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littlelovelunette · 3 months ago

Note

CAN U PLEASE DO A

Alpha sevika x omega reader AND READER IS IN HEAT PLEASEEE

I'm dying here, I don't like the Omegaverse all that much, I think it's exaggerated asf and cringe bc of Wattpad authors n shit 😭

In Heat

Contains smut, g!p Sevika, breeding

The moment Sevika steps into the bar, she smells it.

Something sweet, warm, and utterly intoxicating clings to the air, curling around her senses like a vice. It stops her dead in her tracks, pupils dilating as her instincts sharpen in an instant.

Her usual confidence wavers just slightly, enough for her to grit her teeth and clench her metallic fingers in a vicious fist.

An Omega. You.

Her Omega, her instincts snarl.

Of course, you aren’t hers. Not yet, at least. But that doesn’t stop the primal, deep-seated growl that rumbles in her chest as she follows the scent, her body moving before her mind can catch up.

The dim lighting of the bar does little to hide the way you slump against the counter, skin dewy with heat, lips parted as if gasping for air.

It’s subtle, the way your fingers grip the edge of the wood, knuckles paling as you try to steady yourself. But Sevika sees it all. She sees the way your body trembles ever so slightly, the way your pupils are blown wide, the way your thighs press together in a way that makes her own breath hitch.

You’re in heat.

It hits her like a freight train, the need to claim, to protect, to satisfy.

She forces herself to move slowly, to not pounce on you like every part of her body is urging her to do.

She’s still an Alpha, but she’s not some feral beast—she won’t take without permission, won’t act without control.

Even if the way you smell right now makes her want to. Sevika won't, her resolve is stronger than that.

She slides onto the stool beside you, leaning in just enough that you’ll feel the warmth of her presence, the sheer size of her compared to you. Her voice, deep and edged with something rough, something primal, rumbles out low.

“You should be home right now, little Omega.”

Your breath hitches. Slowly, you turn your head towards her, blinking up at her with those wide, heat-dazed eyes.

And fuck—you’re beautiful like that.

Soft. Vulnerable. Hers, if she wanted.

And God, does she want.

“I’m—” You swallow hard, hands gripping your own thighs as if trying to steady yourself. “I’m fine.”

Sevika chuckles, dark and low, eyes flicking over you like she can see the way you’re struggling to hold yourself together. You’re shaking. Your scent is clouding the air around her, wrapping around her like chains, sinking into her lungs, into her bones. Into her very being.

You’re anything but fine.

“You’re burning up,” she murmurs, her voice dropping as she leans in just slightly, close enough that your scent is all she can breathe. “I can smell it. Everyone in this damn bar can smell it.”

You stiffen at that, lower lip caught between your teeth. There’s a flicker of something like fear in your eyes, and it stirs something violent in Sevika. No one else gets to look at you like that. No one else gets to smell you like this.

Only her.

And fuck—you want her. She can feel it. In the way your body leans toward her ever so slightly, in the way your fingers flex against the bar top, in the way your breath catches when she speaks.

Her mechanical hand flexes, long metallic fingers drumming slowly against the wood of the bar.

“Tell me what you need, sweetheart.”

Your breath comes out shaky, body swaying toward her before you catch yourself.

You squeeze your eyes shut, exhaling through your nose, and when you speak, your voice is nearly a whisper.

It felt truly pathetic to be like this and you don't know if you could trust, she is after all who she is and you are aware of notorious reputation. But you have been heat for so long (it hasn't even been that long but it feels like it) that it was somehow physically hurting you.

“You.”

Sevika inhales sharply through her nose.

Fuck.

That one word nearly shatters the fragile restraint she’s barely holding onto. Her little bit of ego, little bit of pride.

Her chest swells, her instincts roaring in triumph, in possession. But still, she waits, gaze steady on you, watching for any hesitation, any doubt.

She finds none.

Instead, you’re looking up at her like she’s the only thing in the world that matters. Like you need her more than air, more than anything.

And fuck if she isn’t about to give you everything.

She stands, looming over you, and when she speaks, her voice is a promise, a command, a claim.

“Let’s get you out of here.”

And you don’t hesitate. You follow.

Because in this moment, she’s the only one who can give you what you need.

And she intends to.

Sevika makes sure you know that because the moment you step into her house you are greeted with the aura of something dangerous, something so untamed you were sure it would rip you in half, but you'd let it. Wouldn't you?

She pins you to the wall, fingers digging deep into the flesh of your thighs. Her flesh fingers and metal fingers barely had any difference in force, if anything they were the same. But you assumed she had gotten used to her prosthetic.

The next time Sevika speaks to you, her voice is more lowered than usual, it was a rasp, a very needy rasp. "You want me to fuck you, don't you? To really mess up that cunt of yours and keep going until you're just a hopeless, pathetic, brain rotten mess. But you'd enjoy that."

You gasp as Sevika's bulge rubs over your clothed pussy, "Oh you feel that?" You whined and nodded needily grinding back at her bulge.

"Need it, big dick inside please..." You pleaded so pathetically you could've mentally slapped yourself but right then your needs mattered the most. You were so horny it almost hurt.

"You're so cock drunk before it's even in," Sevika commented however she did push you against the bed and slowly trailed her fingertips over your thighs.

"Please, daddy, I can't wait any longer," you whispered, Sevika's hands palmed at your clothes, pulling at them almost desperately. She pulled your clothes off slowly but by the time she reached your undergarments she couldn't hold back anymore and ripped them apart with feral need.

"Sure 'bout that? Sevika growled. "You'll be able to handle me?"

"Daddy, please," you moaned in her ear making Sevika shiver a little but she didn't hold back, unzipping her pants and instantly stuffing her cock inside your aching cunt.

"Oh my gosh!" You cried out as Sevika grabbed your waist and started pounding in your so roughly that the bed creaked in protest against her ramming. It was almost violent, her grip bruising your skin as she continued her relentless thrusting.

"Daddy! Daddy!" You screamed for all of the world to hear as your back arched and fingers tangled, one in her hair and the other in the bedsheets. With every thrust your tits jiggled, giving Sevika a view to enjoy as her thrusts continued to target your poor g-spot.

You barely could catch your breath because of her intense speed.

"Yeah, you like that?" Sevika taunted, her pace unaltered as she continued to abuse your clenching, wet hole. Your hands shot up and you tried to hold her close the best you could.

"Bet you're already close. Little slut," Sevika slapped your tits before one hand grabbed your throat, forcing you to look at her despite the utterly pathetic state you were in. There was drool and tears running down your face as your eyes lolled in the sockets, brain fucked into a complete mush.

"I am, daddy, I am," you managed to breathe out as your abdomen tensed, ready for the impending orgasm about to rip through you.

"I'm gonna bust a good fuckin' load in you," Sevika panted in your ear, biting down on the side of your neck.

"Yes, please!"

With one last slam she came as did you. Her load filled you up nice and warm making you gasp and scratch at her back.

It was a foreign sensation but nothing you would hate. It was quite nice actually.

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mandoalorian · 2 months ago

Text

dangerous liaisons [bucky barnes x f!reader]

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Personal Assistant!Reader

Synopsis: After a heated argument at dinner, the dynamic shifts between you and Bucky. Bucky swears that from this moment onwards, he will respect your decision to maintain a strictly professional relationship, but is that really what your heart desires?

Word Count: 3000

Tags/warnings: 18+ explicit content. employer x employee, m masturbation, making out, very brief description of an assault, bucky gets violent, politics, jealousy, high stakes

Masterlist

prev chapter <3 | congress & carnality masterlist

Bucky sat on the edge of his bed, shirtless, the Tokyo moonlight glowing behind him through the hotel window. His jaw was clenched, his fists pressing into his thighs as he tried to shake the sound of your voice from his head.

But it was impossible.

You had been moaning his name.

Before you, Bucky couldn’t remember the last time he had actually fallen for someone, or if he had ever. Sure, he’d been with women before, but it was never anything serious. Back in the day, he dated to marry, and now, for the longest time, he’d never even considered marriage to be an aspect of his life. He didn’t have time for it; from being a soldier to a weapon to an Avenger to a politician, but then again, there had never been someone quite like you.

He tried to shake the feelings, he really did. Bucky had no idea how to navigate something of this magnitude.

What really got to Bucky was the way you were so angry about the whole thing. He was trying, really. He’d already told you just about how he was feeling, how special you were to him. He’d be lying to himself if he thought you weren’t interested — he would’ve given it up by now. But he saw that glint in your eye and the way your lips would turn into a smile under his gaze and he noticed things. Bucky was perceptive.

He had gone after you last night. Ignoring your words, ignoring the way you told him not to follow. But when he reached the door to your hotel room, hand raised to knock, he heard it—your breathless, desperate whimpers. His name, spilling from your lips.

He had never felt anything like it.

It had sent a raw, primal heat flooding through him, straight to his cock. He had backed away, gone to his own room, but the damage was done.

Now, he sat in the dark, his cock throbbing in his hand as he fisted himself to the memory of you. His jaw tightened, head tilting back as he stroked himself, trying to chase relief—but it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

All he wanted was you — not Tara, not anyone else, just you. But he had already pushed you away and he knew you wouldn’t entertain a conversation. Bucky had tried. There wasn’t much more that could be done. You wanted things to remain professional, and so for you, Bucky would accept that.

Bucky gritted his teeth as his release hit him, his body tensing, his breath ragged as he spilled over his stomach. His muscles twitched with frustration, the pleasure barely scratching the itch that had burrowed into his skin.

He needed you.

But the next day, when you walked into breakfast, you wouldn’t even look at him.

The morning was heavy with unspoken words. You sat at the long hotel breakfast table, staring at the untouched coffee in front of you, stirring it absentmindedly while avoiding the one person you could feel watching you.

Bucky sat across from you, his own plate barely touched. He wasn’t talking much—just quietly sipping his coffee, the muscles in his jaw tight. The rest of the team carried on like normal, chatting about the last press conference, the success of the trip, and the flight home later that afternoon. But you? You felt suffocated by the silence stretching between you and Bucky.

“Late night?” Tara’s voice was playful as she slid into the chair beside Bucky, pouring herself a cup of coffee. She gave him a smirk before tossing you a glance, like she knew something. “You disappeared pretty quickly after dinner.”

You tensed, gripping the spoon in your coffee just a little harder.

Bucky, to his credit, didn’t look at her. Instead, he took another slow sip, then set the mug down with a quiet clink.“Didn’t feel like sticking around,” he muttered, voice flat.

Tara raised a brow. “Shame. We could’ve had a drink, unwound a little. The trip’s been exhausting.”

Your stomach twisted. You weren’t sure why—you had no right to feel possessive over him, not after everything—but something about the way she spoke to him, the way she looked at him, made your skin crawl.

Bucky exhaled through his nose and finally looked up—not at Tara, but at you. His eyes searched yours, but you gave him nothing. Instead, you picked up your coffee and took a slow sip, pretending not to care, pretending you weren’t still reeling from everything that had happened last night.

“I’ll be outside,” you said abruptly, pushing back your chair. The sound scraped against the floor, drawing a few glances, but you didn’t care.

Bucky didn’t stop you. But when you turned to leave, you could feel his eyes trailing after you, burning a hole in your back.

And the worst part?

You wanted to turn around. It took all the strength you could muster to just keep on walking.

This was hurting you so much and the pain was unprecedented. You should have never crossed the line between professional and personal. And now you were facing the repercussions. You decided to travel to the Embassy in preparation for the press conference later today. You figured if you got there early, you could distract yourself with some work. It just sucked that your work was Bucky — being his assistant and figuring out his life for him, organising meetings and campaigns and press releases.

Slipping into the back of a cab, you pulled out your tablet and opened up your emails only to see an invite to the Late Late Show with Jimmy Coors. You knew, deep down, that having a moment on cable television would work wonders for Bucky’s campaign, but it’s not something you could exactly agree to without having a conversation with him first. Fuck, a conversation. You were going to have to speak to him at some point. Otherwise, you could be out of a job. After stewing on it for a mere few seconds, you replied to the email.

Congressman Barnes will honourably accept the invitation to be on the Late Late Show, with the sole intention of promoting his campaign. Please direct all relevant documents to this email address.

You managed to cram a good amount of work in at the Embassy offices before you noticed the commotion outside, as Bucky’s Mercedes pulled up along with his security and campaign advisory team. Time to face the music.

The conference room was packed. Cameras flashed, journalists murmured, and every seat was filled with eager reporters ready to pick apart every word Bucky said. You felt nervous for him, you always did. You knew that if you were in his position, you’d crumble under the pressure. But he’d been through worse.

You stood off to the side, hands clasped in front of you, eyes trained on him. He looked good—too good, dressed in a dark navy suit that fit him like sin, his tie loosened just enough to make him look effortlessly in control.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Bucky Barnes was always in control. Always composed, always measured. Even after last night. Even after the things he knew you had done alone in your hotel room.

“Congressman Barnes,” a journalist called out, and you straightened. “Considering the recent diplomatic talks, do you believe this summit has strengthened U.S. relations with Japan?”

Bucky leaned forward slightly, his voice smooth, authoritative. “I do. We’ve had productive discussions about trade regulations and infrastructure, and I think we’re walking away with a stronger foundation for future collaboration. Open dialogue is key to international relationships.”

Another journalist spoke up. “There’s been some criticism about your approach to negotiations—some say you’re too aggressive, too direct. How do you respond to that?”

Bucky gave a knowing smirk. “I don’t believe in wasting time. I say what needs to be said, and I stand by my convictions. If that’s aggressive, then so be it.”

There were quiet chuckles from the audience, but you could tell the reporters weren’t done yet.

Then came the question you hadn’t expected.

“What do you think of the rumours about the government reinventing the Super Soldier Serum to enhance the US military?” One lady asked, prompting commotion amongst the other journalists in the audience.

Bucky’s jaw ticked, and he shot you a confused look. This was the first you had heard of such a rumour, and also the first time Congressman had acknowledged you all day. When Bucky didn’t reply, the journalist spoke up again.

“How do you respond to the allegations that you killed President JFK?”

Jesus Christ, they were hounding him. You wanted to storm onto the stage and put an end to this madness. How could they ask such invasive questions? Bucky swallowed before speaking up.

“For seventy years I was trained to infiltrate, assassinate and destabilise. If I wanted to, I could have taken a whole country down in one night. I will not run away from my past. Not anymore. I am proud to be your Congressman and do everything I can to make the world a better, safer place. That means no more war and, for as long as I am alive, no more Super Soldiers.”

In a daze, the journalist scrambled down to her notebook and scribbled his response. You breathed an air of relief but your heart still sank in your chest. Bucky never liked talking about his past, not even to you, and you could understand why. So for him to speak up in a room full of needy, clingy, journalists, in a conference that was being globally televised… that couldn’t have been easy.

“Congressman Barnes, you’ve been in the public eye for years now, but you’ve kept your personal life relatively private. Is there anyone special in your life right now?”

There it was. The question that had seemed to dominate every single press conference since landing in Japan. Your breath caught in your throat.

Bucky didn’t even blink. He leaned back in his chair, running his tongue along his bottom lip in thought before answering, “I’m focused on my work right now. Love isn’t a priority for me.”

The words felt like a slap, business as usual.

You stared at him, your heart thudding against your ribs.

Bucky didn’t look at you. Didn’t hesitate, didn’t stumble. Just a clean, simple answer, like it was nothing.

Tara, standing beside you, leaned in and whispered, “Yikes. Guess that means you’re out of the running.” Her voice was quiet, teasing, but there was an edge to it.

Your jaw tightened. “Maybe I’m not interested in running at all.”

She hummed, unconvinced, her gaze flicking toward Bucky. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You turned to her then, sharp and pointed. “Shouldn’t you be doing your job instead of making catty comments?”

Tara only smirked, raising her hands in mock surrender. “Just an observation, sweetheart. No need to get defensive.”

You clenched your teeth, but you didn’t rise to it. Instead, you turned your attention back to Bucky, who was wrapping up the conference.

Your pulse was still racing.

