same basic attitude: right now, you are not a person, and I make your decisions for you, until I say otherwise.

Boomers may have excelled at expressing this sentiment through phrasing that is worthy of shitty gas station hats and little else, but it feels as though it has been a dominant mode of parenting thought for a long time. The idea that it is the position of being a parent that confers power to someone, no matter how unearned that power truly is, is also extremely present in the outie-innie dynamic.

Mark S was straight up born from his outie's inability to actually grieve the death of his wife, his unwillingness to move forward through despair, and his complacency with his self-destructive coping mechanisms. Having lost his ability to work due to his alcoholism, Mark Scout created a whole new person who could do the work for him. He "hoped that [Mark S] would be spared the pain," but for much of the show thus far, he hasn't taken a single step to move away from that pain, be it in an effort to spare himself or his innie. This a couple in a dysfunctional marriage having a child to try and save it, only to absolutely fuck that kid up by refusing to acknowledge the reality of the situation or do anything to change it for the better. Only in this scenario the marriage is between Mark and the ghost of his wife.

Like the kid brought into such a marriage, Mark S doesn't need to know the details of his outie's life to carry his burdens. Their shared body is the exposure that ensures every hangover, every sleepless night, every pre-work weeping session, every fight with a rebound (sorry Alexa you deserve more than this title) or a family member worms its way into the innie's life. A life that is already deeply infantilized by Lumon's workplace culture more broadly, and doubly so because MDR is being babysat by step-dad Milchick while the literal Mother of the Severance Procedure goes rogue.

When he does learn the reason for his outie's severance, Mark S is compassionate, curious, and instantly willing to search for Miss Casey—not out of some deeply rooted love of Gemma that has somehow transcended the severance barrier, but out of recognition of his progenitor's personhood and pain and his desire to help a fellow innie with an unexpected connection to his own outie. How often do children make an effort to help and humanize their parents, even when they've been given very little reason to? Be it out of a sense of obligation or a misunderstanding that a parent naturally looks out for their child's best interests and so a child should do the same, many of us will go out of our way to try and understand our parents as people, at least once. Mark S does that readily, even when Helena-as-Helly pushes against the idea.

When we finally get a conversation between Mark Scout and Mark S, it begins on a disarmingly hopeful note. Mark Scout apologizes, willing to admit the world he brought Mark S into is not a sane or safe one. Things go off the rails quick when Mark Scout fails to recognize his innie has a separate person with his own motivations, and from there the conversation is steeped in patriarchal condescension and a fundamental sense of ownership. Mark Scout dismisses his innie's relationship with Helly R as an inferior, juvenile "experience," that naturally pales in comparison to the more.real, more adult life he had with Gemma, simply because the outies came first. He cannot fathom any resistance to the idea of saving Gemma, because he does not think Mark S is deserving of his own identity, desires, or agency. What claim can an innie have to such things when he doesn't even have his own body? "My house, my rules."

Mark Scout then drops the bomb that he's already started the process of reintegrating. Though he himself is not fully aware of how reintegration will actually impact their separate consciousnesses (or has seemingly forgotten what little he learned about it from Petey), Mark Scout positions it as a solution that benefits them both. Mark S challenges that assumption, and the outie is aghast that the innie fails to extend any trust his way. The trust was assumed to be there, because Mark Scout assumes authority over Mark S. "Because I said so." In the absence of more information about what reintegration really means, it sounds like Mark S will sit as a passenger in Mark Scout's life. Reintegration for the innie is not a solution, but a threat. "I brought you into this world, and I can take you out of it."

This whole conversation happens inside a cabin at a birthing retreat, where a statue of a pregnant man (presumably an Eagan and presumably Kier himself) watches with it's mate, wearing a sort of cartoon grimace. The camera lingers on this icon as a moment of scene setting, signalling that the audience should be seeing this as a conversation between parent and child, the elder lording their power over the younger, and the progeny rebelling against the progenitor by asserting their own humanity.

[estrellami-1]

March Mating Madness

Day 10: Rejection Sickness

Maybe (I’m Yours)

Ao3 Link

“It’s as unambiguous a sign of true love as these cynical eyes have ever seen!” Eddie exclaims, and something in Steve flinches hard at that, enough he nearly stumbles. Plays it off as a tree root, or the bites, or anything except what it was, and he’s not entirely sure why it hit him the way it did.

Except maybe he does know.

Maybe he can’t think about the way Eddie had leaned in, murmured big boy to him, eyes glinting.

Maybe he can’t think about the way Eddie had given him his vest, and Steve’s omega is shouting courting gift even though he knows it’s not, it can’t be.

Maybe he can’t think about the way Eddie anticipated his movement, handed him a flashlight, negating the echo of Dustin’s voice, do you have to be told everything?

Maybe. Maybe it’s all of that, maybe it’s none of it.

Maybe it’s the way they defeat Vecna, almost too late. Max has a broken leg but the doctors swear she’ll walk again. Almost too late in the way he runs, slides like it’s home fucking base, fucking up his side even more but that doesn’t matter, can’t matter when his pup is screaming, crying, his name then the Alpha’s name, begging Steve to save him.