You weren’t sure if it was from anger, embarrassment, or something far worse.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

It was late afternoon now, and you were standing at the curb back outside the hotel, waiting for the driver to pick you and Bucky up for the airport. You tried distracting yourself with your PDA, but neither you nor Bucky had spoken a word to each other since last night. You wondered if the silence and tension were hurting him, as much as it was hurting you.

Today had been hard.

You noticed the press on the other side of the road, and paparazzi too, waving around cameras and making discussion amongst themselves.

Bucky stood rigid, about three or four meters away from you. You tried to find the right words, to say something to him. Anything. You felt as though you owed him an apology. You were so embarrassed after the previous night and the scene you caused at dinner. You acted in total jealousy. But how could you even say that to him? Thoughts raced in your mind a million miles an hour and suddenly, you felt the blood drain out of your skin. You felt your soul leave your body before it even registered: hand skimming your lower back, resting just above the curve of your ass.

You jumped slightly in shock, looking to your left to find a man. He was tall, well-dressed, and persistent. And his hand was still on you.

"You alone, sweetheart?" he asked, stepping into your space.

You forced a polite smile, stepping back. “I-I’m waiting for someone."

"Shame," he smirked, his eyes dragging over you. "A girl like you shouldn’t be left waiting."

You stiffened as he reached out, brushing his fingers along your arm.

Before you could react, before you could even breathe, Bucky moved.

It happened in a blur.

Bucky’s fist slammed into the guy’s face. A sickening crack echoed through the air as the man dropped to the pavement, unconscious.

Gasps erupted around you. Paparazzi cameras flashed wildly. People shouted.

"Bucky—!" you gasped, grabbing his arm and noticing the purple bruises already beginning to dash over his knuckles.

But his chest was heaving, eyes dark with pure, unfiltered rage.

"Did he touch you?" Bucky’s voice was low, dangerous. Bucky knew the answer, he saw it with his own eyes.

"I—he—Bucky, let’s go." You pulled him toward the car, shoving him inside before the chaos exploded further.

The second the doors closed behind you, the air between you crackled with tension.

"You didn’t have to do that," you muttered, staring out the window. “You could have killed him.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. "He put his hands on you,” he replied simply like his violent response was unapologetically warranted. Honestly, the guy got what he deserved but people saw. Paparazzi saw. What were people going to say when Bucky returned to the US? You dreaded to even think. “He’s lucky I didn’t use my other hand.”

You frowned, looking at the Congressman with concern in your eyes. “Bucky…” you whispered. “Are you okay?”

Stupid question.

When he didn’t reply, you sighed. "You can’t just punch everyone who looks at me the wrong way."

He turned to you then, something fierce and unguarded in his eyes.

"You think this is about anyone else?" he said quietly. "You really don’t get it, do you?"

Your breath caught.

“I do,” you whispered, your voice so small you were unsure if Bucky could even hear. “I do get it.”

“Did you hear what they said at the conference?” Bucky asked, his voice low. “They’re reinventing the Super Soldier Serum.”

You knew this was plaguing him, you were just surprised he was bringing it up with you.

“It’s just a rumour…” you said softly, placing your hand over Bucky’s hoping to ease him just a little bit.

“They can’t do that, if they do that, it will be like history repeating itself. I can’t let that happen.”

You could sense the fear in Bucky’s voice. The vulnerability.

But there was only so much Bucky could do, after all, he wasn't President. “We can investigate it when we get back home. But for now, let’s just be together, please.” Bucky didn’t move and you felt your eyes prick with hot tears.

You’d really fucked it up now. Everything. Trying to comfort him felt foreign, and you wished it didn't. It was like he didn't trust you anymore, and could you blame him? For the past few days you had been essentially stringing him along, reluctant to have a serious conversation or address your feelings.

Because you were too damn scared.

And now he was burdened with his workload and politics and the fact he'd just knocked a man unconscious on the street; not to mention this thing that was going on between you two.

“Please, Bucky… say something.” You begged, holding back a sob. You were losing him. All you wanted was him, this whole time, and you just kept pushing him away.

Bucky shifted in his seat and pulled his hand from underneath yours. He looked you in the eye.

“You want me to say something?” He asked rhetorically, all hardness in his face softening. His expression was still unreadable. You nodded and sniffed as he searched your eyes for answers. “Okay. Fine. You confuse me.”

You scoffed but smiled, relieved he was finally opening up. “That’s fair,” you replied. “I confuse me too.”

Bucky hummed, waiting for you to say more. You owed it to him.

“I got so jealous of Tara the other night,” you admitted sheepishly with an anxious exhale, a sharp pain in your chest making you flinch as you spoke the words out loud. You were in the car, and there was nowhere to run. You knew you had to have this conversation sooner rather than later. It had to be done. “I— I didn’t know why but I know why now. I um— I couldn’t stand the way she was all over you, and the way you entertained it. I wanted that to be me.”

Bucky blinked hard, but again, he didn't speak.

“And when you touched me under the table… I felt hot with rage. I couldn’t understand. Did you want me or her?”

Bucky pressed his lips against yours in a sudden, passion-filled movement. In shock, you parted your lips, and Bucky took no time to slip his tongue in, intoxicated with the urge to taste every part of you. You moaned your thoughts and feelings from last night resurfacing. Fuck, you’d missed this. You missed him.

You pulled on his dark brown hair and ran your fingers through the length of it before clicking open your seatbelt and sliding onto his lap, straddling him, without breaking the kiss. Bucky’s hands roamed your body, his erection growing and pressing between his briefs and dresspants, begging to be released.

When you pulled away to catch your breath, Bucky held your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him.

“You, it’s you. I always want you.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Taglist: @imaginecrushes @maplepepperoni @sleepysongbirdsings @sunday-bug @bunnyfella @lktunes12-blog @bellamoret @mrsnikstan @greatenthusiasttidalwave @pancake-05 @theylovethesky @avengersfan25 @nydubs

[if you want to be added or removed from taglist, lmk<3]

#bucky barnes #marvel #smut #mcu #james buchanan barnes #sebastian stan #angst #congressman bucky #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #sebastian stan x reader #thunderbolts #avengers #james bucky barnes #the winter soldier

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nsharks · 3 months ago

Text

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-three —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4.5k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. harm to a child. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: clearly I am bad at estimating how long this story will take lol

Alexandre is not as susceptible to pain.

The guard outside his home didn’t register his death, not with Ghost as a shadow at his back. One wrench to his neck, and Kyle plucked the key off his corpse, gently opening the planked door. As the three of them swept the inside, you and Ari hoisted the body in. A sudden crash of breaking glass and the sounds of a struggle made it clear—they got Alexandre. He must have woken up.

But restrained to a dining chair by chains from the slaughterhouse, all he offers up is a bloody tooth on the floor—nothing about Blue or the weapons.

"Brûlez en enfer, pécheurs!"

Ghost snarls and tears a fistful of hair from his scalp. Alexandre only spits more blood, teeth clenched.

"He's wasting our time," you mutter, dread curling in your chest. A glance at the window—the sky could turn deep purple any second. You touch Ghost's elbow. "We should just look for—"

"He'll talk."

Ghost draws the knife. He drives his knuckles into Alexandre’s mouth, smothering the scream as the blade severs his pinky. Blood spills over raw bone. Finally, he writhes—eyes rolling back, knees violently shaking.

"Tell us where everything is, or these go next," Ghost snaps, holding up his middle and ring fingers.

He pulls his fist from his mouth. Alexandre sputters, lips twitching from the pain. Under his breath, he groans, "Sal... Mon enfant."

"What is he saying?" Kyle presses.

Ghost positions the knife at the next digit. "Speak up. English."

Alexandre's eyes threaten to close. He whispers something quieter—

"Salome?" you speak up.

His eyes snap open at the name.

You lower beside Ghost, leaning closer, your eyes darting over his swollen face. "Salome. Your 'enfant.' The child is yours, isn’t it?" A flicker of rage flares in his nostrils, and you quietly press on, "You must be worried about her. She was tending to us, you know. Don’t you want to know if she lives? It'd be a shame if she doesn’t. She was so excited for the baby, especially after losing the first one in the winter. I’m guessing that one was yours, too." You let the words hang, then wet your lips, feigning consideration. "The thing is, it’s been a long night. My memory’s hazy. Can’t recall if I slit her throat or not, but I do remember her begging me to spare her—for the child’s sake."

At this, he jolts. "Tu fais chier—"

Ghost covers his mouth.

You keep your voice smooth. "Maybe if you tell us where the girl and the weapons are, I’ll remember. Otherwise, he’ll kill you, and you’ll die not knowing."

The silence breaks as Ghost drives the knife into the base of his finger. Alexandre grits out, "The girl... I don’t know where my mother kept her. But if sunrise is near... She could be at the chapel now, to prepare."

The one you saw? "How many chapels are there here?" you ask.

"Only one for... offerings."

You glance at Ghost and whisper, "If we can find the road, I could get us back to it."

He nods, not looking away from Alexandre. "The guns," he says. "Where are they?"

"I can... show you."

"You're not showing us shit. Tell us exactly where to find them."

Alexandre holds his gaze. "I could tell you wrong, yes? Waste your time. Or I can show you, and you can kill me if they’re not there."

"Don’t let him play games, Simon," Price calls from behind.

Ghost exhales roughly.

Alexandre looks at you. "But you must tell me of Salome first."

"She's alive," you tell him. "But if you don’t show us where the guns are, it’s not just you who will die."

The chains bite into his wrists as Ghost yanks him up by his soiled lapel. A pistol pressed to his temple, Alexandre stumbles forward, his feet dragging over the corpse at the door before leading you outside. The moonlight feels sharper, casting shadows over the pitted ground as you step carefully beside him, scanning the area. No more alarms yet. But when the guards change shifts, that won’t last.

No one speaks as he leads you around the pasture and barn, toward the back, where the silhouette of a small shed takes shape in the darkness. As you near, a three-tuned call cuts through the air, beckoning Alexandre's gaze to the sky, a soft murmur escaping his lips: "La tourterelle chante pour toi."

"Shut up."

Ghost strikes the back of his head with the gun to silence him.

You stop in front of the shed. It is only just bigger than the one you used to sleep in.

"Is this it?"

"Yes," Alexandre nods. "Inside."

Kyle is the one to kick open the door. As expected, the smell of rusty metal hits your nose as you take in the clutter of rakes, shovels, and scythes. There is a wheelbarrow against the wall with nothing inside but residual soil. No weapons in sight.

Ghost cocks the pistol. "You're fucking around with your kid's life—"

"Under the floor," Alexandre flinches, then juts his chin at the planks of wood, "The extra guns, ammo. It is under there."

Ghost shoves the gun into Kyle’s hand. Without hesitation, Kyle takes over, keeping it steady as Ghost drops to his knees, running his fingers over the floorboards. A sharp knock—hollow. He drives his knife between the slats and pries them open.

The unmistakable glint of metal catches your eye. Rifles. Green and gold cartridges, too. Ghost inhales sharply, tearing up more of the floor. Price moves in, yanking out boxes, sorting through the ammo they need to load up. You linger by the door, glancing back over your shoulder. The guns are yours. Now, you'll need to find the chapel. Maybe Blue isn’t there yet. Maybe you can get there first.

Lost in thought, you almost miss it—that softly cooing dove, the kind you used to wake up to in England. Again, Alexandre mutters in French beside you where Kyle quiets him with a shove at his shoulder. Then you detect a shift in the air—no, you squint and realize it is movement in the grass by the barn.

Alexandre suddenly shouts, "La tourterelle chante pour toi!"

The echo of his words is followed by the crack of a pistol. Kyle’s shot strikes his head, and his body crumples at your feet.

You whip around, panic flaring in your chest as you look at Ghost. "Someone was there. He said something to warn them. They're going to wake up the others!"

Ghost's glare snaps towards Kyle. "The gunshot probably already did."

Kyle releases a growl. "Fuck, I didn't think—"

"Take this," Price interrupts, throwing a loaded rifle at Kyle.

For you, Nereida, and Ari, a small handgun.

But by the time your finger seeks out the trigger, you hear a myriad of voices shout from the barn.

Blue sits at a small table. Across from her is that old woman, eating silently. Only the sound of metal on ceramic, and gentle chewing, fills the dining room. Blue's teeth mechanically grind a tart, red berry into pulp, then let it slide down her throat, her eyes never leaving the white plate. On the faintly reflective surface, a years-old memory blurs into focus.

She sits in the back of her dad’s truck, her small hands folded in her lap. The air is thick with the smell of cigarette smoke. Her eyes are fixed on the passing buildings and people, the streets beginning to feel unfamiliar. Then, her dad mutters something low under his breath, the tires screeching as he sharply veers into a petrol station.

He unbuckles and slams the front door, moving quickly around the truck to help her out. "Come on, kid," he says quietly, lifting her up gently before setting her on the ground. Her hand slips instinctively into his.

"Don’t look at anyone," he mutters as he tugs her toward the small food mart.

"Why, daddy?" she whispers up at him.

"Because I said so."

"Why are we here?"

"I need to get something."

"What for?"

The silence stretches between them, and a cold knot of fear tightens in her stomach. He doesn’t answer, and she can’t remember how they got here. She had been in her bedroom, where her mother had told her to stay. There was shouting through the door before it flung open, then her father grabbed her, and suddenly, her mom’s voice faded behind them.

Her father guides her through the aisles, pulling items off shelves. She tries not to look at the old man nearby, her eyes fixed on the hem of his jacket, her fingers nervously tugging at it.

"Why isn’t my mum coming with us?" she asks.

He doesn't answer. They move to the cash register, and after he pays, they head back to the truck. Her eyes sting. She rips her hand from his and shakes her head, her voice breaking.

"I want to go back, daddy."

"You're not going back."

"I want to!"

He kneels in front of her, gripping her chin as her tears spill. A woman filling her car glances over, and he lowers his voice so only she can hear. "I know you're scared, but listen to me, Amelia. Remember that game we play? The one where the bad guys are after us, and we have to get away from them?"

She nods weakly, tears streaking down her face.

"What do we call each other when we play that game, baby?"

"Blue and Ghost," she answers, her voice small.

"Right. We’re playing it again, okay? But this time, it’s not a game. Right now, you’re Blue, and I’m Ghost. You listen to everything I say so I can keep you safe. Do you understand, Blue?"

She struggles to breathe.

"Tell me, do you understand?"

"Daddy, I—"

"No. Not daddy. Ghost."

"Ghost... please, I want to go home."

His voice repeats her new name, over and over, as he shakes her chin, and she cries harder. She looks over at the woman filling her car as she fades into something strange—milky eyes and grey skin—and when Blue looks back to her father, he’s gone. All that remains is the white plate, stained with red raspberry juice.

"Blue."

Blue lifts her gaze, her eyes locking on the old woman across from her. The woman's leathery skin shifts to grey in the pale moonlight streaming through the window. She chews a berry slowly, takes a sip of milk, then speaks. "Tell me. Why do you call yourself this?"

She struggles to pull her voice to the present, looking back at the plate and quietly answering after a moment, "It is... it is the name I've used to survive."

"You are a strong girl, that much is clear," Maman compliments idly. "But sometimes, God does not want us to fight. There is strength in acceptance."

When breakfast is finished, Eloise brushes her hair until it’s buttery soft down her back. Then, they leave. Blue smells the dew on the grass, her toes curling in her shoes to endure the pain of keeping up with them. No matter how lightly she spreads her weight, the wounds split wider, blood silently squishing beneath her soles. Any blood she left behind would be invisible in the dark, but Ghost always noticed things she never could. She picks at her fingernails as they reach a road, which reminds her of when they were walking through, seeing a few abandoned cars left at the sides.

They walk for some time until she smells the Greys. The rot is pungent in the brisk air. Then, she hears the low hum of hymns coming from a small building—a church. She only knows this because of a deep memory with the old woman she called grandmother who used to take her to one. The stained glass glows faintly with dim golden light inside. They approach the large door, and Blue stands outside it, her knees trembling, but her shoulders managing to stay upright.

Maman glances down at her, hand resting on the door. "In God's presence, Amelia, there is no need to survive anymore. You will accept his punishment—and his forgiveness. Tell me, do you understand?"

Blue grits her teeth.

The voice edges softer. "Do you understand, Amelia?"

"I understand."

Behind her, Eloise takes hold of her wrists and ties them together with what feels like prickly twine.

The door creaks open under Maman’s push, revealing rows of pews and cold stone walls. Blue swallows hard, tasting her own heartbeat in her throat as she takes in everything she can before stepping inside. The narrow aisle spills out into an altar, where the same two Greys they muzzled the other day are chained to the floor, their snarls and moans adding a discordant layer to the throaty hymns echoing from the right side of the church. There, the veiled women sit, their heads bowed. On the left, the men. A bony hand presses at her back, urging her forward. Through the fog of fear, she counts them: just three men, plus Pierre—the one from before—standing beside the leashed Greys.

The lingering scent of old blood mixes with the fresh, sharp tang of melting candlewax. Her footsteps are small, barely making a sound against the stone, and the pain seems to fade into nothingness, until she misteps around a scurrying rat. A sharp pang burns through her foot, forcing her teeth to grind. Tears well in her eyes, but she doesn’t let a single one fall, her focus locked on her surroundings. The flickering candles on the altar, the glint of Maman's knife as she unsheathes it, the flicker of hunger in the endless moans—each step draws her closer to the Greys.

When she finally stops, she stands between them, the chains and muzzles the only thing keeping their mouths from finding her flesh.

As Maman begins to murmur in French, a fleeting thought crosses her mind: Can her mother see her now, dressed in a beautiful gown, having grown into her features, even though the shape of her face still carries the strength of her father's? Can she see the fear she can no longer contain, spilling into violent breaths that tear through her chest?

"Venez vous nourrir de sa chair pure, et en retour, bénissez-nous avec plus de nourriture pour l'hiver et des bébés en bonne santé pour vos nouveaux peuples."

Beneath Maman's words, Blue hears something. A distant, piercing sound that reminds her of a gunshot.

Dad?

She glances at the door, then at the faces around her, but no one else seems to have heard it.

A cold hand snatches her arm, the unwounded one, and Blue whimpers. Then she is turned around to face the pews.

"Une coupure pour les faire festoyer!"

The knife draws a matching cut, the release of blood making the Greys jerk within their restraints.

A man stands and unlocks one Grey's chains, while Pierre handles the other. The screech of metal cuts through the air, and with a shout, the creatures are freed. Blue’s heart slams in her chest. Maman's low, cruel laugh reaches Blue's ears just as she drops to the ground and scrambles backward, bumping into the altar and making it rattle. She screams when rotten hands clamp around her ankles—instinct taking over. She wriggles free of her blood-soaked shoes and kicks them as far as possible toward the people in front of her.

The shoes hit the ground with a quiet squelch, and the Greys snap toward them, momentarily confused by their scent of blood. A veiled woman screams, her dress now stained with a red footprint, and the other women scramble for the door as the Greys hurl through the aisle. In that fleeting moment of distraction, Blue pushes herself up, hands shaking as she clutches the twine binding her wrists. She holds it over the candle, praying the small flame will burn through it.

"Come on, come on."

Just before the twine can snap, a hand yanks at her shoulder to spin her around.

"Stupid girl!"

Blue growls like a cornered animal and spits into Maman’s eyes. Sneering, Maman slashes the knife across Blue’s cheek, sending fresh blood down to her lips. The Greys, no longer distracted, screech as they again zero in on the scent of her bleeding wounds.

Through the pain, Blue strains with all her strength, forcing her wrists apart until the charred twine snaps, freeing her hands. Maman grabs her by the dress, but Blue blindly reaches for the only thing within reach—the candle—and jams the burning wick into the old woman's face.

"Fuck you!"

It is enough to make her writhe in pain, giving Blue the opening to snatch the knife from her hand. With a wrecked cry, she stabs the old woman’s throat, then kicks her in the stomach just as the Greys reach them. Maman’s mouth lets out a final gurgling, blood-soaked cry, and Blue watches, panting hard, as the Greys grab her and tear their teeth into her torn neck.

"Maman!"

Pierre shouts, rushing over.

Blue bolts away from them, her soaked feet nearly slipping. She shoves a screaming woman out of her way near the door and bursts outside into the breaking dawn. That's when she hears more gunshots, clearer in the open air, and spots a distant plume of smoke. Without hesitation, she runs in that direction.

The first round of gunfire kicks up dirt at your heels before you can even react. Ghost yanks you into a sprint, pulling you away from the shed. Men pour through the barn’s back door, giving chase. Somewhere in the chaos, you hear Price’s voice barking orders, his gunfire answering theirs—but there’s no time to look over your shoulder. Ghost grips your elbow and drags you behind an old tractor, shoving you into cover as bullets whizz through the air.

The others tumble beside you, Price forcing Nereida's head low behind the large tire.

"There’s nowhere else to take cover," Kyle curses. He and Ghost peek over the tractor, firing off shots, but the sound of pounding boots grows closer. There are too many of them, and not enough time to stop their advance.

You swallow hard, heart pounding, and risk a quick glance around the tractor’s hood. The haystacks are right there, and you remember how dry they felt around your ankles when you covered the corpses. You grab Ghost by the wrist and pull your mouth to his ear so he can hear you.

"The hay is flammable—can you light it somehow?"

His jaw sets in understanding when your words register. He closes an eye and redirects his aim, instead firing rapidly at the base of one of the stacks. Stray sparks leap into the air, and for a moment, your stomach sinks when nothing happens. Then, the straw catches—one spark, then another, and the flames grow fast, swallowing vegetation along the ground. Thick, black smoke whips into the air.

"Il y a putain de feu!"

"Let's move!" Ghost shouts.

You're running again, using the distraction to your advantage, the veiled hood flying off your hair. The sudden silence in the gunfire gives you a moment to look around, and with a rush of terror, you realize that a sliver of sunlight has crept over the horizon. The sky above is no longer the pure black of night.

"Simon, we have to get to her!"

"Where's the chapel?"

"I don't know! I-I need to see the road to find it."

The farm stretches out in every direction, the lack of light making it hard to see anything far off. You stop for a moment, trying to orient yourself. Maybe if you could just—

Another shot hits the ground, close enough to feel the heat on your toes. You barely catch a glimpse of the men still chasing you before a cloud of smoke bursts from the ground. It’s not from the fire he started—it’s a smoke bomb, just like the one they used to disorient you the first time.

The smoke stings your eyes and lungs. You clamp your mouth shut to avoid breathing it in.

"Drop to the ground!" Ghost growls in your ear, loud enough to hear over the gunfire you can only hope is coming from Kyle and Price.

You obey, hitting the ground hard with his arm firm around your waist. He grips your dress, guiding you as you crawl through the smoke’s underbelly, where the air is clearer. Down here, you can see just enough to navigate forward, the blind gunfire whizzing harmlessly overhead. But as Ghost hauls you to your feet, a new panic grips you—you can no longer see the others.

"Where are they?"

Through the tears in your eyes, you can't make out anything past the smoke at your backs.

"Price can handle it. Come on."

For a brief second, you hesitate, torn between ensuring they’re alright and following him—but the encroaching sunrise makes the decision for you. There is nothing else you can do but keep running, hoping something will look familiar as you weave between nothing but stalks of wheat and the small homes. You’ve gained enough distance to escape their line of fire, and when you look back, the flames by the barn seem to have stopped swelling, but that is all you make out before something rams into your side.

"Femme pécheresse, regarde ce que tu as fait!"

The stray guard wrestles your body to the grass, a blade at your throat slicing a shallow welt into the skin, but he is ripped off you within seconds. Ghost breaks the man's neck, steals the pistol from his belt, then tosses it to you. He takes your free hand to help you up, and only as your finger smoothes over the trigger do you realize your other gun is gone.

He turns to keep moving, and part of you wants to sob in rage that you still don't know if you're even headed the right way. Then you see it—something in the grass. You grab his hand. "Look there. What is that?"

His gaze follows yours to the distinctive red stain embedded into the ground. Faint, but there. He leans down to touch it. "It's fresh."

"It could be hers, Simon," you urge.

He stalks forward, fingers hovering before pressing into a faint footprint. "It's her size. This way."

Blood smears lead you to the main road, and your chest tightens at the sight of the cars. This was the route through Fleurbaix. You recognize it. You scan both directions, spotting a white BMW in the distance—a flash of memory.

"I peed by that car. The chapel��s over there," you say, pointing to the stone roof barely visible ahead.

The sudden pierce of a scream confirms it.

Blue barely manages to get far before the sound of booted steps echoes behind her. She flits her head around in panic, ducking beneath the first car she sees and holding her breath. The distinct rustle of chains, accompanied by a snarl, unfurls her eyes. She glances up into the warped side mirror of another vehicle, catching sight of a cloaked figure. That man who'd helped Maman—Pierre—is looking around, one of the Greys in tow, its muzzle back on.

"Come out, petite fille. You cannot hide from a démon. Not when your smell is so strong."

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she uses the sleeve of her dress to soundlessly wipe her bloody cheek as if that might help but pitifully realizes her feet and arm are even worse. The movement causes her bare foot to dig into a sharp rock, and she bites her tongue hard to keep from crying out. The footsteps halt, then switch directions.

When the Grey lunges toward the car, Blue leaps out and runs blindly, adrenaline pushing past the dizziness. Pierre shouts and follows, the Grey leading him, its draw to flesh tracking her even as she tries to weave behind the rose bushes. Spotting a tree, she glances over her shoulder one last time before hugging the narrow trunk and using all her strength to climb. What’s usually easy becomes a struggle as pain shoots up her legs when her feet try to find purchase on the bark. Her grip slips, and she falls hard onto her back.

Before she can lift to her elbows, a frothy mouth leaps in front of her face. She screams, writhing beneath the muzzled Grey, as Pierre hovers over her. "You could have earned God's grace, but instead, you killed her." Bitterness laces his voice. "Maman would want you dead, no matter what form the offering takes."

Blue tries scrambling backward, but a boot steps on her freshly cut wrist, twisting around and effectively pinning her. She chokes on a sob, fingers trembling in the dirt below her. The man reaches down to unscrew the muzzle, and in this moment she prays to whatever stupid god there might be, that Ari was right, that being eaten fully is better than the infection from a mere bite.

She screws her eyes shut, bracing for the pain, but instead, her ears ring from a sharp sound. A weight crashes down on top of her, and when she opens her eyes, she wonders if she’s been drugged again. There, in her vision, is her father—his bare torso covered in blood and grime, his face contorted with rage as he shoves Pierre into the tree.

"Blue!"

It’s Twix. She shoves the Grey’s corpse off of Blue and scoops her into her arms. Blue freezes, unable to return the hug, her gaze fixed on her father as he rips a knife from his belt and stabs it into Pierre's hands, pinning them above his head to the bark.

When Pierre tries to kick him, Ghost shoots both his knees.

"Seigneur, s'il vous plaît, épargne-moi dans l'au-del��!"

The plea is choked off as Ghost rips the lower mandible free, the jagged bone tearing through flesh, leaving the tongue to flop uselessly, twitching and gasping for air. Twix's arms tighten around her, urging her to hide her eyes within her neck, but Blue keeps watching as Ghost snarls rabidly, finishing the kill by slamming the butt of his rifle into Pierre's skull, caving it in with a loud crack.

Only when he turns around, shoulders heaving, does she realize it’s truly him—and not a dream. He kneels on the ground, and Twix releases her into his chest, the solid feel of it absorbing the tremors that wrack through her limbs as she cries. Ghost cups the back of her hair, and despite the pained breath in his chest, he lifts her up, clutching her close. Her nose presses into his neck, struggling to breathe as she inhales the scent of him.

"D-daddy," she croaks.

"It's me, it's me."

"I-I'm alive."

Something raw pushes through his teeth. "Fuck—you're okay, baby girl. I'm here. I've got you. I've got you." His fingers tighten against her scalp. "Hold tight to me. I won't let you go this time."

"Sal... My child." "You're a pain in the ass—" "The turtle dove sings for you." "The turtle dove sings for you!" "Come feed on her pure flesh, and in return, bless us with more food for the winter and healthy babies for your new people." "A cut to make them feast!" "There's a fucking fire!" "Sinful woman, look what you've done!" "Come out, little girl. You cannot hide from a demon. Not when your smell is so strong." "Lord, please spare me in the afterlife!"

#simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #ghost #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #cod #zombie apocolypse au

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winxanity-ii · 8 months ago

Text

WASHED UP [1/?]

ship: odysseus x fem!calypso!reader warnings: non-explicit word count: 7.3k (strap up, babes, this is a long one~) a/n: Y'all forgive me, i have been horrible and abandoned the fandom 😔💔; i swear it wasn't on purpose, i just haven't been bit by the inspiration bug, but nevertheless, here i am getting inspired, so enjoy my twist on odysseus w/ calypso, no worries there will be a prt.2 (edit: that was a lie and has been scraped as of now 😭😔💔 reason here)

★·.·´🇪‌🇵‌🇮‌🇨‌: 🇹‌🇭‌🇪‌ 🇲‌🇺‌🇸‌🇮‌🇨‌🇦‌🇱‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

The sea spat him out like an unwanted secret. You watched from the cliffs as his body was tossed against the sand, limbs splayed like a broken marionette.

Thunderheads still roared in the distance, but the storm had spent its fury, leaving only the shattered remnants of his ship and the limp figure of its captain.

His first breath on your island was a gasp, harsh and desperate, followed by a violent cough that shook his entire frame.

Water poured from his mouth, a relentless cascade as he heaved, clawing at the sand with shaking fingers. He turned onto his side, retching, purging the sea from his lungs.

Each convulsion seemed to rip through him, leaving him weaker, more drained, until he collapsed back onto the shore, chest heaving, eyes shut tight against the grit and salt.

Above, the clouds began to peel away, the black and bruised sky giving way to a faint glimmer of sun.

The wind, once howling, softened to a mournful sigh, as if the island itself pitied him. Waves lapped at his feet, gentle now, apologetic, as if seeking to soothe the very man they had tried to destroy.

His eyelids fluttered open, the sky above a blur of gray and gold. He groaned, the sound raw and broken, the cry of a man who had seen too much, lost too much.

He lay there, sprawled out on the sand, staring up at the heavens with eyes full of disbelief and despair. His voice, hoarse and cracking, clawed its way out of his throat.

"Why?" he croaked, the single word carried away by the wind. "Why do you forsake me?"

He tried to rise, muscles trembling as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. He looked around, taking in the unfamiliar shore, the jagged rocks jutting out like sentinels, the dense forest looming beyond. He was alone—utterly, helplessly alone.

The Gods had abandoned him here, cast him away like a piece of flotsam.

"Have I not suffered enough!?" he shouted, the words rasping against his parched throat. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms. "Is this my reward for years of service, for blood spilled and honor upheld?"

The sky remained silent, indifferent to his plea. He dropped his head back onto the sand, teeth gritted in frustration, the last remnants of strength draining out of him.

The silence that followed was suffocating, pressing down on him like the weight of his failures.

You could almost feel it, that heavy despair that hung around him like a shroud. A warrior undone, not by the sword or the spear, but by the endless, unrelenting cruelty of fate.

You knew that look—had seen it before, in the eyes of those who had washed up on your shores, broken and lost, only to be healed by your touch, only to be bound by your love.

But this one… He was different.

His suffering was like a beacon, bright and piercing, pulling at something deep within you, something you had buried long ago.

And so you watched, unseen and silent, as he lay on the shore, a man shattered, calling out to Gods who would not answer.

You wondered who this man was, what sins he must have committed to be cast into your lonely exile. Another soul, shattered and lost, delivered to you by the cruel whim of fate.

Was this the Gods' twisted sense of humor, to send you the broken, the despairing, and then sit back and watch as you tried, again and again, to piece them together, knowing each time that they would eventually leave, taking a piece of you with them?

It had been that way for as long as you could remember. They arrived on your shores, eyes wide with fear or despair, bodies battered by storms both within and without.