Almost too late in the way he strips Robin’s jacket, the remainder of Eddie’s shirt, staunching the flow and making sure he doesn’t have to mentally sing fucking Stayin’ Alive type of almost.

But it’s almost, not is, so Eddie makes it to the hospital, unconscious but alive, and Steve all but collapses as soon as he’s out of his arms, as soon as he doesn’t have to hold it together anymore.

The room goes echoey, too-bright-too-dark, and he wakes up in a hospital bed.

Blood loss, the doctor said, and shock. Miracle he didn’t go septic, apparently, and yeah, Steve can see that, the Upside Down isn’t the most sterile place, but what about Eddie-

And, huh. There’s that flinch again. Smaller, almost expected, but not what should be happening, he thinks, and then he thinks coincidence. He probably breathed wrong, aggravated the bites. Maybe moved, or tensed, in a way that physically hurt.

Maybe it’s nothing.

And he thinks that maybe that’s right, because it doesn’t happen again for a while.

Eddie heals, and they go back to almost how they were except that was trauma, plain and simple, and they’re all changed from that, they’re all some type of bonded from that, even if it’s from fangs that aren’t Alphan or omegan, that are distinctly different in nature. It’s a bond, of sorts, so Steve sees Eddie more than he ever had before, and… he likes it.

Eddie’s lame, okay, he’s a nerd, but so are Steve’s other friends and at least he’s closer to Steve’s age, isn’t fucking fourteen, pre-presentation. So Steve likes him, likes hanging out with him, has fun.

He just… has less fun when they’re all in a big group. Especially when Nancy and Eddie are both there. Because Nancy and Jon are still dancing around each other, she doesn’t have eyes for Steve anymore, if she ever did, and Eddie nudges Steve her direction like it even fucking matters, and-

There’s that flinch again.

He feels strangely emotional about it, like he’s going to snap at Eddie, like he’s simultaneously too hot and too cold. He must be coming down with something, he thinks, and makes his excuse, and goes home, collapses into bed, barely toes his shoes off.

He falls asleep quick, but doesn’t stay asleep for long; he’s up in the next hour, shivering and disoriented, body aching in a way that it hasn’t since sixth grade when he was sent home with a fever, diagnosed with the flu by the school nurse.

He calls Family Video, forgets it’s Robin who’s working. “Robbie,” he mutters, because of course his head is pounding too. “Can you- uh. I need off the schedule for… two days? Three?”

“Sure,” she says, light scratching coming through letting Steve know that she’s writing it down. “You feeling okay?”

He hums. “Think… think I have th’flu?”

She pauses. “In May?”

“Mhm.”

“I mean, I don’t think anyone has the flu right now… and you only hang out with, like, three people anyways, and none of us have the flu, so… are you sure?”

He sighs. “I’m freezing,” he tells her. “I’m achy, I have a headache, what else could it be?”

“No, I guess you’re right, just…” she sighs. “No, never mind, it’s fine, you’re off the schedule for the next week, get some rest, I’ll be by tonight with some soup, okay? Just get some rest.”

“M’kay,” he breathes. “Thanks, Robbie.”

“Take care of yourself, Dingus. I’ll see you tonight.” Then, all in a rush, “shit gotta customer gotta go!” And hangs up.

He blinks, hangs up, burrows under his covers, and goes back to sleep.

He wakes later to someone gently shaking his shoulder. “‘Lpha?” He asks into the pillow, before squinting open his eyes and seeing Robin. “Robbie,” he croaks. “Why… why’re you-”

“Hey, Steve,” she whispers, carding a hand through his hair. He whines, ducks his head into her hand. She obliges, scratches a little with her nails. “Said I’d come check on you, remember? I brought soup.”

Just the mention of food has his stomach turning traitorously, and he makes a face, burrowing back into the covers.

She sighs, but thankfully keeps scratching his head. “I know you don’t feel well, Steve, but you should really eat something. It could help you feel better.”

He moves his face out of the blanket to stare at her. “Food is from hell,” he informs her.

It startles a snort out of her. “Well damn, Steve, guess I’ll put it in the fridge then. Promise me you’ll eat something soon?”

He makes another face. “Think I’ll throw up if I eat.”

“Maybe after you sleep more, then.” She moves her hand to his forehead, brows creasing in worry. “You feel really warm, Steve-o. Got a thermometer anywhere?”

He blinks at her for a few seconds. “Under the sink.” She nods and pulls away. He whines, loud, desperate, scared. “Don’t go!”

She immediately moves closer, puts her hand on his cheek. “I’m just going to get the thermometer.”

He shakes his head, sniffles, moves a molasses-slow hand to grab her wrist. His grip is weak, but the message is clear. “Don’ wanna be alone.”

She worries her lip. Glances around the room, comes to a decision, nods. Stands to slip her shoes off, then looks him in the eye. “Steve. Do I have your permission to enter your nest?”