And you, like a fool, took them in, healed their wounds, offered them solace. You let them weave themselves into your heart, into your very soul, only for them to tear themselves free when the time came, leaving you bleeding and hollow.

Was he any different, this man with his piercing eyes and voice full of sorrow? Would he be the one to break you completely? You don't know. But as you turned away from the beach, you couldn't help but feel that this time, the Gods had sent you a different kind of suffering.

You moved through the familiar paths, the underbrush parting easily beneath your feet. It was an old routine, gathering the essentials—just enough to keep them alive until they could find the will to keep themselves going.

Your hands worked mechanically, filling a small basket with a jug of water, a bit of bread, some fish you'd caught that morning. It was more than they ever needed, really. Most of them wouldn't even look at food when they first arrived, the shock still too raw, too immediate.

As you made your way back, the weight of the basket a comforting presence against your hip, you tried to steel yourself for what you would find. But when you reached the beach again, your breath caught in your throat.

He was sitting up now, his back to you, shoulders slumped as if the weight of the world still pressed down on him. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, empty and unfocused, the eyes of a man who had seen too much.

What remained of his clothes clung to him, tattered and soaked through. His armor—what little was left of it—gleamed dully in the fading light. A breastplate, once magnificent, now dented and scarred, a single pauldron hanging by a thread, the gold tarnished and scratched.

The rest had been torn away by the sea, leaving him exposed, vulnerable.

He looked every inch the hero brought low, a man stripped of his glory, left with nothing but his pain and regret. His dark hair clung to his forehead, still damp with seawater, and his hands rested limply on his knees, fingers digging into the sand as if he needed to feel something solid, something real.

You stopped a few paces away, your shadow stretching out before you. He didn't notice. Didn't even flinch. You could see it then, the full extent of his despair, etched into every line of his face, every weary slump of his shoulders.

He was beautiful, in a tragic sort of way, like a statue of a fallen God.

And you knew, as you stood there watching him, that this one would not be easy to heal. This one had a wound that went far deeper than flesh and bone.

You took a step forward, and then another, until you were close enough that your presence cast a shadow over him. He blinked, as if just now realizing you were there, his head turning slowly, eyes lifting to meet yours.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you was heavy, laden with the unspoken, the unknown.

You held out the basket, your heart pounding in your chest. "You need to eat," you said softly, your voice barely carrying over the sound of the waves.

He didn't move, just stared at you with those piercing eyes, eyes that seemed to see right through you.

And for a moment, you thought he might refuse. That he might just turn away, let himself be swallowed by the sea again, and you would be left standing there, holding out something that could never be enough.

But then, slowly, he reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he took the jug of water from your grasp.

"Thank you," he murmured, the words rough and uncertain, as if he hadn’t spoken in a long time. He took a small sip, then another, his eyes never leaving yours.

You watched him, this broken man, and wondered what kind of suffering had brought him to you.

And what kind of suffering he would bring in return.

The days here had a way of slipping through your fingers, soft and warm like the sands on your island. It was easy to lose track of time, lulled by the rhythm of the waves, the steady pulse of the tides.

You had left him to his own devices, giving him the space he needed to come to terms with whatever fate had led him here. Most of them needed that—time to break down, to cry, to rage at the Gods.

But not this one.

When you returned the next day, basket in hand, you stopped short at the sight before you.

He was shirtless, skin bronzed and gleaming with sweat, muscles taut as he hammered a spike into the ground with a makeshift wooden-mallet. His remaining clothes and battered armor were piled neatly to the side, along with a few other scavenged materials.

The sound of wood striking stone echoed across the beach, a steady, determined rhythm that spoke of purpose.

There was the frame of a hovel half-built, crude but sturdy, the beginnings of a shelter taking shape where there had been only barren sand.

A small pile of freshly caught fish lay nearby, their scales glinting in the sunlight. You could still see the blood on his hands, fresh from gutting and cleaning them. He worked with an intensity that was almost mesmerizing, every movement precise, controlled.

"Wow," you murmured, stepping closer, setting the basket down at your feet. "I'm impressed."

He stilled at the sound of your voice, shoulders tensing as he glanced over his shoulder. Sweat dripped down his brow, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at you, assessing.

You gestured to the hovel, the fish, the evidence of his labor. "Most who arrive here are still crying or lost, not knowing what to do with themselves. You're already building shelter."

His eyes sharpened, his expression shifting from guarded to curious, almost suspicious. He straightened, rolling his shoulders, the muscles in his back shifting under his skin as he set the mallet down. "There have been others?"

You snorted softly, crossing your arms as you looked at him. "Of course, there have been others. Did you think you were the first to be sent here?" The question was almost rhetorical, a simple truth that hung in the air between you.

He frowned, his gaze turning thoughtful, troubled. "Where is here?"

You hesitated for a moment, then took a few steps forward, your eyes flicking to the sword he had tossed carelessly to the side, half-buried in the sand. You reached down, your fingers brushing over the hilt. "This is Ogygia," you said, the name slipping easily from your lips, as familiar to you as your own. "A place of exile, for those the Gods have no more use for."

You were still tracing the hilt of his sword, fingers brushing over the worn leather grip when he spoke again, his voice tight and strained. "Is there a way off this island?"

You stilled, your gaze shifting from the sword to him, catching the desperation in his eyes through your lashes. For a moment, you considered lying, spinning some tale of escape, but you’d seen that look before, and you knew what would follow.

"You can try," you said, your voice calm, almost detached as if you'd had this conversation a thousand times before. "But once you get at least five feet from the shore, the waves will rise and destroy whatever you're floating on to pieces."

The truth of your words hung heavy in the air, a quiet certainty that left no room for hope. His face twisted, the anger and helplessness flaring in his eyes as stared at you.

You could see the way his jaw clenched, muscles ticking beneath the stubble on his cheeks, his fingers flexing and unflexing at his sides as if he wanted to hit something, anything.

He turned away, staring at the horizon as if willing it to yield some answer, some solution.

He was the very picture of a man caught in a trap he couldn't break free from.

"Excuse me," you murmured, pushing yourself up from the sand and brushing off your hands, wanting to give him space to process the reality of his situation.

"Wait!"

The word came out sharp, almost desperate, and you paused, glancing back over your shoulder. He was looking at you, really looking, his eyes piercing, searching for something—anything—that made sense of all this.

"Who are you?"

You could feel the laugh bubbling up inside you—a tired, almost bitter sound that you suppressed, forcing your expression into something calm, something almost serene.

It was always the same: this question, the disbelief, the desperate need to know why they were here, why you were here.

"Calypso," you said, the name falling from your lips like a sigh. "Daughter of Atlas and Pleione."

He blinked, the words clearly not the answer he had been expecting. He stared at you for a long moment, his brow furrowing as if he were trying to piece together a puzzle with missing pieces.

"Calypso," he repeated softly, your name unfamiliar on his tongue. There was a softness to it, a kind of reverence that almost made you want to laugh.

You hummed, a sound low and almost mournful. "Aye, cursed to carry the brunt of my parents' sins."

You saw the way his jaw tightened, the flicker of something like pity in his eyes before he looked away, his gaze shifting to the sand at his feet as if he couldn't bear to look at you.

You wondered what it was he saw, whether he saw you as a jailer or just another prisoner in this place of exile.

He cleared his throat, the sound rough, hesitant. "My name is Eperitus," he said, the words slow, deliberate, like he was testing them out. "From a small village in Thessaly."

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head slightly as you watched him. The name meant nothing to you, but the way he said it—the slight hesitation, the almost imperceptible shift in his posture—it was a lie, or at the very least, not the whole truth.

Still, you nodded, as if you believed him, your lips curving into a small, knowing smile. "Very well, Eperitus," you said, the name rolling off your tongue with a hint of amusement. "I suppose I will leave you to it."

His eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest flicker of suspicion in his gaze, but you didn't give him time to question it. You turned, your bare feet barely making a sound on the sand as you walked away, leaving him there, alone with his thoughts.

You could feel his eyes on your back, the weight of his gaze heavy, but you didn't look back. You had seen this play out too many times before—the hope, the despair, the bargaining with fate.

Each time, it was different, and yet, always the same.

And this man, this Eperitus, whatever name he chose to call himself, was no different.

You just wondered how long it would take him to realize it.

The waterfall cascaded down from the rocks above, the sound a constant, soothing roar that drowned out everything else. The water sparkled in the late afternoon sun, clear and cool as it pooled into the pond below, a hidden sanctuary nestled within the heart of your island.

You stood in the shallow waters, the hem of your white slip floating just above your knees, the fabric clinging to your skin in places where the water lapped gently against you.

The air was sweet with the scent of jasmine and wet earth, the leaves above casting dappled shadows across the surface of the pond.

You hummed softly under your breath, an old song your mother had taught you long ago, a tune that spoke of faraway places and dreams that never seemed to come true.

The melody blended with the sounds of the waterfall, a quiet lullaby that wrapped around you like a warm embrace.

It was peaceful here, a place untouched by the outside world, a place where you could almost forget who you were and why you were here. You dipped your hands into the water, scrubbing at a piece of cloth, the rhythm of the motion almost hypnotic.

Then, a sharp crack echoed through the grove, the sound of a branch snapping underfoot. Your head snapped up, your heart skipping a beat as your eyes scanned the treeline.

It took only a moment for your gaze to settle on him, partially hidden behind the bushes, his body frozen in a half-crouch, as if he had been trying to sneak away unnoticed.

"Eperitus?" you called out softly, your voice carrying easily over the sound of the water. He flinched, his eyes wide, a startled, almost guilty look on his face as he straightened up. He took a step back, his gaze darting around as if he were trying to find an escape.

For a moment, you thought he might run, but then he seemed to gather himself, his shoulders slumping slightly as he stepped forward, pushing through the bushes. "I didn't mean to startle you," he said, his voice low, almost apologetic. His cheeks were flushed, whether from the heat or embarrassment, you couldn’t tell.

You offered him a small, reassuring smile, setting the cloth aside as you turned to face him fully. "It's alright," you said gently, wiping your hands on the slip, the water dripping from your fingers. "I wasn't expecting company, that's all."

He nodded, his eyes flicking to the ground, then back to you, a hesitant, almost bashful look on his face. "I just... I was looking for you," he admitted, his voice barely above a murmur. "I thought I'd, well... check in."

You tilted your head slightly, studying him.

It had been a few weeks since your last conversation on the beach, and in that time, you had kept your distance, letting him find his footing, so to speak. He was more self-sufficient than most who ended up here, resourceful and determined in a way that spoke of a man who had spent years fighting to survive.

You had stepped back, observing him from a distance, only intervening when necessary.

You'd seen him sitting on the shore more than once, staring out at the sea with a look in his eyes that made your chest ache. A kind of yearning, a quiet desperation that seemed to pull at something deep inside you.

Other times, you'd found him working tirelessly on his shelter, hammering away at the wooden frame with a focus that bordered on obsession.

You shrugged lightly, the gesture casual, as if it didn't matter to you either way. "You've been doing fine on your own," you said, your tone light, almost teasing. "Didn't think you needed my help."

His lips twitched, the ghost of a smile passing over his face before it faded. He glanced down at his hands, rough and calloused, the fingers still smudged with dirt and sawdust. "I wasn't sure if I was... interrupting," he said awkwardly, his gaze flicking back up to meet yours.

You laughed softly, the sound echoing through the grove. "You've been here long enough to know I'm not that easy to disturb," you said, amusement coloring your words. You glanced at him, taking in the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the awkwardness that seemed almost out of place on a man like him.

"Besides," you added, your voice softening slightly, "I've been keeping an eye on you. Just to make sure you didn't do anything foolish."

His eyes widened slightly, and you saw a flash of something in his gaze—surprise, maybe, or something close to it. "I've been that obvious, have I?"

You shook your head, taking a few steps closer until you were standing just at the edge of the pond, the water swirling around your waist. "You're not the first to end up here, remember?" you said quietly. "I know the signs."

He looked away, his jaw tightening as he stared at the ground, his hands curling into fists at his sides. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he seemed to hold himself together by sheer force of will.

"I'm sorry." He glanced back at you, his eyes dark with something you couldn't quite name. "I didn't mean to—"

"To what?" you interrupted gently, your gaze softening as you looked at him. "You've done nothing wrong, Eperitus."

He flinched slightly at the name, and you saw the flicker of guilt in his eyes before he quickly looked away. It was almost imperceptible, but you caught it, that brief hesitation, that moment of uncertainty.

You hummed softly, waving him off with a light smile. "No worries," you said, your voice easy and warm. You turned away, wading through the cool water to where the last cloth floated lazily on the surface.

The fabric clung to your fingers as you lifted it, squeezing out the excess water, your movements slow and deliberate. Droplets slid down your arms, glistening like tiny jewels in the fading light as you made your way back to the shore.

Setting the damp cloth gently in the woven basket with the other clean clothes, you straightened, brushing a few stray strands of hair from your face. "I was meaning to tell you, there's fresh water here. You can come and bathe; clean up a bit." You tilted your head, a playful smirk tugging at your lips as you shifted the basket to the side. "Unless you're the type of Greek who doesn't do that."

He let out a short, surprised chuckle at that, the sound rough and genuine, his shoulders relaxing just a little. But then his laughter died away, the words faltering on his lips as he looked at you.

You stepped out of the pond, the water cascading down your legs, the sunlight filtering through the leaves above, casting a soft, golden glow over your skin. Your white slip clung to you like a second skin, the wet fabric almost translucent, outlining the curves of your body in a way that made his breath catch in his throat.

His eyes roamed over you, unbidden, as if drawn by some unseen force. Your smooth, sun-kissed skin glistened with droplets of water, each one catching the light, making you look like you were carved from marble, like a statue come to life.

Your hair, damp and wild, was adorned with small pieces of coral and tiny flowers—a crown of nature's bounty that seemed almost otherworldly.

By Aphrodite's grace…

The thought struck him like a blow, and he had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from letting the words slip past his lips. He watched you, mesmerized, as you moved with an effortless grace, your bare feet barely making a sound on the moss-covered stones.

Every step, every sway of your hips, seemed to pull him in deeper, into a trance he couldn't escape.

You seemed almost unreal, as if the Gods themselves had sculpted you from the very essence of desire.

His gaze lingered on your lips, soft and full, naturally pouty in a way that made his mouth go dry. He thought to reach out and feel the warmth of your skin beneath his fingers, to trace the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck.

He swallowed hard, his pulse thrumming in his ears, his hands clenched into fists at his sides to keep from losing himself completely.

His breath hitched, his mind spiraling, teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something he shouldn't be thinking, shouldn't be feeling.

He had a wife, a son, a home waiting for him, a life he had fought tooth and nail to return to.

Penelope, with her quiet strength and unwavering loyalty, the woman he loved more than life itself.

And yet, here he was, staring at you like a starving man, drinking in every detail, every inch of your body with a hunger that burned in his veins.

It was wrong, all of it, and yet he couldn't look away, couldn't pull himself free from the spell you had woven around him.

You were beautiful, achingly so, and in that moment, he knew he was treading dangerous ground.

And for the first time in a long, long time, he truly felt afraid.

"Eperitus?"

Your voice, soft and lilting, broke through the haze in his mind, snapping him back to reality. You were looking at him with those wide, doe-like eyes, your gaze gentle, curious, your lips curved into the barest hint of a smile.

He cleared his throat, the sound rough and strangled, his eyes wide as if he'd just snatched Persephone from Hades' very arms. He took a stumbling step back, his hands raising slightly as if in surrender, his gaze darting away from you as if your very presence burned him.

"I—I'm sorry," he stammered, his voice uneven, breaking on the last word. He shook his head, the movement almost frantic, as if he could shake free of whatever spell you had woven around him. "I didn't mean to—I should—I should go."

He gestured vaguely toward the forest behind him, his hands trembling ever so slightly. "Fish," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the word itself was a lifeline, something to hold onto in the chaos of his thoughts. "I need to— I'll go fish. Or forage. Or fix something. Yes, I'll— I'll go do that."

He took another step back, almost tripping over his own feet; his cheeks flushed a deep, mortified red. His eyes flicked back to you, just for a moment, and then away again before hurrying off like a man fleeing the scene of a crime, the ghost of your beauty chasing him, haunting his every step.