He nods, so she does, sitting against the headboard and pulling him closer, tugging and rearranging until his face is pressed up against her hip, and his arm is over her legs. She drops a hand back in his hair. “Go to sleep,” she tells him. “I’m gonna call my mom, okay? Tell her I’m staying the night.”

He hums in agreement, snuggles in. Catches some of the words, hears rejection sickness, vaguely thinks she’s talking about someone else. He just has the flu.

He falls back asleep, feeling a little better now that Robin’s here with him.

He wakes up later, aching and shivering, more nauseous than before. Whines to himself before he opens his eyes, startles when his pillow moves. Right, he thinks, Robin’s staying the night, and he probably just woke her up. Great going.

“Steve,” Robin whispers. “Are you awake?”

He mumbles something nonsensical, tugs her a little closer, though he feels so weak the tug doesn’t do anything.

“Steve,” she whispers again. “You should take some medicine. And eat something.”

He nearly cries at the thought of food, vehemently shaking his head into her hip.

She sighs. “I know you’re not feeling well, but you need to eat. You might be nauseous because you’re hungry. Try something? Please? Just a small bowl of soup.”

He sighs, but releases her. “Small bowl,” he says, voice rough.

“The smallest,” she agrees, and slips out of bed.

Like before, he immediately whines when Robin moves away. She stops, shrugs out of her flannel, and drops it in front of him. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she promises him.

He nods into her flannel, shutting his eyes before he can watch her walk away. Even still, the flannel cools quickly, and the room cools quickly, and soon he’s shivering worse than before. He whines, coughs, and whines again, subconsciously calling for an Alpha who’s not coming.

Robin comes back a minute later, carrying soup, water, and some pills. If Steve were feeling any better, he’d wonder how she carried all of that without dropping any of it, but as it is he just blinks tiredly up at her, trying for a smile when she sends one his way.

He tries to sit up, but collapses back onto his side with a whimper. “It’s okay,” Robin murmurs. “I’ve gotcha.” She’s so gentle it brings tears to his eyes, and he sniffles as she helps him sit up. “Oh, you don’t need to do that,” she tells him when she notices the tears. “Mostly ‘cause if you cry, then I’m gonna cry, and then where will we be?” She grins at him, and he sniffles again, trying his best not to cry.

He manages a few bites of soup, then sips the water and takes the pills she’d gotten him. When she offers the soup again, he shakes his head and turns away.

She sighs, puts the soup on the nightstand, and pulls him in, this time laying down so he can nuzzle directly into her scent gland. “Steve,” she starts, then changes course. “Omega. Who rejected you?”

“He didn’t,” Steve mutters. “‘M being stupid.” He frowns up at her. “‘M sick?”

“‘Fraid so, babe. Who’s the he in question here?”

Steve shakes his head, burrows back into her neck. “Don’ wanna talk ‘bout it.”

“Want to or not, we need to,” she tells him, then sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “It’s Eddie, isn’t it?”

Just his name has Steve whining. “Don’t call,” he begs her.

She sighs. “I won’t yet,” she promises. “But if you feel the same tomorrow, or if you feel worse tomorrow, I’m going to. Anyone can see how he looks at you.”

“He tried to get me back with Nancy.”

“He stuck his foot in his mouth, big time, but that doesn’t change how he looks at you, dingus.”

“How?”

Another sigh. She cards her hand through his hair again, scratches at the nape of his neck with her nails. “Like he’s halfway in love with you and only just met you.”

“Really?”

“Really,” she promises, pulling him a little closer. “Now get some rest. Something tells me we’re gonna call him tomorrow regardless of how you’re feeling.”

It turns out to be a moot point. As much as Robin telling Steve may have helped, it still wasn’t Eddie himself saying it, and Steve wakes up feeling worse. He bolts to the bathroom the second Robin brings eggs up. He trips over his blanket, trips over the threshold, and stumbles down in front of the toilet. It’s blind luck that the lid is lifted and he doesn’t spew all over the closed lid, leaving more to clean up.

As it is, Robin hurries to bring the eggs back downstairs, then runs back up to help Steve back to bed. Once in bed, he’s moaning, clutching his stomach, in so much pain he shouldn’t be in. He’s still so cold and achy too, can barely open his eyes.

It’s no wonder, he vaguely thinks, some people are hospitalized because of rejection sickness.

He can hear Robin talking, but can’t process any of the words; can’t take the energy to figure out words that aren’t even directed at him. He blearily figures out she’s on the phone. Part of him hopes she’s calling the hospital.

Another, bigger part of him hopes she’s calling Eddie.

A small part of him doesn’t want to see the person who inadvertently caused this much pain in his body.

It was Eddie, though, and a few short minutes later he’s running up the stairs, two at a time. Robin meets him at the door to Steve’s room, probably threatening him, maybe explaining a little, definitely panicking some. Steve wants to apologize for making her worry, but considering he can barely lift his head, he thinks he gets a free pass.

Soon enough Robin moves aside, and Eddie takes two quick steps to the side of Steve’s bed, kneeling at the side of it. “Hey, Stevie. I’m so sorry I put you through this, but I want to make it right. Do I have your permission to enter your nest?”

Steve blinks bleary eyes open. He can’t focus on Eddie, but he knows it’s him; recognizes his voice and strong pine scent. His eyes flutter shut as he takes a deep breath. “‘Dee,” he mutters, twitching a hand out towards him. “C’m’in.”

Eddie clambers in, slots himself right next to Steve, pulls him closer to scent directly from his gland. Gets to work scenting Steve too, doing his best to pump out safety and love, and it feels so good, such a relief after the pain, that Steve begins to cry.

Eddie’s movements stutter to a stop. “Stevie? What’s wrong?”

Steve sniffles, pushes his face into Eddie’s neck. “You didn’t want me,” he murmurs. “Pushed me towards Nancy.”

“I was an idiot,” Eddie tells him. “And it’s probably not the last time I’m gonna be an idiot. I have the tendency to lose my head around ex-jock pretty boys with fantastic hair.”

“You think I’m pretty?”

“The prettiest,” Eddie swears. “You kiddin’ me? C’mon, you know it, you just want me to say it, don’t you?”

Secure in Eddie’s arms, Steve giggles, then finally, truly relaxes for the first time in the past two days. “Thank you for coming.”

“It shouldn’t have come down to this,” Eddie tells him. “My fault for not making sure you know exactly how desirable you are.” He runs his hand down Steve’s spine. “Can I court you?”

Steve’s breath catches in his throat. He pulls back to look at Eddie, eyes shining. “You really want to?”

Eddie runs a hand over his hair, slides it forward to cup his cheek. “More than anything,” he whispers. “I just… I never thought you’d want me.”

Steve leans into his touch. “How could I not?” He asks. “You’re fun, and funny, and energetic, and so good with the pups, and…” he takes a deep breath. “You’re the prettiest Alpha I’ve ever seen.”

Eddie instantly blushes. “I am?”

Steve nods. “I noticed you my first day of freshman year,” he admits. “I was just too nervous to talk to you.”

Eddie chuckles. “What a pair we make, huh?” He pulls Steve closer, presses a soft kiss to his forehead, and guides him to lay back down. “Rest for now,” he murmurs, “you still look tired. We can talk when you wake up.”

“You won’t leave?”

“Never again,” Eddie swears, and Steve believes him.

[kookochan]

Messy Thoughts

Loving someone is scary sometimes. You think about every possibility that could happen, and the worst part is that it's making you feel like you're falling apart.

Summary: your fiancé decided to become a pro at boxing, but will your fears give you peace? +18

boxer Jungkook x fem! student reader

warnings/content: a little angst, smut (oral sex m receiving) , mention of blood and bruises, overthinking, jealousy, childhood trauma (violence, loss of a parent) and ghosting (?)

wc: 5,2K

── .✦

Days ago you were swearing to God that you wouldn't be here. You said you won't come to watch him and that you won't help him if he gets hurt. But here you are, sitting in a corner of the room and watching him. You think back at the time when you thought your life could change. Today you're sure that it was a lie. Not even a dream.

You can remember your 10th birthday, where you were sitting in your room and counting the seconds. Praying that your mother would survive the night while your father was beating her up. That wasn't the perfect birthday you imagined. But when your friends asked about it, you would say that it was perfect. That you got a lot of new dolls and plushies. A big cake that your parents baked for you.

Years went by with a hope that one day everything would change. The day your mother died, you couldn't even cry about the loss. In a twisted way, you were happy that she wasn't suffering anymore. It was a big loss for your father, who needed a new person to let out his stress. And there was you. In his eyes, a perfect copy of your mother.

You were different than your mother. She wouldn't talk back to him or fight him back. But you would yell at him every time he was yelling. You would weakly try to push him back when he tried to hit you. He wouldn't like that.

In your 17 years of living, you couldn't see the world in colors. There was no reason to hold on, and every other day you stopped dreaming of a new life. Till the day you met Jungkook. You were classmates, and the relationship started with being friends. And yes, you quickly caught feelings for him, which he returned with all of his heart.

You would climb up his window at night. Just for him to hold you and clean your wounds. He promised you that he will do everything to change your life. You would cry in his arms without realizing that he is crying too. He was the reason that you found your smile back.

When you turned 18, he proposed to move out with him. There wasn't a lot to think about. His family has a wealthy background, so they supported him with money. It wasn't jealousy, but you adored his family situation. They were truly lucky and loved. Moving out was a big step to your new life. You have lost contact with your father. He wasn't pleased about the idea of losing you, but you never listened to him.

And now you're 24 years old and he is 25. In the meantime, you got engaged, and you can't imagine a day without him. Your love grew stronger, and he became your favorite person in the world. But today you hate him for his decision. He is standing in the middle of the boxing ring. You can only see his eyes.

You take the room in. His opponent doesn't look like he is in the same weight class as him. Also, he is famous as the boxing beast. You're scared that this will be Jungkook's last match.