You watched him go, an amused smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You almost felt bad for him.

Almost.

The sun dipped low on the horizon, its light spilling across the sea in a riot of colors—gold and crimson bleeding into the darkening blue of the water, the water shimmering like liquid gold beneath the dying light.

You sat with your legs curled up beside you on the cliff's edge, the wind whispering around you, soft and cool, tugging gently at your hair as if trying to coax you closer to the edge.

This was your favorite place on the island, the place where the land met the sea, where you could sit and lose yourself in the endless expanse of water and sky. It was where you had seen him, Eperitus—his body limp and broken, washed ashore like so many others before him, another lost soul thrown at your feet by the whims of the Gods.

The ocean stretched out before you, vast and endless, its beauty a cruel mockery of the cage that held you.

For as long as you could remember, this had been your only view, the only sight that had remained unchanged through centuries of exile. The sky, the sea, the stars—eternally bound to this lonely rock, this place that was both your sanctuary and your prison.

The water was so close, just a few feet away, and yet it might as well have been a world apart. You could still feel it, the pull of the tides, the longing that thrummed in your veins, the memory of what it was to be one with the sea.

You sighed softly, your gaze following the path of the sun as it dipped lower, the sky turning from brilliant orange to deep purple.

Once, you had swum through these waters as freely as the dolphins, your body slicing through the waves like a silver blade. The ocean had been your domain, your home, every current and tide a part of you.

You were a sea nymph, a daughter of the sea, wild and unbound, but the water no longer sang to you—no longer held the promise of escape.

But that was before.

You closed your eyes, the memories crashing over you like waves, each one more painful than the last.

The Titanomachy. The great war that had torn the heavens and the earth apart, that had pitted brother against brother, father against son.

You had watched from the sidelines, powerless to intervene, to stop the destruction that had swept through your family, your kind. And when the dust had settled, when the victors had claimed their spoils and the losers had been cast down into the darkness, you had been left behind, forgotten.

Or so you had thought.

The punishment had come later, delivered with the cold, indifferent hand of justice.

You, the daughter of Atlas, the child of Pleione, had been deemed unworthy, a threat to the new order of things. And so you had been cast out, not to the depths of Tartarus, but to this island, this paradise-turned-prison, to live out your days in endless solitude.

You had not wept, not then.

You had been too proud, too defiant to show the Gods your pain. But as the years had passed, as one by one, those who washed up on your shores had come and gone, the loneliness had seeped into your bones, a slow, insidious poison that sapped your strength, your will.

You had not been broken by the war, but by the endless, unchanging years that followed. You had stopped counting the days, the years. Time had lost its meaning here, each day bleeding into the next in an endless, monotonous cycle.

You had grown numb, your heart a hollow thing, a fragile shell that you guarded fiercely, lest it shatter completely.

And yet, there were moments like this, rare and fleeting, when the ache became too much to bear, when the weight of your exile pressed down on you like a physical thing, crushing the breath from your lungs.

You missed it… the life you had once known—the feel of the water around you, the way it had held you, cradled you in its depths.

The life that you would never get back.

Your eyes stung, the salt of unshed tears burning as you blinked furiously, refusing to let them fall. What good would it do? What good had it ever done? The Gods did not care for your tears, your pain.

They had made their judgment, and you were bound to it, bound to this place, this fate.

You glanced back over your shoulder, towards the fire, towards the small, simple home you had made for yourself on this cursed rock. You had tried to build something, to find some small measure of peace, of contentment in the simple things—the warmth of the sun on your skin, the sound of the waves, the smell of the salt air.

But it was never enough. It would never be enough.

A soft, bitter laugh slipped past your lips. How foolish you had been to think you could defy them, to think that you could carve out some semblance of a life here.

A soft "hey" broke through your thoughts, the voice low and tentative. You blinked, your gaze shifting from the horizon to find him standing a few feet behind you, his posture stiff and uncertain. Eperitus looked like he was at war with himself, his eyes dark and troubled as they searched your face.

"Hey," you replied softly, your voice barely carrying over the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below.

You studied him for a moment, taking in the subtle changes—the way his skin looked cleaner, the faint smell of salt and fresh water clinging to him. He must have taken the time to bathe at the spring, washing away the grime of his journey.

A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips, and you raised an eyebrow, a teasing lilt in your voice. "I see you took my advice?"

He chuckled, the sound a bit awkward but genuine, as if he were unused to laughing. He took a few hesitant steps closer before lowering himself beside you, his legs dangling off the edge of the cliff.

For a moment, he said nothing, just sitting there with you, watching as the sun dipped lower, its golden light spilling across the water like liquid gold.

You followed his gaze, the sight of the setting sun a familiar comfort, yet tinged with the ever-present ache of longing. "Helios is resting now," you murmured, your eyes softening as the last sliver of the sun slipped beneath the horizon, casting the world into the gentle embrace of twilight. "Even gods need a reprieve from their duties."

His gaze remained on the horizon, the light from the fire behind you casting shadows across his face. He let out a deep, weary sigh, as if the weight of the world had finally caught up to him. He turned to you then, his eyes searching yours with a vulnerability that made your breath catch.

"Look, Calypso…" His voice was strained, rough around the edges, as if the words were being dragged out of him. He swallowed hard, his gaze darting away, unable to meet your eyes. "I haven't been truthful with you." He ran a hand through his still-damp hair, his fingers trembling slightly. "My name… it's not Eperitus. I'm not some soldier from a village in Thessaly."

He paused, drawing in a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of his own lies were too much to bear. "My name is Odysseus," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking it aloud might shatter the fragile peace between you. "I'm a king—from Ithaca."

You watched him, your expression unreadable, your heart beating steadily in your chest as his words settled in the air between you.

Odysseus.

The name hung there, heavy with meaning, with the weight of the legend that preceded him. A name that had been whispered on the lips of sailors and soldiers, spoken with reverence and fear, a name that had traveled farther than the man himself.

He turned his gaze back to you, his eyes filled with something like regret, like guilt. "I gave you a false name because I… I wasn't sure if I could trust you. I didn't know if you were friend or foe, if you were another test from the gods, another trial to endure."

He swallowed again, his throat working as he struggled to find the right words, the right way to explain himself. "But your kindness… the way you've treated me, even when I didn't deserve it…" He trailed off, his eyes searching yours, pleading for understanding. "I'm sorry, Calypso. I've spent so long fighting, lying, doing whatever it took to survive, that I forgot what it meant to be honest, to trust."

You let out a sharp snort, then burst into a fit of giggles. The sound caught Odysseus off guard, his head snapping over to you, eyes wide with something like panic. He clearly expected anger or disappointment, but you waved him off, your hand covering your mouth as you struggled to stifle your laughter.

"I-I'm sorry," you managed to say between chuckles, your shoulders shaking as you tried to catch your breath. "It's just… 'Eperitus'? Really?" You let out another peal of laughter, the sound almost musical in its lightness. "I mean, really? 'Man of Strife'? I may have been stuck on this island for eons, but even that sounds fake! You're lucky I'm polite enough not to have called you out on it."

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and before he could stop himself, he was laughing too, a deep, genuine sound that seemed to surprise him as much as it did you. He rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head in mock defeat. "I suppose you are the first to see through it so quickly," he admitted, his voice warm with reluctant admiration.

You hummed, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you leaned back on your palms, the firelight casting a soft glow on your face. "Those around you must not have been that bright to believe it," you teased lightly, watching as his laughter grew, the sound carrying out over the darkening sea.

Odysseus chuckled, shaking his head again. "You'd be surprised," he said, his voice warm with shared humor. "Sometimes, people believe what they want to believe. A name is just a name, after all."

You nodded, the laughter slowly fading as a comfortable silence settled between you, the sound of the waves filling the space left behind.

You glanced at him, the firelight casting his face in soft, flickering shadows, highlighting the lines etched into his features, the weariness in his eyes.

You found yourself wanting to know, to understand, what had brought him here, to your shores, so far from his home.

"How did you find yourself here, Odysseus?" you asked quietly, your voice carrying a note of genuine curiosity. "A king of Ithaca, so far from home."

His smile faltered, the light in his eyes dimming as his shoulders slumped under an invisible weight. He let out a long, weary sigh, his gaze dropping to his hands, his fingers tracing absent patterns in the sand.

"It's… it's a long tale," he murmured, his voice heavy with the weight of too many memories. "One filled with more suffering than I care to remember."

You shifted slightly, turning to face him more fully, your eyes fixed on his as you waited, patient, giving him the space to begin.

He drew in a deep breath, as if steeling himself, and then he spoke, his words slow, deliberate, carrying the weight of years of pain and regret. "It all began with a war," he started, his voice low, almost reverent. "Helen of Troy, they called her. The most beautiful woman in the world, stolen from her husband, Menelaus, by Paris of Troy."

You nodded, familiar with the tale. It was a story that had reached even the shores of your island, carried on the whispers of the waves.

"I was tasked to join the rescue," he continued, his gaze distant, as if he were seeing those events play out before him, the battles, the bloodshed. "I sailed with six hundred men, my loyal soldiers to reclaim her and bring her back to Menelaus. We stormed the beaches of Troy, built walls of bodies and dreams, all for the sake of one woman."

He paused, his jaw tightening as he struggled to find the words. "We fought for ten years," he said, his voice raw with emotion. "Ten long years of death, of suffering, of loss…" You could see the pain, the regret, etched into every line of his face. "And when we finally breached the walls, when we finally stood victorious, I thought… I thought that would be the end of it. I thought I could go home…"

He laughed then, a bitter, hollow sound. "…but the Gods had other plans."

You watched him, your heart aching with a sympathy you couldn't quite explain, couldn't quite contain. "What happened?"

He shook his head, his gaze dropping to his hands, his fingers twisting together as if he were trying to hold onto something slipping through his grasp. "We set sail for home, but the winds were against us. We were thrown off course, tossed from island to island, each one more cursed than the last." He swallowed, the sound thick and heavy in the stillness. "I made… unsavory decisions, angered those who should not be angered," he admitted, his voice cracking just slightly, the words dragged from some dark place deep within him. "I sacrificed my honor, everything, all for the sake of returning to Ithaca."

You listened in silence as he recounted his tale, the trials and tribulations that had followed—the blinding of the Cyclops, the enchantment of Circe, the deadly song of the Sirens. Each word, each memory, seemed to take a piece of him, leaving him more worn, more broken.

"I lost good men. Friends. Brothers…" he whispered, his voice cracking with the weight of his grief. "I lost them all... Every single one of them…"

You were silent for a long moment, studying the way his shoulders were hunched, his hands clenched into fists on his lap, the way his eyes shone with a pain you could almost feel. He was a man broken by war, by loss, by the endless trials the gods had thrown at him.

A man who had forgotten how to be anything but what the world demanded of him.

And here he was, baring his soul to you, offering up his truth like a fragile, precious thing. You would have gave your sorrows, but from what you've known of him, it wouldn't do any good.

A sigh escaped your lips, soft and resigned, as you turned your gaze back to the sea, the waves rolling in gentle, rhythmic swells, the last of the light fading into the deep, dark blue of the coming night. "Odysseus of Ithaca," you murmured, the name tasting strange on your tongue, heavy with the weight of all that it carried. "You're not the first to wash up on my shores, lost and broken," you said quietly, your eyes fixed on the horizon, your voice carrying a sadness that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the endless, unchanging cycle of your existence. "And you won't be the last."

He looked at you then, really looked at you, as if seeing you for the first time, his eyes tracing the lines of your face, the curve of your shoulders, the way the firelight played across your skin.

You could feel his gaze like a physical thing, warm and searching, and for a moment, you almost believed that he could see you, not as the myth, the story, the cursed daughter of Atlas, but as something more, something real.

But you knew better.

"You're right not to trust me, Odysseus," you continued, your voice steady, calm. "I'm bound by my curse, just as you're bound by your fate. We're both prisoners here, in our own way."

He opened his mouth to speak, to protest, but you shook your head, a small, sad smile playing at the corners of your lips. "You don't owe me anything," you said softly, your eyes meeting his, holding his gaze with a quiet intensity. "But thank you, for your honesty. For your truth."

He stared at you, his eyes dark and unreadable, the silence between you heavy with the weight of all that remained unspoken. And then, slowly, almost hesitantly, he reached out, his hand hovering just inches from yours, the warmth of his skin a tantalizing whisper against your own.

For a moment, you thought he might take your hand, might bridge the distance between you.

But then he hesitated, his fingers curling into a fist, and he drew back, the moment slipping away like sand through your fingers.

You looked away, your heart aching with a familiar, bittersweet pain, your eyes drifting back to the sea, to the endless, unchanging horizon.

And so you sat there, side by side, two souls bound by the whims of the Gods, watching as the last light faded from the sky, as the stars began to bloom overhead, bright and cold and distant.

Together, yet worlds apart.

A/N: ahhh! not me falling in love with this lil one-shot. anywho, had to cut this in half cuz it was getting ridonculusly long... prt 2 shall be here soon tho, also, would you guys be cool if i added smut to it or nah? cuz i feel like the smut between these two will be so angsty cuz deep down odysseus ass still loves penelope, so calypso!reader is really just getting used, ma babieee 😭😭

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multi-fandom-imagine · 2 months ago

Text

Baby Snatcher || Ichigo Kurosaki ||

A/n: Wrote this before going into work

The hospital room was peaceful—well, as peaceful as it could be after the exhausting ordeal of childbirth. You laid in the bed, eyes barely open, utterly drained but filled with warmth at the sight of Ichigo holding your newborn son for the first time. His usual sharp features were softened, his amber eyes filled with awe as he cradled the tiny bundle in his arms.

It was a beautiful moment.

Then Isshin Kurosaki happened.

Like a hurricane in human form, Isshin swooped in, dramatically wiping away nonexistent tears as he declared, “MY FIRST GRANDCHILD! OH, THE HEAVENS HAVE BLESSED ME!” Before anyone could react, he snatched the baby from Ichigo’s arms, twirling dramatically as if he were starring in some over-the-top stage play.

You could see Ichigo’s entire body lock up, your eyes closing already knowing where this was leading.

“…Give him back,” Ichigo’s voice was dangerously low, his jaw tightening. His hands twitched at his sides, visibly restraining himself from grabbing his father by the collar and shaking him senseless.

Isshin, completely ignoring his son’s impending meltdown, held the baby close, cooing at him with an exaggerated pout. “Oh, little one, don’t you worry! Grandpa will protect you from your mean, scary father! Unlike Ichigo, I actually love expressing my emotions!”

Ichigo took a slow, deep breath. His reiatsu spiked—just slightly. He sworn to himself feeling that his teeth were about to crack at any moment.

“Dad,” he gritted out, fists clenching. “I swear to every spirit in existence, if you don’t give my son back right now, I will commit a crime...they won't even be able to find your body.”

“Oh-ho, threats already? Is fatherhood turning you violent, Ichigo?!” Isshin gasped dramatically, bouncing the baby gently in his arms. “I never knew you had it in you! It took me at least a year before I started having murder fantasies over my own father!”

You let out a tired groan, turning your head weakly toward them. “Isshin,” you mumbled, barely able to lift your hand. “Give. Me. My. Son."

“Oh, but my dear daughter-in-law, you need your rest! Leave the baby to Grandpa Isshin! I will teach him the ways of love, passion, and drama! Just look how adorable he is...nothing like his father!"

Ichigo’s eye twitched so violently you were surprised his soul hadn’t left his body in frustration. His fingers twitched as though he was seconds away from pulling Zangetsu straight out of thin air and settling this the old-fashioned way.

“DAD.”

But Isshin only grinned, unbothered by his son’s barely restrained bloodlust. He looked down at his grandson, then back up at Ichigo.

“…Alright, alright, I’m done.” With a sigh (and what looked suspiciously like a mischievous glint in his eyes), Isshin finally—finally—handed the baby back to Ichigo.

The new born barely opened his eyes looking up at his father until he relaxed again letting out a soft coo.Ichigo’s expression immediately softened as he held his son again, glaring at his father one last time for good measure before muttering, “Idiot.”

Isshin, completely unfazed, wiped away another fake tear. “Ah, I see how it is. My son becomes a father, and suddenly I am tossed aside like an old rag! Cast into the shadows! Forgotten—”

Ichigo turned, eyes flashing. “Get out.”

Isshin cackled, ducked under a swipe then darted out of the hospital room.

You sighed, too tired to intervene, but at least you had your baby back. And maybe—just maybe—Ichigo wouldn’t actually murder his father today.

…Maybe....hopefully

#ichigo kurosaki #drabbles #drabble #ichigo kurosaki x reader #Ichigo Kurosaki x you #ichigo x reader #ichigo x you #bleach #bleach x reader #bleach x you #bleach x y/n #bleach x female reader

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devilstruly · 10 months ago

Text

SUB (?) JASON TODD (18+)

pairing - red hood x fem reader

includes - bondage (m), masturbation, vouyerism, riding, sub turning to dom (if that's not a thing it is now), pet names (princess bc jason is 100% a princess guy and i will die on this hill)

a/n - i think about this man 24/7 i have nothing to say for myself

Imagine tying this 6'5 man down to a chair. it's near the bed, angled just right so he can see everything you're doing. Now you're no fool, tying him down with something as weak as a rope simply won't do.

So you do the next best thing, two sets of handcuffs, not the cheap ones, the actual metal ones that have a key, currently hanging on a chain around your neck. A chain that he gifted you and that he's sure you wore on purpose.

Anywho, he’s sitting in his Red Hood suit, helmet and jacket off, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, cock straining painfully against his pants.

'Eyes on me, Jay, c'mon. I'm doing this for you.'

Your voice is an octave higher and you barely manage a full sentence due to your ragged breathing.

Jason groans, growls more like it, eyes narrowing at you.

'You're playing dirty, princess.' He grits out, arms flexing and hands clenching into fists.

'Who? Me?' You bite your lip to suppress a moan as you curl your fingers. 'Dunno what you're talking about.'

His eyes watch like a hawk when your thighs flex and shake, your head thrown back in a loud moan of his name.

He curses violently, tugging at the restraints for the milionth time. The keys jiggle with your breasts as you move from the bed slowly, throwing your legs over his to effectively straddle him.

Jason's eyes don't leave your body for even a second, completely in a trance. It's only when you hook a finger under his chin and force him to look you in the eyes that he regains focus.

'You're driving me fucking insane, I hope you know that.'

The admission makes you smile, almost seductively and Jason swears he feels his dick twitch in his pants.

You start grinding on him slowly, spelling his name with your hips. His eyes roll back in ecstasy, strings of curses leaving him between breathless moans and whimpers.

He takes one look at the keys between your breasts, deciding he's had enough of your games. Taking you by surprise he leans forward and snaps the chain using his teeth.

Somehow he manages to take it in one of his hands, quickly escaping the first set of cuffs.

'Hey! No fair-'

You protest, still straddling him, hands on his chest. Jason merely grunts as he unlocks the other pair in record speed, hands flying to your hips immediately.

'You've been in charge enough, princess. Now it's my turn.'

His eyes are blown with lust as they rake over your figure and the small pout on your face.

'But I wanted to- Ah!'

Any complaints you might have had are shut down immediately when he starts moving you at a pace he likes, a loud sigh of relief escaping him.

'You were saying?'

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd imagine #jason todd red hood #jason todd #jason fucking todd #jason todd smut #red hood x you #red hood x reader #red hood smut #dc #dc comics #batman

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stillbornfrost · 20 days ago

Text

League of Villians: Reaction to your death.

(Featuring: Tomura Shigaraki, Dabi, Toga Himiko, Spinner, Twice, and Mr Compress)

Tomura Shigaraki

Tomura didn't scream when you died.

Your chest stopped rising under his bloodied hands, your mouth parted as if you still had something left to say. His brain refused to accept it. His heart beat on like a cruel joke, each thud an insult against your stillness.

He just stared.

The world around him fell away, peeled back like skin. Sound drowned in static. Colors dimmed to ash.

He touched your face—bare, reckless—and this time he wanted his quirk to activate. He wanted to rot the world into dust starting with himself. But nothing happened. Your skin, once so alive beneath him, was already too far gone for death to touch twice.

His hands shook as he cradled you, bones creaking under the weight of a grief too dense, too vicious to name.

"Look at me," he hissed, voice a cracked, ugly thing. "Wake up. Wake the fuck up."

But your eyes stayed closed. Peaceful. Distant. Like you had taken all the light with you.

Something feral, something ancient and monstrous, crawled out of him then. A choked, animalistic sound burst from his throat as he pulled you closer, pressing his face into your chest, into the hollow where your heartbeat should have been.

He stayed there, teeth gritted, jaw locked so tight it ached, trembling so violently it seemed like the earth itself shook with him. His nails scraped shallow gouges into his own arms without noticing.

"You stupid... liar," Tomura whispered against your skin, voice soaked in venom and sorrow. "You said you'd stay... you said... you said..."

He was supposed to die first. That was the deal. He was the monster, the ruined thing, the villain. Well you were a villain too but.. You didn't deserve- A sharp, ugly laugh tore from him. It echoed over the battlefield, eerie and broken, before dying into silence.

He buried you in his arms, cradling the corpse of the only thing he ever loved, as the world rotted inside him.

For the first time, Tomura Shigaraki wished his hands had worked.

He would have crumbled the whole fucking earth just to follow you into whatever cold, dark place you had gone.

And he would have done it smiling.

Dabi

Ash hung in the air like a funeral shroud, the fires crackling and popping in the hollow silence.

You were collapsed against the rubble, blood soaking into the cracked ground, skin too pale in the blue light of the flames.

Dabi stood over you, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

He stared down, swallowing hard against the knot in his throat.

"Figures," he said, voice rough and low. "You always were a goddamn idiot."

He dropped to his knees beside you, jacket brushing against the dirt. His hands hovered uselessly in the air — twitching forward, jerking back — like he couldn't decide whether to hold you or let you go.

Your eyes opened, barely, and you smiled when you saw him.

That same soft, stupid smile you always gave him.

Like he wasn’t a monster. Like he was worth something.

"I’m... sorry," you breathed.

Dabi’s jaw tightened.

He scoffed, looking away like he couldn't bear to see you like this.

"Don’t," he muttered. "Don’t say sorry. I shoulda known you'd pull some shit like this."

Your hand reached for him — slow, shaking — and he caught it halfway, his own hand hot and trembling as he gripped yours too tight, like he could anchor you here by force.

"I love you," you whispered, like it was the last secret you had left.

For a second, Dabi didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

His stitched-up face twisted, something ugly and desperate flickering through his blue eyes.

He laughed — sharp, broken — the sound punching through the smoke like a blade.

"You're such a fucking idiot," he said, voice cracking hard enough to shatter.

You smiled again — smaller now, fading — and then your hand slipped from his fingers, falling away into the dust.

Gone.

Dabi just sat there, staring down at you.

The fires guttered low around him.

The world felt cold, even with the flames licking at his heels.

He blinked slowly, and for a terrifying moment, he thought about setting the whole goddamn world on fire.

Leveling every street, every building, every face that ever existed.

Instead, he leaned down, forehead pressing against your cold one, breathing you in one last time.

"You’re such a pain in my ass," he whispered, so quietly even he barely heard it.

He stayed like that for a long, long time, until the fires around him finally died, and the night swallowed the ruins whole.

When he stood, he didn’t look back.

Couldn’t.

His hands were steady now.

Steady and burning.

And even though he didn’t cry, even though he didn't scream your name to the heavens, Dabi knew —

somewhere deep in the hollow, scorched thing that used to be his heart —

that he would never forgive the world for letting you die.

And he would never forgive himself for letting you love him first.

Toga Himiko

The first thing Himiko Toga saw was the blood.

So much of it, soaking your clothes, staining the ground beneath you.

Her heart fluttered in her chest.

"You look so cute like that!" she chirped as she skipped toward you, knife twirling lazily in her hand. "All messy and red and —"

She stopped.

Something in her stomach twisted, sharp and wrong.

The way your body was slumped. The way your chest barely moved.

Her smile faltered.

"...Hey?" she said, voice smaller now, unsure.

She took a few slow steps closer, the knife slipping from her fingers and clattering to the ground unnoticed.

You turned your head toward her, sluggish and weak, blood dripping from your mouth.

"Himiko..." you rasped.

The last of the warmth drained from her excitement, leaving something heavy and cold behind.

She dropped to her knees, scrambling to reach you.

"No, no, no," she whispered, hands flying over you, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to fix it, but it was too much — too deep — too late.

"You’re not supposed to look like this," she said, voice cracking. "I like blood, but not when it means... not when it means this!"

Tears welled in her wide golden eyes.

"You’re supposed to be okay," she whispered fiercely, like if she said it enough, it would be true. "You're supposed to stay with me!"

You managed a faint smile.

Even now, you still tried to make her feel better.

"I'm sorry," you breathed.

Toga shook her head wildly, blonde hair whipping across her tear-streaked face.

"No! Don’t say sorry! I love you!" she sobbed, grabbing your hand and pressing it to her cheek. "I love you, okay? Just stay! Just stay and love me back!"

You tried to squeeze her fingers.

Tried.

But your hand was already slipping away from hers.

"No, no, no," she chanted under her breath, rocking you back and forth. "You promised me! You said we'd find someplace quiet! You said we could just be together! You can’t leave! You can't!"

You blinked slowly at her, your body trembling with the last shreds of strength.

"I love you too," you whispered.

And then you were gone.

The world tilted sideways around her.

The night pressed in, thick and suffocating.

She stayed there long after your body had gone cold,

clutching the memory of your touch like a bruise she didn’t want to heal.

The stars above blinked, uncaring,

and the night swallowed her soft, broken promises.

You had been warmth.

You had been laughter.

You had been the only thing in a world of sharp edges that hadn’t tried to cut her.

And now you were just a silence she couldn’t stop screaming into.

Toga closed her eyes, pressing her forehead to where your heart used to beat.

"If love means hurting," she whispered,

"then I’ll hurt forever, if it means I can keep you with me."

The blood dried.

The world moved on.

But Himiko Toga stayed kneeling in the ruins,

loving a ghost who had never once made her feel like she was a monster.

Spinner

Spinner found you lying there, broken under the cracked glow of a streetlamp.

The blood around you had already begun to dry, black and sticky against the concrete.

Your hand was curled toward your chest, like you had been trying to hold yourself together.

He stumbled forward, dropping to his knees so hard it rattled through his bones.

For a second — one terrible second — he thought you might still be breathing.

That maybe if he just touched you, you’d blink awake and smile that small, tired smile you always saved for him.

“Hey,” he rasped, reaching for your face with shaking hands.

Your skin was still warm.

Still you.

But your chest didn’t rise.

Your lips didn’t move.

The world blurred at the edges, spinning out into something weightless and cruel.

He pressed his forehead to yours, feeling the cold creep in between them.

“Wake up,” he begged, voice hoarse, breaking apart.

“Come on. Please. Wake up. You promised.”

But you didn’t move.

You never would again.

He stayed there, curled around your body as the smoke thickened and the sirens wailed.

When the others finally found him, they had to pry him off you, piece by piece.

Spinner didn’t even fight.

He just sat there, empty hands in his lap, watching the world move on without you.

And in the hollow where his heart used to be, something cracked and bled and didn’t stop.

Not for a long, long time.

Twice

Twice sprinted through the smoke, his coat flapping behind him,

panic clawing up his throat.

He found you lying there — broken, bleeding — your body half-crushed under the rubble.

Your hand twitched once, weakly, reaching for nothing.

“No, no, no — no way, this isn’t happening!” he gasped, falling to his knees beside you.

He fumbled at the rocks, scraping his hands bloody trying to pull you free.

“You’re fine! You’re gonna be fine!” he said.

Then, in the same breath,

“You’re dead. You’re dead and it’s my fault.”

The words tangled over each other, panic and denial fighting for space in his mouth.

He finally uncovered you, dragging you into his lap.

Your eyes fluttered open, just for a second — just long enough to find his.

You smiled, small and broken and soft,

the kind of smile that gutted him worse than any wound.

“Jin...” you whispered.

And then you went still.

Twice stared down at you, his whole body trembling.

“No— no, no, no, come on! Wake up! Wake UP!”

He shook you gently at first, then harder, desperate to undo it.

He would have ripped the world in half if it meant getting you back.

“You said you’d come home! You promised!”

His voice cracked, high and wild and full of too many people —

the broken man he used to be, the fighter he tried to become —

all crumbling in his arms.

He held you close, rocking you back and forth like a child,

muttering nonsense under his breath.

“It’s okay, you’re just sleeping.

You’ll wake up and yell at me for being dramatic.

You’ll laugh and hit me and tell me I’m an idiot.”

A wet, broken laugh bubbled from his lips.

“I'm an idiot. I'm such an idiot.”

But you didn’t move.

You didn’t even breathe.

Twice curled himself around you, hiding you from the world,

shielding you the only way he knew how —

even though it was too late.

When the others found him, he didn’t let go.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even blink.

He just clung to you like you were still his,

like if he held on tight enough,

maybe you wouldn’t slip away too.

Mr Compress

Mr. Compress wasn’t fast enough.

He found you collapsed in the wreckage of a shattered street,

the night choking on smoke and ash around you.

You lay sprawled on the concrete, blood spilling out from under you in a slow, terrible bloom.

He knelt beside you in silence, his coat brushing against the dust and broken glass.

His gloved hands hovered over your body — careful, desperate —

as if afraid he might hurt you more just by touching you.

You were still warm.

Still soft.

Still the person he had allowed himself to care for, against every instinct to stay detached.

“A performance cut far too short,” he murmured, voice cracking despite the way he tried to steady it.

He reached to lift your mask, brushing his fingers gently over your cheek.

Your eyes, half-open, stared past him — glassy and far away.

Your chest didn’t rise.

The stage had already gone dark.

Compress bowed his head, his hands trembling where they gripped yours.

“I should have been here sooner,” he whispered.

The words tasted like failure in his mouth,

like ashes and broken promises.

He stayed there with you, even as the battle raged on around him —

the sirens, the shouting, the chaos.

None of it mattered.

The world could end tonight, and all he would remember was this:

the way you looked in the final act,

the way he hadn’t saved you.

When the others came, they tried to pull him away.

Gently, at first.

Then firmer.

But Compress didn’t resist.

He only pressed one gloved hand over your heart —

where it should have been beating

—

and murmured a final, broken line, half prayer, half goodbye.

“A magician’s greatest tragedy is losing what he cannot bring back.”

And when they led him away, he didn’t look back.

He couldn’t.

Because in that moment,

he wasn’t the Gentleman Thief.

He wasn’t the Showman.

He was just a man,

cradling the ruins of what he loved.

#league of villains #shigaraki tomura #mha dabi #toga himiko #spinner #mr compress #mha #tomura shiragaki #tomura shigaraki x reader #dabi x reader #mha x reader #toga x reader #twice #twice mha

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ashthesalamipiece · 8 days ago

Text

"Still With You" — chapter 1: The Breaking Point

(Kiribaku x Fem!Reader — TW: Suicide attempt, self-harm, hospitalization)

---

The dorms were quiet that night.

Too quiet.

The hum of electronics was replaced by an eerie stillness, like the air itself was holding its breath. Bakugou didn’t realize he was pacing until Kirishima grabbed his wrist.

“She’s been gone for a while,” Kirishima said softly, his voice tinged with unease. “Did she say anything to you earlier?”

Bakugou shook his head, his crimson eyes narrowed. “No. Said she was going to shower after training. That was almost two hours ago.”

They both looked at the clock.

1:37 AM.

Kirishima’s heart dropped. He reached for his phone, fingers trembling slightly as he scrolled through her messages. The last one she sent had a heart emoji. A soft, simple “I love you guys. Don’t forget that.”

Bakugou’s chest tightened.

He didn’t wait—he sprinted toward the girls’ wing of the dorms, Kirishima right behind him. Privacy rules didn’t matter now. Something was wrong.