"You don't want to accept this offer, do you?" you ask him in shock. "Baby, I would get a lot of money, and also my status would change," he says and quickly grabs your hands to avoid you from walking away. You chuckle at him. "You can get hurt really bad, Jungkook. Don't you remember the match months ago? You needed to stay hospitalized because of your stupid decision." You can see that he is not liking the reminder.

"I know that you think about me, and I really appreciate it. But taking a risk is a part of my job," he says and places a kiss on your jaw. "I don't like where this conversation is going. You're not asking me, right? You made your mind, and you're just telling me," you say as you pull away from his hold. He quickly whines at the loss of contact. "I don't want to lie. I already accepted it and just need to sign. I promise you that I will be fine," he says with honesty. You make a pause before talking. "Okay, do what you want, and I swear to God, I will not come watching you," you say your final word and walk to the bathroom.

Sometimes you forget that he is a lot more stubborn than you. He signed that contract, and now you wait for the final round. The match was exciting for the audience. They were cheering along or screaming if they got angry.

The last match begins, and you shut your eyes. You don't want to see him get hurt. You have already seen the blood on his face, and it's enough. After some minutes, the round is over, and you're genuinely surprised that he won.

Jungkook's eyes are searching for you. He is happy that he won but also broken that he is standing here without your support. His eyes find you, and he smiles. "We need to go back," Namjoon says and pulls him away. "She came," he tells him happily. Namjoon turns to him. "She texted me yesterday and asked about today. Did you really think she wouldn't be here?" Jungkook grins at the information because, no, he really thought you wouldn't come. After all, you slept with your back facing him. He was so sad about it.

"Look at your ugly face," Jin says and starts cleaning the mess. "Woah, stop being so harsh," Jungkook says and starts pouting. Jin ignores him and goes on. You watch them from the door with a straight face. Of course you're happy that he was right at the end of the day, but that doesn't mean that you're happy with his decision. Your eyes wander from his head to his toes. He looks hot like this, but no, you can't melt.

Jungkook opens his eyes and meets yours. "Baby?!" he says with a smile. You feel your knees getting weak. "Hello, guys," you say to the others. Jin and Namjoon greet you back with a soft smile. You can see Jungkook frown, and you raise a brow at him. Poor man looks like he lost his whole career.

"Yn! Nice to see you, princess," Tae says and hugs you from the side. You smile at him and hug him back. "Nice to see you too. How are you?" you ask him. So you start a conversation with him. Jin looks at Jungkook's sad expression and says, "Come on, man, loosen up a bit. You can talk to her later." Jungkook nods to him and thinks of ways to get your attention.

•

You walk out of your bathroom with ointment and a towel. Jungkook took a shower before you and already sits on the large couch watching a show. You walk towards him, and his head turns towards you. He watches as you stand in front of him with wet hair. He doesn't waste time and holds your waist while looking into your eyes. You can't describe how cute he looks like this.

You sit down on his lap and start to treat his bruises on his face. He watches your hands doing their magic. "Are you still mad at me?" he asks softly. You sigh and pat his face with the damp towel. When you're sure that your job is done, you place everything on your side. "I am," you say with a pout. He brushes your hair with his fingers. "I'm sorry, baby. I don't want to make you worried," he says. You nod at him, "I know, and I also know that we talked about it a lot. I'm just scared."

He starts kissing your neck and shoulder. "I promise you that I will be fine and that I won't get hurt," he says. His fingers already started moving on your back. "That is an empty promise, Jungkook. You know that you can't control it," you say, tilting your head. He smiles at you, "I know, but I will do everything to hold my promise." You hug him tightly and think about all of this.

Jungkook knows that you're thinking a lot about his job. To be exact, since the day he told you that he wants to do it professionally. Boxing was his hobby, but he always dreamt of a big career. He started 2 years ago and is already ranked high. But he wants more; he is competitive. Sometimes you wish that he would return to his studies, but you know that's just selfish.

"How was your day?" he asks genuinely. "I skipped class. And I need to study for my exam next week. It's about Hamlet by Shakespeare," you answer. He pats your head. "You're always doing great, baby. Don't stress yourself too much," he says. You place a soft kiss on his neck. The little gesture causes goosebumps on his body.

"I missed you the whole night," he says with a pout on his face. You move back a little to look at him. "What? I was sleeping next to you." "You turned your back on me! I was so sad," he says with big eyes. You tilt your head and say, "You're so dramatic. But I know how to get your heart back." He watches as you move your hand over his chest, stopping at the waistband of his sweatpants.

You stand up from his lap to drop on your knees in front of him. His eyes darken immediately, and he starts playing with your hair. You waste no time in pulling his sweatpants down with his boxers. Before you can touch him, he stops you by holding your hand. He bends down to pull the carpet under your knees. "Get on it; you will hurt your knees." And this little gesture shows you once more why you love him.

When you're comfortable in the position, you start to touch his already hardened dick. He leans back at the sensation and watches your moves with half-lidded eyes. You start with little kitten licks before taking him into your mouth. He moans your name, and his hand quickly finds your hair. You've been dating him for longer than seven years, but you're still not used to his size. You bob your head the way you know he loves.