Something was very wrong.

---

The bathroom door was locked.

Bakugou banged on it, shouting her name. No answer.

Kirishima didn’t hesitate—he hardened his arm and smashed through the door.

The world seemed to slow.

She was there. Collapsed on the tile floor. Pale. Shaking. Blood pooled near her wrists. A broken razor lay beside her. An empty bottle of sleeping pills on the sink.

“(Y/N)!” Kirishima dropped to his knees, lifting her limp body carefully. Her pulse was faint—too faint.

Bakugou was already on his phone, dialing Recovery Girl while trying to rip a towel from the rack to stop the bleeding.

“Damn it… damn it… you promised…” he whispered, his voice cracking for the first time in years.

---

The dorm was silent as medics rushed in.

All the other students had woken up by then. Some cried. Some stood frozen. Mina sobbed into Jirou’s shoulder. Midoriya couldn’t stop shaking. Aizawa arrived within minutes, his face set in stone, but his eyes betrayed everything.

“This is her sixth attempt,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “We missed the signs again…”

Bakugou sat beside Kirishima in the common room while the ambulance pulled away. His hands were still stained with her blood.

Kirishima stared at the floor. “She didn’t think we’d care enough.”

Bakugou gritted his teeth. “She’s an idiot. A beautiful, kind, perfect idiot…”

“But she’s our idiot,” Kirishima whispered, tears silently falling down his cheeks.

---

The next morning, Aizawa called them in.

“She’s alive,” he said, to their relief. “But barely. She’s being transferred to a psychiatric care facility—long-term.”

Bakugou nodded slowly. He didn’t argue. “That’s what she needs.”

“Can we see her?” Kirishima asked, voice raw.

Aizawa nodded. “Not right away. But yes. And I’ll make sure the class can send letters, drawings. She needs to remember she’s loved.”

Bakugou finally let himself cry—not loudly, not violently. Just quiet tears.

Because he didn’t know what the hell he would’ve done if they’d been even a minute later.

---

To be continued in Part 2: The Ward

---

"Still With You" — Part 2: The Ward

(Kiribaku x Fem!Reader — TW: Suicide attempt recovery, psychiatric care, emotional healing)

---

The facility wasn’t what they expected.

There were no white padded walls, no straightjackets. Just soft pastel tones, quiet halls, and nurses who moved with practiced gentleness. It was secure, but not prison-like. Still, seeing her there broke both their hearts.

She sat near a window in a chair that looked too big for her. Her hospital gown clung to her small frame, the fabric loose, like she was slowly disappearing inside it. IV lines ran from her hand to a pole beside her chair. Her eyes were empty. Dull. Like the lights inside her had gone out.

Bakugou’s fists clenched by his sides. Kirishima stepped forward first.

“Hey, sunshine…” he said gently, kneeling beside her.

She turned slowly, like she wasn’t sure if they were real. Her voice was hoarse when she spoke.

“…You came?”

“Of course we did,” Kirishima said, offering a small, trembling smile. “We’ll always come.”

She didn’t smile back. She looked down at her bandaged wrists and whispered, “You shouldn’t be here. I don’t deserve it.”

Bakugou walked over and sat across from her, elbows resting on his knees.

“Don’t you ever say that again.”

She didn’t reply.

“You think we don’t care? You think it doesn’t wreck us, every time you disappear into that pain alone?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you…”

“You didn’t hurt us,” Kirishima interrupted softly. “You scared us. And we get it, (Y/N). We know you're hurting. But you never have to face it alone again.”

Her lip trembled. “I don’t even know why I keep waking up…”

Bakugou leaned forward, voice quiet for once. “Then let us give you a reason.”

She looked at them—really looked. And for the first time in weeks, something in her flickered. A fragile ember.

“You’re not a burden,” Kirishima said, reaching for her hand. “You’re our girl. You matter.”

“Always have,” Bakugou muttered. “Always will.”

---

The visits became a weekly ritual.

Kirishima brought snacks and silly magazines. Bakugou read to her when she couldn’t focus. Sometimes they just sat beside her in silence, letting her feel them there. Reminding her she was still loved. Still wanted.

Her classmates sent drawings, letters, small gifts.

Mina sent a friendship bracelet. Denki’s letter was full of jokes and little doodles of her as a superhero. Jirou wrote lyrics to a soft song she’d been working on. Even Todoroki sent a pressed flower with a quiet note: “You still bring warmth. Don't forget that.”

---

One day, she smiled.

It was small, shy. But it was real.

“You guys are still here,” she whispered, looking at them during one visit.

“Damn right,” Bakugou said with a smirk.

Kirishima beamed. “We’re not going anywhere.”

She looked down at her hospital gown, then at the IV in her arm.

“I hate how broken I feel…”

“You’re not broken,” Kirishima said, brushing her hair from her face. “You’re healing.”

Bakugou added, “And healing looks messy sometimes. But that doesn’t make it wrong.”

They sat with her until visiting hours ended, holding her hand until the nurses had to gently ask them to leave.

---

To be continued in Part 3: Recovery Days

---

"Still With You" — Part 3: Recovery Days

(Kiribaku x Fem!Reader — TW: Mental health recovery, emotional trauma, comfort)

---

It had been over a month.

(Y/N) was still in the psychiatric ward, but things were changing—slowly, like winter melting into spring.

She started participating in group therapy, sketching in the art room, and eating full meals again. Her eyes, once clouded with pain, were clearer now—though the sadness never truly left. Not yet.

But she was trying. And that meant something.

---

One afternoon, Bakugou and Kirishima arrived to find her sitting in the garden outside the ward—her first time allowed there alone.

She turned when she saw them and waved. Waved.

Kirishima ran to her and picked her up gently, spinning her once before placing her back down.

“You’re out of the ward!” he beamed. “Look at you, breaking milestones like a pro hero!”

She giggled, and it made Bakugou freeze for a second. He hadn't heard that sound in what felt like years.

“You’re still idiots,” she said, smiling softly.

“Maybe,” Bakugou muttered, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “But we’re your idiots.”

---

They sat in the grass with her, under the afternoon sun. It felt normal, almost like the world had forgotten for a second how close she came to vanishing.

“Do you hate me for what I did?” she asked, her voice barely audible over the breeze.

“No,” Kirishima said instantly, shaking his head. “Never.”

Bakugou stared at her for a moment. “You were in pain. You thought you had no way out. But you were wrong. You have us.”

“I wanted to stop the hurt,” she admitted. “It was like drowning. I couldn’t breathe.”

“You don’t have to explain,” Kirishima said gently. “But if you ever do feel like drowning again—we’ll jump in with you.”

She laughed, tearfully. “That’s not a great safety plan.”

Bakugou smirked. “Then we’ll just carry you until you can swim again.”

---

That night, they helped her braid her hair before bed. It was the most mundane, simple thing—but it grounded her.

“I don’t deserve you guys,” she whispered.

Kirishima leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Stop saying that.”

Bakugou wrapped his arms around her shoulders from behind. “You do. You always did.”

She closed her eyes and breathed in their warmth. For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t afraid of waking up tomorrow.

Because she knew they’d still be there.

---

To be continued in Part 4: Coming Home

---

"Still With You" — Part 4: Coming Home

(Kiribaku x Fem!Reader — TW: mental health recovery, emotional vulnerability, support system)

---

The day she returned to U.A. felt unreal.

She stood just outside the dorm gates, clutching the straps of her backpack like a lifeline. The air smelled like sun-warmed pavement and cherry blossoms. Students milled about on the paths ahead, but all she could hear was her heartbeat.

Bakugou stepped beside her and gently bumped her shoulder. “Breathe.”

On her other side, Kirishima grinned, though his eyes glimmered with emotion. “We’ve got you, alright? One step at a time.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to be,” Bakugou said. “You just have to be here.”

That was enough.

---

The doors to the dorm common room swung open.

And Class 1-A exploded.

“(Y/N)!!!” Mina squealed, nearly tackling her in a hug. “You’re back!”

“I—I made cupcakes!” Sero shouted, holding up a pink frosted tray. “They're probably edible!”

“We missed you so much,” Iida said, adjusting his glasses with shaking hands.

Even Todoroki stepped forward and offered her a quiet nod. “Welcome home.”

She stood frozen, eyes wide, overwhelmed.

Then Yaoyorozu stepped in and wrapped her in a soft, careful hug. “We’ve been waiting for you, every day.”

Tears spilled from her eyes before she could stop them.

They didn’t flinch away.

They held her.

---

Later that night, after the excitement settled and she sat curled up on the couch between Bakugou and Kirishima, she looked around the room—at her friends playing games, studying, laughing.

For so long she’d believed she didn’t belong here.

That she was a burden. A crack in the perfect system.

But now, sitting between the two people who refused to give up on her, surrounded by classmates who had waited with open arms and full hearts, she finally understood—

She mattered.

Not because she was strong.

But because she was herself. And that was enough.

---

Bakugou pressed a kiss to her hair. “You’re safe.”

Kirishima smiled and squeezed her hand. “And we’re proud of you. Every single day.”

She smiled softly.

“I’m proud of me, too.”

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elliespassagerprincess · 8 months ago

Note

heyy could you write something based on Dark Red by Steve Lacy?

i love all your works btw

Dark red - (ellie williams x reader)

hi poookie!! thank you sm!! i hope you don't mind me writing this as a gore story, I've been writing a lot of fluff recently and i missed my violent stories, but if you want me to write a different version just let me know!!! i hope you enjoy <33

This story is based off the song Dark Red by Steve Lacy, if you can please listen to the song while you're reading:)

Pairing: ellie x fem!reader

requests are open! send me your silly thoughts

HUGE warning: murder, kidnapping, being held hostage, dead bodies, violence

Summary: in which she wanted you to herself

masterlist

"Something bad is 'bout to happen to me

I don't know what, but I feel it coming

Might be so sad, might leave my nose running

I just hope she don't wanna leave me"

Something bad was going to happen. Ellie could feel it in her bones. She doesn't know why she feels this way, but ever since she woke up this morning, she's been filled with dread. A heaviness in her gut she can't shake off.

Ellie sat at her desk, anxiously waiting for the bell to ring. She hasn't been home for the last 3 days because of school spirit week.

Ellie was so pissed off when she heard they were having a camping day, a sleepover and a all nighter back to back. Everyone was complaining that they were exhausted due to all the activities happening at school, but Ellie wasn't thinking about sleep.

She was thinking about you.

She was always thinking about you.

Ellie could see everyone was staring at the clock, they were practically counting down the seconds before the bell rang. They wanted to go home.

Ellie wanted to go home too, she needed to get home to you.

5, 4, 3, 2-

Before the bell rang the intercom went off. The students groaned thinking that they had to stay at school for another day.

"Can Ellie Williams please come to the principals office. Ellie Williams. I repeat, can Ellie Williams please come to the principals office"

fuck.

The bell rang soon after and everyone ran to the door, Ellie watched as they ran like animals.

"Fucking idiots" she thought to herself

She waited till most of the kids were gone, before she got up grabbing her bag and slowly making her way to the office.

She knocked on the door, and she heard a small "come in".

She let out a sigh as she reluctantly pushed open the door and she was greeted by a the principal and a detective.

What the fuck?

"Close the door and sit down" the principal instructed.

As she sat down her heartrate increased. Her ears were ringing, her palms were sweaty.

The detective cleared his throat before he spoke "as you know y/n has been missing for 3 months now"

She nods

"after further investigation, it seems you were the last one seen with her"

"Was i really or are you looking for someone to blame?" Ellie asked with a raised brow.

She knew where you were, but she couldn't tell him that.

"Ms Williams you're under suspension of kidnapping"

Ellies fists clench by her sides "why am i? Just because i was last seen with her?"

"You guys were best friends, many people said you were close, some say you where obsessed"

Oh she was mad. Ellie was really mad. She wasn't obsessed, she just cared about you.

"i wasn't" she said through gritted teeth.

"We think you know where she is"

Ellie got up, her fist hitting the table "so you're accusing an underage child of kidnapping? do i look like I'm capable of doing that?"

"Ms Williams-"

"no"

Ellie turned to the door and she stormed out. She walked out of the building rushing home to see you.

She hoped you didn't leave her.

"Don't you give me up, please don't give up

On me, I belong with you and only you, baby

Only you, my girl, only you, babe

Only you, darling, only you, babe

Only you, my girl, only you, babe

Only you, darling, only you"

They weren't wrong about what ellie had done to you.

But she had to do it! How else was she supposed to keep you to herself?

Ellie always has feelings for you. Ever since you shyly asked her for a pencil in year 8, she's been all over you. As the years went by her fondness towards you grew, you made her blush, you made her giggle, you made her so fucking happy.

Overtime the two of you built a good friendship but Ellie always wanted more.

It was a Thursday, the sun was shining and the two of had a science project to finish.

The homecoming dance was getting closer and she wanted to ask you. Ellie thought this was the perfect moment to ask you.

"So....with who are you going to homecoming?" Ellie asked clearing her throat

"oh Dina asked me"

"what did you say?"

"I said yes, i think Dina is cute"

No no no no no no no

Not her. You belong to her. You were hers. Not Dina. You were supposed to go with her.

No no no no no

"Ellie?" You asked with concern seeing her zoned out expression.

Ellie looked at you briefly before her hands wrapped around your neck. You let out a silent scream trying to scratch her. You tried fighting but you couldn't. Ellie was stronger than you, she was bigger too.

Eventually you went limp in her hands.

Heavy breaths left Ellie's mouth.

You were still breathing. Good.

She dragged you to her house, hiding behind bushes once in a while to make sure no one saw her. She dragged you into her house, and into her basement.

Ellie placed your body onto the cold floor and she watched you breathing faintly.

Now you cant go with Dina.

"Something bad is 'bout to happen to me

Why I feel this way, I don't know maybe

I think of her so much, it drives me crazy

What if she's fine?

It's my mind that's wrong

And I just let bad thoughts

Linger for far too long"

You're fine. You're fine. You're fine.

She's just having bad thoughts. Ellie has always had a tendency to overthink things.

She knew it was bad to overthink but she was always prepared for the worst.

When Ellie first kidnapped you, 3 months ago everything was fine.

You never screamed, you never fought back, you always tried negotiating or escaping which was good because she didn't need to tie you up or gag you.

You made things easy for her. Ellie fed you, she kept you company, she tried to be Dina.

She really tried to keep you happy.

You didn't need Dina, you needed her.

But for the last month you've been very sick. You barley spoke, you barley ate, you barley moved.

There was something wrong with you, she just didn't know what it was.

Since she hasn't been home for 3 days, Ellie didn't know if you would still be alive. There was no one to feed you. No one to talk to you. You were all alone.

You're fine. You're fine. You're fine.

She's just overthinking it.

Her house key rattled as she pushed open the door. She quickly made her way to the basement, unlocking the door. She walked down the stairs quietly calling your name.

You didn't say anything. She didn't see any movement. she slowly made her way to the bed she had made for you and there you were.

Your skin was pale, cold and it was turning blue. You weren't breathing.

Ellie let out a sigh as she gently grabbed your body, hugging you, not caring of the smell.

Atleast Dina cant get to you.

You were hers. You were safe. You were ok. You now only belong to her.

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tojismain · 10 months ago

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10 things you hate about toji

He says your name, his voice low and firm, clearly irritated by your cold demeanor. You continue looking at the flowers on the window sill, trying to avoid the way his shoulders brush against you. He grits his teeth and looks away for a moment, gathering a breath before saying, “Look at me.”

You turn your head and lift it up, trying to put on a brave front. You always managed to avoid arguments, even if Toji was irritated and tried to get on your nerves, you never let it go too far, but this time he managed to do just that. He got home, frustrated and itching for someone’s face to fall on his fist. But he wanted to be home to be next to you, to forget all about his violent tendencies and to have you lay in his arms, looking up at him with that in-love expression, but his temper prickled his skin and made him bite cruel words in your direction.