"You look so pretty, baby," he says while watching your already glassy eyes. He can't control himself and tightens his grip on your hair. "Relax your throat a little," he says and starts moving his hips at your pace. You place your hands on his thighs and tap him as a signal that he can take control. He catches the instruction quickly and takes control. "Such a good girl for me," he hisses. His pace quickens, and you moan at that. "Fuck," he says as he feels the vibration. It doesn't take him long to feel the heat rushing.

"I will come, baby," he says and tries to pull away. But you squeeze his free hand to let him know it's fine. He throws his head back, and you feel thick ropes filling your mouth. When he came down from his high, you slightly pulled away and swallowed his seed down. You laugh at his blown-out face and tug him back in his boxers and sweatpants.

"I love you," he says while smiling at you with those dangerous sparkling eyes. "I love you too," you say before standing up. "I want to thank you for this," he says and holds one of your legs so that you can't walk away. "You can thank me later. You need to rest and get more energy," you say. He pouts at that, but he knows that there is no chance of convincing you.

When you both lie down in bed, you're fast asleep. But some unshared things are holding him back from falling asleep. He looks at you with guilt bubbling in his stomach.

•

You highlight the last word and look at the whole page. "Fuck, I nearly highlighted the whole page," you say to yourself. Chemistry is your most hated subject, but you need to do this course for this semester. You already finished uni two hours ago, and now you're sitting at your part-time job. A little cafe on a busy street, but right now it's not that crowded. Enough time to study behind the desk.

"Hi princess! What's up?" You hear a familiar voice. You look up to see Tae and Namjoon waving at you. "Hii, I'm doing good, and you?" you ask and start doing their usual order. "It's a little stressful these days. You know all the booking and organization," he says, leaning on one of his arms. You nod at his words. "That sounds stressful. Where are you going?" you ask interestedly and hand him his coffee before preparing Namjoon's matcha.

"He is talking about the tour with Jungkook," Namjoon says. You freeze for a moment. 'Which tour?'. But if you ask that way, they will know that you have no information about it. "Oh, okay! Tell me about the exact plan, please. Jungkook was too lazy to explain it to me," you lie. I got you! So first we fly to London for two days. There will be the first match. And then we will fly to Paris for the second match. We planned to stay for two days. At least we will fly to Tokyo for the last match. It's not clear how long we will stay because if he wins all of them, we want to celebrate. Also, we're going in such a big group; a little party wouldn't be bad, right? And sorry for Nari coming too; she will be filming everything," he says a little guilty about the last part.

For understanding, you hate Nari. And everyone knows that. She had a crush on Jungkook, and after finding out that you both dated, she continued to drool over him. And she is going with Jungkook? You are seconds away from breaking everything near you. But instead you hand Namjoon his matcha. You want to tell Tae that everything is fine because you're not even invited by your boyfriend (fiancé).

"That sounds like a plan," you say and smile at him. He looks worried that you skipped the part with Nari, but he doesn't comment on it. "Let's talk about it later. We need to go," he says and lends you his card. "Nah, you don't need to pay," you say and push his hand away. He tries anyway and gives up when other customers walk in. You wave at both of them and continue to work. The topic is still heavy in your head.

•

You close your textbook after taking some notes for your upcoming exam. Sitting on the floor was a bad idea; your back hurts like hell. You lean against the couch and watch the raindrops fall from the window. Why would he not tell you about something this big? Are you making him feel bad about his job? Did you already grow apart? All these thoughts are making you tear up.

At the other end of the room, you hear Jungkook happily preparing dinner. He told you that you worked hard today and needed some good food. You look down at your engagement ring and play with it. "Baby food is done," he announces, and you walk to the table. You start eating without saying a word. The fact that he cooked your favorite meal is crashing you down, and you feel too many emotions.

He watches as you quietly eat your food. He knows something is off, but he doesn't want to push you to tell him. He knows that you need your space sometimes, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't worry about you. And then he remembers something that he needs to tell you. But he is scared of your reaction, so he delays it for tomorrow.

You finish your plate and smile at him, "Thank you, baby, it was delicious." He smiles back at you, but you wait for him to tell you what you already know, but nothing is coming out of his mouth. So you stand up and make your way to the kitchen. He follows you like a lost puppy. "I will do the dishes. You can start with your bed routine," he says and places a kiss on your cheek. You nod at him and walk away.

When you both finally lie in bed, you watch him do sketches on his iPad. You wonder why it's so hard for him to tell you about next week. But you will give him a chance in the morning. You're positive that he would tell you at breakfast. Maybe he didn't say anything tonight because he thought that you were tired enough. You close your eyes and fall asleep quickly.

Jungkook looks at the clock and realizes that he has already worked on his project for over two hours. His eyes wander at your face only to realize that you're crying in your sleep. He quickly puts his iPad on the nightstand, and by that time, you start to shake. Your hands weakly gripping the duvet. He softly calls your name in hope that you would wake up. But you open your eyes and quickly sit up.

He worriedly watches the way you look around. You don't even notice his presence. Dreaming about your dad was nothing new, but dreaming about your dad and Nari was a nightmare. You place your hand on your chest, crying even harder. Then you feel Jungkook's soft touch, but you can't hear what he is saying. He hugs you tightly and places kisses on your hair.

"All good, baby, you're here with me and safe," you finally hear him say. When you hold his hand, you feel the missing ring. You look down to confirm that you're tripping right now, but you're not. Jungkook gently wipes your tears without noticing what you just discovered.

You slightly pull away, and your heart breaks again when you see him smile with those eyes. "Where is your ring?" you ask him. His smile drops, and you can see that he feels bad about it. "I think I forgot it when I was training. But I swear I will look for it tomorrow!" he explains while moving his hands around.

"Maybe it's fate that you lost it," you say too quickly. "What?" he asks, and you can feel that he is scared. You lay back down, already regretting the words that you said. This bed feels too much for you right now; everything feels too much. You want to go out and breathe the fresh air. But your body betrays you, and you start crying again.

Jungkook is watching your movements, his heart beating faster than before. He doesn't want to know the meaning of your words. His hands find yours, and he is scared. "Baby, talk to me. What's wrong?" he asks gently. He knew that you would be mad at him for losing his ring. But he is sure that it's in the locker room.

You pull your hand away and cover your face with both hands. It's too much to talk about right now, but you know he wouldn't leave it at that. When you calmed down a bit, you sat up and looked at him. He is already playing with his lip ring. A habit that he has when he's stressed.

"Why didn't you tell me about the tour?" you ask him right away. He blinks a few times, not ready for the question. "I wanted to tell you and ask you to come with me, but I needed a better time. You know we argued about the last match that I had. I don't want to argue with you, love," he says. You nod and ask him, "Am I giving you weird feelings about your job?"

"No, baby, you never make me feel weird. I know that you're just worried about me. And I understand that," he says and strokes your hair. "You're lying, Jungkook. You would tell me everything about this fucking tour if you didn't doubt anything. And it's not only the tour! You're going with Nari! I don't like it!" you say while new tears are welling up in your eyes.

He looks down for a bit. You know that he doesn't know what to say. "I'm sorry that I made you feel like you need a perfect time to tell me about your job, Jungkook. That was never my intention. I'm just scared of losing you. You're everything to me, and I can't imagine a single day without you. But I'm also mad that you didn't talk to me about the doubts in your head. You could've asked me why I feel this way, or I don't know. I never thought that we would have this conversation," you add.

He looks up at you. "I know that you don't like the idea of me becoming a pro at boxing. But I thought about it a lot. It's my dream, yes, but you're also a part of it. I don't want you to think that I have any doubts. I swear I wanted to talk to you about it, but I needed more time and good timing. I would never leave without you, by the way! I already told everyone that you're coming with me," he says. You look at his eyes and smile. "I hate Nari," you say and pout. He laughs at you and messes with your hair.

"Are you mad at me?" he asks. And you don't want to lie, so you nod. He places a kiss next to your lips. "I'm sorry, baby. I never wanted you to feel this way." You pat his head. "I love you, and I would do so much for you. I'm just scared that I'm not showing you enough," you say. But he quickly denies. "No baby. You're doing a lot for me, and I feel how much you love me. Please stop thinking that, okay?" he asks. You kiss his cheek and nod again.

"Now let's sleep a little longer; you need to wake up in some hours," he says and moves so that you're lying down. You place your head on his chest and close your eyes. Your heart feels a lot lighter.

•

One week later, and you're sitting with your friend. Lia invited you over, and you're doing a girls night. You talked again with Jungkook the next day after the night, and both of you made up quickly. He planned that you would travel with him, but due to your schedule, you will only fly to Tokyo. Jungkook was really sad about it, but he knows that you can't do anything about it; exams are exams. He also luckily found his ring back. The two of you are texting and calling each other every time.

"This bitch Nari is giving me a headache. She is with every single one of them," Lia says with frustration. She has a big crush on Namjoon, but she is way too shy to talk to him. You laugh at her, "Don't worry, she only has eyes for Jungkook," you add. "Oh, I can see that," Lia says, and your eyes snap to her.

"What do you mean?" you ask. And she only shows a picture that Jimin posted in his story. They're all sitting at a table, and you can see that Nari is talking to Jungkook. The weird part is that he is laughing at something she said. "Why is he so good-looking, omg!" you say and lay back down on the floor. "I mean, we know Jungkook. He is just kind, so don't worry; she probably didn't say something that funny," she says. "I know, but I don't want him to smile at her so cutely!" you whine.

"I told Jimin to write down all the tea. I hope he is not forgetting about it," Lia tells you. You sit up and drink from your beer. "I miss my baby," you say. Lia looks at you with a sad face. "You will see him next week. That will be over quickly," she assures you.

•

Back at home, you patiently wait for Jungkook's call. You need to tell him good luck before his match begins. When the familiar ringing disturbs your quiet room, you quickly grab your phone and answer it.