His gaze locks onto yours as he takes in your expression. He can see the flicker of vulnerability that flashes by, a reminder of the fact that you always tried to handle things on your own. You let yourself fall under the pretense that you could be there for Toji but him being there for you was laughable, and because of that he rarely got to comfort you, but looking at you right now, he wanted to do nothing more than hold you and smother you in constant affection.

His tone tilts to a softer hum, “Why are you avoiding me?”

You furrow your eyebrows and bite your lip to stop it from shaking, “Are you serious?”

He frowns at your question, his jaw clenching. He knew exactly why you were avoiding him, he was mean, how did he expect you to confront that? But that’s exactly what he wanted, he needed you to stand up for yourself.

“Yes, I’m serious. Why are you avoiding me?” He repeats.

You falter for a second, looking away for a moment before locking your eyes back on his, “Because you hurt me, Toji.” Your voice breaks on the emphasis of his name.

His heart stutters with an ache and he tenses for a second. His eyes flutter shut for a few seconds and he clenches his jaw, annoyed with himself. After that, he steps forward.

“I didn’t mean to.” He starts. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He’s so close now you could feel the heat radiating off of his body, the tension thickening in the vast room.

Your expression falters once more and you look down, avoiding him even with his close proximity. He notices the shift and steps even closer, he reaches out, fingers gripping your chin, lifting your head up. You let out a short unintended huff to avoid crying.

He sees the tears gathering in your eyes and the ache spreads over his chest, curling around him like a nasty virus. His grip on your chin loosens, perfectly gentle.

“Stop doing that.” He orders.

“Doing what?”

“Holding it in.” He explains. “You don’t do that. Not with me.”

He moves his hand just in time to catch a tear swiveling down your cheek.

“I hate—” You take a breath, quick inhales and exhales following. “I hate that you hurt me, I hate that I can’t fight, and I hate that I can’t hate you.”

He feels the frustration radiating off of you in unsteady waves, the anger apparent in between the hurt. His eyes roam across your tearful face.

“You really should hate me.” He says, his voice quiet.

“I know.” You whisper.

He holds your gaze for a moment. He can see the conflict, and the hesitation.

His hand moves from your cheek to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “But you don’t.” He confirms, and you shake your head.

He brushes his hand against your jawline, hoping that it was a solace for you.

“I can work with that.” He says before he slowly tucks your head against his chest, ironically hoping to shield you from the hurt he caused.

#toji fluff #toji x reader #jjk fluff #toji comfort #jjk x reader #toji fushiguro x reader #toji x you #soft toji #toji fushiguro #jujutsu kaisen #hurt/comfort #jjk comfort #tojismain౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹#tojismain

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lunarw0rks · 2 years ago

Note

What about ☝🏽 angry sex with soap (afab reader) you both just woke up in the wrong foot and are in a bad day, so after yall eat dinner theres finally peace when you’re both sitting in the couch watching tv but one of you just said something then started arguing again so he just makes you shut up by giving you ONE OF THOSE kisses, and he just fucks you for hours until ur ovestimulated and cant even say ur name at that point❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

cw: no foreplay, rough/hate sex, fem!reader

ANGER MANAGEMENT | SOAP MACTAVISH

it'd be so common for you two to clash; two differing personalities, topped with a life-or-death work environment for johnny. days like that are a complete and utter mess.

sitting in silence on the couch, both of you with scowls on your face. "will you turn the tv up?" you spit out your words, not giving him the courtesy of making eye contact. it's only fair; he isn't either.

soap scoffs, "what was that? couldn't bloody hear ye over that attitude." a surge of irritation reappears when you hear his petty reply, and how it ripped open the fresh wounds of your argument that morning.

"jesus christ," you shake your head, climbing over his lap to reach the remote on his armrest. his fists clamp around your biceps, tight enough to make you struggle. you curse at him, words verbatim of the spat you had before.

with a jerk, you get jostled along the couch, until you're straddling him. despite using your entire body to climb off—you were still chest to chest—and his nails were starting to dig.

"johnny, stop being a fucking prick and—" he kisses you. violently. his tongue intrudes your mouth, effectively silencing your fury. soap lets go of your arms, but you remain in his lap, unable to resist the heated intimacy.

the jingle of his belt startles you, and you feels his fingers tugging and rustling between your legs. leaning back, you watch him shimmy his jeans down his thighs, then free his length.

apparently, wrath is his aphrodisiac of choice, because he's already rock-hard.

you don't know why or how, but his furrowed expression has you weak and unable to find excuses. before you know it, he tugs at your panties, pulling them down to get a view of your cunt.

he grips the base of his cock, lining it up with your entrance. without any warning, he grabs your hip with his other hand and pushes you downward. the stretch pinches, making you gasp in shock and dig your fingertips into his neck. "you're an asshole." you grit your teeth, only met with a harsh grip on your jaw.

"enough." johnny retorts, with the voice of a hardened sergeant and not your boyfriend. the hand on your hip pushes with more force until your pussy has swallowed his entire cock, your walls clenching with the same death grip you wish you could use on him right now.

but you can't. it's an indescribable feeling of relief after all the bickering, despite the sting of his aggressiveness. his hips start to buck upward instead of controlling your hips, yet it isn't any easier to move. acrimony bubbles in you, along with the pleasure starting to form. you hate yourself for enjoying this; letting sex become the solution.

your head sinks into the crook of his neck, unable to see past all his petty behavior. in an act of impulse, you bite into his neck — enough to make him hiss and cease his thrusts.

your axis tips, sent face first into the couch. "this what y' need? bein' fucked until you cannae see straight?" he sinks inside once more, giving no time to adjust, before he's pounding into you harder than before. one calloused hand raises your hips, while the other holds you by the back of your head, keeping your cheek pressed against the cushion.

"dirty fuckin' girl with no respect; we'll see about that, won't we?"

⋆꒷꒦‧₊˚ divider cred. - cafekitsune ˚₊‧꒦꒷⋆

#is he an asshole for this? maybe...#but he's too sexy :(#soap mactavish #soap #soap mw2 #john soap mactavish #soap x reader #soap x you #soap x fem reader #soap mactavish smut #soap mactavish x reader #mw2 #call of duty #task force 141 #rachel speaks #not writing #mw2 fanfic

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cookies-and-coffee · 8 months ago

Text

telepathic interrogation (1)

cw: telepathic/telekinetic whumper, sadistic whumper, team leader/defiant whumpee, team forced to watch, psychological torture, interrogation, mentions of broken bones

a/n: this was a prompt that kept me up at night, just because i found it so interesting. the telepathic/telekinetic whump was inspired by a scene at the very end of the book Empire of Storms, part of the Throne of Glass series. TOG as a whole as some really good whump, highly recommend!!

Whumper's power curled around Whumpee's very bones, keeping them still as death. Any shake or tremble from Whumpee, and their spine would shatter from the tension.

A lick of power slicked and snaked up Whumpee's back, wrapping around their throat in a noose. Whumpee gasped shallow breaths, the noose tightening.

Whumper strode in front of Whumpee, smiling wickedly at the team leader on their knees. Whumpee barely noticed their team watching in horror, unable to turn their head from the power threatening to snap bone.

"This is going to hurt," Whumper said with delight, and ripped into Whumpee's mind.

Whumpee tried to steel themselves against Whumper's mind invading theirs, but they still weren't able to wholly prepare when their consciousness became violated in the most intimate sense.

Whumper carved into Whumpee's consciousness, their presence like a serrated knife against Whumpee's thoughts, memories, emotions. Whumpee would scream if they had any breath.

I don't have to do this, you know, Whumper said soothingly, but the sound didn't come from their mouth. Instead, it echoed inside Whumpee's mind, the words reverberating against the walls of their head. Where is Caretaker?

Whumpee shut their eyes, trying to find peace in the darkness, but Whumper just laughed into Whumpee's mind. The sound was deafening, like hearing gunshots from the inside out.

Whumper spoke casually in Whumpee's head, like they weren't tearing a psyche to shreds.

I'm going to get what I want, one way or another.

It's up to you to decide how will be left of your mind when I'm finished.

How much will be left of you when I eventually bring in Caretaker?

They should be proud of how thoroughly broken you will be, knowing you protected them...

fruitlessly, of course.

Whumpee sobbed aloud, the sound secondary to the roaring in their ears from Whumper's violent will. Still, they retreated further into their mind, running from the ripping, scraping, clawing-

They didn't notice Whumper gritting their teeth in frustration, tearing deeper into Whumpee's head.

They cried out in pain when Whumper laid a hand on their forehead. The touch itself was gentle, but the skin seemed to be blistering, like Whumper was trying to burn through the flesh and sinew and bone and brain.

The team couldn't look away, their gaze transfixed on the horrible pain written on their team leader's face, the fists clenched at their sides, the sweat soaking through their shirt.

Whumper was the picture of amusement, save for that glimpse of impatience at Whumpee's determination.

"Does your team know how frightened you are?" Whumper cooed, their thumb and middle finger digging into Whumpee's temples. "That burden you carry... it weighs down every step, wears you to the bone... such delicious fear."

Whumpee whimpered, tears flowing freely, unending.

Whumper reached a wall in Whumpee's mind. "Ah, there it is."

"No," Whumpee croaked, squeezing their eyes shut. That tension rippling along their bones tightened, forcing a shriek of pain from their throat.

No?

Oh, Whumpee, you're so cute to think I'm not going to get what I want from you.

Give Caretaker up, now.

I'm not going to give you another chance.

"No!" Whumpee screamed, their tear-filled eyes snapping open. Whumper lurched back, pulling their hand from Whumpee's forehead.

The pressure in Whumpee's head lessened, but the force trapping their body remained.

Whumper was quiet for a moment, rage crossing their face.

Then the rage dissipated, became something else...

Glee.

Whumper laughed, the sound horrible and dreading. "Oh, this is going to be so much fun."

#whump #whump drabble #whump prompt #whumpee #interrogation #intimate whumper #captivity #beaten #creepy whumper #team leader #defiant whumpee #sadistic whumper

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noisydelusionlove · 13 days ago

Text

Chapter 27: Breaking down, not backing down

Pairings: Poly141xOC

Warnings: A/BO dynamics, dubcon, emotionally constipated characters, aggression

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Aurora scrubbed blood from her skin, her fingers raw and pink from scrubbing too hard. The exam room was cold and sterile, but she welcomed the emptiness. Gaz and Price had offered to help, their eyes filled with worry, but she had brushed them off, insisting she was fine. She was anything but.

She stood before the sink, sleeves rolled up and stained with blood—some of it not hers, most of it was. Her collarbone throbbed where the alpha’s teeth had sunk just shy of her scent gland. Her forearm was mottled with dark bruises where another had gripped her. Her skin crawled with the memory of their touch, the scent of them lingering like a poison.

She had stitched the worst of the bites herself, wrapped her ribs, and set her shoulder back with a hiss through gritted teeth. The pain was grounding, helping her stay upright. Until she finally looked in the mirror and saw herself—not the fierce omega with a sharp tongue and faster fists, not the medic, not the sniper, not Feral. Just a girl with shaking hands, glassy eyes, and blood still drying in her hair. Her clothing was torn and ripped, evidence of the assault they had planned. Her neck ached, the bite marks sore but thankfully not deep enough to leave a permanent mark.

Her bottom lip trembled. No, she told herself, you’re fine. It’s over. She pressed her palms to the cold metal counter, sucking in a breath that caught in her throat. And then, it shattered. Her knees gave out, and she crumpled to the floor in a heap. The sob broke from her chest like something violent, something wrenched loose. She curled in on herself, fists digging into her bandaged ribs, trying to hold herself together as the tremors took over.

She hadn’t cried in years. Not through her first heat. Not when she left home. Not when she almost bled out on a battlefield far from here. But now? She couldn’t stop.

"Shit—Aurora?"

She jerked up, heart stuttering, only to find Gaz in the doorway—wide-eyed, breathless, like he’d sprinted the whole way. She tried to straighten, to snarl, but her voice cracked. "Get the fuck out," she managed to say.

He didn’t budge. "I know what you said," he replied softly, stepping in and crouching low without touching her. "But I also heard what you didn’t say."

"You don’t have to pretend with me," he added, his voice low and gentle. She shook her head, jaw clenched. "I’m not pretending."

"You’re on the floor," he pointed out.

"I’m fine," she insisted, her voice cracking. "I just—I needed a minute."

"You don’t need to fight me," he said, his eyes softening. "You’ve been fighting since the second we got you back."

She didn’t answer, just squeezed her eyes shut.

He waited, then slowly sat beside her, close enough to offer warmth but not crowding. "I missed you, you know," he said softly. "Before all this. After your heat. You shut down, and I didn’t know how to reach you."

Her lip trembled again. "I didn’t think you’d want comfort from a beta," he added, a sad little smile on his face.

"I didn’t," she whispered.

"Right," he said, nodding. "I don’t."

"…But I also don’t want to be alone," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper.

Gaz nodded. "Then I won’t leave."

And when she finally let herself lean into his side, just slightly, he didn’t say a word. He just stayed, a lighthouse in the middle of the storm.

Price leaned against the wall just outside the exam room, arms crossed tight over his chest. His head was down, eyes fixed on the floor like he could drill through it with his stare alone. The room smelled like blood and sterilizer—and underneath that, faintly, heartbreak.

Soap sat in the chair next to Aurora’s desk, elbows on his knees, hands still stained with Ghost’s blood. Neither of them had spoken in a long time. But they’d both heard her—the sob, the crash, the sound of Aurora breaking into pieces behind a closed door. Gaz had gone in.

Neither of them could bring themselves to follow. "She waited until she was alone," Soap finally said, his voice hoarse. "Didn’t even want us to see."

She stitched herself up. Didn’t ask for help. Didn’t lean on anyone."

"She doesn’t know how," Price murmured.

Soap rubbed his face, trying to keep his breathing even. "She almost got—" He couldn’t finish the sentence. "Fuck."

"I know," Price replied, his voice tight. "No, you don’t, Captain," Soap’s voice broke. "I saw her. I saw those bite marks. I saw how her clothes were torn. I know what they tried to do."

Price’s jaw locked. Soap stood suddenly, pacing like a caged animal. "She’s in there pretending she’s still fine—like that didn’t just happen—and we’re all fucking standing here like—"

"There was nothing else we could’ve done," Price said, his voice tight. "She should’ve never been out there alone."

"She’s a soldier. She volunteered," Soap replied.

"She’s an omega, Price. Our omega, whether she wants to admit it or not," Price said, his expression flickering with emotion.

Soap turned away, hands on his hips. "Ghost’s still out cold. Gaz is trying to patch her heart together, and she’s fighting him like she’s terrified to need someone."

"Because she is," Price agreed.

"She’s breaking," Soap said, his voice desperate. "And when Ghost wakes up and finds out she fell apart in private?"

Price closed his eyes, knowing the storm that was coming. Ghost’s breakdown would be fire and teeth and guilt so deep it wouldn’t leave his bones. "We need to keep her safe," Price said at last. "She won’t let us."

"Then we’ll do it anyway," Soap replied, determination in his voice.

---

The first thing he felt was pain. Then the weight. Ghost’s eyes snapped open in the dark, and for a split second, he didn’t know where he was. His body ached—a deep, gnawing pain like something had been ripped out of him. His mind replayed flashes of claws, blood, her scent. The sickening sweetness of it turning to fear.

Aurora’s fear. He sat up abruptly, gasping, and remembered—the attack, the scent patch ripped, her screams, the almost bond-mark bruises. His heart slammed against his ribs like it was trying to escape. He’d lost control, gone full apex. He’d nearly turned on his own pack to protect her—and when he came to, she wasn’t in his arms. She hadn’t stayed. She hadn’t even spoken to him.

Of course she didn’t, he thought bitterly. He dragged a hand down his face, sweat cooling against his skin. The sheets were tangled, soaked from whatever nightmare he’d just clawed out of. Soap wasn’t there—probably giving him space. She didn’t want him. Ghost knew it.

No matter what the bond said, no matter how deep the instinct ran, Aurora wasn’t his. She’d never choose a mate, not like that. Not someone who lost control like a monster. He couldn’t protect her from what had happened. And he sure as hell couldn’t protect her from himself. So he pulled the mask on again and didn’t ask for her.

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