"Baby, I missed you!" you tell him. "I missed you too! How are you?" he asks with a big smile. "I'm good, but what about you? Are you nervous?" you ask him. He is walking around his room. "I am a little. But I know that seeing your face will give me luck," he says while winking at you. You giggle at his playfulness. "I wish you luck, love. You will do great. Be careful, okay?" He nods. "I will," he answers.

You hear some voices in the background, and Jungkook's attention is shifting to someone else. It's the perfect opportunity to watch him. "Baby, I need to go. I will call you after the match, okay?" he says. "Okay! I love you," you tell him, and the call ends. You can't wait to be finally there with him.

He called you after his match to celebrate his win. Also, he called you in Paris, but before his flight to Tokyo, he couldn't reach you. His calls automatically went to voicemail.

•

"Maybe her phone broke down or something like that, bro. Don't worry," Jimin says. "It's been a day, Jimin. She would call me from Lia's phone or ask a neighbor. I need to fly back home," he says while pulling his hair. "Look, first we will go to the hotel, and then we can call Lia. Maybe she knows where she is. I don't think that she disappeared like that," Hobi tells him.

"Or maybe you did something really bad and she blocked you. Maybe even moved out by the time you come back?" Jin wonders. Everyone turned towards him in disbelief. "You really think this is the right time to joke?" Namjoon asks. Jin just shrugs his shoulders. While on the way to the hotel, Jungkook tries to call you again and again, but there are no answers.

"Even Lia doesn't know where she is," Jungkook says. He is seconds away from passing out. In every scenario he is going through, you are lying on the ground with blood everywhere. Maybe he is a little overdramatic, but it could be true, right? No, he prays that he is just sick.

"I don't even see a point in checking in!" he says, and his voice is already louder than before. "Omg Jungkook, calm down. If something happened to her, you would be late anyway," Nari says with annoyance. Jungkook turns around to look at her. "I don't remember that I talked to you," he snaps. Jimin laughs at that but stops when Jungkook looks at him. "Let's go to the room, and then you can look for flights back to Seoul, okay?" Namjoon says.

Jungkook walks to his room, which is bigger than the ones in London and Paris. His mind is going wild every second that he is still here. When he opens the door to his room, he falls on his knees in disbelief. You're standing right in front of him with a big smile. "Baby, you did so well! I watched everything!" you say. And then you tilt your head to the side. "Why are you sitting there on the floor?"

"Baby, are you serious? I was so worried! Why would you ghost me?" he says with a frown. You laugh at his cute face. "Oh, come on! I wanted to surprise you. Get up and come here. I ordered a cake. Your favorite with strawberries," you tell him. He jumps on his feet and hugs you from behind. You feed him one spoon of the cake. He groans at the sensation. At the same time, he kisses your neck and shoulder. "You're so greedy," you tell him while putting your hand above his on your tummy. "Only when it's you," he says and eats the rest of the slice.

•

After a quick shower, you join him on the couch. "How is your nose?" you ask. He looks at you with guilt. "I told Jimin to give me updates about you. And you really thought I wouldn't know about your bruised nose?" "It doesn't hurt anymore," he says softly. You kiss him on the cheek. "Be careful tomorrow," you say and lean against his arm. He wraps his arm around you and watches his favorite movie.

"Lay on your stomach. I will give you a good massage," you say. He smiles and lays down the way you told him. With every movement of your hands, he groans. "You have magic hands, baby," he says, and you can literally feel his body relaxing under your touch.

•

"I'm so excited!" you tell Tae, who is standing next to you. "Me too, princess. Are you mad at me that I chose Nari as the camera guy?" he asks. This question was on his mind for a long time. "No, I'm not. Oh my god, did you think that the whole time?" you ask in disbelief. He shyly nods. "Yeah, I know how she is and that you don't like her. I don't like her too, by the way, but she was the only one available for this time." You pat his arm. "All good really. And it's good that you don't like her. We need a tea session back home." He laughs at that and winks.

When the match starts, you cheer for Jungkook, and you can't deny that he looks hot. Every time he is sitting in his corner for a little break, you can see how passionate he is about this. And it breaks your heart that you had some arguments about his job. You love him, and he loves you. That should be the only thing that matters.

Besides that, you're also thinking about boxing because the way Nari is touching him makes you see red. At the same moment, Jungkook's eyes find yours, and they sparkle. You send him a flying kiss, and he acts like he is catching it.

It's not a big surprise that he won this one too. His face was a little red from all the attacks that he couldn't dodge. You're happy and proud at the same time. You know that winning every single match on this tour will help him with new contracts.

Back at the hotel, you celebrate together. Everyone is drinking and laughing about some stories. Jungkook's hand is on your thigh the whole night, and you always think about what you did in your last life to be this lucky to have him. Every time he looked at you, you could feel the warmth of his pure love.

Your only wish is that he will be safe and healthy. He would, right?

Authors note:

Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it. Feel free to share your thoughts with me <3 lots of love